Chapter III (10)

I am alone! in all the world
There’s none to care for me—
None who would miss my sad-voiced tone
If I should cease to be;
I am alone! yet in my heart
The founts of love o’erflow,
For all the lovely things of earth—
For all that’s bright below.

The tree that waveth from the woods—
The vine that clasps it round—
The bird that buildeth there its nest—
The wild flower on the ground—
I love them all; they need it not,
For they are not alone;
They know no grief—no loneliness—
No joys forever flown.

The melodies of earth I love;
The music breathing sea,
The wild wind’s loud and clarion notes,
The streamlet’s laughing glee.
Strange chords within my heart are swept;
Their echoes linger long,
Till I forget my lonely fate,
In gushes wild of song.

Oh, earth is very beautiful
In sunshine or in storm!
I only wish I had one heart—
One gentle loving form,
Which in dark hours of sadness
Would ever cling to me,
Even as clasps the humble vine
About the wild-wood tree.

* * * * *

THE END OF ROMANCE.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

She was beautiful, and pure of heart, but from her very infancy a child of romance. In this short sentence is included a history of suffering, and a broken-hearted death. I will call her Grace. She was my near relative, and I loved her very dearly, though I could not always sympathize with her wild idealities.

Sometimes, when we went out with a merry band of our school companions, to range the hills, or gather flowers by the river’s brink, I have missed her from our company, and on searching around, discovered her seated in some sheltered nook, or on some picturesque eminence, so wrapped in contemplation, that it was with difficulty she could be aroused from her musings. I used to fear that she was laboring in the incipient stage of some mental disease, and to dread that she would become crazy.

As soon as she could read, she seized with avidity upon works of romance, and sentimental poetry, and would talk so much transcendentalism, that I used to doubt whether she understood herself, or knew what she was wishing to express.

Her thoughts of heaven were beautiful as angels, and quite as untangible; and her views of life were as unreal as the view of a landscape when it is shrouded in a silvery mist. But in her eyes every thing was beautiful, and pure, and full of love, just as she was herself. From the every day things of life she seemed to shrink, as from a copse of brambles; or, if she could not escape them, she would cover them with wreaths of artificial flowers.

It was almost amusing to hear her, as she grew toward womanhood, expatiate on the perfect happiness of fervent and mutual affection, friendship, she named it thus, but the friend she had not found. I might have been the one, only I could not understand her spirit, she said, and of a truth I could not, and I much doubted whether she understood it herself. But I frequently assured her that she would go all her life mourning, for that the perfection she sought did not exist on earth.

But it was really distressing to hear her talk of love; “the perfect adaptation, the blissful union of heart and soul, the blissful blending of the whole being, the pure, unselfish devotion; and, finally, the happiness, the certain, the enduring, the all-pervading happiness of mutual and successful love.” She could not see that her parents, though affectionate and devoted, were not always happy; she could not perceive that all the married people of her acquaintance had cause for dissatisfaction, and were more or less unhappy.

Finally, the beautiful imagery of her pure and loving nature began to take form, and portray itself in song. She was a true poet, for she gave voice to the real feelings and convictions of her soul; she was a visionary poet, for all her feelings were of romance, all her convictions were fanciful and extravagant. But time would have made of these a real, as well as true poet, by chastening the romance, dispelling the visions of fancy, and sobering the young spirit with the lessons of experience and the teachings of reality. The seclusion in which she passed her life, while it shielded her purity from the heartless world’s contamination, afforded every facility for the fostering of her constitutional romance of feeling. Shut up within the little circle of her kindred and early friends, she knew nothing of the deceit, the fickleness and selfishness of the human race; and her opinions, formed from high colored novels, were all extravagant and unreal.

Have you ever seen a country Miss appear in a city, dressed and adorned, according to the pattern of the last fashion plate of the city magazine, and presenting a perfect burlesque upon the real fashion of the day? Just in this way was the mind of poor Grace furnished after the exaggerated patterns of the heroines of romance. Well, her “destiny” came at last. Her father was a noted member of one of our innumerable Christian denominations, and his house was a resort of all the traveling preachers of that particular sect. Grace believed them all to be, as indeed they ought to have been, holy and sincere men, and delighted to sit at their feet, as Mary of old sat, at the feet of Him whom they called Master. Finally, a young and handsome man appeared amongst the preachers. Gifted with an abundance of self-esteem, confidence in his own merits, and considerable oratorical talent, Mr. Blane was creating a great excitement wherever he went. He was precisely the man to take captive such a woman as poor Grace. And she did worship him, trembling upon his words, and living upon his smile. And he paid her every flattering attention, induced her to read for him, and went into rapture with the magnificence of her selections, and the pathos and justness of her delivery. He praised her own poetic effusions with expressions of ardent delight; and gave admiring assent to all her romantic dreams of life, death, and heaven.

And she had found the brother of her soul, the kindred spirit after whom she had been yearning ever. In this vision of bliss two whole years rolled away; and then this same perfect Mr. Blane—this idol of her soul—this sun of her existence—this cynosure of all her hopes, aims and aspirations—sat calmly down beside her, and told that before he had seen her, he had plighted his faith to one less excellent, less beautiful than herself, but nevertheless pious, gentle, and pure. That the time had arrived when his vows must be redeemed; but knowing the ethereal loveliness of her nature, that it could harbor no earthly passions, he felt confident his marriage would occasion no jealousy in her angelic soul; and that though another must be his wife—she must remain his familiar spirit; and he hoped the dear communion which had been theirs so long, might continue uninterrupted through life, and through eternity.

