OUR FILE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE.

In your Magazine for September last, there appeared an article, entitled "The Lost Star," which has called forth some harsh, unfair, and ungenerous remarks from the editor of the "Pearl and Literary Gazette,' ,"'* published at Hartford, upon which, with your permission, I would make a few observations. In the first place I never saw the "Shrine," in my life, and never saw nor heard of the article, from which I am accused of borrowing, till some time after your Magazine

* From the "Pearl and Literary Gazette," published at Hartford, September 28:-" All Editors are liable to be imposed upon; and plagiarists will deceive. We regret to see that the September number of the New-England Magazine contains an article, the plan and manner of which, were unmanfully taken from an article which appeared in The Shrine, No. V. which piece was corrected by its author, for that periodical, because it had been printed furtively and incorrectly in the last number of a magazine, which had no circulation. It is pleasant to place the genuine 'Lost Star' in our columns, that its identity may not, hereafter, be questioned; and we regret that the New England Magazine should have suffered by such a foul imposition."

Is the editor of the Pearl quite sure that the Poem in question "was corrected by its author" for the Shrine? We feel no interest in the dispute, beyond a desire that, since he has seen fit to bring it before the public, the public may not be led into any further mistakes, however trifling.

of September reached my hands. I was then told, that a piece of poetry, called the "Lost Star," had been published, some years ago, in Willis's Magazine. After some trouble, I obtained the last twelve or thirteen numbers, and looked through, carefully, as I thought, both the original articles and the table of contents. I could find no such piece of poetry, and gave up the search, supposing either that it was in the first volume of the Magazine, or that my informant was mistaken. A person, who looked more carefully than myself, however, pointed out the piece to me in the "Editor's Table," which I did not examine so closely as the other pages, expecting the article would have its title in the table of contents. This is the first time, to my knowledge, that I ever saw or heard of what the editor calls the "genuine Lost Star." I confess I was startled at both pieces having the same metre and the same motto; but if every word in them had been exactly alike, I should have claimed, for my own contribution, to your Magazine, the merit of originality. I wrote some lines, in blank verse, about a year ago, called "The Lost Pleiad," with the motto, from Byron, which suggested them: "The lost Pleiad seen no more below." This piece lay, as it was written, till August last, when I re-wrote it as it now stands in your Magazine. As the word "Star" seemed to slide more easily into the lines than "Pleiad," I adopted the former title, it appearing to me a good one enough, and without thinking any one individual had monopolized the title. I was led to this change, also, lest the reader might be reminded by the lines, of Symmes's beautiful ones, called the "Lost Pleiad." The metre was suggested by perusing Mr. Dana's Buccaneer, and by remembering the "Address to a Mummy," both written in the style of invocation which I wished to employ. I did not adhere to the metre of either, but endeavored to alter it to suit my purpose, without once supposing that any other writer had monopolized this "plan and manner." In a word, I wished to write in a serious way what the "Mummy" is in a merry and burlesque one. The motto has been running in my memory a great while. I had an impression I took it from Byron, either from "Cain," or "Heaven and Earth;" but I do not know whether it be in Byron or not. I certainly do not believe it stands there as I have quoted it, and that one would be puzzled to find it there at all. If I had borrowed from the lines which the "Pearl" republishes, is it to be supposed I should have omitted some of the most beautiful ideas in the whole piece, such as those in the 4th, 6th, and last two verses? There are some subjects, in writing upon which two individuals would naturally fall into the same train of thought. If they should write upon such a subject as "Winter," or "Summer," though the general train of reflection might be similar, yet we should not expect that particular parts of the subject would occur to each. But, in such a subject as "The Lost Star," I believe the thoughts of ten out of a dozen individuals would be directed to the Creation of the world, when "the morning stars sang together," to the Garden of Eden,-the Crucifixion, and to the forgotten science of Astrology. They are so many prominent points, if I may use the expression, about which the thoughts would linger. The language would also be likely to take some of its coloring from the phraseology of Scripture. And is the moral to be drawn from the subject an unnatural one, that the same Power, which guides the stars in their courses, who holds the dew-drops upon the blades of grass, directs the course of men, on the earth, or the flight of the sparrow along the sky? There is no similarity in the language of the two pieces, or, at most, not more than can be shown between any two pieces, whether upon the same subject or not, and I do not believe, that a candid judge, who should read over both articles, and bear in mind what I have said above, would say that the "Lost Star," of the

New-England Magazine, is such a poem as a plagiarist would borrow from the "Lost Star" of the "Shrine." I trust, if I should ever be guilty of this kind of theft, I should not, at the same time, be guilty of the presumption of trying to imitate what is inimitable, and of pilfering from so beautiful a specimen of periodical poetry, as the "genuine Lost Star." I repeat, that the article of the NewEngland Magazine is an original article. The "manner and plan" originated with myself; the thoughts are my thoughts, the language is my language, and the metre and title are every one's, and therefore mine as much as any other individual's. To show the editor of the Pearl, that such things as coincidences in title, motto, thoughts, and even language, are possible, to say the least, I would refer him to the very number of Willis's Magazine in which the "genuine Lost Star" first appeared. Let him read back at a long piece of poetry called " Kizpah," (which, if signatures mean any thing, must have been written by the author of the "genuine" Lost Star.) Then let him turn to Mr. Bryant's late volume of Poems, where he will find some lines also called "Kizpah." Both pieces have the same title, the same motto, the same train of thought, and some very striking coincidences in language. The last item of resemblance may possibly startle him. Yet, for all this, I do not believe the author, in Willis's Magazine, had Bryant's lines in his mind when he wrote. I do not, nor will the editor of the Pearl, say, that he was a plagiarist, and meant "to deceive" and "impose upon the editor." I should have thought it very strange, on the contrary, if his poem had not resembled Bryant's, even though he had never read it. A great portion of the metre, in these two pieces, is the same, though the "genuine" Kizpah adopts but one kind, and the other two or more.

