Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 6, August 1836)
Author: Yale, Students of
Language: English
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I, NO. 6, AUGUST 1836) ***



 THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

 CONDUCTED BY THE
 =STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE=.

 [Illustration: “Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque Yalenses
 Cantabunt Soboles, unanimique Patres.”]

 NO. VI.

 AUGUST, 1836.

 NEW HAVEN:
 HERRICK & NOYES.

 MDCCCXXXVI.



  Contents.


                                             Page.
 Turkey and Greece,                            209
 Thoughts on the Death of an Aged Friend,      214
 The Omnibus,                                  216
 Epigram,                                      227
 The Coffee Club, No. IV,                      228
 What is Bitter,                               241
 The Reason of Animals not the Reason of Man,  242
 De Lopez, the Brave,                          246
 Mr. Willis,                                   249
 Greek Anthology, No. VI,                      252
 “Our Magazine,”                               256



 THE
 YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.
 VOL. I.  AUGUST, 1836.  NO. 6.



  TURKEY AND GREECE.

 “There is a connection [_verbindung_] among men, in
 which no one can work for himself without working for
 others.”--_Fichte._

 “The tie of mutual influence passes without a break from
 hand to hand, throughout the human family. There is no
 independence, no insulation, in the lot of man.”--_Natural
 History of Enthusiasm._


There is a tendency to regard the commotions of society, which have
taken place of late years, as the results of modern diplomacy, or of
notions concerning human rights, which have received birth and risen to
their present vigor within the last fifty years. Hence, it is argued,
there is a liability to reaction. The bright lights may go out, and
despotism triumph in the moral and political degeneracy. Yet this view
of the matter is very superficial. It is regarding the trunk as the
origin of the tree, overlooking the seed and the root. The truth is,
the principles now developing have their origin with society. For,
all sound political principles have a common foundation--the rights
of man. His selfishness, especially his thirst for sway, aided by
ignorance, has kept through force and fraud the true principles of
human government from being understood and adopted. Still the ancient
kingdoms, the world-empires and all, though now in their tombs, left
inscriptions on their head-stones of diamond worth to the science of
government. They are beacon-lights for the modern statesman. Their
wisdom and their folly, both aid him to discover the true rules for
human government, which have been buried up and concealed by folly
and passion since the days of the Patriarchs, from whom all civil
authority had its rise. Added to this light of experience, collected
by by-gone nations, are other influences of a physical nature. The
application of the magnet to purposes of navigation, was one of those
master thoughts, which, from its vast importance, we are almost tempted
to regard as an idea of directly divine origin. The influence of this
on the whole family of man, can be best estimated by suffering one’s
self to think what the state of the world would of necessity be, were
it entirely unknown. Again, the application of steam to machinery, is
not only changing the aspect of things in the New World and Europe,
but this invention was a positive act for the moral and physical
renovation of Asia and Africa--an act of such power as must hasten
their new birth by centuries. British steamers are already on their
way to explore the Niger. It is the operation and display of this vast
physical force, which is to be a great means of starting into action
the stagnated mind of this part of our race. These discoveries, it will
readily be allowed, can never cease to operate. Entwined with political
experience, they stand firm barriers to any relapse in the general well
being of the human family; while, year after year, to these and others,
which cannot be mentioned in the limits of a single article, are added
the discoveries of physical and political science, as they occur, until
their increasing light reveals to the common eye, one and another,
and another, of the rights of man, which designing men, “tyrants, or
tyrants’ slaves,” have striven to conceal. Almost every nation of the
earth has had some of its dark places pierced by these accumulating
rays. Despotic powers have been forced to yield up some part of the
prerogatives of the crown, or to surround them with stronger guards.
Constitutional governments have been compelled to adopt measures of
reform, and to pursue a course of policy more uniformly liberal.

Amid these commotions, no nations have more attracted the attention of
all classes, than Turkey and Greece. The politician has watched with no
little anxiety the rapid dismemberment of that power, which has so long
stood the great barrier between the East and West. The scholar has felt
a new hope that the mother-land of mental light may be herself again.
While the Christian is assured that the Almighty is thus shaking the
nations for the accomplishment of his own high ends. He is but making
straight the path of his servants.

The history of the Turks is remarkable and instructive--in the sudden
rise of their empire--in its long continuance--and precipitate fall.
The wild region of Mount Taurus and Imaus was their cradle. At once
the most barbarous, the rudest, and the most enterprising of all the
Saracen tribes, they penetrated to the banks of the Caspian Sea, and
serving as mercenaries under the Caliphs, acquired great reputation
for military prowess, and soon subjugated the contending Caliphats
to their own sway. Palestine, with its capital Jerusalem, fell into
their hands. Near the middle of the fourteenth century, they crossed
into Europe, and possessed themselves of Adrianople. In a few years
subsequent to this event, the city of Constantine, to adorn which
he had lavished the treasures of his realm, was doomed to see their
triumphant banner floating above her walls. Epirus soon suffered the
fate of Constantinople; and the land of the orator and philosopher,
which built a bulwark against Xerxes, received their chains. They
marched victorious even to the walls of Vienna; but were finally driven
back as far as Greece. European arms could avail no farther. In other
directions this remarkable people were uniformly successful; until,
in the sixteenth century, the Sultan was lord of thirty kingdoms,
containing not less than eight thousand leagues of sea coast, and
some of the fairest portions of the world. Not only those regions
which have been rendered famous as the homes of the great masters of
sculpture, song and philosophy, but the land of the Patriarchs, where
were exhibited the thrilling scenes of the accomplishment of the
covenant of God with man--Baghdad, the court of the science-loving
Caliphs--Egypt--and the countries of Asia Minor, whose luxuriance not
even Turkish thraldom and indolence has sufficed to destroy.

But this great empire was in itself radically defective. The government
depended on extortion for its revenue--on physical force or a degrading
imposture for obedience; neither of which, whatever may have been
the case in other days, could be safely trusted, in the light which
is breaking over the human family, and over the Turks as a part of
it. The present Sultan found himself in the dilemma between reform
on the one hand, in accomplishing which his throne, and perhaps his
life would be jeopardized, and certain destruction on the other. In
choosing the least of these evils, Greece, Egypt, and Palestine, were
severed from his empire. Mahomet Ali would have attacked him in his
capital, but for the interposition of the Tzar, who was fearful of
losing a prize which has ever been the object of Muscovite ambition,
the throne of Constantine. But while the black Eagle of Russia spread
his wings as a shelter for the Turk, he coolly seized in his talons the
keys of the Dardanelles; thus rendering any further interposition on
the part of England, who has so often balked the Tzar in his darling
project, entirely futile. Since which event, the fall of Turkey has
been pronounced as certain by all. What is to be its precise effect
on the politics of Europe, is a question which only a Talleyrand or
a Metternich could answer with any probability of truth. Yet the
foregoing remarks exhibit facts from which consequences of high
importance must follow.

They exhibit the empire of the Ottomans as once occupying a proud
station among the greater powers--as forming a boundary and preserving
a balance between the East and West--as a firm check on Muscovite
ambition--and as, from her consequence, possessing great weight in the
councils of nations; and it is apparent that she cannot fall without
important political consequences.

They exhibit her with a religion, which has ever been a bane to all
nobler sentiments or aspirations of the soul, brooding like night over
some of the fairest portions of the earth, blasting by the baleful
influence of her institutions the legitimate effect, both on mind
and body, of her naturally fair plains, rich vallies, and brilliant
skies, which, in other times, produced models for an Apollo Belvidere
and a Venus de Medici, and nourished men who were masters of the earth
and of mind; and it is evident that she cannot fall without important
consequences to the beaux Arts and Literature.

They exhibit her, as the main support and promoter of the debasing,
sensual tenets of Mahomet, in countries where the Apostles, and even
Christ, toiled and suffered. They exhibit her, as the systematic
opposer of the message of the Prince of Peace, to her distracted
provinces--the only balm for their wounds--the only physician for their
souls; and the effect of her fall on the highest of interests cannot be
unimportant.

What then is to be the influence of the prostration of the Ottoman sway
in these cradles of early knowledge, upon literature, science, and the
beaux arts?

Winklemann, in his history of sculpture, assigns as a principal reason
of the superiority of the Greeks in that sublime art over other
nations, the circumstance of their inhabiting a land so surpassingly
endowed by nature; and with much truth. Their bodies, neither chilled
nor contracted by the long winters of the north, nor softened into
lassitude and effeminacy by the tropical sun, but continually moving
and breathing in the purest air, under the mildest and most brilliant
of skies, whose loveliness was constantly exciting in the mind the most
agreeable trains of thought, attained, in their fair proportions, to a
harmonious keeping with the beauty around.

Close observation must convince every candid mind, that there is some
truth in the grand outlines of Phrenology. Forms such as aided in the
conception of those master pieces of ancient statuary, were never, and
never will be, inhabited by inferior or grovelling spirits. Vitiated
they may be by extraneous circumstances. Their noble faculties may be
turned to unworthy purposes. Corrupted by long intercourse with the
morally debased, they may, like the modern Greek, suffer the imputation
of being worse than their examples. But this is the proof of the
position. They are bad, but like Lucifer they are greatly so.

How long is this to be the case with Greece? Emphatically no longer.
Already by the aid of the missionary and foreign science, she is
realizing the fable of the renascent phenix; already are those whose
beauty of person long years of servitude have been unable to destroy,
renewing the moral beauty of the spirit within; already are they
turning those powers which made them remarkable in depravity to their
proper channels. And he, whose love for the human family, or reverence
for the classic scenes of Greece, has led him to peruse the late
accounts from thence: if he has observed the avidity with which they
seek instruction, when they once taste of its sweets: if he has noticed
their teachable spirit, rapid improvement, exhibitions of ingenuity
and taste: his bosom has exulted in the sober certainty that Greece
will be herself again. But why has this fair morn at last dawned over
this singularly illustrious land? The answer is plain. Mahometan
despotism and ignorance no longer hold sway within her borders. If this
be so, what is to be the effect of the removal of Turkish intolerance
and misrule, and the establishment of an enlightened and responsible
government over the shores of the Levant, in the same parallels of
latitude? Are the fields of Anatolia less rich than those of Greece, or
her harbors less promising for commerce? or are the Greeks, scattered
through those regions, who at least double the number of those in their
father-land, less capable of moral improvement? Is the conclusion drawn
from unfair premises, that the day of the deliverance of this country
is near--that the angel of knowledge will again spread his wings over
Anatolia, Palestine, Arabia, Egypt, her ancient home? The conclusion is
not, can not be false. The same physical influences operate now as in
days of old, though the misrule of man may have marred their effects.
The same high cast of mind is there which won immortality for their
fathers: and why may not spring up in those regions, under a wiser
government, and a purer religion, a people, in arts and science even
superior to the ancients? Why may there not arise, under the auspices
of virtue and wisdom, new models for a Venus or an Apollo? Why may not
the Parian marble there rise into temples of as fair proportions as
that of Olympus or of Minerva, reared for nobler purposes, dedicated to
a far higher and holier worship?

The influence of the subversion of the greatest rival of the Christian
church, is a subject replete with interest. When the mere politician,
unswayed by the fond hope which might influence the Christian’s
decision, publishes to the world as certain the prostration of
Turkey--when the disciple of Jesus may at length point the startled
infidel to the tottering fabric of Mahometanism, which he has impiously
dared to name as co-enduring and co-equal with the pure Christian
faith, and bid him look on, as column after column is torn away from
the crumbling structure, as Immanuel is triumphing where Mahomet
ruled--when the finger of the Almighty is writing as palpably the
sentence of this unparalleled imposture as when it traced on the wall
the doom of Babylon--what heart does not glow with deeper gratitude,
overflow with more fervent thanksgivings, and pray with strengthened
faith?

The time is to be when “nations shall be born in a day:” and from the
ardent character of the east, it seems not improbable that it is to be
witness of this latter as it was of the former triumphing of the cross.

It is an especial appointment of providence, that nations more
advanced in civilization must necessarily labor for the improvement of
those which are less so. So the East once labored for the West. Now
the nations of the west, with their Institutions of Learning--their
Presses--their Forges--their Dock Yards--working together for the
perfection of human knowledge, and for facilitating its diffusion--pour
light of constantly increasing brightness over the East. Still greater
commotions must soon follow in these early inhabited regions. Their
renovation must advance rapidly and steadily. There may and doubtless
will be times of apparent retrogradation, but it will be like the
flood-tide waves, which roll back from the shore only to mount still
higher on their return. It may be said that these things are uncertain,
because they are future; but it is not necessarily so. The diffusion of
sound political principles, and the rising of the Sun of Righteousness
over these nations, seem as clearly heralded by these events, as is the
coming of the material sun when morning is breaking in the east, the
night-damps leaving the earth, the clouds decking themselves in gold
and purple, and all nature waking for the duties of a new day.



  THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED FRIEND.


    I stood beside his death-bed, and a smile,
    Like the last glance of the departing sun,
    Played on his features; life was ebbing fast,
    And death was creeping o’er him stealthily--
    And yet he smiled, as the last hour came on.

      We gathered round him, and his eye grew dim,
    And his voice faltered, and the shortening breath
    Came through his parted lips convulsively--
    The last faint accents of a murmured prayer:
    And then we turned us from his couch, and wept
    That the dear ties were severed, which had bound
    Our hearts in kindred intercourse:--We grieved
    That he whom we had loved so tenderly,
    Should pass away with the forgotten dead.

