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PREJUDICE AND SCEPTICISM.

"A little learning is a dangerous thing: Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring."

This hackneyed distich is most frequently used to convey an idea of that arrogant confidence which attends the first superficial acquisitions in knowledge, and the characteristic diffidence of the profound mind. Whether this is the impression intended to be conveyed by its excellent author, it is not necessary to inquire: it evidently involves a principle, which is illustrated by the history of every nation, and has an important application to our own.

In tracing society through the various stages of its progress from barbarism to civilization, we observe, almost universally, a point intermediate between the two, where the foundations of the social system seem to be broken up, and anarchy and confusion prevail. Among men in a state of the greatest rudeness and ignorance, customs and manners are comparatively permanent. Ages on ages roll away, and the same simple institutions are handed down from father to son with the most scrupulous care, and with scarcely a perceptible change. In this condition of man prejudice holds universal sway. The practice, or the 'ipse dixit' of a superior is the foundation upon which they rest their belief, and the rule by which they govern their actions; and in opinions resting upon such a basis, there is no doubt or wavering. No intricate maze of reasoning leaves a dark corner to beget distrust, but like the insect upon a flying fragment, the contracted vision of the savage reaches not beyond the established creed of his predecessors; and upon that, however far it may be from reason and truth, he rests in secure repose. But when he has obtained one glance beyond that rude fabric, he feels the trembling of his basis, and his inquisitive mind becomes alive to all the realities of his situation. He begins to reason--he begins to doubt--and confidence once shaken in former belief, scepticism becomes universal. He is thrown upon the resources of his own rude mind; prejudice wars with passion and impressions from the world, and reason roams, and often roams in vain, in search of those pure principles from which spring the happiness of enlightened communities.

In this incipient stage of knowledge, the field from which individuals derive their impressions and opinions is contracted; and influenced as they are by different circumstances and associations, it is not surprising that their ideas should rarely concur. Mind clashes with mind, and from this collision necessarily arises a popular effervescence. But as knowledge advances, the horizon of each individual extends farther and farther, and consequently coincides to a greater extent with that of those around him. Hence, after this fiery ordeal of revolution, in proportion as intelligence prevails, the sentiments of the community harmonize, civil institutions become more permanent, and society settles down into a peaceful, happy condition.

This is, indeed, but the brief outline of a theory; and like all other theories, it requires great modification in its application to the world. Man in his progress to civilization is not always influenced by the same principles operating in the same way. In one instance, as he breaks through the spell of prejudice--grasps the sword of reason, and enters upon his rude analysis of mind and matter, he is directed by some apparently fortuitous agency, at once to the elements of peace and happiness, and advances in rapid strides from barbarism to refinement. In another instance, in the same rude contest--the same clashing of mental and physical energy, a nation falls exhausted in the struggle, and sinks, if possible, to a state even more hopeless than before. Nor is this period of revolutions confined to the incipient stage of science in all its branches. Nations, that have apparently past this eventful period, and settled down into the uniformity of civilized life, are sometimes shaken to their very foundations, by the agitation of some subject that had before escaped the trying test of reason, and from some peculiar cause, been suffered to remain upon the rotten foundation of prejudice and superstition. Indeed, no nation is entirely secure from revolution until all its institutions are established upon the basis of truth--of truth that is seen and felt by the great body of the community.

