Part 4

The Christmas holydays are nigh, Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by, Then _revenons a nos moutons_, Yourself and aldermen--meanwhile, Look o'er this letter with a smile; And keep the secret of its song As faithfully, but not as long, As you have guarded from the eyes Of editorial Paul Prys, And other meddling, murmuring claimants, Those Eleusinian mysteries, The city's cash receipts and payments. Yours ever, T. C.

[A] A favourite French air. In English, "where can one be more happy than in the bosom of one's family?"

EPISTLES, ETC.

TO

W*LT*R B*WNE, ESQ.,

MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF NEW-YORK, AT ALBANY, 1821.

"Stand not upon the order of your going. But go at once."

"I cannot but remember such things were, And were most precious to me."

_Macbeth._

We do not blame you, W*lt*r B*wne, For a variety of reasons; You're now the talk of half the town, A man of talent and renown, And will be for perhaps two seasons. That face of yours has magic in it; Its smile transports us in a minute To wealth and pleasure's sunny bowers; And there is terror in its frown, Which, like a mower's scythe, cuts down Our city's loveliest flowers.

We therefore do not blame you, sir, Whate'er our cause of grief may be; And cause enough we have to "stir The very stones to mutiny." You've driven from the cash and cares Of office, heedless of our prayers, Men who have been for many a year To us and to our purses dear, And will be to our heirs for ever, Our tears, thanks to the snow and rain, Have swell'd the brook in Maiden-lane Into a mountain river; And when you visit us again, Leaning at Tammany on your cane, Like warrior on his battle blade, You'll mourn the havoc you have made.

There is a silence and a sadness Within the marble mansion now; Some have wild eyes that threaten madness, Some think of "kicking up a row." Judge M*ll*r will not yet believe That you have ventured to bereave The city and its hall of him: He has in his own fine way stated, "The fact must be substantiated," Before he'll move a single limb. He deems it cursed hard to yield The laurel won in every field Through sixteen years of party war, And to be seen at noon no more, Enjoying at his office door The luxury of a tenth segar. Judge Warner says that, when he's gone, You'll miss the true Dogberry breed; And Christian swears that you have done A most UN-Christian deed.

How could you have the heart to strike From place the peerless Pierre Van Wyck? And the twin colonels, Haines and Pell, Squire Fessenden, and Sheriff Bell; M*rr*ll, a justice and a wise one, And Ned M'Laughlin the exciseman; The two health officers, believers In Clinton and contagious fevers; The keeper of the city's treasures, The sealer of her weights and measures, The harbour-master, her best bower Cable in party's stormy hour; Ten auctioneers, three bank directors, And Mott and Duffy, the inspectors Of whiskey and of flour?

It was but yesterday they stood All (ex-officio) great and good. But by the tomahawk struck down Of party and of W*lt*r B*wne, Where are they now? With shapes of air, The caravan of things that were, Journeying to their nameless home, Like Mecca's pilgrims from her tomb; With the lost Pleiad; with the wars Of Agamemnon's ancestors; With their own years of joy and grief, Spring's bud, and autumn's faded leaf; With birds that round their cradles flew; With winds that in their boyhood blew; With last night's dream and last night's dew.

Yes, they are gone; alas! each one of them; Departed--every mother's son of them. Yet often, at the close of day, When thoughts are wing'd and wandering, they Come with the memory of the past, Like sunset clouds along the mind, Reflecting, as they're flitting fast In their wild hues of shade and light, All that was beautiful and bright In golden moments left behind.

TO * * * * *.

Dear ***, I am writing, not _to_ you, but _at_ you, For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place; But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you, May she find you with gayety's smile on your face; Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes, Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony's Nose; Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love; Or in old Saratoga's unknown fountain-land, Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand; Whether dancing on Sundays, at Lebanon Springs, With those Madame Hutins of religion, the Shakers; Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding rings At Ballston, as taught by mammas and match-makers; Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck, From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec; Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee (The giant of waters, our country's pet lion), Or dipp'd at Long Branch, in the real salt sea, With a cork for a dolphin, a Cockney Arion; Whether roaming earth, ocean, or even the air, Like Dan O'Rourke's eagle--good luck to you there.

