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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.
HOU happy, happy elf!
Thou tiny image of myself!
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,
Thou little tricksy Puck !
Thou darling of thy sire !
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
There goes my ink !)
Thou cherub but of earth!
In harmless sport and mirth,
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
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 !
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !
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!
With many a lamb-like frisk,
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
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
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:
“O, is not this a holy spot !
'Tis the high place of freedom's birth : God of our fathers ! is it not
The holiest spot on all the earth ? “Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side,
The robbers roam o'er Sinai now, And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow. “But on this spot, thou, Lord, hast dwelt
Since round its head the war-cloud curled, And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.