THE ASPEN TREE. Oh! surely it is a lovely sight When the brow of heaven wears a smile of light, And the breeze is in his hermit cell, Where he slumbers, to us invisible; And their plumage of mist round the hill-tops is curled, Then sweet 'tis to see the aspen leaves quiver, Like the busy ripple of some bright river: Ye flutter still-although the breeze Nor bids the oak-leaves move : Ye vegetable stars of earth! In beauty blossoming ; Although nor bloom, nor fruit, ye bear, As promise of the spring. In autumn's hour ye are a dream Of spring-tide; for your bright leaves seem A busy nimble throng Of small birds nestling merrily: And oft your rustling seem to me Yes, ye fitfully gleam, in the autumn hour; G. J. F. A YOUNG AUTHOR'S DEFENCE OF THEFT. TO PLEASE, and to ASTONISH, is the object propounded to himself by an author, whensoever, and for whatsoever purpose he takes up his pen. Now as I am not yet an author complete, nor even an author professed, but merely a flower in the bud, a chicken in the shell, I should be well contented to fulfil the last half of the proposition. But a difficult task, I wot, is it even to astonish a modish reader; squeeze your brain till it is as dry as a sponge, in the invention of scenes and circumstances the most unnatural; describe things which are neither on the earth, nor off it,—sink, swim, or soar in the heights and depths of imagination; the obstinate caitiff will not be moved to wonder, except perchance at-his own patience. 'Exhaust whole worlds, and then imagine new.' Why that has been done so often, that, to adopt the belief of some philosophers as to the formation of our globe, we, the present race of writers, can only make new worlds out of the wrecks of old ones, and be original by the aid of a good memory. In common with pickpockets, we have great cause of complaint against the times. So much light is thrown upon our proceedings, our expedients, our researches, and our resources, that if we do appropriate a little snug booty, before we have time to enjoy it, or even to congratulate ourselves on our success, a hue and cry is heard in all directions, and the how, and the when, we obtained possession of the article, is instantly known to every reader of periodicals and police reports. A tiger-hearted race are modern readers; too well taught to allow themselves to be ill fed-spurning with indignant paw the delicate morsels we young writers may humbly offer-suffering none to teaze them with impunity, and few to coax them into good humour! Never in the annals of pen, ink, and paper, was there known such an awful period for a young literary debutant! He is surrounded by a countless multitude possessing talent and pretensions equal with his own,—while he is preceded by another countless multitude, possessing talent and pretensions far greater. Like a youthful knight of old, tilting in the melée— if he is a victor, his conquest is hidden by the crowd; if he falls, that crowd tramples him to death. 'Pity the sorrows of a poor old man.' Pity the sorrows of a poor young author, ought to have been the reading-turned out with but a scanty portion of original ideas, every page he writes makes that little less;-he has but one resourse-theft,-and theft has but one consequence-punishment. I would, however, candidly argue this point with the reader, in the hope, that I may prove to him, that theft ought not to be made a capital crime. To put a case, a home one. A youth, like myself, very anxious for the honour of wearing literary laurels, but not quite certain, either as to his capability, or the best mode of winning them, sits down to read. What ensues? He shortly finds that every thing he has to say has been better said before, and all he thinks better thought. He discovers that his original ideas originated in the brains of others; that his novelties are as old as the hills, and that what appeared inventions of his own had been invented long before he was born. Each author diminishes his little store of intellectual riches; like Sancho's dinner in Barataria, every dish is removed the instant it appears, and he is left at last to preside over an empty table. In this sad state, how, when he has no ideas of his own, is he to refrain from coveting his neighbour's? How keep his hands from picking and stealing, when those ideas are as temptingly exposed in books as articles placed at the outside of shop doors? If necessity be admitted as a palliating plea in favour of him who steals from the latter place, why may not the same plea equally palliate the guilt of him who steals from the former? Why should not the abstracter of ideas be placed on a level with the abstracter of cheese and bacon? Let not timid spirits be startled by this doctrine; bold as it is, it holds out no encouragement for idleness. All those minor dishonesties which require little exertion of art and industry, ought to be punished with the utmost rigour; only great offenders, the Macheaths and Byrons of the profession, deserve consideration; for so much 'foresight, strength, and skill,' is exhibited in their delinquencies, that it requires an equal degree to detect them. Even after you have traced the stolen goods, you find them so artfully wrought up into new, and perhaps more beautiful forms, that you half doubt their personal identity. An author, who thus steals, is a thief of genius, and had Sparta been a literary nation, would have ranked as her chief star.' · Not, however, to weary the reader with more than enough, if he be one of the majority who take up books as an amusement, not a study, I would ask him one simple question:—' Do you care the pith of a goose quill about the origin, or origination of an idea that pleases you?' and he, being doubtless a person of sense, will reply by asking me another question :- Does a lady value her silk gown a whit the less, because the material was plagiarised from some hundred silk worms ?' An unanswerable illustration. Besides, ideas are immaterial things; they can neither be vested in the funds, nor laid out in land; nor can a man make them over to his heirs and assigns for ever. They are personal property, of an impersonal nature;-seeds that may be wafted to the farthest verge of the earth-that any one is free to sow, and as free to reap. They are gifts to the world, and their very author might as well attempt to retain exclusive possession of them, as to inclose the air for his own private breathing. The But necessity-necessity-is my grand, my golden argument. the locust left the caterpillar hath eaten ;-the ground unoccupied by the writers of the past ages is covered over with the tribes of the present; and, like the angels in one of the Mahometan heavens, they are so numerous, that there is scarcely room to place a needle between their ranks! Lastly, I prognosticate, (foresight is better than second sight), that, in another century, authors will merely compile, and composers transcribe. works of the next age will simply consist of extracts and selections from the works of the present. Without a doubt, that will be a very impudent generation, stealers en masse;—one will appropriate the Scotch Novels to himself, another Wordsworth's Poems,-nay, how do I know but this very article may be claimed by a young author in the year 1925! Very wonderful things do come to pass,-this would be one! Wherefore, since our children will inevitably steal from us, we do per fectly right in stealing from our fathers! Q. E. D. THE AMERICAN HUNTER. BY MRS. HOWITT. From an unpublished Poem. WILD and unkempt, in sooth, was he His fire-case swung securely free, So traversed the woods this uncouth man ; In early life it had been his lot And now, so long his life had been Till a life in each silent thing he found, And his heart owned the language of each sound He dragged from the dark swamp's reedy lair. He went, where the hurricane in its mirth Where the giant oaks strew the earth like reeds. And wildering and wild was the life of his dreams, LINES, ON READING IN THE NEWSPAPER, THAT A YOUNG LADY OF GREAT MUSICAL CELEBRITY, HAD STIPULATED. WITH THE MANAGER, THAT SHE SHOULD NEVER BE REQUIRED TO APPEAR ON THE STAGE IN MALE ATTIRE. THAT Paton, whose enchanting voice The admiring town bewitches, Seems rather strange, and at first sight, For surely every modest belle, And think her plan judicious: C. J. D |