GLEANINGS FROM THE GERMAN.

'Oh!what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,When peals the requiem for the loved and young!'

W. G. Clark.

Wewaste no sorrow o'er the verdant tombWhen whitened Age is called to meet its doom;With shattered bark, on life's wild current driven,The tempest, threat'ning death, but wafts to heaven;And the freed spirit, borne on eagle wing,Mounts to the regions of eternal spring.No; 'tis not Age we mourn; life's course is run,And soon, at best, must set its sinking sun.We weep no sad adieu when infant yearsFly this cold vale, where joy still ends in tears;Ere yet a cloud has dimmed their morning skyWhich hangs outspread so clearly blue on high;That sky the tempest's wrath will soon deform,And the day, dawned in sunshine, close in storm.Oh! who would bid that wandering spirit stay,Which seeks a fairer realm, a brighter day!But when th' Avenger in his withering trackStrikes in its bloom the pride of Manhood down,The heart's sad strings, but faintly echo backThe plaintive murmurings of Sorrow's moan.'Unhappy youth!' ere life was well begun,And thy brief day had seen scarce half a sun,The roses from thy fading cheek have flown,AndDeath, the spoiler, marked thee for his own!

We weep no sad adieu when infant yearsFly this cold vale, where joy still ends in tears;Ere yet a cloud has dimmed their morning skyWhich hangs outspread so clearly blue on high;That sky the tempest's wrath will soon deform,And the day, dawned in sunshine, close in storm.Oh! who would bid that wandering spirit stay,Which seeks a fairer realm, a brighter day!

But when th' Avenger in his withering trackStrikes in its bloom the pride of Manhood down,The heart's sad strings, but faintly echo backThe plaintive murmurings of Sorrow's moan.'Unhappy youth!' ere life was well begun,And thy brief day had seen scarce half a sun,The roses from thy fading cheek have flown,AndDeath, the spoiler, marked thee for his own!

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

COUNSEL.

Soulof light in stone enthronedIs the precious diamond;Son of light, do thou endure,Like this gem, still strong and pure!

EPITAPH.

Read, wanderer, a husband's moan:My wife was young and fair!Now lies upon her heart a stone,And mine—is light as air!

ON THE EPITAPHS IN A CHURCH-YARD.

Falsehood, O man! delights thine eye:Thou teachest even stones to lie!

ON BAVIUS.

Givehim to drink of Lethe's wave! why notLet the poor bard forget that he's forgot?

LADIES' TONGUES.

Frankly, ladies' tongues, confessYe must wag perforce:Faith! the sex might, as I guess,Without tongues discourse!

THE GRAY-BEARD.

Nearchis blind, and deaf, and lame,The prey of time's corrosive greed,And long of crafty heirs the game;When will the dead man die indeed?

GARLANDS.

Youth, with chaplets grace thy brow,But the garland choose with care;Wreathed with laurel fadeth late,Wreathed with myrtle soon, the hair.

FRIEND AND FOE.

Letwarning wisdom's kindly speechThy friend his faults and failings show;But let thy mute example teachThe love of virtue to thy foe.

PLEASURE.

Lista mortal's quest, sweet Pleasure!Why so fleeting?—answer, pray:Lost as soon as found, thy treasure!None can thy dear presence stay.Thank thou, Fate, she cried, whose minions,All the gods, love me alone;Were I fashioned without pinions,They would keep me for their own!

Lista mortal's quest, sweet Pleasure!Why so fleeting?—answer, pray:Lost as soon as found, thy treasure!None can thy dear presence stay.

Thank thou, Fate, she cried, whose minions,All the gods, love me alone;Were I fashioned without pinions,They would keep me for their own!

Harry Harson.

Morethan a week had elapsed since the rupture between Rhoneland and Rust; and during that period Jacob neither saw him nor heard from him. But in that interval he had become confirmed in his purpose of resistance; and had resolved, come what might, to risk any thing, rather than submit to the mental bondage which had hitherto crushed him. Steadfast in this purpose, he quietly awaited the movements of his adversary.

On one fine afternoon, the bright rays of a setting sun streaming through the window fell upon the face of the old man, as he was dozing in his room, and awakened him. Starting to his feet, and casting his eyes hurriedly about him, he exclaimed; 'I tell you no; I tell youno, Michael Rust. It shall never be! Ah Kate!' said he, looking about the room, and seeing no one except his daughter, 'it's you, is it?—only you? And I've been dreaming? Well, well; thank God it was no worse! It's strange I should have dreamed that Michael Rust wanted you, Kate, and asked for you. But no matter; kiss me, child. We've done with him. There's a comfort in that. We shall be quite happy—happy as we once were. Shall we not, Kate?'

Kate's lips quivered, as she pressed them to his forehead; and there was a busy little voice at her heart, which whispered a name, and brought up recollections that nearly choked her, as she said, in a low tone, 'Quite happy.'

'But Kate,' said her father, placing an arm about her waist, while he put back her hair with his other hand, and looked anxiously in her face, 'you don't say happy,as in old times.'

Kate was silent. What could she say, when her young heart was breaking? But at last shedidsay:

'It certainly will make me happier, much happier, than I have been, to know that you are once more yourself; that that evil, daring man has lost his influence over you, never to regain it; and that there is nothing to harrass you and break you down, as there once was. All this makes me quite happy. Indeed it does!' But there was that in her tone which belied her words, and Rhoneland observed it.

'Ah! child, child!' said he, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I see it all. Ned Somers has much to answer for. I loved and trusted him. God forgive him that he meditated so vile a wrong! He was to me as my own son. Had he loved you, Kate, openly and honorablyas a man should, and as you deserve to be loved, and had he asked you from me, I would not have saidno, Kate. But he acted like a villain; and I've cast him off forever.'

Kate became very pale, and her voice grew thick and husky, as she asked: 'Father, will you answer me a question?'

'Yes Kate, a hundred,' said he, drawing her more closely to him. 'I'll sit here all day long, and answer you. Now thatheis gone, I feel quite young and boyish again; and nothing gladdens me more than your voice. Now go on. What is it?'

The girl took his hand in both her's, and looking steadily in his face, asked: 'Who told you the tale which set you against Ned?'

'Who?' inquired Rhoneland; 'who? Why, he—Rust.'

'And have you never found, in the course of your dealings with that man, that he could forget or pervert the truth; or even invent a falsehood, when it served his own purpose?'

Jacob Rhoneland laughed to himself, in a low chuckling tone, and rubbed his hands. 'What, lie?—Rust lie? Bless you, child, he does that more than any thing else. Ha! ha! He's a deep one, depend on it.'

'And can you see no reason for his traducing Ned?' said she, the blood mounting to her face, as she spoke. 'Was there no plan of his, which Ned's presence here crossed, and which rendered it necessary to prejudice you against him?'

The old man pondered; looked at her, and then at the floor; and at last sank back in his chair, in a deep and unpleasant reverie; from which he was only aroused by a knock at the door. 'Go to your room, Kate. It's Enoch. I'll open the door myself.'

Kate had scarcely left the room, and Jacob had not yet risen to obey the summons, when the door of the apartment opened, and Michael Rust walked in, as quietly and serenely as if nothing had happened.

'Good evening, friend Jacob,' said he, bowing low, and speaking in his softest tone. 'I'm here again, you see. I could not give you up so soon. I could not let a trifling misunderstanding break off old friendship. I had'nt the heart to do it, good Jacob. There was a severe struggle between pride and friendship, but friendship gained the day; and I have come with an open heart to offer you my most humble apology, and to ask you to forget and forgive. I feel that I took an unwarrantable liberty with Kate; but I loved her, Jacob, and was hurried too far by my feelings. I was wrong, and you acted as a father should. Let us forget the past, and be as we were.'

Michael stretched out his hand, as he spoke, and even held it so, for some moments; but Rhoneland neither took it, nor looked at it, nor at him, nor uttered a word in reply; but with both hands resting on the top of his cane, which he had taken to assist him in rising, and his chin on them, sat looking out of the window, as if there were no other person than himself in the wide world.