And so her heart was broken. She saw life a blank, and death the only refuge from her agony, and in the romance of her broken hopes, she resolved to die—not by any self violence, but by the cankering broodings of a wounded spirit. She contemned all the precious things that God had given her, because the idol that her fancy had made, crumbled down to common dust. She counted as naught the strong, pure love of her parents, her bright-eyed brothers, and gentle sisters; she turned away from the consolations of long-tried and fervent friendship, and wept away her hours in her solitary chamber—wandered alone, by woodland and mountain, or sat in the dewy twilight upon the river bank. Is it strange that consumption found her, that she faded away from the tree of life, and with beautiful visions of heavenly beatitude, went down to the silent house of death?—leaving hearts reft and bleeding, duties unfulfilled, her place on earth vacant, and the honor which she owed to God unpaid, and unredeemable. This was the end of Romance—which is always a beautiful parasite, displaying its tender foliage and fragile blossoms, at the expense of the soul in which its insidious roots find nurture, weighing it down with an unprofitable burden, concealing its symmetry and natural excellence, and wasting out the very sap of its life.

* * * * *

* * * * *

COLORED BIRDS.—THE GOLDEN ORIOLE.

FROM BECHSTEIN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

This species, the male of which is very beautiful, is about the size of a blackbird. Its length is nine inches, of which the tail measures three and a half, and the beak one. The head, neck, back, breast, sides, and lesser wing-coverts, are of a brilliant golden yellow; the wings and the tail are black, with yellow gradually increasing to the outer feathers.

The female is not so brilliant, the golden yellow is only visible at the tip of the olive feathers in the tail, and in the lesser and under wing-coverts. All the upper part of the body is of the green color of the siskin, the lower part greenish white with brown streaks, and the wings gray black.

HABITATION.—When wild, it generally frequents lonely groves, or the skirts of forests, always keeping among the most bushy trees, so that it is rarely seen on a naked branch; it always frequents orchards during the time of cherries. It is a bird of passage, departing in families in August, and not returning till the following May.[2]

In the house, if it cannot be let range at pleasure, it must be confined in a large wire cage.

FOOD.—When wild, its food is insects and berries. In confinement, and if an old one be caught by means of the owl, like the jays, it must be kept at first in a quiet and retired place, offering it fresh cherries, then adding by degrees ants’ eggs, and white bread soaked in milk, or the nightingale’s food. But I confess there is great difficulty in keeping it alive, for with every attention and the greatest care, I do not know a single instance of one of this species having been preserved for more than three or four months.

BREEDING.—The scarcity of the golden oriole arises from its breeding but once a year. Its nest, hung with great art in the fork of a small bushy branch, is in shape like a purse, or a basket with two handles. The female lays four or five white eggs, marked with a few black streaks and spots. Before the first moulting, the young ones are like their mother, and mew like cats. If any one wishes to rear them, they must be taken early from the nest; fed on ants’ eggs, chopped meat and white bread soaked in milk, varying these things as their health requires, and as their excrements are too frequent or too soft. In short, they may be accustomed to the nightingale’s food. I must here remark that a very attentive person alone can hope to succeed.[3]

ATTRACTIVE QUALITIES.—I have seen two golden orioles that were reared from the nest, one of which, independent of the natural song, whistled a minuet, and the other imitated a flourish of trumpets. Its full and flute-like tones appeared to me extremely pleasing. Unfortunately, the fine colors of its plumage were tarnished, which almost always happens, above all if the bird be kept in a room filled with smoke, either from the stove or from tobacco. One of my neighbors saw two golden orioles at Berlin, both of which whistled different airs.

Its note of call, which in the month of June so well distinguishes the golden oriole from other birds, may be well expressed by “ye, puhlo.”[4]

-----

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

[3] These young birds like to wash; but it is dangerous for them to have the water too cold, or to let them remain too long in it, as cramp in the feet may be the consequence. In one which we possessed, the accident was more vexatious as the bird was otherwise in good health, having followed the above-mentioned diet.—_Translator._

[4] The natural song is very like the awkward attempts of a country boy with a bad musical ear, to whistle the notes of the missel thrush.—_Translator._

* * * * *

LEAVES IN OCTOBER.

BY EMILY HERRMANN.

The forest leaves are falling
Throughout the quiet day,
And dreamy haze is shutting
The outer world away;

They move along the sunlight,
Upon their shining cars,
With golden edges burning,
Like lines of midnight stars.

Slowly and silently, falling,
Dreamily floating by,
Down on mosaic mosses
Their purple vestures lie.

Move they in stately sorrow,
Out from their palace-home,
Where they reveled, alike in star-light
And when the day had come?

Sink they, in sad bereavement,
Along Despair’s dim shore,
Because to their sheltering shadow,
The young birds come no more?

The sunshine and the starshine,
Will seek their summer homes
Full oft, in pleasant weather,
And find them in their tombs.

The little birds will seek their
Well-remembered shadow,
And build their nests above them,
In the meshes of the meadow.

