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                                  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. (Vol. I,
No. 2), by Various

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