Derwent had now an object for which to struggle, and nobly did he labor

for the great end he had in view. The fall and winter he devoted to

assiduous study, taking no relaxation except what was necessary for

health, visiting nowhere; his sole solace being a weekly letter to Miss

Stanhope. Her replies still breathed unabated affection. High as was the

estimate he had placed on her abilities, they fell short of the reality

as he discovered by this correspondence, and proud was he that such a

woman was some day to be his wife.

Nor did that day appear far distant. His knowledge of European languages

brought him several foreign clients, whom other lawyers were unable to

converse with; and one of these clients placed a case in his hands which

he won, and which from the large claim at risk, as well as from the

abstruse points of law involved, brought him much reputation. His

business increased so fast that he wrote to Miss Stanhope:

“Congratulate me, I have gained the first move in the game, and am now

considered a hard-working lawyer; I am already able to offer you a home,

but let us wait another year that we may be certain.”

And she replied—“I have placed my fate in your hands, and rejoice to

find you all I hoped. Dear Derwent, you are more precious to me now than

if worth millions, since you have shown that you are something more than

an idler.”

About a month after Derwent received this letter, a note was brought to

him, the superscription of which was in the handwriting of his mistress.

He opened it with emotion, for he knew from it that she had arrived in

New York. The delicate little missive contained but three lines:

“Come to me: I am in New York; my present home is No. — , Union

Square.”

“Who does she, or rather Miss Arnott, know in Union Square?” he said. “I

expected to be summoned to the Astor or the Irving.” He thus

soliloquized as he drew on his gloves.

It does not take an expectant lover long to walk two miles; so Derwent

found himself, in half an hour, at the door of a magnificent mansion, on

which he saw, with bewilderment, the name of “Stanhope.” Just as he had

rung the bell an elegant private carriage drove up, and Miss Stanhope

herself stepped out. He looked for Miss Arnott to follow, but she did

not. His mistress was quite alone. The servant obsequiously bowed, and

showed the way into the drawing-room, whither, first giving her hand to

Derwent, Miss Stanhope led our hero, his amazement increasing as a

strange, wild suspicion, which the name on the door had first suggested,

grew stronger within him.

His affianced bride laughed musically at his perplexity; and leading him

to a _tête-à-tête_ said, as she laid her hand fondly on his shoulder:

“Are you astonished? Will you believe me when I tell you that all this

is mine? You have thought me a pattern of frankness, dear Derwent, yet I

have been deceiving you for a whole year; making you work, when I had

enough for us both. But I wished to test you; and now that I have found

you even more than I hoped, and that I love you better than ever, you

will not,” she continued, looking up archly into his face,—and, truth

must be told, positively kissing him—“disown me, even though I am

co-heiress with my cousin, in my own right, to twenty thousand a year.”

How would you have acted reader? We will tell you how Derwent did; he

took the beautiful creature in his arms, and blessed her over and over

again. Blessed her, not for her fortune, but for her having taught him

to rely on himself, and not to live the idle life of a mere man of

fortune.

“And you will still follow your profession, and win an even greater

name?” said his lovely mistress, her fine eyes kindling with enthusiasm.

“I want a husband I can be proud of, and I know I have found such a one

in you.”

Derwent made the promise, and she continued—

“As a girl, I wished to be loved for myself rather than my fortune; and

my scheme of going to Newport, as my cousin’s poor companion, was the

result of that desire. There I found one whom I felt had but one fault,

and that was idleness. There I found you preferring the penniless girl

to the rich cousin. But I saw you wasting your fine powers away in a

life of mere fashion, and was hesitating whether I ought not to strive

against my increasing affection, when your ruin”—she hesitated, and

then added quickly, blushing roseate over face, neck, and bosom—“but

you know the rest.”

Derwent has now no superior as an orator, and has declined a nomination

to Congress, because even higher honors are open to him. His wife loves

him more devotedly than ever, and is still as beautiful as when known as

THE BELLE OF NEWPORT.

* * * * *

I’M DREAMING NOW.

Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now,

And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow,

While brightly love-phantoms before me shine,

And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine.

Light carols the Future—I echo its lay,

And am happy and glad as a young child at play.

Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now,

A shade from the _past_ presses cold on my brow:

I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear;

And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear.

Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,

As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.

Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,

And _Care’s_ darksome shadow steals over my brow;

My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,

And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:

With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,

Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.

Speak boldly and free—_I’m not dreaming now_;

_Reality’s_ signet is stamped on my brow:

Gone, _gone_ are Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;

The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!

With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,

I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters of _wo_.

CHROMIA.

* * * * *

THE ADVOCATE OF LOVE.

BY CAROLINE C——.

“These things write we unto you that your joy may be full.”

Let us by earnest thought, make this fleeting hour of a fleeting

existence sacred to the memory of the Evangelist. For to the striving

actors of the “living present,” the past can offer few better gifts than

the scripture “record” of this “good man’s life.”

He was one other of that band of obscure fishermen, who, adorned with

none of the pride and pomp of official station—destitute of all the

attractions of wealth—distinguished by none of the refinements and

graces of cultivated life, appeared before the astonished people and

rulers of Judea and all the East, suddenly gifted with such miraculous

powers as enabled them to proclaim, and enforce, the most important

truths on the minds of a nation, which counted itself, in every respect,

far beyond all necessity of instruction.

Rightly to study and to estimate the record of St. John, cannot prove to

us a profitless task; a deeper feeling than admiration, and an exalted

appreciation that will not subside into mere respect for him, is sure to

be aroused. The conviction will _force_ itself upon a searcher after

truth, of the exceeding beauty and excellence of the character of this

Apostle, and disciple—the brother of James—the son of Zebedee and

Salome—the fisherman of the Sea of Galilee—the man to whom was

revealed the volume of deep mysteries—the meek, attentive,

self-forgetful follower, whom Jesus loved.

He lived through all those convulsions, wondrous and terrible, that

marked the first century of the Christian era; and when was he found

wanting in that indomitable courage that suffered and endured _all_

things for the love of the blessed Jesus? True, it is recorded that when

alone in the place of banishment, the Angel of the Lord appeared before

the exiled man, uttering the divine proclamation, “I am Alpha and Omega,

the beginning and the ending—which is, which was, and which is to come,

the Almighty,” he fell as one dead at the angel’s feet. What then?

Dwells there a mortal on the earth, whose spirit and whose form would

not perforce bow before the messenger of Jehovah, crushed by the thought

of utter impotency and nothingness? Indeed one might well be called

fool-hardy, and idiotically bold, rather than really brave, who could

look unabashed and undismayed upon the “terrors of the Lord,” and on

“the glory of His power.”

John had not perhaps the ever-glowing ardor of the great Peter—his

career may not have been marked by the constantly self-possessed bravery

with which that Apostle every where, and at all times, stormed the

citadels of Satan, casting in all directions his weapons of spiritual

defiance, and carrying on unceasingly what was most emphatically a

warfare; but we are not told that he ever denied his Master; we have no

proof, we receive no intimation that he was ever a weakly or blindly

zealous preacher, or one unreasonably secure in his powers. Never was he

a withholder of the truth when once it was revealed to him—and not an

inefficient leader in the valiant army of the saints—no weak defender

of the moral rights of man, and the sacred truths of eternal life.

And to whose written or spoken words shall we turn, to find a better

exemplification of the milder truths, and the more endearing graces, of

that faith, of which our Saviour is the chief corner-stone, than to the

record of John the Evangelist.

The language he almost invariably adopted to address lost sinners, was

not that of denunciatory wrath or of stern condemnation—but rather was

it mild, persuasive, gentle and loving, such as tended to soften and win

the rebellious heart, rather than terrify it and repel. The great truths

of religion as uttered by his lips, were the love and infinite

compassion of God—the constant care with which He watches over and

provides for all things created; the readiness and joy with which He

ever listens to the cries of those who in a right spirit draw nigh to

Him.

Never, or very rarely, did he seek to frighten and compel sinners to

repentance, by proclaiming to weak and helpless beings the wrath of a

God who would surely destroy if they did not instantly yield their

allegiance. He did not, to add force to an argument which in itself he

conceived all-powerful, strive to make predominant in the minds of

terrified hearers the thought of the avenging arm uplifted—the bright

sword suspended over the heads of all offenders, threatening to cut them

instantaneously from the land of the living. Nor was it the lake of

eternally burning fire, nor the deep, dark, dreadful pit, nor the

everlasting torments, nor the never appeased wrath of God—nor the

undying worm, that he made the themes of his eloquent appeals. Ah, no!

but ever was his voice heard urging the beloved in Christ’s name to be

reconciled to God; the mild eyes fixed on the people, who _could not_

listen unmoved to his pleading words, and the gentle voice, was sounding

in their ears who had been deaf to sterner commands, like sweet and

never to be forgotten melody. And tears were shed, and groans were

heard, when he stood like an angel of light and of mercy amid the

unrepentant and unforgiven.

Childlike, pure-minded, and kind, and charitable in his dealings with

the most grievous sinner, as he delivered the doctrine of redemption it

became peculiarly the doctrine of reconciliation. And yet, the

gentleness and affectionateness of John’s nature, evinced in his every

word and deed, may not be taken as a proof, or as a support, of the idea

that either personally or spiritually he was a coward!

It was surely no evidence of a weak or trifling character, the readiness

with which in his early manhood he listened to and obeyed the Saviour’s

“follow me.” Could we even for a moment suppose that his mind was cast

in a mould so weak as would render him unable to resist any command

made, with a show of superior power? Speedily that thought would die

away in the reflection, that no power or authority on earth could in

such case have held him steadfast to his vows, till the shadows of a

century clustered around him! To the cause which he espoused that

morning when the people’s Heavenly Teacher promised that He would make

them “fishers of men,” he cleaved steadfast, through persecutions and

fiery trials innumerable, until worn out by many toils, and many years,

he died. The love of God, revealed by his son, Jesus, extended to

miserable, erring man, was the great truth that first touched and won

his heart; and it was because he fervently believed that the marvellous

mercy of God could not be otherwise than powerfully efficacious in

turning sinners from the ways of death, that he so constantly presented

that blessed thought to the mind of his hearers. In the recesses of his

once darkened mind had penetrated the glorious mystery “God is Love.” To

a generous, lofty spirit, that truth having made his own peace, it was

the instant and abiding impulse, that he should always, and most

earnestly, _by_ that argument, urge the Christian duties on his fellows.

The recorded deeds of this missionary do not occupy so important or

prominent a place in the sacred pages as do those of Peter, and of Paul,

but by no means are we to consider him as gifted with less natural, or

less miraculous power; neither was he subordinate to them in any

particular.

When we think of these remarkable men, it is true, we are struck with

their boldness, and perseverance, and unconquerable energy—we regard

with admiring thought the action of their strong will, directed to the

attainment of the most holy, heavenly objects; but even such

contemplation does not take away the interest with which we consider

him, on whose manly nature was laid the crown of loving gentleness;

which, when we consider what his mission was, and what he taught, seems

peculiarly and beautifully appropriate, and renders his character

irresistibly attractive to whosoever studies it.

God and Love were the words graven on his spirit. Indeed, they were

terms almost synonymous to his apprehension. God was love—and love an

emanation from God, and these two, (if we may call them _separate_

thoughts) induced as great a result, and as strongly marked John’s

character, making so prominent the angelic features of his soul, as did

self-love and covetousness stamp that of Judas—as did defiance of evil,

and confidence in God’s justice, mark that of Paul; or, as did

persevering faith, and determination for victory, distinguish the career

of Peter.

His amiable and conciliatory nature did not exempt him from suffering,

any more than did the straight-forward boldness of the bravest disciple

of Christ. Distress and danger were _his_ hand-maids, as they were of

all who in that dark age advocated Christianity, and never could the

humility, kindness, and forbearance of John, by his most bitter enemies,

be construed into meanness, or to the promptings of a paltry spirit that

weakly cringed to the rich men and the powerful.

In that solemn hour when Judas went forth from the presence of the Lord,

convicted of his foul treachery, when the Saviour addressed to his

disciples the saddest words of prophecy, speaking to them in that tender

manner which won their deep attention, and lasting affection. He called

them “little children”—saying—“A little while and I am with you, ye

shall seek me, and as I said to the Jews, whither I go ye cannot come;

so now I say unto you. A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love

one another, as I have loved you. By this shall all men know that ye are

my disciples, _if ye have love one to another_.”

Not one of the eleven listened to those words in vain, but a deeper

impression seem they to have made upon the youngest of that honored

group, the holy John; for the sentiment of that most impressive address

was the burden of his thought and of his voice, to the last hour of his

life.

Among the weeping women who gathered around the sacred Cross, the

youngest disciple stood, notwithstanding his recent desertion, still the

object of his Master’s kind regard and favor. How lovingly did the

Saviour’s eyes rest upon the apostle—with what earnest emotion he

directed John’s attention to the Virgin Mother, saying to her, “Woman,

behold thy son!” and to John, “behold thy mother!” remembering even in

that hour of bitterest sorrow, to provide for her who had been the

guardian of his infancy, the fond, unfailing lover of his manhood.

To think on that obscure home of poverty, where the blessed Mother Mary

dwelt, with the beloved disciple!

Blessed indeed was she, most worthy to be held by all the world in an

ever affectionate remembrance; and yet, as a mortal woman, subject to

like infirmities, passions and sins, with all born of the flesh,

altogether unworthy adoration or worship!

What a communion of thought, and of hope, must there have been between

those two human beings, in the years when, as mother and son, they dwelt

together! With what inconceivable interest must the narratives of Mary

respecting the Redeemer’s early life, have fallen upon the ear of John,

when, after his fatiguing labors were for a brief time suspended, he

would return to his home, and to her! How must his heart have thrilled,

as he listened to the mournful words, and witnessed the regretful tears

with which she called to mind His days of helplessness—when he lay

beautiful in his weakness in her arms, and she knew that he was the Son

of God! Fraught with intense interest, as she related it, must have been

the story of that visit of the wise men from the East, of whose fame she

had often times heard, but whom she had always regarded as a superior

race of beings! How eagerly must he have listened to that tale which had

so many times been repeated in his hearing, of the shepherds who came in

the night time to worship Jesus. Of how, while they looked with so much

wonder and awe on the infant, so like in all respects to their own

children, their faith grew strong to recognize in Him, even while He lay

helpless in the manger, a mighty ruler—a lord over them all—a king

greater than any that had ever reigned on the throne of Israel.

And how must John have rejoiced as he beheld anew the proof of the

all-protecting power of God, when many spoke of that most opportune gift

of the wise men, which enabled the distressed parents to escape with

their child to the land of Egypt, where in safety they might dwell, far

removed from the cruelty of Herod.

As she told the faith that upheld both Joseph and herself when they set

out on that long, tedious journey toward the strange land, which had

proved a land of such dread bondage to their fathers, how greatly must

his courage have revived, how strengthened must have become his

confidence in God! And then, how must the desire, and the ability which

almost invariably accompanies strong desire to labor, have increased,

when John heard from Mary’s lips the story of the perseverance, humility

and diligence, with which her child had applied himself to learn his

father’s craft, how he had so faithfully labored to better the temporal

condition of his poor parents, giving thus to the whole world an example

of patient and uncomplaining perseverance, beneath the strong test,

poverty—and proving that when he adopted the nature of humanity, he did

not exempt himself from that dread curse pronounced on Adam, “by the

sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy bread.”

With no common emotion could that disciple have listened, when Mary told

of Jesus as he was in the years of his boyhood, while he was increasing

in stature, and in favor with God and man. With no unsympathizing ear

could he have heard her tell of those days, when she, with Joseph,

sought for the child with tears, finding him at last in the temple

questioning and arguing with the learned doctors and teachers!

And then, what sorrowful tears must they have wept together, as they

recalled the scene of His last bitter agony!

She, the mother, with a sorrow which at times would not be comforted,

lamented the child who was ever so affectionate, obedient and

truthful—the son of her heart, her pride, and her deep love—who, born

under the most adverse circumstances, had lived a life of great

exertion, of poverty, persecution, and deep sorrow, and oh, horrible and

most strange consummation of such a life! She had seen him, the

blameless and the perfect, ignominiously sacrificed upon the Cross, with

malefactors!

And John, the companion of that Saviour’s manhood, while with regretful

thought he pondered on all these things which had come to pass, still

buoyed up by a hope that never faded, would seek to comfort her,

repeating the kind words of encouragement _their Lord_ had spoken when

He was alone with the disciples. The mother mourned a son, such as never

was given to another parent—and the apostle wept over the memory of a

friend, whose like neither before or since His coming, has the world

ever seen!

Ah, never was there _such_ a mingling of thought, and of prayer, as in

that humble household!—never were such regret, and hope, and love

rising with the memory of one departed, as with His, whose image was so

devoutly shrined in their hearts!

When Mary, (unable always to merge her affection as a mortal mother, in

the thought that the risen Lord was no more _her son_, that as the

ascended God, he was to her only as to all the world, a Redeemer, a

Saviour, and a Judge) wept, as she remembered the “wonder child,” her

first born, whose infancy Joseph and herself had watched with the

fondest care, and with such an ever-present feeling of responsibility,

with what consoling words, taught him by that spirit which Jesus had

sent to all his apostles, must John have comforted her! And there was

efficacy in his words to calm the troubled waters of her soul, and the

“peace! be still!” he spoke, was singularly powerful to reconcile her,

to cheer, and to inspire with new hope.

For fifteen years, as is supposed by some, John dwelt in Jerusalem with

that woman, who to this day is honored of all who have received the

truth, and adored, and glorified, and worshiped by that church built on

the unfailing foundation, “the infallible Peter”—as its members

declare. Yes! and there are myriads who never heard that the great Cæsar

reigned once in power and magnificence—to whom the rulers and the

high-priests of that day are as though they never had been. There are

multitudes of these, who, even at this distant day, bow down to the very

dust to supplicate a blessing of Mary, the Mother of God!

Tenderly, as over an aged mother, did St. John watch her declining

years, providing for her comfort, soothing and cheering her heart, and

smoothing the pathway to her feet, as they tottered toward the grave.

But during all this time the apostle had not forgotten the duties of his

more important and more dangerous vocation.

In the great, the holy city, he had performed the duties devolving on

his ministerial office, with great encouragement. Though, with Peter, he

had suffered cruel imprisonment, and wicked men had not failed to

afflict, and torment him, by bringing evils in innumerable shapes upon

him—for in such ways did they seek to dissuade the apostles from

preaching, and the people from lending a listening ear.

Many times St. John had journeyed to the various churches scattered

round about, unfolding in every place where he sojourned the heavenly

message that was given him to reveal, but invariably he had returned to

Jerusalem, and to Mary, making his home with her.

As has been stated, it is supposed by many that at the expiration of

these fifteen years, the mother of Jesus died; and, that John then

removed from Jerusalem to Asia Minor, where he founded seven churches,

while he resided chiefly at Ephesus.

In this new scene of labor, St. John did not escape

persecution—surrounded, as he was, by a superstitious and idolatrous

people, danger and sorrow constantly attended and awaited him.

Neither was it given him to labor in a portion of the Master’s vineyard,

untroubled by the distress and misfortune that attended his distant

brethren. The tidings which from time to time came to him of the

progress of the holy work, and the welfare of those, who, from the

peculiar ties that bound them to him, he held most dear, were such as

caused his heart to ache, and his tears to fall, oftener than they

aroused his soul to gratitude, or his voice to thanksgiving.

And all this time the missionary was not continuing in the “vigor of his

youth;” old age was rapidly taking from him his strength, and his power

of exertion—but wondrous scenes were yet to be revealed to John before

his final departure. Jerusalem, the vast, proud city, whose destruction

the Jews held to be a thing impossible, when Jesus foretold its ruin,

deeming it the wildest and most absurd idea, that a misfortune so

overwhelming should overtake _them_. Jerusalem, the glory of monarchs,

and of whole generations of men; Jerusalem, the stronghold of pride and

intolerance, was destroyed!—completely despoiled, and ruined!

Many authorities agree that this signal punishment of sin occurred

seventy years after the death of Christ. Assuredly it _was_ a complete,

an awful visitation to those proud, rebellious, persecuting Jews, who

raised the cry—“His blood be upon us and on our children!” Never since

that time have they become a united, separate people—never yet have

they regained their country, or a shadow of their former power!

John had outlived all his apostolic brethren. And it was in that trying

time when the care of all the churches devolved upon him, that the

sentence of banishment was pronounced against him. It was like taking

the deputed shepherd, the watchful and careful guardian, away from a

helpless and wandering flock; for not well could be spared, at that

time, his vigilant eye, his loving heart. Especially needed then, was

his voice, to warn, to teach, to cheer, and to encourage. They who were

weak in the faith required to have much before their eyes that living

witness of the power of faith—the old man, who through so many years,

even from his youth, had fought a most excellent fight.

During the loneliness of his exile, the marvelous Revelation was

delivered to the veteran apostle. In a dreary island, uncheered by the

sound of human voices, those aged eyes beheld the glory of the Lord

revealed—saw the heavenly angel, heard the wondrous voice. It was there

those mysterious shadowings of things to come, were given him to spread

before all men. The voices of the prophets all were hushed—now came one

forth from the very presence of God, to prophecy great and wondrous

things indeed—to foretell the before unuttered secrets of time and

eternity; to “win souls to repentance,” by revealing one glimpse of the

blessed land, which needeth not sun, nor moon, nor candle—which the

smile of the Lord God illumines forevermore; to point out to the

hardened and presumptuous hearts of sinners the horrors of the second

death—to tell of the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is

unquenchable!

How strange to think of that white-haired man, severed from all he held

most dear on earth, distressed with constant tears for the firmness of

his repentant people, bearing in mind many beloved ones whom he yet

hoped to see bowing down to the mild sceptre of Jesus, and whom daily he

presented before the throne of God in prayer, and fearing ever for the

steadfastness of the churches he had established in the midst of the

idolatrous and unbelieving, and separated from all who through years of

friendly companionship had grown very dear to him.

Well nigh seventy years had passed since John, in the vigor of his

youth, had stood a horrified witness of the death of torture to which

the Almighty Master had submitted; and there he was, having passed

bravely through the raging sea of persecution, bearing up bravely under

all the infirmities of age, heightened by a life of exposure and

hardship, banished to an island where, we are not aware, was one

congenial companion to cheer his lonely hours; compelled, after so many

years of unceasing exertion, to what would at first, perhaps, seem a

most wretched kind of rest.

A wretched rest? dreary loneliness? Ah, no! such peace, such joy as the

most prosperous worldling never knew, made sweet and bright the days of

that man’s exile!

God the Father watched over him, assuring him, in the hour when his

mortal courage and strength utterly failed him, whispering “it is I! be

not afraid!” God the Son, the exalted, glorified Friend, was, though

invisible, ever nigh at hand! and John knew it, and as in a dream, he

heard the echo of the words the Saviour had once spoken on earth,

“Whatsoever ye ask the Father in _my_ name, He will give it you.” And

God the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, was ever near, sustaining and

cheering with a power nothing less than Almighty.

Was he alone, then? Alone! God was with him, a Friend, a Companion, a

Guide, a Consoler. Alone! Methinks in that banishment St. John could

scarcely have learned the meaning of the word!

Considering the subject of the Revelation delivered to him, we are

struck with the peculiar fitness attending all the circumstances of its

delivery.

To whom were the mystical words given? Not to a youth brave-hearted, and

fiery, whose feet were newly shod with the “preparation of the Gospel of

Peace.” Not to a man who had served the Lord Jesus for a few troublous

years, but to one who, from youth to extreme old age, had wrought in the

fields of his Master, bearing with all patience and meekness, the burden

and the heat of the day, and who now stood upon the very verge of the

grave! Observe, too, the _time_ that was chosen for the Revelation to be

made. It was not while St. John was borne down by anxiety, and exposed

every hour to danger, insult, and all that could distract his mind, but

when far-removed from the scene of his labors, it was impossible for him

to longer turn up the furrows of the field, or gather in the fruit ripe

for the harvest. And the place! far removed from his home, surrounded by

a quiet “deeper than silence is,” safe from persecution—away from the

jarring sights and sounds of a busy world.

Beholding under such circumstances a vision so wonderful, so miraculous,

listening for the first time to a voice whose sound was like the rushing

of many waters, it is neither a very strange thing, nor the slightest

evidence of a want of entire confidence and faith in God, that John fell

as one dead at the feet of the Son of Man, whose countenance was like

the sun shining in his strength.

Into that mystery of mysteries, the revelation of the Divine, it is not

my purpose now to look.

Its deep things which remain yet unsolved, I cannot flood with light,

and as regards much of the Revelation, far-reaching, keen, and subtle

minds, have endeavored (with how much of success it were best each

reader should determine for himself) to sweep back the clouds which hang

around that declaration of things that _have_ been.

Of those pages St. John has said, “Blessed is he that readeth, and they

that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are

written therein, for the time is at hand.” And surely we are not to

consider those words as applicable only to the Seven Churches to which

they were first addressed. And if, in all those pages so gorgeously

illumined with prophecy, there is advanced no truth the mind can

comprehend, save the record of the New Jerusalem’s glory, if that, and

the promise of the everlasting “rest of the saints,” only inspires the

reader to strive without ceasing for the blessings that await the

redeemed, it will surely not have proved a sealed volume to him.

There are none who _by searching_ may find out God, further than he in

his good pleasure chooses to reveal himself; but there can be no one who

is possessed of a “seeing eye,” or a “hearing ear,” who is incapable of

perusing this allegorical or highly figurative series of prophecies with

an uninterested or uninstructed mind and heart.

Who that has once read, can forget “the pure river of the water of life,

pure as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb?” or

who that toils on, wearing in weariness the burden of life, does not

rejoice to think of that “tree of life, the leaves of which are for the

healing of the nations;” and of that blessed land, whereof it is told

“there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, nor light of

the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign

forever and ever?”

Or who that would make a jest and a mock of sacred things, can read

without a thrill of terror of the “great white throne, and Him that sat

on it, from whose face the earth and heaven fled away, and there was

found no place for them;” and of the dead, small and great, whom he saw

stand before God, when the books were opened, and “the sea gave up the

dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which

were in them—and they were judged every man according to his works, and

death and hell were cast into the lake of fire?”

Was it strange that he to whom this marvel was revealed fell even as one

dead?

Overpowered by the glory of the “mighty angel,” the aged saint would

have knelt to worship him. So great was John’s reverence for his Maker,

that he felt constrained to render homage to his ambassador also. But

the angel said, “See thou do it not, for I am thy fellow-servant, and of

thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this

book—_worship God_!”

History says that “After Dominitian had reigned fifteen years, and Nerva

succeeded to the government, the Roman Senate decreed that the orders of

Dominitian should be revoked, and that those who had been unjustly

expelled should return to their homes, and have their goods restored.”

And among those banished men then recalled was St. John, who, with great

joy, returned again to Ephesus, bearing with him a scroll, that was to

him more precious than was in the eyes of Nerva the crown and the throne

which had fallen to him.

It is estimated that the Revelator was at this time ninety-seven years

old; but even then—and it is a fact on which the laggard may well

ponder—even then, though infirm, and struggling with the weariness of

years, gladly and zealously (as though he had but just received his

commission to labor,) did he set out on the homeward journey.

He was returning to his churches and his people; should he find them

faithful still, or would they all be gone astray? Would they receive him

as a friend who had taught them truths most blessed and welcome, or

would they meet him with cold words and scornful looks, and despitefully

treat him, as though they were ashamed to have been once beguiled by

what they now believed to be a foolish, senseless humbug?

Once more among that people, the doubts and misgivings which probably so

troubled the aged preacher on his homeward journey, were happily all put

to flight. The good work had gone forward, the prayers of repentance

were not hushed; the songs of praise which burst from the redeemed on

earth, so far from dying utterly away into a mournful silence, had

gathered strength and caught the tone of triumph! the voices of the

“ministers of grace” were still adjuring sinners by the love of God to

put away the thoughts and deeds of unbelief; the tears of men subdued by

the striving spirit were falling yet.

It was after his return to the field of his labor at Ephesus, as is

supposed, that John wrote his gospel, or a great portion of it, together

with the Epistles addressed to his brethren.

Even when the day of his death drew near, and the weakness of the

time-worn body prevented his moving among them, even then his spirit

labored, and they who so loved and reverenced him, feeling that when he

was among them their prayers would prove more “articulate in the ear of

heaven,” would bear him in their arms to the place of worship, that his

so dear, but feeble and faltering voice, might be yet once more heard

teaching them with words of inspiration.

Well might they love him who had spent himself in their service; well

might they venerate the aged preacher, and treasure up his mild and

peaceful words in their hearts; well might they give heed to the dying

entreaties of the saint, “Little children, keep yourselves from idols,”

and “love one another.”

In his one hundredth year the faithful missionary died, breathing his

last amongst the grateful people for whom he had so successfully

labored, and making them, and all the world, heirs of a treasure of

blessed example, by which whosoever shall be led, will not _need_ to go

through life,

“Forever sighing

For the far-off, unattained, and dim!”

because, in that case, Love, the first-born of the Father, will have

entered the heart, and in the brightness of her smile fruits will ripen,

which will certainly prove other, far other than the poor “apples of

Sodom.”

Is it a vain thing to urge upon the reader a careful examination of his

character, the scenes of whose life we have now so rapidly glanced over?

Is there, my beloved, no reason why we should turn our eyes to the

distant Past for lessons of wisdom, because the brightest sunlight

streams around us now?

Ah! whence come all these rumors of wars—these unlawful strivings after

power—these convulsions of governments—this inordinate seeking after

riches? Why art thou, oh earth, so disquieted within thee, when so many

centuries ago angels came unto thee, singing “_peace_ upon the earth?”

The Prince of Peace has lived and died, and now reigneth forevermore in

glory; the Prophets are also dead; and the Apostles—what, _are_ they

dead to us? Not so! they are “alive unto God!” and behold what they have

left to us in this world! A treasure-house, where are garnered riches

they have bequeathed to all posterity, which are vast enough to ransom

an enslaved world!

Within those jeweled gates, glistening and glowing in the light of the

Father’s smile, we may enter, we may take to ourselves what shining gems

we will, for, enriched as we shall be, the treasury will not be

impoverished—the riches there are exhaustless as is the compassion of

God.

Then why is it that we consume our years, our hopeful youth, our

powerful manhood, our perfected age, in a search that never yet, in any

case, has proved successful; hunting forever amid the sandy wastes of

time for what is constantly eluding our grasp? Why is it that we seek

continually a good that never satisfies? Why is it that we are ever so

averse to entering that place which is so radiant with the purest gold

and gems magnificent?

Oh, can it be because the portal is so narrow and so low, that we must

bend to the dust if we would enter, or because our worldly garments must

be flung aside, that we may say with truth, “we are miserable, blind,

and naked?” Is it because we are required to give to the winds the dust

which we have gathered through years of wasting toil? For, bearing only

the olive branch, freed from pride, from disbelief, from ingratitude,

thus only, _thus only_, may we enter the treasury of God!

