a dead level of political history, without either song or story to change the dull monotony and cheer the impatient hearer. He writes clearly and forcibly, regardless of finish or ornament; has as much shrewdness, adroitness, and world-wisdom as his father, but less secretiveness, less suavity and less dignity; can excel his father at stump speaking, but cannot equal him in writing a Message. John annihilates his enemies by the simoon of his sarcasm; his father catches them in the trap of stratagem, and compliments them into bosom friendship. Indeed, he is an unconverted Paul, pursuing (not persecuting) hunkers (not Christians) to strange cities, while his father is Absalom (without the locks), winning the hearts of the people.

Prince John is a favorite among the ladies. It is currently reported that when Queen Victoria presented her lily-white hand for him to kiss, according to court etiquette, he, in the face of such usages, with republican gallantry folded his arms around her neck, and gave her a hearty smack upon her cheek. It is also said that during his widowerhood he paid some attention to a lady of fortune in Western New York, and once upon a time, when they were riding on horseback, he ventured to pop the question. lady changed the subject by asking him to overtake her, at the same time giving her horse a hint which caused him to bound forward with the speed of the wind. John was astride a livery stable hack, and was soon distanced, and not a little mortified at seeing the lady's glove upon the road! If it be true that this distinguished "son of

The

York" has refrained from the use of wine, there is a brilliant future before him. He is so frank, so generous, and so gifted, he is the man the people will delight to honor; but he must not, like Alcibiades, deface the images of the gods and expect to be pardoned on the score of eccentricity.

Mr. Van Buren is one of the first men in the "Empire State." He sustains the same relationship to the Democratic party that Seward holds to the Whig party. In personal appearance, he is a tall, spare man, with a “locofocoish" look, somewhat round-shouldered, and stoops a little when he walks, as though he had to bear upon his back the responsibility of the party he lately rejuvenated. His head is prematurely bald, and the scanty supply of hair that is, left is soft, thin, and of a foxy color, and has that phosphorescent appearance which indicates a readiness to blaze the moment there is any friction of brain-hence his flashes of wit when he is rubbed. He is about forty years of age, has an ample forehead, expressive eyes, and a countenance denoting a high order of intellect.

He is an eminent lawyer, a great statesman, a progress politician. There is a sort of don't-care-a-copper-ativeness about him, a reckless spirit of dare-anything-ism, which is repulsive to the amiable, though delightful to the disciples of rowdyism. In his happiest moods, when speaking from the tribune, he is chaste, classical, philosophical, and the illuminati become his enthusiastic admirers. He only needs the graceful polish, the serene dignity of his father, added to his other

best attributes, to render him one of the most useful, honorable and distinguished men of the nineteenth century.

That he is destined, if his life is spared, to hold an important relation to the politics of his country, is the sincere belief of CRAYON.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

"THERE,” said our driver, "is the birth-place of John G. Whittier," when he pointed to a plain farm-house on the edge of the town of Haverhill, situated a short walk from the roadside-or, as the poet himself describes the old homestead"Our farm-house was situated in a lonely valley, half surrounded with woods, with no neighbors in sight."

Soon after my arrival at the busy and beautiful village of Amesbury, where the great poet of humanity now lives, I ascertained his whereabouts, and gave him a letter of introduction, written by our mutual friend, W. A. W an untiring co-laborer in the work-field of reform. I found him at home, in his Quaker cottage, where his friends and visitors are sure to meet with a kind reception. On the adjoining lot is another nest in the bushes, where a family of singers give vocal utterance to the poetry Whittier writes. Mr. W. responded to the rap at the door, and invited me to take a chair in a plain, neat room, which commands a view of a large and beautiful garden, where he spends a share of his leisure time, when his health will permit him to work there. He gave me an introduction to his excellent mother, and after a little chat on the common topics of conversation, politely invited me to remain and take tea with him.

I knew quite well that I was in the presence of one of the purest-minded and most gifted men in America; a man whose name and fame are world-wide, and "as familiar as household words;" a man whose mighty thoughts are winged with words of fire; but he is so unassuming, so accessible, so frank, and so well "posted up on all matter of news, that, whatever subject is broached, one feels at home in the presence of a friend, while conversing with him. This eminent poet of the slave is forty years of age. His temperament is nervous-bilious; he is tall, slender, and straight as an Indian; has a superb head; his brow looks like a white cloud, under his raven hair; eyes large, black as sloes, and glowing with expression. He belongs to the society of Friends, and in matters of dress and address, he is of the strictest sort." Should a stranger meet him in the street, with his collarless coat and broad-brimmed hat, he would not discover anything remarkable in his appearance, certainly would not dream that he had seen the Elliott of America. But, let him uncover that head, and see those starlike eyes flashing under such a magnificent forehead, and he would know, at a glance, that a great heart, a great soul, and a great intellect, must light up such a radiant frontispiece. His fellow townsmen are proud of his fame, as well they may be, for Amesbury will be known all over the world, to the end of time, as the residence of John G. Whittier, "the poet of the poor."

Wherever he discovers the talisman of intellect he recognises a brother; "though his skin and bones were of the color of night, they are transparent, and the everlasting stars shine