NOTES.

“The Deserted Bride." Page 9.

THESE lines will lose much of their interest to those who have

never witnessed the impassioned histrionick delineations of that glorious creature, Fanny Kemble; and, on that account, the author would have suffered them to pass down the Lethean stream unclaimed, had not Mr. Sheridan Knowles earnestly recommended their publication.

"Lines after the manner of the olden time." Page 15. Dedicated to a worthy and excellent friend, James E. Cooley, Esq.

"Woodman, spare that tree." Page 19.

This ballad was written for Mr. Henry Russell, to whose exquisite musick it is indebted for all its popularity. The following letter enclosed the verses, and was intended exclusively for private perusal; but as it has seemed good to the composer, to read it several times before crowded assemblies, and to publish it in the newspapers, and as there is certainly no great harm in it, perhaps the reader will not object to its insertion here.

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,

cumstance.

66

I think with the author of the Hunchback, that a promise given, when it can be kept, admits not of release, "save by consent or forfeiture of those who hold it," and so I have been as good as my word, as you will perceive by the enclosure of "The Oak." 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. 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. "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 occupant

of the cottage. "What are you going to do?"

"What's that to you,"

was the reply. "A little matter, but not much—you're not going to cut that tree down surely?" "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-and-ague.” "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?" 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 me for this long and hurried letter. With sentiments of respect, I remain yours very cordially,

HENRY RUSSELL, Esq.

GEO. P. MORRIS.

"I miss thee from my side, beloved." Page 21.

This was written for a young gentlemen who went to Texas. It may be gratifying to the reader to know that he never was heard of afterwards.

"Lines on the death of Gen. Delavan." Page 24.

This venerable patriot was one of eight brothers who were all gallantly fighting the battles of their country in the American army during the war of the revolution. The lines have been set to musick by Mr. Watson.

"Near the lake where droop'd the willow." Page 26.

They who have heard the exquisite manner in which Miss Horton renders Mr. Horn's adaptation of this plaintive and touching air, scarcely recognise a far-famed negro melody with which the hills, valleys and streams of the West have been vocal these many years.

"'Twas night. In the woodland alone." Page 32.

This song, and those on pages 36, 38, 39 and 40 were written several years ago, for a young gentleman irreclaimably in love, who married one fine afternoon, and never affected the muses afterwards. Charles E. Horn has wedded them all to the most delicious harmonies; and that they are every where popular, can only be accounted for by the fact that in the sweetness of the musick the words are forgotten.

"When life looks drear and lonely, love." Page 41.

The musick of this little song was composed by Dr. Hugh Mc Lean, and arranged by Mr. Horn,

"Love thee, dearest?" Page 43.

Inscribed to an esteemed friend, Willian Horace Brown, Esq. and sent to him on the day of his marriage. Musick by Charles E. Horn.

"I love the night." Page 47.

Written for a lady. Musick by Henry Russell.

"The miniature." Page 48.

Musick by Thomas Comer.

"Lines to a poet." Page 55.

These lines appeared originally in the Baltimore Patriot, under the signature of Florence. They are addressed to a gentleman whose fine aspirations as a poet, are in danger of being rivalled by nothing but his amiable qualities as a man. He is one of many native minstrels, who have abandoned the golden-notes of the lyre for the bank-notes of the counting-house.-The class to which Halleck, Sprague, Strong and others belong-who are too

"Busy in the cotton trade
And sugar line,"

to waste their valuable time upon the unproductive pursuits of literature.

"The Theatrical Addresses."

Pages 65, 69, and 72.

These addresses were spoken on occasions memorable in the histrionick annals of this city. Mesdames Sharpe, Chapman and Hilson did them full justice, and they were received with acclamations by as brilliant and fashionable audiences as were ever assembled within the walls of a theatre, which was on each night crowded from floor to ceiling; the pit presenting the appearance of a parterre, being graced by the sparkling eyes and beaming faces of the belles and beauties of the most capricious, busy, and bustling metropolis of America.

As we presume no record has been preserved of either of these benefits, the writer has complied with the request of many individuals, by giving the addresses a place in this volume, with the conviction, however, that they owe their sole interest to the circumstances under which they were written. They were occasional productions, and as such will pass away and be forgotten. The only wonder is, that they are remembered still by anybody but the author.