THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1832. ORIGINAL PAPERS. ! THE NEW YEAR. WHAT!—another year!—Ah, Time! we do beseech thee, draw up, a moment, the reins of thy untiring steeds! Stop, for two seconds, the ever-whirling wheels of thy scythed chariot! Give us a little breathing time, a little interval of quiet, in which, undizzied by thy rapid motion, we may look back securely, and look forward calmly! And yet, why ask it? Why ask a boon which the stern tyrant will never grant, and which, though granted, could avail us nothing? Look back! and why look back? Does not Oblivion, with his dark and rolling clouds, sweep close behind, and cut off all the view? Look forward! Alas, what mortal eye can penetrate futurity,—what mortal hand can lift the thick and heavy folds of that broad curtain, which hangs before us, and shuts out all the prospect! Let us submit then to inevitable fate. Why should we weary, with our prayers, one who will not hear, and who cannot help us? Let remorseless Time hold on his furious course, dragging the universe at his chariot wheels. WE, meanwhile, OUR READERS AND OURSELVES, unmoved amid the universal uproar, will evoke from our own bosoms the calm spirit of serenity; we will call Fancy to our aid, and, relying on her all-powerful influences, will suppose the course of Time to stop; the clouds which veil the past to be uplifted; the darkness which shrouds the future to be withdrawn; and the illimitable prospect spread before us. And yet, on second thought, to lift the veil that hides the past is scarcely worth our while. The past is past. But the future! ah, the future! Help, Fancy, if thou canst! Grant us, a little while thy second sight; make us the prophets of an hour, if thou lovest us; if thou lovest our readers, reveal,—reveal the future! "Reveal The Goddess hears, but her answer is little favorable. the future? Reveal what is not, and, perhaps, is not to be? Paint that which has no form? Describe that which has no existence? In what terms shall it be described? with what colors painted? Shall I display it joyous and smiling as the first hours of a summer morning, or horrid with the terrors of the bursting thunder storm? Of the innumerable readers of the New-England Magazine, how many, think ye, anticipate the future with coincident sensations? The old and the young, the fortunate, the unlucky, the contented and the malecontent, the busy and the idle, the thinking and the thoughtless, with what different feelings do they, each and all, look forward into futurity? Every single individual has his own point of view, looks through a different medium, and sees the prospect, tinged with some hues, or filled with some objects peculiar to himself." Such is the answer to our invocation; yet, courteous reader, do not despair. Though Time treat us with careless scorn, though Fancy be just now unpropitious, yet never imagine there are not other powers, to which we can appeal without fear of repulse. Poetry has promised his aid; Wit and Humor are pledged to support us; Criticism is engaged at a high salary; Satire is preparing some spicy articles; Reason is a friend on whom we can rely; and Fancy herself, though subject to little feminine fits of ill humor, we do not doubt, has a hearty disposition to assist us; and, beside these potent allies, we have a grey goose quill of our own, rather blunted to be sure,— -a little worn in the public service, but, for all that, a serviceable goose quill, and able, still, to scribble an article, such as good-natured people, may get through with, of a new year's evening, without more than half a dozen yawns at every other paragraph. And without putting the superior powers to any further trouble, or invoking any foreign assistance, it is this same goose quill of ours, which we have specially laid aside, and dedicated with all due ceremonies to the sole service of the New-England Magazine, that we are now going to rely upon. Therefore, courteous reader, we beseech thee, compose thyself in thy easiest chair, in thy chosen corner, and make up thy mind for a quiet, sober, and edifying disquisition. It seems to have been customary, in all ages, and among almost all nations, to make the first day of the new year, a sort of festival; yet one may almost wonder why. At the first view of the matter, the lapse of time does not seem a thing to rejoice at. What reason in the world, is there, that the maiden who has lived nine and twenty years, in single blessedness, should rejoice, that the year has begun which brings with it, her thirtieth birth-day? Or what pleasure can any body, of any age, have, to find that youth is passing, and old age coming on? If indeed there were any truth in the melancholy doctrine, that human life is but another name for human misery,—if it were indisputable that the sum of suffering exceeded the sum of enjoyment, and life were, what some poets have represented it, a burning fever and a painful delirium, which there is no temptation to prolong, and which is best ended, when soonest ended ;—then, indeed, there would seem to be a good reason for celebrating the end of the year, as something which brings us nearer the end of a toilsome and painful journey. But the truth is, that, let poets and philosophers speculate as they may, men and women, as the world goes, think the pleasure of living, by no means contemptible. They love to eat, they love to drink, they are very fond of sleeping, and they hate to find themselves growing old. How happens it, then, that they do not rather lament the beginning of a new year than rejoice at it? Instead of visiting, dancing, making presents, and making merry, ought they not to look grave and thoughtful, like men who had lost a great treasure, and should they not lament, in sad accents, or in sober silence, the irreparable flight of Time? No, the world is right; the impulses of nature are more trustworthy than the refinements of speculation. Though time be our greatest treasure, yet the lapse of time is not a thing to be lamented. Life is, in its nature, progressive; we cannot live without moving forward; to