Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j _ An Jjn&ejjeniient Jfantilu Ifetos paper: jior tite promotion of tjie political, .Social, Agricultural ani Commercial Interests of t|e Soul|. jTERMS--$2.50 A YEAR, ix ADVANCE. VOL. 38. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JTJLY 13, 1883. NO. 38. Jtlfftd jgoctrg. TO-DAY. Why do we tune our hearts to sorrowWhen all around is bright and gay, And let the gloom of some to-morrow Eclipse the gladness of to-day ? When Summer's sun is on us shining, And flooding all the land with light, Why do we waste our time repining, That nearer and nearer creeps the night? We teach ourselves with scornful sadness That it is vain to seek for blissThere is no time for glee and gladness In such a weary world as this. The snare of doubting thoughts has caught us, And we to grim forebodings yield, And fail to learn the lesson taught us By all the lilies of the field. They take no thought for each to morrow, They never dream of doubt or sin, They fear no dim forthcoming shadow, "They toil not, neither do they spin." Yet still they tell the same old story, T., mq urhn /.rov? in rain for ea-e. That "Solomon, in all bis glory, Was not arrayed like one of these." ihc Jtorg 9eUtr. A.RARE CASE. Mattie's story was simple enough. The orphan child of a former servant in a wealthy family, Mattie had shared the lessons and the play of the young daughter of the house, until the time came when it was convenient to turn the humble companion adrift to work for herself. It may have been a piece of the ill luck his neighbor ascribed to l)rew, that it should have been to his farm the girl came as help to his sister, or it may have been a piece of his good nature that made him agree to take under his roof this pretty lass, untrained for service and educated far above her station. Drew's widowed sister, Mrs. Banks, who lived with him, and whose child it was, Mattie had come to Durse, amongst other duties too numerous to mention, for there was bu?one servant kept. Drew's sister exclaimed in despair when the fanner brought home the young, lady-like, delicate-looking girl: "We want a strong, hard-working lass ! This one does not know her right hand from her left. She is as good as a lady?or as bad, and.has never milked a cow in her life ! What were you thinking of to bring her here ?" "Ah ! that's just my luck ; well, we must do the best we can with her. If the steward had never mentioned her to me, now?but then he did mention her to me, and here she is." There she was, and there she stayed. Apt to learn, willing to be taught, grateful for the real kindness she met with, Mattie was soon the best hand at milking for miles around, and soon became devoted to the baby. Three years passed quietly, and then came the real romance of Mattie's life. /Si J A- A Mie was twenty mat suiuium, mm auam Armitage, a grave man, was fully ten years her senior. A traveler, member of a worldrenowneil scientific society, a student and discoverer ; he was between two scientific expeditions, refreshing heart and brain by a walking tour through the home counties. Adam's walking tour ended at the farm Drew had taken only a year before, and the dwelling house it had been found more convenient to inhabit than the smaller building on the old land close to the road. Mr. Armitage found the pure air of the Downs good for him. He made friends with all the family. To Mattie it was delightful to meet once more some one with all the tricks of speech and manner of refined society amongst which her " yonth had been passed. Little Harry followed this new friend wherever he went'; Harry's mother called him a right down pleasant gentleman ; the farmer called him a good man. They all missed him when he went away, Mattie most of all; but the following summer saw him there again a welcome old friend this time, and no stranger. Drew, a keen observer of all that went on around him, was not so much taken by surprise as his sister was one day, toward the end of this second visit. Adam and Mattie were both mysteriously missing. A strongarmed country lass made her appearance before night. She was the bearer of a note from Mattie, confessing that she and Mr. Arraitage were married, and hoping the servant sent might supply her place so that no one would be inconvenienced. Drew might shake his head and look thoughtful, but Mr. Aimitage was his own master ; and it was not the first time a gentleman had married a country lass. Besides, the deed was done and past recall. They had gone quietly to one of the churches in the town from whence the sound of bells floated up to the farm, and had been married by a special license. Adam had taken lodging for his bride, and there they passed one brief, bright' week of happiness; then one morning, walking quietly back together, Mattie blushing and smiling, and looking so lovely and ladylike in a simple dress that she used to wear before she came to the farm, that they hardly knew her. Adam explained that he meant to leave his wife for two days?no more?in the care of her old friends, at the end of that time he would return and fetch her. There were arrangements to be made in regard to the scientific expedition about to start immediately. It would sail without him now, but it behooved him to do his best that his place should be as well filled as might be. There was his mother to see, and prepare for receiving Mattie. Mattie wanted a nttie way witn ner nusband and the farmer along the breezy uplands, and then Adam sent her back, and hastened his own steps in the direction of the little station at the foot of the Downs. When he came again, he said, laughing, that it would be from B station, "and that he would drive in a tly throngh the Stonedene Gate along the track, the only approach to a carriage road leading to the farm. Mattie went away smiling as he thought she would do and only paused now and then to look after the two men as long they remained in sight. It was natural that she should feel a little afraid of this unknown lady, Adam's mother, but that fear was the only shadow on Mattie's path. It was an idyl, a poem, as true a love-story as the world has seen, that had written itself here in this outof-the-way spot on the lonely Sussex Downs. On the third day they might look for Adam to return, but that day passed and many another, until the days were weeks, and the weeks months, and he neither came nor wrote. Mattie remembered how when she had turned to look back for the last time upon that homeward walk, she had seen his figure distinct against the sky for one instant, and in the next lost it entirely as he passed out of sight over the swelling line of hills. Just so she seemed to have lost faith and trust in him ; but never ceased to watch for his coining again. Drew, after a time, either goaded to the step by his sister's loud mouthed arguments, or prompted to it by his own sense of what was due to Mattie, not only took pains to ascertain that the marriage was real enough, but the further pains of searching for and finding the address of Adam Armitage, in London. It was strange how this girl and her former master both trusted Adam iu the face of his inexplicable silence; in the face of even a more ominous discovery made of Drew when in town?the discovery that he had never mentioned Mattie's name to