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Day & Martin have of late usurped in some degree his honors, and hosts of shallow imitators have sprung up all over the world. Yet they can no more vie in glory with their immortal prototype, than the coward coasters, or even most daring adventurers of our day, can hope to wrest the sea-laurel from the brow of Columbus. Ever will the name of Warren live ; it will shine in his benefactions to his fellow men—ever will he be esteemed as
When on the sar blue mountain leans
“Iham forté rid sacrá ;” in other words, walking down Chapel Street soon after the commencement of the term, I happened to fall in with a fellow-editor, who was pacing the side-walk with a most inelancholy gait, and apparently deeply eni. in some painful subject of thought. Fron the paper which he held in his and, and the unusual degree of gravity on his countenance, I naturally inferred that he had just received intelligence of the decease of some absent friend, or of the burning of his paternal dwelling, or of some other calamity of a similar character. “Any unpleasant news, this morning 3' inquired I. “The very worst possible,” responded he mournfully, “an essay for the Magazine, long as a speech in Congress, and about as dull.” “And is this all that has drawn your phiz down to such a sanctimonious longitude You look like despair incarnate.” “The responsibility of wading through such an article as this were enough to have crushed Magliabechi himself—who is said to have read, as it were, spontaneously—being utterly unable to prevent it.” “The task, however, is unavoidable; so when shall we begin the next number 2" “The deuce take the next number 1" “No doubt the deuce would be as profitable a subscriber as some who have taken the work heretofore. But seriously, it is time to begin to print.” “Printers never work gratis, my dear sir.” “Well, we have a good subscription list.” “But not, in all respects, a list of good subscribers, however.” “Sound, are they not * “Verily, and nothing but sound. It were better were there more of the substance.” “Yet I apprehend no difficulty.” “No difficulty Why, sir, Yale College, in my opinion, has no more literary spirit than a mule. I verily believe that"— “Tut, man your assertion is altogether too sweeping.” “Would that it were ! But what care those for the success of a periodical who make it a practice to procure the reading of it gratis, by a system of borrowing q" “These are but a few paltry individuals, such as would vote for the annihilation of all literature for two and sixpence, cash. They rank with the hopeful genius
described by the poet, as
I repeat it, there'll be no difficulty. Just think;-half a thousand students in Yale College—all apparently jealous for her honor—and yet the old lady unable to sup. port her own bantling —absurd “But duty and the performance of it are two different things. It was the duty of Mr. Anonymous, here, not to persecute us with such an everlasting essay as this; yet here it is " “Perhaps our friends know not the necessity of any particular exertion.” “They must know it, then. We ought to have a general meeting of the College.” § A meeting it is, then ; and it should be held immediately.” And a meeting was held. “Let all members of College assemble themselves in the Chapel, at twelve o'clock, this day,” ordered the Bully—and they were Fo there, and ready for every “good word and work,' as will be seen in the sequel. 4t ãomen." said we of the Magazine, after the Bully had procured a profound silence in the house, “Gentlemen We speak to you of our beloved periodical. Convenience requires that it conform to the College calendar. A new volume must now be commenced. Its merits—need we recount them 7 You know its name—Yale'—shall it in vain look to Yule for support 2" “Never!” responded our venerable Alma Mater, “never! What! our Magazine lack patronage We unable to support it! Feebler institutions jeer at us! No literary spirit Begin and not able to finish Never ! never! Dumb be the tongue that would speak it! branded the recreant who for two pieces of silver would betray the reputation of her who has nursed him!—Messrs. Editors—go ahead o' At this we doffed our beavers and made a genuine editorial bow. Nearly two weeks passed away before the question was practically answered “when shall we begin to print * At length, however, a cold, stormy evening found us all assembled, at an early hour, in our own sanctum sanctorum—a snug, ten-by-twelve feet apartment, neatl carpeted, and o with the usual appurtenances of a well ordered office editorial. A brisk fire of hickory was burning in an open Franklin, on opposite sides of which were seated Paul Blossom and Jedediah $. each with his feet restin on the stove in such a manner as to preserve an equilibrium of pressure, and eac luxuriating, with true editorial delight, amid the circling sumes of a well-lighted cigar. At one side of a handsome center-table which stood directly in front of the fire, sat with solded arms another of the editors, Noah Dove, and on the other side, with pen in hand and inkstand before him, the reader's most obedient, I, Ralph Rockaway. Upon the table was a huge pile of books, pamphlets and newspapers, all