What was it that bowed the bold, bad man, who had never yielded to him before?—who had trodden on his very neck, mocking hissufferings, jeering at his agony of mind; returning threats for supplications, and revilement for tears; and now brought him a suppliant to his feet? Was it that strange, mysterious feeling which sometimes tells a man that the hour of his fate is approaching, and that his time is measured? Was the coming storm flinging its shadow over his path, even before the bursting of the tempest? Did he feel the earth sinking beneath his feet; and was he glad to grasp, even at a decayed and shattered branch to hold him up? Or was it a part of a deeper policy; and was there yet something to be gained by clinging to his former dupe? It may have been a mixture of all these feelings; but certain it is, that there he was; the same thin, bowing, cringing hypocrite, with a tongue of oil and a heart of flint, endeavoring by soothing words and fawning lies once more to win back the man who had turned his back upon him. And equally certain it is, that a more unyielding, impenetrable, imperturbable piece of humanity he had never met with; for to all his fine sentences, allurements, and artifices of every kind, he received no reply.

'This tack won't do,' thought Rust. 'He won't swallow honey. I'll give him wormwood; but before that, one more attempt.'

'Jacob, my friend,' said he, drawing a chair nearer to him, seating himself, and sinking his voice; 'perhaps you think I meant ill about your daughter?'

The old man moved restlessly, but was silent. Rust saw that he had touched the theme which would arouse him.

'You were mistaken, my friend. Would that the intentions of all were as pure as mine.'

'Speak of something else,' replied Rhoneland, abruptly. 'I'll not hear you on that subject.'

'But you must,' said Rust; 'indeed you must, my old friend. Not that I would annoy you; but I came here for that express purpose; andmustspeak of her.'

Rhoneland looked keenly at him, and then at the floor, grasping the sides of the chair firmly; as if to restrain himself from violence, and Rust went on.

'I'm a man of few words, Jacob. Kate's a dear, sweet girl. I love her; she loves me. Will you give her to me for a wife?'

'It's false!' said Rhoneland, starting to his feet. 'If there be a single person in this world whom Kate hates more than another, it is you! Give her toyoufor a wife!' exclaimed he, in a bitter tone; 'givehertoyou—YOU!I'd see her in her coffin first! Go, Michael Rust,' said he, extending his hands toward him; 'your power is at an end in this house. Go!'

'Not quite, good Jacob!' said Rust, in a low, fierce tone. 'Notquite, good Jacob! I know what your plans are; what your hopes are. I know what Enoch Grosket can do; and in what he'll fail. He'll fail to vindicate Jacob Rhoneland. He'll fail to vindicate himself. He'll fail to overthrow Michael Rust. He and Jacob will soon be cheek by jowl with those whose good deeds have placed fetters on them. It's well, Jacob, it's well. We'll see who'll winthe race. Pause, good Jacob, pause before you decide. I give you five minutes. With Michael Rust for a son-in-law, you are safe.'

Rhoneland grew exceedingly pale; and then summoning his resolution, said:

'Ihavedecided. Though it cost me my life, you shall not marry Kate. Go!'

'Jacob Rhoneland, one word.'

'Not a syllable!' said the old man, grasping his heavy cane, and his face becoming purple with anger: 'viper! begone! If you darken my doors one moment longer, I'll fling you into the street!'

'Good-by, Jacob,' said Rust; but not another word did he utter, as he left the house. His face was ashy pale; his features pinched and sharp; and he gnawed his lip until the blood came from it. Regardless of his appearance; with his long locks hanging in tangled flakes about his face, he hurried on. Dead and corpse-like as his features were, never was a fiercer spirit at work, to give life and energy to human frame; never was there a stronger concentration of dark passions in a human heart. His pace was quick and firm; there was no loitering; no pausing at corners, to think; no sign of irresolution. Darting along the street where the old man lived, and striking into one of the wider cross-streets of the city, he followed it until it brought him into Broadway. This he crossed, and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow streets which run between that and the Bowery. Threading them, with the ready step of one familiar with their turns and windings, he neither paused to inquire his direction, nor to read the sign-boards; but even in the darkest and dreariest corners, his knowledge seemed certain and accurate. The twilight had darkened into night, and the streets were narrow; and as he proceeded in the direction of the more fated parts of the city, dim figures, which like bats were shrouded in holes and dark hiding-places in the day time, were beginning to flit about, yet he felt no hesitation nor fear. In the most gloomy and blighted of all these places, he paused, cast a quick suspicious glance about him, to see that none watched him, and then darted up an alley between two houses, so ruined and sagged that their gables met over it like a gothic arch. Groping his way along, he came to a door at the foot of a flight of stairs which terminated the passage. He did not pause to knock; but pulling a string, opened it, and ascended a pitch-dark staircase, which in like manner was terminated at the upper end by a door. At this he knocked loudly. He was answered by a gruff voice which inquired:

'Is that you, Joe?'

