ods, a
few miles to the north of the highest peaks of the Adirondacks. There
is nothing unusual about the house. You will find a dozen such in a
few hours' walk almost anywhere in the mountain parts of New England or
New York. It stands on a little hill, "in a sightly place," as they
say in that region, with no shelter of trees around it.

[Illustration: The John Brown Homestead, North Elba, N.Y.]

At the foot of the hill in a broad curve flows the River Au Sable,
small and clear and cold, and full of trout. It is not far above that
the stream takes its rise in the dark Indian Pass, the only place in
these mountains where the ice of winter lasts all summer long. The
same ice on the one side sends forth the Au Sable, and on the other
feeds the fountain head of the infant Hudson River.

In the little dooryard in front of the farmhouse is the historic spot
where John Brown's body still lies moldering. There is not even a
grave of his own. His bones lie with those of his father, and the
short record of his life and death is crowded on the foot of his
father's tombstone. Near by, in the little yard, lies a huge,
wandering boulder, torn off years ago by the glaciers from the granite
hills that hem in Indian Pass. The boulder is ten feet or more in
diameter, large enough to make the farmhouse behind it seem small in
comparison. On its upper surface, in letters two feet long, which can
be read plainly for a mile away, is cut the simple name--

JOHN BROWN.

This is John Brown's grave, and the place, the boulder; and the
inscription are alike fitting to the man he was.

[Illustration: John Brown's Grave.]

Dust to dust; ashes to ashes; granite to granite; the last of the
Puritans!

[1] Address before the California State Normal School, at San Jose,
1892.

A KNIGHT OF THE ORDER OF POETS.[1]

"In London I saw two pictures. One was of a woman. You would not
mistake it for any of the Greek goddesses. It had a splendor and
majesty such as Phidias might have given to a woman Jupiter. But not
terrible. The culmination of the awful beauty was in an expression of
matchless compassion. If there had been other figures, they must have
been suffering humanity at her feet.

"The other was also of a woman. Whose face it is hard to say. Not the
Furies, not Lady Macbeth, not Catherine de Medici, not Phillip the
Second, not Nero, not any face you have ever seen, but a gathering up
from all the faces y