Chapter XXV: Section XV (5)

Eminent Young Men.—We purpose, occasionally, to give to our readers, in our own off-hand way, sketches of such of the young men of our acquaintance as have risen to position and distinction by the force of their own indomitable purpose and efforts. These papers will be plain, unpretending, and without any effort at literary display—but if such examples as have passed under our own observation, fairly _put_, shall awaken even one young man among our readers from inglorious sloth, to energetic endeavors to accomplish something for himself and his generation, we shall think our time has been most profitably spent.

America has but one recognizable stamp of nobility. No line of descent in the blood of kings, can ennoble here. The stagnant pool which has lost its vitality for ages in the veins of a scurvy nobility, reflects no honor—enriches no name. That which makes Manhood Great—is _Energy_—_Will_—nobly directed—that quality which Kossuth proclaims to be the conqueror of impossibilities. It is this quality, largely possessed by the Anglo-Saxon, and the free field open for its exercise in America, that have made her what she is—

“The day-star among the nations.”

It is the noble hopes and manly aspirations in the breast of her sons—the far-reaching, the attainable grasp of future fortune, the birth-right of the humblest—the unconquerable purpose to do, to achieve, to conquer, that exalt us to “giants in these days.” We have the highest manifestation of manhood, in a fair field, with _all_ the favor that God grants to mortals to carve out their own destinies. He who sinks here, goes down with supineness, slothfulness, idleness, and their attendant vices clinging to his neck with more than mill-stone weight. With high health and a perfect use of his faculties, no man _here_ has a right to be ignoble. “The longer I live,” says Goethe, “the more certain I am that the great difference between men, the great and significant, is energy—invincible determination—an honest purpose once fixed and then, victory. That quality will do anything that can by done in the world; and no talents, no circumstances, no opportunity will make a man without it.”

* * * * *

Benjamin H. Brewster, Esq., an eminent young lawyer of Philadelphia, the author of the very excellent paper on Milton, in this number, will be the subject of our first sketch, in the next issue; and we shall take the privilege of an intimate acquaintanceship, and a friendship endured by a thousand ties, to use a free pencil _upon him_, and if Mr. Brewster does not like it, he has his action for such damages as the liberal jury who read “Graham” may think he deserves.

* * * * *

Cost of Glory.—We have received from a Naval Officer a tart assault upon Upham’s figures in relation to the expenses of the Army and Navy of the United States, which we shall publish and reply to. He makes the cost “_about_ twenty-five per cent. of the whole revenue.” We shall see! The article is by some very _young_ Middy, who thinks that “navy blue” means getting tipsy on shore, and that _figures_ are symbolical _only_ of important gentlemen, buttoned up to the throat, who walk the Quarter-Deck of Uncle Sam’s 74’s.

* * * * *

Reader—“Graham” makes his best bow to you in this number, and stands, cap in hand, waiting a friendly return to his salutation. He has prepared himself with some care for this call, and if you do not like his rig, don’t turn up your nose disdainfully, but suggest any proper alteration in his costume, and when he comes again you may like him better. The critics! Well! who cares for the critics? Not Graham! He is a critic himself, and can carve you a poet to a nicety—slicing off his wings with one sweep of his steel. But Graham is tender to poets—for they are a good-hearted race, albeit a little irritable—apt to be dealt unjustly with, too, considering that each one is imbued with more than a Shaksperian genius, and people wont believe it. It is enough to make anybody mad—and a mad poet is of all enraged animals the most vehemently disposed to slaughter somebody. So, having disposed in brief of critics and poets, and of lawyers and briefs in the body of the work, we feel heavenly-minded toward the rest of creation—and in this mood we turn to “_the gentlemen of the press_.”

If our exchanges believe _all_ that is told them by some of the Magazine publishers, they will soon begin to fancy that “the moon _is_ a green cheese,” and will wake up some fine night finding themselves cutting slices for an imaginary breakfast.

One chap has the audacity to set himself up as the _sole_ patron of American arts and letters, and has spent _unheard_ of amounts on artists and writers. We fear to inquire into this business _too_ closely, lest it should turn out like the charity of the lady who was “collecting for a poor woman.” It _was_ charity—for it “began at home,” and _ended there_!