Like travelers benighted,
Where heaping snow-drifts lie,
They’ll wither all the winter
Beneath the open sky.

Like fated generations
They vanish, in a light
That flings a treacherous beauty
Above its deadly blight.

Like altars, strangely lighted,
That burn in human souls,
They shed their sparkling showers
Before the blackening scrolls.

As roses we have tended,
Though fainting in the noon,
Still kept a pleasant fragrance
Until the eves of June.

Our forest, from the summer,
Is fading in the frost,
And the glories of his dying
Are more than she could boast.

Here in their mottled shadows,
With bended heart and knees,
Sweet thought comes to my spirit
From out the aged trees.

It seems, when flesh is failing,
And Life folds up her wing,
That soonest, in these crimson tents,
We’d hear the angels sing!

And many a bright and tangled thread,
Here Fancy ever weaves,
And Faith lifts up her trustful eyes
Above the falling leaves;

She knows that, to her native hills
No blight can ever come,
That trees, with leaves of healing, rise
Forever round her home!

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANT CHILD.

Small, yellow leaves, from locust boughs,
Sprinkle the deep green grass,
Where drowsy herds, on a zigzag path,
To bubbling streamlets pass.

The earliest lamps of fire-flies
Grow dim with the rose of June,
Now droning pipes, of the insect tribe,
Practice an autumn tune.

The clover-blooms, ’mid scented grass,
Await the dews of night,
The western pane, through clustering vines,
Shines in the evening light.

Yet why so light the hurrying tread
Across yon entrance hall?
And why no more on the garden walk,
Do children’s shadows fall?

The little stranger’s fevered lips,
Like sound of struggling rills,
Murmur of far, familiar things,
Among his native hills.

His words go out on evening airs,
Where glancing leaves are still,
And sadly tones of a foreign land
In the pleasant homestead thrill:

“Weep not, dear mother! think how great
With Jesus Christ the joy.”
Thus, ’mid our changing forest, lies
The little German boy.
E. H.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

THE PELICAN.

The Pelican, (_Pelecanus Onocrotalus_) says Nuttall, the largest of web-footed water fowl, known from the earliest times, has long held a fabulous celebrity for a maternal tenderness that went so far as to give nourishment to its brood at the expense of its own blood. Its industry and success as a fisher, at this time, allows of a more natural and grateful aliment for its young, and pressing the well-stored pouch to its breast, it regurgitates the contents before them, without staining its immaculate robe with a wound.

In America, pelicans are found in the North Pacific, on the coasts of California and New Albion; and from the Antilles and Terra Firma, the Isthmus of Panama and the Bay of Campeachy, as far as Louisiana and Missouri. They are very rarely seen along the coast of the Atlantic, but stragglers have been killed in the Delaware, and they are known to breed in Florida. In all the far countries, they are met with up to the 61st parallel of northern latitude. Indeed, in these remote and desolate regions they are numerous, but seem to have no predilection for the sea coast, seldom coming within two hundred miles of Hudson’s Bay. They there, according to Richardson, deposit their eggs usually on small rocky islands, on the banks of cascades, where they can scarcely be approached, but still are by no means shy. They live together, generally in flocks of from six to fourteen, and fly low and heavily, sometimes abreast, at others in an oblique line; and they are often seen to pass over a building, or within a few yards of a party of men, without exhibiting any signs of fear. For the purpose of surprising their prey, they haunt eddies near water-falls, and devour great quantities of carp and other fish. They can only swallow, apparently, when opening the mouth sideways, and sometimes upward, like the shark. When gorged with food, they doze on the water, or on some sand shoal projecting into or surrounded by it, where they remain a great part of their time in gluttonous inactivity, digesting their over-gorged meal. At such times they may be easily captured, as they have then great difficulty in starting to flight, particularly when the pouch is loaded with fish. Though they can probably perch on trees, which I have never seen them attempt, they are generally on wing, on the ground, or in their favorite retreat.

In the old continent, the pelican is said to rest on the ground in an excavation near to the water, laying two or three, and rarely four eggs, which are pure white, and of nearly equal thickness at both ends. Their nesting in deserts remote from water, and the story of the parents bringing water for their young in the pouch, in such quantities as to afford drink for camels and wild beasts, appears only one of those extravagant fictions, or tales of travelers, invented to gratify the love of the marvelous. Yet so general is the belief in the truth of this improbable relation, that the Egyptians style it the camel of the river, and the Persians _Tacab_, or the water-carrier. The pouch of the pelican is, however, very capacious, and besides drowning all attempts at distinct voice, it gives a most uncouth, unwieldy, and grotesque figure to the bird with which it is associated. The French very justly nick-name them _grand gosiers_, or great throats; and as this monstrous enlargement of the gullet is capable of holding a dozen quarts of water, an idea may be formed of the quantity of fish it can scoop, when let loose among a shoal of pilchards or other fish, which they can pursue in the course of their migrations.

