KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

N°

locality, probably, has contributed more varied and distinctive writers to modern American literature than the Western Reserve. Within this charmed region, on Lake Erie's shore, brewed the genius of Howells, Tourgeé, Artemus Ward, Whitlock, Ayres, Hay, Constance Fenimore Woolson, Susan Coolidge, Sarah K. Bolton, Edith Thomas, and last, but not least, the subject of this sketch.

Poetess, journalist, story writer, philanthropist, patron of art and literature, Kate Brownlee Sherwood is one of the widest known and most respected women of the day. She was born in Mahoning County, Ohio, of literary and Scottish descent, and educated at Poland Union Seminary, one of the first institutions of the Western Reserve, giving classic and scientific training on the co-education plan. Shortly before graduation she left school to marry an editor, now General Isaac R. Sherwood, ExSecretary of State and Ex-Congressman from Ohio, and present editor of the Canton, O., Daily NewsDemocrat. She learned to set type and all the practical details of a printing office, a knowledge invaluable to her subsequent career. Regular Washington correspondent to Ohio papers during her husband's Congressional life, and six year's editorial charge of the Toledo, O., Journal, and seven year's editorship of the Woman's Department of The National Tribune, the great soldier organ, emphasize Mrs. Sherwood's position among the foremost women-journalists of the country. She was one of the first members of the Washington Literary Club, and the Sorosis of New York, to whose early annual receptions she contributed characteristic poems, and the Vice-President for Ohio in the first call for a National Congress of Women. She was the organizer of the first auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic outside of New England, and is the recognized founder of the National Association, known as the Woman's Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic. She has served this order as National President, organized the department of relief and instituted the National Home for Army Nurses, shortly to be opened at Geneva, O. Despite Mrs. Sherwood's versatile excellence, however, public instinct gives popular homage to one gift,- song. She has been the chosen singer of many National occasions, including Army Reunions, and is the only Northern poet ever invited by the Ex-Confederates to celebrate the heroism of a Southern soldier. The broad, liberal and delicate manner in which she responded to this significant honor in her

poem at the Unveiling of the Equestrian Statue of Albert Sidney Johnston, at New Orleans, elicited the warmest praise from the gray and blue. A student of French and German, her translations of Heine, Goethe and Frederich Bodenstedd have been widely copied. Her "Camp Fire and Memorial Poems," (1885), has passed several editions.

Mrs. Sherwood is in the prime of life, a woman She of distingué presence and charming manner. dispenses in her pleasant home an old-time hospitality, refreshing as it is rare. No less rich in heart qualities than intellectual gifts, to her may be truthfully applied Dick Steel's epigram: "To know her is a liberal education."

L. R. McC.

THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.

WHAT deeds of son, what deeds of sire,
What deeds of men made free,

O Army, scarred by sacred fire,
To voice a Nation's deep desire,
Hast thou for eulogy?

Antietam! Lo our lines fall back!
"Give us a man," they cry,

“A man, a man," and "Little Mack"
Came riding in the whirlwind's track;
He brought glad victory.

But swift as death to drive the foe,
The hero who shall lead;

Nor Burnside, no, nor "Fighting Joe,"
Shall strike the last exultant blow,
Nor Howard, Pope, nor Meade.

In battle bold, in valor true,
They swung their conquering lines;
But fever slew, and damp and dew;
And lagging years their captives drew
From prisons, swamps and mines.

Not on triumphant wings of night
Do nations rise to fame;

But through the night, with foes to fight,
They wrest the guidons of the right
In Freedom's holy name.

'Tis Grant, 'Tis Grant! Ye valiant ones! Let all the world make way!

Ye patriot sons speed on your guns!
Awake the slogan, Washington's

The people's hope for aye!

The blue Potomac burns with flame, The Cumberland 's on fire;

From East to West, from crest to crest,
The bugles blare the mad behest
To slay and never tire.

So fought Potomac's knightliest sons,
With Grant to push and plan;
And thousands ten with Sheridan,
To sweep a scathing hurricane
Across the rebel van.

Those days are fled of storm and strife, The reveille sounds far;

With sweeter life the air is rife;

The screaming of the scolding fife
No longer calls to war.

Brave Reynolds followed Sedgwick soon,

The kingly Kearney 's low;

The vesper tune of afternoon

Shall blend aneath the waxing moon

A dirge for friend and foe.

Bring songs and songs and flowers and praise,

And mute memorial urns!

Above the bays the guidons raise,

That tell of old heroic days,

The while the camp-fire burns!

Bring cheers and cheers and flowers and tears! And ho, ye people all!

Rise, hush the jeers of craven years!

The Union and her Volunteers!

Be this the patriot's call.

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.

I HEAR again the tread of war go thundering through the land,

And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand,

Round Shiloh church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay,

Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray.

The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Ten

nesee,

With all their echoing mounts a-throb with war's wild minstrelsy;

A galaxy of stars new-born flares round the shield of Mars,

And set against the Stars and Stripes the flashing Stars and Bars.

'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the columns of the Gray,