It is likely that I will not again see Bostonians assembled together. I therefore want to take this occasion to thank you, and my excellent friends of last night and those friends who accompanied us this morning for all that you have done for us since we have been in your city, and to say that whenever any of you come South just speak your name, and remember that Boston or Massachusetts is the watchword, and we will meet you at the gates. The monarch may forget the crown That on his head so late hath been; The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his own but yester e’en; The mother may forget the babe That smiled so sweetly on her knee; But forget thee will I ne’er, Glencairn, And all that thou hast done for me. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: HENRY W. GRADY’S ATLANTA HOME. ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ WRITINGS. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “SMALL JANE.” THE STORY OF A LITTLE HEROINE. ------- SINCE my experience with the case of “Sallie,” I feel a hesitation in presenting a new heroine to the attention of the public. You see, I do not mind the real sorrow that I experienced when my sincere efforts to improve the condition of this child came to naught. But I was staggered and sickened by the fact that most of my friends were rejoiced at her downfall. I do not remember anything that gave more genuine joy to the town than the relapse of this wretched girl into the slums from which she had been lifted. It was the occasion of general hilarity—this falling back of an immortal soul into Death—this terrible spectacle of a child staggering blindly from sunlight into shame. I was poked in the ribs facetiously. A perfect shower of chuckles fell on my ear. It was the joke of the season—this triumph of the Devil over the body of a girl. One mad young wag, who, with a keen nose for a joke, followed her into her haunts of crime, came back, his honest face convulsed with laughter, and bearing on his lips a statement from her, to the literal effect that “I was a d—d fool.” I was staggered, I say, at the enjoyment created by the downfall of this girl. For myself, I can hardly imagine a more pitiful sight than her childish figure, as with face averted and hands raised, blinded by the white light of virtue and bewildered by her new condition, she slipped back in despair to her old shame. I may be a “d—d fool,” but I cannot find the heart to laugh at that. I don’t know how it is, but I have a mania for looking into cases of this sort. It is not philanthropy with me; it is a disease.