The fashions of the present time date from the days of Louis XVI. and

when we come to treat of his reign, we shall see the passing away and

development of the old and new modes. Nor do they disappear alone, for

classes go with them. Having been rejected as a livery unworthy of men,

the beings who had glittered in them disappeared like shadows, either

because they had really been annihilated, or had been regenerated under

the new order of things. Among the classes which thus disappeared was

the _Morgues_, the gilded type of French folly, not the creature, but

the butt of the wit of Moliere; a compound of pride, insipidity and wit,

of politeness and impudence, of gallantry and impertinence, of

affectation and good manners. Not even comedy preserves them. Dandies

are eternal—for such were the _Muscadins_, the _Mervelleux_ and the

_Incroyables_, but the _Morgues_ are gone. With the Morgues disappeared

their younger brothers, the abbés and _mousquetaires_, and with their

estates the _intendants_.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

This noble songster, the pride of the American forest, is peculiar to

the New World. So greatly superior are its powers of melody to those of

any European bird, that long after the discovery of the western

continent, reports of its existence were treated as a mere fable, akin

to the other unnatural marvels with which an excited imagination peopled

our vast forests. And this skepticism will appear the more excusable

when we remember that few persons, who have never heard the

mocking-bird, have any sufficient conception of his powers of imitation,

the sweetness of his melody, or the wildness of his native tones. When

these are in full display, the forest resounds with a succession of

notes, as though from every warbler of the grove, so that the listener,

instead of believing that he hears only one bird, seems to be surrounded

with myriads. Nor is this power confined to imitations of song. With the

strains of the Thrush and Warbler, chime in the wail of the

Whippoor-will, the crowing of the cock, and the loud scream of the

eagle. The mewing of cats, the whistling of man, and the grating sounds

of brute matter, form variations to this singular chorus, blended and

linked together in so artful a manner as to surpass immeasurably every

performance of the kind in the whole range of animated creation. “With

the dawn of morning,” says Nuttall, “while yet the sun lingers below the

blushing horizon, our sublime songster in his native wilds, mounted on

the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his

admirable song, which, amid the multitude of notes from all the warbling

host, still rises pre-eminent, so that his solo is heard alone, and all

the rest of the musical choir appear employed in mere accompaniments to

this grand actor in the sublime opera of nature.” Nor is the power of

the Mocking-bird confined to mere imitation. His native tones are sweet,

bold and clear; these he blends with the borrowed music in such a manner

as to render the whole a complete chorus of song. While singing he

spreads his wings, elevates his head, and moves rapidly from one

position to another. Some observers have even fancied a regularity in

his motions, as though keeping time to his own music. Not unfrequently

he darts high into the air with a scream which at once silences every

warbler of the grove.

Writers on Ornithology have sometimes amused themselves by comparing the

powers of the Mocking-bird with those of the Nightingale. Barrington, a

distinguished British naturalist, who had heard the American bird,

declares him to be equal to the Nightingale in every respect, but thinks

the song spoiled by frequent mixture of disagreeable sounds. On this

opinion Wilson has the following remarks:

“If the Mocking-bird be fully equal to the song of the Nightingale, and,

as I can with confidence add, not only to that, but to the song of

almost every other bird, beside being capable of exactly imitating

various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are

unquestionably superior to those of the Nightingale, which possesses its

own native notes alone. Further, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr.

Barrington, that one reason of the Nightingale’s being more attended to

than others is, that it sings in the night; and if we believe, with

Shakspeare, that

The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,

When every goose is cackling, would be thought

No better a musician than a Wren,

what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a

multitude of songsters are straining their throats in melody, overpowers

all competition, and by the superiority of his voice, expression and

action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his

mortified rivals, when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of

the day, bear witness to his melody; and whenever in captivity, in a

foreign country, he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to

be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass?

The supposed degradation of his song by the introduction of extraneous

sounds and unexpected imitations, is in fact one of the chief

excellencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to

the strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer

with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if we believe in

the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a

part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking, in the

music of birds, must belong to that admirable songster, whose vocal

powers are equal to the whole compass of their whole strains.”

Confinement does not seem to have much effect upon the Mocking-bird’s

song. In the cage it is a most agreeable pet, seeming to exert itself to

give pleasure. Even at night, when all else is hushed to rest, it pours

forth its magical notes, which ring along the solitary haunts of man

with strange cadence, and as echoes of a more beautiful sphere. Its

chief pleasure consists in deceiving the animals of the household. “He

whistles for the dog,” says the author quoted above, “Cæsar starts up,

wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt

chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled

feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog,

the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow

with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his

master, fully and faithfully.” Those taken when wild are the best

singers; when raised by hand they should be kept perfectly clean, and at

first fed regularly every half hour, on milk thickened with Indian meal.

This should occasionally be mingled with cherries, strawberries,

cedar-berries, insects, especially spiders, and fine gravel. Meat, cut

very fine, is also given. Attempts, partially successful, have been made

to breed them in confinement.

The Mocking-bird is found in all our forests from the Great Lakes to

Mexico. It was once abundant in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, but

has been driven thence by the amateur sportsman. It delights, however,

in a warm climate, and especially one like that of Carolina, low, and

near the sea. From the middle of April to the middle of May embraces the

time of building, the season varying with the climate and nature of the

spring. The nest is mostly placed upon a solitary thorn or cedar-bush,

often close to the habitation of man, whose society this bird seems to

court. The eggs are four or five in number, blue, with large brown

spots. The female rears two broods in a season, during which time she is

closely guarded, fed and enlivened by the male. The courage of these

birds in defending their young is astonishing. During the period of

incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can approach the nest

without being attacked. Their great enemy is the black-snake. When the

male perceives this wily foe, he darts rapidly upon it, and to avoid its

bite, strikes rapidly about the head and eyes, until the enemy, blinded

and baffled, hastens to retreat. But his little antagonist pursues,

redoubling his efforts until the snake is killed. Then joining his mate,

the victor pours forth his loudest strains, seemingly in celebration of

his good fortune.

The Mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long, and thirteen broad. The

upper parts of the head, neck and back are a brownish ash color. The

wings and tail nearly black, tipped with white. The male is

distinguished by having the whole nine primaries of the wings of a clear

white, while but seven are of that color in the female, with whom also

the color inclines to dun. The tail is cuneiform; the legs and feet

strong and black; bill of the same color; the eye yellowish, inclining

to golden. His plumage, like that of the nightingale, is sober and

pleasing, and his figure neat, active and inspiriting.

A bird, called by Nuttall, the Mountain Mocking-bird, possesses

considerable powers of imitation. It is found on the vast table-lands of

Oregon and Mexico. It is smaller than its valuable relative, somewhat

different in shape and color, and possesses much power and sweetness of

tone. The eggs are emerald green. Little, however, is known of this

bird.

* * * * *

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

BY CLARA.

Here, on the threshold of the year, we feel

New thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view,

And fain would we endeavor thus to heal

The _Old Year’s_ disappointments in the _New_.

As ends the year, to us all time must end—

As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll—

Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mend

The BODY’S sorrows in the RISEN SOUL.

* * * * *

THE LOST NOTES.

BY MRS. HUGHS.

“You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my

good fellow,” said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy

chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligent-looking young

man near him; “I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very

unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist

a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was

serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had

only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from

him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of

a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the

legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you,

though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity

of borrowing.”

“It is a painful circumstance,” replied the other, “but happily it does

not arise from any fault of my own.”

“I never imagined it did,” returned the master of the house, “and

consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may

I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?”

“I came with the full intention of explaining it to you,” said the young

man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman

Horton. “Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg,” he continued, addressing a

lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at

this moment rose to quit the apartment. “I have nothing to say that I

would not wish you to hear.”

“I am sure you have not,” said Mr. Woodford, “so sit still, Lucy dear.”

Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton,

he added, “My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let

my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should

come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time

been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe

my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am

interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for,

though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest

in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what

you were going to say.”

“You are aware,” returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that

proved the subject to be a painful one to him, “that my poor father

frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so

embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have

been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother’s sake,

made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you

with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had

intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars,

still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at

any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year

transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been

regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal,

is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property.”

“Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?”

“Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and

found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me

any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before

proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with.”

“And what may that be?” asked the master of the house.

“That I would consent to become his son-in-law,” replied Norman, whilst

his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl.

“Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal,”

returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. “Maria Hinckley is a very sweet,

pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which,

it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune.”

“That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but,

unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way.”

