JOHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON. JOH OHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON is of Scottish parentage. His father and mother came from Perthshire, and settled in Caledonia, New York; and there the subject of this sketch was born July I, 1829, and has since resided. His home, midway between Caledonia and Avon, in the beautiful Genesee Valley, secluded among the maples and evergreens, is indicative of the poet's retiracy; and from that charming retreat, with his family and occasional literary visitors, he looks out on the busy world serenely and contentedly. Mr. McNaughton's first work was a scientific treatise on music-a subject to which he had devoted much attention, contributing papers to Foreign and American journals, on harmony, rhythm, and kindred subjects. These were germane to the song-writer's art, into which he soon entered. Mr. Sheppard, the veteran music-publisher, used to relate an incident that doubtless led the young theorist into song-writing: 'One morning," says Mr. Sheppard, "I was sitting in the back part of my store, wondering at the sudden influx of music-buyers calling for a certain song sung at a concert the previous evening. I noticed a stranger, quite a tall, slim young man, pacing back and forth with folded arms, between the files of music-buyers and casting furtive glances at the busy clerks. Presently he walked up to me, his steel-blue eyes glittering, and said: "Will the proprietor tell me what he pays for the MS. of such a song as that those people are buying?' "A good deal,' said I, ' for a song that will make an audience cry as that did; but let me tell you, young man, not one song-writer in a hundred makes such a hit.' 666 Ah, indeed?'. that was all he said, and passed out of the store. A few days after I received a MS. song, the handwriting of which I recognized, and with it this laconic note:--' That other song of mine I gave you. If you want this one, the price is marked in the corner. Yours, etc., J. H. McNaughton.' The price," (continued Mr. Sheppard,)" was outrageous, but I paid it, and never regretted it." Mr. McNaughton's first volume of poems, Babble Brook Songs," was issued in 1864. In it are included the poems which drew from Mr. Longfellow that remarkable letter printed in "Final Memorials of H. W. Longfellow," and beginning, Your poems have touched me very much. Tears fell down my cheeks as I read them." He has also written a set of twelve songs with music by V. Gabriel, issued simultaneously in London and New York. Mr. McNaughton has contributed to the leading reviews articles on various subjects. One of these papers, The Red Man," in The Nineteenth Century, for May, 1885, occasioned much comment. Of its effect Mr. Labouchere, Member of Parliament, wrote thus broadly (in London Truth, May 14, 1885.) "I am glad to find that everybody is reading or talking about Mr. McNaughton's article in The Nineteenth Century on the Red Man.'" WHEN THE PALE MOON. WHEN the pale, pale moon arose last night O pale, sweet face, so dear - and dead! - And a voice I heard - Oh sweet and dear!- From my window in heaven I lean, I hear, The moonlight I see on thy pale, pale brow. O pale, sweet face - -sweet face! I said, Come sit by the window evermore! Look down, dear eyes, so long, long fled, Come look from the moon on my silent floor Silent, silent forevermore! A SOLDIER'S MOTHER. I'm weary of gazing into the dark O the dreary night! O the silent street! My boy! will he come to-night to me? Gazing south, thro' the mist, till my eyes grow dim, Does he dream, as he lies by his camp-fire low, How I watch and wait for my boy to come? When he paces his lonely rounds in the snow Does he long for the blazing hearth at home? O what if he's sentry this night so bleak, And the chill wind freezing the tear on his cheek Through the drifting night so dreary, dreary! -- Gazing south, in the dark, till her eyes grow dim She sits by the window awaiting for him, Through the night so weary, weary! BELLE MAHONE. (Song with Music.) SOON beyond the harbor bar, Sweet Belle Mahone. CHORUS. Sweet Belle Mahone! Sweet Belle Mahone! Wait for me at Heaven's gate, Sweet Belle Mahone! II. Lonely like a withered tree, What is all the world to me? Life and light were all in thee, Sweet Belle Mahone. Daisies pale are growing o'er All my heart can e'er adore, Shall I meet thee nevermore, Sweet Belle Mahone? III. Calmly, sweetly slumber on, Faded now seems ev'ry thing, Sweet Belle Mahone! THE FADED COAT OF BLUE. (Song with Music.) I. My brave lad he sleeps in his faded coat of blue, In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat so true; He sank faint and hungry among the famish'd brave, And they laid him sad and lonely within his name. less grave. CHORUS. No more the bugle calls the weary one, When