Imagens das páginas

on its representation Mr. Wetmore wrote the prologue and Mr. Lawson tin epilogue. Mr. L. was also one of the similar committee which selected Mr. J. K. Paulding's prize play of Nimrod Wildfire, or the Kentuckian in New York, for Mr. Hackett.

Mr. Lawson has also been a frequent contributor of criticism, essays, tales, and verse, to the periodicals of the day; among others, Herbert's American Monthly Magazine, the Knickerbocker, the Southern Literary Messenger, and Sargent's New Monthly.

These have, however, been but occasional employments, Mr. L., since his retirement from the active conduct of the press in 1833, having pursued the business of Marine Insurance, through which important interest he is well known in Wall street as an adjuster of averages, and in other relations.


Well, let the honest truth bo told!
I feel that 1 am growing old,
And I have guessed for many a day,
My sable locks are turning grey—
At least, by furtive glances, I
Some very silvery hairs espy,
That thread-like on my temple shine,
And fain I would deny are mine:
While wrinkles creeping here and there,
Some score my years, a few my care.
The sports that yielded once delight,
Have lost all relish in my sight;
But, in their stead, more serious thought
A graver train of joys has brought,
And while gay fancy is refined,
Correct the taste, improve the mind.

I meet the friends of former years,
Whose smile approving, often cheers:
(How few are spared!) the poisonous draught
The reckless in wild frenzy quaffed,
In dissipation's giddy maze
Overwhelmed them in their brightest days.
And one, my playmate when a boy,
I see in manhood's pride and joy;
He too has felt, through sun and shower,
Old Time, thy unrelenting power.
We talk of things which well we know
Had chanced some forty years ago;
Alas! like yesterday they seem,
The past is but a gorgeous dream 1
But speak of forty coming years,
Ah, long indeed that time appears!
In nature's course, in forty more,
My earthly pilgrimnge is o'er;
Atid the green turf on which I tread,
Will gaily spring above my head.

Beside me, on her rocking-chair,
My wife her needle plies with care,
And in her ever-cheerful smiles
A charm abides, that quite beguiles
The years that have so swiftly sped,
With their unfaltering, noiseless tread,
For we in mingled happiness,

•■hoved. Stone also wrote La Rogue the Regicide, The Demoniac. Tancrert, and other pieces.

The circumstances of his death were melanchoiv. In a fit of derangement he threw himself into the Schuylkill and was drowned. Th? date of this event is recorded on a monument (.Ter his remains, which hears this inscription: "To the memory of John Augustus Stone, who departed this life June 1, 1634. ajred thirty-three vears," and on the reverse, '* Erected to itie "Memory'of tho Author of Mutamora, by his friend Edwin Forrest/'

Will not the approach of age confess.
But when our daughters we espy,
Bounding with laughing cheek and eye,
Our bosoms beat with conscious pride,
To see them blooming by our side.
God spare ye, girls, for many a day,
And all our anxious love repay!
In your fair growth we must confess
That time our footsteps closely press,
And every added year, indeed,
Seems to increase its rapid speed.

When o'er our vanished days we glance,
Far backward to our young romance,
And muse upon unnumbered things,
That crowding come on Memory's wings;
Then varied thoughts our bosoms gladdci
And some intrude that deeply sadden:
—Fond hopes in their fruition crushed,
Beloved tones for ever hushed.—
We do not grieve that being's day
Is fleeting shadow-like away;
But thank thee, Heaven, our lengthened life
Has passed in love, unmarred by strife;
That sickness, sorrow, wo, and care,
Have fallen so lightly to our share.
We bless Thee for our daily bread,
In plenty on our table spread;
And Thy abundance helps to feed
The worthy poor who pine in need.
And thanks, that in our worldly way,
We have so rarely stepped astray.
But well we should in meekness speak,
And pardon for transgressions seek,
For oft, how strong soe'er the will
To follow good, we've chosen ill.

The youthful heart unwisely fears
The sure approach of coining years:
Though cumbered oft with weighty care,
Yet age its burden lightly bears.
Though July's scorching heats are done,
Yet blandly smiles the slanting sun,
And sometimes, in our lovely clime,
Till dark December's frosty time.
Though day's delightful noon is past,
Yet mellow twilight comes, to cast
A sober joy, a sweet content,
Where virtue with repose is blent,
Till, calmly on the fading sight,
Mingles its latest ray with night


Come, stand the nearest to thy country's sire, Thou fearless man, of uncorrupted heart;Well worthy undivided praise thou art,
And 'twill be thine, when slumbers party ire, Raised, by the voice of freemen, to a height Sublimer far, than kings by birth may claim!
Thy stern, unselfish spirit dared the right,

And battled 'gainst the wrong. Thy holiest aim Was freedom, in the largest sense, despite

Misconstrued motives, and unmeasured blame. Above deceit, in purpose firm, and pure;Just to opposers, and to friends sincere, Thy worth shall with thy country's name endure, And greener grow thy fame, through every coming year.



