Death oF the Author oF “Beautiful Snow.”

Cromwell Argus, Volume I, Issue 38, 3 August 1870, Page 7

Death oF the Author oF “Beautiful Snow.”

[l'Vom tliQ Morni/i;/ Ur mid.] A tow years iigo 'tlierb appwuVill in nil American paper an exquisite poem, entitled “ Beautiful Snow.” The beauty oi' the composition secured its re-publicatiou m numerous journals, and at length it iuittul its way to Unglaud, accompanied by tho tale that the original had boon found upon the person of a young woman who was frozen to death in the streets of St. * Louis. Tor a long time the writer preserved his IncO'jnilo, wlnle numerous claimants sought to establish their right to its authorship and the honors appertaining thereto. Some who knew the true history of the poem knew also the cause of its author’s reticence in giving his name to the world. Some months since, tho secret was revealed, and Major Sigourney, nephew ol the celebrated poetess of that name, became known as the writer. The April number of Hurler s Mai/azins contains a companion poem, entitled “Beautiful Child,” which is marked by all the do- • gance of diction and deep religious fueling ‘ characteristic of its predecessor. Who could have thought that in a few weeks its gifted author would fill a suicide’s grave 1 Yet such is the case. Wo learn from an American contemporary, that on tho night of April 22, Major Sigourney was found dead on the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that ho had shot himself. He had in early life married' a Miss Filmore, a lady of great personal attractions, and with her made a voyage to Europe. During their absenso rumors unfavorable to her character reached the Sigourney family. The reports seem to have been well, founded, for shortly after her return to New York she showed that the curse of the nineteenth century —the demon drink—had added another name to the list of his victims. She abandoned her husband, became mi outcast, and was next heird of as an inmate of the penitentiary on Blackwell’s Island. Her husband’s love was still sufficiently strong to induce him to make another effort to save her; and through his influence she was released, only to again desert her home. In the winter of 18G3, the papers spoke of a young and beautiful woman having been found dead under the snow, in a disreputable street in New York. Something seemed to tell Sigourney that the body was that of his wife. Upon making enquiries ha found his surmises were but too true ; and after claiming tho remains, he had them interred in that picturesque “ silent city” which overlooks the busy harbor of New York. The story of that erring wife was told in the touching language of “ beautiful Snow.” What wonder that he shunned the publicity that its authorship would have conferred'! The late Henry J. Raymond, then editor of the New York Times, was for years tho • friend of Major Sigourney, and obtained for him employment as a journalist, which failing health compelled him to abandon. The circumstances of his death remain a mystery. ; Not , even his child, for whom he always displayed the teuderese affection, can throw any light upon it. The latest effort of his genious is displayed in the poem already referred to : BEAUTIFUL CHILD. Beautiful child by thy mother’s knee, In the mystic future what wilt thou bo ? A demon of sin, or an angel sublime— A poison Upas, or a innocent thyme : A spirit of evil, flashing down With the lurid light of a fiery crown, Or gliding up, with a shining track, Like the Morning .Star that never looks back. Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled, Which wilt thou be, my beautiful child ? Beautiful child in my garden bowers ! Friend of tho butterflies, birds, and flowers, Pure as the sparkling chrystalline stream. Jewels of truth in thy fairy eyes beam ! Was there over a whiter soul than thiuo Worshipped by love in a mortal shrine ? My heart thou hast gladdened for two sweet years With rainbows of hope through mists of tears ; Mists beyond which thy sunny smile, With its halo of glory, beams all the while. Beautiful child ! to thy look is given A gleam serene—not of earth, but of heaven. With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue, Would thou could’st ever thus be young ! Like the liquid strain of the mucking bird. From stair to hall thy voice is heard ; How oft in the garden-nooks thou’rt found, Witii flowers thy curly head around ; And kneeling beside me with figure so quaint, Oh .! who could not doat on my infant saint ? Beautiful child ! what thy fate shalt be, Perchance, is wisely hidden from me : A fallen star thou mayst leave my side, Ami of sorrow and shame become the bride— Shivering, quivering, through tho cold street, With a curse behind and before thy foot, Ashamed to live and afraid to die—No home, no friend, and a pitiless sky 1 Merciful Father ! my brain grows wild— Oh, keep from evil my beautiful child 1 Beautiful child ! mayst thou soar above— A warbling cherub of joy and love, A drop on eternity’s mighty sea, A blossom on life's immortal Lice : Floating, flowering evermore, In the blessed light of the golden shore. And as 1 gaze on thy sinless bloom, And thy radiant face, they dispel my gloom ; I feel He will keep thee midcfilud, And His love protect my Leafetifui child.