Chapter VII (2)

Not on the couch of ease,
With all appliances of joys at hand;
Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command,
Viands that might a god-like palate please,
And music’s soul-creative ecstasies;
Dream I—nor gloating o’er a wide estate,
Till the full, self-complacent heart, elate,
Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth,
Sighs for an immortality on earth:

But where the incessant din
Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats,
Join their unmingling notes;
While the long summer day is pouring in,
Till day is done, and darkness doth begin;
Dream I—or in the corner where I lie,
On winter nights, just covered from the sky;
Such is my fate, and barren as it seem,
Yet, thou blind soulless scorner! yet, I dream.

And, yet, I dream—
Dream what, were man more just, I might have been!
How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene,
Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien,
The conscious crown to Nature’s blissful scene;
In just and equal brotherhood to glean,
With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen:
Such is my dream.

And, yet, I dream—
I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye,
Bright with the lustre of integrity,
In unappealing wretchedness on high,
And the last rage of destiny defy;
Resolved, alone to live—alone to die,
Nor swell the tide of human misery.

And, yet, I dream—
Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come;
My last, my first, my only welcome home!
Rest, unbeheld since life’s beginning stage,
Sole remnant of my glorious heritage
Unalienable, I shall find thee yet,
And in thy soft embrace, the past forget!
Thus do I dream.

* * * * *

BY JOHN KEATS.

MILTON AND WORDSWORTH.

From “Life and Literary Remains of Keats,” by R. M. Milnes.

With your patience, I will return to Wordsworth—whether or no he has an extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur—whether he is an eagle in his nest or on the wing; and, to be more explicit, and to show you how tall I stand by the giant, I will put down a simile of human life, as far as I now perceive it; that is, to the point to which I say we both have arrived at. Well, I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the infant or thoughtless chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think. We remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the second chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to hasten to it, but are, at length, imperceptibly impelled by the awakening of the thinking principle within us. We no sooner get into the second chamber, which I shall call the chamber of maiden-thought, than we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight. However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is that tremendous one of sharpening one’s vision into the heart and nature of man, of convincing one’s nerves that the world is full of misery and heart-break, pain, sickness, and oppression; whereby this chamber of maiden-thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same time, on all sides of it, many doors are set open—but all dark—all leading to dark passages. We see not the balance of good and evil; we are in a mist, we are in that state, we feel the “Burden of the Mystery.” To this point was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive, when he wrote “Tintern Abbey,” and it seems to me that his genius is explorative of those dark passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall explore them. He is a genius and superior [to] us, in so far as he can, more than we, make discoveries and shed a light in them. Here I must think Wordsworth is deeper than Milton, though I think it has depended more upon the general and gregarious advance of intellect than individual greatness of mind. From the “Paradise Lost,” and the other works of Milton, I hope it is not too presuming, even between ourselves, to say, that his philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not much advanced in years. In his time, Englishmen were just emancipated from a great superstition, and men had got hold of certain points and resting-places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and too much opposed by the rest of Europe, not to be thought ethereal and authentically divine. Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and chastity, in “Comus,” just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred social disgraces? Who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good and evil in his “Paradise Lost,” when just free from the inquisition and burning in Smithfield? The Reformation produced such immediate and great benefits, that Protestantism was considered under the immediate eye of heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and superstitions then, as it were, regenerated, constituted those resting-places and seeming sure points of reasoning. From what I have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have thought in the sequel, appears to have been content with these by his writings. He did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth has done; yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as great powers as Wordsworth. What is then to be inferred? Oh! many things: it proves there is really a grand march of intellect; it proves that a mighty Providence subdues the mightiest minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in human knowledge or religion.

* * * * *

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON.”

The woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped, are those that admit least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow-mockeries of comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble of sympathizing with others, the one I dislike the most is the exhortation not to grieve over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do you think, if I could help it, I would sit still, content to mourn? Do you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient. But mock me not, or any other mourner, with the speech, “Do not grieve, for it cannot be helped. It is past remedy.”

* * * * *

What a single word can do!
Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
Calling forth fond memories,
Raining round hope’s melodies,
Steeping all in one bright hue—
What a single word can do!

What a single word can do!
Making life seem all untrue,
Driving joy and hope away,
Leaving not one cheering ray,
Blighting every flower that grew—
What a single word can do!

* * * * *

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

There are certain classes of passions and vices which people often find an excuse for indulging by persuading themselves that they are invariably connected with some great or noble feeling. Now, of this character is _revenge_, which men are apt to fancy must be the offspring of a generous and vehement heart, and a fine, determined, and sensitive mind. But this is a mistake. Revenge, in the abstract, is merely a prolongation throughout a greater space of time, of that base selfishness which leads us to feel a momentary impulse to strike any thing that hurts or pains us either mentally or corporeally; and the more brutal, and animal, and beast-like be the character of the person, the greater will be his disposition to revenge. But we must speak one moment upon its modifications. Revenge always proceeds either from a sense of real injury, or a feeling of wounded vanity. It seldom, however, arises from any real injury; and when it does, it would (if possible to justify it at all,) be more justifiable; but in this modification, a corrective is often found in the great mover of man’s heart, and vanity itself whispers, it will seem nobler and more generous to forgive. The more ordinary species of revenge, however, and the more filthy, is that which proceeds from wounded vanity—when our pride or our conceit has been greatly hurt—not alone in the eyes of the world, but in our own eyes—when the little internal idol that we have set up to worship in our hearts, has been pulled down from the throne of our idolatry, and we have been painfully shown that it is nothing but a thing of gilt wood. Then, indeed, revenge, supported by the great mover of man’s heart, instead of being corrected by it, is insatiable and everlasting. But, in all cases, instead of being connected with any great quality, it is the fruit of a narrow mind, and a vain, selfish heart.

* * * * *

Oh, if people would but take as much pains to do good as they take to do evil—if even the well-disposed were as zealous in beneficence, as the wicked are energetic in wrong—what a pleasant little clod this earth of ours would be for us human crickets to go chirping about from morning till night.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems. By John G. Whittier. Illustrated by Hammott Billings.
Boston: B. B. Mussey & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is a beautiful and highly decorated volume, splendidly bound, and well printed. It is illustrated with engravings after original designs by H. Billings, a Boston artist of great and peculiar merit, whose fine and fertile genius we should like to see oftener employed in the illustration of the poets.

Whittier is a positive force in the community, and has popularity as well as reputation. As a poet of sentiment and imagination he is known wherever American literature is read, and has been recognized as an originality by criticism. But even if the critics had denounced, it would have made little difference with his popularity, for his burning lyrics have been sung and declaimed by thousands who know nothing and care nothing for questions relating to style and rhythm. A man with so grand and large a heart—a heart that instinctively runs out in sympathy with his fellow men, must necessarily exercise influence. But this sensibility, though an important and noble element in Whittier’s genius, occasionally does more than its portion of the work of production. Passion, of itself, is not a high peculiarity of a poet, but impassioned imagination is, perhaps, the highest. Now Whittier has passion and has imagination, but they are not always combined. Sensibility is only valuable as it gives force and fire to thought, and the grandest poems in the present collection are those in which conceptions are penetrated with emotions, and the least valuable are those in which emotions get the start of conceptions and roll out on their own account. The reader of the present volume, however, will find a class of poems in it essentially different from those which are intellectually vehement or passionately vehement—a class which are pure utterances of the author’s soul in its most contemplative moods. These are exquisitely tender and beautiful, giving evidence of a mind which to all lovely objects in the material world can

“——Add the gleam,
The light that never was on sea or land.
The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

No one can read the present volume without being struck with the vigor and variety of the author’s mind, the breadth and intensity of his sympathies, and the true manliness of his character. The success of such a work is certain.

* * * * *

_Remarks on the Science of History; Followed by an A Priori
Autobiography. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most original and striking books ever published in the United States, and if it were not marred by some needless obscurities in the preface and notes, would be likely to obtain a popularity commensurate with its merits. It evinces a mind of great power in the region of pure thought, and of great acquisitions in metaphysical science. The leading object of the volume is to present universal history under the form of biography, and its hero is a person who lives the life of the race. It is assumed that he who thoroughly understands the present epoch must have reproduced, and lived through, in his private experience, all the religions, dispensations and civilizations which preceded it; and accordingly the author supposes the case of a man whose mind, in its development, passes through all the leading systems of philosophy which have successively appeared in the world, and lives them in thought as in different ages they have been lived in action. His hero accordingly lives and outlives sensuality, diabolism, atheism, deism, pantheism, Platonism, necessitarianism, transcendentalism, until he arrives at the belief of a living God and a Christian dispensation. The mental moods as well as the opinions of these different systems are represented, and an almost audacious expression given to some of them. Though the work is deficient somewhat in artistical as distinguished from logical completeness, and is too condensed in passages where expansion would have aided the reader, no person who avoids the notes and adheres to the autobiography, can fail to notice the clearness as well as the depth and force of mind it evinces. We are aware of no other book in which so much knowledge of mental philosophy is conveyed in so small a space. The exposition of Plato’s theory of Ideas—the stringent logic applied to the doctrine of necessity—the keenness with which the weak points of atheism are detected, and the remorseless analysis with which they are probed, and the masterly power of impassioned argumentation, fierce, rapid and close, with which the subject of the Will is cleared from its obscurities, all indicate a mind of no common order. The author is evidently a man destined to leave his mark on the philosophical literature of the country. In the present volume there are important and original ideas which will sooner or later become influential.

