I vowed that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow?
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours,
Each from the voiceless grave.
—
——The lady’s heart beat fast,
As half in joy, and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast.
—SHELLEY.
Again turn we to Washington—that mighty capital, that great political
heart of our Union, from whose pulsations are supplied the entire
arteries of our body politic. It was the memorable session of 1840, when
the halls of legislation were turned into a hustings, and Whig and
Democrat broke their lances in defence of Harrison or Van Buren, as
their political predilections dictated; that session, when grave
legislators took an inventory of the furniture of the presidential
mansion, from the “gold spoons” down to the napkins of the pantry; when
the horrors of a standing army were so vividly displayed, and guns,
bayonets, and boarding-pikes bristled out from every line of Mr.
Secretary Poinsett’s annual report from the War Department; when the
conqueror of Proctor, and the victor at Tippecanoe was proved a “granny”
and a “coward,” by men who had never smelt gunpowder in their lives,
save in the homœopathic compounds of their boyish squibs and India
crackers; when both parties succeeded, by most overwhelming arguments,
in convincing their friends that the country would “go to the bow wows,”
if their antagonists succeeded; when the halls of legislation were
stripped of every leaf, branch and limb, of their original design, and
the hickory and the buckeye were formed in fantastic garlands around
“the stump” which alone remained; when blood-hounds and
conscience-keepers, tabourets and petticoats, British gold and bank
bribes, were household and familiar words; when every man, woman, and
child, was possessed of the devil of partisan malignity, and we staid
United Staters, sang songs, drank hard cider, held conventions, got up
torch-light processions, and shouted for our candidates as if Bedlam had
been keeping holyday, with its inmates all out electioneering.
One morning, in early spring, the galleries of the House of
Representatives were thronged to suffocation, long before the mallet of
the Speaker called the members to _Order_, by a quasi “_lucus a non
lucendo_” process! Time never seemed to lag so tardily, as did the hands
of the clock, opposite R. M. T. Hunter’s chair—it appeared as if they
would never point zenith-ward to the hour of high noon! Had it been the
last night of a session when those hands have a prescriptive right to
“hasten slowly” to the witching church-yard hour, lest in the hurry of
the closing scene, something might be omitted, which the law makers had
no time to think of during the seven or eight preceding months—had it
been the close of a session, we affirm that those “tardy paced hands”
would have acquitted themselves to admiration—but now, never did Juliet
when she had “bought the mansion of a love but not possess’d it” wish
the “fiery footed steeds” to “gallop apace” with more intensity of
expectation, than did the attending crowd long for the hour of twelve.
At last it came—the humdrum voice of an assistant clerk was heard
reading “yesterday’s minutes” as monotonously as the sounds of a
“woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree!” When Corwin of Ohio rose and
moved that the further reading of the minutes be dispensed with, bright
eyes in the gallery voted him thanks, and when the “morning hour” was
over and the Speaker called the “orders of the day”—then, “mute
expectation spread its anxious hush” over the entire auditory!
“When the House adjourned with this bill under consideration, the
gentleman from Pennsylvania was entitled to the floor,” said the
Speaker.
And Henry Stanton rose to the question. He who but a few years before
had “no jointure but a green vegetable stall in the market” to offer the
rich and proud Amy Laverty in exchange for her love! Calm, dignified and
self possessed he rose, though a thousand eyes were bent fixedly upon
him. This was the calmness of confident mastery of his subject—the
dignity of conscious intellectual greatness. Slowly, emphatically and
unostentatiously he pronounced his exordium—then with consummate skill,
he combatted all the arguments of his opponents and fortified his own
position. Warmed with his subject “rapt, inspired,” he commenced his
peroration. Brilliant as the lightning flash; glowing as the lava flow;
bold, dashing, impetuous as the mighty mountain torrent was the
character of his eloquence! Scarcely could the listening crowd restrain
themselves from open applause and many rising indications of an almost
irrepressible movement, were silenced by the Speaker’s hammer.
Edward Stanton surpassed even all his former brilliant efforts! Was it
caused by the excitement of the subject, the intellectual intoxication
of success? No:—his hour of triumph had arrived, the goal he had
struggled for years to attain was won!—for in the Ladies’ Gallery,
immediately over the Speaker’s chair, and directly in front of the
orator, sat Amy Laverty; she who, in early youth, had so cruelly scorned
him; she who had withered the freshness of his heart, and dried up the
gushing fountains of love in his soul! He saw not the crowd around
him—he heard not the murmurs of applause—he heeded not the triumphant
glance of political friends nor the gloomy looks of discomfited
opponents—his soul was on his tongue, and as the jewels of rhetoric,
the brilliant gems of oratory, and the diamond shafts of satire fell
from his lips—he poured them all,—prodigally, and with a feeling of
supernatural power, as an offering before the shrine of his young,
blighted and cruelly crushed love!