By wisdom we shall seek the entrance-gate in vain. Faith and Love alone

can guide us. Had it been possible that the world should by the light of

wisdom know God, then had the multitudes who have followed the plausible

imaginings of their own hearts never perished so miserably! the

Celestial city had at this hour been revealed for the misguided ones,

who for years sought it carefully and with tears!

Oh! let us remember that it was Love that created us; it was Love that

redeemed us! And shall we madly refuse to know aught of that Divine

effulgence—that centre of all life—that light of the world—that God?

Through the coming ages, by the light of Revelation I behold the day

when He shall come again in power and great glory, to judge the

world—and it will be in _righteousness_!

Let us not deceive ourselves! God is Love, but He is also Justice! If

one of earth is saved, it will be through His boundless mercy; if we are

lost, only upon ourselves can be laid the burden of such unaccountable

folly.

* * * * *

THE ORPHAN.

BY CLARA MORETON.

“But of all the pictures, there were none as beautiful as ‘The

Orphan,’ by an unknown artist. The expression of _utter

loneliness_ depicted upon the serene, but pensive face, and that

of the soft blue eyes, revealing the heart’s yearnings for the

love it had lost, were touchingly beautiful.”—LETTER.

I am alone! in all the world

There’s none to care for me—

None who would miss my sad-voiced tone

If I should cease to be;

I am alone! yet in my heart

The founts of love o’erflow,

For all the lovely things of earth—

For all that’s bright below.

The tree that waveth from the woods—

The vine that clasps it round—

The bird that buildeth there its nest—

The wild flower on the ground—

I love them all; they need it not,

For they are not alone;

They know no grief—no loneliness—

No joys forever flown.

The melodies of earth I love;

The music breathing sea,

The wild wind’s loud and clarion notes,

The streamlet’s laughing glee.

Strange chords within my heart are swept;

Their echoes linger long,

Till I forget my lonely fate,

In gushes wild of song.

Oh, earth is very beautiful

In sunshine or in storm!

I only wish I had one heart—

One gentle loving form,

Which in dark hours of sadness

Would ever cling to me,

Even as clasps the humble vine

About the wild-wood tree.

* * * * *

THE END OF ROMANCE.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

She was beautiful, and pure of heart, but from her very infancy a child

of romance. In this short sentence is included a history of suffering,

and a broken-hearted death. I will call her Grace. She was my near

relative, and I loved her very dearly, though I could not always

sympathize with her wild idealities.

Sometimes, when we went out with a merry band of our school companions,

to range the hills, or gather flowers by the river’s brink, I have

missed her from our company, and on searching around, discovered her

seated in some sheltered nook, or on some picturesque eminence, so

wrapped in contemplation, that it was with difficulty she could be

aroused from her musings. I used to fear that she was laboring in the

incipient stage of some mental disease, and to dread that she would

become crazy.

As soon as she could read, she seized with avidity upon works of

romance, and sentimental poetry, and would talk so much

transcendentalism, that I used to doubt whether she understood herself,

or knew what she was wishing to express.

Her thoughts of heaven were beautiful as angels, and quite as

untangible; and her views of life were as unreal as the view of a

landscape when it is shrouded in a silvery mist. But in her eyes every

thing was beautiful, and pure, and full of love, just as she was

herself. From the every day things of life she seemed to shrink, as from

a copse of brambles; or, if she could not escape them, she would cover

them with wreaths of artificial flowers.

It was almost amusing to hear her, as she grew toward womanhood,

expatiate on the perfect happiness of fervent and mutual affection,

friendship, she named it thus, but the friend she had not found. I might

have been the one, only I could not understand her spirit, she said, and

of a truth I could not, and I much doubted whether she understood it

herself. But I frequently assured her that she would go all her life

mourning, for that the perfection she sought did not exist on earth.

But it was really distressing to hear her talk of love; “the perfect

adaptation, the blissful union of heart and soul, the blissful blending

of the whole being, the pure, unselfish devotion; and, finally, the

happiness, the certain, the enduring, the all-pervading happiness of

mutual and successful love.” She could not see that her parents, though

affectionate and devoted, were not always happy; she could not perceive

that all the married people of her acquaintance had cause for

dissatisfaction, and were more or less unhappy.

Finally, the beautiful imagery of her pure and loving nature began to

take form, and portray itself in song. She was a true poet, for she gave

voice to the real feelings and convictions of her soul; she was a

visionary poet, for all her feelings were of romance, all her

convictions were fanciful and extravagant. But time would have made of

these a real, as well as true poet, by chastening the romance,

dispelling the visions of fancy, and sobering the young spirit with the

lessons of experience and the teachings of reality. The seclusion in

which she passed her life, while it shielded her purity from the

heartless world’s contamination, afforded every facility for the

fostering of her constitutional romance of feeling. Shut up within the

little circle of her kindred and early friends, she knew nothing of the

deceit, the fickleness and selfishness of the human race; and her

opinions, formed from high colored novels, were all extravagant and

unreal.

Have you ever seen a country Miss appear in a city, dressed and adorned,

according to the pattern of the last fashion plate of the city magazine,

and presenting a perfect burlesque upon the real fashion of the day?

Just in this way was the mind of poor Grace furnished after the

exaggerated patterns of the heroines of romance. Well, her “destiny”

came at last. Her father was a noted member of one of our innumerable

Christian denominations, and his house was a resort of all the traveling

preachers of that particular sect. Grace believed them all to be, as

indeed they ought to have been, holy and sincere men, and delighted to

sit at their feet, as Mary of old sat, at the feet of Him whom they

called Master. Finally, a young and handsome man appeared amongst the

preachers. Gifted with an abundance of self-esteem, confidence in his

own merits, and considerable oratorical talent, Mr. Blane was creating a

great excitement wherever he went. He was precisely the man to take

captive such a woman as poor Grace. And she did worship him, trembling

upon his words, and living upon his smile. And he paid her every

flattering attention, induced her to read for him, and went into rapture

with the magnificence of her selections, and the pathos and justness of

her delivery. He praised her own poetic effusions with expressions of

ardent delight; and gave admiring assent to all her romantic dreams of

life, death, and heaven.

And she had found the brother of her soul, the kindred spirit after whom

she had been yearning ever. In this vision of bliss two whole years

rolled away; and then this same perfect Mr. Blane—this idol of her

soul—this sun of her existence—this cynosure of all her hopes, aims

and aspirations—sat calmly down beside her, and told that before he had

seen her, he had plighted his faith to one less excellent, less

beautiful than herself, but nevertheless pious, gentle, and pure. That

the time had arrived when his vows must be redeemed; but knowing the

ethereal loveliness of her nature, that it could harbor no earthly

passions, he felt confident his marriage would occasion no jealousy in

her angelic soul; and that though another must be his wife—she must

remain his familiar spirit; and he hoped the dear communion which had

been theirs so long, might continue uninterrupted through life, and

through eternity.

And so her heart was broken. She saw life a blank, and death the only

refuge from her agony, and in the romance of her broken hopes, she

resolved to die—not by any self violence, but by the cankering

broodings of a wounded spirit. She contemned all the precious things

that God had given her, because the idol that her fancy had made,

crumbled down to common dust. She counted as naught the strong, pure

love of her parents, her bright-eyed brothers, and gentle sisters; she

turned away from the consolations of long-tried and fervent friendship,

and wept away her hours in her solitary chamber—wandered alone, by

woodland and mountain, or sat in the dewy twilight upon the river bank.

Is it strange that consumption found her, that she faded away from the

tree of life, and with beautiful visions of heavenly beatitude, went

down to the silent house of death?—leaving hearts reft and bleeding,

duties unfulfilled, her place on earth vacant, and the honor which she

owed to God unpaid, and unredeemable. This was the end of Romance—which

is always a beautiful parasite, displaying its tender foliage and

fragile blossoms, at the expense of the soul in which its insidious

roots find nurture, weighing it down with an unprofitable burden,

concealing its symmetry and natural excellence, and wasting out the very

sap of its life.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

* * * * *

COLORED BIRDS.—THE GOLDEN ORIOLE.

FROM BECHSTEIN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

This species, the male of which is very beautiful, is about the size of

a blackbird. Its length is nine inches, of which the tail measures three

and a half, and the beak one. The head, neck, back, breast, sides, and

lesser wing-coverts, are of a brilliant golden yellow; the wings and the

tail are black, with yellow gradually increasing to the outer feathers.

The female is not so brilliant, the golden yellow is only visible at the

tip of the olive feathers in the tail, and in the lesser and under

wing-coverts. All the upper part of the body is of the green color of

the siskin, the lower part greenish white with brown streaks, and the

wings gray black.

HABITATION.—When wild, it generally frequents lonely groves, or the

skirts of forests, always keeping among the most bushy trees, so that it

is rarely seen on a naked branch; it always frequents orchards during

the time of cherries. It is a bird of passage, departing in families in

August, and not returning till the following May.[2]

In the house, if it cannot be let range at pleasure, it must be confined

in a large wire cage.

FOOD.—When wild, its food is insects and berries. In confinement, and

if an old one be caught by means of the owl, like the jays, it must be

kept at first in a quiet and retired place, offering it fresh cherries,

then adding by degrees ants’ eggs, and white bread soaked in milk, or

the nightingale’s food. But I confess there is great difficulty in

keeping it alive, for with every attention and the greatest care, I do

not know a single instance of one of this species having been preserved

for more than three or four months.

BREEDING.—The scarcity of the golden oriole arises from its breeding

but once a year. Its nest, hung with great art in the fork of a small

bushy branch, is in shape like a purse, or a basket with two handles.

The female lays four or five white eggs, marked with a few black streaks

and spots. Before the first moulting, the young ones are like their

mother, and mew like cats. If any one wishes to rear them, they must be

taken early from the nest; fed on ants’ eggs, chopped meat and white

bread soaked in milk, varying these things as their health requires, and

as their excrements are too frequent or too soft. In short, they may be

accustomed to the nightingale’s food. I must here remark that a very

attentive person alone can hope to succeed.[3]

ATTRACTIVE QUALITIES.—I have seen two golden orioles that were reared

from the nest, one of which, independent of the natural song, whistled a

minuet, and the other imitated a flourish of trumpets. Its full and

flute-like tones appeared to me extremely pleasing. Unfortunately, the

fine colors of its plumage were tarnished, which almost always happens,

above all if the bird be kept in a room filled with smoke, either from

the stove or from tobacco. One of my neighbors saw two golden orioles at

Berlin, both of which whistled different airs.

