parties awarded him the praise of being the best presiding officer that the House ever had.

In 1836 he was nominated by a large portion of the Democratic electors of the Lincoln Congressional District as their candidate for Congress. That district has recently shown itself to possess a decided Whig majority; and this would have been equally the case in 1836 had any other man than Mr. Cilley appeared on the Democratic side. He had likewise to contend, as in all the former scenes of his political life, with that portion of his own party which adhered to Mr. Ruggles. There was still another formidable obstacle, in the high character of Judge Bailey, who then represented the district, and was a candidate for re-election. All those difficulties, however, served only to protract the contest, but could not snatch the victory from Mr. Cilley, who obtained a majority of votes at the third trial. It was a fatal triumph!

In the summer of 1837, a few months after his election to Congress, I met Mr. Cilley for the first time since early youth, when he had been to me almost as an elder brother. The two or three days which I spent in his neighbourhood, enabled us to renew our former intimacy. In his person there was very little change, and that little was for the better; he had an impending brow, deep-set eyes, and a thin and thoughtful countenance, which, in his abstracted moments, seemed almost stern; but, in the intercourse of society, it was brightened with a kindly smile, that will live in the recollection of all who knew him. His manners had not a fastidious polish, but were characterized by the simplicity of one who had dwelt remote from cities, holding free companionship with the yeoman of the land. I thought him as true a representative of the people as ever theory could portray; his earlier and later habits of life, his feelings, partialities, and prejudices, were those of the people; the strong and shrewd sense, which constituted so marked a feature of his mind, was but a higher degree of the popular intellect. He loved the people, and respected them, and was prouder of nothing than of his brotherhood with those who had intrusted their public interests to his care. His continual struggles in the political arena had strengthened his bones and sinews; opposition had kept him ardent; while success had cherished the generous warmth of his nature, and assisted the growth both of his powers and sympathies. Disappointment might have soured and contracted him; but it appeared to me that his triumphant warfare had been no less beneficial to his heart than to his mind. I was aware, indeed, that his harsher traits had grown apace with his milder ones-that he possessed iron resolution, indomitable perseverance, and an almost terrible energy -but these features had imparted no hardness to his character in private intercourse. In the hour of public need these strong qualities would have shown themselves the most prominent ones, and

would have encouraged his countrymen to rally round him as one of their natural leaders.

In his private and domestic relations, Mr. Cilley was most exemplary; and he enjoyed no less happiness than he conferred. He had been the father of four children, two of whom were in the grave,-leaving, I thought, a more abiding impression of tenderness and regret, than the death of infants usually makes on the masculine mind. Two boys, the elder seven or eight years of age, and the younger two, still remained to him; and the fondness of these children for their father-their evident enjoyment of his societywas proof enough of his gentle and amiable character within the precincts of his family. In that bereaved household there is now another child, whom the father never saw. Mr. Cilley's domestic habits were simple and primitive to a degree unusual in most parts of our country, among men of so eminent a station as he had attained. It made me smile, though with any thing but scorn, in contrast to the aristocratic stateliness which I have witnessed elsewhere, to see him driving home his own cow, after a long search for her through the village. That trait alone would have marked him as a man whose greatness lay within himself. He appeared to take much interest in the cultivation of his garden, and was very fond of flowers. He kept bees, and told me that he loved to sit for whole hours by the hives, watching the labors of the insects, and soothed by the hum with which they filled the air. I glance at these minute particulars of his daily life, because they form so strange a contrast with the circumstances of his death. Who could have believed that, with his thoroughly New England character, in so short a time after I had seen him in that peaceful and happy home, among those simple occupations and pure enjoyments, he would be stretched in his own blood-slain for an almost impalpable punctilio!

It is not my purpose to dwell upon Mr. Cilley's brief career in Congress. Brief as it was, his character and talents had more than begun to be felt, and would soon have linked his name with the history of every important measure, and have borne it onward with the progress of the principles which he supported. He was not eager to seize opportunities of thrusting himself into notice; but when time and the occasion summoned him, he came forward, and poured forth his ready and natural eloquence with as much effect in the councils of the nation, as he had done in those of his own State. With every effort that he made, the hopes of his party rested more decidedly upon him, as one who would hereafter be found in the vanguard of many a Democratic victory. Let me spare myself the details of the awful catastrophe by which all those proud hopes perished; for I write with a blunted pen and a

hand benumbed, and am the less able to express my feelings as they lie deep at heart and inexhaustible.

On the 23d of February last, Mr. Cilley received a challenge from Mr. Graves, of Kentucky, through the hands of Mr. Wise, of Virginia. This measure, as is declared in the challenge itself, was grounded on Mr. Cilley's refusal to receive a message, of which Mr. Graves had been the bearer, from a person of disputed respectability; although no exception to that person's character had been expressed by Mr. Cilley; nor need such an inference have been drawn, unless Mr. Graves were conscious that public opinion held his friend in a doubtful light. The challenge was accepted, and the parties met on the following day. They exchanged two shots with rifles. After each shot, a conference was held between the friends of both parties, and the most generous avowals of respect and kindly feeling were made, on the part of Mr. Cilley, towards his antagonist, but without avail. A third shot was exchanged, and Mr. Cilley fell dead into the arms of one of his friends. While I write, a Committee of Investigation is sitting upon this affair; but the public has not waited for its award; and the writer, in accordance with the public, has formed his opinion on the official statement of Messrs. Wise and Jones. A challenge was never given on a more shadowy pretext; a duel was never pressed to a fatal close in the face of such open kindness as was expressed by Mr. Cilley; and the conclusion is inevitable, that Mr. Graves, and his principal second, Mr. Wise, have gone farther than their own dreadful code will warrant them, and overstepped the imaginary distinction which, on their own principles, separates manslaughter from murder.

Alas, that, over the grave of a dear friend, my sorrow for the bereavement must be mingled with another grief-that he threw away such a life in so miserable a cause! Why, as he was true to the Northern character in all things else, did he swerve from his Northern principles in this final scene! But his error was a generous one; since he fought for what he deemed the honor of New England; and now that death has paid the forfeit, the most rigid may forgive him. If that dark pitfall-that bloody grave-had not lain in the midst of his path, whither, whither might it not have led him! It has ended there; yet, so strong was my conception of his energies-so like Destiny did it appear, that he should achieve every thing at which he aimed-that, even now, my fancy will not dwell upon his grave, but pictures him still amid the struggles and triumphs of the present and the future.

NOTE.

To make the above sketch complete, only a slight notice of subsequent events remains necessary. On the results of the investigation ordered by the House, it is

not appropriate here to speak,-further than the remark, that the evidence confirmed, in the strongest manner, all that Cilley's warmest friends could have wished, as to his noble, mild, and generous bearing, in every point of view, through all the stages of the affair. That is all with which we can have to do here. The bearing of that evidence upon the surviving parties we leave to their consciences, their country, and their God. It has no proper connection with our sketch of the deceased; who is now far beyond the sphere of any of those feelings of human resentments, which it would seem almost a profanity to the still sacredness of the spot, on the part of his friends, to bring to the grave where

"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well."

His public funeral, as a Member of Congress, was, to the most careless stranger, one of the most impressive, and to his friends, one of the most heart-rending, scenes, it has ever been our fortune to witness. The most exalted tributes of respect and grief were paid to his memory from many quarters. Especially we feel bound to refer to the proceedings of a large meeting in Augusta, Maine, March the ninth, 1838, composed of members of the Legislature then in session, and citizens from various sections of the State; at which a long series of resolutions were adopted, deeply imbued with the strongest feelings on the subject,—for which the reader is referred to the papers of the day. His remains were removed from the Congressional burying ground, at Washington, to Thomaston, where they were re-interred with public solemnities, described as having been of the most touching and impressive character, on the third of May. One interesting circumstance connected with that occasion, we cannot omit to rescue from the oblivion of the newspaper columns of the day, by recording it here. On the Sunday succeeding the Saturday on which Mr. Cilley fell, his wife, the unconscious widow of the husband then lying dead, turning accidentally to a particular page in her Hymn Book (528th Hymn from Winchell's Watts, of the selection,) was impressed with peculiar feelings which induced her to mark it with a pencil. The recollection of it recurring to her mind some weeks after, caused her to turn again to it; and that was the Hymn, of which the following is a copy, which was sung on the occasion of his funeral. Its appropriateness to the situation of the widowed and heart-broken mother of his orphaned children will not fail to impress and interest every reader:

Far, far o'er hill and dale, on the winds stealing,

List to the tolling bell, mournfully pealing:

Hark! hark! it seems to say,

As melt those sounds away,

So life's best joys decay,

Whilst new their feeling.

Now through the charmed air slowly ascending,

List to the mourner's prayer solemnly bending:

Hark! hark! it seems to say,

Turn from those joys away

To those which ne'er decay,

For life is ending.

O'er a father's dismal tomb see the orphan bending,

From the solemn church yard's gloom hear the dirge ascending:

Hark! hark! it seems to say,

How short ambition's sway,

Life's joys and friendship's ray,

In the dark grave ending.

So when our mortal ties death shall dissever,

Lord, may we reach the skies, where care comes never,

And in eternal day,

Joining the angels' lay,

To our Creator pay

Homage forever.

TO AN EOLIAN HARP.

WHENCE, oh wild melodies,

Come ye, thus strangely sweet, with your sad sighing,
Fitfully as this mournful midnight breeze
-Solemnly swelling now-now faintly dying-
Murmurs its viewless way through yon old waving trees?

Night's blessed spell hath now

Lulled every sound of earth in slumber deep,
The sad heart hath awhile forgot its woe,

The weary frame its toil, but such sweet sleep

Brings not its balm to soothe this fevered brain and brow.

My spirit is oppressed

With thoughts too dimly dark for utt'rance-burning
Like wasting fires in the deep mountain's breast-
A weariness of earth, and a wild yearning

To flee away-away-and find some home of rest.

No more, entranced, my soul

In that bright Eden of its own may dwell,-
No more in those wild dreams forget the whole
Of life's dull cares,-broken that blissful spell,—
Severed the silver chord-shattered the golden bowl!
Wail on, sad notes, wail on!

Ye seem-thus murmuring on the still night air,
In plaintive symphonies, that dirge-like moan-
The utterance of some broken heart's despair,
For young hopes coldly crushed, for joys forever gone!

And come ye to impart,

With the sweet power of holy sympathy,

A soothing spell to this sad bosom's smart

To pour a charm of heavenly harmony

Upon the troubled waves of this wild throbbing heart?

Or come ye from afar,

Faint echoings of the music of the spheres,

Or angel voices from some distant star,

Sorrowing gently over human tears,

The passions, sins, and griefs, this lovely world that mar?