ee a man standing
guard by night. It thrilled through me, as at the gate of an arsenal
in Charleston, the question once smote me, "Who comes there?" followed
by the sharp command: "Advance and give the countersign." Every moral
teacher stands on picket, or patrols the wall as watchman. His work
is to sound the alarm; and whether it be in the first watch, in
the second watch, in the third watch, or in the fourth watch, to be
vigilant until the daybreak flings its "morning glories" of blooming
cloud across the arching trellis of the sky.

The ancients divided their night into four parts--the first watch,
from six to nine; the second, from nine to twelve; the third, from
twelve to three; and the fourth, from three to six.

I speak now of the city in the third watch, or from twelve to three
o'clock.

I never weary of looking upon the life and brilliancy of the city in
the _first_ watch. That is the hour when the stores are closing. The
laboring men, having quitted the scaffolding and the shop, are on
their way home. It rejoices me to give them my seat in the city car.
They have stood and hammered away all day. Their feet are weary. They
are exhausted with the tug of work. They are mostly cheerful. With
appetites sharpened on the swift turner's wheel and the carpenter's
whetstone, they seek the evening meal. The clerks, too, have broken
away from the counter, and with brain weary of the long line of
figures, and the whims of those who go a-shopping, seek the face of
mother, or wife and child. The merchants are unharnessing themselves
from their anxieties, on their way up the street. The boys that lock
up are heaving away at the shutters, shoving the heavy bolts, and
taking a last look at the fire to see that all is safe. The streets
are thronged with young men, setting out from the great centres of
bargain-making.

Let idlers clear the street, and give right of way to the besweated
artisans and merchants! They have _earned_ their bread, and are now on
their way home to get it.

The lights in full jet hang over ten thousand evening repasts--the
parents at either end of the table, the children between. Thank God!
"who setteth the solitary in families!"

A few hours later, and all the places of amusement, good and bad, are
in full tide. Lovers of art, catalogue in hand, stroll through the
galleries and discuss the pictures. The ball-room is resplendent with
the rich apparel of those who, on either side of the white, gli