OURSELF.
If blushes were transferable, our face in the magazine for this month, should, we suppose, be like a maiden’s before the ardor of her first lover—but steel is as unsusceptible as brass, we find; so, with a very unconscious air, we shall brave the battery of bright eyes, impervious to a frown.
As to our Memoir, by Mr. Peterson—the veritable Jeremy Short—it is done in his most amiable vein; and though not exactly the history of the Wandering Jew—being rather that of Barnaby Rudge’s Raven, crying continually, “Never say die”—our readers may take it with the grains of allowance which should be given to a vigorous writer with a fine imagination, who is determined to make a hero.
We had written a long article, commemorative of other days, but have since thought it better to let by-gones be by-gones. That we feel proud of our reinstation in this Magazine—the child of our happier days—we shall not deny. The gold that bought it for us—if estimated by the happiness it has diffused—must have dropped from heaven, baptized for good. The dark shadows—the regrets and heart-burnings of the past are over. A bright future is before us, high hopes and determined resolves are ours now—light leaps over the mountain-tops, and the “good time” so long a coming, rushes joyfully to meet us—is here.
“Graham.”
Our thanks are due to our brethren of the quill throughout the entire Union, for the very general, and very generous welcome we have received on coming back to the profession. While we shall never forget their kindness, and have small hopes of ever being able to repay a tythe of it, we shall endeavor so to act as not to dishonor their endorsement, or to forfeit their good opinion.