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7N -T ADVERTISINC RATES. THE HERA vrtiemensnseredatthte.ofS T ISPNUIIED ,5c- for each subsequent insertion . Double IS PUBLISRED EVERY WEDNESDAY MOINING, Noiersqo mings,obiaarieand At Newberry 0. H., advertisements. BY ,HOS , . GpBr Nne. _____________ _______________ A dvertisements not marked wit h the num Editor and Proprietor. kept in_til_forbid 'e.er ' J-*"n A Family Companion, Devoted to Literature, 3iscellany News, Agriculture 3arkets, &s iera so e r Invariably in Advance. Thepris stopped at the expiration of --- - tieffr itis paid. y-The s. denotes expiration Of SO- Vol X. W ED-NESDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 11, 1874. 0 45. 'cription. THE COTTAGE. BY XARY JANE WINES. How sweet the~charm that lingers round the cot, How richly blest, though humbi je their lot, Are they:who dwell in peace and love, where . sweetcontent Its steadfast and effulgent star has lent. Who till the soil and love the verdant sod, The works of Nature and kind Nature's God. When rosy beams of summer morning break, FroI balmy sleep the little household wake, AndOui iuto the pure and radiant air Each gladly seeks the daily tasks to share; Wh'er ftee and truly each untutored heart May act its pleasure, unrestrained by art, W'ere etiquette by love and truth is bound, The purest,- holiest joys of earth are found. The little children hie them to their bowers, Like rival gard'ners cultivate their flowers, Watching the birds, the butterflies, and bee?, The fruited vines, and richly laden trees; Pleasure-and duty blending all day long, With song of bird is joined the heart's sweet 1song. No fancied ills distress the little band, Each proudly seeks in firmest health to stWmd;, And wlien the board with wholesome food is spread, None sigh with pampering dainties to be fed The trouiles which oppress the rich and grand Are never knownsmid that little band. Fashion, whose laws but biud in folly's chains, Within tlia home dominion never gains, The housewife's independence true, and honest pride, Between the slaves of fashion shows a mar gin wide, And it would never cause a sigh or tear, Though she should wear a bonnet of last fear. Wild speculation never haunts the good man's brain, Nor eager frenzy wring his soul with pain, Till worn and pallid with the furious strife, The care and trouble makes a woe of life; But coatless blessings in his lot he finds, Aid-ever at his humble state repines; Still keeps the even tenor of his way, And gains life's purest happiness each day. LETTING GO OF HANDS. BY MLGARET J. PRESTON. O the chill, clinging crush of the fingers, Each-pressUre more faint than the last; The slow-loos'ning hold that still lingers, Though the wrench of spirit be passed! What heart in its hopelessness breaking To feel them can stifle the cry The human within us is making, "God help or we die!" We wring with apassion of sorrow, We cover with kisses of pain The palm that some fairer to-morrow We'll fold in old fondaess again. We drop the pale fingers, whose coiding Impassiveness startles our own, Forever-we know-from our hoiding; Yet weep not nor groan. How can we? The spirit is deadened To numbness because of the t low, We know that the sunshine has leadened To blackness; 'tis all that we know. So shrouded we marvel that, letting Bands go thus, we keep, as we may As we must, life within us, forgetting That grief does not slay. Ah! did it, how oft in our lonely Despaits would we hail it instead, Of friends the most friendly, if only Is let us lie down with the dead. Bat with deeper refinement of anguish, Throngh rackings and tortures and tears, It nerves us to bear as we languish Alofig the gray years. And kind ones, in soothingest fashion (Not always ev'n love understands,) Speak low in their tender compassion Of the beautiful folding of hands Vouchsafed our Beloveds-of graspings For which the long-parted so pine; What comfort to me thc keen claspings When the clasp is not mine! o hands that lie crossing so saintly The bosom on which I have leant; C,uld I press thema, though ever so faintly Just once, I would wait with content For the time that so loiters, so lingers, I .When with rapture undreamed of before I catched to my lips the dear fingers, And lose them DO more! WHAT WOMAN MAKES HIM. Bow cheering is the simple phrase! How well its kindly admonition To Woman's listening ear con veys The knowledge of her glorious mission! She may not mingle with the throng, When man to busy life betakes him, Yet may she prove his shield from wrong "A Man is what a Woman makes him." In ChildhOOd's days of grief and joy She rules his ductile mind-no other Can soothe andguide the wayward boy With th'e calm wisdom of a mother. The memory of her tender cares Never in after life forstaes him; He yields not to the world's vain snares The'Son is what his Mother makes him. Anon, a dear and cherished wife Takes in his home her honored station; She proves, amid the ills of