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of prose and verse, yet in manuscript, from the pen of O. Hewitt, late deceased, who was an intimate friend and classmate of the present writers.
"We thank thee, Lord, that in each stricken heart,
We bless the chast'ning hand, for it is thine;
Hewitt was born 1827, in Tioga county, New York, and lost his sight in infancy. He entered the Institution for the Blind at New York in 1839, and, after, a term of six years, graduated with the highest honors of that institute. He died, from pulmonary consumption, June 10th, 1852, in the twenty-fifth year of his age. We cannot but feel a deep regret for his early death, in common with the numerous and admiring friends which his kindness, generosity, and promising genius had endeared to him. But from the deep rooted and unaffected piety that characterized his life, we are encouraged to hope that his immortal spirit has winged its flight to realms of unclouded day. "And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever." His manuscripts, from which we subjoin the following short poem, as a specimen of the author's style, have fallen into the hands of a relative, who appreciates their value, and they, will, it is hoped, ere long find their way to the press.
REFLECTIONS ON VISITING THE RESIDENCE OF A DECEASED FRIEND.
I entered that lone dwelling, all was still;
But each familiar thing, so dear to me
To speak to me of the departed dead.
But where is she, whose tones of gladness oft
Be, as she oft has been, the pride and joy
Sad thoughts of other days will sometimes come,
'Tis strange, though true, those we have held most dear, Wither and die, touched by the icy hand
Of death; and o'er their slow but sure decay
That one who once was gladly welcomed there
Ere yet its holy flame had ceased to burn
Or dimmed its brightness by the flight of years.
In arranging these characters, we have usually treated them in order of time; but after the completion of this article, we found, on looking over our list of authors, that we had omitted the name of EDWARD RUSHTON, whose abilities as a writer justly entitle him to a place among the poets, as the extract subjoined will show.
He was a native of Liverpool, and lost his sight in 1774, in his nineteenth year, while on a slaving voyage to the coast of Africa. It is, however, due to his memory to record, that when he beheld the horrors of this disgraceful traffic, he expressed his sentiments in very strong and pointed language, with the boldness and integrity which characterized his every action; and though in a subordinate situation, he went so far that it was thought necessary to threaten him with the irons if he did not desist.
The first occupation worthy of note in which he engaged after his return to England, was the editing of a newspaper called the "Herald." But finding his views too liberal and magnanimous for the times, and the engagement not very lucrative, he exchanged it for that of a bookseller, a branch of business more M*
congenial with his habits and taste than any other that presented itself. A few years subsequent to the loss of his sight, he had married, and now his capital consisted of a wife, five children, and thirty guineas. But by incessant toil and frugal management, he soon rendered his circumstances more easy, and found time to indulge his fondness for reading, and to exercise his talents in composition. With the exception of two letters on the subject of negro slavery, one addressed to President Washington, and the other to Thomas Paine, his productions are all in verse. As a poet, he seems to have possessed considerable merit. Throughout all his writings the reader is charmed with the display of rich and glowing imagination, and a lively conception of the beautiful. His poems, which first appeared in the periodicals of the day, were afterwards collected by his friends, and compiled in one volume, at London, in 1814.
FROM HIS LASS OF LIVERPOOL.
Where cocoas lift their tufted heads,
And orange blossoms scent the breeze,
And moves with soft and wanton ease.
The softest tints the conch displays,
Is not more cheering than her eyes.
And Sam, who calls me love-sick fool,
THERE is a world to which night brings no'gloom, no sadness, no impediments; fills no yawning chasm, and hides from the traveler no pitfall. It is the world of sound. Silence is its night, the only darkness of which the blind have any knowledge. In it every attribute of nature has a voice; the beautiful, the grand, the sublime, have each a language, and to one whose heart is in tune, every sound has a peculiar significance. In the voice of the flood, the thunder and the earthquake, Omnipotence is heard, and deeper and stronger emotions seem to agitate the feelings, than those which are awakened by the appearance of the dashing water, the gathering storm, the sweeping tempest, or the lightning's flash. Sound fills the soul, while light fills the eye only. The brightest glance that morning ever threw over this beautiful earth, was but a reflected beam of heaven's ineffable glory; but sound is a living echo of that voice that