THE
YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.
CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE.
[Illustration]
“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES
Cantabunt SOBOLES, unanimique PATRES.”
NO. II.
MARCH, 1836.
NEW HAVEN:
HERRICK & NOYES.
MDCCCXXXVI.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
Page.
The Benefit of Thought, 41
Ode—The Birth of Poesy, 47
Macbeth, 48
The Cascade, 53
Story and Sentiment, No. II. 54
Pen and Ink, 62
Confessions of a Sensitive Man, No. II. 63
The Whale’s Last Moments, 69
Review—The Partisan, 70
Greek Anthology, No. II. 77
“Our Magazine,” 80
THE
YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.
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VOL. I. MARCH, 1836. NO. 2.
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THE BENEFIT OF THOUGHT.
The worst as well as the best of us in this world, sometimes love to
stop and think. The bad man, wanting every fine feeling, and mostly
giving his passions the rein, and suffering them to lead him, to the
exclusion of what is beautiful in morals and religion, will sometimes be
struck with the contrast between himself and others, and give a few
moments to thought. Besides, there are, from the mutual relation of mind
and body, certain states of physical feeling, which seem to make men
pause, and set them thinking, whether they will or not. In fact, this
seems a provision of nature, and it is a benevolent one; for men who
think a great deal, are improved by it; and if so, it is obviously a
kind plan of our Maker, who, by giving us constitutions susceptible of
the changes in the natural world, leads us, thereby, to pause awhile,
and familiarize ourselves with that which is wisest and best in the
constitutions of our souls.
That a man is improved by thinking much, few will deny. If he sits and
thinks upon his secular concerns, or employs himself in ambitious
speculations, or upon any other of the subjects which beguile the
greater part of the human family, we would not say he was improved, at
least, but little, by it. But we think a man who now and then gives
himself to solitude, will not employ his mind thus. It is a law of our
natures, that earthly objects, even the best, and purest, if pursued
long, and obtained in profusion, have a tendency to induce satiety and
disgust. Most men have had experience of this; for few are there, we
think, who have not, after calculating long on the delights of a
prospective good, found on its attainment, its comparative worthlessness
and insufficiency. Now the man who devotes a few moments to reflection,
will have this great inducement to lead his mind off from such subjects
as tend only to make him the more of a worldling, viz. that they cannot
satisfy. Moreover, if he does not know, or does not remember this, as
the result of former experience, he will (unless he be yoked with
fetters of iron to the world, and his whole character be different from
that of other men) if at first, in his retirement, he gives his mind up
to outward objects, or to such as serve his worst passions—after a
while, even then, experience the same, or something of the same satiety.
The mind then turns somewhere else, for it must have nourishment; and
whither, but into itself. It is thus, retirement puts a man in the way
of being better.
Now the mind abstracted from outward, every-day objects, or such as have
dominion over it through the medium of the senses, will soon become
acquainted with its own noble faculties. It certainly is a truth, and
every thinking man will remark it as he mingles with men, that they all
seem unconscious of their natures. A wiser than man has revealed to us,
and Philosophy tells us, that there are fountains of bliss in ourselves;
and that if we taste of these, we shall look upon those things which
constitute most of the enjoyment of our race, as worth little or
nothing. Of this truth, we say, men seem ignorant. A being with half our
natural faculties, would be capacitated for about as much bliss as most
men take. The extent of many, we may say of most of the human family’s
ideas of happiness, might almost be comprehended by a sagacious animal.
Does it not consist mainly, in securing such a portion of worldly
substance, as shall make them comfortable? It is so, manifestly. Now let
me ask, if this, in the scale of being, elevates us much above brutes.
Brutes do all this; and it might be remarked without much hazard, that,
instinct taken into account, they take a higher stand than we do.
Retirement, however, turning the mind into itself, as remarked above,
tends to correct this evil; and did society think more, its condition
would instantly be improved. Thought opens new sources of thought; these
sources other sources, increasing in tenfold ratio: and this unravels
that which is so often esteemed a mystery by many, viz. that men, once
devoted to books, can never be brought back to business men; and,
furthermore, it shows an egregious error in those who account for this
devotion, on the grounds of habit. That we are creatures of habit in a
great degree, none will deny; but that habit can be broken, is as
readily admitted—whereas, this devotion was never known to be lessened.
The man who thinks much, in addition to the discovery of his great
mental powers, discovers, also, his great moral capacities. Things that
once struck him as strange in his moral constitution, and which, as they
seemed inexplicable, he had so often dismissed with a glance, he now
discovers, are so many evidences of a relationship to the Divine being:
all is illuminated which, before, was so dark: the film passes from his
eye: what he thought but a stagnant pool, he finds, now, is an ocean
whose waters are limpid and sweet, the bottom of which is strewn with
the richest and rarest shells: every exertion reveals to him a new
treasure, until he wonders within himself at that perversity and
blindness, which could pass over, undiscovered, such deep sources of
improvement. Now one result of all this is, that he gains a just sense
of the dignity of his being. We know how fashionable it is, to decry
human nature; and we doubt not we shall receive censure, for turning off
from such a beaten path. The great and good, of almost all time, have
rather preferred to find fault, than bestow on it eulogium. But it seems
to us, an abuse, and a perversion, for looking over society as we do,
and catching here and there so many evidences of bright and heroic
virtues as are presented—we cannot follow the fashion, and say, every
man is altogether bad. There is every thing in the soul which is noble:
it bears the imprint of a divine hand: and though its fair phasis be
soiled, and blackened, as doubtless it is, by transgression, there are,
nevertheless, some intelligent spots left, to show its divine origin.
