“I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologizing for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. ‘I guess you’re a miner,’ said he. I again assured him that I was not. ‘Then how do you earn your bread?’ I told him that I did so by writing books. ‘I’m sure you’re a miner,’ said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name.” This autobiography is a delightful book. The candor with which the writer speaks of his own books, pointing out their defects and calling attention to their merits, the freedom with which he speaks of his early struggles, his method of work, and his success, the spirit of fairness with which he criticises his contemporaries—all these reveal a mind healthy in tone, and call forth our hearty admiration. SABBATH CHIMES. By PHEBE A. HOLDER. O’er the city’s restless surges, Heaving like the ocean tide, Steals the night with hush of silence, And the waves of toil subside. Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain, While the mighty throbbings cease, Starry eyes watch o’er the city Sleeping in the depths of peace. Comes the morning fair and radiant, Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm, Heaven’s blue dome a benediction, With its pure, unspotted calm, Like Jerusalem, the golden, Coming down to earth from heaven, Clad in robes of bridal beauty Seems this morn the Lord has given. As I tread the streets, still peaceful, Turning to the house of God, Drinking in this wondrous beauty, And this glory of the Lord, Through the crystal air of morning Ring the bells with mellow chime, In a strain of sweetest music, Hallowed as the Sabbath time. Like the songs I heard in childhood, Or a sainted mother’s psalm, Fell those chimes upon my spirit With a holy, restful calm. Like the tones of angel voices, Sounding from seraphic choir, Seemed this call our God to worship In this holy house of prayer. Still entranced I paused to listen To the chiming, silvery, clear— When the thrilling strain had ended Yet I waited—fixed to hear; While upon my listening spirit Came a sense unfelt before, Of our Lord’s most precious blessing In the Sabbath’s holy power.