I remember distinctly my first attempt at poetry. I was quietly resting under the shade of a stately elm, one bright summer day, turning over the leaves of a favorite author, and listening to the merry carols of a mock-bird that had perched on a thorn just before me. There was a beautiful lawn gently declining from the knoll where I lay, to the river's edge, green with luxuriant long grass, interspersed with the simple lily of the valley. There seemed to be a general thanksgiving of nature, and every thing tended to inspire my juvenile muse. After sundry bitings of the nails, and scratchings of the head,[1] I succeeded in pencilling on a blank leaf of the “Lady of the Lake,” lines “To a Mocking Bird.” No sooner had the fever of composition resolved itself into three stanzas, than the mock-bird, the green elms and humming waters, lost all their enchantment, and I hurried home to copy my verses and send them to the printing-office. I selected the whitest sheet of gilt-edged paper I had, made a fine nib to my pen, and soon finished a neat copy, which was forthwith deposited in the office of a respectable hebdomadal. Publication day came, and so did the carrier. Of all ugly boys, I used to think that carrier was the ugliest; but when he handed me the paper that I doubted not contained the first effort of unfledged genius, I thought he had the finest face and most waggish look I had ever seen—and in good truth, I never was so glad to see the fellow in my life. Wonderful metamorphosis! thought I, eagerly snatching the paper from him. But judge, oh! gentle reader, of my surprise and mortification, at not finding my cherished little poem either in the poet's corner, or even among the advertisements. The phiz of the carrier changed to its accustomed ugliness as if by magic, and, as he passed out of the door, he cast on {436} me a sardonic leer, grin'd “a ghastly smile,” and “left me alone in my glory.” I had too much philosophy, however, to remain long in a passion, or to suffer myself to be unhappy for such a trifle. I contented myself, therefore, as well as I could, and determined never to write another line until my first effort saw the light. How fortunate for you, kind reader, and perhaps for me, had my young muse then been nip'd in her incipient budding. But that first effort did see the light the next week, and ‘Solomon in all his glory’ was not so happy as I. You who have written and published, can have some idea of the sensations produced by the success of a first essay. Those who never have, cannot imagine the pleasure, the fluttering of heart, the gratified ambition, and the flattered vanity of him thus first dignified with print. Since then I have been rejected, but never so mortified as when my first poem did not appear when expected. And since then I have written, published, been republished and quoted, which is surely glory enough for one man, but have never been so happy