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9 '.'r.v ' / lewis m. grist, Proprietor, j ' 7n fitbtjpbfltt Jfairaljj. Itriosja))a: Jbr % |)romolioit of % political, Social, ^griculiural anb ?omnurria( |ntasts of % Soulj). | TERMS?$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 39. YOEKYILLE, S C., THURSDAY, MAY 17, 1883. ?TO. 3Q. fleeted ftoettg. ONLY A LITTLE WHILE LONGER. Only a little while longer, For life is but short at the best; Only a little while longer, And then for a sweet, calm rest; When over our low, narrow dwelling The hurrying tempest may sweep, We shall need not the thunder's loud swelling, ,So solemn and peaeeful our sleep. * Only a little while longer, And the end of the web shall be spun; Only a little while longer, j And the weaver's full work will be done; For life is a web, and still weaving Goes a man, ever treading the loom, I At which he works on, scarce believing That the end of the thread is the tomb. Only a little while longer, And the busiest brain shall repose; Only a little while longer, And the weariest eyelids shall close On the diseord and endless contriving To make hard for each other the road ] Along which we go jostling and striving, i Though it leads to a common abode. Only a little while longer, And the fleetest feet shall be still; < Only a little while longer, " } And we'll come to the foot of the hill. Then let us not war on each other, , x"r~- wrnim of* tO-dilV* \ iCUlCiUUCi kUV _ p But hold out our hands to a brother, J Should he stumble and fall on the way. i ?itc fiatu Idler. ! MY LITTLE MISTAKES. ; The Phelans had a baby. Tom sent me a telegram announcing what he called the , happy, event; for I had known him since we j were Both at school, where he was generally < called the "Fat Boy," and many of the fei- ' lows entertained the rooted idea that he was * i a lineal descendant of the "fat boy" whom j Charles Dickens has immortalized in "Pick- \ wick." "j Tom Phelan was not only a fat boy, but, *? v in accordance with the promise of his youth, i he became a fat young man, with a mellow face like an over-ripe pear, and an amply ] proportioned person, indeed, it was be- f cause of that genial, happy look and general } air of good nature that Mary O'Rouke fell in love with and married him. For this ( sufficient reason Tom thought her the wisest woman of her generation, and quite believ- j ed in his inner consciousness tnat Nature ( had endowed her with rare and admirable t taste. j Twelve months ago I had acted as Tom's * best man; he had asked me to stand by him c to the last, and I did. I saw him through c the painful ceremony, during which he was t stared at in the keenest way by ail the bride's J female friends, including eight charming c bridesmaids, not one of whom during the r time vouchsafed me a glance ; for by com- } parison with the bridegroom I was an unin- ] teresting man, who had not the heart, the a courage, the good taste or the sense to take { any woman for better or worse; therefore, t in the presence of this noble specimen of hu- ^ manity, the bridegroom, I was insignificant. ? If ever a man was uncomfortable in his f life, Torn Phelan was, under the uninter- t preted gaze of the fair creatures, and of the v crowds of the bride's relations assembled r for the occasion, in all their strength and j glory inside the walls of St. Bride's church, v I)ublin. j At breakfast some one made a long speech, 1; in which so many magnificent things were f . said with so much grandiloquence, that the ^ bride began to weep; and poor Tom, who t thought it his duty to harmonize in all f things with the feelings of his new made \ wife, was about to allow himself to be over- 1 come, and shed a few tears also, when he t " ' ' - - -1 VA,1 ? caugnt tne see r 11 auu repruacmui g?w ui m* u newly-made mother-in-law, and that one \ glance decided the matter, and stayed his \ emotion immediately. I saw him through it all, poor fellow, as I j promised. I was true to my trust, and at i the last moment, whilst the carriage which was to convey him and his bride away wait- i ed, I extracted a few grains of rice which c had lodged themselves in his left eye, and \ picked up his best hat, which had been rude- g ly knocked off his head by the blow of an , old slipper from some friendly, but awk- ) ward hand. So, as I commenced by stating, they had c now a baby, and they made as much and 2 excitement over the fact as if it had been the most wonderful instead of the most natural 1 thing in life. The day after receiving the t telegram I had a letter from Tom, in which he described the infant as the finest that his c sisters, his cousins, his aunts?and collectively, their names are legion?had ever i seen. It was a bov, and nothing wchild please him but that I should, a fortnight af- 1 ter the receipt of his letter, cross the channel t * and stand godfather to his first born. ( ' No doubt he considered hepaid me a com- i pliment; for he seemed to lay great stress t on the fact of my being requested to stand ^ in such a position to the "first-born," and 1 ^ gave me to understand the honor would not be so great if it were, in the coming time, g asked to hold the same position toward oth- 4 er little types of humanity, that in the course < of years, he fully expected?nay, hoped? would present themselves. I would do anything to oblige an old 1 friend like Tom Phelan, even to getting > sea-sick ; so I crossed over to Kingstown, l ? Al*"A *?<~*11 * +0 rlnr. / sunerillg Ulitl IIlUliUi,v m an no uuiiuiD, v.v v ing which time I did not exactly bless this i young Phelan on whose account I had un- i dertaken the journey. My friend was waiting for me 011 the pier, < his round, ruddy face beaming with happiness, and brimming over with smiles. I 1 felt at that moment that he must be a com- 1 plete contrast to myself, for mat de mer always made me look the color of an unripe 1 lemon, and certainly did not improve my 1 temper. "Why, my boy," he said, seizing my hand, and jerking my arm up and down as ] if he had mistaken it for a pump-handle, i "how are you ?" j "Very bad. We have had a rough night," 1 I replied, as briefly as I could, whilst I 1 watched two porters disputing for the pos- 1 session of my portmanteau. i I suppose Tom saw that I was suffering ( , from the effects of my voyage, and was 1 , somewhat out of sorts, for he did not speak < , to me for some time. When he did it was 1 in a tone of reproach. 1 "Fritz, you have not asked me how he 1 is," he said. i "lie ??whom ?" I inquired, rather mys tified. ' i "Your little grandson." "Oh, of course ; how stupid I am! I beg 1 your pardon, my dear fellow; how is he ? 1 All right, I hope ?" (If the fond parent had i < only heard my fervent prayers for his heir j a few hours ago ! I thought to myself, feel- j ing for the first time in my life, a bit of a j hypocrite.) '"He is a wonderful big infant, they tell 1 me," said the affectionate parent, with an airof pride, and some assumption of indif-1 ferenee. "Is he ?" I asked, with what I hoped was j a tone expressive of interest. Tom was so good natured that he had al- j ' readv forgiven me my want of thought. "When is it to be, Tom ?" I asked presently. "What ?" he asked. "The christening, of course," said I. ,: * 1 M 1? ** 111*1 \i**? , I " w eunescuiy," m* aimncn-u , , have decided to leave the selection of his i name to you." "My dear fellow, that is too much responsibility ; if I gave the boy a name he dis- 1 like, like Christopher, or Tobias, or Alonzo, j or Simon, he would never forgive me when ( he grew up, and would hate me to the day I of his death." j "What nonsense you talk, Fritz! You i can talk it over with May, and come to < some arrangement." | "Onequestion," said I, abruptly, stopping < in our walk toward the brougham that was < to carry us to Tom's comfortable home ; "Shall I have to hold him at the font ?" "Yes?that is, no; upon my life I can't say. Why?" "Bemuse I have never held one before, and I am sure 1 should let it fall. I have never seen one?having no married relatives or friends except in a 'bus or in a perambulator in the streets; and I am, upon my life. I think they are all bad tempered and bad-mannered, and have a common habit of working themselves into frightful passion about nothing in particular, just to plague people and make them uncomfortable." For answer my fat friend shook his fat sides with laughter, and, when he could speak, said : "You talk like a bachelor, Fritz." "You forget I have not had twelve months' experience of matrimony," I said hitting home. He only laughed all the more at this. My reply seemed to please his fancy. " It would be the best thing in life for you it you tiacl; it wouui maae yuu a man," he said, when he recovered himself. "Take my word for it, you don't know what comfort is until you're married." "I am not very miserable in my present date-of blessed bachelorhood, and in no liurryto make a change," said I. "Then you are wrong, my boy. Do you know why I sent for you ?" he said, looking at me suddenly, and as I thought afterward, speculatively. "To stand godfather to your son of course." "That is one reason; but I have another. May and 1 have laid a plot. I'm afraid I'm spoiling sport by tellingyou, but I'm haug?d if I can hold 1113' tongue." "I am the victim of your plot, 1 suppose?" I inquired, mildly. "\ou are, my boy. We want to make you as happy as .ourselves by marrying you to one of the brightest and best of girls. She is just the one to make you as happy as you could desire." "Upon my life, you are awfully good, ioth of you; but I have no inclination to oin the list of martyrs?I mean to?to enter into the holy bonds of matrimony." "We will say 110 more about her until tTou see her." "When will that be!" I asked, feeling ather curious to see the woman whom my 'riends had decided was to make me a lappy man. "On Wednesday morning; she is to be one >f the godmothers." There was much ado about the christenng. The cake was of a gigantic size, as if irdered with a merciful consideration for he healthy appetites of the sisters, cousins md aunts of Tom Phelan and his wife. L'he previous night a dinner was given to :elebrate the event more fitly. I was dressid early, and went down into the drawing00m, where Tom was talking to Mrs. Mc?um, a little woman with a twinkle in her yes, and a juvenile cap on her head, who irided herself 011 being connected with the amily of the great McJt ums, to wnoin Brian born himself was but an upstart, ind the Lords of Kildare and Leinater >ut "mushrooms me dear, if it comes to hat," as she used to say, with a sense of >ride, expressed by a sudden backward jerk if her head, that made the lacff of her cap lutter airily, and the roses tremble from exiltation, in more senses than one, on their cire stems. When my host had introduced ne, and she had nodded her juvenile cap 11 recognition of my best bow, she went on nth the narrative what her dear friend jady Aradne had said to her when she was ast in London, which Tom had interrupted or the purpose of introducing me. I saw that he was impatient to get away, ut there was no use in his striving to stir rom Mrs. MeFum just then, who started vith a fresh anecdote of what Tom Moore tad told her he had said to Lady Blessingon, when she sang, "Believe me if all;" md so I was left to make my acquaintance vith the guests already arrived, all of whom vere strangers to me. "Charming day this has been," said a roung lady, who evidently took pity on ny forlorn condition. "Charming?beautiful," I replied, lookng at the speaker, who had the most wonlerful grev blue Irish eyes I had ever seen, vhicli had now a merry look in them they trove in vain to conceal. She gave a pleasant, soft musical laugh, vhen I had spoken. "You forgot that it has been raining all lay," she said, looking at me with a quizsing gaze. "So it has," said I, remembering the fact, md laughing with her at my mistake; all lie while I felt myself blushing. "I only spoke of the weather to break the :onvereational ice," she said. "You are merciful," I answered, wonder ng if she was laughing at ine. "Am I ? I saw you we're a stranger to is, and Mr. Phelan is being instructed in he pedigree of the McFums, I suppose, and annotget away for a quarter of an hour to ntroduee you," she said with a friendliness ;hat set me at ease at once. "Will you allow me to do myself that pleasure ?" "I think I can spare you that trouble," ?he replied, in the most musical of voices. 'You have come from London to stand jodfather to the baby?" "I have," I answered, wondering how she knew, and watching with pleasure the irch look that suddenly darted into her vonderful eyes. I began to think that she lad one of the most interesting faces I had iver seen. Her lips were red and saucy, ind were, I thought, just made to kiss md be kissed. "Shall I point you out the godmother?" >heasked, watching my lace as she spoKe. "No?that is; yes," I replied, thinking of vliat Tom had told me, and just a little cu ious to see his beau ideal of iny future wife. "There she is, at the other side of the room, in a gray silk dress, talking with hat stout little man with the brown wig." "Do you mean?" "Yes, that tall, angular lady with the ittle bunch of curls at each side of her face, she has been a beauty in her day, and has ust come in for a thousand a year, since Ahich time she has had six proposals of narriage, and has stood godmother to one tundred and twenty-three children. Bebre she came in for that legacy, no one ev>r noticed her; and though her manners lave not changed in the least, the world has >nly now discovered that she is one of the nost amiable women living. Now I always knew that fact and stated it openly, though no one would believe it." While my new friend spoke 1 felt that !