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great attachment to the American cause. They took the precaution to keep him within doors during the night, but in the morning, so firm was their conviction of his honesty, they permitted him to go for his cows; when the old scoundrel hastened directly to the British camp and gave information.

A party of Hessians were sent to capture our soldiers. The officer in command, from his chamber window, happened to see them descending a hill at a little distance in front of the house, and immediately ran down for the purpose of alarming the men, who lodged in the barn. When he came to the back door, through a crevice, he saw a stout Hessian, who must have approached in advance of his comrades, standing ready to cut off his retreat and discharge his piece as soon as the door should be opened. The officer had presence of mind enough to run to the window and call to his men to make their escape. This, it may well be imagined, they proceeded to do with no superfluous delay, with the exception of Sergeant John, who, catching sight of the stout Hessian trooper by the door, and deeming it his duty to deliver his brother officer, stole coolly up and made no bones of shooting the villain-that is, the Hessian-through the head; and they then succeeded, though not without some difficulty, in making their escape before the rest of the troop arrived.

ADDRESS TO "ANTHONY'S NOSE."

All hail, primeval Patriarch of Noses!

Thou whom no time, no season e'er disposes

To hide thy lofty, solitary beak,

Or shelter from the weather's change to seck,

From broiling sun, or sharply biting frost,

From drenching rain, or wildly whistling wind,
By which ofttimes old Mana-hattan's* tost

About that bed on which he lies reclined,

* Mana-hattan, says Chalmer, was the original name of the Hudson river. VOL. V. NO. XIV-FEBRUARY, 1839.

Or from Heaven's fire, which, through the scudding rack,
The signal of the coming thunder's crack,

Lights up the dark abyss o'er which, sublime,
Thou art enthroned-twin-brother of old Time!

Thou art not like that fearful nose which cast
Strasburg into convulsions by its blast,
Whose shape, dimensions, volume, substance, none
Could well determine, or e'er look'd upon-
Nay, whose existence was a source of strife
To a bandy-legged drummer and his wife.*
Of thee a doubt no caviller can hint,

For lo! there stands thy deathless monument.
Ages have rolled away like so much smoke,

And generations vanished to repose,

But thou art still the same as when first broke
From chaos forth thy bold, colossal Nose!

Some say thou art a thing of senseless stone,
To which both life and feeling are unknown,
But this I ne'er shall credit, for I have seen,
When the mist curled above thy brow serene,
The drops catarrhal down each other chase
Through the deep furrows on that rugged face,
Indubitably proving, as they rolled,
That thou wert suffering from a horrid cold--
And I remember when the tempest spread

His wings abroad, and lashed these iron shores,
I've heard thee sneeze!-when starting from his bed,
The sailor cried-" Lord! how the thunder roars!"

How many a strange and passing wondrous sight
Hast thou not witnessed, old Pre-Adamite!
Giants have gorged where pigmies now carouse,
And mammoths grazed where silly sheep now browze;
The huge leviathan and heavy whale

Floating where listless flaps that idle sail;

The red man roaming proud the forest through,

In awe of none save the dread MANITOU,

*For an account of this celebrated nose, see an extract from that famous author, Slawkenbergius, in Tristram Shandy.

+"There were giants on the earth in those days." Genesis, chap. 7, v. 4.

Acknowledging below nor lord nor law
Save his own will-master of all he saw,
Till Hudson planted, centuries ago,

The white foot here, the cause of all his woe!
Then disappeared the red man's stately form,
Like the majestic pine before the sweeping storm.

Tell me, thou gnomon on fair Nature's face,

Retain'st thou still of ancient times the smell,
When Kieft, Van Twiller, and the goodly race
Of Dutchmen smok'd, as if bound by a spell
Of dead monotony, their lives away,

And passed, dream-like, beneath the Saxon's sway?
It was to thee an epoch, for 'twas then

Thou first receiv'dst thy christian prænomen,

After a man who knowing, in this soil,

That modest merit 's very apt to spoil,

Wisely, like some we know in modern days,

Blew his own trump and sounded his own praise.

Monarch of noses! the Almighty hand

Ne'er fashioned thee for a colonial slave,—
So when the master spirits of the land

To the Republic independence gave,
And when wild echo joyously gave tongue
To the glad news with which the country rung,
Thou rous'dst the noble eagle who had slept
"Till then within thy shade, and swift he swept
Thro' the high heavens, and down the bright stars bore,
To deck the Flag of Freedom evermore.

Yet, if to thee the privilege was given,

The hour to witness when a nation sprung

Into existence, and indignant flung

To earth the chains which had too long confined

The noblest energies of her young mind,

Thou witness'dst too the gloom which spread o'er heaven,

"It must be known, then, that the nose of Anthony, the trumpeter, was of a very lusty size, strutting boldly from his countenance like a mountain of Golconda as a monument. Thereof, he (Stuyvesant) gave the name of ' Anthony's Nose' to a stout promontory in the neighbourhood, and it has continued to be called Anthony's Nose ever since that day.-Knickerbocker's New York, vol. 2, p. 93

When Treason, spawned by avarice and fraud,
Foulest of crimes! crept coweringly abroad—
When ARNOLD treach'rously, for filthy gold,
To foreign foes his trust and honor sold,
And raised his ingrate, parricidal hand
To deal the death blow to his native land

Turn we from these sad scenes to contemplate
The wonder which upon thee must have broke,
When science from her lethargy awoke,

Her empire over the earth to vindicate,-
And FULTON, with her inspiration fraught,
Did nature's hidden mysteries unroll,
And to the wondering world the lesson taught,
The winds to rule, the torrent to control.
Say, when his giant offspring first appeared,
Stemming the tide despite the opposing gale,
And o'er the waves triumphantly careered

Along its course, without or oar, or sail,
Didst thou then deem some monster of the deep,
Which in thy infancy was want to creep
Along these shores, had left old ocean's caves
Again to stalk over Mana-hattan's waves?

Sublime proboscis! like the famous "tower
Of Lebanon, which towards Damascus looks,"
As we are told of in the Book of Books,

Thou art of wondrous beauty, strength and power.
What varied visions 'round me hast thou raised,
As on thy splendid profile I have gazed,

Making departed days "as in a glass
Darkly" before my eyes again to pass,

And once more peopling with the silent dead,
These classic scenes o'er which, in dreams, I tread.

Would it had fallen to abler hand to trace

Thine annals, relic of a mightier race!

For, like the unfledged bird which strives to spring
To Heaven, and backward falls with wearied wing,

My fancy sinks thy curve sublime before,

And baffled, downward droops when proudly it should soar.

E. B. O.

ORIGINAL OF THE NATIONAL MELODY, "YANKEE DOODLE."

BY PORSON JUNIOR.

[The interesting discovery of our learned correspondent, as disclosed in the following communication, will equally delight the patriot and surprise the scholar. Wc are pleased to see literary zeal directed to such important and useful researches; and the name of our erudite and ingenious friend will, no doubt, be added to the illustrious catalogue which contains the names of Annius of Viterbo, William Henry Ireland, and George Psalmanaazaar.]

IANKHE doule.

To the United States Magazine and Democratic Review:

The experience of every year more fully discloses the wonderful treasures of Grecian literature, and the comparative poverty of modern genius. Originality has long been extinct; the most celebrated literary productions of the present day consist of the wisdom and wit of antiquity, bedecked in the tinsel of modern languages. This age produces nothing which a little research may not find, already much better expressed in the golden pages of classic lore:

"Nil novum, nil quod non semel audisse, sufficiat."

It was remarked by Boileau, with equal wit and truth, that the ancients must, indeed, once have been moderns, though it is by no means equally certain that the moderns will ever be ancients.

All the writers in the modern tongues appears to have done little else than remodel the thoughts of a former age, and they not unfrequently palm off, as original, that which is directly translated from the more rare productions of antiquity. Lauder professed to have discovered the original Latin poem from which Milton translated his "Paradise Lost." It is little to the purpose to reply, that Lauder was an impostor; the moderns are not candid judges in the premises; and a generation who have regarded with distrust the antiquarian labors of a McPherson and Chatterton may, it is not unlikely, look with incredulity on the discovery about to be disclosed in this communication. So late as 1794, Joseph Vella could not convince his invidious contemporaries of the genuineness of his copy of the seventeen lost books of Livy, (though he actually published one book, consisting, to be sure, of but two pages, and those had unluckily been stolen by Florus,)-and not only was his ancient Arabic

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