Often has he experienced their hospitality in Plattsburgh, though the youngest sister must have been an infant when his intercourse with it ceased. He well recollects LUCRETIA MARIA, when a child, as an amiable and thoughtful little girl. He had no idea, however, of the genius that slumbered within her. As she grew up, she was as much distinguished by the elegance of her form, the simplicity and neatness of her dress, and the brilliancy of her countenance, as by her intellectual endowments. He well recollects the general notice which herself and an elder sister attracted by their very interesting appearance on the occasion of the 'commencement' of the University of Vermont at Burlington, when she might have been fifteen years of age. The mother, a very amiable woman, has been through the greater part of her years afflicted with severe ill-health; but though her hold on life has been feeble, she has lived to mourn over the early departure of three lovely daughters, the eldest of whom became the wife of the Rev. Mr. TOWNSEND, an Episcopal clergyman in Canada. The mother, undoubtedly beautiful in her youth, possessed a gifted mind; though too much devoted to her family, and too severely borne down by illness, to be extensively addicted to literature. A peculiarly kind and affectionate disposition was her prominent characteristic. There was, however, a great deal of poetry in her structure of mind, though her simple and affectionate disposition was at the farthest possible remove from display. Whenever an extraordinary genius arises, one always looks to find something uncommon in the intellectual character of the mother. The part which she has borne in the recent memoir of her daughter must cause her to be held in high estimation. The writer well recollects her once 'telling a story,' in his social intercourse with the family, which was said to have been founded on facts that occurred in the early history of New-Jersey, which for interest of incident and fascination of coloring was equal to any tale he ever read; yet it was related in the most simple manner, and was the mere overflowing of an elegant mind and a feeling heart. That story would assuredly prove most effective in print, could it be recorded precisely as it fell from her lips. A quarter of a century has not effaced the recollection of some of the leading incidents: The eldest son of a nobleman in England, having fallen under the displeasure of his father, fled to America and came to New-Jersey. Being destitute of any means of support, he resorted to school-keeping. Among his scholars was a lovely girl, the daughter of a plain farmer in the neighborhood. She attracted his attention, for he saw that she was a young woman of rare endowments. His own character and parentage were unknown, but he was regarded as an amiable and accomplished young gentleman. After a season of courtship, he married her, still continuing the profession of school-keeping. Not long after this his father died, and news came to him that he was heir to the title and estate. This information, to their astonishment, he conveyed to his wife and her parents. She perhaps trembled at the idea of an elevation to a station which her education so little prepared her to fill; and her parents, lest this exaltation should cause their beloved daughter to despise and forget them. But the fears of neither were realized. Her husband sent her to a school to receive a finished education; and when removed to her new situation, she shone with brilliancy among the noble ladies, her companions; and what is best of all, she cherished the kindest regard for her humble parents, and often cheered them with the most affectionate messages and valuable presents. When the Remains of LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON appeared, one of the first things for which the writer looked, was to see if this tale had not been wrought by her into poetry.'

...

In cordially commending these 'Remains' to the reader, we say with our correspondent: 'Let not Americans be chargeable with neglecting native genius. It may be hoped that the recent publication will revive an interest in the work of the elder sister, and that they will both have a circulation in some degree commensurate with their extraordinary merits. It would cheer the hearts of the bereaved parents to find the rare qualities of their lovely daughters duly estimated; and the profits of an extensive sale of these works would probably not be disregarded by a family eminently deserving, but not wealthy.'

EDITOR'S TABLE.

'DISCE MORI.' - Learn to die, is the solemn and all-important lesson taught in a vơlume by CHRISTOPHER SuttON, D. D., Prebend of Westminster, London, in 1600, a new edition of which, from the press of the Messrs. APPLETON, is before us. 'Man,' says the quaint author, 'has here only a course to finish, which being finished, he must away;' and he entreats the living to remember that the 'healthiest, where or when we know not, all must down, when DEATH cometh; which Death is like the serpent Regulus no charming can charm him.' Of all lessons or learnings, he adds, than a lesson of learning to die, 'what more weighty, what more divine? What is it to have the force of Demosthenes, the persuasive art of Tully? What is it by arithmetical account to divide fractions, and never to think of numbering the time we have yet to live? What is it, by geometrical practice, to take the longitude of the most spacious prospects, and not to measure that which the prophet calleth only 'a span long?' What is it to set the diapason in a musical concert, and for want of good government, to lead a life all out of tune? What is it with the astronomer to observe the motions of the heavens, and to have his heart buried in the earth? With the naturalist, to search out the cause of many effects, and let pass the consideration of his own frailty? With the historian, to know what others have done, and to neglect the true knowledge of himself? With the lawyer, to prescribe many laws in particular, and not to remember the common law of nature, a law general? Surely all is nothing worth!' The style of this little volume is remarkable for its terseness, and for its redundance of forcible and felicitous metaphor. We perceive here the source of every striking thought with which the author of 'Lacon' has transfused his well-known passage upon death. Indeed, the entire work is saturate with profound thought and solemn admonition. It is a book well calculated to make us 'meditate of our final end, at our lying down, which doth resemble the grave, and at our rising up, which may mind us of a joyful resurrection,' and to make this remembrance the key to open in the day and to shut in the night. How trathful and sententious are the lessons which ensue: 'O world most unworthy to be affected of us, where are the riches that poverty hath not decayed! Where is the beauty that age hath not withered! Where is the strength that sickness hath not weakened! Where is the pomp that time hath not ruined! We are but tenants at will in this clay form. The foundation of all the building is a small substance, always kept cold by an intercourse of air: the pillar whereupon the whole frame stays is only the passage of a little breath; the strength, some few bones tied together with dry strings or sinews: howsoever we piece and patch this poor cottage, it will at last fall; and we must give surrender, when Death shall say, 'This or that man's time hath come.' First, we mourn for others; a little after, others mourn for us. Now we supply the places and offices and heritages of them that were before; and ere long be, others shall come afresh in our rooms, and rule where we rule, sway where we sway, and possess all which we have gathered together with care, kept with fear, and at last left with sorrow.'

Willis Gaylord Clark.

'Our brother is no more!" DEATH, the pale messenger, has beckoned him silently away; and the spirit which kindled with so many elevated thoughts; which explored the chambers of human affection, and awakened so many warm sympathies; which rejoiced with the glad, and grieved with the sorrowing, has ascended to mansions of eternal repose. And there is one, reader, who above all others feels how much gentleness of soul, how much fraternal affection and sincere friendship; how much joyous hilarity, goodness, poetry, have gone out of the world; and he will be pardoned for dwelling in these pages, so often enriched by the genius of the Departed, upon the closing scenes of his earthly career. Since nearly a twelve-month, the deceased has died daily' in the eyes of the writer of this feeble tribute. He saw that Disease sat at his heart, and was gnawing at its cruel leisure; that in the maturity of every power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty; 'when experience had given facility to action and success to endeavor,' he was fast going down to darkness and the worm. Thenceforth were treasured up every soul-fraught epistle and the recollection of each recurring interview, growing more and more frequent, until at length Life like a spent steed 'panted to its goal,' and Death sealed up the glazing eye and stilled the faltering tongue. Precious seasons! - sacred scenes! Would it were in our power now to transfer them from our cherished records: but the hand wavers and the heart overflows. Leaving these therefore, with many other treasured remains and biographical facts for future reference and preservation in this Magazine, we pass to the following passages of a letter recently received from a late but true friend of the lamented deceased, Rev. Dr. DUCACHET, Rector of St. Stephen's Church, Philadelphia; premising merely, that the reverend gentleman had previously called upon him at his special instance, in the last note he ever penned; that 'his religious faith was manifested in a manner so solemn, so frank, and so cordial,' as to convince the affectionate pastor that the failing invalid, aware that he must die of the illness under which he was suffering, had long been seeking divine assistance to prepare him for the issue so near at hand:

'Ar four o'clock on Friday P. M., the day before his death, I saw him again, he himself having selected the time, thinking that he was strongest in the afternoon. But there was an evident change for the worse; and he was laboring under fever. His religious feelings were however even more satisfactory, and his views more clear, than the day before. He assured me that he enjoyed a sweet peace in his mind, and that he had no apprehension about death. He was 'ready to depart' at any moment. I was unwilling to disturb him by much talking, or a very long visit, and made several attempts to leave him; but in the most affectionate and pressing manner, not to be resisted, he urged me to remain. His heart seemed full of joy and peace; overflowing with gratitude to God for his goodness, and with kindness to me. Leaving him, after an hour's interview, I promised to return on Saturday a. M., at ten o'clock, and to administer baptism to him then. This was done accordingly, in the presence of his father-in-law, and three or four other friends and connexions, whom he had summoned to his bed, as he told me, for the express purpose of letting them see his determination to profess the faith of the gospel which in life he had so long neglected. It was a solemn, moving sight; one of the most interesting and affecting I ever saw. More devotion, humility, and placid confidence in God, I never saw in any sick ınan. I mentioned to him that as his strength was evidently declining, it would be well for him to say every thing he desired to say to me then, as his voice and his faculties might fail. He then affectionately placed his arms around my neck; gently drew my ear near to his lips, that I might hear his whispers; and after thanking me over and over again for my small attentions to him, which

his gratitude magnified into very high services, he proceeded to tell me what he wished done with his 'poor body.' He expressed very great anxiety to see you, and he very much feared that he should die before your expected arrival at midnight. But he said he left that matter and every other to God's disposal. As I was leaving him, he said, 'Call again to-day,' which I promised to do in the evening. He told me he felt a happy persuasion that when he passed from this miserable world and that enfeebled body, he should enter upon the inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away. He asked: 'Do you observe how these words labor to convey the idea of Heaven's blessedness to our feeble minds? The 'inheritance incorruptible! Beautiful thought! 'Undefiled more beautiful still! 'That fadeth not away' most beautiful of all! I think I understand something of the peace and glory these redoubled words were designed to express.' And then, raising his wasted hand, with great emphasis he said, 'I shall soon know all about it, I trust!'

'In the evening, about seven o'clock, I received a message from him to come immediately to him. I was there by eight. I was surprised to find that he had rallied so much. There was a strength I had not seen before; and his fine open features were lighted up with unusual brilliancy. In every way he seemed better; and I flattered myself that he would live to see you, and even hold out for a day or two more. I had much charming conversation with him about his state of feeling, his views of himself as a sinner, and of God, and of Jesus Christ as a precious Saviour, and of heaven, etc. He then handed me a prayer-book, adding, 'That was my ANNE's,' meaning his wife's. Now read me the office for the sick in this book. I want the whole of it. I have read it myself over and over, since you pointed it out to me, and it is delightful.' He then repeated the sentence, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand in the latter day upon the earth,' and asked if that was not a part of it. I told him that that belonged to the burial service. 'Then,' said he, 'it is quite suitable for me, for it will soon be read by you over my grave.' I sat by his bed, and found the place. Waiting in silence to receive his signal to begin, I thought he was engaged in secret prayer, and was unwilling to interrupt him. But he remained silent so long, seeming to take no notice of me, that I spoke to him. I found that his mind was wandering, and that speech had failed. He muttered indistinctly only. From that moment, he sank gradually away. His emaciated limbs were retracted and cold; his pulse failed; the shadow of death gathered fast and dark upon his countenance; his respiration became feebler and feebler; and at last, at precisely five minutes past ten, he died. So imperceptibly and gently did his happy spirit flee away, that it was some time before we could ascertain that he had gone. I never saw a gentler death. There was no pain, no distress, no shuddering, no violent disruption of the ties of life. Both as to the mind's peace and the body's composure, it was a beautiful instance of ευθανασια. The change which indicated the approach of his last moment, took place about half an hour only before he died. Such, my dear Sir, are all the chief particulars I can remember, and which I have thought you would desire to know.'

A FEW summary 'Reflections' upon the character of the lamented deceased succeed, which, although intended, as was the foregoing, only for a brother's eye, we cannot resist the desire to cite in this connexion:

'He was, so far as his character revealed itself to me, a man of a most noble, frank, and generous nature. He was as humble as a little child. He exhibited throughout most remarkable patience. He never complained. But once, while I was on bended knees, praying with him for patience to be given him, and acknowledging that all he had suffered was for the best, he clasped his hands together, and exclaimed, 'Yes! right, right all right!' He was one of the most affectionate-hearted men I ever saw. Every moment I spent with him, he was doing or saying something to express to me his

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attachment. He would take my hand, or put his arın around my neck, or say something tender, to tell me that he loved me. He showed the same kind feeling to his attendants, his faithful nurse, REBECCA, and to the humblest of the servants. was of course, with such a heart, grateful for the smallest attentions. He received the most trifling offices with thanks. I observed this most remarkably on the evening of his death. I had taken my son with me, that he might sit up with him on Saturday night, if occasion should require. When I mentioned that the youth was in the room, he called for him; welcomed him most kindly, thanked him over and over for his friendly intentions; and in fact, broke out into the warmest expressions of gratitude for what his sensitive and generous heart took to be a high act of favor. All this was within an hour and a half of his death. Finally, I believe he was a truly religious man. I have no doubt that he was fully prepared for his end; and that through the sacrifice of the cross, and the Saviour who died there for sinners, he was pardoned and accepted. He has gone, I feel persuaded, to the abodes of peace, where the souls of those who sleep in the LORD JESUS enjoy perpetual felicity and rest.'