Chapter I: Front Matter

THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

CONDUCTED BY THE =STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE=.

“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque Yalenses Cantabunt Soboles, unanimique Patres.”

NO. IV.

JUNE, 1836.

NEW HAVEN: HERRICK & NOYES.

MDCCCXXXVI.

CONTENTS.

Page. Truth, 129 A Father to his Child, 132 Sir Thomas More’s Works, 133 I Love Thee, 139 The Coffee Club, No. II. 140 Ambition--A Fragment, 150 The Influence of Moral Feeling on the Pleasures of the Imagination, No. II. 151 The Seminole, 154 The Outlaw and His Daughter, 155 I would not Flatter Thee, 161 Ruminations of a Bovine Gentleman, 163 A Rhyming Mood, 165 Greek Anthology, No. IV. 166

THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

VOL. I. JUNE, 1836. NO. 4.

TRUTH.

What is truth? “Truth,” says a standard logician, “signifies nothing but the joining or separating of signs, as the things signified by them do agree or disagree with one another;” that is, in making propositions. These are divided into mental and verbal. Truth then consists in ideal or verbal sentences, or, in other words, in a certain arrangement of ideas and words. This view of the subject may answer for a mere definition; but it is not satisfactory. We are disposed to make truth consist in _things_, and not alone in their representatives. It is the reality of things; using the term thing as it is, the most universal of any in the language, including every object of sense or conception, objects past, present, and future, objects terrestrial and celestial, objects of all space and all duration, objects possible and impossible; in a word, every-thing. There are propositions concerning things; we have ideas of things, and things themselves exist independently of both. The verbal statement, and the mental apprehension, may accord with the reality of the thing, and be true, or figuratively speaking, the truth. But can it be strictly said that the truth consists in them, and them only?

But this train of remark avails little in resolving the momentously practical question, What is truth? To give this a reply worthy of itself, would lead us beyond our present design, and each reader must be left to judge for himself.

“Truth is consistent with itself.” This is a common saying, and regarded as axiomatic in its nature. It is not intended for the identical proposition, Truth is truth; but that whatever is truth in one subject, can in no way be rendered nugatory or false, by what is truth in any other subject; and that one truth in the same subject is not weakened or diminished by any other truth in the same subject. Truth, as before intimated, may be considered in a three-fold aspect; in itself; in regard to the verbal propositions embracing it; in respect to our own conceptions of it.

In itself, in its own nature, it may be consistent with itself. But of the many truths with which our acquaintance is imperfect, we cannot judge whether they agree, or disagree, among themselves. In regard to some others, of which we are better assured, it is difficult to say that there is no contradiction.

In propositions there is certainly great discrepancy; owing partly to the barrenness of language, and to the ambiguity of terms; also to the different impressions which different authors of the statement may possess, and which the same man may have at different times. The propositions may be too brief, or too ample; in many ways they are made to disagree one with another, and as they are the representatives of truth, for all practical purposes truth itself is often found inconsistent with itself.

We find our own conceptions of truth exceedingly contradictory; which is attributable to the limited nature of our faculties, and narrow extent of our observations. It is only the _ends_ of truths that we see. Their remote extension, and multiplied relations, we cannot ascertain. There _appears_ to be much disagreement. In theology the doctrines of decrees and free agency are both true, but who can reconcile them? This apparent inconsistency of truth is the origin of scepticism, and is the occasion of many unhappy dissensions among men.

“Great is truth, and it will prevail.” The harmlessness of this declaration has permitted it to pass unmolested. It certainly is a pleasing prediction, and in the prospect which it unfolds, has inspired many a languid heart with fresh vigor in the cause of truth. From the implicit reliance which most men place in its verity, and from the wish of all for its fulfillment, is manifested the confidence which each reposes in his own integrity, and also a secret admiration of truth in the minds of all. But the sentiment is perhaps more flattering to the nobleness of our nature, than accordant with our constant experience. That some truths will prevail, is certain. But in respect to others--for instance, the thousand and one litigated points in history, how shall the truth ever be ascertained. If the facts were noted at the time of their occurrence, prejudice operated to distort them. If not till years had elapsed, it was the effect of remoteness to obliterate, or obscure them. Years and centuries are bearing us still farther from the period of their transpiring, and how is it possible, that, without a revelation from heaven, the truth shall ever be disclosed?

In metaphysics are many points equally indeterminable. Here a man’s own mind is the field of observation, in every part of which the most rigid, extensive, and patient scrutiny, and the most careful comparison have been made by the most profound thinkers, and with the best lights; but up to this time there are many points unillustrated, undecided. Will they ever be made more plain? Who does not feel that there are doubtful points in himself that he will never understand, at least this side of the grave?

In the sciences, which suffer less from prejudice than most subjects of investigation, the want of facts will prevent the discovery of truth on many points; while, faster than old questions are settled, new subjects of discussion are advanced.

With respect to the active duties of life, temperament will continue to influence our views of truth, as it always has done.

Prejudice, which is the great barrier to the entrance of truth into the mind, must, while man exists under his present mental and moral constitution, retain the influence it now exerts.

There are many truths of which the highest order of human intellect can only catch a fleeting glimpse, and the amount of knowledge is graduated downwards, corresponding with the ability to grasp it. Many points lie equally balanced between truth and falsehood.

We do not then seem to be sufficiently warranted in the opinion that truth, i. e. all truth, will prevail.

“Men are more willing to embrace error than truth.” No one will admit this imputation in his own case; but by an easy generalization, each one applies it to all other men.

It may be doubted whether a love of truth or of error, for _their own sake_, is a primary principle of our moral nature. A love of one’s own happiness, or interest, or reputation, in a word, of one’s self, is primary. Truth and error are regarded with complaisance or aversion, accordingly as they oppose or favor the interests of men. If there were but one being in the universe, it would be of little moment whether he passed his existence in truth or falsehood. In society, he, whose basis is falsehood, is derided by his fellows, and his interests are endangered. As truth, on the whole, is most conducive to the interests of men, it is most generally sought after. Few are willing to oppose a fashionable error. There are portions of every man’s whole life, which he passes in error, without being in the least concerned. Many minds are so preoccupied, that they _cannot_ examine the evidence requisite for the admission of a new truth. More are so prejudiced that they will not. With many men a fear of results is stronger than love of truth, and they are induced by a prospect of consequences, to abandon the pursuit. An entire devotion to truth itself, to truth for its own sake, is a rare sight, and one of high moral sublimity.

A FATHER TO HIS CHILD.[1]

I cannot say, I cannot say, my beautiful and wild,
I’ve ever seen so fair a one as thou my pretty child--
A form so full of elegance, a cheek where roses blow,
And a forehead where the glossy curls seem braided over snow--
A lip whence sounds of music gush, that might with ease unsphere
Some spirit from its airy halls and witch that spirit here.

When first thy mother gave thee me, my beautiful and wild,
And others sought to gaze upon and bless the pretty child,
And thy soft lip to mine was press’d, and thy soft hand I felt,
And felt all of a father’s heart within my bosom melt;
I know I heaved a sigh, for there was sadness in my joy--
Thou wert so very beautiful, my smiling little boy.

Where’er thou go’st, there seems to go a gladness, and a life,
Which all unfitted is for this dark world of sin and strife;
Thou dost remind me of the flowers that are when Spring comes on,
Thou dost remind me of the light when comes and goes the sun;
Of brooks, and falling waters, when they with the pebbles toy--
Of all that’s gay and beautiful, my smiling little boy.

I mingle with the busied world, and when I find it vain,
I turn me to my happy hearth and little boy again;
I love to have him shout to me, I love his airy call,
I love to hear his little step go patting through the hall;
I love to take him on my knee and fold him into rest,
As doth the parent bird the dove she shelters with her breast.

Thy kind complaints, thy boyish talk, thy merriment, my boy,
Crush all that’s base within my heart, and smooth the day’s annoy;
Where’er I go, if ills assail, and passion plays her part,
And dark Ambition spreads her gauds before my eye and heart,
And I one moment list the voice that proffers me the crown--
I think me of thy looks my boy, and bid the tempter down.

Yet there will sometimes come to me a thought of sadness given,
As the dark cloud streams athwart the flush that tints the sky of even,
When I look at thee, and think of thee, in all thine artlessness,
And think how flowery is the path which thy young foot doth press--
For I know that eye which sparkles now may suddenly be wet,
And the earth which looks so lovely too may be a desert yet.

Ah! yes, I tremble for my boy with fears he cannot know,
Lest he take the path which I have ta’en, and find it leads to wo;
I tremble lest the Circean cup may yet be given him,
With roses decked and myrtles crown’d and sparkling to the brim;
For O! his foot hath not yet tried the path which mine hath trod,
Nor hath his young heart framed a wish he might not give to God.

And yet I will not think it--no! it will not, cannot be,
That fate shall ever fling its shroud of blackness over thee;
Thou art too like thy mother, child,--she would not harm this breast--
And all thy days have been too like the holy and the bless’d;
Thou can’st not other be to me than this, my cradle joy--
Thou wilt not grieve thy father’s heart, my smiling little boy.

