Chapter IX: Part 9

Oh, the rich, dark maple sugar! how it tells me of the woods, Of bland south winds and melting snows, and budding solitudes! Oh, the melting maple sugar! as I taste its luscious sweets, Remembrance in my raptured ear her witching song repeats; Once more my heart is young and pure! once more my footsteps stray Amid the scenes, the lovely scenes, of childhood’s opening day.

A frosty night! the searching air made hearth-fires a delight, Stern Winter seemed as if again to rally in his might; But, oh, how pure and beautiful the morning has arisen! What glorious floods of sunshine! off! the dwelling is a prison! Off, off! run, leap, and drink the air! off! leave man’s roofs behind! Nature has more of pleasure now than haunts of human kind.

How free the blood is bounding! how soft the sunny glow! And, hearken! fairy tones are ringing underneath the snow! Slump, slump! the gauzy masses glide from hemlock, fence and rock, And yon low, marshy meadow seems as spotted with a flock; Drip, drip, the icicle sends its tears from its sparkling tip, and still With tinkle, tinkle, beneath the snow rings many a viewless rill.

We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall, The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall! The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent: Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent! What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tints As the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints.

Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer, For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I hear; The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death, Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like breath, Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of the doe, And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s cheerful glow.

The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops! And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops; A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view, And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue, Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skill His ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.

The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there, He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air; From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow, Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow, While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and dumb, As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come.

The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy, The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy; When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my way, And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!” When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow, And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below.

* * * * *

TO MY LOVE.

BY HENRY H. PAUL.

Dewy buds of Paphian myrtle
Strew, ye virgins, as I sing;
Chaplets weave from Love’s bright fountain—
O’er my lyre their fragrance fling.
What—what is gay Pieria’s rose,
What is Paphos’ blushing flower,
Whilst Beauty doth my spirit thrall,
Whilst all my pulses feel thy power?

With Cyprian fire thine eye is sparkling,
Like the morning’s tender light;
Through thy silken lashes straying,
Shafts resistless wing their flight:
O! the time I first beheld thee,
Blushing in thy early teens,
Rose nor lily ne’er excelled thee,
Though the garden’s rival queens.

* * * * *

SOFTLY O’ER MY MEMORY STEALING.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE,”

BY PROFESSOR JOHN A. JANKE, JR.

_WORDS BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON._

Softly o’er my mem’ry stealing,
Comes the light of other days,
Visions of past joys revealing,
Lit by Hope’s enchanting rays.
’Twas

in that blest time I knew thee,
And thy glance and gentle tone,
Thrill’d with magic influence through me,
Waking joys till then unknown.

SECOND VERSE.

Time has sped with ceaseless motion;
Chance and change have wrought their will—
But my heart, with fond devotion,
Clings to thee, belov’d one, still.
Nor can life yield richer pleasure,
Or a brighter gift impart,
Than the pure and priceless treasure,
Of thy fond and faithful heart.

* * * * *

CATHARA.

BY WALTER COLTON, U. S. N.

Cathara had that pure Ionian face,
Which melts its way in music to the heart;
Each look and line betrayed that breathing grace,
Which Genius has embalmed in classic art,
Or sculptured in the Aphrodite—where glows
Immortal life, in marble’s still repose.

Her presence on your love and wonder stole
With such an atmosphere of softened light,
It seemed as some Aurora of the Pole,
Were melting down the starry depths of night;
Or Dian had her glowing form unrolled
From out her floating orb of liquid gold.

Her features were most delicately moulded,
And so transparent shone her dimpled cheek,
That when her large black eyes their rays unfolded.
Its bloom was lighted like some Alpine peak,
When zephyrs roll the circling mists away,
And on its summit breaks the blush of day.

Her raven hair in showering ringlets fell,
That veiled her sylph-like form from human vision;
Her step was light as that of the gazelle,
And yet its airy motions had precision;
The circling air displayed, where’er she went,
A wave of light in rainbow beauty bent.

Her voice was sweet as warble of a bird;
The accent flowed so softly through the tone,
It seemed as ’twere the _thought_ itself you heard—
Like music, which the summer’s breeze hath thrown
O’er silent waters, from some woodland lyre,
Or humming stream, or old cathedral quire.

Her beauty broke not on a sudden glance,
But if you watched its soft progressive ray,
Some hidden charm of form, or countenance,
Like silver planets at the close of day—
Would cast its slender veil of shadows by,
And timidly advance upon the eye.

Her heart was that from which her features took
The tender tone their aspect ever wore;
The pensive thoughts which saddened in her look,
Were what you feel upon a lonely shore,
Where not a sound is heard except the surge,
In which some billow hymns its dying dirge.

Her eyes would swim, her bosom heave with grief,
When pale misfortune poured its tragic theme;
As in the quick wind shakes the forest leaf,
An orphan’s wo would tremble in her dream;
The tears despair had hardened into stone,
Would melt to dew, when mingled with her own.

You deemed that such an one, if death were nigh,
Might cheer and soothe you, tho’ she might not save;
You thought how sweetly on your closing eye
Would fall each glance her tender spirit gave;
While meekness showed where guilt might be forgiven,
And mercy plumed the parting soul for Heaven.

* * * * *

THE DEPARTED.

BY MRS. MARY S. WHITAKER.

Bid sorrow cease; she rests in peace—
Her task, at last, is done;
And decked with youth, and bright with truth,
Cold lies thy martyred one.
But thine the crime, and through all time,
Remorse shall follow thee,
With phantom form, through calm and storm,
On land and on the sea.

Her shadowy hair, her bosom fair,
So often heaving sighs;
Her smile so bland, her lily hand,
Her mildly mournful eyes—
Which long did weep—in troubled sleep,
How lovely will they come,
All fresh with life, and free from strife,
From out the marble tomb.

Her voice of love, all price above,
Shall speak, as once it spoke,
With gushing flow of tender wo,
The while her heart was broke;
When thy distrust had bowed to dust
Her bosom’s modest pride,
Ere like a flower, beneath the shower
Too rude, she meekly died.

’Twill whisper soft, “Beloved, how oft
Thy brow grows dark and stern;
I know not why, yet in thy eye
Strange coldness I discern;
A heavy blight, the spirit’s night,
Falls darkly on my soul;
This inward grief, without relief,
Thou only canst control!”

These accents clear, thy waking ear
Shall lose in silence dread;
But from thy heart shall ne’er depart,
The wailing of the dead;
Her wasted bloom, her early doom,
Shall haunt thee evermore!
While she, at rest, with spirits blest,
Lives on the better shore.

* * * * *

THE DEAD.

BY “AN AULD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOUTHERS.”

Dead! dead! they are dying—dying!
Oh! for the hands that were clasping ours!
Passed like a breeze in its own sad sighing,
Falling like leaves from the wasted flowers,
Dropping away, so still—so still!
Call them again, so cold and chill!

Dead? dead? Oh! _how could_ they die?
Laughed they not, sang they not joyfully?
Were they not with us—and now are they gone?
Why have they left us, and where have they flown?
Spake they not oft of a deathless tie?
Are they not sleeping? Oh! where do they lie?

_Here!_ not here! ’tis a fearful place—
Were they not gentle, with steps of grace?
Were they not glad as the birds in June?
With hearts like a fountain of joyful tune?
They were with us at morn, and with us at night,
Their locks were of gold, and their eyes of light!

Yet—yet, ye say they are dead;
Tell us the land where their footsteps tread!
Oh! there is _one_ who hath sought its shore,
Never to smile with us, weep with us more;
Soon, _too_ soon; ’tis a mournful thing
To pass with the bier o’er the flowers of spring!

List! list! she is coming now!
Twine ye the wreath for her gladsome brow,
Gather the buds, ay, the buds that keep
Such trembling dreams in their breasts, asleep,
Beauteous types of her heart are they;
Cull them from streamlet and glen away!

Here, here, when the sun is low,
We shall sit again, when the shadows throw
Their dusky wings o’er mount and sea,
And speak of the past, and the time to be!
Counting the links that have broken away
From each chain at the fount, where the heart-streams play!

Hist! hist! did you hear her pass,
The ringing laugh on her lip? Alas!
Say ye again that she slumbers low?
Mourner, why art thou shaken so?
Death is the veil that the spirit takes,
When the light of God on its sorrowing breaks!

Then, then, thou’lt murmur _no more_!
Peace to the weary who travel before!
Blesséd are they He hath chosen and tried,
Blesséd are they in His love that have died;
Heart! let thy throbbings be constant to prayer,
So thou wouldst dwell where thy cherished ones are!

Turn! turn, look down through the vale
Stretching before thee, where, saddened and pale,
Sorrow is beck’ning thee—sorrow and wrong—
Weak though thine arm may be, feeble thy song,
God smileth aye, on the small “precious seed,”
Making the harvest-time golden indeed!

Thou hast been sleeping; wake from thy dreams!
Wo for that waking till God o’er it gleams!
Better the sleeper were locked in his rest,
Better the sun had gone down in his west!
Yet if thy path windeth up through thy fears,
Hope’s resurrection shall dawn on thy tears!

Hope! Hope! transfigured and bright,
Walking with Faith on the mountains of light!
Bidding thee weep the departed no more,
_Angels_ await at the sepulchre door!
Bidding thee take up thy cross, for the day
Soon from thy vision will vanish away!

* * * * *

THE HOMESTEAD OF BEAUTY.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

There’s a homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream,
And the sweet tones of children are ringing all day,
While the voice of the mother is blithesome and glad,
As the notes of the song-bird that warbles in May.
The Angel of Peace to the hearth-stone has come,
With a message of mercy to brighten each dream,
And as glad to the heart, as ’tis pure to the eye,
Is that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

The woodbine has curtained the threshold with flowers,
And the half-shaded sunbeams fall soft on the floor;
While the white-sanded streamlet is singing as sweet
As the echoes of music, when music is o’er.
The dew on each snow-drop is gem-like and bright,
And the lily is bathed in morn’s earliest beam,
While the zephyrs are whispering their matins of praise,
Round that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

The wings of the evening come loaded with bliss,
When the toil and the trouble of daylight is past,
And the coolness and calm of the star-lighted hours,
O’er the dwellers in hall and in cottage is cast,
The sun-browned cheek of the father is kissed;
With tears the full eye of the parent will gleam
As he presses those loved ones more near to his heart,
In that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