“You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be.”

“I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I

am with her.”

“But may it not be worth while, my young friend,” said Mr. Woodford, in

a serious tone, “to consider whether this love which young people are so

apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am

myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner

with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much

real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be

wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind.”

“But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first,” said

Horton, laughing, “what is to be done then?”

“Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was

whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so

long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she

and Lucy have been such great friends ever since they became acquainted,

I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak

the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy?

You would do your best to aid Norman’s cause, would you not?” But Lucy,

who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her

father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he

paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to

give it.

“Let me assist you,” said Horton, but before he reached the place where

the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending

posture.

“Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face,

by stooping to search for that foolish needle,” said her father. And,

indeed, the poor girl’s face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully

defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking

beauties, were completely destroyed.

“You haven’t told us yet,” continued the father, as Lucy made a slight

effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to

curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, “whether you will give

Norman your vote and interest.”

“Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me

pleasure to be of service to him,” said the young girl, but in

consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her

voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely

audible.

“As soon as I have settled Hinckley’s affair, I believe I shall be

tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness,” said the young man;

“but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to

try to involve any other person in my fortunes.”

“We will soon give him his quietus,” returned Mr. Woodford; “Lucy, dear,

where did I put those notes?”

“I don’t know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn’t know you had

received them till I heard you mention it just now.”

“That’s strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either

do or say.”

“But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when

sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I

was away.”

“Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear—what room was I in. Sickness

has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing.”

“I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you

were in this room lying down.”

“Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of

spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first,

though where I don’t recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will

probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little

drawers, or—”

“I will look everywhere, papa,” interrupted Lucy, who had now recovered

her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room.

“It seems a strange thing,” said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion,

“that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact

is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are

concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to

such a subject, from things of so much higher importance.”

“There is one thing, however, in the business,” said Norman, “which

cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has

given of his honorable feelings.”

“Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don’t pretend to say

that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had

enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a

small portion for each when divided amongst my large family.”

Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The

notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various

errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless.

“I should not wonder, after all,” said the invalid, “if I merely put

them into my pocket till you came home;” and as he spoke he began to

draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right

ones were not there.

“Papa,” said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, “you gave me

some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with.”

“And what sort of paper was it?” asked the father.

“It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin.”

“Was it single or double?”

“It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces.”

“What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is

left, the money may still be obtained.”

“I threw it into the fire,” replied Lucy, in a mournful tone.

“Then I am afraid it is gone,” said the father “But keep up your

spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless

death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot

think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of

persecution.”

“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to

have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young

and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in

my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and

with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her

early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender

associations.”

“It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business

as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather

exhausted.”

Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie

down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind

keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she

dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness

and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her.

It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered

with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up

the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and

were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render

it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger

branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a

poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then

her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the

distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her

soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they

should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl,

had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears,

from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But

nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually

imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she

argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which

in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks.

“It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since

mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It

is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not

owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss

Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently

than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an

engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since

that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy

concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject

which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine

her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts

and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and

preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an

investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning,

it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally

evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use

whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the

same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of

being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She

was, however, routed from these interesting though painful reveries by

the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly

alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his

mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks.

“Go, Lucy,” said he, in a feeble voice, “and look in the private drawer

in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may

perhaps have put the notes in that drawer.”

“But, papa, you will be left alone,” objected the daughter.

“Send your aunt to me,” returned the invalid, “and look well, for I am

exceedingly anxious on poor Norman’s account.”

Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first,

however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there

was a something about her father’s look that seemed to say, they would

soon be an orphan family.

The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained

carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to

lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her

father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not

understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to

the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of

horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few

minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed

around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that

expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the

indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he

motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a

voice scarcely audible, “I know now, they are in the—” but the last

word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard.

“Never mind the notes, dear papa,” cried Lucy, in an agony of distress,

“only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance.”

But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in

the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid

her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a

shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if

to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer

made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips,

and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for

the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the

word “in” was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at

seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, “Don’t attempt to speak, dear

papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent.”

She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own

work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in

return. Whilst thus engaged the physician arrived, who, struck with the

extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in

so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which

had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had

burst its prison bars.

We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never

experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our

description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup, have no

need of any thing to give clearness to their perceptions. Suffice it,

then, to say, that after the first paroxysms of grief were over, Lucy’s

mind reverted to the state of her friends from whom she had received

many kind and sympathizing messages, and assurances that nothing but

severe sickness would have prevented Mrs. Horton from offering them in

person. After some consideration about how she should act, Lucy

determined it would only be right to inform Norman of her father’s

ineffectual efforts to serve him, and for this purpose she sent a

request that he would call upon her. He was not long obeying the

summons, and entered the room with a countenance little less agitated

than her own.

“I would not have waited to be told to come,” said he, in a tone of deep

feeling, “had I not been afraid of my visit being attributed to a

selfish motive.”

“I know well that selfishness forms no part of your character,” replied

Lucy, making a strong effort to speak with composure; “but though my

poor father was deprived of the pleasure of serving you, I was anxious

you should know that his very last efforts were made in your behalf.

Could I have made out his last words, you might still have had the

assistance you require.”

“I beg you will not trouble yourself any more about the matter,”

returned Horton, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. “The worst, I believe,

is now over, for the sheriff is already in possession of the place.”

“And your mother?” said Lucy, raising her soft eyes in anxious suspense

to his face.

“She has been, and is still ill, but I hope she is gradually becoming

more resigned. Transplantation, however, will, I fear, go hard with

her.”

“Take care, Norman,” said Lucy, earnestly, “that you bring not severe

repentance upon yourself by exposing her to it.”

“But what can I do? I have no alternative. I have left no stone unturned

to procure the money; and if a few months had been allowed me, I could

easily have obtained it, but this is just the time when everybody’s

money is locked up.”

“Mr. Hinckley offered you an alternative,” said Lucy, timidly.

“And is it possible that you can advise me to accept it, Lucy! Can you,

who know what it is to love, offer me such advice?”

“Who told you I knew how to love?” asked Lucy, in a tone of extreme

alarm.

“I scarcely know whether it is honorable in me to repeat what was told

me in confidence, but I had it from Emma Shirley that you had accepted

the addresses of Joseph Constant.”

“Then she must have been trying the extent of your credulity,” returned

the young girl, with a look of ingenuousness that could not for a moment

be doubted, “for she knew very well that he was an object of actual

dislike to me.”

“And yet he has visited you for a long time both regularly and

frequently,” said Horton, whilst his eyes began to sparkle, and the

cloud that had for months overspread his fine countenance was rapidly

dispersing.

“He has come to the house both regularly and frequently, it is true, but

never with my consent. Brother Henry, I scarcely know why, has

undertaken to espouse his cause, and to bring him here. Though

exceedingly annoyed at the circumstance, I could not bear to complain of

it to papa, for fear of agitating him, and therefore satisfied myself

with taking good care that my own sentiments were clearly understood.”

“Lucy,” said Horton, taking her hand tenderly, whilst a soul full of

happiness and affection beamed in his eyes, “as long as I believed your

heart to be disengaged, I used to flatter myself with the hope of one

day making it mine; and now that I find it is still at liberty, the same

fond hope is again swelling in my bosom and urging me to renew my

endeavors. Say, dearest Lucy, would the effort be altogether a hopeless

one?”

We cannot pretend to say what was Lucy’s reply, but we know the hand he

had taken still remained in his possession, when an hour or two had

elapsed and they began to think about the passage of time. Never once

during that period had the thought of old Hinckley and his inveterate

persecution entered their heads; or if for a moment the circumstance of

having but little to commence life with obtruded itself on their

recollection, it was met without fear or apprehension. They were both

young, vigorous and active, and though they might have to work a little

harder, their toil would be sweetened by the delightful idea that they

mutually labored for each other.

“It will still be a hard struggle for my poor mother,” said Horton,

after his full heart had so far found vent as to enable him to turn his

thoughts once more on his sorrowing parent; “but she loves us both too

well to grieve long when she sees us so happy.”

“And though,” said Lucy, “she will have to live in a much smaller house,

and to exchange her large and beautiful garden for a very circumscribed

one, she will still have the rich garden of nature to look at; and

beside, she will have another child to watch over her, and administer to

her comfort.”