]

THE PERROQUET AUK. (_Phaleris Psittacula._)

One more specimen, and we have done with the whole family of the _Alcasæ_; nor will we detain the reader long with its description. It is the Perroquet Auk, of the sub-genus _Phaleris_, an inhabitant of the dreary region of Bhering’s Strait, where multitudes of them may be found. They are excellent divers and swimmers; but if we may believe the sailors’ stories, not remarkably intelligent as to “trap,” since, when the Indians place a dress with large sleeves near their burrows, they mistake the said sleeves for their own proper habitations, creep in and are taken. They resemble the other Auks in laying but one egg, which is about the size of a hen’s, with brown spots on a whitish or yellowish ground. The Perroquet Auk is eleven inches in length. It has a tuft of white feathers extending back from the eye. The head, neck, and upper plumage are black, shading into ash on the breast, under parts white, legs yellowish. In the old bird the bill is red, while the young one has it of a yellowish or dusky color.

* * * * *

LAMENT OF THE HUNGARIAN FATHER

OVER THE BODY OF HIS SON.

I may not weep for thee my boy, though thou art cold and still,
And never more thy gladdening tones this aged heart will fill;
For glorious was the fate of those who fell with thee that day,
When from thy bleeding country passed, all help, all hope away.

Thy spirit cannot wear the chain that those who live must wear,
Nor hear the sigh of them who breathe the dungeon’s noisome air,
Nor shudder at the orphan’s wail, whose mother is a slave,
Nor see her wo, whose only prayer is for the peaceful grave.

Yet hear me, spirit of my boy!—the grief that sheds no tear,
The gaping wounds of thy poor clay, call thee, this vow to hear:
That when from friends and country driven, my spell word still shall
be,
Hatred of those who made thee thus, hatred of tyranny.

And oh! if e’er a day will come, when roused to hope
Our scattered bands will close once more in battle on this plain,
Thy name, through all the swaying ranks, heard echoing o’er the fray,
Will fire anew each patriot heart to win a glorious day.

* * * * *

THE PHANTOM VOICE.

BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

“A low bewildering melody is murmuring in my ear.”
“_It is a phantom voice_:
Again!—again! how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts!” SCENES FROM “POLITION.”

Through the solemn hush of midnight,
How sadly on my ear
Falls the echo of a harp whose tones
I never more may hear!

A wild, unearthly melody,
Whose monotone doth move,
The saddest, sweetest cadences
Of sorrow and of love.

Till the burden of remembrance weighs
Like lead upon my heart,
And the shadow on my soul that sleeps
Will never more depart.

The ghastly moonlight gliding,
Like a phantom through the gloom,
How it fills with solemn fantasies
My solitary room!

And the sighing winds of Autumn,
Ah! how sadly they repeat
That low, bewildering melody,
So mystically sweet!

I hear it softly murmuring
At midnight on the hill,
Or across the wide savannas,
When all beside is still.

I hear it in the moaning
Of the melancholy main—
In the rushing of the night-wind—
The “rhythm of the rain.”

E’en the wild-flowers of the forest,
Waving sadly to and fro,
But whisper to my boding heart,
The burden of its wo.

And the spectral moon, (now paling
And fading) seems to say—
“I leave thee to remembrances
That will not pass away.”

Ah, through all the solemn midnight,
How mournful ’tis to hark
To the voices of the silence—
The whisper of the dark!

In vain I turn some solace
From the constant stars to crave:—
They are shining on thy sepulchre,
Are smiling on thy grave.

How I weary of their splendor!
All night long they seem to say,
“We are lonely—sad and lonely—
Far away—far, far away!”

Thus through all the solemn midnight,
That phantom voice I hear,
As it echoes through the silence
When no earthly sound is near.

And though dawn-light yields to noon-light,
And though darkness turns to day,
They but leave me to remembrances,
That will not pass away.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY NINON.

When he who has trod o’er a desert of sand,
In the sun’s scorching fervor all fiercely that glows,
Sees far in the distance some fair fertile land,
As if ’twere an island of Eden that rose.

Where fountains all sparkling invite him to stay,
And quaff the bright waters that plenteously spring;
Oh, how he exalts in the breeze’s wild play,
That bears the pure spirit of health on its wings.

The blast of the desert unheeded sweeps by,
No terrors it bears to yon palm-sheltered isle;
And though fiercely the sun may look down from on high,
In its cool shady bowers he seems but to smile.

The balm-breathing dews on his canopy fall,
All sparkling as beauty’s celestial tear;
The bright dreams of Fancy his spirit enthrall,
And Araby’s visions are realized here.

’Tis morn, and the slumbers that wrapt him are fled,
His path o’er the desert once more he must find;
But when will a canopy o’er him be spread,
Like the desert-girt Eden he’s leaving behind.

Oh, thus in this wide waste of life do we grieve,
When the spirits we meet with congenial and kind,
Urged on by the stern hand of destiny, leave
The hearts that had loved them in sorrow behind.

The wound may be healed and the pain be allayed,
And spirits as fair may our pathway illume;
But ne’er in such splendor by Fancy arrayed,
As they whom we met in affection’s first bloom.

Oh, change not too lightly the home of the heart,
Nor rashly the bonds of affection untwine,
Lest the spirit of Love from thy bosom depart,
And come not again to so worthless a shrine.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

MY DEAR JEREMY,—I wish you a happy New Year! and yet few of us perhaps really know, when we receive this accustomed salute, in what particular thing consists our happiness; or how to appropriate, or more properly to give a designation to, the wishes of the offerer. We all of us have something to hope for, something to strife after, in defiance of the good that Providence has showered upon us—the vain longing, if you please, after something the heart worships—when the heart’s worship should be fully met—and is—at our own fire-side. The moment we shut our door behind us in the morning, we are on the broad sea of human hopes and fears, and looking over the wide waste of waters, fix our minds upon a port to us desirable—having really raised anchor, and left the only haven worth having behind us. A happy New Year, then, to you _and yours_! God’s benison on you all! and may the shadows, which flit between us all and heaven, rest lightly upon your roof; for in this selfish world, we all have our eyes so much to the clouds, which rest upon us and ours, that it is well that we should at least give once a year, a God bless you! to our fellows—and, taking in a wider range of humanity in our vision, smile kindly, even where the sun is darkest, upon our brother, and _wish_—nay, is that all?—_help_ him to _be_—happy.

To be more personal—selfish if you please—in good wishes—we of “_Graham_” have rather a propensity to the way of happiness—for so rich, so multitudinous, are the tokens in that way, in the shape of both wishes and remittances, that in prospect of our turkey—we should be worse than Turks—to be thankless. Out of the abundance of the heart, therefore, our mouth speaketh—_a happy New Year to all of our friends!_

In my last, I chose to depart somewhat from my usual course, and instead of writing to you of abstractions, to present to you, all and singular, the claims of the magazines. The lofty position which I assumed for “Graham” you will see more than verified in this number. There is such a thing, you know, as Mahomet coming to the mountain; and even looking, as we have, at the lofty pretensions, and somewhat boisterous boastings of our cotemporaries, we choose, in this instance, to show them that there is a loftier peak than that which their inflated ambition has reached. In short, to show them that while even Homer may nod, he never proves stupid in the midst of supremacy. Having for years stood upon the topmost summit of American approbation, and of high success, we are willing for a while to witness the struggles of the pigmies below; but when their shout of triumph grows too vociferous, we feel inclined to check the enthusiasm with a full blaze of our glory.

Behold us, then, in JANUARY; and let your tardy praise step up and do us justice. Is it supposable, or allowable, that with the high position we have attained, others starting from the ground—groundlings as they are—are to split the ears of night uninterruptedly with the senseless jargon of their own praise? When all around us, above and below, we hear the united voices of men, loud, uninterrupted, unanimous in our behalf, shouting out and proclaiming the treason and the folly.

Why, my dear Jeremy, what are the paid puffs—what the puffs solicited by printed circulars—and self-praise thrust upon the timid, to us?—when every mail from old post-towns, and old friends, and from new, brings renewed and additional pledges of the fast hold that “Graham” and his friends have upon each other. Why, in other words, should we fear the vain-glorious boasts that ring in the ears only of the dupes who are deceived by appearances? And if we arouse once in a while, and show our strength, it is but as the lion, to shake the flies from his sides, and to take his own repose securely in defiance.

Look at the present number with which we start the volume for the new year; has not every thing that the artistic skill of engravers could attain—all that the best pens of the country could accomplish, been done for “Graham?” We venture to say that no periodical, that is issued from the press for this month—for any month—will at all approach it in the real beauty and general excellence of its appointments. It is a gem! and a gem far above the ordinary taste of our imitators. Look, if you please, at the skill of Mr. Tucker, as evinced in the leading embellishment (both in design and execution!)—how far is it not above all that is presented elsewhere? Look again at the fine skill evinced in all the engravings of the number! at the exquisite coloring and the beauty of our Fashion-plate and Birds! and tell me, honestly, is there any thing in the tawdry and gaudy coloring of our contemporaries to be spoken of in comparison?

The year that has just closed, although one of great competition, has proven the hold that a long and uniform management of this Magazine has given it upon the American readers. It has not been, nor will ever be, conducted with a fit and flash policy—one year bad, the next good; alternating by neglect or caprice—_but ever the same, through all its years_, a dignified, sterling, illustrated work, worthy at all times, and in every number, of marked approval and regard.

The truth—or the wisdom—of our course, has been made manifest to us, during the past ten years, by the steady increase and permanent position of Graham’s Magazine; while its would-be rivals are fluctuating between small and large editions, or are dying out around it. We may safely say that we have never yet _felt_ that this Magazine has had a _rival_ in the line it has marked out. Others differ from it in the flippancy of their tone and flimsiness of material or character, or are as solemn as a death’s bell, while the engravings which adorn them are as out of place as flowers over the head of the dead.

Graham’s has always—so says public approval—hit the happy medium between lightness and the more solid and useful; and keeping always in mind the importance of a national tone, has touched the right chord in the temper of the nation, and established itself as the most popular American Magazine of the graceful and elegant class to which it gives tone, and which it has thus far sustained.

Our past year has been one of most unexampled success—yet we have made no boisterous announcements of it—for success with us is no novelty. Our readers must pardon us if we do not grow frantic upon the accession of a few thousand new subscribers, for the novelty of the feeling has been worn off by the constant and continued inducement to its exercise: it has become a matter of course, because _we do our duty by our readers always_—and on the constantly increasing reading population of this country, our drafts on at least one-third of them, are regularly honored with each recurring year.

