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[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.]

WESTWARD HO!

A TALE.

CHAPTER I.

"We'll lose ourselves in Venus' grove of myrtle,
Where every little bird shall be a Cupid,
And sing of love and youth; each wind that blows
And curls the velvet leaves shall breathe delights;
The wanton springs shall call us to their banks,
And on the perfum'd flowers woo us to tumble.
But we'll pass on untainted by gross thoughts,
And walk as we were in the eye of Heaven."

"O RARE Ben Jonson !" said some one, and O rare Beaumont and Fletcher say we; for in honest sincerity we prefer this gentle pair to all the old English dramatic writers except Shakspeare. For playful wit, richness of faney, exuberance of invention, and, above all, for the sweet magic of their language, where shall we find their superiors among the British bards? It is not for us obscure wights to put on the critical nightcap, and, being notorious criminals ourselves, set up as judges of others; but we should hold ourselves base and ungrateful if we did not seize this chance opportunity to raise our voices in these remote regions of the West, where, peradventure, they never dreamed of one day possessing millions of

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