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I ? le-wis m. grist, proprietor. | $tttypbtnf ^milj ftepaptr: ffit % |romofioit of t|e folrfital, Serial, ^?rimlltiral anb Commtrcial |ntmsts of f| Sout|. |terms--$2.50 a year, in adyance. VOL. 33. YOEKYILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY. AUGUST lO, 1887. NO. 33. Jflfdd fudtg. A MYSTERY. Life held in her hands a measure, And swung it lightly and low; And she said: I will see if my pleasure Do not outweigh my woe. And she gathered all stingless laughter, All loves that were lasting and sure, All joys that left memories after, All wealth that was wingless and pure; She gathered all sunlight and starlight, All thornlessand fadeless flowers ; She gathered the faint light and far light Of pangless and perfect hours ; She gathered all glimpses elysian That had never olasted the soul, All hopes that had held to fruition, All talents that won to the goal, wisdom that never had saddened, All truths that never had lied, All ambitions that never had maddened, Ail beauty that satisfied. And she flung then all, all in her measure, But they nothiug outbalanced the pain ; And she said: I must yet add a treasure, The kindest ana Desc in my trum. And she reached ont and took death and laid i All restless and calm on the scale, Yet, pain, as before, still outweighed, Ana she sighed as she said: Could this fail 1 Then she reached up to merciful Heaven, Took down and flung o'er Earth's strife, A little pale hope all unproven? The hope of a measureless life ; Flung it down with doubting and wonder, With a question and touch of disdain, When lo! swift the light scale went under? Life's woe was outweighed by life's gain! Oh! strange! Oh! most strange! It the measuri Of all mortal days be but woe, Compared with their acme of pleasure (Life mused as she hung low the scale,) Why, then, should it lessen Earth's sorrow' Why magnify Death's consequence To believe in a timeless to-morrow ? And life held the scale in suspense. New York Independent. Ihe 0totg ItHrr. THE HAUNTED 1NN7 Many years ago, long before the days o railroads, there stood in the wild mountaii regions of Western Pennsylvania, a large rambling, tumble-down building, which was used at the time of which I speak, ai an* inn. It had been built, many yean before by a visionary immigrant frorr the Old World in imitation of his ances tral home. Why such an out-of-the-waj spot had been selected for a home, no one ever pretended to guess. But certain it was that the owner had expended all o his available means in its erection, anc had toiled and strived, and finally died o: a broken heart, his utter want of practica training utterly unfitting him for improving and beautifying the hillsides which he had selected for a home. His wife soor followed him to the grave, and his children scattered, no one knew where. And thus it was that the once pretentious mansion went to decay for want of a tenant and would have rotted to the ground hac not the spirit of improvement and enterprise finally invaded the region in searcl: of the hidden treasures of the earth. When I visited the spot, a sraan vwagt had sprung up around the old house, and that had been taken possession of, and the few rooms not utterly ruined by decaj had been converted into a so-called tavern The landlord might have starved, how ever, if he had depended on native cus torn, for the old house, during those yean of solitude, had gained an unsavory reputation, and in the absence of other tenants, many tongued rumor had peopled it witb ghosts. Its reputation had reached me before ] visited the place, but as I had always fell an inexpressible longing to sleep in a haunted room and make the personal ac quaintance of some of the dissatisfied den ixens of the other shore, I was not sorrj to learn that the haunted inn was the onlj place in the town where I could find t resting-place. I was somewhat taken aback, however when the landiord informed me in broker English and poor whisky, that every bee and every room in the house was full. J could not but admit the eternal fitness, in asmuch as he was full, too; but I beggec him to set his few remaining wits to work to see if he could not find a peg for me t< hang my tired bones upon. After grav< consultation with the landlady, it was con eluded that they could make me a shake down, if I did not mind sharing my roon with. another gentleman who had already retired. There was nothing for me but t< accept the situation, and I did so in gooc faith. By the time the shake-down was com pleted I had finished my supper and an nounced my desire to retire immediate ly. The landlord was by this time too fai gone to render any assistance, and as th< landlady weighed not less than three hun dred pounds, I excused her from furthei attendance and acted as my own usher She furnished me with the remains of t i.ll/.... /is.' nnrl mo a four WPriPFH UM1UW Ui P) auu gtflug >uv %w iv.T directions concerning the location of th< room, bade me good night. I fortunately stumbled into the righ place, for a hasty glance revealed th< shake-down. I had justtime, however, t( bolt the door when the light went out and it remained for the moon, whicl shone brightly into the window, to