was still very lame, but he read with unusual vigor, and with deep
feeling. As he ended, and slowly limped away, the applause was
prodigious, and the whole audience rose and stood waiting. Reaching
the steps of the platform he paused, and turned towards the hall;
then, after a moment, he came slowly and painfully back again, and
with a pale face and evidently profoundly moved, he gazed at the vast
audience. The hall was hushed, and in a voice firm, but full of
pathos, he spoke a few words of farewell. "I shall never recall you,"
he said, "as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of personal
friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and
consideration. God bless you, and God bless the land in which I leave
you!" The great audience waited respectfully, wistfully watching him
as he slowly withdrew. The faithful Dolby, his friend and manager,
helped him down the steps. For a moment he turned and looked at the
crowded hall. It was full of hearts responding to his own. There was a
common consciousness that it was a last parting, and his fervid
benediction was silently reciprocated.--Then the door closed behind
him.




PHILLIS.


There is one lady in literature and in life whom all men are said, not
without gentle sarcasm if a woman says it, to wish especially to know.
She is declared to be the vision that haunts the youth as his heart
opens to the soft influences of love, and her figure, trim and
debonair, that allures the older fancy of the man who sits "alone and