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th T’noiselessly leave the room, for it is Retting too
• VI *„ What I have seen and heard has
arm, and says, in a deep, sad voi«. „
“®r!2yw!Ss<*». “ i '» "*■““? “i“"
Aunt Bessie’s Eccentricities.
painful, are most wholesome whe " “fll
ministered. Please do not censure Eve-she wi l
soon have quite as much as she can hear. M.\ss tlel
"you please call Nellie J 1 am hardly in the
•mood to bear curious eyes upon me. Mrs
Browning has it-‘being observed, when observa
tion is not sympathy, is just being tortured.
I call Penelope, who joins us
‘Are vou quite ready, darling i asks Bert. . . -
The quick ear of love catches the disconi in his
voice, atid she looks up questioning^ hisface
• Ifhat is it. Bert! she looks first at my grave
face then at John’s, At last she catches the mean
ing. ‘Bert, Bert, how could you ? I knew how it
would end ! I warned you that a .
Hush dear ” drawing her to him. ‘I leave for
Richmond in the morning, John, and will write you
the latest news. Come to see mother and Nellie
often, sister Helen,’ as he says this he stoops ana
k John'and I watch them out into the street, and
then go back into the warm rooms. Charley and
Barbara have gone into the bay window; mother
®id father have retired; Eve and Mr. Jerome are
,n ‘What ft>5y for Eve to refuse Bert for a man like
Jerome,’ says John. , .
Love goes not bv measurement, brother mine.
Could we always love to please our friends and in
accordance with good sense and self-interest the
affairs of men and women would be as a tale
that is told.’ Has not Penelope developed into a
iovely woman!’ . , ^ . _
•A face that would suit Metalus’ warlike daughter
appears to be her chief charm.’
For shame !’ I cry. ‘Take care she does not make
you repent this.’ _ . . .
‘I repent having said it now. ^ our pet reminds
me of what luckless Benedict said of Beatrice: she
speaks poinards, and every word stabs; if her
breath were as terrible as her terminations, tlieie
were no living near her; she would infect the noith
star.’ ” . . . .. . . . ,
‘Repent indeed, and continuing in that style!
John, you are incorrigible ! _ I giye you up. 1 did*
think, and hope, that you might like
‘Helen,’ John’s face grows stern and his voice
hardens, ‘put such ideas aside. I have too much
confidence in the wisdom of Joubert—‘Choose such
a woman for j our wife that if she were a man j'ou
would have for your friend’—not to obey it. ’
Her brother is j our dearest, most trusted friend,’
1 saj% rather boldly.
•Quite true* Helen: but thej' bear no resemblance
to each other. Ah, Helen, exercising the preroga
tive of j’our sex and age—’
‘The high integrity of my sex can never be called
into question bj' j'ou or anj’ one else. As for my
age. if my day of woe had not come too suddenly
upon liiv daj's of heart-sunshine, I would not now
be twitted with being Helen Ross.’
‘Forgive me, mv Helen ! he cries, entreatingly.
‘1 had forgotten, dear-’
I laj' mj' head upon his shoulder and forgive him
because I love him, just as anj'other foolish woman
does, and so come away to iny room to dream of
another face.
(To le Continued.)
BY GAGE HEMPSTEAD.
Milt ami Buntov.
a big revolver—The world.
Fuss—The idle man’s business.
You can’t clear your conscience with an egg.
Bloomer—A woman who i>ant.i for notoriety.
A duvkjbf a lover mates a goose oi a uusuafya.
French girls execute tlieir grandpas on the stage,
legitimately too.
Either Tom Hood or somebody else d» fined the
human ej - e to be a read-organ.
The young lady who took a gentleman’s fancy has
returned it with many thanks.
Engineers on railroads and ladies at Summer w»-
tering places carry long trains.
The French are about to build a railroad across
tnc Desert of Sahara. Their motive is a locomottve
JVl.en our “devil** caine in late this morning, the
wireman said, “you’re three-handed to-daj’.
Three handed?” repeated the surprised boy. “Yes
-right hand, left hand, and a little behind hand.”
A lady preacher in Chicago said in the pulpit:
•The bread eaten by the people of this country, last
year, cost two hundred million dollars, and the to-
nacco twice as much.” Probably she lias the proof
tobacker.
