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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                Vol. XLI.      August, 1852.      No. 2.


                           Table of Contents

              Departed Joys
              Midsummer Days
              Widows
              Astronomy
              Hymn to the Sun
              Antony and Cleopatra
              The Two Birds.—A Street Lyric.
              Miss Harper’s Maid
              “Whatever He Doeth Shall Prosper.”
              The Useful Arts
              To a Whip-Poor-Will Singing in a Grave-Yard
              Hesperius—A Vision
              The Pedant
              Life’s Battle March
              The Harvest of Gold
              Seminole War Song
              Stability
              Lines
              Sonnet—Virtue
              The Shark and His Habits
              The Fountain of Youth
              Hush! Hush!
              Annie Morton
              Adieu
              The Ranger’s Chase
              Impressions of England
              Sonnet.—Cydnus.
              Nelly Nowlan on Bloomers
              Yesterday—To-day—To-morrow!
              Among the Moors
              The Old Man’s Evening Thoughts
              My First Inkling of a Royal Tiger
              Review of New Books
              The Aztec Children
              Graham’s Small-Talk

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




[Illustration: =BELLA.=]

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[Illustration: =FIRST AFFECTION.=]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: DEPARTED JOYS.]




                            =DEPARTED JOYS.=


                =FROM THE MELODIES OF SIR H. R. BISHOP.=

[Illustration]

                    Could we recal departed joys,
                      At price of parted pain,
                    Oh who that prizes happy hours,
                      Would live his life again?
                    Such

[Illustration]

                 burning tears as once we shed
                   No pleasures can repay;
                 Pass to oblivion, joy and grief!
                   We’re thankful for today.

                 Calm be the current of our lives,
                   As rivers deep and clear;
                 Mild be the light upon our path,
                   To guide us and to cheer!
                 For streams of joy that burst and foam
                   May leave their channels dry.
                 And deadliest lightnings ever flash
                   The brightest in the sky!

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *

          Vol. XLI.     PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1852.     No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration]




                           =MIDSUMMER DAYS.=


                I scent the ancient sward!
                  I feel it ’neath my tread!
                The moss, the wiry nard,
                  And the harebells bend their head!

                I see the foxgloves glow,
                Where plow did never go;
                And the streams, the streams once more,
                Hurrying brightly o’er
                Their sandy beds; they roll
                With the joy of a living soul.
                Ye know that wood-walk sweet,
                Where we are wont to meet;
                On either hand the knolls and swells
                Are crimson with the heather-bells;
                    And the eye sees,
                    Mid distant trees,
                Where moorland beauty dwells.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               =WIDOWS.=


                        =BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT.=


[Illustration]

The word widowhood, from whatever angle of observation it maybe viewed,
has about it a dull, bleak, uncomfortable aspect. Clouds encompass it.
Wo englooms it. Loneliness isolates it from social comfort, and befogs
it amidst lowering disquiet. It floats amidst tears on a dusky day, like
a solitary buoy on the salt sea.

We speak of widowhood which is really such. There are philosophers, who
are willing to wager that the solitary state is the most delightful of
existence. To them, wedlock is a fast bind fast find condition, in which
two persons are confined by a clerical jailor, who condemns them to
imprisonment for life, and then throws away the key. They transform
“wedlock” to “padlock;” and though there is no parautopticism about the
wards and chambers of affection, they consider the matrimonial lock, one
which may bid defiance to the most dexterous Hobbs. Yet we know that to
every heart there is a master-key. Lucky is he who keeps it in his own
possession without a necessity for its use; and happy is he who needs
not the services of some legal lock-picker to release him ere the coming
of the great skeleton-key carrier—Death.

But sentimental prosing is not our purpose. Widowhood has its bright
side, though many look too steadily at its darkest aspect. Widows are,
according to the venerable Weller, gifted with innumerable methods of
circumventing unsuspicious men; and the great inquiry is—How do they
manage those blandishments?

