in our mind, is just the way they should be read. He has been called a visionary; but it seems to us that his dreams are the result of a happy and wholesome frame of mind; and we would that there were more such dreamers in the world. The sketch of Walter Savage Landor, is conceived in a true style of his genius and character-a single dash of the pen, and the intellectual giant stands before us, true to life. We hope it may not prove the only portrait drawn by the same master. Of the principles advanced in the article entitled Christ's Idea of Society, we cannot judge-it might be more proper as well as more pleasing for us, perhaps, to say that we do not understand them. Nor is the poetical department devoid of interest. The Psalms of Life, written after the manner of Longfellow, are of the true guinea stamp. In fine, we commend the Dial to our fellowstudents, as a journal that will meet the wants and wishes of the scholar; uniting, as it does, Philosophy with Philanthropy, Learning with Poetical taste, and a desire to Know only as it teaches us to Do. The Mass cannot be expected to feel any sympathy with abstract beauty or abstract good, the ro ayatov xas To xaλov of the Socratic Philosophers, but in a community of scholars, the Ideal is ofttimes as real as the Actual. ARCTURUS, A JOURNAL OF BOOKS AND OPINIONS. No. XII. November, 1841. New York.-This successful Magazine has just reached the last number of its second volume. Its enterprising editors promise new pleasure and additional interest to its readers, in the arrangement made for its coming volume. "Tales, essays, sketches, poems, reviews, notices of lectures, the theatre and fine arts, with a copious miscellany of minor matters, constitute the variety of its pages." The leading article, on the "School Fund," from the pen of Mathews, carries its point by a force of appeal and picturesqueness of humor, that is irresistible. "A Movement in Clerkdom," by the same author, is enlivened by the same peculiar vein of delicate burlesque. "Magazine Literature," and "The City Book Stalls," are easy, rambling articles, useful in their purpose, and well executed. "The Correspondence of Richardson" is an earnest, and truth-seeking exposition of one side of the character of that wonderful writer. We are promised a fuller exhibition at some future time. We have long admired the writings of Mr. Jones, and know of scarcely a better magazine writer in the country. His memory is full, overflowing-his judgment keen, anylitical, and seldom led astray in pursuit of a theory; his decisions manly and well digested. The article on "Thomas Moore," we fear has been written by too ardent a champion of the Lake School, to meet with or merit much acquiescence among its readers. "The City Article" breathes a fine philanthropic spirit, but the world have never, as yet, found the lever to elevate man to the scale of perfection desired by the writer. "The Loiterer" is crowded with scrutinizing and independent notices of new books. Viewing the past conduct of the Magazine, we hope for it a continuation of its well merited success. EDITORS' TABLE. GENTLE READERS,-With A NEW VOLUME have we come to greet you, and beg your attention for a little moment. We take you by the hand and entreat you will be seated, for we would fain discourse awhile. The oldest college periodical in the United States has now taken upon itself a new dress, and is as vigorous and healthful as when urged on by the enthusiasm of early youth. It has now acquired a permanence that places it beyond the fear of decay, and though at times it may feel the shock of adversity, yet its years and associations will make it a matter of honor and a part of the pride of every lover of literature, to support its tottering frame and give vigor and health to its declining sanity. We return to you, one and all, our sincere and heartfelt thanks, for the generous manner in which you have volunteered your services-without which what could our efforts avail ? Throw down your abstruser studies, unbend your stern, critical brows, and look in upon us with candor, if not with partiality. You may not learn all the world's wisdom from ponderous tomes and dusty pages, though you obey to the letter the injunction of Flaccus, "Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ ;" and a better and greater philosopher has told us, "Study is like the heavens' glorious sun, That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks: Save base authority from others' books." Nay, you may gather instruction from our follies, if you deem our labors such. For our own part, we maintain that whatever serves to develop human character is a matter of interest, not unworthy the attention of the philosophic mind. We follow Terence, "Homo sum: nihil humani a me alieno puto." "are But we forget; you are not of those fiercer critics who, as Dean Swift says, like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most where there are fewest bones." No, Congreve could never have exclaimed of you, How you are disappointed when you are pleased." As a field, then, for the study of human nature, we offer our pages to your inspec tion, independently of their intrinsic literary merits. Here you may watch the cautious, timid foot-prints of the young author, just entering into the remote suburbs of the metropolis of letters; on this page you will find the more daring and reckless flight of the writer of tried powers and conscious strength; and on that, perhaps, the measured and garnished periods of one who is reputed an elegant writer, and is driven to his wits' end in the process of husbanding his reputation, "nursing it to keep it warm." All this is unfolded to you, and much more, if you possess the cunning to discern and the heart to understand it. Moreover we here offer you a storehouse, where you may garner up your choice thoughts and aspirations, and when, in after years, you find your feelings swaying off, and your heart growing estranged from the noisy, brattling world