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night, and I never buy cigars; they are ruinous; a man has to give so many away. Then, as to jewellery, I am the most moderate of men. If one has half a dozen different sets of studs, and a good watch and chain, and a scarf-pin or so, what else does he want? I would as soon wear rings in my ears as on my fingers. I like to ride a good horse, but not every day,-only when I feel like it. I am willing to be hospitable on occasion, but I have no intention of ruining myself by feeding other people. I assure you, brother David, that, taking into account all the temptations that may beset a man in college, my bills are well within bounds."

Pausing to see if his hearer had gone along with him, Carey saw that the old man sat bending forward with an abstracted gaze; he was shaking his head slowly, as if he found it impossible to accept his visitor's views.

“You must remember, sir,” said Carey, “that we have all been young.” Mr. Litchfield looked at him, still shaking his head.

“We have all been young," he said, gently, “but we have not all been old.”

He rose and began to pace the floor with a troubled face.

“Suppose the bills are paid, Carey,” he said, after a little silence, “what is your outlook in life ?”

- That is exactly what I want to know,” remarked Carey, as if glad that they were coming to the point.

"You are young, strong, decently intelligent. You ought to accomplish some useful work.”

“I am ready to do anything suitable.” “What do you call suitable ?"

“ Anything a gentleman can do, and which has a fair salary attached to it. I should very much like to know what my career is to be. I hate to fling myself away. My theory is, that a man ought to take pains to do one thing well, and win success in that line. It does not make so much difference what it is, but if he does one thing admirably-say he dresses well, or dances well, has a really correct taste in art, or knows how to make money in Wall Street, he is master of the situation ; everybody respects him and makes way for him. And it has really been a grievance with me that I have not known what to turn my attention to. I like to meet the world on equal terms."

“Listen to me, Carey,” said David Litchfield, “I have a definite suggestion to make.”

Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury.

Born in Vernon, N. Y., 1842.

[Contributed to The Aldine, N. Y., May, 1873.]

So you beg for a story, my darling-my brown-eyed Leopold-
D And you, Alice, with face like morning, and curling locks of gold;
Then come, if you will, and listen-stand close beside my knee-
To a tale of the Southern city, proud Charleston by the sea.

It was long ago, my children, ere ever the signal gun
That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one;
Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire
Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts' desire.

On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down,
The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown,
And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes,
They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, rise

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball,
That bung like a radiant planet caught in its earth ward fall;
First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor-round,
The last slow-fading vision dear to the outward-bound.

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light;
The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night;
The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone,
And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street,
For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet;
Men stared in each other's faces through mingled fire and smoke,
While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous stroke on stroke!

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled,
With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread,
While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap-stone high,
And planted their faring banners against an inky sky.

From the death that raged behind them and the crash of ruin loud,
To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd,
Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood,
With its heavenward-pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood.

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail,
A cry of horror blended with the roying of the gale,
On whose scorching wings updriver a single flaming brand
Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand.

“Will it fade ?” The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips;
Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships-
A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone,
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp to a steady beacon grown.

“ Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand,
For the love of the perilled city, plucks down yon burning brand !"
So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard,
But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word.

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky?
Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye ?
Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height?
Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight?

But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands,
And firm on a narrow projection with the belfry beneath bim he stands !
Now once, and once only, they cheer him—a single, tempestuous breath-
And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death.

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire,
Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire; .
He stops! Will he fall? Lol for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track,
And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and


Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air,
At the church-door Mayor and Council wait with their feet on the stair,
And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-
The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand.

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze ?
And what ineans that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze ?
He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilled his life to save,
And the face of the hero, my children, was the sable face of a slave!

With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud,
And his eyes ablaze in their sockets burnt into the eyes of the crowd:
" You may keep your gold, -I scorn it!but answer me, ye who can,
If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man?"

He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men
There were only sobs for answer, and the Mayor called for a pen
And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran;
And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from the door, a man.

Henry Abbey.
Born in Rondout, N. Y., 1842.


(Poems. Enlarged Edition. 1886.]

OUR old colonial town is new with May:

u The loving trees that clasp across the streets Grow greener-sleeved with bursting buds each day.

Still this year's May the last year's May repeats;
Even the old stone houses half renew
Their youth and beauty, as the old trees do.

High over all, like some divine desire

Above our lower thoughts of daily care,
The gray, religious, heaven-touching spire

Adds to the quiet of the springtime air;
And over roofs the birds create a sea,
That has no sbore, of their May melody.

Down through the lowlands now of lightest green,

The undecided creek winds on its way.
There the lithe willow bends with graceful mien,

And sees its likeness in the depths all day;
While in the orchards, flushed with May's warm light,
The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, attired in wbite.

But yonder loom the mountains old and grand,

That off, along dim distance, reach afar,
And high and vast against the sunset stand

A dreamy range, long and irregular-
A caravan that never passes by,
Whose camel-backs are laden with the sky.

So, like a caravan, our outlived years

Loom on the introspective landscape seen Within the heart; and now, when May appears,

And earth renews its vernal bloom and green, We but renew our longing, and we say: “Oh, would that life might ever be all May!

“Would that the bloom of youth that is so brief,

The bloom, the May, the fulness ripe and fair Of cheek and limb, might fade not as the leaf;

Would that the heart might not grow old with care, Nor love turn bitter, nor fond hope decay; But soul and body lead a life of May!"


N OW comes the graybeard of the For all the hay and corn are down north;

And garnered; and the withered leaf, The forests bare their rugged breasts Against the branches bare and brown, To every wind that wanders forth,

Rattles; and all the days are brief. And, in their arms, the lonely nests That housed the birdlings months ago

An icy hand is on the land; Are egged with flakes of drifted snow.

The cloudy sky is sad and gray;

But through the misty sorrow streams, No more the robin pipes his lay

Outspreading wide, a golden ray. To greet the flushed advance of morn; And on the brook that cuts the plain He sings in valleys far away;

A diamond wonder is aglow, His heart is with the south to-day;

Fairer than that which, long ago, He cannot shrill among the corn, De Rohan staked a name to gain.

John Fiske.

Born in Hartford, Conn., 1842.


(The Destiny of Man, Viewed in the Light of his Origin. 1884.] M HE virtues of forbearance and self-control are stillin a very rudimentary

I state, and of mutual helpfulness there is far too little among men.

Nevertheless in all these respects some improvement has been made, along with the diminution of warfare, and by the time warfare has not merely ceased from the earth, but has come to be the dimly remembered phantom of a remote past, the development of the sympathetic side of human nature will doubtless become prodigious. The manifestation of selfish and hateful feelings will be more and more sternly repressed by public opinion, and such feelings will become weakened by disuse, while the sympathetic feelings will increase in strength as the sphere for their exercise is enlarged. And thus at length we see what human progress means. It means throwing off the brute-inheritance-gradually throwing it off through ages of struggle that are by and by to make struggle needless. Man is slowly passing from a primitive social state, in which he was little better than a brute, toward an ultimate social state in which his character shall have become so transformed that nothing of the brute can be detected in it. The ape and the tiger in human nature will become extinct. Theology has had much to say about original sin. This original sin is neither more nor less than the brute-inheritance which every man carries with him, and the process of evolution is an advance toward true salvation. Fresh value is thus added to human life. The modern prophet, employing the methods of science, may again proclaim that the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Work ye, therefore, early and late, to prepare its coming.

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