[1] A friend of mine thinks he has seen a poem somewhere not altogether unlike this. Whether such a poem there is I know not, nor have I, after hunting over pamphlets and periodicals, been able to find one. If the reader shall be more successful, he will please give the writer of any similar production as much praise as he chooses, and subduct the same from me. An author _ought_ to know if he is guilty of plagiarism; and though I may err, it is my opinion, that among the many who have written upon this subject, though I may not boast of as much beauty, I may at least have been as far from stealing as the best of the rhyming tribe. These are indeed days of barter--still I would live on my own capital.

SIR THOMAS MORE’S WORKS.

_Lib. Old Eng. Prose Writers--Vol. 9.--Boston, 1834._

Self-sufficiency, under one form or another, is the predominant vice of the present age. A disposition to neglect the gathered wisdom of former times, and to deny all reverence to customs and institutions from which our fathers deemed it inseparable, and to go forward rejoicing in _our own_ strength, is becoming more and more apparent. And whether we regard this sentiment as the fool-hardiness resulting from ignorance, and as ‘the pride which goeth before a fall,’ or, which we are more inclined to do, as the exultation of conscious might, and the prelude of more glorious achievements--still it is a vice, and requires the most vigorous exertions to check its further progress. These remarks are most obviously applicable to political matters, but they are not without meaning in reference to _literature_. Even in this department of knowledge, there has become manifest a proneness to circumscribe curiosity and inquiry within the narrow circle of cotemporary writers, to extol our popular authors, as the only ones deserving our attention, and as incontestably superior to all who have gone before them. It is difficult to determine whether this feeling is more unjust to those great lights of learning, who laid the _foundations_ of our literature, by defrauding them of their merited homage, or more unfortunate for ourselves, by depriving us of their illumination. Nor is it less _absurd_, than it is unjust and unfortunate. For if we are indeed at the culminating point, whence beams of light and beauty shall fall on succeeding ages, the closest investigation can but confirm the truth; but if we are _not_, by timely consideration we may be saved from the error of those ancient astronomers, who assumed this little earth to be the center of the universe, and _therefore_, at each supposed advance, plunged deeper in error and perplexity. And those, who, in utter ignorance of our older writers, are ever asserting the preeminence of Byron and Bulwer and Irving, should be careful, lest, with those who have traveled further in the world of letters, they may incur the charge of weakness, no less ridiculous than that of the vain Chinese, who imagine _their_ land, the only radiant point in a world of darkness.

Nor would the results of a candid and thorough examination of the early English writers, be really prejudicial to the reputation of cotemporary works; for though we might return from our researches with a less extravagant complacency in the productions of living authors, it would be more strongly established. We should meet with opposite merits and opposite faults. If our current literature is more frivolous, theirs is more prolix; if their thoughts are more sound, and their style more simple, our reasoning is more pointed, and our expression more sparkling--if we are more disgusted here with spurious originality, we are oftener wearied there with staid monotony.

We have been led into these reflections, by the perusal of several volumes of ‘the Library of Old English Prose Writers.’ Among the many series, which have of late appeared in England and this country, under the specious name of ‘Libraries,’ there is none so truly deserving as this, of the approbation and support of the educated and intellectual portion of the community--and to them, from its peculiar character, it must be almost entirely confined. Other publications, appealing to the interests or the love of novelty and excitement of the ‘reading public,’ meet with a ready support. But this series, whose design and tendency is to correct this corrupt taste, and chasten this morbid partiality to the matter-of-fact, or the romantic, cannot expect a promiscuous patronage. It is emphatically the _literature of literary men_, and all such, if they have any sympathy with ‘sober thought, in simple language dressed,’ nay, to appeal to selfish motives only, if they have any regard for the improvement of their taste, the strengthening of their own minds, or the purifying of their own style, will not fail to search out and drink deeply of these ‘healthful wells of English undefiled.’ We would gladly ramble through the several works of which the ‘Library’ is composed, but time does not permit, and we hasten to the consideration of the last of their number, with the simple remark that the plan of the undertaking is so praiseworthy, and the manner of its execution thus far has evinced so correct a judgment, and refined a taste, that we cannot but regret that any circumstances should for a moment delay its progress.

The fame of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia must be familiar to every ear. Its authority as a classic is so high, quotations from it are so numerous, and allusions to it among literary, political and metaphysical writers, are so frequent and eulogistic, that no one who has passed beyond the first lispings of polite learning, can be presumed ignorant of its general character. But a much smaller number, probably, are acquainted with it from actual examination and study. Before the appearance of this edition it had long been out of print in this country, or excluded from general circulation by being buried in an expensive and cumbrous volume, among the ponderous controversial writings of its author; and in rescuing it from its unfortunate companionship, the editor has conferred no slight gratification upon the lovers of serious thought and quaint style. A clear view of the design and plan of the work, cannot better be obtained, than by a brief analysis of its contents.

The author, for the convenience of setting forth his ideal of a perfect commonwealth, in a plainer and bolder manner than the jealousy of the government and the church would allow, feigns the existence of an island, Utopia, in a remote quarter of the globe, unknown to the people of Europe, and recently discovered by the celebrated navigator, Vespucci. Raphael Hylleloday, a philosopher, who accompanied Vespucci in his voyages, through curiosity, to examine the condition of the new-found nations, having become intimately versed in the history and manners of the Utopians, conveys a lengthened and minute account of the same to his friend More, at that time employed in the ‘king’s embassat’ in Flanders.

Upon this hypothesis, the philosophical romance is founded; and under the form of historical narrative, the author unfolds his views of the manners, customs, pursuits, government and religion, which would obtain among a perfectly happy people. He condemns with severity, and ridicules with sharpness, the policy, both temporal and spiritual, which was pursued by the governments of Europe, and the whole system of social relations, which prevailed among the people. He exposes with equal fearlessness, the folly and wickedness of royal tyranny, prelatical intolerance, and private avarice. He pictures in earnest simplicity, the advantages of equality of rank, temperance in living, freedom of opinion, and general education; and much more than anticipates in theory, all the advances which have actually been made, in more than three centuries. In order to feel the full admiration, which the perusal of the ‘Utopia’ should legitimately excite, the reader must constantly bear in mind, the period at which the author wrote. Many positions, which to us appear obvious and common place,--because we have been familiar with them, as undoubted truisms, from our childhood--evinced in our author surpassing vigor of thought, and boldness of purpose, joined with a sagacity almost prophetic. The extent to which he pushed his liberality in religion, in an age distinguished for its bloody bigotry, may be learned from the following extract. (p. 159.)

“For this is one of their most ancient laws, that no man ought to be punished for his religion. At the first constitution of their government, Utopas having understood, that before his coming among them, the old inhabitants had been engaged in great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so divided among themselves, that he found it an easy thing to conquer them, since instead of uniting their forces against him, every different party in religion fought by themselves; after he had subdued them, he made a law that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavor to draw others to it by the force of argument, and by amicable and modest ways, but without bitterness against those of other opinions; but that he ought to use no other force but that of persuasion, and was neither to mix with it reproaches nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to be condemned to banishment or slavery.”

To affirm that all the maxims and institutions in this fictitious system of politics are unexceptionable, and would be desirable if _realized_, would be foolish eulogium--indeed, in some very important features, (we would refer particularly to the chapters on ‘the Manner of Living,’ on ‘Slavery,’ and on ‘Marriages,’) the progress of political science and moral philosophy, has shown that there is much that is erroneous and defective. The grand error is, and it is a very common one among theorists, in allowing to corrupt human nature a higher degree of moral perfection, than it has ever yet vindicated its claims to, and, resting upon this unsubstantial basis, must fall to the ground. The candid reader, however, cannot fail to admire the acuteness and honesty of the reasoning, and to wonder at the nobleness of the sentiments upon the great subjects of civil and religious freedom, when he reflects that the author was a courtier under the despotic Henry VIII, and was a tenacious Romanist, amid the fierce struggles of the Reformation. He will also be highly pleased with the simplicity of language in which the profoundest truths are conveyed, and will often be provoked to a smile, as he detects, under the modest guise of our author’s graceful style, many a thought, which with pompous epithet, and startling antithesis, has been brought forth as the offspring of the ‘wonderful advance of mind in the XIXth century.’ And if he should be ready to point at some passages as absurd, and at others as childishly simple, let him remember, that according to competent critics, the prince of ancient philosophers, Plato, is not free from similar crudities. The most valuable portions of the work, are those which are employed in the discussion of permanent moral and political principles, though the most curious and amusing, are the descriptions of the island, and of the domestic and civil habits of its citizens. There are, here and there, some positions of even ludicrous extravagance, which the author, it would seem, intended to serve him as a refuge from the charge of heresy, by giving his book the aspect of an idle and humorous fiction.

