A MORNING CALL IN NEW ENGLAND.
“Have you heard the news about Mr. Merritt?” said a young lady, to an
acquaintance, whom she was honoring with a morning call.
“No, I have not; what about him?”
“Why, you know that Mr. Warden ruined him, and his property was sold to
a gentleman in ——, and the mechanic and his family moved to the West.
This was about three years ago. Well, Mr. Warden’s son was violently in
love with Mr. Merritt’s daughter, Emma; a fine looking fellow he was,
too; and he felt so terribly about his father’s failure, that he
immediately left the village; and where should he go, accidentally, but
to the very man who purchased Mr. Merritt’s property, and who employed
him as a clerk. He happened to suit his employer exactly—for, as I said
before, he is a fine looking fellow—and somehow or other he found out
lately that young Warden was so much attached to Mr. Merritt’s Emma; and
what does he do but give William a deed in full of all the property, and
resigned business in his favor, then sends him off to Illinois, to marry
the daughter, and bring back the whole family to their old home. And,
sure enough, last night they came, bag and baggage, and have commenced
housekeeping already. Young Warden and his wife, are the handsomest
couple I ever saw. I hear that they are to give a party to their old
friends as soon as they are settled.”
* * * * *
TO MY SISTER E . . . . A.
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,
While sings the bird her evening lay,
And gentle dews refresh each flower
That drooped beneath the noontide ray;
While cool, soft breezes play around,
And gently fan my burning brow,
Falling with sweet and soothing sound
Upon my ear like music now;
While trembling there in yonder sky
That little star looks down on me,
I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,
And trill a simple song for thee.
My heart is full, oh, sister dear,
Of tender thoughts of one whose love
No longer lights our pathway here,
But purer glows in worlds above;
And though a year has almost flown
Since we have laid her down to rest,
To-night her form sat by my own,
Her lips upon my brow were pressed;
Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,
Entranced I listened to each word,
So soft, so silvery, and so clear,
As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!
With glowing eye she talked with me
Of our own happy childhood’s hours,
When hand in hand we sisters three
With chainless footsteps sought the flowers;
Or sat beneath the forest trees,
Upon some green and mossy bed,
While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,
The leaves made music overhead;
While on the gentle summer air
The birds poured forth their thrilling song,
Till every green leaf waving there
Seemed the sweet echoes to prolong.
She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,
When we had hopes unmixed with fears,
Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,
And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;
When life seemed like a long, bright dream,
Our spirits buoyant as the air,
And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,
Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;
While onward, onward lightly sped
Our little barks adown the river,
Trusting the sunbeams overhead
Would keep the waters bright forever.
She talked with me of riper years,
When time less lightly speeded by,
And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,
The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;
Some of our brightest dreams had flown,
And that strange lyre, the human heart,
Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,
That things so lovely should depart;
And while we could not stay the tear,
To think those cloudless days were o’er,
A sad voice whispered in our ear,
They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!
They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,
Those sunny hours that we have known,
But shall we murmur, or repine,
So many blessings still our own?
True, clouds have gathered on our way,
Deep shadows round about us lie,
But waiting for a brighter day,
Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;
And as we linger round the tomb
Of one whom our warm hearts held dear,
Sweet voices will dispel the gloom—
She is not here—she is not here!
* * * * *
THE LIFE INSURANCE.
BY HENRY G. LEE.
“You look sober this morning,” said I to my neighbor Lincoln one day.
“What’s the matter? Any thing wrong?”
“No; I can’t exactly say that,” he replied, with unusual gravity.
“You look as if you were under a mountain of trouble.”
“Do I?” And he made an attempt to laugh; but it was not entirely
successful.
“I’m only a little worried just now; but it will pass off,” he added. “I
get into these states sometimes—periodically, I might say.”
“Ah, I understand. Imaginary troubles.”
“Oh no,” he quickly replied. “Not just that. There is something like
real flesh and blood about the matter. The fact is, to come out plain,
Mrs. Lincoln, in her over-kindness, has presented me with another baby.”
“And you are so unreasonable as to grumble about it! You don’t deserve
to have blessings.”
“There is such a thing as being blessed to death, you know,” said Mr.
Lincoln, smiling; but the smile was still, as they say, on the wrong
side of his mouth. “Five babies were enough, in all conscience, without
adding a sixth. It was as much as I could do to get bread for what I
had.”
“He who sends the mouths will send the bread. Never fear for that.”
“I know. This general trust in Providence is all well enough. But it
takes more mental stamina than I possess to bring it down into
particular applications. My faith isn’t overly strong. If I were worth a
hundred thousand dollars, the babies might come as fast as they liked. I
wouldn’t call a baker’s dozen too many. No. I like babies; bless their
hearts! but I like them properly cared for. If I live, I suppose all
will be well enough. But life is held by the most uncertain tenure. Upon
my daily exertions depend the sustenance of my family. If I were to die
my wife and children would be in a sad way.”
“Get your life insured,” said I promptly.
Lincoln shook his head and looked grave.
“Why not?”
“Shouldn’t like to do that.” His face became still more serious.
“Any particular objection?”
“It looks like running in the face of Providence. I should feel as if I
were signing my death warrant.”
“That’s a strange notion.”
“It’s just as I feel. I’ve thought about it a number of times. But it
seems to me that life is too serious a thing to be placed on a common
level with a house or a ship. In putting a money-value upon his earthly
existence, it seems to me that the Divine Being would be outraged, and
visit the mercenary offender with death as a judgment.”
“You have a strange idea of the Divine Being,” said I, evincing surprise
in turn. “In getting your life insured, would you purpose evil to your
neighbor?”
“No; but rather good. I would seek, in doing so, not only to keep my
wife and children from becoming a burden upon others, but to secure to
them those worldly advantages so necessary to the healthy development of
mind and body.”
“And do you think a merciful God would visit you, vindictively, for
acting with such an unselfish purpose in your mind? How strange must be
your notion of Him who is represented to us as being in his very nature
love! Now, we know that love seeks to impart a blessing to all—not a
curse.”
“But there is such a thing as running in the face of Providence, and
this life insurance has always struck me as being something of the
kind.”
“What do you mean by running in the face of Providence?”
“Doing something in order to counteract the Divine purpose.”
“Do you know the Divine purpose in regard to yourself?”
“No; of course not.”
“Then, how can you, knowingly, do any thing to counteract that purpose?”
“I can’t, knowingly; but I may do so ignorantly.”
“Then you think that the Lord sometimes punishes men for acts innocently
done?”
“Such an idea has been in my mind. Man is responsible for his acts, and
should, therefore, be very guarded about what he does. His ignorance
will not always excuse him.”
“Suppose your child were to do something wrong, yet you had the clearest
evidence in your mind that his intentions were good, and not evil; would
you punish him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would regard his intentions.”
“Because they made the quality of the act so far as he was concerned?”
“Yes.”
“Will you make God less reasonable, considerate, and just than yourself?
Does not He also regard the motives which influence his children?”
“Why—yes—I suppose He does. But—we ought to be very sure that our
motives are right.”
“I grant you that, with all my heart. We must take care that we are not
consenting to the death of the saints, under the mad hallucination that
we are doing God’s service. But, with reason and revelation for our
guide, we need not be in much fear of going wrong.”
“No; I suppose not. Still, I can’t get away from the idea suggested. I
feel as if to insure my life would be trifling with a solemn matter.”
“And that life might fail you in consequence?”
“Such is the impression, I must confess.”
“You must, then, think that the providence in regard to the time of a
man’s death is arbitrary and capricious?”
“I don’t understand much about the matter; and my very ignorance makes
me fearful,” replied Mr. Lincoln.
“It must be plain to you, on reflection,” said I, “that, in a matter so
important as the fixing of a man’s eternal state by death, the divine
wisdom and mercy of the Lord must be exercised in a most perfect manner,
so to speak. That, in fact, no one is called to pass from a natural into
a spiritual state of existence, except at the time when such a change
will be best for him. The mere circumstance of making an insurance upon
the life, with a view to providing for those left behind, who would,
perhaps, suffer great evils but for such a provision, could not
precipitate this time; for the act could not foreclose a man’s state and
prevent his further regeneration.”
Lincoln admitted that there was some force in this view, but said he
could not see the subject clearly, and was afraid to act in the matter.
Six months afterward, on meeting my neighbor, his serious face induced
me to ask after the cause of his trouble.
“Worried about my affairs, as usual,” said he. “The fact is, I have but
little peace of mind. Every thing is so uncertain. By this time I ought
to have had a neat little property laid up, but am not worth a copper.
My family has increased so rapidly, that it has taken every thing I
could make to feed and clothe them. If I were certain of living, I would
not feel troubled; for I can earn a comfortable support. But no man has
a lease of his life. It makes me heart-sick to think of the consequences
if I were to die. What would become of my wife and children! I have not
a cent to leave them.”
“Why don’t you get your life insured? Take out a policy of five thousand
dollars, for, say seven years. It will cost you only about ninety
dollars a year; and you can easily save that much from your income by a
little extra economy. Your mind would then be comparatively easy.”
“Five thousand dollars would be a nice little sum to leave,” said Mr.
Lincoln, “and would help a great deal.”
“You could pay the premium easily enough?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then make the insurance by all means.”
“I have thought of it several times since we conversed on the subject;
but some how or other have put it off from time to time. I must do so no
longer. My doubts as to the propriety of life insurance, which I
expressed some time ago, I do not feel as strongly as then. I thought a
good deal of what you said, and came to the conclusion that your views
were pretty nearly correct.”
“Life is uncertain. We can only call the present our own. Be wise, then,
and make this provision for your family.”
“I must do it,” said Lincoln, as he left me.
“Have you effected that insurance yet?” said I to him a few months
afterward.
“No, I have not,” he replied, “but I must do it. The fact is, when it
comes to the pinch, the amount of premium is something. A man hasn’t
always got ninety dollars to spare.”
“True. But didn’t I see a new sofa and a set of mahogany chairs going
into your house a week or two ago?”
“Yes.”
“And they cost, no doubt, a hundred dollars.”
“Just that.”
“Would it not have been wiser—”
“I know what you would say,” interrupted Lincoln. “Yes, it would have
been wiser. The possession of a policy for five thousand dollars would
give me a far greater pleasure than I have yet derived from looking at
or sitting upon my new chairs and sofa. The old ones were comfortable
enough.”
“Don’t put it off any longer. Better take out a policy for two thousand
five hundred now, if the amount of premium is an object, and another
policy for a like sum in two or three months.”
“I’ll do that,” said he, speaking earnestly.
We parted. A month or two afterward, I alluded to the matter again. The
insurance had not been made, and Lincoln seemed a little annoyed at my
reference to the subject. After that I avoided any further remark
touching the advantages of life insurance when in company with Lincoln.
But I never met his wife, a fragile looking creature, that I did not
feel an emotion of pain at the thought of her being left destitute, with
six children clinging to her for support.
Nearly a year elapsed from the time of my last reference to the subject
of life insurance, when news came to the city that, while bathing on the
sea-shore, Lincoln had been drowned. The sad event was made sadder in my
mind, as my thoughts turned, involuntarily, to his wife and children,
left without a protector and provider. What were they to do? Lincoln had
been engaged in the business of a real estate broker. At his death,
there was no estate to settle up—no store to sell out—few if any debts
to collect. The office would be closed, and the income cease.
“Poor woman! what is she to do?” said I to myself a dozen times in the
first hour that elapsed after I had heard the afflictive news. “Without
fifty dollars in the world, probably, besides furniture and clothing,
how is she to maintain, by her own unaided exertions, a family of six
children?”
So much was I afflicted by the occurrence, that I could not sleep for
some hours after retiring to bed in the evening.
On the next morning the newspapers contained a notice of the accident,
with this announcement:
“We are happy to state, that a few days before leaving for the
sea-shore, Mr. Lincoln had his life insured in the Girard Life Insurance
and Trust Company, for five thousand dollars.”
I was so much affected in reading this, that my hands trembled, and the
paper dropped from them to the floor.
Some years have elapsed since the occurrence of this sad event. Almost
daily I pass a small store in a well frequented street, behind the
counter of which is sometimes seen the widow of Mr. Lincoln, or a
daughter who has attained the age of fourteen years. The face of the
former has a sober, quiet look, but bears no evidence of distressing
care. Under the advice and assistance of friends, four thousand dollars
of the money received at the death of her husband, were safely invested
in six per cent. securities, and with the balance, a small store was
stocked with goods. The interest on four thousand dollars paid her rent,
and the profits on her little business enabled her to meet the real
wants of her family.
How different would all have been but for this life insurance.
* * * * *
BUNKER-HILL AT MIDNIGHT.
BY E. CURTIS HINE, U. S. N.
I stand upon the sacred hill
Where LIBERTY hath made her home.
’Tis midnight, all is hushed and still
Where’er my footsteps roam;
While towering through the air of night
Yon stately pile doth rear its head,
A granite flower, of giant height,
Sprung from the dust of PATRIOTS dead!
Methinks I hear the rustling sound
Of myriad angels’ hovering wings,
Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,
Around which Romance clings!
Like those that o’er gray Marathon
Are hovering in the night’s still noon,
Spirits descend and stand upon
This hill when clouds obscure the moon!
Beneath me sleeps the city dim,
Whose dusky spires tower on high,
And white-winged vessels slowly skim
Yon river winding by.
The wandering night-winds round me moan,
And for that day of glory sigh,
When Freedom’s star in splendor shone
Through the torn clouds in WAR’S dark sky!
Where now the men that nobly dealt
A nation’s wrath upon the foe,
And for their injured country felt
Their cheeks indignant glow?
Alas! they all have passed away,
Like stars that leave the sky at morn,
When in the east the king of day
On couch of gilded clouds is born!
