When so many mouths are full of Mr. Willis, and pamphlets and
periodicals are alternately lauding and lashing him--and, moreover,
since he has so lately passed through this city, (the city of his
Alma Mater,) and with him, his very lovely trans-Atlantic lady--it
is certainly proper that this magazine (the deputed organ of Yale’s
literary notions) break its dignified silence. Criticism, it is true,
of right belongs to older heads--but since such numbers have apparently
forgotten this in the community at large, we shield our presumption
under their greater impertinence. Impertinence! That the thousand and
one notions put forth here and there to the detriment of Willis, are
impertinent, lies on the face of them. What right have they to find
fault with his coat, or the fit of his breeches? “Ah! but he don’t pay
for them!” Prove that, rascal--perhaps your prejudice then will be less
apparent. But stop a moment.
Of course--we are not seated to make out an analysis of Willis’
mind--nor to criticise thoroughly his poetry--nor to meddle
particularly with his morals--nor to read him furiously a
Chesterfieldian lecture--nor to tell him whether he shall or shall
not curl his hair--whether he shall or shall not have his carriage,
his horses, his dogs, _et cetera, et cetera_. No! nothing of this,
save incidentally--we leave this to others. Besides, ’tis too late for
it--they have been treated on, and his new work has not yet come to us.
But our purpose is, to scribble a rapid, running, off-hand article--to
trouble, somewhat, some of the defamers of Willis--to give our own
opinions as may be about this or that--to say just what we have a mind
to--to say it how we have a mind to--and (of this, reader, be certain)
to enjoy our own opinions.
Whether we are capable of this, of advancing an opinion--of that,
reader, you must judge. Thus much we _dare_ say--our prejudices will
not trouble our judgment. We have alike objected to the indiscriminate
laudatory efforts of the friends of Willis, and the pitiable swellings
and puny malice of his enemies--we have made ourselves alike familiar
with his prose and with his poetry--(what man of taste has not?)--we
have never shut our eyes on his faults, or suffered a jaundiced vision
to distort, discolor, or otherwise interfere with his excellencies--we
have often censured and praised him--fought for him and against him--in
short, been placed exactly in those circumstances, which are favorable
to a proper appreciation of his merits--supposing all this time, that
we possess a moderately good share of judgment in these matters. Thus
much we dare say.
The most troublesome things to be met with now-a-days, are your
_echoing_ gentlemen.[2] Mr. Willis has done thus and so, says one--Mr.
Willis has written thus and so, says another. Now we don’t say Mr.
Willis has _not_ done or written thus and so--perhaps he has--nor would
we be understood exactly in this free government, as interdicting
the expression of opinions, even supposing these young gentlemen
harmless, and as entirely innocent of a capability to judge as they
really are--but we do say that, in this hot weather, and especially
as dog days are coming on, every buzzing, barking, or otherwise
troublesome creature, should be heard as little as possible, and that
it is altogether too much of a tax upon the easiness of modest men,
and too much of a tax on the patience of sensible ones, when with
all their exertions and cooling appliances, (such as ventilating,
dressing thin, and going under the College pump,) they can scarcely
keep themselves comfortable. He’s a puppy, says one. What do you mean
by “puppy,” say we. Why, he’s an exquisite--a dandy. Now, hang your
ignorance! for your charge proves you a clown. _We_ have seen Mr.
Willis (we have no acquaintance with him) sitting and standing--we
have seen him in company and out of company--we have seen him hat on
and hat off--we have seen him walking and talking--and _we_ declare,
that there’s nothing about him but an air of high society, and a well
bred gentleman. The charge of being a dandy, might be laid any where
with equal propriety--the urbanity of his deportment, considering his
publicity, is worthy of high praise.
His publicity, his English reputation--this is another thing his
enemies turn against him. Witness the slighting method of the
Quarterly--witness the cool handling of the Edinburgh--witness his
annihilation in the Metropolitan, say they. Annihilation! murder--what
a term is this--here’s a tax--here’s a sweep--here’s a pull on our
credulousness. Have these gentlemen forgotten the admitted principle in
physics, that you cannot annihilate matter? But--’tis of a piece with
the rest of their absurdities.
As for the attacks of those great organs of English sentiment, the
Edinburgh and Quarterly, it only needs a glance at the _acknowledged_
reason of those attacks, to show it altogether complimentary to the
_talents_ of Willis. His stories publishing successively in the London
New Monthly--he was bowed through England with an assiduity and
politeness well worthy the English nation, and of which any American
might be proud. The first ranks welcomed him to their circles--their
first literary men were pleased with his acquaintance, (aye! the very
men who afterwards smote at him)--and the first critic of England,
or of the world even (North, we mean,) has estimated his power,
and written him--no common genius. This were praise enough, in all
conscience. The indiscretions of Willis--and such he has, and we
blame him--these it was called forth those harrowing, ripping, raking
articles, so eagerly cited against him now; and with these _facts_
before us--shall we take _their_ estimate of his intellect, and North
on our side into the bargain? Out on him who does it! But the first
men of the age have been placed precisely as Willis has--some of the
Reviews one side, some on the other. Byron was thus placed. To the
last day of his life he was horridly mauled by some of them, whenever
that great lion turned flank and exposed himself to the enemy. He has
been called ridiculous, affected, a narrow though great mind, and a
plagiarist, by one of their first Reviews; and others of their great
men have run the gauntlet, and after the same fashion. There’s nothing
new in it--what, then, is the worth of the argument?
Of the article in the Metropolitan, nothing need be said--’twas
personal _pique_, as every one knows. The fact that a single sentence
of Willis’ condemnatory of Marryatt called forth that article, is
a high proof of the estimation in which he was held, and speaking
in no ordinary tone. Policy should have kept Mr. Willis from saying
it--this no one doubts, whether it was true or not. If true, however,
he deserves less censure; and now we call upon every admirer of Capt.
Marryatt, and demand if it is not true, that there are passages in most
of his novels we read with disgust--that we would not read in good
society, or before a sister--and if he has not come into a dangerous
proximity with that point, where he deserves all that Willis says of
him? _We_ assert that he has--let Capt. Marryatt’s admirers disprove
it. And the Willis and Marryatt correspondence too! little need be
said here, than that those letters went to show Marryatt a bullying
blackguard, and Willis _the_ gentleman. These things we assert--and yet
professing ourselves admirers of Marryatt. He is doubtless one of the
geniuses of the age. But we will not let our admiration distort facts,
when such distortion is injurious to one of our countrymen.
These echoing gentlemen talk much of Mr. Willis’ ephemeral
reputation--of his fame’s dying with him. Lo, and behold these Solomons
in literature--witness these wise men of Gotham,--these “Daniels’ come
to judgment!” Have these gentlemen to learn, that men never tolerate
each other’s weaknesses?--have they to learn that Willis has been
indiscreet?--have they to learn that such numbers of young and old,
high and low, rich and poor, as have pitched upon him, have done so
_for_ this--and that it follows necessarily, his genius is undervalued.
Whether they have or not--men of sense admit it all over the world.
Men’s follies die with them. We don’t bring hatred to the grave’s
side--unless to throw it in there and bury it. The smouldering earth
we lay over them hides their defects--we put their virtues in our
hearts. So it is with men whose follies tarnish their genius. Genius
is in itself, a living principle--you can’t annihilate it--you can’t
lessen it--you can’t depress it. You _may_ undervalue it--you may rail
at it--you may affect to despise it. But it never was heard and it
never will be, that genius, however manifested, has not sooner or later
regained its splendid birth-right. So will it be with Willis--would we
admit what his enemies ask, that the community as a body are against
him. He has genius--a noble, lofty, and original one--(we wish time
permitted to show this by references)--his follies stand betwixt the
light and his merits--let him die, his follies die, and the world at
once acknowledges this merit. Such is the process--if we admit, as just
mentioned, that the community are against him.
We have already transcribed our limits--we therefore, pause. Before
doing so, however, let us and the reader understand each other. Let us
not be ranked with the mad admirers of Willis--we are none such--he
has too many follies for that. But we cannot forget, either, how very
very brilliant are many very many of his productions, and with what
unmitigated pleasure we have always perused them. And, if our humble
voice might be heard so far, we would counsel Mr. Willis that he no
longer--if he has done so--discredit the fine genius that God has given
him--that he tax well, and long, and arduously, that mind of his--that
he by some noble effort so engrave his name on this age, that the rust
of after years shall never eat it away.
[2] By echoing gentlemen, we mean such as carry their chins high--walk
with canes--retail opinions pilfered from English papers, and call them
their own.
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. VI.
