University of South Carolina Libraries
i>ewis m. cj-r.ist, proprietor. [ Inicpcnkirt ^antiln ftetospapcr: Jfor tjjt ^ramatiiin of t|e political, Social, ^gritolteral anb Commercial Interests of f(}t Soatjj. terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. "VOL. 28. YORKVILLE, s. O., thursday, MARCH 30, 1882. 3STO. 13. THE SQIJAKE ANU THE LEVEL. We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square; What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are! Come, let us contemplate them?they are worthy of a thought? With the highest, and the lowest, and the rarest they are fraught. We meet upon the level, though from every station come, The king from out bis palace, and the poor mas from his home? , For the one must leave his diadem outside the Mason's door. And the other find his true respect upon the checkered floor. We part upon the square?for the world must have its due, We mingle with the multitude a cold, unfriendly crew; , But the influence of our gatherings in memory is < green, And we long upon the level to renew the happy scene. There is a world where all are equal; we are hurrying to it fast, 1 We -shall meet upon the level there, when the \ gates of death are past; , Wo Dhaii ?tand helhrftthe Orient, and our Master will be there, < To try the blocks we offer with his own unerring < square. ^ We shall meet upon the level there, but never j thence depart; There's a mansion?'tis all ready for each trusting, faithful heart; < There's a mansion and a welcome, and a multi- ] tude is there; We have met upon the level, and been tried upon 1 the square. Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring ^ patient here, 1 I^et us meet, and let us labor, though the labor be ] severe; Already in the western sky the signs bid us pre- 1 pare To gather up our working tools and be tried upon j the square. Hands ronnd, ye faithful Masons all, the bright { fraternal chain; Ye pa't upon the square below to meet in Heaven again. \ O! what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are, We meet upon the level and we part upon the 1 square! ( jta Original Jdorg. ; Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL, j BY HERBERT JOHHSON. CHAPTER XVII. I It was still early morning when Captain ( Russell got back home. The inhabitants of j the little village were astir, and lie received ( more than one friendly greeting as he walked : from the landing place towards the "cliff path," | as it was called, which led up to his own j house. . "Any news, Hardy ?" he asked . his old ^ friend, who was one of the earliest risers in the place, and usually took a stroll on the c beach before breakfast, with his pipe. "Not as I know of, Cap'en. So you've got ( back in time for the wedding, after all." s "Yes ; had they all given me up ?" } "Oli! I reckon not; only I thought maybe ^ you'd be delayed. Ah, Cap'en this occasion t won't be quite as merry a one as we once \ hoped it would, hey V" ] "None of that, my friend," said the Cap- ] tain, hastily, as he made a warning gesture , with his hand. "It won't do to think about, i We must lie thankful that matters are turning l out even as well as they are." 5 "Well, Mr. Erskine's a splendid gentleman, ( there's no doubt about that. He's a real ( blessiDg to the community, and be has done ? any amount of good since he's been here. He ^ deserves a wife as good as little Sophy. But ? for all that, I can't help feeling as if things e weren't settled exactly as they ought to be." , "You and I, at any rate, are not to be the t judges of that. We must leave it in God's ^ hands, you know. Well, you'll be up on the hill to-day, I suppose ?" r "I should think so, Cap'en. I wouldn't ( lose the sight of little Sophy's wedding for all , the riches in the world." , With a friendly salutation, the old gentle- j man passed on, and soon came in sight of his { cottage. He saw at aglance that the windows j were open. It had an occupied look. He went in. As he entered the front room an , object caught his eye which perplexed him. ' It was Harry's cloak, thrown carelessly over f the back of a chair. j Whose was it? How had it come there? He was very foolish, no doubt; but Iris heart i began to beat fast. He touched the cloak i with a trembling hand," looking round, as he i did so, with appealing eyes. 1 "What does this mean?" he murmured to ( himself, not knowing what he hoped or feared. < Hark ! that was surely a movement in the s next room. Had some one come to take possession of the house during his absence ? His t heart throbbed faster yet. Strange, wild fan- j cies chased each other through his brain. I Absurd! even allowing such a possibility, ( there was nothing in the idea to agitate him j thus. It might be some unlooked-for guest, some old friend come to pay him a visit, and { unwilling to leave without a sight of him. i lie would find out at once. j He walked accordingly to the door of the s adjoining room. It stood slightly ajar, and < pushing it a little farther own. he looked in. - By a table in one eorner sat a figure, bending | over, the face hidden. The attitude was one | of profound dejection, or profound thought. < The Captain looked. He believed that his , eyes were deceiving him. But surely he knew i that figure ; that brown curley head. "Was it < llarry, or Harry's ghost ? \ 'My God !" he muttered, half gasping for < breath, as he caught for support at the handle , of the door. The movement, the half suppress- j ed exclamation, aroused the attention of his nephew. He raised a pale, careworn face, < started up, and hurrying forward caught the , old man in his arms, and kissed him as he had ( done when a boy. "Uncle! ray dear, dear old uncle 1" he cried, ] as he supported the Captain's tottering figure | to a chair. Vainly the latter essayed to speak. , The shock had almost overcome him, and he j could only cling to his restored darling with feeble, tremulous hands, devouring his face With a gaze that seemed as if it could never be satisfied. "My boy ! my own boy ! Is it really you ?" ; he faltered at last, the tears breaking forth and running down his cheeks. For a little while he cried like a child, Harry using tender endeavors to soothe and tranquilize him, and giving him at the same time such scraps of his history as would account for his unlooked-for return. In listening to these, the old man gradually recovered nis composure, mere was something real, something convincing, in a matter-of-fact explanation. It was, then, no dream. Harry had actually been saved, actually come back to him again ! i "And it is you?you whom I have mourned i as dead ! IIow gracious is God !" And he bowed his gray head reverently, as he uttered the words. "Tell me more. Let me hear < your voice again. I can never tire of listening. Hut I forgot. Von must be weary : you must need refreshment?rest. Have yon slept sim you arrived ?" "Slept ??no ; I could not sleep," said Ha ry, sadly enough. Now that the excitemei of the meeting was abating, and his first an: iety for his uncle past, his own cares rush* over him again. "I saw her?last evening, went there as soon as I found you were n< at home." "My boy!" The Captain pressed his han< looking wistfully at him. "What did si say?" ((Oka nntd /vk T WA*\anl- i4- nil imnln OlIC naiu vu, a *^t?n v lexical IK au( uuuv, don t believe she knows her own mind. Ae yet?she does seem to be fond of me still. Ck knows what is going to come of it." He wit! drew his hand, and rising from his seat, bega to walk excitedly about. "Does Mr. Erskine know of your return ? "Don't mention his name; I can't bear it, said Harry, huskily. The Captain was greatly distressed. II longed to say something, but he did not kiio fiow to commence. Affairs had indeed gc 3trangely, tragically mixed. Oh, he though that had he never uttered the words whic fiad helped to persuade Sophy, and lead to th dilemma. His heart pleaded his nephew sause. Indeed, it seemed that his rights i the case were almost indisputable. But M< Erskine! What treatment would it be that / must receive at Sophy's hands ! He longed t juestion Harry, to find out something more ( lis interview with the Mays, but he felt thii le had better not ask anything just then. He little dreamed, while pondering thus i lis perplexity, and casting troubled glances ? Harry's sad, stern face, that the Gordia mot had already been cut by a hand moi lowerful than any of theirs. Suddenly there came a loud, agitated knocl ,ng at the outer door. He hastened to open il ind discov. red Mrs. Perry, pale, breathless ind with i irks of tears on her face. "Oh sir! Oh Captain !" she cried, liftin lp her ban- s, "Mr. Erskine is dead." "What i The Captain staggered back a Ais annov acement; he could not believe hi ;ars. "He is, indeed ; the poor, dear gentleman Osgood a gentleman as ever lived. And 01 lis wedding day, too. "What will poor Mis Sophy say." "How did it happen ?" asked the Captain ilmost too bewildered by this succession o ncomprehensible events to know whether h vas dreaming or awake. "God knows, sir. I went to his room t isk him a question, pretty early, and gettin 10 answer when I called to him through th loor, I went in. There he was, sir, on th >ed, in his clothes, stark and stiff. H :ouldn't never have gone to bed at all, bu ust laid down in his clothes. But oh sir, th ook of his face", with such a smile! It's jus ike a picture. Will you kindly come ove villi me, sir, for indeed I don't know what t lo I'm that flustered, I feel ready to drop." The news of this catastrophe quickly sprea >ver the whole place, and was received gen 'rally with a mixture of feelings difficult t lascribe. Almost simultaneously came th innouncement of Harry's return, and all wh mew the circumstances of Sophy's later en jagement 'as who did not, in the little com nunity where she was universally known am leloved?) felt an awed conviction that th land of God was indeed in the matter. Mi Erskine had been a friend to them all. Ther vas not one, old or young, ii\the village, wh jad not respected and even loved him, and t nore than one he had been a benefactor in n< mall degree. But Harry! He was almos me of themselves. How could they but rejoic iver his unlooked-for, almost miraculous re 0 ^l?n /vnnArol fAA1 inTiro ilUliltlUll jl liUd mo ^oiioiai iooiin^ na greatly mixed ; but through it all the wildes ixcitement prevailed. The stir went on, how ;ver, quite apart from the Mays' house, whicl vas kept shut up through the day. Xo one (xcept the t svo friends who had a right, woul ,'enture to intrude. As to Harry, of course his difficulties wer low at an end. Sophy had never really wavei id in her allegiance to him ; and while his jo vas shadowed by the nature of the occurrenc vhich had set his doubts at rest, he might b lardoned for not exactly grieving over th went, his acquantance with Mr. Erskine ha >een, after all, but a brief one. "So we are to have a funeral instead of vedding, it seems," remarked Mrs. Johnson t Tom Hardy's wife, as, joining the general ey imple, she left her work to gossip over th lews. "Likely the wedding ain't far off," was th eply. "Well, well! things does happen quee n this world. To think o' Mr. Erskon" (thi vas the commonly accepted pronuniation c lis name in the neighborhood) "dying so sue lent, just after Harry's coming home ! S'pos Sophy'd been married before! 'Twas a mere die wasn't." "Well, I hope she'll cheer up a bit, poo ;hing. Time has gone hard with her sine ier father died; and I guess she'd always hav ieen pining after Harry, if things had turne mt as we expected them to. But it seems >ity that that grand house won't be hern." The "grand house," as it proved, was acti illy hers. By Mr. Erskine's will, dated som months back, it was found that the entir iroperty had been bequeahted to her', for he (ole and uncontrolled possession, with the e> ;eption of some smaller legacies, the chief c vhich was Ave thousand dollars to his ol friend the Captain, a sum sufficient to mail :ain him in affluence through the remainde )f his life. A letter written by him on th light previous to his sudden demise, after hi meeting with Harry, confirmed the provision )f the will, stating that although he considei ais former relation to Sophy annulled by th circumstance of Harry's return, he in no wis lesired to alter the arrangements he had mad< in thus constituting her his heir. T?, +lno lnt + or Kic rwvhlo tin/l litiufihiuli Stliri was clearly manifested, and his intention c relinquishing all claim to her hand openly e> pressed. It was addressed to her, and throng its lines breathed a tenderness that awakene her deejiest emotion ; for in reading them sli recalled his long self-sacrifice, his generou devotion to her welfare, and she wept to thin that Fate had debarred fvim from the liappinei winch he had so desired her to enjoy, lit welfare was secured. Harry's return left he nothing in the future to wish for; but eve lie could not quarrel with her for bestowin a softened remembrance on the past in whic he had no part. The marriage of the reunited lovers wr deferred necessarily for some weeks. Mr: May's nerves had been so severely tried by tli agitation and excitement of these event! that she was for some time in a very wea 3tate, and all Sophy's attention was devote to nursing her. Even had this not been tli case, a natural feeling of res}*ct and affe< tion for the memory of one who had love her so well would have prompted the dela; On her mother's restoration to health, hov ever, she yielded to Harry's solicitation to di fer 110 longer the day to which he had looke forward so long; and the wedding took plac one December morning, in the quietest poi sible manner, at the House on the Hill, no or lieiug present but the officiating clergymai ce the family, and half a dozen of their best friends from the village. For all in the com,r munity, however, it was made a joyful day. it Sophy, now one of the the richest propertyjc holders in the State, could afford to dispense 3d her bounty with lavish hand, and did so, not I only then but at at all future times, it Both she and Harry had decided, from the first, not to occupy the house and place left i, her by Mr. Erskine. She shrank from the le thought of taking possession of it as the wife of another, recalling the care and pleasure I which he had given to the occupation of fitting id it up for her, when he had looked forward to d bringing her there as his bride. So it was ti- turned into a benevolent institution, for the ,n protection and bringing-up of poor children whose parents could not provide for them ; and " within a year from its establishment, its owner " had the satisfaction of seeing her enterprise in " Piinh Q a W All 1/1 <TV iail uaj l/U U11II? lUi til OUUll J.LUkV?