And silence reigns where’er I tread,
Like that which greets the passer-by
In that lone city of the dead
’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!
Brave men are sleeping everywhere,
Their ashes hallow every strand,
And this lone hill-top has its share,
On which in musing mood I stand!
* * * * *
LINES.
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
“The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
Dost thou remember that September day
When by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?
A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lull
The charméd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
Though the warm breath of summer lingered still
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn
To meet the pleading language of thine eyes,
I only _felt_ their power, and in the urn
Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
We parted then forever—and the hours
Of that bright day were gathered to the past—
But through long wintry nights I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!
* * * * *
THE BALIZE.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
This is the name of one of the mouths of the Mississippi River. At the
distance of 105 miles below New Orleans by the course of the river, and
90 miles in a direct line, this majestic stream enters the Gulf of
Mexico by several mouths, the principal of which are the Belize, or
North East Pass, in latitude 29° 7' and longitude 80° 10' West, and the
South West Pass, in latitude 29° 8' North and longitude 89° 25' West.
The depth of water on the bar at each of these passes is 12 to 16 feet,
but much greater without and a little within the bar. Most vessels enter
and leave by the Belize, and hence the frequency with which we hear this
remarkable place referred to.
The tall erections in the engraved view are look-outs constructed for
observing the approach of vessels, and hoisting signals. The country
about the Balize is one continued swamp, destitute of trees, and covered
with a species of coarse reeds, from four to five feet high. Nothing can
be more dreary than a prospect from a ship’s mast while passing this
immense waste.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BALIZE.]
* * * * *
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
[Illustration: [Alca Impennis.]]
THE GREAT AUK. (_Alca Impennis._)
Auk is the vernacular name for certain sea-birds of the family _Alcasæ_,
known scientifically as species of the subgenera, _Alca_, _Fratercula_,
_Mergulus_ and _Phaleris_. The true Auks, though properly oceanic birds,
scarcely ever leaving the water except for the purposes of reproduction,
can run, though awkwardly, on foot, when pursued on land. They breed in
caverns or lofty cliffs, laying but one large egg. They feed on fish and
other marine animals.
The first of the genus _Alca_ is the Great Auk, remarkable for the
imperfect development of its wings. It seldom leaves the regions
bordering on the Arctic and Antarctic Circles. The wings, perfectly
useless for flight, are very serviceable as oars. Mr. Bullock relates
that during his tour to Northern Isles, one of them, with his four oars,
left a six-oared boat of pursuers far behind. Newfoundland is one of
their breeding places, and the Esquimaux make clothing of their skins.
They are never seen beyond soundings; and seamen direct their measures
according to their appearance.
The length of the bird is less than three feet. The winter plumage,
which begins to appear in autumn, leaves the cheeks, throat, fore part
and sides of the neck white. In spring the summer change begins to take
place, and confines the white on the head to a large patch, which
extends in front and around the eyes; the rest of the head, the neck and
upper plumage is of a deep black.
[Illustration: [Alca torda.]]
RAZOR-BILL. (_Alca Torda._)
In the second species of _Alca_, the Black-billed Auk, Razor-bill, or
Murre, the development of the wings is carried to the usual extent
necessary for flight, though the bird uses them with great effect as
oars, when swimming under water. They are diffused over the northern
hemisphere on both continents; but they are particularly abundant in the
higher latitudes. In England their eggs are esteemed a great delicacy,
for salads especially, and on the coast of that country the “dreadful
trade” of taking their eggs is actively carried on. In Ray’s Willoughby,
the habits of the Razor-bill are thus described:
“It lays, sits and breeds up its young on the ledges of the craggy
cliffs and steep rocks by the seashore, that are broken and divided into
many, as it were, stairs or shelves, together with the _Coulternebs_ and
_Guillemots_. The Manks-men are wont to compare these rocks, with the
birds sitting upon them in breeding time, to an apothecary’s shop—the
ledges of the rocks resembling the shelves, and the birds the pots.
About the Isle of Man are very high cliffs, broken in this manner into
many ledges one above another, from top to bottom. They are wont to let
down men by ropes from the tops of the cliffs, to take away the eggs and
the young ones. They take also the birds themselves, when they are
sitting upon their eggs, with snares fastened at the top of long poles,
and so put about their necks. They build no nests, but lay their eggs
upon the bare rocks.
“On the coasts of Labrador they abound, and thousands of birds are there
killed for the sake of the breast feathers, which are very warm and
elastic, and the quantities of eggs there collected amount to almost
incredible numbers.
“The summer and winter dresses of the Razor-bill, though different, do
not vary so remarkably as the plumage of many other birds. In the summer
dress, the white streak which goes to the bill from the eyes becomes
very pure; and the cheeks, throat and upper part of the front of the
neck are of a deep black, shaded with reddish. In winter the throat and
fore part of the neck are white.”
The Razor-bill is fifteen inches long. The egg is disproportionately
large, being about the size of that of the turkey, but longer, white or
yellowish and streaked with dark brown.
* * * * *
SPIRITUAL PRESENCE.
BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.
When the still and solemn night
Broodeth o’er with wing of love,
And the stars with eyes of light
Look like spirits from above;
When the flowers their petals close
Softly in the slumbering air,
Bending meekly in repose
As a contrite soul at prayer;
And the waters sweep the shore
With a low and sullen chime,
Like Life’s current falling o’er
Into the abyss of Time;
Sometimes feel ye not a breath
As of pinions rushing by,
Viewless as the touch of Death?
’Tis an angel passing nigh.
Evermore ’neath rock or tree,
In the forest or the street,
’Mid the desert, on the sea,
We a seraph form may meet.
Human hearts! with vision clear
Look ye to each deed and thought;
Arm the spirit, torn in fear
From the act in evil wrought;
We do walk forever nigh
Waking ghost of envied dead,
And unmarked by mortal eye
With angelic hosts do tread.
While in chorus winds rejoice,
Though we see no guiding form,
Speaks there not a “still small voice”?
God is riding on the storm.
Tireless roll the worlds of light,
God is marking out their way;
Joyous beams the morning light,
God is smiling in the ray.
Soul! though gaunt and weary care
Haunt thine upward soaring free,
Let each pulse count out a prayer,
_The Eternal walks with thee_.
* * * * *
FLOWER FANCIES.
BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS.
Angel tokens—flower fancies—
Wrought with bright imaginings—
Evermore the vision glances
On your rainbow-tinted wings!
Underneath the wild-wood dreaming,
Type of all that’s pure in heart,
Or upon the hill-top gleaming,
Gems of beauty still thou art!
Angel tokens—ever filling
Nature’s book with flowing rhyme,
Bearing in your silent trilling
Records quaint of olden time;
Or in strange devices wreathing
Wisdom in your swift decay,
While your last faint sigh is breathing
“Man’s the creature of a day.”
Angel tokens—flower fancies—
Sea and sky have gone to sleep!
Why, when slumber all entrances,
Do ye wake and sadly weep?
Are ye spirits watching o’er us,
And the tears upon your leaves,
Do they fall for _cures_ before us—
Is’t for _this_ your bosom grieves?
Angel tokens—flower fancies—
Winter’s breath is on ye now
And your perfumed leaves are falling
Crisped and shriveled from the bough—
Yet when spring, with winter striving,
O’er the earth asserts her reign,
With her smile your buds reviving,
Ye will blossom bright again!
Angel tokens—springing lightly
Through the glorious summer day,
Oh! could we but bloom as brightly,
And as brightly pass away—
Could _our_ winter, death, victorious
O’er the cold and cheerless sod
Bear us on in bloom, thus glorious,
To the garden of our God!
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
PERILS OF THE IMAGINATION.
[Illustration]
MY DEAR JEREMY,—I place before you the perils of a passage to a Turkish
Paradise, because you have shown a passion for turbans, meerschaums and
pretty women, and I wish to warn you. The narrow path of Christian
theology is still further reduced, you see, in the Mohammedan, so that,
sinner as you are, you will find it advisable to stick to the true
faith, and to practice it with more diligence.
You should not let your imagination run riot—it will be the ruin of
you; but take the substantials, with thankfulness, which are yours by
possession, and enjoy them to the uttermost. We all—the poorest of
us—have enough and to spare of the gifts of Providence to make somebody
envious—the veriest slave of money, who boasts of his millions, I’ll
warrant me, looks with discomfort upon your superior intellect, or your
better appetite, and would part with a good slice of gold, for a taste
for a fine poem, or a relish for roast-beef—and I doubt much whether
you would bargain them off at his valuation. I would not give a good
temper and a cheerful disposition for all the gold that any crabbed old
miser may have in his bank vault; nor my troop of true friends for the
hungry faces of his poor relations. Would you? Your shilling or mine
will buy us more pleasure, with a friend, than he can impart, with a one
per cent. discount. This is true—and yet the world does not look upon
things thus philosophically. We strain our imaginations to catch at some
supposed good, something we _fancy_ would make us blessed, discarding
the real good that God has imparted to us.
“You wish to travel, do you?” said an old friend of mine. “You are very
silly! there is no pleasure in that. I once went all the way to
Saratoga, with my family, but I _saw it all_ in half an hour, and left
in the return train. The young folks _imagined_, that by staying two or
three weeks, something else might be discovered, and I left them to
experiment; but I was done with it, and was off.”
You say this never happened. By Jove, it did though! and a sensible old
codger he was _in his way_ too—though I found _that_, in the end, was
rather eccentric and uncertain. But he adhered to his opinion, and
traveled no more. “As for traveling for pleasure,” said he, “it is
absurd. I am ten times more comfortable and happy at home, where I can
call for what I want, and get it, and instead of sweating in a
stage-coach, on a hot and dusty day, with my knees squeezed into a
perfect jelly, I throw up the back window that opens on the
garden—wheel up a recumbent chair—place another for my feet—call for
a bottle of champagne and a cigar, and with ice at my elbow, take mine
own ease, at _mine own_ inn. Then, as for traveling to see fine
prospects, if I tire of the garden and the champagne, I can shut my eyes
here—_he never did in his counting-room_—and can call up more splendid
scenery than the Rhine can boast—can crown the hills with finer palaces
than ever shone in Greece—and people them with prettier women than
Mahomet will find in his Paradise, I’ll warrant him: And all this while
your sight-seeing traveler is perhaps toiling and puffing up the sides
of Vesuvius, over hardened lava, or is blowing his fingers on the sides
of Mont Blanc, which, I dare say, are flattered in the engravings, while
I can add in imagination unnumbered beauties the artists never dreamed
of.”
There is good philosophy in this, Jeremy, and as it suits my pocket just
now, if you will send over the champagne, I’ll try it. There is a home
doctrine about it that I like, for my experience is, that a man gets
into very little mischief while he stays there. How does it tally with
yours?
The farther we wander in chase of forbidden pleasures, the more
impressive is the conviction that we are in pursuit of bubbles, which go
dancing and dazzling on, and when grasped, are empty.
And yet the world is but a vast army of bubble chasers, with here and
there a sage smiling at, or rebuking, the folly. Each has his
fatuity—each his blind passion, his bubble of the imagination. Fortune,
Fame, Pleasure, how many do they beckon away from comfort, peace and
happiness? Amid the press upon each crowded avenue, how few are allowed
to turn back! How many fall and are trodden down forever! and yet the
sanguine multitude, rushing over the bodies of the slain, heed not the
fall of their companions, but press on as eagerly as before after
vanishing shadows. Why is it, that when happiness itself is basking at
our feet, imploring acceptance, that with a blind fatuity we rush at any
cost on misery? Is it because the mind is ever, in this world, after the
unattainable, that we see fortune, fame, domestic comfort, personal
ease, all shipwrecked, on all sides of us in life, to attain the
undesirable? That the merchant with his bank-roll of tens of thousands,
squanders all in one wild effort to grasp a bubble upon an unknown sea.
That the man of letters, to whom God has given an intellect but a little
lower than that of angels, and who might model and mould the mind of a
nation to good, and shine as a star in the intellectual firmament, to be
worshiped in all time by the students of genius, “who follow her
flashing torch along every path to knowledge”—knowing his high gifts
for good, and feeling their power, scorns the possession, and scatters
the bale-fires of a mighty intellect, as a volcano showers down lava and
ashes, upon mankind—blighting, as with a destroying angel’s touch, the
fair world in which he lives.
That the domestic hearth, with children merry-voiced, over which
meek-eyed Peace hovered like a dove, and around which Heaven’s own smile
seemed to linger, is treacherously invaded by the demon of jealousy,
green-eyed and furious, until Crime, with swarthy countenance and bloody
locks, broods with Death’s Angel over the silent spot.
The Perils of the Imagination, how they invest the unsatisfied! Are
these the penalties which God imposes for unthankfulness? or is it that
the devil, ever working at the heart, urges man to ingratitude, and
excites him to folly? What think you, Jeremy?
“The earth hath bubbles, as the water hath,
And we are of them.”
G. R. G.
JOTTINGS ABROAD.
BY J. R. CHANDLER.
It is undoubtedly pleasant in the midst of the weakening influences of
an August day, to sit, _sub tegmani fagi_, and read of the sports of the
watering places—the wonders of Niagara, or the discoveries of those
summer travelers who, turning aside from the beaten paths, or common
haunts of fashion, explore the hidden, and develop the unknown. Most
agreeable is it to mingle the mental sherbet of our summer’s retirement
with such timely ingredients. Herein our brethren of the daily press
seem to have an advantage over us of the monthly issues, as, day by day,
they prepare their ever welcome table, and are never compelled to speak
of an elevated thermometer, while
Milk comes frozen in the pails,
And Dick, the shepherd, blows his nails.
