THE SUCTION AND PUMPING PROCESS.
From this party, we shall no doubt be favored, with very extravagant-looking show-bills, and plenty of them—long bills drawn upon the credulity of people who fill an imaginary subscription list, and are very liberal in remittances, and whose wonderful sagacity in waiting until 1850, will be duly heralded, and in type announced. The existence of any periodical of the slightest pretension to elegance or ability, not having been heard of before, and only known among that benighted class, whose urgent literary tastes would not allow them to suffer and to wait.
Having seen our friends of “The Suction and Pumping Process” fairly in the field, let us survey the ground. On the whole, things look rather brilliant; a number of “new volumes with superb inducements,” are already announced, and with the usual cheering before starting, the entertainments for 1850 promise to be rich and various beyond parallel. Ingenuity, it seems, is not exhausted, nor are novelties entirely run out. What have we here?
One of the ladies’ magazines actually promises to “outstrip” all its cotemporaries! A novel sort of assertion, truly, for a genteel ladies’ magazine; yet a proceeding, one would think, that cannot be carried very far with any sort of propriety. The grace of modesty and the delicacy of its position alike forbid it. Such things, if really attempted, will drive the meeker and weaker brethren entirely from the contest. We may—but scarcely can—tolerate the pretty large liberties which have been taken with the dresses of ladies elsewhere in engravings and fashion plates. Let it stop here. Give us models of art, even if they are a little nude; we can stand that—but this is touching on the province of the model artists; and as the elder magazine, we cannot allow it—positively. Jeremy, if you have any influence with these people, stop this thing, I pray you.
Phew!—but what is this?
It appears that under cover of fire-works, with sky-rockets, blue-lights, shooting-stars, or something of that sort, we are to have a grand conflagration, perhaps immolation of fashionable and pretty women; for another ladies’ magazine, audaciously—in order to offset the other, we suppose—promises, “a blaze of beauty throughout the year!”
Heavens! “can these things be,
And overcome us like a summer cloud,
Without our special wonder.”
And this is actually put out in the bills, before a Christian country, in the nineteenth century, and the police look on, and are silent!
Ah! this comes home to “our hearts and our bussums.” What do we read? “All the distinguished writers and authors of this country and Europe are engaged.” The deuce they are? Oh Lord!—Our office then may be closed, during business hours hereafter, we suppose.
Overlooked, by George!—News! news! “The acknowledged Blackwood of America, 1850.” Now is that old vagabond coming back again, after having enjoyed our hospitalities for two seasons—’42 and ’43?
If Blackwood were to come in spirit shape, this I think would be his story, Jeremy:
“You see I was coming along, when a tall fellow, our old friend, cries, ‘How are you, Mr. Blackwood?’
“ ‘Come in here,’ says he, seizing my elbow, and in an instant I found myself deceived, swindled, jostled in among the wrong set. A parcel of puritanical looking dogs, sitting cheek by jowl, with long gowns, play actors, medical students, penny-a-liners, seedy old boys and silly school girls. I suppose they took me for a Mormon or a Shaker, or perhaps a clown, and dragged me in, to add to the novelty of the collection. But Scotch manners wouldn’t allow me to be rude, so I said, very politely, to the tall gentleman, if that is whisky-punch you have on the stove, I’ll take a tumbler of it. Heavens! you should have heard the yell that went up, and seen the horrible faces; so seeing the way the wind set, I gave one or two of them a knock over the skull with ebony—bestowed my parting benediction upon the whole company—ladies excepted—and came at once to head-quarters.”
Now, Jeremy, I don’t know what you may think of this business, but I say I have been silent long enough under various aggressions, and hereafter, I take the cudgel and trounce any son of a gun who poaches on my manor. Why do you know that people have the audacity to say that theirs is the oldest magazine, when the Casket, which we bought, and on which Graham was based, started in 1826, and had its colored fashions and wood engravings printed on tinted paper long before any of them opened their eyes. The mezzotints I was the first to put to magazine use on a large scale; and Burton’s Magazine, which was incorporated with this, gave the first that Sartain ever did for a magazine of large circulation; and yet these young fellows, with the down yet upon their chins, affect the experience of years, and learnedly talk about teaching their grandfather how to snuff. I care nothing about this, but that it has gone far enough; and they will after a while begin to believe their own stories—a bit of self-deception that it is a pity they should be subjected to.