At length he closed amid the plaudits of the privileged few on the floor
of the House, and the waving of snowy ’kerchief from the gallery. In the
midst a stifled sob was heard, then a piercing shriek! “A lady in the
gallery had fainted—from the heat!”
Strange, inexplicable mystery of the human heart! Two wells of passion,
long sealed up and apparently dried, had burst their confines!
Oh fame! oh popular applause! how little knew any in that Hall, why the
young orator was so transcendently brilliant that day!—How little
divined the companions of Amy what was the cause of that sudden fainting
fit!
The hospitable mansion of Secretary Woodbury was thrown open that
evening. Gay forms crowded every room and silvery voices resounded
through every hall. In a remote corner of one apartment, within the
recess of a window, stood Henry Stanton and Amy Laverty. Their hands
were intertwined; his eyes beamed with pride and hers with happiness. We
have but a few words of their conversation to chronicle.
“Why—why, ask me if I love you?” said Amy.
“Why?” responded Stanton in that deep voice and choking utterance which
are only assumed when the heart speaks audibly; “why? that I may feel
that my day dreams are now reality: that I may know that time has worn
away those faults of early education, which clouded the brightness of
your native excellence; that I may be assured that we have both come out
purified from the crucible of suffering, the fuel to which has been
supplied from our very hearts! I would know that you love me, that I may
be supremely happy.”
“Be happy then, as far as the knowledge of my love can make you so,”
frankly replied Amy—“but oh Henry, in our after life, I fear me, I
shall often have occasion to resist the tempter against which you have
this day warned me, and to whose power over me, time, more than your
words, had opened my eyes! I feel that while I have life I must have
pride!”
“Amy!”
“Yes Harry:—pride in thee!”
* * * * *
GENERAL TAYLOR’S GALLOP.
COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
TO THE LADIES OF
MISS CARPENTER’S DANCING ASSEMBLY.
BY A. J. R. CONNER.
PRESENTED BY J. G. OSBOURN, NO. 112 SOUTH THIRD STREET.
[Copyright secured.]
[Illustration: music score]
[Illustration: music score]
* * * * *
LINES TO A JEWS-HARP.
BY L. B. M.
Wee burlesque on the minstrel’s line!
Unsung by bard in lay divine,
Unconsecrate to fane or shrine.
In theme most lowly;
Thou tiny, uncouth, jingling thing!
Scarce big enough for Elfin king,
Thou joy of childhood’s sunny spring,
And treasure holy.
How oft, in sooth, I’ve wonder’d who
He could have been, that famous Jew
Who gave thee birth and name, and threw
No doubt around thee,
Of the soul’s wealth, all that he had,
And then, perchance, went music-mad,
And died at last of joy; so glad
That he had found thee.
Was he some Smithy, grim and old,
Whose anvil iron changed to gold,
And, forging thee, turned _he to mould_,
O’erpowered with glory?
Alas! such fate doth quick befall
Spirits too ripe for earthly thrall;
Fame, of her children, great and small,
Tells oft such story.
Or was he one in youth’s glad prime,
When Hope trips arm in arm with time,
Who hit upon thy frame sublime,
And when he placed thee
First to his lips, with urchin pride,
And heard thy tinkling murmurs glide,
“Eureka!” in his spirit cried,
Is’t true I’ve traced thee?
Then thanks from all his countless tribe
(Henceforth their joy to him ascribe,)
When in their pockets sly they bribe,
’Neath school-dame’s glances,
With bits of string, wi’ top, and ball,
Thy cannie self, thou Harp so small,
Watching the sun creep on the wall,
Till noon advances.
Ah! relic of that guileless day!
As _now_ I list thy humble lay
Beneath my windows, far away
In thought I’m winging;
And, lo! I see a brighter land,
I meet the clasp of many a hand,
And seem to listen as I stand,
To voices singing.
And, oh! thou gleesome harper, still
Thy little strain my heart must fill,
When thou, o’er mead and distant hill,
Art gayly hieing,
Oh! that its note had power to fling
Far from the soul its sorrowing,
And wake it to a _second_ spring,
Nor leave it sighing.
* * * * *
FANNY’S FIRST SMILE.
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
It came to my heart—like the first gleam of morning,
To one who has watched through a long, dreary night—
It flew to my heart—without prelude or warning—
And wakened at once there a wordless delight.
