sixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, who value both her winning personality and her literary art. She has been throughout her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary labor. Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. From 1870 to 1876 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York "Tribune," and for nearly five years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books and literary people for the Boston "Sunday Herald," the series of these letters closing in December, 1891.

Mrs. Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Longfellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swinburne, Tennyson and others, in Europe.

HEN I am dust, and thou art quick and
glad,

Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days
we had,

What happy days, beside the shining seas,
Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease,
Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover,
Or whispering our own love-story over.

When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space,
And set another in my vacant place,
Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth,
Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth,
Be happy, dearest one, and surely know

I would not have thee thy life's joys forego.

*Copyright, Roberts Bros.

Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think She walks no more beside me in the morning; she of her blue eyes; meets me not on any summer eve;

Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: But once at night I heard a low voice calling-“ Oh, 'tis but the wind's low sighs.

I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair;

And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;

faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!" Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;

But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
(FROM "IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS.")

OW shall I here her placid picture paint
With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?
Soft hair above a brow so high and pure
Years have not soiled it with an earthly taint.
Needing no aureole to prove her saint;

Firm mind that no temptation could allure;
Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure;

And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint.
So have I seen her, in my darkest days

And when her own most sacred ties were riven,
Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways,

Asking for strength, and sure it would be given;
Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise-
So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven.

*Copyright, Roberts Bros.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE FIRST AMERICAN AUTHOR OF RENOWN.

"The Cervantes of the New World."

HE first American who openly adopted literature as a calling and successfully relied upon his pen for support was Washington Irving, and the abiding popularity of this author is the best guarantee of his permanent place in the world of letters. Since 1802, when Irving begun to write, empires have arisen and passed away; new arts have been invented and adopted, and have pushed the old out of use; the household economy of mankind has undergone a revolution; science has learned a new dialect and forgotten the old; but the words of this charming writer are still as bright and even more read by men and women to-day than when they came fresh from his pen and their brilliant author was not only the literary lion of America, but was a shining light in the circles of the old World. The pages of Irving are a striking illustration of the fact that the language of the heart never becomes obsolete, that Truth, and Good, and Beauty, the offspring of God, are not subject to the changes which beset the empire of man, and we feel sure that Washington Irving, whose works were the delight of our grandparents and parents, and are now contributing to our own happiness, will also be read with the same eager pleasure by those who come after us.

sons.

It was on the 3rd of April, 1783, when the British were in possession of New York City and George Washington was exerting his forces to drive them away, that young Irving was born. Like Benjamin Franklin, he was the youngest of many His father was a Scotchman and his mother an English woman, who emigrated to America soon after their marriage and settled in New York about the year 1770. The Irvings were staunch patriots and did what they could to relieve the sufferings of American prisoners while the British held the city, and their son was not christened until the English evacuated the town and George Washington came in and took possession. In her exultation over this event Mrs Irving exclaimed: "Washington's work is ended and this child shall be named after him." Six years later, in 1789, George Washington took the oath of office as the first President of the United States, in New York, which was then the capital of the country. Shortly after this the Scotch servant girl with little Irving in charge, seeing the President on the street called out: "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named after you.' Washington bade her bring the boy to him, and placing his hands on his head gave him his blessing.