Hoar to Charleston, on a state embassy. Slavery caught him, and sent him most ignominiously home. The solemn great man came back in a hurry. He returned on a most undignified trot. He ran. He scampered-the stately official. The Old Bay State actually pulled foot-cleared-dug, as they say, like any scamp, with a hue and cry after him. Her grave old senator, who no more thought of ever having to break his stately walk, than he had of being flogged at school for stealing apples, came back from Carolina upon the full run-out of breath, as well as out of dignity. Well, what's the result? Why, nothing. They no more think of showing any resentment about it, than they would if lightning had struck him. He was sent back, actually, "by the visitation of God." And if they had lynched him to death, and stained the streets of Charleston with his blood, a Boston jury, if they could have held inquest over him, would have found that he died by the visitation of God. And it would have been "Crowner's quest law." Slavery's "Crowner's."

They have murdered Torrey. But there can be no inquisition. They have brought his body home. They "gave it to his friends," as they would the body of a man hung on the gallows. They have brought it to Boston. And they talk of having a public funeral, and an oration. They thought of having it in Park-street meeting-house. They might as well have expected it, for celebrating the obsequies of Tirrell, had he been hanged for murder, as the obsequies of the murdered Torrey. "Park-street" don't open to such obsequies. And such obsequies ought not to go in there if it did open. "Park-street" is at the bottom of the murder. Boston is hand in glove with

it. The Bay State is. The nation is. It is as insensible as a dead dog to the murder of Torrey, when it ought to stir the land like the massacre of the 5th of March, 1770, when they shot down Monk in the streets of Boston; and "Maverick and Gray, Caldwell, Attocks, and Carr," in the old days of Hancock and Warren.

I will make no ado about it. It would be like clamoring to a burying yard. Torrey, to be sure, is murdered—but what of that? Who cares? He has been killed by slavery.

The love of nature, which was a striking characteristic of Mr. Rogers, exhibited itself constantly in his writings. What can be more beautiful than the following easy, careless paragraph upon

THE RAIN.

While I am writing, it is raining most magnificently and gloriously, out doors. It absolutely roars, it comes down in such multitude and big drops. And how refreshing! It waters the earth. There has been but little rain, and our sandy region has got to looking dry and distressed. Everything looks encouraged now, as the great strainer, overhead, is letting down the shower bath. The grass darkens, as it drinks it in, with a kind of delicate satisfaction. And the trees stand and take it, as a cow does a carding. They hold as still as a mouse, while they "abide its peltings," not moving a twig or stirring a leaf. The dust of the wide, naked street is transmuted into mud. And the stages sound over the road, as if they rattled on naked pavement. Puddles stand in all the hollows. You can hardly see the people for umbrellas and the clouds look as

though they had not done with us. The prospect for the Canterbury meeting looks lowery. Let it rain. All for the best. It is extraineous, but I could hardly help noticing the great rain and saying a word about it. I think the more mankind regard these beautiful doings in nature, the more they will regard each other, and love each other, and the less inclined to-enslave each other. The readier abolitionists they will become. And the better. The rain is a great anti-slavery discourse. And I like to have it pour. Nor eloquence is richer to my spirit, or music. That rush from heaven of the big drops-in what multitude and succession, and how they sound as they strike! How they play on the old home roof, and on the thick tree tops! What music to go to sleep by, to a tired boy as he lies under the naked roof! And the great low bass thunder, as it rolls off over the hills, and settles down behind them—to the very center, and you can feel the old earth jar under your feet— that is music, and poetry, and life. And if the lightning strikes you-what of that! It won't hurt you. "Favored man," truly, as Uncle Pope says, "by touch ethereal slain." A light touch, compared to disease's, the doctor's, or poverty's.

And here is a scene among the White Mountains, brought vividly to view by a few touches of his graphic pen:

THE NOTCH.

You roll along a mile or two, the road gently undulating through the majestic woods, and fringed with bushes of delightful green-when a vast and overwhelming opening breaks upon you, a boundless room among the mountains, walled on the left

by the great Elephant mountain, the rock covered by stunted evergreens precipicing up two thousand feet-the blue sky itself scarcely visible over its eternal ridge. Before you, at the farther extremity, opens the Notch, curtained by the sky of Vermont, which there comes down upon it; and on the right, the wooded steep side of Lafayette, or Great Haystack. Nothing can exceed the awful sublimity of the great wall on the left. The vast mountain side is clothed with scales of rock, as with a coat of mail, scarred here and there with the old avalanches-while, opposite, the forest side of Lafayette is striped down with the deep green of modern woods, which have grown in the paths of the "slides." At the northern extremity of the great room, you come to view "the Old Man of the Mountain." It is on your left, up, say fifteen hundred feet, a perfect profile of an aged man, jutting out boldly from the sheer precipice, with a sort of turban on the head and brow; nose, mouth, lip, chin, and fragment of neck, all perfect and to the life—and with a little fancy, you supply the cheek and ear. It looks off south-east. It needs no imagination to complete it. It is perfect as if done by art. But it is up where art never climbed.

We have given but meager specimens of the writings of Mr. Rogers. He needs to be read carefully, article by article, to enable the reader to appreciate his genius. He made the most trite subject rich and beautiful by the magic of his pen. He wrote with strange facility, seemed never at a loss for subject, language, or ideas. He was always fresh, always attractive, and a vein of genial humor ran through al

most all his articles. If not humor, then certainly biting sarcasm. He could never tolerate "platitudinous commonplace." But agitation wore upon himor perhaps it would be more correct to ascribe his sorrow to the results of his agitating career. He was without a certain and sufficient support, and children were gathered at his feet. Never was there a more loving-hearted father, never a more devoted husband. His heart was sorrowful for them. Friends with whom he was associated in the anti-slavery reform, treated him, as he thought, with cruelty, and his heart began to be shattered.

A look of sorrow was always upon his face. He was a man of fine appearance. A large, noble brow, clear, intelligent, beautiful eyes, a profusion of dark gray hair, and that sad, ever sad, shadow over all, were his characteristics. It was a face which once seen, lingers forever in the memory.

About this time, he lost nearly all the little property which he could call his own, through the failure of a friend to whom it was entrusted. An illness fastened upon him which never deserted him for a day until he died. For many weeks, however, he continued to write for his favorite journal, and these contributions are among the finest he ever wrote. His faith in the ultimate triumph of the right did not desert him in the darkest hour. It was a time when church and state seemed to be in league against free