Chapter II: Part 2

I must first give you a description of him, gentle reader, and the place in which I found him, even if it take up my whole sheet. Conceive yourself then on a little eminence about fifty yards removed from the water side, the ground sloping gradually to the stream; and conceive a small, low-roof’d farm house upon it with its windows facing the east, and its white roof partly covered and quite shaded by a clump of tall beech trees; and after you have looked at the creeper, and wild rose, and honeysuckles that grow in profusion about the door, you may stand and listen to the sound of the clearest, sweetest, sparkling little rivulet, that ever gushed from its native bed, to go and mix its sweet waters with the weltering waves of the ocean.

You may now stand with your back towards the farm-house, and look down before you. The broad Connecticut sweeps majestically by, its clear surface crinkled only by the sportings of some wanton fish as it darts through it, dashing a shower of pearls into the sunbeams; or perchance the form of a water fowl as it skims unwarily over it, gently catching the liquid on its pinions to scatter it off again with the next evolution. The soft piles of white clouds that sleep in the upper heaven, are as moveless below you; and as the startled dor-hawk sweeps out from the wood behind, and wends his course across to the distant mountains, you may watch his small form on the water growing fainter and fainter, till it becomes a speck and fades from the vision.

Now enter with me the dwelling. Is it not a scholar’s dwelling? That finely stocked library, with its newly-dusted curtain of green cotton-stuff--that row of antique busts over the mantel-piece--that engraving of the fiery Byron--that fine one of Scott--and that pleasing one of the gentle and melancholy Cowper--say, do you like it? A table stands in the middle of the room, and on it are books of a dozen languages--some thumbed and turned down as if they had seen good service, and others uncut as fresh from the book-seller’s. Here’s the antiquarian Homer. There’s the mellifluous Anachreon. This is the shrewd Horace--and there’s the philosophic Seneca. How worn they all are! No common one surely is the spirit of this place--But you shall see him.

He sits by the table, writing. There’s a forehead for you, shaded with fine dark hair--there’s an eye, deep, crystaline, full--there’s a cheek, delicate, perhaps too delicate--and above a prominent chin, there’s the pale thin lip of the scholar. His countenance is gentle, but there’s something of severity about the small closed mouth, and in the glitter of that eye--and yet all is calm, all is serenity, all is gentleness. No dark passions have had commission to mark that noble forehead--no feverish and fiery ambition have dared to light their hectic taper on that cheek--all is natural. And his voice--that is gentle too--woman would not wish softer. And now he smiles--how gentle! There’s so much of peace in it, you _feel_ its gentleness.

Such was my friend. Alas! that he is not--that I have but the poor satisfaction of poring over these few, brief-sketched passages of his history.

HIS FIRST LOVE.

I found him one evening sad and solitary, seated by an open window with a book in his hand, and gazing out into the moonlight. I addressed him, but he answered me not. I took his hand and pressed it--he turned to me, and to my surprise, his eyes were filled with tears.

I did not offer him my pity--his feelings were too holy. I let him weep.

‘My friend,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you are welcome.’

I ventured to ask if any thing had disturbed him.

‘There are moments,’ replied he, ‘in the life of every man, when, whether he will or no, the simplest circumstance, such as a note of music, a word, or a moonlight evening like this, will by the subtle law of association call up a train of dead memories, and pour them in a flood tide on the heart; and as these are pleasant or melancholy, will his feelings take their coloring. Here is a little book of Sir Humphry Davy’s, and it has set me weeping; for as I have followed him through one and another of his foolish though beautiful theories, it has called up passages of my life I would fain forget. They are sweet though--

‘Pleasant are the memories of days in the shades of Morven’--

and I know not but I thank the philosopher though he makes me womanish.’

My companion’s history was unknown to me--I had once or twice wished to ask him--here was a chance. I delicately hinted as much.

‘You ask to your hurt I fear, my young friend,’ said he. ‘Little in my life can interest another. It has seen little action. Feeling--strong, continuous, deep feeling with small variation, is all it boasts; and pleasant as it is to me, it may little please you.’

I was importunate.

‘I had a lovely cousin,’ began he, ‘a very lovely creature, and one for whom I felt all that ardor of attachment, for the description and stories of which, poets and novelists have been so much laughed at. I shall not describe her to you. The graces of her mind only shall I acquaint you with, and through them you must see her countenance. Her parents were dead; and, taken into our house as one of the family, our love went far back beyond our memories, even into childhood, where if we love, it is by some subtle affinity which unconsciously draws kindred spirits together--since at that age we seldom think to dwell upon individual excellences of character. Our love as we knew not when it began, so we knew not its force; yet it was pure, deep, spiritual, and dreaming--that passion which instead of being modified, modifies--instead of becoming assimilated, assimilates--belonging not to the other power, but making those powers its own. Hence our characters were alike. This unity softened down every unhappy prepossession; and the result was, that our loves were like two streams, which though they gush not from the same source, soon after mingle and go quietly on together.

‘From what I have said, you will readily perceive we were dreamers. My cousin was a dreamer--you would know it from the deep, full, swimming eye, without any body’s telling it you; and we were wont to go of a summer’s evening to the church yard, and seated on her mother’s grave, drink in from the silence, and darkness, and solitude of the scene, that witchery and madness which dreamers so much love. From such habits it will easily be seen, that our characters must soon be sobered over with the sad shapings of melancholy. Such habits cultivate this mood; and persisted in, the sensibilities if naturally exquisite, become so much the more so that they soon unfit us for every thing else, and win us from the laughter-making and foolish.

