showed him an empty house. The blow actually killed him. He left the city and went to Harrisburg, where he soon afterwards died among strangers. Hearing of his poverty and loneliness at Harrisburg, Forrest, who was then in his high tide of success, wrote to him that he would get up a benefit for him at the Arch Street Theatre and play Othello for him. But the heart-broken player replied that he would never be a suppliant for patronage in that city again. While he lay in his room very sick, the doctor called and found him reading Lalla Rookh. “I can assure you of a cure,” said the physician. Jefferson replied, in a sad but firm voice, “My children are all grown up. I am of no further use to them; and I am weary of life. I care not to get well. I think it is better to be elsewhere.” And so he died. Chief-Justice Gibson placed a marble slab over his dust, with a happy inscription which some nameless but gifted friend of the actor has appended to his own tributary verses. For thee, poor Player, who hast seen the day When stern neglect has bent thee to her state, With fond remembrance let the poet pay One tribute to thy melancholy fate. Haply some aged man may yet exclaim, “Him I remember in his youthful pride, When sober age ran riot at his name, And roaring laughter held his bursting side.” There at his home, the father, husband kind, Oft have I noted his calm noon of life; With humor chastened, and with wit refined, Enjoy the social board with comforts rife. Him have I seen when age crept on apace, Portraying to the life some earlier part, The soul of mirth reflected from his face, While bitter pangs disturbed his throbbing heart. One night we missed him from his ancient chair, Placed by our host beside the blazing hearth; Another passed, yet still he was not there, Gone was the spirit of our former mirth! The future came, and with it came the tale, How Time had cured the wounds the world had given; How Death had wrapt him in his sable veil And gently borne him to the gates of heaven. Beneath the shadow of a sacred dome The pride and honor of our stage reclines; There stranger hands conveyed him to his home, And graced his memory with these sculptured lines: