be civil to the fair creature at my side; it is not surprising,
therefore, that I gave little heed to the dumb beast at my feet,
however expressively he might invite me with his eyes. Poor Rover!
had he known my situation, he would never have 'done the deed' he
did. I knew the kindness of his disposition--but the truth must be
told. After waiting several minutes, and eliciting no glance from his
master, he raised his heavy foot, and placed it impressively on mine.
It rested on _the_ very spot! It was not in human nature to bear
this unmoved. I withdrew the distressed member, with a convulsive
twitch, which brought my knee in contact with the table, with so
much violence, that the attention of the whole company was drawn
on me, just in time to see the contents of my wine-glass emptied
into my plate, and that of my companion into her lap. Kind girl!
She exhibited no emotion, but slightly and unseen by the company,
shook off the wine, and continued her conversation, as if nothing
unpleasant had taken place.
Overwhelmed with mortification, I found it impossible, with all the
efforts I could make, to recover my self-possession. I could only
reply in monosyllables to her remarks; and, save when she addressed
me, I was silent in spite of myself. She touched on various subjects
which had usually interested me, in the hope of withdrawing me from
the remembrance of the accident; but finding her efforts vain, she
adopted another course, and asked me, in a counterfeited tone of
censure, when she was to have the lap-dog I had promised to procure
for her several days before. The word 'dog' was all that traversed
the passage to my mind, so thickly was that passage crowded with keen
remembrances. Thinking of my own Newfoundland, I replied, fiercely:
'He dies to-morrow!' Startled at the unusual tone, my fairest
companion cast on me a glance of surprise, almost of fear. A tear
shone in her eye, and she was silent.
* * * * *
AT last the time of leaving the table came--oh, moment to me most
welcome! It seemed to me that we had sat an age at the board; but at
the last, my corporeal had been forgotten in my mental pain.
If the reader has any bowels of compassion, he is now hoping that
my troubles are over; that I shall go quietly home, take off the
offending boot, enclose my foot in an easy slipper, and then, in
the evening, with an old boot well polished, pay my respects to my
mistress--explain all--receive her forgiveness, and be again happy.
Would it were so! But let me not anticipate.
Before we sat down to dinner, it had been arranged, that we--that
is, my friend, wife, and sister, myself and Miss L----, should go
to the theatre in the evening, to hear, or rather see, a celebrated
little French actress, whose star was then in the ascendant. I had
no time to make new arrangements; for when we rose from the table,
it was even then time to set forth. The fresh air and the lively
conversation of my friends nearly restored me to myself; so that when
we took possession of our box, I was comfortable both in body and
mind. But for my foot there was no permanent peace. There was but a
temporary truce with pain. I had not been seated ten minutes, before
the enemy returned, rëinforced. I soon felt that to endure until
the play was over, would be utterly beyond my power. There was but
one course to pursue. I silently slipped my foot from the boot, and
sitting close to my companion, succeeded--thanks to the ample folds
of her cloak!--in securing my white stocking from observation. The
acting was superb--my foot was at ease--my companion agreeable--and I
quite forgot that I was bootless.
* * * * *
THE last act was closed, and the curtain fell. My friends immediately
left the box. Mr. H---- offered an arm each to his wife and sister,
and--you would not expect a lady to wait for her beau!--Miss L----
walked with them, but not without 'a lingering look behind.' The
instant they were out of the box, I seized my boot, and attempted to
thrust my foot into it; but it had swollen, and the first effort cost
me excruciating pain; yet this I did not regard. But all my efforts
were vain. I could as easily have thrust an alderman through a
key-hole. I seized my pen-knife, and split the offending boot nearly
from top to toe. Then planting my foot on the sole, I tied the string
of my drawers tightly around the leg, and rushed through the crowd.
In my haste, I well-nigh overturned a fat old lady, who was leaning
on her son's arm. The old woman cried, 'Oh Lord!' and the youth,
in ire, muttered an oath, and raised his cane; but I was two quick
for him. I reached the door, amid the screams of the ladies, the
deep, though for the most part unspoken, curses of the men, and the
cry of 'Seize him!' from the police officers. But my friends and my
betrothed, where were they? Lost in the crowd, or shut up in some of
the carriages that were pressing around the door? I saw at once that
all search was useless. I waited until nearly all had left the house,
and then slowly and sadly took my way to my hotel. I went to bed; but
the visions of the day were present to my waking thoughts, or haunted
my short and troubled slumbers. How often, between sleep and awake,
did I long for the boots, and envy the comfortable estate of their
free-and-easy wearer, so felicitously described by the author of
'_Boots, a Slipshodical Lyric_,' in an early number of this Magazine.
----'What sprawling heels!
And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
As if the ponderous feet in that wide space
Had still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,--
Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
I see the wearer plainly. In public haunts
He of his self deportment takes no heed,
And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealed
And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft,
With three sheets in the wind, in upper tier
Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
Over the box's front, and leaning back,
Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'
When I rang in the morning, the waiter brought a note. The address
was 'pleasingly familiar' to me. I broke the seal, and read:
'Miss L---- will be excused from her engagement to ride with
Mr. D---- to-day. Mr. D---- may spare himself the trouble of
calling to inquire the reason.'
And he did!
D.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he
has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight
boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this
folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a
heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood
has to pay for this sin of youth.'
THE POET.
* * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens
Homme par la douleur! * * *
L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite,
Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite;
Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel;
C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel;
C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore,
Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore,
Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau,
Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'
LAMARTINE.
* * * * *
THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song!
Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things
By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng
Of beautiful creations, Nature flings
The sunlight of existence o'er!
The wings
Of the rude tempest are not half so strong
As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings:
Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight
Reach a too-dazzling height!
Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye
Of reason, grown deliriously bright,
Kindle to madness, and to idiocy;
And, from excessive light
To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!
Stop! melancholy youth!
Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,
And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance
Meanderingly along--
Though it be heaven to quaff of--yet, in truth,
A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,
More deep, more strong,
Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!
A very demon haunts its foetid air,
Infatuating with its serpent glance
The wanderer there;
And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,
Luring the credulous one to its desire:
Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile,
And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,
With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!
Stop, if thou'dst live!--or hath life left for thee
No charms, that thou its last terrific scene
Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be,
That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?
No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen?
No wonder unexplored? no mystery,
Still undeveloped to the eagle eye
Of Genius, or of Poësy?
Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea?
Its peopling millions--its gigantic chain
Of gorgeous, glittering waters--wild as free?
Where the big-orbéd sun--the blue-veiled sky?
And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mine
Of ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be,
(Thou fond idolater at every shrine
Where beauty lingers,) can it be that thou
Hast treasured up earth's glorious things, till now
Thou deem'st it uselessness to turn.
Some unfamiliar object to discern,
And so
Her loveliest features unregarded go?
Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine!
Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows--
Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes--
There are a thousand things, whose origin,
Whose secret springs, and impulses divine,
No human art nor wisdom can disclose!
Stop, then, sad youth! for life is not _all_ care,
But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight;
While the cold grave hath little save despair,
The weary, world-worn spirit to invite.
Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away!
Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign;
Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey:
E'en _now_ thy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign--
Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray
Of a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,'
Lighting up vestiges almost divine,
In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay!
Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play
Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip
Hath something fearful in it, though so gay!
A something treacherously calm, and deep,
Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep,
When hid beneath some passing shadows gray,
The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey.
Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over;
Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her light
In the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!)
Ere Hope herself take flight
Down to the depths of that dark-flowing river,
Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night;
Ere thou be wrested from us--and for ever!
Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight!
And, save the ties
That not e'en Destiny itself can sever,
A feeble reminiscence or a name
Be all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies--
Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes,
And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim:
'Here lies
Another victim to thy love, O Fame!'
_Philadelphia_, 1837. J. S. D. S.
WHO WOULD BE A SCHOLAR?
'A STRANGE question!' says one: let such a reader turn to the next
article. 'And a pretty foolish one,' mutters a second: let him do
likewise. _Who would be a scholar?_ 'Sure enough!' whispers one, in
whom the question finds an echo, (and we know there are such;) him,
and all of like sympathy, we invite to meditate a moment with us on
the trials of the scholar.
Let it not be feared that we are about to disparage learning;
although it should not be forgotten, that we have the highest
authority on our side, when we venture to speak of evil and hardship
in connection with that which is pronounced 'a weariness to the
flesh;' and the classic muse is with us, when we claim it as a
universal fact, that 'no one is satisfied with his lot, but each one
sighs for change.' The tired soldier exclaims, 'happy tradesman!' and
the tradesman, 'happy soldier!' The bard who vies with Homer, both
in antiquity and honor, places the beggar and the poet in the same
category; for it is the object of one of his noble hexameters to say,
that
'Beggar envies beggar, and bard envies bard.'
Does not our question appear to some to border on profanity? There
are those who are wont to feel that Mind and all its achievements
are more sacred than the things of sense. And this is in some
measure true. But why is not the toil and plodding of the scholar as
earthly as any other? We must insist that it is; and we claim that
an unfounded presumption in favor of mental effort, as such, be not
suffered to face us on the threshold of our argument.
Go with us then--for our appeal shall be to actual examination--to
the chamber of the philologist. A cadaverous being dwells there; his
sepulchral voice bids us enter, and his sepulchral look--shall we say
welcomes us? No! The heart, the social principle, has perished in
this atmosphere of dusty lore. You enter. Before a table piled with
books, sits the _genius loci_. On either side of him stands a chair,
loaded with huge volumes, and others stand on end upon the floor
around. As you place your hat upon a dust-covered volume which lies
in the window, you catch the title, '---- on the Digamma.' As you
take your seat, you have in view the worn titles of other venerable
tomes; 'Scholia in Homerum,' 'De Metris Choricis,' 'De Dialecto
Ionicâ,' 'Tenebræ Lycophrontis,' etc., etc. Shall we record a portion
of the conversation? After the usual salutation, and the partial
return of the student's mind to present realities, we begin:
'Well, Sir, we find you deeply engaged in study: are you laboring
upon your edition of Æschylus?'
'I am; but for two or three days past, I have been more particularly
occupied with the investigation of some collateral topics of
considerable interest. I have been examining the accentuation of an
obsolete form used by this poet, in order to determine whether the
accent should be the _acute_ or the _circumflex_. I have read the
ancient grammarians on this point, and the invaluable discussion of
Blomfield on the accent of this particular word, which occupies four
pages in his elaborate commentary.'
'Are not the dramas of Æschylus quite obscure and difficult?'
'They are so regarded, but they are rich in the treasures of the
Greek language, and open a wide and inviting field for investigation.
I have often been richly repaid for spending a week upon a single
sentence.'
'Do you suppose that the text is generally as Æschylus left it?'
'It had become much corrupted and interpolated; but the labors of
our great critics have probably nearly restored it to its original
purity. Many of the manuscript copies were evidently erroneous. The
great German scholars have made many conjectural emendations, of
unspeakable value. Indeed, hardly any department of philological
criticism has been cultivated with more zeal, and more astonishing
results, than that of _conjectural emendation_.'
'But do you not suppose that Æschylus would object to some of the
improved readings, if he could see them?'
'Oh! you now call to mind a dream which I had last night. If I were
a believer in dreams, it would make me quite discouraged; and as it
is, my mind has been rather gloomy this morning. I dreamed that as
I was studying the 'Prometheus,' all at once Æschylus himself made
his appearance. How, or whence, I did not seem to inquire; but in
some way, (for you know dreams are incoherent and unaccountable,) I
knew it to be Æschylus. His appearance was noble and imposing. He was
past the middle age; his hair was 'of a sable-silver,' about midway
in its progress toward the whiteness of old age, and fell carelessly
over his elevated and strongly-marked forehead. His features were
strong and almost severe, and his complexion brown and hardy. His
whole appearance was not that of the pale scholar, nor of the
well-fed nobleman, but of the man of action and exposure--strongly
constituted, and sternly disciplined in the world. I told him I was
studying his dramas. He seemed astonished. 'I supposed,' said he,
'they had perished long ago, or had been laid aside as specimens of
the early and untrained efforts of the mind. I wrote them with labor
indeed, but I wrote them for my own age, and did not dream that
they would occupy the attention of posterity. You certainly must
have those which are much better.' I then told him of our labors in
the perusal of his writings, and our delight in them. In order to
convince him of the reality of such efforts, and of their success,
I opened before him the commentaries of our first scholars. He
seemed amazed. 'Can it be,' he replied, 'that so much explanation is
necessary?' My hearers never complained of obscurity.' 'But,' replied
I, 'we live in a distant age, and speak a different language; in
order, therefore, to see and feel the beauties of your writings, much
explanation is necessary.'
'As to beauties,' said he, 'I wrote as well as I could, and aimed
at securing the attention and gratification of my auditors, and
at nothing more. But allow me to see what you regard as '_my
beauties_.' I then read to him one of those rich and masterly
notes, in which B---- has so finely brought out the hidden sense
of the poet. He thought a moment, and then, with a smile, replied:
'Well, that is helping me out finely! I am sure I never thought of
such a construction as possible, but it is very good.' To my utter
astonishment, he treated several of those ingenious elucidations
in the same manner. I then pointed him to one of the important
conjectural emendations of the text, as a specimen of modern
scholarship. 'What!' said the wondering dramatist, 'you have
mistaken: surely, this is not in my writings; whose is it? I hardly
see what the passage itself can mean.' I then showed him that it
was a part of 'Prometheus Vinctus.' 'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I now
understand; you have copied it wrong.'
'My astonishment interrupted my dream, and awoke me. Dreams are
nothing, to be sure; but how could my mind run into such a fiction?'
'You are right in saying that dreams are not to guide our conduct:
but may it not be, that some of your nocturnal suppositions come
close upon the truth?'
'Oh no! I should as soon expect to catch Wolf tripping in Homer, as
to find any such suppositions correct. I can easily account for my
discouraging dream. I had been laboring the whole day upon a passage,
of which the original was not indeed controverted, but the sense is
given by two learned commentators in direct opposition to each other.
One of them, after giving his rendering, says: '_Sensus cuique obvius
est_.' The other says of this interpretation: '_A genio linguæ Græcæ
prorsus abhorret_.' But this difference between scholars shows only
how wide is the field for investigation.'
Let us now leave the philologist to his studies; to pore over
difficulties which time has created, and scholar-like blunders
magnified; to extort sense from passages which never contained it;
to perplex himself with the attempt to form an opinion where the
greatest differ, and where evidence is wanting to the human mind;
to solve questions which are of no conceivable importance to human
knowledge, and to labor life away upon that which can at best only
serve as a monument of patient effort, like the achievement of the
monk with his scissors or pen-knife, which represents only the
expenditure of years. We would clearly recognise the value of the
study of ancient languages in youth, when mind is in its forming
state; when discipline is secured by close attention, and systematic
action of the faculties by the study of system; but we deem it quite
another thing to make the means the end; to pursue the lessons of
boyhood, when the time of them is past, and all their benefits
secured; to narrow the mind down to the perpetual investigation of
minutiæ which have no bearing on human happiness, except as they may
create a fictitious fame; to live among trifles, and for them.
Shall we be pronounced traitors to the cause of learning? Is it
the object of learning to be learned? Is it not rather to make man
a being of higher resources, and nobler action? We confess we are
giving utterance to thoughts which have forced themselves upon us,
when called to take a survey of the field of learning, to examine
its divisions, to become acquainted with its laborers, and to labor
ourselves upon its margin. If these thoughts should be derided as
proceeding from an indolent or even an ignorant view of the case, we
would reply, by asking two questions: _First_, Is there a limit to
study, of the members pursuing it, and the extent of its pursuit?
and, _second_, Where is that limit? Let it not be replied: 'We should
fix no limit to the cultivation of the mind.' We are speaking of
_study_, in its common acceptation, and in this acceptation we offer
these questions. If this be a strange course of inquiry, is it an
unreasonable one?
But let us not be too serious. The mistakes of men may sometimes be
laughed at; and if any are found to spend their lives in seeking
unprofitable knowledge--if any one delves all his days over learned
trifles,
'And prizes Bentley's, Brunck's or Porson's note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote,
This much at least we may presume to say,
The premium can't exceed the price they pay.'
Such men might certainly be worse employed, and if time is _wasted_,
it is not mischievously abused.
A young friend came lately, in great dejection and discouragement, to
ask some advice respecting the obstacles which he had encountered in
reading the Iliad. 'I am now studying,' said he, 'the catalogue of
the Grecian fleet; and I am exceedingly puzzled to find out the exact
situation of all the places which Homer mentions, and to trace all
the nations and tribes to which the Grecian army is referred. I have
studied carefully all the notes of Heyne and Clarke, but these are
not full enough.'
'And why do you wish to trace them?'
The young student was mute with surprise: 'This is a strange
question,' muttered he to himself, 'to come from a teacher, and an
admirer of Homer!' 'What, Sir, must I not _study out_ all the proper
names? I supposed I could not be a good scholar without it.'
'_Why should you?_ If you will think of this question, and give me a
satisfactory answer, I will set myself at once to helping you.'
'But why did the commentators study so much upon these things?'
'That is another question for you to think of; and instead of
answering it myself, I will wait for you to give me your best
conjecture on the subject.'
The poor fellow was amazed. Never had he been more entirely
confounded: 'My teacher asks me, why should I learn it! How strange!'
Such were his thoughts, as he returned to his studies. In a few days
he called again. He seemed not to know how to begin the conversation.
'Well, have you made out an answer to the questions which startled
you so much?'
'Why, Sir; I cannot say that I am able to give any satisfactory
answer.'
'Well then, my young friend, I charge you not to spend time and
strength in searching for the situation of Homer's Nisyrus,
Crapathus, and Casus, until you give some valid reason for so doing.
As to the commentators, what will not men do for fame? How many
labors have men performed with this motive, which were not only
useless, but pernicious?'
Such a reply was indeed unexpected. The young pupil seemed at once
bewildered, and relieved from anxiety, by such a _paradoxical_
sentiment. His mind had imbibed the common feeling that, _mental_
labor never constitutes an abuse of time. The maxim, 'No item of
knowledge is contemptible,' had misled his mind, and he had been
accustomed to feel that _learning_ must be great and good.
There is a sense, in which it may be truly said that nothing in the
universe of God is despicable, except moral evil. The most minute
portion of matter--the slightest organization--the obscurest fact in
nature--is worthy of the notice of Mind. But are there not choices to
be made? Is EVERY man justified in spending his life in the comparing
of the blades of grass, or the pebbles of the sand? No work of human
skill is to be despised; and yet who may sit down to cut paper, or
tie knots, as the business of his life?
We once called at the study of a fine young man, who had set out to
do his best, and to make a scholar. He was pale with long and severe
study, and seemed to labor under some special dejection. On inquiring
into his course of study, he made the following statement.