Chapter I: Would Not Flatter Thee

Lady, I would not flatter thee--oh no!
For ’tis unkind to foster earth-born vanity,
And he doth err that wishes to bestow
An extra share of it on weak humanity.
Yet, on reflection, sure I do not know
That I should be suspected of insanity,
Were I to call thee--as I truly might--
Beautiful, aye, beautiful as a form of light.

Beautiful--and saying it, I tell no lie,
Though tried by Madam Opie’s strict ordeal--
Beautiful--if soft, soul-beaming eye,
And form as graceful as the beau-ideal
The sculptor carved his Cnidian Venus by,
And features blooming, not with cochineal,
But with such hues as Fancy would fain cull
From Angel’s cheeks--if such as these be beautiful.

I would not flatter thee--and yet must say
Thou hast a witching gracefulness of motion,
A dream-like lightness; and thou hast a way
Of sweetly smiling, like the rippled ocean,
When on it joyously the moonbeams play;
And thou hast gaiety softened by devotion,
Aye, and good nature, which, upon inspection,
I always found developed in extreme perfection.

I would not flatter thee--much less, would know
The pungent strength of critical acidity
For talking _prettily_ of ‘twilight glow,’
And ‘moons,’ and ‘sighs’--all types of insipidity.
And yet I say not that the earth can show
Ought more enchanting than the deep placidity
Stealing around us on a moonlight eve,
When winds are hushed in sleep, and clouds the heavens leave.

And when, at that most heart-ensnaring time,
With thee I gaze upon the huge old man
Reigning in yon pale center-light of rhyme,
Or in the heavens the path of Venus scan,
Or fancy from the spheres the distant chime
Of evening bells--I will not say that then
Strange feelings come not o’er me, soft and solemn,
Producing--tears, perhaps, and poetry by the volume.

I will not say that then I have not found
In thee almost an Angel’s loveliness,
Or that thy voice has not as sweet a sound
As music on the waters, or that less
Than a bright spirit’s influence has bound
My soul in that fond dream of blessedness,
Which, vastly strengthened by thy conversation,
Has seemed, to say the least, a sweet hallucination.

I would not flatter thee--much less, indeed,
Would seem, in poetry, a _Della Cruscan_;
I own not that, nor any kindred creed;
Nor do I like the sentimental fustian,
Which modern fashionables so much read.--
Now he who honestly professes thus, can
By law poetic, ne’er be an offender,
Though, now and then, he _seem_ a little over-tender.

From friends long loved how hard it is to part!
How hard, indeed, from one but _briefly_ known--
From _thee_, sweet bird of passage, as thou art--
Charming awhile, but oh, how quickly flown!
Aye, thou’rt away:--and my unguarded heart--
Whither, ah, whither has the truant gone?
In vain I search;--didst _thou_, fair maiden, take it?
Then, cast it not away, for rudeness sure would break it!

RUMINATIONS OF A BOVINE GENTLEMAN.

AUTHOR’S CHARACTER.

“----Secum meditari ingenium est _boûm_.”
_Virgil._

“Cows, of all animals, have the greatest propensity for rumination. For the most part, they are gentle, quiet, affectionate, unpretending, useful animals; all they require is kindness, and kindness they will return. Yet they have their antipathies and their whims, (red shawls are their abomination,) but, on the whole, they are inoffensive ruminators--not obtrusive, (except when they take a fancy to _gore_.) Their caresses are rough as their tongues; yet their roughest _licks_ are meant in kindness. They never bite--their teeth are ground down. They are neither snappish nor carnivorous. They are remarkably fond of salt, and are quick to detect its presence. Although timid and yielding in general, they will fight any one, or any thing, in defense of their young.”

_Baron Munchausen._

The last quoted author has described with remarkable correctness, in his remarks upon the cow, the character of a being, of whose existence he could not have dreamed--even of myself. Yes, even such I conceive to be my character--the coat fits, and I will put it on--“under such a shape I write.” Being in external appearance, a hale, stout, fat old bachelor of fifty, fond of the arm-chair and the comfortable dressing-gown, of easy fortune, retired habits, and few friends, I am, in soul, thought and disposition, and to all intents and purposes, _a gentle old cow_. Nor is there any thing humiliating in the confession. I esteem the character--I admire it. Would to heaven that in these _matter-of-fact, dollar-and-cent_ days, there were more men of my nature! I injure no man; but if any man injures me, I have horns and can gore him, a tail and can lash him. In consideration of the unsullied purity of my character in my manly state, I have ventured to conceive that I am, in the bovine genus, that most amiable non-descript, an old maid. Still, I am no Io--nor Io turned old maid. I never was handsome enough to warm the soul of Jove, nor mad enough to swim the Bosphorus. I am not, never was, and never will be, Oestrus-driven. The many-eyed shepherd, Argus, if ordered to watch _me_, would have needed only one of his hundred eyes--he might have seen me, even with “half an eye,” quietly grazing, all the morning of my life, in the flowery meads of Literature, Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics--ever and anon, quenching my thirst with a draft from the pure stream of Helicon--and now, in the afternoon of life, reclined upon the grass, under the shade of a branching, verdant oak, placidly, philosophically, philanthropically, and withal meekly chewing the stock which I formerly stored.

----“Lacte alimentum cognoscimus.”

Were it not presumptuous, I would hope that my production might prove the pure, unadulterated, untainted “milk of human kindness.”

RUMINATION FIRST.

I was recalling to memory, the other day, all the friends and acquaintance of my boyhood and youth, that I could recollect; and I mustered a goodly list. My mind wandered from their _names_ to their hopes and plans; I recalled the schemes and enterprizes, which I knew they had meditated. The train once started, visions of bygone days and circumstances poured in upon me. Again, I sauntered, arm in arm, with a friend, through the moon-lit streets, on a summer’s evening--again, I wandered listlessly along the beach--again, I stood upon the summits of the hills which surrounded the abode of my youth--again, I heard the confiding strain of youthful friendship--I saw the face lit with the joy of anticipated triumph--the step, unnaturally firm, proud and elastic. Alas! where now were those friends? Some were dead--some were in obscurity--many were in mediocrity of life--few, how few, had _approached_ the goal of their youthful wishes. And what was the cause of all this? Was the fault in the men, or their plans? Upon the _plans_ I fixed it; for I could not, and I would not, lay aught to the charge of the loved ones of my youth. And where was the fault in the plans? Was it not _here_--that the _plans_ were founded on the _hopes_, while the _hopes_ should have been founded on the _plans_? _Hope_ is the _etherial_--_plan_ the _material_ part of an expectation. A plan, founded on a hope, is like a house founded on the sand--it cannot endure. As verdant forests and luxuriant vegetation adorn and beautify the sides, and white fleecy clouds cap the summits, of a rock-based mountain, softening the rugged cliffs, filling up the chasms, smoothing the precipices, and concealing the roughness of the path which winds up the ascent; so should _Hope_, with its varied hues, tinge and adorn the ever-during frame-work reared by _Reason_. So _should_ it be--but, is it so? Do not men strive rather to throw a semblance of reason over their hopes? Do they not build castles in the air, and then exert all their ingenuity to give an appearance of probability, or at least of _possibility_, to their baseless fabrics?

O Hope! thou art a blessing, and thou art a _curse_. Thou art an intrusive, impudent, officious, treacherous _imp_--thou art a lying varlet--a cheating knave--thou hast no conscience--thou wilt gull, over and over again, prince and peasant, rich and poor, the unjust judge and the oppressed widow. Men kick thee out of doors, and again thou comest. Thou art a very Proteus--deny thee entrance in _one_ shape, and instantly thou takest another. Sometimes thou servest the devil, and sometimes thou doest business on thine own account. Again, I say, hang thee for an intermeddling imp!

Men talk of the pleasures of hope! have they never felt the misery of hope deferred--the pang of hope crushed? Have they ever estimated the amount of misery chargeable to this self-same hope? Who fathers Ambition, with all its woes, attendant and consequent? Hope. How many dream away their lives in listless vacuity, _hoping_ all the while, that _something will turn up_! What injuries has Hope not done to youth? Then, when men ought to be training themselves for the stern realities of life--when they should prepare their provisions for its stormy voyage, Hope whispers that the course is clear--the ocean calm--the wind favorable. How many commence enterprizes, which can end in nothing but disappointment, and undertake duties, to the performance of which their abilities are inadequate, spirited on the while by Hope, the traitor, who stimulates his unconscious victims to mount round after round of the ladder, until, with a whoop and a laugh, he tears the veil from their eyes, and permits them to see and to _feel_ that they are high, not on the temple, but on the _pillory_ of Fame! ‘Hope sweetens labor’--does he? ‘Thank you, madam, I prefer it without sugar.’

Hold! I revoke--I take back somewhat that I have said. Hope--thou art an imp, but still a _playful_ imp--full of mischief, but such a lively, laughing, little, curly-headed rogue, with such a comical look in the corner of thine eye, that for my life I cannot lose thee. I am inclined to say to thee, as one said to his dog--‘Ah! Tray! thou little knowest the mischief thou hast done.’

B. V.

A RHYMING MOOD.

There’s much of rapture in those favored hours,
When o’er the mind a magic influence steals,
That tunes to poetry and song its powers,
And melts in music all a warm heart feels.

There is a blissfulness that lifts the soul
Far from the paltry cares and toils of time,
In venting feelings that defy control,
In lofty-measured strains or tuneful rhyme.

The summer’s shower that wets the deep-seared earth,
And decks her burning surface new in green,
And saves the land from pestilence and dearth,
Comes not more joyous than the spirit dream,

Steals o’er the poet’s troubled soul, and gives
The rapture-speaking voice and tone!
He rises to another sphere--he lives
For a short season in a world alone!

Alone!--oh no! there Fancy groups her forms
More lovely far than earth presents to view;
More beauteous garniture that land adorns--
The skies assume a deeper, brighter blue.

Manning.

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. IV.

Pray, accept a cold dish for a desert--a crab apple, as it were, and a glass of water, to wash down previous articles and assist digestion. I have purposely excluded all brightnesses; for temperance is the vogue, and after so diversified and incongruous a meal, the cracking of a joke might be as pernicious to your mind as the cracking of a bottle would be deleterious to your body. You may, if you choose, apply to me the Latin cant phrase, “ab ovo usque ad mala,” meaning by ‘_mala_,’ not ‘_apples_,’ but ‘_evils_;’ yet will I meet the thrust with calmness--proudly reflecting that I myself suggested the sarcastical _equivoque_.

Agathias’ narrative of the little _ruse_, whereby he tore the veil of feminine hypocrisy from the heart of his mistress. Let _some_ of my condisciples improve upon the hint.

Eager to know my place in Cynthia’s heart,
I probed her hidden soul with cunning art.
“To a far land, my Cynthia, while I go,
Oh, let mine image to thy memory grow!”
Groaning she sprang in anguish from her chair,
Beat her fair face and tore her shining hair.
With tears my stay the suppliant beauty prayed,
Till, slow, I yielded to the lovely maid.
Ye gods! how bless’d! since what my heart did crave,
That, as a favor, to my love I gave.

Minerva once saw Venus all in arms,
With beamy casque, and wavy plume array’d--
“Thus dar’st thou meet the trial of our charms,
My Cyprian rival?” said the awful maid.
Smiling she spoke, “How, when I take the shield,
If _weaponless_, my beauty gained the field?”[3]

[3] The contest before Paris, on Mt. Ida.

Many an old man, whose limbs are as heavy as if the gold he had spent years to amass, were gliding, molten, through his veins, can join bitterly in the following lament, and many a young man, who forsakes the heights of Parnassus for the vale of Mammon, may find, too late, that the chase for riches is, in an evil sense, its own “exceeding great reward.”

When young, I was poor--now I’m old, I am wealthy--
Thus my life has been all but a goose-chase of pleasure--
I had not a copper, when buoyant and healthy,
But, past its enjoyment, I’ve mountains of treasure.

There has been in all ages a prejudice against step-mothers, and the feeling, if unjust, is yet natural. When the hearts of children are yet sore with sorrow for the loss of their _own_ dear mother, it creates dislike to have another, whom as a stranger, they cannot view with love, _step_ over their heads, and assume the reins of command. If kind, yet the contrast is strange, if not disgusting--the tones may be soft, but they are not those which sealed their infant eyes, and soothed their infant woes--if overbearing, her tyranny is intolerable.

Thinking her nature with her life was gone,
No more to household tyranny a slave,
A youth was crowning once the chiseled stone,
That rose columnar o’er his step-dame’s grave.
But as he leaned against its marble base,
The pillar crushed him, toppling from its place.
Ye step-sons, who would flee his wretched doom,
Beware approaching e’en a step-dame’s _tomb_.

Here is a thing or two, appertaining to love and women, and so forth, just as such things have been described since Adam first gazed in pleased astonishment upon Eve,

“That would be woo’d, and not unsought be won,”

“The amorous bird of night
Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star
On his hill-top to light the bridal lamp.”

A maiden kissed me at the evening hour
With dewy lip--how honied was the kiss!
Her mouth breathed nectar, and its balmy power
Hath made me drunk with love’s bewildering bliss.

I would I were a rose--that thy sweet hand
Might gently place me on thy snowy breast--
Or sighing gale--for then my spirit bland
On thy soft bosom would securely rest.

Here follow a few melancholy breathings of that better part, which shone bright and burning while it lasted, though its food was error, and its end was death. Their aspirations after immortality were few and faint--for the very existence of another world was merely an assumption--a matter of speculation. An immortality of fame, to the sober eye, was not merely worthless, if acquired, but its acquisition was a thing of toil, and danger, and doubt. Robbed of the high aims and hopes for which it was made, “the chainless spirit of the eternal mind,” would stoop to no medium flight, but sunk in hopeless despondence, and like guilty Adam,

“On the cold earth it lay,
Oft cursing its Creator.”

The light of reason did but make known their darkness, and ignorant of the unseen and the future, they clung with deep devotion to the visible and the present.

Drink and be glad: for what’s to-morrow’s sun,
Or what the future? No one knows--not one.
Haste not, nor toil: but, as thou can’st be kind,
Give, eat, deem all things mortal in thy mind.
To live, or not to live--it’s an equal state,
For life’s a feather in the scales of fate.
Seize it--’tis thine--but if thou die--then what?--
Another has thine all--it matters not.
How came I here? Whence am I, and for what?
To go again. How know I, knowing nought?
Nought before birth, I shall be such again,
For less than nothing are the sons of men.
But bring me wine--that fountain of relief--
That sparkling soother of distressing grief.

Oh! swiftly flies the blooming hue,
That doth the rose adorn,
And then unto thy searching view,
The rose is but a thorn.

Gray Time flies swiftly by, and steals the breath
Of vocal men. Himself unseen the while,
He shrouds the visible in the dust of death,
And brings to light the lowly and the vile.
Oh! thou of life the undetermined end,
Thy steps do daily unto darkness tend.

Hermeneutes.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

“The Character of the Indian,” though inadmissible, is not without merit. In manner it is nearly faultless; in matter, too commonplace to be either instructive or entertaining.

“F.” had better send his verses to “R.” in manuscript. She would undoubtedly greet them with a hearty welcome.

“P.’s” poetry on Poland, though apparently somewhat in years, is filed for insertion. The prolegomena, on account of their too great length, are declined.

“Loose Thoughts on Smoking”--much too loose for publication. We find no fault with the author’s habit, but think he had better smoke in silence.

PROSPECTUS OF THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

TO BE CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE.

An _apology_ for establishing a Literary Magazine, in an institution like Yale College, can hardly be deemed requisite by an enlightened public; yet a statement of the objects which are proposed in this Periodical, may not be out of place.

To foster a literary spirit, and to furnish a medium for its exercise; to rescue from utter waste the many thoughts and musings of a student’s leisure hours; and to afford some opportunity to train ourselves for the strife and collision of mind which we must expect in after life;--such, and similar motives have urged us to this undertaking.

So long as we confine ourselves to these simple objects, and do not forget the modesty becoming our years and station, we confidently hope for the approbation and support of all who wish well to this institution.

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Transcriber’s Notes

A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.