Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 5, November 1852

“My children!” I repeated, “my children – oh, holy Father! – to even the like of that to me, and I came all over like a flash of fire. So with that she called me a fool, and repeated, it was all for the good of the country – to show the boundless nature of the ”Cranley Hurst Charity“ – that it took in even the Irish. Oh, how my blood boiled; and I up and told her, that it was true the English now and again did a great deal for Ireland, and very good it was of them, for no doubt the Irish were a mighty troublesome people; and indeed, it was hard to think how any people could sit down quiet and cheerful that had only potatoes to eat, and rags to cover them. But if the English were good to them, they were always telling them of it, and they never gave their gratitude time to grow; and as for me, I had seen too much real misery in rags ever to make a play of it;” and then the tears would come and choke me almost, and I hid my face in the child’s lap; I was so ashamed of them tears. Now, would you believe, that instead of being angry, she got out her pencil, and wrote it every word down – and clapt her hands in delight, and said it was as fine as Mrs. Keeley’s humor and pathos – and begged of me to say it again, that I might be sure to say it right —in public– and when she found I would not make a mummer of myself, in what she called a tablou, she said she would pay me to do it. And I made answer, that what I could not do for love, I would never do for money, which surprised her. The English think they can get every thing done through their money. And, aunt, she got into such a state, poor lady, she cried, she wrung her hands, she declared she was ruined, she upbraided me, she said I had promised to do it – and all this time the blue flags were flying, and the band playing on the lawn, and a great flat, open carriage of a thing, waiting to take me and the children for a show– for a show through the place! think of that! and while she was debating with me, some one came in, and told her she was guilty of bribery – and while the band played, “See the Conquering Hero comes,” she went off into little hysterics – upbraiding me all the time. And in the thick of it my mistress entered, leaning on Mr. Francis’ arm. “Oh, cousin, cousin!” she screamed, “that horrid Irish woman will lose me my little election!”

The Hon. Mr. Francis seemed not much to mind her, but I heard him whisper my lady —

“But I have gained mine!”

NOVEMBER

—

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR

—

Fie upon thee, November! thou dost ape
The airs of thy young sisters; – thou hast stolen
The witching smile of May to grace thy lip,
And April’s rare, capricious loveliness
Thou ’rt trying to put on! Dost thou not know
Such freaks do not become thee? Thou shouldst be
A staid and sober matron, quietly
Laying aside the follies of thy youth,
And robing thee in that calm dignity
Meet for the handmaid of the dying year.
But ah! thou art a sad coquette, although
The frost of age is on thee! Thou dost sport
With every idle breeze that wooeth thee;
And toy and frolick with the aged leaves
That flutter round thee; and unto the low,
Soft murmur of the brooklet, thou dost lend
A willing ear; and crowning thy pale brow
With a bright coronet, that thou hast woven
Of the stray sunbeams summer left behind.
Thou dost bend o’er it lovingly, and strive
To answer in a cadence clear and sweet
As springs first whispers! In the valleys now
The flowers have faded, and the singing-birds
Greet thee no longer when thou wanderest forth
Through the dim forest; and yet thou dost smile,
And skip as lightly o’er the withered grass,
As if thou hadst not decked thee in the robes
That thy dead sister’s wore in festal hours!

SONNET. – MUTABILITY

—

BY WM. ALEXANDER

—

Things changing show no permanency here;
Writ on Earth’s face is Mutability;
The surface of old hills wears fast away,
And the mutations of this globe appear
Inscribed upon her rocks, which still record
That present must into the future pass;
That Man and his frail works shall like the grass
So perish and decay. Moves he vain lord
And monarch of a mighty throng, to-day;
Flit by a few short summers, hies he back
Unto his primal clod, leaving no track
Behind. His storms – tell, where now are they?
Search for them in the herbage fresh and green,
Or find them in the flowers in humble valley seen.

AMBITION’S BURIAL-GROUND

—

BY FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER

—

“A late letter from California states that the writer counted six hundred new graves, in the course of his journey across the Plains.”

Far away, beyond the western mountains, lies a lovely land,
Where bright streamlets, gently gliding, murmur over golden sand,
Where in valleys fresh and verdant, open grottoes old and hoar,
In whose deep recesses treasured, glitter heaps of golden ore —
Lies a lovely land where Fortune long hath hidden priceless store.

But the path which leadeth thither, windeth o’er a dreary plain,
And the pilgrim must encounter weary hours of toil and pain,
Ere he reach those verdant vallies – ere he grasp the gold beneath;
Ay, the path is long and dreary, and disease, with poisonous breath,
Lurks around, and many a pilgrim finds it but the way to death.

Ay, the path is long and dreary – but thou canst not miss the way,
For, defiant of its dangers, thousands throng it night and day,
Pouring westward, as a river rolleth on in countless waves —
Old and young, alike impatient – all alike Ambition’s slaves —
Pressing, panting, pining, dying – strewing all the way with graves!

Thus, alas! Ambition ever leadeth men through burial plains —
Trooping on, in sad procession, melancholy funeral trains!
Hope stands smiling on the margin, but beyond are gloomy fears —
One by one, dark Disappointment wastes the castles Fancy rears —
All the air is filled with sighing – all the way with graves and tears!