Now “Graham” you may rely upon—there is a certain don’t care for anybody air about _him_ that you can understand. If any fellow wishes to blow up his Magazine, Graham asks him—nay, commands him to “blaze away”—if he don’t like the painted fashions, which cost $945, lo! Graham goes to the enormous expense of $2 and gives him his “own peculiar” in wood—Bloomer and all, fresh from the newspapers, and not credited to Paris either—if the small-talk don’t suit—Graham suggests something else, and invites him to read some of the other Magazines, where the editor “talks big,” and swells in imaginary dignity until a turkey is rather cast into the shade by overblown dignity—if he don’t like the stories he may read the essays—if neither, the poetry is before him—and if literature has no charms for him, he may admire Art in the engravings: “if none of these things move him,” let him admire Nature by looking at himself in a mirror, and imagine his ears wonderfully grown, and his voice a lion’s. Graham is as easily pleased as a young girl at her first ball, and thinks the world is moving round to the timing of music—and though he is as poor as Job’s—ah! that reminds us of _the turkeys_ we sent to editors.

* * * * *

The Turkey Ovation.—Never, we suppose, since the day the Romans overran the world, has there been such terrible bloodshed and sanguinary goings on, as was consequent upon Graham’s royal edict about Turkey. The crimson dye was streaming about all the editorial sanctums on Christmas Eve. Graham had issued orders to bring up the culprits for execution, and at about ten o’clock, at _a given_ signal, twelve hundred of the inhabitants of Turkeydom were marched out, and had their throats cut without mercy. The bloody-minded issuer of this sanguinary decree still lives and glories in the deed; and strange to say—his men back him up with fixed bayonets. If these things are allowed to proceed, people will not be able to sleep quietly in their beds, but a terror will go forth over the land, and neighbors will have to keep watch and ward over each other—turkeys will be, _nowhere_—editors will grow fat, on the fat of the land, and will soon have the hardihood to ask their subscribers to pay for the papers they read, with the same promptitude with which they expect them delivered.

This sort of thing will go on. A revolution in newspaper presses will be the consequence, and quiet, sedate people, who read over the paper, and complain of the type—of the quality of the paper—of the long editorials—of the short editorials—of the light reading—of the heavy reading—of the political matter—of the want of political news and facts—of the poetry—of the advertisements—of the mails—of the carrier—of the publisher, the editor, and the “devil”—will be shocked at having a _bill_ to pay. Turkey must be paid for, as well as slaughtered. There is no community of goods in Turkey. Every landholder expects the pay for corn that feeds and fattens turkey—and subscribers must expect to—“PAY UP.” Graham will get the blame—but the revolution _will_ go on! People who grumble—and, some of them—swear! about their papers, must _pay for the luxury_. No man has a right to _be stupid_—nor can expect editors to eat turkeys and publish newspapers on air.

“Mr. ——, do _you_ know that your subscription is _overdue_ to The ——?”

“No?”

“We thought so. Well, take Graham’s advice, and take $2, ‘pay up,’ and take a receipt at once. You have no idea how it will clear your conscience, and your eye-sight, too, as to the _merits_ of the paper.”

