contain an account of an

American poet of great promise who shot

himself in the outskirts of New York on

the 22nd of April last. Major

bigourneywas a nephew of the well-known

poetess of that name, and was first

brought into notice by an exquisite

composition entitled 'Beautiful Snow,'

which ' went the rounds' of tho Press in

all English speaking countries. The

circumstances under whioh tho poem was

written were romantic in the extreme,

and as they lead up to the suicide, we

will relate them. Iu early life he

married a Miss Filmore, a lady of great

personal attractions, and with her made

a voyage to Europe. During their absence

rumours unfavourable to her character

reached tho Sigourney family. The

reports seem to have been well founded,

for shortly after her return to New York

she showed that the curse of the 19th

century— the demon drink — had added

another name to the list of his victims.

She abaadoned her husband, became an

outcast, and was next heard of as an

inmate of the Penitentiary on

Blackwcll's Island. Her husband's love

was still sufficiently strong to induco

him- to make another effort to save her,

and through his influence she was

released, only again to desert her home.

In the winter of 1853 the papers spoke

of a young and beautiful woman having

been found dead under tho snow, in a

disreputable street in New York.

Something seemed to tell Sigourney that

the body was that of his wife. Upon

making enquiries, he found that his

surmises were but too true, and, after

claiming the remains, he had them

interred in that picturesque 'silent

city' which overlooks the busy harbsur

of New York. The story of that erring

wife was told in the touching language

of 'Beautiful Snow.' Latterly Major

Sigournoy had obtained employment on one

of the New York newspapers, but this he

had been compelled to relinquish owing

to declining health. He leaves one

daughter, and to her he addressed a

poem, entitled ' Beautiful Child,' which

appeared in Harper's Magazine for April

last. [We subjoin the poem first

mentioned.] Oh! the snow, the beautiful

snow, Filling the sky and the earth

below; Over the housetops, over the

street, Over the heads of the people you

meet, Dancing, flirting, skimming along;

Beautiful snow, it can do nothing wrong;

Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,

Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;

Beautiful snow from the heavens above,

Pure as an angel, gentle as love! Oh!

the snow, tho beautiful snow, How the

flakes gather and laugh as they go

Whirling about in their maddening fun,

It plays in its glee with every one —

Chasing, laughing, hurrying by, It

lights on the face and sparkles tho eye,

And tho dogs, with a bark and a bound,

Snap at the crystals that eddy around—

The town is alive and its heart in a

glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful

snow. How widely the crowd goes swaying

along, Hailing each other with humour

and song! How the gay sledges like

meteors flash by, Bright for a moment,

then lost to tho eye! Ringing, swinging,

dashing they go, Over the crust of the

beautiful snowSnow so pure when it falls

from the sky, As 10 make ono regret to

see it lie, To be trampled and tracked

by the thousands of feet, Till it blends

with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell,

Fell like the snow flakes from heaven to

hell; Fell to be trampled as filth in

the street; Fell to be scoffed, to be

spit on and beat. Pleading, cursing,

dreading to die, . Selling my soul to

whoever would buy; Dealing in shame for

a morsel of broad, Hating the living and

fearing the dead. Merciful God! have I

fallen so low? And yet I was once like

the beautiful snow! Once I was fair as

the beautiful snow, With an eye like its

crystal, a heart like its glow; Once I

was loved for my innocent graceFlattered

and sought for the charms of my face;

Father, mother, sister, and all, God and

myself, I have lost by my fall; The

veriest wretch that goes shivering by

Will make a wide swoop lest I wander too

nigb; For all that is on or above me I

know There's nothing so pure as the

beautiful snow. How strange it should be

that this beautiful snow Should fall on

a sinner with nowhere to go ! How

strange should it be, when night comes

again, If the snow and the ice struck my

desperate brain ! Fainting, freezing,

djing alone, Too wicked for prayer, too

weak for a moan To be heard in the

streets of the crazy town, Gone mad in

the joy of the snow coming down; To be

and to die in my terrible woe, With a

bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow,

Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low

To rescue the soul that is lost in its

sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment

again. Groaning, bleeding, dying for

thee, The Crucified hung on the accursed

tree; His accents of mercy fell soft on

thine earls there mercy for me? Will He

heed my prayer? Oh God! in the stream

that for sinners did flow. Wash me, and

I shall be whiter than snow.