A ARTHUR W. GUNDRY. RTHUR W. GUNDRY was born of English parents in the city of Montreal, Canada, on December 13, 1857. His father's duties as bank manager entailed frequent change of residence, so that the only son spent his early youth sojourning for a time in Toronto, Chicago and New York, and ultimately in 1870 in London, England, where a more permanent home was established. After studying for a while with a private tutor, a term was put in at London University College School, followed by several years at Eastbourne College, where rapid progress in all matters of general education was made. During this period Mr. Gundry's literary proclivities first manifested themselves in frequent contributions to the Eastbournian, the college organ, and for some time before leaving the college he was editor of that journal. The family returning to Canada in 1875 and taking up their abode in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Mr. Gundry attended two sessions at Dalhousie University, and at the same time kept his pen busy in the love of both prose and poetry, most of his writings finding their way into print through the local press. Going to Toronto to study law he soon became editorially connected with the Canadian Monthly, now defunct, but then in its prime. The pages of this periodical contain many signed and unsigned contributions from Mr. Gundry of a high order of merit. Other work from his pen appeared in the Toronto Nation, Montreal Spectator, and Canadian Illustrated News. Having been admitted to the bar Mr. Gundry went to Europe for a year, and on his return accepted a position in a large Wall street firm in New York, remaining there until 1884, in which year his translation of the Abbé Prévost's classic "Manon Lescaut" was published in sumptuous form and received very warm praise from the press. In 1884 a return was made to Canada, and the practice of his profession entered upon at Ottawa, the capital of the Dominion. Mr. Gundry has filled in the chinks of leisure by doing excellent poetical work for Life, Puck, Weekly Graphic, Belford's Magazine, New York Tribune, Evening Post, and other periodicais. Much as Mr. Gundry has written he can hardly be said to have yet done justice to himself. He is his own severest critic, and very hard to please. He has not attempted flights such as he is nevertheless well able to undertake. J. M. O. SONNET: "THE POETRY OF EARTH.". THE poetry of earth, and of the sky, The lazy, sighing rhythm of the sea, The heavenward roll of verse that ne'er can die, The lover's ballad troll'd beneath a tree, I love them ail! I love the feathered throats That warble joyous treble in the choir That music-loving Nature did inspire Give back to her, in praises for the gift. Nor less the humbler voices do I love That lowlier creatures of her making lift With jealousy of none that are above In giving thanks; for even that poor skill They make sufficing by sufficient will. UNPROFITABLE. "Why stand ye here all the day idle?" A HOPELESS, heartless human life, Nerved with no valor for the strife Against the evil that is rife, And wasting in soul-sloth its lease Of discontent and vague unrest, That findeth not its task-can feel A narrow mind; a gleamless eye A godless soul cased in a creed Safe hid in which it findeth well To cry that all who doubt, rebel; To brand the Thinker, infidel: A life like this, and thousands, aye! And millions like it here to-day Stand in the way! Stand in the way! LOVE'S LARCENY. As Cupid, on a summer's day, In idle sport was flitting From place to place, he chanced to stray Near where my love was sitting. THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK. THOM HOMAS BROWER PEACOCK was born at Cambridge, Ohio, April 16, 1852. He is the fourth child of Thomas William Peacock. His paternal grandfather was a native of Edinburgh, Scotland. Mr. Peacock is related, though distantly, to Thomas Love Peacock, an intimate friend of Shelley's. It is said that the name "Peacock" originated in the "Pea Mountains" of Scotland, where peacocks were found in large numbers. Mr. Peacock's ancestry can be traced back to King William of Holland, and he is one of the many heirs to the Trinity Church property, commonly known as the Anneke Jans estate. His mother's maiden name was Naomi Carson, and her parents were among the earliest settlers of Guernsey County, Ohio. When Mr. Peacock was seven years old, his parents moved to a farm near Cambridge. Two years later the family moved to Zanesville, Ohio, Mr. Peacock pere purchasing The Aurora, the leading democratic paper of Zanesville, his son Thomas, then a lad in his teens, delivering the paper to their city subscribers. Mr. Peacock's education was obtained mainly at Zanesville, Ohio. From this place the family moved to Dresden, Ohio, where the father and son together edited the Monitor. In 1870 the boy, allured by the glowing accounts given through advertising pamphlets and letters received from friends living in Texas, determined to try his fortune in the southwestern wild. He remained in Texas two years and it is quite probable that these two years were the most eventful of his life. His first year he taught school, and the second kept a hotel. During the last year of his stay, he was compelled to entertain such characters as "Cole Younger," "Wild Bill," and "Jesse James," and from them seems to have derived his inspiration by which the "Poems of the Plains" were written. In 1872, Mr. Peacock moved to Independence, Kan., making the trip by wagon team, a distance of eight hundred miles. Two years after he moved to Topeka, Kan., in which place he has since resided. For eight years he was associate editor of the Kansas Democrat. Mr. Peacock's "Star of the East" was written at the age of sixteen. His "Vendetta" and some minor poems were written during his stay in Texas. The Rhyme of the Border War," "The Doomed Ship Atlantic" were written in Kansas. In 1880, Mr. Peacock married Miss Ida E. Eckert, daughter of Daniel S. Eckert, a retired farmer. His wife is a woman of fine literary taste. Mr. Peacock published his first volume of verse in 1872, which was so favorably received that he published, in 1876, a larger volume containing some of the old poems revised and many new ones. He is printing the third edition of When Hope's sweet madness thrills the heart, That coming days shall all be bright When happiness comes, ne'er to depart: 'Tis midnight! and the month of June; But vexed in soul, yon man of crime Upon this wight have lost their power; But hark! from yonder forest dun The sound of horses' hoofs are heard! A hundred clattering racers run! The outlaw flies like some swift bird! But close behind his foes him press full sore, Their cries of vengeance on the night-winds roar! V. He halts! the outlaw halts to hear! A moment in the stirrup stands His soul is centered in his ear, O'er his hot brow he draws his hands His sinewy hands which oft had choked death back, When foes were close upon his dreaded track. VI. He spurs his steed, and onward flies Beneath the stars' and moon's soft light; Like some swift comet down the skies, He passes through the shades of night; Flies onward toward the yellow sea away, Where cloud on cloud pavilioned, darkling lay. VII. He spurs his steed, whose sides are wet He's armed and ready for the foe, Ah! fast and well his foes must run To overtake him in his flight; His courser is the swiftest one Whose feet spurn earth's brown breast this night This night of June, when Nature's fair and grand, When summer laughs along the lovely land. IX. His foes knew not the cost of hate When hunting down this man of crimeThis son of war, this child of fate, Who'd hurled scores to etern from time; Whose spirits rose when armies greatest warred, When blood flowed most and battle loudest roared. X. He long defied both death and time, Though none saw why, how it was so For with a boldness rash, sublime, He reckless rushed upon the foe He whom some power unknown protected well! Some power unseen! some power of Heaven or Hell! XI. Lo! headlong falls the outlaw's horse His foes all dead, none now debar The outlaw from his wonted way; He stays as though in blood of war His soul exulted mad alway But ah! one foe he slew not, though five-score; Death's iron grasp he can escape no more. SONNET TO MILTON. MILTON! thou Titan of the epic song, |