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f. lewis m. grist, proprietor. } fnbejpknt Jfamiln Hctosjrajjcr: ,$or tjjc promotion of tjjt political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of tfic Soufb. )terms--*2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 32. YOBKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, AXJG-XJST 11, 1886. I^O. 32. . J> elected f oettg. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. [Of the thousands who have read or listened to the famous and pathetic war poem entitled "The Bivouac of the Dead," but few-, probably, have ever heard the story of the author's life. The author of this beautiful poem, Colonel Theodore O'Hara was widely known as a poet, especially in the Southern States, wliere he ranked high among the best journalists. On the breaking out of hostilities with Mexico, in 1840, he joined the army, and crossed the Rio Grande, to uphold the honor of the stars and stripes ' ' ?J - * * in me lanu ui luume^uiiitt, mm ju m-.campaign that followed, gained a brilliant fighting record; and at its clone, when the State of Kentucky honored her citizens who had fallen in the struggle, by gathering their remains for final interment in Frankfort cemetery, where she erected a monument to perpetuate their bravery and fidelity to their country, he was one of the "first among his countrymen to remember those who stood side by side with him in the hour of battle. It was then, and not alter the late war between the States as many erroneously suppose, that he wrote ''The Bivouac of the Dead." In the late war between the North and South, he served on the staff of General Albert Sidney Johnston, of the Confederate Army, where he again sustained his record as a braye soldier. After the surrender of Lee, Col. O'Hara went to Columbus, Ga., where, in company with Captain J. J. Grant, he conducted the Planter's warehouse, until it was destroyed by fire. Leaving Columbus, he went to Mobile, Ala.,;in which city he became connected with the Daily Register, but his health being somewhat imf?aired by the fatigue and hardships of wo ware, he retired from journalism, and returned to Columbus, and from thence he went to the home of Captain Grant, where he died in 1867. The poem follows.] The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo! "Vrk mnro An life's narade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac cf the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind, Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind. No vision of the morrow's strife The Warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn, no screaming fife, At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud; And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blades, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past. Nor war's wild notes, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce Northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe, Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Vfas "Victory or death." Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plaiu, And long the pitving sky has wept Above its moldered' slain, The raven's scream, or eagle flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; Sheclaims from war its rigcest spoil? The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the glory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The liero's'sepulcher. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear is the blood you gave; Xo impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Xor shall your glory be forgot, .... I w nne mine ner ictuiu ncc^, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished tear hath flown, The story how you fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. j Serial ftorn. forcedapart" BY W. CLARK RUSSELL. CIIA PT K R XXIV?CONTI N IT ED. JENNY AND 11 Ell MOTHER. The girl stood transfixed and overwhelmed by her mother's news. Then you could have seen her battling with the rush and surge of tumultuous emotions a whole minute ere she spoke. "Do you tell me that my darling is carried away to sea?"' she said, in a febrile whisper. " 'Tis what his father believes." "And that Dr. Shaw hath proved me his son's wife to my father ?" "Yes, indeed. He came with a paper, and the sight of it hath killed thy father. His heart is broken for the wrong he has done his only one!" wailed the mother. "Oh, Jenny, do not delay! There is a coach at the door. Make haste to put on your hat You would not let him be moaning for thee in dying sorrow and not come?" She looked at her mother with a wonderful expression of troubled amazement and incredulous horror in her eyes, then took up her hat, and in a few minutes was ready to depart As she left the room she met Mrs. Walker, into whose hand she slipped a guinea, giving her a sweet, strange smile as | she did so, but quite powerless to speak. The woman, much affected by Jenny'g : munificence, put the little trunk into the j coach, and low and numerous were the 1 courtesies she dropped as it drove off. The rattle of wheel and window, if not a prohibition to speech, was a decided obstacle to the hearing. But Mrs. Strangfield had too much to say to hold her peace. With her child's hand locked in hers she poured her heart into Jenny's ear, and all the story of Dr. Shaw's visit told her, and the medical man's judgment on Michael's condition, with whatever else that her head was giddy with ?sometimes reproaching and sometimes breaking into passiontts exclamations of ! rapture, which thoughts of her husband j would inevitably choke; silent scarcely ever, [ and of the matter of her volubility leaving ] Jenny, amid the roar of the coach, in possession of but very small fragments. And the girl i Her father knew at last that she was honest, and for a brief while had exultation, of the kind that inflames the madman's eye, swelled until it had sickened her heart with the force and fullness of it. But the emotion died under the heavy droop of humiliated honor. She had won back her name, but what had J the victory cost her < Her husband was gone, her father was dying, her heart was wounded and bleeding badly. The bitter passion of shame that had driven her from Greystone revisited her again when the coach entered the High street, and she leaned back and involuntarily drew her veil over her face. The mother stopped the coach at the corner of the street, that the jar of the wheels might not penetrate the resonant wooden house, and alighted with her daughter, and both of them went quickly in. "Mother," whispered Jenny, standing in the passage as a stranger might, "I will stay here till you have seen him." "In the parlor, then, dearest, and rest thee. Oh, Jenny, pray God to spare him! He is thy father." Softly the poor woman climbed the stairs, and Jenny went into the little room which, in all her life, she had vowed never again to enter. Speculating she stood, wondering how it had befallen that her mother had come so speedily. Then through the doorway came a whisper?"Jenny!" She wont out, and on the stairs she saw her mother, who for despair could only beckon or toss her hands. She followed Mrs. Strangfield upstairs, with a creeping chill over her limbs, a .id the sensation of a thousand quivering tl.e.