son
monde._' In that home of the gay, the brilliant and the profound,
of all that in life or art attracts the man of genius, or
learning, or taste, Mr. SANDERSON was the favored guest of the
most celebrated savans and wits, many of whom since his return to
the United States, have waited anxiously for his restoration to
their circles. And he himself looked forward with happy
anticipations to the renewal of his old friendships. In a few
months he was to reoeccupy his apartments in the Rue Rivoli.
'There,' he said to the writer of these recollections but a week
ago, 'there with congenial spirits I shall spend the residue of my
days.' How much those friends will sorrow when they learn that
JOHN SANDERSON is no more!

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 shor