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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
of the innocent home choose the left hand path which their heavenly
natures knew would lead to Death. Yet, with faces veiled, they
followed the deluded ones, in hopes to win them back before they
strayed too far.
And what was our brother’s and sister’s choice? The boy looked
wistfully toward the glittering throng, which danced and laughed
amid the wreaths and brilliant artificial light of the broad way, but
followed his sister’s guidance toward the path whose light was from
the Throne. The angels, whose care they were, rejoiced, and
followed with a low song of triumph the holy travelers.
The boy, through love for his dear friend, murmured not for a
time at the calm and peaceful way they trod. But his imagination,
naturally so vivid and bright, had nothing to revel in as they walked
upward side by side with holy men and pure, who sung the praises
of the Good King as they rose toward the crown. This crown
glittered upon the summit of the hill as a promise of eternal rest and
joy for the unmurmuring and patient traveler.
But the heart of the young man became listless; and his eyes
became dull to see the lustre of the crown as it shone fast by the
Lord’s high throne. From discontent he went to murmuring. His
sister and his angel whispered loving words to the clouded heart,
and sought earnestly to win it back to feel the beauty of the journey
they had commenced so joyfully. But no! the distant sound of mirth,
the distant glitter of fine sights, and spectacles appearing so
ingenious and rare, caught his wandering senses at every turn. His
quiet journey became a burden to him. His sister’s face became a
sad reproach. The crown looked dim upon the summit. To his
changed eye the holy men and women walked like monks and nuns
in solemn company. His excited fancy would make it seem injustice
that the Lord who made the way, should have had its pavement so
hard and rough, when the broader path was carpeted with flowers,
which could yield to the bounding foot so gently, and ever be so
fresh.
More and more the prospect changed to his changed eyes. The
ascent now was steep and wearisome, and oh! how the sad, sweet
face of his garden friend, the sister of his childhood passed on the
mossy banks, how it looked upon him longingly, as if the pilgrimage
even in the narrow way would be half sorrowful if he went not up
with her to the end. His angel shone from her eyes its look of
pleading, but all were lost upon the evil-awakened youth, who saw
no stars in that pure heaven, no guide in that pleasant way worth
following. More and more as his heart gave up the treasures of its
infancy, the revel of the other path broke on his ear. His eyes gazed
oftener on the distant groups than on his sister’s face, or the high
crown. That sister prayed, besought with tears that he would let his
guardian spirit guide him, that he would call upon the messengers of
the Throne to disarm the tempters who were changing his heart.
And yet he, the object of that fond one’s watching thus far upon the
road, he who in sweet babyhood had been her pride and hope even
in her own young years, he turned and left her! Turned and fled, not
daring to look back and catch another glimpse of her pale face! he
fled, and how short was now the way to Pleasure’s arms; the gain of
long year’s travels how quickly lost. He stood once more where the
two paths met, and looked a moment on the plain below, where yet
was green the home of his childhood’s innocence. For a moment
came the memory of the spirits he had carried from it as inmates of
his soul. He gazed upon its quiet loveliness, and sighed in his
bewilderment and guilt, for the season of his infancy, that he might
be again a child and play amongst those garden flowers.
It could not be! And sealing his brow with the stamp of
determined hardihood, he turned from the retrospect of his
boyhood’s purity, and gave his hand to the fair-faced queen, who
welcomed him more gladly that he came from the rival path.
How wildly did he enter now into all the scenes of that gay place!
He sought to drown his angel’s whisperings in revels, and at first he
succeeded well, for the parties he joined were of those, who, like
himself, were neophytes to the reigning queen, and were not yet
quite slaves to the hideous form so shrouded in flowers. But the
innocent joyfulness grew more evil at every step, for in this gay
kingdom there was no restraining power, and the poor misguided
youth who had left the quiet walk where every onward step induced
to purity, now saw the ruin which came by unsuspected agencies
upon the hearts and forms of these thoughtless travelers. Guilt grew
more familiar at every turn. He could see that his companions grew
old before their time, and almost imperceptibly changed their
careless mirth and slight indulgences to wicked merriment and love
for evil practices, which they would have once despised.
Palaces rose up on every side, filled with sparkling drinks, which
drowned the voices of grieved angels, and gave exulting life to the
