paintings, while his library contained the masterpieces of all languages. The airy rooms and open grates were suggestive of free hospitality. Here with his wife and daughter Julia, he lived many happy years, his other daughter, Mrs. Park Godwin, living not far away. In 1866 the happiness of this home was shadowed by the death of Mrs. Bryant. Mr. Bryant had also a New York residence, and finally came into possession of the old homestead at Cummington; but Cedarmere was his favorite home. Here, at an advanced age, he translated Homer's works from the Greek.

He built a fine hall for the people of Roslyn, and at Cummington erected a schoolhouse and established a library for public use. He was accustomed

to do kind, helpful deeds in the most quiet way.

Mr. Bryant was nearly six feet in height, being slender, symmetrical, and graceful. His eyes were piercing gray with large projecting brows. His features were large, but thin. His silvery hair and beard for many years gave him a most venerable appearance.

His life was plain and exact. He rose very early, practised an hour with light dumb-bells and a pole, bathed completely, and took a light breakfast of oatmeal or hominy with fruit. He never used tea or coffee, took no condiments with his food, and used very little meat. He always walked to and from his office three miles distant.

He

spent the forenoon in his office and the afternoon at home in literary work or recreation, retiring at nine or ten o'clock, never working in the evening.

On the afternoon of the 29th of May, 1878, Mr. Bryant, eighty-four years of age, made an address in Central Park, on the occasion of unveiling the statue of the Italian statesman, Mazzini. Returning home with a friend, Mr. Bryant suddenly fell upon the threshold. He was conveyed to his own home, where thirteen days afterward he died.

Under the blue skies of June, the month in which he had expressed a wish to die, he was laid to rest in Roslyn cemetery, his beloved pastor repeating the poet's own stanzas and children strewing his grave with flowers.

THE BRYANT VASE.

This testimonial of honor from Mr. Bryant's friends throughout the country, presented on his eightieth birthday, is of silver, about five feet high, of Greek design with ornamentation of birds, interlacing branches and flowers, together with scenes from the poet's life.

A medallion on one side represents the poet as a boy learning the art of verse from his father, who points to Homer as his master. Another represents the boy poet musing in a grove. A third, a printing-press, alludes to his labors as journalist. A fourth pictures the poet translating Homer.

The waterfowl, the bobolink, and the fringed gentian are all present, suggesting three of his finest poems. There are also ivy for age, the amaranth for immortality, the sweet-brier for the spirit of poetry, and the pure, golden-hearted water lily for eloquence.

Broken shackles indicate the poet's work in the abolition of slavery. Indian corn and cotton typify his interest in the commercial industries.

The superb vase, the design of Mr. James Whitehouse, cost five thousand dollars, and nearly three years of labor. It was exhibited at the Centennial Exhibition of 1876, and is now a permanent treasure of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was presented at Chickering Hall, by Rev. Dr. Osgood in the presence of a large audience.

Dr. Osgood said: "You are our neighbor and companion, and for more than fifty years you have taken interest in the welfare of this city and helped us in every way. You stood by the old flag in the great struggle when God and our country was the motto, and you are standing by it now when honest men and honest money is the issue of the time.

"You have risen from a young man of thirty to a fullgrown man-I will not say an old man-of over eighty years, as hearty and active as ever.

"We are glad to have you with us, to cheer us on to the great future as we turn the leaf of a new century. You still live the life which this vase

You

embodies. The gentian, the violet, the primrose and the apple-blossom delight you as ever. hear the hymn of the forest and the song of the stars; the merry Robert of Lincoln sings for you his genial glee, and the solemn waterfowl preaches with untiring wing.

"This exquisite form brings beauty from the land of old Homer to join with truth and grace from our own America, in celebrating your birthday. It means more than we can say. But we can say for our country and ourselves that it means 'God bless you, Mr. Bryant!

The response of Mr. Bryant was full of his own charming grace. He said that it would be easier after receiving such honors to take refuge in silence. He almost feared he should imitate the example of the young military officer who was appointed to present a silver pitcher to the captain. Approaching his commander, he held out the gift to him, saying, "Captain, here's the jug." To this the captain replied, "Ay, is that the jug?" and the ceremony was over.

Mr. Bryant, after expressing his thanks and his admiration of the artistic work, concluded with the following modest words: "Hereafter some one may say, 'This beautiful vase was made in honor of a certain American poet whose name it bears, but whose writings are forgotten. It is remarkable that so much pains should have been taken to illus

trate the life and writings of one whose works are so completely unknown at the present day.' Thus, gentlemen artists, I shall be indebted to you for causing the memory of my name to outlast that of my writings."

ANALYSIS OF "THE SNOW-SHOWER."

66

Longfellow calls the snow "the poem of the air," each flake a syllable. Lowell calls it a silence deep and white," which falls upon the rough earth as patience falls upon wounded hearts. Benjamin Taylor observed that snowflakes trample out crooked paths,

"And make the stained and wrinkled world all clean and white again."

Let us analyze Mr. Bryant's thoughts about the snow as he gives them to us in his poem, "The Snow-Shower."

We infer, from the opening lines, that the poet is standing with a friend at a window looking out upon a lake, the little lake at Cedarmere.

Heavy, gray clouds, full of hidden snowflakes, hang over its black, silent waters. The lake is watching for the flakes. One by one they venture, timid and wavering, out of the birth-cloud into the air, and down to the earth. They are caught at once by the lake. The flakes above are undismayed.

Faster they come, like a swarm of white bees.