Chapter XIV: My Epitaph (1)

'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.