Summary

Various Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No…

A true lunatic, as we have hinted, is not content with thinking of the moon as a mere planet, convenient for the light it sheds, and the facilities it affords to sailors in finding their longitude. He wishes to personify, to deify; to speak to her, to think of her as a sentient being, celestial, divine, to be sure, but with a human heart; rejoicing, sorrowing with the mortals she looks down upon. Will any blockhead prate of the unreasonableness of such unphilosophical wishes? Has not the moon a face, eyes, nose, mouth, clothed with unearthly beauty, like and yet unlike that of the Sphinx?
Source: Gutenberg

Various Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No…

There is nothing like these clear September nights after sunset, for a reverie. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills the sky and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a stupid affair indeed, if you cannot then dream the most heavenly dreams!
But Rosalie Sherwood is in no dreaming mood this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter hopelessness of grief as leaves no room in it for hopes, her brain is too acutely sensitive just now for visions.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No…

Matilda was touched, her hand trembled in ours, it sought but faintly to be withdrawn. Her eyelids drooped, then raised, then drooped again; her bosom heaved, her mouth quivered, her lips began to frame one short, sweet, low-whispered word—when Bruin—yes, that was the accursed animal’s name—from his kennel just beneath the place where we sat—but we can’t describe the unearthly yell. All the damned spirits in Hades, in full chorus, could never send from their hoarse throats such an infernal sound as did that big, black dog vomit forth upon the still night air, complaining to the moon.
Source: Gutenberg

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