-s m her txxiy. In the bedroom near the bed were two figures whom she could not immediately distinguish for the feeble light in the chamber; but she speedily found that one was Mrs. Mead and the other the doctor. Both figures drew away when mother and daughter came into the room. Mrs. Strongfield went to the bedside, and, bending over the motionless form upon it, said, in a whisper of exquisite sadness: "Michael, Jenny is here. Wilt thou speak to her I" For some moments there was no answer. At last, in a faint, hoarse murmur, the dying man said: ? "Let her take my hand and kiss me. Jane, thee knowest that I cannot move." The girl went to her father, and put her hand into his and kissed his forehead. "Jenny, my little one," he murmured, "thee "Jenny, my little one" he^murmureddidst wrong to trick me. Of old did the prophet chide, Baying, 'And thou saidst, 1 shall be a lady forever; so that thou didst not lay these things to thy heart, neither didst remember the latter end of it.' But thy punishment has been sore, my poor one. By thee am I con lemned, whom I condemned. I was a liar for speaking what, in my wrath, I believed the truth; and it did nearly break thy heart, poor wench, as mine is broken!" No pathos the meaning of his words had oould equal the deeply moving effect given to them by his speaking with his head turned away, all power lost, life ebbing from him as surely as the shadows cast by the sun were slowly circling to the east, whence darkness comes. She hung over him with dry ey -s, for the grief in her was too deep for tears. "Father," she whispered, "I wronged ihee by loving secretly; but has not my husband's going wrung my heart with punishment enough? Truly, I was innocent of worse sin ;han deceit; and now that you know I am innocent, and bear with my kisses, I could be happy to die." No answer did he return, and he began to breathe heavily; on which the doctor came gently to her, and would have led her from the bed; but the father had a grip of her hand, and she would not disengage his hold. Said the mother, in a feeble whisper: "Is there no hope?" The doctor shook his head, and let his chin fall on his breast, and stood quiet, with bis hands clasped. No more was said. What was killing him, God knows! Not paralysis only, nor yet a broken heart. Yet visibly was he dying, an I th ? difficult breath grew slower and weRt?or; and within ?n nour from Jenny's return to b?r home the breath in him was gone and the bo iy growing cold. He passed away amid a deep stillness in the room; and Jenny her.-elf, who was near him, knew not that he was dead, until a strangeness in the hold of his fingers made her shriek out. Thus did it come about; and the mother and daughter wept in each other's arms while the doctor glided noiselessly from the house, and Mrs. Mead tenderly closed the dead man's eyes, and veiled the marble silence of his face. CHAPTER XXV. IN THE CITY. Now, it was just five mouths after Michael Strangfield had departed this life, wbicii brings us into the sloppy, inglorious month of November, that there hung over Ix>ridon, closedown to the streets, a yellow fog. All about the monument, and where a maze of streets meet, to pour their crowds toward London bridge, the fog was thickest Here were many vehicles at a standstill, and voices belonging to invisible creatures went through the fog, with the clang of bells and stamping and slipping of iron-shod feet A hackney coachman, swathed in a mass of capes and looking, with the immense white shawl around his throat, like an artichoke trimmed with sauce, suddenly brought the horse he had been pulling and hauling at to a stand, and, slapping down his whip on the roof of the vehicle, leaned over and shouted into the window: "There's no movin' ag'in' it You can git out or si* vere you are, but here I s' ops." And, saying this, he recovered his ui relit posture, and with great deliberation folded his arms under his cape. The individual thus addressed, protruding his head through the window of the carriage, took a despairing look at the blank si e:ie around, filled with outlines which grew defined or vanished, as thj folds of the fog circled or released them. "Whereabouts are we, coachman?" ho called out: "If I knew I'd go ahead, and blow tho odds!" replied the man. But the gentleman inside was oloarly too impatient to behave sensibly; for, catching hold of a traveling bag, h jumped into tho middle of the fog, and, giving some money to the coachman, went steadily in the direction to which his nose happened to point; and, luck being with him, he came to tho pavement He asked a man the wav to CornhilL "Straight on," was tho reply. And after twenty minutes of bumping and groping, and when he had m 'asured some two hundred yards, the fog lifted, the whole space and scene around cleared, and with a rush and a shout London went to work again. It was a short walk to Cornhill. Looking carefully from sidj to side as hi went, our friend arrived presently at a passage, ou which, amid other names, carefully indicated by a pointing hand, was the scroll, "George Hunter and Company, Second Floor." He mounted the gloomy staircase, and reached a landing of four doors, on one of which he knocked Behind a tall, long desk were several clerks writing by lamp'ight. "I wish," said the gentleman, "to see the principal?the owner of the ship Elizabeth." At the sound of that name the wholo of the clerks looked up like one man and stared at him. "Certainly." exclnime 1 one of them, jumping up. "What nam >. if you please, sirf" "Mr. Cuthbert Shaw." The clerk passed into mother office, and In a moment returned and requested Mr. Shaw to walk in. This was done by passing round the desk; and Cuthbert, followed by the eyes o' all the clerks, entered a large office, where at a table sat two elderly gentlemen. One of them, a gray haired man with spectacles, immediately rose. "Mr. Shaw, I think the name wasi" "Mr. Cuthbert Shaw." "Pray take that chair, sir. My partn r, Mr. Atkinson. My name is Hunter." He resumed his seat looking inquisitively at the brown, though emaciated face of the young man. "It is possibly Mr. Hunter, that you may have already l>een apprised of the loss of your ship, the Elizabeth, off Cape Palmas!" "Yes, but only one week since, by the third mate of the vessel, who was rescued from a boat with four companions." "I was on board the Elizabeth when she I was wrecked, and am on'y just arrived in I London." "Cutkbert Shaw? I do not remember the name in the list of passengers," said Mr. j j Hunter. "I will refer?" and he was about to summon a clerk. "You will not find my name in your list j I was rescued by the Elizabeth in the Engj lish channel last July, a day or two after she ! sailed from the Thames. I was on board an ! English brig of war called the Cleopatra, j She engaged a French frigate and was sunk j by her. Some of us got clear of the sinking I hull by means of the boats, and on the fol| lowing day the Elizabeth came across the boat I was in and took me on board. "Permit mo to continue my story and ro: late the object of my visit My time is very short in London. "All had gone prosperously with the ElizaI beth until we were drawing near the latitude of the Gulf of Guinea, when one Friday evening a furious gale set in from the west It obliged us to run before it, and for a whole day we were driven helplessly, but on Saturday night the captain, not