The sad effects of an insane haste to grow rich by chasing gilded shadows, instead of taking the secure path of industry, are exemplified in the fact, that hundreds of our countrymen who have abandoned places of profit for the dazzling placers of speculation, and business, which afforded a decent competency, for wild and uncertain adventure, are now crowding the shore of the Pacific at Panama, with exhausted means and dissipated hopes. The all-absorbing desire for speedy fortune precluded even the common and most ordinary caution as to probabilities. At the first sound of the horn, the hunter was off, regardless of obstacles, defiant of fate, and with a recklessness unpardonable, the comforts of home were sacrificed, and all the dangers of a doubtful, hardy, and perilous enterprise were imprudently braved. The sad uncertainty of fortune—the more than doubts of her existence for them—has been cruelly thrust into their faces, and impressed upon their hearts. The return of that tremendous tide, which seemed to sweep wise men and madmen together resistlessly upon its bosom, comes freighted with the first fragments of hopes wrecked, and wealth, and perhaps health dissipated and lost. Time and opportunity here—more valuable than gold—are gone, and the adventurer comes back with unstrung nerves and faded visions of greatness, to battle again in the busy and uncompromising marts of trade, for bread. The illusion has vanished!—the cheat is transparent! “The sober second-thought” has come with its impressive lesson. The blanks turn out in this, as in all lotteries, the most numerous and certain—the prizes equally few and unreliable. When the voice of that vaster multitude now filling the streams and plains of California shall have been heard, we shall have a sonorous echo of the despairing wail of the impoverished and deluded at Panama. Mark it!

“Be sure you are right, and then go ahead” is a maxim so universally current in this country, that one would suppose that its practice would be more common. But no! in the rush of excitement, the go-ahead spirit takes the lead, leaving at home old father Caution to play with his thumbs, and to wonder at his relations. “Get out of the way!” “Take care!” “Clear the track!” “Off she goes!”—whiz! and the young generation is cut from leading-strings, and half-way on the road to fortune before Grandfather has rubbed his eyes, and opened them to the true state of affairs around him—no, not around, before him, but completely out of sight. Talk of Rome not having been built in a day, old Graybeard! You are behind the times. Kingdoms shoot up in a night, and nations are born between two breakfasts. Don’t speak of the ingratitude of relations, old man; the thing is absurd. While you are hunting genealogies, the parties have belted the world, and are walking with their heads down directly beneath you, or are half-way to the Pacific on an air-line in the light that marks the horizon—skimming through the clouds in a flying machine. “Friendly ties.” “Home affection!” Poh! you are in your dotage, old fellow! We have no time to waste on silly abstractions! Good bye! Take care of yourself! Will write you from the other side! So we go!

But are we happier for all this fiery impetuosity of disposition—this ginger-beer effervescence of intellect—this fussing, fretting, fuming wrath of haste to get on, to get off, to be going? Is this the true enjoyment of LIFE! after all, to go whirling along in a state of high excitement without a moment’s pause, with a sort of insane heat and fierceness of intellect, restless, roaming, and parched up with the fever of desire for wealth—to be enslaved by the eternal, all-absorbing all-engulphing I—the monster self, grown Colossal, insatiate, and fiend-like. Is there nothing worth loving, that we may pause to cherish? No enjoyment worth a cool moment, in which the fevered lust of money may be forgotten? Pile up your gold, young man! Give your imagination its most boundless desire! Spread the base of your pyramid over an area of acres! Pile up!—pile high! oh, avarice and pride! Let its peak touch the skies! ay, higher still! And now we point you to that little cluster of bleached bones, whitening but a spot beside the gigantic god you worship, and to that young, pale face, sitting sighing by yonder fire-side, thousands of miles away—would the wealth that might cover the Cyclops, compensate her for the chilled heart, the desolate days which are hers. Ah no! with but a crust to break with you, in a home of humbleness and peace, how that heart would bound with pride, those sad eyes sparkle with pleasure, and those pale cheeks regain their roses and bloom with health. And if all the wealth of India and Peru were hers, how poor a gift would she esteem it to clothe those bones of yours once again with manly beauty, and to sit once again confidingly by your side, her hand in yours, her eyes lifted to your dark gaze, as to the heaven of her dreams. Ah! but you will not die, you will take the risk. Pause awhile! think of it wisely! think of it well!

We are not talking in the language of statesmen. Ah, no! statesmen and warriors estimate men in masses—marshal them in squadrons and platoons; they form a State—they fill a list of 10,000 killed and wounded. Ours is the humbler view—the domestic ties lacerated—the friendships dissipated—the few hearts broken. The dead of the ten thousand slain upon the battle-field return no more—the thrice ten thousand hearts that mourn, bleed on, but form no part of the estimate of war’s disaster. The thousands of brothers, young, impetuous, adventurous, are gone! they are the State’s, and of it. The sister weeps—the mother droops and dies, as the long years roll on, and the lost ones return no more; and the proud page of history swells with the triumph, the pen grows eloquent as it records the foundation and the growth of empire, and bright names live and flash along the glowing line; but the desolate heart, and the desolate hearth, are forgotten and unknown. These are the sadder views of conquest—the inevitable results of adventurous migration. “And yet,” cries the brawling patriot who is never self devoted, “you oppose the march of empire—the growth of nations!” By no means, good friend! If the thousands who are now pouring as a flood into California, or even a tythe of them, were whole families, with farming utensils, and domestic implements, seeking a far off and productive soil, where they might again erect their household gods, and live happily to a green old age, under their own vine and fig-tree, extending rationally and naturally the benefits of civilization, we should wish them God speed, and give them joy at their going. But how is it? Reader, we ask you—how is it with the adventurers, who are now rushing thoughtlessly, desperately from home? How few, even with the best success, will realize their dreams? and of those few, how many will really be personally benefited by the wealth thus achieved? But the vast army of the disappointed—what of them? With morals contaminated, hearts sickened, hopes crushed—how many will return useful members of society? How many settle quietly down as hardy tillers of the soil? We fear, oh, most wise politician! that this last is a work to be done by another class of emigrants, and by but few of the gold hunters, and desperate land speculators who now crowd the vessels of the Pacific. Our advice, deeply pondered, and calmly given, to those who have a longing for that far-off and fertile region, is, to sit earnestly down to business here, and amass a few hundreds, or a few thousands, and when the scorn of that boiling, seething cauldron shall have passed off—when the thousands which have been made—on paper—in land speculations and gold mining, shall be no more heard of—you will find a few quiet acres still untilled, a population improved, and a certainty of comfort and happiness awaiting you there. Until then, we think, you may make life bearable here, by diligent application to business, a devotion to your family, to home duties and affections, and to careful improvement of your mental capacity, and of such opportunities as God may furnish you for doing good. Think of it, reader!

G. R. G.

The Family Messenger.—This old and sterling family newspaper, we see, has been brought out in a suit of new and beautiful type, and is otherwise improved and adorned. It has had, too, an accession of editorial force, and the new pen, with the aid of Mr. Seckel, its old editor, makes the sheet sparkle again. We predict for the old favorite a new lease of popular favor, and a circulation unequaled by any paper of its class. Various other additions, in the mechanical as well as the literary department, are still to be added, when the office is removed to the new building in Chestnut street—the movements of beauty on that delightful promenade, will, of course, be duly chronicled hereafter, in the piquant style of the editors.

A Powerful Novel.—We shall commence in the July number, a powerfully written story from the pen of H. W. Herbert, Esq., author of “Cromwell,” “Ringwood the Rover,” etc., which we pronounce the most brilliant of all the able novels of that accomplished and vigorous writer. It is entitled “Jasper St. Aubyn; A Story of Passion,” and for strength and beauty of expression, thrilling and intense interest, and high moral and tragic effect, our readers will regard it as the best story we have given them for many a day.

Birds Beautifully Colored.—We purpose to introduce into Graham’s Magazine, in the coming volume, a series of Wild and Cage Birds, exquisitely designed and colored, and our artists are already at work. We think that this feature of the Magazine will be highly popular with our readers, and as the plates will be accompanied with carefully prepared letter-press descriptions; they will be found useful to the many who cultivate a taste for these beautiful subjects. This, we have no doubt, will be imitated as every thing has been in the Magazine world which has originated with us.

The Oldest Magazine.—Our correspondent, “History,” is informed that he is right in his conjecture, that “Graham’s Magazine” was based upon “The Casket,” and hence is the oldest of the illustrated monthlies. It is our proud satisfaction that ours is the best, as well as the oldest Magazine. It does not require continued puffing, either hired or solicited, to make people aware of its existence.

Our Own Artists Abroad.—In order to keep the high position of this Magazine, as a work of art, fully up to the standard it has attained, we have sent our excellent engraver and designer, W. E. Tucker, Esq., to Europe to make careful drawings of such subjects as he may find upon the walls of the Academies, or in private collections, and to engage such American artists as he may find abroad, who may be useful in carrying out our grand design of being the first to introduce new subjects to the American eye. Our cotemporaries content themselves with re-engraving stale prints which may be found in the windows, or in using such cast-off English plates as may be offered here cheap; but the vast circulation and profit of this work returns to our readers in such liberal arrangements to keep them advised of the freshest and most beautiful works of art as may be found in the wide range of the world.

For several years our Fashion Plates have been brought freshly from Paris, and their beauty of design and coloring has been the subject of universal praise. Now, by having our own artists employed, both abroad and at home, we not only defy competition, but laugh at it.

The New Volume.—With the next number we commence a new volume of Graham’s Magazine, which, we do not hesitate to promise our readers shall be one of rare excellence and beauty. Our past volume, closing with this number, was exhausted very early, and we have consequently been obliged for two months past to refuse all orders for the work from January last. We shall therefore furnish our subscribers with a title page for the coming volume in our next issue. All our arrangements for the next six months are perfected, and from July to December our readers may expect a succession of brilliant numbers in every respect. Our increase for the past six months has been unexampled, and with the steady flow of new names, coming with every mail, we look forward to being compelled greatly to amplify our means of producing our edition. Our printers now run their presses both night and day—keeping us frequently waiting for copies to supply the demand. Hoe certainly must invent a book-press to run 10,000 per hour for us, and at our demise we shall leave him the copyright of Graham.

Rivals.—We see a great deal about the rivals of Graham, going the rounds in the way of paid notices. Does the oldest inhabitant remember a time when such notes were not given out? We have a brood of these rivals, freshly fledged every spring, who die somehow of the praise of the penny-a-liners in literature,

Snooks has an article in the “Great Monthly Thundergust,” calculated to make a noise.

“I will write a first rate notice,” says Snooks, “and mark it for the benefit of country members, and if that doesn’t settle Graham and Godey, I’ll write you an article for nothing.”

“Goodness!” says the new editor—“but—but do you think it is exactly fair to break down their business all at once, in that way? Remember their interesting families, Mr. Snooks.”

“Families, sir! who talks about families when we commence a Thundergust! Get up a breeze! Pile on the agony, sir! You are too meek, sir!—too tame!—chicken-hearted, sir!—too tender!—too—too—will you oblige me with $20 till to-morrow? Settle is the word!”

An awkward one it is, too—this settling with Indians, when they turn on you.

The fishermen of Philadelphia recently turned out in opposition to the firemen. They kept themselves closely concealed in covered wagons. Sell-fish fellows!

Du Solle turned out a poor number of his new paper, “The Extra,” lately. “Extra?” inquires a wag—“this is extra-ordinary.”

THE WORDS FROM HOOD’S MAGAZINE,

ADAPTED TO A MELODY

BY F. OTTO,

AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO

BY CHAS. GROBE.

Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr. Baltimore.

[Entered according to act of Congress, by G. Willig, Jr., in the year 1848, at the Clerk’s Office, of the District Court of Md.]