power and ease in humor and pathos. He was a very accurate observer of life and manners. His wit is revealed by a boundless profusion of the quaintest, oddest, and most unexpected combinations ; and his humor is marked alike by richness and delicacy. As a punster, he stands without a rival. No one else has given so much expression and character to this inferior form of wit. His serious productions are mostly in the form of verse, and are remarkable for sweetness and tenderness of feeling, exquisite fancy, and finely chosen language. A few of them, such as "The Dream of Eugene Aram," "The Song of the Shirt,” “The Bridge of Sighs,” have great power and pathos. In many of his poems the sportive and serious elements are most happily blended. "A Retrospective Review " is a case in point.

THO

HOU happy, happy elf!
(But stop first let me kiss away that tear) –

Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) -

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) -

Thou little tricksy Puck !
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air,
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire !
(Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents — (stop the boy!

There goes my ink !)

Thou cherub but of earth!
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,
(The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail !)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,

(Another tumble - that's his precious nose !) )

Thy father's pride and hope ! (He 'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint ?)

Thou young domestic love !
(He'll have that jug off with another shove !)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !
(Are those torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table — that 's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,

(He's got a knife !)

Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)

Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove –

(I tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he 's sent above !)

LXXXIX. — LAFAYETTE'S VISIT TO AMERICA

IN 1825.

JOSIAH QUINCY. JOSIAH QUINCY, JR., was born in Boston, January 17, 1802; and was graduated at Harvard University in 1821. He has been President of the Massachusetts Senate, Presi. dent of the Common Council of Boston, and Mayor of the city. He has written much in favor of social and commercial reforms.

The following is an extract from an Address delivered in Boston, June 17, 1874, at an entertainment in aid of the Washington Medallion Fund.

FORTY-NINE years ago I had the privilege, in my

I capacity as aid to Governor Lincoln, to stand next to General Lafayette when he laid the corner-stone of the Monument on Bunker Hill. It is impossible for persons of this generation to realize the enthusiasm with which his return was greeted; all knew that when he applied, in 1776, to our commissioners in Paris, for a passage in the first ship they should despatch to America, they were obliged to answer him that they possessed not the means or the credit sufficient for providing a single vessel in all the ports of France. “Then,” exclaimed the youthful hero, “I will provide my own." And it is a literal fact, that when all America was too poor to offer him so much as a passage to her shores, he left, in his tender youth, the bosom of a home where domestic happiness, wealth, and honor awaited him, to plunge in the blood and dust of our inauspicious struggle.

And his reappearance, after an absence of forty years, was almost as if his friend George Washington had returned on the scene. On the 15th of June, after having, in four months, traveled over five thousand miles, and visited the country from Maine to Florida, and received the homage of our sixteen Republics, - a fact, before the invention of railways, almost without a parallel, - La

fayette reached Boston to witness the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the battle of Bunker Hill.

The day dawned with uncommon splendor. The State of Massachusetts had made an appropriation to pay the expenses of every soldier of the Revolution who reported himself on that day; and almost every survivor of that venerable band, who resided in New England, had availed himself of her bounty. From my official relations, I witnessed the meeting of these veterans. They had parted nearly half a century before. Their subsequent lot in life, or even their continued existence, had been to each other unknown. They met and recognized one another with almost the feelings of boys. The recollections of the past pressed upon their memories; and the flame of life that had become almost dormant in their bosoms flashed out with its early brightness before it expired.

Forty years before, their patriot souls had scorned the advice not to disband until the nation had paid for their services, and they left the army poor, and, from their military experiences, unfitted to prosper in the usual avocations of life. The visit of Lafayette, and the recognition through him and with him of their services, was to them like the breaking out of the setting sun after a day of storms, revealing the beauty of the land for which they had suffered, and giving them the hope of a brighter to-morrow.

The Masonic and military show of the procession had never been surpassed, but the great interest of the scene arose from the presence of the survivors of the

army

of the Revolution. Of these, two hundred officers and soldiers led the way, and forty, who had fought at Bunker Hill, followed in carriages. Lafayette was the only staff officer of that venerable band; and seven captains, three lieutenants, and one ensign constituted all the other officers that remained.

The first exercise of the day had a peculiar interest. The occasion was of course to be consecrated by prayer and the venerable Joseph Thaxter, chaplain of Prescott's own regiment, rose to officiate. Fifty years before he had stood upon that spot, and in the presence of many for whom that morning sun should know no setting, called upon Him, who can save by many or by few, for his aid in the approaching struggle. His presence brought the scene vividly to our view.

In imagination, we could almost hear the thunder of the broadsides that ushered in that eventful morning. We could almost see Prescott and Warren and their gallant host pausing from their labors to listen to an invocation to Him before whom many before nightfall were to appear. We could almost realize what thoughts must have filled the minds of patriots before that first decisive conflict. Since then, everything had changed, except the Being before whom we bowed. He alone is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.

The prayer was followed by a hymn, written by Mr. Pierpont, which, sung by the vast multitude to the tune of Old Hundred, produced a thrilling effect: