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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j ^ |nhjcnknt Jfamilg ^tftospapcr: J[or t|e promotion of tjie |]alitica(, .Social, Agricultural antr Commercial Interests of t{;e Soat|. |terms?$3.00 a tear, in advance. VOL. SO. YOBKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1874. 36. Jdorg ?cUcr. LOVE CONQUERS ALL. About the commencement of the thirteentl century there lived in the city of Paris a gold smith, who, having come originally fron Tours, was called the Tourangean, though hi true name was Anselm. In consequence o his great honesty and his unrivalled skill asi jeweller, he became not only a proud burges of the city, but was admitted as a retainer o the King, whose protection he purchased?a was the custom in those days. He built him self a fine stone house, near the Church of St Eloi, in the street of St. Dennis, where hi forge was well known by all the admirers o fine jewelry. But, though beloved by th< King, patronized by the noblesse, at peac with the clergy, and with a chest firmly se cured with a lock of his own contriving, whicl said chest was well lined with gold and silve crowns, Anselm remained a bachelor, nor hat his heart ever fluttered with the delieiou throbs of love. This was, perhaps, becaus* of his early poverty; because when he cami to Paris, he was as poor as Job, and, also, i might he iroru the character or the man, (joi he was like the metals he worked in, deter mined and set in his purposes, like his owi anvil, and downright as his own hammer. Also, he was timid, retiring, and filled full o poetic imaginings, which, instead of beinj rendered into distiches and hemistitches, ap peared in the chasing and chiselings of hii jewels. The ardor of his nature found veil in constant labor. In the old days of hii poverty, when he was simply a workman, h< labored from morning till night. As a master he labored still, with the same vigor, seeking new secrets, acquiring fresh skill, and inqui ring after new inventions of every kind. The good folks who passed through the street St Dennis after nightfall, the revelers or th< thieves, who made the dark hours hideous ir those days, saw perpetually the light of a lamj streaming through the cross-shaped loop-hole: of the goldsmith*8 house, and the good mastei Anselm working away, tapping, hammering filing, chiseling, engraving, burnishing, all bj himself, doors closed, ears open. Misery is the mother of labor and labor is the mothei of wealth. Hear this, ye swells of Broadway who burn the candle at both ends and light your cigars with greenbacks. If ever ideas of love, if desire of beauty at any time entered into the head of the Tourangean, thej were soon translated into delicate engravings little golden figures, fine forms of silver ware with which he delighted the connoisseurs ol the Court. Add to this that Anselra was very naive and simple, fearing God first, thee robbers, next the great lords, and tumults aud seditions especially. His art ?was the one a.1.: p i_ J 4.1 Li tiling oi ins me, aim auy ouier tnougnt was quickly repressed. Because of his isolation and his natural timidity, the priests and the men at arms did not think him very wise because he spoke little, and when he did speak his voice was low and sweet like a woman's. But he had an annoying way when he addressed any one, of looking at him as if he was far away, beiug indeed generally abstracted by considerations of his art. He knew no Latin, but his mother French he spoke correctly. He had learned among the quick wits of Paris to walk straight, to measure his expenses by his incomings, not to turn the grindstone to sharpen other people's axes; not to tell everybody what he was doing, and to do what he said ; to keep his troubles to himself, also his money; not to stand gazing at the clouds in the streets, and to sell his jewels for more than they cost him. The strict observance of these wise maxims had given the goldsmith so much practical wisdom that he amassed a competency, and could live at his ease. Many a man, admiring his wealth and his popularity, and his skill, would- say, oe seeing him at his work-table, "By my soul, 1 would like to be that goldsmith, even if I had tn lino in tho ornttpr first. fnr ft vpftr." Rllt it would have cost as little to be King of France and would have profited as much, seeing thai the Tourangean was one of ten thousand For his arms were marvels of strength?sr square, so nervous, so muscular. When he closed his fists, the strongest comrade in hu shop, aided by any implement, could not have made him open his bands. Isolated as an oyster, with the strength of a bear, the appe tite of a wolf, and the digestion of an ostrich with the outward imperturbability of a rhinoceros, and with shoulders strong enough tc relieve Atlas of his load, he was the perfeel image of a perfect man. With all these perfections, how came il about that the house of the goldsmith remained without a mistress? This is what the critics asked. But did those wise gentlemen consider what it is to love? Not at all. Tht trade of a lover is not one suitable for a bus} man. He must come and go, listen, watch, be silent, talk, hide himself in a corner, swell out like a peacock, agree, disagree, argue count the spots of dust in a sunbeam, seek foi flowers under the snow, repeat sonnets to the moon, stroke the cat's back, give daiuty raof sels to the household dog, inquire after hei aunt's gout or catarrh, or rheumatism ; sa} "You are looking well this morning;" musi please all the relatives, must not tread on an} body's corns, nor break the glasses ; must be able to say sweet nothings, be lavish in praise "How good this is;" and again "Really Madame, you look exquisite in that dress.' And all these things have to be done aud re done, and done again in a thousand different fashions. Then the lover must be clean shaved, dressed in the height of the fashion, wear fine linen and metaphorical purple; b< ready of tongue, quick of hand, slow to anger enduring all misadventures with a pleasan smile, burying deep in his heart all rages aw eholers. holdinsr his nature in a tisht leash He must make Dice little presents to thi mother, also to the sister, also to the maidei auuts,alsoto the waiting-maid, also to Bob, th< groom; also to Joe, who waits at the table, ant opens the door, and who carries bouquets auc slips an occasional letter. And do all this do it well for a year, and if you slip up on i single occasion, good-bye to your lily-love All is over with you, or has to be begun again Therefore, the goldsmith, working alwayi at his table surrounded by the trophies of hi: art, blowing his bellows, heating his silver burnishing his gold, had no time to maki love, or waste his time dancing