talking to me; it was so pleasant, I could n't bear to stop," said I aurie, gratefully.

"The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

"Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie.

"Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I should n't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.”

"Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she could n't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her; so she resolved to stay, and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy gray eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful pause, "So, you're not afraid of me, hey?

"Not much, sir." “Not

"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"

"Not quite, sir."

"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" "I only said I thought so.

"But you like me, in spite of it?" "Yes, I do, sir."

That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." "Thank you, sir;" and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly.

" and Jo

"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey? was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir; told how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"

Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good, perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo, eagerly.

Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"

Doing nicely, sir;" and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were.

her so.

"Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell There's the tea-bell; we have it early, on the boy's account. Come Come down, and go on being neighborly."

"If you'd like to have me, sir." "Should n't ask you, if I didn't;" and Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.

What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.

"Hey! why what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather.

I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.

"That's evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman;" and having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.

"She's right; the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

A HOSPITAL SKETCH.

My Ganymede departed, and while I quieted poor Shaw, I thought of John. He came in a day or two after the others; and, one evening, when I entered my "pathetic room," I found a lately emptied bed occupied by a large, fair man, with a fine face, and the serenest eyes I ever met. One of the earlier comers had often spoken of a friend, who had remained behind, that those apparently worse wounded than himself might reach a shelter first. It seemed a David and Jonathan sort of friendship. The man fretted for his mate, and was never tired of praising John his courage, sobriety, self-denial, and unfailing kindliness of heart; always winding up with: "He's an out an' out fine feller, ma'am; you see if he aint."

I had some curiosity to behold this piece of excellence, and when he came, watched him for a night or two, before I made friends with him; for, to tell the truth, I was a little afraid of the stately looking man, whose bed had to be lengthened to accommodate his commanding stature; who seldom spoke, uttered no complaint, asked no sympathy, but tranquilly observed what went on about him; and, as he lay high upon his pillows, no picture of dying statesman or warrior was ever fuller of real dignity than this Virginia blacksmith. A most attractive face he had, framed in brown hair and beard, comely featured and full of vigor, as yet unsubdued by pain; thoughtful and often beautifully mild while watching the afflictions of others, as if entirely forgetful of his own. His mouth was grave and firm, with plenty of will and courage in its lines, but a smile could make it as sweet as any woman's; and his eyes were child's eyes, looking one fairly in the face, with a clear, straightforward glance, which prom

ised well for such as placed their faith in him. He seemed to cling to life, as if it were rich in duties and delights, and he had learned the secret of content. The only time I saw his composure disturbed, was when my surgeon brought another to examine John, who scrutinized their faces with an anxious look, asking of the elder: "Do you think I shall pull through, sir?" "I hope so, my man. And, as the two passed on, John's eye still followed them, with an intentness which would have won a truer answer from them, had they seen it. A momentary shadow flitted over his face; then came the usual serenity, as if, in that brief eclipse, he had acknowledged the existence of some hard possibility, and asking nothing yet hoping all things, left the issue in God's hands, with that submission which is true piety.

The next night, as I went my rounds with Dr. P., I happened to ask which man in the room probably suffered most; and, to my great surprise, he glanced at John:

Every breath he draws is like a stab; for the ball pierced the left lung, broke a rib, and did no end of damage here and there; so the poor lad can find neither forgetfulness nor ease, because he must lie on his wounded back or suffocate. It will be a hard struggle, and a long one, for he possesses great vitality; but even his temperate life can't save him; I wish it could."

"You don't mean he must die, Doctor? "Bless you, there's not the slightest hope for him; and you'd better tell him so before long; women have a way of doing such things comfortably, so I leave it to you. He won't last more than a day or two, at furthest."

I could have sat down on the spot and cried heartily, if I had not learned the wisdom of bottling up one's tears for leisure moments.

Such an

end seemed very hard for such a man, when half a dozen worn out, worthless bodies round him, were gathering up the remnants of wasted lives, to linger on, for years perhaps, burdens to others, daily reproaches to themselves. The army needed men like John, earnest, brave, and faithful; fighting for liberty and justice with both heart and hand, true soldiers of the Lord. I could not give him up so soon, or think with any patience of so excellent a nature robbed of its fulfilment, and blundered into eternity by the rashness or stupidity of those at whose hands so many lives may be required. It was an easy thing for Dr. P. to say: "Tell him he must die," but a cruelly hard thing to do, and by no means as "comfortable " as he politely suggested. I had not the heart to do it then, and privately indulged the hope that some change for the better might take place, in spite of gloomy prophecies; so rendering my task unnecessary.

A few minutes later, as I came in again, with fresh rollers, I saw John sitting erect, with no one to support him, while the surgeon dressed his back. I had never hitherto seen it done; for, having simpler wounds to attend to, and knowing the fidelity of the attendant, I had left John to him, thinking it might be more agreeable and safe; for both strength and experience were needed in his case. I had forgotten that the strong man might long for the gentle tendance of a woman's hands, the sympathetic magnetism of a woman's presence, as well as the feebler souls about him. The Doctor's words caused me to reproach myself with neglect, not of any real duty perhaps, but of those little cares and kindnesses that solace homesick spirits, and make the heavy

hours pass easier. John looked lonely and forsaken just then, as he sat with bent head, hands folded on his knee, and no outward sign of suffering, till, looking nearer, 1 saw great tears roll down and drop upon the floor. It was a new sight there; for, though I had seen many suffer, some swore, some groaned, most endured silently, but none wept. Yet it did not seem weak, only very touching, and straightway my fear vanished, my heart opened wide and took him in, as, gathering the bent head in my arms, as freely as if he had been a little child, I said, "Let me help you bear it, John."

Never, on any human countenance, have I seen so swift and beautiful a look of gratitude, surprise and comfort, as that which answered me more eloquently than the whispered

Thank you, ma'am, this is right good! this is what I wanted!"

"Then why not ask for it before?" "I didn't like to be a trouble; you seemed so busy, and I could manage to get on alone."

You shall not want it any more, John." Nor did he; for now I understood the wistful look that sometimes followed me, as I went out, after a brief pause beside his bed, or merely a passing nod, while busied with those who seemed to need me more than he, because more urgent in their demands. Now I knew that to him as to so many, I was the poor substitute for mother, wife, or sister, and in his eyes no stranger, but a friend who hitherto had seemed neglectful; for, in his modesty, he had never guessed the truth. This was changed now; and, through the tedious operation of probing, bathing, and dressing his wounds, he leaned against me, holding my hand fast, and, if pain wrung further tears from him, no one saw them fall but me. When he was laid down again, I hovered about him, in a remorseful state of mind that would not let me rest, till I had bathed his face, brushed his bonny brown hair, set all things smooth about him, and laid a knot of heath and heliotrope on his clean pillow. While doing this, he watched me with the satisfied expression I so liked to see; and when I offered the little nosegay, held it carefully in his great hand, smoothed a ruffled leaf or two, surveyed and smelt it with an air of genuine delight, and lay contentedly regarding the glimmer of the sunshine on the green. Although the manliest man among my forty, he said, "Yes, ma'am," like a little boy; received suggestions for.his comfort with the quick smile that brightened his whole face; and now and then, as I stood tidying the table by his bed, I felt him softly touch my gown, as if to assure himself that I was there. Anything more natural and frank I never saw, and found this brave John as bashful as brave, yet full of excellencies and fine aspirations, which, having no power to express themselves in words, seemed to have bloomed into his character and made him what he was.

After that night, an hour of each evening that remained to him was devoted to his ease or pleasure. He could not talk much, for breath was precious, and he spoke in whispers; but from occasional conversations, I gleaned scraps of private history, which only added to the affection and respect I felt for him. Once he asked me to write a letter, and as I settled pen and paper, I said, with an irrepressible glimmer of feminine curiosity, "Shall it be addressed to wife, or mother, John?"

"Neither, ma'am; I've got no wife, and will write to mother myself when I get better. Did you think I was married because of this?" he

asked, touching a plain ring he wore and often turned thoughtfully on his finger when he lay alone.

"Partly that, but more from a settled sort of look you have; a look which young men seldom get until they marry."

"I didn't know that; but I'm not so very young, maʼam, thirty in May, and have been what you might call settled this ten years. Mother's a widow, I'm the oldest child she has, and it wouldn't do for me to marry until Lizzy has a home of her own, and Jack 's learned his trade; for we're not rich, and I must be father to the children and husband to the dear old woman, if I can.'

No doubt but you are both, John; yet how came you to go to war, if you felt so? Wasn't enlisting as bad as marrying?

