The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 3, April 1836)

Reader,

Should you, on any one of these gloomy spring evenings, chance to traverse the college yard, between the hours of nine and ten, among the many glowing windows, with which the sombre buildings are then radiant, you may notice two, shining with transcendent brilliancy. Of the situation of these windows, and the occasion of so intense a glow, as to distinguish them from the dull light diffused by the solitary study-lamp, it suits not with our purpose to tell thee more than this: 1st, that they occupy a central position in that building, which, in college mythos, holds the rank of the third heaven; (to south middle we can assign no gentler appellative than purgatory;) 2nd, that, in the day-time, they admit the light to, and in the night season emit it from, one of the most literary, best furnished, and withall best peopled rooms, which our well stocked University can boast; and 3d, that at the hour above specified, within this room are assembled four as merry, yet thoughtful fellows, as your eye (especially if you be a little cynical) would desire to look upon. But to speak of them in the high terms which they deserve, would expose me to the charge of base flattery in the case of three, and arrant egotism for the fourth. Further than this, curious reader, except so far as may serve to elucidate the characters of these Dii superi, we shall never communicate.

But, stop--my better judgment whispers me, that ’twould be safer to satiate thy curiosity, at once, than have thee continually peering about and asking troublesome questions. Enter, then, this mysterious room--erect thy crest--quicken thy memory, for it must serve thee in good stead. Thou hast free permission,

‘Each corner to search, and each nook to scan.’

Well, you have made your bow with such a trigonometrical flourish, as proves indisputably your claim to a rectilineal descent from the _Angles_--if I intended a pun, may I eat a dinner of cabbage and quicksilver, and then, with my heels higher than my head, take a siesta beneath a Nubian sun on “Damien’s bed of steel;” (Dante would have chuckled over so original a punishment, for the embellishment of his Inferno.) Now you are in the room don’t open your mouth with such a convulsive gape. Did you never see a classical studio before? Drop your arms by your sides with perpendicular propriety, and, if you wish to note the aspect of the room, and its occupants, do it by quiet, occasional glances, and not by an Hibernian stare. Take a seat--you have done it indeed, and with a most rheumatic grace; one would think you had been studying the ‘Poetry of motion’ all your days. If you wish to take an inventory of the novelties you see, “_Accipe jam tabulas_”--pull out your memorandum book,--“_detur nobis locus, hora, custodes_”--sit down, and take your time about it, but be careful,--“_videamus, uter plus scribere possit_”--see how fast you can write; that’s what my old paedotribe used to call a free translation.

But we must hasten to a description of the room, and its contents.

Item. Your infernal extremities are sublevated by a carpet, somewhat homely, but thick and warm, while from an open stove a blazing pile of ‘divina Hickoria’ (as Virgil would call it) diffuses a salutary warmth.

Item. Abutting upon either window, stand two tall and open book-cases, “filled to the brim of contentment.” Beside the dull and thumb-worn volumes of the ‘college course,’ which constitute but a small portion of their burden, you will find a choice selection from the infinity of books, which the wit of man has perpetrated. The stolidity of wisdom, and the levity of wit, equally find there a place.

Item. In the centre of the room rests a substantial table, around whose broad circumference an astral lamp sheds its fluent splendors upon a literary chaos, where taste and fancy have collected their aliment,

‘In embryon atoms Light-armed, or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow’--

The meditations of Hervey, and the sparkling humor of Butler,--the regal Virgil,

‘With the sounding line-- The long, majestic march, and energy divine,’--

the smart antithesis of Martial--the luscious flow of Ovid, and the delicate indelicacy of Terence, and the ‘curiosa felicitas’ of Catullus--(the phrase was first applied to Horace.) But we are exhausting our critical knowledge, and thy patience--suffice it to say, that, strown in elegant confusion, lie a motley assemblage--Milton and the Comic Almanac--Coleridge and the President’s Message--Kent’s Commentaries between the two volumes of Rienzi--Shakspeare and John Bunyan--the Yale Literary Magazine and Tristram Shandy, open at the page whence we extracted our motto.

Item. Stretching along the back side of the room, is a sofa, of most dyspeptic virtues--hard by, is an arm-chair, expansive enough for an alderman--and next, beneath a mirror, stands a dressing table, which, besides the appliances of adscititious beauty, eau de cologne, and “thine incomparable oil, Macassar,” supports a load of cups and spoons, and other paraphernalia for the fruition of that rich beverage,

‘Which Jove now drinks, since Hebe spilt his nectar, And Juno swears most bravely does affect her.’

At the same time, on the coals, is sweating and snoring a huge pot, (the conica tridentata of naturalists,) like an uneasy slumberer, ‘_flagrantis atroce horâ caniculæ_’--that is, about fly-time. Pray, reader, remark my classic taste, which I have thus thrice developed for your amusement.

We have thus slightly touched upon some of the most striking phenomena which meet your eye. The living appurtenances of the room demand a more careful and individual notice.

Close to one side of the stove, with his feet on the fender, and his body ‘squat like a toad,’ in the easy embrace of an arm chair, sits a singular personage, known to thee, at least, reader, by the fanciful cognomen of Apple-Dumpling. He bears upon his plump visage and stout frame, the impress of sensuality, struggling with, and almost triumphing over, a good natural portion of intellect and refinement. As you see him now, with a cigar in his mouth, and a volume of Lamb’s in his hand--equally relishing the beauties of both--gazing now and then, with pleasant anticipation gleaming in his eye, upon the bubbling, hissing fountain, at his feet--and again with intellectual delight, joining in the keen raillery of his companions--from this short sketch, we say, you may divine his character. His personal appearance is no less queer than his mental organization. He is beneath the middle height, but owing to an odd habit, which he has, of bobbing his head up and down, like a startled bullfrog, his height is incessantly vibrating, between five feet, and five feet six. His hair seems constantly electrified, and points in all directions, like glory in the primer. A low forehead, thick lips, and a dull face, redeemed only by the brightness of his eye, are the only peculiarities, which deserve our notice. The worst thing about Apple is, that he is an inveterate punster, and plumes himself on his proficiency in this execrable art. You can always tell when to expect his artillery of wit. He gives utterance to a sudden, energetic whiff, and knocks the ashes fiercely from his cigar, whilst from his kindling eye there darts a quick premonitory flash. He is frequently placed under our satirical dissecting knife, and is, certainly, at times very ridiculous--yet, with all his oddities and failings, we love Apple, ‘even as the apple of our eye,’ and should as soon think of throwing away our coffee-pot, as of excluding him from our Quartette. Note with careful eye the individual next him. He is an exquisite in personal appearance and mental conformation. What ‘Poor Yorick’ said of Dr. Slop and his pony, ‘that he never saw a better fit in his life,’ might with equal propriety be predicated of this gentleman’s mind and body. ‘Il Pulito’--for such is his appellative, drawn from his own favorite Italian--possesses all the accomplishments of person and intellect, which are essential to the perfection of a fine gentleman in this most fastidious age. He has a very general knowledge of ancient literature, and can talk fluently about French, Spanish, Italian, and what not; but should one descend to particulars, he is most wofully ignorant, or, as he calls it, forgetful. Dante, and Tasso, and Schiller, and Richter, are names ever on his lips; but of any just conception of their character, and their works, he is totally innocent. In truth, his high pretensions will hardly bear a strict examination, except in one particular. His knowledge of English literature is thorough and extensive. He has drunk deep of those well-springs of beauty and truth, the ‘Old English prose writers,’ lingered long about the haunts of our vernacular Castalia, and plunged over head and ears in the muddy pool of ‘transient literature.’ He is at no loss for an opinion--most commonly a correct one, too, upon Lord Bolingbroke, or Captain Marryatt--gentle Philip Sydney, or Porcupine Cobbett--the cacophonous Chaucer, or the sweetly sentimental ‘L. E. L.’ With such attainments, and a certain seductive grace in language and manners, Il Pulito is a most agreeable collaborateur in our nocturnal toils. Were we to omit altogether a passing notice of his external recommendations, and a sly hint at some of his ‘labors of love,’ he would never forgive us! for on these he prides himself incontinently. I would not hint that all his self-complacency is absorbed in dress--yet he certainly peacocks himself, as the Italians say, when he throws back the collar of his coat, displaying thereby a fair round chest, from the middle of whose glossy, dipectoral envelope glitters the golden symbol of craniossal love. Dancing, music, drawing, and all the other equivocal graces of ‘the gentleman,’ are as ‘familiar things’ to him. He can give you a masterly criticism on a pretty foot, or a well turned arm, and has caused alarming symptoms of a disease of the heart in more than one of ‘Nature’s fair defects.’ I have often known the fellow fling his dark locks around his brow in clustering beauty, and saunter with unstudied carelessness among some half dozen of his fair acquaintance, while the graceful dignity of his carriage, the significance of his tone, and the eloquence of his eye, sent to the innocent young heart a disturbing thrill, and called to the cheek a warm flush of unconscious pleasure. Then, too, how perfect he is at turning a sonnet. Il Pulito is a fine tasteful fellow, with a slight touch of the dandy. In our coterie, however, he keeps his coxcombry, and his love affairs pretty much to himself; for we would be loth to admit any feminine sentimentalism, to mar our hearty, masculine hilarity.