Read Ebook: Graham's Magazine Vol. XXXVII No. 6 December 1850 by Various Graham George R Editor

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The moon exercises a strong and mysterious influence upon other matters than lovers' hearts and dogs' voices. 'Tis said she is more benevolently inclined in her youthful weeks than when, having grown round and full, she has passed the "turn of life" and begins to wane. So, we have heard, it is with other belles.

Many a gallant ship has foundered at sea, with hosts of brave hearts on board, not because she was

"Built i' the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,"

No farmer of the old school plants his corn, cuts his hay, or, especially, kills his pork in the moon's wane. Therefore swine in his pen are safe for a fortnight after "the full o' the moon," lest, perchance, when the summer heats shall have come again, and six stout, hungry "men folks" assemble round his board, waiting with moist brows and watering lips, impatient for the wonted unctuous noon-day meal, the mighty slab of "strange flesh" which, erewhile, was with difficulty forced into the capacious pot, be found, upon the raising of the lid, shrunken, withered, boiled away, curtailed of its fair proportions; all that remains a little "nub," scarce half enough for one of the voracious, disappointed crew.

At such a time, sore is the mortification of the farmer's buxom wife. Thrifty she means to be, but never stingy. She blusheth as she deposits on the table a huge pewter platter, covered, apparently, with naught but turnips, potatoes and other "garden sauce." She answereth deprecatingly to her husband's wondering inquiry, if she has "forgotten the pork." Forgotten it! no! nor ever will! The ghost of the vanished meat now stareth her in the face! Fork in hand, she wipeth her flushed brow with her plump, bare arm, and pointeth to the pile of smoking potatoes, beneath which is buried the shrivelled abortion of a meal. She telleth, while her husband makes a Barmecidical show of carving the bit, how that "pork killed in the old o' the moon is sure to shrink in the pot." She glanceth furtively around the board, to see whether any churlish or waggish hind smiles skeptically or disdainfully, or winketh at his neighbor. She calleth hastily to Jane to bring the cider-pitcher, forgotten in the trouble, and hurrieth away to the kitchen to pack up an unusually munificent and toothsome afternoon's luncheon. There we leave her, and invoke in her behalf the sympathy of Mr. Gliddon. Who so well as he knoweth the embarrassments and disappointments which sometimes follow the taking off the cover?

Gentle reader, didst ever go on a sleigh-ride in the full of the January moon? We speak not now of one of your city rides, half the way over almost naked pavements, to some suburban hotel--but a regular-built, old-fashioned country sleigh-ride, with a supper and ball at the end of it. No? Can we depict such a scene to you? With many doubts and fears we undertake the work--a pleasant task if it can be well accomplished.

Imagine then, a small, New England, country village; one of those that are formed by a cluster of white houses about a shaded square, and rows of similar dwellings on each side of a long, wide street, lined with elms and buttonwoods. The time is seven o'clock; the round full moon has risen above the distant eastern hills--all over the square, and adown the broad street stretches an expanse of dazzling snow. The sleigh paths are yet almost as purely white as the untrodden snow on either side. Save where the steel-shod runners have left gleaming stripes, and the shadows of the snow banks fall, these tracks are hardly distinguishable. The deep snow fell only last night, and the roofs of the houses, the fences, and the dark fir trees in the front-door yards are yet covered with heavy, glittering, sparkling burdens. The houses on the east side cast long shadows across the street. Those on the other side glow in the moonbeams only less white than the snow itself. Columns of pale, gray smoke ascend from every chimney, straight and steadily, until they mingle with the dark blue sky. One chimney alone emits a rushing crowd of fiery sparks; and all around the low, wide portal of the rude shed it overtops, a ruddy gleam shines out upon troops of men and startled horses, and casts a fierce glare upon the trampled snow around. Then the cheerful ring of hammer and anvil is heard. The sturdy smiths work half the night at such a time, for smooth-shod horses are not the nags for a sleigh ride.

Two hours afterward six reeking horses drag the omnibus up to the hotel piazzas again--a string of sleighs come in behind--one by one the stragglers arrive. Dare-devil and his team are among the missing, and on inquiry are reported as seen last, the one kissing the landlady at a tavern ten miles away, and the other engrossing the attention, and calling into active exercise all the strength and agility of the landlord and his negro hostler.

In the meantime twenty miles of snow path have been scoured over by the merry, frost-covered throng disembarking on the steps. Thousands of merry speeches have been said--a whole jest-book full of funny stories have been told. Every pretty hand in the company has been squeezed. Every pretty cheek has been kissed, and, we doubt not, almost every pretty lip. At least nine flirtations have been commenced. The moon has drawn together three pairs of twin hearts, and set them throbbing in unison--and one little question has been put and answered, very satisfactorily to the absorbed couple in yonder sleigh, which is arriving late, closely pursued by the shouting dare-devil and his prancing team.

All night the glaring windows of the ball-room shake and rattle. The inspiring music, to which they keep time, the sound of the dancers' feet, the merry ringing of lamps, and the buzz of conversation are heard by the sleepy watchers in the bar-room below, who while away the hours, except when disturbed by eruptions of the beaux from above, in quest of confectionary and lemonade, or perhaps stronger beverages, by playing checkers, drinking flip, smoking cigars, and endlessly discussing the points and merits of divers horses of the neighborhood.

The pale moon lights home the revelers, just in time to save her sister Aurora the trouble.

The young May moon has been justly celebrated by the poets, and many have supposed, that at this season the hearts of lovers are more susceptible than at any other time. Truly the moonlight of May is very beautiful and love inspiring--but the August and September moon is the time of times--when the air is clear and warm, without cloud or chill, and rich and faint with the odors of the ripe fruits--when the corn and grain and all that grows from the earth's bosom are at full height and verging toward maturity--when other leaves than those of tall trees rustle in the night wind--when the katy-did and cricket hold cheerful conversation, and fill the air with noisy clamor, near akin to silence--when the nights have grown longer and cooler than in the fierce mid-summer--when the moon seems larger and fuller than its wont, and its light has a deeper tone--then is the time to enjoy, in perfection, moonlight nights and lunatic fancies. Nights we say--not evenings. In the evenings one sees company and receives calls, takes wearying walks, hears commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather and the prospects of the crops, eats ice-creams, drinks sherry-cobblers, or, it may be, smokes cigars and reads the evening newspaper. It is a border ground, upon which the people of the work-day world make forays. But "the small hours," far in "the stilly night," from twelve to three, contain the true romance of moonlight. The dull world is asleep, there is a new heaven and a new earth, peopled only by fairies, lunatics, ghosts and poets. Bright heavenly hours! Methinks in praise of them we could "mark out a measure of verse."

They may tell of the sunlight's brilliant dyes When the day in the Orient breaks; Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyes As his noontide course he takes; They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glow In the western sky at eve, When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show, Of the world he takes his leave.

They may praise the Aurora's wayward gleam, As far up the northern sky The ruddy flashes fitfully stream, Then suddenly fade and die; And flash anew, and again sink low, Like the love of a fickle swain; While the shadows flicker over the snow That covers the wintry plain.

The poets sing of the twilight hour, The twilight hour of eve; And teach that it hath a magic power To soothe the hearts that grieve; That lovers prefer this gentle time-- To courting it gives such a zest-- And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhyme That the twilight hour's the best.

There are some who delight in a starlight night, And some like a chandelier; And others a grate-full of anthracite, Or of hickory burning clear, And some the religious light that is shed Adown in a church's aisle-- And some will turn out from a nice, warm bed To gaze on a burning pile.

But the light that we love far better than all Is the light of the golden moon At the sweet, short hour "ayont the twal," Just past the summer night's noon. Oh! then 'tis sweet to roam alone, Or to sit in the shaded bower! No enchantment, we ween, on earth is known Like the magic of such an hour.

"And so on," as Elia says, "one might proceed in this strain forever."