      Oh, there is something saddening in the thought
    Of death, whene’er it comes. To stand beside
    The death-bed of a dear and cherished one;
    To mark the tristful pangs, the hopes and fears,
    To see the perishing form of loveliness,
    And hear the last fond parting word--_farewell!_
    And then to gaze upon the lifeless form,
    To part the damp locks from the marble brow,
    And wipe the death-dews which have gather’d there;
    To lay the sleeper in his narrow house,
    And leave him with the cold and listless dead,--
    Oh, it is saddening!--and the tide of tears--
    The warm, warm tears, that gush from feeling hearts--
    Oh, they are holy!--And there is a bliss,

    When the heart swells with anguish, and when grief
    Chokes up the spirit in its agony--
    Oh, there is something--and ’tis like the dew
    Which evening sheds upon the summer flower,
    And weighs it down, until it bows itself,
    And pours the bright drops from its secret cell.

      Oh, holy is the fountain of those tears,
    And pure their gushing. ’Tis a holy thing
    To weep at such an hour. ’Tis manliness
    To yield the heart to feeling, and to loose
    The shackles that so cramp its energies,
    And bind it down to the unfeeling world.

      Yet why thus mourn for those who die, when age
    Has made existence but a weariness?
    Why grieve that they should cast aside the coil
    That binds them to the earth and wretchedness?

      We do not weep at Autumn; when the leaves
    Lie in the valleys--mortals never weep
    When the tree casts its fruitage, or when flowers,
    Blooming through the mild months, all fade away
    In their appointed season: Then why weep
    For those whose years have passed the destined bourne
    Of man’s existence.--Rather let us weep
    For the young flower that blossometh and dies,
    Ere it hath seen the noon-day. Rather mourn
    For those, the sweet and beautiful of earth,
    Who die in youth’s bright morning.

      Tears for the flowers, and the young buds of hope,
    That wreathe Death’s altar:--let us weep for them.
    But let us dash away the sorrowing tear,
    That falls upon the aged sleeper’s grave;
    And joy that he has left this sinful world,
    And sought a purer and a happier sphere,
    Where sorrow never comes, and where no care
    Blanches the cheek, and makes the spirit sad;
    Where sin hath never entered, to pollute
    The perfect sense of happiness; where all
    The great and good of earth for ever dwell,
    In the soft sun-shine of _Eternal youth_.

                                                                     H.



  “THE OMNIBUS.”[1]

[1] An “Omnibus” (this explanation is one of pure politeness on our
part, and for the sake of the uninitiated) is a substitute for an
Album; in which, any thing, every thing, and nothing, are quartered
heterogeneously, and made good friends--supposing all this time that
the thing be kept within the pale of proprieties. They are with, or
without covers--written in black or red ink--up or down--crossways or
otherwise, just as it happens. They were first got up by a certain
_coterie_ of ladies, who had sense enough to see that “Albums” are very
sentimental and very ridiculous, owing to the extreme nicety with which
a man must scribble for them; and that by introducing a little more
latitude in this respect, the evil might in a measure be remedied. The
result, ’tis thought, has shown their wisdom.


  I.

“Come, write in my ‘Omnibus,’” said a sweet girl to me, with an eye
that made one’s heart bump, and a lip that made him dream dreams. I
looked into that eye, and at that lip--they almost unmanned me, yet I
shook my head.

She looked imploringly.

“Can’t,” stammered I at last, though it choked me to say so.

“Pray do,” and she laid her soft white hand on mine. Heavens and Earth!
how the touch of that little hand thrilled through me--burnt along my
arm--then down into my heart. Yet I remembered my resolution--I made
it the day before--I swore by my happiness I’d never touch pen again.
Still, there lay that hand--the long tapering fingers--I counted
them one way, then t’other--how pretty they looked! I tried to look
away--I looked at the four corners of heaven--some how or other, my
eyes came right back again. Then I felt a soft pressure, those fingers
contracted, they clasped--it was all over with me--the grasp of
Hercules were nothing to it.

The first thing I did was to kiss them--the next, find my senses. She
blushed, I fidgeted.

“Think out something”--the sound was like a brook in summer.

So I thought, and thought, and thought--

Thought I was by the ocean. Every body has stood by the ocean. Every
body loves the ocean. They love it because ’tis beautiful. They love it
because ’tis terrible. Who that could ever tell his passions, as he has
seen the giant rouse himself--the black sky split by the thunder-bolt,
and so brazen and fiery that it seemed crisping, and “about to roll
away with a great noise”--the driving wind--the bellowing thunder--the
crashing deck--the rattling cordage--the death shriek of the
sea-shipped wretch as the wave went over him--the horror-like eye’s
last glance upon you! But I don’t mean such an ocean. It wasn’t such an
one that I was standing by. It was a pretty considerable, magnificent,
almighty, great sheet of water as far as the eye went, with a sky above
that made one’s heart leap to look at it--its depth of blue seeming
to stretch away and away, field after field, without a mist or cloud
in it to mar its beauty--one unbounded, unshadowed sweep of glory and
magnificence. The winds, soft and balmy, went whirling and whimpering
along its surface, curling and crinkling it into small white waves,
that, racing and capering up the beach, sparkled and turned into
bubbles, and were caught up by the sun beams. Here and there the waters
break. The huge porpoise went plunging, and sousing, and weltering
along his blue path, flapping his huge tail into the air, and grunting
his happiness--the bright light refracted from his surface, came to
the eye like a rainbow. Here and there the flying fish slipped from
his element, and went careering away over the far waters, till with a
light dash or slap, his white wings dipped again into the ocean. The
distance had one sail, a single one, right on the horizon’s edge--type,
methought, of a being shut from the world--a human heart cut loose from
sympathy--on the black desert of man’s pilgrimage. Such was the scene.
I felt it. I rose, and stood, and shouted, and--


  II.

Thought I was down in the ocean--right on the bottom. Whew! what a
place it was!--saw all sorts of things, living and dead--all colors,
good and bad--all shapes, hateful and fascinating. Here I wandered
through endless groves of coral. Aloft went the light shafts tapering
away into the blue distance, then branching forth into a glorious
canopy, through which came the broken light with a mellowed beauty,
not unlike the sun’s beams through a polished fresco-worken slab
of alabaster. The waves swung backwards and forwards through this
submarine forest, and their rush made the tall shafts quiver like
aspen boughs in the tempest wind; and the light coral twigs, here and
there detached by the waters, fell thick and fast like star showers
in wintry nights. Nor should I forget the sounds of those waters as
they tossed up the shells which were scattered there, and witched from
them a music, that tripped and tilted through the brain, like Mab
and her melodies in moonlight vision. It changed! I was in a desert!
Rocks and barren surfaces above, beneath, around me! Wild cliffs--rent
fastnesses--deep chasms--yawning and gaping like the cleft jaws of
Hell! They had wrecks, and ruins, and dead men, and skeletons, and
skulls in them. Here were fragments of those mighty tenements, that
once rode in triumph on the wave’s surface. There were those black
engines, wont to belch forth “their devilish glut,” and flame, and
thunder. Here were skeletons--some hugging in mortal conflict. They
were grappled together, as when death overtook them--their jaws yet
apart, as the last curse dwelt on them, the moment the bolt came.
There were friends too, parent and child, husband and wife, lover and
maiden--laid as they died, locked heart to heart, each on the other’s
breast, the two a unity. I sickened, shuddered, gasped--


  III.

Thought I was in a forest--a bright, a green, a glorious forest. My
heart ached, and I had turned from the heated world and its miseries,
and where the lofty branches had intertwined and woven a pleasant
twilight dwelling place, I sat me down to meditate. Then I scribbled
and scribbled--and thus, I scribbled--

      This is indeed a sacred solitude,
    And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound
    Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity,
    Falls on the ear; and all around, the eye
    Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades--
    With here and there an upright trunk of ash
    Or beech or nut, whose branches interlaced
    O’ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day,
    A twilight make--they press upon the heart
    With force amazing and unutterable.
    These trunks enormous, from the mountain side
    Ripp’d roots and all by whirlwinds--those vast pines
    Athwart the ravine’s melancholy gloom
    Transversely cast--these monarchs of the wood,
    Dark, gnarl’d, centennial oaks that throw their arms
    So proudly up--those monstrous ribs of rock
    That, shiver’d by the thunder-stroke, and hurl’d
    From yonder cliff, their bed for centuries,
    Here crush’d and wedged--all by their massiveness
    And silent strength, impress us with a sense
    Of Deity. And here are wanted not
    More delicate forms of beauty. Numerous tribes
    Of natural flowers do blossom in these shades,
    Meet for the scene alone. At ev’ry step,
    Some beauteous combination of soft hues,
    Less brilliant though than those which deck the fields,
    The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green,
    Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees;
    And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow,
    Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth,
    The eye detects the little violet
    Such as the city boasts--of paler hue,
    But fragrant more. The simple forest flower,
    And that pale gem the wind flower, falsely named,
    Here greet the cautious search--less beautiful
    Than poets feign, though lovely to the eye.
    These with their modest forms so delicate,
    And breath of perfume, send th’ unwilling heart
    And all its aspirations, to the source
    Of Life and Light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting,
    Such as the mind to that soft melancholy
    The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds
    Are playing with the forest tops in glee,
    And music make. Sweet rivulets
    Slip here and there from out the crevices
    Of rifled rocks, and, welling ’mid the roots
    Of prostrate trees or blocks transversely east,
    Form jets of driven snow. Soft symphonies
    Of birds unseen, on ev’ry side swell out,
    As if the spirit of the wood complain’d
    Harmonious, and most prodigal of sound;
    And these can woo the spirit with such power,
    And tune it to a mood so exquisite--
    That the enthusiast heart forgets the world,
    Its strifes, and follies--and seeks only here
    To satisfy its thirst for happiness.


  IV.

Thought I was on an island--the brightest thing ever dancing in a
poet’s vision, a perfect Eden-spot, an Elysium--

        Ye of the pure heart, come to me!
        List to a tale of Poesy;
        List--for, for it, ye may better be--
        So scorn not the minstrel’s minstrelsy.
    Ye with a brow like the broken wave’s drift,
      With an eye whose light is the first star of even,
    When it streameth afar through the sky’s red rift,
      The only and loveliest thing in heaven;--
    Ye with a cheek like the marble fair,
      Ye with a lip like the bright summer dew,
    Ye with a softness and loveliness there
      That Fancy never drew;--
        Whose hands and whose hearts have been ever lent,
        As spirits of mercy from Heaven sent:--
        Ye have the pure heart--come to me!
        List to a tale of poesy;
        Give me your ear--give me your smile--
        List to the lay of ‘The happy Isle.’

        That Isle--so beautiful to view!
        No poet’s fancy ever drew;
        He had not dreamed of such a thing,
        With all the beauty he could bring.
    It lay upon the open sea,
      It lay beneath the stars and sun--
    A thing, too beautiful to be,
      A jewel, cast that sea upon.
    The winds came upward to the beach--
      The waves came rolling up the sand--
    Then backward with a gentle reach,
      Now forward to the land,
      Sparkling and beautiful--tossing there,
      Then vanishing into the air.
    The winds came upward to the beach--
      The waves came upward in a curl--
    Then far along the shore’s slope reach,
      There ran a line of pearl.
    And shells were there of every hue--
      From snowy white, to burning gold--
    The jasper, and the Tyrian blue--
      The sardonyx and emerald;
      And o’er them as the soft winds crept,
      A melody from each was swept--
      For melody within each slept,
        Harmoniously blended;
      And never, till the winds gave out,
      And ceased the surf its tiny shout,
        That melody was ended:
      Morn, noon, and eve, was heard to be,
      The music of those shells and sea.
    The winds went upward from the deep--
      The winds went up across the sand--
    And never did the sea winds sweep
      Over a lovelier land.
    The northern seas, the southern shores,
      The eastern, and the western isles,
    Had rifled all their sweets and stores,
      To deck this lovely place with smiles:
    And mounts were here, and tipp’d with green,
      And kindled by the glowing sun;
    And vales were here, and stretch’d between,
      Where waters frolic’d in their fun:
    And goats were feeding in the light,
      And birds were in the green-wood halls;
    And, echoing o’er each hilly height,
      Was heard the dash of waterfalls:
    O! all was beauty, bliss, and sound;
    A Sabbath sweetness reigned around;
    All was delight--for every thing
    Was robed in loveliness and spring--
    Color, and fragrance, fruit, and flower,
    Were here within this Island bower.

    But purer, sweeter, brighter far--
    Brighter than Even’s earliest star,
    Was she, the spirit of the place,
    The mortal with an angel’s face.
    A form of youthful innocence,
      With love, and grace, and beauty rife--
    As erst, from ocean’s tossing foam,
      Fair Venus sparkled into life.
    Around her pale and placid brow,
      By long and auburn ringlets hid,
    A radiant flame ran circling,
      And o’er her face a lustre shed.
    Her eye, so full--a spirit nursed,
      So blue--it seem’d a part of heaven,
    So light--it was the sudden burst
      Of meteors mid the stars of even.
    A robe of azure pale she wore,
      Her matchless symmetry concealing;
    Save where her bodice oped before,
      Her soft and snowy breast revealing.
    And in her hand (her arms were free)
      She bore a reed from ocean’s side;
    Her feet were bare-- * * *
      * * * * * * *


  V.

Thought I was in love. Heavens! what a creature she was! Her form
was like a fairy’s; and her face, about which the flaxen ringlets
fell long, and soft, and silky, was at once so arch and sweet, it
witched the very soul out of me before I knew it. Her picture is
before me.--Her head like Juno’s, when she walked before the Olympic
Thunderer, and yet a woman’s; her brow, high, and white, and pure;
eyes of heaven’s own coloring, and bright, and ustrous, and large,
and full, in whose crystalline depths slept a soul such as--as--you
must guess at, reader, I can’t think of a comparison; a cheek, the
eloquent beauty of which melted away so gradually into the pure
transparency of her temples, that the eye lost it, and was wandering
away, up, and around them, before it became aware of its own vagaries;
and her mouth--Heavens and Earth! it was altogether and absolutely,
the sweetest, prettiest, pouting, come-kiss-me, little mouth, I ever
looked at; and her voice--her voice--how clear and musical--there was
nothing like her clear, happy laugh--it rung like an instrument--like
the silvery bell in the Faery Tale; and when she prettily bade me sit
at her feet, and look up into her clear bright eyes--pooh! I might as
well have attempted to knock Destiny on the head at once, and steer
the boat of life myself, as keep from doing her bidding; and her
form, robed as she was in her white cymar, with a single rose in her
hair--the neck--the full bust--the rounded arm--the graceful curvature
and wavy sweep of her folded dress, as it swelled from her glittering
zone and fell to her feet--dear me! dear me--I--but this will do for a
description.