* * * * *

_Remarks on the Past and its Legacies to American Society. By J.
D. Nourse. Louisville: Morton & Griswold. 1 vol. 12mo._

Those of our readers who have any taste for the philosophy of history, and who are desirous to see how an American writer can handle the problems which have tasked the acutest and most comprehensive European intellects, had better procure this work. It is written in a style of much energy, beauty and clearness, and is the result of forcible and patient thinking on a wide basis of historical facts and principles. The author is a Kentuckian and a scholar in the true sense. Although the book evidences a familiarity with the productions of others in a similar department of letters, it is still original as well as powerful. There are sentences in it which deserve to pass into maxims; and through the whole volume none can fail to observe the steady and almost triumphant march of an independent and forcible intellect. We do not know how the work has succeeded at the west, but if it has failed to attract notice there, it shows that Kentucky is not so ready to recognize marked ability in letters as in politics. The author, from his position as an American, really holds an advantage over his European rivals; and the felicity and comprehensiveness of his grasp of some great principles, and the power with which he wields them, are in a considerable degree referable to his freedom from many prejudices which beset the largest minds abroad. This volume ought to give Mr. Nourse a name, and we trust it will have that large circulation which its importance and usefulness so richly merit.

* * * * *

_Romance of Yachting. By Joseph C. Hart. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a sprightly book, written in a dashing and defiant style, bristling with paradox and sparkling with whimsicalities. The peculiarity of the book consists in its dogmatism, and like all dogmatists the author gives as confident expression to the extravagances of his caprice as to the deductions of his understanding. Many topics are discussed which the title of the book would never suggest. Such are the remarks on the Puritans, Shakspeare, and the Moors in Spain. With regard to the first, the author chimes in with the opponents of the Puritans, and administers twenty lashes to “New England Conceit.” We do not know but that our Eastern friends have dilated a little too much on their ancestors, and been too prone to consider every thing excellent as dating from the Puritans, but certainly the style in which our New York brethren are now bragging about their progenitors, promises to outshine in pretension and impertinence every thing of the kind we have had in Massachusetts or Virginia. Mr. Hart, especially, fairly crows a note higher than any antiquarian chanticleer of ancestry it has ever been our fortune to meet in literature. There is a long passage in the book on Shakspeare, in which the author attempts to prove that in the plays published under Shakspeare’s name, there is little property belonging to him but the rant and obscenity. If Mr. Hart means his dissertation on this topic as badinage, it is rather tedious joking; and if he is in earnest, he shows a strange ignorance of facts and arguments which are as familiar to every student of English letters as his alphabet. Seriously, to combat such a clumsy specimen of irony would only turn the laugh against the critic, and no honor could possibly be gained in proving that the sun shines, or that “eggs is eggs.”

Apart from some extravagances of the kind we have noticed, the book is a grand and exhilarating one, and cannot fail to prove interesting to almost all classes of readers. To seamen, and to all who go out upon the sea in ships or yachts, it is an invaluable companion. The vigor, elasticity and decision of the style are in fine harmony with the frank, cordial, and somewhat chivalric nature of the author.

* * * * *

_The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. New York:
Harper & Brothers._

We believe that this novel was published before Vanity Fair, and it certainly cannot compare with that brilliant work in incident or characterization; but it is still well worthy a diligent reading. It relates principally to that pinchbeck class of English swells, known as “gents,” and represents English society, as seen through the medium of a cockney’s mind. Mr. Sam Titmarsh, the worthy autobiographer, is a vain but innocent gent, and tells his story with delicious simplicity, and occasionally with much pathos. His little wife is a gem. The scene in which she obtains the office of nurse to Lady Tiptoff’s child, is exquisitely natural and pathetic. Every reader is inclined to echo Mr. Yellowplush’s opinion, even as expressed in his original orthography. “You see, Tit, my boy,” he remarks to the happy husband, “I’m a oonnyshure, and up to enough; and if ever I see a lady in my life, Mrs. Titmarsh is one. I can’t be fimiliar with her as I am with you. There’s a somethink in her, a jennysquaw, that haws me, sir.”

* * * * *

_The Forgery; a Tale. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper &
Brothers._

It is a common charge against critics that they do not read the books they review. We acknowledge the charge in the case of Mr. James’s latest novel, with a feeling akin to exultation. We have read some twenty of his romances, more to verify an opinion than to gratify a taste, and certainly the man is to be praised for doing so large an amount of business on so small a capital. Though his mind is exceedingly limited in its range, he has contrived to fill more space with his books than the most comprehensive and creative of intellects would be justified in occupying. His success must be mortifying to all novelists who really possess original power, and who consider that a new character is something else than an old one with a new name. If Mr. James possessed sufficient force to stamp any character, incident or description, on the imagination, he would miserably fail in the application of his science of repetition and philosophy of dilution. His salvation from popular martyrdom is owing to the very feebleness of the impression he makes on the popular mind.

