The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 6, August 1836)

H.

“THE OMNIBUS.”[1]

[1] An “Omnibus” (this explanation is one of pure politeness on our part, and for the sake of the uninitiated) is a substitute for an Album; in which, any thing, every thing, and nothing, are quartered heterogeneously, and made good friends--supposing all this time that the thing be kept within the pale of proprieties. They are with, or without covers--written in black or red ink--up or down--crossways or otherwise, just as it happens. They were first got up by a certain coterie of ladies, who had sense enough to see that “Albums” are very sentimental and very ridiculous, owing to the extreme nicety with which a man must scribble for them; and that by introducing a little more latitude in this respect, the evil might in a measure be remedied. The result, ’tis thought, has shown their wisdom.

I.

“Come, write in my ‘Omnibus,’” said a sweet girl to me, with an eye that made one’s heart bump, and a lip that made him dream dreams. I looked into that eye, and at that lip--they almost unmanned me, yet I shook my head.

She looked imploringly.

“Can’t,” stammered I at last, though it choked me to say so.

“Pray do,” and she laid her soft white hand on mine. Heavens and Earth! how the touch of that little hand thrilled through me--burnt along my arm--then down into my heart. Yet I remembered my resolution--I made it the day before--I swore by my happiness I’d never touch pen again. Still, there lay that hand--the long tapering fingers--I counted them one way, then t’other--how pretty they looked! I tried to look away--I looked at the four corners of heaven--some how or other, my eyes came right back again. Then I felt a soft pressure, those fingers contracted, they clasped--it was all over with me--the grasp of Hercules were nothing to it.

The first thing I did was to kiss them--the next, find my senses. She blushed, I fidgeted.

“Think out something”--the sound was like a brook in summer.

So I thought, and thought, and thought--

Thought I was by the ocean. Every body has stood by the ocean. Every body loves the ocean. They love it because ’tis beautiful. They love it because ’tis terrible. Who that could ever tell his passions, as he has seen the giant rouse himself--the black sky split by the thunder-bolt, and so brazen and fiery that it seemed crisping, and “about to roll away with a great noise”--the driving wind--the bellowing thunder--the crashing deck--the rattling cordage--the death shriek of the sea-shipped wretch as the wave went over him--the horror-like eye’s last glance upon you! But I don’t mean such an ocean. It wasn’t such an one that I was standing by. It was a pretty considerable, magnificent, almighty, great sheet of water as far as the eye went, with a sky above that made one’s heart leap to look at it--its depth of blue seeming to stretch away and away, field after field, without a mist or cloud in it to mar its beauty--one unbounded, unshadowed sweep of glory and magnificence. The winds, soft and balmy, went whirling and whimpering along its surface, curling and crinkling it into small white waves, that, racing and capering up the beach, sparkled and turned into bubbles, and were caught up by the sun beams. Here and there the waters break. The huge porpoise went plunging, and sousing, and weltering along his blue path, flapping his huge tail into the air, and grunting his happiness--the bright light refracted from his surface, came to the eye like a rainbow. Here and there the flying fish slipped from his element, and went careering away over the far waters, till with a light dash or slap, his white wings dipped again into the ocean. The distance had one sail, a single one, right on the horizon’s edge--type, methought, of a being shut from the world--a human heart cut loose from sympathy--on the black desert of man’s pilgrimage. Such was the scene. I felt it. I rose, and stood, and shouted, and--

II.

Thought I was down in the ocean--right on the bottom. Whew! what a place it was!--saw all sorts of things, living and dead--all colors, good and bad--all shapes, hateful and fascinating. Here I wandered through endless groves of coral. Aloft went the light shafts tapering away into the blue distance, then branching forth into a glorious canopy, through which came the broken light with a mellowed beauty, not unlike the sun’s beams through a polished fresco-worken slab of alabaster. The waves swung backwards and forwards through this submarine forest, and their rush made the tall shafts quiver like aspen boughs in the tempest wind; and the light coral twigs, here and there detached by the waters, fell thick and fast like star showers in wintry nights. Nor should I forget the sounds of those waters as they tossed up the shells which were scattered there, and witched from them a music, that tripped and tilted through the brain, like Mab and her melodies in moonlight vision. It changed! I was in a desert! Rocks and barren surfaces above, beneath, around me! Wild cliffs--rent fastnesses--deep chasms--yawning and gaping like the cleft jaws of Hell! They had wrecks, and ruins, and dead men, and skeletons, and skulls in them. Here were fragments of those mighty tenements, that once rode in triumph on the wave’s surface. There were those black engines, wont to belch forth “their devilish glut,” and flame, and thunder. Here were skeletons--some hugging in mortal conflict. They were grappled together, as when death overtook them--their jaws yet apart, as the last curse dwelt on them, the moment the bolt came. There were friends too, parent and child, husband and wife, lover and maiden--laid as they died, locked heart to heart, each on the other’s breast, the two a unity. I sickened, shuddered, gasped--

III.

Thought I was in a forest--a bright, a green, a glorious forest. My heart ached, and I had turned from the heated world and its miseries, and where the lofty branches had intertwined and woven a pleasant twilight dwelling place, I sat me down to meditate. Then I scribbled and scribbled--and thus, I scribbled--

This is indeed a sacred solitude, And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity, Falls on the ear; and all around, the eye Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades-- With here and there an upright trunk of ash Or beech or nut, whose branches interlaced O’ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day, A twilight make--they press upon the heart With force amazing and unutterable. These trunks enormous, from the mountain side Ripp’d roots and all by whirlwinds--those vast pines Athwart the ravine’s melancholy gloom Transversely cast--these monarchs of the wood, Dark, gnarl’d, centennial oaks that throw their arms So proudly up--those monstrous ribs of rock That, shiver’d by the thunder-stroke, and hurl’d From yonder cliff, their bed for centuries, Here crush’d and wedged--all by their massiveness And silent strength, impress us with a sense Of Deity. And here are wanted not More delicate forms of beauty. Numerous tribes Of natural flowers do blossom in these shades, Meet for the scene alone. At ev’ry step, Some beauteous combination of soft hues, Less brilliant though than those which deck the fields, The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green, Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees; And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow, Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth, The eye detects the little violet Such as the city boasts--of paler hue, But fragrant more. The simple forest flower, And that pale gem the wind flower, falsely named, Here greet the cautious search--less beautiful Than poets feign, though lovely to the eye. These with their modest forms so delicate, And breath of perfume, send th’ unwilling heart And all its aspirations, to the source Of Life and Light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting, Such as the mind to that soft melancholy The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds Are playing with the forest tops in glee, And music make. Sweet rivulets Slip here and there from out the crevices Of rifled rocks, and, welling ’mid the roots Of prostrate trees or blocks transversely east, Form jets of driven snow. Soft symphonies Of birds unseen, on ev’ry side swell out, As if the spirit of the wood complain’d Harmonious, and most prodigal of sound; And these can woo the spirit with such power, And tune it to a mood so exquisite-- That the enthusiast heart forgets the world, Its strifes, and follies--and seeks only here To satisfy its thirst for happiness.

IV.

Thought I was on an island--the brightest thing ever dancing in a poet’s vision, a perfect Eden-spot, an Elysium--

Ye of the pure heart, come to me! List to a tale of Poesy; List--for, for it, ye may better be-- So scorn not the minstrel’s minstrelsy. Ye with a brow like the broken wave’s drift, With an eye whose light is the first star of even, When it streameth afar through the sky’s red rift, The only and loveliest thing in heaven;-- Ye with a cheek like the marble fair, Ye with a lip like the bright summer dew, Ye with a softness and loveliness there That Fancy never drew;-- Whose hands and whose hearts have been ever lent, As spirits of mercy from Heaven sent:-- Ye have the pure heart--come to me! List to a tale of poesy; Give me your ear--give me your smile-- List to the lay of ‘The happy Isle.’

That Isle--so beautiful to view! No poet’s fancy ever drew; He had not dreamed of such a thing, With all the beauty he could bring. It lay upon the open sea, It lay beneath the stars and sun-- A thing, too beautiful to be, A jewel, cast that sea upon. The winds came upward to the beach-- The waves came rolling up the sand-- Then backward with a gentle reach, Now forward to the land, Sparkling and beautiful--tossing there, Then vanishing into the air. The winds came upward to the beach-- The waves came upward in a curl-- Then far along the shore’s slope reach, There ran a line of pearl. And shells were there of every hue-- From snowy white, to burning gold-- The jasper, and the Tyrian blue-- The sardonyx and emerald; And o’er them as the soft winds crept, A melody from each was swept-- For melody within each slept, Harmoniously blended; And never, till the winds gave out, And ceased the surf its tiny shout, That melody was ended: Morn, noon, and eve, was heard to be, The music of those shells and sea. The winds went upward from the deep-- The winds went up across the sand-- And never did the sea winds sweep Over a lovelier land. The northern seas, the southern shores, The eastern, and the western isles, Had rifled all their sweets and stores, To deck this lovely place with smiles: And mounts were here, and tipp’d with green, And kindled by the glowing sun; And vales were here, and stretch’d between, Where waters frolic’d in their fun: And goats were feeding in the light, And birds were in the green-wood halls; And, echoing o’er each hilly height, Was heard the dash of waterfalls: O! all was beauty, bliss, and sound; A Sabbath sweetness reigned around; All was delight--for every thing Was robed in loveliness and spring-- Color, and fragrance, fruit, and flower, Were here within this Island bower.