One year, one year,-one little year, And so much gone! And yet the even flow of life Moves calmly on. The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead. No pause or hush of merry birds That sing above, Tells us how coldly sleeps below The form we love. Where hast thou been this year, beloved? What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been? The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! The mystic veil! when shall it fall, That we may see? Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone; But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will. Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear; We lay in silence at thy feet ANDOVER, July 9, 1858. THOMAS MACKELLAR. THIS genial printer-poet is of Scotch descent, his father having emigrated to this country in the latter part of the last century. He was born in the city of New York, on the 12th of August, 1812, and was early destined for college; but, his father's fortunes failing, he entered, when fourteen years old, a newspaper printing-office, where he thought he would have good opportunities to indulge his literary tastes. After two years, he entered the establishment of J. & J. Harper, where he soon proved, by his intelligence, integrity, and energy, to be an important member of it. Here the passion for writing verse seized him, and he would often drop his composing-stick, and with a type write his couplets on paper, as they occurred to him; but these early pieces have never seen the light. In 1833, he removed to Philadelphia, and entered the type-foundry of Lawrence Johnson. In 1834, he was married, and soon after wrote occasionally for the "Journal" of the Sunday-School Union; then for the "United States Gazette;" and then for Joseph C. Neal's "Gazette," under the signature of "Tam." During all this time his post of business was a very arduous one, and most of his pieces were composed while he was walking from his home to the foundry. His first volume-Droppings from the Heart-was published in 1844, and was very favorably noticed. His second publication was Tam's Fortnight Ramble, issued in 1847, in which year he was admitted as a partner to an interest in the business of Mr. Johnson. His last book is entitled Lines for the Gentle and Loving,—a beautifully printed volume, which appeared in 1853. Mr. Mackellar's poetry is pure, simple, elevated, and goes directly to the heart, for the best of all reasons: it comes from the heart. LIFE'S EVENING. The world to me is growing gray and old, My sire departed ere his locks were gray; Am left-a leaf upon an autumn tree, And when my offspring at our altar kneel My life is gently waning to its evening calm. Bear the burden of the present- If the darken'd heavens lower, Wrap thy cloak around thy form; Steadfast faith and hope unshaken All unseen, the Master walketh While his hands uphold and guide. Grief, nor pain, nor any sorrow He to-day and He to-morrow Holy strivings nerve and strengthen,- Thou shalt lay the burden down. HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN, "one of the most genial and elegant essayists, and a very graceful and pleasing poet," was born in Boston on the 20th of April, 1813. After preparing for college, it was deemed necessary for his health that he should relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. Accordingly, in 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and, after a short stay at Paris, went on to Italy, where he remained till the next summer, when he returned home, and gave to the public some of the results of his observations in The Italian SketchBook. Again he was obliged to resort to travel for the benefit of his health, and sailed for Gibraltar in the fall of 1837, and passed the winter chiefly in Italy. He returned home the next summer; and in 1845 removed from Boston to New York, where he now resides, except during the summer months, which he passes at Newport, Rhode Island. In 1850, the honorary degree of Master of Arts was conferred upon him by Harvard College. Mr. Tuckerman's life is the life of a scholar: literature is his profession, and nobly has he quitted himself in it. Indeed, considering that his health has never been very robust, it is astonishing how much he has done, and how well he has done it. The following are, we believe, his chief works:-Artist Life; or Sketches of American Painters; The Italian Sketch-Book; The Optimist,—a collection of Essays; Rambles and Reveries; Sicily, a Pilgrimage; Thoughts on the Poets; Characteristics of Literature; Memorial of Greenough, the Sculptor; Leaves from the Diary of a Dreamer, published anonymously by Pickering, London; Biographical Essays; and a volume of Poems. Besides these works, he has been a contributor to the "North American Review," "American Quarterly," Grabam's, Sartain's, Godey's, and Putnam's Magazines; "Atlantic Monthly," "Christian Examiner," "Methodist Quarterly," Southern Literary Messenger," and "New Englander." He has also written a very excellent Sketch of American Literature, as an Appendix to "Shaw's English Literature." LEISURE TO BE PROPERLY APPRECIATED. A New England merchant, upon leaving a picture-gallery abroad, was observed by his companion to be very thoughtful. Presently he exclaimed, "I have been thinking of nothing but making money all my life. How much there is to learn and to 1 No more interesting and instructive books can be found in our literature than Tuckerman's Thoughts on the Poets, The Optimist, Characteristics of Literature, and Essays Biographical and Critical. The two latter would be excellent books for the higher classes in schools; and the four should be in every district-school library in the land. An English scholar, who is familiar with our literature, thus writes: Henry T. Tuckerman may be described as one of the most imaginative and sympathetic of American critics, and a refined and elegant writer. His essays and reviews show a liberal cultivation of mind and heart." 2 Of these a beautiful edition has been published by Ticknor & Fields. enjoy in this world! Henceforth no thought of business shall enter my mind, until I recross the Atlantic. I will study painting, and sculpture, and music: I will commune with nature; I will ponder the works of departed genius; I will cultivate the society of the intellectual and the gifted;"-at this point of his harangue, he suddenly left his friend's side, and darted into a shop they were passing, apologizing, upon resuming the walk, by saying he had merely stopped to inquire the price of tallow! Leisure with us is still an anomaly. Now, far be it from us to gainsay the advantages of industry, to deny that labor is man's appropriate sphere, or to lament, for a moment, the spectacle of universal activity, and, consequently, of prosperity, around us. Let us only contend that all labor is not obvious and tangible; that no man who thinks deserves to be called an idler; that the absence of any obvious employment or specific profession does not necessarily make any one amenable to the charge of inactivity. How much of our boasted industry is profitless; to how many, social ambition or extravagant tastes, instead of necessity, form the true motives of business; how much of the so-called occupation about us is void of any higher result than that of keeping its votaries out of mischief; how seldom do those who have acquired a competency retire upon it to scenes of domestic improvement; and with what reluctance do the fortunate yield the arena to the young and penniless, even when age and infirmity warn them to retreat! It is time we learned, not to underrate business, but to appreciate leisure. ENTHUSIASM-SYMPATHY. Let us recognise the beauty and power of true enthusiasm, and, whatever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard against checking or chilling a single earnest sentiment. For what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or strengthened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and sensitive heart? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire. It may shed a cold and moonlight radiance upon the path of life, but it warms no flower into bloom; it sets free no ice-bound fountains. There are influences which environ humanity too subtle for the dissecting-knife of reason. In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence, and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency, it is a formalized intellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or literature through all ages. What are they but records of toils and sacrifices supported by the earnest hearts of their votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amid exile and suffering, prompted by the noble ambition of vin |