That life is a kind of pilgrimage-a sort of Jericho road, And kindness to one's fellows the sweetest law in the code. No matter about the 'nitials-from a farmer, you understand, Who's generally had to play it alone from rather an ornary hand. I've never struck it rich, for farming, you see, is slow; And whenever the crops are fairly good the prices are always low. A dollar isn't very much, but it helps to count the same; The lowest trump supports the ace, and sometimes wins the game. It assists a fellow's praying when he's down upon his knees "Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these." I know the verses, stranger, so you needn't stop to quote; It's a different thing to know them or to say them off by rote. I'll tell you where I learned them, if you'll step in from the rain: 'Twas down in 'Frisco, years ago-had been there hauling grain; It was just across the ferry, on the Sacramento pike, Where stores and sheds are rather mixed, and shanties scatterin' like Not the likeliest place to be in. I remember the saloon, With grocery, market, baker-shop, and bar-room all in one. And this made up the picture-my hair was not then gray, But everything still seems as real as if 'twere yesterday. A little girl with haggard face stood at the counter there Not more than ten or twelve at most, but worn with grief and care; And her voice was kind of raspy, like a sort of chronic cold Just the tone you find in children who are prematurely old. She said: "Two bits for bread and tea, ma hasn't much to eat; She hopes next week to work again, and buy us all some meat. We've been half-starved all winter, but spring will soon be here Said, Hello! I say, stranger, what have you over thar?" The boy then told her story; and that crew, so fierce and wild, Grew intent, and seemed to listen to the breathing of the child. The glasses all were lowered. Said the leader: Boys, see here; All day we've been pouring whiskey, drinking deep our Christmas cheer. Here's two dollars. I've got feelings, which are not entirely dead, For this little girl and mother suffering for the want of bread." Here's a dollar." Here's another;" and they all chipped in their share, And they planked the ringing metal down upon the counter there. Then the spokesman took a golden double-eagle from his belt, Softly stepped from bar to counter, and beside the sleeper knelt; Took the "two bits" from her fingers, changed her silver piece for gold. "See there, boys, the girl is dreaming." Down her cheeks the tear-drops rolled. One by one the swarthy miners passed in silence to the street. Gently we awoke the sleeper, but she started to her feet With a dazed and strange expression, saying: "Oh, I thought 'twas true! Ma was well, and we were happy; round our door-stone roses grew. We had everything we wanted, food enough, and clothes to wear; And my hand burns where an angel touched it soft with fingers fair." As she looked and saw the money in her fingers glistening bright "Well, now, ma has long been praying, but she won't believe me quite, How you've sent 'way up to heaven, where the golden treasures are, And have also got an angel clerking at your grocery bar." That's a Christmas story, stranger, which I thought you'd like to hear; True to fact and human nature, pointing out one's duty clear. Hence, to matters of subscription you will see that I'm alive Just mark off that dollar, stranger; I think I'll make it five. AMERICA. So, Robie, mak' yoursel' at home, A land that glories in its youth, The diamond in the monarch's crown Betokens blood of bitter years. Yorktown Dedicational Poem, 1881. Oh yes, I've seen your Boston girls, -A Coast Survey. A AUBREY DE VERE. UBREY THOMAS DE VERE was born January 10, 1814, the third son of Sir Aubrey de Vere, Bart., at the old family home of "Curragh Chase," near the interesting village of Adare, some twenty miles south-west of the city of Limerick, Ireland. The father was born at the same place, August 28, 1788, and died there July 28, 1846. While both father and son have led the lives of quiet country gentlemen, few names have been better known in the highest literary and political circles of Great Britain. They both have enjoyed the warm friendship of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart, Wordsworth, Lord Tennyson, Sir Henry Taylor, Landor, Cardinals Cullen and Newman, R. C. Trench, W. E. Gladstone, the Brownings, Whewell, Lord Salisbury-and scores of others might also be mentioned. The father was a schoolmate of Byron and Sir Robert Peel, at Harrow. Wordsworth "pronounced the sonnets of Sir Aubrey de Vere to be the most perfect of our age." The son graduated at Trinity College, Dublin. The Baronet lived and died an Anglican, but Lady de Vere, Sir Vere de Vere, an elder brother, and Aubrey, "went over to Rome"-the latter in 1851. This fact is regretted by Sir Henry Taylor, but in the most kindly spirit. He says in his "Autobiography" (vol. 2, p. 75): "His conversion was a loss to us, no doubt, but the friendship had been interwoven with almost every thread of life, and for ten or twelve years with many threads of mine; and whatever was lost to it, enough was left to give vitality to twenty friendships of a less tenacious texture." He adds that his friend "had found peace and happiness in that Church"-"his soul was satisfied"-and "we ought to rejoice." In a letter very recently, Mr. de Vere, in alluding to this as one of a "few dates" in his "uneventful life," says: "I became a Catholic in 1851 (a blessing for which I have felt more grateful every successive year.)" He never entered any profession. A considerable portion of his time has been spent in traveling, but chiefly in reading and writing, in the "cool sequestered vale" of Curragh Chase. While he speaks of his life as "uneventful," each one of his many publications has been a notable event in the literary history of the last forty-seven years. He has published the following poetical works: "The Waldenses; or the Fall of Rora: a lyrical tale," 1842; "The Search after Proserpine, Recollections of Greece, and Other Poems," 1843; "Poems, Miscellaneons and Sacred," 1853; "May Carols," 1857 and 1881; "The Sisters; Inisfail, and Other Poems," 1861; "The Infant Bridal, and Other Poems," a selection from his poetry, 1864; "Irish Odes and Other Poems," 1869: The Legends of St. Patrick," 1872; "Alexander the Great, a Dramatic Poem," 1874; "St. Thomas of Canterbury, a Dramatic Poem," 1876; "Legends of the Saxon Saints," 1879; "The Foray of Queen Meave, and other Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age," 1882; and "Legends and Records of the Church and the Empire," 1887. His prose works are as follows: "English Misrule and Irish Misdeeds," 1848; " Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey," 2 vols., 1850; "Ireland's Church Property and the Right Use of It," 1867; Pleas for Secularization," 1867; "The Church Establishment of Ireland," 1867; "The Church Settlement of Ireland, or Hibernia Pacanda," 1868; "Constitutional and Unconstitutional Political Action," 1881; "Essays, Chiefly on Poetry," 1887; and "Essays: Literary and Critical," 1889. While Mr. de Vere is now well along in his 76th year, he is still a prolific writer, both of poetry and prose, and there are plenty of indications that his works are increasing in popularity both at home and abroad. The writer of these lines had the rare pleasure, by kind invitation, of spending some hours at Curragh Chase, in July, 1888, but unfortunately for us, neither of the brothers was at home. Sir Stephen (author of "Translations from Horace") was to arrive on the following day, while Mr. Aubrey had gone down to London, on his way to the south of England. This is a magnificent old estate-an ideal home for a poet and lover of nature. It contains some two thousand acres of field and forest, "upland, glade and glen." The grand old mansion stands upon a moderate elevation, overlooking a most beautiful little lake. Across the lake,upon a high crag is planted a large pillar in the form of an Irish cross, around the base of which are inscribed the names of those of the family who have passed away. A belt of timber surrounds the whole tract. How much of this had been planted one could hardly determine the arrangement was so natural and so beautiful; but I have seldom seen such grand old elms, oaks, lindens and beeches, and they were almost everywhere interspersed with evergreens and thickets of shrubbery. The beeches-both the common and the red varieties-grow in wonderful perfection, with wide-spreading limbs, forming perfect pyramids to the height of 60 to 80 feet. When we were there they were so loaded with nuts that the lower branches often rested upon the ground. I did not wonder that the poet is proud of his trees. There are drives leading to all parts of the estate, rustic bridges, and beautiful walks, "With seats beneath the shade, For talking age and wispering lovers made." The hall of the mansion contains several pieces of fine statuary, among which were a copy of Michel Angelo's "Moses," and a bust of Sir Henry Taylor, author of "Philip Van Artevelde," and the life-long friend of the de Veres'. The most of our time, however, was spent in the library, which must contain some thousands of volumes. I picked up one at random. It had been presented! to Sir Aubrey de Vere by the author, Sir Walter Scott, with his compliments written upon a fly leaf. There were many of theses presentation copies, "autographed" by the authors, no doubt. first editions, and now of almost priceless value. But one feature which interested me very greatly was the unique copies of the works of the father, Sir Aubrey de Vere, and his two sons, Sir Stephen. and the subject of this notice. The original manuscript, and a printed copy of each separate work, had been bound together in a single volume. I could not see them all in my limited time, but this impressed me as a most interesting feature of this. fine old library. . In past times many of the most notable men and women of the United Kingdom have crossed the threshold and been hospitably entertained at Curragh Chase. It is to be hoped that Aubrey de Vere will yet cause them to " live again," in an Autobiography, which this gifted man is so competent to write. Mr. de Vere's poetry would seem to be entering upon a period of wider appreciation than it has heretofore enjoyed. His "Legends of St. Patrick" has been added, as No. 175, to the Messrs. Cassells' National Library" (London and New York,) though it is a copyright work at home. In paper these volumes, comprising the very best works of past and present times, sell for the trifle of 10 cents, and in cloth for 25 cents. The experience of these publishers curiously shows, (as in the instances of the writings of Mr. Coventry Patmore and others,) that in these exceedingly cheap and popular styles the sales not only run up to scores of thousands of copies, but that the demand for the expensive editions is thereby increased. His later works, as well as the new editions of those of former years, are now announced in New York very speedily after their appearance in London, giving him the opportunity, so gratifying to literary men and women of Great Britain, of securing an. audience in the United States. C. A.. ODE TO THE DAFFODIL. O LOVE-STAR of the unbeloved March, Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch II. A week or e'er Thou com'st thy soul is round us everywhere; And many an auspice, many an omen, Whispers, scarce noted, thou art coming. |