daring to run to the westward any longer, hove tho ship to, in doing which she was struck by a sea that swept away the galley, stove in the bulwarks and carried some of the men over | board. At the same time we lost one 01 our { masts. ''Gentlemen, you will probably have re| eeived a full account of this disaster from | the mate. It is enough if I tell you that, on | the Monday morning, finding the ship leaking beyond our power to keep her afloat, the men took to the boats; but I was in feeble health, and, in the selfish rash, I was beaten down and left insensible, and for a quarter of an hour I lay; when, coming to, I found there was another man left on board?one of the Indian prince's attendants. I sprang up and hallooed after the boats, which were sailing rapidly away?the gale had broken on the previous afternoon, and the sea was comparatively smooth, if I take no account of the heavy swells, and then, perceiving that the ship was rapidly sinking, and the occupants of the boats either did not or would not heed me, I prepared myself for death?which, God knows, at that time had no terrors for me, for I had endured more than many hearts could have stood without breaking under." Observing the pause, Mr. Hunter produced a bottle of wine from a drawer and filled a glass for the young fellow. With kindly eyes and much sympathy be encouraged him to proceed. "Gentlemen, while I stood awaiting the moment of death, which I conceived inevitable, the Indian, appearing to observe me for the first time, rushed up to me and, with, * * 1 many wua gesucuiauuus uuu uumieuijjiuio words, dragged me to the stern of the vessel, where, to my joy, I saw a small boat suspended. She hung by ropes at the head and stern, and I motioned to the Indian to slacken the left hand rope while I released the other, by which means we got the bont down upon the water without- capslz-ir: her. "No sooner was she afloat, than the Indian sprang over the taffrail and swung himse f into her; and dreading that he might leave me to my fate, I followed him hastily, and cast the boat adrift from the ship, which tw pnty minutes after we had quitted her, sunk. "From this point my story i3 a mere commonplace narrative of suffering, with one strange feature in it. Our boat was without sails. The other boats, having the advantage over us in size and sail, soon vanished upon the waterline." He glanced at a timepiece, drank his wine, and continued, speaking quickly: "There was a small quantity of fresh water in a beaker in the boat's bows, but no food of any kind. In the night, which was very caini, wiui ungnc stars, ? leu usiet-p-, unit when I awoke, my mouth being parched, I went to the beaker, but found it empty. I knew that the Indian had drank the water in the night while I slept, and, in my rage and agony, I could have murdered him; but the wretch fell on his knees and so piteously moaned to me in his native language, that my fury was sobered by the fear and despnir in his face, and in my misery I sat down anil wept. Observing my anguish, the Indian crawled over to me on his knees and kissed my feet, and then, pulling out a package from his breast, placed it in my hand and withdrew to the bows of the boat. Scarcely knowing what I did, I thrust the package ! into my pocket, and instantly forgot it in , the sufferings of thirst which tormented me. However, some relief 1 obtained by sousing my shirt in the sea and wearing it against my skin; and likewise I chewed a piece of leather from the sole of my boot, which kept my mouth moist "Four days passed, in sufferings I need not describe, and on the fifth day the Indian fell crazy, and, leaning over the side of the boat in a manner that nearly overset her, he drank the salt water greedily, as a sheep | would, with his mouth upon it, which | brought on a black vomit, and toward the j morning he died. Not until the evening of | the Bixth day was I rescued by a small i schooner from Pernambuco to Portsmouth, | blown by the gale that had wrecked the Elizabeth many miles out of her course, who, on sighting my boat, bore down and picked me up. That was on the 12th of September, as I was told?for I had lost all reckoning of time?and four days ago I arrived at Portsmouth. So this brings me to an end, gentlemen; and now will I state my motive in calling upon you." He put his hand in his pocket, and held it there while he spoke. "You, of course, remember that an Indian prince sailed as passenger in the Elizabeth?" "Certainly." -ne was reported on Doara me snip 10 ue possessed of very valuable jewels." "We will give you the appraisement in figures??170,000." "I have explained to you that my fellow sufferer in the boat was one of the prince's attendant-!. The parcel he place I in my hands contained precious stones, which a jeweler in Portsmouth valued at ?03,000." "He must have stolen them when the ship j was sinking," said Mr. Hunter, quickly. ! "No doubt, and by so doing saved them, i Here they are, in the wrapper in which they | were handed to me." Saying which, he placed the pnckago on I the table. Mr. Hunter took it up and | opened it, and his partner drew close to him; ! and when the gems lay exposed, his eyesglisj tened in the light of them. Splendid stones some of them were, truly; | diamonds chiefly, with the lustrous red of i rubies intermixed, and here and there the mild shimmer of a pearL It was hard to tell v\ hetlior the gems had been extracted from I settings or gatherod loo*o as they were; but j an ignorant eye might know their preciousj i . ess. "Well, Mr. Shaw," said Mr. Hunter, plac! ing the open paper car efully on the table, ! with a gentle setting of it toward Cuthbert, j "these stones are unquestionably your prop! erty, and well may you hold them, in comi pensation for the sufferings you have under! gone." j "Well, sir, it comes to thus: If they were ; not on that table they would be at the bottom of the sen." "Quite to," from both partners. "Mow, gentlemen, you cannot tell me that ! tlie prince is alive <" "That is beyond our power, certainly." j "Will you put yourselves in his place and r? ceive the proposals I should make to him?" "With pleasure; but, holding him dead, we tvid consider your proposal in reference to I his heirs?" said Mr. Hunter. "That is as you please. Sixty-three thou' sand pounds is a jeweler's appraisement of ( those stones. He would have found me the i money. I ask ten thousand lor restoring them." "Plainly, Mr. Shaw, your Portsmouth jeweler taught you no lesson," said Mr. Hunter; and the other partner arched his eyebrows. "Be open with me, gentlemen." "Why, sir. we consider your request a very modest one." "Then whut I will ask you to do is this: Give me a letter stating that you hold these stones for me; get them appraised at your convenience. I will write to you in the meanwhile, giving you my address, and you will then send mo bank post bills to cover the sum I ask." The letter was written, the number of stones specified, and within the space of twenty minutes Cuthbert had left the ofHco. Both parties shook him cordially by tbo hand, and Mr. Hunter attended liiin, bareI headed, to the door. CHAPTER XXVI. CUTHBERT. Bronzed by the sun and thin in the face. But emucintiou was the only change in | him. And it was a change to mar nothing of his beauty, which, because of the ingrained expression of pensive thought, such as a man might wear in whose heart sorrow languishes but will not die, was of a nobler and truer type than what it had been in the lighter months before. When a man lives a bitter lifetime in a short while his face will be a mirror to reflect the violent compression of experience. By the earnest, plaintive gaze of the eye, by the habitual fixity of the mouth, by the unsevere resolution of feature, Cuthbert explained to the shallowest sight the harshness of his ordeal, though its nature remained his secret But to this distinctive expression which his face had taken?stamped there by lonely contemplation, by unutterable longings, by j helpless chafing, by many fits of mental i ugony, by hope fallen sick and spiritless, by such things which do really and truly of this ; life make a hell without participation of ! conscience, as there are sufferers to swear? ' was superadded, at this time, as he walked j through busy thoroughfares, a painful anx- j iety so acute as to fix upon his heart the ! shadow of physical torment TITUU :~1. l,~ i TT UU l^Ult'n Dicps UC pi coovu xui n tu u j fencing on his passage at every clock, until .10 had crossed Blackfriars bridge, and arrived at the famous hostelry which, in j those days, was the starting point for the j coaches to that part of the const where : Greystone lay. Here was the coach drawn up, and passengere clambering to their places, and another five minutes of fog had lost the re- ! turned hero a night. There was room and to spare, happily; but no time for the hot drink which the rest of the travelers had stowed under their j small clothes. Vapor was still in the sky to darken it an 1 a leaden dullness on the massive city, but when the horses' heads were down and the j wheels spinning the sky grew light and fold j after fold of fog peeled off until the blue heaven floated clear, and then the tune of the | wind grew merry. This coach was the "Rattler," and famous j for good runs. At every stage did it halt 1 as punctually as trains at stations do now, I and for a careless heart the passage was a glorious journey to make. November's yellow light upon the land, upon the hilltops a full toned coloring that kept distant the blue ! of the sky, between the ridges masses of j shadow, the brown of loam and the dwelling 1 of sunshine on green. At eight of the evening the coach swung ; through the streets of a half-way city of the j road, where some relinquished tin roof for ! an inn fire and a bed. But Cuthbert kept I his place, so that faithfully at the hour of ' twelve, by the deep voiced city clock, the j coach arrived at that ancient place whence diverged the road to Greys one, and here ] Cuthbert quitted the vehicle. The suggestion of a bed seemed like a land- j lord's mocking of a restless spirit, yet to a bed in the Old Bell inn he betook himself, j laying urgent commands upon the host that j a postchaise should be ready for h'm by six. j Even an hour's sleep could do him no injury, i and this he got, which relieved the veins of lifs head from the fullness of the blood poured into them by intense mental anxiety, j and toned the heart into a softer beating, j 60 that when he was aroused he was better prepared for the end of his journey. The distance to Greystone was twenty-one miles, and this the post horses could run, with one halt for a bait At nine o'clock the chaise wheels took the stones of the High street In Greystone at last! And as in the High street he stood, the smooth sea stntching its gray luster to the sky from under the fronting houses, and the keen wind whitening the roadways?unnoticed, for the cold, by the few persons abroad, who hurrie 1 past, hugging themselves in folds cf frieze?a passionate fear came upon him and h Id him to the pavement For right in his sight, U oking now through i bare tendrils of creepers, was the ship- ! wright's wooden house; and that it might ' be a desolate place for the want of his wife, and a tomb for the echoes of memory only to sound in, was a dread of the awful kind that repels the heart with horror from the de- | termination of it He took courage presently and went forward slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the j house, until he was at the gate of it, and j then he walked quietly to the door. He knocked and fell back a pace, that every window might be vissible to him; and while he stood, looking first here and then there, the door was opened, and a respectably dressed woman stood tortn. He could barely speak for the constriction in his throat, and in a quite faint voic* j asked if Mrs. Strangfield was within. "Oh, dear no, sir. Mrs. Strangfleld has been gone these threa months," answered the j woman, looking at him with surprise. "Where!" "Why, to a house in Winston. Do not you know her husband bo dead, and the business sold to Mr. McAndrew!" "They were friends of mine, and I am just i returned from a long journey." And in a wild, quick way, like a cry overleaping decision, he said: "And what of her daughter!" j "Mrs. Shaw? She lives along wi' her ! mother. Her husband be dead too, ye , know." "She lives with her mother, an i is well, 1 hope?" he said, the flush brought to his face j by the violence his question did him yielding to a deadly white. "Quite well, I believe, sir. She's niver i' j ? i. rri _l.i. i i crreysione. *uuy say subs Kuuwuauwu sorrow, anil there's some shame in it that keeps her i' hiding. Poor heart! A sweeter woman there is not; truly there is not" She looked at him hard as she said this, i the gaze growing keener and keener, the eyebrows lifting to it, and something like an expression of consternation coming into her lace. "I am Mr. Shaw," be said, anticipating the question that was already parting her lips. "You!?an' she thinks ye deadl" the woman shrieked. With a toss of the bands he turned his head to look up the High street "Is it known," he said, confronting her, "that I was impressed in error by a gang of sailors? What did my father think? Do you know him?" "Dr. Shaw, of the school bouse? Well by name, sir. Ye know, of course, that he be well, and is giving up teachin'? A man hath i come from some city i' the north to buy the school from him?so I heerd but a week ! since," said the woman, so fascinated, not alono by the romance of Cuthbert's return, but by the beauty of his face, that she could not lift her eyes from him. "Is it known that I was impressed?" he nsked again. "I cannot tell ye for sure, sir. Some talk there was, 1 think; but them as it went among were but little known to me. And j before my husband bought this business we lived at the white house, away down by Callow bay, which kept me out o' gossip." "Is Mr. Franklin alive? or, where can I hire a coach ?" "Oh, Mr. Franklin is nicely, sir. Will ye not come in and sit down? And my gel shall fetch you a coach as quick as iver it'll j come for ti.ee." He thanked her for her offer and entered the little parlor, never before beheld by him and even unfamiliar to us, now that the quaint furniture of the Strangflelds was | gone and the simple old sea pieces. Ho breathe ! quickly as he stood alone j looking around him. This had been his darling's home. Through the window, into which Mr. McAndrew had let clarified glass, j he saw the old bay tree and the shrubbery ; and green stuff, amid which he used to slip i bis letters to his sweetheart after dark, ap- | pointing meetings for the morrow. The j walls around him had echoed to her voice. | Her fiet had trodden the ground on which j he stood. Yonder was the scene of street j and market place which her timid eyes had J swept again and again that night when she ; waited lor him to come and tell her father j that she was his wife. Mrs. McAndrew returned with a tray of 1 wine and biscuit, and pulled a chair to the i table that he should sit. "I'm all of a tremble with astonishment, I sir, truly. 'Tis the wonderfullest thing that ! ye should be there looking at me, and your ! pretty wife thinking herself a widow, not i five miles away. I've sent the gel for a ! carriage. Ye'll have patience for five I minutes, sir; and if this wine's not to your relish, I can draw a prcpcs* head o' beer." He seated himself, looking vacantly at the woman under his lowering brow. "You cannot tell me that my wife knew that I was carried away to sea by a press gang?" he said presently. "I can't own as iver I heard say she knew it, sir. But I can tell you that somo trouble came upon tbe sweetheart after ye were missing: ner latnor was cruel, and tnat stje wer= married be would not believe. That's what were said. Then afterward it were proved by Dr. Shaw she was your wife, sir. And thai broke her father's heart. th?v said. One thing I reckon sure, howiver wrong be all else I say, your wife ran away from Greystone for the shame that evil thinking gossips put upon her; and her mother, as she now lives with, told me herself that her reason for sellin' the business was because Mistress Shaw had vowed niver to come to Greystone again, after she had kissel her father, lying dead on his bed for grief." "May God forgive them all for wronging her! Poor little one! Could her father look at her and doubt her? Oh, madam, the carriage is a long while coming. This delay is a heavy trial to me!" He went quickly from his chair to the window, where he stood a while, tapping the ground with his foot "How did my father treat her, do you know!" he asked. "Why, sir, very honorably, I believe, from all reports. An old Mrs. Mead, whom some call 'mother.' was telling mo a while back, that your father asked Mistress Shaw to go and live with him, promisin x to pack the boys homo and give up the trade if she'd come. But your lady had a proper spirit, and Mrs. vrrVtr\ lmrno Vior cn iVl lTTr\\V choillfl shfl atay with the old man as ddhbted her honor onceT Though I'll own I answered her, that, all things considerinr, >eeing your lady could not prove her marriage, as 'twas said, and that you were not bv, it was not what you might call onraisonable for Dr. Shaw to doubt her." "Not prove her marriage!" He dropped his head and swun* himself to the window, exclaiming under his breath: "That was my fear, a 1 way a " "Well, sir," continued Mrs. McAndrew, "ye see. accordin' to Mrs. Mead, it were this: Ye had charge o' the marriage paper, and the mistress could not remimbcr the name o' the church in London. As how should she, if it were ne'er told her? Once in all my life was I in London, and dazed was I by the noise, to be sure?in some streets it was like a bull roaring?and though my cousin, who is a London man, showed me a score o' churches, and named 'em, too, clear in my hearing, not if you was to say here Iw a hundred pounds | for thee, if ye'll gi' me the name o' " But before she could make an end the hackney coach came rumbling to the gate, with the maid insido it. Thanking her for her civility and information, and learning from her that "Onybo ly i' Winston'll tell ye where Mrs. Strangfl >ld lives." Cuthbert shook Mrs. McAndrew's hand, jumped into the coach, and was driven off. CHAPTER XXVII. HUSBAND AND WIFE. It was a bright day. but the wind very keen, and the country white-looking for it, though there wa-i no Irost From side to gide Cuthbert's eyes roamed as the coach rattled him up the High street, but no familiar face did he encounter. Yes! one there was? an old boatman, who stood sucking a pipe at the door of an ale liousa Always, when Cuthbert went fishing. this was the man who had rowed him out to sea. He was past in a moment, and out of the High street rolled the coach on to the level country road. And now, by changing his seat, might Cuthbert have caught a glimpse, on his right hand, of the roof and chimney pots of Greystone school. But In did not change his seat, nor turn his head, nor give his father a thought That his father was well was news to satisfy into silence the faint filial instinct that stirred in him. Why, it was his own foolish silence and the trick of a secret marriage that ha<l brought the shame of scandal upon his wife; but. pricked by memory of the cold restraint that had kept him a boy when he was a man, he would have been an angel not to refer all his own and Jenny's sorrow to his father. With his arms folded tightly over his breast, and all his heart given to violent strife with dismaying emotion, and the terror of great love, wrought by expectation* and hope to the extreme point where other passions begin, Cuthbert was carried at a sharp trot along the hard road, and over the ruts which the cold had congealed into iron; past the brown land of fields and leafless hedgerows, where balls of birds perched without flutter; and Ihe steam from the horse's nostrils drove out from either side the coach like throbs of an escape pipe under the hammering of a cylinder. At last camo up a gray stone front, with \ green ivy flourishing upon it, and the wheels rang out a multiplied echo. Cuthbert called to the man to stop. "This is Winston /" "Ay, sir." "I'll get out here." He alighted with his traveling bag. und put money into the driver's hand, which sot the fellow groping for change, until he found the passenger walking away. A man was standing at the door of the J Greyhound Inn. He touched his cap to Cuthbert, thinking him a customer for Sally, lor this was Mr. Walker. "Will you please direct me to Mrs. Strangfleld's house/" said Cuthbert "You can see him from here, sir. Come vheer I stand. Thero's him with the top window built out I reckon the old ladv's seein' company to-day," exclaimed Mr. Walker. "Who is there?" inquired Cuthbert, quickly. "Well, the little schoolmaster from Greystone's there, and then thero's yerself, master. Ono an' one makoth two, that's company for Winston. An' if it warn't for my garden stoof tho Lord help my landlord!" "Is Mrs. Shaw there?" "Ay, day an' night," answered Mr Walker, taking a close look at the speaker at this. Cuthbert noticed tho glance, and we.it forward. The house stoo I back from the June, with a space of twenty feet or so of garden before it A big and pretty country cottage, with the old equipment of porch and eaves, an 1 bay windows trenching upon tho oval plot of grass. When he was at the gate of it the hammering of his heart confused hi; head, and for some moments he stood unable to advance, hidden by the railing anl impenetrable tangle of evergreen within. Courage came to him then, and with a swing of the body he passed through the gate and struck the door. It was opened by Mrs. Strangfleld herself. He knew her instant y, and she him. But wonderful it was to lohold in her face the stupefaction of surprise, yielding to incredulity and fear, then to prodigious doubt, then to a light of wild rapture. In a breathless voice: "Cuthbert Shawl 0, Jenny! 0, my darling! It is well with thee at last!" and her hands fell upon his arm, and she drew him in. "Where is she'" keexc aimed, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Break the news to her gently. She thinks me dead, I hear. Is that room empty? Hush! I think I hear her." He drew a fierce, short breath, and on ti|> toe stole into a room 011 the left of the hall, beckoning to Mrs. Strangfield to follow hint. The poor woman closed the door, and with her back against it stared at him us though the ideas his presence gave her were not to be mastered. "Is she well?quite well?" he asked. "Oh, yes, Mr. Shaw, alio is well. Dear heart; how wonderful to see thee! Ay, is she well But, pretty dear one. God knows she has suffered for thee! Truly she thinks you dead! Were you not in a ship that was sunt? Alack! but a minute ago you were drowned, and now you are here! Oh, my head! my head! Why, who is Jenny with now, but thy very own father! Ofter doth tie come to see his daughter?for that she is now to him, and so he terms her, and truly loves her. Oh, Mr. Shaw, what will she say to hear of you?to see you." Her excitement was past weeping. She was distracted by the sight of him, and could not yet believe her sense'. "Mrs. Strangfield, pray go to her at once, and tell her I am here. Go, I beseech you. I cannot endure delay." And saying this he went to the door, from which she drew away, and held it open, and she passed out. No^ in the adjacent room, toasting his feet at the fire, and his frill showing fro -tily upon bis breast, in contrast with the ruby light from the grate, sat Dr. Shaw, snuffbox in hand, cozily nursing ins ngure in a goou nrm chair. Facing him sat Jenny, in deep mourning, her palo lorrlincsi taking from dejection and the sombernrss of her apparel a fine and unapproachable delicacy. Her hands were upon her lap, and her head drooping, and in that posa she listened to Dr. Shaw, who was explaining to her the offer ho had that morning received for the transfer of his school. It was easy to see from the manner in which ho addressed her, and the expression in the eyes that be bent on her, that she bad made her way to his heart, and was, indeed, to his soul what he named her with his lipsdaughter. Otherwiso it was not in nature that it should have been. He was a lonely old man I now, for whom his calling hold no more relish; quite friendless in Greystom, with an ever-present ache in his heart which his proud face might dissemble, but which ruled his conduct. This had brought him to the tender girl whoso honor he had once rudely doubted; and she, for the love she bore his son, had given him her love, and he had no happiness away from her. Thus they sat, and he was telling her that he should accept the offer made him, when Mrs. Strangfleld came in. Jenny turned in her chair to look at her. "Mother!" she cried, jumping up, "what is it??who has come? Is it bad news? You are ilL" "Oh, Jenny I Oh, Dr. Shawl be seated, dear heart!" exclaimed tha poor woman, involuntarily wringing her hands in her desperation; for the new3 she had to deliver was like a load heaped upon her back, above her power to support, and she reeled and tpombled under it. "Something most wonderful ?oh, how shall I tell it you/?something God hath done to make us merry! Oh, my darling, come to mo I" She held outhor hands; but Jenny, leaning on the back of her chair, stood motionlossly surveying her, and the blood came and went in her face like the shadow of clouds on moonlit lan I. "Mother." she said, in a deep whisper, "speak! What hath God done for us?" The doctor had left his arm chair, and was peering with a pale face at Mrs. Strangfield. "Is it?is it Cuthbert?' he said. "Ay, as the Lord is just, he is here! Jenny, he is here!" the mother shrieked. The girl stared at her mother with eyes that looked beyond her. She moved, but fell back again with her hand upon the chair, and turned her eyes upon the doctor, and then gave a wild, hysterical cry. "She hath a brave heart, and will meet him bravely!" wailed poor Mrs. Strangfield; and opening the door, she cried, "Mr. Shaw, come to your wife?she is waiting for thee." Cuthbert crossed the hall, and stood at the open door. Eyes for his wife only had he! Their glances met, and with the gladdest, maddest cry that ever rung from a woman's lips, she fled to him. Dr. Shaw fell, with his face in his hands upon the table, and wept. Of all violent shocks, sudden joy is the hardest to bear. Great grief, dreadful calamity, oppression tragical and crushing mercifully will make stone of the heart it falls upon; but joy finds the heart living, and sore and tender, and its blow may well kilL The wonder of love was in Jenny's actions; the quick cries, the passionate clinging, the sudden release, the mad and laughing closing again, the crazy frown of bewilderment, the glorious illumination of conviction?these were hers. ju. The wonder of love was in Jenny's actions. Piteously sobbed Mrs. Strangfield behind, with restless strides, making little pluckings at her daughter, as if to stay the excesses of this distemper of bliss, until a kind of silence fell, and the wife, with heavenly consciousness upon her, lay in her husband's arms? peaceful and beautiful and smiling. "Cuthbert," cried Dr. Shaw, suddenly lifting his face from his hands, "is it not my turn?" "Kiss him, my darling one?kiss him," Jenny said, and stood firm to ease his support of her. "He loves me as thy wife, and ?oh, mother I how good is Almighty God!" Father and son met in close embrace; but there was sadness in the sight of the old man's trembling, the passionate play of feature which the pride of Satan could not have restrained under the inexorable dictation of natural emotion; and when their arms fell to their sides, the doctor turned to a chair, and dropped upon his knees before it ana raid: "Master, as Thou didst teach, so now I say, giving thanks: For that my son is ever with me, and all that I have is his, It is meet that we should make merry and bo glad; for my son was dead and is alive again; and was lost, and is found." And so saying he arose, and there was tranquility and joy in his face. Such a meeting as this makes amends; and the story of sufferings endured and hopes delayed, and the fears and bitter convictions I oviuinnr shrill h? tnlrl with k'sses And smiles and sighs. Cuthbert shall relato how by shipwreck he made his fortune, and wonder shall unfold all the deeper beauties of his darling's eyes. The doctor shall tell his story. The mother hers. And, over and over again, the wife her story, claiming for her one old friend, the ancient gossip Mead, the affection and the gratitude of her husband, and a more shining tribute of his respect withal?as who needs to be told??while the darkness of the November afternoon gathei-s around, and shadows swarm in the Are pl?y, and the spell of winter holds the world pale and still outside. THK &ND. Clerks in the Pl'hlic Service. For the satisfaction of some of the 111011 \?rtin ronino hociiKO thov PAtllint get a Federal appointment at Washington these facts are cited as the results of a recent investigation. A fair estimate of the number of clerks employed in the department is 10,000. The average salary paid them is about ?1,000?not more. If