Her name was Fan.

One beautiful twilight--I shan’t forget it soon--one twilight, as the
sun went, and right over his glorious resting place, the clouds of
evening, like an enormous sweep of woven chrysolite, hung pinned by a
single star to the blue wall of heaven--I sat and gazed at that star,
then into her eyes; now into her eyes, and then at that star again;
and--I grew silly.

Says I, “Fan!”

Says she, “Frank!”

“You are very pretty,” says Frank.

“You are very impudent,” says Fan.

She shook her head at me, and drew her mouth into the queerest pucker
imaginable.

“Fanny,” said I seriously.

She sobered.

Some how or other, I got hold of her hand--’twas a pretty hand! I
kissed it.

“Don’t be silly;” and she gave me a cuff that made me see stars.

“Fanny, I”--

She looked softly at me.

“Dearest Fanny, I”--

She pouted.

“I--I”--

She blushed.

“I--love you.”

She sprang into my arms.

Bending back her head, and shaking her long locks from her pretty brow,
our lips--

Hillo! reader, you are not getting sentimental, are you? Don’t now; for
I’ve no sympathy with you--no more sentiment than a horse.

But stop; here’s a bit, and written when things were tremendous. _Ecce
signum!_

    O Fanny, sweet Fanny,
      I cannot tell why,
    But I live in the glance
      Of thy witching blue eye--
    In the light of the spirit
      And loveliness there:
    O! I cannot tell why
      I so love you, my fair!

    It is not--it is not
      Its mild beaming--far,
    Far excelling each lonely
      And dim gleaming star;
    It is not the beauty,
      The sweetness of face,
    The form of perfection,
      The movement of grace!

    It is not, thou lovest me--
      For ere I had heard
    Thy low sweet confession
      As murmur of bird;
    Ere thou told’st me, my beauty,
      Thy dreams were all mine;
    I cannot tell thee why--
      But I knew I was thine.

    A charm floats around,
      And I feel while with thee,
    Though a poor silly captive,
      No wish to be free;
    O! thus to be bound
      In a thraldom like this--
    Though a thraldom indeed,
      ’Tis the sweetest of bliss!

    I am thine, dearest Fanny,
      Yea, thine and forever--
    No dark storm of sorrow
      Our young hearts shall sever;
    We’ll live, dream, and sigh, love,
      Till time is no more;
    And when death comes, we’ll fly, love,
      To a sunnier shore!

I suppose I felt considerably relieved after this Ætnæan effusion.
’Twould have cooled the furnace where they put Shadrach, Meshach and
Abednego. But hear the sequel! We pouted, quarreled, parted.

After our first pout, I scribbled as follows--

    O! girls fantastic creatures are,
      Vexing us--teasing us;
    Now they’re here, now they’re there,
      Perplexing us--pleasing us;
    See you here a soft blue ee,
      O! beware--O! beware;
    For it melteth but to be
      For a snare--for a snare.

    I have loved a gentle girl;
      How I loved--how I loved--
    Witness it, my bosom’s whirl
      When she moved--when she moved;
    Life, soul, feeling, all sincere,
      Bound up in her--bound up in her;
    She has left me, and I’m here,
      A wound up sinner--a wound up sinner.

    Left me, and without a smile,
      Save a cold one--save a cold one;
    Not a word there fell the while,
      Save some old one--save some old one;
    My heart about to burst, and chain’d
      As by a spell--as by a spell;
    She could falter, unconstrained,
      Fare thee well--fare thee well.

    O! I loved her; (may I be
      For it forgiven--for it forgiven;)
    Rather, than a thing of clay,
      As a thing of Heaven--a thing of Heaven;
    Feelings, none I had but went
      Straightway there--straightway there;
    When I prayed, her image blent
      With my prayer--with my prayer.

    When she went, there was I,
      Like her shade--like her shade--
    When she call’d, I was by,
      And there I staid--there I staid;
    If her soft eye sadden’d seem’d,
      I could smile--I could smile--
    Till that soft eye gladden’d seemed,
      As erewhile--as erewhile.

    I presented her a ring,
      Which she took--which she took;
    And her words fell murmuring,
      Like a brook--like a brook;
    Soft her eye’s glance fell upon me,
      Even there--even there--
    When its gentle meanings won me
      Like a prayer--like a prayer.

    She has left me, and I’m here,
      Desolate--desolate;
    She has left me, nor a tear
      For my fate--for my fate:
    O! to be thus coldly parted,
      Nor relief--nor relief--
    And to be thus broken hearted,
      This is grief--this is grief.

    Yet, I love her--I confess it,
      More than ever--more than ever;
    Love’s a stream--you can’t repress it,
      Mine’s a river! mine’s a river!
    Life, soul, feeling, all are given,
      All my store--all my store;
    In her, round her--there’s my Heaven,
      I want no more--I want no more.


  VI.

Thought I was with my mother. Mother! reader, hast thou a mother? not
a mere nominal parent--one who brought thee into the world, and then
left thee to struggle in’t--one who gave thee but a moiety of her
tenderness? Nay, nay; I do not mean such. But I mean, one whose very
life was wrapp’d up in thee, one whose eye moistened with thine, whose
voice faltered with thine, whose heart reflected every shadow which
passed over thy heart, even as a lake the summer clouds, that idle
above its bosom. Such an one I mean--hadst ever such? I had--and how I
loved her. Did I not?--the following verses prove it.



  MY MOTHER:

  (_In two Sonnets._)


  I.

    Dew to the thirsty flower, a rosy beam
      Of sunshine, or the melodies to Spring--
    Sounds to the sick man’s ear, a running stream,
      A humming-bird, a wild bee on the wing;
    Joy--to the earth-scorn’d soul, when all remote
      Is happiness and e’en Hope’s lamp is dim;
    Light--to the dungeon wretch, when the last note
      Comes through his grate of the sweet forest hymn;
    Her first-born’s breath that the young mother feels,
      When her dimm’d eye falls on her little one--
    A maiden’s priceless faith that love reveals,
      When heart meets heart in holy unison;--
    Than these--than all--O! sweeter far to me,
    Mother! are thoughts of home, of my sweet home, and thee.


  II.

    Virtue--with the first dawn of infant mind,
      Falling from lips that made it holier seem;
    Goodness--when deeds with precept were combined,
      To show the world--“religion is no dream;”
    Tears--when my heart was all too sad to weep them,
      Cares--when affliction press’d me bitterly,
    Watching--when none but love like thine could keep them,
      Rebukes--yet with a blessing in thine eye;
    An eye that watch’d me and would never sleep,
      A well-timed word to keep me in the way,
    A look, that made me go from thee and weep,
      A faith, that made thee watch, and kneel, and pray--
    These, these are thine--O! sweet are then to me,
    Mother! the thoughts of home, of my sweet home, and thee.

Thus I valued her. But she’s in her grave now, and I often go there to
watch and weep, and please myself with the vain fancy, that her spirit
is bending over me. I always feel holier after it--as if I had come
from another world--had been beyond the grave--had unravelled the great
mysteries of life and death, and could now look upon life unsway’d by
that natural Atheism which ever clings to humanity, and mingles in all
our aspirations for the future. Watching and prayer ever better us. But
by the grave of a loved one, there are still holier influences. We see
them through the mirror of feeling. If they had faults, they have them
no longer; and their virtues, we canonize them--they are relics--they
are talismans which we lay on our hearts, and they are holier for the
contact.

Earth’s thoughts come not to the grave’s side. The idle, the giddy and
gay, they do not jest here--the song of triumph ceases, the unfinished
quip dies on the lip that made it. The famed, the haughty, the
ambitious, they bring not their proud thoughts with them--they tread
its holy precincts, and their schemes are forgotten. The school boy’s
whistle is lower here, and the butterfly he chases so eagerly, scales
the white palings and escapes--he will not follow him. The very flowers
that bloom here, the osiers that swathe the grave of that little one
and twine about the head stones--they teach us by their freshness, and
our thoughts stir up the fountains in us, and the heart is hallowed by
it.

Come hither, thou parent--a father perhaps. This was thy heart’s pride
and passion. Hope and promise were his. You had already marked his
path. Here were the flowers--there the thorns. You saw him in fancy,
out of his boyhood--the youth--the young man--his cheek glowing for the
contest. Death came--and you laid him here.

Come hither, thou parent--a mother perhaps. This was thy first born.
You bore him on your heart; you nursed him; you hung over him; you wept
and prayed for him as mothers only can do; and _you_ too, have laid
him here. The little form you decked so--the locks that swung over a
brow of silver--the face with its beauty, and light, and sweetness, and
all the innocency of happy childhood--the clear silver shout of his
joy--the step that ran to thee--the lip that pouted for the morning and
evening kiss--aye! here they are--look at them.

And who art thou, mourner?--thou that lookest not up to the glorious
sky, or abroad on the fair face of the creation of God; but, wrapped in
the selfishness and solitude of thy grief, standest here like a lone
monument of dead men’s histories--who art thou? Thine eye is on that
slab there; ’tis a maiden’s. Thou lovedst her perhaps; her heart beat
to thee; her lip was free to thy wooing. She was decked for a bridal;
the rite had sealed her thine; and death strewed thy bridal couch with
rosemary, and rue, and the gloomy cypress.

And what do these here? They come here to weep, for it sanctifies them.
They come from the roar, and bustle, and heartlessness of life, and
they would listen awhile to the eloquence of the shrouded dead. O!
the dead are eloquent! The voice is low, yet louder than that of many
waters! They tell us that our loved ones were not ours! They tell us
that they were lent to us, and have now been reclaimed! They tell us,
that though saddening, ’tis sweet to think of them, for they tie us and
our souls to the purity of Heaven!

Some men shudder as they look into a grave; and well they may, some of
the world. But the heart is wrong which feels thus. Does the sight of
land give pain to the shipwrecked? is the hope of freedom unwelcome
at the dungeon? does the sound of waters please in the desert? does
the thought of sleep annoy us when weary? does the hope of oblivion
give pain when the heart aches? Why then should the thought of what
is greater gain than all these come to our hearts, but to waken their
holiest emotions?

    O! ’tis because there is a power within,
    Whisp’ring of good neglected--ill preferred--
    Duties cast off, and faculties misus’d!
    It is, because the mortal triumphs, while
    The purer passions, crushed or rooted out,
    Leave him to be enslaved,--and thus in moments
    When meditation, like a vestal waits
    Upon his heart, the buoyancy and peace
    Which should be his, give place to heaviness,
    And indefinable wretchedness of soul.
    O! could the heart be school’d--could it be made
    True to its nature--to the impress graved
    Upon it by the hand of Deity--
    Could it be made to balance good and ill,
    With purpose to be wise--could it but choose
    The pure, and love it for its purity--
    How blissful then, were thoughts of death and Heaven!

       *       *       *       *       *

There--young lady! I’ve _thought_ for your “Omnibus,”--pray, what do
you think?

                                                                      *

       *       *       *       *       *


  EPIGRAM,

  ON MR. ----, A BAD SINGER.

    The song of Orpheus and yours are one,
    Both caused mankind and beast to run,
      Only--_in different ways_;
    _To_ him they went like wild deer freed,
    _From_ you they go with equal speed,
      To shun your “awful lays.”
                            Z.



  THE COFFEE CLUB.

  No. IV.

 “Authors who acquire a reputation by pilfering all their
 beauties from others, may be compared to Harlequin and his
 snuff, which he collected by borrowing a pinch out of every
 man’s box he could meet, and then retailed it under the
 pompous title of ‘_tabác de mille fleurs_.’”

                                     _Fitzosborne’s Letters._

 “If the work cannot boast of a regular plan, (in
 which respect, however, I do not think it altogether
 indefensible,) it may yet boast that the reflections are
 naturally suggested always by the preceding passage.”

                                          _Cowper’s Letters._


_No est tan bravo il leon, como se pinta_--the lion is not so fierce
as his picture--says the Spanish proverb, and such will doubtless be
your exclamation, fair, gentle, indulgent, or judicious reader, (by
whichever title you may please to be addressed,) when you discover that
the heroes of the Coffee Club, invested by your scrutinizing sagacity
with so many fictitious attributes, whether of honor or of dishonor,
are in truth but cognate atoms with yourself in making up the mass of
our small and secluded community. Nor will your self-satisfaction be at
all enhanced, by the remembrance of the astute conjectures, ‘positive
certainties,’ ‘perfect convictions,’ and ‘confidential informations,’
which have afforded you matter of exultation for a season, but are, by
the revealment of the truth, shown to be unfounded, and if cherished
with vanity, ridiculous. Each, however, may soothe his chagrin, with
the assurance that no one was wiser than himself, and that the secret,
which baffled his endeavors, not even the talismanic power of woman’s
curiosity could elicit.

It is the eve of the farewell exercises of the class, and the last
meeting of the Coffee Club. Tristo had thrown gloom upon our spirits,
by a mournful _epitaph_ upon the pleasures and the duties, now buried
in the past--but Pulito has reversed our feelings by a brilliant
_epithalamium_, for our coming bridal day, on which we are to wed the
_world_. So is it in life--we shed one tear over the past, and hasten
on to catch the future.

    “Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats
    Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.”

In such a mood, the thoughts of all naturally reverted to the time when
first we entered upon that stage in the journey of life, which we
have now completed. As we traced our progress onward, and recalled our
errors and our follies, our hopes and disappointments, our attainments
and our short-comings, the desire of sympathy, of consolation, and
encouragement, led to a full and free expression of our thoughts and
feelings. Apple, however, as his cigar wreathed forth its exhalations,

 ‘Upward and downward, thwarting and convolved,’

and puns and quips unceasing shot through their obscurity, like
lightning through a cloud, seemed at first to be in no mood for the
pathetic, or the serious. Pulito, too, after a brief and apparently
regretful abstraction, broke forth in a strain half querulous, half
laughing.

_Pulito._ “Well, ‘gentlemen commoners,’ however discourteous the remark
may appear to you and your society, I must ne’ertheless regret that I
am not this evening where I might have been, in a certain far-famed
street, and gazing upon a certain lovely face, whose owner’s name
’twould be profanity to mention. I may say with the stricken Cowper,

    ‘Farewell to the _elm-tree_, farewell to the shade
    And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade.’”

_Nescio_, (smiling.) “‘Lugete oh! Veneres Cupidinesque!’ As an old
dramatist has it,

    ‘Your soul, retired within her inmost chamber,
    Like a fair mourner, sits in state with all
    The silent pomp of sorrow round about her.’”

_Pulito._ “Yes, and to borrow from the same play, The Rival Ladies, I
think,

    ‘Oh she is gone! methinks she should have left
    A track so bright, I might have followed her
    Like setting suns that vanish in a glory.’”

_Nescio._ “For the sake of quoting beautifully, you quote without
application.”

_Apple_, (in a voice of thunder.) “Who in the name of heaven is it
about whom you are making all this ‘tempest in a tea-pot?’ Girls,
girls, girls, for ever and eternally! I wonder what you see in them!
weak and shallow! It maddens me, Pulito, to see you, a fellow of some
small sense, ‘bowing the knee in worship to an idol,’ a minion-queen, a
painted doll--

    ‘A pagod thing of flirting sway,
    With front of brass, and feet of clay.’”

_Pulito._ “Why, Apple, from your fierceness, I suspect you have lately
met with a rebuff from some fair damsel.”

_Apple._ “No, indeed I have not; I was afraid I should though, and
did not give her a chance. I was acquainted with some of them once,
and endeavored to patronize, instruct, and even please them. But they
had neither the acuteness to perceive the point of my puns, nor the
complaisance to laugh at them, even when I led the way. In fact--the
fiends scorch their pictures!--I believe they laughed _at_ instead of
_with_ me. ‘Flattery is nectar and ambrosia to them.’ They drink it in
and enjoy it like an old woman sucking metheglin through a quill.”

_Pulito._ “I allow that

    ----‘if ladies be but young and fair,
    They have the gift to know it.’

But this is chargeable upon us, who are accustomed to lie to them about
their charms, as a matter of course.”

_Apple._ “Then, too, if beautiful, they can scarce be good. For,
‘honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.’”

_Pulito._ “How! Is what is fair at surface necessarily foul at heart?

    ‘Why what a world is this, where what is comely,
    Envenoms him that bears it.’”

_Apple._ “And how wide is their information, scientific, literary,
political, moral! Their wits ‘are dry as a remainder biscuit after a
voyage.’”

_Pulito._ “Well, Apple, I should think you had exhausted Shakspeare and
yourself for terms of reproach: yet it still remains true, that they
are the dearest, sweetest things ‘_in rerum naturâ_,’ and

    ‘Should fate command me to the farthest verge
    Of the green earth,’

I shall still love them one and all.”

_Nescio._ “Yes.

    ‘Dulcé ridentem Lalagen amabo
    Dulcé loquentem.’”

_Tristo._ “I am no ladies’ man. I am too grave for their society. Yet
I am willing to acknowledge that, together with their influence, they
are half that makes life valuable. They are the purifying and refining
ingredient in the seething caldron of society. Their perceptions
are more rapid and acute than ours, and if deceitful, it is from
_necessity_, which you know is the mother of _invention_.”

_Pulito._ “For my part, the absence of those pretty faces, which I have
been wont to see in my ‘walk and conversation,’ will greatly deepen my
regret at leaving this delightful place.”

_Apple._ “Pooh! couldn’t you sentimentalize a bit? ‘_Pone me pigris ubi
nulla campis, Arbor æstivâ recreatur aurâ_,’ &c. Turn me adrift in New
England, New Guinea, or New Zealand, and let me have good meats, good
drinks, good _kapniphorous_ cigars and a dozen comedies, and I don’t
care a rush.”

_Pulito._ “Oh! what an _animal_! Why, Dumpling, do you suppose you have
a _soul_, or are you a mere lump of flesh, a ‘congregation of skin,
bone and spissitude,’ to use one of your own ridiculous phrases?”

_Apple._ “Yes, Pully, I suspect I have such a thing as a soul
somewhere--but I cannot determine its _locale_--neither do I fash my
beard thereanent, since it is the only _immaterial_ thing about me, ha!
ha!”

_Nescio._ “That’s Apple, through and through, to circumvent truth by a
quibble.”

_Pulito._ “But have you no sympathy with this verdant city and its
lovely scenes? Why, this very evening,

    ‘When the sweet wind doth gently kiss the trees.
    And they do make no noise,’

is a copy of Paradise.”

_Apple._ “Yes! the ‘Paradise of fools.’”

_Pulito._

    “‘On such a night
    Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,
    Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love
    To come again to Carthage.’”

_Apple._

    “‘On such a night did young Pulito strive
    T’ unseal the fount of feeling in his heart,
    And be poetic--_but he could not do it_.’”

_Pulito._ “The air is like the breath of birds.”

_Apple._ “Such birds as caged pullets and mousing owls, probably, ha!
ha!”

_Pulito._ “And then the cemetery, and these streets high-overarched
with their verdant walls of inwoven shade.”

_Apple._ “Poetical, i’faith! _My_ only amusement in the
_burying-ground_, as an unsophisticated gentleman like myself would
call it, is to read the queer old epitaphs.”

_Nescio._ “And mark how not even the ear of Death is secure from the
poison of flattery.”

_Apple._ “Pretty fair! I approve of that remark. As for these streets,
strip them of their green guardians, and they would be dry enough to
choke the wave-washed throat of Neptune himself. How can fellows walk
over all creation for fine prospects--my best prospect, as a kindred
spirit once said, is the prospect of a good dinner.”

_Pulito._ “Surely, the view from East Rock is delightful.”

_Apple._ “Undoubtedly, if there be two or three mountain nymphs hanging
affectionately on your arm. Oh! triple horror! To toil through two long
miles of dusty barrenness, and crawl _a la quadrupede_ up a mountain
of shifting sand and triturated stones, to view a few houses included
between shoal water and furze hills.”

_Nescio._ “Methinks only a few weeks since, _you_ escorted thither some
twelve or thirteen of these same mountain nymphs.”

_Apple._ “To be sure I did, and therefore I can speak from experience.
But it argues an unkind disposition in you, to fling a man’s errors
and misfortunes in his teeth. I did perpetrate that act, and as I
hope forgiveness, I am contrite therefor. We set off one morning,
when it was so hot that the very clouds _smoked_, though _I_ could
not--for what would Jonathan Oldbuck’s ‘_woman-kind_’ say? ‘The ladies
be upon thee, Sampson,’ thought I. I could not laugh, though there
was enough that was ridiculous, for I had corns. So I went sweating
along under a load of milk-and-water refreshments, like a man carrying
his own gibbet. I climbed up the hill like another Sisyphus, with a
train of Sirens behind me. When there what saw we. Why, through a
cracked spy-glass, I saw _Nescio Quod_ here, my own chum, coming out
the bookstore--wonderful, thrilling, soul-stirring prospect! Then,
lo! we had left the pine-apples a quarter of a mile from the foot of
the mountain, where we had stopped to browse. Nothing would do--one
lady was faint, and must have a little pine-apple juice--another
sweet nymph, in an unguarded moment, said that her principal object
in coming, was the pleasure of eating the pine-apples--and another
rosy-cheeked, and not very sylph-like figure, remarked, that if Mr.
Dumpling would be so good as to go after the basket, he should have the
pleasure of her arm down the mountain. The devil of a pleasure, thought
I; the sweet creature must have ‘gane daft, clean daft,’ or she would
never have offered such an inducement--better for me ‘that a millstone
were hanged about my neck,’ &c.--but down I must come, and down I came,
and when I got down, I stayed down. I ate the pine-apples myself, and
laid down under the shade till evening, when I slunk home, leaving
the ladies to their other beaux. I had some excuse though, for, while
‘midway between heaven and earth,’ I stumbled over a sweet-brier, and
wrenched my ankle so excruciatingly, that Pope’s line occurred to my
mind with some solemnity--

 ‘Die of a _rose_ in aromatic (_a rheumatic_) pain.’

You take, do you? I managed, however, to reset the _luxed_ but by no
means _luxurious_ joint, and grateful for my escape, I have forsworn
the ladies, and pray for grace to keep my vow.”

The laughter, long and loud, that succeeded the story of Apple’s
tribulations, was a sort of clearing-up shower, and left the moral
atmosphere in a temper more consonant with the seriousness of the hour.
After a short breathing-space, the conversation broke forth anew, and
in an entirely different channel. The sad peculiarity of our situation
gave to our views, and possibly to our remarks, a tinge of bitterness
and satire.

_Pulito._ “Well, fellows, ‘our course is run, our errand done’ within
these walls, and we are to leave them for ever--and why not bid
farewell with a light heart and bounding hopes. To be sure, the vexings
of the world will be rather uncomfortable. A gentlemanly air, and a
languid intimacy with the ‘tricksy pomp’ of literature, will not make a
man a President or a _millionaire_.”

_Apple._ “The prospect is somewhat discouraging. I should have felt no
misgivings at starting in the literary world a century ago, when the
noble art of punning was duly appreciated and rewarded, as witness the
celebrity of that great man, Dean Swift. Or I could have been content
to have ruffled it with the quibbling, conceit-loving cavaliers, who
basked in the smiles of Queen Bess. But now the principles of taste
are sadly perverted, and this noble art, this sole distinctive mark of
genius, has sought and found refuge only beneath the classic shades of
College. It is truly sad to me, to think of leaving this last strong
hold of wit and sentiment.”

_Nescio._ “Why, Apple, your grief bewilders your mind. You began with
talking about _punning_, and ended with wit and sentiment. Where is the
connection?”

_Apple._ “At least as close, Mr. Quod, as between your real and
expressed opinion, when you speak so despitefully of this innocent and
dignified amusement. But now we are on the subject, what is wit?”

_Nescio._ “To which question I might reply, as Democritus did to him
that asked the definition of a man--‘_tis that which we all see and
know_.’ Such is the language of Barrow, the celebrated divine; I read
it this very day. I however would admit no definition, that could
possibly include a _pun_.”

_Tristo._ “You go to an extreme there, Nescio. A mere play upon
words, a mere coincidence of sounds, makes but a poor jest, and a
ready facility in discovering and thrusting into conversation these
‘imperfect sympathies,’ gives one but slight pretensions to the
reputation of a wit. But there are some witticisms, which depend for
their force upon a _pun_, but yet including also a racy humor, deserve
the praise of true wit. I will read you an instance from Hazlitt:--“An
idle fellow, who had only fourpence left in the world, which had been
put by to pay for the baking of some meat for his dinner, went and
laid it out to buy a new string for a guitar. An old acquaintance, on
hearing this story, repeated these lines out of L’Allegro--

    ‘And ever against _eating_ cares
    Lap me in soft Lydian airs.’”

Here the point of the jest lies in the pun upon _eating_, yet who does
not acknowledge it as highly humorous. There are not many puns so
refined and pure as this, but they sink in infinite and imperceptible
gradations. You cannot draw a bold line between ‘the wit of words and
wit of things.’ ‘For,’ as is said of Wit and Madness, ‘thin partitions
do their bounds divide.’”

_Pulito._ “Very true, and I detest that squeamishness, which would
refuse the praise of wit to any thing approaching to a pun, and
sympathize most heartily with poor Apple for his many rebuffs. But
nevertheless, Apple, ‘a joke’s prosperity lies in the ear of the
hearer,’ Shakspeare says, and one should not complain if his pet
witticisms are not received with applause and answered with laughter.
If the jest is worthless, he deserves ridicule--if it does contain the
essence of wit he has only himself to blame for giving it an utterance,
where it could not be appreciated. Think you that Addison would have
displayed his delicate humor for the amusement of crabbed and adust
bookworms, or Voltaire sported his sarcasms to tickle the ear of
clowns? Let their example encourage and instruct you, my dear Apple,
and if you cannot equal their fame, you may, at least, attain the
celebrity of Joe Miller.”

_Tristo._ “You will allow, however, Pulito, there is too often
manifested a disposition to decry and disparage, when approbation would
have been more natural. Censure is too often heard from lips, from
which praise would have been more graceful, or silence more becoming.
There are too many among us, who seek to rise upon the fall of their
rivals--too many ‘frosty-spirited knaves,’ of whom it may be said, in
bitterest truth, ‘not to admire is all the art they know.’”

_Pulito._ “I have, however, been accustomed to regard such characters
with more of pity than severity. I have regarded them as defrauded by
nature of the just proportions of humanity. I have been vexed by their
perversity, but no more inclined to resent it, than to chastise the
ceaseless annoyances of a child or an idiot.”

_Nescio._ “You underrate their _intellect_, that you may relieve
their _heart_ from the imputation of baseness. True, he who is always
searching for faults, without paying any attention to beauties, affords
strong grounds for the conclusion, that he has no perception of the
latter, and in his own experience is conversant only with the former:
and he who is ever detecting plagiarisms, and starting resemblances,
gives reason for the suspicion, that his acquaintance with the
fountains of these stolen waters, is not so purely accidental, or
so honorably gotten, as he would have us imagine. But deficiency of
taste and weakness of mind are not the sole causes of such conduct.
The _prompter_ of the whole is envy,--envy, the meanest passion of the
human heart--the only one in which there is not some shade of honor,
some trace of nobility. Ambition may be laudable--hate become a virtue
from the loathsomeness of its object--covetousness acquire dignity from
the excellence of the thing coveted--but the baseness of _envy_ is
enhanced by the purity and splendor against which it is directed.”

_Tristo._ “Not only is envy so mean a passion in itself, but it
exerts a most debasing influence upon the intellect and whole
character. Indeed, if we may believe Coleridge, the cherishing of it
is incompatible with the existence of genius. His language is solemn;
would that all the fosterers, or rather the _victims_, of this worst
vice, to which we are by our situation exposed, might listen to his
warning. ‘Genius may co-exist with wildness, idleness, folly, even with
crime; but not long, believe me, with the indulgence of an envious
disposition. Envy is both the worst and justest divinity, as I once saw
it expressed somewhere in a page of Stobæus; it dwarfs and withers its
worshippers.’”

_Apple._ “To recall your attention, Tristo, to the subject from which
we passed so suddenly to a more serious one, what think you of those
who ‘wit-wanton it’ with things sacred, who at every breath break over
the bounds of modesty, and outrage our sympathies with the true and
the beautiful, for the sake of a momentary, and not unfrequently a
shame-faced laugh?”

_Tristo._ “Such persons do themselves and others more injury than
they think. Their incessant insults to all refinement and delicacy
of feeling, if unresented and unguarded against, at length deaden
and efface these sentiments. Bulwer says well of such, ‘Their humor
debauches the whole moral system--they are like the Sardinian
herb--they make you laugh, it is true, but they _poison you in the
act_.’”

_Nescio._ “It is disgraceful that impurity should be an unequivocal
characteristic of college wit. But it will be so, until some one shall
demonstrate by his own example that there is no necessary connection,
but rather an essential hostility between real humor and obscenity. But
so long as it is easier to swim with the current than to buffet its
dashings--so long as it is pleasanter to excite a hearty laugh, than
encounter a cold sneer--so long as indolence and vacillation continue
to be _descriptive marks_ of a student’s character--we need not hope
for a change.”

_Pulito._ “Whoever would attempt to effect one, should remember the
aphorism, ‘He ought to be well mounted who is for leaping over the
hedges of custom.’”

_Tristo._ “If this license on the part of some deserves severe
reprobation, the chilling churlishness of those, who can feel no
sympathy with _pleasure_, be it ever so innocent--whose minds can
admit but the single idea of the _useful_, and reject as trifling
the elegant and refining--who, swallowed up in their admiration of
moral beauty, lose sight of or depreciate intellectual symmetry,
(forgetting that moral excellence, though it resemble in its value the
priceless diamond, is not like it advantaged by a dull and roughened
setting)--such, I say, must not pass without their share of censure,
for they are in no slight degree the occasion, I will not say the
cause, of the opposite vice in others.”

_Pulito._ “Such illiberality frustrates the praise-worthy exertions
of all who indulge in it. It places them out of the circle of
influence--their efforts can no more reach those whom they desire
to affect, than (to use a magniloquent simile) the perturbations of
the moons of Uranus can sway the Earth’s satellite in its orbit.
But beside the unfortunate reaction of such principles, is not this
cutting off, ‘at one fell swoop,’ all amusements, this tying down
to one staid rule of _formal observance_, youth of every variety of
taste, talent and temperament, and brought up under every complexion of
circumstances--this curbing of all tastes and inclinations, not within
the _lawgiver’s_ capabilities--is it not based upon error of judgment,
and directed by something of inquisitorial arrogance?”

_Apple._ “I never listen to a specimen of such frosty philosophy,
without recalling an anecdote, much to the point. It is found,
originally, I believe, in one of Pope’s letters to Swift, though I read
it somewhere else. ‘A courtier saw a sage picking out the best dishes
at table. ‘How,’ said he, ‘are sages epicures?’ ‘Do you think, Sir,’
said the wise man, reaching over the table to help himself, ‘do you
think, Sir, that God Almighty made all the good things of this world
for fools?’”

_Tristo._ “The sage must have belonged to the sect _Deipnosophoi_, or
‘Supper-wise,’ whom D’Israeli mentions. His principles, however, will
apply in their full extent, I think, to the purer pleasures of taste
and wit and literature.”

_Pulito._ “Talk not to them of the ‘purer pleasures of taste, and
wit, and literature,’ for these are their utter abomination--snares
for the youthful mind--idle perversions of talent. Speak to them of
the grand display of moral power in Shakspeare’s dramas, and for
an unanswerable answer, they will point to a gross expression--and
consistently enough too, for theirs is the morality of _words_. They
cannot perceive that the _scope_ of all his principal plays is purely
and symmetrically moral, or even religious--that they seldom violate
the modesty of nature, though they may overstep the prudishness of an
age when, ‘_La pudeur s’est enfuie des cœurs, et s’est refugiée sur
les lévres._’--Modesty has fled from the heart, and taken refuge on
the lips. They cannot admire the _overruling providence_, by which
his untutored genius, apparently so wild and uncontrollable, has been
unerringly directed to conformity with truth and virtue. In their
esteem the pious Cowper would have been more worthy, had he devoted his
talents to the _practical_ duties of ‘the clerk of the Commons,’ rather
than have _wasted_ them in the unproductive pursuits of poetry.”

_Nescio._ “Well, let them enjoy their opinions, provided they do not
meddle with others in the gratification of their taste, or profess
to judge in matters which they so virulently decry. The nightingale
may not quarrel with the discordant braying of the ass, till the
‘long-eared’ either attempt to ‘discourse sweet sounds’ himself, or
criticise the melody of others.”

_Pulito._ “‘Aye, there’s the rub!’ None are more prompt in criticising,
none more forward to condemn, than these same individuals.”

_Apple._ “Nothing ruffles the placidity of my temper so much, and so
frequently, as the confidence with which some fellows, whose ignorance
is absolute, pass judgment upon works of literature and taste. There
are those, who cannot tell for their lives whether Walter Scott wrote
Waverly or the Commentaries, or whether the author of Hudibras, the
Reminiscences, and the Analogy, be not one and the same, who yet issue
their unblushing firman upon any stray volume of poetry or romance,
they may have chanced to pick up and gape through. I heard one, who
could not count beyond ten, declare solemnly that he had no opinion
of James, or Bulwer, and that J. K. Paulding could write better than
either. Another, who had never seen a book, save the Family Bible,
before he came to College, averred that Sterne, Smollett, Fielding, and
Richardson united, never wrote any thing fit to be read by a man of
good morals, or sound sense; and thought, moreover, that _Campbell’s_
Thanatopsis was far inferior to _Bryant’s_ Pleasures of Hope! And still
another affirmed that the plays of Shakspeare even, were ruinous to the
interests of morality, and that all the other dramatists of England
ought to be buried under the ruins of the stage they support. Upon
sifting the fellow, however, I found he had never read a play, saving
the Tempest, Comedy of Errors, and a couple of diluted operas in the
London stage!”

_Pulito._ “And yet these are they, who sit in daily judgment upon
what they have neither the sense to comprehend, nor the delicacy to
appreciate. These are they, who stigmatize every thing beautiful as a
_rush_, and all that is novel to their narrow knowledge, as extravagant
and wild. ’Tis a Bœotian criticising the dialect of Athens; a Scythian
carping at the figures of Praxiteles. Shall the home-bred rustic, who
thinks the middle of the sky directly above his head, and supposes that
a walk of a day would bring his feet to the ‘blue concave,’ attempt to
teach the life-long traveller the principles of society, and decide
upon the manners and customs and wonders of the world? And yet it would
be as reasonable to the full as the conduct of him, who, when his
knowledge is confined to _particulars_, attempts to play the critic--a
part, which, in its very nature, implies _generalization_ of the widest
kind.”

_Tristo._ “How can the poor catechumen, who has not yet donned the
robes of his novitiate, nor raised his eyes to the vestibule, much
less stood in his sacrificial garments by the High Altar in the
Temple of the Muses, presume to decide upon the value and lustre of
the treasures its _adyta_ conceal? It is as if the puny whipster, who
fumes and gesticulates upon the academic stage, and whose thoughts and
language are ‘a combination of disjointed things,’ should attempt to
span or analyze the harmonious vastness and sweeping magnificence of an
Edmund Burke.”

_Pulito._ “There is likewise a species of grave wiseacres--sober fools,
who are quite as senseless and less amusing than fools of the more
fantastic turn. They think that wisdom dwells only upon sealed lips,
and that strength of mind and sobriety of purpose, is _evidenced_ by
nothing but a rueful face. These fellows (to use the old Greek phrase)
‘lift the eyebrows’ with a dull forthshowing of meditative wisdom, and
a countenance

                   ----‘of such a vinegar aspect
    That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,
    Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.’

Oh rather give me a whole-hearted fool, with his eternal grin, than one
of these sombre _unimpressible_ concretions of torpedo-stricken clay.”

_Nescio._ “There are here, likewise, even as every where, many who
can stop at no medium, but carry reasonable freedom to unwarrantable
license. Because it is both pleasant and right to spend some time
in general, and above all, in female society, some therefore, in
their society fling away all their time, and, with their time, fling
away character, and knowledge, and happiness, and worth. Because it
is not well to be always bending over the learning of the present,
and listening to the eloquence of the past, some therefore, double,
wheel, march, and countermarch through these dusty streets during the
long hours of a summer’s day, and when they catch a glimpse at the
shadow of a female form, they experience a momentary heaven. Others,
remembering that it is irrational to crucify the senses, and mortify
the flesh, smoke, eat, and sleep, continually. Others, hearing that as
well profit as delight may be reaped from the inspection of fancy’s
fairy finger-work, are on the tiptoe of panting expectation for each
miserable novel that falls lifeless from the press. And thus it was,
thus it is, thus it will be.”

_Pulito._ “But idleness--idleness is the student’s bane. It is
astounding how we throw away our time, and our best time--our
spring-hour of life. Time is the medium of acquisition, and, losing
_that_, we lose all. I am no Utopian in theory, nor visionary in
practice: neither am I free from the follies I deplore. But the strides
which _might_ be made in our collegiate course, would be mighty and
amazing.”

_Nescio._ “I agree with you. Every ordinary mind, by more judicious
application, might accomplish double what it does. I do not mean that
just twice as much would be read, or acquired; but that the _mind_
would be twice as far advanced. It would not only have received twice
the strength, and twice the beauty, from the studies it had actually
traversed, but would be doubly fitted to grasp, conquer, and improve
whatever might afterwards occur. The progress of the mind is in
geometrical ratio. Every new and liberal idea, that is gained by a boy
of twelve, is a capital which will return with yearly and enormous
interest. It is analogous to the gaining of worldly wealth, where you
must _hew_ your slow and narrow path from nothing to competence; but
from competence to opulence, the road is broad and easy.”

_Pulito._ “I cannot divine the _modality_ (as the schoolmen might
say) of some minds--the manner, in which they operate. For I know of
those, who for four years have toiled with desperate firmness, and
are what they were. They seem to have pursued a mill-horse track,
without the remotest conception that there was aught else of value in
the universe beside. Now I complain not of the rigor or of the nature
of our course. Stern application is our only hope, and the course of
authors we peruse, is perhaps as good as could be devised; but it is
the _spirit_ with which they study. They consider what they here gain,
not as a _mean_, but as an _end_. Every man, who would be ‘aut Cæsar,
aut nullus,’ and whose eye goes forward to the ‘immensum infinitumque’
of Tully, _must generalize_--_must_ view things _relatively_--_must_
consider every thing, not as a whole, but as a part. If one possess
this generalizing spirit, I care not how undivided be his attention
to the college course; for I believe that there is in the books of
the first three years, beauty and grandeur and weight, sufficient to
justify, nay _demand_, almost _entire_ attention. For instance, to
gain a perfect intimacy with Horace--not an intimacy with his words
merely, and sentiments--but an intimacy with his beauties--with his
_soul_--would require one month of the severest study; and yet such an
intimacy is requisite to justify studying him at all: for if he is not
to be appreciated--if that evaporating something, wherein he differs
so widely from a dull Latin proser, is not to be seen and felt--you
might as well have been reading Cato upon gardening, or Vitruvius upon
architecture. But these fellows in studying a foreign tongue, give the
general sense in hap-hazard English, without gaining any insight into
the philosophy of mind, or the theory of language.”

_Apple._ “I think, moreover, that we ought to be more conversant with
the sciences. Some of the details may, perhaps, be superfluous; but
surely no one can claim to be a liberally-educated _gentleman_, without
a general acquaintance with all, and a perfect knowledge of some of
those departments. Whatever may have been my former obliquities, or
short-comings in these studies, I am determined to retrieve them all.
I have begun with attempting to square the circle, upon which great
problem I have employed two weeks.”

_Nescio._ “Ha! Ha! do you approach the goal!”

_Apple._ “I cannot say that I do very rapidly; but I feel increased
acuteness of perception. I think I might discover this grand secret,
could I hit upon some method of reducing the circle to linear
measurement. My nearest approximation is to make a circle of a string,
and then quadrate its sides by the introvention of a square surface
of board. Of course, I have the perimeter and square contents of the
board, and if I could fit the latter accurately to the string, the work
is done, and I am Apple the Great. But ‘hic labor, hoc opus est.’”

_Pulito._ “Ha! Ha! Be not wearied in well doing, Dumpling; you have
opened on the right scent, (_erige aures, atque dirige gressus_.)”

_Tristo._ “But there is a more serious view to be taken of this matter,
and one to which we must all open our eyes sooner or later, and well
will it be for us if we take counsel while the storm is yet lowering,
rather than look back with despairing, remorseful eye when ruin is
in the retrospect. The day will come when he, who has squandered his
abilities, and perverted his passions, will ‘begin to be in want,’ when
mortified pride and conscious inferiority will ‘bite like a serpent,
and sting like an adder’--a day, when the busy idleness, the trifling
engagements, and the languid excuses, which now lull all suspicion
of an _actual waste_ of time, will be forgotten, and nothing but the
results will be visible. Then, one hasty, reverted glance, without any
minute calculation, will inform us, that by our thriftless expenditure,
when we might have economized to some purpose, we are _compelled_ to be
idle and insignificant; when we _feel_ idleness to be a _disgrace_, and
insignificance a _torment_. And why are not we alive to all this? Why
do we not feel it, and _show_ that we feel it, by our actions, when we
can thus in theorizing, ‘put on the spectacles of age?’ The melancholy
maxim of the ancients explains it--

    ‘Quem Deus perdere vult, prius _dementat_.’

Who would have the punning epigram upon the Cardinal De Fleuri, true of
him?

    ‘Floruit sine fructu,
    Defloruit sine luctu.’

There is a merry jingling in the sound, but under it is conveyed a
mournful meaning. Yet it shall be written of all, who, either trusting
to their native genius, or destitute of honorable ambition, flutter
away their existence in mimicry of the tiny circlets of the silly
fly, instead of pluming their wings and nerving their energies, for
a bold, a steady, and a deathless flight. Youth gives its stamp to
life, and life to immortality--time is a type of eternity. I have
somewhere seen the vastness of the latter illustrated by the image of
a huge chronometer, of which the starry heavens were the dial-plate,
its pendulum swinging in cycles of ten thousand years, and ringing to
myriads of ages.”

In such and similar discourse, did they consume the lagging hours of
night: now changing ‘from grave to gay, from lively to severe,’ and
glancing over all the subjects and circumstances in which a student
might feel a personal or an associated interest. They talked of silly
affection, and of scheming selfishness, and condemned alike that
vanity, which could exult in a new pair of gloves, or be elated by that
‘_shadow of a thing_,’ yclept a reputation; and having in view this
one position, that what one _is_, and not what he _seems_, forms his
character and moulds his destiny,

 ‘Still they were wise whatever way they went.’

And now, Reader, we have done. If from this rude, incongruous heap,
which, in the throwing together, has afforded us both pleasure and
profit, you have been able to extricate any thing of either, we are
satisfied. If by our unworthy portraiture of cheerful mirth without the
taint of vicious excitement, a single heart, sick of the _hollowness_
of dissipation, shall be seduced from its enticements--if one mind,
till now swallowed in the vortex of current opinion, and dead to the
merits of any save _fashionable_ authors, should be led to the study
of chaster models, and the formation of a purer taste--if one soul,
whose fountains have been sealed to the thousand springs of written
or unwritten _poetry_, gushing up all around him, has been opened to
their influences--or if any individuals of the various classes which
we have ventured to describe, shall, by the image of their deformity,
be frighted, ‘if not into greater goodness, at least into less
badness’--_it is enough_.

                                                                   Ego.



  WHAT IS BITTER.


    ’Tis _bitter_ when beneath the midnight moon
    We wander near the graves of those we love;
    The lone heart sinks, and sighs for the bless’d boon
          Of rest above.

    When wearied age, with retrospective view,
    Sees in the record of departed years
    A tale of blighted hopes--he reads it through
          With _bitter_ tears.

    ’Tis _bitter_ when our days are almost done,
    To feel for wasted talents vain regret,
    And see, with guilty fear, our life’s last sun
          In sorrow set.

    ’Tis _bitter_ when revenge, with hellish art,
    Lights in the breast her ever-scorching flame,
    Stirs passion’s depths, and forms the tiger-heart,
          No power can tame.

    And _bitter_ is the heart, nay more, undone,
    That finds long-cherished hopes in ruin end,
    Crushed by the cruel treachery of one,
          It deemed _a friend_.

                                                  Eta.



  THE REASON OF ANIMALS NOT THE REASON OF MAN.


The organic kingdom seems to be little else than a system of means,
resisting for a short period only the laws which govern inanimate
matter, and then yielding to their power. Wherever the contemplative
mind turns among the innumerable tribes of animals, which have been
revealed by the scrutiny of man, it beholds them all struggling a
little while for a sentient existence, and then sinking down, to form
a part of that mingled mass, which has given them, and continues to
give their successors, sustenance. It is not however animated matter
only which thus for a moment attracts, and then passes from our
observation. In each individual of all this numberless multitude, we
behold the glimmering of intelligence, and in some species it seems
to fall but little below the uncultivated reason of man; nay more, in
their architecture, in their fabrics, in their modes of subsistence
and defence, many are known to rival the utmost stretch of human
ingenuity. This intelligence also, and this ingenuity, vanishes from
before us. The theory has indeed been formed, that this appearance of
reason, wherever found, or however feeble, is but the commencement of
an immortal existence; but it is not thus that the mass of mankind view
the subject. They are accustomed to look upon the whole animal kingdom
as progressing to a period, when, not only the sensations of their
bodies will cease, and their organs be left, without exception, to
decay, but when all their intelligence and skill also will be swallowed
up in annihilation. If then the reason of brutes is the reason of man,
how strong, how complete the analogy, and how natural the conclusion,
that the mind of man too, with the decease of his body ceases to exist!
Living therefore as the most intelligent of these animals do, in the
midst of us, and seeming to think and reason every day as really as
ourselves, reason itself seems to be constantly persuading us that
our end is the same. Indeed, if man differs from the brute only in
the degree of intellect which he possesses, it is almost demonstrably
certain, that annihilation or immortality alike await us. That animals
are immortal, however, it is impossible to believe; for if this may be
predicated of one individual, it may be predicated of every species in
which animal life can be proved to exist. From the highest intelligence
which exists among them, to the meanest insect that crawls in the dust,
or the dullest inhabitant of a shell that clings to a rock, there
is not a point where the line of separation can, with any degree of
plausibility, be drawn, and we might almost extend the chain to the
plant that shrinks from the touch, and the flower that follows the sun.
This theory therefore we reject as unnatural and absurd. Hence we are
reduced to the necessity of allowing, either that man is not immortal,
or that his reason is different, not only in degree, but in its nature,
from that of brutes. Although if the latter be true, it does not follow
that the former is false, yet one of the most powerful arguments in
support of it falls to the ground, and leaves other evidence to produce
a conviction of the truth of its opposite. It is then an object of no
little importance to discover, if possible, whether there is sufficient
difference between the faculties of men and animals, to justify the
conclusion that their destinies are so different.

In endeavoring to accomplish this object, we propose to consider
brutes, in the first place, as they exist in their natural state, and
afterwards, as they are when trained by man. Let us go, then, to the
forest where the bird sits upon her nest, and the beast rests in his
lair in undisturbed repose--or rather, if you please, where air, earth
and water, teem with countless multitudes, all alive with activity,
and all closely devoted to the peculiar employments for which Nature
has fitted them. Compare now this busy scene, with that where the
same elements groan under the burden imposed upon them by man, in his
highest state of cultivation. Mark the aerial artist as she proceeds in
the construction of her edifice, which in its execution and adaptation
to its situation, defies all imitation by man. Without a model, and
without instruction or experience, she fabricates a nest, which, in
materials and construction, as near as circumstances permit, resembles
those of all her predecessors. Where there is no possibility of a
communication, precisely the same process is followed, and the same
result is produced in every instance. Neither does age, observation
or experience, produce the least improvement, but it more frequently
happens, that the first product of this instinctive skill excels all
that succeed. The same appears to be true of every species of the
brute creation as we find them in the wilds of nature. All come into
existence endowed with a species of intellect; a practical ingenuity,
apparently far superior to any thing which man possesses, previous to
observation.

If, therefore, the mental endowments of brutes are to be estimated by
the readiness with which they arrive at certain practical results, man
sinks below them. Among the whole human race, we find not a single
instance of such instinctive knowledge. Man springs into existence
of all animals the most helpless, and the most ignorant of the means
of his support or his happiness. He is compelled to learn and direct
every step of his course by observation and experience. He is left
to deliberate and choose without any previous bias of the mind, and
hence arises that vast diversity of manners and customs, scarcely
greater between the most civilized and the most barbarous people,
than between those who are buried in an equal depth of barbarism.
On the other hand, throughout each particular species of the brute
creation, all appear to be guided by one mind, and urged on by some
irresistible power to the same definite ends. In the state in which we
are now considering them, there is no variation in their habitudes,
and seems to be no possibility of their choosing a different course
from that so universally pursued. It is as natural to them as to live;
as involuntary as their breath. This is instinct--a faculty to man
denied--a pilot whose absence leaves him to the winds and waves of
circumstances, while its presence impels as well as guides the animal
creation in all their intricate manœvres.

There are traits, however, in which man and the most intelligent of
other animals closely resemble each other. Present, for instance,
a pleasing object to the eye of man, and the countenance will
involuntarily kindle into a smile. Present to the half-famished
wanderer an article of food, and the flowing saliva and the beseeching
look, will testify, in spite of him, his eagerness to receive it.
Tear from the fond mother her darling offspring, and plunge into its
unprotected breast the glittering steel, and an agony unutterable will
give her wings to fly to its rescue, and a thousand tongues to call for
aid, or drive her to madness with despair.

This is a species of action, exhibited to an actual extent, perhaps,
though in different ways, by both animals and men. It evinces a power
which it is not in the nature of man wholly to resist, and under the
full operation of which we use neither deliberation nor judgment. Such
seems to be the power which gives rise to a large part of the actions
of the most intelligent animals. It differs little in its nature from
that instinct which guides them in their mechanical labors, and, in
connection with it, is sufficient to account for all the phenomena
which, as sentient beings, in their natural state, they exhibit to
us. It is the influence of the passions--the feelings--the heart. In
brutes, apart from instinct, (if this be not considered instinct,) it
holds universal sway. The objects which excite the passions, and give
rise to action, may not, indeed, in all cases be present. They may be
called up by circumstances in all the vividness of reality, through
the powerful memory with which brutes are endowed, yet the motives of
the action are the same as if the real object supplied the place of
the imaginary one. The principle is the same, and the result is still
produced by the influence of the animal feelings, excited by sensible
objects. But in man there is displayed a moving power which exists
independently of instinct, of love, or hate, or hope, or fear, and
which is capable of exercising a control over all, unless it be the
very strongest of human passions. In the exercise of it, the passions
are, as it were for the moment annihilated, and the intellect rises
into a sphere where all tangible, sensible objects, vanish, and the
mind converses with objects beyond the reach of mere animal perception.

The question may now arise, how are we to account for all that variety
of movement and action, which animals acquire under the instruction
of man? If instinct and passion are the only influences to which
they are subject, we should reasonably suppose that their actions
would be as invariable as the motives from which they originate. Had
they never been subject to a higher order of beings, this would be
found universally true. But that class of animals which we denominate
domestic, and indeed almost all upon which the hand of man has laid its
controlling influence, exhibit a species of action, which indicates
a capability of improvement, and for which it would be impossible
to account upon the principles which have been considered. There is
another principle which is seen alike in animals and man, and might
with propriety be denominated an artificial instinct. It is habit--a
state in which we are led to act with reference to definite ends, and
yet act involuntarily. By a frequent repetition of some motion of the
hand, the foot or the whole person, we come at last to do the same
unconsciously, and it is by this means that we perform so readily
many of the intricate processes which the arts require. It is this
which explains the secret of attachment to places and things. Even the
prisoner, after a long-continued confinement to a gloomy cell, finds,
at his departure, a magic charm binding him to the dreary habitation.
The tender threads of affection have become entwined around the objects
so constantly before him, and he is obliged to summon his reason,
to break through the silvery web that is formed around his heart.
Observation teaches us that animals are subject to the same influence.
After a period of confinement and familiarity with man, the door of
their enclosure may be opened, and almost without exception, they will
leave it, only to return again of their own accord--not because a
judgment teaches them that such a condition is preferable, but because
a new influence is thrown over them which they cannot shake off. It is
obviously upon this principle that they perform all the manœvres, and
answer all the purposes, which they are made to do by man.

These three causes--instinct, passion, and habit, are believed to be
sufficient to account for all the varieties of action exhibited by
animals. We no where discover any of that power of origination, that
freedom of thought and action, which renders man capable of endless
improvement, and worthy of presiding over the brute creation. Nor any
where do we find that power of abstraction, by which, from evidences of
design which are displayed among terrestrial and celestial objects, we
are able to reason our way up to an Infinite Being whom we have neither
seen nor heard. These are the characteristics of man, which render him
an accountable being--give him a conscience, and stamp him with the
impress of immortality.

                                                                     S.



  DE LOPEZ THE BRAVE.

  “The age of chivalry is gone.”--_Burke._


  I.

    In days of yore, when minstrel song
      Ne’er swell’d ‘to please a peasant’s ear,’
    But ladye fair, and knightly throng,
      Were pleas’d his gentle harp to hear;
    There liv’d in Spain, a knight of fame--
    His deeds as gallant as his name--
    De Lopez--stainless arms he wore,
    Those arms his peerless fathers bore;
    And many a goodly rood of land,
    And castle fair were in his hand;
    And many a serf ‘with buckled brand,’
    Rode to the fight at his command.
    A braver knight ne’er strode a steed,
      Or couch’d a lance in rest;
    A stalwart knight was he at need,
    His war-spear was no coward’s reed;
      In mercy he was best.
    But he was now to bid adieu
      To scenes he lov’d full well;
    He had vow’d, as loyal lord and true,
    To follow his king the crusade through,
    To lands o’er which the simoom blew,
      Till the Moslem crescent fell.
    Now, in the castle hall he stood,
      His ladye on his arm--
    He waited there, before he rode,
    Trusting his lovely bride with God,
      To shield her from alarm.
    “Now bless thee, dearest,” cried the knight,
      “God keep thee safe and true;
    My life, my love, ah, cruel right!
    That blasts our day of love so bright
    And o’er it spreads the sable night,
      A night of deadly hue.”
    So spake De Lopez, gallant knight,
      On parting at the castle gate,
    He in his glittering arms bedight,
      She mourning o’er her hapless fate.
    And then she plac’d a bright red rose
      Among his waving plumes;
    Ah, hapless bride! she little knows
      What fearful fate it dooms.


