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 perfeet 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 him— or 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

dom. Mob law stalked unabashed through the land. The friends of the poor, crushed slave, were few. There were private griefs, too, in his heart. And at last, disease laid its disheartening hand upon him. But he was calm, gentle, and patient through it all. He declared to the friends who gathered about his couch that his illness would terminate in death. Seeing one of his family weep, he said that he was happy, and wished his friends to be happy also. At last, his hand, which had been so strong for the right, grew too feeble to hold the pen, but even after that he dictated article after article for the press. He possessed, almost to the day of his death, a strong desire to hear constantly of the progress of the great cause to which he had sacrificed his life. He asked eagerly for the welfare of his old associates, who were almost hopelessly opposing themselves to the war feeling which at that time overspread the country. His greatest comfort during his illnesss was music, of which he once said:

"Oh! this music is one of God's dearest gifts. I do wish men would make more of it. How humanizing it is—and how purifying-elevating and ennobling to the spirit! And how it has been prostituted and perverted! That accursed drum and fife-how they have maddened mankind! And the deep bass boom of the cannon, chiming in, in the chorus of the battlethat trumpet, and wild, charging bugle-how they set the military devil into a man, and make him into a soldier! Think

of the human family, falling upon one another, at the inspiration of music! How must God feel at it! To see those harp strings he meant should be wakened to love bordering on divine strung and swept to mortal hate and butchery."

During the few days which preceded his death, Mr. Rogers suffered the most excruciating pains. "Oh, dear," said he, "this is the closing up of my terrible labors!" Terrible, indeed, were they, for his life, for the past few years, had been one continual conflict with the bigoted, the heartless, and the thoroughly depraved. A friend who leaned over the hot brow of the dying man,whispered into his ear that it must be a consoling thought that he had not labored in vain. "O yes," he answered, "it sustains me unspeakably the reflection that I have done right.” Though his agony was great, yet the light of reason did not flicker until death led him away.

The sixteenth day of October, 1846, was his last. His family friends were gathered around him, when he asked one of his daughters to sing to him Lover's beautiful "Angel's Whisper." The sweet tones of the familiar voice filled the room, and he seemed to be in a rapture of bliss. When the last notes had died away, some one approached him, gently, and asked if Jesse Hutchinson, who was in the next room, should come in. But no answer came from his dying lips. The little band knew that the dread hour

had come-no, not dread, but happy, happy hour, which should conduct his weary heart to rest.

In a few minutes, the look of sorrow, which, for a long time, had dwelt constantly upon his countenance, fled away, and a beautiful, seraphic smile rested calmly in its place. He was dead.

It was Friday when he died, and on the following Sabbath, a few friends gathered in his dwelling, forever bereft of his kindly presence, to consign his mortal remains to the grave. The spot of his burial was just that which he would have chosen-a quiet corner of the village grave-yard, beneath the branches of a cluster of oaks. The snow fell drearily into his open grave very drearily to the bereaved ones who stood sobbing around it. But he was wrapt in the sunshine of his heavenly Father's love!

Thus lived and died a man whose name will never be forgotten, at least till American slavery has passed into oblivion. He was one of the earliest of the antislavery agitators of this country, and one of the purest. But it may be doubted if he was fitted to be a successful agitator at the time when he lived. He had a splendid intellect and a great heart, but the latter was too delicately made to enable him to walk calmly on amid the venomous attacks of enemies, and the not always gentle treatment of professed friends. And yet, he agitated right well, and his sayings will never die. To-day, they live in the deeds of those