And then from that cottage the hymn and the prayer
Uprose, when the hour of reposing had come;
And each sent an offering of thanksgiving up
To _Him_ who had blessed them with quiet at home.
Oh! who has not wished, when the cold world has chilled
Each flow’ret that blossomed in life’s morning dream.
To find out some refuge from sorrow and care,
Like that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

* * * * *

GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

* * * * *

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

We always fail when we judge of the fate of others. Life is double—an internal and an external life; the latter often open to the eyes of all, the former only seen by the eye of God. Nor is it alone those material things which we conceal from the eyes of others, which often make the apparently splendid lot in reality a dark one, or that which seems sad or solitary, cheerful and light within. Our characters, our spirits operate upon all that fate or accident subjects to them. We transform the events of life for our own uses, be those uses bitter or sweet; and as a piece of gold loses its form and solidity when dropped into a certain acid, so the hard things of life are resolved by the operations of our own minds into things the least resembling themselves. True, a life of study and of thought may seem to most men a calm and tranquil state of existence. Such pursuits gently excite, and exercise softly and peacefully the highest faculties of the intellectual soul; but age brings with it indifference even to these enjoyments—nay, it does more, it teaches us the vanity and emptiness of all man’s knowledge. We reach the bounds and barriers which God has placed across our path in every branch of science, and we find, with bitter disappointment, at life’s extreme close, that when we know all, we know nothing. This I have learned, and it is all that I have learned in eighty years, that the only knowledge really worth pursuing is the knowledge of God in his word and his works—the only practical application of that high science, to do good to all God’s creatures.

* * * * *

The operation of man’s mind and of his heart are as yet mysteries. We talk of eager love; we speak of the warm blood of the South; we name certain classes of our fellow beings excitable, and others phlegmatic; but we ourselves little understand what we mean when we apply such terms, and never try to dive into the sources of the qualities or the emotions we indicate. We ask not how much is due to education, how much to nature; and never think of the immense sum of co-operating causes which go to form that which is really education. Is man or woman merely educated by the lessons of a master, or the instructions and exhortations of a parent? Are not the acts we witness, the words we hear, the scenes with which we are familiar, parts of our education? Is not the Swiss, or the Highlander, of every land, educated in part by his mountains, his valleys, his lakes, his torrents? Is not the inhabitant of cities subjected to certain permanent impressions, by the constant presence of crowds, and the everlasting pressure of his fellow men? Does not the burning sun, the arid desert, the hot blast, teach lessons never forgotten, and which become part of nature to one class of men; and frozen plains, and lengthened winters, and long nights, other lessons to the natives of a different region? Give man what instruction you will, by spoken words or written signs, there is another education going on forever, not only for individuals but for nations, in the works of God around them, and in the circumstances with which his will has encompassed their destiny.

* * * * *

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The ocean looketh up to heaven,
As ’twere a living thing;
The homage of its waves is given
In ceaseless worshiping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand,
As bends the human knee;
A beautiful and tireless band—
The priesthood of the sea.

They pour the glittering treasures out
Which in the deep have birth;
And chant their awful hymns about
The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up
From every mountain shrine—
From every flower and dewy cup
That greeteth the sun-shine.

The mists are lifted from the rills,
Like the white wing of prayer
They lean above the ancient hills,
As doing homage there.

The forest tops are lowly cast
O’er breezy hill and glen,
As in a prayerful spirit passed
On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world,
E’en as repentant love;
Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurled,
They fade in light above.

The sky it is a temple’s arch—
The blue and wavy air
Is glorious with the spirit-march
Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun,
The many stars are given,
As shrines to burn earth’s incense on—
The altar-fires of Heaven!

* * * * *

BY MISS PARDOE.

There is always something sad, if not revolting, in the visit of those unsympathizing servitors of dissolution who first break upon the stillness of the house of death. The very nature of their errand is fearful—they come to claim all that is left of what was once life, and will, and action—to tread heavily over the floor where others have previously moved with a noiseless step—to talk in hoarse, although suppressed voices, where the dull echoes have latterly been hushed—and coldly to pursue their avocation in the very presence of eternity. Perhaps it is well that there is no possibility of delaying this first trial, for where the ties of love have been rent asunder, who would have courage to sanction so unhallowed an intrusion? Who could summon to the bedside, so lately the scene of agony and prayer, the unsympathizing eyes and hands of mercenary strangers? Human nature is ever prone to resist where resistance is possible, and suffering certain; happy is it, therefore, that it is taught, in so solemn a moment, to feel its own impotence, and to submit.

* * * * *

The tiger gives no warning before he springs—it is for the traveler to be wary. The serpent utters no threatening before he stings—the intended victim must defend himself against the venomed tongue. And thus, in like manner, the woman who sees only the gorgeous skin or the gleaming scales of vice, and wilfully closes her eyes against the poison to which they lend a mocking and a worthless charm, finds little pity, and excites no sympathy.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

A HAPPY NEW-YEAR.—Holding continual intercourse through the press with so many thousands scattered over this country, and other countries, we feel an enlarged sympathy with our fellow beings, and use suitable occasions to give utterance to hopes and wishes in another form than that of the essays, stories and poetry of the stated columns of this Magazine. We set forth our humble “table,” and while we invite all to a seat, we bid all welcome to the viands; nay, we make the little festival with a particular and special view—to express to our readers our hearty wishes for “a happy New-Year.” May they all be happy, all enjoy the year upon which we now enter, all be freed from care and troublesome anxiety, and all have enough for their own enjoyment and the gratification of liberal feelings.

Now we are as sensible as any can be that the above wish is extended to the readers of Graham—“And so we are selfish, sordid, can only wish well to those who _do_ well to us.” That is the charge which will be made by some good-natured body that has not had her feelings refined by a constant perusal of this Magazine. She curls her thin lip in scorn at our narrow feeling, and quotes scripture and poetry against the contracted philanthropy which does good in such a limited circle. We shall not quote scripture back to her, but content ourselves with a simple remark that we adhere to our form of expression, and shall prove it to be sufficiently inclusive for all the New-Year wishes which we are bound to entertain and utter.

In the first place, we wish the readers of Graham a happy New-Year—health, peace, comforts—rational enjoyment and pleasures that will please on reflection.

Can peace, comfort and enjoyment be had by the readers of this Magazine, when those who are related with them are deprived of such gratifications? Should we not offend by gross injustice if we should imagine the readers of Graham capable of high enjoyments when others were in distress? How numerous and extensive are the ramifications of social life! Not a blow is struck on the remote verge of society but some sympathetic nerve carries it to the heart—friend—relative—associate—give interest to events; and such links in the chain of social existence bind man to man, and make of human society one common body. We wish you happy! then wealth, health, peace and quiet to all with whom you stand related. Can you be happy and your brother, your friend, your relative miserable? It is not possible. And when we wish a happy New Year to the thirty or forty thousand who take, and the four hundred thousand who read Graham, we wish a general happiness.

_We_ enter upon a new year with the fullness of hopes that are only enlarged by the fruition of former hopes. Our hopes are not hopeless. Our desires to be rewarded have kept pace with our desires and efforts to please. We believe the latter desires have contributed to the gratification of the former; and it is therefore in a spirit of hopeful gratitude that we wish _our_ friends and _their_ friends a happy New-Year.

To the old we wish the ease which belongs to the dignity of years, and that degree of health which makes the twilight of life delightful.

To the middle-aged we wish the maturity of intellect which secures wisdom to plans, and success to efforts.

To youth a consciousness that very many of the promises of life are so deceptive, that they must learn to rely more upon their own exertions than upon those promises. We wish to them well regulated minds, well controlled passions—we do not expect, we do not wish for the stately dignity of age in the lively and stimulated feelings of youth: enjoyment—and enjoyment of something of which age calls the vanity of life—is permitted to youth. So that in all their rejoicings, in all the cheerfulness of their hearts, in all the wanderings which they make by the light of their eyes, (alas! how much has the lustre of even one pair of woman’s eyes led us astray,) and in the understanding of their hearts, (and how much do we all suffer by overrating that understanding!) all these things may be endured—may be encouraged indeed—if indulged in with that kind of reflection which keeps in view accountability for it all.

Some have desired that at the foot of Janus, who guards the closing portal of the past and the opening door of the coming year, there might flow a rill from the river of Lethe, that we might drink in oblivion to the past. How narrow, how contracted must be the mould of such wishes. Let us take with us into the new year a full remembrance of the past. Let the events which have cast a gloom over a portion of our experience be recollected, that we may feel for others, that we may have in view that great fact, that we are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

The heartiness of our wishes for the good of the readers of this Magazine will be found in our efforts to make its pages interesting and instructive. We have adopted measures, and shall carry them out, to maintain the pre-eminence of position which our Magazine has acquired. And while we look to the increased patronage of the public, we shall continue to hold at a proper elevation the standard of Literature, Morals and Truth.

* * * * *

A NUT TO CRACK FOR ’49.—With, we think, a very just estimate of the position of Graham’s Magazine, in the eye of the American public, we _do_ flatter ourselves that the January number, will in no degree be equaled by any cotemporary, or that we will in the least lesson our own dignity, if we boast a little about it. There has been so much talking on the part of our would-be rivals about their books, and an effort so manifestly strained to catch our tone and look, that we shall let out a link or two—or, as the horsemen say, “shake out a step faster, if the mettle is in the other nag.”

The truth is, that there is a very great mistake made in efforts to assimilate to Graham’s Magazine—for, in the first place, all competition must be distanced by our superior facilities, derived from circulation; and in the next, the effort ends in playing second fiddle, to the great loss of reputation and time. There is—there _ought to be_ at least—some unexplored field in which these rivals of ours may try their unfledged wing, where our own magnificent flight may not be seen in humiliating contrast, by these gentlemen and their friends.

Suppose now, for instance—having tried a magazine _after_ Graham—they confess the “_distance_,” and give us a touch at a magazine made up exclusively of translations from the French, with such copies of the illustrations as may be picked up in Paris, or can be done here. We really think something could be done with this hint profitably, but this blundering and dodging along after another magazine, which crowds every avenue, and presents itself for contrast at every turn, must be most humiliating and vexatious, and cannot but be a losing concern in shoe-leather and temper. The stereotype promises of our friends, which appear with the “snow-birds” every January, have lost their value, and as a standing joke might be relished well enough, but it strikes us that it is a sort of eccentricity in amusement, harmless _only_ because nobody is deluded.

