AT SAMUEL WADDINGTON. Ta time when literature, like almost every other field of thought and industry, numbers so many aspirants and zealous seekers after success that each individual runs the risk of being overlooked in the crowd, it is, perhaps, well for an author to try and secure a separate and distinct niche for himself. The writer who has a special subject, and whose position is recognized in connection with that subject, is more likely to obtain a hearing than one who has a general superficial knowledge, and has given his attention to almost every branch of art or science. Following the example of Capel Lofft at the beginning of the present century, and that of the late Charles Tennyson Turner at a more recent date, Mr. Waddington has chosen the "Sonnet" as his especial study, and both in England and in this country his name has already become somewhat familiar in connection therewith. The plot of ground which he has endeavored to cultivate is that of the sonnet-writer and the sonnet-critic. It will, however, be seen in the examples of his work printed herewith that he has occasionally ventured into other forms of verse, although it is as a sonneteer that he has principally achieved success. Mr. Waddington is a native of England, and was born at Boston Spa, Yorkshire, in that country on the 9th of November, 1844. His ancestors at the time of the Commonwealth lived at East Rigton, a little hamlet adjoining Bardsey where the poet Congreve was born, and about nine miles from Horsforth where Longfellow's English ancestors resided. It is interesting to note that the two families were connected, a Miss Longfellow (sister of Longfellow's ancestor who emigrated to America about the year 1680) having married a Mr. Waddington, of Harewood, near Bardsey, who afterwards bought the Longfellow property at Horsforth. When twelve years old he was sent for a short time to St. Peter's School, York, but was soon transferred to St. John's, Huntingdon, a school famous for having sent at least one illustrious pupil into the world, that pupil being no less a personage than Oliver Cromwell. Here Mr. Waddington remained for five years and at the age of sixteen was chosen to act as editor of the school magazine to which he contributed his first literary essays in prose and verse. His favorite authors at this time were Wordsworth and Emerson, and his principal companion was the second master of the school, a Broad Church clergyman who believed in Maurice and Kingsley but not in eternal punishment. In 1862 he was offered a Scholarship at St. Peter's College, Cambridge; but as his friends wished him to go to Oxford, he matriculated at Brasenose College at the latter university where he took his B.A. degree in 1865. While at Oxford he sat for a while at the feet of the illustrious theologian Dr. Pusey, and attended the lectures which that distinguished founder of the High Church School delivered in his own private room at Christ Church. Mr. Waddington does not appear to have been greatly influenced by Pusey's teaching. After leaving Oxford he obtained an appointment in the Board of Trade which he has now held for upwards of twenty years. The first volume which Mr. Waddington pub, lished, and which had been suggested by his friend Mr. Austin Dobson, was his "English Sonnets by Living Writers" to which he appended his essay on "The Sonnet and Its History." It also contained his sonnet entitled "Soul and Body," which was highly eulogized in the St. James's Gazette and other newspapers. This volume was published in 1881, and in the following year appeared his companion volume entitled "English Sonnets by Poets of the Past." In 1886 was published his "Sonnets of Europe" in which he included translations from his own pen of sonnets by Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Philippe Desportes, and Hugo Hollandius,-a writer in the Academy observing respecting his translation of Dante's sonnet that it was preferable to that by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. His "Sonnets and Other Verse" was published in 1884, and was very favorably received. I should not omit to mention that Mr. Waddington has written a study and biographical sketch of the Oxford poet, Arthur Hugh Clough, to whose writings his own compositions appear to bear considerable affinity as regards thought and subject matter. He hopes shortly to publish another volume of his own work entitled "Rosa Mariæ and Other Sonnets." THE NEW EPIPHANY. (Chant Royal.) I. J. L. AWAKE, awake! Nay, slumber not, nor sleep! Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night, From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep II. Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep; Oh, quit your ancient glebes,-oh, joyfully III. Too long ye till exhausted lands, and reap Brave travelers o'er bald custom's boundary;— IV. See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep Ah, happy child, with what new wonders crowned He'll turn to thee, to fathom and expound; Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee To solve the universe, its destiny;— And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling, Asking, enquiring,-whispering, "May not we Go forth, and welcome the eternal king?" V. Oh, linger not! No longer vainly weep ENVOI. Thou art the king, O Truth! We bend the knee THE INN OF CARE. To please his guest still labors Lucus a non lucendo Thus named might seem the inn, To Nebra, by the Unstrut, And share a goodly fare; The world! 'tis worn and weary 'Tis tired of gilt and glare! The inn! 'tis named full wisely, A HOMILY. BE to every man just,-and to Woman So living thy days to full number, In peace thou shalt pass to thy grave; Thou shalt lie down, and rest thee, and slumber,Beloved, loving-hearted, and brave. MORS ET VITA. We know not yet what life shall be, What shore beyond earth's shore be set; What grief awaits us, or what glee, We know not yet. Still, somewhere in sweet converse met, Old friends, we say, beyond death's sca Shall meet and greet us, nor forget Those days of yore, those years when we SOUL AND BODY. WHERE wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born Became thy dwelling-place? Didst thou on earth, . Or in the clouds, await this body's birth? Or by what chance upon that winter's morn Didst thou this body find, a babe forlorn? Didst thou in sorrow enter, or in mirth? Or for a jest, perchance, to try its worth Thou tookest flesh, ne'er from it to be torn? Nay, Soul, I will not mock thee; well I know Thou wert not on the earth, nor in the sky; For with my body's growth thou too didst grɔw; But with that body's death will thou too die? I know not, and thou canst not tell me, so WHAT GOSPEL? WHAT gospel, still, what gospel? Christ, yea, Christ! Back to the shores of Galilee once more, To the old lesson of love, the simple love Of peace and wisdom that the world sufficed. Christ! for he spake with pity, nor enticed The broken-hearted to an empty storeChrist! for his words true balm and healing pour In the world's wounds, the holy words of Christ! What gospel, still, what gospel? Love, yea, love! There is no heaven, and no hope but this— No heritage of joy, no hallowed bliss To bring the spirit to the realm above; Oh, vain glad-tidings, and oh, little worth,- FROM NIGHT TO NIGHT. FROM night to night, through circling darkness whirled, Day dawns, and wanes, and still leaves as before The shifting tides and the eternal shore; Yet falls from darkness into darkness hurled! Peopling of yore the dreamland of our youth, Ye who once led us through those scenes so fair, Lead now, and leave us near the realm of Truth: Lo, if in dreams some truths be chanced to see Now in the truth some dreams may happy be. THE NEOPHYTE. His spirit is in apogee! To-night Far from our earth he speeds;-he heeds no more The long waves breaking on life's echoing shore: Lo, Truth, his aureole, as heaven grows bright; And Faith, his carcanet, as chrysolite 'Mid soul-wrought gems gleams thro' the opening door Of purest Innocence;-on wings that soar THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. I. BLOW, blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm! swarm Around your buttressed walls in fierce disdain: Then blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm! sword O blow, ye trumpets, blow! sound an alarm! II. O priests and prelates, teachers proudly wise, charts Of rock and shoal, and wreck-strown shore that lies HUMAN. ACROSS the trackless skies thou may'st not wander; Thou may'st not tread the infinite beyond; Where verdure gleams amid the desert sand,— REFUGIUM PECCATORUM. Lo, wounded of the world and stricken of sin, A shadow crouching 'neath the shadowy moon, One gift she craves, one hopeless, hapless boon, "Thy pity, Lord, a breaking heart would win!" Religion was the Refuge! In distress There might the sinner flee, the weary press; WILL WALLACE HARNEY. WILL ILLIAM WALLACE HARNEY was born June 20, 1831, at Bloomington, Indiana, where his father, John H. Harney, a man of high character and an accomplished scholar, the author of several well-known text-books in mathematics, was then a Professor of that branch of science in the Indiana University;-his mother's maiden name was Martha Wallace. When he was about five years of age Mr. Harney's parents moved to Kentucky, his father there becoming editor and proprietor of the Louisville Democrat, a paper of large political influence in the Southwestern States before the war of the Southern Secession Mr. Harney received his education at the Louisville schools and at Louisville College, as well as through tutors in the languages at home. Between the years 1851 and 1855 he was himself a teacher, meanwhile studying law and graduating in the year last named at the Louisville Law School. For a year afterwards he was Principal of the Louisville High School, and between 1857 and 1859, a Professor in the Kentucky Normal School at Frankfort. He also practiced law for some time before 1859, but during that year he joined the staff of his father's paper, assisting in its editorship, and at his father's death, some years later, he succeeded him in its editorial control and remained its editor until 1868, when its publication ceased. In 1868, he married Mary H. M. Randolph (who died within less than two years afterwards), and in the autumn of 1869 he moved to Florida, where he became a pioneer orangegrower and has since resided at Pinecastle, Orange County, varying his agricultural activity with occasional literary work. Perhaps Mr. Harney has been most widely known for his prose, and certainly, first as a journalist and later as a contributor of tales and sketches to the magazines, he appears to have given his principal attention and effort to prose composition. One of his longer stories-" How He Won the Pretty Widow," a story of the War of Secession-was contributed to the Atlantic Monthly during Mr. W. D. Howells's editorship of that magazine, by whom, I remember, it was praised before publication as one of the most charming stories ever offered him. He also about the same time-between 1870 and 1875contributed a series of interesting letters relating to what may be called a pioneer orange-planter's life in Florida, to the Cincinnati Commercial. His writings in verse have been comparatively infrequent. His earlier verses were contributed to the Louisville daily newspapers The first of his poems which I ever happened to see was published in the Louisville Courier (one of the two ante-bellum newspapers afterwards joined together |