ILMORE, PATRICK SARSFIELD, an American musician and composer; born near Dublin, Ireland, December 25, 1829; died at St. Louis, Mo., September 24, 1892. He removed to Boston, Mass., at the age of 18, and here organized Gilmore's band. In 1869 he arranged the Peace Jubilee in Boston, and in 1872 the World's Jubilee. Later he organized the 22d Regiment Band in New York City, which gave concerts in the United States and Canada, and made a European concert tour in 1882. Gilmore composed various songs, hymns and anthems, his best known production being the anthem Columbia.

COLUMBIA.

A National Historic Poem first presented to the public at the Academy of Music, New York, on Christmas day, 1879.

Columbia! First and fairest gem

On Nature's brow a diadem
Whose lustre, bright as heavenly star,
The light of Freedom sheds afar.
Like Noah's Ark, a God-sent bark
In search of land, through day and dark
First found thee held by nature's child,
The red man, in his wigwam, wild.

Columbia! In thine early days
Our Pilgrim Fathers sang thy praise.
They landed from the Mayflower's deck
On Plymouth Rock- a snow-clad speck

That marks the place from whence the race
Of Puritans their true blood trace,
Who fought for Independence dear
With hearts of steel and conscience clear.

Columbia! 'Twas in fire and blood
Brave Washington the foremost stood;
With banner high and sword in hand,
He drove the tyrant from the land.
Thy breast still sore, to thy heart's core,
Till washed again in human gore
In martyr blood! Shed not in vain -
It left thee whole, without a stain.

Columbia! See, what thou art now,
A crown of stars on Nature's brow;
With fields of gold and teeming marts
With fifty million loving hearts
Who cling to thee, from sea to sea,
To guard thy peace and liberty;
Who, man to man, shall e'er be just,
And in the Lord place all their trust.

Columbia! Lift thine eyes on high,
See Him who dwells in yonder sky,
The King of Glory on His throne,
Who looks on all, for all's His own!
Our earthly gain would be in vain,
A home in Heaven to attain,
If with our hearts we did not pay
Our debt to Him. Then let us pray.

At morn, at noon, at eventide,

O Lord! be ever at our side,

That we Thy voice may always hear,
And feel that Thou art ever near.
In mercy spare, from grief and care
VOL. XI.-9

The nation, bowed in fervent prayer,
Who with one heart and voice implore,
Thy blessing now and evermore.

ILPIN, WILLIAM, an English clergyman, biographer and artist; born at Carlisle, June 4, 1724; died at Boldre, Hants, April 5, 1804. He was educated at Oxford, and after holding a small curacy, he established a school for the education of the sons of gentlemen. He had many eminent pupils, among whom was William Mitford, author of a History of Greece, who presented him with the living of Boldre, in Hampshire. Gilpin wrote the Life of Bernard Gilpin, an eminent divine of the sixteenth century, and other biographical and religious works. "Gilpin has described "— we quote from the Biographie Universelle" in several justly esteemed tours, the Picturesque Beauties of Great Britain. All his volumes are accompanied by engravings in aquatint, executed by himself with the tastes and feelings of a painter. He has in some measure created a new kind of tour. His works abound in ingenious reflections, proper to enrich the theory of the arts and to guide the practice of them."

Thomas Green, in his Diary of a Lover of Literature, speaks of Gilpin as "a gentleman by whose pen and whose pencil I have been almost equally delighted, and who, with an originality that always accompanies true genius, may be considered as having opened a new source of enjoyment in surveying the works of nature."

THE EFFECTS OF LIGHT AND SHADE.

The first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity. When the east begins just to brighten with the reflection only of effulgence, a pleasing progressive light, dubious and amusing, is thrown over the face of things. A single ray is able to assist the picturesque eye, which by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, if the scene be unknown, and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by correcting its vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion of twilight perhaps seemed a stretch of rising ground, broken into various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood and an extent of forest.

As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change takes place. What was before only form, being now enlightened, begins to receive effect. This effect depends on two circumstances - the catching lights which touch the summits of every object, and the mistiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped. The effect is often very pleasing when the sun rises in unsullied brightness, diffusing its ruddy light over the upper parts of objects, which is contrasted by the deeper shadows below; yet the effect is then only transcendant when he rises accompanied by a train of vapors in a misty atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accompaniment often forms the most astonishing visions, and yet in the forest it is nearly as great. With what delightful effect do we sometimes see the sun's disk just appear above a woody hill, or, in Shakespeare's language,

"Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain's top,"

and dart his diverging ray through the rising vapor. The radiance, catching the tops of the trees as they hang midway upon the shaggy steep, and touching here and there a few other prominent objects, imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, setting on fire, as it were, their upper parts, while their lower skirt's are lost in a dark mass of varied confusion, in

which trees and ground, and radiance and obscurity, are all blended together. When the eye is fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant — for it is always a vanishing scene — it furnishes an idea worth treasuring among the choicest appearances of nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, occasions a confusion in objects which is often picturesque; but the glory of the vision depends on the glowing lights which are mingled with it.

Landscape-painters, in general, pay too little attention to the discriminations of morning and evening. We are often at a loss to distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun, though their characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The ruddy lights, indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished, but it is not perhaps always sufficiently observed that the shadows of the evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. They may be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmosphere, which are incessantly reverberated in every direction, and may continue in action after the sun is set; whereas in the morning the rays of the preceding day having subsided, no object receives any light but from the immediate lustre of the sun. Whatever becomes of the theory, the fact, I believe, is well ascertained.

The incidental beauties which the meridan sun exhibits are much fewer than those of the rising sun. In summer, when he rides high at noon, and sheds his perpendicular ray, all is illumination; there is no shadow to balance such a glare of light, no contrast to oppose it. The judicious artist, therefore, rarely represents his objects under a vertical sun. And yet no species of landscape bears it so well as the scenes of the forest. The tuftings of the trees, the recesses among them, and the lighter foliage hanging over the darker, may all have an effect under a meridian sun. I speak chiefly, however, of the internal scenes of the forest, which bear such total brightness better than any other, as in them there is generally a natural gloom to balance it. The light obstructed by close intervening trees will rarely predominate; hence the effect is often fine. A strong sunshine striking a wood through some fortunate