The day of sale arrived, and it having been proposed by Lucy that Norman

should bring his mother to spend that day with her, that she might be

out of the way of the noise and bustle with which the house would

necessarily be surrounded. The old lady came at an early hour, and Lucy

exerted her every art to amuse her, and divert her mind from what was

going on at home. As she was still a great invalid, she was obliged to

recline almost constantly on the sofa, but she proved how much her

thoughts clung to the home that was about to be so cruelly taken away

from her, by the frequent questions she asked.

“Are the people beginning to gather yet, Lucy?” she asked, as she

observed Lucy’s face turned toward the window which commanded a view of

the place.

“Every thing seems very quiet yet,” returned her affectionate attendant.

“I see two, three, nine, seven wagons,” said Lucy’s little sister.

“And I see a great many men riding,” said a little fellow still younger

than she who had just spoken. Lucy, anxious to stop the children’s

remarks, enticed them away from the window by giving them a picture-book

to look at. Then turning to Mrs. Horton, she asked if she could not read

something to her to amuse her.

“Amusement is out of the question, dear,” said the invalid, “but you may

read something that will give me a useful lesson. Take the Bible, my

child, and read the sermon on the mount. I always feel myself a better

woman after I have read it.”

Lucy took her father’s large quarto Bible, and the children, leaving

their own pictures, came to stand by her as she did so, for it was

beautifully illustrated, and they were anxious to see the engravings,

which they had seldom a chance of doing, as it was too valuable a book

for them to be allowed to touch themselves. But just as Lucy was opening

it, the little boy, who happened to turn his head to the window,

exclaimed, “Look! look at that man standing up above all the rest, and

flourishing something in his hand!” Mrs. Horton heaved a deep sigh, and

turned her face toward the back of the sofa, whilst Lucy, making a

motion to the children to be silent, began to read. But just as she had

pronounced the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be

comforted,” a servant came to tell her she was wanted, and giving the

children permission (by way of keeping them quiet) to look at the

pictures whilst she was absent, she left the room. She was not gone many

minutes, but when she came back she found that they had been disputing

which should turn over the leaves, and in the struggle they had let the

ponderous volume fall on the floor, where it still lay, with the leaves

doubled in all directions. Mortified to see a book that her father had

always forbidden the children to touch so abused, she ran to lift it up,

and as she did so, two pieces of paper fell from between some of the

leaves. But what was her surprise and delight, on looking at them, to

see they were the two lost notes. Uttering a scream of delight, she ran

out of the room, without even stopping to tell Mrs. Horton what she had

found, from the fear that the auctioneer’s hammer might fall before she

got within hearing. Camilla herself could scarcely have flown more

rapidly across the intermediate fields, and just at the moment that the

hammer was descending, evidently for the last time, she contrived to

make her cry of “stop! stop!” heard, and the auctioneer’s hand was

instantly arrested. The next moment Norman was at her side. The rest may

be easily imagined. There is none, we presume, who will not rejoice at

the defeat of Norman’s ungenerous persecutor; nor is there a heart so

cold as not to sympathize with the invalid mother at finding she was

still to remain in the home endeared to her by so many tender

reminiscences, or with the young lovers, at the happy prospect that was

opened out before them by the recovery of the lost notes.

* * * * *

AN HOUR AMONG THE DEAD.

(WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY.)

BY J. BEAUCHAMP JONES.

Alone, withdrawn from all the thoughtless throng,

I seek in solitude a peaceful hour,

Nor deem that others who are gay are wrong,

If midst multipled cares they have such power.

But I would commune with my heavy heart

Beneath the foliage of this lonely bower;

Perchance a soothing vision here may start,

Or at my feet may rise some tender flower,

Refreshing to the wounded spirit’s thirst,

Which for the moment I may call my own,

Unlike the hopes and buds that gladdened first,

And paled and withered ’neath the world’s rude frown.

But hope seems vain, for round me sleep the dead,

Who quaffed their pleasures, and at last laid down,

While all the aims and sweets of life have fled,

And twining grass is now their mournful crown.

Yet there is something soothing in the air;

The thrush sings softly as it flits along;

The towering trees shut out the sun’s bold glare,

And round my temples breathes the wind’s low song:

A katy-did chirps on a marble urn,

The distant doves their plaintive moans prolong,

And sweet perfumes arise where’er I turn,

To woo a wand’rer from a world of wrong.

And why should one look further for a grave,

And seek vain pomps and plaudits ere he die?

Earth’s gold is venom, each great king a slave

To some vile passion, and enjoyments fly

We know not whither, but they ne’er return;

And memory brings but a tear or sigh

For moments lost, for bliss we once could spurn,

Bright dreams of youth, or friends that buried lie.

Under yon willow bending near the brook,

Where crystal waters glide the shrubs among—

Where a lone mortal, with abstracted look,

Is brooding o’er some grief his heart hath stung

Methinks that one might bid a last farewell,

To all the foes that here his bosom wrung,

And like the martyr who, forgiving, fell,

Ask no sad requiem o’er his ashes sung.

O, in the final and oblivious rest,

I would recline beneath such hallowed sod,

Where flowers sweet might bloom above my breast,

No longer mark for Slander’s pointed rod!

And yet a day must come when e’en the dead

Will bid adieu to the dark valley’s clod,

And all the just, with spotless pinions spread,

Shall soar above to their effulgent God!

* * * * *

GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

* * * * *

BY E. L. BULWER.

The soul really grand is only tested in its errors. As we know the true

might of the intellect by the rich resources and patient strength with

which it redeems a failure, so do we prove the elevation of the soul by

its courageous return into light—its instinctive rebound into higher

air—after some error that has darked its vision and soiled its plumes.

* * * * *

BY G. H. BOKER.

You tread on dangerous ground,

A mental bog that quakes beneath your feet.

These words would seem to come from humbleness,

And low opinion of yourself and man,

Yet are engendered by the rankest pride,

Arrayed in robes of meek humility—

Stop! the next step is infidelity!

Contempt for man begets contempt for God;

He who hates man, must scorn the source of man,

And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker.

The next step, doubt—and then comes unbelief;

Last, you raise man above all else beside,

And make him chiefest in the universe.

So, from a self-contempt grows impious pride,

Which swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant,

And gives the puffed up atom fancied sway.

God is! Philosophy here ends her flight!

This is the height and term of human reason;

A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool,

Draws to its centre all things, swallows all.

How can you know God’s nature to Himself?

How learn His purpose in creating man?

Enough for you to know that here you are—

A thought of God made manifest on earth.

Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart,

Faint, but oracular, it whispers there;

Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him.

* * * * *

BY MRS. D. ELLEN GODMAN.

I never see a fairy girl, with health’s glow upon her cheek, and love’s

light in her beaming eye; I never hear her silvery laugh, and listen to

the echo of her sweet voice, but I think of the darkness of coming

years. I have seen so many a beautiful thing wither and fall to the

grave; I have watched the overthrow of so many earthly schemes, and

noted the death of so many earthly hopes, that I tremble for the

trusting, warm heart, which I know must ere long bleed over some faded

dream or withered idol. I have stood by the low, calm resting-place of

age, where the aged man, with his snowy locks, was sweetly sleeping; but

I shed no tear over his fate. For must it not be pleasant, after a long

life of care and toil, and it may be of suffering, to lie down at last

in the grave, to bid adieu to a changing world, and welcome the joys of

everlasting life? But my tears have watered the fresh sod beneath which

slumbered the young, the gay, the beautiful. I have wept, Heaven knows

how bitterly, over the blighting of youthful loveliness—over the faded

wreath of earthly love. But amid all the gloom, all the decay around,

there comes a soft, sweet whisper—a low, gentle breathing, as from an

angel’s lips, soothing the heart, and pouring into the bleeding bosom

the balm of consolation.

* * * * *

The following beautiful poem is taken from a volume recently published

in London, entitled, “Poems by a Sempstress,” and has never been

reprinted in this country. It possesses great merits, and if the

authorship be authentic, is certainly a remarkable production.

THE DREAMER.

Not in the laughing bowers,

Where, by green twining arms, a pleasant shade,

A summer-noon is made;

And where swift-footed hours

Steal the rich breath of the enamored flowers;

Dream I—nor where the golden glories be,

At sunset paving o’er the flowing sea,

And to pure eyes the faculty is giv’n

To trace the smooth ascent from earth to heaven.

