QUIET, and introspective calm come with the afternoon. Toward evening the mind grows satisfied and still. The flare and flicker of youth are gone, and the soul is like the flame of a lamp where the air is at rest. Age discards the superfluous, the immaterial, the straw and chaff, and hoards the golden grain. The highway is known, and the paths no longer mislead. Clouds are not mistaken for mountains. ***** THE OLD MAN has been long at the fair. He is acquainted with the jugglers at the booths. His curiosity has been satisfied. He no longer cares for the exceptional, the monstrous, the marvelous and deformed. He looks through and beyond the gilding, the glitter and gloss, not only of things, but of conduct, of manners, theories, religions and philosophies. He sees clearer. The light no longer shines in his eyes. ***** The time will come when even selfishness will be charitable for its own sake, because at that time the man will have grown and developed to that degree that selfishness demands generosity and kindness and justice. The self becomes so noble that selfishness is a virtue. The lowest form of selfishness is when one is willing to be happy, or wishes to be happy, at the expense or the misery of another. The highest form of selfishness is when a man becomes so noble that he finds his happiness in making others so. This is the nobility of selfishness. ***** CUBA fell upon her knees--stretched her thin hands toward the great Republic. We saw her tear-filled eyes--her withered breasts--her dead babes--her dying--her buried and unburied dead. We heard her voice, and pity, roused to action by her grief, became as stern as justice, and the great Republic cried to Spain: "Sheathe the dagger of assassination; take your bloody hand from the throat of the helpless; and take your flag from the heaven of the Western World." ***** Perhaps I have reached the years of discretion. But it may be that discretion is the enemy of happiness. If the buds had discretion there might be no fruit. So it may be that the follies committed in the spring give autumn the harvest.--August 11,1892. ***** Dickens wrote for homes--Thackeray for clubs. Byron did not care for the fireside--for the prattle of babes--for the smiles and tears of humble life. He was touched by grandeur rather than goodness,--loved storm and crag and the wild sea. But Burns lived in the valley, touched by the joys and griefs of lowly lives. Imagine amethysts, rubies, diamonds, emeralds and opals mingled as liquids--then imagine these marvelous glories of light and color changed to a tone, and you have the wondrous, the incomparable voice of Scalchi. *****