incurred by those who have no coin of their own for payment.
Not long ago a writer of distinction was idling his way pleasantly through a volume of Mrs. Browning's poetry, when his attention was arrested by a quotation which stood at the head of that rather nebulous effusion, "A Rhapsody of Life's Progress." It was but a single line,
"Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath,"
and it was accredited to Cornelius Mathews, author of "Poems on Man." A foot-note,—people were more generous in the matter of foot-notes forty years ago than now—gave the additional and somewhat startling information that "Poems on Man" was "a small volume by an American poet, as remarkable in thought and manner for a vital sinewy vigour as the right arm of Pathfinder." This was stout praise. "The right arm of Pathfinder." We all know what sinewy vigor was there; but of Cornelius Mathews, it would seem, no man knew anything at all. Yet his poems had traveled far when they lay in Mrs. Browning's path, and of her admiration for
