THE SWEET SINGER OF YALE.
But for true imagery his description of the dancer is supreme. Byron speaks of the "maid of the ever twinkling feet," but Byron never could have told about "the nervous movements and demonstrations which indicated the bewitching power of the music to which the Terphsichoreans glided across the floor below." The scene, we are told, "was one from fairy land," with "generous bowls of lemonade" scattered around, (could the ordinary mortal imagine such a fitting drink for fairies as lemonade?) while above this domain of fays hung the Yale crew's shell, which "looked down upon the people below, recalling the time when it had looked upon eelgrass and had felt sadder." Who could have thought of such a brilliant compliment to the young ladies of New Haven? Who would have thought they reminded one of "eel-grass?"
How cleverly does this writer dispel with a sweep of the pen all the arguments of the ministry against dancing. "If the Rev. Mr. Harris," he says, "who so grossly insulted all devotees of dancing at his church in this city last Sunday night, would lower himself enough to look down upon one such scene as this, he would at least be compelled to confess that the human form is capable of more poetry than can be found at the average gossipy tea drinks." And then with a grand burst of philosophical sentiment he exclaims, "And does a creating Divinity forbid his humanity's making the most of the powers he has given to it to make itself beautiful in form and happy? and movement?" No! we emphatically reply, no! A creating Divinity never forbade his humanity's making itself beautiful in form and happy, never forbade its making itself "movement!"
Such a grand poetic scene could not be viewed by the dancers without something giving way. In this case it was not, as with Uncle Josh, the "gallus," which burst, but it was a beam of sunshine "bursting" from so many fair faces. Whether the explosion hurt anyone or not, the News dosen't say. The temperature of the hall, the radiant faces of our fair sympathizers, the brilliancy of New Haven gas, the continuous maze impelled simply by the light music, and the bad words uttered when some unfortunate wight stumbled over a lady's train, - not one of these interesting and thrilling accompaniments of the ball go unmentioned.
In short, Yale has concealed in her bosom a poet whose fame should be heralded abroad. Where he came from we do not know, - poets, they say, are born, not made, but this poet, we think, must, like the semi-heroine of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," never have been born at all, but merely "growed." Where he is going to, can, perhaps, be easier told. He will write one more effusion, and, then - well, if he lived in Massachusetts, Danvers would then claim its own.