never so minutely every fold of every petal of the rose, and hang it so
gracefully on its stem, as to present its very port and bearing, but
where is its fragrance, its exquisite texture, and the dewy freshness
which was its crowning grace?

So in biography, you may make an accurate and ample statement of
facts,--you may even join together in a brightly colored mosaic the
fairest impressions that can be given of the mind of another--his own
recorded thoughts and feelings--and yet they may fail to present the
individual. They are stiff and glaring, wanting the softening transition
of the intermediate parts and of attending circumstances.

And yet biography does sometimes succeed, not merely in raising a
monumental pile of historical statistics, and maintaining for the
friends of the departed the outlines of a character bright in their
remembrance; but in shaping forth to others a life-like semblance of
something good and fair, and distinct enough to live with us
thenceforward and be loved like a friend, though it be but a shadow.

Such has been the feeling with which we have read and re-read the volume
before us. We knew but slightly her who is the subject of it, and are
indebted to the memoir for any thing like a conception of the character;
consequently we can better judge of its probable effect upon other
minds. We pronounce it a portrait successfully taken--a piece of
uncommonly skillful biography. There is no gaudy exaggeration in it,--no
stiffness, no incompleteness. We see the individual character we are
invited to see, and in contemplating it, we have all along a feeling of
personal acquisition. We have found rare treasure; a true woman to be
admired, a daughter whose worth surpasses estimation, a friend to be
clasped with fervor to the heart, a lovely young Christian to be admired