Cities of proud hotels, Houses of rich and great, A stack of smoking chimneys, A roof of frozen slate! It cannot conquer folly, Time, and space, conquering steam, And the light, outspeeding telegraph, Bears nothing on its beam. The politics are base, The letters do not cheer, And 'tis far in the deeps of history, The voice that speaketh clear. Trade and the streets insnare us, Our bodies are weak and worn, We plot and corrupt each other, And we despoil the unborn. Yet there in the parlor sits Some figure of noble guise, Our angel in a stranger's form, Or woman's pleading eyes. Or only a flashing sunbeam In at the window pane, Or music pours on mortals Its beautiful disdain. These "pleading eyes," these "angels in strangers' forms," we meet, or seem to meet, as we pass through the thoroughfares of this great city. We do not know their names or homes. We cannot go to those still and sheltered abodes and tell them the tales that would be sure to awaken the heart to a deep and active interest in this matter. But should these words meet their eyes, we would say, "Have you entertained your leisure hours with the Mysteries of Paris, or the pathetic story of Violet Woodville?" Then you have some idea how innocence, worthy of the brightest planet, may be betrayed by want, or by the most generous tenderness; how the energies of a noble reformation may lie hidden beneath the ashes of a long burning, as in the case of "La Louve." You must have felt that yourselves are not better, only more protected children of God than these. Do you want to link these fictions, which have made you weep, with facts around you where your pity might be of use? Go to the Penitentiary at Blackwell's Island. You may be repelled by seeing those who are in health while at work together, keeping up one another's careless spirit and effrontery by bad association. But see them in the Hospital,--where the worn features of the sick show the sad ruins of past loveliness, past gentleness. See in the eyes of the nurses the woman's spirit still, so kindly, so inspiring. See those little girls huddled in a corner, their neglected dress and hair contrasting with some ribbon of cherished finery held fast in a childish hand. Think what "sweet seventeen" was to you, and what it is to them, and see if you do not wish to aid in any enterprise that gives them a chance of better days. We assume no higher claim for this enterprise. The dreadful social malady which creates the need of it, is one that imperatively demands deep-searching, preventive measures; it is beyond cure. But, here and there, some precious soul may be saved from unwilling sin, unutterable woe. Is not the hope to save here and there _one_ worthy of great and persistent sacrifice? THE RICH MAN. AN IDEAL SKETCH.