And the grave is not its goal;
‘Dust thou art, to dust returnest,’
Was not written of the soul.’
Consequently, if life is real and earnest, and the soul is incapable of mortality, things must be what they seem, and the soul cannot be dead that slumbers. And if the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not really what they seem to be, life is indeed an empty dream.’ Seatsfield looked puzzled at this.
Seatsfield: ‘You are somewhat hypercritical. Great thoughts must not be trimmed to the exact dialect of business-men. Longfellow reveals important truths; he utters what is pent within him from the impulse of utterance: he tells us that ‘Art is long and Time is fleeting;’ now some arts are not long, and time often drags heavily. It will not do to be too precise in poetry.’
‘But is that sentiment original? Does not one of the ancients say, ‘Ars longa, vita brevis?’ and does not that come pretty near to Longfellow’s idea?’
Seatsfield: ‘Yes, Sir, but that is a little criticism which picks out words. Longfellow, or yourself, or any other man, would have arrived at the same conclusion, even had the ancient author never written it.’
‘We were here interrupted by a call to luncheon; and I take advantage of the break in my journal, to bring this article to a close. More of the Seatsfieldiana I reserve for another number, provided the public are not already glutted.’
Magazine Writing.—We know not how we can better evince our appreciation of the kind and flattering comments of a Southern correspondent, who will at once recognize our allusion, than by citing the somewhat kindred remarks of an old and favorite contributor, now passed away from earth. It was a pleasing matter, he said, to sit down with the proper afflatus stirring within him, to write an article for a Magazine. ‘If the work has a general prevalence; if its fame is rife on good men’s tongues, the inspiration is the stronger. One says to himself, how many friends of mine will overlook these very lucubrations, perceive my initials, and recognize my name? How many pleasing associations will thus be awakened, and peradventure commendatory remarks expressed, concerning my powers? What a quid pro quo for wakeful nights, emendations of phrases, the choosing of words, and toilsome revision! The other day,’ he continues, ‘while reading the proof-sheet of my article in the last Knickerbocker, I fell into a train of reflection upon the large amount of care and labor which must be entailed upon the publisher and editor of an original Magazine. Some one has observed, that when we listen to an exquisite opera, or any elaborate and intricate piece of music, we think not how vast were the pains and attention bestowed upon every note and cadence; what efforts for perfection in a solo, what panting for a warble, what travail for a trill! Taken separately, and at rehearsals, in disjointed fragments of sound, how different are they from that volume of sweet concords which is produced when they are all breathed forth in order, to the accompaniment of flutes and recorders, in one full gush of melody! This is just like a Magazine. How many minds does it engage! Cherished thoughts and cherished feelings, polished or sublimated, there find utterance, and demand that honor and deference to which they are entitled. In his beautiful Introduction to the Harleian Miscellany, Johnson sets forth the necessity and benefit of similar writings, with reasons as conclusive as the language in which they are expressed is chaste and strong. In a country like ours, where the vast population move by common impulse; think promptly, are enlightened with ease, and turn to the best account that knowledge which is received with the greatest facility; are inspired with sacred and patriotic feelings from the bar, the senate, the pulpit, and the press; it is important and just that the readiest methods and means of instructive moral amusement should be the most esteemed and the best supported. I confess I never look into a Magazine, that I do not liken it to a large and pure reservoir of refreshing waters; derived from many streams, and prankt around its borders with the flowers and garniture of poesy; possessing qualities agreeable to every taste—the grave, the solid, the scientific, the light, the gay. It is a map of the higher moods of life. It conveys a sustenance with the relish of pleasure. All who favor it with their productions have different tastes and faculties of mind. Each one endeavors to do the best with his theme. He ornaments it in diction, or tasks his fancy, or explores the secrets of science, or illustrates the events and scenes of his country: he excites broad-mouthed laughter, by salutary jest and pun; he expatiates in pathetic sentences, or murmurs in the mellow cadence of song; or arouses interest by the embellishments wherewith history is refined, and which shed a light over the dim annals of the past, making them to smile,
——‘even as the radiant glow,