“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”
My Dear Jeremy,—Your name would be euphonious in the stock-market, at times; but I believe stocks are muddied waters in which you seldom dabble. You are wise. But do you find yourself at all in the vein speculative, particularly now, when the streams of that new El Dorado, California, sparkle invitingly with yellow pebbles? and its many broad acres spread themselves out temptingly, with their bowels of undug gold, begging for pickaxe, shovel and basin? How many ears heretofore closed to the artifices of the speculator, are pricked up, or belie their masters, at the all-enchanting sound of the word Gold!! With all the close calculation and keen spirit of inquiry which mark us as a nation, I fear me that Jonathan has his weakness, and that his soft side is metallic. There is something in the clinking of gold and silver that sets aside his ordinary caution and shrewdness, and leads him to do very silly things to get at it. It belongs to his nature to be impetuous, and continued success leads him into very rash ventures. A more interrupted fortune would, in this case, have allowed him breathing time to make a “calculation;” and when Jonathan does that coolly, he is seldom overreached. But he has flogged the Mexicans, taken the territory that he wanted—as he knew he would—and he is ready now to believe that the golden pavements of the Incas were no fable, and that the streams in California are walled in with gold, if you will. At least he will believe it until he sees for himself. He is a little taken by surprise with this glittering bait, and no trout dashes at a tempting fly with a more ravenous bite than he does at these shining “placers.” What cares he for the thousands of miles that intervene; for the storms of winter that howl around the Horn, and threaten danger and death! At the first glimpse of the prospect, a thousand sails are set, and whitening the ocean, bear him to fortune. No ordinary comforts, no moderate success here, restrains his keen thirst of adventure. Were home a paradise, and California a desert, with its shores bristling with opposing bayonets, and parked with roaring artillery, he would go. Yes! he would, perhaps, rather go then than now. The glory of the achievement would enhance the value of the wealth. The founder of Nations—he must work out a prophecy. Already the cry of a great people goes up with a shout from the once desolate hills, and ardent, panting thousands, answer the cry with, “WE COME!” and the shout swells with a louder triumph, a more emphatic joy, for “a nation is born in a day!”
The impetuous rush to that far-off land is not in itself striking or marvelous. Other and feebler nations have shown the same avidity for gold. The Spaniards have dared more, to quench the same insatiate thirst. But the Anglo-Saxon heel, upon that soil, seals its greatness and proclaims its destiny. From every wooded hill-side and babbling stream—from the snow-capped mountain to the fertile valley—yes! even over the great desert plains, where the footstep cracks the crisp soil, a voice has gone forth, which the Nations hear and obey, proclaiming—Be ye Free!
Do you not think that the abandoning of all domestic and personal comfort, sundering of all social and friendly ties, and rushing into the doubtful companionship of California, for the mere sake of gold, is a pretty accurate data from which to estimate a man’s heart, or brain, or both? Is it not something so absolutely sordid, that one cannot help losing a little of the respect heretofore entertained for a friend who is seized with this yellow fever? As if life had nothing to mitigate the evils of existence but wealth—indeed, as if we were born only to worship that as a god—upon whose shrine we are to sacrifice time, friends, health, and even life itself, to be the masters of so much tinsel as you can clutch at the altar. Bah! Is there not in home enjoyments and the society and friendship of men who know us well, and love us truly, more real wealth than all that will ever be attained by the slaves who sweep the dirt from the streams in California—live upon frogs and beetles, and fill the air with curses. Think of men, of even the most ordinary sense of decency, herding—for any sum—for months and years with the scum of every clime; with souls sickened and minds defiled with their abominations; to be of them, “or not to be” at all—is there any consideration that could tempt your avarice or mine? None that I can think of, unless to gratify some darling revenge, vigilant and sleepless for years, which men sometimes cherish for wrongs, and which nothing but gold could furnish the means of satisfying—even in that case it would be the last resort.
If any friend of yours is solicitous to enrich a patch of soil, two feet by six, I think I can recommend an Undertaker who will arrange the thing nicely for him here; it is not worth while for him to go to California with his benevolence. For you, he would be reasonable, as you are Short.
