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June 4, 1823, of good old stock, New England and Knickerbocker; was educated at the University of the City of New York; followed for a time the profession of his father, the law, and after much journalistic experience as editor and contributor, finally settled in Washington where he now resides. In person Mr. Bushnell is of medium height, blue-eyed, of scholarly sedateness, and unaffected affability. In the suavity of the man and his freedom from ostentation, and in his perfect repose you have the evidence of that high result of manhood, a gentleman.

It is proper to add that the poet has for a wife one of the most brilliant conversationalists in the Capital, and whose nom de plume, "Helen Luqueer," is well known to the literary world. Their charming home and united literary life is a reminder of the Howitts and the Brownings. J. W. O.

REST.

-Ibid.

HOME.

Life conscious is, and there's no rest at all.
No rest at all-
-or only perfect rest-
That grand repose where rest and work are one!
The rest, that is, when o'er earth's canopy
The northern lights keep at their ceaseless play;
The rest that is, when hid from human eye
The acorn prophesies the coming spring;
The rest that is, when wearied hands lie still
While thought communeth with the One Supreme!
All, all is still. The day is hid in night;
But soon the night will hide within the day;
And noiseless glides the chariot of morn.
All, all is still. This hour be consecrate.
My spirit, onward! self-controlled — self-poised!
Till this unceasing, everlasting change,
Become to thee as to the Eternal-rest!

WONDER.

O Reason, Wonder, Doubt

Great warriors three!

A trinity

-Ibid.

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And honeysuckle laden with wealth of blossoms bright,

And the brier gave its sweetness at the dewy evening hour,

And the violet its perfume to the kissing of the shower;

Where bird and insect singing from the cherryladen tree,

Were answered from the clover fields by humming of the bee:

Where dozing in the shadow the faithful watch-dog laid,

And flashing through the scented grass the tiny kittens played;

And where life's chain unbroken by loved ones forced to roam,

Shone bright, undim'd by sorrows in the heart's remembered home.

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The skin not so lily in whiteness,

Paler now the rose waves o'er them roll;
But the voice still retains all its sweetness,
And the face is illumed by the soul
Of the woman I love.

Earth, keep her to bless and to brighten,
Death, send not thy stern fiat down;
And Heaven, linger long in the weaving
Strands of gold and of pearl for her crown.
There are angels enough clothed in glory—
Few given life's griefs to assuage;
And the tenderness, purity, beauty,
Are perfected and hallowed by age
In the woman I love.

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ALICE W. BROTHERTON.

M

RS. ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON in a letter to a friend says: "What can you say of a life so sequestered as mine except, 'She is born, is married, will die,' like the needy knife-grinder; 'Story, God bless you I have none to tell.' I was born in Cambridge, Indiana, but have passed most of my life in Cincinnati, and have never been east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. So you see I am purely one of the aborigines. As to my 'versing' that began soon after I was out of school. I think it was in 1872 I first sent my poems out to seek their fortune."

Mrs. Brotherton lives quietly on East Walnut Hills, Cincinnati. In her home life she is the personification of devotion and domestic happiness. Graduating from one of the Cincinnati High Schools at an early age, it was not long before her bright soul attracted its affinity, hence the love, cottage and three interesting children which now divide with her writing all the mother-poet's time. Those poems in which the heart and its phases of joy and woe are treated are by far her best productions. Living in her own home with little of the outside world to distract her, the poet has grown wise feeding upon her own soul-thoughts.

Hers

is a busy life in that little home in East Walnut Hills; a life full of home and its motherly and wifely duties performed so faithfully. Crowded in among these, her songs have sprung up from her rich experience-experience not with the world but with the double nature of all poetical lives. The friction of one with the other she has used; no force has been wasted. Never has the home 1 fe been neglected, or made secondary to the writer's life.

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She has been for many years a contributor to the Century, The Independent, Atlantic Monthly, and Ser bner's Magazine. Her first separate publication was 'Beyond the Veil," issued in 1886. In June, 1887, her collected poems entitled "The Sailing of King Olaf and Other Poems" appeared. Mrs. Brotherton's style is clear, concise and remarkable rather for strength than any marked degree of musical quality.

Mrs. Brotherton is rather slight in figure, with light brown hair worn in waves over a full high forehead. The constant use of eyeglasses has marred the beauty of her large and expressive eyes. E. A.

PRELUDE.

WHAT is your art, O poet? Only to catch and to hold In a poor, frail word-mould

A little of life;

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Into the valleys the waters rolled;

Hillocks and meadows disappeared. Grasping the helm in his iron hold On, right onward, St. Olaf steered; High and higher the blue waves rose. "On!" he shouted, "No time to loose!" Out came running the elves in a throng,

Out from cavern and rock they came:
"Now, who is this comes sailing along
Over our homes? Ho! tell us thy name?"
"I am St. Olaf, my little men,
Turn into stones till I come again."

The elf-stones rolled down the mountain-side;
The sturdy Ox sailed over them all.
Ill luck be with thee!" a carline cried,

"Thy ship has shattered my chamber wall!"
In Olaf's eyes flashed a fiery glint:
"Be turned forever to rock of flint!"

Never was sailing like this before:

He shot an arrow along the wind;
Or ever it lighted the ship sailed o'er
The mark: the arrow fell far behind.
"Faster, faster!" cried Olaf, "Skip
Fleet as Skidbladnir, the magic ship!"

Swifter and swifter across the foam

The quivering Ox leaped over the track,
Till Olaf came to his boyhood's home;
Then fast as it rose the tide fell back.

And Olaf was king of the whole Norse land
When Harald the third day reached the strand.

Such was the sailing of Olaf the king,

Monarch and Saint of Norroway; In view of whose wondrous prospering The Norse have a saying unto this day: "As Harald Haardrade found to his cost, Time spent in praying is never lost!"

UNAWARES.

A SONG welled up in the singer's heart, (Like song in the throat of a bird,) And loud he sang, and far it rang,

For his heart was strangely stirred; And he sang for the very joy of song, With no thought of one who heard.

Within the listener's wayward soul
A heavenly patience grew.
He fared on his way with a benison
On the singer, who never knew
How the careless song of an idle hour
Had shaped a life anew.

PLIGHTED. A. D., 1874.

"Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one."
NELLIE loquitur.

BLESS my heart! You're come at last.
Awful glad to see you, dear!

Thought you'd died or something, Belle-
Such an age since you've been here!
My engagement? Gracious! Yes.
Rumor's hit the mark this time.
And the victim? Charley Gray,

Know him, don't you? Well, he's prime.
Such mustachios! Splendid style!
Then he's not so horrid fast-
Waltzes like a seraph, too,

Has some fortune-best and last. Love him? Nonsense. Don't be "soft."

Pretty much as love now goes;

He's devoted, and in time

I'll get used to him, I s'pose.

First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff.

Bella Brown, don't be a fool! Next you'll rave of flames and darts

Like a chit at boarding school. Don't be "miffed," I talked just so Some two years back. Fact, my dear! But two seasons kill romance, Leave one's views of life quite clear. Why if Will Latrobe had asked

When he left, two years ago, I'd have thrown up all and gone Out to Kansas, do you know? Fancy me a settler's wife!

Blest escape, dear, was it not?
Yes, it's hardly in my line

To enact "Love in a Cot."
Well, you see, I'd had my swing,

Been engaged to eight or ten:
Got to stop some time of course,

So it don't much matter when.
Auntie hates old maids, and thinks
Every girl should marry young-
On that theme my whole life long
I have heard the changes rung!
So, ma belle, what could I do?

Charley wants a stylish wife,
We'll suit well enough, no fear,

When we settle down for life. But for love-stuff! See my ring? Lovely, isn't it? Solitaire. Nearly made Maud Hinton turn

Green with envy and despair, Hers aint half so nice, you seeDid I write you, Belle, about

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