Give to us, then, the moonlit nights of fragrant August and mature September. There is a body to them, a delicate aroma withal--the intoxication is heavenly, such as nectar might produce. Then it is that heaven seems descended to the earth, and fairy land restored. Then it is, that, if we find ourselves alone with one of the other sex, by the soft light, we are prone to imagine her to be our better self, our other moiety, the twin soul for which we have longed in our dreams, and--hence the propriety of a proper selection of moonlight company, judiciously made, before sunset. Then it is that we like to talk but little, and only in whispers and low tones. Then it is that our souls grow large, and we cannot believe ourselves mortal. Deep ardent longings seize us for something we know not what. Tears, neither of sadness or joy, spring to our eyes. Delicious, incomprehensible emotions agitate our hearts. Strange things seem easy of credence, and to see a troop of fairies dancing on the green lawn, or the placid ghost of a dear friend, half hidden in the shade of yonder vine, would startle us but little, and would seem all in keeping. Then we grow poetical--romantic--at peace with all the world--then chilly--then--ah! poor human nature!--then sleepy! and when, six hours after, we rise, at the third call, to a late cold breakfast, eggs, rolls and coffee seem to us of great importance, and occupy the whole attention of a soul, which, but lately, held the whole world in its embrace and felt a void the while.

Gentle reader--while we write the pale, exhausted moon is setting behind the distant ridge of Talcott mountain. The tall tower of Montevideo stands like a lonely, belated giant, in full relief against the silver-gray western sky. Our hair is damp with dew--our numb and weary fingers can hardly retain the blunt pencil with which we have indited the preceding extravagances. There is a faint, ruddy glow in the east--we hear the neigh of Aurora's steeds. Good night then, dear, lunatic reader. May the morn find you sane--the night mad again--and long may it be ere the soft light of the full moon shall rest upon the green sod of your grave, and glow, reflected from the marble of your monument.

TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH.

BY G. D. P.

Beautiful girl, I have wandered far, Toward the rising sun and the evening star, I have roamed 'mid the Northern wastes of snow, And strayed where the soft magnolias blow, But I never gazed on a face as bright As thine, sweet spirit of young delight.

Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair As an angel-shape in the moonlight air, No shadow rests on thy brow of snow Save that of thy tresses drooping low, Love's own dear light is wandering oft O'er thy gentle lip of carmine soft, Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow, Is sweetly blending in one rich dye The woven beauties of earth and sky; Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells Deep, deep in thy dark eyes' shaded wells, And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam, Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream, And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden's bowers, And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.

Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move A floating creature of joy and love, As light as a mist on the sunrise gale, Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil, Till I almost looked to see thee rise Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies, Or melt away in the thin blue air, Like a vision of fancy painted there. Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around, Seems less a sound than a dream of sound; Softly and wildly its clear notes swell Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell, And the lips whence the fairy music flows Is to fancy's eye like a speaking rose.

Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art A vision of joy to the throbbing heart, A star sent down from a world of bliss And all undimmed by the shades of this; A rainbow pictured by love's own sun On the clouds of being, beautiful one.

Beautiful girl, 'tis a weary year Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear. 'Tis a long, long year of light and gloom Since I gazed on thy young cheek's lovely bloom-- Yet thy gentle tones of music still Through the holiest depths of memory thrill Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird, In the long gone years of childhood heard. And oft in my dark and lonely moods, When a demon-wing o'er my spirit broods, Thine image seems on my soul to break Like the sweet young moon o'er a gloomy lake, Filling its depths as the shadows flee, With beauty and love and melody.

Beautiful girl, thou art far away, And I know not where thy steps now stray; But oh! 'tis sweet, it is very sweet, In the fairy realms of dreams to greet Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl, And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.

PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Forth issuing from a craggy mountain's side, A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prow And silvery oars, a bark appears to glide, Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow, Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward still Over the widening stream's wild waves, eke, skims It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns His roundelay of Joy, or at his will, Plucks the gay flowers of early morn, Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn-- Unmindful that such pleasures fade away, That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay-- Life is a launch--we voyage to the grave, We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.

OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.

"Lord bless us, my children! what a noise," cried Mr. de la Croix on the morrow as he entered the store-room. "I am deaf! give me some claret and water some of you! I am thirsty enough to swallow bottle and all. I have had lamps fastened to every other tree in the avenue and every column around the piazza."

Minnie brought him the iced wine and ran off to work again. She was beating eggs for a mayonnaise, and directing the servant behind her in chopping celery and chicken for salad.

Lisa was standing on a table pouring from an immense bowl a stream of icing over a pyramid of cake that stood in a salver on the floor. Rose was frothing eggs for something else, Kate was churning syllabub, and Blanche was pounding almonds.

Mr. de la Croix stopped his ears and called out as loudly as he could, "Halt! order! I want to talk. Where are those great china bowls to be placed, and the pride of Rose's existence, the diamond-cut wonder--the crystal one? No one can carry them among you here, and I must tell Sampson to do it."

"The two first on the piazza, the glass one in the middle of the table," answered Lisa, looking up from her task. "I only hope Sampson will not serve them like Philistines, with the exertion."

"Do you think there is too much strength under those woolly locks of his, Lisa, or do you fear a superfluity of grace in his 'fantastic toe?'" said Kate.

"I know that his 'fantastic toe,' as you are pleased to dignify it, kicked over a pan of milk an hour ago, when I sent him to the dairy, and these tricks have not certainly power to make angels smile."

"Samp want to white hisself for to-night," said his wife, showing her ivory as she looked at him. "Miss Lisa never scold him for it, but you may know I did, Miss Kate. What he do such ladicalous things for?"

"He could not help it, Aunt Winny," said Minnie as she turned her dish of well frothed eggs to prove her skill. "Now here is a magnificent float for your 'island.' You know I always said that you should make your favorite dish for my wedding-supper, and this is an occasion quite as important. Here is the sugar, sand and every thing you want."

And Winny left the room majestically--a pan on her head and one in each hand, six little nigs at her heels, each dismissed with a lump of sugar as they went along in a straight line to the kitchen.

"Winny grows eloquent, as she gets older," said Lisa. "If every body believed her, we would all be like Miranda with every creature's best. I wonder what she will say when she sees us all dressed to-night."

Winny was not the only one delighted with her young mistresses as they made their appearance in the hall, one after another, and surveyed the beautifully decorated walls of the several apartments opened for the occasion. Festoons of cedar were hung around and above, and beneath each were large bouquets of fresh flowers, arranged in perfect taste. The orchestra hung in scarlet cloth, was wreathed in roses and evergreens, and surrounded by lamps placed so as to illuminate these fairy bowers independent of the glittering row of lights for the musicians. Stands of exotics occupied one side of the hall, the fair and tender buds throwing out a thousand perfumes on the air, yet even these were not more fragrant than the flowers of the season that hung around, the delicate maiden's-blush and the pale tea-rose. Long after the chilly autumn winds have made us close our casements and doors, these sweet sisters are blooming in the gardens without, and from Mr. de la Croix's thick and extended hedges he had found a harvest for his daughter's ball.

Blanche and Kate floated about in their pure white, their elegance conspicuous from their simplicity, while Rose and Minnie, like twin roses, were radiant with beauty. The excitement had deepened the color on their cheeks and brightened their eyes into stars. Who wonders then at the father's pride as he looked at his crown of jewels this night? Who wonders that the guests loved their pleasant smiles, and treasured their gentle welcomes? No one was neglected by them, not one in the whole crowd felt forgotten or slighted, and the hours flew by as though Time had laid his hour-glass in the green bowers and slept at its side.

"Minnie, Minnie!" whispered Blanche, "you talk too heedlessly. Be more quiet, my dear girl."

"Ah, do not scold me to-night," cried she, as she leant half panting for breath upon her partner's arm. "Is it not a shame to scold me now?" And she raised her bright eyes to his with a look that dazzled him.

"It is a shame ever to do so," replied he earnestly. "Surely Mrs. Stuart you are not so cruel?"

"Only prudent, Mr. Milton, that is all; remember this is my little sister's 'first appearance.'"

"You mean that she is one of the unsophisticated," said he laughing. "And by far more bewitching in consequence," was added in a whisper.

Blanche smiled and shook her head at him, but they whirled off in a waltz before she could reply, so she returned to her station by Kate, who was talking in a very old-fashioned kind of way to--her husband.

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