He was born in New York city August 12, 1812, of a mixed stock, compounded of Scotch, Dutch, Huguenot and English. He began life's work at the age of fourteen in the office of The New York Spy. Four "sticks" of solid brevier was the first day's foundation of his worldwide fame as a master-printer. At the age of seventeen we find him promoted to the mature position of proofreader in the office of J. & J. Harper-a place that stimulated his greed for reading, for the sake of which he had preferred the printer's craft to others. He accepted on May 1st, 1833, the position of proof-reader in the type and stereotype office of Messrs. Johnson & Smith, Philadelphia. His familiarity with all the varied work of the printing office, and his skill and taste with types, caused his promotion to the foremanship of the establishment. In 1845 he was taken into the house as a partner. In 1856 he started The Typographic Advertiser. He also wrote a treatise on practical printing, which has reached its fourteenth edition-a work which contains a great fund of historical and practical information, and has its uses for the publisher and the author as well as the practical printer. After the death of Mr. Johnson in 1860, Mr. MacKellar became the head of the firm, in a house which may now be called the largest type foundry in the world. In 1834 Mr. MacKellar married, and ten children came to bless and brighten his home. His wife and five children have been taken in death. Mr. MacKellar's hymns reach the heart of the bereaved and sorrowful, because they are the product of prayer in the time of tears. Notwithstanding the inheritance of an aching head, and the daily labors of an exacting business, Mr. MacKellar was a toiler on Sundays and at nights for the benefit of his fellows. He started one of the first mission schools in a neglected section of the city. As an elder in the old Pine-street Church, and afterwards in the First Presbyterian Church of Germantown, he frequently ministered to the sick and dying, to the poor, the vicious, the struggling. He still retains membership in the Historical Society, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Pennsylvania Museum of Art, and in other organizations; and besides his

time and influence, he has been a generous giver of his money to benevolent objects.

And how, with all this pressure of business,.did the literary gift within him find time for expression? "The American Printer" was written and compiled during lulls in business hours. The volume of poetry entitled "Rhymes Atweentimes" was made in the dinner-hour and at night. Sometimes the fifteen minutes' walk homeward would give birth to a sonnet, or two or three verses. Sometimes an hour or two before bedtime would hum with rhyming bees. W. C. S.

LET ME KISS HIM FOR HIS MOTHER.

LET me kiss him for his mother!
Ere ye lay him with the dead;
Far away from home, another
Sure may kiss him in her stead.
How that mother's lip would kiss him
Till her heart should nearly break!
How in days to come she'll miss him!
Let me kiss him for her sake.

Let me kiss him for his mother! Let me kiss the wandering boy: It may be there is no other

Left behind to give her joy. When the news of woe the morrow Burns her bosom like a coal, She may feel this kiss of sorrow

Fall as balm upon her soul.

Let me kiss him for his mother!
Heroes ye, who by his side
Waited on him as a brother
Till the Northern stranger died;
Heeding not the foul infection,
Breathing in the fever-breath :-
Let me, of my own election,

:

Give the mother's kiss in death.

"Let me kiss him for his mother!"

Loving thought and loving deed! Seek nor tear nor sigh to smother,

Gentle matrons, while ye read; Thank the God who made you human,

Gave ye pitying tears to shed; Honour ye the Christian woman

Bending o'er another's dead.

THE HYMNS MY MOTHER SUNG.
THERE are to me no hymns more sweet
Than those my mother sung
When joyously around her feet
Her little children clung.

The baby in its cradle slept,
My mother sang the while:
What wonder if there softly crept
Across his lips a smile?

And once, a silent, suffering boy,
Bowed with unwonted pain,
I felt my bosom thrill with joy
To hear her soothing strain.
The stealing tear my eye bedims,
My heart is running o'er:-
The music of a mother's hymns
Shall comfort me no more.

"THERE IS A LAND IMMORTAL."
THERE is a land immortal,
The beautiful of lands;
Beside its ancient portal

A sentry grimly stands:

He only can undo it,

And open wide the door;

And mortals who pass through it
Are mortal nevermore.

That glorious land is Heaven,
And Death the sentry grim:
The Lord thereof has given,
The opening keys to him;
And ransomed spirits, sighing
And sorrowful for sin,

Pass through the gate in dying,

And freely enter in.

Though dark and drear the passage

That leads unto the gate,
Yet grace attends the message
To souls that watch and wait;
And at the time appointed
A messenger comes down,
And guides the Lord's anointed
From cross to glory's crown.
Their sighs are lost in singing;
They're blesséd in their tears;
Their journey heavenward winging,
They leave on earth their fears.
Death like an angel seeming,

"We welcome thee!" they cry:
Their eyes with glory gleaming,
'Tis life for them to die.

AN EVENING STORM AT THE SEASIDE.

OH, GLORIOUS is the sight to see!

And gentle bosoms, burning

With pure and holy ecstasy

Their vision upward turning

Bless God for storm as well as calm,
Alike the theme of wonder,
And reverend voices swell the psalm
To him who wields the thunder.
Ho, brothers! this of mortal life
Most truly is the limning:

75

What joy, what woe, what peace, what strife, The burden of our hymning!

Though dark the clouds within the breast,

Though horrors round us gather,
Our Lord will give His perfect rest
To all who love the Father.
Over the land and over the sea

The thunder peals are crashing,
And merrily-oh, how merrily-
The countless drops are plashing!
Down pours the wild fantastic rain
On maple and the willow,

And roof and wall and window-pane,
And meadow, beach, and billow.

The curtain rises: far away

The cohorts stern are flitting;

The sun comes forth in grand array
On a throne of glory sitting.
The clouds that shroud the flying storm
With bows of promise lighting,
Majestic beauty wreathes the form
Whose mission seemed so blighting.

The heat is on the land and sea,

And every breast is panting;
Still from the westward, burningly,

The fervid rays are slanting;
When, lo! a long-drawn line of cloud,
Far in the north-east quarter,
Sends mutterings ominous and loud
Over the land and water.

See night-black clouds, up-toppling fast,
To heights of heaven soaring,
Whose heralds sound a startling blast
As troops of lions roaring.
The hurrying winds rush to and fro
Like armies struck with panic,
While streams of liquid lightning flow
From cloudy mounts volcanic.

SOMETIMES IN QUIET REVERY.
SOMETIMES in quiet revery
When day is growing dim,
The heart is singing silently
A sweet unwritten hymn.

The strains are not to measure wrought
By cunning of the mind,

But seem like hymning angels brought

From Heaven, and left behind.

The misty hills of bygone grief,
Once dark to look upon,
Stand out like blessings in relief

Against the setting sun.

The rain may fall, the wind may blow;
The soul unhindered sings,

While, like the bird 'neath sheltering bough,
She sits with folded wings-

A brief and pleasant resting space,
A glance at Beulah land,
Before she girds herself apace

For work that waits the hand.

Then giving thanks to Him who poured
Refreshments in her cup,

She hears the calling of her Lord,
And takes her labor up.

A POET AND HIS SONG.

HE WAS a man endow'd like other men,

With strange varieties of thought and feeling;
His bread was earn'd by daily toil; yet when
A pleasing fancy o'er his mind came stealing,
He set a trap and snared it by his art,
And hid it in the bosom of his heart.

He nurtured it and loved it as his own,
And it became obedient to his beck;
He fixed his name on its submissive neck,

And graced it with all graces to him known,
And then he bade it lift its wing and fly

Over the earth, and sing in every ear Some soothing sound the sighful soul to cheer, Some lay of love to lure it to the sky.

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN.

If ANY man must fall for me to rise,
Then seek I not to climb. Another's pain
I choose not for my good. A golden chain,
A robe of honor is too poor a prize

To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong
Unto a fellow man. This life hath woe
Sufficient, wrought by man's satanic foe;

And who that hath a heart would dare prolong Or add a sorrow to a stricken soul

That seeks some healing balm to make it whole?
My bosom owns the brotherhood of man;
From God and truth a renegade is he
Who scorns a poor man in his poverty,

Or on his fellow lays his supercilious ban.

L

LEWIS C. BROWNE.

EWIS CREBASA BROWNE was born in 1810. His early opportunities for education were slender. His youth was passed in farm and clerk work and in teaching school. At the age of twenty-three he became a minister of the Universalist denomination, and is now the oldest living, representative of its clergy, with two or three exceptions. His principal parishes were at Fort Plain and Troy, N. Y., Nashua, N. H., Norwich, Conn., Hudson, Canton and Newark, N. Y. In 1835 he wrote "Briers and Berries," which was originally published in the Utica Evangelical Magazine and Gospel Advocate, whence it found its way all over this country and even to England. In middle life Mr. Browne produced but few poems, but almost half a century later, with seriously failing eyesight the poetic vision seemed restored to him in a remarkable manner, and after the age of seventy he wrote "Threescore and Ten," "The Model Minister," and "Teaching School and Boarding Around.” He has written little beside these, and has been too reticent, both in producing and in publishing. For some years he has lived on a small farm at Honeoye Falls, N. Y., some twenty miles from Rochester. He has perfect possession of his mental faculties, and has retained his physical vigor in large measure, except that his eyesight has been very feeble for upwards of thirteen years. He has preached but little during this period, but occasionally has officiated by reciting the scripture selections, and the hymns as well as his sermon from memory. Those who have been privileged to hear these services describe them as exceedingly impressive and affecting. I. B.

THREESCORE AND TEN.

"OUR age to seventy years is set;"
'Twas so the sacred lyrist sung.
I've crossed that boundary, and yet
My inner being seemeth young.

I feel no wrinkles on the heart,
Time has not chilled the social glow,
Music and chastened mirth impart
Their pleasing spell of long ago.

The birds that carol at the dawn,

The bees that through the clover swarm,

And children playing on the lawn,
For me have lost no early charm.
Science, invention, art and song,
The life and progress of the age,
The warfare with the false and wrong
That patriots and Christians wage,