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[Illustration: THE VALENTINE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              VOL. XXXVI.      February, 1850.      No. 2.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          February
          Patrick O’Brien
          The Young Artist
          Love’s Influence
          The Two Portraits
          Myrrah Of Tangiers
          The Wilkinsons
          Fanny Day’s Presentiment
          Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. II.—The Last
            Rose of Summer
          The Revealings of a Heart
          Life of General Joseph Warren
          Editor’s Table
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Wit And Beauty
          A Household Dirge
          The Pirate
          Sonnets.—at Twilight
          Song
          Night Thoughts
          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico
          A Spanish Romance
          To A. R.
          The Pale Thinker
          The Evil Eye
          Fancies About a Portrait
          The Dream of Youth
          Le Follet
          Wissahikon Waltz

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

        VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, February, 1850.     NO. 2.

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                               FEBRUARY.


                 The flowers which cold in prison kept
                 Now laugh the frost to scorn.
                                RICHARD EDWARDS. 1523.

AMONG the ancient manuscripts in the British Museum there is one of
Saxon origin, written by Ethelgar, a writer of some note in the tenth
century. Commenting on the months, he speaks of February, which he calls
_Sprout kele_, because colewort, a kind of cabbage, which was the chief
sustenance of the husbandmen in those days, began to yield wholesome
young sprouts during this month. Some centuries after, this name was
modernized by the Romans, who offered their expiatory sacrifices at this
season of the year, and called _Februalia_. Frequently during this month
the cold is abated for a short time, and fine days and hasty thaws take
the place of rigid frost. From this peculiarity, this month has often
been called by ancient writers by the expressive name of “_February fill
dike_.”

Clare’s verses are sweetly descriptive of this changing season—

        The snow has left the cottage top;
          The thatch moss grows in brighter green;
        And eaves in quick succession drop,
          Where pinning icicles have been;
        Pitpatting with a pleasant noise,
          In tubs set by the cottage door;
        While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
          Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.

        The sun peeps through the window pane;
          Which children mark with laughing eye:
        And in the wet street steal again,
          To tell each other Spring is nigh:
        Then, as young Hope the past recalls,
          In playing groups they often draw,
        To build beside the sunny walls
          Their spring-time huts of sticks and straw.

        And oft in pleasure’s dreams they hie
          Round homesteads by the village side,
        Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,
          Where painted pooty shells abide;
        Mistaking oft the ivy spray
          For leaves that come with budding Spring,
        And wondering in their search for play
          Why birds delay to build and sing.

        The mavis-thrush with wild delight
          Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,
        Mutters, to see the day so bright,
          Fragments of young Hope’s poesy:
        And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel
          To hear the robin’s note once more,
        Who tootles while he pecks his meal
          From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

The frost often returns after a few days, and binds Nature with his iron
hand. In Great Britain, where the Spring is much earlier than with us,
February is remarkable for what is termed the “_runs_” of moles.

Le Count, a French naturalist, records some interesting notices of the
nature of moles, (an animal not very common in this cold climate,) as
well as the speed at which they travel through their underground
galleries. He observes, “They are very voracious, and die of hunger if
kept without food for twelve hours. They commence throwing up their
hillocks in the month of February, and making preparations for their
summer campaign, constructing for themselves _runs_ in various
directions, to enable them to escape in case of danger; and also as a
means of procuring their food. These runs communicate with one another,
and unite at one point; at this centre the female establishes her
head-quarters, and forms a separate habitation for her young, taking
care that both shall be on a higher level than the runs, and as nearly
as possible even with the ground, and any moisture that may penetrate is
carried off by the runs. This dormitory, if it may be so styled, is
generally placed at the foot of a wall, or near a hedge or a tree, where
it has less chance of being broken in. When so placed, no external
embankment gives token of its presence; but when the soil is light a
large heap of earth is generally thrown over it. Being susceptible of
the slightest noise or vibration of the earth, the mole, in case of
surprise, at once betakes itself to its safety runs.”

We sometimes, though rarely, find the snow-drops, “fair maids of
February,” as they are called, peeping through their mantle of snow, and
the gentle aconite, with its

        “Green leaf furling round its cup of gold,”

giving life and animation to the otherwise dank and desolate border.
Leigh Hunt in describing this month says, “If February were not the
precursor of Spring, it would be the least pleasant month in the whole
year, November not excepted. The thaws coming so suddenly produce
freshets, and a clammy moisture, which is the most disagreeable of
winter sensations.

