the shadings of sense and meaning, in giving the definitions of words, but in the larger and grander surveys of geology-the largest and grandest of prac tical sciences. Such compass and such precision of knowledge such power of exact as well as vast combination are indeed marvelous. When we consider him in this aspect, and at the same time remember that thirty years ago he was captivating the world with his imaginative effusions, we have indeed a character of remarkable and almost contradictory ele ments. Yet it must be added that, on the whole, his life was a complete shipwreck. He lived to excite admiration and wonder; yet in poverty, in isolation, in a complete solitude of the heart. He had not, I think, a single vice; his life was pure, just, upright. How then did he fail? The truth seems to be, that he was deficient in that sympathy which binds man to man, and hence he was an anomaly in the society among which he dwelt-a note out of tune with the great harmony of life around him. He was a grand intellect, a grand imagination, but without a heart. That he was born with a bosom full of all love and all kindness, we can not doubt; but the golden. bowl seems to have been broken, almost at the fountain. By the time he was twenty, he began to stand aloof from his fellow-man. I think he had been deeply injured-nay ruined-by the reading of Byron's works, at that precise age when his soul was in all the sensitive bloom of spring, and its killing frost of atheism, of misanthropy, of pride, and scorn, fell upon it, and converted it into a scene of desolation. The want of a genial circle of appreciation, of love and friendship, around his early life, left this malign influence to deepen his natural shyness into a positive and habitual self-banishment from his fellow-man. Such is the sad interpretation I put upon his career.* LETTER XXXVII. A few Wayside Notes-The Poet Brainard-His first Introduction-Ripley's Tavern-Aunt Lucy-The little back-parlor-Brainard's OfficeAnecdote-The Devil's Dun-The Lines on Niagara-Other PoemsOne that is on the Sea-The Sea-bird's Song-Publication of Brainard's Poems-General Remarks-His Death. MY DEAR C****** I have told you that in the autumn of 1823 1 set out to visit Europe; but a few previous events are needful to bring my narrative to that epoch. In 1821, clouds and darkness began to gather around my path. By a fall from a horse, I was put upon crutches * The notice of Dr. Percival in Kettell's Specimens of American Poets, was written at my request by Rev. Royal Robbins, of Kensing ton parish, Berlin, in which the poet lived. It is a beautiful and just appreciation of his character at that time. I know of no person so competent as he to give the world a biography of Percival. He is familiar with the details of his whole career, and especially with the earlier portions of his life, and is, moreover, master of all the qualifications requisite to give interest and value to such a work for more than a year, and a cane for the rest of my life. Ere long death entered my door, and my home was desolate. I was once more alone-save only that a child was left me, to grow to womanhood, and to die a youthful mother, loving and beloved*—leaving an infant soon to follow her to the tomb. My affairs became embarrassed, my health failed, and my only hope of renovation was in a change of scene. * Sweet Spirit passed! 'Tis not for thee Thy path to Heaven is traced, but we, We mourn thy lost yet loving tone, That made endearing names more dear, And touched with music all its own The warm fond hearts that clustered near. We mourn thy form-thy spirit bright, And yet could pour angelic light Across the last tempestuous hours! We mourn for thee-so sudden-flown, When least we thought from thee to sever As if some star we deemed our own, At brightest hour had set forever! Unpitying Fate! thy dark designs Can spare the weary, wasted, bent, Where peace and joy have pitched their tent! Could not the youthful mother claim Ah, human woes are not thy care! The lightning, in its plunge of wrath, But before I give you a sketch of my experience and observations abroad, I must present one portrait more-that of my friend Brainard.* He came to Hartford in February, 1822, to take the editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror-Mr. Stone, as I have stated, having left it a short time before. He was now twenty-six years old, and had gained some reputation for wit and poetical talent. One day a young man, small in stature, with a curious mixture of ease and awkwardness, of humor and humility, came into my office, and introduced himself as Mr. Brainard. I gave him a hearty welcome, for I had heard very pleasant accounts of him. As was natural, I made a complimentary allusion to his poems, Forgive us, Heaven! if thus we mourn The lost on earth-the blest above So rudely from our bosom torn, With all its clinging ties of love! One bright, blest spot of sunshine played And there the deepest shadows rest! John Gardiner Caulkins Brainard was the youngest son of Jeremiah G. Brainard, of New London, judge of the supreme court, whom I have already mentioned in the history of my military adventures in 1813. His two elder brothers, William F., a lawyer, and Dyer, a physician, were both men of wit and learning; the first died some years since, the latter is still living. John, of whom I now write, was born in 1795, educated at Yale, prepared for the law, and settled at Middletown 1819. He died at New London, in 1828. The portrait of him in Messrs. Duyckincks' "Cyclopædia of American Literature," is from an engraving in the Token for 1830, and that is taken from a miniature I had painted o him, by our mutual friend, Tisdale. It was from recollection, but gives a pretty good idea of the sad yet humorous, boyish yet manly, counte nance of the original. which I had seen and admired. A smile, yet shaded with something of melancholy, came over his face, as he replied― "Don't expect too much of me; I never succeeded in any thing yet. I never could draw a mug of cider without spilling more than half of it!" I afterward found that much truth was thus spoken in jest: this was, in point of fact, precisely Brainard's appreciation of himself. All his life, feeling that he could do something, he still entertained a mournful and disheartening conviction that, on the whole, he was doomed to failure and disappointment. There was sad prophecy in this presentiment —a prophecy which he at once made and fulfilled. We soon became friends, and at last intimates. I was now boarding at "Ripley's”—a good old fashioned tavern, over which presided Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt Lucy-the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort. Here Brainard joined me, and we took our rooms side by side. Thus for more than a year we were together, as intimate as brothers. He was of a childlike disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at last-especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something went wrong with |