WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,
BY MRS. KIMBALL.
Dear one, mine own! art gone
From young life's happy places,
To the dark grave and lone—
Death's cold and drear embraces!
Loosed are the silver strings
Of thy heart's ringing lyre—
Are broken thy wild wings,
Spirit of love and fire!
No, I feel hovering near,
Thy presence mild and tender,
My heart looks in thine eyes so dear,
And thrills at their soft splendor.
The dreams I dream are thine
When come my sweetest slumbers;
No melody is so divine
As memories of thy numbers.
Why art thou near my soul
Yet flying my fond vision?
Eluding yet love's sweet control,
Yet raining dreams elysian?
Oh angel, who before us
Art summoned home to heaven,
Still, still, oh linger o'er us,
Till we too are forgiven;
'Till we in holiest songs
Repeat each sweetest duty,
In that pure air where Heaven prolongs
Thy gentle life of beauty.
MR. ASHBURNER IN NEW-YORK.
BY FRANK MANHATTAN, JUN.
To the Editor of the International.
The very graphic and interesting pictures of American society with which my respected progenitor has recently favored the English public having been received with unusual favor, and the series having been suddenly terminated, to the great regret of the literary public, it becomes, I conceive, my duty to carry on the work so nobly begun, even though the superstructure be far inferior in beauty and solidity to the foundation. In pursuing these, my filial labors, I shall always keep in view the two pole stars which ever guided the senior Mr. Ashburner—first, that these letters are designed for English and not American readers, and second, that I am portraying a class, and not individuals. As I shall thus address myself to a foreign audience, it will of course be my duty to describe the frivolities of American manners—the faults of American ladies, the imbecilities of American gentlemen, the scurrilities of the American press, the weakness of American magazines, the degeneracy of American literature, the roguery of the American public, the want of taste of American engineers, the ignorance of American professors, and to discuss any questions of strictly local interest which may happen to present themselves. I shall studiously avoid stating that education or intelligence or usefulness are ever encountered here; and if occasionally some little sketch of domestic happiness or private worth should be given, you will attribute it to my own inadvertence, or set it down as a result of English education. As I shall be describing a class, and not individuals, it will of course be perfectly proper for me to narrate any little incidents of private life which I may have heard; and persons interested will (or at least ought to) bear in mind, if my letters are ever read by themselves or talked of by their acquaintances, that I am not alluding to them in the slightest degree, but merely to the class to which they belong. They therefore (it is to be hoped) will not arrogate to themselves any little passages of private histories they may happen to find in these pages; for, if they do, I shall assuredly hold them up to public ridicule, by saying, "as the shoe fits them they are welcome to wear it."
I doubt not that these humble efforts of mine will commend themselves to your favorable notice. They are (as you will perceive from this letter) an unpretending mite given to aid in elevating us in the eyes of the foreign literary world. "Pulchrum est bene facere reipublicae; etiam bene dicere haud absurdum est." Deeming it to be the duty of every American thus to give his aid to so patriotic a cause, I have the honor to be your most obedient servant,
Frank Manhattan, Jun.