For myself, as you'll see by the date of my letter, I'm in town, but of that fact the least said the better; For 'tis vain to deny (though the city o'erflows With well-dressed men and women, whom nobody knows) That one rarely sees persons whose nod is an honour, A lady with fashion's own impress upon her; Or a gentleman bless'd with the courage to say, Like Morris (the Prince Regent's friend, in his day), "Let others in sweet shady solitudes dwell, Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall."

Apropos--our friend A. chanced this morning to meet The accomplish'd Miss B. as he pass'd Contoit's Garden, Both in town in July!--he cross'd over the street, And she enter'd the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin. Resolved not to look at another known face, Through Leonard and Church streets she walked to Park Place, And he turn'd from Broadway into Catharine-lane, And coursed, to avoid her, through alley and by-street, Till they met, as the devil would have it, again, Face to face, near the pump at the corner of Dey-st.

Yet, as most of "The Fashion" are journeying now, With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow, The few "_gens comme il faut_" who are lingering here, Are, like fruits out of season, more welcome and dear. Like "the last rose of summer, left blooming alone," Or the last snows of winter, pure ice of _haut ton_, Unmelted, undimm'd by the sun's brightest ray, And, like diamonds, making night's darkness seem day. One meets them in groups, that Canova might fancy, At our new lounge at evening, the _Opera Francais_, In nines like the Muses, in threes like the Graces, Green spots in a desert of commonplace faces. The Queen, Mrs. Adams, goes there sweetly dress'd In a beautiful bonnet, all golden and flowery: While the King, Mr. Bonaparte, smiles on Celeste, Heloise, and Hutin, from his box at the Bowery.

For news, Parry still the North Sea is exploring, And the Grand Turk has taken, they say, the Acropolis, And we, in Swamp Place, have discover'd, in boring, A mineral spring to refine the metropolis. The day we discover'd it was, by-the-way, In the life of the Cockneys, a glorious day. For we all had been taught, by tradition and reading, That to gain what admits us to levees of kings, The gentleness, courtesy, grace of high breeding, The only sure way was to "visit the Springs." So the whole city visited Swamp Spring _en masse_, From attorney to sweep, from physician to paviour, To drink of cold water at sixpence a glass, And learn true politeness and genteel behaviour. Though the crowd was immense till the hour of departure, No gentleman's feelings were hurt in the rush, Save a grocer's, who lost his proof-glass and bung-starter, And a chimney sweep's, robb'd of his scraper and brush. They linger'd till sunset and twilight had come, Then, wearied in limb, but much polish'd in manners, The sovereign people moved gracefully home, In the beauty and pride of "an army with banners."

As to politics--Adams and Clinton yet live, And reign, we presume, as we never have miss'd 'em, And woollens and Webster continue to thrive Under something they call the American System. If you're anxious to know what the country is doing, Whether ruin'd already or going to ruin, And who her next president will be, please heaven, Read the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay, All the party newspapers, three columns a day, And Blunt's Annual Register, year 'twenty-seven.

A FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

His shop is a grocer's--a snug, genteel place, Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl; He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's ask'd to all parties--north, south, east, and west, That take place between Chatham and Cherry, And when he's been absent full oft has the "best Society" ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darken'd a sky so serene, Nor disorder'd his beauship's Elysium, Till this season among our _elite_ there has been What is call'd by the clergy "a schism."

'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses" or so, And is cool'd after dancing with classic sherbet, "Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow."

Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_, Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, Stew'd oysters from Lynn-Haven bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, In the front parlour over her shop, "Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night, Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, She "entertains" also to-night with cold tongue, Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, He of Teos sang sweetly of wine; Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place; In Pike-street the Capulets reign; A _limonadiere_ is the badge of one race, Of the other a flask of Champagne.