Another result of patient thought is, a man discovers his proper
relationship to society. Self-knowledge tends greatly to remove
selfishness. By it, he learns his obligation, not only to God, but man;
he begins to see how impossible it is, to live an isolated being; and he
begins to feel, in its full force, that beautiful truth, that he is a
part of the great chain which links society together. In proportion as
he feels this, must his selfishness give place to nobler feelings. No
man exhibits a more unprepossessing ignorance, than he who sets at
nought the opinions, and feelings of others. He becomes an object of
pity, and even contempt, to every thinking man; for so little is
required to see his error, that we despise his oversight. If men did but
know it, it is the cause of a large portion of the unhappiness of life.
Society never finds a person in its midst, entirely wrapped in self, and
scorning its good will, but it leaves such to the fate they merit, viz.
to test their ill grounded belief, and see if they _can_ live, setting
at nought the doctrine of mutual dependence. No! men were made
dependent—mutually dependent—and it is the loveliest thing in morals
that it is so; for just so far as it is recognized, is selfishness
destroyed, and harmony established among men. This doctrine ought to be
held up more than it is, especially in this nation: it would serve to
correct and counteract, if any thing can do it, that spirit of
self-interest, always the result of popular and free institutions.
The moral powers are greatly improved, also, by thought, and as a
consequence, the moral taste. It is unfortunate, we think, that so much
should have been said, and written, as there has been, on beauty and
taste, and moral beauty, and moral taste, so often left out of the
account. The order and harmony in Nature, has never wanted admirers; and
eulogists, by scores, are found, to speak of high deeds, and heroic
attachments. In the Arts, too, the ideal symmetry of Phidias; the
burning canvass of Michael Angelo; and the fabulous shell of
Orpheus—these have never lacked encomium. On the contrary, there has
been something like a mad emulation among men, from the bright era of
Grecian Pericles until now, to invent epithets of admiration. But how
are high deeds and heroic virtues ennobled—what added grace and dignity
is afforded the Fine Arts, when the principles of moral beauty are
associated! Our object here, however, shall not be to discover, why
moral taste is neglected, but rather to find out some principles by
which it may be seen, and improved, wherever there is a wish for its
culture. Taste is doubtless an inherent faculty; and, if the doctrine of
innate ideas is admitted, then moral taste is an inherent faculty. Now
every thing which relates to morals, affects moral taste; they cannot be
dissociated: hence, would you look for its liveliest exercise, you will
take the most elevated character. In such you will observe it, not in
great display, but in the thousand little offices of life,
‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d acts
Of kindness and of love.’
It checks them, at every little departure from rectitude, and is a good
and efficient guide, in all their intercourse with men. If a man would
_improve_ his moral taste, let him, instead of that pernicious habit of
revery to which there are so many inducements, especially in retirement,
give his thoughts to the excellence of moral virtues: let him look at
those sparks of beauty, so to speak, sometimes struck off from heroic
characters, in trying circumstances: let him trace them in their
two-fold results, as affecting others, and then refracting on himself;
and much have we mistaken the human mind, if the practice do not benefit
him. We are not aware of the extent of the benefit of a taste rightly
understood, and rightly directed, because it is so very subtle and
delicate; nevertheless, those many imperceptible advances which it makes
against an ill regulated mind, operate powerfully as a whole, and do
modify the disposition to a degree little dreamed of. It improves a
man’s _whole_ character, and throws a charm around it, not otherwise,
than as the flush sometimes seen lying along the sky of evening, which,
thrown down to the earth by the atmosphere, gives it all a mellow glow
of beauty.
From the above, we detect another truth. There are in society, certain
little observances, which tend to regulate it—such as the forms of
etiquette; which observances, it is deemed can best be learned _in_
society. This we deem a very pernicious doctrine. It is reasoning from
wrong premises; and false _data_ in moral, assuredly bring about as
wrong deductions, as in physical science. The very object to be
attained, viz. the regulation of society, not only goes to show, that it
is something which is extraneous, but presupposes that it can never be
found there: and yet we are told, that politeness is the result of
social intercourse. But this we believe not. So far from it, we believe
that true politeness is _never_ learned there. Society is nothing but a
hot bed—what grows in it, is rank and unwholesome. True, there is a
something passing for politeness, very meaningless, and very stiff; but
it is, at the same time, so very shallow, that men of sense make no
pretensions to it: and _this_ is learned _in_ society. True politeness
is of another growth. It is the offspring of correct principle; and any
thing springing from such a source, we may not be much afraid of. True
politeness is nothing but a refined kind of humanity; and give a man a
kind heart, and one regulated by correct taste; and never fear, but he
has that which will make his way any where, to the utter exclusion of
these danglers on the skirts of good breeding. It is a sad thing, that
we have such an abundance of _manners_ in the world, and so little
_character_: that men think so little, they have mostly become frivolous
and superficial: that frivolous and superficial manners, best become
them. This is true however. We _have_ lost the substance, and taken the
shadow; and now, in groping for it, we have got a substitute, without
one of the virtues of its expatriated pre-occupant.
