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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 4, June 1836) - -Author: Students of Yale - -Release Date: December 12, 2021 [eBook #66933] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: hekula03, sf2001, and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from - images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. -I, NO. 4, JUNE 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. IV. - - JUNE, 1836. - - NEW HAVEN: - HERRICK & NOYES. - - MDCCCXXXVI. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - Page. - Truth, 129 - A Father to his Child, 132 - Sir Thomas More’s Works, 133 - I Love Thee, 139 - The Coffee Club, No. II. 140 - Ambition--A Fragment, 150 - The Influence of Moral Feeling on the - Pleasures of the Imagination, No. II. 151 - The Seminole, 154 - The Outlaw and His Daughter, 155 - I would not Flatter Thee, 161 - Ruminations of a Bovine Gentleman, 163 - A Rhyming Mood, 165 - Greek Anthology, No. IV. 166 - - - - -THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. - -VOL. I. JUNE, 1836. NO. 4. - - - - -TRUTH. - - -What is truth? “Truth,” says a standard logician, “signifies nothing -but the joining or separating of signs, as the things signified by -them do agree or disagree with one another;” that is, in making -propositions. These are divided into mental and verbal. Truth then -consists in ideal or verbal sentences, or, in other words, in a certain -arrangement of ideas and words. This view of the subject may answer -for a mere definition; but it is not satisfactory. We are disposed to -make truth consist in _things_, and not alone in their representatives. -It is the reality of things; using the term thing as it is, the most -universal of any in the language, including every object of sense or -conception, objects past, present, and future, objects terrestrial and -celestial, objects of all space and all duration, objects possible -and impossible; in a word, every-thing. There are propositions -concerning things; we have ideas of things, and things themselves -exist independently of both. The verbal statement, and the mental -apprehension, may accord with the reality of the thing, and be true, or -figuratively speaking, the truth. But can it be strictly said that the -truth consists in them, and them only? - -But this train of remark avails little in resolving the momentously -practical question, What is truth? To give this a reply worthy of -itself, would lead us beyond our present design, and each reader must -be left to judge for himself. - -“Truth is consistent with itself.” This is a common saying, and -regarded as axiomatic in its nature. It is not intended for the -identical proposition, Truth is truth; but that whatever is truth in -one subject, can in no way be rendered nugatory or false, by what is -truth in any other subject; and that one truth in the same subject is -not weakened or diminished by any other truth in the same subject. -Truth, as before intimated, may be considered in a three-fold aspect; -in itself; in regard to the verbal propositions embracing it; in -respect to our own conceptions of it. - -In itself, in its own nature, it may be consistent with itself. But of -the many truths with which our acquaintance is imperfect, we cannot -judge whether they agree, or disagree, among themselves. In regard to -some others, of which we are better assured, it is difficult to say -that there is no contradiction. - -In propositions there is certainly great discrepancy; owing partly to -the barrenness of language, and to the ambiguity of terms; also to -the different impressions which different authors of the statement -may possess, and which the same man may have at different times. The -propositions may be too brief, or too ample; in many ways they are -made to disagree one with another, and as they are the representatives -of truth, for all practical purposes truth itself is often found -inconsistent with itself. - -We find our own conceptions of truth exceedingly contradictory; which -is attributable to the limited nature of our faculties, and narrow -extent of our observations. It is only the _ends_ of truths that we -see. Their remote extension, and multiplied relations, we cannot -ascertain. There _appears_ to be much disagreement. In theology the -doctrines of decrees and free agency are both true, but who can -reconcile them? This apparent inconsistency of truth is the origin of -scepticism, and is the occasion of many unhappy dissensions among men. - -“Great is truth, and it will prevail.” The harmlessness of this -declaration has permitted it to pass unmolested. It certainly is a -pleasing prediction, and in the prospect which it unfolds, has inspired -many a languid heart with fresh vigor in the cause of truth. From the -implicit reliance which most men place in its verity, and from the wish -of all for its fulfillment, is manifested the confidence which each -reposes in his own integrity, and also a secret admiration of truth in -the minds of all. But the sentiment is perhaps more flattering to the -nobleness of our nature, than accordant with our constant experience. -That some truths will prevail, is certain. But in respect to -others--for instance, the thousand and one litigated points in history, -how shall the truth ever be ascertained. If the facts were noted at the -time of their occurrence, prejudice operated to distort them. If not -till years had elapsed, it was the effect of remoteness to obliterate, -or obscure them. Years and centuries are bearing us still farther from -the period of their transpiring, and how is it possible, that, without -a revelation from heaven, the truth shall ever be disclosed? - -In metaphysics are many points equally indeterminable. Here a man’s -own mind is the field of observation, in every part of which the most -rigid, extensive, and patient scrutiny, and the most careful comparison -have been made by the most profound thinkers, and with the best lights; -but up to this time there are many points unillustrated, undecided. -Will they ever be made more plain? Who does not feel that there are -doubtful points in himself that he will never understand, at least this -side of the grave? - -In the sciences, which suffer less from prejudice than most subjects of -investigation, the want of facts will prevent the discovery of truth on -many points; while, faster than old questions are settled, new subjects -of discussion are advanced. - -With respect to the active duties of life, temperament will continue to -influence our views of truth, as it always has done. - -Prejudice, which is the great barrier to the entrance of truth into -the mind, must, while man exists under his present mental and moral -constitution, retain the influence it now exerts. - -There are many truths of which the highest order of human intellect can -only catch a fleeting glimpse, and the amount of knowledge is graduated -downwards, corresponding with the ability to grasp it. Many points lie -equally balanced between truth and falsehood. - -We do not then seem to be sufficiently warranted in the opinion that -truth, i. e. all truth, will prevail. - -“Men are more willing to embrace error than truth.” No one will admit -this imputation in his own case; but by an easy generalization, each -one applies it to all other men. - -It may be doubted whether a love of truth or of error, for _their own -sake_, is a primary principle of our moral nature. A love of one’s own -happiness, or interest, or reputation, in a word, of one’s self, is -primary. Truth and error are regarded with complaisance or aversion, -accordingly as they oppose or favor the interests of men. If there were -but one being in the universe, it would be of little moment whether -he passed his existence in truth or falsehood. In society, he, whose -basis is falsehood, is derided by his fellows, and his interests are -endangered. As truth, on the whole, is most conducive to the interests -of men, it is most generally sought after. Few are willing to oppose a -fashionable error. There are portions of every man’s whole life, which -he passes in error, without being in the least concerned. Many minds -are so preoccupied, that they _cannot_ examine the evidence requisite -for the admission of a new truth. More are so prejudiced that they will -not. With many men a fear of results is stronger than love of truth, -and they are induced by a prospect of consequences, to abandon the -pursuit. An entire devotion to truth itself, to truth for its own sake, -is a rare sight, and one of high moral sublimity. - - - - -A FATHER TO HIS CHILD.[1] - - - I cannot say, I cannot say, my beautiful and wild, - I’ve ever seen so fair a one as thou my pretty child-- - A form so full of elegance, a cheek where roses blow, - And a forehead where the glossy curls seem braided over snow-- - A lip whence sounds of music gush, that might with ease unsphere - Some spirit from its airy halls and witch that spirit here. - - When first thy mother gave thee me, my beautiful and wild, - And others sought to gaze upon and bless the pretty child, - And thy soft lip to mine was press’d, and thy soft hand I felt, - And felt all of a father’s heart within my bosom melt; - I know I heaved a sigh, for there was sadness in my joy-- - Thou wert so very beautiful, my smiling little boy. - - Where’er thou go’st, there seems to go a gladness, and a life, - Which all unfitted is for this dark world of sin and strife; - Thou dost remind me of the flowers that are when Spring comes on, - Thou dost remind me of the light when comes and goes the sun; - Of brooks, and falling waters, when they with the pebbles toy-- - Of all that’s gay and beautiful, my smiling little boy. - - I mingle with the busied world, and when I find it vain, - I turn me to my happy hearth and little boy again; - I love to have him shout to me, I love his airy call, - I love to hear his little step go patting through the hall; - I love to take him on my knee and fold him into rest, - As doth the parent bird the dove she shelters with her breast. - - Thy kind complaints, thy boyish talk, thy merriment, my boy, - Crush all that’s base within my heart, and smooth the day’s annoy; - Where’er I go, if ills assail, and passion plays her part, - And dark Ambition spreads her gauds before my eye and heart, - And I one moment list the voice that proffers me the crown-- - I think me of thy looks my boy, and bid the tempter down. - - Yet there will sometimes come to me a thought of sadness given, - As the dark cloud streams athwart the flush that tints the sky of even, - When I look at thee, and think of thee, in all thine artlessness, - And think how flowery is the path which thy young foot doth press-- - For I know that eye which sparkles now may suddenly be wet, - And the earth which looks so lovely too may be a desert yet. - - Ah! yes, I tremble for my boy with fears he cannot know, - Lest he take the path which I have ta’en, and find it leads to wo; - I tremble lest the Circean cup may yet be given him, - With roses decked and myrtles crown’d and sparkling to the brim; - For O! his foot hath not yet tried the path which mine hath trod, - Nor hath his young heart framed a wish he might not give to God. - - And yet I will not think it--no! it will not, cannot be, - That fate shall ever fling its shroud of blackness over thee; - Thou art too like thy mother, child,--she would not harm this breast-- - And all thy days have been too like the holy and the bless’d; - Thou can’st not other be to me than this, my cradle joy-- - Thou wilt not grieve thy father’s heart, my smiling little boy. - -[1] A friend of mine thinks he has seen a poem somewhere not altogether -unlike this. Whether such a poem there is I know not, nor have I, after -hunting over pamphlets and periodicals, been able to find one. If the -reader shall be more successful, he will please give the writer of -any similar production as much praise as he chooses, and subduct the -same from me. An author _ought_ to know if he is guilty of plagiarism; -and though I may err, it is my opinion, that among the many who have -written upon this subject, though I may not boast of as much beauty, I -may at least have been as far from stealing as the best of the rhyming -tribe. These are indeed days of barter--still I would live on my own -capital. - - - - -SIR THOMAS MORE’S WORKS. - -_Lib. Old Eng. Prose Writers--Vol. 9.