But for the year 1850, we have consummated such arrangements with artists and writers, that we really feel not only proud, but inclined to boast in anticipation, and as a great deal will be said by others as to the splendor of their _intentions_ toward their readers, _we hereby throw down the challenge and ask them to equal Graham’s Magazine_, in the elegance of its engravings, the high character of its literary matter, the extreme beauty of its fashions, and the high finish of the novelties in the way of decorations, which Mr. Tucker is getting up for us in Europe—if they can. They are forewarned—yet they will be shamefully distanced!

You will pardon me, my dear Jeremy, for this seeming egotism, but really, there has been so much disposition shown to set up an overawing shout over “Graham,” by those who should know better, that I have felt it worth while to say EXCELSIOR! over this number, if only to stop the mouths of the deceived and the envious. Hereafter, let no enthusiastic recipient of a thousand subscriptions set up his shout of defiance, for we dislike to bear down ALL opposition.

There is, Jeremy, a vast deal of angling with magazines at this season, and the baits thrown out are of every imaginable kind—and so that the poor fish is hooked, no matter how, he is remorselessly placed in the basket, and the exploit considered dexterous. The false flies upon the waters are numerous, and very prettily do they look too, and yet it does not strike the anglers, that he is a silly fish who dashes more than once at a bait through which he has been wounded. To be explicit—does any man suppose that thousands of people—silly as we all are—can all be gulled a second time? Or to be _more_ explicit and distinct—that in a _true_ magazine, something more is not wanted than flashy engravings, prosy sermons, and monthly vain boasting. There _is_ such a thing as a _literary Magazine of high merit_—and is there not such a thing as fishing with a pin-hook for people who understand what such a Magazine is? What think you?

I was looking over, the other evening, a series of prints in the possession of a friend, and was much struck with one—which I may yet give to you—in which _angling was reversed_, and putting the rod in the hands of the finny tribe, they were busily engaged—as _fishers of men_—in presenting to tempting appetites, sundry bottles of champagne and choice liquors—baits in the shape of gold, and offices of preferment with packets variously endorsed, and trinkets and epaulets to those who might fancy tinsel and glory. It was amusing to see the humans, with what avidity they bit, and how seriously they were bitten. How those rose to the fly who loved a glass—how the miser swallowed the barbed hook, gilt plated—how the aspirant for office dabbled in dirty waters and bedaubed himself for the sake of the seal of appointment—how the lovers of the dazzling and the lovers of glory, crowded to destruction together.

You have a taste for the sport that tickled the fancy of good Izak Walton, I believe, and with your adroit fly have thrown your trout remorselessly and dexterously on the land, and while he panted and flapped himself as a sturdy opponent of non-resistance, have smiled at his efforts with a self-complacency quite refreshing and heroic—with a consciousness of superiority that would have been any thing but gratifying if your victim could have appreciated it. He was the slave of his appetite, and that was his ruin; or if you please, his ambition to rise at a shining mark, was the death of him. The trout has often verified the poet’s line. We are apt to think meanly of the fish for his silly voracity, and yet if the tables were turned, and the scaly tribes were the anglers, they might present baits as tempting and as worthless, in the waters in which we dabble, and chuckle in their sage philosophy with as ripe a reason as we do now. The artist has presented them as fishers of men, and has hit the conceit exactly.

Let us throw the line, nicely baited with gold, among the strictest of the Pharisees, who for a pretence make long prayers, and who hold up their phylacteries proudly, even in the humble courts of the temple. What a flutter and a rustling of garments do we not hear, as the whole tribe, rushing over laws that the Christian loves, dash with hands clutching at the bait, even under the very horns of the altar. Do the eager eyes and panting hearts of that avaricious crowd give token of the soul sanctified and subdued—lost to all self—dead to all covetousness; or does the avidity of the chase, or the reckless thrusting aside of brother, give the looker-on an intimation that the divine law of loving one’s brother has ever regulated the dwellers in the muddy waters in which this bait is thrown?

In yonder foaming, flashing stream, where the waves are lashed into sparkles, and the vast human crowd disports itself, all eager after the glittering baits which are flung skillfully upon the waters by the angler Fate; what a ravenous rush and endless jostle, for the particular bait that attracts each taste do we see. How temptingly—how alluringly does the fly float upon the water to each eye that it is designed to attract—how tame, how dead, how utterly unworthy of notice to all others. The barbed hook carefully concealed, lifts each eager victim from enjoyment to misery—yet each with his own eye steadily watching the fatal bait, thinks himself wiser than his fellows, and dashes at last upon his fate, with a triumphant consciousness of a superiority above his kind.

Yet every eddy, and every nook in the broad stream in which we float, has its bait floating upon the waters—how happy he, who with the fate of his comrades before him, will take warning and be wise.

G. R. G.

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GEMS FROM MOORE’S MELODIES.—Among the novelties and attractions for our present volume, will be a series of illustrations of Moore’s Irish Melodies. We present the first in this number, and will give one in each succeeding number throughout the year. They will all be in the same exquisite style with that now presented to our subscribers, and cannot fail in producing real pleasure to every one who can appreciate what is truly beautiful. “The Meeting of the Waters,” will be followed by “The Last Rose of Summer.”

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PREMIUM PLATES.—Owing to unavoidable circumstances, our artists have not been able to complete, so as to enable us to distribute, some of the beautiful Prints designed as Premiums to subscribers to this Magazine. They will soon, however, be ready to forward, and subscribers may rely with confidence on having them transmitted agreeably to order.

