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That from the floor of his paternal home
He should depart, to plant himself anew.
And when, mature in manhood, he beheld
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued
Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,
By the pure bond of independent love,
An inmate of a second family,
The fellow laborer and friend of him
To whom the small inheritance had fallen.
Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his brother's house; for books Were ready comrades* whom he could not tire,— Of whose society the blameless man Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, Even to old age, with unabated charm
Beguiled his leisuret hours; refreshed his thoughts;
Beyond its natural elevation raised
His introverted spirit; and bestowed
Upon his life an outward dignity
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,
The stormy day, had each its own resource;
Song of the muses, sage historic tale,
Science severe, or word of holy writ,
Announcing immortality and joy
To the assembled spirits of the just,
From imperfection and decay secure.
Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field.
To no perverse suspicion he gave way,
No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint:
And they who were about him did not fail
In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized
His gentle manners :-and his peaceful smiles, .
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,
Were met with answering sympathy and love.
At length, when sixty years and five were told,
A slow disease insensibly consumed
The powers of nature; and a few short steps
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home
(Yon cottage, shaded by the woody crags,)
To the profounder stillness of the grave.
Nor was his funeral denied the grace
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.
And now, that monumental stone preserves
His name, and unambitiously relates
How long, and by what kindly outward aids,
And in what pure contentedness of mind,
The sad privation was by him endured.
And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound
Was wasted on the good man's living ear,
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;
And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.
The Alderman's funeral.-SOUTHEY.
Stranger. WHOм are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death?
Townsman. A long parade, indeed, Sir, and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.
S. 'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp
Tempts me to stand a gazer.
T. Yonder schoolboy,
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation
Of peace was nothing to the show, and even
The chairing of the members at election
Would not have been a finer sight than this;
Only that red and green are prettier colors
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold
One of the red-gowned worthies of the city,
The envy and the boast of our exchange,
Aye, what was worth, last week, a good half million,
Screwed down in yonder hearse.
S. Then he was born
Under a lucky planet, who to-day
Puts mourning on for his inheritance.
T. When first I heard his death, that very wish
Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.
S. The camel and the needle,
Is that then in your mind?
T. Even so.
Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel,-
Yea, leap him flying, through the needle's eye,
As easily as such a pampered soul
Could pass the narrow gate.
S. Your pardon, Sir, But sure this lack of Christian charity Looks not like Christian truth.
T. Your pardon too, Sir, If, with this text before me, I should feel In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig-trees, With all their flourish and their leafiness, We have been told their destiny and use, When the axe is laid unto the root, and they Cumber the earth no longer.
S. Was his wealth
Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged,
And widows who had none to plead their right?
T. All honest, open, honorable gains,
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages,
Ships to the east and west.
T. For what he left
Undone for sins, not one of which is mentioned
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believed no other gods than those of the Creed:
Bowed to no idols, but his money-bags :
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house:
Kept the Sabbath idle built a monument
To honor his dead father: did no murder:
Was too old-fashioned for adultery:
Never picked pockets: never bore false-witness:
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass.
S. You knew him, then, it seems?
T. As all men know
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders:
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel.
S. Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir! for often
Doth bounty like a streamlet flow unseen,
Freshening and giving life along its course.
T. We track the streamlet by the brighter green
And livelier growth it gives :-but as for this-
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk;
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it,
But slime and foul corruption.
S. Yet even these Are reservoirs whence public charity Still keeps her channels full.
T. Now, Sir, you touch
Upon the point. This man of half a million
Had all these public virtues which you praise,
But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar, at the public gate,
Who, all the summer long, stands, hat in hand,
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world,-donations to keep open
A running charity-account with Heaven :-
Retaining fees against the last assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old arch-lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.
S. I must needs
Believe you, Sir-these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind
Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have lived, that thus his death
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief!
T. Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity?
The parlor-spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head
Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus ! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught.
The multiplication-table was his creed,
His pater-noster, and his decalogue,
When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed
The open air and sunshine of the fields,
To give his blood its natural spring and play,
He, in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smoke-dried and seared and shrivelled up his heart.
So, from the way in which he was trained up,
His feet departed not; he toiled and moiled,
Poor muck-worm! through his three-score years and ten,
And when the earth shall now be shovelled on him,
If that which served him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt.
S. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honorable wealth
A bright example.
T. Even half a million
Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelve-months hence, and you will find his virtues
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,
Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.
COLTER came to St. Louis in May 1810, in a small canoe from the head waters of the Missouri, a distance of 3000 miles, which he traversed in 30 days. I saw him on his arrival, and received from him an account of his adventures, after he had separated from Lewis and Clark's party; one of these, for its singularity, I shall relate.
On the arrival of the party at the head waters of the Missouri, Colter, observing an appearance of abundance of beaver being there, got permission to remain and hunt for some time, which he did in company with a man of the name of Dixon, who had traversed the immense tract of country from St. Louis to the head waters of the Missouri alone. Soon after, he separated from Dixon, and trapped in company with a hunter named Potts; and aware of the hostility of the Blackfoot Indians, one of whom had been
*This account of a perilous adventure of John Colter, is taken from Bradbury's Travels in the interior of North America; a publication, says McDiarmid, of great merit and interest.