University of South Carolina Libraries
? 9 9 ? - ? - ^5 ? ^ lewis m. gbist, proprietor. J ^n Inbrpcntient JfamilD Httuspaptr: Jfor % promotion nf lilt political, Social, Agricultural anir Commercial Interests of % Sontji. |terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 29. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 1883. NO. 4. Site ftovii Seller. The Old Church Under the Ledge. * BY WALTER L. SAWYER. It was a very old church ; that was not to be questiohed. That ubiquitous personage the "oldest inhabitant"?always seen at his best in country villages?could not recall a time when it had not been ; the younger people did not presume to question its antiquity. Its small, many paned windows, its thick walls in which were many a crack and its four cornered belfry, from the centre of which a weather beaten spire shot up into the air; all were undoubted?and undoubtable?evidences of the age of the structure. Inside, the floor, laid of roughly planed logs, so imperfectly joined as to afford free entrance to the air from beneath ; the high backed deal benches, uncomfortably straight and precise ; the pulpit perched above a flight of rickety stairs, and overhung with a sounding board ; all these, again, gave proof that the church had been erected many, very many years ago. The old church stood at the foot of a ledge of granite, and above it towered masses of rock, seeming at first glance momentarily to A- *1? Td uireaieu uiw uvnumin ui uic uuuuu>5. *.. front of the door a giant elm had grown, affording grateful shade to the passer by, as well as to him who stopped to rest beneath the walls. Around the church was a thick growth of shrubbery which half concealed it on three sides. So long a time had elapsed since the building had been made use of, that with this- exception alone the surroundings were fast falling into decay; only the church remained, untouched by the hand of time, more enduring it seemed, than the works of Nature herself. The solitude around the church was seldom broken in upon, save by some wandering painter or antiquarian, who had heard of it from many quarters, and come to view it for himself. Situated as it was, nearly a mile from the little village of Ware, the townspeople, while they were becomingly proud of it, and regarded it with a kind of reverential awe, rarely approached it. Very few could appreciate it at its full value, so it was left to itself. And yet, there was an odd sort of companionship in the venerable structure, which, though few realized and understood its source and nature, richly repaid those who were able to enter into relations of friendship?as one might say?with the old church. Half way up the beetling mass of rock which overhung the church, was the house of Stephen Parkes, an old man, one of the earliest settlers in the place; he had lived lor many years upon the side of the ledge over looking the village, but refusing all invitations to remove to it. His little cottage fronting toward the south, was .set in a cleared space, which seemed to have been hollowed from the solid rock itself. Here, wife and family being dead, he lived alone with Dolly, his niece. Neighborhood tradition well preserves the memory of Dolly Parkes. It recalls her as a joyous winsome girl, whose very presence lighted the shadow of the most overwhelming sorrow, and who was beloved by every one, welcome in every house. Pretty I grant she was not; yet beautiful she was; for the pure, true beautiful soul which looked out through her eyes, and lighted up her countenance excused all irregularities of outline, overmastering every deviation i:om the established standard. Growing lip, as one might say, almost al>ove the world, she had become a woman in whom all natural and healthful feeling found its most complete expression, yet whose habits of . thonghtwere straflgefv unlike those of other girls, and whose ideals were more lofty than they could conceive. Her love for nature had been from childhood appreciative and almost overmastering, and in the love of birds and flowers she was an apt scholar. She, in the truest sense lived in the present ; only through the influence of the old church, did she become an admirer of what had been. The church was a favorite resort with her; when she sat within its walls, or lingered outside in the calm summer evenings, she could almost feel its presence as one might feel that of a living friend. And in truth, it was a friend to her; its age and sedateness appealed to her imagination and feelings, and she wer.t to it for help in difficulties, comfort in distress. Only to be near it brought a benediction. A quiet life, but none the less a happy one ; filled with petty cares, yet rounded with well done duties, which brought to her serene content ; owing little of its enjoyment to books, but much to nature; such was hers. Of love 8he;had never thought, save in a vague, dreamy way ; there was no youth in the village whom she could admire; she had seen little of the outside world, from which, when she was eighteen, came the man who it was fated she should love?Howard Rayne. It is strange that she should have loved such a man, yet to him she gave her whole heart. A handsome man, I grant, but neither a good man nor a strong one, as his weak lips and wavering eyes gave evidence. A man of the world ; possibly she may have been fascinated by the cultured air which comes ? from travel and contact with many forms of society. A man who on the impulse of the moment, might stifle the voice of conscience, and sacrifice all manly principle, to the gratification of hia own selfishness' ]>erhaps she glorified this trait in him as calmness and self control, and thought of him as one who could bend every opposing influence to bis will. I do not know, whatever she believed, she loved him. * - ^js Rayne was an artist, and Dolly methinHor the first time at the old church, which he was sketching for a " wealthy patron. The work was not one to his taste, and as lie sat at his easel one midsummer day, he inwardly cursed his fate. He was capable of better things, he knew. At the time, he durst not let his prejudices affect his paintings; he could not lie very independent, he thought, until he was more completely master of himself. Bye and bye he might indulge his own inclinations ; then he would paint persons instead of places, figures, not forms. lie believed that all that he needed was a "start." If his picture in the Exhibition would only succeed? He dropped his brush and fell into a reverie. ThiTbees tin m meetaround him, and the wind stirred the grass about his feet; tall weeds bending to the breeze, touched against his face, as he leaned back in his chair and thought of the time to come. Nature spoke to him through all her original voices, but he did not awake ; until, suddenly, he saw the shrubbery in front of him part, and there came from between the trees a young girl, who started at first sight of him, then walked forward looking wonderingly at his easel. Rayne sprang to his feet, raising his hat as he did so. "Bless you, merry wood nymph, whomsoever you may be !" he cried. "You have roused me from my meditation which bade fair to make me waste several hours of my time ! and I cannot afford to think, now, he added, as if to himself, and somewhat bitterly. Then, again addressing his visitor?"I am Howard Rayne, painter, at your service." i "My name is Dolly Parkes," she said, with innocent self possession. "I live in the little : cottage up there on the side of the ledge." 