life, Hie help, support and consolation. Be yields perchance to dire distress Her loving smile to Hope awakes him! He braves the storm-lhe meets success A Man is what a Woman makes him. Yet to my warning lay attend I urge you, Sisters, W ives and Slothers, Your own weak follies to amend, Ere you can prove a stay to others! Should you be selfish. worldly, vain, Say, how can Man when grief o'ertakes him Aid tbom a heartless trifier gain? A Man is what a Woman makes him. Seek ye to serve the Lord and pray That lie may give to you direction How best to win to duts 's way The object of your fond affection, What if awhile he quit the track Tour influence never qnite forsakes him; Your love, your prayers will bring him back A Man is what a Woman makes him. A Missouri judge has just deci ded that a woman is not a'n old maid unt,il she is thirty-five. .The judge has since become very pop A VILLAGE BAR-ROOM. In 18- I was traveling from Ithaca to Buffalo, in Newx York State, by a stage, intending to reach my home in time to partake of the annual Thanksgiving din ner with old and loving friends at the o!d homestead. It was a bit ter cold morning when we set out, and the roads were frozen hard, there having been consider able mud only a day or two be fore. The first night we put in at Danville, and on the following morning when I awoke, I found that the earth was not only cover ed with snow, but that snow was falling fast. After an early break fast we set out again on wheels, but at the end of eight miles we were forced to take runners, the snow clogging up so that the wheels would not run. When night came we found ourselves ob liged to stop at a small village only twenty miles from where we set out in the morning. A good supper was provided at the inn, and the place had the ap pearance of comfort. We had just( sat down to supper when the wind began to blow furiously, and we could see by the dim light without that the snow was being whirled and driven about in a furious man-' ner. There was a tire in the small sittingroom, and thither we pas sengers, six or eight of us adjourn ed. We sat there and conversed until near nine o'clock, and then I went out into the bar room to smoke a cigar previous to retiring. In the bar-room I found a briight. wood fire burning, and some dozen people were sitting there, smoking and drinking. (This was ong before the introduction of the Maine laws.) Severml of the company I judged to be teamsters; a rough, hardy, good-natured set, who were enjoying themselves hugely over a mug of flip. Then there were several whom I found to be villagers-men who lived near the inn-a set of village poll ticians and news-mongers, who made the bar-room a place of so cial evening meeting. I had lighted my cigar and ta ken a seat near the fire, when I noticed a buflalo skin on one end of the settee, o1posite to where I sat, and I was confident therc was a human being beneath it. I sup posed it must be a stable hand who ad been at work, or was expected to be up most of the night, and was now getting a little sleep. I was looking at the buffalo and thus meditating, when 1 heard a low. deep, death-like groan come up from beneath it., and in a few mo ments more the robe was thrown upon the floor, and the man who had rep)osed beneath came down upon the top of it, and there ho lay for- some moments like a dead man. I had just started up when four of the villagers hastened to his assistance. They lifted him to his feet, and after considerable ef fort be managed to stand up. My God! what a thrill struck to my heart when I saw that face. It Wvas one of noble feature; a brow high and amply developed, over which clustered a mass of dark glossy ringlets ; the face beautifully proportioned, and each separate featture most exquisitely chiseled. But w hat an expression rested there now ! The gr-eat dark eyes had a va cant, idiotic stare ; the farce was pale as death, and the lips looked dry and p)archied, and much dis colored. His clothes were torn and soiled, and one of his hands bloody, lie was sur-ely not more than five and thirty, and his ap pearance would at once indicate a man of mior-e than common abili ties. But the demon had him, and had made him uow something be low the brute. "How do you feel now, George?" asked one of the men who had gone to his assistance.. But he only groaned in reply. pand w as soon ~per-suaded to lie down again, being told that he would soon feel better. As soon as lhe was on the settee once more, ad had the ouffalo over him, the men r-etur-ned to their seats. "Who is the chap ?" asked one Iof the teamsters, looking toward the villagers whom had been assist ing the unfortunate man. "That's George Lockland," re turned a stout honest-looking man. -'Does he belong herer "Yes. Didn't you never bear of him ?" The teamster replied that he Shad not. "Well," resumed the fat man, "it is too bad, I declare it 'tis. miei in the town it' he'd a mind to ; but you see he will drinlk ; and the worst of it