dread demon of Human Will. The laughter which had come faintly to
his ears when he was by his lost sister’s side, like the sound of a
joyful stream, now was like a raging river, wild and ruinous. Gay
women fluttered on with “Vanity” written in jewels upon their
foreheads, and the beauty of their girlhood lost under the weight of
fashion’s charms. How the heart of that lost wanderer turned to his
sister’s memory, and read there how chaste, how simple, how lovely
she walked, unmindful of the garments her body wore if her spirit
shone in the garb of holiness.
He looked toward the path she was now treading alone, and
could tell her untiring step, and see the light of her high brow as it
was at times uplifted to the throne—praying for him! Those gay
women looked like painted sepulchres as he turned back; and
though they shook their jeweled fingers at him playfully, and tried to
win his admiration by outward charms, his heart compared them
with the gentle presence of his sister in the heavenly path, and it
learned to lothe the beings whose souls were unadorned and dark.
They had been beautiful, but had lost the roses of their cheeks, the
jewels of their eyes, the sweet sign of modesty upon their brow, and
now owed Art a debt which grew with every year.
As he went on he found corners of the road darkened by groups
of human forms with faces of spirits from the cave of darkness
where the fire burns. They watched with starting eyes the ivory balls
they rolled, or painted characters they handled, as if they were the
chances of Heaven; and when their gold was lost would start up
furious, and commit some dreadful deed upon themselves or their
companions. Disgusting pictures of indulgence and debauchery in
every shape, now met the almost frenzied eye of the regretful
wanderer. Carelessly besotted feet trod the uncertain borders of the
frightful precipice, or with uneven step stalked on toward the gulf of
hopelessness. The light, which had been so dazzling at the
commencement of the way, had been put out, and darkness would
have been over all that crowd, if the mercy of the Throne had not let
its light fall upon the guilty ones, that, if they would, they might see
their passage back to the holy way.
Oh! had that wanderer tasted all the joy he fancied could be
drunk of in that broad path? Had the glittering scenes been real?
Had the promises of the syren been fulfilled? Had his heart been
satisfied with the friendship, his feet with the flowers of that fair-
seeming place? Oh, no! His brain was reeling with the discordant
sounds, his senses were confused, his heart was agonized by the
cries of rage, and complaints breathed bitterly against the Throne.
Oh! could he dare brave the sneers of his companions and turn
back: Could he, distressed and weakened, run the gauntlet of that
deriding crowd! Oh no he had no courage left for such a trial. He
knew the purity of his brow was gone, the freshness of his heart;
and how, if he ever should escape from that dreadful way, would his
sister’s eye rest on him?
As he thought of this, he turned toward the path of her calm
pilgrimage, and saw a greater light as a halo round her pale brow,
and her pleading eye still turned upward toward the Throne! His
angel gently whispered “fly!” And as he stopped upon his course to
listen, he felt the pressure of the hand which had been laid upon his
head as he went out from the garden-gates, and his strong heart
came back! His feet forgot their weariness, his eye grew large with
hope, his spirit threw off its cowardice, and with a loud, clear voice,
which his sister caught as a joyful answer to her prayers, he
declared himself a prodigal, and entreated all that graceless
company to follow him to peace and happiness.
Oh! how many accents there were in the answering shouts that
filled the echoing way. Despair sent up its dreadful note—shame and
defiance added their discordant tones. From the deep caves of guilty
sorrow came a wail, and from lone places where the body diseased
with crime lay suffering, a cry arose which chilled even the polluted
blood of those who wandered in guilt so near.
 None answered the returning one with like repentance, although
from the heavy eyes of some a faint desire for a moment gleamed,
to flee with him from misery. But the laugh which rung so loud, and
with such a mocking echo of contempt, put out the spark which
might have kindled to such a glorious blaze, and he turned alone
upon his backward way. And now fingers were pointed at him,
laughter followed him—his garments were laid hold of to arrest his
steps. Many who sighed for his courage, and envied him the way his
face was turned, laid stumbling-blocks before his feet, to turn them
back—to gain a triumph over him would make their own depravity
seem less dark. But they could not conquer him. His angel
strengthened him, and he kept the name of the Great Lord upon his
lips and in his heart, and so he made his way free from the striving
hands and tempting wiles of his companions, and joyfully reached
once more the side of his sister in the upward path.
 THE RAIN.
———
BY T. A. SWAN.
———

The birds sing gayly in their bowers,

And we can gather what they sing;
But what, falling ’mong leaves and flowers,
What is the soft rain whispering.

I cannot understand their word—

Some tale those bright drops tell, I know,
For the corn leaves move as if they heard,
And barley fields nod to and fro.

The lily turns its chalice up

To catch the legends as they fall,
And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup
Rings many a fairy festival.

The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads,

And then, like elves, they dance and sing;
And clovers hang their blushing heads,
Like little creatures listening.

It is some good thing they relate;

For when the cloud has passed the sun,
The green fields smile with joy elate,
As the world had put new glory on.
And so, to me, they chant a strain
Uncomprehended by the sense,
But when they dash the window-pane,
I feel their soothing influence.

They lead me back to some bright scene,

Some fair spot in the shadowy past,
Which glows like the broad moon’s silver sheen
Far off upon the waters cast.

They ope the pleasant gate of dreams,

And from the phantom-world beyond,
How visions bright, in golden streams,
Like gift from an enchanter’s wand.

Kind dreams of sweet imagining—

Of the maiden fair shall love me well;
But mystic are the strains they sing,
Who she may be they will not tell.

And through the Future’s golden aisles,

They bear me up on angel wing;
And many a truth I’ve learned the whiles
From the bright rain softly whispering.
 WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
———
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
———

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

This bird is the only species of Parrot found native in the United
States. It not only abounds in the rich and flowery groves of our
Southern States, but is found in great numbers among the prairies of
the West, on the banks of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and even
along the shores of Lake Michigan. Most Parrots droop or die in cold
weather; but the Carolina Parrots are frequently seen during a snow-
storm, flying about in flocks, and by their loud cries seeming to
enjoy the consciousness of their own hardiness. But though a
resident in our Western States it is rarely seen east of the
Alleghanies. Its favorite food—the seeds of the cockle-bur—abounds
in the wilds and forests of the West. Amid the rich alluvial soils,
shaded by dense forests of sycamore and buttonwood, or covered
with impenetrable swamps, the Carolina finds a secure and delightful
retreat. Here also are found the seeds of the cypress and hackberry,
and the beech-nut; while the soil abounds with those formations
known as licks, the salt of which is much relished by the Parrot. The
Carolina possesses a full share of that love for destructive mischief
which appears indigenous to his genus. In the natural state it cares
little for apples, if other food be at hand, but it delights to mount an
apple-tree, and twisting the fruit off one by one to strew it over the
ground.
The Carolina Parrot is about thirteen inches long, and twenty-one
across the spread wings. The head is red, the neck a rich yellow;
and in other parts of the body these colors are sprinkled with
considerable profusion. The remaining plumage is mostly a bright
green, changing to yellow, with light blue reflections. The feet and
bill are either a cream or flesh color, and the claws and shafts of the
large feathers black. The plumage of the female differs very little
from that of the male; but the young birds undergo several changes
of color before assuming the dress of their parents.
In captivity this bird appears to lose little of its sprightly habits,
although it never becomes entirely reconciled to the cage. Unless
closely watched it will gnaw and break through the wood of its cage,
and twist the wires, for the purpose of escaping. On the whole, it is
a pleasing companion, being in a great measure destitute of the love
for clamorous screaming which distinguishes most of the other
Parrots. Its usual food in the cage should be corn and beech-nuts,
but if hungry it will eat apples, various kinds of seeds and berries.
Wilson in his American Ornithology gives the following interesting
account of the Carolina Parrot, as seen by him in its native haunts in
the West:
“At Big Bone Lick, thirty miles above the mouth of Kentucky River,
I saw them in great numbers. They came screaming through the
woods in the morning, about an hour after sunrise, to drink the salt
water, of which they, as well as the pigeons, are remarkably fond.
When they alighted on the ground, it appeared at a distance as if
covered with a carpet of the richest green, orange and yellow; they
afterward settled in one body on a neighboring tree, which stood
detached from any other, covering almost every twig of it, and the
sun shining strongly on their gay and glossy plumage, produced a
very beautiful and splendid appearance. Here I had an opportunity
of observing some very particular traits of their character: Having
shot down a number, some of which were only wounded, the whole
flock swept repeatedly around their prostrate companions, and again
settled on a low tree within twenty yards of the spot where I stood.
At each successive discharge, though showers of them fell, still the
affection of the survivors seemed rather to increase; for, after a few
circuits around the place, they again alighted near me, looking down
on their slaughtered companions with such manifest symptoms of
sympathy and concern, as completely disarmed me. I could not but
take notice of the remarkable contrast between their elegant manner
of flight and their lame and crawling gait among the branches. They
fly very much like the Wild Pigeon, in close compact bodies, and with
great rapidity, making a loud and outrageous screaming, not unlike
that of the Red-headed Woodpecker. Their flight is sometimes in a
direct line, but most usually circuitous, making a great variety of
elegant and easy serpentine meanders, as if for pleasure. They are
particularly attached to the large sycamore, in the hollow of the
trunks and branches of which they generally roost, thirty or forty, or
more, entering at the same hole. Here they cling closely to the sides
of the trees, holding fast by the claws, and also by the bills. They
appear fond of sleep, and often retire to their holes during the day,
probably to take their regular siesta. They are extremely sociable,
and fond of each other, often scratching each other’s heads and
necks, and always at night nestling as close as possible to each
other, preferring at that time a perpendicular position, supported by
their bill and claws. In the fall, when their favorite cockle-burs are
ripe, they swarm along the coast or high ground of the Mississippi,
above New Orleans, for a great extent. At such times they are killed
and eaten by many of the inhabitants; though, I confess, I think
their flesh is very indifferent. I have several times dined on it from
necessity, in the woods, but found it merely passable, with all the
sauce of a keen appetite to recommend it.”

