Part 1

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THE

YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

CONDUCTED

BY THE

STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE.

NO. 1.

FEBRUARY, 1836.

NEW HAVEN: HERRICK & NOYES.

MDCCCXXXVL

CONTENTS.

The Editor to the Reader, 1

Revolutions and their Tendencies, 4

The Christian Principle--a Fragment, 11

The Sciot Girl, 13

Story and Sentiment, No. 1, 19

Fanny Willoughby, 24

Confessions of a Sensitive Man, No. 1, 25

Every Man his own Critic, 30

Washington on the Banks of the Delaware, 34

Greek Anthology, No. 1, 34

“Our Magazine,” 39

THE

YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

VOL. I. FEBRUARY, 1836. NO. 1.

THE EDITOR TO THE READER.*

_Clown._ ‘List ye now, friend--let’s hear what this fellow would be saying.’

_Sneer._ ‘God’s blessing! man--d’ye believe any of his feather?’

_Farquhar._

GENTLE READER,--

As I am about to have some little converse with thee, I cannot pass this first bright page of our Magazine, without a greeting word, and a ‘God’s benison’ on our acquaintanceship. Good fellowship and kind wishes betwixt man and man, should first be established. I have ever held this to be one of the little items that go towards making up the sum of human happiness; and as we ourselves cannot justly lay claim to that which we deny to others, and as I would at any sacrifice purchase thy good will, I must needs as a matter of course tell thee, how much I wish for thy prosperity. I cannot flatter thee, gentle reader, (and a wise man will not be flattered into fellowship,) else I should tell thee how much I respect thy good taste and sagacity, on all the delicate matters of nice criticism. I should tell thee, how anxious I am to please thee--how patiently I shall think--write and rewrite--polish and repolish--roam here and every where, culling the sweetest plants and blossoms I can find--only to suit thee; and make a melancholy hour, if any such thou hast, less painful; and if thou art troubled with misanthropy, bring thee back into peace with self and harmony with those around thee. I should tell thee, how patiently I shall submit to the opinions of others--receive their strictures--transpose and re-transpose--twist and re-twist some of my sentences--for fear they may not accomplish the object whereunto I send them, viz. thy pleasure and profit; and how, in more than one instance, I hope even to sacrifice my own taste, lest unhappily it come in contact with thine. I should tell thee, how I shall repeatedly twitch at my purse strings, and with no miserly hand--and how, when unfortunately some inaccuracies slip into a page, I shall cast the same aside and give it a reprint, that nothing may offend the nicety of thine observation. But I cannot flatter thee--therefore these things shall all remain in oblivion.

* The reader will please suppose himself conversing with the Editors of this Magazine, ‘rolled into one.’

Modesty does not permit me to speak largely of _my_ deserts, gentle reader, (though we Editors--that means _me_--are excepted and a degree of favor, an egotistical licence, is sometimes extended to us,) else I should acquaint thee with some of my excellences. I should tell thee, how much I mourn the wicked independency which may characterize my speculations; and the silly _egoisms_ which may disfigure my otherwise beautiful compositions. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over the badness of my style, so contrary to etiquette, and sometimes so outrageously fantastical; and the vile spirit of satire, which now and then perhaps, may be found in them. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over (what you may think) my inaccuracies of taste, thought, and expression; and the vulgarisms, which, in spite of me, may creep into them; though, indeed, vulgarisms are less exceptionable of late, since the delicate (detestable--beg pardon!) Fanny Kemble _pottered_ in them. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over my infallibility, as now established on the Editorial throne--that, as Editor, I can never be in the wrong--that I can never do or say a silly thing--that I can never criticise, but with the sagacity of Wisdom’s self--that I can never be called into judgment by any one who honors himself by reading my papers--and that I shall _feel_ my independence, shall _act_ from it, and always disregard every thing that barks or brays, and meet meddlers with the cartel--_I am your servant, but I will not bear your dictation_. But, as I am very modest, these things shall all remain in oblivion.

Would you believe it, gentle reader, I sometimes find me endeavoring to fashion to myself, who and what thou art? ’Tis a truth though--and pray tell me now, who art thou? Art thou one who is ever looking on the dark side of poor humanity--one ever neglecting the beautiful truth, that thy being is necessary to the happiness of the world--one unconscious of the fact, that thou art an item in the great economy of human action--and one ever searching for, and caviling at, the wants and weaknesses of thy fellow men? I think thou wilt find something congenial in the work I proffer thee.

Again--art thou the reverse of this--one ever choosing the bright side, ever giving the light and fairer traits of human character thine admiration--one ever looking abroad on the earth with a deep spiritual eye--to whom nature is familiar--to whom the winds, and woods, and waters are companions--one to whom the breathings of spring, the twitter of birds, the voices of infancy are a melody--one ever sending out thy fancy for imaginary bliss, exploring amid the haunts of evil for good, and tracing out the sweet attractivenesses of virtue? Thou too, I think, wilt find something pleasant and profitable, in the medley I lay before thee; and to thee I commend it with a hearty good will, trusting that thou wilt be content to pass the evil for the sake of the better, and give the writer here a kind wish for his labor in your behalf.

Again--for our poets (for poets we must have, and I must defend them) let me ask, art thou one of those who look upon poetry, and the mystic profession of the poets, with contempt--one carrying a wise man’s wig on a fool’s crown--one talking of what thou hast not sense to understand--a child grasping at air? ‘Wert thou,’ in the quaint, yet rich language of Sir Philip Sidney, ‘born so near the dull-making cataract of Nilus, that you cannot hear the planet-like music of poetry; have you so earth-creeping a mind, that it cannot lift itself up to look at the sky of poetry, or rather, by a certain rustical disdain, will become such a mome as to be a Momus of poetry?’ If thou wert, take then, in his words, my hearty anathema--‘Though I will not wish unto you the ass’s ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a poet’s verses, as Bubonax was, to hang himself; nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all poets; that while you live, you live in love, and never get favor, for lacking skill of a sonnet; and when you die, your memory die from the earth, for want of an epitaph.’

Again--art thou a bright and gentle one--full of the rich life and soul of poetry--taking every thing in its first aspect--and ready to launch thy little barque on the stream of life? Ah! it is for such as thee I write. And yet, I tremble for thee, thou Peri, slight in thy person, pale, yet beautiful, glossy hair, and eyes as bright as Love ever looked on, and shrinking in thy native timidity as at the shadow of thine own happiness! ’Tis painful to look at thee, so young, so beautiful--knowing that thou must one day cast thine all--thy dreams--thy high hopes--thine innocent feelings--thy depths of woman’s tenderness into the hands of another--to hang upon him--to look to him for hope, for council, for happiness! It pains me to think of what a world this is; to think of the hazard thou must ever run of losing thy bliss, and of being dashed on some of the hidden shoals that lurk beneath the current of human felicity; to think of detraction, and the thousand calumnies that may be aimed at the purity of that breast, which seems too innocent even to suspect harm! But--softly, softly--where the _deuce_ am I running?

Finally--whatever be thy disposition, gentle reader, whether thou be critic or no critic, misanthrope or no misanthrope, fool or wise man--whether thou be sneering and cynical, or young and buoyant--whether thou be a phlegmatic old proser, and a doughty advocate of mustified knowledge, or one not altogether too wise, and one that can be delighted with the more delicate blossoms of literature;--I trust at least, thou art willing to be pleased; and that thou thinkest a hearty laugh at times, is no sacrilege. Now I give thee leave to laugh at me or about me, just as shall seem good to thee--only make thyself happy. I give thee leave to curse my work and all of my fraternity, from the days of--I know not who, down to those of old Kit North himself; and pour out thine honest indignation against our Eleusinian mysteries (for such they are, and thou wilt never understand them, especially if thou be blessed with a stock of modern dullness,) and to hold us all in the most righteous contempt;--this thou may’st do--only make thyself happy. I give thee leave to call me (thy humble servant,) conceited, because I dare to think--presumptuous, because I dare to print--impudent, because I present thee my speculations--only make thyself happy. In short, thou may’st do any thing, only pleasure thyself;--be thou thus employed, and I am content.

And now, gentle reader, as I have given thee thus much--as I have made not the least reservation--as I have given thee permission to be happy, and in thine own way, and that too, without the least regard to my feelings--pray grant me in return, a simple privilege. Permit me sometimes in memory, to think upon the pleasant ramble we may have together--to think of its green and sunny spots, as well as its dark ones--of its pleasant, as well as disagreeable windings--and to enjoy the sweet consciousness of having sought to contribute to thine, a fellow creature’s happiness.

‘GOD’S BENISON BE ON YE.’

REVOLUTIONS--AND THEIR TENDENCIES.

“Man is born to die, And so are nations.”

To the search of unassisted reason, man is an enigma--his origin, a deep unfathomed mystery--his being, nothing but a sad and strange commingling of discordant elements--his destiny unknown! He comes forth as it were unbidden--mingles for a few short hours in earth’s sorrows and enjoyments,--hurries through the part assigned him in the mighty drama of existence, when the curtain closes and he vanishes forever. We tread over the “green roof of his dark mansion,”--and he lives but in remembrance. The works too of his hands are frail and fleeting. The proudest monument he rears, but scarce outlasts his memory--and the very dwelling which has sheltered him is hastening to destruction. “The ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The voices of merriment and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the grass waves upon the hearthstones.”