--Boston, 1834._ - - -Self-sufficiency, under one form or another, is the predominant vice of -the present age. A disposition to neglect the gathered wisdom of former -times, and to deny all reverence to customs and institutions from which -our fathers deemed it inseparable, and to go forward rejoicing in _our -own_ strength, is becoming more and more apparent. And whether we -regard this sentiment as the fool-hardiness resulting from ignorance, -and as ‘the pride which goeth before a fall,’ or, which we are more -inclined to do, as the exultation of conscious might, and the prelude -of more glorious achievements--still it is a vice, and requires the -most vigorous exertions to check its further progress. These remarks -are most obviously applicable to political matters, but they are not -without meaning in reference to _literature_. Even in this department -of knowledge, there has become manifest a proneness to circumscribe -curiosity and inquiry within the narrow circle of cotemporary writers, -to extol our popular authors, as the only ones deserving our attention, -and as incontestably superior to all who have gone before them. It is -difficult to determine whether this feeling is more unjust to those -great lights of learning, who laid the _foundations_ of our literature, -by defrauding them of their merited homage, or more unfortunate for -ourselves, by depriving us of their illumination. Nor is it less -_absurd_, than it is unjust and unfortunate. For if we are indeed at -the culminating point, whence beams of light and beauty shall fall on -succeeding ages, the closest investigation can but confirm the truth; -but if we are _not_, by timely consideration we may be saved from the -error of those ancient astronomers, who assumed this little earth to be -the center of the universe, and _therefore_, at each supposed advance, -plunged deeper in error and perplexity. And those, who, in utter -ignorance of our older writers, are ever asserting the preeminence -of Byron and Bulwer and Irving, should be careful, lest, with those -who have traveled further in the world of letters, they may incur the -charge of weakness, no less ridiculous than that of the vain Chinese, -who imagine _their_ land, the only radiant point in a world of darkness. - -Nor would the results of a candid and thorough examination of the early -English writers, be really prejudicial to the reputation of cotemporary -works; for though we might return from our researches with a less -extravagant complacency in the productions of living authors, it would -be more strongly established. We should meet with opposite merits and -opposite faults. If our current literature is more frivolous, theirs -is more prolix; if their thoughts are more sound, and their style -more simple, our reasoning is more pointed, and our expression more -sparkling--if we are more disgusted here with spurious originality, we -are oftener wearied there with staid monotony. - -We have been led into these reflections, by the perusal of several -volumes of ‘the Library of Old English Prose Writers.’ Among the many -series, which have of late appeared in England and this country, under -the specious name of ‘Libraries,’ there is none so truly deserving as -this, of the approbation and support of the educated and intellectual -portion of the community--and to them, from its peculiar character, -it must be almost entirely confined. Other publications, appealing to -the interests or the love of novelty and excitement of the ‘reading -public,’ meet with a ready support. But this series, whose design and -tendency is to correct this corrupt taste, and chasten this morbid -partiality to the matter-of-fact, or the romantic, cannot expect a -promiscuous patronage. It is emphatically the _literature of literary -men_, and all such, if they have any sympathy with ‘sober thought, -in simple language dressed,’ nay, to appeal to selfish motives only, -if they have any regard for the improvement of their taste, the -strengthening of their own minds, or the purifying of their own style, -will not fail to search out and drink deeply of these ‘healthful wells -of English undefiled.’ We would gladly ramble through the several -works of which the ‘Library’ is composed, but time does not permit, -and we hasten to the consideration of the last of their number, with -the simple remark that the plan of the undertaking is so praiseworthy, -and the manner of its execution thus far has evinced so correct a -judgment, and refined a taste, that we cannot but regret that any -circumstances should for a moment delay its progress. - -The fame of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia must be familiar to every ear. Its -authority as a classic is so high, quotations from it are so numerous, -and allusions to it among literary, political and metaphysical writers, -are so frequent and eulogistic, that no one who has passed beyond the -first lispings of polite learning, can be presumed ignorant of its -general character. But a much smaller number, probably, are acquainted -with it from actual examination and study. Before the appearance of -this edition it had long been out of print in this country, or excluded -from general circulation by being buried in an expensive and cumbrous -volume, among the ponderous controversial writings of its author; and -in rescuing it from its unfortunate companionship, the editor has -conferred no slight gratification upon the lovers of serious thought -and quaint style. A clear view of the design and plan of the work, -cannot better be obtained, than by a brief analysis of its contents. - -The author, for the convenience of setting forth his ideal of a perfect -commonwealth, in a plainer and bolder manner than the jealousy of -the government and the church would allow, feigns the existence of -an island, Utopia, in a remote quarter of the globe, unknown to the -people of Europe, and recently discovered by the celebrated navigator, -Vespucci. Raphael Hylleloday, a philosopher, who accompanied Vespucci -in his voyages, through curiosity, to examine the condition of the -new-found nations, having become intimately versed in the history and -manners of the Utopians, conveys a lengthened and minute account of the -same to his friend More, at that time employed in the ‘king’s embassat’ -in Flanders. - -Upon this hypothesis, the philosophical romance is founded; and -under the form of historical narrative, the author unfolds his -views of the manners, customs, pursuits, government and religion, -which would obtain among a perfectly happy people. He condemns with -severity, and ridicules with sharpness, the policy, both temporal and -spiritual, which was pursued by the governments of Europe, and the -whole system of social relations, which prevailed among the people. -He exposes with equal fearlessness, the folly and wickedness of royal -tyranny, prelatical intolerance, and private avarice. He pictures in -earnest simplicity, the advantages of equality of rank, temperance -in living, freedom of opinion, and general education; and much more -than anticipates in theory, all the advances which have actually -been made, in more than three centuries. In order to feel the full -admiration, which the perusal of the ‘Utopia’ should legitimately -excite, the reader must constantly bear in mind, the period at which -the author wrote. Many positions, which to us appear obvious and common -place,--because we have been familiar with them, as undoubted truisms, -from our childhood--evinced in our author surpassing vigor of thought, -and boldness of purpose, joined with a sagacity almost prophetic. -The extent to which he pushed his liberality in religion, in an age -distinguished for its bloody bigotry, may be learned from the following -extract. (p. 159.) - - “For this is one of their most ancient laws, that no - man ought to be punished for his religion. At the first - constitution of their government, Utopas having understood, - that before his coming among them, the old inhabitants had - been engaged in great quarrels concerning religion, by which - they were so divided among themselves, that he found it an - easy thing to conquer them, since instead of uniting their - forces against him, every different party in religion fought - by themselves; after he had subdued them, he made a law that - every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might - endeavor to draw others to it by the force of argument, and - by amicable and modest ways, but without bitterness against - those of other opinions; but that he ought to use no other - force but that of persuasion, and was neither to mix with it - reproaches nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to - be condemned to banishment or slavery.” - -To affirm that all the maxims and institutions in this fictitious -system of politics are unexceptionable, and would be desirable if -_realized_, would be foolish eulogium--indeed, in some very important -features, (we would refer particularly to the chapters on ‘the -Manner of Living,’ on ‘Slavery,’ and on ‘Marriages,’) the progress -of political science and moral philosophy, has shown that there is -much that is erroneous and defective. The grand error is, and it is a -very common one among theorists, in allowing to corrupt human nature -a higher degree of moral perfection, than it has ever yet vindicated -its claims to, and, resting upon this unsubstantial basis, must fall -to the ground. The candid reader, however, cannot fail to admire the -acuteness and honesty of the reasoning, and to wonder at the nobleness -of the sentiments upon the great subjects of civil and religious -freedom, when he reflects that the author was a courtier under the -despotic Henry VIII, and was a tenacious Romanist, amid the fierce -struggles of the Reformation. He will also be highly pleased with the -simplicity of language in which the profoundest truths are conveyed, -and will often be provoked to a smile, as he detects, under the modest -guise of our author’s graceful style, many a thought, which with -pompous epithet, and startling antithesis, has been brought forth as -the offspring of the ‘wonderful advance of mind in the XIXth century.’ -And if he should be ready to point at some passages as absurd, and -at others as childishly simple, let him remember, that according to -competent critics, the prince of ancient philosophers, Plato, is not -free from similar crudities. The most valuable portions of the work, -are those which are employed in the discussion of permanent moral and -political principles, though the most curious and amusing, are the -descriptions of the island, and of the domestic and civil habits of its -citizens. There are, here and there, some positions of even ludicrous -extravagance, which the author, it would seem, intended to serve him as -a refuge from the charge of heresy, by giving his book the aspect of an -idle and humorous fiction. - -The latter half of the volume is occupied with the ‘History of King -Richard III’--and though it does not possess the intrinsic value of -the Utopia, it acquires even a higher interest from the circumstance -of its being the _earliest specimen_ of English prose, intelligible to -readers of the present day.[2] It is also deserving of great attention, -as the original chronicle of that troublous and tragical reign, written -while several of the actors in its scenes are yet living. It is in -this light, as the ‘Father of English Prose,’ that the character of -Sir Thomas More appears most interesting. He was the first to break -loose from the prevailing custom, which confined all learning and -philosophy and history, to the constrained medium of a dead language, -and commenced those efforts in the living English, which have resulted -in giving us a vernacular prose literature, unequalled by that of any -other language in the world. He was fortunate too in living just at -that period, when the language had acquired sufficient elegance and -copiousness, to render it in a great measure permanent. The tasteful -reader will be tempted to wish that our native Saxon had been suffered -to retain its pristine vigor, unencumbered with such ponderous -accumulations, as it has since received, though it had remained less -magnificent in its periods, and less fertile in synonymes. - -The principal points worthy of notice in this venerable composition, -are, the honest straight-forward course of the narrative, the -discrimination in the portraiture of character, and in tracing outward -actions to their secret causes, and the nature and individuality shown -in the speeches, which, in imitation of the manner of Livy and Sallust, -he puts in the mouths of his personages. We were much struck with -the _perfect_ coincidence with this authentic chronicle, maintained -in Shakspeare’s drama of Richard III. It is exceedingly thorough -and minute, and affords gratifying evidence that the efforts of the -imagination may with success be made subservient to impressing and -illustrating historical truth. As an instance of this resemblance, as -well as for the purpose of exhibiting our author’s _original_ style, we -quote as follows. (p. 302-304.) - - “And thus, as I have learned of them that much knew and - little cause had to lie, were these two noble princes, - these innocent, tender children, born of most royal blood, - brought up in great wealth, likely long to live to reign and - rule in the realm, by traitorous tyranny taken, deprived of - their estate, shortly shut up in prison, and privily slain - and murthered, their bodies cast, God wot where, by the - cruel ambition of their unnatural uncle and his dispiteous - tormentors. Which things on every part well pondered, God - never gave this world a more notable example, neither in - what unsurety standeth this worldly weal, or what mischief - worketh the proud enterprise of a high heart, or finally - what wretched end ensueth such dispiteous cruelty. For - first, to begin with the ministers, Miles Forrest at Saint - Martin’s piecemeal rotted away. Dighton indeed yet walketh - on alive, in good possibility to be hanged ere he die. But - Sir James Tyrrel died at Tower hill, beheaded for treason. - King Richard himself, as ye shall hereafter hear, slain in - the field, hacked and hewed of his enemies’ hands, harried - on horseback dead, his hair in despite torn and togged - like a cur dog. And the mischief that he took, within less - than three years of the mischief that he did. And yet all - the mean time, spent in much pain and trouble outward, - much fear, anguish and sorrow within. For I have heard by - credible report of such as were secret with his chamberers, - that after this abominable deed done, he never had quiet - in his mind, he never thought himself sure. Where he went - abroad, his eyen whirled about, his body privily fenced, his - hand ever on his dagger, his countenance and manner like one - always ready to strike again; he took ill rest a nights, lay - long waking and musing, sore wearied with care and watch, - rather slumbered than slept, troubled with fearful dreams, - suddenly sometime start up, leap out of his bed and run - about the chamber; so was his restless heart