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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. 5, July 1836) - -Author: Students of Yale - -Release Date: December 12, 2021 [eBook #66934] - -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. 5, JULY 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. V. - - JULY, 1836. - - NEW HAVEN: - HERRICK & NOYES. - - MDCCCXXXVI. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - Page. - On the Simplicity of Greatness, 169 - Contentment, 171 - The Heart, 172 - The Sister’s Faith, 175 - To ********* ******, 185 - Metrical Translations of a Latin Stanza, 186 - The Influence of Moral Feeling on the - Pleasures of the Imagination, No. III, 189 - A Misanthrope’s Farewell to the World, 192 - The Coffee Club, No. III, 193 - Hora Odontalgica, 204 - Greek Anthology, No. V, 207 - - - - - THE - YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. - - VOL. I. JULY, 1836. NO. 5. - - - - - ON THE SIMPLICITY OF GREATNESS. - - -Great men are always simple--strikingly so; simple in their thoughts -and feelings, and in the expression of them. Nor is this an unimportant -characteristic. For to one who reflects how few artless men there -are--how much there is that is factitious, in the character of almost -every one whom he meets; most of all, in the character of those who -ape this same simplicity; how much many men consult fashion, custom, -and mode for their thoughts and feelings, instead of their own hearts -and minds, till they almost cease to have any of their own; and when -it is not so, how much rules of thinking and of feeling insensibly -influence us;--to such a one, true simplicity will appear worthy the -name of a rare virtue, and further, of an important one--especially, if -he considers how much even the smallest act of cunning or affectation -impairs the honesty and high-mindedness of him who allows it. As such, -we might express our admiration of it in the great man, and derive from -thence a strong recommendation. - -But it may bring out more important results to ask why, especially by -what peculiar mental habits it is, that minds which might, with the -best reason, make a parade of their powers, are apparently so utterly -unconscious of them, and so thoroughly simple. A chief reason is, that -a great mind is completely absorbed in the objects before it, to the -entire forgetfulness of self. The objects must be great certainly, thus -to fill the mind; there must also be great powers to grasp them. Both -these things are supposed in the truly great man. But the peculiar -feature of his mind is this complete absorption in the objects of -contemplation. It is carried forth beyond the cares and complexities of -what most men call self, and for a time, at least, identifies itself -with its object. His own powers, as things of selfish pride, are the -last to concern his thoughts, and are only instruments of bringing -before him the truth. In this he approaches what may be regarded as -perfect mental action. For what are these powers but instruments? And -what is the mind in itself apart from its objects? Truths so plain seem -to be forgotten by those who idolize mental power in themselves and -others, more than they revere the truth, on which it is, or should be -employed. - -To this it may be added, that the great mind is generally absorbed by -single objects. The one truth which absorbed the mind of Newton, was -that of the law of universal gravitation. All the energies of Bacon’s -mind were active in the elucidation of the single truth, that facts are -at the foundation of reasoning. The same has been true of those who -have made plain great moral truths. Indeed the end of every mind which -acts to purpose is more or less definitely the perception of unity. But -many minds mistake the single truth which explains the whole subject, -or assuming that which is false, or taking up minor relations, or -seeking complication for the love of it, go a-raving amid cycles and -epicycles, extent of knowledge only making the confusion greater. - -You shall see men disquieting themselves in vain, and plunging into hot -and endless debate, all for the overlooking of some single truth which -puts an end to all question. It is this tendency towards unity dimly -seen in ordinary minds, which is brought out into a distinct habit, -in minds of a higher order, and gives them their peculiar oneness and -simplicity. - -But we have not spoken of that which leads to this absorption of the -mind in its objects. It is the love of truth--of all truth. Not that -other minds have none of it, but it lies mixed, often insensibly, -with other desires which reflect upon self, or reach out towards some -foreign end, and thus mar its simplicity. There is the love of favor, -the ambition of rivaling some admired forerunner or competitor, the -desire of seeming superior to the vulgar crowd, the love of victory in -discussion. More laudable than these, there is the desire of success -in some pursuit or project, or a desire of acquiring what may be -useful. More nearly affecting the mind’s operations, there is the love -of novelty for novelty’s sake, the love of system, and the desire of -bringing forth to the world something new. Besides these there are a -thousand prejudiced feelings, aside from the simple love of the truth, -which influence men in forming their opinions and in searching after -truth. It is easy to see how all these differ in their nature from -love of truth for the truth’s sake, and, of course, when blended with -it destroy its simplicity. It is not a sense of duty even which mainly -influences the great mind in its pursuit of truth. The love of it in -such a mind is a passion, an appetite, which asks simply the reception -of its natural food; an appetite ever enlarging itself, “growing -by that it feeds on.” From these peculiar habits of mind, namely, -absorption in its objects, and for the most part in single objects, -guided by a simple love of the truth, there arises further, great -simplicity in the feelings with which the truth is contemplated when -it is discovered. There is nothing of a feeling of arrogance in the -great mind--a feeling that it has established a separate domain, about -which it alone is competent to legislate, and which none but itself may -touch or enter. Nor is there any thing like envy in such a mind. On -the contrary, he is ready to welcome with the hand and the heart of a -brother, and with warm gratitude, any who shall make new revelations of -that which he most loves and adores. Nor has he any such love of system -as would lead him knowingly to overlook any one truth. Still less is -there a feeling of triumph after discussion, except as the triumphs of -truth are his own. Least of all is there a feeling of pedantry, the -self satisfied glee with which little minds chuckle over their small -apartment in the world of mind, ready to give battle to any one who -shall dispute that it is a magnificent temple. The feelings of a great -mind are as different from these as possible. His is the simplicity of -reverence. He gazes upon some truth, till it rises before him in its -full dimensions, and to it he pays humble adoration. Inspired by this -feeling he forgets himself, and comes forth with simplicity to deliver -his message to others, seeking not their praise, and caring not for -their censure. He needs not, and does not comprehend the arts which -others use to attract applause, for he can afford to be simple. - -His again is the simplicity of wonder. “_Nil admirari_” is a maxim -of none but common minds, who can contrive to wrap themselves up in -self-sufficiency of intellect, while they trust in it and laugh at -the absurdity and childishness of him who finds any thing at which to -wonder. Thus such an one will exultingly go forth in the full pride -of scientific attainment, esteeming all things as certain when he has -ascribed them to the laws of nature; not thinking of the mysterious -agency ever at work to maintain those laws. Such a mind has no wonder, -because it has no powers to carry it forward into the mysterious and -illimitable in the universe. Another feeling of the great mind in view -of great objects, is that of simple ignorance. It has gone forth, and -seen its own narrow limits, and then it pauses and is humble, conscious -how like a child it is. Such are some of the features which a great -mind exhibits, and such the results to which it tends, the expression -of which is marked by that simplicity of which we have spoken. - - G. - - - - -CONTENTMENT. - - - Give me a heart with all its wants supplied, - And those wants few--and I will ask no more; - For thus, I’m at so proud an altitude - On Fortune’s ladder, that I can look down - Upon the proudest monarch of the globe. - - - - -THE HEART. - -ADDRESSED TO MISS ----. - - - “A lady asks the Minstrel’s rhyme.” - The Minstrel hears--for his the prime - When words are sweet as sweet bells’ chime, - If Beauty calls; - And Love keeps sentry for the time, - In Faery halls. - - And Love peeps o’er the Minstrel’s shoulder-- - Love makes the Minstrel’s spirit bolder-- - And Love sighs that he is not older-- - Else he, apart, - Would weave a wreath of flowers, and fold her - Into his heart. - - And Love is in his hey-day dress, - And Love has many a soft caress; - And laughing cheek, and glossy tress, - And dimpled hand, - Glance in the Minstrel’s eye, and bless - His dreaming land. - - And softly swells, and sweet accords - The melody that earth affords-- - Glee, life, the melody of birds, - And things that come - Into the heart, like childhood’s words, - Nestling at home. - - Then should the Minstrel mark the tone-- - The look, the tongue would half disown-- - The heart, when its disguise is thrown - Freely away-- - And chant his sweetest fytte, and own - His lady’s sway. - - Soft was the melody it gave-- - Soft, as a wind-dissevered wave-- - Soft, as the melody the brave - Hear, soothing, deep, - When in the patriot’s earth-wept grave, - They sink to sleep. - - Yet softer far than each, and all-- - Than note of bird in forest hall-- - Than angel hymns when patriots fall, - Now be the lay; - For Love _must_ answer Beauty’s call, - And we obey. - - And yet, the theme--the heart! strange thing, - And worthy of a nobler string! - Varied as is a zephyr’s wing - The lyre should be, - That sings as ever lyre should sing, - O, heart! of thee. - - Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless, - Thine are the feelings that distress, - Thine are the passions that oppress - And wake our fears, - Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness-- - Man’s joys and tears. - - And wonderful thy power that flings - O’er all, its moods and colorings, - Turns joy to gloom--gives grief the wings - Of Fays that, free, - Revel about the forest springs, - Or haunted tree. - - The light--when morn and music come, - The bird--within its forest home, - The house-bee with its rolling drum, - Aye! and each flower, - And winds, and woods, and waters dumb-- - These by thy power, - - Become distinct and separate images, - Link’d to the mind by closest ties-- - A treasure-house where gather’d lies - Food for long years, - When after life the spirit tries - With toils and tears. - - And thus, insensibly, we feel - A soothing passion o’er us steal, - Binding for aye, for “wo and weal” - Our souls to Nature, - Till, like a mirror, they reveal - Her ev’ry feature. - - And then, when comes adversity, - And loves grow cold, and friendships die, - And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye, - Shadows of pain-- - The mind can on itself rely, - And live again. - - And thus--above earth’s petty things, - Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings, - Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings, - Castle and hall-- - The mind can ruffle its proud wings - And scout them all. - - Grandeur and greatness--what are they! - Playthings for fools: the king to day, - To morrow, is a lump of clay; - And yet, elate, - We worry through Life’s little way-- - To rot in state. - - And what is fame? Ask him who lies - Where cool Cephissus winding hies; - Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies-- - Shatter’d her state! - There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies, - But is as great. - - What’s the world’s pride! What it _hath_ been-- - A thing that’s groveling and unclean-- - A spur to lust--a cloak of sin-- - Seemingly fair; - Yet when the damp grave locks us in, - How _mean_ we are. - - What’s the world’s love! An empty boon, - Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.” - Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,” - And Abbotsford-- - A light burnt to its socket, soon - A quip--a word. - - And then, as seeks the wounded bird - The deepest shades to moan unheard, - The heart turns from each friendly word, - And comfort flies-- - Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,” - Despairs, and dies. - - And such the heart’s bad passions. Let - Its greener laurels flourish yet--, - Hope, friendship, ne’er let earth forget - How sweet they are; - For the poor heart’s not desolate - When love is there. - - Love--tis earth’s holiest principle! - From every thing we catch its spell! - But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwell - In woman’s breast-- - Friendship and faith immutable - By her possess’d. - - Then, lady! be it all thy care, - To be as wise as thou art fair; - Be wary--think each smile a snare-- - Shun pleasure’s lure; - Farewell! thou _hast_ the Minstrel’s prayer-- - Be good--be pure. - - - - -THE SISTER’S FAITH. - - ‘Our affections are - Heaven’s influences, that by the good they do, - Betray their origin. - ‘So I have seen - A frail flower that the storm has trampled on-- - Lovely in ruins; for though broken quite - With its affliction, ’twas a flow’ret still, - And ask’d from me affection.’ - - -The allotments of providence are as various as are our several -necessities. To one is granted wealth, to another talents, to a third -family; every man, however humble, finds himself the possessor of some -separate good the which has not been equally vouchsafed to all, and in -that particular good whatsoever it be is treasured his individual sum -of human happiness. It is a beautiful thing that this is so, for hence -a greater degree of comfort among men, as each is pleased with his own; -and to a thinking man it is fraught with deep and powerful truths, that -tell greatly both upon the understanding and the heart. In it is seen -the kind plan of an ever present, ever watchful Deity, studious for our -comforts; and the mind is at once fired with a nobler energy, and the -heart is quickened with newer faith to works of obedience, and taught -to look with renewed confidence and an unclouded eye through sorrows -here, and rest on that star of hope beyond the grave. - -Among the blessings of providence, there is none which exceeds the -rich love of a sister. He who has been blessed with such, whether he -knows it or not, has ever had near him a fountain of sweet thoughts -and gentle sympathies, that could have made the darkest day cheerful. -Especially has he been blessed, if circumstances have contrived to -break him from all other ties of consanguinity, and in joys and -sorrows he has witnessed the development of those beautiful principles -which enter so largely into the composition of her character, for the -development of those principles must have been attended by such love -and considerateness on her part, as only served to make them more -beautiful, and bring them nearer the attributes of angels. - -A sister’s love is disinterested, and therefore invaluable. No one has -ever doubted but that the female heart generally is richer in feelings -than a man’s; that among our sweetest consolations when earthly ties -are sundered, and ‘thick coming fancies’ crowd in upon the brain till -it is black with sadness, are placed those alleviations which her -tenderness and her solicitude can offer. But yet the love of another -than a sister, from the very grounds of such preference and its means -of perpetuity, cannot be other than a selfish and mixed passion. It -is far more the result of circumstances; these have power to modify -it, and they are eternally changing. With a sister there is nothing of -this; with her it is the involuntary promptings of nature, and to call -such a selfish or mixed passion, is to call truth falsehood. There is -no chilling calculation, no selfish wish for a reciprocate sympathy, -and a latent purpose within to be _ruled_ by this in the degree of her -own affection. She never thinks to ask if there is a chance of the -better feelings of her heart’s running to waste; nor can she lean to -the side of an overweening prudence, and coolly measure out her love in -just proportion to the worth of him to whom she gives it. No! she can -do none of these;--on the contrary, the most eminent instances of her -warmest devotion are found, where the recipients of it were the least -worthy. Cases innumerous might be cited, in which, against difficulties -to daunt other than her, her love has seemed to grow purer and more -enduring, even as a green and luxuriant vine seems to take newer -beauty, as it clambers about a scathed oak or melancholy ruin. - -A sister’s love is pure, and therefore invaluable. No truth is -more obvious than this, that those who have been favored with the -sweet sympathies and affections of a sister, and educated in that -unrestrained intercourse so favorable to the development of domestic -virtue, possess a softness of character and purity of feeling, to which -other men are strangers. I know it has been objected to this, that -such a character is effeminate, and altogether unfitted for the sphere -to which men are called. Now were the charge of effeminacy admitted, -we have yet to learn that true fortitude is not equally the property -of gentle as well as rugged natures, and that the manifestation of it -in one person more than another, is not traceable altogether to other -and opposite causes. But we do not admit it; the characteristic above -referred to is not effeminate; it is too sacred not to be a treasure, -and it is too beautiful to be an error. It is a spirit like His who -stood upon the waves, passing over and stilling the angry waters of -human passion; a breath of spring sent upon the world calling the moss -and ivy to their high dwellings, and scattering the flowers upon the -slopes and in the vallies; a beam of sunshine thrown down from a summer -sky, casting into shade the roughness of the landscape, and softening -all into beauty. A character matured under the circumstances referred -to, need lose nothing of its firmness by the process. On the contrary, -the native energies of the mind may expand with greater freedom (for -many of those things which usually retard it are removed) and it can -ruffle its wings with a wider sweep, and stoop for the quarry with a -nobler vision. As for the charge, that our capacities for misery are -increased in an increased ratio by that refinement of feeling which -is induced by feminine intercourse, we hardly think it worth the -refutation. The fact that that French fool, Rousseau, could start a -question which involves this, has not succeeded in raising it above -contempt; and we shall quit the subject therefore with the simple -statement of our own belief, viz.--that Heaven never endowed man with -any superfluous faculties, that at every successive stage of moral -and mental culture there is more than a proportionate increase of -positive happiness, and that it is only when every power of the mind is -in requisition and each taxed to its extreme capacity, that the mind -approaches its perfection. - -A sister’s love is eternal, and therefore invaluable. Much ink has -been wasted on the subject, of the power of female affection--for -which subject we have the current phrases of ‘dying for love,’ ‘broken -hearts,’ ‘Cupid’s achievements,’ and other such classical appellatives. -Poets have worn the matter thread-bare, and novelists have picked up -the shreds to patch garments for their heroes. One gentleman less -scrupulous than another, has dared raise a doubt of the matter, -somewhat withholding from the ladies the exclusive privilege of dying -thus heroically; another conceiving this a challenge to his gallantry, -has most manfully seized the crab-stick and fallen to work pell-mell on -the other side. Now amid such a clash of fire arms as this we suppose -it behoves us to walk circumspectly, and somewhat question whether -the fair bevy of our acquaintance would not cry us heretic, did _we_ -call in question this same right, viz., of dying for this or that -thing just as suits them without asking leave of judge or jury. But -the truth of it is we have a belief on the matter, and sorry are we to -say that for lack of something better we feel called upon to divulge -it, deprecating however from our souls every intention of making any -unpleasant expositions, and professing a love for the truth and nothing -but the truth. To begin then;--we boldly make the remark, that many a -woman has gone to her grave from ill-requited affection. The man who -denies this, has either never mingled in society, or has kept his eyes -shut while there, or is a fool. But--and here is the rub--whether the -passion which resulted in the breaking of this or that heart was an -unmixed one, a thing which of itself destroyed the heart, this I say -‘puzzles the will,’ and is a sad problem for solution. We make the -following remarks: any one who looks closely at society, and looks -at the little springs which operate on this side and on that to keep -the whole machinery in operation, will be wonderfully struck with the -great discrepancy betwixt real truths and those admitted as such by -the world. He will see that to trace an act to its cause, to find that -principle and trace it into generalities, is to frighten him at the -artificiality of society and the extreme ignorance of the human race. -Effects which he had been accustomed to assign to certain causes as -things of course, he finds are traceable altogether to other causes. -The strangest phenomena does he meet with; causes producing effects as -opposite to their apparent tendencies as possible; causes misnamed -effects; effects taken for causes; in short, terms misapplied and -jumbled together with most admirable confusion. Now to apply these -remarks, we beg leave to add--that men _may_ have made a mistake in -reference to the subject in question. For ourselves we have known a -case of misplaced affection--a lovely girl, fair as the first star that -peeps through the net-work of twilight, and gentle as the bonniest May -flower of the season. And yet she died; and when the first burst of a -generous indignation had passed off and space was given for reflection, -for the life of us we could not make other conclusion, than that the -_pity_ of the world and her extreme susceptibility to ridicule were -enough of themselves to destroy her. The truth of it is, it is one -of the subtlest passions of our nature, yet not the most powerful; -and though it gain the same end, first subjecting the other powers to -itself and _thus_ breaking down the spirit, it does this rather by its -extreme cunning than by any energies of its own. But a sister’s deep -faith, what alloy find we here! what sentiment that the pure heart -might not offer at the throne of God! This is that star which brightens -and brightens as it comes up from the horizon and pours its undimmed -beauty upon the world! It is one of those flowers that sometimes spring -up by the path-way of life to tell us how bright was the primitive -world, and give us a glimpse of the brightness and profusion of the -one to come! And the eye brightens, the heart expands, and the soul -bounds exultant on its heavenward mission as we gaze upon it, till the -veil seems rent in twain, and we think and see and _feel_ our certain -immortality! - -A circumstance fell under my observation not many years since in -a part of the state of New York, with which I shall close these -remarks--indeed, it forms not an inappropriate conclusion. It made a -great impression on me at the time, and the reader perhaps will thank -me for rescuing from oblivion one of those touching incidents in real -life which sometimes occur, and cast into shadow the wildest dreams of -fiction. - -Any one who has visited the little town of P---- in Ulster County, -remembers well enough that there’s no way of entering it from the -west, save through a long defile cut as it would seem by art through -the heart of a mountain, and he also remembers what a scene of beauty -is presented as he emerges from the pass and sends his gaze before -him. A common of about half a mile square, surrounded by neat and in -some instances very elegant dwellings, in the center of which with its -neat bow windows and little spire, is the only church of the village. -The village has an air of life and business; a stream tumbles off -from the hills on the north supplying a large factory on the lower -grounds, and from the more elevated parts may the eye catch the bends -of the lordly Hudson in the distance, and in clear still mornings may -the ‘yo-heave-yo’ of sailors or the clatter of steam boats be faintly -heard, as they pass and repass on the river. - -It was into this little village that I jogged with a quiet pace one -warm afternoon, and began to look around for an inn. It was the heat of -summer, and for no less than forty good English miles had myself and -horse stumped it since morning, and over as dusty a road withall as one -would like to travel on; and my horse seeming to feel his necessities -as well as myself began to move a little faster, and by a sort of -instinct, point his ears straight towards a large sign board swinging -directly over the road, on which was a rampant lion large as life his -fiery tongue lolling part way from his mouth, and a sort of dare-devil -threat in his eye that he was about to leap down on the passengers. -This however was yet a good half a mile off; and as I passed along, the -village church-yard lay upon the left. I had come nearly to the end -of this, when a light form sprang over the wall, and running up to me -seized my horse by the bridle, while it said-- - -“O, sir, do come--they’ve left him all alone there, and I’ve called -to him and sung to him, and he wont hear me--do come, sir, won’t -you?”--and it pulled gently by the bit as it spake, and my horse -stopped. - -I was thunder-struck. The creature before me was a faded girl, and as I -should think in the last stages of the consumption. She must have been -exceedingly beautiful once, for her form was still symmetry itself, -and her features were as regular as if shaped with a chisel. Her face -however was very pale. The blue veins were traceable on a forehead of -silver by the ridges they made, though almost as white as the skin -about them. Her eye-brows were regular as if struck out with a compass, -and beneath them her eyes large, dark, and full, flashed as bright and -as wild as stars in a wintry night. Her lip was as thin as paper. Her -dress lay loose and low, and surely no lovelier neck and bosom (though -they were shrunken) ever came into a poet’s vision, than that which -rose and sank there painfully rapid as she stood waiting my answer. -The hand which still lay on my bridle-bit was so thin and attenuated, -that actually the sun shone through it almost as easily as if it were -a piece of glass; and her small feet and ankles which were without -covering, gave equal evidence of sorrow and abandonment. The only -thing about her which still retained all its former beauty, was her -hair, long, dark, and silky--that ornament of woman which death cannot -destroy--which she still possessed, and in thick masses of luxuriant -brown it hung about her with all the grace of a Madonna. - -I know not but nature has given me an undue quantum of sensibility, but -I was melted to tears by this poor creature before me. I have described -her features--these the reader will see; but the whole expression, the -thing which cannot be conveyed to paper, that must be imagined. Its -wo, its extreme wo; the circumstances too, so near a populous village, -and yet alone; the church yard at hand, and the few incoherent words -dropped from her lips; these at first came over me with a sort of -sickening fear, and I trembled lest the figure before me should, like -the witches that met Macbeth on the heath, ‘change into the air.’ - -Just at that moment a dull dolt of a farmer came along the common, -cracking his whip and bellowing most lustily. Seeing me stopped in -the road, the girl by my bridle gently pulling it and eyeing me with -a beseeching look, he cried out, “Hillo, you Luce! what the d--l are -you at there with that gentleman’s bridle? out of the way ye’--using -a term I shall not repeat--‘and let me get by, wont ye?” Seeing my -cheek burning with an indignation that tempted me to knock the rascal -down, he said as he drove by and in a much softer tone, “It’s only Luce -Selden, the mad gal--don’t mind her, sir.” - -I turned towards her thus designated--poor creature! she had sunk down -at my horse’s feet like a young flower which the wind has passed over -too roughly, her long hair disheveled in rich masses on the turf, -and her hand grasping a few dead flowers she had brought with her. -Springing to the ground I lifted her delicate form in my arms, and -bearing her to a runnel of water which wimpled near, I cast some of it -upon her face and bosom. Slowly opening her eyes she seemed at once to -feel my kindness, and wreathing her emaciated arms about my neck, her -pent heart poured itself forth into my bosom. - -O never tell me of the equal distribution of happiness in this world! -Let the mad dreamer preach it if he list to those equally mad, and -for his own sad purposes; but let not man, immortal man, man gifted -with reason and obedient to the voice in every enlightened one’s soul, -herald such a monstrous absurdity! What had this young and faded -creature gained--what joy--what blessing--what blissful moments had -been hers--what bright dream had she dwelt in--what fond hallucination -had enrapt her young being in her few brief days of infancy and -childhood, that now just bursting into the pride and prime of woman, -such a cloud should come over her fair sky, and with its folds, its -thick folds, shut from her gaze every star of hope forever! Dwelt -she in a fairy-land--where bright wings glanced hither and thither, -touching and retouching its soft airs--its mellow sunsets--its streams -and golden fountains with a newer beauty! and had her life like an -unshadowed current in Eastern fable, moved on in one unbroken flood -of happiness! Had fancy been hers--and imagination--and the dangerous -gift of poesy--and the faculty to shape out her own existence unmoved -by the realities of life--and her being been lifted up in high revel -and communion with the great and good of former days, and the far -remote treasures of purer existences! Had such blessings been hers! and -in return for them must the wick of the lamp thus early burn to its -socket--must society cast this flower from its bosom--must reason lose -her dwelling place--and her young life just opening upon her with its -flowers, and feelings, and passionate thoughts, and innocent gushes -of tenderness, turn out a blank, a dead letter, and at one fell blow -be cut off--and she like a useless weed or wreck tossed up by Ocean, -be thrown out from her proper sphere--scorned--crushed--slandered--an -insulted yet still beautiful thing--a mark for the rabble’s jeers, -the clown’s coarse brutality, and the damning pity of a mock-charity -close-fisted world! _Let her unambitious story give answer._ - -Luce Selden was a twin child. Her mother died in giving her birth, -leaving her and a beautiful boy to their remaining yet now broken -hearted father, and a victim to those sad crosses which motherless -children must meet with from the very nature of the case--though that -father was all in all to them, and though it was his pride to watch -over and nourish these beautiful blossoms of a love, as pure as it -was imperishable. He had married in New York, and came to P---- while -a young man and just starting in life, and by industry and very fine -talents had by the time he reached the meridian of life, amassed a -splendid fortune. His talents and wealth forced the meed of praise from -the rich, and his very uniform disinterested and noble charities won -the blessings of the poor, and fortune seemed to have nothing to do but -shower down her favors on his head. - -But prosperity cannot always last. No! let the prosperous man ever -tremble at any long succession of blessings; for it is then that -sorrows are nearest, and those sorrows the worst and heaviest. If it -is not so in reality--if the reverses which we witness here and there -coming upon the rich and the fortunate--if they are not worse than -those which overtake other men, they are so at least to all intents -and purposes, for the hackneyed adage is a true one despise it who -may, ‘prosperity unfits us for adversity.’ The noble scorn with which -this or that man learns to look upon a run of ill luck, or the heroism -and devotedness of woman, may take a charm when hallowed by the pen of -Irving, but they are after all but as the creations of the poet, mere -creations having no parallel in real life. That there is philosophy -enough in the human soul even this side of stoicism, to enable a man to -look unmoved on the changes about him, we do not doubt; but that the -philosopher has yet risen who has discovered the treasure, of this we -do as unhesitatingly declare a disbelief. - -If it is so, Mr. Charles Selden had never learned it, and it was at the -demise of his wife that he began to date the commencement of his ill -fortunes, which like rising waves seemed heavier and heavier as the -shattered bark was less and less able to endure their fury. This was -the first blow, the death of his wife--and he bent beneath it. Yet his -character seemed to have that elasticity, that springiness in it which -recovers itself again; and he once more mingled with men, pursued his -profession, and smiled with the same cheerfulness. Yet there were times -when his language seemed too light, too rapid, too artificial, so to -speak, for a perfectly happy man; and his friends sometimes whispered -to their own hearts that all was not as it should be, that there was -something wrong within, that that fine and delicate organization, his -mind, did not act as formerly; and they sometimes marked a kind of -perverse vehemence, which did not tally well with that uniform sound -sense and remarkable discrimination which had characterized the efforts -of his earlier years. Ah! they guessed well--there _was_ something -wrong. There was a fountain in his heart which had been chilled, and -which kept bubbling up its cool waters to remind him continually of his -wretchedness; and there were moments, when withdrawn from business and -the world shut out, he gave himself up to that deadly yet sweet sorrow -which sooner or later saps the springs of existence. - -Grief should never be alone. It is one of the most selfish of our -passions. The man of sorrows should be forced into the world--into -the bustle, and roar, and change, and activity of life, where against -himself outward and passing events shall catch his eye, and force him -off if but for a moment from his wretchedness. It will finally loose -the grasp of the disease, and thought by degrees may be turned into -other channels, and the heart beat with its accustomed excitation. - -But even this did not save the bereaved husband. Perhaps it might had -no other ills assailed him; but he had become reckless--had risked -much--had entered largely into the excitements and speculations of the -day; and every thing working against him, losses succeeding losses, the -poor man sank under it and died--a bankrupt. - -But the saddest of my story is yet to come. - -There are some men in this world from whom nature seems to have -withholden the commonest feelings of our race--men who have no humanity -about them--men who despise and disclaim every thing like sympathy as -troublesome and out of place, and who would as lief dwell in a desert -or on an island shut out from the whole world, as any where else--save -perhaps that they should not have their fellow creatures to prey on. In -short, your cool, calculating, miserly souls, whose feelings all begin -in self and end in self, and who can like Judas or Shylock, coolly set -off so much suffering and so many ounces of human blood against so much -money, with the same callousness that they could barter dog’s flesh. - -It was into the hands of such a wretch, a Mr. Saxelby, that these -orphan children fell now entering upon their twelfth year, and their -privations it may be relied on were proportionate to _his_ wickedness. -The little that had been saved from the wreck of their once splendid -fortune he contrived to sink by one means and another, and by the time -they were sixteen it was formally announced that their means were -exhausted, and that master Lyle Selden and his sister--must either work -or starve. - -It was like a thunder clap. The brother had hoped to study his father’s -profession; his talents were commanding, his industry unexampled, and -he had proudly looked forward to the moment when he should redeem that -father’s lost reputation, and lift his lovely, ah, how lovely sister! -into the station which her exceeding beauty seemed so eminently to fit -her for, and of which she would become such a witching ornament. - -This brother was a marked character. His person was manly, his voice -firm, and his countenance the index of a soul that showed plain enough -he was not born to be overlooked in the world. He was sensitive and -exceedingly proud, yet a nobler heart never knocked against the ribs -of mortality. But such a character as this is not calculated to gain -friends. He was too open--gave his opinions too freely--and his talents -were altogether too commanding and brilliant. Your popular fellows are -your middling ones. Lyle Selden was no middling fellow--you would find -it out by the first word that fell from him though he were half asleep -at the time, and though the subject were as trite as those about which -we witness the first volitation of your incipient poetasters. He was an -original--a marked man--and his opinions though they might be sneered -at, had nevertheless more weight than half the school put together. As -he was sensitive so was he often unhappy, and though he met the taunts -brought to his ears by his few real friends, with ‘I care not,’ yet -he _did_ care--his heart inly bled, and his lonely hours were often -embittered. As he was proud, this got him into difficulties; for though -it was quite the reverse of vanity and self was the last one he thought -of, yet it made his character a complex one which none understood -unless he chose to enlighten them, and this save to a few his pride -would not descend to. Hence he was thought callous and distant, when -in reality his heart was the seat of every gentler feeling; and to -those that _had_ skill to look beneath the surface, he was linked by -a friendship as unyielding as it was noble. But these were few, and -his character is best told in one sentence,--_he was respected and -disliked_. - -His sister was an opposite character. She scarcely ever thought for -herself, and in person she was rather lovely than beautiful, and had -that touching feminineness about her which is rather to be felt than -told of. She was too gentle to be independent, one of those rare -specimens of loveliness that are shaped by associations, that can be -moulded into any thing by the energies of a master mind. In short, she -was too trusting, and had a spice of that credulous confidence in her -composition, which, if fortune does not try it sorely, makes a woman a -perfect nympholepsy and a vision. - -Such were these orphan children, and in a world as we well know not -famous for its charities. It will be taxing my reader’s patience--who -is anxious I see to come to the end of my story--to trace their lives -minutely through the two or three following years. Their lot was a -hard one. Thrown out of a station to which their birth entitled them, -the trials to which they were exposed had the same effect on them as -it does upon every body else under similar circumstances, viz. made -young Selden suspicious and fretful, soured his temper, and took from -him even the little amiableness which the world had ever allowed was in -his composition. While his sister, his too gentle sister, like the vine -round the tree which supports it and moves with it as that is moved by -the forest wind, so she changed with her brother though winning still, -for in her any thing like harshness was softened down by a sweetness -which nothing could destroy. - -What I am now about to lay before the reader, is one of those black -passages in the catalogue of human suffering that may well make me -shudder as I write, and if the facts are doubted as here laid down, my -authority for them shall be given hereafter. - -Lyle Selden, despised and trampled on by the world, neglected and -contemned by those that had abundant reasons for loving him, opposed -by fortune in every shape, and seeing that all his best and most -strenuous exertions to win his way availed not, but served only to heap -up greater difficulties, committed a forgery, and that too under the -signature of his guardian. That he was in a measure justified in taking -some means to gain back the fortune stolen from him, may be admitted -by all; but the law is not supposed to make any distinction in favor -of such circumstances, and its dread sentence now hung over him, with -nothing but the selfish griping hand of Saxelby to stay the blow. The -event was not yet public, and here only was the last desperate hope of -mercy. - -The agony of Luce’s mind at this dread climax of suffering, must be -imagined, not written. Every means was thought of--every compromise -was proffered--every suggestion that a tender and delicate girl almost -maddened by the threatening evil could suggest, was resorted to, but -they availed not. The hard hand of Saxelby could not yield--his ear -could not catch the voice of mercy--his heart responded not to any -cry--he must have justice. - -Luce was in the prisoner’s dungeon, and worn with watching and grief -and suffering, hung clinging to the neck of that brother who had -wept and toiled for her so many years. She saw that brother broken -down, the high purpose had flagged at last, the spirit had quailed, -the spring had broken, and the heart that had beat so true and firm -for her was now at her feet, and the storm had beaten it nigh to its -death. Was there no hope? Could she do nothing? Was there nothing left -for a brain on the brink of madness? No dreadful, desperate, damning -resort? Ah! there was--it smote her like lightning--she lingered a -moment--rose--clasped her brother--kissed him--and with a wild look -burst from the prison. - -In a moment she was at the door of Saxelby, in the next at his feet. -There she poured out her soul--proffered him all--all that woman -values, life, soul, honor--_it was accepted_. - -It broke her brother’s heart. - -She became a maniac. - -Such is a story of facts, and the half dead creature I held in my -arms was that same unfortunate sister. I conveyed her to the inn -of the village where I learned that she was a great trouble to the -place, and to one or two excellent families who treated her with every -affection. They were obliged to confine her. Yet she always baffled -them and resorted immediately to her brother’s grave, where she would -spend night and day sitting on the turf, and singing some little ditty -of former days. I learned also to my eternal indignation, that save -these two or three families, the village thought her little better -than a wanton--for Saxelby had died, and the facts were known. Oh, -cursed, and doubly cursed be this queasy prudery of the world! Cursed -be the spirit that casts out the repentant lost one, who craves our -forgiveness! Cursed be they who rant so noisily of virtue, and prate of -self-government! Tremble, and be merciful!--_ye have not been tried_. - -The story of this girl made an impression on me never to be forgotten, -and having so well as I was able made arrangement for her future -comforts, I left the village. - -I afterwards passed through the place and learned that she was dead. -She had continued as formerly to spend her time at the church yard, -pulling the flowers from this or that mound to scatter them over her -brother, singing her little songs and talking half-reasonable and -half-wild to every chance passenger. Thus she continued until late -fall, when she was found one cold morning stiff upon his grave--one arm -bent beneath her and her lips softly apart, as if the last words that -passed them was her brother’s name. - - * - - - - -TO ********* ******. - - - I love to watch the twilight sky - When in it glows the star of even, - For then it seems that Love’s own eye - Is looking kindly down from heaven; - But oh, more deeply love I far, - Than twilight sky or evening star, - The soul-reflecting beam to view, - That sweetly lights thine eye of blue. - - I love to watch the waving grain - When o’er it floats the summer breeze; - I love to view the rippling plain - When winds are sporting on the seas; - Yet love I more the smile divine - Which flits across that face of thine, - When o’er thy soul doth gently move - The breathing joyousness of love. - - I love to read in Eastern lore, - About the goddess-queens of old, - So fair that Nature never more - Could forms of equal beauty mould; - Yet, more than all, I love to know - There is not on this earth below, - Nor in the deep, nor in the air, - A form that can with thine compare. - - I love to hear the gentle swell - Of music on the midnight air; - I love to tread the lonely dell-- - I love the torrent-music there; - But oh, more charming far to me - Than music’s sweetest notes can be, - Is that confiding, trembling tone, - Which hangs upon thy lips alone. - - - - -METRICAL TRANSLATIONS OF A LATIN STANZA. - - -On the cover of the Magazine is a picture of old Governor Yale, with -two lines of Latin poetry beneath it. These lines are part of an -inscription sent to the College at an early period by the Governor, -and are written beneath an engraving which now hangs in the Trumbull -Gallery. The engraving, we understand, was for many years mislaid, -and was at last discovered, so much injured that it could scarcely be -deciphered. The inscription is as follows: - - Effigies clarissimi viri D. D. Elihu Yale, - Londinensis Armigeri. - - En vir! cui meritas laudes ob facta, per orbis - Extremos fines, inclyta fama dedit. - Aequor arans tumidum, gazas adduxit ab Indis, - Quas Ille sparsit munificante manu: - Inscitiæ tenebras, ut noctis luce coruscâ - Phoebus, ab occiduis pellit et Ille plagis. - Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque Yalenses - Cantabunt Soboles, unanimique Patres. - -Here is a translation in the old Spenserian stanza: - - Behold the man whose honored name enrolled - On Fame’s proud tablet ever ought to stand, - For deeds illustrious through the world extolled. - His riches, brought from India’s distant land, - He scattered widely with a liberal hand. - The night of Ignorance from the West he drove - As morning rays the clouds from Ocean’s strand. - While gratitude exists, still with their love - Yale’s generous deeds shall Sons and Sires unite to approve. - -Again: - - Behold the man to whom praise well deserved - Illustrious fame has given for actions wrought - In Earth’s remotest regions. Wealth, preserved - In India, o’er the boisterous seas he brought, - And lavished wide from hands with bounty fraught. - The shades of Ignorance, as the sun the night - From western climes he drove, by Justice taught. - While gratitude exists Yale’s glory bright, - And spotless name, shall Sires and Sons to praise unite. - -We will bid farewell for the present to Spenser, for after all, -the intricacies of his stanza are least of all adapted to the mere -translator. We will now take the common ten syllable verse, and -endeavor to give as accurate a line-for-line and word-for-word -translation, as is consistent with the measure. - - Behold the man whose deeds illustrious claim - Through Earth’s extremest bounds the meed of fame; - His Indian wealth o’er swelling seas he bore, - Then freely shared it, from this Western shore - To drive the clouds of Ignorance away, - As flies the night at Phœbus’ dawning ray. - Let Sires and Sons, till gratitude shall fail, - Together sing the praise and name of Yale. - -Again: - - Behold the man whose fame illustrious stands - For deeds performed in Earth’s remotest lands; - Ploughing the deep, from India wealth he bore, - And scattered widely from a bounteous store; - The clouds of Ignorance he banished far, - As flies the night before the morning star. - While grateful hearts remain, the name of Yale - Let Sons and Sires with praises join to hail. - -There is a difference in the translation of a part of the first two -verses in these two stanzas; - - ....er orbis - Extremos fines, * * - -To what does this clause refer? We are rather inclined to give our -preference to the former reading, though after all it must be a -question of taste rather than of criticism. But have we succeeded the -better for confining ourself to fewer lines and to the easier stanza? -We think not. In particular, we have entirely omitted, in the second -stanza, all mention of _His_ munificent designs upon the Western -shores; which in a son of Yale is indeed an unpardonable omission. We -will e’en go back to Spenser, and try our luck again under the banner -of this prince of versifiers. - - Behold the man whose deeds with justice ring - Through Earth’s remotest bounds, deserving fame; - O’er boisterous seas did he his treasure bring - From India’s shore, and scattered round the same - With liberality where’er he came; - The clouds of Ignorance, like the shades of night - From morning rays, flee from before his name. - While gratitude exists, with luster bright - Yale’s praise and name shall Sons and Sires to sing unite. - - Behold the man, whose deeds on every shore - Fame’s hundred tongues are whispering to the wind! - Asiatic wealth o’er boisterous seas he bore, - With just munificence to bless mankind. - The clouds of Ignorance which veiled the mind - Of this wide West, he burst; as Phœbus’ rays - Light up the night. Yale’s fame and name combined, - Till gratitude expires, shall fire our lays, - While Sons and Fathers join in sweet accordant praise. - -This last translation has at least the merit of getting over the -difficulty in the translation of the first and second verses. Reader, -we have done. We have finished our chime. We have rung all the changes -we could at present upon our little bell. We throw down the rope. Draw -from it if you choose still sweeter music, and so brighten the love you -bear to her who will hereafter be your Alma Mater. - -For “praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.” - - G. H. - - - - -THE INFLUENCE OF MORAL FEELING ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. - - -No. III. - -The influence of moral feeling tends to heighten the pleasure which we -derive from beholding the works of nature. - -“Our sight,” says Addison, “is the most perfect and most delightful of -all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, -converses with its object at the greatest distance, and continues the -longest in action without being tired or satiated with its proper -enjoyments.” Hence those pleasures of the imagination which are -perceived through the medium of this sense, must necessarily be of a -high order. Besides, they have this advantage above their fellows, that -they are more obvious, and more easy to be acquired. We have but to -open our eyes, and the scene in all its beauty and power enters. The -colors paint themselves on the fancy, with scarcely a single effort of -thought, and each object in the view, as it catches our glance, sends -its appropriate impression to the mind, with an approach as gentle, and -almost as imperceptible as the dawn of the morning. - -This exhibition of nature is free to all. It is unfolded with equal -beauty and variety to the humble peasant, as he treads homeward his -weary way from the labors of the field, and the man of science and -taste who can enjoy it at his leisure. For each the same glorious sun -rises and sets, the same landscape of hill and valley and river is -spread out, the same rich colors glow, the same fragrance perfumes the -air.--In its full and ever changing variety, there is something to -suit the disposition and character of every one. The sons of sorrow, -whose only inheritance is melancholy and gloom, and in whose minds the -bright things of earth meet no response, may find in the still sadness -of the lonely vale, or in the steeps of the giant hill, a spirit in -unison with their own. And they, over whose fair visions the cloud of -disappointment has never flung its shade, whose souls are radiant with -the hope and gladness of life’s young morn, may find their companions -too in the joyous revels of nature. The gentle whisperings of the -summer breeze, the gay sparkle and the rushing fall of the cascade, -the mellow richness of the grove, the gorgeous drapery of sunset, with -these, with every thing that breathes the spirit of joy, they can claim -a kindred feeling. - -The scene is ever before us in its unchanging beauty. It is not like -the bright shadows that charm us on in boyhood and youth, only to -vanish for ever from the sober realities of manhood. The breeze, -that cooled the brow of the child in his early sports, plays with the -same freshness around the wrinkles of age--the meadows wear as rich a -green--the flowers bloom with equal loveliness--and nature, still fair -and attractive, as when the morning stars first sang together, feels no -decay from the lapse of years. What a barren and cheerless waste would -be presented to the eye of man, were all this world of coloring to -disappear with its ever varying distinctions of light and shade--what -a rich source of innocent gratification had been wanting, if these had -never been created. But - - “The feet of hoary time - Through their eternal course, have traveled o’er - No speechless, lifeless desert;” - -and the confidence of the future is founded upon the promise that seed -time and harvest, summer and winter, shall never fail. - -This power in the beauties of the natural world to excite and gratify -the imagination, is emphatically the poetry of nature, sending out its -appeal from every object which greets the eye. There is poetry in the -pathless wood, when the summer breeze sweeps over the waves of its dark -green foliage--in the bold scenery of the mountain’s height, inspiring -the soul with feelings of grandeur and sublimity--in the green valley -throwing a charm of hallowed tranquility around the spirit. It dwells -in the rising and the setting sun, in the wild flowers of the forest, -in the mighty winds, in the dark blue skies, in the golden and silver -clouds of heaven, in the rainbow, in the seasons. - - “Coming ever more and going still, all fair, - And always new with bloom and fruit, - And fields of hoary grain.” - -It is written like a legible language on the broad face of the -unsleeping ocean. It dwells among the stars of heaven. It is abroad -in the tempest, girt with the stern magnificence of the storm-cloud, -careering on the vollied lightning, and uttering its voice of sublimity -in the deep-toned thunder. - - “’Tis in the gentle moonlight-- - ’Tis floating mid day’s setting glories; night - Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step - Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears.” - -In all these dwells the spirit of poetry, and it is the highest office -of the imagination, to extract from these the divine element. Is she -the less able to do this, when from nature’s works she looks up with -filial awe to nature’s God? By our admiration of the character and -attributes of the Great Creator, are we led to regard the works of -his hand, with emotions less enthusiastic and poetical? Strike out -of our minds, when contemplating the features of the natural world, -those ideas of system, order, and adaptation to wise and beneficent -purposes so clearly expressed by them all--bid us ascribe all this -glorious mechanism, so exquisitely formed and so skillfully arranged, -to the unguided instinct of blind chance--and the tie that bound us in -such an endearing relation to the scenes of earth, and sanctioned the -communion of our better feelings with their ever eloquent spirit, is -sundered for ever. There is a religion in every thing around us--and -the spirit of poetry, that spirit which carries home to the imagination -the pleasures of uncorrupted taste, is almost one and the same with the -former. It is a religion which the creeds of men have never perverted, -or their superstitions overshadowed. It is fresh from the hands of the -Author, and is ever reminding us, with its still small voice, of the -Great Spirit, whose presence pervades and quickens it. It glows from -every star that sparkles in the far concave. It is among the hills -and the vallies of the earth, where the desert mountain-top rears his -snow-crowned summit into the frosts of an eternal winter, or the lowly -dell slumbers in the quiet of a summer’s sun. It is this, uttering its -appeal from the unbreathing things of nature with an ever faithful -voice, that fills the spirit with lofty aspirings, until it struggles -to cast off the chains which this earthly has thrown around her giant, -though infant energies, and soar away beyond the influence of the -cold sluggish atmosphere of sense--to attain something etherial and -thrilling--something which shall satisfy her large desires, and open to -the imagination a world of spiritual beauty and holiness. - -And he, who reads the volume of nature’s works, a stranger to this -blessed influence, does not read aright. He is blind to that peculiar -grace and loveliness which characterize them as a part of the great -system of universal order and harmony. It is to the imagination, -chastened and elevated by moral feeling alone, that nature makes her -choicest revelations. Indeed it is a libel upon the Author of the human -mind to suppose that He has endowed it with powers that are to receive -their most exquisite gratification without the pale of virtue. We are -of those, who believe that the intellect of man is to receive its -highest and noblest, as well as purest energies, in its nearest moral -conformity to the first, infinite and eternal Intellect. And if the -character of this creating Mind is impressed on the visible creation, -he who sees the most excellence in the former will feel the strongest -love for the latter. Those aspects of nature, which to the unsanctified -taste are without form or comeliness, are to him invested with a most -religious charm. - - “Not a breeze - Flies o’er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes - The setting sun’s effulgence, not a strain - From all the tenants of the warbling shade - Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake - Fresh pleasure unreproved.” - - C. - - - - -A MISANTHROPE’S FAREWELL TO THE WORLD. - - “Ferte per extremos gentes, et ferte per undas, - Qua non ulla meum femina norit iter. - - * * * * * - - Hoc, moneo, vitate malum.” - - _Propertius._ - - - To distant climes of earth I flee, - Mid savage wilds my home to make, - Away beyond the raging sea, - Where man my quiet ne’er shall break. - For now my hardened heart to feeling steeled, - No more to human sympathy will yield. - - No more shall woman’s witching smile - E’er haunt the recess of my cell; - No more my trusting heart beguile, - Which now has learned these tricks--too well: - For I have found her fickle, false, and vain, - And once deceived, will never be again. - - Nor shall she in my summer bower, - When day has sped with all its care, - E’er greet me--at soft twilight’s hour, - In love to hold sweet converse there. - For passions rage and burn without control, - Where love, like poisoned daggers, stings the soul. - - Fair Wisdom be the lovely maid - Whom I shall call to my embrace, - In whom my hopes of bliss are laid, - Since other love I now efface. - And happy thus, I then will spend my life - Free from the world’s temptation, toil, and strife. - - M. - - - - -THE COFFEE CLUB. - -No. III - - “At last he is as welcome as a storm; he that is abroad shelters - himself from it, and he that is at home shuts the door. If he intrudes - himself yet, some with their jeering tongues give him many a gird, but - his brazen impudence feels nothing; and let him be armed on free-scot - with the pot and the pipe, he will give them leave to shoot their - flouts at him till they be weary.” - - _Fuller’s Profane State._ - - -Summer, with its transforming influence upon all things natural and -artificial, has come, and the Coffee Club feels somewhat of its -power. We introduced you, reader, to our room in the depth of winter, -we welcomed you with a blazing hearth and the cheerful light of an -astral, and our mystic tripod lustily bore witness to the strife of -the hostile elements. But now the aspect of the room and the temper of -its occupants is changed. A solitary taper with _all_ its light, can -scarce effect a dim obscure--the thick warm carpet is superseded by a -flimsier texture of straw--the point of concentration is transferred -from the glowing fire to the open window--the center-table is drawn -back and relieved from its superincumbent load, that the eye may not -be oppressed with a sense of heaviness--in every chair you find a lazy -pillow, and even the sofa which would once contain all four, will -scarce suffice for the extended length of Apple Dumpling--our coffee -simmers over the sickly flame of a spirit lamp, and is quaffed in -cooler draughts, and from comparatively tiny cups. - -The temper of its occupants is likewise changed. That equable hilarity -which seldom rose to jollity and _never_ sank below cheerfulness, is -gone; and its place is ill supplied by a fitful state of noisy mirth -and moody silence. Tristo is alternately more melancholy and less -so--Nescio, more entirely sensual, or more acutely intellectual, as -the whim seizes him--Pulito is absorbed in attention to earthly nymphs -one week, and shuts himself up in his room with the heaven-born muses -the next--and Apple, who formerly, like some auxiliary verbs, had but -one _mood_, is now variable through the whole paradigm. The disturbing -influence of warm weather and bewitching moonlight is also perceptible -in the irregularity of our meetings. But few, very few times have we -been together this term, and then we have employed ourselves in the -most random conversation. Even to-night we have but an unpromising -prospect before us. Pulito and Apple are not here, and Tristo and -myself have hitherto kept our thoughts to ourselves with most unsocial -chariness. But hark! Pulito’s ‘light fantastic toe’ is on the stairs, -and he must say _something_ as he enters. - -_Pulito._ “Good evening, gentlemen. You certainly have the true -atrabilious aspect; ’twould spoil my face for a week to sit in close -proximity with two such melancholy phizes. With your leave, therefore, -Messieurs, I will take a cup, adjust my flowing locks, and be off. What -beautiful little acorn-goblets you have here, Nescio, and then the -delicacy of the beverage, so nicely adapted to the season. You have a -rare taste in these matters, Quod.” - -_Tristo._ “Ah! Pulito, you are always the same careless fellow, and -’twere vain to hope for any thing else from you; but cannot you sit -down for one evening and have a long and sober talk. You know some of -us leave town soon, and we may not have another opportunity.” - -_Pulito._ “Indeed, Tristo, I am sorry to disappoint you; but _this_ -evening I have an engagement from which I really cannot get excused; -the rest of the term I am entirely at your service.” - -_Nescio._ “I’ll wager any thing from a pin’s head to ‘this great globe -itself’ that there’s a lady in the case.” - -_Pulito._ “Weel, an there be, gude Maister Quod.” - -_Nescio._ “Why you remember your boastful resolution to eschew all -connection with any thing more substantial than ‘Fancy’s daughters -three,’ during the hot weather.” - -_Pulito._ “And whether these be ‘Faith, Hope and Charity,’ or -‘Wine, Women and Coxcombry,’ depends very much upon the _fancier_’s -temperament.” - -_Tristo._ “I am afraid, my dear Pulito, that your aspirations after -learning are becoming less ardent; and unless you are more earnest, -your poetic ambition will fain be contented with being laureate of the -Coffee Club.” - -_Pulito._ “‘What is learning but a cloak-bag of books, cumbersome for a -gentleman to carry? and the muses fit to make wives for farmers’ sons?’ -What Fuller, in his ‘degenerous gentleman’ says in irony, I would adopt -in sober earnest.” - -_Nescio._ “Well, I perceive we shall get nothing from you to-night, so -you may go. But first tell us if you have seen any thing of Apple.” - -_Pulito._ “Indeed, I have, and bring quite a message from him, which, -but for your suggestion, I should have forgotten. By my troth, in my -head, ‘_dies truditur die_,’--one idea thrusts out another. But for -the story--I met Apple walking most abstractedly with the huge roll of -his autobiography under his arm. When I asked him what he was thinking -about, he obstinately confined his information to the mysterious -remark that he was ‘_coming up_’ this evening. As soon, however, as he -discovered that I did not intend to be there, he unfolded his whole -purpose--under an express injunction of secrecy, which I ought to -keep, and which I will keep--though I will give you an inkling of it, -as it may afford you some sport. He will probably appear particularly -brilliant, and converse more like himself, his peculiar self. Verb. sat -sap. Make fun of him if you can, for I owe him a grudge for a spiteful -pun, which he made on a lady’s name. However, my masters, after I have -given my neck-kerchief the blameless tie, and curled my hair with the -twist extatic, I will leave you to your dull coffee, and bask me in the -warmth of thy sunny eyes, oh beautiful *---- *----.” - -Here Pulito made his exit, singing “di tutti palpiti,” with an air of -Cox-comical affectation, half assumed, half natural. - -_Tristo._ “A handsome fellow, and a bright. But the day will come when -a strong mind, and a well-stored memory, will be worth more than the -vanished rapture of a woman’s smile. What a pity youth can never temper -pleasure with----, hist! that stumbling step sounds like Apple’s.” - -_Nescio._ “’Tis his,--let’s slip into the bed-room and see what -Dumpling will do.” - -_Tristo._ “Agreed; I promise myself materiel for laughter.” - -[Enter _Apple_, with a look of pleased importance, and a mouth -apparently ready to discharge a witticism.] “Ha! Pulito! Tristo! Quod! -What, not a soul here but myself, who am _solus_, he! he! pretty -good! I’ll lay that by, and use it when they come. What an ass that -Tristo must be, never to laugh at my puns. However, he cannot help -himself to-night. I have various good things, aside from puns. If the -conversation turns upon wit, I shall say, ‘A witty sentence should -be like a scorpion, the sting in the tail, but should not, like a -scorpion, sting itself to death!’ If Tristo goes to rating me for -smoking, I shall say, ‘A cigar is the _summum bonum_, pity its _fumes_ -are not _per_fumes!’ If Nescio says, ‘I am your host’--‘Yes,’ quoth -I, ‘and in yourself an _host_.’ That stone will kill two birds; it -is at once a pun and a compliment. Ah me! what is the literary world -coming to? They all seem bent upon being dull, and the greatest of -scriptorial (scriptural?) sins is to say a witty thing. Volumes of -poetry and philosophy and oratory and the like come forth, and never -a bit of fun in ’em all. Now in my view even a sermon would be vastly -better, if the preacher, especially in the application, would discharge -at the hearer a few judicious puns of a devotional _cast_. Bless me! -where--where--confusion worse confounded! where are my cigars? I can -never shine without them. I should be like Sampson shorn of his locks. -I shall have to go by a dozen colleges to ----’s to get some. Well! -‘_leve fit, quod bene fertur_,’ ‘that’s a light fit, which is well -borne.’ Ha, ha, good! remember that.” - -As Apple leaves the room, Quod and Tristo, bursting with laughter, -issue from their _latebræ_. - -_Tristo._ “Bravo, Dumpling, bravo.” - -_Nescio._ “Capital! capital! What if we appear to have just come in -when he returns, and give him a chance to be witty--ha, ha!” - -_Tristo._ “Constat--it is a covenant. But here he comes.” - -[Enter Apple, puffing with haste, a bunch of cigars in his hand, and a -lighted one in his mouth.] - -_Apple_, (amazed.) “What! you here.” - -_Tristo_ and _Quod_. “Yes, we’ve just stept in. You, I suppose, didn’t -think there was a soul here.” - -_Apple_, (chuckling.) “No, faith: I expected to be _solus_, myself!” - -_Quod._ “Why, Dumpling, you are witty to-night.” - -_Apple._ “A witty sentence should be like a scorpion, the sting in the -tail, but should not, like a scorpion, sting itself to death, ha! ha!” - -_Tristo._ “Excellent! but do, dear Apple, fling away your vile cigars.” - -_Apple_, (winking.) “A cigar, my dear fellow, is the _summum -bonum_--pity its _fumes_ are not _per_fumes.” - -_Tristo._ “Your wit should not hinder your politeness. I dislike them, -and I am your host.” - -_Apple._ “Yes, and in yourself an _host_, ha! ha!” - -_Nescio._ “Why, Apple, where on earth do you get so many good things?” - -_Apple_, (vainly.) “Oh! I don’t know: I believe it comes -natural--impromptus.” - -_Nescio._ “Impromptus! Ha! Ha! Why, Apple, we were in the bed-room -here, when you came in before, and heard you practising on your -impromptus!” - -_Apple_, (coloring with shame, vexation, and alarm.) “How--how--what, -you did, did you? Pretty good hoax, though, wasn’t it? Don’t tell the -fellows ’twas _your_ hoax. But being Dumpling, I’ve got the _dumps_, -ha! ha! so I think I’ll go home and write on my autobiography.” - -_Tristo._ “Do so, and don’t forget this chapter.” - -(Exit Apple with a hang-dog air.) - -_Tristo._ “Incorrigible!” - -_Nescio._ “Utterly! ha! ha! it’s worth a dozen comedies.” - - * * * * * - -As if by a secret and common impulse, the laugh and jest ceased, and -both became silent. Nescio sat by one window, emitting from a fragrant -Havana languid and infrequent puffs. His varying countenance expressed -a train of thoughts as motley as his mind, where the weighty and -the sober were linked and mingled with the light and the ludicrous, -and feelings and reflections came trooping by, robed in a livery of -serio-comic strangeness. He was thinking of the mystic links that bind -together the seen and the unseen--of the glorious, expansive, elastic -mind--that ‘_sine fine fines_’--of the invisible shadings of the mental -into the passionate, and of the passionate into the corporeal--of the -attenuated conduits that bear reciprocally between the mind and body a -gush of joy or a thrill of anguish. He turned from the puzzling maze, -and by no unnatural diversion, his thoughts passed to some of the most -wonderful emanations from this mysterious source--the productions of -the ‘world’s sole demigod’--Ariel and Caliban and Puck--the sisters -three, and Titania with her faery train--and Falstaff, and the good -king Malcolm, and the maddened Lear--poor, shattered Hamlet, and -Othello ‘the dusky Moor,’ - - ----“Whose hand, - Like the base Judæan, threw a pearl away - Richer than all his tribe.” - -Then came up in re-awakened life the fond musings of his own early -boyhood, and he was pleased with the contemplation, all groundless and -fruitless as they were, for he smiled at his former folly, and thought -himself too wise to be again deceived. - -They had crowded one after another upon ‘Fancy’s ardent eye,’ bright -and incessant like waves from the sun; and as he thought of their -number and their futility, his mind was neither spent with weariness, -nor darkened by regret. His feelings were still as vigorous and varied, -as they were, before they went forth in quest of happiness and returned -without even an olive-branch, as an earnest of security and peace. -He had been thus vibrating between thought and revery for perhaps an -hour, when he started from his waking dream, and remembered that he -was not alone. Tristo was sitting at the other window, with averted -face and eyes gazing on vacancy, while in his hand lay an open volume -of the sensitive and melancholy Cowper. Nescio, I grieve to say it, is -not always felicitous in his address. He lacks that quick tact, which -may be denominated an instinctive sense of present propriety. He felt -a reaction in himself, and wished to confirm the dominion of mirth in -his own breast, by awakening it in that of others. He laid his hand on -Tristo’s shoulder, and giving him a friendly shake, said “Wake up, man, -what are you dreaming of? Come, sing us a song, _pour passer le temps_. -Pray Heaven, no pretty girl has crossed your line of vision. If so, be -not thou cast down--I can give you a charm, a very talisman to gain -her, in the whiff of a cigar, _ut ait Apple_. Sigh and flatter, sit up -late o’ nights so as to appear pale--seem for a time to prefer another, -and then assure her that your heart is, was and will be all, all her -own. In that moment of delighted conviction press hard--the fort is -yours.” Tristo was too sad to be angry. He merely replied while his lip -quivered with emotion--“Nescio, you know not how you wound me.” - -_Nescio._ “Indeed, indeed, I did not mean it, you _know_ I _could_ not. -But why should you be always so gloomy? It vexes me to see you thus. -Why should you not smile more often and more willingly?” - -_Tristo._ “Do I not smile?” - -_Nescio._ “O such a smile! ’tis worse than tears--’tis like the forced -laugh in the play. ‘_Male qui mihi volunt, sic rideant._’ But why -should your thoughts be so dark amidst the glittering activity of life?” - -_Tristo._ “And why should they not be _entirely_ dark? The breath -of this vast world sounds in my ear as the up-going of one deep and -universal sigh, and can the thought be other than a thought of pain. -My grief is not for myself alone, though that were enough. But where -is the man who is happy at all? unless, indeed, it be the happiness of -_apathy_. Where is the man of open heart and aspiring mind, whose plans -succeed even in the outline, or if the outline be realized, the filling -up is not a mixture of care and vexings--and failure and regret? When -we have reached some fancied goal of youthful promise, which shone -to the far off eye like the battlements of Heaven, does not widowed -hope put on her weeds, and mourn over her children, and refuse to be -comforted because they are not?” - -_Nescio._ “With such views of human life, where do you find any relief -from your melancholy?” - -_Tristo._ “To what should a mind saddened by its own afflictions look -for consolation. The world of _realities_, as I have said, presents -but a gloomy and scarred waste. Ah! then the greatness of the _poet’s_ -power and the dignity of his art are most manifest. Then, that which in -our grosser moods, we had deemed light, pretty, and only fit to while -away an hour, becomes _mighty_, and _almost_ adorable. For the wearied -and broken spirit, which all the riches of learning could not soothe, -nor the gift of kingdoms elate, may by the witchery of poetry be wrapt -into a calm, satisfied enjoyment.” - -_Nescio._ “I wonder not that an early father, in holy abhorrence, -called poesy, _vinum dæmonum_, the wine of fiends, if its influence be -such as you assert. For surely it supplies to the educated and refined, -the same refuge from corroding thought and disturbing conscience, which -the intoxicating cup offers to the sensual and brutish.” - -_Tristo._ “It is so in some measure, but with this difference, -which will immediately rescue this ‘divina facultas’ from injurious -reflections. The inebriating draught, the actual ‘uvæ succus’ offers -its poor and transient relief to _all_. The unfortunate and the guilty, -those upon whom melancholy has settled like a mist from the ground, -causeless and undeserved, though unavoidable--and those upon whom an -outraged conscience inflicts its scourgings in righteous retribution, -may there seek and find oblivion. But only a pure life, a cultivated -mind, a _religious nature_, (let not the phrase breed heresy,) can -secure to one the healing influence of poetry.” - -_Nescio._ “The idea is a sublime one. But is it not merely a beautiful -_idea_? Can you bring forward any evidence to make it manifest, or even -any illustration to render it probable?” - -_Tristo._ “With ease. Indeed, were I to search far and wide -through the whole circle of English poetry, I could not find a more -pertinent illustration than in the passage which I have just been -reading, and on which my finger now rests.” - -_Nescio._ “What is it? Read it.” - -_Tristo._ “Even its title is affecting. ‘On the receipt of -my mother’s picture.’ It must be familiar to you, yet I will read a few -lines. - - ‘O that those lips had language! Life has pass’d - With me but roughly since I saw thee last. - Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, - The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; - Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, - ‘Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!’ - The meek intelligence of those dear eyes - (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, - The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim - To quench it) here shines on me still the same.’ - -Suppose now the case of two individuals, of equal refinement, -intellect, and sensibility, (save that in one the edge of all these -qualities must have been blunted by moral defection) nay--that by -making the parallel closer, the contrast may be more obvious--suppose -them to be brothers. In early life they both were trained in the path -of moral rectitude, from which the one has never swerved, but the other -has been constantly making wider and wider deviations. Place them -now in the situation of the poet, and let them read these lines. The -image recalled, the object of their contemplation is the same--their -early associations are the same. But the effect is far different. The -conviction is present with one, that he has persevered in that course, -which his mother toiled and wept to place him in, and in pleased -sadness he will repeat with Cowper, - - ‘And while the wings of Fancy still are free, - And I can view this mimic show of thee, - Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- - Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.’ - -The other is melancholy, but his is the melancholy of remorse. Each -vivid recollection but ‘adds hot instance to the gushing tear,’ and all -that soothed his brother, but protracts _his_ pain. He feels in all its -force the solemn truth, so quaintly expressed by the old dramatist, -Suckling: - - ‘Our sins, like to our shadows - When our day is in its glory, scarce appeared: - Towards our evening how great and monstrous - They are!’ - -His feelings are sympathetically described by Byron: - - ‘So do the dark in soul expire, - Or live like scorpion girt by fire; - So withers the mind remorse hath riven, - Unfit for earth, undoom’d for heaven, - Darkness above, despair beneath, - Around it flame, within it death.’ - -_Nescio._ “You have quoted Byron, rather unfortunately for your -argument, I think, Tristo. For he is an instance of the existence of -high poetic power, in a mind depraved by the baseness of his moral -sentiments.” - -_Tristo._ “You mistake my meaning, if you infer from it that I think -the _existence_ of poetic power incompatible with moral degradation, -for there are many, too many instances of this kind. My position -was that a pure and unsophisticated character was essential to the -_enjoyment_ of this faculty in one’s self, or as displayed by others. -And of this Byron is as strong a case as I could wish. Every spark of -genius, but assisted in lighting the flame, which scathed and consumed -his heart. ’Twas so with Shelly, and in the later years of his life, -with Burns. Moore is the only similar author who approaches to an -exception to this rule. But how widely different with the opposite -class of poets. Can you read a page of Cowper, or Wordsworth, without -feeling that they derive pure and exquisite pleasure from their -inspiration. Indeed to the former it was almost his _only_ source of -enjoyment--without it he would have been wretched, in truth, for his -nature was too sensitive for a rough and jostling world.” - -_Nescio._ “I cannot deny it. You have, however, a higher idea of the -value and interest and influence of poetry than is current now-a-days. -I myself have been disposed to regard the high pretensions of this -‘divina gens’ with something of distrust. I have dipped into our poetic -literature as extensively, probably, as most of my age; I have been -pleased and profited, but never have I been blessed with an admission -into the _penetralia_. My most diligent search (as Pausanias records of -the petitioner at Pion’s tomb) has been rewarded by _smoke_.” - -_Tristo._ “I know that to the unreflecting crowd the life and -labors of the poet seem poor and paltry. He is one by himself--a -flower-gathering, shade-loving idler in a garden, where others are -busily plying the mattock and the spade. To them he appears engaged -neither in lessening the evils, nor in adding to the blessings of -life. His musings they deem like the dreams of the sleeper, where -fancy, and vanity, and passion, draw scenes of glory and of pleasure -with the bold tracery of an unfettered hand; but to the waking eye -in the light of reason, those pictures are changed to the ungraceful -lines, and uncolored objects of ordinary life.” - -_Nescio._ “I am by no means satisfied that their view is not a correct -one. It seems to me that the allurements of poetry and the splendors of -romance are all lymphatic draughts to inebriate the mind, and, as ‘the -subtle blood of the grape,’ exalts and quickens the animal spirits, -only thereafter to retard and depress, so do these unearthly potations -elevate the soul, but leave it dull, drooping and disgusted. Especially -pernicious in their influence are the trashy productions of ephemeral -minds, which ‘dream false dreams and see lying visions,’ which clothe -the children of their fancy in perfections to which man is a stranger, -and fill the untaught soul with hopes and aspirations, which earth can -never realize. Byron certainly, and, I think, even Shakspeare, exert -an evil influence in their portraitures of character. Their actors are -so sublime, or so lovely, that they first inspire the mind with false -hope, and then fill it with vain despair.” - -_Tristo._ “You speak the language of a half philosopher, who -generalizes a few isolated facts into an all-embracing theory. Even -Byron’s evil influence results not from the unnatural beauty of his -characters and scenery, but rather from the fact that he does not seem -to conceive of virtue even in the abstract; he no where shows regard -for aught but self, and no where recognizes even by accident a standard -of right and wrong. As for Shakspeare, nature is visible in all his -writings; virtue and vice are strangely mingled, even as among the -scenes and occurrences of life. If he ever deviates from the actual -and the known, it is either in the delineation of some creature of -professedly ideal existence, such as Ariel and Puck; or else in the -combination of circumstances which produces characters, that all will -allow to be natural, though such they have never seen in actual life -and motion.” - -_Nescio._ “Suffer me for a moment to interrupt you, and ask what -is _nature_? Shakspeare is certainly more natural than most of his -successors, and yet, for the life of me I cannot point out the -difference, where it is, or in what it consists. For the incidents of -that great master are sometimes not merely improbable, but impossible.” - -_Tristo._ “The difference is this, Shakspeare brings together -improbable occurrences in almost impossible conjunctions; yet he -_always_ makes the _words_ and _actions_ of his characters consistent. -Other dramatists have their plots sufficiently probable, and their -junctures and transitions natural and easy--this is the effect of -study; but their actors have no individuality--and this is a defect of -genius, that no study nor midnight watchings can supply: their figures -are sometimes one thing, sometimes another: the _contour_, air, and -attitude, are all shifting and various. This is more particularly -observable in works of the tragic or semi-tragic cast, than in the -comic productions of the older writers. In Dryden, for instance, the -comedies are many of them laughable and good; but the tragedies, -saving here and there a splendid spangle, are cold, inflated fustian. -Even in scenes of the most intense excitement, when grief is wrought -up to agony, and passion foams with ungovernable rage, he makes his -characters talk, talk, talk, instead of acting. In place of some brief -and stormy exclamation, such as nature prompts and passion utters, -they stand still, gesticulate by rule, and bring out long similitudes -of studied elegance, and elaborate perfection. Their ruined hopes -they liken to a blighted tree, and coolly pursue the track of the -lightning from the topmost leaf to the downmost root, showing you -how _here_ it grazed, and _there_ cut to the very heart. Oh agony! -Their words are hot--hot enough in all conscience, when taken one by -one--_minutatim_--but collectively they are verbiage, not pathos.” - -_Nescio._ “I have been thinking that a natural may be distinguished -from an unnatural author, in that you can not only clearly conceive, -but distinctly remember the form and bearing of the characters in -the one, while the actors in the other leave no definite impression. -The Falstaff of Shakspeare, and the Arbaces of Bulwer, are good -illustrations of my meaning. Both are characters, which, we are -certain, never _did_ exist. How, then, is Falstaff natural, and Arbaces -the reverse? The former _might_ exist; the latter _never could_ have -being. The _former_ is a collection of qualities, carried, it may be, -to excess; the _latter_ is a union of contradictions. The _former_ -is witty and sensual and boastful beyond reality, but not beyond -possibility; the _latter_ is a lumbering conception of a grand and -gloomy _something_--a shadow of magnificent shapelessness--it has no -_identity_, and its shifting outline it would puzzle Proteus to trace. -In the language of the schools, Falstaff is in _posse_, but not in -_esse_--while Arbaces is neither in _esse_, nor _posse_, nor any where -else save in Bulwer’s head.” - -_Tristo._ “I believe you are right. But I was about to state why -poetry is a valuable--aye, an _in_-valuable gift. Now, observe--I -mean, not rhyme, ‘the drowsy tintinnabulum of song’--nor the display -of those poetical words, which, like trite coins, have no image -nor superscription left--nor yet, ‘in linked sweetness long-drawn -out,’ those brilliant figures, which have come down unimpaired from -Homer, and serve to conceal the deficiency of sense--but I mean -the pure ‘poetry of the heart’--the rich essence of feeling and of -thought--whether its expression be prose or verse, ‘oratio soluta,’ vel -‘constricta.’ It is true, without exception, that the purer and less -hackneyed are the feelings, the richer and more gushing is this ‘poetry -of the heart.’ And this proves its excellence. To the eye and the ear -of childhood, the ‘visible face of nature,’ the green beneath, and the -‘skyey blue’ above, with the thousand voices, that come quivering from -the forest-depths, are all one vast _poem_, modulated to a measure of -dulcet melody, and awakening sympathies inexplicably sweet. Thought to -them is a rambling revery, and existence is a thrilling dream. As they -lie upon the green grass, and view the sky, and gaze, and gaze upon -the unutterable depths, the yearnings for something beyond, beyond, -_beyond_, are quick, and strange, and powerful within them. As they -grow old, and hardened, and thankless, and wicked, does not poetry -vanish, and fancy flee? Are not the dreams of purity, and kindness, -and affection, which were but the strugglings of the youthful spirit -to attain the blessedness it was made for, supplanted by hard plans, -and cold calculations of wealth, and luxury, and restlessness, and -pride? Hope and Love, the birds of Paradise, that nestled in the boyish -heart, and fluttered with many-colored wings over their warm progeny -of kindling wishes, and bright resolves, are banished from their early -home, and in their place, with gloomy pinions, settle a thousand -cormorant birds, with the vultures of remorseless Ambition, and -Greediness for _more_. Who does not feel that it is only in his holier -and nobler hours that poesy creeps through him like a spirit, and -thoughts of grandeur cause his flesh to quiver, even as the forest is -shaken by the footsteps of the wind? Can one, who has but now stained -his soul with knavery or meanness, read that unparalleled monologue of -Hamlet, and surrender his heart to the greatness of its power? Can any, -save he whose spirit is daily and deeply filled with the sublimity of -rectitude, appreciate Milton’s sonnet upon his blindness, a specimen -of moral grandeur in thought and purpose, which has found no equal in -the walks of mind? I say not that even in the bosoms of the vicious -and the hardened, the perusal of sublime or lovely conceptions will -fail to produce emotion--deep, strong emotion--for, wound and abuse -it as you may, there will still, even at three-score years and ten, -remain something of that ardent pulse, which, in boyhood, burned at -the sight of beauty, and bounded at the voice of song. But poesy will -no longer gush continually upward from the fountains of his heart, -like refreshing waters from a perennial spring. And what a glorious -thing must it be for a Pitt or a Webster, when worn in the defense of -Freedom, and weary with the hopelessness of their toil, in the pages of -Scott to bury for a time the projects of ambition, and the chicanery of -courts! When they bow their own mighty intellects at the still mightier -shrines of Milton or of Shakspeare, is not theirs the sacred thrill -of the eastern pilgrim, when he falls and worships at the tomb of his -fathers? Wo be to him, who would lessen his hours of poetic enthusiasm; -for those hours are a backward vista to an earlier and better state. -True poetry is the basis of devotion; and devotion added to poetry is -the ‘Pelion upon Ossa,’ by which mortals may climb once more to the -heaven from which they fell.” - - Ego. - - - - - -HORA ODONTALGICA. - - “Again the play of pain - Shoots o’er his features, as the sudden gust - Crisps the reluctant lake.” - _Byron._ - - -(_Throb_--_throb_--_throb_--) Oh this marrow-piercing, jaw-torturing, -peace-destroying pain!--(_throb_--_throb_--_throb_--) Sure the rack -were a plaything, lunar-caustic a balsam, aqua-fortis the very essence -of pleasure, compared with this soul-and-body-distracting torment--this -anguish double-refined, this agony of agonies. “A little patience, -my dear sir,” interrupted a soothing voice. ‘Patience!’ exclaimed I, -‘talk of patience to a cubless bear, a dinnerless wolf, an officeless -demagogue--but not to me. Would you look for moderation in a maniac? -wisdom in an idiot? gentility in a clown? Who expects patience of a man -driven to distraction by the tooth-ache?--(_Throb_--_throb_--_throb_--) -Oh! that arrow-like pang----the most excruciating of all!--And I -clapped my hands to my jaws, and springing from my chair, shrieked in -agony. “Let’s see your tooth,” grumbled a rough unfeeling voice--and -before me stood a veteran Esculapian, with his lancet and forceps -fearfully conspicuous. ‘On with your instrument, Doctor,’ exclaimed -I, ‘and out with it, though I die under the operation.’ My head was -soon made stationary between two brawny hands, and my jaws extended -to their widest angle; the knife had unbared the offending dental, -and the dreaded instrument was ready for its work--but suddenly the -pain subsided--my feelings changed--I looked on the ‘cold iron’ with -horror--‘No! I’ll not have it out now;’--and the man of forceps left me. - -Again felt I the pangs of a ‘jumping’ tooth-ache. -Powders--drops--essential oils--remedies of every genus and species -were tried in vain. Even red-hot iron was of no avail--the nerve was -fire-proof. Throwing myself into a rocking chair, with elbows on my -knees and hands on my jaws, I leaned over the fire in moody anguish. -“The mind,” say physicians, “exerts a sympathetic influence upon the -body.” ‘Perhaps then,’ thought I, ‘the disease may not be wholly -physical, after all;’--and I began to reflect that suffering often -apparently finds relief in association and sympathy. The hard-featured -mariner takes delight in tales of naval misery; the veteran warrior, -in descriptions of battles; the love-lorn maiden, in ‘doleful tales -of love and woe;’ the disappointed suitor in dark maledictions and -long-drawn vituperations, against all that bear the name of woman. - -With this in mind, I glanced at my book-case for some treatise adapted -to my own circumstances. Nothing presented itself more to the point -than the ‘Works of Robert Burns.’ His ‘Address to the Tooth-ache’ -was soon before me. I read it from beginning to end with profound -attention. The difficult Scotticisms were explained in the glossary. I -sought the meaning of every word--I entered fully into the spirit of -the piece. How beautiful! - - “My curse upon thy venom’d stang, - That shoots my tortur’d gums alang; - An’ thro’ my lugs gies monie a twang, - Wi’ gnawing vengeance; - Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, - Like racking engines! - - When fevers burn, or ague freezes, - Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, - Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease us, - Wi’ pitying moan; - But thee--thou hell o’ a’ diseases, - Ay mocks our groan! - - Adown my beard the slavers trickle! - I throw the wee stools o’er the meikle, - As round the fire the giglets keckle - To see me loup; - While raving mad I wish a heckle - Were in their doup. - - O’ a’ the num’rous human dools, - Ill har’sts, daft bargains, _cutty-stools_, - Or worthy friends rack’d i’ the mools, - Sad sight to see! - The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’ fools, - Thou bear’st the gree. - - Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, - Whence a’ the tunes o’ mis’ry yell, - And ranked plagues their numbers tell, - In dreadfu’ raw, - Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear’st the bell - Amang them a’! - - O thou grim mischief-making chiel, - That gars the notes of _discord_ squeel, - Till daft mankind aft dance a reel - In gore a shoe-thick; - Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weel - A towmond’s Tooth-ache!” - -Never before had it appeared in half so favorable a light. Never -before was I so thoroughly convinced that to appreciate the beauties -of an author, we must enter into his feelings--possess his spirit. -This I could now do perfectly. And those brief stanzas--where was -there ever such genuine poetry as in them? Byron, in comparison, was -fustian; Milton bombast; Shakspeare a mere poetaster, and Homer a -sleepy-head--‘_quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus_.’ - -The effect was astonishing. Ere I had finished the fifth reading, my -sufferings were so much alleviated, that I could even recognize my -own countenance in a mirror--though still somewhat distorted. After -the tenth reading, however, the kindly influence ceased. In vain -did I persevere; the fifteenth perusal was accomplished; but all to -no purpose. The twang--twang--twang--and the gnawing, wrenching, -screwing sensation still continued. Again I leaned over the fire in -silent despair. I revolved in my mind the poem I had just read--the -sentiment--the meter--the rhyme. A thought struck me. This eternal -snap, snap, snap, said I to myself, is meter; this perpetual recurrence -of similar pains is rhyme; these momentary cessations of agony are -intervals of stanzas. Surely the tooth-ache, thought I, is a poetical -subject. Coleridge lay open on my table. My eye rested on a scrap of -rhythmical Latin. - - “Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet, - Quae tam dulcem somnum videt, - Dormi Jesu! blandule! - Si non dormis, Mater plorat, - Inter fila cantans orat - Blande, veni, somnule.” - -The hint was sufficient. Ainsworth and the glossary soon enabled me to -metamorphose Burns’s Scotch into Monkish Latin. If the meter appear -sometimes lame, or the syntax barbarous, the blame be on the torturing -pulsations that guided the movement--on the disorganizing twinges that -convulsed my whole mental fabric. - - -AD DENTIUM DOLOREM. - - Exsecrandum venenatum - Hunc dirumque mî dolorem, - Qui maxillam cruciatam - Nunc percurrit; ac sonorem - Dat in auribus frequènter, - Cum sevitiâ rodente; - Nervi quoque lacerantur, - Quasi machinâ torquente! - - Febri, quidèm, aestuante, - Rheumatismo commordente, - Vel rigore congelante, - Sive colicâ premente, - Nos vicini miserentur, - Luctuoso comploratu; - Sed, Inferne morbos inter, - Nostro ludis ejulatu! - - Barba madet mea sputis; - Atque sterno locum sellis, - In cachinnum nunc solutis - Antè foculum puellis, - Cùm saltare me viderent; - Memet interim volente - Ut in pectines urgerent, - Ex dolore, tam demente. - - Inter omnes cruciatus, - Quibus homines premuntur,-- - Sive messes devastates, - Sive pacta quae franguntur, - Sive funus amicorum, - Sive poenitentium sedeis, - Sive dolos improborum,-- - Longè plurimùm tu lædis! - - Ubicunque locus iste-- - Orcum sacerdotes ferunt-- - Unde planctus fremunt tristè, - Ac in ordinem sederunt - Mala valde luctuosa-- - Istìc, uti mî videtur, - Odontalgia probrosa! - Istìc palma _te_ tolletur. - - O, maligne tu torveque - Cacodæmon, instigare - Tot rixarum soliteque, - Ut in tabo saltitare - Cæci homines cogantur! - Fac, qui hostes sunt Scotorum, - Anni spatium cruciantur - Dirum dentium per dolorem! - -Before I had finished the closing stanza, the pain entirely left -me--whether it was owing to the exorcizing qualities of the Latin, the -soothing influence of the verse, the defiance-breathing spirit of the -sentiment, or to the _length of time_ requisite for the performance, -I am unable to decide. Suffice it to say, that if any one, in making -trial of the remedy himself, after translating ten English stanzas into -Latin rhyme, experiences no relief, let him take an hundred stanzas. If -after this performance the pain still continues, let the prescription -be a thousand stanzas; and unless the patient be an uncommonly rapid, -or an unpardonably careless versifier, we hesitate not to predict that -ere he has accomplished half his task, one of two things will prove -true--either the tooth-ache will have left him for ever, or _he_ will -have bidden farewell to the tooth-ache, and, with it, to all the pains, -and sorrows, and sufferings of this ‘vale of tears.’ - - - - -GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. V. - - -Whew! baked, parched, roasted, toasted, seethed, stewed, boiled, -broiled, and all the other synonymes of igniferous horror. Oh! ye -dark-skinned Ethiops, how I love you! Verily I am an amalgamationist. -“Ye are black, but comely as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of -Solomon.” Though angry Phoebus did once pour his fierceness upon your -sweating brows, till they were dusky as the wings of night, yet are ye -not misimproved thereby; for your impenetrable nigritude, surmounted -by your oily fleece--more precious than that golden one, after which -sailed Jason and the Argonauts--can bid defiance to the heat of -Hyperion. One would think young Phoebus had again mounted the car of -the far-flinging Apollo, when, as Ovid has it, - - “Inferiusque suis fraternos currere Luna - Admiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.” - -The winds are currents of fused lead, and the atmosphere is a huge -sudorific. What relation has the weather to Greek Anthology? “Much -every way.” The heat unnerves the body, the body depresses the mind, -and the weakness of the mind deteriorates Greek Anthology. Yet now that -the god of day is on the outmost skirts of the horizon, let me invoke -thy still descent, Oh! Muse of Evening, in the exquisite words of -Collins. - - “Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun - Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, - With brede ethereal wove, - O’erhang his wavy bed--” &c. &c. - -’Tis of no use. Inspiration cannot be awakened to-night. The summit of -Soracte is no longer ‘white with snow’--the waters of Helicon stand -at blood-heat--the fountain of Bandusia, “_splendidior vitro_,” has -seethed its own frogs--and the gushings of Arethusa herself are hot -enough to boil eggs. Nevertheless, one draught, oh goddess. - - ‘Extremum hunc, mihi concede laborem.’ - - -_Upon Magnasus, by Lucillius._ - - With nose so huge, Olympicus, beware - How thy mad feet approach a fountain cool, - And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful care - The sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool, - For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate, - Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine, - And as he died of love, so thou of hate - Wilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine. - -The following is trite, yet true. The ambitious might, but will not -profit thereby. What is so obvious is forgotten. - - All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave, - The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state, - And he, who, living, was a humble slave, - Death renders even as the monarch great. - - -_To a statue of Venus at Cnidos, by Praxiteles._ - - No! not the artist’s skillful hand, - Nor chisel wrought that form divine; - For thus didst thou on Ida stand, - And thus before the shepherd shine. - - * * * * * - - Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb, - No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume, - Nor burn the watch fire--’tis an empty stone-- - Thy waste is useless, for my race is run. - Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud-- - These late libations turn my _dust_ to _mud_. - The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms, - Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms. - -There is very little poetry in the following commemoration: but, if the -poor fellow did actually perform the _subscribed_ feats, and that for -fame, he deserved to be immortalized. - - -_To the statue of Phayllus, a Crotonian, and victor in the_ five games. - - Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped, - (At which the Muses wondered) - And when the disc he raised and hurled, - He conquered full five hundred. - - -_The tettix (a species of balm-cricket) to its shepherd-captors._ - - Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughs - With thriftless chase the tettix do ye take, - The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouse - The lonely echoes, till the woods awake, - And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwells - Among the mountains and the darkling dells. - The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault, - For they are daily plunderers of you; - ’Tis right that they should perish for their fault; - But who is jealous for the morning-dew? - - - - -TO CORRESPONDENTS - - -An essay “On the reason of animals not the reason of man,” is accepted, -and shall appear soon. - -An essay “On the study of human nature in the works of the -imagination,” is under consideration. - -Lines “to Miss W.” and a “Vision,” are declined. - -“Washington,” and “Poetica Falsa,” both possess considerable merit; but -from press of matter, we are compelled respectfully to decline them. - -“The Weather,” and a “Review of the past, No. 1.” are inadmissible. - -P.’s remonstrance is received. Upon reconsideration, we perceive the -impropriety of publishing the stanzas without the “Prolegomena;” and -the Prolegomena are too long for insertion. The inference is obvious. - -“On Death,” by D., in several respects is unsuitable for publication. - -“On the death of an aged friend,” is received, and shall appear. We -would request, however, the liberty of making a few alterations. - -“An address to the Sun,” the counterpart of the “Apostrophe to the -Moon,” from which we quoted in our first number. The author must have -suffered from a ‘stroke of the sun,’ before he wrote his address, e. g. - - “Great and glorious Sun! - High ’mid etherial mete - Thou dost wheel thy burning car, - And through all thine empire afar, - Dost diffuse light and heat, - For this begun, - Thy course is run, - Till time shall be no more, and thou art done.” - - “And what though thou, fair Sun! - May’st boast a mighty sway? - That earth, moon and every planet - Roll round thee their imperial seat, - And thy power obey? - From him begun - Thou brilliant Sun, - And all ye hosts of heaven your course to run.” - -We have been accused of too great severity in our notes to -correspondents. We ask pardon of our contributors for our impoliteness, -and offer no further justification than that afforded by the old -proverb, ‘Evil _communications_ corrupt good manners.’ - - - - -PROSPECTUS OF THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. - -TO BE CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE. - - -An _apology_ for establishing a Literary Magazine, in an institution -like Yale College, can hardly be deemed requisite by an enlightened -public; yet a statement of the objects which are proposed in this -Periodical, may not be out of place. - -To foster a literary spirit, and to furnish a medium for its exercise; -to rescue from utter waste the many thoughts and musings of a student’s -leisure hours; and to afford some opportunity to train ourselves -for the strife and collision of mind which we must expect in after -life;--such, and similar motives have urged us to this undertaking. - -So long as we confine ourselves to these simple objects, and do not -forget the modesty becoming our years and station, we confidently -hope for the approbation and support of all who wish well to this -institution. - - * * * * * - -The work will be printed on fine paper and good type. Three numbers to -be issued every term, each containing about 40 pages, 8vo. - -_Conditions_--$2,00 per annum, if paid in advance, or 75 cents at the -commencement of each term. - -Communications may be addressed through the Post Office, “To the -Editors of the Yale Literary Magazine.” - - * * * * * - -This No. contains 2½ sheets. Postage, under 100 miles, 3¾ cents; -over 100 miles, 6¼ cents. - - Printed by B. L. Hamlen. - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -A number of typographical errors were corrected silently. - -Cover image is in the public domain. - - There are two instances where the name “Tristo” was substituted for - “Pulito” in the original publication: - _Tristo._ “With ease. 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