at least read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest, those daily lessons which the Church, through Holy Writ, teaches

Scarce had I disposed myself for an evening's work, when I was called on with a request to perform funeral services on the next day, over the body of a poor Irish laborer, killed suddenly on the line of the railroad by the blasting of rocks.

The priest was absent; for although there was a numerous body, perhaps several hundred Irish Catholies in that vicinity, he cume only once in six weeks. During the interval those poor people were left without shepherd; and as they had a regard for the decencies of Christian burial, they sometimes, as on this occasion, requested the church clergyman to be at hand. I willingly consented to do what appeared a necessary charity, although I apprehended, and afterwards learned, that the more rigid and disciplined of the faith were indignant, and kept away from the funeral rites, which they almost considered profane. Nor could I disrespect their scruples, considering the principles whence they grew.

The snow fell all night to the depth of several feet, and when the morrow dawned, the wind blew a hurricane, filling the air with fine particles of snow, and making the cold intense. Muffling myself as well as possible, I proceeded two miles to the Irish shanty where the deceased lay, which was filled to its utmost capacity with a company of respectful friends and sincere mourners. It was, indeed, a comfortless abode; but for the poor man who reposed there in his pine coffin, it was as good a tenement as the most sumptuous palace ever reared. When I see the dead going from an abode like this, the thought comes up that perhaps they have lost little, and are gaining much; that the grave over which the grass grows, and the trees wave, and the winds murmur, is, after all, a peaceful haven and a place of rest. But when they go from marble halls and splendid mansions, the last trappings appear a mockery, and I think only of what they have left behind.

Standing in one corner of that small cabin among the sobbing relatives, while the winds of winter howled without their requiem of the departed year, I began to read the Church's solemn office for the dead:

"I am the Resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: be that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall be live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."

Having completed the reading of those choral words, which form the opening part of the order for burial, and the magnificent and inspiring words of St. Paul, the procession was formed at the door of the hovel and we proceeded on foot.

The wind-storm raged violently, so that yon could scarce see, by reason of the snowy pillar, while the drifts were sometimes up to your knees. The wulk was most dreary. On either hand the mountains lifted their heads loftily, covered to the summit with snows; the pine trees and evergreens which skirted the highway, presented the spectacle of small pyramids; every weed which the foot struck was glazed over; and the bushes, in the faint beams of the struggling light, sparkled with gens. In a wild, Titanic defile, gigantic icicles hung trom the oozing rocks; and as we passed a mill stream, we had the sight of a frozen water-fall, arrested in its descent, and with all its volume, spray, and mist, as if by the hand of some enchanter changed suddenly into stone.

All these objects, in my walks through the mountains, had impressed their lessons of the magnificence and glory of God. But what now idens did the same scenes suggest, associated as they were with this wintry funeral,

At last we arrived at the place of graves. It was an acclivity of the mountain; a small field surrounded by a rude fence, in one corner of which were erected many wooden crosses; and a pile of sand, or rather of sandy frozen clods, dug out with a pickaxe, and cast upon the surrounding snows, indicated the spot of this new sepulture. There was not a single marble erected, not a monument of brown stone, or epitaph; but the emblem of the cross alone denoted that it was the resting-place of the lowliest of the lowly-of the poor sous of Erin, the hewers of wood and drawers of water, who Lad from time to time, in these distant regions, given up their lives to toil, to suffering, or to crime. But the mountain in which they were buried was itself a monument which, without any distinction, in a pot where all were equal, was erected equally for all. There is no memorial, even of the greatest, so good as the place in which they repose; and when I looked at the Sinai-like peak which rose before us, I thought that these poor people had, in their depth of poverty, resorted to the very God of nature to memorize their dead.

