Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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A Family Companion, Devoted to Literature, Miscellany, News, Agriculture, Markets, &c. Vol. X. WEDNESDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 11, 1874. No. 45. THE HERA LE IS prB~LISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY MORINING, At Newberry C. &.9 BY THS F* GRNE~KRt Editor and Proprietor. Invariably in AdvanCe. Do The paper is stopp ed ut the expiration of time f6r wkich it is paid. Zy The >4 mark denotes expiration Of sub TIRE COTTAGE. BY XART JANME WI2NES. How 94'et idie cbarm that lingers round the Ncot, How richly blest, though bumble be their -lot, Are tb.g wboL dweau in peace and love, where sweet content rti siesdast and effunizent star has lent. Who till tbe, soUl and love the verdant sod, The works of Nature and kind IL,ature's God-. w 03 os beams of summer morning break, Tn? C -asPe te little household wakes AW WljIto i* pure Ad radiant air FA6b gW,d"y Iseeks the daily tasks to share; WVMrfMe-.Mwd ruly each untutored heart mq*ctits pleasUM, unrestrained by art, WbM ediqubm by loye'snd trath is bound, T#e parest, holiest joys of earth are found. T61 lhldre1 bin them to -their bowers, Like rival gard'ners cultivate their flowers, Watching the birds, the butterflies, and bees, The flufted Mi-eg, and ricbly laden trees; PIeaszgp*idd4tX blending all daY long, Witb Song of bird is joined the heart's sweet 90'f~iiedWiU5 dIs:tre-qs the little band, rac& proudly seeks in firmest health to An jinlj1Osrd wihwoesome-food I spread. None Sigh *With 1)aMpering dainties to be TIW ;j" j._vhck_ oppress the rich and grand A naier kowa4tmid that little band. ~iou ~4zo~ las -bat bind in folly's A VILLAGE BAE-ROOM. -0 In 18- I was traveling from Ithaca to Buffalo, in New York State, >y a stage, intending to reach my home in time to partake of the annual Thanksgiving din ner with old and loving friends at the old 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 tnat 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 morningr. 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 begrn to blow furiously, and we could see by the dim.light without that the snow was being wbirled and driven about in a furious man-. ner. There was a fire in the small sitting-room, 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 bright wood fire burning, and somo dozen people were sitting there, smoking and drinking. (This was long before the introduction of the Maine laws.) Several 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 whbom I found to be villagers-men who lived near the inn-a set of vill.age poli ticians and news-mongers. who made the bar-room a place of so ial evening meeting. I had lighted my cigar and ta ken a seat near the fire, when I noticed a bufl alo skin on one end of the settee, opposite to where I sat, and I was confident there was a buman being bengath it. I sup posed it must be a stable hand whbo ad been at work, or w as expected to be up most of thbe night, and was now getting a little sleep. I was looking at the buffalo and thus meditating, when I 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 reposed beneath came down upon the top of it, and there he 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 he managed to stand up. My God! what a thrill struck to my. heart when I saw that face. It was one of noble feature; a brow high and amply developed, over which clustered a mass of dark glossy ringlets; the face beautifully proportion.ed, and each separate feature most exquisitely chiseled- But whbat an expression rested there now ! The great dark eyes had a va cant, idiotic stare ; the face was pale as death, and the lips looked dry and parched, and much dis colored. His clothes were torn and soiled, and one of his hands bloody. Hie was surely not more thain five and thirty, and his ap pearance would at once indicate a man of more than common abili ties. But the demon bad him, and had made bim now something be low the brute. "How do you fee! now, George?" asked one of the men who bad gone to his assistance. But he only groaned in reply, and was soon persuaded to lie down again, being told that be would soon feel better. As soon as he was on the settee once more,. and bad the buffalo over him, the men returned to their seats. "Who is the chap ?" asked one of the teamsters, looking toward the villagers wbo had been assist ing the unfortunate man. "That's George Lockland," re turned a stout honest-looking man. "Does he belong here ?" "Yes. Didn't you never hear *of him ?" The teamster replied that he had not. "Well," resumed the fat man, "it is too bad, I declare it 'tis. I T,oclanAd might be ne of the fih.t I men in the town it he'd a mil to ; but you see he will drink ; an the worst of it is, he makes a foc of himselt. He started here as lawyer, and a smart one he is toc Why he car, argrue old Upton righ out of his boots. But ye see he' lost all his best customers now They daren't trust him with thei: business, 'cause be ain't ever sur4 of doing it. He's got one of th beautifulest little wives you evel saw, and one of the handsomesl ,hildren. But poor things! I pit3 'em. Then there's another thingv rum operates differently on bin 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 bin up inside. You see how pale b looks-well, be's always so wher he's on one of these times. He don't eat nothin', and I don't sup Dose he'll put a bit of food int6 hif tomach for a week to come." "How long has he been so?' isked the teamster. "How d'ye mean ?" "Why bow long bot.h waysi EIow long since he took to driLk in' how long he's been drunk low ? "Well he's took a drunk more r less ever since he came from ollege; but it's about a year that e's been down hard at it. Ye see olks began to see how slack he vas in his business, and they vouldn't give him any job of con. equence to do. I'spose that sort ' set him agoing in this fashion. nd as for this drunk, I should say e'd been on it a fortnight. He's ot down now as low as he can et and live, and I guess he'll get ober in a day or two." "But where does he get his Ii. luor ?" asked his questioner. "You must ask Mike Fingal that uesion," was the other's ans-ver. All eyes were turned upon'the andlord, who now stood behind the ar. He was evidently troubled it this turn, and moved uneasily ipon hi- high stool. "Mik. Fingal." spoke the team ~ter, ''do you sell that man ram? "Yes, I do," the fellow replied ith 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 nc ~xuse, Mike. I shouldn't think rou'd do it." "But when he wants rum he's >oud to have it, and if I didn't et him have it somebody else vould," the host replied. ''Now, that's odd." energetical y, pursued the teamster. "Or ,e same ground you might t1ake i pistol and go-out and rob folks ecause if you didn't somebody lse would. But that isn't here rn there. The thing is, 1 don't see vat kin'd of a heart you can ave to do it." The conversation was here in, erruted by a sound from the treet. The wind was itill howl. .ng madly, and the snow was riving against the window, but ~bove the; voice of the storm came he wailing ofsome one in distress [t was surely tho cry of a chilc 'or help. We were all upon oi eet in a moment and the lantern was quickly lighted. My hat was ~lready on my head-or my caj rather-and 1 went out with the rest. All went but tbe landlorc ad his wretched customer wbc )ccupied the settee. It was som< moents before I could see at all the snow came driving into my race so; but I soon managed t< urn my head, and then went on The wind, as it came sweeping >ut through the stable, had pile( apa huge bank of snowv across th< street, and in this bank we fount s female with a child in her arms She seemed faint and frozen, bu yet sbe clung to her child. The man who carried the lantern hek it up to her face. The feature: were half covered with snow but the momentary glare of th< lantern was sufficient to reveal t< me a face of more thban ordinarj beauty. "Heavens!" uttered the man as he lowered the lantern, ant caught~ the woman in his arms 'Kate Lockland is this you ?" Bu without waiting for a reply, hi turned to the rest of us and cried "Here, take the child, some of you and I'll carry the mother." The c.hild was quickly taken and ere many minutes we wer< back in the bar-room with ou: burden. The two were taken t< the fire and the snow brushed fron them. "Who's them ?" asked the host "Only Kate Lockland and he: child," answered the fat man. "What d'ye bring 'em in hers for ?" the host uttered, angrily "Why didn't ye take 'em to you own house, Jim Drake ?" "Cause my house is too far." The host was noming aronn I the bar and his eye was flashing I with mingled bhame and auger 4 but before ie got fairly out, thE a stout and burly teamster who hind said so much, started up. t "Mike Fingal," he uttered, in s tones such as only a man confident . of his own physical power can r command. "Don't ye put a finger on that woman. Don't ye do it. If ye do, I'll crush ye as I would a pizen spider !" Fingal looked at the speaker in the eye for a moment, and then muttering something about a man tavinga right to do what he pleased in his own house, he slunk away tehind his bar again. I now turned my attention to the woman and her child. The former was surely not yet thirty years of age, and she was truly a beautiful woman-only she was pale and wan, and her eyes were swollen. She trembled fearfully, and I could see her bosom heave as she tried to choke the sobs that were bursting forth. The child was a girl about four years old. She clung close to her mother, and seemed frightened into a forget falness of her cold fingers and feet. "Kate Lockland, what in Heav en's name are you doin' out this night ?" asked Jim Drake. "Oh I was trying to find your own house, Jim Drake, for I knew you'd give me shelter. But I got lost in the snow. I wouldn't have cried out in front of this place, but my poor child diL Jim Drake have you seen George ? Oh, God, have mercy on him! Poor dear George! He