Civilization, among all the changes it has effected in the character
and habits of its subjects, has wrought none more remarkable than that
in the condition of woman. In savage countries, the degraded slave
of continual oppression--in barbarian nations, the dormant medium of
sensual felicity--among the semi-civilized, the ignorant and secluded
object of idol affection--it was reserved for the refinement of a purer
age to reinstate her by the side, and in the heart of man. No longer
his passive minister to pleasure, she has risen to share with him
the rights and the enjoyments of rational existence. From the object
of occasional devotion and general contempt, she has become, in the
world where her claims are acknowledged, a guide-star of benign and
sanctifying influence.----Pish! sentimentalizing, and on a subject
trite as an almanac!----But why not? In my last number, as well my
own assertions, as the _inconsecutive_ form of my conceptions, might
have been proof convincing that the solstitial airs had pervaded mind
and body with their enervating breath. Since then, and while the
sun was riding in his more northern tropic, my energies fell before
his potent presence with a still lowlier prostration. Yet, as utter
oppression will drive even the weakest to resistance, so does trampled
Nature rise rebellious against the tyrant, and stand upright even
before his summer-throne. The cold airs of the morning send a vigorous
life through the limbs, which the toils of yesterday exhausted; and a
_post-prandial_ siesta followed by a light repast “of meats and drinks,
nature’s refreshment sweet,” prepares the mind for an evening of quiet
thought, or rational enjoyment.
This morning is of the loveliest. Each gentle flower turns her fair
face to the god of her idolatry, and, like a grateful bride, repays
the warmth of his caresses with the perfume of her breath. It would
seem as if the wing of relenting Time had dropt a freshening essence on
his vassals, as he passed, and atoned, in the face of Nature and the
hearts of her children, for the ravages of years. ’Tis not the sacred
awe, that falls like a shadow from the stars of midnight, and wakes in
the soul an unutterable yearning for a holier home--’tis not the sad
solemnity of evening, that fuses into one pervading thought the hopes
of the future, and the sorrows of the past, whilst our gaze follows
far into his nightly pavilion the golden footsteps of the retreating
Day--’tis the freshness, that dwells in the pinion of the eagle, when
he springs from his dew-cold aerie in the mountains, and soars, with
eye turned direct and unblenching on the morning sun. But to return to
the women. It is a lamentable fact--‘horresco referens’--that the old
heathen, and the Greeks among them, did not prize very highly these
interesting objects. It is true that the exquisite delicacy of female
beauty, excited in their breasts a natural thrill of pleasure, and
now and then a Sappho or an Aspasia by the united power of wit and
loveliness threw a spell of enchantment around the wisest, and bravest,
and proudest of their time. But these were exceptions. There is many
a smart bit of satire, and many a dull growl of defiance at the sex,
scattered through the pages of the Anthology--and these I have hitherto
neglected to translate, well knowing that the ladies are not so perfect
as to bear sarcasm with patience, and that a portion of their anger
might be diverted from the Greeks to me. Whether their being created
second entitles them to be considered _second-best_, it is not my
province to decide. At any rate I see not how we could _get along_
without them, and I am perfectly willing to add my experience to that
of Mungo Park, and testify that, where they are suffered to have their
own way, I have found them uniformly generous and obliging.
_A Paraphrase from Palladas the Alexandrian._
Woman, thou busy, meddling, curious thing,
What endless evils from thy presence spring!
For thee, forth-sailing from the hills of Greece,
Bold Jason wandered for the Golden Fleece.
Thou, and thy paramour, the beauteous boy,
Brought woe and ruin to the gates of Troy.
Achilles’ anger for a while delay’d
Th’ event occasion’d by the faithless maid;
And then, when Ilion’s consecrated wall
Had shook, and reel’d, and nodded to its fall,
Who but a woman, on the foaming brine
Held wise Ulysses, and transformed to swine
His brave companions, and employ’d each wile
To chain the hero to her magic isle?
And is not woman’s love, or woman’s rage,
Ground of each plot upon the tragic stage?
Quick to perceive, and headlong to resent,
Thy kindled anger never can relent.
So mild in love, so terrible in hate,
The soothing balm, and tri-thonged scourge of Fate;
Thou sure wert born to trouble and perplex,
Involve and puzzle the diviner sex!
Have we a secret? Keep it, as we may,
Full soon it passes from our grasp away.
Has any thing occurred? “Who, which, what now?
“Come, tell me quick, the why, when, where, and how!”
Yet art thou lovely as the gentle light,
That falleth dew-sprent from the orbs of night;
And, wert thou fled, this world of ours would be
Dark as the Fates, and barren as the sea.
When wise, and kind, and generous, and mild,
Thou rul’st us, as a mother rules her child.
But when thy passions take their headlong way,
We scorn thine empire, and defy thy sway.--
Must, then, a pretty, peering, prying wife,
Soothe, vex, enliven, and distract my life?
I’ll cling to thee for better, and for worse,
Our joy, our grief, our blessing, and our curse.
Let those who are not satisfied with this mixture of compliment and
sarcasm read the following, and see with what yearning anguish a Greek
could mourn over the grave of a loved one, who had passed what was, to
the ancients, with emphatic truth “the valley of the shadow of death.”
It is by Meleager, one of the most delicate and affectingly simple of
all the Greek poets.
To thee, transported by that cruel Power,
Who waves his sceptre over all that live,
Tears wept in darkness at the midnight hour,
Oh! Heliodora! bitterly I give.
Thy home’s low roof with ceaseless tears I wet,
In deep, and wild, and passionate regret.
Oh! Heliodora! I have known thee long,
And loved thee deeply, and bewailed thee well;
But what avails the tear, the sigh, the song,
To thee, thus sleeping in thy narrow cell?
Alas! my lovely flower is senseless clay!
My budding rose the Grave has torn away!
To thee, oh earth! then let thy mourning son,
O’er whose glad heaven this cloud hath early past,
Whose day is darkened ere its morn be run,
Lift one appeal--his strongest, and his last--
Take her, oh! take her to thy gentle breast,
And lull her softly to her evening rest!
_To the Tettix._
Thou noisy thing, intoxicate with dew,
Thou desert-babbler, with thy rustic lay,
Who sittest idly, where the green leaves through
On thy _cranked_ limbs bright slants the solar ray,
Whilst from thy little frame with hue of fire,
Comes forth the mimic music of the lyre--
Oh! friendly songster, to the Sylphid Maids
‘Discourse sweet music,’ with thy tiny tongue,
And unto Pan, who habits in the shades,
And roves the mountains and the fields among.
Then, freed from love, my noontide sleep I’ll take,
Beneath the shadow which the plane-trees make.
And now, dear reader, thou hast gathered with me a few of the many
wild-flowers, which bloom in the Anthology, but are known only to
the student, and appreciated only by the scholar. If thou art not
interested in them, it is either because thou art not gifted with a
love for the simple and the beautiful, or else because that simplicity
and beauty have perished in the medium through which thou hast seen
them. I am no man-worshipper, and, I hope, no nation-worshipper. Yet I
love, admire, and venerate the Greeks; and though I might in liberality
allow that there have been minds more mighty than any of the Grecian
race, yet it might be shown by the strongest of moral proof--the
sentiments of nations, and the evidence of facts--that they were the
brightest, simplest, and most _classic_ nation on the earth. I say, it
might be shown, and should occasion serve, I will show it. Meanwhile
I will content myself with the hope that you may be blessed with an
_Attic reduplication_ of wit, a _temporal augment_ in the riches and
honors of this world, and a _spiritual aspiration_ after all that is
beautiful in knowledge, and all that is generous in deed.
Hermeneutes.
“OUR MAGAZINE,”
Is doing very well--but might do better. It has hitherto
had subscribers enough to support it--it has never lacked
communications--it has never been so unfortunate as at one and the same
time to displease _every body_--it has been constantly sustained by
the countenance of able friends, and the attacks of weak enemies--its
general character has been approved by the ‘leading prints’--many
articles have been copied from it, not without the most gratifying
compliments--even the editors have not lost their meed of praise.
So much for the first part of our remark, that the Magazine is
‘doing well’--now for the less pleasing adjunct, ‘that it might do
better.’ We might have _more_ subscribers--and all our subscribers
might pay as they engage to--our articles might be more varied and
more excellent--and by an increase of patronage, we should be enabled
to enlarge the size, and improve the mechanical appearance of the
work--and, in a word, make it more worthy of the institution from which
it takes its name, and which it is our especial delight to honor.
All subscriptions were considered as made for one year, and will be so
charged by the Publishers. Subscribers at a distance are reminded that
their _money_ is due.