OLD BOOKS.

Ir is really winter,-doleful, dreary, miserable winter. O that I were a well compacted dormouse, that I might slumber until Spring should lay her soft hand upon his brawling lips. O that I were a bear, luxuriating on my nutritious extremities. At every other season we are abroad, and hunting for pleasure; but now, if we can screw our spirits up to the height of comfort, we feel as if we had achieved a triumph. The cold shiver at night, as we lie down like a statue in a snow-drift, the morning ablution in iced water, the mockery of the fireside, scorching our boot-heels, while the sleet lies unmelted on our shoulders-this is wretchedness. And having premised that we must expect nothing but trouble at this melancholy season, let us treat our assumption as divines occasionally do their texts-proceed to disprove it. Let not the shuddering wretch, who holds this periodical in his numb fingers, imagine for a moment that I mean to plod through the whole catalogue of artifices that may serve to while away the hours of winter captivity. I wish only to call his attention to a single resource, and the poor creature may be put to his shifts for occupation, before the skirts of February have swept the hills in his retiring pathway. Drive a man fairly in upon himself, block up his door with four feet of snow, and when he finds, in his solitude, what vapid stuff his brains are made of, he will bid you welcome, if you bring him nothing better than a pack of jack straws. If you have then, my friend, a single old book, you are not utterly miserable. If you have many, you may be almost happy. There are some books that never grow old. There are some authors, whose laurels will ever be as green as if they were garlands of immortal amaranth. But these are public property; they belong to every schoolboy that can read, and every scribbler that can quote. The old books to which I refer are of a different character; they are like those wall-flowers of the drawing-room, in whom a little unnoticed cultivation gives us an exclusive property. The overloaded libraries of the old world send us occasionally a cargo of such elaborate productions of antiquity, as literature and science have spoken well of in their day, but on the whole have thought best to throw overboard, as their voyage was rather long, and ballast very plenty. These are the books that the profane purchaser denominates trash, and the cunning bibliopolist cries up as rare and curious relics. These are the books that are not unfrequently found on the auctioneer's table, when some inveterate antiquary leaves his motley collection of scarcities to an unthinking heir. A dreadful sight it is, to see the dust of centuries rudely dislodged by his unsparing hammer. They may be seen in our public libraries, gravitating down to the lower shelves, in the shape of formidable folios, or soaring up almost to the ceiling, as little clasped and heavy built volumes, seemingly intended for the pocket, in those blessed times when pockets were no unaccommodating receptacles. And sometimes may they be found, perchance, despoiled of their covers and rent by ruthless hands, in the lumber closet or the garret. But be they found where they may, to him who loves the voice of the dead, not the less because it has not been echoed by the lips of the multitude, to him who loves to be interested in the thoughts or

feelings of a single mind, long vanished and forgotten, they are precious. No matter what may be the subject of our rescued volume ; it was enough to engage the energies of some laborious student, through the weary hours of day, and the still watches of night; his hopes of fortune and fame went with it, and its perishing memory is the little remnant of his shipwrecked ambition. Doubtless he was led by the same delusion, that leads so many in our own day to fling themselves before the ponderous wheels of public opinion, to be immolated, like the eastern worshiper, in the same idle hope of immortality. As I have stood, surrounded by the labors of men, in their own time revered and honored, but now mouldering in neglect, I have felt like one passing through the vaults of unremembered monarchs-the frail body lies embalmed before him, but the crown has passed from its temples, and the voice of adulation is hushed forever. There is something in the character of our old books, that entitles the lowliest of them to a degree of respect. They were written by grave divines, and learned professors, and sagacious doctors, men who kept aloof from the world, and girded themselves to follow learning through thickets as yet uncleared, except here and there, by a few scattered pioneers. Authorship was not then as it is now, when beardless truants, reeking from their master's birch, talk to us from the damp leaves of a flimsy duodecimo, as if they had been dipped, to the heels, in the fountain of Castalia.