When spring arrayed in flowers, Mary, Danced with the leafy trees;
When larks sang to the sun, Mary, And hummed the wandering bees;

Then first we met and loved, Mary,

By Grieto's loupin' linn;
And blither was thy voice, Mary,

Than lintie's i' the whin.

Now autumn winds blaw cauld, Mary,

Amang the withered boughs;
And a' the bonny flowers, Mary,

Are faded frac the knowes;
But still thy love's unchanged, Mary,

Nae chilly autumn there,
And sweet thy smile as spring's, Mary,

Thy sunny face as fair.

Nae mair the early lark, Mary,

Trills on his soaring way;
Hushed is the lintie's sang, Mary,

Through a' the shortening day;
But still thy voice I hear, Mary,

Like melody divine;
Nae autumn in my heart, Mary,

And summer still in thine.



The two twin-brothers whose names stand at the head of this article, the sons of Judge Oliver Peabody of Exeter, New Hampshire, were born at that place July 9, 1799. They were educated together at the celebrated academy under the charge of Dr. Abbot, entered Harvard College together at the early age of thirteen, and were graduated together in 1816.

This close union of birth and education was accompanied by a similarity of outward form and inward temperament. Both were men of eminent natural endowment, of ripe scholarship, of gentle and affectionate tempers, and both eventually dedicated their lives to the same path of professional duty, thus laboring in spirit though not in actual bodily presence, side by side, and separated in death by but a brief interval from one another.

At the outset of life, however, their courses were for a time separate, Oliver studying law, and William theology.

Oliver, after passing some time in his father's office, completed his legal education at Cambridge, and returned to practise in his native town, where he resided for eleven years, serving for a portion of the time in the state legislature, and being also occupied at different periods as editor of the Rockingham Gazette and Exeter Newsletter. In 1823, he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard, and shortly after read a similar production at the celebration of the second centennial anniversary of the settlement of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In 1830, Mr. Peabody removed to Boston, where he became the assistant of his brother-inlaw, the Hon. Alexander H. Everett, in the editorship of the North American Review. He was also for some years an assistant editor of the Boston Daily Advertiser. His connexion with the four periodicals we have named, was that of a contributor as well as a supervisor. The three journals contain many finished essays and choice poems from his pen, marked by a closeness of thought and elaborate execution, as well as a lively and humorous inspiration; while scarcely a number of the North American, during several years, was issued without one or more articles from his pen.

In 1836, Mr. Peabody was appointed Register of Probate in Suffolk county, a laborious office,

which he resigned in 1842 in consequence of impaired health, and his acceptance of the professorship of English Literature in Jefferson College, an institution supported by the state of Louisiana. Finding a southern climate unsuitedto his constitution, he returned in the following year to the North.

His views and tastes had been for some time turned in the direction of theology, and he now determined to enter tthe ministry. In 1845, he was licensed by the Boston Unitarian Association as a preacher, and in August of the same year became the minister of the Unitarian church of Burlington, Vermont, where the remainder of his life was passed in the discharge (so far as his delicate health would permit) of his parochial duties. He died on the sixth of July, 1848.

William B. O. Peabody, immediately after receiving his degree, entered upon a preparation for the ministry in the Divinity school of Cambridge; and was, soon after his ordination, called to the charge of the Unitarian church at Springfield. He entered upon his duties in this place in 1820, when not quite twenty-one years of age; and it was here that the whole of his ministerial life was passed.


In addition to a conscientious discharge of the literary duties of his profession, Dr. Peabody of Springfield is said to have contributed a greater number of articles to the North American Review and Christian Examiner than any other person. He was also the author of several choice occasional poems published in the last named and other periodicals; and of the Report of the Ornithology of Massachusetts, prepared in fulfilment of his duties as one of the commission appointed for the scientific survey of the state.

Dr. Peabody's health, another of the many points of assimilation between himself and his brother, was feeble. He suffered a severe deprivation in 1843 by the loss of his wife, and in the following year by that of a daughter, who in some measure supplied the place of the head of his household. Neither bodily nor mental sufferings were, however, permitted to interpose more than a temporary pause in his constant course of useful labor. He died, after a confinement to his bed of but a few days, May 28, 1847.

A selection from Dr. Peabody's sermons was prepared for the press by his brother Oliver, who had nearly completed a memoir to accompany the volume, when his own life reached its termination. The work was completed by Everett Peabody, who, soon after its publication, prepared a selection from the contributions to the North American Review and poems of its author.


Upon the far-off mountain's brow
The angry storm has ceased to beat,

And broken clouds are gathering now
In lowly reverence round his feet.

I saw their dark and crowded bunds
On his firm head in wrath descending;

Bat there, once more redeemed, he stands,

And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I !• 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 tin- midnight hour,

When all the world beneath were sleeping. Like some lone sentry in his tower

His patient watch in silence keeping. And there, as ever steep and clear.

That pyramid of Nature springs! He owns no rival turret near.

No sovereign but the King of kings: While many a nation hath passed by.

And many an age unknown in story, His walls and battlements on high

He rears in melancholy glory.

And let a world of human pride

With all its grandeur melt awny. And spread around his rocky side

The broken fragments of decay; Serene his hoary head will tower.

Untroubled by one thought of sorrow: He numbers not the weary hour;

He welcomes not nor fears to-morrow.

Farewell! I go my distant way:

Perhaps, not fur in future years. The eyes that glow with smiles to-day

May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then let me learn from thee to rise,

All time and chance aud change defying, Still pointing upward to the skies.

And on the in ward streugth relying.

U life before my weary eye

Grows fearful as the angry sea, Thy memory shall suppress the sigh

For that which never more can be; Inspiring all within the heart

With firm resolve and strong endeavor To act a brave and faithful part,

life's short warfare ends for ever.


Where is he I Hark! his lonely home

Is answering to the mournful call! The setting sun with dazzling blaze

May fire the windows of las hall: But evening shadows quench the light,

And all is cheerless, cold, and dim, Bare where one taper wakes at night,

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 lost"

Where is he f 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 awny,

And soon they left mc here alone To sink in unobserved decay,—

A nameless and neglected stone."

Where is he f 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 ond clear it gazes down,

Is shining from the place of rest, The pearl of his immortal crown,

The heavenly radiance of the bleat 1"

LUCIUS M. HAKGENT. Lucres 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, bnt received an honorary degree of A.M. from the University in 1812. After leaving college he Btudied law in the office of Mr. Dexter. In 1813 he published Hubert and Ellen, with other Poem*,* 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 threo children, the eldest of whom, Horace Binney, was graduated with distinction at Harvard in 1843. Some timo 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 Tale*, 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 Dealing* 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 makes a liberal nse of a liberal fortune, possesses a fine library, and is a thorough scholar.

Winthrop Sarqeot, a kinsman of Lucius M. Sargent and son of George W. Sargent, was born in Philadelphia, September 23, 1825. Ho is the author of an " Introductory Memoir" prefixed to the Journals of otlicers engaged in Braddoek'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 tho 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.

WILLIAM B. WALTER. William B. Walter was born at Boston, April 19, 1790, 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 Poem* at Boston, with a dedication to the Rev. John Pierpont, in which he says—"I cannot make tho common, unprofit

* Ilubert and Ellen, with other poems, The Trial of the Harp. Billowy Water, The Plunderer s Grave, Tho Tear Drop, The Billow. By Lucius M. Sorgcut

able, 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 Lmi 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 close 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.


Where grass o'er^rows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruins grown,
Like me, are death-like old.

I saw nn Old Man kneel down by a grave,
All alone in the midnight stillness;

And his forehead bare,

Deep wrinkled with care, Looked pale with a wintry dullness.

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 gleaming—

And 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 wild— Alas! 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 1

She was young and fair— But now silent there!
No voice could I find to chide him.

Yea 1 a common tale, and a common lot.
From the breast to the charnel-house slumber!

Dark curses of fear

Wrap our being here—
Which time and thought cannot number.

She moved the fairest—the fairest among,
Like a young fairy shape of lightness;

And awakened the song

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, Like a light from above,
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,

When winds are mute,
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, Cubist 1 'tis a strange and a fearful thought That beauty like her's should have perished;That the red lean worm Should prey on a form, Which a bosom of love might have cherished.

I loved her—Stranger! with soul of truth—
But God in his darkness hath smitten;Who shall madly believe 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 night— No 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, ho also prepared a collection of hymns, which is in extensive use in the congregation; 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 preparing 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 or Wixter For Instruction. 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. In 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 the season. 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 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 way be better satisfied than by the intelligence, the sobriety, and the peaceableness of its members i Su^h 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 performance 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 post 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 always 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

j example, guidance, and companionship at home.

I 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.

But all have not children; and the children of some are too young to be permitted to remain with

j their parents beyond the earliest hours of evening;

i and the children of others are old enough to accompany their parents abroad. For all those who

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