Waiving this advantage, or to speak more correctly, yielding to this
disadvantage, we purpose laying upon our table, and for our readers who
dine later than the common class, a single dish, composed of gleanings
from the flower-gardens and the stubble-fields, in a late visitation
among the “wise men of the East.”
We say nothing of a rest which we set up for a short time in New York,
because the continual clatter in that Babel of this land would prevent
ordinary ears (and ours are of no extraordinary length) from hearing any
thing worth presenting here, and the dust, which seemed to be moving in
solid masses from corner to corner, rendered quite necessary to comfort
and to future speculation hermetically closed eyes.
The next stage was Springfield, Mass., where we saw and conversed with
GRACE GREENWOOD—a Grace for which we were appropriately grateful. She
was cultivating ideas for future use, and gathering thoughts to sustain
her fame and secure the admiration of others. She was successful,
undoubtedly.
But Springfield has _of_ itself, as well as _in_ itself, attractions of
no ordinary character. The regular tourist will, of course, visit and
describe the Armory, in which are stored about one hundred thousand
stand of arms, all rendered nearly useless, by the introduction, since
_they_ were manufactured, of percussion caps, instead of the old flint
and steel process of igniting the charge. In these days every thing must
be done quickly. A rail-road of a hundred miles in length, and five
millions cost, was constructed between two cities, because it would
carry passengers in one hour’s time less than one already in use. And
here the ignition of the powder by the spark from the flint, which
seemed to measure the shortest imaginable _space_, we had almost said
_point_ of time, was deemed, and undoubtedly is, too slow a process for
destroying human life; and so another agent is applied, whose operation
is electric, and makes the intention and the act instantaneous. These
guns thus put into coventry, must have cost nearly twelve hundred
thousand dollars—a sum, the interest of which we wish we had to pay
contributors, literary and artistic, to Graham’s Magazine.
Because the genius of our people is connected with the fact, we will
just add, that at this place, as at other of the armories of the General
Government, all the parts of the muskets are so constructed as to suit
any one musket of the million that may be made. No single part is
particular; no screw has a special gun; no spring, clasp, or brace, is
intended to suit one, or two, or twenty, but each part of any musket
will answer for the same part of any others without alteration of any
kind. This looks like the perfection of mechanism, and the machinery
used looks as if it were made by and for such perfection.
No one who visits in Springfield will neglect the large public cemetery;
it is worth a visit of miles—and it requires the travel of miles, for
it is large. Good taste and ingenuity are manifested in all its parts;
and the buried, if they have a consciousness of their whereabout, must
be satisfied to await, in that beautiful retreat, the summons which
shall call together the separated bones, and clothe them anew with the
incorruptible, in which they are to stand and be judged.
And the living will learn in this beautiful city of the dead, to
contemplate the only certainty of their lives, and to see the slow
approach of their dissolution, without that shock which the Golgothas
and Aceldamas of other times were sure to impart to the delicate and
sensitive.
I know that the cynic loves to point to the ornamented grave-yard, or
the magnificent cemetery, as the exhibition of the pride of the
living—the vanity of the survivors. And I dare not say, that even with
the chastened, holy feelings which grief ensures, some particle of human
vanity may not mingle, and that the monument which professes to record
the virtues of the dead, may not, indeed, betoken the pride of the
living.
But suppose it does—admit the charge, and what then? The pride of the
living is shown where no future error of the lauded will belie or
disgrace the memorial, and where the self-esteem which is gratified in
the erection of the cenotaph, will never be wounded by the ingratitude
of the one that sleeps beneath. Let vanity have its hour if it uses the
time to praise the virtuous, and make death less repulsive; and pride
which beautifies where dead men’s bones and all manner of uncleanliness
once were found, commends itself to forgiveness, if it may not command
our approval.
Has any one ever thought of this? All know and applaud the movement
which develops and displays the virtues and beauties of our nature. But
who has thought it worth while to commend the undertaking that makes the
errors and deformities of our character minister to taste and
refinement! The polished marble scarcely requires genius to give it a
sightly and ornamental position; it is beautiful wherever found, but
true taste and true skill are requisite to give symmetry and collective
beauty to rough ashlars in an ornamental tenement.
When such a cemetery is established, it is natural that the private and
parishional burying-places should yield up the dead, and be devoted to
the more active business of life; and hence we see in various
departments of this ground, old moss-grown stones that have followed the
dust whose history they record, and who stand among the newly-carved
pillars and slabs now become representatives not less of the taste than
of the people of other times.
Wandering in the lower part of the town, near the railroad dépôt, I saw
on the main street, a lot newly broken up for building. It had been the
burying-ground of some church or family. One old stone was laid aside.
It recorded the name of a virtuous woman, who died more than two hundred
years ago. This is the antiquity of our country, and the existence of a
grave-stone of that date is a part of the marvel of the present time. I
was about to copy the record, but I saw some one watching me, and as I
shrunk from being gazed at, I ceased from the labor. I might have
brought away a part of the _words_, though nothing but an artist could
have caught and conveyed the form of the letters, if that could be
called _form_ which was almost formless. Surely every age has its
_literature_; and perhaps every location claims its peculiar style.
Certainly the literature of the early part of the seventeenth century in
Springfield had some striking peculiarities. I do not remember seeing
previously the word _pietously_, which, if I mistake not, was on that
stone—and that, too, without the necessity of rhythm. Yet most
beautifully did the uncouth rhyme and shapeless sculpture of that stone,
convey to the readers, the merits of a woman who lived in Springfield
when that town was a wilderness, and whose virtues made that “wilderness
blossom like the rose.”
From Springfield to Brattleboro’, Vt., is only three hours’ ride; but he
who enters the smallest inn of an interior village in a drenching storm
at night, and leaves it the next morning before the mists that night and
the storm engendered have climbed up the mountain sides, and gone to
mingle with the world of misty fogs above, can have but little to say of
persons or places, excepting, indeed, that he may acknowledge that a
clean bed and a well-supplied and well attended table exceeded the
promise of the house; and that the quiet, orderly, self-respecting
deportment of mechanics employed in the neighborhood, illustrate the
fact elsewhere derivable, that idleness, champagne, and white gloves,
are not necessary to the character of a good republican citizen.
Here is the celebrated water cure establishment of Dr.
Woeselhooffer—and it is stated that cures are really by water effected.
Some oblong wicker vessels, which were visible in the baggage car of the
train, seemed to intimate that entire dependence is not placed on
_water_ by every one in this village, though we have seldom seen a place
more liberally supplied with the pure element.
