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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.
The period at length arrived. In the gloom of the dark ages there had
been one agent unceasing in its efforts, whose step, silent as the
tread of death, was yet as certain in its progress. Unsuspected, and
apparently chained down by its opposers, it had been collecting the
materials of another great explosion. It had fitted and prepared them,
till their energy was irresistible, and then buried them beneath the
ponderous but rotten fabric of the Popish faith. The materials are
ready and the time has come! It is now that there arises another and
a human agent--one, whose daring spirit and unconquerable firmness,
proclaim him of no common order--who bears in his hand the torch that
is destined to awaken these energies to fury, and as he hurls it to
its purpose, stands forth the chosen one of heaven in this mighty
undertaking. Need we say that it was Luther! His is indeed, a lofty
elevation in the long line of the Reformers. His too is a name,
imperishable, in the pages of Christianity! His the conceded title of a
universal benefactor.
It was impossible, however, upon the ordinary principles of human
nature, that the Reformation, glorious as was its influence, should
be at once complete. The wave that had swept over the corruptions of
the Romish church, had also borne forward and deposited the dregs of
its pollution. By degrees, a spurious philosophy took possession of
a large part of the intellect of continental Europe, and the deep
degeneracy of the Papal system, which still claimed the exclusive
honors of christianity, gave plausibility to an attack upon the whole
of revealed religion. In the midst of this incipient regeneration of
the world, there is one, a proud and mighty empire, that remains aloof!
In the very heart of Christendom she has reared a temple, beautiful in
its proportions and eloquent with grandeur!--whose worshipers are not
of heaven. The dark banner of Infidelity is unfurled above it. On its
entrance is written the inscription, that “there is no God,”--and the
prayer that ascends within it is an insult and a mockery. And where now
is that Christianity which the Reformation introduced? Is its purity
again to be perverted and its throne usurped? We answer that it has not
slumbered. Already is it going forth to battle with the giant form of
Heresy. Animated with the spirit of its author, it is purifying this
temple of abominations--washing out this impious inscription in the
blood of a polluted nation. It has reared again the altar of a purer
faith.
It is not with feelings of vanity but with a sense of the most solemn
responsibilities, that we look upon the era which is now opening
on the world, as probably the last great stage in the progressive
advancement of our race. Shall we hail it as the greatest of all eras?
Does it not, in the long line of ages, stand forth as a brilliant and
attractive point, collecting by its brightness, every ray of knowledge
and of science, to disseminate them wider through the nations of the
earth? With all that we have to deplore of remaining ignorance and
superstition on the one hand--and of restless and misapplied activity
on the other--what age has ever witnessed such cheering prospects for
the cause of Freedom and Christianity? As we look back on the past we
see each succeeding revolution, sweeping away abuses and reading a
great moral lesson to mankind!--while all have been pointing to the
era, which seems now to have arrived, THE UNION OF WELL-REGULATED
FREEDOM, AND A PURER FAITH, and all are eloquent in proof of the
position we have labored to establish. How delightful to trace in part,
the mighty experiment of sixty centuries, and find in it one harmonious
system of events!--to follow out a golden chain, down through the
darkness of the past, binding the disjointed fragments of society into
one vast phalanx, moving ever onward! How animating to behold the
incipient disenthrallment of a world!--to see Christianity coming forth
purified and strengthened from the conflict, and hand in hand with
freedom, leading on our race towards the perfection of their nature.
Whether the future progress of society will again be broken by sudden
and disastrous changes--or will go on to rise by a gradual succession
of elevations, we cannot determine. The sky that now bends over it
so bright and beautiful may yet be clouded--the thunder of another
revolution may be heard, and the lightnings of a mighty power may shake
it to its center. These changes if they come, will hurry it along a
burning track to its destined elevation. The promised redemption of
our race, we trust is near at hand. It may be when the sun that now
rides in light above us, shall look down on others who are soon to fill
our places--while the temples of our worship are unshaken in their
strength--when the stone that marks the place of our deposit, shall not
yet have crumbled. But, sooner or later, that period will arrive. It
will be an era, glorious beyond conception. The patriot and christian
of that favored age, as he stands amidst its brightness and ministers
at the altar of regulated freedom and uncorrupted faith, gifted with
that prophetic vision which connects the future with the past--will
trace the golden chain that binds our system to the throne of God, and
while he mourns over the suffering and degradation which has marked our
world, will yet adore that wisdom, which
From seeming evil, still educes good
And better thence, and better yet again
In infinite progression.
FRAGMENT.
_Excellence of the Christian Principle set forth, and recommended._
[From an unpublished work.]
If thou would’st lay thee in the grave at last,
And die as dies the good man; if thy heart
In that sad hour would feel its sympathies
Sweeten’d, and soothed by solitary thought;
Let thy whole life with virtuous actions teem,
With virtue’s law compare. Thou can’st not live
Too pure, or o’er thy smallest actions keep
Too close restraint. Thou can’st not think too oft,
There is a never, never sleeping eye
Which reads thy heart, and registers thy thoughts;
Thou can’st not say too oft--‘Teach me to know
My end, that I may feel how short it is’--
Nor can’st thou lie too frequent, or too low
Before that cross whereon the Saviour hung--
A blameless sacrifice. It is his fate,
And by his disobedience invoked,
That man shall view the sepulchre with dread;
That when he looks into its narrow depths,
Its gloom--its cheerlessness; and, spurning earth,
Reflection lifts the separating veil
Which hides the future, undissembled awe
Shall grasp his soul, and will not be dispell’d.
Yet in this chalice hath a provident God
Commingled blessings. He hath mark’d a path,
And promis’d peace to him who walks therein,
And safety through the portals of the grave:
And though thorns weary, and temptations press
To win him into crime--his word is sure,
And it will save him. Our emotions take
Their hues from the complexion of the heart,
As landscapes their variety from light;
And he who pays his conscience due regard,
Is virtue’s friend, and reaps a sure reward.
He who has train’d his heart with lib’ral care,
Has robb’d the sable tyrant of his crown,
And torn the robe of terror from his breast.
Death cannot fright him; he has that within
Which, as the needle to the Arctic kept
By law immutable, his mind upbears,
And fastens where earth’s influence cannot reach:
Let loose the cohort of diseases--rend
The finest shoots of passion from his heart--
Snap ev’ry tie of common sympathy,
And let the adverse and remorseless waves
Of disappointment roar against his breast--
And you have struck some rock on Newstra’s coast,
With but the heavings of a summer’s sea.
His spirit knows no thraldom, and it takes
A flight sublime, where earth hath never power.
There is a half-way virtue in the world
Which is the world’s worst enemy; its bane;
Its with’ring curse. It cheats it with a show--
But offers nought of substance, when is sought
Its peaceful fruits. It suffers men in power
To let the young aspirant rise or fall
As chance directs. The rich man fosters it;
And for the favor, it shuts up his ears
Against the cry of virtuous penury;
Or bids him dole out with a miserly hand,
A farthing, where a thousand should be thrown
And proffer’d kindly. The lone orphan’s cries,
The widow’s wail in impotence, perchance
Secure a few unmeaning tears--but not
The pity which administers relief.
Words flow as freely as a parrot talks
At tales of suffering; and tears may fall
As free as Niobe’s; but not a sacrifice
The heart accepts, nor pleasure is forgone,
Which marks the principle of virtue there,
Or such as finds acceptance in the skies.
Who pays with pity, all my debt of love--
Who weeps for me, yet never sees my lack--
Who says be clothed, yet never proffers aught--
He’s not my fellow, nor deserves the name.
A feeble virtue is a vice, adorn’d
With virtue’s semblance. ’Tis a negative
And useless quality. It exempts from wo
Insufferable, yet grudges perfect bliss;
And he but tricks him in a knave’s attire,
Who boasts no other. He’s but half the man
Who, when temptation stares him in the face,
Assents, yet trembles to be overcome!
Such men do things by halves, and never do
Aught with an earnest soul. They fool away
A life, in which the good and evil mix
So equal, that the sum is neutralized;
And Justice on their sepulchres inscribes
No sterner truth, than when she writes--a blank.
Why linger then betwixt the two extremes--
The passive puppet of each circumstance?
Why pure, and dev’lish--mortal, and immortal--
Too good for earth--and yet unfit for Heaven?
Why not at once, dispel these baneful mists,
Thrust from thy path, the arts and blandishments
Which win to wickedness; and rise at once
With a proud moral freedom, until thou
Can’st stand upon the stars--and see to Heaven?
*
THE SCIOT GIRL.
----“I cannot bear
To be the scorned and trampled thing I am
In this degraded land. Its very skies,
That smile as if but festivals were held
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down
With a dull sense of bondage.”--_Hemans._
The inhabitants of the once beautiful island of Scio, were among
the last to rise against their oppressors and throw off the Turkish
yoke. A combination of causes prevented them from taking part in the
revolt when it first broke out. The spirit of enterprise and commerce,
while it enriched and refined the people, had withdrawn them, by
degrees, from those warlike habits which had distinguished many of the
neighboring isles. They were immediately under the coast of Asia Minor,
from whence, without a moment’s warning, they might be overwhelmed by
hordes of merciless barbarians. They could not look out upon their
vine-clad hills and their cultivated fields, where the orange, citron
and pomegranate bloomed in oriental richness, and think that the fair
scene should be polluted by the horrors of a desolating war. Learning
and religion were protected. They were prosperous and happy under a
government which, to _them_ at least, had been an indulgent one, and
they wisely preferred their present safety to the uncertain chance of
future benefit. The young men of the island, many of whom had been
educated in the universities of France and Italy, with the generous
impulse of their age, hastened, at the first cry, to join the ranks of
the revolters; and we may well imagine that many, who were themselves
unable to take up arms, prayed for the success of the cause and aided
it in secret.
A year had now passed, and such was the situation of Scio.
It was an evening in the month of March, when a young Greek might be
seen hastening along the beach in the direction of the principal town
of the island. In the dress of the person--which was that of the
higher class of citizens--there was nothing remarkable; but in his
manner there was much to draw attention. His countenance was marked by
an expression of cool and high-strung desperation. He strode on, as if
to escape from the burthen of some intolerable thought, and muttered to
himself from between his close set teeth. We may catch the import of
his words.
“Well, well! it is over; and in sooth, she carried it nobly for one so
young; but that pride shall have a fall, my haughty beauty,--and that
stripling Antonio, too--by the cross! to be outwitted, circumvented,
thus--that _he_ should step in and pluck the fruit I had coveted so
long. Most excellent Constantine! truly thy wits have grown sharp of
late to be thus miserably foiled by a beardless boy, and thine own
egregious self conceit.--Fool! fool!” He paused for an instant, and
a demoniac scowl passed across his features. “Ay, revenge----and she
shall kneel to me even as I knelt to her, and pray to me in her agony
and I will not hear her. Wo to those who would trifle with the proffers
of Constantine.”
That night he disappeared from the island, and his absence excited
little remark and less regret. Of his history scarcely any thing was
known; but the mystery with which he chose to envelope his early days,
his unbounded prodigality of wealth, and the recklessness of his
character, gave rise to a strong suspicion, that his life had been one
of desperate and unlawful courses.
And who was she against whom that fearful malediction had been uttered?
A gentle spiritual being, unfit for the stormy waves on which she
had been cast, destined to struggle with difficulty against them,
and perhaps, ere long, to float away on the wilderness of waters, a
withered and a broken thing. Surrounded with all that wealth could
bring, she had grown up, shadowed from the gaze of the world, beautiful
and accomplished in person, but still more lovely, if possible, in her
intellectual being. To her the literature of the present and the past
were unfolded, and she drank deeply of all that is high or impassioned
therein. But most she loved to dwell upon the records of her country,
and her young blood would thrill as she read of the ancient glory
of her people, of their triumphs in arts and arms, of their bards,
and warriors, and sages, and she wept when she beheld the degeneracy
of their descendants. The beautiful in nature “haunted her like a
passion.” She loved the Egean and its isles and the blue sky above
them, because they were beautiful themselves, but still more because
antiquity had hallowed them. And she was wont to steal away from her
companions, and in some shady nook made pleasant by the dashing of
a mountain rivulet, to read the stories of the ‘olden time,’ till
consciousness stole from her and she lived and moved an actor in the
scene. On one thus constituted, the first tidings of the revolt struck
like an electric shock. The day-dream of her existence seemed to be on
the eve of its accomplishment. Already, in imagination, she saw the
chains falling from her nation, and Greece, with her bright coronet
of isles, smiling in her recovered independence and happiness. She saw
the ruined temples and altars reconstructed, and the statues of the
renowned of old, restored to their long deserted niches. She lamented
that she too might not grasp the lance and wield the sword. But all the
interest of an actual combatant was hers. Her soul was with Niketas,
among the passes of the Morea, with Miaulis and Canaris in their
desperate engagements by sea, and her prayers were daily with God, that
he would crown their efforts with success. She mingled no longer in the
song or dance, she was no longer seen in the masque or revel of the
festival--a high and holy enthusiasm filled her soul, and
“The boon that nature gave her at her birth,
Her own original gaiety of heart”
was gone. As a mother watches with intense solicitude, the varying
pulses of a dying child, so did Zara watch the rising and sinking
fortunes of the cause to which she had bound her happiness forever.
