II.

Whenspring-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!'

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!'

Poor dreamer! like his fleeting years,The autumn of his fond desiresPours 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!'

Like to the flower when autumn comesTo seek its folds with chilling breath,And winter's earliest whisper roamsIts 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 highPower,'Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!'

NUMBER FOUR.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

Sir: I can only account for your conduct by this one supposition: you must be adrinking-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 facultiesenlarged 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 theKnickerbocker, 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,

Notwithstandingthe 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,' butonce; and assuredlythat, asDogberrysays, 'shall besuffegance.' 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 itsrecovery.' 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 certainlydoaffect an occasional glass ofgoodwine at a cheerful board, with congenial guests; such wine as we are informed, on thebestauthority, 'maketh glad the heart of man;' such as SaintPaulrecommended 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.

TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, FLORENCE.

BY THE HANDS OF SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., LONDON.

Onthe 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 peaksWhich 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 earnMy 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 IStill 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 handTo catch the favors of the chary Nine.And here, amid remembrances that throngThicker than blossoms in the new-born June,Thine chiefly claims the witness of a songThat still at least my heart remains in tune.You will not fail to pardon as you breakThe blushing seal that bears the well-known crest;And every line, however rude, shall wakeKind thoughts of him who wanders in the West.But never hope (with so refined a senseOf what is well conceived and ably wrought,)To find my verse retain its old pretenceTo 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 mindBeyond 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 pourOver 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 Œnotria as she stoodIn Saturn's reign, before the stranger came;Ere yet the stillness of the trackless woodHad 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 gracedDied soon, as lacking some harmonious tongue.Up her dark streams the first explorers foundOnly 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 siteTo pitch their proud, impregnable abode.Pent in their airy dens, the builders rearedTurrets, 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 toldWhence 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 turnsTo the great people dearer to her heart.Soon as they rose—the Capitolian lords—The land grew sacred and beloved ofGod;Where'er they brandished their triumphant swordsGlory 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 paidWhere 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 whoTheir 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 learnOf souls that struggled with barbarian clay.With what emotion on a coin we traceVespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile,But view with heedless eye the murderous maceAnd chequered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle.Here, by the ploughman, as with daily treadHe 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, dearWalter! in our Eton daysWe 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 gleamedPossessed 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 hadO'er which perchance the Tiber's wave had rolled.It fired us then to trace upon the mapThe forum's line, the Pincian garden's paths;Ay, or to finger but a stucco scrapOr 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 guidesWho 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 broughtCrimson October's beautiful decay,Can all this loveliness inspire a thoughtBeyond 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 AgeShall 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, dearWalter, '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 youBuon giorno—to myself Good night!

Onthe 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 peaksWhich 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 earnMy 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 IStill 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 handTo catch the favors of the chary Nine.

And here, amid remembrances that throngThicker than blossoms in the new-born June,Thine chiefly claims the witness of a songThat still at least my heart remains in tune.

You will not fail to pardon as you breakThe blushing seal that bears the well-known crest;And every line, however rude, shall wakeKind thoughts of him who wanders in the West.

But never hope (with so refined a senseOf what is well conceived and ably wrought,)To find my verse retain its old pretenceTo 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 mindBeyond 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 pourOver 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 Œnotria as she stoodIn Saturn's reign, before the stranger came;Ere yet the stillness of the trackless woodHad 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 gracedDied soon, as lacking some harmonious tongue.

Up her dark streams the first explorers foundOnly 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 siteTo pitch their proud, impregnable abode.

Pent in their airy dens, the builders rearedTurrets, 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 toldWhence 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 turnsTo the great people dearer to her heart.

Soon as they rose—the Capitolian lords—The land grew sacred and beloved ofGod;Where'er they brandished their triumphant swordsGlory 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 paidWhere 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 whoTheir 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 learnOf souls that struggled with barbarian clay.

With what emotion on a coin we traceVespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile,But view with heedless eye the murderous maceAnd chequered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle.

Here, by the ploughman, as with daily treadHe 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, dearWalter! in our Eton daysWe 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 gleamedPossessed 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 hadO'er which perchance the Tiber's wave had rolled.

