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 Sigourney was 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 tbe

rounds" of the Press in all English-

speaking countries. Tbe circumstances

under which the poem was written were

romantic in the extreme, and as they

lead up to the suicide we will relate

them. In 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

the 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 abandoned

her husband, became an outcast, and was

next heard of as an inmate of the

Penitentiary on Blackwell's Island. Her

husband's love was still sufficiently

strong to induce him to make another

effort to sate her, and through his

influence she was released, only again

to desert her home. In the winterof 1853

the papers spoke of a young and

beautiful woman baring been found dead

under tbe snow, in a disreputable street

in New York. Something seemed to tell

Sigourney that the body was that of his

wife. Upon making inquiries, 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

harbour of New York. The story of that

erring wife was told in the touching

language of " Beautiful Snow."— 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,

the beautiful snow, How the flakes

gather and laugh as they go Whirling

about in their maddening fun, It plays

in its glee with eveiy one— Chasing,

laughing, hurrying by, It lights on the

face and sparkles the eye, And the 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

the eye ! Ringing, swinging, dashing

they go, Over the crust of the beautiful

snow— Snow so pure when it falls from

the sky, As to make one 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 bread, 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 grace—

Flattered 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 nigh; 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

cornea again, If the snow and the ice

struck my desperate brain ! Fainting,

freezing, dying alone, oo wicked for

prayer^ too weak for a moan To be heard

in the streets of the crazy town, one

mad in the joy of the snow coming down;

o be and to die in my terrible woe, ith

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, nd raise it to life

and_ enjoyment again. roaning, bleeding,

dying for thee, he Crucified hung on the

accursed tree ; His accents of mercy

fell soft on thine ear— s