In looking along the sea-shore of Massachusetts, one is struck with the
spirit of these times as contrasted with those of other years. Jutting
out upon the bold, rocky promontories, are seen the beautiful summer
residences of the wealthy, while each stream, formerly kept open and
clear by law for the ascent and descent of migratory fish, is now dammed
and swollen, to augment water power. Whole towns, cities indeed, are
spread out upon the inclined surfaces, that only a few years back were
deemed unfit for cultivation, and consequently unworthy of
consideration, while at the entrance to each port and harbor is seen
some old fort, which, fifty years ago, would, in the midst of profound
peace, bristle with the glittering bayonet of men-at-arms; and each
morning and evening pour out the formal thunder that bespeaks the
character of the fortress and the rank of its commander. Now the façade
is trodden by the horse and cow that are seeking fresh pasture, and the
ramparts are broken by the _borrowing_ of the material for some
neighboring cottage or factory; and within, where the stately tread of
the sentinel showed order and produced propriety, the absence of all
monitions of war, and the dilapidation of all barracks and tenements
show that men have come to think of peace as the proper state of
society, and to regard war as such a remote contingency that the
expenditures necessary for defense may be postponed to the time when
defense may be suggested by aggression. We do not profess to be members
of the peace party, but we should strangely mistake the signs of the
times if we did not understand that they indicated a settled confidence
of peace at home, not unsustained by the belief that no nation of the
earth has the least desire to run their heads against the people of this
country. It is the agreement of the people of the United States as to
the value and importance of republican institutions, which gives
invincibility to our arms; and foreign powers are wise enough to inquire
not how many forts stand in front of seaboard towns, but how many hearts
in town and country beat for the land and its institutions. Forts may be
demolished by force, or betrayed by treason, but no combination of
foreign power could tread out the institutions of this country, no
considerable number of citizens be found faithless to the nation. Other
people know this and do not ask for ramparts and armaments. Our own
people know, and feel secure in the patriotic vigor of each and of all.
Massachusetts is a great country of villages, if, indeed, it would not
be more correct to say, that nearly all of New England is a suburb of
Boston. There are no _townships_ of unoccupied lands in Massachusetts,
and where, a few years prior, a stream gushed out of a swamp, turgid
with the colors of the leaves and roots steeped in its waters, new
villages take the place of the swamp, and the stream is seen busy with
the people grinding at the mill, while from each steeple another is
visible; each school-house is within sight of its like, and the
well-leaved trees scarcely conceal from the inhabitants of one village
the white and green of the cottages of the next town. Where such a
population is found one scarcely looks for large forms or extensive
homesteads; each rood of ground serves to contain and maintain its man,
and the intellect of each is kept bright by the constant collision of
mind with mind, and the constant necessity of vigilance to prevent
encroachments or to secure the advantages of a bargain.
No one goes to the south-eastern part of Massachusetts without inquiring
at least for the “farm” of Daniel Webster. It was my better lot to visit
the place, and to see much of what others have of late read of. Mr.
Webster purchased a large farm, which, having been in the same family
almost ever since the landing of the Pilgrims, had not been disturbed by
those divisions which augmented population and factory privileges effect
in other parts of the state, and as the Anglo-Saxon race is remarkable
for the desire to add land to land, Mr. W. has yielded to that
propensity of his blood, and augmented his domains, by the annexation of
two other overgrown or rather undivided farms, so that the public road
seems made to divide his land for miles, and to open up for general
admiration the beautiful improvements which his taste supports, and his
liberality exercises.
I am not going to give any account of Mr. Webster’s place for the
benefit of the agricultural society, else would I speak of his gigantic
oxen, and his conquest over fell and rocks; else would I describe his
swine, that seem, like the ox of the Bible, to know their owner, and to
feel the consequence of such domination; else would I tell of the
hundred bushels of corn which were brought forth by an acre, which ten
years ago seemed to share in the common attributes of the soil of the
state, viz., to present in summer the contest between a stratum of
paving pebbles and some stunted grass for visibility; a contest which
ceased at the approach of cold weather, when, of course, the stone
became most prominent, and continued so until the snow for five months
buried both parties out of sight.
Mr. Webster is as fond of the ocean as of the land, and he gathers the
riches of the deep for his pleasure as well as the fatness of the
earth—that is, the wild fowl and the sea fish are as successfully
pursued by Mr. W. as are his agricultural objects, so that with his
broad land around him, and the deep blue of the sea beyond, he sits,
monarch of all he surveys.
There is in the form of Mr. W. something like himself—it is the result
of industry—it is immense—it has upon it no finical decoration, no
tawdry ornaments, no pretty little hiding-places, but its wide avenues
lead to immeasurable oaks and elms, and far and wide useful habitations,
luxuriant fields, and lordly herds of cattle speak the great proprietor;
and with all Mr. Webster’s intellectual greatness he feels that even in
that nook of New England he is among men who can measure his intellect
and attainments, and whose respectful salutations and deferential
bearing are not due to any indefinable awe for some mysterious power,
attainment, or possession, but the result of a just perception of his
worth, and a correct appreciation of his mental greatness and political
sagacity. Mr. Webster has, of course, a magnificent library—the
treasures which great minds have yielded, and a great mind gathered—a
library worthy such a man—a library appropriate to such a princely
residence. But it is not the only one. Within a short distance, I saw on
many shelves, in the extreme building of a frame rope-walk, not four
miles from Mr. Webster, a collection of books in seven or eight
languages, which would make the mouth of a literary epicure water;
beautiful editions of valuable works, curious collections also, and
desirable copies, every one of which was familiar to its modest owner,
who seemed to know every vein in his rich mine, and to be able to give
the exact value of the product of each inch of its contents.
We have said that Massachusetts was the extension of Boston; it is in
more ways than in the beauty of residences and the uses of wealth; not
the least worthy of notice is the conformity of country with the city in
the delicacy of the female mind, and the extent of refined female
education, among classes which might in other parts of the country, have
escaped the meliorating influences of early discipline in manners,
morals, and graces; and the visiter to the villages of Massachusetts,
who finds his way into the parlor in _all_ seasons, will be delighted
with the enlarged influences of correct education, and the evidences of
entire compatibility of the most extensive literary attainment and
feminine polish with the discharge or direct supervision of domestic
duties.
* * * * *
A NEW VOLUME of this Magazine will be commenced in January, in a style
commensurate with the liberal and still increasing patronage bestowed
upon it. We know that our patrons are fully satisfied with our past
exertions to gratify their tastes, and we are equally confident that
they will take our word when we assure them that excellent as the
present volume has been, the forthcoming one will eclipse it in
splendor.
The season is now close at hand for subscribing to literary periodicals,
and the formation of new clubs. Let us urge upon those who design
patronizing this Magazine, to send in their orders for the new volume at
an early day. Although we shall print a large edition of the first
numbers, it may, and doubtless will happen—as it did last year—that
the supply will be totally exhausted, and disappointments occur in
consequence of our inability to furnish complete sets of the numbers.
This can be effectually guarded against by an early subscription for the
new volume, and we hope our friends and the public generally will bear
this suggestion in mind.
