One of our most eminent literary critics declares: “Mr. Stoddard’s mind is essentially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness. His style is characterized by purity and grace of expression. He is a master of rythmical melody and his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is no rude writing. All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol which strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, and the moon that silvers his roof are to him things that play an intimate part in his existence. Thus in all his poems will be found an echo from an internal to an external nature, the harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.” Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, the wife of the author, has shared heartily in the literary labors of her husband, assisting him in his compilations, and is, herself, author of numerous contributions to the magazines and a number of pleasing poems. She has also written several novels. A dinner was given to Mr. Stoddard by the Author’s Club at the Hotel Savoy on March 25th, 1897, at which more than one hundred and fifty persons gathered to do honor to the venerable poet. Mr. E. C. Stedman, the poet, presided, and good talk abounded. It is impossible in this space to give any extended note of the addresses. Letters of regret were received from many friends of Mr. Stoddard who were unable to be present, including Bishop Potter, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, Dr. Andrew D. White, William Allen Butler, Donald G. Mitchell, James Whitcomb Riley and others. The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik Marvel), closed in these words: “There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell him so, and that only the weakness of age――quickened by this wintry March――keeps me from putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the roll-call of your guests.” The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him: O princely poet! kingly heir Of gifts divinely sent―― Your own――nor envy anywhere, Nor voice of discontent. Though, of ourselves, all poor are we, And frail and weak of wing, Your height is ours――your ecstasy, Your glory, where you sing. Most favored of the gods and great In gifts beyond our store, We covet not your rich estate, But prize our own the more. The gods give as but gods may do; We count our riches thus―― They gave their richest gifts to you, And then gave you to us. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.