latitude, as well as migrate from South to North, and back again.
If they did not picture to themselves images of other regions, more
beautiful, more abundantly supplied with the means of subsistence,
and more agreeable in climate, where is the motive to change? Hunger
with them is a motive to exertion, and danger, to flight; but they
could have no conception of another place, unless by imagination
they might, from the scenes around them, picture another, with more
of such parts as were desirable, and less of such as were not; and
this would be an inducement to depart; but if they could picture
no such prospect, the principle of self-preservation would prompt
them to remain. To fabricate such a picture is the exact office of
Imagination, and is its best definition.
A bright and still summer morning fills the mind with pleasant
images, and the effect is cheerful looks and conduct. The
matter-of-fact man, however, with little imagination, would
be indifferent; while the poet would surrender himself to
the inspiration of the scene. The birds also 'sing out their
thankfulness,' and express enjoyment of the scene, by their merry
notes. The very formation of song seems to be an imaginative art.
On the other hand, a dull morning not only hushes the vocalist of
the grove, but fills the mind with unpleasant reflections. And as
Imagination 'bodies forth the forms of things unknown,' we are
seized with uneasiness, and perhaps with melancholy.
Animals are known to dream, from physical indications during sleep,
especially the dog. We see him agitated in every limb, and uttering
low, angry growls. He sees nothing in reality; but the imagination
must have created images in his instinct of real scenes, probably
of conflict, as his movements would lead us to infer. The fact that
some animals dream is as well understood as that the phenomena of
dreaming are treated in intellectual philosophy as some of the
singular results of our mental constitution.
We are forced to see the analogies between the manifestations
of mind and of instinct; and any candid observer will find it
as difficult to detect a distinction, (except in the degree of
power,) as to prove that these analogies do not exist. The strong
and uninterrupted current of analogies in animal life, also, which
subsist between man and the various species of animals, furnishes
an indirect support to the views hitherto advanced. They have the
senses, natural affections, and propensities, in common with man. In
some they excel. They are 'hurt by the same weapons, and warmed and
cooled by the same winter and summer.' They have also bone, muscle,
and nerve; the vital fluid, and the organs of circulation, operating
in such as possess them, on the same principles as in man. They have
the brain; and so situated with reference to the organs of sense as
to derive their knowledge of external objects by the same physical
agencies that he does. They experience hunger and thirst, pleasure
and pain; and some of them exhibit courage and fear; pride, anger,
envy, jealousy, and hatred: others,
'Attachment never to be weaned or changed
By any change of fortune: proof alike
Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move or warp; and gratitude for small
And trivial favors, lasting as the life.'
The existence of these functions, properties, appetites, and
passions is freely admitted; the proof being drawn from physiology
on the one part, and their actions on the other; and yet it is as
evident, and as easy to prove, that an animal remembers as that he
hears; that he exercises reason in given cases, as that he sees; and
as easy that he has imagination, as that a majority of the human
race possess it, seeking for the proof in their actions exclusively.
Let us now consider for a moment the manner in which a knowledge
of external objects is attained. The eye is directed, for example,
to a dangerous animal. Its image is imprinted upon the retina of
the eye; and this impression having been conveyed by the optic
nerve to the brain, which is the organ of the mind, the mind has
then a perception of the animal; upon this perception, reflection
ensues; of its power to destroy; its menacing attitude; the
necessity and means of escape. A dog likewise directs his eye to
the same animal; an image is formed upon the retina of his eye,
and this being conveyed by the optic nerve to the brain, which, by
parity of reason, is the organ of the principle called instinct;
instinct also has a perception of the animal. The modes thus far are
perfectly analogous; but here inquiry has rested; and man absolutely
denied that instinct could make a rational use of the perception,
which he could not deny it had obtained. He did not or would not
reflect, that if the DEITY had bestowed upon animals an eye of
wonderful mechanism like his own; an optic nerve and brain, and a
principle to take knowledge of impressions conveyed to it by the
organs of vision; together with all the other senses requisite for
perception; some of them most delicate, others most powerful; there
was no reason why he should render them nugatory by denying to this
principle the ability to reflect upon such perceptions and arrive
at conclusions. He did not consider that the dog discovered the
object in question to be dangerous as quick as he did; and exhibited
this conclusion by fleeing as soon as he; but insisted, in the face
of unyielding facts, that a blind, unfathomable impulse urged the
creature to escape, while the man arrived at the same determination
by a most simple process of reasoning.
In another and concluding number, the reason or judgment of the
principle called Instinct will be considered at large.
OCTOBER.
BY H. W. ROCKWELL.
'THE robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.'
BRYANT.
I.
WHERE is the summer-light?--alas!
It shines upon the land no more;
No leaf-shade spots the withered grass,
No fountain sings upon the shore;
Gone are the days of golden June,
Gone her sweet dews at night-fall cool,
And the young leaves that knew her moon,
Float sere and reddened in the pool.
II.
No spice-fed airs are here, to stir
The flowers which they so lately fanned,
No murmur but the wind-smote fir,
Or ground-birds chirping on the sand;
Too meekly brief was summer's light,
Too fleetly sweet the tints she wore,
Yet they are gone, and dusky night,
And autumn, sadden hill and shore!
III.
I heard a bird in yonder glen--
It sang with all too gay a heart,
For ere I sought the wild again,
The cold had warned her to depart;
Afar beyond the southern bound
Where wind of autumn never grieves,
She sings in some sweet isle, around
Whose shore the soft blue ocean heaves.
IV.
No snow-charged tempest there shall chide
The forest by the silvery deep:
No wintry whirlwind there shall ride,
To break the sweet sea's summer sleep;
Though cold and brief the northern day,
The noon-tide lingers longest there,
Merry with winds that fling the spray
High in the fresh, brisk ocean air.
V.
Leave me and the cold north forgot,
While autumn paints the woods again,
For sweeter than a fresher spot,
Is the sad beauty of the glen!
I'll gaze far through the thickening night
While the leaves rustle o'er my head,
Muse on the days which once were bright--
Feel that they all are cold and dead!
THE INFLUENTIAL MAN.
A SKETCH OF TINNECUM.
THE citizens of the little suburb of Quog pressing on to the
accomplishment of any town measure would remind you of the
sheep-flocks of their own extensive plains and pasture-grounds,
urged helter-skelter, yet all in one direction, and that too by
the agency of a single shepherd. Whoever threw himself in the way,
must either press onward with the throng, or be trampled down
and overcome. Yet plastic as they were in the hands of their own
chosen guides, the people of Quog were an unconquered Democracy,
and breathed the voluptuous air of freedom. Every man was 'as good'
as his fellow, none better. Socially, morally, politically, they
considered themselves on one dead level, like the country around
them. Quog was the very grave of all distinctions; but although
its citizens submitted to no dictation, and would not be 'druv,'
yet what amounted to the same thing, they could be impelled in a
pretty compact body, whether for good or for ill, by the seductive
gentleness of a force applied _a tergo_; that is, not so much to
their reasoning faculties, as to their baser propensities.
Uncle BILLY PINE was beyond all question the great man of Quog; the
umpire, the last court of appeal in complex cases. 'If he _says_
so, I guess it will have _to be_ so,' was a common saying, should
any one be so obdurate as to persist in an opinion of his own. It
was marvellous how two or three words from him would alter the
complexion of cases which had just before been flooded with light
by the eloquence of some confident orator. Arguments piled upon
arguments, until they got to be highly cumulative, were thrown down
in ruinous confusion, the moment his carbuncled nose appeared in
sight. The school-master succumbed to him, but the school-master was
seldom 'abroad' in Quog. The minority, which was ridiculously small,
(for there _was_ a minority on all important questions,) were forced
to acknowledge, 'He is an influential man--an influential man.' How
he came to acquire so much respect, I know not; it was a sentiment
which sprang up, and gradually gained strength, in the bosom of his
townsmen; and which they explained in no more philosophical way
than this, that 'there was something about him.' He possessed the
common rudiments of education; but although he always _did_ take
his regular potations, and always _would_, by reason of which his
face had become as ruddy as a lobster, he claimed it as a positive
virtue, on the strength of which he expected to inherit heaven, that
he was unflinchingly honest, that he 'never robbed nobody,' and
that so long as he was above ground, or had any thing to say, he
meant to see justice done between man and man. He possessed what was
esteemed a handsome property in land, which enabled him to smoke
his pipe at the ale-house in a very leisurely way; and here perhaps
he laid the foundation of his influence, by the fascination of his
social powers, his practical democracy, his cordial familiarity,
and his uniform system of _treating_ all alike. He slurred over his
ignorance very handsomely by being fluent on all public topics, and
by a display of what his fellow-citizens denominated 'good common
sense.' Such was the '_Influential Man_.'
Quog was a maritime place, at least pretty near to the salt-meadows
on Long Island, and carried on a vigorous trade in clams, eels,
cockles, horse-feet, fish of various kinds, and wild duck. The
inhabitants were unlearned, and so were their ancestors before them,
down to the first settlement. There was no occasion for this; they
might have been highly educated to a man, had they desired learning,
and that too without money and without price. There was a source
of revenue among them, which could be instantly developed, richer
than could be derived from creeks, bays, and fishing-grounds in
a century. They might have varied the intervals of toil with the
delight of books, whereas in the existing state of things there was
not so much as a bible or an almanac to be found along the whole
shore. Some philanthropists in a remote part of the town undertook
to abate this ignorance, and to make the people of Quog wise. These
however resented this meddling impudence with great fury, and raised
up such a storm of prejudice and bad feeling as had never been known
to rage within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. It was a very
dangerous experiment on the part of the minority; the 'judicious
Hookers' among them were fain to acknowledge that the attempt was
ill-judged and premature. There were town-lands belonging to the
town of Quog to the amount of some thousand acres, lying in their
state of natural wildness, without fence, but capable of producing
good crops, and being richly cultured. From so much waste ground but
a small and partial benefit fell to the share of each inhabitant.
The imagination of the philanthropist loved to picture those
extensive plains, which now stretched as far as the eye could reach,
without tree or shrub, in one melancholy extent of barrenness,
converted into rich farms, covered with waving harvests, and giving
sustenance to men inured to the noblest of all labor, the culture
of the soil. There was now indeed one pleasing, picturesque sight,
of which the eye never wearied; multitudes of cattle, dotting the
plain in large companies, quietly grazing, or standing in reflective
attitudes, almost as if they were painted on the canvass. Seen at
a little distance, on the naked plain, and relieved by no near
object these variegated groups would cause the eye which loves the
beautiful or picturesque to dance with rapture. The air of quietude
and repose diffused over these dumb creatures, recalls to the mind
every picture of rural happiness, the fondest we have conceived in
dreams, or read of in the lucubrations of the poets.
It was desirable to dispose of these lands for a moderate price, and
convert the revenue into a fund for the education of every child in
the town of Quog. There were a few who had long anxiously reflected
on this subject, and brought every plausible argument to bear upon
the inhabitants. They should relinquish no privilege, they should
reap inconceivable advantages for themselves and their posterity,
and education should shed down its blessings upon all; in short,
nobody could foresee what a revolution would take place among the
people of Quog, if they would but sell the town-lands. There was no
use however of stirring up the matter. Uncle Billy said it should
not be done; no, never, _never_, while his head was above ground;
and 'if he _said_ so, it would have to _be_ so.'
Years passed away, and still the light of education had never dawned
on that benighted people. They were yet addicted to their old
pursuits, spending most of the time in taking eels and clams, and
seemed not to have a single wish beyond satisfying their present
hunger. They sent their cows to pasture on the great plains; and
this was a heritage which their fathers enjoyed, and which, in spite
of all modern reform, they meant to transmit undiminished to their
children. Mr. William Pine grew fonder of the bottle as he grew
older, and was held in more affectionate respect. He threw out his
disjointed philosophy with a most unstudied air, during the interval
of his whiffs; and whether on general politics, or local measures,
his sentiments crept abroad, and formed a standard of opinion for
the whole town of Quog. So subtle a thing is _influence_. It is not
riches, it is not talent, it is not eloquence; it is the _je ne sais
quoi_.
At last the reform party, who had kept quiet a good while, with a
forlorn hope of a better state of things, expecting moreover in the
course of nature that it would please divine Providence to remove
out of this mortal life their obdurate neighbor, began with a very
cautious foot to stir up the old project of selling the town-lands.
They talked very indefatigably, but in a gentle, subdued tone, with
all their neighbors, smoothing down their asperities of temper, and
presenting the subject in a great many plausible lights. Nor did
their labor seem wholly in vain. Those who listened urged nothing
in reply, and were even willing to acknowledge that what they had
stated 'was all well enough.' These good reformers persevered in
their peripatetic philosophy, and even flattered themselves that
they had obtained a good position, and had got a lever adjusted with
which they would move the mountain of old prejudice, and get rid of
that terrible stumbling-block in the way of all good measures, that
blind and ignorant, but _influential_ old man!
The crisis had now come, when, according to their judgment, it would
be judicious to bring into play their new strength, and test the
whole matter by a public vote at the next meeting of the town. In
the mean time, they spared no pains to seek out the most violent
opposers, to reason with them emolliently; and to spread out,
simplify, and explain the subject to those of extreme stupidity.
At last a great many said that they were well enough satisfied,
and 'thought it like enough that they would vote for the measure.'
The 'friends of education' held a caucus, which was attended with
great animation and rubbing of hands. A committee, appointed for the
purpose, presented the draught of a school-house on an improved
plan. Public opinion seemed to have become so leavened by these
new and enlightened views, as to leave scarcely a single doubt of
the most unqualified success. One could mention three or four who
were wavering; another a half a dozen who had made up their minds;
another a dozen who declared expressly that they would vote for the
measure. All this diffused encouraging smiles over the faces of the
members, and led many of them to declare boldly that they could have
carried their point some years ago, if they had only thought so;
that it only required tact, management, and perseverance; and that
they had vastly overrated the importance of the Influential Man.
What had hitherto produced as much popular effect as any thing at
the town-meetings, was a patriotic song, composed by Uncle Billy
Pine, which will serve to show the literature of Quog, and which was
frequently sung with great zest, and an overpowering chorus:
'SO when the Session it came around,
All for to make laws for our town,
We made our laws, and thus did say,
You shall not take our common rights away:
Ti de id lo, ti de a!
You shall not take our common rights away.
'Now gentlemen, we are in duty bound,
To support the common rights of old Quog town;
And this we will do until doom's-day,
For we will not give our rights away.
Ti de id lo, ti de a!
For we will never give our rights away!'
The jingle of the above song, which consisted of a good many verses,
and which was thoroughly learned by all the population of Quog,
still sounded in the ears of the 'friends of education,' and they
sincerely hoped that by the time of the approaching contest it would
be forgotten.
The day at last arrived, the important day, and the townsmen, for
want of a better covering, were assembled to vote beneath the open
sky. The reform party were there in full force, and with an adequate
degree of spirits. When other business had been transacted, the
chairman said:
'Gentlemen, it is proposed to sell the town-lands; those who are in
favor of this measure, will please signify it by holding up their
hands.'
Then it was that the orator of the above party, being loudly called
upon, spoke out. He was a thin-faced man, pale and agitated with the
importance of his message, which he desired to present in the most
translucent way; for he knew the benefits of education, having come
to that benighted region from the very heart of New-England, where
its blessings are as free as air. 'My respected friends,' said he,
'we want you all to be satisfied in your own minds. It doos seem to
be a pity that all this land should lie idle, when you might just as
well sell it for thousands of dollars, and have the money in your
own pockets; or what is a great deal better, edicate your children
with it. Just këount up what it would come to, if there's any of
you acquainted with arithmetic, and you'll find there's plenty,
kalkalating only the interest, for all purposes of eddication. And
what good do you gëit ëout of it nëow? Why every man sends his
këow to pastur', and it's mighty _poor_ pastur', that's a fact.
(_Cheers._) Wal, I s'pose some folks will say the poor man and the
rich man get served both alike, for when the mashes are mowed, both
have the same right. That isn't so, my respected friends. For the
rich man can afford to send four times as many hands, and carry
off four times as much hay. (_Cheers._) Now the time doos seem to
be come to remedy this evil, and to get a fair distribution of the
proceeds. We don't _want_ to 'take your rights away,' my christian
friends; we want to give every man his _own_ rights. I've got reason
to think that many of you look at this matter in the right light,
sence it's been set before you, and made all plain; and this speaks
much for that wonderful nat'ral-born intelligence which is common to
the people of Quog. (_Cheers._) _Nëow_ is the time to decide this
matter; that's the only fault, that you've been a-thinkin' about it
too long; but my friends, you can make up for lost time; put your
shoulder to the wheel, and whatever you do, do it nëow! _nëow!_
NËOW!'
This praiseworthy speech produced considerable sensation on the
ground. One said it was reasonable enough; another said he couldn't
pick any flaw in what the speaker had set forth; another declared he
was a smart man. In short, a very general buzz of approbation ran
through the assembly; and the slow dawn of intelligence beginning
to break gradually over the faces of those present, gave evidence
that 'the cause' had never before made such a long stride in the
town of Quog. The question was now about to be taken, when somebody
requested the chairman to 'hold on a minute; it was well enough to
hear all sides first; and may be Uncle Billy had got a word to say.'
The reform party looked a little frightened, as they had augured
very favorably from not having discovered the 'Influential Man' upon
the ground. He had only retired to the bar-room, however, and held
himself in readiness as soon as the proper moment should arrive. He
now edged his way up to the tribune, with a smiling, rubicund face,
and swinging his hat around, 'Boys,' said he, with a gay, familiar
tone, 'don't you hold up your hands for no such thing. Now you've
got something to give to your children when you die, and they can't
spend it, nor run away with it. Let the aristocrats get hold of the
money, and they'll put it into their pockets, and then see where
you'll be; the plains, mashes, money, all gone. That aint all. The
next thing they'll do will be to sell your fishing-privileges;
(_great excitement;_) and when you go upon the grounds you'll be
druv off. What'll you do then? No clammin', no eelin', and no
pastur' to feed your cow onto. That's what it'll nat'rally lead to.
Now you see, I'm an old man, and know how these things work; but by
----! I won't stand by, not while my gray hairs is above ground, and
see your rights taken away. So hold on to your rights, boys! hold on
to your rights!'
A shout arose, a triumphant shout, from the whole mass, the above
Doric eloquence having turned them completely about. Who would have
thought that the aspect of things could become so changed? But
this comes of having the last word. Pleasant smiles were diffused
over the face of Uncle Billy; and the meeting being now ripe for
the question, it was put, and the inhabitants, as it were with
one voice, decided that the town-lands should remain 'just as
they were.' The philanthropists departed from the ground wofully
chapfallen, amid the jeers and calumniations of the crowd; and the
old chorus met their ears from the tavern-doors and windows as they
passed:
'I HEARD a song the other day,
Made in old Quog, as they do say,
And all the tune that they could play,
Was to take our common rights away.
Ti de id lo, ti de a!
To take our common rights away!'
It is a good maxim never to despair; and perseverance in a just
cause will at last accomplish its most difficult ends. For the
present generation it is to be feared that nothing can be done.
Their case is indeed peculiar. They never will sell the town-lands
until they get education, and they never will get education until
they sell the town-lands. Thus the matter stands; and it grieves me
to say, in conclusion, that never was the pall of ignorance more
dark than that which hangs at this moment over the benighted regions
of Quog.
F. W. S.
THE BROKEN VOW.
----'SHE was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all.'
* * * * *
HE has learned a sad lesson! he trusted away
A heart that loved wildly, but oh! how sincere!
He deemed that such happiness could not decay,
But the full-flowing fountain has shrunk to a tear.
He thought that the sun, which at morn shone so bright,
Would surely shine on, till the star-light appeared;
But sorrow came down on the cold wings of night,
And all his best feelings were trampled and seared.
The being he worshipped, as angels adore,
The bird he had nestled so close to his heart,
That one! oh, no other can ever restore
The joys of his Eden; from her he must part!