Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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I lewis m. grist, proprietor, j % Jfitotptnbtnf Jfamilg fttfospapr: Jor l|f promotion of lljc |1oltficiil, Social, ^orintlJural anb Commercial Interests of tjir Sontjc. | TERMS?$2.50 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 39. YORKVILLE, S C., THURSDAY, JTJ^TE 28, 1883. 3STO. 36. fdeitcd fflrtjg. BLUE AND (>RAV. "Oh! mother, what do they mean by blue ? And what do they mean by gray*?" Was heard from the lips of a little child Ag she bounded in from play. The mother's eyes filled up with tears; She turned to her darling fair, And smoothed away from the sunny brow Its treasures of golden hair. "Why, mother's eyes are blue, my sweet, And grandpa's hair is gray, And the love we bear our darlingchild Grows stronger everyday." "But what did they mean?" persisted the child, "For 1 saw two cripples to-day, And one of them said he fought for the blue; The other, he fought for the gray. "Now, he of tlje blue had lost a leg, And the other had but one arm, And both seemed worn and weary and sad, Yet their greeting was kind and warm. They told of battles in davs gone by, Till it made mv young "blood thrill; The leg was lostinthe Wilderness fight, And the arm on Malvern Hill. "They sat on the stone by the farmyard gate And talked for an hour or more, Till their eyes grew bright and their hearts seemed warm With fighting their battles o'er. Ana parting atiasiwitn a lriwuuv giua^, In a kindly, brotherly wav, Each calling on God to speed the time Uniting the blue and the gray." ? Then the mother thought of other daysTwo stalwart boys from her riven; How they knelt at her side and, lisping, prayed "Our lather which art in heaven, How one wore the gray and the other the blue; How they passed awav from sight, And had gone to the land where gray and blue Are merged in colors of light. And she answered her darling with golden hair, While her heart was sadly wrung With the thoughts awakened in that sad hour By her innocent, prattling tongue: "The blue and the gray are the colors of God; They are seen in the sky at even, ; And many a noble, gallant soul < Has found them passports to heaven." ibe Jdctg Seller. THE DEVTL'S REVENGE. i It was toward the end of November; the ' Imperial Garden of Vienna was deserted; j a sharp breeze was whirling the saffron ( colored leaves, shrunk, up by the early . cold ; the rose-bushes, tormented and broken by the wind, let their branches drag in < the mud. Still, the grand alley, thanks 1 to its covering of sand, was dry and passa- ' ble. Although devastated by the approach ! of winter, the Imperial Garden was not . without a certain melancholy charm. The 1 long alley prolonged far awaf its redden- < ing arcades; beyond, the view stretched j over the Prater and Danube; it was such a promenade as a poet would have desired. ] A young man was striding up and down < this alley with visible signs of impatience; < his costume, somewhat theatrical in its ' elegance, consisted of a frock-coat of black velvet, with gold facings and bordered with * fur, gray woolen pantaloons, top boots, with tassels, coming half way up his legs. He might have been twenty-seven or twenty- 1 eight years of age; his pale, regular features 1 were full of finesse, and irony lurked in 1 creases around his eyes and the corner of * his mouth. At the university, which he { appeared to have quitted recently?for he { still wore the student's cap with oak leaves? 1 he must have plagued the philistines, and J shone in the front rank of the burschen s 1 xi uuu uie iua?. The narrow limits within which he cir- r cumscribed his walk showed that he was j waiting for some one?probably a lady, for < the Imperial Garden of Vienna in the month of November is hardly propitious to 5 business rendezvous. Soon a young girl ( appeared at the end of the avenue. A tur- j ban of black silk covered her rich blonde hair, whose ringlets had been slightly un- s curled by the dampness of the evening; her complexion, ordinarily of waxen white- '' ness, had taken a rosy tint from the bite o? the cold. Grouped and wrapped she ] was in a mantle trimmed with marten j skin; a little terrier accompanied her?a ] convenient chaperon, on whose indulgence j and discretion you could count. 1 "Imagine, Heinrich," said the pretty ! Viennese, taking the young man's arm, "I ] have been dressed and ready to go out '' for more than an hour, and my aunt kept J on with her sermons on the dangers of waltzing, on recipes for Christmas cakes and 1 carp with blue sauce. I went out on the [ fretext of buying some gray boots of which have no need whatever. It is for you, 1 Heinrich, that I tell these little lies which ? I am constantly regretting aud constantly J beginning over again. What an idea it was of yours to take to the stage! What was the ! I good of studying theology so long at Heid- j elberg? My parents liked you, and wej1 if Iiqito huwi murriivl tn.drtv hut frir I * Uliglll IIM'V ">-? V" V.IVJ VV.V ??? | that. Instead of meeting on the sly under ( the bare trees of the Imperial Garden, we ! should be seated side by side before a por-! celain stove in a nice warm room, talking i of the future of our children. Would not I that be a happy lot, Heinrich ?" "Yes, Katy, very happy," replied the ; young man, as he pressed under the satin and fur, the dimpled arm of the pretty Vi- ! ennese; "but I cannot help it. The theatre attracts me invincibly ; I dream of it by day ; think of it by night; I feel the desire i to live in the creation of the poets; I seem to have twenty existences. Every role that I play makes me a new life; all those passions that I express I feel. I am Hamlet, Othello, Charles Moore. When one is all | that, he can with difficulty resign himself to i the humble condition of a village pastor." "That is very noble. But you know that my parents will never have an actor for a son-in-law." "No, certainly, not an obscure actor; a poor, ambulant artist, the puppet of managers and the public ; but a great actor, cov-1 ered with glory and applause, who earns | more money than a minister, they will not; refuse, however scrupulous they may be. j When I shall come to ask your hand, in a handsome yellow coach, the varnish of: which will be able to serve as a looking-; glass for the astonished neighbors, and a tall lackey covered with gold lace will let down the steps for me, do you think they will refuse me ?" "I do not think they will. But who says, Heinrich, that you will ever come to that ? You have talent; but talent is not sufficient; i you must have much good luck besides. ! By the time that you shall have become the j grand actor of whom vou speak, the best time of your youth will have passed, and j then will you be ready to marry Kate, grown j 01(1, wnen you nave ut your disposal me loves of all those princesses of the theatre,! who are so joyous and sogayly decked ?" "That future," replied Heiiirich, "is near- i er than you think. I have an advantageous engagement at the theatre of the Corin-; thian Gate, and the manager is so satisfied | with the manner in which I played my last ; role that he has made me a present of two thousand thalers." "Yes," replied the young girl with a se-; rious air, "that role of a demon in the piece. { I confess to you, Heinrich, that I do not like j to see a Christian assume the mask of the j enemy of the human race, and pronounce ' words of blasphemy. The other day I went j to see you at the Corinthian Theatre, and at i every moment 1 was afraid that a veritable : hell fire would issue from one of the traps where you were swallowed up in flames of spirits of wine. I returned home all confused, and I dreamed horrible dreams." "My good Katy, that is all imagination; j to-morrow, too, will take place the last per-1 formance, and I shall no longer put on th black ancl red costume which so much dis pleases you." "So much the better; for my mind is prey to a vague feeling of alarm, and I fea that the role which has been so profitable t your glory will not be so profitable to you salvation. I am afraid, too, that you \vil contract bad habits in the company of thos horrible comedians. I am sure that yo: no longer say your prayers, and I dare wa ger that you have lost the little cross I gav you." Heinrich justified himself by showing th little cross, which was still shining on hi breast. While they were talking thus, the tw< lovers had arrived at the Thabor Strasse, ii the Leopoldstadt, in front of the shoemake who was famous for the perfection of hi gray boots. After chatting some time a the door, Katy entered followed by her ter rier, but not without having abandoned he pretty ? slender fingers to the pressure o Heinrich's hand. Heinrich tried once more to get a glimpsi of his mistress between the dainty boots am shoes that were symmetrically arranged 01 the brass rods in the window ; but the foj had silvered the glass with its moist breath ana he couia only aisunguisn a coninsec silhoutte; then, taking a heroic resolution he turned on his heel and went with delib erate step to the inn of the Two-Heade< Eagle. * * * * * * * * That night there was a numerous compauj at the Two-Headed Eagle; the guests wer< of the most mixed description. The Two-Headed Eagle was one of thos< blessed cellars celebrated by Hoffman, wit! steps so worn, so greasy, so slippery, tha you cannot put your foot upon the first on( without at once finding yourself at the hot torn, with your elhows on the table, a pip< in your inouth, between a pot of beeranc a measure of new wine. Through the thick cloud of smoke thai almost choked and blinded you at first, al sorts of strange figures appeared after a feu minutes. There were Wallachians with their cafetan and Astrakhan cap; Servians Hungarians with long black mustaches caparisoned with dolmans and embroidery; Bohemians with coppery complexions, nar row foreheads and arched noses; honesl Grermans with laced coats; Tartars with eye* turned up like those of Chinese; all imagin> ible populations. The east was representee by a fat Turk coiled up in the corner and nnfnl 1 it omAlrinrr o nino nf Afnlflo\riar OIAiVSXVUAg CV |/1JUV Vi A'JLVXUW T HVi. therry wood, with a bowl of red clay, and i mouthpiece of yellow amber. Itouncl the table turned unceasingly out :>f those long waltzes which produce upon northern imaginations the same effect a' hashish and opium on the Orientals; the touples passed and repassed rapidly; the women almost fainting with pleasure on the irms of their caviliers, to the sounds of a waltz, swept away with their skirts the tlouds of smoke, and refreshed the faces ol the drinkers. At the counter some Morlaccan improvisators, accompanied by a player upon the guzla, were reciting a sort jf dramatic complaint, which seemed to strangely divert a dozen strange figures, rlothed in sheepskin, and coifed with tarnoukhs. Heinrich went to the end of the cellar and ?at at a table where were already seated three or four personages of joyous mein and merry humor. "All, Heinrich!" cried the oldest of the sand; "mind yourselves, my friends; fcenum habet in cornu. You know you had a truly diabolical look, the other night; you ilmost frightened me. Who would think that Heinrich, who drinks beer as we do, md who does not draw back before a slice ol told ham, could put on such venomous, wicked and sardonic airs, and that with a single gesture he can make a whole theatre shudder?" "Eh ! why that is the reason why Heinrich is a great artist, a sublime comedian. Fhere is no glory in playing a role that is in your character; the triumph for a co juette, is to excel in playing ingeneuses." Heinrich sat clown modestly, called foi i large glass of mixed wine, and the conversation continued on the same subject, :)n all sides it was admiration and compliments. "Ah! if the great Wolfgang Goethe had seen you!" said one. "Show us your feet," said another; "I im sure you have a forked hoof." The other drinkers, attracted by these exclamations, looked at Heinrich seriously, all happy to have the opportunity of examining closely so remarkable a man. The young men who had formerly known Heinrich al the University, and whose names he hardly knew, came up to him and shook him cor:lially by the hand, as if they had beqn his intimate friends. The prettiest waltzers is they passed, shot at him the tenderesl fKlim on/1 iral\TDf\r A\roc U1 llltll Ui UV (VI1V4 YV4TVVJ V J \'W* One man only, seated at a neighboring table, seemed to take no part in the genera] enthusiasm; his head thrown backward, he was thumbing, distractedly, with his finger? 311 the crown of his hat, a military march, ind from time to time he uttered a sort o: humph, singularly dubious. The aspect of this man was of the strangest, although he was dressed like an honesl burgher, of Vienna, enjoying a modest fortune ; his gray eyes were shaded with greer tints, and shot out phosphoric lights like the eyes of a cat. When his pale flat lips parted, they showed two rows of teeth very white very sharp, and very wide apart, of th* most cannibal and ferocious aspect; his long nails, shining and curved, took a vague ap pearance of claws ; but that pliysiognomj appeared only by rapid flashes; to the ey< that watched him fixedly, his face rapidlj assumed the bourgeois and debonair ap pearance of a retired Viennese merchant and you felt astonished that you could have suspected of villainy and deviltry a face sc vulgar and trivial. Internally, Heinrich was shocked at the indifference of the man. The disdainful si lence took away their value from the panegyrics which his noisy companions lavishec upon him. It was the silence of an old anc experienced connoisseur, who does not al low himself to be deceived by appearances Atmayer, the youngest of the company the warmest admirer of Heinrich, could no endure this coldness, and addressing tin strange man, as if taking him to bear wit nessto an assertion that he had advanced, Ik said: "Is it not so, sir? no actor has ever playec the role of Mephistopheles better than mj comrade here !" "Humph!" said the stranger, flashing his green eyes and cracking his sharp teeth "Mr. Heinrich is a'young man of talent whom I esteem very highly; but he is want ing in. many things necessary to play tin role of the devil." And suddenly drawing himself up : "Havevou ever seen the devil Mr. Heinrich ?? He put this question in such a strange au< mocking tone, that all the company felt i shudder run down their backs. "That, however, would he necessary 10 the truthfulness of your play. The othe evening I was at the theatre of the Corin thian Gate, and I was not satisfied witl your laugh; it was, at the utmost, a si; laugh. My dear Mr. Jleinrich, this is tli way you ought to laugh." And thereupon, as if to give him the ex ample, he burst into a laugh so sharp, s< sardonic, that the orchestra and the dancer stopped at the very instant, and the glass ii the windows trembled. The stranger con tinued this pitiless and convulsive laugh fo several minutes, and Heinrich and his com panions, in spite of their terror, could no help imitating it. When Heinrich had recovered himsell the vaults of the tavern were repeating, lik a feeble echo, the last notes of that broke and terrible laugh, but the stranger was n longer there. -* * * * * * Some days after this strange incideni which he had almost forgotten, or which h remembered only as a joke of an ironic? burgher, Heinrich was playing his part < the demon in the new piece. On the lir> e row of seats in the orchestra was seated th< 3- stranger of the tavern, and at every won pronounced he shook his head, winked hi a eyes, smacked his tongue against his palate r and showed signs of the liv<niest impatience o "Bad, bad !" he murmured to himself. r His neighbors, astonished and shocked a II his manners, applauded, and thought t< e themselves that the gentleman was verj u hard to please. i- At the end of the first act, the strangei e arose as if he had taken a sudden resolution strode over the big drum, the cymbals anc e the trombone, and disappeared through th< s little door that leads from the orchestra t< the stage. Heinrich, waiting until the cur 0 tain rose, was walking up and down in th( 1 wings, and when he came to the end of hi; r short promenade, what was his terror to set s as he turned, standing in the middle of the t narrow corridor, a mysterious personage - clothed exactly as he was, and who looked r at him with eyes' whose greenish transpaf rency had a strange profundity in the da rkness ; the white, sharp, wide-set teeth gave 3 something ferocious to the sardonic smile. 1 Heinrich could not fail to recognize the l stranger whom he had seen at the T wolf Heaefed Eagle, or rather the devil in per. son, for it was he. 1 "Ah. ah. mv vountr friend ! vou wish tc , play the devil! You were very middling in - the first act, and you would decidedly give I a poor idea of me to the good citizens of Vienna. You will allow me to replace you this evening; and, as you might interfere ? with me, I will send you to the cellar below 5 the stage." Heinrich recognized the Prince of Darki ness. and felt himself lost. Putting his hand 1 mechanically to the little cross tnat Katy t had given him, he tried to call for help, and i to murmur his formula of exorcism ; but - terror choked him ; he could only utter a } feeble rattle. The devil seized Heinrich I with his hooked hands by the shoulders and pushed him by main force through the floor ; t then he entered upon the scene, when his I cue came, like a perfect actor, r His incisive, biting, venomous and truly i diabolical acting at first surprised the spec( tators. What especially produced a great ' effect was that sharp titter like the grating | of a saw, that laugh of the damned, blas1 pheming the joys of paradise. Never had I an actor attained such power of sarcasm, 3 such a depth of villainy ; the audience . laughed, but they trembled. All the aul dience was panting with emotion ; plios[ phoric sparks glinted from the fingers of the t terrible actor; trains of sparkling flame ran [ from Ms feet; me ngnt 01 me lusires grew pale, the footlights shot out reddish ; and greenish flashes; a sort of sulphurous [ smell reigaed in the theatre; the spectators 5 were, as it were, delirious, and thunders of > frantic applause greeted each phrase of the s marvelous Mephistopheles? who often substituted verses of his own invention for the [ verses of the poet, and the substitution was . always happy and accepted with transports. [ Katy, who was in the theatre, was in a . state of extraordinary alarm ; she did not i recognize her dear Heintich ; she presaged ; some misfortune with that spirit of divina, tion which love gives. ^ The performance ended amidst indescrib! able enthusiasm. When the curtain fell, the public called for Mephistopheles with ^ loud cries. He was sought for in vain ; but L at last a scene shifter came and told the L manager that Heinrich had been found in the cellar, where he had probably fallen , through a trap. , The hapless actor was taken up. His clothing was burned in places, and on his [ shoulders were deep scratches. They spoke to him, but he did not answer. Heinrich Falkenstein was dead. BARRY. Miss Abigail Burr was a little brown old maid, who lived in a little brown old house with her cat, Debby, and her woman-of-allwork, Prudence, sharp of tongue, long of visage, browner and older than the mis' tress herself. There was nothing of grace, ' nor beauty, nor sweetness about Miss Abigail's life; everything was dry, and hard, and husky. Indeed, some people were so ' uncharitable as to say that her heart was liken verv much dried-nn kernel in a nut shell, und would rattle if she were to be shaken hard enough. But I never quite L believed that. I alwav said there was a . soft spot in Miss Abigail's heart, to be found when the time came to find it. One spring twilight a boy opened Miss : Abigail's garden gate and walked up the L path between the rows of straggling lilacs. ' He was not a boy who lived about Capers[ town or he would not have dared venture, J I am sure, for Prudence's sake, besides having nothing to venture for. He was an ' unkempt, starved-looking little specimen ! of humanity. His coat was a world too 1 long and patched at the elbows; and his ' trousers were a world too short and patched at the knees. His hat was guiltless of brim, I and through a hole in the crown bobbed a [ little tuft of hair which had once been ! brown, but was now wofully faded. He 5 went straight up to Miss Abigail's porch steps. Miss Abigail was sitting on the 1 porch in her high-backed rocking-chair so intent on binding off her stocking-heel that she heard neither the click of the gate-latch t nor the footsteps on the hard-trodden path, and she did not look up until ^the boy's i figure interposed itself between lier work ' and the fading sunset light. i He doffed his tattered hat-crown. , "If you please, ma'am, will you?may J I have something to eat ?" t It was not at all a tramp's manner of ask iner: there was manliness in the voice which 7 Miss Abigail could not help but notice. J Perhaps that was the reason she looked ' at the boy sharply for a moment before she answered. In that moment, Prudence, hill > and angular, stood in the door with a shawl J thrown over her head, and her right hand > swathed with soft cotton. "I'll ha ye to git Jonas Barrows' man to ? do the milkin'," said she. I can't. I've burned my hand that bad." The boy looked up quickly. "Can't I? I could I milk for you?" I As I have intimated, Prudence did not like boys; and that she sometimes express ed her dislike in a very forcible man? ner, many of the village urchins could t testify. Now, she surveyed this boy, stand ing by the porch steps, from his bare brown - feet to his brown head, not forgetting tin ^ fjuled little tuft, in dumb astonishisment, "You might let him try, Prudence," said I Miss Abigail, thinking rather dubiously 7 of the nervous, mouse-colored Alderney in the yard. > "I chored on a farm all bust summer," ex plained the boy, eagerly, glancing from ? mistress to maid. "1 want some supper - and I'll be glad to do something to pay 3 for it." ? "Well, you kin try it," said Prudence > after a momentary deliberation. It's bet ter'n begging a favor, anyhow." I She led the way to the kitchen, and tool i a shining tin pail from the dresser. "Here's the milk-pail," she said to tin r boy, who stood waiting; "an' the cow's r in the yard yonder. Pay-day comes whci - the work's done." l And Prudence smiled grimly as she wen y about setting out a lunch of bread and but moof SJUn IV?lf mA^ollv onrfnii C IC1 UilU V/VHl UIIV 1V1V illVKilM vv a kit > i that the flighty Alderney lieifer, used onlj - to woman-kind, would he much more like o lv to spread a pair of bovine wings anc s fly away than allow herself to be milkei n by a boy. i- "He can't do it," she said to Miss Abigail r who presently brought her knitting worl i- in the kitchen. "The heifer'll send bin ?t sky-high." But he could and he did. Soon he ap f, peared in the doorway, his pail brimming e with snow foam. n "Well, I never," ejaculated Prudence, o "You didn't think I could?" said the boy smiling brightly. * "No, I did't," admitted Prudence; an< t, straightway, in her astonishment, she aude< e to his meafa segment of rhubarb pie. d "Wasn't there a bit of cheese left Iron >f tea?" asked Miss Abigail. >t Prudence thought there was, and wliil ? a she was fetching it from the cellar the boy 1 gave himself a healthy scrubbing at the s pump, coming in from his ablutions fresh , and ruddy as a rose. He was very hungry, . there was no doubt of that. He looked at Miss Abigail with a deprecating smile as t Prudence carried oft' the bread plate for a > third replenishing. 7 "I'm pretty hungry," said he. "This is the first bite I've had since morning and it r tastes good." , To be sure it did. Miss Abigail thought 1 of a little brother who died years and years i before, ere his tender feet began to feel the ) thorns in life's path. How strange that - the sight of this little vagrant, satisfying } his craving at her kitchen table, should 5 bring to her remembrance the child who had ; so early put off the mortal for the iinmor; tal. Presently, when the boy had finished ? his repast, lie laid his knife across the plate I with a methodical precision which it pleas ed Miss Abigail to see, and then he glanced from Prudence, standing near with arms akimbo, to Miss Abigail. "Thank you for my supper," said he. s "Maybe I'd best be getting along. You don't want a boy to work, do you?" "A boy?to work!" echoed Prudence. "Did 1 ever." w k ) "No we don't," said ftliss Abigail shortly, i And then?it was strange enough that she could not help thinking again of that frail little life which had blighted in the bud so long before. "How far are you going?" she asked. "I don't know, ma'am." "And where have you come from ?" proceeded Miss Abigail. "Trescott, ma'am. Mother died there three months ago." There was a pathetic quaver in his voice. And then, with little questioning, he told his simple story. His name was Barry Olmstead, and he was twelve years old. He had lived in Trescott a long time?he and his mother; they were very poor, but fViarr Jiarl lror?f. o lifflo hnmp t/urpfner. Tfis mother had taken in sewing, and lie had worked for the neighboring farmers summers. and gone to school winters. And lie , had been happy, for all they were so poor, until?mother died. "Then I stopped with .Deacon Staples a spell; he said he wanted to try me. But they were going to bind me out to him, and so I ran away." "None to blame, nuther," interposed Prudence, with a great deal of emphasis. "I've seen old Staples, down to Trescott. He's that mean he'd skin a mouse for the hide and taller!" "I've been trying along for a chance to work," continued the boy, smiling faintly. He was very near to tears now, but he held them back sturdily. "But there don't anybody seem to want me." Miss Abigail was moved more than she would have cared to own by this recital. Even to her, who had lived for self so long, there was something indescribably pitiful in the thought of this little wanderer battling alone with the world, buffeted by fortune, drifting here and there as chance might J dictate. It had grown dark now?the lamps had long since been lighted; and there were mutterings of distant thunder in the air. "It's going to rain," said Miss Abigail. "You needn't go to-night; you may sleep in the stable loft." Barry thanked her. The storm broke with great violence. And while Miss Abigail listened to the sharp peals of thunder and the pouring of the rain against the windows she thought of the lonely little wayfarer in the stable loft with a new, strange throb of pity. Morning came, merry with bird song and glistening with myriads of rain drops. Prudence was up betimes, but early as it was, she heard the ^>ound of an axe m the wood-shed; and when she opened the dbor Barry smiled at her from his post by the chopping-block. "I don't think 1 paid enough for my sup. per?I eat such a lot," he said, "so I've split some kindlings, and I'll milk for you this morning if you want me to." Prudence brought the milk pail without a word. But when she had prepared Miss Abigail's morning meal, she made ready a erood substantial breakfast for Barry, also. When he had eaten it he took up his hat. "Go out the way you came in," said Pruduce, "'r else you'll bring bad luck." Barry gave a little incredulous laugh, but he went out to the porch. Miss Abigail was there taking deep breaths of the fresh air, and she bade liira a kind "Good morning," as he went off the steps and down the path again, between the lilacs, exuberant in growth but meagre in bloom. "I wonder why my lilacs do not flower more freely." This "Miss Abigail said to Prudence, who had followed to the door. "I dunno," answered Prudence. Barry heard and turned. "I guess it's because you leave the old blossoms on," he said, hesitatingly. "Mother used to say I must pick the blossoms off one year, if I want any next." And then he went out of the gate, closing it carefully behind him, and along the moist, brown highway. "That is a very uncommon boy," said Miss Abigail, lookingafterhim with seriouseyes. "Yes," assented Prudence, "he's a clever 'nough little chap?for a boy." "rl\\ fMt.L- i\f hits L-nnu-iiitr'.tluint tlif H lacs," continued Miss Abigail, meditatively. "I must cut off all the flowers this spring!" "An' tie got as good a mess of milk from the heifer as I could ha' done myself with a well hand," Prudence went on. "Yes, he would have been handy about milking and getting the wood for you," said Miss Abigail. uAn' bringin' the letters from the post-office," proceeded Prudence. "It's a good ; piece over to the village in muddy weather." "So it is," said Miss Abigail. She gazed, reflectively along the road, which wound, serpentine, to the little hamlet a mile away. Barry was climbing the hill, a mere, pitiful, , lonely speck, in the distance, as he was a > mere insignificant atom in the great body of humanity. Miss Abigail's eyes tilled. "We might have kept him," she said. "Tain't too late yit!" put in Prudence. , The two women looked into each other's . | eyes. "If you could make him hear," began [ f Miss Abigail. . i For answer, Prudence strode to the road, L | and sent a long, quavering crv after Barrv. "B-o-o-y!" But the little figure they were watching I plodded steadily on. "Gimme the old tin horn out'er thekitehi en, Miss Abigail" called Prudence, excitedly, "quick." Miss Abigail, staid spinster that she was, i without a thought ot the ludicrousness 01 } the proceeding, ran to the kitehen, snatched - the horn from its nail, and ran out with it to Prudence. And Prudence put it to her lips i and blew a blast so long, so loud, that it . startled the birds into silence, and set the echoes ringing from hillside to hillside. : "He c'h hear that if he e'n hear anything," she muttered. ? He did. J lestopped. Prudence flourishs ed the horn in frantic excitement. There i was a moment of suspense ; and then, Prudence turned to Miss Abigail, standing by t the gate. - ! "He's a-comin' back," she said. \ ' When Barry, breathless with the haste r | he had made, reached the cottage, Miss Abi gail was waiting on the porch. 1 "We made up our minds to keep you," 1 said she, "so long as you don't give too much trouble." , "(), thank you, ma'am!" cried Barry, c "Indeed, I'll try to please you." i I am sure that he has succeeded ; for the lilacs have been in bloom three times since - that morning, and lie is with Miss Abigail ^ yet, growing tall and strong and manly as the years go by. He tills the bit of a farm, which had so long lain unimproved and in , winter attends school at the village where he is in excellent repute. He is, withal, so 1 faithful and helpful and kind that Prudence 1 is fain to apothegniatize the horn after this fashion : i "Harnesomo is as harnsome does; an' you're deservin' of a bed o' velvet, old horn, e for the good (Jeed you done that day." ^UsceU.tncous gtadwij. SOCIETY AND CHURCH MANNERS. When we tire to make one of a social gathering at a friend's house, we are careful to be on hand at the time appointed. We would not think of entering a party after the music had begun, or of going to a dining after the other guests had sat down to the table. How much less a breach of good manners is it to be behind at church, to en ter the house 01 uou alter the soiemu service to his name has begun? Those good men and women who are habitually "a little late" at the sanctuary would not, for the same reasons, be guilty "of the same discourtesy anywhere else. There is no reasonable excuse for constant tardiness in church going. No disrespect for the service is intended. Hut the thoughtless, negligent spirit which allows it is itself disrespectful and dishonorable to all concerned. Were we invited to a neighbor's home to hear his daughter play, or his son recite certain pieces, we should feel bound to give attention. 'Twould be due to our neighbor and to our own acceptance of his invitation, to listen to the music or the recitation. We should think it quite out of taste to be looking idly about and manifesting entire indifference to the exercise. And to betake us to talking and laughing with those sitting by, to quite turn away from all attention to the friend's effort to entertain us?that would be regarded, and would be a positive insult to our neighbor and to the whole transaction. Such a violation of all etiquette and decorum, no well bred man woula or could be guilty of. Is it becoming, then, to sit in God's house, when his messenger is speaking %to us, staring listlessly and vacantly around ? Is it a seemly thing, when the minister of God labors not merely to entertain but to instruct us, to show, by our demeanor, the utmost indifference to all that _ i- - i 1 4.1.~ 4-:.~~ M is oemg sum, unit 10 pass mu nine m mtutting and jesting, exchanging trivial and even jovial observations ? What less is this than to despise the Most High and express our contempt to his face ? As well turn the house of God, as his temple of old was turned, into a place of buying and selling as into a place for diversion. Who, of all the weekly worshippers at God's House, would at a social meeting be found axleep f What are the habits and circumstances that one would be willing to plead as extenuating such behavior "in company" ? How is it. then, that good men are ready to pardon and even justify themselves for taking a nap in church ? How is it that, oftentimes, the drowsy feelings are at once accepted as the inevitable, and one is seen willingly composed to slumber. When, in company, one is addressing us?relating an incident or making even a dry statement^we do not take off our eyes or attention to see every new accession to the party. For respect to him who is ad1 * - ?: x? ; x* j. dressing us, we repress our curiosity n it stir in us. But at church not a man, not a child, can enter after service has begun, but we must see who the party is and where lie finds a seat. Such anxious turning and twisting of heads and necks are seen nowhere else as at church, during the preaching. Few ministers have not had as good occasion to do as Henry Clay Bean is said to have done once. Observing his people again and again turning to see the new comers, he stopped in his sermon and said, "Now you listen to me and I will tell you who the people are, as each one comes in!" And so he did. Is not God more than man ? Is not his house and its assemblies more than our neighbor's house and any assembly that can gather there? Are not'fyul manners, that are so jealously avoided in society, to be more shunned and put far from us, in the sanctuary of the Lord ? Every intelligent person, old or young as well, knows what is decorous and seemly at church, as what is becoming in society. And not to know how to behave ourselves in the house of God is to treat Him with irreverence. Nothing that is unseemly there is trifling. To be illbehaved there is to be a vain or a profane person. For every idle word and deed, for every sort of depoitn-.cnt out of keeping with the holy place, rie.i shall give account in the day of judgme: "Negative sins," says Prof. Phelps, "are . onetimes most intensely sinful. Heedless sins aresometimes most fearfully fatal."?A. 11. Presbyterian. HOW "GREASERS'' LIVE. The word "Greaser" is applied to the common native or Indian Mexican. There is a great and marked difference, like a caste distinction, between the "Greaser" Mexican and the Spanish Mexican, who boasts of a descent from pure Castillian blood. The former is lazy, thriftless, ignorant supersti tius and unstable. The latter is usually bright active and intelligent. As might be expected, they in harmony with the white element, control most of the wealth and commerce of the country. In the Northern States of old Mexico the greater portion ol the people are of the former class, and hence the governments are unstable and subject to frequent revolutions under the influence of factious leaders. In the more Southerly States there is a greater diffusion of the Castillian blood and revolutions are more rare and difficult. On the ranch or village home of the "Greaser" Mexican everything bears the stamp of negligence and shiftlessness. I Their gaunt, sharp-nosed, long-legged and tan-colored hogsfhare with their owners in the comforts Of the family residence. No fences except brush surround their fields, j Generally there are none. They raise just sufficient wheat, barley, beans and chili [ (red peppers) to meet their absolute needs. : They thresh their crops upon bare, smooth I ground by driving flocks of goats over them J and washing in the nearest stream. They often plough with a crooked stick, and the I hoe is their schythe, sickle and reaper, Even their hay is cut with a hoe. They as a rule live in' villages and cultivate small fields upon their outskirts. Livingasthey do, and possessing a soil which under irrigation is wonderfully productive, they require but little ground to cultivate. For this reason at points between their village* there are large tracts of unoccupied lands subject to entry which are being rapidly I occupied by Americans. ! An impression prevails somewhat at the I North and East that the inertia of this people is due largely to some enervating ; influence of the climate. This is an error | The climate is superb, and the air exhilarating rather than enervating. I have been herein all seasons, and know of no climate where I can exert myself so freely with sc. little exhaustion. This is the universal record of American settlers. Itnrely doe* the mercury range over 1)0 degrees in the Hottest summer day, and the hottest summer heats are almost invariably tempered by pleasant breezes. I have never heard of a case of sunstroke here. The night* are always cool, requiring blankets foi comfort, and free from mosquitoes, and.sleep is sweet and restful. I have never seen a niosnuito-bar in New Mexico, nor have I felt the need of one. As I have said before, taken as a whole the country is 1101 beautiful nor attractive to the eye. Tlu mountain scenery is at many points wonder fully beautiful and picturesque. But apart from the mountains and the few river valleys the country is one vast cattle range. The Origin* of Restaurants.?The ust ; of restaurants has become so general al i over the world that it will be interesting t< i many to hear how they originated, and t< what they owe their now familiar name It appears that the first of these establish ments was started in 17G">, by a man rejoic ing in the not inappropriate name of Boul ange. This date has, however, nothing t< do with the choice of the title by whicl the new houses of entertainment wen > known. In order to explain this we mus i go back to the seventeenth century, at tin i end of which one of the soups, or liquic ? aliments, most used by the people was i bouillon known as the "divine restorer.' ' It was made up of the remains of fowls ant , viands boiled down in an alembic, witl crushed barley, dried roses and Damascui currants. As it was only the class of coni! paratively well to-do persons who could afford such a luxury, a genius was required to bring the "divine restorer" within the reach of all the multitude. He was found in a certain doctor named Guilliard, who proposed to provide "an excellent substitute" for the real nectar by cooking a fat fowl in a little aromatized water, and selling the bouillon as "divine." At that time the privilege of cooking and serving ragout# tiroo i>n?iQHi'ufl fni. tho nr lifPnSPfl victualers, and that of providing set dinners was secured by charter to the corporation of the rotmeurs. But the new sellers of the "restaurant divine" were free lances, bound by no particular rule, and they moreover claimed to have a more select set of clients than the common eating-houses. Consequently the restaurants, as they came to be called, soon achieved an extraordinary reputation, and at length their proprietors found it necessary to combine with their old profession that of traiteurs, which word was in the process eclipsed by the more new-fangled term restaurateur. A Remarkable Calculation.?A curious illustration has been afforded by the New York Journal of Commerce. It takes up an utterance of the Rev. Adriondak Murray, who said in a recent lecture: "Now the population of the earth is 1.000,000,000, and a generation dies every thirty t ?i i\m\ ruM\ _ years. inevery uiu iy .years, mcii r,uw,ww,000 human beings go out of the world and 1.000,000,000 come in. Forty years ago the cnurch taught that the world was 0,000 years old. She doesn't to-day pretend to guess within 100,000 years how old the world is. Very well. What has been the population of the world since the race began? Who can estimate the number? By what arithmetic shall you compute the swarming millions ? Take the globe and flatten it into a vast plain, 24,(XX) by twenty-four, and would it accommodate a fraction of the human beings that have lived upon its surface? Where is the locality of the judgment to be, then ? Can it have a locality ?' To this the Journal replies: "Now make the widest conceivable estimates. Suppose that the human race has existed on this earth 100,(XX) years, that the population has never from the flrst day been smaller than this estimate for the present time?namely, 1,000,000,000. For the sake of easy calculation, instead of the estimate of thirty years to a generation, call it three generations to a century. There will appear to have been .3,(XX) generations of 1,(XX),000,000 each, who, being assembled, require standing room. For a crowded meeting of men, women and children, it would be ample estimate to give each two square feet of room. A square mile contains, in round numbers, 25,000,000 square feet, and 12,500,(XX) persons could stand on it. Therefore, eighty square miles would hold a generation, and 3,000 times that space would hold the population of 100,000 years. That is to say, 240,(XX) square miles would contain them, and, gathered in a parallelogram, they would stand in a space 600 miles long oy 400 broad. They could easily be accommodated in one or two of our States. "Dead and buried, side by sine, tney would require five times their standing space, or (say) 1,200,000 square miles, and the United States has ample wild, lands, as yet unwanted and unocupied, to give them a cemetery. If any one wishes he may estimate how many thousand years of generations could find graves in this country without crowding each other. Whoever will may imagine the population assembled in a circle, or in a vast theater, with floor above floor, each floor diminishing the surface area of the building. It will do people of vivid imaginations good to reduce such imaginations to the facts of figures, and any school girl can do it." Water as Drink.?Many persons drink ordinarily as little water as possible, and none at all at meal times, because they suppose that water dilutes the gastric juice. Experiments, however, show that the dilution does not diminish the power of the gastric juice and further, that water alone as well as solid food, awakens its secretion. A paper read by Dr. Webster, of Boston, at a meeting of a learned med' ical society, took the ground that water, used moderately at meals, is beneficial, and that a large class of persons drink too little, i The result is, if too little water is drank? especially if the person eats heartily?the perspiration and the kidney secretion are I .12 \Trt4- Anlff fKair Kiif fllO luocf/i j Uliiiiiiirmtru. , uut vuv uuww | of the system, which can be removed only ] in a state of solution, is not eliminated with sufficient regularity and the system becomes gradually clogged by it. The accumulation is slight from day to day, but in time unpleasant symptoms are developed. These symptoms are of an infinite character?discomfort, even pain, sometimes in one place and sometimes in another, constipation and unhealthy hue of the skin. "Patients, said Dr. Webster, "who drank no more than a pint of water a day have told me that they were not thirsty. They were surprised when told to drink more. Those who have ' followed this suggestion in the course of a 1 week have developed this thirst, and drank as much as three pints of water a day." We may add that water taken into the stom1 ach is at once rapidly absorbed by the blood vessels. A bowl of well-seasoned 1 broth, as a first course, is specially helpful to the above class of patients. A large I quantity of ice water is harmful to any one. I The Earth's Crust.?Mr. Robert II. ! Ward, considers that the assumption is a ; fiillacy that all but the crust of the earth is a ! mass "of liquid fire. One of the results of the Challenger and other explorations of i deep ocean, he says, is to determine that the < water towards its bottom is freezing cold. '! Considering that the ocean covers nearly '! three-fourths of the entire globe, this , | fact does not support the theory of central . I.nnt .innnmruiniarl h\' rflfl ill tf nil. Thp Pnld ' , UCai OVU;iliJ/?HlVV4 WJ AMV*?t?vax/??. _..W ^ ? est water, it is true, usually sinks by its ' greater weight toward the bottom, and that, it may be said, accounts for its coldness ; but on the theory of radiation the water of the j ocean has been for long geological ages sup> i ported upon the thin crust of the tarth, >} through which the central heat has been ' constantly escaping, and yet it is still of ' freezing coldness. Experience would say ;! that the heat cannot have escaped through >1 the water without warming it, because the, ; i capacity of the water for heat is greater . than that of any other substance. We can ! no more, he concludes, imagine such a ral diationand consequent accumulation of heat ! in the ocean without the natural result of a >! great rise in the temperature, than we can I ! believe in a kettle resting for hours on a hot > i fire without the usual result of boiling wa5j tor! ^ [ j Old Age.?The brain in old persons, after [ i the age of 70, diminishes both in bulk and .; density, and thus becomes lighter. Its ca. i parity for continuous hard work is thereby , I lessened as really as is that of the body for , t muscular labor. . | As an old man, however, has the aceumu. j lated knowledge, skill and practical expek; rience of almost a lifetime, and that won} derful facility which comes of habit, he may, i i with good health and care, do much of his tI best work in the neighborhood, say, of 80. . | He cannot bear mental strain, and he must not attempt mental "spurts," but he 1 can still show himself a "workman that i I needeth not to be ashamed." 1 j Since, however, the brain is not then so ) firmly supported by the skull, and is slighc) er in texture, the blood vessels are more . easily dilated or ruptured. The danger of paralysis and apoplexy is still further in creased, because the blood vessels become in old age more or less ossified and brittle, and ) thus less able to sustain a sudden rush of i blood. } The aged should carefully abstain from t every form of violent action, and, indeed, i from every violent emotion. The full term I of toil, whether in rearing and supporting i children or in the service of the public, ' earns a right to what is the normal physi1 ological condition of age?freedom from all i that annoys, perplexes, harasses, excites and s burdens.? Youtn'x Companion. A REMARKABLE STORY. In the Surrogate's Court, of New York, on the 6th of May, much excitement was created by the development of a peculiar, interesting and romantic story. The prin cipal actors are young men of high social standing and wealth. The story is as follows : In 1809, William Tilden, a relative of Samuel J. Tilden, died, leaving an estate valued at $2,500,000. He divided it equally between his four sons?William, Mulano C,. Marmaduke and Beverie B. Tilden?aged 20, 15, 12 and 9 years. Josiah M. Fiske, Wm. T. Blodgett, Davis Dows, Charles Tracy and N. C. Ely, were appointed executors. In 1870 the executors employed an Italian named Biazzi as tutor and manager for the boys, and they were sent to Europe. In Paris, they occupied the rooms formerly occupied by the Prince of Wales and other members of the Royal family of England. They then proceeded to Berlin, and lived in sumptuous style, expending in sixteen months about $70,000. Theeldestof the four, William, purchased a palace in Coburg for $40,000 and with it the title of Baron. While in his palace he became very much interested in the wife of fA?mQi< nurnai* otld uuru CAnn WHS HtlHpr uit xv/iiiiui \J yy iiv* j UIIVI T v* j .wv/?- TI?W ?.?% ?. complete control of her husband, to whom he gave a power of attorney and permitted him to purchase all the furniture for his palace. In 1872 the executors discovered the condition of affairs abroad, and by the payment of a very large sum of money, the young man was extricated from his difficulties. The four then conceived the idea of a ball in honor of Americans in Germany. They hired an immense hall at great expense, and gave the ball, which was widely commented on. When they returned home the executors footed up their expenses for two years and four months at $185,000. They were sent to Harvard College, but did not remain there. William was made an executor of the estate, and in 1877 a partner in the business formerly carried on by his father. This he was compelled to give up, owing to his inability to manage it. Many accountings were had for which large counsel fees were paid. In 1877 Gustavus G. J. The band was appointed guardian of Beverie B. Tilden. lie received $1,250 and afterward, it is alleged, was locked up in Ludlow Street Jail for eleven months, for misappropriating $15,000 belonging to another estate for which he was the attorney. From the accounting now in progress before a referee, it appears that the two oldest sons have been paid $175,000 more than their share. It is also charged that ajnortgage for $100,000 on Jersey City property, with the interest, was collected by the executors, and that one of them deposited the money to his private account. The estate is in a bad condition and will yield but $100,000 to each of the youngest sons. The executors are charged with propurinc mtifipiitions of their acts bv threats. Beverie B. Tilden now seeks to have the various accountings opened on the ground that the expenditures were foolish and rash, unnecessary and contrary to his father's will. He also claims that the executors should be charged with the unnecessary expenditures. The executors make a general denial and declare that they have accounted for every cent they spent, and that the boys, when they came of age, ratified their acts. Take Care of the Eyes.?"Nellie, I fear you will injure your eyes," I said to a young girl, who sat reading in the twilight. "My eyes are very strong," she replied, "why, I can look right straight at the sun." Now every one will acknowledge that such eyes are a great blessing, seldom possessed by the present weak-eyed generation; but I fear even Nellie's strong eyes will soon be injured if she persists in using them under such trying circumstances?reading fine print in the moonlight, or at a long distance from the lamp, or allowing the full glare of the noonday sun to reflect into her eyes from the printed page. Sewing on black goods by the lamp light she thinks nothing of, nor of sitting up until midnight half the nights in the week to read an interesting book. Now all these things are hurtful to the eyes, and no more than one person in a thousand can practice them and remain uninjured. As no one can be sure of being the lucky person, it behooves all to take proper care of these priceless members. When the the eyes are tired and inflamed at night I find it rests them for the next day to bind over them a wet towel on retiring. Lately, I have laid next my eyes a small sack containing dampened salt, and find it better still. No matter if the brine finds its way beneath the closed lids; the smarting will last but a minute. Indeed, I. often rub it into the eyes and find it strengthens them. Years of practicing this have proved that although it will not make weak eyes strong, it will do more toward warding off" the day of spectacles than an improper use of them, and a dozen bottles of eye water and boxes of salve. I became quite interested in knitting lace; but last winter I found that the necessary fine work with my reading and writing was all my eves could endure. I have not knit six inches in as many months, and although I often think of the real thread I wanted for my curtains, I know it will not pay to knit it. What to Say.?Say "I would rather walk," and not "1 had rather walk." Say "I doubt not that I shall," and not "but I shall." . Say "for you and me," and not "for you and I." Say "whether I be present or not," and not "present or no." Say "not that I know," and not "that I know of." Say "return to me," and not "return it back to me." Say "I seldom see him" and not "seldom or ever see him." Say "fewer friends," and not "less friends." Say "game is plentiful," and not "is plenty. Say "I am weak in comparison with you," and not "to you." Say "it rains very fast," and not "very L.x.,1 1) iliUU. Say "in its primitive sense," and not "primary sense." Say "he was noted for his violence," and not "he was a man notorious for violence." "Say I lifted it," and not "I lifted it up." And last, but not least, say "I take my paper, and pay for it in advance." Whisperings for Bachelors.?None but the married man has a home in his old age : none has friends then but "he; none but lie lives and freshens in his green old age, amid the affections of wife and children. There are no tears shed for the old bachelor ; there is no one in whose eyes he can see himself reflected, and from whose lips he can receive the unfailing assurances of care and love. No, the old bachelor may be tolerated for his money; he may eat and drink and revel as such do ; and he may sicken and die in a hotel or a garret with I plenty of attendants about him, like so I Knf uiuiiycurium mi u> wciiung u>i mui j u\a%. where are the moistened eye, and gentle hand, and lovinglips thatougnt to receive his last farewell ? He will never know what it is to be loved, and to live and die amid a loving circle. He will go from this .world, ignorant of the delights of the domestic fireside, and on the records of humanity his life is noted?a blank. In France, it is stated that there are 219,270 houses without any window whatever, light and air being obtained through a mere hole in the door. In Paris between 3,000 and 4,000 families live in single rooms without means of warming, and between 2,000 and 3,000 families live in cupboards, so to speak, dark holes without any aperture for the admission of fresh air or the sunlight. Thirty thousand habitations consist of a single room.