It is said that a young man at Saratoga, who
seemed to be deep in love last Summer with a young
lady of golden tresses, this season brushes brown
hair off the lapel of his coat. This doesn’t indicate
fickleuess so much as an activity in the hair trade*
An old farmer once said to his boys: “Boys, don t
you ever spekerlate, or wait for somethin’ to turn
up. You might just as well go and sit down on a
stone in the middle of a medder, with a pail twix’
your legs, and wait for a cow to back up to you to
be milked.”
It was a refreshing variation from the general
run of speeches at temperance meetings, when a man
got up in Pittsburg, the other day, and remarked :
’‘Ladies and gentlemen, to bring mj’ nose to this
state of blooming perfection has cost me, at the
least, $10,000.”
The clerk of the criminal court, having read the
indictment of a prisoner for horse-stealing, said to
him: “Guilty, or not guilty ?” ‘‘Wal," he respond
ed, “I’m guilty fast enough, but then I want to be
tried just the same, ’specially as I see several of our
boys on the jury.”
A Mansfield (Mass.) man recently offered a high-
school prize for the best essay. Of the twenty-three
responses received a large proportion proved to
have been stolen, and one, a poem, was stolen en
tirely. The joke of it is that “Honesty” was the
subject on which the essaj’s were to be written.
“Well, you’ll own she has gota pretty foot?” “Yes,
I 11 grant you that, but then it never made half as
much of an impression on me as the old man s.
An Indiana farmer who posted a notice reading*
“No hunting on this farm,” was surprised to find it
to read, on a second inspection, “Xo. 1 hunting on
this farm.”
The Warren Sentinel advertises for a man who lias
“kollars, korsets, kambricks, kutlerj', krockery,
kaliker, klotlis. karpets, with shues and sox, korn
mele and mete.”
The tramp who wendeth his way in silence, his
ways ehall.be strewn with grass; but for him who
steals the coat off a scarecrow there are shot-guns
that howl like a coyote and sting like all thunder.
“ Why,” asked Pat, one day, “why was Balaam a
first-class asthronomer ?” The other man gave it
up of course. “Shure,” said Pat, “’twas because he
had no throuble in flndiu’ an ass to roid.”
Probably no man so fully realizes the hollowness
of life and human ambition, as the man who ladles
a teaspoonful of new made horse radish into hi s
mouth, under the impression that it is ice cream.
“Do the dying roffer pain?” is a question that is
being considerably discussed by scientific men
We don’t know about the dying, but we know that
the living snffer payin’, particularly Hit Is payin’ a
Subscription to a newpajier.
“Bessie in the work of
“Write to me eaoh week daughter, and remem
ber, Aont Bessie mast not make a prude of my
girl.” Mr. Clayton had barely time to kiss the
pretty lips, press the little hand tenderly, then
bound away, for already the train was moving.
“Dear papa,” whispered Bose Clayton as she
looked, witn eyes blinded by tears, from the oar
window for one lest glance at the figure now left
in the distance. Mr. Clayton was only a book
keeper in a large dry-goods St. Louis store.
There he had been fossilized all of his business
life. Out of the store he was a doting father,
loving intensely a daughter, the only tie he held
on earth. By many a tight squeeze he had given
her a first class education, and over this the
book-keeper was exultant. Were there not men,
rich as Croesus whose daughters could never
take the training Bose bad ? After the education
oame the little home, its tiny parlor and little
chamber for Bose, and other necessary apart
ments. All of this was Paradise to the man who
had been paoked like a sardine in a second olass
boarding house, since his wife died and left
baby Bose on his hands. These new extravag
ances, however, had given the never full purse
such an air of emptiness that Mr. Clayton resolv
ed on giving Bose a wintet with Aunt Bessie,
who was near his age, and his father’s sister,
having married one bearing her maiden name.
When Bose would be away he would live on
oneese and crackers, sleep over the store, rent
the little house, and so save enough to launch
oat in quite respectable style in the following
spring.
Bose had beauty, and what winsome, fresh,
enchanting beauty was hers ! Then she had
more, ,a kind womanly heart, which was ever
thinking of others rather than herself. Truly
the book-keeper's daughter was rich after all.
Hundreds of miles, Bose Clayton had to go,
before she would reach the Southern Atlantic
seaboard city where Aunt Bessie lived “Good,
but odd Aunt Bessie,” “most excellent, but most
peculiar Aunt Bessie.” This was all the idea
Bose could gain of the unknown aunt, she was
soon to meet. In the scents that delighted her
for the mxt several days, she quite forgot to
think of her aunt. Now a grand river rolled on
ward its boats and their human freight, then a
towering mountain rose to the sky wasting it
self in soft lines of pale bine. Again majestic
trees lifted their giants heads above the grass-
grown wastes, or black lagoons, then the smil
ing villages, the brisk towns, all like a panorama,
came and went before the eager young eyes that
gazed, and tried to catoh the fleeing scenes to
engraft them on memory forever.
At the dose of one of these memorable days,
the tireless engine paused at the old seaboard
city, and before Bose knew what she was about
she was clasped in the arms of the dearest,
cheeriest little woman, she had ever sens.
“You have Stephen’s eyes and Euie’s mouth
I knew you at a glance,** said the little lady be
tween her kisses.
“And this must be Aunt Bessie ?* asked Bess,
smiling shyly.
“Yes, yes my dear, I am Aunt Bessie. Come
now, and we will soon be at home. “
What a cozy little home! Dnroo, the great
mastiff barked with gladness. Eflle, the Maltese
cot came for a pat on her head, while the canary
trilled a perfect stream of song. Then the pleas
ant, airy rooms, the flowers and vines! Bose
was at once happy.
“How does father say Aunt Bessie is so odd
and eccentrie -the dearest little body I ever
saw?** Rose asked herself after a week^ s [
asked'Rose to go out With her shopping. There Y
w. s a long memorandum, sent in from the coun
try, purchases for a bride, and the work must
be done at once. ,
The busy mart of trade was thronged. Eleg
ant stores glittered with beautiful, costly things
Fashionably attired people poured in andoutof
these attractive places. Rose expected her aunt
to enter at every door, they came to. but Aunt
Bessie went on. only pausing momentarily to
bestow a word of greeting to the maeny who seem-
ed to know her. On they went until the grand
stores were all left behind, and Rose with a feel
ing of disappointment found herself in a dingy,
ancient quarter. Aunt Bessie entered a long
narrow apartment where a pale faced woman was
measuring cambric for a child. A boy of per
haps twelve summers was perched on a very
high chair, before a desk; at his side two
crutches were laid, and Rose behold ene poor
foot twisted all out of shape.
The woman’s eyes shone in gladness as she
looked up and saw Mrs. Clayton. “Good Morn
ing, Mrs. Clayton, you have not been in for a
f °“N<? I was expecting my niece here, and since
she came. I’ve been so taken np in forming her
acquaintance that the time passed so quickly
that until to-day I did not realize how long I had
been at home. “ . . . .. .
The pale shop-woman looked intently and
kindly at the fresh, lovely girl. Such a vision
of beauty was a rare sight in her dim little store.
Aunt Bessie wanted linen, muslin, ribbons
and other articles which she was soon carefully
purchasing. When the bargains were complet
ed and she placed thirty dollars in the hands of
tke shep-woman, a glad cry broke involuntarily
from her lips : “Ah 1 Bennie, my boy, this is
just the sum that will take you to Dr. Felts in
the morning, and we thought we d have to wait
so long. “ Willie returned this announcement
with a bright smile on his pinched, suffering
face, though it meant that Dr. Fetts was to sorew
and torture his poor foot in the hope of etraighen-
1D When 1 they left tha store, Rose felt a new emo
tion nnknown before in all her experience of
shopping. The aunt was an earnest little body,
however? and gave her little time for sentiment
al musings. Down the street they went, pass
ing several stores like the first, then turned in
where an odd looking old lady kept a millinery
establishment ,
"What a place to buy a brides hat in,
thought Rose, but she did not yet know that her
aunt possessed taste and good judgment in a
high degree, and that these unknown forgotten
artists were often superior to those who held
high plaoes with the fashionables. Mrs. Clay
ton gave a few pertinent directions to the old
lady who nodded her head at every word, fig-
genng the bunches of curls that were bunohed at
her temples in a funny way. The next day
Rose saw a bridal hat that made her eyes dance
with delight, and it came from the poor little
shop, from the fingers of the odd looking old
Indy*
There were dainty shoes to buy, and an old
man tottering on his oane, fumbled about his
boxes, until be found the very kind his patient
customer wanted. _ , ,.
There were soft, anowy laces, filmy handker
chiefs wanted, and the little aunt pattered far
ther down the street and peered into a little
pigeon hole of a shop.
“Come in Mrs. Clayton, Ma will be so glad
you've come to-day, she’s sick and in a heap of
trouble, “ piped a thin voice from behind the
Bose looked to see a ohild—a child that had
never known ohildhood—looking with prema
turely old eyee into her dear little aunt s face.
By this time Boee had entirely forgotten the
splendid stores, so strongly, nnoonsoionsly, was
she drawn in by the power of a grand heart.
Taoitly her gentle smilee and pleaaant words
were “helping 1
shopping. All a to the who saw it was a high
work—a means ftearni^ good, which she had
slighted all her h4J antiqo.
“Will yon go iauness Ma?“ asked the ohild.
“Yes dear, as sq lyoutl get some goods which
I hope you hav gfcove me see your best laees
and hsndkerohieor youf he goods suited and
just twenty dollots onioh the child received
then lei the wnient » the little back room’
where the sickje open-lay, and said in a tone so
low that Bose, singnlanard the words ; “Ma I
have twenty ge. and bow you will not want for
mediome, onm o'^tto iy either. “
“You neveese .resjn I was so thankful to
see you my qc V * Clay ton, “ said thesiek
woman. “Oigf > tbi times oame that will
some to ns p<, ; *d bj, everything at an ebb.
rent to pay, fott,' Y Iphysic to buy, and sick
ness all at onot tb Jh do relieve us needy folks
so often, I him fejver see you come and go
but afterwards I Sl oi somebody tell how you
helped with you* oi.de just in the niok of
time.'* , nu
Bose saw thrown tb* e gleam of light, from a
crevice, that tea ore in Aunt Bessie’s blue
safd • i S T° l s hl * cheery as ^er when she
“ If 1 1 he, P- i do the same to me.
r le88on have I learned in
LnH .. d \ Md km oarf y aWay more than I
could ever be ablll gleave with you, when it is
only to give you i ecle money. “
‘Ah! but that ivthft money is so much to us.
e * t,m °K. tL ‘ e u or foar dollars in trade
-r£ 0ab eS that wo,l,d bring ns great
misery Then you remember us in a wav that
nefflpntaJ f0al do’nt think of us as^oor,
Wnis f d p60 F le * •** m08t different flesh and
like -o f u 0 thon»hi Pe ° P K e, A but yo * 00me her® just
like you thought our bodies were human bodies
y^K 8 ve an to d o?J >UlS 64 f ° r G ° d * - d for
A was P“ ain 8 ‘he great showy stores,
How vJ k tS f • 1 ° disposition to enter-
How was it the fashionable, frizzed, frilled
Peered ladies did not have that namely
beauty that shoagin Aunt Bessie’s faoe, envel
oping her as ^wkptless garment ? Trnlv her
father was ngfifttl-r Aunt Bessie was peculiar
Iven ll thT B < lk0d 1 l £r th . tha ninltitude scorned!
even the *narr«y way,’ but already this girl
forewarned as she was, was thinking it *a batter
way.
.,‘f“ ns ‘ a *®P in here,’ said the aunt, ‘to bnv
the lilac silk—the goods here are so reliable/
J n h f y P ass ®d into one of the doe establishments
d a °. l e rk s ‘°°d before them looking like one
who held a jrard stick with which to meassure
P?°P le as w .eji as the cloth they were te buy.
While the silks were being examined a gentle
man of perhaps thirty approached Mrs - Clayton.
His manner spoke of the blendiug of deference
with esteem, and his pleasure in being intro-
duoed to Rose was evidently based on the foci
that she was Aunt Bessie's niece.
‘I am glad some luoky necessity drove you
into my store today Mrs. Clayton. I wonder if
you never drop in because you know so well I‘d
h w^ ha ? aQ y iedj in tke eom-
mon-wealth ? While he talked Bos* noticed
how singularly beautiful was the smile that
played over his grave faoe. *1 used te see your
aunt very frequently Miss Clayton, in fact the
time was when on no account would she have
Pf r 8 f d ““hy- D0W she regards me as the mother
bird does her young when once they oan fly. I
am not sure, however, but that I need her still,
to look in end say a word or two, even though
it be a sharp ona f* 5
in^ly 80 l00ked ipt ° the P ,easaa ‘ fa °e inquir-
•You see Miss Clayton I used to occupy one
of the very smalpst shops down town, where
(ike you yJiy h “ r "
■ • ‘ hf-n a smile that answered to
his own, has bean there with me all
the morningtVrf
‘Ah ! and hyw * did you like it ?* he asked
dashing a kee* glance into her eyes, which at
the same tine revealed and concealed hie
thoughts.
‘ It w ? 8 s . tra ^.® at first to “to, but I was there
only a little while, when I ceased to regret pass
ing such store, as -as this. I felt glad that Aunt
Bassiewentailofmy privilege of being with
^_ .- he u irSt t,me “ my life I see one can
You soe, as a rule the man who rises, does not
turn to help those struggling too, but he ignores
them, and tries to reach those ahead of him.
It is not so with Frank Ormand. But he will
be here to-night with a few other of my friends.
I think you will like them all, even the older
ones.’ * * * * » • •
In all of Bose Clayton’s boarding house life
she had never met such a company of people as
graoed the neat parlor that evening.
There was a man, a Professor Cofield, who
talked seemingly beoause ideas were pressing
his m f nd for utterance. He made little speeches
that flsw around like electric sparks, and seem
ed to strike eaoh one, awakening new and valua
ble thought Sometimes he will give a little
didaotic lecture, Dut in such a spirit of meek
ness that he at once disarmed opposition, and
evoked emulation.
Equal with Profes-or Cofield, though entirely
his opposite, was a lady whose gentle, refined
bearing touched Bose with something more than
respect. All seemed to yield her the utmost
consideration, the most thoughtful attention.
Some mysterious interest followed her at ail
times, an interest that raised her above others,
yet most strangely bound her with unnsual ten
derness to them* Said Bose that night.
What is hrr oharm Aunt Bessie? I saw its
effect upon each of you. I felt even a fondness
for her. What dear lovely eyes, what a pure
sweet eountenance she has.’
‘Her oharm dear, is a great one, and few at
tain it. She rules her own spirit. I think this is
all I can say for her, and it comprises everything.
There is nothing in her life apparently attrac
tive. Possibly at this moment she is with her
husband fresh from the gambling table or
drinking saloon. To-morrow she must ponder
step by step bow to prodace comfort for slender
means. Life is a hardship at every turn with
her except in her own high conception of duty,
her wonderful resources of soul. More than
any woman I reveranoe this sweet, suffering
spirit.’
Bose asked no questions about Mr. Frank
Ormand this night, bat—Aunt Bessie barely
suspected she gave him a thought or two. The
little lady was not annoyed or surprised when
two months later Frank confided a secret to her
keeping. The father in St. Louis came in to see
for himself. He was highly pleased at what ap
peared a fitting and brilliaut match for his beau-
lifal Bose.
The young couple fell into some of Aunt Bes
sie’s ways, and strangely provoked no objection
from pater-familias. Whether he condoned the
foibles of a rich son-in-law, or became a convert
of Aunt Bessie’s we cannot tell.
generating in the womb of heaven. The man
of genius, the man of oreative power, is at once
inspired and induetrious at onoe a man of pas
sion and a man of patience at onoe a construc
tor and analyser, a man of enthusiasm, but also
a man of wisdom. Genius is not intoxication,
and.it is even more than rapture; it is capacity
subject to the law of truth aud beauty, the in
tense action of the soul, exalted, harmonious
luminous.
The flash of noble thought may come sud
denly in the brain, the flaming torrent of feel
ing may rush upon the heart, but the spirit of
order and art must move over this brilliant chaos
before it is shaped into perfection. All mighty
souls know this; the rustic Burns knew it. not
less than the God-like Milton. Both were poets
true to nature, therefore true to art.
M. LOUISE CROSSLEY.
EDGAR POE AGAIN.