is, he makes a fool of himself. l1e started here as a lawyer, and a smart one he is 0. Why he canl argue old Upton right out of his boots. But ye see he's lost all his best customers now. They daren't trust him with their business, 'cause he ain't ever sure of doinu, it. Ile's got one of the beautifulest little wives you ever saw, and one of the handsoniet children. But poor things! I pity 'em. Then there's another thing; rum operates differeitly on him from what it does on most men. It doesn't show itself on the out side as it does on almost every body else, but it seems to eat him rp inside. You see how pale he looks-well, he's always so when he's on one of these times. He don't eat nothin', and I don't sup. pose he'll put a bit of food into his stomach for a week to come." "How long has lie been so ?" isked the teamster. "How d'ye mean ?" "Why bow long botih ways? [ow long since he took to drink, n11' how long he's been drunk low T "Well he's took a drunk more r less ever since he came from olege; but it's about a year that, ie's been.down hard at.it. Ye see oks began to see how slack he vas in his business, and they vouldn't give him any job of con ecquence to do. I 'spose that sort ' set him agoing in this fashion. knd as for this drunk, I should say 'd been on it a fortnight. He's ot down now as low as he can ot and live, and . guess he'll get 9ber in a day or two." "But where does he get his li itor?" asked his questioner. '-You must ask Mike Fingal tha, ntestion," was the other's ans ver. All eyes were turned upon the andlord, who now stood behind the .ur He was evidently troubled It this tLr-n, and moved uneasily ipon hi.q high stool. "Mike Fingal." Fpoke the team ter, "do you sell that man ram ?" "Yes, I do," t 6,Co;A rePIIC vith an effort, "Don't I sell the ame when you call for it?" "But I arn't a poor drunkard, nd you know it. That arn't no xenle. Mike. I shouldn't think rod do i t." '-But when he wants rum he's ound1 to have it, and if'I didn't et him have it somebody else vond,'' the host r-eplied. 'Now, that's odd." energetical , pursued the teamustei'. "On .ie same gr'ound you might take pistol and go out anrd rob folks, because if' you didn't somebody lse wouild.- But that isn't hce >' there. The thing is, I. doii't see what kinid of a heart you can bare to do it." The conversation was here in terrupted by .a sound fr-om the street. The wind was still howl ing madly, and the snow was rivinog against the window, but above the voice of the storm came the wailing ofsome one in distress. It was suirely the cry of a child for help. We were all upon our feet in a moment and thre lantern was quickly lighted. My hat was already on my head-or my cap rather-and I went out with the rest. All went but the lanidloi'd and his wretched customer who occupied the settee. It was some moments before I could see at all, the snow came driving into iny face so; but I soon managed to turn my head, and then necnt on. The wind, as it camne sweep)ing out through the stable, had piled up a huge bank of'srnow acr'oss the street, and in this bank we found a female with a child in her ar-ms. She seemed fai:t and frozen, but yet she elung to her child. The man who carried the lantern held it up to her' face. The features were half' covered with snow, but the momentary glare~ ot the lantern was sufficie-nt to reveal to me a face of inore ihan ordinary beaty. "Heavens !" utteired tihe man, as he lowered the lantern, and caught tbe woman in his airms. Kate Lockland is this you ?' Bnt without waiting for a reply, he turned to the rest of us and cried, "HereL. take the c-hild. sonie of' y'ou, aid I'll car-ry the mother."' The child was quickly taken, aid cre many miniutes we were back in thre bar--room with out burden. The two were taken to the fir-e and thle snow brushed f'iom "Who's them ?" asked the host. "Onlr Kate Lockland and her child," answered the fat man. "What d'ye bring 'em in here ~for?" the host uttered, angi'ily "Why didn.'t ye take 'em to youi own house, Jim Dirake ?" "Cause my house is too far." rr. host ... cming arnnnc the bar and his eve was flashing with mingled shame and atger, but beflrd he got fairly out, the s>ut and burly teamster who hd sail so much, started up. --Mike Fingal," he uttered, in tones such as only a,man contident of his own physical power can c.mmnand. "Don'tLye put a finger on that woman. Don't ye do it. If ye do. i'll crush ye as I would a pizeln spider! Fing_al looked at the speaker in i the eye for a mnonient, and then nuttel-irig something about a mn i havingarighttodo whathepleased in his own house, he slunk away I Iehind his bar again. I now turned my attention to t the woman and her child. The i former was surely not yet thirty I years of age, and she was truly a beautiful woman-only she was t pale and wan, and her eyes were swollen. She trembled fearfully, t and I could see her bosom heave ( as she tried to choke the sobs that 3 were bursting forth. The child t wasa girl