up by a superintending Providence, were from the shades of humble life. Pascal and Bowditch, immortal for their accurate minds, were the sons of mechanics. Why go over the catalogue of great ones who have sprung from similar origin, which catalogue has been repeated until it is almost offensive to good taste? We might, in the twilight of our wisdom, go to a palace to select a hand that could tear down the pillars which the superstition of ages had reared; but God goes to the mines and takes the collier's son-the boy who begged food from door to door, while pursuing his studies—and raises him up to be the instrument who should usher in the glorious reformation. There is no aristocracy of talent, and mind is so much more esteemed than matter; intellect is so much more highly prized than the mere circumstances of birth or of wealth, that they sink into nothing. If the quill can write a powerful sentence, it is of little consequence whether. it came from the wing of the eagle or the goose. And let no youth feel that he can be depressed by mere external circumstances. If he has the vis vitæ, the unspeakable gift of great talents, and a heart consecrated to the good of men and the honor of God, there will be no lack of opportunity to have these called out. And we hold up Henry Kirk White as a monument of what perseverance, a right enthusiasm, and a pure heart can accomplish. We hold him up as a monument of the power of the gospel and of the grace of God, and we commemorate him as an example of the powers of the human soul. He died at the early age of twenty-one; but the warm breathings of his soul are still upon us, and will never grow cold. If, in that short period, his spirit could master so much of learning; if it could drink so much at so many fountains of knowledge; if it could stamp itself upon the earth, so that its lineaments will remain, perhaps till the archangel's trumpet shall sound, what may not be its powers, its faculties, its light, and its glory, in the eternal kingdom of God, where it can see and study and know all that comes within the province of a finite being? What songs of love and of gratitude will not the tongue sing, as it mingles eternally with that bright circle who will forever be drawing nearer the throne of the Redeemer ? Henry lies buried in Cambridge-the spot on which he fell a martyr to a noble enthusiasm. One of our own countrymen, Francis Boot, has erected a monument there to his memory. But he needs not marble. We admire the feeling which did it; and yet we are almost sorry that it is done. We would prefer that it might still be said: "No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tombAffliction's self deplores thy youthful doom." The name, the character, and the writings of White, are the legacy of the young. To them we commend them, as we would the pure waters that gush from the mountainside. They cannot be tasted without invigorating. And, if these remarks, penned with diffidence, shall add any thing to the value of the beautiful edition which our respected publishers now put forth, our gratification will be immeasurably greater than our labor. PITTSFIELD, Mass., May, 1844. INSCRIPTION BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY, CAMBRIDGE; ON A MONUMENTAL TABLET, WITH A MEDALLION BY CHANTREY, ERECTED IN ALL-SAINT'S CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE, AT THE EXPENSE OF FRANCIS BOOTT, ESQ. OF BOSTON, UNITED STATES. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame, Pale o'er his lamp and in his cell retired, The Martyr Student faded and expired. O Genius, Taste, and Piety sincere, Too early lost, midst duties too severe ! Foremost to mourn was generous SOUTHEY seen, He told the tale and show'd what WHITE had been, Nor told in vain-far o'er th' Atlantic wave, A Wanderer came and sought the Poet's grave; On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, W. S. 56 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. Not alone by the Muses, But by the Virtues loved, his soul in its youthful aspirings Sought the Holy Hill, and his thirst was for Siloah's waters. Vision of Judgment. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, BYRON. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, the second son of John and Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 21st, 1784. His father was a butcher; his mother, whose maiden name was Neville, is of respectable Staffordshire family. From the years of three till five, Henry learnt to read at the school of Mrs. Garrington; whose name, unimportant as it may appear, is mentioned because she had the good sense to perceive his extraordinary capacity, and spoke of what it promised with confidence. She was an excellent wo |