'No,' replied Rust.

'Well, if you ain't Joe, who are you? If you ain't got a name, peg away; for blow me, if I open till I hear it.'

There was a noise, as if the speaker, in conclusion of his observation, drew a chair or bench along the floor, and seated himself.

'Come Bill,' said another voice, 'this won't do. You'd better open it.'

A muttering from Bill showed that he thought otherwise; but theperson who had spoken, apparently not heeding his disapprobation, got up and opened the door, giving to Rust as he did so a full view of the interior of the room.

At a table sat a man with coarse red hair, and a beard of several days' growth. He was a brawny fellow, six feet high, with a cast in one eye, which seemed to have been injured by a deep gash; the scar of which still remained, commencing on the very eye-lid, crossing one cheek, and his nose, and giving an air of sternness to features which needed not this addition, to express much that was bad. His companion, who had opened the door, was a man of smaller build, with broad, square shoulders, dark sharp eyes, narrow forehead, and overhanging brows, and a thin, tremulous lip; and though possessed of less physical strength than his comrade, looked much the most dangerous man of the two.

They both eyed Rust for a moment, without speaking, and then the larger of the two said to his comrade: 'Tim Craig, hand the gentleman a chair.'

'I don't want one,' said Rust abruptly. 'Have you seen Enoch?'

They both shook their heads.

'He'll blow on me, and you, and others.'

The two men looked at him, and then at each other, but said nothing.

'He's set himself up against me—me!' said Rust, his thin lip curling and yet trembling as he spoke.

'He's a dark man, that Enoch,' said Craig, in a low tone. 'There's no good in crossing him, Mr. Rust.'

'Crossing him! crossinghim!' exclaimed Rust. 'He has crossedme. Who ever didthat, and prospered! Ho! ho! Enoch, Enoch! you mistook your man!'

The two looked anxiously at each other, but did not speak; and although they had the thews and sinews which could have torn the thin form before them to shreds, it seemed as if they both shrank from him with something like fear.

'It has come to the death-struggle between us,' said Rust; 'one or the other must fall.'

'If you're the one?' inquired Craig.

'Others must go too,' replied Rust; 'theymust.'

Craig gnawed his lip.

'If Enoch goes, he goes alone,' continued Rust. 'He must be out of my way; he knows too much.'

The men exchanged looks; but the larger of the two seemed to leave all the speaking to the other, merely listening with great attention, and occasionally favoring his comrade with a glance, whenever it seemed necessary.

'I have no time to stay now,' said Rust, turning to Craig: 'I've told you enough. Grosket is in my way. I must be rid of him.'

Craig put his finger to his throat, and deliberately drew it across it. 'You're a ticklish man to deal with, Mr. Rust. Is that what you mean?' said he.

'I say I must be rid of him,' replied Rust, fiercely. 'Are youdeaf? Are your brains addled? Rid of him—ridof him—RIDof him!' exclaimed he, advancing, and hissing the words in the man's ear, while there was something in his look and manner that caused even the bold villain he addressed to draw back and assume a somewhat defensive attitude. 'Do you understand me now? Law won't do what I want. I prescribe no mode; but Enoch Grosket must be out of my path.'

'You're growing red-hot, my master,' said the man, bluntly. 'But I must have what you want spoken out. Shall he be knocked on the head?'

'Hasn't he committed a murder, burnt a house, stolen, embezzled? I think I've heard of his having done something of the kind,' said Rust, earnestly.

'Of course he has. He's done 'em all, if you like. Bill knows something about them. Don't you, Bill?'

'Oh! yes,' said Bill, refreshing himself from a large pitcher of water. 'This 'ere vorter is very weak. Blowed if I ain't forgot what liquor smells like; and it's so long since I see'd a dollar, that bless me, if I think I'd know one. I'd have to go to some obligin' friend to ax what it was.'

This declaration of ignorance was accompanied by a look of consummate disgust into the pitcher, and another of a very peculiar character at Rust.

That worthy, however, seemed not unused to meeting with gentlemen in similar trying circumstances; for he gave both the look and language an interpretation which, considering the enigmatical mode in which they were expressed, fully met the views of the man who uttered them; and thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a handful of silver, which he flung into the pitcher, and said:

'Perhaps that will improve the water.'

Bill made no other response than a broad grin; and then said in a more business-like tone:

'Well, about that murder, and house burnin', and all that. What do you want?'

'I want proof of it against Grosket, if he did it.'

'In course he did it,' replied the man, with a knowing look.

'Well, bring me the proof of it, and bring it soon. You know where to find me.'

He turned on his heel, and even before they were aware that he had left the room, he was on his way through the street.

His course was now to his old den. When he reached it, he found even that paragon of clerks, Mr. Kornicker, absent. This was a relief; for he was too much excited to care to have any witness of his appearance.

'It struck seven as I passed the town-clock,' said he. 'It wants an hour to the time fixed. I'll wait.'

Although it was dark, he flung himself on a chair, without striking a light, and sat for some time in silence, tapping the floor with his foot. But rest was not the thing for his present mood; and he soon started up, and paced the room, muttering to himself. At last theclock struck eight. The lights, which shining from the windows in different parts of the building, somewhat relieved the gloom of his room, were extinguished one by one, and it became pitchy dark. Rust lighted a candle; placed it on the mantel-piece, and stood looking at it for some moments. He heard a step on the stairs; but it ascended to the floor beyond, then descended, and went out in the street. He looked at his watch; it was but five minutes after eight. 'God! how slow the time went!' Perhaps his watch had stopped. He put it to his ear: tick, tick, tick! There seemed an interval of a minute between every stroke. 'Five minutes past eight; ten minutes more, andshewill be here,' muttered he; 'and then I shall know the worst.'

He put the watch in his pocket; and looking at the ceiling, attempted to whistle; but it would not do. His blood was in a fever. Hark!—was that a footstep on the stairs? No, it was only the tread of a person overhead. Hist! what's that? He stood stock-still, and listened. There was a slight shuffling noise in the passage; and then a faint tap at the door.

Rust sprang forward, and opened it. A female, muffled in an old cloak, stood cowering on the outside.

'Ha! it's you at last!' exclaimed he, in that abrupt, energetic manner, which suited his character better than his more usual tones. 'What news?'

The woman, either to gain time, or because she was really exhausted, staggered to a chair, and turning her face to the light, revealed the features of Mrs. Blossom.

'Ah's me! ah's me!' said she, leaning back, and sighing heavily. 'It's a wearisome way I've come, old and feeble as I am—old and feeble, old and feeble—a very wearisome way.'

There must have been something in the look of Rust, who stood before her with his black, glowing eye fixed on her's, that was peculiarly startling; for she paused in her whining, and turning to him, said:

'What do you look at me so for?'

'Is there no reason for it?' said Rust, in a low voice. 'Is there no trust betrayed? Have you done all that you swore to do?'

Mrs. Blossom, hardened as she naturally was, and as she had become, by long following a pursuit which requires no little assurance, was not without some signs of trepidation at this question.

'No, no; I haven't. I swear I haven't,' said she.

'I placed two children in your charge,' continued Rust, in the same low tone. 'They were never to leave it, except for one place—the grave.'

Mrs. Blossom's wan features grew paler, as she whispered: 'Not so loud, Mr. Rust, not so loud.'

'As you please; I'll whisper,' said Rust, suiting the action to the word; and speaking in a whisper, yet so distinct and thrilling, that each word seemed to come like a blow. 'I placed two children under your charge; and unless I required them, and unless they grew ill, and died, they were to become what you are. Where are they? I want them.'

Mrs. Blossom looked hopelessly about her, as if she meditated an escape; but seeing no chance of any, she cast a deprecating eye at Rust, shook her head, and said nothing. Rust went on in the same strain:

'They were with you two months since; going on gloriously; travelling at a hand-gallop to the grave. I have heard strange stories of them since. Are they true?'

Still the woman was silent.

'Answer me!' said Rust, his fury gradually getting the mastery of him, and his voice bursting out loud and clear. 'Where are they?'

Mrs. Blossom clasped her hands and looked at him, but uttered not a word.

'Where are the children? Answer me!' said he, starting to his feet, and darting up to her, his eyes perfectly blood-shot with fury, and the foam standing round his lips; 'the children, I say—the children!Godd—n you!—do you hear me?'