That sweet pleading mouth, and those eyes of deep azure,
That gazed into mine so imploringly sad,
How faint o’er them floated the light of that pleasure,
Like sunshine o’er flowers, that the night-mist has clad!
Until that golden moment, her soft, fairy features
Had seemed like a suffering seraph’s to me—
A stray child of Heaven’s, amid earth’s coarser creatures,
Looking back for her lost home, that still she could see!
But now, in that first smile, resigning the vision,
The soul of my loved one replies to mine own:
Thank God for that moment of sweet recognition,
That over my heart like the Morning light shone!
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_The Prose Writers of America. With a Survey of the History,
Condition, and Prospects of American Literature. By Rufus Wilmot
Griswold. Illustrated with Portraits from Original Pictures.
Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo._
This is more able than any of Mr. Griswold’s preceding books. It
contains biographical and critical notices of seventy American prose
writers, with judiciously selected extracts from their various writings.
These notices display an unusually extensive acquaintance with American
literature, conscientiousness in forming opinions, and boldness in
stating them—and they are written in a flowing and vigorous style. A
large portion of the information they convey, respecting our literary
men, can be found in no other place. The most carefully written of the
biographies are those of Edwards, Franklin, Hamilton, Webster, Irving,
Cooper, Prescott, Wayland, Brownson, Hooker, Emerson, Willis, and Dana.
The defect in the book, as regards American writers, is the omission of
some ten or twelve who could present good claims to admittance. Toward
the end the editor seems to have been cut short in his selections by the
growing size of his work. In his critical estimates Mr. Griswold is
independent and decided. We have noticed but one or two cases where his
personal feelings have at all intruded to exalt the objects of his
criticism. There is no doubt that the book is honest—and this is saying
a great deal, when we reflect how many inducements the editor of such a
work has to gratify his amiabilities or resentments.
Mr. Griswold has prefaced his book with fifty pages of disquisition on
the intellectual history, condition, and prospects of the country. In
this he takes a comprehensive view of American literature, and discusses
the aids and obstacles to its advancement. Some of the obstacles
commonly urged as barriers to its improvement, he considers as aids.
These are the form of our government, the nature of our institutions,
and the restless and turbulent movements of the democracy. Literature,
indeed, has flourished best in those countries where the people have
been most alive, and engaged in the tumults which attend life. The
fierce democracy of Athens presented no obstacles to the genius of
Æschylus, Sophocles, or Plato. The author of the “Divine Comedy” passed
his life amid the shock of contending factions. The Reformation gave an
impetus to the literature of every country in which it was felt. It
would be useless to multiply examples. Another obstacle to intellectual
progress is found by some in the absence of a wealthy and privileged
class, who have leisure for literary pursuits. Now, without adopting Mr.
Griswold’s remark, that “the privileged classes of all nations have been
drones,” it is still evident that the greatest works in philosophy,
literature, and art, which adorn the world, have not proceeded from
them. As far as regards English literature, indeed, authors have been
poor men writing for a subsistence. Provision for physical necessities
has ever been the strongest spur to intellectual action. But the value
of a wealthy class, of persons who have leisure to read if not to write,
is, that they are the natural patrons of authors. Hundreds of books are
yearly published in England, which could not find sufficient readers
here to pay for the paper.
The chief difficulty in the way of American literature, according to Mr.
Griswold, is a want of patriotism, or an “intelligent and earnest effort
to foster the good we possess and acquire the good we need;” and he
thinks the defect mainly proceeds from the absence of a just law of
copyright. In other words, there is no absence of intelligence in the
United States, but the intelligence sufficient to write a good book can
find a better remuneration by being devoted to other pursuits. Mr.
Griswold expresses himself in very plain language regarding copyright.
All arguments against copyright, he contends, “as universal and
perpetual as the life of the book, are but insults to common sense.” He
thinks that literary property is that to which a man’s right is most
unquestionable and exclusive. “The feudal chief by rapine, or the
speculator by cunning, wins an estate, and the law secures him and his
heirs in its possession while there are days and nights. An author
_creates_ a book, which, beside diffusing a general benefit, yields a
revenue as great, perhaps, as that from the estate which has been
acquired by force or fraud, and the law, without alleging any fault,
seizes it, and bestows it on the mob.” The remarks, also, on the effect
of our present law of copyright, in flooding the country with the
monstrosities and immoralities of the French mind, are worthy of
attention from every practical statesman. Indeed, it is for the interest
of every person who has any stake in a country, that its literature
should be high and pure. Demoralize the mind of a nation by bad books,
and you undermine its social and political institutions. It is of some
importance to know what Mr. Prettyman peruses in the parlor, but of more
importance what Dick cons over at the plough, or what Sally reads in the
kitchen.
We have not space to follow Mr. Griswold in his rapid and interesting
view of what has been done so far in the United States in the
establishment of a sound national literature. He proves that in the face
of all discouragements, we have done as much in “the fields of
Investigation, Imagination, Reflection, and Taste, in the present
century, as any other twelve million of people—about our average number
for this period—in the world.” He supports the assertion by a long
array of names and works in all departments of literature, and the
aggregate impression which his catalogue leaves on the mind, is one of
pride and hope. We commend Mr. Griswold’s book to everybody who wishes
to think well of his country, in that which is the noblest boost of a
nation—its literature.
* * * * *
_Songs of the Sea, and other Poems. By Epes Sargent. Boston:
James Monroe & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
Mr. Sargent’s poems have such peculiar and original merits, that we are
glad to see them in their present elegant form. As a writer of songs, he
is full of vigor and life, pouring out the emotion he desires to express
in free flowing verse, and touching with a sure sagacity the very point
in the reader’s mind at which he aims. His lyrics, especially “A Life on
the Ocean Wave,” have consequently been extensively popular. As a
descriptive writer, he possesses even superior claims to consideration.
The scene he attempts to portray is reflected in his verse with
exquisite artistical skill. The object is painted distinctly to the eye
as it is in nature, with an imaginative atmosphere superadded. “Like a
green field reflected in a calm and perfectly transparent lake, the
image is distinguished from the reality only by its greater softness and
lustre.” His poems relating to the sea are full of descriptions, which
have the effect of fine paintings; and they awaken feelings similar to
those which the real scene would rouse in the mind. All his poems,
whether relating to emotion, description, or action, are distinguished
by a sweetness and genial beauty of sentiment, which evidence a healthy
mind, in which grace and strength, elegance and elevation, harmoniously
dwell together. His writings borrow no interest from any morbid moods of
his own mind, and are “sicklied o’er” by no egotism or whining whimsies.
We could instance many beautiful poems in the volume, illustrating our
remarks, but it would be needless. The book will commend itself and its
author to the best sympathies of the reading public.
* * * * *
_The Battle of Life. By Charles Dickens. New York: Wiley &
Putnam._
The cheapest and most popular method of acquiring reputation as a
critic, is to declare that the last work of a popular writer is his
worst. A large number of such reputations have been made since the
appearance of Dickens’ “Battle of Life.” It has been received with an
almost universal sneer. The truth is, that, though certain portions of
the story are unnatural, and the whole book rather carelessly written,
yet it contains more wit, humor and pathos, more subtil
characterization, and finer felicities of style and description, than
any other novelist of the day could have produced. We trust that Dickens
will write a great many books as good. He can do better.
* * * * *
_The Countess of Rudolstadt. (Sequel to Consuelo.) By George
Sand. Translated by F. G. Shaw. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 2
vols. 12mo._
Consuelo is undoubtedly the best and purest book of its distinguished
authoress. In the present work the long story of the heroine is
concluded. It has great merits as a delineation of life and character,
and evidences a wider sweep of mind than belongs to any other woman of
the time; but it is deformed by the writer’s peculiar philosophical,
ethical, and social system, and toward the end rather fades away into a
dramatic statement of opinions. Perhaps, however, it is the best
expression yet given of the whole mind of the authoress, and it might be
profitably studied as an expression of the opinions and objects of the
extreme radical party of Europe—the party which aims to supplant not
merely political but social institutions—the party which would take the
world upon its knee, as a Yankee does a stick, and whittle it into a new
shape. George Sand, of course, with all her masculine habits of thought
and action, is still rather ignorant of many of the topics she
confidently discusses, and not unfrequently suggests that portion of the
old song, which expresses pity that charming women should talk about
what they do not understand; but she grapples with a large number of
debatable subjects as well as most male reformers. Mr. Shaw’s
translation is very well done.
* * * * *
_Cyclopædia of English Literature. Edited by Robert Chambers.
Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln._
This work is now in the course of publication in semi-monthly parts, to
be concluded in sixteen numbers at twenty-five cents each. It contains a
history of English literature from the earliest period to the present
day, and a biography and criticism of each author, together with
extracts from his writings. It thus gives a view of the whole broad
field of English literature, through five centuries of time, and in
every department of thought in which the genius and talent of the nation
have been exercised. The American edition is printed, we believe, from
the English plates, and contains an immense number of portraits and
illustrative pictures. It is one of the cheapest books ever printed, and
one, too, calculated to afford instruction and delight to every order of
mind. We trust that it will have a large circulation in the United
States. It will be a good guide to the reading public in the choice of
books, and enable them to see at a glance the relative value of English
authors. It is both a library in itself, and a friendly adviser in the
selection of a library. About a thousand authors are referred to in the
work, and from most of them the editor has made extracts.
* * * * *
_Travels in Peru. By Dr. J. J. Von Tschudi. Translated from the
German, by Thomasini Ross. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 parts.
12mo._
To that large portion of the reading public who delight in narratives of
travel and descriptions of foreign scenery and manners, this work will
be very acceptable. It is the production of an honest and learned German
scholar, and relates to a country whose population and natural
characteristics are full of materials to interest the general reader,
the student, and the man of science. The author is not a brilliant
writer, and his narrative presents none of those flashing imaginations
which delight the reader of Lamartine and Kinglake, but he is uniformly
solid, judicious, and pleasing. He contrives to convey a clear
impression of every thing which came under his notice, during a long
residence in Peru, and gives the results of the most extensive
researches and careful observations.
* * * * *
_Ballads and other Poems. By Mary Howitt. New York: Wiley &
Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
Mary Howitt well characterised her own works when she declared that the
ruling sentiment of her soul was the love of Christ, of the poor, and of
little children. The mingled simplicity and intensity of her nature
makes her a good writer of ballads—a species of composition which
peculiarly demands unsophisticated feeling and simple expression. There
is a certain quaintness, purity and youthfulness—a command of those
words which picture incident, emotion, and character, immediately to the
eye and heart—and on overflowing affectionateness of nature, in most of
the ballads composing this volume, which will recommend them directly to
the best feelings of her readers.
* * * * *
_The Dog. By William Youatt. With Illustrations. Edited By E. S.
Lewis, M. D., &c. 1 Vol. Crown 8vo._
This beautiful little volume will fill a vacancy long acknowledged and
deplored by the lover of dogs in this country. It is strange that no
treatise on this subject should have before appeared here, to satisfy
the desires of the innumerable owners and fanciers of dogs. Knowing, as
we do, but little of these matters, we will not pretend to pronounce
authoritatively on its value. We can answer, however, for the interest
of its style and manner, while it seems to us to bear the impress of one
who is thoroughly master of his subject. Youatt, indeed, is the highest
authority in all veterinary matters among those who know most, and Dr.
Lewis has well seconded him. The volume, indeed, seems to contain every
thing of interest or importance relating to the natural history of the
Dog, his numerous varieties and uses—his breeding, breaking, and
training; as much of his anatomy as is necessary to be known by those
who would properly understand him; a full description of the numerous
diseases and accidents to which he is liable, with the means to palliate
or cure.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
LE FOLLET
Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.
_Etoffes des Magasins du Passage Choiseul, r. N^{ve}. des Petits-Champs,
32;_
_Robes de M^{me}._ Mercier, _r. Neuve des Petits-Champs, 82—Chapeaux de
M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87;_
_Fleurs de_ Cartier, _r. Louis-le-Grand, 30—Toilettes de M^{me}_ Victorine
Leclerc & Ducelles, _boul. des Capucines, 7._
_Lingerie de_ Vafflard, _r. Ménars, 5—Chaussures de_ Hoffmann, _r. du
Dauphin, 9_.
Graham’s Magazine.]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been
corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.
For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 205, the 16th of June, 1777 ==> some modern references indicate June
14th
page 208, down the vallies; ==> down the valleys;
page 209, making a _reconnaisance_, ==> making a _reconnaissance_,
page 210, after they begun to ==> after they began to
page 220, three boat’s crews. ==> three boats’ crews.
page 222, Not a musquito, ==> Not a mosquito,
page 227, it it might not be ==> it might not be
page 227, powder. It course, ==> powder. Its course,
page 228, moment the sloop of war ==> moment the sloop-of-war
page 228, added [_To be continued._
page 231, the sportman’s fancy ==> the sportsman’s fancy
page 232, freighted gallion; or ==> freighted galleon; or
page 236, carpenter of Gallilee ==> carpenter of Galilee
page 239, we will rememember that ==> we will remember that
page 245, a brazen indicater ==> a brazen indicator
page 249, find the Artic snow, ==> find the Arctic snow,
page 254, even in that _recherch_ ==> even in that _recherché_
page 255, with the millionare’s ==> with the millionaire’s
page 255, a la Blackstone! But ==> à la Blackstone! But
page 257, many tall a commercial ==> many a tall commercial
page 258, look she cast.—SHELLY. ==> look she cast.—SHELLEY.
page 264, appearance of Dicken’s ==> appearance of Dickens’
page 264, number of debateable ==> number of debatable
[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 4, April 1847]