THE WASHINGTON EAGLE. (Haliætus Washingtonii.)

 For a long time this bird was almost unknown; and though
specimens of it appear to have been examined even by scientific
men, its identity as a distinct species remained hidden until the year
1814. In February of that year Mr. Audubon, while voyaging up the
Mississippi, noticed here and there a solitary bird, soaring above the
rocky cliffs, entirely different, as it appeared to him, from any
species with which he was acquainted. After much search he
discovered an eyry on the high cliffs of Green River, in Kentucky, and
was enabled to make such observations as convinced him that this
was a new, and hitherto unknown, species of Eagle. From its noble
bearing and majestic size, he named it the Bird of Washington, a
title by which it is now generally recognized. Some, however,
confound it with the White-tailed Eagle, and others affirm that it is
but a full grown Sea Eagle. With better reason it is supposed to be
either identical with the great European Sea Eagle of Brisson, or but
a variety of that bird. Audubon considers the species as rare. His
principal residence is among the rocky shores of the Mississippi, the
Missouri, and the great northern lakes—in those gloomy solitudes
rarely disturbed by the step of man. Winter drives it from these
favorite haunts nearer to the abode of civilization; and in a severe
season the Washington Eagle has been seen in the vicinity of
Concord and Boston. His principal food is fish; but instead of
obtaining it in the same piratical manner as is common with the Bald
Eagle, he descends, like the Osprey, into the same element with his
prey. The circles which he describes in flying are wider than those of
the White-headed Eagle, and when about to dive for prey, he
sweeps downward in spiral rings, as though endeavoring to prevent
the fish’s escape. When within the distance of a few yards, he darts
forcibly down, and rarely fails to secure his object. He is also
remarkable for flying near the surface of the water, especially when
retiring with his prize; and when near the shore he may often be
recognized by the same peculiarity.
The Washington Eagle is capable of being domesticated, and is
then gentle and docile. The quantity of food necessary to sustain
him, either in captivity or among his native wilds, is very great; and
it would appear that they are capable, more than most birds of prey,
of generating fat. Audubon’s specimen was three feet six inches in
length, and weighed fourteen and a half pounds. Others have been
weighed, much heavier. It should be mentioned as a curious fact,
that repeated attempts by Dr. Haywood, of Boston, to poison one of
these birds with corrosive sublimate were entirely unsuccessful,
although doses of two drams were given to it at a time.
The general color of the upper part of this bird is copper-brown,
dark and shining. The throat and breast are a cinnamon color, the
wings brown, with sprinklings of black, and the lesser wing-coverts
rusty iron-gray. This description should, however, be received with
some caution, in consequence of its being taken from but a few
specimens, which varied considerably among themselves. The head
is more convex than that of the Bald Eagle, the bill more hooked,
and the iris of the eye is hazel, inclining to chestnut. Underneath the
foot is notched like a rasp, to enable the bird to hold its prey. The
majestic appearance of this Eagle, his great strength and superior
size, justly entitle him to a rank among the noblest birds of our
continent.
 REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
The History of the United States of America, from the
Discovery of the Continent to the Organization of the
Government under the Federal Constitution. By Richard
Hildreth. In three volumes. New York: Harper &
Brothers, vol. 1.

The object of Mr. Hildreth’s ambition in this work is to present an

impartial view of the persons and events of American history in their
natural order and relations, and in his preface he plumes himself on
having accomplished his purpose, at the same time not very
modestly indicating his belief that no other American historian has
approached it. As far as regards his claim to accuracy and
impartiality we doubt not it will be readily admitted, at least in the
sense in which he appears to understand the terms. The history is a
useful compendium of facts undertaken by a man who does not
seem to have sufficient sympathy with his subject to be capable
even of partisanship. Everything indicates that the work was
manufactured in a spirit of dogged, straight-forward, joyless labor.
The author has in his other productions given evidence of passions
sufficiently quick and hot, and a talent for hating almost unmatched
for brilliancy and intensity, and our surprise was correspondingly
great to find him in the present work altogether destitute of
enthusiasm, and writing sentence after sentence with no inspiration
even from his blood.
To those who require in a history nothing but a series of facts
presented in a clear style, without any animation in the narrative,
the work of Mr. Hildreth will be very acceptable, and we have little
doubt that his labors of research and composition will be rewarded.
It seems to us, however, that there is a great difference between
facts as they are in themselves, and facts as they are treated by Mr.
Hildreth. Whatever view may be taken of our fathers, there can be
no doubt that they were alive, and we have a right to demand that
the narrative of their actions, however close it may adhere to the
literal truth, shall represent living men and living events. The
representation of a fact, therefore, implies a sympathy with it either
personal or imaginative, and a capacity to convey it to another mind
not only in its form and dimensions, but in its coloring and spirit. The
difficulty with Mr. Hildreth’s facts consists in their lifelessness. He is
“down among the dead men,” not up and striving with the living,
and his style being deliberately and elaborately destitute of glow and
spirit, rejecting all ornament, and varying not with the variations of
his subject, is as uninteresting as a newspaper account of a railroad
accident. In his narrative of our history, as far as we have read it,
there are strictly speaking no events. The landing of the Pilgrims he
recounts in a style which would hardly suit an account of a New
Yorker’s visit to Hoboken, for the purpose of enjoying a cooler air
than he found in the city. The most adventurous and heroic actions,
the grandest displays of disinterested piety and affection, sink into
dull commonplace as treated by Mr. Hildreth. If this be history, then
history is hardly worth the attention of a live man. We should rather
call it historical geology, having for its subject the fossil remains of
men and institutions.
We know there is a large class of readers who consider this mode
of writing history as the best, and who are ready to stigmatize all
realization as romance. To such a class we can commend Mr.
Hildreth’s production. He certainly deserves praise for his diligence,
and the strength of understanding he has evinced in educing a
connected narrative from his multitude of scattered authorities. But
he has not succeeded even in this department of his labors to such a
degree as to justify his sneering allusion to other histories of the
country as “Continental Sermons and Fourth of July Orations in the
guise of history.” This hardly does justice to such a man as Bancroft,
whose History of the United States, whatever may be its faults, has
merits of investigation, narration and reflection, which Mr. Hildreth’s
more prosaic work does not approach.
 Dante’s Divine Comedy: The Inferno. A Literal Prose
Translation, with the Text of the Original Collated from
the Best Editions, and Explanatory Notes. By John A.
Carlyle, M. D., New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.
12mo.