And it is so with nations! Earth is little better than a splendid waste of ruins,--a vast unbroken solitude, garnished with the sepulchers of countless myriads, and crowded with the relics of departed grandeur! There is the tyranny of Desolation! There Change is ever busy, wandering amid the wasting forms of beauty, gathering the banquet of Decay!

Such to unassisted reason is the history of nations. They spring up into being, linger for a fleeting period,--are cut down and perish--their origin, their progress and their end, alike mysterious and inexplicable! Revelation has indeed assured us of the destiny of man. We know that the same grave which closes over his decaying body shrouds not the undying spirit--that earth is but the threshold to another state of being. Far beyond its earthly scene of trial, Affection follows her departed object, and pillowed on the bosom of immortal hope, casts down the burden of her sorrows. The unfettered soul purified from her pollutions, soars upward,--

“On a wing That moving through eternity will ever Be active and unwearied, and as bright In its unruffled plumage after years Have gathered into ages, and have gone Beyond the eldest memory of time.”

It is thus that Revelation fathoms the deep mystery of death--that it brings before us man and the purpose of his being. Guided then by the clear light it radiates, we can walk amid the darkness which enshrouds the fate of nations, and gather even from their silent ruins the true cause of their extinction. More crowded is the catalogue of buried than of living generations! The records of departed States and Empires--the time-worn monuments of former strength and grandeur--the disjointed fragments of a once unbroken whole,--each, all, are eloquent around us! Why is it we can gaze on nothing permanent? Why is it that we stand the beings of a universe which Change is ever wasting? Why is it that innumerable nations of the earth, in the midst of all their beauty and magnificence, are stricken down for ever, and the place they occupied left desolate? Is their fate without an object? Is their influence unfelt? Is it chance that rules their destiny?

One of the earliest theories respecting the progress of society, has been the regular tendency of our race to decline and degradation. This theory, the result partly of tradition and partly of poetic fancy, carries back the mind to a golden age of primeval excellence, and represents the progress of mankind as a continual departure from a higher and a better state of being. Those occasional exhibitions of lofty virtue and of noble self-devotion which mark the establishment of new States and Empires,--the stern integrity of Regulus,--the high-souled magnanimity of Fabricius,--it regards only as the ineffectual struggles of exalted minds to check the downward tendency of our race, and as swept away by the resistless current of human corruption. This theory was transmitted even from remote antiquity,--interwoven with the superstitions of that early time, strengthened by the implicit confidence of each successive age, and destined to exist till that religion of which it was the offspring, should be crushed beneath the wider and the nobler system of Christianity. It was too a theory interesting and attractive,--well adapted to the age of its formation. It dealt much in the ideal. Its conceptions were those of poetry, mournful indeed, but beautiful and alluring. It spoke of an elevated state of being from which man had fallen,--of a grandeur, every trace of which was then effaced,--of a beauty which had long since faded. It told of nobler aspirations that had fired the soul,--of loftier communings of the spirit with the world above,--of thoughts unbounded in their range, whose center was the universe. It breathed of a quiet and a happy era,--of a peace beyond all trouble,--of an innocence without a stain. It hurried its votaries away from the earth that met their vision, to the brighter one of its creation--a land beautiful beyond conception--the Elysium of gods and the residence of heroes. It was all that the genius of Paganism could do to linger around the visions of departed greatness.

This theory is now surrendered,--or its advocates, if any such there be, are few in number. We, of the present age, regard it as a wild and brilliant error, poetically beautiful, but in practice incorrect,--as a rich and elegant production of a distant age,--as a flower that sprung up, bloomed and faded in the spring-time of the world.

There is a second theory, which numbers among its supporters a large part of the philosophers of modern time. We would call it without reproach the Atheistic scheme, for it seems to shut out a governing Providence from the successive evolutions of our race. It attributes the same principles of stability to the natural and moral world, considering them as both liable to the same law of physical necessity, which causes them to “alternate, between fixed and narrow limits of progress and decay.” States and Empires it regards as rising only like the waves of the ocean, to give way to those that follow them--an endless succession of events, without one indication of plan or aim, to remind us of a governing Intelligence!

Laying aside these theories, as equally unworthy of man and of Him who made him,--with history for our guide, the monument at once of the rise and fall of nations,--what theory shall _we_ form? What shall we affirm of history itself? Is it nothing but the chronicle of unconnected facts--the assemblage of by-gone events, that have passed without an object? What too is the lesson that we read in the revolutions of the world? Are they mere isolated exhibitions of a vast and mighty energy expended for no purpose,--monuments reared along the track of ages as mementos of unmeaning greatness,--meteors that burst from the midst of clouds and darkness to reveal the wreck of nations, and then go out for ever? In the eloquent language of another: “Is the change in its generations the only change in society? Are the actors alone renewed, and the same drama of life for ever repeated? Or rather does each succeeding generation, standing on the graves of their forefathers, rise to a higher vantage ground, as the oaks of the wilderness in succession strike deeper roots, and grow more flourishing over the dust of their predecessors?”

The theory implied in these remarks, if properly stated and understood, is the true theory of the progress of society. It is a _real_ progress. One after another of its empires may have risen, flourished for a time, and then crumbled into ruins. Some may have remained apparently unaltered, balanced by the action of opposing causes,--but the grand, the mighty WHOLE, has been progressive. The current that sustained and bore it onward, has increased in energy,--it has never lingered,--its apparent rest or retrocession, was but the reflux of the wave that is rising higher along the shore.

Our great principle then is,--that in the revolutions of the world we can trace the working of a vast design,--that they were but established agents to secure a mighty end. They may be regarded as a series of EXPERIMENTS upon mankind,--each powerful in its influence,--occurring at its proper time,--and all tending toward an object which is yet to be attained. We find in these dark and gloomy spots of history nothing to alarm us! We consider them indeed as clouds, heavy and portentous, resting on the path of ages--but as clouds surcharged with energy,--embosoming the elements of mighty action, destined to sweep away abuses,--to purify and disenthrall our race!

As an illustration of these remarks, let us turn to the last and greatest of those monarchies that were the glory of the ancient world. What now is the prospect that is opened to our vision? How rich in its variety of features--how gorgeous in its colorings! We are treading on the golden age of History. All that it has of beauty, power and grandeur, are at once before us. On the confines of a dark and superstitious era we behold the fabric of a mighty Empire. It has sprung up like the Oase of the desert, reared by the workings of magic power, instantaneous, electric! Yonder tower the columns of its capitol--the beautiful and arbitrary Mistress of the world--proud, imperial, ill-fated Rome! The city with its seven hills--its gorgeous palaces--its thousand fabrics, molded by the plastic hand of symmetry, burst at once upon our view. Here then is the mighty theatre, where human nature is destined to stand forth, so near perfected--to display so many virtues, and yet innumerable vices--to exhibit all that Paganism can accomplish for the advancement of our race. Here are assembled the monuments of Grecian genius, and of Roman valor--the pride of Philosophy, and the miracles of Art--all that Heathenism can do to adorn and dignify mankind. The experiment is made, and the Empress of the world sinks from the stern virtues of her early founders, to the bloody licentiousness of a Nero or Caligula. Rome is tottering to her fall!

Here opens the mightiest revolution in the history of our globe--the introduction of Christianity. Forty centuries had been occupied in showing the impotency of unaided reason for the advancement of our race--and a new series of experiments now commences, to exhibit the evils of those human improvements which were soon engrafted on the simplicity of the Gospel. Christianity had a single object--to raise the spiritual nature of man above the sensual--to establish the dominion of reason, enlightened by Faith. It was the first system of religion which was favorable to the cause of freedom.

Trace now the progress of this glorious principle as it goes forth, forlorn and insulted from the hill of Calvary, to take possession of the falling empire of the world. Witness the thousand persecutions it endures--the obstacles it overcomes--its silent and gradual extension, till, in the age of Constantine, “it ascends the imperial throne and waves its banner over the palace of the Cæsars.” To the eye of unassisted reason how glorious are the prospects of our race! Yet in the progress of three centuries, we see the wave of extermination sweep over that proud empire. It fell, for its existence was no longer needed. It had played the part assigned it in the grand, the mighty drama of the world--the energies of its youth, had wasted to the feebleness of age--its glory was departing--the fire of its genius had grown dim, flickered and expired--it was “feeding not on hope but on remembrances.” It fell, to prepare the way for a more glorious exhibition of the Christian faith--to give place for the foundation of rational liberty on the ruins of despotism. Christianity, by her union with imperial power, had lost her former purity. She had put on the garb, and even revived the principles of Paganism, while liberty, the attendent and ally of all genuine improvement, lay bound and bleeding at the feet of the Mistress of the world. Why then, knowing as we do--the ultimate result--why should we regard the dark period of nearly a thousand years, which followed, as giving any support to the Atheistic scheme of alternate elevation and decay? The feudal system, with all its errors, was the REMEDY applied to save the world from the destructive influence of a corrupted christianity, in union with despotic power. That system too in the progress of events, governed not by miracles but moral causes, was of necessity to have its course--an energy great enough to demolish the empire of the world, could be expended only in the lapse of centuries. Monarchs had learned to believe themselves supreme and their thrones immoveable. Literature had fled for safety to the cloisters of the monks, and the enemies of human improvement had seized upon the church as the most powerful engine of political intrigue. There was something in the darkness and the superstition of the last ten centuries, that had augured of a mighty change. It had been the fearful stillness that precedes the storm--the awful silence that is heralding the bursting forth of the volcano. The way had been preparing for a protracted struggle between perverted and genuine Christianity--the dawn of the reformation was at hand.