Scissor-Build stringing up a line of telephone wires. My next idea was to write a poem,

a poem ! Good God, what was I thinking of. Ah, but I was going to put out a verse that would crush error, and sweep darkness from the face. of the earth as with the besom of the storm.

Yet, it is not every one that reads poetry; many do not believe what they do read; besides, the very form of verse steals from strength as much as it adds to grace; and to expect a philosopher to display the whole scope and power of his philosophy in metrical composition, would be equivalent to expect a giant to display his full strength, in the slight step of the waltz. With this glaring discouragement in my path, I shifted my views, and resolved to become an editor.

The multifariousness of the subjects treated of in journals was alluring. Ah, such luck, such luck! It was plain that I was too far advanced, there was'nt a publisher in the country that would trust their fate to my genius. At last I was driven to dispair, perversion and klepto-plagiarism; and through the latter I began to publish articles that played sarcastically about the word "Goverment" just like lightning plays about a ruin, showing the hallowness of that which only darkness makes appear impregnably formidable. And I will write and re-write a l'outrance, qui l'aurait cru!

The miseries of life are far reaching, and are so profuse that pleasure is almost subordinated into utter nothingness; but as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Our anguish of today can often be traced to the ecstasies of the past.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with many unmentionable experiences, experiences that shall ne'er be told, or if told there very character would only stimulate disbelief.

Death is inevitable and makes a complete change in the life of us all. It is mere idleness to say that we have not lived on earth before --that the soul has had no previous existence. We will not argue. Convinced myself am very well satisfied; my last-previous embodiment was spent chiefly about New York and Baltimore, and I take great pleasure in re-reading the tales I perpetrated nearly a hundred years ago.

Several years back, as the shades of evening were drawing on, I sat in a large bay window of a prominent hotel in Frisco. The streets were very crowded, and I mused for some time over

the passing turmoil. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion.

1 gave up, at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without. At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations.

Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance. By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the throng. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers

they evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the company around.

When impeded in their progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, and would apologize with many smiles and gesticulations. If jostled, they appeared confused and bowed profusely to the jostlers, --- I took little or no interest in the commonplace characters that were hurrying by, such as clerks, business men, nabobs and harmless mootchers.

The crowd was infested with crooks; crooks that managed to get by witless detectives, by exercising an air of excessive frankness, while poetic dreamers loitered along mysteriously, too, their philosophic mannerisms had a tendency to make them appear suspicious to less thinking people. The wild effects of the greenish street lamps rendered the faces rather wild and fantastic, and I could frequently read, even in a

brief glance, the history of long years. With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob, when suddenly there came into veiw a countenance, a countenance which at once arrested my undivided attention; it was a hardened face while the man himself had much the appearance of a rogue.

I sat and watched him for some time; he planted himself on the curbin and seemed to try to attract the attention of whatever intoxicated person that passed. Out of sheer curiosity, I tightened my coat high up about my ears and staggered directly into the arms of the ruffian.

"So it is you?" said he, in a voice that seemed altogether familiar "Good, you are just the man I am looking for, or at any rate you will do as well as any."

I saw at once that he was in disguise, and that in a rather indirect way I was rather well aquainted with the man, in fact he was none other than Frederick Church, a genius of the stage and magnate in the theatrical world.

"Listen" said he hurriedly "be sure and call