ll was quiet, and then he must have died--in a moment. Next
morning his man went in, and opening the windows found his master dead,
his arms behind his head, as if he had tried to take one more breath. We
think of him as of our Chalmers, found dead in like manner: the same
childlike, unspoiled, open face; the same gentle mouth; the same
spaciousness and softness of nature; the same look of power. What a
thing to think of,--his lying there alone in the dark, in the midst of
his own mighty London; his mother and his daughters asleep, and, it may
be, dreaming of his goodness. God help them, and us all! What would
become of us, stumbling along this our path of life, if we could not, at
our utmost need, stay ourselves on Him?

Long years of sorrow, labor, and pain had killed him before his time. It
was found after death how little life he had to live. He looked always
fresh, with that abounding silvery hair, and his young, almost infantine
face, but he was worn to a shadow, and his hands wasted as if by eighty
years. With him it is the end of Ends; finite is over and, infinite
begun. What we all felt and feel can never be so well expressed as in
his own words of sorrow for the early death of Charles Buller:--

"Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blest He who took and He who gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give or to recall."

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE (ARTEMUS WARD)

(1834-1867)

BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON

Charles Farrar Brown, better known to the public of thirty years ago
under his pen-name of Artemus Ward, was born in the little village of
Waterford, Maine, on the 26th day of April, 1834. Waterford is a quiet
village of about seven hundred inhabitants, lying among the foot-hills
of the White Mountains. When Browne was a child it was a station on the
western stage-route, and an important depot for lumbermen's supplies.
Since the extension of railroads northerly and westerly from the
seaboard, it has however shared the fate of many New England villages in
being left on one side of the main currents of commercial activity, and
gradually assuming a character of repose and leisure, in many regards
more attractive than the life and bustle of earlier days. Many persons
are still living there who reme