new species of worm, and if they bloom it is in such a heart-broken way that one snips off the blossoms to avert the melancholy they inspire. Yet one must have flowers in the house, and if one does not possess a bay-window, which can easily be transformed into a conservatory by the addition of a bank of earth and a hot-air pipe, there are certain plants which, grown in a large box and placed on a pretty stand, can be a source of constant refreshment. Plants kept in the house should be large-leaved and handsome like the calla, or fragrant like the English violet or mignonette. They must be in dividual flowers, which have something definite to say; for an insignificant blossom becomes as annoying after a time as a stupid and uninteresting companion. A nondescript geranium in a pot affects one like a stray postage-stamp. One feels as though it must be labeled and stuck somewhere immediately. But a clump of sweet roses, stately callas, and fragrant violets, nodding and whispering among themselves, are a source of daily inspiration. ""We know all things," they always seem to say, "and we can give you just the thought which will comfort you." But after a room has been made resplendent in color and decoration, fragrant with blossoms, rich in artistic effects, as a place for human habitation, for domestic happiness, and daily culture, it still lacks a great deal. It fails to suggest that atmosphere of comfort and coziness, that appearance of being used and enjoyed, which only books and pictures can impart; books so arranged that they can be picked up without any laborious opening of doors or mounting of step-ladders; pictures which are beautiful, and at.the same time possess an individual interest for the owner. If people would only insist upon buying books and reading them, what a blessing it would be, not only for humanity in general, but the decorator in particular; for nothing is a more comprehensive furnisher than a plenitude of books. Their very presence educates the children, while it is much easier for a child to form what is called a "taste for reading" if he is surrounded by books and sees them constantly used by his elders. As to pictures, most persons buy them for the purpose of decorating the walls, without a thought of the effect they may have upon the children's taste. If pictures are to be a part of the home, they should be such as the children may appreciate. Once let them form the habit of being interested in pictures, and the foundation of an appreciative, artistic taste is laid. There are many pictures by the "old masters" which Goupil's beautiful photographs have made accessible to almost every one, and frequently they depict scenes which will delight even young children. Guido's "Aurora," for instance, with its prancing horses and baby torch-bearer, has been a source of amusement to countless boys, while Rubens's "Rape of two Women by Castor and Pollux," Titian's "Christ and the Tribute-Money," Rembrandt's "Rape of Ganymede," Murillo's pictures of beggar-boys, and others which are equally desirable, will attract any child who is fond of pictures, not only from the dramatic action they portray, but from the stories connected with them. Parents seldom realize the extent to which children can be made familiar with subjects of historical and artistic interest through the surroundings of the home. And it is only thus that a home can become a perfect one. Ministering to the childish mind in every direction, it should contain elements which make not only good men and loving children, but wise men and progressive citizens. The thought of such a home raises the duty of women to a very high level. It is not her mission to dust and scrub and preside over the mending-basket, but to watch the blossoming minds of her children, and to foster each budding taste and inclination for wisdom and goodness which they develop. The home is the school of statesmanship, the centre of learning, the spot where alone one can find pure pleasure and unselfish love, where the children grow instinctively to love what is best. At least, this is what the home may become in the twentieth century, when women vote and pigs run about already roasted. But at present we can only gaze upon our ideal with reverent eyes from afar. PROUD men seldom have friends. In prosperity they know nobody; and in adversity nobody cares to know them. IN all the sallies of badinage a polite fool shines; but in gravity he is as awkward as an elephant disporting. 56 LORA. BY PAUL PASTnor. FIRST MOVEMENT.THE SAND-BAR BRIDGE. A GLORIOUS day it had been,-like a bit of September Her beautiful billowy shoulders sank down in a calm. And could but gaze backward with fond, earnest eye through His presence enforced by the rose-colored background of sunset. Out of a corner of sunset, like dark-feathered captive Bursting a net of gold threads; and the brood of her She yielded, fond maiden! and round on her marvelous shoulders shadows, Flock after flock, struggled after, and thickened the gloaming. Crept the shy crescent, the quarter, the moon of her face! Then suddenly flashed to his forehead the hand of the young In the Lake of the North, lying under the brow of the Slumbers Isle Grand; and the fragrance of orchards en- Golden its girdle of shore, and the mellowing grain-fields Clasp its fair beaches with buckles of umber and sunshine. Long, long ago, in the fabulous age of the red man, Thereon an excellent road-bed has lately been builded Over the dyke, or the lope of the toil-weary farm-hand- Over the bridge, through the twilight, a carriage was gliding; Smooth was the sound of the wheels on the excellent roadbed. Thus from the mart of the city came Oliver Bascom Home to his farm in the midst of the fruit-growing island. Also the plentiful light of his eyes went before him Scarce had he come to the elm in the midst of the sand-bar, man, Lifted his cap, and detained it,—a tribute right gallant. Like nimbus of man-saint aloft in the high, holy window Sabbath. "The Sand-bar is lonely," he cried to the quick-blushing maiden, 66 Dangerous often, and thou art yet far from the toll-house. Come, ride with me; there is room on the seat here to spare thee." Up to the road-bed climbed Lora in timid obedience; Two narrow red ribbons streamed, shivering to northward Touched her rare cheeks, and straightway became rivers of blushes! The grace of her step, as she followed the trend of the "Lora," said Oliver Bascom ("I pray you, forgive me For using your name thus ungiven, since long I have known wheel-track. you, Now Lora, the way being narrow, stepped down on the By good will of silence, through father and mother and cobble, And stood looking southward intently, away from the car riage; neighbors), Wilt ride to the toll-gate? for listen! thy father is coming, ALMOST a decade has passed since the death of the great journalist and poet whose name heads this sketch. The flowers of spring have bloomed and died and the grass withered upon his grave, as the seasons have come and gone and years been added to the period since his voice was hushed in the silence of the tomb. Some of the ablest writers of the time have essayed, in fitting terms, to perpetuate his memory and wreathe with immortelles a name illustrious not only in journalism, but in the fields of poetry and literature. Numerous biographies and reminiscences have already appeared in the public prints of the day, in which many events of his life have been truly portrayed. An ardent admirer of the veteran editor, and a business association with him extending over a number of years, at the request of mutual friends I willingly and lovingly undertake the task of adding a few words of tribute to one of the most remarkable men America has produced. George Dennison Prentice was born in New London County, Connecticut, December 18, 1802, and died at the country residence of his son, Colonel Clarence J. Prentice, on the banks of the Ohio River, a few miles below Louisville, on the morning of January 22, 1870. Of his early life, prior to his visit to Kentucky in 1830, which resulted in its becoming his permanent home, I shall say nothing in this article, as it has so often been given by other writers. In person, In person, Mr. Prentice was rather above the medium standard, with a figure that in youth was said to have been as straight as an Indian's, but became somewhat stooped and bent with the weight of years. One biographer thus describes him, and the picture he presents is as nearly correct as can be made with the pen: "His features were not regular, but his face was for the most part pleasing; often, when animated, it seemed handsome His head was finely-shaped, having a particularly noble and impressive forehead; his hair was black, but somewhat thin, retaining its blackness until quite late in life. He had dark-brown eyes, rather small, full of light and sparkle when he was in a happy mood, though they could express fierceness and severity. His voice was low and agreeable in its general tone. Among strangers he was apt to be reserved, sometimes embarrassed; but with chosen friends his conversation was fluent and free, often full of characteristic brightness and humor; at other times, when touching the loftier themes of poetry and philosophy, seriously sweet and eloquent." In 1830, when Prentice was twenty-eight years of age, he was induced by the Whigs of Connecticut to make a journey to Kentucky for the purpose of writing the life of Henry Clay, then the great leader of that party in the South and West. His absence from New England was intended to be temporary, but, as already stated, Kentucky became his permanent home. For some time prior to leaving Connecticut he had been the editor of the "New England Review," and upon accepting the call of his party to visit Kentucky he recommended to the publishers of the "Review" John G. Whittier to take his place as editor of that paper, a suggestion the publishers adopted. Says Mr. Piatt, in his biography of Prentice: "Mr. Whittier accepted it at once; but he had never met Mr. Prentice, they were strangers personally, and they did not afterward meet each other, though Mr. Prentice, I know, always admired and honored the good Quaker poet of Amesbury, and the latter, I am sure, must always have remembered the generous compliment of Mr. Prentice." The The biography of Clay was written for campaign purposes, and intended to be used by the Whig party in New England. In 1828, when John Quincy Adams failed to be re-elected to the Presidency, Mr. Clay, who held the first place in his Cabinet, passed from public life the following March, and remained in retirement for two or three years. To bring him again prominently before his party was the object of the biography, and finally led to the establishment of the Louisville Journal, a paper that for more than a third of a century wielded perhaps a greater influence than any newspaper ever published in the United States. Mr. Prentice's preface to the biography of Clay was dated November 14, 1830. And on the 24th of the same month he issued the first number of the Journal. Referring to these events, Hon. Henry Watterson, in a memorial address delivered before the Kentucky Legislature, at the request of that body, just after the death of Prentice, said: "He was obscure and poor. people of the West were rough. The times were violent. Parties were dividing upon measures of government which could not in their nature fail to arouse and anger popular feeling, and to the bitterness of conflicting interests was added the enthusiasm which the rival claims of two great party chieftains everywhere excited. In those days there was no such thing as journalism as we now understand it. The newspaper was but a poor affair, owned by a clique or a politician. The editor of a newspaper was nothing if not personal. Moreover, the editors who had appeared above the surface had been men of second-rate abilities, and had served merely as 'squires to their liege lords, the politicians. This much Mr. Prentice reformed at once and altogether. He established the Louisville Journal; he threw himself into the spirit of the times as the professed friend of Mr. Clay and the champion of his principles; but he invented a warfare hitherto He unknown, and illustrated it by a personal identity which very soon elevated him into the rank of a party leader as well as a partisan editor. . . . Mr. Prentice, the most distinguished example of the personal journalism of the past, leaves but one other behind him, and when Greeley goes there will be no one left, and we shall hardly see another. As was said of the players, 'They die and leave no copy.' . . . From 1830 to 1861 the influence of Prentice was perhaps greater than the influence of any political writer who ever lived; it was an influence directly positive and personal. It owed its origin to the union in his person of gifts which no one had combined before him. had, to build upon, an intellect naturally strong and practical, and this was trained by rigid, scholarly culture. He possessed a keen wit and a poetical temperament. He was brave and aggressive; and though by no means quarrelsome, he was as ready to fight as to write, and his lot was cast in a region where he had to do a good deal of both. By turns a statesman, a wit, a poet, a man of the world, and always a journalist, he gave to the press of his country its most brilliant illustrations, and has left to the State and to his progency by odds the largest reputation ever achieved by a newspaper writer." The only excuse I can offer for the lengthy extract given above is the fact that it is true of its subject, and therefore will lose nothing by repetition. As a further illustration of the stormy period in which he begun his political and editorial life in Kentucky, and the character of the man, I will give a short extract from a speech delivered by Prentice at a banquet in Louisville, on the occasion of the thirty-sixth anniversary of the Journal. In response to the leading toast, Mr. Prentice said: "The thirty-sixth anniversary of the birthday of the Louisville Journal suggests to me, I confess, some melancholy thoughts and reflections. I came here a young man; I am an old one. I came here full of physical strength; my strength is broken by sickness, by years, and by the storms of political life. I have done and endured enough to destroy half a dozen ordinary men. well and how vividly I remember the long-gone. twilight hour when I first entered Louisville! I was alone and lonely. My heart almost misgave me, for there was not in the city a human being that I knew, not one with whom I had interchanged letters, and I felt as if I should sink Ah, how unrecognized and unnoted into the roaring and it: "Compliments clerk of the steamer Waucousta, five days, seventy-eight hours out from New Orleans. Quickest trip on record. To Shadrach Penn, editor Louisville Advertiser," and sent longer strangers | it to the Advertiser office. The boy rushed into They grappled the sanctum breathless, threw down the paper on the editorial-table, and scampered away. took it up, and hurriedly tearing off the wrapper, his eye encountered the important item of news,— the murder above referred to. The paper was nearly up, and no time was to be lost. Several important matters were taken out of the form, and the new copy set in their place, with elaborate editorial comments, and very profuse thanks to the gentlemanly clerk of the elegant and fast steamer Waucousta' for the valuable favor, etc. The whole trick proved successful, and it was many a day before Penn heard the last of it. Especially when he had a "big thing" in the Advertiser, would Prentice ask, "Did that item come by the Waucousta?" Mr. Prentice was a natural wit; his humor flowed spontaneously, and he seldom allowed a circumstance whether grave or gay-to pass without calling into play his ready genius in that direction. Many of his heavy bolts were launched at Shadrach Penn, editor of the Louisville Daily Advertiser, then the leading Democratic journal of Kentucky. Scarcely an article was written by Penn, or even a sentence, but was turned and twisted by Prentice to his discomfiture, as the following will show: Penn wrote of "lying these cold mornings curled up in bed," to which Prentice replied that "this proves what we've always said, that you lie like a dog.'" Penn then angrily recommended Prentice to "set up a lie factory," and Prentice rejoined, "If we ever do set up a lie factory, we will certainly swing you out for a sign." Penn said that he had "met one of Prentice's statements squarely." "Yes," said Prentice, "by lying roundly.' Prentice once perpetrated a joke on Penn, which is doubtless still remembered by many of the old citizens of Louisville. It was between 1835 and 1840, at a time when their editorial warfare was raging at white heat. Something like a year before the present incident occurred, a horrible murder had taken place in the South not far from New Orleans, and it so happened that Prentice had preserved a paper intact, containing the particulars of the affair. Looking through his desk one day, he came across the paper, then a year old, but unstained by age, and his natural wit suggested a joke on Penn. He sprinkled it, folded it neatly, and pressed it, which gave it the appearance of a new issue, and placing it in a wrapper addressed But not alone at "poor old Shad Penn" were his jokes and witticisms leveled. All who had the temerity to cross swords with him met a like reception at his hands. Next to Penn, perhaps, John H. Harney, for many years editor of the Louisville Daily Democrat, and "Parson" Brownlow, of the Knoxville (Tenn.) Whig, received a larger share of his hot shot. I remember an article in the Journal about 1865 or 1866, devoted to Brownlow, in which Prentice gave him the most terrific belaboring that I ever saw in print. It was simply tremendous, and I think effectually silenced Brownlow's guns, for I never saw a reply to it. A quotation from it even would scarcely be in place in an article of this kind. But Prentice did not always escape without a scratch, as will be shown in the following caustic epigram, written years ago, on N. P. Willis: "Unwritten honors to thy name belong, Willis, immortal both in praise and song; response: 1 The boat referred to was a notoriously slow old tub, and had but one engine. |