"In long forgotten Springs, where He who taught
Amid the olive groves of Syrian hills,"—

And ends:

"The lilies bloom upon the prairie wide
A stainless cross is reared by nature's hand,
And plain and height alike keep Easter-tide."

In 1887, the Century published a "Sonnet on Helen Hunt's Grave," with a picture of the grave. About this time Miss Donaghe was writing a series of letters which were published in a Southern newspaper, The Valley Virginian, and were widely copied. These were on Utah, when the Mormon hierarchy was in its power. Then appeared a book on "Picturesque Utah," making one of a group with "Picturesque Colorado" and "Colorado Favorites." The last is made up of six poems on Colorado flowers, illustrated by water colors of the blossoms, by Alice Stewart, and was the first book published.

The author was married to Mr. Gilbert McClurg of Chicago, one of the family of the publishing house of that name, in Morristown, on June 13th, 1889. Since then Mrs. McClurg has been both editor and newspaper correspondent, and, within the last two years, a valuable assistant to her husband in the preparation of his department of the official history of Colorado, which included several county histories.

In the Cosmopolitan of June, 1891, a sonnet appeared, "The Life Mask," and was reprinted in the Review of Reviews. Two of Mrs. McClurg's songs were set to music by Albert C. Pierson in the summer of 1890; "Lithe Stands my Lady"; "Je Reste et Tu T'en Vas"; the latter with a French refrain, the rest in English.

The last poem of Mrs. McClurg was published in the Banner, of Morristown, Dec. 24th, 1891, written to Mr. William L. King on his 85th Thanksgiving Day, and based on the Oriental salutation, "O King! Live forever".

Among the writings of Mrs. McClurg are also two articles on the Washington Headquarters of Morristown; being "quotations, comments and descriptions on two Order Books of the Revolution, daily records of life in camp and at Headquarters, in the year 1780." A passage from this is given in the opening chapter of this book.

The "Seven Sonnets of Sculpture" came out in 1889 and 1890. This book was widely and favorably noticed by some of the largest and most important journals. Says the writer in the Chicago Daily News: "It was a happy inspiration that led Mrs. McClurg to the idea realized in the publication of her latest volume 'Seven Sonnets of Sculpture'. The work is artistic from cover to cover, but the conception of equipping each one of the stanzas it contains with a photograph of the piece of sculpture which suggested it, was unique. * * To translate a work of art from its original form to another, to find the hidden sense of a conception imbedded in stone and revive it in words, to endue marble with speech, is in its nature a delicate task and one that demands the keenest of perceptions and sensibilities." The author says, in her dedication that seven was a Hebrew symbol of perfection.

The sonnet we select from these, to represent Mrs. McClurg, is "The Questioner of the Sphinx". This sonnet was written from the impression received from Elihu Vedder's engraving of the Sphinx and the artist expressed in a letter to the author, his appreciation of the fidelity of the interpretation in verse of his picture. His criticism is perhaps the best that could be given.

"I think it," he wrote, "good and strong and shall treasure it among the few good things that have been suggested by my work. My idea in the Sphinx was the hopelessness of man before the cold immutable laws of nature. Could the Sphinx speak, I am sure its words would be, 'look within,' for to his working brain and beating heart man must look for the solution of the great problem."

THE QUESTIONER OF THE SPHINX.

(SUGGESTED BY ELIHU VEDDER'S PICTURE.)

Behold me! with swift foot across the land,
While desert winds are sleeping, I am come
To wrest a secret from thee; O thou, dumb,
And careless of my puny lip's command.
Cold orbs! mine eyes a weary world have scanned,
Slow ear! in mine rings ever a vexed hum
Of sobs and strife. Of joy mine earthly sum
Is buried as thy form in burning sand.
The wisdom of the nations thou has heard;
The circling courses of the stars hast known.
Awake! Thrill! By my feverish presence stirred,
Open thy lips to still my human moan,
Breathe forth one glorious and mysterious word,
Though I should stand, in turn, transfixed,—a stone!

Charlton T. Lewis, L.L. D.

A sketch of Dr. Lewis will be found under the grouping of Lexicographer.

