A grand marshal is a fellow who is not strong enough politically to pull down a deputy game wardenship.

but who possesses all the essential qualities of a gilt edged general or a fiery rear-admiral.
==
One quality of Gen. Ross is always referred to - his excellence as a counsellor. He permitted no client to
involve himself in ruinous and hopeless litigation; and whether in preliminary consultation or an
instituted suit was to be prosecuted or defended, the client might rely implicitly on his advice, upon a
thorough investigation of the facts and the principles of law involved in his case, upon the rectitude of
his judgment, and his entire integrity and conscientiousness; as an advocate, whether before Jury or
Court, he was argumentative, grave, unimpassioned, and clear as logical arrangement and correct
English could make him. A certain dignity and earnestness gave more interest and impressiveness to his
speech than wit and brilliancy imparted to another.

As a legislator, he was a man of mark and influence. During most of his life his political principles were
opposed to the dominant party. Had they prevailed, there were few positions to which his native State
might not have elevated him.

Gen. Ross had much to do with the growth and development of the region where he passed his life.
Whenever anything of business or local or general interest was established there, his name was sure to
be mentioned in connection with it. On this topic, and his qualities as a friend, neighbor, citizen and
Christian gentleman, and in his domestic relations, the narrow limits of this notice prescribe silence.

General Ross graduated at Columbia College, in 1808, and studied law in the office of the late David B.
Ogden, in New York city. He commenced, in early life, his military experience, in the Thirty-Seventh
Regiment of Militia. In the war of 1812 he was Adjutant of that Regiment, but at the battle of
Plattsburgh was on the Staff of Gen. McComb, where he did good service in the cause of his country.
Continuing in the Militia, he held successively the positions of Brigade Inspector, Colonel, Brigadier-
General, and Major-General.

At the same time, his advance was rapid in civil life. Among the various offices which he has ably held
during his long and useful life, we may mention he was a Member of Congress in 1825-6, and President
of the Electoral College in 1848. He was candidate for Presidential Elector at other times, the last time in
1860. He was first County Judge of Essex County, under the Constitution of 1846, and was elected by a
unanimous vote.

In his profession, he stood at the head of the Bar in Essex County for many years, and was held in
esteem almost reverential, by all his juniors.
"That's the very thing we're looking for, Bob! I knew we'd find 'em here. See the marks in the snow?"
The younger boy bent eagerly forward better to examine the track before him.

"I see it's a trail all right, and not a cottontail's. Blessed if I know what made it, though. D'you, Dave?"
The taller lad smiled in half-hidden amusement at the eagerness with which his chum was seeking to
unravel the mystery.

"Surely! You would, too, if you'd only put in more time out in the woods like me, 'stead of fooling with
that horse of yours every chance you've got from chores. It's a coon made it. Coon, Bob, and here's
where we get him!"

"I say, Davey! Hold hard! Don't be so cock sure of everything. I mayn't know much about trapping, but
I've hunted coons myself with houn' dogs too many times not to know something of 'em. They live in
trees, I'd say. Tall ones mostly. If a fellow chases 'em, why they -"

"'Course they do!
Time flies swiftly when we are sightseeing; and it was late in the autumn of 18 - when I reached Lindau.
Lake Constance lay before me, a pale, green sheet of water, hemmed in on the south by bold mountain
ranges, filling the interim between the Rhine valley and the long undulating ridges of the Canton
Thurgau. These heights, cleft at intervals by green smiling valleys and deep ravines, are only the front of
table-land stretching away like an inclined plane, and dotted with scattered houses and cloistering
villages.
The photo-play drama of "Salomy Jane's Kiss" was based upon Paul Armstrong's dramatized version of
Bret Harte's story, one of the most popular of all the tales told by this greatest writer of the pioneer
days in California. Many incidents are introduced which are not to be found in the original version. In
amplifying the story, the photo-play has been followed closely, and the reader will find in the book some
of the characters so familiar to lovers of Bret Harte, such as Mr. Jack Hamlin, Colonel Starbottle, and
Yuba Bill. There has been no attempt to follow the dramatic version of Mr. Paul Armstrong.

The illustrations are reproduced from photographs of the photo-play, taken in the famous California
redwoods, and used in the book through the kind permission of the California Motion Picture
Corporation.
"What in the world are those people up to?"

Ruth Fielding's clear voice asked the question of her chum, Helen Cameron, and her chum's twin-
brother, Tom. She turned from the barberry bush she had just cleared of fruit and, standing on the high
bank by the roadside, gazed across the rolling fields to the Lumano River.

"What people?" asked Helen, turning deliberately in the automobile seat to look in the direction
indicated by Ruth.

"Where? People?" joined in Tom, who was tinkering with the mechanism of the automobile and had a
smudge of grease across his face.

"Right over the fields yonder," Ruth explained, carefully balancing the pail of berries. "Can't you see
them, Helen?"

"No-o," confessed her chum, who was not looking at all where Ruth pointed.

"Where are your eyes?" Ruth cried sharply.
Florida Shores

I

The white sails fill before an urgent wind
That blows from off some shore of verdant hue;
God's sunlight falls where sight and vision end
And makes the dream of other days come true.

Yon stunted pines bend low against the sky,
Dwarft for an hundred years by scanty soil,
Like eager souls, without the wings to fly -
Held down by want and unrewarding toil.

A day with wind keen set from Southern shores,
A day with breakers tossed from East to West -
A day of sea-life, which the heart adores -
A day the soul of freedom loveth best.

II

Twilight off shore - near-by the mist and maze
That come with night, and nightly moan of sea -
Twilight on ocean's sad, mysterious ways
That leaves its softened glow and gloom with me.

Tall palm trees frescoed on a sky of blue -
White gypsie clouds on vagrant errands bent: -
My boat, the river, dreaming eyes and you,
Behold my kingdom in a word - "content."
Mr. President, Members of the New Brunswick Historical Society in the City of St. John, Ladies and
Gentlemen:

To a man brought up as it were at the feet of the Gamaliel of loyalty, and taught to believe that the
American Revolution was an unnecessary evil, and that Independence was "log-rolled" into an
accomplished fact, and converted by interested parties from a menace into a machine - to such an one it
is very pleasant to meet with descendants of honored men who thought, and wrought, and fought,
shoulder to shoulder in the desperate defense of a government under which they had thriven and were
happy - a government which certainly had rewarded my and many of our people for services rendered
to it, by them, previous to the Revolution.

The success of the American Revolution, which added so many illustrious men to Canada, could not have
been brought about if similar causes had not operated to the same result but from opposite directions.
(Scene, Living Room at the Haywood Home. As the curtain rises Mrs. H.is sitting at table, center, sewing.
Susan busy paring apples.)

Susan. Mother, haven't cousin Nancy and Uncle Peter come yet?

Mrs. H. No, dear. Uncle Peter left just after breakfast and its almost five o'clock but they are not here
yet. Poor little girl, it will be a long, hard ride for her. I will brew her a cup of herbs for I'm sure she'll be
utterly fatigued when she arrives. They ought to be here at any moment now.

Susan. I do think its a shame, when Dorothy just came yesterday to make me a nice little visit, for uncle
John to consider it safer for Nancy to be with us than way over there where the British haven't been for
months. Why couldn't she have waited a week or two?

