The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 4, June 1836)

In Short

This volume serves as a time capsule, preserving the earnest, often florid, and deeply philosophical musings of Yale students in 1836. Through a blend of essays, poetry, and fictional sketches, the contributors grapple with the nature of truth, the weight of history, and the anxieties of impending adulthood. It is a portrait of a generation caught between the rigid structures of classical education and the burgeoning influence of Romantic literature, providing a rare, candid glimpse into the minds of young men preparing to enter the public sphere.

The Story

The narrative arc of the issue is not one of a traditional plot, but rather a progression of thought, moving from abstract philosophical inquiry to the personal and emotive. It opens with a rigorous, if somewhat inconclusive, attempt to define "Truth," treating it as a foundational necessity that is nevertheless often sacrificed by men for the sake of reputation or comfort. This gravity quickly shifts into a series of domestic reflections, exemplified by a father’s adoring poem to his young son—a piece that contrasts the innocence of youth with the "dark world of sin and strife" that the boy will eventually face.

As the magazine unfolds, the tone shifts toward the literary and the critical. A review of old English prose writers advocates for a return to simple, "healthful" language, positioning itself against the perceived corruption of contemporary taste. This critique of the "reading public" sets the stage for a dramatic fiction piece, "The Outlaw and His Daughter," which centers on a fugitive living in the American wilderness. The story follows a classic romantic trajectory: the outlaw, haunted by his past and a sinister pursuer, finds his only solace in his daughter. Their seclusion is breached when a young, enthusiastic village student encounters the girl. The narrative culminates in a tragic confrontation: the father is captured and his daughter is left in a state of delirium, marking a somber end to their brief, idyllic, and forbidden connection.

Following this heavy drama, the magazine retreats into the whimsical and the self-reflective. A "Bovine Gentleman" ruminates on his own bachelor status, using the metaphor of a grazing cow to critique the "dollar-and-cent" preoccupations of his era. This lighter, self-deprecating tone lingers through a series of translations from the Greek Anthology and a debate between students—Apple, Tristo, Pulito, and Nescio—about the relative merits of novelists like Sterne and Bulwer. The issue concludes with a final note to correspondents, where the editors reject "loose" poetry and unfinished manuscripts, firmly closing the doors on their peers' failed efforts. The final impression is one of a closed circle, an intellectual fraternity defining itself against the distractions of the outside world, ending with a call to future students to continue the "strife and collision of mind" that characterizes their collegiate existence.

How It Unfolds

Defining the abstract The issue begins by attempting to pin down the elusive nature of truth, separating the "verbal statement" from the "reality of the thing." The editors acknowledge that this inquiry is too vast to conclude, leaving the reader to wrestle with the tension between individual belief and collective opinion.

The domestic ideal The focus shifts to the sanctity of the family hearth, where the innocence of a child provides a brief, fragile respite from the burdens of the adult world. This sentiment serves as a grounding force, reminding the reader of the tender emotions hidden beneath the students' academic bravado.

The literary polemic A transition to criticism marks a defense of "old English" prose, which the contributors hold up as a cure for the "frivolous" and "morbid" tastes of their contemporary era. This segment highlights the students’ desire to align themselves with the giants of the past rather than the popular writers of their own day.

The romantic tragedy A fictional narrative introduces a forbidden love between a local scholar and an outlaw’s daughter, set against the dark forests of New England. The story ends in a harsh, realistic arrest, underscoring the cruelty of justice and the fragility of private happiness.

The ruminative aftermath The tone turns inward with a humorous, self-styled "bovine" reflection on the life of an aging, sedentary bachelor. This provides a bridge to the final debates, where the students analyze the merits of popular literature and reaffirm their commitment to intellectual rigor.

The People

The magazine is populated by a group of earnest, aspirational young men who view themselves as the future guardians of culture. Tristo emerges as the most melancholic and introspective figure; he is keenly aware of the "shadowy maze" of student memory, viewing the passage of time as a series of milestones notched by death. His counterpart, Pulito, is a fiery critic who disdains the "infallible voice of the million" and passionately defends the literary masters of the past against the "tawdry tribe" of contemporary novelists. Apple serves as a counterweight to this gloom, providing a steady stream of puns and intellectual levity that temporarily lightens the mood of their gatherings. Elfred Clermont, the protagonist of the fiction, embodies the Romantic ideal—a student who finds more connection in the "rugged scenery of the mountains" than in the mundane reality of his village. Finally, the Outlaw stands as the tragic archetype of the man driven into the margins by political and moral strife; he is a figure defined by his fierce, singular devotion to his daughter, representing the protective impulse of the past failing to survive in the changing present.

In Its Own Voice

"Few are willing to oppose a fashionable error."

This observation, found in the opening essay on Truth, captures the cynicism the student-writers felt regarding the public's reluctance to pursue objective facts.

"I sometimes think I would rather give utterance to a brilliant error than a stupid truth, and, like Tully, espouse falsehood with a Plato, rather than be right with the rabble."

A contributor writing as a "Bovine Gentleman" expresses this preference for intellectual flair over the common consensus of his peers.

"The memory of a student is but a shadowy maze, where the forms, which, in prospect, were gilded with glory, and girded with magnificence, to his backward gaze, seem airy nothings."

Tristo reflects on the disillusionment that often comes when a student looks back on his youthful ambitions.

What It's Really About

At its core, this volume is an exploration of the transition from the idealism of youth to the pragmatism of adulthood. It asks how one can maintain intellectual integrity, aesthetic taste, and moral clarity in a world that prioritizes novelty, popular applause, and political power. The contributors are essentially testing their own voices, weighing the merits of ancient philosophers against modern novelists, and seeking a balance between a "healthful" devotion to truth and the inevitable compromises required by society. It is an argument for the necessity of "sober thought" in an age of superficiality, reflecting the anxieties of a generation that feels the immense weight of their future responsibilities.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the history of higher education or the evolution of American literary style will find this volume deeply compelling. It is not a polished work of professional literature; rather, it is raw, occasionally pretentious, and frequently overwrought, which is precisely its greatest strength. To read it is to experience the specific texture of 1836: the influence of the Greek classics, the obsession with romantic tropes, and the intense, almost desperate seriousness with which these young men approached their own self-cultivation.

The prose is often dense, laden with Latinate phrasing and the flowery, elevated vocabulary characteristic of the mid-19th century. A modern reader may struggle with the long, winding sentences and the occasional tendency toward melodrama in the fictional segments. However, there is a genuine, flickering vitality here—a sense that these students are not just writing for a grade, but are actively constructing their identities through their prose. The magazine is a reminder of a time when the "literary" was a primary identity for the student, not just an academic exercise. It leaves you with the haunting image of a young man watching his own life pass by, hoping that his words might endure even as he recognizes that the "figures are surrounded by bloom and greenness, but they are graven by the finger of Death."