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Poor Thomas afterwards gallantly fell mortally wounded at the taking of the Bishop's Palace, at the battle of Monterey, as brave a soldier as ever faced an enemy.

Randolph Ridgely, who graduated at West Point, in 1837, was brevetted captain for distinguished services at the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, on the 8th and 9th of May, 1846. After heroically serving his battery at Mon

terey, he was accidentally killed in the plaza of that city, after its surrender, by his horse falling with him while under full gallop.

Sam Reid," as he is familiarly called by his friends, is still living, and in spite of age, retains the same jovial, genial reputation as a bon ami and accomplished gentleman which distinguished him in his younger days, having attained an eminent position in his legal profession.

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"AS THROUGH A GLASS."

AM bed-ridden. The world, to my bodily eyes, is bounded by the four sides of a window sash, across which I have caused my bed to be placed. The picture is limited in scope, perhaps, but the landscape is very lovely, and not without human interest, too, for human figures make their entrances and exits now and then, with suggestions of their little dramas, while there are always the cattle browsing near or far, the birds flying across, and the ceaseless cawing of the crows. In the lower left-hand corner of the pane a grass-grown lane winds into sight, keeping an appearance of directness until it reaches, about midway up the glass, the bars that let into a field. On a little further is a stile, and from there the lane becomes a somewhat wayward path straggling through several fields and along by a rushing little brook, which presently it crosses, and at length melts away, near the upper sash, into a pine wood nearly a quarter of a mile away. As the western sun slants over my picture it seems a thousand miles at least from the streets and the busy ways of men. I lose myself every day beneath the shadow of these mysterious pines, and the faint line of hills beyond are the Rocky Mountains, the Alps, or the blesed hills that bound the land of Beulah, as the mood seizes

me, or as the light shifts when the day dies or when mists and rain hang a magic veil between them and me. And yet I know, when I choose to know-but I oftener prefer to ignore the fact that this lovely stretch of meadows is bounded on three sides by this widespread old Dutch town; that it is only the three apple-trees in my neighbor's back-yard that hide from sight the busy streets whose discords penetrate the leaves to my open window on warm days; that the pine woods whose depths seem to hide the secrets of the primeval forest are but a clump of trees left standing just on the hither side of the long rows of cheap cottages where the city has pushed out a new street. I know, too, that this municipal octopus will some day stretch its great feelers right across my picture, and where those mild-eyed Alderneys are cropping the last lingering tid-bits of second-growth clover, back-yards will plant the weekly linen and all the sordid details of poverty's house-keeping. But why do I care? I shall not live to see it, for the goodly acres will hardly get into the clutches of the real-estate agents before I have entered on the long rest, and mean while I am grateful to the obstinate owner who has so long preserved to me my landscape.

A staunch old Dutch woman, with all the obstinacy of tha' inheritance, Madame

Suydam always stoutly refused to sell an inch of the farm of her forefathers. Intact it came to her, and intact she would leave it, if the city taxes demand half the yearly increase. The homestead I cannot see, because the wall of my house and the bed-head inconveniently intervene, but it is said to be a huge whitewashed structure of limestone, in the North-River Dutch style. I like to fancy it resembles its owner, with her square, sturdy back and white-capped head. I wander with her every day as she tramps back and forth across my picture about her business, now to the hen-house, then to the barns, and so back across the garden to the kitchen door. Her face is broad and dark, with a mild and even amiable expression, but there is stamped upon her features--or is it in the eyes?-a look of indomitable obstinacy such as one seldom encounters save in one of her race. The nation that has for centuries sat behind its great dykes resisting the untiring siege of the ocean has absorbed into blood and bone and muscle the birthmarks of the ancestral struggle.

You might kill and burn a Hollander, but his stubbornness would remain in his ashes, and I dare say, if scattered, they would fly against the wind.