This is a most valuable addition to the English translations of the

Italian Classics, and is well calculated to convey a vivid impression of
the intense beauty and sublimity of Dante’s immortal poem to
readers ignorant of the original. The translation is faithful even to
literal exactness without being clumsy and inelegant, and the Italian
text has been collated with commendable care and industry. Indeed
the whole book appears to have been a labor of love, and must have
occupied the leisure of many years. To those who are learning Italian
the volume must be invaluable, as it enables them to read the
original side by side with a translation at once correct and elegant.
Dr. Carlyle, the translator, is the brother of Thomas Carlyle. One
would suppose that being so nearly related to the latter, he would
sedulously avoid all imitation of his manner, yet the preface to the
present volume is filled with the most amusing Carlylisms. The tone
and rhetorical contortions of his brother, Dr. Carlyle mimics rather
than imitates, and makes the whole matter more ludicrous by his
evident straining after that which on all principles of propriety he
should rather attempt strenuously to avoid.

Scraps, No. 1. Sketched, Etched, and Published by D. C.

Johnston. Boston.

This thin quarto contains some fifty “hits,” humorous and

satirical, done on steel. The sketcher is D. C. Johnston, one of the
first caricaturists in the country, and an original observer of life and
manners. Several of the illustrations are pictorial essays on popular
follies and vices, and contain matter enough to supply thought for a
volume. We like the idea of publishing occasionally a work like the
present, recording as it does, with almost historical accuracy, the
various forms assumed by the Protean genius of humbug to diddle
our free and enlightened citizens.

The Philosophy of the Beautiful. From the French of Victor

Cousin. Translated with Notes and an Introduction, by
Jesse Cato Daniel. New York: D. Bixby. 1 vol. 18mo.

Mr. Bixby, the publisher of this elegant little volume, has done a
great deal in his selection of books for republication for the elevation
of public taste. To him we owe the only editions we have of Goethe’s
Faust, and Correspondence of Southey’s Translation of the Chronicle
of the Cid, and of a number of other valuable works. Having
removed from Lowell to New York, we trust that he will continue his
speculations on public taste; and as an earnest of what he intends to
do, we hail with much pleasure this handsome edition of Cousin’s
celebrated dissertation on Beauty, a work written with all that
accomplished philosopher’s force and brilliancy of style, evincing his
usual keenness of analysis and range of generalization, and as
readable as it is valuable. We commend it especially to those English
readers who are followers of Alison and Jeffrey. The subject
discussed is one of the most important in the metaphysics of
criticism, and though we cannot say that Cousin has exhausted it, he
has presented his own views in a rhetoric so lucid that he cannot fail
to charm even the readers whom he may not convince.

Southey’s Commonplace Book. Edited by his Son-in-Law,

John Wood Warter, B. D. New York: Harper & Brothers.
1 vol. 8vo.

This volume is calculated to convey even a new idea of the

variety of Southey’s studies, and the exhaustlessness of his capacity
of labor. The number of his works is sufficiently surprising, convicting
as it does most literary men either of indolence or barrenness, but
we find that in addition to writing his original productions, he was in
the custom of transcribing largely from books as he read them, and
the present volume, representing but a portion of these labors,
would appear to most readers a work for a life. It consists of striking
extracts from a large variety of authors, most of them antiquated to
the reader of the present day, and illustrating the manners, custom,
opinions, and sentiments of Englishmen for the last three centuries.
The editor, who reports himself as Southey’s son-in-law, is an
excellent specimen of a snob, who cannot write a sentence without
writing himself down an ass. The Harpers have issued the volume in
clear type, on white paper, at about one-fifth the price of the English
edition.

A Compendium of Ecclesiastical History. By Dr. John C. L.