Not on the couch of ease,

With all appliances of joys at hand;

Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command,

Viands that might a god-like palate please,

And music’s soul-creative ecstasies;

Dream I—nor gloating o’er a wide estate,

Till the full, self-complacent heart, elate,

Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth,

Sighs for an immortality on earth:

But where the incessant din

Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats,

Join their unmingling notes;

While the long summer day is pouring in,

Till day is done, and darkness doth begin;

Dream I—or in the corner where I lie,

On winter nights, just covered from the sky;

Such is my fate, and barren as it seem,

Yet, thou blind soulless scorner! yet, I dream.

And, yet, I dream—

Dream what, were man more just, I might have been!

How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene,

Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien,

The conscious crown to Nature’s blissful scene;

In just and equal brotherhood to glean,

With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen:

Such is my dream.

And, yet, I dream—

I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye,

Bright with the lustre of integrity,

In unappealing wretchedness on high,

And the last rage of destiny defy;

Resolved, alone to live—alone to die,

Nor swell the tide of human misery.

And, yet, I dream—

Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come;

My last, my first, my only welcome home!

Rest, unbeheld since life’s beginning stage,

Sole remnant of my glorious heritage

Unalienable, I shall find thee yet,

And in thy soft embrace, the past forget!

Thus do I dream.

* * * * *

BY JOHN KEATS.

MILTON AND WORDSWORTH.

From “Life and Literary Remains of Keats,” by R. M. Milnes.

With your patience, I will return to Wordsworth—whether or no he has an

extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur—whether he is an eagle in

his nest or on the wing; and, to be more explicit, and to show you how

tall I stand by the giant, I will put down a simile of human life, as

far as I now perceive it; that is, to the point to which I say we both

have arrived at. Well, I compare human life to a large mansion of many

apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest

being as yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the infant or

thoughtless chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think. We

remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the second

chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to

hasten to it, but are, at length, imperceptibly impelled by the

awakening of the thinking principle within us. We no sooner get into the

second chamber, which I shall call the chamber of maiden-thought, than

we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing

but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight.

However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is that

tremendous one of sharpening one’s vision into the heart and nature of

man, of convincing one’s nerves that the world is full of misery and

heart-break, pain, sickness, and oppression; whereby this chamber of

maiden-thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same time, on all

sides of it, many doors are set open—but all dark—all leading to dark

passages. We see not the balance of good and evil; we are in a mist, we

are in that state, we feel the “Burden of the Mystery.” To this point

was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive, when he wrote “Tintern

Abbey,” and it seems to me that his genius is explorative of those dark

passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall explore them.

He is a genius and superior [to] us, in so far as he can, more than we,

make discoveries and shed a light in them. Here I must think Wordsworth

is deeper than Milton, though I think it has depended more upon the

general and gregarious advance of intellect than individual greatness of

mind. From the “Paradise Lost,” and the other works of Milton, I hope it

is not too presuming, even between ourselves, to say, that his

philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not

much advanced in years. In his time, Englishmen were just emancipated

from a great superstition, and men had got hold of certain points and

resting-places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and

too much opposed by the rest of Europe, not to be thought ethereal and

authentically divine. Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and

chastity, in “Comus,” just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred

social disgraces? Who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good

and evil in his “Paradise Lost,” when just free from the inquisition and

burning in Smithfield? The Reformation produced such immediate and great

benefits, that Protestantism was considered under the immediate eye of

heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and superstitions then, as it were,

regenerated, constituted those resting-places and seeming sure points of

reasoning. From what I have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have

thought in the sequel, appears to have been content with these by his

writings. He did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth has done;

yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as great powers as Wordsworth.

What is then to be inferred? Oh! many things: it proves there is really

a grand march of intellect; it proves that a mighty Providence subdues

the mightiest minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in

human knowledge or religion.

* * * * *

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON.”

The woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped, are those that admit

least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow-mockeries of

comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble

of sympathizing with others, the one I dislike the most is the

exhortation not to grieve over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do

you think, if I could help it, I would sit still, content to mourn? Do

you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I

mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me

for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me

nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to

send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient. But mock me

not, or any other mourner, with the speech, “Do not grieve, for it

cannot be helped. It is past remedy.”

* * * * *

What a single word can do!

Thrilling all the heart-strings through,

Calling forth fond memories,

Raining round hope’s melodies,

Steeping all in one bright hue—

What a single word can do!

What a single word can do!

Making life seem all untrue,

Driving joy and hope away,

Leaving not one cheering ray,

Blighting every flower that grew—

What a single word can do!

* * * * *

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

There are certain classes of passions and vices which people often find

an excuse for indulging by persuading themselves that they are

invariably connected with some great or noble feeling. Now, of this

character is _revenge_, which men are apt to fancy must be the offspring

of a generous and vehement heart, and a fine, determined, and sensitive

mind. But this is a mistake. Revenge, in the abstract, is merely a

prolongation throughout a greater space of time, of that base

selfishness which leads us to feel a momentary impulse to strike any

thing that hurts or pains us either mentally or corporeally; and the

more brutal, and animal, and beast-like be the character of the person,

the greater will be his disposition to revenge. But we must speak one

moment upon its modifications. Revenge always proceeds either from a

sense of real injury, or a feeling of wounded vanity. It seldom,

however, arises from any real injury; and when it does, it would (if

possible to justify it at all,) be more justifiable; but in this

modification, a corrective is often found in the great mover of man’s

heart, and vanity itself whispers, it will seem nobler and more generous

to forgive. The more ordinary species of revenge, however, and the more

filthy, is that which proceeds from wounded vanity—when our pride or

our conceit has been greatly hurt—not alone in the eyes of the world,

but in our own eyes—when the little internal idol that we have set up

to worship in our hearts, has been pulled down from the throne of our

idolatry, and we have been painfully shown that it is nothing but a

thing of gilt wood. Then, indeed, revenge, supported by the great mover

of man’s heart, instead of being corrected by it, is insatiable and

everlasting. But, in all cases, instead of being connected with any

great quality, it is the fruit of a narrow mind, and a vain, selfish

heart.

* * * * *

Oh, if people would but take as much pains to do good as they take to do

evil—if even the well-disposed were as zealous in beneficence, as the

wicked are energetic in wrong—what a pleasant little clod this earth of

ours would be for us human crickets to go chirping about from morning

till night.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems. By John G. Whittier. Illustrated by Hammott Billings.

Boston: B. B. Mussey & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is a beautiful and highly decorated volume, splendidly bound, and

well printed. It is illustrated with engravings after original designs

by H. Billings, a Boston artist of great and peculiar merit, whose fine

and fertile genius we should like to see oftener employed in the

illustration of the poets.

Whittier is a positive force in the community, and has popularity as

well as reputation. As a poet of sentiment and imagination he is known

wherever American literature is read, and has been recognized as an

originality by criticism. But even if the critics had denounced, it

would have made little difference with his popularity, for his burning

lyrics have been sung and declaimed by thousands who know nothing and

care nothing for questions relating to style and rhythm. A man with so

grand and large a heart—a heart that instinctively runs out in sympathy

with his fellow men, must necessarily exercise influence. But this

sensibility, though an important and noble element in Whittier’s genius,

occasionally does more than its portion of the work of production.

Passion, of itself, is not a high peculiarity of a poet, but impassioned

imagination is, perhaps, the highest. Now Whittier has passion and has

imagination, but they are not always combined. Sensibility is only

valuable as it gives force and fire to thought, and the grandest poems

in the present collection are those in which conceptions are penetrated

with emotions, and the least valuable are those in which emotions get

the start of conceptions and roll out on their own account. The reader

of the present volume, however, will find a class of poems in it

essentially different from those which are intellectually vehement or

passionately vehement—a class which are pure utterances of the author’s

soul in its most contemplative moods. These are exquisitely tender and

beautiful, giving evidence of a mind which to all lovely objects in the

material world can

“——Add the gleam,

The light that never was on sea or land.

The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

No one can read the present volume without being struck with the vigor

and variety of the author’s mind, the breadth and intensity of his

sympathies, and the true manliness of his character. The success of such

a work is certain.

