complishment of my wishes; of being agreeable to myself, and useful to my country; and to crown all, I am restored to Andover!' p. 9. We are told, that during his residence at Providence, his fidelity and diligence in business were most exemplary; that his moral character was untainted; his manners and conversation singularly amiable and attractive.' He seems, indeed, to have there found a home, and to have been cordially adopted into a family circle, where a kindness almost parental made him forget awhile his loneliness. In his letters from Andover and Cambridge, he always speaks in terms of the warmest affection and gratitude of his friends at Bloomsgrove, the name given to his residence at Providence. Bloomsgrove, Providence, names which never occur to me, without calling up the most agreeable sensations-scenes of childhood and of youth, where I have passed so many happy hours, where I have lived so long and loved so sincerely-abodes too of those friends, to whom, if if to any, I look for continued affection-for continued parental fondness and solicitude, and with whom I yet hope often to mingle in the social circle-places and friends endeared to me by such ties, can I ever forget?" p. 127. And again, March 17, 1817. : Every thing that concerns or comes from Bloomsgrove cannot fail to excite my tenderest interest. Never does my heart glow with such warm affection, and tender sensibility as when moved by reflecting on this beloved and to me endeared spot. 'Tis then all the sympathies of my soul expand, and in one fond embrace, encircle all its dear inhabitants, its friends, its cares, its pleasures and its sorrows. And such reflection is always produced by the perusal of your letters; and while tracing in these the successive demonstrations of your affection and solicitude, I feel the nearest approximation to the pleasures of consanguinity, and almost forget that I am an orphan.' pp. 31, 32. His ardour for study never abated. His evenings, during his apprenticeship, were as faithfully devoted to his own improvement, as his hours of daylight were to the duties of his employment." An inclination so strong and decided was not to be overcome. By agreement, he was released from his apprenticeship one year sooner than usual. He then returned to Andover. The whole of this transaction is well described by himself, but we can only allow ourselves to transcribe what relates to his feelings on revisiting the scenes of his earliest childhood. 'I had an additional motive in visiting this place. [Andover.] It was here I first learned that I was mortal. It was here I passed my infantile years. Here were spent my happiest hours of childish gaiety. Those blissful seasons were engrossed by salutary study and playful diversions with my fellow school-mates. Unconscious of the future, I rambled, laughed, and sung, nor knew of evil. Ever grateful will be the recollection of these youthful scenes-ever dear to me this favoured villa, and dearer still its worthy inhabitants. Indescribable were my feelings, at again beholding them. My sensations were not unlike those of an exile restored to his native country after long and many years of sorrow and despondency! Thirteen years had done but little to obliterate the incidents of childhood or their connexions; and the former involuntarily revived in my memory to assist in identifying the latter. With inexpressible pleasure did I recognize the humble mansion where, for the first seven years of my life, I found a home. Its venerable inmates, with the exception of one, were still living. By them I was cordially received and made paternally welcome' p. 20. He remained at Andover, enjoying the benefit of the liberal provision made in Phillips Academy for the support of charity scholars, till he was prepared for Harvard University, where he was admitted in August, 1816. He soon acquired great reputation as a scholar, and applied himself to study with a diligence too great for his constitution. At the close of his freshman year (July 27, 1817,) he thus writes to his friends at Providence. One year of my college life has almost passed, and yet I hardly feel wonted to the spot. I can scarcely realize that I am a Cambridge student. How swift is the flight of time! Indeed at every successive period of my reflection upon it, the most striking peculiarity I note of it is its greater apparent rapidity. Infancy and childhood have flitted away like meteors of the night, and the golden hours of youth, which constitute the most important and interesting scene of life, are swiftly passing to their exit! Old age will soon succeed, and then life's little drama close forever! The period of our existence is well compared to "a span," "the dream of a night," "a shadow," "a vapour which appeareth for a moment, and then vanisheth away." Twenty-three years of the little space allotted me, are already numbered and finished. The last three or four of these, the interval between this and the time I lived with you, have been so rapid in their transit, that it seems scarcely possible they could form such a portion of my life. The scenes and circumstances of my apprenticeship are as fresh in my memory, as if they occurred but yesterday, and the forms and features of my friends and associates at that period, I trace with almost visible exactness. Circumstances, which have intervened, though of later date, are still less prominent in my recollection. With seeming surprise, therefore, I ask myself the question, "Am I, who was so recently an illiterate mechanic, already the subject of three years' continued study? Have I advanced so far as to be a Cambridge student?" Surely not the time, but the change of place and employment only give reality to the fact.' pp. 133, 154. The spring vacation of 1818 he employed in studying chemistry. The beginning of the term found him in a very low state of health, and he reluctantly obtained leave of absence. He went to Andover, in the hope, that a short residence there would restore him. But,' says his biographer, it was now too late ; and no medicine, nor change of place could restore a frame, worn out by intense study, and hastened in its decay by the agonies of an aspiring mind struggling under the pressure of poverty. Sick and feeble as he was, however, he now resolved to make one last effort for satisfying the impatient desire, which he had ever felt, to know his parents, and the story of his birth. His maintenance, until the time of his apprenticeship, had been paid for by a gentleman residing at a distance of about sixty miles, who professed himself to be acting as the friend of his father. Repeated but unsuccessful applications had been made to this gentleman by Person, and by his friends at his request, for the information, which he so anxiously desired. He now resolved to urge his request in person, and for this purpose he undertook and accomplished a journey into New Hampshire. The interview was granted, and upon his pressing his inquiries in the most determined manner, declaring that he would not go till he was satisfied, he was told the name of his mother, which he is not known,' says his biographer, to have disclosed,' and some particulars of her person and history. She had then been dead about two years. He received no answer to his questions respecting his father. He New Series, No. 4. 51 was kindly and hospitably entertained by the gentleman, to whom he applied, and not only liberally assisted for the present, but dismissed with a promise of a future provision for his clothing and maintenance while at college. This promise was punctually performed, but the relief came too late. Person survived this visit but a few weeks. On his return to Cambridge, he was unable to perform his college duties, and continued daily to decline, though tenderly watched and nursed in the house of a friend, till the 11th of October 1818, when he expired. • His death was as gentle as his life. No wild and tumultuous passions disturbed the holy calm of either." It is some solace to our grief for those, whose lives have been long and eminently useful, that the good they have done lives after them. There are numberless memorials of the genius and worth of truly excellent men, which remind us continually that they have been; and while any of these remain, they can hardly be said to have died. The form of their existence only seems to be changed. It was the mind that we valued and that is still seen reforming, instructing, delighting mankind. But when the lot of death falls upon a young man, who has given proof of generous ambition supported by uncommon powers, we feel that we have sustained a loss of unknown extent. There is full room for the imagination to weary itself in tracing that future, which now can never be. What we before anticipated we lament, as if we had actually possessed it. We think little of the accidents, which might have occasioned a more painful disappointment than even death. If we had before any doubts, they vanish now; and we think ourselves certainly deprived of what we had only a distant and uncertain prospect of enjoying. But this disposition is proportioned to the nearness of our interest and the degree in which it is peculiar. The mother, mourning for a beloved child, can never be persuaded that he would not have possessed every virtue, which a parent's heart could wish. The soldier, disappointed of a battle, never doubts, that he should have returned from the field covered with glory. The merchant, whose ship is driven back by tempests, counts up his gains, and deplores his hard fortune in the loss of them no less than if they had already made a part of his store. When, on the other hand, it is the promised scholar, divine or statesman, whose expected public services death forbids us longer to look for, there is little liveliness of regret in any, but those who feel the warmth of personal affection. Others, however well assured of the reasonableness of the hopes, which had been formed, consider themselves as only remotely concerned in the event. Had he been long the object of their trust and confidence, had they been accustomed to rely on him in times of danger, had they experienced the benefit of his instructions or his benevolent labours, gratitude would claim a tear, and they would follow him to the grave with a heavy heart. The aged patriot or philanthropist may have done all that in reason he could be expected to do. Every talent, he possessed, may have produced some useful and lasting effect. We may be deprived of nothing but the sight of a form, venerable by age, and worn out with exertion. Still, there is a feeling, superior to interest and calculation, which fills us with melancholy, and a oppressive grief when such an one is gathered to an honourable tomb. The world is not so ungrateful as many would represent it. Envy and jealousy may oppress and obscure while living, but the fault is sure to be redeemed, in a succeeding generation, by an ample measure of honour and fame. A public sorrow for the dead must be earned by being really useful. The promise of being so may cause some regret in those, who are thoroughly persuaded that the promise would have been performed. But it is a cold and interested sorrow, very different from that, which spontaneously bursts forth when the grave closes over one, whose life has been a common blessing. Those, however, who have diligently employed even a few years in laying a foundation for future usefulness, have not lived in vain. A faithful narrative of their patient, persevering labour, their zeal in seeking all valuable knowledge, and their praiseworthy desire of excellence, may excite and direct others. Such narratives, too, make even strangers feel something of the same interest, to which we have just alluded, as belonging to those, who are bound to the deceased by some peculiar tie. It is one of the principal uses of biography, that, by exhibiting the common occupations, thoughts, feelings, designs, attachments, and aversions of the subject of it, it infuses the feelings of private and personal friendship into every reader. Hence the aid, which this sort of writing derives from familiar letters, coming warm from the heart, and artlessly disclosing the inmost workings of the soul and |