LETTER TO HENRY RUSSELL. He turned him from the spot-his home no more, NEW-YORK, February 1, 1837. MY DEAR SIR-You did me the honour to request some lines of mine for musick; and, at the moment, being delighted with your fine voice and exquisite taste in singing, I said I would write you a song. Now, I think with the author of the Hunchback, that a promise given, when it can be kept, adınits not of release, save by consent or forfeiture of those who hold it,” and I have been as good as my word, as you will perceive by the enclosure of "The Woodman.” 66 G* I hope it will answer your purpose. Let me tell you how I came to choose an old tree for my subject. Riding out of town a few days since, in company with a friend, who was once the expectant heir of the largest estate in America, but over whose worldly prospects a blight has recently come, he invited me to turn down a little romantick woodland pass not far from Bloomingdale. "Your object?" inquired I. 66 'Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather, near a cottage that was once my father's." "The place is yours then?" said I. cumstance. "No, my poor mother sold it ;" and I observed a slight quiver of the lip, at the recollection of that cir"Dear mother!" resumed my companion, "we passed many happy, happy days, in that old cottage; but it is nothing to me now-father, mother, sisters, cottage-all, all, gone ;" and a paleness overspread his fine countenance, and a moisture came to his eyes as he spoke. But after a moment's pause, he added, "Don't think me foolish; I don't know how it is, I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend. In the by-gone summer-time it was a friend indeed. I often listened to the good counsel of my parents there, and I have had such gambols with my sisters! Its leaves are all off now, so you won't see it to half its advantage, for it is a glorious old fellow in summer; but I like it full as well in very winter time." These words were scarcely uttered, when my companion cried out, "There it is!" and he sprang from his saddle and ran toward it. I soon overtook him, wondering at his haste; but what met my sight, made it no wonder. Near the tree stood an old man with his coat off, sharpening an axe. He was the of the cottage. "What are you doing?" 66 What's that to you," was the reply. occupant "A little matter, but not much-you're not going to cut that tree down surely?" 66 Yes, but I am though," said the woodman. "What for," inquired my companion, almost choked with emotion. "What for? why, because I think proper to do so. What for? I like that! Well, I'll tell you what for; this tree makes my dwelling unhealthy; it stands too near the house; prevents the moisture from exhaling, and renders us liable to fever-andague." "Who told you that?" "Dr. Smith." “Have you any other reason for wishing to cut it down ?" "Yes, I am getting old, the woods are a great way off, and this tree is of some value to me to burn." He was soon convinced, however, that the story about the fever-and-ague was a mere fiction, for there never had been a case of that disease in the neighbourhood; and then was asked what the tree was worth for firewood? 66 66 Why, when it is down about ten dollars.” Suppose I should give you that sum, would you let it stand ?" "Yes." "You are sure of that?" "Positive." "Then give me a bond to that effect." I drew it up; it was witnessed by his daughter, the money was paid, and we left the place, with an assurance from the young girl, who looked as smiling and beautiful as a Hebe, that the tree should stand as long as she lived. We returned to the turnpike, and pursued our ride. These circumstances made a strong impression upon my mind, and furnished me with the materials for the song I send you. I hope you will like it, and pardon this long and hurried letter. With sentiments of respect, I remain yours very cordially, HENRY RUSSELL, ESQ. GEO. P. MORRIS. WOODMAN, spare that tree! In youth it sheltered me, That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou back it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kiss'd me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! |