* * * * *

_Remarks on the Science of History; Followed by an A Priori

Autobiography. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most original and striking books ever published in

the United States, and if it were not marred by some needless

obscurities in the preface and notes, would be likely to obtain a

popularity commensurate with its merits. It evinces a mind of great

power in the region of pure thought, and of great acquisitions in

metaphysical science. The leading object of the volume is to present

universal history under the form of biography, and its hero is a person

who lives the life of the race. It is assumed that he who thoroughly

understands the present epoch must have reproduced, and lived through,

in his private experience, all the religions, dispensations and

civilizations which preceded it; and accordingly the author supposes the

case of a man whose mind, in its development, passes through all the

leading systems of philosophy which have successively appeared in the

world, and lives them in thought as in different ages they have been

lived in action. His hero accordingly lives and outlives sensuality,

diabolism, atheism, deism, pantheism, Platonism, necessitarianism,

transcendentalism, until he arrives at the belief of a living God and a

Christian dispensation. The mental moods as well as the opinions of

these different systems are represented, and an almost audacious

expression given to some of them. Though the work is deficient somewhat

in artistical as distinguished from logical completeness, and is too

condensed in passages where expansion would have aided the reader, no

person who avoids the notes and adheres to the autobiography, can fail

to notice the clearness as well as the depth and force of mind it

evinces. We are aware of no other book in which so much knowledge of

mental philosophy is conveyed in so small a space. The exposition of

Plato’s theory of Ideas—the stringent logic applied to the doctrine of

necessity—the keenness with which the weak points of atheism are

detected, and the remorseless analysis with which they are probed, and

the masterly power of impassioned argumentation, fierce, rapid and

close, with which the subject of the Will is cleared from its

obscurities, all indicate a mind of no common order. The author is

evidently a man destined to leave his mark on the philosophical

literature of the country. In the present volume there are important and

original ideas which will sooner or later become influential.

* * * * *

_Remarks on the Past and its Legacies to American Society. By J.

D. Nourse. Louisville: Morton & Griswold. 1 vol. 12mo._

Those of our readers who have any taste for the philosophy of history,

and who are desirous to see how an American writer can handle the

problems which have tasked the acutest and most comprehensive European

intellects, had better procure this work. It is written in a style of

much energy, beauty and clearness, and is the result of forcible and

patient thinking on a wide basis of historical facts and principles. The

author is a Kentuckian and a scholar in the true sense. Although the

book evidences a familiarity with the productions of others in a similar

department of letters, it is still original as well as powerful. There

are sentences in it which deserve to pass into maxims; and through the

whole volume none can fail to observe the steady and almost triumphant

march of an independent and forcible intellect. We do not know how the

work has succeeded at the west, but if it has failed to attract notice

there, it shows that Kentucky is not so ready to recognize marked

ability in letters as in politics. The author, from his position as an

American, really holds an advantage over his European rivals; and the

felicity and comprehensiveness of his grasp of some great principles,

and the power with which he wields them, are in a considerable degree

referable to his freedom from many prejudices which beset the largest

minds abroad. This volume ought to give Mr. Nourse a name, and we trust

it will have that large circulation which its importance and usefulness

so richly merit.

* * * * *

_Romance of Yachting. By Joseph C. Hart. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a sprightly book, written in a dashing and defiant style,

bristling with paradox and sparkling with whimsicalities. The

peculiarity of the book consists in its dogmatism, and like all

dogmatists the author gives as confident expression to the extravagances

of his caprice as to the deductions of his understanding. Many topics

are discussed which the title of the book would never suggest. Such are

the remarks on the Puritans, Shakspeare, and the Moors in Spain. With

regard to the first, the author chimes in with the opponents of the

Puritans, and administers twenty lashes to “New England Conceit.” We do

not know but that our Eastern friends have dilated a little too much on

their ancestors, and been too prone to consider every thing excellent as

dating from the Puritans, but certainly the style in which our New York

brethren are now bragging about their progenitors, promises to outshine

in pretension and impertinence every thing of the kind we have had in

Massachusetts or Virginia. Mr. Hart, especially, fairly crows a note

higher than any antiquarian chanticleer of ancestry it has ever been our

fortune to meet in literature. There is a long passage in the book on

Shakspeare, in which the author attempts to prove that in the plays

published under Shakspeare’s name, there is little property belonging to

him but the rant and obscenity. If Mr. Hart means his dissertation on

this topic as badinage, it is rather tedious joking; and if he is in

earnest, he shows a strange ignorance of facts and arguments which are

as familiar to every student of English letters as his alphabet.

Seriously, to combat such a clumsy specimen of irony would only turn the

laugh against the critic, and no honor could possibly be gained in

proving that the sun shines, or that “eggs is eggs.”

Apart from some extravagances of the kind we have noticed, the book is a

grand and exhilarating one, and cannot fail to prove interesting to

almost all classes of readers. To seamen, and to all who go out upon the

sea in ships or yachts, it is an invaluable companion. The vigor,

elasticity and decision of the style are in fine harmony with the frank,

cordial, and somewhat chivalric nature of the author.

* * * * *

_The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. New York:

Harper & Brothers._

We believe that this novel was published before Vanity Fair, and it

certainly cannot compare with that brilliant work in incident or

characterization; but it is still well worthy a diligent reading. It

relates principally to that pinchbeck class of English swells, known as

“gents,” and represents English society, as seen through the medium of a

cockney’s mind. Mr. Sam Titmarsh, the worthy autobiographer, is a vain

but innocent gent, and tells his story with delicious simplicity, and

occasionally with much pathos. His little wife is a gem. The scene in

which she obtains the office of nurse to Lady Tiptoff’s child, is

exquisitely natural and pathetic. Every reader is inclined to echo Mr.

Yellowplush’s opinion, even as expressed in his original orthography.

“You see, Tit, my boy,” he remarks to the happy husband, “I’m a

oonnyshure, and up to enough; and if ever I see a lady in my life, Mrs.

Titmarsh is one. I can’t be fimiliar with her as I am with you. There’s

a somethink in her, a jennysquaw, that haws me, sir.”

* * * * *

_The Forgery; a Tale. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper &

Brothers._

It is a common charge against critics that they do not read the books

they review. We acknowledge the charge in the case of Mr. James’s latest

novel, with a feeling akin to exultation. We have read some twenty of

his romances, more to verify an opinion than to gratify a taste, and

certainly the man is to be praised for doing so large an amount of

business on so small a capital. Though his mind is exceedingly limited

in its range, he has contrived to fill more space with his books than

the most comprehensive and creative of intellects would be justified in

occupying. His success must be mortifying to all novelists who really

possess original power, and who consider that a new character is

something else than an old one with a new name. If Mr. James possessed

sufficient force to stamp any character, incident or description, on the

imagination, he would miserably fail in the application of his science

of repetition and philosophy of dilution. His salvation from popular

martyrdom is owing to the very feebleness of the impression he makes on

the popular mind.

* * * * *

_Moneypenny; or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present

Day. Illustrated by Darley. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1

vol._

This book has passed to a second edition, and promises to take a high

rank among American romances. It is so altogether above the general run

of novels published in a cheap form, that it is important for the public

to understand that though in yellow covers, it has none of the nonsense,

stupidity, and ribaldry commonly associated with yellow-covered

literature. The author not only understands practical life practically,

but he is a scholar and a man of original power. The work is exceedingly

interesting, evinces a strong grasp of character, is well written, and

while it deserves and will reward the attention of the more tasteful

class of readers, it will tend to give a more important, because more

numerous and sensitive class, a higher notion of the requirements of

romance. We cordially wish the author success.

* * * * *

_Model Men, Women and Children. Modeled by Horace Mayhew. New

York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This little volume is crammed with shrewd and diverting satire, and

illustrated by appropriate cuts. The series originally appeared in

Punch. The author evidently understands all the fooleries and deviltries

as well as most of the humanities of practical life; and he has

commented upon them in a style which is universally appreciable. There

is a sort of percussion-cap explosion of wit and satire which keeps

attention constantly awake. The book, apart from its brilliancy and

readableness, is a good medicine for “snobism” of all sorts.

* * * * *

_Greyslaer; or a Romance of the Mohawk. By Charles Penno

Hoffman. Fourth Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.

12mo._

The sturdiest champion of literary nationality must concede to Mr.

Hoffman the merit of being an American writer. He knows the country, is

familiar with its scenery, sympathises with the events of its history,

and understands its people, aboriginal and imported. The present novel,

which has now reached its fourth edition—an honor enjoyed by few

fictions—is a pregnant illustration of the author’s thorough

nationality. He is an American without being an Americanism. We have not

the least doubt that this edition of Greyslaer will receive a cordial

welcome from all who are capable of appreciating the grand and

chivalrous spirit which breathes through and animates the fine talents

and large acquirements of the author.

* * * * *

_Mirror of Nature: A Book of Instruction and Entertainment ,

Translated from the German of G. H. Schubert, by William H.

Furness, pp. 497. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._

Here is a good book, full of practical instruction, and of information

that makes other knowledge practical. A German writer, a good man, has

brought a well-stored mind to the task of preparing a volume that shall

give the great authors on natural study, without the minuteness of a

class-book, or the elaborate development of a thorough treatise. He has

opened up the beautiful operations of Nature and her works, and has not

neglected to recognize the soul as the antecedent of the body. So that

while one is studying about the mighty gatherings of mineral wealth, the

wonderful effects of chemical operations, and the instincts of animal

life, he is constantly kept above his theme by the declared truth of his

superiority to all these, in the possession of an immortal soul. A

Christian American has given the work in an English form—good, pure,

simple, expressive English—no Germanisms to offend the ear—and yet an

occasional adaptation of a German mode of expressing thoughts shows the

intimacy of the translator with the original, and his power to select

the most expressive forms.

In this volume man is considered, and his power of mental and physical

existence developed. The outreaching of the human mind is regarded as

worthy of consideration, and lessons of usefulness derived therefrom.

The volume before us is admirably suited to the classes of our public

schools and to the general reader—and when furnished as it will be with

a set of questions suited to the text, it will be a handbook for the

classes, of immense usefulness.

* * * * *

_Poems. By Charles G. Eastman. Montpelier: Eastman & Danforth. 1

vol. 18mo._

This volume is a collection of songs and short poems from the pen of one

of the ablest political editors in Vermont. The book shows that the

author’s heart is in what is called the right place, in spite of the

stir and fret of politics. The characteristic of the volume is

simplicity in the expression of emotion. There is no parade of ornament,

and very little fanciful decoration, but the author contrives still to

express a variety of moods in a most genuine way. The verse has a spring

and elastic vigor in its movement, which continually suggests the notion

of impromptu composition. The finest poem in the volume is the first,

entitled “The Picture,” and certainly no poet could begin a collection

with a piece more calculated to propitiate the reader, and make him look

lovingly on what follows.

* * * * *

_Foot-Prints. By R. H. Stoddard._

A copy of this neat little volume has been laid upon our table, and we

have read it with great pleasure. The poems it contains are, generally,

good. Some of them are marked with great felicity of thought and power

of expression. Mr. Stoddard is familiar to the readers of “Graham’s

Magazine,” as one of the contributors to its pages, and we have now on

hand some of his poetical articles which we design publishing in due

order. His contributions are favorite ones with our readers, who, if

they wish to have a collection of the author’s writings, cannot do a

better thing than obtain from the publishers, or at any of the principal

bookstores, a copy of “Foot-Prints.”

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE MIRROR OF LIFE.—We have caused to be prepared, as one of the

embellishments of our Magazine for the present mouth, a picture entitled

“The Mirror of Life.” As a picture, we think it good, excellent indeed,

artistically considered; and the face of the female, the mother, nay,

the whole form so far as visible, may be considered as beautiful. We

had, in truth, some stronger terms to use with regard to this figure,

but we forbear them now, and refer our male readers to the picture

itself, to say whether they have seen any thing more handsome, more

really beautiful, than that for a long time. And to the ladies we appeal

with equal confidence, whether any one of them has seen so beautiful a

representation of the female face and form for years—excepting only

that which she sees reflected from her own mirror.

As for the little boy, we will confess, that though he has grown more

comely under the burin of Mr. Tucker, we do not mean to claim any

particular credit for his beauty; the truth is, the child looks like his

father.

But the lesson of the picture is what concerns us. The _prima facia_

evidence of this picture is against the character of the mother for

proper discipline; she has given her child a mirror for a plaything, a

hammer would complete the picture and the mirror. But that would be to

regard the representation physically. The child is looking into the

mirror with earnestness. Do our readers mark the Johnsonian cast of the

little philosopher’s head? Do they see how he has set his eyes and

mouth, as if he would see and taste what of life lies before him. And

with no less intensity does the mother gaze into the mirroring eyes of

her child; and as he gathers from the glass in front of him the shadows

which coming events cast before them, she collects the facts from his

eyes, and is wrapt into the future, not of herself, but of her child.

What would one give to learn that future? to gaze into the mirror of

life, and discover its terrible lessons in advance! Could we prevent

them by learning?—Alas! no—if we could, we could not learn. Can we

look into the future and see what _is_ to take place, and then by

efforts prevent the occurrence? If we could prevent that which we saw,

how could we see it?

But the little fellow is peering down the vista of time, and he is

seeing care and anxiety dogging his heels; he is looking at the

antagonistic movements of his life, and wondering how life can _be_, and

_be_ thus opposed. He is seeing his future self, bowing down to the

object of affection, and he is hearing _her_ calculations of the

advantages which his offer had over that of another; and his young heart

sickens at the mercenary selfishness of the idea.

But if the mirror reflects or prefigures truly, his own _heart_ had made

the same calculations before it was offered. And this is the common

experience of life. Men pause in the midst of their business or their

pleasure, and begin to think about marriage; they are reminded of this

by the movements of others, or the customs of their kind. Do they look

about and see where they can bestow the most of benefit, or confer the

greatest amount of good? Do they say, “I have wealth and position, here

is a lovely female, poor and humble, the ascentive power of my

possessions will take _her_ up?” Or do they set down and make the

calculations as to the amount of personal benefits which they would

derive from the match?

Ninety-nine times in the hundred the calculations upon a wife and her

uses, are as carefully and as selfishly made by man, as are those upon

the purchase of real estate, or stock for a stable or a farm. And we do

not mean to say that on the whole marriages resulting from such

calculations are not productive of as much _content_ as those which seem

to be made with all the disinterestedness which novelists ascribe to

their favorite heroes and heroines.

Well, when the calculation is complete, the gentleman hastens off and

_proposes_ to the lady; if the female is found to pause upon the

proposal, and to ask herself, or to ask some one who knows, what are the

means which this lover possesses to make her happier than she is now, or

as happy as twenty other young men who are ready (when they have

finished _their_ calculations) to make the same offer; if she pause thus

and inquire, she is set down as a cold-hearted, selfish, intereste girl,

with no force of affection, with no ideas of a married life beyond the

bargaining of the shopman.

Yet if two months _after_ marriage that same woman should be found

holding such discourse with herself about any of the affairs of life in

which she or her husband may have an interest, the whole world would

pronounce her a woman of sound principles, of good common sense, and a

pattern of wives. Yet, in the transaction which of all others most

concerns her, she must not urge advantages, must not calculate the

probable chances, must shut her eyes, and leap into a gulf which can

never restore her to the situation which she left. Perhaps some of our

young female readers will look over the shoulder of the child, and see

what the mirror says about such parts of life.

Doubtless the mirror of life furnishes much of pleasure, much of high

distinction to the young gazer into its vaticinating depths; for what

child of such a mother ever lived long without desirable distinction?

All that we have of value in our character, and even in our later

condition, seems to spring from our mother. Wealth and consequent

position may be derived from the father, but unless the gentle

monitions, the constant watchfulness, the careful mind-moulding and

character-forming devotion of the mother prepare the child to retain and

exalt his position and augment his wealth, the legacy from the father

will waste away; wealth will be dissipated and position lost in the

early encounters of the youth with the world. But from infancy to

adolescence, from youth to manhood, and onward to age, the legacy of the

mother has continual increase; the beauties of mind which she imparted

augment with development, and the lofty lessons of virtue which she

gave, comes in man’s intercourse to be the rule of his conduct, and

means of his distinction.

Is it not probable that the mother is now giving one of her lessons to

the child, imparting some instruction which shall hereafter be fruitful

of good?

It does not seem that the heavenly look which rests upon her face is the

consequence of a mother’s love for the fame and fortunes of her child.

She is just entertaining the bright idea of the immortality of her son.

She is looking deep into his heart through his eyes, and she is thinking

how she shall impart that mighty thought to the boy; how she shall make

him comprehend her views about the antecedence of his soul, that

doctrine upon which must rest all her lessons of life, and all her hopes

of good from these lessons.

The mother has caught the idea (whether true or false it matters not)

that her infant has some high remembrances of a former existence, and

that struck with what he sees in the mirror of life, he is attempting to

recall something of that state from which he came to animate the body

where youth seems to overshadow the past in his soul and clog its

movements toward the communion it once enjoyed. She sees, or thinks she

sees, something of this, and she catches the ennobling thought that the

antecedent of that soul, its primary and indefeasible right to

consideration, demand her utmost care, and that the cultivation of the

higher powers of the intellect must be made subservient to this still

_higher_ power—the immortal principal—where this union of soul and

body shall be made profitable to both. That is the mission of the

mother; her reward is not in the wealth, the honor, or the happiness of

her child—circumstances, consequent though these be upon her

teachings—her great reward, the certain and abiding compensation to the

virtuous mother for rearing her son to virtue, is found in that state

where virtue has its full appreciation, and affection its perfect work.

