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diff --git a/old/60834-0.txt b/old/60834-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3f5ffa3..0000000 --- a/old/60834-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2510 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Yale Literary Magazine. (Vol. I, No. 2), by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Yale Literary Magazine. (Vol. I, No. 2) - -Author: Various - -Release Date: January 5, 2020 [EBook #60834] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, hekula03, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - THE - YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. - - - CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE. - -[Illustration] - - “Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES - Cantabunt SOBOLES, unanimique PATRES.” - - - NO. II. - - - MARCH, 1836. - - - NEW HAVEN: - HERRICK & NOYES. - - MDCCCXXXVI. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - Page. - The Benefit of Thought, 41 - - Ode—The Birth of Poesy, 47 - - Macbeth, 48 - - The Cascade, 53 - - Story and Sentiment, No. II. 54 - - Pen and Ink, 62 - - Confessions of a Sensitive Man, No. II. 63 - - The Whale’s Last Moments, 69 - - Review—The Partisan, 70 - - Greek Anthology, No. II. 77 - - “Our Magazine,” 80 - - - - - THE - - YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE. - - - ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── - VOL. I. MARCH, 1836. NO. 2. - ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── - - - - - THE BENEFIT OF THOUGHT. - - -The worst as well as the best of us in this world, sometimes love to -stop and think. The bad man, wanting every fine feeling, and mostly -giving his passions the rein, and suffering them to lead him, to the -exclusion of what is beautiful in morals and religion, will sometimes be -struck with the contrast between himself and others, and give a few -moments to thought. Besides, there are, from the mutual relation of mind -and body, certain states of physical feeling, which seem to make men -pause, and set them thinking, whether they will or not. In fact, this -seems a provision of nature, and it is a benevolent one; for men who -think a great deal, are improved by it; and if so, it is obviously a -kind plan of our Maker, who, by giving us constitutions susceptible of -the changes in the natural world, leads us, thereby, to pause awhile, -and familiarize ourselves with that which is wisest and best in the -constitutions of our souls. - -That a man is improved by thinking much, few will deny. If he sits and -thinks upon his secular concerns, or employs himself in ambitious -speculations, or upon any other of the subjects which beguile the -greater part of the human family, we would not say he was improved, at -least, but little, by it. But we think a man who now and then gives -himself to solitude, will not employ his mind thus. It is a law of our -natures, that earthly objects, even the best, and purest, if pursued -long, and obtained in profusion, have a tendency to induce satiety and -disgust. Most men have had experience of this; for few are there, we -think, who have not, after calculating long on the delights of a -prospective good, found on its attainment, its comparative worthlessness -and insufficiency. Now the man who devotes a few moments to reflection, -will have this great inducement to lead his mind off from such subjects -as tend only to make him the more of a worldling, viz. that they cannot -satisfy. Moreover, if he does not know, or does not remember this, as -the result of former experience, he will (unless he be yoked with -fetters of iron to the world, and his whole character be different from -that of other men) if at first, in his retirement, he gives his mind up -to outward objects, or to such as serve his worst passions—after a -while, even then, experience the same, or something of the same satiety. -The mind then turns somewhere else, for it must have nourishment; and -whither, but into itself. It is thus, retirement puts a man in the way -of being better. - -Now the mind abstracted from outward, every-day objects, or such as have -dominion over it through the medium of the senses, will soon become -acquainted with its own noble faculties. It certainly is a truth, and -every thinking man will remark it as he mingles with men, that they all -seem unconscious of their natures. A wiser than man has revealed to us, -and Philosophy tells us, that there are fountains of bliss in ourselves; -and that if we taste of these, we shall look upon those things which -constitute most of the enjoyment of our race, as worth little or -nothing. Of this truth, we say, men seem ignorant. A being with half our -natural faculties, would be capacitated for about as much bliss as most -men take. The extent of many, we may say of most of the human family’s -ideas of happiness, might almost be comprehended by a sagacious animal. -Does it not consist mainly, in securing such a portion of worldly -substance, as shall make them comfortable? It is so, manifestly. Now let -me ask, if this, in the scale of being, elevates us much above brutes. -Brutes do all this; and it might be remarked without much hazard, that, -instinct taken into account, they take a higher stand than we do. -Retirement, however, turning the mind into itself, as remarked above, -tends to correct this evil; and did society think more, its condition -would instantly be improved. Thought opens new sources of thought; these -sources other sources, increasing in tenfold ratio: and this unravels -that which is so often esteemed a mystery by many, viz. that men, once -devoted to books, can never be brought back to business men; and, -furthermore, it shows an egregious error in those who account for this -devotion, on the grounds of habit. That we are creatures of habit in a -great degree, none will deny; but that habit can be broken, is as -readily admitted—whereas, this devotion was never known to be lessened. - -The man who thinks much, in addition to the discovery of his great -mental powers, discovers, also, his great moral capacities. Things that -once struck him as strange in his moral constitution, and which, as they -seemed inexplicable, he had so often dismissed with a glance, he now -discovers, are so many evidences of a relationship to the Divine being: -all is illuminated which, before, was so dark: the film passes from his -eye: what he thought but a stagnant pool, he finds, now, is an ocean -whose waters are limpid and sweet, the bottom of which is strewn with -the richest and rarest shells: every exertion reveals to him a new -treasure, until he wonders within himself at that perversity and -blindness, which could pass over, undiscovered, such deep sources of -improvement. Now one result of all this is, that he gains a just sense -of the dignity of his being. We know how fashionable it is, to decry -human nature; and we doubt not we shall receive censure, for turning off -from such a beaten path. The great and good, of almost all time, have -rather preferred to find fault, than bestow on it eulogium. But it seems -to us, an abuse, and a perversion, for looking over society as we do, -and catching here and there so many evidences of bright and heroic -virtues as are presented—we cannot follow the fashion, and say, every -man is altogether bad. There is every thing in the soul which is noble: -it bears the imprint of a divine hand: and though its fair phasis be -soiled, and blackened, as doubtless it is, by transgression, there are, -nevertheless, some intelligent spots left, to show its divine origin. - -Another result of patient thought is, a man discovers his proper -relationship to society. Self-knowledge tends greatly to remove -selfishness. By it, he learns his obligation, not only to God, but man; -he begins to see how impossible it is, to live an isolated being; and he -begins to feel, in its full force, that beautiful truth, that he is a -part of the great chain which links society together. In proportion as -he feels this, must his selfishness give place to nobler feelings. No -man exhibits a more unprepossessing ignorance, than he who sets at -nought the opinions, and feelings of others. He becomes an object of -pity, and even contempt, to every thinking man; for so little is -required to see his error, that we despise his oversight. If men did but -know it, it is the cause of a large portion of the unhappiness of life. -Society never finds a person in its midst, entirely wrapped in self, and -scorning its good will, but it leaves such to the fate they merit, viz. -to test their ill grounded belief, and see if they _can_ live, setting -at nought the doctrine of mutual dependence. No! men were made -dependent—mutually dependent—and it is the loveliest thing in morals -that it is so; for just so far as it is recognized, is selfishness -destroyed, and harmony established among men. This doctrine ought to be -held up more than it is, especially in this nation: it would serve to -correct and counteract, if any thing can do it, that spirit of -self-interest, always the result of popular and free institutions. - -The moral powers are greatly improved, also, by thought, and as a -consequence, the moral taste. It is unfortunate, we think, that so much -should have been said, and written, as there has been, on beauty and -taste, and moral beauty, and moral taste, so often left out of the -account. The order and harmony in Nature, has never wanted admirers; and -eulogists, by scores, are found, to speak of high deeds, and heroic -attachments. In the Arts, too, the ideal symmetry of Phidias; the -burning canvass of Michael Angelo; and the fabulous shell of -Orpheus—these have never lacked encomium. On the contrary, there has -been something like a mad emulation among men, from the bright era of -Grecian Pericles until now, to invent epithets of admiration. But how -are high deeds and heroic virtues ennobled—what added grace and dignity -is afforded the Fine Arts, when the principles of moral beauty are -associated! Our object here, however, shall not be to discover, why -moral taste is neglected, but rather to find out some principles by -which it may be seen, and improved, wherever there is a wish for its -culture. Taste is doubtless an inherent faculty; and, if the doctrine of -innate ideas is admitted, then moral taste is an inherent faculty. Now -every thing which relates to morals, affects moral taste; they cannot be -dissociated: hence, would you look for its liveliest exercise, you will -take the most elevated character. In such you will observe it, not in -great display, but in the thousand little offices of life, - - ‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d acts - Of kindness and of love.’ - -It checks them, at every little departure from rectitude, and is a good -and efficient guide, in all their intercourse with men. If a man would -_improve_ his moral taste, let him, instead of that pernicious habit of -revery to which there are so many inducements, especially in retirement, -give his thoughts to the excellence of moral virtues: let him look at -those sparks of beauty, so to speak, sometimes struck off from heroic -characters, in trying circumstances: let him trace them in their -two-fold results, as affecting others, and then refracting on himself; -and much have we mistaken the human mind, if the practice do not benefit -him. We are not aware of the extent of the benefit of a taste rightly -understood, and rightly directed, because it is so very subtle and -delicate; nevertheless, those many imperceptible advances which it makes -against an ill regulated mind, operate powerfully as a whole, and do -modify the disposition to a degree little dreamed of. It improves a -man’s _whole_ character, and throws a charm around it, not otherwise, -than as the flush sometimes seen lying along the sky of evening, which, -thrown down to the earth by the atmosphere, gives it all a mellow glow -of beauty. - -From the above, we detect another truth. There are in society, certain -little observances, which tend to regulate it—such as the forms of -etiquette; which observances, it is deemed can best be learned _in_ -society. This we deem a very pernicious doctrine. It is reasoning from -wrong premises; and false _data_ in moral, assuredly bring about as -wrong deductions, as in physical science. The very object to be -attained, viz. the regulation of society, not only goes to show, that it -is something which is extraneous, but presupposes that it can never be -found there: and yet we are told, that politeness is the result of -social intercourse. But this we believe not. So far from it, we believe -that true politeness is _never_ learned there. Society is nothing but a -hot bed—what grows in it, is rank and unwholesome. True, there is a -something passing for politeness, very meaningless, and very stiff; but -it is, at the same time, so very shallow, that men of sense make no -pretensions to it: and _this_ is learned _in_ society. True politeness -is of another growth. It is the offspring of correct principle; and any -thing springing from such a source, we may not be much afraid of. True -politeness is nothing but a refined kind of humanity; and give a man a -kind heart, and one regulated by correct taste; and never fear, but he -has that which will make his way any where, to the utter exclusion of -these danglers on the skirts of good breeding. It is a sad thing, that -we have such an abundance of _manners_ in the world, and so little -_character_: that men think so little, they have mostly become frivolous -and superficial: that frivolous and superficial manners, best become -them. This is true however. We _have_ lost the substance, and taken the -shadow; and now, in groping for it, we have got a substitute, without -one of the virtues of its expatriated pre-occupant. - -But though the age is not one marked by any very severe exercise of -thought, and though utilitarian principles are threatening to sweep away -almost every kind of speculative knowledge, yet we are not greatly -fearful as to the result. The system is revolving, and a better -succession will soon be among us. And why? Our hope is, in the fast -increasing intelligence of the world. Though we might, and, did we give -our mind, we should, find complaint, in respect to many of the features -of the spirit of the day, deeming it too clamorous, and active, as -having a tendency to injure what is pure and beautiful, in the ideal -world—still, intelligence is fast and widely diffused; and on the whole, -doubtless, the good will predominate. Those rank plants among us, such -as false taste, sickly sensibility, affectation, and the like, will be -crowded out by those of healthier growth, and society put on a new -aspect; while, as evils, we shall have too much of a captious, -matter-of-fact atmosphere, which rejects every thing not immediately -communicated, through the medium of the senses. This, however, will be -counteracted in some degree, by the few that _do_ think: and, further, -by that _other_ few, who in all states of society hold their own, -uncontaminated by that which is about them. These are they who bring -into existence with them, those susceptibilities of harmony in the -natural and moral world—minds, which separate them from their -fellows—feelings, which earth never appreciates—and aspirations, which -carry them up to breathe in a purer atmosphere, where the bustle, ‘and -hoarse enginery of Life’ cannot come. These, we say, have an influence -in society, though they are above it—‘birds of heavenly plumage fair,’ -that, stooping occasionally from higher regions, appear for a moment, -and then are gone. - -In conclusion: the benefit of thought is most manifest, in that proper -self-confidence, without which, there is no real dignity of character. -To be a growing man, is to be a confident one; and the secret of -greatness, lies in the consciousness of the ability to be great. We -should be sorry to advocate folly,—modesty, we are taught from our -cradles, is a virtue,—but by some unaccountable process, the thing has -got to signifying something, better designated sheepishness; and hence, -we have an _animal_ virtue. Different from these, however, are our ideas -of modesty. True modesty is that proper appreciation of one’s own -powers, which leads him never to offend, either by bashfulness or -presumption: now, who so likely to hit the mark, as he who knows the -strength of the bow. The workings of a great mind, conscious of its -capacities—and its aspirations for eminence, are, in distinction to the -greatness of little men, as opposite as possible—the one a mighty river, -always overflowing, and enriching the soil through which it moves, with -its abundant and generous fullness—the other an insignificant stream, -always within its banks, as grudging the smallest pittance to the scene -around. To be a modest man in a certain usage, is to be an ignorant -one—for to underrate one’s self, and be honest in it, is to show -ignorance of self; and he who knows not himself, has skipped the first -page in the book of wisdom: but to be a modest man in a right sense, is -to be a wise one—for it is a knowledge of self (which we suppose -constitutes a wise man) that enables one to seize upon and retain, his -proper station in society. It is this latter kind of modesty which is -commendable. It is that of great men. It is that which, meet it where we -will, we love to praise. Milton could stop, mid-word in one of his -loudest invectives against the rotten fabric of Episcopacy, and speak of -himself as ‘a poet sitting in the high regions of his fancy, with his -garlands and singing robes about him’—and, with voice like the wild note -of prophecy, proclaim ‘the great argument,’ as yet sleeping in the -darkness of his vision; and of his confidence to produce a work ‘that -posterity should not willingly let die.’ Was this folly? and yet, it was -a full appreciation of what the great God had given him. No! It was -knowledge—knowledge at home—knowledge gained by thought—the knowledge of -energies proud enough, to build up a colossal monument to posterity—_and -he did it_. - -These are some of the advantages, we think, of a substantial knowledge -of ourselves; and when we look at the age, and see how headlong it is, -and how dangerously practical it is becoming; too much cannot be said, -and too loudly it cannot be spoken, that there is need of more -reflection, and more forethought. - - - - - ODE. - THE BIRTH OF POESY. - - - Spirit that floatest o’er me now, - So beautiful, so bright, - I know thee by that lip, that brow, - That eye of beaming light. - Hail! Sovereign of the golden lyre, - Rapture-breathing God, - All Hail! - We bow beneath thy rod, - Who dost, for aye, the glowing thought inspire. - Hail! Radiant One, we welcome thee, - Heaven-born, holy Poesy! - - Spirit who weavest - Thy sweet spells so strong, - Answer me, answer me, - Spirit of Song, - Where was thy birth-place, - Where is thy home, - Why, o’er the doom’d earth, - Spirit, dost thou roam? - - “When the dewy earth was young, - When the flowers of Eden sprung, - When first woman’s smile exprest - All the heaven of her breast, - Then and there I had my birth, - In the infancy of earth. - - “Angel-hands my cradle made, - Woven gay from every flower, - And they swung it in the shade, - Sheltered from the noon-tide hour, - While the balmy air that crept - Murmuring thro’ the waving trees, - Rocked me gently till I slept - In the music of the breeze. - - “Then, a hollow shell they brought, - Strung across with golden wires, - Every chord with passion fraught, - Thrills with joy, with hope inspires. - Angel-songs at eve I heard - Rise from many a circling hill, - And my harp whene’er ’t is stirr’d - Trembles to their cadence still! - - “I am the spirit of joy and of mirth, - And I gladden the hearts of the sons of earth, - I twine a chaplet of deathless flowers - For the fair young brows of the laughing Hours, - I show to the Poet’s dreaming eye, - The shadowy realms of Phantasy, - A charm o’er the earth and the air I fling,— - Such are the offerings I bring. - Beings that people the depths of air, - Come when I speak my wizard prayer; - I tell my will, and away! away! - O’er the boundless fields of glowing day, - Where the quivering sunbeams ever play, - Onward and onward they wing their flight, - Brightening towards the source of light. - Beings that people the depths of sea, - Rise at my call and bow before me, - And they bear me down to their coral caves, - Where ever the roll of Sapphire waves - Thro’ vaulted roof and temples dim, - Sounds forth a strange and solemn hymn. - But would’st thou know where I love to dwell, - And where I weave my strongest spell,— - Where beameth the light of woman’s eye, - Where flowers spring up, there, there, am I!” - - S. - - - - - MACBETH. - - “There is some soul of goodness in things evil.”—_King Henry V._ - - -Macbeth is a historical character. He is one of those who stand on the -page of history as personifications of vice, rather than as men who -possess any thing in common with ourselves. They distinguished -themselves by a career of crime—in general that crime arose from -ambition,—their names have become a proverb, and are associated in our -minds with a particular form of vice as the entire and bare sum of their -character. Yet when thus viewed, what are called examples affect us -little more than a lifeless homily. They raise in us no sympathy, and of -course no interest. They may indeed excite a hatred of that abstract -form of vice, but against that we feel secure, and we make no attempt to -derive from them any further benefit. Our abhorrence forbids; for we -look upon them not as human beings with their varying hues, but as -monsters, almost as monsters born. This horror, thus excited at -personified vice, seems to speak well for our hearts, yet it will be -found to prevent us from taking discriminating views of such characters, -and from deriving any practical wisdom from them. We do not reflect that -they were men like ourselves, that though deeply sunk in vice, they were -once as innocent as we may suppose ourselves to be; that it was by -objects working upon what is within every one of us, that they became -what they were; that the deeper they were involved in the coil of -wickedness, the more narrowly does it become us, would we derive true -wisdom or true knowledge from them, to search out those places in the -heart where its cords were first fastened on them; to find what was -first effectually touched to make them what they were. Nor do we reflect -that to obtain any practical knowledge of men, it is no way to separate -whatever of good there may be in such characters, from the bad, however -great it may be; since it is only to be obtained by observing the -struggle between the two as they actually stand connected. Nor need we -fear to admire too much, that, in the most vicious mind, which is worthy -of our admiration; as if we should detest vice the less, for seeing the -ruin it makes, or for detecting its insidiousness in undermining the -fair qualities which may call forth our praise. - -An excellent means of thus presenting to us the characters of history, -as they are in their original cast, and as they progress or change in -the course of events, may be found in the drama. The living beings in -all their “intensity of life,” are before us; with the circumstances of -life about them—whether actual circumstances or not is of little -importance, if they are such as might have been expected. The scenes of -a whole life pass rapidly, yet distinctly and freshly before us, as -imagination loves, and as we should review the eventful life of one whom -we had well known. - -The tragedy before us moves towards its conclusion with a fearful -rapidity, which we vainly wish to detain; and is invested with a stern -and awful solemnity, disturbed only by thrilling scenes of horror. - -Macbeth, the kinsman of king Duncan, and general of his army, returning -from a victorious battle, is met by three witches, two of whom hail him -with titles of nobility, which are almost instantly confirmed, and the -third with that of future king. Led by this and his own ambition, he, at -the suggestion of his wife, murders at midnight the king whom he had -entertained, and charges the deed upon his guards. He is crowned, and to -maintain his crown, is led into a series of butcheries, which ends in -his own death by the hand of Macduff, aided by the English, who had been -invited over by the sons of the murdered Duncan. - -It might seem, at first view, that Macbeth is only one among the slaves -of a vulgar ambition, which implies a mind already hardened, and which, -attracted by some splendid object, sets itself, from purely selfish -ends, to the attainment of it, and after some visitings of remorse, -becomes thoroughly obdurate. The elements of such a character are gross -and palpable; the representations obvious; and it is, we think, under -this impression that this play has been pronounced to contain “no nice -discriminations of character.”[1] But if we consider that Macbeth is in -a great degree the subject of influence, acted upon rather than acting, -and in some respects more sinned against than sinning; and how, at last, -it is the sarcasm of his wife, and the fear of disappointing her whom he -loves, full as much as his own ambition, which prevails on him to do the -murder, the character becomes more complicated, and we are constrained -to find the good and bad in it more evenly balanced, than we at first -thought they could be. The truth about Macbeth seems to be, that with -the peculiar openness of a hero, and with all his grandeur of intellect, -together with nice discrimination of all that may become a man, he is -wanting in that _energy of reflection_, which imparts integrity or moral -entireness to the mind. In this respect, his conduct is well contrasted -with that of Banquo, upon the reception of the infernal prediction. The -want of this trait accounts also for the fact, that he is never -self-possessed in his wickedness, and never acts properly upon a selfish -plan. For this reason, when we mark the many pure and bright qualities, -which might form the elements of a most noble character, and of whose -value the ingenuous owner seems hardly conscious, we are tempted to -exclaim in another sense, - - “O Fortunatus! sua si bona noverit!” - -And when we see these tarnished and obscured by means of deceit which he -does not comprehend, or if he does, has not sufficient energy to dispel, -though we cannot greatly respect, we can still admire and pity him. We -cannot view him with the same feelings as we do Richard III, wholly -remorseless, and self-possessed in wickedness absolutely unredeemed; nor -as we do that cool, contriving villain, Iago. On account of his openness -of mind also, his character will be best understood, not by formal -analysis, but by following him through the various circumstances in -which he is placed, and observing their effects on a mind too genial not -to receive them, and withal too transparent to hide them. - -Let us take him then as he is first presented to us. He is a hero. This -character also remains with him throughout. It is heroism which urges -him to deeds of high daring, which prompts his mind to its lofty -conceptions of greatness, which struggles long and hard with his -conscience, but at last plunges him in guilt, propelling him deeper and -deeper into it, and called out in its utmost grandeur and intensity in -braving the cowardice of remorse. But with the hero’s bravery and lion -strength, there is united also the “milk of human kindness,” and the -tenderest pity; for who, other than he who copied from his own breast, -would have conceived of it thus, even when it opposed directly his -designs. - - And _pity_, like a _naked newborn babe_, - Striding the blast, or heav’ns cherubim, hors’d - Upon the sightless couriers of the air, - Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, - That tears shall drown the wind. - -But above all, as a hero he “is not without ambition.” Yet he is also -“without the illness should attend it.” Naturally noble and ingenuous, -his ambition up to this time had been rather than any thing else, an -aimless, generous aspiring after that which should fill his own -capacity, and sought no other reward for manly deeds than the doing -them. It was consistent also with a state of high and pure moral -feeling, as is not that which has always an end in view, and is always -planning and plotting for it. Accordingly, we find it combined in him -with great purity and ingenuousness of heart. “What he would highly, -that would he holily.” Still it was dangerous, and, no guide to itself, -was liable to take shape and direction from any conjunction of -circumstances. Until now, however, he had gone with it securely and -uprightly. He seems to have been kept in the path of duty and honor by -the generous impulses of his nature, and perhaps more, with his peculiar -openness, by the favorable influence of his kinsman the “good king -Duncan,” whom he heartily loves and admires. - -But now the trial is to come; to come too with circumstances, and at a -time exactly adapted to overcome _him_. In the midst of an intoxicating -self-complacency at his victory, a state of mind peculiarly genial for -the reception of any suggestions favoring his promotion, he is met by -three supernatural beings, (to him at least they were such,) in whom, -from childhood, he had had an unwavering faith. That faith is confirmed -by the almost instant fulfillment of two of their predictions. The third -is unavoidably suggested to his mind as a necessary consequence. A -strong conviction, amounting to a belief of destiny, that it must be -fulfilled, seems from that time to have taken hold of his mind. And how -is it to be done. His mind shrinks with ingenuous horror from the only -way: he must _murder_ the king. He strives to escape from the idea. His -mind cannot, with all its ambition, and all its heroism, look clearly -through the deed to its end. It cannot _see_ in the wrong direction. It -is untaught and unskilled in the ways of cunning wickedness. He is not -sufficient master of himself to climb over the horror which rises before -him. Nor yet has he _energy_ enough to get away from it. That strong -conviction of the necessity of the deed, full as much, at least, as the -desirableness of its end, still enchains him. He might indeed have -reflected that it lay with him to do it or not, but he does not, and -perhaps it was hardly to be expected that _he should_. His ambition, -which had been the habit of his life, and which he had hitherto trusted -in as his good guide, has received a direction which he cannot change, -towards a point from which he cannot divert it. He is as it were -_spell-bound_. Still he cannot consent; he even decides not to do it. -His newly-won honor, gratitude, reputation which was most dear to him, -admiration for Duncan, and pity for him as his intended victim, all -forbid. Here his wife comes in, and by some of the finest rhetoric of -sophistry, sarcasm, and rebuke for his want of heroism, induces him to -“bend himself up to the terrible feat.” The part of the play about this -crisis is peculiarly fine. There is the dagger scene, in which -conscience is seen exerting its full sway over a mind which owns it not. -In the night scene, especially, the author seems to have exerted himself -to bring in every thing that could add to the horror of the scene. -Though we are not introduced to the murder, yet we are made so fully to -participate in the horrors of the murderer, that the effect is greater -than if it had been so. All indeed that is presented to the senses, is -the most ordinary. The scene is rendered _hideous_ by the knocking at -the door, and the ill-timed jollity of the unconscious porter, more, -perhaps, than by any thing else. Of Macbeth little more need be said, -nor are we inclined to pursue the subject farther. Yet amidst all the -dark and “strange deeds,” in which his heroism and the destiny of guilt -involve him, and amidst all his desperation, he still exhibits longings -for his former state of innocence and peace. For the murdered Duncan his -feelings are none other than those of respectful compassion. In the very -midst also of his deeds of guilt, and amidst his struggles with remorse, -he reveals to his wife his anguish with the utmost tenderness of -reposing affection. These things throw a softening over a character -which would otherwise be purely abhorrent to our feelings. The idea of -fate still clings to him, and the belief that by the murder of Duncan, -he had more closely associated himself with those hellish beings who had -led him on, adds yet another shade to the darkness of his mind. In an -agony of desperation he consults them to learn, “by the worst means the -worst.” From that hour, we feel that his doom is fixed; knowing that -though - - They “keep the words of promise to his ear,” - They’ll “break it to his hope.” - -Thus it proves. Macbeth seeing one promise after another in which he had -trusted, failing him, at last throws himself upon his own courage, -which, as an acquired habit of the field at least, had never left him. -With sword in hand he dies. - -Lady Macbeth, who by her amazing, and fearful energy of intellect, could -suppress remorse as long as there was any object to be accomplished, -when at length her mind is left objectless, feels it in its most -terrible power. When upon such a mind remorse fastens its fangs, that -mind turns upon its devourer with an energy strong as its own power to -grasp, and enduring as its hold. Nothing sooner than death can end the -struggle. - -And now that we are at the end of this fearful and gloomy history, we -may just review the scene. Duncan, the meek and guileless father-king, -shedding around him a cheerful, genial light! Macbeth, growing up in -that light, and promising to reflect it back on its giver, and to add to -its splendor! But that light is put out in darkness: a more fearful -darkness comes over the _guilty man_, spreading to all about him, and -gathering gloom, as we are hurried rapidly and certainly to the -consummation. At length, when virtue reappears, though it be in the form -of an avenger, the darkness begins to move away; and light, though mild -and chastened, just gilds the scene as it closes. - - G. - - - - - THE CASCADE. - - - ‘It leapt and danced along all joyously, - Till winter winds swept o’er it.——’ - - I saw, as I stood by a mountain’s side - On a lovely summer day, - When the light winds in the vale had died, - And all was fresh and gay— - A cascade beautiful and clear - All gaily laughing in the sun, - As it dashed upon its bed of stone, - Sprinkling the wild flowers near. - - And I thought how sweet it were to dwell - Beside that dashing stream, - Watching the white foam where it fell, - And vanished like a dream: - To list as its murmurs flew along - In all their thrilling harmony, - And mingled in sweet symphony, - With the wood-bird’s gushing song. - - · · · · · - - The autumn winds swept through that wood, - With a sad and mournful sound; - Decay was in its solitude, - And dead leaves spread the ground:— - And I sighed, and cast a sorrowing look, - As I passed that spot again; - For Winter had thrown his icy chain - Across that gushing brook. - - _March 1st, 1836._ H. - - - - - STORY AND SENTIMENT, - OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION. - No. 2. - - A WORD WITH THE READER. - - ‘Ho! how he prates of himself—listen!’ - - _Dryden’s Bride._ - - - READER,— - -If I was so fortunate as to please thee with my former offering—how -shall I, as I resume my labors of this month, so weave from the -store-house of my fancy such another vision, as shall make thee extend -the hand of amity, and give me a second approving smile. To scribble for -another, when you know not his taste—to attempt to bring out such a -‘conceit,’ as shall catch his kindness, and hurry him along with you -into good humor, has ever, since the earliest essays in story writing, -been accounted a delicate business. And why? because what pleases you, -fair lady, pleases not my fellow student; and what pleases you, fellow -student, pleases not somebody else; so a man finds himself like the -bundle of oats betwixt—no, no! (Apollo forgive me!) I mean like the ass -betwixt two bundles, &c. Washington Irving (Heaven bless him! and pardon -_me_ for whipping his name into my thoughtless lucubrations) has -somewhere—finding himself in a similar predicament—made this remark; ‘if -the reader find, here and there, something to please him, let him rest -assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like -himself; but should he find any thing to dislike, let him tolerate it, -as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for -readers of a less refined taste.’ Allow me to say the same. - -You should know, I think, by this time, that I am devoted to thy -interest, as completely so, as ever belted knight on plain of Palestine, -to his ‘ladye love,’—that my feelings and sympathies go out to thee, as -a bee to its bower, a bird to its forest-nest, or any other of the -bright creatures of God to the home of their affections—(by the by, you -may smile at this. Stop! I know you’re not my ‘ladye love,’ nor am I a -bee, or a bird, or any such nonsense; but, by my ‘saying of this -simile,’ as sweet Sir Philip hath it, I meant only to apprise thee of my -extreme devotion. You understand?),—that I would do any thing, to witch -from thee, the heart-ache, even to the disquiet of the pleasant -comfortableness of one of my soft, selfish, afternoon reveries,—that I -would spend the last drop of my—no! not my blood exactly, for much as I -love you, I love myself better; but I mean, I would spend the last drop -of my—_ink_, to please you; and that you know is much better—for the ink -of a literary man, _id est_ a poetical one, is worth more than his blood -and body together. - -But, though I have such a love for you, it would be sad, if, like the -Paddy’s saddle-bags, it should all be found on one side; for I can no -more prosper—and, if I must confess it, can no more love you without -some remuneration, than a lover could kiss the turf on which his -mistress had stepped, or make sonnets to her eye-brows, when she frowned -on him. She is the sun of his existence, the centre, the cynosure of his -passions, hopes, and dreams—to which, through the darkness that the -world flings about him, he may send his longing eye, and his heart’s -holiest aspirations. _You_ are the sun of _my_ being—the -centre—cynosure—_et cetera, et cetera_; and it is equally impossible -that I can make verses and stories for you, when every time I look up, I -see that horrible scowl on your face—Pray, put it off. - -But I’ll not believe you hate me—and when you receive this fresh number, -and open upon this page for the _morceau_ I have for you, I know ye’ll -give me a pleasant smile, and, with the honest Scotchman, say, ‘Deil! -but I winna gie ither than thanks to a daft callan like ye.’ - -But—to business. - - * * * * * - -Talking with my friend one day on the subject of dueling, he gave me the -following story. - - - THE DUEL.[2] - - ‘Men should wear softer hearts, - And tremble at these licens’d butcheries, - Even as other murders.’ - - _Bryant._ - -If there is one damning custom among the sons of men, ’tis dueling. Call -it not murder—willful killing is murder; but this cool, calculating, -exulting killing—killing not in madness, not in despair, when the heart -tossed on a surge of passion, strikes, and repents next moment; but the -coolly looking at the spot where the heart lies; the putting the dagger -there calculatingly; and then, instead of pressing it home fiercely, -thrusting it into the warm flesh, inch by inch, till the hot blood -spurts over the fingers, and clots on the garments—this, what is this? -Oh! call it not murder—murder is a thing of earth—earthly passions do -it. But this—go to the pit where the damned shriek, and howl—select the -most fiendish scheme of the prince of fiends—then, and then only, shall -you have a parallel. - -It was once my lot, to be a secondary actor, in a case of ‘honorable -butchery;’ and one so black in itself, so heart-rending in consequences, -that it is graven into my brain as with a stamp of fire. God of Heaven! -when I think of it, even at this distance of time—when I see my friend -stiff, ghastly, and stretched on the wet sands—when I hear the groans, -which I heard there—when I see innocence, beauty, confiding affection, -hanging over the yet warm corse, and pouring forth tears, as if crushed -from the bottom of a heart loaded with the agony of ages—and then see -the same creature, the inmate of a mad-house, and hear the moans and -ravings for the dead object—and, with the peculiar characteristic of -such insanity, accusing the loved one of coldness, ingratitude, -unfaithfulness, and the like,—I say again, ages could not wipe out the -recollection. - -You are aware, that in the southern states, especially in the extreme -south, men are guided more by their passions than at the north,—that -there, dueling is little cared for,—that courageous is he who has shot -his man,—that those only are cowards, who pale at blood, human blood, -blood shed by their own hands. In no part of the south is this custom -more prevalent, than at Natchez, on the Mississippi. New Orleans will -not compare with it, or would not in the year 1816, the period of my -story, and when I was a resident of that place. New Orleans, bad as it -is, possessing greater means of indulgence, with its wealth to support -theatres, gambling-houses, cock-pits, horse-races, and other such -amusements—with its motley assemblage of inhabitants, Spanish, French, -English, and Americans amalgamated,—with all these, it is not so bad as -Natchez; and for this reason—that there are those, and in great numbers -there, belonging to the northern and better regulated states, from whom, -an imperceptible indeed, yet nevertheless great influence is sent into -that community, and the people with more wickedness perhaps, have more -conscience than any other of the extreme southern cities. - -Natchez, it will be remembered, is on the eastern side of the -Mississippi, and on one of the bends of that magnificent river, -withdrawn a little from its banks, and sloping handsomely down to its -flowing waters. Above and below the immediate town, are many eligible -and pleasant sites for country seats, should that part of the country -ever possess wealth and taste enough, to think of building them. But at -the period of my story, there was nothing of the kind. Dark pine groves, -and impenetrable thicks of beech and sycamore, with their lofty branches -intertwined in many a wild convolution, made a high and thick canopy for -the wearied traveler; while the beautiful flowers of the region, among -which was the splendid magnolia, gave the forest, the freshness and -fragrance of a lady’s flower garden. From morn till night, the woods -were alive with music, and over all, was that sweet harmonist of nature, -the American mocking-bird, with its rising and falling, ever-varying -modulations—now screaming like the startled vulture of the cliffs—and -now sinking away with a witching alternation of soft, plaintive, -heart-moving minstrelsy, sufficient, it would seem, to charm rocks and -forest trees,—He who built Thebes, would have thrown away his instrument -in despair, could he have heard but one note of this wild-wood melodist. - -I said there were no country seats there. I mistake. There was one -bright spot, about twelve miles above Natchez, which, though it had -small pretensions to the surpassing beauty of some of the fine -superstructures on these northern rivers; nevertheless, for that day and -place, it was, certainly, an elegant and hospitable mansion. That it was -hospitable, many a man, yet living, can testify—for many were the -travelers, visiting in that region, who spent days there, and enjoyed -the rich hospitality and urbane attentions of its warm-souled, -accomplished proprietor. This man, Charles Glenning, was certainly as -gentlemanly a person as I ever knew. He was educated at the north—had -spent his early days there—but for the sake of business, to which he -betook him on leaving College, he went to the south, carrying with him -as bright a bud of feminine loveliness, as ever God suffered to bloom in -this uncongenial, ugly world. I cannot paint her—there’s no telling how -beautiful she was. It wasn’t beauty of feature; neither was it beauty of -mind—and yet, it was beauty of a high and ardent cast, which made you -feel you were in the presence of a spirit, the moment you came near her. -Forehead white as death—yet, neither intellectual nor otherwise,—soft -blue eyes, that made you think they were little pieces cut out of the -bluest summer sky,—complexion like ivory,—lips like the finest evening -tints, in the back ground of one of Claude Lorraine’s landscapes,—and a -figure as faultless as ever was hewn from the Pentelican marble, or set -a painter a dreaming over his easel.—Imagine these, and you may get a -glimpse of the laughing, bright-eyed Isabel Glenning. - -Her love for her husband was as strange as her beauty. O! the -treasure—the full, proud treasures of such a heart as that! Dive into -mines—bring up jewels—fill your dwelling—win sceptres—ride the world -like Cæsar or Alexander—and then offer me the pure, deep, devoted, -heart’s affection of such a spiritual creature as she was, and I would -spurn them all as the dirty commerce of dirtier minds. She lived only -for him—she dreamed only for him—he was all. Place her in a palace, in -an Esquimaux hut; in a fairyland, in a desert; no matter where—only with -him—him she had chosen to live and die with, and her cup was full. - -The circumstances which led me to their acquaintance were peculiar, and -such as entwined me into their best feelings. They had been married -about four summers; and the fruits of their union, was a little, -crowing, curly headed boy, sweet as his mother’s beauty. I was hunting -on the side of the Mississippi, one warm afternoon, when I observed -something floating at a distance, which by means of my dog, was brought -to land; and, to my surprise, were presented the lifeless, yet still -warm features of this same little fellow. It seemed that playing near -the river, he had fallen in, and was near about breathing his last. -Taking him in my arms, I hurried home, and just in time to save him. -From that hour, they loved me as a brother. - -My story now leads me a little from the straight track, I have kept thus -far—but ’tis necessary to turn aside a little, for the sake of the dark -catastrophe, which brought sorrow and death into this Eden-dwelling I -have described. - -There was one Nat. Ralle, dwelling about half way between Natchez, and -the plantation of my friend. His was one of those dark-browed, malicious -countenances, which made one, in spite of himself, think of the devil, -whenever he met him. He never spake like other men. If you met him in -the woods of a morning, his salutation was in a low, surly tone, which -made you doubtful as to its nature; and after he had passed you for -forty or fifty yards, you might observe him stopping and looking back, -as if he felt himself suspected by every body. This devil—for such he -was, and such will he appear before I have done with him—more than once, -had been seen prowling about the dwelling of Glenning; and once, being -met suddenly, he turned and ran away into the woods, like one of the -wild beasts he so much in disposition resembled. - -There was a custom, which yet, I believe, exists in the southwestern new -settlements, for a man to claim the exclusive privilege of hunting on a -certain extent of ground, in the vicinity of his habitation. This right -is as much insisted on, in certain parts of those states which I have -visited, as are the game laws in England; and every one, every -stranger-hunter, observes it, and recognizes the right by quitting the -grounds, so soon as informed that an individual holds reasonable claim -to them. This Ralle had, in open defiance of this knowledge, and against -the reiterated, yet polite admonitions of Glenning, trespassed on his -lands; and once shot a tame doe, which Glenning had kept for two or -three years, the care of which had devolved on, and was a source of -amusement to Isabel—and on that account it seemed a double injury. - -Glenning, as cool a man as ever laid claim to the qualities of honor and -honesty, at this, rode down to the plantation of Ralle, and mildly, yet -earnestly, expostulated with him, on what was esteemed a breach of -faith—careful at the same time to express his belief, that the shooting -of his tame animal was undesigned, yet requesting, for fear of a similar -occurrence, that he would hunt elsewhere in future, which thing he could -do without incommoding himself. - -To this mildness in Glenning, Ralle opposed the remark—‘That he would do -as he pleased—that the woods were free, and that he should hunt towards -the north or south, without asking leave of Yankee interlopers.’ - -This remark struck on the temper of Glenning, at an unlucky moment. The -very consciousness of rectitude on his own part, made the insult fasten -and rankle; and gave to it a barb, which, perhaps, in any other -circumstances, would not have pained him. Glenning, I have said, was a -gentleman. He was such, if there ever was one—a man of good morals, -charitable in his disposition, and could not bear to inflict pain, even -on a dumb beast. But there is, within the human heart—and philosophy may -reason it over till doomsday, without explaining it—a something to quiet -conscience, even in the best men, at times, and force them to acts, -which in other circumstances they would shudder at. Dueling is one of -them. Dueling, Glenning despised from his soul. I have heard him say so -a thousand times, and sternly express his abhorrence of the man who -could stain his hands with a fellow’s blood. He even rose once, and left -an agreeable company, because he was told that such a gentleman present -was a duelist. With such notions—and they were not mere talk with him—it -is a thing I cannot explain, that he so far forgot himself as to hurl -back the insult he had received, and in a manner calculated to lead to -so sad a termination. He did so, however, and retort calling forth -retort, they both lost their tempers—when, Ralle springing forward with -a knife, Glenning knocked him down with the butt of his whip. He then -turned and rode home. - -Isabel met him at the door, and it needed but a glance to see that -something was the matter. His brow was knit—his teeth set like a -vise—and his lip curled with a stern haughtiness, which I had never -supposed was in him before. - -He tried to pass her. Isabel threw her arms about him, and burst into -tears. - -It awoke him—his happiness came back to his heart—the fiend fled from -him—and he stood in the presence of that lovely, simple-hearted weeper, -as helpless as a child. The effect of his passions unnerved him, like a -fever; and he was forced to keep his chamber till evening. He then -entered the parlor again. - -To the fond inquisitiveness of Isabel, he now opposed, the heat of the -weather, the weariness of his long ride, and some other little nothings; -and by his wit, and pleasantry, succeeded in lulling her into a -forgetfulness of the events of the day. O! that was a calm—a deep and -awful calm. It was that which precedes the thunder—the moment between -the flash and the bolt,—_And the bolt came_. - -I had seen a messenger approach, and leave the gate at sun-set; and had -suspicions, more than I dared acknowledge to myself. And yet, my friend -was never more agreeable, than on that evening. It seemed as if some -unheard of powers had been given him. Skilled in metaphysics—for they -had amused him much at College—and, well acquainted with the principles, -and history of the Fine Arts, he rambled from one to the other, with the -most amusing madness—sometimes serious, sometimes turning a happy -illustration into the most exquisite ridicule by some keen stroke of -humor, and now running off again, in a manner at once new and -electrifying. He was, on the whole, the most amusing man, for the time, -I ever spent an evening with. Poor, poor Glenning!—but I will not -anticipate. - -When the evening closed, he followed me into my room; and, locking the -door, sat down, and wept like a child. - -‘Poor, poor Isabel!’ was all he could articulate. ‘She suspects nothing, -poor thing—and it will break her heart. Death,’ cried he, starting up, -‘I fear it not. I have lived to die when my time comes. But she—she who -loves me—whose life is wrapped up in mine—how can she’—and sinking down, -he wept longer than before. - -I ventured to lay my hand on his shoulder. He rose calm, awfully calm. - -Grasping my hand, ‘my friend,’ said he—‘you must help me in this. You -must stand by, and see me fall, if fall I must; and then—bear the news -to—to—’ his sobbing choak’d his utterance. - -I asked him if there were no means of avoiding it. - -‘None—none in the world.’ He said this in a tone, which forbade -argument: and I said no more. - -I draw a veil over the remainder of that evening. - -Before the sun, he met me at the bottom of the hill in front of his -dwelling, with his pistols in his hand. He requested me to load them. I -did so, and without a muscle’s shaking; for from my childhood, I had -been incapable of every kind of fear; nevertheless, I thought of the -form which might be stiff before evening—of eyes that might be -glazed—and of the fond heart which I knew _would_ be broken. - -He told me he had left his wife sleeping: and as he hung over her, and -kissed those lips, the music of which he might hear no longer, she -breathed his name in her slumbers. ‘That—that parting’—and he grasped my -hand, with an energy sufficient to crush it—‘that parting,’ said he, -‘has killed me. I cannot feel worse. No! not if I felt my adversary’s -bullet in my heart, could I feel worse. And she—O! who will take care of -her? who will dry her tears? who bind up that heart, which will -certainly break with mine?’ - -He gave way but a moment to feelings of this nature; for, commending her -to me in case of his death, he walked forward to the place agreed on, -with the most perfect calmness. All the difference to be observed in him -was, perchance, a degree of paleness; nothing else betrayed the fact, -that he was walking to his grave. - -The place selected for the rencontre, was a wild and beaten spot on the -river-shore, where the rocks, rising abruptly to the altitude of some -hundred feet, swept round like a horse shoe in two projections, and then -thrust themselves into the stream, leaving a hollow curve of smooth wet -sand within them, of about three rods in length. The beach was white as -snow, the blue waters of the Mississippi went by with a low groaning -sound, the hoarse screaming of the flamingo swept out from the rocks -overhead, and the sun was just blazing out from the lazy mists of the -morning, as the party entered. - -I shall never forget how the combatants looked, at that moment. Glenning -was calm, stern, and sorrowful—Ralle looked like a devil. He scowled -horridly, as he marked the tall, handsome figure of his adversary; and -seemed joyed that he had it in his power, to spoil such a fine piece of -God’s workmanship. - -I approached Glenning, and asked his wishes. - -‘_I am ready_’—were his words. - -The pistols were placed in their hands. They fired—my friend into the -air—Ralle with a steady aim; yet his ball whistled harmlessly by, and -lodged in the opposite rocks. - -‘What’s to be done?’ said Ralle’s second. - -‘If Mr. Glenning will acknowledge himself a coward,’ said Ralle in a -low, taunting tone, ‘and ask my forgiveness, he may go about his -business.’ - -‘Never, wretch!—reload the pistols.’ - -The pistols were again placed in their hands, and they fired; as before, -Glenning into the air—Ralle’s ball passing harmlessly by. - -The man again interfered. - -Ralle made the same remark. - -‘Silence!’ thundered Glenning, ‘thou bloody villain, nor dare insult the -ears of manhood, by your damning proposition. I should prove myself a -liar did I do it; you, you gave the offence, and ’tis from you should -come the acknowledgment. But this is wasting time. That I am no coward, -sir, I have fully shown by twice withstanding your fire. Now ’tis my -turn—give us the pistols. Wretch,’—cried he, looking on Ralle with eyes -flashing intolerably bright, and voice so hoarse that it could scarcely -be heard—‘wretch! you have lived too long. I would not stain my hands, -but I shall bless the world, by ridding it of you. Look your last on the -sun—for, by the Eternal God! you certainly die.’ - -The pistols were handed them—the word given; this time, my friend aimed -and fired. Ralle staggered back, and fell upon his knees; yet, he soon -recovered himself, and rising to his feet, he certainly presented the -most horrible countenance I ever saw. The ball had struck him on the jaw -near the ear, and crushed it to atoms; and the blood spirted over him -from head to foot. He uttered one dreadful shriek of agony; then—before -I could interfere, rushed up, presented his pistol at the breast of -Glenning, and shot him through the heart. - -Such a dastard act!—But let me close the scene. I have dwelt on it too -long. We carried my friend to his dwelling—we tore open his -garments—there was the ragged wound in his breast, and his heart’s blood -gushing through it. - - * * * * * - -Poor, poor Isabel! she sleeps beneath the flowers she so much -resembled—her name is left in our hearts. - - - - - PEN AND INK. - - - I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think, - That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink, - This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme, - The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime. - - I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse - Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse, - But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss, - O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this. - - They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours, - Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,— - Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there, - And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care? - - The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight, - The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light; - And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind, - And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind. - - The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare, - Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,— - A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame, - ‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’ - - And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre, - Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire; - We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong, - And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song. - - And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him) - That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,— - Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’ - Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme. - - And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then— - And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again; - Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think, - And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink. - - - - - CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.[3] - No. II. - - -Reader! if thou art one from whose mind all that is native in modesty or -sentiment, has not been supplanted by that refined impudence so much in -vogue—that fashionable insensibility, that - - ——“mortal coldness of the soul like death itself,” - -I demand your sympathy with the thoughts, the emotions, the sorrows of a -Sensitive Man. My earliest recollections are connected with acute -suffering from an extreme modesty and diffidence, which ever has been, -and ever will be, the bane of my spirits. A page from my life will -reveal its nature. Those who have cast an eye over a previous article -with the above title, will have learnt something of the bigotry and -vulgarity of Droneville. It was blessed, however, with one family, of a -higher and nobler order than the barbarians around them—beings, who, -having walked forth into the world, had lost that narrowness of -intellect, which distinguished the Dronevillites from the rest of -mankind. The E—— family were the aristocracy of Droneville. C—— E—— was -the companion of my earliest pleasures—the sharer of my earliest -affections. We were inseparable friends—we walked together—we played -together, and breast to breast severely drubbed the insolent urchin who -dared assail our mutual honor. - -Hope E——! What a scourge wert thou to every bashful youngster! There was -a laughing deviltry in thy eye, which threw mine into a sudden gaze upon -vacuity, or inspired an irresistible desire to examine my feet—while a -deepening flush of the cheeks proclaimed the intensity of my curiosity! -Never were there eyes more keen in detecting the occasional spots which -diversify the face of boyhood—in discovering whose hands water would not -sully—whose locks the fingers of the friseur might improve. Her laugh -was the terror of every bashful youth—it was the signal of his -discomfiture—it rang in his ears when alone—it haunted his fancy—it -mingled with his dreams. Hope E——, thou torment of my early years! No -artifice could hide from thy searching gaze any blemish of person or -dress, which my pride or modesty was desirous of concealing. If my face -was soiled—if there was a puncture in the elbow of my coat, thy laugh -would first announce it. Any unfortunate rent in my nether integuments, -was sure of detection, although every possible means was used to conceal -it, and that laugh—that wild, gleeful laugh, would summon the eager gaze -of all to thine embarrassed victim! My highest audacity could never -encounter her eyes; they alone were enough to drive mad a modest youth. -And yet I could not avoid them, for in spite of myself, mine were -constantly straying in that direction, drawn thitherward by an impulse -beyond the control of my will—the nature of which my philosophy has -never yet unravelled. Believe me, that in all my visits to her brother, -I avoided her with a dexterity, worthy the skill of the most finished -adept in the fashionable art of “cutting acquaintance.” But it was vain -to struggle against destiny. Poor C——! my bosom’s earliest friend—his -mother’s hope—died—suddenly died in the first bloom of youth! How -thrilled my young heart, as I knelt by his bedside, and caught from his -dying lips a whispered farewell! He died—but, can death destroy a -mother’s love? To me was transferred a portion of that deep, gushing -affection, which had been thus suddenly driven back upon its source. A -week elapsed—and I was summoned to an interview with Mrs. E——. What an -invitation for a bashful youth! My heart forboded approaching -calamity—it blenched like a wounded man—it already felt the glance of -Hope—it trembled at the anticipation of her laugh. But there could be no -demur—there was no escape—I _must_ go. View me there, “creeping like -snail unwillingly,” over the small grass plot which separated our -dwellings—kicking every stone and mushroom upon my path—“screwing up” my -courage to an effort the most desperate, it had ever yet been called -upon to sustain. I finally succeeded—gained the door—hesitated—my -resolution failed—it rallied, and I entered the parlor with all the -grace of attitude and mien, which may be observed in a detected -sheep-stealer. Hope and her mother were there. I had scarcely made this -observation, when I was enfolded in an embrace, nerved by all the -fearful energies of a mother’s love! In a paroxysm of mingled grief and -affection, she covered my face with the kisses and tears of an -overflowing heart. But forget not me. What a predicament! Reader, art -thou a bashful man? I ask your sympathy, I claim your advice. What would -_you_ have done? What could _I_ do, but stand, perspiring with the -intensity of my embarrassment—desperately clenching, with both hands, my -hat—bracing my nerves to endurance—my eyes downcast with shame—my face -burning with blushes—modesty personified! When this first outbreaking of -maternal love had subsided, I stood in trembling expectation of its -renewal. I durst not look up, for the eyes of Hope, swimming with -suppressed mirth, at my ludicrous appearance, tortured even my fancy. A -long struggle gave me the requisite courage to cast, from the corner of -my eye, a timid glance towards her. I ventured to hope that the worst -was over. Alas! how delusive! woes come not single. My eye no sooner met -hers, than she—moved by sympathy, or one of the thousand impulses of -passion or caprice which govern the actions of the fair, or something -else, (I am no philosopher,)—rushed towards me, threw her arms -convulsively around my neck, and with kisses and tears did admirable -honor to the maternal example! Could a bashful youth endure this—be -clasped in the arms of her he feared, yet loved—could he experience -this, and survive the shock? I rushed in agony from the room, nor -slackened my career, until I had buried my head in the recesses of my -own solitary chamber. - -Poor Hope! poor Hope! she died within a year. - - “O! sic semper! sic semper vidi, amatas _spes_ abire.” - - * * * * * - -Years have rolled away, and the marks of manhood now darken his cheek, -which once kindled under the glance of Hope E——. But the lapse of time -has not—can not—change the peculiarities of his mind; he lived -constantly in Droneville—he never mingled with society, and that -youthful diffidence which maturer years wears off from the minds of -others, was in his deepened into an exquisite sensitiveness, which draws -from the slightest ridicule or neglect materials for self-torture. The -sarcasm which glides from the ears of the giddy—the glance of -indifference or scorn, unfelt by the votary of fashion, gains a lodgment -in his breast, and for weeks, yes, months, preys upon its peace. He -hears the laugh of the incredulous, the sneer of the cynic, the aphorism -of the moralist, but neither, nor all, can drive from its lair this -demon within him,—it is inwrought with the very texture of his soul—it -is a part of its undying essence. - -Ye who can feel for others’ woes, imagine the sufferings of a mind thus -strung, yet branded with all the rusticity of Droneville manners, -exposed to the taunts and ridicule of College life. View him, the butt -of sarcasm—the mark of scorn—the bound, the unarmed victim, against -whose breast all aspirant wits may with impunity test the point of every -weapon, and their own dexterity in its use. My Droneville education! It -has been a “heritage of woe”—a source of the deepest, acutest suffering. -In manners, in appearance, in every thing which the cant of society -calls “elegance,” I was not only entirely deficient, but so absolutely -clownish as to elicit wit from stupidity itself. Follow such an one, -forced by circumstances beyond his control into the cold world of -fashion, and your fancy can picture those scenes of embarrassment and -humiliation, which my memory shrinks from recalling. And yet, my -mind—_my mind_ was of no such ungainly mould. If this clay was thrown -amidst the stock of Droneville, it had been fired by an intellect whose -boundless aspirations scorned all limit or control. What if it _did_ -know nought of the refinements of artificial life? From the mountain -solitude—from the heavens above—from the earth, in its sublimity—from -the whisperings of its own spirit, it had drawn in all that is deep in -emotion or thrilling in thought. If it _was_ a stranger to society, it -was no stranger to the greatest minds of the present and past ages. It -requires not the formalities of fashion—none of the coxcomb’s art—to -hold communion with this ethereal principle within us—to dwell with the -genius of the mighty Past—to soar amidst the high hopes of the Future—to -love and worship those beings with whom imagination peoples her own -brilliant creations. Must I be a scorned outcast, neglected by my race, -because this perishable clay was not moulded in that form, which might -please the evanescent fancy? because my limbs would not play the buffoon -at the beck of fashion, or my tongue utter, or my spirit endure, her -language of emptiness and deceit? A misanthrope? _no!_ I scorn that -name, but scorn more him who covets the reputation or affects the spirit -of misanthropy. A misanthrope! never. The source of my suffering was a -consciousness of a deep fountain of feeling—of love, (if you please,) -without one being upon whom I could lavish it; for who would deign to -accept the devotion of a clown?—it was too much to ask of any one’s -benevolence. Can there be one more unfortunate? Is there suffering more -intense, than that of a being conscious of mental power, infinitely -superior to the butterflies of fashion—glowing with all that is rich in -thought, or deathless in love—a love, which, squandering on its object -entire devotion, stoops to no barter of affection but soul for soul—yet, -having all its energies paralyzed by a sense of awkwardness—a serpent -whose folds are drawn tauter by his very struggles to resist them. Place -such a mind, keenly sensitive to ridicule or neglect, in the gay saloon; -with all his intellect he feels himself a mark for the sarcasm of the -most insignificant. He can neither move, nor speak, and while his heart -is overflowing with emotion, he is scorned as an unfeeling brute! No one -cares for him—no one knows his sorrows—no eye - - “will mark - _His_ coming, and look brighter when _he_ comes.” - -The joyful faces around him—the gay laugh ringing in his ears—the warm -kiss of affection—the soft whisper of love—all, _all_ reveal the -solitude, the hopelessness of his lot. How often have I been thus -placed! How often, as I have stood, hour after hour, silent _and alone_, -amidst a crowd of my species, have I thought, that a whole life’s love -would not recompense one glance of remembrance—one word of welcome! All -this too, while I have seen the selfish caressed—the ignorant flattered, -and quailed beneath the eye of those, whom, if met upon the arena of -mind, I could have crushed. But I have suffered most deeply, most -keenly, from those in whose gratitude, at least, I had reposed some -confidence. If there be one crime—_one_ of guilt so unmitigated as to -wake the thunderbolt, as to call down retributive justice—it is that -viper, ingratitude. No exertion of _human_ power can suppress it, laws -cannot define it, penalties cannot reach it;—the law of love, that last -hope of virtue, is powerless here. And yet, it is a crime which would -drive all joy from earth—it would crush all that is holy in the heart—it -would dissever man from his species. - -As the eye of one after another has lighted upon me, and turned -scornfully from the uncouth clown before them, I have prayed—yes, -prayed—it could not be impious—that their vision might for one instant -be quickened, so as to penetrate the mind. It is too much to hope for -_here_,—but - - “If there be, indeed, - A shore where mind survives, ’twill be a mind - All unincorporate.” - -We can bear the scorn of man, cold, selfish man, for there is something -in the insolent boldness of his sneer, which nerves the heart to -endurance, or wakes the slumber of revenge; but the contumely of those, -from whose nature’s tenderness, we might have expected pity at least, -disarms all resistance. It is as if the elements conspired against you; -it sends through the heart a sort of “et tu Brute” feeling, which -imparts to it a desperate resignation to fate; this, this burns the -brand which shuts out the victim from the sympathy of his race! I once -thought that the contempt of all—the ridicule of inferiors—the -ingratitude of friends, had steeled my heart to the most cutting scorn; -but I lived to learn that there was a chord, deep in the recesses, which -could only be reached by the dextrous hand of her who was worshipped -there with a whole soul’s devotion. Even _her_ lip curled with disgust, -as she turned contemptuously from me to listen to the voice of flattery. -Censure her not—she is admired by all—she was never friendless—will she -ever know how deep, how exhaustless is a rustic’s love? How often, as he -has returned from gazing hours upon _her_ who deigned him not one glance -in return, has the heart of the clown flowed forth, if not in the spirit -of poetry, at least with that of sincerity. - - I gazed on thee, dear one, in the crowd of the gay, - And my long cherished hopes have floated away; - I gazed on thee, dear one,—a glance might have given - My bosom a hope like the martyr’s of heaven; - But the eye which could gladden, was chilling with scorn, - And a heart-nurtured rose is changed to a thorn. - - I gazed on thee, dear one—’twas a moment that thought - Had eagerly, hopefully, doubtingly sought; - I did meet thee, I left thee, and _thou_ didst not know, - That on thy lip quivered my joy or my woe; - When I looked but for pity, thy scorn could I bear?— - My hopes have all withered, my doubts are despair. - - If sorrow—shall I wish it?—should ever reveal, - That lips can profess, what the heart does not feel; - If in a lone moment a wish should come o’er thee, - For one who can love—yes, dear one, adore thee;— - My heart never changes—tell me, dearest, can thine - E’er love with an ardor so deathless as mine? - -Is it surprising, that such an experience, acting upon such a -temperament, has driven me from society, not as a misanthrope—not as a -misogynist, but as a cold intellectualist. I must henceforth look for my -enjoyment to the abstract pleasures of the understanding. A heart which -was formed to open and expand in the atmosphere which gladdens the -fireside, must stifle its emotions in the bustle of political life, in -the fierce encounter of contending minds, or in the endless, absorbing -pursuit of gain. I must hereafter dissever the mind from the heart, and -content myself with being the civilized savage, which all men would have -been, if woman had never existed, or if the religion she reveres had -never exalted her character. For with all his boasting, what is man’s -mind, without _her_ influence? It is like the rough sketch of the -painter, in which the prominent parts only are developed. As it requires -the utmost refinement of his art, to give these rugged outlines grace -and beauty, to call into being the living landscape and the speaking -eye; thus it is, beautifully, the part of woman, to fill out the rugged -outlines of man’s mind, with those refined virtues, which embellish his -character. It is for her to touch with the radiance of Mercy, the stern -lineaments of Justice; she must shade away Ferocity, with the tints of -Mildness; she must hide every blemish, with the coloring of her own -purity; she must brighten every dark spot, with the brilliancy of her -own innocence; she must throw over the roughness of the whole, the magic -of her own refined sensibility. - -Such has been the experience of a Sensitive Man: it is not without a -moral for those who are not too wise to learn from the errors of others. - - - - - THE WHALE’S LAST MOMENTS. - A LAMP-LIGHT MUSING. - - - I’m king—I’m king of the ‘vasty deep,’ - My palace down ’mid the rocks I keep,— - But what see I now o’er the waters sweep? - Indeed—’tis a foe!—a foe! - Ah! fatal shaft!—and a crimson wave!— - But I’ll flee, I’ll flee to my ocean cave; - My palace there—it shall be my grave, - And the deep shall o’er me flow. - - Yet, death to the foe!—for again I come - Up, up from the depths of my ocean home— - But, ah!—in a shroud of the white sea-foam - An expiring thing I lie. - And I see, in this darkly flashing light, - Which coldly falls on my misty sight, - Like the elfish glare of a polar night, - The future before my eye. - - And ah! no more can I call my own - This ocean kingdom and coral throne; - But tyrant man must be lord alone - Of the earth, and the air, and sea; - And my pure spirit he’ll bear away - To the lamp-lit land of the sleeping day, - There only to own his constant sway, - And his tireless vassal be. - - Aye, there, in the bannered hall of state, - A radiant spirit, I’ll nightly wait, - And throw new light on the long debate, - And thwart Ambition’s schemes. - I’ll sit me down by the statesman, too, - Engage in whatever he chance to do, - Read all his documents through and through, - And enlighten his darkest dreams. - - I’ll then to the hall of mirth advance, - Pour Love’s own light on the joyous dance, - Give life and point to the speaking glance, - And charms to the blushing fair. - At night I’ll visit the student’s room, - And I’ll scatter the ancient mist of gloom - Which darkly hangs over Learning’s tomb, - And the classical mummies there. - - I’ll help him fathom the depths of Time, - Or up the heights of Parnassus climb, - Or sport in the babbling brooks of rhyme, - Or—for want of sense—make _dashes_;— - Thus all I’ll serve—but I’ll have my pay— - Revenge—and that in my own good way;— - A dwelling I’ll touch—it shall be my prey— - And a city shall burn to ashes! - - - - - REVIEW. - _“The Partisan,” a Tale of the Revolution. By the author of “The - Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” &c._ - - -There are two ways of acquiring literary reputation—the one is by an -author’s _real merits_, the other by his _puffs_. Of the former method -nothing need be said, but the latter merits the severest censure. - -Puffs, have become the publisher’s, and in a great degree the author’s, -living. So completely is it the publisher’s trade, and so firm withal is -his hold upon the nose of that stupid _gull_, the public, that he can -make a book, which contains one page that will be read in a newspaper, -as an extract, “the best novel of the season,” and can exalt “the most -stupid ass that brays on paper,” to a place “among our first novelists.” - -Authorship has, in fact, become a _trade_. The writer presents his -manuscript to the publisher, with information that another novel is in -the works. The latter prints it, and sends it forth, with a few feeble -puffs, “damning with faint praise,” and the poor bantling, fathered by a -head without brains, is worse than still-born. But the parties concerned -are not a whit uneasy; they know of a revivifying principle, _all_ -powerful. In a short time, another work is announced, by the same -author. Now all is “ripe for the harvest.” The well paid journals and -periodicals are loud in their praises. “This work fully answers the high -expectations raised by the author’s first production. The uncommon -genius and talents displayed in that, led us to expect nothing less than -the work before us. Owing to the author’s want of celebrity, his first -effort did not meet with the success which those acquainted with its -merits had anticipated. This might have discouraged a genius of lower -order, and less conscious of its powers, but the second trial promises -an ample reward for both—in fame, as well as profit.” The scheme works. -The greedy public swallow the dose, and smack their lips—for they are -_told_ that it is good. Both of the works go off with a rapid sale, and -the author is now sure of reaping profit, and, for the time, fame, from -whatever trash he inflicts upon the community, for “his name is among -our first novelists,” and he himself puts on “the distant air of -greatness,” puffed into the belief that he is a genius. - -This is labor most _unproductive_ to the country. It is but forging -titles to literary fame,—it is climbing in some other way than by the -door of merit,—a practice most disgraceful in itself, and most poisonous -to our literature and literary reputation. This latter effect is full -obvious, for the system brings dullness to an equality with genius and -merit, and even gives it an advantage over them. They will not stoop to -such means for success, but shrink back disgusted and discouraged, -unable to compete with their inferior rival. It could not have been a -rival of itself, but, backed by such base allies, _dullness_ becomes too -strong for the single arm of _genius_. Nor is this all. We have spoken -chiefly with reference to novels and novelists. Novels supply much of -the reading of youth, and by them, therefore, in a great degree, the -taste of the young is formed. Their own judgment is not ripe, and youth -rely upon that of others, to furnish suitable models of taste. By the -recommendations of those who should be judges, they are too apt to adopt -the trash with which the press is teeming, and their judgment is -affected and taste formed by its influence. Not only their style, but -the mind itself is affected. False standards of literary merit arise, -and literature itself must become corrupt. As the country is young, and -our literature forming, those who are readers now, will soon become -writers,—theirs will be the pens, which shall, in no small degree, give -us literary character, and every taste and style thus perverted, will by -so much detract from our reputation. The evil is one, therefore, which -every literary man, who desires for our country a literary renown of -which she may be proud, should be active in subduing, lest our fame be -sacrificed to the _money speculations_ of the selfish. - -Among the authors, who, with their works, have been puffed into -notoriety, the author of “Martin Faber,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Yemassee,” -and last of all, “The Partisan,” stands conspicuous. It may be said, -that this is a bold assertion to make of a popular writer. It certainly -would be, if we did not know that popularity is no sure test of merit. - -When “Guy Rivers, a tale of Georgia,” by the author of “Martin Faber, -the story of a criminal,” was announced, although we had never before -heard of this same “story of a criminal,” yet such hearty praises -accompanied the announcement, that we hoped indeed another Cooper had -raised the “torch of genius,” and was about to dazzle the world with its -rays. An enthusiast in our wishes for the glory of American literature, -we were delighted with the prospect, and eagerly sought to complete our -happiness by perusing the promising volumes. We read and were not -satisfied, yet looked forward for better things; for we had noted the -motto of the book— - - “Who wants - A sequel, may read on. Th’ unvarnished tale - That follows, will supply the place of one.” - -We finished, and were disappointed. We had expected something of -genius—the rich, fervid style—the original thought—the bright and -glowing paintings of natural beauty, or the thrilling description of -high-wrought human energies, that stirs the soul. These we found not, -and then we waited for the cunning delineation of the human heart—its -workings, and—the “sequel.” Our reward was the “unvarnished tale.” The -work bears no mark of a mind capable of original conceptions. The -descriptions of natural scenery, throughout this and all the author’s -works, are but imitations of the works of masters, served up in dim and -changed colors. The thoughts are trite; and the sample piece, the -tit-bit, that was served up to _water_ the mouth of the public—we mean -the description of the destruction of the Georgia guard, which occupies -by far the fairest page of the work—is but a scene familiar in plot and -story. Guy Rivers himself is but a sorry deformity of one of those dark -spirits, which require the genius of a Byron or Bulwer to throw an -interest around them, and the hero has hardly a character. We can only -conceive of him as a love-sick somebody, to whom is given the name of -Ralph Colleton. - -The next work dealt out to the public is “The Yemassee,” and to this we -can only afford a passing remark, as our principal business is with “The -Partisan.” “The Yemassee” is the best production of this author. When -speaking of the _best_ of such works, we mean it has the fewest faults. -The author advertises that he shall insist upon its being considered a -_romance_, and (as near as we can gather from his remarks) that he has a -right to say and do as he chooses. Some of the scenes might have been -made exciting, did it not seem that the writer had measured his paper, -and said “this description shall fill _so much_.” It might be read with -some interest, perhaps, by one who had never read “The Last of the -Mohicans.” But those who have, should wait until the memory of the -latter has become faded and dim. There is enough in the story, to have -made a pretty tale of fifty pages; at least, it then would have had one -merit, which now it has not—brevity. - -The last production from the pen of this author is “The Partisan, a tale -of the Revolution.” As the author is very particular, and at times a -little dictatorial in his _advertisements_, let us look there for what -he promises, and then examine the tale for the fulfillment. - -“The title of the work, indeed, will persuade the reader to look rather -for a true description of that mode of warfare, (the partisan,) than for -any consecutive story, comprising the fortunes of a single personage. -This he is solicited to keep in mind.” Again, “I have entitled it ‘The -Partisan, a tale of the Revolution’—it was intended to be particularly -such. The characters, many of them are names in the nation, familiar as -our thoughts; [the author’s thoughts are very familiar.] Gates, Marion, -De Kalb, and the rest, are all the property of our country.” He says, -“My aim has been to give a story of events, rather than of persons”—that -“A sober desire for history—the unwritten, the unconsidered, but -veracious history—has been with me, in this labor, a sort of principle.” - -What, then, are we to presume from this, is to be the character of the -work? Certainly, that it is to be almost entirely historical. Yet as it -is entitled a tale, we might of course suppose that the fortunes of some -individual, a fictitious person or one little known, was to be the -_chain_, into which should be woven the adventures of the famous -men—Marion, De Kalb, and others, whose names the author mentions. It is -to be “a story of events, rather than of persons.” And what does the -work prove to be? Not an event, in which either of these Generals was -active, or in any great degree interested, is mentioned, except what is -related in some of the one hundred pages, devoted to describing the -battle and defeat of Gates by Cornwallis, which pages are almost the -last of the work. To bring in this event, the author makes a long march -with his hero, who, after all, was not engaged in the action. The story -does not naturally bring us there: so, after all, it is only by a -_forced march_, that any of the characters, set before us in the -advertisement, are introduced. His censures upon Gates are severe. Since -the laurels, won at Saratoga, were shed in the flight from Camden, that -General has never been a favorite with his countrymen. There never were -wanting hands to use the dagger against the fame of the fallen great; -yet those are not to be envied, who thus can stab the slain. - -We may now ask, are all the author’s promises but so much “ado about -nothing?” Let us see, by examining further. The principal characters -are, Major Singleton, the hero and ‘Partisan,’ an officer under Marion; -Colonel Walton, uncle to the ‘hero,’ and father to the heroine; Dick -Humphries, a co-partisan; and John Davis, the at first unsuccessful -rival of a British sergeant, who is in love with the sister of -Humphries. Besides these, there are a number of lesser characters, who -figure not a little. The most conspicuous of these are, a mad man or -devil-maniac, who has a most outlandish habit of haw-hawing, after the -manner of _a wolf_, about his wife, who has been murdered most cruelly -by the tories: his name is Frampton—and the glutton Porgy, who helps the -author to no small quantity of matter, for filling his pages, while he -helps himself, to fill his stomach. The female characters are, Katherine -Walton,—the hero’s sister, Emily Singleton; and Bella Humphries. These -are the principal _dramatis personæ_; of course, there are the -_soldiers_, _attendants_, &c. - -The story, which is without a plot, (and in this I suppose the great -difference consists between a “history of events,” and novels -generally,) amounts about to this: The hero is introduced towards the -close of the day, makes one proselyte—John Davis—meets Humphries, and -with him goes by night to the “Cypress Swamp;” in the morning suppresses -with his “_swamp suckers_,” a party of tories, which had been sent -against them; after which they cut off a supply of provisions, &c., -destined for the camp of the enemy: then, placing his camp near the -plantation of his uncle, he starts at night, and, with Humphries, visits -“the Oaks,” the dwelling place of Col. Walton, and arriving, finds that -Col. Proctor, who has also a love for the daughter of the Colonel, is -already there; so, hiding in “the Oaks,” he overhears some conversation -between the British officer and Kate, who are walking with Col. Walton -and the sister, which conversation makes our hero feel better; and when -the British officer is gone, the hiders come forth, and with their -friends enter the mansion, make a visit, and shortly return to the camp; -encounter a hurricane; meet Goggle, one of the tory prisoners, whom they -had taken in the morning, and who had enlisted with them, and now -escaped; and, after endeavoring in vain to take him, they pay a visit to -his witch mother, all for no purpose; and finally reach their camp; -while Goggle goes to his mother, and sends her to Proctor with -information, and then returns to the camp of the “Partisan;” and this -finishes the first volume, so far as the principal character is -concerned. - -In the second volume, our hero again visits “the Oaks,” and while -standing by the bed side of his dying sister, is informed that Proctor, -with a company of soldiers, has arrived; he refuses to fly at first, but -at last escapes from the window, is pursued, and nearly taken, but -escapes, and the next moment meets Col. Walton with a troop, the Colonel -having been forced to take up arms for or against his country: they -turn, take Proctor, let him go; and the next day our hero goes to join -Marion, while Col. Walton joins Gates; and on his way, Singleton -surprises Gaskens, a tory leader, with his party; Gates refusing to -accept the proffered aid of Marion, the latter General, with our hero, -departs; the battle is fought, Col. Walton taken, and carried to -Dorchester, to be tried and executed, but is rescued at the scaffold by -Singleton, who thus wins cousin Kate, and marries her _we suppose_, for -the author leaves us in the dark as to the “consummation most devoutly -to be wished for.” - -This is the outline, and we will now examine parts more minutely. The -author, in the first thirty pages, proceeds to introduce the hero to the -reader, in the bar-room of the “Royal George” at Dorchester, which -“belongs to Ashley no longer,” and gives a tedious account of sundry -_bullyings_ and threats, between the two rivals, Sergeant Hastings and -John Davis, a doughty Goose-creeker, which ended without many blows, -thanks to the benign influence of the pretty bar maid, whose influence -seems directly the reverse of the heifer in Virgil’s Comparison. The -next thirty pages bring our hero to the swamp, and on the ride thither, -Humphries gives a learned disquisition upon the manner of building -causeways through the swamp, which he proves most conclusively should be -built with a “back bone,” and logs placed “up and down the road.” In the -following, we have a description of some twenty men, who are under arms -in the swamp. “The gloomy painter would have done much with the scene -before them,” says our author. Would that the gloomy painter _had_ done -it, or some one, who would have done more in fewer words. It is a fault -with this author, as it is with all who have a lack of genius or vivid -imagination, that, instead of seizing upon the prominent and striking -points in a scene, and sketching them with a bold hand, leaving the -picture to be filled out by the awakened imagination of the reader, he -tires, by giving minute descriptions of every tree, grape vine, and pool -of water, and the appearance and position of each individual, as if -all-important to the “story,” as well as to the mind of the reader. As -the surprize of the tories is the first thing like an incident, that we -find in the work, although we are through with half of the first volume, -was this one of even common interest, it should be here transcribed, but -it is too prolix, and the most of it is the chase of Frampton, the -maniac, after a hang-man tory corporal, who at length became dreadfully -_bit_ by the maniac’s sword. The rest of the work has little more of -interest, than that which we have thus seen: it is all the transactions -of a few men in a swamp, to illustrate the partisan warfare in the -south, without interest or useful information. The work is made up of -these _illustrations_, and the trivial adventures of an individual. -There is nothing startling enough to please, or to excite but a drowsy -interest. Notwithstanding the author tells us that it is his aim “to -delineate with all the rapidity of one, who, with the mystic lantern, -runs his uncouth shapes and varying shadows along the gloomy wall, -startling imagination, and enkindling curiosity,” his delineations are -slow, and imagination and curiosity are left to their slumbers. The -author who promises a novel purely historical, in which true history is -his chief object, promises much—such promises it requires no ordinary -mind to fulfill; and the work before us must be looked upon only as a -novel—one, in which fiction, as usual, supplies most of the material. - -In this, as in the other works of this author, there is shown the want -of all those powers which mark genius. It has no deeply drawn -characters, no marks of deep insight into the human heart. There is -nothing about the hero, that should set him apart from other men in his -vocation; and Col. Walton, with a weakness that seems like dotage, -although he is in the prime of life, hesitates long between private -interest and patriotism; and is at last _driven_ to side with his -country—a character despised to the last—a lie upon the high minded -patriots of the south, who staked their princely fortunes and their -lives, in the cause of freedom. The other characters, by which the -author has endeavored to excite a higher interest, are Frampton and -Porgy. Both are failures, and the most accurate idea we get of the -latter, is where he is turned _grunter_, to