Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, July 28, 1886, Image 1
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VOL 32. YORKYILLE, 8. P.. WEDNESDAY. JULY 28, 1886. I3TO. 3Q.
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FORCED APART
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.
chapter xviii?continued.
a bitter resolve.
The night was sbf t and sweet with dew,
and the mild stars shone lustrously. Now,
was it that the cool air and the deserted
length of the High street, and the black
shadows of the soaring town, brought to her
an unutterable sense of homelessness, and the
chill and terror of the lonesome state. She
came round to the froat of the house, and
under the gloom of the bay tree paused and
reflected, not daring to lift her eye to her
parents' bedroom window.
She crept softly out of the darkness and
crossed the road and went up the street, hugging
the shadow of the houses. When abreast
of the market place, again was she seized
!J.?- V: c 1 1_1 r.r,A a
?vuu a liuiiiuing sense ui UCJJJ1C?HC30 um 1?
great agony of spirit The sympathy of a
human voice?some one to tell her story to
and take advice from, she wanted, and perhaps
the very last person whom it would
have entered her head to apply to under any
other circumstances she now resolved to seek.
This was Mrs. Mead, who had shown her
some kindness that morning, and the sort of
sympathy that was not likely to thwart if it
, did not profit her.
So she flitted like some restless spirit
through empty stalls and vacant, silent
g'oom, and, hesitating a moment before Mrs.
Mead's door, knocked lightly.
Although there was no light in Mrs. Mead's
window, the old woman was not asleep, having
not two minutes before Jenny's arrival
< xtinguished her tallow candle and got into
bed. Hearing a sound that resembled a
knock at the door, the old woman lifted her
ear out of the pil'ow and listened. After a
little interval the knock was repeated, and
there being no mistake about the noise this
lime, Mrs. Mead, greatly wondering, darted
her withered legs out of bed, 6truck a light,
swathed her old form in the counterpane,
which she plucked from the bed, went to the
floor ana openou it, uuiuuig mo ?,v.
her head.
She instantly recognized Jenny, and uttered
a cry of astonishment.
"Michael Strangfleld's girl! At this time
o' night! Seekin' of me, too! Lord, Lord!
what is the matter F
"Lord, Lord! What is the matter f
"Let me come in and speak to you, Mrs.
Mead," said the girl in a low whisper. "I
am leaving father and mother for good, but
have no strength to walk all the way to
Winston without a living voioe to give me a
word of comfort and advise ma "
"To Winston! This time o' night! But
come in, come in!" cried the old woman,
lowering her voice with involuntary relish of
this new mystery that naa come to ner very
door, and looking backward at the staircase
to make sure the tailor was not listening.
"Leaving father and mother for good!"
said she, leading Jenny to a chair, and pushing
the candle close to her that she might see
her faca "Whatever are you doing that
fori"
"Because father suspects me of speaking
falsely," answered Jenny: "and I cannot bide
with him to be thought sinful, and spurned
at by the people."
"And for that your are leaving home!" ex.
claimed the old woman, who showed no
symptom of sleepiness. "And you are going
to Winston! What to do there, Miss Jenny?"
"My cousin, Bridget Lloyd, lives at Marpies,
and the coach passes Winston at eight
in the morning. To Marples I am going, to
ask Bridget to give me shelter until I can
find my living."
"Well, indeed! And do ye mean to walk
five mile to-night? Why, ye says t' coach
doth not pass before eight, and where will
ye stay till it comes!"
"I have not thought," answered Jenny with
a heavy sigh. "But I will not sto p in Grey^
l 1..J AL 1C AC ,1 t 4.^ _
sione &o utj iuockou. v/u, jicou. lu-muirow
morning father would take me to London
to show him the church where I was
married, and this I cannot do. What then
will he think? But it is not only because I
cannot prove myself my dearest one's wife
that I am leaving home. Because father
thinks me a wicked sinner and a liar I am
running away, and because all the town who
have not a father's heart for me will think
worse things of Jenny. Oh, may God lend
me wisdom to know the right thing to do,
and forgive me the sorrow I this night cause
my mother!"
She bit her lip cruelly to restrain her tears,
for she feared that the sight of them would
move Mrs. Mead to hinder her desperate resolution.
"Before you move a step or say another
word, ye shall have something to mend your
spirits with," said the old woman, briskly,
and entered her bedroom, whence in a few
moments she returned, with a gown and
shawl on, and, going to a cupboard, produced
* a little flask of cherry cordial, of which she
obliged Jenny to swallow a glassful
"It is a strange thing for you to do," said I
she, resuming her chair and twisting her j
scant gray tresses into a knot at the back of j
her head. "Doth your cousin, Mrs. Lloyd, I
know you arc coming to her?"
"No," Jenny answered. "I did not make I
up my mind to leave home till father told me
'o get ready to quit for Loudon with him in
the morning. I should fear to be with him
if wo could > nt. find the church. If he does I
not think n;o truthfn! then I am a sinner to
him, and not fit for his house; and that b
why I am leaving him forever!"
Her eyes flashed as she spoke, and the bard !
look of her mouth might have reminded Mrs.
J Mead of the deacon at his sternest But the
anger melted away, and she cried piteously,
"You will teil my poor mother that you have
seen me, and why I have left her? Father's [
harshness to me is breaking her heart, and j
what will she do when she fluds her rretty !
one gone?" and she pau<ei again to battle |
with her tears.
"Meffjennv, if ye are wise, ye'll go home," j
said Mrs. Mead, nodding her head. "Why,
what'll folks say when it's known you've roon
away? Sure enough they'll call ye a guilty
wench, and you would not like that"
"They will call me that if I stay?why
should they not, if father thinks it??and
never could I go into the sireet, nor meet
human eyes, with this shame upon me!" she
cneu, despairingly.
"It's bard to know! it's hard to know!"
groaned the old woman. "Would ye wish
your mother to hear where you are.'"'
"No!" she answered quickly. "So that I
am living and with friends, as you must tell
. her, Mrs. Mead, she will not despair. But
no one must lie tol 1 where I am?not one,
Mrs. Mead. Promise me that! Swear it!"
"I'll swear it if you please. Mrs. Jenny,"
replied Mrs. Mead, sympathe: iral y giving
the girl h r wifely prefix. "But Inforj ye
make me take an oath just think awhile. If
I swear, they may drown 1110 and not get the
truth. Suppose Mr. Cuthbort "
"Ah!" exclaimed the girl, with a short,
passionate cry, "if hi should come?why,
why, Mrs. Mead, you would tell him instantly;
he would be eager and mad to find
me, and I to lo with him. 0, heavenly
Lord! if thou wouldst but give him to me
now!' she cried, raising her clasped hands,
while her voice died awav into a soft, exquisitely
musical plaintive note.
"I don't like this business?truly I would
s rather have no hand in it." said Mrs. Mead,
slowly turning her face from side to side.
"Thy father would come and burn my house
down if he knew I had helped you to leave
the town."
"You need not help me, I will go away
now. Mrs. Mead, and leave you to your rest"
"That you shall not," cried the old woman,
jumping up and laying her skinny hand on
Jenny, who had risen. "Sit down, sit down,
my pretty. Why, how long will it take ye
to walk to Winston? Two hours, will it?
And so you shall come to the village at
three i' the morn, and have five hours to
count the daisies in afore th'coach comes!
Sit down! sit down! Ye'll not leave this
house yet a bit, I'se warrant"
"But I will be on my way before the light
comes and the people are up," answered
Jenny, still standing.
"So ye shall, but not afore the light comes.
Sit, mistress Lord save your heart, 'tis
easier nor standing, and I for one niver can
think on my feet Nowheers like bed for
thinkin', say I, and then you're flat Ye'll be
changing your mind, I doubt, if ye'll sit and
ponder."
"Do not say that, Mrs. Mead. I have already
left home, and it is as bad as if I were
a thousand miles off. I will not go back, indeed.
Bid me good-night, and be sure my
heart is warm to thee for thy kindness."
"Ah!" cried Mrs. Mead, forcing her, but
not untenderly. into her chair, "ye come from
an oDstinace iainer, ana argiuieuts, w> x ve
always said, is wasted on sitch. If 3-6 mean
to go, I'll not stop 3'ou?and who should know
best but you? But the job needn't be worse
nor it is. I'm one," said she, going to her cupboard,
"as loves erature comforts. Crature
comforts," she continued, producing a couple
of cups and saucers, a loaf of bread, some
eggs, and a strange looking vessel of tin in
which was some tea, made precious by the
price of it in those days, "is a true woice of
consolation to the afflicted, to my way o'
thinking. Niver did I attend a burj-in' or go
a nursin', or help to lay a body out, but first
I laid in a meal o' food. Niver doth the mind
do duty on an empty stomach. If it's but a
crust 0' hard bread and a spoonful o' gin, let
me have it, I says, before I go to work.
There's no sperrit in fasting."
And so she rattled on, in a subduod voice
for fear of disturbing the tailor and his wife
overhead, all the while kindling a fire, and
preparing the table, and ceasing her gabble
only to go and draw a kettle of water from
some back place.
There was a dispatch in the old woman's
method of going to work, and a quiet, too,
were it not for the subdued, eternal cackle of
her tongue, that would have made a sick man
love her. She produced another candle and
brightened up the room, and presently the
kettle was blowing out its filament of steam.
"Now, mistress," said she, "here be a dish
of tea which all Chaney, where the herb
grows, as I've heard, couldn't match. Just a
slired of bread, with this fine new butter, '11
give that egg a relish as ye'll niver
"mm t.i nipmher. Oome. come! sin' wemun
both keep awake, there's naught like tea?or
tay, as my mother used tb call it; and that's
the right word, though in these queer times
a body hath no liberty. Well, will ye not
laugh over this feast some day? I reckon
Mr. Shaw '11 make ye see a joke in it, for I
niver knew a blue eye like his that didn't
mean a merry heart; and this will I say of
your husband, mistress, that since the days
when poor Will Hacket coorted me i' silk
stockings, I've niver seen a prettier lad than
Mr. Cuthbert Shaw. Crack the egg, my
dear, an' if ye shall tell the inside of it from
cream, Til swallow the shelL It's middl ng
late for supper, but as thy father once said
to me fifteen years ago, when I loved a bit o'
riband as has no relish now, we're all artir
flcial creatures?which is the Lord's truth.
Why shouldn't a body eat i' the middle o' the
night as well as the morn? Come, come,
make a beginning, or I'll not go along wi'
ye."
"But I do not want you to come along with
me, Mrs. Mead. Indeed, I should not allow
you to leave your house after keeping you
from your bed?no, truly, though I love you
dearly for your kindness," exclaimed Jenny.
"Do you think I should let a pretty young
woman walk alone to Winston at this time
o' morn, with her box and her sweet face to
court ivery smock she may come across?"
cried Mrs. Mead, poising a saucer on a level
with her nose, and straining her eyes at
Jenny over it, "What is a summer's morning
walk to me? If I can't hinder thee from
leaving home, I'll see thee safe in t' coach anyways,
and that'll bo something for me to toll
thy mother."
The need of companionship was strong in
Jenny. All the way to Winston, with a long j
waiting for the coach, was a weary under- |
taking, and what society should she have j
but bitter thoughts? Besides, a little touch 1
of comfort there was in the feeling that her j
mother would know that no harm had befallen
her, if Mrs. Mead gave the story so
far as her promise of secrecy permitted. j
woo fViof. in tVm nlrl unnnnic fono I
which helped Jenny to prompter acceptance
of the offer than otherwise her sweetness
would have sanctioned. Mrs. Mead was
clearly determined, and ready to quarrel,
that her will should have its way. So the
lonely hearted girl, with the saddest smile on
her white face, went up to the dame and
thanked her with a kiss upon the rippl -s of
her forehead; and had she been a man, a
favor more delightful the old woman could
not have made it seem. But oh, what a contrast
when the faces were together!
Now ? lowly, as they eat In these small
hours?outside, the solemn stillness of the
night, and within, no sound but the hum- I
ming of the kettle to thread the melodious
complaining notes of the girl and the creaking
tones of her sympathetic listener?the j
faint and mystical light of the new day,
creeping from the infinite abysm into the
towering chambers of the western heavens,
stood palely on the window glass, and little
twitter of birds broke abruptly from invisible
places.
Until the light had broadened, Mrs. Meed
refused to heed it; and Jenny, with her back
to the window, and telling the long stury of
her love and marriage and sorrow to her
companion, did not see it Then the girl,
pausing with feverish eyes, after words of
bitter wonder that Cuthbert should have left
her, and a wild cry that he might not be
dead, Mrs. Mead held up her finger.
"Mistress," said she, "before it is too late,
think well of what you are about to do.
Hush! If ye were my own child I should
not say more to thee."
"I have thought! I have thought!" moaned 1
Jenny, rocking herself to and fro. "My
cousin Bridget will give me a home; and she j
and her husband only shall know my story.
But what will the talk be here, whether I
3tay or go? Never could I stir abroad, and
at home my father could not bear to look at
me. Should God send my husband back,
then father will hang his head to think of
the wrong he has done his girL And thou
shalt tell mother where I am. But. until
Cuthbert comes. I will keep hidden. I have
sworn it to myself; and if I should bo forced
to stay nere i wouia kiu myseit?indeed 1
would!"
"Well, truly!" muttered the old woman.
"To see your beauty, liko a kitten's, and such
soft smiles as ye greet with, who'd think ye !
had so much spirit? 1 don't say ye aren't
right. You're taehing some folks a 'essm
as'll profit 'em; and when you're righted, the
people here'll make a queen of ye?so . now!
Doth not the I/Otd say, 'It is not meet to take
the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs?'
Yet his own child's bread hath your lather
taken, and niver are dogs wanting wfcen
there is a crust to gnaw. Turn your head
now, my pretty. Do ye see it's day?"
With a sharp glance at the window, Jenny
jumped from her chair.
"I must go quickly," she cried. "There
will be people abroad, and if I am seen they
will run to father."
"There'll be no one abroad for another hour
yet?not even the market folk," replied Mrs.
Mead. "But I'll not keep ye scarod."
She fetched her shawl and bonnet from the
bedroom, and while she put them on she
said:
"There's Sallie Walker, as kapes the Greybound
at Winston. I nursed her mother, and
was at her funeral; and niver doth Sal come
to Greystone without droppiri' in to see if
Mother Mead l>e still alive. We'll have her
up, mistress, though she be snoring, and she
shall give thee a couch for two hours' rest
For d'ye think you're made o' wire and
parchment like me, that you can set through
a whole night without a nap? At seven
there'll be summat to break thy fast wi', I'se
warrant?if I kill one o' Sally's pigs myself
for the daintiness o' chitterlings. Then into
the coach ye'U get, and may the Lord send
ye happiness!"
So saying, she laid hold of Jenny's box,
and with muffled tread and without speech
they both of them went into the gray morning
light
CHAPTER XIX.
the empty bedroom.
A little before six in the morning a ray of
bright warm sunshine, Uke a_ golden wand
projected from the window, having crept
! gradually along the wall, smote Mr. Strang*
field between the eyes as he lay asloep in his
bed, and awoke him.
Looking upon his watch, which hung at
the side of the bed, he rose, without disturbing
his wife from the deep sleep into which
she had fallen scarce an hour before, after
long and weary wakefulness.
He had almost finished dressing himself
when his wife awoke, and, after the first bewilderment,
asked him the time.
"There is an hour before the coach starts,"
i he said. "See about getting the breakfast
I ready. I shall be in the yard until the half|
hour, and get you to Jenny, that she may
not keep me waiting."
Saying which he left the room, wearing his
yesterday's bitter face, which had come to
him with the first words of his wife.
No sooner was he gone than Mrs. Strangfleld
quitted her bed and went to the door to
call Jenny. The room used by the girl was
to the right of the room occupied by the husliand
and wife; the door of it stood open, and
that was something to wonder at if Jenny
were not downstairs. Into the room walked
the mother, and all she saw was a bed that
liad never been slept in.
Now for some moments this was a sight
with a significance not to be realized.
She went to the bedside and stared at it,
and then round her, with a slow slipping of
her head on her neck, like a ball on a pivot
Presently on the bed again she fixed her eyes
with all the blankness of the frost-white
counterpane reflected in them.
"What trick is she playing me?" she cried
to herself, but in a clear, strong voice.
"Jenny!"
And all about the room she went, probing
and peering like a faithful dog sniffing for its
hidden young. Until it came into her head
that her child had run away; on which she
fled from the room with a shriek.
That shriek brought forth the trollop Polly,
who beheld her mistress clinging to the top
rail of the banister, motioning with her hand
"Lor, missus, what is it? For mussy's sake,
mum, don't look so scarifying, mum! Oh,
missus, what ha' yees seen?"
"Tell your master to come to me," exclaimed
Mrs. Strangfleld, in a choking voice,
and she went reeling into her bedroom and
sank upon a chair. But up again she must
jump in a moment and run into Jenny's
room, and in the center of it she stood looking
around her with rolling eyes. She was too
frightened for deliberate search?even a
direct clew she would not have heeded. With
both hands pressed upon her heart she stood.
Was it that the sorrowful girl, mourning her
cruel bereavement, and the dishonor done
her by her father, and dreading the journey,
and the object of the journey that morning,
had not chosen to rest; that ail night long
she had kept her vigil, and now was gone
forth to cool her burning eyes against the
soft wind blowing from the sea? Was it so?
Ah, pray God! And the mother, with mov!
ing lips, drew to the window and sent her
startled gaze over the summer scene of swelling
cliff and folds of houses standing with
shine of gold under the meek sweetness of the
morning blue.
Mr. Strangfleld came upstairs, and from
the landing called to her. She ran to him,
crying, "Michael, see here! Our child hath
not slept in her bed! Where is she, do you
think? Oh, if you love your wife, run to
your men and bid them seek her. For God's
sake do this, Michael?nou>/" ,
He went past her without answer and entered
Jenny's room. If amazement or pain
were in him, it was veiled by a heavy
frown.
^Silence!" he cried, as his wife began to
speak. "Before we judge her, let us know
what she has done. It is no sign that she has
run away from us because she has not slept
in her bed. Has she not acted more crazily
than to stay awake in her clothes uli nigh'?
Look about you and tell me v. hit things you
hud missing."
Nothing, Michael. Oh, my heart, yes!
Where be the little trunk I packed for her
last night?"
With wonderful quickness, she flung open
the door of a closet, and then searched beneath
the bed. Next she uttered a sharp
cry, and leaned against her husband. He
led her not untenderly to her room, but his
own steps were weak and shaky, and his face
as white as a dying man's, which made his
frown a black shadow upon his forehead.
"We must have patien? yet," he exclaimed,
drawing forth his watch, and speaking with
his eyes bent down upon it. "She knows at
what hour the coach starts, and if she be not
gudty she will be here. Get thyself dressed,
and let the breakfast be ready by the halfhour.
She may return, and then what will
it be that her box is gone? Bear up, for in
half an hour great changes come. I will
wait for thee and her in the parlor."
xie went siowijr unu pminuiij uumuiuu^,
and stood at the window whispering to himself,
which was a strange trick for an obstinate,
hard-headed man to fall into on a
sudden.
In a short while Mrs. Strangfield came'
from her room and stood at the doorway
watching him in silence. She sighed heavily;
but, as though he heard neither her step nor
her sigh, he did not turn his head; and with
a fear of his stern, unbending silence on her,
she went away to the kitchen to help Polly
to get breakfast ready.
"Polly," she whispered, "didst thee see Miss
Jenny leave the house this morning?"
"I? No, indeei, missus! Be she gone, then?"
said the girl, with her hair all feathery for
lack of brushing, and the end of her nose
black from frequent strokes of her bare arm.
"Hush, silly wench! Why do you shout?
She hath not slept in her bed, Polly. Oh,
God! if she be run away from me!"
"Roon awoy! Why, missus! whativer
would she be doin' that for?" said the slut,
craning her neck out of the eollarless rim of
her frock.
"Stir the fire, that the eggs may boiL
Never do you talk but that you stop your
work. Cannot you use your hands and
t/vn/?.iA UaU VAlir rvrn f/i ' A <5 Klirft
1*/1J?UU tVgCLUEl i J ?
an thy nose is as black as thy master's boot,
I'll be packing thee to thy mother for a
slovenly fool!" cried Mrs. Strangtield, in
that phase of grief which ndmits of tasy supervention
of irritation.
The time was passing quickly. It was five
minutes after the half-hour when breakfast
was put upon the table, and Mr. Strangfield
drew a chair for himself, and began to eat
with the gesture of a man who forces himself
to do something he abhors. Not a
mouthful could the mother swallow; her
gaze was forever upon the open window, and
her ears pricking for every little sound.
But expectation was wrought by fear into
insupi>ortable pain at last, and, unable to
endure the hard silence, she cried out:
"Michael, she doth not come!"
He looked at her vacantly, aroused by her
speech out of deep thought, and pulled out
his watch. He ros9 from his chair instantly,
his whole manner changed, and he exclaimed:
"It is too late for the coach. Now what do
you say to your girl's honesty?"
"Oh, Michael!" she cried, "where do you
think our child is? Why should she not be
here? Did you say anything to her yesterday
1 to scare her? Last night she kissed me
sweetly, and thanked me for my love, and
she would not break my heart by leaving
me! Oh, Michael, what didst thee say to
her?"
* ' * ? ' *-- 3?
"I said 110 more tnan ma ner ue reuuy ioj
the coach at 8 o'clock thi-i morning," he said,
speaking with difficulty through the tension
of his lips. "What is there to fright you in
this? Could you not have guessed that if she
had sinned she would not go with me to
London? Would she rush upon her own
conviction, silly woman?" He added in a
faint voice: "What heavier blow than this
could come upon a man? I would sooner see
her dead. And after all these years?in this
little town where we are honored?how will
some people scoff to hear that pious Michael
Strangficld's girl "
"I'll not hear thee say it!" shrieked the
mother, ra'sing her hands to her ears. "Michael,
will you not go and seek her? Shall
we stand here wickedly raging at the poor
heart that hath been driven from our love by
our sorrow and your anger, when every
moment is taking her further from us? Oh,
husband, think of our pretty one?so tender,
so gentle, Michael?sitting wearied by the
wayside, weeping and calling upon death,
and thinking there be naught to love her but
the gracious Lord who is in the sky! Dost
thee not see her? If she had gone twenty
miles I would walk to her! I would?I
would!"
In a paroxysm of grief and love she ran
toward tho door. But her husband came
after her hastily, and his hand fell upon her
shoulder.
"Where would you go?" ho said.
"To find my child. Michael, let me be. I
I will not be hindered!"
He drew her back from tho door and
closed it violently.
"Listen to reason, woman!" he exclaimed,
controlling his voice with an effort that discolored
and convulsed his features. "You
run mad easily, and madness is on you now,
and in this temper you are not to be trusted
abroad. What will your sorrow do but publish
our shame? At thy time of life to chase
a phantom. Such is your child now; for
where is she gone, and what road will you
take? Oh, fool! to let love blind thee to the
curse that God has set upon our foreheads!
You have suckled vice, and I have loved it
and caressed it, and now it has brought
shame upon us and left us! The will of the
Lord of Hosts be done! But this is my death,
Jane? Wife, this thing has put ice in my
heart? I am cold here."
He stopped short, with his hand upon his
breast, shaking his head slowly, with his
frown gone.
"Sit thee down, Michael. My poor man!
This is cruel hard upon us bothl What
have we done that God should take our only
one from us? Sit thee down. Why do you
pluck at your shirt??your nana is an 01 a
shiver."
She pushed a chair under him and he sank
into it, and faintly beat with his fingers
upon his thigh, looking downward with a
sideway droop of the head.
He rallied presently, and gazed at hor
wistfully with a softened eye, as she stood
before him with averted face silently crying.
"Am not I wise, Jane, to restrain thee
from running into the town to seek the girl?
'That which is crooked,' saith the preacher,
'cannot l.e made straight; and that which is
wanting cannot be numbered.' If thj come
not back of her own accord, is it meet that
her mother should bring her? Not with my
leave shall you do it. And if she come, I go!
for this house will not hold us two. Hush!
I'll not hear you. Your love is a mother's,
and I say, God help thee! but if she were
twenty times my child, the hem of her garment
should not touch the sole of my
boot, so hateful hath her sin made her in my
sight"
He spoke with subdued energy?as a man
in an i.lncss might, indeed; and though
bitter and shocking as his words were for
his wife to hear, yet his broken aspect, his
nchon fdcn his drooDintr head, the senile
twitching of his fingers, the dulled gloam
in his eye, were sights of pathos to modify
pure maternal anguish with wifely yearning
and a dim dread not yet definable.
"You will not think her honest!" she
moaned. "You will not believe that fear
has driven her forth, if she is ignorant of
the church wherein she was married, and
hath no memory to help thee to find it,
would she not think with terror on the
journey and fly rather than take it with
you who are so stern to her? Oh, Michael,
it drives me mad to stand here and think
of her as a lonely, helpless wanderer."
"Why do you say that? Has the man no
friends, or means, to give her shelter!
How know you that her flight is not a
scheme to join her lover who is in hiding!
Does she lack cunning? Do not seek her!
I would lock thee in thy bedroom rather
than that this last disgrace should come
upon us!"
She answered him not a word, but leaned
her forehead against the edge of the high
mantelpiece, and thus stood in silent anguish.
CHAPTER XX.
PROOF POSITIVE.
Down the familiar road whiqh we have
traversed beforo in our visits to Greystone
school, there was coming at this hour, and
walking with brisk steps, which ever and
anon shot up a twirl of dust, no less a personage
than Dr. Isaac Shaw.
This was an uncommonly early hour for
Dr. Shaw to be found outside his school; for J
here was not a man to be courted from discipline
by the sweetness of early morning )
air.
As he approached the bottom of the hill
and neareil the houses, his step slackened
and took yet a more dignified moderation of
gesture.
When at the bottom of the street, he
paused a moment to inspect the wooden
house of the shipwright, which looked shyly
toward him through its green drapery.
With an uneasy glance around him, such
as a man might cast who wishes to effect an
object without detection, the doctor crossed
the road and knocke i hurriedly on the door
of the wooden house.
There are many kinds of bad servants; but
the worst kind of servant is the servant who
keeps you waiting on the door step.
Had this door flown open under the doctor's
hand, uplifted to catch the knocker,
still something of promptitude would have
been missing. For nothing was plainer than
that Dr. Shaw had no wish to be seen standing
on that threshold.
At last came Polly and saluted him with a
dirty stare.
? S
At last came Polly with a flirty stare.
"Does Mr. Strangfield live here/" asked
Dr. Shaw, holding that it would be a little
too Condescending for a man of his dignity
and station to appear to know so humble a
fact.
"What do !ee say?" cried Polly.
The doctor repeated his question in a loud, i
imperious manner.
"Ay, do he!" replied Polly, evidently astonished
at his ignorance. "Are ye in want j
of him?"
"I wish to see him; show me in," exclaimed j
the little man with a frown.
The girl made way for him to pass, and for
love of his frill gave him a wide passage;
closed the door with turgid attention to the
catch of the latch, and left the doctor planted
against the wall, to escape all touch of her,
while she went to announce him.
Mrs. Strangfield came hurrying out, with
a wild look of sorrow in her face, and her
eyes sore with weeping.
But at sight of the fine frill, and haughty
mouth, and twisted forehead, and silk waistcoat,
God bless her! she courtesied to the
ground.
Mrs. Btrangneias courtesy maue ur. i
Shaw a pliable thing.
"I have the pleasure, madam, of address- i
ing ("
And the doctor made a bow that twisted j
his figure into a note of interrogation.
"My name is Mrs. Strangfield, sir. I i
know you to be Dr. Shaw, and may God
send you have come to briug us tidings of
our girl!" replied the poor mother, in her
toarfullest voice.
"I am hero on a very special orrand?one
that concerns us all closely. If your husband
is visible I should be glad to see him.
"Oh yes, sir, he is in this room; pray walk
in. Dr. Shaw," said Mrs. Strangfield, wondering
that her tearful face should provoke
no expression of concern from the doctor,
and herein exactly showing herself to be the
daughter's mother, for on the very previous
duy had not Jenny herself fallen into the
same wonder over the little man's glazed \
manners?
He followed her into the parlor, and within j
a pace of the door stood to deliver his cool, 1
collected bow to Mr. Strangfield, who half ;
rose from his arm-chair to return the salutation.
"Good morning to you. Dr. Shaw. Pray
take a chair, sir. This fine weather is very
promising for the farmers, and there be talk
of a grand harvest this year," said the shipwright,
remaining half risen out of his chair
until the doctor was seated.
Mrs. tstrangfield looked at her husband
with an expression of helpless, eager despair.
How could he talk of the weather; how
could he receive the doctor's visit so easily I
Why did not he ask him at once his object in
calling! Great Lord! how did he know but
what the schoolmaster was come with shock
I
ing news of Jenny? But upright she sat,
with her hands tightly clasped.
"1 am out betimes this morning," said Dr.
Shaw, with a short glance around the homely
f room. "But then, Mr. Strangfield, from your
occupation I naturally conceived you an
early riser, and my duty would not permit
me to delay my visit."
"Had you come two hours ago you would
have found me risen," replied Strangfield, j
who had gathered bis forces together for |
this unexpected interview, and was now i
again wearing his hard face and speaking iu
his stern, deep tones.
"I am here, Mr. Strangfield, in compliance
with my promise to give you all news at the
earliest opportunity that should enable you
?to uso j'our own words?to sift this business
of your daughter to the bottom," began
the doctor, pulling out his snuff-box for 110
other motive than to toy with it. "Strange
things come to pas 4 in this world, which
truly is much smaller than we can get to
conceive it by estimate of geographical mensuration;
and I apprehend," said he, with
his suave smile, "that our respec ted neighbors
will be not a little surprised to hear ot
visits exchanged between Dr. Shaw and Mr.
Strangfield, whose strong objections to the
schoolmaster's theological opinions are tolerably
well known."
Strangfield looked at him keenly under his
* 1 J I
irowiiing eyeuruws, ami u^jj^aivu uuuuu w
speak, but dismissed his thoughts with a
wave of the hand and sank back silent.
"Oh, Dr. Shaw!" cried the mother, incapable
of holding her tongue, however awed by
the cold fencing between the men, "I wish
that difference of religious notions was all
the trouble 'twixt you and Michael, sir.
Your name hath a sorrowful sound in it
to my ears, God knows; and this
morning hath made it more bitter
than my heart well knows how to
bear." And she hung her pale face to hide
her teai*s.
"Jane!" exclaimed her husband, sternly,
"there is no need for thee to put in. Dr.
Shaw is here to give us some news; we can
await his leisure. Keep thy tongue quiet.
It's a sign of a light head to fret over the
past. Whom to upbraid we know; but Dr.
Shaw hath no hand in our grief."
"Madam," said the doctor, haughtily, not
to be mollified by the deacon's admission?for
the manner was offensive, though the words
were kindly?"between you and me there
should be silence in the matter of reproach.
If you have to mourn over a daughter's deceit,
I have to lament a son's follv. And
there I stop; for the world shall judge who
is the greater sufferer "
Neither husband nor w fe answered him.
"Mr. Strungfield," ha continued, turning
quickly upon the deacon, with the sudden
contrite air of a mi i who feels that if? is
wasting valuable time, "I have left my
home early this morning expressly to bring
you two items of news, one of which should
properly be delivered by me only. First,
as to my son's disappearance:
"There came a man to my house late last
night to inquire after me He was a man
belonging to the preventive service, and he
said, being at an ale house in the town not
two hours before, there were persons there
talking over the disappearance of Dr. Shaw's
sou, and likewise the impre-sment of three
men out of Greystone on that night or thereabouts,
as it is concluded, of my son's going.
Now, it is very exactly known that three
men were impressed; for no other man is
missing, unless it be my son. This coast
guard sat considering what he had heard,
and, taking particular note of the conjectures
concerning my son thrown out by the gossips,
be came round to my house (having finished
his glass, and being off duty for the night)
and asked me if it were true that I had a son
who was missing. I replied that I had, and
wondered he should not know it, for I conceived
it was every man's talk in this district
However, I was sure the matter was news to
him.
"Now, he said that, having learned that
only three men were kidnapped, and being
satisfied upon this point from what the fellows
in the room told him, his reason for
calling upon me was to state that on that
night, when the press gang was ashore, he
was on duty with another man at the hut
that stands to the south, upon the cliff near
my house, and at the head of the pass that
leads to the sands. It was a windy night, he
said, and his mate had gone half a mile
along the cliff to look at that curve of sand
where some smuggling was dono last Christmas,
as you may remember, sir. There was
moonlight abroad, and, riding clear of the
breakers, though mightily tossed by the inshore
seas, was a man-of-war's boat, which
my man, about whom I am telling you,
knew to belong to a brig of war that had
that morning dropped anchor off the town.
"Now, while he stood in tho shelter of his
hut, he saw a crowd of tho boat's crew coming
along through the dust, and among them
walked three prisoners, and on tho shoulders
of two of them a fourth man was borne,
bound like the others, but plainly insensible.
The preventive man stood forth, and some of
tho men-of-war's men called a greeting to
him as they passed. Indeed, ho was as near
to them as yonder window is to me, and
could not, therefore, mistake what he beheld.
Most solemnly does he swear that there
were four men pinioned, and not three, as
the town's gossip would show, and that of
these four, who were clearly kidnapped men,
as he might judge, one was carried, and
though a confusion of shadow was cast upon
them all by the hurrying of clouds over the
moon, and the unequal and swerving steps of
the men, yet is he positive that the carried
man was young, and such description does
he give me of him as leaves me in no doubt
that tho figure on the men's shoulders was
my son."
He told tho story in an equable voice, and
on pausing extracted a pinch of snuff from
his box; but the quiver of his nostrils proclaimed
a hard struggle with emotion, and
it was easy to see that his application to his
snuff box was a stratagem to drop his eyes,
and an excuse to hold his peace for a
jtjuuitriii/.
Mrs. Strangfield was about to speak; but,
with an imperious gesture of the hand, her
husband silenced her.
"This coastguard's tale seems a likoly one,
sir, and makes the riddle of your son's disappearance
easy," he said, with his hard eye3
fixed upon thi doctor. "It is a pity there is
but one witness."
"But one witness may rescue a man from
damning dishonor, though there be no other
evidence to prove his aspersers liars I" exclaimed
the doctor, lifting his head with a
flashing glance.
Mr. Strangfield met his gaze with a faint
contemptuous smile.
"These coastguards," he said, "like other
men of their condition, are fond of a glass,
and the hope of earning a shilling will make
them smart at inventions. One may be sure
the man did not leave thi school house unrewarded."
The skin about the doctor's eyes tightened
and an expression of unspeakable contempt
settled down upon his face.
"This is not the first time, Mr. Strangfield,
that 1 have experienced your qualifications
to render yourself offensive. A man so skeptical
should surely possess a judgment above
nli chance of blundering."
"Dr. Shaw, I am a plain man, with little
knowledge of fine words. Your tale may be
truly believed by you, but it doth not satisfy
me. Your son lias acted the part of a villain,
sir, and nothing that does not prove
him a villain in every step of the vile wrong
he has done me and mine will I credit Tell
me rather tbnt. having betrayed my child,
he has meanly fled to escape my vengeance,
and has put any rascal upon lying on his
behalf."
He was white with his passion, and as he
grasped tho arms of his chair the veins of his
hands stood up black with tho energy that
swelled them.
In the contempt and dislike with which
Dr. Shaw, after a slight backward push of
his chair, surveyed him, there seemed positive
cruelty; for no insolence that Strangfleld
could be guilty of could in n humane
man's eyes qualify the moving influence of
his deep and passionate emotion.
"You are pleased, Mr. Strangfield, to call
my son a villain. This did you term him
once before. But my memory is not keen,
and I should be glad to hear again your reasons
for abusing him."
"Oh, Dr. Shaw, my husband is beside himself
this morning," wailed Mrs. Strangfield.
"Our poor "
"Silence!" thundered the shipwright "It
Is to me this gentleman speaks. Leave me to
answer him. Whatever may l>e your true
purpose in calling upon me this morning,
my own judgment upon it I will give you,
and let tho question you have now asked me
find you a reason for what I shall say: that
tho father of a villain who has ruined my
child, and brought desolation and shame
upon an honorable home, must perforce be
too much like his offspring not to have a
relish for the wound his son has inflicted,
and a pleasure in fingering it for the sake of
his curiosity. Hold! you are not yet answered.
Do you think I am to be touched by
your sneers, man? You would teach all those
with whom you have to do to look down
upon me, and such as me, as despicable men,
holding a humble faith that makes your
flaunting religion keck; and that your son
had ruined and disgraced any one of us,
should give you no more concern than the
scourging of a negro gives the white ruffian
who looks on at the whipping! Is that it?
Why, sir, be satisfied with your son's work;
but you shall not stop mo from calling him
villain! You would know why? Look at my
wife yonder. Is there no answer in her face)
Look at this hand. Never did it tremble as now
it does. I am aged a score since yesterday,
and that is thy son's doing. No!" he shouted,
in a strange shaking voice, "I'll not put my
dishonor again into words. Sir, I wish you
a good morning."
Ho rose from his chair and stood upright,
with his hand extended toward the door.
His wife sat in a crouching attitude, hugging
herself. Dr. Shaw did not offer to move. His
face was pale, but otherwise his manner was
collected. He put his snuff-box in his pocket,
and, drawing forth a pocket book, he extracted
a paper, which he held in his hand
while he addressed Mr. Strangfleld.
"Sir," he said, in a slow, deliberate tone,
"throughout my life I have ever striven to
act the part of an upright man. resolute in
t.ho wi'nrlinnffnn nf thinirs T hold to be lust
anil true, but always ready to acknowledge
my error. Through haste and surprise and
disappointment which, in imitation of your
own admirable candor, I ahall be at no pains
to dissemble, I have fallen into a grievous
error?that of misjuding youthful folly and
calling it sin; that of repelling with rifde
doubts the pleadings of helpless innocence;
that of denouncing ray own flesh and blood
as a monster of vice when he wa3 not at
hand to justify himself. But, sir, the God
who rules over us is the Vindicator of the
just, and last night I humbled myself before
Him with gratitude and remorse. I beg you
to be seated. I came to you with two items
of news. One I have related, and the other
I will now relate, in mercy to you who, by
desiring me to leave the house, would be entailing
upon yourself the endurance of a
grief greater, in spite of my theological
opinions, than I could wish you to know."
Mr. Strangfield continued standing, leaning
heavily upon the back of a chair and
looking down with a scowl upon the doctor.
Mrs. Strangfield, in a half-risen posture,
supporting herself with her hand upon the
table, stretched eagerly forward, her eyes
fixed on the paper in the doctor's grasp.
"Last night," continued the doctor, "after
the coastguard left me, I reflected upon his
story, and felt persuaded that the riddle of
my son's disappearance was solved. But,
though there was a melancholy satisfaction
in detecting the means by which one portion
of the mystery had been brought about, the
boy's honor still remained befouled by the
charges that had been made against him by
you. It was clearly my duty to leave no
stone unturned, either to prove that he was
actually your daughter's husband, or that
their connection was sinless, and the affirmations
of your daughter the delusions of an ignorant
loving woman. This morning I should
have taken the coach to London, and remained
in that city until every vestry had been
searched by persons I should have hired for
that purpose, and every clergyman and dissenting
minister officiating called upon. But
I have been mercifully spared a duty which,
at my time of life, would have made heavy
demands on my strength. Before retiring to
rest I entered my son's bed room. Up to
that moment, bcyona a cursory inspection 01
the room, I had made no close examination
of it. But I felt that it would greatly facilitate
my project if I could obtain some clew
to the name or neighborhood of the church
where they were married; and I further remembered
that he had written to me one letter
from his lodgings, though I could not
find that letter and had no recollection of the
address upon it I found his desk in a drawer,
and had no difficulty in opening it by a bunch
of keys of my own. Sir, among letters of
his mother, most tenderly preserved, and
letters signed in your daughter's name, I
found this document" (holding it up) "carefully
sealed in a sheet of paper, on which
was written 'Jenny Shaw'; and I also found,"
continued the doctor, drawing from his side
pocket a small sheepskin volume, "this little
diary, some passages of which, sir, I will take
the liberty to read."
There was breathless silence between husband
and wife while the doctor turned the
leaves in search of the entry he proposed
first to read. Mr. Strangfleld never shifted
his posture nor moderated his frown; but
over his wife's face was creeping the illumination
of an expression of joy pathetic to behold.
in the growing gladness of her eyes
ana iuu iu.nn/ painu^ ui um up.
The doctor read:
41'April 3, 1800.?I am bewitched by
Jenny Strangfleld's beauty. It is a fortnight
ago since I first addressed her, and today
we conversed like old friends. Strange
that anything so sweet and gloriously
feminine should be found among the hard
conditions and rigors of the sect of whose
prejudices her futher is the most acid exponent
horeabouts.'"
The doctor turned the leaves slowly, skipping
evidently much that was too personal
for himself to read aloud ih the presence of
the deacon with relish.
"'Hay 20.?To-day I told Jenny I loved
her. She believes me, and well she may, for
truly is she dearest of all earthly things to
me now. "You should not love nie," she
sail, "for what would thy father say to hear
that thou art in love with Michael Strangfleld's
girl?" What wonderful tenderness
her voice gains from use of that quaint old
fashioned thee-ing and thou-ing?"
"Why do you read such stuff, sir?" cried
Mr. Strangfleld, with an air of sullen impatience.
"You have something to prove by
producing that book. Come to it?or leave
it, if it be as I think?for you shall not
dangle our dishonor in our face, sir. By
God! your cool recital of your son's infamy
shall not drive me mad!"
His face was again dark with passion, and
well might the violence of an emotion that
could force an oath from Strangfleld startlei
even the imperturbable Dr. Shaw.
"I must detain you another minute," said
the doctor, curling his lip while he rapidly
turned tho leaves of the diary, "and then I
am done. Hero is the one entry that concerns
you:
"'June 18.?This day I was married to
Jenny Strangfleld at the church of St Matthew,
Dane street, London. Have I, as her
sweetheart and husband, acted wisely for
my darling by this secresy?< I will have no
fear, but thank God humbly for his precious
gift How timid slie was! All tiie way
from Sydenham she scarcely spoke, and her
hand was us> cold as stone in mine as we
went into the church?a gloomy church, indeed,
with a mistiness all at out the altar, as
if the fog< of wiuter had not had time to
escape. Hov much happier and easier to
have l)oen married in the dear old church al
Greystone, with her father and mine to give
us a kindly word. But it is the mother's
kiss my darling jjjust most miss. Love
shall ate no, my ^v^wife. Good night?
good night 1'"
Mrs. Strangfleld started up with a wild,
loud laugh.
"Oh, Michael!'' she cried, in an eerie, jubilant
voice, raising her clasped hands above
her head, "did not I tell thee our only one
was pure? Oh, Dr. Shaw, he would not believe
her! He is a stern father to the dear
heart. Ho turned from her when she wished
to kiss him, and to me hath called her a vile
name?and, O God! he hath driven her from
us. She is gone away from her home, sir!
This very morning we found her gone! Oh,
cniel! cruel! He would not let me seek her
?and now where is my innocent lamb? Is she
dead of a broken henrt? Oh, my pretty one!
why did I bear thoe for this sorrow? Better
had we died?better had we died, than lived
to see this bitter, wicked time!"
With the joyous look fled from her white
features, sho dropped her face into her hollowed
hands and broko into piteous sobbing.
[TO 1IK CONTINUKI).]
[This story was commenced in No. 2f?.
Back numbers will bo furnished at live
cents per copy.]
Not to return one good office for
another is inhuman; but to return
evil for good is diabolical. There are
too many even of this sort, who, the
more they owe, the more they hate.
There is nothing more dangerous
than to oblige those people, for when
they are conscious of not paying the
debt, they wish the creditor out of
the way.
a
(Drigtnal foetog.
For the Yorkville Enquirer.
JEFFERSON DAVIS.
Probnm no>i Poenitet.
BY IXOOMAK.
When IPitred hides hisvenom'd face,
When Justice once more takes her place
And rules o'er this fair land ;
When Reason holds her head on liigh
And Hashes lightning from her eye
To smite the knaves and Vampires dread
Who hate our living and our dead,
Then shall his name assume its place
'Mong proud Caucasian's proudest race
As statesman wise and grand.
O, curs'd be he who would defame
The Chief w.ho was devoid of blame,?
Whose only crime was failure ;
For if Success had on him smil'd,
He'd now be known as Fortune's child,
And Killer of as fair a land
As e'er the gentle zephyrs fann'd;
And Treason,? Traitor,?none would hear,
But all would greet with cheer on cheer
The Chief who knew not failure.
Then hiss 110 more, ye Fiends of Hate,
Your venom'd malice, out of date,
I?'nr lhvwcn 'y nmv Pntlirnn'H ?
And she will give his name to Fame,
While yours she '11 hide with blush of shame!
For she to stille Hale doth strive,
While yon, ye fiends, would keep't alive:
On Honor's scroll his name she '11 write
In characters of living light!
While yows?will be?disown'd
m I
Miscellaneous Heading, I
DEBTS.
BY REV. HENRY M. MOOD.
An honest man's the noblest work of God.?
Pope.
"I am in debt." Well, to say the least,
you are certainly unfortunate. It is possible,
however, that this condition of
things may have arisen without design
on your part, for with the best of purposes,
we are liable to miscalculate; but oftenerour
pecuniary embarrassments are
the product of downright carelessness.
Our slipshod way of doing business, our
freeness of expenditure and want of economical
habits are, in most cases, the
causes ol our involvement. Hut whatever
may have been the cause, make your
arrangements at once to relieve yourself
of these embarrassments by economy and
frugality in your expenditures and thrift
in your habits.
1. Understand what you owe and the
rate of interest at which the debt is increasing.
It is a shame to a man to let
his debts get beyond his knowledge. To
say the least it argues a criminal negligence,
and certainly smacks of dishonesty.
To accomplish your purpose, make the
best arrangement you can with your creditors.
Christ says: ''Agree (arrange)
with thine adversary (creditor) quickly
while thou art in the way with him."
2. Determine to pay. IT you cannot
pay the whole debt, pay a part, if you
cannot pay a hundred dollars, pay fifty;
if you cannot pay fifty pay ten; if you
cannot pay ten, pay five; if you cannot
pay five, pay one?but pay.
3. Keep on good terms with your creditors.
It argues badly when a man who
owes money falls out with his creditors.
Some persons seem to think that a creditor
has no rights. If he is not as indulgent
as you desire, regard him not as an
enemy. He has rights and he wishes to
protect them. Ponder upon the words of
Solomon, "The borrower is servant to the
lender," and escape from this bondage as
soon as possible.
4. Never deceive him to whom you
owe money. Do not make rash promises
to meet payment. Let not the importunity
of a creditor lead you into lying.
Maintain a reputation with your creditor
for scrupulous truth and honesty.
" cnfCur vniipcolf tn orrnw pnsv
J? -iTCV^l OW4 il ? juuiwvii b* w " v
under debt. As soon as this indifference
is permitted to steal upon you, you are
dishonest. It is far better to feel the chafing
of the yoke than to become callous to
its galling friction. There is always
more hope when a sick person has the
vitality to feel his sickness than when he
becomes insensible to his condition. A
man who has so far thrown off his pecuniary
obligations as not to be troubled
about them, has become a dishonest man
and an abject slave. He will never pay
his debts. lie has settled upon his condition
of debt as his heritage for life.
G. Ifyour obligation is a "security debt,"
remember, it is as legally and morally a
debt as any other. Do not discriminate
against it or make effort to escape its demands.
You voluntarily incurred it, and
do not sacrifice your honor in an attempt
to escape payment. You may not have
been wise in failing to observe the words
of Solomon : "Be thou not one of them
that are sureties (securities) for debts. He
that hateth suretyships (security) is sure
but now that you have incurred the debt,
acknowledge it and pay it.
7. Do not put yourself in the dishonorable
attitude of a large class of involved
property holders, who place their property
in the hands of their wives, and themselves
in a position of defiance towards
their creditors. This may display cunning
in fraud, but robs you of a high and
honorable position in society.
8. Never suffer a debt to become rusty
with age. You may not be able to prevent
its growing old, but you can certainly keep
it bright. A note out of date, though it
has lost its legal authority, is as perfect in
its moral claim as when first signed by you.
1). If you have taken advantage of the
"Bankrupt Act," or claimed the "Homestead,"
do not entertain thedishonest idea
that your debts are canceled. The law has
wisely staid the hand of your creditors, so
as to give you the opportunity to make
money; but the moral claims of your
creditors are as fresh and good as ever before.
Make money and pay your debts.
10. Part with your luxuries, give up tobacco,
attend no shows, give no dinners,
invite no company. What right have you
to puff out in tobacco smoke and spit out
in amber what properly belongs to your
creditors, or what right have you to be
hospitable, free and generous, on what is
really not yours??So. Chris. Advocate.
Beaufort, S. C.
AMERICA S WEALTH.
The total wealth of our country, now the
richest in the world, is reported at $43,500,000,000,
in a population of50,000,000, makes
a total of 17,500,000 producers, says the
Rev. Dr. Behrends. Anenormoussum in
the aggregate, representing, however, the
accumulations of 250 years, much of it in
land, buildings and machinery.
An equal division would give to each
man, woman and child a capital of only
$870, much of it relatively worthless to the
individual owner, or of $2,500 to each producer.
The latter sum represents the limit
of average wealth attainable. There is
no more to be had.
The same result is emphasized by analyzing
the annual production. The most
careful estimates place this at $10,000,000,000
annually. From this must be deducted
$700,000,000 paid in taxes, $1,300,000,000
to make good the annual wear and tear of
the means of production, leaving $8,000,000,000
to be divided among50,000,000 consumers,
without allowing anything for interest
on invested capital or for its increase.
Allowing 5 per cent, for these, the net production
is reduced to $5,725,000,000.
Throwing capital out of the account,
there is only $160 a year for each inhabitant,
or of $115, if capital is entitled to a
dividend?an average of from 31 to 44 cents
! a day.
Forty cents a day must suffice, on the |
averge, to feed, clothe and shelter the peo-1
pie of this country. Or, dividing the act- j
ual production among the actual workers, j
the average income will be between $327
and $475 a year.
Three hundred and fifty dollars a year
must buy bread, raiment, pay house rent,
and provide a margin for saving in every
family of three persons ; $2.00 a day is far
above the average income that the productive
energy of the country can pay. lie
who secures it belongs to the T)rivile^ed
classess, with many, perhaps, above him,
but with many more below him ; and every
man belongs to the bloated plutocracy,
against whom Socialism urges its crusade,
who owns $2,500 worth of property, or who
receives more than $400 a year for his
Work.
CANISTER AN1) SCHRAPXEL.
During the war the newspaper accounts
of conflicts between the artillery and infantry
were full of glowing descriptions
of the destruction wrought by the batteries
with "grape and canister" But the
probabilities are that not one in twenty
batteries ordinarily carried a stand of
grape in their ammunition chests. Canister
they always had, and they were generous
enough in scattering it among the
enemy's infantry. Our men were accus
tomea to niCKname canister -cuuueu
fruit," and at close quarters it sometimes
did a great deal of damage, but at a distance
of several hundred yards canister
was worthless and instead use was made
of schrapnel, or case shot, which is a shell
filled with iron bullets. There was a
moral effect to schrapnel which canister
did not possess, especially where new
troops were exposed to it. First there
was the ominous smoke, as white as chalk,
ascending from the muzzle of the enemy's
cannon, and there was the deep "boom !"
and almost simultaneously there appeared,
50 feet, perhaps, up in the air, and in
front of us a circular tuft of smoke, in the
midst of which opened a wicked-looking
glare, and that instant a second loud report
was followed by a pelting hail of the
schrapnel bullets and the schurryingfiit
of ragged fragments of the shell itself.
When not one but ten, perhaps twenty,
of these projectiles were exploded every
minute or two, just above the heads, it
was only a regiment of well-seasoned veterans,
or a new regiment of extraordinary
soldierlike qualities, that would hold its
ground.?Chicago Times.
GEORGE GOULD.
George Gould, who, according to rumor,
is to marry JNIiss Edith Kingdon, of the
Daly Company, is the eldest son of Jay
Gould. He is twenty-four years of age
and is a leader in financial and social circles.
There is none of the dude element
about him, although he dresses in fashionable
garments, in contradistinction to
his father, who often wears old clothes and
hats. George Gould has had a thorough
business training, and has always accompanied
his father on the tours of the Gould
system. He has had control of the Grand
Opera House, of New York, and nothing
has been spared to give him a thorough
insight into business methods. He is a
memberof the New York Stock Exchange.
Upon his initiation, he was the victim of
the inevitable, horse-play, and his hat,
when it was returned to him, Jooked as if
it had been around the world in a coal car.
It is said that upon his escape he offered
the tile to a boot-black, who refused it.
Since Miss Kingdon's trip to Europe, the
couple have exchanged daily missives of
several thousand words over the cables.
Young Gould says his European trip is
solely for business.
??ll?
Praise the Boy.?It often costs one
quite a struggle to do his simple duty ;
and when one does his simple duty in
spite of his temptations to do differently,
he deserves credit for his doing. One has
nr> rippd to Hvp Ion? in this world before
finding out this truth. A bright little boy
about two and a half years old recently
showed that he apprehended it. He was
on the eve of doing something that was
very tempting to him.
"No, my son ; you musn't do that," said
his father*"
The little fellow looked as if he would
like to do it in spite of his father's prohibition
; but he triumphed over his inclination,
and answered resolutely : "All right,
papa ; I won't do it."
There was no issue there, and the father
turned to something else. The boy waited
a minute, and then said, in a tone of surprised
inquiry: "Papa, why don't you tell
me, 'that's a good boy?' "
The father accepted the suggestion, and
commended his son accordingly. A just
recognition of a child's well doing is a parent's
duty, even though the child's welldoing
ought not to hinge'on such a recognition.
And as with little folks, so with
larger ones. Just commendation is every
one's duty. Even our Lord Himself has
promised* to say, "Well don?" to every
loved one of His who does well.?-S'unduySchool
Times.
Some 11ul.es for Women.?1. A woman's
power in the world is measured by
her power to please. Whatever she may
wish to accomplish she will best manage
it by pleasing. A woman's grand social
aim should be to please.
2. Modesty is the ground on which all
woman's charms appear to the greatest advantage.
In manners, dress, conversation,
remember always that modesty must not
be forgotten.
3. So the woman's aim is to please,
and modesty is the first principle in the art
of pleasing.
4. Always dress up to your age or a
little beyond it. Let your person be the
younges't thing about you, not the oldest.
5. Remember that what women admire
in themselves is seldom what men
admire in them.
(i. Women's beauties are seldom men's
beauties.
7. Gayety tempered by seriousness is
the happiest manner in society.
8. Always speak low.
!?. A plain woman can never be pretty.
"" ?- - * J ? :e
sne can always oe iasciuauug u mic untca
pains.
10. Every year a woman lives the more
pains she should take with her dress.
11. In all things let a woman ask what
will please the men of sense before she
asks what will please the men of fashion.
fiST It is a curious thing, but a true one,
that efforts made to help people often do
them an injury, because they excite a
wish to be helped, and helped again, and
more, and then a disposition of hostility
if they do not get all they want.? United
l*re$bytei'ian.
AST A friend called upon Rossini, the
great musical composer, one day, and
found him smoking. "Ah, that is good,"
said he, taking out his cigar case; "you
don't object?" "Pardon me," replied
ltossini, placidly, "the smoke of my own
cigar satisfies me."
Ve&" In your resolution to amend your
life be specific. And begin at the place
where you know you are the most wrong.
Don't deceive yourself with generalities.