It may be a foolish feeling, but I had rather sit upon the level turf of the grave, where the grass grows untrodden, than bow before the statue whose marble pedestal is worn by the knees of idolizing worshipers. There are enough to make the air ring with the names of the great or the fortunate, enough to comment and to eulogize, and it is at least harmless, if one retires from the sound of their clamor, to walk with the unsuccessful in their obscurity.

Every author, whom we rake from oblivion, becomes to us, as it were, a personal friend. His voice, which was perhaps once heard through all the stately halls of learning, speaks to us alone, and it wears something like a tone of melancholy affection as it falls through the long interval, on the ear of the last " gentle reader." It is indeed but a poor reward for his toil, that a single individual should look with eyes of kindness, on one solitary copy from the liberal edition, which his sanguine hope had deemed insufficient for the expecting universe. Let us trace him for a moment in his career. He was an ambitious schoolboy, and his heart throbbed with vague anticipations of his future eminence. He heard the names of the dead, who yet lived in their glory, and with them he fondly dreamed should be his portion. His hour of manhood came, and he stepped like an athlete into the arena, warm with the flush of unchastised anticipation. And with manhood came labor and disappointment, but he endured all, and bent down to his task, year after year, until his forehead was seared with wrinkles, and his limbs had stiffened in their scholastic fetters. Then, in his maturity of wisdom, after lavishing his strength in patient study, and long reflection, he formed the project of that enterprise which lies before us in its fulfilment. How fairly was the virgin sheet spread before him, as he sat down to the commencement of his momentous undertaking! Time went on, and with it the leaves multiplied beneath

his assiduous hand. The ancient dame, who set in order every morning the chaos of the preceding day, looked sadly at the closely written manuscript, and shuddered as she thought of the fireside stories of witchcraft. But, perhaps, he was the centre of a loving and admiring family.

There is something touching in the affection, the adoration, which a simple-hearted wife indulges for one whom the world may not honor, but who is to her the perfection of mortal excellence, and the consummation of earthly wisdom. The wife of our poor scholar in those unlettered days could hardly copy his papers, or follow him in his investigations; but not the less did she watch his progress and encourage his efforts; and if he read for her approbation some more intelligible portions, it sounded as sweet to her ears as if the muse of eloquence had rocked him in his cradle. His children too,-poor things, their little soft hands have shrivelled into age and crumbled into dust, long ago, his children climbed upon his knees, and peeped in mysterious wonder between the pages which shared with them his parental fondness. At last came the day of publication, and the proud array of volumes was displayed on the bookseller's counter, some glistening in white parchment, some in black, burnished leather, and amongst them the time-worn and dilapidated copy before us. Nor should the author's own especial one be forgotten, in the softest vellum with deep gilt edging, and the silken mark carefully folded between its leaves. There were no papers to pass their ephemeral judgement on its merits, and no stately journals to arraign it before their solemn tribunals. Critics,-those carnivorous animals, now so numerous and so liberal of their teeth and claws to all rash adventurers,-there were none. The labor of the scholar's life, now finished, was received by the world in silence. The flattering epigrams of one or two indulgent friends, which may still be seen in our antiquated volume, cheered the weary heart of the adult student, and, for the rest, he appealed to the tardy verdict of posterity. Alas, other minds had been on the same track; his favorite thoughts had been anticipated; his conclusions had formed the starting point for bolder thinkers; his errors, cherished until their distorted features were to him as beautiful as truth, had been overthrown. Other voices reach us through the chasm that divides us from antiquity; but his has been lost in the darkness, the elements have worn out his name from its monumental tablet, and the record of his labors, which accident has flung into our hands, may be the last filament of the cord that was to bind his memory to the future.

The venerable book before me is none of those which have been reprinted, and stereotyped, and vulgarized. The name of Robert Lovell, St. C. C. Oxon. will probably be looked for in vain through all the catalogues of our crowded libraries. Yet was he, with all his delusions, a shrewd and learned man, with much of that pleasant quaintness that sits so gracefully on the secluded devotee of science.

