had attained. It made me smile, though with anything but scorn, in
contrast to the aristocratic stateliness which I have witnessed
elsewhere, to see him driving home his own cow after a long search for
her through the village. That trait alone would have marked him as a
man whose greatness lay within himself. He appeared to take much
interest in the cultivation of his garden, and was very fond of flowers.
He kept bees, and told me that he loved to sit for whole hours by the
hives, watching the labors of the insects, and soothed by the hum with
which they filled the air. I glance at these minute particulars of his
daily life, because they form so strange a contrast with the
circumstances of his death. Who could have believed, that, with his
thoroughly New England character, in so short a time after I had seen
him in that peaceful and happy home, among those simple occupations and
pure enjoyments, he would be stretched in his own blood, slain for an
almost impalpable punctilio!

It is not my purpose to dwell upon Mr. Cilley's brief career in
Congress. Brief as it was, his character and talents had more than
begun to be felt, and would soon have linked his name with the history
of every important measure, and have borne it onward with the progress
of the principles which he supported. He was not eager to seize
opportunities of thrusting himself into notice; but, when time and the
occasion summoned him, he came forward, and poured forth his ready and
natural eloquence with as much effect in the councils of the nation as
he had done in those of his own State. With every effort that he made,
the hopes of his party rested more decidedly upon him, as one who would
hereafter be found in the vanguard of many a Democratic victory. Let me
spare myself the details of the awful catastrophe by which all those
proud hopes perished; for I write with a blunted pen and a head
benumbed, and am the less able to express my feelings as they lie deep