in the annals of human society. They reared fabrics of government which have no model on the face of the globe. They formed the design of a great confederacy, which it is incumbent on their successors to improve and perpetuate. If their works betray imperfections, we wonder at the fewness of them. If they erred most in the structure of the union, this was the work most diffealt to be executed; this is the work which has been new-modelled by the set of your convention, and it is that act on which you are now to deliberate and decide.

MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, 1823-1838.

MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, the sister of Lucretia, and quite as remarkable for precocity of intellect, was born at Plattsburg, N. Y., on the 26th of March, 1823. Like her sister, she was of delicate and feeble frame from her infancy, and, like her, she had an early passion for knowledge. Her mother endeavored to keep her back; but, before she could write or even read well, she would talk in the language of poetry of the pale cold moon," of the stars that shone like the eyes of angels," &c. At six years old, she was so far advanced in literature and intelligence as to be the companion of her mother when confined to her room by protracted illness. She read not only well, but elegantly; her love of reading amounted to a passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with astonishment a child, not seven years old, reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson's "Seasons," the "Pleasures of Hope," Cowper's "Task," and even Milton; and marking with taste and discrimination the passages that struck her. But the Bible was her daily study, over which she did not hurry as a task, but would spend an hour or two in commenting with her mother on the contents of the chapter she had read.

In 1833, when she was ten years old, she had a severe attack of scarlet fever, from which she recovered but slowly; and her father, thinking that the climate and situation of Saratoga would be better for her, removed there that year. But she showed her love for the wilder scenes of her "Native Lake," in the following sweet verses —remarkable for one so young-on the charms of

.

LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright-
Could I but see thee once again,

My own, my beautiful Champlain !

The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bosom rest,

How often in my childish glee

I've sported round them bright and free!
Could I but see thee once again,

My own, my beautiful Champlain !

How oft I've watched the fresh'ning shower
Bending the summer tree and flower,
And felt my little heart beat high
As the bright rainbow graced the sky!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain !

And shall I never see thee more,
My native lake, my much-loved shore?
And must I bid a long adieu,
My dear, my infant home, to you?
Shall I not see thee once again,

My own, my beautiful Champlain ?

In 1834, she was again seized by illness-a liver complaint, which by sympathy affected her lungs, and confined her to her room for four months. On her recovery, her genius, which had seemed to lie dormant in sickness, broke forth with a brilliancy that astonished her friends; and she poured out, in rapid succession, some of her best pieces. But her health was evidently declining. The death of a beloved brother, in 1835, affected her deeply; and with short and transient gleams of health amid dark and dismal prospects, this amiable and gifted child slept, as she herself trusted, in the arms of her Redeemer, on the 25th of November, 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months.'

In 1833, while on a visit to New York, she expressed, in the following beautiful lines, her

Read an article in the "London Quarterly Review," by the poet Southey, vol. Ixix. p. 91.

YEARNINGS FOR HOME.

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair!
To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light,
Again would I view the old mansion so dear,
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear.
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this pure summer-day.

I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh 'tis tenderer yet!

There a sister reposes, unconscious, in death

'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath; A father I love is away from me now

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,

Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,

How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call;

But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all.

TO HER SISTER.

Oh thou, so early lost, so long deplored!
Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near!

And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,
Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay;

To thee these simple numbers all belong :
For, though thine earthly form has passed away,
Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute-'tis thine own-
Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er,
Arouse to harmony each buried tone,

And bid its wakened music sleep no more!

Long has thy voice been silent; and thy lyre
Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;
But, when its last sweet tones were borne away,
One answering echo lingered in my breast.

Oh thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee!

TO HER MOTHER.1

Oh, mother! would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly listening ear,

As when, in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.

But, mother! now a shade hath passed
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped
The remnant of my brief career:
No song, no echo can I win;
The sparkling fount hath dried within.

The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more;
And oh, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before;
My soul, with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!

Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

I said that Hope had passed from earth-
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven:
When mine are washed in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell the lay.

When God shall guide my soul above
By the soft chords of heavenly love-
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart,
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise:
And all not offered at his shrine,

Dear mother, I will place on thine.

This was the last poem she ever wrote.

TIMOTHY FLINT, 1780-1840.

THIS early historian and scene-painter of our Western country was born in Reading, Massachusetts, in 1780, and graduated at Harvard College, in 1800. After devoting two years to the study of theology, he became pastor of the Congregational Church in Lunenburg, Massachusetts, where he continued till 1814. His health having by this time become impaired by too sedentary pursuits, he deemed it best to seek a milder climate, and in 1815 became a missionary in the Valley of the Mississippi. After passing a winter at Cincinnati, he journeyed through portions of Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky, and then took up his abode at St. Charles, Missouri, where he remained nearly three years. In 1822, he removed to New Orleans, and the year after, he went to Alexandria, on the Red River, where he took charge of a literary institution. Here he began to write his "Recollections of Ten Years passed in the Valley of the Mississippi," which was published in Boston in 1826; and which at that time was the most important contribution to American geography that had been made. In the following year, he published a novel, entitled “Francis Berrian; or the Mexican Patriot," a story of romantic adventure with the Camanches, connected with the Mexican struggle for independence. This was followed, in 1828, by “Arthur Clenning”—a very hazardous attempt to write one more Robinson Crusoe. "George Mason, the Young Backwoodsman," followed, but without increasing the author's reputation. The last of his novels was "The Shoshonee Valley," published in Cincinnati in 1830, the scene of which was laid among the Indians of Oregon.

In 1832, Mr. Flint published, in Boston, "Lectures upon Natural History, Geology, Chemistry, the Application of Steam, and Interesting Discoveries in the Arts." In 1834, he removed to Cincinnati, and became the editor of the "Western Monthly Magazine," which he conducted with much ability; writing more or less for every number, for three years. He then removed to Louisiana, being in quite feeble health, and hoping to be benefited by that climate. But he was disappointed, and in May, 1840, he resolved to return to his own New England, to see what his native air would do for him. But all was of no avail, and he expired at Reading, Massachusetts, August 18th, 1540.

Mr. Flint will always be known as one of the earliest geographers of our country, whose works, from their clear and beautiful descrip