  II.

    No more the charger paws the ground,
      Nor snuffs the fresh’ning air,
    No more the faithful vassals round,
    Impatient for the bugle sound,
      Await--their lord is there.
    He gave his pennon to the gale,
      His bugle echo’d far,
    O’er distant forest, plain and dale,
      The fearful notes of war.
    Then spurr’d their furious steeds amain,
    And soon they cross the lengthen’d plain.
    But, lo! from yonder lofty tower,
      The ladye keeps her lonely watch,
    And there has spent a long, long hour,
    Spying her lord thro’ plain and bower,
      Wherever she a sight can catch.
    And now, in the blue distance far,
      The pennon fades away;
    Or, like some ling’ring, morning star,
      That shines with doubtful ray,
    ’Tis now in view, now lost to sight,
    As slowly wanes the yielding night.
    Their gleaming helms and waving crests,
      Their spear-heads tipp’d with silv’ry light,
    Their flashing shields and steel-clad breasts,
      That sparkle with a sheen so bright,
      Grow faint and fainter to the sight.


  III.

    Why course the drops down Mena’s cheek?
      Why leaves she now the lonely height,
    The ladye of the heart so meek,
      The ladye of such gentle might?
    She sees no more her own brave knight,
      She hears no more his bugle-wail;
    The dark’ning shadows of the night,
      Shrouding the forest, plain and dale,
        Conceal him from her sight.
    And now she hastens to her bower,
      And now the chief pricks on his way;
    Behold, around him march the power,
      Of vassal bold in long array;
    For they are bound to Palestine,
      With shield, and spear, and sword,
    Their blessed Saviour’s tomb to win
      From ruthless Moslem horde.


  IV.

    Among the suitors of the land,
    That sought fair Mena’s lily hand,
    There was a dark-brown baron bold,
    That dwelt secure in massive hold;
    Men seldom cross’d his stone threshhold,
    For many a tale, the country round,
    Their feet and tongues in terror bound.
    ’Twas said he practic’d gramarye,
      And that in wild, tempestuous nights,
    The lurid lightning one might see,
      Flashing around his castle heights;
    While the deep-mouth’d bellowing thunder,
      Shaking the massive keep,
    Would seem its rocky walls to sunder,
      Then straightway forth would leap
    A dazzling, quiv’ring, noiseless flame,
    And the black pall of night again
      Enshroud the heaven’s starless steep.
    This baron hath sworn a fearful oath,
      ‘By heav’n and all its saints,’
    That be the ladye never so loth,
      Despite of love’s restraints,
    She yet shall deck his bed and board,
    And gladly own him her liege lord.
    Now, Holy Mother, shield her well,
    From all the fiendish plots of hell.
    For, well I ween, this baron bold,
    His mightiest spells will not withhold.


  V.

          What gleaming light,
            Shoots forth its beams,
          Through the deep night?
            Say, what this means?
              All else is still
              On the castle hill,
    Save the warder’s cry, and the deep clock’s chime,
    That warns the pale ghost of his passing time.
    That ray from the baron’s window gleams,
    And, as far down on the lake it streams,
      Three spirits cross its path.
      (God shield us from their wrath!)
    By blackest art they’ve laid to sleep
      The warder ’neath the deep black lake,
    There too they’ve made the ban-dog keep
      His lone watch, lest the warder wake;
    The smould’ring brands of the watch-fire bright,
    They plunge ’neath the wave, as well they might.
      For such foul arts of gramarye,
      No mortal eye may ever see.
    ’Tis not for such as me to tell,
    What did they in the baron’s cell.
    ’Tis said that voices loudly groan’d
      Around the turret’s height;
    And e’en the graves in churchyard moan’d,
      With many a restless sprite;
    That then in cloud of flame and smoke,
    These spirits their departure took.


  VI.

    Why swims pale Mena’s heavy eye?
      Why walks she with a falt’ring step?
    Why heaves she now the sudden sigh?
      Has not her gallant lover kept
    His knightly word? or, can it be
    That he has fall’n beyond the sea?
    She had last night a fearful dream,
    ‘A spirit woke her,’ (it did seem,)
    ‘And with a finger gory red,
    Pointed her to a bleeding head;
    Upon a city’s gate ’twas plac’d,
    With dust and clotted gore defac’d;’
    She shriek’d not--but her heart’s hot blood
      Mounted in gushes to her brain,
    This cannot be--oh, gracious God!
      Is this her luckless lover slain?
    But the foul spirit by his power,
    Sustain’d her through her trying hour.
          Yet once again
          The vision came.
      ‘She sees a gallant knight,
        And a ladye fair flit by;
      They move like forms of light,
        And stately onward hie;
    The knight--he was the baron bold!
      Herself the ladye fair!
    The hour of one the clock now told,
      The spirits melt in air.’


  VII.

    Now round the altar high they stand,
    In sooth, a gallant, goodly band;
    On high the torches flash and wave,
    Showing pillar and architrave,
    And arch and gothic window fair,
    And, hanging high in the cold night air,
    Pennon and ’scutcheon that glisten’d there.
    But who are these, at dead of night,
    That would perform this holy rite?
    Who, I pray, but the baron bold,
    And the fair Mena, deck’d in gold?
    For missals foully forg’d have said,
    (Rest him!) her gallant knight is dead!
    And then, her father’s stern command,
    And many a ghostly spirit band,
    Have sent her mad;--she cannot know
    The full extent of all her woe.


  VIII.

    The priest in robes of stainless white,
      Does now beside the altar stand,
    And now beneath the dazzling light,
      The baron takes the ladye’s hand.
    Jesu Maria! what muffled form,
    Breaks through the crowd like a mighty storm?
    His helm is gone, but a lifeless rose
    On his steel-clad bosom finds repose.
    ’Tis wither’d and faded quite away,
    Still lies it there; as, in former day,
      It shone a terror to his foes.
    The baron breathes convulsively,
      He knows the stranger knight
    That aims at him so manfully;
      Oh, shield the luckless wight!
    Now flash their falchions in mid air,
      May “God defend the right!”
    Oh, who had seen that man would swear
      His was no mortal might.
    But, ah! he’s down--it cannot be:
      His mighty soul for aye has sped!
    Draw near--oh, horrid sight to see
      De Lopez number’d with the dead!
    With idiot eye and childish stare,
    Poor Mena bends before him there,
    His bloody, wasted hand she takes;
    The flower her sad remembrance wakes.
    Her brain is fir’d; in vain she tries
      To shed a tear!--so soon, alas!
    The secret springs of feeling fail,
    When wrongs the anguish’d heart assail,
      And burning sorrows o’er it pass.


  IX.

    With mournful step and fun’ral wail,
      They bear the baron bold;
    No more he’ll need his war-proof mail,
      No more his massive hold.
    De Lopez did not fall in vain,
    For, as he fell, with might and main,
    While yet in death he fainter grew,
    He thrust the bloody baron through.
    They lay the baron by a running stream,
      Nor moon nor stars e’er shine upon the spot;
    But, it is said, a bluish, noiseless gleam
      Surrounds him; such, the dreaded wizard’s lot.

    A monument of marble pale,
      Marks where De Lopez fell;
    For him arose no kindred wail,
      He lies secure from fiendish spell.
    And they have carv’d a gallant knight,
      Stretch’d on that tomb so pale,
    Still in his stainless arms bedight,
      Still clad in marble mail.
    ’Tis said, when the moon, with palish ray,
    Shines on the spot where the brave knight lay,
    A saint-like spirit you may see,
    With marriage robe, and bended knee,
      Kneel o’er his lowly sepulchre.
    Awhile she’ll kiss the marble face,
      And shed a lonely tear,
    Then look to heav’n--to ask the grace
      That was denied him here.

                                                R.



  MR. WILLIS.


When so many mouths are full of Mr. Willis, and pamphlets and
periodicals are alternately lauding and lashing him--and, moreover,
since he has so lately passed through this city, (the city of his
Alma Mater,) and with him, his very lovely trans-Atlantic lady--it
is certainly proper that this magazine (the deputed organ of Yale’s
literary notions) break its dignified silence. Criticism, it is true,
of right belongs to older heads--but since such numbers have apparently
forgotten this in the community at large, we shield our presumption
under their greater impertinence. Impertinence! That the thousand and
one notions put forth here and there to the detriment of Willis, are
impertinent, lies on the face of them. What right have they to find
fault with his coat, or the fit of his breeches? “Ah! but he don’t pay
for them!” Prove that, rascal--perhaps your prejudice then will be less
apparent. But stop a moment.

Of course--we are not seated to make out an analysis of Willis’
mind--nor to criticise thoroughly his poetry--nor to meddle
particularly with his morals--nor to read him furiously a
Chesterfieldian lecture--nor to tell him whether he shall or shall
not curl his hair--whether he shall or shall not have his carriage,
his horses, his dogs, _et cetera, et cetera_. No! nothing of this,
save incidentally--we leave this to others. Besides, ’tis too late for
it--they have been treated on, and his new work has not yet come to us.
But our purpose is, to scribble a rapid, running, off-hand article--to
trouble, somewhat, some of the defamers of Willis--to give our own
opinions as may be about this or that--to say just what we have a mind
to--to say it how we have a mind to--and (of this, reader, be certain)
to enjoy our own opinions.

Whether we are capable of this, of advancing an opinion--of that,
reader, you must judge. Thus much we _dare_ say--our prejudices will
not trouble our judgment. We have alike objected to the indiscriminate
laudatory efforts of the friends of Willis, and the pitiable swellings
and puny malice of his enemies--we have made ourselves alike familiar
with his prose and with his poetry--(what man of taste has not?)--we
have never shut our eyes on his faults, or suffered a jaundiced vision
to distort, discolor, or otherwise interfere with his excellencies--we
have often censured and praised him--fought for him and against him--in
short, been placed exactly in those circumstances, which are favorable
to a proper appreciation of his merits--supposing all this time, that
we possess a moderately good share of judgment in these matters. Thus
much we dare say.

The most troublesome things to be met with now-a-days, are your
_echoing_ gentlemen.[2] Mr. Willis has done thus and so, says one--Mr.
Willis has written thus and so, says another. Now we don’t say Mr.
Willis has _not_ done or written thus and so--perhaps he has--nor would
we be understood exactly in this free government, as interdicting
the expression of opinions, even supposing these young gentlemen
harmless, and as entirely innocent of a capability to judge as they
really are--but we do say that, in this hot weather, and especially
as dog days are coming on, every buzzing, barking, or otherwise
troublesome creature, should be heard as little as possible, and that
it is altogether too much of a tax upon the easiness of modest men,
and too much of a tax on the patience of sensible ones, when with
all their exertions and cooling appliances, (such as ventilating,
dressing thin, and going under the College pump,) they can scarcely
keep themselves comfortable. He’s a puppy, says one. What do you mean
by “puppy,” say we. Why, he’s an exquisite--a dandy. Now, hang your
ignorance! for your charge proves you a clown. _We_ have seen Mr.
Willis (we have no acquaintance with him) sitting and standing--we
have seen him in company and out of company--we have seen him hat on
and hat off--we have seen him walking and talking--and _we_ declare,
that there’s nothing about him but an air of high society, and a well
bred gentleman. The charge of being a dandy, might be laid any where
with equal propriety--the urbanity of his deportment, considering his
publicity, is worthy of high praise.

His publicity, his English reputation--this is another thing his
enemies turn against him. Witness the slighting method of the
Quarterly--witness the cool handling of the Edinburgh--witness his
annihilation in the Metropolitan, say they. Annihilation! murder--what
a term is this--here’s a tax--here’s a sweep--here’s a pull on our
credulousness. Have these gentlemen forgotten the admitted principle in
physics, that you cannot annihilate matter? But--’tis of a piece with
the rest of their absurdities.

As for the attacks of those great organs of English sentiment, the
Edinburgh and Quarterly, it only needs a glance at the _acknowledged_
reason of those attacks, to show it altogether complimentary to the
_talents_ of Willis. His stories publishing successively in the London
New Monthly--he was bowed through England with an assiduity and
politeness well worthy the English nation, and of which any American
might be proud. The first ranks welcomed him to their circles--their
first literary men were pleased with his acquaintance, (aye! the very
men who afterwards smote at him)--and the first critic of England,
or of the world even (North, we mean,) has estimated his power,
and written him--no common genius. This were praise enough, in all
conscience. The indiscretions of Willis--and such he has, and we
blame him--these it was called forth those harrowing, ripping, raking
articles, so eagerly cited against him now; and with these _facts_
before us--shall we take _their_ estimate of his intellect, and North
on our side into the bargain? Out on him who does it! But the first
men of the age have been placed precisely as Willis has--some of the
Reviews one side, some on the other. Byron was thus placed. To the
last day of his life he was horridly mauled by some of them, whenever
that great lion turned flank and exposed himself to the enemy. He has
been called ridiculous, affected, a narrow though great mind, and a
plagiarist, by one of their first Reviews; and others of their great
men have run the gauntlet, and after the same fashion. There’s nothing
new in it--what, then, is the worth of the argument?