Last
South”
T*ta certai
AMONG THE_GLEANERS.
Southe w ’s Letters.
her.
link prosaic showing with a'high duty.
Her listener caight her words eagerly. He
was relieved evidmtly for now his face shone
in a smile so rU.ant that Rose all at onoe
thought him a vey handsome man.
•After a momets silence he said : I am so
glad to hear yompeak in this way Miss Clay-
La. I know hadl questioned a hundred oth
er young ladies, ruety-nine would have declar
ed a mornings nrk there irksome, for there
are few who do ore than skim the surface of
things. To havebeard Mrs- Clayton” “*oe
speak in any otfer way than she has done
would have givunne pain indeed.’
From this time b manner ohanged. Bose dm
yoked the same qet deferential respect he P be
stowed upon her sot.
‘That Mr. Ormtd appears te esteem you so
highly Aunt Bessi He says you never passed
him when he was his little shop.’ Miss Clav
ton understood b little rase to gain farthll
information of h. old time protege and the
theme being a plsant one she gladly beam,
her account of Mrtrmand. B 7 begnn
‘He is a very salfactory ease my dear I feel
thankful whenevd meet a soul like Theodore
Ormand. Take ay his business tact and he
would remain a m, a grand man all the same,
so earnest true fi faithful And to think I
onoe bad the prilege of standing by suoh a
character, why it* an advantage he J» V9 me
that makes me glawhenever I recall it
•Dear aunty eximed Bose, how curionsly
you ta k ! you se.so much obliged to people
for letting you bethem. r y
*Yes? Well my.ild I cannot help a certain
feeling—it does lotike gratitnde—when I drop
a few little seed i they spring np. and ex
pand into suoh stnth and beauty. Try it now
young Miss, and. if you won’t be thanking
people in your he just as auntie does ?’
‘But this is notling you about Frank Or-
mand. He wee an orphan, through the
great epidemic of-and there was no borne
for him but that s. little shop Miss Jinks b!!
whers I bought thonnet. How the little fal
low went to work ugh ! His poor little face
was very sad two hose first days, aud many
a time I «tood byn for one hour trying to
help him over bjrief for his farther and
mother.’
•Did people tradth him ?’ asked Rose
•Very few. Whmetimes the child would
stand a week wag for the onstomers that
would not come, confided his troubles to
me, I found that b were days when he had
only crackers to lie on, and water to wash
them down.*
•Poor little felloiid Bose pityingly.
•My country frit did him a great deal of
good at this time, ey wanted just the kind
of goods he had Ul-.-and I always bought
there if possible, time things brightened
He was honest and p. After awhile be crept
farther np town—Lwed him there too. By
the time he was twifive he was quite beyond
my reach, gone eke a sky rooket and of
course I let him at
‘He seems to re*ou most kindly—’
‘Bo he does deagmk is a noble man. He
is the only yonagji that I know, who left
the little stores to higher, and afterwards
remembered peop it live there. Frank is
there as often as 1 n be and helps many a
deserving youth Us pane and oounoils.
The published correspondence of Southey is
very entertaining and enjoyable. There is a
joyous raciness abont it that tingles pleasantly
upon oar perceptions, though one may frequent
ly And occasion to doubt or deny some of his
statements. His quickness in forming opin
ions and confidence in expressing them, were
characteristic of himself. He felt that he had
no intellectual superior in England, and was
therefore free from eovy, and ready to settle
every question started by others, with a few dog
matic sentences that sparkle ‘like salt in fire.’
It is said that his great intellectual labor came
from the almost miraculous confidence in his
faculties and his content with himself.
His correspondence was considered nrXt in
attractiveness to a closer chat with himself. Of
Bentham, he at one time remarked. ‘It has
pleased the metaphysioo—oritico—politico—pat-
to designate me in one of his opaque artJBes by
the appellation of ‘St, Southey,’ for which I
humbly thank his Jeremy Benthamshipi, and
have in part requited him.’ Southey's halted of
gieffrey and contempt of reviews, provoked many
a sardonic remark replete with his peculiar
hnmor. ‘Tunner,’he writes to Bichman, ‘com
plained heavily of Scotch criticism, which he
seems to feel too mneh; such things only pro
voke me to inte.jeot fool and booby, seasoned
with the participle damnatory, but as for being
vexed at a review I should as soon be fevered
by a flea-bite. I look npon the invention of
a review to be the worst injury whieh literature
has received since its revival.’ Here are twe or
three of Southey's own critiques.’ Speaking of
Walter Savage London's poem of Gsbir, he says:
‘I look upon Gebir as I do upon Dante’s long
poem in the Italian, not as a good poem, but
as containing the finest poetry in tha language.’
Of Wordsworth’s Ode on Pre-existence. Southey
writes: ‘it is a dark theme darkly handled.
Coleridge is the only man who could make suoh
a subject luminous.*
In 1812, Sonthey thus writes of Shelly in his
enthusiastic youth.
‘Here is a man in Keswick, who ao*s upon me
as my own ghost would do. He is just what I
was in 1794. His name is Shelley, sou to tha
member for Shorcbam, with 26 000 a year en
tailed upon him, and as much more in his fath
er’s power to cut off. Beginning with roman
ces of gnosis and murder, and with poetry at
Eton, he parsed at Oxford into metaphysics,
printed half a dozen pages which he entitled,'
‘The Necessity of Atheism,’ sent one anony
mously to Cupplestone, in expectation, I sup
pose of oonverting him; was expelled in conse
quence; married a girl of seventeen, after being
tamed out of doors by his father, and here they
both are in lodgings, living upon two hundred
pounds a year, which her father allows them.
He is come to the fittest physician in the world.
At present, he has got to the pantheistic stage
of philosoply and in the oonrse of a week I ex
pect he will be a Berkleyan, as I have put him
upon a coarse of Barkley. It has surprised him
a good deal to meet, for the first time in his life,
a man who perfectly understands him, and does
him full justice. I tell him that all the differ
ence between us, is that he is nineteen and I
am thirty-seven. I dare say that it will not be
very long before I shall suoceed in convincing
him that he may be a true philosopher, aud do
a great deal of good with 26,000 a year; the
thought of whioh troubled him a great deal
more at present than ever tie want of six pence
(for I have felt suoh a want) did me. God
help us ! the world wants mending though this
boy poot did not set about it iu exactly the
right way.
Cbystalizing Thought.
In either oreative or imitative power we
must not be mechanically artificial but patient
ly artistioal. We must have none of that indo
lent vanity that shrinks from careful prepara
tion, which trusts all to sudden excitement, and
undigested emotions. Every man of geniss
looks to the ideal, but he knows it is not to be
oomprehended in a passing glance, reached in
a rapid bound, or embodied in a single effort,
and he knows that in the endeavor to unfold it,
no exeontion can be too thongbtfal, and no la
bor too great. It is not the conseionsness of
power, but the conceit of vanity whioh relies
presumptuously upon momentary impulse, and
whioh mistakes the contortions of a delirious
imbecility for the movements of the divine
afflatus.
-n be nation of God, required but the
will and word of Omnipotence tor instant and
j “e* e** 84 ® 1 *®®. has been gradually construo-
t8 q* The earth, so fair to look npon, so robed
with beanty, so radiant with light and life, has
been evolved from chaos through innumerable
formations and unnumbered agee; and even the
thunder so astounding in its erash, and the
lightning so suddt n in its stroke, have long been
year there appeared in the “Sunny
an able review of Mr. W. F. Gill’s Biog
raphy of Edgar Poe. This review, written by
Paul H. Hayne, threw a welcome ray of light
upon the life, or rather npon the “somewhat
complex characteristics” of the traduced poet.
Not long since an old volume of Graham's Hag-
ezines.fell * nt0 my hands, and it contained the
following letter, written by the editor to Dr.
Griswold, the notorious defamer of the gifted
and lamented Poe. It confirms some of Mr.
Haynes statements in his review, and its quiet,
ingenious sarcasm is refreshing. I give it en-
‘* re - Mrs. M. Louise Crossley.
To Rsv. Rufus Wilmot Griswold,
My dear Parson:—I knew yon would be
gratified with my friendly notice of you in the
March nnmber of the ‘Graham,’ and your pleas
ant start of surprise, to express your ignorance
of the writer was well conceived—you wicked
wag- People who do not know your ways
might almost think you were honest for once in
your life; but we have seen yon in your happy
moods and understand what an exquisite point
to your wit a falsehood imparts, and what a
choice bit of olerical drollery you consider it,
to offer to swear to an untruth.
You have adjusted now your long score with
poor Poe, to ysur own satisfaction, I hope; for
ignorant people will say, that this settlement of
accounts after the death of your friend may be
honest—and—may not be- Yon see it lays you
open to suspicion, and maj* soil the surplice
you wear. Your clerical mantle, like charity,
may cover a multitude of sins, bnt you should
not wear it too unguardedly. Charity for the
errors of the dead, you know, is allowable in
funeral sermons, even over the cold remains of
those the world scorned and spurned as its
veriest reprobates. Even you will not class
your friend—who you say was reconciled to you
before he died—with outcasts who forfeit even
the last offices of humanity. You would give
even him a Chris-iau burial. Dust to dust—
ashes to ashes,' methinks. should bury all an
imosities. Y in should not pnrsne your victim
beyond the grave, and in the same hour pray
‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those
who tresp ss against us.’ This would be horri
ble.
Now, it will not do, my deir parson, to at
tempt to carry off th's departure with an affec
tation of great equity in the performance of du
ty. ‘Give the devil his due’ may be a very or
thodox maxim, but you seem in adopting it, to
have starte 1 with the hypothesis that you had
a devil to deal with; yet in the exercise of jus
tice thus liberally it would seem but fair to even
this personage face to face that he might dis
pute the accouat if he felt aggrieved at your es
timate. This last point I think you have a fair
-n-„r Nor will it do- to affect
courage and devotion to truth. It is very well
to say, that vice must be held up so t u t its de-
formity may be seen, to startle and deter others,
leu should be sure that the vice of your broth
er is not his misfortune, and that the sin whioh
taints your owa fingers, may not turn crimson
m contrast before the ayes of the gaz irs. Cour
age, my dear parson, is a relative term. Yju
may think it great courage and a duty you owe
to truth, to assail your friend for wishing to
evade a matrimonial engagement, vet it would
be the veriest weakness and wickedness, i: you
had set the worse example of evading your mar
ital duties after the solemnization. He who
sacrihoes at the altar should have clean hands.
The jewels which sometimes ornament the
remains of beauty or worth have tempted be
fore now, men of hardy nerves, but I do not re
member that these have ever taken rank iu the
anaaU oi knight-errautry. .lad, my dear par
son, I am talking somewhat freely with, bnt yt u
must pardon ms. the feat that you have per
formed with so much auction, despoiling the
feme of a man, who intrusted it to you as a iew-
el of inestimable value to him, has not received
the applause of a siugle man of honor. Your
claquers themselves feel that your performance
is damned. I have no Uonbt that soma faiut
glimpses of the truth have reached ev a!1 your
mind. I would have you pray over tins "sub
ject, my dear sir, for your feet stand upon slip
pery places. la all sincerity. [ would nave
you revise your creed and reform yoar practice,
for you do not have even tha poor applause of
the world, for wrong-doing.
Philfcdalphia, S.pt, 20 18^’° ” a, ““'
A Call For Marriagable Women.
Don t all speak at onoe and especiallv let Ma°-
sachnsetts women keep silence The New York
World of August 3, contains the following :
.. ir : . read and realized for the first
time the importauce of your valuable paper in
the Mercantile Library in San Francisco I
have lived in Arozoaa for twelve years, aud hid
no opportunity ot seeing your paper, but j add
ing from the valuable matter it oontains I have
oonoluded that it is the safeest avenue through
which the requests of hundreds of wealthy men
in Arizona could reach the ears of the public
I have been importuned by these parties to find
rrheT“hV citorT ingtheir d68ire (-hen !
wUh the EasLin y «r f f °P eni “g communiostion
witn the Eastern States so that the preo j^der
“rigbt^be^^^TaUzed^by 'some^ 'the^ w ^ tates
S ctin $h
Thers ara some
very wealthy New York
“;«Vp7p- ££f
lo »i-/fi! ap r 8hoa,d deem it to their interests
Yours trnlv,
Centennial Hotel, Oakland, Cal.,
woman.
How contagious is the laugh of * .
lit,