enriched by a great number of the products of his pen. His originality of thought and pleasant style is nowhere better shown than in the following extract from a brilliant article upon Karl Theodore Korner:

"The greater part of our modern literature bears evident marks of the haste which characterizes all the movements of this age; but, in reading these older authors, we are impressed with the idea that they enjoyed the most comfortable leisure. Many books we can read in a railroad car, and feel a harmony between the rushing of the train and the haste of the author; but to enjoy the older authors, we need the quiet of a winter evening-an easy chair before a cheerful fire, and all the equanimity of spirits we can command. Then the genial good nature, the rich fullness, the persuasive eloquence of those old masters will fall upon us like the warm, glad sunshine, and afford those hours of calm contemplation in which the spirit may expand with generous growth, and gain deep and comprehensive views. The pages of friendly old Goldsmith come to us like a golden autumn day, when every object which meets the eye bears all the impress of the completed year, and the beauties of an autumnal forest."

Another article, which attracted great attention at the college, was entitled "The Province of History." The argument was that history has two duties, the one to narrate facts with their relations and significance, the other to show the tendency of the whole to some great end. His idea was that history is to show the unfolding of a great providential plan in the affairs of men and nations. In the course of the article he said:

"For every village, State, and nation there is an aggregate of native talent which God has given, and by which, together with His Providence, He leads that nation on, and thus leads the world. In the light of these truths, we affirm that no man can understand the history of any nation, or of the world, who does not recognize in it the power of God, and behold His stately goings forth as He walks among the nations. It is His hand that is moving the vast superstructure of human history, and, though but one of the windows were unfurnished, like that of the

Arabian palace, yet all the powers of earth could never complete it without the aid of the Divine Architect.

"To employ another figure-the world's history is a divine poem, of which the history of every nation is a canto, and of every man a word. Its strains have been pealing along down the centuries, and, though there have been mingled the discord of roaring cannon and dying men, yet to the Christian philosopher and historian-the humble listener-there has been a divine melody running through the song, which speaks of hope and halcyon days to come. The record of every orphan's sigh, of every widow's prayer, of every noble deed, of every honest heart-throb for the right, is swelling that gentle strain; and when, at last, the great end is attained--when the lost image of God is restored to the human soul; when the church anthem can be pealed forth without a discordant note, then will angels join in the chorus, and all the sons of God again 'shout for joy."

This is really an oration. It is not the style of the essayist. It is the style of the orator before his audience. The boldness of the figure which would captivate an audience, is a little palling to the quiet and receptive state of the reader. The mental attitude of Garfield when he wrote that passage was not that of the writer in his study, but of the orator on the platform with a hushed assemblage before him. It will be noticed that this characteristic of style only became more marked with Garfield after he had left the mimic arena of the college.

But the idea embodied in this article is as significant and characteristic as its expression. In some form or other most of the world's great leaders have believed in some outside and controlling influence, which really shaped and directed events. To this they attributed their own fortune. Napoleon called and believed himself to be "The Child of Destiny." Mohammed was a fatalist: "On two days it stood not to run from thy fateThe appointed and the unappointed day;

On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,
Nor thee, on the second, the universe slay.'

Buddha believed in fatalism. So did Calvin. Julius Cæsar ascribed his own career to an overweening and super-imposed

destiny. William III. of England, thought men grasp of an iron fate.

were in the

The idea expressed in this article of a providential plan in human things, according to which history unfolds itself, and events > and men are controlled, is not seen here for the last time. It will reappear at intervals throughout the life of the man, always maintaining a large ascendancy in his mind. It is not a belief in fate, destiny, or predestination, but it is a kindred and corresponding one. Whether such beliefs are false or true, whether superstitious or religious, does not concern the biographer. It is sufficient that Garfield had such a belief, and that it was a controlling influence in his life.

But Garfield's literary efforts in college also took the form of poetry. The affectionate nature, and lofty imagination, made his heart the home of sentiment, and poetry its proper expression. We reproduce entire a poem entitled "Memory," written during his senior year. At that time, his intended profession was teaching, and it is possible that the presidency of a Christian college was "the summit where the sunbeams fell," but in the light of events the last lines seem almost prophetic.

MEMORY.

'Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down
Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow,
No light gleams at the window save my own,
Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.
And, now, with noiseless step, sweet Memory comes
And leads me gently through her twilight realms.
What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung,

Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed,

The enchanted, shadowy land where Memory dwells?
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
Dark shaded by the mournful cypress tree,
And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed
In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
Are clustered joys serene of other days;
Upon its gentle, sloping hillside bend

The weeping willow o'er the sacred dust
Of dear departed ones: and yet in that land,
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death's long, silent years, and 'round us stand,
As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung
With clouds of various hues; some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below:

Others are floating through the dreamy air,
White as falling snow, their margins tinged:

With gold and crimsoned hues; their shadows fall
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening's peace falls gently on the heart,
I bound away across the noisy years,
Unto the utmost verge of Memory's land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet:
And memory dim, with dark oblivion joins;
Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell
Upon the ear in childhood's early morn;

And wandering thence, along the rolling years,
I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man's estate.

The path of youth winds down through many a vale
And on the brink of many a dread abyss,
From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,

Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf

And beckons toward the verge. Again the path
Leads o'er a summit where the sunbeams fall;
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along.

It is said that every one has in some degree a prophetic instinct; that the spirit of man reaching out into the future apprehends more of its destiny than it admits even to itself. If ever this premonition finds expression, it is in poetry. On the following page will be found a gem, torn from the setting of Garfield's college life, which was published during his senior year, and is equally suggestive:

AUTUMN.

Old Autumn, thou art here! Upon the earth
And in the heavens the signs of death are hung;
For o'er the earth's brown breast stalks pale decay,
And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,
And sighing sadly, shout the solemn dirge,

O'er Summer's fairest flowers, all faded now.
The winter god, descending from the skies,

Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows
With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath
Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth

His coming.

Before the driving blast

The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales
That fiercely roar among his branches bare,
Uplifted to the dark, unpitying heavens.
The skies have put their mourning garments on,
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow
And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.
Thus passes life. As heavy age comes on,
The joys of youth-bright beauties of the Spring-
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night
Of death's chill winter comes. But as the Spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o'er the tomb the star of hope shall rise
And usher in an ever-during day.

There is considerable poetic power here. The picture of the mountain oak, with its dead leaves shattered by the November blasts, and its bare branches uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens, is equal to Thomson. This poem, like the one on Memory, is full of sympathy with nature, and a somber sense of the sorrowful side of human nature.

But a college boy's feelings have a long range upward and downward. Nobody can have the "blues" more intensely, and nobody can have more fun. We find several comic poems by Garfield in his paper. One of them is a parody on Tennyson's "Light Bri