Mrs. H. Why, Susan! I'm heartily ashamed of you. In these troublesome war times you know it is much
safer for your cousin Nancy to be with us than twelve miles from the public highway with servants. Your
uncle John knows best and I'm sure if your father were alive he would insist upon it. Besides, my dear,
Nancy is four years your junior and will not disturb you and Dorothy in the least I'm sure.

(Enter Dorothy. Susan rushes at her affectionately.)

Mrs. H. Come in my dear. I was just going to tell Susan of her cousins affliction. Her father wrote me
that she had a bad fall last autumn and that it injured her brain. Although the poor child never suffers,
her mind is weak and she is very childish, so you girls must be kind to her.
Immediately after Father Doherty's death we published his principal French writings. To-day we are
happy to complete our task by giving to the public his English productions. Although Mr. Doherty wrote
these pages not dreaming that they would ever be published, yet we believe they are well worthy of
perusal, and that they reveal a superior mind and distinguished literary talent. We will say no more here,
leaving to the public to appreciate their merits.

At the beginning of this volume will be found the short biographical sketch which preceded his French
writings.
The following Poem was commenced in the Summer of 1847, and finished in the Spring of 1850. It was
originally undertaken at the suggestion of one, whose purity of heart, intellectual attainments, and deep
religious faith, threw a sunset radiance over life's young hour. The Author would pause awhile, from the
cares and turmoil of the busy world, and offer a flower, warmed and nurtured into being by Love's
earnest smile, to fill a place in that unfading garland, which the fond heart twines for the early dead.
Icarian Flights

Ode I. i.

To Mcenas

Mcenas, sprung from kings of old,
Whom for my shield and star I hold,
The charioteers will gladly boast
How, 'mid Olympic dust uptost,
With scorching wheels they dear the post,
While, if the famous prize they win,
They rule the world, to gods akin.
Then here is one is chiefly proud
To sway the fickle Roman crowd,
Beneath their triple honours bow'd.
Another shuts his granary doors
With joy upon whatever stores
Were swept from Libya's threshing-floors.
This one, who ploughs his father's land,
Against an Attalic bribe will stand
The following pages were written agreeably to a vote passed at Eastham Camp-Meeting, August 14th,
1840. In consenting to their publication, the author has not followed the dictates of his own judgment;
he has submitted to the wish of others.

No literary merit is claimed for this simple discourse. Prepared, originally, for the people of my pastoral
charge, amid numerous duties, nothing was attempted beyond a plain, succinct explanation and
enforcement of the duty of personally laboring to win souls. Nothing more need be looked for in the
following pages 5 for the brief notes of the discourse have been followed, and the language of its
delivery adhered to, as closely as the nature of the case permitted.
Thine Eyes; Kissing Babies; The White Slave's Moan; The Element of Life; Because, My Dear, It's You; The
Bread of Life; The Wanderer's Unrest; The Cure; The Departed; Sleep Beloved!; Ideal Kisses; The Kid; The
Good-Night Kiss; The Stars and Stripes Forever - No. 4; The Home Angel's Song; The First Dream; Home;
Motherhood's Desire; Woman; The Rejected's Faith; The New Advise; The Wife; Nature's Bouquet;
Rejected; The Foolish Virgin; Grandma's Marriage; The Sweetest of the Sweet; The Poetic Wife; Fat
Medicine; Is He Married?; Influence of Baby; The Whistling Girl; The Wife's New Dress; An Old Fashioned
Georgia Father; A Cradle Mediation; Boyhood's Home; Drink Her Health; The Lover's Pathway; The
Proposal; "Rub Me and I'll Smell"; "Cuddle Doon"; Oh Love of God Come In!; An Old Fashioned Home
Flower; Mother's Day
How To Make A Pedigree

Air, "Nelly Gray"

If you'd like a goodly tree,
With a branching pedigree,
Where you'll stand forth in full ancestral fame,
Just employ an antiquary,
Who will humor your vagary,
And have everything indorsed with some great name.
If the good Bernard Burke
Will but put it in his work,
And he'll scarcely have the heart to say you nay,
What though Garter King should scowl,
And the Scotish Lyon growl?
There's no power that can take your tree away.

Chorus.

Oh! good Bernard Burke,
Please to put me in your work,
Sure an Irish heart will never say me nay;
Then though Garter King may scowl,
And the Scotish Lyon growl,
Where's the power that can take my tree away?

As the Highland Bible showed,
There were Grants before the Flood,
And the Grants still believe it to a man;
"'Sum' slicings of cord-wood," intends giving some "plain talking to" to all folks (and give all folks
"something to talk about"), and consists of twenty-five, or more, different essays, so-called, giving in
eccentric but truthful language "the private opinion publicly expressed" of the eggs-end-trick-wood-
sawyer, Jonas Simpkins, on religion, political economy, mathematics, patents, business life, agriculture
(?), Railroading, Nature, Capital, Labor, and many and various other subjects. These opinions were
formed from silent meditations on the rounds of a well-worn saw-buck - over past sad (?) experience "in
a long and eventful life." They are serio-comic views of things as they be photographed from memory's
page for the benefit of "whom it may concern" - with a partial auto-biography interwoven - and 'awl-so'
illustrations by a chip from another block.

Being full of queer, unique, yet appropriate comparisons, and many quotations from authors learned
and unlearned, viz.: street-preachers and bank-clerks, newspaper-carriers and peanut-women, an "Arp,"
a Byron, a Shakespeare, a Paul, a Jno. G. Saxe, a Beecher, a Jno. Quincy Adams, a Phillips, a "Doesticks,"
a "Billings," a "Twain," and the "world at large," it ain't "turned out all song," nor it ain't "turned out all
sermon."
Why Reynard was not at Court; How Bruin took the King's Message; How the Wild Cat fare; How
Reynard came to Court; How the Fox was condemned to Death; How Reynard told of the Treasure; How
the Wicked Fox won Freedom by Treachery; How Cuwaert the Hare meta Dreadful Fate; How Bellyn
Ram returned to Court; How more Complaints of Reynard's Wickedness were brought to the King; How
Grimbert the Badger warned Reynard; How Reynard feasted Grimbert; How Reynard came to Court a
Second Time; How Dame Rukenaw came to Reynard's Aid; How Reynard told a Wondrous Tale of Three
Jewels; How Raynard reminded the King of this Virtues; How Reynard answered his Accusers; How
Reynard fought Isegrim the Wolf
This little book of woman's work and what she can do if she makes up her mind to do it, should be
placed in the hands of every school child. It will teach them loyalty to themselves and their country, and
they will grow up to respect the heroes of our wars. To-day, the heads of the soldiers of North and South
are carrying the same color, the gray, while the nimble footsteps are growing weary and soon taps will
be sounded for them all. May it be well with them when the time comes.

My ancestors were the early settlers of Pennsylvania, Dutch on one side. Huguenot on the other. I was
born in one of the finest valleys of the United States, the Cumberland, but I lived and was educated in
the city of Harrisburg. How many people of to-day can recall the Omen of War just before it broke out. I
was coming home, with a party, from Camp Meeting, and such an awe-stricken party as it was. I confess
here, for once in my life I was afraid.
The Crowninshields; The Putnams; Old Days in Pembertou Square; Travels in Europe; Newport,
Brookline and Barnstable; Art, Music and Social Clubs; The Bahamas, Washington and Coronado; Later
Travels; Appendix, Words and Music of Songs written from memory
A poem in violent reaction to the mass emotion of the moment is an invaluable record to historian and
sociologist. Mr. Osbert Burdett's "Resurrection of Rheims," written in the early part of 1916, and so
carelessly esteemed by its author that he has not troubled to publish it, is of this genre - subconsciously,
perhaps. It is, besides, of such quality that it becomes little less than a duty to rescue it from danger of
oblivion, and afford it at least a temporary abiding place in print.

In 1916-17, the Editors of several periodicals of high critical profession were impelled, from motives of
polity - not lack of appreciation - to refuse it harbourage, and the author himself is now finely indifferent
as to whether it is lost or preserved, regarding it (in his own words) "as little more than an exercise or
experiment at the time in unrhymed irregular verse, in which it seemed proper to choose an irregular
subject, and to suit an anti-traditional matter to an anti-traditional form." All that, notwithstanding, his
poem is my chief motive and only justification for responding to the request of certain indiscreet friends
that I should print these fugitive notes for my address on the subject of Art in War-Time.

They were gathered to be spoken, not read, and I have not refashioned them.

To those whom they annoy - I genuflect.

To those whom they amuse - I smile back.

To Osbert Burdett - for his generous permission to drag his fine poem at the tail of my unworthy cart -
my unbounded gratitude.
The Taj Mahal - The Legend of the Jasmine Tower; "Shagni-Robe" - A Tibetan Legend; The Pearl - A Fable
of India; Mars; Eternal Saki; From Night to Light; Aries; Inspiration; Our Susan; Harmony; The Message;
The Rivulet; The Music of the Night; The Secret of the Flowers; A Waking Dream; A Dream; The Great
White Dome; California; In Memoriam; Eugenie's Birthday; El Dorado; A Tribute to Clio; The Song of the
Brook; The Sun-Child; Wedding Bells - Eugenie and David; Progress - Written for a Suffrage Meeting; To
My Sweetheart; In the Gloaming
I declare I hardly know how to say what justice to myself obliges me to say. - The public hears daily of so
many unlucky Poets, who become publishers from the same fate that ranges me in their class, that I am
apprehensive the truth, when told, will not serve me as an apology, but the effect of constraint be
reputed the wish of presumption.

The course of my studies first gave me a taste for Poetry, and the sweetness of the art inspired me with
an inclination to improve it.
Jed is pretty smart. Pa says no one will get the best of him. He fixed it up, and is running it all the time.

John (Coming back to his seat). He got it started, all right.

Fred. You know that big mud hole in front of his house. When pa was road master, he tried to get Jed to
fix it, but he wouldn't. Pa found out the reason. When a big car gets stuck there, he just brings out his
old Ford and pulls it out. He charged a man from St. Paul five dollars for pulling out his Cadillac. I wonder
why he goes to Sunday School? Why does anyone go? It ain't no fun.

John. You can bet it's fun for him. He has a chance to stand up in front and tell the rest of the guys what
they "ort to do." I like the singing all right, but I hate the lesson study Miss Perkins gives us, and the
blamed verses she makes us say by heart.

Fred. Ain't you glad we cut today?

John. You just bet I am. Let's cut every time. We'll learn to smoke and play cards, and soon they'll think
we're so tough they won't want us to come to Sunday School any more. Did you bring the pipe?

Fred. Yep, here it is (producing an old black pipe). I had a hard time to sinch it. But last night the hired
man went to see his best girl and hung his old coat in the wash room. I nabbed his pipe, all right. I'll bet
he's looking for it today.

John. Here is the tobacco. You light up while I smoke one of these. (Exhibits cigarettes.) This is the way.
(Lights match. Fred tries to smoke but chokes.) Now there sure is someone coming. Great guns, it's Sis!
Hide the pipe and the cards, quick!

(Enter Mary)

Mary. What are you poking off here for? Don't you know it's time for Sunday School? How do you do,
Fred?

Fred. Hello, Mary.

Mary. What are you two pals up to anyway? You look as if it were some mischief.

John. We're just hanging round, loafing, see? (Boys exchange glances.)

Mary. You'd better go and get ready for Sunday School.

John. Naw, I ain't going to Sunday School today.

Fred. We're taking a vacation. (Boys laugh.)

Mary. Pa won't like it if you aren't there. You know what he says, John.

John. You bet I do. I've heard it often enough to know it by heart. (Imitating) "Don't you ever forget, my
son, that your father is the minister and you are expected to be an example to other boys." I'm getting
pretty darned tired of it. (Kicks box.)

Mary. Why, John!

John. What's the use of Sunday School, anyway?
We give you the product of our work after months of planning and effort. We have earnestly
endeavored to record the happiest and most worthy events of the school year. We hope that we have
preserved the best. If you find pleasure in recalling these events through the Periscope, our reward will
be complete.
"Intaminatis fulget honoribus." - Hon.

"Sterling worth and virtue in persons of eminent place and dignity are seated to great advantage, so as
to cast a lustre upen their very place, and by a strong reflexion, double the beams of majesty." -
Archbishop Tillitson.

Sermon, Folio Edition, London, 1695, p. 45.

May every hope by you be won - by men and angels blest,
Be many years the favored son of the Athens of the West,
The well beloved, for every voice its willing anthems raise,
And every listner will rejoice to hear their Chieftain's praise.
Let Boston flourish free and fair - and in the day I leave her,
I'll pour on high my warmest prayer, for her and thee, Mayor Seaver.

So now arrayed in regal power,
May blessings in ethereal shower
Deluge your soul, for truth renowned,
And scatter mercies all around,
And late, full late, may you arise,
And bloom afresh in Paradise;
While your good name, from age to age,
Shall decorate our history's page,
And adding splendors to my song,
The poet's fame itself prolong.
This Translation follows the common established text of modern editions of Virgil. The woodcut on the
title-page is after a drawing by Raffaelle in the Academy at Venice.

I must thank my friend, Mr. Warde Fowler, Fellow of Lincoln College, for having read over the translation
of the Georgics, and made many valuable criticisms on both style and matter.
In which our hero becomes excessively unwell, and agrees to go through a course of medicine.

The hammocks were not piped down that night, some were taken indiscriminately for the wounded, but
the rest remained in the nettings, for all hands were busy preparing jury masts and jury rigging, and Mr.
Pottyfar was so well employed that, for twelve hours, his hands were not in his pockets.
Folly: for wha tcan the man do tha tcometh gftgr the ci-iap, kinc; .even tha twhich hath been alneady
done. Then i saw ii. Tha twisdom excelleth folly, as for as lic;h texcelleth dark- ness. The wise mans eyes
ane in his head; but the fooi walketh in dankness: and i myselr penceived also tha tone even thapeeneth
to them all. Then said i in my l1grt, as 1 thappenet to the fooi, so i thappeneth even to me; and why was
i then mone wise. Then i said in my l1grt, that this also is vanity. Fon tl 1 ris no nemembnance or the
wisemone than or the fool for even; seeinc; thatwhich now is in the days to come shall all be forc;ottn.
And how dieth the wise man. As the fool. Thrfor i hated lire; because the wonk tha tis wroi.ic;h tunden
the sun is qnievous unto me: for all is vanity and vexation or spirit. Yea, i hated all my laboun which i had
taken unden the sun: because i should leave i tunto the man tha tshall be afte rme. And who knoweth
whethe rhe shall be a wise man on a fool. Ye tshall he have rule oven all my laboun wherein ihave
labouned, and whenein i have shewed mysel1:- wise unden the sun. This is also vanity. Thenerone i wen
tabout to cause my h.grt to despair: or all the laboua which i took unden the sun. Fox tht-dre: is a man
whose laboun is in wisdom, and in knowledge, and in equity; yet toamantha thath no tlabouned thenein
shall he leave it for his pontion. This also is vanity and a (;rc1t evil. Fora wha thath man or all his laboun,
and or the vexation or his l1grt, whenein he ilc1tl lic1b0i.ird unden the sun. Fox: all his days age
sonnows, and his tnavail qnier; yea, his l1grt taketh not rgst in the niqht. This is also vanity. There is
nothinc; better for a man, than tha the should ea tand dnink, and tha the should make his soul enjoy
good in his laboun. This also i saw, tha tit was froit 1 the hand or god. Fon who can eat, on who else can
hasten heneunto, mone than i. For: god c;iveth to a man tha tis good in his siqh twisdom, and
knowledge, and joy: but to the sinnen he c;iveth tnavail, to c;otl 1 rand to heap up, tha the may give to
him tha tis good berone god.1 his also is vanity and vexation or spirit.
Folly: for what can the man do that cometh after the king? even that which hath been already done.
Then I saw that wisdom excelleth folly, as for as light excelleth darkness. The wise man's eyes are in his
head; but the fool walketh in dankness: and I myself perceived also that one event happeneth to them
all. Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it happeneth even to me; and why was I then
more wise? Then I said in my heart, that this also is vanity. For there is no remembrance or the wise
more than or the fool for ever; seeing; that which now is in the days to come shall all be forgotten. And
how dieth the wise man? As the fool. Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought under the
sun is grievous unto me: for all is vanity and vexation or spirit.

Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that
shall be after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man on a fool? Yet shall he have rule
oven all my labour wherein I have laboured, and wherein I have shewed myself wise under the sun. This
is also vanity. Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labour which I took under
the sun. For there is a man whose labour is in wisdom, and in knowledge, and in equity; yet to a man
that hath not laboured therein shall he leave it for his portion. This also is vanity and a great evil. For
what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation or his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the
sun? For all his days age sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night. This is
also vanity.

There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul
enjoy good in his labour. This also I saw, that it was from the hand or God. For who can eat, or who else
can hasten hereunto, more than I? For God giveth to a man that is good in his sight wisdom, and
knowledge, and joy: but to the sinner he giveth travail, to gather and to heap up, that he may give to
him that is good before God. This also is vanity and vexation or spirit.
The Duke of Saint-Simon was born in 1675. He entertained an exalted conception of the dignity of a
duke and a peer, yet that rank had not long been held by his family. His father was an obscure country
gentleman, of ancient lineage. Chance threw him in the way of Louis XIII. He pleased his master, as is
said, by his skill in the chase; he became a royal favorite, and in 1635 was made a duke and a peer of
France. His rise was sudden and little deserved, yet he was not a vulgar nor an odious favorite; he was a
man of respectable, if not of brilliant parts, who conducted himself with discretion, and enjoyed his
prosperity with moderation. To him was born, when he had reached the mature age of sixty-eight, a
son, who became the second Duke of Saint-Simon and the author of the famous Memoirs.

The son entered the army at the age of nineteen, and he served creditably in several campaigns.
Gentlemen:

I cannot but be very grateful for your kind appreciation of the discourse, which, at your request, I now
put into your hands. But far deeper than any sense of personal appreciation is that grateful emotion,
which every patriot feels at each new demonstration that, however people may have differed before,
now, in this time of the nation's bereavement, without distinction of party or of sect, they come
together in sentiment, speech, and action, to the support of the government and the assertion of its
authority.

In regard to the present discourse, delivered only thirty-six hours after the death of the President, it
was, of course, prepared in greatest haste and under intensest excitement, an unutterable grief and
equal indignation alternating and commingling. Never were the people shocked with so great a horror;
they shook their heads in doubtful augury of the future; waiting anxiously for each new telegram from
Washington, they yet almost feared to receive it, lest it should tell them of further assassinations. This
will not, of course, be understood as an apology for any utterances contained in the discourse, for on
calm review I see nothing to be changed so far as the sentiments are concerned. But, to those of you
who, differing widely from some of its views, -have yet expressed yourselves so kindly concerning it and
joined in the request for its publication, I wish to return my sincere thanks, that you appreciated the
circumstances under which it was delivered, and cared not for smaller differences in your overwhelming
distress at the nation's loss.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon, when we hope to find.
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life,
But not the praise.

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move.
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.

- Milton.

What is excellent,
As God lives, is permanent;
Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;
Hearts' love will meet thee again.

- Emerson
It is a well-known fact that, when Christopher Columbus first set foot on America's soil, he found it
already tenanted by a people which, though differing from his own race in customs and color, were as
perfect specimens of humanity as himself and followers.

Only intent upon new discoveries, and animated but by the desire of subjugating whatever new
countries he might find to the crown of Spain, the great explorer regarded this new and strange people
merely in so far as they might be used in furthering his own plans, troubling himself little about their
rights or origin.

The extreme darkness in which the earlier history of our Red neighbors is involved, renders it next to
impossible to penetrate the veil which enshrouds their origin; while it is almost needless to say that all
that has been said or written about this certainly interesting subject is based only on conjecture and
fiction.
In the part of the world in which the incidents of our story occurred, there live a number of highly
respectable labourers, who are possessed of small properties of their own. These little properties have
been handed down from father to son, in some instances, for many generations; and the different
families seem to be almost part and parcel of the soil itself. But now many of these families are breaking
up, and the little estates are purchased by neighbouring proprietors and absorbed in their large
properties.
The writer of these sermons has had a long ministry of more than forty years. Nearly half the period of
his active life has been spent in the work of King's Chapel. During this time many sermons of his have
been published in pamphlet form. But pamphlets are not easily preserved, and some of his friends have
expressed a wish to have a selection of these sermons put into more enduring shape. This book is made
in response to that suggestion.

Its author believes in the method of freedom everywhere, so far as it can be with a fair degree of safety
applied. Except where human life is actually at stake, as in war, or in the management of many of our
mechanical contrivances, he thinks that something of efficiency may well be sacrificed to secure a larger
amount of individual liberty. He believes this because none but a free mind can be trusted to engage in
the pursuit of new truth, and because humanity cannot be safe in following any road where the clearest
light of truth is not allowed to lead the way.