Of the article in the Metropolitan, nothing need be said--’twas
personal _pique_, as every one knows. The fact that a single sentence
of Willis’ condemnatory of Marryatt called forth that article, is
a high proof of the estimation in which he was held, and speaking
in no ordinary tone. Policy should have kept Mr. Willis from saying
it--this no one doubts, whether it was true or not. If true, however,
he deserves less censure; and now we call upon every admirer of Capt.
Marryatt, and demand if it is not true, that there are passages in most
of his novels we read with disgust--that we would not read in good
society, or before a sister--and if he has not come into a dangerous
proximity with that point, where he deserves all that Willis says of
him? _We_ assert that he has--let Capt. Marryatt’s admirers disprove
it. And the Willis and Marryatt correspondence too! little need be
said here, than that those letters went to show Marryatt a bullying
blackguard, and Willis _the_ gentleman. These things we assert--and yet
professing ourselves admirers of Marryatt. He is doubtless one of the
geniuses of the age. But we will not let our admiration distort facts,
when such distortion is injurious to one of our countrymen.

These echoing gentlemen talk much of Mr. Willis’ ephemeral
reputation--of his fame’s dying with him. Lo, and behold these Solomons
in literature--witness these wise men of Gotham,--these “Daniels’ come
to judgment!” Have these gentlemen to learn, that men never tolerate
each other’s weaknesses?--have they to learn that Willis has been
indiscreet?--have they to learn that such numbers of young and old,
high and low, rich and poor, as have pitched upon him, have done so
_for_ this--and that it follows necessarily, his genius is undervalued.
Whether they have or not--men of sense admit it all over the world.
Men’s follies die with them. We don’t bring hatred to the grave’s
side--unless to throw it in there and bury it. The smouldering earth
we lay over them hides their defects--we put their virtues in our
hearts. So it is with men whose follies tarnish their genius. Genius
is in itself, a living principle--you can’t annihilate it--you can’t
lessen it--you can’t depress it. You _may_ undervalue it--you may rail
at it--you may affect to despise it. But it never was heard and it
never will be, that genius, however manifested, has not sooner or later
regained its splendid birth-right. So will it be with Willis--would we
admit what his enemies ask, that the community as a body are against
him. He has genius--a noble, lofty, and original one--(we wish time
permitted to show this by references)--his follies stand betwixt the
light and his merits--let him die, his follies die, and the world at
once acknowledges this merit. Such is the process--if we admit, as just
mentioned, that the community are against him.

We have already transcribed our limits--we therefore, pause. Before
doing so, however, let us and the reader understand each other. Let us
not be ranked with the mad admirers of Willis--we are none such--he
has too many follies for that. But we cannot forget, either, how very
very brilliant are many very many of his productions, and with what
unmitigated pleasure we have always perused them. And, if our humble
voice might be heard so far, we would counsel Mr. Willis that he no
longer--if he has done so--discredit the fine genius that God has given
him--that he tax well, and long, and arduously, that mind of his--that
he by some noble effort so engrave his name on this age, that the rust
of after years shall never eat it away.

[2] By echoing gentlemen, we mean such as carry their chins high--walk
with canes--retail opinions pilfered from English papers, and call them
their own.



  GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. VI.


Civilization, among all the changes it has effected in the character
and habits of its subjects, has wrought none more remarkable than that
in the condition of woman. In savage countries, the degraded slave
of continual oppression--in barbarian nations, the dormant medium of
sensual felicity--among the semi-civilized, the ignorant and secluded
object of idol affection--it was reserved for the refinement of a purer
age to reinstate her by the side, and in the heart of man. No longer
his passive minister to pleasure, she has risen to share with him
the rights and the enjoyments of rational existence. From the object
of occasional devotion and general contempt, she has become, in the
world where her claims are acknowledged, a guide-star of benign and
sanctifying influence.----Pish! sentimentalizing, and on a subject
trite as an almanac!----But why not? In my last number, as well my
own assertions, as the _inconsecutive_ form of my conceptions, might
have been proof convincing that the solstitial airs had pervaded mind
and body with their enervating breath. Since then, and while the
sun was riding in his more northern tropic, my energies fell before
his potent presence with a still lowlier prostration. Yet, as utter
oppression will drive even the weakest to resistance, so does trampled
Nature rise rebellious against the tyrant, and stand upright even
before his summer-throne. The cold airs of the morning send a vigorous
life through the limbs, which the toils of yesterday exhausted; and a
_post-prandial_ siesta followed by a light repast “of meats and drinks,
nature’s refreshment sweet,” prepares the mind for an evening of quiet
thought, or rational enjoyment.

This morning is of the loveliest. Each gentle flower turns her fair
face to the god of her idolatry, and, like a grateful bride, repays
the warmth of his caresses with the perfume of her breath. It would
seem as if the wing of relenting Time had dropt a freshening essence on
his vassals, as he passed, and atoned, in the face of Nature and the
hearts of her children, for the ravages of years. ’Tis not the sacred
awe, that falls like a shadow from the stars of midnight, and wakes in
the soul an unutterable yearning for a holier home--’tis not the sad
solemnity of evening, that fuses into one pervading thought the hopes
of the future, and the sorrows of the past, whilst our gaze follows
far into his nightly pavilion the golden footsteps of the retreating
Day--’tis the freshness, that dwells in the pinion of the eagle, when
he springs from his dew-cold aerie in the mountains, and soars, with
eye turned direct and unblenching on the morning sun. But to return to
the women. It is a lamentable fact--‘horresco referens’--that the old
heathen, and the Greeks among them, did not prize very highly these
interesting objects. It is true that the exquisite delicacy of female
beauty, excited in their breasts a natural thrill of pleasure, and
now and then a Sappho or an Aspasia by the united power of wit and
loveliness threw a spell of enchantment around the wisest, and bravest,
and proudest of their time. But these were exceptions. There is many
a smart bit of satire, and many a dull growl of defiance at the sex,
scattered through the pages of the Anthology--and these I have hitherto
neglected to translate, well knowing that the ladies are not so perfect
as to bear sarcasm with patience, and that a portion of their anger
might be diverted from the Greeks to me. Whether their being created
second entitles them to be considered _second-best_, it is not my
province to decide. At any rate I see not how we could _get along_
without them, and I am perfectly willing to add my experience to that
of Mungo Park, and testify that, where they are suffered to have their
own way, I have found them uniformly generous and obliging.


  _A Paraphrase from Palladas the Alexandrian._

    Woman, thou busy, meddling, curious thing,
    What endless evils from thy presence spring!
    For thee, forth-sailing from the hills of Greece,
    Bold Jason wandered for the Golden Fleece.
    Thou, and thy paramour, the beauteous boy,
    Brought woe and ruin to the gates of Troy.
    Achilles’ anger for a while delay’d
    Th’ event occasion’d by the faithless maid;
    And then, when Ilion’s consecrated wall
    Had shook, and reel’d, and nodded to its fall,
    Who but a woman, on the foaming brine
    Held wise Ulysses, and transformed to swine
    His brave companions, and employ’d each wile
    To chain the hero to her magic isle?
    And is not woman’s love, or woman’s rage,
    Ground of each plot upon the tragic stage?
    Quick to perceive, and headlong to resent,
    Thy kindled anger never can relent.
    So mild in love, so terrible in hate,
    The soothing balm, and tri-thonged scourge of Fate;
    Thou sure wert born to trouble and perplex,
    Involve and puzzle the diviner sex!
    Have we a secret? Keep it, as we may,
    Full soon it passes from our grasp away.
    Has any thing occurred? “Who, which, what now?
    “Come, tell me quick, the why, when, where, and how!”
    Yet art thou lovely as the gentle light,
    That falleth dew-sprent from the orbs of night;
    And, wert thou fled, this world of ours would be
    Dark as the Fates, and barren as the sea.
    When wise, and kind, and generous, and mild,
    Thou rul’st us, as a mother rules her child.
    But when thy passions take their headlong way,
    We scorn thine empire, and defy thy sway.--
    Must, then, a pretty, peering, prying wife,
    Soothe, vex, enliven, and distract my life?
    I’ll cling to thee for better, and for worse,
    Our joy, our grief, our blessing, and our curse.

Let those who are not satisfied with this mixture of compliment and
sarcasm read the following, and see with what yearning anguish a Greek
could mourn over the grave of a loved one, who had passed what was, to
the ancients, with emphatic truth “the valley of the shadow of death.”
It is by Meleager, one of the most delicate and affectingly simple of
all the Greek poets.

    To thee, transported by that cruel Power,
      Who waves his sceptre over all that live,
    Tears wept in darkness at the midnight hour,
      Oh! Heliodora! bitterly I give.
    Thy home’s low roof with ceaseless tears I wet,
    In deep, and wild, and passionate regret.

    Oh! Heliodora! I have known thee long,
      And loved thee deeply, and bewailed thee well;
    But what avails the tear, the sigh, the song,
      To thee, thus sleeping in thy narrow cell?
    Alas! my lovely flower is senseless clay!
    My budding rose the Grave has torn away!

    To thee, oh earth! then let thy mourning son,
      O’er whose glad heaven this cloud hath early past,
    Whose day is darkened ere its morn be run,
      Lift one appeal--his strongest, and his last--
    Take her, oh! take her to thy gentle breast,
    And lull her softly to her evening rest!


  _To the Tettix._

    Thou noisy thing, intoxicate with dew,
      Thou desert-babbler, with thy rustic lay,
    Who sittest idly, where the green leaves through
      On thy _cranked_ limbs bright slants the solar ray,
    Whilst from thy little frame with hue of fire,
    Comes forth the mimic music of the lyre--

    Oh! friendly songster, to the Sylphid Maids
      ‘Discourse sweet music,’ with thy tiny tongue,
    And unto Pan, who habits in the shades,
      And roves the mountains and the fields among.
    Then, freed from love, my noontide sleep I’ll take,
    Beneath the shadow which the plane-trees make.

And now, dear reader, thou hast gathered with me a few of the many
wild-flowers, which bloom in the Anthology, but are known only to
the student, and appreciated only by the scholar. If thou art not
interested in them, it is either because thou art not gifted with a
love for the simple and the beautiful, or else because that simplicity
and beauty have perished in the medium through which thou hast seen
them. I am no man-worshipper, and, I hope, no nation-worshipper. Yet I
love, admire, and venerate the Greeks; and though I might in liberality
allow that there have been minds more mighty than any of the Grecian
race, yet it might be shown by the strongest of moral proof--the
sentiments of nations, and the evidence of facts--that they were the
brightest, simplest, and most _classic_ nation on the earth. I say, it
might be shown, and should occasion serve, I will show it. Meanwhile
I will content myself with the hope that you may be blessed with an
_Attic reduplication_ of wit, a _temporal augment_ in the riches and
honors of this world, and a _spiritual aspiration_ after all that is
beautiful in knowledge, and all that is generous in deed.

                                                           Hermeneutes.



  “OUR MAGAZINE,”


Is doing very well--but might do better. It has hitherto
had subscribers enough to support it--it has never lacked
communications--it has never been so unfortunate as at one and the same
time to displease _every body_--it has been constantly sustained by
the countenance of able friends, and the attacks of weak enemies--its
general character has been approved by the ‘leading prints’--many
articles have been copied from it, not without the most gratifying
compliments--even the editors have not lost their meed of praise.

So much for the first part of our remark, that the Magazine is
‘doing well’--now for the less pleasing adjunct, ‘that it might do
better.’ We might have _more_ subscribers--and all our subscribers
might pay as they engage to--our articles might be more varied and
more excellent--and by an increase of patronage, we should be enabled
to enlarge the size, and improve the mechanical appearance of the
work--and, in a word, make it more worthy of the institution from which
it takes its name, and which it is our especial delight to honor.

All subscriptions were considered as made for one year, and will be so
charged by the Publishers. Subscribers at a distance are reminded that
their _money_ is due.



  TO CORRESPONDENTS.


“On the study of human nature in the works of the imagination,” and
“Honors to the illustrious Dead,” two essays, are accepted, and shall
be inserted soon.

“A curious incident” is under consideration.

J. B.’s communication, resembles in its form and general character the
Coffee Club too much to appear with advantage after that series.

A patriotic poem, entitled “July 4, 1836,” was received too late for
insertion in the last number, when only it would have been appropriate.

“Fair Wishes,” and “The Spirit of the Winds,” are declined.

“Amor non convinciabitur,” (we are not responsible for the Latin,)
“Lines on a youthful Poet, laboring under disappointment,” and “The
sailor’s lamentation for his departed loved one,” are rejected.

“Morning at the mast-head,” possesses considerable poetic merit, but
all the rules of metre are grossly violated.



  PROSPECTUS
  OF THE
  YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.
  TO BE CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE.


An _apology_ for establishing a Literary Magazine, in an institution
like Yale College, can hardly be deemed requisite by an enlightened
public; yet a statement of the objects which are proposed in this
Periodical, may not be out of place.

To foster a literary spirit, and to furnish a medium for its exercise;
to rescue from utter waste the many thoughts and musings of a student’s
leisure hours; and to afford some opportunity to train ourselves
for the strife and collision of mind which we must expect in after
life;--such, and similar motives have urged us to this undertaking.

So long as we confine ourselves to these simple objects, and do not
forget the modesty becoming our years and station, we confidently
hope for the approbation and support of all who wish well to this
institution.

       *       *       *       *       *

The work will be printed on fine paper and good type. Three numbers to
be issued every term, each containing about 40 pages, 8vo.

_Conditions_--$2,00 per annum, if paid in advance, or 75 cents at the
commencement of each term.

Communications may be addressed through the Post Office, “To the
Editors of the Yale Literary Magazine.”

       *       *       *       *       *

This No. contains 3 sheets. Postage, under 100 miles, 4-1/2 cents; over
100 miles, 7-1/2 cents.

 Printed by B. L. Hamlen.



Transcriber’s Notes


A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.



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