married they spend at least ?400 annually for rent; if single, that sum goes lor furnished rooms and in part defrays the expense of meals purchased at restaurants. Clothing is high in price, as are also all the necessaries of the toilet, and the rule of extravagance applies to the common-places as well as the comparative luxries of life. The influences which most prevail are those which make men thriftess, for the money comes easily I and goes still more easily. Ten men out of a thousand save enough perhaps to eventually own their homes or to leave the capital and embark in - 1 nil.., nusiness eisewnere. mc u-.n m:vci ceases to regret the day when they left "the smiling village of content" for the frowning city of regret. In the country or in country towns they could save full half their salary; where they are they save nothing. This is the lesson as learned by many in the harsh school of experience, and its moral should teach the rural youth that much of the capital gold is tinsel of the cheapest kind. Shout Summer Sermons.?It am easier to govern a State dan to boss a Sunday skule picnic. A lawyer will work harder to break de law dan to enfo'ee it. De man who gives you thirteen cents fur a shillin' will borry yer tea an' coffy and pay nuttin back. A photograph (loan' show de deviltry in a man's eye nor de pimples on a woman's face. De mo' good clothes you kin heap on yer back de less your bad grammar will be commented on. Industry am a rack in which dar' am always a peg to ang up one mo' workin'-man's coat.?Jiro. Gardner. UtisKcUaneottSi ftadiug. CHILDREN AND NATURE. Our modern scientiffcmethods.of education are slowly correcting hosts of popular errors regarding every-day subjects of observation, and doubtless a succeeding generation will have outgrown many queer conceits and myths now held as facts by the majority of the children. It will hereafter be interesting to have preserved a full record of such misapprehensions. The wish to add a trifle to such a record has led me to note some superstitions concerning animals and plants, which have come under my own knowledge. Children have quick perceptions, and therefore are good observers or seers. f Knt? ?v?oL*a Imu/fluor X lit; UU3C1 VrtllUIJO UKirt^, nunvTv.1, regarding the animals and plants about them while often in themselves quite accurate, lead to very incorrect conclusions. This is because children do not reason deeplv. It takes a long time for them to learn that not once or twice, but a great many times, must one phenomenon follow certain other preceding phenomena to warrant the use of the logical terms effect and cause. Caution in lorming deductions comes only with experience and education. Children have keen eyes for any strange peculiarities as well as for real or fancied resemblances, and are quick to appreciate the qualities of plants. An enthusiastic botanist and teacher, speaking of children', said: "They bow as to some fetich before poisonous plants." Monstrosities in nature fascinate them. Double apples, strangely shaped knots from trees, grotesque roots, curious lichens adorn many "play houses." Their readiness to get hold of the properties of plants explain how it is that children (boys particularly, because they are more in the outdoor world) find so many things to eat in the woods and fields. A boy accustomed to tramp will seldom go a hundred rods in a field before he begins to nibble or chow something that he finds growing in his path. Can you recall a dozen wild things of which you were fond in childhood which have long ago passed from your list of edibles? Sassafras bark, both the twig and root, spice wood, "slippery-elm," the buds of the linden tree, the tender shoots from the spruce and larch, all tickle the palate of the boy or nrirl Mon whn?p l?r?vhnr>d was nassed anywhere in northern New England may recall how fond they were of something they called "silver," the cambium layer of the white pine. In certain places it is the fashion to chew the leaves of the Antennoria, "Indian tobacco"?in others, thistle blossoms. Will ever honey taste as sweet as did the dainty droplets taken direct from some unfortunate bumble bee captured and dismembered by the boy seeking what he may devour.?Fany I), lieryen in Popular Science Monthly. HUBERT O. THOMPSON. By the recent death of Hubert O. Thompson, the County Democracy of New York " lAArlnH urlmca nlo/?n thmr Will fitlH Id?3C*3 ill ICCl^lCl I1V/OV iiiv j it 4i4 II41V* it most difficult to fill. It was he, more than auy other man, who made the County Democracy what it is, a successful rival to the Tammany organization. Mr. Thompson died at the Worth House, Madison Square;-he was last seen alive at 4 o'clock on the morning of July 26th, and at 9.35 o'clock he was found dead by his physician, Dr. Itoberts. The immediate cause of death was apoplexy. Mr. Thompson had been ailing for six months, but his condition was not considered serious. Hubert 0. Thompson was born near Boston, forty-two years ago. He came to New York when 16, and was employed in a broker's office in Wall Street. He became an intimate friend of Thomas C. Campbell, and, through the latter's influence, was made Deputy Commissioner of Public Works. In 1879 by a coup d' etat he was appointed County Clerk. In 1880 Mayor Cooper made him Commissioner of Public Works. It was in this position that he gained the influence which made him a continual dread to the Tammanyites. He supported Cleveland in the Convention of 1884. His term as Commissioner expired in December of the same year, and he was succeeded by Itollin M. Squire. Although Mr. Thompson gained renown as a party leader, he lacked that strength necessary to the successful politician of the first-class. He deserved recognition from Cleveland and his friends expected he would be made Collector of the port of New York, but he failed to influence the President,and he lost considerable prestige thereby. The election of Mayor Grace was also largely due to his efforts, but he gained no recognition therefrom. Like his old rival, John Kelly, he had reached the zenith of his power some years before his death, and although his demise is a serious matter to his faction, it will scarcely cause a ripple in the general flow of the political stream. Does Gold Grow??Years ago I wrote una puniisnea in a ljonuon magazine nu article in which I undertook to prove that gold grows?grows the same as grain or anything else. I reckon I did my work crudely, not knowing anything about chemistry or even the ordinary terms of expression about such matters, and so my earnest and entirely correct sketch was torn all to pieces and laughed to scorn. Well, I have at last found positive proof of my general statement right here in these mountains by the Pacificsea. briefly and simply, I have found a piece of rwitriHnrl wnrul with m little vein or thread of gold in it. How did that gold get into this piece of wood ? Was it placed there by the finger of God on the morning of creation, as men have claimed was the case with gold found in the veins of the mountains? Nonsense! Gold grows! Certain conditions of the air, or certain combinations of the earth and air and water, and whatever chemicals may be required, and then a rock or piece of quartz or petrified tree, for the gold to grow in, and there is your gold crop! Of course gold grows slowly. Centuries upon centuries it may be, are required to make the least sign of growth. But it grows just as I asserted years ago; and here at last I hold in my hand such testimony as no man in this world will be rash enough to question; a portion of a petrified tree with a thread of gold in it.? Joaquin Miller. Tiie Penalties of Prosperity.? There are real trials of soul and spirit that come with prosperity. The more hardy traits of character do not always thrive in an atmosphere of ease as under the constant stimulation of necessity. Even when a man has earned his money or his high position by persistent efl'ort he may find himself more slothful and less enduring, more duly satisfied and less high in his ideals in the lap of luxury than when he fought for his life, inch by inch, with the stern-browed foe?despair. In his poverty, man dwells upon the great, good things that may be wrought by riches. Too often in his wealth he finds the small unworthy things more potent to occupy his mind. The prosperous man is sought out by the multitude, is made to feel the falsity of many things through the trying test of wealth, is beset and wearied with an infinity of cares cast upon him, and with the cold resentment of ^Iiaoa tirlirv nanoulov airamr /IaIIqv nf hia in come a dollar taken from them. His charities are treated as a matter of course, his denial of any petition magnified into an evidence of contemptible meanness. His thrift is called penuriousness, his generosity extravagance. Certain social requirements accompany wealth and station, and if a man dreams that by attaining eminence he will escape care, he makes a sad mistake. - A. K. CUTTING. The imprisonment of Mr. A. K. Catting is creatiug no little excitement on the Mexican border. Mr. Cutting is a man about forty years of age, publisher of a Spanish newspaper called tha El Ceiitinela, at the small town of Paso del Norte, where he is confined in jail awaiting his trial. The immediate cause of his arrest and imprisonment is the publication of certain declamatory remarks on a rival publisher, Imiglis Medina, in his own paper and also in the Sunday Herald of El Paso, substantiating his remarks with the addition of fraud and swindler. Cutting was arrested by the Mexican authorities, at the motion of Medina, and was not even allowed to furnish bail. American citizens have often been subjected to the indignities of Mexican authority, and in the event of war, the feeling of both governments will be agitated by the wrongs that have occasionally been perpetrated on both sides of the border. Judge Castenado, before whom Cutting is to be tried, is probably * 4 1 ^ ' " ? ' * * ...Ui.il, a KIao sustained uy iuexicau iaw, wium cuuuica him to pass sentence on offences not committed within Mexican jurisdiction. Soldiers are gathering in El Paso. Mexico believes that she can easily defeat the United States. She firmly believesthat in case ol war, the Southern States would come to her assistance to regain what they lost during the civil war, and she also believes England would render her valuable assistance in blockading the Atlantic and Gulf ports. The United States government thinks the affair will be amicably settled. On being questioned about it, Secretary Endicott said, "he thought it would be foolish to make war with Mexico on account of one man, while we have submitted to the indignities of Canada to hundreds of our citizens in the past few months. Judge C'astenado has formed a dislike to Cutting, owing to his (Cutting's) treating him with marked disrespect. Mexican lawyers think that Cutting can be sentenced to no heavier punishment than two years imprisonment, for deliberate and flagrant contempt of court. Should he be sent to a Mexican-prison, the much angered Texans may make a revolt on Mexico and thus give the threatened war a sudden impetus. iti? ? Knowing Folks.?No class of men are favorably situated in all respects. The practical classes undervalue theoretical truth, while the theoretical men often undervalue practical affairs. A clergyman rarely meets people at their worst; he generally meets them on their good behavior. Hence, a clergyman sees the best side of people and is not so incredulous as he should be. Hence, no clergyman is more than fractional who is not also a pastor and man, to some extent of affairs. We need to mingle with men on their plane, not on ours ; in their business, not in ours. A minister makes a grave mistake, I think, who associates mainly with the cloth. We need to find men?plain, evoryday, average men?and men off their guard, in order to learn how to guard them. You min't toll whot. o rmn is when he is in his swallowtail coat. A woman in orange blossoms and a white veil looks like an angel, but a year or so after that, ask her husband if he isn't glad he has swapped an angel for a cherub. I verily believe that no angel has patience enough to rock a cradle through teething, colic, measles, mumps, chicken-pox and vaccination. Explosive Medicines.?The British Medical Journal has added to the terrors which beset humanity by giving a list of accidents which have recently occurred from the explosive substances used in medicine. If is stated that a tooth powder composed of chlorate of potash and cachou has been known to explode in the mouth of a person engaged in brushing his teeth. Pills of permagnate of potash have been known to explode spontaneously, and a mixture of perchloride of iron and glycerine exploded in the pocket of a patient who carried it. Other accidents of a similar character are recorded, and it is evident that patients who carry out the printed instructions "to be well shaken before taken" are unconsicously running a risk almost equal to that incurred by children playing with with loaded shells. A new terror is added to the taking of pills, and danger lurks in the hitherto unsuspected tooth powder. The Upper Side.?We speak of the night-time of sorrow. Is "the night, though, an absolute or a relative fact? If we were at a high point above the earth we should see it floating like a great "golden argossy" in a sea of light, the sun forever shining. It is only a single side of the earth, the under side, that is for a little time in shadow. "At evening time there shall be light," says the word of God. In our sorrow, then, light is somewhere. It is the under side of the providence that is dark, the human, earth side. Faith would take us up where the sun forever shines, where the love of God and the wisdom of God fill all space with their light. May we see that upper and bright side, the divine side, God's side, of our sorrow! May we believe that he reigns, and reigns to the well-being of his people.?S. <S'. .Journal. . -? rn V.v?miT K rr*T A vmr/1 \fAI*VT A TV JLJlt XNUKIII AlUA.iiiv .. ....... Range.?By recent soundings the London Geographical Society has ascertained that the ocean-bottom in the North Atlantic is formed of two great valleys. One reaches in width from the tenth degree of east to the thirtieth of west longitude, extending to the equator, at a depth of not less than 13,000 feet; and the other lies between the thirtieth and fiftieth degrees of west longitude. The intervening mountain chain, with a maximum breadth of nearly 500 miles, extends northward toward Iceland and southward to the Azores, and is volcanic in character at the ends.