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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
Evitor’s Gable.
a
Tux esteemed and able occupant of the
chair editorial during our absence in northwestern Mexico, has vacated his seat for a
few moments, now we have returned, while
we extend the friendly hand to our writers
and readers with a most cordial “how do
you do?”
After an absence of but a few brief
months, it is no insignificant pleasure that
leaps through the heart when the foot once
more firmly treads that land which by accident or Providence we call our home.
The spirit sings joy-songs of gratitude.
The hallowed images of smiles from friendly eyes are newly daguerreotyped in memory’s remembrance, while scenes of past
pleasures move before us as distinctly as
in a panorama, telling us that soon again
the long missed, though often cherished,
expressions of kindly interest and welcome
will be renewed. While wandering far
away among the beautiful scenes and singular sights of the ancient land of the Aztecs, where almost every face seen was that
of a stranger, it was a great solace to the
soul to call up the many familiar faces and
warm hearts we had left behind us, among
the golden hills of our beloved California.
The sentiments so beautifully expressed by
Oliver Goldsmith,
‘* Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart, untravel’d, fondly turns to thee.”
were an ever present witness that
‘Heaven gives us friends to bless the present scene.”
We hope that the familiar hand-writings
(and faces, too,) of old friends will continue to pay frequent visits to our sanctum,
and that even new ones may find their way
there, that we may produce a journal in
every way worthy of our glorious and unequaled State.
Upon the eve of our departure on a visit
to Mexico, in April last, attention was called to the similarity of a poem published in
this Magazine for the current month, written by an esteemed lady contributor residing in Nevada, entitled “The Ocean Burial,” to another poem of the same name by
G. N. Allen. Among our somewhat hurried
explanations of various matters to the gentleman about to occupy the editorial chair
during our absence, he received the impression that we had examined the poems
in question, and were satisfied that the one
sent us by our fair friend was a plagiarism.
With this impression, in the number for
May it was at once written down a “ base
plagiarism.” The lady writer consequently
felt that she would quite as willingly be
accused of stealing other people’s chickens
as she would of stealing their thoughts,
and sent us a very sensible letter to say as
much. Since our return we have carefully
examined and compared the two poems,
and we find that in title, measure, tone,
and two or three of the thoughts expressed
they are alike, but we most cheerfully add
that in laying the sin of ‘‘ base plagiarism”
at her door unintentional injustice has certainly been done her, which none can regret more sincerely than ourselves. Before
finally leaving the subject, however, we
wish to say that, from the poem being sent
us in manuscript, we supposed that it had
been written for the especial benefit of ourselves and our readers, when it was not—
having first appeared in an eastern paper
several years ago, entitled the ‘ Burial of
Judson.”
Tue successful laying of the telegraphic
cable across the great Atlantic Ocean forms
an era in the history of the world. We do
not consider it of much importance in a
commercial point of view, for commerce
involves selfish feelings in its pursuit; it
fosters avarice and panders to the ambition
of the money-seeking classes. It is true