He believes also that the greatest illumination ever shed upon our pathway came through the life and
teaching of Christ.
The first Pet that we ever remember possessing was a large white rabbit. We were then very little
children; and, being at the sea-side, we spent the greater part of the day on the shore, or rather on the
broad esplanade, that stretched for full half-a-mile round the pretty bay. When we were quite tired of
running there, or of picking up stones and weeds on the shingle below the esplanade wall, we were
enabled to prolong our stay out of doors by means of the pretty little goat-carriages that were kept in
readiness on the esplanade. Some of them were made with two seats; some were drawn by one goat,
and some with two. There were reins and regular harness to these little goats, and we were indeed
pleased, when our nurse allowed us to drive in one of the double-seated carriages. We took turns to sit
in front and drive, and we tried hard to persuade our Mamma to let us have a goat, and a goat-carriage
for ourselves. What a nice Pet that would have been!
Rev. Zachariah Greene died at Hempstead, at the residence of his daughter, Mrs. Benjamin F.
Thompson, on Monday evening, June 21st, 1858, aged 98 years 5 months and 10 days. His decease was
the occasion of very general mourning in the community; and his funeral called together a large
assemblage from far and near, to pay their last respects to him who had long been considered as an
Evangelical patriarch. He was buried on the succeeding Thursday; Rev. N. C. Locke, D. D. Pastor of the
Presbyterian Church, preaching an eloquent and appropriate discourse from Genesis v. 24; this text
having been selected by Mr. Greene himself. In addition to the solemn exercises of the burial-service,
the citizen-soldiery of Brooklyn and Jamaica paid his remains the honor of a military escort to the grave,
in grateful remembrance of his services in the Revolutionary War. Deeming the life of this venerable
patriot and Christian minister deserving of a formal and enduring historical tribute, the inhabitants of
Hempstead requested the delivery of the following Eulogy; which was accordingly pronounced in the
Presbyterian Church, on Thursday evening, February 10th, 1859.
A Century of Misquotations

Section I.

1

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; dear music that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much.

2

Sublime tobacco, which from east to west
Cheers the tar's labor, or the Turkman's rest;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel, thou.

3

If any one attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot.
Ef the bird of our country could ketch him she'd skin him;
I seems though I see her, with wrath in each quill,
Like a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill,
An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater,
To pounce like a writ on the back o' the traitor.

4

Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay;
A Chieftain's daughter seemed the maid,
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch such birth betrayed.
It was in the winter of 1913, that my husband came upon his "Memoirs of Blockley." He decided at once
to rewrite and revise them for publication. Every spare moment during these winter months, in spite of
not having been in his usual health, Doctor Bliss spent in preparing this work. It seemed to give him so
much pleasure, that I repressed my feelings of anxiety lest he might overtax his strength.

His professional duties had been especially hard during this winter, and he gave himself unsparingly to
the many who called for help. These "Memoirs" had been just finished and been typewritten, when God
called him to his Heavenly reward.

The life of Doctor Bliss was an example of unselfish devotion for the good of others, and of rare nobility
of purpose.

To publish these pages is my greatest privilege.
The Book of Ecclesiastes is unparalleled in the whole range of Biblical Literature. Ernest Renan spoke of
it as the only charming book that was ever written by a Jew. Heinrich Heine called it the Canticles of
Skepticism, while Franz Delitzsch thought it was entitles to the name of the Canticles of the Fear of God.
From the earliest times down to the present age Ecclesiastes has attracted the attention of thinkers. It
was a favorite book of Frederick the Great, who referred to it as a Mirror of Princes. But Biblical students
of all ages have experienced some difficulties about this remarkable production. Some in the Jewish
Church denied the inspired character of the work, until the synod of Jabneh (90 A. D.) decided in favor of
the canonicity of the Book. The genuine portions of Ecclesiastes are out of place in the Canon. Their
author is not a theologian, but a man of the world, probably a physician, with keen observation,
penetrating insight, and vast experience.

I believe that the genuine portions of Ecclesiastes were written by a prominent Sadducean physician in
Jerusalem, who was born at the beginning of the reign of Antiochus Epiphanes (175-164)and died in the
first decade of the reign of Alexander Jannus (104-78 B. C.).
Transmitted, in the same manner as the Scottish and Breton ballads, as a precious heritage from father
to son, the old ballads of Scandinavia were preserved by popular recitation. With all their contradictions
and inconsistencies, they are national - no ballads more so - distinguishable from the Scottish writings of
the same class, although possessing many delicate points of similarity. As for the themes, some are of
German and others of Southern origin, while many are chiefly Scandinavian. The adventurers who swept
southward langsyne, to range themselves under the banners of strange chiefs, not seldom returned
home brimful of wild exaggerated stories, to beguile many a winter night; and these stories in course of
time became so imbedded in popular tradition, that it was difficult to guess whence they primarily
came, and gathered so much moss of the soil in the process of rolling down the years, that their foreign
colour soon faded into the sombre greys of Northern poesy. Travellers flocking northward in the middle
ages added to the stock, bringing subtle delicacies from Germany, and fervid tendernesses from Italy
and Spain. But much emanated from the North itself - from the storm-tost shores of Denmark, and from
the wild realm of the eternal snow and midnight sun. There were heroes and giants breasting the Dovre
Fjord, as well as striding over the Adriatic. Certain shapes there were which loved the sea-surrounded
little nation only. The Lindorm, hugest of serpents, crawled near Verona; but the Valrafn, or Raven of
Battle, loved the swell and roar of the fierce North Sea.
At the Font of Bike's Peak

Poor atoms of humanity
Sore buffeted by destiny, -
We feast our wearied eyes on thee,
Emblem of mighty majesty,
Unmoved as ages roll.

Could we, when storms of passion lower,
Or maddening strife for wealth and power,
In which we waste life's golden hour -
Makes us forget th' immortal dower
From Him who made the soul,

But learn the lesson taught by thee
In patience and humility:
Thy silent, strong serenity,
The beauty and the majesty
Of calm and self control!
But as touching the resurrection of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken to you by God,
saying, I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? God is not the God of the
dead, but of the living. - Matt. 22: 31, 32.

In this way were the Sadducees put to silence by our blessed Lord; refuting their position, exploding
their doctrine, and disclosing their falsity before all the people. Who can doubt again that the
immortality of man is taught in the Old Testament, taught in the Pentateuch of Moses? He quotes a
most familiar phrase from the third chapter of Exodus; a phrase honorary and popular and national to
the Jewish people; a phrase of which the easy and the necessary implication merely, is utterly
destructive to their system. It was part of what God said to Moses at the bush in Midian. How much
better is this method, than one of elaborate argumentation, with proud and clannish sectarians, or
other perverse and wilfully blind enemies of God! It reminds us of one of the five smooth stones out of
the brook. which his father David, eleven hundred years before, preferred to the armor of Saul; and with
one of which, well directed, he brought Goliath to the ground. So the Son of David, in a way as simple, as
pretensionless, as smooth, and as well aimed, smote mortally the fortress of infidelity and atheism. He
seems to have taken, as it were, a mere pebble from the wilds of Arabia, and with it demolished the
Sadducean heresy. What is simple, polished, honest, and direct, is commonly the most effectual.

With equal ease, but with more displayed majesty, will he answer all the arguments of error, and
degrade the men that use them, in the day of judgment. Then the truth shall have the sole ascendency -
and all its murky and miserable rivals and counterfeits shall go down forever. Alas! how many of their
venders and patrons and victims shall go down with them, in that day!
'Twas all so close with copse wood bound,
Nor tract nor path-way might declare,
That human foot frequented there.

Previous to entering into the history at large, it will be necessary to give a short account of the manner
by which the narratives and incidents were obtained. Our party happening to make an excursion not far
from the environs of Naples, we beheld a most magnificent portico, the beauty of which led to an
investigation of the interior of the building. It was the church of Santa Maria del Pianto. While viewing
the entrance of the church, we were forcibly struck with the appearance of a person, impressive in his
manner, and apparently lost in deep thought, who stood leaning against one of the pillars in the side
aisle.
Whether the Treatise I now send you be of this Nature, is submitted to your equal Judgement: And
unless I really design'd a Nobler End by it than the Justification of one Person, neither you nor any body
else should love your time in reading, no more than I my self would be at the Pains of writing it, which
yet I'll count the highest Pleasure if I understand it has never so little contributed to the Satisfaction of a
Gentlemen of such undisputed Learning and Merit.
"Unto this mighty king his throne
Was born a prince, and one alone." - Eugene Field.

There was once a Cavern King who had a little son named Guld. When this king, whose kingdom was
among the rocks and in deep cavernous regions underground where kobolds dwelt, was called to go to a
far country, he left little Guld to be king in his place when he was grown old enough and wise enough.
The kobolds agreed that they would hold together as a nation and that they would keep all the old king's
laws until little Guld should come to the throne.

In the meantime, little Guld was left with his foster mother Rhea, who was loving and careful. His bed
and his chair were taken into her house, which was really a wing of the royal castle, but the castle itself
was closed. To her was also entrusted the king's crown, but this she hid away so secretly that nobody
could guess where it was kept.
A home-shaken emulsion of self-respect, self-conceit, and an apparent or real appropriateness, suggest
that I begin my story with my beginning.

Neither here, nor anywhere else in this book, do I humbly or otherwise apologize for the ever-present
use of the capital "I."

"I" is by me made the active character, and without "I" I couldn't consistently play my story.

I, Newson New, began to begin at 2 p.m., February 27, 1858, in the sanded and salted village of
Yarmouth, Barnstable County, Cape Cod, Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
The story of a great house has rarely, if ever, been so diversified by the accidents of Time, State, and
Person, as is that of the mansion at Chelsea built by Sir Thomas More in 1520, and demolished by Sir
Hans Sloane in 1740. That so fair an inheritance should but twice during two centuries have descended
from father to son, and should have changed owners no less than thirteen times, is enough to make its
history worth inquiring into; and curiosity grows into fascination as we discover what sort of people
possessed it, and by what chances it was tossed from one to the other.

Without including the Crown, the Parliament, and the younger Duke of Buckingham's creditors, by
whom it was seized on four several occasions, its successive owners were as follows: -

Sir Thomas More.

The first and second Marquises of Winchester.
Some of these poems are reprinted here through the courtesy of the editors of the Century Magazine,
The Poetry Journal, The Pathfinder, and the Boston Evening Transcript. The Browning poem appeared
first in Mr. William Stanley Braithwaite's Browning Centenary page of the Boston Evening Transcript, and
the last stanza of "Year of the Peace" appeared in his Peace Page. I thank these editors for permission to
reprint these poems.
I have a friend with one absorbing passion, and that is for those whom he calls "his men." How his eyes
flash and gleam when he talks of them! Their bravery, their humour, their cheerfulness, and the sense of
what they have done for him, are his constant theme. He has often said to me that the only course
which is open to him is to give his life in the service of such men.

He knows of the social inequalities of life, and hates with a bitter hatred the old social system. One
night, as we chatted together, he chanted to me those words from that great poem of a soldier, F. W.
Harvey:

If we return, will England be
Just England still to you and me?
The place where we must earn our bread?
We who have walked among the dead,
And watched the smile of agony,
And seen the price of Liberty.
Which we have taken carelessly
From other hands. Nay, we shall dread,
If we return,
Dread lest we bold blood-guiltily
The things that men have died to free.

"Never again": he said, "we must reconstruct our country: we need a bold policy of reconstruction."

I said to him, "I heartily agree with you, but would it not be better to speak of regeneration rather than
reconstruction? Can the same men reconstruct a better world unless there is a change of character? If
our architects of civilisation have built a house whose foundations could not stand the strain, shall we
entrust them with the building of a new one? If we are to reconstruct society, we need to realise the
imperative need of the regeneration of individuals."
These simple expressions of thought-impulses were nearly all suggested while sojourning in a small
prison village situated upon the southeastern exposure of a spur of the Adirondack Mountains.

This is indeed a wonderful and most unusual locality. Perched half way up the mountain side is the little
village dignified by the presence of a prison with huge gray walls, immense buildings of brick and stone,
high smoke-stacks, and many of the modern things of life - such as electric lights, et cetera, all unique in
themselves because hardly outside the shade of the virgin forest.
During the year 1851, news reached California that in the Spring of that year, a family, by the name of
Oatman, while endeavoring to reach California by the old Santa Few route, had met with a most
melancholy and terrible fate, about seventy miles from Fort Yuma. That while struggling with every
difficulty imaginable, such as jaded teams, exhaustion of their stores of provisions, in a hostile and
barren region, along and unattended, that they were brutally set upon by a horde of Apache savages;
that seven of the nine persons composing their family were murdered, and that two of the smaller girls
were taken into captivity.

One of the number, Lorenzo D. Oatman, a boy about fourteen, who was knocked down and left for
dead, afterwards escaped, but with severe wounds and serious injury.

But of the girls, Mart Ann and Olive Ann, nothing had since been heard, up to last March. By a singular
and mysteriously providential train of circumstances, it was ascertained at that time, by persons living at
Fort Yuma, that one of these girls was then living among the Mohave tribe, about four hundred miles
from the Fort. A ransom was offered for her by the ever-to-be-remembered and generous Mr. Grinell,
then a mechanic at the Fort; and through the agency and tact of a Yuma Indian, she was purchased and
restores to civilized life to her brother and friends. The younger of the girls, Mary Ann, died of
starvation in 1852.

It is of the massacre of this family the escape of Lorenzo and the captivity of the two girls that the
following pages treat.

A few months since, the Author of this book was requested, by the afflicted brother and son, who barely
escaped with life, but not without much suffering, to write the past history of the family; especially to
give a full and particular account of the dreadful and barbarous scenes of the captivity endured by his
sisters. This I have tried to do. The facts and incidents have been received from the brother and sister,
now living.

These pages have been penned under the conviction that, in these facts, and in the sufferings and
horrors that befell that unfortunate family, there is sufficient of interest though of a melancholy
character to insure an attentive and interested perusal by every one into whose hands and under
whose eye this book may fall. So far as book-making is concerned, there has been brought to this task
no experience or fame, in the author, upon which to base an expectation for the popularity of the work.
"Office-boy," said Mr. Sherwood.

"New-fangled business, eh?" observed Mr. Brooke, staring in fascination at the hole in the wall.

"Oh, certainly."

"Bet it cost you a lot of money."

"One thousand, three hundred and twenty-six dollars and forty-eight cents," said Mr. Sherwood briskly,
as he blotted a paper and placed it in the jaws of a steel contrivance, from which presently the office-
boy removed it. "But for maintenance - well, between eight and nine cents a day. Does the work of
three ordinary boys; never gets sick; never sasses the stenographer; never goes to a ball game; never
went to its grandmother's funeral."

"Some boy," sighed Mr. Brooke, whose establishment knew none of its kind. "Saves you something, I
suppose?"

"Wouldn't have it if it didn't. Saved its cost of installation in a year and a half, and is now several
hundred dollars ahead of the game. Never took a vacation yet, or asked for one. Saves time, money, and
sorrow."

Mr. Brooke, who was also the president of a corporation, nodded his head solemnly, indicating that
there was no use of arguing the matter.

"How much is my bill?" he asked.

"Twenty-two thousand dollars," replied Mr. Sherwood promptly. "Here it is."

"Ouch!"

"Ten per cent, of what we've saved you on a year's operating cost. Is that much?"
O Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?

By William Knox.

(This is said to have been Lincoln's favorite poem.)

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid:
As the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that Infants affection who proved.
The father that mother and infant who blest -
Each, all, are away, to that dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure - her triumphs are by;
And alike from the minds of the living erased
Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The head of the King, that the scepter hath borne;
The brow of the priest, that the miter hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave -
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread -
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we see the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;
To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.

They loved - but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned - but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumbers will come
They joyed - but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died - ah! they died - we, things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain,
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;
O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Section VI; These therefore to be reconciled; which not so difficult as to reconcile his dehortations from
sinful actions, with his predeterminative concurrence thereto. - This undertaking waived as not
manageable; Section VII; Nor necessary, the principal arguments that are brought for it not concluding -
That everything of positive Being must be from God - That otherwise he could not foreknow such
actions. - The former considered - How we are to satisfy ourselves about the latter; Section VIII; The
undertaken difficulty weighed. - Nothing in it of contradiction - Nothing of indecorum; Section IX; God's
supposed foreknowledge of contingent actions alters not the natural goodness or evil of them; Section
XI; How God may be said to act for any end - His public declarations to men have a more principal end
than their obedience and felicity; which is attained, though this fail - The difficulty therefore concerning
the Divine Wisdom vanishes; Section XII; That concerning the Sincerity of God considered. - That other
end, man's obedient compliance, attained in great part; Section XIII; God not obliged to procure his
published edicts should reach every individual person - It is owing to the wickedness of the world that
they generally do not so; Section XIV; He shows special favour to some nations herein, without being
injurious to others: yea, expresses much clemency and mercy to all
A few yards separated from the shore, in a picturesque reach of the resplendent winding Wye, rests a
huge boulder, which ages ago must have broken away from a ridge upon the hill-side above, upon which
now there are several such gigantic brethren of a sufficiently threatening aspect, and which may be
precipitated any day into mid-channel, therein to cool their vast sides after a prickly roll through thickset
gorse.

Below this block, in summer time, the divided stream reunites to ripple in a rapid run, within which lurks
many a noble fish, both trout and salmon. Upon it, a few stunted shrubs and heather grow;

Frondesque lymphis obstrepunt manantibus;
Somnos quod invitet leves.

Often has it formed a foreground for the wandering artist's sketch: and oftener an afternoon couch for
ourselves, whereupon were strung together such reflections as occurred to us upon the events of the
day. From this diary the following pages present an extract.

From this huge stone our homestead itself would appear to have borrowed its name, being mentioned
in Domesday Book as "Mainavre" (obviously a corruption of the Welsh, "Y Maen yn yr avon," or "the
Rock in the River"), and was held from the king in consideration of ten shillings and a sextary jar of
honey annually.
Venetian Twilight.

My Gondolier lazily makes his way,
Threading along, humming a song,
And glorious tints of a dying day
Fill me with rapture, while earth, sky and sea,
In their aureole robes, are a mystery
Hidden from none, priceless, but free.

The swish of the oar through the dark, quiet stream,
Rhythmical, clear, soothing to hear,
Scatters the mist, as a little moon-beam
Kisses the lips that are mine by right,
And caresses the form with its mellow light
For which I am yearning to-night.

This world is a place full of trouble and pain,
None of us know why this is so;
In fancy, at least, when you suffer again,
Ride in my gondola, dismiss all care,
Hear the soft music that floats through the air
At twilight, in Venice, so fair.
My Reverend Brethren,

The temporal throne of the Roman Pontiff has for some years past been in a tottering condition, and
would at once be overturned by his own misgoverned subjects, if they were not in dread of foreign
intervention. But with regard to the lofty spiritual pretensions of the Papacy the case is different. These
are put forth in their most exaggerated form, with an overbearing confidence calculated to astound and
overawe the weak-minded.

The efforts of the Propaganda have for some years past been specially directed to this country. Money is
nowhere wanting for Popish objects, chapels, colleges, schools, and monastic institutions of all kinds,
are rising up in every quarter of the kingdom. Even members of our own body have allowed themselves
to be perverted.
In 1891 I published the Life and Writings of Sir Thomas More. In that volume I gave a short account of
his various books and pamphlets both in Latin and English, together with numerous extracts and
translations. Several of my reviewers expressed a hope that a complete Library Edition of the Works of
More might soon be undertaken. Perhaps the present collection may serve as a sample both of his
matter and manner, and hasten the desired reprint. As such a publication, however, would be very
costly, and must of course retain the old spelling, it would not bring the wisdom or the wit of the great
writer much nearer to the general public, and the selection I have made would still be useful. I had
announced a reprint, somewhat abridged, of the holy martyr's Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation,
written by him in the Tower; but I am glad to find there is a remainder of Dolman's reprint still on sale by
Mr. Baker, of 1 Soho Square. I have, therefore, merely added extracts from it to selections from his
other writings. I have thought it better not to reproduce here any of the passages of More's various
writings that I have interwoven into his life.

The Bridal Hour

O bridal hour, thou holy hour
Hour of wonder and delight!
Thy mystery have angels laid,
But tasted not the perfect bliss
Of youth and maiden,
With the dew of hope upon their brow,
To the heart's coy trysting come,
Entwined in each other's arms,
In Amor's caldron seething,
Eye looking into eye,
Soul into soul outpouring,
Drinking deep and full
The Bridal Kiss.
In the waving green grass
On the top of the hill,
Where soft winds murmur
And never are still,
Golden-eyed daisies
Rear their white crowns,
Graceful and dainty,
Far from the towns.

A feeling of happiness
Steals o'er my mind
When, in the waving grass,
Daisies I find.
Many sweet memories
Round your stems cling,
Of words, thoughts and day-dreams
Of old songs you sing.
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, she set out for home; and her unexpected arrival would
have imparted no little pleasure, but for the alteration in her looks. The maternal fears of Mrs.
Glenmorlie were all awakened by the languor and melancholy visible in her appearance, though
Rosalind did all in her power to induce a belief that nothing was the matter with her.
We leave Montreal in a great downpour of rain - a perfect deluge. In spite of the rain, there are many
gathered on the pier to see us off. There is mutual waving of handkerchiefs, and exchange of farewells.
The rain descends in torrents, type and token of God's manifold blessings, so at least we pilgrims are fain
to look upon it. As our ship frees herself from her moorings, and glides into the stream, one fond pilgrim
is overheard remarking that Montreal is weeping over our departure. And such copious tears as they
are, too!

Last evening at eight, we all met at the Cathedral, St. James's, to assist at Pontifical Benediction of the
Blessed Sacrament.
Scene. - A party on the grounds of the Harneys, in Kittery.

Enter Harney, Sr. and Captain Titus.

Har. Sr. But wait! look over yonder where the town
Lies like a tired swimmer on the shore
Which stays the foot of Agamenticus.
Now tell me, Captain, - you have traveled wide -
Is there a country pleasanter than this?

Titus. I judge a landscape by the women in it.

Har. Sr. Turn and judge this; here is our company.

Titus. Truly, if home-bred, you may boast a little.

Har. Sr. Such as you see, my friends and neighbors round,
Some from the city and some visitors
That with the goose fly north in summer time.
I will acquaint you with them, one and all.

Titus. If one is well enough, let one be all.

Har. Sr. Have you a choice.

Titus. Who are those passing?

Har. Sr. Over there?

Titus. Strolling together.

Har. Sr. Oh, that's a widow.
Here for the summer from Virginia;
Her name, Lucretia Wayne; those by her side,
Her daughter and her niece.

Titus. Come on, then, let us pay our compliments.
It is man's part to be magnanimous
And soothe the wretched; we must comfort her.

Har. Sr. Wait! they come this way.

Titus. Remember now, a friend should boost a friend.
We boys must give a hand to one another.
No new edition of Bulfinch's classic work can be considered complete without some notice of the
American scholar to whose wide erudition and painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument.
"The Age of Fable" has come to be ranked with older books like "Pilgrim's Progress," "Gulliver's Travels,"
"The Arabian Nights," "Robinson Crusoe," and five or six other productions of world-wide renown as a
work with which every one must claim some acquaintance before his education can be called really
complete. Many readers of the present edition will probably recall coming in contact with the work as
children, and, it may be added, will no doubt discover from a fresh perusal the source of numerous bits
of knowledge that have remained stored in their minds since those early years. Yet to the majority of
this great circle of readers and students the name Bulfinch in itself has no significance.

Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born in 1796. His boyhood was spent in
that city, and he prepared for College in the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training at
Harvard College, and after taking his degree was for a period a teacher in his home city. For a long time
later in life he was employed as an accountant in the Boston Merchants' Bank. His leisure time he used
for further pursuit of the classical studies which he had begun at Harvard, and his chief pleasure in life
lay in writing out the results of his reading, in simple, Condensed form for young or busy readers. The
plan he followed in this work, to give it the greatest possible usefulness, is set forth in the Author's
Preface.
The Old Elm Tree

(At My Childhood Home.)

When memory reverts to the scenes of my childhood,
Two objects so often in fancy I see,
Through winter and summer they stood there together,
The tree by the spring, or the spring by the tree.
Over and over we gathered the cowslips,
And bright willow katkins on the old grassy lea,
Then returned with our treasurers, so warm and so weary,
To rest in the shade of the Old Elm Tree.

No frost ever curdled that bright sparkling water
When the heart of the roses were frozen to die,
And the tree only shaking its great massy branches,
Would scatter the snowflakes that came from the sky,
Over and over we drank of that water,
No need had we for an "iron-bound pail,"
So bright and so sparkling it lay in its beauty,
We quaffed from the old cup that hung on the nail.

When the storm and lightning came down in their fury
We sometimes feared for the fate of the tree,
What do we live for? This momentous question might be answered in various ways, severally, more or
less comprehensive and true, or shallow and false. We will answer it in its highest and most immediate
sense - to secure happiness. To be rightly happy, is to be in harmony with all that is good and great.

Respecting the object of existence, then, which has to be found through scrupulous self-searching and
rigid comparison, much variety of opinion exists. Almost in the same breath we may be told that it
consists either in the attainment of power, or the acquisition of wealth, or that it is nothing more than
the mere pleasure of living with a conservative or discretionary observance of daily enjoyments.

So perplexing an intermixture of sentiments is in itself corroborative of an important fact - that man is
not happy. Moreover, it is certain that, unless he be constituted like the ignis fatuus - solely to deceive -
this happiness is obtainable since it is universally sought after, while the persuasion moulds the actions
of all men, who assiduously labour, consciously or unconsciously, in accordance with their respective
notions of what is requisite to procure it.
Curtain goes up to the notes of a hand-organ, loud and strident. Reginald is seen in a rolling chair, with
pillows and afghan. Owen is attending him. They are discovered at the left upper part of the stage,
where a window is seen or suggested.

Reg. (Whining most dismally.) Take me away; oh, do take me away from that noise!

Ow. Yes, sir; I will, sir. (He wheels the chair down to the center.) 'T is awful music, sir.

Reg. Close the window, Owen; please do. You must want me to die! Call that music! (Owen flies to dose
the window.)

Don't shake the floor so. Don't make so much noise. You know I can't stand noise. Don't the doctor say
so, you big brute?

Ow. He does, sir.

The sound of the organ dies away as if in the distance.

Reg. Is the Italian going away?

Ow. (Goes very lightly to make an observation.) He is, sir, him and the other monkey.

Reg. Oh, don't try to be funny. You know I can't endure that when I am so weak. Don't I hear another
noise?

Ow. 'T is only a horse, sir.

Reg. How can you say only? You know the tread of a horse is dreadful simply dreadful! Oh, dear! I
believe the horse is stopping.

Ow. 'T is sir. 'T is Doctor Macthinkar gettin' out of it.

Reg. No, no, no, no! Out of the carriage, you mean.

Ow. Yes, sir. The horse never c'd get out of the carriage, sir.
Dearly Beloved Brethren: -

Will you permit one, who feels an interest in the cause of Zion, to lay before you some considerations,
which deeply concern every friend of evangelical truth? That it is a time of trial and sifting in our
churches, no one, at all observing of passing events, needs to be told. But the important question is,
what can be done to avert the evils which threaten us, or to mitigate their unhappy consequences? For
one, I can say, that I have no hope of any remedy, or any improvement, until the churches are prepared
to look candidly and feelingly at their real condition. The evils which exist must be probed to the
bottom, and the secret causes of irritation and inflammation ascertained, before we shall be prepared
to devise or apply remedies, or before we can expect from them any beneficial result. It is most evident
that something is out of order, that there is some disease in our religious system; for there are decided
symptoms of irregular and febrile action. The parts do not harmonize, and the whole system is evidently
tending to decay, if not to dissolution. A skilful physician, in such a case, would doubtless, in the first
place, institute a thorough investigation of the cause and seat of the disease, that his efforts at healing
might be well directed. And this, however unpleasant or ungrateful the process, seems to be the true
policy in the present state of our religious concerns. For who can tell what to do, whether to mollify, or
amputate, until he knows the nature and extent of the complaint. What is the cause, brethren, that our
religious affairs are getting so sadly into confusion, and that our harmony is so greatly interrupted? It
has not been so heretofore, and something must be the matter.

I am aware that those, who undertake to investigate this case, will, in the view of many, be likely to get
to themselves a blot; and will by many be assailed as enemies to the common peace; but this is not a
sufficient reason for giving up the subject as desperate. The blessings of true religion, both here and
hereafter, are too precious to be abandoned without an effort, or even a sacrifice.
Little did the first settlers in that part of Massachusetts known as the town of Westminster, dream that
their decision to establish homes for themselves in what was then an unexplored wilderness, would
mark the occasion for semi-centennial celebrations of the event. Twice the residents of Westminster
have gathered together to honor the memory of the first settlers, and without doubt this custom will be
continued twice in each century by succeeding generations.

The townspeople of Westminster had been looking forward with considerable anticipation to the
celebration in the summer of 1909 of the 150th anniversary of the incorporation of the town. The
project took definite form at the Old Folks' Picnic, held in August, 1908, when Wilbur F. Whitney of
Ashburnham, a native of Westminster, urged that a committee be appointed to have charge of the
150th anniversary celebration, and offered to give a liberal sum as a nucleus for a fund to provide for
the expenses connected therewith. At the annual meeting in March, 1909, the town voted to celebrate
the event and appropriated $500 for this purpose. A committee of three, consisting of Joseph Hager,
Daniel C. Miles and George W. Barnes, were appointed by the moderator to retire and bring in a list of
names for a committee of arrangements.