* * * * *

Snow-Balling in the South.—Our Southern friends seem to have been taken by surprise by Jack Frost, and to have had some difficulty in acknowledging his acquaintance. At New Orleans we see, that Sambo was out early in the morning, and came rushing back to his master exclaiming—“_Oh, Monsieur! regardez donc! la cour est pleine de sucre blanc!_” “Oh, sir, look: the yard is full of _white sugar_!” “The oldest inhabitants,” says the Delta, “stared with amazement. It snowed all night, and in the morning the earth was entirely invisible; a white carpet, to the depth of eight inches, covered its entire surface. Our population were all agog, and snow-balls flew as thick and as fast as bullets at Buena Vista. The hats of peaceable citizens were knocked into corners; eyes and mouths were filled with conglomerated masses of snow, and ears were stopped.” In Florida, according to the News, “There was no record nor tradition of such an event in the history of East Florida. Some of the oldest inhabitants recollect, on one or two occasions, having seen a slight sprinkle of snow, but not enough to whiten the ground, and it passed off like a dream. But on this occasion we had an opportunity of enjoying the delightful amusement of “snow-balling;” and ladies, as fair as the snow itself, joined heartily in an amusement, the opportunity for which presents itself only once in a century.” Mrs. Neal, in her very sprightly and delightful letters from Charleston, S. C., gives an animated picture of the scene in Palmettodom: “Even in Philadelphia, where snow is by no means an every day affair, you cannot credit the excitement it gave rise to. The children, many of whom had never seen ‘the white rain,’ clapped their hands as the roofs and the ground were covered with the pure mantle—and when evening came, and the strange visitor seemed to like its Southern quarters, and resolved to settle for the night, men and boys went forth to the novel enjoyment of snow-balling, and some even attempted a sleigh-ride. Grave, grown up men were startled into an involuntary participation of the sport, and I was told, and it is _too good a story not to be true_, that one gentleman was seen indulging in the unusual pastime accompanied by a negro carrying his ‘spare balls’—all ready moulded in a box! Snow-balling under circumstances of ‘elegant leisure.’

“The next morning’s sun seemed to have little effect upon it, the cold still continuing intense; and about the middle of the day a party, a regular duel it seemed, ascended to the top of the Charleston hotel and the Hague street stores, pelting each other with great vigor, the plazza upon which we stood affording a fine view of the sport. The children were for the first time indulged with snow-building, and many a youthful Powers made his first effort at sculpture on the frozen countenance of a ‘snow-man.’ It was more curious still that they considered it in the light of a confection, and ate it with salt, as they would a hard boiled egg, esteeming it much nicer than any candy. ‘It was fun to them—but death to the servants’—to borrow from the fable of the boys and the frogs. The poor negroes, wilted and shriveled up into ‘dumb waiters’—burning over the fire, with a deprecating glance at the snow covered ground that was really piteous, but every consideration was paid to them, and as little out-door work as possible assigned.”

We cannot refrain from adding the following delicious little bit of character-painting, from the same pen, though not _germaine_ to the theme: “If there is one thing that distinguishes the Southern negro above all others, it is _deliberation_. We had a fair example of this the morning of our arrival. There was not a soul on the wharf to take the rope of the steamer which some thoughtful person had thrown on shore without looking to see what was to be done with it. There were the passengers with eager, expectant faces, grouped upon the deck, baggage already looked over, and piled up for the carriages—every thing ready to land, and we just so far from the shore that a plank could not be thrown across. Presently a negro appeared on the next wharf, walking toward us with the utmost calmness. In vain were the calls of the Northern gentlemen in tartan shawls, or the impatient gestures of one of the officers of the boat. A New York wharf lounger would have had the rope secured in the time this venerable Ned took to put one foot before the other. And when he finally arrived amid the cheers of the passengers, who by this time thought it as well to laugh as fret, one of them called out as he bent over to the rope thrown once more—‘Uncle—I say—hadn’t you better _wipe_ it first?’—a finale which could not have been more deliberate than his previous movements.”

* * * * *

Small.—There _is_ something smaller in the world than Graham’s small-talk, and that is, a soul in a pill-box. We know several that are just in that way imprisoned—and they belong to fellows who are afraid to notice a rival publication, for _fear_ people will believe them.

* * * * *

Cable, the editor of the Ohio Picayune, is a man to hold on. Here is what he says—

“We would not do without this Magazine for treble its price; and as we consider ourself as having some taste in this matter, we warmly recommend Graham to the lovers of chaste and classical literature.”

Our friend of the Picayune will be glad to know that there are 30,000 people of his mind, who cling to Graham always. Then, there is a “floating population” of 20,000 more, who don’t know their own minds, but shift about to all points of the compass and come back again to Graham, grumbling at others, when the fault is their own for having left Graham at all. These wanderers are coming in, in flocks, for ’52, but we don’t _count_ on them, any more than upon a roost of wild pigeons—they will go to Godey—to Harper, to somebody in a year or two, and then come back again mad at every body. These folks are _nobodies_.

* * * * *

The very beautiful poem, “Bless the Homestead Law,” from the pen of our correspondent, L. Virginia Smith, adds another laurel to the wreath which clusters already around the young brow of that child of genius. _Memphis_ may well be proud of her, as the _Inquirer_ of that city _is_. The editor says of this poem, which was written for him—

“We have the satisfaction of presenting to-day one of the most eloquent appeals in behalf of the _Homestead Exemption Law_, which it has been our fortune to meet with. It is from the pen of the gifted one our city is proud to call its own poetess. We commend this appeal to the _hearts_ of the members of the Legislature, upon whose votes hangs the fate of this most just and beneficent measure.”

* * * * *

A Leap Year Love Letter.—We have received a very delightful leap year love letter from a _very_ beautiful young lady living in Maine—we wont tell in what post-town—but we know she is beautiful from the very elegant epistle she writes, and that she is a lady of discernment from the very handsome things she says of “Graham”—and that she is _smart_ from the very way she edges in her proposal to be our second in case we are married already.

We are happy to say that we are a Benedict, and as Kossuth has prudently introduced no Turkish notions into his addresses to the ladies, we have great doubts about indulging in any dreams as to “pluralities.” But still, we may safely say, as we do “by permission,” that the young lady who sends “Graham” the largest club for 1852, shall receive the favor of our most distinguished consideration.

“Graham” may now be considered in the market for “proposals,” and if all the handsome things the press say of him are read and pondered over—as they ought to be—he will receive a perfect shower of adoration in the agreeable form of attached and worshiping subscribers. “Graham” holds the King of _clubs_ and Knave of _hearts_, now—so every young lady knows the lead.

* * * * *

Advertising.—Business is business and must be _pressed_ home. Now we have a business secret for your ear, reader! one which we charge you nothing for; but which comes charged with weighty and important meaning. _Do you ever advertise?_ No! Why there is nothing like advertising to make a fortune! Nearly all the men about here, who never advertised, have _taken in_ their signs, shut up shop, been taken in themselves and have gone to California—the dupes of the very advertising in the newspapers, which they scorned while fortune was all around them. You must take hold of this lever that moves the business world. Advertise in _your local papers_—if your business is local—let your neighbors know that you have something to _sell_—that you wish to _buy_ something—or, that you are ready to _trade_. Wake up! and wake up your neighbors! We should never be able to publish Graham with 112 pages per month, if we did not let the world _know_ that we are wide awake, and ready to supply any quantity of numbers for 1852, _having stereotyped the book purposely_. Now, drowsy head! do _you_ suppose that if you are a storekeeper you would not sell more goods by advertising? Or if a mechanic, that it will do you any harm to be known far and near as an active, enterprising business man ready for customers? Or, if a farmer, with a lot of _extra_ corn or potatoes to sell, that you could not _make_ a market? Do you suppose, that you can put your hands into your pockets and whistle a fortune into them, too? If you do, advertise _that_, and be immortal.

* * * * *

Our Stories.—We have adopted the plan of giving our readers one long story complete, in each number—say from twelve to twenty pages. In the January number we gave “The Rich Man’s Whims,” which was universally praised by the press and by the readers of this Magazine. “Anna Temple,” which appeared in the February number, we think, was a better story, and so say many critics competent to judge. “The Democrat,” at Ballston, N. Y., says, in noticing the last number—“Graham now contains, and will continue to contain, during this year, more reading matter monthly than any similar work published in the country. The story, “Anna Temple,” in the February number, is one of the finest tales we have ever read, and is alone worth more than the year’s subscription to the Magazine.” And this is but one, of scores of such notices.

In the present number our readers will find a _gem_ called “The Miser and His Daughter,” written by a gentleman of New Orleans—the author of the story of “The Little Family,” which appeared in the November number of “Graham”—a tale which was more widely read and praised than any article in the last volume. We have received the first part of an article by this writer, which we shall give in future numbers, and we do not hesitate to say, for the benefit of those who worship British ability _only_, that no article _equal_ to it has appeared in Blackwood or Frazer for years. It is called “The First Age.”

