'HERE lies, in hope of repose, an old deceased devil, with a
worn-out spirit, an exhausted heart, and a used-up body. Ladies and
Gentlemen, pass on!'
DEDICATORY EPISTLE TO THE PUBLIC.
DOG of a Public! discordant organ of the passions! thou who raisest
thy minion to heaven, and then plungest him in the mire; thou who
extollest and slanderest without knowing why; image of the tocsin;
echo of thyself; absurd tyrant; offscouring of the meanest houses;
extract of the most subtle poisons and of the most exquisite
perfumes; representative of the devil among the human species; a
fury masked in Christian charity!--PUBLIC! whom I feared in my
youth, respected in my riper years, and despised in my old age; it
is to thee that I dedicate my memoirs. Gentle Public! I am at last
out of thy reach, for I am dead, and consequently deaf, blind, and
mute. Mayest thou enjoy these advantages for thy own repose and for
that of the human race!
* * * * *
WE read in the '_Bibliographie Universelle et Portative des
Contemporains_' that 'when Count Rostoptchin visited Paris,
people were not a little surprised to find a man of wit and good
breeding in one whom until now they had regarded as a 'ferocious
Tartar.' This brutal epithet was no more suitable to a man like
Count Rostoptchin than that of 'an incendiary,' with which Madame
d'Abrantes has honored him in her memoirs. A great many piquant
sayings are attributed to him, of which we will merely quote the
following: 'I came to France,' said he, 'to judge for myself of the
real merit of three celebrated men; the Duke of Otranto, Prince
Talleyrand, and Potier.[C] It is only the last who seems to me to
come up to his reputation.'
[C] A celebrated comic actor.
Here is another piquant anecdote. One day when the Emperor Paul I.
was surrounded by a numerous circle, among whom were many Russian
princes, and count Rostoptchin, his favorite minister, 'Tell me,'
abruptly asked he of the latter, 'why are you not a prince?'
After a moment's hesitation at this singular question, Count
Rostoptchin replied:
'Will your Imperial Majesty permit me to give the true reason?'
'Undoubtedly.' 'It is because my ancestor, who came from Tartary to
settle in Russia, arrived there in the winter time.'
'Ah! and what had the season of the year to do with the title that
was given him?'
'This, your Majesty; when a Tartar-lord made his first appearance at
court, it was the custom for the sovereign to give him the choice
between a fur-cloak and the title of prince. My ancestor arrived
during a very severe winter, and had the good sense to prefer the
former.'
Paul laughed heartily at this reply; and turning to the princes
who were present: 'See, gentlemen,' said he; 'you may congratulate
yourselves that your ancestors did not arrive in the winter!'
ANACREONTIC.
I.
PULSE of my heart! dear source of care,
Of stolen sighs and love-breathed vows;
Sweeter than when, through scented air,
Gay bloom the apple-boughs!
II.
With thee no day can winter seem,
Nor frost, nor blast can chill:
Thou the soft breeze, the cheering beam,
That keep it summer still!
INTERNATIONAL COPY-RIGHT.
CRISPIN, who stole leather to make shoes for the poor, was none
the less a thief, says Wolfgang Menzel, in an article on literary
piracy. But Menzel is a German, and it would be alike absurd
and unsafe for an eminently practical people, like ourselves,
to be governed in regard to our national policy by an eminently
philosophical people like the Germans. We are by no means certain
that Crispin is not a fellow to be copied: before we pronounce
judgment upon him, we must know whether he stole from his own
countrymen, or from foreigners. There is a vast difference; a
difference as great as the countries may be apart. Nothing can be
more evident than the proposition that a nation cannot exist by
domestic thievery, for I cannot steal from my neighbor unless my
neighbor steal from abroad. Therefore, in considering a theft,
nationally, it is of the first importance to know who it is that has
been robbed. Like many other acute critics, Menzel has furnished a
very potent argument to refute his own doctrines, by reasoning a
little too close: the parallel between the shoe-maker who steals
his leather for the benefit of the people, and the printer or
book-publisher who pirates the contents of a book, is a peculiarly
unhappy one for the cause he advocates. Nothing can be more evident,
no principle is more strongly interwoven in our policy as a
nation, than that of encouraging domestic manufactures. It is very
plain that if the material for our books cost us nothing, we can
manufacture them more cheaply than a rival nation that is compelled
to pay their authors for producing them; it is also equally evident
that they can therefore be afforded at a cheaper rate to the people,
and that the quantity sold will be in proportion to the lowness
of the price, and that the intelligence of the people will be in
proportion to the number of books that are read: if, in addition
to the contents of our books, we could pirate the leather, paper,
types, and ink of which they are composed, we should be the most
enlightened and independent people in the world, if we are not so
already.
The trade of authorship has always entailed on its professors
poverty and disease. The sedentary habits which it induces must
of necessity undermine health: the abstraction from the every-day
affairs of life, requisite to its successful prosecution, almost
always causes insanity, or at least mania; and it is not clear that
monomania is not an essential feature of authorship: in fact, the
history of authorship is but a record of wretchedness. No other
profession has furnished an exclusive chapter of calamities. We
never hear of the calamities of merchants, of brick-layers, or
cultivators. If then we can save our countrymen from the exercise of
a calling so manifestly injurious to their happiness and welfare,
by availing ourselves of the labors of foreigners, to whom we owe
neither protection nor fealty, what man who wishes well to his
country will have the temerity to oppose a practice so conducive
to our national prosperity? We have declared ourselves a free and
independent people; but could it be said that we were either free
or independent, if we were restrained, by self-imposed laws, from
making free with the labors of a rival nation, separated from us
by an ocean of three thousand miles? or independent, if we were
dependent upon ourselves for our intellectual pabulum?
The only independent nation of modern times was the Algerines, now
unhappily extinct. They were a model people! They were free and
independent, in the most liberal and extended sense. They were
dependent upon themselves for nothing which they could take from
other nations; and so fully did they carry out their principle
of national independence, that they looked to a foreign power to
furnish them with their governors. No native of the soil was ever
harrassed by the cares of government. All their rulers were imported
from abroad.
In respect of mere corporeal rulers, we are as yet far behind the
Algerines, but virtually we are in advance of them as respects our
governing power. No one will deny that to rule the mind is far
better, more honorable, more arduous, and more important, than to
rule the body. Our mental rulers are all foreigners; the majority
of them pensioners of a government that advocates and inculcates
principles directly opposed to those that we profess. They rule
us by means of the books that we cunningly pirate from them, and
thereby save ourselves a very great amount of trouble and expense.
It is true that some of our people are mad enough to attempt to
divide this ruling power with these foreigners, by publishing books
themselves; but their efforts only prove the correctness of our
assertion; for in order to smuggle their works into notice, they
are compelled to make them so nearly like those that are printed,
that they could not be distinguished from them, were it not for
their title-pages. Evidences of these truths abound, on all sides,
as well in the Church as the State. Some of our young preachers
have improved their opportunities of studying foreign books to that
degree, that they have boldly confessed that the great reformation
was not only unjustifiable, but a real detriment to the cause of
humanity. Others have professed a faith in the fine old conservative
doctrine of the divine right of kings; and one young presbyter
that we know, has quitted his country, and now officiates as a
chaplain in the dominions of her most gracious majesty, Victoria the
First. Other blessings equal to these are continually manifested by
our rulers and legislators, who give abundant evidence that they
have profited by the continual influx of foreign mind. One great
statesman, of the Virginia school of politics, a great patriot and
a great orator also, profited to such an extent by his foreign
books, that he could not even read a work that had been re-printed
in this country. But we would not be thought to advocate so sublime
and patriotic an extension of the great principle of pirating as
this, because it would deprive our artisans and tradesmen of a very
profitable business. Perhaps the most remarkable and beneficial
effect of our independence of ourselves, is manifested by the
clergy, who depend almost entirely upon England for their theology,
and thereby become so thoroughly imbued with an independent spirit,
that when they happen to be troubled with a thoracic disorder, or
any other disease, immediately leave their flocks to the care of the
great Head of the Church, and hurry off to Europe to consult foreign
physicians, and inhale a mouthful of foreign air.
But the real benefits of the present system of pirating English
books, consist in the employment given to capital and labor. Our
paper-mills, type-founders, printers, binders, and book-sellers,
are kept in constant employment by the intellect of Great Britain.
The brain of Walter Scott alone gave employment to a greater number
of mechanics and tradesmen than that of any American since the
revolution, with the exception of Fulton. It must be borne in mind
that the imagination of a foreign author creates for us a source of
employment, which but for him would not exist; beside furnishing for
us a never-failing source of recreation and profitable enjoyment.
Were it not for Scott and Bulwer, Boz and James, we should have
no novels to read; were it not for Tom Moore, we should have no
songs to sing; and but for foreign composers, we should have no
music. Since the successful experiment of ocean navigation, we have
become more and more independent of ourselves; and we now have
the gratification of seeing London newspapers hawked about our
streets, to the very manifest falling off in the manufacture of the
home article. If we still remain true to ourselves, and resolutely
shut our ears to the complaints of these interested and mercenary
writers, both at home and abroad, the time will soon come when our
people will be saved entirely from all literary drudgery, and even
our newspapers be re-publications of London Times' and Chronicles,
as some of our Magazines already are of London and Edinburgh and
Dublin monthlies.
How absurd, how impudent, how mercenary and grovelling, it is in
these British authors to require of us to pass a law that will
deprive ourselves of such great advantages, merely to put a few
dollars in their pockets, and encourage a set of men among us
to supplant them, and so inculcate a spirit of base and servile
self-dependence among our people! The great object of an author
should be fame. No true genius will exert himself for filthy lucre.
It must be infinitely more grateful to a high nature to be read by
thousands, than to be paid by hundreds; and therefore we benefit
these foreigners in spite of themselves, by re-printing their works
at a cheap rate, thereby greatly enlarging the circle of their
readers, and adding to their reputation. It is very true that the
British Parliament has passed a law giving to American authors the
privilege of copyright as soon as a reciprocal law shall be passed
by us; but are we to be dictated to by the British Parliament? Are
we to be reminded of our duty by foreigners, who thus make a show of
their magnanimity, only to entice us to follow their example? Shall
we become mere copyists of another nation? Forbid it Justice! forbid
it Independence!
If we concede to the foreign author a right of property in the
productions of his brain, which after all is merely the distillation
of other people's ideas expressed in some other way before him, or
at best the promptings of Nature, which are the common property of
mankind, like air and sun-shine, we shall next be called upon to
recognize the inherent and indestructible right of an author to his
works, for all time.
When a citizen purchases of government a quarter section of land
in one of the territories, and pays for it at the rate of a dollar
and a quarter the acre, it becomes his own property, and the whole
nation would rise up like one man to defend him in the undisturbed
possession of it to the end of time. But if this same citizen should
devote the flower of his manhood, the vigor of his intellect, and
even the land itself which he may have purchased of his country, in
the production of a book for the benefit of humanity, he would have
no right to the possession of his work but for a very limited number
of years; and although he would be protected in the possession of
his land, or the products of it, from foreign aggression, we would
not allow him any protection in the enjoyment of the product of his
brain, even though a foreign nation should civilly agree to respect
our law for that purpose if we should think proper to pass one.
The reasons for these distinctions in regard to different kinds of
property are so very clear and conclusive, so exceedingly simple
and obvious, that we do not choose to insult the understanding
of our readers by repeating them. Some of the advocates of an
international copy-right have urged in its favor that a measure so
just could not be otherwise than politic, and that it would be safe
to adopt one, without any regard to expediency, but relying solely
upon truth and justness. But such a principle as this is directly
at variance with the genius of our constitution and laws; and were
it adopted in one case would be urged as a precedent in another,
and an entire overthrow of our system of government would be the
consequence. Were so mischievous a principle as this once adopted
by our legislators as their rule of action, what would become of
those noble specimens of eloquence with which we are favored every
session of Congress, when members who are perfectly agreed as to the
justness of a measure, dispute for weeks and months in regard to its
expediency or profit? What would become of our army and navy, and
our corps of diplomatists? What would become of many of the peculiar
institutions of the North and of the South? In short, how would our
representatives contrive to lengthen out a session, or even make a
speech for _Bunkum_, to be read by their constituents?
The subject widens as we write; absurdities throng around our quill,
striving to get down to the nib of our pen; and the very fulness of
the argument chokes our utterance; we grow fustigatory and impatient
to lay about us; but we must conclude in the words with which an
ingenious cotemporary a few months since began an essay upon the
same subject, namely: '_Copy-right is a humbug_.'
'FULGURA FRANGO.'
LINES TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
ON READING 'FORGET-ME-NOT,' IN THE JULY KNICKERBOCKER.
BY CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.
I.
WHEN spring-time fancies haunt the brain,
Or cluster round the young heart's shrine,
No sadness clogs the dreamer's strain,
To bid him o'er his lot repine:
By Love's first fantasies oppressed,
He hies him to some stream-laved spot,
And sighs along the blue-flower's breast,
'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'
II.
To manhood's sterner cares allied,
The image lords it o'er his will;
In vain the struggles of his pride,
The form and features haunt him still.
His pillow sought, the toils of life,
Trade, strifes, defeats, all are forgot,
While with one theme his dream is rife:
'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'
III.
Poor dreamer! like his fleeting years,
The autumn of his fond desires
Pours disappointment's icy tears,
To quench his youth's delusive fires.
Within his heart, time and despair,
To foil his hopes triumphant plot;
Unmoved at his unceasing prayer,
'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'
IV.
Like to the flower when autumn comes
To seek its folds with chilling breath,
And winter's earliest whisper roams
Its heart among, to tell of death;
Thus on man's heart, as o'er the flower,
Fall tears, with grief and anguish hot,
And speeds the cry to Heaven's high POWER,
'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'
THE MAIL ROBBER.
NUMBER FOUR.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.
SIR: I can only account for your conduct by this one supposition:
you must be a _drinking-man_. Nothing but the repeated, though
perhaps unconscious, inebriation arising from an excessive use
of stimulating drinks, could produce that torpidity of the moral
sentiments which is manifested by your editorial career. Your late
allusion to the cordwainers of Xeres, or in vulgar tap-room slang,
'_sherry cobblers_,' is very strong against you. Your ill-timed
merriment--the jocose levity of your 'Editor's Table'--all go to
confirm my theory. You indulge--I know you do.
Now, Sir, as a strict Washingtonian, and the corresponding secretary
of two temperance societies, I request you for the benefit of the
community to make a statement of your case, with a phrenological
chart of your developments, a brief account of your habit of body,
your temperament, age, etcetera, together with the amount which you
absorb daily, and a history of your propensity. In the anticipation
of such a statement, I forego any offence at whatever may formerly
have passed between us. You are to be pitied rather than detested.