But I must not forget to notice, by way of memorial, the history of that poor man. He was one of those who lived by the sweat of the brow. By dig ging and delving in the earth; by bearing Leary burdens, and performing dangerous work, he ob tained a living by hard labor, “betwixt the daylight and dark;" and while the famine was raging in his own land, like many of his race who exhibit the same noble generosity and devotion (what an example to those of loftier rank!) he had carefully saved his earnings and transmitted them to his relatives. They arrived too late. His father and mother had already died of starvation; but his only sister had scarce reached the doors of this poor man's hovel, after so long a journey, when, as she awaited anxiously his return that evening, from his daily work, the litter which contained his body arrived at the door!

I reflected upon this little history, as we ap proached the grave upon the mountain side, and, melancholy as the scene was, with the snows drifting upon our uncovered heads, I would not have exchanged the good which it did my soul, for the warmest and best-lighted chamber where revelry abounds; and as I repeated those most touching words, "O Lord, God most holy, O Lord. mest mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death," I thought that the surrounding gloom was itself suggestive of hope to the Christian soul. In a few months more, the mountains would again be clothed with verdure, and the little hills would rej. ice on every side. As the winds died away into vernal gules, as the icicles fell from the rocks, as the snows vanished, they would be succeeded by the voice of the blooming and beautiful earth, with all its forest choirs, prolonging the chant of thanksgiving. How much more should the body of him, which new lay cold in its grave, with the clods and the snows of the mountains piled upon it, awake to a sure, and, it was to be hoped, a joyous resurrection. With such cheering thoughts we hurried away from the spot, when the service was ended, humbly praying that a portion of consolation might be conveyed to the heart of her, who, in a strange land, mourned the loss of an only brother. In pace requiescat.

JOHN O. SARGENT-EPES SARGENT. JOHN OSBORNE SARGENT was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and passed his childhood there and in the town of Hingham, Ho was sent to the Latin school in Boston, the prize annals of which,

and the record of a Latin ode, and a translation from the Elegy of Tyrtus, of his compositions, show his early proficiency in classical education. He passed to Harvard and was graduated in 1830. While there he established the clever periodical of which we have already spoken in the notice of one of its contributors, Dr. O. W. Holmes,* The Collegian. He was further assisted in it by the late William H. Simmons, the accomplished elocutionist and essayist; Robert Habersham, jr., of Boston, Frederick W. Brune of Baltimore, and by his brother, Epes Sargent.

On leaving college Mr. Sargent studied law in the office of the Hon. William Sullivan of Boston, and commenced its practice in that city. This was at the period of political agitation attending the financial measures of President Jackson. Mr. Sargent became a political writer and speaker in the Whig cause, and was elected to the lower house of the Legislature of Massachusetts. For some three years he was almost a daily writer for the editorial columns of the Boston Atlas, and added largely by his articles to the reputation which the paper at that time enjoyed as an efficient, vigorous party journal.

In 1838 Mr. Sargent removed to the city of New York, and was well known by his pen and oratory during the active political career which resulted in the election of General Harrison to the presidency. The Courier and Enquirer, for three or four years at this time, was enriched by leading political articles from his hand. At the close of the contest he re-engaged in the active pursuit of his profession. To this he devoted himself, with rigid seclusion from politics for eight years, with success.

He was drawn, however, again into politics in the canvass which resulted in the election of General Taylor, upon whose elevation to the presidency he became associated with Mr. Alexander C. Bullitt of Kentucky, in the establishment of the Republic newspaper at Washington. Its success was immediate and unprecedented. In about six months it numbered more than thirty thousand staunch Whigs on its subscription list. Its course, however, was not acceptable to the members of the cabinet. A rupture was finally brought about in consequence of the attempt of Messrs. Bullitt and Sargent to separate General Taylor from the cabinet in the matter of the Galphin claim, and their determination to support Mr. Clay's measures of compromise against the known wishes of the adininistration. A withdrawal from the editorship of the paper was the result. After Mr. Fillmore's accession to the presidency by the death of Taylor, a change in the policy of the administration ensued, which enabled Mr. Sargent to return to the Republic, which he conducted with spirit and efficiency to the close of the presidential term. Mr. Sargent enjoyed the entire confidence of President Fillmore, and was tendered by him the mission to China.

Since the advent of the Pierce cabinet Mr. Sargent has occupied himself exclusively with professional pursuits in the city of Washington, where he is engaged in an extensive legal practice.

Mr. Sargent has published several anonymous

Ante, p. 511.

pamphlets on political and legal subjects which have been largely circulated. His Lecture on the late Improvements in Steam Navigation and the Arts of Naval Warfare, which contains a biographical sketch of John Ericsson, has been several times republished in England, and translated into several of the continental languages. He is an accomplished scholar in the modern languages. Some of his poetical translations from the German enjoy a high reputation.

EPES SARGENT, a brother of the preceding, was born at Gloucester, Massachusetts, but at a very early age removed with his family to Boston. Ile was subsequently at school at Hingham. At nine years of age he was placed at the public Latin school in Boston, where he continued five years, with the exception of a period of six months, during which he made a visit with his father to Russia. While in St. Petersburgh he was often at the palace, examining the fine collection of paintings at the "Hermitage," or wandering through the splendid apartments. While here also he was much noticed by Baron Stieglitz, the celebrated banker and millionaire, who offered to educate him with his son, and take him into his counting-room, under very favorable conditions. The proposition, however, was declined. Returning to school in Boston, young Sargent was one of half a dozen boys who started a small weekly paper called the Literary Journal. In it he pubfished some account of his Russian experiences.

Mr. Sargent was admitted a member of the freshman class of Harvard University, but did not remain at Cambridge. Some years afterwards he was called upon to deliver the poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of that institution.

Tus Laufent

At an early age Mr. Sargent engaged in editorial life. He first became connected with the Boston Daily Advertiser, but some change occurring in the management of that journal he associated

himself with Mr. S. G. Goodrich in the preparation of the "Peter Parley" books. His labors in book-making were various and numerous for a series of years.

In 1836 he wrote for Miss Josephine Clifton a five-act play, entitled The Bride of Genoa, which was brought out at the Tremont Theatre with much success, and often repeated. It was subsequently acted by Miss Cushman at the Park Theatre on the occasion of her sister's début. It was published in the New World newspaper under the title of The Genoese, but the author has never thought it worthy of a permanent adoption.

On the 20th of November, 1837, the tragedy of Velasco, written for Miss Ellen Tree, was produced at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, with marked success. It was afterwards brought out at the Park Theatre, New York, and the principal theatres in the country. The play was published and dedicated to the author's personal friend, the Hon. William C. Preston of South Carolina, under whose auspices it was produced at Washington.

Velasco was brought out in London in 185651, and played at the Marylebone Theatre for a number of nights. It was decidedly successful, though severely criticised by most of the papers.

In 1837 Mr. Sargent became editorially connected with the Boston Atlas, and passed much of his time at Washington writing letters to that journal. About the year 1839-10 he removed to New York on the invitation of General Morris, and took charge for a short time of the Mirror. He now wrote a number of juvenile works for the Harpers, of which two, Wealth and Worth, and What's to be Done? had a large sale. He also wrote a comedy, Change makes Change, first produced at Niblo's, and afterwards by Burton in Philadelphin. Recently Mr. Burton applied to the author for a copy to produce at the Chambers street establishment, and it was found that none was in existence. In 1846 he commenced and edited for some time the Modern Standard Drama, an enterprise which he afterwards sold out, and which is now a lucrative property.

A matrimonial alliance now drew him eastward again. He established himself at Roxbury within a short distance of Boston, and after editing the Transcript for a few years, withdrew from newspaper life, and engaged exclusively in literary pursuits. In 1852 he produced the Standard Speaker—a work of rare completeness in its department, which has already passed through thirteen large editions. A life of Benjamin Franklin, with a collection of his writings, followed: then lives of Campbell, Collins, Goldsmith, Gray, Hood, and Rogers, attached to fine editions of their poetical works, published by Phillips, Sampson & Co., Boston. Recently Mr. Sargent has put forth a series of five Readers for schools, the success of which is justly due to the minute care and elaboration bestowed upon them, and the good taste with which they are executed.

In March, 1855, Mr. Sargent produced at the new Boston theatre, under the auspices of his old friend Mr. Barry, who had ushered into the world his two early dramatic productions, the five-nct tragedy of The Priestess, which was played, with

decided success, Mrs. Hayne (born Julia Dean) performing the part of Norma, the heroine. The play is partially, in the latter acts, founded on the operatic story of Norma.

In 1849 an edition of Mr. Sargent's poems, under the title of Songs of the Sea and other Poems, was published by Ticknor & Fields. It is composed chiefly of a number of spirited lyrics, several of which have been set to music. A series of sonnets is included: Shells and Sea-weeds, Records of a Summer Voyage to Cuba. The expression in these, as in all the poetical writings of the author, is clear and animated.

In addition to these numerous engagements of a career of great literary activity, Mr. Sargent has been connected as a contributor and editor with various magazines and periodicals.

As a lecturer he has been widely known before the Mercantile Library Association in Boston and similar associations in the Eastern and middle

states.

He was on terns of intimacy with Mr. Clay, and wrote a life of that distinguished statesman. In a preface to a recent edition of this life, Mr. Horace Greeley says: "I have reason to believe that Mr. Clay himself gave the preference, among all the narratives of his life which had fallen under his notice, to that of Epes Sargent, first issued in 1842, and republished with its author's revisions and additions in the summer of 1848."

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE

A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep;
Where the scattered waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep!
Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull, unchanging shore:
O! give me the flashing brine,
The spray and the tempest's roar!
Once more on the deck I stand,

Of my own swift-gliding craft:
Set sail! farewell to the land!
The gale follows fair abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling foam
Like an ocean-bird set free;-
Like the ocean-bird, our home

We'll find far out on the sea

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down! And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wavel

THE DEATH OF WARREN.

When the war-ery of Liberty rang through the land, To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand; On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear, When the army is joined by a young volunteer. "Tempt not death 1" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,

Saying, "O1 it is sweet for our country to die!"

The tempest of battle now rages and swells,
Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;
And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire-
Scene of woe and destruction ;-'tis Charlestown on
fire!

The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry,
But murmurs, "Tis sweet for our country to die!"
With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:
A volley of musketry cheeks their career!
With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,
And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our
own!"

"Not yet," cries the young volunteer, " do they fly! Stand firm!—it is sweet for our country to die!"

Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;— "Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"

But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,
Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.

A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh
Is, "'Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!
To perish for country at Liberty's call!
Should the flag of invasion profane evermore
The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,
May the hearts of our people re-echo that cry,-
Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

O YE KEEN BREEZES.

O ye keen breezes from the salt Atlantic,

Which to the bench, where memory loves to wander,
On your strong pinions waft reviving coolness,
Bend your course hither!

For, in the surf ye scattered to the sunshine,
Did we not sport together in my boyhood,
Screaming for joy amid the flashing breakers,
O rude companions?

Then to the meadows beautiful and fragrant,
Where the coy Spring beholds her earliest verdure
Brighten with smiles that rugged sea-side hamlet,
How would we husten?

There under elm-trees affluent in foliage,
High o'er whose summit hovered the sea-engle,
Through the hot, glaring noontide have we rested
After our gambols.

Vainly the sailor called you from your slumber:
Like a glazed pavement shone the level ocean;
While, with their snow-white canvass idly drooping,
Stood the tall vessels.

And when, at length, exulting ye awakened,
Rushed to the beach, and ploughed the liquid acres,
How have I chased you through the shivered billows,
In my
frail shallop!

Playmates, old playmates, hear my invocation!
In the close town I waste this golden summer,
Where piercing cries and sounds of wheels in motion
Ceaselessly mingle.

When shall I feel your breath upon my forehead?
When shall I hear you in the clm-trees' branches?
When shall we wrestle in the briny surges,

Friends of my boyhood?

An ardent

practice and also a married man. lover of field sports, and surrounded at his home on the Shenandoah near the Blue Ridge, with every temptation for these pursuits, he became a thorough sportsman. At this time, he penned a romance of about three hundred lines, entitled Emily, which was published in Graham's Magazine. This was followed by the Froissart Ballads, which appeared in a volume in 1847. This was his only separate publication. He afterwards wrote part of a novel, The Chevalier Merlin, which appeared, so far as completed, in the Southern Literary Messenger. He also wrote for the same periodical, the tales entitled John Carpe, The Two Country Houses, The Gregories of Hackwood, The Crime of Andrew Blair, Erysicthon, Dante, and a number of reviews,

офрла

Mr. Cooke died suddenly, January 20, 1850, at the early age of thirty-three.

With the exception of the Froissart Ballads, which he wrote with great rapidity, at the rate of one a day, Mr. Cooke composed slowly; and his published productions, felicitous as they are, do not, in the judgment of those who knew him, present a full exhibition of the powers of his mind. He shone in conversation, and was highly prized by all about him for his intellectual and social qualities. His manner was stately and im

The poems of Mr. Cooke are in a bright animated mood, vigorous without effort, preserving the freedom of nature with the discipline of art. The ballads, versifications of old Froissart's chivalric stories, run off trippingly with their sparkling objective life. In its rare and peculiar excelfence, in delicately touched sentiment, Florence Vane has the merit of an antique song.

YOUNG ROSALIE LEZ

I love to forget ambition,

And hope, in the mingled thought Of valley, and wood, and meadow, Where, whilome, my spirit caught Affection's holiest breathings

Where under the skies, with me Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking From joy's bright Castaly.

I think of the valley and river,

Of the old wood bright with blossoms; Of the pure and chastened gladness Upspringing in our bosoms.

I think of the lonely turtle

So tongued with melancholy;
Of the hue of the drooping moonlight,
And the starlight pure and holy.

Of the beat of a heart most tender,
The sigh of a shell-tinct lip
As soft as the land-tones wandering
Far leagues over ocean deep;
Of a step as light in its falling

On the breast of the beaded lea
As the fall of the faery moonlight
On the leaf of you tulip tree.

I think of these-and the murmur

Of bird, and katydid,

Whose home is the grave-yard cypress
Whose goblet the honey-reed.
And then I weep! for Rosalie
Has gone to her early rest;

And the green-lipped reed and the daisy
Suck sweets from her maiden breast.

JOHN ESTEN COоKE, a younger brother of the preceding, is the author of a series of fictions, produced with rapidity, which have in a brief pe

Jno Esten Core.

riod gained him the attention of the public. He was born in Winchester, Frederick county, Virginia, November 3, 1830. When a year or more old, his father took up his residence on his estate of Glengary, near Winchester, whence, on the burning of the house in 1839, the family removed to Richmond. Mr. Cooke's first publication, if we except a few tales and sketches contributed to Harpers' and Putnam's Magazines, the Literary World, and perhaps other journals, was entitled, Leather Stocking and Silk, or Hunter John Myers and his Times, a Story of the Valley of Virginia, from the press of the Harpers in 1854. The chief character, the hunter, is drawn from life, and is a specimen of manly, healthy, mountain nature, effectively introduced in the gay domestic group around him. This was immediately followed by the Youth of Jefferson, or a Chronicle of College Scrapes, at Williamsburgh, in Viginia, A.D. 1764. The second title somewhat qualifies the serious purport of the first, which might lead the reader to look for a work of biography; but in fact, the book, with perhaps a meagre hint or two of tradition, is a fanciful view of a gayer period than the present, with the full latitude of the writer of fiction. Love is, of course, a prominent subject of the story, and is tenderly and chivalrously handled. Scarcely had these books made their appearance, almost simultaneously, when a longer work froin the same, as