University of Virginia Library

A LETTER AND A POEM.

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, admits 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.”

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 circumstance.
“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 doing?”

“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 this long and
hurried letter. With sentiments of respect, I remain
yours very cordially,