dou't know we are freeaing, starving in our own house! No fuel-no foo -no no-" She stopped and burst into tears, and in a moment more George Lockland leaped to his feet. "Who called me?" he cried, gaz ing wildly around. Kate sprang up instinctively, but ere she reached her husband she dropped. The man saw her, and for a.while stood riveted to the spot. - Soon he gazed around upon the scene about im~r, and gradually a look of intelligen"e re lieved the .uttei- blank of his hith erto pale and maniac face. "No fuel! no food !" he whbisper. ed, gazing upon his wife. "Starv ing! God have mercy ! who was it said thbose-words ? Where am I?" "George! George !" cried the wife, now rushing forward and flinging her arms around her hus band's .neck. "Don't you know me ?" "Kate ! no fire ! there's fire." "Aye, George Lock!and," said Jim Drake now starting up; "this ain't your own home. Don't vou know where ye are?" Again the poor man gazed abou.t him, and a fearful shudder convulsed his frame, and his hands involuntarily closed over his eyes. I knew that the truth had burst upon him. "No fuel! no food !" he groaned. "0, sir," whispered the wife, catching Drake convalsively by the arm, "Lake us away from here, sir." "But you are cold, Kate." "No, no. Its onky a little way to your house. I shall die here !" "Will you go home with me, George," Jim asked of the hus. band. "Anywhere !" gasped the pooi ,man. r "0, God! no fuel! no food! Kate! >Are you hurt ?" -But the wife could not speak, and as soon as possib!e the fat old I villager had th~e lan tern in readi 3 ness, and half a dozen went tc I help him. -"Com.e," he said, "lead George one ofyou. You take Kate--you are stouter than I--and I'll take the little one." This last was spoken to a stout teamster, arid he took the wife in his arms as though she had been an infanit. "It's only a few steps," said Drake, as he started to go. "I'l send your lantern back, Mike Fin. gal." And with this the party left the bar-room. I went to the window~ and saw them wading off througia the -deep snow, and when they were out of sight I turned away. The host came out and began tc explain matters; but I was sich enough already, and with an ach 'ing heart I left the room. SOn the following day I came down to breakfast later than usual. for I slept very little through that nigh t. 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 tc r bring back the old cloak they had vrapped around the ebild the night. before. I "Wrhat wrill yon have thin morn. in, Jim ?" I heard the landlord ask, as he set out a tumbler. "iNothing,"returned the fat man, emphatically. "I'm done. Mike Fincgal, I'm done with the stuff. I'll drink no more of'it. I wouldn't come now only poor Lockland was up, and his wife was hanging around his neck. They were cry in' so that I couldn't stand it, and had to clear out. 0, its dreadful, Mike Fingal. You don't know w hat them poor things have suffered! But they shan't have my example any more." "All ready," shouted the driver, and I was forced to leave. The wind had all gone down; the air was bracing, and slowly we wallowed away from the vil lage. I reached Buffalo two days later than I expected to when I started, and having transacted my business there 1 went to Mississippi, and so on down to New Orleans. Four years afterward I had occasion to travel that same road again, and stopped in that same village to take dinner. The bar was still open, but Michael Fingal had gone away. I walked out after dinner, and soon came across a neatly painted office, over the door of which I read, "George Lockland, attorney and, counselor at law." In lessthan five minutes afterward I saw a fat, good-natured looking man coming-toward me, whom I at once recognized as Jim Drake. As he came up I'said: "Excuse me, sir, but I wish to know how Mr. Lockland is getting on now?" "Squire Lockland, you mean ?" be answered, with a proud look. "You know them ?" "I did once," said L "Then you ought to know him now. He is the first man in the county, sir. Four years ago this month, coming, be was just about as low as a man:can be.* Did you ever know the Squire's.wife?" "I have seen her," I replied. I saw Drake' did not recognize me. "But you should see her now. Ab, it was a greatchange for her. That's their child-tbat little girl coming this way. Ain't that a picture for ye?" I looked, and saw a bright-eyed, sunny-I:aired. girl of eight -su.m mers, coming laughing and trip ping along like a little fairy. She stopped as she came to where we stood; and put up her arm s-"Un cle Drake." as she called the old man, and while he was kissing her, and chatting with her, [ moved on. I looked back once more on that happy, beauteous face just to contrast it with the pale, frighten ed features I had seen on that night in the bar-room. 1I5eeUant1t5. ALEXANDRE DUNAS, PERE. Alexandre Dumas the whole novel-reading world knew literal ly by heart. He was the son of a mulatto general of extraordinary powers 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 Horatius Cocles of t h e Tyrol. Dum as, though the son of a Caucaqian wo man, was darker than his fighting father, and had many more marks of the mulatto. To his admixture of African blood he owed his vivid imagrination, his extreme prodigal ity, his love of display, and his melo-dramatic instincts. His capacity for composition and tireless work~ was altogether, abnormal. He wrote faster than a rapid penman could copy. his av erage daily task being thirty-five pages of a French octavo volume. Stories have been circulated of his having had in Paris a species of mental machine shop, in which clever men wrote, at his sug gestion, and under his supervision, dramaq, travels, novels, histories, brochures, sketches, and memoirs by the dozen, turning them out. almost as rapidly as shoes are turn ed out at Lynn or,.print cloths at Fall River. Such stories were ex aggerations, but not without a substan tial 'basis of fact. inven tioni and industry like his had never been known.in France or in any other land. Hie was a miracle of performance-the Sampson of scribes. He did not labor so much from literary ambiticn as for money, of which he was eter nally in need. The more he earn ed (be is said to have been in re ceipt, during the height of his popularity, of $30,000, $40,000 and even $50,000 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 habth endsanwning to be filled at one and running empty at th( other. Gold burned in his pocket and be hated to be hot.. Alway. earning, constantly working, for ever borrowing. ceaselessly lend ing. eternally in debt, was his nor. mal and unvarying condition. Prudence, economy, provision for the future. were entirely al'en tri his sanguine and lavish nature. He did not have all he wanted, but, he wanted all he did not have. Concern for the morrow was not likely to oppress a man who re quired nothing except pen, ink, and a few reams of paper for the creation of a princely income. His life was romantic as the career of his heroes, and his resources were as wonderful. He was at once the autocrat of composition and the padashah of plagiarists. No hu man being ever carried to greater lengths the assumption of genius claiming its own. All printed mat ter he held to be his for whatever use he chose to make it; and yet his intellect *as original, tertile, and exhaustless beyond precedent. He simultaneously plundered and enriched imaginative literature; he exasperated and astonished his contemporaries, he impoverished the p ast and made opulent the fu ture. Dumas sought to put in practice the things he dreamed of. Ever full of projects, enterprises, expe ditions, with all his prodigious work, be was obliged to abandon more than he accomplished. .In his forty-fourth year, he began to build near St. Germain a fantastic and costly villa-it was called the Chateau of Monte Cristo-but the revolution of 1848, and the expul sion of Louis Phillippe, interfered with his plans and restricted his revenues, compelling t h e sale, some years later of his country seat at less than one-tenth of the original outlay. Though always fond of women he did not legally marry until he was nearly forty, his wife being Ida Ferrier, a viva cious and engaging actress of the Porte St. Martin, with whom he had long been in love.. Among his other follies he pub. lished a daily newspaper,the Liber ty; but this was too much for him, and he retired worsted for the fmancial engagement. T he n he essayed a review named Th a Month, from the time of its issue, and failed in this, two. Subse quently he publisbed The Guards man, revived years after under the title of Monte Cristo, in which he printed his translations, sketch es, and romances as they felt hot from his busy brain. "The Three Guardsmen," and its two sequels -"T wenty Years A f t e r" and "Viscount of Bragelone;" "Mar garet of Anjou," ''Memoirs of a Physician," "Queen Margot," and "Monte Cristo," especially the last, are the most popular of all his works, having been translated into not less than twelve languages. The extent of his productions can not be ascertained; but it is estima ted tbat, including translations and adaptations, he must have been the author of nearly a thous and volumes-far more t*han the combined works of Lope di Vega, Voltaire, Goethe, and Walter Scott, four of the most prolific writers of modern or medieval times. The chief of romancers has not long been dead. He was to the last the same pleasant, careless, vain, egotistical, wonderful wizard of the pen that he had bee'n for over forty y ea rs . Every body knew him in Paris. A thousand eyes followed him when he walk ed along the Boulevards or drove in the Bois. HeI fairly beamed with good nature; his stout fall figure shaking with a sort of unc tuous satisfaction, and his bright eyes laughing and shedding a glow over his yellow complexion, and kindling his large sensual fea tures. from his round heavy chin to the roots of his woolly and bushy hair.-Harper's .Magazine. T HE RECoR~ OF A DAY.-,We take from the New York Sun of the 13th, the headings of the accounts of crimes and misfortunes: "A wife choked to death by a drunk en husband- A beautiful life worn out in the struggle for bread in New York. Labor strike in Brooklyn. A woman found starving to death in a water street cellar. Quarrel over a woman and killing of Frank Lake at Mahwah, N. J. Charles H. Phillips tried at Albar.y, N. Y., for forgery. Killing of Cha:les McDougall in West Fifteenth Street, N. Y. , A saloon keeper making targets of five of his customers. McMahon's bloody night. Defrauding workingmen by Grant's officials. Woman kicked to death in Williamsburg, N. Y. The headless body of a man on the Morris & E~ssex railroad. An unknown man found dead at South Ferry. Lewis Miller stabbed at 21 Forsyth street. T.he scandal lawsuits. Beecher-Tilton cases. Fued between brothers and .killing of William Litts. Meeting of spiritual ists. Freaks of the ghosts. The safe burglary scandals." When a single day brings f6rth such a record; the saints might cease a few hers from weeping.- overt Southern sin,; and might think< about the rimes, wait and adifeng; among +hmse1es jSOCIAL A.ND 1VEDICAL FAL LACIES. Dr. Hall writes: We commit the monstrous error of plunging into ice-water every morning, then scrub all the skriu off with a horse hair brush ora course board towel; sit down to breakfast of oatmeal sawd ust : dine off a tablespoonful of wheat and two berries, and make a supper on catnip-,ea, then be put through a Russian bath of five hundred degrees; sleep under an open window when the ther 1.mometer is at zero ; wear long hair; dress women in pantaloons; make all our property over to them, and then sit down in the kitchen corner and nurse the baby, and 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 mode of life is to have plenty of every thing good to eat and drink, which imparts nourishment and strength, and as much of it as you want. The idea of getting up from the table bungry is unnatural and ab surd and hurtful-quite as much soas getttug up in the morning before your sleep is out, on the mischievous principle that "early to rise, makes a man healtby, wealthy, and wise." Early 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 in body and mind and constitution by being made to get up before the system has had its full rest. All who are growing, all who 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 meas are of sufficiency of rest and sleep. 4,y one .who~gets up in the morn ing feeling as if he "would -give anyi,bing-in the world":to remain in bed a wbile longer, does via lence to his own nature, arnd will always suffer from it-not imme diately, it may be, but certainly in latter years, by the cumulative ill effects of the most tin wise practice. In any given-case, the person who gets up in the morning before .he is fully rested will lack just that much of the energy reqaisite for the day's pursuit. As a people, we do not gel enough sleep ; we do not gel enough rest, we will not take time for these things; hence our ner vousness, our instability, our hasty temnper,tand the premature giving out of the stamina of life. Half of us are ok.I at three-score, -the very time a man ought to be in his mental, moral and physical prime. LEalf of our wives, espe. cially in the farming districts, die long before their time because they do not get rest and sleep propor tioned to their labor. Nine times out of ten it would be better for all parties if the farmer should get up and light the fires and prepare breakfast for his wife,she coming di rectly from her toilet to the break fast table, because it almost always appens that she has to remain up to set things right long after the husband has gone to bed, when really he has nothing to do after supper but to go to bed. This is a monstrously cruel imposition on wives and mothers. A TOUCHING INCIDENT. We heard a story told the other day, that made our eyes moisten. We have determined to tell it, just as we heard it, to our little ones: A company of poor children who had been gathered out of' the alleys and garrets of the city were preparing for their departure to new and distant homes in the West. Just before the time of starting on the cars, one of the boys was noticed side from the other and appeared very busy with his cast off garment. The super. intendent stepped up to him, and found that he was cutting a small piece out of the patched linings. It proved to be his old jacket, which, having been replaced by a new one, had been thrown away. There was no time to be lost. "Come. John, come," said the superintendent, "what are you go ing to do with that old piece of calico?" "Please, sir," said John, "I am cutting it to take with me. My dear mother put the lining into this old jacket for me. This was a piece of her dress, and it is all I have to remember her by." And as tbe poor boy thought of that dear mother's -ove, and of the sad death4seene in the old-.garret whe.e she died he coered his face with his hands and sobbed as if his heart wouli break. Bat tL:e train was about leaving, and John thrust the little piece of en!ico in to his bosom to remember his mother by, hurried into a car, and was soon far away from the place where he had seen so much sorrow. We know many an eye will mois ten as the story is told and re-told throughout the country, and a prayer will go to God for the fa therless and motherless in all great cities and places. Little readers, are your mothers still spared to you ? will you not show your love by obediance ? That little boy who loved so well, surely obeyed. Baar this in mind that if you should one day have to look up on the face of a dead mother, no thought would be so bitter as to remember that you gave her pain by your wilfulness and disobedi ence.-Ex. NOVEL READING-IS 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 pondent: "Is the habit of novel reading sinful ?" as follows: The objects had in view are First, to obtain information. See ond, 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 to the love of the beautiful. It is 4 evident, at a glance, that novels if allowable at all, cannot properly form the staple of our reading as they cannot minister to the nore important ends 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 goodnesq, and they may aid us to cultivate a pure literary taste. Theyv are chiefly valuable -when valuable at all-delinea tions of character; and for unmask ing and satirizing the follies, or vices, or crimes of theage. We can no more condemn all novels, there fore, than we can recommend all books that are not novels. A thing may be as valuable on a page of fiction, when true to nature, as when furnished on the historic page as true in fact. The lessons taught in the parables of Jesus are as valuable as .if they had been conveyed in a homily, and a great deal more pleasant to study. But as it is not the chief end of -reading to gratify the imagina~ tion or please the fancy, novel reading must hold a subordinate place. As a literary recreation, 'a pleasant change from severe mental toil, as a pleasant and .Dfla useless way of spending an odd hour not otherwise devoted, as. a pleasant treaty to an overtasked student or a relief to a morbid state *of mind, it may be desirable occasionally to read a good nove1. But when this becomes the chief object of attention, it absorbs time from more valuable purposes, ener vates the mental powers, unfits for severe study, and emasculates the whole intellectual and moral nature. The Waverly novels are, in the judgment of competent critics, much better and every way freer from objections thaih most works of fiction. About once a year, it may be, one of the Waverly novles might be read bf almost anybody for the benefit of mental' recrea tion. But to have novels lying about the house,, to be read by child ren at wifl, is about as bad as having whiskey about the house to be drank by them at will-es pecially such trashy books as most popular novels are. As to the pro portion of time to be allotted to1 novel reading we know nothing better than the hint in Paul's ad vice to Timothy about wine: "Take a little," just a -little. A YOUNG CALIFORNIA CADET. Mention has been made in the C'hronicle of the appointment by Congressman Page of ycung Jim my Glennon, of Oakland, toa cadet ship in the naval school. Some I interesting facts have leaked out concerning the young man'scareer, which go to show that the appoint ment is eminently a wise one. Young -Glennon's schodi record has been wonderful. An admiring young classmats writes a long let ter to the Chronicle iconcertking it, in which he sapi "To show the enormous task the boy has been performing at the UTnliersity, it may be interesting to state that as long as there was grading offer ed the boys to do around the grou'nds, Glen non, at the first t hours in the mnormaug, was over - - . .'. - ADVERTISIKC'R. E. Adverdisements inserted at the raU@ 10 per square-one Itch-forfirst fasertdwn, and--k 75Cc. for each subsequeht insertim, .Doubis ._., ,'v colamn advertisemenstepre,.b Notices of meqplnp.0ba~ea H1 so of respect, same rate per aque aso~~umrv11 .advertdsements. .~ Special notices in local cola" 24'eas; per Hue. Advertisements wot ma*ked v"Ah~be nm ber ov insertions,wazlbe p 1L tb4~ and charged ace- urdlasly. -, Special conUar indewi* 'm. - 'dsers~* from Alameda, abon't S'eej] distant, with his .01e1~ Uy and W~ith pick, or .......... hand, trying t an i i cents :a-11 hour-. 41011gMW.: - ? brawuy laborers ,'. Bn& .7tbhi: remarkable part was4tba4~ L he be11. ita pp ed:' f6r', i~ , r m mnathematic4, he6-*q ~ his PlaCe.With.V.,pe It is consideredramtra lent can got thmog, in either rc~te ion, a-nd btitone,r*4 )f sixty, 4r sov"ty4c )at -Glennon geerUj 3erfect .in both, aod 1be .whole. section li:/ .3ut prowe,OU ,.o the, board(l ,hee.-Ailfc'~j .11MMand;. truMnhg )arrow or wanemug; Alements446 iands, -who to olly- humor -by-Ws YO capableo on )OUnd to.SUCCO.".djs The f4011OW01g4 will be ?tiu&ea.. r" ,be brick throughthe wi~ido#~~6 > It hit a policeman ~ o be standing on ~th~ernow~-~ ln~,u, anA~n IAan thAi, tAft srthI