1855 he again removed to St. Louis, and edited a weekly journal," The Leader," a literary, political, and family newspaper. In 1843 he published a volume of Poems, mostly of a religious and reflective character, including several translations from the hymns of the Breviary. His next publication, Alice, or the New Una, appeared in London, in 1849, during his residence abroad. It is a singular compound of the art, the religious and the fashionable novel, and contained many scenes whose warmth of description laid the work open to censure. Its beauty of language, and picturesque descriptions of natural scenery, attracted much attention. It was reprinted during the same year in the United States, and, in 1852, appeared in a revised edition with many judicious alterations. Mr. Huntington's second novel, The Forest, was published in 1852. It is a continuation of Lady Alice, the leading characters being transferred from Europe to the Adirondack Mountains. The fine scenery of the region is depicted with beauty, but the fiction is, like its predecessor, deficient in the vigorous delineation of character. THE SONG OF THE OLD YEAR. December 31st, 1888. Of brethren we six thousand be, Nor one e'er saw another; When we have spent the life she lent, Its boundless gloom becomes a tomb In the hour of my birth, there was joy and mirth; But directly after each burst of laugh -The groans of the dying, the bitter crying The regular beat of dancing feet But on the air the voice of prayer Its accents sweet did still entreat Pardon for human sin. As thus began my twelve-months' span Through the infinite extended; So ever hath run on my path, "Twixt joy and grief suspended; But chiefly measured by things most treasured, In death with burdens blended. The bell aye tolls for departing souls Of those whom I have slain; The ceaseless knell to me doth tell Their bodies left of life bereft, Would cumber hill and plain. But I have made, with my restless spade, With constant toil upturning the soil, To find a bed for my countless dead In the secret ocean-caves. By fond hopes blighted, of true vows plighted Showing the little worth; By affections wasted: by joys scarce tasted, I have proved to many, there is not any And prophetic power upon the hour For endless harvest waits. And lo, as I pass with that running glass The soul of young hope must harrow; RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD WAS born in Rutland county, Vermont, Feb. 15, 1815, of an old New England family which contributed some of the earliest settlers to the country. Much of his early life, as we learn from a biographical article which originally appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine, "was spent in voyaging about the world; before he was twenty years of age, he had seen the most interesting portions of his own country, and of southern and central Europe." He afterwards studied divinity and became a preacher of the Baptist denomination. He is chiefly known to the public, however, through his literary productions. He became early connected with the press; was associated in the editorship of the New Yorker, the Brother Jonathan, and New World newspapers, and other journals in Boston and Philadelphia. In 1842, he was the editor of Graham's Magazine, which he conducted with eminent success, drawing to the work the contributions of some of the best authors of the country who found liberal remuneration, then a novelty in American literature, from the generous policy of the publisher. send of New York. Like all of his undertakings of this character, it was liberally devoted to the notice and support of American authors, with whom Mr. Griswold has constantly maintained an extensive personal acquaintance. His most prominent relations of this kind, however, have been through his series of books, The Poets and Poetry of America, the first edition of which appeared in 1842; The Prose Writers of America, which was first published in 1846; and the Female Poets of America, in 1849. They were the first comprehensive illustrations of the literature of the country, and have exerted an important influence through their criticisms, and on the reputation of the numerous authors included, in their reception at home and abroad. Mr. Griswold is also the author of a volume, The Poets and Poetry of England in the Nineteenth Century, in similar style with the American series, and has edited an octavo volume, The Sacred Poets of England and America. In 1847, he was engaged in Philadelphia in the preparation of two series of biographies, Washington and the Generals of the American Revolution, and Napoleon and the Marshals of the Empire. Mr. Griswold, among other illustrations of American history and society, is the author of an interesting appendix to an edition of D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature, entitled The Curiosities of American Literature. In 1842, he published in New York a volume on an excellent plan, worthy of having been continued, entitled The Biographical Annual. Among other productions of his pen should be mentioned an early volume of Poems in 1841; a volume of Sermons, and a Discourse in 1844, on The Present Condition of Philosophy. His latest publication is, The Republican Court, or American Soc ety in the Days of Washington, a costly printed volume from the press of the Appletons, in 1854. On the thread of the domestic life of Washington, Mr. Griswold hangs a social history of the period, which he is thus enabled to sketch in its leading characteristics in the northern, middle, and southern states; the career of the great founder of the Republic, fortunately for the common sympathy of the whole, having been associated with all these elements of national life. The book is full of interesting matter from the numerous memoirs and biographies, is illustrated by a number of portraits of the more eminent ladies of the time, and has been well received by the public. Dr. Griswold is at present engaged on a revision of his larger works on American literature, which have passed through numerous editions with successive improvements. BENJAMIN DAVIS WINSLOW Was born in Boston, February 13, 1815. His early years were passed at home, at the residence of Gen. William Hall, at Boston, and with the Rev. Samuel Ripley at Waltham, where he received his first instructions in Latin. He was prepared for Harvard under the tuition of Mr. D. G. Ingraham, of Boston, received his degree at this college in 1835, entered the General Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church at New York, pursued the usual term of study, and was ordained Deacon in 1838, by his friend Bishop Doane of New Jersey, to whom he became assistant minister of St. Mary's Church, Burlington. The brief remaining portion of his life was passed in this service. He died November 21, 1839. A memorial volume of his Sermons and Poetical Remains, in an octavo volume, was prepared by Bishop Doane, entitled The True Catholic Churchman, in his Life and in his Death. The sermons are earnest doctrinal compositions, written with ease and elegance. The poems, many of which are devoted to sacred church associations, are all in a truthful and fervent vein, with a happy facility of execution, and on the score both of taste and piety are well worthy to be associated with the kindred compositions of the author's friends, Croswell and Doane. THOUGHTS FOR the city. Out on the city's hum! My spirit would flee from the haunts of men These dull brick walls which span Oh! for those dear wild flowers, Which in their meadows so brightly grew, Where the honey-bee and blithe bird flew That gladdened boyhood's hours. Out on these chains of flesh! Binding the pilgrim who fain would roam, To where kind nature hath made her home, In bowers so green and fresh. But is not nature here? From these troubled scenes look up and view The orb of day, through the firmament blue, Pursue his bright career. Or, when the night-dews fall, Go watch the moon with her gentle glance Flitting over the clear expanse Her own broad star-lit hall. Mortal the earth may mar, And o'er the dusky town, The greater light that ruleth the day, So, 'mid the hollow mirth, Blest thought, so kindly given! T. B. THORPE. T. B. THORPE was born at Westfield, Mass., March 1, 1815. His father Thomas Thorpe, a man of literary genius, was a clergyman, who died in New York city at the early age of twenty-six. His son lived in New York till his transfer to the Wesleyan University at Middletown, Connecticut, where he passed three years; but his health failing him, in 1836 he left Connecticut for the south, where he resided in Louisiana to the year 1853. Inearly life he displayed a taste for painting. His picture of "the Bold Dragoon," illustrative of Irving's story, was executed in his seventeenth year, and exhibited at the old American Academy of Fine Arts. Like Irving himself, he left the pencil for the pen, and turned his talent for grouping and sketching to the kindred province of descriptive writing. He soon became known as the author of a series of western tales, adopting the name of Tom Owen, the Bee-Hunter, the title of one of his first stories, the subject of which was an eccentric personage-to whom the author has given a wild flavor of poetry-a "beehunter" by profession, with whom he fell in shortly after his removal to the south. 5. B. Thorpe. For many years Mr. Thorpe was an editor of one of the leading political newspapers in New Orleans, devoted to the interests of Henry Clay. In this enterprise, notwithstanding his fine literary tact, political knowledge, and untiring energy, he was compelled, for lack of pecuniary resources, to leave the field to others. On the announcement of the war with Mexico, he distinguished himself by his zeal in raising volunteers; and as bearer of dispatches to General Taylor he was not only early in the field, but had a most excellent position to witness the scenes of war. letters, published in a New Orleans paper, were the first that reached the United States. The descriptions of the American camp, the country, and the Mexican people, were extensively published. Immediately after General Taylor took possession of Metinioras, he prepared, in 1846, a volume entitled Our Army on the Rio Grande, succeeded by Our Army at Monterey. His These two volumes, according to their extent, have furnished most of the materials that have been wrought into the subsequent histories relating to the events which they describe. Mr. Thorpe bore an active part in the election of General Taylor to the Presidency. He took the field as a speaker, and became one of the most popular and efficient orators of the South-West. His speeches were marked by their good sense, brilliancy of expression, and graphic humorous illustration. In 1853, Mr. Thorpe removed to New York with his family, and among other literary enterprises prepared a new collection of his sketches, which were published by the Appletons, with the title, The Hive of the "Bee-Hunter." This miscellany of sketches of peculiar American character, scenery, and rural sports, is marked by the simplicity and delicacy with which its rough humors are handled. The style is easy and natural, the sentiment fresh and unforced, showing a fine sensibility. In "the Bee-Hunter," there is a vein of poetry, which has been happily caught by Darley in the illustration which accompanies the sketch in the volume. In proof of the fidelity of Mr. Thorpe's hunting scenes, there is an anecdote connected with some of his writings. His taste for life in the back-woods, the hunter's camp fire, and the military bivouac, shown in his published sketches, had attracted the attention in England of Sir William Drummond Stewart, an eccentric Scotch nobleman, who projected and accomplished a tour in the Rocky Mountains. On his arrival at New Orleans, he endeavored to secure Mr. Thorpe as a member of his party; an offer which could not be conveniently accepted. While Sir William was absent, however, Mr. Thorpe wrote a series of letters, purporting to give an account of the "Doings of the Expedition," which were published in this country and England as genuine, Sir William himself pronouncing them the most truthful of all that were written, all the while supposing they were from some member of his party. Mr. Thorpe is a contributor to Harpers' Magazine, where he has published several descriptive articles on southern life and products, and a sketch, "The Case of Lady Macbeth Medically Considered." homes. TOM OWEN, THE BEE-HUNTER. As a country becomes cleared up and settled, beehunters disappear, consequently they are seldom or never noticed beyond the immediate vicinity of their Among this backwoods fraternity, have flourished men of genius in their way, who have died unwept and unnoticed, while the heroes of the turf, and of the chase, have been lauded to the skies for every trivial superiority they may have displayed in their respective pursuits. To chronicle the exploits of sportsmen is commendable-the custom began as early as the days of the antediluvians, for we read, that Nimrod was a mighty hunter before the Lord." Familiar, however, as Nimrod's name may be-or even Davy Crockett's how unsatisfactory their records, when we reflect that Toм OWEN, the bee-hunter, is comparatively unknown? Yes, the mighty Tom Owen has "hunted," from the time that he could stand alone until the present time, and not a pen has inked paper to record his exploits. 'Solitary and alone" has he traced his game through the mazy labyrinth of air; marked, I hunted;-I found;-I conquered;-upon the carcasses of his victims, and then marched homeward with his spoils; quietly and satisfiedly, sweetening his path through life; and, by its very obscurity, adding the principal element of the sublime. It was on a beautiful southern October morning, at the hospitable mansion of a friend, where I was staying to drown dull care, that I first had the pleasure of seeing Tom Owen. He was, on this occasion, straggling up the rising ground that led to the hospitable mansion of mine host, and the difference between him and ordinary men was visible at a glance; perhaps it showed itself as much in the perfect contempt of fashion that he displayed in the adornment of his outward man, as it did in the more elevated qualities of his mind, which were visible in his face. His head was adorned with an outlandish pattern of a hat-his nether limbs were encased by a pair of inexpressibles, beautifully fringed by the brier-bushes through which they were often drawn; coats and vests, he considered as superfluities; hanging upon his back were a couple of pails, and an axe in his right hand, formed the varieties that represented the corpus of Tom Owen. As is usual with great men, he had his followers, who, with a courtier-like humility, depended upon the expression of his face for all their hopes of success. The usual salutations of meeting were suffi cient to draw me within the circle of his influence, and I at once became one of his most ready followers. "See yonder!" said Tom, stretching his long arm into infinite space, "see yonder-there's a bee." We all looked in the direction he pointed, but that was the extent of our observations. "It was a fine bee," continued Tom, “black body, yellow legs, and went into that tree,"-pointing to a towering oak blue in the distance. "In a clear day I can see a bee over a mile, easy!" When did Coleridge "talk" like that? And yet Tom Owen uttered such a saying with perfect ease. After a variety of meanderings through the thick woods, and clambering over fences, we came to our place of destination, as pointed out by Tom, who selected a mighty tree containing sweets, the possession of which the poets have likened to other sweets that leave a sting behind. The felling of a mighty tree is a sight that calls up a variety of emotions; and Tom's game was lodged in one of the finest in the forest. But "the axe was laid at the root of the tree," which in Tom's mind was made expressly for bees to build their nests in, that he might cut them down, and obtain possession of their honeyed treasure. The sharp axe, as it played in the hands of Tom, was replied to by a stout negro from the opposite side of the tree, and their united strokes fast gained upon the heart of their lordly victim. There was little poetry in the thought, that long before this mighty empire of States was formed, Tom Owen's "bee-hive" had stretched