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She is the architect of verse.

Ask poetry of him who shares

The poetry of life;

Shares in its hopes, its love, its joys,
Its anger and its strife.

And was not Burns too a poet born and made? Was not he a diamond, pure as any from Golconda, and cut with the burin of sorrow? Why then did the world give him the cold shoulder? Why had it made him a poet, and then denied him fame, which is dearer to the poet than all things else. But the lightning spark of genius was not quenched within him, nor did his nature yield to the oppression, and the wayward heart of Burns became strong until the world saw and acknowledged it.

There is something irresistably humorous and poetic in many things which Burns did. On one of the wharves at Edinburgh, his attention was once attracted by a knot of men who were hauling something out of the water. One of the wealthiest merchants in the city had fallen in and would have drowned, had not a poor mechanic plunged in and saved him. So overcome was the merchant with gratitude, that he thrust his hand into his breeches pocket and presented his preserver with his thanks, and-a shilling. The crowd were indignant, and on the point of pitching him back into the drink, when Burns stepping up quietly remarked, "Such a proceeding my friends would be very unjust, for doubtless the gentleman is the best judge of the value of his own life."

But the deepest and finest element in the poetry of Burns, is love. With the first awakening of this passion in his breast came the spirit of poetry. He was one of those susceptible men, to whom love is no fiction or fancy; to whom it is not only a strong necessity, but an over-powering influence. He was the slave of it. An eye, a tone, a clasp of the hand, exercised over him the dominion of destiny. He had no armour of philosophy wherewith to resist the spell of beautyhe was too genuine and true to impulse for that. But Burns loved like a man, and he drew his inspirations from it. When he wished to feel the pure spirit of poetry, he put himself on a regimen of admiration for a fine woman, and always succeeded in kindling it. And of all the agencies of life, there is none superior to this. Written eloquence, the voice of the bard, the music of creation, will often fail to awaken the heart, for we cannot always yield ourselves to the hidden spell, but the poet is ever kindled by communion with the most lovely creation of God, and always subdued by the sweetest of human influences.

Madame de Sevigné is another of the unappreciated. Her exalted character, her spotless integrity among the allurements of a proverbially profligate court, her maternal love and lively powers of genius form one of the most perfect examples of womanhood the world has ever produced. Her correspondence, as a part of literature, is sacred and classic. Apart from their direct utility, letters are chiefly interesting as exponents of character. In this view, the correspondence of literary men is highly suggestive. In England it is customary to publish the papers of distinguished generals and statesmen, and the biographers of poets, wisely connect the narrative of their usually uneventful lives, with letters chronologically arranged. The wit, knowledge of the world, masculine mind, and womanly insight; the coarseness, talkative disposition, and occasional benevolence of disposition displayed in the letters of Lady Wortley Montagu, are as indicative of her character, as the quarrels, repartees and indelicate bearings recorded of her by her contemporaries. Scott's letters are as manly and kind as was his behavior; Shelley's as noble and philanthropic as his faith. So in Madame de Sevigné, do we see the indications of a strong virtuous and feminine character running through her correspondence. The inspiration of her letters was maternal love. Hence she strove to elicit from La Fontaine, Moliere and Racine, ideas that would gratify the excellent taste of her daughter. Truth and sensibility are underneath the surface of her letters, even as pearls, diamonds and coral are underneath the playful sparkling waves. Madame de Sevigné is now one of the classics of France. Her beautiful spirit is still worshipped, and her name ranked among those of the fairest and most precious ornaments of her sex, making us feel what refreshment and inspiration female society, when elevated by right sentiments, and touched to finer issues by mental cultivation can legitimately impart.

It has been said of a few men like Swift, Steele and Addison, who took the English language from stilts and placed it on its feet, that they "reproduced original simplicity of diction, and from a ponderous mace, that only the erudite thought of using, moulded and tempered it into a delicate but keen rapier, light to carry, and graceful to wield." Dick Steele, the censor, has received less credit for his influence on the development of English style and thought, than belongs to him. He possessed four characteristics, which always make a good fellow; keen wit and deep sentimentality, great strength of affection, and some moral weaknesses. The circle of his character cut human

ity in these four salient points. This fitted him for his station which was a censor of the abuses of society. It is the custom among modern reformers to suggest theories for the renovation of social faults. Steele was a practical man. His own heart was his reformer, and accordingly he penetrated the nooks of experience and enforced the minor philosophy of living, so needful and yet so rare. He was acquainted with human nature, and deeply versed in all the arts of pleasing and loving, and yet was, withal, a man of moral weakness, for according to his own confession he wrote the Christian Hero in the commencement of his career, in order to commit himself before the world, as a man of virtue and religion, and then be shamed into consistency.

The writings of Steele are attractive because they come from a strong heart, rich in all the genial passions of humanity. A love for mankind, a sincere wish to bless his fellow creatures, is not the least of those admirable qualities, and women are indebted to him for advocating their mental capacities, acknowledging the importance of their social influence, and exposing their follies. It is a hard matter to censure society, but Steele did it for forty years with dignity and credit, through his genial qualities and sincerity of purpose.

These four characters have always been more or less neglected, yet they are worthy of all acceptation. They refine and doubly refine the sweet influences of the heart. Theirs is not a system of introverted thought which engenders a melancholic discontent at evils only imaginary. It rather views the objective elements of a man's existence and their inevitable influence on his secret character. It is a scanning of nature's lineaments through an opera glass, a world of hidden thought is revealed, heightened and intensified by its mediumship, "That which moveth the heart most is the best poetry, for it comes nighest to God, the source of all power."

C. E. D.

The Imp in the Clock.

One night as I slumbered 'mid visions unnumbered,

'Mid fantasies weird and forlorn,

While scenes ne'er enacted,

And dramas ne'er acted,

In wondrous succession were borne,

As imps grim, unsightly, who visit me nightly,

Were hissing their oaths in my ear,

There came a low knock, as if from the clock

That stood on the chimney piece near.

I heard it again—'tis nought but the rain

As it swiftly comes pattering down on the pane,

Or the pendulum ticking," I cried,

But the only reply, in return to my cry,

Was a knock in the clock at my side.

Tho' fearful and trembling, yet courage dissembling,

I murmured in tremulous tone,

"Be thou angel or devil! good spirit or evil,

"I order thee hence to be gone."

I shuddered with fear, for near to my ear,

In spite of the rain drops without, I could hear

A whisper as if from the dead,

Harsh, hideous, hoarse, cold, cruel and cross,
And telling of misery, woe, and remorse,

In slow, measured accents it said,

Come hither! unlock,

The door of this clock,

"For here I'm a prisoner.

What! do you dread

"A poor little elf, of a size like myself Confined in this old oaken clock on the shelf? I'd do you no ill, e'en had I the will,

And I promise your greatest desires to fulfil."

"Who are you," I cried, "Old Nick," he replied,
"Some folks call me Satan, the Devil beside.
"But come set me free I beseech you,
"And treasures untold, both of jewels and gold,
"I'll give you forever to have and to hold,
"Their marvelous uses I'll teach you."

"It sure were not wise, tho' great be the prize,
"To set free in one's presence the father of lies,
"But it doth not appear and I pray you make clear,
"By what reason you chance to be prisoner here."

"No! no! 'tis a secret that ne'er must be told,
"But I'll give you a treasure more precious than gold,
"If you'll liberate me, you shall never grow old,
"Your blood, in its coursings, shall never flow cold;
"You shall wear the gift of immortal bloom,
"Forgetful of misery, death, and the gloom
"Which e'er broodeth over the walls of the tomb."

"I know," replied I, "that e'er long I must die,
"The moments of lifetime are fast fleeting by,
"Their limit each hour bringeth nearer;
"E'en could I receive, what you offer to give,
"Do you think that forever on earth I could live
"While in heaven rest those who are dearer ?

"I know of a maid, young, comely, and staid,
And radiant with beauty which never shall fade,
With large dreamy eyes of the tint of the skies,
When the moon from her starry couch seemeth to rise:
With lips of the rosiest hue

And I swear by my head, be you living or dead,
No mortal beside you this maiden shall wed,
None other shall hold her than you."

"Ah! once did I love one as pure as the dove,
But now she is changed to an angel above,
Yet oft in the light of the still starry night,
I see hover o'er me a cherub like sprite.

And sad is her gaze, while she chants the old lays
Which we once sang together in erst happy days."

"I have yet one treasure, of worth beyond measure,
A fountain of endless delirious pleasure,

A source of rare joy unmixed with alloy,
Whose potency not even death can destroy.
It hushes all fears, it dries up all tears,

The water of life" is the name that it bears,
And it sparkles with glee like the sun on the sea,
Sweet as rose-scented zephyrs blow over the lea.
See! this shall be thine, this red, ruby wine,
Possessed of a potency pure and divine."

Then, lo and behold! a chalice of gold,
Bestudded with jewels, of workmanship old,
Appeared in my hand, and was raised to my lip,
Fore'er be accursed that long fatal sip.

'Twas luscious and tempting; still deeper I drank,
Yet no lower the wine in the gemmed chalice sank,
But it sparkled and glittered, and wooed me to drink,
And I oft pressed my lips to its e'er brimming brink.

But hark! once again, came that low single knock,
It recalled me to senses, I turned to unlock,
According to promise, the door of the clock.
But lo! it stood open, the goblin had gone,
Tho' not e'er his errand of ruin was done,

For the cup is still mine, and the red ruby wine
Still within it doth temptingly, fatally, shiue.

G. L. C.

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