“The mirror of life” is full of lessons; it reflects truths that need

only appropriate display to make them profitable; and happy will it be

for all, if, catching some of the foreshadowings of the mirror of life,

we adapt our conduct to the events; and though we may not be able to

change an order of Providence, we can at least make the effect of that

Providence beneficial to ourselves.

G.

* * * * *

“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Do you ever think of our boarding-school loves, and

wonder where all those bright eyes, which used to blaze as from a

battery upon us from that pyramid of laughing faces, rising one above

the other to the topmost pane of those ample windows, are weeping or

laughing now? Do you promenade on the west side, as of yore, without a

sigh, and gaze into those deserted windows, from which smiles and

rose-tinted notes were showered down upon us with such munificence,

without a thought of the fair hands and glad hearts which then gave a

sort of sunlight to our devotion—the Mecca to which we turned in our

morning prayers and evening rambles? Is it not a sad thought, that as we

journey through life, the very innocency of boyhood, the first fresh

feelings of the heart, are things of which it is conventional to be

ashamed? As if it were a happiness, which we should call a conquest, to

learn the bitter lessons of life, at a sacrifice of all the fond

recollections of youth, a triumph to know the secret of deceiving with

smiles, and of wringing the hand kindly, of people we despise. Yet must

we learn the uses of adversity by time, and feel that the brightest of

_our_ days are passed forever; that hope, having cheated us for a

thousand times, has become bankrupt in our esteem, while the past,

brilliant and certain in joys experienced, recalls with the flitting

present, doubts of true happiness for us again. It is a stern

lesson—that which experience teaches us as we advance in years, to live

a life of distrust and doubt, to believe all goodness assumed, and

friendship but a cheat; to think that every man’s hand is either raised

against his brother, or is thrust into his pocket, and that there is no

such thing as self-sacrifice, except among the Hindoos.

But, Jeremy, not to speak of instances, all of which must be as fresh to

your memory as to mine, I come back to the first question—do you ever

think of our boarding-school loves? and mingle with the remembrance

those unexpressed hopes and fears which flutter in the hearts of all of

us. My falcon towered above yours in ambition then; nothing less than a

mistress of rhetoric and _belles_ letters tempted the magnificent swoop

of my poetry and ambition; yours had a fierce and Byronic generality,

which made it dangerous for the whole covey of lesser birds. How many

were you in love with, _Jeremy_? At least, how many were made goddesses

by your poetry? “You decline,” under present circumstances matrimonial.

Well, a man with a growing family, I suppose, owes something to

appearances and to example. I have no such excuse to plead, and can be

as open as the day.

_I_ really was in love then, Jeremy. Don’t you think so? But I was as

jealous as a Turk—a passion which you, from a lack of concentration,

thought very unreasonable. It _was_, too, considering that it was

engendered _before I_ _had ever spoken to the lady_, and finally

exploded very foolishly, and harmlessly, too, I believe, upon the head

of an innocent old teacher of Latin Grammar, or something of that sort,

old enough to be the lady’s grandfather, who _would_ be looking over her

album. I wrote my last piece of poetry after that, which _did my

business_ in that quarter, for the lady refused to see me or my poetry

any more. The loss, I think, was hers in the long run, though I suffered

with a heart-ache and prospective suicide for a month or two. I was very

much like the poor man in the story book, however,

“For when I saw my eyes were out,

With all my might and main,

I jumped into another bush,

And scratched them in again.”

The process was a rough one, and left a scar behind. I never saw the

lady but once afterward, and that was at Niblo’s. I confess to a

heart-fluttering, Jeremy, and some of that Spanish fierceness for making

declarations, which you used to laugh at; but fortune or fate denied me

means and opportunity; when the Vaudeville was over she was led off by

her party—_and I lost her_.

“I saw her depart as the crowd hurried on,

Like the moon down the ocean, the graceful was gone!

On my ear her adieu, with its dulcimer swell,

Like the gush of cool waters in melody fell.

“Starry stranger! so dazzlingly distant—unknown—

And observed in thy luminous transit alone;

By what fiat supreme must thy brilliancy quiver

O’er the depths of my darkened existence forever!”

But our old friend C——, he’s married now, and is the happy father of

eight children, I believe. He always _had_ an insane passion for crowds.

Do you remember the night he escorted the whole boarding-school home

with his umbrella; he always _would_, like the author of “Calavar,” have

his umbrella with him—_a green one_—and this night the gods were

propitious. It blew a hurricane, and the rain came pitching down in

sheets, as if Niagara had attached a spout to the passing clouds. C——

plied between the concert-room and the boarding-school, with the

regularity and precision of a Brooklyn ferry-boat, showing his regard

for the _fair_. After having deposited the fifteenth damsel safely, he

totally upset the propriety of an elderly lady who opened the door with

a polite invitation for him to “walk in”—an open sesame worth a

ducat—with the information that “_he was afraid_ _some more of the

folks were without umbrellas, and he must_ _see them home!_” A spirit of

self-denial and enlarged philanthropy worthy of a martyr.

Do you remember the exploits of S—— with those gay girls? He was a

determined dandy and lady-killer, and resolved to take the whole school

by storm, and to punish the refractory. But some how or other they

wouldn’t be taken; so after firing into the flock a dozen times, with

his most distinguished bow, and letting off a whole volley of passionate

verses upon imprisoned damsels generally without execution—for no

enamored Julia threw herself at his feet, or replied—he resolved to

pick his bird. S—— had a cousin who visited a Miss T——, who was

immured in that dungeon which frowned most terrifically, in S.’s mind,

upon those within as well as those without; and he made, through this

channel, her acquaintance. A walk to church in company with his cousin

and Miss T—— perfected his little plot of taking the whole castle by

this entrance; but a simple incident destroyed the forces of the enemy,

and routed him, horse, foot, and dragoons. A violent storm came on while

they were at church one Sunday evening, and the streets were flooded

when they came out. The storm had passed, however, and a dull moon lent

but a feeble light to the escort. S—— dropped his cousin at her

door—it was the first chance he had, and starting on with Miss T——,

opened the batteries of the sentimental upon his victim in most

magnificent strength and style. As they crossed Canal street, S——, who

had been carefully piloting the way, releasing the lady’s arm gently

from his, and taking hold of the tips of those taper fingers with a

grace that D’Orsey could not have excelled, requested her to “please

step upon that stone,”—which the dull moon had _made_ in the

water—and, _presto!_ the lady stepped into a pool which would have

discolored the _belt_ of a grenadier of six feet; and in his horror at

his mistake, S—— missed his footing, and plunged in with a dive that

would have gained him admirers in _frogdom_.

You remember the wit of Miss T——; she was out of the water almost

before he was in it, and turning round with a gay laugh at the

discomfited dandy, begged that “_if his thoughts of suicide were

confirmed, to try the river the next time, but she must decline being

either the disconsolate mourner, or a party to the folly!_” and with a

light trip was off, up the steps, and had rung the bell before S——

could gasp an apology.

This, with most men, would have been a settler, but S——’s vanity was

water and bullet-proof both. He dispatched the whole affair, to his

_own_ satisfaction, in a sonnet; and the next day, at two, strode past

the school with the step of a conqueror, the mark of a score of

quizzing-glasses and laughing faces. S—— bore the infliction _this

once_ with a nerve that would have taken any man to the cannon’s mouth.

But he grew fiery and retaliatory under its repetition. “I will settle

this business with a twenty-four pounder,” said he; and he did. The next

day S—— begged the spy-glass of an old pilot, and walking calmly down

with his dexter-eye on the enemy, surprised his forces by a cool,

steady, deliberate gaze through his blunderbuss with glasses. The

mistress ended the flirtation and supposed conquest by a threat,

delicately conveyed, that “any future conduct of the kind would be

intimated to the police.”

