We have heard him speak of some of his boyish dreams of future usefulness, and he would be dull, indeed, who could not gather from them the fact that at a very early age, he looked forward to a career by no means insignificant. At a certain age, he was filled with a martial spirit. Nor is this a singular fact, as it arose from an ardent admiration of heroism. He saw, as he grew older, that true heroism does not consist in cutting men's throats, but in braving the scorn, ridicule and hatred of wicked men, and doing great deeds of humanity. But at one time in his life, when he was young, he read much of warlike men, and the sound of the drum stirred his heart, as if he had been a soldier. We heard him once, by the fireside, tell how he, when a boy, rose one morning long before sunrise, to accompany, on foot, a few kindred spirits to a neighboring town, to witness a "regimental training." The long walk, through lonesome woods and valleys, was filled with martial tales and dreams of future heroic, martial deeds. The marching and counter-marching of the soldiers, the spirited music, the sham-fighting, all made a deep impression upon him. For he saw not mere red-coated mensaw not sham conflicts, but his imagination transformed the real into the unreal, and he gazed upon a regiment of heroes, ready to spill their last drop of blood in the cause of freedom! In a little time, he learned that all is not what it seems, but an ardent

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admiration for the truly heroic, characterizes him to-day.

At an early age, Mr. Burritt commenced to learn the trade of a blacksmith, in his native town. While learning his trade, he prosecuted his school studies with great industry. He soon, alone and unaided, took up a Latin grammar, and made himself familiar with that language. He then took up the Greek, then the Italian, and, in the course of a few years, could read more or less readily in nearly fifty languages. The last year which Mr. Burritt spent in New Britain, before seeking his fortune abroad, he kept a refreshment-shop in the village. Being unsuccessful, he left it, and, as he was desirous of enjoying the privileges of an antiquarian library, he removed to Worcester, Massachusetts, where he worked industriously at his trade and books. His linguistical acquirements soon gave him notoriety. In the mean time, his fertile brain was filled with great plans for the future. He once went to Boston with a view to take ship to some distant countries, where he could, with better advantage, pursue his study of the languages. The world should rejoice that he, about this time, renounced his passion for linguistical knowledge, and devoted himself with intense earnestness to the advocacy of peace, temperance, and antislavery. He established a weekly journal in Worcester, called the "Christian Citizen," in which he

poured out the wealth of his heart and brain. His powerful articles soon attracted the attention of the good and great, and his journal had a wide circulation. We think that some of the miscellaneous writings of Mr. Burritt are among the finest things in the English language; and as those who have read them once, will not dislike to read them a second time, we copy two or three of them here. Here is the best description, in a few lines, of the iron horse,

we ever saw:

"I love to see one of these huge creatures, with sinews of brass and muscles of iron, strut forth from his smoky stable, and, saluting the long train of cars with a dozen sonorous puffs from his iron nostrils, fall back gently into his harness. There he stands. champing and foaming upon the iron track, his great heart a furnace of glowing coals; his lymphatic blood is boiling in his veins; the strength of a thousand horses is nerving his sinews; he pants to be gone. He would 'snake' St. Peters across the desert of Sahara, if he could be fairly hitched to it; but there is a little, sober-eyed, tobacco-chewing man in the saddle, who holds him in with one finger, and can take away his breath in a moment, should he grow restive or vicious. I am always deeply interested in this man, for, begrimmed as he may be with coal, diluted in oil and steam, I regard him as the genius of the whole machinery; as the physical mind of that huge steam-horse."

The little sketch which follows is, it seems to us, is one of the most touching ever written: