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the very

effort, she succeeds to scream, ,-a single wild cry, forced from her by the accumulated agony: she sinks down upon the grass before her enemy,-her eyes, however, still open, and still looking upon those which he directs forever upon them. She sees him approach—now advancing, now receding—now swelling in every part with something of anger, while his neck is arched beautifully, like that of a wild horse under the curb ; until, at length, tired as it were of play, like the cat with its victim, she sees his neck growing larger and becoming completely bronzed, as about to strike,-the huge jaws unclosing almost directly above her, the long tubulated fang, charged with venom, protruding from the căv'ernous mouth; and she sees no more. Insensibility came to her aid, and she lay almost lifeless under

folds of the monster. 11. In that moment the copse parted; and an arrow, piercing the monster through and through the neck, bore his head forward to the ground, alongside the maiden, while his spiral extremities, now unfolding in his own agony, were actually, in part, writhing upon


person. The arrow came from the fugitive Occonestoga, who had fortunately reached the spot in season, on the way to the Block-House. He rushed from the copse as the snake fell, and, with a stick, fearlessly approached him where he lay tossing in agony upon the grass. Seeing him advance, the courageous réptile made an effort to regain his coil, shaking the fearful rattle violently at every evolution which he took for that purpose; but the arrow, completely passing through his neck, opposed an unyielding obstacle to the endeavor; and finding it hopeless, and seeing the new enemy about to assault him, with something of the spirit of the white man under like circumstances, he turned desperately round, and striking his charged fangs, so that they were riveted in the wound they made, into a susceptible part of his own body, he threw himself over with a single convulsion, and, a moment after, lay dead beside the utterly unconscious maiden.

SIMMS. WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS was born at Charleston, South Carolina, April 17th, 1806. His mother died while he was an infant, and his father, failing soon after as a merchant, emigrated to the West, leaving him to the care of an aged and penurious grandmother, who withheld the appropriations necessary for his education. His love of books, industry, and richly endowed intellect, however, triumphed over every obstacle. He wrote for the press, at an early age, on a great variety of subjects, and was admitted to the bar, in his native city, at the age of twenty-one. He did not long practice law, but turned his peculiar train.

Ing to the uses of literature. He became editor and proprietor of the “Charleston City Gazette,” which, though conducted with industry and spirit, proved a failure, owing to his opposition to the then popular doctrine of nullification. He published his first book, “Lyrical and other Poems," in 1825, when about eighteen years of age, followed the same year by “Early Lays.” “Atalantis," the third work following, a successful poem with the publishers, a rarity at the time, was published in New York, in 1832. It is written in smooth blank verse, interspersed with frequent lyrics. The next year appeared in New York his first tale,“ Martin Faber," written in the intense passionate style, which secured at once public attention. Since that period he has written numerous novels, histories, biographies, and poems, and has contributed largely to reviews and magazines. In 1849 he became editor of “The Southern Quarterly Review," which was revived by his able contributions and personal influence. His writings are characterized by their earnestness, sincerity, and thoroughness. His shorter stories are his best works. Though somewhat wanting in elegance, they have unity, completeness, and strength. Mr. Simms now resides on his plantation at Midway, a town about seventy miles southwest of Charleston,






LMOST the last words which Sir Walter Scott spoke to

Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, were, “Be a good man, my dear!” and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed åway blessing them. Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time. Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works.

2. This is no review, or history, or criticism ; only a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labor the honor of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men. One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost with the Republic; the pater patrice' had laid his hand on the child's head. He bore Washington's' name :

Pā' ter patriæ, father of his er-in-chief of the army of independcountry.

enceduringthe American Revolution, • George Washington, command. first President of the United States,


he came among us bringing the kindèst sympathy, the most artless, smiling good-will.

3. His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no věry high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet, and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europe'

If Irving's welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered ? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart?

4. In Aměrica the love and regard for Irving was a nătional sentiment. It seemed to me, during a year's travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at Irving. All men held their hand from that harmless, friendly peacemaker. I had the good fortune to see him at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, and remarked how in every place he was honored and welcomed. Every large city has its “Irving House." The country takes pride in the fame of its men of letters.

5. The gate of his own charming little domain on the beautiful Hudson River was forever swinging before visitors who came to him. He shut out no one. I had seen many pictures of his house, and read descriptions of it, in both of which it was treated with a not unusual American exaggeration. It was but a pretty little cabin of a place; the gentleman of the press who took notes of it, while his kind old höst was sleeping, might have visited the house in a couple of minutes.

6. And how came it that this house was so small, when Mr. Irving's books were sold by hundreds of thousands, nāy, millions,

—when his profits were known to be large, and the habits of life of the good old bachelor were notoriously modèst and simple? He had loved once in his life. The lady he loved died; and he, whom all the world loved, never sought to replace her.

7. I can't say how much the thought of that fidělity has touched me. Does not the věry cheerfulness of his after life add to the pathos of that untold story? To grieve always was not in his nature ; or, when he had his sorrow, to bring all the world in to condole with him and bemoan it. Deep and quiet

styled the “Father of his Country," He retired from public life in 1796, was born in Westmoreland, Vir- and died December 14th, 1799, leav. ginia, on the 22d of February, 1732. ing a reputation without a stain.

he lays the love of his heart, and buries it, and grass and flowers grow over the scarred ground in due time.

8. Irving had such a small house and such nărrów rooms because there was a great number of people to occupy them. He could only live věry modèstly because the wifelèss, childless man had a number of children to whom he was as a father. He had as many as nine nieces, I am told,-I saw two of these ladies at his house, with all of whom the dear old man had shared the produce of his labor and genius. Be a good man, my dear.” One can't but think of these last words of the veteran Chief of Letters, who had tasted and tested the value of worldly success, admiration, prosperity. Was Irving not good, and, of his works, was not his life the best part ?

9. In his family, gentle, generous, good-humored, affectionate, self-denying ; in society, a delightful example of complete gentlemanhood ; quite unspoiled by prosperity ; never obsequious to the great (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as some public men are forced to be in his and other countries); eager to acknowledge every contemporary's merit; always kind and affable with the young members of his calling ; in his professional bargains and mercantile dealings delicately honest and grateful; he was at the same time one of the most charming masters of our lighter language; the constant friend to us and our nation ; to men of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, and a pure life!





S for Macaulay, whose departure many friends, some few

most dearly-loved relatives, and multitudes of admiring readers deplore, our Republic' has already decreed his statue, and he must have known that he had earned this post'humous' honor. He was not a poët and man of letters merely, citizen, a statesman, a great British worthy. All sorts of successes are easy to him : as a lad he goes down into the arēna with others, and wins all the prizes to which he has a mind. А place in the Senate is straightway offered to the young man. He takes his seat there ; he speaks, when so minded, without party anger or intrigue, but not without party faith and a sort, of heroic enthusiasm for his cause. Still he is poet and philosopher even more than orator.

but a

1 Our Republic, meaning “ the Republic of letters.

2 Post' hu moŭs, continuing after one's death.

2. If a company of giants were got together, věry likely one or two of the mere six-feet-six people might be angry at the incontestable superiority of the very tallèst of the party; and so I have heard some London wits, rather peevish at Macaulay's superiority, complain that he occupied too much of the talk, and so forth. Now that wonderful tongue is to speak no more, will not many a man grieve that he no longer has the chance to listen? To remember the talk is to wonder ; to think not only of the treasures he had in his měmòry, but of the trifles he had stored there, and could produce with equal readiness.

3. Many Londoners not all—have seen the British Muse'um Library,—the dome where our million volumes are housed. What peace, what lovo, what truth, what beauty, what hăppiness for all, what generous kindness for you and me, are here spread out! It seems to me one can not sit down in that place without a heart full of grateful reverence. I own to have said my grace at the table and to have thanked Heaven for this my English birthright, freely to partake of these bountiful books, and to speak the truth I find there.

4. Under the dome which held Macaulay's brain, and from which his solemn eyes looked out on the world but a fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, and wonderful store of learning was ranged !—what strānge lore would he not fetch for you at your bidding! A volume of law or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by himself, who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, and he had it at hand!

5. With regard to Macaulay's style, there may be faults of course ; but we are not talking about faults. Take at hazard any three pages of his Essays or of his History ; and, glimmering below the stream of the narrative, as it were, you, an average reader, see one, two, three, a half-score of allusions to other historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, with which you are not acquainted. Why is this epithet used? Whence is that simile drawn? How does he manage, in two or three words, to paint

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