somehow he got sadly mixed, with the result that what he did say was not entirely a compliment. "It is a wonderful book," he said; "one of the most wonderful poems ever written. I re-read it all throughall made out of an Old Bailey story, that might have been told in ten lines, and only wants forgetting."

"FOUND

XII.

AGAIN

IN THE

HEART OF A FRIEND."

"Perhaps the best of a song heard, or of any and all true love, or life's fairest episodes, or sailors', soldiers' trying scenes on land or sea, is the floating résumé of them, or any of them, long afterwards, looking at the actualities away back past, with all their practical excitations gone. How the soul loves to hover over such reminiscences !"--WALT WHITMAN.

MOST of us know that charming little poem of Longfellow's-The Arrow and the Song:

"I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth I knew not where ;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

"I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

66

Long, long afterwards, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke ;

And the song from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend."

What pleasure a man like Wordsworth must have reaped when he found any of his poetry embedded in the memory of a friend!

Perhaps one of the most interesting instances of finding one's words in an unlooked-for quarter is the following:

"John Howard Payne, the author of Home, Sweet Home, was a warm personal friend of John Ross, who will be remembered as the celebrated chief of the Cherokees. At the time the Cherokees were removed from their homes in Georgia to their present possessions west of the Mississippi River, Payne was spending a few weeks in Georgia with Ross, who was occupying a miserable cabin, having been forcibly ejected from his former home. A number

of the prominent Cherokees were in prison, and that portion of Georgia in which the tribe was located was scoured by armed squads of the Georgia militia, who had orders to arrest all who refused to leave the country. While Ross and Payne were seated before the fire in the hut, the door was suddenly burst open and six or eight militiamen sprang into the room. The soldiers lost no time in taking their prisoners away. Ross was permitted to ride his own horse, while Payne was mounted on one led by a soldier. As the little party left the hovel, rain began falling, and continued until every man was drenched thoroughly. The journey lasted all night. Towards midnight, Payne's escort, in order to keep himself awake, began humming Home, Sweet Home, when Payne remarked:

"Little did I expect to hear that

song under such circumstances, and at such a time. Do you know the

author?'

"No,' said the soldier. 'Do you ?"

"Yes,' answered Payne; 'I composed it.'*

"The devil you did! You can tell that to some fellows, but not to me. Look here; you made that song, you say. If you did and I know you didn't-you can say it all without stopping. It has something in it about pleasures and palaces. Now, pitch in, and reel it off; and if you can't, I'll bounce you from your horse, and lead you instead of it.'

"The threat was answered by

* "Payne declared that he had heard the tune of Home, Sweet Home from the lips of a Sicilian peasant girl, who sang it artlessly as she sold some sort of Italian wares, and touched his fine ear by the purity of her voice. It is pleasant to think he did not crib it from an old opera, but had a certain proprietorship in the air, as well as the words, of the most popular song extant."