I know, from experience, that under the influence of stimulants
we are not always accountable agents. We should be merciful one
to another; and although I have heretofore found it difficult to
repress my disgust at your folly, I assure you that I am far from
entertaining unchristian feelings. May you yet live to become a
respectable member of society, and an ornament of our ranks! You may
find worthier employment in conducting some religious journal or
temperance periodical. If you become sincerely anxious to reform,
and to distinguish yourself as an ardent champion of virtue, the
society will feel pleasure in lending you their powerful aid. Our
funds are at present somewhat low, in consequence of the prodigious
expense of a late fair and several temperance pic-nics in the
country, at which we nobly burned many whole hogsheads of the most
costly Jamaica and Cogniac spirits. The sight of the self-destroying
monster wasting away in the blue intensity of his own suicidal
flame, excelled any thing in the way of moral grandeur that I have
witnessed since the Croton-aqueduct celebration. Still, in spite of
our tremendous disbursements, I will venture to promise you, if you
enlist under the banners of the cause, a handsome situation, either
as a Reformed Inebriate, or a travelling County-Delegation Jubilee
Pic-Nic Poet and Orator. Depend upon it, that under the cold-water
system your profits will be increased, your morals improved, your
appetite and intellectual faculties enlarged and well-balanced, and
all the fibres of the frame restored to a firm, vigorous tone.
Touching the subject of these letters, I would observe that our
English friend has done very wisely in permitting their publication.
But surely you will not think of accepting his favors without giving
him an adequate requital. I am told they are extensively read, and
add much to the attractions of your Magazine. He certainly ought to
be most handsomely paid. Having never thought it worth while to make
any poetry myself, I cannot well judge of the labor of making it,
or of its value; but I know that we have repeatedly paid clergymen
in New-England thirty or forty dollars for a temperance ode, and
hymn to match. For my own part, I am willing to sink my demand
(albeit a prior one) in favor of his own claim. He will consider
the propriety of either going on shares with me, or allowing me
whatever premium he may think just upon each letter. Instrumental
as I have been in preserving his epistles from the dangers of
flood and fire, and procuring their secure transmission, through
the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER, to their destination, he will not
neglect my hint. I am willing to look upon it as merely a commission
business; my object being rather an amicable arrangement, and a
mutual understanding of each other's interests, than any thing of a
mercenary nature. Whatever profit may fall to my hands shall all be
faithfully devoted to the Cause.
I send you herewith a splendid pictorial illustration, colored to
the life, of the awful appearance of the interior of a drunkard's
stomach. It has produced a powerful sensation in Boston, and may
persuade you to reflect upon the possible condition of your own
intestines.
I beg that you will by no means print this letter, as it may look
like trumpeting my own goodness.
Yours, etc., in the Pledge,
* * * * *
NOTWITHSTANDING the foregoing injunction of the pacified financier
not to print his letter, it is evident that he intended it for the
public eye. It would moreover be most unjust not to let the world
into a knowledge of his many virtues. As to our own vices, and
especially the one here dwelt upon with so much fervor, we must be
permitted to remark, in reply to the commiseration and advice of our
moral friend, that during the whole course of a life 'now some years
wasted,' we were never 'groggy,' 'intoxicated,' 'boozy,' 'swipsed,'
'cut,' 'how-came-you-so,' 'swizzled,' or 'tight,' but _once_; and
assuredly _that_, as DOGBERRY says, 'shall be _suffegance_.' On
a certain evening of one of the remote 'days that were' in our
history, we remember ('ah! yes! too well remember!') trying to
discover whether there was any foundation for the suspicion of a
friend, that we had been over-'indulging' at a supper-party from
which we both were returning. The fact truly was so. We ascertained,
in endeavoring, for the satisfaction of our friend, to 'toe a mark'
in the pavé, that the side-walk invariably followed the lifted
foot; and that when we essayed to set its fellow down, the pavement
receded in such a terrific manner that the sole encountered it with
a good deal more of emphasis than discretion. We recollect, too,
that the key-hole of our bachelor's-apartment was found to have
been stolen on that memorable evening, rendering our key nugatory,
adscititious, of no account, and so forth; and that when, by the aid
of a fellow-lodger, we had achieved our room and bed, we found the
latter emphatically a 'sick' one, and at times during the night in a
very 'sinking condition;' so much so indeed, that at one period we
began to 'despair of its _recovery_.' But that one abuse of Nature,
(who always revenges herself, and at once, upon her assailants,)
taught us a lesson which we have never forgotten, and never shall,
'unto thylke day i' the which we crepe into our sepulchre.' For the
rest, we certainly _do_ affect an occasional glass of _good_ wine
at a cheerful board, with congenial guests; such wine as we are
informed, on the _best_ authority, 'maketh glad the heart of man;'
such as Saint PAUL recommended to his brethren 'for their stomach's
sake;' a wine, in short, which 'creates a spiritual vineyard in the
heart,' and 'dispenses one's affections among his fellow men.'
ED. KNICKERBOCKER.
LETTER FOURTH.
TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, FLORENCE.
BY THE HANDS OF SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., LONDON.
ON the rough Bracco's top, at break of day,
High o'er that gulf which bounds the Genoese,
Since thou and I pursued our mountain way,
Twenty Decembers have disrobed the trees.
Rome lay before us, hid beyond the peaks
Which rose afar, our longing eyes to guide;
The wave was one whose name a history speaks,
The Tyrrhene sea--the pure blue Tuscan tide.
So many summers, in their gay return,
Have found my pilgrimage still incomplete,
Doomed as I seem, Ulysses-like, to earn
My little knowledge by much toil of feet.
Charmed by the glowing earth and golden sky,
In Arno's vale you made yourself a nest;
There perched in peace and bookish ease, while I
Still journeyed on, and found no place of rest.
And here I am in this prosaic land,
This new Hesperia, less be-rhymed than thine,
Here try the skill of my neglected hand
To catch the favors of the chary Nine.
And here, amid remembrances that throng
Thicker than blossoms in the new-born June,
Thine chiefly claims the witness of a song
That still at least my heart remains in tune.
You will not fail to pardon as you break
The blushing seal that bears the well-known crest;
And every line, however rude, shall wake
Kind thoughts of him who wanders in the West.
But never hope (with so refined a sense
Of what is well conceived and ably wrought,)
To find my verse retain its old pretence
To the smooth utterance of an easy thought.
For who can sing amid this roar of streets,
This crash of engines and discordant mills?
Where, ev'n in Solitude's most hushed retreats,
Machinery drowns the music of the rills?
True, Nature here hath donned her gala robe,
Drest in all charms--wild, savage, and sublime;
Within one realm enfolding half the globe,
Flowers of all soils, and fruits of every clime.
Yet nothing here conveys the musing mind
Beyond the landmarks of the present hour,
Since every impulse is of sordid kind,
Among this race, that moves the Fancy's power.
No mighty bard, with consecrating touch,
Hath made the scene a nobler mood inspire;
The sullen Puritan, the sensual Dutch,
Proved but a barren fosterage for the lyre.
Beauty should speak: however fair the shore,
With balmy groves which all the coast perfume,
Until his eloquence the minstrel pour
Over the landscape, vainly must it bloom.
E'en thy dear Italy, whose ashes now,
Albeit feebly, warm our Saxon strains,
Was once, ere yet her vallies felt the plough,
Fameless and voiceless as Iowa's plains.
Imagine old OEnotria as she stood
In Saturn's reign, before the stranger came;
Ere yet the stillness of the trackless wood
Had heard the echoes of a Trojan's name.
Young Latium then, as now Missouri's waste,
Was dumb in story, soulless and unsung:
Whatever deeds her savage annals graced
Died soon, as lacking some harmonious tongue.
Up her dark streams the first explorers found
Only one dim, interminable shade;
Cliffs with the growth of awful ages crowned,
Amid whose gloom the wolf and wild-boar preyed.
Afar, perchance, on some sky-piercing height,
Nigh the last limit of the eagle's road,
Some stray Pelasgians had assumed a site
To pitch their proud, impregnable abode.
Pent in their airy dens, the builders reared
Turrets, fanes, altars fed with daily flame;
But with their walls their memory disappeared:
Their meanest implements outlive their name.
What race of giants piled yon rocks so high?
Who cut those hidden channels for the rills?
Drained the deep lake, and sucked the marshes dry,
Or hollowed into sepulchres the hills?
These, in the time of Romulus, were old;
Even then as now conjecture could but err;
In prose or verse no chronicler hath told
Whence the tribes came, and who their heroes were.
A few rough sculptures and funereal urns,
Which still are mocked by unimproving Art,
Perplex the mind till tired reflection turns
To the great people dearer to her heart.
Soon as they rose--the Capitolian lords--
The land grew sacred and beloved of GOD;
Where'er they brandished their triumphant swords
Glory sprang forth and sanctified the sod.
Ev'n yet their tombs, though dateless and decayed,
Allure the northern pilgrim from afar;
Still Contemplation's orisons are paid
Where any fragments of their trophies are.
Nay, whether wandering by the swollen Rhone,
Or by the Thames, we mark the Cæsar's tracks,
Wondering how far, from their Tarpeian flown,
The ambitious eagles bore the praetor's axe;
Those toga'd kings, the fathers and the knights,
Are still our masters, and within us reign;
Born though we were by Alleghany's heights,
Beyond the desolation of the main.
For while the music of their language lasts,
They shall not perish like the painted men
(Brief-lived in memory as the winter's blasts)
Who here once held the hill-top and the glen.
These had their passions, had their virtues, too;
Were valiant, proud, indomitably free;
But who recalls them with delight, or who
Their coarse mementos with esteem can see?
From them and their's with cold regard we turn,
The wreck of polished nations to survey,
Nor care the savage attributes to learn
Of souls that struggled with barbarian clay.
With what emotion on a coin we trace
Vespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile,
But view with heedless eye the murderous mace
And chequered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle.
Here, by the ploughman, as with daily tread
He tracks the furrows of his fertile ground,
Dark locks of hair, and thigh-bones of the dead,
Spear-heads, and skulls, and arrows oft are found.
On such memorials unconcerned we gaze;
No trace remaining of the glow divine,
Wherewith, dear WALTER! in our Eton days
We eyed a fragment from the Palatine.
How rich to us th' Imperial City seemed,
Whose meanest relic vied with any gem!
The costly stones on kingly crowns that gleamed
Possessed small beauty, if compared with them.
Cellini's workmanship could nothing add,
Nor the Pope's blessing, nor a case of gold,
To the strange value every pebble had
O'er which perchance the Tiber's wave had rolled.
It fired us then to trace upon the map
The forum's line, the Pincian garden's paths;
Ay, or to finger but a stucco scrap
Or marble shred from Caracalla's baths.
A like enchantment all thy land pervades,
Mellows the sunshine, softens autumn's breeze;
O'erhangs the mouldering town and chestnut shades,
And glows and sparkles in the golden seas.
No such a spell the charm'd adventurer guides
Who seeks those ruins hid in Yucatan,
Where through the tropic forest silent glides,
By crumbled fane and idol, slow Copan.
There, as the weedy pyramid he climbs,
Or notes, mid groves that rankly wave above,
The work of nameless hands in unknown times,
Much wakes his wonder--nothing stirs his love.
Art's rude beginnings, wheresoever found,
The same dull chord of feeling faintly strike;
The Druid's pillar, and the Indian mound,
And Uxmal's monuments, are mute alike.
Nor here, although the gorgeous year hath brought
Crimson October's beautiful decay,
Can all this loveliness inspire a thought
Beyond the marvels of the fleeting day.
For here the Present overpowers the Past;
No recollections to these woods belong,
(O'er which no minstrelsy its veil hath cast)
To rouse our worship, or supply my song.
But this will come; the necromancer Age
Shall round the wilderness his glory throw;
Hudson shall murmur through the poet's page,
And in his numbers more superbly flow.
Ev'n now perhaps, the destined soul is born,
Warm with high hope, though dumbly pent within,
To shield his country from the common scorn,
That never duly hymned her praise hath been.
Enough--'t is more than midnight by the clock;
Manhattan dreams of dollars, all abed:
With you, dear WALTER, 't is the crow of cock,
And o'er Fièsole the skies are red.
Good night! yet stay--both longitudes to suit,
At once the absent and returning light,
Thus let me bid our mutual salute;
To you _Buon giorno_--to myself Good night!
T. W. P.
LITERARY NOTICES.
ANNALS AND OCCURRENCES OF NEW-YORK CITY AND STATE IN THE OLDEN
TIME. BY JOHN F. WATSON, ESQ. NEW-YORK: BAKER AND CRANE.
HERE is a new work touching the KNICKERBOCKERS, which _we_
are especially bound to notice; and this we do with the more
satisfaction, that we can heartily commend it to the notice of our
readers, or what is the same thing, to 'the public at large.' We
perceive by a few pages of the work which have been laid before
us, that this is an enlargement of a former edition, favorably
known to the reading public, entitled '_Historic Tales of Olden
Time concerning New-York_.' It now notices the rise and progress
of the inland country and towns, relates much concerning the
pioneer settlers, and details the hostilities and ravages of their
Indian neighbors. It is in fact a complete history of a buried
age; and brings up to the imagination, for its contemplation and
entertainment, a picture of 'things as they were in the days of
rustic simplicity, so wholly unlike the present display of fashion,
pomp, and splendor.' It is easy to perceive that Mr. WATSON gathers
facts and writes _con amore_; not for profit, in this book-making
age, but because he feels and sees our wonderfully rapid advancement
from small things to great. 'I have written,' he says, 'for New-York
and State; not for money, but for patriotism. I felt it due to
the country, to tell its tale of wonder; and due to GOD, for His
gracious and signal providence, in so settling and prospering our
Anglo-Saxon race, in this new field of His exercise.' To quote the
warm language of one of our contemporaries: 'This is in truth a
work without example for its imitation; and with equal truth, it is
in execution a work _sui generis_. It is a museum that will never
cease to attract. Its annals and statistics will have snatched from
oblivion valuable reminiscences of the early youth of our country;
and will furnish the historian, biographer, and the patriotic orator
with matter to adorn and beautify their productions. He deserves
the gratitude of his country, and the patronage of the reading
community. Wherefore, no American that can read and can afford to
purchase, should be without a copy of this valuable contribution to
the memoirs of early American history.' We venture to predict that
the aged will be delighted to be thus reminded of things which they
have heard of, or perhaps witnessed; and the young will be surprised
to find such a lively picture of the doings of their forefathers.
Among the many subjects considered, are the first settlements and
primitive incidents connected with New-York, Albany, Schenectady,
Rochester, Brooklyn, etc.; notices of the early Dutch times; manners
and customs; dress, furniture, and equipage; local changes; ancient
memorials, and curious facts. Much is said of the Indians; of the
local incidents connected with the revolutionary war; of ancient
edifices and buildings; in short, of every thing calculated to bring
back scenes and occurrences of by-gone times. These matters too are
related in a style peculiar to the author; they are matters moreover
only to have been perceived and scanned by a mind so constituted
as his own. The work is undertaken by Messrs. BAKER AND CRANE, a
young and enterprising metropolitan house, and will be completed
in one octavo volume of about five hundred pages; illustrated with
thirty new pictorial embellishments; and furnished to subscribers
at the low rate of two dollars per copy, payable on delivery. Among
the engravings, which are to be executed in the best manner on
wood, will be two views of New-York City; one of New-Amsterdam in
1659, one of New-Orange in 1673; a map of the city, as it appeared
in 1729; pictures of the old Federal Hall, in 1789; the Walton and
Provost Houses; Trinity church, now numbered in the catalogue of
things that have been; the Merchants' Exchange, destroyed by the
'great fire' of '35; beside numerous other edifices, of interest to
the antiquary; and also views of HUDSON'S arrival at Sandy-Hook;
the Erie Canal, Niagara Falls, the Conflagration of Schenectady,
etc., etc.; and 'last, though not least,' a _fac simile_ of
the head and signature of the good old governor, renowned in
KNICKERBOCKER'S annals as 'PETER the Headstrong,' or 'HARD-KOPPING
PIET.' 'Finally, brethren,' let every KNICKERBOCKER who feels an
affectionate attachment to the home of _his_ fathers, or veneration
for the memory of _their_ fathers, secure at once for himself a
knowledge of all manner of curious things inseparable from our
history, from one who has been called 'the HOMER of his class, and
in archeology, peerless.' Subscription-lists are open at the office
of the KNICKERBOCKER, at the store of the publishers, number 158
Pearl-street, and at the rooms of the Mercantile Library Association.
