But there, once more redeemed, he stands, And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I've seen him when the rising sun Shone like a watch-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done, Bathed in the evening's crimson light; I've seen him in the midnight hour, When all the world beneath were sleeping, Like some lone sentry in his tower His patient watch in silence keeping. No sovereign but the King of kings: With all its grandeur melt away, Untroubled by one thought of sorrow: He welcomes not nor fears to-morrow. All time and chance and change defying, Still pointing upward to the skies, And on the inward strength relying. If life before my weary eye Grows fearful as the angry sea, With firm resolve and strong endeavor Till life's short warfare ends for ever. MAN GIVETI UP THE GHOST, AND WHERE IS HE? Where is he? Hark! his lonely home May fire the windows of his hall: Like weeping love remembering him. Where is he? Hark! the friend replies: "I watched beside his dying bed, And heard the low and struggling sighs That gave the living to the dead; I saw his weary eyelids close, And then the ruin coldly cast, Where all the loving and beloved, Though sadly parted, meet at last.” Where is he? Hark! the marble says, That "here the mourners laid his head; And here sometimes, in after-days, They came, and sorrowed for the dead: But one by one they passed away, And soon they left me here alone To sink in unobserved decay, A nameless and neglected stone." Where is he? Hark! 'tis Heaven replies: "The star-beam of the purple sky, That looks beneath the evening's brow, Mild as some beaming angel's eye, As calm and clear it gazes down, Is shining from the place of rest, The pearl of his immortal crown, The heavenly radiance of the blest!" LUCIUS M. SARGENT. LUCIUS MANLIUS SARGENT was born at Boston June 25, 1786. He was the son of a leading merchant of that city, and in 1804 entered Harvard College. He was not graduated in course, but received an honorary degree of A.M. from the University in 1842. After leaving college he studied law in the office of Mr. Dexter. In 1813 he published Hubert and Ellen, with other Poems,* all of a pathetic and reflective character. Mr. Sargent married a sister of Horace Binney of Philadelphia, one of the most accomplished scholars in the country, by whom he had three children, the eldest of whom, Horace Binney, was graduated with distinction at Harvard in 1843. Some time after the death of this lady he again married. Mr. Sargent was an early advocate of the Temperance cause, and rendered important service to the movement by his public addresses and the composition of his Temperance Tales, a series of short popular stories, which have been extensively circulated in this country and reprinted in England, Scotland, Germany, and, it is to be hoped with good moral effect, in Botany Bay. During the editorship of the Boston Transcript by his relative Mr. Epes Sargent, he contributed a series of satirical and antiquarian sketches to its columns under the title of Dealings with the Dead by a Sexton of the Old School. His other writings for the press have been numerous, but almost entirely anonymous. Mr. Sargent made a liberal use of a liberal fortune, possessed a fine library, and was a thorough scholar. He died at West Roxbury, Massachusetts, June 2, 1867. WINTHROP SARGENT, a kinsman of Lucius M. Sargent and son of George W. Sargent, was born in Philadelphia, September 23, 1825. He is the author of an "Introductory Memoir" prefixed to the Journals of officers engaged in Braddock's Expedition, printed by the Pennsylvania Historical Society in 1855 from the original manuscripts in the British Museum. Under the modest title we have cited Mr. Sargent has not only given the most thorough history of Braddock and his expedition that has ever appeared, but furnished one of the best written and most valuable historical volumes of the country. In the prosecution of his task he has used extensive research, and has grouped his large mass of varied and in many cases original material with admirable literary skill. Mr. Sargent published, in 1857, The Loyalist Poetry of the Revolution (small 4to, 218 pp.), to which he added a supplementary volume in 1860, The Loyal Verses of Joseph Stansbury and Doctor Jonathan Odell, Relating to the American Revolution (Munsell, Albany, small 4to, pp. 199). These books were carefully edited, and Hubert and Ellen, with other poems, The Trial of the Harp, Billowy Water, The Plunderer's Grave, The Tear Drop, The Billow. By Lucius M. Sargent. the limited editions in which they appeared speedily exhausted. Mr. Sargent has also published, from the original inanuscript, a Journal of the General Meeting of the Cincinnati, in 1784, by Major Winthrop Sargent, a Delegate from Massachusetts (Philadelphia, 