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We have the pleasure of informing our readers that with the January number we commence our “Monumental Series,” or the lives of the Generals of the Revolution who were killed at the very commencement of the struggle, and to whom Congress appropriated sums of money for the erection of a monument to each, but which with the exception of Montgomery has never been carried into effect. Each memoir will be accompanied by a splendid steel engraving from an original portrait engraved expressly for our Magazine.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS

_Discourses on the Christian Spirit and Life. By C. A. Bartol,
Junior Minister of the West Church, Boston. Boston: Crosby &
Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is not customary with us to notice sermons, but the present volume is so much superior in thought and composition to the generality of new books, that its literary merits would alone give it prominence among the publications of the day. It contains thirty discourses on as many different subjects, all of which indicate a reach and profundity of thought, a wealth of imagination, and a power and beauty of style, which entitle them to be considered positive contributions to American literature. The leading peculiarity of the author is the combination in his mind of singular distinctness with singular spirituality of thought. In contemplating a spiritual truth, his understanding, sensibility and imagination act in fine harmony, presenting the thing in its dimensions, its relations, and its life; and so rich and free is the expression that the truth seems to gush out of his mind, in all the warmth and clearness with which it is conceived, without any impediments coming from a lack of appropriate words or images. There is nothing hackneyed either in the method or the style of the sermons, but every thing has an air of originality and freshness indicating a vision and a feeling of the objects before his mind, and an avoidance of hear-says and thoughts at second hand. The volume is full of fine passages which admit of quotation, and we might extract many illustrative of the author’s powers of statement, description, reasoning, and piercing spiritual insight, but our limits will not permit. Among the best discourses in the volume are those entitled, “Business and Religion,” “Forbearance,” “The Spiritual Mind,” “Death is Yours,” “Belshazzar’s Feast,” “Nature, Conscience and Revelation,” and “Eternal Life.”

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_Clarence, or a Tale of our Own Times. By the Author of “Hope
Leslie,” &c. Author’s Revised Edition. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.
1 vol. 12mo._

This handsome volume is the first of a new edition of Miss Sedgwick’s complete works. It contains a portrait of the authoress, an engraved title page, and its general execution is excellent. The novel of Clarence was originally published in 1829, and we preserve a pleasant impression of its interest and beauty. Miss Sedgwick’s writings are especially characterized by the sentiment of humanity, which pervades equally her narratives and reflections; and one always rises from her books refreshed in spirit. Her powers, also, of observation, meditation and imagination, place her among the most intellectual and accomplished women of the age.

We cannot resist availing ourselves of this occasion to refer to Mr. Putnam’s judgment and generosity in his selection and publication of American books. He comes as near the ideal of a model publisher as any living bookseller, combining, as he does, a real enthusiasm for literature, and a patriotic feeling in regard to American letters. Though he has been in business on his own account but about two years, his list already shows a goodly number of valuable publications, among which are many of the best works ever produced by native authors, and his taste in respect to all that constitutes the mechanical elegance of books has a certainty not common in his profession.

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_The Living Authors of England. By Thomas Powell. New York: D.
Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

There is much in this volume to please and to offend every discriminating reader. The author is a man of fine talent, whose versions of Chaucer, not to speak of his original poems, are sufficient to indicate his ability for genial and graceful composition. But the present volume bears marks of haste and carelessness both as regards style and opinions, presents a medley of original and striking with flippant and unjust remarks, and in some instances passes the bounds of propriety. Mr. Powell knows personally many of the authors he delineates, and a few of the sketches indicate a disposition to avenge personal affronts. The notices of Talfourd, Moxon and Dickens, appear to us to have flowed from the author’s spleen more than from his heart or brain. The insults to Washington Irving are gross and unpardonable, having no reason in any evidence presented or withheld. We have read Foster’s Life of Goldsmith as well as Irving’s, and the books are so dissimilar that it is ridiculous to bring a charge of plagiarism against the latter because both employed the same materials. If Irving is to be sacrificed, we trust it will not be to John Foster—a man who, whatever may be his talents and accomplishments, has not a tittle of Irving’s beautiful genius.

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_Poems by Amelia (Mrs. Welby of Kentucky.) A New and Enlarged
Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This splendid volume is illustrated with seven highly finished engravings, after designs by Weir, and in point of mechanical execution is very nearly equal to the same publishers’ exquisite edition of Halleck. “Amelia’s” poems have passed within a comparatively short period through seven editions, and they have therefore fairly earned their right to a handsome volume like the present. It is hardly possible to glance upon a page of Mrs. Welby’s book without having an affection for the authoress, and without sympathizing in her success. Envy and spite cannot touch her. The fine feminine tenderness, the graceful and affluent fancy, the mellowness and melody of diction, and the innocence and purity of sentiment, which are so characteristic of almost every poem in the volume, overcome the resistance equally of reader and critic. It may be generally said of her poetry that her nature is finer than her intellect. There is too much impassioned expansiveness in her pieces to produce those striking effects which come from stern, brief, tingling expression, in which imagination appears as a condensing as well as shaping power.

