best lines; but I persuaded him to re- dusky figure standing by her side, and place it when he came home. It is a that is all. mistake in general for him to listen to Sometimes she lives confusedly to the suggestions of others about his the world of imagination as the Abbess poems."

at Almesbury; and sometimes, as one All this was long ago, and the finger who knew her has said, she was like of memory has left faint tracings for the first of the three queens, “the tallme to follow; but I recall her figure est of them all, and fairest," who bore at dinner as she sat in her soft white away the body of Arthur. She was muslin dress, tied with blue, at that no less than these, being a living intime hardly whiter than her face or spiration at the heart of the poet's bluer than her eyes, and how the boys every-day life. stood sometimes one on either side of It would seem to be upon another her in their black velvet dresses, like visit that we were talking together in Millais' picture of the princes in the the drawing-room about Browning. tower, and sometimes helped to serve “We should like to see him oftener," the guests. By and by we adjourned she said, "he is delightful company, to another room, where there was a but we cannot get him to come here; fire and a shining dark table with we are too quiet for him!” fruit and wine after her own pictur- I found food for thought in this litesque fashion, and where later the

tle speech when I remembered the poet read to us, while she, being al- fatuous talk at dinner-tables where I ways delicate in health, took her ac- had sometimes met Browning, and customed couch, I remember the thought of Tennyson's great talk and quaint apartment for the night, on the lofty serenity of his lady's presdifferent levels, and the faded tapes- ence. try, recalling “the faded mantle and

My last interview with Lady Tennythe faded veil,” her tender personal

son was scarcely two months before care,

and her friendly good-night, Tennyson's death. The great grief of the silence, the sweetness, and the their life in the loss of their son Lionel calm.

had fallen upon them meanwhile. She sometimes joined our out-door They were then at Aldworth, which, expeditions, but could not walk with although a house of their own build

For years she used a wheeled ing, was far more mediæval in appearchair, as Mrs. Ritchie has charmingly

ance than Farringford. She described in her truthful and sympa- alone, and still on the couch in the thetic sketch of the life at Aldworth. large drawing-room, and there she I only associated ner with the inte- spoke with the same youth of heart, rior, where her influence was per- the same deep tenderness, the same fect.

simple affection which had The social atmosphere of Farring failed through years of intercourse. ford, which depended upon its mis- When she rose to say farewell and to tress, was warm and simple. A pleas- follow

as far

as possible, she ant company of neighbors and friends stepped with the same spirited sweep was gathered when “Maud” was read I had first seen. aloud to us, a wide group, grateful and

The happiness of welcoming her appreciative, and one to which he liked lovely face, which wore to those who to read.

knew her an indescribable heavenliAfter this the mists of time closed

ness, is mine no more; but the memory over! I can recall her again in the

cannot be effaced of one lady who grey dress and kerchief following our

held the traditions of human existfootsteps to the door. I can see her

ence. graceful movement of the head as she

From "Authors and Friends." By Annie Fields waved her adieux; I can see the poet's

Houghton, Miffin & Company, Publishers.


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Are less than the sick whose smiles come


At the touch of my lady's hand.
They sent him round the circle fair,

Her little shoe of satin
To bow before the prettiest there.
I'm bound to say the choice he made

Peeps underneath her skirt-
A creditable taste displayed:

And a foot so small ought never at all Although–I can't say what it meant

To move in mire and dirt.

But oh! she goes among the poor, The little maid looked ill-content.

And heavy hearts rejoiceHis task was then anew begun

As they can tell who know her well-
To kneel before the wittiest one.

To hear my lady's voice.
Once more that little maid sought he,
And went him down upon his knee.

her glove is soft as feathers She bent her eyes upon the floor

Upon the nestling dove: I think she thought the game a bore.

Its touch so light I have no right

To think, to dream of love He circled then his sweet behest

But oh! when, claa in simplest garb, To kiss the one he loved the best.

She goes where none may see, For all she frowned, for all she chid,

I watch, and pray that some happy day He kissed that little maid, he did.

My lady may pity ME.
And then-though why I can't decide
The little maid looked satisfied.


She might have known it in the earlier

That all my heart with vague desire was

And, ere the Summer winds had taken

wing, I told her: but she smiled and said no


The Autumn's eager hand his red gold

grasped, And she was silent: till from skies grown

drear Fell soft one fine, first snow-flake, and

she clasped My neck and cried, "Love, we have lost

a year!"


U. S. Grant-July 23, 1885.
His name was as a sword and shield,

His words were armed men,
He mowed his foemen as a field

Of wheat is mowed-and then
Set his strong hand to make the shorn

earth smile again.
Not in the whirlwind of his fight,

The unbroken line of war,
Did he best battle for the right-

His victory was more:
Peace was his triumph, greater far than

all before.
Who in the spirit and love of peace

Takes sadly up the blade,
Makes war on war, that wars

may cease

He striveth undismayed,
And in the eternal strength his morta

strength is stayed.
Peace, that he conquered for our sake-

This is his honor, dead.
We saw the clouds of battle break

To glory o'er his head-
But brighter shone the light about his

dying bed.
Dead is warrior, King of Life,

Take thou his spirit flown:
The prayer of them that knew his strife

Goes upward to thy throne-
Peace be to him who fought-and fought

for Peace alone.
From “Poems." By H. C. Bunner. Charles

Scribner's Sons, Publishers.


Her silken gown it rustles

As she goes down the stair:
And in all the place there's ne'er a face

One half, one half so fair.
But oh! I saw her yesterday-

And no one Ioner 'twas she-
When a little sick child looked up and

As she sat on my lady's knee.
Fler fan it flirts and flutters,

Fler eyes grow bright, grow dini, And all around no man is found

But thinks she thinks of him. But, oh! to her the best of all,

Though they be great and grand,



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I. A FREAK OF CUPID. In Three larts.
Part I.,

Temple Bar,
Knox Johnson,

Fortnightly Review,
By A. T. Quiller-Couch,

Contemporary Review,

Nineteenth Century,


Belgravia, VIII. " THE SEVEN SEAS,"

Saturday Review, IX. THE FOUR“SICK MEN” OF THE WORLD, Economist,

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Single copies of THE LIVING AGE, 15 cents.
GEO. A. FUXCROFT, Manager Advertising Department, 36 Bromfield St., Room 3.


By the yesterdays were hidden,

And to-morrow flowered unbidden
Kindest of mothers, from whom I have

Round feet that moved unchidden

In their place.
Back again, tired, I come to thee,
Chaunting and crooning the old wave-

But Chenonceaux, lightly scorning

Lapse of years and fortune's lies, Sing it, oh! sing it again to me!

Watched the valley wake at morning

And the sunset fill the skies Weary and spent as the hour draws near, With its pageant rare and splendid, Hush me to sleep with the soft wave

Like a queen with pomp attended song,

Till her little day is ended Wash all the cares away, wash all the

And she dies. strifes away, All the old pains that to living belong. And doubtless yet some lady

Spends her happy springtime there,

And wanders through the shady Down at thy side I place me to rest;

Woodland paths with loosened hair, Slowly my senses are stealing from me; Passions and pleadings have ceased in my Marks the night creep down and cover

Or, laughing with her lover, breast,

The grey walls built above her,
Gently my spirit floats away free.

And the Cher.


In the days of pomp and pleasure

It was wrought in fashion rare,
A lordly house of leisure

On the little, laughing Cher,
And the waters danced around it,
And the green banks rose to bound it
Tiu roof and turret crowned it,

Tall and fair.

"Rest ye shall find,"

The grasses bind:
Over the headstones the undulant wind.

Yews at the root

Of a tomb stand mute;
While the orchard-garlands heave their


And thither, spurring level

With their plumes upon the breeze,
Rode the gallants to the revel-

Lusty hearts that ranged at ease
O'er the vineclad slopes, and clattered
Through the village streets, and battered
At the hostels, ere they scattered

'Mid the trees.

Lichens prey

On the stony clay:
The willows flow free from the south


Darksome the tomb:

How the gales illume
The dove-feathered heaven, plume on


Ah, the hunting and the hawking

For the monarch and his man,
Ah, the mirth and merry talking

In the château, when Diane
Won it fair with bow and quiver,
And kissed the royal giver,
As they leaned and watched the river

Where it ran!

Peaceful the grave;

But how life is brave.
The rows of elms in their rhythm rave.

But love may lose its glamour,

And luck avert his face; The eyes that could enamour

And the lips that granted grace

Let the grasses bind!

My dead I find
In the host of the cloud-compelling wind.


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