Puslapio vaizdai

Not Dead.

HERE, at the sweetest hour of this sweet day,
Here, in the calmest woodland haunt I know,
Benignant thoughts around thy memory play,
And in my heart do pleasant fancies blow,
Like flowers turned toward thee, radiant and

Flushed by the light of times forever fled,
Whose tender glory pales, but is not dead!

The warm South wind is like thy generous breath,
Laden with gentle words of cordial cheer,-
And every whispering leaf above me saith,

"She whom thou dream'st so distant, hovers near; Her love it is which thrills the sunset air With mystic motions from a time that's fled, Long past and gone in sooth, but oh! not dead!"

The silvery murmur of cool brooks below,

The soft, still clouds, that seem to muse on high ;Love-notes of hidden birds that come and go, Making a sentient rapture of the skyAll the rare season's peaceful ecstasy, Hints of pure joys of ours forever fled, Joys past, indeed, and yet they are not dead!

Far from the motley throng of sordid men,

From fashion far, mean strife, and frenzied gain, In those dear days through many a mountain glen, By mountain streams, and fields of rippling grain, We roamed, untouched by passion's feverish pain, But quaffing friendship's quiet draughts insteadIts waters calm, whose sweetness is not dead!

Above that nook of fond remembrance stands

A dove-eyed Faith that falters not, nor sleeps; No flowers of Lethe droop in her white hands,And if the watch that steadfast angel keeps Be pensive, and some transient tears she weeps, They are but tears a soft regret may shed O'er twilight joys which fade, but are not dead!

Not dead! not dead! but glorified and fair, Like yonder marvelous cloudland floating far Between the quivering sunset's amber air,

And the mild luster of eve's earliest star,Oh! such, so pure, so bright these memories are, Earth's warmth, and Heaven's serene around them spread

They pass, they wane, but, sweet, they are not dead!

A Life-Lesson.

SPIRIT of God! our sullied wings

Soar not to heights where Thou dost dwell;
We grope among life's meaner things,
And grovel in its mimic hell.

Our coward souls, with spears in rest,
Halt on the edge of life's hot fields,
Where Faith, by Fear's battalions pressed,
The contest uncontested yields.

With bated breath we weakly stand,
Scared by the rush of Action's tide,
Unmindful of the halcyon land

That stretches on the other side.

We sit at Passion's ample feast,

And Lust's Circean goblets drain, Where Folly waits, with song and jest, And tempts us to her mad refrain.

Delving in Traffic's sunless mine,
We barter souls for Fortune's dross,
God's lasting stores of good resign,
Unheeding our eternal loss.

We trust our all in Friendship's grasp, And look for added stores of bliss; And lo! the poison of the asp

Concealed within Love's honeyed kiss!

Sin sets her snares for trustful feet,

And lures with Pleasure's gilded spoils; Then, when her triumph is complete, Spurns the poor fool who dared her toils. Ambition's chalice greets our lip,

Red with the beaded wine of Fame,
And we from seeming nectar sip
The maddening gall of Guilt and Shame.

Our stock-marts lift their giddy fronts
High over Mammon's rush and rout,
And, if the Christ would enter once,

We bar the unwelcome stranger out.

For greed of gain, and Folly's gaud,
We forfeit manhood's fairest dower;
And on our brothers' necks is trod
Our ruthless way to place and power.

We feed content on husks of Sin,
Or kiss the gilded chains of Vice,
And vainly think by fraud to win

The road direct to Paradise.

O fleshless bait! O damning cheat!
O Upas shade! O syren voice!
We curse ye all, and still our feet

Perversely make your paths their choice!
Great God! when come the golden years
So long foretold-delayed so long?
When, through Life's harvest-rain of tears,
Shall sighing blossom into song?

When shall this waste and ruin cease

This death-blight on our manhood's life-
And the clear sunlight of Thy peace
Break through this cloudy pall of Strife?

Thy hands, outstretched to lift us up,
Our earthward eyes refuse to see;
We spurn Thy mercy's proffered cup
To drink the dregs of misery!

Thy "still, small voice" in vain appeals
Where human babblers prate and rave,
Though Reason's night-shade but reveals
The bowered entrance to her grave.

O matchless Might! with strength endow
Our puny hands to dare and do,
And in life's battle triumph Thou,
Whether by many or by few!

Let Thy blest Spirit, as of old,

Breathe down the billowy wrath of man! And in our chastened lives unfold

The workings of Thy wondrous plan!

So, on these mingled tides of death

Thy Love's supremest beams shall shine, And all above, around, beneath,

Pay rightful homage at Thy shrine.

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Behold around them arid desert sand,

Beyond their reach the blessed Promised Land.

Dearest, the wasted years are unreturning,. Give, then, as spendthrifts give.

What if the oil consumes itself in burning? We die that we may live.

Living or dead, in essence we shall prove The indivisibility of love.


The Poet's Wood-fire.

A GRACIOUS Presence sits before the flame,
Of one like noble Paladin of old.