about you, your worn and bruised spirit shall gather sweet solace as you tread anew these haunts and fondle anew the darling thoughts that fired your youthful bosom. Amid the bar renness of disappointed hopes, it shall be "as the shadow of a rock in the desert, or water in a dry place." Perchance ye scarcely think so now, but those best versed in the world's history will tell you whatever bears the impress of youth and hope is a golden thread in the tangled web of memory. It is here proper we should say somewhat concerning ourselves. On this head we would be brief, rather leaving your conjecture and good sense to discover who and what we are. It has been, and ever will be, our endeavor to supply you with the best fruits your garden affords, and if the purveyance be reckoned scanty, or displease your palate, we hope you will not blame us, because "ye may not reap where ye have not sown.". We have no complaints to offer. If success crown our efforts, we still find a pleasure in the toil and trouble requisite to cater for your taste. We acknowledge our indebtedness to the kindly notice afforded us by the press, both in our own goodly city and abroad. We shall not at this time enter into any masquerading description of ourselves, for we have always been old-fashioned enough to think that the intercourse between the reader and editor ought rather to be a comfortable chat or rational gossip, setting forth the relation subsisting between the parties. In this perhaps we are singular, we rest however on your generosity to tolerate our heterodoxy. We have been flooded with communications; some will be found in full on our pages, others have been decently laid away in the coffin, and their memory preserved in the obituary at the close of this number. Autumn in her gorgeous drapery BLEAK WINTER stares us in the face once more. strides rapidly onward, strewing in her path, the rich and gaudy trophies she has reaped from flower and tree, from hill and dale. Winter tracks fast in her blanched footsteps. The voice of his coming is heard everywhere. He sounds his trumpetnotes in the thronged street, and the wayfarer wraps his cloak closer about him; he rattles in the shrouds of the wave-tossed vessel, and the mariner treads the deck with brisker pace; at his shrill whistle, as he rushes past our door, and at his old familiar patter on our windows, we involuntarily turn our eyes from the page of lore before us, and gaze upon the glowing, crumbling coals upon our hearth, till fancy shapes of them fantastic figures, and transmuting our thoughts into dreams, quits us in the depths of revery; he whispers as mildly as he may to the red-breast and the cuckoo to sojourn no longer, but hurry away in quest of a more genial clime; he groans through the branches of the old oak-tree, and the monarch of the forest reluctantly quits his grasp of the few withered leaves, Autumn in matronly prudence had left him to hide his nakedness; he scours across the half-veiled face of the heavens, and gives new lustre to the stars; the storm-cloud hears his trump and gives up its dead, and the wind-blast hears his approach and howls a cordial greeting. But OUR CORRESPONDENTS are awaiting, on tiptoe of expectation, to learn their doom. Our task is a painful one, but it is to this harsh ordeal you are indebted for much of the purity of our pages. You have appealed to a tribunal where "Rhadamanthus habet durissima regna Castigatque, auditque dolos," and you should not murmur at the issue. "The Tendency of European Governments," though possessing much merit, from its length we are forced to decline. This is, perhaps, unpleasant to the author as well as ourselves, but it should be remembered, it does not fall within the scope and design of our Magazine to publish lengthy political articles. He must try again. "The translation from Catullus," "Lines to 99.66 Etchings from my window," and "Characteristics of Indian Eloquence," are respectfully declined. The "Lines" on a deceased classmate, though probably dictated by the kindest feelings in the world, yet do more honor to the author's heart than they could to the pages of our Magazine. What have we here? "The Spirit of Obedience and Reverence, a desideratum of the age-its source considered," with a cabalistic signature appended, followed by this pithy note: "This has been hastily written and looks rather illegible, still you can make it out."!! The deuce we can. Really, sir, this is too bad. Make it out! Does our beloved friend suppose an editor's patience is "aere perennius"? Make it out! Assuredly it needs it, being not more than half-made. Oh, but it has been "written hastily." This surpasseth all human endurance. Here, good friends, you wofully deceive yourselves. "Festina lente" is a wise proverb, and the brightest talents must stoop to "Blot out, correct, refine." Would that we might favor all aspirant genius, priding itself on its " hastily written" productions, with but a glance at our coffin. "Ah! gentlemen, this was a dreadful mistake," as you might readily witness. "Each songster, riddler, every nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damned to fame ; Perchance our correspondent shall think we have spoken harshly, but if he thinks so lightly of our judgment as to imagine he may palm off upon us, as adult, the offspring of his brain, "sent into this breathing world scarce half-made up," we fear he will be compelled to feel "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child!" The song of "Dull Care" threw us into a "deep sleep," and when we awoke, we inadvertently lighted our cigar with the opiate. We quote a single stanza: "In the home of the cottager grow The blossoms of kindness and love, To shed over unions below, Verily, our bachelorship had thought there was at least one place where there was "neither marrying nor giving in marriage." Of the "Scene" we have seen too much. "Mary, a Tale of the Ohio," and the remaining parts of "A Voice from the Sea,” will appear in our next. |