* * * * *

_Moneypenny; or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present
Day. Illustrated by Darley. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1
vol._

This book has passed to a second edition, and promises to take a high rank among American romances. It is so altogether above the general run of novels published in a cheap form, that it is important for the public to understand that though in yellow covers, it has none of the nonsense, stupidity, and ribaldry commonly associated with yellow-covered literature. The author not only understands practical life practically, but he is a scholar and a man of original power. The work is exceedingly interesting, evinces a strong grasp of character, is well written, and while it deserves and will reward the attention of the more tasteful class of readers, it will tend to give a more important, because more numerous and sensitive class, a higher notion of the requirements of romance. We cordially wish the author success.

* * * * *

_Model Men, Women and Children. Modeled by Horace Mayhew. New
York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This little volume is crammed with shrewd and diverting satire, and illustrated by appropriate cuts. The series originally appeared in Punch. The author evidently understands all the fooleries and deviltries as well as most of the humanities of practical life; and he has commented upon them in a style which is universally appreciable. There is a sort of percussion-cap explosion of wit and satire which keeps attention constantly awake. The book, apart from its brilliancy and readableness, is a good medicine for “snobism” of all sorts.

* * * * *

_Greyslaer; or a Romance of the Mohawk. By Charles Penno
Hoffman. Fourth Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
12mo._

The sturdiest champion of literary nationality must concede to Mr. Hoffman the merit of being an American writer. He knows the country, is familiar with its scenery, sympathises with the events of its history, and understands its people, aboriginal and imported. The present novel, which has now reached its fourth edition—an honor enjoyed by few fictions—is a pregnant illustration of the author’s thorough nationality. He is an American without being an Americanism. We have not the least doubt that this edition of Greyslaer will receive a cordial welcome from all who are capable of appreciating the grand and chivalrous spirit which breathes through and animates the fine talents and large acquirements of the author.

* * * * *

_Mirror of Nature: A Book of Instruction and Entertainment ,
Translated from the German of G. H. Schubert, by William H.
Furness, pp. 497. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._

Here is a good book, full of practical instruction, and of information that makes other knowledge practical. A German writer, a good man, has brought a well-stored mind to the task of preparing a volume that shall give the great authors on natural study, without the minuteness of a class-book, or the elaborate development of a thorough treatise. He has opened up the beautiful operations of Nature and her works, and has not neglected to recognize the soul as the antecedent of the body. So that while one is studying about the mighty gatherings of mineral wealth, the wonderful effects of chemical operations, and the instincts of animal life, he is constantly kept above his theme by the declared truth of his superiority to all these, in the possession of an immortal soul. A Christian American has given the work in an English form—good, pure, simple, expressive English—no Germanisms to offend the ear—and yet an occasional adaptation of a German mode of expressing thoughts shows the intimacy of the translator with the original, and his power to select the most expressive forms.

In this volume man is considered, and his power of mental and physical existence developed. The outreaching of the human mind is regarded as worthy of consideration, and lessons of usefulness derived therefrom. The volume before us is admirably suited to the classes of our public schools and to the general reader—and when furnished as it will be with a set of questions suited to the text, it will be a handbook for the classes, of immense usefulness.

* * * * *

_Poems. By Charles G. Eastman. Montpelier: Eastman & Danforth. 1
vol. 18mo._

This volume is a collection of songs and short poems from the pen of one of the ablest political editors in Vermont. The book shows that the author’s heart is in what is called the right place, in spite of the stir and fret of politics. The characteristic of the volume is simplicity in the expression of emotion. There is no parade of ornament, and very little fanciful decoration, but the author contrives still to express a variety of moods in a most genuine way. The verse has a spring and elastic vigor in its movement, which continually suggests the notion of impromptu composition. The finest poem in the volume is the first, entitled “The Picture,” and certainly no poet could begin a collection with a piece more calculated to propitiate the reader, and make him look lovingly on what follows.

* * * * *

_Foot-Prints. By R. H. Stoddard._

A copy of this neat little volume has been laid upon our table, and we have read it with great pleasure. The poems it contains are, generally, good. Some of them are marked with great felicity of thought and power of expression. Mr. Stoddard is familiar to the readers of “Graham’s Magazine,” as one of the contributors to its pages, and we have now on hand some of his poetical articles which we design publishing in due order. His contributions are favorite ones with our readers, who, if they wish to have a collection of the author’s writings, cannot do a better thing than obtain from the publishers, or at any of the principal bookstores, a copy of “Foot-Prints.”

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE MIRROR OF LIFE.—We have caused to be prepared, as one of the embellishments of our Magazine for the present mouth, a picture entitled “The Mirror of Life.” As a picture, we think it good, excellent indeed, artistically considered; and the face of the female, the mother, nay, the whole form so far as visible, may be considered as beautiful. We had, in truth, some stronger terms to use with regard to this figure, but we forbear them now, and refer our male readers to the picture itself, to say whether they have seen any thing more handsome, more really beautiful, than that for a long time. And to the ladies we appeal with equal confidence, whether any one of them has seen so beautiful a representation of the female face and form for years—excepting only that which she sees reflected from her own mirror.