The poem from which we select (reluctantly we take a part instead of the whole, for lack of space), is an embodiment of the story taken from Theodoret. The poet has found in the beautiful tradition, meagre though it is, a lovely theme for his divine song of spiritual love and Christian martyrdom.

The following is the translation of the Greek passage which heads the poem:

"A certain Telemachus embraced the self-sacrificing life of a monk, and, to carry out this plan, went to Rome, where he arrived during the abominable shows of gladiators. He went down into the arena, and strove to stop the conflicts of the armed combatants. But the spectators of the bloody games were indignant, and the gladiators themselves, full of the spirit of battle, slew the apostle of peace. When the great Emperor learned the facts he enrolled Telemachus in the noble army of martyrs, and put an end to the murderous shows."

Theodoret. Eccl. Hist. v. 26.

The scene is Rome,—the place the Coliseum. It is the time of the games. There are the crowds of eager people; the Emperor Honorius; the horrible Stilicho. Lowly and beautiful in his great love for Christ, Telemachus follows onward to the Coliseum to meet his sorrowful fate; holding in his voice the power that "stilled the fire and dulled the sword and stopped the crushing wine-press." He followed, silently, consecrated and alone, to "do the will of God."

TELEMACHUS.

I mused on Claudian's tinseled eulogies,
And turned to seek in other dusty tomes,
Through the wild waste of those degenerate days,
Some living word, some utterance of the heart;
Till as when one lone peak of Jura flames
With sudden sunbeams breaking through the mist,
So from the dull page of Theodoret
A flash of splendor rends the clouds of life,
And bares to view the awful throne of love.
The bishop's tale is meagre, but as leaven,
It works in thoughts that rise and fill the soul.
*....*....*....*....*
He felt the soil, long drenched with martyr's blood,
Send healing through his feet to all his frame.
He drank the air that trembled with the joys
Of opening Paradise, and bared his soul
To spirits whispering, "Come with us to-day!"
The longings of his life were satisfied,
He stood at last in Rome, Christ's Capital,
The gate of heaven and not the mouth of hell.
Suddenly, rudely, comes disastrous change.
He starts and gazes, as the glory of the saints
Fades round him and the angel songs are stilled:
A world of hatred hides the throne of love;
Hell opens in the gleam of myriad eyes
Hungry for slaughter, in a hush that tells
How in each heart a tiger pants for blood.
Into the vast arena files a band
Of Goths, the prisoners of Pollentia,—
Freemen, the dread of Rome, but yesterday,
Now doomed as slaves to wield those terrible arms
In mutual murder, kill and die, amid
The exultation of their nation's foes.
Pausing before the throne, with well-taught lips
They utter words they know not; but Rome hears;
"Cæsar, we greet thee who are now to die!"
Then part and line the lists; the trumpet blares
For the onset, sword and javelin gleam, and all
Is clash of smitten shields and glitter of arms.
Without the tumult, one of mighty limb
And towering frame stands moveless; never yet
A nobler captive had made sport for Rome.
Throngs watch that eye of Mars, Apollo's grace,
The thews of Hercules, in cruel hope
That ten may fall before him ere he falls.
They bid him charge; he moves not; shield and sword
Sink to his feet; his eyes are filled with light
That is not of the battle. Three draw near
Whose valor or despair has cut a path
Through the thick mass of combat, and their swords,
Reeking with carnage, seek a victim new
The glory of whose death may win them grace
With that fierce multitude. Telemachus
Gazes, and half the horror turns to joy
As the fair Goth undaunted bares his breast
Before the butchers, and awaits the blow
With peaceful brow, a firm and tender lip
Quivering as with a breath of inward prayer,
And hands that move as mindful of the cross.
And with a mighty cry, "Christ! he is thine!
He is my brother! Help!" The monk leaps forth,
Gathers in hands unarmed the points of steel,
Throws back the startled warriors, and commands,
"In Christ's name, hold! Ye people of Rome give ear!
God will have mercy and not sacrifice.
He who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar,
And smitten again in those he died to save,
Is silent now in his great oracles.
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair,
Speaks thus through me:—'In Rome, my capital,
Let love be Lord, and close the mouth of hell.
I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'"
The slaughter paused, he ceased, and all was still,
But baffled myriads with their cruel thumbs
Point earthward, and the bloody three advance:
Their swords meet in his heart. Honorius
Cries "Save,"—too late, he is already safe,—
And turns, with tears like Peter's, to proclaim,
The festival dissolved: nor from that hour
Ever again did Rome, Christ's capital,
Make holiday with blood, but hand in hand
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair
Honored the martyr—Saint Telemachus,
And love was Lord and closed the mouth of hell.