"No, ma'am, not as I see it, for one is helping my neighbor, the other pleasing myself. I went because I couldn't help it. I didn't want the glory or the pay; I wanted the right thing done, and people kept saying the men who were in earnest. ought to fight. I was in earnest, the Lord knows! but I held off as long as I could, not knowing which was my duty. Mother saw the case, gave me her ring to keep me steady, and said ‘Go ; so I went."

A short story and a simple one, but the man and the mother were portrayed better than pages of fine writing could have done it.

"Do you ever regret that you came, when you lie here suffering so much?"

"Never, ma'am ; I haven't helped a great deal, but I've shown I was willing to give my life, and perhaps I've got to; but I don't blame anybody, and if it was to do over again, I'd do it. I'm a little sorry I wasn't wounded in front; it looks cowardly to be hit in the back, but I obeyed orders, and it don't matter in the end, I know."

Poor John! It did not matter now, except that a shot in front might have spared the long agony in store for him. He seemed to read the thought that troubled me, as he spoke so hopefully when there was no hope, for he suddenly added:

This is my first battle; do they think it 's going to be my last?"

"I'm afraid they do, John."

It was the hardest question I had ever been called upon to answer; doubly hard with those clear eyes fixed on mine, forcing a truthful answer by their own truth. He seemed a little startled at first, pondered over the fateful fact a moment, then shook his head, with a glance at the broad chest and muscular limbs stretched out before him:

"I'm not afraid, but it's difficult to believe all at once. I'm so strong it don't seem possible for such a little wound to kill me."

Merry Mercutio's dying words glanced through my memory as he spoke: "'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough. And John would have said the same could he have seen the ominous black holes between his shoulders; he never had, but, seeing the ghastly sights about him, could not believe his own wound more fatal than these, for all the suffering it caused him.

"Shall I write to your mother, now?" I asked, thinking that these sudden tidings might change all plans and purposes. But they did not; for the

man received the order of the Divine Commander to march with the same unquestioning obedience with which the soldier had received that of the

human one: doubtless remembering that the first led him to life, and the last to death.

"No, ma'am; to Jack just the same; he'll break it to her best, and I'll add a line to her myself when you get done."

So I wrote the letter which he dictated, finding it better than any I had sent; for, though here and there a little ungrammatical or inelegant, each sentence came to me briefly worded, but most expressive; full of excellent counsel to the boy, tenderly bequeathing "mother and Lizzie" to his care, and bidding him good bye in words the sadder for their simplicity. He added a few lines, with steady hand, and, as I sealed it, said, with a patient sort of sigh, "I hope the answer will come in time for me to see it ;" then, turning away his face, laid the flowers against his lips, as if to hide some quiver of emotion at the thought of such a sudden sundering of all the dear home ties.

These things had happened two days before; now John was dying, and the letter had not come. I had been summoned to many death beds in my life, but to none that made my heart ache as it did then, since my mother called me to watch the departure of a spirit akin to this in its gentleness and patient strength. As I went in, John stretched out both his hands:

"I knew you'd come! I guess I'm moving

on, ma'am.”

He was; and so rapidly that, even while he spoke, over his face I saw the gray veil falling that no human hand can lift. I sat down by him, wiped the drops from his forehead, stirred the air about him with the slow wave of a fan, and waited to help him die. He stood in sore need of helpand I could do so little; for, as the doctor had foretold, the strong body rebelled against death, and fought every inch of the way, forcing him to draw each breath with a spasm, and clench his hands with an imploring look, as if he asked, "How long must I endure this, and be still? For hours he suffered dumbly, without a moment's respite, or a moment's murmuring; his limbs grew cold, his face damp, his lips white, and, again and again, he tore the covering off his breast, as if the lightest weight added to his agony; yet through it all, his eyes never lost their perfect serenity, and the man's soul seemed to sit therein, undaunted by the ills that vexed his flesh.

One by one, the men woke, and round the room appeared a circle of pale faces and watchful eyes, full of awe and pity; for, though a stranger, John was beloved by all. Each man there had wondered at his patience, respected his piety, admired his fortitude, and now lamented his hard death; for the influence of an upright nature had made itself deeply felt, even in one little week. Presently, the Jonathan who so loved this comely David, came creeping from his bed for a last look and word. The kind soul was full of trouble, as the choke in his voice, the grasp of his hand, betrayed; but there were no tears, and the farewell of the friends was the more touching for its brevity.

"Old boy, how are you?" faltered the one. "Most through, thank heaven!" whispered the other.

"Can I say or do anything for you anywheres?" "Take my things home, and tell them that I did my best."

"I will! I will!" "Good bye, Ned."

"Good bye, Jolin, good bye!"

They kissed each other, tenderly as women, and so parted, for poor Ned could not stay to see his comrade die. For a little while, there was no sound in the room but the drip of water, from a stump or two, and John's distressful gasps, as he slowly breathed his life away. I thought him nearly gone, and had just laid down the fan, believing its help to be no longer needed, when suddenly he rose up in his bed, and cried out with a bitter cry that broke the silence, sharply startling every one with its agonized appeal:

"For God's sake, give me air!

It was the only cry pain or death had wrung from him, the only boon he had asked; and none of us could grant it, for all the airs that blew were useless now. Dan flung up the window. The first red streak of dawn was warming the gray east, a herald of the coming sun; John saw it, and with the love of light which lingers in us to the end, seemed to read in it a sign of hope of help, for, over his whole face there broke that mysterious expression, brighter than any smile, which often comes to eyes that look their last. He laid himself gently down; and, stretching out his strong right arm, as if to grasp and bring the blessed air to his lips in a fuller flow, lapsed into a merciful unconsciousness, which assured us that for him suffering was forever past. He died then; for, though the heavy breaths still tore their way up for a little longer, they were but the waves of an ebbing tide that beat unfelt against the wreck, which an immortal voyager had deserted with a smile. He never spoke again, but to the end held my hand close, so close that when he was asleep at last, I could not draw it away. Dan helped me, warning me as he did so that it was unsafe for dead and living flesh to lie so long together; but though my hand was strangely cold and stiff, and four white marks remained across its back, even when warmth and color had returned elsewhere, I could not but be glad that, through its touch, the presence of human sympathy, perhaps, had lightened that hard hour.

When they had made him ready for the grave, John lay in state for half an hour, a thing which seldom happened in that busy place; but a uni

versal sentiment of reverence and affection seemed to fill the hearts of all who had known or heard of him; and when the rumor of his death went through the house, always astir, many came to see him, and I felt a tender sort of pride in my lost patient; for he looked a most heroic figure, lying there stately and still as the statue of some young knight asleep upon his tomb. The lovely expression which so often beautifies dead faces, soon replaced the marks of pain, and I longed for those who loved him best to see him when half an hour's acquaintance with death had made them friends. As we stood looking at him, the ward master handed me a letter, saying it had been forgotten the night before. It was John's letter, come just an hour too late to gladden the eyes that had longed and looked for it so eagerly! but he had it; for, after I had cut some brown locks for his mother, and taken off the ring to send her, telling how well the talisman had done its work, I kissed this good son for her sake, and laid the letter in his hand, still folded as when I drew my own away, feeling that its place was there, and making myself happy with the thought, that, even in his solitary grave in the "Government Lot,' he would not be without some token of the love which makes life beautiful and outlives death. Then I left him, glad to have known so genuine a

man, and carrying with me an enduring memory of the brave Virginia blacksmith, as he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that long day which knows no night.

** DAVID ROSS LOCKE,

WHOSE inimitable letters during the War as "Petroleum V. Nasby" were said by the late Chief-Justice Chase to have formed the fourth force in the reduction of the rebellion, was born at Vestal, Broome county, New York, September 20, 1833. He attended the public school in that neighborhood, and learned his trade as a printer in the office of the Cortland Democrat. He tried his fortune in Ohio as journeyman printer, reporter, and writer, in prose and poetry, on numerous Western journals, till in 1852 he started the Plymouth Advertiser.

A Locke

R

Thereafter he was connected, as publisher and editor, with various papers: the Mansfield Herald; Bucyrus Journal; Findlay Jeffersonian, and the Bellefontaine Republican. In 1865 he took editorial charge of the Toledo Blade, with which he is still connected; and since 1867 he has been a popular lecturer. In 1873 he also became a member of the firm of Bates & Locke, as newspaper advertising agents in New York city.

In a

Mr. Locke began to write his "Nasby" letters at Findlay, Ohio, in 1860, and continued the series till after the close of the war. quaint, satirical style, reckless in spelling but remorseless in logic, he laughed to scorn the pretensions and fallacies of slavery and its political sympathizers throughout the rebellion. His first volume appeared in 1863: Nasby : Divers Views, Opinions, and Prophecies of Yours Trooly, Petroleum V. Nasby, Lait Paster in the Church of the Noo Dispensashun. Three years later that worthy, now Chaplain to his Excellency the President, and P. M. at Confederate Roads, Kentucky, wrote Swingin Round the Cirkle; and in 1868 appeared Ekkoes from Kentucky. These three works were subsequently issued in a single volume.

** EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, A VERSATILE writer and an imaginative poet, was born at Hartford, Connecticut, in 1833. His grandfather, Griffin Stedman, was a leading merchant of that city, and his father, Col. E. B. Stedman, was married to Elizabeth C., sister of Hon. W. E. Dodge, of New York a lady richly endowed with literary talent. Her poems and Florentine letters, over her present name of Elizabeth C. Kinney, have a reputation.* She

is a descendant of Rev. Aaron Cleveland - the colonial poet and cousin of the poet-churchman, Arthur Cleveland Coxe.

His father died before Edmund was two years His mother reold, and was buried at sea. turned to her father's home in New York, while

* Ante, vol. ii. p. 653.

while, was married to Hon. W. B. Kinney, editor of the Newark Advertiser, and had accompanied her husband on his mission to Sardinia.

Young Stedman distinguished himself while at College in English Composition and Greek; but fell into irregularities and dissipation, which brought about his "suspension" in the "in course of his junior year. After a term of study at Northampton, Massachusetts, he decided not to rejoin his class, but returned to Norwich, and at the age of nineteen became editor of a local paper in that place. The year following he married a young lady of Connecticut and removed to Litchfield county, purchasing the Winsted Herald, and successfully conducting it for two years. His spirited journalistic career, at this early age, made him a reputation in his own State; but in 1855. he removed to New York, to seek a larger and more congenial field.

the issue of a volume of his verses: Poems, Lyric and Idyllic, 1860. It contained "Summer Rain" and "Heliotrope," with "Bohemia: a Pilgrimage," "Tribune Lyrics," etc.

In 1860 Mr. Stedman became connected with the New York World. At the outbreak of the rebellion he hastened to Washington, and for two years exerted himself as the editorial correspondent of that paper, serving through the McDowell and McClellan campaigns. His letters were widely copied in this country and Europe. His health failing, he accepted a confidential position in the office of the U. S. Attorney-General, Judge Bates. He returned to New York in 1864, and gave up daily journalism, to adopt a mercantile pursuit that would allow leisure for more mature composition. With this view he entered the New York Stock Exchange, and has since followed the calling of a broker, devoting his spare time to study, poetry, and criticism.

Having inherited but a small portion of his grandfather's estate, he now underwent a severe struggle, between pride and poverty, in the city; but after many vicissitudes he gained the ear of the public with "The Diamond Wedding.' This well-known satirical poem, "The Ballad of Lager Bier," and "How Old Brown took Harper's Ferry," appeared in rapid succession in The Tribune of 1859. These pieces attracted the attention of Mr. Dana, the editor, and led to an engagement on that paper, and to

In 1864, he published Alice of Monmouth : An Idyl of the Great War, and Other Poems; and five years later, The Blameless Prince, and Other Poems. These writings are marked by a refined and imaginative fancy, as well as by a union of vigor and spontaneity with precision of thought and art. Each new volume has shown a growth in poetic power. A choice edition of his complete Poetical Works, in one volume, was issued in 1873.

Mr. Stedman in 1872 delivered a poem, entitled "Gettysburg," before the annual reunion of the Society of the Army of the Potomac, at Cleveland, Ohio. In that year the corporation of Yale College, in recognition of his literary career, conferred on him the degree of A. M., and also enrolled him upon the list of alumni, as a graduate of his class of 1853. During the last ten years, he has paid much attention to critical writing, and his poems, æsthetic essays, etc., have been a frequent feature of our leading reviews and magazines. Among the more noticeable are a paper on "Tennyson and Theocritus" in the Atlantic Monthly, and a series of articles upon "Victorian Poets" in Scribner's Magazine. For a time he conducted the literary department of Putnam's Magazine. He still keeps his hold on journalism by contributions to the N. Y. Tribune, in which has appeared his touching poetic tribute to Horace Greeley. He is also a close student of classical literature, and has nearly completed a metrical translation of the Greek idyllic poets. Mr. T. B. Aldrich, he edited in 1873 a volume of poetical selections, entitled Cameos, from the writings of Walter Savage Landor.

** THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND.

With