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LUCY D. W. FERRIS.
Day hath her sounds, but night her silences,
Sleep from the grave and Rest from Heaven come;
Earth holds her breath and every voice is dumb; The tired wind's asleep; Speech forgets her words; Silent as printed notes are notes of birds; In all the earth a single cricket's sound Makes voice more dumb and silence more pro
found; While countless stars with noiseless step march
UCY D. WHITCOMB FERRIS was born in
Poolville, Madison county, New York, August 8, 1833. Mrs. Ferris' early life was passed amid the beautiful surroundings of the Chenango valley. Her girlhood was not marked by anything peculiarly striking, but with the ordinary work of the home, the school and the Church, she developed a character lovely, solid and abiding. Her appreciation of the beautiful in nature was measurably met in the delightful retreats in this valley by the river and the sheet of water that is now known as “Fairy Lake.”
She was married to Rev. J. M. Ferris, June 25, 1857. In the labor of the itinerancy as a minister's wife for thirty-four years she has rendered most valuable service. Her writings have consisted chiefly in tales founded on facts that have come under her own observation, illustrating and enforcing some moral principle. Travels, public exercises, with all their amusing scenes or soberer phases, together with associations with all classes of individuals, has given to her a wide field in which to exercise her gifts. Her poems have mostly been written for her own amusement. They have not as yet been collected in book form. Mrs. Ferris now resides in Earlville, Iowa.
J. M. F.
The lilies do not toil, and the lilies do not spin; They have to hold their chalices to catch the rain
drops in, To wash their raiment white as snow, from golden
heart to hem, To justify the words of praise the Master spake of
IN THE GARDEN.
When the night comes down
Over field and town, And hides all the flowers and meadow daisies,
I turn my eyes to the blossoming skies,
To the far-off gardens of Paradise,
To the radiant spots
In the crescent bed of the larger Lion,
Right on to the beautiful city of Zion; And my heart is so filled with the wondrous view,
That it overflows in reverent praises, And mourns no more for the violets blue,
For the roses sweet, and the meadow daisies.
O Thou, the everlasting one,
LOVE. Love ventures all, but Fame will not surrender Its vain pomp, while Love is true forever.
-A Comfortable Thought.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
tain with an enduring yet indescribable charm, and convey much valuable information as to the life of the times of which they treat.
G. R. C.
S'historical novelists, was bom in Edinburgh
in 1771 and died in 1832. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, read law, and in 1792 was called to the bar. In 1799 he was appointed Sheriff, in 1806 he was made Clerk of the Court of Sessions, and in 1820, when he was forty-nine years old, received a baronetcy. His first literary effort was a translation of some of Bürger's ballads, which was published in 1796. Other translations followed, with three or four original poems, but not until 1805 did Scott attain the place of literary eminence which he forever after held and adorned. His first grand success was “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which appeared in that year, and was received with almost universal praise. “Marmion," "The Lady of the Lake, “Rokeby,” and other poems, were issued in quick succession, each confirming his poetical reputation and spreading his fame. But Scott is better known in the world as a novelist than as a poet, and a few words descriptive of his remarkable career in fiction seem to be necessary to the completeness of this sketch. In 1814 “Waverly" was issued at Edinburgh, and instantly attracted attention. No author's name appeared on the title-page, and the public was left in a state of painful doubt as to the source of so brilliant a book. Its perplexity was naturally increased, the next year, by the appearance of “Guy Mannering," and, at brief intervals, of its successors. Scott was suspected of the authorship of these books, but stoutly denied it, and not till many years later did he confess the truth. Space will not permit us to dwell upon the pecuniary troubles which clouded the last years of the great novelist. In all the history of literature there is no record of such labors as his; one admires his lofty sense of honor, his unyielding fortitude, and his almost superhuman power of application with equal warmth. The secret of Scott's success may be said to lie in his felicitous employment of common topics, images, and expressions, such as all readers can appreciate. Another source of his strength was his intense nationality; no writer before him had so vividly illustrated the characteristics of Scottish life and character. His novels were and are popular because they deal with real life, and avoid the meditative and speculative habits which are wearisome to the common reader. Not conspicuously surpassing all other novelists in single qualities, Scott yet possessed and combined all the qualities necessary for his work in such nice and harmonious adjustment as has never been witnessed in any other man. His novels fascinate and enter
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
-Ibid, Canto iii.
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
- Ibid. POETS.
Was flattery lost on poet's ne'er:
Call it not vain;they do not err
Who say, that, when the poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.
-Ibid, Canto v. LOVE.
True love's the gift which God has given
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
- Ibid, Canto 2. SORROW.
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
But woe awaits a country when
It is the secret sympathy,
This is my own, my native land!
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
-Ibid, Canto vi.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
O woman! in our hours of ease
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,
- Marmion, Canto iii.
When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
- Lady of the Lake, Canto i.
'Tis an old tale and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
Lightly from fair to sair he flew,