But though the age is not one marked by any very severe exercise of
thought, and though utilitarian principles are threatening to sweep away
almost every kind of speculative knowledge, yet we are not greatly
fearful as to the result. The system is revolving, and a better
succession will soon be among us. And why? Our hope is, in the fast
increasing intelligence of the world. Though we might, and, did we give
our mind, we should, find complaint, in respect to many of the features
of the spirit of the day, deeming it too clamorous, and active, as
having a tendency to injure what is pure and beautiful, in the ideal
world—still, intelligence is fast and widely diffused; and on the whole,
doubtless, the good will predominate. Those rank plants among us, such
as false taste, sickly sensibility, affectation, and the like, will be
crowded out by those of healthier growth, and society put on a new
aspect; while, as evils, we shall have too much of a captious,
matter-of-fact atmosphere, which rejects every thing not immediately
communicated, through the medium of the senses. This, however, will be
counteracted in some degree, by the few that _do_ think: and, further,
by that _other_ few, who in all states of society hold their own,
uncontaminated by that which is about them. These are they who bring
into existence with them, those susceptibilities of harmony in the
natural and moral world—minds, which separate them from their
fellows—feelings, which earth never appreciates—and aspirations, which
carry them up to breathe in a purer atmosphere, where the bustle, ‘and
hoarse enginery of Life’ cannot come. These, we say, have an influence
in society, though they are above it—‘birds of heavenly plumage fair,’
that, stooping occasionally from higher regions, appear for a moment,
and then are gone.
In conclusion: the benefit of thought is most manifest, in that proper
self-confidence, without which, there is no real dignity of character.
To be a growing man, is to be a confident one; and the secret of
greatness, lies in the consciousness of the ability to be great. We
should be sorry to advocate folly,—modesty, we are taught from our
cradles, is a virtue,—but by some unaccountable process, the thing has
got to signifying something, better designated sheepishness; and hence,
we have an _animal_ virtue. Different from these, however, are our ideas
of modesty. True modesty is that proper appreciation of one’s own
powers, which leads him never to offend, either by bashfulness or
presumption: now, who so likely to hit the mark, as he who knows the
strength of the bow. The workings of a great mind, conscious of its
capacities—and its aspirations for eminence, are, in distinction to the
greatness of little men, as opposite as possible—the one a mighty river,
always overflowing, and enriching the soil through which it moves, with
its abundant and generous fullness—the other an insignificant stream,
always within its banks, as grudging the smallest pittance to the scene
around. To be a modest man in a certain usage, is to be an ignorant
one—for to underrate one’s self, and be honest in it, is to show
ignorance of self; and he who knows not himself, has skipped the first
page in the book of wisdom: but to be a modest man in a right sense, is
to be a wise one—for it is a knowledge of self (which we suppose
constitutes a wise man) that enables one to seize upon and retain, his
proper station in society. It is this latter kind of modesty which is
commendable. It is that of great men. It is that which, meet it where we
will, we love to praise. Milton could stop, mid-word in one of his
loudest invectives against the rotten fabric of Episcopacy, and speak of
himself as ‘a poet sitting in the high regions of his fancy, with his
garlands and singing robes about him’—and, with voice like the wild note
of prophecy, proclaim ‘the great argument,’ as yet sleeping in the
darkness of his vision; and of his confidence to produce a work ‘that
posterity should not willingly let die.’ Was this folly? and yet, it was
a full appreciation of what the great God had given him. No! It was
knowledge—knowledge at home—knowledge gained by thought—the knowledge of
energies proud enough, to build up a colossal monument to posterity—_and
he did it_.
These are some of the advantages, we think, of a substantial knowledge
of ourselves; and when we look at the age, and see how headlong it is,
and how dangerously practical it is becoming; too much cannot be said,
and too loudly it cannot be spoken, that there is need of more
reflection, and more forethought.
ODE.
THE BIRTH OF POESY.
Spirit that floatest o’er me now,
So beautiful, so bright,
I know thee by that lip, that brow,
That eye of beaming light.
Hail! Sovereign of the golden lyre,
Rapture-breathing God,
All Hail!
We bow beneath thy rod,
Who dost, for aye, the glowing thought inspire.
Hail! Radiant One, we welcome thee,
Heaven-born, holy Poesy!
Spirit who weavest
Thy sweet spells so strong,
Answer me, answer me,
Spirit of Song,
Where was thy birth-place,
Where is thy home,
Why, o’er the doom’d earth,
Spirit, dost thou roam?
“When the dewy earth was young,
When the flowers of Eden sprung,
When first woman’s smile exprest
All the heaven of her breast,
Then and there I had my birth,
In the infancy of earth.
“Angel-hands my cradle made,
Woven gay from every flower,
And they swung it in the shade,
Sheltered from the noon-tide hour,
While the balmy air that crept
Murmuring thro’ the waving trees,
Rocked me gently till I slept
In the music of the breeze.
“Then, a hollow shell they brought,
Strung across with golden wires,
Every chord with passion fraught,
Thrills with joy, with hope inspires.
Angel-songs at eve I heard
Rise from many a circling hill,
And my harp whene’er ’t is stirr’d
Trembles to their cadence still!
“I am the spirit of joy and of mirth,
And I gladden the hearts of the sons of earth,
I twine a chaplet of deathless flowers
For the fair young brows of the laughing Hours,
I show to the Poet’s dreaming eye,
The shadowy realms of Phantasy,
A charm o’er the earth and the air I fling,—
Such are the offerings I bring.
Beings that people the depths of air,
Come when I speak my wizard prayer;
I tell my will, and away! away!
O’er the boundless fields of glowing day,
Where the quivering sunbeams ever play,
Onward and onward they wing their flight,
Brightening towards the source of light.
Beings that people the depths of sea,
Rise at my call and bow before me,
And they bear me down to their coral caves,
Where ever the roll of Sapphire waves
Thro’ vaulted roof and temples dim,
Sounds forth a strange and solemn hymn.
But would’st thou know where I love to dwell,
And where I weave my strongest spell,—
Where beameth the light of woman’s eye,
Where flowers spring up, there, there, am I!”
S.
MACBETH.
“There is some soul of goodness in things evil.”—_King Henry V._
Macbeth is a historical character. He is one of those who stand on the
page of history as personifications of vice, rather than as men who
possess any thing in common with ourselves. They distinguished
themselves by a career of crime—in general that crime arose from
ambition,—their names have become a proverb, and are associated in our
minds with a particular form of vice as the entire and bare sum of their
character. Yet when thus viewed, what are called examples affect us
little more than a lifeless homily. They raise in us no sympathy, and of
course no interest. They may indeed excite a hatred of that abstract
form of vice, but against that we feel secure, and we make no attempt to
derive from them any further benefit. Our abhorrence forbids; for we
look upon them not as human beings with their varying hues, but as
monsters, almost as monsters born. This horror, thus excited at
personified vice, seems to speak well for our hearts, yet it will be
found to prevent us from taking discriminating views of such characters,
and from deriving any practical wisdom from them. We do not reflect that
they were men like ourselves, that though deeply sunk in vice, they were
once as innocent as we may suppose ourselves to be; that it was by
objects working upon what is within every one of us, that they became
what they were; that the deeper they were involved in the coil of
wickedness, the more narrowly does it become us, would we derive true
wisdom or true knowledge from them, to search out those places in the
heart where its cords were first fastened on them; to find what was
first effectually touched to make them what they were. Nor do we reflect
that to obtain any practical knowledge of men, it is no way to separate
whatever of good there may be in such characters, from the bad, however
great it may be; since it is only to be obtained by observing the
struggle between the two as they actually stand connected. Nor need we
fear to admire too much, that, in the most vicious mind, which is worthy
of our admiration; as if we should detest vice the less, for seeing the
ruin it makes, or for detecting its insidiousness in undermining the
fair qualities which may call forth our praise.
An excellent means of thus presenting to us the characters of history,
as they are in their original cast, and as they progress or change in
the course of events, may be found in the drama. The living beings in
all their “intensity of life,” are before us; with the circumstances of
life about them—whether actual circumstances or not is of little
importance, if they are such as might have been expected. The scenes of
a whole life pass rapidly, yet distinctly and freshly before us, as
imagination loves, and as we should review the eventful life of one whom
we had well known.
The tragedy before us moves towards its conclusion with a fearful
rapidity, which we vainly wish to detain; and is invested with a stern
and awful solemnity, disturbed only by thrilling scenes of horror.
Macbeth, the kinsman of king Duncan, and general of his army, returning
from a victorious battle, is met by three witches, two of whom hail him
with titles of nobility, which are almost instantly confirmed, and the
third with that of future king. Led by this and his own ambition, he, at
the suggestion of his wife, murders at midnight the king whom he had
entertained, and charges the deed upon his guards. He is crowned, and to
maintain his crown, is led into a series of butcheries, which ends in
his own death by the hand of Macduff, aided by the English, who had been
invited over by the sons of the murdered Duncan.
