A MOTHER bends above her weeping child,
Her bosom heaving with convulsive throe,
Her large eye lighted with expression wild,
That, ah! too plainly speaks maternal wo!
The tearful infant, lost in bitter grief,
Thrills forth its plaintive call for tender care;
While from a mother's trembling hand relief,
Alas! can answer no imploring pray'r.
Swift-falling tears! and piercing cries of pain!
Maternal passion kindling into glow!
Peace banished from its sweet domestic reign!
_Stricken_ with grief!--ah! sad and cruel _blow_!
Behold the matron in a fury blue,
_Beating her screaming Bobby with a shoe!_
* * * * *
OUR esteemed friend, JOHN SANDERSON, the distinguished 'American in
Paris,' whom the readers of this Magazine have known so long, and regarded
so highly, is no more! Sad indeed is the task of recording the demise of a
scholar so profound, a gentleman so accomplished, and a man so widely
admired and beloved. SANDERSON was a delightful companion; and as we
record this hasty tribute to his memory, we cannot help recalling the many
pleasant passages, personal and epistolary, that we have had together. A
correspondent of the _Philadelphia Gazette_, who knew him well, furnishes
the following notice of the deceased, in the justice of which all who knew
him will cordially concur:
'JOHN SANDERSON was a man of genius, a man of talent, a man of
feeling. He was a Philadelphian, and by his life and writings he
added to the good reputation of his country. To natural abilities
of a high order, he added a calm, chaste scholarship, an intimate
knowledge of mankind, a singularly amiable disposition, and a
frank and high-bred courtesy. His departure is lamented not alone
by those who enjoyed his society and his friendship; he is mourned
by our republic of letters; America as well as our city, has lost
one of her most accomplished sons. Mr. SANDERSON has long been
known as a writer. His first publication was the collection of
Memoirs of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, in nine
octavo volumes; a work embracing a vast amount of original and
authentic information; and his last, excepting contributions to
the literary journals, was '_The American in Paris_.' He was a man
of most excellent humor, blending happily the characteristics of
RABALAIS and STERNE and LAMB. When with his chosen associates, we
doubt whether even COLERIDGE was more entertaining or instructive.
Turn to his Parisian letters and see the union of wit and humor,
of playful satire and nice observation which pervade them. Examine
all the pleasant books of travel of which this age has been so
prolific, and answer whether they have been surpassed. 'You know
SANDERSON,' we said a few weeks since to a French Deputy who was
travelling here. 'Know JOHN SANDERSON? I derived from him my
knowledge of Paris.' 'But you are a Parisian?' '_Je ne sache pas
qu'il y ait eu un Français qui ait plus connu Paris et son
monde._' In that home of the gay, the brilliant and the profound,
of all that in life or art attracts the man of genius, or
learning, or taste, Mr. SANDERSON was the favored guest of the
most celebrated savans and wits, many of whom since his return to
the United States, have waited anxiously for his restoration to
their circles. And he himself looked forward with happy
anticipations to the renewal of his old friendships. In a few
months he was to reöccupy his apartments in the Rue Rivoli.
'There,' he said to the writer of these recollections but a week
ago, 'there with congenial spirits I shall spend the residue of my
days.' How much those friends will sorrow when they learn that
JOHN SANDERSON is no more!
He was a wit; he had a most delicate perception of the beautiful,
and a keen sense of the ludicrous. But those who knew him can tell
with what care he directed his powers. He never summoned a shadow
to any face, or permitted a weight to lie on any heart. He was as
amiable as he was brilliant. He was no man of the world. He knew
society, its selfishness and its want of honor, but he looked upon
it less in anger than in sadness. He was no cynic, no Heraclitus;
he deemed it wisest to laugh at the follies of mankind. Through
all his experience he lost none of his natural urbanity, his
freshness of feeling, his earnestness and sincerity. The late
THEODORE HOOK, the first humorist and most celebrated bon-vivant
of our day, was employed by his publisher to edit Mr. SANDERSON'S
'American in Paris.' He read it, adapted it as well as he could to
the English market, and returned it with the observation that
'there was never a book which suffered more from slightest
change.' Had the author devoted the chief portion of his time to
letters, he would have been little less distinguished in the same
department than his famous friend. But he lived a quieter and
happier life; he died a happier death, suddenly, but in a _home_,
and with his friends about him.'
* * * * *
The following '_Lines to a Bouquet of Flowers_,' are from the pen of the
lamented Governor DICKINSON, whose melancholy suicide will be fresh in the
minds of many of our readers. We learn from the friend through whom we
derive them, that they were handed to him by the author, while sojourning
for a short time in Albany:
EMBLEM of life and loveliness,
Welcome, sweet harbingers of Spring!
Clad in thy beauteous summer dress,
And wafted on Time's fairy wing.
Would thou wert fadeless as the sky,
All redolent of hope and gladness,
But soon, alas! thou'lt lonely lie,
Emblem of Death, of Grief, of Sadness.
Emblem of Life! thing of an hour,
How soon thou'lt hang thy sickly head,
And bow beneath the conqueror's power,
And lie among the sleeping dead!
Emblem of Life! beyond the tomb,
Thy flowers again shall form a wreath;
Shall germinate amid the gloom.
And triumph o'er the monster Death!