        Various signs of returning Spring—
                  ——songful Spring—
        Whose looks are melody,

occur at different times during this month. The month of February in
England may well be compared to the month of April in America.”

The author of “The Sabbath” thus vividly paints the sterility of this
month, and its effects upon the “rural populace.”

                            All outdoor work
        Now stands; the wagoner, with wish-bound feet,
        And wheel-spokes almost filled, his destined stage
        Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,
        Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
        In white array, disguising to the view;
        Objects well known, now faintly recognized;
        One color clothes the mountain and the plain,
        Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
        Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,
        Or where some beetling rock o’er jutting hangs
        Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.
        Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops
        The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
        Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
        With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks
        Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
        The smothering drift; while, skulking at aside,
        Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,
        Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
        Or, from some lofty crag, he ominous howls,
        And makes approaching night more dismal fall.

During this month, the increasing influence of the sun is scarcely felt,
till we approach the end, then hoping, watch from day to day the
lengthened minutes as they pass, to usher in Spring’s holy charms.

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                            WIT AND BEAUTY.


                          BY AGNES L. GORDON.


    IT chanced upon a pleasant day,
      In charming summer weather,
    That Wit and Beauty sallied forth
      To take a stroll together.

    And as they idly roamed along,
      On various themes conversing,
    Young Beauty, somewhat vain, began
      Her wondrous powers rehearsing.

    And much she dwelt upon the charms
      Her outward form adorning,
    And seemed to feel herself supreme,
      All other merit scorning.

    This roused the ire of sparkling Wit,
      Who keenly thus retorted:
    “Your claim, though easily advanced,
      Requires to be supported.

    “Mark yon bright bird that wings his flight
       Athwart the sunny skies,
    Let each on him display our skill,
      To catch him as he flies.

    “Your chance is first, for well I know,
      And own the pleasant duty,
    That Wit in every age must yield
      Due precedence to Beauty!”

    Young Beauty smiled, and charmed the bird
      With softened strains alluring,
    And bound him with a silken chain,
      More brilliant than enduring.

    She placed the captive in a net,
      Entwined of many flowers,
    And with a merry, mocking smile,
      Bade Wit now try his powers.

    Then from his feathered quiver Wit
      A silver arrow drew,
    With perfect and unerring aim
      He pierced the net-work through.

    The bird released, on eager wing
      Soared upward to the skies;
    A second arrow reached his breast—
      He fell—no more to rise!

    Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see
      Her snare thus incomplete.
    When gallant Wit the trophy raised,
      And laid it at her feet.

    “Could we but journey hand in hand,”
      He said to Beauty, smiling,
    “No prey could e’er escape my shaft,
      Who saw your charms beguiling.

    “But since the stern decrees of fate
      Our union thus opposes,
    And you so oft my arrows blunt,
      Beneath a weight of roses;

    “Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade,
      Despite each fond endeavor,
    And strong, _well tempered_ shafts of wit
      Her chains will often sever.”

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                            PATRICK O’BRIEN.


                         A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.


                          BY H. HASTINGS WELD.


THE father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer, whose situation when the
child began to think at all, seemed to her the realization of all that
is happy, and all that is cheerful in this world. Children do think very
early; much earlier than their elders suspect. But happily for them they
are easily contented. They look at the bright side, and unconscious of
the superior advantages, and the greater comforts of others, have no
temptation to discontented comparisons, and no motive for uneasy envy.

Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that is to
say, of an incident which conferred particular pleasure, was connected
with a child—a _very_ small child. She remembered how her father told
her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee thing upon the knees which
she prepared with much ado to receive it. She was told that this was her
little brother, her own little brother; and she hugged it in troubled
happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she should hurt it. She gazed
upon it with that undefined feeling of mingled awe and pleasure with
which little children regard less children. She looked at its fragile
hands and wondered, if she took them in hers, whether they would fade or
drop to pieces, like the delicate blossoms which she had often killed
with kindness. And when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That such
a little thing should be so ungrateful while she coddled and cared for
it, and nursed it ever so tenderly, was more than she could well endure.
She thought it well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only that a
whipping might _hurt_ it—and that she would not consent to.

It was, however, not a great while before a safe acquaintance grew up
between the new comer and Ellen. He was called Patrick, after his
father, and his father’s father before him. Ellen was three years his
senior. That difference in their ages would have been a wonder; only
that it was explainable. Another little Patrick, his predecessor, was
“called home,” as his father said, “before he had scarce a taste of the
world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often of the other little
Patrick, and from her indistinct memory of a baby that she saw one day,
as if in a dream, and did not see any more, learned to think of infants
as of little things that would die if they were not carefully watched.
And this Patrick she was resolved should not slip away for want of
attention from his sister; therefore she nursed him as carefully as if
that had been her sole vocation.

The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew older. At first, in her
childish little heart, she thought every little baby must be a little
Patrick, and that no new one could come while there was another about.
But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there could be little
Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks, Bridgets and Kathleens as
well as Ellens. Child after child lifted its clamorous voice for food
and nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last when he was
asked respecting his children, he was fain to count them upon his
fingers. And he always began with Ellen and his thumb—Paddy came next,
and the formula was—“There’s Ellen, then little Paddy that was called
early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen and Paddy are the thumb and
forefinger to us. What would the mother do without them, at all?”

Ellen grew to a fine, stout girl, with a cheerful open face when you
spoke to her—but there was a shade of care and thought over it when in
repose, which you may often see in the oldest daughter of a poor man.
She moved and acted as if while the tribe who had exhausted the family
names of the O’Briens were born children to her mother, she was born
before them for a deputy mother to them all. Legs and arms were all over
the cottage, in all sorts of places where they shouldn’t be, and she
jerked them out of harm’s way, with a half-petulant dexterity which was
pleasant to observe. Tow-heads and shock-heads popped up continually,
and she pushed them aside with a “there now, wont you be aisy!” which
was musical, with a _very_ little discord. And there was an easy and
natural carelessness of authority and half rebellion in obedience, which
was truly puzzling to strangers, but which gave no discomposure to Ellen
or to her mother. Indeed, Mrs. O’Brien sat, the centre of her offspring,
with the most contented air in the world, plying her knitting needles
with easy assiduity, and dismissing child after child from her arms, as
they severally grew out of her immediate province and into Ellen’s. Or
she bustled, if there was bustling to do, with perfect indifference, it
might seem, to one who did not know her, as to whether there were
children in the house or not.

But sometimes her interference became necessary as a measure of last
appeal, and she came down on them with hearty whacks which were
invariably poulticed with a word or two, half scolding and half
good-natured wit. The children were thus reconciled to the propriety and
necessity of certain summary inflictions, which at the same time they
took care to avoid, when it could be done without _too_ much trouble.
Often there were voices heard in a higher key than is considered proper
in a drawing-room, and sometimes there was a debouchment of children out
at the door, and a consequent squealing of little pigs, and fluttering
of chickens before it; which showed the mother’s activity at ejection.
But no drawing-room ever sheltered more gentle hearts, and no mother of
high degree ever followed a scolding with more patience than Mrs.
O’Brien did. There was no malice in her, and a half-laugh stood ever in
her eye, as she looked out at the door on the living miscellanies she
had put in motion, and said—“Sure you can’t turn a hand, or step any
place at all, for pigs, chickens and childer!”

There is often more room in the heart than in the house. The O’Briens
began to feel themselves crowded—or rather to feel the inconvenience of
too many sitters for their stools, without knowing precisely—or rather
without permitting themselves to acknowledge what caused their
discomfort. There were too many mouths for the potatoes, as Patrick
senior and his wife were at last compelled to admit in their matrimonial
committee of ways and means, and the question now became, how could they
diminish the one, or increase the other. The lesser fry were out of the
question. Nothing could be done in the way of removing them; nor did the
thought occur to father or mother, who loved the children with true
Irish hearts; that the smaller children were in the way, or that any of
the little ones could possibly be spared, if the lord-lieutenant himself
wanted a baby. So they began canvassing at the other end of the long
list.

“There was Ellen,” said the father, doubtfully.

“Ellen! Sure you’ll not be putting her away, and nobody to mind the
childer? What is the wages, I’d like to know, would make her place good
to us?”

And Ellen, it was decided, was a fixture.

“There is Paddy,” said the mother with some hesitation. “Sure he’s a
broth of a boy, and it is time he should do for himself—it is. It’s
little in life he’s good for here, anyway.”

The father did not think so. Many were the little “turns” that Paddy
cheerfully undert