It might seem, at first view, that Macbeth is only one among the slaves
of a vulgar ambition, which implies a mind already hardened, and which,
attracted by some splendid object, sets itself, from purely selfish
ends, to the attainment of it, and after some visitings of remorse,
becomes thoroughly obdurate. The elements of such a character are gross
and palpable; the representations obvious; and it is, we think, under
this impression that this play has been pronounced to contain “no nice
discriminations of character.”[1] But if we consider that Macbeth is in
a great degree the subject of influence, acted upon rather than acting,
and in some respects more sinned against than sinning; and how, at last,
it is the sarcasm of his wife, and the fear of disappointing her whom he
loves, full as much as his own ambition, which prevails on him to do the
murder, the character becomes more complicated, and we are constrained
to find the good and bad in it more evenly balanced, than we at first
thought they could be. The truth about Macbeth seems to be, that with
the peculiar openness of a hero, and with all his grandeur of intellect,
together with nice discrimination of all that may become a man, he is
wanting in that _energy of reflection_, which imparts integrity or moral
entireness to the mind. In this respect, his conduct is well contrasted
with that of Banquo, upon the reception of the infernal prediction. The
want of this trait accounts also for the fact, that he is never
self-possessed in his wickedness, and never acts properly upon a selfish
plan. For this reason, when we mark the many pure and bright qualities,
which might form the elements of a most noble character, and of whose
value the ingenuous owner seems hardly conscious, we are tempted to
exclaim in another sense,
“O Fortunatus! sua si bona noverit!”
And when we see these tarnished and obscured by means of deceit which he
does not comprehend, or if he does, has not sufficient energy to dispel,
though we cannot greatly respect, we can still admire and pity him. We
cannot view him with the same feelings as we do Richard III, wholly
remorseless, and self-possessed in wickedness absolutely unredeemed; nor
as we do that cool, contriving villain, Iago. On account of his openness
of mind also, his character will be best understood, not by formal
analysis, but by following him through the various circumstances in
which he is placed, and observing their effects on a mind too genial not
to receive them, and withal too transparent to hide them.
Let us take him then as he is first presented to us. He is a hero. This
character also remains with him throughout. It is heroism which urges
him to deeds of high daring, which prompts his mind to its lofty
conceptions of greatness, which struggles long and hard with his
conscience, but at last plunges him in guilt, propelling him deeper and
deeper into it, and called out in its utmost grandeur and intensity in
braving the cowardice of remorse. But with the hero’s bravery and lion
strength, there is united also the “milk of human kindness,” and the
tenderest pity; for who, other than he who copied from his own breast,
would have conceived of it thus, even when it opposed directly his
designs.
And _pity_, like a _naked newborn babe_,
Striding the blast, or heav’ns cherubim, hors’d
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.
But above all, as a hero he “is not without ambition.” Yet he is also
“without the illness should attend it.” Naturally noble and ingenuous,
his ambition up to this time had been rather than any thing else, an
aimless, generous aspiring after that which should fill his own
capacity, and sought no other reward for manly deeds than the doing
them. It was consistent also with a state of high and pure moral
feeling, as is not that which has always an end in view, and is always
planning and plotting for it. Accordingly, we find it combined in him
with great purity and ingenuousness of heart. “What he would highly,
that would he holily.” Still it was dangerous, and, no guide to itself,
was liable to take shape and direction from any conjunction of
circumstances. Until now, however, he had gone with it securely and
uprightly. He seems to have been kept in the path of duty and honor by
the generous impulses of his nature, and perhaps more, with his peculiar
openness, by the favorable influence of his kinsman the “good king
Duncan,” whom he heartily loves and admires.
But now the trial is to come; to come too with circumstances, and at a
time exactly adapted to overcome _him_. In the midst of an intoxicating
self-complacency at his victory, a state of mind peculiarly genial for
the reception of any suggestions favoring his promotion, he is met by
three supernatural beings, (to him at least they were such,) in whom,
from childhood, he had had an unwavering faith. That faith is confirmed
by the almost instant fulfillment of two of their predictions. The third
is unavoidably suggested to his mind as a necessary consequence. A
strong conviction, amounting to a belief of destiny, that it must be
fulfilled, seems from that time to have taken hold of his mind. And how
is it to be done. His mind shrinks with ingenuous horror from the only
way: he must _murder_ the king. He strives to escape from the idea. His
mind cannot, with all its ambition, and all its heroism, look clearly
through the deed to its end. It cannot _see_ in the wrong direction. It
is untaught and unskilled in the ways of cunning wickedness. He is not
sufficient master of himself to climb over the horror which rises before
him. Nor yet has he _energy_ enough to get away from it. That strong
conviction of the necessity of the deed, full as much, at least, as the
desirableness of its end, still enchains him. He might indeed have
reflected that it lay with him to do it or not, but he does not, and
perhaps it was hardly to be expected that _he should_. His ambition,
which had been the habit of his life, and which he had hitherto trusted
in as his good guide, has received a direction which he cannot change,
towards a point from which he cannot divert it. He is as it were
_spell-bound_. Still he cannot consent; he even decides not to do it.
His newly-won honor, gratitude, reputation which was most dear to him,
admiration for Duncan, and pity for him as his intended victim, all
forbid. Here his wife comes in, and by some of the finest rhetoric of
sophistry, sarcasm, and rebuke for his want of heroism, induces him to
“bend himself up to the terrible feat.” The part of the play about this
crisis is peculiarly fine. There is the dagger scene, in which
conscience is seen exerting its full sway over a mind which owns it not.
In the night scene, especially, the author seems to have exerted himself
to bring in every thing that could add to the horror of the scene.