But, my dear Jeremy, I had no intention of wandering from my purpose, of giving you a reminding hint of “Copper Mining.” as a sort of sedative to the gold “placers.” Some of Jonathan’s younger sons were then severely bitten, and were so thoroughly inoculated with the virus, as to have rather a sharpened recollection of metals. The most of them, I should think, would be safe from this later disease, even in its most violent and contagious forms. Yet there is something very attractive, and most dangerously seductive, in delving for minerals, counting each shovelfull as so many guineas coined, and already in your pocket. There is no enthusiast more dangerous than your professional miner. The gentle madness is so infectious that his example may turn the heads of a whole district. Yet his bite is not half so venomous as that of another species—a kind of ground-shark—who affects the same sort of insanity, and while digging below ground, puts his “placer” on the “Stock List.”
It is astonishing, too, that we will be caught once in a while in this way, while there are people all around us, anxious friends, who exclaim, “I knew it!” but who never hinted a word about the matter. Did it ever strike you that we live in a very sagacious and knowing world—the mind of each man being simply the reflection of that of another? Our brightest fancies are but the suggestions of other people’s brains—our good fortune in life is always known beforehand—our reverses have always been most indubitably predicted by parties, who confirm their sagacity with a consolatory—“I told you so.” We are, after all, then, but the mere creatures of the impulses of other people—our destiny it is to work out their predictions. The iron energy, the indomitable perseverance, sleepless vigilance, untiring industry—have all been weighed beforehand—duly appreciated and predicted. There is no such thing as surprising any body. It is all perfectly understood.
W—, by a keen sagacity in detecting, and ready tact in managing a new business, has struck the tide that bears to fortune. But he has made no discovery. Forty other men, with scarcely brains to comprehend, much less originate an idea, knew all about it. They told you so! W— goes on, originates new combinations of trade, enlarges business ideas, and still succeeds. But Toldyeso knew it, and was indifferent.
Sharp has his eye upon W—. “Ah!” says he “there is a man who has a soul above buttons—a genius for business. Every thing he touches turns to gold.”
But W—, with his multitude of irons in the fire, incautiously takes hold of the hot end of one of them, and is maimed. “Bah!” says Sharp, “I knew how it would be! He was always rushing business up against the stream. Bound to fail—I told you so!” And yet nobody ever knew Sharp to originate, or succeed in, any thing—but he knows—and that must be some consolation to a ninny.
But, Jeremy, not to imitate the folly of this world in regard to the past, nor to affect the wisdom of the next, to tell of the future, I have a story about mining to give you in my next, in which you will find both Sharps and Flats, which I think will induce you to believe with me—that people who have cultivated a dangerous intimacy with Copper-Heads ought to be cautious, and particularly shy how they now run after Gold-Bugs with a hum.
C. has been in town, and I passed an evening with him since last I wrote you. He has still the same joyous laugh, that used to set the table in a roar, and it is quite as contagious. At every jest he would burst out with a sort of a shout in his hearty guffaw, which, if practiced at home, must wake the echoes of his native mountain. I was thoughtful over the past, and became partially a convert to your theory, in regard to the chilling effects of extra city refinement; and your beautiful picture of country life, with its honest, hearty friendships, came to my mind forcibly. It must be true, for I confess I felt that I had grown older, and colder, too. Can you, Jeremy, laugh as of yore—as loud and as long?—with the same hearty good will and utter abandon. Or is your mirth choked and clogged with bitter remembrances, which will steal upon the heart even in its gayest moments? Thought! is it a companion with which you can entertain hilarity? Or is your joy overshadowed with the darkness of evil that has been, or that you anticipate, you scarce know why? I cannot experience the light-heartedness we had formerly. Perhaps it is that I attempt its cultivation. It must come of natural buoyancy of spirits, I think, to be genuine. It is else but a hot-house plant in a snow-storm—its leaves torn off by the blast or shriveled in a frosty embrace. I doubt much whether our intellectual pleasures, as we proudly call them, are half as exhilarating, and deeply steeped in genuine happiness, as were those more animal sensations which we experienced when boys, as we went hallooing and shouting along in the very exuberance of our spirits, with a gay, glad, spirited defiance of care and all its imps. This was the riches of the heart and not of the pocket. Was it not? We had no gold in those days, so it could not have been that!