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_Redburn: His first Voyage. Being the Sailor-Boy Confessions and
Reminiscences of the Son-of-a-Gentleman, in the Merchant
Service. By Herman Melville, Author of Types, &c. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Melville has been called the “De Foe of the Ocean,” and we can hardly conceive of a compliment more flattering, and, on the whole, more appropriate. He has De Foe’s power of realizing the details of a scene to his own imagination, and of impressing them on the imaginations of others, but he has also a bit of deviltry in him which we do not observe in De Foe, however much raciness it may lend to Melville. The present work, though it hardly has the intellectual merit of “Mardi,” is less adventurous in style, and more interesting. It can be read through at one sitting, with continued delight, and we see no reason why it should not be one of the most popular of all the books relating to the romance of the sea. The fact that it narrates the adventures of a “green hand,” will make it invaluable to a large class of youthful sailors. The style sparkles with wit and fancy, but its great merit is a rapidity of movement, which bears the reader along, almost by main force from the commencement to the conclusion of the volume.

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_Orations and Occasional Discourses. By George W. Bethune, D. D.
New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains twelve discourses, originally delivered before Lyceums or Literary Societies, and which obtained great popularity at the period of their delivery. They are worthy of Dr. Bethune’s reputation as an orator and writer, being replete with eloquence, scholarship and sound sense, and characterized by an unmistakeable individuality and independence both of thought and expression. The subjects are Genius, True Glory, The Uses and Abuses of Leisure, The Age of Pericles, The Prospects of Art in the United States, The Death of Harrison, The Eloquence of the Pulpit, The Duties of Educated Men, The Duty of a Patriot, A Plea for Study, and The Claims of our Country upon its Literary Men. Of these we have been particularly impressed by The Age of Pericles, and the Oration last named. The latter was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge, and was celebrated at the time for the splendor of its rhetoric and the raciness of its wit.

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_Glimpses of Spain; or Notes of an Unfinished Tour in 1847. By
S. T. Wallis. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Wallis evinces many of the characteristics of a good tourist, and is especially felicitous in understanding both the curiosity and the ignorance of his readers. He has accordingly produced an interesting volume, full of information very pleasingly conveyed, and leaving on the reader’s mind a regret that circumstances should have cut short his tour. To politicians, who think their names are known wherever the sun shines, there is one little paragraph in his book which must leave a saddening impression. We quote it for the benefit of our readers: “In the _Diorio_ [of Seville] of May 14, 1847, an article speculating upon the probable election of General Taylor to the Presidency of the United States, was wound up by the following suggestion:—‘It is to be borne in mind that _Generals Fackson and Flamilton_ owed their election to the Presidency to their military reputation!’”

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_The Old World: or Scenes and Cities in Foreign Lands. By
William Farniss. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a pleasant volume, going over a wide field of observation, and conveying much information not generally known. In the present rage for voyages and travels it will doubtless find many readers. It appears to us, however, that our American publishers are altogether too fertile in their issues of works of this kind. Few have any positive literary merit, and hardly one in a hundred is an addition to the literature of the country.

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_Frontenac; or the Atotarha of the Iroquois. A Metrical Romance.
New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Street is not exceeded, if equaled, by any American poet, in the accuracy with which he observes nature, and the clearness with which he paints a scene upon the imagination with the colors of verse. If his vision of the internal life of natural objects was as quick and sure as his perception of their external forms, few English or American descriptive poets would equal him either in reputation or power over the feelings. But his mind, though abundantly fanciful, is not suggestive and imaginative, and in his descriptive pieces he is apt to catalogue rather than represent nature. His analogies, also, are rather drawn from the surface than the spirit of things. But he is admirably calculated to do what he has attempted in the present volume. Frontenac is a metrical romance, with natural descriptions varied by characters and events, and all conveyed in energetic and “numerous” verse. It is in every way worthy of Mr. Street’s high reputation, and, in saying this, we imply that it is creditable to American Literature.

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_Evenings at Woodlawn. By Mrs. E. F. Ellett, Author of the
“Women of the American Revolution.” New York: Baker & Scribner.
1 vol. 12mo._

The title of this book is a poor one, for it conveys no notion of its contents. It consists of a series of forty stories, translated and recast principally from the German, relating to the superstitions of the various European countries. We are favored with all sorts of legends, German, Spanish, Danish, etc., referring to supernatural personages and events; and the whole makes a book, brimful of fairies, magicians, witches, wizards, and imps, calculated to delight all who have a taste for the wild and wonderful. The volume, indeed, is admirably calculated for popularity, and we regret that its accomplished authoress should not have chosen some name for it which would give a hint of its matter.

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_Children’s Books._ The Appletons of New York have just issued a series of beautiful volumes exactly fitted to charm the hearts of youthful readers. _Fireside Fairies_ is a delicious little book for a holyday present, and well adapted in its style to fasten upon the sympathies of the young. _American Historical Tales for Youth_, a thicker volume, discoursing of Henry Hudson, Daniel Boone, Captain John Smith, and other American celebrities, is a grand book to put courage and resolution as well as knowledge into the minds of boys. _Home Recreation_ is full of marvelous adventures by sea and land, related in Grandfather Merryman’s most entertaining way, and radiant with illustrative colored engravings. _The Child’s Present_ is for younger readers, and contains about fifty short stories, very quaintly told by the grandfather aforesaid. Each of these little volumes is admirably calculated for the holyday season.

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_History of the American Bible Society, from its Organization to
the Present Time. By W. P. Strickland. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._