Though we are not introduced to the murder, yet we are made so fully to
participate in the horrors of the murderer, that the effect is greater
than if it had been so. All indeed that is presented to the senses, is
the most ordinary. The scene is rendered _hideous_ by the knocking at
the door, and the ill-timed jollity of the unconscious porter, more,
perhaps, than by any thing else. Of Macbeth little more need be said,
nor are we inclined to pursue the subject farther. Yet amidst all the
dark and “strange deeds,” in which his heroism and the destiny of guilt
involve him, and amidst all his desperation, he still exhibits longings
for his former state of innocence and peace. For the murdered Duncan his
feelings are none other than those of respectful compassion. In the very
midst also of his deeds of guilt, and amidst his struggles with remorse,
he reveals to his wife his anguish with the utmost tenderness of
reposing affection. These things throw a softening over a character
which would otherwise be purely abhorrent to our feelings. The idea of
fate still clings to him, and the belief that by the murder of Duncan,
he had more closely associated himself with those hellish beings who had
led him on, adds yet another shade to the darkness of his mind. In an
agony of desperation he consults them to learn, “by the worst means the
worst.” From that hour, we feel that his doom is fixed; knowing that
though
They “keep the words of promise to his ear,”
They’ll “break it to his hope.”
Thus it proves. Macbeth seeing one promise after another in which he had
trusted, failing him, at last throws himself upon his own courage,
which, as an acquired habit of the field at least, had never left him.
With sword in hand he dies.
Lady Macbeth, who by her amazing, and fearful energy of intellect, could
suppress remorse as long as there was any object to be accomplished,
when at length her mind is left objectless, feels it in its most
terrible power. When upon such a mind remorse fastens its fangs, that
mind turns upon its devourer with an energy strong as its own power to
grasp, and enduring as its hold. Nothing sooner than death can end the
struggle.
And now that we are at the end of this fearful and gloomy history, we
may just review the scene. Duncan, the meek and guileless father-king,
shedding around him a cheerful, genial light! Macbeth, growing up in
that light, and promising to reflect it back on its giver, and to add to
its splendor! But that light is put out in darkness: a more fearful
darkness comes over the _guilty man_, spreading to all about him, and
gathering gloom, as we are hurried rapidly and certainly to the
consummation. At length, when virtue reappears, though it be in the form
of an avenger, the darkness begins to move away; and light, though mild
and chastened, just gilds the scene as it closes.
G.
THE CASCADE.
‘It leapt and danced along all joyously,
Till winter winds swept o’er it.——’
I saw, as I stood by a mountain’s side
On a lovely summer day,
When the light winds in the vale had died,
And all was fresh and gay—
A cascade beautiful and clear
All gaily laughing in the sun,
As it dashed upon its bed of stone,
Sprinkling the wild flowers near.
And I thought how sweet it were to dwell
Beside that dashing stream,
Watching the white foam where it fell,
And vanished like a dream:
To list as its murmurs flew along
In all their thrilling harmony,
And mingled in sweet symphony,
With the wood-bird’s gushing song.
· · · · ·
The autumn winds swept through that wood,
With a sad and mournful sound;
Decay was in its solitude,
And dead leaves spread the ground:—
And I sighed, and cast a sorrowing look,
As I passed that spot again;
For Winter had thrown his icy chain
Across that gushing brook.
_March 1st, 1836._ H.
STORY AND SENTIMENT,
OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION.
No. 2.
A WORD WITH THE READER.
‘Ho! how he prates of himself—listen!’
_Dryden’s Bride._
READER,—
If I was so fortunate as to please thee with my former offering—how
shall I, as I resume my labors of this month, so weave from the
store-house of my fancy such another vision, as shall make thee extend
the hand of amity, and give me a second approving smile. To scribble for
another, when you know not his taste—to attempt to bring out such a
‘conceit,’ as shall catch his kindness, and hurry him along with you
into good humor, has ever, since the earliest essays in story writing,
been accounted a delicate business. And why? because what pleases you,
fair lady, pleases not my fellow student; and what pleases you, fellow
student, pleases not somebody else; so a man finds himself like the
bundle of oats betwixt—no, no! (Apollo forgive me!) I mean like the ass
betwixt two bundles, &c. Washington Irving (Heaven bless him! and pardon
_me_ for whipping his name into my thoughtless lucubrations) has
somewhere—finding himself in a similar predicament—made this remark; ‘if
the reader find, here and there, something to please him, let him rest
assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like
himself; but should he find any thing to dislike, let him tolerate it,
as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for
readers of a less refined taste.’ Allow me to say the same.
