C

CLARENCE A. SHALER.

LARENCE ADDISON SHALER was born in the township of Mackford, Green Lake Co., Wis,, on the 29th day of May, in the year 1860, one of twins; the other twin being a girl, who died in her sixteenth year. I can well remember the two children. The exact opposites in physical build and in disposition. She a rosy-faced, lighthearted child and he pale, slender and quiet almost to gravity.

Clarence lived on the farm until he was thirteen years old; at that time his parents moved to Ripon when he entered college, and where he continued to study until the year 1879. At that time his health failed and he was obliged to return to his father's farm. On the death of his father, in 1882, the care of the place, some six hundred acres, fell on him, since which time he has lived upon the farm during the summer, moving into the more congenial atmosphere of town life during the winter months.

A strange fatality seems to hang over the head of Mr. Shaler. In the year 1887 a gun in the hands of another person, discharged at short range, part of the charge passing through the flesh of his leg, but resulting in no permanent injury. The following year, however, was more serious in its events. In the former part of the summer he suffered from a sunstroke, which came near resulting in death. In the fall he was leading a horse which reared and struck him in the head fracturing the skull. The following winter a runaway team ran into his cutter, throwing him to the ground and crushing his cutter. As a result of these accidents, also owing to his delicate constitution, he suffered a complete nervous prostration.

Mr. Shaler has become quite skillful with brush and pencil, and in the line of invention has invented several machines, two of which been patented. As Poe said of himself: "Poetry with me has been a passion, not a purpose," might be said with equal truthfulness of Mr. Shaler. The first inspiration of the muse was awakened upon the death of his twin sister, and since that time has engaged his pen more or less, as health and circumstances would permit. Many of his best poems, however, are on personal subjects, upon which secrecy places her finger, except to his most intimate friends. C. M. G.

Tears! Tears! Tears!

For my heart is breaking to-day

O'er changes, changes for the day that is done And thoughts that will live alway.

Tears! Tears! Tears!

Ah nothing, alas, but tears!

What was sown in joy, in the harvest of years Sadly at last has been gathered in tears.

Tears! Tears! Tears!

Like a day drawn to its close,

By the tender grace of thy gentle balm, Thou restorest the souls reclose.

TO MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.

YES Marie! all child, all woman,
Though thine own hand has laid thy life so bare,
Thy young, impatient heart,

In all that thou wouldst fain attempt or dare,
Thou still doth play a woman's part.
Where others would drag slow feet of clay,
By one sweep of thy radiant fancy's wing,
Thou'd soar beyond this common light of day;
Aye! to no earthly bonds, thy soul would cling,
For thy life shone with a terrestial ray.
It was the working of thy subtle mind,
Thy restless spirit which no will could tame,
That set the fires within thy quivering breast
And consumed thee with their inward flames.

Yes Marie, with all thy longings, thy regrets,
Aye! the remorse thy dark despair begets,
Within thy darker musings we still trace,
As we look on thy eager expectant face,
The musings of a wayward child.
Like a lone Arab, who o'er desert sands,
From the door of his tent, through twilight clear,
Watches with tranquil eye, the caravans,

In glimmering distance drawing near,
So she did watch death's sombre shadows come,
With undimmed eye, with silent tongue,
And we, O child! our hearts all woe, all tears,
Whom there were left so many, many years,
And thou wert given so few.

The unfinished picture on the easel stands;
The unfinished life against the shadowy lands;
With master stroke, death makes the scene com-

plete,

And that for which thou strove with tireless feet,

At last, O child, has been doubly granted thee.

CHANGES.

АH! changes! changes! within thy spell,

Are friendships soon forgot, And faces once to memory dear

Alas! remembered not.

Yet should our minds give other forms

To those near which we dwell;

Though time's light feet have touched their locks Are we not changed as well?

A mother o'er her sleeping child
To-day bends down with joy;
To-morrow in her silent prayer,

Prays for her wayward boy.
Bright webs are built within a night,
At morn to be a spotless shroud;
As soon in life's great changing scene
Is pride with sorrow bowed.

THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES.

I LAY dreaming, my soul filled with music,
Like a still that is cast in the depths of the sea,
And over the chords of my feeling, sweet numbers
Were trembling in a light, subdued harmony.

Oh! was it the waves that were lonely thus sighing? If so could I dwell in the depths of the sea Where my soul to their music forever could listen, And their beatings would bring their sweet rest

unto me.

They were strains only such as the soul can remember,

Those chords that were played to my slumbering

ear,

For no hands that are mortal could wake with each

murmur

A thrill of glad joy, and a heart-rending tear.

They were tones that awake the soul to new beauties,

They were tones played too fine for a mortals cold

ear;

I slept on as a man, yet my dreams were of angels, And I felt that their heavenly presence was near.

Oh! will they come back, those numbers not mortal,
Or will they be ever again breathed to me,
Those strains that I heard like soft music from
heaven,

As I lay in deep slumber beside of the sea.

JA

JAMES BARRON HOPE.