Miss Emma F. R. Campbell.

In our midst is a quiet, gentle woman who passes in and out among us without noise or ostentation. Yet upon her has fallen the great honor of being the author of an immortal hymn.

In the Canada Presbyterian of Feb. 9th, 1887, appeared an article entitled "A Great Modern Hymn." Also, it is said, that in a volume soon to be published on "The Great Hymns of the Church" will appear a paper on "Jesus of Nazareth Passeth By." From the first named, we cannot do better than quote:

"Among all the hymns used in recent revivals of religion, none has been more honored and owned by God, than this—none so often called for, none so inspiring, none bearing so many seals of the divine approval. This is the testimony of the great evangelist of these days, Mr. Moody, and this testimony will surprise no one who has ever heard it sung by his companion in the ministry, Mr. Sankey, who, under God, has done so much to send forth light and truth into dark minds and break up the fountains of the great deep, amid the masses of godless men.


"As to the origin of the hymn—the circumstances of its birth—we have to invite the reader to go back some twenty-three years, to the Spring of 1864—to a great season of religious awakening in the city of Newark, N. J. The streets were crowded from day to day and the largest churches were too small to contain the growing numbers. Among those most deeply moved by the impressive scenes and services was a young girl, a Sabbath School teacher, one who for the first time realized the powers of the world to come, and the grandness of the great salvation. As descriptive of what was passing around her but with no desire for publicity, still, with the great desire of reaching some soul unsaved, especially among her youthful charge, she wrote the lines beginning with, 'What means this eager, anxious throng?'"

The hymn was first published under the signature "Eta", the author having sometimes appended to her writings the Greek letter, using that character instead of her English name. We quote again from the same source:

"Soon it rose into popularity and it is spreading still, not only in the English language, but in other languages—even the languages of India—(think of a recent account of an assembly of 500 Hindus enthusiastically using this hymn in the Mahrati and the Syrian children singing it in their own vernacular)—as the author thinks of all these things, she can only say with a thankful and an adoring heart: 'It is the Lord's doing and it is marvellous in mine eyes!'"

Miss Campbell has also written many other poems of beauty and articles in prose, which however, are all so eclipsed by this "Great Hymn" that perhaps they are not known or noticed as they otherwise would be. One in particular, we would mention, "A New Year Thought," published December, 1888.

Miss Campbell belongs also in the group of Novelists, Story-Writers, and Moralists. She has written a number of books for the young, among which are "Green Pastures for Christ's Little Ones"; "Paul Preston"; "Better than Rubies"; and "Toward the Mark".

Miss Campbell wrote by request, at the time of the Centennial Celebration of the First Presbyterian Church in October, 1891, a beautiful hymn for the occasion which was read by Mr. James Duryee Stevenson.

"JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY."