So it came about that when Madame Suydam's only child disobeyed and defied her by running away and marrying a rather ne'er-do-well dry-goods clerk, the door of the maternal heart, as well as the old divided oak with the brass knocker that did service for the maternal home, banged shut against the young sinner, and no amount of persuasion from wellmeaning friends could open either entrance. It was of no avail that the minister came and prayed with the old lady to soften the hard heart, or that his wife came year after year to plead the poor girl's sufferings as matters went from bad to worse. The husband lost his position and took to drinking, and the wife had hard work to get food for the two little mouths that now increased the family needs; but still the old widowed mother in her great empty house would not yield an inch to the undutiful daughter. She made her bed, let her lie on it; I told her how it would be." That was all she would ever say.

This story is much in my mind as I

lie by my window. Night and morning the farm-boy drives the cows down the lane, through the bars, and across by the winding path to the pasture, and I follow him for a field, but I go on farther than they. As the cows turn into the pasture lot, and the boy comes whistling home again, I keep on by the brown-eyed brook, over the foot-bridge, and so on to the edge of my pine trees where the faint afterglow of sun-down sets them in black relief against the sky. Just there nestles a tiny house, and as the lamp is lit I am saved from the disappointment of losing its outlines in the gathering darkness. All through the night, sometimes, I keep vigil with the poor wife and mother who sits by that light, sewing on little garments and waiting for dreaded footsteps that come stumbling home toward morning. It is here that poor Annie Suydam waits for the forgiveness and help that never come across the fields from the old whitewashed stone house. I can only sigh out my sympathy, for the doors of the mother's heart and home that closed against her had each their lintels set in stone, and nothing short of a batteringram could gain entrance for her through either. It would be difficult to say what the poor girl could have done in her sad plight, with the twin babies on her hands, if it were not for a sum of money sufficient for the family necessities that was sent her every month through a Western lawyer. Annie said it probably came from an eccentric old uncle who lived "out there somewhere." All this the minister's wife told me, for I knew neither Madame Suydam nor her daughter. She also told me of a mysterious basket that was left almost every week on the doorstep, containing all sorts of comforts and luxuries: cakes and apples; once, when Annie was ill, a bottle of wine; little garments for the twins and various dainties for the table. Of this donation there was no explanation, save it must be the gift of a kind friend too delicate to offer openly what could be accepted thus without obligation.

One day in late autumn I lay drinking in the loveliness of the tremulous, haze-covered landscape, and watching Madame Suydam pick hops. The old white horse, guided by the farm-boy, was ploughing the garden. Presently

the kitchen-maid came out wiping her
hands in her apron, and took the place
of her mistress at the hop-vine, where it
swung its great masses of drooping green
tassels from the poles. Then Madame
Suydam sat down on an inverted hen-
coop close by, and drew out her knit-
ting. Thus she killed at least three
birds with one stone, for she had a vigi-
lant eye.
I wondered if it was vigilant
enough to see all that penetrated my
window to me: the violet hills over in
the west, the quiver in the sunlight, the
warm green of the pines beyond the
fields, the tiny house, and the two little
figures, just of a size, coming across the
meadows, down by the bank, and so
over the foot-bridge by the path. But
no; she was knitting away on the stock-
ing, a little child's stocking, that was in
her hands. I remembered that the min-
ister's wife had told me of the old lady's
ceaseless charity to the poor.

The children came on until they stood close by the fence their small faces, framed in by yellow curls, pressed against the pickets, as the four blue eyes watched curiously the proceedings in the garden. I drew in my breath, for I felt that a crisis had come, and here were-the twins! Their grandmother could have touched them, they stood so near. She seemed suddenly to become aware of their presence, for her hands fell, and the stocking-the child's stocking-slipped down her lap to her feet as she looked up. Her face was turned from me, so I could only guess what was written on it. Did the children look like her Annie? Surely, the strong old heart would melt now at sight of those friendly baby smiles!

The old woman rose slowly to her feet; stood, for what seemed to my impatience, an eternity; then stooped to pick up her work, and, turning, walked swiftly into the house, shutting the kitchen door with loud emphasis. The babies smiled on impartially, including the old white horse and the farm-boy, the girl picking hops, and I thought even me, in their friendly glances. By and-by they grew tired of it all, and hand in hand wandered back to the tiny house, where the mother-welcome was doubtless always warm and sweet.

As for me, the charm was gone from

the day, and I looked no more through the window until dark came on and the moon, standing over the pines, made a shining path like a bond between the small house and mine. The inexplicable hardness and obstinacy I had witnessed made a sore spot in my heart, and I pondered the matter with bitterness that was deepened by the recollection of those pretty baby-faces through the pickets, until the clock struck midnight. Soon after, I was startled and surprised to notice a figure steal up from the corner of the window-pane and proceed through the lane and so across the fields by the little path. The woman had a sunbonnet on that concealed her face, and she carried a heavy basket. She went on across the foot-bridge to the little house under the pines, where she paused an instant at the back porch and came back empty-handed. All this I was enabled to see by aid of the clear moonlight. There was not in the city such another sturdy walk or a second square back like that-it was Madame Suydam!

So it was that I surprised the old lady's secret, and I regarded it as a confidence I had no right to break. Let the minister's wife rail at the hard heart, let the church suspend from its communion, as it did, the member whose cruelty was so unchristian, was it my place to infringe upon the privacy to which I was unwittingly admitted? Should I have told that the "Western uncle" was undoubtedly the old mother, whose natural yearning circumvented her iron will? Ought I to have borne witness to the midnight journies I made with her across the snowy fields all that winter, and the losing battles I fought in spirit with her on the side of mother-love against the obstinate old Dutch pride? I thought not, and I am of the same opinion still.

Madame Suydam seemed to age rapidly now, and the night walk across the fields took longer each time. One day, in the spring-time, they laid her away in the church-yard, and I said that my little world-picture would be lonely without her.

But it was not, after all; for Annie came to live in the stone house, and two yellow-haired laddies went tripping back

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and forth over the grandmother's old paths to the hen-house, then to the barn, and so across the garden to the kitchen. One day, in early summer, the minister's wife came. 'What a blessing it is," she said, "that the worthless husband is at last dead, and poor Annie has come into the inheritance of her mother's family. What a hard old wretch that Madame Suydam was, to be sure! Absolutely unrelenting to the last!" Should I break the seal of secrecy between the dead woman and me? I

seemed to feel a spirit-finger laid on my lips. I whispered, inwardly, "Fear not; you shall have your own way, even in the grave. Your very ashes may blow against the wind for all my hindrance!"

To the minister's wife, I said, "Did you ever hear of any person who could cure his own hereditary insanity? And did you ever know anything that could break or bend an obstinate Dutch will? In this case I believe that the heart that suffered most and broke at last was that of old Madame Suydam."

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"When death cuts down a weed,

Then death is kind;

When death cuts down a flowerAh! death is blind."

TWICE since the August number of this magazine reached its readers has the American heart felt the shock of national sorrow. Two illustrious men have joined the vast majority, and have left only the memories of the daring and noble deeds of the soldier, Philip Henry Sheridan, on the one hand, and, perhaps, the more tangible records of the life-work of the novelist, the Rev. Edward Payson Roe, on the other.

Bravery in a soldier is expected; but it is none the less admired. There are, however, battles in which human courage is without avail. Science had already revealed to the mourning country the fact of his approaching end, when the hero of Cedar Creek, Five Forks and Winchester declared he "would not die this time," and the words served simply to show that the old-time courage still remained, and that Grim Death himself was not regarded by the brave soldier as unconquerable.

The Civil War in this country furnished the opportunity to the men of its period to show their patriotism and courage and skill, and the array of distinguished names is one of which our nation may well be proud.

General Sherman, however, is the only one who is left of the wonderful trio-Grant, Sheridan and Sherman-the only one, in fact, who is left of any of those who stood in the front rank of our war heroes.

General Sheridan was a natural soldier. At West Point he was not one of the brilliant students, but as soon as the practical opportunity was afforded, he showed his great fitness and superiority. The traits burst forth, as it were, that in the war for the preservation of the Union carried him head and shoulders above his fellows, and placed his name in history side by side with the greatest military leaders. He is well known as the "Dashing Young Lieutenant," but while realizing how much depended upon out-and-out audacity, upon incessant vigilance, and upon untiring energy, he had underneath all these prime requisites of a successful cavalry leader the judgment and the power of self-control to decide when not to act. He could command himself as well as his gallant army.

He has always received the love and respect of his countrymen, and it will always be remembered with pride that the country, through its representatives, made special effort to show its appreciation of the soldier by making him on his death-bed a full General in the army.

Quite another kind of greatness is that of the author, and the Rev. Edward Payson Roe was certainly one of the most popular authors of the day, if not one of the highest from a strictly literary standpoint. With Mr. Roe, writing books was a profession, and he laughingly acknowledged that he wrote his books to sell them and to make money. He knew that his success lay in touching the public heart, and he always kept this in view. But he also invariably embodied in his novels the lesson of the great peace and resignation that true Christianity will bring to every mind. Mr. Roe did not attempt to write an artistic novel:

he appealed to a reader who, as a rule, would fail to appreciate the artistic in literature. We have all, at one time or another, heard orators who were brilliant and artistic, and who thrilled their audience, but the matter in whose oration was quickly lost. We have also heard the less artistic orator, who thrills because he talks right from his own heart direct to the hearts of his audience. The same conditions prevail in novel writing, and Mr. Roe was without doubt the foremost in the rank of the unartistic but honest fiction writers. What he wrote, his readers remembered, and he placed himself so completely in his books that his readers became his friends.

LITERATURE-BOOK REVIEWS.

American Literature.

Ir was not an accident, nor a chapter of accidents, which foreshadowed the United States of America as the typical representative of Americanism in the Western Hemisphere. Innumerable causes, ethical, political and material, converged to the same end, of planting a nation which should be known distinctively, pre-eminently, as the American people. The same ruling causes continue to give direction to its development and growth, though varied and modified in their forms of expression. On a soil unaffected by previous growths that might exhaust or weaken its native richness and strength, in a climate whose pure air had not been tainted by the decaying influences of worn-out races, in conflict with the powers of nature whose resistance was but a means of provoking skill, strength and self-reliance, this American nation was born, bred and brought to manhood.

Its development and growth has been intellectual as well as material. The same tendencies that led to and carried forward this development and growth to such material proportions as to render it a distinct figure among the nations of the world, have in like measure contributed to the formation of the American mind-a positive reality, a distinct individuality. No apparently unfavorable circumstances, no opposing causes, no contrary or conflicting tendencies, no insidious influences, thus far have been able to distort or warp its healthy growth. The most assuring evidence of the robust and healthful condition of the American mind is the fact that all foreign influences, life, customs, thought, that come to it are converted, assimilated and made integral parts of a homogeneous character—a definite and symmetrical type.

With no other nation in the world's history is it so true as with ours, that universal intellectual development has kept even pace

with material growth. We have a sound mind in a sound body. We have not lived long as a people, yet we have a history worthy of study-a history full of advanced lessons for all the world.

But it is a mistake to suppose that the true life of the nation began with the Declaration of Independence. The sources of the impulse which led to this historical issue may be traced further back; the idea was inchoate in the general mind long before—it was an experience, in anticipation, of the first settlers on the continent.

A new world, a new atmosphere, a new theatre of activity were requisite to give full play to the intellectual forces set free in Europe during the latter half of the sixteenth century. The new field was occupied, and simultaneously with this event, the human mind everywhere showed signs of new growths. With these growths the American mind began its career. Its significant and characteristic elements appear early in the history of civilized life on the North American continent. It was not any form of physical discomfort or suffering which brought men of intellectual force and stamp to the New World, but rather the inspiration of larger privileges of thought and conduct. The minds of men emancipated themselves, and then began the rule of ideas, a free democracy by divine right.

*

**

It is, therefore, now nearly three hundred years since American literature made its first beginnings. Its founders were few and comparatively unknown to the world as men of thought. There was not a Milton, nor a Des Cartes, nor a Luther among them. But there were those whose minds, fashioned by and filled with the free spirit of the poetry, the philosophy and the religious thought just then breaking upon the world, found greater freedom for thought and action in

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