As for the little boy, we will confess, that though he has grown more comely under the burin of Mr. Tucker, we do not mean to claim any particular credit for his beauty; the truth is, the child looks like his father.

But the lesson of the picture is what concerns us. The _prima facia_ evidence of this picture is against the character of the mother for proper discipline; she has given her child a mirror for a plaything, a hammer would complete the picture and the mirror. But that would be to regard the representation physically. The child is looking into the mirror with earnestness. Do our readers mark the Johnsonian cast of the little philosopher’s head? Do they see how he has set his eyes and mouth, as if he would see and taste what of life lies before him. And with no less intensity does the mother gaze into the mirroring eyes of her child; and as he gathers from the glass in front of him the shadows which coming events cast before them, she collects the facts from his eyes, and is wrapt into the future, not of herself, but of her child.

What would one give to learn that future? to gaze into the mirror of life, and discover its terrible lessons in advance! Could we prevent them by learning?—Alas! no—if we could, we could not learn. Can we look into the future and see what _is_ to take place, and then by efforts prevent the occurrence? If we could prevent that which we saw, how could we see it?

But the little fellow is peering down the vista of time, and he is seeing care and anxiety dogging his heels; he is looking at the antagonistic movements of his life, and wondering how life can _be_, and _be_ thus opposed. He is seeing his future self, bowing down to the object of affection, and he is hearing _her_ calculations of the advantages which his offer had over that of another; and his young heart sickens at the mercenary selfishness of the idea.

But if the mirror reflects or prefigures truly, his own _heart_ had made the same calculations before it was offered. And this is the common experience of life. Men pause in the midst of their business or their pleasure, and begin to think about marriage; they are reminded of this by the movements of others, or the customs of their kind. Do they look about and see where they can bestow the most of benefit, or confer the greatest amount of good? Do they say, “I have wealth and position, here is a lovely female, poor and humble, the ascentive power of my possessions will take _her_ up?” Or do they set down and make the calculations as to the amount of personal benefits which they would derive from the match?

Ninety-nine times in the hundred the calculations upon a wife and her uses, are as carefully and as selfishly made by man, as are those upon the purchase of real estate, or stock for a stable or a farm. And we do not mean to say that on the whole marriages resulting from such calculations are not productive of as much _content_ as those which seem to be made with all the disinterestedness which novelists ascribe to their favorite heroes and heroines.

Well, when the calculation is complete, the gentleman hastens off and _proposes_ to the lady; if the female is found to pause upon the proposal, and to ask herself, or to ask some one who knows, what are the means which this lover possesses to make her happier than she is now, or as happy as twenty other young men who are ready (when they have finished _their_ calculations) to make the same offer; if she pause thus and inquire, she is set down as a cold-hearted, selfish, intereste girl, with no force of affection, with no ideas of a married life beyond the bargaining of the shopman.

Yet if two months _after_ marriage that same woman should be found holding such discourse with herself about any of the affairs of life in which she or her husband may have an interest, the whole world would pronounce her a woman of sound principles, of good common sense, and a pattern of wives. Yet, in the transaction which of all others most concerns her, she must not urge advantages, must not calculate the probable chances, must shut her eyes, and leap into a gulf which can never restore her to the situation which she left. Perhaps some of our young female readers will look over the shoulder of the child, and see what the mirror says about such parts of life.

Doubtless the mirror of life furnishes much of pleasure, much of high distinction to the young gazer into its vaticinating depths; for what child of such a mother ever lived long without desirable distinction? All that we have of value in our character, and even in our later condition, seems to spring from our mother. Wealth and consequent position may be derived from the father, but unless the gentle monitions, the constant watchfulness, the careful mind-moulding and character-forming devotion of the mother prepare the child to retain and exalt his position and augment his wealth, the legacy from the father will waste away; wealth will be dissipated and position lost in the early encounters of the youth with the world. But from infancy to adolescence, from youth to manhood, and onward to age, the legacy of the mother has continual increase; the beauties of mind which she imparted augment with development, and the lofty lessons of virtue which she gave, comes in man’s intercourse to be the rule of his conduct, and means of his distinction.

Is it not probable that the mother is now giving one of her lessons to the child, imparting some instruction which shall hereafter be fruitful of good?

It does not seem that the heavenly look which rests upon her face is the consequence of a mother’s love for the fame and fortunes of her child. She is just entertaining the bright idea of the immortality of her son. She is looking deep into his heart through his eyes, and she is thinking how she shall impart that mighty thought to the boy; how she shall make him comprehend her views about the antecedence of his soul, that doctrine upon which must rest all her lessons of life, and all her hopes of good from these lessons.