We have in course of preparation some exquisite large engravings,
suitable for framing, designed as premium gifts to new subscribers, and
from which a selection can be made. The particulars will be given in our
Prospectus for the new volume, which will shortly appear.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Oliver Goldsmith: A Biography. By Washington Irving. New York:
George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
From no living person could we have expected a more delightful biography
of Goldsmith than from Washington Irving, and, accordingly, we have one,
written closer to the heart and brain of its subject, than any other in
English literature. There are two biographies of Goldsmith with which it
will naturally be compared, Prior’s and John Forster’s, both of them
works of merit, but neither equal to Irving’s in respect to felicity in
conveying to the reader a living impression of Goldsmith’s character and
life; and of depositing his image softly in the mind, as an object of
good-natured affection. Prior is invaluable for materials, not only in
regard to facts but epistolary correspondence, and displays in his style
of composition no sign of being word-forsaken; but he has little juice
in him, is hard and dry of mind, and exhibits no vision into the soul of
Goldsmith, no capacity to clutch the living lineaments of his character.
Forster’s biography is a work of more intellectual pretensions; and the
narrative of Goldsmith’s life, the criticism on his various works, and
the numerous anecdotes relating to the politics and literature of the
time, are done with an ability we could not but expect from a man of
Forster’s mental powers and accomplishments: but unfortunately the
subject was one in which his mind had little real sympathy, and,
accordingly, the whole book, as far as it refers to Goldsmith, is
pervaded by affectation and sentimentality. The style is made up of
Carlylisms and Macaulayisms, and further depraved by a sickly cant of
sympathy with the poor—which cant bears evidence of being written by a
man in extremely comfortable circumstances. But Irving is, in
intellectual constitution, sufficiently like Goldsmith to comprehend him
thoroughly, and his biography, therefore, has the truth and consistency
of dramatic delineation, without any parade of knowledge or sentiment.
With exquisite refinement of thought, and simplicity of narrative, it
exhibits the gradual growth of Goldsmith’s mind and disposition under
the tutorship of experience, and so clear is the representation, that
the dullest eye cannot miss seeing the essential features of the
character, and the dullest heart admiring them.
It is almost needless to say that the style is lucid, graceful and pure,
with that “polished want of polish” in the selection of the words, which
indicates a master in diction. The spirit breathed over the work is
genial and sympathetic, and while it throws a charm around Goldsmith,
makes the reader in love with Irving. The selections from Goldsmith’s
letters and writings, introduced as illustrations of events in his life,
and qualities of his character, do not stand apart from the biographer’s
text, but rather seem to melt into it, and form a vital portion of the
work. Irving has avoided the fault of the other biographers, in not
admitting extraneous matter, and rejecting every thing which does not
strictly relate to Goldsmith. The sketches of men, and descriptions of
English life and manners, which he introduces, are all illustrative of
the circumstances and position of his author. Among these, the remarks
on Johnson, Langton and Topham Beauclerc, and the account of the
Literary Club, are the most felicitous.
In the last chapter of the volume, Irving sums up, with great delicacy
and discrimination, the various qualities of Goldsmith, and presents,
with a loving pen, his claims upon the reader’s esteem. We cannot
refrain from quoting the concluding remarks, both for their beauty and
justice. “From the general tone of Goldsmith’s biography, it is evident
that his faults, at the worst, were but negative, while his merits were
great and decided. He was no one’s enemy but his own; his errors, in the
main, inflicted evil on none but himself, and were so blended with
humorous, and even affecting circumstances, as to disarm anger and
conciliate kindness. Where eminent talent is united to spotless virtue,
we are awed and dazzled into admiration, but our admiration is apt to be
cold and reverential; while there is something in the harmless
infirmities of a good and great, but erring individual, that pleads
touchingly to our nature; and we turn more kindly toward the object of
our idolatry, when we find that, like ourselves, he is mortal and frail.
The epithet so often heard, and in such kindly tones, of ‘poor
Goldsmith,’ speaks volumes. Few, who consider the real compound of
admirable and whimsical qualities which form his character, would wish
to prune away its eccentricities, trim its grotesque luxuriance, and
clip it down to the decent formalities of rigid virtue. ‘Let not his
frailties be remembered,’ said Johnson, ‘for he was a very great man.’
But, for our part, we rather say, ‘let them be remembered,’ since their
tendency is to endear; and we question whether he himself would not feel
gratified in hearing his reader, after dwelling with admiration on the
proofs of his greatness, close the volume with the kind-hearted phrase,
so fondly and so familiarly ejaculated, of Poor Goldsmith.”
* * * * *
_Bulwer and Forbes on the Water Treatment. Edited, with
Additional Matter, by Roland S. Houghton, M. D. New York; Geo.
P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
This volume is published especially for the benefit of literary and
professional men, to whom the editor dedicates it. As it is addressed
“to those who think,” there is a natural disposition on the part of the
reader to think with the editor. The most entertaining piece in the
volume is Bulwer’s letter, in which the author of Pelham, after
describing the melancholy condition of his health under the regular
practice, gives his experience as a Water Patient. The other articles
are more elaborate and learned disquisitions on Hydropathy, written by
physicians; and whatever may be the opinion of the reader as to the
merits of the water cure as a medical science, he cannot fail to obtain
much valuable information about bathing, and many strong inducements to
look after the health of his skin.
* * * * *
_Story of a Genius, or Cola Monti. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1
vol. 16mo._
This is a little story somewhat after the manner of Miss Sedgwick’s
delicious juvenile tales, evidencing not merely a laudable purpose in
the moral, but no mean powers of characterization, and a considerable
knowledge of practical life. Cola, the slight dark-eyed Italian boy, the
genius of the story, and Archibald McKaye, the youth marked out for a
mercantile profession, are both well delineated; and the idea of
bringing them together as natural friends is an anticipation of that
union between artist and merchant which we trust will soon be more
common in real life.
* * * * *
_The Child’s First History of Rome. By E. M. Sewell, Author of
Amy Herbert, &c. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._
Miss Sewell has performed, in this little volume, a difficult task,
showing throughout that she understands what few authors of children’s
books seem to comprehend—a child’s mind. A series of histories,
composed on similar principles, would be a positive and permanent
addition to the literature of youth. The authoress, not being “above her
business,” but having her audience constantly in her mind, has succeeded
in avoiding every thing which would make her narrative obscure to
children, and her style mirrors events in the light they ever appear to
boys and girls. The account of the death of Cleopatra is one out of many
examples of this felicity. In the following extract the very tone of a
child’s mind is caught and expressed. “Shortly afterward an officer
arrived from Octavius. The first thing he saw when he entered the room
was Cleopatra, dressed in her royal robes, stretched lifeless upon a
golden couch. She had killed herself by means of an asp, a kind of
serpent, which was brought to her in a basket of figs, and the sting of
which was deadly. Iras was lying dead at the feet of her mistress; and
Charmian, scarcely alive, was placing a crown upon her head. ‘Was this
well done, Charmian?’ inquired the messenger of Octavius. ‘Yes,’ replied
Charmian, ‘it is well done, for such a death befits a glorious queen.’”
The volume, in addition to the simplicity of its narrative, bears
evidence of having been compiled from good authorities; and if
extensively read by the juvenile public, will be likely to make most
children more informed in regard to Roman history, at least, than the
majority of parents.
* * * * *
_A Lift for the Lazy. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
Few readers will have modesty enough to acknowledge publicly that this
brilliant volume is addressed to them, but doubtless a great many,
convicted by conscience, will take a sly peep into it to see if it
really meets their wants. In truth, the author has contrived to embody
in it much curious information, which the most industrious scholars have
either forgotten or never acquired. It contains about five hundred
scraps of knowledge, collected from a wide field of miscellaneous
reading, some of which are valuable, some quaint, some sparkling, and
all entertaining. We have only space to extract one specimen of the
author’s style, and that illustrative of his way of relating an
anecdote. Under the head of “Congreve Rockets,” he remarks, “These
destructive implements of war were invented in 1803, by Sir William
Congreve. On a certain occasion, when visiting Westminster Abbey, in
company with some ladies, his attention was directed by one of the party
to the inscription on the great composer, Purcell’s monument: ‘He has
gone to that place where only his music can be excelled.’ ‘There, Sir
William,’ said the young lady, ‘substitute _fire-works_ for _music_, and
that epitaph will answer for yourself.’”
* * * * *
_Scenes where the Tempter has Triumphed. By the Author of “The
Jail Chaplain.” New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._
Here is a book, replete with morality and religion, in which a view of
human nature is taken as it appears to an observer posted in a jail or
on the gallows. There are nineteen chapters, each devoted to the
narrative of a different person and a different crime, and each as
interesting as one of Ainsworth’s novels, and as moral as one of
Baxter’s Sermons. A book which thus addresses two large classes of
readers can hardly fail to succeed. We should think it an admirable text
book for Sunday-Schools in Texas. It places before every criminal’s eye
a more or less distant view of the jail and gallows, and is thus really
“an awful warning to the youth of America,” and differs essentially from
the “Pirate’s Own Book,” “The Lives of Celebrated Highwaymen,” and other
piquant books of the rascal department of letters.
* * * * *
_The Stars and the Earth; or Thoughts upon Space, Time, and
Eternity. Boston: Crosby & Nichols._
This is a small volume of eighty-seven pages crammed with thought. It
appears to have excited much attention abroad, and to have passed
rapidly through three editions. The speculations of the author are grand
and original, having a solid basis on undoubted facts, and conducting
the mind to results of “great pith and moment.” We have no space to make
an abstract of what is in itself an epitome, but advise all our readers,
who have thought on the subject of space and time, to obtain the work.
Its style is a transparent medium for the thought, and its meaning
stupidity itself can hardly miss. It requires neither a knowledge of
mental or physical science to be comprehended, though it is an addition
to both; and it removes some difficulties which have troubled all
reflecting minds.
* * * * *
_Retribution; or the Vale of Shadows. A Tale of Passion. By Emma
D. E. Nevitt Southworth. New York: Harper & Brothers._
Judged by its own pretensions as a tale of passion, this work has
considerable merit, and is worthy of a more permanent form than the
pamphlet in which it is published. The mode which the Harpers have
adopted of issuing all novels in this uncouth shape, in order to reduce
their price to twenty-five cents, is an unfortunate one for the success
of a new novelist like the accomplished authoress of the present story.
No man of taste, who has regard for his eyesight, is likely to read
pamphlet novels, unless the author be celebrated; and the circulation of
a book like the present, is therefore likely to be confined to persons
who are not in the habit of discriminating very closely between one
novelist and another, provided both be readable, and consume a certain
portion of leisure time. Whenever an American author produces a work of
fiction as meritorious in respect to literary execution as
“Retribution,” it ought to be issued in a form which will enable it to
take its appropriate place in American literature.
* * * * *
_History of the United States of America. By Richard Hildreth.
New York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 2. 8vo._
This volume ends at about the commencement of the Revolution. It is
written in the same style, and on similar principles, as the first
volume, which we noticed a short time ago. The work is, at least, worthy
the praise of condensation, there being included in the present volume,
a narrative of the events occurring in all “the Colonies during the
period of a hundred years.”
* * * * *
_Letters from the Allegheny Mountains. By Charles Lanman. New
York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
The author of this agreeable volume is well known as an essayist and
tourist. The present work is mostly made up of letters originally
contributed to the National Intelligencer, and, as a record of first
impressions of scenery and manners, has a raciness and truth which a
more elaborate treatment of the subject might have wanted.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.
_Robes de M^{me}._ Bara Bréjard, _r. Laffitte, 5_;
_Chapeau et bonnet de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Fleurs de_ Chagot
ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81_.
Graham’s Magazine]
* * * * *
WAKE, LADY, WAKE,
A SERENADE.
MUSIC COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO
BY B. W. HELFENSTEIN, M. D.
Presented to “Graham’s Magazine,” and respectfully dedicated to the
readers thereof, by the Author.
[Illustration]
Wake, lady, wake, thy lover true
On wings of love has flown to you;
How sad each night, how dull each day,
Since
[Illustration]
he has been from you away;
Wake, lady, in thy beauty bright,
Outshine the silv’ry moon to-night.
SECOND VERSE.
How drear the months that I have passed
Since in these arms I held thee last,
Since those dear balmy lips I pressed,
And strained thee to my throbbing breast;
Come with thy eyes of melting blue,
More bright than radiant orbs of dew.
THIRD VERSE.
Come, lady, come, this is the hour
That Love has placed within our power;
Renew our vows, complete my bliss,
And seal the contract with a kiss;
And then beneath our roseate bower,
Thou’lt shine my fairest sweetest flower.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been
corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.
For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 255, and speak him ==> and speak to him
page 257, that courge would fail ==> that courage would fail
page 260, and sung to him, ==> and sang to him,
page 267, not the slighest scruple ==> not the slightest scruple
page 268, femine refinement were ==> feminine refinement were
page 270, give me the sweatmeats ==> give me the sweetmeats
page 273, was actully a delightful ==> was actually a delightful
page 273, or exibit at home the ==> or exhibit at home the
page 274, hues, to soon have ==> hues, too soon have
page 276, reigning in his steed, ==> reining in his steed,
page 277, his path their suddenly ==> his path there suddenly
page 278, reigning in his horses ==> reining in his horses
page 278, thee, Effie,” immediately ==> thee, Effie,” then immediately
page 279, _pour passer le tems_, ==> _pour passer le temps_,
page 283, a terestrial paradise to ==> a terrestrial paradise to
page 283, simple, unforseen accidents, ==> simple, unforeseen accidents,
page 284, sold his warbrobe to ==> sold his wardrobe to
page 289, heaven rung with the ==> heaven rang with the
page 305, and Antartic Circles. The ==> and Antarctic Circles. The
page 309, depòt, I saw on the ==> dépôt, I saw on the
page 312, Miss Sewall has performed ==> Miss Sewell has performed
page 312, visiting Westminster Abby, ==> visiting Westminster Abbey,