Xlvi HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. 
tun ate—gentleman’s death is one more additional proof 
of how much we all need greater regard for out-of-door 
sports, conversational hilarity, or heavenly aspirations, 
while less attention should be given to corroding cares, 
passionate impulses, or rash conclusions. We have merely 
endeavored to impartially describe that “Frank Forester” 
whose gentle, but proud spirit, scorned the vulgarity of 
carving his name upon the rising tree of American great¬ 
ness in any manner that could possibly injure any other 
person, but has derived his principal pleasure while living 
—and liis most glorious fame after death—from the fact 
that as soon as we take up one of his books, that noble 
spirit—sweetly responsive to our own—seems to take us 
also by the hand, leading us forth into forest wild or 
homestead beautiful, where we may willingly acknowl¬ 
edge the magic sway of the original and creative “ Frank 
Forester” himself, while he guides our field sports, sug¬ 
gests our healthy pastimes, teaches us to tread lightly 
among those beautiful flowers which the poets well de¬ 
scribe as “ the scriptures of the earth,” or imparts an ad¬ 
ditional tone of elegance to those charming family circles 
where eyes of light and forms of beauty come forth to 
grace the scene. 
Much more—very much more—might be written by 
pens competent or worthy to discuss the memoirs of 
Henry William Herbert. Less we could not have said, 
in ordinary justice. After all, while conscious of the 
comparative incompleteness of our effort, and we have 
said our say, or sung our lay, as best we may, 
“ The rest—let Sorrow say. ! 