The mother has caught the idea (whether true or false it matters not) that her infant has some high remembrances of a former existence, and that struck with what he sees in the mirror of life, he is attempting to recall something of that state from which he came to animate the body where youth seems to overshadow the past in his soul and clog its movements toward the communion it once enjoyed. She sees, or thinks she sees, something of this, and she catches the ennobling thought that the antecedent of that soul, its primary and indefeasible right to consideration, demand her utmost care, and that the cultivation of the higher powers of the intellect must be made subservient to this still _higher_ power—the immortal principal—where this union of soul and body shall be made profitable to both. That is the mission of the mother; her reward is not in the wealth, the honor, or the happiness of her child—circumstances, consequent though these be upon her teachings—her great reward, the certain and abiding compensation to the virtuous mother for rearing her son to virtue, is found in that state where virtue has its full appreciation, and affection its perfect work. “The mirror of life” is full of lessons; it reflects truths that need only appropriate display to make them profitable; and happy will it be for all, if, catching some of the foreshadowings of the mirror of life, we adapt our conduct to the events; and though we may not be able to change an order of Providence, we can at least make the effect of that Providence beneficial to ourselves.

G.

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“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Do you ever think of our boarding-school loves, and wonder where all those bright eyes, which used to blaze as from a battery upon us from that pyramid of laughing faces, rising one above the other to the topmost pane of those ample windows, are weeping or laughing now? Do you promenade on the west side, as of yore, without a sigh, and gaze into those deserted windows, from which smiles and rose-tinted notes were showered down upon us with such munificence, without a thought of the fair hands and glad hearts which then gave a sort of sunlight to our devotion—the Mecca to which we turned in our morning prayers and evening rambles? Is it not a sad thought, that as we journey through life, the very innocency of boyhood, the first fresh feelings of the heart, are things of which it is conventional to be ashamed? As if it were a happiness, which we should call a conquest, to learn the bitter lessons of life, at a sacrifice of all the fond recollections of youth, a triumph to know the secret of deceiving with smiles, and of wringing the hand kindly, of people we despise. Yet must we learn the uses of adversity by time, and feel that the brightest of _our_ days are passed forever; that hope, having cheated us for a thousand times, has become bankrupt in our esteem, while the past, brilliant and certain in joys experienced, recalls with the flitting present, doubts of true happiness for us again. It is a stern lesson—that which experience teaches us as we advance in years, to live a life of distrust and doubt, to believe all goodness assumed, and friendship but a cheat; to think that every man’s hand is either raised against his brother, or is thrust into his pocket, and that there is no such thing as self-sacrifice, except among the Hindoos.

But, Jeremy, not to speak of instances, all of which must be as fresh to your memory as to mine, I come back to the first question—do you ever think of our boarding-school loves? and mingle with the remembrance those unexpressed hopes and fears which flutter in the hearts of all of us. My falcon towered above yours in ambition then; nothing less than a mistress of rhetoric and _belles_ letters tempted the magnificent swoop of my poetry and ambition; yours had a fierce and Byronic generality, which made it dangerous for the whole covey of lesser birds. How many were you in love with, _Jeremy_? At least, how many were made goddesses by your poetry? “You decline,” under present circumstances matrimonial. Well, a man with a growing family, I suppose, owes something to appearances and to example. I have no such excuse to plead, and can be as open as the day.

_I_ really was in love then, Jeremy. Don’t you think so? But I was as jealous as a Turk—a passion which you, from a lack of concentration, thought very unreasonable. It _was_, too, considering that it was engendered _before I_ _had ever spoken to the lady_, and finally exploded very foolishly, and harmlessly, too, I believe, upon the head of an innocent old teacher of Latin Grammar, or something of that sort, old enough to be the lady’s grandfather, who _would_ be looking over her album. I wrote my last piece of poetry after that, which _did my business_ in that quarter, for the lady refused to see me or my poetry any more. The loss, I think, was hers in the long run, though I suffered with a heart-ache and prospective suicide for a month or two. I was very much like the poor man in the story book, however,

“For when I saw my eyes were out,
With all my might and main,
I jumped into another bush,
And scratched them in again.”

The process was a rough one, and left a scar behind. I never saw the lady but once afterward, and that was at Niblo’s. I confess to a heart-fluttering, Jeremy, and some of that Spanish fierceness for making declarations, which you used to laugh at; but fortune or fate denied me means and opportunity; when the Vaudeville was over she was led off by her party—_and I lost her_.

“I saw her depart as the crowd hurried on,
Like the moon down the ocean, the graceful was gone!
On my ear her adieu, with its dulcimer swell,
Like the gush of cool waters in melody fell.

“Starry stranger! so dazzlingly distant—unknown—
And observed in thy luminous transit alone;
By what fiat supreme must thy brilliancy quiver
O’er the depths of my darkened existence forever!”