about fouryears old. She clnng close to her mother, and t seemed frightened into a forget falness of her cold fingers and j feet. "Kate Lockland, what in Heav- 1 en's name are you doin' out this % night?" asked Jim Drake. V "Oh I was trying to find your I own house, Jim Drake, for I knew I you'd give me shelter. But I got lost in the snow. I wouldn't have j er!ed out in front of this place, but my poor child did. Jim-Drake have vou seen George ? Oh, God, k have mercy on him Poor dear c George! lie don't know we are freezing, starving in our own 1: house! No fuel-no food-no no-" She stopped and burst into tears, and in a moment more George r Lockland leaped to his feet. "Who called me ?" he cried, gaz ing wildly around. Kate sprang up instinctivelyi . but ere she reached- her husband she dropped. The man saw her, a!d for a while stood riveted to the spot. Soon be gazed around i gradually a look of intelligence re lieved the utter blank of his hith erto pale and maniac face. "No fuil! no food !" he whisper. ed, gazinlg upon his wif*e. "Starv in ! God have mercy ! who was it said those words ? Where am I?" "Gecorge! George !" cried the wife, now rushing forward and flinging her arms around her hus band's neck. "Don't you know me?"< "K(ate ! no fire ! there's fire."' 1 "Aye, George Lock!and," said Jimn Drake now starting up; "this aint your own home. Don't you know wvhere ye are?" Again the poor~ man gazed about him, anid a fearful shudder con vulsed his frame, and his hands involuntarily closed over his eyes. I knew that the truth had burst u)on him. "No' fuel! no food !" he groaned. "O, sir," whispered the wife, catching Drake convulsively by~ the arm, "take us away from here, sir. "But vou are cold, Kate." "No, no. Its only a little way to your house. I shall die here !" "Will you go home with me, George," Jim asked of the hius-I band. "Anywhere !" gasped the poor m an. "O, God! no fuel! no food! Kate! Arc you hurt ?" But the wife could niot speak. and as soon as possib!e the fat old villager had t he Ian ters; in read i ness. and half a dozen went to help him. "Come," he said, "lead George oneofron. You take Kate--vou are stouter thain I-and I'll take the little one.' This last was spoken to a stou.rt teamster. and he took the wir' in his arims as though she hail been in infanit. 'It's only a few steps," said Drke, as lie startedl to g~o.Il send your lantern back, MIike Fin gal." And with this the party left the bar-room. I went to the window andl saw them wading off through~ the deep) snow, and when they were out of sight I turned away. The host camne out and began to explain matters ; but I was sick enough already, and with an ach ing~ heart I left the room. On the following day I came down to breakfast later than usual , for I slept very little through that night. About 9 o'clock the driver called in and told us the stage would be ready in five minutes.I went to the bar-room for a cigar. Jim Drake had just come in to bring back the old cloak they~ had wrapped around the child the night before. "Wrhat will you have this morn ing, Jim ?" I heard the landlord ask, as he set out a tumbler. '-Not hin,"returned the fat man. emphatically. "I'm done. Mike Fingal. 'i done with the stuff I'll driuk no more ofit. I wouldn't Lome now only poor Lockland was up, and his wife was hangir iround his ncak. They were cry n' so that I couldn't stand it, and 2a,d to clear out. 0, its dreadful, Q ike Fingal. You don't know what i hem poor things have suffered! 3ut they shan't have my example I Liy more. "All ready," shouted the driver, Lnd I was forced to leave. The wind had all gone down I be air was bracing, and slowly I ve wallowed away from the vil I reached Buffalo two days later han I expected to when I started, r nd having transacted my business I here I went to Mississippi, and so i m down to New Orleans. Four t rears afterward I had occasion to i ravel that same road again, and I topped in that same village to - ake dinner. The bar was still p)en, but Michael Fingal had gone e ,way. I walked out after dinner, I nd soon came across a neatly- c minted office, over the door of t vhich I read, "George Lockland, t ttorney and counselor at law." n lessthan -five minutes afterward t saw a flt. good-natured looking f ian coming toward me, whom I Ct nee recognized as Jim Drakv. Ls he came up I said: ''Excuse me, sir, but I wish to I now how MIr. Lockland is geLting t n now?" "Squire Lockland. you mc.n ?" e answered, with a proud look. t You know them ?" "I did once," said I. "Then you ought to know him i low. Hre is the first man in t4e ountv, sir. Four years ago this 1 nonth, coming, he was just about I s low as a man can be. 1id you f ver know the Squire's wife?" r "I have seen her," I replied. I I aw Drake did not recognize me. "But you should see her now. th, it arant change for her. I ruLs their child-that littie ya ming this way. Aiu't that a i )ieture for ye?" I looked, and saw a bright-eyed, tinny-Laired girl of eight sum- I ners, coingin laughing and trip >ing along like a little fairy. She topped as she came to where we tood; and put up her arms-"Un le Drake," as she called the old nan, and while he was kissingr her, tud chatting with her, I moved n. I looked back once mor-e on .hat happy, beauteous face just to montrast it with the pale, frighten ad features I had seen on that riht in the bar-room. ILEXANDRIE DUM~AS. P'ERE. Alexandre D)umas the whole ovel.reading wor-ld knew literal ly by hear-t. Hie was the son of a mulatto general of extraor-dinary poeris and courage, to whom Na poleon,on account of his single handed defence of a bridge against the enemy, in the battle of Brixen, gave the name of the Hloratius Cocles of t h e Tyrol. Dumas. though the son of a Caucasian wo-: man, was dar-ker than his fighting father, and had many more mar-ks of the mulatto. To his admixture of African b)lood he owed his vivid imagination, his extreme prodigal ity. his love of display. and his melodramatie instincts. His capacity for composition and tireless work was altogether abnormal. Hie wr-ote faster than a r-apid p)enman could copy. his av erage daily task being thir-ty-five pages of a Fr-ench octavo volume. Stories have been circulated of his having had in Paris a species of mental machine shop, in which lever men wrote, at his stug gest ion, and under his supervision, dama-', tr-avels, novels, histories. bocures. sketches, and nmemoir-s by the dozen, turning them out alr>st as rapidly as shoes are turn ed out at Lynn or print cloths at Fall River. Such stories werec ex aggerationls, but not without a substantial basis of fact. Inven tionl and i ndu stry like h]is had never been known in Fr-ance or- in any other land. He was a miracle of performan cc-the Sampson of scibes. lie did not labor- so much from literary amnbiticn as for money, of which he was eter nally in need. The more he earn ed (lie is said to have been irn re eipt, during the height of his popularity, of $30,000, $40,000 and even $30,000 a year) the more he wanted, for his expenditure was unlimited, and his tastes were as extravagant as they were ca pricious. His purse was open at both ends, nawning to be filled at one and running eipty at the ot her. (old burned in his pocket and le hated to be hot. A! way earning, conrstlyl)' workiln", or. ever borrowing, ceaselessly lend ing. ter0nallv ii debt. was his nor mial and uilvalyin" Coniion. Prude0nce, CeCOno,0Iy". provi.sMin fol, he future. wcre entirely al:en to bis sanlglnille alld lavi,hii nature. I[e diid not have all he wanted, )it lhe wOante( all he did not have. incern For the mllorrow was- not ikely to oppress a man who re luired othiing except pon. ink, Old a few renlls of' paper for the :'eation of"a prinecly ineile.. His i6c was romantic as the career of >s heroe., amd his resolUces were Ls woliderfil. He was at once the Lutocrat of composition and the )adashah of piagiarists. No hn nan being ever carried to greater engths the assumpLtion of genius laiming its own. All printed mat er he held to be his Pr whatever ise he chose to make it; and yet is intellect was original, fertile, .d exhaustless beyond precedent. Je siniultaneously plundered and nriclted i nag,inative literature ic exasperate,l and astonished his onfemporaries, he i in poverished be 1last and. mnade opulent the fu u re. DAIlmasi sough t to put in practice he things he dreamed of. Ever 'Ull of projects, enterprises, expe litions. with all his prodigiots Vork, he was obliged to abandon ore than be accomplished. In is forty-fourth year, he began to muild near St. Germain a fantastic Md costly villa-it was called the 'hateau of Monte Cristo-but the evolution of 1848, and the expul ion of Louis Phillippe, interfered ith his plans and Iestricted his -evenues, compelling t h1 e sale, ome years later of his country eat at less thau one-tenth of the riginal outlay. Though always ond of women he did not legally narry until he was nearly forty, 2is wif'e being Ida Ferrier. a viva :ious and engaging actress of the ?orte St. Martin, with whom he 1a,d long been iu love. ished a daily newspaper,the Liber y; but this was too much for him d he retired worsted for the inancial engragement. T h e n he saved a review named Th e ..n+th from the time of its issue cud failed in this, two. Subse. lleuetly he published Thme Guards ian, revived years after- undei he title of ionite Cri.sto, in wvhieb I printed his translations, sketch as, and romanes as they fell lot kom his busy brain. "Thbe Three G~uardsmen," and its two sequeh -"T wenty Years A f t e r" anc Viscount of Bragelone;" "3Mar. Laret of Anjou." *31enmoirs of Physician," 'Quecn Mfargot," an. onte Cristo," especially the last are the most popular of all hiu works, having been translated i ntc not less than twelve langunages The extent of his productions can not be ascertainied; but it is esti ma ted that, including translatiomi and adaptations, he must hav< been the author of nearly a thous and volumes-far more than th< eombined works of Lop,e di Vega Voltaire, G oethe, and Walter Scot t fou of tile most p)rolitic writers o modern or mnediaeval timnes. Tile chief of romancers has no long been dead. He was to th<n last the same pleasant, careless vain, eg'otistical, wonderful wizart ot the pen that lie had been fo: over forty y e a r s. Everyboda knew him in Paris. A thousam~ eves followed him when he walk e'd along tihe Boullevards or drovi in the Bois. HIe fairly beame< with good nature; his stout ful figure shaking with a sort of uine tuous satisfaction, and his brigh eyes laughing and shedding rlow over his yellow complexion ndn kind!ling his largre sensual fea tures. from his round heavy chiu to the roots of his woolly andi bush] hiai r.-llarper's 3Iay/a:ir. THmE REcoim oF A DA.-We tak, fromo the New York S'un of the 13th the hleadingrs of thle accounts of crime ad misfortunes: "A wife choked to death by a drunk en husband. A beaiutifuil life worn out in the struggle for bread in Nes York. Labor strike in Brooklyn. wvoman found starving to deathl in water street cellar. Quarrel over woman and killing of Frank Lake a ahwah, N. J1. Charles H. Phillip tried at Albany, N. Y., fur forger)~ Kiling of Charles MceDougall in Wes Fifteenth Street, N. Y. A salo keeper main targets of five of hi eustomers. 3Ie3Iahon's bloody night Defrauding woiking'men by Grant' 0ffiials. W oman k icked to death1 Wilimsburg N. Y. The headle5 body of a nmun on the MIorris & Esse railroad. Au unknow~n man foun dead at South Ferry. Lewis MIille stabbed at 21 Forsyth street. Th sandal lawsuits. Beecher-Ti lon cases Fued between brothers and killing William Litts. 3Meeting of spiritua ists. Freaks of the ghosts. The sal burglary scandals." When'a single day brings forth sue a record, the saints might cease a fe hours from weeping oyer Souther sins. ani might think about tl: crimes, want and suffering amon +hmslves. SOCIAL AND MEDICAL FAL LACIES. Dr. I a: writes: We commi the mon-4trous error of plunginc iio ice-water every morning, thei Sulb aill the ki-n Ott vIthl a horst l:tir IbIIIs!h o'.'I ('our1SC board towel sit doni t( breakfast of oatmea s .wkl!t : .lino offa t:iblespoonfu of what and two berries, and m:AlakO a sipper onl Catnip)-'ea. ther be put through a Russianl iath 01 ive hundred degrees ; sleep under an o1en window when the ther rnometer is at zero wear lon hair; dress w,imen iii pantaloons mnake all on rproperty over to them and then' sit down in the kitcher corner and nurse the baby, anc when it is asleep wash up the tea. things, and go to bed at nine o'clock to be "out of the way.' What will become of us men ? Surely we have fallen on evil times. A better and truer modc oflife is to have plenty of every. thing good to eat and drink, which imparts niouriishment and strength and as much of it as you want. The idea of getting up from the table hungry is unnatural and ab. surd and hurtful-quite as much soas getttng up in the morning before your sleep is out, on the mischievous principle that "early to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy, and wise." larly rising, in civilized society always tends to shorten life. Early rising of itself never did any good. Many a farmer's boy has been made an invalid for life for being made to get up at daylight, before his sleep was out. Many a young girl has been stunted ir body and mind and constitution by being made to get ip before the system has had its full rest All who are growing, all wh< work hard, and all weakly per sons should not get up until they feel as if they would be more com fortable to get up than to remain in bed; this is the only true incas are of sufficiency of rest and sleep Any one who gets up in the morn ing feeling as it' he "would giv< in bed a while longer, does vio lence to his own nature. and wil always suffer from it-not imme diately, it may be, but certainly ir latter years. by the cumulative il effects of' the most un wise practice In any given case, the person whi gets up in the morning before h is fully rested will lack just tha much *of the energy requisite fo the day's pursuit. As a people, we do not ge enough sleep ; we do not ge enough rest, we will not take tim for these things; hence our ner vousness. our instability, our hast; temper:andl tihe premature giving out of the stamina of life. IIal of us are old at three-score, th very time a man ought to be il his mental, moral and physica nrime. Half of our wives, espe cially in the farming districts, di long before their time because the: do not get rest and sleep propor tioned to their labor. Nine time out of ten it would be better fo all parties if the farmer should ge up and light the fires and prepar 1breakfast for his wife,she comning di reetly from her toilet to the breal fast table. because it almost alway happens that she has to remain u to set things right long after th husband has gone to bed, whe really he has nothing to do afte suppeir but to go to bed. Thisi a monstrously cruel imposition 0 wives and mothers. A TOUCIIING INCIDENT. We heaird a story told the othe day, that made our eves moister We have determined to tell it, jus Ias we heard it. to our little ones: A company of' poor childre who had been gathered out of th alley's and garrets of the city wer prrng for their deplarture t new and distant homes in th West. Just before the time c strting" on the cars. one of th boys wa noticed aside from tb other arid appeared very busy wit his cast o ffgai'ment. The supe> intendent stepperd up to him. an found that he w"s cutting a sma piece cut of' the patched linings. 2It prIoved to be his old jaec wheb. having been renlaced by new one. had been thrown awa: Tere wvas no time to be lost. Come. John, come," said tb superitendent, "what are you g ing to do with that old piece ealico?" "Please, sir," said John. "I al ,f cutting it to take with me. M -dear mother put the lining int Cthis old jacket for mc. This wt a piece of her dress, and it is a rI have to rememnbei' her by." n And as the poor boy thought< e that dear motber's love, and of tb g sad deat h-scene in the old garra * mwh,.e she died. he covered his fac~ with his hands and sobbed as if his heart would brta!k. B t e train was about leaving. and Joh.n. thrust the little piece of calieo in to his bosom to r!e memibe.r his mother by, hurried into a cr. anid was soon far away from the place where he had seen so much soi row. We know mar.v an eve will mois- I ten as the story is told and re-told throughout the country, and a prayer will go to God ior the fi. therless and motherless in all great cities and places. Little readers, t are your mothers still spared to you? will you not show your love by obediance? That 1iitle boy who loved so well. surely obeyed.- L 1B1ar this in mind that if you c should one day have to'look up- t on the face of a dead mother, no t thought would be so bitter as to t remember that you gave her pain e by your wilfulness and disobedi ence.-Ex. NOVEL READING-4S IT SIN FUL. The Christian Standard, publish ed at Alliance, Ohio.and Campbel lite in its religious profession, re plies to the question of a corres poudent: "is the habit of novel reading siuful '" as follows: The objects had in view are First, to obtain information. See oud, to be awakened to reflection and investigation. Third, to be warned against evil; and strength ened in the love of that which is good. Fourth. to form and culti vate a correct taste-to minister s to the love of the beautiful. It i- e evident, at a glance, that novels if t allowable at ail, cannot properly form the staple of our reading, as they cannot minister to the more e importantends sought. Novels do not convey information: neither is it their prime object to awaken re flection and investigation. They may warn against evil and encour age goodne.si, and they may aid us to cultivate a pure literary taste. They are chiefly vaiuable -when valuable at all-delinea tions of character, and for unmask vices, orcrimnes of theage. We can I no more condemn all novels, there- I fore, than we can recommend all 1 books that are not novels. A thing I may be as valuable on a page of fiction, when true to nature, as when fur-nished on the historic page as true in fact. The lessonsi taught in the parables of Jesus1 r are as valuable as if they had been conveyed in a homily, and1 a great deal mor-e pleasant to study. o' But as it is not the chief end o -raigto gratify the imagrina tion or please the faincy, novel reading must hold a subordinate f place. As a litcerary recreation, a a a pleasant changre fr-em severe mental toil, as a pleasant and n>t 1 useless way of spending an odd - hour not otherwise devoted, as a l)pleasanit treaty to an overt,aske-d student or a relief to a morbid state of mind, it may be desirable occasionally to read a good novel. But when this becomes the chiefl t Iobject of attention, it absor-bs time 3 from more valuable purposes, ener - yates the mental powers, un fits - for severe study, and emnasculates S the whole intellectual and moral natur-e. The Waverly novels are. in the Sjudgment of compDetent critics, r much better and every way freer from objections than most worksI 3 of fiction. A bout once a y-ear-, it may be. one of the Waver-ly novles might be iread by almost anybod for the benefit of' mental reca tion. But to have novels lying rabout the house, to be recad by childi-en at will, is about as bad as having whiskey about the house to be drank by them at will-es pecially such trashy books as most epopuIlar nov-els are. As to the pr-o portin of time to be allotted to novel reading we know nothing e better than the hinit in Paul's ad vice to Timothy about wvinc: e "Take a little," just a little. A You so CALIFORNIA CADET. Mention has been made in the C/<ronicle of the appointment by Cnressman Page of ycung Jim my G-lenmnon, of Oakland, toa cadet -sh~ip in the naval school. Some a intretig facts have leaked ott conicern ing the young man's career. which go to show that the appoint e ment is eminently a wise one. Young Glen non's school record has been wvonderful. An admiring you.ng classmat3 writes a long let ter to the Chronicle concerr.ing~ it, in w hich he says : "To show othe enormous task the boy has been Sperforming at the University, it may be interesting to state that as long as there was grading offer ed the boys to do around the 1grounds, Glennon, at the first a honrs in tho morniDg, was over rom: .Unmeda. about seven miles 1istant, with his sleeves rolled 1.y and with pick or shovel in iand, trying to earn his twenty :ents an hour alongside of the >rawny laborers. But the most -emarkable part was that, when he bell tapped for recitation in nathematics, he was promptly in iis place with a perfect recitation. t is considered remarkable if a stu lent can get through a term perfect n either recitation or examins ion, and but one or two in a class >f sixty or seventy ever do this; >ut Glennon generally came off >erfect in both, and often, when he whole section failed on a diffi ult problem, our hero would walk o the board and settle it in a winkling. Again, after recita iods, James would be found, with hee:-ful face and ready jokes at ommand, trundling his wheel arrow or wielding his homely im lements among t h e grading ands, whom he always kept in )iy humor by his ready wit. A oy capable of doing all this is ound to succe4 in life." [San Francisco Chronicle. PARLOR TRICKS. The following tricks of legerdermain ill be studied with interest by thcse a search of new fireside amusements. hey are quite simple: THE MAGIC STICK. To do this trick properly you vil ced a pearl handled knife, and a stout ardwood stick, some two inches in ngth. Sharpen the two ends of the tick and then try to crush it endways, ither between your hands or by sit iug upon it. This, to the astonish uent of the company, you will find it mpossible to do. The better to de - eive them, keep a perfectly caln ountenance. THE FOCR JACKS. Select a pack of cards with plain vhite back. Take out the jacks and urn them to ashes. Now shuffle the ards quickly, and, holding them up n the left hand, give them a sharp ap. with the face down, and defy the ompiany to find the jacks. You will iave them completely fooled. THE CABLE TRICK. Take a piece of tarred rope, which n length, cut it carefully with a sharp nife. and then try to chew the ends ogether. THE MAGIC EGG. Put twelve fresh eggs carefully into green worsted bag. Hold the bag :p at arms length in view of the coM ~any; then swing rapidly about the acad, and te puzzle them still more, ake care to strike it two or three :mes against the door post. Then isk the company whether they will iave them boiled or scrambled or fried. [t will make no difference to you which they choose. TIHE FLYING HEN. Seleta large, well fed hen-the :olor is inmmaterial, though black is best ; place her in a sitting pos'.ure mn a smooth surface; then place over ier a pasteboard box eighteen by thir : inches. Pound smartly on the top with a bone handled table knife for :hree minutes, and ther. suddenly raise t. when the hen will immediately fly iwar. This trick can be performed >y any person of average intelligence, s-ho gives his whole mind to it. TIH E E FFECTs OF A ROT BRICK. Mrs. Battles, says Max Adeler, suffers from cold feet, and the other night she warmed up a brick in tending to take it to bed with lier. She laid it down by the bedside while she attended to the baby, ,ud then forgot about it and turn ad in. A ft er awhile Battles came over to the bed-room, and when he had assumed his night shirt he began to say his prayers. When he was about half way through he happened to move his knee a little to the left, and it came in contract with the brick. For an instant he thoug bt that somethbing had stung him. and jumping up, he came back to ascertain what it was. He saw the brick lying there, -hat it never occurred to him that it was the cause of trouble, so he picked it up for the purpose of. throwing it out of the window. Then he saddenly dropped it on two of his corns with a cry of pain, and after an indignant denunciation to Mrs. Battles, he procured a piece of paper, an d in a furious rage hurled the brick through the window-sash. It hit a policeman who happened to 'be standing on the pavement below, and in less than ten minutes Battles was on his way. to the station-house, where he was locked up all night on a charge of assult and battery. He was released in the morning after paying $20 flie. He has not firshed his prayers syct, and Mrs. Battles now warms her feet with a flannel petticoat. "Tear an oyster from his na tive bed, and from all the tender affections that cling around him at the place of his birth, and trans plant him to the pacific coast, and he dies of sheer homesickness within a year." And yet, to gaze on the extreme placidity of a fried oyster, you would scarcely think that a little thing like that could affect him so.