Part 20

Some have desired that at the foot of Janus, who guards the closing portal of the past and the opening door of the coming year, there might flow a rill from the river of Lethe, that we might drink in oblivion to the past. How narrow, how contracted must be the mould of such wishes. Let us take with us into the new year a full remembrance of the past. Let the events which have cast a gloom over a portion of our experience be recollected, that we may feel for others, that we may have in view that great fact, that we are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

The heartiness of our wishes for the good of the readers of this Magazine will be found in our efforts to make its pages interesting and instructive. We have adopted measures, and shall carry them out, to maintain the pre-eminence of position which our Magazine has acquired. And while we look to the increased patronage of the public, we shall continue to hold at a proper elevation the standard of Literature, Morals and Truth.

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A NUT TO CRACK FOR ’49.—With, we think, a very just estimate of the position of Graham’s Magazine, in the eye of the American public, we _do_ flatter ourselves that the January number, will in no degree be equaled by any cotemporary, or that we will in the least lesson our own dignity, if we boast a little about it. There has been so much talking on the part of our would-be rivals about their books, and an effort so manifestly strained to catch our tone and look, that we shall let out a link or two—or, as the horsemen say, “shake out a step faster, if the mettle is in the other nag.”

The truth is, that there is a very great mistake made in efforts to assimilate to Graham’s Magazine—for, in the first place, all competition must be distanced by our superior facilities, derived from circulation; and in the next, the effort ends in playing second fiddle, to the great loss of reputation and time. There is—there _ought to be_ at least—some unexplored field in which these rivals of ours may try their unfledged wing, where our own magnificent flight may not be seen in humiliating contrast, by these gentlemen and their friends.

Suppose now, for instance—having tried a magazine _after_ Graham—they confess the “_distance_,” and give us a touch at a magazine made up exclusively of translations from the French, with such copies of the illustrations as may be picked up in Paris, or can be done here. We really think something could be done with this hint profitably, but this blundering and dodging along after another magazine, which crowds every avenue, and presents itself for contrast at every turn, must be most humiliating and vexatious, and cannot but be a losing concern in shoe-leather and temper. The stereotype promises of our friends, which appear with the “snow-birds” every January, have lost their value, and as a standing joke might be relished well enough, but it strikes us that it is a sort of eccentricity in amusement, harmless _only_ because nobody is deluded.

It is unfortunate that one half the world takes its notions of business, as it does its opinions, from the other half, and vainly supposes that the high road to success is a beaten track. Nothing can be more absurd; and the history of the leading penny commercial and weekly papers in large cities attests this. In magazines the world does not take unfledged genius and untried promises _at par_. The magazine world—by which we mean that part of the world that reads magazines—has grown cautious, cute, shrewd, or whatever may happen to be the choicest phrase to designate a careful squint into the “bag” before “buying the pig.” It will not do, therefore, to attempt to _gull_ the good folks, with a supposed rivalry between your buzzard and our hawk—they know the difference, and although “_Hail to the chief who in triumph advances_,” may charm the ear as Graham for January flutters its golden wings before the bright eyes of _all_ the cherry-cheeked damsels, in _all_ the post-towns, when on his annual visit—his New-Year’s call—to his fifty thousand friends—the tatterdemalion who, _under cover_, attempts to follow, will assuredly be greeted with the “Rogue’s March,” and achieve disgrace if not the whipping-post. It _will_ not do, this sort of living by wit—this throwing out of a magnificent prospectus like Graham’s, and then following it up with a specimen number in the way of “_inducement_,” as if the world were one vast fishpool, and people—who are not gudgeons—were to be jerked out, dollars and all, with an adroit fling of the fly, (going a _flyer_ with a prospectus.) The game has been played to every variety of tune—we _think_—and the gamut—we had like to have said _gammon_—is exhausted, and with it the public patience.

G.

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“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

_My dear Jeremy_,—The coming of the year 1849 must present reflections of a mixed character to “THE TRIO.” _Our_ memories do not stretch back to “thirty years since,” but fifteen years ago at “BAMFORD’S,” how vividly fresh in memory, to “YOU AND JOE AND I!” Those years of fun, frolic, literature in the bud, (poetic,) _and_ extravagant expenditure of sixpences. Which of us troubled our brains about _current rates_, while we passed “_currant_” at “BAMFORD’S?” What cared we about the opinion of the world? _Our_ “_mead_ of praise” was in bottles. “_Imperial!_” did you say? You are right there. “Three bottles of it!” _Did_ we ever reach that sublime of extravagant dissipation in those _imperial days_? I think not. It would have been a sort of royal expenditure, that must have drained the treasury, and rendered us unfit for the grave studies of the afternoon.

Ah! there was a foam, a sparkle, a sort of frost-work fizzling upon those mead-glasses, which we shall never see again, Jeremy!—NEVER! Champagne, bubble it ever so brightly, pales in its ineffectual rivalry with the memory of the snowy effervescence, which crowned the goblet at “BAMFORD’S!” With the freshness of life’s morning, has “BAMFORD” and his “_imperial_” melted away! and the place which knew them and us is known no more. The old blue frame, with an attic in its _first_ story, and its _window_ all awry, is gone!—as if to join those bright dreams which have floated into the unattainable. The very dew of the heart of each of _us_ has been exhaled, and with those laughing hours has gone, upward we trust, to enjoy sunshine and smiles with the angels.

Do you know that I cannot look upon the staring brick edifice which covers that hallowed ground, without thinking it a desecration? and feeling a sort of unbidden wish for a circumscribed earthquake! Is it not enough that the heart shrivels and grows cold in its calloused casement, under the blighting influences of the god of this world—that Mammon must bridge over and entomb the small spot that memory has consecrated to truth; so that the scared conscience shall be watered no more at the fountain at which in youth the heart’s secrets of each of us were mirrored. Must even the green places which we remember in the past be obliterated forever?—the points from which, with imprisoned impulses and high hopes, we started into that untried and beckoning world, which, as a prism to the young eye, varied its fanciful and attractive colors as we advanced, forever changing, forever deceptive, until the heart, jaded and wearied with the cheat, started from its dreams of bliss, to dream—to hope—no more.

It _is_ enough that the heart changes—that all that we looked forward to in youth, hopefully and trustfully, fades as we advance. That the path which before us was verdant and full of flowers, is sterile and strewn with ashes, as we tread it now; and instead of the songs of birds, which filled the grove and made the air vocal, and the heart happy, we have but the melancholy dirge—the funeral wail of autumn—sweeping with moaning sound through the unleafed trees—a sad sky above our heads—and withered leaves beneath our feet!

Ah! how _sadly_ have _we_ changed!—“WE THREE!” What bitter heart experiences have we treasured up! How many of “the world’s” dark lessons do we know! Would not either of us give all that we have learned for one hour of the unshadowed happiness of those young days? Could we but go back again to taste it—did you ever muse on this?—would we change as we have, or remain as we were, think you? With but a slice of a year’s experience—as years roll by us _now_—to start with as a capital, would we be as wordly-wise—in any way as worldly—as we are? I think not. We should quaff its knowledge more sparingly, believe me, in a Bamford-reminiscence, vividly intermingled with that slight appreciation of men as we know them! We should treasure those heart bubbles, which the world has blown into air! _Should we not, Jeremy?_

G. R. G.

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INDUSTRY AND PERSEVERANCE.—The power of these two qualities to overcome almost every difficulty is well exemplified in the case of Bulwer, the novelist. When he first commenced writing, he found it to be very hard work. Bently says he worked his way to eminence through failure and ridicule. His facility is only the result of practice and study. He wrote at first very slowly, and with great difficulty; but he resolved to master his stubborn instrument of thought, and mastered it. He has practiced writing as an art, and has re-written some of his essays (unpublished) nine or ten times over. Another habit will show the advantage of continuous application. He only works about three hours a day—from ten in the morning till one—seldom later. The evenings, when alone, are devoted to reading, scarcely ever to writing. Yet what an amount of good hard labor has resulted from these three hours! He writes very rapidly, averaging 20 pages a day of novel print.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Lays and Ballads. By Thomas Buchanan Read. Philadelphia: Geo. S. Appleton. 12mo. pp. 140._

We confess that we have little sympathy with the mass of cream and tea-colored books which have invaded our land, with the apparent intention of benefitting none but printers. It is therefore with heartfelt satisfaction that we now and then glean from amid this host of versified rubbish a volume like the one before us.

To the numerous admirers of Mr. Read’s former collection the present volume will afford peculiar pleasure, fulfilling as it does the predicted progressive spirit which was everywhere manifest in his earlier production, which is evident here, and which still points to something better to come. We know of no surer test of true poetical greatness than this evidence of a power of development, which has always shown itself in the earlier verses of men possessing the highest order of genius.

The volume before us, as the title imports, is chiefly composed of lyrical poems; but there are also two or three articles in blank verse, whose exceeding merit awaken a desire to see a further exertion of the author’s talents in this unfettered mode of versification. The power which he evinces in “the Alchemist’s Daughter” and “A Vision of Death,” prove the existence of resources for which the friends of his former volume scarcely gave him credit. We own ourselves astonished at the versatility of Mr. Read’s genius, at the ease with which he passes from lyrical to the highest order of poetry, with the scope of thought which is shown in his unveilings of man’s inner nature, and with the dramatic variety and intensity of his diction. We scarcely recognize the same hand in the lyrical and dramatic poems; both are beautiful, but of widely different orders of beauty. The former are characterized by a purity of thought and sentiment, a delicate refinement and nicety in the choice of phrases, a brilliant and constant play of fancy in figures the most apt and glowing, a striking spirit of individuality, and a versification the most varied and harmonious. The transition from the lyrical to the dramatic pieces is at the same time both delightful and startling. The style changes at once, the author vanishes from sight, and is lost in our sympathy for the imaginary creatures of his mind. In the dramatic compositions the language is vigorous, passionate and condensed, dealing rather in the bold metaphor than in the more ornate but less difficult simile, and seeking effect rather by force and earnestness than by beauty and delicacy of expression. This is as it should be, and proves our author the possessor of powers which must eventually place him in the very first rank of poets. But we must leave general criticism, and proceed to substantiate our high opinions by the text before us.

The volume opens with a poem replete with the most picturesque and striking imagery. There is a beautiful contrast between the desolate, frozen appearance of nature—

“When old Winter, through his fingers numb, Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam; And when the mill-wheel, spiked with ice, is dumb Within the neighboring stream;”

and the fervent feeling which appears to have dictated this friendly tribute to one whose presence can at all seasons make

“A summer in the heart.”

Passing some half dozen poems, every way worthy of special notice, but omitted on account of our confined space, we come to “The Beggar of Naples.” This is one of the longest and most striking poems in the book; in a versification the most irregular but the most harmonious, indulging in the wildest flights of fancy, but never soaring beyond the common ken. The story is simple, and turns on the power with which a virtuous love may shape the destiny of the meanest. The picture of the beggars hanging round the sunny corners of the streets, tells with a few skillful touches more than a whole library of statistics.

“Avoiding every wintry shade, The lazzaroni crawled to sunny spots; At every corner miserable knots Pursued their miserable trade, _And held the sunshine in their asking palms,_ _Which gave unthanked its glowing alms,_ Thawing the blood until it ran As wine within a vintage runs.”

The italicized lines are eminently suggestive; and in the contemplative mind, awaken a long train of the most solemn thoughts—thoughts of Heaven’s indiscriminate bounty, and man’s unthankful forgetfulness, of the beggar’s hands overflowing with the gifts of nature, but all empty of the gifts of churlish human charity. The listlessness of the beggar’s life, the vacant sense and brain of the purposeless idler, is admirably portrayed in the following lines:—

“Upon the beggar’s heart the matin hymn Fell faint and dim; As when upon some margin of the sea The fisher breathes the briny air, And hears the far waves symphony, But hears it unaware. The music from the lofty aisle, And all the splendor of the sacred pile— The pictures hung at intervals Like windows, giving from the walls Clear glimpses of the days agone.

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All were unheeded, And came but as his breath; Or if there came a thought, that thought unheeded Even in its birth met death.”

The awakening from this lethargy, at the first touch of love, is unrivaled:—

“At once upstarting from his knees, He watched her as she went; The blood awakened from its slothful ease, Through all his frame a flaming flood was sent; _He stood as with a statue’s fixed surprise,_ _Great wonder making marble in his eyes!_”

What can surpass the simple grandeur of the concluding lines of this passage? The new light which at once bursts on his aroused senses is thus happily described:—

“All things at once became a glorious show; Now could he see the sainted pictures glow; And instantly unto his lips Rolled fragments of old song— Fragments which had been thrown Into his heart unknown.” &c.

His shame at his tattered appearance, at his companions, and at his base mode of life, are singularly beautiful and truthful strokes. That a soul so aroused should struggle for and reach the first ranks of fame is nothing strange, and that he should wed his deliverer is strict poetical justice. From “The Deserted Road” we clip the following felicitous local touches:—

“Here I stroll along the village, As in youth’s departed morn, But I miss the crowded coaches, And the driver’s bugle-horn;

“Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters, Filling buckets at the wells, With their wains from Conestoga, _And their orchestras of bells_.”

“The Alchemist’s Daughter,” amid a host of stirring lines, contains the following beautiful passages. Lorenzo, speaking of the marriage of his young mistress—

“Her mother died long years ago, and took One half the blessed sunshine from our house, _The other half was married off last night_.”

This is genuine poetry, and we recognize it at once. Again, describing the rising moon,—

“Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield.”

The following noble burst should go far to cheer those whose labors appear to produce no immediate results:—

“Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels— No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped A sword, or heard a crowd applaud their names— Who lived and labored, died, and were forgot; And after them the world came out and reapt The field, and never questioned who had sown.”

From this garden of dainty devices let us, before leaving, cull a few choice flowers. From “The New Village” we would fain extract the whole stanza, describing the forest-life of the Indian maids, which concludes thus—

“The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass, _And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass_.”

In “A Vision of Death,” the flowers over the grave of a beautiful maiden, are thus invoked:—

“Bloom, bloom, Ye little blossoms! _and if beauty can,_ _Like other purest essences, exhale_ _And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be_ _Of rarest hue and perfume_.”

From “The Realm of Dreams,” we extract this exquisite couplet:

“And where the spring-time sun had longest shone And violet looked up, _and found itself alone_.”

The above has a positive fragrance, that unexplainable odor which at once distinguishes genuine poetry, however disguised, from all imitations, however ingenious. No one but a true poet could have written this passage, which, for its suggestive delicacy, is scarcely rivaled in our language. From the same poem we extract this simile, describing the unruffled quiet of a small mountain lake:—

“Through underwood of laurel, and across A little lawn, _shoe-deep with sweetest moss,_ I passed, and found the lake, _which, like a shield_ _Some giant long had ceased to wield,_ _Lay with its edges sunk in sand and stone,_ _With ancient roots and grasses overgrown._”

The descent of the mystic spirit of the lake is thus pictured:

“Then noiselessly as moonshine falls Adown the ocean’s crystal walls, And with no stir or wave attended, Slowly through the lake descended; _Till from her hidden form below_ _The waters took a golden glow,_ _As if the star which made her forehead bright_ _Had burst and filled the lake with light._”

Observe the beautiful melancholy, and the slow, swaying versification of the following description of a deserted quay:—

“The old, old sea, as one in tears, Comes murmuring with his foamy lips, And knocking at the vacant piers, Calls for his long-lost multitude of ships.”

We would gladly extend this imperfect notice to twice its prescribed length; for we are aware that in our limited bounds we can do but partial justice to merits so conspicuous; and, perhaps, in our bungling haste to pluck that which caught our fancy, we have passed by beauties which would have arrested the eyes of others. We are conscious of having bestowed on this volume the most unmixed praises; and the censorious may ask us, what has become of our critical gall? The province of criticism is two-fold—to cheer with praise, or to correct with censure; and we belong to that good-natured portion who exercise the former calling. What is deliberately done can be followed by no apology. Whatever we have said, has been supported with solid material from the work before us; and our readers may judge by the extracts, whether we have done our author that worst of all injustice which arises from over commendation.

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_Poems. By Oliver Wendall Holmes. A New Edition. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._

It gives us great pleasure to announce the appearance of a new and revised edition of Dr. Holmes’s poems, printed in a style of simplicity and elegance creditable to the publishers and appropriate to him. It contains a large number of pieces which have never before appeared in any collection of his poems, and also a number which are now printed for the first time. A volume which is so emphatically “a nest of spicery,” which sparkles on every page with wit, fancy, and imagination, and which contains some of the most perfect specimens of versification and true poetical expression ever produced in the country, will be sure of a rapid and a large circulation. The author has been literally mobbed for many years to prepare an edition of his poems, and we now have one which fairly reflects his character and powers.

In criticising a poet, the too common method pursued by the craft is to fix upon him some time-honored and time-worn phrases and epithets, which apply to him only as they apply to all poets, and to avoid that task of analysis which would bring out the peculiarities of his genius. Holmes has especially suffered from this mode of criticism; and thus one of the most singular and individual of our poets, a man who, whatever may be thought of the scope and domain of his genius, is still a strictly original writer, is described in terms which are as applicable to Longfellow and Bryant as to him.