Now as each the same evening her soiree announces, What better, he asks, can be done, Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

* * * * *

SONG.

BY MISS * * * *.

_Air_, "To ladies eyes a round, boy." MOORE.

The winds of March are humming Their parting song, their parting song, And summer's skies are coming, And days grow long, and days grow long. I watch, but not in gladness, Our garden tree, our garden tree; It buds, in sober sadness, Too soon for me, too soon for me. My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

'Tis not asleep or idle That love has been, that love has been; For many a happy bridal The year has seen, the year has seen; I've done a bridemaid's duty, At three or four, at three or four; My best bouquet had beauty, Its donor more, its donor more. My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

His flowers my bosom shaded One sunny day, one sunny day; The next, they fled and faded, Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. In vain, at ball and parties, I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; This waltzing, watching heart is Unchosen yet, unchosen yet. My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

They tell me there's no hurry For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring; And I'm too young to marry: 'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing. The next spring tides will dash on My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year; It puts me in a passion, Oh dear, oh dear! oh dear, oh dear! My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

SONG.

FOR THE DRAMA OF "THE SPY."

The harp of love, when first I heard Its song beneath the moonlight tree, Was echoed by his plighted word, And ah, how dear its song to me; But wail'd the hour will ever be When to the air the bugle gave, To hush love's gentle minstrelsy, The wild war music of the brave. For he hath heard its song, and now Its voice is sweeter than mine own; And he hath broke the plighted vow He breathed to me and love alone. That harp hath lost its wonted tone, No more its strings his fingers move, Oh would that he had only known The music of the harp of love. 1822.

ADDRESS,

AT THE OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE.

November, 1831.

Where dwells the Drama's spirit? not alone Beneath the palace roof, beside the throne, In learning's cloisters, friendship's festal bowers, Art's pictured halls, or triumph's laurel'd towers, Where'er man's pulses beat or passions play, She joys to smile or sigh his thoughts away: Crowd times and scenes within her ring of power, And teach a life's experience in an hour.

To-night she greets, for the first time, our dome, Her latest, may it prove her lasting home; And we her messengers delighted stand, The summon'd Ariels of her mystic wand, To ask your welcome. Be it yours to give Bliss to her coming hours, and bid her live Within these walls new hallow'd in her cause, Long in the nurturing warmth of your applause.

'Tis in the public smiles, the public loves, His dearest home, the actor breathes and moves, Your plaudits are to us and to our art As is the life-blood to the human heart: And every power that bids the leaf be green, In nature acts on this her mimic scene.

Our sunbeams are the sparklings of glad eyes, Our winds the whisper of applause, that flies From lip to lip, the heart-born laugh of glee, And sounds of cordial hands that ring out merrily, And heaven's own dew falls on us in the tear That woman weeps o'er sorrows pictured here, When crowded feelings have no words to tell The might, the magic of the actor's spell.

These have been ours; and do we hope in vain Here, oft and deep, to feel them ours again? No! while the weary heart can find repose From its own pains in fiction's joys or woes; While there are open lips and dimpled cheeks, When music breathes, or wit or humour speaks; While Shakspeare's master spirit can call up Noblest and worthiest thoughts, and brim the cup Of life with bubbles bright as happiness, Cheating the willing bosom into bliss; So long will those who, in their spring of youth, Have listen'd to the Drama's voice of truth, Mark'd in her scenes the manners of their age, And gather'd knowledge for a wider stage, Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years, And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears; And younger hearts, when ours are hushed and cold, Be happy here as we have been of old.

Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine Where music, painting, poetry entwine Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power Refines, exalts, ennobles hour by hour The spirit of the land, and, like the wind, Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind; To you the hour that consecrates this dome, Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come, When some creating poet, born your own, May waken here the drama's loftiest tone, Through after years to echo loud and long, A Shakspeare of the West, a star of song, Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire, All times to gladden and all tongues inspire, Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fann'd, Floats the free banner of your native land.

THE RHYME

OF

THE ANCIENT COASTER.

_Written while sailing in an open boat on the Hudson River, between Stony Point and the Highlands, on seeing the wreck of an old sloop, June, 1821._

"And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." SHAKSPEARE.

Her side is in the water, Her keel is in the sand, And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock That bounds the sea and land.

Her deck is without a mast, And sand and shells are there, And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, In the sun and the sultry air.

No more on the river's bosom, When sky and wave are calm, And the clouds are in summer quietness, And the cool night-breath is balm,

Will she glide in the swan-like stillness Of the moon in the blue above, A messenger from other lands, A beacon to hope and love.

No more, in the midnight tempest, Will she mock the mounting sea, Strong in her oaken timbers, And her white sail's bravery.

She hath borne, in days departed, Warm hearts upon her deck; Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, The victims, and the wreck

Of time, whose touch erases Each vestige of all we love; The wanderers, home returning, Who gazed that deck above,

And they who stood to welcome Their loved ones on that shore, Are gone, and the place that knew them Shall know them never more.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was a night of terror, In the autumn equinox, When that gallant vessel found a grave Upon the Peekskill rocks.

Captain, mate, cook, and seamen (They were in all but three), Were saved by swimming fast and well, And their gallows-destiny.

But two, a youth and maiden, Were left to brave the storm, With unpronounceable Dutch names, And hearts with true love warm.

And they, for love has watchers In air, on earth, and sea, Were saved by clinging to the wreck, And their marriage-destiny.

From sunset to night's noon She had lean'd upon his arm, Nor heard the far-off thunder toll The tocsin of alarm.

Not so the youth--he listen'd To the cloud-wing flapping by; And low he whisper'd in Low Dutch, "It tells our doom is nigh.

"Death is the lot of mortals, But we are young and strong, And hoped, not boldly, for a life Of happy years and long.

"Yet 'tis a thought consoling, That, till our latest breath, We loved in life, and shall not be Divided in our death.

"Alas, for those that wait us On their couch of dreams at home, The morn will hear the funeral cry Around their daughter's tomb.

"They hoped" ('twas a strange moment In Dutch to quote Shakspeare) "Thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy bier."

But, sweetly-voiced and smiling, The trusting maiden said, "Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day, To-morrow we will wed?

"And I, who have known thy truth Through years of joy and sorrow, Can I believe the fickle winds? No! we shall wed to-morrow!"

The tempest heard and paused-- The wild sea gentler moved-- They felt the power of woman's faith In the word of him she loved.

All night to rope and spar They clung with strength untired, Till the dark clouds fled before the sun, And the fierce storm expired.

At noon the song of bridal bells O'er hill and valley ran; At eve he call'd the maiden his, "Before the holy man."

They dwelt beside the waters That bathe yon fallen pine, And round them grew their sons and daughters, Like wild grapes on the vine.

And years and years flew o'er them, Like birds with beauty on their wings, And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters, And long and lovely springs,

Such joys as thrill'd the lips that kiss'd The wave, rock-cool'd, from Horeb's fountains, And sorrows, fleeting as the mist Of morning, spread upon the mountains,

Till, in a good old age, Their life-breath pass'd away; Their name is on the churchyard page-- Their story in my lay.

* * * * * * * * * *

And let them rest together, The maid, the boat, the boy, Why sing of matrimony now, In this brief hour of joy?

Our time may come, and let it-- 'Tis enough for us now to know That our bark will reach West Point ere long, If the breeze keep on to blow.

We have Hudibras and Milton, Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn, And a dozen segars are lingering yet Of the thousand of yestermorn.

They have gone, like life's first pleasures, And faded in smoke away, And the few that are left are like bosom friends In the evening of our day.

We are far from the mount of battle,[B] Where the wreck first met mine eye, And now where twin-forts[C] in the olden time rose, Thro' the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark goes, And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony's Nose, So wrecks and rhymes--good-by.

[B] Stony Point.

[C] Forts Clinton and Montgomery.

FINIS.