The French revolution is, perhaps, as good an illustration of this subject, as can be found in the annals of history. There we behold a people not utterly buried in ignorance, but even taking the lead in the sciences and arts, and apparently approaching the peace and security of an enlightened state. But presently we are startled at a horrid revolution sweeping over her. Religion and politics had not yet undergone a strict examination. It is true, religious controversies had been carried on, and wars, bloody and protracted, had been waged between the Huguenots and Catholics; but they were little more than the collision of prejudices, and the quarrels of priests and princes. But when that doubting, ridiculing philosophy had rent the veil of superstition, and, united with a gleam of liberty from across the waters, had opened to the gaze of the multitude those sinks of corruption, the people were exasperated at the wrongs which they had before piously endured; they swept the land with unprecedented fury, and hurled to one promiscuous ruin every monument of royalty, nobility and priestcraft. But--alas for France! in that eventful moment no kind genius appeared to direct the awakened mind to the fountains of truth. Disgusted and maddened by the absurdities and impositions of the church and state, they were driven into the dreadful abyss of infidelity, and at last, in the recklessness of despair, they relinquished the contest, and were ready to kiss a yoke even more galling than the former. It is not our intention to convey the idea, that the French revolution was in no way beneficial. This is a question for a future age to decide. But we do intend to assert, that a knowledge of literature and science merely, however much they may contribute to it, is not sufficient for a nation's security; and that when man has been roused to investigation, unless inexperienced reason is aided in its search after truth, he is liable to fall into the most fatal errors. This height of civilization has been attained only by the accumulated wisdom of ages, and it is not, therefore, to be expected that unassisted reason will arrive at it at once. Had not the French been left to be carried headlong by the first transports of passion, or had the pure principles of religion and freedom been presented in such a way as to be imbibed and felt, they might have risen to a lofty elevation, and been able to look back upon that horrid scene of anarchy and bloodshed only as the harbinger of liberty and peace. As it is, she has only added another illustration to the many that before existed, of the truth of our motto--of the danger of rousing the inquisitive mind of man, without providing the means and the opportunity of arriving at correct conclusions in his inquiries. Man's reason is not infallible; and thus to awaken the attention of the ignorant or the inexperienced, destroy their confidence in established institutions, and then leave them to grope their own way to the fountains of truth, is like committing to the breeze a ship without a helm, and expecting it to arrive safe at its distant destined port.

It may be supposed that this subject has little application to a country so enlightened as ours, and so accustomed to submit every thing to the scrutiny of unbiassed reason. When we consider that our institutions derive their origin from the most profound minds our country has ever produced, and that they have prospered, for more than half a century, beyond the most sanguine expectations of their founders, we are apt to forget that the prosperity of all institutions depends upon the attachment of the people, and to imagine that ours are inherently secure. It would be Natural also to suppose, that the discrepancies between different portions of the country would gradually wear away by continual contact and free intercourse, and that the longer we existed in our present condition, the more consolidated and unanimous we should become. But the crisis has not yet arrived. We have received these institutions upon the faith of our fathers, and, hitherto, been engaged, not in fairly discussing, but in eulogizing and defending them, without ever allowing ourselves to doubt their excellence and superiority over all others. These venerable fathers have now gone down to their graves; our enemies have become our friends; the distorting medium of prejudice through which we have hitherto viewed the world is removed, and we are left to scrutinize at our leisure the fair fabric which has been committed to us. Were this investigation to be candid and serious, we should be safe. But he who has the least acquaintance with human nature is aware, that when our complacency proceeds from an influence prepossessing us in favor of an object, there is a re-action in sentiment when that influence is removed: complacency becomes disgust, and the more extravagant it has been, the more powerful is the opposite bias. Upon this principle, we may account for that complete change in the means by which power and influence are sought from the people. Formerly, the only method of finding favor with the multitude, was to enlist heart and hand in supporting and extolling our glorious institutions; but he who would succeed in pursuit of the same object, at the present day, must find some real or imaginary imperfection, and by a torrent of ranting eloquence, display, on every occasion, his superior sagacity in detecting the errors of our fathers. Besides, the greater this blind confidence we have acquired in our institutions, the more negligent shall we be in support of them, and the more severe in exposing and decrying their imperfections. Already we begin to hear, on the one hand, the sneering taunt at the fickleness, inefficiency, and illiberality of our proceedings, and the high encomium upon aristocracy and its concomitant advantages, and on the other, the expression of envy towards rising wealth and power, and utter contempt towards law and all wholesome restraint. These floating insinuations are the seeds of future public sentiment, and unless counteracted by a salutary influence, the effect will be ruinous. It is true, we are an intelligent people, and by no means blind to our own immediate interests; but it is also indisputably certain, that the deliberate judgment and profound thought of our predecessors have been, in some measure, supplanted by a mere smattering of other men's ideas. Precocious demagogues and priests are taking the places of grave statesmen and a sound, revered clergy. It is an idea instilled into us in our childhood, and which we carry with us throughout our career, that the present is an age far more effulgent than any that has before dawned upon the world; and we therefore think ourselves warranted in laying aside all past experience, and forming our conclusions upon our own notions of expediency. The course of reasoning, which led to the establishment of the noble institutions and customs which have been handed down to us, is not at once comprehended, and we resolve immediately to demolish, and substitute the frail creations of our own fancy, which past experience and further reflection show to be ruinous. In short, we have enjoyed the blessings of our government just long enough to lose sight of the evils of others, and are just wise enough to detect the imperfections of our own system, without being able, from a deep sense of the injuries under which every other people groans, to appreciate its excellence. It becomes, then, every lover of his country, and, especially, him who, in the prime of youth, is looking forward to it as the scene of a happy life, with high hopes of honor and power, to beware how he lends his aid to alienate public sentiment from this parent of his present joys and future hopes, and to enlist heart and hand in support of a government which has certainly, for more than half a century, secured to this community a greater amount of happiness than was ever before enjoyed by any portion of the earth's population. The popular judgment will be sufficiently severe under the most favorable circumstances. When that is passed, and the people are satisfied from their own examination, that the regulations which govern them are the most perfect in existence, then, or at least not till then, may we esteem the crisis past, and our country safe.

