Mrs. Robinson’s first published book was “Warrington Pen Portraits,” a memoir of her husband, with selections from his writings. She has also written “Massachusetts in the Woman-Suffrage Movement,” and “Captain Mary Miller,” a drama. But her best literary achievement in book form is her latest, “The New Pandora,” a poem of which any writer might well be proud. There are passages of exquisitely clear-cut poetry in the drama, and gleams of true poetic aspiration lighting up the homely toil of the woman who knows herself not of earthly lineage. The “Chorus of Ills” beginning their flight is a strong chant, as classical in its strain as some of Shelley’s in his imaginative dramas. Indeed, the whole poem is so classically thought out and shaped as to be lifted quite above what is popular in style, and is for that reason less likely to attract the attention it deserves. Pandora naturally has at first no love for the rude mate to whom she has been assigned, and it is the death of their little child that brings their hearts together in a real human affection. The loss of this little first-born woman child makes a moan of tenderest pathos through the whole poem, and is a most motherly touch, rarely found in poetry; and the feeling colors the whole book. The poem is pervaded with the sacredness of the domestic affections. The style is strong and clear, and one feels, in reading it, a subtle spiritual fragrance, the beauty, the holiness, the immortality, of human love. Perhaps her “Pandora” breathes the very truest aspiration of many a heart among that far-away throng of industrious, onward-looking maidens:-- “But this I ask, that I may be allowed by thee To do one single thing to make my kind more good, More happy, for that I have lived.” All working-women have reason for strengthening themselves by study and thought, seeing that such a poem as “The New Pandora” is the heart-and-brain product of one who grew up as a working-girl. [Illustration: Harriet H. Robinson, at 68.] To the writer of this brief notice it is pleasant to recall the time when the author of this beautiful poem and herself were children together, school companions and workmates; when an atmosphere of poetry hung over the busy city by the Merrimack, and when its green borders burst into bloom with girlish dreams and aspirations. Mrs. Robinson celebrated her seventieth anniversary Feb. 8, 1895, at her home in Malden, Massachusetts. EMMELINE LARCOM.