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every bird, beast, and fish, which is a legitimate object of the gunner's, hunter's, angler's, sport and skill—and whether on the sandy knolls of Raccoon Beach, on the shrubbery fringed marge of the Long Island trout-stream, or on the rock-ribbed forest-cinctured sides of the Hudson Highlands, he was equally at home, equally happy himself, and equally a source of instruction and delight to others. He was emphatically a fair sportsman, no slaughterer of hatching mothers, no butcher of broods unfledged and tender, in season and out of season. Witness his beautiful and really pathetic mournings over the infant quail, deluded by the imitative cry of the parent bird, and murdered by the Negro of Matowacs !-Witness, too, the law for the preservation of game, which he was principally instrumental in getting through the Legislature ; and by the enforcement of which only can quail be preserved from becom. ing, like the pinnated grouse of Long Island, extinct within the space

The quail was his especial favorite—his fond, familiar pet—and beautiful indeed, exquisitely beautiful, is that paper—" Some Observations concerning Quail”—written for the New-York Mirror, and lately republished in the Turf Register. We have always considered it his masterpiece, embodying all the beautiful peculiarities of his peculiar style and fancy-wit, playfulness, description, pathos, freshness, simplicity, rich, natural, racy vigor. There is nothing so good in Elia Lamb's best things—whom perhaps Cypress more resembled than any other English author -nothing so good in Izaak Walton-arch favorite both of Lamb anů Cypress-nothing so good in any rural writer. This was the paper which called forth the discussion maintained for some time by the subject, and by the writer, of this brief tribute to departed talent, against an anonymous contributor to the 'Turf Register, under the signature of “H.”, from

of a few years.

Marietta--a discussion which was commenced by an attack, certainly-but we hope not intentionally-illiberal and unhandsome, on the sportive and playful article alluded to above. We are sorry to add—and we trust the author of that attack will be sorry to learn—that poor Cypress was considerably and deeply galled by the discourtesy of this assault, which not only accused him of gross ignorance of ornithology, but reflected on his Latinity, and called in question, as he fanciedfor his mind was no less sensitive than kind-his personal veracity. With the exception, we believe, of one brief article on the defensive, he wrote no more, in the few weeks he lived after that attack; and it was observed by many of his friends, that he was seen less often in the office of “ The Spirit” afterward—where he was often wont to commune with the kindred souls, who thither did resort. But to quit an unpleasant topic, which we have only touched on to illustrate the peculiar sensibility of poor Cypresshe never attacked any one, he never spoke a word in jest or earnest that could wound the humblest feelings of the humblest individual ; and when subjected to an assault himself, at which most men would have laughed, he winced, and felt the injury long after the first smart had passed away.

When Cypress commenced writing for the press, or through what medium his earliest lucubrations were given to the world, we cannot state with certainty. We knew him and admired him first in the columns of the New York Mirror; which contained, we are inclined to believe, his first, and we are sure many of his ablest efforts. His “Fire-IslandAna,” by most persons esteemed his chef d'ouvre, were written expressly for the American Monthly Magazine ; and it is with a deep and heartfelt gratitude that the writer of these lines remembers and records, that their appearance in that periodical was owing to the personal kindness of the author to

himself—a kindness the more valuable and the more appreciated, because it displayed itself spontaneously and most ef. ficiently, at a time when sickness had incapacitated him from the performance of editorial duties, and when the fortunes of the Magazine were faltering, and its prospects dark and dubious. Since that periodical passed into other hands, and became extinct, Cypress published solely in the columns of " the Spirit” and the pages of “the Register"—all that he published there was republished in the English journals ; and his name was no less current abroad than in his own country. His place can never be filled there !—the Editors—the readers have to lament a common loss! His pen can never worthily be wielded by another! Kindred souls he has left many to deplore his premature and sudden doom-many who contribute to those pages of which he was the brightest ornamentbut of these there is not one so daring as to brave comparison, by imitation of what is in truth inimitable. His

left to the care* of an associate and friend, able, and kind, and thoughtful, will be inspected, and considered carefully, with a view to their publication. His nearest friends can throw but little light upon his modes and habits of composition, and know but little as to the quantity of literary MSS which he has left behind, or the degree of finish bestowed upon them. There appears to be a general impression that he wrote very much for one who published but a little. If so, the public may derive yet much gratification from the posthumous collection of his reliques. From one, however, of his intimates, and one likely to know, and apt to judge correctly, we have learned that he was wont to compose rapid skeletons, and then to elaborate at his leisure, putting in all the delicate lights, the quaint conceits, the bright and humorous fancies at after periods ; and giving them the perfect finish by oft-repeated, and oft-interrupted toucíes. If so it be-and so we fear it is -liule can be done—we had almost said nothing ! for the great charm of Cypress lay in that very finish-and of the writings of all living writers we know of none so unapproachable by imitators, so unsusceptible of completion by any editorial labors, as those of our departed friend. Those, how. ever, will be called to the task of supervision who loved hiin well, and who will spare, most assuredly, no toil in what will be to them truly a labor of love—and if it shall be in their power to give to the world a posthumous monument of their dear comrade, reared by his own right hand, and shaped by his own exquisite skill_rich will they deem, and ample, their reward.

papers,

* It will be, of course, readily perceived that the writer of the above tribute, on whom the grateful task of editing the works of his departed friend has recently devolved, had no idea at the time when those words were penned-words which alluded to one whom all who know will in. etantly pronounce deserving of a yet higher eulogiuni, Dr. William Turner of this city—that he should be in any wise concerned or consulted in the work of revision.

As it is, his memory is enshrined in their souls, and they will mourn him as he would be mourned. Often on the still waters of the bays, among the sedgy hassocks, while brant and broadbill skate before the driving breeze, defying the shooter's skill by their unrivalled speed, will thoughts of him be near the sportsman's heart—haunting it as with a real presenceoften, when in the heat and hush of a summer noon we recline, weary and worn with toil, on the mossed brink of some lone well-head, deep in the emerald woodlands, qualifying our Ferintosh or old Cognac with the pure ice-cold water, while our setter crouches at our feet, and our gun, and game-bag, plump with the birds he loved—his own dear scolopax, lie on

VOL. 1.-2.

His very

the turf beside us, will the cup be quaffed in the solemn silence of regret, while the tear steals down the cheek, to the memory of him who cherished so those hours of sylvan rest, and knew so sweetly to describe them. Green be the grass above him !

bones would pine beneath the weight of marbleshe should lie in the shadow of some haunted grove, where the whisper of the wind should wake wild music in the vocal boughs, where some clear streamlet, rippling along its pebbly bed, should make that melody beside his ashes, which his ear loved so well while living, where the hum of the bee, and the carol of the bird, and all the calm soft harmonies of nature should sing the requiescat of the sportsman bard—In pace requiescat !

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