its brawny arms to the winter's blast, and grown green in the summer's sun. Yet such was the case, and how long I might have moralized I know not, had not the enraged buzzing about my ears satisfied me that the occupants of the tree were not going to give up their home and treasure, without showing considerable practical fight. No sooner had the little insects satisfied themselves that they were about to be invaded, than they began, one after another, to descend from their airy abode, and fiercely pitch into our faces; anon a small company, headed by an old veteran, would charge with its entire force upon all parts of our body at once. In the midst of this warfare, the tree began to tremble with the fast repeated strokes of the axe, and then might have been seen a "bee-line" of stingers precipitating themselves from above, on the unfortunate hunter beneath. Now it was that Tom shone forth in his glory, for his partisans-like many hangers-on about great men, began to desert him on the first symptoms of danger; and when the trouble thickened, they, one and all, took to their heels, and left only our hero and Sambo to fight the adversaries. Sambo, however, soon dropped his axe, and fell into all kinds of contortions; first he would seize the back of his neck with his hands, then his legs, and yell with pain. "Never holler till you get out of the woods," said the sublime Tom, consolingly; but writhe the negro did, until he broke, and left Tom alone in his glory." Cut, thwack! sounded through the confused hum at the foot of the tree, marvellously reminding me of the interruptions that occasionally broke in upon the otherwise monotonous hours of my schoolboy days. A sharp cracking finally told me the chopping was done, and, looking aloft, I saw the mighty tree balancing in the air. Slowly, and majestically, it bowed for the first time towards its mother earth,gaining velocity as it descended, it shivered the trees that interrupted its downward course, and falling with thundering sounds, splintered its mighty limbs, and buried them deeply in the ground. The sun for the first time in at least two centuries, broke uninterruptedly through the chasm made in the forest and shone with splendor upon the magnificent Tom, standing a conqueror among his spoils. As might be expected, the bees were very much astonished and confused, and by their united voices proclaimed death, had it been in their power, to all their foes, not, of course, excepting Tom Owen himself. But the wary hunter was up to the tricks of his trade, and, like a politician, he knew how easily an enraged mob could be quelled with smoke; and smoke he tried, until his enemies were completely destroyed. We, Tom's hangers-on, now approached his treasure. It was a rich one, and, as he observed, “contained a rich chance of plunder." Nine feet, by measurement, of the hollow of the tree were full, and this afforded many pails of pure honey. Tom was liberal, and supplied us all with more than we wanted, and " toted," by the assistance of Sambo, his share to his own home, soon to be devoured, and soon to be replaced by the destruction of another tree, and another nation of bees. Thus Tom exhibited within himself, an unconquerable genius which would have immortalized him, had he directed it in following the sports of Long Island or New Market. We have seen the great men of the southern turf glorying around the victories of their favorite sport -we have heard the great western hunters detail the soul-stirring adventures of a bear-hunt-we have listened with almost suffocating interest, to the tale of a Nantucket seaman, while he portrayed the death of a mighty whale-and we have also seen Tom Owen triumphantly engaged in a bee-huntwe beheld and wondered at the sports of the turf— the field-and the sea-because the objects acted on by man were terrible, indeed, when their instincts were aroused. But, in the bee-hunt of Tom Owen, and its consummation, the grandeur visible was imparted by the mighty mind of Tom Owen himself. GEORGE EDWARD ELLIS Was born in Boston in 1815. He became a graduate of Harvard in 1833; studied at the Divinity school at Cambridge, and was ordained in Charlestown in 1838 as successor to the Rev. (now President) James Walker, in the ministry of the Harvard church. He has been one of the editors of the Christian Register, the religious paper of the Massachusetts Unitarians, and is now associated with the brilliant pulpit orator, the Rev. Dr. George Putnam, in the editorship of the Christian Examiner His reading, scholarship, literary readiness, vivacity, and good English style, admirably qualify him for the work of periodical literature.* Mr. Ellis is the author of three volumes of biography in Mr. Sparks's American series: the lives of John Mason-the author of the history of the Pequot war-Anne Hutchinson, and William Penn. His contributions to periodical literature are numerous, embracing many articles in the New York Review, the North American, and the Christian Examiner. He has frequently delivered occasional discourses and orations, and his published addresses of this kind would make a large volume. Mr. Ellis is an active member of the Massachusetts Historical Society, of the practical working of which body he lately gave a pleasant account in a communication to the fellow New York society, of which he is a corresponding member. In his religious views, Mr. Ellis belongs to the class of Unitarians who earnestly advocate the supernatural authority of the gospel, and resist the assaults of the new school of rationalists; while in respect to practical reforms, he has sometimes taken quite bold ground with the progressive party. ORGAN MELODIES.t There is a sort of instinctive feeling within us that an organ should be reserved for only sacred uses. The bray of the martial trumpet seems akin to the din and clangor of a military movement. The piano is the appropriate ornament and instrument of the household room of comfort and domestic delight. Lesser instruments, with their gay tones, and their lighter lessons for the heart, adapt themselves to the unstable emotions of the hour-in revelry, excitement, or gratification. To each of them there is a It We may here glance at the history of the Examiner. grew out of the Christian Disciple, a monthly publication commenced by the Rev. Noah Worcester, under the auspices of Dr. Channing and others, in 1813. At the completion of its sixth volume, in 1818, Dr. Worcester surrendered it to the Rev. Henry Ware, Jr., who published the work every two months for five years. In 1824, passing into the hands of the Rev. J. G. Palfrey, its title was changed to the Christian Examiner. He was its editor for two years, when it was conducted from 1826 to 1881 by Mr. Francis Jenks. In the latter year it was transferred to the Rev. James Walker and the Rev. Francis William Pitt Greenwood. It was edited by the former six years, Mr. Greenwood's health not allowing him to labor upon it, when Dr. Walker was succeeded by the Rev. William Ware, and the latter in turn, after a few years, by the Rev. Messrs. Lamson and Gannett, from whose hands it passed to the care of Messrs. Putnam and Ellis.-Sidney Willard's Memories, ii. 281-2. + From a discourse at Charlestown-The Consecration of an Organ. 1852. season, and from our youth to our age these varied instruments may minister to us, according to their uses and our sensibilities. The harp which the monarch of Israel swept as the accompaniment to his divine lyrics; the timbrel which Miriam, the sister of Aaron, took in her hand when she raised the glad pæan-"Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously;" the silver trumpets which the priests blew to proclaim the great Jewish festivals; the horn and the psaltery, the sackbut and the dulcimer, which lifted up the anthems of the Tabernacle or the Temple-worship, were not without a sacred influence, helping with their strings or pipes the effect of holy song. But the religious sentiment is the largest that fills the heart of man; its sweep and compass are the widest, and in the course of our own short lives that religious sentiment will range like a song of degrees" over all the varying emotions of the soul, engaging every tone to give it utterance. Praise the Lord with gladness," is the key-note of one Psalm. "Out of the depths have I cried to Thee, O Lord," is the plaintive moan of another. "Sing unto the Lord, all the earth," is the quickening call to a general anthem. "Keep silence before Me, O Islands!" stills the trembling spirit into a low whisper of its fear. "The Lord is my Shepherd," is the beautiful pastoral lyric for the serene life of still waters. "He bowed the heavens and came down, he did fly upon the wings of the wind; the Lord also thundered in the heavens, and he shot out lightnings from the sky"-this is the Psalm for the stormy elements or a troubled heart. "O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger!" is now our imploring cry; "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him," is now the boast of the resigned spirit. "The lines are fallen to me in pleasant places," is the bright lyric of the heart that finds its joy on earth. "O, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest!" is the burden of the heart when it sighs and moans over the wreck of mortal delights. Thou hast made man but a little lower than the angels!" is the tone which befits the feeling of our human dignity. “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations: thou carriest us away as with a flood,” is the mingled note of melancholy and faith with which we contemplate our failing years, and yield up one after another from our earthly fellowship to the summons of the everliving God-the everlasting Refuge. Thus, through the whole range of emotions and sensibilities of the heart, in its thrills and wails, in its elation and its gloom, in penitence, remorse, submission and hope, in gratitude, aspiration, or high desire that heart varies its note, but sincerity will make music of all its utterances in psalm or dirge. Precious, precious beyond all our terms of praise, are those religious songs and hymns which come to us from the prophetic lips once touched with the fire of God. If they are dear to us, how dear must they have been to those who sung them in their majestic and solemn Hebrew tones, beneath the cedars that bowed, and the hills that melted, and in the corn-fields that laughed when the song of praise arose to God. How many glad harvests with their laden vintages and garners, how many rejoicing scenes of happiness, and how many ancient sorrows born of our inevitable lot on the earth, stand for ever painted and rehearsed in the Psalms of David. Over no single scene or incident in Jewish history are we so completely engaged in sympathy with their sad fortunes as in one in which the tender melodies of sacred song, and the holy uses of music, bring them touchingly before us. When they were |