‘We were seated one evening as I have mentioned, and our thoughts very naturally turned upon spirits, their intercourse, and the laws which govern them, and the conversation took such a tone as fastened it forever in my memory.

‘I sometimes think,’ said she, clinging tenderly to me, and clasping my hand firmly in both of hers--‘that when we are free from this world, and disenthralled, are ushered into a new existence, we shall lose our identity, and have to find out new sympathies and sources of enjoyment; and the thought saddens me.’

‘Why saddens you?’

‘O! I would not forget this world. I would not forget its beauties--its rocks, woodlands, wilds,

‘Its human and its natural beauties all.’--

I would not forget them. They _must_ be a source of felicity ever--ever pleasant to be remembered--ever spots to which memory shall turn her saddened eye, when the heart is sick with its melancholies.’

‘Fanny, think you the blessed weep?’

‘O! I know not--‘but I could not bear to forget this beautiful world, and those I love in it.’

‘Think you’--said I--‘that he who made the spirit and knows its capacities, will not find for it something more substantial than earth proffers us? You know the aged tell us, there’s no bliss here; and we see the young, and gay, and beautiful, fall around us like leaves in Autumn-time. What matters it then if we take other minds, as distinct as our own bodies?’

‘Arthur! Arthur!--you pain me. Would you not know _me_ hereafter?’

‘Doubt it not--we _shall_ know each other.’

‘I would think so.’

‘From God’s benevolence we cannot prove it; for as benevolence leads to giving the highest good, it may lead him to give us faculties above those we now possess, and felicities in comparison with which all that we have here shall instantly be forgotten. But it is seen from our natures. Our faculties, in their aspirations for something higher, by those very aspirations _evidence_ faculties, which earth puts not in requisition. Few are the thinking minds who have not sometimes in the calm of the evening, as they have sent their gaze away into the heavens, and watched the stars come out to join the mighty sisterhood of planets and rolling worlds, felt a thirst and a lifting up within them as the pulsations of immortality. This _is_ immortality. The world (not to speak poetically,) is forgotten. I myself have been so far enrapt in this mystery, that I have as completely lost my mortal consciousness as if I had never possessed any; at the same time I have been partly conscious of the same powers as those I use when admiring things around me. I was translated to another sphere--worlds of light were rolling around me--I myself was a source of light and magnificence, rolling on forever

‘Still quiring to the young eyed Cherubim!’

A state of purity was there. I admired it--but it was the same as my love of virtue here, though incomparably higher; and I was conscious of the same though more elevated communion, as the music of the spheres

‘Harping along their viewless boundaries,’

came floating about me. And these things prove that the same faculties go with us from earth, though their reachings and exercises may be as much nobler, as time is less than eternity.’

‘My sweet cousin was re-assured--and we soon betook us home.

‘This evening,’ continued he, ‘its stillness, its soft moonlight, and this foolish little treasure of a book in my hand, have recalled that evening, and that conversation--they have set me weeping. ’Tis seldom I speak of the past, but your importunity stands apology.’

I quickly and firmly assured him, that so far from seeking apology, my interest was unaccountable; and I begged the sequel in relation to his cousin.

‘Ask it not--ask it not’--said he, with deep solemnity.

He spake no farther.

Such was a single evening’s intercourse with this mysterious being. More I learned from him--which in good time the reader shall have from me. Till then, adieu.

*

FANNY WILLOUGHBY.

“I love thee, Fanny Willoughby,
And that’s the why, ye see,
I woo thee, Fanny Willoughby,
And cannot let thee be,--
I sing for thee, I sigh for thee,
And O! you may depend on’t,
I’ll weep for thee, I’ll die for thee,
And that will be the end on’t.

“I love thy form so tall and straight,
To me it always seems,
As if it were the counterfeit
Of some I’ve seen in dreams,--
It makes me feel as if I had
An angel by my side,
And then I think I am so bad,
You will not be my bride.

“I love thy clear and hazel eye--
They say the blue is fairer,
And I confess that formerly
I thought the blue the rarer,--
But when I saw thine eye so clear,
Though perfectly at rest,
I did kneel down, and I did swear
The hazel was the best.

“I love thy hand so pale and soft,
The which, in days lang syne,
Ye innocent as trusting, oft
Would softly clasp in mine;
I thought it sure was chiseled out
Of marble by the geniuses,
The which the poets rant about,
The virgins and the Venuses.

“I love the sounds that from thy lip
Gush holily and free,
As rills that from their caverns slip,
And prattle to the sea;
The melody for aye doth steal
To hearts by sorrow riven,
And then I think, and then I _feel_
That music comes from Heaven.

“Now listen, Fanny Willoughby,
To what I cannot keep,
My days ye rob of happiness,
My nights ye rob of sleep;
And if ye don’t relent, why I
Believe you will me kill;
For passion must have vent, and I
Will kill myself I will.”

’Twas thus, when love had made me mad
For Fanny Willoughby,
I told my tale, half gay, half sad,
To Fanny Willoughby;
And Fanny look’d as maiden would
When love her heart did burn,
And Fanny sigh’d as maiden should,
And murmur’d a return.

And so I woo’d Fan Willoughby--
A maiden like a dove,
And so I won Fan Willoughby--
The maiden of my love;
And though sad years have pass’d since that,
And she is in the sky,
I never, never can forget
Sweet Fanny Willoughby.

*

CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.

No. 1.

The first time I left Droneville, was for the purpose of joining the Junior Class in Yale College. Having received letters of introduction to Dr. ----, I was ushered by his misjudged kindness, with all my awkwardness upon me, into the very center of fashionable life. Fashionable life! what a variety of blunders, of ludicrous mistakes, of embarrassing scenes, rise up at the very phrase, mingled with the uproarious laughter of young men, and the suppressed titter of young ladies, the mere memory of which is sufficient to drive distracted a sensitive man. To my miserable, rustic education, I am indebted for a great share of my calamities. Before relating my experience in the world of fashion, I will attempt to convey to my readers an idea of some of the peculiarities of Droneville people.

In one of the western counties of Massachusetts, is situated the village of Droneville--the Rip Van Winkle of the state--the very focus of stupidity. Droneville people are a century behind the rest of the world. One would imagine that old Time had pitched them out of his car in 1700, while he has been driving on the rest of the world like Jehu. Without the least scruple, they use those rank provincialisms, which would make the most legitimate Yankee tongue of other parts, feel “considerably streaked.” Droneville people are opposed to all your modern refinements in education. “We are satisfied with the language of our fathers, without bringing it to the test of any of your grammar rules.” As a necessary consequence, the king’s English is murdered by them without the least mercy. Double comparatives and superlatives dance through their conversation in an intricate maze of the sublimest obscurity. To Droneville people I was indebted for my pure, classical dialect, which was so extremely pleasing that I never addressed a polite speech to a young lady, without making her giggle in spite of her most vigorous efforts. “Hisen” and “hern,” “yourn” and “theirn,” and such phrases, might be expected as a matter of course; but Droneville people are no common Yankees; they have words and expressions which are perfectly unique. “Chirk” is a favorite of theirs. If you enquire respecting some invalid who is convalescing, the answer is, “he is more chirk.” A young Miss of Droneville, (for whom, by the way, I always had a sneaking partiality,) once replied to a question as to her mother’s health--an old bedridden dame of eighty, “Why, she is not very _chirk_, but more _chirker_ than she has been; all our folks appear more _chirker_ than they really feel, in order to _chirk_ her up.” “Comper” is another of their expressions. Any fracas or tumult, like the Calethump of Christmas eve memory, would be styled by them a “comper.” Their language is certainly original:

“Mrs. Doublechin, what is the matter with your good man?”

“I don’t hardly know, ‘Squire, he seems to be _kinder fevery and kinder aguery_.”

Droneville people are profound philosophers. You will not find them chattering incessantly upon every topic under the sun; their ideas are connected by none of your “obvious relations;” they are slow, but sure thinkers, and when they _do_ speak, you may expect to hear something. Catch Droneville people doing any thing in a rash, hasty manner? catch a weasel asleep. They are equally considerate in their mental and physical operations. If a man begins to build a house, without reflecting upon it for some twenty years, Droneville people shake their heads in a very significant manner, muttering something about not “counting the cost.” A house is commenced by one generation, allowed to “season” through another, and completed by the third. Droneville people are not composed of any of your inflammable materials; you will not find them acting under the influence of “excitement” or “passion.” They like to “take things coolly”--to think deliberately.

Deacon Snuffle was informed that widow Switchtail had been _recently_ converted, and hastened to converse with her. “How long is it, Mrs. Switchtail,” said he, “since you first began to see the error of your ways?”

“Why, Deacon, it is as long ago as what we old folks call the _hard winter_.” Deacon Snuffle made his exit with all imaginable speed, exclaiming, “your religion, widow, is something like an old clock, in considerable need of being wound up.”

A minister was “settled” among Droneville people, several years since, who is about as ardent as they are phlegmatic, suggesting the image of a spirited young steed, yoked to a contemplative ox. He exhorts, preaches, frets, drives his flesh off in attempting to “rouse them up;” but they take it “just as easy” as conceivable. What can be more tantalizing! He appoints meetings upon week days, but Droneville people are not so fond of meetings upon week days; it savors too much of _driving_ people into religion. The parson consoles himself with the thought that they will come to church upon the Sabbath, and prepares for them a warm reception. And they _do_ come upon the Sabbath, and sleep, yea, snore as loud as if they were in their beds. Miss Catnip, a snappish old maid, once complained that “Deacon Snuffle’s wife snored so loud that she couldn’t get the least bit of rest.” My Aunt Tabitha is never absent from church. She has so constantly seated herself upon the same bench, that she has fairly impressed her own proportions there. She has one invariable reply to the parson’s oft repeated exhortations, “young people may die, old people must die.”

The parson wishes to do great things for all the benevolent operations of the day, but what do Droneville people know about benevolent operations? Instruct them? “Droneville people ar’nt to be instructed; they know a thing or two.” Besides, Droneville people are half inclined to think that “charity begins at home.” Turn them? You may turn a mule, when he has once “placed his foot down,” with a mule’s determination, but there is no turning _them_. They are as obstinate and headstrong as doctors of theology; coaxing and cuffs are equally unavailing.

There is nothing which Droneville people resist so much as innovation. An attempt to change old customs, or to drive them from the well trodden path of their ancestors, will raise such a cackling among long-winded gossippers and slippery tongued spinsters, as would drive Beelzebub himself from the roost. Mr. Long Metre--a member of that fraternity who wander about teaching one half of the people how they can best _squeal off_ the ears of the other half--attempted to reform Droneville choir. This Radical broached the theory, that it was impossible for the young ladies to sing melodiously while they wore their bonnets, since the sweet nightingales were prevented from hearing their neighbors’ voices. The singing master, having been joined by a few of the young bucks--bold fellows these--venturing sometimes to give the ‘gals’ a sneaking glance or a sly wink, made a movement to carry the reform into operation. What pen can describe the “comper” which this excited! It was too much for the equanimity of the gentlemen of the old school. It was like touching a torch to their beards. Oh Droneville! who would have thought, that the flames of party animosity could ever have been kindled in thy peaceful streets? yet such was the fact. Every man, woman, and child, was ranged under the banner of the bonnets, or the anti-bonnets. The bonnets claimed, “that the measure of their opponents was an unheard-of innovation, exposing the health of the ‘little dears,’ encouraging extravagance in dress, endangering the morals of the young men, in short, that it was wholly unrighteous, unscriptural and indelicate, for St. Paul expressly declares that ‘every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered, dishonoreth her head.’” I noticed that this doctrine was warmly espoused by all the red haired young ladies, and desperate spinsters. The anti-bonnets, headed by the singing master, supported by the aforementioned bucks, and all the most buxom of the village girls, unable to withstand the cogent arguments of their adversaries, dispatched a delegation to secure upon their side, the influence of the parson. The good man stood aghast! What could he do? To commit himself upon either side, would be his ruin: to stand neutral, was impossible. Mr. Soporific Heth--the village tailor--a most vigorous performer upon a cracked clarionet, was chosen ambassador. Mr. Heth was a lean, long sided piece of anatomy, with an elongated phiz, nose like a fish hook, and lips blown to a point by his constant musical exertions. In order to add dignity to the delegation, Mr. Wonderful Gruff--whose magic powers wooed harmony from an antiquated base viol--accompanied Mr. Heth. Mr. Gruff was the wisest man in Droneville. To be sure, he never spoke a word to reveal his wisdom, but then he _looked_ tremendous wise, and a nod or a grunt from Mr. Gruff, had more influence in the village councils, than a speech of an hour’s length from most men. Mr. Gruff was a perfect personification of conceited obstinacy. His short stubborn neck and mulish character, evinced a perfect harmony of parts, and unity of design. Such were the animals which presented themselves in the parson’s study. Mr. Heth, of course, was the orator--and such a one! He was none of your concise speakers, who tell all they have to say in the fewest words possible, but an eloquent, long-winded orator, able to talk a vast while without saying any thing. Mr. Heth was very fond of onions--the parson, however, had rather an aversion to these delicacies. Mr. Heth was, moreover, afflicted with deafness, and for the double purpose of increasing the effect of his own masterly powers, and hearing his auditor’s replies, he drew a chair near his victim, and for about half an hour, blew an irresistible torrent of eloquence into the parson’s nose. Unable to resist such honied words, accompanied by a voice which rivaled the most cracked notes of Mr. Heth’s own clarionet, and seconded by the momentous nods and grunts of Mr. Gruff, the parson declared himself a convert to the principles of the anti-bonnets. This was the signal of triumph to their party--their opponents were crushed, and the bonnets were banished from the choir. After several weeks spent in preparation, the eventful Sabbath finally arrived, when the _élite_ of Droneville maidens, were to appear in ‘unbonneted’ beauty. Never had there been such an excitement in Droneville. The choir, and their appearance, were discussed in all places. It was regularly “served up,” at every tea table in the village. “What are Droneville people coming to,” exclaimed the old ladies; “things are changed since we were lads,” responded the veterans. “If I hadn’t any more hair than Polly Snipe, you wouldn’t catch me singing with my bonnet off,” said Miss Catnip. The day arrived; it was a cool bracing morning in January; but never, “within the memory of the oldest inhabitants,” had Droneville church been so crowded. While the parson was imploring God’s blessing, the bucks were ogling and whispering, the singers were turning over the leaves of their books, an occasional note escaped from the nose of Mr. Long Metre, Mr. Gruff was tuning his base viol, Mr. Heth was caulking his clarionet. The hymn is at length “given out,”--all eyes are turned to the gallery,--every mouth is opened in wondering expectation,--the blind wipe their spectacles, the deaf seize their trumpets, the eyes of the young bucks flashed with pleasure, those of the spinsters looked “unutterable things.” The choir arise, and while they stand like impatient coursers, with parted lips, awaiting the signal from Mr. Long Metre, let me attempt to describe the vision of paradise which burst upon my enraptured sight. It was a scene worthy the graphic pencil of Hogarth. There stood the assembled beauty of Droneville, with cheeks and noses kindled into a glow by the fresh air of a January morning. The gallery rose, seat over seat, presenting to the beholder an inclined plane of all that is beautiful in a red and blue phiz, studded with love-darting eyes, and party-colored heads, which might rival the coat of the patriarch. There they stand--long hinnies and short hinnies, sylph-like hinnies and porpoise-like hinnies, in regular confusion, with pates arrayed in every variety of fantastical gear ever invented by womankind. Some were adorned with flowers, others with feathers; some, having strained their hair so tight from their foreheads that they could not wink, had twisted it into a pig’s-tail upon the top of their craniums; a few, of more classic taste, had parted their locks from their brows, a la Madonna; others suffered them to float in unbraided beauty, a la witch of Endor; and one roguish little urchin was evidently arrayed in her grandmother’s cap. Thus they stand--the “pitch” is given, and away burst Droneville choir with impetuous fury--the power of every voice and every instrument is strained to its utmost capacity--Mr. Long Metre managed to scream the loudest--Mr. Soporific Heth blew his clarionet into several pieces--Mr. Gruff sawed his base viol ‘in two.’

Such was the performance of Droneville choir.--The combined power of all that is thrilling in beauty and melody, inflicted a wound upon my sentimental heart from which it has not yet recovered.

EVERY ONE HIS OWN CRITIC.

“A spirit and judgment equal or superior.”--_Milton._

A distinctly formed power of judging of literary productions, and of rightly and fully estimating their intrinsic and their comparative merits, is a thing of rare occurrence. Even educated men, whose opinions with respect to other things are of high value, seem not generally to have carried their systematic habits of thought into this province, deferring it almost wholly to professed critics. On the other hand, there is a crowd of slender judges, of some qualities of books, who are yet utterly incapable of appreciating others which are more vital.

It becomes, therefore, an important question to one who would be an independent thinker, how the evil may be remedied in his own case. It may be answered in general, not chiefly by reading literary reviews. Much, doubtless, may be learned in this way about many books and their authors; so much indeed, so wide is the field opened, as to divert the mind from seeking an intimate acquaintance with any. Without question, the effect of this kind of reading often, and indeed usually is, to overload the mind with a multitude of opinions which speedily pass from it, leaving it advanced in no respect except in an opinion of its own knowledge. Even where something more than mere entertainment is sought, the result is much the same. We would ask those who are so busy in collecting the opinions of others, how often an attempt is made effectually to reproduce those opinions in their own minds, and to test them by a careful study of the author in hand. The comparatively light manner of hurrying over even the extracts, which critical kindness has pointed out, is a sufficient answer. The very object indeed of resorting to reviews is to avoid tasking the mind. It is indeed vastly easier to take from the review opinions ready made, than to struggle to bring up into the light one’s own dim conceptions of excellence or defect, and to summon the mind to make account to itself. But as the result we have an unformed and lifeless acquaintance, with works even of the highest order--an acquaintance consisting, for the most part, of half-remembered, and half-forgotten crude opinions _about_ them. For the mind itself there is a habit of dependence on something without, and not of itself, for the grounds of its opinions--a habit arising, almost necessarily, from being accustomed to submit to the absoluteness and dictatorship of the professed critic.

There is liable to be created also, a habit of dependence for the _interest_ which is felt in literary works generally, novels excepted. It cannot be denied that the critic himself and his opinions, often form the main point of interest, and that the author is comparatively uninteresting; when it is not so, the critic is often depended upon to excite for the author an interest, which is to cease with the remembrance of the former. The sympathies are with the critic, not with the author. Besides this, reviews treat mostly of what is passing; the attention of the review reader is, therefore, in a great degree confined to that. Hence we have, in many of those who are thought to be acquainted with literature, a love for excitement, dependent on what is conventional and present, rather than a permanent interest resulting from broad and well grounded views.

It is certain that he who aims not merely to understand, but vigorously to apprehend, and distinctly to appreciate the work before him, will wish, in matters of opinion, to banish all thoughts of the critic, as an unwelcome intruder, however excellent in his kind, between himself and the author.

In order that a man may thus become a critic for himself, he should seek to excite in himself a love of literature for its own sake, in opposition both to a mere love of entertainment and to mere indifference. For here, it is eminently true that unless a man loves he cannot understand. But then that love must be liberal and discriminating; it must be a love which will carry one through the difficulties of the way. But for these qualities a mere love of entertainment is least remarkable, devouring indiscriminately what is often least valuable, and blindly rejecting the rest.

It deserves to be considered, whether this has not been too much the spirit of the readers of poetry. The maxim, that “it is the office of the poet to please, not to instruct,” ought not to be taken thus absolutely. It is indeed “sweetly uttered knowledge,” which the poet imparts, but is it the less knowledge? It is not indeed knowledge systematized, but not the less real knowledge of the human heart in all its relations.

But the great obstacle to be removed, is an indifference which leads to desultory reading. We refer especially to an indifference to merits. Fault-finding we have enough; while of merits there is often a comparatively languid appreciation. A very low mind and small abilities may be equal to the former; the latter demands a mind liberal and vigorous.

In order to remove this indifference, there must be a love of literature for its own sake. This will animate the mind with a liberal zeal, and, at the same time, will supersede the love of mere entertainment.

