ployment in literature. His tastes soon led him to relinquish the Quaker dress, and he became a proficient in the accomplishments of music and drawing. He was also especially fond of field sports. When Jay's treaty brought out much unworthy opposition to the government, Cliffton exercised his pen in support of the administration in satires, published in the newspapers, in prose and verse on the demagogues. The longest of these satirical productions was entitled The Group, in which various mechanics and tradesmen, Solon Verges a carpenter, Nat Futtock a shipwright, Gobbo Finis a coffin-inaker, John Stripe a schoolmaster, with others, are represented as meeting for discussion on topics beyond their reach, respecting politics and the state. The coarse and vulgar material of low Jacobinism, which is not at all disguised in the poem, is occasionally elevated by the polish of the author's verses. This is the melancholy conclusion

The hour is hastening, when on equal feet, Exalted Virtue, and low Vice shall meet; When Envy, Faction, Indolence shall rage, In one wild tempest, thro' the troubled age; Then human dignity shall meet its doom; Devotion perish, Reason, Worth, a tomb, In the rude wastes of Ignorance, shall find, And true Equality shall bless mankind. So when the Kamsin of the Desert flies "Twixt ardent sands, and summer kindled skies. The gasping trav'ler meets the arid death, And, prostrate in the dust, resigns his breath. Then shall no pedant priest, with learned pride, Point out the sacred volume for our guide; No more the civil law, or moral page, The arm shall fetter, or the soul encage; But pile on pile the File of Arts shall raise, And all the knowledge of all ages blaze. As when the gothic conflagration hurl'd, Its smoky volumes round the sleeping world: The Fiend of Ruin, with demoniac yell, Flits round the flame, directs the work of hell, With sheets of sulphur wings the driving gale, And shakes destruction from his dragon tail. Yet, not as then: the once extinguish'd ray Shall ne'er resuscitate another day; Here, Science, thy last stage of being lies, No other Phoenix from thy dust shall rise, And no sad vestige shall remain to tell, The temple's basis, where thou lov'dst to dwell.

William Cliffton.

A Rhapsody on the Times in Hudibrastic mea

sure, and the unfinished poem the Chimeriad, give vent to similar complaints. The humor of opposition to France, and the cry of war, are carried to an extreme. Cliffton was member of an association called the Anchor Club, which is described in the preface to his poems, as combining social purposes with the object of "producing a disposition in the public mind towards war with France." A paper in both prose and verse, which he read to this circle, is one of the best of his satirical effusions. It appears in the volume of the poems:-Some Account of a Manuscript found among the papers of a French Emigrant in London, entitled Talleyrand's Descent into Hell. The arch French intriguer, in imitation of Ulysses and other heroes of antiquity, visits the infernal regions. His initiatory interview with Charon is thus described

With what species of "diplomatic skill" Talleyrand prevailed on Charon to ferry him over the sable waters, is not known; for, where the letters again begin to brighten into form, we find the Minister and Cerberus about to commence a negotiation. This part seems so charmingly managed by the poet (for here he is a poet), that we shall transcribe it for the amusement of our readers.

The triple monster from his hellish bed,
Rous'd as he heard the limping hero's tread,
Rush'd to his kennel door, to take his stand,
Shook his three heads, and growl'd this stern de-
mand:

Whence and what art thou, execrable fool?
What boatman brought thee o'er the Stygian pool?
Where is thy passport? where thy golden bough?
What climate breeds such crooked things as thou?

To these interrogations Talleyrand could not listen without emotion; he felt the blood withdraw itself from his extremities, and flow all cold and curling into the very centre of his heart. Some time elapsed before the work retrieved its locomotive faculty; but at length the petrifaction began to dissolve, and his tongue was again loosened from its fear-bound captivity. His diplomatic skill," that powerful charm which had unnerved so many nations, he had taken care to bear about him, and now, when perils crowded on him, he began to shake it up for use. He thus addressed the Porter of Hell:

66

Ah! Cerberus, I love thee from my heart;
So kind and gentle in thy way thou art!
How meek thy mien, and musical thy voice!
Thy tail 'tis true-but then a tail's thy choice.
It kills my heart to see a beast so brave,
With many heads, and every one a slave.
When shall I see your lady-bitch, good now?
(The breed's a most prodigious breed I vow;
And e'er to t'other world I journey up,
Methinks I'll ask the devil for a pup.

In "peace and safety" might my masters snore
With such a dog to guard their palace door)-aside.

He is treated to a painful view of the acts of his revolutionary coadjutors, after which he is carried to the scenes of Elysium, where we are presented with this pleasing picture of old France under its beloved monarchical rule.

The time has been, ere scribbling knaves began To claim more rights than God designed for man; To teach mankind that passion never strays; That human nature's just in all her ways; That Christian laws are ludicrously nice,

And sweet, oh! sweet's the downy bed of vice;Ere convict thieves, at their own fate amazed,

Were from the gallows to the pulpit raised;
Ere, in the face of guilt-annoying day,
The mother play'd to show her child the way;
Ere the son pluck'd the hoary father's beard,
Ere beggars reign'd, and beggars' trulls were fear'd;
While Paris, yet, could plead her virtuous ten,
And prayers sincere were mutter'd now and then;
The time has been, that gave the rustic throng,
Their evening ballet, and their morning so g,
E'en Paris, then, her harmless joys could boast;
Who was most upright, then, was honor'd most ;
And no vile blush our grateful cheeks o'erspread
To ask a blessing on our monarch's head.
In those good days it was not strange to bend,
With cordial friendship, o'er a bleeding friend;
To see a foe in cureless anguish lay,

And smooth'd his pillow as he passed away.
Then, want was furnish'd with the means to live,
For men had hearts to feel, and hands to give;
Then wealth dispensed what happiness it could,
To taste the luxury of doing good;
Then beauty wept at sympathy's command,
And love was then no stranger in the land.
Tell me, false Autun, what has France obtain'd
In lieu of these; what great advantage gain'd.
With all your new illumination fired,
With licence bless'd, with sacrilege inspired;
With venerable piles in ruin laid,

By village tales the wood god's dwellings made;
With all the hamlet's sweet delights o'erthrown;
With flocks undone, and pious pastors flown;
With knaves carousing where the poor were fed,
With every gen'rous, social virtue dead;
With all these blessings added to your store,-
Say, are you better, happier than before?

When Gifford's "Baviad and Mæviad" was republished in Philadelphia, Cliffton contributed a prefatory poetical epistle to the author, which opens with his complaint

In these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies.

His death occurred in December, 1799, in the twenty-seventh year of his age. His poems were collected in a volume, published in New York the following year.*

These 'occasional poems" display the poetic culture of the scholar, and an original fancy which had marked out a path for itself, which it is to be regretted was closed by so early a dissolution.

EPISTLE TO W. GIFFORD, ESQ.

Written at the request of Mr. Cobbett, and prefixed to his edition of that gentleman's elegant poem," The Baviad and Mariad,"

In these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies;

Poems, chiefly occasional, by the late Mr. Cliffton. To
which are prefixed, Introductory Notices of the Life, Charac-
ter, and Writings of the Author, and an Engraved Likeness.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis? Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene, cui liquidam pater
Vocem cum Cithara dedit.
Ergo Quintilium perpetuus sopor
Urget? cui Pudor, et Justitiæ soror
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas,

Quando ullum invenient parem?
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit?
Nulli flebilior quam tibi, Virgili.
Durum: sed levius fit patientia
Quicquid corrigere est nefas.

New York: Printed for J. W. Fenno, by G. and R. Walte. 1800.

Where few and feeble are the Muse's strains,
And no fine frenzy riots in the veins,
There still are found a few to whom belong
The fire of virtue and the soul of song;
Whose kindling ardour still can wake the strings
When learning triumphs, and when Gifford sings,
To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays,
His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys;
Pleas'd, if permitted round thy name to bloom,
To boast one effort rescued from the tomb.

While this delirious age enchanted seems
With hectic fancy desultory dreams;
While wearing fast away is every trace
Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace,
With fond delight, we yet one bard behold,
As Horace polish'd, and as Persius bold,
Reclaim the art, assert the muse divine,
And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine.
Since that great day which saw the tablet rise,
A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes,
No time has been that touch'd the muse so near,
No age when learning had so much to fear,
As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame,
And every rebus-weaver talks of fame.

When truth in classic majesty appear'd,
And Greece, on high, the dome of science rear'd,
Patience and perseverance, care and pain
Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain:
None but the great the sun-clad summit sound;
The weak were baffled, and the strong were crown'd.
The tardy transcript's high-wrought page confin'd
To one pursuit the undivided mind.
No venal critic fatten'd on the trade,
Books for delight, and not for sale were made;
Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought,
The chief who govern'd, and the sage who taught.
The drama then with deathless bays was wreath'd,
The statue quicken'd, and the canvass breath'd.
The poet, then, with unresisted art,

Sway'd every impulse of the captive heart.
Touch'd with a beam of heaven's creative mind,
His spirit kindled, and his taste refin'd;
Incessant toil inform'd his rising youth;
Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted truth,
Till, all complete, his perfect soul display'd
Some bloom of genius which could never fade.
So the sage oak, to nature's mandate true,
Advanc'd but slow, and strengthen'd as it grew!
But when at length (full many a season o'er),
Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore;
When steadfast were its roots, and sound its heart,
It bade defiance to the insect's art,
And, storm and time resisting, still remains
The never dying glory of the plains.

Then, if some thoughtless Bavius dared appear,
Short was his date, and limited his sphere;
He could but please the changeling mob a day,
Then, like his noxious labours pass away;
So near a forest tall, some worthless flower,
Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour,
Scatters its little poison thro' the skies,
Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies.

Still, as from fam'd Ilyssus' classic shore, To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel bore, The sacred plant to hands divine was given, And deathless Maro nursed the boon of heaven. Exalted bard! to hear thy gentler voice, The vallies listen, and their swains rejoice; But when, on some wild mountain's awful form, We hear thy spirit chaunting to the storm, Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore, We rage, we sigh, we wonder and adore. Thus Rome, with Greece, in rival splendour shone,

But claimed immortal satire for her own;
While Horace pierc'd, full oft, the wanton breast
With sportive censure, and resistless jest ;
And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay
Thy kindred genius can so well display,

With many a well aim'd thought, and pointed line,
Drove the bold villain from his black design.
For, as those mighty masters of the lyre,
With temper'd dignity, or quenchless ire,
Through all the various paths of science trod,
Their school was Nature, and their teacher God.
Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head,
The savage tempest of the north was spread;
Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came,
And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame.

But soon the arts, once more, a dawn diffuse,
And Danté hail'd it with his morning muse;
Petrarch and Boccace join'd the choral lay,
And Arno glisten'd with returning day.
Thus science rose; and all her troubles past:
She hop'd a steady, tranquil reign at last;
But Faustus came (indulge the painful thought);
Were not his countless volumes dearly bought?
For, while to every clime and class they flew,
Their worth diminish'd and their numbers grew.
Some pressman, rich in Homer's glowing page,
Could give ten epics to one wondering age;
A single thought supplied the great design,
And clouds of Iliads spread from every line.
Nor Homer's glowing page, nor Virgil's fire.
Could one lone breast, with equal flame, inspire,
But lost in books, irregular and wild,
Then poet wonder'd, and the critic smil'd:
The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays;
For fools will print, while greater fools will praise.

Touch'd with the mania, now, what millions rage To shine the laureat blockheads of the age. The dire contagion creeps thro' every grade, Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade: And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, For rhyme and misery leave his wife and cot. Ere, to his breast, the watchful mischief spread, Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed

And while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind,
His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind,

He laugh'd at toil, with health and vigour bless'd;
For days of labor brought their nights of rest:
But now in rags, ambitious for a name,
The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame,
His conscience haunts him with his guilty life,
His starving children, and his ruin'd wife.
Thus swarming wits, of all materials made,
Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid,
And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm,
Call lust refinement, anarchy reform.

No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong,
Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along,
And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom
To the dark level of an endless tomb.

By arms assail'd, we still can arms oppose, And rescue learning from her brutal foes; But when those foes to friendship make pretence, And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, Carouse with passion, laugh at God's controul, And sack the little empire of the soul, What warning voice can save? Alas! 'tis o'er, The age of virtue will return no more; The doating world, its manly vigor flown, Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, Be still the muses' and religion's friend; Again the banner of thy wrath display,

And save the world from Darwin's tinsel lay
A soul like thine no listless pause should know,
Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow.
From every conquest still more dreadful come,
Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb.
Philadelphia, May 13, 1799.

TO A ROBIN.

From winter so dreary and long,
Escap'd, ah! how welcome the day,
Sweet Bob with his innocent song,
Is return'd to his favourite spray.
When the voice of the tempest was heard,
As o'er the bleak mountain it pass'd,
He hied to the thicket, poor bird!
And shrank from the pitiless blast.
By the maid of the valley survey'd,

Did she melt at thy comfortless lot?
Her hand, was it stretch'd to thy aid,

As thou pick'dst at the door of her cot? She did; and the wintry wind,

May it howl not around her green grove; Be a bosom so gentle and kind,

Only fann'd by the breathings of love.
She did; and the kiss of her swain,
With rapture, the deed shall requite,
That gave to my window again,
Poor Bob and his song of delight.

TO FANCY.

Airy traveller, Queen of Song,
Sweetest Fancy, ever young,
I to thee my soul resign;
All my future life be thine:
Rich or beggar'd, chain'd or free,
Let me live and laugh with thee.
Pride perhaps may knock, and say,
"Rise thou sluggard, come away:"
But can he thy joy impart,

Will he crown my leaping heart?
If I banish hence thy smile,
Will he make it worth my while?
Is my lonely pittance past,
Fleeting good too light to last,
Lifts friend the latch no more,
Fancy, thou canst all restore;
Thou canst, with thy airy shell,
To a palace raise my cell.

my

At night while stretch'd on lowly bed,
When tyrant tempest shakes my shed,
And pipes aloud; how bless'd am I,
All cheering nymph, if thou art by,
If thou art by to snatch my soul
Where billows rage and thunders roll.
From cloud, o'er-peering mountain's brow
We'll mark the mighty coil below,
While round us innocently play
The light'ning's flash, and meteor's ray.
And, all so sad, some spectre form,
Is heard to moan amid the storm.
With thee to guide my steps I'll creep
In some old haunted nook to sleep,
Lull'd by the dreary night-bird's scream,
That flits along the wizard stream,
And there, till morning 'gins appear,
The tales of troubled spirits hear.
Sweet's the dawn's ambiguous light,
Quiet pause 'tween day and night,
When, afar, the mellow horn,
Chides the tardy gaited morn,
And asleep is yet the gale

On sea-beat mount, and river'd vale.

But the morn, tho' sweet and fair,
Sweeter is when thou art there;
Hymning stars successive fade,
Fairies hurtle thro' the shade,
Love-lorn flowers I weeping see,
If the scene is touch'd by thee.
When unclouded shines the day,
When my spirits dance and play,
To some sunny bank we'll go,
Where the fairest roses blow,
And in gamesome vein prepare
Chaplets for thy spangled hair.

Thus through life with thee I'll glide,
Happy still whate'er betide,
And while plodding sots complain,
Of ceaseless toil and slender gain,
Every passing hour shall be
Worth a golden age to me.
Then lead on, delightful power,
Lead, oh! lead me to thy bower:
I to thee my soul resign,
All my future life be thine.

Rich or beggar'd, chain'd or free,
Let me live and laugh with thee.

IL PENSEROSO.

I hate this spungy world, with all its store,
This bustling, noisy, nothingness of life,
This treacherous herd of friends with hollow core,
This vale of sorrow, and this field of strife.

Me, shall some little tranquil thatch receive,
Some settled low content, remote from care,
There will I pipe away the sober eve,

And laugh all day at Lady Fortune there.
Why should I mingle in the mazy ring,

Of drunken folly at the shrine of chance? Where insect pleasure flits on burnished wing, Eludes our wishes, and keeps up the dance.

When in the quiet of an humble home,

Beside the fountain, or upon the hill, Where strife and care and sorrow never come, I may be free and happy, if I will.

SONG.

Boy, shut to the door, and bid trouble begone,
If sorrow approach, turn the key,

Our comfort this night from the glass shall be drawn,
And mirth our companion shall be.

Who would not with pleasure the moments prolong,
When tempted with Friendship, Love, Wine, and a
Song.

What art thou, kind power, that soft'nest me so,
That kindlest this love-boding sigh,
That bid'st with affection, my bosom o'erflow,
And send'st the fond tear to my eye.

I know thee! for ever thy visit prolong,

Sweet spirit of Friendship, Love, Wine, and a Song.

See the joy-waking influence rapidly fly,
And spirit with spirit entwine,

The effulgence of rapture enamels each eye,
Each soul rides triumphant like mine.

On a sea of good humour floats gayly along,
Surrounded with Friendship, Love, Wine, and a
Song.

And now to the regions of Fancy we soar,
Thro' scenes of enchantment we stray,
We revel in transports untasted before,
Or loiter with love on the way.

Resolv'd like good fellows the time to prolong,
That cheers us with Friendship, Love, Wine, and a
Song.

For Friendship, the solace of mortals below,
In the thicket of life, loves a rose,

Good wine can content on misfortune bestow,
And a song's not amiss I suppose.

Then fill, my good fellows, the moment prolong,
With a bumper to Friendship, Love, Wine, and a
Song.

A FLIGHT OF FANCY.

For lonely shades, and rustic bed,
Let philosophic spirits sigh;

I ask no melancholy shed,

No hermit's dreary cave, not I.

But where, to skirt some pleasant vale,
Ascends the rude uncultur'd hill,
Where 'midst its cliffs to every gale,
Young echo mocks the passing rill:
Where spring thro' every merry year,
Delighted trips her earliest round;
Sees all her varied tints appear,

And all her fragrant soul abound.
There let my little villa rise,

In beauty's simple plumage drest,
And greet with songs the morning skies,
Sweet bird of art, in nature's nest!
Descending there, on golden wing,
Shall fancy, with her bounties roam;
And every laurell'd art shall bring
An offering fair to deck my home.
Green beds of moss, in dusky cells,

When twilight sleeps from year to year, And fringed plats, where Flora dwells,

With the wild wood shall neighbour near. The fairies thro' my walks shall roam,

And sylphs inhabit every tree; Come Ariel, subtlest spirit, come,

I'll find a blossom there for thee. Extended wide, the diverse scene, My happy casement shall command, The busy farm, the pasture green, And tufts where shelter'd hamlets stand.

Some dingle oft shall court my eye

To dance among the flow'rets there,
And here a lucid lake shall lie,

Emboss'd with many an islet fair.
From crag to crag, with devious sweep,
Some frantic flood shall headlong go,
And, bursting o'er the dizzy steep,
Shall slumber in the lake below.

In breezy isles and forests near,

The sylvans oft their haunts shall leave, And oft the torrent pause to hear,

The lake-nymph's song, at silent eve.
There shall the moon with half-shut eye,
Delirious, hear her vocal beam,
To fingering sounds, responsive sigh,
And bless the hermit's midnight dream.
No magic weed nor poison fell,

Shall tremble there; nor drug uncouth,
To round the mutt'ring wizard's spell,
Or bathe with death the serpent's tooth.

No crusted ditch nor festering fen,
With plagues shall teem, a deadly brood
No monster leave his nightly den
To lap the 'wilder'd pilgrim's blood.

But on the rose's dewy brink,

Each prismy tear shall catch the gleam,
And give the infant buds to drink,

The colours of the morning beum.
The waters sweet, from whispering wells,
Shall loiter 'neath the flowery brake;
Shall visit oft the Naiads' cells,

And hie them to the silver lake.

The muse shall hail, at peep of dawn,
Melodiously, the coming day;
At eve her song shall soothe the lawn,
And with the mountain echoes play.
There spring shall laugh at winter's frown,
There summer blush for gamesome spring,
And autumn, prank'd in wheaten crown,
His stores to hungry winter bring.
"Tis mine! 'tis mine! this sacred grove,
Where truth and beauty may recline,
The sweet resort of many a love;

Monimia come and make it thine.
For thee, the bursting buds are ripe,
The whistling robin calls thee here,
To thee complains the woodland pipe;
Will not my lov'd Monimia hear?
A fawn I'll bring thee, gentle maid,

To gamble round thy pleasant door;
I'll cull thee wreaths that ne'er shall fade,
What shall I say to tempt thee more?
The blush that warms thy maiden cheek,
Thy morning eye's sequester'd tear,
For me, thy kindling passion speak,
And chain this subtle vision here.
Spots of delight, and many a day

Of summer love for me shall shine;
In truth my beating heart is gay,

At sight of that fond smile of thine.
Come, come my love away with me,
The morn of life is hast ning by,
To this dear scene we'll gaily flee,

And sport us 'neath the peaceful sky.
And when that awful day shall rise,
That sees thy cheek with age grow pale,
And the soul falling in thine eyes,

We'll sigh and quit the weeping vale.

WILLIAM RAY.

WILLIAM RAY, one of the "Algerine Captives," was born in Salisbury, Connecticut, about 1772. His father was a farmer in moderate circumstances, and removing soon after his son's birth to a then unsettled part of the state of New York, the latter had few advantages of early education. After experimenting as a schoolmaster and country shopkeeper, and getting married, having lost, by arriving too late at Philadelphia, what he calls "a flattering prospect of finding a situation as an editor, at thirty dollars a month," he shipped, July 3, 1803, "in a low capacity" on board the U. S. frigate Philadelphia, Captain Bainbridge. On the 31st of October the vessel ran aground off Tripoli, was attacked by a single gun-boat, and struck her colors. The next morning the ship was afloat, but her officers and crew were ashore as prisoners. They were treated with great severity, badly fed and lodged, and set to work in December at raising an old wreck buried in the sand, which they had to shovel from under her and carry in baskets to the shore, working almost naked with the water up to their armpits. They VOL. I.-39

had afterwards, in March, to drag a heavy wagon "five or six miles into the country over the burning sands, barefoot and shirtless, and back again loaded with timber, before they had anything to eat, except perhaps a few raw carrots." They were imprisoned until June 3, 1805, when articles of peace were signed and the prisoners shipped for home the next day. Ray was made captain's clerk of the Essex, and laureate for the next fourth of July, when the following song by him " was sung at table by consul Lear, and encored three or four times."

Hail Independence! hail once more!
To meet thee on a foreign shore,
Our hearts and souls rejoice;
To see thy sons assembled here,
Thy name is rendered doubly dear-
More charming is thy voice.

A host of heroes bright with fame,
A Preble and Decatur's name,

Our grateful songs demand;
And let our voices loudly rise,
At Eaton's daring enterprise,

And red victorious hand.

That recreant horde of barb'rous foes,
Our deathless heroes bled t' oppose,
Can never stand the test,
When grappled with our dauntless tars,
Their crescent wanes beside our stars,
And quickly sinks to rest.

Thy spirit, born in darkest times,
Illumes the world's remotest climes,

Where'er thy champions tread-
Like lightning flash'd on Barb'ry's plains-
Dissolv'd the groaning captive's chains,

And struck the oppressor dead.
Hail Independence! glorious day,
Which chased the clouds of night away,
That o'er our country hung;
Re-tune the voice, and let us hear
The song encore-a louder cheer
Resound from every tongue.
Huzza! may freedom's banners wave,
Those banners that have freed the slave
With new all-conqu❜ring charms;
Till nature's works in death shall rest
And never may the Tar be press'd

But in his fair one's arms.

The Essex, after a cruise in the Mediterranean, reached home August, 1896. Her poet published an account of his adventures a few months after. He served in the militia at Plattsburg in 1812, and after several removes settled down with his family in the village of Onondaga Court-House. In 1821 he published at Auburn a small volume of "Poems on various subjects, religious, moral, sentimental, and humorous," with a sketch of his life.

JOSIAH QUINCY.

THE will of Josiah Quincy, Jr., contained the following bequest: "I give to my son, when he shall arrive to the age of fifteen years, Algernon Sidney's works, John Locke's works, Lord Bacon's works, Gordon's Tacitus, and Cato's Letters. May the spirit of liberty rest upon him!" The son has entered upon the full fruition and has made good use of this legacy. His long life has been devoted to the dissemination of knowledge,