8vo, 1858; contained also in Memoirs of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, vol. vi.).. In 1861, he issued his most elaborate work, The Life and Career of Major John André (Boston, 12mo, pp. 471). This is a highly interesting volume, attractive in style, abounding with personal anecdote and illustration from contemporary events, and of sterling value as a contribution to American history. The author, in his preface, acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Sparks, Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. John Carter Brown, for the use of original materials in their important collections. Mr. Sargent was a resident of New York for some years, engaged in the practice of his profession, the law. He died in Paris, May 18, 1870. **EXECUTION OF MAJOR ANDRÉ. FROM LIFE OF MAJOR ANDRÉ. The morning of Tuesday, October the 2d, 1780, found him with his mortal duties all performed, and not afraid to die. He The prisoner's board was supplied from Washington's own table: on this day his breakfast was sent him, as usual, from the general's quarters. He ate with entire composure, and then proceeded to shave and to dress with particular care. was fully arrayed in the habits of his rank and profession, with the exception of sash and spurs, sword and gorget. The toilet completed, he laid his hat on the table, and cheerfully said to the guard-officers deputed to lead him forth, "I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, to wait on you." Though his face was of deadly paleness, its features were tranquil and calm; his beauty shone with an unnatural distinctness that awed the hearts of the vulgar, and his manners and air were as easy as though he was going to a ballroom rather than the grave. The spot fixed for the closing scene was in an open field belonging to the owner of the house wherein he was detained, and on an eminence that commands an extended view. It was within a mile, and in open sight of Washington's quarters. Here the lofty gibbet was erected, and the shallow grave of three or four feet depth was digged. The office of hangman, always an odious employment, was perhaps on this occasion more than usually so. None of our soldiers undertook it. One Strickland, a tory of Ramapo Valley, was in our hands at the time. His threatened fate may have been hard: his years were not many; and by the price of freedom he was procured to take on himself the necessary but revolting character. Under an elaborate disguise, he probably hoped to go through the scene, if not unnoticed, at least unknown. Besides the officers that were always in the chamber, six sentinels kept watch by night and by day over every aperture of the building; and if hope of escape ever rose in André's breast, it could not have developed into even the vaguest expectation. To the idea of suicide as a means of avoiding his doom he never descended. noon of this day was the hour appointed for the execution; and at half an hour before, the cortége set forth. André walked arm-in-arm between The two subalterns; each, it is said, with a drawn sword in the opposite hand. A captain's command of thirty or forty men marched immediately about these, while an outer guard of five hundred infantry environed the whole, and formed a hollow square around the gibbet, within which no one, save the officers on duty and the provostmarshal's men, were suffered to enter. An immense multitude was, however, assembled on all sides to witness the spectacle, and every house along the way was thronged with eager gazers; that only of Washington excepted. Here the shutters were drawn, and no man was visible but the two sentries that paced to and fro before the door. Neither the Chief himself nor his staff were present with the troops; a circumstance which was declared by our people, and assented to by André, as evincing a laudable decorum. But almost every field officer in our army, with Greene at their head, led the procession on horseback; and a number followed the prisoner on foot, while the outer guard, stretching in single file on either side, and in front and rear, prevented the concourse from crowding in. In addition to all those who came in from the countryside, it is unlikely that many of the army who could contrive to be present missed the sight. Every eye was fixed on the prisoner; and every face wore such an aspect of melancholy and gloom, that the impression produced on some of our officers was not only affecting but awful. Keeping pace with the melancholy notes of the dead-march, the procession passed along; no member of it apparently less troubled than he whose conduct was its cause, and whose death was its object. In the beautiful Orientalism of Sir William Jones, he dying only smiled while around him grieved. His heart told him that a life honorably spent in the pursuit of glory would not leave his name to be enrolled among those of the ignoble or guilty many: and his face bespoke the serenity of an approving and undismayed conscience. From time to time, as he caught the eye of an acquaintance, and especially to the officers of the Court of Enquiry, he tendered the customary civilities of recognition, and received their acknowledgments with composure and grace. It seems that up to this moment he was persuaded that he was not to be hanged, but to be shot to death: and the inner guard in attendance he took to be the firing party detailed for the occasion. Not until the troops turned suddenly, at a right angle with the course they had hitherto followed, and the gallows rose high before him, was he undeceived. In the very moment of wheeling with his escort, his eye rested on the ill-omened tree; and he recoiled and paused. Why this emotion, sir?" asked Smith, who held one of his arms. "I am reconciled to my fate," said André, clenching his fist and convulsively moving his arm, "but not to the mode of it!" "It is unavoidable, sir," was the reply. He beckoned Tallmadge, and inquired anxiously if he was not to be shot: -"must I then die in this manner?" Being told that it was so ordered -"How hard is my fate!" he cried; "but it will emotion. His servant, who had followed him to this point, now burst forth with loud weeping and lamentation, and André for a little turned aside and privately conversed with him. He shook hands with Tallmadge, who withdrew. A baggage wagon was driven beneath the cross-tree, into which he leaped lightly, but with visible loathing; and throwing his hat aside, removed his stock, opened his shirt-collar, and snatching the rope from the clumsy hangman, himself adjusted it about his neck. He could not conceal his disgust at these features of his fate: but it was expressed Then he in manner rather than in language. bound his handkerchief over his eyes. The order of execution was loudly and impressively read by our Adjutant-General Scammel, who at its conclusion informed André he might now speak, if he had anything to say. Lifting the bandage for a moment from his eyes, he bowed courteously to Greene and the attending officers, and said with firmness and dignity: All I request of you, gentlemen, is that you will bear witness to the world that I die like a brave man.” His last words, murmured in an undertone, were, "It will be but a momentary pang!" Everything seemed now ready, when the commanding officer on duty suddenly cried out, "His arms must be tied ! The hangman with a piece of cord laid hold of him to perform this order: but recoiling from his touch, André vehemently struck away the man's hand, and drew another handkerchief from his pocket, with which the elbows were loosely pinioned behind his back. The signal was given; the wagon rolled swiftly away; and almost in the same instant he ceased to exist. The height of the gibbet, the length of the cord, and the sudden shock as he was jerked from the coffin-lid on which he stood, produced immediate death. WILLIAM B. WALTER. WILLIAM B. WALTER was born at Boston, April 19, 1796, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1818. He studied divinity at Cambridge, but did not follow the profession. He published, in 1821, a small volume of Poems at Boston, with a dedication to the Rev. John Pierpont, in which he says-" I cannot make the common, unprofitable, and to me exceedingly frivolous, apology— that these poems are the pleasant labors of idle or leisure hours. On the contrary, this volume, and I am proud to confess it, contains specimens of the precious and melancholy toil of years." The longest of these poems is entitled Romance. It opens with a picture of Palestine at the time of Our Saviour, from thence passes to the Crusades, and closes with reflections on nature, and on the vanity of human affairs. The remaining pieces, The Death Chamber, Mourner of the Last Hope, and others, are written in a strain of deep despondency. Walter published in the same year a rambling narrative and descriptive poem, with the title of Sukey, the idea of which was evidently derived from the then recently published "Fanny." The story is little more than a thread connecting various passages of description and reflection. Sukey is introduced to us at the dame's school; grows up under the peaceful influences of country life; and has a lover who goes to sea while Sukey departs in a stage sleigh for a winter's visit to the city. In due course of time Sukey becomes a belle, and figures at an evening party, which is minutely described, with its supper-table, jostling, and chit-chat about novels and poems, when suddenly "an. Afric's form is seen," not one of the waiters, but a highly intelligent specimen of his race, who gives an animated and poetical description of a fight at sea with an Algerine pirate, whose vessel has just been brought into port by the victor, Sukey's lover. The poem extends to one hundred and seventyone six-line stanzas, and contains several melodious passages, many of which, however, are elose imitations of Byron and Montgomery. The poem appeared in the same year with Fanny, and seems to have had a large circulation; the copy before us being printed at Baltimore, "from the second Boston edition," in a form similar to, and with the copyright notice of the original. Walter died at Charleston, South Carolina, April 23, 1822. MOURNER OF THE LAST HOPE. Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, Like me, are death-like old. I saw an Old Man kneel down by a grave, Deep wrinkled with care, His hands were clasped o'er a grave newly dug, And they shook with his soul-wrung sadness; His blood slowly crept, And he groaning wept, As he thought of his visions of gladness. The stars were along the wide depths of blue, Shining down with a tremulous gleamingAnd the glorious moon, At her highest noon, Sat arrayed with the Spirits of Dreaming. I asked the Old Man why he wept and prayed? And his look was a look of sorrow! Then he cried sad and wildAlas! for my child, No waking hast thou for the morrow! Years had wrought changes for him-as for all, Now the last of his hopes slept beside him! She was young and fairBut now silent there! No voice could I find to chide him. Yea! a common tale, and a common lot, Which time and thought cannot number. She moved the fairest-the fairest among, In the dance along, Like a seraph of heaven in brightness. None could gaze on her eye of lustrous blue, And not feel his spirit heaving, When it flashed in love, The azure cloud brightly leaving. And her cheek of snow was a cheek of health, To those who knew not her weakness, Till the hectic flush, Like the day's faint blush, Came o'er to disturb its meekness. When she shrunk away from her pride of form, Like a cloud in its loveliest shading, Like the death-toned lute, Or the rose in the summer's fading. And the crowd did pass from the couch of woe; All had finished each mournful duty; And the garlands wove, By the hands of love, Hung around in a withering beauty. Never sounded the death-bell in my ear, With a knell so awful and weary, As they buried her deep For a long, long sleep In the lone place-so dark and dreary. Oh, CHRIST! 'tis a strange and a fearful thought Which a bosom of love might have cherished. That man may grieve O'er the page of eternity written! The Old Man rose, and he went his way,Oh, deep was his utterless mourning · But the woes of the nightNo morrow's dear light Will dispel with the ray of its dawning. F. W. P. GREENWOOD. FRANCIS WILLIAM PITT GREENWOOD was born in Boston, in 1797. After completing his college course at Harvard in 1814, he studied theology at the same university, and commenced his career as a preacher with great popularity, as the pastor of the New South Church, Boston, but was obliged at the expiration of a year to visit Europe for the benefit of his health. After passing a winter in Devonshire, England, he returned to this country, and settled in Baltimore, where he became the editor of the Unitarian Miscellany. In 1824 he returned to Boston, and became associate minister of King's Chapel. In 1827, he revised the liturgy used by the congregation, consisting of the Book of Common Prayer, with the passages relating to the Trinity and other articles of the faith of its authors, and the founders of King's Chapel, excised therefrom. In 1830, he also prepared a collection of hymns, which is in extensive use in the congregations of his denomination, and bears honorable testimony to the taste of its compiler. In 1838, Mr. Greenwood published a small volume of a popular character, The Lives of the Apostles; in 1833 a series of discourses on the History of King's Chapel, and about the same time a series of sermons delivered to the children of his congregation. During the years 1837 and 1838, he was an associate editor of the Christian Examiner, a journal to which he was throughout his life a frequent contributor of articles on literary topics, and on the tenets of the denomination of which he was a zealous advocate. In 1842 he published his Sermons of Consolation, a work of great beauty of thought and expression. Soon after this the author's health, which had never been completely restored, failed to such a degree, that he was unable to execute his purpose of prepar ing one or more additional series of his sermons for publication. He gradually sank under disease until his death, on the second of August, 1843. A collection of Miscellaneous Writings, edited by his son, appeared in 1846. The volume contains his Journal kept in England in 1820–21, and