} uu TfVMiu [e amply repay her for her liberal gift and design. w The pair made their home with Mrs. May. >t The old house was so completely renovated as t, to be scarcely recognizable, and in addition to h other improvements, a large piece of ground is lying adjacent to the property was purchased 's and taken in, and twined into a beautiful n park, enhancing greatly the value as well as r. the aspect of the place. IC Sophy fell naturally into the position of the 0 Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood. Notwithstanding the simplicity of her education, & her new honors sat easily upon her. She was ably assisted in all her benevolent projects by n Harry, who, having had enough of a sailor's life, and finding the prospect of a farther sepn aration from those he loved not to be endured, "e made up his mind, to Sophy's infinite delight, to remain for the future quietly on shore. Mrs. May, now that her daughter's welfare was so happily established, gradually recover}? ed her former cheerfulness and composure of mind, and with her mental, her physical con5 dition improved, so that in a few months'time she could no longer be considered an invalid, t though she was never again very strong. The 8 old Captain, in regaining his nephew, seemed to have almost regained his own youth ; and in watching the happiness of the two young n people who were so dear to him, felt that Prov6 idence had left him unfurnished with nothing that he could desire. His little cottage, which '? he stoutly refused to have altered or enlarged, f was always kept in the most perfect and invie ting order by Sophy's loving care. Both she and Harry spent much of their time beneath 0 his roof ; and sitting at his front door with 6 one of them near him, and, as years went on, e with their children playing about his knee, he ? 1 " * ? x 1 ^j_ v W'OUld declare, as ne uuiueiikeuiy g<i/.eu uul ?vu e the blue bay with the white sales flitting over it, that no king alive had more to be thankful e for than he. He lived to a good old age, and at his death left all his little fortune to Har1 ry's eldest boy, the younger Harry, who seem0 ed to have fallen into the position occupied by the former in his childhood, and was the idol ^ and darling of the Captain's heart. L" In the little cemetery adjoining the village 0 is Mr. Erskine's grave ; a mound kept always 6 green, and blooming with carefully cultivated 0 flowers. At its head rises a shaft of pure, polished marble, the only conspicuous monument l* in the enclosure. Like his own character and ^ life, it is simple, lofty, and unsullied by a stain e or flaw. Few, perhaps, could leave a more en' viable record. From his earliest years, the dee sire to make others happy had been his, and 0 the benefits conferred upon those with whom 0 his last years were passed, had only been a 0 small part of the good that Jie had succeeded in doing. If fortune had been unkind to him, e in blighting his fairest prospects, still his fate "was one which none could pity. For what s can a man desire more than to leave behind * him the memory of just and good works, of an unselfishness which blots out personal aims k and motives, and which sacrifices, for the sake '? of others, the dearest and brightest hopes ever ^ awakened in the heart ? [tiie end.] "\Yiieue Buttons Come From.?The huts' ton trade of New York is estimated at from e eight to ten million dollars a year. Last year e the importation of buttons exceeded three e and a half million dollars, the aggregate for J the four years-just passed being but a little short of thirteen million dollars. At American rates of wages many of the imported a buttons could not be put upon their cards for o the price they sell for. > Glass button are made mostly in Bohemia, e and children are largely employed at the work, which they do as quickly and neatly as adults. e The children get ten cents a day, men from forty to fity, and women a little less. Pearl r buttons are exported from Vienna, where they s are most exclusively manufactured ; but the >f all-important shirt buttons are received most[ ly from Birmingham, England, where the ;e majority of metal buttons are likewise procured. The most extensive of all the button manufacturing, however, is that of the ParisH/^m1 1 r> viAtrAHiAO T*i n nr_ 1*111 <11111 uaua nuvcioito. in unc nmnuui^vui?r ing village near Paris, where there are from e 5000 to 6000 inhabitants,.all the working peoe pie are engaged in making the agate button, (j which, even with thirty per cent, duty added to the cost, sells, when imported into this country, at the extremely low figure of thirtyone cents per great gross. The material alone, i- could not be procured here for double that e amount. e While American manfacturers make no ,r attempt, and probably have no desire to compete witii European producers employing hand k" processes, they excel in making bone, compo(1 sition, brass, ivory and geld buttons by mad ehinery, and are able to export considerable i- quantities of these styles. In Providence, K. ;r I., for example, sleeve buttons are largely e manufactured expressly for exportation.? IS Scientific American. lS Praise of Woman.?Says .Tared Sparks : "" "I have observed among all nations that the e women ornament themselves more than the ;e men ; that wherever found they are the same ? civil, kind, obliging, humane, tender beings ; that they are ever inclined to be gay and cheerful, timorous and modest. They do not lt hesitate like men to perform a hospitable or generous action; not haughty nor arrogant, :- not supercilious, but full of courtesy and fond h of society; industrious, economical, ingeuuous, more liable, in general, to err than man, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the language of de|S cency and friendship to a woman, whether k civilized or savage, without receiving a decent ss answer. With man it has often been otlterT wise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finn land, unprincipled Russia, and the wide-spread ? regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, h dry, cold or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, uniformly so; and to add to this IS virtue, so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so * free and kind a manner that, if I was dry, I ie drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate s, tl>e coarse morsel, with a double relish." k - * d A Camkl's Kick.?The camel's kick is a ip study. As it stands demurely chewing the cud, and gazing abstractedly at some totally different far away object, up goes a hind leg, " drawn close to the body, with the foot pointed out: a short pause, and out it dies with an ?