the town site. He began preaching in the railroad depot, organized a public school, and three months after, formed and opened a church. As soon as the way was opened he moved southward, and has served churches in Iowa, Missouri, Illinois and Kansas. While on a visit to Scotland he issued "The King of Men." In 1884 he wrote "Auld Kilmarnock Toon," which was issued as a pamphlet and rapidly bought up by his fellow-townsmen. Since coming to America he has written poems and hymns, many of which have been set to appropriate tunes for temperance and Sunday School books. M. S. L. B.

LOUIS KOSSUTH.

The noble Hungarian lately said: My hands are empty, but they are clean."

BENEATH the blue of Italian skies,
And the shadows of eighty years,
A rare old man with lustrous eyes
And a tottering step appears.
Sadly he leans on a stronger arm,

And talks of changes he has seen,
Yet one thought cheers him like a charm-
"My hands are empty, but they're clean!"

Oh, Kossuth! Great Hungarian chief!

The record thine early days

Wreathes grandeur round that sentence brief
Which Age's wisdom so display!
Thy lofty aim and pure intent,
Thy love of truth and liberty-

A halo rich in beauty blent-
Now glorify thy poverty.

We mind when thou did'st bravely lead
The fortunes of thy fatherland,

How nations gazed, and men would read
The stirring news that came to hand.
We mourned for unnamed heroes dead
Whose life in gushing crimson ran,
But shouted gladly when we read-

46

'Dembiuski won:" and "Bem beat Ban!" And when the tide of battle turned,

Our hearts were wrung with keenest woe; While wrath against vile Georgey burned, Who sold his country to her foe!

We mind how in thy Turkish jail,

With but four volumes in thy reach,
In three short years thou did'st not fail
To master our strange English speech.
Then, as with rare magnetic power,

Thy words aroused the souls of men,
They felt as if thy wondrous dower

Had brought Demosthenes again!

We crowned thee in our youthful years
With Scottish cap; and, like a king,
Out townsmen hailed thee with their cheers
That make the very welkin ring.
And reverently we grasped thy hand,
And felt thee great; but now I ween
In thine old age thou'rt truly grand,
With hands so empty, yet so clean!

How high in power, how deep in woe,
A noble man may stand and fall!
When driven to exile thou did'st go,
A carpet bag contained thine all!
You felt the wrecks of baffled hopes
Like gloomy spectres o'er you wave,
As, joyless from life's sunny slopes

You staggered to an obscure grave!
Yet then these thoughts did thee uphold—
"I never rose to power through blood!
I never broke an oath for gold,

Nor sinned against my country's good!" Still from such facts sweet comfort draw, We know thou'lt be what thou hast beenBrave, great, and true, without a flaw,

With hands so empty, yet so clean!

Thy name shall live; and, sure as fate,

When countless years have come and gone, 'Twill shine among the good and great,

With Bruce, and Tell, and Washington. The sun, now dipping in the west, Shall beautify a fairer sceneThe home of those supremely blest Whose hearts are pure, whose hands are clean!

Ho, Magyars! Patriots everywhere!
When he shall pass within the vail,
A noble monument prepare

To tell all times the lofty tale!
In breathing marble let him stand
Where first he gazed on earth and sky,
With hands outspreading to command
The homage of posterity;

Grave, deep, and bold, like autograph,
That through the ages may be seen,
His best and glorious epitaph—

"My hands are empty but they're clean!"

Ho, ye who fain would rule the State,

Who say ye seek your country's weal, Learn what alone makes manhood great, And to this aged patriot kneel! Pure hands alone can nations raise,

The foul must blacken and demean; Be men, though in your closing days

Your hands be empty, if they're clean!

H

HARRY LAURENZ WELLS.

ARRY LAURENZ WELLS was born in Geneva, Illinois, March 28, 1854. His parents were both of old Puritan stock from Massachusetts, his mother being a Peirce. After receiving such an education as the excellent public schools of Geneva could give him, Mr. Wells was about to enter college at the age of seventeen, when the great Chicago fire occurring made it necessary that he should go to work. During the following six years he held a position in a large wholesale stationery and publishing house in Chicago, after which he entered the law office of Hon. Emery Storrs and attended the Chicago Law College for a year. Ill health compelled him to relinquish both study and newspaper work, which he was doing for revenue, and in 1878 he went to California, where he was engaged for several years in local historical writing of California and Nevada. In 1882 he went to Portland, Oregon, and for nearly a year continued historical work in that state and Washington. I think the proprietor of West Shore magazine must have found a horseshoe or a four-leaf clover about that time, for in March of the following year Mr. Wells became editor of that publication. Although it had been in existence for eight years previous, it was a small, poorly printed and poorly illustrated monthly of thirty-two pages, without a cover, and with no standing as a literary publication. During the eight years that Mr. Wells has been editor of West Shore, great improvements have been made, and its character has been completely changed. In September, 1889, it was converted into an illustrated weekly, and it is now recognized as one of the leading illustrated literary weeklies of the country. Mr. Wells has given the paper a pure, high, moral tone, and his editorial work is one of its strong features. He is gifted, too, with a versatility of genius and a remarkable force and simplicity of expression. As a poet, the delicately humorous mood seems to be his happiest one; but he now and then touches a chord which indicates what he might accomplish in song of a deeper and more tender tone, did not the dry, practical details of editing and publishing make dumb the softer notes. His "Song of the Bears," a legendary poem of the Haidah Indians of Queen Charlotte Island, attracted wide attention and favorable criticism. Mr. Wells contributes to various standard periodicals both verse and prose, and has done a great deal of historical writing,—his most important work being the "Popular History of Oregon," embracing the period from the time of Cortez to the admission of the state into the Union. Almost his only form of

diversion from his editorial work is of a military nature. He is an enthusiastic national guardsman. For four years he was a member of the well-known First Regiment of Chicago, and served during the railroad riots in 1877, and the troubles in the coal mines; also for six months in California, and for five years in Oregon, and is now Captain of Company K, First Regiment Oregon National Guards, acknowledged to be the finest regiment on the Pacific coast. Mr. Wells was married at Yreka, California, to Minerva M. McManus in 1881, and to this union two children have been born, only one of which-Ray, a little girl of three years-is living. Mr. Wells' tastes, like his nature, are refined and delicate, and although a hard and conscientious worker, he yet finds time to devote to the flowers he loves. The sonnet, “My Roses," could have been written only by a lover of the queen of flowers. He is specially interested in roses and chrysanthemums, having more than seventy choice varieties of the former. MRS. E. H.

UNREST.

THE clouds roll black before the storm-tossed deep;
While from their breast the thunder mutters low,
Responsive to the lightning's fervid glow,
That leaps from crested wave to mountain steep.
Like battling hosts that serried columns keep
And roll their lines successive on the foe,
The rushing waves dash each its curvéd bow
Against huge cliffs, that spurn their maddest leap.
So wars my spirit, agonized to shake

Off all this load of crushing woe, and rend
Its galling chains, and bid itself be free;
Strives hopelessly its prison walls to break;
As beats in ceaseless struggle to the end
Against its rock-girt shore the restless sea.

MY ROSES.

THE mellow tint of purest yellow gold;

The soft, rich glow of happy maiden's blush, When love's first thrillings set her cheeks aflush; The ruby hue of vintage rare and old; The glint of amber by the storm waves rolled From out the sea; all colors that the brush Of artist finds in clouds of evening, lush With flame from dying sun; the autumn wold; The thistle down; the drifted banks of snow; The sea-shell's tinge; the alabaster white; The opal's fiery heart; the amethyst