You should know, I think, by this time, that I am devoted to thy
interest, as completely so, as ever belted knight on plain of Palestine,
to his ‘ladye love,’—that my feelings and sympathies go out to thee, as
a bee to its bower, a bird to its forest-nest, or any other of the
bright creatures of God to the home of their affections—(by the by, you
may smile at this. Stop! I know you’re not my ‘ladye love,’ nor am I a
bee, or a bird, or any such nonsense; but, by my ‘saying of this
simile,’ as sweet Sir Philip hath it, I meant only to apprise thee of my
extreme devotion. You understand?),—that I would do any thing, to witch
from thee, the heart-ache, even to the disquiet of the pleasant
comfortableness of one of my soft, selfish, afternoon reveries,—that I
would spend the last drop of my—no! not my blood exactly, for much as I
love you, I love myself better; but I mean, I would spend the last drop
of my—_ink_, to please you; and that you know is much better—for the ink
of a literary man, _id est_ a poetical one, is worth more than his blood
and body together.
But, though I have such a love for you, it would be sad, if, like the
Paddy’s saddle-bags, it should all be found on one side; for I can no
more prosper—and, if I must confess it, can no more love you without
some remuneration, than a lover could kiss the turf on which his
mistress had stepped, or make sonnets to her eye-brows, when she frowned
on him. She is the sun of his existence, the centre, the cynosure of his
passions, hopes, and dreams—to which, through the darkness that the
world flings about him, he may send his longing eye, and his heart’s
holiest aspirations. _You_ are the sun of _my_ being—the
centre—cynosure—_et cetera, et cetera_; and it is equally impossible
that I can make verses and stories for you, when every time I look up, I
see that horrible scowl on your face—Pray, put it off.
But I’ll not believe you hate me—and when you receive this fresh number,
and open upon this page for the _morceau_ I have for you, I know ye’ll
give me a pleasant smile, and, with the honest Scotchman, say, ‘Deil!
but I winna gie ither than thanks to a daft callan like ye.’
But—to business.
* * * * *
Talking with my friend one day on the subject of dueling, he gave me the
following story.
THE DUEL.[2]
‘Men should wear softer hearts,
And tremble at these licens’d butcheries,
Even as other murders.’
_Bryant._
If there is one damning custom among the sons of men, ’tis dueling. Call
it not murder—willful killing is murder; but this cool, calculating,
exulting killing—killing not in madness, not in despair, when the heart
tossed on a surge of passion, strikes, and repents next moment; but the
coolly looking at the spot where the heart lies; the putting the dagger
there calculatingly; and then, instead of pressing it home fiercely,
thrusting it into the warm flesh, inch by inch, till the hot blood
spurts over the fingers, and clots on the garments—this, what is this?
Oh! call it not murder—murder is a thing of earth—earthly passions do
it. But this—go to the pit where the damned shriek, and howl—select the
most fiendish scheme of the prince of fiends—then, and then only, shall
you have a parallel.
It was once my lot, to be a secondary actor, in a case of ‘honorable
butchery;’ and one so black in itself, so heart-rending in consequences,
that it is graven into my brain as with a stamp of fire. God of Heaven!
when I think of it, even at this distance of time—when I see my friend
stiff, ghastly, and stretched on the wet sands—when I hear the groans,
which I heard there—when I see innocence, beauty, confiding affection,
hanging over the yet warm corse, and pouring forth tears, as if crushed
from the bottom of a heart loaded with the agony of ages—and then see
the same creature, the inmate of a mad-house, and hear the moans and
ravings for the dead object—and, with the peculiar characteristic of
such insanity, accusing the loved one of coldness, ingratitude,
unfaithfulness, and the like,—I say again, ages could not wipe out the
recollection.
You are aware, that in the southern states, especially in the extreme
south, men are guided more by their passions than at the north,—that
there, dueling is little cared for,—that courageous is he who has shot
his man,—that those only are cowards, who pale at blood, human blood,
blood shed by their own hands. In no part of the south is this custom
more prevalent, than at Natchez, on the Mississippi. New Orleans will
not compare with it, or would not in the year 1816, the period of my
story, and when I was a resident of that place. New Orleans, bad as it
is, possessing greater means of indulgence, with its wealth to support
theatres, gambling-houses, cock-pits, horse-races, and other such
amusements—with its motley assemblage of inhabitants, Spanish, French,
English, and Americans amalgamated,—with all these, it is not so bad as
Natchez; and for this reason—that there are those, and in great numbers
there, belonging to the northern and better regulated states, from whom,
an imperceptible indeed, yet nevertheless great influence is sent into
that community, and the people with more wickedness perhaps, have more
conscience than any other of the extreme southern cities.
Natchez, it will be remembered, is on the eastern side of the
Mississippi, and on one of the bends of that magnificent river,
withdrawn a little from its banks, and sloping handsomely down to its
flowing waters. Above and below the immediate town, are many eligible
and pleasant sites for country seats, should that part of the country
ever possess wealth and taste enough, to think of building them. But at
the period of my story, there was nothing of the kind. Dark pine groves,
and impenetrable thicks of beech and sycamore, with their lofty branches
intertwined in many a wild convolution, made a high and thick canopy for
the wearied traveler; while the beautiful flowers of the region, among
which was the splendid magnolia, gave the forest, the freshness and
fragrance of a lady’s flower garden. From morn till night, the woods
were alive with music, and over all, was that sweet harmonist of nature,
the American mocking-bird, with its rising and falling, ever-varying
modulations—now screaming like the startled vulture of the cliffs—and
now sinking away with a witching alternation of soft, plaintive,
heart-moving minstrelsy, sufficient, it would seem, to charm rocks and
forest trees,—He who built Thebes, would have thrown away his instrument
in despair, could he have heard but one note of this wild-wood melodist.
I said there were no country seats there. I mistake. There was one
bright spot, about twelve miles above Natchez, which, though it had
small pretensions to the surpassing beauty of some of the fine
superstructures on these northern rivers; nevertheless, for that day and
place, it was, certainly, an elegant and hospitable mansion. That it was
hospitable, many a man, yet living, can testify—for many were the
travelers, visiting in that region, who spent days there, and enjoyed
the rich hospitality and urbane attentions of its warm-souled,
accomplished proprietor. This man, Charles Glenning, was certainly as
gentlemanly a person as I ever knew. He was educated at the north—had
spent his early days there—but for the sake of business, to which he
betook him on leaving College, he went to the south, carrying with him
as bright a bud of feminine loveliness, as ever God suffered to bloom in
this uncongenial, ugly world. I cannot paint her—there’s no telling how
beautiful she was. It wasn’t beauty of feature; neither was it beauty of
mind—and yet, it was beauty of a high and ardent cast, which made you
feel you were in the presence of a spirit, the moment you came near her.
Forehead white as death—yet, neither intellectual nor otherwise,—soft
blue eyes, that made you think they were little pieces cut out of the
bluest summer sky,—complexion like ivory,—lips like the finest evening
tints, in the back ground of one of Claude Lorraine’s landscapes,—and a
figure as faultless as ever was hewn from the Pentelican marble, or set
a painter a dreaming over his easel.—Imagine these, and you may get a
glimpse of the laughing, bright-eyed Isabel Glenning.
Her love for her husband was as strange as her beauty. O! the
treasure—the full, proud treasures of such a heart as that! Dive into
mines—bring up jewels—fill your dwelling—win sceptres—ride the world
like Cæsar or Alexander—and then offer me the pure, deep, devoted,
heart’s affection of such a spiritual creature as she was, and I would
spurn them all as the dirty commerce of dirtier minds. She lived only
for him—she dreamed only for him—he was all. Place her in a palace, in
an Esquimaux hut; in a fairyland, in a desert; no matter where—only with
him—him she had chosen to live and die with, and her cup was full.
The circumstances which led me to their acquaintance were peculiar, and
such as entwined me into their best feelings. They had been married
about four summers; and the fruits of their union, was a little,
crowing, curly headed boy, sweet as his mother’s beauty. I was hunting
on the side of the Mississippi, one warm afternoon, when I observed
something floating at a distance, which by means of my dog, was brought
to land; and, to my surprise, were presented the lifeless, yet still
warm features of this same little fellow. It seemed that playing near
the river, he had fallen in, and was near about breathing his last.
Taking him in my arms, I hurried home, and just in time to save him.
From that hour, they loved me as a brother.
My story now leads me a little from the straight track, I have kept thus
far—but ’tis necessary to turn aside a little, for the sake of the dark
catastrophe, which brought sorrow and death into this Eden-dwelling I
have described.
There was one Nat. Ralle, dwelling about half way between Natchez, and
the plantation of my friend. His was one of those dark-browed, malicious
countenances, which made one, in spite of himself, think of the devil,
whenever he met him. He never spake like other men. If you met him in
the woods of a morning, his salutation was in a low, surly tone, which
made you doubtful as to its nature; and after he had passed you for
forty or fifty yards, you might observe him stopping and looking back,
as if he felt himself suspected by every body. This devil—for such he
was, and such will he appear before I have done with him—more than once,
had been seen prowling about the dwelling of Glenning; and once, being
met suddenly, he turned and ran away into the woods, like one of the
wild beasts he so much in disposition resembled.
There was a custom, which yet, I believe, exists in the southwestern new
settlements, for a man to claim the exclusive privilege of hunting on a
certain extent of ground, in the vicinity of his habitation. This right
is as much insisted on, in certain parts of those states which I have
visited, as are the game laws in England; and every one, every
stranger-hunter, observes it, and recognizes the right by quitting the
grounds, so soon as informed that an individual holds reasonable claim
to them. This Ralle had, in open defiance of this knowledge, and against
the reiterated, yet polite admonitions of Glenning, trespassed on his
lands; and once shot a tame doe, which Glenning had kept for two or
three years, the care of which had devolved on, and was a source of
amusement to Isabel—and on that account it seemed a double injury.
Glenning, as cool a man as ever laid claim to the qualities of honor and
honesty, at this, rode down to the plantation of Ralle, and mildly, yet
earnestly, expostulated with him, on what was esteemed a breach of
faith—careful at the same time to express his belief, that the shooting
of his tame animal was undesigned, yet requesting, for fear of a similar
occurrence, that he would hunt elsewhere in future, which thing he could
do without incommoding himself.
To this mildness in Glenning, Ralle opposed the remark—‘That he would do
as he pleased—that the woods were free, and that he should hunt towards
the north or south, without asking leave of Yankee interlopers.’