*- action like the piston and connecting-rod of a e>. steam engine, showing a judgment of distance d and direction that would lead you to suppose the leg gifted with perceptions of its own, in' dej>e?dent of the animal's proper senses. I 8* have seen a heavy man thrown several yards ie into a dense crowd by the kick of a camel, i, and picked up insensible and almost lifeless. igjttttlUmmt ladling. THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. The great mass of mankind are laborers. The broad sweep of the universal law, that in the sweat of our face, we shall eat our bread, lays on the race the stern alternative?work or starve. In some lights this looks like the law of a hard master; and the philosophic friend of humanity is saddened at the spectacle of weariness and toil, barren alike for body and soul, and very naturally wonders how this drugery can be made to harmonize with the dignity of a man's nature or the benevolence of man's creator. What relation has the bent back and furrowed brow, and the hard hand and the worn out frame, and the overtasked brain and the weary sinking heart, with the growth of the immortal mind, and with all those better aspirations of the soul? those most characteristic marks of the divine linger which formed it ? These, and a thousand questions like them, which pnss through the thoughtful mind, would be hard to answer, if there were not a ongnter siae to me aecree. .out once nnu in this law the noble purpose and the beneficial results of labor?let down on this busy toiling scene of life, the beautiful light of the Creator's love, and the difficulty vanishes. Work is man's appointed task?the great mission he is sent upon. Labor is not merely a necessity, but a duty?the fulfillment of a responsible trust?obedience to a wisely imposed and beneficial law. You are obliged to work ? Thank God and all your stars for it! Out of his infinite treasure house of gifts, we know not that the Creator could find a more precious one than this same necessity of labor. In the midst of your weariness and pain, think a moment?labor of ' some sort lies at the foundation of all progress, all good, here or hereafter. From first to last, life is a school to teach activity, effort, labor, i Every sense and every muscle of the body must be trained ; every intellectual and moral : power within us has to be brought out and 1 cultivated. Nature is a vigorous old school- \ dame ; and her morning greeting and evening ; charge to her pupil is, what the voice of God is, and what the voice of conscience within us is?he that will not work shall not eat. ' We are not sent into the world to be sheep, to crop the spontaneous herbage of the fields, and then recline on full*stomachs in thought- 1 less repose. Nature gives nothing but the J raw material, which we must work up for our . wants. Thoughts, as well as wool, must be combed and spun ; virtue, as well as gold, must be dug 1 out, and cleansed and assayed ; honor, station, power?all good must be built up, course by ; course, toiling and anxiously every step to the ; top. If nature had her way, the monarch of j this world would be the greatest worker, and the only order of nobility composed of those that achieve the largest and best results. ' Labor is life's great function. "With spade and plow, with shaft and furnace, with fire ; and steam, amidst the noise and whirl of swift ' and bright machinery, abroad in the silent fields under the roofing sky?everywhere and 1 always man must work, always by experimenting, pushing, progressing. He is a man only 1 when he works?he is faithful to life's great J law and God's express will, only as he toils on, in imitation of the nature that supports j him. Yes, thank God for labor! It is the only ] way of happiness and self-respect. Luxurious ( indolence never yet did for a man, and never will. There is a law against it. Every good thing in this world has its price. Whatever is obtained without effort, by a necessary law of the mind, is used without pleasure. To , enjoy a thing we must strive for It; and usually the measure of the enjoyment will be the length and stress of the toil by which it has been obtained. The mother loves not one of the group that clusters around the fireside, and claim her affections, as she loves the poor fragile plant whose life and growth have been j the fruits of manifold watchings, and cares j and tears. No dividend nor installment is half so sweet to the possessor of millions, as the ! first precious dollar that rewarded his early j toil. The heart gilds with a thousand pre- ' cious affections, the object it strives for and ' toils for. The world over, labor and peace, { toil and pleasure, work and happiness, go hand J in hand. The sweat of the brow turns into ' diamonds and drops upon your path. ( Nobody has a right to live who does not labor in some way. A lazy man is a defaulter in the most precious trusts; and, tried by a just standard, he deserves to be shunned?if not shut up. Nature has no respect for tire I man that will not work. She uses him very } roughly indeed. If it were not for his friends i and for his crjmes he would be starved and put out of the way. If you ask the stars, or the ever swelling sea, or the untiring forces of earth and air, they will tell you, he only is living like a man, and worthy the honor of f manhood, who masters his tasks, and goes < about his appointed duty manfully. All oth- ' ers are intruders, drones, or something worse. ? ? ECCENTRICITIES OF BULLETS. t At the battle of Peach Orchard, when Mc- j Clellan was making his change of base, a Mich- . igan infantryman fell to the ground as if shot stone dead, and was left lying in a heap as the 1 regiment changed position. The ball which 1 hit him first struck the barrel of his gun, glanced and struck a button off his coat, tore < the watch out of his vest pocket, and thpn < struck the man just over the heart, and was i stopped there by a song book in his shirt pock- x et. He was unconscious for three-quarters of i an hour, and it was a full month before tlie i black and blue spot disapi>eared. At Pitts- i burg Landing, a member of the Twelfth Mich- 1 igan Regiment of Infantry stooped to give a i wounded man a drink from his canteen. While i in the act, a bullet, aimed at his breast, struck i the canteen, turned aside, passed through the 1 body of a man and buried itself in the leg of a j horse. The canteen was split open, and drop- 1 ped to the ground in halves. i At the second battle of Bull Run, as a New ' York infantryman was passing his plug of to- | bacco to a comrade, a bullet struck the plug, 1 glanced off. and buried itself in a knapsack, i The tobacco was rolled up like a ball of shav- 1 ings, and carried a hundred feet away. Di- 1 rectly in the line of the bullet was the head of < a lieutenant, and had not the bullet been de- i fleeted, he would certainly have received it. < As it was he had both eyes filled with tobacco 1 dust, and had to be led to the rear. s At Brandy Station one of Custer's troopers < had his left stirrup-strap cut away by a grape I shot, which passed between his leg and the j horse, blistering bis skin as if a red-hot iron i had been used. lie dismounted to ascertain < the extent of his injuries, and as he bent over, < a bullet knocked his hat off and killed his ; horse. In the same fight was a trooper who i had suffered several days with a toothache. ] In a hand to hand fight he received a pistol j ball in his right cheek. It knocked out bis 1 aching double tooth, and passed out of the < left hand corner of his mouth, taking along a | part of an upper tooth. The joy of being rid < of the toothache was so great, that the trooper i could not be made to go to the rear to have his i wound dressed. An object, however trifling, will turn a bullet from its true course. This was shown one I day at the remount camp in Pleasant Valley, i They had a Ubull-pen" there, in which about ' five hundred bounty jumpers and other hard caBes were under guard. Once in a while one 1 of these men would make a break for liberty, j Every sentinel in position would open fire, and s it did not matter in the least if the man ran < toward the crowded camp. On this occasion c the prisoner made for the camp, and as many ( as six shots were fired at him without effect, j One of the bullets entered the tent of a cap- x tain in the Twelfth Pennsylvania Cavalry, i II., ....... .. ,, ,1 41... svfi 41... V.,,1 / XLC wna ijiug uwmi, auu uic UUUIDC ux tuo uur % let would have buried it9elf in his chest. For- I tunately, a candle by which he was reading sat i on a stand between him and where the bullet t entered. This was struck and out square in i two, and the lighted end dropped to the floor f without being snuffed out. The ball was de- i fleeted, and buried in the pillow under the officer's head, passed out of that and through hia i tent into the one behind it, passed between two ( men and brought up against a camp kettle. i There is in Detroit, Michigan, a man who f was wounded five times in less than ten min- t utes at Fair Oaks. The first bullet entered his left arm ; the second gave him a scalp wound ; the third hit him in the foot; the c fourth buried itself in his shoulder ; the fifth ^ entered his right leg. While he was being f carried to. the rear, the first two men who took g him were killed. While his wounds -were be- ^ ing dressed, an exploded shell almost buried f him under an avalanche of dirt. In being re- ^ moved farther to the rear, a runaway ambu- a lance horse carried him half a mile ancl dump- r ed him out, and yet he is seemingly hale and $ hearty, and walks without a limp. r BARBERS IN LITERATURE. Of the humbler trades, the barbers have 1 contributed their share to the ranks of fame. c Sir Richard Arkwright, as is well known, c passed the earlier part of his life in a larber's ^ <ihnn TTia invpnt.inn nf thft sninnin.y-ifinnv C ? - w..w.VM v- 'r*'** is rfw?v and other machinery connected with cotton ^ weaving founded a new and important indus- ^ try. Born at Preston, in 1732, the youngest u of thirteen children of poor parents, he was F apjwenticed to a barber, and until he was near- t ly thirty years of age he went through the dai- t ly routine of the barber's shop. In the year * 1760, or soon after, he began to travel as a dealer in human hair, which he sold to the c wig makers and the success of a dye that he t had invented, by which he raised the value of e the hair that he sold, is supposed to have giv- fi en him the idea of the worth of those patented fc inventions to which he shortly began to devote e his whole powers, and which eventually led o him to wealth, distinction and honor. Thus t the cotton trade owes its present position to g the talents and persevering industry of a poor h barber. h Out of a barber's shop, at Canterbury, came a Lord Charles Abbott Teuderten, Chief Justice 0 of the Queen's Bench ; as a boy he assisted his father in the business, and went with h;m to s! the houses of those upon whom he profession- v ally waited. The boy is remembered to have b been "as decent, grave and primitive looking" e as his father. Lord St. Leonards, Lord Chan- t! cellor of England, was also the son of a hair- tl dresser. So was Bishop Jeremy Taylor, whose d father was a barber at Cambridge. A nother v Taylor?Dr. John Taylor, Arch Deacon of a Buckingham and Canon of St. Paul's?was si also a barber's son at Shrewsbury, and his fa- ri ther wished to bring him up to his own trade, tl but in deference to the advice of a gen tleman c of fortune, he allowed his son to attend the t< grammar school, where his literary abilities t< were soon discerned. The father of the cele- ii brated Belzoni, athlete and traveler, was a b barber at Padua. John Folez, an old G-erman ti r?anf wna Limaalf o Knt*Kav TaKm ITopoIiO XtT If TVno liiuiocu o> vt?i uvx. wuu jixvtum*?i j *v the founder of the celebrated printing firm at b Leeds, began life as a barber. He had always b in his shop a plentiful supply of newspapers s< und periodicals, and could be read by bis cus- w tomers while they were waiting to be shaved, h He received orders to supply these regularly to o certain customers, which circumstauce proved ei to be the foundation of his future business, o As he devoted himself on Sundays to teaching d a Sunday school, his barber shop bore the a unusual notice, "This shop is closwi on 8un- v days." Wheu John Kershaw put up that no- t' tice his friends prophesied bis failure. At one a time, and I fancy even down to the present ei iay, there were many who never troubled a si barber but one day in a week, and preferred to h go to him then on a Sunday morning to have "ashave and a clean up." Ilood refers to ? this hebdomadal shave in his poem, "Our Vil- p lage." o rhore'8 a barber's once a week well filled with 0 rough, black-bearded, shock-beaded curls, v A.nd a window with two feminine men's, heads, tl and masculine ladies in false curls. n These customers of the barber's shop must tl have resembled the country bumpkin, Poor Hodge, who suffered from a big: black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his r nose: whom Peter Pinder made to be the victim n )f that rascally razor-vender, who sold razors jj that were "made to sell" and not 1o cut. v rhey would not however be such formidable e justomers as was the long bearded foreigner n in George Cruikshank's etching, who .jaunti- -j iy enters the barber's shop, and addressing its n )wner. savs. "You shave-a for a penny ; then ? rtiave a me!" One of the pieces in which Stnster Betty, "the Infant Rosicus," appear;d, represented the outside of a barber's shop, jd which was printed this couplet: What do you think rr I'll shave you for nothing and give you some ? drink j* The customer accordingly claimed a gratui- r. x)us shave, and a glass of something to drink, cj when the barber explained^ that the couplet u was to be read thus: <? What! do you think a] I'll shave you for nothing and give you some drink f "Of course I won't do anything of the kind; to pay up for your shave!" The couplet has oi since obtained almost a proverbial fame.? tl Home Journal. a; The Showman's Trade.?A showman af- b ier assuring a reporter that nothing pleases b ;he people more than something full erf peril end bloodshed, gives the following incident of gj ais career; but we don't vouch for its truth- w fulness?that is, not quite: tl "I ran a whole season on a lion that had P ;aten a keeper. The people came in crowds, e: jxpecting every day to see him make a break- w fast of his trainer. Was he actually danger- ifi jus? Dangerous! He eat another trainer, sc uid then I lost him. His widder was actually t< n love with her husband, and she swore tlie inimal should be killed, and the people sided v\ with her; and as the beast was getting old, o: ind the killin' made a paying sensation, I dia b it. But I made all there was out of it. I in- rt listed that the husband should have a gorgeous k funeral. She said there was nothing to bury d is the lion had eaten her husband. "But ain't G ;he dear departed in the lion ? If we bury d the lion, don't we bury the dear departed V n Cert,' she said. And we had It, and it was fc jorgeous. We had a percession with all our Y> wagons in it, the regular street parade, only si ill our riders had black scarfs on 'em, and the ci wagons and liorses and elephants and sich ci were draped in black, and the band played a a: lead march. The widder was in an open car- f< riage in full mourning, with a white handker- h jhief with a black border to her eyes, lookin' on B lis miniatoor. There wasn't no miniatoor, but li die held a case just the same. That night the h canvas couian t noia me people. v* e run mat i? two weeks to splendid biz. When the woman jot over her grief, she went into the lion training herself, ez 'Senorita Aguardente, the Lion tl ^ueen.' I gave her some old lions to practice ei )n, and in less than a month she could do jest n \s well as the old man. She was a good wo- li man, too. She rid in the grand entree, and u rid in 'The Halt in the Desert,' did the bar'l la ict, did a good jmd act, and is now praetisin' 'I mreback. She juggles tollable, and does a so- ei jiety song and dance in a side show. Wlien I tl jet talent, I pay and keep it. My treasurer g jhanges the names of my people every season, ir so as to have fresh attractions. 0, I know nc my biz." ii le Photographing the Baby.?By the time ai Jie start for the gallery is made the baby is la thoroughly exhausted and out of patience, m riie whole party go along, of course. rt When the gallery is reached, coaxing, and u] ;ickling and baby talk all fail to put the sub- 01 ect into a good humor. One says she doesn't in jee wimt maxes mm so cross. Anotner won- ia lei's what makes him act so. Still another de- ei jlares that he must be sick. Tlie photo{irapb- ai ir then comes to the rescue. lie has had ex- w rerience in many just such cases and knows si ivhat to do. He cannot do anything but what id s a novelty to the baby, and he generally sue- a seeds in quieting the child and successfully "1 noducing his likeness. He does it in the jiidst of difficulties, though. He has all the fiderly attendants of the baby to combat with TV it first. They finally realize the fact that the Ji irtist can do better without their efforts, and so is tliey go homeward one says: pf "How quickly he got the baby still. It's ar >erfeotly wonderful. Some men do take to hi diildren that way and can do anythiug they ct vant with them. I don't wonder they take ar ill their babies to him to have their pictures sa aken.'' bf THE REVOLUTION IN THE SOUTH. The collapse of the Southern Confederacy, >n the day of the surrender at Appomattox, vas not only the final end of the final effort or a separation of the South from the North us an independent country; but it was also he closing stroke of the irresistible forces perorming the work of an irreversible revolution hrougbout the length and breadth of each and ill of the States that had been engaged in the novement for a division of the Union. The lestruction of the institution of slavery caried with it the destruction of the ten thouand other things that had been born with hat institution, that had been directly brought; nto being by it, that had indirectly arisen out ?f the interests, the influences and the assoiations logically gathering around it. So, J ehen slavery disappeared in the South, the i louth became at once a new land, with the | vrecKS or oia systems to oe tnrown out 01 tne vay, and the remnants of old theories, old isages, and old traditions to be cast aside, ireparatory for the refluent tide bearing back o a helpless people the first good fruits and be first encouraging hopes coming out of the ; evolution. Seventeen years have now gone by since the ollapse of the Confederacy, since the annibilaion of slavery, since the inauguration of that tew order of things under which the South, at Irst, wandered like a blind mau stunned by a errible blow, but after a while began to gathr fresh strength and hope, and now, with ther methods^ other views and other aspiraions, is striking straight to the front of a reat future, in which, she thinks she sees for er people a prosperity and power transcendQg the brightest, dreams of the most sanguine s well as the most sagacious of her best men f the olden times. In one way or another, the institution of lavery was interwoven with every interest, rith every industry, with every branch of usiness, with every department of trade, with ( very bone and sinew, and nerve and fibre of , he economical, po'^'cal and social systems of j he South. And wL n it went down it carried own, with a crash, everything around it. It ( as natural; it wras reasonable ; it was inevit- . ble that under so sudden and sweeping a , troke the Southern people should be tempora- ! ily paralysed both iu their energies and in ] tieir hopes. The revolution was seen and felt , n every hand and In every thing. Desolation, , 30, was everywhere. It was truly appalling , 3 look around in the South and see the almost j icredible transformations, wmcn were paipale even in the physical features of large disricts of country where the war had raged ingest and fiercest. But with that indomita- i le spirit shown by the brave Anglo-Saxon on 1 oth sides in our war, the men of the South x>n rallied from their depression, and no- 1 rhere in history can there be shown a grander 1 eroism on the part of any people, of any time 1 r clime, than that exhibited by these South- 1 rn people working their way to fortune again 1 ut of the ruins of the war. It is truly a won- ] erful spectacle, this resurgence of the South, ! fter such devastation as was visible every- 1 rhere within her territorial limits less than i sventy years ago. It marks an epoch in the i nnals of civilization, and illustrates the high- 1 st capacities of man in mastering all circum- ! tances with which misfortune may environ im. 1 The South has done bravely, nobly, grandly, 1 i struggling upward and onward to take her 1 lace as a great section again, rich in resources ' f every description, ana aspiring to a plane f progress and power, unsurpassed in the 1 rorld. She recognizes the revolution ; and 1 tie spirit of her people is responsive to the 1 ew necessities with whieh it has confronted ' tiem.?Industrial South, Richmond. i MANIFESTATIONS OF FEAR. It is said tliat the Emperor Charles the i 'ifth, reading an epitaph. "Here lies one rho never knew fear," remarked, "then he ever snuffed a candle with his fingers." It i certainly a somewhat absurd, though a faorite claim for a popular hero, that "he nevr knew fear." No one possessing human erves and brain could say this with truth, 'hat a brave man never yields to the emotion lay be true enough ; but to say that at no pe- ' iod of bis life he experienced fear is simply npossible. As Lord Lytton expresses it: "It shames man not to feel man'* mortal fear, j It shauaee man only if that fear subdue." J There is a story of a young recruit in the i 'hirty Years' War going into action for the i rst time in his life in the highest spirit: ! Look at Johann," remarked one of his com- i ides as the troops were drawn up ready to i large, "he is full of jokes; how brave he is." | Not at all," replied the veteran addressed ; i he knows nothing of what is coming. You ad I, old comrades, are far braver ; we sit ;ill* on our horses, though we are terribly Eraid." Fear certainly is one of the most irrational E the passions. It is not always excited by ye presence of danger. Men who can be cool nd collected in cases of real peril will tremble t some fanciful alarm. The Duke of Schomerg could face an enemy with ready courage, at fled from a room if he saw a cat in it. A ery brave French officer fainted at the sight E a mouse. The author of the "Turkish Spy" ;ates that if he had a sword in his hand he ould rather encounter a lion in the desert jan be alone in a room with a spider. Many eople have similar fanciful antipathies, which rcite their fears in a manner real danger ould be powerless to do. Fear of infection i a dread that embitters the lives of many msible people. There is a legend of an Eas3m dervish, who, knowing that the Plague ras about to visit a certain city, bargained ith the disease that only a specified number ? victims should fall. When twice the numer perished, the Plague explained its appa3nt breach of contract by asserting "Fear i illed the rest." In all times of epidemics s octors can tell similar tales. During the reat Plague of 1865-6, an unfortunate man ied purely from fright ; a practical jokeT who , let him in the street pretended to discover the j ital "spots" upon him, and the poor man i rent home and died, not of the disease, but of j ieer terror. A long obituary list might be j jmpiled of the victims of fear ; from the i riminal in the Middle Ages, who. reprieved j fter he had laid his head on the block, was \ >und to have died ere the axe could touch ] im ; down to the poor nun mentioned by i [orace Walpole, whoee disreputable abbess terally "frightened her to death" by visiting j er at night and telling her that she was dy- i lg.?London Daily News. ( 1 Mistaken Kindness.?Every one has read i le story of that down-East woman who, when ] itertaining her pastor at tea, poured so much < lolasses into his cup (she could not afford the ] ixury of sugar) that lie remonstrated, where- < i>on she assured him tlmt if it were "all mo- < ksses it would not be a bit too good for him." i hrough the very Kindness or ner nean. sue ( rred. Now there are a great many people like ] lis worthy woman. They will not allow their nests to cry "enough." Their habit of "heap- t lg" food, and giving a little and considerable 1 tore than is asked for, lias nothing to be said ' i its favor, and a great deal agaainst it. Un- s 8s one lias a strong, firm appetite that only r a earthquake or a tempest eould affect, a j xge quantity of food is appalling. It is i tuck pleas&nter to send one's plate to have it ? tplenisiied, than to be obliged to leave food pon the plate. In order to dear the plate le is prone to over eat, from the idea of sav- 1 ig the food. Economy does not signify a i ck of plentifulness or stinginess. It means t lough for each and all, and nothing is wasted, t id when food is served in orer-abundance, a aste must be the result, unless, indeed, the ? irplus is gathered together again?the simple 1 ,ea of which is disgusting. Moreover, it is t comfort to get just what one asks for?if c lialf a cup of tea," tliat much and no more, i -*_? a Wives as Partners.?Emma Jones, in a t rashington letter to the Albany Evening ] nirnal, says this: "I am tempted to say i imething here about wives as unreserved f irtners in their husbands' correspondence, c id vice verso, because I often hear it discussed c ire. It was brought home to me of late, by t uince remarks of two of the happiest wives c id best bred women I have ever met. Each 1 .id to me, on a separate occasion, "My hus- t ind and I never open each other's letters, t We would not think it courteous." One added, "When women insist on this as a right, you may be sure it is not love that prompts it; it is suspicion. I have tried to be equitable toward my husband in all my married life, to trust him with the grave consideration due to any gentleman, especially to a man with high public trusts. I do not want to know the secrets of the men who confide in his discretion. There are a thousand ways of nagging a husband ; this among the most fruitful of all; I have studied to avoid them." This was given with modest dignity in answer to my asking her the secret of her fresh and youthful looks, though the mother of grown-up daughters, and the companion secret of her husband's love-like and proverbial devotion to her. Th? Fibst Year.?In all cases, the first year of married life is most trying. Either party may start by expecting too much of the other* forgetting that life is a real and earnest business, and that life ought to be more profitably employed than in always making tender speeches or indulging in a gushing fondness. Thoflc AYiiAotAt.innR nr tpndpnnipa arp aura t.n result in disappointment and vexation, but they are errors that will be quickly got over. The kindly tone and tender look of intercourse, the constant endeavor to please and gratify, and the ever ready sympathy, will early be recognised as the fruits of a true affection, and be received in loving sympathy by a kindred sentiment. It is woman's place to make home attractive, as it is man's to provide for and remain in it. A young husband cannot retain the freedom of a bachelor with the benefits of a settled home. He has serious and responsible duties to perform ; has to secure the comforts and well being of the woman who has confided her happiness to his care, to seek her sympathy and confidence, to avoid neglect, or the seeming to prefer, much more the preferring, the company of others to here; to contribute to her intellectual culture, to ease her burdens, and in all things to be her guide and support. He must bear in mind that the society of those who were his companions in youth, and early manhood must now be enjoyed at his own home, and that the hunting for pleasure in his former haunts will leave a dearth of it at his own fireside. Duties, professional or business gatherings, will call him away often enough, but of these absences no real wife will complain. Pleasure parties which are unsuitable for his wife are equally unsulted to him. She should be his companion always, both at home and abroad. ^ ? The Chinese Bamboo.?a bamboo, be it said, can be put to more uses than any other thing of the vegetable kind in the world. What would our opposite neighbors in the Celestial empire do without it ? It is employed for every conceivable, beside some inconceivable purposes, on land and water, and even in the air ; for kites are made of it, and so are the queer little whistles bound to the tame pigions to frighten cows from the grain fields. I> nan Ha iiqoH in tho whnln pana in strim in threads or in segments, aiid no part comes imiss. The tubes are suitable for water-pipes, ind so it answers for aqueducts; it is so strong that foot bridges are constructed of it, and light enough for rafts ; so available that a whole house can be built of it?the frame, the lattices, the thatch, the partitions?and it furnishes material for the tables and chairs, find some of the utensils and decorative articles ; it is so hard that knives are made from thin slices, and so delicate that it may be carved into the daintiest of boxes, and even thimbles and necklaces ; so elastic that baskets are woven of it, so fibrous that it may be twisted into ropes and cordage. It supplies lining for the chests of tea, strands for fishing-nets, strips for fans and canes stiff enough for oars and spears and palanquin poles. It is one of the four things without which Chink would be ChiDa no longer; rice for food, tea for drink, Bilk for wear, and bamboo for everything. There are said to be more than sixty varieties of this wonderful thing, which is neither grass nor tree, yet is in structure like grass ; while it grows in dense groves, like trees, and shoots up to a height of even one hundrea and fifty feet, and is nothing after all but a hollow, jointed reed. Home Education.?The mother, unwilling to subject her six-year-old boy to the impure air, bad light and other evil influences sometimes found about the rooms, grounds, ind out-buildings of the school, though herself unable to add a ledger-column with accuracy and dispatch, yet teaches him to count, rod write small numbers. She tears from some old arithmetic, a leaf containing easy, % properly graded examples in addition without roswers?as, for instance, pages 17 and 18 of Fetter's practical arithmetic; and, by some reward, trifling in value, perhaps, but prized jy the child, induces him to add tne examples jntil he does it accurately and rapidly. Then she gives him the next two pages, but only ffhen they are fully mastered, the next and so >n, until at length?it may not be till after Iwo or three years?the child has mastered rhirty pages of examples, and is able to add ong examples on the 46th page with as much sase and accuracy as he can count ten, and vould be trusted by his father to foot up his edger pages. Under the mother's supervision, with a very little instruction on her part it the beginning, she furnishes examples for a*? x- 1:? . AilJ ill incentive to practice , tue cuiiu u<? imuicu jy practice to do what she cannot possibly do, md will probably never be able to do ; what L'ew high school graduates or teachers can do? aamely, to add columns of figures of whatever length with accuracy and rapidity. The mother has in this case done the very oest kind of teaching. Though she has seem:d to do but little, she has induced the child x> do a great deal, always in the right direction, and with such gradual progress from shorter examples to longer ones as to make assistance almost unnecessary. ? The Mormon Temple.?The Salt Lake News calls the attention of the tithe-payers to the fact that the walls of the temple are now up about sixty-eight feet, which it. considers a tplendid thing. Taking this as &fras&ftu: estimates, the people who contribute every inonth for the temple fund can figure bow long it will take to run it up to one hundred feet, the height laid down in the specifications. It lias now been nearly thirty years since the teniae was started. Only seven courses of stone ?ere laid this year. Now the question for the ,eople who pay the monthly tax for the temple fund to consider is, how much it cost to lay ;he seven courses as compared to the amount put up. At the last semi-annual conference, in the midst of all the old musty financial reports handed in, there was no mention whatever made of the Salt Lake Temple fund. President Taylor dismissed the matter in his ;asy, off-hand way, by saying, "Brothers, we ion't exactly know how the temple fund stands. There is no need of keeping any ac:ount. Tliere is the building going up before /our eyes, and you can all see for yourselves. iVe will now sing the three hundred and thiry-sixth hymn." Several millions of dollars lave already been dumped into the Salt Lake rem pie fund accotint, and the people have ipent one hundred thousand dollars on it in nonev so far: and the neoi)le who are sub ected to the monthly assessments are not pernitted to know where the rest of the money ;oes to. An Injurious Practice.?The practice of ;eeping children after school hours, as a punishment, has nothing to recommend it. Frety nearly every .school house in the land is thus urned into a penitentiary, in which children ire immured every day, some of them for imperfect recitations, for faults of deportment. Phis method of punishment might, if the eachers were all judicious, be resorted to occasionally with good effect; but teachers are lot all judicious, and thousands of children ire thus detained every day, to whom the deention is serious injury, and a grave injustice. ?or some trifling breach of order, like turning n the seat or dropping a pencilj for some small ailure in a recitation, or a similar trifle which an scarcely be called a fault at all, the cliilIren are shut up in the school houses, someimes during the intermission, often after the ilose of school. Thousands of children in lealth, to whom the regular school hours are oo long, are permanently injured by this sysem of confinement. ' 'A