The latter half of the volume is occupied with the ‘History of King Richard III’--and though it does not possess the intrinsic value of the Utopia, it acquires even a higher interest from the circumstance of its being the _earliest specimen_ of English prose, intelligible to readers of the present day.[2] It is also deserving of great attention, as the original chronicle of that troublous and tragical reign, written while several of the actors in its scenes are yet living. It is in this light, as the ‘Father of English Prose,’ that the character of Sir Thomas More appears most interesting. He was the first to break loose from the prevailing custom, which confined all learning and philosophy and history, to the constrained medium of a dead language, and commenced those efforts in the living English, which have resulted in giving us a vernacular prose literature, unequalled by that of any other language in the world. He was fortunate too in living just at that period, when the language had acquired sufficient elegance and copiousness, to render it in a great measure permanent. The tasteful reader will be tempted to wish that our native Saxon had been suffered to retain its pristine vigor, unencumbered with such ponderous accumulations, as it has since received, though it had remained less magnificent in its periods, and less fertile in synonymes.

The principal points worthy of notice in this venerable composition, are, the honest straight-forward course of the narrative, the discrimination in the portraiture of character, and in tracing outward actions to their secret causes, and the nature and individuality shown in the speeches, which, in imitation of the manner of Livy and Sallust, he puts in the mouths of his personages. We were much struck with the _perfect_ coincidence with this authentic chronicle, maintained in Shakspeare’s drama of Richard III. It is exceedingly thorough and minute, and affords gratifying evidence that the efforts of the imagination may with success be made subservient to impressing and illustrating historical truth. As an instance of this resemblance, as well as for the purpose of exhibiting our author’s _original_ style, we quote as follows. (p. 302-304.)

“And thus, as I have learned of them that much knew and little cause had to lie, were these two noble princes, these innocent, tender children, born of most royal blood, brought up in great wealth, likely long to live to reign and rule in the realm, by traitorous tyranny taken, deprived of their estate, shortly shut up in prison, and privily slain and murthered, their bodies cast, God wot where, by the cruel ambition of their unnatural uncle and his dispiteous tormentors. Which things on every part well pondered, God never gave this world a more notable example, neither in what unsurety standeth this worldly weal, or what mischief worketh the proud enterprise of a high heart, or finally what wretched end ensueth such dispiteous cruelty. For first, to begin with the ministers, Miles Forrest at Saint Martin’s piecemeal rotted away. Dighton indeed yet walketh on alive, in good possibility to be hanged ere he die. But Sir James Tyrrel died at Tower hill, beheaded for treason. King Richard himself, as ye shall hereafter hear, slain in the field, hacked and hewed of his enemies’ hands, harried on horseback dead, his hair in despite torn and togged like a cur dog. And the mischief that he took, within less than three years of the mischief that he did. And yet all the mean time, spent in much pain and trouble outward, much fear, anguish and sorrow within. For I have heard by credible report of such as were secret with his chamberers, that after this abominable deed done, he never had quiet in his mind, he never thought himself sure. Where he went abroad, his eyen whirled about, his body privily fenced, his hand ever on his dagger, his countenance and manner like one always ready to strike again; he took ill rest a nights, lay long waking and musing, sore wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered than slept, troubled with fearful dreams, suddenly sometime start up, leap out of his bed and run about the chamber; so was his restless heart continually tossed and tumbled with the tedious impression and stormy remembrance of his abominable deed.”

The character of Sir Thomas More is one of the noblest that the whole circle of history can present, and his whole career was as glorious, in the highest sense of that term, as the loftiest aspirations could desire. His fame rests not on the adventitious distinctions of rank or political authority, or on the short lived eminence, conferred by popular idolatry; for, though he was placed high in office, though he was courted by his sovereign, beloved by his equals, and worshiped by his inferiors--the native power of his intellect, and loftiness of his spirit, shed the proudest luster upon his name. We have already had occasion to notice some points of his greatness, in the review of his works. In his Utopia we found him a subtle reasoner, and bold asserter of the rights of man; and in his history, we met with an honest annalist, and skillful pioneer in the untraced paths of English literature. In many other respects he was no less gifted by nature, and favored by fortune. He was the first _lay_ chancellor of England, that high station, before his accession, having been entirely monopolized by churchmen. He is the _first_ person in English history distinguished for senatorial eloquence, and the earliest champion of parliamentary liberty. He was the first, as speaker of the House of Commons, to teach that body the use of that power, which, as keeper of the purse of the nation, it possessed, and which, in later times, it has exerted with so overwhelming an influence on the destinies of the nation. In a word, he was the _first_ of British ministers, who deserved, in all its breadth, the title of a _statesman_. His personal character was no less lovely, than his public career was commanding. The sweetness of his disposition, the mirthfulness of his temper, his reluctance to engage in the stormy contentions of political ambition, the depth of his learning, and the order of his piety, are alike conspicuous--and the manner of his death has associated his fame with that of the martyrs to tyranny ‘for conscience sake.’

W.

[2] Utopia was written in Latin. The current translation was made by Bishop Burnet.