of the concern has been changed on several occasions, until now there is not one of its publishers who was so when Mr. G. went into it, yet with the exception of one year in which he was otherwise engaged, he has retained his connection with it.

Those who are acquainted with Mr. Gallagher only from his poetry, will be surprised to learn that his general acquaintance with all the business relations of the Mississippi Valley, is scarcely second to that of any other man. He takes a hearty interest in the subject of internal improvements, and in every movement designed to develop the resources and to advance the prosperity of the West. He has earnestly advocated the establishment of railroads, and has contributed much towards convincing the public of their utility and profit, by elaborate statistics procured by him at the expense of much time and trouble. In the periodicals and newspapers with which he has been associated, he has earnestly advocated all kinds of public improvements relating to agricultural, commercial, and manufacturing interests. All charitable institutions have ever found in him a fast friend and ready advocate. He has paid much attention to the early history of the Western country, and has collected many exciting materials in relation to various pioneers, from which he has framed articles embodying the results of his industry. Thoroughly penetrated with the conviction of the indispensable necessity of education to the welfare and glory of the nation, he has been constant in his efforts to promote the success of systems of public schools and collegiate institutions. For his zeal in behalf of education, the Western College of Teachers, in their annual meeting for 1839, adopted a resolution acknowledging the importance of his services, and offering him the thanks of that body for them. For the comprehensiveness of his views, his earnestness, zeal, and public spirit, and for the labor he has bestowed on all subjects connected with the best interests of the community, Mr. Gallagher is justly entitled to the high honor of being generally recognized as a public benefactor. In Cincinnati, where his services are best known and appreciated, there are many persons who would willingly endorse any eulogium that our friendship for him might induce us to pass on his spirit and his important services. These services were acknowledged by the members of the Whig County Convention, who, in 1842, nominated him as a candidate for the Legislature over the heads of several distinguished competitors for the nomination, on account of his extensive acquaintance

He

with the interests of Cincinnati and the State at large. declined the honor, however, at that time, on grounds that were highly creditable to him and satisfactory to the numerous friends who warmly urged on him the acceptance of the nomination.",

The prose writings of Mr. Gallagher are marked by a simple, practical, clear style, rather singularly destitute of ornament when we consider the poetic tendencies of his thoughts. He avoids all circumlocution, and works earnestly toward the end he has in view. He chooses Saxon words in preference to those of more "learned length and thundering sound," and writes down to the capacity of the least educated. In his stories, where the play of fancy is legitimately indulged, there are occasional passages of high-wrought beauty, in which pleasant sentiments are clothed in flowery diction. But as a general rule, there is nothing in his prose which indicates that it proceeds from a mind which has dreamed of cloud-land by the year, and in which flowers spring up as naturally as in the soil of a prairie.

It is as a poet that Mr. Gallagher is best known, and in this character he enjoys a high reputation throughout the United States. He has written much that is worthy of preservation, and much that will live to be admired long after the present generation has passed away. Our design, however, is not to praise his poetry, but to present some specimens of it to our readers, in connection with the scattered facts of his biography which we have collected. In looking over his poetry we find it has changed its character in accordance with the changes which observation and reflection have impressed on his mind. There are three distinctly marked periods in his poetical life. The poems of the first period exhibit no very decided individuality of character. They were suggested by reading and casual occurrences, and show the influence which a study of Coleridge and Byron exerted over his mind. The "Penitent" exhibits the fruits of this study very clearly.-The second period is marked by poems which indcate much familiarity with external nature, and in it were written "August, "May," "Miami Woods," "Harvest Hymn," "My Early Days," &c.-The poems of the third period betoken much more sympathy with Humanity. It was during this period. that those poems which have commanded most attention were produced-such as "The Laborer," "Truth and Freedom," "Be Firm, be True," "The Promise of the Present," "A

Hymn to the Day that is Dawning," "The Artisan," "Conservatism," &c.

In our selections, we shall endeavor to be as chronologically correct as the means now at our command will admit of. The three poems in connection with which Mr. Gallagher's name was first made public, were entitled "Eve's Banishment," "The Bridal," and the "Wreck at Sea." We present two of them, as fair specimens of his achievements in verse in what we have called the first period of his poetical life:

THE BRIDAL.

He stood before the altar; and a shade
Of darkness for a moment crossed his brow,
And melted into beauty on his lip;

And a slight tremor thrilled him, as the blood
Came boiling to his forehead-and sunk back,
And rushed tumultuous to his burning cheek.
But this was over-and the confidence
Of manhood was upon him; and he stood
Erect, in pride and nobleness, before
The minister of the High God-a man
Hoary and tremulous, and bowed with years.
And she, the loved, the beautiful, stood up
Beside the chosen one; and meekly bent
Her half-closed eyes upon her swelling breast:
And on her temples slept a raven tress,
Shading her beautiful veins, that melted through,
Like amethyst half-hidden in the snow.
And loveliness hung round her, like a soft
And silvery drapery. And pain, and sin,
And sorrow's discipline, on her fair brow
Had no abiding place. The various shades
Of sorrow and of gladness, came and went
With almost every pulse, like the uncertain
And silent memory of forgotten dreams.

They stood together-and their hearts were proud,
His of its nobleness, and hers of him!
The holy father offered up a prayer,
That happiness in after time might be

The guerdon of their love-and that the star
Which rose so beautiful and cloudless now,
Might light their years of trial, and go down
Calmly, as it arose-and they were ONE.

Here endeth this fair picture. Time wore on,
And they commingled with the callous world,
And had their day of glory and of gloom,
And slept and were forgotten. Others came,

And filled their places at the social hearth:
They too have passed away. And ever thus
Time silently goes on his ceaseless round,
Unnoticed and unknown; and human kind
Are but the puppets, moved about at will,
And lain within the dreamless sepulcher,
To wait the coming of that far-off day,
When the enfranchised spirit shall awake,
And burst the cerements of humid grave,
And live and be immortal!

The Wreck at Sea," had a prodigious run in its day, having been copied into almost every newspaper at that time in existence. It is one of Mr. Gallagher's most imaginative productions.

THE WRECK AT SEA.

THE sun was low-a flood of light

Slept on the glittering ocean

And Night's dark robes were journeying up,
With slow and solemn motion:

And ever-and-anon was heard

The sea-mew's shriek-ill-omened bird!

Down sunk the sun-the gathering mist
Rose proudly up before it,
And streamed upon the lurid air,

A blood-red banner o'er it:
Frowning, and piled up heap on heap,
Dense clouds o'erspread the mighty Deep;
Darker, and pitchy black they grew-
And rolled, and wheeled, and onward flew,
Like marshalling of men.

Then trembled timid souls with fear-
Glistened in beauty's eye the tear-
And "fatherland" was doubly dear-

But brave hearts quailed not then.
Soon the rough tar's prophetic eye
Saw many a floating shroud on high,
And many a coffin drifting by-
And on the driving gale
Beheld the spirits of the Deep,
Above-around-in fury sweep-

And heard the dead's low wail,
And the Deamon's muttered curse.
And on the fierce and troubled wind,
Rode Death-and, following close behind,
A dark and sombre hearse.

And soon the barque a wreck was driven,
Before the free, wild winds of heaven!

Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—
Bended was many a knee—

And the last prayer was offered up
God of the Deep, to Thee!
Muttered the angry heavens still,

And murmured still the sea-
And old and sterner hearts bowed down,
God of the Deep, to Thee!

And still the wreck was onward driven,
Upon the wide, wild sea-

And MAN's proud soul to Fate was given,
WOMAN'S, oh God, to Thee!

Gaped wide the Deep-down plunged the wreck-
Up rose a fearful yell-

Death's wings flapped o'er that sinking deck-
A shudder!-all was still.

Another early poem is a very touching one addressed to his excellent mother. The second stanza is especially beautiful in every thing but the word "god-like," which is altogether too formidable a word for the occasion. Here it is:

то MY MOTHER.

THY cheek-it is pale, my mother,
And the light of thine eye is dim-
And the gushings of gladness, that used to fill
Thy cup of joy to its brim,
Come, like the visits of angels,

So "few and far between,"
That I feel the reed is a feeble one
On which thou hence must lean.

'Tis a bitter thing, iny mother,

To look on a parent's decay--
To behold the Spoiler's ravages,
As he tears life's bloom away:
'Tis bitter to look on the furrows

He ploughs in the god-like brow-
To weep, o'er the gems of intellect
That are rayless, and sheenless now.
But there is a thought, my mother,
That is balm to the stricken heart:
-Though the gift of life is a frail one,
And from it we soon must part,
There is a haven of gladness,

For the weary heart a home-
Where the light of joy is never dim,
And sorrows never come.