Nor would I speak with irreverence of John Peter Faber, once of Montpelier, and now of Eternity; or of that noble lady whose life he rescued, and who rewarded him, as he tells me, with her jewelled hand, and with many fair children. For spirited defence of his doctrines against all opposers, for artful evasion of difficulties, and skillful

manœuvring of arguments, he would not suffer in comparison with more renowned champions of learning.

There are others, whose friendship and familiarity no one shares with me, and those, minds of no despicable order. It is needless to enumerate them; to do it seems almost like trespassing on a sacred intimacy. It is enough that such intimacies may be formed by all, that they ask not wealth to purchase, or flattery to retain. It is enough that the prisoner of the nineteenth century, sealed up by frost and snow from the light and air of heaven, may find a solace in the humblest pages where the worm of the seventeenth has rioted.

O. W. H.

VOL. II.

THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES.

From the German of Matthison.

WHAT creatures may be

So happy as we?

Our mirror, the gleam

Of the mountain stream;

We dance where the running waters play,
We rock on the top of the bending spray,
And rest in the flowers at the close of day.

From the land and sea,
Come hither to me,

To the dew-gemmed green,

Come follow your queen;

In your thin spun crowns of silver gray,
Woven from the glow-worm's glancing ray,
Follow me where the moon-beams play.

A veil, bleached white
In the pure star-light,
You may freely wear

Like a robe of air;

Through moon and through meadow, and over the lea,
From forest and fountain, from lowland and sea,

O! lightly trip hither to dance with me.

LETTERS FROM OHIO.

NO. IV.

I HAVE been repeatedly asked, what are the peculiar inducements to settle in Ohio? The question comes in every possible shape. Is Ohio preferable to Indiana or Illinois? Is your land as rich as fame reports? Is it not sufficiently covered with population already? Is money plenty? Have you many broken banks? Can debts be collected? Can children be educated? Are morality and religion cared for? Have you many good scholars ? What is your climate? What are your staples? How do your inhabitants get a living? These and such like interrogatories, are daily soliciting answers. Now, as one cannot make time, and is obliged to eat and sleep occasionally, he must either devise a summary method of replying to the whole at once, or leave them unanswered; for to reply to each, separately, is utterly impossible. In this dilemma, it occurred to me, that I might make a general answer through this Magazine. I take it for granted that every body reads it; if not, every body ought to read it. Ignorantia neminem excusat. Mental starvation would be a just doom to the presumptuous wight, who should neglect to feed himself from such a store-house. Therefore, let all querists take notice that they must look for answers here. These have been partially given in the preceding numbers; they will be continued in this and the succeeding, provided the editors do not demur.

In this sensible age, men ask for facts. It is a fact, then, that a single acre of Ohio land, without any appliances, has produced one hundred and fourteen bushels of corn. It is a fact, that near Cincinnati, nine acres have yielded nine hundred and sixty-three bushels. It is an inference from these facts, that the soil is as rich as nature can provide. Further, it is a fact that Ohio contains twenty-five millions of acres of such land, and only one million of inhabitants. The inference is, that there is ample room for more. It is a fact, that there is not a bank now in operation in Ohio, of which the notes are not perfectly good in every part of the state. The inference is, that bank credit is in a sound and healthy condition. As to the abundance of money, I cannot speak from experience. It is a fact, that my coffers are sadly empty. The inference is, that I must go to work. For, to working-men, money is plenty. It is a fact, that manual labor on the average, commands a price one third higher than in the Eastern states. Indeed, so dear is labor, and so cheap is land, that any industrious man can earn money enough in three years to buy an ample farm. The consequence is, that it is next to impossible to procure servants. Frequently, you cannot have them at any price, and, acting on the maxim of Franklin, you must serve yourself. It is a fact, that many families, who are abundantly able, and anxious to hire help, do all their work themselves. This is looked upon as a great grievance, particularly in Cincinnati; and induces hundreds to live at board, who, but for this, would be at house-keeping. The inference is, that the young men and women of the Eastern states, who are obliged to labor, could not do a better thing, than come to the West. They might have almost any wages they would ask. They might be