Chapter L: Sonnet

’Tis beautiful to-day. There’s not a cloud
To mar this sweet serenity of sky:
In Beauty’s arms all nature seems to lie:
Earth smiles, as though the Deity had bowed
To wrap her form in loveliness, and crowd
The air with spirits of the waking spring.
How meet that man his gift of homage bring,
With Nature praise, and be no longer proud!
Oh, lovely day of rest! how sweetly thou
With joys of Heaven canst fill the thirsting soul!
As out from rocks the gushing fountains roll,
So from the heart of flinty hardness, now
Does burst, unbidden, the pure, fervent prayer,
And, with the morning dew, ascend the viewless air.

K.

FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY.

Scene--_An Orange Grove._

_Enter_ Muza.

_Muza, solus._
Hark! heard I not her step, or was it nought
But Fancy’s wild creation? Ah! tis gone,
And still she’s absent. Ye odor-breathing groves,
Aslant whose dewy bloom the virgin moon
Pours her mild radiance, what though ye are fair,
And rich in all the fragrance nature yields?
Ye bring no balm to soothe my anxious mind--
But soft! she comes--my Isabel--

_Enter_ Isabel.

_Isabel._
Oh, Muza! Muza! pardon, I beseech you,
This rash, misguided step, that unbecomes
My virgin modesty and maiden pride.
Muza, I’ve erred. Oh let me now depart;
’Tis not a fitting time.

_Muza._
Say why not, dear maid? This is the hour
I’ve longed, I’ve prayed for; and thank Allah now
’Tis come at last. (_Kneeling._)
Sweet Isabel, my heart is wholly thine.
I love thee more than life. Nay, do not turn
Those lovely eyes away; still let them beam
With gentleness on me. List, dear one, list--

_Isabel._
Cease, Muza, cease. These glowing words of love
Savor too much of thine own sunny clime,
That makes the tenderest passions of the heart
Burn with a fiercer flame. But ’tis not meet
That we should hold such converse at this hour;
And death awaits thee, Muza, if thou’rt found
Within these groves.

_Muza._
Isabel,
Is then my safety of concern to thee?
And does the pang of fear thrill through thy breast
For Muza’s sake?

_Isabel._
Oh yes.
Thinkest thou that Isabel can look with coldness
Upon the brave preserver of her honor?
Thy welfare, trust me,
Shall ever be the object of my care;
And still the tender tie of gratitude
Shall bind my heart to thee.

_Muza._
Say, dear one, say the tender tie of love.

_Isabel._
Urge me not, Muza, urge me not too far.
But come, I claim a promise: wilt thou not
Fulfil it now? I long to hear thee tell
The wild, romantic history of thy life;--
For such it must be, if I can surmise
Aught from the hints which thou hast thrown around thee.

_Muza._
I will obey thee, Isabel,
Though I would rather pour into thine ear
The breathings of my soul, than now recount
A dull detail of cold and lifeless facts.
Know, then, I spring not from the Moorish race,
But Christian blood bounds freely through these veins.
No more I know; the secret of my birth
Is wrapt in mystery;
But yet within my mind faint traces live,
When the paternal hand upon this head
Rested with fondness, and a mother’s eye,
Radiant with love, beamed brightly on my heart;
But then, there comes a blank in memory’s page:
And next, dark visions flit before my mind
Of bloodshed, death and slaughter, while to view
The swarth and fiery visage of the Moor
Starts up, attended with appalling horrors.
A truce to memory. What I am I know;
Thou askest, and shalt know. A warrior bold
I dwell upon the banks of fair Xenil,
Where that bright river, with its winding stream,
Laves proud Granada’s walls. Ask Muza’s name
Within Alhambra’s towers. ’Tis he whose heart
Is boldest in the fight, whose daring valor
Oft sweeps the plains of fertile Andalusia.

_Isabel._
Oh, boast not of these actions, where the cross,
The sacred symbol of my holy faith,
Bows down before the crescent. Tell me, Muza,
Does not thy heart reproach thee when this sword
Is stained with Christian blood--perhaps the blood
Of friends and kindred, who would gladly lose
Their lives to rescue thee?

_Muza._
No, Isabel. The ties of blood are severed;
The tie of gratitude alone can bind
My heart to others. Shall I not live for those
Who’ve fostered in this breast the spark of honor,
And roused my soul to deeds of noble daring?
Aye, the Moor!
Though your proud chivalry may curl the lip
In haughty scorn, claims gratitude from me,
And shall this be uncancelled? No, by Allah!
His cause is mine, his holy faith is mine--
But did I say the ties of gratitude
Alone could bind my heart? Ah! there I erred.
There is another bond still closer, dearer,
Entwining with the very strings of life,
A bond I would not break to gain the world--
Canst thou not guess it, Isabel? Ah, yes;
That timid, down-cast eye, that tell-tale glance
Unfolds the mystery. Strange, indeed, ’twould be,
If the bright maid that twined the silken bonds,
Knew not her captive. Would to heaven I knew
What noble parents, happy in their love,
Possess so fair a daughter!

_Isabel._
Muza,
I know not what to say; my fearful heart
Is full of dread forebodings for the future.
I see thee now in arms against my country,--
A scoffer and despiser of my faith;
And with thy hand yet stained in Christian blood,
Thou com’st to woo me! Alas! what can I do?
I cannot hate thee; gratitude forbids it.
Heaven aid me in the conflict!
But seek not, Muza, I beseech thee, seek not
The knowledge of my rank. ’Twould only widen
The breach of separation. Will’t not suffice
To know that in the breast of Isabel
The cherished name of Muza ne’er shall die?
Farewell! (_Going._)

_Muza._
One moment stay; we ne’er may meet again.
(_Exit Isabel._)
She’s gone, and nought but solitude remains.
Angel of hope! come on thy downy wings,
Descend and be my comforter and guide!

(_Enter a Moorish guard._)

_Guard._ My lord!
The torches of a Spanish band are flashing
Upon the westward of the orange grove!

_Muza._ Away, then! follow me! (_Exeunt omnes._)

THE COFFEE CLUB.

No. 1.

“Of all the several ways of beginning a book which, are now in practice throughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing it is the best;--I’m sure it is the most religious--for I begin with writing the first sentence, and trust to Almighty God for the second.”--_Tristram Shandy._

Reader,

Should you, on any one of these gloomy spring evenings, chance to traverse the college yard, between the hours of nine and ten, among the many glowing windows, with which the sombre buildings are then radiant, you may notice two, shining with transcendent brilliancy. Of the situation of these windows, and the occasion of so intense a glow, as to distinguish them from the dull light diffused by the solitary study-lamp, it suits not with our purpose to tell thee more than this: 1st, that they occupy a central position in that building, which, in college mythos, holds the rank of the third heaven; (to south middle we can assign no gentler appellative than _purgatory_;) 2nd, that, in the day-time, they admit the light _to_, and in the night season emit it _from_, one of the most literary, best furnished, and withall best peopled rooms, which our well stocked University can boast; and 3d, that at the hour above specified, within this room are assembled four as merry, yet thoughtful fellows, as your eye (especially if you be a little cynical) would desire to look upon. But to speak of them in the high terms which they deserve, would expose me to the charge of base flattery in the case of three, and arrant egotism for the fourth. Further than this, curious reader, except so far as may serve to elucidate the characters of these Dii superi, we shall never communicate.

But, stop--my better judgment whispers me, that ’twould be safer to satiate thy curiosity, at once, than have thee continually peering about and asking troublesome questions. Enter, then, this mysterious room--erect thy crest--quicken thy memory, for it must serve thee in good stead. Thou hast free permission,

‘Each corner to search, and each nook to scan.’

Well, you have made your bow with such a trigonometrical flourish, as proves indisputably your claim to a rectilineal descent from the _Angles_--if I intended a pun, may I eat a dinner of cabbage and quicksilver, and then, with my heels higher than my head, take a siesta beneath a Nubian sun on “Damien’s bed of steel;” (Dante would have chuckled over so original a punishment, for the embellishment of his Inferno.) Now you are in the room don’t open your mouth with such a convulsive gape. Did you never see a classical studio before? Drop your arms by your sides with perpendicular propriety, and, if you wish to note the aspect of the room, and its occupants, do it by quiet, occasional glances, and not by an Hibernian stare. Take a seat--you have done it indeed, and with a most rheumatic grace; one would think you had been studying the ‘Poetry of motion’ all your days. If you wish to take an inventory of the novelties you see, “_Accipe jam tabulas_”--pull out your memorandum book,--“_detur nobis locus, hora, custodes_”--sit down, and take your time about it, but be careful,--“_videamus, uter plus scribere possit_”--see how fast you can write; that’s what my old _paedotribe_ used to call a _free translation_.

But we must hasten to a description of the room, and its contents.

Item. Your infernal extremities are sublevated by a carpet, somewhat homely, but thick and warm, while from an open stove a blazing pile of ‘divina Hickoria’ (as Virgil would call it) diffuses a salutary warmth.

Item. Abutting upon either window, stand two tall and open book-cases, “filled to the brim of contentment.” Beside the dull and thumb-worn volumes of the ‘college course,’ which constitute but a small portion of their burden, you will find a choice selection from the infinity of books, which the wit of man has perpetrated. The stolidity of wisdom, and the levity of wit, equally find there a place.

Item. In the centre of the room rests a substantial table, around whose broad circumference an astral lamp sheds its fluent splendors upon a literary chaos, where taste and fancy have collected their aliment,

‘In embryon atoms
Light-armed, or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow’--

The meditations of Hervey, and the sparkling humor of Butler,--the regal Virgil,

‘With the sounding line--
The long, majestic march, and energy divine,’--

the smart antithesis of Martial--the luscious flow of Ovid, and the delicate indelicacy of Terence, and the ‘curiosa felicitas’ of Catullus--(the phrase was first applied to Horace.) But we are exhausting our critical knowledge, and thy patience--suffice it to say, that, strown in elegant confusion, lie a motley assemblage--Milton and the Comic Almanac--Coleridge and the President’s Message--Kent’s Commentaries between the two volumes of Rienzi--Shakspeare and John Bunyan--the Yale Literary Magazine and Tristram Shandy, open at the page whence we extracted our motto.

Item. Stretching along the back side of the room, is a sofa, of most dyspeptic virtues--hard by, is an arm-chair, expansive enough for an alderman--and next, beneath a mirror, stands a dressing table, which, besides the appliances of adscititious beauty, _eau de cologne_, and “thine incomparable oil, Macassar,” supports a load of cups and spoons, and other paraphernalia for the fruition of that rich beverage,

‘Which Jove now drinks, since Hebe spilt his nectar,
And Juno swears most bravely does affect her.’

At the same time, on the coals, is sweating and snoring a huge pot, (the _conica tridentata_ of naturalists,) like an uneasy slumberer, ‘_flagrantis atroce horâ caniculæ_’--that is, about fly-time. Pray, reader, remark my classic taste, which I have thus thrice developed for your amusement.

We have thus slightly touched upon some of the most striking phenomena which meet your eye. The living appurtenances of the room demand a more careful and individual notice.

Close to one side of the stove, with his feet on the fender, and his body ‘squat like a toad,’ in the easy embrace of an arm chair, sits a singular personage, known to thee, at least, reader, by the fanciful cognomen of Apple-Dumpling. He bears upon his plump visage and stout frame, the impress of sensuality, struggling with, and almost triumphing over, a good natural portion of intellect and refinement. As you see him now, with a cigar in his mouth, and a volume of Lamb’s in his hand--equally relishing the beauties of both--gazing now and then, with pleasant anticipation gleaming in his eye, upon the bubbling, hissing fountain, at his feet--and again with intellectual delight, joining in the keen raillery of his companions--from this short sketch, we say, you may divine his character. His personal appearance is no less queer than his mental organization. He is beneath the middle height, but owing to an odd habit, which he has, of bobbing his head up and down, like a startled bullfrog, his height is incessantly vibrating, between five feet, and five feet six. His hair seems constantly electrified, and points in all directions, like glory in the primer. A low forehead, thick lips, and a dull face, redeemed only by the brightness of his eye, are the only peculiarities, which deserve our notice. The worst thing about Apple is, that he is an inveterate punster, and plumes himself on his proficiency in this execrable art. You can always tell when to expect his artillery of wit. He gives utterance to a sudden, energetic whiff, and knocks the ashes fiercely from his cigar, whilst from his kindling eye there darts a quick premonitory flash. He is frequently placed under our satirical dissecting knife, and is, certainly, at times very ridiculous--yet, with all his oddities and failings, we love Apple, ‘even as the apple of our eye,’ and should as soon think of throwing away our coffee-pot, as of excluding him from our Quartette. Note with careful eye the individual next him. He is an exquisite in personal appearance and mental conformation. What ‘Poor Yorick’ said of Dr. Slop and his pony, ‘that he never saw a better fit in his life,’ might with equal propriety be predicated of this gentleman’s mind and body. ‘Il Pulito’--for such is his appellative, drawn from his own favorite Italian--possesses all the accomplishments of person and intellect, which are essential to the perfection of a fine gentleman in this most fastidious age. He has a _very general_ knowledge of ancient literature, and can _talk_ fluently about French, Spanish, Italian, and what not; but should one descend to _particulars_, he is most wofully ignorant, or, as he calls it, _forgetful_. Dante, and Tasso, and Schiller, and Richter, are names ever on his lips; but of any just conception of their character, and their works, he is totally innocent. In truth, his high pretensions will hardly bear a strict examination, except in one particular. His knowledge of English literature is thorough and extensive. He has drunk deep of those well-springs of beauty and truth, the ‘Old English prose writers,’ lingered long about the haunts of our vernacular Castalia, and plunged over head and ears in the muddy pool of ‘transient literature.’ He is at no loss for an opinion--most commonly a correct one, too, upon Lord Bolingbroke, or Captain Marryatt--gentle Philip Sydney, or Porcupine Cobbett--the cacophonous Chaucer, or the sweetly sentimental ‘L. E. L.’ With such attainments, and a certain seductive grace in language and manners, Il Pulito is a most agreeable _collaborateur_ in our nocturnal toils. Were we to omit altogether a passing notice of his _external_ recommendations, and a sly hint at some of his ‘labors of love,’ he would never forgive us! for on these he prides himself incontinently. I would not hint that all his self-complacency is absorbed in dress--yet he certainly _peacocks himself_, as the Italians say, when he throws back the collar of his coat, displaying thereby a fair round chest, from the middle of whose glossy, _dipectoral_ envelope glitters the golden symbol of _craniossal_ love. Dancing, music, drawing, and all the other _equivocal_ graces of ‘the gentleman,’ are as ‘familiar things’ to him. He can give you a masterly criticism on a pretty foot, or a well turned arm, and has caused alarming symptoms of a disease of the heart in more than one of ‘Nature’s fair defects.’ I have often known the fellow fling his dark locks around his brow in clustering beauty, and saunter with _unstudied_ carelessness among some half dozen of his fair acquaintance, while the graceful dignity of his carriage, the significance of his tone, and the eloquence of his eye, sent to the innocent young heart a disturbing thrill, and called to the cheek a warm flush of unconscious pleasure. Then, too, how perfect he is at turning a sonnet. Il Pulito is a fine tasteful fellow, with a slight touch of the dandy. In our coterie, however, he keeps his coxcombry, and his love affairs pretty much to himself; for we would be loth to admit any feminine sentimentalism, to mar our hearty, masculine hilarity.

On the opposite side of the stove sits the immortal Ego. Shall I describe him--i. e. myself? I will, and that, too, in a manner equally free from vanity and familiarity; for I have a respect for myself not much inferior to that of the polite Spaniard, who took off his hat whenever he spoke _of_ or _to_ himself. But to spare my feelings, which are like the _sensitive Mimosa_--oh! simile most original and sweet!--I must recur to the third person. His name is Nescio Quod. His face when alone is grave and thoughtful; in company, it is jolly and careless, yet crossed here and there by lines of serious reflection, which, on the whole, form the general expression of his countenance. He, as well as Il Pulito, has dipped into almost every thing, and gone deeply into some--he has read extensively and foolishly, and is, very naturally, infected with the itch of quoting. He is apt to mistake strangeness of expression for originality of thought, and when he has revived some obsolete phrase, or brought forth some new-coined word, to which there are already a dozen synonymes, he hugs himself as fondly as if he had struck out a brilliant witticism. He is vague and anomalous--every thing except wise--sometimes misanthrope, sometimes pedant, sometimes a musing poetico-philosopher, but always his own miscellaneous self. He is fond of books, as much from their generic nature, as from any specific merits they may possess, and has always some conclusive reason for thinking the last book presented to his notice, the best he ever saw in his life. Is the book an old one? ’Tis the voice of antiquity--a message from the past. Is the work fresh from the literary mint? It breathes of novelty--its odor is refreshing. He is a very fluent writer, and for this reason, though by no means the most elegant of the four, he has been selected to commit to paper the annals of our doings.

The last of our coterie is called by mortals--no matter what; among the Gods his name is Il Tristo. His soft hair hangs about his face “unkempt” and tangled. His eye is faded, his cheek colorless. Across his uneasy forehead flits momently, from dark to light, each shade of passion.

“And o’er that fair, broad brow are wrought
The intersected lines of thought--
Those furrows which the burning share
Of sorrow plows untimely there.”

Now his face is dark with some bitter remembrance--now softened by some tender thought--now lightened by some glorious purpose. Tristo is pure and passionate. But his thin, light frame is too weak for the agitations of his burning spirit. So far as I can learn, he has been from boyhood the child of the feelings--“chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies.” He has lived in an artificial world--a world of poetry and romance. In spite of his good taste, his excitable feelings and craving wishes lead him to dwell upon fictions of wild and outrageous extravagance. This is not a world for the gentle or wayward in heart, and Tristo’s plans and fancies are daily crossed and crushed. Indeed, I sometimes think that his heart-strings have been jarred by a terrible concussion, and will never vibrate more, save in tones of mournful music. When in society, he usually represses his moodiness, and his thoughts come forth with a fluent brightness, which is purified and enhanced by their melancholy tinge. In our company he is more frank and cheerful than elsewhere, and will, at times, by his eloquence of feeling, call forth our sympathies and excite our admiration. He never speaks heartlessly--his literary opinions, his views of society, are all colored by his feelings--and he will condemn a worthless publication, or espouse the cause of a favorite author, with as much earnestness as if he were a party in the case. His vehemence adds greatly to the life of our discussions, and his caustic, yet good-natured wit, to the merriment of our lighter moods.

Thou hast by this time a clear idea of the room, _its_ occupants and _their_ occupation. Now do the amanuensis.----

“A fine essay that,” said Dumpling, as he threw down a volume of Elia, accompanying the movement with a prolonged emission of breath and smoke. “A masterly essay, that upon Shakspeare. (Puff.) Lamb is, or _was_, by far the best critic of the nineteenth century, not excepting Kit North himself. Wilson rants too much. He leads us all over creation for treasures which he might as well have given us at first. But the deep, quiet Lamb--(Puff, puff, puff.) By the way, how advances the coffee, Nescio?” Nescio roared, Pulito stroked his chin and laughed, while a quick, bright smile beamed over the face of Tristo, at the characteristic transition.

“Why,” said Nescio, “I think it has reached its maximum of excellence.”

“An excellent maxim that remark of yours,” said Apple, complacently, thinking he saw a handle for a pun.

_Nescio._ “Oh! Dumpling, don’t be witty, at least in that line. Addison used to say that punning was the lowest species of wit.”

_Apple._ “Addison was an ass. (Puff.) Infund some coffee _instanter_. How beautifully clear! ’Tis pure as Heaven.”

_Nescio._ “Yes! I’ll wager my Kent’s Commentaries against Nat. Willis’s poems, that not the _ordinaires_ of London, the _restaurateurs_ of Paris, or the _cafès_ of Madrid, can furnish better.”

_Pulito._ “Ha! ha! One would think from that long array of ‘instances,’ that you were really a ‘man of travel,’ and were perfectly at home in St. James’ Square or the Rue de St. Honorie.”

_Nescio._ “I have heard of them, which is just as well.”

_Apple._ “Do you know, friend Quod, that we do wrong in drinking coffee so transparent?”

_Nescio._ “No! how, I pray? Instruct us.”

_Apple._ “Why, we ought always to see the _grounds_ of what we imbibe.”

_Pulito._ “Oh! spare us, incorrigible wretch. ‘Wilt never cease?’”

_Nescio._ “How long were you loading that gun, Apple?”

_Apple._ “Rest you content, _fair_ sir. ’Twas an _improvisation_--a direct inspiration from Mercury.”

_Nescio._ “The _mercury_ must have been some degrees below zero, I should guess.”

_Apple._ “Oh! most miserable! (Puff.) Physician, heal thyself. You are like the man that preached against dishonesty with a stolen shilling in his pocket.”

_Pulito._ “Cease this ‘childish treble’--take another cup of coffee, and then tell me what you think of ‘Tristram Shandy,’ which I have found lying here on the sofa, ‘dejected and alone.’”

_Apple._ “Think of it? (Puff.) What should I think of it, but that it’s the finest book in the world? I prefer it to both Swift and Smollett.”

_Nescio._ “Well, now, in candor, I do not like it very much, nor did I ever. I have sometimes stared at his strange conceits, and laughed at his queer conjunctions, and been, in a few instances, actually ravished by his beauty and his _naturalness_. But, then, look at the astounding proofs of his thievish propensities--at his plagiarisms from Rabelais, which were traced out by his English bloodhound; and, whether original or borrowed, look at his tedious and fruitless wanderings, enlivened, it is true, by conceptions as beautiful as they are new, yet putting one out of patience and out of breath.”

_Apple._ (Puff.)

“‘Cease: no more.
You smell this business with a sense as cold
As is a dead man’s nose.’

I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Quod. You and I must part if you say any thing prejudicial to my beloved Laurence. Shakspeare, Fielding and Sterne are my favorites _par eminence_, and ‘let my tongue cleave,’ (puff)--‘let my right hand forget,’ (puff)--if I do not defend them till--my last cigar--that is, in a quiet way, by swearing to my belief, which is as firm as the laws of the Medes, or the determination of a pig. As for logic, hang your silly syllogisms--hem!--I would not _argue_ the point, if Sterne were my grandfather.”

_Nescio._ “Well, if you will not defend him, perhaps Tristo will. What say you?”

_Tristo._ “Oh! There are parts and passages of glorious beauty! The episodes of the Monk, Maria, and the dead Ass--I confess it--draw tears at the bare remembrance.”

_Nescio._ “Yes--but those are in the Sentimental Journey.”

_Tristo._ “Right. It is some years since I read it. I have of late been absorbed in poetry, wild fiction, and idle thinkings. Friend Pulito, however, if you can waken him from his trance, will, doubtless, be glad to enter the list with you--lance in rest.”

_Nescio._ “He must speak for himself. Come, Pulito, what think you of the proposal?”

_Pulito._ (Musing.) “Why, I have hardly thought, yet, of _proposing_, though she’s a deucedly pretty girl--Phoebus! what a face, and what a dewy lip!”

_Apple._ (Chuckling.) “You and she then might play a fine _dew-wet_ together.”

_Pulito._ (Still gazing in his coffee-cup.) “True--she does sing well--and then, such glossy hair, and that eye of jet.”

_Apple._ “From that eye, then, we might expect to see a fine _jet d’eau_.” [At this last discharge, Pulito was thoroughly awakened, while the others wished they had been asleep.]

_Nescio._ “Now you’re awake, Pulito, you will, perhaps, answer my challenge.”

_Pulito._ “Your challenge, my dear fellow? I heard none. But, if it related, as Paley says, ‘either remotely or immediately’ to the drinking of coffee, I’m ready for you ‘when and where thou wilt, lad.’”

_Tristo._ “Pulito is either strangely forgetful, or ridiculously perverse to-night. Let us enlighten the fellow. While your eyes were in ‘dim suffusion veiled,’ and you were _reverising_ upon ‘sweet seventeen,’ Nescio has offered Apple and myself, pitched battle over Sterne’s ‘Tristram Shandy.’ Apple refuses to fight, being like Knickerbocker’s fumigating warriors, more valorous with the pipe, than the sword, while I retire, inglorious, knowing nothing of this ‘bone of contention.’ Quod, who is determined to have ‘war of words,’ next offers you the challenge.”

_Pulito._ “Your pardon, Quod, for my inattention, and thanks to you, Tristo, for your kind mediation. By the dark-eyed houries of Mahomet’s heaven--by the beauty congregated in the harem of the Sultan, (Pooh, interjected Dumpling,)--I never--what was I going to say?--Oh! I never felt better disposed in my life to do literary battle--for I have read the book through, within the last month, and, faith, I believe I introduced the subject myself. I’ll uphold the _old_ novelists against all gainsayers and Bulwerites.”

_Nescio._ “I do defy thee, stripling. As I myself once said, (rather foolishly though,)

‘I wouldn’t give the peeling of an onion
For all they wrote, from Fielding back to Bunyan.’

The _old_ novelists against Bulwer! Why, man, Bulwer is a genius--the _soul_ of Wit, Philosophy, and Poetry.”

“Bulwer a poet,” said Tristo--“have you read the Siamese Twins?” “Bulwer a wit,” said Apple--“in all his novels, he has no more than ten puns to a volume, on the average.” “Bulwer a philosopher,” said Pulito--“Oh! shade of Locke!”

What further open maledictions or sly hits, the ‘favorite of the periodical press’ and circulating libraries, might have received is uncertain.--Just then a shout of _Fire_, which rung through the reechoing halls of the building, roused our sympathies, and joining in the cry, we rushed from the room.

Ego.

THE FAIRIES’ BOWER.

When the stars are watching high in Heaven,
And silence has thrown, with a magical power,
Her mystic spell o’er the face of even,
Thou may’st not come to the Fairies’ bower.

Though the star of thy fate shine lovely and bright,
And smile like a seraph just loosed from its sphere,
Yet visit not thou that bower by night,
For the spirits of evil are hovering there.

Though the seraph smile, and the voice of Love,
Should call thee forth to indulge its dream,--
Oh! go not there! though the moon from above,
Should beckon thee forth with her quivering beam.

For the flowers that grow in that silent spot,
With their lovely hues, are laden with tears,
And the birds that sing in that Fairy grot,
Will hasten away when the evening appears.

And the smile of Love will lose its light,
And the voice of the lover will lose its tone,--
And the stars that lumine the gloom of night,
Will cease to smile from their ruby throne.

And the star of thy fate will cease to shine,--
And the flowers will weep a dewy shower;
And the smile of joy will desert its shrine,
When thou strayest at eve in the Fairies’ bower.

Then, go not thou to the Fairies’ bower,
When evening is drawing her curtains round;
For the spirits that rule the midnight hour,
Are tripping at eve on that haunted ground.

H.

_April 1st, 1836._

THE INFLUENCE OF MORAL FEELING UPON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.

Essay No. I.

By moral feeling, we mean a recognition of those great principles of right and wrong, which form the basis of our relation to each other as social beings. When it is exhibited in our varied character of members of a community, citizens of a commonwealth, and brethren of the human family, we give it the specific names of benevolence, patriotism, and philanthropy. Since then, these relations are so comprehensive, and so necessarily blended and interwoven with all our habits of thought and action, the influence of this feeling must extend to most, if not to all the powers of the mind. It will be our object in this series of essays, to demonstrate this influence as affecting the pleasures of the imagination.

By the benignity of our Creator, we have been endowed with the powers of taste and imagination, to throw a charm over the ruggedness of human life, and bring in a thousand tributes of enjoyment to cheer our hearts in our journeyings through this ‘vale of tears.’ These pleasures, as long as the powers themselves are uncorrupted by vice, and their purity free from the taint of unhallowed passions, are of a kind the most pure and innocent. We believe it to be an immutable law, in all the operations of the mind, that the exercise of our virtuous affections, as far as it is carried, induces the highest possible degree of happiness which we are capable of feeling. Our most exquisite enjoyments in Literature and the Fine Arts, will be found to receive their origin from something which most directly calls up virtuous associations; and in the beauties of the natural world, those scenes prove the most delightful, which elevate our contemplations to the infinite perfections of the ‘great First Cause.’

We would remark, that the influence of moral feeling tends to heighten the pleasure which we derive from Eloquence and Poetry. The pleasure which flows from these sources belongs to the highest and purest order of intellectual enjoyments. They bear with them a voice that wakes the soul to intense interest, now throwing over its powers the inspiration of sublimity, and now floating around it in tones as mellow and gentle as the last whisper of a summer breeze. Who, as he has listened to the voice of the living speaker, and been borne along on the full tide of eloquence at the will of the moving spirit, has not felt his heart swell within him to a loftier expansion, and his bosom throb with the pulsations of a new and more glorious intelligence? Who, as his imagination has drank in the sweet and thrilling strains of the poet’s lyre, and his own spirit has caught the glow of his burning aspirations, has not felt a yearning to soar above and beyond the cold, sluggish atmosphere of sense, and mingle in the fancied existence portrayed so winningly before him? There is something in the ideal but splendid creations of poetry, embodying in its images all that is sublime, and all that is beautiful in the world of thought and of nature, that must ever strike within us a kindred chord. It bids the dim and far off past roll back its tide of vanished years, and centuries of almost forgotten ages pass again, with their memorials, across the theatre of existence. Palmyra rises before us from her ruin of ages, and her long deserted streets are thronged once more by the congregated strangers from a thousand lands. Rome, too, shakes off the yoke of Goth and Vandal, and resumes her proud title of ‘mistress of the world.’ Again the lofty Capitol is reared on the Tarpeian rock, the long and splendid triumphal procession enters the gates of the temple of Jupiter, and Rome is once more the ‘eternal city.’ Then we turn toward the classic shores of Greece, and Athens, the ‘mother of the arts,’ opens her splendors before us. The stately Parthenon, sublime in its proportions and chastely beautiful in its Doric simplicity, still surmounts the summit of the Acropolis. We roam with Plato through the shades of Academia; we stray with Socrates along the banks of the Ilissus; we enter the crowded forum, and listen to the soul-thrilling eloquence of the ‘prince of orators.’ We need not waste words to prove, that to the man of sensibility, there is a rich repast of intellectual luxuries in such exercises of the imagination. But rich as it is, there is one thing which can bestow a still higher flavor. It is only when the orator rises in the kindling majesty of virtue, when the soul of a patriot lightens in the flashing eye, when the wrongs of the oppressed pour the flush of noble indignation over his brow, and a nation’s voice is heard in the thunders of his eloquence, that we can know the full power of his appeals, and receive our most exquisite gratification. For by the very constitution of our mind, our deepest sympathies can be excited only when the holier and lovelier sensibilities of our being are awakened by the exhibition of moral beauty. There is something so commanding, so godlike, in this subservience of great talents to high and noble ends, that while the graces and the fire of the orator delight the fancy and the taste, all our better feelings are enlisted in the purity and exaltation of his purpose. Thus also with the poet--it is only when a spirit from above has breathed the inspiration over him, and his harp is tuned to the minstrelsy of Holiness,--when in the glories of antiquity, the ravages of time, and the mighty revolutions of empires, he leads us, with tender sublimity of feeling, to trace the wonder workings of that wisdom which ‘sees the end from the beginning’--that the imagination revels in the fullness of its enjoyment.