ill." It is said that his old negro mammy, to whom he was
always "my chile," ran out to the gate with the playthings she had
fondly cherished since the days when they were to him irresistible
attractions, crying, "Come back! Come back!" To both calls his heart
responded with such longing love that when the soul was released, the
old home knew the step and the voice again. Ever afterward when
eventide fell, one standing at that window would hear a ghostly voice
from the street below and steps upon the stairs and in the hall;
footsteps of one coming--never going.

Paul Hamilton Hayne's uncle, Colonel Arthur P. Hayne, fought under
Jackson at New Orleans, and was afterward United States Senator. Paul
was nephew of Robert Y. Hayne, whose career as a statesman and an
orator won for him a fame that has not faded with the years. With this
uncle, Paul found a home in his orphaned childhood.

Of his sailor father, Lieutenant Hayne, his shadowy memory takes form
in a poem, one stanza of which gives us a view of the brave seaman's
life and death:

He perished not in conflict nor in flame,
No laurel garland rests upon his tomb;
Yet in stern duty's path he met his doom;
A life heroic, though unwed to fame.

Though he pathetically mourns:

Never in childhood have I blithely sprung
To catch my father's voice, or climb his knee,

still

Love limned his wavering likeness on my soul,
Till through slow growths it waxed a perfect whole
Of clear conceptions, brightening heart and mind.

That clear conception remained a lifelong treasure in the poet's
heart.

Through a great ancestral corridor had Paul Hamilton Hayne descended,
with soul enjewelled with all the gems of character and thought that
had sparkled in the long gallery through which he had travelled into
the earth-light.

In the school of Mr. Coates, in Charleston, he was fitted to enter
Charleston College, a plain, narrow-fronted structure with six
severely classic columns supporting the facade. It stood on the
foundation of the "old brick barracks" held by the Colonial troops
through a six-weeks siege by twelve thousand British regulars under
Sir Henry Clinton.

Hayne satisfied the hunger and thirst of his excursive and ardent mind
by browsing in the Charleston Library on Broad and Church streets. It
may be that sometimes, on his way to that friendly resort, he passed
the old house on Church Street which once sheltered