lieve he commenced his literary writings. He enjoyed early advantages for a good English education, which were well improved. Further than this his studies did not extend; and at a period of life when those who design pursuing a liberal education enter college, young G. assumed a station in a mercantile house. From hence his course of life was of nearly uniform tenor. He changed his situation once or twice, till he received an appointment to a place in a banking institution, in which he remained till his death.

In private life, Griswold was deservedly esteemed. His mind (by his own tuition,) was remarkably well cultivated and from entire amiability of disposition, "none knew him but to love him." In the discharge of his business-duties, he was conscientiously faithful; and literary pursuits, for which he felt a passion, were only allowed to engross his leisure hours. When about eighteen years of age he first became known to the reading public, through the medium of the periodicals, to which he contributed largely, over the various signatures of "Malcom," "A.", "Alleyne," and "C. A. G." In several instances he proved a successful competitor for literary prizes. "Lundy's Lane," a prize tale, written for the "Rochester (N. Y.) Craftsman," a literary periodical of considerable repute, edited by BROOKS, is doubtless fresh in the memory of many of our readers. Our author died soon after completing his twenty-fourth year. His literary career had but just begun and we deem it but just to state that not only were his articles the fruit of occasional hours of leisure, and hastily written, but were generally sent to the press without revision or correction. Of his style we shall leave the reader to form his own opinion, from the various specimens we shall present.

Griswold was a poet, in every sense of the word: but he entirely intermitted poetical writing sometime before his death, and we think many of his prose articles by far the best. It is to be regretted that many of his articles are lost; yet from the few we possess, the reader will be able to form a somewhat just opinion of his merit. From "Lines suggested by Salathiel," we select a few passages :

"Tower and turret, citadel and wall,

Lay wrapped in falling sunlight! 'twas the hour
When Judah's sacrifice arose on high,

And o'er the hill, the valley, and the wave,
The mighty shadow of descending eve,
Was trembling like a visionary thing!
The sun went down, and all the golden glow
Of palace and of temple passed away,
And twilight wept o'er falling Israel!
Then the soft music of the hymn pealed forth
On cymbal and on harp to heaven!

Broad darkness: not a star looked down to earth.
Living and dead lay still: the sword was sheath'd,
But 'twas not in the scabbard; and the spear,
The blood-red javelin and the gory helm,
The broken buckler and the tatter'd flag,
Were strew'd in ruins, tarnished and defaced.
Then came the star forth from its glorious seat,
On wings up-borne, descending like a bride
In nuptial garments, till it hung upon
Its self-depending balance o'er the walls,
Clothed in unearthly splendor: not the sun
In all his glory, not the meteor blaze
In all its fierceness, ever beamed so bright!
At length it stood, in all its burning glow,

The mighty image forth, to earth and heaven,
Of heaven's first earthly temple! then a sound
From flitting forms and airy shapes came down,
Floating on ether: 'twas the song of heaven--
Sweet, melancholy, wild; 'Let us go hence!'
Nature stood still--all earthly sounds were still!
'Let us go hence'--' Let us depart'-'Away'-
Again rung mournful, mild, and freely forth;
And clouds came down, and roll'd in snowy coil
O'er all the visionary scene: but still

The wailing sound was heard-- Let us go hence!" "

There is certainly musical versification and fine sentiment in the following tranquil

"STANZAS.

"Sad and low o'er the dark tomb where sleep the departed,
The white charnelled bones in their clay-covered bed,
Sweeps a voice like the moaning of one broken-hearted,
A voice like a wail from the land of the dead.
Oh! it loves the calm hour when the daylight has faded,
The still of the evening, the hush of the grave!
When the mountain and valley by moonlight are shaded,
And the sun hath withdrawn all the glory he gave.
Then it comes, with its silvery sweet tone of sadness,
And sighs as it lingers, and moans as it flies:
Then hush'd as the tomb be the vain voice of gladness,
And wet with the sad tear of sorrow, the eyes.

Ah! kneel by the place where are charnelled the lowly,
Who once trod the earth with a step like thine own;
The earth which thy footstep now presses is holy,
And rife with a moral the cold sculptured stone.
How soon must thy slumber, like his thou art reading,
Be silent-as lonely, as lowly, as deep!
Even now is the breath, tho' it passes unheeding,
Gone forth, that may sigh o'er the place of thy sleep.
Then lay thee in mourning, in sorrow, and anguish,
Beside the green mound where the cold sleepers lie:
For the spirit-a pris'ner the spirit doth languish-

To hail the glad hour when its clay cell shall die!"

The following verses from "The Song of the Sea Dæmon," though not perfect, contain many thrilling lines:

"I dwell in the ocean wave,

Low in the boundless deep:

There in the halls of Neptune's cave,

Where serpents glide and where monsters creep,
When the billows have rocked the god to sleep,
I love to waken the whirlwind's rage,
And smile when the waters rave!

I waken the sleeping gale,

And revel in the surge;

And I laugh when the whirlwinds rail,
And sing with glee my unhallowed dirge,
And over the angry waters urge

With lightning speed the tattered sail,
And yell with joy when the proud turn pale!

I fly with the groaning barque,
And smile at the mortal fear;
I am seen in the fitful dark,

And shriek my dirge in the tingling ear,
Laugh at the toil and the terrors jeer;

I flap my wing o'er the quivering ark,
Like the dæmon of anguish, pale and stark.

I ride on the lightning's flash;

I come like the angry cloud;
And I mock the terrible crash

Of the thunder's pealing deep and loud;

1 bring the sailor his ghastly shroud, And over the deck like a dark wave dash, While the sea, the sky, and the whirlwinds clash!

We have already remarked that we thought Griswold's prose writings among his happiest efforts. Some of the finest "Tales" and "Sketches" we remember to have read, were from his pen. The length of these, of course, forbids their transfer in an article like the present.

A short time before his death, he commenced a series of articles for a literary periodical, of which we were for a time the editor, entitled "Vagaries—by an Idler." It was a rambling, unconnected series-entirely free from restraint—abounding in fine sentiment, in the happiest style of composition. As these were his last articles, we shall venture upon a few extracts at random. From the first number the following seem the best for our

purpose:

"The sun again comes out, bright and shining, just above the far faint line that bounds our vision; with clouds above and

around him, upon which his gentle looks fall like an infant's slumber.

How delicious the air is after a pleasant June shower. You can feel it almost by intuition before it has quite reached you, bearing the same pleasant sensation one feels standing beside a cool fountain as the clear jet leaps upward, and falls back into the basin, sparkling in the light of the moon and many lamps, like a host of diamonds and rubies. The wind steals along so silently and so softly, that but for the moving and trembling of the locks upon one's brow and its glad whisper, you would scarce know that it passed at all. And the beautiful flowers that were so faint and languid, now lift up their dewy heads to the sky in silent adoration! And there darts off a bright bird, with a clear long whistle, who has sung no song to-day till now; rising higher and higher up into the empyrean; and his song coming fainter down to the world beneath him.

It is a pleasant thing to look out upon the 'living things' of the vegetable world,-to commune with

'Nature in her cultivated trim."

How very soon it is possible to wear out and forever erase all the first loves, the warm and elastic feelings, that the young boy takes with him into the world, and should wear to his grave. One by one, month by month-they wither-fade-expire. And sa sacred as they were too !--So mutable a thing the human mind is: Yesterday, sunshiny, clear: To-day, guilty, fearful: Tomorrow, gloomy, morose: The day after, misery, with a painted smile for the world, and a curse for itself.

The mind is a strange compound. There is one I should much like to analyze. It was once, I am sure, full of all manner of kindly feelings: But I would not feel the bitterness of the sneer that is forever gathering on his lips and in his eye, for the wealth of Ind. He rhymes occasionally, and rather well too for one who makes no pretensions to the science. (Science ! it's reduced to a science now, they say.) I have several pieces of his; but all of them-light or dark, gay or gloomy--bear the impress of-what shall I call it ?--loneliness! Here is one, (I don't think he'll ever read this; so I may venture :) It is certainly far from being faultless, but it is better than nineteen-twentieths of the periodical trash with which we are absolutely deluged; and that is very far from being a compliment.

"They are breaking, one by one, the ties
That harmonized the spirit's tone;
Darker and deeper bows the gloom
That o'er the bosom's light is thrown,

A pall of night around the tomb.

Alas! so many strings are broken,

So many ties asunder rent

That never may be strung again,

That discord with its tones are blent,

And every tone is one of pain.

Stern worldliness creeps round the soul,

And cankers every gentle feeling; Save in some far and secret part

Where memory from a cold world stealing, Revives the tones that soothed the heart.

So, as a harp that once hath poured

The joy its master's spirits felt,
Hath one by one its tones all shattered;
And all the chords that used to melt
The soul to mirth, are torn and scattered:

Hangs silent on the lonely wall

That echoed once its stirring tone,
And the dust gathers softly o'er it;

The living harp's-strings, one by one,
Are broken, with the heart that wore it."

the harp is not, altogether; though it may be shattered.”
"There I'm sorry the heart's broke, though--but think

We cannot pass by the following, from the second number:

"Hallowed, all hallowed, gentle eve, are the blushing glances of thy milky sky; when the glorious sunset, picture of the first golden gush of youthful idolatry, has faded to the mellow sadness of man's maturer years, and save a few exquisite purple tints reflected from the blue ocean below to the delicate ocean above, thou art with all thy fanciful and ethery forms, one languid yet spiritualized whiteness; yielding up thyself as to slumber, to purify and hallow man's aching, mammon-bound soul!!

Oh the full flow of the fetterless spirit!' how joys she to speed, as on the snow-white pinions of a dove, and join communion with her kindred among thy unsullied phantasies, by ethery pavilions. How would she rejoice to rest from her world-weariness upon the pale velvet ottoman which thou hast even now spread out for the resting place of thy wandering beautiful ones. And thy quiet stars come forth on the great deep, the crystalline font of heaven, to hold holy communion with spirits of earth and heaven: and they burn, and burn, and dazzle, as bright as they did when the first smile of their existence lit up the void gloom of an unredeemed chaos; and they sing-all cannot bear them-but they do sing, sweet as the first hymn of the whole creation-and then they melt into a delicate softened splendor, as a snowy haze flows like a gauze veil before them."

We cannot pass the third number so hastily. It is in the happiest vein of humor, and only regret that we

A wolf came out from his dusky den,

And a hungry look had he;

I ween he has sought the lonely glen,

Or slept all day in the dingy fen,

And stalked to-night to see

If a lamb had strayed the fold:

He grinned a ghastly smile' when he saw
Where the crow had dined that day,

And he craunched the bleaching bones, and rolled
The shattered skull away:

And the crow he shook his jetty wing,
And laughed till he made the ruin ring

With his hideous laugh, 'haw, haw; haw, haw!'

A bat crept out of his daylight hole

To breathe the smoky exhalation;
Fresh from the villanous congregation
Of hairy spider and sightless mole;

And he fluttered his wing and snapt his teeth,
As he met an owl on the swampy heath;
'Hoot, to-whoo! whither away,
Son of the night, whither, whither?'

To breathe, to flutter, to play,

To see the young roses wither.'

When to us there is light from the gold-giving sun,
It is dreary and dismal: how can it
Linger along with its mist and its cloud,
Still breathing unburied, but robed in a shroud,
I wonder there's people to man it!'

And the star was in a wonderful passion
When he sniffed the steam that the earth gave up,
So he chirruped his steeds, and laid the lash on;
'How the mists gather! Phœbus! I'd rather
Suffer the steam of the Hadean cup:
Onward, gee ho! onward, gee up!

We leave the wind jogging, as onward we dash on.'"

The series only comprised five numbers. The manuscript for the fifth number, "Piast of Kruzwitzer," an historical tale, was received; but before it was in type the writer was called hence by death. The unostentatious piety which had marked his life, shone brightly at his death, and a world of change, of toil, and suffering, was doubtless exchanged for "the better land."

The following article was sent us for publication shortly after his death. It was evidently hastily written and unrevised:

"Paleness was on her face; the sickly glow
Of slow decline sat on that faded cheek;
O'er the blue, languishing, yet lucid orb,
Fell jetty ringlets; and the pencilled brow,
More deeply shaded by the pearly white
That gathered round it, far excelled the hue
Of feeble imitation. She reclined

In melancholy posture; and the tear

Wrung from the heart, steep'd the long silken lash,

And wandering o'er her face, at length reclined

In peace upon her bosom: there it slept !

I never gaze upon the languid form

Of youthful beauty, when the unwilling hand

Of the stern tyrant rests upon her heart,

And pales the hue, and drives the brilliant flash
Of the soul-speaking eye, but sadness steals
Down to my inmost soul, and lingers there
In melancholy sweetness. Then the voice,
Feeble, yet clear, like sounds unearthly, fall,
Blotting remembrance out of earthly things.
Her form was lovely, yet more lovely far,
And thrilling, was her low tuned voice. She sung:

'Nay, then, depart!

Thou wilt not stay in thy ceaseless task, When a lingering hour is all I ask ;

But this warm heart

In eternity's sunshine soon shall bask; Depart! depart!'

A smile, a sad, sad smile, a starting tear
Lingered an instant on that spotless cheek,
And both departed with the dying strain!

The mould now rests upon that form; and cold,
Cold as her marble is that marble brow!"

We close our extracts, and in justice to their author again repeat that they must not be viewed as finished productions. They were only the first fruits of a genius that had not enjoyed every advantage of early cultivation; and were the production of occasional hours of relaxation from severe duties; and only as such should be judged. Had Heaven lengthened out the days of their author, we doubt not he would have won a high place among the writers of our country. But it was not so to be: the shaft of the spoiler was sped, and in the morning of his manhood Griswold was called to sleep in the grave of the gifted!

"Rest thee, bard! no cares beset thee,
In the mansions of the blest;
Though a mourning throng regret thee,
Yet it will not harm thy rest:
Fare thee well! thy place of sleeping
Guardian Virtue watchful keeps ;
She will point to kindred weeping,
Where the sainted Poet sleeps!"

MARSHAL DAVOUST.

Some business carried me to the saloon of the gene- . ral-in-chief; he was standing up, speaking in a very bad humor (according to custom) to several officers. I waited my turn. Looking mechanically around me, my eyes fell upon a large sheet of paper open upon the Marshal's table; mechanically I read the line, in large letters, that was at the top of the paper. I read, "CANTONMENT OF FRENCH TROOPS BEYOND THE

LOIRE."

During the few days that the army remained under the walls of Paris, the Emperor offered several times, even after his abdication, to place himself at the head of the troops, as a simple General, for the purpose of striking a decisive blow. At several of the barriers there were horses kept in readiness, by domestics in his livery. Marshal Davoust being informed of these propositions-he who had obtained from the Emperor a fortune of eighteen hundred thousand livres of incomepublicly announced his intention of arresting Bonaparte, in the event of his presenting himself either as Emperor or General!

THE ROYALISTS DURING THE HUNDRED DAYS.

A provisionary government had been formed after the second abdication of the Emperor. The army was assembled under the walls of Paris. The enemy might still have been forced to purchase dearly the fruits of its lucky victory at Waterloo. M. Real, who had been appointed prefect of police, on the arrival of the Emperor at Paris, on the 20th of March, proceeded to the house of the Duke of Otranto, where the members of the provisionary government, of which the Duke was president, were assembled. M. Real went for the pur pose of resigning his office.

"I do not desire," said he, "to remain in office to open the gates of Paris to foreigners, as was done in 1814."

fact. I speak as an eyewitness.

that had been commenced, and, if it should come to that, the chances of battle.

quarters were at Villette.

In the opinion of many military men all was not yet lost; at any rate, things had not yet been brought to a conclusion. The army, a little recovered from its fatigues, was full of anger; it demanded to be led to battle; and would not have been deaf to the voice of the representatives of the people deputed to it. What might have been the consequence of a different course from that which was pursued, no one can tell.

What I pretend to establish, is, simply, that nothing was yet terminated. Twenty-four hours after the fact of which I am about to speak, the Prussians, chased by the French cavalry, fled along the road to Versailles, In fine, the words suspension of arms and capitulation, had not yet been pronounced.

English are at work for them; they have no occasion to meddle in the matter. If it be resolved to defend ourselves, to fight, it will be a different thing. In that event I will remain at my post; and it will not be 300, or 600, but perhaps 6000 royalists that I will arrest. And if the struggle should be prolonged, it may be presumed that I will do more than arrest them; for in that case they may rise against us; my duty will then be to restrain them, and I will not hesitate about the means. But all this is perfectly useless. Instead of preparing for battle, you are treating with the enemy. Paris is your palladium, and you are ready to sacrifice everything to save a city. I am, consequently, perfectly useless to you, and I come accordingly to offer my resignation."