attendanci upon a proud woman, and cudgeling hi: brains to respond to her fantn-ies. But th< Tourangean was too much of an artist not t< observe the beauty of the ladies of the Cour and the bourgeoisie who came to bargain wit! him for his trinkets. Often when somi ladv of resplendent charms would have coaxet i ' - 1-- --M- 1 mm 10 lay asiue some important won that he had in hand to finish for her some toi that she wanted for her birthday, or somi such foolery, Anseltn would return to thi Rue St. Denis full of reveries like a poet more desperate than a nestless cuckoo, an< would say to himself, "I must get a wife She would sweep the house, would keep tin dishes clean, would fold up the linen, wouli mend my dothes, would siug like a linne through the house, would torment me ti make her Buch and such things, would wan things chauged to suit her fancy, would say t me, as they say to their husbands, when the want a bracelet, or a chain, 'Now, my darling look at me with it on. Don't I look charm f ing?' And every one in the neghborhooi who looked at my wife would think of m< and would say, 'There is a happy man.' Then the Tourangean would go on buildin castles in the air, would get married, provid ! magnificent feasts, bring home his wife, would i clothe her superbly, give her a chain of fine - gold ; would make her the complete mistress of the household : would give her for her spe- j i cial chamber the great room above, and would j put in it windows of glass, and fine grass mat-; ; ting on the floor, with tapestry on the walls, ' and a wonderful clothes-press, and an ira- i i raense bedstead with twisted columns for the j j. posts, with curtains of price ; then would buy j ! many handsome mirrors which would raulti-' ply the beautiful form and face that he loved J 2 so dearly. So fast would the good man's j imagination run that before he got to his forge ! he was, in fancy, the father of a dozen chil- j *: dren, the eldest girl already marriageable, j " j and the eldest boy a famous goldsmith. Ar-; !. rived at home, these visions would disappear j j with every stroke of his hammer; his ardent j imaginiugs, however, would find vent in his j ' workings, and would appear in fantastic de- ; * I signs of beautiful virgins walking in woods,! 1 j or in groups of children playing with monsters f ! of the sea and land. The seigneurs who pur- j chased his imagiuings little knew how many j 3 j lost wives and children went to these pieces of | " I jewelry. I, 3! Up to his forty-first year the goldsmith re! mained a virgin heart ignorant of love. One r Sabbath day, wandering along the left bank * j of the Seine, with his head full of dreams of . marriage, he came unwittingly into the mead- | I ow laud, which has since been called Preaux | clercs, but which at that time was part of the ' I fair domains of the Abbey of St. Germain, j Walking through the meadow he stumbled < II upon a poor girl holding by an old rope a , | poor, thin cow, who browsed upon the hers i bage close to the pathway. Seeing a hand' j some, well-dressed gentleman approaching her i \ i she saluted him, saying, "God save you, Mon- j I | seigneur." Her voice was so full of sweet, i ness,so musical, and so friendly, that Anselra i ': felt his soul vanquished by the sound, and itn- < j mediately fell in love with the girl, being, as ; i I he was, possessed with thoughts of marriage at j j that time. Nevertheless, he passed her with- | I out speaking, being timid to the last degree i r j with women, and it was not till he had gone ] i by at least a bow-shot that he reflected that I ' | a master-goldsmith, king's retainer, and bur-! . j gess of Paris might have his bow to any fair j I lo/ltr if Ko folf lilro if TTotrinor mnofaroH lin I 1 . " i.v -v.. .v. ?b ?- -r courage, he wheeled sharp round, and came I [ back to the girl, who still held her cow by the . cord. ' "Ah ! my little one," said he, "you must be I . very poor if you work on God's day. Are < you not afraid of being put in prison ?" j ' "Monseigneur," replied the girl, casting I p down her eyelids, "I have nothing to fear, < j because I belong to the Abbey there. The ( Lord Abbot has given us leave to graze the ] I cow after vespers." i "Do you love your cow better than your < j sou 1*8 safety, my girl ?" ' "Ah Monseigneur, this poor beast is truly t , the half of our poor life." ' "I wonder, my dear, to see you so poor and ] so ragged, all in tatters, aud with naked feet j in the fields on a Sunday, seeing that you are j _ | so beautiful. Have none of the young men of ] J the city talked of marriage to you ?" ? "Ah ! no, Sir, I belong to the Abbey," said s ( she, showing to the goldsmith a bracelet on | her left arm not unlike that worn by cattle, | but without a bell. And she smiled sadly at ] Anselm, who became quite melancholy with ] | j sympathy for her sadness. I "Why, what is all this?" he resumed touch* i ing the bracelet where the arms of the Abbey j ( ' were clearly engraved, but which he preten- . j ded not to understand. , i! "Mouseigneur, I am the daughter of a slave. ] . So, whoever will marry me will become a | ,! serf, were he a burgess of Paris, and would i , | belong body and goods, to the Abbey ; and on i j | accountof this I am abandoned by every one? | [ deserted and desolate, like a beast of the field. | ! j But that which grieves me most," said she, I ' shedding a few warm tears, "some day, when j I it pleases the Lord Abbot, I shall be married j? r ; to another serf. Even if I were less homely i than I am, no young man would look on me 1 j j a second time, after he had seen this," touch-1 < ; ing her bracelet, "for the most amorous would j < >; flee from me as from the black death." < ,j So saving, she sighed from the bottom of, ] i i - - 1 - II - i 1 j tier neart, unci gave a nine jjuu ujiuu me | i ?1 rope, to make the cow follow her. j < "And how old are you ?" said Anselm. , i . j "I don't know, Mouseigneur, but the Fath-1 i ! er Abbot has it in the registry." I This terrible misery touched the heart of 1 > i the good man, who himself had eaten the i : bread of misfortune, and knew how bitter it I was. But this was a depth of misery that he ] ; had never dreamed of. He walked by the 1 . side of the young girl, and they went toward 1 . I the Seine iu complete si'ence. Ansel.m gazed 1 . fixedly at his young companion, and his ar- i i . tist's eye noted her beautiful features, her j1 . j queenly form, the delicate rounding of her j (j arms, and the beauty of her bare feet, which,: { though covered with dust, were small enough j < (; for the slipper of Cinderella. Her head was ) ! I small and gracefully posed upon a perfect j 1 ; "neck, all hut the upper part being modestly j 1 .; covered by her frock of villainous material, i 1 r J His veins seemed filled with love instead of f blood, and his heart came leaping into his . t; I throat. He tried to speak, but his love and , j timidity were so great that it was with diffi?! culty he could articulate. "You have a fine cow," said he. i "Would you like a little milk ?" she replied, i ' "It is so hot at the end of May, and you have . had a long walk from the city." I' . 1 Tn truth the skv wns rnirp cerulean, with- ' ! . j out a cloud, and the sun burned worse than ( i the heat of a forge. The air trembled with 5' love and youth, and the gracious aspect of ^ 1 Nature came to the heart of Auselm with a I hitherto undreamed-of significance. This iu1 genuous otter, without hope of profit, and the :1 t ; modesty of gesture with which the poor girl j1 a j turned to make it, quite overcame the gold-; j I smith, who longed to have the power to make i ? her Queen of France at that moment, so that j j not only her master, the Abbott, but all ! 1 France should be at her feet. ; | "No, my darling, I am not thirsty. That: I is, I do not care for any milk, but I care great- j i ly for you, and I would like to gain you your # ' freedom." 3 ! "It cannot be, and I shall live and die be31 longing to the Abbey. We have lived so for a long time, from father to son, from mother j 3 to daughter. Kike my aucestors, I shall pass 31 my days on these lands, and my children after j s j me, for the Abbot will never permit mc to j 3 i remain single." j | "What," said the Tourangean, "do you , II mean to say that no gallant has been tempted i by your sweet eyes to buy your liberty? I 31 bought mine of the King." 1 "Ah ! it would cost too much. And those ' 11 who see me ouce never see me agaiu." j j "And did you never think of going to some , e other country on horseback behind some brave : b gentleman ?" ;, "Oh, yes! Monsoigneur ; but if I were 1 taken, I should be hung at the very least, and >. my lover, were he even a great lord, would b lose more than one estate, perhaps all his posj sessions. And I am not worth so much. ! t And then the Abbey has long arms, longer to 1 a reach than my feet would be quick to get t away. And besides, I desire to live iu humo hie obedience to God, who has placed me in y this state of life." I, "What does your father do ?" i- "He works among the vines in the gardens d and vineyards of the Abbey." ;, "And your mother ?" " "She does the washing." g "And what is your name ?" e i "I have no name, my dear lord. My father i was baptized Etienne, my mother is La Etienne, and I am the little Tiennette, at your service." "My darling," said the goldsmith, "110 woman did ever please me as you have done, and I am sure that you have a heart full of all nobleness. And seeing that you presented yourself to my eyes at the very moment when I resolved to marry, I take it to be an omen from heaven. If, therefore, I am not displeasing to you, I pray you to take me for your friend and husband." The words were uttered with so grave an accent, and so impressive a manner, that Tiennette wept. "No, Monseigneur," she replied, "I shall cause you a thousand sorrows, and shall be your misfortune. Let it pass. I'm a poor serf-girl. You have said enough." "Ho," said Anselm, "have I? You don't know me my girl, nor with what sort of a man you deal." Then joining his hands together, and rais-' ing his eyes, he spoke out: "I make a solemn vow to the Sieur Saint j Eloi, whose pity protects the craft of gold- j ninltoo nf oiloot* anH tfl I 51111 tuo, tv lunag mw utvuvo vi ouivt, w adorn them with my finest workmanship. One shall be for a statue of the Holy Virgin, if she will intercede for the liberty of this, ray dear wife, and the other for my patron St Eloi, if I have good success iu this enter- ' prise of the enfranchisement of Tiennette, j here preseut, to which I devote myself, goods 1 and body. And I swear by my hopes of: eternal happiness to persevere with courage in this affair, to spend every franc of what I possess, and to relinquish it only with my life. And now God has heard ray vow, and you, little one, also," said he, turning to the young girl. "Oh ! my lord, my dear lord ; oh ! my cow is running away," cried she, throwing herself an her knees before Anselm. "I will love you all my life, only take back your vow." "Let me go and catch the cow," replied the goldsmith, raising her up, but without daring to kiss her, though the youug girl already j loved him passiouately. Aud so the goldsmith ran after the cow, j who was soon caught and held by the horns, | for he was so full of joy that for two pins he j would have tossed it up iu the air, so strong 1 be felt. "Good-bye, my darling. If you come into I Paris don't fail to come to my house, near the | Church of St. Eloi. I am called Master An- j selra, and am the goldsmith of the King's LMajesty. Promise me to be in this field next God's day; don't fail to come, though the sky should rain javelins." "Yes, good and dear sir. To come I would leap all hedges, and wish I may be yours without causing any hurt to you, even if it were at the expense of my future happiness. And I will pray God for you with all my itrength, waiting for our next meeting." Anselm departed toward the town, going right on, never looking backward, nor to the right, nor yet to the left, as a man walks who s set in his purpose, and Tiennette watched lim going, fixed like a stone image of some saint, never stirring from her position until she could see him no more; and long after ;he burgess was far out of sight, she strained ler eyes. There she remained until nightfall, ost in reflection, hardly knowing if all that lad been was not a dream. Then she went jack to the wretched pen which was her home itid was soundly beaten for being late; but lid not feel the blows, being full of love for rVncclm. Ao Tor Kim, lio luot llic punct Ul working, could neither eat, drink nor sleep, j [f he shut his eyes, he saw Tiennette; if he :ook up his tools, Tiennette floated on the I silver plates, and hindered him from working ; i if he blew up his forge, he saw her lovely j form in the red glow of his fire. She was a j part of his life?never to be lost, never to break away. Feeling this, he shut up his forge and took the road to St. Germain, to speak to the Lord Abbot about Tiennette. But on the way he prudently determined to place himself under the protection of some j lourtier; and, retiring to the Court, sought t iut the Chamberlain of the King, who highly jsteemed him on account of some work which j tie had made for his lady love. The Cham- | berlaiu at once promised his. assistance, or- j lered his man to saddle his steed and a hack-1 ley for the goldsmith, and they rode together j ;o the Abbey of St. Germain. The Abbot of j ;hose days was the Lord Hugo de Seuecterre, j who was very old, being ninety-three years of lge. When they were ushered into the Ab- i bott's guest-chamber, the Chamberlain, in a pleasant way, begged the Lord Hugo .to grant j lira something which would be verv aerreeable i ? " w I :o him. The Abbot, shaking his head, replied ! :hat the canons of the Church strictly iuhib-1 ted any such blind engagements of one's ! word. Said the Chamberlain : "Dear father, this | jood man you see here is the goldsmith of the I Jourt, who has fallen desperately in love with i young girl, a daughter of a serf belonging I to the Abbey. And I ask of you, if ever you j (lope to have your dearest wish granted, to free that young girl." "Who is she ?" demanded the Abbot, of Ansel m. "She is called Tiennette," said he timidly. "Ho, ho," laughed the good old Hugo. 'The bait has brought me a fine fish. This is a grave matter, and I cannot determine it j alone." "I know well enough, good father, what i you mean by that," said the Chamberlain, I knitting his brow with disappointment. "Beaxi Sire," replied the Abbey, "do you | know the girl?" So saying, he ordered Tiennette to be j brought in, telling his Secretary to clothe her 1 in fine dresses and to make her as brave as he ! could. In the meanwhile the Chamberlain 1 drew the Tourangeau apart and advised him to give up his whim, seeing that it was like to j r?n?f liim rlpnr TIipta wppp manv vnnncr oirls ! ~ # - "w" w " ? ~ j j & D even of noble birth who would gladly marry him, wherpas the monks would make him pay a round sum for Tiennette. "I am satisfied," suid the goldsmith. "I have laid up a few crowns." "Well," replied the Chamberlain "you will wautthem. I know the monks, With them : money is all in all." "Monseigneur," said the goldsmith, turning ' to the Abbot, and speaking very softly but j very resolutely, too, "vou represent here on [ earth the goodness and mercy of God, who shows himself so full of pity toward us, and is so gracious to our miseries. If you will aid j me in espousing this girl in lawful marriage, i so that my children may be free, I will not only pray for you every morning, but I will make for you a pyx for the holy} Eucharist, 1 which casket shall be so elaborately worked,1 so rich in precious stones and sculptured with figures of winged angels, that there shall be | nothing like it in Christendom, and it shall remain a unique and lovely thing to rejoice , your eyes and to be the glory of your altar,1 so that not ouly the townspeople, but strangers aud lords of far countries, shall run to ! see it, so magnificent shall it be." "My son," replied the Abbot, "surely you j lose your senses. If you are resolved to have this nirl for vour lawful wife, then you aud 1 all that is yours will belong to the Chapter of the Abbey." "Oh! my Lord Abbot, though I have lost. my senses over this poor girl, aud am more | touched even with her misery aud Christian j spirit than I am with the perfections of her j body, yet am I still more astonished at your hardness of heart, and this I say knowing my fate to be within your hands. Yes, Lord, I know the law. But, if my goods fall into your domain, if I become a serf, if I lose my ! t house and my rank as free burgess, you ! c know," said he, with hot tears of indignation 1 t bursting from his eyes, "that you cannot have the best part of me. Here," striking his fore-1 " head, "here is that which I have won by pain-j c ful labor and long study; aud here lives that s of which no one, excepting God, can be lord 1 and master save myself. And the whole s wealth of your Abbey cannot repay to the i i world what it will lose when you have silenced I \ this. You will have my body, my wife, my s 1 children, but you cannot have my art, for not j t even tortures shall induce me to'give it you. j t Know you that I am stronger than the hardest! s iron, and more patient than suffering itself." ' f So saying, the goldsmith, maddened by the r calm, self-satisfied look of the Abbot, who ; seemed resolved to have his crowns for the i * Abbey, struck, with his clenched fist, on an jc * .. 1 , , 1 .. J...J I r oaken chair and snauerea it into a nunoreu v pieces, as if it had been broken by an iron. 1 mace. "See there, great Lnr^, what sort of servant f you will have, that from a maker of divine 8 things you will degrade into a beast of bur- f den." . 8 "My son," replied the Abbot, "you are ^ doubly wrong, in that you have broken my c chair and judged my soul in error. This girl 8 belongs to the Abbey, not to me. I am but I the faithful guardian of the rights and usages s of this glorious Monastery, and though I 1 should give to your wife the power to bear I free-born children, yet must I account to God 1 and to the Abbey. Since there has been here 1 an altar, monks, and serfs, id est, from time 1 whereof the memory of man knoweth not ? to the contrary, such a case has never hap- * pened where a free burgess has become the s property of the Abbey by manying a serf- r girl. Hence it is my duty to exercise this ? right, and to make use of it, otherwise it 1 would become lost and would fall into desue- 1 tude, which would be the cause of a thousand ^ troubles. And that this should not be is of a v greater advantage to the State and to the Ab- ? bey than your caskets, beautiful as they are, 8 seeing that from our treasury we can purchase v these things, whereas no money can buy es- v tablished laws and customs. And for the ^ truth or tins, 1 call as witness Monseigneur u Chamberlain of the KiDg who knows what * infinite pains our Sire takes every day to bat- 3 tie for the establishment of his ordinances." ? "That bit is to stop my mouth," grumbled the Chamberlain. 8 The goldsmith, who was not much of a law- ^ yer, remained thoughtful. Then came in u Tiennette, clean and bright, her hair neatly dressed, having on a robe of white merino, a with a lavender-colored girdle, and her pretty leet clad in white stockings with delightful 8 little shoes. And she looked so royally beau- . tiful, and had so noble a carriage, that the goldsmith was petrified with ecstacy. Judge F that the pair exchanged more than one loving ! glance. The Chamberlain, who had never , seen so noble a creature, thought the sight , was too dangerous for the poor goldsmith, so he galloped him back to Paris as fast as the ? hackney could carry him. And before part- , ing he advised him to think long before he , went on with this affair, seeing that the monks were resolute to use Tiennette as a bait to ? catch some good fish. And, in truth, the . Chapter sent him word that he could marry , Tiennette if he could resolve to give up to them his house and goods, aud confess him- s self and his children to become slaves; also ? that the Abbot, by special act of kindness, a ? uulJ ullw?i 1.2?.? VK/ 1! 11* 1.2. | y dition of bonding over to the Abbey an inven- j amw aPIiJa r?An?Jo fnrnifnrn onrl rkfivincr I ^ lU.J Ui ...o SUuUo ,,.,u ?..v. r^...b , rent, and coming every year to live for one entire week in a hut belonging to the domain . as an act of serfdom. The poor goldsmith i ' saw clearly that this was the final decision of J . the Abbot and Chapter, and began to despair. ' Sometimes he thought of raising a mob in \ the streets and setting fire to the Monastery, sometimes of inveigling the Abbot into some ? secret place where he could torture him into ? signing an act of enfranchisement for Tien- 11 nette; sometimes of one thing, sometimes of ? another ; but the idea on which he finally set- 8 tied was to carry off the girl and go with her ? to some foreign country where they might marry in peace and be as happy as the day was long. For he thought that once well out , of the land, the King and his friends among i 1 the Grand Seigneurs might succeed in soften- 1 ing the monks and making them hear reason. ? So he made his preparations accordingly, but found on going next Sunday to the meadow c that he had reckoned without this Abbot, for ^ he not only did not see Tien nette, but he . learned that she was kept in the strictest se- !' elusion within the walls of the Convent. Then 1 Anselm's heart was so cast down that he be- 11 gan to complain openly and loudly of the cru- 11 eltv of the monks. And the thine: reached */ ~ w t i L' the ears of the King himself, who in open i court remonstrated with the old Abbot, ask-! n ing him to yield to the great love of his gold- ! smith, and give an example of Christian " charity. ^ "I will tell you why not, Sire," replied the ! j priest. "All laws, rights, and privileges are j j) connected together like the rings of the chain i t mail which your majesty wears. If one link breaks the whole gives way. Now, if this j. girl should be taken from us against our will, t and if the custom of the land should not be j j observed, soon the subjects of your Majesty j ^ would take your royal crown, and in every : ^ place great seditions would break forth j against paying rates and taxes which make ; t the people groan." I This silenced the King. And now nothing v was talked of in Paris save this adventure of ^ the Tourangean. Every one felt interested in ^ the affair and bets were made in every quar- j ter about the result. The lords wagered that Anselm would give up, but the ladies of the > q Court wagered the contrary, and came in | c crowds to purchase trinkets, and to see the | man. Anselm having complained to some of j them that the monks prevented him from li seeing his dearly-beloved girl, the thing was i c told to the Queen, who considered it an act v r>P /lofootu klo f.rnnltv A ti clip CPT11 Viorrnvul ' 1 ,.w. order to the Lord Abbot that Anselm, her i ii jeweller, should be permitted to see Tieunette, | t whereupou the monks arranged that he might; h come every day to the partoir of the Monns-11 tery, where Tiennctte would meet him under ; the supervision of an old monk. And every day she came dressed in greater magnificence,1 so that her beauty was set forth most admira-1 d bly. The two lovers were not permitted to c even touch each other's hands and had for sole consolation the joy of seeing and speak- p ing to each other, but every day their love in-1 creased. At last Ticnnette came with a smi- j b ling face, and said to her lover, "My dearest n lord, I think I have found a way out of our j o troubles. I have learned from the ecclesiasti- t cal judge, Father Jehan, who is also the Sub- g Prior, and kinder than the rest, that as you j were not born a serf of the domain of Saint h Germain, and only became so by accession, ii your state of serfdom \v|ll cpnse yvitji the cause t of accession. 5Jow, my lord and lover, if you [ a will lose your lands and goods for me, I will ' ii willingly lose my life for you. Marry me, and we will be happy as the day is long to- v gether, and when I fiud myself about to be o a mother I will kill myself. Then you will b become free again in spite of the wicked monks, because it is the law, and also because a the King is your friend. And I am sure that I God will pardon me the suicide, seeing that b I do it to deliver from slavery my lord and t husband, whom I love dearer than life." Having said this with much animation and y many smiles, though the tears glittered in her v fair eyes, she stretched out her arms lovingly o the poor goldsmith, from whom she was sepirated by an iron grating, as is the fashion in he parloir of monasteries. "Dearest Tiennette," cried the goldsmith, 'it is finished. The trouble in my mind is iver. I am now resolved. I will become a erf, and you shall live to be my happiness as ong as I live, if it be God's will. In your weet companionship, ray Tiennette, the heavest chains will seem light and pleasant, and it vill matter little to me if I cannot call a ingle farthing my own, when I am lord of all he riches of your heart. I will place my rust in the Sieur St. Eloi, who will surely uccor us in our troubles, and will deliver us rom evil. I will go straight to the scrivener ind have him draw up the contracts and vritings. And consider after all, dearest lower of my life, that you will be finely Iressed, well lodged, and cared for like a moon rlnrinrr vntir ll'fp sinnfl t.hfi Lord Abbot l?"~" "& J "? ? eaves us the enjoyment of my property. Tiennelte, in a tempest of tears and smiles, ought against this decision, and declared that ihe would rather die than reduce to serfdom l free man, and much more a free man whom ihe entirely loved because of the gracious vords which he had said to her in the raead>w, when they first met. But Anselra spoke o tenderly to her, and told her that his hap>iness was bound up in her companionship, ind that if she died he would certainly follow ier to the tomb, with a thousand loving ex)ressior.8, that she consented to the marriage, hinkingin her own heart that she could alvays kill herself if she wanted to. "When his thing was known in Paris, that the great ;oldsmith had given up his lands and liberty or the sake of his love, every one wished to ee him, and every lady, who could get the noney, bought a trinket, that she might talk vith him and applaud him for being so true n love. When the day approached that was o unite him to Tiennette and to slavery, Vnselm melted all his gold into a royal crown, vhich he ornamented with all his pearls and liainonds and brought itsecretly to the Queen, ayiug, "Your Majesty, I do not know what nil happen to me to-morrow; everything cithin my house will be inventoried and held >y the accursed monks, who have shown me 10 pity. Deign, thee, to accept this. It is a eeble expression of thanks for the joy of ooinrr mu Kolnwo/t luViioti T niVA tfl vniir (TOod ^v,u6 WVIW?VM| l? ???vn a w.iv -v j O less. I do not know what will happen next. Sut if a day should coine when my children hall be free I have sure conBdence in your ueenly generosity." "Well said, good man," said the King. Some day the Abbey will have need of my id, and I will not forget this." The wedding of Tiennette was a sight toee. The Abbey was crowded. The Queen lerself gave her the wedding robes, and the Ciug, by letters-patent, granted her a special irivilege to wear golden ear-rings, which was orbidden to serfs by the sumptuary laws of hat time. The Abbot Hugo pronounced the lenediction, and the handsome pair left the ^.bbey for the lodging of Anselm?now beome a serf. The poor husband had forged limself a silver bracelet, which he wore ou lis left arm, showing that he was a serf of the loraain of the Abbey of St. Germain. And s they passed, the people formed a double ine along the street, and shouted "Noel! Voel!" as if he had been a new King. When ie arrived at his door he found the irons which upported his sign had been decorated with ;reen boughs and knots of blue ribbon, and .11 the principal inhabitants of the quarter ye re there to wish him.jnj' on/I tn sopunnHp lim witna oand of music, and they all cried ut to him, "You will alwayB be a noble man, Taster Anselm, in spite of the monks." They passed the honeymoon in the greatest lanniness. Tiennette was delierhted with her i i V . ? ine house, and with the kindness of the great tidies who came to buy jewels, and had all of hem a pleasant word for herself and husband. U the end of the month, who should come in reat pomp but the old Abbot, Hugo deSencterre, their lord and master, who, entering ito the house that no longer belonged to the oldsraith, but to the Chapter, said to the two pouses : "My children, you are free, and quit f all manorial power ; and I must tell you hat at the very first I was greatly moved at he love which united you together, and so, I ?as resolved, when the rights of the Abbey ad been firmly recognized, to make you enirely happy. And this act of manumission hall cost you nothing. And Anselra, house, ind and goods are all his again, seeing that e had such confidence in the mercy of God." io saying, he gave them both a little slap on he cheek, which was the rite of manumission, a receiving which they fell at his feet, kiting is hands and weeping for joy. And the ews spreading like wildfire through the eighborhood, everybody turned out to bless nd thank the Abbot. And 011 his return to he Abbey, Anselm held the bridle of his aare as far as the gate of Bussey. On the oad he scattered silver crowns among the 1 -1 L ii ? J * 1 i_ 1j : lairueci, me nun, uuu me uiiuu, ui^iug . Largesse I Largesse to God! God save and less the Abbot! Long live the good Lord lugo !" And when he returned to his own ouse lie made a new nuptial feast, which las* ed a whole week. This fond couple lived together long and appily and had a numerous family who setled in Touraine and became of the noblesse. Jor did Anselra forget his vow, for on the rst anniversary of his wedding day he iroughttothe Abbey of St. Germain the two lches of silver which he had vowed. These wo treasures were placed on the chief altar f the church, and were esteemed the most aluable things in the possession of the Abiey. Strangers came far and near to see hem, and the story of the Tourangeau and he lovely Tiennette was spread over France. The moral of this history is that love contiers all things?even the prejudices and the ovetousness of monks. + + An Enterprising Merchant.?A oneegged soldier, walking up the Bowery, reen tly, was acosted by a clothing merchant vith the usual "Sell you something to-day ?" Catering the store, the veteran was invited to aspect the large stock, but having looked hrough the array of coats, vests and trowsers, e turned to go, saying he saw nothing there hat would suit him. "Veil, vat you vauts?" "A pair of one-legged pantaloons." "Vas dat all? Yacob, bring me one of lem one-legged gray pants on dut pile in de orner." In a few moments Jacob returned and reiorted that the last pair had been sold. Meanwhile the partner next door, who had icen listening through the thin partition, had sapped out a plan of campaign against the ne-legged cripple. "Yohn," he whispered o an attendant, "cut me off'one leg of dem ray pants. Send him up quick." By the time this had been done, the soldier iad hobbled out of the first store, only to be iiveigled into the second. Again he went hrough the inspection of odds and euds, and gaiu demanded one-legged trowsers, iutimattig that he didn't believe the trader had any. "Not haf oue-legged pants! Fader Moses, at you take me for? Yohn, bring me one f dem one-legged pants on dat pile in de iack of de shtore." The newly-altered trowsers were produced, nd the waggish soldier gave himself up as Dst. But as he spread them before him, he lecarae conscious, as did the dealer, of somehing wrong. "Mein Gott! Fadder Abraham ! Yohn, ou have ruined me! You have cut offde vrong leg!" Whereupon the soldier went his way, j ^tisreU.incous Reading. WHO PRINTED THE FIRST BIBLE? In the year 1420 there was living in the city of Harlem an old gentleman who kept i the keys of the cathedral, and who used, after dinner, to walk to the famous wood that up , to this time is growing just without the city walls. One day, while walking there, he i found a very smooth bit of beech bark, on I which?as he was a handy man with his | knife?he cut several letters so plainly and ' neatly that after his return home he stamped ; them upon paper, and gave the paper to his boy as a "copy." After this, seeing that the ' thing had been neatly done, the old gentleI man?whose name was Lawrence Coster? ! fell to thinking of what might be done with i such letters cut in wood. By blackening I them with ink, he made black stamps upon | paper; and by dint of much thinking and ! much working, he came in time, to the stamp| ing of whole broadsides of letters?which was i really printing. But before he succeeded in doing this well, i he had found it necessary to try many experi! raents, and to take into his employ several apprentices. He did his work very secretly, i and enjoined upon his apprentices to say nothing of the trials he was making. But a dishonest one among them, after a time, ran off from Holland into Germany, carrying with him a great many of the old gentleman's wooden blocks, and entire pages of a book which he was about to print. The Dutch writers credit this story, and hint that the runaway apprentice was John Faust, or John Gutenberg; but the Germans justly say there is no proof of this. It is certain, however, that there was a Lawrence (Custos, of the cathedral) who busied himself with stamping letters and engraving. His statue is on the market-place in Harlem, and tiio Knnlra orp srtmp nf thpm. now in the "State Houh" of Harlem. They are dingy, and printed with bad ink, and seem to have been struck from large engraved blocks, and not from movable types. They are without any date, but antiquarians assign them to a period somewhat earlier than any book of Faust, or of Gutenberg, who are commonly called the discoverers of printing. John Gutenberg, at the very time when this old Dutchman was experimenting with his blocks in Holland, was also working in his way, very secretly, in a house that was standing not many years ago in the ancient city of Strasburg. He had two working partners, who were bound by oath not to reveal the secret of the arts he was engaged upon. But one of these partners died ; atfd upon this, his heirs claimed a right to know the secrets of Gutenberg. Gutenberg refused, and there was a trial of the case, some account of which was discovered more than three hundred years afterward in an old tower of Strasburg. This trial took place in the year 1439. Gutenberg was not forced to betray his secret; but it did appear from the testimony of the witnesses, that he was occupied with some way of making books (or manuscripts) cheaper than they had ever been made before. But Gutenberg was getting on so poorly at Strasburg, and lost so much money in his experiments, that he went away to Mayence, which is a German city, farther down the TT?I _ . TT_ xi p j A .?:*U nnine. ne mere luruieu a punuersiup mm a rich silversmith, named John Faust, who took an oath of secrecy, and supplied .him with money, on condition that after a certain it, ohvuio tie repaiu 10 ntm. Then Gutenberg set to work in earnest. Some accounts say he had a brother who assisted him ; and the Dutch writers think this brother may have been the robber of poor Lawrence Coster. But there is no "proof of it; and it is too late to find any proof now. There was certainly a Peter Schoffer, a scribe or designer, who worked for Gutenberg, and who finished up his first books by drawing lines around the pages and making ornameutal initial letters, and filling up gaps in the printing. This Schoffer was a shrewd fellow, and watched Gutenberg very closely. He used to talk over what he saw and what he thought with Faust. He told Faust he could contrive better types than Gutenberg was using; and, acting on his hints, Faust, who was a skillful worker in metals, run types in a mould. This promised so well that Faust de| terrained to get rid of Gutenberg, and to car! ry on the business with Schoffer?to whom he 1 gave his only daughter Christine, for a wife. Faust called on Gutenberg for his loan, which Gutenberg couldn't pay, and in cousequence he had to give up to Faust all his tools, his presses, and his unfinished work, among which was a Bible, nearly two-thirds completed. This, Faust and Scoffer hurried through, and sold as a manuscript. There are two copies in the National Li ! brary at Paris; one copy at the Royal Libra- j | ry at Munich, and one at Vienna. It is Jiot J i what is commonly known as the Mayence Bi-1 I ble, but is of earlier date than that. It is without name of printer or publisher,: and without date. It is in two great volumes j folio, of about 600 papes a volume. It was certainly the first Bible printed from movable types; but poer Gutenberg got no money from it, though he had done most of the work upon it. But he did not grow dis- i heartened. He toiled on, though he was without the help of Schoffer and of Faust, and, in a few years afterward succeeded in making books which were as good as those of his rivals. Before he died his name was attached to books printed as clearly and sharply as i books are printed to-day. Donald G. Mitchell. Underground London.?Underground,! ! the city of London is certainly the most won-! j derful in the world. It is a labyrinth of drain ! pipes, water pipes, gas pipes and underground ! | railways. There are points iu the soil of1 ! London where it would be extremely difficult | ! to find room for another pipe. One company I I alone?the Gas Light and Coke Company? j supplies two districts with nearly four hundred j miles of pipes, varying in diameter from three : j inches to four feet. These are the main pipes ! merely, and from them every house and street ' ' lamp receives on an average six or eight feet j j of small pipiug. In addition to these, and j the underground telegraph wires, there are no | less than 2500 miles of drain pipes of various J dimensions. Less familiar to us, but 110 less important, are the lead and iron tubes?leadj en pipes with outer casings of iron?along which written messages, packed in little felt and gutta percha cases, are blown from station ! to station. The convenience of these mes, sages is immense. A steam engine forces in ! a blast of air, and in about a minute it trav; els a distance of 980 yards. ; There are at present thirteen stations on the ; underground railway ; and as the people walk ; upon the streets of Londou, electricity is i flashing messages above their heads, and little ' ! missives are whizzing and darting just under their feet. As many as fifteen hundred messages pass to and fro in a day. The drainage system of London presents a world of underground street, some two or three thousand miles in extent. All the drains empty into three great sewers running parallel with the Thames, j which sewers connect in the neighborhood of : Victoria park, and through Barking creek discharge into the river. Men are constanti ly employed keeping these drains in repair, j Londoners never pour a pail of water down a drain but at the depths of that mysterious aperture somebody is making way for it. A stranger, properly costumed, can explore these depths, which resemble vaulted galleries, in the sides of which are traps forming various ' small channels. When the storm waters come, as they sometimes do during a thunder1 plump, the torrent is fearful?so much so that on several occasions men have lost their live*. The Abuse of Appetite.?The appetite is one of the least appreciated of nature's gifts to man. It is generally regarded in this work-a-day world as something to be either starved or stuffed,to begotten rid of at all events with the least inconvenience possible, i There are people who are not only not glad : that they have been endowed with sound, ' healthy bodies, for which nature demands refreshment and repliahraent, but they are ac1 tually ashamed to have it known that they | are sustained in the usual manner. The reaJ son of this we are at a loss to conceive. Eve* ; rybody admires beauty, and there can be no I beauty without good health, and no good I health without a regular and unvarying ap' petite. We are disinclined to let appetite i take any responsibility on itself. If we hap! pen to consider it too delicate, we try to coax ! it, perhaps stimulate it, with highly seasoned or fancifully prepared food. There are times j when this may seem necessary, as in the case { of a person so debilitated as to depend for 1 - ? ? - n..i li_ j daily strength on what ne ears. x>ui, usuauy, the cajoling process is p. mistake. If the appetite of an individual in fair bodily condition be occasionally slender, it is no cause for alarm, and it should be allowed to regulate itself. It may safely be considered nature's protest against some transgression, and it is wise not to attempt coercion. At certain seasons, as in spring and summer, the appetite of even the robust is apt to fail, and the relish for meats and heavy food to wane. This is all right enough, for animal diet in warm weather heats the blood, tends to headaches, aud is generally unwholesome, unless sparingly used. On the other hand, fresh vegetables, berries, fruit and bread are cooling, corrective, and what the palate most craves. Don't be afraid to go without meat for a month or so; and, if you like, live purely on a vegetable regimen. We will warrant that you will lose no more strength than is common to the time, and that you will not suffer from protracted heat, as when dining on the regulation roast. ? Newspapers.?Their value is by no means appreciated ; but the rapidity with which people are waking up to their necessity and usefulness, is one of the significant signs of the times. Few families are now content with one newspaper. The thirst for knowledge is not easily satisfied, and books, though useful, yea, absolutely necessary in their place, fail to meet the demands of youth or age. Our country newspaper is eagerly sought, and its contents as eagerly devoured; then comes the demand for the city news, national and foreign news. Next to the political comes the l!?n.ni.n nnd oniantifin inilrnola T.HOtlv And A1 LCi ai J auu DVIVlHiUV JVMIIIMIWI M>?vv?vT | ??. above all, come the moral and religious journals. All these are demanded to satisfy the cravings of the active mind. Newspapers are also valuable to material prosperity. They advertise the village, county, or locality. They spread before the reader a map on which may be traced character, design and progress. If a stranger calls at a hotel he first enquires for the village newspaper ; if a friend comes from a distance, the very next thing after family greeting, he inquires for your village or country paper, and you feel discomfitted if you are unable to find a late copy, and confounded if you are comoelled to say you dp not take it. Newspapers are just as necessarv to Jit a man for his true position in life, as food or raiment. Show us a ragged, barefooted boy rather than an ignorant one. His head will cover his feet in after life if he is well supplied with newspapers. Show us the child who is eager for newspapers. He will make his mark in the world if you gratify that desire for knowledge. Other things being equal, it is a rule that never fails. Give your children newspapers. + ? A Good Lesson.?If your boys revolt from study, give them an opportunity to test the pleasure of manual labor, and then let them follow the occupation they prefer. In nine cases out of ten, books will carry the 1 .<VTTI T i II ;j xL- _1 J a ay. " vy nen jl was a Doy, saiu ine eiuer Adams, "I had to study the Latin grammar, but it was dull, and I hated it. My father was anxious to send me to college; ana, therefore, I studied grammar, till I could bear it no longer, and, going to my father, I told him I did not like study, and asked him for some other employment. It was opposing to his wishes, and he was quick in his answer. "Well, John, if Latin grammar does not suit, you may try ditching, perhaps that will. My meadow needs a ditch, and you may put by Latin and try that." This seemed a delightful change, and to the meadow I went. JBut I soon found ditching harder than Latin, and the first forenoon was the longest I ever experienced. That day I ate the bread of labor and glad was 2 when night came on. That night I made some comparison between Latin grammar ancLditching, but said not a word about it. I dug the next forenoon, and wanted to return to Latin at dinner, but it was humiliating, and I could not do it. At night toil conquered pride, and I told my father? one of the severest trials of my life?that if he chose, I would go back to Latin grammar. He was glad of it; and, if I have since gained any distinction, it has been owing to the two days' labor in that abominable ditch." Where Nickel Comes From.?Many people are not aware that the nickel from ^ which our smaller coins are made comes from a single mine, which is the only one in the country now being worked. The mine is situated iu Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. It has been worked for seventeen years, and developed to a depth of over two hundred feet. The length of the lode is between two and three thousand feet, and it produces from two hundred to six hundred tons per month, employing in the working of the mine a force of one hundred and seventy-five men. In the arts nickel is rapidly coming into favor as a substitute for silver in plating iron and other metals. Its commercial demand is rapidly increasing, and, as it is much cheaper than silver, it will undoubtedly be adopted in the manufacture of many articles as a substitute for that nrnre precious metal. One mine, the Minela-Matte tract, Missouri, was worked from 1850 to 1855. The ore was the sulphuret, associated with lead and copper. About ?100,000 was realized from the croppings of the vein. Croppings of nickel are found also in Madison. Iron and Wayne counties, Missouri. The rehned metal is worth three dollars per pound. Nothing Like Leather.?It is a fact not geuerally known that the value of the leather product of the United States is greater than the value of the iron product. The following statistics will be of interest: During the year 1870, there were in the United States 4,237 tanneries and 3082 currying establishments, employing 30,812 men, and using 255,350 cords of bark. A capital of $55,024,290 was invested in the business, and the aggregate sum of $12,088,430 was paid as wages to workmen. The value of the product exceeded $286,000,000, while the value of the iron business was less than 8100,000,000, of the cotton manufacture less than $108,000,000, of woolen goods less than $208,000,000. To a greater extent than most other articles, leather, when worn out, is an absolute loss, as ifc cannot then be utilized to any great extent. Iron, and most of the other articles above mentioned, when worn out are utilized, and perform important functions in the economy of uses.