a robe of white is given for the faded coat of blue. II. He cried-" Give me water and just a little crumb, And mother she will bless you through all the years to come; Oh! tell my sweet sister, so gentle, good and true, That I'll meet her up in heaven, in my faded coat of blue." III. He said- My dear comrades, you cannot take me home, But you'll mark my grave for mother, she'll find it if she'll come; I fear she'll not know me, among the good and true, When I meet her up in heav'n, in my faded coat of blue." IV. Long, long years have vanished, and though he comes no more, Yet my heart will startling beat with each footfall at my door; I gaze o'er the hill where he waved a last adieu, But no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue. V. No sweet voice was there, breathing soft a mother's prayer, But there's One who takes the brave and the true in his tender care, No stone marks the sod o'er my lad so brave and true, In his lonely grave he sleeps, in his faded coat of blue. ONNALINDA. Alone she stood, a maiden sweet, Within the woodland's deepening shade; One beam of sunset through the glade Glimmered in gold about her feet. Musing, she lingered in covert there, And moulded form the comeliest; Around her bodice trimly laced Fell glossy falls of raven hair, The rimpling hem just kissed her feet Deep in her dark eyes' lustrous glance ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. R OSE HARTWICK THORPE was born at Mishawaka, Indiana, July 18th, 1850. When eleven years of age, her parents removed to Hillsdale, Michigan, where the shy, reserved school girl grew into the quiet, modest woman, and where at the age of twenty-one she was married to Edmund C. Thorpe. This was just at the time when her poem, "Curfew Shall not Ring To-night," had carried her name into thousands of homes, and won for the young writer a most generous meed of honor. The poetic gift of Mrs. Thorpe is truly a bona fide gift-none of it coming by right of inheritance, unless you consider it another form of expressing the artistic talent of her father. To her only daughter, just entering young womanhood, descended the fondness for brush and pencil. Mrs. Thorpe commenced writing at an early age, though extreme diffidence and lack of confidence in herself caused her to consign most of her productions to the obscurity of her portfolio. Her first publication, a prose sketch, appeared in her eighteenth year. Her since celebrated poem, had then been written more than a year, but its literary value not dreamed of by the author. In 1870 "Curfew Must not Ring To-night" was published by the Detroit Commercial Advertiser and was widely copied. Gaining confidence by the unexpected and highly flattering reception of that poem, others were offered to the local press. Among these were The Station Agent's Story," "In a Mining Town," Red Cross," and various others. Mrs. Thorpe has been a busy writer for some years, though sadly hindered during the past few years by ill health. Under the sunny skies of California and within sound of the ocean, she is regaining health and finding increased demand for her pen pictures. Mrs. Thorpe is essentially a home woman, finding great pleasure in the practical details of housekeeping, and frequently writing her best poems while watching the dinner. She is a close reader of all that pertains to her art, and while her real talent lies in her poetry, she is a successful writer of healthy stories for the young. Several of these have been published in book form. She has also published a book of poems, styled "Ringing Ballads." A. B. L. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. ENGLAND'S sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day: And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him, 'neath the darkening English sky. Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet, Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, Darling, you have saved me! curfew will not ring to-night." THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE. My Fred! I can't understand it," And his voice quivered with pain, While the tears kept slowly dropping On his trembling hands like rain. For Fred was so brave and loyal, So true - but my eyes are dim, And I cannot read the letter, The last I shall get from him. Please read it, sir, while I listen In fancy I see him - dead; My boy, shot down like a traitor, My noble, my brave boy Fred." Dear Father," so ran the letter,To-morrow when twilight creeps Along the hill to the churchyard, O'er the grave where mother sleeps, When the dusky shadows gather, They'll lay your boy in his grave For nearly betraying the country He would give his life to save. And, father, I tell you truly, With almost my latest breath, "You remember Bennie Wilson ? I carried all of his luggage, · Cur |