the most irrational thing that ever sickened a liberal eye, to bind down
passion, and poetry, and the “life of life,” by the frigid rules of
mathematical exactness. It is my solemn belief, that within fifty years
a double-track rail-road will run through the very vale of Tempe, and a
steam-engine be propelled by the waters of Arethusa. Improvement! By the
little toe of the Great Mogul, may the wheels of such improvement “long
tarry in their coming!” Reader, I will not fret. My profit therefrom
would be about as much as thy pleasure. But thou knowest not the
feelings with which I uncork a bottle of pure Samian wine; and, in
transferring it into an American jug, behold its strength and fragrance
evaporate—the body swelling with dropsical inflation, while the spirit
is oozing away through each treacherous pore. Sed satis. “Quid me
querelis exanimas tuis?”
Behold! an enigmatic squib from Euclid, the geometer—him, whose labors I
was wont to burden with “the mountain of my curse.” He was, probably,
the first to solemnize a marriage so unnatural as that of Geometry and
Poetry—January and May.
An ass and mule were bearing wine one day:
Hard on the ass the vinous burden lay;
When thus the mule her fainting dam addressed—
“Why, like a maiden’s, pants thy groaning breast?
Should’st thou _give_ me one portion of thy share,
Then I should double of thy burden bear.
Should’st thou _take_ one, alike are our conditions.”
Solve me this problem, ye arithmeticians.
If the reader be at all skilled in threading the labyrinths of Algebra,
he may discover that the ass bore five, and the mule seven measures.
(Vide Day’s Alg. passim.)
Here we have a compliment to a beautiful girl, from Plato, even from the
veritable Ipse Dixit himself, whose frosty philosophy thawed before the
fire of love.
Thou gazest at the stars, my star,
And would I were the sky,
That I might view thee from afar
With many a glowing eye.
By Theodorus, to Harmocrates, whose nasal developement was uncommonly
huge.
Thy nose, my friend, is so excessive,
To call it _thine_ would be a wrong to’t,
But rather _that_ is the possessive,
And we should judge that you belong to’t;
And having met thee, properly I say,
Nose’s Harmocrates I saw to-day.
Ammianus gives quite a caustic turn to the common wish, that the earth
may lie lightly on the breast of the departed.
Light lie the earth, Nearchus, on thy breast,
That dogs may tear thee from thy place of rest.
Here follows a little thing, replete with that still despair, so natural
to a thoughtful Heathen.
_By Archias._
I praise the Thracians, since for those they mourn,
Whose eyes are opening to the light of day,
But joy, when Death, the slave of Fate, has torn
Their sons and daughters from their arms away.
For we, the living, through each cruel ill
With painful steps continually go,
While they, who sleep beneath the grave’s green hill,
Have found, at last, a refuge from their wo.
Here is a most beautiful epitaph upon Sophocles, composed by Limmias,
the Theban. In the first place, I will render it literally and
consecutively into plain English, although, reader, thou knowest
that—saving only in the Bible—the life and loveliness of all poetry dies
under this _ossifying_ process. “Gently over the tomb of Sophocles,
gently, oh! ivy, mayst thou creep, pouring thy green curls abroad; and
all about it may the petals of the rose bloom, and the grape-loving
vine, scattering its moist branches around, on account of the wise
docility, which he of the honey-tongue displayed, among the Muses and
the Graces.”
It was thus elegantly translated many years since:
Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid:
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine
With blushing roses and the clustering vine;
Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung,
Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,
Among the Muses and the Graces writ.
Beautifully done—yet somewhat marred by the incongruous idea of _a soul
writing_. For my own attempt, I claim no merit, save something of
fidelity.
Gently, oh! ivy, gently curl thy tresses,
Where the cold bones of Sophocles repose;
May thy young tendrils clasp in soft caresses
The bursting petals of the blushing rose.
May the green vine, its dewy branches flinging,
A lasting bower above thy grave entwine,
For the deep wisdom thou didst show, when singing
Among the Graces and the heavenly Nine.
Thou knowest how the cruel Acrisius committed his daughter Danaë, with
her infant Perseus, to the protection of a small ark, and the mercy of a
raging sea. In this—certainly one of the most touching fragments of all
antiquity, and written by Simonides, the Ceian, a poet, heart and
soul—Danaë is introduced, alone and cheerless, yet watching, with a
mother’s tenderness, over her sleeping son.
Round the frail boat the wild winds, roaring, swept,
And shook the heart of Danaë with fear,
While from her cold, pale cheek, as Theseus slept,
Dropt the fast tear.
And round her little boy, with closer strain,
Her folding arm the desolate mother flung,
And to the heedless winds her humble plain
Half said, half sung.
“Sweetly thou restest in thy joyless dwelling,
And slumber sealeth up thy spirit mild,
Though the dark waves be far around thee swelling,
Perseus, my child.
O’er thy bright locks while angry winds are lashing
The storm-chafed spray, still sleeps thy careless eye:
Little thou heedest, though the waves be dashing
Insanely by.
Wrapped in thy purple cloak—my breast thy pillow—
Thou driftest helplessly—the ocean’s toy—
Rocked in thy slumbers by the rolling billow—
My little boy!
Did not this peril at thy heart lie lightly,
Unto thy little ear my words would creep:
But _now_ thy face even through the gloom shines brightly—
Oh! Perseus, sleep.
And may the waves, and may our sorrows slumber,
And may all snares be broken in our path;
And on our foes, great Jove, for Perseus number
Thy tenfold wrath.”
“Solventur _fletu_ tabulæ: tu, _lector_, abibis.”
HERMENEUTES.
“OUR MAGAZINE.”
Reader, our salutation must be brief—our correspondents have left us but
brief space, in which to give it thee; nevertheless, we cannot take our
leave, without introducing to you the dignified personage on our
title-page. ’Tis but his likeness. He has long since gone—otherwise, we
should not dare take upon ourselves this familiarity; but now we may
here both gaze at, and converse about him with freedom. All will readily
recognize that distinguished individual, GOV. ELIHU YALE, the patron of
our Institution, (whose name it bears,) and the benefactor of mankind.
We have not space, were we able, to give him his deserts. Let his
epitaph, written in the good old style, and being that which expresses
most in the fewest words, speak for us.
“Born in America, in Europe bred,
In Afric travell’d, and in Asia wed,
Where long he liv’d and thriv’d; at London dead.
Much Good, some Ill he did: so hope all’s even,
And that his soul thro’ Mercy’s gone to Heav’n.”
TO CORRESPONDENTS.
The “Lines to M. S.” and “A Sabbath Morning,” were received too late for
insertion. They shall appear soon.
The “Lover’s Avowal,” is not after the present fashion.
“Little Jane” is wanting in dignity.
O.’s piece is rejected. We felt ourselves somewhat endangered in the
perusal, particularly in the stormy parts of it.
H. and Imo, are respectfully declined.
We are highly pleased with the “Dramatic Fragment.” It shall appear in
our next.
PROSPECTUS
OF THE
YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.
TO BE CONDUCTED BY THE STUDENTS OF YALE COLLEGE.
An _apology_ for establishing a Literary Magazine, in an institution
like Yale College, can hardly be deemed requisite by an enlightened
public; yet a statement of the objects which are proposed in this
Periodical, may not be out of place.
To foster a literary spirit, and to furnish a medium for its exercise;
to rescue from utter waste the many thoughts and musings of a student’s
leisure hours; and to afford some opportunity to train ourselves for the
strife and collision of mind which we must expect in after life;—such,
and similar motives have urged us to this undertaking.
So long as we confine ourselves to these simple objects, and do not
forget the modesty becoming our years and station, we confidently hope
for the approbation and support of all who wish well to this
institution.
* * * * *
The work will be printed on fine paper and good type. Three numbers to
be issued every term, each containing about 40 pages, 8vo.
_Conditions_—$2,00 per annum, if paid in advance, or 75 cents at the
commencement of each term.
Communications may be addressed through the Post Office, “To the Editors
of the Yale Literary Magazine.”
* * * * *
This No. contains 2½ sheets. Postage, under 100 miles, 3¾ cents; over
100 miles, 6¼ cents.
-----
Footnote 1:
Johnson.
Footnote 2:
If any one is curious enough to make the inquiry, I can inform him,
that this story is founded on fact;—the individual, herein mentioned,
was a graduate of this Institution.
Footnote 3:
The inquiry has naturally arisen, how these Confessions came into his
possession, who presented them to the Editors of this Magazine. It can
be answered in a few words. While a class, which has since graduated,
was in its Junior year, it was joined by an individual of rather
rustic manners, dressed in a complete suit of grey cloth; yet he was
by no means deficient in that important requisite, manly beauty. He
roomed alone, and mingled but little with his classmates. It was
observed that his temperament was exceedingly variable, sometimes
highly excited, at others, as much depressed. His recitations evinced
talents of a high order. He continued with the class until the close
of the year, and then disappeared. His classmates have heard nothing
from him since. In his table-drawer—left by accident or design—these
manuscripts were found, which, with a few alterations, are now
presented to the public.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. Footnotes have been re-indexed using numbers and collected together
at the end of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.