WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

N attempting a biographical notice of William Dean Howells, the writer will meet his greatest difficulty in the finding and bringing out of some new and interesting points concerning this already well-known writer that have not been given to the public. Foremost among the literary men of the day, he has achieved a reputation both gratifying and enviable; nor has this greatness been "thrust upon him;" it has cost many a weary day's toil. Whatever laurels he has gleaned, have been fairly earned.

William Dean Howells was born at Martin's Ferry, Ohio, March 1, 1837, and at the early age of nine years we find our embryo poet at the compositor's case in his father's office at Hamilton, O., the family having moved there when William was three years old. In 1849 Mr. Howells pere sold his journal and moved the family to Dayton, O., purchasing the Transcript, a semi-weekly paper, and changing it into a daily. Young Howells frequently worked until eleven o'clock at night, then rose at four in the morning to deliver the papers to the subscribers. It was said at the time that he In 1851 was the swiftest compositor in Dayton. the Transcript failed and the family moved to Green county. The father accepted a position as Clerk of the House at Columbus, the capital, and the boy became a compositor on the Ohio State Journal, receiving four dollars a week, which was contributed to the general family fund. His first poem appeared in the State Journal, and the second in the Cleveland Herald, the editor of which, S. D. Harris, was very kind and encouraging to the lad struggling so manfully to make his way in the world. When Howells was fifteen the family moved to Ashtabula, the father purchasing the Sentinel. At nineteen he became the Columbus correspondent of the Cincinnati Gazette, and at twenty-two the news editor of the State Journal, on which he had formerly been compositor. Notwithstanding the difficulties under which he had labored, Howells managed to learn Latin, something of Greek, as well as some of the modern languages. His favorite was Spanish, in which he was very proficient, as also in German, translating many poems into English, the most notable among them being his translations of Heine's poems from the German. Meanwhile an original poem had been offered to the Atlantic Monthly, which to his surprise and delight was accepted. In one year five original poems were published in that magazine.

In 1861 Mr. Howells was appointed by President Lincoln, consul to Venice, and a year later was married in Paris to Eleanor G., sister of Larkin G. Mead, the sculptor. Three children were given to them who at an early age gave unmistakable

evidence of the refined and literary home in which they were reared. The eldest of these children, Winifred, a beautiful girl, died early last spring. This has been a sad blow to the parents. At the expiration of Mr. Howells' term at Venice, he returned to America, becoming assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and six years later Editor-inChief. In 1886 he accepted a position on Harper's Magazine, delighting his readers each month with the bright, racy droppings from his pen, in the Editor's Study. In 1860 he published in connection with John James Piatt, a collection of poems under the title of "Poems of Two Friends." 1886 he published his collected poems. Much could be said of Mr. Howells as a prose writer, but it is as a poet that we speak of him to-day. Latterly he has paid little attention to metrical composition, which is to be regretted. Personally Mr. Howells is of a kindly sympathetic nature, prone to be very charitable with the shortcomings of young writers, and never fails to give a kind, encouraging word. N. L. M.

THE MULBERRIES.
I.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand;

The street ebbs under and makes no sound; But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, The noisy market rings around.

"Mulberries, fine Mulberries, here!"

In

A tuneful voice, and light, light measure; Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,

If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,
The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves
Hiding the berries beneath them; - good!
Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old freind, I haven't eaten
A mulberry since the ignorant joy
Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten
All this bitter world for a boy.

II.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood

By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, I could see the top of our cabin roof.

And, looking westward, could sweep the shores Of the river where we used to swim

Under the ghostly sycamores,

Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And eastward athwart the pasture-lot
And over the milk-white buckwheat field
I could see the stately elm, where I shot
The first black squirrel I ever killed.

And southward over the bottom-land

I could see the mellow breadths of farm From the river-shores to the hills expand, Clasped in the curving river's arm.

In the fields we set our guileless snares
For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,
Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs
From doubtful wings and vanished tails.

And in the blue summer afternoon

We used to sit in the mulberry-tree: The breaths of wind that remembered June Shook the leaves and glittering berries free;

And while we watched the wagons go
Across the river, along the road,
To the mill above, or the mill below,
With horses that stooped to the heavy load,

We told old stories and made new plans,

And felt our hearts gladden within us again, For we did not dream that this life of a man's Could ever be what we know as men.

We sat so still that the woodpeckers came And pillaged the berries overhead; From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame, Peered, and listened to what we said. III.

One of us long ago was carried.

To his grave on the hill above the tree; One is a farmer there, and married; One has wandered over the sea.

And, if you ask me, I hardly know
Whether I'd be the dead or the clown,-
The clod above or the clay below,-
Or this listless dust by fortune blown

To alien lands. For, however it is,
So little we keep with us in life:
At best we win only victories,

Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.

But if I could turn from the long defeat

Of the little successes once more, and be A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet, Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,