LADIES' MAGAZINE.

VOL. I.

OCTOBER.

No. X.

THE FIRST PAGE OF AN ALBUM.

"What's in a name?" The associations we form when

first becoming acquainted with that name. These are in our minds, they will recur: and though the "rose by any other name would smell as sweet," yet to us none other would ever awaken the sweet thoughts which the word rose conjures up.

Albums are pretty looking books, and they are fashionable ones for young ladies, and yet I question whether the name Album awakens, even in the mind of the fair owner, very pleasing ideas; what then must be the associations of those unlucky scribblers who find it impossible to resist an invitation to contribute to its pages? There may, however, be exceptions to this. Some young Bards may delight in the opportunity thus presented of gracefully waving their poetic pinions and taking "a flight among the stars." O, what sublime flights they sometimes take! It is strange booksellers do not get up a volume entitled "Beauties of Albums." The book would undoubtedly be all the rage, especially at the season when literature in the "Literary Emporium" is proverbially dull. This period may be dated from the "leafy June," when flowers of rhetoric are abandoned for garden flowers, and to muse in green fields is more fashionable than to skim through the

field of the muses. From that time till the frost and "yellow leaf" bring us back to our

"Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness”—

to our parlors and books, there is a perpetual bustle and struggle to be abroad, travelling in steamboats or stages, by land or by water; and then "light reading," which certainly must include Albums, is only tolerated. And moreover the frequent partings with friends and acquaintance, and the affecting leavetakings of lovers, must render the fine manner of "Farewells," "Adieus," &c. with which Albums abound, peculiarly necessary and appropriate. The following, copied from a written collection of these lacrymal poems, and furnished by one of our first geniuses, would hold a distinguished niche.

"O! the sweet hours we have past, my love,

But bright things never will last, my love;

Fled are those hours, like the foam on the river-
Farewell-fare thee well-but remember me ever."

That "fare thee well" is an excellent imitation of the Byronian style, which our junior poets are so ambitious of attaining. Philosophers may argue that the influence of Albums on the character of the age will be of little consequence; but the philanthropist, who remembers how often great events arise from trifling causes, will regret that books so much used should not be more useful. The following anecdote will illustrate more forcibly than a labored oration, the good effects which may arise from a line in an Album.

"Promise me not to look at the first page," said Lydia Curtis as she drew back her beautiful,-" Friendship book" as she termed it, on which Captain Barker had just laid his hand. There was a pensiveness in her tone, and her blush, smile and sigh were so blended, that whether her prohibition was serious or sportive, caused from fear lest he should discover some dear cherished name, or merely said to awaken his curiosity, he could not at first determine. He was not long in doubt. Her manner soon convinced him that she was quite in earnest ; nor could he obtain possession of the book till he had promised, on the honor of a soldier, not to look at the first page.

Lydia Curtis knew, and sighed while she recollected it, that the honor of a soldier was a far more sacred and binding oath with Captain Barker, than the faith of a christain would have been. He styled himself a Freethinker, which with him meant, not that he thought freely on religious subjects, but, that he did not trouble himself to think at all about such matters. Now it may be surmised that Barker had secretly cherished a passion for the sweet Lydia, but this was not the case. He had merely thought of her as a fair, young, innocent girl, which in his opinion was a much more flattering title than "angel."

But the blush, smile and sigh of Lydia haunted his mind, and somehow he did feel very curious to know what was written on the first page of her Album. He held a man's opinion of such books-that they were morocco-covered, gilt-edged receptacles of rhymes and rhapsodies, flatteries and farewells, pretty nothings and pert nonsense. Yet he had urged Lydia to allow him the pleasure of examining her Album, saying, with the usual truth of a compliment, that he had no doubt of being much interested by the perusal. Lydia felt this compliment as a condescension, for Captain Barker was a rich and fashionable man, and he was handsome, and agreeable, and admired.

She claimed nothing on her own part but youth, innocence, a sweet disposition, and a mind cultivated with care. She knew she was not beautiful, and felt she was poor; and why Captain Barker should be so anxious to read her Album, was a mystery that she pondered all the afternoon without being able to solve. So if there was no thought in the book, it certainly caused thought in two very superior, though very dissimilar minds. Captain Barker had rhymed a little in his leisure moments, enough to give him a turn for criticism, if not a taste for poetry; and his critical skill was absolutely astounded by the specimens of verse which the book disclosed. But he had not seen the first page. He read the last page-it was an extract from a maudlin " song of sentiment"-he looked at the middle page, but that the cramp characters forbade all attempts at reading-and then, as the book lay carelessly in his hand, it opened, of its own accord, at the first page. His eye was riveted, and

unconscious of his promise, of the consequences of every thing save the import of the sentence that seemed penned expressly for him, he remained for a long time apparently unconscious of all, save the writing on the first page.

Captain Barker is now a distinguished clergyman, with the sweet Lydia for his companion and helper; and to the first page of her Album he ascribes the impressions that led to a change of his principles and pursuits.

The sentiment that had this surprising effect on the mind of the gay, infidel soldier, was penned by the mother of Lydia, and was this

My child, I would on thy young mind impress
One rule, the onward path of life to bless,-
Ne'er be thy soft and sweet affections given,
To him who scoffs at piety and heaven.

BILLET.

The Fairy Fancy, to Clara S

LISTEN, lady, to Fancy's lay!

List what the light-wing'd sylph shall say—
And if as a song you refuse to receive it,

At least as a plain tale of truth you'll believe it.
For however the world at her phantasies rail,
They still bend the ear to her song and her tale ;

The wisest of sages on her have relied,

And all that is bright is on Fancy's side!

Then listen, lady, to Fancy's lays,

And be sure you believe her, whatever she says.

Last even, so dull was the world below,

And wore such an aspect of dolour and wo,

The wild wind moan'd so drearily,

And howl'd and whistled along the lea,

The tall, dark woods careering o'er,

And rivalling the torrent's roar ;

The eyes and the hearts of the gayest were clouded,
And every thing seem'd in the vapours enshrouded;
The heavens look'd so black, and the world so blue,
That I wav'd my wing, and away I flew.
And gaily I soar'd to the bowers of love,
The cold, rude earth and its storms above,
To pay my devoirs at the jewell'd shrine
Of Luna, goddess of love divine.

I bent my knee at her saphire throne,
Where the lucid pearl and the topaz shone,
To her bright pale cheek my lips I prest--
O! never was fairy love so blest!
Men say she's cold, but she's warm to me,
And I love her holy serenity;

I love to bathe in the balm of her sigh,

And glance my plume in the light of her eye.
When the dews of sorrow have damp'd my wing,
And the fetters of earth on its lightness cling,
The cold dews vanish beneath her warm ray,
And the dark chains melt in her brightness away;
And as gaily I revel it through the swift hours
As the bee sings over the valley of flowers.

O! it was holy to list to the song
Of the vestal stars as they roll'd along ;
They sang of glory and truth and love,
And the peace and beauty that reigns above.
Ah! few and favor'd the mortals be,
Whose hearts have thrill'd to their harmony;
Tho' men do say such strains have stole,
Like heaven's own voice, on the pilgrim's soul,
When his hope-lit eye was glazing fast,

And his toils and sorrows were well nigh past,

"Till his 'raptured spirit hath spread its wing,

And soar'd to meet their welcoming.

And O! 'twas a glorious sight to see,

Grand and gorgeous exceedingly!

How the clouds in the moonlight toss'd and roll'd,

Like a mighty ocean of molten gold.

And silently sleeping above the wild sea,

In serene and soft tranquillity,