1 She stepped to Rayne's side, and gazed for a moment at the half completed picture on the canvas. "You are painting the old church !" she cried. "How beautiful it is !" He looked at her a moment, curiously. "You think it beautiful V" he asked. "Yes," she said, simply, as if surprised that any one should doubt. "But I must go, now," she said hastily, "I have to go to the village. Will you?" in a pleading tone, as if fearing that her request would be denied?"will you let me see the picture when it is finished ?" He readily agreed, and she turned away, while Rayne went back again to his work?to dream, perhaps, of something else than art. This was but the first of many meetings l>etween the two. Every afternoon Dolly visited the artist, standing at his side while he worked, criticizing or offering suggestions and showing an interest in the painting which made it ere long very dear to him. They spent much time within the old church, also, and she talked to him unreservedly of herself, her life and duties and hopes. He found her ignoraut in much that pertained to the outside world, yet lightly judging that she would be an apt student; more than that he knew that she was true, and brave and helpful. It angered and shamed him to think of his own unworthiness. Yet -she, for her part, adored and reverenced him, as one might a god. Now that she knew him, life had taken on a new joy. These were very happy days, she said to herself ; she did not dream that they might not always last. One day he came to her uncle's cottage, bringing an open letter in his hand. He appeared strangely ill at ease, Dolly thought as she greeted him ; he seemed to be wavering between joy and grief, not knowing to which to give way. "Come down to the old church, with me, Dolly," he said, "Fhave something to tell you." She walked with him along the craggy path. She saw that he trembled as she laid her hand upon his arm, and several times he seemed as if about to speak, restraining himself only by an effort. They reached the church and sat down. "My picture has been accepted Dolly," he began. "1 must leave for New York, tonight." She answered nothing, but sat looking up at him, as though dazed by the news. "The success gives me the opportunity for travel and study that I have been desiring," he continued. "It will help me to make a name?to give myself a future. I am a poor, man now, Dolly; I would not ask you to marry me as I am to-day. You must have seen that I love you ; will you wait a year to be my wife ?" She put her arms about his neck. "And I love you," she said, "I will wait as long as you wish. I would die for you, Howard!" He smiled uneasily at the exaggeration, its he believed it to be. "I don't want you to die for me," he replied, almost gaily, "I want you to live for me !" "The time will seem very long," she murmured, seemingly move to herself than as addressing him. "But you will have something to look forward tn " hp auswprpil : "and I shall work I twice as liard for your sake !" She glanced up at him ; love, pain, happiness, unrest, were mingled in her face. "Do yon really love me so very much ?" she asked. He answered with a shower of kisses. "There, I must leave you now," he said. "I cannot trust myself to stay here! I shall write to you often, and think of you every hour, my own Dolly ! my little girl! Good bye and God bless you !" lie held her for a moment in a passionate embrace, then with a last, long kiss, released her hand and strode away. She watched him until he was*out of sight. lie looked back, once, and waved his hand. lie had already forgotten the bitterness of parting, and was smiling as he thought of the pleasures which the near future would bring. It seemed to Dolly that her life had gone with her lover, as she walked absently toward her home. "I will be true to him always!" she said CHAPTER II. The winter glided drearily away, and spring lengthened into summer, yet Dolly heard nothing from Rayne. She had grown sadly thin and pale, in the long waiting, and the people nf t.hfi vilhitro feared for the life of their darling. Her uncle, alone, did not notice the change in her; or if he had observed it he said nothing. He could learn from her l>ehavior nothing of the grief that was devouring her; and she never spoke of her lover. Some surmised that she had forgotten ltayne; but she said to herself that she could never forget. He might be false, but?she would be'tnie! The time passed slowly and wearily enough, at the cottuge. The old man, Dolly's uncle, had l>een more feeble and complaining than ever before, and he demanded all her attention. Only a few times in the long months had sbe visited the village. Sometimes she walked to the old church, and, sitting beneath the great elms, thought mournfully of the many pleasant hours she had si>ent there. Rut her sorrow never found voice. She suffered and was silent; hoping?she knew not what; fearing?what she could not express. Thus the time went on, until after many weeks, light came again into her life. It had been a dull, wearisome day. The mists had hung over the distant mountains since early morning, and the atmosphere was heavy with rain. It was such weather as makes one gloomy and despondent, in spite of himself; yet Dolly, apparently, had not been affected by its unconscious influence. The day had brought with it toils and cares, and she had worked faithfully to discharge her duties. Her time of rest came in the evening; and, after she had made her uncle comfortable for the night she went to her room, and sat down near the window, gazing out at the fast-darkening village beneath her. She did not think, as she sat there ; only wondered ; if Howard still lived ? if he was true to her, as she knew she had been to him V if he had died or?forgotten ! It could not have been said that her faith in him had wavered : she was waiting, that was all. Perhaps she might meet him again on earth ; then he would explain his long silence and they would be happy together; perhaps?in Heaven ! She sat thus for a long time. Finally, the rain began to fall; softly, at first, then freshening to a shower. The air had become suddenly cold and she found herself shivering. She closed her window and turned to go away; when a sound, as of a pebble striking the glass, arrested her steps. She oi>ened the window and looked out. Iler heart gave a great throb, as she saw, through the thick mist, and standing a few feet away, the figure of a man ! She looked again. The fashionable clothing had been replaced with soiled and tattered garments; the face was seamed with lines which told of sin and suffering; the whole expression of the man had changed?yet she knew him as Howard Rayne! She leaned far out over the sash. "Howard !" she called, "Howard !" He came forward, as she spoke, and stood beneath the window. She noticed that he walked with dilficulty, that he could hardly stand. His lips were white with the pain the effort had caused, as he looked up at her. "Ilush!" he whispered. "No one must learn I am here. I knew it was not right that I should come?after so long a time?but I could not bear to leave my little girl 1" ner race origmeneu at tne iamnuu name. The anguish she had undergone was forgotten in that instant. Out of the room, softly down the creaking stair case; within a moment she stood beside him, her arms about his neck. There was no questioning nor surprise in her glad eyes. "I knew you would come!" she said. "My Dolly 1" he cried, brokenly, and pressed his trembling lips to hers. "It was not my fault!" he began, endeavoring, as of old, to justify his own acts. "I meant to come back to you. Curses on my weakness ! I was tempted and I fell! Dolly,"?with a sudden shrinking away and catching of the breath?"I am accused of murder !" "But you are innocent 1" she replied : Her childlike faith in him showed to the weak, selfish man what he had lost; it shamed him to full confession. "As innocent as you !" he said. "But I have no proof. The law would hang me, if it found me out. I am sick, Dolly, dying ; it is but a few weeks longer, whether I a*u discovered or not. Forgive me for comk.g iiere. I thought I had to see you?just?once?more!" Iler face paled for a moment, and then grew bright with hope and strong determination. The girl had become a woman in mind and strength of purpose. "You shall not .in* ?" she cri"d. and clung to him as if resolv ed never to g!v?- him up. "They shall not find | you ! I will hide you ! If they take you, I will go too ! They shall never separate us !" He clasped her to his heart for a moment ; ! then the nervous energy which had brought | him so far deserted him all at once, and he fell swooning to the ground. She knelt beside him and busied herself in | loving attentions, her heart beating high with ' joy and thankfulness. She would take care of him ; would help him to become strong and at well again. Then together they would search ta out the mystery which over-shadowed his life j til and prove him innocent. . There was no ' se thought of failure or defeat in her iinagin- j he ings ; she knew her love could remove all ob-1 th stacles, overcome all difficulties?for his dear sake ! st "I will hide you in the old church !" she to whispered, as his eyes opened at hist, "no one wi will dare go there, for we will make people dr think the place is haunted. You will stay A there all the time, and I will come to you as ac often as I can. I shall be your nuise, of course1'?smiling, and feeling a strange light- co ness of heart which half amazed even herself? co "and I shall expect you to get well very quick- lie ly !" * pi; He rose slowly, and looking at her fixedly, ojiened his lips as though to question the wis- he dom of her decision. She laid her hand upon de his mouth and shook her head. to "You are not to object to anything I pro- to pose," she cried. "I am your chief adviser, he remember, and you are bound to do what I lie c.iu f'nmo I" wim a muldpn rhanfp from her at mirthful tone, "Do you think you are able to walk t? the church ? Lean on my arm?so. co See how strong I am ! I could carry you, almost !" th The rain had ceased, and the stars were appearing in the heavens, one by one. A deep th calui was over all. Few lights shone from the a 1 town below, and the girl and her lover heard ag no sound save their footfalls, as they slowly wj and carefully treaded the rocky pathway, wj Once they stopped a moment to ifest and look down at the slumbering village ; then on again w< until they arrived at the old church. cii They girl took from her pocket a key, and sh unlocked the heavy door. It swung behind them as they entered, and the sound echoed in; through the place in countless reverberations. The darkness was almost to be felt; it seemed th to be rendered only more visible when holly, sh producing a candle from a hidden nook, light- to ed it, and guided her companion up the narrow pis aisle. "I will m;ike a bed for you here," she said, an as she gently forced him toaseat. "Thereare les cushions and wraps at the other end of the lo1 church ; a party of visitors left them here on- bn ly last week. I know where to find a bottle of fe' wine, too ! Here"?and she drew it from be- bl; neath one of the benches and poured a generous av ghtss?" drink this, and now lie down, and let me cover you with this shawl." w( While she talked, she had arranged a couch, er and now drew him towards it. Thankful for en the opportunity to rest, he stretched himself he at full length and closed his eyes in utter ex- kn haustion. fla k ~ 1. 1..? .. 1 A- Cl\ ^v.s uu lily, umiy uenu uvei mm, aiuuiiuun^ ?<-> his forehead and whispering to him lovingly. Her back was turned toward one of the win- ha dows. The candle fronted her. All at once a rif noise outside attracted Rayne's attention, and T1 he looked up, to see a boy's face at the win- fa: dow peering in on them with curiosity not st; unmixed with fear. ed Dolly's quick glance had followed Rayne's eyes. She blew out the candle and gave a wc wild, piercing scream, which startled even her sh companion. The boy outside fell to the ground in his fright, and the two could hear cli his rapid footsteps as he ran from the church. w< "It is one of the Elliott boys," explained w: Dolly, laughing softly. "He will think he ne has seen a ghost, and that the church is haunted. I shall have a story of my own to tell '"j the village people to-morrow. No one will do dare to come here after this!" up The pair sat for a moment longer, hand-in- be hand. Then the girl rose to go. th "I shall come back soon," she said, "with gil food for you. I know you are hungry! ab Naughty boy!" she chided, playfully, as she th stooped to him again, "did he think his little sti girl would let him go, now that she had found su him!" th Remorse and unavailing regret were blended in his face, and he groaned to think how "1 he had ill-deserved her care. 11 "I have blighted your life!" lie cried, with di a great sob. "Why should you do all this for me V" ha a i CHAPTER III. J1,1No one visited the church. The boy who had happened near on the first night of its occupancy, and who had seen and heard such aj| dreadful things, told his story well, enlarging upon it as the importance of the subject de-1 th served. Several of the villagers had passed ag the place at night; they also had seen strange, dickering lights and heard low voices; fortu- fl nately for Dolly and liayne, not attempting to to inquire further. Tlie wonder was com- a plete; the church was haunted ! Henceforth ^ it was shunned by every one, and the sick man rested there in safety. For the tirst few days liayne had seemed to improve in health, and Dolly's cup of happiness was filled to the brim. It was not often that she could visit him, but once every day, co at the least, she brought him food and dr.nk. fo At those times she talked to him ; joyously, lei gravely, confidingly, as the mood seized her ; of making many plans for the future. She won- en dered that lie should listen with such a grave, ev sad smile, not attempting to reply to her ; but ca she accounted for it by his sickness. She nc would find him in better spirts by and by, she said to herself; and so was content. it But there came a time when she could no fa longer hope; when she was forced to believe in that her lover would soon be taken from her; w: she had sat beside him for an hour, talking te gaily of the day?soon to come?when they er would go into the world liand-in-hand; of fr how they would work to prove his innocence W of the dreadful crime which had been charged to on him; and then how happy they would be ta together! lie had heard her at first, lying ni calmly silent, though she marked a look of of pain uj>on his face ; but, as she talked on, final- vi ly, half vexed, appealing to him to decide some so trivial question, his manner changed. His lii eyes fixed themselves on hers in mute, sorrow- tii ful auestionimr: he crazed a moment, pitiful ly, ;it her happy face ; then a great wave of ed feeling came, and he cried. "Don't 1" as one th might who feels a sword against his breast. is She dropped her work and laid her cool hand a<i upon his forehead. "I have wearied you !" ci: she said with ready self reproach ; "go to in sleep now and rest, and I will stay here." m The momentary feeling had passed, and he pi was quite tranquil as he took her hand in his. Sc "My little girl must be brave !" he said ten- cc derly. "else she will make it very hard for bj me to go !" w The truth dawned on her in an instant, and li{ she thing herself at his side in a passion of tli grief. "Oh, Howard !" she cried, "You will ai break my heart 1" ar "I have known it all the time," he contin- ai ued, as if resolved to prepare her for the worst, a "When I came here, I was sure that death was sa very near to me. I have shrunk from telling gi you, but it must be done now. It is hard for he me to give up life and you," he murmured hi with a sob, "but it is all?for?the?best 1" pi She raised her head quickly as he ended, in while a gleam of hope shone in her face. lie pt knew what she would ask, and replied to the unspoken question : sa "It is of no use ; human skill cannot save pt me. I could not be safely carried from this lit place, even if I wished ; and I want to die here, here in the old church where you lirst pt told me that you loved me. It has become ti very dear to me in these days of waiting I i <P found my life here ; let me meet death within tli these walls !" so Iler face took on a look of settled determi- lil nation, which had in it something of happi- it ness. "I will die with you !" Bhe said ; and n< went out into the twilight, towards her home. n< The days went slowly by thereafter, bring- tli ing to l>oth of the watchers in the old church a fn kind of quiet i>eace. Kayne grew weaker ev- jx ery hour ; he seemed, Dolly thought somewhat d< bitterly, to be most happy as he drew nearer death. As for her, she had given up all at- n tempts at concealment; nearly all her time in was sjient with her lover. Iler uncle knew 01 where she was ; the village heard and wonder- Ik ed, but forbore to interfere. si She had left Rayne alone for a moment, one ti glorious Autumn afternoon, and stood outside al of the church drinking in the beauty of the bl scene. A haze hung over the mountain tops, t:i and lingered lovingly upon the bosom of the pi river, which wound through the fields. The O trees were showering down their leaves upon fi< the ground, and the shrubbery which grew h out the craggy sides of the ledge above was king on the myriad changeful colors of the aie. So deep a hush was over the land and a that she could almost hear the beating of ir heart, as she stood there and lived again e joy, the pain, of meeting and?parting ! A sound of voices and approaching footeps broke upon her ears at last. She turned ward the road. A group of men, some armed ith gunS, others following as lookers on, was awing near her. She moved within the door, man, seemingly the leader, stepped from nong the group, and addressed her. ''Howard Rayne, a fugitive from justice, is ncealed in that church," he said. "I am me to arrest him ; with force of arms, if ed be. I order you to show me his hiding nee!" She laughed mockingly, and slammed the avy door, almost in his face. The light of a adly purpose was in her eyes, as she walked the end of the church and drew a loaded pis1 from beneath a bench. Rayne, who had ard what had been said, and who followed v movements with his eyes, looked in alarm her revengeful face. "Dolly!" he said, "why do you not let them me in V "What do you mean to do V" "To defend vou 1" slje cried fiercely. "Let em come in! I will not!" The crowd outside, amazed and stuj)efied at e suddenness of the girl's action, had drawn Few foot nu/;jv t.n rnnsnlt tnrrother. As she aiti went to the door, the leader came forird. lie saw her through a crevice in the ill, and spoke: "Will you open the door ? I pledge my >rd you shall not be harmed !" Then, noting her determined look, "will you open, or all we break in ?" "You shall not enter!" she cried, disregardg Rayne's pleadings. "Never, while I live!" An angry word fell from the man's lips. He rew himself heavily against the door. It ook but did not give way. Dolly could have uched him with her hand, as site aimed the stol through the crevice and fired. The man sank back with a fierce cry of rage d pain. Seizing his gun, another lired aim>sly into the church. Dolly looked at her yer, fearfully, flie bullet had missed him, it the burning wad had struck a cushion a w feet behind, and it was kindling into a ize. If she could only keep her assailants ,*ay for a moment more ! The men outside were attending to their nnuled chief. They would not make ano.thattempt to enter the church until he recov?d consciousness. It would be safe to leave r place now. She went back to llayne and lelt beside him. Observing gladly that the mes, fed by the dry resinous floor and seaned benches hemmed them in on two sides. Rayne greeted her almost angrily. "What ve you done?" he cried. "You have no jhtto resist; the men are doing their duty !" len he caught sight of the fire which was st encircling tnein. "jmny: you musi not ly liere! Go! save yourself !" and lie pushlier away from him with all his strength. She tightened her hold upon his hand and )uld not go. "I said I should die with you," e reminded him. The fire was all about them now.- It had mbed upward to the rafters, and the walls ire all ablaze. The hot breath of the fiame is in their faces. They could feel it coming arer every moment. A shout arose from the crowd outside: The church is burning! Save them !" The or shook with the blows which were rained ioii it, but did not yield. The windows had en broken in. One man, more courageous an his fellows, and determined to rescue the rl and her lover, forced his way in and gazed out him for a raomet. He saw at once at he could not pass the fiery wall which retched around the doomed pair, and half ffocating, went out again and left them to eir fate. Dolly still knelt at her companion's side, t is better so," she answered. "How could live without you ? In death we shall not be vided." The patient eyes of the sick man filled with tppy tears, and the trembling lips parted for moment as if to speak of the brighter glory at was soon to be. Her arms were about s neck. As he sat upright, her head was on s breast. Their lij>s met in a long, lingering ss; a kiss of renunciation, yet of pledging id renewal ; a kiss which was a sacrament! "The end is very near," she whispered, as e clouds of smoke and flame were hurled ainst them, "and then?" The floor beneath them trembled visibly. ie great beams overhead shook and ground gether a moment, and then the roof fell. shower of sparks shot upward from the lining pile. The end had come.?Portland rameript. EDUCATION AND TEMPERANCE. It is a surprising fact that the ignorance ncerning the evils of intemperance is as pround among the learned as among the unirned. The truth 011 this subject is no part the college curriculum ; and does not at all iter miu ?i icguitii truuuuiiun. jiwn uuu uno il be remedied V Who will educate the eduted, or persuade them that they are sadly ig>rant in an essential particular V If temperance has been ignored in early life will generally be ignored in later life. The ct that it is not included in the instructions iparted is itself an education ! It teaches ith the tremendous emphasis of silence that mperance is not a subject worthy of considation, a fallacy which is seldom removed oin the mind by which it is once entertained, 'e may thus see the logical relation of schools temperance. Education has a three-fold sk: first, to develop latent mental faculties ; ixt, to discipline and train the power develed and prepare the subject for practical serce in real life ; and, third, to impart to him me share of the needed knowledge of the 'e before him, of his opportunities, diflicules and duties. Merely to impart knowledge is not really to lucate so as to meet the just requirements of lis or any other age. The well educated man one who has acquired intellectual strength, lequate to his life's demand, skill in its exerse, and some practical knowledge of the arei on which he is contending for the prizes of anhnnd. and of at least the fundamental inciples that are a guide to life's best results^ ? far as educational systems and methods mform to this triple need they are right, and r so much as in any respect they fail they are rong. Seen from the point of view of inteljent friends *of the temperance movement, ie educatory system of the day, in the heme id the Sunday-school, up through primary id preparatory schools, colleges, seminaries id universities, is greatly at fault. This is grave statement, truly, and is gravely and dly made. The proof is in the fact that the eat majority of mankind come from the imes and institutions of our age without a lit as to the best way of settling the most ofound problem of the world they are enterg, without any just conception of the stuindous character of that problem. Is not that education clearly at fault that ys nothing about the worst evil, the greatest sril, that shall beset him whom it pretends to , for the ambushed walk of life V But let us be more explicit. Is not intemiranee the most terrible evil of these modern mesV Is there a nation on the earth not livering in its folds like Laocoon in the pylon's coils ? Is there a family it has not uiewhere hurtfully touched V Is there one fe that it does not directly or indirectly limV Is there one human being whom it has ;?> o/imu uf._iv ivmnwd and illilirpd V Is it >\1 111 .1IM.IV .M.J " ' "J - >t a ubiquitous curse V Is there one good ling of which it is not the active and poweril enemy ? And is it not daily increasing its >wer for mischief ? Does it not constantly istroy souls ? As practical men study the question, what dation does alcohol sustain to health ? It [flames the stomach, indurates the brain, dis(lers the nervous system, makes the muscles ibby, and throws its victim a wreck on the lores of time. It does its bad work imparally ; the clown and the scholar are treated ike, and both go into premature graves iglited by the poison which neither had been lught to fear. Ought not the text books on lysiology to warn the young on these points V light not the schools to teach the true classijation of alcohol as a poison Oeorije Morris, A. M. gliscfItancous Heading. DANIEL IN THE LIONS' DEN. The colored preacher's version of Daniel in the lions' den and the lesson he draws therefrom will bear repeating: "Dan'l wuz er good Christyun man wat lived in de Bible; and whedder he wuz er white man or whedder he wuz er brack man I dunno; I ain't nuber hyeard nobody say. But dat's neder hyear nor dar; he wuz er good mon on' 1 iO nrdv troo tima? ohv flnv At. flp fus peepin' uv de day Brer Dan'l he usen fur ter hop out'n his bed an' git down on 'is knees ; an' soon's eber de horn hit blowed fur de han's ter come out'n de iield for dinner, Brer Dan'l he went in his house, he did, an' Hop right back on 'is knees. An' wen de sun set, den dar he wuz agin, er prayin' an' er strivin' wid de Lord. "Well, de king uv dat kentry he 'low he nuber want no prayiu' 'bout 'im ; he sez, sezee, 'I want de thing fer ter stop.' But Brer Dan'l he nuber studied 'im; he jes prayed right on' tell by'mby de king he 'low dat de nex' man wot he kotch prayin' he wuz gwine cas' im in de lions' den. "Well, nex' mornin', soon's Brer Dan'l riz fum 'is bed, he light right on 'is knees, an' went ter prayin'; an' wile he was er wrestlin' in prar, de pater-rollers dey come in an' dey tied 'im lian' an' foot wid er rope, an' tuck 'im right erlong tell dey come ter de lions' den ; an'nven dey whz yit er fur ways fum dar dey hyeard de lions er ro'in an'er sayin, 'Ar-ooorrrrar! ar-ooorrrrar!' an' all dey hearts 'gun ter quake sept'n Brer Dan'l's; he nuber notice 'em ; he jes pray 'long. By'mby dey git ter de den, an' dey tie er long rope roun' Brer Dan'l's wais', an' tro 'im right in. And dey drawed up de roi>c, an' went back whar dey come fum. "Well, yearly nex' mornin' hyear dey come agin, an' dis time de king he come wid 'em ; an'dey hyeard de lionser ro'in, 'Ar-ooorrrrar! ar-ooorrrrar!' An' dey come ter de den, an' dey open de do'; an' dar wuz de lions' wid dey mouf open an' dey eyes er shinin', jes er trompin' backerds an' forerds, an'dar iu de corner sot an angel smoovin' uv 'is wings; an' right in de middle uv de den was Dan'l, jes er sot'n back dar. Gemmun, he wuz'n toteh! lie I nulipr sn much f/. had de smell uv de lions 'bout'n 'im. lie wuz ez whole, raun, ez he wuz de day he wuz born. Eben de boots 011 'im, sar, wuz ez shiny ez dey wuz wen dey put 'im dar. He preach de Word, he did, right erlong, an' atter dat he 'gun ter sing dis hymn: Dan'l wuz er prayin' man; He pray tree times er day. l)e Lord "he hist do winder, Fur ter hvoar po' Dan'l pray. Den he 'gun ter call up de ino'ners ; an' dey come, too! Mun, de whole yeath wuz erlive wid 'em ! De white folks dey went up, an' de niggers de\j went up, an' de pater-rollers dey went up, an' de king he went up, an' dey all come thu an'got 'ligion ; an' fum dat day dem folks is er sarvin de Lord. "An' now, chil'en, efn yer be like Brer Dan'l, an' say, yer prars, an' put yer 'pen'ence in de Lord, yer needn' be er fyeard uv no lions ; de Lord he'll take cyar uv yer, an' he'll be mighty proud to do it." Then Uncle Dob gave out a hymn, which all, black and white, sang with great fervor. The first verses implored blessings on marster, missus, chil'en, and "deseniggers," and closed with the following : "All folkses, Lord, all folkses, Lord? O Lord, bless all de same! Oh, bless de good, an' bless do bad, mr uu giory uv uy iianiw. Now bless us, Lord! now bless us, Lord! Don't fool 'ion}? o' us no 1110'; Oh, sen' us down de blessin', Lord! An' den we'll let yer go." THE EDITOR OF 1888. The Editor of 1888 will be paragraph foully bright, witty and wise to the extent of a column or more six times a week, twenty-live days a months and some three hundred odd days during the year?even though his head have a cold in it or his stomach have dyspepsia in it, or in his bones be rheumatism, or in his liver excess of bile. And as to regularity of intellectual effort he is to be a cast-iron man, not affected by changes of the weather, by cold rooms or rooms over-heated, or by discordant or harsh sounds about him as he endeavors to change his thought by pen and ink to paper. And he shall ever write in the cheerful, hojieful, genial strain, though there be sickness at home and debts due abroad?though he sees one wolf at the front door and two at the back door. And his thought shall ever be clear and its measure and soundings deep, though corns twinge and bunions afflict ; though teeth ache and his epigastrum through sensation proclaim itself an abused organ; though his head throb by reason of some nocturnal passing indul gence towards which there may be that natural tendency on the principle that the best bow must at times be unstrung, and that there is even a painful tension in the steady and long continued habit of hard, conscientious painstaking work. The editor of 1883 will never sigh for relaxation, never wish to go a-fishing, never crave nor ask a vacation, never long to be rich that he may work when he feels most like it. lie will never become tired nor nauseated as he looks over the daily exchanges and finds them, as ever, filled with the same monotonous record of deaths, murders, suicides, fires, burglaries, embezzlements, defalcations, "run over and killed, "run away with and killed," "death by Paris green," shipwrecks, drownings?all the same, the same and the same, from year's end to year's end. with but a change of name and locality. So firmly based will be his mind that his lively interest in all these things shall never flag, and he will go on to the end until (stretched out in his journalistic coffin) the lively, sharp, incisive chronicler of this eternal round, of human events. Happy though unknown, happy though poor, happy though dyspeptic, happy though denied the green pastures of his youth, happy though seeing naught else l'rom his sanctum window but two brick chimneys and one iron shutter, happy at the sight of others making $10 to his $1 by one-fourth the labor, happy though he rests on Sunday in studying what to write on Monday, happy in seeing the pettifogging lawyer sent on foreign missions by the man he first nominated to the Presidency. Ilappy and cast-iron. Ilappy and insensible to varying moods or physical pain. Happy ! Happy ! Happy ! So happy he shall long to live on in the liesh, a dweller in this earthly tabernacle, a sojourner in this vale of tears?forever !? JVeic York Graphic. 4?^-4. The Creoles About 1745.?Among the people a transmutation was going on. French fathers were moving aside to make'room for Creole sons. The life of the seniors had been what the life of redemptorists and liberated convicts, combining with that of a French and Swiss line and stall in and about the outposts of such a frontier, might be ; idle, thriftless, gallants, bold, rude, free and scornful of labor, which the company had brought into permanent contempt by the introduction of African slaves. In this atmosphere they had I brought up their children. Now these chil| dreu were taking their parents' places, and j with Latin ducility were conforming to the i mold of their nearest surroundings. TheydifI P?Art\ f f??iiin ufnol' mm>li nc the face of nature in Louisiana differed from that in France. A soil of unlimited fertility became, through slavery, not an incentive to industry, but a promise of unearned plenty. A luxurious and enervating climate joined its inlluence with this condition to debase even the Gallic love of pleasure to an unaniortious apathy and an untrained sensuality. The courteous manners of France were largely retained, but the habit of commanding a dull and abject slave class, over which a tkblack code" gave every white man full powers of police, induced a certain fierce imperiousness of will and temi>er, while that proud love of freedom, so i>ervasive throughout the American wilderness, rose at times to an attitude of arrogant superiority over all constraint, and became the occasion of harsh comment in the reports to France by the ollicers of their king. In the lakes, canebrakes, and swamps, and on the bayou ridges of their dark, wet forests, and on the sunny expanses of their marshes a great abundance of bears, panthers, deer, swans, geese, and lesser game, gave a bold zest to arduous sport. The chase became almost the only form of exertion, and woodcraft often the only education. As for the gentler sex, catching less grossness from negro slavery and less rudeness from the wilderness, they were, in mind as well as morals, superior to the men. They could read and write and make a. little music. Such French vivacity as still remained chose the ball room as their chief delight, while the gaming table was the indoor passion of the men. Unrestrained, projud, intrepid, self reliant, rudely voluptuous, of a high intellectual order, yet uneducated, unreasoning, impulsive, and inflammable?such was the first native born generation of Franco Louisianians.?Gcorye W. Cablc in the January Century. 4- ? ? WEATHER PROGNOSTICS. 1 It is stated that the following prognostics j are deduced from observations gathered from the most reliable sources in England, embrac- . ing 112 years, from 1G75 to 1780. 1. When the vernal equinox is not preceded or followed by the usual equinoxial storms, the succeeding summer will be dry five times in six. ( 2. If easterly storms occur on the 19th, 20th or 21st of May, the ensuing summer will like- ( wise be dry ; the same characteristic applies to storms from whatever direction on the 25th, 26th or 27th of March, viz.: a dry summer will ( follow. , 3. When storms happen from or between the 19th and 23rd of March, having directions , from the west southwest, the succeeding sum- ( mer will be wet five times out of six. In England, when both winter and spring are dry, they are always cold, but when these two sea- i sons are wet they are usually warm ; on the ^ contrary, dry summers and autumns are most always hot and wet summers cold ; hence if the humidity of any special season be deter- ( mined, an approximately correct idea may be , formed what the prevailing temperature will be. , 4. A wet autumn, succeeded by a mild winter, is generally followed by a dry and cold , spring, which will be unfavorable to the j growth of vegetation. 5. A wet summer is most always succeeded , hv :i scvw'A enlrl winter heeanse the terrestri- ' al heat has been carried oft by evaporation ; : it has been observed that wet summers promote j great proficiency on the white thorn of da- ( grase, so that an unusual fruitfulness of the ] shrubs is considered a presage of an intensely ] cold winter. , G. A severe winter is also indicated by the early departure in the autumn by cranes and other migratory birds, because the birds never i leave for a southern climate until the cold sea- 1 son has commenced in the northern regions. < 7. When the month of September is showery it seldom rains during the coming May; j and contrary, should September pass without j showers, the following May will be rainy. 8. When, in summer and autumn, the predominating wind is from the southwest, or when the temperature is unusually low for the season, and the barometer below, profuse rains may be expected at the end of the season. 9. Tempestuous storms and other violent ! commotions of the clouds produce a crisis in the atmosphere, which is followed by a succession of several months of tine or boisterous 1 weather, of whatever the incoming change may be. 10. A mild and rainy winter is always fol- 1 lowed by an unproductive summer. ( 11. When rainy weather prevails during a ' moon, the change succeeding will be fair weather for several days, after which rain will again j set in ; but when fair weather prevailed during 1 the moon, and the succeeding change be rain, fair weather will again return after the fourth j or fifth day of the moon and continue as before. 12. The most decided indication for fair 1 weather is the apparently great elevation of 1 the celestial concave and evident disposition of the clouds to dissolve and vanish away. 1 13. Rich hues of deep red and orange rellect- j ed hy evening clouds are sure signs of a pleas- j ant day following ; but when the same appearance of the sky occurs at sunrise, cloudy J weather and rain may be expected?a fact well confirmed by many observers. 14. Where the sky is overset and small detached clouds of a darker shade move hurriedly in opposite directions, heavy rains may be , expected. 15. At the approach of rain, smoke and vapors descend to the earth, because the air is ; too light to support them, and at such times j birds also fly nearer to the earth than at other ! times. ( 1G. When at the close of a summer day dew , forms copiously, the following day will be j pleasant. ' 1 Wmf AN's Powkr.?The mother's solicitude, i the wife's patience and anxiety, the sister's : love, have proved in nine cases out of ten, the J strong cord that pulled at the heart of the J wanderer, till son, or husband, or brother ] could no longer bear the the strain, and loosened it by coming nearer and nearer home. Some woman's hand holds the key, unconsciously and carelessly perhaps, but holds it to j almost every man's heart, and the closed doors j will be unbarred to her, and yield to her touch , when 110 other power will stir them on their j rusty hinges. Let any woman who finds her- ' self thus inside beware how she works ! In ( clearing out the darkened chambers so that j God's light can enter, let her work with such skillful touches of prayer and tenderness as , shall do nothing better than stir, like an un- ! skillful servant, all the dust, only to see it set- , tie thicker in another place. It is no light work, this leading of human souls, and any j woman who undertakes it needs to bring to it , all there is of her. She will need all her ^ knowledge of God, and perhaps never discover . how little she possesses till she tries to open it for another soul to measure her treasure. She j will need her knowledge of people, her dis- , crimination of character, her intuitive dis- j cernments of mental conditions, and her sym- 1 pathetic perception of feeling. All the bright- , est and best that she can command is not too ' good nor too fair to be used in the saving of j what is best and fairest in others. A Sad Recognition.?A sensational and ' sad reunion between a father and son took place 011 Thursday afternoon at the State ( Prison South, in Jeffersonville, Indiana. Sevpriil vpjirs Atrrt Patrick Gleason. who lived in Wayne county, Ind., left home and never re turned. His absence was not thought strange, however, as he had some family trouble which annoyed him considerably, and he had several times threatened to leave. lie had one son named Thomas Gleason, who was then about eighteen years of age. Years passed away and not a word was heard from the missing , father by either mother orson and he was con- j sidered as dead. The young man, as he grew older developed a very wild disposition and j I was frequently in trouble, but managed to es- ( cape justice, until a few months ago when he was arrested for grand larceny. He was tried in the Circuit Court of Wayne county and sentenced to the penitentiary. He arrived at the prison and was at once arrayed in his striped suit and had his hair and beard shaved close. He was then conducted through the ( workshops, and, in passing a line of convicts, . to his surprise and shame he discovered his , missing father among the group. The recognition was a mutual one, and the meeting affected those present almost to tears. The father was serving out a sentence for the same crime that had brought the son within the walls. Cold Feet.?Don't go to bed with cold < feet; better still, don't go about your daily i work with cold feet if you can help it. It is 1 the cause of many of tiie "ills that the flesh j i is heir to." If silting quietly in the house! and your feet are cold, take off the shoes, and j give the feet a good warming by the lire. On ! < no account ever retire to bed with cold feet. : If you do you will be apt to experience cramp or the nightmare. Warm feet prevents cold 1 and headaches,and promotes sound and re- < freshing sleep. Look to the children's feet, i ni.a dun fn U'pf. Jinrl I I J.TAIVIIJ (V l^LUUp rtliU iu ?uv vv ?? wv %...% cold feet in winter. Frequently foot-baths in : warm water are a necessity in winter. Re- i move the cause of cold feet and you prevent the i trouble. i "NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP." Who wrote that child's prayer? Ilis work lias done more for humanity than all the creeds of councils, or all the systems of divinity put together. I fancy some gifted and loving mother composed it for her own darlings, not dreaming that for centuries it would tie taught by innumerable mothers to millions Df children ; that indeed it would be trans- J mitted from generation to generation, through v ill revolutions, all political and social changes, ^ to the end of time. How many men and wo- t men, brave boys and gentle girls, to-day date I their first impressions, the first awakening of j conscience, the first thought of God, the Gracious Guardian of his children on earth, to that precious prayer ? IIow many aged men md matrons, sitting serenely in the golden glow of life's cloudless evening, trace with gratitude to God, the promise and the potency of their characters and destinies the twilight worship of the bedside when kneeling at their mother's knees they said that prayer ? Ilappy child whose mother solemnly and tenderly teaches her little ones the simple, the immortal words! In the very impressive and touching address of the late Judge Thomas Thompson, of the South Carolina bench, to five young men convicted of murder, he remarked that he pitied them ; and had thought that perhaps no tender mother shielded their infant innocence, and taught them kneeling at her knee the prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep." "I know not," said the Judge, "who wrote that prayer, but I would rather be the author of it than the finest poem in the world, for it it has shaped the destiny of millions and millions of the human race. Courts and codes of law may pass away, but prayer will endure to the end of time to bless mankind." "When listening to Judge Thompson's words, I was reminded of a* touching, beautiful incident in the last hours of that noble and just man, Judge D. L. Wardlaw, of Abbeville, S. C. The grand old Judge lay on his death-bed. His family did not suppose that his end was ; so near. In perfect peace he bade them good uight, saying that he thought he would sleep well. He seemed to sleep sweetly and only a little grand-daughter sat in his chamber. The silence of the night in the old patriarch's room was softly broken by his voice, repeating the prayer of his infancy. As a little child, Hioloupno/1 orifl oVilo inriat !>nrl atafo?mun with UI1U iVWi UVU ItiiU UU1V J U1 iuu UUU UVMVVWMMI4) ft ?w?* liis hands folded on his breast, said, "Now I loy me down to sleep, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep; if I should die before I wake, [ pray thee, Lord, my soul to take." The payer concluded, he fell asleep and died before he woke, and the Lord took his soul! "And Jesus called a little child unto him and 3et him in the midst of them and said, Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. I think, my boy, that just about your age is ;he time for you to learn what you are good for. And when you have found out what it is go at it aud stick to it. I want to see you at tvork. "I have no secret," said Turner, the great painter, "but hard work." 1 "Nothing," said Mirabeau, "is impossible :o man who can will. This is the only law of success." "There is but one method," says Sydney Smith, "and that is hard work." "The difference between one man and anDther," said Dr. Arnold, "is not so much in talent as in energy." And do you direct your energy in one channel. Don't be diffusive in your work. There is power in concentration. A handful of powder scattered on the ground makes a great smoke when it is fired, but nothing more. It is the few ounces compressed in the blast of a gun-barrel that counts for something when it goes off. If you are a lawyer, a physician, or a carpenter, and make up your mind that you will know as much about one particular line or branch or specialty of your profession or trade, you do well. Because, if you know as much on any point as any other man, surely as the heavens are above us, you will know much more about it than thousands, and immeasurably more than millions of other men, and this makes you an authority. Be ambitious as vou will, but be ambitious in some particular direction. You can make any sphere of labor honorable. A good, honest, earnest man can shovel sand with credit to himself and profit to his employer, and honor to his country. Many a good blacksmith and harness maker have been spoiled by schools of law and medical colleges; and let rae tell you, Telemachus, right here, that society, your country, humanity and God need good carpenters and shoemakers and stone cutters and farm hands, more than poor doctors and poor preachers and poor editors. If you have to choose between a poor lawyer and a good deckhand, be a good deck-hand every time. When to Get Married.?Among the perplexing conundrums which come to the Times is one from a young man who wants to know when he had better get married. He jays he is without fortune and has a very small iucome. He really doesn't talk as if he morrinH of oil TTfl /InAQn'f. fkPPTIl Jill?llU tW ?01/ UJaiuwu i*u uiti Ai.v mvvmi* v Mw... to have made the lirst preparation. He has a little better sense, however than the average 3f young men of his class, because he seeks advice before he rushes into marriage. The most of them wait until it is too late and then wish they had done something else. There used to be an old-fashioned notion that a young man should not think of marrying until he could provide a proper home for his wife, and girls were hard to find who were willing to marry without such provision. All that sort of bother is now dispensed with. Girls don't trouble themselves about a home; it is the nice, perfectly lovely young man they want, and no worrying thought of anything else disturbs them till after marriage. Sooner or later they realize how much better a little patience and discretion would have been. Many young women of real refinement, possessing something of an education and with many social graces, are whirled away to ordinary boarding houses within a month of their marriage. This is a great misfortune to any girl. The life of a boarding house is well calculated to unfit a young woman for those domestic and social duties which every man has a right to expect of his wife ; it will almost inevitably destroy her home accomplishments. It requires the strongest character and severest training to escape such demoralization, and few young women escape. No young man can afford in this way to spoil a girl whom he expects to make him i 1!^a ~V/-v Ana wlm cinnnrolv Hilary tlllUUgli 111C. UllU nnv utuvvtvt; loves and lias the ability essential to the protection and support of a wife will think of doing a young woman such a wrong. If a man does not so love and has not that ability he has no right to get married. His time has not come. All cannot live in palaces, but no young man can take a young woman from the refinements and comforts of home to the terrors of a common hoarding house and then expect her to make him a good wife. He has taken the most direct measures to spoil her, even though she ?be an angel.?Philadelphia Times. How to Warm Cold Feet.?People who write or sew all day, or rather those who take but little exercise, may warm their cold feet without going to the lire. All that is necessary is to stand erect and very gradually to lift one's self up upon the tips of the toes, so as to put all the tendons of the foot at full strain. This is not to hop or to jump up and down, but simply to rise?the slower the better?upon tip toe, and to remain standing on the point of the toes as long as possible, then gradually coming to the natural position. Repeat this several times, and, by the amount of work the tips of the toes are made to do, in sustaining the body's weight, a sufficient and lively cir culation is set up. liven the half-frozen car driver can carry this plan out. It is one rule of the "Swedish movement'' system, and, as motion warmth is much better than fire warming, persons who suffer with cold feet at night can try this plan just before retiring to rest.