Mrs. Blossom cowered down in the chair, and made one or two futile efforts to speak; her thin blue lips quivered; but no sound came from them; while a kind of idiotic smile fixed itself on her features.

'The children, I say!' exclaimed Rust, gnashing his teeth with rage; and seizing the woman by the shoulders in his paroxysm of fury, he shook her until she reeled and fell to the floor. 'What have you done with them? Answer me; or by the God of Heaven I'll crush you beneath my feet!'

Before his amiable intention, however, could be carried into effect, Mrs. Blossom had recovered her wits, her feet, and not a little of her usual spirit; and turning upon him, with eyes flashing as brightly as his own, she said:

'They're gone, Michael Rust; gone,gone! Do you hear that? Gone, where when you next see them you will wish the undertaker had measured them before. Gone, gone! ha! ha! You won't see the lambs again. So much for striking an unprotected female, Michael Rust. That for ye!thatfor ye!THATfor ye!' And she snapped her fingers in the face of the disappointed schemer, and left the room, slamming the door loudly after her.

Rust clasped his hands, as she went out, and raised his eyes to heaven.

'Gone!' repeated he, in a low tone; 'gone!—both gone! And I—I?—what will become of me? Is it forthisthat I have toiled and slaved for years; that I have stooped to meanness and dissimulation; have steeped myself in crime, and have had felons and miscreants of every dye for my associates? For years have I been on the rack: no more quiet hours, or peaceful dreams; no more love from those of the same blood; but cursed, hated; hated with the worst hate, the hate of one's own kindred; my schemes thwarted, my hopes blighted; a felon; my dearest hopes crumbled to dust; these two children restored to their rights; Kate married!—and I,I, where shall I be? God of Heaven!' exclaimed he, dashing up and down the room, 'shall these things be?ShallI fall?—shalltheytriumph? Never! never! Be yourself, Michael Rust!' said he, in a choked voice; 'be yourself! be yourself! This has happened from trusting others. Rely on yourself, Michael; be cool, Michael; and then thwart them—thwart them!'

He paused and stood in the middle of that room like a statue. Slowly and by degrees every trace of excitement disappeared from his features, until they had assumed a sharp, rigid, fixed look; and then, he said, pursuing the same theme: 'Thwart them;thwartthem, Michael Rust! Work, toil, cringe, lie, steal, murder—aye, doanything—but thwart them, thwart them! Good Michael Rust, don't suffer yourself to be a by-word in their mouths! And if you fail, Michael, die fighting. There's something noble inthat. Be it so; be it so!' said he, in a stern, abrupt tone. 'They've driven me to extremities. Nothing but desperate measures can save me. Desperate measures shall be tried. Does success require a life? Well, well; the world's overloaded; it shall have one. If I attain it, it will be another's; if I fail, it will be my own: the grave is a quiet resting-place; a better one than the world, when a man's foiled in all his aims. But I'm weary, I'm weary!' said he, in a low, desponding tone; 'my head's dizzy, and my brain confused, by the troubles which have come so thickly upon me to-day. I must rest.'

Drawing a chair to the table, he seated himself upon it; bent his head down upon the table, and exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, which had taxed even his iron frame beyond its powers of endurance, he soon slept heavily.

Oh!thou resistless and relentless power!Mighty, mysterious in thy every form:Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour,Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm.And thou art there where the green vine is turningIts gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower;And thou art there where silent stars are burning,Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour.And thou art there where young Joy in his mirthPresses his cup to lips of human wo,And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth,Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go!And ah! where art thounot, mysteriousDeath!The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breathBut for thy conquering; and hope divine,And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tearThat sparkles in the eye of love; the sighThat moves soft pity in the soul sincere,All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!Passing like blossoms from the earth away,All that of life or being hath its share;The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!

And ah! where art thounot, mysteriousDeath!The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breathBut for thy conquering; and hope divine,And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tearThat sparkles in the eye of love; the sighThat moves soft pity in the soul sincere,All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!Passing like blossoms from the earth away,All that of life or being hath its share;The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!

Edmund Brewster Green.

New-York, September, 1843.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.

A ladyone day said to the celebrated CountRostoptchinthat he ought to write his memoirs. The next day the Count handed her a little roll of paper. 'What have you here?' asked the lady. 'I have obeyed your commands,' replied he; 'I have written my memoirs; here they are.' The lady was not a little surprised at the promptness of the performance; and hastened to peruse the following morceau, the caustic wit and piquancy of which will remind the reader of the keen satire of Voltaire.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.

I. MY BIRTH. II. MY EDUCATION. III. MY SUFFERINGS. IV. PRIVATIONS. V. MEMORABLE EPOCHS. VI. MORAL TRAITS. VII. IMPORTANT RESOLUTION. VIII. WHAT I WAS AND WHAT I MIGHT HAVE BEEN. IX. RESPECTABLE PRINCIPLES. X. MY TASTES. XI. MY DISLIKES. XII. ANALYSIS OF MY LIFE. XIII. BOUNTIES OF HEAVEN. XIV. MY EPITAPH. XV. DEDICATORY EPISTLE.

CHAPTER I: MY BIRTH.

Onthe twelfth day of March, 1765, I emerged from darkness into the light of day. I was measured, I was weighed, I was baptised. I was born without knowing wherefore, and my parents thanked heaven without knowing for what.

CHAPTER II: MY EDUCATION.

I wastaught all sorts of things, and learned all kinds of languages. By dint of impudence and quackery, I sometimes passed for asavant. My head has become a library of odd volumes, of which I keep the key.

CHAPTER III: MY SUFFERINGS.

I wastormented by masters; by tailors who made tight dresses for me; by women, by ambition, by self-love, by useless regrets, by kings, and by remembrances.

CHAPTER IV: PRIVATIONS.

I havebeen deprived of the three great enjoyments of the human species; theft, gluttony, and pride.

CHAPTER V: MEMORABLE EPOCHS.

Atthe age of thirty, I gave up dancing; at forty, my endeavors to please the fair sex; at fifty, my regard of public opinion; at sixty, the trouble of thinking; and I have now become a true sage, or egotist, which is the same thing.

CHAPTER VI: MORAL TRAITS.

I wasstubborn as a mule, capricious as a coquette, frolicksome as a child, lazy as a dormouse, active as Bonaparte, and all at my pleasure.

CHAPTER VII: IMPORTANT RESOLUTION.

Neverhaving been able to master my countenance, I let loose the bridle of my tongue, and contracted the bad habit of thinking aloud. This procured me some pleasures and many enemies.

CHAPTER VIII: WHAT I WAS AND WHAT I MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

I havebeen very sensible of friendship and confidence; and if I had been born in the golden age, I might perhaps have been a very excellent man.

CHAPTER IX: RESPECTABLE PRINCIPLES.

I havenever meddled in any marriages or scandal. I have never recommended a cook or a physician; and consequently have never attempted the life of any one.

CHAPTER X: MY TASTES.

I tookpleasure in small parties, and was fond of a walk in the woods. I had an involuntary veneration for the sun, and his setting often made me sad. Of colors I preferred blue; in eating, beef with horse-radish; for drinking, cold water; at the theatre, comedy and farce; of men and women, open and expressive countenances. Hunchbacks of both sexes always had a peculiar charm for me, which I could never define.

CHAPTER XI: MY DISLIKES.

I hada dislike to sots and fops, and to intriguing women who make a game of virtue; a disgust for affectation; pity for made-up men and painted women; an aversion to rats, liquors, metaphysics, and rhubarb; and a terror of justice and wild beasts.

CHAPTER XII: ANALYSIS OF MY LIFE.

I awaitdeath without fear and without impatience. My life has been a bad melo-drama on a grand stage, where I have played the hero, the tyrant, the lover, the nobleman, but never the valet.

CHAPTER XIII: THE BOUNTIES OF HEAVEN.

Mygreat happiness consists in being independent of the three individuals who govern Europe. As I am sufficiently rich, meddle not with politics, and care very little for music, of course I have nothing to do with Rothschild, Metternich, or Rossini.

CHAPTER XIV: MY EPITAPH.

'Herelies, 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.

Dogof 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!

Weread 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.'

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!'

Pulseof my heart! dear source of care,Of stolen sighs and love-breathed vows;Sweeter than when, through scented air,Gay bloom the apple-boughs!

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!

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 rightof 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, andour 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 forBunkum, 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.'

ON READING 'FORGET-ME-NOT,' IN THE JULY KNICKERBOCKER.

BY CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

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