From the institution of debating societies down to the present era of
Spirit Rapping and feminine right conventions, “the influence of woman,”
has been a favorite topic with anniversary orators and declamatory
speakers. They have spent vast stores of eloquence in showing her
influence as a sister. They have proved how, in her days of pinafores,
she obligingly devoured her brother’s candies, or took more than her
share of his bread and butter. They have pleasantly adverted to the
sisterly affection which, in more mature age, was content to accept or
demand the ciceronage of brother to parties or concerts, if no other
beau was available. With a very delicate touch they have skimmed over
that important period when the love for the brother is all given up to
the husband, and have judiciously omitted any reference to sisterhood
after wifehood commenced. The influence of wives has, of course, been so
thoroughly demonstrated, that all that can be said on that subject are
axioms. The privileges of a matron to love her husband and adore her
baby, are subjects which have been rhapsodized over in glowing poetry,
and treated substantially, and with becoming dignity in unimpassioned
prose. Rhymers, dreamers, and orators, have devoted words in endless
profusion to the influence of woman, as sister, daughter, wife and
mother; but there has never been a full crop of elogiums harvested in
relation to her influence as a widow. The singular dearth of cotemporary
literature upon this subject, will be acknowledged by bibliopoles. The
reason is one which cannot be satisfactorily demonstrated. It may be
that literary people are disposed to consider that widows are like
sturgeons, who have merely leaped out of the placid current of matrimony
for a moment or two, and who will, by the gravity of their wo,
inevitably fall back into the connubial tide. Such a simile may do in
some cases, but will scarcely hold water upon trial. It is a
metaphysical sieve, and may catch many widows in its meshes, but some
will inevitably pass through its interstices. Some unfortunate “relicts”
are for a long time like fish out of the stream; but they have
sufficient determination to keep alive, until they manage to become
again immersed in matrimony. Nevertheless, the desire to return to their
“destined element” _does_ exist, in many cases, and that very desire
forms the great constituent in the influence of widows.

[Illustration]

The manner in which this authority is exercised differs according to
circumstances. Some of the unfortunate fair ones who have lost their
mates have attractions in the shape of weighty dower. Men of a certain
age have keen noses for such charms; and when the widow suspects it, she
often leads her importunate admirer by that organ, and by a dexterous
management of the mystery of courtship, which is called “getting a bean
on a string.” Once the gentleman is secured by that means, the widow
takes into her hand the whip of management, and compels the poor beau to
trot a weary round in an arena which extends its charmed circle about
her.

If the French system of espionage, which is now a constituent of society
in Louis Napoleon’s dominions, were in vogue here, we are sure that the
index of the chief of police would bear opposite to the name of each
widow the word “_dangerous_!” And what can be more threatening to the
liberty of a too susceptible man, than a young, accomplished, and
fascinating widow? What is bashful maidenhood, with its cherry lips and
monosyllabic sentences, to buxom widowhood, with its matured
development, sensible ideas, and frank manners? What other witcheries
are there about young misses than a taste for ice creams and giddy
companionship? Those fascinations fade away when the widow charms us
with the certainty that she knows how to make the pot boil, and has a
horror of boy beaus. Maidenhood is poetical and theoretical, widowhood
is sensible and practical. The young lady, before marriage, is unsteady,
indecisive, and capricious. The widow is certain, firm, and
self-possessed. The girl scarcely knows her own mind, but the widow not
only understands herself but all her male acquaintances. The young lady
is greedy of admiration, exacting in her demands, and expects from her
lover an obsequiousness of attention which cannot be too excessive. The
widow knows that men may admire without adulation, and love fondly
without abjectly suing for a return of affection. She knows, also, that
those who daring the days of courtship are compelled to excessive
complaisance, generally revenge themselves after marriage by neglect and
indifference. The fact is, the widow knows something of mankind by
actual experience, the maiden has little but romance to tutor her.

Philosophy like this, must have given force to the observations of the
venerable parent of Weller the younger—and he was justified by personal
experience, in maintaining the position that “widders,” are “werry
dangerous.” The world has long since phraseologically settled it, that
men “fall in love.” This presupposes that the tender passion is gotten
like a broken leg, altogether by accident. The language of