Its note of call, which in the month of June so well distinguishes the

golden oriole from other birds, may be well expressed by “ye, puhlo.”[4]

-----

[2] It is rarely found in Britain.—_Translator._

[3] These young birds like to wash; but it is dangerous for them to have

the water too cold, or to let them remain too long in it, as cramp in

the feet may be the consequence. In one which we possessed, the accident

was more vexatious as the bird was otherwise in good health, having

followed the above-mentioned diet.—_Translator._

[4] The natural song is very like the awkward attempts of a country boy

with a bad musical ear, to whistle the notes of the missel

thrush.—_Translator._

* * * * *

LEAVES IN OCTOBER.

BY EMILY HERRMANN.

The forest leaves are falling

Throughout the quiet day,

And dreamy haze is shutting

The outer world away;

They move along the sunlight,

Upon their shining cars,

With golden edges burning,

Like lines of midnight stars.

Slowly and silently, falling,

Dreamily floating by,

Down on mosaic mosses

Their purple vestures lie.

Move they in stately sorrow,

Out from their palace-home,

Where they reveled, alike in star-light

And when the day had come?

Sink they, in sad bereavement,

Along Despair’s dim shore,

Because to their sheltering shadow,

The young birds come no more?

The sunshine and the starshine,

Will seek their summer homes

Full oft, in pleasant weather,

And find them in their tombs.

The little birds will seek their

Well-remembered shadow,

And build their nests above them,

In the meshes of the meadow.

Like travelers benighted,

Where heaping snow-drifts lie,

They’ll wither all the winter

Beneath the open sky.

Like fated generations

They vanish, in a light

That flings a treacherous beauty

Above its deadly blight.

Like altars, strangely lighted,

That burn in human souls,

They shed their sparkling showers

Before the blackening scrolls.

As roses we have tended,

Though fainting in the noon,

Still kept a pleasant fragrance

Until the eves of June.

Our forest, from the summer,

Is fading in the frost,

And the glories of his dying

Are more than she could boast.

Here in their mottled shadows,

With bended heart and knees,

Sweet thought comes to my spirit

From out the aged trees.

It seems, when flesh is failing,

And Life folds up her wing,

That soonest, in these crimson tents,

We’d hear the angels sing!

And many a bright and tangled thread,

Here Fancy ever weaves,

And Faith lifts up her trustful eyes

Above the falling leaves;

She knows that, to her native hills

No blight can ever come,

That trees, with leaves of healing, rise

Forever round her home!

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANT CHILD.

Small, yellow leaves, from locust boughs,

Sprinkle the deep green grass,

Where drowsy herds, on a zigzag path,

To bubbling streamlets pass.

The earliest lamps of fire-flies

Grow dim with the rose of June,

Now droning pipes, of the insect tribe,

Practice an autumn tune.

The clover-blooms, ’mid scented grass,

Await the dews of night,

The western pane, through clustering vines,

Shines in the evening light.

Yet why so light the hurrying tread

Across yon entrance hall?

And why no more on the garden walk,

Do children’s shadows fall?

The little stranger’s fevered lips,

Like sound of struggling rills,

Murmur of far, familiar things,

Among his native hills.

His words go out on evening airs,

Where glancing leaves are still,

And sadly tones of a foreign land

In the pleasant homestead thrill:

“Weep not, dear mother! think how great

With Jesus Christ the joy.”

Thus, ’mid our changing forest, lies

The little German boy.

E. H.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

THE PELICAN.

The Pelican, (_Pelecanus Onocrotalus_) says Nuttall, the largest of

web-footed water fowl, known from the earliest times, has long held a

fabulous celebrity for a maternal tenderness that went so far as to give

nourishment to its brood at the expense of its own blood. Its industry

and success as a fisher, at this time, allows of a more natural and

grateful aliment for its young, and pressing the well-stored pouch to

its breast, it regurgitates the contents before them, without staining

its immaculate robe with a wound.

In America, pelicans are found in the North Pacific, on the coasts of

California and New Albion; and from the Antilles and Terra Firma, the

Isthmus of Panama and the Bay of Campeachy, as far as Louisiana and

Missouri. They are very rarely seen along the coast of the Atlantic, but

stragglers have been killed in the Delaware, and they are known to breed

in Florida. In all the far countries, they are met with up to the 61st

parallel of northern latitude. Indeed, in these remote and desolate

regions they are numerous, but seem to have no predilection for the sea

coast, seldom coming within two hundred miles of Hudson’s Bay. They

there, according to Richardson, deposit their eggs usually on small

rocky islands, on the banks of cascades, where they can scarcely be

approached, but still are by no means shy. They live together, generally

in flocks of from six to fourteen, and fly low and heavily, sometimes

abreast, at others in an oblique line; and they are often seen to pass

over a building, or within a few yards of a party of men, without

exhibiting any signs of fear. For the purpose of surprising their prey,

they haunt eddies near water-falls, and devour great quantities of carp

and other fish. They can only swallow, apparently, when opening the

mouth sideways, and sometimes upward, like the shark. When gorged with

food, they doze on the water, or on some sand shoal projecting into or

surrounded by it, where they remain a great part of their time in

gluttonous inactivity, digesting their over-gorged meal. At such times

they may be easily captured, as they have then great difficulty in

starting to flight, particularly when the pouch is loaded with fish.

Though they can probably perch on trees, which I have never seen them

attempt, they are generally on wing, on the ground, or in their favorite

retreat.

In the old continent, the pelican is said to rest on the ground in an

excavation near to the water, laying two or three, and rarely four eggs,

which are pure white, and of nearly equal thickness at both ends. Their

nesting in deserts remote from water, and the story of the parents

bringing water for their young in the pouch, in such quantities as to

afford drink for camels and wild beasts, appears only one of those

extravagant fictions, or tales of travelers, invented to gratify the

love of the marvelous. Yet so general is the belief in the truth of this

improbable relation, that the Egyptians style it the camel of the river,

and the Persians _Tacab_, or the water-carrier. The pouch of the pelican

is, however, very capacious, and besides drowning all attempts at

distinct voice, it gives a most uncouth, unwieldy, and grotesque figure

to the bird with which it is associated. The French very justly

nick-name them _grand gosiers_, or great throats; and as this monstrous

enlargement of the gullet is capable of holding a dozen quarts of water,

an idea may be formed of the quantity of fish it can scoop, when let

loose among a shoal of pilchards or other fish, which they can pursue in

the course of their migrations.

[Illustration: [Phaleris psittacula.]]

THE PERROQUET AUK. (_Phaleris Psittacula._)

One more specimen, and we have done with the whole family of the

_Alcasæ_; nor will we detain the reader long with its description. It is

the Perroquet Auk, of the sub-genus _Phaleris_, an inhabitant of the

dreary region of Bhering’s Strait, where multitudes of them may be

found. They are excellent divers and swimmers; but if we may believe the

sailors’ stories, not remarkably intelligent as to “trap,” since, when

the Indians place a dress with large sleeves near their burrows, they

mistake the said sleeves for their own proper habitations, creep in and

are taken. They resemble the other Auks in laying but one egg, which is

about the size of a hen’s, with brown spots on a whitish or yellowish

ground. The Perroquet Auk is eleven inches in length. It has a tuft of

white feathers extending back from the eye. The head, neck, and upper

plumage are black, shading into ash on the breast, under parts white,

legs yellowish. In the old bird the bill is red, while the young one has

it of a yellowish or dusky color.

* * * * *

LAMENT OF THE HUNGARIAN FATHER

OVER THE BODY OF HIS SON.

I may not weep for thee my boy, though thou art cold and still,

And never more thy gladdening tones this aged heart will fill;

For glorious was the fate of those who fell with thee that day,

When from thy bleeding country passed, all help, all hope away.

Thy spirit cannot wear the chain that those who live must wear,

Nor hear the sigh of them who breathe the dungeon’s noisome air,

Nor shudder at the orphan’s wail, whose mother is a slave,

Nor see her wo, whose only prayer is for the peaceful grave.

Yet hear me, spirit of my boy!—the grief that sheds no tear,

The gaping wounds of thy poor clay, call thee, this vow to hear:

That when from friends and country driven, my spell word still shall

be,

Hatred of those who made thee thus, hatred of tyranny.

And oh! if e’er a day will come, when roused to hope

Our scattered bands will close once more in battle on this plain,

Thy name, through all the swaying ranks, heard echoing o’er the fray,

Will fire anew each patriot heart to win a glorious day.

* * * * *

THE PHANTOM VOICE.

BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

“A low bewildering melody is murmuring in my ear.”

“_It is a phantom voice_:

Again!—again! how solemnly it falls

Into my heart of hearts!” SCENES FROM “POLITION.”

Through the solemn hush of midnight,

How sadly on my ear

Falls the echo of a harp whose tones

I never more may hear!

A wild, unearthly melody,

Whose monotone doth move,

The saddest, sweetest cadences

Of sorrow and of love.

Till the burden of remembrance weighs

Like lead upon my heart,

And the shadow on my soul that sleeps

Will never more depart.

The ghastly moonlight gliding,

Like a phantom through the gloom,

How it fills with solemn fantasies

My solitary room!

And the sighing winds of Autumn,

Ah! how sadly they repeat

That low, bewildering melody,

So mystically sweet!

I hear it softly murmuring

At midnight on the hill,

Or across the wide savannas,

When all beside is still.

I hear it in the moaning

Of the melancholy main—

In the rushing of the night-wind—

The “rhythm of the rain.”

E’en the wild-flowers of the forest,

Waving sadly to and fro,

But whisper to my boding heart,

The burden of its wo.

And the spectral moon, (now paling

And fading) seems to say—

“I leave thee to remembrances

That will not pass away.”

Ah, through all the solemn midnight,

How mournful ’tis to hark

To the voices of the silence—

The whisper of the dark!

In vain I turn some solace

From the constant stars to crave:—

They are shining on thy sepulchre,

Are smiling on thy grave.

How I weary of their splendor!

All night long they seem to say,

“We are lonely—sad and lonely—

Far away—far, far away!”

Thus through all the solemn midnight,

That phantom voice I hear,

As it echoes through the silence

When no earthly sound is near.

And though dawn-light yields to noon-light,

And though darkness turns to day,

They but leave me to remembrances,

That will not pass away.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY NINON.

When he who has trod o’er a desert of sand,

In the sun’s scorching fervor all fiercely that glows,

Sees far in the distance some fair fertile land,

As if ’twere an island of Eden that rose.

Where fountains all sparkling invite him to stay,

And quaff the bright waters that plenteously spring;

Oh, how he exalts in the breeze’s wild play,

That bears the pure spirit of health on its wings.

The blast of the desert unheeded sweeps by,

No terrors it bears to yon palm-sheltered isle;

And though fiercely the sun may look down from on high,

In its cool shady bowers he seems but to smile.