a number of essays of a descriptive and reflective character, exhibiting the powers of the writer to the best advantage. We cite a passage from one of these on the OPPORTUNITIES OF WINTER FOR INSTRUCTION. In In the warm portion of our year, when the sun reigns, and the fields are carpeted with herbs and flowers, and the forests are loaded with riches and magnificence, nature seems to insist on instructing us herself, and in her own easy, insensible way. the mild and whispering air there is an invitation to go abroad which few can resist; and when abroad we are in a school where all may learn, without trouble or tasking, and where we may be sure to learn if we will simply open our hearts. But stern winter comes, and drives us back into our towns and houses, and there we must sit down, and learn and teach with serious application of the mind, and by the prompting of duty. As we are bidden to this exertion, so are we better able to make it than in the preceding season. The body, which was before unnerved, is now braced up to the extent of its capacity; and the mind which was before dissipated by the fair variety of external attractions, collects and concentrates its powers, as those attractions fade and disappear. The natural limits of day and night, also, conspire to the same end, and are in unison with the other intimations of In summer, the days, glad to linger on the beautiful earth, almost exclude the quiet and contemplative nights, which are only long enough for sleep. But in the winter the latter gain the ascendency. Slowly and royally they sweep back with their broad shadows, and hushing the earth with the double spell of darkness and coldness, issue their silent mandates, and-while the still snow falls, and the waters are congealed-call to reflection, to study, to mental labor and acquisition. the season. The long winter nights! Dark, cold, and stern as they seem, they are the friends of wisdom, the patrons of literature, the nurses of vigorous, patient, inquisitive, and untiring intellect. To some, indeed, they come particularly associated, when not with gloom, with various gay scenes of amusement, with lighted halls, lively music, and a few (hundred) friends. To others, the dearest scene which they present is the cheerful fireside, instructive books, studious and industrious children, and those friends, whether many or few, whom the heart and experience acknowledge to be such. Society has claims; social intercourse is profitable as well as pleasant ; amusements are naturally sought for by the young, and such as are innocent they may well partake of; but it may be asked, whether, when amusements run into excess, they do not leave their innocence behind them in the career; whether light social intercourse, when it takes up a great deal of time, has anything valuable to pay in return for that time; and whether the claims of society can in any sobriety, and the peaceableness of its members? way be better satisfied than by the intelligence, the Such qualities and habits must be acquired at home; and not by idleness even there, but by study. The winter evenings seem to be given to us, not exclusively, but chiefly, for instruction. They invite us to instruct ourselves, to instruct others, and to do our part in furnishing all proper means of instruction. We must instruct ourselves. Whatever our age, condition, or occupation may be, this is a duty which we cannot safely neglect, and for the per formance of which the season affords abundant opportunity. To know what other minds have done, is not the work of a moment; and it is only to be known from the records which they have left of themselves, or from what has been recorded of them. To instruct ourselves is necessarily our own work; but we cannot well instruct ourselves without learning from others. The stores of our own minds it is for ourselves to use for the best effects and to the greatest advantage; but if we do not acquire with diligence, from external sources, there would be very few of us who would have any stores to use. Let no one undervalue intellectual means, who wishes to effect intellectual ends. The best workman will generally want the best tools, and the best assortment of them. We must instruct others. This duty belongs most especially to parents. All who have children, have pupils. The winter evening is the chosen time to instruct them, when they have past the tenderest years of their childhood. Those who have schooltasks to learn, should not be left to toil in solitude; but should be encouraged by the presence, and aided by the superior knowledge, of their parents, whose pleasure as well as duty it should be to lend them a helping hand along the road, not alw ways easy, of learning. While the child is leaning over his book, the father and the mother should be nigh, that when he looks up in weariness or perplexity, he may find, at least, the assistance of sympathy. They need not be absolutely tied to the study-table, but they should not often hesitate between the calls of amusement abroad, and the demands for parental example, guidance, and companionship at home. They will lose no happiness by denying themselves many pleasures, and will find that the most brilliant of lustres are their own domestic lamp, and the cheerful and intelligent eyes of their children. RUFUS CHOATE, THE rapid and impetuous orator of New Eng land, whose eloquence descends like the flood of objects in its course, was born at Ipswich, a mountain river bearing along grand and minute Essex County Massachusets, October 1, 179. He was educated at Dartmouth, at the law school at Cambridge, and in the offices of Judge Cummings at Salem, and Attorney-General Wirt at Washington. He began the practice of the law at Danvers in 1824; passed some time at Salem, and removed to Boston in 1834, having previously occupied a seat in the state senate and in the house of representatives as a member of Congress. In 1842 he succeeded Daniel Webster in the United States Senate, resigning in 1845, and with these exceptions he has been exclusively engaged in his profession of the law. His claims to literary notice rest upon his speeches in Congress and several addresses on public occasions. Of his speeches the most noted are those on the tariff, the Oregon question, and the annexation of Texas. Mr. Whipple, who has written an admirable analysis of their style,* in both its strength and weakness, celebrates their analogical power both of understanding and fancy, by which the most relevant and incongruous matters are alike made subservient to his argument; and gives some happy examples of the shrewd sense and humor which sometimes relieve his overburdened paragraphs. In one of these, in his speech on the Oregon question, he disposes of the old grudge against England : No, sir, we are above all this. Let the Highland clansman, half-naked, half-civilized, half-blinded by the peat-smoke of his cavern, have his hereditary enemy and his hereditary enmity, and keep the keen, deep, and precious hatred, set on fire of hell, alive if he can; let the North American Indian have his, and hand it down from father to son, by Heaven knows what symbols of alligators, and rattlesnakes, and war-clubs smeared with vermilion and entwined with scarlet; let such a country as Poland, cloven to the earth, the armed heel on the radiant forehead, her body dead, her soul incapable to die-let her remember the wrongs of days long past; let the lost and wandering tribes of Israel remember theirs-the manliness and the sympathy of the world may allow or pardon this to them: but shall America, young, free, and prosperous, just setting out on the highway of Heaven, "decorating and cheering the elevated But all have not children; and the children of some are too young to be permitted to remain with their parents beyond the earliest hours of evening; and the children of others are old enough to accompany their parents abroad. For all those who think they could pleasantly and profitably receive instruction of a public nature, and for this purpose spend an hour or two away from their homes, there is, happily, a plenty of instruction provided. Winter is the very season for public instruction, and it must be said to their honor, that our citizens have excellently improved it as such. Opportunities for gain-sphere she just begins to move in, glittering like the ing useful knowledge have been provided, and they have not been neglected by those for whom the provision has been made. The fountains of waters have been opened, and the thirsty have been refreshed. Though home instruction is to be placed at the head of all instruction, yet there are numbers who have not instruction at home, and nuinbers who have none at home to whom they may communicate instruction; and there are numbers who find it convenient and useful to mingle public and domestic instruction together, or alternate the one with the other. And when it is considered that the public lectures referred to are charged with little expense to the hearers; that they are delivered by the best and ablest men among us; that hundreds of youth resort to them, many of whom are in all probability saved from idleness, and some from vice and crime; and that to all who may attend them they afford a rational employment of time, we may look to the continuance of such means of knowledge and virtue as one of the most inestimable of benefits. morning star, full of life and joy"-shall she be sup- to the brave. We Another passage, illustrating his humorous turn, may be placed alongside of this-his famous de Article IIon. Rufus Choate. Whig Rev., Jan., 1847. |