Sometimes he is tender, as in "At the President's Grave"; he says of Garfield,

"A man not perfect, but of heart

So high, of such heroic rage,
That even his hopes became a part

Of earth's eternal heritage."

Sometimes we have an original and lovely conception, as in "The White and the Red Rose," "Youth and Age," and "Wanted, a Theme!"

"Give me a theme,' the little poet cried,

'And I will do my part!'

"Tis not a theme you need,' the world replied;

'You need a heart.'"

And Mr. Gilder has brought a warm heart to his work, as well as genuine thought and finish. That he loves the memory of Keats, "An Inscription in Rome" and other poems show. At his home one may see a mask of Keats's face, given to Mr. Gilder by Severn while at Rome. Also one sees here a life mask, and one taken after death, of Abraham Lincoln, and of his strong honest hand; he of whom Gilder wrote, in the "Burial of Grant":

"As brave as he-he on whose iron arm

Our greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise-
Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies,
While this one soldier checked the tide of harm,
And they together saved the State,
And made it free and great."

One of Mr. Gilder's most imaginative and choice poems is an "Ode," in which the "spirit of light and life and mirth" sings:

"I love not the night

Save when the stars are bright,

Or when the moon

Fills the white air with silence like a tune.

Yea, even the night is mine

When the Northern Lights outshine,

And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine;

Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black sky lowers, When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore in starry showers."

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In 1885, Gilder's third volume of collected "Poems and Lyrics" was published. At his age, forty-three, we may expect much able work from his pen. Edmund Clarence Stedman says of his books, "Each is a cluster of flawless poems, the earlier verse marked by the mystical beauty, intense emotion, and psychological distinctions of the elect illuminati. He appears to have studied closely, besides the most ideal English verse, the Italian sonnets and canzoni, which ever deeply impress a poet of exquisite feeling. An individual tone dominates his maturer lyrical efforts; his aim is choice and high, as should be that of one who decides upon the claims of others."

George Parsons Lathrop also gives Gilder high praise: "He has, in many pieces, the irresistible singing quality that motion which carries us

along as naturally as the earth does its rotary flight through space. Alive to all the beauty of sense, sound, color, physical pleasure, he adores no less the beauty of thought, the splendor of divinity; and all these things are taken up into the comprehensive spirituality of his mood, so that to read his verse is like receiving a new access of the glad pure candor which belongs to youth."

A single verse from one of our younger poets, Clinton Scollard, voices well Mr. Gilder's power:

"Pure depth of feeling wedded to high art

And keenest insight these the poet brings:

And when he sweeps his lyre's reverberant strings He strikes the chords that stir the human heart."

Mr. Gilder is fortunate in a family circle which has kindred gifts. His brother, J. B. Gilder, formerly connected with the "New York Herald," is now associate editor of the "Critic." Col. W. H. Gilder, his oldest brother, is well known as the author of that most interesting book, "Schwatka's Search," or sledging in the Arctic regions in quest of the Franklin records, which they found, Colonel Gilder being second in command in the expedition; and author of "Ice-Pack and Tundra," an account of the search for the "Jeannette," and the sledge journey through Siberia. Miss Jeannette L. Gilder has just published "Representative Poems by Living Poets," selected by the poets themselves. Charles De Kay, a brother-in-law of Richard Wat

son Gilder, is a successful poet, author of "Vision of Nimrod," "Esther," and shorter poems.

Mr. Gilder is often asked to grace distinguished occasions by his presence and his pen. He wrote an inspiring hymn, sung at the presentation of the obelisk to the city of New York, Feb. 22, 1881.

At the eighth Commencement of Smith College at Northampton, Mass., he read "Mars Triumphalis," thoughtful and spiritual:

“O Lord of Light, steep thou our souls in thee!
That when the daylight trembles into shade,

And falls the silence of mortality,

And all is done, we shall not be afraid,

But pass from light to light; from what doth seem,
Into the very heart and heaven of our dream."

A man of rare spirit, personality, and talent, he adds another honored and noble name to a company of authors of whom America may well be proud; one of Emerson's chosen literati, "a man behind the book."

WILL CARLETON.

Na three-story brownstone house in Brooklyn, New York, lives Will Carleton, one of our younger and most popular poets. He has touched the hearts of the people as few others have done. He has made home and home affections sweeter to hundreds of thousands; he has written with a desire to make the world purer and nobler; infinitely above writing merely "for art's sake,"” if, indeed, in this nineteenth century of human progress, there really be any who write without an underlying purpose to help their fellows.

The Carleton home has comfort and refinement; pictures which show that the author has travelled widely and appreciatively; a sweet-faced mother, who is and ought to be proud of her successful son, and an accomplished wife, who is devoted to charitable and noble works. The home is full of sunshine, both from nature and from cordial hearts, and sincerity and peace reign within it. The attractive parlors, in blue, are not the most attractive rooms in the house, for one naturally turns to the place where the poet does his daily