The balm-breathing dews on his canopy fall,

All sparkling as beauty’s celestial tear;

The bright dreams of Fancy his spirit enthrall,

And Araby’s visions are realized here.

’Tis morn, and the slumbers that wrapt him are fled,

His path o’er the desert once more he must find;

But when will a canopy o’er him be spread,

Like the desert-girt Eden he’s leaving behind.

Oh, thus in this wide waste of life do we grieve,

When the spirits we meet with congenial and kind,

Urged on by the stern hand of destiny, leave

The hearts that had loved them in sorrow behind.

The wound may be healed and the pain be allayed,

And spirits as fair may our pathway illume;

But ne’er in such splendor by Fancy arrayed,

As they whom we met in affection’s first bloom.

Oh, change not too lightly the home of the heart,

Nor rashly the bonds of affection untwine,

Lest the spirit of Love from thy bosom depart,

And come not again to so worthless a shrine.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

MY DEAR JEREMY,—I wish you a happy New Year! and yet few of us perhaps

really know, when we receive this accustomed salute, in what particular

thing consists our happiness; or how to appropriate, or more properly to

give a designation to, the wishes of the offerer. We all of us have

something to hope for, something to strife after, in defiance of the

good that Providence has showered upon us—the vain longing, if you

please, after something the heart worships—when the heart’s worship

should be fully met—and is—at our own fire-side. The moment we shut

our door behind us in the morning, we are on the broad sea of human

hopes and fears, and looking over the wide waste of waters, fix our

minds upon a port to us desirable—having really raised anchor, and left

the only haven worth having behind us. A happy New Year, then, to you

_and yours_! God’s benison on you all! and may the shadows, which flit

between us all and heaven, rest lightly upon your roof; for in this

selfish world, we all have our eyes so much to the clouds, which rest

upon us and ours, that it is well that we should at least give once a

year, a God bless you! to our fellows—and, taking in a wider range of

humanity in our vision, smile kindly, even where the sun is darkest,

upon our brother, and _wish_—nay, is that all?—_help_ him to

_be_—happy.

To be more personal—selfish if you please—in good wishes—we of

“_Graham_” have rather a propensity to the way of happiness—for so

rich, so multitudinous, are the tokens in that way, in the shape of both

wishes and remittances, that in prospect of our turkey—we should be

worse than Turks—to be thankless. Out of the abundance of the heart,

therefore, our mouth speaketh—_a happy New Year to all of our friends!_

In my last, I chose to depart somewhat from my usual course, and instead

of writing to you of abstractions, to present to you, all and singular,

the claims of the magazines. The lofty position which I assumed for

“Graham” you will see more than verified in this number. There is such a

thing, you know, as Mahomet coming to the mountain; and even looking, as

we have, at the lofty pretensions, and somewhat boisterous boastings of

our cotemporaries, we choose, in this instance, to show them that there

is a loftier peak than that which their inflated ambition has reached.

In short, to show them that while even Homer may nod, he never proves

stupid in the midst of supremacy. Having for years stood upon the

topmost summit of American approbation, and of high success, we are

willing for a while to witness the struggles of the pigmies below; but

when their shout of triumph grows too vociferous, we feel inclined to

check the enthusiasm with a full blaze of our glory.

Behold us, then, in JANUARY; and let your tardy praise step up and do us

justice. Is it supposable, or allowable, that with the high position we

have attained, others starting from the ground—groundlings as they

are—are to split the ears of night uninterruptedly with the senseless

jargon of their own praise? When all around us, above and below, we hear

the united voices of men, loud, uninterrupted, unanimous in our behalf,

shouting out and proclaiming the treason and the folly.

Why, my dear Jeremy, what are the paid puffs—what the puffs solicited

by printed circulars—and self-praise thrust upon the timid, to

us?—when every mail from old post-towns, and old friends, and from new,

brings renewed and additional pledges of the fast hold that “Graham” and

his friends have upon each other. Why, in other words, should we fear

the vain-glorious boasts that ring in the ears only of the dupes who are

deceived by appearances? And if we arouse once in a while, and show our

strength, it is but as the lion, to shake the flies from his sides, and

to take his own repose securely in defiance.

Look at the present number with which we start the volume for the new

year; has not every thing that the artistic skill of engravers could

attain—all that the best pens of the country could accomplish, been

done for “Graham?” We venture to say that no periodical, that is issued

from the press for this month—for any month—will at all approach it in

the real beauty and general excellence of its appointments. It is a gem!

and a gem far above the ordinary taste of our imitators. Look, if you

please, at the skill of Mr. Tucker, as evinced in the leading

embellishment (both in design and execution!)—how far is it not above

all that is presented elsewhere? Look again at the fine skill evinced in

all the engravings of the number! at the exquisite coloring and the

beauty of our Fashion-plate and Birds! and tell me, honestly, is there

any thing in the tawdry and gaudy coloring of our contemporaries to be

spoken of in comparison?

The year that has just closed, although one of great competition, has

proven the hold that a long and uniform management of this Magazine has

given it upon the American readers. It has not been, nor will ever be,

conducted with a fit and flash policy—one year bad, the next good;

alternating by neglect or caprice—_but ever the same, through all its

years_, a dignified, sterling, illustrated work, worthy at all times,

and in every number, of marked approval and regard.

The truth—or the wisdom—of our course, has been made manifest to us,

during the past ten years, by the steady increase and permanent position

of Graham’s Magazine; while its would-be rivals are fluctuating between

small and large editions, or are dying out around it. We may safely say

that we have never yet _felt_ that this Magazine has had a _rival_ in

the line it has marked out. Others differ from it in the flippancy of

their tone and flimsiness of material or character, or are as solemn as

a death’s bell, while the engravings which adorn them are as out of

place as flowers over the head of the dead.

Graham’s has always—so says public approval—hit the happy medium

between lightness and the more solid and useful; and keeping always in

mind the importance of a national tone, has touched the right chord in

the temper of the nation, and established itself as the most

popular American Magazine of the graceful and elegant class to

which it gives tone, and which it has thus far sustained.

Our past year has been one of most unexampled success—yet we have made

no boisterous announcements of it—for success with us is no novelty.

Our readers must pardon us if we do not grow frantic upon the accession

of a few thousand new subscribers, for the novelty of the feeling has

been worn off by the constant and continued inducement to its exercise:

it has become a matter of course, because _we do our duty by our readers

always_—and on the constantly increasing reading population of this

country, our drafts on at least one-third of them, are regularly honored

with each recurring year.

But for the year 1850, we have consummated such arrangements with

artists and writers, that we really feel not only proud, but inclined to

boast in anticipation, and as a great deal will be said by others as to

the splendor of their _intentions_ toward their readers, _we hereby

throw down the challenge and ask them to equal Graham’s Magazine_, in

the elegance of its engravings, the high character of its literary

matter, the extreme beauty of its fashions, and the high finish of the

novelties in the way of decorations, which Mr. Tucker is getting up for

us in Europe—if they can. They are forewarned—yet they will be

shamefully distanced!

You will pardon me, my dear Jeremy, for this seeming egotism, but

really, there has been so much disposition shown to set up an overawing

shout over “Graham,” by those who should know better, that I have felt

it worth while to say EXCELSIOR! over this number, if only to stop the

mouths of the deceived and the envious. Hereafter, let no enthusiastic

recipient of a thousand subscriptions set up his shout of defiance, for

we dislike to bear down ALL opposition.

There is, Jeremy, a vast deal of angling with magazines at this season,

and the baits thrown out are of every imaginable kind—and so that the

poor fish is hooked, no matter how, he is remorselessly placed in the

basket, and the exploit considered dexterous. The false flies upon the

waters are numerous, and very prettily do they look too, and yet it does

not strike the anglers, that he is a silly fish who dashes more than

once at a bait through which he has been wounded. To be explicit—does

any man suppose that thousands of people—silly as we all are—can all

be gulled a second time? Or to be _more_ explicit and distinct—that in

a _true_ magazine, something more is not wanted than flashy engravings,

prosy sermons, and monthly vain boasting. There _is_ such a thing as a

_literary Magazine of high merit_—and is there not such a thing as

fishing with a pin-hook for people who understand what such a Magazine

is? What think you?

I was looking over, the other evening, a series of prints in the

possession of a friend, and was much struck with one—which I may yet

give to you—in which _angling was reversed_, and putting the rod in the

hands of the finny tribe, they were busily engaged—as _fishers of

men_—in presenting to tempting appetites, sundry bottles of champagne

and choice liquors—baits in the shape of gold, and offices of

preferment with packets variously endorsed, and trinkets and epaulets to

those who might fancy tinsel and glory. It was amusing to see the

humans, with what avidity they bit, and how seriously they were bitten.

How those rose to the fly who loved a glass—how the miser swallowed the

barbed hook, gilt plated—how the aspirant for office dabbled in dirty

waters and bedaubed himself for the sake of the seal of appointment—how

the lovers of the dazzling and the lovers of glory, crowded to

destruction together.

You have a taste for the sport that tickled the fancy of good Izak

Walton, I believe, and with your adroit fly have thrown your trout

remorselessly and dexterously on the land, and while he panted and

flapped himself as a sturdy opponent of non-resistance, have smiled at

his efforts with a self-complacency quite refreshing and heroic—with a

consciousness of superiority that would have been any thing but

gratifying if your victim could have appreciated it. He was the slave of

his appetite, and that was his ruin; or if you please, his ambition to

rise at a shining mark, was the death of him. The trout has often

verified the poet’s line. We are apt to think meanly of the fish for his

silly voracity, and yet if the tables were turned, and the scaly tribes

were the anglers, they might present baits as tempting and as worthless,

in the waters in which we dabble, and chuckle in their sage philosophy

with as ripe a reason as we do now. The artist has presented them as

fishers of men, and has hit the conceit exactly.

Let us throw the line, nicely baited with gold, among the strictest of

the Pharisees, who for a pretence make long prayers, and who hold up

their phylacteries proudly, even in the humble courts of the temple.

What a flutter and a rustling of garments do we not hear, as the whole

tribe, rushing over laws that the Christian loves, dash with hands

clutching at the bait, even under the very horns of the altar. Do the

eager eyes and panting hearts of that avaricious crowd give token of the

soul sanctified and subdued—lost to all self—dead to all covetousness;

or does the avidity of the chase, or the reckless thrusting aside of

brother, give the looker-on an intimation that the divine law of loving

one’s brother has ever regulated the dwellers in the muddy waters in

which this bait is thrown?

In yonder foaming, flashing stream, where the waves are lashed into

sparkles, and the vast human crowd disports itself, all eager after the

glittering baits which are flung skillfully upon the waters by the

angler Fate; what a ravenous rush and endless jostle, for the particular

bait that attracts each taste do we see. How temptingly—how alluringly

does the fly float upon the water to each eye that it is designed to

attract—how tame, how dead, how utterly unworthy of notice to all

others. The barbed hook carefully concealed, lifts each eager victim

from enjoyment to misery—yet each with his own eye steadily watching

the fatal bait, thinks himself wiser than his fellows, and dashes at

last upon his fate, with a triumphant consciousness of a superiority

above his kind.

Yet every eddy, and every nook in the broad stream in which we float,

has its bait floating upon the waters—how happy he, who with the fate

of his comrades before him, will take warning and be wise.

G. R. G.

* * * * *

GEMS FROM MOORE’S MELODIES.—Among the novelties and attractions for our

present volume, will be a series of illustrations of Moore’s Irish

Melodies. We present the first in this number, and will give one in each

succeeding number throughout the year. They will all be in the same

exquisite style with that now presented to our subscribers, and cannot

fail in producing real pleasure to every one who can appreciate what is

truly beautiful. “The Meeting of the Waters,” will be followed by “The

Last Rose of Summer.”

* * * * *

PREMIUM PLATES.—Owing to unavoidable circumstances, our artists have

not been able to complete, so as to enable us to distribute, some of the

beautiful Prints designed as Premiums to subscribers to this Magazine.

They will soon, however, be ready to forward, and subscribers may rely

with confidence on having them transmitted agreeably to order.

* * * * *

We have the pleasure of informing our readers that with the January

number we commence our “Monumental Series,” or the lives of the Generals

of the Revolution who were killed at the very commencement of the

struggle, and to whom Congress appropriated sums of money for the

erection of a monument to each, but which with the exception of

Montgomery has never been carried into effect. Each memoir will be

accompanied by a splendid steel engraving from an original portrait

engraved expressly for our Magazine.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS

_Discourses on the Christian Spirit and Life. By C. A. Bartol,

Junior Minister of the West Church, Boston. Boston: Crosby &

Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is not customary with us to notice sermons, but the present volume is

so much superior in thought and composition to the generality of new

books, that its literary merits would alone give it prominence among the

publications of the day. It contains thirty discourses on as many

different subjects, all of which indicate a reach and profundity of

thought, a wealth of imagination, and a power and beauty of style, which

entitle them to be considered positive contributions to American

literature. The leading peculiarity of the author is the combination in

his mind of singular distinctness with singular spirituality of thought.

In contemplating a spiritual truth, his understanding, sensibility and

imagination act in fine harmony, presenting the thing in its dimensions,

its relations, and its life; and so rich and free is the expression that

the truth seems to gush out of his mind, in all the warmth and clearness

with which it is conceived, without any impediments coming from a lack

of appropriate words or images. There is nothing hackneyed either in the

method or the style of the sermons, but every thing has an air of

originality and freshness indicating a vision and a feeling of the

objects before his mind, and an avoidance of hear-says and thoughts at

second hand. The volume is full of fine passages which admit of

quotation, and we might extract many illustrative of the author’s powers

of statement, description, reasoning, and piercing spiritual insight,

but our limits will not permit. Among the best discourses in the volume

are those entitled, “Business and Religion,” “Forbearance,” “The

Spiritual Mind,” “Death is Yours,” “Belshazzar’s Feast,” “Nature,

Conscience and Revelation,” and “Eternal Life.”

* * * * *

_Clarence, or a Tale of our Own Times. By the Author of “Hope

Leslie,” &c. Author’s Revised Edition. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.

1 vol. 12mo._

This handsome volume is the first of a new edition of Miss Sedgwick’s

complete works. It contains a portrait of the authoress, an engraved

title page, and its general execution is excellent. The novel of

Clarence was originally published in 1829, and we preserve a pleasant

impression of its interest and beauty. Miss Sedgwick’s writings are

especially characterized by the sentiment of humanity, which pervades

equally her narratives and reflections; and one always rises from her

books refreshed in spirit. Her powers, also, of observation, meditation

and imagination, place her among the most intellectual and accomplished

women of the age.

We cannot resist availing ourselves of this occasion to refer to Mr.

Putnam’s judgment and generosity in his selection and publication of

American books. He comes as near the ideal of a model publisher as any

living bookseller, combining, as he does, a real enthusiasm for

literature, and a patriotic feeling in regard to American letters.

Though he has been in business on his own account but about two years,

his list already shows a goodly number of valuable publications, among

which are many of the best works ever produced by native authors, and

his taste in respect to all that constitutes the mechanical elegance of

books has a certainty not common in his profession.

* * * * *

_The Living Authors of England. By Thomas Powell. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

There is much in this volume to please and to offend every

discriminating reader. The author is a man of fine talent, whose

versions of Chaucer, not to speak of his original poems, are sufficient

to indicate his ability for genial and graceful composition. But the

present volume bears marks of haste and carelessness both as regards

style and opinions, presents a medley of original and striking with

flippant and unjust remarks, and in some instances passes the bounds of

propriety. Mr. Powell knows personally many of the authors he

delineates, and a few of the sketches indicate a disposition to avenge

personal affronts. The notices of Talfourd, Moxon and Dickens, appear to

us to have flowed from the author’s spleen more than from his heart or

brain. The insults to Washington Irving are gross and unpardonable,

having no reason in any evidence presented or withheld. We have read

Foster’s Life of Goldsmith as well as Irving’s, and the books are so

dissimilar that it is ridiculous to bring a charge of plagiarism against

the latter because both employed the same materials. If Irving is to be

sacrificed, we trust it will not be to John Foster—a man who, whatever

may be his talents and accomplishments, has not a tittle of Irving’s

beautiful genius.

* * * * *

_Poems by Amelia (Mrs. Welby of Kentucky.) A New and Enlarged

Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This splendid volume is illustrated with seven highly finished

engravings, after designs by Weir, and in point of mechanical execution

is very nearly equal to the same publishers’ exquisite edition of

Halleck. “Amelia’s” poems have passed within a comparatively short

period through seven editions, and they have therefore fairly earned

their right to a handsome volume like the present. It is hardly possible

to glance upon a page of Mrs. Welby’s book without having an affection

for the authoress, and without sympathizing in her success. Envy and

spite cannot touch her. The fine feminine tenderness, the graceful and

affluent fancy, the mellowness and melody of diction, and the innocence

and purity of sentiment, which are so characteristic of almost every

poem in the volume, overcome the resistance equally of reader and

critic. It may be generally said of her poetry that her nature is finer

than her intellect. There is too much impassioned expansiveness in her

pieces to produce those striking effects which come from stern, brief,

tingling expression, in which imagination appears as a condensing as

well as shaping power.

* * * * *

_Redburn: His first Voyage. Being the Sailor-Boy Confessions and

Reminiscences of the Son-of-a-Gentleman, in the Merchant

Service. By Herman Melville, Author of Types, &c. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Melville has been called the “De Foe of the Ocean,” and we can

hardly conceive of a compliment more flattering, and, on the whole, more

appropriate. He has De Foe’s power of realizing the details of a scene

to his own imagination, and of impressing them on the imaginations of

others, but he has also a bit of deviltry in him which we do not observe

in De Foe, however much raciness it may lend to Melville. The present

work, though it hardly has the intellectual merit of “Mardi,” is less

adventurous in style, and more interesting. It can be read through at

one sitting, with continued delight, and we see no reason why it should

not be one of the most popular of all the books relating to the romance

of the sea. The fact that it narrates the adventures of a “green hand,”

will make it invaluable to a large class of youthful sailors. The style

sparkles with wit and fancy, but its great merit is a rapidity of

movement, which bears the reader along, almost by main force from the

commencement to the conclusion of the volume.

* * * * *

_Orations and Occasional Discourses. By George W. Bethune, D. D.

New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains twelve discourses, originally delivered before

Lyceums or Literary Societies, and which obtained great popularity at

the period of their delivery. They are worthy of Dr. Bethune’s

reputation as an orator and writer, being replete with eloquence,

scholarship and sound sense, and characterized by an unmistakeable

individuality and independence both of thought and expression. The

subjects are Genius, True Glory, The Uses and Abuses of Leisure, The Age

of Pericles, The Prospects of Art in the United States, The Death of

Harrison, The Eloquence of the Pulpit, The Duties of Educated Men, The

Duty of a Patriot, A Plea for Study, and The Claims of our Country upon

its Literary Men. Of these we have been particularly impressed by The

Age of Pericles, and the Oration last named. The latter was delivered

before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge, and was celebrated at

the time for the splendor of its rhetoric and the raciness of its wit.

* * * * *

_Glimpses of Spain; or Notes of an Unfinished Tour in 1847. By

S. T. Wallis. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Wallis evinces many of the characteristics of a good tourist, and is

especially felicitous in understanding both the curiosity and the

ignorance of his readers. He has accordingly produced an interesting

volume, full of information very pleasingly conveyed, and leaving on the

reader’s mind a regret that circumstances should have cut short his

tour. To politicians, who think their names are known wherever the sun

shines, there is one little paragraph in his book which must leave a

saddening impression. We quote it for the benefit of our readers: “In

the _Diorio_ [of Seville] of May 14, 1847, an article speculating upon

the probable election of General Taylor to the Presidency of the United

States, was wound up by the following suggestion:—‘It is to be borne in

mind that _Generals Fackson and Flamilton_ owed their election to the

Presidency to their military reputation!’”

* * * * *

_The Old World: or Scenes and Cities in Foreign Lands. By

William Farniss. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a pleasant volume, going over a wide field of observation, and

conveying much information not generally known. In the present rage for

voyages and travels it will doubtless find many readers. It appears to

us, however, that our American publishers are altogether too fertile in

their issues of works of this kind. Few have any positive literary

merit, and hardly one in a hundred is an addition to the literature of

the country.

* * * * *

_Frontenac; or the Atotarha of the Iroquois. A Metrical Romance.

New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Street is not exceeded, if equaled, by any American poet, in the

accuracy with which he observes nature, and the clearness with which he

paints a scene upon the imagination with the colors of verse. If his

vision of the internal life of natural objects was as quick and sure as

his perception of their external forms, few English or American

descriptive poets would equal him either in reputation or power over the

feelings. But his mind, though abundantly fanciful, is not suggestive

and imaginative, and in his descriptive pieces he is apt to catalogue

rather than represent nature. His analogies, also, are rather drawn from

the surface than the spirit of things. But he is admirably calculated to

do what he has attempted in the present volume. Frontenac is a metrical

romance, with natural descriptions varied by characters and events, and

all conveyed in energetic and “numerous” verse. It is in every way

worthy of Mr. Street’s high reputation, and, in saying this, we imply

that it is creditable to American Literature.

* * * * *

_Evenings at Woodlawn. By Mrs. E. F. Ellett, Author of the

“Women of the American Revolution.” New York: Baker & Scribner.

1 vol. 12mo._

The title of this book is a poor one, for it conveys no notion of its

contents. It consists of a series of forty stories, translated and

recast principally from the German, relating to the superstitions of the

various European countries. We are favored with all sorts of legends,

German, Spanish, Danish, etc., referring to supernatural personages and

events; and the whole makes a book, brimful of fairies, magicians,

witches, wizards, and imps, calculated to delight all who have a taste

for the wild and wonderful. The volume, indeed, is admirably calculated

for popularity, and we regret that its accomplished authoress should not

have chosen some name for it which would give a hint of its matter.

* * * * *

_Children’s Books._ The Appletons of New York have just issued a series

of beautiful volumes exactly fitted to charm the hearts of youthful

readers. _Fireside Fairies_ is a delicious little book for a holyday

present, and well adapted in its style to fasten upon the sympathies of

the young. _American Historical Tales for Youth_, a thicker volume,

discoursing of Henry Hudson, Daniel Boone, Captain John Smith, and other

American celebrities, is a grand book to put courage and resolution as

well as knowledge into the minds of boys. _Home Recreation_ is full of

marvelous adventures by sea and land, related in Grandfather Merryman’s

most entertaining way, and radiant with illustrative colored engravings.

_The Child’s Present_ is for younger readers, and contains about fifty

short stories, very quaintly told by the grandfather aforesaid. Each of

these little volumes is admirably calculated for the holyday season.

* * * * *

_History of the American Bible Society, from its Organization to

the Present Time. By W. P. Strickland. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is quite an interesting and important work, giving, in moderate

compass, a view of the operations of the Bible Society in different

parts of the world. The chapter on the different translations of the

Bible is especially interesting, and gives, among other valuable items

of information, a complete list of the names of the forty-seven

translators of the English Bible. It is curious to notice, that among

these, there is hardly one celebrated man, though together they produced

a translation which is the Standard of the English language.

* * * * *

_Statesman’s Manual._

With the above for a leading title, Mr. Edwin Williams, of New York,

ever indefatigable in collecting, arranging, and disseminating valuable

political information, has prepared four octavo volumes, containing the

whole of the Messages of each President of the United States, from 1789

to 1849. The book proceeds in order, and gives a biographical sketch of

each President—an account of the inauguration—a history of the

principal events of his administration. The leading transactions of

Congress at each session during the period. So much, well performed,

relates to each presidential service. The work is then rendered more

valuable by the addition of the Declaration of Independence, the

Articles of Confederation, Constitution of the United States, with notes

and references; a brief history of the events and circumstances which

led to the Union of the States, and formation of the Constitution; a

synopsis of the Constitutions of the several States; tables of Members

of the Cabinets of the various administrations, Ministers to Foreign

Countries, and other principal public officers; Chronological Table of

Political Events in the United States; Statistical Tables of Revenue,

Commerce and Population; a complete List of Members of Congress from

1789 to 1849; a complete Index, or Analytical Table of Contents to the

whole work.

We need scarcely go beyond such a simple statement of the contents of

these four volumes, to satisfy every reader of this Magazine that it is

a work for all hands. But we deem it due to the publisher, Mr. Walker,

and the author, to say, that the work is well done, the facts are

clearly set forth, and the statistical tables well digested. So that we

may safely say that the work forms a brief but most interesting and

satisfactory history of the country for the time, and no library should

be without the book, and if any man has a house without a library, let

him purchase these to begin one. The foundation, of course, being always

laid by those hand books that lead and serve devotion, and a copy of

Graham’s Magazine. Mr. John Jones, in North Fifth street, above Market,

is the agent for the work in this city, and will receive orders for it

from the interior. We mention this that people may know where they may

be served, for we take it for granted that a work of such unusual

interest will be universally called for. We ought to add, that the

publisher has had the good taste to have the book printed on excellent

paper, and clear new type, and has ornamented each division with a

beautifully engraved likeness of the President of whose administration

he is treating—and then the work is handsomely bound.

* * * * *

_Proverbial Philosophy; a Book of Thoughts and Arguments

originally treated. By Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq., D. C. L.,

F. R. S. of Christ Church, Oxford. From the eighth London

edition, embellished with twelve characteristic illustrations.

Philadelphia: E. H. Butler & Co. small quarto, 391 pp._

Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy has passed through eight editions in

London. In this country it has been reprinted many times in a cheap

form, and upwards of thirty thousand copies have been sold; indeed the

work is so well known that it does not require any commendation from us.

But _this edition_ is deserving of especial praise. It is the first

illustrated copy of this work published either in England or America. It

is printed on beautiful white paper, as thick and solid as parchment.

The type is large, clear and elegant. The binding is rich Turkey

morocco, with massive paneled sides richly gilt. We consider it the most

elegant published volume we have seen. As a holyday gift-book this

volume will do credit to the tact and judgment of the presenter, while

it is a most elegant compliment to the mind of the presentee.

* * * * *

_Mornings among the Jesuits at Rome. By the Rev. M. Seymour, M.

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

This is an exceedingly interesting volume, the production of a

fair-minded tolerant man, and conveying far more accurate information on

the spirit of Jesuitism than any work published for many years. It is

composed of notes of conversations, held by the author with certain

Jesuits whom he met in Rome, on the subject of religion, and especially

on the standing controversy between the Roman and English Churches. Mr.

Seymour, from the fact that he conversed with his opponents, and enjoyed

their friendship, impresses the reader in a very different manner from

those controversialists, who have never known the men whose system they

attack, and who thus unconsciously confound doctrines with persons, and

convert living beings into mere theological machines. Under every

religious creed there is a human heart and brain—a truism which is so

often overlooked, both in eulogies and attacks on different religious

sects, that we must be pardoned for mentioning it.

* * * * *

_The Little Savage. By Captain Marryatt, R. N. New York: Harper

& Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Most readers can recollect the time when Captain Marryatt was the most

popular novelist of the day, and Peter Simple and Jacob Faithful were as

familiar names as Oliver Twist and David Copperfield are now. But that

time has passed; the gallant captain survived his reputation without

really losing his talents. The present volume is a most fascinating

story, calculated to charm young readers almost as much as Robinson

Crusoe.

* * * * *

_Boston Edition of Shakspeare._ Phillips, Sampson & Co., of Boston, are

issuing a new edition of Shakspeare, in large, clear type, and on

handsome paper, with introductions and notes to each play. Every number

contains a whole play, and an illustrative engraving in the best style

of art. Four numbers, at the low price of twenty-five cents each, are

already issued, and are to be succeeded by a new number every fortnight.

When completed it will be the finest and most sumptuous edition of

Shakspeare ever published in the United States. The engravings of

Miranda, Julia, and Mrs. Ford, in the numbers before us, are alone worth

the price. The great merit of the edition, however, is the size of the

type and the beauty of the mechanical execution. It can be read by the

oldest and weakest eyes without difficulty and without pain.

* * * * *

_The History of Alfred the Great. By Jacob Abbott. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

The subject of this volume combines the interest of history and romance,

and we hardly need to say that it loses nothing in point of fascination

as presented in Mr. Abbott’s clear and graceful style of narration. The

series of historical volumes to which it belongs should penetrate into

every family in the land.

* * * * *

_The Fountain of Living Waters, in a Series of Sketches. By a

Layman. New York: G. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 16mo._

The topics of this exquisitely printed volume are sufficiently indicated

by the general title. It evidently comes from a soul profoundly imbued

with religious sentiment, and the sketches indicate an observing and

reflecting mind.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.

_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Plumes de_ Chagot

_ainé, r. Richelieu, 81;_

_Robes de_ Camille—_Métier parisien de M^{lle}._ Chanson, _r.

Choiseul, 2^{bis}_.

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

SADNESS MAKES THEE SWEETER.

WRITTEN BY

J. M. CHURCH, ESQ.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY

JAMES BELLAK.

Presented by Edward L. Walker, 150 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: music score]

I watch thee dearest maiden,

I mark thy beauty rare,

Thou’rt leaning from thy casement,

To breathe the moon-lit

[Illustration: music score]

air!

The rays are softly falling

Upon thy mournful face,

And in thy sweet, sad eyes love,

A secret pang I trace!

My dreams are all of heaven.

Or sooth sweet one of thee!

And oft I seek thy casement,

This earthly heaven to see:

Ah! tell me where thy thoughts love,

Are wandering this hour!

Thou art not happy lovely one

Thus lonely in thy bower.

That brow how darkly shadowed,

Bid clouds of grief depart!

Yet sadness makes thee sweeter,

More sad, more sweet, thou art,

Now mine’s a cheerful heart love,

Wilt mingle it with thine?

The cup we’ll quaff together,

And thus our fates entwine.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and obvious

type-setting errors have 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 4, his voice faultered on ==> his voice faltered on

page 20, customary slouching gate, ==> customary slouching gait,

page 24, Ellsler’s castinets in the ==> Ellsler’s castanets in the

page 26, ranks. No faultering—no ==> ranks. No faltering—no

page 26, work—no faultering—no ==> work—no faltering—no

page 26, shield of Salahad when ==> shield of Galahad when

page 32, McClean, who, losing all ==> McLean, who, losing all

page 34, of Quebec, M. Cramehe ==> of Quebec, M. Cramahé

page 47, And wavy Appenines and ==> And wavy Apennines and

page 49, simply Lily’s Euphuisms revived ==> simply Lyly’s Euphuisms

revived

page 64, On the mantle-piece were ==> On the mantel-piece were

page 69, investigation of inorganized ==> investigation of unorganized

page 71, still plead the angel-voice ==> still pleaded the angel-voice

page 77, Harry advised as villany ==> Harry advised as villainy

page 79, home is — No., Union ==> home is No. — , Union

page 89, (_Pelecanus Onocrotatus_) ==> (_Pelecanus Onocrotalus_)

Le Follet, _Chapeau de M^{me}._ Baudry ==> _Chapeaux de M^{me}._

Baudry

Le Follet, _Plume de_ Chagot ==> _Plumes de_ Chagot

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 1, January 1850, George Rex

Graham, Editor]