But, Jeremy, we live in a funny world, and even with our criminal code, and prison discipline, I fear me, the moral reformer has a vast work to do. The shades of right and wrong, as worked up in the woof of practical life, are not of colors which contrast very strongly. They form rather the figures of a kaleidoscope. Is there not a little gambling done, in the way of “specimens” in literature, as well as in “specimens” in copper? Do the samples shown as “inducements” always honestly represent the real article afterward put upon the purchaser? Oh! very nice, rigid and self-complacent moralist, “with good fat capon lined,” why are thy hands held up in such affected holy horror at thy brother, who has stumbled and fallen, “because he has done this thing;” when printed records of thy falsified pledges and assertions, fill the post-towns of the country, the Union over! The lie in type and upon record, is it less venal, because multiplied by thousands, than that by word, which palms upon the unsuspecting a sinking fancy stock! Let the canting, praying hypocrite, of all trades, go down into his own heart, and clear it of its “dead men’s bones, and all uncleanness,” before, with bastard honesty, he casts a stone at his most desperate brother.
Ah, Jeremy, is there not a thriving business done, by men professing to be respectable, by “The Suction and Pumping Process,” in most of the trades of life—even in the very honorable business of manufacturing and selling goods? Ay! in the thousand well dressed, painted living lies, that stare at you in the streets, and from behind counters, and impose upon the ignorant—is there no rascality? When goods are put upon the poor and ignorant hired girls at high prices—the remnants of shabby gentility—are the shopkeepers honest do you suppose? In the poisoned rum, that is sold for good (God defend us!) and which sends destitution, misery, and crime into the hovels of the poor—is there no weight of damnation, past finding out? Is every marble palace, with steeds prancing at the door, the monument of a good man’s well spent life; has every stone and carved niche been paid for by money honestly earned? Are the laces, and feathers, and gold and jewels, that flash upon us and glitter in the sun, all, always the well-earned rewards of honest and praiseworthy toil? Much of the money thus lavishly displayed, and on which an insolent pride fattens and corrupts, may it not be the legitimate reward of a sin that would taint the fingers of a thief? Hold up thy head, young brother, and keep thy heart pure; all is not lost! the courage to dare, the power and will to do are thine! Up! and against wrong and oppression of every shade, set thy face as a flint, and with conscious might and truth, press on! The world is before thee where to choose—it is thy battle-ground! Do nobly, and thou art man—meanly, a more creeping thing than a worm a upon whom every coward braggart will set his heel. Aye on! there is yet to come—thank God—a reckoning-day, of motives and of actions, when assumption shall be stript—deceit exposed—the hollow heart laid bare, and when the secret sin of pride and self-complacency, dragged from its hiding-place, shall be thrust, blazing into its face.
My dear Jeremy, there is a consolation in this—we shall see one of these times, every man’s motive for the acts he has committed revealed—whether it is only the poor devils cast down, forsaken, down-trodden and despised, that die in the ditch, who are damned; or whether he only is on his way to heaven—the sleek and lucky moralist who dozes over his wine—who thinks he can pave his way to heaven with ingots, however got, that shall be saved. That will be a sight worth seeing, Jeremy, for it will open the eyes of the Universe, and make all things even. We can afford to wait for even this, can we not? It will not be long.
G. R. G.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Poems. By Robert Browning, Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 12mo.
This edition of Browning is almost a facsimile of the beautiful London edition, published by Chapman & Hall, the only real difference between the two being that the American reprint costs less than half as much as the London original.
Browning, for the last four or five years, has been steadily advancing to fame; and having overcome by the pure strength of his genius all outward and some inward obstacles, is now widely recognized as a new force in English letters. Next to Tennyson, we know of hardly another English poet of the day who can be compared with him. He possesses striking excellences both of thought and diction, but he is so indisputably an originality, that he is compelled to create the taste which appreciates him. Like almost all the poets of the new school, he is “high contemplative,” scorns rather than courts the means of popularity, and is more pleased by conquering one reader than by enticing many. In his distaste for the stereotyped diction and ideas of English poetry, he is apt to go to the opposite extreme of obscurity. There is a beautiful willfulness, a delicious bit of the devil, in him; accordingly many of his verses seem thrown off in an imaginary boxing match with professors of square-toed rhetoric and critics of the old school. This independence and pugnacity are sometimes carried to that extreme of recklessness, which indicates self-conceit and supercilious arrogance, rather than a wrestling with the difficulties of expression. “Sordello,” a poem which the author has now suppressed, was a tangled mass of half-formed thoughts and half-clutched sentiments, tottering dizzily on the vanishing points of meaning; and the publication of such a piece of elaborate worthlessness was an insult to public intelligence which would have consigned to deserved damnation, any poet who did not possess sufficient genius to retrieve his reputation.
