Mrs. Moulton’s residence has been in Boston since 1855, with the exception of sixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, who value both her winning personality and her literary art. She has been throughout her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary labor. Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. From 1870 to 1876 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York “Tribune,” and for nearly five years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books and literary people for the Boston “Sunday Herald,” the series of these letters closing in December, 1891. Mrs. Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Longfellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swinburne, Tennyson and others, in Europe. * * * * * “IF THERE WERE DREAMS TO SELL.”¹ “If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy?”――BEDDOES. ¹ Copyright, Roberts Bros. IF there were dreams to sell, Do I not know full well What I would buy? Hope’s dear delusive spell, Its happy tale to tell―― Joy’s fleeting sigh. I would be young again―― Youth’s madding bliss and bane I would recapture―― Though it were keen with pain, All else seems void and vain To that fine rapture. I would be glad once more―― Slip through an open door Into Life’s glory―― Keep what I spent of yore, Find what I lost before―― Hear an old story. As it of old befell, Breaking Death’s frozen spell, Love should draw nigh:―― If there were dreams to sell, Do I not know too well _What_ I would buy? * * * * * WIFE TO HUSBAND.¹ ¹ Copyright, Roberts Bros. WHEN I am dust, and thou art quick and glad. Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days we had, What happy days, beside the shining seas, Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease, Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover, Or whispering our own love-story over. When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space, And set another in my vacant place, Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth, Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth, Be happy, dearest one, and surely know I would not have thee thy life’s joys forego.