It fired us then to trace upon the mapThe forum's line, the Pincian garden's paths;Ay, or to finger but a stucco scrapOr 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 guidesWho 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 broughtCrimson October's beautiful decay,Can all this loveliness inspire a thoughtBeyond 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 AgeShall 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, dearWalter, '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 youBuon giorno—to myself Good night!

T. W. P.

Annals and Occurrences of New-York City and State in the Olden Time. By John F. Watson, Esq. New-York: Baker and Crane.

Hereis a new work touching theKnickerbockers, whichweare 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.Watsongathers facts and writescon 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 toGod, 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 worksui 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 metropolitanhouse, 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 ofHudson'sarrival at Sandy-Hook; the Erie Canal, Niagara Falls, the Conflagration of Schenectady, etc., etc.; and 'last, though not least,' afac simileof the head and signature of the good old governor, renowned inKnickerbocker'sannals as 'Peterthe Headstrong,' or 'Hard-Kopping Piet.' 'Finally, brethren,' let everyKnickerbockerwho feels an affectionate attachment to the home ofhisfathers, or veneration for the memory oftheirfathers, secure at once for himself a knowledge of all manner of curious things inseparable from our history, from one who has been called 'theHomerof his class, and in archeology, peerless.' Subscription-lists are open at the office of theKnickerbocker, at the store of the publishers, number 158 Pearl-street, and at the rooms of the Mercantile Library Association.

Letters from New-York.ByL. 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.

Inthe 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 oftruth, 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:

'Hewas 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 bylooking 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 thatsettlers 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.'

'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 thatsettlers 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:'

'Twobarn-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 wassobusy, andsoimportant; and her mate wassoattentive! 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 forthsucha 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 manœuvres! 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.'

'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 manœuvres! 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.Childhas a remarkable power ofadaptationin 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:

'Whilethey 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:

'Fewmen ask concerning right and wrong of theirownhearts. Few listen to the oraclewithin, 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 ofhispublic; 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 somefixed point of view. The sagacious pupil chose a cow grazing beneath the trees. Of course, hisfixed pointsoon 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 ofAndre, she is shown by the guide the head-quarters of GeneralWashington: 'I turned my back suddenly upon it. The last place on earth where I would wish to think ofWashingtonis at the grave ofAndre.' And she adds, that she never could look uponAndre'sexecution 'as other thana cool, deliberate murder!' The stern necessity which impelled theFather of his Countryto 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 thewoman's-heartof our author; as is her wish, and the 'strong faith' of which it is the father, that the time is not distant when 'allprisonswill 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 beforeWashington'smemory 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 andbizarre, 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 wasAndre's; their 'mated human hearts,' and so forth. These and one or two kindred simulations, or ultra-sentimentalities, are notintellectuallyfeminine, 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.

Wedeem it a substantial tribute to the merits of the poem before us, that it has elicited the cordial commendations of two daily journals of authority in our midst; the antipodal editors of which, (one of them the first of American poets,) in awarding their meed of praise, candidly confessed that the production was more likely to be judged by a political standard at the seat of government, than by any critical measure, based upon an impartial consideration of its literary qualities. For ourselves, we must say that we have perused the poem with a pleasure not a little enhanced by the reflection, that the author has been enabled to find leisure, amidst engagements which, if one may believe the partizan journals, must needs be numerous and pressing, to pay that attention to literary pursuits, which by so many politicians, and utilitarians of another class, are considered 'useless, if not belittling, to a man of mental calibre sufficient for any thing more manly than verse-making.' Indeed, this position we remember somewhere to have seen assumed and defended, in the words we have quoted. The opening of 'Medorus' Dream,' the fine lines on 'Death,' have already appeared in theKnickerbocker, from the manuscript of the author. They will be remembered not only by the readers of this Magazine, but also by those of very many journals throughout the Union, into which they were copied, with expressions of warm admiration. In selecting, therefore, a few extracts, in corroboration of the justice of our encomiums, we shall plunge at oncein medias resinto the volume before us; leaving our readers to judge whether the writer does not exhibit a hearty love and keen observation of Nature, in her various phases; a strong sense of the beautiful and the true; and an ease and smoothness of versification, which go far to controvert the theory that, for certain reasons, (among which 'a restless ambition' has been cited as the chief,) 'there can be little poetry in high places.' Take, for example, the annexed brief but comprehensive glance at the four seasons:

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