It was the night on which commences our story, and Zara is gazing
out upon the sea, and the evening breeze that comes in through the
lattice, lifts her dark hair and caresses her cheek, as if conscious
of the beauty around which it played. The scene through which she
had passed, and which had resulted so bitterly to one, had vanished
entirely from her mind. The stars were looking down from an unclouded
sky, and the waves made music as they broke upon the shore, but both
were equally unmarked by her. She thought of her lover beyond the sea,
she watched him in all the hazards of a fierce contest, she heard his
voice, nerving with confidence his fainting friends and sending dismay
into the ranks of the enemy. She saw him driving the Moslem before
him, now he is among the thickest of the foe, he struggles valiantly,
the infidels hem him in on every side, Holy Virgin preserve him, he
is down!--she was suddenly aroused from her painful thoughts. A light
boat, containing a single individual, shot rapidly round a curve of the
shore, and glided into the dark, smooth water of the little bay that
lay beneath her window. A moment after a rich, manly voice rose gaily
on the air:--
Lady, from thy lofty bower
Look not out so tearfully,
Lady know, this joyous hour,
From beyond the star-lit sea
Brings thy lover back to thee,
Brings him, love, to life and thee!
That voice! it was Antonio’s--a moment more and she is in his arms.
“Ah recreant!” said she, smiling fondly upon him, “is this your boasted
patriotism? What sends you from your post in the hour of danger?”
“Can you ask, Zara, and do you forget, that it is a whole year, an age
since I have seen you?”
“It is indeed a long weary time, and it has changed you much, Antonio.”
“In all things else, perhaps, but not in my devotion to you. But you
are paler, Zara, than when we parted, and your voice is more low and
melancholy than I have ever heard it. I fear you have not lived happily
as you were wont. A soldier’s mistress should never repine at his
absence.”
“I could not be gay, while Greek swords were striking for liberty, and
while you, Antonio, were hazarding your life; but now that you are
here, and I listen to you and see you.”----
----“And feel this warm kiss upon your cheek.”----
“I am happy indeed.”
“You have lived too much in your own sad fancies, and while I remain I
must contrive some diversion for you. Suppose we excite a conspiracy in
Scio, by way of amusement.”
“Oh delightful!”
“Yes, and so romantic. You shall assume the manly toga; the costume of
an Albanian chief will become that dark beauty of yours right well;
and with your eloquence of words and looks we shall soon get up an
insurrection. To tell the truth, Zara,” he continued more seriously,
“it was not love alone that brought me here; our cause is going forward
nobly, and the Sciots must give to it all their strength and influence.
These degenerate countrymen of ours must be awakened from their
lethargy, and I have come to rouse them.” And thus, from trifling to
serious, from serious to trifling, he wandered on, and Zara was sad no
longer.
Time passed, and Antonio had not appealed to his countrymen in vain.
The Sciots responded to his call, and were only waiting a favorable
opportunity to evince their patriotism. At this juncture, history
informs us that two adventurers, with troops from Samos, landed on the
island. The Sciots rose. A considerable force sent out against them
was repulsed, and the whole body of the Turks were finally driven into
the citadel and there besieged. The Greeks, however, had no means of
securing their advantage from want of cannon to batter down the walls,
and they were forced to wait in anxious suspense, till artillery might
be sent them from abroad. Their hopes were frustrated, and all their
plans destroyed by the arrival of a Turkish fleet of fifty sail, which
anchored in the bay, and immediately began to bombard the town. Their
faithless allies, the Samians, at the first appearance of the enemy,
had deserted them, and sought safety in flight. Under the guns of the
castle thousands of Turkish troops were disembarked. Some resistance
was attempted, but all resistance was in vain. Hordes of barbarians
rolled on and thronged the coast, fit instruments for the horrible
tragedy which had been planned in the divan of the sultan, and was now
soon to be enacted.
That day had worn wearily with Zara. Hour after hour she had heard
the firing of cannon from the fleet; she knew that the Turks were
landing; she had seen at a distance, troops passing and re-passing
across the country, and her lover came not. A thousand doubts, a
thousand misgivings, harassed her mind. The sun had set, and yet she
had received no tidings from Antonio. The booming of the cannon broke
incessantly on her ear, and sounded like a knell to all her hopes. Her
anxiety was now increased to agony. Her heart beat with joy as she
heard a quick step along the corridor. It approached the apartment. Was
that her lover’s step? The door opened, and a stranger stood before her.
“I have come!”
“I know you not; who are you?”
“You will know me sooner than you think--one whom you _once_ despised,
one whom your scorn has made a seared and blasted thing. But I bear
no malice, lady; no, I am merciful compared with you. I have come
to save you. Listen! the people of Scio are doomed to inevitable,
indiscriminate massacre.” A red light fell across the room. “Hah! at
work so soon? Lady, do you doubt me, look! Scio is in flames! The work
of pillage and slaughter has commenced. The fiends will soon be here--a
boat lies moored below, in which I will convey you to a place of
safety--away! away!”
“Villain! no. What means that Moslem dress? Apostate from your country
and your God! If I must perish, I will perish here; not to thee will I
owe my safety.”
“No! well, listen to me, and be calm as I am: mark me. ’Twas _I_ who
urged upon the Sultan the strong necessity of taking summary vengeance
on the Sciots. ’Twas _I_ who poured upon the shore these swarms of
merciless barbarians. ’Twas _I_ who ordered the burning of yonder town.
’Twas I that _slew thy lover_--perhaps you like me better now.”
“Miscreant! back, lay not your hand upon me. Oh God!” She caught
a slender dagger from her girdle, and assumed an attitude of
self-defense. “I am not so weak and timid as you think.”
“This is folly: I am wasting time.” He seized her by the wrist, and
with a smile of pity, forced the weapon from her delicate hand. She
fainted.
The last words of gratuitous cruelty, “’twas I that slew thy lover,”
false as they were, had done their office, and Constantine, lifting her
in his arms, bore her swiftly away.
As long as it was possible, Antonio, with a few brave Greeks, made head
against the enemy. He saw that the enterprise in which he had toiled so
long had failed, but he could not bear tamely to relinquish the field.
Overpowering numbers at length forced him to retire, and he sullenly
watched from a distance the landing of the enemy. From what he had
already witnessed of Turkish warfare, he soon suspected the scene that
would ensue. The thought of Zara flashed upon his mind--giving a few
brief orders to those under his command, he hastened towards her home.
What he heard and saw by the way increased his alarm. Yells and groans,
and the report of musketry, rose from the city, while, here and there,
the flames had begun to burst forth. Now and then, a crowd of women
and children, frantic with fear, crossed his path, seeking for safety
in the country. He hurries forward--the house is now in sight, but all
is dark and desolate; he crosses the threshold--no one answers to his
call; he reaches her apartment--it is empty.
He hastens again from the house. Following with his eye the path that
led to the shore, he caught a glance of Constantine moving swiftly
forward with his burden.
With the fierceness of a maniac, he bounds down the declivity.
Constantine hears his pursuer, and quickens his pace. He is near the
boat. On! on! if you would save your bride. Too late--too late. Yet
there is one, though a desperate resource. Antonio’s pistol rings upon
the air. Hah! he staggers with his burthen, but struggles forward--in
vain--he supports his sinking form against a rock, while his life blood
ebbs fast away. With the look of a baffled fiend, he turns towards
his pursuer. Rage and disappointment writhe his lip, while his brow
grows pale in death. He seeks his sash, and a stiletto gleams in the
moonlight. What means that strange, ghastly smile? Oh God! he cannot
mean----the blow is struck, and as he sinks to the earth, the life
blood of Zara mingles with his own upon the sands. In an instant her
lover kneels over her, but she hears him not, she answers him not.
Thy pure soul has fled, unconscious of the blow thy ‘demon lover’
dealt. Thou hast gone ere the storm had desolated thy beautiful
island-home--ere the sorrows of thy country had entered into thy soul.
It is well with thee, sweet enthusiast, it is well with thee as thou
art.