It is unfortunate that one half the world takes its notions of business, as it does its opinions, from the other half, and vainly supposes that the high road to success is a beaten track. Nothing can be more absurd; and the history of the leading penny commercial and weekly papers in large cities attests this. In magazines the world does not take unfledged genius and untried promises _at par_. The magazine world—by which we mean that part of the world that reads magazines—has grown cautious, cute, shrewd, or whatever may happen to be the choicest phrase to designate a careful squint into the “bag” before “buying the pig.” It will not do, therefore, to attempt to _gull_ the good folks, with a supposed rivalry between your buzzard and our hawk—they know the difference, and although “_Hail to the chief who in triumph advances_,” may charm the ear as Graham for January flutters its golden wings before the bright eyes of _all_ the cherry-cheeked damsels, in _all_ the post-towns, when on his annual visit—his New-Year’s call—to his fifty thousand friends—the tatterdemalion who, _under cover_, attempts to follow, will assuredly be greeted with the “Rogue’s March,” and achieve disgrace if not the whipping-post. It _will_ not do, this sort of living by wit—this throwing out of a magnificent prospectus like Graham’s, and then following it up with a specimen number in the way of “_inducement_,” as if the world were one vast fishpool, and people—who are not gudgeons—were to be jerked out, dollars and all, with an adroit fling of the fly, (going a _flyer_ with a prospectus.) The game has been played to every variety of tune—we _think_—and the gamut—we had like to have said _gammon_—is exhausted, and with it the public patience.

G.

* * * * *

“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

_My dear Jeremy_,—The coming of the year 1849 must present reflections of a mixed character to “THE TRIO.” _Our_ memories do not stretch back to “thirty years since,” but fifteen years ago at “BAMFORD’S,” how vividly fresh in memory, to “YOU AND JOE AND I!” Those years of fun, frolic, literature in the bud, (poetic,) _and_ extravagant expenditure of sixpences. Which of us troubled our brains about _current rates_, while we passed “_currant_” at “BAMFORD’S?” What cared we about the opinion of the world? _Our_ “_mead_ of praise” was in bottles. “_Imperial!_” did you say? You are right there. “Three bottles of it!” _Did_ we ever reach that sublime of extravagant dissipation in those _imperial days_? I think not. It would have been a sort of royal expenditure, that must have drained the treasury, and rendered us unfit for the grave studies of the afternoon.

Ah! there was a foam, a sparkle, a sort of frost-work fizzling upon those mead-glasses, which we shall never see again, Jeremy!—NEVER! Champagne, bubble it ever so brightly, pales in its ineffectual rivalry with the memory of the snowy effervescence, which crowned the goblet at “BAMFORD’S!” With the freshness of life’s morning, has “BAMFORD” and his “_imperial_” melted away! and the place which knew them and us is known no more. The old blue frame, with an attic in its _first_ story, and its _window_ all awry, is gone!—as if to join those bright dreams which have floated into the unattainable. The very dew of the heart of each of _us_ has been exhaled, and with those laughing hours has gone, upward we trust, to enjoy sunshine and smiles with the angels.

Do you know that I cannot look upon the staring brick edifice which covers that hallowed ground, without thinking it a desecration? and feeling a sort of unbidden wish for a circumscribed earthquake! Is it not enough that the heart shrivels and grows cold in its calloused casement, under the blighting influences of the god of this world—that Mammon must bridge over and entomb the small spot that memory has consecrated to truth; so that the scared conscience shall be watered no more at the fountain at which in youth the heart’s secrets of each of us were mirrored. Must even the green places which we remember in the past be obliterated forever?—the points from which, with imprisoned impulses and high hopes, we started into that untried and beckoning world, which, as a prism to the young eye, varied its fanciful and attractive colors as we advanced, forever changing, forever deceptive, until the heart, jaded and wearied with the cheat, started from its dreams of bliss, to dream—to hope—no more.

It _is_ enough that the heart changes—that all that we looked forward to in youth, hopefully and trustfully, fades as we advance. That the path which before us was verdant and full of flowers, is sterile and strewn with ashes, as we tread it now; and instead of the songs of birds, which filled the grove and made the air vocal, and the heart happy, we have but the melancholy dirge—the funeral wail of autumn—sweeping with moaning sound through the unleafed trees—a sad sky above our heads—and withered leaves beneath our feet!

Ah! how _sadly_ have _we_ changed!—“WE THREE!” What bitter heart experiences have we treasured up! How many of “the world’s” dark lessons do we know! Would not either of us give all that we have learned for one hour of the unshadowed happiness of those young days? Could we but go back again to taste it—did you ever muse on this?—would we change as we have, or remain as we were, think you? With but a slice of a year’s experience—as years roll by us _now_—to start with as a capital, would we be as wordly-wise—in any way as worldly—as we are? I think not. We should quaff its knowledge more sparingly, believe me, in a Bamford-reminiscence, vividly intermingled with that slight appreciation of men as we know them! We should treasure those heart bubbles, which the world has blown into air! _Should we not, Jeremy?_