A knightly figure; gentle, calm, all-bold
For Truth, all-stern for Honor's stainless name.
What visions glow on Memory's page to claim
His thought, as ranks of silver scales unfold
On shimmering brands the wealth of forest-

What hopes, what fears, for fortune and for fame!

He breathes again the grand, eternal calm

Of Eastern skies, beneath empurpled nights, Whose stars, that glisten through the fronded palm,

Burn o'er unfathomed snows of Alpine heights; And through it all, with tender, royal grace, There shines for him one fair, beloved face. MARIE MASON.

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FOUR mounds of earth lie side by side
Where summer sunshine far and wide
Its largess throws. No dismal shade
From cypress or from yew is made;
The sweet-brier trails across the sward
Where happy-hearted daisies guard
From rude approach the precious sod
That lies upon that hill of God.
An hundred throats their carols pour
From out a full, exhaustless store,
As if their rapture bore along
Refrain from one undying song..

The light, the song, the roses' breath,
Preclude the gloom and chill of death,
As-calm and still-the holy dust
Awaits the rescued spirits' trust;

And joyous life upspringeth fair

Where they have climbed the heavenly stair.

Can love from out our lives be lost,
Whose fibers with our own have crossed?
Are yon bright angel's brows more fair,
'Neath glory of the haloed hair,
Than when they bent to me below
All glistening with the Paschal-snow?
Do they-in happy life above-
Forget their ministry of love?
Though years on years of silence fall
Since they have answered to my call,
Their coming footsteps still I hear

(And stretch my arms to draw them near),
Their garments rustle on the stair,
Their tender accents thrill the air;

So close they seem, so calm, so bright,
The lonely way is touched with light!
Like afterglow in Eastern lands,
That flushes all the desert sands.


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Steps in the Right Direction.

IN an article published a year ago, or more, upon the importance of political education, we said:

"There is no good reason why Yale and Harvard, or any other college, for that matter, should not have a department of politics, which should give a solid three years' course of study. There is no reason why a man should not go before a high examining board at Washington, from such a school as this, and win his certificate of fitness for public office. There are a thousand good reasons why such a man should receive the suffrages of the people for any office which they wish to fill."

Well, that which we presented as a desideratum is already furnished by two important institutions, viz., by Columbia College and by the University of Michigan. The former, more than a year ago, furnished such a course of study, in a ❝ School of Political Science," and the latter now announces the establishment of such a school. We heartily congratulate these institutions on their far-sighted enterprise, intimately related, as it is, to political reform and the future statesmanship of the country. It has not come too soon, and it has come in good time. Through the operations of the political machine, the qualifications of our legislators and diplomats were probably never lower than at the present time. Let us imagine what Congress would be, with every member a graduate of the three years' course of political education which Columbia gives and the University of Michigan proposes. Suppose every member had systematically studied international law, political economy, the history of diplomacy, constitutional and administrative law, political and constitutional history, social science, political ethics, sanitary science, finance and statistics, or, in other words, had gone through the curriculum of one of these schools of political science. The supposition presents to the mind such a Congress as this country never possessed during its entire history. Our Congresses and legislatures are made up very largely of men who know little of any of these subjects men without political education, and even without political intelligence, further than they have acquired it in their current newspaper reading. Our public agents abroad, mainly put in office by the machine, have been, in almost numberless instances, a disgrace to the country, knowing literally nothing of good society, nothing of the languages of the governments to which they have been accredited, nothing of diplomatic history, and nothing whatever of the forms and details of diplomatic business. The crudities of legislation and the blunders in finance and in all matters of political economy are notorious in the history of our law-making bodies. We have had a world of bad legislation, and that legislation has fitly measured the legislative ignorance.

Now, scattered up and down the land, there are a great many young men with political ambitions.

Many of these are in the legal profession, or are studying, or are about to begin the study of, the law. Others are tradesmen, but men who have a desire to mingle in politics, and in the management of the government of cities, or states, or the nation. There are others still-young men of fortune-who do not care to enter upon business, but who have a taste for politics. What better can any one of these young men do than to enter this new department of Columbia and the University of Michigan, and thoroughly prepare himself for political life? Such a preparation would be not only a preparation for political life: it would be a preparation for citizenship. It would make every graduate an important and influential man in whatever community he might find himself placed. These institutions announce that all students who are graduated by their schools of Political Science will be admitted to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

We say that these schools have not come too soon, and that they have come in good time. A good many things have happened lately, that give special significance to this movement in the interest of political education. The power of the party machine has received a most damaging blow in the defeat of Mr. Conkling at Albany. He, more than any other man in America, represented the political machine. In his hands it had become the instrument for cheating the people of their power, for introducing partisans into place, for making all office the reward of party service, for shaping executive appointments, and for controlling the action of the Senate of the United States. Mr. Conkling undertook to control the President, and failed; undertook to control the United States Senate, and failed; undertook to control the State legislature, and failed; and with him fell the power of the machine in New York State. The fall of Conkling is practically the fall of the stronghold of the power of the machine. It is safe to say that no United States Senator will ever resign again because he cannot control an executive appointment. There is, at least, no question that the cause of civil service reform has received a great impetus in the fall of Conkling's power. What the state has gained-what the country has gained-in the cause of political morality and reform, is worth all it has cost. We are thankful that everything happened as it did. The result compensates for all losses and all expenses.

Then again, if we may believe the reports, the present administration has been thoroughly converted to civil service reform. It has been worn out and disgusted by the applications for office, and has had a new insight into the evils of the old system. There is no question that men in high places and low are stirred in this matter as they have never been stirred before. Mr. Dawes writes a letter to the people of Massachusetts, assuring them of the readiness of all their representatives in Congress to agree to recommend no more candidates for office

until the executive asks their advice, provided the nfluential people of the State will stop asking them o do so. Mr. Dawes's logic is not good. If there were any other way provided for introducing men co office, this one would not be resorted to. Let Legislation of the right sort be had, and that would end all the trouble of Mr. Dawes and his associates with petitions for influence in getting office. Mr. Dawes's letter indicates what is passing in men's minds. So we greet the movement at New York and Ann Arbor as a good step taken at the right time, and we shall be much surprised if it be not attended with signal success.

Literary Eccentricity.


IF the foreign visitor at Brussels should omit a journey to the Wiertz Gallery of paintings, he would miss the greatest curiosity of that interesting city. It is a collection of pictures by a local artist, whose work was so eccentric and characteristic that the city has given it a permanent home, and classed it among its notabilities. These paintings do not lack skill in their treatment: on the contrary, some of them are rare pieces of work in their way. But their way is so eccentric that no sane painter would desire the reputation of painting them. Their subjects are oddly chosen. Great pains have been taken to represent things not worth representing, and tricks of handling are resorted to which are considered beneath the dignity of a good, self-respecting artist. Nobody imitates this remarkable work, and most people regard it as the product of a badly balanced imagination,—all of which goes to show that, in art, there are certain recognized canons of taste and rules of treatment to which the general and normal artist-mind is loyal-canons which are either ig. nored or contemned by the work in the Wiertz Gallery.

Wagner, the musician, has, by sheer force of talent and will, compelled the world to give him audience, yet, from the learned in musical matters he has met a strong and persistent protest at every step of his progress. His theories have been at war with the prevalent theories of musical art, and he is likely to leave behind him, not a school to propagate his theories and his style, but only his own work, some of which will doubtless live, | but most of which will be regarded simply as the product of fruitless industry and misdirected power. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, Handel, Mendelssohn, and the better masters of opera will be continuous in their influence and control, and Wagner will subside into the uninfluential reputation of an eccentric. In the course of centuries, certain ideas of music become established-certain principles, rules, powers, and limitations. Where a composer ignores or endeavors to supplant these, he is at once regarded with suspicion and met with opposition. Orthodoxy in art is as conservative as orthodoxy in religion and politics.

We have had a great deal of talk, first and last, concerning an American order of architecture, but

VOL. XXII.-74.

the order does not appear, and, if it should do so, it would be met by a burst of ridicule from one end of the land to the other. Why? Simply because all men who have systematically learned architecture know that, in classical and mediæval times, every strong and graceful form possible in building was embodied in an order, and that all future architecture must draw upon these orders for any new combination. We have a good many attempts at originality, but not a pillar, nor an arch, nor an architrave, nor a capital, nor a frieze, can appear, that a skilled architect will not at once refer to its origin in one of the recognized orders. So, when men get outside of these orders or undertake an incongruous mixture of them, their work is recognized as eccentric, and eccentricity is ugliness.

So much as illustrations of what we desire to say about eccentricity in English literature. There are canons of taste in literature, as it concerns structure and style, and when men step outside of these they offend. We do not mean by this that there is somewhere in English literature a model which all writers are to copy-that there is no room for individuality of expression; but that there are limitations, within which there is plenty of room to work, but still limitations, outside of which no one can go without convicting himself of eccentricity and bad taste. So those who have called for an American literature, supposing that, somehow, it must have a characteristic and original form in order to be American, have called for that which can never be. The Englishman and the American, using the same language, are bound by the same laws of sound taste, and one can transgress them no more than the other. Mr. Stedman, in one of his recent articles in this magazine on "Poetry in America," quotes and approves the statement of Mr. Richard Grant White that it is the spirit, not the letter, which must characterize poetry as distinctively American. Both these men are right. There can be no distinctively American English that is not bad English. That which must characterize American literary art must belong, not to forms, but to vitalities. It is the life in the forms that must characterize them as American, if anything shall do that.

England has given us a notable instance of a man who undertook to escape from the idiomatic bondage of the English tongue. He was a Germanized Englishman, and nothing but his transcendent talent saved him from the reputation of a mountebank. If any man less than Carlyle had written in his turgid, involved, and bombastic style, he would have met nothing but ridicule. His imitators and followers have met nothing else, but these are few and far between, and Carlyle's works, or many of them, will stand in all the future as warnings rather than as examples, so far as their style is concerned. He stepped outside of the limitations of good taste. He trampled upon the idiomatic usages of his mother-tongue. He was a lawless, elephantine blunderer, whose example would do much damage if it could or should be followed. This is the kind of thing Americans would achieve if they should adopt the theory that an American literature is to be

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