What means this eager, anxious throng,
Pressing our busy streets along,
These wondrous gatherings day by day,
What means this strange commotion, pray?
Voices in accents hushed reply
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by?"
E'en children feel the potent spell,
And haste their new-found joy to tell;
In crowds they to the place repair
Where Christians daily bow in prayer,
Hosannas mingle with the cry
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Who is this Jesus? Why should He
The city move so mightily?
A passing stranger, has He skill
To charm the multitude at will?
Again the stirring tones reply
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Jesus! 'tis He who once below
Man's pathway trod mid pain and woe:
And burdened hearts where'er He came
Brought out their sick and deaf and lame.
Blind men rejoiced to hear the cry
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Again He comes, from place to place
His holy footprints we can trace.
He passes at our threshold—nay
He enters,—condescends to stay!
Shall we not gladly raise the cry—
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Bring out your sick and blind and lame,
'Tis to restore them Jesus came.
Compassion infinite you'll find,
With boundless power in Him combined.
Come quickly while salvation's nigh,
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Ye sin-sick souls who feel your need,
He comes to you, a friend indeed.
Rise from your weary, wakeful couch.
Haste to secure His healing touch;
No longer sadly wait and sigh.—
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Ho all ye heavy-laden, come!
Here pardon, comfort, rest, a home
Lost wanderer from a Father's face,
Return, accept his proffered grace.
Ye tempted, there's a refuge nigh
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!
Ye who are buried in the grave
Of sin, His power alone can save.
His voice can bid your dead souls live,
True spirit-life and freedom give.
Awake! arise! for strength apply,
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!
But if this call you still refuse
And dare such wondrous love abuse,
Soon will He sadly from you turn
Your bitter prayer in justice spurn.
"Too late! too late!" will be your cry,
"Jesus of Nazareth has passed by!"

Mrs. Adelaide S. Buckley.

Mrs. Buckley will appear again among Translators. The following verses were inspired by a painting of Cornelia and the Gracchi:

Purest pearls from the sea,
Diamonds outshining the sun,
Sapphires which vie with heaven,
With pride to Cornelia are shown.
Clasping her dark-eyed boys,
Fairer could be no other,
"These my jewels are"
Said the noble Roman mother.

Rev. Oliver Crane, D. D., LL. D.

Before coming to Morristown, in 1871, Dr. Crane's life had been a very active one, including extensive traveling in Turkey, Europe, Egypt and Palestine. Twice he had been a missionary in Turkey acquiring the Turkish language and doing efficient work there, first for five years, then for three. In the seven years interval of his return he accepted two pastorates in this country.

On coming to Morristown, having resigned his ministerial charge at Carbondale, Pennsylvania, he devoted himself mainly to literary work, and with General H. B. Carrington wrote the "Battles of the Revolution" which has since become a standard work. Nine years later as secretary of his college class, he prepared an exhaustive biographical record of every member of the class. The book was a pioneer in this class of publications.

In 1888, he published his translation of Virgil's Æneid and the following year a small volume of poems entitled "Minto and Other Poems", in which the "Rock of the Passaic Falls" is conspicuous as relating to Washington and Lafayette "who," says the poet, "visited together these Falls while their troops were stationed at Totawa (as the spot was then called) in the Winter of 1780. The initials G. W. are still to be seen cut in the rock below the cataract."

The Translation of Virgil's Æneid, "literally, line by line into English Dactyllic Hexameter," is Dr. Crane's great work and has absorbed much of his time for years. It is a singular fact that, although for more than four hundred years the learned have been giving to the English reader, through the press, specimen translations of this old classic, this is the first complete version in the original measure.

In the very interesting preface, Dr. Crane gives a careful review of the translations of Virgil, noticing the singular and severe prejudice that has always debarred any desire to render this classic in the metre of the original, and discussing the advantage of translating in the style of verse chosen by the author himself. In fact, he tells us, Longfellow had, from his own admirable translations, become thoroughly convinced of its utility, if not of its indispensability in giving the classic epics a fitting setting in English.

The following is an extract taken from Book X., lines 814 to 842 of Dr. Crane's literal English translation of Virgil's Æneid, which describes the hand to hand contest of Æneas with the youth Lausus, who insists upon fighting Æneas in opposition to his father's wishes and in the face of every effort made by Æneas to avoid the conflict:

TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL'S ÆNEID.

BOOK X, LINES 814 TO 842.

The destinies now are for Lausus the last threads
Gathering in; for Æneas his powerful scimitar ruthless815
Drives through the midst of the youth, and buries it wholly within him,
Right through the menacer's targe, and his delicate armor, the keen blade
Passed through the tunic his mother had woven in tissue of gold thread
For him, and blood filled all of his bosom; then life on the breezes
Mournful withdrew to the shades, and abandoned his body untimely.820
But as the son of Anchises in truth on the visage and features
Gazed of the dying—the features, becoming amazingly pallid—
Pitying deeply he sighed and instinctively tendered his right hand,
Fresh as the image recurred to his mind of regard for a father:
"What to thee now, O pitiable boy, for these laudable efforts,825
What shall the pious Æneas, befitting such nobleness render?
Keep it—thine armor, in which thou rejoicest, and I to thy parents'
Shades and their ashes, if this could be any requital, remit thee;
Yet thou in this, though unlucky, canst solace thy sorrowful exit,
That by the hand of the mighty Æneas thou fallest." Abruptly830
Chides he his faltering comrades, as gently from earth he uplifts him,
Soiling his ringlets with blood, that were combed in the comeliest fashion.
Meanwhile, his father was down by the wave of the stream of the Tiber
Staunching his wound with its waters, and resting his body, reclining
Close by the trunk of a tree. At a distance his coppery helmet825
Hangs on its boughs, and at rest on the sod is his cumbersome armor:
Standing around are his warriors chosen; he sickly and panting
Eases his neck, as his out-combed beard streamed down on his bosom;
Often he asks after Lausus, and many a messenger sends he
Back to recall him, and bear him his sorrowful parent's injunctions:840
But on his armor his comrades were weepingly bearing the lifeless
Lausus away—a hero o'ercome by the wound of a hero.

Rev. J. Leonard Corning, D. D.

Dr. Corning, who, with his family, was for some years a resident of Morristown and is now abroad, is represented later in the volume, among the writers on Art. We give here his beautiful poem, "The Ideal".

THE IDEAL.

Awake, asleep, in dreams, amid the din of mortal striving,
I feel thee ever near, vision of fancy's sweet contriving:
The setting sun and twilight glow
Thou art the music sweet and low.
When on the sands, at dead of night,
Dark waves are breaking in their might,
While, through the billowy crests, the wild winds roar,
Thou art the gull who over all dost soar.
Amid the storm and lightning flash,
The pelting rain and thunder crash,
When faces blanch, and none can will,
Thou, heavenly bow, art faithful still.
'Tis not the kiss, the touch, the sigh,
That bringeth love from earth to sky;
For motions strange about the heart
Reveal the inner nature of thy part.

Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest.

Mrs. Augustus W. Cutler has kindly given us the following monograph:

"In a Memorial of the late Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest occurs the following passage: 'For two hundred and fifty years, the English readers of the Bible were obliged to content themselves with the phrase, 'They seek a country'. It was not the whole thought. It was reserved for a corps of learned revisers to light upon the happy phrase, 'They are seeking a country of their own'.' But a score of years before the wise grammarians reached this line, a youthful poetess, seeing and greeting the Heavenly promise from afar, wrote simply and sweetly:

"'I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see The shining gates o' Heaven, an' my ain countree'.

"This youthful poetess was Mary Lee, afterwards Mrs. T. F. C. Demarest.

"Before her marriage, in 1870, she spent several years in Morristown and became identified with the place and its interests; and there are many persons living here who remember her sweet face and gentle ways.

"A taste for the Scotch dialect is said to have been acquired from an old Scotch nurse who lived a long time in the family, when the children were young. The girl caught it so completely, that when deeply moved, she was wont to drop into it, for the more vigorous expression of her feelings. 'Somehow', said she, 'the Scotch is more homely, less formal to me'. Thus, in the poem alluded to, could the thoughts contained in it, have been expressed as beautifully and tenderly in the mother tongue?

"Again, there is a little poem in the same dialect, entitled 'My Mither', which appeals to every heart.

"Though many of her poems and prose writings are of a devotional character, yet she had a keen sense also of the humorous side of life as the verses entitled 'Allen Graeme', will testify.

"Mrs. Demarest traveled extensively throughout our own country, and also abroad. Two volumes of her writings have been published—one entitled 'Gathered Writings', a collection of short stories, fragments of foreign travel and reflections".

MY AIN COUNTREE.