Let him who would feel such a love, endeavor to obtain some notion of literature as it is. In order to this let him acquaint himself with its history. Let him view it as the offspring of the human mind in all ages, wrought up to its divinest energy; as that which embodies in itself thoughts of power and images of beauty; as a purifier and refiner of the human feelings. Let him consider it also, with direct reference to his own mind and heart. For this end, he should place himself on the broad ground of our common humanity, in distinction from any prejudice, or conventional mode of thinking. Viewing himself as a man, and as such recognizing the mind and the human feelings within his own breast, let him look upon literature, as the glorious expression of what is kindred to those, and as such demanding his sympathy. By this habit of constant reference to his own mind, he will acquire in literature, a permanent interest. Distinctly conscious of the mind within his own breast, he will welcome mind wherever he meets it: recognizing the feelings of his own heart, he will go forth in sympathy with those of another; feeling within himself a love of the beautiful, he will stand ready to admire and value its objects. Unless a man cultivates such habits, so that he shall have a warm and living interest in ascertaining literary worth, he cannot be a critic. He will not seek out merits which he has not some interest in finding. If, on the other hand, a man have this habit of immediate reference to his own mind, he will not only have such an interest, but will also have placed himself in the only right point of view to judge of any literary production. He will not be guided by a set of rules which are in a manner foreign to the mind; nor will his criticism be expressed in phrases which are unmeaning, or the meaning of which he has never asked himself. It will be the faithful exhibition of the warm impressions upon a mind rightly prepared to receive them. How the mind is to be thus prepared is another question. The attitude which it should take we have stated; but to assume this it is not qualified at once, and with regard to every work. Obviously it must be enlightened by knowledge of the various departments of literature, that it may judge accurately of any one. Yet this is not all that is demanded of it. In order to judge of the intrinsic merits of any literary production, there must be an exercise of powers like those which originated it. The mind must be trained distinctly, and by itself, for this end. Otherwise, it cannot form any conception of those powers, much less can it know how to value their productions. In proportion also as the latter are of a high order, must be the activity to which feebler powers must be aroused to apprehend them. While this is true with respect to every kind of writing, its necessity is more distinctly seen in reading the works of the poet. For the powers there demanded are less in daily use. The reader must, in a certain sense, be himself a poet, in order to be a critic of poetry. Otherwise, he cannot sympathize with the author, and cannot judge of him at all. For, we repeat it, it is by a direct reference to our own minds, as appealed to by the mind of another, that we must judge of literary worth.

Thus to qualify and attune the mind, is indeed a task. The necessity, however, is plain. We may now, also understand how it is that a man may with ease equal the critic whom he reads, and then flatter himself into the belief that he has compassed the author whom he has not the vigor and habits of mind necessary to appreciate. For want of them, the opinions of the critic will be either forgotten, or vaguely remembered or applied. In either case the mind will have gained a feeling of undue self-importance.

It may seem audacious to approach in the manner we have attempted to describe, the works of those to whom we have been wont to look up with implicit reverence. But no one, we think, will be more humble in his own eyes, than he who has tried and found how hard it is to attempt fully to comprehend when fairly set before him, that which another wrought out from unshaped materials. Nor will his admiration be the less, because he sees that it is well grounded; while by a habit of raising himself to cope with great minds, he will be enabled to see in their true light, and to approach with an air of just superiority those which are inferior.

We have thus attempted to show some of the preparations of mind and spirit, for the office of criticism. But there must also be a strict and severe judgment, to exercise over the mind a constant supervision, and to keep it from partaking of the unsoundness of those with which it comes in contact, as well as a sensibility to their merits.

It has not been our object to dwell upon the particular points of criticism. There is one which will be found to include almost all others, and which has been already implied. We have spoken of literature as the means of correspondence between mind and mind. Of course, by far the most important point of criticism will be to study the mind and spirit of the author in his works. Much may be learned, in this way, that shall fix a lasting communion between ourselves and the author who is worthy of such intimacy. And further, by laying bare the shaping and moving spirit of that which is presented to us, and by ascertaining the precise attitude of the author with respect to his work, we shall be enabled to see more distinctly what are merits and defects, because we shall know whither to refer them. By this means, even the minutest peculiarities may be marked; that which is artificial, may be distinguished from that which is genuine; style may be clearly characterized, and the whole work will be set before us in two-fold clearness, and with two-fold interest.

If literature is worth any thing, it is worth such study and such exertions, on the part of every one. He who studies it in this way, will not view the books which meet his eye with a languid and feeble interest; nor as so many subjects for examination, which are afterwards to be set aside, as a sort of explained phenomena. He will study their merits in order to welcome and appropriate them to himself, as the fruits of kindred minds. The wise and the good of all ages will thus become his friends and companions.

G.

TRUMBULL GALLERY.

WASHINGTON ON THE BANKS OF THE DELAWARE.

’Tis well to gaze upon thee, glorious chief:
There is instruction with thee. There’s no brief
Or fleeting lesson traced on thy calm brow.
A nation’s love is thine. Her prayer is now
Uprising for thy weal. A nation’s life
Is trusted to thy care; and calls thee to the strife.
The mother leaneth on her well tried son
And finds thee never wanting, Washington.

The angry waters leap and roar below.
Danger is on the air--sounds of the mighty foe--
Wildness is all around thee. The scathed oak,
Rent rock--earth ploughed by the death wing’d stroke,
Wind-shriek, storm-gloom, death-chill.
Thou art alone unmoved. Thine eye is still
Proudly undaunted--far darting, fearless, grand,
Flashing with patriot fire, shielding our father-land.

Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow
Wears not so poor a wreath.--The sacred glow
And majesty of freedom beam around thee there--
Her laurel crown is thine--no other would’st thou wear.
She knows thee, her lov’d worshiper. To guard her shrine
No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine.
’Tis well to think of thee--thy immortality how won,
Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington.

IONE.

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. 1.

Reader! hast thou seen the Greek Anthology? If not, go get it. ’Tis passing beautiful. Dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the finest people God ever made? Dost thou long to acquaint thee with the real character of the bright-souled Grecian? Then lay upon the shelf the fiery Homer, with his “damnable iteration,” and even the neat Xenophon--the soldier, historian, and philosopher. Lay them aside, I bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts, to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously preserved. Dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as he “struts his brief hour upon the busy stage?” Go to the green-room, and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and buskin. Dost thou think to _know_ men, by scanning them, as they thread the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray among the pillars of the temple? The smile is, indeed, gracious--the bow lowly--the look subdued. But, man, you see the _face_, not the _heart_. They are all masquerading--most ludicrously too. Go to their homes, my friend. Watch them by their fire-sides--with their wives and children--in their household familiarity. Vexings are upon them, and their hearts are troubled. The world--the censorious world is far away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. A cloud comes over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty tribulations. And are _these_ those unctuous men, on whose faces sat enthroned such unruffled peace? Yea, verily!

Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and _I_ best know its design. ’Tis merely a rambling illustration--a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. ’Tis a similitude, I say--too long--yet a good one. Its pith is this. The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians--in fine, _all_ the great authors dressed for court, or--if that term seem too monarchical for the Republic of Letters--they dressed for a levee--a democratic _jam_--they _rouged_, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. But even _he_ knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. He does not give his own sentiments--he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. ’Tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens--drinking from the heart’s overflowing fullness,--that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.

Reader, I am weary of these remarks, as I doubt not thou art. Therefore will I cease. And here would I advertise thee that I travel more for my own pleasure than for thine. My path lies through a lovely country, and I shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever I think proper. I shall take the cross-roads--rove through the green fields--lie under the shady trees--and drink of the cool springs. If thou wilt wander with me, it is well, and I trust our trip will be a merry one. It is my design to do into English--as we may aptly express such barbarous usage--some of the Anthology--to transplant and naturalize among our northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. The soil is cold, and the clime rude--yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny smiles, the flowers may grow. And if, thus roughly torn from their warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader, to believe that they _were_ beautiful--yea! most beautiful. The blame be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny Greece--the garden, where they bloomed. Thou knowest that the Syrian olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of Greenland, even though “with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot.” Perchance my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase will only send back to their “first love” with renewed devotion, while that Sun of Poetry, which, though “shorn of his beams,” will not, I trust, have lost all “his original brightness,” will, in others, enkindle a holy ardor to climb the “Aonian mount,” and gaze full on his unclouded splendor.

First of all, let me present thee with a glorious song--I mean glorious in its primal sky of Greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted its beams, dimmed and diminished. It is an ode to two tyrannicidal brothers, Aristogeiton and Harmodius, who, at the Panathenian festival of Minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that occasion, attacked Hipparchus, and by his death regained their country’s freedom. It was sung by the Greeks at their entertainments. It has been Anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep enthusiasm, defy all translation.

In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,
When slew he Athens’ tyrant-lord,
And, with his brother bold,
Armed in his country’s cause,
Preserved her equal laws.

Dearest Harmodius! thou art not dead;
But in the islands of the bless’d thou art,
Where swift Achilles rests his weary head,
And brave Tydides calms his stormy heart.

In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,
Who, with his brother bold,
When votive cups at Pallas’ shrine were poured,
Destroyed Hipparchus, Athens’ tyrant-lord.

Thy glory on the earth shall never fade,
Dearest Harmodius, with thy brother brave,
Because the tyrant in the dust ye laid,
And did the equal laws of Athens save.

What have we next? Pollianus. And who was Pollianus? I know not. It is certain he has left us a very pretty epigram, which I have thus endeavored to render in Latin and English. _Hem tibi!_

_To a miserly Usurer._

Multa tenes, et nulla tenes. Quare? Omnia locas.
Sic te inopem reddis, debitor ut teneat.

Though rich, yet poor. How thus? Your all you lend,
And rob yourself of what your debtors spend.

Here follows another, and, once for all, if any proud critic, in his wisdom, or pretty girl, in her ignorance, object to my translating, now and then, into bald Latin as well as plain English, let them know that I am a bit of a pedant. Some of it needs a Latin guise, to cover its roughness. The critic may deride, _si placet_, and the lady _skip_, if she like.

EPIGRAM.--_By Julianus Egyptius, whose poverty secured him against robbers._

Aedibus ex aliis, fures, vos quaerite lucrum.
His foribus custos pauperies mea erit.

Expect not here, ye thieves, your lust to sate,
For need, strong portress, watcheth at the gate.

Here is an epitaph. Upon whom? Euripides. By whom. Thucydides. Read it. It is instructive. The subject and the author are dead; but each sleeps under a stately tomb. Their works are their mausolea. But the idea--is it not affecting? Twenty-three centuries agone, a great historian weeping over the grave of a splendid poet!

Greece is thy tomb; but Sparta holds thy clay,
For there thy life beheld its latest day.
Athens--the Greece of Greece--first gave thee breath,
Dear to the muses, and renowned in death.

AN EPITAPH, _which Hippo ordered to be placed on his monument_.

Lo! Hippo’s tomb, whom Fate, by death, has made
Peer to the gods in their immortal shade.

_By Rufinus, to Melite_--Anglicè, _Fanny--a very pretty girl_.

Lumina habes Junonia pulchra, manusque Minervae,
Pectora (proh!) Veneris, atque pedes Thetidos.
Felix, qui viderit, qui te audieritque, beatus:
_Semi_deus tui amans, _omni_deus tui vir.

The word _omni_deus I claim as my own. I made it myself. _Noli tangere._

Thy face is brightened by fair Juno’s eyes,
And Pallas lends thee her immortal hand;
Thy breasts, like those of Paphian Venus, rise;
Thy feet, like Thetis’, trip across the sand.
Ah! happy he, that gazes on thy face,
And he twice-bless’d, that listens to thy voice;
Thy lover, sure, is of angelic race,
And--a bright god--thy husband may rejoice.

_An address to Mammon, by Timocrates, the Rhodian._

Vellem, vellem, caece Plute,
Nec in terra, nec in alto,
Tua forma cerneretur.
Tartarum autem inhabitare,
Acheronta teque oportet.
Ex te namque prava nobis
Enasci omnia videntur.

Sightless Mammon, may’st thou be
Neither on the earth nor sea;
But be thou condemned to dwell
In the deepest depth of hell.
For, thou eyeless god, from thee
Springeth all our misery.

Here we have Plato--the philosopher--tilting it in verse.

_To Aristophanes, the comedian._

The Graces, seeking long to find
Some temple, free from all decay,
Chose, Aristophanes, thy mind,
As that, which cannot pass away.

_To Sappho._

Falsely they say the Muses are but nine--
A tenth is Lesbian Sappho--the divine.

In the following little _morceau_, the frog is considered as a priest to the Nymphs, whose particular jurisdiction was over streams and fountains.

_To a brazen frog, set up by a traveler, as an offering to the Nymphs._

Thee--the Nymphs’ servant--lover of the shower--
Moist songster, dwelling in the shallow springs--
The traveler, forming with mimetic power,
A brazen offering, to the temple brings.
For to the wanderer thine amphibious note
Forth from thy dewy lodge, all timely, rung,
And led his fainting footsteps to the spot,
Where from the earth the gushing fountain sprung.

_To a statue of Pan--the shepherd-god--carved with a pipe in his mouth._

Seat thee, O Pan, beneath this vocal tree,
Whose high leaves whisper, as the west-winds rise.
And by my gurgling springs thy pipe shall be
A lull of magic to my closing eyes.

_To a statue of Venus, at Cnidus, by Praxiteles._

To view her image at her Cnidian shrine.
The Paphian goddess through the billows came,
Looked long upon the lineaments divine,
And gazed, in rapture, at the faultless frame.
“Where did the sculptor view my naked form
With gaze unlawful?” Cythereia cried;
“’Tis the cold chisel makes the marble warm,
Like me, when Ares for my beauty sighed.”

Reader! should we meet again, be it kindly.

HERMENEUTES.

“OUR MAGAZINE.”

What was contrived by the intellectual skill of many, has been accomplished by the physical energies of a few, and the first number of the “Yale Literary Magazine,” is now before the public. But, dropping this Johnsonian magnificence, indulgent reader, so little consonant with the tremulous anxiety with which we pen these closing lines--how are you pleased? As you have glanced from one article to another, till your eye meets this last page, has your brow been gathering a frown, or has a pleasant smile lit up your features? In either case, but especially the former, we pray you to remember, that in preparing this number, we have, in some respects, labored at a disadvantage. Our utter inexperience in the mechanical portion of the work--the distracting influence of the intervening vacation--with some other petty troubles, will, with your indulgence, account for some of the errors, which your sagacity has, doubtless, ere this discovered.

A word or two, now, of self-gratulation.--Our _prospects_ are encouraging. Our subscription list fully equals our expectations--communications are abundant--(alas! too much so, one might say, looking at the melancholy number of rejections,) and we have hardly heard one croaking voice, foreboding failure. We are confident in the assertion, that the future numbers will be superior in external appearance, and not a whit inferior in literary merit.

To those who have furnished communications for the present number, we render our sincere thanks, and request a continuance of their favors. To _all_ we would extend a general invitation, ‘to send us pieces’--asking of each ‘according to his ability,’--from the gay trifling of wit, to the sober morality of wisdom--in prose, or in verse--in long, or in short.

We were prevented, by divers mischances, from issuing this number on the day it was due; and the same reason will account for the absence of an intended engraving from the cover.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The communication, signed A, contains many thoughts of peculiar poetical beauty, yet we regret to see, here and there, blemishes, which materially affect its merits as a whole, and which none but the author can properly remedy. A careful correction would do away those redundancies, with which it is now encumbered, and render it of more finished excellence. For the present, therefore, it is deferred.

Tuum Carmen, Grai, _‘limae labore’ deficiens_, “in cineres citissime redegimus” ☞ ‘cinis ad cinerem.’

Z’s manuscript is too _extensive_ for our limited space, and also too obscure for our mental and bodily vision.

The “Musings of Adonis” are also among the “great rejected.” To use his own language, “Their beauty and fragrance,(?)

“Long since in sad silence have flown,
Like thistle-down, far on the gale!”

“Omega” shall receive a place corresponding with his signature, by the by, one most appropriate, and withal, a fine typical emblem of the merits of his performance.

The perusal of the first couplet of the “Apostrophe to the Moon” sufficed us.--“Look!--lo! behold!”