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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,