CHARLES M. DICKINSON.

OME twenty-five years ago a poem entitled "The Children," found a place in nearly every journal in America, and in many in England. It was spoken in schools and read on platforms, and quoted from the pulpit. It pictured the life of a sympathetic teacher among his scholars, and was a voice of the education that is inspired by the heart. The poem was signed "Charles Dickinson." Over that name it was printed in Mrs. Kirkland's "School Girl's Garland" (Scribner & Co., 1864), and it has since found its way into nearly every collection of verse. About 1870, some careless compositor dropped the final letters from "Dickinson," and since then the poem has often gone the rounds of the newspapers ascribed to Charles Dickens. This poem, the most beautiful expression of the true mission of the teacher ever written, was the inspiration of Charles M. Dickinson, and grew out of his own experience in his school. What a delightful school it must have been, the picture of which will never fail!

Mr. Dickinson belongs to a substantial family, and was born at Lowville, Lewis county, N. Y., November, 1842. It is worth noting that Benjamin F. Taylor, who wrote "Oh, a Wonderful Stream is the River Time," was born in this village.

At the age of eighteen Mr. Dickinson commenced teaching school. He taught during winters, and attended Fairfield Seminary and Lowville Academy in summers. He began writing verse when about fifteen years of age.

In 1864 he went to Binghamton, N. Y., and studied law with Hon. Daniel S. Dickinson. Life was a struggle with him at that time, and he helped pay his expenses by writing stories at night. He practiced law in Binghamton and New York until 1878, when he became the editor and manager of that powerful and admirably edited journal, the Binghamton Republican.

Mr. Dickinson impresses one as a poet of great energy of character and depth of feeling; a man with width in the region of ideality, and a soulgrasp of the hand, yet with the clear vision of practical things that wins success in all undertakings. He loves a retired life, and lives in elegant seclusion amid the most picturesque scenery. His publishing house in Binghamton is among the most beautiful buildings of the city, as great a credit to the enterprise of the place as the conscientious and literary character of his paper is an honor to the county and state. He has the reputation of being interested in his employés, and he is quick to see and appreciate literary merit in new writers and to help them.

"The

He has led an ideal life of eminent influence for good, and his published volume of poems is but a voice of all this worthy aspiration, soul growth and rich experience. He is a poet of nature and the heart. He sympathizes with life, and expressesthese sympathies with a cultured mind and a trained pen. He is a poet that all should know. true mark of a good heart," says Mme. de Sevigne, "is its capacity for loving." Mr. Dickinson loves humanity, and his poems make better the hearts and lives of all who read them, and will live among the immortals in grateful influence. He has that rare genius that sees beauty, and uses it to create good, and to plant with imperishable flowers the fields of an inspired experience. H. B.

HOW FAR FROM HEAVEN.

DEAR love of mine, through whom I know
The risen Christ still lives below,
Repeats his miracles of old,
Turns all the sunset into gold,

And, with its touch of light divine,
Turns all the river into wine,

Breathes heaven's harmonies through the notes
The birds drop from their velvet throats,
Sets all the world a-dreaming of
Her ancient Paradise of love,
And brings the skies so near to view,-
How many miles from heaven are you?

I know you're near its bound'ry lines,
For, as we stood beneath the pines,

Your soul went upward in a prayer;
You raised to heaven your pleading eyes,
And lo, the gates of Paradise

Stood open wide a moment there. I caught a glimpse of wondrous things— A gleam of glory, flash of wings,— A sense of music filled the air; And straightway, from the open skies, A dazzling beam cleft like a blade, Right through the midday light, and made A darkened space to left and right,

A shadow in the sunniest place, And, like an angel's smile of light,

Fell full upon your upturned face.

Come closer, Love, and tell me true,
How many miles from heaven are you?
I know your sainted feet have pressed
The flowery highways of the Blessed,
And every foot of sky and sod
To the dear city of our God.

I know you hear the choirs that sing
In the fair palace of their King;
And, by the holy thoughts that rise,
Like timid angels, in your eyes,—
Your pause to change with trembling tone,
Your native language to our own,-
By all the sweet, mysterious things
That make me look to see your wings,
I know a lovelier land than earth
Contains the record of your birth,

That you're a heavenly envoy here—
An angel clothed in fair disguise;
You walk the world with weary feet,

That you may make yourself more dear Than all the treasures 'neath the skies, Then, like the North Star's magnet-sway— Loaned from its place, to wear by day,

You lead the soul from sin and care, O'er hills where night and morning meet, Straight up to heaven, unaware.

And as I follow, I behold
Glad glimpses of the gates of gold;
And all my homesick soul forlorn,
Longs for the land where it was born.
No more Earth's magnet-heart afar,
Draws to itself each living thing;
The silver thread of every star

Becomes a heavenly leading-string.
Far through the sky's celestial calm,

I see the paradise of palm,

Through which the sunsets burn and blush, And winds repeat their heavenly psalm,— God's voice within the Burning Bush;— And just beyond, the golden wall

Where those we thought were in the grave, Send happy looks to us, and wave Their signs of welcome, over all.

Some sunshine from Eternal day,
Falls here and there, about our way;
Some flowers in exile bloom to tell
The glorious gardens whence they fell;
And warm air currents flow by me-
The Gulf Stream of the ethereal sea-
And sometimes fan my heavenward face
With a strange touch of added grace,

Like angel's breath or sweep of wing; And we're so near our resting place,

The very birds come out to sing, To cheer us with their song and sight, And then fly back again at night.

I see th' attending stars stoop down

And follow nightly with your crown;

I see the pearly cloud that brings

And hovers with your waiting wings;
And sometimes, in the waning light,
I tremble lest you fade from sight.
O precious Guide! I pray you, wait,
If first you reach the heavenly gate;
For well I know, if I pass through,
'Twill be that I'm a part of you,

And not for aught that I have done;
For all my earthly self, the true,
The purest thoughts I ever knew,
My noblest aims since life began,
My hope, my faith in Christ and man,
And all the love my life has known,
Are all your own-are all your own.

AT MOTHER'S GRAVE.

ACROSS the river's rippling sheen
They went, with sorrowing tread,
Through meadows that put up their green
To rival the blue o'erhead,

Out where the untrodden streets proclaimed The hamlet of the dead.

Through cloudy vales of blue and gold
The sun went wandering down;

Each spire, and dome, and mountain bold,
Put on its crimson crown;

And a hundred suns were all aglow,
In the windows of the town.

A little stream slipped through the grass,
With sad and murmuring sound;
On every side, grief's highest tide
Had left full many a mound,—
As if His "Peace be still!" had fixed
These waves upon the ground.

And ever, where the streamlet went
Broad elms and maples grew,
Whose heavy shadows o'er it bent,
Hid sun and star and blue;
The heaven it saw from yonder field
Was all the heaven it knew.

But, flowers sent up the faint, sweet breath
Of her whose breath was still,
And birds right in the face of Death

Sang out their sweetest trill;—
How could they know, that had not sinned,
That Death had power to kill?

Save these, no earthly sound was heard, No living thing was there;