thrown together “in most admired disorder.” Here were our exchange papers and periodicals—the ‘Knickerbocker,” (except the last No. which we have not yet received,) the spirited, talented, impartial Knickerbocker, indisputably the first periodical of which our literature can boast—the “American Monthly,” its popular and distinguished rival, notwithstanding its cut-and-thrust, blood-andvengeance style of criticism, and its unpardonable though futile attempts to run down and tomahawk those who deserve a more honorable treatment—the “Literary Messenger, a faithful, and favorable exhibitor of southern talents and literary taste, though occasionally marred (like most other periodicals) with specimens of dull prose or of prosing poetry—the “American Historical Magazine,' replete with curious incidents, and interesting documents appertaining to our country's history—the ‘Baltimore Atheneum’—the ‘Monument'—the Bangorean, and a dozen other literary periodicals, all very excellent of their kind, and contain in much choice and interesting matter, both original and selected—and last, thoug by no means least, our eye rests on our comely sister, yeleped ‘Harvardiana, a gay little brunette just entered on her teens, and different, very different from her sober, long-visaged, bas-bleu-ish predecessor. We congratulate our brethren, the Purophagoi, on the decided improvement, both in character and appearance, of their promising protegé. Harvard and Yale, if we are not mistaken, are the only institutions, at least in New England, which can claim the honor of sustaining literary periodicals. ... Of these two Magazines then, mauger the untimely croakings of some who affect to believe that all college publications must die an early death, we say, from our heart, as Blackstone did of the British Constitution, ‘esto perpetua.” But to return to our room—when each individual of the corps editorial had located himself to his full satisfaction, the business of the evening was commenced by depositing in a hat four small bits of paper, three of them blank, the other marked with the letter E. The individual by whom this should be drawn would be editor-in-chief for the current number—its presiding genius—responsible, to a certain extent, for its general appearance, editorial matter, notes to correspondents, etc. The important E, fell to the lot of Ralph Rockaway, alias, I myself—sor, of course, it is I myself who am now writing. There was then introduced and placed on the table, a long, narrow box, which, for all the world, resembled, more than any thing else, a child's coffin; having nearly its size, shape and color. And the resemblance extended even to its contents—the literary bantlings of our fellow students, slain unmercifully by a single dash of the pen—the metrical abortions of many a would-be poet, and the ardent breathings of the unblessed lover,
But whatever may have been the original design of the box, or whatever the purposes to which, in process of time, it had been devoted, whether for the protection of important secret documents, or for the storage of long, delicate tobacco§. it was now only employed as a convenient receptacle for the current contri
utions to the Magazine. Its lid having been unlocked and thrown open with all due solemnity, there was revealed a most formidable mass of miscellaneous MSS. which it was incumbent on me to attempt to decipher.
The first article that made its appearance was the astounding essay, of Chapelstreet, despair-producing memory. At sight of it, every countenance suddenly dropped, like the drop of a gibbet. Our two antipodal, cigar-loving colleagues gave each a most desperate puff, and a long drawn sigh escaped involuntarily from the lips of all. At the same time, the rain was pattering fitfully and drearily against the windows, and our lamp, not having been trimmed for the evening, had already begun to wane, and was now shedding on things around but a feeble, cat's-eye glimmering, just sufficient to place in dim conspicuousness the portentous essay. In truth it was an affecting scene. When each of us had “screwed his courage up to the sticking point,” the reading was commenced; and I read, and read, and read; minutes, yea, almost hours passed away, and I was reading still. “My colleagues,” thought I, “give very good attention to so dull a thing as this,” and I raised my eyes from the paper to see how they endured it. Paul's cigar had dropped from his lips, his head leaned upon his shoulder, and an image of despair was depicted on his countenance, which revealed but too plainly the nature of his dreams. Jedediah was still puffing away with the sury of utter hopelessness, kept awake simply by the vast and overwhelmning idea of eternal duration, suggested by the essay. o sat gazing with a vacant stare, upon the bright bed of embers before him, as if absorbed in some profound speculation. As to myself, I was reading fl om a sense of duty; and this, in addition to the somniferous nature of the composition, rendered the exercise, to a considerable degree, mechanical and involuntary. At length, I stopped to take breath. The sudden silence disturbed the whole group. “I am unaccountably drowsy to-night,” said Paul, yawning; “how many articles have been read, while I have been dreaming here of committing to memory the whole College Library, black letter and all 1" “Not more than half of the one we commenced with,” replied I, glancing at the manuscript. A general groan. “I move,” said Jedediah Dyer, solemnly, “that it be labelled the ‘Touchstone of Patience, and sent to the Harpers for publication; no other press can do it.” “Better call it,” said Blossom, laughing, “the ‘Infallible Soporific,’ recently invented by Mr. What's the signature, Rockaway 4” “No signature. But here is a closing note. “Messrs. Editors, either print this or burn it, but pray don't name it in the notes to correspondents.'” “Let his [... be granted" exclaimed all, simultaneously. A quick, bright blaze, a roar in the chimney, and a residue of black quivering flakes, told the nature of the decision. Next was read a long, melancholy tale; good enough as to the characters and plot, but somewhat lumbering in style. “A good writer,” remarked Mr. Dove very sagely, “ought to know that a story requires a much lighter style of composition than a disquisition in Metaphysics.” “Some parts of it are very well written,” rojoined Paul, “but it is manifestly a first effort, and admits of great improvement.’ “There is too much said about a certain mysterious change,” added Mr. Dyer, “and some passages are a little too pathetic for common susceptibilities.” After many more criticisms of a like character, the question was put; “What order upon this piece, gentlemen o' “Move it be respectfully declined,” said one. “Second it,” said another, and “third it,” another. And the decision was recorded among the minutes of the meeting. Next appeared an article in blank verse. “Read it, read it,” was the cry. It was read and listened to with marked attention. “Some very fine passages there,” said Paul, “it ought to be published.” “But there are some very faulty passages, too, if it has been read correctly,” added Dove. “The strength of one line rests solely on a diminutive ‘to.” Read it.”
Rock. —“When deep
Dore. “That's a violation of both rule and taste, unless I err exceedingly. Several other lines terminate feebly, with the conjunction ‘and.’”
Rock. “Mark the position of the word “and, and the rythm of the second line in this passage,
'Tis but the gloom of your night vigils, and With a morn like this should vanish. Thou art Our leader.”” Dyer. “Notice, too, the weakening epithets and unnecessary circumlocutions which encumber many passages and obstruct the sense. There are too many words. What a pity the author does'nt write with greater care; he would certainly purchase much more fame, though, perhaps, not so much paper. Swift's advice is quite to the purpose. “Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline.’” Rock. “Well, gentlemen, shall it go in with all its faults uncorrected?” Dove. “They will certainly neutralize the beauties of the piece.” Blos. “Move it remain ‘under consideration,' that the writer, if he chooses, may have a chance to correct it.” (Passed unanimously.) The next piece consisted of five stanzas, entitled “What is Sweet,” a reply to “What is Bitter.” Aster hearing it read, it was the decided opinion that although many of the thoughts were poetical, yet that in the structure of the verses, nearly all the rules of measure, rythm and rhyme, had been violated with very little ceremony. Next was announced an amorous ditty, crammed full of love and sentiment, and sighing and crying and dying, and pathos and bathos, like the weak brain of a love-sick girl. (Cries of “hear! *...) - The thing was read, and several times in the course of it we each of us invol. untarily sighed, ‘oh!" Paul moved that it be kept in a bucket of cold water to prevent conflagration; and Jededjah, affected, no doubt, by the touching plaint of the poor author exclaimed, with Burns, “Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears tricklin' down your nose; Our Bardie's fate is at a close— o Past a' remead ''' Next came up something called a ‘Sonnet, containing, however, no less than twenty lines. ere is a choice fragment. “Oh Mary for my life I cannot see Why your thoughts do wander away from me, When morn with its rosy tints is gleaming, Thy dark locks in the wild winds are streaming, Egbert at the altar of Venus is kneeling, His young heart throbs with keenness of feeling—
Dear Mary, for ". soul I cannot see
“I must beg to be excused,” said Paul, turning pale, as if troubled at the stomach.
“From anything more of this sort,” exclaimed Noah, with tremendous emphasis, “good Lord deliver us!”
“It is exceeding strange,” added Paul, recovering from his saintness, “that beings blessed with a human form should so befool themselves. Writers unable to tack together two decent prose sentences, must attempt oetry! like a newl hatched bird essaying to fly before it can stand on its feet. #; it were enoug
“Poor creatures!” exclaimed Jedediah mournfully, “they are laboring under
a sad mistake; in the words of another,
Several other pieces, not named in the minutes, were also examined, and the arrangements for the Magazine concluded, by ordering Ralph Rockaway to record the transactions of the meeting, and insert them in the forth-coming number, pro bono publico. R. R.