In his best works, Browning appears as a poet gifted with a large reason and a wide-wandering imagination; but his reason and imagination do not seem to work genially together—are sometimes in each other’s way—and in their operation they sometimes strangle each other. He thinks broadly and deeply, and he shapes finely; but the thought does not commonly seem born in music, but rather born with music; and he often gives the idea and the illustrative image, instead of the idea in the illustrative image. Sometimes, in reading him, we wish he would abandon poetry for metaphysics, so sure and clear is his analysis and statement of mental phenomena; and then again some magnificent comparison, metaphor or image, or some exquisite touch of characterization, makes us wish that he would abjure metaphysics, and cling to poetry. Compared with Tennyson, his nature would be called hard, and be said to lack mellowness and melody. That sensuous element in poetry, which proceeds from fusing thought, sensation, and imagination—the spiritual and physical—into one sweet product, “felt in the blood,” and felt along the brain, he does not appear to have reached; but then the burning words, struck off like sparks from the conflict of flint and steel, which come from him in his periods of real excitement, seem to the reader sufficient compensations for his comparative absence of softness and harmony. He may not delight so much as Tennyson, but he gives the mind a wider field to range in, inspires a manlier feeling, and indicates a greater capacity. The very fact that all his works are cast in a dramatic form, even though the dramatic element is often more formal than real, shows that his mind has a healthy affection for objects, and steadily resists its own subjective tendencies.
The first poem in the collection is “Paracelsus.” This is an attempt to exhibit the influence on character of knowledge disjoined from love, by a delineation of an aspiring and noble nature, smitten by a restless thirst to know, and ruined by “the lust of his brain.” The poem is not poetically conceived; its central idea is not organic, not the germinating principle of the whole, but rather an abstract proposition logically developed; and, accordingly, the mechanical understanding not the vital imagination is predominant throughout. Besides, though it exercises the brain not unpleasantly, it hardly gives poetic pleasure; and so far from comfortable is the general impression it leaves, that the reader recurs to it only for deep or delicate thoughts and imaginations which are separately beautiful. As a whole, it is not philosophical enough for a treatise, nor beautiful enough for a poem.
“King Victor and King Charles” is a drama containing four characters moderately well conceived and discriminated, but evincing dramatic genius not much above Bulwer’s, though profounder in sentiment, and richer in imagination. The most dramatic passage is where Polyxena seizes her husband’s hand, when he is on the point of yielding to a weak amiability of nature, and conjures him to sacrifice her happiness and his to duty. It is the passage commencing—
“King Charles! pause here upon this strip of time,
Allotted you out of eternity!”
“Colombe’s Birth Day” is a sweet and beautiful dramatic poem, abounding in intellectual wealth. The characters of Colombe and Valence are vigorously drawn. The scene between them in the fourth act, where he confesses his love, is grand and exhilarating as an exhibition of character and passion. But the idea of the play, that of representing the triumph of love over wealth and rank in a woman fully susceptible of the charms of the latter, is the animating life of the piece. We hardly know, out of Fletcher and Shakspeare, a play where fidelity to a sentiment is represented with such ethereal grace.
In “Luria” and “The Return of the Druses,” an intimate acquaintance is shown with the best and worst parts of human nature, and the development of the characters indicates that the author’s dramatic skill grows with exercise. Luria is a noble character, original in conception, and finely developed from “within outwards.” “A Soul’s Tragedy” has many marked excellences of thought, and diction, and exhibits one of the most hateful qualities in human nature, with a blended dramatic coolness and individual abhorrence, singularly felicitous.
The “Dramatic Lyrics” are very striking, and are full of matter. “Count Gismond,” “Porphyria’s Lover,” “The Confessional,” “The Lost Leader,” and “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” we should select as, on the whole, the best. The latter, written for little William Macready, exhibits the peculiar vein of humor in which Browning excels, and of which we have indications all over his works. The commencement we will venture to extract:
“Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheese out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles.
Split open the kegs of the salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
And shrieking and squeaking,
In fifty different sharps and flats.”
But the grandest pieces in the volume are “Pippa Passes,” and “A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.” The latter, in the opinion of Dickens, is the finest poem of the century. We think there can be detected in it that hardness of touch which characterizes the other dramas, but the depth and pathos of the matter, and the approach to something like impassioned action in the events, make it wonderfully impressive. Once read it must haunt the imagination forever, for its power strikes deep into the very substance and core of the soul. Thorold’s adamantine pride, and Guendolen’s sweet woman’s sympathy, and Mildred’s awful sorrow, can never be forgotten. Mildred’s repetition, in moments of agony or half-consciousness, of the lines—
“I was so young—I loved him so—I had
No mother—God forgot me—and I fell—”
exceeds in pathetic effect any thing in English dramatic literature since the Elizabethan era.
We hardly know how to express our admiration of “Pippa Passes,” making as it does the “sense of satisfaction ache,” with its abounding beauty. In this piece the author’s nature seems for once to have become fluid, and gushes out in melodious thought and passion. Pippa herself is one of poetry’s most exquisite creations, and, among her many “passes,” those she makes into the hearts and imaginations of a thousand readers, ought not to be overlooked. The design of the play is new, and it would be difficult to state in an intellectual form the source of its charm. Its completeness is in its seeming incompleteness. The grandest scene is that between Ottima and Sebald, the fine audacity of which carries us back to the elder period of the English drama. The greatest instance of imagination in Browning’s works is contained in this scene. We give it below:
“Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;
Swift ran the searching tempest overhead,
And ever and anon some bright white shaft
Burnt through the pine-tree roof—here burnt and there,
As if God’s messenger through the close wood screen
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
Feeling for guilty thee and me.”
The dedication of “Pippa Passes” is beautifully ingenious;
“I DEDICATE
MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM, MOST ADMIRINGLY,
TO THE AUTHOR OF ”ION,“—
MOST AFFECTIONATELY TO
MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.”
We trust that the elegant edition of Browning, which we have here noticed, will make him widely known in the United States. The volumes are in Ticknor & Co.’s best style, both as regards type and paper.
Physician and Patient, or a Practical View of the Mutual Duties, Relations and Interests of the Medical Profession and the Community. By Worthington Hooker, M. D. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
This is a timely production, written by a man who appears to have sterling honesty as well as sterling sense, and devoted to a subject as interesting as any which can engage the attention of the community. We hope it will attract sufficient attention to insure its extensive circulation, and bring it within the notice of all families. The author grapples with his subject thoroughly, and almost exhausts it. Owing to the various forms, genteel and vulgar, which quackery has assumed in our day, no person, intelligent or ignorant, is safe from some one mode of its operation, as it has contrivances for every age, disposition, grade of mental development, and social station. Dr. Hooker has gone elaborately over the whole matter, and has really given the philosophy as well as the facts of empiricism, both as it exists out of the profession and in it. He does not spare those physicians who follow medicine as a trade, instead of pursuing it as a profession, “and study the science of patient-getting to the neglect of the science of patient curing,” while in showing the processes of the quack in experimenting on the credulity of his victims, he has done an essential service to the health of the community. We can but reiterate the hope that the volume, full as it is of practical wisdom, will be extensively circulated, and do its part toward enlightening the most quack-ridden people on the face of the earth.
History of England from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Abdication of James the Second. By David Hume. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. Vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 12mo.
This edition of Hume is uniform with the same publishers’ edition of Macaulay. It is neatly printed in good sized type, and is placed at a price sufficiently cheap to bring it within the reach of the humblest reader. It is reprinted from the last and best London edition, and is prefaced by Hume’s delightful autobiography. It is needless to inform our readers that the work is a classic, and ranks with the greatest historical works ever written in this world. But though its fame is wide, we doubt if the generality of the reading public give it their attention. This is really abstinence from pleasure as well as instruction, for Hume is among the most fascinating of narrators. His style is simple, clear, racy, and flowing, beyond that of almost any English historian, and being but a translucent mirror of events and reflections, it attracts no attention to itself, and therefore never tires. The wonder of the book is its happy union of narration and reflections and the skill with which every thing is brought home to the humblest capacity. It belongs to that class of works in which power is not paraded, but unobtrusively insinuated in thoughts carelessly dropped, as it were, in the course of a familiar narration of interesting incidents. “Easy writing,” said Sheridan, “is cursed hard writing.” The easy style of Hume is an illustration. The reader, at the end, feels that he has been keeping company with a great man, gifted with an extraordinary grasp and subtlety of mind, but during the journey he thought he was but chatting with an agreeable and intelligent familiar companion.
Success in Life. The Merchant. By Mrs. L. C. Tuthill. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.
The present volume is the first of a series of six, in which the authoress intends to indicate the rationale of the successful merchant, lawyer, mechanic, artist, physician and farmer, illustrating each department by biographical anecdotes. We have here, as the leader of the series, a volume on The Merchant. The style is gossiping, without much pretension to beauty or correctness, but the matter indicates a shrewd mind and extensive miscellaneous reading. There is one chapter devoted almost wholly to Robert Morris, a man whose amplitude of mind comprehended both statesmanship and commerce, and whom Burke might have adduced in proof of his assertion, that he had known merchants with the large conceptions of statesmen, and statesmen with the little notions of pedlars. Mrs. Tuthill chats very agreeably of Morris, and among other anecdotes of him, gives a laconic letter he wrote to some French officers in the American army, on their insolently demanding an immediate settlement of their arrears of pay. Here it is, and it is a good example of cutting knots which cannot be untied: “Gentlemen,—I have received this morning your application. I make the earliest answer to it. You demand immediate payment, I have no money to pay you with.” We extract this letter as a model to those of our readers who are often puzzled, under similar circumstances, to hit upon the right mode of announcing such uncomfortable demands to perform the impossible.
Sketches of Life and Character. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated with Sixteen Engravings, and a Portrait of the Author. Philadelphia: J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth Street, 1849.
Mr. Arthur’s name, as a delineator of American character and manners, and an earnest and sincere advocate of sound, uncompromising morality, is already familiar to the reading public, not only in the United States but in Europe. His object, in every production of his able pen, is well understood to be utility—utility in the highest sense of the word, that which has reference to man’s eternal wellbeing. In his lighter as well as in his graver effusions, the same exalted object is always kept steadily in view. He writes to improve the characters and exalt the aim of his readers. This is the secret of his wide-spread popularity. Men love and respect those who exhibit a steady, consistent, and persevering adherence to principle. In the princely mansions of the Atlantic merchants, and in the rude log-cabins of the backwoodsmen, the name of Arthur is equally known and cherished as the friend of virtue, and the eloquent advocate of temperance.
The work before us is a judicious selection made by the author himself, from his most popular tales. His numerous admirers will rejoice in an opportunity to possess themselves of so considerable a number of his best performances, not in the fugitive shape of articles for the journals, but in an elegant volume of over four hundred octavo pages, richly illustrated with engravings, and handsomely got up in every respect. We predict for this volume a very extensive sale, and particularly recommend it as a highly appropriate gift-book in the present holyday season. As it is a subscription book, it will be sold only by agents. Mr. J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth street, Philadelphia, is the publisher, and persons at a distance can order it from him.
History of the French Revolution of 1848. By A. De Lamartine. Translated by Francis A. Darivage and William S. Chase. Boston: Phillips; Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
This is an admirable translation of a work requiring something more than a knowledge of French to be well translated. The spirit is rendered as well as the letter. The book itself, will outlive all of Lamartine’s other productions, from its connection with a great historical event, even if it were not invaluable as a psychological curiosity. No reader who penetrates into its animating spirit, curious to discover in Lamartine’s individual character the source of its miraculous self-content can resist the impression that the author considers himself so much a god, that he would not be in the least surprised if a band of fanatics should erect a temple for his worship. No man, whose nature was not in his own estimation raised above human nature, could possibly have the face to present such a work as the present to the public eye. It is a sentimental apotheosis of the writer. The reader finds the narrative of the events of the revolution altogether inferior in interest to the exhibition of Lamartine, and he is lost in wonder as he thinks what must be the character of a nation in which such a man could be lifted into power. The author, beyond any man we have ever known through history, fiction, or actual life, can fasten his gaze on himself as mirrored in his self-esteem, and exclaim, “thou art beautiful and good.” Old John Bunyan, in descending one day from the pulpit, where he had preached with tremendous power, was accosted by an old lady with the compliment, “Oh! what a refreshing sermon!” “Yes,” replied Bunyan, “the Devil whispered in my ear to that effect as I came down.” Now this devil is at Lamartine’s ear all the time, but Lamartine mistakes him for an angel.
The Puritan and his Daughter. By J. K. Paulding. New York; Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo.