But our old friend C——, he’s married now, and is the happy father of eight children, I believe. He always _had_ an insane passion for crowds. Do you remember the night he escorted the whole boarding-school home with his umbrella; he always _would_, like the author of “Calavar,” have his umbrella with him—_a green one_—and this night the gods were propitious. It blew a hurricane, and the rain came pitching down in sheets, as if Niagara had attached a spout to the passing clouds. C—— plied between the concert-room and the boarding-school, with the regularity and precision of a Brooklyn ferry-boat, showing his regard for the _fair_. After having deposited the fifteenth damsel safely, he totally upset the propriety of an elderly lady who opened the door with a polite invitation for him to “walk in”—an open sesame worth a ducat—with the information that “_he was afraid_ _some more of the folks were without umbrellas, and he must_ _see them home!_” A spirit of self-denial and enlarged philanthropy worthy of a martyr.

Do you remember the exploits of S—— with those gay girls? He was a determined dandy and lady-killer, and resolved to take the whole school by storm, and to punish the refractory. But some how or other they wouldn’t be taken; so after firing into the flock a dozen times, with his most distinguished bow, and letting off a whole volley of passionate verses upon imprisoned damsels generally without execution—for no enamored Julia threw herself at his feet, or replied—he resolved to pick his bird. S—— had a cousin who visited a Miss T——, who was immured in that dungeon which frowned most terrifically, in S.’s mind, upon those within as well as those without; and he made, through this channel, her acquaintance. A walk to church in company with his cousin and Miss T—— perfected his little plot of taking the whole castle by this entrance; but a simple incident destroyed the forces of the enemy, and routed him, horse, foot, and dragoons. A violent storm came on while they were at church one Sunday evening, and the streets were flooded when they came out. The storm had passed, however, and a dull moon lent but a feeble light to the escort. S—— dropped his cousin at her door—it was the first chance he had, and starting on with Miss T——, opened the batteries of the sentimental upon his victim in most magnificent strength and style. As they crossed Canal street, S——, who had been carefully piloting the way, releasing the lady’s arm gently from his, and taking hold of the tips of those taper fingers with a grace that D’Orsey could not have excelled, requested her to “please step upon that stone,”—which the dull moon had _made_ in the water—and, _presto!_ the lady stepped into a pool which would have discolored the _belt_ of a grenadier of six feet; and in his horror at his mistake, S—— missed his footing, and plunged in with a dive that would have gained him admirers in _frogdom_.

You remember the wit of Miss T——; she was out of the water almost before he was in it, and turning round with a gay laugh at the discomfited dandy, begged that “_if his thoughts of suicide were confirmed, to try the river the next time, but she must decline being either the disconsolate mourner, or a party to the folly!_” and with a light trip was off, up the steps, and had rung the bell before S—— could gasp an apology.

This, with most men, would have been a settler, but S——’s vanity was water and bullet-proof both. He dispatched the whole affair, to his _own_ satisfaction, in a sonnet; and the next day, at two, strode past the school with the step of a conqueror, the mark of a score of quizzing-glasses and laughing faces. S—— bore the infliction _this once_ with a nerve that would have taken any man to the cannon’s mouth. But he grew fiery and retaliatory under its repetition. “I will settle this business with a twenty-four pounder,” said he; and he did. The next day S—— begged the spy-glass of an old pilot, and walking calmly down with his dexter-eye on the enemy, surprised his forces by a cool, steady, deliberate gaze through his blunderbuss with glasses. The mistress ended the flirtation and supposed conquest by a threat, delicately conveyed, that “any future conduct of the kind would be intimated to the police.”

S—— determined to “die game,” and marched by with his Spanish mantle on each particular cold day, with the step of a grenadier; but fate, jealous of his valor, tripped him up one exceedingly wintry afternoon, when boys were experimenting with skates upon the side-walk. Poor S——, who had given his cloak an extra turn over his shoulders, fell at full length exactly opposite the window of the boarding-school, and floundered in his vain attempts to extricate himself, like a salmon thrown upon the land, his “Oakford” most ruinously crushed by a passing omnibus; and to crown his confusion, in the midst of a dozen windows suddenly thrown up, an Irish cabman hastened to his rescue, and having unrolled him and placed him on his feet, considerately asked, within hearing of two score of ears, “_whether he had been long there?_” The glory of the conqueror was gone!

“So fades, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,
All that this world is proud of.”

The bright faces, laughing eyes, and happy hearts of our youth, with its early friendships, have been replaced with sadder views of life, and you and I, Jeremy, are older—the world would say, wiser—but are we happier, Jeremy, think you?