continually - tossed and tumbled with the tedious impression and stormy - remembrance of his abominable deed.” - -The character of Sir Thomas More is one of the noblest that the whole -circle of history can present, and his whole career was as glorious, -in the highest sense of that term, as the loftiest aspirations could -desire. His fame rests not on the adventitious distinctions of rank -or political authority, or on the short lived eminence, conferred by -popular idolatry; for, though he was placed high in office, though he -was courted by his sovereign, beloved by his equals, and worshiped by -his inferiors--the native power of his intellect, and loftiness of -his spirit, shed the proudest luster upon his name. We have already -had occasion to notice some points of his greatness, in the review -of his works. In his Utopia we found him a subtle reasoner, and bold -asserter of the rights of man; and in his history, we met with an -honest annalist, and skillful pioneer in the untraced paths of English -literature. In many other respects he was no less gifted by nature, and -favored by fortune. He was the first _lay_ chancellor of England, that -high station, before his accession, having been entirely monopolized by -churchmen. He is the _first_ person in English history distinguished -for senatorial eloquence, and the earliest champion of parliamentary -liberty. He was the first, as speaker of the House of Commons, to -teach that body the use of that power, which, as keeper of the purse -of the nation, it possessed, and which, in later times, it has exerted -with so overwhelming an influence on the destinies of the nation. In a -word, he was the _first_ of British ministers, who deserved, in all its -breadth, the title of a _statesman_. His personal character was no less -lovely, than his public career was commanding. The sweetness of his -disposition, the mirthfulness of his temper, his reluctance to engage -in the stormy contentions of political ambition, the depth of his -learning, and the order of his piety, are alike conspicuous--and the -manner of his death has associated his fame with that of the martyrs to -tyranny ‘for conscience sake.’ - - W. - -[2] Utopia was written in Latin. The current translation was made by -Bishop Burnet. - - - - -I LOVE THEE. - - - ’Tis sweet, when first the infant’s voice - Lisps to the parent of his joys, - Words like no other; - And says,--as a bright, radiant smile - Lights up his countenance the while-- - “I love thee, mother.” - - ’Tis sweet, to watch that mother’s eye - Beam, like a star in yonder sky, - Radiant, though mild; - To hear her speak the glad reply,-- - Her joyous bosom heaving high-- - “I love thee, child.” - - ’Tis pleasant, when at midnight hour - Beneath some fragrant myrtle bower - With flow’rs inwove, - The happy swain, with trembling tone - Reveals his heart to _her_ alone-- - “’Tis _thee_ I love:” - - And then, to mark the rising sigh, - The blushing cheek, the laughing eye, - In _turn_ appear; - The swelling breast, the _throbbing_ there, - The playful struggle--_all_ declare, - “I love thee, dear.” - - * * * * * - - ’Tis sweet, when man doth contrite bow - Before his God, his spirit low, - And seek His favor. - With deep submission as he kneels, - He speaks the joy his bosom feels, - “I love thee, Savior.” - - But sweeter far, when _God_ hath said, - “The offering which _I_ have made, - Thine heart hath won. - Through _Him_ will I now hear thy cries, - Through that ‘_atoning sacrifice_,’ - ‘I love thee, _son_.’” - - - - -THE COFFEE CLUB. - -No. II. - - “I wish you saw me half starting out of my chair, with what - confidence, as I grasp the elbow of it, I look up, catching - the idea, even sometimes before it half-way reaches me. - - ----I believe in my conscience I intercept many a thought, - which Heaven intended for another man.”--_Tristram Shandy._ - - -Reader; - -Lest, from the fact that we have hitherto drawn our mottos from “The -Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy,” the suspicion may be festering -in your brain that poor Nescio Quod has confined his reading among -the older English writers to this single work, it may not be amiss to -adduce such evidence, as shall set at rest so unjust and injurious a -surmise. - -For instance--had he wished to be sarcastical upon himself, and thus, -by a common artifice, predispose his critics to clemency, he might, -in reference to the multitudinous array of _shadowy_ jests--flitting -around the brightness of the reader’s fancy, like moths around a -candle, to their own destruction--have cited this keen retort of -Fuller--“It is good to make a jest, but not to make a trade of jesting.” - -Or, in allusion to the somewhat pedantic display of information, -varied, but worthless, he might have adopted from the same author -a complaint at the frivolous attainments of the idle and riotous -student--“Yet, _perchance_, he may get some _alms_ of learning, here a -snap, there a piece of knowledge, but nothing to purpose.” - -Or, in a mood of preeminent self-complacency, he might have imagined -that the reader’s feelings towards him, maugre his faults and his -prolixity, might be fitly expressed in the language of the Spectator -(after Martial.) - - “In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, - Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow, - Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, - There is no living with thee, nor without thee.” - -Or, in defense of his desultory style--half-way between the frisking -pirouettes of Harlequin, and the staid pace of the moraliser, he might -have borrowed a circumlocutory sentence from the bungling Locke--“I -would have him try whether he can keep one unvaried, single idea in his -mind without any other, for any considerable length of time.” - -Or, having in his mind the stolidity of those, who condescended gravely -to condemn so trifling a _jeu d’esprit_, he might have taken to his aid -a sarcasm from Smollett--“Some formidable critics declared that the -work was void of humor, character, and sentiment.” - -Or, revolving in his thoughts the mystery attending the appearance -of the first number, and the pining curiosity excited to unveil its -paternity, with flattered pride, he might have quoted a splendid -sentence from Count Fathom--“Over and above this important secret, -under which he was begotten, other particularities attended his birth, -and seemed to mark him out as uncommon among the sons of men.”--These -“_ancient_ instances” will suffice, my reader, if you are in a yielding -mood, to convince you that, if Tristram is called upon somewhat often, -it is less a matter of necessity, than of choice. I am doubting whether -it would not be a most Machiavelian stroke of diplomatic wisdom, to -persuade you that I perceive all my failings. Surely your admiration at -my frankness would outweigh your anger at the repetition of my sins. I -am sometimes affected, and, now and then, I perpetrate a _verbicide_. I -like to make new words--I feel for them the affection of a father. I am -slightly tinctured with the sin mentioned by Boileau. (L’Art Poetique. -Chant Troisieme.) - - “Souvent, sans y penser, un écrivain qui s’aime, - Forme tous ses héros semblables à soi-meme.” - -Which lines the _Il_-literati are to know mean, “A self-complacent -writer often inadvertently draws his heroes like himself.” Thus I, -forgetting the precise terms of the _conversators_, (there _ought_ to -be such a word,) make them parley in a brogue very like my own. I am, -moreover, somewhat vain, though less so than Ovid, or Horace, (Vide -Metam. lib. 15. in fine. and Hor. 2.20 3.30.) or than that Etrurian -Spurinna, whom Valerius Maximus cites as an instance of modesty, though -he was rather an example of uncommon self-inflation; since he thought -himself so _killing_, that he disfigured his face, lest he should -unwittingly seduce his fair country-women! - -I would that I could affirm with Falstaff in the play, “I am not only -witty in myself, but I am likewise the cause that wit is in other men.” -But the protasis will, I fear, be doubted by the judicious, and my -own observation tells me that the apodosis is false. I am naturally -neither contemptuous nor malicious, but when I look around me, and -behold so many with but two ideas, “one for superfluity and one for -use,” and reflect that I may myself rank among that soulless number, -I become almost a misanthrope, and quite a scorner. “Les diseurs des -bons mots,” says Pascal, “sont mauvais caractères.” “The perpetrators -of witticisms are bad men.” Yet the same author observes, that silence -is the severest punishment, and, since novelty is all that can gain one -notoriety at the present day, I know not why I should not attempt to -be new, at least, if not witty. I sometimes think I would rather give -utterance to a brilliant error than a stupid truth, and, like Tully, -espouse falsehood with a Plato, rather than be right with the rabble. -“Had the nose of Cleopatra been shorter,” remarks an eminent writer, -“the face of the world had been altered.” (_Her_ face would have been, -at any rate.) Had I, too, been born at an earlier era, before the -fingers of a million had compressed every square inch of this vast -globe’s surface, till it is as dry and hopeless as the peel of an -eviscerated orange, I, too, might have been at once original and wise. -But all truths have of late become _truisms_, and to reiterate them -would be like praising Shakspeare. Sufficient be it for me, (you will -find the thought somewhere in Irving,) if, like a skillful physician, -who gives you a pill enveloped in some palate-tickling sauce, I now and -then, under the guise of folly, pop down your throat a sound moral, -or a wholesome truth. My writings, if less grave in appearance, will -be more healthful in effect than Bellamy’s learned computation of the -earth’s inhabitants during the millennium, (whom he makes so numerous -that they would be compelled to lie in _strata_,) or the labored -inquiry of the ingenious Spaniard, whether it be more certain that a -_cause_ will produce an _effect_, or that an _effect_ must spring from -a _cause_. Pardon these patch-work prolegomena--remembering that it is -my fashion to place my thoughts in _Mosaic_--and pass on to my compeers -of the club. - -_Apple._ “Well, Pulito, time flies, or,” (looking learnedly,) “_tempus -fugit_, as the Latins would say. If Quod and you are coming to the -point, I’ll e’en light my cigar, and listen with elongated and _patent_ -ears.” (Here, after a series of wicked bantering, Apple was forced -to explain that _patent_ meant _open_--he then continued pettishly,) -“I really thought you could see through a joke sooner--but if you -are not about to discuss, I’ll read to Tristo a few chapters of my -Psychological Autobiography, in which I have shown by induction that -_punning_ may become a second nature, and that in numerous consecutive -instances--” - -_Tristo._ “Enough, good Apple; I perceive the plan of your work, and -doubt not that it is profoundly amusing, and amusingly profound. But -why wish to read it to me, rather than to Nescio, or Pulito?” - -_Apple._ “Because you are melancholy, and something light and trifling -might--” - -_Tristo._ “No, Apple, no! When I am sad, which is but too often, I -find no relief from the ludicrous, or the gay. I should sooner look -for an antidote to melancholy in the deep thought and earnest style -of Coleridge, than in the levities of Swift, or the whimsicalities -of Sterne. And an evening walk in the solemn starlight would quicker -soothe me than a merry ramble among the green hills in the brightness -of the morning. When the soul wanders through its airy chambers in -solitary sadness, let it not flee for refuge to the comic page, to -laughter, or the song. Let it dwell upon scenes and objects, more -wretched than itself, till the sigh of sorrow burst into the tear of -pity. The descriptions of Crabbe, so gloomy, so powerful, and so true, -bear me away from sadness to solemnity, and the deep conceptions of -Foster lift me from solemnity to a high and tender elevation.” - -_Apple._ “Fool as I am, these bright spring mornings always make even -me serious.” - -_Tristo._ “Fools as we _all_ are, there are times when the cup of -pleasure is as nauseous to the soul, as is wine to the sated palate of -the morning reveler. Why is it, Apple, why is it that the first gay -breath of spring is so saddening in its influence? Nature seems then to -burst from her winter’s sleep, like a resurrection from the grave. The -jocund earth puts on her brightest robes, as if soon to celebrate her -nuptials with heaven. The pulse of existence beats high with new-born -vigor, and the warm, bright blood runs riot through the renovated -veins. Alike in the open fields, and the crowded city, throughout the -glorious works of God, and the petty creations of man, there is a -newness of life, which, it would seem, _must_ fill every heart with -bounding ecstacy. And so it may be, for aught I know, with the busy -and the riotous. But with the idle and the thoughtful, the approach of -spring produces, I am persuaded, far different effects.” - -_Apple._ “Physicians would tell us that the balmy breeze bears on -its wings a subtle, penetrating fluid, which dampens the spirits and -enfeebles the energies.” - -_Tristo._ “No. While I allow that these early gales of spring, which -breathe life and vigor into all the rest of animated nature, unbrace -_our_ nerves, and through those media of sensation, lower the tone, and -lessen the elasticity of the feelings, yet, for the main cause would -I look deeper--even in the mind. There are certain periods, as we all -know, when we are _forced to reflect_. Such periods are, every serious -change in the world without--the recurrence of a birth-day, or the -revisiting of home; and sometimes the sight of a long-neglected volume, -through whose pages I have strayed in pleasant intercourse with an -absent, or a buried friend, has brought paleness to my lip, and sadness -to my heart. And such an occasion, preeminently, are the early days of -spring; for spring (as the Germans say) is the cradle-time of the year.” - -_Apple._ “The calendar, though, says otherwise. But go on.” - -_Tristo._ “Then are we summoned to look forward to _another_ year, -with hopes less wild and free than they were at the commencement of -the last; and we look backward, also, with a longer and a sadder -retrospect: and you know, Apple, that the memory of a student is but a -shadowy maze, where the forms, which, in _prospect_, were gilded with -glory, and girded with magnificence, to his _backward_ gaze, seem airy -nothings, or shapes, palpable, indeed, but unsightly--fiends, mocking -at the vanity of his hopes, and the folly of his grief. And thus the -bland breath of the reviving year becomes, through the mysterious -principle of association, an instrument of keenest anguish to the -sensitive mind. This annual birth of nature is a mile-stone, that -notches our progress from the cradle to the grave: the figures are -surrounded by bloom and greenness, but they are graven by the finger of -Death.” - -_Apple._ “I think such brilliant days make us feel _too_ well.” - -_Tristo._ “They do. They kindle sensations too delightful for -continuance--our systems are too coarse, too frail--it seems as if an -electric finger were laid invisibly upon each shrinking nerve--a balm -circumfuses and permeates the heart, strange, ecstatic, overpowering. -The change, too, is often so abrupt as to cause an unpleasant -revulsion--the process (so far as regards the action of the mind) is -not unlike that by which we pass from the stern winter of our existence -here, to the bright and unending summer of the future life.” - -_Apple._ “Well, Tristo, though I could not succeed in making you merry, -you have well nigh rendered me as sad as yourself. And Quod and Pulito -have stopped their wrangling to listen to your melancholy.” - -_Pulito._ “Yes, Tristo, you are unwontedly depressed to-night, and -Dumpling has scarcely made a _pun_ since we came together. However, the -coffee is ready, that will revive you both.” - -The first cup sufficed to set Apple on his _legs_, (speaking -intellectually,) which he evinced by commencing a _running_ fire -of puns and jests, too rapid for transcription; while Tristo, more -slowly, but not less surely, owned the mild, exhilarating influence. -In the mean time conversation lagged, and finally ceased, while they -gave themselves up to the more _sensible_ pleasures of the palate. -After a while, Pulito, who appeared to have been collecting all his -energies for the onset, seized a moment, when Apple was poring over his -Autobiography, Tristo with a pleased smile was dipping into Little’s -poems, and Quod, as _magister morum_ for the evening, was resettling -the coffee pot on its uneasy bed, and broke forth in a most oratorical -tone with the following introduction to the debate. - -_Pulito._ “On whatever principle you may compare the writings of the -older novelists with the works of Bulwer and his school, whether as -to their effect, in instructing the mind, or improving the heart, -quickening the moral sense, or conveying useful information, or even -for mere interest, or whiling away the time in rational amusement, -(which last is but the lowest commendation of a good novel): in any of -these points of comparison, I maintain that the older writers have a -decided and manifest superiority. I might appeal, for the support of -this position, to the concurrent testimony of literary men, to the fact -that they have outlived contemporary criticism, and are still classics -in this fastidious age, and furthermore”-- - -_Apple_, (looking up from his manuscript.) “What book is that you’re -reading out of, Pulito?” - -“The book of my own intellect, as yet unpublished, Mr. Impertinence,” -said Pulito, somewhat disconcerted. - -_Apple._ “Indeed! As I was looking down, I thought from the rapid -and mellifluous flow of words, the elegance and profoundness of the -thought, that you were reading loud from some one of the British -Essayists. No insinuations, however,” and he chuckled at the effect, -while the others smiled at the harmlessness of his sarcasm. - -_Nescio._ “Don’t suppose, Pulito, that because I prefer the modern to -the ancient school among the English novelists, I therefore deny all -merit to the latter. It would be strange, indeed, if men, who were -admitted _unâ voce_ to be the wits and geniuses of their age, should -not have displayed many, and great, and varied excellencies. But won’t -you allow that the incongruous mass, The Life and Opinions of Tristram -Shandy, has gained its greenest laurels from its outrageous oddity? -Its eccentricity is so astounding, so far beyond anomaly itself, that -criticism pauses aghast, as at ‘the quills of the fretful porcupine,’ -unknowing where to strike. You might as soon trace ‘the path of a -serpent on a rock,’ or reduce to rule the movements of the wild ass of -the desert. It is a mere chaos--a “rudis indigestaque moles.” - -_Pulito._ “But, my dear fellow, such the author intended to have it.” - -_Nescio._ “Well, and what then? Suppose he had made it dull, (as in -fact much of it _is_, at least, to me,) would it be the more pleasing, -that the author had simply fulfilled his intentions? I like a good -conceit in my heart, and the more I like it, the more do I hate to see -it spoiled.” - -_Pulito._ “Do you assert that Sterne has spoiled his plan? If you do, -the world is against you.” - -_Nescio._ “I beg your pardon. Those few are against me, who copy their -sentiments from one another, and who, I’ll be sworn, never had the -patience to read through what they so extravagantly admire. There -are many good judges, who have the taste to perceive the unrivalled -beauties of Sterne in particular passages, his fine strokes of humor, -his felicitous touches of character, and, therefore, indiscriminately -extol the whole.” - -_Pulito._ “Well, and I think they are about right.” - -_Nescio._ “So they are, except in Tristram Shandy. But _there_ I -maintain, that while uncle Toby, and Yorick, and in fact all the -actors, are among the most perfect pictures in the English language, -the scenes are yet, many of them, _unbearably_ wearisome. I would -rather undertake to thread the labyrinth of Minos.” - -_Pulito._ “Now, in my view, this same rambling style constitutes his -great charm.” - -_Nescio._ “Not at all. This attraction consists in the exquisite -fidelity of his characters, and the wit that gleams along his zigzag -path. His roving, if properly restrained, would be pleasing. But, in -the very nature of things, we cannot heartily like an author whom we -cannot keep in sight. He seems to have thought that _any_ thing would -_take_, provided only it were irrelevant. If, indeed, these _disjecta -membra_ were all brilliant or weighty, it would repay the labor of -putting them together. But when you have done this, and find much of it -absolute nonsense, you must feel spent, disappointed, and angry.” - -_Pulito._ “Say what you will, and there is some truth in your words, -Sterne will always remain inimitable.” - -_Nescio._ “I deny it not, and I hope he may. One such specimen, however -beautiful, of utter lawlessness, is quite enough, and the fame of -Sterne has already drawn many a weak-winged aspirant from sober truth -into erratic nonsense. That style, which, in _him_, if affected, was, -at least, original, in an _imitator_ would be stale and intolerable. By -the way, have you ever read his Sermons and Letters?” - -_Pulito._ “Yes, and they are beautiful, are they not?” - -_Nescio._ “Surpassingly. But what say you to the older novelists, -Fielding, Richardson and Smollett?” - -_Pulito._ “Why, I say that their language is as much stronger and -purer, as their thoughts are better, and their characters more natural, -than those of Bulwer, and his tawdry tribe.” - -_Nescio._ “Well, I must admire your modesty, to speak thus of a man, -whom the spontaneous and infallible voice of a million has applauded, -till praise itself grows weary.” - -_Pulito._ “The infallible voice of the million! Phoebus! their words -_are_ oracular! It has not been a fact, then, has it, since the stars -first sang together, that whatever the _lions_ of the day have done, -or written, these infallible judges have followed with their praise? -They did not shout ‘_te deum_’ to Cowley, when that worshipper of the -‘dim obscure’ was the star of a voluptuous court, as vicious in taste -as it was depraved in morals? Each spectacled ‘mother in Israel’ was -not enraptured by Hervey’s magniloquent meditations among the tombs? -The horrors of Walpole, and the mysteries of Radcliffe, the sorrows of -Porter, with the bravery of her superhuman Wallace, and the streaming -eyes of her immaculate Amanda, have not _all_ been worshipped in their -day as lords of the ascendant--have not _all_ risen, and shone, and -set, in the April sky of popular applause? Why, Quod, I am astonished -that you should for a moment adduce the opinion of the rabble as -authority.” - -_Nescio._ “Out, aristocrat! where else _would_ you look for natural and -unbiassed feeling? I tell you, that when the voice of a people bursts -forth in simultaneous applause, a work _must_ be good.” - -_Pulito._ “And I tell you, that if at this moment our meretricious -press should bring forth the Letters of Junius, and the scribblings -of Jack Downing, the people, if left to themselves, would choose the -latter to reign over them, because the latter is most like themselves. -Besides, upon one of these fashionable novels you do not get the free -popular voice. Some giant critic, from prejudice, or false taste, -sends forth his _imprimatur_, and the groundlings catch and repeat the -cry,--as a mountain shakes the thunder from its cliffs, and the little -bills reverberate its voice.” - -_Apple._ “But the people have no interest to sway their opinion.” - -_Pulito._ “Neither have they any judgment to guide it.” - -_Apple._ “To what, then, shall we resort? For criticism has always -shifted with the shifting taste of the age, and it may be shown that -the learned, and the polished, have fluctuated in their sentiments as -much as the ignorant and the coarse. Did not the voices of the educated -prefer Cowley and Dryden to Milton, until Addison took Milton on his -wing, and bore him far into the heaven of fame? The critics of every -age have followed the prevailing style of the writers of their time; -and, indeed, they have constituted a large portion of those writers. -Every thirty years has a style peculiar to itself--soft or strong, -plain or mystical, brief or diffuse, moralizing or descriptive, simple -or turgid; and the critics have set up no barrier, and constituted no -law.” - -_Pulito._ “What you have said, _was_ true, but _is_ not. There are -now so many perfect specimens from every literary mine, that dross or -counterfeit is instantly detected. Criticism has become stable, or, if -ever influenced by prejudice, or local feeling, you have only to take -the average--cast them together into the alembic, and truth will come -forth. And indeed the _general_ and _long-continued_ opinion of the -multitude on a literary work, is always correct, partly because nature -speaks within them, and partly because they have been told what to -think by their superiors.” - -_Nescio._ “Don’t suppose I prefer the flimsy modern copyists, to the -eloquent Old English prose writers--the thinkers of the seventeenth -century. But what says your Criticism to the novelists of the present -age, as compared with those of eighty years since?” - -_Pulito._ “I speak not of Scott; for I admit, as must all, that to -the rest of story tellers, he is the sun in heaven. I likewise except -Edgeworth, and Marryatt, and, perhaps, James and Cooper. But the -Bulwerian is the prevailing style; and of him enlightened criticism -says, that, with much brilliancy, and some philosophy, there is a great -deal that is vicious in style, and false in sentiment, shallow in -reasoning, and depraving in tendency. It says that his aphorisms are -merely antitheses, striking, but untrue. His characters are too strong -contrasts to be natural; they are foils to one another.” - -_Nescio._ “And where will you find a more glaring instance of this, -than in Scott’s Quentin Durward, where he introduces tragedy and -comedy--the executioners to Lewis, that subtle king?” - -_Pulito._ “I allow it, and always considered the picture overcharged: -it is broad farce, and not real life.” - -_Nescio._ “Well, I will tell you what _I_ think of Smollett. When he -is himself, he is coarse; and when he rises to the tender, he speaks -in language, which true lover and true poet never employed. His -sentimentality is to me disgusting, and his sketches, though laughable, -are many of them caricatures. He had a strong sense of the ludicrous, -but no taste for the refined. His sea-characters are admirable; but -when, in the History of England, were oaths and exclamations, which I -repeat not, so common in the mouths of _refined ladies_ even, as he -would represent? When I close a volume of Smollett, I rise with a sense -of weariness--there is a something, which I sought, and found not--his -characters appear before me in bold prominence, and they are consistent -with themselves, but I doubt me whether all of them are consistent with -human nature.” - -_Pulito._ “There is something in what you say. Smollett fails in some -points: but his mind was powerful, and his language is strong, and -idiomatically pure. But in regard to poetry, and