We are glad to welcome Mr. Paulding back again to the land of romance, even though he enters it with a somewhat jaunty air, and a somewhat scornful toss of his head. There is a bitter, if we may not call it saucy, brilliancy about our author, which we think is rather a recommendation than otherwise, and in the present volumes he has exhibited it to his heart’s and gall’s content. The work is dedicated, in a humorously reckless and critic-defying preface, to the “most high and mighty sovereign of sovereigns, King People,” and scattered through the novel are abundant pleasant impertinences, sufficiently marked by individual whim and crotchet, to stimulate the reader to go on reading, even should the interest of the story flag. We have only had time to dip into the work, here and there, but have read enough to know that it “means mischief,” and that it has more than Mr. Paulding’s common raciness and plain speaking.
The approach of the holydays is, as usual, marked by the advent of new publications.
Among the most beautiful that have been laid upon our table are The Life of Christ, by the Rev. H. Hastings Weld, and a new edition of Dr. Johnson’s admirable Rasselas. These works are published by Messrs. Hogan & Thompson, in the most finished and approved manner, conforming in style to Paul and Virginia, and the Vicar of Wakefield, issued by the same gentlemen last year. We cannot speak too highly of the typographical execution of the volumes before us, or the magnificent binding in which they are enclosed. Both are superb, and reflect credit alike on the publishers, and the artists who have invested with new charms, two volumes which deservedly merit a place in every library.
The Poet’s Offering, is the title of a splendid volume of nearly six hundred pages, edited by Mrs. Hale, and published by Messrs. Gregg & Elliott. It is beautifully illustrated, and will, we think, prove one of the most popular gift books of the season—for it is a gift book—as the fair editor justly remarks, on a new plan, the contents of which are of more value than the cover, and she does not assume too much, when she declares that in this volume will be found the most perfect gems of genius the English language has preserved since the days of Spenser. More than four hundred authors are quoted, and in the arrangement of the book, great care has been taken to exhibit the peculiar excellencies of each writer. That Mrs. Hale has acquitted herself admirably in the execution of an arduous undertaking, is an unquestionable fact, and her efforts have been nobly seconded by the liberality of the publishers, in sparing neither labor nor expense to prepare for the public taste a most beautiful, valuable, and acceptable volume.
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS, Boulevart St. Martin, 61.
Coiffure de Hamelin, pass. du Saumon, 21—Chapeau de Mme. Baudry, r. Richelieu, 87.
Plumes et fleurs de Chagot, r. Richelieu, 81—Eventail de Vagneuv Dupré, r. de la Paix, 19.
Robes de Camille—Dentelles de Violard, r. Choiseul, 2bis.
Graham’s Magazine
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER’S ROSE.
WRITTEN BY THE LATE
HON. RICHARD HENRY WILDE,
OF GEORGIA.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY
AN AMATEUR.
Presented by Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
My life is like the Summer’s rose,
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
But
on that rose’s humble bed,
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if heaven wept such waste to see,
But none shall weep a tear for me.
My life is like the autumnal leaf.
That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Restless and soon to pass away;
Yet ere that leaf shall fall or fade,
The parent tree shall mourn its shade;
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me.
My life is like the print that feet
Have left on Zara’s burning strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
The track shall vanish from the sand.
Yet as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall e’er lament for me.
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 323, miserable, loathsame slave! ==> miserable, [loathsome] slave!
page 329, avoid followiug his victim ==> avoid [following] his victim
page 329, with hell in in his ==> with hell [in his]
page 330, and seemed to re-recollect ==> and seemed to [recollect]
page 344, by the Rue St. Honore. ==> by the Rue St. [Honoré].
page 350, was earthly. She sung of love ==> was earthly. She [sang] of love
page 355, Now, when past away ==> Now, when [passed] away
page 355, “Again their was a ==> “Again [there] was a
page 360, played and sung, and ==> played and [sang], and
page 366, through the pannels of ==> through the [panels] of
page 366, “How indellibly does ==> “How [indelibly] does
page 366, a true home, and was ==> a true home, and [were]
page 372, trample upon other’s rights. ==> trample upon [others’] rights.
page 372, of other’s rights or feelings, ==> of [others’] rights or feelings,
page 374, Napoleon in the presidental ==> Napoleon in the [presidential]
page 374, that Great Britian has ==> that Great [Britain] has
page 375, ricketty old tyranny ==> [rickety] old tyranny
page 377, stone and carved nitch ==> stone and carved [niche]
page 379, is beautifully ingenius; ==> is beautifully [ingenious];
page 379, of mental developement, ==> of mental [development],