his mother, or alluded to Mattie at all. As for Adam, Mrs. Armitage had declared he was not with her then, and that she could not give an address that would find him ; an assertion that confirmed Mattie in the idea that he had started on those far away travels he had so often spoken of to her. As autumn passed and the evenings grew chill with the breath of coming winter, Mattie's health seemed to fail. The deep melancholy that oppressed her threatened to break the springs of life. In order to escape from Mrs. Banks, the girl took to lonely wanderings over the Downs?wanderings that always ended at Stonedene?until, with the instinct of a wounded animal that seeks to endure its pain alone, or from the ever present recollection ol the last words of Adam, when he said it was by way of Stonedene that he would return J she besought the farmer to send away the wc I man in charge of the house, and allow her t take her place. Drew yielded to the wisli of his wife, whos heart was breaking with the pain of absenc and the mystery of silence, and Mattie, o this soggy day, had already lived months a Stonedene, 011 the watch always for the con: ing of Adam. The fog increased instead of diminishe with the approach of evening. Drew coul not see his own house until lie was close to it as he had remarked, the mystery of Mattie' affairs was not more impenetrable than th veil hiding all the natural objects just, then When he had put up the horse and gone in t tea, Mrs. Banks, as she bustled about, prepai ing the meal that Mattie's deft fingers ha< been wont to set out with so much quietnes as well as celerity, did not fail to meet hin with the question : "Well, how is she?" "She" had come to mean Mattie, in the vo cabulary of the farmer and his sister. "About as usual, in health," Drew replied lifting the five-year-old Harry to his knee "but troubled in mind, to be sure, that is a usual, too." "She is out of her mind," exclaimed Mrs Banks, irritably. "Every one but yourself knows that ; and i you do not know it, it is only because you are a mad as she is?or any one might think so fron the way you go on." "Nay, nay," said Drew gently, as the disl was set upon the table with a vehemence thai made the teacups rattle. "There are no signi of madness about Mattie?unless you call he: trust in her husband by so hard a name." "Husband ! a pretty husband, indeed. I'v< no patience with him nor with you either. Ai if it was not common talk enough 1 It wouk be better to persuade the girl to come honn and get to work again than to encourage lie] in her fancies, while you pay another servant here?and times so hard as they are." "I was thinking to-day," the farmer wenl on softly passing his broad palm over the blondi head of the child upon his knee. "I was think ing as I came along of how it stands wrttten "He that loveth not his brother whom h< hath seen, how can he love God whom he hat! not seen.' At that instant the shadowy form of som< one going around to the front door, passed tlx window, against which the fog pressed close ly. Drew set little Harry on his feet and ros( slowly, listening with an intentness and a sur prised look that made his sister ask what ailec him. "Rover?the dog does not bark ; who?bj the mercy of heaven, it is the man himself ?' cried Drew, as the door opened with a sudden ness that caused Mrs. Banks to drop the plates on the brick fioor. For Adam Armitagestooc upon the threshold ; Adam, pale and worn, i shadow of his former self, but himself unmis takably. Adam looked around the room as thougl seeking some one, smiled in his old fashion al Harry, gave a half curious, half indifferenl glance at Hiiiza isanKS, ana tnen turnea 10 uu farmer. "Drew," he said simply, "where is 1113 wife ?" "Mrs. Armitage is waiting for you at Stone dene, sir ; there was some talk of your coming back that way." "Waiting !" Adam threw up his hand witl a passionate gesture ; "what can she have thought V" "She has thought you were gone after al upon that voyage, and that your letters hue miscarried. Sometimes she thought that yoi were dead, Mr. Armitage, but never ' Drew broke off and held out his hand. "W< knew you could explain what has happened, sir," lie concluded. Adam drew his own hand across his eyes ir the way a man might do who has lately beoi roused from a bad dream and has some troubh to collect his thoughts. "That has happened," he said, "which if il had not befallen me myself, and become i part of my own experience, I should find il difficult to believe possible. A strange thing has happened, and yet"?here the old srnih they remeinliered so well broke slowly like I V.,1 i. t:- r i.L 1 .. *,^4. mAt.i Jigui over his nice? <11111 jet <1 uiui^ nut iuuh strange as the world goes, than that you?] say nothing of Mattie?but that you shoulc have trusted me throughout. I detected n< mistrust in your voice, no doubt in your eyes not even when they first met mine just now They call mine a rare case, friend; they mighl say the same of your belief in me. But? Stonedene did you say ? Walk with me there and hear my tale as we go." "This evening; and in the mist; and you sir looking far from well," began Eliza Banks "Mattie has waited so long already that on< night more will make but little difference." "One night, one hour more than I can l.eli will make all the difference between willfu wrong and a misfortune that has fallen or both alike," said Adam. He would not be dissuaded from setting out at once, and ii another minute the two men were pursuing their way through the driving mist, Adan talking as they went. After parting from Mattie, he had taken ; train for London, where arriving in din course, he drove in a cab toward his mother'! house, in Grosvenor street, within a few yard! of winch ins caD overiurnea ana Auam wa: thrown out, falling heavily upon his head After a long interval, however, he opened hii eyes and recovered consciousness; and, as h< did so, slowly at first, after a time more fully the astounding discovery was made that memo ry was entirely gone. However, this state was one from which so said his friends, science could at will recal him, and the oj>eration necessary to reston Adam to himself was deferred only until hi; health admitted of it being attended by a min j imum risk. It was while Adam was in the state abovi I described that Drew had seen Mrs. Armitage I A proud woman, she was ill pleased to hea i he had married a farm servant; for that wai | the one Tact that, stripped of Drew's panegy j rics upon Mattie's superior education am i refined manners, alone stared her in the face Hastily resolving that there was no need t< j embitter her own life by an attempt to recal | to her son this ill-fated marriage, she die ; not hesitate to deceive her unwelcome visitor Change of scene had been ordered for tin patient, and before Drew called at the hous in Grosvenor street for the second time Adam and his mother were gone. It was ii Paris, months after that the operation wa j finally and successfully performed, and thei 1 t-)tn firef nvirrl nf A Aim TV:1Q Afilttlfi's 11!II11P j The first effort of his newly recovered power was to relate to his mother the history of hi marriage and to write to his wife. "God grant the suspense has neither killei nor driven her mad !'' he exclaimed. ! It was to his mother's hand the letter wa j consigned, and