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His appearance and roughness of manner off the stage were almost clownish, and yet he had many of the accomplishments of a finished gentleman. He was an excellent marine artist, an admirable musician, and possessed a natural taste for poetry. One leading passion of his life was the turf, and this involved him in a round of society detrimental to his health and fatal to his career: He died in the very prime of life; and so great was his popularity among all classes, that a public subscription was made for his widow, amounting to upward of three thousand pounds. SINCLAIR was also at that time in full possession of public favor, and warbled most delightfully ; BLANCHARD, who had the happy talent of rendering secondary characters most prominent without disturbing the harmony of the whole ; and then came that round, fat, vulgar, humorous, rosy countenance of TOKELY; a man scarcely conscious of the talent he possessed; a fine portrait of Bacchus bestriding the wine barrel, the great error of whose life was in draining too freely the juice of the grape.



E. R. N. .



Could'st thou look forth amid the noise and smoke
Of the great mart upon the aged woods,
From whose steep bluffs of pine thou oft hast caught
Full many a glimpse of misty meadow-land,
And hollows filled with sunshine, thou would'st think
Less of the world and its vain mockeries,
And love that more from which thou hast received
That blissful quietude and perfect peace
Which taketh off from life the weary weight
Of misery and bondage. Here thy ear
Was never filled with tumult, nor thy thoughts
Made wretched by a life of vanity:
But in that purity and holiness
Which seemed to sanctify each mossy nook
And hollow of the forest, thou did'st see
Some cause for joy, some reason why thy heart
Should grow as peaceful as the quiet woods
And glens around thee. Nor can I believe
That these intelligible forms have grown
Less worthy of thy love, although thine eye
Hath long since lost them amid piles of brick,
And crowded thoroughfares. That blessed mood
Which steals upon us when we least expect
Its holy influence, and so imbues
The spirit with a sense of loveliness
That we seem one with nature; that serene
And perfect joy which dwells amid the deep
Religious gloom of venerable woods,
And wheresoe'er the sweet wind blows from coves
Roofed o’er with emerald ; these, if I err not,
Have left upon thy life a blessedness
And a diviner beauty which hath grown
Inseparable from thy purest thoughts,
And brightens o'er thy face whose rose-like bloom
Foretells love's reddening morning.

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If this be
The secret of thy happiness, how oft
Amid the city's iumult hast thou sighed
For these wide fields of bloomy mountain-land,
Amid whose sweet seclusion thy young heart
Drew forth from nature all ennobling aims,
All generous impulses, and whatsoe'er
Hath given thy life its merry moods of thought,
And happy romance. Nor when thou art come
Once more amid these aisles of evergreen,
Shalt thou be less the laughter-loving girl
That I knew long ago, when through these groves,
With rosy cheeks and bonnet backward thrown,
Thy small feet twinkled in the thick soft grass,
And sprouting wintergreen.

This nook of pine,
Beneath whose rustling screen the winter-drift
Lies white as ivory, still shows its banks
Of creeping myrtle, and the sapphire sky
Of changeful March that shines between this huge
Gray ceiling overhead, is still as pure
And prodigal of sunshine. Yellow leaves
Are here amid the knolls, and here are tracks
Of little snow-birds 'neath the leafless beech,
And prints of squirrels leading amid bark
And scattered pine cones, o'er yon long white logs
That bridge the silent hollow.' From the clefts
Of yonder hemlock, whose huge body lies
Capp'd with a ridge of silver, glossy tufts
Of brightening wood-moss twinkle, and his sides
Wet with the melting snow that drips aloof,
Gleam in the blaze of noontide. How the wind
Moans in this sturdy cedar, through whose roof
Of venerable boughs the golden light
Is scarce let in! Now from its deep rich gloom
Of sea-green foliage the broad-winged crow
Floats through the sunshine upward, to his perch
Upon the crooked pine-top, o'er whose cone
of dark red limbs and plumes of emerald
The wood-hawk, whiter than the drifting cloud,
Sails like a spot of silver. Noiselessly
The brook wells in the loose black earth below,
Upon whose barky mould, ʼmid withered tufts
Of forest-grass and prints of cattle, springs
The blue-eyed violet.

All is happiness
And perfect quietude, yet all shall change
Into a softer mood of loveliness
Ere summer shades the silver of the brook
With fern and leaning roses, or thy feet,
Peeping from under thy loose dress, are seen
Bounding like spots of snow across the soft
Thick moss of these cool hollows. Then beneath
These daisy-covered coves, thy hand once more
Shall part the rustling boughs that sweep the grass,
And from their lifted screen of twinkling leaves,
Thy face made ruddy by the heat, shall smile
Amid the rich green iwilight. Nor shalt thou
Come back with withered feelings, or as if
Thou had'st found something holier than the love
Which thou hast borne for nature! She, amid
This venerable pomp of waving wood
And hilly forest-land, shall fill thy cheek
With rose-tints born of the sweet summer wind
And blessed sunshine, nor shall she be less
The giver of all sweet and happy thoughts,
All peaceful influences, and whatsoe'er
Can add a beauty to thy moral being.


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MY DEAR KNICKERBOCKER: At your request I have reopened my Grand-father's Port-folio, and submit another of his yellow mss. to your inspection. Perhaps you will consider that the piece I have selected is of too serious a cast for your lively Magazine ; or it may be you will find other objections to it. If so, you will have the kindness to return me the sheets, with your usual care, as the paper is somewhat decayed and worn, and like every relic of the good old gentleman, is very precious to myself and his other dutiful descendants.

You will hardly need, I think, a key to interpret his allegorical repre. sentation of what I suppose to be three important stages of his own experience and that of many others. The lives of most persons have their spiritual dawn and night. Would that all might find the new, the everlasting morning! The contrast he has drawn between the single. ness of heart and innocence of the little boy at home, and the darker thoughts and embittered feelings of the young man who has been con. taminated and injured by mingling with the world, is not, I imagine, much stronger than the latter sometimes feels it to be.

I remain, yours, with constant friendship, Boston, Dec. 5, 1844.

C. R.


In the smooth paths of a pleasant garden, a little boy is at play alone; yet no — for all Nature is with him; companioning; intimate ; making sweet music for him to dance to; strewing out before him its inexhaustible museum of play things and curiosities; kissing him ; painting his cheeks ; infusing ethereal and lively essence into his whole frame ; talking with him and listening; and through her regal minister, the golden sceptered sun, bestowing her warm maternal blessing on his beautiful head. Glossy and elastic ringlets hang in thick natural clusters from his crown, shining in the sunlight like spiral threads of finest spun glass; fit coronet for the brow of innocence.

The low shrubbery that hedges his way on either side is higher than his head; and the tall tiger-lilies stoop to dispense to him their sweet odors, while his face is painted with their yellow dust. Now he gives chase to the butterfly ; not that he would destroy, but because it is on the move and seems to beckon him to a race. Anon he flings his little cap at the humming-bird, swift and gay of wing, and glistening with all beautiful hues, as his own impulsive fancies. And again, with eager curiosity, he throws himself down upon the sandy path, and digs up the subterraneous cities and granaries of the ants with his tiny wooden sword.

All the while, involuntarily, his impulses sing out in a low and fitful song, that with all its music has no meaning to human ear; for it is not VOL. XXV.


a song of words, but only the spontaneous out-pouring of a pure and rapturous life. Perhaps angels have a key to it; for surely none less pure than they, might hope to interpret all the mysteries of the infant's heart. But however this may be, one thing is not matter of conjecture; we know that this soft buzzing of childhood soliloquizing in its play is most distinctly audible there, where the shouts and clamors of striving multitudes and warring hosts never reach ; and that it mingles much of sweetness in the swelling symphony that rises up perpetually from nature's choir, and from holy and happy beings throughout the illimitable clusters of rejoicing and adoring spheres.

Delight and wonder shine in his roving eye and on his glowing cheek; and a smile of confidence and reality, that has never yet been shadowed by the black wing of one ill-omened doubt, plays on his peaceful brow. All is new and charming to him, as he comes forward through the gateway of life. This is the first summer that he has noticed the beauty of the flowers, and even the pebble that sparkles at his feet is more to him than the sun to many an older mind. The summer-house at the bottom of the garden seems to him a great way off; and the wall that encloses the paternal acres, to his satisfied soul, embraces all fulness, and seems like the boundaries of being.

Occasionally he pauses, as if the Spirit of God were gently whispering some message of love to his soul, or some celestial vision were flashing across his unruffled mind, like the sudden gleam of a meteor on the mirror of the placid lake.

I almost weep as I trace his tiny foot-prints on the soft ground; for the thought comes over me, that even as I am watching him, some elder brother once took reverent note of me, when my angel beheld the face of my Father who is in Heaven, and when my every pulse kept time and tune with the Perfect Will.

But now his father and mother, soon missing him when he is absent from their sight, come out arm-in-arm to meet him; leading along his younger sister, just learning to walk; and he, clapping his little hands, and uttering a shout of joy as he sees them approaching, darts forward to meet them, and is soon folded in their loving embrace. So, thought I, should my soul rush toward the open bosom of its heavenly Parent. And so, doubtless, do fly to his embrace the myriads of little children, who speed away from our lovely tabernacles, with a haste that seems so cruel to us who are left behind. Have they not caught a glimpse of His smile, and said in spirit, · Let me leave this lower world untried, for be it as beautiful and good as it may, my Father, I had rather dwell with Thee;' till God has heard their cry and taken them home? Then, their being knows no night. But it is otherwise with those who stay. And yet I know not which is to be preferred; to live on through the Night to a New Morn, or to have our first Dawn sealed to immortality.


Ar the close of one of the golden days of autumn, a Sister and Bro. ther, clad in deep mourning for both their parents, who had died within the year, ascended, hand-in-hand, an irregular and rocky eminence, that rising abruptly from the road-side directly opposite to a neat white cot

tage, which they called home, commanded an extensive and enchanting view. Having gained the summit, they stood in affectionate embrace, leaning against the bars of a rude old fence covered with lichens, which had formerly been the boundary of their twilight ramble, intently watching the splendid pageant that was preparing in the western sky.

To say that the former was beautiful, would be leaving the greater part untold. Hers was all the rich bloom of perfect health ; yet as delicate and pure as that which flushes the sweet-briar rose, which feeds upon the dew and assimilates by sacred processes the purest nutriment from the bosom of nature.' As to her countenance, no one marked whether the features were regular and finely turned, for they were all alive with soul; nay, the spirit seemed to come out and gleam and play upon the surface, like a transparent veil of auroral light; and this, rather than any lines of her face, gave one his impression of her beauty. She was evidently younger than the brother, upon whose shoulder her cheek rested, who could not have long passed the boundary between youth and manhood, but yet was pale and dejected; and trode the earth like a disappointed and weary traveller, who finds the way of his pilgrimage a desert of deep sand, whose springs are dry.

• Behold, dearest brother,' whispered a voice like the linnet's, how majestically the setttng sun gathers about him the broad floating mantle of his glory, as he sinks, sinks, sinks behind those distant hills! And see how the host of clouds circle around his retiring chariot, to wave adieu with their fleecy banners, and gild their wings in his parting smile, as they crown him king of this splendid day! Come, beloved, and let us together taste, as we used to do, the luxury of silent adoration at eventide, on this mountain-altar of our youthful devotions. Let me feel, once more, that thy whole heart is flowing out with mine, to mingle in sweet sympathy with this peaceful glow of nature, and become ab. sorbed for a blissful hour in the loving spirit of the Universe. Come, brother, give free wing again to that gay fancy that once kept equal pace with my own, and let our souls fly on and on, even to the Heaven of Heavens, through the celestial gate that the Lord of day has opened before us into the region of the Blessed. See! see! there are those same fairy islands, in that calm, yellow sea, to which you used to point my eye in those happy days, when father and mother were with before you had left our humble roof for the mighty world. Come, and let us launch to-night our spirit-barks with the adventurous confidence of God's innocent children, and pay angel-like visits to their peaceful shores. That bold and towering headland be your place of pilgrimage : Yon little Archipelago I will explore. Away! away! before the illusion has vanished, and let us describe to each other what we see in our imaginary tour.'

• Nay, sweet sister, you must to fairy-land alone to-night. But go, and Heaven with all its bright visions attend you! Those Eden-like pictures which you describe, I have now no eye to see. of the world my soul has lost its wings. Joy and peace, and a confi. ding faith -- once mine, as always yours - are now but a dim memory in the past, in the future a dimmer hope ; while gloom and doubt and a double-self are my realities. And yet, thank God! one reality that

us, and

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