having become State Senator and Member of Congress. He was at this time merely a clerk at the retail establishment of A. T. Stewart & Co., and I have heard that when Mr. Stewart dismissed him for some insubordinate act or word, Tom turned on him and exclaimed, defiantly, "Mr. Stewart, you will come and seek my assistance before I ever return to seek yours!" And this prediction was literally fulfilled; for when Tom entered the Senate he became a leader in that body, and Mr. Stewart, having a bill before the legislature in which he was particularly interested, came and asked Tom to aid him in getting it passed!

A great reader of romances and plays, Tom was not only a good debater, but a tolerably good actor; for I remember seeing him play with fair success the rôle of Othello in an amateur company. Subsequently he studied law; became a member of the New York bar; then an active politician and public speaker; a member of the Assembly; a member of the Senate; a member of Congress; and an influential adviser in Democratic counsels. It was he who led the Young Democracy that rebelled against Tweed, with the view of getting rid of the Boss and securing independent action in Democratic politics. Would that he had stuck to that side of the house! But, unhappily, Tweed, who was too strong for him, conquered; and the Young Democracy, with Tom at their head, fell into line. When Tweed was overthrown, Tom fell with him, the crash of 1873 swept away his fortune, and he was not again heard of for some time. I remember hearing him say, in his prosperous days, "If you want to make a fortune, go and buy some of those duck-ponds around Central

Park: they will turn you in more gold than the lamp of Aladdin!" Unfortunately, the duck-ponds took another turn in 1873, and worked the other way! Tom, however, is still in the prime of life, and may yet be capable of great things.

There, too, was Tom Stapleton, whose single effort at eloquence earned him, if I mistake not, the sobriquet of "Single-speech Stapleton!" Of his subsequent career I know nothing. And there was Johnnie Nagle, whose striking, manly figure and modest demeanor are the most notable things about him that remain in my memory. Johnnie has since earned an enviable reputation as a physician and health-inspector, and is now, I believe, Dr. John Nagle, Health Officer of the City of New York.

Last, but not least, there was yet another

A dearer one

Still, and a nearer one
Yet than all other ;-

whose name I scarcely dare to mention, so painful are the emotions which his unhappy fate still excites in the breasts of his kindred; but whom I cannot leave altogether unnoticed—a bright, manly, handsome youth, who bore an honorable part in the proceedings, and who was esteemed and loved by every member of the Society; whose energetic and upright character seemed to mark him out for a successful and beneficent career, and whose kindly and genial nature, endearing him to all who knew him, will cause his name long to be remembered: I mean my unfortunate brother, David B. Waters, whose tragic fate at the burning of the Academy of Music suddenly ended the happiest period

of my life, and cast a mournful shadow over the lives of all who were near and dear to him.

For men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Oh, happy, innocent, ambitious days! would that I could call you back and live you over again, with a little of the wisdom I have since learned from sad experience! But that cannot be, and no doubt it is well as it is.

CHAPTER XV.

ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE-AN ILLUSTRATION.

E seldom think so highly of those things that

WE
W occur before our eyes as of those of which we

read. Scenes drawn from the imagination seem to captivate us more than those drawn from nature. This is not merely because "distance lends enchantment to the view," but because we like what appeals strongly to the mind, and because the poet or the novelist, who is the true seer of things, has the happy faculty of narrating or describing fictitious events in a way that makes them more interesting and attractive than real ones. Even in real life it is only the poet who sees the "true inwardness" of things, and shows us the meaning, the motive, the object of actions and events which we were unable to see for ourselves. Robert Browning says, most beautifully:

For don't you mark, we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed

Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see:

And so they are better painted,-better to us,

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that—

God used us to help each other so,

Leading our minds out. Have you noticed now

Your scullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,

And, trust me, but you should though. How much more

If I drew higher things with the same truth?

That were to take the Prior's pulpit place

Interpret God to all of you !

A single incident sets the poet's imagination a-going, and he sees, at once, by intuition, the whole history preceding and succeeding the incident, or the whole chain of events to which the incident gives rise. And just as the sculptor, in order to make his work look lifelike, makes a statue which is to be seen from a distance larger than life, so does the dramatist exaggerate to a certain extent the powers and passions of his characters, that they may strike all the more forcibly or seem all the more natural to the spectator.

"If you could only see the hearts of people," says Varnhagen von Ense, "you would find romance in the meanest hut." We are constantly surrounded by wonderful things and wonderful occurrences which we are unable to see; whole three-volume novels are passing every day before our eyes without our being aware of them. When you come into a company of gay people, and hear them talk, laugh, joke, and sing, you think you know all about them; but how little you know of their interior history, of the secret aims, plans, hopes, and fears going on before you! It is sometimes discovered, when the truth is known, that those who were looked upon as the happiest people in the world were really the most wretched.

"There will always be romance in the world," says Bovee, "so long as there are young hearts in it." This is proved by the fact that most of us, after years have cleared our vision, perceive that we were, in our youth, witnesses of or participants in events of a romantic nature, events worthy of being told, and now looked upon as far more interesting than those occurring around us. To the aged, the romance of life is always in the past. They saw great things and great men in