Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, July 21, 1886, Image 1
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VOL. 32. YOEKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1886.* ISTO. 29.
? ferial ftm
force!) apart.
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.
CHAPTER XIV?Continued.
So they went together to where the sick
man lay. But first some medical forms must
be gone through, and when the tongue was
inspected, and the puis 3 felt, and feeble answers
made, the doctor softly asked questions.
"Pray, my dear young man, who are your
two companions, and how canu you to be in
this miserable plight?"
"They are both dead, sir?"
"Alas, yes?stone dead! and all their
troubles over."
UT1 ??
lucy ucivu^cu iv au uu^iisu ui ig ut ??ui
call the Cleojiatra, and one of them is Mr.
Transom, first lieutenant of the vessel"
"Dear me?first lieutenant! Poor man!
Promoted higher than any admiral now, sir.
And the other man is a sailor?"
"Yes, sir," he said, in a feeble voice; and
then rallying, and propping himself on his
elbow to speak: "My name is Cuthbert
Shaw, and I was impressed in error to serve
onboard the Cleopatra. We fell in with a
large French frigate and fought her; but our
captain was killed, with more than half our
men, and a great number wounded, after a
few broadsides, and we struck. It was a
cruel fight, most unequal, and all chance for
the brig was gone when her wheel was carried
away. We made up our minds to be
carried to France; but the Frenchman, who
was same distance astern of us when we
struck, and standing toward us, altered her
course suddenly and headed away to the east,
under all the sail they could pile upon her
broken masts. Mr. Trausom believed that,
from her superior elevation, she had sighted
some vessel which was not to be discerned
from our deck, aud that she had
hauled away for safety, as, in her
crippled state, she would have to strike
to any British vessel that might fall in
with her. So hot had been the action, we
had scarcely time to notice the condition of
the brig; but, soon after the Frenchman left
us, we found the hull settling under our feet.
There was a rush for the boats, and most of
the men got away in the pinnace and yawl,
and Mr. Transom and I and the boatswain,
who were left behind, had just time to scramble
into the dingey and cut ourselves adrift,
when the bi ig went down. It then came on
to blow, and the boats got separated and in
the night the boatswain, who had been shot
in the throat, died; and, within a few hourfe
of his cfetibt r??r ^r- Transom died, quite
, suddenly, and I was left "aiunc, without food
or water, and God knows how many hours
passed before my senses left me. That is We
story, gentlemen." and" the poor young fellow
, dropped his head wearily on the pillow and
closed his eyes.
"Bad news! bad news!" exclaimed Captain
Turbulent, striking his leg with his fist
"An Englishman sunk by a Frenchman, by
jingo!"
"Gentlemen, please tell me where I am, and
what ship this is?" said Cuthbert, in a faint
voice.
"This is the ship Elizabeth, my lad, bound
to Bombay, and we hope to clear the Scillies
by sundown."
To the astonishment of doctor and commander,
Cuthbert sat with a vehement move
menc uprignt m nis Deo.
"I implore you," he cried?"I implore you,
in the name of God, to set me ashore on the
English coast I engage, gentlemen, that
you shall not suffer for the delay, if money
can compensate you. I have a wife who will
not know why I have left her?you will save
us both deep misery by landing me! I have
strength to row myself ashore, if you will
lend me a boat I?I?Oh, gentlemen, in
God's name, do not carry me to India!"
The pen cannot put into these words the
agony of voice that was in them, nor impart
the pathetic force they took from his clasped
hands and pale and working face. Captain
Turbulent and Dr. Cotton stared at each
other. Their minds were slow at the digestion
of facts, and it was very odd to them?extremely
odd, indeed?that the salvation of
this young man from death was not sufficing.
"As to setting you ashore, Mr.?Mr. "
"Shaw," suggested the doctor, whose memory
was good.
"Mr. Shaw, I do not see how that can be
done. Indeed, with this wind it is impossible;
and with any wind, sir, it would be a
bad job for me to attempt, with a?a?
damned black thief of a native prince to report
me for delaying the journey. ^Besides,
Mr. Shaw, there is a fleet of us, and I'm commodore,
and I give you my word, sir, if I
stood in for land the rest of them would
think themselves in duty bound to follow.
No, sir, with Frenchmen about, my business
is clear?a midship helm, Mr. Shaw, and the
true course, sir."
"What you have to do," said Dr. Cotton,
"is to writo a letter and keep it by you,
foerlv M nnf rm hnnrrl nnv hnmowanl hnnnH
ship we may come across. I'll answer that
Captain Turbulent will help you in this
way."
"Oh, to be sure. But to land you," exclaimed
the captain, shakin; his head,
"against this wind, with that black rascal
ready to swear me out of my ship?if you offered
mo a thousand pounds, Mr. Shaw, I
wouldn't dare do it"
And, to save himself the pa n of beholding
Cuthbert's face, he quitted t ie cabin.
The young fellow turned his face from the
door, and sobbed aloud. But on deck all was
bright and breezy; and under the blue of the
windy sky, and over the long green sweep of
water, went the stately ship, broadening,
with every plunge and burst of foam, her
distance from the English coast
CHAPTER XV.
MOTHKR MEAD.
It had been a sudden sickness and a dreadful
giddiness that had caused Jenny to sink
011 the floor, from which she recovered soon
after her father had quitted the house for his
visit to Greystone school. The wild distraction
in her eyes had repelled Mrs. Strangtleld,
and for mercy and dread the mother
asitea no questions, out sat, auont auu Mguiug,
watching her daughter with piteous concern.
Then her duties calling her, and thinking
besides that solitude would be precious to
suoh bitter grief as Jenny's, Mrs. Strangfleld
gently left the room.
No sooner was she gone than Jenny started
to her feet-, and paced about as though
seized with madness, with a frown upon her
forehead, and her hands pressing tightly below
her hips. Full realization of what had
befallen her had come to her heart, and she
was driven by intolerable agony of spirit
That Cuthbert had left her of his own will
did not come into her mind. Belief in love
does not fall dead in this way. And no one
had yet suggested to her, as kindly solution
of the mystery of his disappearance, that it
might be he had taken a sudden shame of her
as his wife ant! had left her, acting a sweet
part up to the last hour?for men are shocking
deceivers.
What, then, did she think? Why, that
some accident had befallen him; and the idea
that he might be lying dead in some hidden
place so frenzied her, that, without consideration
of her purpose, she fled upstairs
for her hat and left the house to seek him.She
had wandered beyond the market
place when her mind took a grasp of her intention,
and that brought her to a stand.
The midday sun beat fiercely uj>on the road,
and held the pavements tolerably empty.
Bat there were people in the shops, and they
stared at her as she stood; perceiving which,
she went down the street again, with her
heart beating furiously over a new-born
resolution to call on ur. soaw, ami usgm
her inquiries after her husband at bis own
home.
But when she had got as far as the market
place, the fame of Mother Mead as a gossip
and teller of fortunes occurred to her, and
this because she saw the old woman's bent
figure going at a hobble on the other side of
the market place. So Jenny, passing quickly
through the stalls, intercepted the dame as
she was turning into the court in which she
dwelt.
Mrs. Mead was talking to herself in a loud,
quavering voice, and so complete!}* engrossed
with witchlike thoughts?for what other
thoughts could possibly visit such an ugly
conformation??that she did not observe
Jenny until she found herself stopped by the
girl standing in front of her.
"Ah, Miss Jenny Strangtield?if that bo
your rale name, my dear! A hot marning,
isn't it? with a power of dust for an old nose
that finds snuff cruel, dear. Why, your
father is jest beyont?I am now frotu him?
and Lard! his eyes are in such a blaze that
my old skin cracked when ho looked at me."
"May I speak with you in your house, Mrs.
Mead? I am in great trouble."
At sight of the sad, sweet face Mrs. Mead's
ugly countenance underwent a kind of transformation.
Her nose and chin did not, indeed,
moderate their intimacy; but the bloodshot
old eye took a sudden light of compassion,
and a strange grin of good nature overspread
her face.
"Come along, my dear," she exclaimed,
"if ye're not above being seen with sitch a
scarecrow as me. Stoop your head, for 'tis
an old-fashioned door, built afore palaces
was known. There's a strong chair that'll
hold thee; and if I can comfort thee, my
pretty, I'll mop out my old heart to do it, I'll j
warrant"
They had arrived at a rickety old house, I
with a sitting room very abruptly entered !
from the street This room and a bed cham- !
ber adjacent composed Mrs. Mead's dwelling.
Taking a seat opposite the girl, she ran her
eyes over her ffom top to toe.
"Now. mv child." said she. "what can I do?
Is it your fortune you want told? Nay, nay,
there's no physic in such stuff for rale trouble.
It's good for foolish wenches whose brains
are made o' ribbon, but not for the likes o'
thee, dearie."
"I am in bitter trouble, indeed, Mrs. Mead, j
Mr. Shaw, the son of the doctor, is missing, :
and I am mad to know where he is," said j
Jenny, bending her pale face forward as she
spoke.
"Likely enough, my dear?he had the most
noble face that iver I see on a man. "What
was he to thee? Your answer shall be sacred
with me. Speak the worst, if harm hath
come to ye. You'll find Judith Mead dumb
as your heart"
"He was my husband," replied Jenny, in a
voice scarcely above a whisper, for the secret
was still so fresh that the revelation of it
startled her to hear, though spoken with her
own voice.
Mrs. Mead screwed up her eyes to look at
the girl, until the upper part of her face was
a mask of wrinkles.
"Your husband!" she exclaimed, in a tone
and with a manner that would have made it
impossible for a third person to know whether
she believed the girl or not, for, as to Jenny,
it could not occur to her that her word would
be doubted. "Why, then, no wonder his going
troubles ve."
"Oh, Mrs. Mead, why do you say 'his going?'
He has not left his home, do you think?
Is it not possible that he has somewhere met
with an accident? Or has his father forced
him to leave? On "Wednesday he promised
me to call last night on father and break the
news of our marriage, for all this while was
it our hidden secret. What should prevent
him coming? Oh, Mrs. Mead, he loves mo
truly, and would be with me if he could
come. Can he be dead? Oh, kind Go 1! if I
thought this I would kill myself, that I
might be dead with him."
"My dear," s?id Mrs. Mead, s'owly, and
reflecting hard while" she spoke, "he is not
dead. Folks do not die like this without it
being known. Where could he die? Coming
to call on father? Then his body would
ha' been found?for the Lord knows they've
been searching closely enough; an' unless he's
gone up to heaven, clothes an' all, like the
Prophet Elijah, you may be sure he's walkin'
about on this world somewheers, hale an'
hearty. Did they tell 'ee there was a pressgang
here last night? But ye mustn't look
to that They'd never take a slender man
like him. Billy Basings they forced away,
but he's a strapping sailor. Mr. Shaw's
meat for their masters, and the wagabone
plunderer 'ud never burn their fingers on
Aim."
She shook her head emphatically.
"He's your husband, is he, my dear? That's
beyond doubt, I hope?"
"Un, yes, Mrs. Meaa; we were marnea in
a church in London three weeks ago."
"Ye're a soft little wench, and not larned
In London ways. Are 'ee sure it was a
church?"
"Oh yes, indeed?a large church!" exclaimed
Jenny, gazing at the old woman
with a new expression gathering in her
eyes.
"Why, then, if you knows the name, and
got the bit o' paper they gi'es ye when folks
are married "
"I do not know the name of the church. I
do not think my husband ever mentioned it
If any bit of paper was given to us he will
have it I was ready to swoon for fear,
and took no notice of anything, so scared
was L But this I have," she cried, drawing
out a purse with quivering fingers and showing
a wedding ring.
The old woman put it aside with a movement
of her hand.
"You know if it be right wi' thee," saic
she; "but the ring's only worth what it 'ud
fetch as gold."
Something in these words, something in
the irrepressible leer that weighted the old
woman's eyelids, took Jenny s breath away.
And ther. instantaneously there flashed upon
her the sense and knowledge of the falee and
tearrui position Bhe was placed in by her
husband's disappearance.
She 8 tar ted to her feet.
"Oh, Mrs. Mead!" she half shrieked through j
her pale lips, -"is it possible that my words
will not be believed? Great God! will it bo
thought that I am not Cuthboit Shaw's
wife?"
|
" But the ring's only worth what it 'ttd
fetch as gold."
Aiid then recalling lier father's iron nature,
and his hard rejection of unsupported
words, and his evil, unsparing habit of thinking
the' worst, her heart seemed to stand
still, and she remained motionless and frozen,
with her bands locked and her teeth clinched.
"Sit down, my dear, sit down, and do not
run clane daft, for there's nothing jieavy the
matter yet," creaked the old woman, again j
inspecting Jenny closely, motioning her the j
while to be seated by arching her hands out
of her shoulders like a rabbit's paws. "If !
he's your sweetheart, ye must have some
faith in him, and maybe he'll be turning up
in a day or two, and then the laugh'll be on
thy side. Do ye hear;'
''He is my husband," said Jenny, in a sob- *
bing whisper, breathing quickly.
"Well, well, husband or sweetheart, if he
comes he'll be welcome, won't he now,
dearie?"
"My husband!" shrieked the girl, with a
wild stamp of the foot. "Will it not be be- I
lieved;"
"Why, to be sure it will. But see. I'm an
old, lorn woman, who knows the world as
thy father knows the Bible?all the harm of
it, my dear; and if you was my child, this
would I say?hold thy peace about your marriage
until you can show proof, that Satan
himself wouldn't doubt, that young Mr. Shaw
is thy husband. What! will you make envious
wenches and their flabbergoon mothers
believe ye by saying, 'I do not know the
name of the church where I was married,
and I have no bit o' paper' (the Lard knows j
what them things are called) 'to prove that
Mr. Shaw is my husband, and 'tis the truth
itself that ne'er a living cratur', my own
father not excepting, knew that I was Shaw's
wife until this blessed day, when my husband
hath left me to give the news o' my marriage
alone!'"
She ceased, leering shrewdly, with a forefinger
against her nose.
The stunned look that had settled upon
Jenny's face while the old woman was speaking
passed a moment or two after she ceased,
and a strange and striking character was
given to her beauty by an expression which
it seems absurd to describe as a mingling of
despair and determination, yet which assuredly
suggested both these qualities.
"I see that a great trouble has come upon
me; but in the sight of God my heart is
pure," she said in a low but steady voice.
"Mrs. Mead speak to me honestly and tell
me what you think has become of my husband."
"My honesty won't ease you, my dear, and
the Lard knows I may be wrong, though folks
think that it's the devil as gives me wisdom,"
said the old woman, showing her fangs with
a grin of ill-dissemble 1 triumph; for in her
own mind she had no doubt of the motive of
Cuthbert's disappearance, and was flattered
with the facile mastery that put her far
ahead of the town's surmises.
"Pray answer me. I have the heart to listen
to anything now, Mrs. Mead "
"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Mead, speaking j
Slowly, intermitting her words for the sake
of filling the spaces between with deliberate j
no<Js and shakes of the head, "they'll be
thinking this of thee?that you are not mar- !
ried, and that Mr. Shaw hath left you to j
bear your shame alone. They'll argey that
the son of th' old popinjay up at the sc h 10I |
house 'ud never match with Mike Strang- i
field's darter, and that he hath ruined 'ee j
with promises. And maybe they'll say that i
th' old doctor's in the secret, and hath got
his son away slyly to save him from the dea- I
con, unless you shall defeat the liars by ;
sure proof of thy marriage, and that you j
must get about quickly."
Jenny stood looking at her with a steady, j
vacant gaze, as though she did not heed j
what was being said, and, with the same ab- ,
sent manner, was moving toward the door.
"How shall you get about it, dearie? You I
do not ask?"
"How!" exclaimed the girl, pausing. "If
my husband does not come to me, I am quite
helpless."
"Why, who should help 'ee but thy father? I
Let him go to work. He hath money and
strength. If I was his wife he'd not sit idly
cursing."
And at the notion of the deacon cursing,
she set up a creaking laugh. But such advice
was lead instead of life to the poor heart that
heard it
"Good-by, Mrs. Mead," said she, "if you
have news to comfort me, you will not keep
me waiting for it?"
"Trust me! I'll do my best But I'll not
come anear thy house, though I had young
Mr. Shaw in my arms. I'm none so dear to
th' deacon but that he'd bile mo in his pitch
caldron, could he find a reason for murderin'
me i' the Bible. As to thy mammy? But
there, dear heart! if 1 have good news you
shall have it quickly."
With pathetic effort to smile a farewell,
Jenny left the house.
CHAPTER XVI.
HER FATHER-IN-LAW.
Her face like marble, but with no lack of
determination in it, Jenny walked down the
grimy court and crossed the market place. She
halted a moment to deliberate which way she
should take to Greystone school. She chose
the way of the sands, and down to the beach
she went, with drooping head and frightened
peeps at the people who passed her; for on
her now was cruel sense of heavy shame,
and the despair that bares the nerves of the
heart for the sunshine and human eyes to torture.'
?--^v.
Crossing the space oT~ shingle on which lay
the fishing boats roasting in the sun, she
toiled along the sand toward the ravinh
which led to Greystone school. When she
caught sight of the schoolhouse the pulse of
her heart grew smaller, and her feet
dragged. To the nervous, modest girl,
whcee shy spirit all the might and fire of
love had scarcely endowed -w ith bravery
enough to keep her bold in secret meetings
with her own husband?whose coming to him |
was always a sweet scamper to his heart and
breathless concealment there until Maibee
waned under kisses, and courage rose to
whispers?thoughts of an interview with the
haughty little doctor, whose fiery prejudice
had earned him hate and fame among the
sect she belonged to?who had hold her own
Cuthbert in awe and was always named by
him with fear?was terrifying, indeed.
But, then, what would become of her if she
had not spirit to push her quest into the presence
of the one man who could, if he chose (as
she believed), give her more information concerning
her husband than all the rest of the
town put together? Bravely she stepped forward
under a supporting impulse, and walked
firmly to the door of the house.
The servant who answered the summons
happened to be a Greystone woman, and
knew Jenny well by sight Much surprised
she looked to behold the daughter following
the father so quickly, for the deacon had not
left the house five minutes when Jenny arrived.
"Can I see Dr. Shaw?"
"Yes, miss, I think so," replied the servant,
taking it for granted that Jenny knew her
father had just called. "Will you walk in,
please P
Now, Dr. Shaw was at this moment vo- I
hemently pacing the study, and revolving, j
with mingled emotions of borror, doubt and
rage, the communication Strangfield had j
made to him. Five minutes Ls no time for
such spirits as his to grow calm in; and, with
a desperate frown upon his forehead, ho was
muttering eagerly to himself, and in a quits
audible key, when Jenny was announced.
"Show her in!" he exclaimed, astounded,
and rooted himself against the table, confounded
by this utterly unexpected and entirely
new condition of the trouble that had
come upon him.
The strange, pale beauty of Jenny's face, j
and the hint of pride, and the sorrowful j
dignity in her manner which were there
through her hard and violent effort after j
courage, made the old man stare at her with j
unaffected surprise. Then, with an elaborate j
old-fashioned bow, he saluted her, and com |
ing round the table, placed a chair. She ad- j
dressed him at once in a sweet, plaintive
voice, fixing her sad eyes on him.
"I have to beg your pardon for calling on j
you, but I am seeking my husband, who>o
home is here. They tell me he is gone: but I
cannot believe that he would have left me
without sending me a message; and, in nty j
sorrow, whom should I come to but my lm-- I
band's father??though indeed, indeed, noth
ins but my misery woul I have made me inirudo
upon you."
"No intrusion, Miss ? Miss Strangfield?
at least, ahem! I am so much taken by surprise,
madam, so little qualified at this 1110- j
ment to?to "
The old gentleman smothered his ineolrrence
with another bow, and, pulling out his
snuffbox, looked shyly and frowningly upon
the floor.
"It should have been Cuthbert's duty to
tell you we are married. I knew he had not
done so, for last night ho was to have seen
father and broken the news to him; but ho
did not come, and this morning they say he
is gone. Ob, Dr. Shaw! can you tell me
where he is? Do you know? Have pity on
me, sir! Without him I am very, very
lonely; and if he do^s not bear witness to
what I say I?I "
The poor girl broke down, biting her lip to
subdue her tears, lest the sight of them shou'd
anger the old gentleman.
"I positively assure you that I am as ignorant
of his whereabouts as yourself," he replied
hastily, that sho might not labor under
a wrong impression one moment longer than
he could help. "His ungrateful conduct has
wounded me to the heart. All last night I
sat up waiting for him, not doubting that he
would return. But?may I ask you if you
are aware that your father has just left me!'
She shook her head.
"He and I have been discussing the subject,
and I can only trust," continued the doctor,
"that, to my son's unnatural conduct to his
father, ho has not added a deeper, a more
unpardonable, an inexpiable offense."
"I am tiuly his %vife, sir."
"Truly! Pray forgive me; I may lay
rough fingers on a wound my heart would
choose they should touch tenderly. But lef
me ask you, when were you married to my
sou?" said tho doctor, forcing his voice into a
tone of suave composure; for emotion could
not be permitted to qualify his dear delight in
asserting his*elegance and breeding.
"Three weeks ago," replied Jenny anxious
ly, with her heart beating painfully, for she
ftared the next question.
"He was in London three weeks ago. IIwent
for a little holiday, as at that time 1
suspected his depression, or absent fits were
owing to the monotony of our scholastic discipline.
Were you in London then?"
"No, sir; I was at Sydenham stopping with
my aunt Rachel. I met Cuthbert, by ap
)tointinent, on a "Wednesday morning at the
bottom of the hill o:i the road to Dulwich,
and there we took the coach that passed and
afterward, when wo reached London, he put
mo into a hackney coach and we drove to a
church, where we were married."
The doctor applied a pocket handkerchief j
to his forehead.
"A strange rascal!" he muttered to himse!'. I
"I had never given hint credit for so much j
duplicity." And then ho sighed and lookel 1
through the window and, recollecting himself,
forced his voice into suavity once more
and said:
"I represented to your father that nothi??'
could be easier than to prove your marriage
If, as I do not doubt," (with a bland wav
of the hand) "you are my son's wife, I?
scarcely know whether there be cause 1offer
you my congratulations. Since he ha
played his father a vile trick there is nothin
to hinder him from deceiving you. But eac!
to his kind; you to your father, to whom yoi
are accountable, and my son to me?when ht
chooses to return."
His whole manner had changed with these
words, and he addressed her with an icy
hauteur of gaze.
Jenny looked at him fixedly for some moments,
with a wonderful gaze of mingled
consternation and disdain, and rose.
"I did not come here in expectation of finding
sympathy or kindness," she exclaimed,
with a bitterness that took a keener acidulation
from the very beauty that should have
failed to warrant it. "You know whose
daughter I am; and what you think of my
father Cuthbert has often told me. I have
called to know if you can give me tiding3 oi
my husband. Doubt my honor as you please,
sir; but in God's name, answer me my question.''
"I have answered that question," he replied.
"Many of the elder boys of the school and
several of the men were dispatched by me
this morning to search the shore and the
neighborhood, and likewise are inquiries stil
being made in places beyond Greystone. If
I obtain information, be sure that I shall
cause it speedily to bo conveyed to yo i.
Should he ever return," he continued, in
slightly depressed tones, "this trouble he has
brought upon you is an account to be settled
between him and me, with an adjusting he
will not relish."
She was standing near the door, and he
was raising his hand to pull the bell; but she
had not done with him yet. The change in
his manner from the blandness to hauteur,
from a kind of tenderness, at least, to a demeanor
of blank indifferenco to her sorrow,
deepened her doubt of his sincerity, and, failing
to tlnd in this old man any such sorrowing
after his son as shouid prove bJm honest
<o her own mourning heart, u feverish suspicion
that he was holding bnck the truth
seized her.
' You can tell ine, sir, that he has not left
ine for good! .Say some little word to give
me hope! For h is sake, Dr. Shaw?he loves
me truly!" she cried, with her hands clasped.
The doctor was affronted by her doubt
of hiin, for it was plain in her recurrent
appeal.
"I have answered that I am as igDorant aa
you?perhaps more ignorant," he said, frowning
at her.
"Last night," she continued, too bitterly
yearning after hope to be abashed by hin
manner, or even to heed the cruel suggestiveness
of his words, "he was to have seen j
f o f Virtv Thte Vin rirnni iccvl ami T wna t/i
watch for him at my window. Oh, sir, he
would not have bid me wait for him had he
meant to deceive me; for, indeed, he loves
me fondly. A gentleman from this school,
who called on mother this morning, said that
he had seen him leave, your house in the
evening; and to father he was coming?oh,
be sure! "Who stopped him, then? Was he
followed and set apon? If he had died, or by
an accident been killed, his body would have
been found. Do you knotr where he is!
Tell me, sir! The Lord God, who hears me
declare it, judges me; and before Him I swear
thy son was my husband!" Now,
but for the continued and affronting
suspicion informing the girl's words, . this
piteous appeal, taking tragic pathos from
wild dry eyes and outstretched hands and
shrill intensity of tone, must have roused
the doctor though his heart of flesh had been
as hard as a pet prejudice. But he was so
extremely mortified to find his word?his
word, tool?doubted by this wench, that
anger came down on all kindly stirrings with
a weight of lead, and false perceptions pricked
him. For who was this woman but pigheaded
Strangfleld's daughter? And might not all
this bother be a mere trick of the enemy?a
plot speedily hatched out of Cuthbert's strange
disappearance, to moritfy tho dignified cultured,
well-bred foe of dissent, and champion
of orthodoxy and divine rights?
He rang the bell
"A direct answer had been given you," he !
said, "and you must excuse me for declining j
to continue this conversation. I trust,
madam, for your own sake, that you will be
able to establish the fact of your honorable
connection with mv son."
And, with dislike and contempt on his face,
he made her a short bow. Without another
word she passed through the door, which the
servant held open, and left the house.
CHAPTER XVII.
HOME AGAIN.
She walked slowly down the hot and dusty
road toward the town. Ifcnv, far more
keenly than before her visit to the schoolhouso,
did she feel the bitterness of her
trouble.
Along the dusty road she went?the high
crops motionless on either hand, the land
around (in sheen of silver barley and yellow
wheat, and the lustrous green of meadow
grass) trembling in the steam of the sweltering
earth?and felt a homeless woman, unloved,
and sinful, too.
She came at last to the shadow of the wayside
trees under which she had met Cuthbert;
and here, with no eye to see her, and passionate
memories crowding piteous misery into
her aching heart, she stopped and flung herself
upon the grass, and tried to relieve her
burning eyes with tears.
A long while she lingered here, dreading
to return home.
Time passed rapidly and unheeded, and
tho shadows of the trees had grown well into
tho road when she rose to her feet, disturbed
by tho town clock striking the half-hou; |
after three. The thought of meeting her
father was almost unbearable; yet homo she
must go, for where was other shelter for her?
Before this time her fear of the deacon was
in his anger, when he should learn that she
had deceived him by her secret marriage.
Nothing more had her innocence then to
dread; though enough had been here
to furnish her with dismal contemplation
and trembling apprehension, and an
insupportab'e yearning for the permanent j
companionship of her husband, that discovery
might never catch her without the prop
of his love and presence at hand for her
weakness. But now her husband was gone,
and, by going, had left her exposed to dreadful
suspicion. He was gone, and she was left
alone to justify her purity, to encounter the
wrath of her father, stirred to his deepest
heart by infamous doubt
What, then, was she to do? for when she
fell to consider how she should prove her
man iage, she found another blank as maddeningly
perplexing as Cuthbert's disappearance.
She well remembered the marriage morn;
now, wnn a mint voice ana paio xace, slie
told aunt Rachel she was going for a walk,
and bade her not be surprised if she delayed
her return, for she loved the pretty scenery
around, and to liuger among the trees.
She well remembered the beating of her
heart when, at the bottom of the deep and
shady lune, she beheld Cuthbert waiting for
her, and how she had nearly swooned when
ho hailed the passing coach to Southwark,
ami handed her into it.
Likewise she well remembered how they
had emerged into a crowded street, along
which he had hurried her into another strset,
where he called a hackney carriage, and they
were driven down interminable streets at
which she never glanced, for her white face
was hidden on Cuthbert's shoulder, and sha
had needed all the cordial of his constant,
passionate, reassuring whispers to save her
from fainting.
And how at lust the carriage stopped be- j
fore a church?a gloomy, heavy, city edifice j
?so that it seemed to her that they had to j
grope their way along the avenue of high I
pews to the altar railing, where speedily a
thin voice read the service that made her the
wife of the man at her side.
The acted portion of it all was a vague
memory; her love for the man who had induced
her to secretly wed him was only
reality.
Four o'clock was chiming when she reached
home. Long before this had Mrs. Strangfield
grown weary of watching at the window,
and with deep anxiety had gone back
to seek the girl in the town. Polly was singing
in the kitchen as she scrubbed the floor,
so that Mr. Strangfield in the parlor did not
hear Jenny enter, nor her light footstep as
she went upstairs.
At her bedroom door she halted, with such
a shock of surprise and consternation as the
sight of a dead man might have produced on
her; for all about the window the floor was littered
with her husband's sacred letters, heed
lessly tossed and lying open, with their ribbon-bindings
among them.
Sho well knew whoso hand had done this,
and, recovering herself, entered the room,
closed the door and removed her hat, moving
6oftly, and all the whilo looking at the letters.
This done, she knelt down and gathered together
the precious missives, pressing them
often to her pale lips, and narrowly inspecting
the carpets for bits of the dry forget-mo
nots and other fragments of flowers which
had fallen from the letters under Strangfleld's
angry bundling of them.
Scarcely had she replaced the papers in
her desk when sho heard her father's steps on
the stairs. Ho entered his bedroom, but
speedily emerged, being struck, perhaps, to
find Jenny's door closed.
Ho turned the handle sharply und exclaimed:
"Ah, you be here, thou? Your mother has
gono to look for you. You are well practiced
In treading softly. TiThere havo you
been?"
"I have been to the schoolhouse to seek my
husband," she answered, returning his storn i
gaze with a look of despairing resolution.
"And you have not found him?"
"No, father, no!" she replied, with a shriek
in her voice.
"Ifdie bo your husband, why has ho left
youf^ue said, speaking as a judge might in
preface to condemning a man to death.
She Bhook her head and locked her twitching
fingers, no longer meeting his eyes, for
the bitterness in them was insupportable.
He approached the bed and leaned heavily
upon the frame of it
"Woman! in my heart you are condemned
for treachery to me and your mother. Yet
I have said to myself, in the words of the
Preacher, 'Be not hasty in thy spirit to be
angry!' and now, if you find me so, you
shall rebuke me. Jenny, for what you have
this day told your mother. I hate my own
flesh that you should be a part of it. Yet I
will be merciful. You shall prove to me that
you sin is not the dishonor of your parent's
name, nor the destruction of your soul in the
eyes of Almighty God. Do you heed me?
You shall prove this."
She made no answer.
"Speak!" he cried. "Show me how this
may be done."
She looked at him with terrified oyes, for
no courage that she had could combat her
instinctive fear of him. Ho waited for her
reply.
"Tell me what I am to do, father? indeed, I
will obey you. I am truly his wife. God,
who hears me, knows that I am not SDeaking
falsely. With this ring he wedded me,
father."
And with trembling hand she sought in
her pocket for her purse.
"Nay, nay, I have no wish to see it. Such
a matter signifies nothing. Better tricks
than 6uch tokens cannot fool old eyes. Tell
me where you were married."
"In London, father."
"Ay, In London. At what church?"
"1 do not Know tne name; it iius snpjjeu
my memory. Or my husband never mentioned
it," she replied, with an expression on
her face that should have told her father to
press her no further.
"By whom were you married?"
"I did not see?I was frightened. The
church was dark, and I did not lift my eyes,
and we were but a moment signing our
names."
A look of savage incredulity?the skepticism
of a man stirred to the most hidden and
deadly forces of his nature?shot into his
face. He gazed at her for some moments in
kilqnce, and then, in a voice that, for the
holl^giese of it, sounded as though it rose
from unaeTvbis feet, said:
"It is as I Before said?you remember nothing.
But their wedding is a thing all women
remembor; and it is strange you should so
soon forget yours, Ivjien your mother will
toll you everything that befell on her wedHinor
Hnv t.wpntr-thma vears a?l Would
you know tho church if you saw it?"
"Yes, father, I?I think so?I do not know,'
father."
"To-morrow you and 1 will go to London,"
said he. "Make up a little box of things, for
this business may keep us. In the morning,
at seven, we start. Be in readiness!"
"To-morrow you and I will go to London.''
Without another word he left the room.
She leaned against the wall near the win
flow, ana ner neuvy eyeiasuua utuvjku u?ci
the sorrowful beauty of her eyes. So standing,
and with her graceful profile taking a
delicate transparency from the light shining
through the window, and the soft fulness of
her perfect form ripely figured on the white
ground of paper that supportod her, never
more lovely had she looked; and the shimmer
of her yellow hair was the trembling of
evening sunshine on the water.
Deep grief is always quiescent, and the
deepest grief was shrined in this gentle
woman. That she was not guiltless only
made her sorrow the more moving. She had
erred in deceiving father and mother, in
privily, without home's blessing, undertaking
the sacred obligation of marriage. Yet how
hardly was she dealt with! how cruel the interpretation
of a deed of faithful love! And
why had Cuthbert left her.- How bitterly
hard that any act of his should be beyond
the skill of her heart to construe! Yet her
glorious fidelity could not hold him faithless.
In this wise thinkiug, with an impulsive
movement she drew forth her purse and
slipped her wedding ring on, kissed it wildly,
and, with a quick toss of her hands, fell with
face upon the bed, weoping bitterly.
This posture was she in when her mother
entered the room. The poor woman ran to
her quickly.
"You have come back, my darling.- Where
hast thou been all this long time? Jenny, do
not cry so?my heart will break if yoil grieve
in this way. Has lather been saying unkind
things to thee, my pretty? Come, come, it is
not all hopeless yet. Truly I believe that
Mr. Shaw is thy husband; and bo sure, be
uure he will return, for no man with his |
beauty is heartless, and he would not have
married thee, Jenny, to leave thee in this
way!"
She raised the girl from the bed and led I
? /?hmV ot?f? L-nnolincr hv linr. ttillo\VG<L I
her bead in her bosom.
"Oh, mother, is it not too cruel that I {
should lose my husband and bo doubted by
father? To-morrow he means to take me to
London to show him the church; for he will
not believe me without dragging me a weary
journey. And God knows what I shall do
when we reach London, for I do not remember
the name of the church, nor the street J
where it stunds, and 1 have told him I was
too scared to take notice. And woultl not a
young girl like mo be frightened, mother, in
that great place, and acting wrongly, al- J
though I was with my darling?"
"To-morrow does he take you to London 1
Oh, what n strange, hard man! Why, all
day you will be traveling; and cannot he
see that you have no strength?" cried Mrs.
Gtrangfield, rising from her knees; and, with
a hot, indignant look, she swept out oi! the
room, and went to her husband, whom she
found in the act of quitting the house.
"Michael, I must speak to thee. What are
you going to do with Jenny? If you break
her heart you will kill us both, and that indeed
you are doing!" she cried, shrilly.
With his hand on the latch of the house
door he stared at her with a contemptuous
sternness, then with a stride mado for the
parlor, and closed the door upon them both.
"Jane, subdue 3 our voice, and speak to mo
respectfully. You are the girl's mother, and
I will listen to you; but I am her father, and
mine is the name she has blasted. Do you
heed that? It is Michael Strangfleld's daughter
whom the people are talking about. Remember
this, and now say your mind."
"For shame! for shame! to speak of her as
having blasted your name!" replied Mrs.
Strangfleld, quite unalile to control hor voice.
"Hath she not told you that Mr. Shaw is her
husband? The wedding ring is now on her
finger?as good a ring as this?and if she be
not an honorable wife, then my name i3 my
father's. What! you would take the poor
heart to London, when she declares that in
her fright she took no notice of the street and
church! Would not a stout spirit bo scared
by what she did, with thee, as her father, to
terrify her conscience? Why, myself, when
you are hazing me with your strong voice,
lose my head and know not what I am about
And shall our little wench have stronger
brains than her mother?at a time, too,
which makes the best of women tremble and
keep their eyes down in modesty and awe,
though their parents are with them and kind
friends to givo them heart for the journey?
Kor shame! to doubt her! What ininK you
is ber sin?"
"Understand this!" ho shouted with fury,
and his eye3 in a blaze; "if she says she
knows not the church wherein she was married,
nor can show it me, nor the book
wherein their names should be written, nor
the man that married them, and hath no
more evidence than a ring which a crown
piece would buy for any harlot, I'll know
her for what she is?and no tears from her,
nor insolence from thee, shall change me!"
She held out her hands in the attitude of
one fending o(T an attack.
"Never could I have believed it of thee,
Michael!" she said, in a voice of indescribable
reproach, and turned to leave him.
"Stay!" he commanded. "Before you gofc
give me your reason for opposing me."
Too insulted by his words about her child
to confront him, she replied:
"She has not the strength to travel to London;
and why would you take her there?
She tells thee plainly she will not know the
church, though she see it, anil its name was
never mentioned to her by Mr. Shaw."
"You believe her?" he said, with deeptoned
sarcasm.
"As I believe in the Lord!" cried the mother,
eagerly, turning her swimming eyes upon
him.
"You shall credit her if you please, but
your faith in her innocence does not purify
her. Give me proof of her honesty, and,
though I scorn her for her deceit, yet you
shall see me use her gently. Am I to stand
still under this shame that has come upon
me and mine, and make no effort to clear it
away, that our light may shine again before
men! She does not lack strength to seek her
husband, and since noon has she been wan
[ dering in tho heat. Though we had to travel
a thousand miles for proof of her honor,
would the journey be too long? Lot God forgive
her for sending me in my old age from
my home, to clear her name of foul suspicion
?if it can bo done! Go now and repeat my
words to her, and let her be in readiness to
start with mo at the hour I named. No
more!" he cried, with a stamp of the foot,
holding up his hand. "Too much have you
already said. Bid her keep to her room, for
I'll not meet her this day."
And passing his wife, ho flung open the
door and left the house.
"The Lord have mercy upon him, and forgive
him his sins," moaned poor Mrs. Strangfleld
to herself.
Not immediately could she return to Jenny.
She had bargained on controlling her husband,
by her appeal, from taking the girl to
London, and, being defeated, wanted time to
recover her heart to meet the poor child.
She must have a good cry before she went
to her; and cry she did, heartily thinking all
the while of the proud position she might
hold as Cuthbert's mother-in-law?the envy
of all tattlers?if Michael would only take
things quietly and leave her to manage a bit
CHAPTER XVIIL
A BITTER RESOLVE.
All the evening Jenny had remained in her
room, and had but"fipw, at this hour of ten,
which was even tolling, said good-night to
her mother, parting with her after a long
and close embrace, and with a prAjer that
God would bless her for her love. Then ..did
she lock her door, and sit and listen; and
presently heard both father and mother
come to their bedroom, and the murmur of
their voices.
In those old times there used to be in
fashion a little traveling box, light to carry,
with a strap across the lid that the arm
might sling it, and' much used by country
folk.
One of these boxes stood on the floor, and
the packing of it, with many a long halt for
a sobbing fit, and active protest and hopeful
reassurance, had been Mrs. Strangfleld's occupation
for a part of the evening. Presently
rising, Jenny went to the box and
tried its weight. Light enough it was?with
a single change of apparel only; yet she took
a turn with It about the room (treading on
tiptoe) as if to make sure that it was not a
burden above her strength.
She was restless and could not remain
quiet Now she would draw out her purse
and count the money that it held; now
she would approach the glass and gaze at
the spectral, mournful beauty of her white
face; anon, and with no more sound than a
mouse creeping, she would pace tho room;
until the fever in her waned, and tho passionate
spurring of thought ceased to lacerate
and drive. Whereupon she extinguished the
light and took a place at the window, and
surrendered herself to contemplation of the
stars.
Manifestly she meant to take no rest that
night, or was very long in going to it.
One would have had 110 need for sharp eyes
to look at Jenny's face and know her as a
girl on the eve of some wild business. Tomorrow
morning was she to be carried a long
and sorrowful journey by her father, and
when in London, from church to church they
were to wander; and all tho while her heart
was to burn in tho lire of his wrath, and her
sacr&l purity to bo blackened by his thoughts
of it. Her ignorance of matters which, had
she but foreseen all this, would have been
easy to learn and remember, was so deep
that even her mother had groaned over her
that evening. The very neighborhood
wherein Cuthberfc had hired lodgings during
his holiday in Loudon she did not know; she
had never hail occasion to write to hiin. He
Lad come to Sydenham and met her by an
appointment planned before they left Greystone,
and all their arrangements were verbally
concerted with never a hitch of weather
to disappoint them, and that was why no letters
had passed.
So, then, the London parish in whose j
church thoy were united was unknown to
her. No light could she give, beyond taking i
God's holy name in witness that she spoke the |
truth, which only her mother believed.
But the uselessness of the journey, and tho j
fear of her father's anger if failure should i
attend their search, were not thg lirsc causes
of her present resolution.
That night, she resolved, would ba the laot
she should ever pass in the old wooden house, j
Call her mad if you please?and few such |
desperate rosolves but have madness at
bottom; but there was courago, too, a virtu- |
ous audacity, and of a most womanly sort, |
acting without reflection; that is; influenced j
I by tho present that was driving her, and
taking no thought of the futuro upon which
she was rushing.
The church clock was striking tho half |
hour after eleven, when with a shiver she rose
I from her chair at tho open window, and, j
stealing to the bedroom door, opened it noiso- j
lessly, and listened. The deep breathing in i
the adjacent apartment where her parents I
lay, the fall of an ember in the kitchen grate, ;
tho loud ticking of a clock, were the only J
[ sounds audible.
Leaving the door ajar, she put on her hat, !
j to which a veil was attached, threw a shawl j
over her shoulders, and raised the little t
j trunk. Thero was clear moonlight abroad J
now, and light enough reflected to give distinctness
to nil objects in the room. On tiptoe
she descended the staircase, and, the better
to make her exit soundless, went through
tho kitchen. In a few moments she had
lightly drawn the bolts of the back door, and
stood in the moonlight.
[TO It K < "QXTI XL* KI>.]
[This story was commenced in Xo. 2l>.
Back numbers will be furnished at five
cents per copy.]
'One can see in aclear night about
3,000 stars without the aid of a telescope.
A like number visible in the
opposite hemisphere makes a total of
some 0,000 that can be seen with the
naked eye. Hut the telescope brings
to view a vastly greater number, estimated
at upward of 20,000,000.
^Us(eIIattc?>ttS fUadiitj.!
Fur the Yorkville Enquirer.
DANCING.
I want to beg the attention of those wlio j
defend themselves, or others, in the practice
of dancing, by saying the Bible does
not condemn it, to a consideration of the
text in Ecclosiastes 3:4: "A time to weep,
and a time to laugh ; a time to mourn and
a time to dance." Now, is it not evident
that the opposite of mourning is not dancing?
Dancing is there put figuratively
for rejoiciiu/. And in a few other places
where it is used in the Bible, it evidently
means "rejoicing," as in the 30th
lift. . H'Ptw... Loot f.,r?wwl n\i.
I sxu in, i i in u idu . i iiv/u uaoi tin wuu iiij
mourning into dancing," or rejoicing.
And in the 149th Psalm, the peopleare exhorted
to praise the Lord in the dance.
Now that is evidently not the dance that
is now practiced. If one should burst out
in the praise of the Lord in the dance,
how every one would he shocked.
To jump up and down as a child does
for gladness, or to leap and jump as David
did before the ark, is the kind of dancing
that seems to be meant by those texts, and
I think, too, in the parable of the prodigal
son, the dancing there means some noisy
demonstration of joy, such as jumping,
clapping the hands for joy, and praising
the. Lord. n.
DAVID H. GRAIIAM. David
H. Graham is the third person
who has gone through the dangerous
rapids of Niagara, and lived to enjoy
the notoriety thus gained. His predecessors
were the captain and engineer of
the steamer "Jlaid of the if <?.*/," who, in
18G1, risked the perilous voyage to elude
the sheriff. Mr. Graham accomplished
this feat in a barrel that he had designed
and constructed purposely for the voyage.
Graham has always lived an erratic
life, being instinctively a rover. We
first find him serving a cooper's apprenticeship
in Philadelphia, but being seized
by a desire to go to sea, took advantage
of the tirst opportunity and shipped
as a common sailor on a coaster bound for
New Orleans. After working for a short
" * l? ?.?/! a * ?-? f Unf stt f if 1%/-* n mi ! n
UIIJU ill II1D limit; 111 null IHJ lit; o^itni
became restive and engaged as a deck
hand on a Mississippi steamer. Tiring of
this life the next year found him once
more laboring at his trade in St. Paul,
Minnesota, from where he was drawn
across the border into Canada. From Canada
he set out on a trans-continental tour.
In 1882 lie was again in Philadelphia
following his preferred avocation, hut only
for a short ti me, however, when he wasonce
more seized with a desire to peregrinate
and was carried from one point to another
uii.Ml he found employment as a deckhand
on a .^earner plying between Montreal
and Liverpool. It was while engaged in
this capacity, Misconceived the idea of
navigating the wii-jrpool in a barrel.
Graham's next adventure-ULill be to drop
from the Suspension Bridge?tMieifrht of
17(1 feet?and then go through theT"ttpAd?:
?
The Science of Silence.?He who
hus learned the science of silence may
hide ignorance and even acquire a reputation
for knowledge and wisdom. A
story is told of the painter Zeuxis how he
reproved a certain high priest of Great
Diana of the Kphesians, who discoursed
of pictures in the artist's studio with so
reckless an audacity of ignorance that the
very lads who were grinding colors could
not refrain from giggling, whereupon
Zeuxis said to his eloquent friend, "As
long as you kept from talking you were
the admiration of the boys, who were all
wonder at vour rich attire and the number
of your servants; but now that you have
ventured to expatiate upon the arts of
which you know nothing, they are laughing
at you outright." Denouncing the
vapid verbiage of shallow praters, Carlyle
exclaims, "Even Triviality and Imbecility,
that can sit silent, how respectable are
they in comparison !" It was said of one
who was taken for a great man so long as
he held his peace: "This man might
have been a councillor of State till he
spoke; but having spoken, not fit to be the
beadle of a ward." Lord Lytton tells the
story of a groom married to a rich lady, and
was in constant trepidation of being ridiculed
bv the guest in his new home. An
Oxford clergyman gave him this advice:
"Wear a black coat, and hold your
tongue." The groom was soon considered
the most gentlemanly person in the country.
Silence is an excellent foil for conversation.
A clever per?on makes his talk
far more delightful by interposing occasional
flashes of silence, as Sydney Smith
said Mncaulay did on his return from
India.?(Juirer.
Tnrc Sciiooi.maum of To-J)av.?The
intelligent and successful schoolmarm of'
to-day is the beautiful flower of develop-1
ing, growing, expanding, aspiring womanhood.
No more significant fact could
be pointed as indicating the rapid changes
that are taking place in the position and
influence of women than to compare the
schoolmarm of to-day with the schoolmarm
of the -past. The schoolmarm of
the past was respected, but commiserated.
But the schoolmarm of to-day is a totally
different being. She is proud of her membership
in a profession whose dignity and
importance are every day being more
widely recognized. She enters upon her
work with enthusiasm, and performs it
with the disposition and aims of the artist.
She dresses well, and is cheerful and
happy.
Out of school she believes in seeing life
and enjoying herself. And we may be
sure that the American schoolmarm will
soon be readily recognized by any close
observers of persons and manners in that
throng of new world travellers in the old
world. She will be distinguished by neat,
elegant, convenient and appropriate'dress;
by t he absence of all unnecessary trappings
and bundles; by hergenuine, carefree and
hearty interest in everything; by her
quiet composure respecting manners.
When she returns she will bring with her
a few genuine treasures of remembrance,
but will not probably attempt to smuggle
kid gloves and lace. The American schoolmarm
is indeed one of the most important
and most admirable of American institutions.
All hail the schoolniarm who goes
to Europe for her vacation.?Heading (Pa.)
Herald.
A Brief Chapter on* Giri.s.?The
girl of sixteen who will neither sew nor
do housework has no business to be decked
out in tinery, and rambling about in
search of fun and frolic, unless her parents
are rich, and in that event she needs the
watchful direction of a good mother noue
the less. There is no objection to fun ;
but it should be well chosen and well
timed. No woman or girl who will not
work has a right to share the wages of a
poor man's toil. If she does work, if she
makes the clothes she wears, and assists
in the household duties, the chances are
she will have enough self-respect to behave
herself when playtime comes; but, if she
should still be a little "wild," the honest
toil she has done will confer upon her
some degree of right to have her own way,
ill-judged though it may be. The wild
girl usually aspires to prominence in some
social circle or other, and her manners and
conduct, in greater or less degree are de
signed to attract the following of menShe
should remember that followers are
not always admirers, ana tnat me most
sincere admiration a man ever feels for
a woman in a drawing-room is when he
looks upon her and says in his own consciousness
: "She is a perfect lady."?Exchange.
Natural Beauty of Nazareth.?
The valley of Nazareth is so charming
that it has been called a paradise on earth.
It is full of flowers and shrubs, and butterflies
and birds. Among the magnificent
blossoms that in this country grow only in
greenhouses, and the foreign birds, with
their gay, glittering feathers, are found
our own loved roses and daisies, our nightingales,
blackbirds, thrushes and larks,
filling the air with their sweet songs ; and
even the little homely sparrow and robin
redbreast, that we consider so peculiarly
our own, hop about and chirp as gaily in
Palestine as here.
The people who live in the "happy valley"
are more healthy and vigorous than
their neighbors, or than the people who
live in hot countries usually are. The
fresh air from the hillsmakes them strong;
and how sweet that air must be, passing
as it does over mignionette roses and many
other flowers cherished in our gardens and
gathered to perfume our rooms, but growing
there with all the reckless joy of nature.
There is only one river in the valley,
a little fresh brook dancing down to
the plain below, and here the women, clad
in their pretty dresses, travelers tell us,
were brighter and more picturesque than
those of their neighbors, as if even in the
matter of costume they were to be best of
all, came in those days, as they still do,
with their groat earthen jars, to araw me
fresh bright water from the well, and carry
it home to their families.
What the Trouble Is.?The evil is
apparent to all, but it is not so easy to apply
the remedy. There are too many
laws made and the good laws are not properly
or efficiently executed. There is
too much legislation to promote personal
or political interests, and too little attention
paid by legislators to the interests
of the whole people. In Congress, in our
State Legislatures, in our Common Councils,
partisan feeling originates partisan
measures, and States and communities
are plagued and oppressed by the partisan
iniquities perpetrated. Those in powI
er reverse acts and doings of those who
precede them, and when their misconduct
brings on them popular condemnation,
those who follow after will change
| and overturn all that has been done,
j Thus will it continue to be?law disrespected
and the people plundered?until
I the people choose their legislators and the
I interpreters and executors of the law, not
j as the creatures of party, but by the stand|
ard of fitness and good personal character.
How Did thev know /?a writer in
Land and IJ n/ersays: I saw a curious case
recently of what I may call the "hereditary
instinct" of animals. I was in a field in
which there were some five and twenty
cows and a hull grazing. It was Sunday,
and all was quiet and still. I heard a low
roar or bellow. I thought it was the bull,
but every animal in the field lifted its
head and left off" grazing. There was another
loud roar, and all the cows began
walking towards and "centreing" on the
bull, just as if they were going to mob a
dog, and while I remained watching them
they kept at "attention," not resuming
their grazing. Wombwell's menagerie
was about a quarter of a mile from the
field, and the roar was the roar of a lion.
It must have been hundreds, aye, perhaps
years since the ancestors of
these cattUPfietr#44he roar of a- lion, but
still they recognized it frrtrfhSaem^.
The Duration of a Generation.?
The duration of a generation is the averagelength
oflifeforman. That is, though,
! of a million of human beings born in a
| generation, some will die in infancy and
I some will live to old age, the average life
for the entire number will be about thirtythree
years. This is arrived at by averaging
the ages of all persons, old and young,
dying within a term of years. Different
localities, different periods, will, of course,
l alter the result, but the average for the
! race in civilized countries is always approximately
the same.
! The average age of population is a difi
ferent thing. This is the average age of
I all persons living at any one time, ascer:
tained by summing the ages of persons of
1 - '? ' - - - - ? i? - ??4Ua
cunereni age as given wy u eeusus ui me
population, and dividing this by the
sum total of the population.?Inter-Ocean
"Queries."
Example is Better Tiiax Precept.
It has been said that a parent, giving his
children good instruction and a bad example,
brings them food in one hand and
poison in the other?which is likely to
prevail? The old fable is not without its
j lesson, even in the present enlightened
age: "IIow very badly my poor children
are walking!" said a crab, in great distress
. of mind. "I scold and reason and talk,
| yet I notice nothing but crookedness."
["Ah! my friend," said a listener, if you
so earnestly desired yourchildren to walk
straight, why have you walked crookedly
yourself 77/c Quicer.
Ci'riosities of Light.?Bishop Clark,
writing on the curiosities of light, says:
It seems to be a very commonplace thing
to say that the light makes objects visible
by reflexion ; but have you ever thought
just what this implies? If it were possible
to make a perfectly smooth surface it
would be invisible. But, as a matter of
fact, nothing is perfectly smooth, and it
is the little roughness on the surface
which break up the rays of light, and
thus render the object visible to our
senses. Wonderful deceptions are produced
by the use of highly-polished mir
i rors, with the most startling ana magical
| effects.
Thunder, Lighting and Rain.?
Meterologists have found that there can
! he no thunder and lightning without rain.
When thunder is heard beneath the clear
sky, the reports must either come from
1 distant clouds or be the result of some
j other cause than a discharge of electricity.
Harvest or heat lightning is produced by
J a distant storm. Thunder seldom ever
accompanies heat lightning, the sound
reaches only 12 miles, while lightning is
often seen by reflection upon nearer clouds,
at a much greater distance.
?gar
A matrimonial authority says :
"These two rules will be safe to follow in
all but a few exceptional cases: First, for
a woman to refuse marriage with any man
who is objected to by her male relativesprovided
they are reasonably well acj
quainted with the man of supposed affection
and, secondly, for a man to refrain
from offering his hand in marriage to a
woman who is not approved by his sister,
or if he has none, by his judicious lady
friends."
8ST Books have brought some men to
knowledge and some to madness. As fullness
sometimes hurteth the stomach more
than hunger, so fareth it with wits; and
as of meats, so likewise of books, the use
ought to be limited according to the quality
of him that uses them.?Plutarch.