pillow, and wept; for my heart was almost breaking with the misery of my kind."

I thought, then, that I would walk no more abroad, till the fields were green. But my mind and body grow alike impatient of being inclosed within walls; both ask for the free breeze, and the wide, blue dome that overarches and embraces all. Again I rambled forth under the February sun, as mild and genial as the breath of June. Heart, mind, and frame grew glad and strong, as we wandered on, past the old Stuyvesant church, which a few years agone was surrounded by fields and Dutch farm-houses, but now stands in the midst of peopled streets; and past the trim, new houses, with their green verandahs, in the airy suburbs. Following the railroad, which lay far beneath our feet, as we wound our way over the hills, we came to the buryingground of the poor. Weeds and brambles grew along the sides, and the stubble of last year's grass waved over it, like dreary memories of the past; but the sun smiled on it, like God's love on the desolate soul. It was inexpressibly touching to see the frail memorials of affection, placed there by hearts crushed under the weight of poverty. In one place was a small rude cross of wood, with the initials J. S. cut with a penknife, and apparently filled with ink. In another a small hoop had been bent into the form of a heart, painted green, and nailed on a stick at the head of the grave. On one upright shingle was painted only 'MUTTER;' the German word for MOTHER. On another was scrawled, as if with charcoal, So ruhe wohl, du unser liebes kind. (Rest well, our beloved child.) One recorded life's brief history thus: 'H. G. born in Bavaria; died in NewYork. Another short epitaph, in French, told that the sleeper came from the banks of the Seine.

The predominance of foreign epitaphs affected me deeply. Who could now tell with what high hopes those departed ones had left the heart-homes of Ger

many, the sunny hills of Spain, the laughing skies of Italy, or the wild beauty of Switzerland? Would not the friends they had left in their childhood's home, weep scalding tears to find them in a pauper's grave, with their initials rudely carved on a fragile shingle? Some had not even these frail memorials. It seemed there was none to care whether they lived or died. A wide, deep trench was open; and there I could see piles of unpainted coffins heaped one upon the other, left uncovered with earth, till the yawning cavity was filled with its hundred tenants.

Returning homeward, we passed a Catholic burying-ground. It belonged to the upper classes, and was filled with marble monuments, covered with long inscriptions. But none of them touched my heart like that rude shingle, with the simple word 'Mutter' inscribed thereon. The gate was open, and hundreds of Irish, in their best Sunday clothes, were stepping reverently among the graves, and kissing the very sods. Tenderness for the dead is one of the loveliest features of their nation and their church.

The evening was closing in, as we returned, thoughtful, but not gloomy. Bright lights shone through crimson, blue, and green, in the apothecaries' windows, and were reflected in prismatic beauty from the dirty pools in the street. It was like poetic thoughts in the minds of the poor and ignorant; like the memory of pure aspirations in the vicious; like a rainbow of promise, that God's spirit never leaves even the most degraded soul. I smiled, as my spirit gratefully accepted this love-token from the outward; and I thanked our heavenly Father for a world beyond this.

LETTER XV.

March 17, 1842.

It may seem strange to you that among the mass of beings in this great human hive, I should occupy an entire letter with one whose life was like a troubled and fantastic dream; apparently without use to himself or others. Yet he was one who has left a record on the public heart, and will not soon be forgotten. For several years past the eccentricities of Macdonald Clarke have been the city talk, and almost every child in the street was familiar with his countenance. In latter years the record of inexpressible misery was written there; but he is said to have had rather an unusual portion of beauty in his youth; and even to the last, the heart looked out from his wild eyes with most friendly earnestness. I saw him but twice; and now mourn sincerely that the pressure of many avocations prevented my seeking to see him oftener. So many forms of unhappiness crowd upon us in this world of perversion and disorder, that it is impossible to answer all demands. But stranger as poor Clarke was, it now makes me sad that I did not turn out of my way to utter the simple word of kindness, which never failed to rejoice his suffering and child-like soul.

I was always deeply touched by the answer of the poor, heart-broken page in Hope Leslie: 'Yes, lady, I have lost my way!' How often do I meet with those who, on the crowded pathway of life, have lost their way. With poor Clarke it was so from the very outset. Something that was not quite insanity, but was nigh akin to it, marked his very boyhood.

He was horn in New London, Connecticut, and was school-mate with our eloquent friend, Charles C. Burleigh, who always speaks of him as the most kind-hearted of boys, but even then characterized by

H

the oddest vagaries. His mother died at sea, when he was twelve years old; being on a voyage for her health. He says→

'One night, as the bleak October breeze

Was sighing a dirge through the leafless trees,
She was borne by rough men in the chilly dark,
Down to the wharf-side, where a bark
Waited for its precious freight.

I watched the ship-lights long and late:
When I could see them no more for tears,
I turned drooping away,

And felt that mine were darkening years.'

6

"That delicate

And darkened indeed they were. boy,' as he describes himself, an only son, having been petted to a pitiable unfitness for the sterner purposes of life, went forth alone, to struggle with the world's unfriendliness, and front its frowns?

In

He was in Philadelphia at one period; but all we ever heard of him there was, that he habitually slept in the grave-yard, on Franklin's monument. 1819, he came to New-York, where he wrote for newspapers, and struggled as he could with poverty; assisted from time to time by benevolence which he never sought. A sad situation for one who, like him, had a nerve protruding at every pore.

In New-York, he became in love with a handsome young actress, of seventeen, by the name of Brundage. His poverty, and obvious incapacity to obtain a livelihood, made the match objectionable in the eyes of her mother; and they eloped. The time chosen was as wild and inopportune as most of his movements. On the very night she was to play Ophelia, on her way to the Park theatre, she absconded with her lover, and was married. Of course the play could not go on; the audience were disappointed, and the manager angry. The mother of the young lady, a strong, masculine woman, was so full of wrath, that she pulled her daughter out of bed at midnight, and dragged her home. The

bridegroom tried to pacify the manager by the most polite explanations; but received nothing but kicks in return, with orders never to show his face within the building again. The young couple were strongly attached to each other, and of course were not long kept separated. But Macdonald, who had come of a wealthy family, was too proud to have his wife appear on the stage again; and the remarkable powers of his own mind were rendered useless by the jar that ran through them all; of course poverty came upon him like an armed man. They suffered greatly, but still clung to each other with the most fervid affection. Sometimes they slept in the deserted markethouse; and when the weather would permit, under the shadow of the trees. One dreadful stormy night, they were utterly without shelter, and in the extremity of their need, sought the residence of her mother. They knocked and knocked in vain; at last the suffering young wife proposed climbing a shed, in order to enter the window of a chamber she used to occupy. To accomplish this purpose, Macdonald placed boards across a rain-water hogshead, at the corner of the shed. He mounted first, and drew her up after him, when suddenly the boards broke, and both fell into the water. Their screams brought out the strong-handed and unforgiving mother. She seized her offending daughter by the hair, and plunged her up and down in the water several times, before she would help her out. She finally took her into the house, and left Macdonald to escape as he could. They were not allowed to live together again, and the wife seemed compelled to return to the stage, as a means of obtaining bread. She was young and pretty, her affections were blighted, she was poor, and her profession abounded with temptations. It was a situation much to be pitied; for it hardly admitted of other result than that which followed. They who had loved so fondly, were divorced to meet no more. Whenever Macdonald