of greater interest than the mere investigation and attainment of truth, and who toils arduously onwards, sifting evidences, meeting doubts, removing objections, and endeavoring so to conduct the whole examination of a "questio vexata," that he may reserve an unprejudiced mind for the final judgment—there are a thousand difficulties which present themselves whenever he attempts to publish to the world the result of his labors. The very means by which he has attained seeming success, are calculated to teach him diffidence in his own judgment, and the fear of an inadvertent expression that may, through an improper construction, lead to error-the anxiety to fully convince his readers of the correctness of his conclusions, coupled with the secret dread that will at times obtrude itself upon his mind, that he himself may yet be groping in error, and the sentiments which he has advanced, fail to meet the concurrence or approbation of his fellow men, renders the labor of composition doubly arduous.

"Incomptis allinet atrum

Transverso calamo signum, ambitiosa recidet
Ornamenta, parum claris lucem dare coget,

Arguet ambiguè dictum, mutanda notabit."

But to one who sits down to record his thoughts upon a matter concerning which he has never yet called thought into action,who, as every faithful votary should do, offers up his first fruits as a propitiatory sacrifice, and disdains to serve out to his fellows the mere fragments of an intellectual feast, of which he has first appropriated the choice morsels to himself—who soars proudly free, far above the

"musty rules

Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools!"

and disdains alike the trammels of syntax and of sense-whose sole creed and system of belief, together with the motives which impel him to action, may be found in the declaration,

"Occupet extremum scabris; mihi turpe relinqui est,
Et quod non didici, sanè nescire fateri ;"

and who commences his labors by boldly passing judgment upon the subject matter which he proposes to examine, and disclaiming all deference for the opinions of those who do not leap headlong to the same conclusion with himself, pronounces such to be either blinded by unreasonable prejudices, or laboring under a mental incapacity for appreciating the beauties of his theory: To such a one, I say, the toils of authorship, if toils they can be called, are rendered easy-all the difficulties with which less enterprising souls would have been forced to con

tend, vanish before him. With doubts and difficulties he has nought to do, and is content to bring forward, with such embellishments as he may be able to afford them, the arguments which from time to time suggest themselves in support of the conclusion to which he has previously arrived, carefully suppressing or passing over with a contemptuous remark all those on the other side of the question which might tend to distract his own. mind or that of his reader, with regard to the propriety of his decision. Then, too, as such a one goes on 66 currente calamo," there is evinced in his labors such originality of idea-such a racy freshness, (in the South Middle acceptation of the term)— such an independence of thought-and such a noble contempt for the antiquated notions of those writers to whom the world has been accustomed to look up with reverence, and whose opinions men have been content to adopt as the aids in their search for truth-that the most careless reader cannot fail to experience wonder and delight, and, in contemplation of the work before him, be filled with a realizing conception of the powers of "illimitable mind," scarcely less vivid than was experienced in his juvenile days, on the perusal of that master piece of veritable histories, "Jack the Giant-killer."

But ignorance of his subject is not the only requisite for a popular author at the present day. Among the many changes which have been wrought of late years in this world of ours, not the least striking is that which has taken place in the style and general character of our popular literature. The minds which a few years ago sought a pleasurable excitement in the dismal castles, clanking chains, and frightful spectres of a then fashionable romance, now look for a gratification of the same appetite for the marvelous, in the pages of the philosopher, the metaphysician, and the moralist. The world has become a philosophical one, and its cacoethes legendi can only be appeased, or its entire approbation secured, by the most wild and startling theories in mental and moral science, shrouded for the most part in an unintelligibility of diction, that will keep up to the end a state of delightful embarrassment and pleasing doubt as to the author's real meaning, or whether he has any at all. To ensure entire success, therefore, an author has not only to pander to this appetite for the ideal, in the very title and character of his work, but he must crowd its pages with the development of theories, no matter how improbable or revolting, provided that they possess in a sufficient degree the charms of novelty and mystery-with cold and fearless assertions which, like Butler's hero, who could

VOL. VII.

"on either side dispute,

Confute, change hands, and still confute,"

2

which it is closely allied by the naturalists, is greatly given to imitation: spite of his contempt for foreign notions, Jonathan is seldom unwilling to undertake any enterprise that presents so good an investment of his literary capital as this, and a sufficiency of time having elapsed to enable him to make the requisite improvements on the original, which it is his custom to engraft on every thing that passes under his hands, from a wooden clock to a body of divinity, the press teems with volumes illustrative and demonstrative of the beauties of the system, and the heads of half the good citizens of our "literary emporium" are turned with vain attempts to fathom

"The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss,

Or through the palpable obscure, find out
Their uncouth way,"-

in the face of more extravagances than ever entered into the head of a German poet, or flitted through the wonder-seeking brain of a professor of the far-famed academy of Laputa; and should the science progress with as rapid strides as for a few years past, we shall probably see, at no very distant period, the Transcendental Spelling Book superseding that of our venerable lexicographer, or the whilom professor of penmanship changing his advertisement to a proffer of imparting proficiency in the new philosophy, "in the short space of twelve lessons."

And yet, among the many who affect to admire and embrace the glorious truths which Transcendentalism unfolds, it is very doubtful if the tenth part could be found capable of clearly "defining their position," by setting forth to their own satisfaction and that of their fellow men, the exact nature of their belief; and it is still more improbable that any two could be selected, even from these favored few who have lifted the inner veil, whose opinions did not conflict one with the other. The very nature of Transcendentalism forbids a reduction of its principles to the cold standard of philosophy or reason. Its disciples are taught to look within themselves for an elucidation of all the difficulties which the system presents. "The Sphinx," says Mr. Emerson, "must solve her own riddle,” and as this riddle is presented under an infinite variety of forms, its solutions are consequently endless: thus conflicting opinions serve rather to establish than to invalidate truth. "Up to this height, gentlemen, does our intelligence upon the wings of ideas-to speak with Plato-elevate itself. * * * We are now above the world, above humanity, above reason. We are no longer in nature and in humanity; we are only in the world of ideas." It would be idle therefore for us who are "without

*Cousin's "Introduction to the History of Philosophy," pp. 132, 158.

the gates," to speculate upon the mysteries which appear not yet to have been fully revealed even to those who have penetrated the adytum, and we must be content with admiring the skill which has been displayed in disguising the oft-exploded errors of ancient paganism, beneath the almost impervious garb of a mysterious and obscure phraseology-in forcing into an unnatural alliance with these, the wild extravagances and baseless sophistries of the more modern Idealists, in fashioning the heterogeneous materials, thus gathered together, into a novel and ingenious system,-investing it with all the charms which the glowing imagination and ardent enthusiasm of its founders could afford-and in deluding the world into a belief that there really does exist beneath all this quaintness of style, this glowing imagery, this rhetorical flourish, and this occasionally dazzling brilliancy of thought, a veritable something, which is, by its universal adoption, to finally regenerate and restore mankind, reuniting the nations of the earth in a common bond of brotherhood.

And now, reader, it is full time to reward your patience, by putting an end to these lucubrations, which have already extended much further than was at first contemplated: suffer me, however, to drop one word to the Aristarchi, yonder, who, as their eyes have run over these pages, have waited with some impatience for a fit opportunity of propounding the question, which is now just on their lips, "Cui bono?" Let me say to each, "You had better not give it utterance-it would be an idle exertion of your critical acumen to seek for its answer from the materials before you, for it is really one to which I myself have as yet discovered no very satisfactory solution. The ambition of securing a place in the pages of your Magazine, first induced me to take up my pen, and having allowed the ideas that presented themselves to my mind, or flitted through my brain, to be transferred to paper, in their crude state, without much correction or revision, I dare scarcely look behind, in an attempt to retrace the zigzag course which I have pursued, and having reached a convenient stopping-place, can only say in extenuation, in the words of the great Reformer at the Diet of Worms, Here I am, I can do no otherwise !'"

L.

MOONLIGHT IN AUTUMN.

THE bright moon glides o'erhead, how silently!
Now floating through the fleecy clouds,
She girds their edges with a fringe of light;
And now the vapor that enshrouds
Her crescent form is a silver tissue:

Anon, across the starry sky,

Burst from her cloudy mantle-queen of night,

She glides in silent majesty.

Upon the bosom of yon tranquil lake,

She rests in motionless repose;

While pouring on the plain its shower of pearls,
In bright cascade the streamlet flows.

O'er the golden foliage of the grove,
Faintly glimmers the white moonshine;
It plays on the leaf and the purple fruit
Of the dark cluster-covered vine.

"Tis the middle of the night; the elfin train
Seek the bank of the crystal lake,
They form their canoes of the gaudy leaves,
And steer them in the moon-beam's wake.
Or, in gay carouse round the old oak tree,
With bounding heart and nimble tread,
They trip it, heedlessly and merrily,
O'er the faded violet bed.

Earth's Fairest Daughter! well the tribes of old

Paid worship at thy silver shrine,

And the young virgins hymned their choral songs, Beneath the clear and pale moonshine.

For thou art beautiful! thy brilliant form

Glides o'er the wreathed and spangled sky, Like some fair spirit, wrapt in snowy shroud, That in a passing dream fleets by.

I love thee, for thou art the queen of love!
There's magic in thy gentle beam,

That from its throbbing fountain sends the blood
Along the vein in thrilling stream.

Oft have I roved beneath thy placid beam,

With her I love, the varied grove

The lawn, now sparkling with the Evening's tear,

The mead-discoursing still of love.