to love-scenes, the -taste of the age was wrong: yet he simply accorded with that taste, -and you cannot blame him for drifting with a race that thought Johnson -a poet! As for Fielding, though too diffuse in style of remark, he is -still immeasurably above Bulwer and his countless spawn. And so is -Richardson, maugre his epistolary prolixity; and Goldsmith, with his -quiet beauty and truth to nature, transcends them all. But Bulwer, -instead of the apotheosis his admirers would bestow, deserves to do -penance in purgatory for his literary sins. As obscure as Coleridge, -without his deep philosophy, as glittering as Voltaire, without his -sparkling wit, as seductive as Byron, without his amazing strength, -his wisdom is founded in a few heartless maxims, and his poetry is -comprized in a Rhyming Dictionary.” - -_Tristo._ “No! Pulito, you are wrong there. I have heard your -discussion with interest, and allow me to draw the line, which, in -cooler moments, you would both approve. Bulwer is a scholar, and a -genius, and essentially a poet. That he is a scholar, and a ripe one, -no one that has read his Ambitious Student, and, above all, his Last -Days of Pompeii, can doubt for an instant. When I look at the fact -that he has founded a new school in romance; that he has written eight -or ten novels, all different, all original, all _creative_ in their -kind; that we follow his characters from their entrance to their -exit, with feverish and untiring interest; that in his own path no -one approaches him, and that for eight years he has supported his -reputation, I see not how he can be denied many of the attributes of -genius. And that he is, _in heart_, a poet, despite his Siamese Twins, -is equally evident to me. He is certainly fertile in invention, rich in -expression, and powerful in pathos. I know not where to find any thing -more poetic, more moving, than the character of Lucy Brandon, and -her twilight interview with Clifford at the lattice, the beautifully -simple portraiture of Mydia, and, above all, the crossed love, and -shattered hopes of the Ambitious Student. I say that he _does_ possess -wit and humor, and poetry, and talent, and that in large abundance. -Yet his power is more in the _manner_ than the _matter_; for he is -often superficial, and his pictures of the world, though faithful and -clear in parts, are false and confused as a whole. Their coloring is -too high. He strains for effect. His views in politics, in ethics, -and religion, are all shifting. If a brilliant thought occurs, -he pauses little upon its truth or consistency with his previous -sentiments. Because red and blue are _both_ beautiful, he lays them on -together. You view his pictures as in a glass, and depart, ‘straitway -forgetting what manner of man he is.’ He makes all his heroes think -and act splendidly for the moment; but their thoughts and actions are -incongruous as a whole--they war among themselves. A man cannot at -once be patient and resentful, thoughtful and careless, or learned -and an idler. Again--his style is as bad as it is brilliant--it is -affected--sometimes tawdry. His novels are bad, _very_ bad, in their -tendency. He marries vice and virtue; he joins nobleness to sin; he -makes man the puppet of fate or circumstance; around the desperate -offender he weaves a spell of enchantment; we follow his heroes with -wonder and pity and love, through all their paths of crime and glory, -and we close the book with a sigh that ourselves were not born with -natures so high, and destinies so splendid, even at the price of all -their wretchedness, and all their guilt. Bulwer may talk, and talk of -virtue and religion, till his hair is gray--but his principles are -poison. And if he be dangerous, his imitators are contemptible. Without -a tithe of his power, they are more corrupt. Their works are prolific -as the rod of Aaron, and lean as the kine of Pharaoh. In regard to -talent, making allowance for the greater freshness of his novels, -and that sympathy which we feel for every thing of our own day, and -remembering that he had all _their_ excellencies to build upon, and -imitate, I should place him far below both Fielding and Smollett in -mental power. Those older writers, though freer in language, are far -less corrupt and enervate in thought, than these modern profligates. -In _those_, there is a style simple, vigorous, and clear, and -reflection solid, rational, and just--in _these_ there is a continual -reaching forth after singularity and power. _Those_ draw faithful -figures, though larger, perhaps, than life--but _these_ present -distortions--wicked daubs--gross flatteries, or else vile libels upon -human nature. _There_ is thought--_here_, sentiment--_there_, rough -gold--_here_, spangled tinsel. _Those_ are chalybeate streams, which -come tumbling from mountains of iron, with waves dark, but salubrious: -while _these_ are rivulets from mercurial mines, that dance swiftly -along their shining bed, with waters bright, but destructive.” - - Ego. - - - - -AMBITION--A FRAGMENT. - - --“I charge thee, fling away Ambition; - Love thyself last.” - - _Henry VIII._ - - - What! check the spirit in its earliest flight? - The new-fledged eaglet dash to earth again? - Wrap the just-rising sun in blackest night? - Hurl yon bright star from its empyrean? - Curs’d be the mind whence such a thought e’er sprung, - Yea, doubly curs’d the vile and slavish tongue - Which spake so mean a thought! - No, let that spirit rise, - Until the heaven of heavens before it lies, - Stretched out in clear perspective; and its home, - Ere it was fettered in this earthly form, - Be seen and recognized by thought innate;-- - There let it brood, and “over all debate,” - Grasping earth, heaven, the Maker and the made, - Man and his fate, and fearlessly invade - The darkness which begirts Him round--the cloud - In which He hides His majesty. - The shroud, - Corruption, Reproduction, the stern war - Of Life and Death--the whence and what they are-- - All it shall know--at least _attempt_ to know, - Uninfluenced by the world it scorns below. - Yes, let that eaglet rise on tireless wing; - Far, far beyond the clouds’ dominion spring, - And dwell where all is one eternal hush-- - No dash of billowy rack, no whirlwind’s rush; - But yon bright sun blazes an universe - Of pure, essential fire, whose gleams disperse - All shade, and ‘permeate the unsensuous space’-- - Its atmosphere--the spirit of the place. - - Ambition, Oh Ambition! fire of hell, - Burning and burning, why in me dost dwell, - A frail, ungifted one, who soon must die, - “Unwept, unhonored,” who with longing eye - Beholds thy heaven-high dome, but whose poor might - Sinks, struck and palsied, ere it scale that height? - Go, light his eye who loves the storms of life, - Go, burn his heart whose pulse unvarying beats, - Go, circle him in whom there is no strife - Of Soul and Sense,--of cold, and feverish heats. - But no, I would not drive thee from my soul, - Black “effluence of bright essence, uncreate.” - What trumps the conqueror’s fame from pole to pole? - What weaves the poet’s name in the web of fate?-- - Man! Time and Power--these on thee wait. - - W. F. - - - - -THE INFLUENCE OF MORAL FEELING ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. - - -No. II. - -The influence of moral feeling tends to heighten the pleasure which we -derive from the contemplation of great actions. - -Turn over the pages of history and philosophy--study the record of -human events, and the laws of the mind, and we gather as their united -testimony, the truth, that in all ages of the world, whatever has -carried with it the impress of intellect, has commanded the homage -of men. Even among rude and barbarous nations, he who distinguishes -himself by some act of superior sagacity or valor, gains the ascendancy -over his rivals, and is worshiped as Chief. The meed of honor in this -case, is the result of a blind, but still a controlling admiration for -the effect, unattended by a recognition of the cause. In more civilized -communities, it is an enlightened and intelligent tribute to the -offspring of mind. - -To the man of imagination there is a powerful charm in the spectacle of -a great mind throwing off the grave clothes of inactivity, and arousing -itself for some mighty effort. There is almost a fearful grandeur -in its movements, as it calls up one after another its slumbering -energies, and girds itself for the struggle. And when it goes forth -in its power to achieve the purposes which it has formed, it treads -with a sternness and majesty which fling around it an irresistible -spell. It is not simply the exhibition of vast strength which it -presents, like the exertion of mere brute force, or the plunge of a -falling avalanche, that awakens in the beholder these emotions of -interest and delight. There is, it is true, in all such exhibitions, -much to inspire sublimity of feeling. But the appeal which we speak -of now, owes its effect to other associations of thought. It is the -soul, the living, moving principle within, directing and controlling -the whole, bending the will and purposes of others into subservience -to its own ‘ruling passion,’ like the earth born giant of old, rising -with fresh strength from every grapple with opposition, and pressing -right onward to the goal of its wishes, with a progress that resembles -the sure march of destiny--it is this which gives to the sublimity -of intellect its distinguishing characteristics. With such a mind, -the man of imagination cherishes a fellow feeling, entering into its -aspirations with kindred ardor, watching with intense interest its -struggles against difficulties, sharing its gloom in the hour of trial, -and its exultation at success. This thrill of sympathy is with him -the vibration of the chord which binds him to the universe, and to -his fellow man. Shut him out from such a kindred with his race; seal -up the fountain of ever-flowing sensibility within his bosom, bid -him gaze upon the sublime achievements of intellect, with a stoic’s -indifference, and you have cut off from him a source of happiness -of the purest and most exalted character, and left him a blank on -creation’s page. - -In our contemplation of great actions, perhaps no exercise affords -the imagination more pleasure, than to observe the progress of some -mighty revolution. At first, all is apparently calm and peaceful on the -surface of society, and the beholder finds nothing in the cloudless -sky above, the whispering breeze, or the unruffled serenity beneath, -to forebode the fury of the coming tempest. He does not dream that the -waves of discord and strife are so soon to dash their foam along the -mirror-like tranquillity before him. Yet the principles may be already -at work, whose influence is to arouse these slumbering elements to a -fearful energy. Some youthful mind, destined to be the master spirit -of its age, may be, even at the moment, preparing within the still -retreat of its lonely musings, by patient and toilsome research, the -great problem whose solution is to shake the existing system of things -to its foundations. At length the fullness of the time is come, and -“the little cloud like a man’s hand,” rears its shadowy outline far -in the distant horizon. The voice of the tempest is heard moaning in -suppressed accents, as though wailing a dirge over the wreck it must -make. Darker and still darker above, the sky spreads out its drapery -of mantling clouds. The spirits of the storm awake, and ride forth on -the howling blast, amid the wild roar of the elements, celebrating -the festival of their freedom. The tempest at length has spent its -rage, the pall of blackness is withdrawn, and the bow of promise gives -goodly token of the returning calm. This may seem perhaps a fanciful -description of a revolution. But to the cultivated imagination, the -reality calls up all the intenseness of interest and excitement which -belong to scenes like these. The storm of human passions, when stirred -up and left to range uncontrolled through a community, gathering in its -ranks the ruthless votaries of ambition, avarice and revenge, urged, as -it sweeps onward, by a thousand new impulses from selfish and opposing -interests, may well be likened to the strife of the angry elements. -There is in the majestic energies of human nature, when aroused and -carried forward with a momentum generated by the heart, an exhibition -of more terrific sublimity than all the varied convulsions in the -physical world can possibly present. But we have said enough on this -point, to show, that the source of pleasure to the imagination, which -we are at present considering, is one of no ordinary character, both in -respect to the nature and degree of the gratification which it induces. -And it is now high time that we return to our main object, which is to -notice the influence of moral feeling in enhancing our susceptibility -to this kind of intellectual enjoyment. - -We look back with admiration upon the exploits of an Alexander; we are -struck by the power of his genius, by the grandeur of his designs, the -perseverance and energy of his execution. But the truth--the sober -truth, with its disenchanting wand, breaks the charm which these throw -around his memory, and compel our minds, divested of all enthusiasm, to -sink their admiration of the hero in their aversion to the unprincipled -robber of nations. But on the other hand, with how much of unmingled -delight does the imagination contemplate the high moral dignity so -conspicuous in the character of Washington. Both are splendid instances -of the triumphs of genius; but with what different sentiments are they -regarded! Over the memory of the latter, the purity of his motives -and the disinterestedness of his ambition, have thrown a