stop, is annihilation. Who that has felt the pleasure of rolling rapidly along a macadamized road, does not know, that, the faster his horses move, the sooner his pleasure will be over? Yet does he wish them to move slower? So it is with the vehicle of life. whirled along at a good round pace, to be surprised that it is dinner time so soon, to find the week ended before you had thought of it, and the year finished before it seemed well begun ;-this is the highest enjoyment of which human souls are capable. To be Life may be likened to a bottle of Champagne; it cannot last forever, it cannot last long; it must be tossed off before its spirit evaporates; it will not do to sit sipping and sipping. Time is like money; it must be spent to be enjoyed; it cannot be hoarded up in dark corners, made much of, and kept all to one's self; the greatest pleasure it affords is the pleasure of parting with it. It is not, then, without reason, that mankind have so universally agreed to celebrate the beginning of the new year. Yet with us, in New-England, this matter is managed in a very slovenly way. New Year's day, among us, is one of those days of jubilee, on which nobody rejoices; it is one of that kind of festivals, as to which one hardly knows whether they be festivals or not. Our Puritan forefathers,Heaven rest their souls!—had a great horror of merrymaking. Some holidays were cashiered, because they were popish, and some because they were pagan, and several others because they were-holidays; and this sobriety of temper seems, in some measure, hereditary; for, of all nations in the world, the "universal Yankee nation," is most careless of set days of periodical festivity. Yet this same natural sobriety of temperament, this difficulty we find in relaxing into gaiety, would seem to be a very good reason, for the multiplication of holidays, and for the establishment of certain fixed seasons, when it should be every body's business to be sociable, agreeable, and good-humored. As to the two stated festivals, at present most in repute among us, we have not very much to say in their favor. The Fourth of July is a mere political jubilee,—a day of bellringing, toast-drinking, speech-making, and cannon-firing;—the birth day of the nation, to be sure,-the day when the bosom of every true citizen swells with patriotic delight, but a day, too, always noisy, and always dull,-a day on which we sacrifice our own pleasures to the honor of our country. Thanksgiving is, pretty generally, a favorite ;but, after all, it is a mere family festival, and better calculated to strengthen the ties of kindred, than to promote that more free and noble sort of sociability, whose only bond is sympathy of soul, where mind comes in contact with mind, and heart with heart. It certainly would be a thing of good tendency, if the New Year's day could be made the same sort of festival among us, which it is said to be, in some other places;-a day of agreeable gaiety, moderate mirth, and universal good humor, a day on which old enmities are extinguished, old grudges forgotten, new friendships formed, and old intimacies revived; a day of smiles and good nature, spreading over the world's selfish and habitual gloom a gleam, like the sunshine, which breaks through the clouds of a November morning, or the momentary ray of generous emotion, which sometimes bursts upon the souls of the mercenary and hard-hearted. For ourselves, it is this same social and generous spirit, in which we are determined to celebrate the New Year. If any editor hath squibbed our Magazine,-behold, we have forgiven him ;-if he sees fit, let him squib it again. If any wicked, inconsiderate person hath neglected to put his name to our subscription list, he has our pardon,on condition, always, of immediate amendment. If, on the other hand, there be any author who smarts beneath the paternal discipline of our criticism,-let him comfort himself with the thought, that the criticism is forgotten,-let him forget it too. If any candidate for fame, whose contribution we have rejected, bears us ill will for the neglect,―let him restrain his anger, let him print the rejected article in a pamphlet, and we will criticise it, and bring it into notice. And, thee, too, courteous reader, we forgive thee. yawn with which thou hast read our last paragraph. profit by our example. Yes-even the THE MASKED CAVALIER. Mercutio. Give me a case to hide my visage in: DEAR to my heart are tales of sunny France, The merry hunt! in dreams I hear its horn Through the green passes of the wildwood ring, In some deep glade or by some haunted spring The times, the sports are gone! the horn hath wound The hunt is o'er-its shadow lingers still, Where friends and dogs assemble o'er the plain; Then there were many ways to show one's love The surest path to favor was to prove Worthy of mention in a bard's narration; Or in the tournament to take a part, By breaking heads to show one's breaking heart. And this reminds me that I have a tale, Which, haply, may find favor in your eyes, Of peace, love, sentiment and paradise; In an old castle in the north of France, Dwelt Isabelle de Valence with her sire; Hers was the lightest footstep in the dance, And hers the readiest fingers on the lyre; And like all heroines of tales and novels, She talked of sentiment and love in hovels. Her father was a man of the old leaven, And wine, at night, made him still more loquacious, But Isabelle was quite a peerless creature, There dwelt a seriousness in every feature Of her sweet face, whose meaning none might read :But every heart throbbed faster as her eye Dwelt on its owner in vacuity. But Isabelle was kind-for when they brought her Of various remedies the maid bethought her, And finally the knight was put to bed, Where his leech let him blood, and shaved his head. The lady was the image of her mother, And (strange as it may seem) the father loved His Isabelle for this; he had no other Delight like that of gazing on her, moved By conjugal affection, a strange passionThe phrase is obsolete, but once in fashion. The poor old gentleman, although of rhyming |