SONNET.

'Tis beautiful to-day. There's not a cloud To mar this sweet serenity of sky: In Beauty's arms all nature seems to lie: Earth smiles, as though the Deity had bowed To wrap her form in loveliness, and crowd The air with spirits of the waking spring. How meet that man his gift of homage bring, With Nature praise, and be no longer proud! Oh, lovely day of rest! how sweetly thou With joys of Heaven canst fill the thirsting soul! As out from rocks the gushing fountains roll, So from the heart of flinty hardness, now Does burst, unbidden, the pure, fervent prayer, And, with the morning dew, ascend the viewless air.

FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY.

THE COFFEE CLUB.

No. 1.

Reader,

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.'

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' 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-- 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.

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

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.

The last of our coterie is called by mortals--no matter what; among the Gods his name is Il Tristo. His soft hair hangs about his face "unkempt" and tangled. His eye is faded, his cheek colorless. Across his uneasy forehead flits momently, from dark to light, each shade of passion.

"And o'er that fair, broad brow are wrought The intersected lines of thought-- Those furrows which the burning share Of sorrow plows untimely there."

Now his face is dark with some bitter remembrance--now softened by some tender thought--now lightened by some glorious purpose. Tristo is pure and passionate. But his thin, light frame is too weak for the agitations of his burning spirit. So far as I can learn, he has been from boyhood the child of the feelings--"chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies." He has lived in an artificial world--a world of poetry and romance. In spite of his good taste, his excitable feelings and craving wishes lead him to dwell upon fictions of wild and outrageous extravagance. This is not a world for the gentle or wayward in heart, and Tristo's plans and fancies are daily crossed and crushed. Indeed, I sometimes think that his heart-strings have been jarred by a terrible concussion, and will never vibrate more, save in tones of mournful music. When in society, he usually represses his moodiness, and his thoughts come forth with a fluent brightness, which is purified and enhanced by their melancholy tinge. In our company he is more frank and cheerful than elsewhere, and will, at times, by his eloquence of feeling, call forth our sympathies and excite our admiration. He never speaks heartlessly--his literary opinions, his views of society, are all colored by his feelings--and he will condemn a worthless publication, or espouse the cause of a favorite author, with as much earnestness as if he were a party in the case. His vehemence adds greatly to the life of our discussions, and his caustic, yet good-natured wit, to the merriment of our lighter moods.

"Why," said Nescio, "I think it has reached its maximum of excellence."

"An excellent maxim that remark of yours," said Apple, complacently, thinking he saw a handle for a pun.

"'Cease: no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man's nose.'

'I wouldn't give the peeling of an onion For all they wrote, from Fielding back to Bunyan.'

"Bulwer a poet," said Tristo--"have you read the Siamese Twins?" "Bulwer a wit," said Apple--"in all his novels, he has no more than ten puns to a volume, on the average." "Bulwer a philosopher," said Pulito--"Oh! shade of Locke!"

Ego.

THE FAIRIES' BOWER.

When the stars are watching high in Heaven, And silence has thrown, with a magical power, Her mystic spell o'er the face of even, Thou may'st not come to the Fairies' bower.

Though the star of thy fate shine lovely and bright, And smile like a seraph just loosed from its sphere, Yet visit not thou that bower by night, For the spirits of evil are hovering there.

Though the seraph smile, and the voice of Love, Should call thee forth to indulge its dream,-- Oh! go not there! though the moon from above, Should beckon thee forth with her quivering beam.

For the flowers that grow in that silent spot, With their lovely hues, are laden with tears, And the birds that sing in that Fairy grot, Will hasten away when the evening appears.

And the smile of Love will lose its light, And the voice of the lover will lose its tone,-- And the stars that lumine the gloom of night, Will cease to smile from their ruby throne.

And the star of thy fate will cease to shine,-- And the flowers will weep a dewy shower; And the smile of joy will desert its shrine, When thou strayest at eve in the Fairies' bower.

Then, go not thou to the Fairies' bower, When evening is drawing her curtains round; For the spirits that rule the midnight hour, Are tripping at eve on that haunted ground.

THE INFLUENCE OF MORAL FEELING UPON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.

We would remark, that the influence of moral feeling tends to heighten the pleasure which we derive from Eloquence and Poetry. The pleasure which flows from these sources belongs to the highest and purest order of intellectual enjoyments. They bear with them a voice that wakes the soul to intense interest, now throwing over its powers the inspiration of sublimity, and now floating around it in tones as mellow and gentle as the last whisper of a summer breeze. Who, as he has listened to the voice of the living speaker, and been borne along on the full tide of eloquence at the will of the moving spirit, has not felt his heart swell within him to a loftier expansion, and his bosom throb with the pulsations of a new and more glorious intelligence? Who, as his imagination has drank in the sweet and thrilling strains of the poet's lyre, and his own spirit has caught the glow of his burning aspirations, has not felt a yearning to soar above and beyond the cold, sluggish atmosphere of sense, and mingle in the fancied existence portrayed so winningly before him? There is something in the ideal but splendid creations of poetry, embodying in its images all that is sublime, and all that is beautiful in the world of thought and of nature, that must ever strike within us a kindred chord. It bids the dim and far off past roll back its tide of vanished years, and centuries of almost forgotten ages pass again, with their memorials, across the theatre of existence. Palmyra rises before us from her ruin of ages, and her long deserted streets are thronged once more by the congregated strangers from a thousand lands. Rome, too, shakes off the yoke of Goth and Vandal, and resumes her proud title of 'mistress of the world.' Again the lofty Capitol is reared on the Tarpeian rock, the long and splendid triumphal procession enters the gates of the temple of Jupiter, and Rome is once more the 'eternal city.' Then we turn toward the classic shores of Greece, and Athens, the 'mother of the arts,' opens her splendors before us. The stately Parthenon, sublime in its proportions and chastely beautiful in its Doric simplicity, still surmounts the summit of the Acropolis. We roam with Plato through the shades of Academia; we stray with Socrates along the banks of the Ilissus; we enter the crowded forum, and listen to the soul-thrilling eloquence of the 'prince of orators.' We need not waste words to prove, that to the man of sensibility, there is a rich repast of intellectual luxuries in such exercises of the imagination. But rich as it is, there is one thing which can bestow a still higher flavor. It is only when the orator rises in the kindling majesty of virtue, when the soul of a patriot lightens in the flashing eye, when the wrongs of the oppressed pour the flush of noble indignation over his brow, and a nation's voice is heard in the thunders of his eloquence, that we can know the full power of his appeals, and receive our most exquisite gratification. For by the very constitution of our mind, our deepest sympathies can be excited only when the holier and lovelier sensibilities of our being are awakened by the exhibition of moral beauty. There is something so commanding, so godlike, in this subservience of great talents to high and noble ends, that while the graces and the fire of the orator delight the fancy and the taste, all our better feelings are enlisted in the purity and exaltation of his purpose. Thus also with the poet--it is only when a spirit from above has breathed the inspiration over him, and his harp is tuned to the minstrelsy of Holiness,--when in the glories of antiquity, the ravages of time, and the mighty revolutions of empires, he leads us, with tender sublimity of feeling, to trace the wonder workings of that wisdom which 'sees the end from the beginning'--that the imagination revels in the fullness of its enjoyment.

COLUMBIA'S BANNER.

Bright banner of Columbia, A fragment of the sky, Torn down with all thy glitt'ring stars-- Angelic blazonry! Stream onward, like the fiery cloud That hung o'er Egypt's sea, Terror and darkness to the proud, A light to guide the free.

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