Uncle leaned down and lifted the Bother up on his knee and kissed him on the cheek. The Bother thought that was very strange. No one had kissed him since Ma went away. many things were strange. But OLIVE CHAPIN HIGGINS. THE WRECK OF THE SCHOONER PLACE A jolly sou'easter He ripped up the sea Into furrows of wind-wild form, And a sleet-shrouded schooner Beat up the coast, In the teeth of a rattling storm. She pointed, close-hauled, To the eye of the wind, And never a hair's breadth she gave, As heavily freighted, She plunged her nose To the heart of each combing wave. The spray dashed over her Masthead high, And froze on the stiffening sail, But the men laughed loud At the shivering storm And the sleet in the driving gale. Ahoy, boys! Ahoy, boys! For a fight with the saucy sea, While hearts are bright And fires alight In the homes on the sheltered lee. Ice ropes hung From the frozen sails And bound them hard to the mast, And where was the crew To reef a sail Like a board in the stinging blast. So hold her hard And drive her fast And fight it out, my men! For many a year, We've weathered the storms And faith, we'll do it again! So the schooner tore A path through the storm, With a creak and a groan in each spar, And never an ear For the breakers roar Till she struck on the outer bar. Ahoy, boys! Ahoy, boys! For a fight with the fierce cold sea, While hearts are bright, And fires alight In the homes on the sheltered lee. The dare-devil tars Of the rollicking crew Hitched themselves close to the mast, With a double wrap And a bowlin' knot As the surf went thundering past. A night and a day And another night The schooner hung on the bar, Till the frozen crew Beat a rat-a-tat-tat Like sticks on the icy spar. And the jolly sou'easter He blew till he stopped, And never a rap cared he When only two Of the rollicking crew Came in from the saucy sea. Two men came in And one was dead And the other was worse than he, Ahoy, boys! Ahoy, boys! For a fight with the saucy sea! HELEN ISABEL WALBRIDGE. THE GENIUS OF SYDNEY LANIER By some strange perversity only to be explained by the fact that too much light dazzles the vision, contemporary criticism has usually lavished its praises on such as have in a few generations faded away; seeming, however, utterly blind when brought face to face with great luminaries such as Shakespeare, Dante, and scores of others whom posterity has exalted to the summits of genius. There are, of course, noted exceptions,we have an occasional Tennyson and a Kipling,-yet can we attribute wholly to their credit those qualities leading to immediate popularity? Are not the greatest, noblest minds those a little beyond the comprehension of their age, do they not rather stand alone on the hill-tops, watching with calm, deep thoughts the petty rushings of the multitude below? Such a character, it seems to me, was the musician and poet, Sydney Lanier. To state that, in spite of slight recognition, Sydney Lanier felt himself to be a genius seems, when taken thus boldly, an exposure of rank conceit and vain-glorious self-worship. “I know," he wrote at one time to cheer his wife, "through the fiercest tests of life, that I am in soul, and shall be in life and utterance, a great poet." Such a statement must be either based on an utter misconception of his abilities, or justified by what his life and utterance proved. Although strongly imbued with the conviction that he had been most graciously endowed with unusual powers and talents, although feeling that the mighty messages within would insist on voicing themselves, nevertheless, he believed that only by most strenuous work could his mission be fulfilled. Consequently, obeying gladly the mysterious calls within, not less urgent than those of Jeanne d'Arc, listened to with no less humility, he bent every effort to do his best. Without thought of self-glorification, he worked, but in accordance with his principle that "the artist should put forth humbly and lovingly and without bitterness against opposition, the very best and highest that is within him, utterly regardless of contemporary criticism." When catching a glimpse like this, of the motive impelling the artist, can we repeat the accusation of conceit? We do not think of charging the founder of Christianity with conceit, for devoting his life to the utmost expression of his message to mankind, for revealing earnestly and unceasingly, the fullness of his perfect self-hood. No more should we blame Sydney Lanier for a consciousness of his ability to occupy a certain definite position among men. As in Rossetti, the union of two arts, poetry and painting, made his expression more complete, so in Lanier's works the music in the poetry, the poetry in the music, seem to be naturally linked in the perfection of art. That trinity of Music, Poetry and Painting combines in reality three aspects of one great principle, taken in its highest sense-Beauty; the beauty of harmony, of thought, the beauty of expressing that which is worthy to be held in memory. The ease with which Sydney Lanier turned from his earlier choice, music, which he loved and understood so perfectly that "he lived in sweet sounds", and expressed so harmoniously that he made it "suggestive of the depths and heights of being that earthly ear never hears and earthly eye never sees", reveals the close communion and understanding between the artist and his goddess, Art. In his poem "The Symphony" there lives the double beauty of poetry and music, both heard at once-the words sing to the lisHark! tener. "A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly Upon the bosom of that harmony, And sailed and sailed incessantly, As if a petal from a wild rose blown Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone And boatwise dropped on the convex side And clarified and glorified The solemn spaces where shadows bide." How perfect the velvet flute-note, how sweetly the fluttering petal-sound rose into strength and "clarified and glorified the solemn spaces where shadows bide". The vivid picturing of the poetry is not less charming than the clearness of the melody. Such forms as seem artificial and forced in the hands of other poets are employed by Lanier with the utmost spontaneity and fitness. Often we find in poems assonance which adds nothing to the interpretation; with Lanier it is used to picture-exactly what he wished to convey. Listen to the rustling, the play of the breezes in these lines from "Sunrise": "Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, They seem to have soothed and caressed you as in life! His repetition of words comes like the rise and fall of a sigh or a wave of the ocean, wonderful, rhythmical, repeating, yet new. In the "Ballad of Trees and the Master" comes the repetition of "Clean forspent, forspent ", expressing better than any other way, the drooping spirits, the tired head sinking slowly, sighingly on an aching breast. His subjects, as well as their form, deviating from the ordinary trend of thought, are of singular strength and loveliness. After reading of the valleys, the mountains, the oceans of other poets, we come with a glad surprise to the refreshing, unforseen poetry of the marshes. We wonder, when Lanier writes of them, why all the poets in Christendom have not written their pens dry in ecstasies over their myriad charms. Those wonderful marshes, "distilling silence", "with flooded streams" glimmering "a limpid labyrinth of dreams";- the fluttering little leaves of his beloved live-oaks, and "the length and breadth and the sweep of the marshes." One of his most fanciful characteristics is the transformation of Shakespearian people into Shakespearian things. In his nature-poems exist whole tragedies, where the parts are played, not by men, but by the universe. He sings, 66 Over the Caliban Sea Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest." Immediately in our vision, the sea takes form, the cloud is clothed with a new and fairy-like loveliness. Again the strength of figure: "Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine And Cleopatra night drinks all." At times, he chooses to write on commonplace topics, though not as one without a keen appreciation of art. After a glowing, shimmering view of the tall green stalks of corn he turns to a lament over the havoc of trade, of speculation, and the greed for gold. He is filled with sadness for the "restless |