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exception of a single season, that of 1800-1801, – we believe Mrs. Powell was a member of the corps theatrical in Boston, until she took final leave of the stage about fifteen years ago. To those who have been her cotemporaries on the stage of life, and witnessed her various representations on that stage, to which human life for its shadowy shortness has been often beautifully compared, we need not say that Mrs. Powell was always in the leading character of the drama, whether it were tragedy or comedy. There are yet living, many who delight to dwell on her simple but beautiful personation of Juliet, her elegant and fashionable Lady Townly, the terrible and indignant outpouring of sorrow in Constance, the devoted love and heroic resentment of Elvira, the awfully sublime resolution, and subsequent more awful remorse of Lady Macbeth, the calm dignity of Portia, the fascinating sprightliness and wit of Letitia Hardy and Lady Teazle; and time and space would fail us we to attempt a review of all her dramatic characters. Not many of the present play-going people have been witnesses of these performances, and they could hardly be made to feel the force of our reminiscences. Still a few remain, to whom these hints will be sufficient to call up from the "vasty deep" of Memory's chest, potent remembrances that "such things were, and were most dear."

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But it was not upon the stage alone that Mrs. Powell exhibited her claims to honorable remembrance. a wife, a mother, and a friend, she had a more enduring character, and in this she manifested all the virtues which make the domestic hearth an earthly

heaven. She was the mother of a large family, of whom she might truly be said to have been the guardian angel. Through many trials and vicissitudes, incident to her professional life, she maintained for herself and them a dignified and respectable position in society. In the early part of their life, Mr. and Mrs. Powell often had experience of the embarrassments arising from narrow means and a limited income; but during that period, as well as in later years, when, at the head of a flourishing and popular theatrical establishment, fortune placed them in affluent circumstances, she never faltered in the path of duty. Neither in adversity nor prosperity, did she ever forget that she was a wife and a mother, nor did she ever fail to fulfil to the utmost of her power the deep responsibilities attached to that sacred charac

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Such is an incomplete outline of the character of Mrs. Powell, as we knew her, in part from personal acquaintance and better from the testimony of more familiar friends.

December, 1843.

Sad and painful is the service we perform in announcing the death of Mrs. LOUISA ANN BIGELOW, wife of the Hon. John P. Bigelow, of this city,an event which took place in London, on the 23d of October. It will be recollected that Mrs. Bigelow, with her son, "the only child of his mother," took passage in the Anglo-Saxon, which sailed from this port in May last, for Liverpool. The vessel was wrecked on Duck Island, near Nova Scotia, and Mrs.

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Bigelow, with other passengers, was several days exposed to the cold and foggy atmosphere, without other shelter than such as could be temporarily erected on an uninhabited shore. She returned to Boston, and being anxious to revisit the scenes and the friends of her childhood, and to recruit, if possible, her declining health, she again took passage in the steamer Cambria, which sailed hence for Liverpool on the first of July. After visiting Scotland and France, she returned to London in September, suffering evidently under a disease that defied the skill of the best medical advisers of that metropolis. Still hope was entertained that some alleviating interval might occur, during which she might be able to re-embark for home. But steamer after steamer came and brought no encouragement, and hope was often defeated. The Washington, which arrived at New-York on Tuesday, was the bearer of a letter from her son, announcing the fatal termination of the lingering disease. Mrs. Bigelow was about forty-seven years old. She was the daughter of Mr. D. L. Brown, a gentleman who for many years was well and favorably known as a teacher of drawing, in Boston,—and was born in Liverpool. She had received the advantages of a thorough education, and was eminently qualified to interest and adorn the best moral, intellectual and refined society. In such society she had formed associations that will never be forgotten but with the oblivion of memory itself. None conversed with her without admiring,none, who knew her, can receive the tidings of her death, without a sigh of regret for their own loss and a pang of sympathy for the husband and the son,

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whose bereavement Time cannot repair. sions like this, all expressions of sympathy are unavailing. They may reach the ear, but the bereft heart refuses the offering, and leaves to others the commiseration that is tendered with sincerity and kindness. The only relief is to be found in that faith which looks forward to a re-union. May that faith be liberally administered to the sufferers, by HIM who was its author and finisher, and who has assured us that where He is, there alsó shall his followers be.

November 12, 1849.

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"In the midst of life we are in death." choly and startling illustration of this sacred truth,— which is in every-day use, but which is heard only to be forgotten with the closing of the lips that utter it,— occurred on Wednesday last, in the death of ABEL PHELPS, — a man whose appearance exhibited almost unerring indications of long life. Of robust frame and manly proportions, his movements were sprightly and vigorous, and a limner might have selected him as a model for a picture of health. But what strength of nerve and what activity of muscle can stand before the assault of Fever, that potent minister of the King of Terrors? Mr. Phelps was sick but ten days, and but fourteen revolutions of our little globe saw him in State-street, busy with business men, and a silent tenant of a grave at Mount Auburn. As a merchant, Mr. Phelps was a man of strict integrity,—as a citizen, no blot rests upon his name. He came to Boston about thirty years ago, with no capital but good habits, good principles, and firm resolutions. By the untiring exer

cise of these qualities, he accumulated a property that, in a few years, would have made him independent. He entered with liberal and honorable feeling into many of the public enterprizes of the day, and was especially active in promoting the construction of the railroads which diverge from our city to the interior of New-England. He had recently purchased a farm in Watertown, on which he had erected a habitation combining comfort, convenience and pleasure, where it was his purpose to spend the remainder of life in in dispensing happiness to his family and hospitality to his friends. And there, alas! he did pass the poor and short remainder of his life. Only a month,little month of enjoyment, and all is over. We

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would not invade the sacredness of the domestic circle that is left to lament the removal of an affectionate husband and father, by an offering of sympathy that can have no power to allay the agonies of grief; but, as one who had enjoyed the friendship of the man while living, we may be permitted to pay this tribute of respect to his character, a character which was made up of integrity and kindness, — of private worth and public spirit, - of faithfulness as a friend, and of honor as a man. Peace to his ashes! The consolations of Heaven to his widow and orphans!

September, 1848.

If it be a blessing to live long, and to see the work of one's own hands established, HARRISON GRAY Oris has been happy beyond the common lot of his cotemporaries. He filled a large field in the public vision for more than half a century. In early life,

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