I ought to apologize to the editor of the New-England Magazine and its readers for so long a letter upon so small a subject; and, certainly, nothing could justify so much talk, upon what is of no importance or interest to any one, but a wish to prevent their entertaining, for a single moment, an idea, that they have been imposed upon by a gross and unmanly plagiarism. We are told, on high authority, that "one star differeth from another star in glory," and although all the glory may, in this case, probably be in the star that rose first, yet the other, however dim its light, your readers may be assured, shines with no borrowed lustre. In other words, it is "genuine;" and I have only to conclude, in the words of Mr. Puff to Dangle, about a plagiarism on Shakspeare-though I claim more sincerity for myself than he was probably entitled to-" All that can be said is, that two people happened to hit upon the same thought-and Shakspeare made use of it first, that's all." J. H. W.

"My Books, No. X."

"On the Character of Hamlet,"

are on hand for publication.

"The Origin of Chemistry" is too indefinite in object and application, for our comprehension, and we fear it would be equally so to our readers.

THE

NEW-ENGLAND MAGAZINE.

DECEMBER, 1833.

ORIGINAL PAPERS.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

THIS, kind reader, is the last time, we shall meet under the auspices of 1833. It may, therefore, be well for us to look back upon what is past; not with vain regrets and useless tears, but with the hope, that from its scattered gleanings we may gather something profitable for the direction of our future lives.

The year came upon us amidst the life and buoyancy of the winter festivities. Youth and beauty in their freshness, loveliness, and joy, were perhaps met to dance the old year out, and, in the ardor of young and confiding hope, to welcome in the new. Then followed the less giddy, but not less cheerful circles, where friends and neighbors met to strengthen the bonds of social union, and, by quiet intercourse of soul with soul, to call forth and invigorate whatever is good, and pure, and lovely, in our social nature. And then there were lectures, to amuse or instruct the vacant hour, and to supply materials for thought or conversation; and there were Sabbath days; days of holy rest and religious contemplation. But these were all occasional. We had, besides, the constant luxury of winter evenings at home, when brothers, sisters, children, parents, dismissing quite the anxious cares of life,-all, around the same cheerful hearth, drank in mutual instruction and delight; varying the dull monotony of our modern life by moving incidents of elder time, and keeping alive the generous sympathies of the heart, by oft recurring to the poet's gentle lays, those living streams, that gush, pure and fresh, from the fountain of human feeling. But these happy evenings were gradually shortened, and by and by the Spring came on, with her damp winds and chilling storms, to which, as to a scowling frigate with her rich galleons, we were reconciled by the ample treasures, that they brought in tow. And when the treasures came, and

"vernal airs,

Breathing the smell of field and grove, attuned
The trembling leaves,"

we wandered forth to participate in the general rejoicings of heaven and earth. Then Summer, almost before we were aware, with loose

robes and hasting steps, passed by, "and autumn and his golden fruits" returned. Thanksgiving, that happy New-England festival, that day of all the year the best, called us and our scattered friends together, and, rich in the possession of well-furnished garners, both for mind and body, we enjoyed the gladsome meeting, and looked forward to the bleak storms, that were gathering, with all the quiet cheerfulness of him, who, from his warm cottage on the coast, beholds the angry billows raging in their fury, or, from his snug retreat on some safe eminence, sees hostile armies rushing to the deadly conflict with all their thundering implements of ruin.

The year is almost gone, and every season has brought its full portion of happiness. The bird's gay carol has cheered our morning hours, and her pensive notes have led to profitable thought at eventide. The magnificent displays of summer have called us out to view nature in her grandeur, simplicity, and beauty, and the cold aspect of winter's stormy skies has compelled us to seek the converse of our fellow-men, to draw yet closer the bonds of domestic love, and to enrich our minds with the precious stores of hidden wisdom, that gifted bards and sages have brought from the secret storehouse of nature for our use. Autumn's falling leaf has preached to us funeral sermons more eloquent than mortal lips can utter; and the general burst of gladness, with which spring's approaching steps were hailed, spoke unutterable things of life and immortality beyond the wintry barrenness of the grave.

Here, kind reader, would I gladly lay aside my pen, and, with a light and merry heart, bid both thee and the closing year farewell. I would not throw a damp upon thy buoyant spirits. I would not dash the innocent cup of pleasure from thy lips, nor cause to pall upon thy tongue the morsel, which has now so keen a relish. I would not, after the Egyptian custom, bring the hideous personification of death into the banquet chamber, to rob the feast of all its charms. But the festive joys that are gone, as they sink farther and farther into the obscure depths of time, smile, with sobered tints and saddened beams, from their far abodes, and, like old friends rising from the dead, admonish us upon what enjoyments we rest our affections. Shall we disregard their admonitions? Is it not well, that the noisy feast of our pleasures should, at times, be interrupted by solemn thoughts, that, even in the spring-tide of our mirth, we should sometimes be stopped short by the ominous words, that must have grated so harshly upon the ear of a prosperous monarch?" Man, remember that thou art mortal!" Can we receive no instruction or happiness from walking among the tombs of buried hopes, and withered joys, and lost affections; from reflecting with earnestness and feeling upon what they have promised, and what they have performed?

A year is gone. Joys it has brought. But came they from the source whence they were expected? Sorrows too have not been wanting. But dropped they from the imagined_clouds, that our presaging hearts had pictured in the distant sky? Friends it has made for us, and friends it has taken away. But in all this, how little have our own plans effected, and how kind has been the provision, by which flowers, that we thought not of, have sprung up by our path to compensate for those, which our foolish inexperience had fondly imagined;