>'? wiiteh in a* m v filer* U-eenlv. This, i then, I said tomyseif, was the woman who, Tom Phelan had assured me, would make iue a happy man. The lady was at least twenty years older than J was; but any disparity inthat way Tom evidently thought would be made up to me by the fact of my future wife possessing a thousand a year, j I be^an to think that my friend's character j had undergone a change. 1 had always | considered him far from mercenary; but probably the cares and expenses of his life had made him regard money in a different ! light from what he had done in the old i days; and lie thought he would do me a j friendly turn by marrying me to a woman j old enough to be niv mother, because other wealth. When 1 considered over these I things I was sorry for Tom Phelan. .Marriage 1 thought had not raised the tone of his mind. 1 looked over at him then, and saw a cheerful look on his round pleasant face, as if something had occurred that made him very happy. Probably, I said mentally, it is one of Mrs. Mc Fum's tales that makes this most good tempered of men delighted. When next I looked at my neighbor, she, too, I thought, had a merry expression in her eyes that seemed to spring from a look she exchanged with Tom Phe-! Ian. "So that lady is to be baby's god-moth- i cr?" i said presently, directing my gaze I to the lady in gray silk, with a little'bunch of curls confined by a tortoise shell comb, ! edged with a row of pearls, at each side of! Iier thin, pale face. "Yes. You must let me introduce you. 1 She is one of the best and kindest of women." I began to wonder if my new friend was in the plot, too, find if sne were engaged by Tom and Mrs. Tom to lend her assistance toward the desired end of marrying me to this spinster. I felt as if I should like to get up and run away out of the house and out of the toils that these good people evidently thought to ensnare me in; but the voice of this girl with the gray-blue eyes, that now sparkled with humor and anon melted into tenderness, almost in the same minute, as only Irish eyes can, held me a prisoner. I was unwilling to remove from her side. Though she did not tell me her name she told me about herself in a frank, naive manner that completed the charm she held over me and made me her faithful bond-slave from that hour to this day. Her hither was in India, she said; she and her mother were living in Bray during his absence. She expected him home next year, when she feared they would leave dear old Ireland and tro on the Continent. Then, suddenly, in the midst of her confidential chat, she asked me once more to cross the room with her and get introduced to the lady \Vho was to be god-mother to Tom Phelan's baby. Before I could answer her she stood up and waited for me to accompany her. Miss Fay was the name of the spinster, who was a mild agreeable gentlewoman, with sad eyes and a gentle manner. "When my new friend had introduced me she suddenly disappeared. Soon after some people who came in engaged Miss Fay's attention, and I was left alone. Then Tom Phelan came up to me, beaming all over with smiles. "No," 1 answered dryly, understanding what he meant. "What do you think of her ?" He look at me with his head on one side and a broad smile on his face. "Think of her ? She is very amiable." This in a stiff tone. "You will get on famously together. She is the woman to make you happy, old man." | This with an air of patronage and superiority. "You are very good," said I, humoring him, and thinking at the same time how changed he was. "Now, Fritz, I have arranged that you shall take in Mrs. Carey to dinner. May will introduce you. I want to ask you to make yourself agreeable to her; not too agreeable, you know, as you can do sometimes to women, for she has a husband, though he is in India. A safe distance, my boyfc" "All right," I said. Tom hurried away, and just then dinner n-cio onnnnnporl +hr? host, frivinf his iirill to Mrs. McFum. The hostess pointed out a lady to me, whom I was to take down to the dining room, and in a few minutes we were comfortably seated. ' My new friend sat opposite to me, I could see her bright face smiling across the flowers. Her eyes at once dazzled and fascinated me, and her voice made my heart flutter in an unaccustomed way. The lady whom I had taken down and who now sat beside me, was a stout, ' solemn-faced woman, arrayed in black velvet, who spoke very little. I was glad of this latter fact, for 1 could not, I felt, keep up a conversation. I was listening to the : voice of my new friend, who bilked well and wittily with her neighbors. Occasionally she directed an odd sentence to me , across the flowers. When the desert was over my neighbor in black velvet, with whom Tom Phelan had unnecessarily warned me not to flirt , because of her having a husband in India, ' took up her fan and commenced to wave it gently to and fro. "How hot it is," she said to me, in a voice ! as subdued as if she spoke in a church. "Yes," I replied, "the night is close, but ' we should not complain. If.we had to bear the heat that your husband is at present en- . during?" ; Suddenly something went against my new . friend's breath, then every one at my end of the table became all at once silent, and I , saw that though some of them seemed grave enough, others strove to keep themselves ' from laughing outright. Tom Phelan, after a moment's keen struggle, strove to look as if nothing in particular had happened. What was the cause of all this I had not the , slightest idea, but that something wrong |; had occurred there was no doubt. ; Mrs. Phelan at this instant caught Mrs. ' McFum'seye, and rose from the table; the , other ladies followed. My neighbor, whom 1 1 had taken down, was the last to rise, and ' as she did so gave me a withering look, which I long remembered. When the door was safely closed, Tom j Phelan threw himself back in his chair and laughed until the tears rolled down his fat . cheeks ; the other men joined him, all look- . ing at me the while. "What's the joke ?" I asked ; "I am out , in the cold." j "My dear fellow, Mrs. Carey, who sat next ( to you, is a widow." In :i moment I saw the blunder I had ' made! I had taken down the wrong wo- ' man to dinner. An hour afterward I had completely for- < gotten my little mistake; for by some chance I found myself by the side of my new friend ( who was seated at the piano, singing "Oft , in the Stilly Night." I turned the leaves j of the music, bending over until I touched , her once. Her voice was soft and sweet; it stirred me in a way I had never before ex- ( perieneed, and made me strangely happy ( and sad almost in the same minute. When } she had linidied singing, and whilst 1 was . yet bending over her on pretense of closing > the book, our eyes met for a second; hers \ grew soft and liquid, and seemed to melt \ into a world of tenderness. 3Iy heart gave j a throb, and then I knew lar better than all f words could say, that we had fallen in love. ] When a man comes to make such a dis- ] covery, a sense of delicious happiness tills j him, and makes all the world seem brighter j than words?which are poor things at best? \ can tell. Three hours ago I had never met , this woman; the fate?accident?chance? , call it by what name you will, had Hung us \ together; and a nameless look in her eyes, j some stray tone in her voice, the touch of , her hand, had woven a charm for mo that ] mocked at and set to flight my ideas of hap- j py bachelorhood ; that revealed to me feel- , nigs and hopes which I had never known before, and which made me f""' that, come weal or woe, this was she wl.^ must wa^cby < my side all the days of my life. Do the j gods sport with men as in the olden days? i I asked myself. All hour after she had sung that song, ny < some strange accident we found ourselves in i the long garden that runs at the back of J Tom's house. It was a glorious night in ] June; the air was cool and balmy, the smell j of the dowers delightful; a young moon was < in the cloudless sky. ] "Well, how do you like Miss Fay ?" the ; girl who had taken my heart captive, asked, i looking at me from under her dark lashes. ] "Very much ; but?but?may I say it?" My heart was terribly anxious to speak. > "What?" she asked suddenly; but I no- ; ticed her eyes did not meet mine. f "1 like some one else much better." |) I could hardly get the words out. ' | "Probably you do?some one in London !" 1 j "No, someone in Ireland; some one who ! \ ^miflinur litxwlo me time." There was silence in the garden after I i had spoken. She did not reply or laugh, j hut raised lier eyes and looked at nie once; < then I saw the color coining into her cheeks, i "1 think I must go in now," she said pros- i ently, "or they will miss me if they want <. nie to sing." ] "(iive me a llower before you go?" I pleaded to her, not daring to say more. She stooped down, plucked a red rose, just 1 touched her lips with it and gave it to me i When I looked at her there was the merry J light in her eyes that I had seen there when we first spoke or met that evening. In an- < other second she turned and ran toward the house. t I followed slowly. Just as 1 arrived at J the glass doors of the dining room that t communicated with the garden, I came ] suddenly face to face with Tom Phelan. "Well, Fritz, what are you doing out here?" lie said, with a smile that I was ill-natured enough to set down in my mind as a grin. He spoke as if he intended to express surprise, but failed. "Doing? Looking at the moon," 1 replied, staring up as I spoke in the summer sky. "Don't you think a pair of gray eyes, better worth looking at," he asked with a merry twinkle in his own. "Perhaps," I answered calmly. "I say, old man, yog have behaved capitally?better than I expected." There was a sudden change in his voice that struck me. "How?" "You have fallen in love?don't deny? with the girl who will make you a happy man. You have done just as 1 wished, old fellow." He placed his arm around my shoulders, as he had often done when we were boys at school. "You make a mistake there, Tom; I have 110 desire to sell myself for a thousand a year." "What do you meihi?" he asked, with ;? -t-r?A/vl surprise SIllIlIII^ ill inn gwwv* untuitu iuw> "I have no desire to marry the woman you were good enough to select for me? Miss Fay." Tom burst out laughing, this time holding his fat sides as if lie feared he should explode. "What is the matter?" I asked when he had almost done. "You will be the death of me, Fritz, if you go on making these little mistakes." "1 don't understand you," I said. "You cunning dog? Why, you have been flirting all the evening with Kitty Berfort! I saw you both out there two minutes ago; and you have fallen in love with her like a sensible man, just as I wanted you to do." "My dear fellow you said it was the boy's godmother you had selected for me, and that is Miss Fay." "Miss Fay is one of them, Kitty Berfort is the other," and to emphasize his words Tom Phelan struck meon the shoulder with a blow rhat made me stagger. "You are a brick," I said to him, seizing his hand with enthusiasm. Poor, good natured Tom Phelan ! His eyes grew dim just for a second, as he returned my friendly grasp. "Tom," I said, "God bless you, boy !" I spoke in such a grave, impressive voice that the father burst out laughing in my face. This time I joined him heartily. Before I had left the Green Isle Kitty Befort and I became engaged. When her father came back from India we were mar ried, and at our wedding breakfast Tom Phelan?wh6 by the way, had that week been presented with remarkably fine twinstold the story of my little mistake.?Tinafei/'s Magazine. mmammzmmmmammmmM THE ST. BERNARD HOGS OF ROME. In Rome there is as fine a collection of four-legged dogs as can be found in any city of Europe. A certain tourist said he would "rather be a specimen of the canine family in Rome than the Mayor of Birmingham !" C/iacum a son gout. It is proposed to have a dog show in Rome ! AY ell, we have had worse shows. But we are pleased that the St. Bernard dog is to have 11 local habitation and a name in it. There is but one place where we know the simon pure St. Bernard. This is the Canton Vaud. The race of this fine dog is kept vigorous und pure there, though all throughout the canton we have noticed a number of these animals which evidently have strains of other blood. In fact, excepting from the St. Bernard Monastery itself, the Valaisians say you can not procurer thoroughbred [log, and not always even there. Their peculiar training for the assistance of wayfarers begins, of course, only on the moun? ? 1 A f AM tains, ana it was irum nit* luuuusicij un the St. Bernard that the Prince of Wales obtained, when passing there, the fine canine specimens which are the ornaments of his kingly kennel at Sandringham. These dogs are fed three times a day with vegetable and animal food. The Christian dog there, contrary to some "dogsof Christians" elsewhere, observes the monastic regime, md is limited on fast days and days of abstinence in his food. Next to London joint stock companies we never saw canine creatures with so much "limited liability." There are about 200 dogs held there in training orders for the final lessons in humanitarian seeking and finding on St. Bernard's bleak top. These dogs have most ittractive names, and respond to them as intelligently as a corporal's guard on roll ?all. A sort of stud Ibook is kept, which, for its details and accuracy, would draw tears of envy from the racing authorities )f New Market and our Roman "Jockey "lub," and so learned in dog pedigree that thev would amaze a Darwin in a Herald College. The first family of dogs here are is proud of their lineage as if they belong3d to the bluest blood of all dogdom .chronicled in the "Bow-wow Peerage, or the canine Who's Who!" or "Almanch del jlotha!" One old family traces its origin to the doglays of the celebrated Bishop of Leon, who was hurled from his palace windows in the fourteenth century by a spendthrift nephew, who was the roue cur of the canton. We may mention on the subject of these logs and their sense of smell that it is keener than in dogs of the smaller and more domestic type. It is by the smell they are juided in their chief* works. It has been said that "pet dogs," lap dogs, and dogs unloged, if we may use the term, by silly fondling and female nursing, are less strong in their sense than the natural dog, pure, jure and simple. A dog deprived of smelling powea ceases to be a dog. Schiff, in liis treatise on dogs and their faculties, says the dog with a loss of smell loses its faculty of attachment for its master whom it recognizes simply on account of his indi vmuai periumer. ni: atuMii numc t> uuh^ logs to be deolfactorized, and forever after :hey forgot their cunning and knew no mas-1 ter, be he ever so kind. The olfactory nerve in the St. Bernard Mastiff is particularly large, liberally containing sinuses for increasing the olfactory surface, and you do not discover it so developed in small dogs. Girls at Their Studies.?Did you ev*r see girls get together to study of an evening? I have, and it generally goes like Uic. *11 ID . "In 1673 Marquette discovered the Mississippi. In 1673 Marquette dis?. What did rou say, Ide? You had ever so much rather seethe hair coiled than braded? Yes, so liad I. It's much more stylish, and then it looks elasical too; but how do you like? i>, dear! I never will learn this lesson ! In 1803 Lafayette discovered the Wisconsin. In 1803 Lafayette discovered the?'well! what's the matter with me anyhow! In 1073 Marquette discovered the Mississippi. I don't care if he did. I suppose the Misdssipi would have got along just as well if Marquette had never looked at it. Now, >ee here, Ide, is there anything about my looks to give you to understand that I know when Columbus discovered Jamesmul imu' finrmm Wnshinerton won the battle of Shiloh ? < )fcourse there isn't. History is a horrible study anyhow. No use either. Now French is ever so much nicer. I can introduce French phrases very >ften, and one must know I have studied the language. What is the lesson to-morrow? Oh, yes; conjugation of parle. Let's j <ee; how does it commence? Je parle, tu [iarle, il par?il pa?11?well, il, then !" "Conjugation don't amount to anything ; I know some phrases that are appropriate acre and there, and in most every locality; ind how's anybody goiiigtoknow but what I have the conjugations all by heart ? "Have I got my geometry ? No, I'm just joing to study it. Thirty-ninth, is it not? "Let the triangle A B C, triangle A B? ;ay Ide, have you read about the Jersey Lily and Freddie? I think it is just too uterly ut, and Freddie is simply gorgeous, f'm completely crushed on him." Ijfistellimeimis Reading. THE'CONDITION OF THE FREEDMEN. Rev. A. O. Wallace, D. !>., in the United Presbyterian, Pittsburg, Pa. If we may believe Dr. Tucker, of Jackson, Mississippi, the condition of the freednien is not only deplorable, but well-nigh hopeless. Ilis charges are against the race, and are as terrible its they are sweeping. Some exceptions there are; he admits a few have riunn ol?r>\ro tho lovol nf tlioir l'JU'e. SoillO communities show the good results of education and the gospel in a small degree;, hut vice is ingrained. Their moral condition is worse, he says, than in the days of slavery, there is as yet "no upward movement in morals, and if there is any change it is downward." We may well hesitate before accepting such charges against a race whose destiny is so closely linked with our own, but the fact I that they are made by one resident in the South, and are supported by the endorsement of many good names, makes us inquire into their condition with much solicitude. Of course one who was simply a visitor is not competent to give conclusive statements or to express a final opinion on a subject requiring an extended personal acquaintance, but some impressions received from the frankly given statements of many men and wpmen of intelligence and high social positron, natives of the South, or long residents there, representing almost all the professions and leading branches of business, may be of some interest to the readers of the United Presbyterian. There is with many a feeling of disappointment as to the condition of the freedmen and of anxiety concerning the future. Many have not confidence in their capacity for continued improvement, regarding certain weaknesses and vices as ingrained; others are discouraged because the results thus far attained do not seem commensurate with the labor expended. It is not expected that a recently servile race should command, even in one generation, the full confidence of their former masters as to their capacity for self-government. It is easy, also, to forget that a race cannot by decree be lifted up from servility to manliness and intelligent independence and virtue. Character is of slow growth; generations are required to fix it permanently. Too much has been looked for. It is, comparatively not long since they were brought from the lowest barbarism, and twenty years have not passed since they became free men and citizens. A part of this has been a period of turmoil and uncertainty. The sudden transition from slavery to citizenship, with its excitement, its wild hopes, its exposure to the 4-Krv inflnnnnn fnlconnod /\i U1UAS 11IC UVU Jiiuutin.t <mv.i iiuqbuv-xi \/i demagogues, and without preparation for the new responsibilities is not of itself favorable to settled and rapid progress. Under such circumstances, with the attendant alleviations, the development would naturally be somewhat abnormal. It has taken these years to learn the greatness of the work to be done and to arrange the forces to accomplish it. The freedmen are, apparently, more widely separated from the direct regenerating moral influence of the whites than formerly, and their number is so large as to create a world of their own. The race feeling is very strong, and each seeks to be alone in the schools and churches. The slave enjoyed a position of familiarity not given to the freedman, for emancipation raised social questions as well as political. At the same time this former familiarity has prevented the bitterness which has been shown in our treatment of the Chinese. Everywhere there was a kindly tone in the views expressed. The separation has been widened by political adventurers who do not hesitate to appeal to race prejudice and pride to secure their own ends. This class of men are now of native growth, and are just as dangerous to the future welfare of both races as the much denounced "carpet-baggers." Nor is it to be wondered at if some teachers, governed by the best of motives, made serious mistakes in their first efforts under the peculiar disadvantages of their new work. As a result the freedmen are in separate churches, and so do not feel the direct moral and .spiritual power of the whites, which they so much need. In their financial condition the freedmen are making very decided progress. As a race they are not self-reliant, and have not the habits of industry and thrift which produce high prosperity ; but the number of those who hold property of their own is steadily increasing. These lift others with them. As yet the great body of them live "from hand to mouth," often consuming their earnings in advance. Their houses are poor and comfortless, but on the whole the statements made indicate a fair degree of improvement. Their average life is fairly balanced by the improvidence of certain classes in the North. If these latter formed as large a proportion of the whole population as the former do, a very different financial condition would prevail with us. The freedmen suffer very much from their social habits. They cluster together. Their poor, small houses are unfavorable to good living. They are fond of meetings, and are easily drawn away from their work by them. Many of their nights also are spent at public gatherings, religious and political. One result is the increase of mortality ; consumption, formerly scarcely known among them, is now very common. In Charleston, S. C., the death rate of the colored people is about two and a half times that of the whites. Physicians ascribe this to their manner of living and their reckless exposure of themselves. In education, the Southern States make the same provision for the freedmen as for the whites. The school system is yet in its infancy, and in some places may be poorly administered, but the freedmen have the opportunity of rising in intelligence and are using it. The tax rate is too low to provide efficient schools, except in the large corporations. In Georgia, the Carolinas, and Alabama, the tax is only about two mills on the dollar, and, of course, the school term is short. Also, as yet the teachers are very poorly qualified. In many cases they themselves belong properly to the primary classes of ordinary schools. All agree as to the eagerness of the freedmen to attend school, and that fair progress is made, at least in the elementary studies. In every interview there was a strong desire expressed to see them better educated. In the cities the improvement is very decided, and a higher standard of life prevails. The illiteracy is, of course, very great, but it will steadily diminish ; with aid from the general government the change may be made very rapidly. | One generation of vigorous work should at least greatly reduce the present unsightly figures. At this stage of the educational work it would not be expected that the school training would take hold of practical life, or be adapted to the preparation the pupils for daily work. The teachers are not prepared for this, except yi the cities. The common schools can give only the most elementary secular education. Education and work are as yet largely separated ; labor is less honored instead of more. Hence there is a restlessness, a growing pride and unwillingness of many to be in the employment of others, wftiie still incompetent lonvuixiuupuxjut-iHly of such employment. There is not the organization of labor against capital, which > gives us so much trouble in the protracted I strikes, but rather the tendency to the demoralization of labor, which makes it un1 satisfactory to the employer and less profitaide to the laborer. J11 a more favorable direction is the tendency of the introduction of manufacturing, as it sooneror later opens up a wider range of employment, and furnishes a stimulus to intelligence and skill. 1 As education rises to its true idea of train- 1 ing for work, some of the present difficulties will disappear. The religious and moral condition of the i frecdmcn call for the most wisely directed efforts 011 their behalf by all the Churches. They are strongly religious, but religion is : not always godliness. It is with tlieni largely emotional and has been almost entirely separated from convictions of moral duty. Offences against good morals are of common occurence with the consciousness of guilt. The conscience has not been trained to a! careful discrimination between right and wrong, and but little effort has been made to mold the life in truth and purity. Many are employed in positions requiring honesty and truthfulness; many arc trusted customers, servants or tenants; many have good standing in the public mind; there is with many of the older people a very loyal attachment to their former masters; many stories are told of their faithfulness in the time of the war and of their kindness to their impoverished masters, and yet a Federal soldier could always trust them ; still it appears to be true that religion and godliness have been widely separated in the minds of the great body of the people. There is ample evidence that their general standard of purity is low, but there is also evidence that they can be, and that many are educated into the virtue of the gospel life. The schools of the higher grade estab liauuil ?J J kilt; viiuiVJivn *11V. viyiu^ ** ^vwv*. work in this direction, but a general iiriprovement maybe looked for Only when the freedmen have an educated and godly ministry of their own race. It is just there the great need of the freedmen lies. They have political rights and power, they are increasing in intelligence, they are slowly aggregating capital; but their own religious instruction is not meeting their moral and spiritual need, and unless that need is met they will become an exceeding dangerous element, weak in moral principle, but strong and ready to be led by evil men. This essential need is a thoroughly Christian education, an education that Guilds up the life from the very foundation in the love and likeness of God. The public schools cannot give this; it must he furnished by the Churches through institutions well established and wisely managed. These should be, as far as possible, training schools for the whole practical life, so as to send forth Christian leaders qualified to take their race as they find it and lift it up to its proper plane of intelligent citizenship and godly living. The need for this is unspeakably great and is urgent. The time is favorable, for the spirit of education is growing with both races, and Christians recognize this need of a more thorough training into righteousness of life. What may be done is seen in our schools and similar institutions. There is no ingrained vice asagainst the saving power of the gospel and grace of God. In this complete Christian train ' " - ? ^-1- ~ ?? l..i! AM M.X* i-k/1 d ' A' A** ? 1 4* WMA1\ 1 / \*V? lllg lies me SOlUliUU Ul Liie unncuiL inuuiciu before us, and therefore this is the direction of present duty. ? ? New way of Curing Consumption.? A good story is told of a well-known Boston physician who was much puzzled to know how to treat consumption. Learning that the disease was unknown among the lumbermen of Maine, he instituted an inquiry as to diet and habits of the wood-choppers. To his surprise he found that their chief diet was salt pork, and their principal drink was whisky, whereupon he prescribed pork and whisky for his Boston consumptive patients, not however, with happy results. The real secret of the immunity of the lumberman wasthathe lived in the pine woods, and had' abundant exercise in the open air. Two Paris physicians MM. de Bore and Beaumetz, have invented a system of treating consumption which is said to he quite successful. It consists in a practice styled superalimentation, which is not only overfeeding but forced feeding by means of pumps and other appliances. It is found that patients who can not retain food in their stomachs in the ordinary way are not inconvenienced when literally immense quantities of food are introduced into the system by a pump. The diet is a composition of minced lean meat, which is dried and then pounded into a powder. It is then mixed with milk or bouillon, and sometimes raw eggs are added. This is found to be highly nutritious and easily digested, and has proved efficacious in hysteria and other wasting diseases as in consumption, for which it was first devised. The first dose given is not more than twenty-five grammes per meal, but the quantity is gradually and rapidly increased until the large portion of six hundred grammes is daily given, which is equivalent to about four pounds of lean meat. How large this quantity really is shown by the fact that one pound of meat is quite sufficient for an ordinary workingman, and two litres oi nunc ana several eggs are required in the administration of the dose. The report is that the consumptives, if 'not too far gone, have rapidly gained in weight under the process, their daily average increase having ranged from eighty to one hundred grammes. The cough is less frequent, and the lungs begin to heal under this forced feeding, which, it is added, works as well in dyspepsia as in phthisis, never producing nausea or vomiting, the food being passed down the throat without any objection on the part of even hysterical woman. No doubt the experiments of these French physicians will soon be tested in this country. Big Snakes.?Andanson observed a snake in Senegal that was fifty feet in length and two and a half in diameter, while Walton tells us that a Spaniard showed him a skin at Angostura, the Capital of the Orinoco, that from its thickness he judged to have been that of a serpent seventy feet long. Baldaens, the author, found serpents in Ceylon thirty-six feet in length, and in Java he saw one that had swallowed a stag entire. W'om ;n ma "Vo+nrol TTi<stnrv of Soments. vnt'i, in mo inikuim j ? ,i 7 gives the length of one as fifty feet, and Father Gumilla, in his History of Orinoco, refers to serpents forty feet long; so that it would seem fair to suppose that snakes do attain what might be called gigantic dimensions. On the Bio Branco the traders and natives report that snakes swallow full-sized cattle, ana this can be readily conceived. The horns, of course, aVe not swallowed. The snakes lie in a lethargic condition until they drop ofF. The great comondi snakes of South America have a habit of hanging from trees over the water, with portions of their bodies concealed, so thai they would easily be taken for the great vines that grow so luxuriantly in these forests, and in this way they obtain much of their prey that comes unsuspiciously along, even human game not being neglected. Kingsley relates an occurrence when four youngVomen were bathing in a lagoon, and one of them felt herself pulled from behind. At first she thought it a prank of one of her companions, but the form of an enormous snake soon appeared. It had fastened its teeth to her bathing-dress, but the others succeeded in frightening it off. When they are gorged with food they coil up closely and resemble a stump, and a case is known of a native having made the mistake of setting down upon one with results astonishing to both seat and sitter. -Waterton, in referring to thecTunondi snakes,says that specimens from thirty to forty feet long have Deen killed, and that the Spaniards of Brazil positively affirm that, in the unfrequented districts, these serpents sometimes attain a length of seventy feet, and will destroy the largest and strongest bull. They , call them mataforox, which means literally | 'hull-killers.'" The House of Lords.?This branch of I the legislature is composed of hereditary; landowners, who collectively own 14,258,527 ' acres of land, and whose collective incomes i are obout ?1,5000,001). They have persist- ; ently opposed, so far as they dared, every < measure of reform brought forward during 1 the present century, and more especially ev- i cry measure that has militated against their < own class interests. Not only are they con- ; servative in the real sense of the word, but in the party sense. When a conservative ] ministry is in power they are useless; when , s a liberal ministry is in power they are ac- j 1 lively pernicious. Notwithstanding their ' ( wealth, they are not independent. They 11 lire place-hunters; they are clamorous for If decorations, and they dip heavily into the public exchequer. In pay, pensions and salaries they annually divide amon<* them[ selves, (including the. salaries of the bishop) | ?624,3.% per annum. It may be an open question whether the system of one or two | chambers is the more desirable. No sensible person, however, can advocate a chamber, destined to act with controlling impartiality, composed of enormously wealthy men, draining vast incomes from lands, absorbing large amounts of public money in pay and pensions, and perpetually intriguingto secure the triumph of the party to which the great majority of them permanently belong. It is surprising that so astoundinga legislative assembly as the house of lords can have existed so long in a country inhabited by sane human beings, and its existence in any country where the paramount assembly is elected by a numerical :?:A ~..i.1 1.^ majority wmiui, ui cuuinv;, w uuv ui mu question. ? ? ? A MISTAKEN IDEA. As scon as a boy leaves school and looks about to see what lie shall do next, he is very likely to be told by some unwise persou, "The world owes you a living." This probably strikes him as being a very wise remark, and the boy says to himself, "If it be true that the world owes me a living, then I'm all right." He finds a place and goes to work manfully; but after a time he concludes that there is no fun in it, and he stops to consider: "If the world owes me a living why should I trouble myself? Let the world pay its debt to me." Suddenly he loses his place and has nothing to do. Pie is surprised, and wonders why the world does not give him his due. "A nice bed, warm clothes, and regular dinners are good things, and I ought to nave them. The world owes them to me, and if I do not get them I've been cheated out of my rights." At one time this country was a wilderness, where no man could live, save by fighting the wild beasts. Some one chased away the bears and wolves, cut down forests, laid out roads, built towns and dug canals. Somebody spent vast sums of money in constructing' railroads, steam-boats, docks, lighthouses, schools, libraries, and all the fine things you enjoy so freely. More than this, > nr.?vvaka/li? +V?a rvnUnomon flin flrftmon aUJIlCUUUJ pilja uiv J11VIUUU) the soldier, the sailor, the light-house keeper and the school-master. From the day you were born your father and mother have fed, clothed and sheltered you. It has cost you nothing. None of these great public works, roads, canals, towns, navies and armies cost you anything. How can you say that the world owes you a living? Is it not you who are in debt? What has a boy done to deserve all this ? Not a thing. It is you who must pay?not the world. Ah! boys, he was a foolish creature who first said, "The world owes me a living." He told a very silly fable. The world owes no man a living till he has done some worthy deed, some good work to make the world better and a fairer place to live in. Those old fellows who dug canals and laid out towns, who built cities and invented all these splendid things^?these telegraphs, these ships, these magnificent engines?had the right idea. They worked manfully,and the world did at last owe them a living, and paid it many times over. If you mean to get out of the great debt you owe to the world, do something, go to work and show you are a man. Then, when you have shown the world-you can work, it will gladly pay you a living, and the finer and more noble your work the greater will be your reward.?St. Nicholas. How the Human Organism Protects Itself.?The organism of the human body is a self regulating apparatus. Every interruption of its normal functions excites a reaction against the disturbing cause. If a grain of caustic potash irritates the nerves of the palate, the salivary glands try to remove it by an increased secretion. The eye would wash it off by an increased flow of tears. A larger quantity of the same substance could be swallowed only under the protest of the fauces, and the digestive organs would soon find means to eject it. The bronchial tubes promptly react against the obtrusion of foreign substances. The sting of an insect causes an involuntary twitching of the epidermis. If a thorn or splinter fastens itself under the skin, suppuration prepares the way for its removal. If the stomach be overloaded with food, it revolts against further ingestion. These automatic agencies of the organism generally suffice to counteract the disturbing cause, and the sensory symptoms attending the process of reconstruction constitute merely a plea of non-interference. The suppurating tissues push the thorn outward, and resent only a pressure in the opposite direction. The eye volunteers to rid 1 ISOII 01 inesaim oust, UUI reuiuuauaira against friction. The rum soaked system of the toper undertakes to eliminate the poison, and only asks that the consequences of the outrage be not aggravated by its repitition. But if that protest remains unheeded, it finally takes the form of the emphatic protest we call disease. For even in its urgent manifestations, the reaction against a violation of Nature's health laws is a cry for peace, rather than a petition for active assistance in the form of medication. "Accustom yourself in all your little pains and aches," says Dr. Jennings, "and also in your grave and more distressing affections, to regard the movement concerned in them in a friendly aspect?designed for and tending to the removal of a difficulty of whose existence you were before unaware, and which, if suffered to remain and accumulate, might prove the destruction of the 1 ? i xi.^x House you live in?anu uuii, uisieuu ui na needing to be "cured," is itself a curative operation; and that what should be called (limine lies back of the symptoms which, in fact, are made for the express purpose of removing the real disorder or difficulty."? Popular Science Monthly. Sad Ending op a Promising Life.? Ten years ago Seleucus Garfield left Congress and became a professional gambler; last night he died in a little room over a cigar shop in Washington. The story of Garfield's life is that of a man who surrendered absolutely to the temptations of Washingtoil. He was bom sixty-one years ago in Vermont, went to Kentucky when he was a boy, was graduated from Augusta College in that State, and began his active life as a lawyer. When he was thirty years old he was a member of the Kentucky Legislature, and a year later he was commissioned to codify the laws of the State. In 1860 he was receiver of public moneys of Washington Territory, and in 1866, after serving three years as Surveyor-General, he came to Congress as Delegate. He was here four years, and when his Congressional career was over he was a moral wreck. He had lost his ambition, and was as dissolute a gambler as lived in the District of Columbia. Cards had come to be the passion of his life. It is said that he left Kentucky and wandered oft' into Washington Territory, because he saw his doom if lie remained among the genial poker players of his adopted State. He fought against what he feared would become his ruling passion, even to the extent of giving up what promised to be an exceptionally bright future, but his surroundings in Washington finally overcame him completely. His fellow Congressmen ruined him, and he lived for the rpst of his riavs on the vices of nublic men. No life in Washington was lower than his. The men and women who were his companions were of the very lowest stratum. For years the man who had once promised to be )ne of the cleverest public men of Kentucky had not a single intimate associate who did not belong to the dangerous element of society. He was always, however, a leader imong the people with whom he lived. Garheld died alone, except that the woman whom he married a year and a half ago stayed with him till the end. He had no friends, and he left behind him only the re;ord of a man whom vice had dragged from i good public position down to be a gambler md an out 1 aw.? Wa#hington Paper.