catch three terrapins, that -are “_basking_ in the starlight,” upon a tree that has fallen into the -creek. Mr. Simms should never again attempt wit, or humor, unless when -he is dealing with the negro character, in which he sometimes succeeds. - -Kate Walton is a high minded girl enough. We see but little of her; but -she should not have aimed the pistol at Col. Proctor; and when she -snapped it, the weapon should not have missed fire. Singleton shows -little sense of propriety, not to speak of affection, when he pressed -his suit the moment after leaving the bedside of his dying sister; and -the girl rebukes him well: “How can you know it—how can you feel it, -Robert, when you come from the presence of one already linked, as it -were, with heaven, and thus immediately urge to me so earthly a prayer?” -Emily Singleton—the fading flower— - - “There is a beauty in woman’s decay;” - -and no one,—the coldest hearted, cannot contemplate the scene—a lovely -woman, looking her last upon her existence here—“a flower gathered for -the tomb,” ere the sweet bud is fully opened—without being excited to -feeling. The death bed scene is affecting, and well portrayed. That, and -the description of the hurricane, are almost the only parts of the work -that command our feelings or admiration, and the rude entrance of a -stranger jars harshly upon us, and turns our sympathies to hate against -the intruder. - -This author has few beauties of style—we believe that those who have -praised him most, have ventured only _to be silent_ concerning this. -There are no beauties of this description, to atone for want of -incident; nothing in the manner, to charm us into indifference to the -matter; and those who pretend to admire his writings the most, cannot -point out in them all, one sentence that contains peculiar beauty, or -originality of thought or expression. Mr. Simms at best is but an -imitator. His characters, so far as he delineates them, are familiar. We -can point out the original to each of them, in the writings of others. -We would not do an author wrong. We would be the last to discourage -talent, but we do not believe that Mr. Simms is one to give a helping -hand to our literature, but, on the reverse, he will injure it. Aside -from his works, we know nothing of him, and therefore cannot have “set -down aught in malice.” He proposes “a series” of works, of which “The -Partisan” is the first,—three to be devoted to the events of the -Revolution in South Carolina; and we cannot calculate the number -destined for other parts of the country. But he says, “I know not that I -shall complete, or even continue the series; much will depend upon the -reception of the present narrative.” There is then yet some small hope -that the threatened inundation may not flow upon us. Heaven grant that -voices enough may be raised to stay the coming flood, and say, “_peace, -be still_.” - - - - - GREEK ANTHOLOGY.—No. II. - - - HONEST FRIEND— - -I call thee _honest_, because thou needs must be such, since thou art -reading what neither toucheth thy cupidity, nor enkindleth a flame of -self-dedicated love. I call thee _friend_, as in common courtesy I -should, till I perceive some demonstrations of enmity. - -It is deep night. I have trimmed my lamp, taken a _turn_ across the -room, and am again seated at my pleasing toil. The Anthology lies open -before me—a brown, German page, rough, but scholarlike. I have pondered -each word and phrase, till they all bear a distinct and tangible -significance. I have been striving to draw forth the beauty that lies -locked in the cold, dead arms of an unspoken language. It requires a -mightier magician, and a more prevailing charm. Lines, that are instinct -with holy feeling, I have turned and labored with fruitless minuteness. -I can transcribe the form—but the _life_—where is it? My spirit weepeth -over its own stupidity. Yet not utterly am I in fault. I am a modern, -and an American, and almost—but _not quite_—a Yankee. I have breathed a -dollar-and-cent atmosphere. There is no soul—no enthusiasm in the land. -Utility—cold, base utility is the all-in-all. Money is the shibboleth of -rank and influence. - - O cives, cives, quærenda pecunia primum. - -Every thing is reduced to a standard of rationality, as if it were not -the most irrational thing that ever sickened a liberal eye, to bind down -passion, and poetry, and the “life of life,” by the frigid rules of -mathematical exactness. It is my solemn belief, that within fifty years -a double-track rail-road will run through the very vale of Tempe, and a -steam-engine be propelled by the waters of Arethusa. Improvement! By the -little toe of the Great Mogul, may the wheels of such improvement “long -tarry in their coming!” Reader, I will not fret. My profit therefrom -would be about as much as thy pleasure. But thou knowest not the -feelings with which I uncork a bottle of pure Samian wine; and, in -transferring it into an American jug, behold its strength and fragrance -evaporate—the body swelling with dropsical inflation, while the spirit -is oozing away through each treacherous pore. Sed satis. “Quid me -querelis exanimas tuis?” - -Behold! an enigmatic squib from Euclid, the geometer—him, whose labors I -was wont to burden with “the mountain of my curse.” He was, probably, -the first to solemnize a marriage so unnatural as that of Geometry and -Poetry—January and May. - - An ass and mule were bearing wine one day: - Hard on the ass the vinous burden lay; - When thus the mule her fainting dam addressed— - “Why, like a maiden’s, pants thy groaning breast? - Should’st thou _give_ me one portion of thy share, - Then I should double of thy burden bear. - Should’st thou _take_ one, alike are our conditions.” - Solve me this problem, ye arithmeticians. - -If the reader be at all skilled in threading the labyrinths of Algebra, -he may discover that the ass bore five, and the mule seven measures. -(Vide Day’s Alg. passim.) - - -Here we have a compliment to a beautiful girl, from Plato, even from the -veritable Ipse Dixit himself, whose frosty philosophy thawed before the -fire of love. - - Thou gazest at the stars, my star, - And would I were the sky, - That I might view thee from afar - With many a glowing eye. - - -By Theodorus, to Harmocrates, whose nasal developement was uncommonly -huge. - - Thy nose, my friend, is so excessive, - To call it _thine_ would be a wrong to’t, - But rather _that_ is the possessive, - And we should judge that you belong to’t; - And having met thee, properly I say, - Nose’s Harmocrates I saw to-day. - - -Ammianus gives quite a caustic turn to the common wish, that the earth -may lie lightly on the breast of the departed. - - Light lie the earth, Nearchus, on thy breast, - That dogs may tear thee from thy place of rest. - - -Here follows a little thing, replete with that still despair, so natural -to a thoughtful Heathen. - - - _By Archias._ - - I praise the Thracians, since for those they mourn, - Whose eyes are opening to the light of day, - But joy, when Death, the slave of Fate, has torn - Their sons and daughters from their arms away. - For we, the living, through each cruel ill - With painful steps continually go, - While they, who sleep beneath the grave’s green hill, - Have found, at last, a refuge from their wo. - - -Here is a most beautiful epitaph upon Sophocles, composed by Limmias, -the Theban. In the first place, I will render it literally and -consecutively into plain English, although, reader, thou knowest -that—saving only in the Bible—the life and loveliness of all poetry dies -under this _ossifying_ process. “Gently over the tomb of Sophocles, -gently, oh! ivy, mayst thou creep, pouring thy green curls abroad; and -all about it may the petals of the rose bloom, and the grape-loving -vine, scattering its moist branches around, on account of the wise -docility, which he of the honey-tongue displayed, among the Muses and -the Graces.” - -It was thus elegantly translated many years since: - - Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade - Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid: - Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine - With blushing roses and the clustering vine; - Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, - Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung, - Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit, - Among the Muses and the Graces writ. - - -Beautifully done—yet somewhat marred by the incongruous idea of _a soul -writing_. For my own attempt, I claim no merit, save something of -fidelity. - - Gently, oh! ivy, gently curl thy tresses, - Where the cold bones of Sophocles repose; - May thy young tendrils clasp in soft caresses - The bursting petals of the blushing rose. - May the green vine, its dewy branches flinging, - A lasting bower above thy grave entwine, - For the deep wisdom thou didst show, when singing - Among the Graces and the heavenly Nine. - - -Thou knowest how the cruel Acrisius committed his daughter Danaë, with -her infant Perseus, to the protection of a small ark, and the mercy of a -raging sea. In this—certainly one of the most touching fragments of all -antiquity, and written by Simonides, the Ceian, a poet, heart and -soul—Danaë is introduced, alone and cheerless, yet watching, with a -mother’s tenderness, over her sleeping son. - - Round the frail boat the wild winds, roaring, swept, - And shook the heart of Danaë with fear, - While from her cold, pale cheek, as Theseus slept, - Dropt the fast tear. - And round her little boy, with closer strain, - Her folding arm the desolate mother flung, - And to the heedless winds her humble plain - Half said, half sung. - “Sweetly thou restest in thy joyless dwelling, - And slumber sealeth up thy spirit mild, - Though the dark waves be far around thee swelling, - Perseus, my child. - O’er thy bright locks while angry winds are lashing - The storm-chafed spray, still sleeps thy careless eye: - Little thou heedest, though the waves be dashing - Insanely by. - Wrapped in thy purple cloak—my breast thy pillow— - Thou driftest helplessly—the ocean’s toy— - Rocked in thy slumbers by the rolling billow— - My little boy! - Did not this peril at thy heart lie lightly, - Unto thy little ear my words would creep: - But _now_ thy face even through the gloom shines brightly— - Oh! Perseus, sleep. - And may the waves, and may our sorrows slumber, - And may all snares be broken in our path; - And on our foes, great Jove, for Perseus number - Thy tenfold wrath.” - -“Solventur _fletu_ tabulæ: tu, _lector_, abibis.” - - HERMENEUTES. - - - - - “OUR MAGAZINE.” - - -Reader, our salutation must be brief—our correspondents have left us but -brief space, in which to give it thee; nevertheless, we cannot take our -leave, without introducing to you the dignified personage on our -title-page. ’Tis but his likeness. He has long since gone—otherwise, we -should not dare take upon ourselves this familiarity; but now we may -here both gaze at, and converse about him with freedom. All will readily -recognize that distinguished individual, GOV. ELIHU YALE, the patron of -our Institution, (whose name it bears,) and the benefactor of mankind. -We have not space, were we able, to give him his deserts. Let his -epitaph, written in the good old style, and being that which expresses -most in the fewest words, speak for us. - - “Born in America, in Europe bred, - In Afric travell’d, and in Asia wed, - Where long he liv’d and thriv’d; at London dead. - Much Good, some Ill he did: so hope all’s even, - And that his soul thro’ Mercy’s gone to Heav’n.” - - - - - TO CORRESPONDENTS. - - -The “Lines to M. S.” and “A Sabbath Morning,” were received too late for -insertion. They shall appear soon. - -The “Lover’s Avowal,” is not after the present fashion. - -“Little Jane” is wanting in dignity. - -O.’s piece is rejected. We felt ourselves somewhat endangered in the -perusal, particularly in the stormy parts of it. - -H. and Imo, are respectfully declined. - -We are highly pleased with the “Dramatic Fragment.” It shall appear in -our next. - - - - - 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. - ------ - -Footnote 1: - - Johnson. - -Footnote 2: - - If any one is curious enough to make the inquiry, I can inform him, - that this story is founded on fact;—the individual, herein mentioned, - was a graduate of this Institution. - -Footnote 3: - - The inquiry has naturally arisen, how these Confessions came into his - possession, who presented them to the Editors of this Magazine. It can - be answered in a few words. While a class, which has since graduated, - was in its Junior year, it was joined by an individual of rather - rustic manners, dressed in a complete suit of grey cloth; yet he was - by no means deficient in that important requisite, manly beauty. He - roomed alone, and mingled but little with his classmates. It was - observed that his temperament was exceedingly variable, sometimes - highly excited, at others, as much depressed. His recitations evinced - talents of a high order. He continued with the class until the close - of the year, and then disappeared. His classmates have heard nothing - from him since. In his table-drawer—left by accident or design—these - manuscripts were found, which, with a few alterations, are now - presented to the public. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as - printed. - 3. Footnotes have been re-indexed using numbers and collected together - at the end of the last chapter. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yale Literary Magazine. 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