such as must come from one used to the hardships and stern courtesies of war, or the dangerous and difficult duties of the statesman. He does not walk in high paths. He is not a man of great understanding, nor does the play tax or rouse that faculty. He is not remarkable for strength of will, or for self-devotion, other than to himself. He perishes out of mere imbecility of purpose, and an inability to renounce." In a word, Egmont is wanting in those qualities which constitute the best parts of human ity, and Goethe has put thoughts in his mouth which perfectly agree with the measure and quality of the man. We have merely to add, that we have only endeavored to set forth the character of Egmont as given in Goethe's drama. Of the production, as a whole, our limits do not permit us to speak. It may be proper to remark, however, that it appears to have been composed according to strict artistic principles, and bears the most evident traces of that pen which was both wand and sceptre. SIR EDITOR: DOING NOTHING WITH MUCH ADO. I received an impression one night how it should come is quite a mystery, probably through the roof, as I lay diagonally on the top of the bed, (somewhere between eleven and two, minus mainly my coat and boots,) unprofitably catching at tailless thoughts that kept buzzing about me a sudden impression that you might experience an "hiatus valde deflendus," "a most lamentable gap," in your forthcoming columns. “That will never do," said I, putting both my hands under my head, and winking at a bat just alighted on the bed-post. "Nature does not 'abhor a vacuum' more than an Editor. It will probably be a space of three pages," I added, looking up to an antique angel's face carved in the corner of the ceiling"just enough for a short and elegant essay. Nay," I exclaimed, "it will doubtless be four pages!"-the chasm appearing larger the more I contemplated it" and some booby will send in a ridiculous thing, thinking to get over it by the Bridge of Asses'!-and this to be, when this Monthly is altogether for the good of the commonwealth! No," I replied to "Poscimur... Si quid, vacui sub umbra, Consule TYLER; Gesta qui fecit, facit atque nunc jam, * "Tarsus Atri." Explained by the scholiast to mean "calx Africani”! "Antliae stivam." Conjectured by Bentley to be only a dialectic variety of "DogLatin," and equivalent to the vernacular expression, "pump-handle." This new reading of Horace, with many other super-Porsonic emendations and felicitous imitations, is from the port feuille of a young" South-westerner," prominent among the Bowie-knife chivalry who came lately to Washington in search of office. The aspiring patriot brought numerous written testimonials of his capacity, beside the more palpable proof furnished by a transparent vial of spirits, containing the noses and ears he had sliced off in his various rencontres. Finding, however, the President, the Secretaries, and all the office-jobbers with their hands and pockets full of prior applications, our discomfited chevalier determined to wait for the tide, and meanwhile purchased a copy of "Cicero de Officiis," which he began to study night and day in search of directions for success in office-seeking. He missed of these, indeed, but acquired a knowledge of Latin, which he is now turning to illustrious account. The youthful genius employs his hours in the inditement of Latin Odes after the Horatian measure, and in the Pindaric spirit, in which he marries to immortal verse" the names of the jockeys, who trained an ignoble "half-blood," and won by foul riding, in the last grand race round the Presidential Hippodrome. This professor of the bathetic, and perfect master of the anti-climax, is expected to be nominated Poet-Laureate to the next administration. I must furnish one more stanza, however, "Extremum hunc, Arethusa," from a lyric eulogy of his on the Democracy, who are called "unterrified," because they have so long been familiar with their own ugliness, that it is supposed nothing else can scare them. "O! liceret si mihi, voce tauri 66 دو "Yes!" I exclaimed, elevating my eye-brows, "we shall produce a threepage essay; the same to be like all essays, brief, terse, pithy, pungent, sparkling-a perfect example of the ne-quid-nimis.' And who are we? Speer me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lees." However, there is no harm in telling.-We are, then, resident somewhere between the dark Potomac and the bright shores of the Chesapeake a quiet, staid old fellow-yet not so quiet either, except when undisturbed, nor so very old, yet old enough to be jealous of a young wife, if we were bound to that blissful misery. We love fun, and cherish in our very "heart of hearts" that jewel of a maxim "Ride, si sapis, O puella, ride." We improve it, however, with the Christian proviso, "Ne autem unquam deride." We weep, then, only perforce, and laugh according to nature. We love the tub of Diogenes, and delight to "look through the loop-holes of retreat at the stir and din of the great Babel." We love books, and have read more than we ever digested; but we never loved nor learned the mystery of book-craft, being suspicious that there is a great deal of clap-trap and stage-thunder in their composition. We like in some respects "to live by faith, and not by sight." We do not wish to see the" raw material," and inspect the manufacture of every thing, lest our singlehearted wonder should be lessened. We are content to admire the diamond without understanding its mode of crystallization. We did once commence authorizing for awhile, and experienced consequences as unexpected as disastrous. compelled to gild over our barrenness with trickery, and discovered that the profits of a book-wright's station, like those of many other offices, arise principally from the "perquisites"-a euphemism, a softened name for "stealings." But this was not the worst. With that skepticism of the honesty of others, which is the consequence and punishment of roguery, we began to suspect all other authors of being thieves also, and our reverence for the divinity of the gods was sadly shak en. We were The serpent of rivalry, too, crept unobserved into our intellectual Eden; and the slimy trail of jealousy and bitterness and chafing hate does not greatly add to the beauty of the fair flowers of the mind. We considered the antique worthies as robbers of their children, and cotemporary authors as poachers in our warren. We sorrowed sincerely over each brilliant conception of the ancients, as over our own preoccupied possession, and groaned in spirit at every flash of modern wit, as at a stolen coruscation from our battery. We feared to open any work, or even to read a periodical, for fear of encountering some thought which we had also generated, but which, consequently we could not swear we had never seen in print. We were reluctant even to exhale our spirits in the ease of common conversation, lest the effort should subtract from the tone of our printed sprightliness, and we could hardÎy reply with freedom to a polite "Good morning" or a kind "How are you?" from fear of “ wasting our sweetness on the desert air." Thus in turning author we were becoming a misanthrope, and each stroke for fame was a blow at our affections. We could not barter happiness for glory and had forever renounced the irritable trade. But here seemed an appeal to our patriotism! Write an essay, quotha? Shade of Johnson! On what? what about? Lamb could write a charming treatise on Roast Pig, and Addison string his thoughts in ripe and ruddy clusters on the circumference of a hoop-petticoat. In rivalry with those " princes of the blood" and autocrats of the quill, we undertook to discourse on the cruel luxury of the pate de foie gras, and the tempting tournure and modest elegance of "bustle-skirts." In regard to the former, we discovered that this dish was certainly of Protestant origin, for we read in Livy that "geese once saved Rome," and it is impossible even for human ingratitude to make them so base a return. We then expressed an opinion that if the hearts of men were larger they would give themselves less trouble to enlarge the livers of geese, and found to our surprise that the subject was exhausted! With reference to those very questionable appendages by which the soft sex endeavor to complete the checked developments of nature, we thought we could detect a dim foreshadowing of their advent in the celebrated Scotch air, "The camels are coming, oho!" etc., and after beseeching our fair young friends to "hold up"-rest satisfied -we discovered that we had exhausted the last shaft in this mine also. Conchology struck us as a more fertile theme. We began with clams. We traced the origin of the word in the Latin "clam""secretly," whence we perceived the force and allusive beauty of the expres sion "mute as a clam." Hereupon we reached the end! We paused-turning up our eyes despairingly to the face of the carved angel. It was grimmer than usual.-Should we discuss politics? We have been a bit of a politician during the past campaign. We read all the "public documents" of both parties, together with those documents which were meant to be public on one side of " Mason's and Dixon's line," and private on the other. We once mounted an ash-tree stump, and delivered a speech, -eloquent of course, and followed by a furious throwing-up of hats. We converted one or two Locos” by a proper admixture of argument and whiskey— a sort of spiritual" half-and-half." We even made a few bets on the election, contrary to our principles-and have paid them, contrary to our will. And in the event of success, we fully expected an office-the office of minding our own business. These things, we should think, would qualify us to be a political writer. But politics are a drug. The people have stood on tiptoe, listening to " thrilling speeches" till they all have corns; they take now no interest in any political question except the abolition of the "Corn-Laws." (If any one choose to father that, he can, for it's execrable.) Besides, the whole nation 'knows a thing, or two." They need no further instruction. They all comprehend the subjects from the surface to the centre.-But the Whigs are defeated. Shall we then express our desire of a truce with the conquerors? Shall we ground our arms and supplicate their favor? Shall we mourn over our vanquished comrades, and condole with our stricken Chief? Oh! no! dear, delighted Democrats-just-minded and most fraternal patriots-brothers of the Black Flag-fast hurrying down to Acheron by the light of the lone star!"-we are not yet so humble as that. Still, 66 ---" our banner torn, but flying, Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind!" We fought openly, boldly, fairly, and we "bide our time" for another conflict. You have vanquished yourselves, not us. You attacked us with an omnipresent, but ever-shifting lie-a lie on the St. Croix, and a lie on the Sabine-a lie every where, and a lie always-the watch word of your warfare, and the very soul of your tactics, and the explosion of the lie shall convert-is already converting your temporary triumph into reproaches, confusion, and dismay. You were able to repeat audacious and incredible falsehoods with shameless iteration, till many good men believed them. You could shout them abroad on every hill and in every valley, till the very echoes were weary. Led on, blindly, by embittered and abandoned leaders, ye marshalled your invading Greeks, and made a furious and a fatal onset on the bold and noble Hector. But, as in the vivid lines of Homer,— “Εκτορα δ' ἐκ βελέων ὕπαγε Ζευς, ἔκ τε κονίης, ἔκ τ' ἀνδροκτασίης, ἔκ θ' αἵματος, εκ τε κυδοιμοῦ, Freedom has withdrawn him, for a season, from her battle-field-" from the missiles, and from the dust, from the tumult, the carnage, and the blood." And still the victor presses on the vanquished-“ aièv droкtsívwv TÒV ÖRÍSTATOV,”. but they touch not him. Whether he shall again lead our hosts to the battle, and again be beaten down by malignity incarnate, and “dragged thence round Troy-wall," with his spear reversed, and his bright head trailing in the dust, we know not. But this we know, that so long as Truth has worshippers, and Liberty has a home, the name of HENRY CLAY will be loved and cherished-admired by the understanding mind, and engraven on the thankful heart. Doubtless ye have pierced him with many a poisoned shaft; but do ye find the hurt ye sought to inflict? No! the oak of half a century is not thus overshadowed by the mushrooms of a day. The light from that Pharos still streams clear and steady athwart the dark tide, which ye have made blacker, like shoals of cuttle-fish, with your inky discharge of billingsgate and falsehood. HENRY CLAY ruined! Is it not known that, for forty years, the giant has always risen from the earth, like Antæus, the greater by his fall?-And the Whig party broken! You should first break down the school-house, and burn up the spelling-book! Leave him to himself, and every little white-headed boy that sits within those walls till the down darkens on his chin, is a Whig Astyanax-a young champion of his country and the laws. Each letter of the alphabet, each ray of knowledge that enters his opening mind, is a drawn sword against the forces marshalled by unprincipled radicalism. "Give us but light, and Ajax asks no more." (Every "Democrat" who does not feel guilty may consider himself exempt from the above onslaught. We condemn not by the million. Let the galled jade wince.") But we are getting excited. That is not the way to write an essay. Essayists always keep cool. Yes, but the subject, "Jack!"-the subject, Apollo! "Though subjects were as plenty as blackberries, thou shouldst have never a subject upon compulsion!" We heard such an answer from some part of our chamber. We were not surprised-we knew it before! Be sides, the room? an essay in three pages! "Think of that, Master Brook! think of that !" "Our imagination amplified the chasm," we muttered to our self," scandalously!-Probably there will not be three pages or else, like Shylock's pound of flesh, exactly three, neither more nor less-and two of them gone already in talking!". A subJect discussed in one page! Why, to discourse on a blade of grass in all its aspects and relations, would require a small folio! And then the ideas!-much space and a fruitful subject being given. Certainly," we said, “ it would be dancing on Euclid's Bridge,' when it is hard enough to get over, stepping gingerly!" Ideas are doubtless necessary to clothe any skeleton of a theme; and we are not a spider, to spin "long yarns” from our own brain in the dull midnight, and catch stray thoughts in the subtile meshes of our language-web. We have read the fine writers, of course, and are quite a scholar. Who is not? But our reading has deposited just enough sediment of gold-dust in our cerebral cells, to plug the hollows and quell the grumblings of our last molar tooth. We have swallowed many fat things." They have been chylified, and, pervading our whole frame, now lie rich, adipose, and swelling, at our fingers' ends. Well: : we toiled for it spring, summer, and autumn; and now are we inclined, like a white bear, to lie down, cosy and contented, in the frosty cavern of our age, beguiling the wintry hours by sucking the fatness from our paws. Not "so rolled the Fates." "Eupnka! What care we for the essay? "We have found it!" the secret of bookmaking! A fig for the key of study, or the "open sesame" of genius! We know how ourselves. Sit down: grasp your goose-quill: if you have no ideas, the better; keep writing about it, goddess, and about it." Henceforth our destiny is fixed. We shall be an author! Vae nobis! Better throw ourselves," says Elia, slap-dash from the Tarpeian rock!" We pause: we shudder. But the first step is takenwe cannot retract. Truly, we have said nothing-just nothing-but we have made a most vigorous attempt-and " to begin," quoth Flaccus, " is half.”—Yes! we have something to say-to many people. If they hear us, well—if not, perhaps it is better. For who knoweth the flight of the "arrowy thought," or what growth shall be from the seed of " winged words?"-We are, then, to be an author, hung up in leaden chains-gibbeted monthly. If worthy, we are to be praised and pillaged; if worthless, damned" and forgotten. If neither, we shall now be puffed into flatulency, now criticised into the locked-jaw. Instead of dying of natural decay, we shall be extinguished, like "unhappy White," by a review. Should we escape that fearful martyrdom, yet, when poor, and blind, and old, we shall discover, like many other poor, blind old authors, that all our labors have been paid for only by a draft on sight! There's a pun for you. It's a good one, and it's ours. We made it. If any body else claims it, we shall institute an ejectment-writ. Addison didn't like puns. He thought them a mechanical sort of wit. "For why?" Poor fellow! he couldn't make them! Faith, after computation, we think we have rambled over about four pages! Well -we will at least suit ourselves the next time; so doing only, may we suit the friendly public. This time we have neither "room nor verge."-And even now the shade upon the angel's face hath grown more solemn, and as the ancient clock beneath struck the departure of this idle hour, a shadow, as of a mighty wing, filled the chamber for a moment. What theme could now avail We cannot recall the thoughts that have gone forth into the night! us? NOSMETIPSI. |