G. R. G.

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MRS. DAVIDSON.—We present our reader this month with a well engraved portrait of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the celebrated and talented girls Margaret and Lucretia Davidson, made immortal as well by their own genius as by the beautiful volumes of their works, edited by Washington Irving and Miss Sedgwick, and published by Lea & Blanchard in 1841. Lucretia was born in Plattsburg, New York, on the 27th of September, 1808, and died on the 27th of August, 1825, just one month before her 17th birth-day. Margaret was born at the same place, on the 26th of March, 1823, and died on the 25th of November, 1838, at the early age of fifteen years and eight months. The early fate and singular genius of these youthful poets occupied for so long a time the attention and sympathy of the literary world, that it is needless for us to say much here, but we cannot refrain from quoting two passages from a distinguished critic upon their works.

“The name of Lucretia Davidson is familiar to all readers of poetry. Dying at the early age of 17, she has been rendered famous not less, and certainly not more, by her own precocious genius than by three memorable biographies, one by President Morse of the American Society of Arts, one by Miss Sedgwick, and a third by Robert Southey. Mr. Irving had formed an acquaintance with some of her relatives, and thus, while in Europe, took great interest in all that was written or said of his young countrywomen. Upon his return to this country, he called upon Mrs. Davidson, and then, in 1833, first saw the subject of the memoir, a fairy-like child of eleven. Three years having again elapsed, the MSS., which formed the basis of his volume, were placed in his hands by Mr. Davidson, as all that remained of his daughter. Few books have interested us more profoundly. Yet the interest does not appertain solely to Margaret. In fact, the narrative, says Mr. Irving, ‘will be found almost as illustrative of the _character of the mother as the child;_ _they were singularly identified in taste, feeling and pursuits_: tenderly entwined together by maternal and filial affection, they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in modern literature to sunder them.’ In these words the biographer conveys no more than a just idea of the loveliness of the picture here presented to view.”

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“In the way of criticism upon these extraordinary compositions, Mr. Irving has attempted little. . . . In respect to a poem entitled “My Sister Lucretia,” he thus speaks, ‘We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be given of it than the following lines, which breathe the heavenly aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains quite unearthly. We may have read poetry more artificially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly divine in its inspiration.’”

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“Lucretia Maria Davidson, the elder of the two sweet sisters, who have acquired so much fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. _Her mother’s generous romance of soul may have stimulated_ but did not instruct. Thus, although she has actually given less _evidence_ of power than Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered at higher value. Margaret, we think, has left the better poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more unequivocally the soul of a poet.”

We had intended to have said more of the mother—since deceased—of these remarkable girls, but our space warns us, that in this number, it is impossible. Enough has been indicated above, to show her strong sympathy with her daughter’s tastes, and how much she aided in forming them.

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THE JANUARY NUMBER.—We confess to a great degree of pride, from the reception of our January number, by the newspaper press all over the country, and from the regular subscribers to the work. It has been pronounced, indeed, in several influential quarters, “The best number of a monthly magazine ever issued in the language,” and this not alone from the number and beauty of the embellishments—every one of which imparted a value as a work of art to the number—but from the worth, variety and _amount_ of literary matter. In issuing a _double number_ to our readers, we were fully aware that we were repaying but a part of what we owe them, for the liberal encouragement extended to us for a period of ten years, without deviation or diminution; but we were scarcely prepared for the large increase to our list of new friends which, in two cities alone, extended to over three thousand new names.

From every part of the country each mail comes freighted with clubs from persons with whose subscriptions we have not heretofore been honored, and our old friends, with astonishing unanimity, continue to cling to “Graham as the best and only good Magazine” amidst the mass of periodicals which now make up in noise and promises, what they lack in merit and ability to perform. To say that we are not flattered by this mark of favor extended to us by the readers of this country would be useless, but so far from this fact lessening our exertions, it only spurs us on to new endeavors to maintain that ascendancy over all others which we have always held, by issuing a Magazine incomparably better than any that attempts to rival it.

Our February number, we think, will show no falling off in our exertions, and the two numbers of the volume are an earnest of what our readers may expect during the whole year of 1849. May it prove a prosperous and happy one to our subscribers, as it has opened auspiciously for ourselves.

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A NEW SEA STORY.—We are gratified to be able to announce a new Sea Story for the pages of Graham’s Magazine, by W. F. Lynch, of the navy, whose recent explorations of the Dead Sea and vicinity, have so much occupied the attention of the newspapers and scientific bodies generally. The story is written with marked ability, and will be quite an attraction in the coming numbers of Graham.

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OUR PREMIUM PLATE.—We shall forward promptly to clubs and subscribers entitled to our large premium plate, copies, carefully done up for preservation, as soon as the artist completes it. It will be a very beautiful parlor ornament when properly framed.

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Our Fashion Plate for this month has been delayed by the ocean steamer, and as we issue this number early, we postpone it till next month.

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(OUR CONTRIBUTORS)

_Mrs. M. M. Davidson_]

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

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THE BELLS OF OSTEND.

WRITTEN ON A BEAUTIFUL MORNING AFTER A STORM,

BY W. L. BOWLES,

THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO