mutable in their application to but one-half of the human race, that himself. Lucretia Mott is one of the perfect refutations of this fatal error which God at intervals sends upon the earth. She did everything which, as a woman, according to the code of mere conventionality, she ought not to have done, yet hers was, and ever remained, the greatest womanhood of all.

We go back to deeds of valor, of prowess, of high emprise, to executive force, to conquering ability, to find that the deeds which live and glow in the dust of the centuries are those great in love of human nature, great in consecration to humanity.

In summing up the excellences of Lucretia Mott, men do not forget to name her thrift, her industry, her economy. Yet she is not exalted in memory now because she sewed bits of carpet together with an endless patience, nor because she wrote letters on tag ends of waste-paper, or made with her own hands her own pies and puddings — she might have done all these things well without one great thought beyond their mechanical perfection-nor was it because she dared to question the opinions of popes and potentates, of synods and parliaments; nor because she declared the equality in nature of man and woman. She is revered of all men to-day because with a perfect love she loved all human nature.

Her carved image is worthy to stand with the greatest of our great who have died. Yet she has carved no statues. She has painted no great picture of history. She has not sung songs of immortality like Milton, nor written books of raving eloquence, like Carlyle. But in her own exquisite, exalted personality, she is greater than Carlyle, abiding on heights of self-conquest, on heights of unselfish devotion, that he never dreamed of, much less attained. In her power to transmute high principles into the sweetest and highest living of daily life, she was greater than Milton; for in her own. individual self she was the perfect incarnation of the highest principles she ever expounded, of the finest aspirations she ever breathed, of the tenderest emotions she ever felt.

rounded Her Childhood-Rigid New England Training-Girlhood and School Days-First Literary Efforts - Publication of Her First BookLetters to the New York "Tribune" - First Visit to Europe - Impressions of the Old World - Paris - Rome - Pictures of Italian Life Venice Cordial Reception in London - Honors Shown by Distinguished People - Flattering Attention Delightful Experiences - How Her Book of Poems was Received in London - High Praise from Eminent Critics A Famous Traveller- Personal Appearance - Her Grace and Charm of Manner A Gifted and Popular Woman.

NE thinks of them all, to quote her own words, in remembering Louise Chandler Moulton after the spell of her presence is gone. Sherwood Bonner, in speaking of her once, declared that she belongs to that class of women who seem born to charm; for charm, she says, is a sweet and comprehensive word, meaning to bewitch, not to madden; to delight, not to intoxicate; to satisfy, not to tantalize; to please the soul like the smell of a rose, the song of a brook, the sight of waving fields. "In her writing, in her person, in her manner, in her voice, in her dress, there is the gracious and indefinable charm that would lend attraction to a mediocre talent and a plain face; and which, when joined to a clear, fine intellect, a lovely mobile

face, and the exquisite manner of one who has breathed always the atmosphere of the gently nurtured, results in a woman worthy to be numbered among the fair ones of a poet's dream."

Louise Moulton is, perhaps, the most personally popular among the literary women of our country; she pleases so entirely that I doubt if there is a person in the world who has any but a warm and admiring feeling towards her. She began this career of conquest early; for she was not nineteen when Mr. Phillips, of the old Boston firm of Phillips and Sampson, maintained that she was fitter to be President of these United States than any man he knew. I have often wondered since how, already, he could so well have known and understood her, for Louise Moulton, aside from her literary powers, is an extraordinarily clever woman, capable of organizing and of carrying out, and one to whom the management of anything requiring, with energetic action, thought, tact, and delicacy to a fine degree, might well be intrusted.

Louise was born on the 10th of April, 1835, in the town of Pomfret, Connecticut. Her mother was Louise Clark, her father, Lucius L. Chandler. On both sides she came of good old English stock. One of her ancestors owned all of Pomfret in the early days when it was a much larger place in extent than at present. In her father's family there was always a good deal of ability; his grandmother Cleveland is said to have been a remarkable woman, and one of Louise's earliest remembrances is hearing her read passages from the Greek philosophers, long before the little listener could understand them. Through this lady Louise is connected with the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, of literary reputation, and distantly with the poet and critic, Edmund C. Stedman, who himself regards this Cleveland descent as an inheritance of intellectual power. Of her father she has spoken to me as the most tender, uncomplaining, great-hearted man she has ever known; and of her mother, as a gentle, gracious woman, a noted beauty in her youth, but singularly free from the vanity and selfishness of most noted beauties. Her feeling

for her mother is, however, better expressed by these lately
published lines than by any words that I could add :—

"How shall I, here, her placid picture paint
With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?
Soft hair above a brow so high and pure,
Years have not soiled it with an earthly taint,
Needing no aureole to prove her saint-
Firm mind that no temptation could allure,
Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure,
And sweet, calm lips that utter no complaint.
So have I seen her in my darkest days,
And when her own most sacred ties were riven,
Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways,
Asking for strength, and sure it would be given,
Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise —
So shall I see her if we meet in heaven."

Her mother, however, is still living in the quiet country town where her long life has been passed, and her daughter's successes have been a joy to her declining years. Both of her parents were rigid Calvinists, with the imaginative side of their natures somewhat undeveloped, and this child of theirs, living in her ideal world, may have been puzzling in many respects to them. But they idolized her, and indulged her in every way that did not go counter to their ideas of the immutable right and wrong. They held it ruinous to read romances, to dance, or to play any game of chance, such as draughts or backgammon. But although there is something pathetic in the thought of a childhood so strictly reared, I doubt not the little maid found her own pleasures in her own way, a way that did not impair the sunniness of her nature. The religious sentiments of her parents, nevertheless, exercised a great power over her, with at times an awful foreboding of doom and despair. She would wake when a little thing, in the depth of the night, cold with horror, saying to herself, "Why, if I'm not among the elect I can't be saved, no matter how hard I try," and would steal along on her little bare feet to be taken into her mother's bed, with a vague