S—— determined to “die game,” and marched by with his Spanish mantle

on each particular cold day, with the step of a grenadier; but fate,

jealous of his valor, tripped him up one exceedingly wintry afternoon,

when boys were experimenting with skates upon the side-walk. Poor S——,

who had given his cloak an extra turn over his shoulders, fell at full

length exactly opposite the window of the boarding-school, and

floundered in his vain attempts to extricate himself, like a salmon

thrown upon the land, his “Oakford” most ruinously crushed by a passing

omnibus; and to crown his confusion, in the midst of a dozen windows

suddenly thrown up, an Irish cabman hastened to his rescue, and having

unrolled him and placed him on his feet, considerately asked, within

hearing of two score of ears, “_whether he had been long there?_” The

glory of the conqueror was gone!

“So fades, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,

All that this world is proud of.”

The bright faces, laughing eyes, and happy hearts of our youth, with its

early friendships, have been replaced with sadder views of life, and you

and I, Jeremy, are older—the world would say, wiser—but are we

happier, Jeremy, think you?

G. R. G.

* * * * *

MRS. DAVIDSON.—We present our reader this month with a well engraved

portrait of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the celebrated and talented

girls Margaret and Lucretia Davidson, made immortal as well by their own

genius as by the beautiful volumes of their works, edited by Washington

Irving and Miss Sedgwick, and published by Lea & Blanchard in 1841.

Lucretia was born in Plattsburg, New York, on the 27th of September,

1808, and died on the 27th of August, 1825, just one month before her

17th birth-day. Margaret was born at the same place, on the 26th of

March, 1823, and died on the 25th of November, 1838, at the early age of

fifteen years and eight months. The early fate and singular genius of

these youthful poets occupied for so long a time the attention and

sympathy of the literary world, that it is needless for us to say much

here, but we cannot refrain from quoting two passages from a

distinguished critic upon their works.

“The name of Lucretia Davidson is familiar to all readers of poetry.

Dying at the early age of 17, she has been rendered famous not less, and

certainly not more, by her own precocious genius than by three memorable

biographies, one by President Morse of the American Society of Arts, one

by Miss Sedgwick, and a third by Robert Southey. Mr. Irving had formed

an acquaintance with some of her relatives, and thus, while in Europe,

took great interest in all that was written or said of his young

countrywomen. Upon his return to this country, he called upon Mrs.

Davidson, and then, in 1833, first saw the subject of the memoir, a

fairy-like child of eleven. Three years having again elapsed, the MSS.,

which formed the basis of his volume, were placed in his hands by Mr.

Davidson, as all that remained of his daughter. Few books have

interested us more profoundly. Yet the interest does not appertain

solely to Margaret. In fact, the narrative, says Mr. Irving, ‘will be

found almost as illustrative of the _character of the mother as the

child;_ _they were singularly identified in taste, feeling and

pursuits_: tenderly entwined together by maternal and filial affection,

they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each

other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring

one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in modern literature to

sunder them.’ In these words the biographer conveys no more than a just

idea of the loveliness of the picture here presented to view.”

* * * * *

“In the way of criticism upon these extraordinary compositions, Mr.

Irving has attempted little. . . . In respect to a poem entitled “My

Sister Lucretia,” he thus speaks, ‘We have said that the example of her

sister Lucretia was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be

given of it than the following lines, which breathe the heavenly

aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains quite unearthly. We may

have read poetry more artificially perfect in its structure, but never

any more truly divine in its inspiration.’”

* * * * *

“Lucretia Maria Davidson, the elder of the two sweet sisters, who have

acquired so much fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of

poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may,

there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. _Her mother’s

generous romance of soul may have stimulated_ but did not instruct.

Thus, although she has actually given less _evidence_ of power than

Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered

at higher value. Margaret, we think, has left the better

poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more

unequivocally the soul of a poet.”

We had intended to have said more of the mother—since deceased—of

these remarkable girls, but our space warns us, that in this number, it

is impossible. Enough has been indicated above, to show her strong

sympathy with her daughter’s tastes, and how much she aided in forming

them.

* * * * *

THE JANUARY NUMBER.—We confess to a great degree of pride, from the

reception of our January number, by the newspaper press all over the

country, and from the regular subscribers to the work. It has been

pronounced, indeed, in several influential quarters, “The best number of

a monthly magazine ever issued in the language,” and this not alone from

the number and beauty of the embellishments—every one of which imparted

a value as a work of art to the number—but from the worth, variety and

_amount_ of literary matter. In issuing a _double number_ to our

readers, we were fully aware that we were repaying but a part of what we

owe them, for the liberal encouragement extended to us for a period of

ten years, without deviation or diminution; but we were scarcely

prepared for the large increase to our list of new friends which, in two

cities alone, extended to over three thousand new names.

From every part of the country each mail comes freighted with clubs from

persons with whose subscriptions we have not heretofore been honored,

and our old friends, with astonishing unanimity, continue to cling to

“Graham as the best and only good Magazine” amidst the mass of

periodicals which now make up in noise and promises, what they lack in

merit and ability to perform. To say that we are not flattered by this

mark of favor extended to us by the readers of this country would be

useless, but so far from this fact lessening our exertions, it only

spurs us on to new endeavors to maintain that ascendancy over all others

which we have always held, by issuing a Magazine incomparably better

than any that attempts to rival it.

Our February number, we think, will show no falling off in our

exertions, and the two numbers of the volume are an earnest of what our

readers may expect during the whole year of 1849. May it prove a

prosperous and happy one to our subscribers, as it has opened

auspiciously for ourselves.

* * * * *

A NEW SEA STORY.—We are gratified to be able to announce a new Sea

Story for the pages of Graham’s Magazine, by W. F. Lynch, of the navy,

whose recent explorations of the Dead Sea and vicinity, have so much

occupied the attention of the newspapers and scientific bodies

generally. The story is written with marked ability, and will be quite

an attraction in the coming numbers of Graham.

* * * * *

OUR PREMIUM PLATE.—We shall forward promptly to clubs and subscribers

entitled to our large premium plate, copies, carefully done up for

preservation, as soon as the artist completes it. It will be a very

beautiful parlor ornament when properly framed.

* * * * *

Our Fashion Plate for this month has been delayed by the ocean steamer,

and as we issue this number early, we postpone it till next month.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Cook Eng^{d} by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch

(OUR CONTRIBUTORS)

_Mrs. M. M. Davidson_]

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

* * * * *

THE BELLS OF OSTEND.

WRITTEN ON A BEAUTIFUL MORNING AFTER A STORM,

BY W. L. BOWLES,

THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

SAMUEL MOFFAT JR. ESQ. OF ALBANY,

BY J. HILTON JONES.

[Illustration]

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,

Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,

And rung as it pass’d thro’ each

[Illustration]

murmuring shroud.

My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,

My heart sighed in secret for those far away;

When slowly the morning advanc’d from the east,

The toils and the noise of the tempest had ceased:

The peal from a land I ne’er saw seemed to say,

Let the stranger forget all his sorrow to-day.

SECOND VERSE.

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain—

I thought of those eyes I should ne’er see again;

I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,

And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;

I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,

Of the trees, of the towers of my own native land;

But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled on the air

Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear;

And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,

Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals available for preparation of the ebook. In

the story The Wager of Battle, the Chapter VI heading is missing due to

being absent from the original publication. Hyphenation and archaic

spellings have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without

note. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as noted below.

page 90, leaves are sear, ==> leaves are sere,

page 93, to make their ==> to make to their

page 104, whispered a page ==> whispered to a page

page 106, cylinders and guaging ==> cylinders and gauging

page 107, for the _denouément_ ==> for the _dénouement_

page 107, I glad ==> I am glad

page 110, from all wordly ==> from all worldly

page 111, none was _politec_ ==> none was _politic_

page 111, of their Lupercalla ==> of their Lupercalia

page 113, the wordly advantages ==> the worldly advantages

page 113, Mendelsshon’s music ==> Mendelssohn’s music

page 114, Druid chorusses ==> Druid choruses

page 119, Greydon, then she ==> Greydon, than she

page 121, tonge of flame ==> tongue of flame

page 125, from a _regime forcé_ ==> from a _régime forcé_

page 127, merchans of celebrity ==> merchants of celebrity

page 128, ask him them ==> ask him then

page 132, sod have been ==> sod had been

page 132, sear turf of ==> sere turf of

page 145, havn’t told us ==> haven’t told us

page 146, physican arrived ==> physician arrived

page 150, maiden-thought be- becomes ==> maiden-thought becomes

page 151, style and rythm ==> style and rhythm

page 152, invaluabte companion ==> invaluable companion

page 153, with the orginal ==> with the original

page 154, down and mak ==> down and make

page 155, was her’s ==> was hers

page 155, an open sessame ==> an open sesame