hallowed -and unclouded atmosphere. Thus, it is only when great talents are -ennobled by their subservience to virtue, that they receive the meed of -unqualified admiration. As another illustration of this truth, notice -the reformation in Germany--one of the most eventful dramas ever acted -upon the theatre of the world. Perhaps there is no succession of events -recorded on the page of history, which inspires the imagination with -more thrilling interest--no prouder monument of the achievements of a -single mind. - -For a period of not less than a thousand years, the darkness -of midnight had brooded over the nations of the east, relieved -occasionally by some meteor star, whose solitary and transient gleam -seemed only to deepen by contrast the surrounding gloom that succeeded. -The curse of Papacy, with its ignorance, depravity, and superstition, -lay like the frosts of winter upon the intellect and the heart of -man; and the progress of true principles seemed to have been arrested -forever. At this period of mental and moral gloom, nearly coeval with -the dawn of reviving knowledge, arose the man who was to usher in the -commencement of a new and glorious era. He had stood amid the worship -of the temple at Rome, and been an eye witness to the luxury and -licentiousness that defiled the consecrated courts. The name of the -Holy City--the residence of the Vicar of Christ, had been treasured up -in his mind from boyhood, with sacred associations. Alas, how changed -from the image that his fond anticipations had pictured out! That -moment gave birth in his soul to a mighty thought. He stood undazzled -and unallured, though Rome’s pomp, and gaiety and beauty were spread -out like a sea of enchantment before him. From that hour, Martin -Luther was a champion of the truth--of the simple, unperverted truth. -Year after year, with an ardor unchecked by difficulties, undaunted -by the threats of power, he continued to pour the light of his own -illumination over the nations of Europe, until the temple of Papacy -shook to its foundations, and every Catholic king trembled on his -throne. In contemplating this wonderful revolution, it is difficult to -decide, whether our admiration should be most excited by the magnitude -of the event, or the apparent total inadequacy of the means. A humble -and unknown individual, with the Bible in his hand as his only weapon -of warfare, enters the field against a Pontifical hierarchy, that had -swayed for ages the sceptre of an absolute dominion--and PREVAILS. The -sublimity and grandeur of the achievement itself would be deservedly a -theme for the highest flight of the poet’s muse, and the most glowing -strains of the historian. But it is only when we consider the nature -of this triumph, that its full power, as a source of pleasure to -the imagination, can be appreciated. It was a triumph of knowledge -over ignorance. The light of science, which had so long glimmered -but faintly, and at intervals, from the cell of the cloister, now -burst forth in full orbed glory--‘rejoicing like a giant to run his -race.’ It was a triumph of literature and refinement over brutality -and barbarism. From the frozen waters of the north, to the pillars of -Hercules, the intellect of Europe shook off the weight of its darkness, -and awoke to life and activity. It was a triumph of the pure simplicity -of the Christian faith over idolatry, hypocrisy and superstition. The -degraded slave of popish tyranny and imposition cast away the shackles -of his bondage, and arose to assert the dignity of his nature. On every -thing that had been enveloped in the universal chaos, the almighty -mandate was written, “Let there be light.” Thus, in contemplating -this great revolution, it is in the power of its appeal to our moral -sensibilities, that its true sublimity is seen and felt. - - C. - - - - -THE SEMINOLE. - - - Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie, - Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend, - Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours, - There stood a warrior Chief. His eagle eye - Shot a searching look on all around. His form - Was symmetry; and proudly eminent - In all the majesty of pride and strength, - That Indian stood. One look at Heaven, - One glance at earth he cast, and then he yelled - A whoop so terrible, so fiercely wild, - All nature seemed to start. As, when - On Afric’s sands a wounded lion roars, - The desert quakes, so now the sunbeams - Trembled upon each quiv’ring leaf. But see! - He starts--he bounds into the forest depths, - And all is still again. - - Two moons - Their circling revolutions had fulfilled. - Twas when the evening breezes softly breathed, - Wafting sweet odors from the balmy groves, - And from each songster of the wood there rose - A vesper hymn, and over all the scene - Twilight a soft and rosy tint had spread-- - Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sit - That warrior Indian. His head was still - Proudly erect. But his glassy eye - On vacancy was fixed, and from his side - There flowed a crimson stream that spake of death. - Alas! how changed the noble warrior! - His snowy plume--the captured eagle’s gift-- - Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;-- - Yet see! he rises slowly--but anon, - He reels--he falls--a deathless stillness comes - O’er all the scene. In mortal agony his hand - Still tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixt - His lips compressed, in faint and broken voice, - He murmurs thus--“Great Spirit of my fathers! - In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”-- - His spirit’s flown--the noble warrior’s dead; - His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil. - Free had he lived--free did the Seminole die. - - H. H. B. - - - - -THE OUTLAW AND HIS DAUGHTER. - - -At the termination of one of those revolutions which have convulsed the -Mexican States from their earliest formation, Herraras, who had been -an active partizan, finding his own side in the minority, sought in -retirement a refuge from the turmoils of political life, and protection -for the innocence, with facilities for the education of his motherless -daughter. This he realized, until it began to be rumored, and not -without foundation, that he was secretly leagued with the piratical -smugglers. He who intended to reap the chief advantage from a public -prosecution, was young Velasque, a favorite of the Administration, -whose sole motive was a vehement passion for the daughter of Herraras, -which as yet the jealous fondness of the father for his own child, and -the aversion of the adolescent Almirena herself, had with vexatious -firmness resisted. - -‘Surrender your daughter to my solicitations, and my influence with -the Government shall secure your acquittal; otherwise, you must die, -and--_I will be avenged_’--sternly uttered the wily amorado. - -‘Leave me till morning, and you shall have my answer,’ replied the -perplexed and indignant father. - -That morning discovered him with his child many leagues from the -Mexican coast, in a vessel bound to the United States, whose sudden -departure he had procured by bribes, after having, under cover of the -night, with the aid of a faithful servant, taken on board of it, a rich -amount of his ill-gotten treasure. - -On the borders of one of those lakes whose silvery surfaces may be -frequently seen imbosomed among the wild highlands of New England, -near the margin of a forest that encircled its waters with a drapery -of dark green foliage, and luxuriant vines, and stretched far away -over the circumjacent mountains, the outlaw had chosen his retreat. A -few roods of ground were cleared around his lodge, which was secured -from view in the direction of the lake, by a narrow file of trees and -underwood, and on all other sides, by the unbroken forest. Here the -refugee lived, sequestered from the world, his only companion his -child; with a single attendant, an African, the menial of the lodge, -and only visiter of the village that lay over the mountains, and was -the nearest within many miles of circuit, where the servant went for -the supplies of the family. The outlaw suffered no stranger to enter -his precincts, partly because he feared lest justice should find an -avenue to his guilt, and partly because he dreaded an interruption to -the communion of affection between him and his daughter. He loved his -child as few fathers love their offspring. He had always cherished -her as the “apple of his eye.” But since his recent misfortunes, all -other feelings had become extinct, or submerged in this one passion. -He loved her because she was the image of her mother, who had been -the young idol of his soul. He loved her because she was a part of -himself, and his own dark eye flashed beneath her brow. She was all -the world had left him which he could call his own. To make her father -happy, and witness his cloudy features clear away in smiles, was the -dearest delight of the affectionate daughter. He could not bear her -a moment from his presence, which she, at the least sound of danger -as instinctively sought, as the timid lamb bounds away to its dam. -Music was to both father and child an exhilaration of pleasure, and -relieved of its weariness many a lonely hour. He had instructed her -to play the guitar, whose strings responding to the skilful touch of -her fingers, trilled in his ear the sweet airs of his youth; while her -zephyr-like voice poured forth, in rich harmony with his deep bass, -those lays that awakened fostered memories in his bosom. She read to -him from his favorite Spanish authors, a few of which he had brought -to be companions of his exile. A daily and indulged employment for -the Mexican was sailing upon the lake, and angling for fish that were -numerous in its waters. He had constructed for his daughter a light -canoe with which she accompanied her father. While he fished, she -sported with her little bark, which she learned to scull with such -art, that like the shell of the Nautilus, it seemed of itself to glide -through the waters. When the wind was high, so lightly and fearless did -she skim over the curling tops of the waves, and so shrill and clear -she sounded her notes on the air, that her father called her his Bird -of the Lake. When the summer’s sun was shining hot, she would oar her -boat along the shore, under the archway of the trees; here she twanged -her guitar, or decked her hair with flowers from the banks, or filled -her basket from the grape vines that twined among the low hanging limbs. - -One day she sailed farther up the shore, and had unconsciously steered -her boat into a sheltered cove. She was seated platting a chaplet of -leaves; and as she adjusted it to her head, she looked into the water, -so darkly shaded by the surrounding trees that it reflected her image -clear as a mirror, and bright as her beautiful self. Not like Narcissus -was she in love with her own image; but her father had told her that -her hair and forehead were like her mother’s--that mother whom she had -never seen--that she wore wreaths in her hair; and the fond orphan -smiled at the resemblance, and seemed, as she gazed, to be enamored of -the beauty whose early blight her father so bitterly mourned. - -But the real beauty of this illusion was not without its charms. A -young man, in the guise of a sportsman, attracted by the murmuring -echoes of the music this Nereid warbled, had silently approached the -waters, and screened behind a tuft of laurel shrubbery was looking, in -breathless wonder, and deeply fascinated, upon this seemingly unearthly -visitant of his mountain lake. - -That a gloomy browed foreigner with his child, had come to reside -near the lake was known in the village. Many suspicions were afloat -as to his character. Few had seen the renegade. Even young Clermont, -whose hunting excursions were fearlessly and widely extended, had not -ventured near the dwelling of the recluse; nor had he dreamed what a -flower was blooming in the dark woods of his native hills. - -Almirena raised herself in her boat and attempted to pluck a rose that -grew wild from a projecting rock. A tropical sun had imbrowned her -skin; but polished the jet of her eyes to a higher brilliance; and her -raven tresses floated more luxuriantly over her unbared neck. Attired -in the costume of her country, her light vest open in front, with its -flowing collar, and gathered loosely about her waist, revealed a form -of classic mould; while her silken skirt, with its rich embroidery, -excited still more the surprise of Clermont, who had seen in that -retired district, only the simple dresses of rural life. - -Perceiving that she could not easily reach the flower, Clermont, who -had been fixed in his concealment by the enchantment of the vision, -advanced to her view and offered his assistance. She was startled -at the sudden apparition, and seized her oar. She did not know his -language, but his gentle tones and supplicating gestures, tempted her -to come nearer the bank and take the rose he offered, and then like the -timid bird that picks one kernel from your hand, not staying for more -flowers, which he would have gathered, she flew away over the waters. - -Elfred Clermont, the son of the wealthy merchant of the village to -which we have before alluded, was advanced in his professional studies, -and at the time we are narrating, passing a vacation at home. With -romance and enthusiasm commixed in his nature, refined in his feelings, -he met with little congeniality of spirit among the rustic yeomanry of -his native town; while amid the rugged scenery of the mountains, and -deep gloom of the forests, he found his soul’s fondest sympathy. Taking -his gun, and sometimes a musical instrument, he often pursued his -solitary rambles; in the last of