ness; and they have a cheering, reviving beam for the afflicted and despairing-a beam that speaks of constancy and hope.

But morning approaches; the wearied powers demand repose; and it is sweet to lie down like a cradled child, and sleep with the ceaseless wash of waters, for a lullaby, and rocked by their ceaseless roll!

THE MAIL ROBBER.

NUMBER THREE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER

MAGAZINE.

Saratoga Springs, July 4, 1843.

SIR: Being now located at the Springs, amid all the gayety and elegance and aristocracy of the land, I found last evening, among the ladies in the drawing-room, the July number of your periodical. Again was I shocked and overwhelmed at the gross impudence with which you persist in the promulgation of my private affairs. That you should have published my second personal epistle to yourself, is a tremendous aggravation of your audacity. I shall take care to frame this in a style which will preclude all possibility of your printing it, and disclosing your own rascality.

I have heard moreover that well-known individuals in England have been highly disgusted at the cool, hyena-like, editorial ferocity with which you and your greedy subscribers feed upon this foul dish of scandal. Such heartless conduct cannot fail to confirm our neighbors across the 'great Atlantic privilege' in their uncomplimentary opinion of American probity. Repudiation was a virtue compared with this infamous violation of the rights of man. Even here, amid all the soothing magnificence of the surroundings; in the solemn stillness of the woods, or by the stainless bosom of Saratoga Lake, or by that salubrious fount of which half a dozen tumblers are so invigorating to the spirits and beneficial to the bowels, I am sick at soul when I realize the wickedness and worldly-mindedness of Magazine Editors.

You have not hinted one syllable about pecuniary compensation; and how, under such a load of ingratitude, can you expect that you will be long permitted to pursue your fiendish career? A reasonable sum would satisfy me; but I forbear to urge it, for I doubt if you are a Christian. This is the last time I shall address you; nor should I now write, except to charge you immediately to return the remaining manuscripts, or to forward the customary fee for articles of equal value. You will not dare to publish this letter, I am sure, unless you are a fool as well as a fraudulent and evil-minded person. Yours, by no means,

Ar the risk of our reputation, we have ventured to publish the above severe remonstrance; and in reply, we take pleasure in soothing the lacerated nerves of our financial friend by the following

statement:

Some days ago, about sherry-cobbler time, a middle-aged indi

vidual, between five and six feet high, not very stout, although far from slim; of an open countenance; a nose Greco-Gothic, inclining to the Roman, and eyes neither light nor dark, called at our sanctum, and claimed to be the author of the poetical epistles in question. Before we had time to apologize for our part in this curious affair, the stranger, so far from producing a horse-whip, assured us, with a benignant smile, that he forgave the liberty we had assumed, and moreover, that he wished to extend his pardon to the gentleman whose late indiscretion had put us in possession of the papers. Far be it from himself, the stranger said, to remain behind the age; he supposed it was the custom of the country; and this apology, as in the aforementioned case of Repudiation, must content his friends in London. It was true, he added, that some offence had been taken abroad by this truly American proceeding; but on the whole, as he found the KNICKERBOCKER a conveyance considerably safer than the steamboat-mail, and as it was beside an immense saving in the matter of postage, he would permit us to continue the correspondence. As for those letters which we still retained in our keeping, he assured us that we were perfectly free to enlighten with them our Principes' or the public. Beside all this, he placed in our hands a fresh epistle, which he had intended to have sent by the next packet, but which, by his generous permission, we are happy to insert in the present number.

We trust that this will quiet the sensibilities of our Saratoga friend, and that he will return to the city with an invigorated conscience, a healthful moral sense, and a stomach improved by the

THE fiery bark that brought your missives o'er,
Brought the sad news that MURRAY was no more.
From still Hoboken, where I chanced to stray,
I marked the monster belching up the bay,
And guessed (already have I learned to guess,)
From her black look, she told of some distress.
Tidings of gloom her sable streamer spoke,
And the long train of her funereal smoke;
And soon the bulletins revealed the grief:

'JOHN MURRAY 's dead! of book-sellers the chief!'

In all the strange events that Rumor sends,
By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends;
War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fates
Of rising cottons or of falling states;
Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas,
Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese;
In all the recent millions that have gone

To the dark realm, and still are hastening on,

That one small tradesman should have joined the throng
Seems a mean theme to babble of in song.

Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books,
To make small names as deathless as the Duke's: *

⚫ In England there is but one Duke who is universally and deservedly known as

THE Duke.'

Yes, the same volume that recordeth you,
Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too;
And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown,
There too the poet's publisher is known;
So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages,
An immortality of title-pages.

Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted Muse
Gets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos ;
Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh,

Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die!
That he who made such elegant editions

Should be past help from parsons or physicians;
Dead as the most defunct of all the verse
For which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse;
No more a bargainer for true sublime,
Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme.

Methinks I see his melancholy ghost
Near his old threshold, at his ancient post;
Watching with eager and obsequious grin,
The pensive customers that enter in.
With curious eye selecting from the throng,
Each who has dabbled in the realm of song;
And offering, as of yore, for something nice
In way of Epitaph, the market price.

And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under,
What generous bard will give him one, I wonder?
For all the golden promises he made;

For all the golden guineas that he paid;

For all the fame his counter could afford

The rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord;

For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse;
For all his purchased papers in Reviews;
For all the pleasant stories he retailed;
For all the turtle when the stories failed;
For all the praises, all the punch he spent,
What grateful hand will deck his monument?

CAMPBELL's too proud the compliment to grant :
SOUTHEY, for sundry weighty reasons, can't.
Should MOORE attempt it, he'd be sure to damn
John's many virtues in an epigram.

ROGERS' blank verse so very blank has grown,
'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone;
WORDSWORTH would mar it by inscribing on it
A little sermon what he calls a sonnet.
Alas! for all the guineas that he paid,
For all the immortalities he made,
For all his venison, all his right old wine,
Will none contribute one sepulchral line?

In truth I'm sad, although I seem to laugh,
To think that John should need an epitaph.
The greatest blows bring not the truest tear,
These minor losses touch the heart more near;
As fewer drops gush over from the eyes
When heroes fall than when your valet dies;
They, of another, an immortal race,

Ne'er seemed on earth well suited with their place,

And though they yield their transitory breath,

We know their being but begins with death:

So winter ushers in the new-born year,

So the flowers perish ere the fruits appear.

When common men, when men like MURRAY, thus Are snatched away, 't is taking one of us;

of it, and not what it is really worth. If any one doubts these statements, let him inquire, and he will find that flour pays hardly any profit at all; that sugars, teas, and most of the heavy articles, are sold in the country store at barely enough to pay the cost of transportation, clerk-hire, and store-rent. How then does the merchant amass his gains? By the sale of wines and liquors, which he manufactures himself from alcohol; by selling at exorbitant profits things which cost him scarcely any thing; by obtaining mortgages on the farms for his store accounts, and ultimately getting the land into his possession for half its value.

The

To obviate these evils, and to secure a fair price for the products of the farm, and to be able to buy at a reasonable profit; to secure the young and giddy against temptation; he drew up a plan which he submitted to a number of the farmers in his neighborhood, who began to show themselves favorably disposed toward him. main features of the plan were these: A capital of ten thousand dollars was divided into shares of one hundred dollars, and these shares were to be taken up by individuals; no person being allowed to hold more than four shares. Each share was to have one vote in the affairs of the concern.

When all the shares should be taken up, the company were to hire a person who, under a board of directors, was to manage the store. He was to buy and sell goods at such prices as the board should allow; exchange goods for produce, and carry on the general business of a country store as usual, only that the interest so many had in the store should secure them against exorbitant prices and unjust profits. Every holder of a share became so far the merchant; and if he paid a profit upon the goods which he bought, a part of the profit belonged to him. So in selling produce at the store; if he demanded an unjust price, he was robbing himself as well as others; and thus honest prices and profits were made his interest as well as duty.

The plan met with instant approval, and was put into immediate operation. Meadow-Farm began to assume the appearance of a village. Saving a tavern-stand, it had all the appurtenances of one. Work-shops were erected, mills set a-going, and neat cottages peeped from among luxuriant shrubbery in this amphitheatre of hills. The sounds of industry were heard where a few years before all was the unbroken silence of nature; and songs of joy and thanksgiving gushed from many hearts whose youth had been laden with sighs and tears.

Successful beyond his hopes, Rufus looked over the whole, and his conscience told him, This is my work; under the blessing of heaven my design is answered; truly may we cast our bread upon the waters, and find it after many days.' He felt at the moment that he had paid back to society all that his father had taken from it, and his heart was at peace.

But what were his own domestic relations, it may be asked, in this kind of common life? Did not his heart pine for a home of his own? Did he not long for the seclusion, the freedom of a hearth