with that exclamation of hi j ringing in her ears, Mrs. Armitage stood be j side the brazier filled with charcoal and burn | ing in the ante-room of the apartment in th | Champs Elvses. .She was not a bad womaii J but the temptation was too strong to allow th I affair to unravel itself, and see what woul ! turn up. If the girl were dead, why no harr i had been done, and this terrible mistake of he j son's was rectified at once. If the other al I ternative were to prove true, and Mattie ha ! lost her senses, Adam would be equally fre from her, or measures could be taken to seem so desirable a result. Mrs. Armitage tore th I letter into pieces and awaited by the brazie until the fragments were charred. Adam as! ed no awkward questions, and was not eve i surprised at receiving no answer to his episth j since in it he announced his coming. The firs . j day his health admitted 01 it, ne soi ?m awn ; for England. Such was the story. When Drew had tol I of his efforts to seek Adam, and had mentioi | ed that no letter had reached Mattie, Adar was at no loss to understand at once the j?ai j his mother had played. But he never spok I of it, then nor at any future time. I The house door at Stonedene stood ajar ; j evening had closed in now, and the chilly fo i was still abroad, but the figure at the gate w;i ; dimly discernible. Adam hastened his steps, i ''For heaven's sake, sir, be careful! the siu i ' denness of it might turn her brain," crie ? j Drew, laying a detaining hand upon the ari j j of his companion. . I Adam gently shook him off. >-1 "Suddenness," he repeated. "Aye, it is o sudden to you?and to Mrs. Banks, but for me and for Mattie, whose thoughts are day e and night, night and day, full of each other, e | how can it he sudden ?" n | Drew stood still, and then Adam went on ,t J alone, until his footsteps became audible and i- i Mattie turned her head to see him standing at her side. d Adam had been right; no fear was there for d Mattie's brain. All excitement, all surprise ;; and wonder came afterwards; at that supreme s moment, and with a satisfied sight as of a child e who has got all it wants, Mattie held out her i. arms to him, with one word? o "Husband!" As Adam drew her to him it was not only d the mist, or the darkening evening that blinds ed Drew so that for a moment or two he saw a neither of them. People say thai Drew's luck was turned from - the day Stonedene found a tenant. It is newly done up and prettily finished now ; Mr. and , Mrs. Armitage come down there once or twice ; a year, with their children, for a breath of sea s air and to visit old friends. A RECEIPT IN FULL. ' ? ? J iil ..1,1 I xne tins naaan oeen scoureu uum sue euum f see her face, or grotesque caricatures of her 8 face, in each and every one of them ; the win1 dow-panes polished until they sparkled, or had sparkled?for it was now twilight?in the 1 bright June sunshine; the silver burnished ^ until neither spot nor speck marred its mild 8 luster; the loaves of bread baked until each L* crispy crust took on the right shade of tempting brown ; and Molly was scrubbing the only 3 unserubbed corner of the kitchen when Miss 8 Cameron's deep, harsh, precise voice came to 1 her from the dining room : "Mary are you not 3 through yet ?" j; "Almost, ma'am," answered Molly, k "I think it is high time you were quite," declared the voice. "You must make haste. & We are going to the lecture this evening, Miss 3 Georgette and I; and as Mr. Malcolm also " wishes to go out, we will be obliged to lock : up the house. Therefore it is necessary that 3 you should leave as soon as possible." 1 "Yes, ma'am," said Molly meekly, and finished her scrubbing, with her tears falling fast i 3 and thick. Poor little girl! she had tried so 3 hard to please her mistresses or rather her mistress?for Miss Georgette was but a re3 flection of her elder sister?and her efforts had hpf?n mpt with trrim silence that betokened a i ' begrudged satisfaction, until the last few weeks; that is, in fact, until Mr. George Mal' colrn came there. Mr. Malcolm was a sort of 1 step brother to the Misses Cameron (his fatli er, a widower, with two hoys, had married ) their mother a widow, with two girls), and 1 they inheriting nothing in the way of property ( i from their own father, he generously made ( - them an allowance from the moderate fortune left him by his. Generously and forgivingly? i for they had not rendered a tithe of the re- J t spect, to say nothing of affection, which was ( t his due, their kind-hearted and indulgent step- ( } "father, choosing to look upon their mother's , second marriage as an insult to the memory ! r of the parent whose not-at-all-amiable charac- j teristics had been his only legacy to them. The cottage vi which they lived, situated , t in the prettiest part of Meadowville (the fur- ! niture therein being their own, the bequest of i a maternal grandmother), belonged to Mr. i George; and here he had come in search ( of solitude and quiet, for the first time in , 1 twelve years or more, to spend a month or I two in thinking out and arranging plans for i starting a large business it, a neighboring city. , ' And, as I have already intimated, things had j 5 changed much for the worse with Molly, the , servant-maid, since his arrival. The grim ! silence had given place to most open faulti finding, when Mr. Malcolm was not within ( i hearing. The coffee was too strong, the tea , } too weak, the chicken underdone, the steaks burned, the eggs boiled too hard, the rooms fc badly swept, the shirts poorly ironed ; all these i complaints, with many more, the elder spint ster, confirmed by the younger, gave her to \ understand originated with the guest, } "What a hard man to please he must he!" j J Molly said to herself many times. "And vet " he has one of the handsomest and kindest faces [ I ever saw ; and he spoke right pleasantly to I me the first day he came, and even offered me > his hand, (how Miss Cameron did frown !); but ? I pretended not to see it, for I knew it was not , my place do shake hands with him. It is very t strange he should have become so fractious. lie was so good and merry and kind when I > was a little girl. I've heard father say often ( he'd rather shoe a horse for him than any one , else in the village." And then she would fall . to thinking how grand he used to look to her } childish eyes, when he came riding up, on his ; bay niare, to the smithy, where she spent half ' ) her time watching her father at the forge. 1 And he always brought her a gay picture-book, i or a pretty ribbon, or a box of candies, or a 3 bright new silver piece?one Christmas it was i a gold one?and claimed a kiss (good gracious, T, how her cheeks flushed at the remembrance !) j! i for payment when he rode away again. How happy, how very happy, she. had been then, > I ti.ifli iiuv /Iuup /,1/1 f.,11,ur "iiifl ilnur nlll A Hilt. i Nanny !?so happy that she had scarcely ever 3 felt t-lie loss of the mother who had died in , s giving her birth. But when Molly was fifteen, 3 the blacksmith, so strong and ruddy that it . seemed impossible that pain or sickness could ' s ever come near him, fell sick, and after linger3 ing, sorely crippled, for nearly two years, died, , leaving nothing to his darling but hard work. - Yes, there was one alternative: to become Mrs. Jake Willow, and mistress of the lorge , again ; but Jake was a rough, vulgar fellow, 1 and Molly, inheriting the delicate tastes and 3 gentle ways of her mother, (who had been a s shy, pretty young governess before she married - the handsome blacksmith), shrank from the loud voice and rude laughter of her would-be 3 husband. And so, in preference to accepting . Jake's offer, she became?and Heaven knows r this was a hard enough tiling to do?maid-ofs all-work in the cottage of the Misses Cameron. - Poor little Molly! prettier than many a prin1 cess, with lovely, black-fringed gray eyes, and . hair of the very darkest brown?hair that ) would curl in spite of her, to Miss Cameron's 1 gr \t displeasure. "If I had such untidy I h?.r," that lady would often declare, glancing . j approvingly into the mirror, at the flat dyed e bands that made a triangle of her narrow foree head, "I'd shave my head and "We'd cer, tainly shave our heads," would echo Miss i Georgette. s The kitchen floor linished, the rugs shaken j II and returned to their places, the bread put j ' away in the big stone jar in the cupboard, j a -? tt? 1 A i ! ? juoiiy sougni uer uwu luum, pxuuii, uum ?.<j i 3 tell, was 110 room at all, but a corner of the j garret rudely partitioned off, with only a small j sky-light to admit light and air?there were j rooms, empty, unused rooms, in the attic, but; s j "they were much too good for a servant," i s j Miss Cameron said ; and "very much too good : !- ] for a servant," agreed her sister?to make J i-1 ready for her flitting. Molly looked around it J e | as she tied her straw hat over her rebellious ; i, tresses, and again the tears lilled her eyes. It | e i had not been a happy place of rest to her, but; d | it had been a place of rest, and a shelter, and j 11 ! she had been glad to have it, fearing to leave [ r ; it lest worse luck lay beyond. 1- j And she would not have been oomi>elled to j d I leave it bad it not been for that unfortunate j e mirror, and the unceasing complaints of the j e old bachelor. Old bachelor ! Why, he could I e not he so very old, after all, for he was only r one-and-twenty (site then between live and six) i when he gave her the ribbons and books and j n ! the silver pieces, and she gave him the kisses, i ', I Hut the sound of closing shutters broke in * it j on her reverie, and reminded her that her de- j e I parture was waited for, and taking her bundle ' ! in her hand, she ran quickly and lightly down i d | the stairs to the parlor, where the maiden la-! i-! dies sat erect and stern, their bonnets already n ' on iii readiness for the lecture, t; "I'm going now," said Molly, standing in; :e the doorway, her sweet, pathetic face, with its I J pleading gray eyes and quivering lips, in no ;; way touching what their mistresses pleased to J g i call their hearts. "Good-by, nia'aui Good-by, ; is j Miss Georgette." Hut the only reply she got was : "Bear in J | mind that you are still indebted to us eight- J 1- and-twenty dollars, If, however, you should j d prefer to purchase a mirror yourself in place n of the one broken by you, we will consent to receive it, provided it is in every way as good I as that left us by our grandmother. And in that case we will agree to refund the eight dollars, your last month's wages, which we have retained as the first installment of your debt ; which is really much more than could have been expected of us." "Oh yes, indeed, very much more than could have been expected of us," murmured Miss Georgette. "For such gross carelessness?" Miss Cameron went on. "Indeed, ma'am," interrupted Molly, her cheeks flaming and her eyes sparkling, "as I have told you I never touched it, I wesn'teven near it. I was sweeping the other side of the parlor when it fell, and the cord it hung by was all moth-eaten, and had parted just in the middle, as I showed you at the time." "?simniii ii? nnnished." continued Miss Cameron, not paying the slightest attention to the girl. "And one word more. Please to remember that we have your signature to an acknowledgment that you'consider yourself responsible for the breakage." "You frightened me so that I scarcely knew what I was signingf" said Molly. "But as I have promised, I will pay you, for it shall never be said that my father's daughter broke her word. I'd give you the few dollars I have saved, if I had not -trkeep theip for my own support until I get anbther place. Poor Aunt Nanny can only give me shelter, for, as you know, she has depended almost entirely on me for food and clothes ever since my father died.*' "Yes, and a very ridiculous thing for both of you," snapped Miss Cameron, with a cold snap. "She might much better sell the hut she lives in for kindling-wood, and go to the poor-house, and you might much better save your wages to pay for the things you break. For break you will to the end of your days. I never saw a person with such lly-away hair as yours that was not vain, careless and frivolous. You may go." "Yes, indeed, you may go," added Miss Georgette. And the poor child weut out into the road, homeless and almost friendless, with a shadow on her fair young face and a pain in her young heart. But she had only turned into the long lane that led to old Nanny's cottage, when some one came quickly to her side, and said, in a gentle voice: "Molly ! poor little Molly 1" and there was Mr. Malcolm. And Molly, in her grief, thinking only of hira as the friend 01 her childhood, who' had known her as the darling of the kindest of fathers, flung her bundle down, and burst into a passionate flood of tears. "They were hard on me, your sisters, Mr. Malcolm," she sobbed?"very hard 011 me. I did my best for them. I worked?and I am not very strong, though I am a blacksmith's daughter?from morning till night, and yet I culd not please them. And it was not my fault about the mirror. It was not?it was not?it was not. Though Miss Cameron insists that 1 stopped sweeping to look at my curly hair?I can't help its curling; I did every thing to make it straight; I tied it back so tight, over and over again, that my head ached awful?and knocked it with the broom. She was a little better before you came; but after you came, and complained so much about the tea, and the coffee, and your shirts, and?and everything?" "I complain !" exclaimed herlistener, breaking in upon her rather confused narration of her wrongs. "Why, I never complained of anything. IIow could I ? There was nothing to he complained of." "She said you did. But I beg pardon, 5H ?auuut'uijr i riuniiuci 4||B uiuoh.iiwv between tlie candy-and-kisses time and the present. "She is your sister, and my troubles are nothing to you." "She is my sister an extremely long step off," he replied, gravely, "and your troubles are a great deal to me; and furthermore, I think I see a? way?a pleasant way?out of them. Let me walk with you to your Aunt Nanny's, and there, with her to advise us, we'll talk matters over." "Oh, it's such a poor place, Mr. Malcolm ! Miss Cameron called it a hut, and said it was only fit for kindling wood." "J'vel>eon in much poorer places, Molly," said he, and picking up her bundle, he walked by her side to the old woman's cottage. Two weeks passed by. A poor drudge from the work-house, whose chief (in fact whose sole) recommendation was "no wages," had taken Molly's place in the Misses Cameron's kitchen. Mr. Malcolm had gone away on business directly after her coining, and on the evening appointed for his return, the two sisters attired in dresses of dull gray, unrelieved by a single touch of color, sat (everything in the bouse being in heart-chilling, dreadfui stony order), one at each parlor window, awaiting his arrival. "lie must becoming; I think I hear wheels," said the elder, in her usual precise tones." "Wheels," repeated the sister. And "wheels" they were, but not the wheels of a carriage, but those of a truck, and this truck, on which lay a long wooden box, stopped before the cottage door. "A mirror for Miss Cameron," the driver called out as he jumped down. " 4 ?: ?---i "A llliiTUi'I" repeaieu Uie ajiinai/Oi, unuuic to restrain a gesture of surprise. And "A mirror!" said Miss Georgette, with another gesture of surprise. "Yes, ma'am ; from Willard's New York, where is it to be taken V" "First unpack it out here," commanded the lady, recovering her self-possession. "I can't have the house littered up with splinters and shavings!" "No indeed," chimed in Miss Georgette, also recovering her self-possession. "Splinters and shavings!" So the box was unpacked at the roadside, and the mirror taken from it proved to be better and handsomer in every respect than that it had been sent to replace. "I've brought wire to hang it with said the man as he carried it into the house ; "sothere'll be no danger from inotlis this time." "Moths!" said Miss Cameron, glaring at him. And "Moths!" echoed her sister, also glaring. And they both continued to glare, as though called upon to superintend a piece of work highly repugnant to their feelings, until the mirror was hung, and the driver again in his place on the truck. "Of course George sent it," said Miss Cameron when the man had driven away. "Hut Mary Brown must pay for the other all the same. Our having this makes no difference in regard to the agreement with her." "No difference in regard to the agreement with her," assented Miss Georgette?when who should walk in, in a gray silk walking dress, a bunch of crimson flowersat her throat, and another in her belt, and the most coquettish gray hat, adorned with more crimson flowers, but Molly herself V nf> 1 ? ?.?:IU( nuuu evt'iiiny, mh- ftiiiu, Miniinf;it, j. liave called for a receipt in full." "A receipt in full! And for what, pray V Have you brought the money?" asked her whilom mistress. And, "Have you brought the money ?" echoed her other whilom mistress. "Xo, I have not brought the money," answered Molly; "but I have sent you a mirror that answers all your requirements." "You!" from both sisters at once. And again, for the second time in one short hour, they were guilty of being surprised, and lettine their surm ise be seen. "Yes, I. I have the bill with me. A receipt in full, if you please." Miss Cameron arose, walked in a stately manner?Molly following her?to her desk, in the dining-room, seated herself, took pan, ink and paper, and began : "Received from Mary II?" when? "Stop a moment," said Molly ; "my name is no longer Mary Drown." "And what may it be V" inquired Miss Cameron, regarding her with lofty contempt. "Til answer that question," answered Mr. Ma-colm, suddenly apj?earing and passing his arm around the slender gray silk waist, thereby crushing the bunch of roses in the natty belt?"Mrs. George Malcolm." The pen fell from Miss Cameron's hand, and for the first time in her life that estimable woman went into hysterics, whither her equally estimable sister immediately followed her. And Molly, taking her leave at that moment, never received any receipt, in full or otherwise, after all. j^isrcUattcottS Reading. SELF CONTKOL IN SOCIETY. Good breeding gives us certain definite rules, and while these are observed, society is possible, else it disintegrates. But we may, without losing sell* respect, exercisea vast self-control, and not show that we distrust people, nor that we vastly dislike them ; we need not wear our hearts on our sleeves for daws to peck at. Members of the same family should never quarrel in public. This is often done by two sisters of uncertain tempers, and the crowd laughs. The French have a proverb about this, perhaps too well known to be quoted. Never show that you feel a slight. This is worldly wise as well as Christian, for no one but a mean person will put a slight upon another, and such a person always profoundly respects the one who is unconscious of his feeble spite. Never resent publicly a lack of courtesy, it is in the worst taste. What you do privately about dropping sucn an acquaintance must be left to yourself. To a person of a noble mind the contests of society must ever seem poor and furious as they think of these narrow enmities and low political manoeuvres, but we know that they exist and that we must meet them. Temper, detraction and small spite are as vulgar on a Turkey carpet and in a palace as they are in a tenement house ; nay, worse, for the educated contestants know better. We must reflect philosophically that it takes all sorts of jieople to make a world ; and there are good people rank and file; there are also small pirates who will board the best ships, and traitors in every army, and we must be ready for them all. Never show a factious or peremptory irritability in small things. Be patient if a friend keeps you waiting. Bear, as long as you can, heat or a drought, rather than make others uncomfortable. Bo not be fussy about your supposed rights ; yield a disputed point of precedence. All society has to be made up of these concessions ; they are your unnumbered friends in the long run. We are not always wrong when we quarrel ; but if we meet our deadliest foe at a friend's house we are bound to treat him with perfect civility. This is neutral ground. Never, by word or look, disturb your hostess : this is an occasional duplicity which is ordered by the laws of society. And in all honesty, cultivate a graceful salutation, not too familiar in a crowd ; be grave and decorous always. Burke said that manners were more important than laws. "Manners are what vex or soothe, comfort or purify, exalt or debase, barbarize or refine us by a constant, steady, uniform, insensible operation, like the air we breathe." A salutation may have a great deal of meaning in it. It may say "I respect you, and wish you well." It may say "I love you." It may say "I hate you." In a crowd it should I simnlv sav the first. Thelwiw of a vounz ladv should be maidenly, quiet, not too demonstrative, yet not too cold or forbidding. The salutation of a man to a woman cannot be too respectful. It is to be feared that "old fashioned courtesy" has 110 place in fashionable society. There is either coldness or too great familiarity. The manners of young men are apt to be too careless. They emulate the manners of men of the age too much, not remembering they should carry in their gentle ways the good manners of all ages. A lady should remembei that when a woman's salutation ceases to be delicate, elegant and finished she steps down from her throne and throws away lifer scepter. There is no salutation, however, more displeasing than that of a too efilorescent and flattering subserviency. 'He bows too low" should never be said. Avoid being a snob, in private as in a crowd. STUDIES IX THE SOUTH. In the towns and near them, and whereover the white people greatly outnumber the negroes, there are some colored men who are as intelligent in regard to political matters as the average of the operatives in a New England factory town ; but even in such places most of the negro voters are entirely incapable. of forming opinions or judgments of their own in regard to political principles, or activities. I met in various places a few negroes who are probably not inferior, in any respect, to average members of our national legislature. There is a considerable number of colored men engaged in teaching in the Southern States, who are excellent and thoroughly competent workers in the important profession, and many of the clergymen of their race are making earnest and laborious efforts for self-improvement and the elevation of their people.- I tind myself dwelling lingeringly on every particular feature and fact of the favorable side of this subject?the condition of the colored people. But I must come to the depressing truth of the general, almost the universal, condition and character of the negroes in the black districts. They have made some improvement in regard to industry of labor. A very few in these regions have an increasing desire for the acquisition of property, and are beginning to save their earnings, or at least to expend them less recklessly than formerly. But as to any knowledge, intelligence or judgment, such as should equip a man, even in the lowest degree, for the exercise of the right or power of suffrage, I cannot see that they know anything about it, or possess it any more than sheep do. If by a vote we mean, according to the definition long ago enunciated by Horace Greeley, "that by which the will, preference, J -M | or opinion or a person is expressed ; u we mean anything which is the voluntary and purposed act of a man, with the object of announcing a decision, choice, or judgment which he has formed or arrived at, then these ! negroes are not able to vote, and do not vote. They have the "right" to vote under the law, hut they have no real power or ability to vote. They do not and cannot choose; they have 110 knowledge of what is involved on one side j or the other. They have no materials for an | opinion or judgment, nor any ability to form a preference or decision regarding political matters. They know nothing of the position, doctrines, history, traditions, or aims of either party, and they have 110 idea or notion whatever of their respective merits or principles. They simply vote as they are told to vote by the local republican managers, and that is the whole matter. So far as 1 can learn, it seems probable that they would vote for anything or any man hearing the republican name. They attribute whatever is good or desirable in their present condition to the influence and agency of the republican party, and hope for impossible things from the same source in the future.?July Atlantic. Mexico.?One is struck by the simplicity I of the people, their houses and habits, pnrticu| larly in the rural districts, where the old-time plough of two thousand years ago is still used I in tho fmlrl fanners are nlentv : and Vet one I rarely hears of a death by starvation. 1 tread I is cheap ; and fruit can be had for a song. I The bread in general use is the tot ilia, made ; of corn. It is the bread of the Aztecs and | Toltees of seven hundred years ago. It is the i bread Montezuma ate in his day. And tills is | how it is made : The corn is soaked in warm | lime water for a half day ; then worked, when i the hulls drop off; then the clean grains are i placed on a flat stone, and a stone roller passed ! over them until the corn is ground and looks ! like mortar. Some red pepper is put into the j dough, when the operator take a lump in her j hands, pats it until it assumes the form of a j cake and then places it upon an earthen plate, I laid upon the coals, and the famous tortilla is ' ready to be eaten. The cake is quite palata1 - - ' * A A-. 1.- HM.n i Die illltl Willi SOlip IS 1IOI UJ uu uuspiocu. inc i lower class of people use no spoons, knives or i forks in eating, but take a piece of tortilla I shape it like a spoon or cup, clip it into the J soup, and then swallow' both together. The i manufacture and sale of this cake is one of i the few lields open to women in Mexico. They bake them and then hawk their goods upon the streets or deliver them to families at their houses. Hut they never grow rich in their calling. Indeed, in this country, the object of the people is not to get wealth ; it is rather to obtain the comforts of life. A Mexican will work three days in the lield, and sleep the other three days of the week away. The seventh day is market day, and also church day. The common people are clad in the simplest and fewest garments, in fact they are never overdressed. It is surprising how few clothes will pass muster in some districts of that country. A blanket spread on the earthen tloor of their small huts is considered good enough for any I sovereign of that land ; while a cot is regarded as a luxury, and only indulged in by the well to-do i>eople. Everybody smokes, but no one j chews or snuffs. The ladies smoke as gracefully as they dance. They smoke in the parlor at home, and when visiting ; and are content only when they have a cigarette every half i hour. PHENOMENA OF DEATH. To be shot dead is one of the easiest modes of terminating life. Yet, rapid as it is, the victim has leisure to feel and time to reflect, i On the first attempt by one of the frantic adherents of Spain to assassinate William, Prince of Orange, who tooK tne leaci m me revon 01 . the Netherlands, the ball passed through the hones of his face and brought him to the 1 ground. In the instant that preceded stupefaction, he was able to frame the notion that the ceiling of the room bad fallen in and crushed him. The cannon shot which plunged into the brain of Charles the XII did not prevent him seizing his sword by the hilt. The idea of an attack, and the necessity for defence, was impressed upon him by a blow which i we should have supposed too tremendous to leave an interval for thought. But it by no i means follows that the infliction of fatal vio- i lence is accompanied by a pang. From what i is known of the first effect of gunshot wounds, ] it is probable that the impression is rather ( stunning than acute. Unless death be im- i mediate, the pain is as varied as the nature of ; the injuries, and these are past counting up. i But there is nothing singular in the dying i sensations, though Lord Byron remarked the i physiological peculiarity that the expression i is invariably that of langour, while in death I from a stab the countenance reflects the traits ; of natural character?of gentleness or feroci- ] ty?to the last breath. j Some of these cases are of interest, to show | with what slight disturbance life may go on ] under a mortal wound, until it suddenly comes < to a final stop. A foot soldier at Waterloo, ] pierced by a musket ball in the hip, begged water < from a trooper who happened to possess a can- ' teen of beer. The wounded man drank, re- j turned his heartiest thanks, mentioned that 1 his regiment was nearly exterminated, and, i having proceeded a dozen yards on his way to j the rear, fell to the earth, and, with one con- i vulsive movement of his limbs, concluded his i career. I "Yet his voice," says the trooper, who him- ' self told the story, "gave scarcely the smallest s sign of weakness." Capt. Basil Ilall, who, in his early youth, < was present at the battle of Cornnna, has I singled out. from the confusion which con- < signs to oblivion the woes and the gallantries l of war, another instance, extremely similar, ( which occurred on that occasion. An old t otlicer who was shot in the head, arrived pale and faint at the temporary hospital, and begged the surgeon to look at his wound, which was < pronounced to be mortal. < "Indeed, I feared so," he responded, with 1 impeded utterance; "and yet I should like i very much to live a little longer, if it were 1 possible." < He laid his sword upon a stone at Jiis side 1 "as gently," says Hall, "as if its steel had 1 been turned into glass, and almost immediately sank dead upon the turf." i NAPOLEON'S PARENTS. < The family of Bonapartes were of pure Ital- j ian race; there was not a drop of French ! blood in any of them. Their ancestors had j come from the mainland in the early history J of Corsica, and their name are found in the ' remote annals of Ajaccio. Carlo Bonaparte was a poor gentlman of excellent breeding and character, who married in his youth a young 1 and romantic girl named Letizila Romolino, 1 who followed him in his campaigns up to the 1 moment of the birth of Napoleon. It is im; iwssible to say how much the history of Euj rope owes to the high heart and indomitable 1 spirit of this soldierly woman. She never relinquished her authority in her family. When all her children were princes and potentates, she was still the severe, stern Madame Mere. The beauty and grace of Josephine Beauharnais never conquered her; tiie sweet Tyrolese ' prettiness Maria Louise won from her only a ] sort of contemptuous indulgence. When her I mighty son ruled the continent, she was the ; only human being whose eludings he regarded \ or endured. She was faithful iu her rebukes while the sun shone, and when calamity came, ' her undaunted spirit was still true and devo- 1 ted to the fallen. Her provincial habit of ! economy stood her in good stead in her vigorous old age ; she was rich when the empire | passed away, and her grandchildren greatly needed her aid. ' It must have been from her that Napoleon took his extraordinary character, his father, , Carlo Bonaparte, though a brave soldier and } an ardent patriot in his youth, was of an easy and genial temper, inclined to take the world , as he found it, and not to insist too much on j having it go in his especial way. After the | I nf Cnrsican libertv was lost bv the SUC- < cess of the French arms, he accepted i he situation without regret, and becoming intimate with the conquerors, lie placed as many of his family as possible on the French pension list. Ilis sons Napoleon and Louis were given scholarships at Brienne and at Autun, and his eldest daughter, entered the royal institution at St. Cyr. While yet in the prime of life, he died of the same deadly disease which was to finish Napoleon's days at St. Helena; j and the heroic mother, her responsibilities | becoming still heavier by this blow, lived for i eight years longer mid the confusion and civil j tumult which had becom chronic in Corsica : j and then, after the capture of the island by j the English in 171I.-1, she made her escape with [ her children to Marseilles, where she lived sev| eral years in great penury. Mourning.?Black is our own emblem of mourning, but in Italy women grieve in white garments and men in brown. In China white is worn by both sexes. In Turkey, Syria, Cappadocia, and Armenia celestial blue is the tiiit chosen. In Egypt, yellowish brown, the hue of the dead leaf, is deemed proper ; and in Ethiopia, where men are black, gray is the emblem of mourning. All these colors are symbols. White symbolizes purity, an attribute I of our dead ; the celestial blue, that place of ! rest where happy souls are at peace ; the vel-1 low 01' (ICUU lOill ICUS Ulill Ut'iUII la mo ouu ui | ( all human hope, and that man f;dls as the an- j tunrn leaf ; and gray whispers of the earth to I which all return. * The Syrians considered ! mourning for the dead an effeminate practice, J j and so when they grieved they put on women's i; | clothes, as a symbol of weakness, and as a ; i I shame to them for a lack of manliness. The i; I Thracians made a feast when one of their j ; i loved ones died, and every method of joy and 1 < j delight was employed. This meant that the ! i ' dead had passed from a state of misery into \^ | one of felicity. Black was introduced as . j ! mourning bv the queen of Charles VII. Be- j < ! fore that the French queens wore white mourn-j 1 | ing, and were known as white queens. j ( Monkeys as Servants.?The monkey, in 1 i | combination with the hand-organ, has been j t j found to be such a serviceable member of so- j i | ciety that a brisk trade in that intelligent but' ( unhappy beast lias sprung up oeiween mnga-1 pore and the Italian ports. The London Globe | observes that modern Europe has done very : little in the way of developing the talents of i the monkey, though Egypt has furnished! through all ages, an example of what may be | attained in that direction. In the South of j Abyssinia, upon the testimony of the late Sir Gardiner Wilkinson, monkeys are still taught i several useful accomplishments. One of these j j is that of officiating as torch-bearers at a sup- [ I per party. Seated in a row, on a raised bench, i j they hold the lights until the guests have de- j parted, patiently awaiting their own supper as | i a reward for their services. Occasionally an j obstreperous animal will interrupt the festivi-, ties by throwing his lighted torch among the | guests, but he is promptly caned into submission. I 1ST The bitterness of humility is atonic to j the spirit. To humiliate yourself is as necessary in this wicked world, as it is for travelers through African jungles to take every now * and then a draught of quinine. j UTAH AND THE MORMONS. A visitor to Salt Lake City, writes, in the Conr/reyationalist, as follows: Several days lately spent by the writer in Salt Lake have afforded a fresh and interesting view of the matter as it appears from this standout of the Mormon Mecca. At the Sunday service, the tabernacle, which will seat 13,000 when filled, was not occupied at all in the galleries, though they were formerly well filled. The addresses were shaped especially for the benefit of the. non-Mormon hearers, of whom there must have been at least 200 present, seated in front, by themselves, as usual. One of the shakers, the superintendent of Mormon schools for the county, argued at great length the reasonableness of a new revelation to Joseph Smith, and both the addresses had about them a good deal of the assumption that the doctrines preached must be true, because I, the speaker, say so. The praying was, to a very large extent, similar to that in evangelical churches, though there was once or twice a more direct supplication that all the world may be converted to Mormonism. The (Mormons) men and women, were seated to themselves, and the babies and little children, of whom there were a good number present, cried vigorously, keeping up, sometimes, a sharp competition with the choi^, Bread and water are distributed to the entire congregation every Sabbath as a communion service, those who do the preaching stopping to allow the announcements and the short prayers, but going forward with their addresses while the elements .are being distributed. On Sabbath mornings Mormon Sabbath-schools ire held in all the ward school-houses of the city, and the same buildings are used for local meetings in theevening. Since the passage of the Edmunds bill, the Mormons are somewhat more reserved in their intercourse with others, though heretofore they have done their trading ilinost wholly at shops kept by their own people. The non-Mormon population of the city is between four and five thousand, out of twenty thousand in all, with a Congregational, Presbyterian, Methodist and two Episcopal churches. It is a mistake to suppose that poygamy, as bad as it is, is the worst and most langerous feature of the Mormon church. The offense is one of which only about onetenth part of the people are guilty. The inedibility accorded to the Mormon church and ts priesthood, is the thing most to be feared uid hardest to uproot; and polygamy rests .ipon this. A lady of our party meeting a married daughter of Brigham Young, drew from her the frank statement: that, like other women, she should shrink instinctively from mch a step as her husband's taking a second wife, but added that she should submit with jut protest, as the church requires it. nere is ;he keynote to this bondage of polygamy, but contact with the outside world is beginning t<> oe felt, and polygamy is looked on with decreasing disfavor among the young people, as they begin to see bow it is regarded by others. Good Manners.?Genuine politeness is a delightful qualification, and one well worth cultivating. All cannot possess it in the very liighest degree because it is a natural gift, but ill are capable of attaining to something not far removed from perfection. We may say, however, that there are two kinds of politeness? the natural and the artificial. The natural is the peculiar gift of the well-born. It is, so to ipeak, a part of their patrimony or real estate, ind is entitled upon them by birth. To this class of persons politeness is no effort; it is, is before stated, natural and inherent. Now, the generality of people cannot be said to possess that quality naturally. To those it is the result of training, and, like other things, must be obtained by instruction, and by the observance and imitation of good models. We purpose to give a few general hints as to what is required for a foundation before the 'endeavor to atttain to this quality is commenced. Good temper is absolutely necessary. Without this, little or nothing.can be done; but with it and a moderately good understanding, applied conscientiously to the purpose, success is pretty certain. Presence of mind is also essential, so that one is not taken by surprise, and thus answer unthinkingly. Have all your energies, your powers of s|>eech, at your command, and be able to engage in gay and sprightly conversation without overstepping the bounds of propriety. When you can do this you are making rapid progress in your 3tudy. Joined to presence of mind, you should have a quick sense of propriety. When you are about to speak, think ; and if your words would be likely to hurt the feelings of any one present, even in the slightest degree; if they might cause a reticent nature one pang, they should be left unspoken. It is always impolite to hurt by our manner of speech the feelings or passions of those with whom we converse. This rule holds good in all classes of society?is subject to no exception. Ilow Long Bees Live.?I thought I would ;atisfy myself in regard to the life of the bee n the height of the working season. I had a itand of the little black bees of the genuine stingers, and on the morning of May 301 killed she queen, and by carefully looking through sheir hive I found one black drone and des;royed that in the evening of the same day. [ put in a cell for a yellow queen on the second )f June. She was hatched out, and there were i few yellow bees 111 tne mve on me ouwi, m ust twenty-one days from the time the eggs svere deposited. On July 7, a few yellow bees .vere to be seen playing around the hive, and )n the 13th day. of July, just fourteen days from the time the yellow bees were hatched )ut, a few were seen at work with the black aees. Now any one can see that if the yellow aees hatched in twenty-one days, the last black aees were all out by the thirtieth of June, and f the yellow bees went to work on the twelfth if July, the last of the black bees must have jone to work on the fourth of July, making fourteen days from the time they were hatched, inless one will go to work sooner than the ither. This stand contained nothing but alack bees when the black queen was destroyed, an the eighteenth of July. Just forty-nine days from the time the black queen was destroyed, there was not a black bee to be seen about the liive. I opened it. Not one was to be seen inside. Now I know that bees will live longer it any other season of the year, and thought this would be a good chance to test the height af the working season. The hive was examined every day during the whole time, so that no mistake might be made. From this it will iU-J. ,1.. i- /.P l?M il> IM3 seen tHill/ lilt? lilt! iiiuc ui LUC iiu'icj-iav, j** the busiest working season, is but four weeks ir twenty-eight days. ? Why 1900 is Not a Leap Year.?The year 11)00, although it is divisible by four without x remainder, is not a leap year, and it comes ibout in this way : Under the "Julian period" the solar year was considered to consist of Wo days and a quarter of a day; but as the ictual or civil year could not be made to injlude a quarter'of a day, an additional day kvas inserted in the calendar every fourth ^ear to make up four lost quarters, and this s t he 29tli of February. Hut the Julian meth)d of intercalulation made the year too long )y eleven minutes and ten and one-third seeinds. This put the calendar ahead of solar Jme one day in 129 years ; so to balance this, n the adjustment of the calendar known as he "Gregorian," after Pope Gregory XIII, low universally adopted in Christian countries txcept Russia, one of the leap years is drop>ed at the close of every century, except when lie figures of the centurial year, leaving out he two ciphers at the end. can be divided by 'our with a remainder. Thus, 1000 was a eap year, and 2000 will be, but 1800 and 1900 lot. Women's Tears.?Women give way to ears more readily than men. Granted ; but ire they any the weaker for it V Not a bit. J is simply a difference of temperament, that sail. It involves no inferiority. If you think hat this habit necessarily means weakness, vait and see. Who has not seen women break lown in tears during some domestic calamity, .vhile the "stronger sex" were calm ? And who las not seen the same women rise up and dry heir eyes, and be henceforth the support and itay or their households, and perhaps bear up ;he stronger sex as a stream 1 sears up a ship ? L said once to a physician watching such a ivoman, "That woman is truly great." "Of course she is," he answered ; "did you ever see a woman who was not great in an envrrency V" -J