Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, July 06, 1882, Image 1
lewis m. grist, proprietor. A11 Inbcpcnticnt Jfamiln ftctospapcr: ^or tjjc |!roniotion of tbe political, Social, Agricultural anil Commercial Interests of tjie Sontb. |terms--$2.50 a year, in advance.
VOL. 28. YORKYILLE, S. C., THTJBSDAY, JULY 6, 1683. JSTO. 27.
^elected foctr]r.
WHAT IS BEST. j
BY MARIANNE EARNING HAM,
We do not krow. Thou knowest!
As children in the dark
We lift our hearts, ourhands to Thee,
And find a rest, an ark ;
We trust Thee in our ignorance,
O Wise, 0 Good, 0 Strong;
And though the shades encompass us
We find Thee with our song.
We think we know. Thou knowest.
We dream, and hope, and plan,
And make mistakes, and sigh to know
How frail and weak is man ;
But Thou, from the beginning,
Canst see the end of all ;
We rest upon Thy knowledge,
Father, on whom we call.
We do not know the best for us,
And so we strive in vain;
And for our sowing ofteu reap
A harvest dire of pain ;
Wo fail and fall, and then at last
We cry to Thee for aid,
And only rest when Thou dost say,
'"Tis I, be not afraid."
O God, wo would bo wiser yet,
And only pray, "Choose Thou."
Lead as one leads the little ones,
We are Thy children now ;
And day by day, and step by step,
We need Thy guiding band ;
O let us cling to Thee, until
We reach the sale home-land.
And then let days be fair or dark,
The journey short or long,
Our hearts will rest in comfort,
And we will sing our song;
Since Thou dost ki>ow, our ignorance
And weakness matter not,
We trust in Thy great love, O God,
And Thou dost choose our lot.
?he Jtorg ?cUct.
ANTOINE, TUG BLACKSMITH.
We have grand names in the Ardennes ; old
Roman names, modified into, patois, toned
down, as it were, to a sober tint, suited to the
grimy trades to which Cresar, Augustus, Antony
and Gulba have betaken themselves.
Antoine, the blacksmith, was a sturdy fellow,
and in spite of a stoop in the shoulders he was j
handsome, too, and well made. Yet, there i
was a shiftiness in his eyes that made that
stoop, at times, look wicked. lie had a hazel
eye?light hazel, the fickle color?the most
fickle eye that shines, the eye ever changing,
ever seeking something new, every wearying
of what it hath, ever greedy of enjoyment in
the present, ever ungrateful for the past, unmindful
of the future. All ! and when such
an eye hath soft brown lashes round it, 'tis the
most dangerous eye to a woman's ]>eace that
ever lighted up the head of fickle man.
Poor Eulalie ! She was the prettiest girl in :
all the commune, but not hardy and brown i
like the Ardennaises. No touch of coarseness '
in her ; too frail and delicate for the rough j
climate and the rough people, she looked like :
some pale exotic plant brought harshly from a j
greenhouse to die in the cold, searching wind.
T WAS vprv anrrv when I saw her dancing :
with Antoine at the village festival ; sorrier "
still when I met her next day coming home j
from vespers, shyly by his side.
"Now, hang the man !" I said, within myself.
"Are there not hardy maidens enough
in the village?maidens who would bear his i
fickleness a^calinly as they will next winter's !
l'rost ; why, then, should he iix on this frail j:
flower V If he breathes over it one frosty breath .
it will die." j 1
"Good evening, Eulalie," I said aloud. "It i1
is rather late for you to be out; the wind is
fresh, the dew is falling fast. You should go J1
in, my child. You know the doctor said you |
should avoid night air." M
"I have my shawl, sir, thank you," she !1
Siiid, in the sweetest tone imaginable.
"I can take care of Ma'mselle Eulalie,"said j
Antoine, with a curious fire in his light eyes, j
"Monsieur's solicitude is ill-placed. Adieu, !!
monsieur. We go to take a turn by the river." j '
I looked after them and sighed. Then I'
turned resolutely away. 1
"A plague take my dreaming fancies !" .
thought 1. "Why must I always be med-;!
dling V And a thousand of my poor warnings 1
would be of no avail. Will a pebble on the 1 <
seashore stop the tide ?" j 1
I had a house near that pretty hamlet?a j'
sort of summer rest?whither I resorted in the j!
fishing season, when the river ngar was brim-; 1
ful of trout and grayling and teeming with :
other fish less dainty. And so it happened ev- 1
ery day, as I shouldered my basket and rod ,'
and went forth solitary to my sport, I saw An- !]
toine, the blacksmith, busier at his wooing 1
than at his work. In the morning I met him
coming to his forge, and I knew he had had j1
speech with Eulalie in her little garden, for j
the saucy man bore a flower in his hand, or !
ninned daintily in his wide-awake, and his '
light hazel eyes smiled mockingly as he bade j!
me good-morrow. Then, in the evening, when j 1
I came home weary, well laden with fish, I saw
his forge fire dead, and his tools fiung down (
with a hasty hand.
"He is away in the summer woods with Eu- ;
lalie," I said, and my basket and rod grew ;
strangely burdensome. !!
When I met Eulalie she was all smiles and j 1
brightness?a rosier hue on her delicate face, 1
a softer light in her loving blue eyes, and in ;
her elastic step a newer grace. Looking at | ]
her happiness I grew to have softer thoughts
of Antoine.
"I have mistaken his character," I said ; or |
else this poor girl's singular beauty can chain j
even his fickle fancy."
Then I schooled and chided myself right
well for my own sore thoughts.
"Come, now, silly one," I said, "own to thy-!
self that this rare beauty of hers?so delicate, !
so patrician?stirred within thy solitary fancy j
some strange dreamings. 'Not a girl made
for a peasant to love,' ran thy musings, 'but |
infended by nature for a lady. Nay, more, a
princess of the woods ; too delicate, too re-'
fined, to give her heart to one of these clowns,
if, now, a man?a gentleman?knowing his
own mind, could have the courage to tiing j
aside worldly trammels?' "
"Ah, me ! how the threads of a thin purpose
snap even at a slight touch.
Antoine', the blacksmith, danced next night
with Eulalie at the village festival, walked
home with her from vespers, and, in the morn-i
ing, I went fishing !
"All things are for the best," I said. "She
is a peasant girl?the princess was in my fancy?and
she loves a peasant. IIow much bet
terand happier for her than tnesneers01 mus-,
sels or the cold contempt of an English provincial
town !"
So I hooked trout and grayling in glens and
valleys, where a painter's soul would faint;
with ecstacy, and Antoine, the blacksmith, j
went into Love's garden and picked my fairest I
rose.
What mattered it ? Philosophy and the j
world's customs deemed us both right. Therefore,
it was better for me to fish and take my
pastime, and leave Antoine, the blacksmith, ;
to his work and his wooing. The last was
sj>ort to him?crueler sport than mine ; for,1
like a wicked fowler, he snared my little bird <
and slew it.
When I went back to Brussels in the autumn
I left the pair betrothed. I was in haste to
go ; I resisted the great baron's entreaty to
stay a week with him, to hunt the wild boar
and shoot foxes and wild-cats "in the forest,
and I rejected the more noble offer of an ad- i
venturous cantab, who had brought a paj?er :
boat upon his shoulders, and proi>osed to row
me and himself down the rivers Lesse and !
Meuse, and on to the world's end if I would.
In hard work at Brussels the winter went by
coldly, the spring more coldly still ; then came
fiery summer, and I thought gladly of rushing
back to my nest in the Ardennes.
"They were to be married at the New Year,"
I said. "She is quite a matron now. Ah, |
well! I hope Antoine, the blacksmith, will j
make her a good husband?good and true, for I
he has the fairest flower of the Ardennes."
I asked no questions of my housekeeper on |
the night of my arrival in my summer home ;
and in the morning the good dame was busy. '
so I strolled down to the village and called at
the good priest's dwelling.
"Yes, he is at home," said the priest's sister
; "but he is engaged."
"Then I will wait awhile," I answered, and
I stepped into the little parlor.
"When the door was closed and I was left
alone the hum of voices reached me, and look-:
ing into the garden I saw the priest seated on i
a rustic bench near the. window. A muffed :
figure stood by him, but she leaned against tlie
wall, and 1 could not see her face.
"No, my father ; let him who caused my
pain partake of it. It seems that I must die.
Well, let him see me die. Let him know what
he has done."
The book I had taken up fell from my hand.
This was Eulalie's voice, changed and broken,
but no less sweet and musical.
"My child," said the priest, "yOu are wrong;
these feelings are sinful; they savor of revenge."
"No, father, not revenge ; Heaven has
avenged me. The girl for whom he left me is
dead?cut down in the midst of her triumph
and joy?dead, after only one day's illness.
How, then, can I have thoughts of vengeance
in my heart ? And although I, too, die, the
good God has been merciful to me. I die slowrly,
inch by inch, and not in joy, as she did.
No ; joy and I parted long ago."
"But, my daughter, surely for one so near
the end, thy thoughts are too much engrossed !
by this world. Come to me in confessional
and hear of heavenly things, and put the
thoughts of this marriage behind thee as a
temptation of the enemy."
"Oh, father, you mistake me !" cried Eulalie,
and there was a slight ring of indignation in
her voice. "I do no wicked thing in marrying
Antoine. I love him. He is come back to me
in sorrow and remorse, and no one will believe
that I have forgiven him if I do not become
his wife. If he is my husband he can nurse,
and tend me ; he can come to my bedside and
receive my last prayer, my last word ; but if I
refuse him I must die away from his presence,
and my mother will hate him."
"Say no more, poor child; I will marry thee,
if thou wilt."
"Thanks, father. All the formalities the
law demands are done ; we will come to the
church to-morvow to be united.
She went down the garden with a feeble
step, and as she turned to shut the wicket gate
I caught sight of her face.
Was this the Flower of St. Etienne ? Poor
flower ! how changed and sad, how pale and |
broken, since I saw her, but a year ago, ra- j
diant in the joy of her first love !
"What has happened?" I asked the priest, I
as he shook me by the hand. "Eulalie is j
much altered. She lias a dying iook upon ner
face that grieves me exceedingly."
"Her face tells but the melancholy truth,
my dear friend. She goes with the first breath
of autumn ; she is in a deep decline."
"And how is this, that she is not married
to the blacksmith ? I overheard your talk ;
you marry her to-morrow V"
"Yes; and I am sorry for it. The man looks
upon this marriage as an expiation of his sin,
and I would not grant him this poor salve to
his conscience, could I help it."
"But they were to have been married at
the New Year," I cried. "I cannot understand
this delay?why is it ?"
"At the New Year, Antoine was talking of
marriage to another maiden. Sit down, and
I will tell you the tale.
"All went well with Antoine and Eulalie
till the feast of St. Barbe, last November. At
the little village of St. Barbe, across the hill,
there was a dance on their festival day. Antoine
went to it; Eulalie did not go. The
weather was rough, and he i>ersuaded her to
remain at home. Of late, I think, he had
wearied a little of her love, and her calm temper,
which never tried him with caprice and j
coquetry.
"There was a procession and much extra j
service at the Church of St. Barbe on the fes-1
tival day. and I went there to assist the priest, j
So it happened that I passed down among the !
dancers in the afternoon and observed An- j
toine dancing vigorously with a handsome girl
named Therese Dufresne."
"I had ever thought him a fickle man," I
said interrupting the priest's story with a
sigh.
"Fickle and heartless. The dance was but
" ' " v- J.? ?.2X1.
Due regaining Ol Ills coquetry wiui niemc.
A few Sundays more lie still appeared by j
Eulalie's side in coming home from mass; a !
few evenings more he waited for her as she
came from vespers ; then he went over shamefully
to his idol, and all the village knew she .
was deserted. She had 110 pride to bear up. j
She sank from that day, making 110 effort to i
liide her grief.
"But, engrossed in his new passion, Antoine
noticed nothing. lie was at St. Barbe |
every day. He spent all his Sundays and ,
holidays there. From her window Eulalie of- j
ten watched him as he walked whistling and
carelessly over the hill, swinging in his hand
the flowers he was taking to Therese.
"There was a handsome girl?a thorough !
Ardednaise, with dark hair and eyes and ruddy j
brown complexion; tall and strong, with an j
arm almost as able to wield a hammer as An-1
toine's own. Moreover, she was wilful in her :
temper and capricious, and this suited a man |
of Antoine's disposition and character.
"As he went to St. Barbe he never knew i
whether his greeting would be kind or cruel. :
If she had parted with him with a kiss on one
day, she might meet him with a frown and a j
hard word on the next. And so, in spite of I
the many quarrels, she kept the Hckle man j
faithful, far more enthralled by her coarse j
beauty and bard caprices than ever be had i
been by the perfect love and loveliness of ,
Eulalie.
"At length he told in triumph that be bad ,
won her consent to wed liirn, and he wore at:
his forge a more joyous face, whistling and
singing as he handled his work and sent forth j
the sparks merrily into the little street.
"Eulalie would not believe the news. She !
could not, would not deem him so cruel and j
heartless. Up to this time she had perhaps'
nursed some foolish hopes ; some thought that!
he would leave his lickle fancy and come back i
to her. And when her mother told the tale ;
of his approaching marriage, she shook her ,
head and said she would only believe it from 1
his own lips.
"She went down to the forge where the !
hammer sounded merrily on the anvil and the j
sparks flew, and the laughter and jest of rude I
health helped the work, and added to the noisy j
music. There, unnoticed, she leaned for a j
moment against the doorsill, watching the |
brawny arms and handsome face of her false :
lover, as in the pride of his strength he welded !
and moulded the glowing iron on his anvil, j
lie, careless in the enjoyment# of his coarse
health, and happy in his tickle love, and she
pale, broken-hearted and dying?dying for j
him ! There she stood at his door unregard-!
ed?she who had wasted health and love and 1
life on him ; while he trilled a rollicking ditty
with amorous lips and the glow of the lire j
warm on his ruddy cheek. Hut suddenly he
turned his light hazel eyes on her, the sheen !
of the flames in them, and a touch of shame
came over him.
"'Ma'ainselle Eulalie,' he said, 'can I do
any thing for you ?'
414I am come,' gasped the girl, 'not in anger, ;
Antoiue, but only to hear the truth from your |
own lips. Is it true that you marry Thereso j
Dufresne next week ?'
"ller face turned ashy pale as she spoke,!
and she grasped the doorsill with feeble hands
to support herself. Antoine was embarassed
and silent.
" 'You see, Ma'mselle,' he said, shrugging i
his shoulders, and holding out his hands in a
deprecating way, 'you are scarcely the girl to
suit a man like me. You are so frail and del- j
icate? almost like a lady.'
" 'Antoine, I was well and happy until I
met and loved you.'
"And, wringing her hands together, the ;
dying girl looked in his face for pity; but
there was none. There was only a rough
kind of shame in the man, and a feeling of
irritation that she should dare to come there
and reproach him with her pale face and hollow
eyes.
"'You had better go home, mademoiselle;
the villagers will wag their tongues at you if
they see you speaking to me now.'
" 'The truth! the truth ! Tell me the truth, j
Antoine: that is all I ask.'
" 'Well, then, since you will have it?yes, ]
marry Ma'mselle Therese.'
"And as lie spoke his bride's name then
shone in his pale eyes that amorous light anc
gleam of triumphant passion that in day:
gone by had fallen upon her face in warn
rays, when he stooped to kiss her, or when
beneath the summer shade of trees, they had
walked hand in hand, talking of the happiness
in store for them.
"Down upon the anvil came the stalwart
blow of the great hammer, and, adding discourtesy
to his cruel words, he turned his
back 011 her, whistling at his work.' It needed
but this to break her heart. She left the
door faint and sick with woe, uttering lie
word of anger, breathing 110 rash prayer tc
heaven to avenge her cause.
"And yet the vengeance came. The month
of May broke in upon us fiercely hot. Snow
melted hurriedly 011 the hills, flooding vallej
and meadow as with a sea, and as this dried
in the sun, leaving many a sluggish pool,
fever fell upon the villages that lay nestled
in the deep glens.
I11 the evening Therse Dufrense walked with
her lover, counting the hours to their wedding.
In the morning she lay on her bed
stricken, raving, dying. Her father sent for
Antoine, but she did not know him. With
frenzied hands she pushed him from her, and
died raving of some old lover gone for a soldier,
and lying blind and helpless in some hospital
in Ghent.
"And now tne biacKsmitn was a maraeu
man. People cried lA judgment!' and his
forge grew silent and deserted. Meanwhile,
Eulalie perished day by day, like a tiowei
withering in the wind. And whether it was
remorse, or time serving fear, or a return of
love, I know not, but in few short weeks
after Therese's death, Antoine wooed her
again to be be his wife, and she consented."
Thus the priest's tale ended, and I, looking
sorrowfully in his face, sat silent, then walked
homeward, musing on many things.
They were married, but I went not to the
wedding, and for man)' days I shouldered my
basket early and wandered to the deepest and
fartherest glens, sometimes throwing my line
idly in the stream, but oftener sitting on the
bank watching the ripples flow and the rushes
wave.
So a month went by; and eve 17 evening
when I returned and laid down my empty
basket, with a smile that hid a sigh, I heard
that poor Eulalie was worse.
"She is dying fast, now," said my housekeeper.
"Poor thing 1 she is worn to a very
shadow. I saw her yesterday, in the cemetery,
leaning 011 her husband's arm, choosing
her grave. There were tears on his cheek.
Ah, he has his share now of grief, as it is fitting
he should have. And I hear they are very
poor. People go miles away to another forge
ratner tnan go 10 mm. "
"Poor!" I said. And there rose up in my
throat so strange a sob that for a moment 110
other word would come. Then, hiding my
face in shadow, I bade her take hastily all
needful things to her.
"No, stay?not to her. Take them to her
mother, and let her take them to her daughter."
Then, sitting lonely by my wood fire, I
thought bitterly of the empty shadows of this
world, and how strange it was that I should
send bread in charity to one whom?foolish
dreams!?I had clothed in satin and jewels
and honored as a queen.
A few days further on, when I heard she
would leave her bed no more, there came upon
me a silly longing to see her face. After many
thoughts and fightings with my wish 1 spoke
to her mother on the subject.
"I had ever been her friend," I said.
"Might I see her and say farewell ?"
The mother looked at me with frightened
eyes.
"I cannot tell," she answered. "Antoine
has grown so fierce, I dare not ask him. Somehow,
ever since he knew lie must lose his wife,
and she slipped from his grasp into death's, he
loves her with a stronger, fiercer love than ever
in his passionate days he has given to Therese,
and he begrudges every word and look given
to another. He is jealous even of me."
And the woman went her wav, weening bit
terly as site went.
Now I was bitter, indeed. So this coarse
man, who had killed my pretty (lower, washer
master in death as in life, and he denied me
even the poor consolation of one last word.
What a strange triumph was his over the loving
heart he had broken !
The next day, with my rod as a pretence. I
climbed a great hill-top and sat among the solitudes
of the mountain till faith in God'sgoodness,
growing from the peace and stillness and
beauty of the earth, wrung that drop of bitterness
from out iny heart.
Wending my way homeward among the
evening shadows, 1 met the priest.
"Come with ine," he said. "Eulalic has
asked for you."
And now I hesitated.
"I fear," I said, "to go. Perhaps my indignation
against that man will not hold itself
calmly quiet, even in her presence."
"You will not see him," said the priest.
In another moment I was kneeling by her
couch. And if before 1 saw her face I had
longed to say, "Could you have loved a man
who would have made you a lady, and sheltered
you from the rough wind and cold hand of
poverty and ill V" I longed no more to utter
such wild and selfish words when her dying
eyes looked gratefully into mine and she thanked
me humbly for the kindness I had done her.
Ah ! then I sank down into the depths of humiliation.
Kindness ! She, an angel, just
going to heaven, thanking me, a poor worm on
earth, for kindness!
What was it ? A little food?a little wine.
Great heavens ! what poor creatures we are,
when we exact gratitude for such puny gifts
as these ! Gifts bestowed upon angels; for
such, many times and oft, are the poor and
dying, though we know it not.
Then she put out her hand to me; but I, looking
at her through a mist of tears, did not see
Iter till her slender fingers touched mine, and
drew me down toward her.
"Forgive Antoine," she whispered, and a
deep blush suffused her face. "I loved him
always. I never loved but him !"
Then I saw that dream of mine, hidden in
my heart, had reached her, I knew not how,
and thrown a shade of fear and sorrow in her
soul for me.
"God bless you, Eulalie !" I said. "I forgive
him. There is not a shadow of auger in
my heart against him now."
The next day she died. And in the evening,
as I was going down to the priest's, feeling it
not good for me to be alone, I saw a lonely
man in the cemetery digging a grave. I drew
near to him. It was Antoine, the blacksmith.
He was digging the grave for Eulalie, his wife.
His face was ghastly white and haggard with
many tears, and his stalwart and strong arms
raised the earth and cast it aside, while sobs
rent his bosom, till, trembling in bis anguish,
lie rested on his spade and bowed bis bead 011
his clasped bands.
Then I stole away and told the priest what
I had seen.
"Yes," he answered. "Antoine has chosen
tins (lreautui uiskas;vpenance. ne woum tug
the grave himself, he said, l'or the heart lie
had broken."
Tins Ussks of Hoys.?Hoys are the terror
of cats, their mothers and their older sisters,
but the cats would lead but a dull career without
them : while a mother would scarcely know
what life really is if she was freed from the
constant anxiety she feels about her boys.
What unrullled but unprofitable hours of lazy
enjoyment would fall to the lot of elder sisters
were it not for their younger brothers. Sloth
and ease and a mistaken belief that this world
is not a world of annoyances, and discomforts
would enervate their charrcters. Boys make
them feel that we are not put here simply to
enjoy ourselves, but to develop our characters.
So with teachers. What a monotonous existence
would be theirs were it not for the boys !
A teacher of gil ls alone would mistake earth
for paradise, and so not having any use for
heaven, and not believing in any such place as
a refuge from earthly miseries would never try
to get there. Hut, as a teacher of boys, every
week looks forward to a brighter world, makes
good use of Sunday in fitting himself for it,
and in hoping that he will get there sometime,
to make up for trials here.
11 ^UsfeUancflus gfcadiug.
MORMOXISM IX KENTUCKY.
! THE APOSTLES OF LUST AT WORK IN THE
QUIET VILLAGE OF HUNTSVILLE.
I ! Iluntsville, Ky., is in a state of wild excite- J
5 ment. For weeks past not only Iluntsville, |
j but Jlutler county and tbe neighboring coun-1
t ties of Muhlenber, Ohio and Grayson, have J
.; been stirred up as they never have been since i
i the war. The cause of all the trouble is Mor-!
. monism. For weeks the country has been
.! tilled witli Mormon preachers and deluged i
i i with Mormon tracts. The result has been to j
,: separate families; to make the husband for- j
; sake the wife and the son the father; to make
!; lifetime friends lasting enemies; to make I
r i brothers make war ui>on brothers; to bring !
r | heart burnings and jealousies and bitterness
I between men in every relation of life. Mor|
monism here began in murder; it is ending
[ in seduction. Its votaries have sounded every
j note in the scale between these two crimes.
t A representative of the Louisville Cnmmcr.'
cud went to Iluntsville to investigate the mat!
ter and found all the rumors of the distur
i bance in that obscure Kentucky village fully
, j verified. Iluntsvillfj ic. a little remote from
L j all intercourse with the centres of civilization
. I and is situated in one of the poorest counties in
. i the State. The people are part and parcel of
j the place, kind hearted, hospitable and simple.
| They have lived there and their fathers and
! 1- .? XI
; gnilllUcHiieia utiuie mem. xjyci^ man n.nu%vo
| everything about his neighbors' affairs ; how
> much land he has, when lie was married, his
i j wife's pedigree, and his religion and politics
> I for years back. A stranger of fifteen years'
I residence is a suspicious character, but may
j some day hope to have his children admitted
I to the full fellowship of the place. The village
grocery is the point of central interest,
I and aside from current marriages and deaths,
and how the different neighbors behaved bej
fore and after, it is a never failing subject of
interest. Newspapers are almost unknown,
I save an occasional weekly. Hooks are avoided
i j save one, and that book they know from cov,
er to cover. From Genesis to Revelations the
,; Bible is at their fingers' ends. They are very
I kind to each other and a pleasanter and quietI
or little neighborhood cannot be found in
j the State of Kentucky. All this was before
that memorable April night in 1880, when
two men, with words of peace upon their lips,
came to preach unlawful doctrines and to
j break up forever the peace of the quaint little
j village of Huntsville, and this is how I learned
i the history of its misfortunes.
Farmer Rowland, who is also the village
i postmaster, a sturdy, square-set man, told the
; reporter how one fearful stormy night in 1880,
; he disremembered whether in April or May,
| two strange men came among them and asked
! for shelter. They were Mormon elders. A
! few days afterward they stirred around the
j neighborhood, and after a bit they began to
i preach at Union Chapel. "We didn't mind
! them much at first, as they talked only about
being good and not drinking and swearing
and things of that kind. Then we found
out that they were saying bad things about
! our women folks, saying our wives were not
I married to us and we would all have to be
! married again. We put them out of Union j
j Chapel, and they went around from house to j
I house preaching in public what was good, but
I telling the folks in private that they ought to
I 1-1! : 1.. .*11 Thnr l,.i?ro
ueneve in jiui^guiuv aim an man. xucj nave
kept this up now for mighty near two years
and we are growing desperate. They have
brought all sorts of trouble into our families
and have ruined the peace of this whole neighborhood.
Some others can tell you more than
I can," and Mr. Rowland leaned back in his
chair and relapsed into silence.
Another old farmer the 'squire told about,
' Dr. Alex. Hunt, who was the first convert,
j and who had done more than any one else to
i spread Mormonism. lie studied medicine a
! year at Louisville, and then whenever he pracj
ticed he preached Mormonism, and he also
j gathered crowds of the most ignorant in fence
j corners and preached the corrupt gospel to
them. He argued with his women patients
' and many of them were soon ruined by his
j suasions. "The doctrine he preached around
! to our young men and women," said the
i 'squire, "that they may live together loosely,
' and, as they are saints, nothing bad will come
: of it. Our young girls are told that it amounts
i to nothing in Utah, and should not here.
! The result of this preaching is frightful."
j A Methodist preacher then told of a strange
i tale he heard when lie was last at Muhleni
berg :
i "One evening after sunset two strangers,
i Mormon elders, knocked at the door of a [
I widow and said they were Mormon elders and |
| wanted lodging. 'I am alone widow,' she
| said, 'and I have no man about my premises.
< You will have to go elsewhere.' The Mor- j
I mon looked again and walked in, saying: I
j 'We will enter, for the spirit moves us to >
| enter.' Then they sat down. The woman fled j
out by another door and ran over to a neigh- j
j bor's and narrated to him what had happened,
lie seized his shot gun and went back. The
I Mormon elders were seated at the fire, but j
they rose when he entered. He pointed the J
| gun at their heads and said: 'You chaps git.';
j Rut they said: 'The spirit moves us to stay.'
; Then he said: 'And I tell you if you don't
la'.ivo in turn mimil-uc +lia anirif will move. 111!1 '
; to blow your brains out.'"
! "They sot up and left."
I "Ever since the Mormons have been here !
| tliey have brought trouble with our women I
folks," said another. Alexander Tompkins !
i was a Mormon sympathizer who came from j
j Tennessee. He struck up an intimacy at'
| once with the handsome wife of a young far- i
mer, (Jeorge Meffert. Soon Tompkins began '
j to say the spirit moved him to live with the j
J woman and lie made threats to kill Meffert j
j if lie did not give her up to him. Meffert'
j became excited and bloodshed was looked for I
i between the two men. They met once but were j
i parted before any blood was spilled. One even-!
' ing, however, Tompkins full of rum, started :
! towards Meffert to enforce his claim. (Jeorge .
was chopping wood. They quarreled and j
Tompkins reached for his pistol. It was a >
! fatal move. Meffert sprang at him with the J
! axe and made one swinging stroke for his :
j right arm, another for his left, and Tompkins, j
| armless, staggered off. Meffert followed him, j
j the axe fltl again and again, and the Mormon j
1 was left literally hacked to pieces. Meffert j
j then left the country and went to Texas, where I
j his wife soon joined him, and he believed her |
! innocent. The Mormons continuing their j
preaching, debauching the woman and putting
; indecent and obscene pictures on the walls,;
; the people at last determined to drive-out the j
i Mormon Elders and their disciples. Forty 1
| fully armed men met one evening not long
; ago, determined to preserve the peace of the j
! The Mormon preachers, who laid by this j
; time been reinforced by two others from Utah j
! were a mile or more distant from town and i
! had a little band gathered around them. At
; lirst they determined to tight and a bloody bat- j
, tie seemed imminent, but they finally thought
better of it, disbanded their forces and made a i
long detour round the town. They have not
! been seen near lluntsville since, but are expected
back at any time. The vigilance com-j
i mittee disbanded without doing anything, j
i Before they left Lee Jenkins, one of the anti- j
, Mormons, yelled out : "If there is any Mor-'
mon here let him hold up his hand." Randall
Vaughn held his hand up. In an instant Jeni
kins stretched him out, and if cooler men had
not interfered he would have been trampled to
' death.
Some of the converts were very simple in- j
deed, and took what the elders told them as '
true without the least suspicion of a doubt. !
Several of the women were naturally very
. i quick and intelligent. It would take columns
i: to tell all these people have to say of Mormon-1
ism. Families are broken up everywhere.
Dr. Aleck Hunt's two sons, William and
Ilenry, are nearly crazy on account of their fa-;
? A ...1 1 A. l?..+ l./ii'O '
mer s .\iorinonisui. aiih ?u ii, runs. livmcioi
separated from sons and mothers from cliil-!
dron. Worse than all is the emigration which [
11 is going to take place next Fall, when all the j
Mormons are going to leave. It is no wonder
| that the people are nearly wild. If the wife
11 be a Mormon and the husband not, she will
l have to leave him to go to Utah and lead a life
that it is mild to call prostitution,
i .lust forty years ago Mormons camped at
ITuntsville once before. They took away with
them then a great many of the best people.
They got old Aleck Hunt to sell his land and
go with them. Ilis wife and daughter accom- j
panied him, and he had $2,500 with him. They j
lirst took his daughter from him, next his wife ;
and then his money. The old man got blind |
at last and started to wander home. He died j
over there a blind beggar.
The Mormon preachers are expected back in j
a week or two. If they come there will be ,
some lynching done, as the people through all i
the neighboring counties are desperate. If 110 j,
other law will protect them they will have to j
resort to mob law.?Cincinnati Gazette.
A DETECTIVE'S STOUY.
It was a dark, and rainy day. The dawn i
had stolen in through the ashen clouds, and !
a dense fog wrapped around the houses and !
lay upon the streets like a winding sheet. A
misty wind, steely and cold, now and then 1
would whistle along the wide avenue and !
rattle the shutterless casements of the old
brick house. A wild, blustering day was
that Tuesday, twenty years ago ; and many ]
a heart shrank with a strange feeling of horror
as they read in the morning paper of New 1
Orleans of tiie tragedy far down on Charles 1
street. It was one of those densely crowded
districts for which certain localities in that 1
city were then noted. 1
Mr. L and myself had been sent for at '
an early hour and were among the first to J
reach the place, where a young girl in the very '
flush of her tender womanhood, lay murdered.
On a low cot, the crimson stain on sheet
and pillow, and the dark hair thrown back *
like floss of silk, the dead girl lay. Underneath
the linen sheet was traced thejoutlines !
of the slender limbs and rounded form. Full ]
of grace and exquisitely fashioned had the j
creature been in life. Even with the seal of
death stamped upon her face and form, she 1
looked like a child asleep. One almost ex- !
pected the glorious eyes to open?the long j
black lashes to lift from the waxen cheek. 1
A smile yet lingered about the lips, as sun- j
shine plays on a cloud sometimes?and the 1
olive tint of the brow and neck still looked :
like life. j
The tears fell like rain as we looked upon j
the dead?this nameless stranger from a for- ,
eign land. Xonc knew whence she came; i
none knew her history. The old house itself
had long been deserted?a ruinous building t
given up to decay. Hut one night the neigh- i
bors heard cries of distress, and the piercing
wail of a woman in terror thrill out on the y
night air ; then lights flashed in the windows, }
and the patter of running feet was heard on t
the stairs. Still later in the night, the sound t
or low music came out on uie sueni sweta? .
and then sobbings, like sojne one crying?and
after this all grew dark and the quiet unbroken.
But in the early dawn some went into
the old house to search out the mystery.
High up they found a locked door, which
defied all efforts to open it. But they broke
it in at last, and saw a poorly furnished room,
and a dead girl lying on the cot. There was
nothing in the house outside of this room to
show that it had ever been inhabited. There
was no wardrobe, 110 dresses; nothing but the
crimson sheets and the linen gown; and 011 j
the floor, near the bed a bracelet set with (
diamonds ; but it bore 110 initial mark?a silent j
jewel, beautiful as the arm it had encircled. (
There was 110 clew to be found unless the bracelet
would lead to one ; a curious trifle, fashion- {
ed like a golden serpent, and the jewels flash- .
ing like eyes from the head?even the tongue J
had a diamond flame, and gleamed like a jet 1
of fire. I
The girl had been stabbed to the heart, and |
had died without a struggle. There was an .
awful mystery about it which I could not 1
unravel. To me it appeared that there had 1
been a crime committed, which if revealed, (
would disclose some terrible purpose that now j
could not be perceived. But nothing could be ]
done as yet. We must wait and watch, and |
this we did. c
I had heard of a sloop landing below the t
city a few days before, under circumstances t
that created some suspicion. I determined to ^
look up the parties who had seen it and see if (
I could find some trace that would help my 11
investigations. From this source I learned t
that an old man and woman and a young girl t
had landed, and that the vessel had immediate- t
ly gone back to sea again. Those who had a
observed its strange conduct then rememoereu a
to have seen it again on the morning of the c
homicide, at the same place, and the old man i
and woman were taken on board, but they r
were alone?oiily the two?the girl was left j
behind. The fisherman and his wife who r
told me this, told me, too, that the young t
lady was richly clad, and the old people up- s
peared to be her servants. j;
What could it mean? " r
On this clew I went to Havana. Sometimes t
I am led by a strange feeling'which acts as a i
sort of foreshadowing of what is to come. It ji
was so now. I knew by a sort of intuition i r
that4! should find out something about it there. 2
Nor were my impressions deceptive. I di<\ t
ascertain that such a vessel had left that city, i
ostensibly 011 a pleasure excursion, but in re- c
ality to spirit away an heiress to an immense r
estate. The old man and woman had been \
bribed by a treacherous uncle to put her out
of the way. They had persuaded her to go . fi
with them by representing to her the evil de- \
signs of her relative, and professing to be her a
friends. In this way they succeeded in bring- f
ing her to New Orleans. Their plans had j s
been carefully contrived, and but for the ; c
strange whim that led me to Havana, would ; li
have proved successful. The false uncle was 1 r
arrested and tried by a Spanish tribunal for ! r
abduction and murder; the punishment was j c
death. But the real perpetrators I brought 11
back with me. They confessed the homicide, [ i
' ? * "?? -1-1- L 4.1.,. ,,r.i < n/iAAtn I /-,
told immediately now uiu ciunc ?<io v
plislied and were hung. 1
Educated Men.?In the great city of Xew fYork,
many men of line education find it bit-1 ^
terly hard to keep themselvesin bread and but-1 <]
ter. "While a skilled workman can always | y
command good wages, those who are ''willing i j
to do anything"?which means that they know j E
how to do little or nothing?have no chance at jall;
there are a hundred applicants for every j L
vacancy. "Xo small number of the searchers |
for places," says a reporter who has examined ^
the subject, "are native Americans. With j ],
neither trade nor profession, they are forced to J
take whatever offers?and nothing offers. ; j.
Many of them are educated men, who can con-: v
jugate a (1 reek verb without difficulty. Hut j j
Greek verbs, however ornamental, are poor s
stocks in trade. A thorough classical eduea-: s
tion, however desirable it may be, is of little ' \
use in the employment market unless backed c
by some useful practical knowledge. College
graduates are standing on every corner looking ^
for work. If any person should desire to ride j c
up Broadway in a coach drawn by a score of y
accomplished collegians, he would have no : y
trouble in employing them, even if he offered j
them no more than their board." A man who y
"had pawned his clothes to pay for his adver- ^
tisement," advertises that he wants work of j
any kind where'lie can earn his board. What 'j
a sad story the pathetic appeal tells of that f
nope tleierreu WHICH iliUKeiu was iieiin siun. . J.
- j c
IIow IJikds J.kaun to Sixo.?A wren built I
her nest in a box on a New Jersey farm. The 11
occupants of the farmhouse saw the mother a
teach her young to sing. She sat in front of t
them and sang her whole song very distinctly. 1
One of the young attempted to imitate her. j t
After proceeding through a few notes its voice t
broke and it lost the tune.. The mother home- e
diately recommenced where the young one had li
failed, and went very distinctly through with t
the remainder. The young bird had made a b
second attempt, commencing where it had li
ceased before, continuing the song as long as i:
it was able , and when the note was again lost a
the mother began anew where it had stopped, o
and completed it. Then the young one re- I
sinned the tune and finished it. This done the a
mother sang over the whole series of notes a s
second time with great precision, and a second '1
of the young attempted to follow her. The , p
wren pursued the same course with this one ! a
as with the first; and so with the third and i o
fourth. This was repeated day after day and : o
several times a day, until each of the birds be- j t
carne a perfect songster.?Hohlen's Bird Mn<j- a
ozine. ' c
THE LAW OF HOMICIDE. In
Xo part of the law of England is more elab- P'
orate or more difficult to reduce to any thing ai
like order and system than the law relating to 111
homicide in its different degrees. The act relilting
to offenses against the person throws no
light upon it whatever. It provides in a few
words for the punishment of murder and manslaughter,
but it assumes the legal definitions
of these offenses are known. Of these definitions
I have not space to write with anything P^
like the fullness which they deserve. I will only b<
say in general that upon a full examination w
of the different legal decisions which have been t:1
given by the courts, and the different expositions
of the matter which have been made by tl
writers regarded as authoritative, it will be P<
found that that the apparently simple defini- ^
tions already given and quoted below, require, b;
in order that they may be fully understood,
that answers should be given to the following ai
questions : First, What is homicide V Must di
a child be fully born before it can be killed, or m
is it homicide to kill a living unborn infant V 1?
Is it homicide to frighten a man to death, or
to break a woman's heart by systematic unkindness,
which operating on weak nerves,
causes paralysis and death ? Is it homicide to P*
allow a man to die when you can save him
without danger or serious trouble, e. y., by m
throwing a rope to a drowning man V If a tl:
person having the charge of a child or infirm j-*1
l>erson omits to render proper services whereby it
ieath is caused, is that homicide V If a phy- '1(
jician causes his patient's death by mistaken m
treatment, is it homicide ? If A injures 1J and ^
B refuses to submit to a surgical operation and <u
lies, has A killed B ? Or suppose the opera- Tj
tion is performed and B dies of the operation, *h
ins A killed B ? Does it make any difference dc
if the operation was unnecessary or was 1111- n.
skillfully performed ? Next, in what cases is
lomicide unlawful ? The full answer to this 111
luestion involes a statement of the law as to
cases which justify the use of personal vio- m
ence, and in particular its use for self-defense, P?
'or the prevention of crimes, for the arrest of Pr
criminals, for the execution of legal process, >'e
ind for the assertion of particular legal rights. |ls
;V, far stronger than B, conies by force into he
Li's house and stays there, making a distur
>ance. B tries to remove him. A successful- in
y resists. At what point, if at any point, jls
nay B shoot A or stab him with a knife V J.11'
When we have assigned, by answering these *e:
luestions, a definite meaning to the expression or
'unlawful homicide," it becomes necessary m'
;o distinguish between the two'classes into W;
vhicli it is divided by defining each of the
voids "malice and aforethought." Does the
vord "aforethought" imply premeditation ex- re:
ending over a day, an hour, a minute, or is it 1QI
1 practically unmeaning word V A variety of he
uithorities show that it is practically unmean- wl
ng. If a man with ii loaded gun in his hand ;ic
suddenly conceives and executes the intention w'
0 shoot dead an unoffending passer-by, his th
crime is regarded by the lawof England as be- he
ng, to say the very least, quite as bad as if he
:ommitted it after long deliberation.? The e(l
Hon. Mr. Justice Stephens, in the Nineteeth th
Century nc
* ? * ? - pi'
IJITCTVl'Ck! UI11ITU
"There is probiibly not one farmer in ten
;housand," says an exchange, "who keeps aset
>f accounts from which he can at any moment
earn the cost of anything lie may have pro- of
iuced, or even the cost of his real property,
I very few farmers who have been brought up t"
;o business habits keep such accounts and are F<
ible to tell how their affairs progress, what jei
;ach crop, each kind of stock, or each animal cr
ias cost and what each produces. Knowing an
.hese points a farmer can, to a very great ex- n5
:ent, properly decide what crops he will grow oil
md what kind of stock he will keep. lie will F<
;hus be able to apply his labor and money tu
ivhere it will do the most good. lie can weed th
>ut his stock and retain only such animals as
nay be kept witli profit. For the want of such of
cnowledge farmers continue, year after year, M
,o feed cows that are unprofitable, and fre- 11 r
luently sell for less than her value one that is ch
he best of the herd, because she is not known cl<
,o be any better than the rest. Feed is also de
vasted upon ill-bred stock, the keep of which bo
:osts three or four times that of well-bred aninals,
which, as have been proved by figures u,:
hat cannot be mistaken, pay a large profit on I)e
heir keeping. For want of knowing what th
hey cost, poor crops are raised year by year ai
it an actual loss, provided the farmer's labor, tic
it the rates current for common labor, were ab
hargecl against them. To learn that he has l)a
>een working for fifty cents a day during a
cumber of years, while he has been paying his tic
iclp twice as much, would open the eyes of tei
nany a farmer who has actually been doing Pr|
his, and it would convince him that there is
orae value in figures and book accounts. It hil
s not generally understood that a man who ?b
aises twenty bushels of corn per acre pays ue
wice as much for his ploughing and harrow- f1(
ng, twice as much for labor, and twice as ni(
;reat interest upon the cost of his farm as a cei
leighbor who raises forty bushels per acre, j do
sor is it understood than when heraises a pig !
hat makes one hundred and fifty pounds of pork !
n a year that his pork costs him twice as much, I tin
... +i.~ i,? him hnf ii:iif !i? ! un
'1 tllG UUlli I1G 1CCUO UWU?0 llltU vnv iJMtb v>u .
nucli as that of his neighbor, whose pig j fr'(
reiglis three hundred pounds at a year old. j wl
"If all these things were clearly set down in j i"!
igures upon a page in an account book, and j
me studied, there would be not only a sudden j 801
wakening to the unprofitableness Of such j he:
arming, but an immediate remedy would be ! htl
ought. For no person could resist evidence I vo
?f this kiiul if it were once brought plainly : tir
tome to hffn. If storekeepers, merchants, or ; f?>
nanufacturers kept no accounts they could ! tin
lot possibly carry on their business, and it is gh
mly because the farmer's business is one of It
he most safe that he can still go on working ov
n the dark and throwing away opportunities all
if bettering his condition and increasing his tit
irolits." i ag
? | ch
The Morality of Failing.?It is better ; tlx
o be robbed than to be a robber. And some- oqi
imes it is better to fail than to succeed. |
rills thing called failure is not such a fearful i
hing as the prosperous world would suggest' su
t to be. Failure is only a lesser success. Air of
nen cannot organize a triumph. Defeat is j pe
he fate of many. The only successful fail- no
ires are the ones that are honestly made. ] an
vncn a man s juugmeni nas misciiiTieu <uiu ?u.
irought liinia wrong issue, lie is not to be out- In
awed for it. When the misfortunes or "cus- lik
edness" of others drive him into defeat, there sh
s no reason why lie should be hated. The : wl
vorld will have charity for the failure where ; tin
t has been inevitable and honest. It hates a ; ye;
ham failure even worse than it does a sham ; wl
access. There is one feature connected with ' all
ailures practiced by nearly all failing con- ce:
ems, but that does not make it any less ob- kn
ectionable. We refer ta the custom, so uni- ca,
ersal with all failing firms and institutions, yei
if preferring wealthy creditors. The ques-; of
ion naturally comes up: Why should they' of
>e preferred V When a mercantile house fails, ' en
t usually prefers its banker, and lixes every- i ers
hing up with him so that he is no loser, in
Vhen a bank fails, it has been observed, that sii]
t always prefers its large, rich creditors, otl
This system is corrupt in morals, and mani- ba
ests a contemptuous deference to wealth va
hat is humiliating. Why should any failing nu
oncern prefer the wealthy over the poor V j bit
ivery settlement should be promoted as a St;
natter of justice, but if any larceny or favors pel
re to be shown they should be extended to kn
he poor. The rich can sustain their loss. t In
Phey have other resources and larger oppor- i ye;
unities; but the poor have the last prop ch
aken. and know not where to look for anoth- wl
r. Why should large creditors be satisfied tin
rst of all ? The world has got all wrong on j pr<
his business transaction. It it intends to 18>
c honest and just, it must turn around. Pub- sla
ie opinion must make it unpopular, because it set
s wrong for banks and merchants to shield of
?.,1 finli iv-k/'l nrnvarfnl wltilp fliPV ntl
UU lei V W1 tuc 11^11 cum pv/inuiu, n?.uv v..v>j wV.
ppress the poor anil the weak. IIow much j va
ictter it would appear if the bank had treated cei
11 of its customers alike. Let the wealth^ tin
tand it with the poor and take their chances. ! ini
."ho wealthy man who has divided his money, wsi
lacing a parcel in one bank and some in Mi
notlier, can recover the loss of one division Nt
f his wealth far better than the needy man, : agi
r the poor widow, who do not have enough- am
o parcel out, but must trust all in one venture, , Tli
nd if they lose there, they lose all. If any j ye;
lass of debtors are to be preferred, common eoi
Miesty would suggest that it should be the
ties least able to meet losses. Of this class
:e the poor. Any other payment but a pro
ita basis is unjust to them. In the matter
' settling with creditors there is room for an
nprovement in the morality of failures.?lulanapolis
Herald.
PLANTS IN SLEEPING ROOMS.
In regard to malarial fever resulting from
ants in sleeping rooms, it must bo rememjred
that we have not been able to decide
hat produces these fevers. It is nearly cerlin
that they do not arise from decaying vegable
matter, it is known that in some way
icy ferment germs, as very minute organisms,
jrhaps animal, perhaps vegetable, are called,
o amount of decaying vegetable matter in a
irn yard induces malarial fever. Perpetual ,
vamps do not induce it?it is only those which
e sometimes very wet and sometimes very
y, that make dangerous surroundings. We
ay sleep out for weeks on the grassy prairie,
aded down with the weight of centuries of
icaying vegetable matter, without injuryit
as soon as the settler comes with his plow,
fues generally prevail. Then, agues rarely
evail till the sun has, in some measure, dried
le ground. In my intercourse with scientific
en, I find the tendency of thought to be in
le direction of blaming bacterian forms for
ie.se diseases. The ground, when divested of
s grassy, prairie covering, cracks under great
T?? mnrlrlir mou/lAUfU hv l'l'vpi'g if f?P2lf*ks
at. i 11 uiuuuj uir.aviVTTUj uj .?
ore widely and more deeply than anywhere,
own in these deep fissures, aided by the damp
id darkness, the germs find a happy home,
here they increase and multiply. As long as
e weather remains dry there is no harm
me; but a heavy rain or the overflow of the
ver, fills up the crevices. The germ-laden
r is, of course, forced out as the waters flow
, and the whole atmosphere becomes poison..
1 do not think this view of the origin of
alarial diseases is anything more than a hythesis
at present. It has not yet been
oved. It is scarcely in the rank of a theory ;
t there are many facts which make it look
if it may be correct. Now, if this really
i correct, we may understand that, in some
re instances, plants in sleeping rooms might
duce malarial fever. Large masses of earth,
plants in tubs or large pots require, might
ve stiff earth cracking open when dry, and
rment germs might then feed on diseased
injured particles, and be forced into the atosphere
when the forgotten watering time
ts brought to mind. This so rarely happens,
no careful plant grower would permit it,
at I should say no more injury is likely to
suit from it than from keeping a box of parr
matches or a can of coal oil in the same
iuse. On the other hand, the moisture
tiich the plants transpire and the carbonic
id ejected from our lungs as we sleep, and
liich the plants are glad to feed on whenever
ere is the least light to help them, makes a
avy weight in the balance to their advantage,
o amount of plants in a sleeping room can
....1 n.n ..linnf .a tuarcnn tvlm ill
Ilcil UIO IIIcIOO (tuuub <? uuv
e open air, and it is well known that there is
i better health restorer than a blanket and a
ece of canvas, and a few weeks of camping
it.
AN IMPORTANT EVENT.
The great importance of the coming transit
the 6th of December, in the estimate of the
en of science, may be seen in the preparams
now being made for its observation.
)rty expeditions to witness it are already proved,
and the number will be very largely ineased
by those of the United States, Italy
id Austria, which have not yet been anmnced.
The French government will send
ght expeditions to the following points:
jnr in north latitude and four in south latide.
In the north the stations chosen are
e coast of Florida, under the charge of Col.
irrfer ; Cuba, under M. d'Abbadle; the coast
Mexico, under M. Bouquet de la Gyre;
artinique, an island of the French Antilles,
ider M. Tisserand. In the south the stations
losen are Santiago, in Chili, under M. Le?rc
; Santa Cruz, a river in Patagonia, unr
M. Fleurlais; Rio Negro, the northern
undary of Patagonia, under M. Perrotin,
d Port Desire or Chubutt, also in Patagonia,
ider M. Hatt. The members of all the exditions
are now preparing for their work at
e observatory in Paris, where, by means of
model Venus and a model sun, they are prac;ing
on imaginary transit in hope of being
le to observe, with scientific accuracy, the
ssage of the real Venus oyer the real sun in
jceniber. They will start for their destina>n
in the month of July, and spend the inrvening
time after their arrival in diligent
eparations for the event.
The object of this great expenditure of time,
jor, money and brains, is the hojie that the
servers may determine, with an accuracy
ver before attained, the earth's distance
>m the sun. For this is the unit of celestial
?asurement, and as long as the douht coaming
its accuracy exists, so long there is
ubt in the estimate of celestial distances,
it a cloudy day will render months of unletting
labor of no avail. It is estimated
at the weather at half the stations will be
favorable, but a great deal may be learned
>m the observations made at the other half,
lere the favorable conditions prevail, accordr
to the law of averages. The four southern
itions of the French expeditions are in the
Lith temperate zone, and the (5th of Decemr
will be near their summer solstice, like the
li of June at the north. The localities fared
with a clear sky on this meridian at the
ue of the transit will be specially fortunate,
r the short winter days are not hopeful in
eir conditions. A transit of Venus is not a
n'ious phenomenon, like a total solar eclipse,
is simply the passage of a round black ball
er the sun's bright face. Hut it is visible
over our western world, and no human eye
ut now looks upward to the stars will ever
ain behold its recurrence. It is the last
ance for trying this method of estimating
e sun's distance until the advent of the year
04.?Provide u:cc Journal.
Remarkable Revelation of the Cens.?There
are in the States and Territories
the United States no less than 4.204,302
rsons above the age of 21 years who can
t write. Of these 2,057,4(53 are whites
d 2,147,000 colored. Included in the latter
300,000 Indians and 100,000 Asiatics. The
dians and Asiatics are not citizens and not
ely to become such. Deducting these it is
own that there are many more illiterate
lite i>eople than blacks in the country. Of
e total number of illiterate persons over *21
;irs of age, assuming half to be females,
lich is a quite proper estimate, it leaves
nost 2.01)0,000 adult males, or about 20 per
at. of the entire voting population, who
ow nothing about the ballots which they
st except from hearsay. In the last lifteeu
ars much has been said, and said with truth,
the dense ignorance of tiie colored voters
the South. But in the meantime not
ough attention has been drawn to the illiticy
of white voters in the North. Even
New England, where popular education is
pposed to lie more widely diffused than any
ler section, the illiterate voters hold the
lance of power. In New York, in Pennsylnia,
in Ohio, in short it may be said in al>st
every State, the illiterate voters, if comled,
can decide awy political issue. In the
i#te of Maryland 50,000 voters, of whom 33
r cent, are white, do not of their own
owledge know for whom they are voting.
Maryland there are 111,387 people over ten
irs of age who cannot read, and in Massausetts
there are 75,035 over ten years of age
io can not read. Another table furnishes
i assessed valuation of real and personal
iperty in the different States in IStjO, ,1870
<0. On account principally of the loss of
ve property the wealth ol' the South has
isibly diminished since 18(50, but in increase
l/\n ?+ h?ici ifc A\vn with flip
I'V'l'UKll IV/II It lino IllIU HO VVI II ?tvn
ler sections. In Alabama the assessed
lue of real and i>ersonal property is 7*2 per
it. less; in Alississippi 78 per cent. Of
i old slave States the only ones which have
;reased in valuation since 1800 are Delaire,
51 l?er cent.; Maryland, <57 per cent.;
ssouri, 1U0 per cent. ; Texas *20 per cent,
braska shows by far the largest perceute
of increase of any State?11*20 per cent.?
d Minnesota conies next, with 707 per cent.
ie increase of New York in the twenty
irs is ill j>er cent., of Pennsylvania PM |>er
it. and of Ohio 00 j>er cent.