Gieseler. Translated from the German by Samuel
Davidson, LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols.
8vo.

The publishers of these volumes have rarely issued a book more

intrinsically valuable than the present. It is a work of immense
research and labor, undertaken by a German Professor of Theology,
and indicating vast erudition. The translation by Dr. Davidson is a
faithful reflection of the original, even to the extent of preserving
Gieseler’s rather inelegant though condensed style of writing. The
advantage of the work to students consists in its stating results only
in the text, and reserving the notes for authorities and processes. It
is a text book, not an elaborate history like Neander’s, and as such it
has obtained great reputation for impartiality and ability. The
American translator has availed himself of the latest German edition,
and his version is accordingly the most valuable which has been
made on either side of the Atlantic.

The Classic French Reader. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo.
 This is another of Appleton & Co.’s admirable series of
educational books. It consists of selections from the French classical
writers for the last two centuries, with a vocabulary of all the words
and idioms contained in the work. It is edited by Professor Jewett,
the American editor of Ollendorff, and cannot fail to render
important assistance to all engaged in the study of French.
 Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS, Boulevart St. Martin, 61.
 Robes de Mme. Domicile r. de Seine St. Germain, 49—Chapeaux de
Maurice Beauvais r. Richelieu
Ombrelle Cazal bt. des Italiens, 23—Mouchoirs de Chapron et Dubois
r. de la Paix, 7—Essences de Guerlain r. de la Paix, 11
Chaussures de H. Hoffmann r. de la Paix, 8—Fermoir de Gants pass.
Delorme, 20.
Graham’s Magazine
OH, LET THY LOCKS UNBRAIDED FALL.
WRITTEN BY

JOHN W. WATSON. ESQ.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE,” BY

JOHN A. JANKE, JR.,

Professor of Music.
Oh! let thy locks unbraided fall,
To-night no gems must check their flow,
And I will pledge thee for the ball.
What hearts will bend in homage low,
Yes,
 lower far than though they held
The fabled wealth of Indies’ main
Or were Golconda’s mines compelled
To yield their brilliant train——

Thus did they fall when first I saw

What since has made me dream by day,
And thus when I in triumph bore
That one loved, straggling tress away.
Then do not bind with gems or gold,
Its dark, voluptuous, rolling swell,
But let those folds lie uncontrolled
I’ve learned to love so well.

Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation
has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected
as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing
or incomplete due to condition of the originals used for preparation
of the eBook.

page 134, whist the broad ==> whilst the broad

page 135, loadstone of all eyes, ==> lodestone of all eyes,
page 135, of the rael grit ==> of the real grit
page 135, several pedlars had ==> several pedlers had
page 138, the inspecter, having ==> the inspector, having
page 139, with a blithsome ==> with a blithesome
page 142, the cheeerful hearth ==> the cheerful hearth
page 150, her trelliced window ==> her trellised window
page 151, bourne were we must ==> bourne where we must
page 153, chords that bound ==> cords that bound
page 154, all thoughless did begin ==> all thoughtless did begin
page 156, Carroling like free-born ==> Caroling like free-born
page 160, room where their is a ==> room where there is a
page 162, the unenlighted classes at ==> the unenlightened classes
at
page 164, pardon my degression, ==> pardon my digression,
page 165, of N. aristrocracy who ==> of N. aristocracy who
page 167, and was the only ==> and it was the only
page 168, Do you hear my my boast ==> Do you hear my boast
page 169, ribbonds and roses; ==> ribbons and roses;
page 171, impertinent listner,” she ==> impertinent listener,” she
page 173, creaturs while I am ==> creatures while I am
page 179, trosach, dell and valley, ==> trossach, dell and valley,
page 180, a clump of hazles ==> a clump of hazels
page 182, in the cortégé, I ==> in the cortège, I
page 183, solace to our lonelienss; ==> solace to our loneliness;
page 184, of the swoln heart rise ==> of the swollen heart rise
page 185, be one of unparalelled ==> be one of unparalleled
page 189, corn and beach-nuts, ==> corn and beech-nuts,
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S
MAGAZINE, VOL. XXXV, NO. 3, SEPTEMBER 1849 ***

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