G. R. G.
The February Number.—Our number for the last month has been pronounced, everywhere, the very best of the Magazines for the month, and has thus far so largely increased our sales, that we shall be obliged to issue a very greatly increased edition of future numbers. The year 1849 seems to have opened with most unparalleled promises for magazine literature; and while our own sales have augmented on all sides, we have the gratification, in our good fortune, to feel that we are not impairing the prosperity of our neighbors. Indeed, the Philadelphia magazines, high as they have heretofore stood before the country, and widely as they have been circulated, seem just now to have made a bound in popular favor that savors of romance. Fifteen or twenty thousand copies of a monthly magazine was formerly regarded as the highest point of success to enterprising publishers, and ambitious editors, but the dawning of this brighter day promises such results as a simple matter of increase on the year’s business. We hope that our readers see, in the growing improvement of “Graham,” a disposition to impart a higher value to the book, as patronage increases, and a careful catering to taste, which shows no falling off in efforts to please, as well as to instruct our literary household. Our aim has been to furnish our readers with a work, in point of literary excellence, that is unsurpassable, and in pictorial beauty at once chaste and elegant. We could multiply, ad infinitum, second rate articles and engravings, but we feel that we are consulting both the reader’s taste and interest in adhering rigidly to the course we have adopted, and we certainly have sufficient evidence of its good policy, in the ample support we have received.
The March number may fairly challenge a rigid scrutiny, and we invite a comparison between the literary matter and that of the other magazines. The embellishments are all most beautifully executed; but the plate of “Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem” is a gem in the way of engraving, and we refer to it with a conscious pride that it can neither be successfully imitated nor excelled. Our eyes linger over it with something like exultation, as we present to our readers a plate of such exquisite beauty. In this effort even Tucker seems to have surpassed himself.
The Family Messenger.—This is one of the cheapest and best of the weekly newspapers. Its circulation is equal to its deserts, numbering now some sixty thousand readers. It has so long held its position before the newspaper world, and is so widely and well known, that we but endorse the general opinion, when we say that it is one of the best Family journals in the nation. How the enterprising publisher can furnish it at a dollar per annum is a wonder to us, and we have no doubt to its thousands of subscribers. A specimen copy is furnished to any person who may wish to see it, by application, post-paid, to the publisher.
OH HAVE I NOT BEEN TRUE TO THEE:
A SONG,
WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO A BEAUTIFUL MELODY,
BY JOHN H. HEWITT.
Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr. Baltimore.
[Copyright secured.]
Oh! have I not been true to thee,
In joy and sorrow still the same?
Has e’en your coldness altered me,
Or sternness check’d my bosom’s
flame?
Thou’st bid me hush my plaintive song,
And still my lute’s wild melody;
Yet, yet its strain will float along,
Oh! have I not been true to thee?
SECOND VERSE.
Thy falcon now has thy caress,
Thy hound leaps gladly to thy beck;
But she who loves to wild excess
Cannot one pulse of feeling wake.
This should not be, I cannot brook
The icy smile thou givest me;
There’s death in each reproachful look—
Oh! have I not been true to thee?
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without note. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.
page 160, Chesapeak in superior ==> [Chesapeake] in superior
page 167, Shown flickeringly ==> [Shone] flickeringly
page 171, the guilded baubles ==> the [gilded] baubles
page 180, the honey accacia ==> the honey [acacia]
page 181, accacia and Canadian ==> [acacia] and Canadian
page 185, see, we wil see ==> see, we [will] see
page 186, knights and stalwort ==> knights and [stalwart]
page 186, picture was purched ==> picture was [purchased]
page 188, have past by ==> have [passed] by
page 197, à la Brigadiere ==> à la [Brigadière]
page 197, a trois morteaux ==> à trois [marteaux]
page 199, at the widow ==> at the [window]
page 201, derriere, pretty well ==> [derrière], pretty well
page 201, havn’t been looking ==> [haven’t] been looking
page 204, Highflier, Esquire, descended ==> [Highflyer], Esquire, descended
page 205, table with atonishment ==> table with [astonishment]
page 210, sheltering bows to ==> sheltering [boughs] to
page 211, chef-de’œuvre ==> [chef-d’œuvre]
page 211, My whithered heart ==> My [withered] heart
page 215, of the Inca’s ==> of the [Incas]
page 215, thoroughly innoculated ==> thoroughly [inoculated]