He was a wit; he had a most delicate perception of the beautiful, and a keen sense of the ludicrous. But those who knew him can tell with what care he directed his powers. He never summoned a shadow to any face, or permitted a weight to lie on any heart. He was as amiable as he was brilliant. He was no man of the world. He knew society, its selfishness and its want of honor, but he looked upon it less in anger than in sadness. He was no cynic, no Heraclitus; he deemed it wisest to laugh at the follies of mankind. Through all his experience he lost none of his natural urbanity, his freshness of feeling, his earnestness and sincerity. The late THEODORE HOOK, the first humorist and most celebrated bon-vivant of our day, was employed by his publisher to edit Mr. SANDERSON'S 'American in Paris.' He read it, adapted it as well as he could to the English market, and returned it with the observation that 'there was never a book which suffered more from slightest change.' Had the author devoted the chief portion of his time to letters, he would have been little less distinguished in the same department than his famous friend. But he lived a quieter and happier life; he died a happier death, suddenly, but in a _home_, and with his friends about him.' * * * * * The following '_Lines to a Bouquet of Flowers_,' are from the pen of the lamented Governor DICKINSON, whose melancholy suicide will be fresh in the minds of many of our readers. We learn from the friend through whom we derive them, that they were handed to him by the author, while sojourning for a short time in Albany: EMBLEM of life and loveliness, Welcome, sweet harbingers of Spring! Clad in thy beauteous summer dress, And wafted on Time's fairy wing. Would thou wert fadeless as the sky, All redolent of hope and gladness, But soon, alas! thou'lt lonely lie, Emblem of Death, of Grief, of Sadness. Emblem of Life! thing of an hour, How soon thou'lt hang thy sickly head, And bow beneath the conqueror's power, And lie among the sleeping dead! Emblem of Life! beyond the tomb, Thy flowers again shall form a wreath; Shall germinate amid the gloom. And triumph o'er the monster Death! D. S. D. * * * * *