I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary afterwhiles,
For the langed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles;
I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see,
The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.
The earth is fleck'd wi' flowers, mony tinted fresh and gay,
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
I've His gude word o' promise that some gladsome day, the King
To his ain royal palace His banished hame will bring;
Wi' een an' wi' hearts running owre, we shall see
The King in His beauty, in our ain countree;
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white—His hand shall dry mine e'e,
When he brings me hame at last, to mine ain countree.
Sae little noo I ken, o' yon blessed, bonnie place,
I ainly ken its Hame, whaur we shall see His face;
It wud surely be eneuch forever mair to be
In the glory o' His presence in our ain countree.
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast,
For he gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
An' carries them Himsel', to His ain countree.
He's faithfu' that has promised, He'll surely come again,
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
So I'm watching aye, and singing o' my hame as I wait,
For the soun'ing o' His footfa' this side the gowden gate,
God gie His grace to ilk ane wha' listens noo to me,
That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

Hon. Anthony Q. Keasbey.

We cannot do better than quote the words of Dr. Thomas Dunn English, the well-known author of "Ben Bolt", now living in Newark, N. J.,—with regard to Mr. Keasbey.

"Here, in Newark", says he, "we have a lawyer of distinction, Anthony Q. Keasbey, who occasionally throws off some polished verses, as he excuses them, by way of 'safety plugs for high mental pressure,' and these are always smooth and scholarly. They are mostly privately printed for the amusement of the poet and a few chosen friends. One of these, however, has such a vein of tenderness and so much heart music that it deserves to become public property and to remain as much the favorite with others as it is with me." The poem referred to is, "My Wife's Crutches."

"Unquestionably", continues Dr. English, "Mr. Keasbey stands well in his profession, and for years, under several Federal administrations, filled the office of United States District Attorney with credit to himself and advantage to the public; but this little tender poem does more honor to his intellect than his legal acquirements, however eminent they may be, and gives him a still stronger claim to the regard of his many friends."

Among Mr. Keasbey's published collected poems are "Palm Sunday", of which Mr. Stedman once said he had put it away among some fine hymns; also "May", published in England and set to music by Faustina Hodges. These verses were inspired by the falling of the cherry blossoms on the grave of little May, and are most sweet and touching. One of the best is "The Dirge for Old St. Stephen's", written while they were demolishing the church built on Mr. Keasbey's ground, where now a "mart and home" have taken its place as was anticipated by the poet.

Mr. Keasbey has published numberless papers in prominent journals and magazines. Some of these are to be collected and published in book form. His address on "The Sun: How Man has Regarded it in Different Ages", is well worthy of preservation in more permanent form than that in which it appears at present; also "The Sale of East New Jersey at Auction", an address delivered February 1st, 1862, before the New Jersey Historical Society at Trenton, on the Bi-Centennial of the Sale. This is full of interesting information, told in a charming way and is valuable for reference.

The paper on "The Sun", was inspired by Mr. Keasbey's reading with great interest, the papers of Professor Norman Lockyer, the great astronomer, describing his researches into the constitution of the sun, through the medium of the spectroscope and the photograph. Mr. Keasbey had been interested in observing the extent to which modern science had reached with respect to the actual condition of the sun and the materials of which it is composed. This led him to the thoughts of how very recent had been any such attempts to understand its true nature and, from that reflection, he was led to consider, as a subject of a paper, how human eyes in all ages have looked upon the sun and in what manner they have regarded it. This published address was delivered before the Brooklyn Historical Society, a brilliant audience present, and Rev. Dr. Storrs, presiding.

A book on Florida, "From the Hudson to the St. John's", describing a month's journey to Florida and the St. John's River was published in 1875; also, more recently, a small book on "Isthmus Transit by Chiriqui and Golfo Dulce", with a view of describing the Chiriqui mountain rib or back bone of Darien and all the executive and legislative action, with respect to the region between Panama and Nicaragua, with reference to railroad communication across the isthmus from the harbor of Chiriqui on the coast to the Pacific.

In the Hospital Review, of July, 1882, is a very striking and powerful paper on the "Tragedy of the Lena Delta", where De Long and his companions so heroically met their fate in the Arctic snows.

Below is the favorite of Dr. English among the Poems:

MY WIFE'S CRUTCHES.

Ye solemn, gaunt, ungainly crutches,
That serve her frame such slippery tricks,
Were you within my lawful clutches,
I'd fling you back in River Styx.
Ye grew beside the Boat of Charon,
In murky fens of Stygian gloom,
Nor ever, like the rod of Aaron,
Shall your grim spindles burst in bloom.
Your reeds were tuned for groans rheumatic,
And croaking sighs from gouty man;
Nor e'er shall thrill with tones ecstatic,
As did the pipes of ancient Pan.
Avaunt you, then, ye helpers dismal!
Offend my eyes and ears no more;
Go stalking back to realms abysmal
And guide the ghosts on Lethe's shore.
But see! while yet my words upbraid them,
Her crutches bud with blossoms fair,
And Patience, Love and Faith have made them
Than Aaron's rod, more rich and rare.
And hark! from out their hollows slender,
No dismal groans or sighs proceed,—
But tones of joy more sweet and tender
Than swelled from Pan's enchanted reed.
Then stay! your use her worth discloses,
Your ghastly frames her worth transmutes,
From withered sticks, to stems of roses—
From creaking reeds, to magic flutes.

Major Lindley Hoffman Miller.

Major Miller, a brother of our well-known townsman, Henry W. Miller, was among the first of the 7th Regiment of New York City, who answered the call of the government to march to Washington for the protection of the Capitol. He served in that regiment through the riots in New York, and afterwards joined a Colored Regiment and was promoted to the rank of Major. He served in this position at Memphis and elsewhere through the South. In this campaign he lost his health and came home to die. He died in June, 1864, and was laid in old St. Peter's churchyard.

Mr. Miller was a man of brilliant mind and unusual genius. His fugitive poems are very beautiful. They were published in various journals of the time, and one we will add to this short sketch of his brief but valuable life, "The Skater's Song", full of spirit and dash, and gay with the heart of youth.

THE SKATER'S SONG, BY MOONLIGHT!

Come away, from your blazing hearths!
Come away, in the gleaming night,
Where the radiant sky is peering down
With a million eyes of light!
Heigho! for the glancing ice,
For the realm of the old Frost King!
We'll shake the chain of the bounding stream
Till all its fetters ring!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from your cheerless books!
Come away, in the clear, cold air!
And read in the deeps of the starry night
God's endless volume there.
Ho! now we're flashing along,
At the snow-flake's drifting rate!
Did ever anything stir the pulse
Like a glimmering moonlight skate?
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from the ball-room's glare!
Come away, to a merrier dance,—
To a hall, whose floor is the flashing ice,
Whose light is the stars' pure glance!
Now we're watching the moon in her dreams,
Now we dash at our speed again;
While the stream groans under the icy links
Which the frost has forged for his chain!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, each lady fair!
Come, add to the magical sight!
And mingle the silvery tones of your words
With the echoing "voices of night"!
Heigho! for the frozen plain!
Here's a glancing mirror, I ween,
Reflecting all the beautiful forms
That move in our fairy-like scene.
Away! my lady, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from your sorrow and grief,
All you that are gloomy and sad!
Unwrinkle your brows to the whistling wind,
Till your hearts grow merry and glad!
Ho! Hark! how the laughter in peals,
Is shaking the tides of the air,
And shouting aloud to drown with its joy
The muttering murmurs of care!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come, one and all, then, away!
Come, cheerily join in our song,
And mingle with music the ring of the steel,
Keep in time, as we're sweeping along!
Heigho! for the throne of the Frost!
We'll frighten the phantoms of night,
And serenade, far under the depths,
The river's listening sprite!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Miss Henrietta Howard Holdich.

Miss Holdich, poetess and story-writer, has been a resident of Morristown, since 1878, and has written at various periods since she was seventeen years of age. Her poems, stories, and other writings have appeared from time to time in Harper's Magazine and other important publications. We would like to give Miss Holdich's beautiful and thoughtful poem, "In Holy Ground", suggested by a Russian Legend, but, as we give her Centennial story entire, our space does not allow. She is represented, instead, by a few lovely lines written for a golden wedding and sent to the happy pair with a basket of flowers and fruit.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING.