among these many millions should deem themselves classed amiss, yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth that Death levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon the earth's wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music made up of every sigh that the human heart unsatisfied has uttered! There is yet triumph in thy tones. And now we move, beggars in their rags and kings trailing the regal purple in the dust, the warrior's gleaming helmet, the priest in his sable robe, the hoary grandsire who has run life's circle and come back to childhood, the ruddy school-boy with his golden curls frisking along the march, the artisan's stuff jacket, the noble's star-decorated coat, the whole presenting a motley spectacle, yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it. Onward, onward, into that dimness where the lights of time which have blazed along the procession are flickering in their sockets! And whither? We know not, and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside, as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps passes beyond his sphere. He knows not more than we our destined goal, but God, who made us, knows, and will not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either to wander in infinite uncertainty or perish by the way. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 1807-1882 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. His father was a prominent lawyer, and had served in Congress, but was not wealthy. At the age of twelve he entered Bowdoin College, where he graduated in 1825. One of the trustees of the college had been greatly pleased with some of Longfellow's work, and shortly after graduation he was appointed to the professorship of modern languages, then just established. A suggestion of three years' study in Europe as a preparation for the position accompanied the appointment. This offer was accepted joyfully, and his stay abroad proved of the greatest advantage both to himself and his pupils. He began his duties in 1829. In 1835 he published his first book, "Outre Mer," sketches of travel abroad, not unlike the sketches of Irving. The same year he was appointed professor of modern languages at Harvard, and again went abroad in preparation for his new duties. During this journey he met with his first great sorrow, in the death of his wife. In "The Footsteps of Angels," and in several other poems, he honors her memory. In 1839 appeared the prose romance, Hyperion," and the first collection of his poems, The Voices of the Night." Some of the poems published in this collection, such as "The Psalm of Life" and "The Reaper and the Flowers," have since become household words in America. "Ballads and Other Poems," containing some of his finest lyrics and ballads, followed two years later. 66 The next year Longfellow married for the second time, and acquired the Cragie House, in Cambridge, for his home. "The Belfry of Bruges appeared in 1846, Evangeline" in 1847, The Golden Legend" in 1851, “The Song of Hiawatha" in 1855, The Courtship of Miles Standish" in 1858, and many others. He resigned his professorship in Harvard in 1854 in order to devote his best energies to literary work. In 1861 his beautiful wife perished before his eyes, a tragedy that clouded the remainder of his life, and gave a tinge of sadness to much of his later poetry. He continued, however, to write with the same industry and success as before, and a new volume from his pen was brought out almost every year. At the time of his death, which occurred in Cambridge in 1882, he left two volumes in manuscript, which were published as a posthumous work. Longfellow takes high rank among the great poets of English literature. Although rarely profound, Longfellow struck a note that awakened responsive echoes in all hearts. His fame rests chiefly on his lyrics, and he is likely to remain one of America's most popular poets. His prose works, while of minor importance, are marked by the same grace and delicacy of style, and are pervaded by the same noble spirit as his poetry. Both in his sketches of travel and in his literary essays we are impressed by his scholarly and felicitous treatment of the topic in question, and charmed by the even flow of his style, always mellow and sympathetic. G DEFENCE OF POETRY ENTLE Sir Philip Sidney, thou knewest what belonged to a scholar; thou knewest what pains, what toil, what travel, conduct to perfection; well couldest thou give every virtue his encouragement, every art his due, every writer his desert, 'cause none more virtuous, witty, or learned than thyself." This eulogium was bestowed upon one of the most learned and illustrious men that adorned the last half of the sixteenth century. Literary history is full of his praises. He is spoken of as the ripe scholar, the able statesman-" the soldier's, scholar's, courtier's eye, tongue, sword "-the man "whose whole life was poetry put into action." He and the Chevalier Bayard were the connecting links between the ages of chivalry and our own. Sir Philip Sidney was born at Penshurst, in West Kent, on November 29, 1554, and died on October 16, 1586, from the wound of a musket-shot received under the walls of Zutphen, a town in Guelderland, on the banks of the Issel. When he was retiring from the field of battle an incident occurred which well illustrates his chivalrous spirit, and that goodness of heart which gained him the appellation of the "Gentle Sir Philip Sidney." The circumstance has been made the subject of an historical painting by West. It is thus related by Lord Brooke: "The horse he rode upon was rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army where his uncle the general was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle. Which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head, before he drank, and |