Growing old!  The pulses’ measure
    Keeps its even tenor still;
  Eye and hand nor fail nor falter,
    And the brain obeys the will;
  Only by the whitening tresses,
    And the deepening wrinkles told,
  Youth has passed away like vapor;
    Prime is gone, and I grow old.

  Laughter hushes at my presence,
    Gay young voices whisper lower,
  If I dare to linger by it,
    All the streams or life run slower. 
  Though I love the mirth of children,
    Though I prize youth’s virgin gold,
  What have I to do with either! 
    Time is telling—­I grow old.

  Not so dread the gloomy river
    That I shrank from so of yore;
  All my first of love and friendship
    Gather on the further shore. 
  Were it not the best to join them
    Ere I feel the blood run cold? 
  Ere I hear it said too harshly,
  “Stand back from us—­you are old!”

      _—­All the Year Round_.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

Many a valuable work has been produced in manuscript by students and other persons of experience in special fields of practice which have never yet been put into type, and perhaps never will, solely because of the poverty of their writers or of the disinclination of publishers in general to take hold of books which do not at the start promise a remuneration.  The late Professor Sophocles of Harvard College, left in MS. a Lexicon of Modern Greek and English, which if published would certainly prove a valuable contribution to literature as well as be greatly appreciated by scholars.  We are aware of several instances of this sort.

While, in such instances, the authors are to be commiserated, it would be folly to blame the publishers, who, were they to accept for publication every unremunerative manuscript offered to them, would soon cease to be publishers and instead be forced into the alms-houses.  It has been suggested that wealthy men can do themselves honor and assist creditably in building up literature by providing the means wherewith deserving, but poor, authors may print their books.  Were the suggestion to be carefully weighed, and then, to be adopted, American literature would be made the richer.  A great many rich men of the day seem to take great satisfaction in patronizing artists, athletes, actors, and colleges.  Why is it not possible to derive as much pleasure in patronizing authors?

While writing on this theme, we are remained that one of the most unsaleable books of the present day is a Town History:  and, yet, however crude or dry it may seem to be, it is in reality an exceedingly valuable contribution to our national annals.  Such books are as a rule declined by regular publishing houses, and, if published at all, the author is usually out of pocket by reason of his investment.  There ought to be public spirit enough in every community to make the opposite of this the rule.