* * * * *

Caution.—“My goodness,” says a cautious and gouty old gentleman, who is one of Graham’s friends, “aint you afraid to talk at your subscribers and exchanges the way you do?” _No!_ not a bit of it—Graham will tell “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” to every body who reads his editorial chit-chat. If people don’t like it, they need not read it. In 112 pages there is room and verge enough to dodge around sharp corners and escape the dilemma of reading the few pages in which Graham, kicking off his boots, goes at people with his slippers on. Every body, in 1852, will get _more_ than a full return for what is paid for the book, without counting “The Small-Talk”—and if any editor don’t like it, let him let it alone. “The whole boundless continent is _not_ ours,” but the small-talk _is_—and being monarch sole and absolute in these dominions, we shall submit to no impertinence, but _will_ have our own will and way—and the way is straight and plain. We do not expect to get a decent notice from the Saturday Evening Post, for all this—and we don’t care if we don’t—nor if we do.

* * * * *

Graham on Dreams.—Did you ever dream you were rich? Is it not delightful!—while it lasts. A prize in the lottery—dreaming of numbers innumerable, is one of the tricks of Morpheus—and of people wide awake, too, sometimes. Then the visions of defunct grand-uncles, beyond the seas, who hearing of our great worth and deservings, die on purpose to make us happy, and bequeath vast estates and lots of three per cents. in the _funds_. It is glorious! And then, too, ponderous mails coming to you, in which each subscriber, who is in debt, sends you the money—and dozens—dozens?—hats full, of letters inclosing the long delayed $3, come like blessings in troops—the notes all new, too, and 6’s instead of 3’s sent by the overjoyed subscriber—not in a mistake either—for he _says_ “the work is worth double the money, and being an honest man, I intend to pay the fair value.” Ah! this is grand! We like to do business with people who know something.

“_John_, John!—Call Mr. Graham, and tell him the printer wants copy—_and paper too_!” Pshaw!

Look here! We hate to be deceived. Somebody make our “dream come true.”

* * * * *

Fine Ink.—We take pleasure in calling the attention of printers to the very superior quality of the ink used in the printing of our wood-cut forms. It is from the establishment of Messrs. Romig, Lay & Co., 51 South Fourth street, Philadelphia. They are prepared to furnish different qualities at various prices to the trade. Letters addressed to them will be promptly attended to.

The Dollar Newspaper, which is edited by a Sailor, who has been to Egypt—you see—and a long Lane—who has denied the proverb, and done us a good “turn,” has sent us a spanking club by Hudley, its ever attentive and active clerk. The Dollar is a great paper—worth any day more than its silver namesake—which _goes_ now at about 102½—but where it goes _to_, puzzles the bankers. The Newspaper has the advantage in this, for nobody knows where it _don’t_ go. In all of the 17,000 post-towns in which Graham is loved and cherished, we find our young and vigorous brother. Graham and the lively Dollar, are the pride of good printers and pretty girls. Intellect, and Beauty, and Dollars and Graham’s!—what a consummation!

The truth is, Graham’s modesty is sorely tried just now, when a shout is going up from every town and hamlet of the country on his behalf; and were it not that the subscriptions usually keep pace with the praise, he would not be able to exist at all.

* * * * *

Saucy and True.—We shall exchange next year with no fellow who notices “Graham” in the same line with another work and says, he “_don’t know which is the best_.” If a man has not courage enough to say that Graham is the worst, or the best, or the equal of any other magazine, as the _fact_ may be, we don’t want his company. So boys, if you like the conditions, observe them. We _ask_ no man to publish our prospectus—but we do ask that “Graham” shall not be bundled in with any body who happens to be traveling the same road at the same time—as there are a good many shabby looking fellows about whose room is better than their company—at any rate their room shan’t be ours—that’s plump.

* * * * *

_The Saturday Courier_ has been—or is, at this writing—publishing a most powerful story called _Marcus Warland_, from the pen of its old and valued correspondent, Caroline Lee Hentz. The stories purchased and selected by Mr. McMakin evince a fine taste and just discrimination, and we often wonder where he lays his hands upon them. The secret is partly disclosed by an announcement in his paper that “Mrs. Hentz refused the sum of $400 offered her by a New York bookseller,” for the story of Marcus Warland. The new volume of the Courier commences in March; and looking over the storehouse of good things McMakin has, for his readers, we say they are to be envied for ’52.