which he so unexpectedly encountered -the outlaw’s daughter. - -That night the sleep of Almirena was feverish. Her dreams were of -the fair browed youth and his kind attentions. She awoke wishing he -were her brother. Aware of her father’s inveterate aversion to any -intercourse with the inhabitants of the vicinity, she said nothing to -him of her adventure. But the next day, while he fished below, the -hare-hearted girl, now emboldened by a feeling which to her was new, -and which she did not probably analyze, again slowly propelled her -canoe near the cove. The sound of music struck her ear. She dropped -her oar, and taking her guitar, touched its chords. Its notes blended -symphoniously in the sylvan recess with the sweet sounds of the young -stranger’s flute; while their hearts were awakened to thrill in more -exquisite melody. The ravished Clermont ran down to the water’s edge, -and with a rich bouquet of flowers, which he held up to her view, -prevailed upon her to approach the shore. He kissed the deep blushes -from her cheek, as he assisted her to debark; and the stranger lovers -sat down together upon the moss covered bank. - -They did not understand each other’s language. But Nature has a dialect -which she teaches all her children. The heart finds utterance not in -artificial characters, but in burning expression. Music too speaks in -glowing tones to the very ear of feeling. - -They often met; he of the blue eyed Saxon race, she of the darker Roman -origin--both impassioned; he from the gushing enthusiasm of his being, -she from the ardent temperament of her southern skies. His love was -pure as if she had been his sister. Hers as confiding as if he were her -brother. Elfred soon acquired her native tongue, and instructed a ready -learner in his own. - -Herraras had marked the change in his daughter, and forbade her -interviews with the young American. She implored; but he was -inflexible. He loved his child, but with a love that could not be -severed from its object. ‘What music is that?’ as a familiar air came -quivering through the latticed window of his cottage, inquired the -outlaw, with an emotion that was never kindled except at the voice -of his child, or the sound of her guitar. ‘Has a minstrel of our own -country wandered hither?’ - -‘Shall I call the player, father?’ eagerly asked the child. - -‘I would see him.’ - -She ran for her lover.--Her artifice succeeded. Elfred was admitted to -the lodge. The music of his flute, his frequent conversations with the -Mexican in his own language, tended somewhat to revive humanity in the -seared breast of the outlaw. But the doting father could not be induced -to yield up his daughter to the solicitations of Clermont, who was at -length obliged, quite in despair, to cease pressing his suit with the -old man, though he still visited at the lodge. Almirena’s filial piety -was too closely interwoven with her father’s happiness to allow her to -thwart his wishes, yet at the same time she twined about Elfred in all -the artlessness and strength of her love. - -The exiles were seated one afternoon in the front apartment of the -cottage, when the door was darkened by a strange form. The features -of Velasque broke upon them like a fiend’s, hellish with revenge, -blood-shot with lust. The outlaw stirred not, only hoarsely uttered -‘devil!’ - -‘I have come for my revenge,’ alternated the intruder, in a tone of -cool, malignant triumph. - -Almirena shrieked out as the tiger-like eyes of Velasque gleamed upon -her. - -The young Mexican immediately assumed a more familiar manner, and -declared to the imperturbed outlaw, that he had been convicted of -piracy in his own country, and that himself was accompanied by a party -of United States officers, who were furnished with a warrant for his -arrest from their Government. While they delayed in the woods, he had -advanced professedly to reconnoitre, but really to parley. - -‘You may escape if’---- - -‘If!’ thundered out the infuriated father. He checked his words. For -a moment the storm of feeling raged within his breast. ‘I die,’ at -length he said. ‘But we will pray before we go. Yonder is the image -of our Mother.’ He led his daughter into a back room. ‘Now pray for -protection.’ He whispered in agony, ‘fly--fly to your boat--you will -be safe. I suffer for my guilt.’ The terrified child, the affectionate -daughter, would have stayed by her father. But he sternly urged -her forward. She sped her way to the lake. Velasque, suspecting an -artifice, advanced; and missing his victim, dashed impetuously by -Herraras, hurling the old man to the floor as he impotently endeavored -to oppose him, and ran down the wood-skirted path to the waters. The -resolute girl had pushed her canoe from the shore, and standing erect -was vigorously plying her oar. Her pursuer seized her father’s boat; -but the wind was up, and the waves mocked his strong-nerved efforts. -She seemingly leaped from crest to crest. He called after her. The wind -returned upon him his voice; and her flowing locks streamed in wilder -witchery to his view. Nearing the shore, she sprang from her boat, and -bounded away like a young fawn through the forest, leaving her vexed -pursuer far behind. - -The outlaw, recovering from his violent fall, hurried for the water. -Velasque was far on the lake. The old man hastened along the shore to -meet his daughter on the upper extremity of the lake. He found her -in a branch-vaulted glen, concealed under an arbor that Clermont had -constructed for their stolen interviews; scarcely did he begin to -tranquillize his child, now fluttering with fear, and exhausted by her -efforts, when Velasque leaped down the side of the glen. They stood -face to face--the outlaw and the exasperated lover. ‘Obstinate old -man,’ said the latter, ‘thou shalt die, and thy defenseless daughter -shall be subdued to my wishes, if thou wilt not now acknowledge her -mine.’ The old man replied not. Almirena, deadly pale, staggered -forward to her father, and extending up to him her clasped hands, -groaned out, ‘Oh my father, let me be honorably his.’ Nature failed -her--she fell lifeless at his feet. Velasque stooped forward to raise -her. But the maddened old man, with unnatural nerve, ran upon him, and -precipitated him down a chasm in the rocks. The officers, who had been -on the alert in the woods, now came up. - -They bore the unconscious form of Almirena to the lodge, and consigned -it to the care of her tender hearted slave. The wounded Velasque was -carried away on a litter. The outlaw was manacled. He was supposed to -be a bloody-handed, ferocious pirate. And as the girl was thought to be -an accomplice in her father’s guilt, the officers had little pity for -either. They did not permit the old man to go to his house and take a -last look of his child; but conveying him by a nearer way through the -valley of the lake, on the next morning they reached the sea-port, and -lodged the outlaw in prison, where he was to be confined until Velasque -should be sufficiently recovered to take charge of him to Mexico. -Herraras was not sorry that his daughter had died. He knew that his own -fate was sealed, and that she should live, exposed to the violence of -Velasque, would have been worse than death on the rack to himself. He -settled down in a calm, sullen submission to his destiny. - -But Almirena lived. She had fainted; but awoke in a delirium. Clermont -did not come to the lodge till the following morning. She wildly -addressed him as he entered, ‘Farewell, Elfred, farewell. I have given -myself to Velasque, and he spares my father’s life. You would see me -before I go. Farewell. One kiss, one more;’ and she threw her arms -about his neck, as he leaned over her, and sobbed like a child. For -weeks did her lover watch in patient agony by her side. At length she -slowly recovered. - -Velasque did die. Foiled in his chief design, his spirits sunk, and -he had not sufficient energy to counteract the effects of his wounds, -which soon terminated his existence. Velasque being the only witness -against the outlaw, and no one appearing to prosecute the case farther, -he might have been discharged; but a new suit was instituted by those -who had accompanied Velasque, charging him with the murder of the -Mexican. He possessed no evidence to countervail the accusation. A -stranger in a strange land, a condemned pirate immured in a prison, he -had not heard that his daughter was yet alive. The popular feeling was -against him. Clermont, who, being busy and remote, and also too fearful -of the guilt of Herraras in respect to piracy, had not interested -himself to learn what was transpiring, did not arrive at the court, -till the evidence on the part of the state had been received. He was -admitted to manage the defense. He called only one witness, the lovely -daughter of the prisoner. As the hard-visaged outlaw met his child, -the living from the dead, and held her in his embrace, his iron soul -seemed to melt, and flow out at his eyes; a sight that turned the -sympathies of the spectators in his favor. Almirena’s story was simple, -and touching, in manifestation of the villainy of Velasque. Clermont -conducted the case, to him, and all, now most intensely interesting, by -an ingenious and manly argument in point of the prisoner’s having acted -in defense of himself, and of the honor of his daughter. The outlaw was -acquitted. - -Herraras cheerfully yielded his daughter to his noble deliverer, her -devoted lover; stipulating only that he might love her yet, for the -sake of her mother. In tranquillity, and penitence for early misdeeds, -the outlaw passed his days. Clermont, under another name, has arisen -to distinction; but yearly does he revisit with his still beautiful -Mexican wife, the lake of their romantic loves. - - - - -I WOULD NOT FLATTER THEE. - - - Lady, I would not flatter thee--oh no! - For ’tis unkind to foster earth-born vanity, - And he doth err that wishes to bestow - An extra share of it on weak humanity. - Yet, on reflection, sure I do not know - That I should be suspected of insanity, - Were I to call thee--as I truly might-- - Beautiful, aye, beautiful as a form of light. - - Beautiful--and saying it, I tell no lie, - Though tried by Madam Opie’s strict ordeal-- - Beautiful--if soft, soul-beaming eye, - And form as graceful as the beau-ideal - The sculptor carved his Cnidian Venus by, - And features blooming, not with cochineal, - But with such hues as Fancy would fain cull - From Angel’s cheeks--if such as these be beautiful. - - I would not flatter thee--and yet must say - Thou hast a witching gracefulness of motion, - A dream-like lightness; and thou hast a way - Of sweetly smiling, like the rippled ocean, - When on it joyously the moonbeams play; - And thou hast gaiety softened by devotion, - Aye, and good nature, which, upon inspection, - I always found developed in extreme perfection. - - I would not flatter thee--much less, would know - The pungent strength of critical acidity - For talking _prettily_ of ‘twilight glow,’ - And ‘moons,’ and ‘sighs’--all types of insipidity. - And yet I say not that the earth can show - Ought more enchanting than the deep placidity - Stealing around us on a moonlight eve, - When winds are hushed in sleep, and clouds the heavens leave. - - And when, at that most heart-ensnaring time, - With thee I gaze upon the huge old man - Reigning in yon pale center-light of rhyme, - Or in the heavens the path of Venus scan, - Or fancy from the spheres the distant chime - Of evening bells--I will not say that then - Strange feelings come not o’er me, soft and solemn, - Producing--tears, perhaps, and poetry by the volume. - - I will not say that then I have not found - In thee almost an Angel’s loveliness, - Or that thy voice has not as sweet a sound - As music on the waters, or that less - Than a bright spirit’s influence has bound - My soul in that fond dream of blessedness, - Which, vastly strengthened by thy conversation, - Has seemed, to say the least, a sweet hallucination. - - I would not flatter thee--much less, indeed, - Would seem, in poetry, a _Della Cruscan_; - I own not that, nor any kindred creed; - Nor do I like the sentimental fustian, - Which modern fashionables so much read.