G. R. G.

* * * * *

INDUSTRY AND PERSEVERANCE.—The power of these two qualities to overcome almost every difficulty is well exemplified in the case of Bulwer, the novelist. When he first commenced writing, he found it to be very hard work. Bently says he worked his way to eminence through failure and ridicule. His facility is only the result of practice and study. He wrote at first very slowly, and with great difficulty; but he resolved to master his stubborn instrument of thought, and mastered it. He has practiced writing as an art, and has re-written some of his essays (unpublished) nine or ten times over. Another habit will show the advantage of continuous application. He only works about three hours a day—from ten in the morning till one—seldom later. The evenings, when alone, are devoted to reading, scarcely ever to writing. Yet what an amount of good hard labor has resulted from these three hours! He writes very rapidly, averaging 20 pages a day of novel print.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Lays and Ballads. By Thomas Buchanan Read. Philadelphia: Geo.
S. Appleton. 12mo. pp. 140._

We confess that we have little sympathy with the mass of cream and tea-colored books which have invaded our land, with the apparent intention of benefitting none but printers. It is therefore with heartfelt satisfaction that we now and then glean from amid this host of versified rubbish a volume like the one before us.

To the numerous admirers of Mr. Read’s former collection the present volume will afford peculiar pleasure, fulfilling as it does the predicted progressive spirit which was everywhere manifest in his earlier production, which is evident here, and which still points to something better to come. We know of no surer test of true poetical greatness than this evidence of a power of development, which has always shown itself in the earlier verses of men possessing the highest order of genius.

The volume before us, as the title imports, is chiefly composed of lyrical poems; but there are also two or three articles in blank verse, whose exceeding merit awaken a desire to see a further exertion of the author’s talents in this unfettered mode of versification. The power which he evinces in “the Alchemist’s Daughter” and “A Vision of Death,” prove the existence of resources for which the friends of his former volume scarcely gave him credit. We own ourselves astonished at the versatility of Mr. Read’s genius, at the ease with which he passes from lyrical to the highest order of poetry, with the scope of thought which is shown in his unveilings of man’s inner nature, and with the dramatic variety and intensity of his diction. We scarcely recognize the same hand in the lyrical and dramatic poems; both are beautiful, but of widely different orders of beauty. The former are characterized by a purity of thought and sentiment, a delicate refinement and nicety in the choice of phrases, a brilliant and constant play of fancy in figures the most apt and glowing, a striking spirit of individuality, and a versification the most varied and harmonious. The transition from the lyrical to the dramatic pieces is at the same time both delightful and startling. The style changes at once, the author vanishes from sight, and is lost in our sympathy for the imaginary creatures of his mind. In the dramatic compositions the language is vigorous, passionate and condensed, dealing rather in the bold metaphor than in the more ornate but less difficult simile, and seeking effect rather by force and earnestness than by beauty and delicacy of expression. This is as it should be, and proves our author the possessor of powers which must eventually place him in the very first rank of poets. But we must leave general criticism, and proceed to substantiate our high opinions by the text before us.

The volume opens with a poem replete with the most picturesque and striking imagery. There is a beautiful contrast between the desolate, frozen appearance of nature—

“When old Winter, through his fingers numb,
Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam;
And when the mill-wheel, spiked with ice, is dumb
Within the neighboring stream;”

and the fervent feeling which appears to have dictated this friendly tribute to one whose presence can at all seasons make

“A summer in the heart.”

Passing some half dozen poems, every way worthy of special notice, but omitted on account of our confined space, we come to “The Beggar of Naples.” This is one of the longest and most striking poems in the book; in a versification the most irregular but the most harmonious, indulging in the wildest flights of fancy, but never soaring beyond the common ken. The story is simple, and turns on the power with which a virtuous love may shape the destiny of the meanest. The picture of the beggars hanging round the sunny corners of the streets, tells with a few skillful touches more than a whole library of statistics.

“Avoiding every wintry shade,
The lazzaroni crawled to sunny spots;
At every corner miserable knots
Pursued their miserable trade,
_And held the sunshine in their asking palms,_
_Which gave unthanked its glowing alms,_
Thawing the blood until it ran
As wine within a vintage runs.”

The italicized lines are eminently suggestive; and in the contemplative mind, awaken a long train of the most solemn thoughts—thoughts of Heaven’s indiscriminate bounty, and man’s unthankful forgetfulness, of the beggar’s hands overflowing with the gifts of nature, but all empty of the gifts of churlish human charity. The listlessness of the beggar’s life, the vacant sense and brain of the purposeless idler, is admirably portrayed in the following lines:—

“Upon the beggar’s heart the matin hymn
Fell faint and dim;
As when upon some margin of the sea
The fisher breathes the briny air,
And hears the far waves symphony,
But hears it unaware.
The music from the lofty aisle,
And all the splendor of the sacred pile—
The pictures hung at intervals
Like windows, giving from the walls
Clear glimpses of the days agone.

* * * * *

All were unheeded,
And came but as his breath;
Or if there came a thought, that thought unheeded
Even in its birth met death.”

The awakening from this lethargy, at the first touch of love, is unrivaled:—

“At once upstarting from his knees,
He watched her as she went;
The blood awakened from its slothful ease,
Through all his frame a flaming flood was sent;
_He stood as with a statue’s fixed surprise,_
_Great wonder making marble in his eyes!_”

What can surpass the simple grandeur of the concluding lines of this passage? The new light which at once bursts on his aroused senses is thus happily described:—

“All things at once became a glorious show;
Now could he see the sainted pictures glow;
And instantly unto his lips
Rolled fragments of old song—
Fragments which had been thrown
Into his heart unknown.” &c.

His shame at his tattered appearance, at his companions, and at his base mode of life, are singularly beautiful and truthful strokes. That a soul so aroused should struggle for and reach the first ranks of fame is nothing strange, and that he should wed his deliverer is strict poetical justice. From “The Deserted Road” we clip the following felicitous local touches:—

“Here I stroll along the village,
As in youth’s departed morn,
But I miss the crowded coaches,
And the driver’s bugle-horn;

“Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters,
Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,
_And their orchestras of bells_.”

“The Alchemist’s Daughter,” amid a host of stirring lines, contains the following beautiful passages. Lorenzo, speaking of the marriage of his young mistress—

“Her mother died long years ago, and took
One half the blessed sunshine from our house,
_The other half was married off last night_.”

This is genuine poetry, and we recognize it at once. Again, describing the rising moon,—

“Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm,
Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield.”

The following noble burst should go far to cheer those whose labors appear to produce no immediate results:—

“Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels—
No heroes but among the martial throng?
Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped
A sword, or heard a crowd applaud their names—
Who lived and labored, died, and were forgot;
And after them the world came out and reapt
The field, and never questioned who had sown.”

From this garden of dainty devices let us, before leaving, cull a few choice flowers. From “The New Village” we would fain extract the whole stanza, describing the forest-life of the Indian maids, which concludes thus—

“The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass,
_And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass_.”

In “A Vision of Death,” the flowers over the grave of a beautiful maiden, are thus invoked:—

“Bloom, bloom,
Ye little blossoms! _and if beauty can,_
_Like other purest essences, exhale_
_And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be_
_Of rarest hue and perfume_.”

From “The Realm of Dreams,” we extract this exquisite couplet:

“And where the spring-time sun had longest shone
And violet looked up, _and found itself alone_.”

The above has a positive fragrance, that unexplainable odor which at once distinguishes genuine poetry, however disguised, from all imitations, however ingenious. No one but a true poet could have written this passage, which, for its suggestive delicacy, is scarcely rivaled in our language. From the same poem we extract this simile, describing the unruffled quiet of a small mountain lake:—

“Through underwood of laurel, and across
A little lawn, _shoe-deep with sweetest moss,_
I passed, and found the lake, _which, like a shield_
_Some giant long had ceased to wield,_
_Lay with its edges sunk in sand and stone,_
_With ancient roots and grasses overgrown._”

The descent of the mystic spirit of the lake is thus pictured:

“Then noiselessly as moonshine falls
Adown the ocean’s crystal walls,
And with no stir or wave attended,
Slowly through the lake descended;
_Till from her hidden form below_
_The waters took a golden glow,_
_As if the star which made her forehead bright_
_Had burst and filled the lake with light._”

Observe the beautiful melancholy, and the slow, swaying versification of the following description of a deserted quay:—

“The old, old sea, as one in tears,
Comes murmuring with his foamy lips,
And knocking at the vacant piers,
Calls for his long-lost multitude of ships.”

We would gladly extend this imperfect notice to twice its prescribed length; for we are aware that in our limited bounds we can do but partial justice to merits so conspicuous; and, perhaps, in our bungling haste to pluck that which caught our fancy, we have passed by beauties which would have arrested the eyes of others. We are conscious of having bestowed on this volume the most unmixed praises; and the censorious may ask us, what has become of our critical gall? The province of criticism is two-fold—to cheer with praise, or to correct with censure; and we belong to that good-natured portion who exercise the former calling. What is deliberately done can be followed by no apology. Whatever we have said, has been supported with solid material from the work before us; and our readers may judge by the extracts, whether we have done our author that worst of all injustice which arises from over commendation.

* * * * *

_Poems. By Oliver Wendall Holmes. A New Edition. Boston: Wm. D.
Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._

It gives us great pleasure to announce the appearance of a new and revised edition of Dr. Holmes’s poems, printed in a style of simplicity and elegance creditable to the publishers and appropriate to him. It contains a large number of pieces which have never before appeared in any collection of his poems, and also a number which are now printed for the first time. A volume which is so emphatically “a nest of spicery,” which sparkles on every page with wit, fancy, and imagination, and which contains some of the most perfect specimens of versification and true poetical expression ever produced in the country, will be sure of a rapid and a large circulation. The author has been literally mobbed for many years to prepare an edition of his poems, and we now have one which fairly reflects his character and powers.

In criticising a poet, the too common method pursued by the craft is to fix upon him some time-honored and time-worn phrases and epithets, which apply to him only as they apply to all poets, and to avoid that task of analysis which would bring out the peculiarities of his genius. Holmes has especially suffered from this mode of criticism; and thus one of the most singular and individual of our poets, a man who, whatever may be thought of the scope and domain of his genius, is still a strictly original writer, is described in terms which are as applicable to Longfellow and Bryant as to him.

The great mental peculiarity of Holmes is fineness of intellect—subtilty in the perception of resemblances, subtilty in the perception of differences, and subtilty in the conception of remote and filmy shades of thought. He has a most acute and inevitable perception of the ludicrous, but it is ever passed through his intellect before it is expressed; and, accordingly, his wit and humor have the certainty of demonstration, and never miss their mark. He has a no less acute perception of the pathetic, the beautiful, and the grand, but he never hazards their expression from the simple impulse of enthusiasm, but passes them also through his intelligence, scrutinizes them as they lie mirrored on his imagination, and gives them utterance only when he is satisfied intellectually and consciously of their validity and excellence. Such a man would naturally be accused of lacking sensibility, sensitiveness to impressions; but no careful reader of his writings, who considers their singular wealth and variety of sensuous imagery, of niceties and felicities of description, can fail to discern the intense sensibility to external objects they continually imply, however much he may be puzzled to account for the form in which it is expressed. The truth is, we should judge, that Holmes’s extreme sensitiveness made him skeptical, or fearful of the quality, and that he arraigned his impressions, his spontaneous combinations and strange freaks of juxtaposition, his teeming throng of fanciful images, his impatient, voluble, and affluent verbal extravagances, before the tribunal of his intellect, to see if they would bear the tests by which the bizarre is discriminated from the picturesque, levity from wit, drollery from humor, sentimentality from pathos, flightiness from ideality. Were it not for his detecting, exacting, sure and fine intellect, there would be no rein on his wild colt of a fancy, and the result would be more portentous freaks of deviltry and mischievousness, and perhaps more direct expression of impatient passion and tender feeling, but the whole would be but splendid disorder and aimless brilliancy. It is thus from the very fulness and fierce pressure of his sensitive nature for expression, that Holmes has become so eminently an intellectual poet, and that all his writings indicate an intense working of faculties rather than a heedless expression of affinities. Take up any one of his poems, witty or serious, subject it to the chemical processes of criticism, and it is surprising what seemingly untameable elements of thought and emotion are revealed. This mastery of his impulses, as seen in the intellectual form of their expression, is the peculiarity of Holmes, and gives to his poems that character of certainty, decision, and restrained exuberance, which constitutes so much of their charm. Such a man must have rejected more brilliancies and grotesque strokes of fanciful wit, than most men have ever conceived. Nothing which his fancy or his wit, his Ariel or his Puck, pitches into his mind, can pass muster, unless it can bear the sharp, close, microscopic glance of his sure and subtle intellect.

In respect to the intellectuality of his processes, Holmes bears some resemblance to Tennyson, with the exception that Tennyson’s mind pierces patiently into a different and more mysterious domain of spiritual phenomena, and bears the marks of a slower reduction of film to form. The mind of Holmes acts with the rapidity of lightning. It examines and dissects as instantaneously as it feels and conceives. There is no patient contemplation of the object of his thought, but a quick, brisk, almost nervous seizure of it. His mind works with such intensity, all its faculties are so perfectly under his control, that what it grasps it grasps at once with the celerity of intuition. Nothing comes to him by degrees and slow steps. He does not wait for the Muse to turn her countenance gradually upon him, unfolding feature after feature, but he impatiently seizes her by the shoulders, twirls her round, and looks her right in the face. He is not abashed by her reproof, and disregards all her airs and assumptions of dignity. He seems plainly to tell her that he will stand none of her nonsense—that he knows her secret—that she cannot impose upon him—that if she do not choose to smile he can sail along very well without her assistance. Such spiteful treatment from any body else, would draw down her wrath; but Holmes seems a favorite, and has his mischievous ways indulged.

There is observable in Holmes’s long poems one defect which springs from the refinement of his perceptions. Though his writings evince no lack of vivid and palpable imagery, the curious subtilty of his mind leads him often into a remoteness of allusion whose pertinence and beauty are not apprehended by the ordinary reader. The leading idea of some of his poems, though obvious enough if sharply scrutinized, is still not prominent enough to enforce attention of itself. The result is that “Poetry” and “Urania,” appear at first like aggregates of brilliant parts rather than as vital wholes. The unity of each is perceived only on an after examination. This is an artistical defect which mars their excellence and effectiveness.

The present edition of Holmes, while it contains a complete collection of his published pieces, is enriched with some after dinner poems, which were not intended for the public eye. These seem to have been thrown off extempore, but they teem with brilliancies of wit and fancy, and are full of fine audacities of expression. Of these the best are “Terpsichore,” “A Modest Request,” and “Nux Postcænatica,” which contain enough spirit and poetry to make a reputation, and which almost add to that which Holmes has already made. The drinking song, slily called “A Song of Other Days,” is almost unmatched for the grandeur and splendor of its imagery, and the heartiness of its tone. The “Sentiment” which follows this right royal Anacreontic, is as glorious a tribute to water as the other is to wine—thus satisfactorily proving that Holmes is indebted to neither for inspiration. One of the most beautiful and brilliant of the poems added in this edition, is that on the Ancient Punch Bowl, and the mode in which sentiment and wit are made to shake hands, and dwell cosily together, is grandly humorous. “Urania,” we suppose, must be considered on the whole, the best production in the volume. It has touches of sentiment and pathos, so graceful, so pure, and so elusive—not to speak of its satirical and witty portions—that it would be in vain to place any other poem of the author before it.