LETTERS FROM NEW-YORK. By L. MARIA CHILD, Author of 'The
Mother's own Book,' 'The Girl's Book,' etc. In one volume, pp.
276. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY. Boston: JAMES MONROE
AND COMPANY.
IN the dedication of this volume, the writer alludes to its being
'deeply tinged with romance and mysticism;' but to our conception,
its pages exhibit a far greater amount of _truth_, undeniable, and
of deep import to society at large, and to our own metropolitan
community especially. Here is a woman who knows 'how to observe;'
and we cannot do a better service to thousands in our city, who
walk its streets and thoroughfares, and visit the hundred-and-one
places of resort in its vicinity, without appreciating or enjoying
the objects of interest or instruction by which they are surrounded,
than to call their attention to the records of the volume under
notice. And having done this, we shall proceed to illustrate the
reason for the faith that is in us that they will thank us for this
recommendation, by presenting a few desultory extracts. Let us
commence them with a remarkable case of instinctive knowledge in
birds, related by the writer's grandfather, who saw the fact with
his own eyes:
'HE was attracted to the door, one summer day, by a troubled
twittering, indicating distress and terror. A bird, who had
built her nest in a tree near the door, was flying back and
forth with the utmost speed, uttering wailing cries as she went.
He was at first at a loss to account for her strange movements;
but they were soon explained by the sight of a snake slowly
winding up the tree. Animal magnetism was then unheard of; and
whosoever had dared to mention it, would doubtless have been
hung on Witch's Hill, without benefit of clergy. Nevertheless,
marvellous and altogether unaccountable stories had been told of
the snake's power to charm birds. The popular belief was, that
the serpent charmed the bird by _looking steadily at it; and
that such a sympathy was thereby established, that if the snake
were struck, the bird felt the blow, and writhed under it_.
'These traditions excited my grandfather's curiosity to watch
the progress of things; but, being a humane man, he resolved to
kill the snake before he had a chance to despoil the nest. The
distressed mother meanwhile continued her rapid movements and
troubled cries; and he soon discovered that she went and came
continually, with something in her bill, from one particular
tree--a white ash. The snake wound his way up; but the instant
his head came near the nest, his folds relaxed, and he fell to
the ground, rigid and apparently lifeless. My grandfather made
sure of his death by cutting off his head, and then mounted
the tree to examine into the mystery. The snug little nest was
filled with eggs, and covered with leaves of the white-ash! That
little bird knew, if my readers do not, that contact with the
white-ash is deadly to a snake. This is no idle superstition,
but a veritable fact in natural history. The Indians are aware
of it, and twist garlands of white-ash leaves about their
ankles, as a protection against rattlesnakes. Slaves often take
the same precaution when they travel through swamps and forests,
guided by the north star; or to the cabin of some poor white
man, who teaches them to read and write by the light of pine
splinters, and receives his pay in 'massa's' corn or tobacco.
'I have never heard any explanation of the effect produced by
the white-ash; but I know that settlers in the wilderness like
to have these trees round their log-houses, being convinced that
no snake will voluntarily come near them. When touched with
the boughs, they are said to grow suddenly rigid, with strong
convulsions; after a while they slowly recover, but seem sickly
for some time.'
Here is a charming sketch of an actual occurrence, which goes far
to confirm the writer's impression 'that instinct is founded on
traditions handed down among animals from generation to generation,
and is therefore a matter of education:'
'TWO barn-swallows came into our wood-shed in the spring time.
Their busy, earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that
they were looking out a building-spot; but as a carpenter's
bench was under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing,
and planing were going on, I had little hope that they would
choose a location under our roof. To my surprise, however, they
soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open
door-way. I was delighted, and spent more time watching them
than 'penny-wise' people would have approved. It was, in fact,
a beautiful little drama of domestic love. The mother-bird was
_so_ busy, and _so_ important; and her mate was _so_ attentive!
Never did any newly-married couple take more satisfaction with
their first nicely-arranged drawer of baby-clothes, than these
did in fashioning their little woven cradle. The father-bird
scarcely ever left the side of the nest. There he was, all
day long, twittering in tones that were most obviously the
outpourings of love. Sometimes he would bring in a straw, or
a hair, to be inwoven in the precious little fabric. One day
my attention was arrested by a very unusual twittering, and I
saw him circling round with a large downy feather in his bill.
He bent over the unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate
with the most graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she
put up her mouth to take it, he poured forth _such_ a gush of
gladsome sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had swelled
his heart, till it was almost too big for his little bosom. The
whole transaction was the prettiest piece of fond coquetry, on
both sides, that it was ever my good luck to witness.
'It was evident that the father-bird had formed correct opinions
on 'the woman question;' for during the process of incubation
he volunteered to perform his share of household duty. Three or
four times a day would he, with coaxing twitterings, persuade
his patient mate to fly abroad for food; and the moment she left
the eggs, he would take the maternal station, and give a loud
alarm whenever cat or dog came about the premises. He certainly
performed the office with far less ease and grace than she did;
it was something in the style of an old bachelor tending a
babe; but nevertheless it showed that his heart was kind, and
his principles correct, concerning division of labor. When the
young ones came forth, he pursued the same equalizing policy,
and brought at least half the food for his greedy little family.
But when they become old enough to fly, the veriest misanthrope
would have laughed to watch their manoeuvres! Such chirping and
twittering! Such diving down from the nest, and flying up again!
Such wheeling round in circles, talking to the young ones all
the while! Such clinging to the sides of the shed with their
sharp claws, to show the timid little fledgelings that there was
no need of falling!
'For three days all this was carried on with increasing
activity. It was obviously an infant flying-school. But all
their talking and fuss were of no avail. The little downy things
looked down, and then looked up, and alarmed at the infinity
of space, sank back into the nest again. At length the parents
grew impatient, and summoned their neighbors. As I was picking
up chips one day, I found my head encircled with a swarm of
swallows. They flew up to the nest, and chatted away to the
young ones; they clung to the walls, looking back to tell how
the thing was done; they dived, and wheeled, and balanced, and
floated, in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold.
'The pupils were evidently much excited. They jumped up on the
edge of the nest, and twittered, and shook their feathers, and
waved their wings; and then hopped back again, saying, 'It's
pretty sport, but we can't do it!' Three times the neighbors
came in and repeated their graceful lessons. The third time,
two of the young birds gave a sudden plunge downward, and then
fluttered and hopped, till they alighted on a small upright log.
And oh! such praises as were warbled by the whole troop! The
air was filled with their joy! Some were flying round, swift
as a ray of light; others were perched on the hoe-handle, and
the teeth of the rake; multitudes clung to the wall, after the
fashion of their pretty kind; and two were swinging, in most
graceful style, on a pendant hoop. Never, while memory lasts,
shall I forget that swallow-party! I have frolicked with blessed
Nature much and often; but this, above all her gambols, spoke
into my inmost heart, like the glad voices of little children.
That beautiful family continued to be our playmates until the
falling leaves gave token of approaching winter. For some time,
the little ones came home regularly to their nest at night. I
was ever on the watch to welcome them, and count that none were
missing. A sculptor might have taken a lesson in his art from
those little creatures, perched so gracefully on the edge of
their clay-built cradle, fast asleep, with heads hidden under
their folded wings. Their familiarity was wonderful. If I hung
my gown on a nail, I found a little swallow perched on the
sleeve. If I took a nap in the afternoon, my waking eyes were
greeted by a swallow on the bed-post; in the summer twilight
they flew about the sitting-room in search of flies, and
sometimes lighted on chairs and tables. I almost thought they
knew how much I loved them. But at last they flew away to more
genial skies, with a whole troop of relations and neighbors. It
was a deep pain to me, that I should never know them from other
swallows, and that they would have no recollection of me.'
Mrs. CHILD has a remarkable power of _adaptation_ in her style. Her
similes are often exceedingly forcible and felicitous. Observe the
admirable comparison which closes the ensuing passage, descriptive
of the services at the Synagogue of the Jews, on the Festival of the
New-Year:
'WHILE they were chanting an earnest prayer for the coming of
the Promised One, who was to restore the scattered tribes, I
turned over the leaves, and by a singular coincidence my eye
rested on these words: 'Abraham said, See ye not the splended
light now shining on Mount Moriah? And they answered, _Nothing
but caverns do we see_.' I thought of Jesus, and the whole
pageant became more spectral than ever; so strangely vague and
shadowy, that I felt as if under the influence of magic. The
significant sentence reminded me of a German friend, who shared
his sleeping apartment with another gentleman, and both were in
the habit of waking very early in the morning. One night, his
companion rose much earlier than he intended; and perceiving his
mistake, placed a lighted lamp in the chimney corner, that its
glare might not disturb the sleeper, leaned his back against the
fire-place, and began to read. Sometime after, the German rose,
left him reading, and walked forth into the morning twilight.
When he returned, the sun was shining high up in the heavens;
but his companion, unconscious of the change, was still reading
by lamp-light in the chimney corner. And this the Jews are now
doing, as well as a very large proportion of Christians.'
And in this allusion to the tyranny of public opinion, there is an
important truth very adroitly enforced by an apposite anecdote,
timely remembered:
'FEW men ask concerning right and wrong of their _own_ hearts.
Few listen to the oracle _within_, which can only be heard
in the stillness. The merchant seeks his moral standard on
'change--a fitting name for a thing so fluctuating; the sectary
in the opinion of his small theological department; the
politician in the tumultuous echo of his party; the worldling
in the buzz of saloons. In a word, each man inquires of _his_
public; what wonder, then, that the answers are selfish as
trading interest, blind as local prejudice, and various as
human whim? A German drawing-master once told me of a lad who
wished to sketch landscapes from nature. The teacher told him
that the first object was to choose some _fixed point of view_.
The sagacious pupil chose a cow grazing beneath the trees. Of
course, his _fixed point_ soon began to move hither and thither,
as she was attracted by the sweetness of the pasturage; and
the lines of his drawing fell into strange confusion. This is
a correct type of those who choose public opinion for their
moral fixed point of view. It moves according to the provender
before it, and they who trust to it have but a whirling and
distorted landscape. Coleridge defines public opinion as 'the
average prejudices of the community.' Wo unto those who have
no safer guide of principle and practice than this 'average of
prejudices!''
Doubtless a vast number of persons as fervently desire the time when
'wars shall cease from under the whole heaven,' as our author. Like
herself, thousands feel that
'Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers,
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast:'
but she will find few who will carry the prejudice which a hatred
of war has created in her bosom so far as she has done. On visiting
what was once the grave of ANDRE, she is shown by the guide the
head-quarters of General WASHINGTON: 'I turned my back suddenly
upon it. The last place on earth where I would wish to think of
WASHINGTON is at the grave of ANDRE.' And she adds, that she never
could look upon ANDRE'S execution 'as other than _a cool, deliberate
murder_!' The stern necessity which impelled the FATHER OF HIS
COUNTRY to this act, at which his great heart, throbbing with the
cares of an infant empire, melted in pity, is termed 'a selfish
jealousy, dignified with the name of patriotism!' All this, however,
is creditable to the _woman's-heart_ of our author; as is her wish,
and the 'strong faith' of which it is the father, that the time is
not distant when 'all _prisons_ will cease from the face of the
earth.' Human nature, howbeit, must undergo an important change
before such an event can take place; and a long time must elapse
before WASHINGTON'S memory can receive any injury from attacks upon
it like the one above cited. We are getting, however, to the end of
our tether, in the 'short commons' left for us in this department;
but after the written and 'illustrated' praise which we have awarded
to the volume before us, we are compelled, in candor, to add a word
or two of censure. Now and then, it must be admitted, our author is
slightly vague and _bizarre_, as if to make good the declaration
in her dedication; and she can be, moreover, on occasion, a little
mawkish; as in the instance where, after the sentiment has been
satisfied, she pumps up a feeling, and 'drags in by ear and horn'
a struggling sentence touching two doves in the room that once was
ANDRE'S; their 'mated human hearts,' and so forth. These and one
or two kindred simulations, or ultra-sentimentalities, are not
_intellectually_ feminine, and must be set down as defects in the
generally natural and fresh style of our gifted author, whose clever
volume we are glad of an opportunity warmly to commend to public
acceptance. Some readers may find in it matters to condemn, perhaps,
but all will encounter much that is deserving of cordial praise.
DEATH: OR MEDORUS' DREAM. By the Author of 'Ahasuerus.' In one
volume, pp. 66. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.
WE deem it a substantial tribute to the merits of the poem before
us, that it has elicited the cordial commendations of two daily
journals of authority in our midst; the antipodal editors of which,
(one of them the first of American poets,) in awarding their meed of
praise, candidly confessed that the production was more likely to be
judged by a political standard at the seat of government, than by
any critical measure, based upon an impartial consideration of its
literary qualities. For ourselves, we must say that we have perused
the poem with a pleasure not a little enhanced by the reflection,
that the author has been enabled to find leisure, amidst engagements
which, if one may believe the partizan journals, must needs be
numerous and pressing, to pay that attention to literary pursuits,
which by so many politicians, and utilitarians of another class, are
considered 'useless, if not belittling, to a man of mental calibre
sufficient for any thing more manly than verse-making.' Indeed, this
position we remember somewhere to have seen assumed and defended,
in the words we have quoted. The opening of 'Medorus' Dream,' the
fine lines on 'Death,' have already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER,
from the manuscript of the author. They will be remembered not only
by the readers of this Magazine, but also by those of very many
journals throughout the Union, into which they were copied, with
expressions of warm admiration. In selecting, therefore, a few
extracts, in corroboration of the justice of our encomiums, we shall
plunge at once _in medias res_ into the volume before us; leaving
our readers to judge whether the writer does not exhibit a hearty
love and keen observation of Nature, in her various phases; a strong
sense of the beautiful and the true; and an ease and smoothness
of versification, which go far to controvert the theory that, for
certain reasons, (among which 'a restless ambition' has been cited
as the chief,) 'there can be little poetry in high places.' Take,
for example, the annexed brief but comprehensive glance at the four
seasons:
SPRING laughing comes to bless the verdant land.
Sweet breezes kiss the glowing curls that lie
Upon her blooming cheek; a lambent fire
Plays from her radiant eyes; 'neath her light step
Daisies and cowslips grow. Upon the bud
She breathes, and quick the rose unfolds
Its tinted leaves, and, trembling with keen bliss,
Sips the pure morning dews, and soft exhales
A gentle odor through the garden's walks,
More sweet than beauty's breath. Hark to those sounds!
The warbling notes that rise upon the gale
Steal o'er the soul like voices of pure prayer,
Or dream of Eden's joys. O'er all the earth
Warm sunshine streams, whose fructifying rays
Strike through the fibrous soil, and quicken there
A thousand lovely forms; these straightway start
From that deep sleep which heaven so kindly sends
Through winter's rugged hour, while soon they join
The happy circle of all beauteous things,
That fill the world with perfume and with song,
Hailing their bounteous mistress, virgin Spring!
Mark SUMMER, sitting 'neath yon spreading palm,
Her shady throne. With matron dignity
She gazes round, and smiles in quiet pride
While counting o'er the glorious wealth that fills
Her wide domain. Now wave the growing fields
Beneath the rip'ning winds and the warm sun;
Now the soft pulp of the distending fruits
Imbibes rich nectar from the glowing beams
Of the calm, golden day. Now Hope sits laughing
In a world of light, and Promise near
Weaves the bright numbers of a joyous lay,
With Plenty still the burden of his theme.
Next AUTUMN comes, the sweet industrious maid,
Who garners up the treasures of past days,
Brown nuts, and yellow grain, and ripen'd stores
Of mellow'd fruits; yet still a pensive smile,
As soft as moonlight on some slumb'ring stream,
Throws o'er her face a melancholy shade
Of sober thought, as though her heart was sad
That the large harvests which her sickle wins
Should leave the earth so bare. And then she sings
A plaintive strain that echoes through the land,
Like the wild cooings of some soft-toned dove,
A note of resignation and of peace,
Though still a sound of sadness from the soul.
Lo! WINTER rushes from the land of storms:
From the cold Arctic regions, where he sat
'Mong clouds and darkness, and vast misshaped forms,
He comes, with frosts, and howling winds, and hail,
And the dark terrors of a sunless sky.
Unshorn his ragged beard, and his fierce eyes,
Relentless as the murderer's stony heart,
Condemns the victim, while his icy breath,
More deadly than the lightning's fiery gleam,
Sweeps life into oblivion. Spirit, no;
Man's finite faculties alone may see
Such evil in God's goodness: we behold
A crowning mercy of beneficence
In Winter's coldest blast. Could earth exist
Without that change in matter and in form
By which her strength recuperates, and lends
An impulse unto Nature's fostering will?
The pulpy fruit would perish where it falls
But for the bitter kernel; flowers would fade,
No more mid sweet ambrosial dews to bloom,
But for the winter's torpid touch, that crusts
The leathery seed with its rough coating o'er,
Freezes its ardent currents ere they spring
Into ephemeral being, and thus yields
Unto a small and leaden speck, a power
Of life perpetual, and from dull clay
Maintains a breathing world.'
'A ducat to a beggarly denier' that we saw the same ocean, glowing
under the same glorious summer-evening light, as is described in the
lines which ensue. We have never compared notes with our author; but
it seems impossible that the kindred scene in which we revelled on a
memorable occasion at the Telegraph station, by the Narrows, should
not have extended to Fire-Island; the _locale_, we cannot help
inferring, of this picture:
OFT hath the man who loveth Nature's ways,
Musing, gone forth alone by Ocean's tide,
And, gazing on that amaranthine plain,
Hath mark'd the rich beams of descending day
Shoot slanting o'er the light and feathery waves,
Until the sea, by burning passion moved,
Through all its depths, turns into liquid gold,
And heaves and thrills beneath those ardent rays,
With love too strong for mortal minds to know,
With love too deep for mortal hearts to feel.
Then, from that glorious main, his soul-lit eye
Hath wander'd strait to heaven, and in one view
The pearl, and flame, and amethyst, and gold,
The shadowy vermeil flush, the purple light,
The amber-tinted streak, and banner'd clouds,
Like incense streaming up from Evening's shrine,
Wafted by gentle gales along the sky,
The beauty, brightness, majesty, and pomp,
The gorgeous splendor of the imperial West,
Burst on his raptured sight! He, happy then,
While Fancy's spirit-form smiles o'er his head,
Deems it the lovely sky that canopies
The land of Paradise.
Here is a wider reach of more varied scenery, yet not less forcible
than the more 'thin compositions,' to use the painter's phrase:
FIRST, as they look'd, there rose upon the sight
Long, waving chains of happy-smiling hills,
Uprising gently from the sloping vales,
As if to woo the rustling noontide winds:
Next, wide-expansive, music-making seas,
Across whose placid, soft-suspiring tides
The playful breezes fly, on tireless wings.
Then, 'neath their wond'ring eyes at once display'd,
Behold, in one far-sweeping, lovely view,
The broad green vesture of the quick'ning sod
Trembling with heat, and glowing into life
Under the warm sun's vivifying beams:
The Desert's thirsty plains gemm'd with their green
And cool oases, bright mid barren sands;
Rivers whose pearly tides stretch'd far away
Through fertile lands to Ocean's emerald brink;
And lakes that seem'd, in their transparent depths,
The crystal eyes of Earth. Here mountains, hills,
And winding dales, fair seas, and shining lakes,
And silvery streams, gay-blooming boughs, and flowery turf,
Conspire, in all their loveliest power, to make
The warm, the fresh, the pure, and beauteous form
Of this enamell'd world.'
Lovers of flowers; gentle maidens, scarcely less fragile and fair;
and ye of the 'sterner sex,' who are not ashamed to praise heaven
and earth; we ask you if the ensuing lines are not 'beautiful
exceedingly:'
The red Rose, blushing in its virgin pride,
Hangs lightly on its green and briery stalk,
And kisses from its pale-cheek'd sister's brow,
With trembling lip, the pearly tear away.
Here Violets, that spring by stealth at night,
Of rarer scents and sweeter shapes than those
Pluck'd by the village maiden in the vale,
Ere yet the sun hath touch'd their dewy leaves,
Mingle their balmiest odors and their hues
With the soft-nectar'd sighs
Of wind-flowers, pansies, hyacinths, oxlips,
And sun-striped tulips tall,
Until the freighted airs themselves grow faint,
And on their weary way sink down to sleep
Among the silent wild-flowers watching there.
We have purposely abstained from a detailed review or analysis of
the poem under notice; preferring that the reader should derive
his impression of the performance from such portions of it, taken
almost at random, as we could command space to present; leaving
him to seek in the volume itself that gratification of which
we are sure our extracts will give him a foretaste. It was our
intention to have animadverted upon the use of certain words and
compounds which struck us as being infelicitous; but we can only
transcribe a few of them, without comment, from our pencilled copy:
'JEHOVAH'S _fadeless_ arms;' 'frost-enmirror'd;' 'sun-bedazzled;'
'_ornamentless_ curves;' 'rich-rubied rays,' etc. 'To conclude:' we
consider the present poem a manifest improvement upon 'Ahasuerus,'
which was noticed at length in these pages. The author is now 'well
in harness,' and moves on without incumbrance. Once more we welcome
him to the quiet walks of literature, which he treads so pleasantly;
and again we greet him with '_Macte virtute_!'
EXERCISES OF THE ALUMNÆ OF THE ALBANY FEMALE ACADEMY, on their
Second Anniversary, July 20, 1843. Albany: C. VAN BENTHUYSEN AND
COMPANY.
AH! young ladies! we wish you could 'realize' how greatly gratified
we are to find you so much improved! We say 'improved,' because it
can scarcely be possible that you could have written such charming
compositions, before you had experienced the benefits of the system
of instruction pursued at the institution upon which you reflect
so much honor. We say this in no vain spirit of compliment, but
in all candor. The address of the President, Miss M. ROBINSON, of
this city, is not only excellent in its inculcations and tendency,
but is written with great perspicuity and freedom. The prize poem
by Miss ELIZA WHITNEY of Philadelphia, has many of the elements of
true poetry, while its trifling defects are merely mechanical. The
committee who awarded the prize, one of whom we observe was Mrs.
SIGOURNEY, seem to have hesitated in their choice between this and
three or four other poems of kindred excellence. 'MARY GRAFTON' need
not have sheltered herself under a _pseudonyme_. Her essay on 'What
should be the intellectual education of Woman, to fit her for the
duties of life,' is worthy of a strong and disciplined mind and a
practised pen. The honor of the best essay in French was assigned to
Miss M'CORMICK of Oswego, in this State; yet the committee selected
it in preference to three others, only 'because they were forced
to choose;' a fact which precludes the idea of 'rejection.' The
capital tale entitled 'Home Education,' by Miss MARY E. FIELD, of
Haddam, (Conn.,) must certainly have deserved the honor which it won
among its rivals. We have rarely seen a story, the lessons of which
were so valuable, in a national point of view, kept up with so much
spirit, and eliciting so much interest, in the narrative. On the
whole, so favorably are we impressed with these 'exercises' of the
alumnæ of the Albany Female Academy, that we begin to peer into the
'onward distance,' and to see our own little people winning honors
in that popular institution. 'So mote it be!'
THE CROWNING HOUR, AND OTHER POEMS. By CHARLES JAMES CANNON,
Author of 'The Poet's Quest.' etc. With a Portrait of the
Author. In one volume, pp. 132. New-York: EDWARD DUNIGAN.
THUS is entitled a neat little volume which we find on our table.
Without being a 'great gun' in literature, or destined to make
much noise in the world, Mr. CANNON is yet a clever versifier, and
occasionally 'goes off' with good thoughts very agreeably; while
'the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all
that meets and surrounds him' is quite apparent in his compositions.
The 'crowning hour' is the period when COLUMBUS first discovers
land from the quarter deck of his vessel. Certain incidents of the
voyage, and the emotions of the 'world-seeking Genoese,' form the
staple of the main poem; but the prose of IRVING is far better
poetry than the verse which here records them. The remainder of the
volume is devoted to the republication of several minor effusions
from certain periodicals of these times, and from a previous volume
of the author. The 'Dogberryotype' portrait of Mr. CANNON, in the
opening of his book, strikes us as being in bad taste. We are loath
to interfere with such an exhibition of harmless vanity; but the
picture being what is negatively termed 'no beauty,' we must adopt
the advice of HOLMES to the plain gentleman whose portrait graced
the Athenæum exhibition: 'Don't let it be there any longer! Take it
home, and hush the matter up!' It is but justice to add, however,
that the portrait which fronts the volume under notice does not do
justice to the features of its author. Engravings from Daguerreotype
miniatures have never impressed us favorably, either as faithful
likenesses, or specimens of pictorial art.
EDITOR'S TABLE.
'THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.'--A 'friend and fellow-citizen' of ours
has translated, so far as published, a serial novel, just now
making a great noise in the literary circles of the French capital,
entitled '_Les Mysteries de Paris_,' by EUGENE SUE. Premising
that our readers will soon have an opportunity of perusing in an
English translation some of the most striking of the very remarkable
sketches of this DICKENS of France, we shall content ourselves for
the present with a single extract, embodying a simple, but as it
strikes us, a very touching and impressive scene. The RODOLPHE of
the passage below is a German prince, who has come to Paris, and who
goes forth in disguise to seek out worthy objects of benevolence.
He encounters in '_La Cité_,' a quarter of the town occupied by
the most abandoned classes, a girl of a beautiful, melancholy
countenance, called in the peculiar language of the inhabitants,
'_La Goualeuse_,' or '_Fleur-de-Marie_,' who turns out, in the
subsequent progress of the story, to be a child of his own, whom he
supposed to be dead, but who had in fact been left in the streets
by her nurses. He proposes to take her into the country with him;
and the effect which rural objects produce upon her mind is very
beautifully described in the little episode of 'The Rose-bush,'
which will be found in the opening of the story. The whole tale
forcibly illustrates what a French metropolitan contemporary terms
the '_inépuisable_ imagination' of EUGENE SUE:
'I BELIEVE you, and I thank you; but answer me frankly: is it
equally agreeable what part of the country we go to?'
'Oh, it is all the same to me, Monsieur Rodolphe, as long as it
is the country; it is so pleasant; the pure air is so good to
breathe! Do you know that for five months I have been no farther
than the flower market, and if the _ogresse_ ever allowed me to
go out of the Cité, it was because she had confidence in me?'
'And when you came to this market, was it to buy flowers?'
'Oh, no: I had no money; I only came to see them; to inhale
their rich perfume. For the half hour that the ogresse allowed
me to pass on the quai during market-days, I was so happy that I
forgot all.'
'And when you returned to the ogresse--to those horrid streets?'
'I came back more sorrowful than when I set out. I choked down
my tears, that I might not receive a beating. I tell you what it
was at the market which made me envious, oh! _very_ envious; it
was to see the little '_ouvrières_,' so neatly clad, going off
so gaily with a fine pot of flowers in their arms!'
'I am sure if you had only had some flowers in your window, they
would have been companions for you.'
'It is very true what you say, Monsieur Rodolphe. Imagine:
one day the ogresse at her fête, knowing my love for flowers,
gave me a little rose-bush. If you could only know how happy I
was! I was no longer lonesome! I could not keep from looking
at my rose-bush. I amused myself in counting its leaves, its
flowers.... But the air is so bad in La Cité that at the end of
two days it began to fade.... But you'll laugh at me, Monsieur
Rodolphe?'
'No, no! Go on! go on!'
'Well then, I asked permission from the ogresse to take my bush
out for an airing; yes, as I would have taken out a child. I
brought it to the quai: I thought to myself, that being in
company with other flowers, in this fine and balmy air, would
do it good. I moistened its poor withered leaves with the pure
water of the fountain, and then I warmed it awhile in the sun.
Dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in La Cité for
in our street it comes no lower than the roof. At length I
returned; and I assure you, Monsieur Rodolphe, that my rose-bush
lived perhaps ten days longer than it would have done without
the airings.'
'I believe it; but when it died!--that must have been a great
loss for you.'
'I wept for it; I was very sorry.... Beside, Monsieur Rodolphe,
since you understand how one can love flowers, I can tell it to
you. Well, I felt _grateful_ to it. Ah! now _this_ time you are
laughing at me!'
'No, no! I love, I adore flowers; and thus I can comprehend
all the foolish things they cause one to commit, or which they
inspire.'
''Eh bien!' I felt grateful to this poor rose-bush, for having
flowered so prettily for me--such a one as me!' The goualeuse
held down her head and became purple with shame.
'Poor child! with this consciousness of your horrible position,
you must have often ...'
'Had a wish to put an end to it? Is it not so, Monsieur
Rodolphe?' said la Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. 'Oh!
yes; more than once I have looked at the Seine from the parapet.
But then I turned to the flowers, the sun, and I said to myself,
'The river will always be there.... I am only sixteen ... who
knows?'
'When you said, '_Who knows_?' you had a hope?'
'Yes.'
'And what did you hope for?'
'I do not know. I hoped--yes, I hoped, '_malgré moi_.' At those
moments, it seemed to me that my fate was not merited; that
there was some good left in me. I said to myself, 'I have been
very much troubled, but at least, I have never harmed any one
... if I had only had some one to counsel me, I should not be
where I am. That dissipated my sorrow a little. After all, I
must confess that these thoughts occurred oftener after the loss
of my rose-bush,' added la Goualeuse, in a solemn manner, which
made Rodolphe smile.
'This great grief always ...'
'Yes; look here!'--and la Goualeuse drew from her pocket a
little packet, carefully tied with a pink favor.
'You have preserved it?'
'I think so! It is all I possess in the world.'
'How! have you nothing you can call your own?'
'Nothing.'
'But this coral necklace?'
'It belongs to the ogresse.'
'How! do you not own a rag?--a hat, a handkerchief?'