-- - Now he who honestly professes thus, can - By law poetic, ne’er be an offender, - Though, now and then, he _seem_ a little over-tender. - - From friends long loved how hard it is to part! - How hard, indeed, from one but _briefly_ known-- - From _thee_, sweet bird of passage, as thou art-- - Charming awhile, but oh, how quickly flown! - Aye, thou’rt away:--and my unguarded heart-- - Whither, ah, whither has the truant gone? - In vain I search;--didst _thou_, fair maiden, take it? - Then, cast it not away, for rudeness sure would break it! - - - - -RUMINATIONS OF A BOVINE GENTLEMAN. - -AUTHOR’S CHARACTER. - - “----Secum meditari ingenium est _boûm_.” - _Virgil._ - - “Cows, of all animals, have the greatest propensity for - rumination. For the most part, they are gentle, quiet, - affectionate, unpretending, useful animals; all they require - is kindness, and kindness they will return. Yet they have - their antipathies and their whims, (red shawls are their - abomination,) but, on the whole, they are inoffensive - ruminators--not obtrusive, (except when they take a fancy - to _gore_.) Their caresses are rough as their tongues; yet - their roughest _licks_ are meant in kindness. They never - bite--their teeth are ground down. They are neither snappish - nor carnivorous. They are remarkably fond of salt, and are - quick to detect its presence. Although timid and yielding in - general, they will fight any one, or any thing, in defense - of their young.” - - _Baron Munchausen._ - - -The last quoted author has described with remarkable correctness, in -his remarks upon the cow, the character of a being, of whose existence -he could not have dreamed--even of myself. Yes, even such I conceive -to be my character--the coat fits, and I will put it on--“under such -a shape I write.” Being in external appearance, a hale, stout, fat -old bachelor of fifty, fond of the arm-chair and the comfortable -dressing-gown, of easy fortune, retired habits, and few friends, -I am, in soul, thought and disposition, and to all intents and -purposes, _a gentle old cow_. Nor is there any thing humiliating in -the confession. I esteem the character--I admire it. Would to heaven -that in these _matter-of-fact, dollar-and-cent_ days, there were more -men of my nature! I injure no man; but if any man injures me, I have -horns and can gore him, a tail and can lash him. In consideration -of the unsullied purity of my character in my manly state, I have -ventured to conceive that I am, in the bovine genus, that most amiable -non-descript, an old maid. Still, I am no Io--nor Io turned old -maid. I never was handsome enough to warm the soul of Jove, nor mad -enough to swim the Bosphorus. I am not, never was, and never will be, -Oestrus-driven. The many-eyed shepherd, Argus, if ordered to watch -_me_, would have needed only one of his hundred eyes--he might have -seen me, even with “half an eye,” quietly grazing, all the morning -of my life, in the flowery meads of Literature, Moral Philosophy and -Metaphysics--ever and anon, quenching my thirst with a draft from the -pure stream of Helicon--and now, in the afternoon of life, reclined -upon the grass, under the shade of a branching, verdant oak, placidly, -philosophically, philanthropically, and withal meekly chewing the stock -which I formerly stored. - - ----“Lacte alimentum cognoscimus.” - -Were it not presumptuous, I would hope that my production might prove -the pure, unadulterated, untainted “milk of human kindness.” - - -RUMINATION FIRST. - -I was recalling to memory, the other day, all the friends and -acquaintance of my boyhood and youth, that I could recollect; and I -mustered a goodly list. My mind wandered from their _names_ to their -hopes and plans; I recalled the schemes and enterprizes, which I knew -they had meditated. The train once started, visions of bygone days and -circumstances poured in upon me. Again, I sauntered, arm in arm, with -a friend, through the moon-lit streets, on a summer’s evening--again, -I wandered listlessly along the beach--again, I stood upon the summits -of the hills which surrounded the abode of my youth--again, I heard -the confiding strain of youthful friendship--I saw the face lit with -the joy of anticipated triumph--the step, unnaturally firm, proud and -elastic. Alas! where now were those friends? Some were dead--some -were in obscurity--many were in mediocrity of life--few, how few, -had _approached_ the goal of their youthful wishes. And what was the -cause of all this? Was the fault in the men, or their plans? Upon the -_plans_ I fixed it; for I could not, and I would not, lay aught to the -charge of the loved ones of my youth. And where was the fault in the -plans? Was it not _here_--that the _plans_ were founded on the _hopes_, -while the _hopes_ should have been founded on the _plans_? _Hope_ is -the _etherial_--_plan_ the _material_ part of an expectation. A plan, -founded on a hope, is like a house founded on the sand--it cannot -endure. As verdant forests and luxuriant vegetation adorn and beautify -the sides, and white fleecy clouds cap the summits, of a rock-based -mountain, softening the rugged cliffs, filling up the chasms, smoothing -the precipices, and concealing the roughness of the path which winds -up the ascent; so should _Hope_, with its varied hues, tinge and adorn -the ever-during frame-work reared by _Reason_. So _should_ it be--but, -is it so? Do not men strive rather to throw a semblance of reason over -their hopes? Do they not build castles in the air, and then exert all -their ingenuity to give an appearance of probability, or at least of -_possibility_, to their baseless fabrics? - -O Hope! thou art a blessing, and thou art a _curse_. Thou art an -intrusive, impudent, officious, treacherous _imp_--thou art a lying -varlet--a cheating knave--thou hast no conscience--thou wilt gull, over -and over again, prince and peasant, rich and poor, the unjust judge -and the oppressed widow. Men kick thee out of doors, and again thou -comest. Thou art a very Proteus--deny thee entrance in _one_ shape, and -instantly thou takest another. Sometimes thou servest the devil, and -sometimes thou doest business on thine own account. Again, I say, hang -thee for an intermeddling imp! - -Men talk of the pleasures of hope! have they never felt the misery -of hope deferred--the pang of hope crushed? Have they ever estimated -the amount of misery chargeable to this self-same hope? Who fathers -Ambition, with all its woes, attendant and consequent? Hope. How many -dream away their lives in listless vacuity, _hoping_ all the while, -that _something will turn up_! What injuries has Hope not done to -youth? Then, when men ought to be training themselves for the stern -realities of life--when they should prepare their provisions for its -stormy voyage, Hope whispers that the course is clear--the ocean -calm--the wind favorable. How many commence enterprizes, which can end -in nothing but disappointment, and undertake duties, to the performance -of which their abilities are inadequate, spirited on the while by Hope, -the traitor, who stimulates his unconscious victims to mount round -after round of the ladder, until, with a whoop and a laugh, he tears -the veil from their eyes, and permits them to see and to _feel_ that -they are high, not on the temple, but on the _pillory_ of Fame! ‘Hope -sweetens labor’--does he? ‘Thank you, madam, I prefer it without sugar.’ - -Hold! I revoke--I take back somewhat that I have said. Hope--thou art -an imp, but still a _playful_ imp--full of mischief, but such a lively, -laughing, little, curly-headed rogue, with such a comical look in the -corner of thine eye, that for my life I cannot lose thee. I am inclined -to say to thee, as one said to his dog--‘Ah! Tray! thou little knowest -the mischief thou hast done.’ - - B. V. - - - - -A RHYMING MOOD. - - - There’s much of rapture in those favored hours, - When o’er the mind a magic influence steals, - That tunes to poetry and song its powers, - And melts in music all a warm heart feels. - - There is a blissfulness that lifts the soul - Far from the paltry cares and toils of time, - In venting feelings that defy control, - In lofty-measured strains or tuneful rhyme. - - The summer’s shower that wets the deep-seared earth, - And decks her burning surface new in green, - And saves the land from pestilence and dearth, - Comes not more joyous than the spirit dream, - - Steals o’er the poet’s troubled soul, and gives - The rapture-speaking voice and tone! - He rises to another sphere--he lives - For a short season in a world alone! - - Alone!--oh no! there Fancy groups her forms - More lovely far than earth presents to view; - More beauteous garniture that land adorns-- - The skies assume a deeper, brighter blue. - - Manning. - - - - -GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. IV. - - -Pray, accept a cold dish for a desert--a crab apple, as it were, and a -glass of water, to wash down previous articles and assist digestion. I -have purposely excluded all brightnesses; for temperance is the vogue, -and after so diversified and incongruous a meal, the cracking of a -joke might be as pernicious to your mind as the cracking of a bottle -would be deleterious to your body. You may, if you choose, apply to me -the Latin cant phrase, “ab ovo usque ad mala,” meaning by ‘_mala_,’ -not ‘_apples_,’ but ‘_evils_;’ yet will I meet the thrust with -calmness--proudly reflecting that I myself suggested the sarcastical -_equivoque_. - -Agathias’ narrative of the little _ruse_, whereby he tore the veil of -feminine hypocrisy from the heart of his mistress. Let _some_ of my -condisciples improve upon the hint. - - Eager to know my place in Cynthia’s heart, - I probed her hidden soul with cunning art. - “To a far land, my Cynthia, while I go, - Oh, let mine image to thy memory grow!” - Groaning she sprang in anguish from her chair, - Beat her fair face and tore her shining hair. - With tears my stay the suppliant beauty prayed, - Till, slow, I yielded to the lovely maid. - Ye gods! how bless’d! since what my heart did crave, - That, as a favor, to my love I gave. - - Minerva once saw Venus all in arms, - With beamy casque, and wavy plume array’d-- - “Thus dar’st thou meet the trial of our charms, - My Cyprian rival?” said the awful maid. - Smiling she spoke, “How, when I take the shield, - If _weaponless_, my beauty gained the field?”[3] - -[3] The contest before Paris, on Mt. Ida. - -Many an old man, whose limbs are as heavy as if the gold he had spent -years to amass, were gliding, molten, through his veins, can join -bitterly in the following lament, and many a young man, who forsakes -the heights of Parnassus for the vale of Mammon, may find, too late, -that the chase for riches is, in an evil sense, its own “exceeding -great reward.” - - When young, I was poor--now I’m old, I am wealthy-- - Thus my life has been all but a goose-chase of pleasure-- - I had not a copper, when buoyant and healthy, - But, past its enjoyment, I’ve mountains of treasure. - -There has been in all ages a prejudice against step-mothers, and the -feeling, if unjust, is yet natural. When the hearts of children are yet -sore with sorrow for the loss of their _own_ dear mother, it creates -dislike to have another, whom as a stranger, they cannot view with -love, _step_ over their heads, and assume the reins of command. If -kind, yet the contrast is strange, if not disgusting--the tones may -be soft, but they are not those which sealed their infant eyes, and -soothed their infant woes--if overbearing, her tyranny is intolerable. - - Thinking her nature with her life was gone, - No more to household tyranny a slave, - A youth was crowning once the chiseled stone, - That rose columnar o’er his step-dame’s grave. - But as he leaned against its marble base, - The pillar crushed him, toppling from its place. - Ye step-sons, who would flee his wretched doom, - Beware approaching e’en a step-dame’s _tomb_. - -Here is a thing or two, appertaining to love and women, and so forth, -just as such things have been described since Adam first gazed in -pleased astonishment upon Eve, - - “That would be woo’d, and not unsought be won,” - - “The amorous bird of night - Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star - On his hill-top to light the bridal lamp.” - - A maiden kissed me at the evening hour - With dewy lip--how honied was the kiss! - Her mouth breathed nectar, and its balmy power - Hath made me drunk with love’s bewildering bliss. - - I would I were a rose--that thy sweet hand - Might gently place me on thy snowy breast-- - Or sighing gale--for then my spirit bland - On thy soft bosom would securely rest. - -Here follow a few melancholy breathings of that better part, which -shone bright and burning while it lasted, though its food was error, -and its end was death. Their aspirations after immortality were few -and faint--for the very existence of another world was merely an -assumption--a matter of speculation. An immortality of fame, to the -sober eye, was not merely worthless, if acquired, but its acquisition -was a thing of toil, and danger, and doubt. Robbed of the high -aims and hopes for which it was made, “the chainless spirit of the -eternal mind,” would stoop to no medium flight, but sunk in hopeless -despondence, and like guilty Adam, - - “On the cold earth it lay, - Oft cursing its Creator.” - -The light of reason did but make known their darkness, and ignorant of -the unseen and the future, they clung with deep devotion to the visible -and the present. - - Drink and be glad: for what’s to-morrow’s sun, - Or what the future? No one knows--not one. - Haste not, nor toil: but, as thou can’st be kind, - Give, eat, deem all things mortal in thy mind. - To live, or not to live--it’s an equal state, - For life’s a feather in the scales of fate. - Seize it--’tis thine--but if thou die--then what?-- - Another has thine all--it matters not. - How came I here? Whence am I, and for what? - To go again. How know I, knowing nought? - Nought before birth, I shall be such again, - For less than nothing are the sons of men. - But bring me wine--that fountain of relief-- - That sparkling soother of distressing grief. - - Oh! swiftly flies the blooming hue, - That doth the rose adorn, - And then unto thy searching view, - The rose is but a thorn. - - Gray Time flies swiftly by, and steals the breath - Of vocal men. Himself unseen the while, - He shrouds the visible in the dust of death, - And brings to light the lowly and the vile. - Oh! thou of life the undetermined end, - Thy steps do daily unto darkness tend. - - Hermeneutes. - - - - -TO CORRESPONDENTS. - - -“The Character of the Indian,” though inadmissible, is not without -merit. In manner it is nearly faultless; in matter, too commonplace to -be either instructive or entertaining. - -“F.” had better send his verses to “R.” in manuscript. She would -undoubtedly greet them with a hearty welcome. - -“P.’s” poetry on Poland, though apparently somewhat in years, is filed -for insertion. The prolegomena, on account of their too great length, -are declined. - -“Loose Thoughts on Smoking”--much too loose for publication. We find -no fault with the author’s habit, but think he had better smoke in -silence. - - - - -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. 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