* * * * *

Winchester (Tenn.) Independent of the 16th January, comes to us with its head all topsy turvy, as if the editor had been on a batter. _Wigg’s_ is the publisher, and of course has a right to ship his scalp occasionally—but we don’t believe that the name of his town is spelt as follows:

though an _independent_ fellow, in this free country, may take a spell in that way, if he likes.

* * * * *

The Essex Freeman is a good paper, but has in its advertising columns some “shocking bad” wood-cuts. The editor says “American wood-engravings are apt to be bad,” but admits an exception in favor of Devereux’s fine pictures in our February number. Porter and Streeter are funny dogs, but can’t _take_ a joke. Wonder what _ails_ Porter!

* * * * *

The Central New Yorker, came to us with a new year’s address with the “pictur” of the _editor_ at the head. He is a _rising_ man—but he had better let the girls alone. The following appears in the _address_:

THE BLOOMER COSTUME.

Bloomer Costumes rule the day,
Ladies wear the new apparel,
Corsets now are thrown away,
Hour-glass changes to a barrel.

Ladies now may street yarn spin,
As they have to take less stitches,
Now they put their fair forms in
Sack coats and big Turkey breeches.

We hope Mr. Editor Rising has no allusion, in this, to Graham’s Christmas Turkeys—that would be a breach of decorum.

* * * * *

The Knickerbocker.—Our _old_ friend Clark, the very prince of genial natures and royal good fellows, disdains to talk any longer, solely, to the dull and heavy folks of “Upper Tendom;” so, showing no quarters, he comes down to “a quarter,” and pitches his tent in the field of the many—throwing his banner to the gale, without getting upon one himself. If Clark does not print and _sell_ 50,000 copies “the fools are _not_ all dead,” but maintain a very decided majority among the “peoples.” If any body wishes “Old Knick” and young Graham together, they can accomplish their benevolent desire by sending us $5. “The Old Gentleman” and the Young ’un are celebrities of “this enlightened nineteenth century,” and cannot be _had_ for less.

* * * * *

“The Old Colony Memorial,” published at Plymouth, Mass., says Graham for February, was “the best looking number of this popular monthly we have ever seen. Of the literary contents we can speak highly.” Its editor, who does not like fun of any kind, has the following satisfactory

Conundrum.—Why is Church-membership like Charity? Guess once all round. Answer next week.

* * * * *

Our friend of “the olden time,” Samuel C. Atkinson, is making a capital paper of The Burlington N. J. Gazette, and shows that years do not impair his energy, nor extinguish his genial appreciation of all things beautiful and true.

* * * * *

Exploded Proverb.—“Figures cannot lie,” says the proverb. Graham says—it depends upon _who makes ’em_.

* * * * *

Plain Preaching.—We have upon our books a list of names, the owners of which are ALL well to do, and the most of whom go to church every Sunday and say their prayers—as Christians ought to do—and yet these same men will pass our office day after day, and never think of stopping to pay up, and if called upon, think it a hard case; haint got the change handy; aint used to being dunned.—_Plaindealer, Roslyn, N. Y._

Why, Mr. Plaindealer, the sooner you get rid of these chaps the better—they _intend_ to cheat you anyhow—even if it be but out of the interest of your money, and your peace of mind—which last is worth more than dollars.

If publishers would only form a “Mutual Protection Society,” and _placard_ all such fellows as a warning, we should _all_ do better. We have about fifty that we intend to _cut_—giving them the Kentucky benediction. A fellow, who will neither notice your letter nor your bill, is a rogue in grain—rely upon it. It is a good rule to go by.

“Moon, ’tis a very queer figure you cut;
One eye is staring while t’other is shut.
Tipsy, I see; and you’re greatly to blame;
Old as you are ’tis a terrible shame.”

* * * * *

Southern Literary Papers.—Godman writes us that his new Southern Literary Journal, “The Family Friend,” is “going off like hot cakes.” We are heartily glad of this for two reasons; First, because we like Godman for his energy of character and his splendid genius, which blazes out in every line he writes, pure as a vestal lamp amid the surrounding debasement of the minds of many writers of romance. Secondly, because the South _ought_ to maintain one or _more_ first rate literary papers, and the North should help her do it with cordial good-will. She has been liberal, to us of the North, in her support, for years of _our_ literary magazines and gazettes—let us _now_ return the compliment with earnestness and kindliness.

Some of Godman’s best articles have enriched and will continue to enrich _our_ pages, and as he has started manfully, in competition with Northern periodicals, Graham says—to his friends—_Stand by your banner,_ _boys!_—let there be a brotherhood in letters at least, and let us leave the quarreling to ambitious politicians. So, Godman! Graham wishes you “God speed,” and 100,000 subscribers! Any fellow who cannot respond to the sentiment—whether he lives north or south of the Potomac—had better button his soul in his vest pocket carefully, or he will not be able to find it, when it is called for.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Mr. Thos. Bristow, the Writing-Master, has finished and intends to present a very fine _fac simile_ letter of Washington’s Farewell Address to the United States Government. The whole design and execution is such as to reflect the highest credit upon Mr. Bristow as a teacher of “the Chirographic art.”

* * * * *

Determined not to be outdone in generosity, and to meet the views of the critics fully, we _present_ “the latest styles” as reported by Mrs. Bloomer “expressly” for her own paper—and give you Dodworth’s “dancing style” as we find them reported in “The Clerk’s Journal.”

Our Paris Fashions cost us $945 per month, for designing, engraving, printing and coloring the edition of Graham’s Magazine, and many sage and sapient critics said they liked “the wood-cut style.” Well, now you have got them—how do you like them? They cost the almost unmentionable sum of $2, but are as good as the biggest. It may be as well to mention, by way of _description_, that the Bloomer is going to church—as soon as she can get off from this dancing-party.

* * * * *

“Oh Share My Cottage.”

COMPOSED BY R. C. SHRIVAL.

Published by permission of F. D. BENTEEN & Co., No. 181 Baltimore Street,
Baltimore.

Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee,
To

give a sweetness to its shade,
And happiness, happiness to me,
Here from the splendid gay parade,
Of noise and folly free,
No sorrows can my peace invade,
If only blest with thee.
Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee,
To give a sweetness to its shade,
And happiness, happiness to me.

SECOND VERSE.

The hawthorn with the woodbine ’twin’d
Presents their sweets to thee,
And every balmy breath of wind
Is filled with harmony:
A truly fond and faithful heart
Is all I offer thee,
And must I from your face depart,
A prey to misery.
Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee,
To add fresh sweetness to its shade,
And happiness to me.

* * * * *

“STARS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT.”

WORDS BY LONGFELLOW,
MUSIC BY H. KLEBER.

Published by permission of LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street,
Philadelphia,
_Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_.

Stars of the summer night,
Far, far in your azure

deeps;
Hide, hide your golden light,
She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

Moon of the summer night,
Far, down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light,
She sleeps, my lady sleeps, my lady sleeps.

SECOND VERSE.

Wind of the summer night,
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light,
She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

Dreams of the summer night,
Tell her, her lover keeps watch,
While in slumbers bright
She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation 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. Brief descriptions of illustrations without caption have been provided in the plain text version of this ebook.

page 232, hearts the poets tale ==> hearts the poet’s tale page 239, there were the mole ==> there where the mole page 250, If your are willing to ==> If you are willing to page 273, Valenciennes and Condè ==> Valenciennes and Condé page 273, defection of Dumuoriez ==> defection of Dumouriez page 273, skill of Dumuoriez ==> skill of Dumouriez page 273, Dumuoriez’s more generous ==> Dumouriez’s more generous page 282, wrote his Eikonoklases ==> wrote his Eikonoklastes page 282, books, the Eikonoklases ==> books, the Eikonoklastes page 285, his Eikonoklases, and ==> his Eikonoklastes, and page 286, “Telemachus” of Fenelon ==> “Telemachus” of Fénelon page 311, Arabian die to set ==> Arabian dye to set page 312, the invading the ==> the invading of the page 312, on that side the ==> on that side of the page 317, the lines were beauty ==> the lines where beauty page 332, The crimson die was ==> The crimson dye was

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 3, March 1852]