AMES BARRON HOPE was of the best English and Huguenot stock, and his forefathers have filled a high social position from the early days of the Colony of Virginia. His great-grandfather organized and commanded the Virginia Navy during the Revolution, and his grandfather was Commodore James Barron, U. S. N. A daughter of the latter, Miss Jane A. Barron, married Wilton Hope Esq. and their only child was James Barron Hope. Com. James Barron, was Commandant of the Norfolk Navy Yard in 1829, where his grandson was born, on the 23rd of March of that year.

James Barron Hope received his earlier education partly at Germantown, Pa. and partly at Hampton, Va. He afterwards entered William and Mary College, where he graduated with the degree of A. B. in 1847. After leaving college he studied law and practised on the Peninsula for several years. In 1857 he married Miss Anne Beverly Whiting, daughter of Kennon Whiting Esq., of Hampton.

The dry details of the legal profession were distasteful to Mr. Hope, and as he was in easy circumstances, he was enabled to devote himself to the much more pleasant occupation of literary pursuits. His writings early attracted attention, and his critical articles in the Richmond "South" were very much admired for their beautiful style and their great literary ability. He also at various times published many small poems which bore marks of high genius. At the Jamestown celebration in 1857, commemorative of the settlement of Virginia, he recited a poem, and at the aveiling of the statue of Washington, at Richmond, he delivered the ode. Both of these poetical productions were remarkable. for their lofty style and brilliant diction.

Upon the breaking out of the Civil War Mr. Hope entered the Confederate Army and served till the capitulation of the forces of Gen. Joseph E. Johnston in North Carolina. After the war Captain Hope settled in Norfolk, where he edited successively the Virginian and the Landmark. In this new field his talents were acknowledged by all to be of the highest order. He rose at once to a most eminent position as a political writer during the stormy period of reconstruction. Strange to say, even in those exciting times he was personally popular with men of every political creed, for all knew him to be thoroughly honest in his convictions. Such a man became, as he deserved to be, a great power in Virginia.

Though very much engrossed by his editorial duties, Capt. Hope did not neglect the muses, and from time to time he delighted the public by his

poetical contributions to his papers. He also delivered addresses and poems on many occasions in various parts of Virginia. The last poem recited by him was his splendid effort at the celebration in Yorktown in 1881, which gave him an enviable reputation. Not long before his death he was invited by the Governor of Virginia to compose a poem to be recited at the laying of the corner-stone of the Lee monument in Richmond. He had just finished this touching and beautiful production, when he was suddenly stricken by death. It was read by a friend at the dedication of the momument to the great confederate commander.

Capt. Hope died of a disease of the heart, on the 15th of September, 1887, leaving a widow and two married daughters to bewail their irreparable loss. He was mourned by the whole community that so admired, honored and loved him, as well as by his fellow-citizens throughout the commonwealth. Distinguised as an essayist, poet, editor and orator, high-souled, generous and brave, James Barron Hope has left an imperishable name as one of the sons of Virginia. W. R. G.

GREY BAYARD.

An Ancient Story.

THE MOUNTING.

THE camp is astir, and the men muster fast;
Good Hurbert, ring out on my bugle a blast,
Then saddle me Bayard, my noble grey steed;
Surely soldier had never a better at need.

He can leap any chasm I ever have found;
He can swim any river with roebuck or hound.
Ho! saddle me Bayard! the spears on the plain,
Are thick as the hairs in his torrent-like mane.

And look to the girths; see them trusty and strong;
The harvest's before us; the day will be long

And Death, the great reaper, fair gallants, ye know, Goeth forth this fair morning,-Ha! yonder's the foe.

And there comes grey Bayard! didst ever see, sirs, A steed upon which ye might sooner win spurs ?

What a neck! what a crest! how the strong muscles swell!

By my fay, gallant Bayard, I love thee, right well.

See his wide-spreading nostrils breathe forth fire and mists;

On his back I would front even Fate in the lists.

So, Bayard! ho, fellow! you pant for the fray.
How my heart throbs when mounted, my beautiful
grey.

And Bayard, remember-my banner so grand,
Was wrought in device by my fair Lady's hand.

And hark to the trumpets! and hark to the drum! Tho' the knaves are base rebels, right proudly they

come.

Hear the clash, and the tramp! how they swell with a sound

That stirreth the blood like the bay of a hound. Now, Hurbert, my lance! So! my visor is down; Let us ride, my gay gallants, and win us renown. Let us rout these false caitiffs; the king's in yon group;

Shake my banner abroad; let the wild falcon stoop.

THE BATTLE.

There was wheeling of squadrons, the charge of brigades;

There was clatter of axes, and clashing of blades;

There was clangor of trumpets, and trample of steeds;

There was shouting of war-cries, and doing of deeds;

There was rending of harness, and breaking of spears;

There was slaughter of burghers, and slaughter of peers.

And where men fell thickest that midsummer day, Stoutly struck a brave knight on a dark iron grey. Like a thunderbolt cleaving its way through the pines,

When the tempest-cloud bursts on the blue Appenines,

So he made thro' his foeman a terrible path— Dealing death unto all who encountered his wrath.

THE HEALTH.

The moon shone serenely. The gallant knight lay Sorely wounded, and weary; and down was the grey,

Near a brook, that in flowing seemed singing a tune

A song, as it were, to the beautiful moon.

The soldier was thirsty; he crawl'd to the bank, But ere of its waters the brave noble drank,