ligh me to tfed, and to reveal the location o the other bed, on which the stranger slept I am not naturally nervous, but I confea that I would much rather have knowr who ray room-mate was, and the though of what he might be kept me awake foi some time. To add to my nervousness the wind had risen, and it whistled througl the cracks and around the gables of th< old mansion with a weird and mournfu cadence, which was anything but soothing to my tired and already over-wrough nerves. As I lay there, the sounds momentarily increased in hideousness. I thought of al the stories I had heard of the cursed olc rookery, and as I did so the sounds becara< more and more like the shrieks of th< damned, or the wail of a lost soul. I final ly became so nervous that I resolved t< arise and go below. But now, as I rose in my bed for thii purpose, I found myself subjected to a nev source of annoyance. The mocking wind which had appeared to me more than onci to syllable human sounds, came at lengtl upon my ear, distinctly charged with tone: which could not be mistaken. It was th< hard, suppressed breathing of a man. listened still, and it came anew, stronge: and more fully upon my ear. Itwasliki the thick aspirations of an apoplectic Whence it proceeded I knew not; but tha it was near me I was certain. A suspicioi of robbery, possible assassination, flashei upon me, but was instantly discarded a: * * " ?- ? ? ? 1 ? ? ..ikmvt T itrn I ioreign 10 me peupie aiuuug tviium x ?ai traveling. The moonlight now fell upon the cur tained bed opposite to me, and I saw th< tattered drapery move, as if the frame upor which it was suspended were agitated. ] watched, I confess, with more peculiai feelings of interest. I was not alarmed but an unaccountable anxiety crept ovei me. At length the curtain parted, and ? naked human leg was protruded through its folds?the foot came with a dumb, dead like sound to the floor?resting there, i seemed to me at least half a minute before the body to which it belonged was disclosec to my view. Slowly, then, a pallid ant unearthly looking figure emerged from th< couch, and stood with its stark lineamen clearly drawn against the dingy curtain* behind it. It appeared to be balancing it self for a moment; and then began t< move along from the bed. But there wai something horribly unnatural in its mo tions. Its feet came to the floor with i dull, heavy sound, as if there was no vi tality in them. Its arms hung, apparently paralyzed, by its side, and the only sign o life in the frame appeared about its brow "The eyes were dilated and fixed with the expression of ghastly horror, and the petrifled lips moved not, as the hideous moan. ing, which came from the bottom of the - chest, escaped them. It began to move across the floor in the direction of my bed?its knees at every step being drawn up with a sudden jerk to the body, and its feet coming to the ground as if they were moved by some mechanical impulse, and were wholly wanting in the elasticity of living members. It approached my bed, and mingled horror and curiosity kept me still. It came and stood beside it and, childlike, I clung to my couch, moving only to the farther side. Slowly, and with the same unnatural footfalls, it pursued me thither, and again I changed my position. It placed itself then at the foot of my bed, and, moved by its piteous groans, I tried to look calmly at it, endeavored to rally ray thoughts?to reason with myself, and even to speculate upon the nature of the. object before me. One idea that went through my brain was too extravagant not t to remember. I thought, among other things, that the phantom was a corpse, , animated for the moment by some galvanic persons, in order to terrify me. Then as I recollected that there was no one in the village to carry such a trick into effect?supposing eveu the experiment possible?rejected the supposition. How, too, could those awful moans be produced from an inanimate being? And yet it seemed as if everything about it was dead, 5 except the mere capability of moving its feet and uttering those unearthly expressions of suffering. The spectre, however, if > so it may be called, gave but little opportunity for reflection. Its ghastly limbs were raised anew with the same automaton movement, and, placing one of its feet upon the bottom of my bed, while its ? glassy eyes were fixed steadfastly upon me, it began slowly stalking toward my pillow. I confess that I was now in an agony of : terror. I sprang from the couch and fled from that apartment. The keen-sightedness of fear enabled me to discover an open closet f upon the other side of the hall. Springing i into it, I closed the door quickly after me. ? It had neither lock nor bolt, but the closet i was so narrow that by placing my feet * against the opposite wall I could brace my i back against the door so as to hold it ' against any human assailant who had only - its arms for a lever. r The perspiration of mortal fear started J upon my forehead as I heard the superfc natural tread of that strange visitant apf proaching the spot. It seemed an age I before its measured steps brought it to the f door. I "It struck it; the blow was sullen and hollow, as if dealt by the hand of a corpse. * It was like the dull sound of its own feet i upon the floor. It struck the door again, and, to my in1 tense relief, the sound was more feeble * than before. Surely, I thought, the hand > of no living man could produce such a 1 sound. I know not whether it struck again, for ? now its thick breathing became so loud that even the moanings, which were > mingled with the respirations, became inl audible. > At last they subsided entirely, becom7 ing at first gradually weaker and then audible only in harsh, sudden sobs, whose - duration I could not estimate, from their mingling with the blast which swept the ? hillsides. The last sound that I remember of hear> ing was the most terrible of all?the sound i which once heard can never be mistaken for any other?the death-rattle in a human - throat. It came with a horrible distinct' uess?it seemed in my very ear. It apt peared to me that the accumulated hor rors of the whole night had been concen trated in that sound?that audible con7 nection between life and death. 7 What might been heard after that I i know not, for insensibility came to my relief. i When I came to, I knew that the morni ing had come, and, scarcely knowing 1 whether or not it had been a hideous t dream, I arose and opened the door. What words can describe the awful hor1 ror of that moment ? Before me stood the I : Rnectre. with the full lierht of day reveal- I > ing its revolting features in all their hidei ous deformity. The face was swollen and - livid, the tongue protruded from the mouth, and its eyes, bursting from their i sockets, glared at me and froze the blood 7 in my veins. > All this is impressed upon my mind 1 with a terrible distinctness, although the view I had was instantaneous, for the next - instant the apparition, whose arms were - extended forward, fell upon me and clasped - me in a horrible embrace. p I gave a wild shriek and fell, with the J ghastly thing upon me. Once more insensibility came to my rer lief. The rest of my story is soon told. The * household of the inn heard my cry, rushed 1 into the hall and released me. 5 It was the dead body of a guest of the inn. He was afflicted with some organic t affection of the system, and was subject to J grievous fits of nightmare, during which > ne still preserved sufficient powers of vo? lition to move to the bed of his servant, i who, being used to his attacks, would take t the necessary means to relieve him. The f servant had that night remained out late, and when he returned found his way in the s dark to the wrong room and occupied the i bed intended for me, whilst I had stumfc bled into the room occupied by his master, p and got into the servant's bed. The poor 3 man had fallen a victim to his malady and i my cowardice. 1 All About Bananas.?"How do bat nanas grow ?" As no answer has yet been t given I will tell you something about it. To be accurate, I have ,iusL been out to 7 measure some small ones; they stand two 1 feet or more in height, two side by side, 1 in place of a large one killed by frost. 3 Each has four leaves upon its stalk which 3 I can almost clasp with one hand near the ofi/1 nfnnnroo the hlllh Wnillfl hp flf glUUUU, 5 same size, similarto an onion with rootlets from the bottom. Six inches from the 3 stalk the leaf widens to eight or nine f inches and twenty inches in length. You ? understand the stem of the leaf is six 3 inches long. They are a beautiful green, 1 but tender, and when large are always s slit more or less by the wind. I have 3 found them eighteen inches broad and 1 from a yard and a half to two yards in r length; taller than myself, too large to 3 clasp with two hands perhaps. The stalk is full of water, each leaf stem forming the stalk, and consequently liking much moist1 ure, and drinking a great deal. How 1 about the fruit? When two or three 3 years old you first discover the stalk peep3 ing out from the centre. Now if the little boy asking the question will curl his finger ends down upon the palm of his hand he 3 can see how it grows or looks; this large 1 reddish purple bud, looking like a large [ ear of corn with husks on, droops in like r manner. In a few days the outer leaf or ? husk begins to lift and turn backward and r even wilts and drops to the ground, and 1 underneath you will see the tiny bananas 1 set in a row. So these Jarge husks nit ana * drop one by one, showing the tiny rows t under each. It is a little singular that if 3 anything happens to one of these husks, J or protectors, the remainder of the bud I can be cut off as no other will come after3 wards. It requires months to come to t maturity after the first show of fruit, but 3 they can be cut off before the fruit begins * to turn color and ripen them.? Witness. ) 3 J?- Potter's Field is the name of an an cient burial place for strangers in Jerusat lem. It is on a hill overlooking the val ley of Hinnom. In the modern times the j name has been applied to those burial f plots where the poor and friendless are . given sepulchre, particularly those who 3 die in public almshouses. fUisttUatieous Reading. HOW TO BE UNHAPPY. Be suspicious. A suspicious spirit is unhappy. One who is on the lookout for slights and injuries is very apt to think he finds them. We may all do things unintentionally which, if noted with suspicious eye, can easily be interpreted as intended insults. A person full of business, or on a hasty errand, or seeking to speak to some one who would soon be out of reach, may pass friends without recognizing them. He may do so without the least intention of doing it, or even knowing that he does it. If we are on the lookout for slights we may feel wounded by this cool treatment. But how foolish it is for people to allow their comfort to be disturbed, and their friendship shaken through such suspicions. People who are ready to interpret little iinnloacanf. fhlntra ne intpnHpH insults are in a hopeful way to be very unhappy. Perhaps there are very few people in tnis world, who, if their words and actions were all carefully noted, wouldnot do wounding any one's feelings which could besetdown as intended injuries. Even an act done out of kindness and good will I can be turned, by a suspicious mind, into something intended for evil. Those who are ready to believe that people do not like them, that they try to take advantage of them, that they say unkind things about them, that they plot mischief against them?people who are ready to believe that others intended some slight in that word, that look, or that omission, can soon become unhappy. Begin to suspect the best friend you have of evil designs against you, and you will probably not watch him many days until you see something that will confirm your suspicions and wound your heart. Even our best friends are not thinking about us every moment; and if they were, and were trying their utmost to make us happy, if we were suspicious in our nature we can misinterpret their kindness and wound ourselves with their good intentions. It one wants to make himself miserable, let him cultivate this suspicious, watchful spirit, and he will be likely to succeed in a little time in separating himself from his friends, and making both himself and 4.1 1 tiiciu wiy uuuapp^* Again, be jealous. Can anyone be very happy who is'constantly envious at the prosperity of others ? It is human nature to desire to be foremost, to choose "the uppermost rooms." But how unhappy is he who can not bear, without chafing, to see his neighbor getting in advance of himself. Does some companion in school move up to the head of his class, and gather honors and applause? Then how unhappy those who cannot'rejoice with him in his prosperity; how miserable those, who, with the green eye of jealousy and selfishness, grudge him his honors. If they loved their neighbors as themselves, they would not feel wretched when a worthy companion gets honors that do not fall to them. Have not thousands of office seekers been made unhappy by a spirit of jealousy when the ballots have been counted and they haye found that somje competitor has proved the public's favor instead of themselves. Instead of rejoicing in a neighbor's prosperity have they not gone home almost as miserable as Ahab when he could not pursuade Naboth to sell his vineyard? Perhaps there is no condition of life so . high or so low but that in it people may be made unhappy by a spirit of jealousy. Saul was a king. Had he any opportunity for unhappiness in this direction? Read how his spirit burned when the women sang "Saul hath slain his thousands." How unhappy these words made the king on his throne. Such a spirit will make DeoDle unhappy in any position of life where there tire rivalries." A spirit that cannot take pleasure in the success and prosperity of others has an excellent opportunity for becoming miserable, for people all around us are pushing forward. They are trying to better their conditions. They are trying to get the highest position accessible to them. We are likely to beout-stripped in many a race. All cannot i be at the top. Alas for the poor, unhappy, snarling creatures who bite at the heels of their companions as they go past them. But once more. Be idle. Give neither mind nor hand occupation. If all idlers were to go industriously to work, giving employment to hands, feet and brains, what a depletion there would be in the ranks of earth's miserable ones. Those who are not industriously occupied, have time to brood over little supposed wrongs, time to let a heated imagination conjure up a thousand distresses that have no existence except in their. brains, and which would never have gotten there had they been actively employed in some cheerful calling. Constant and useful employment keeps the mind occupied in healthy channels. It does not have time to eat itself up with its own rust. It tends to create cheerfulness. Therefore, if any one desires to be unhappy let him be persistently idle. Let him draw off his thoughts from useful occupations. Let him weaken his mental power by disuse. Let him give time and opportunity for disagreeable meditations. Let him have time to meddle with the affairsof his neighbors. Let him havetfmeto open his ears to gossip, to what others may ?" ? ? 1* ? ?v-? T A 4- U ' rv> 1-14* %~V 1 A rv UtJ sajflllg auuui mill. ucumu nave plenty of time to study over it all, and make the worst of it. Give him nothing to do, so that he can develop and cultivate his unhappiness, time to spend in the exaggeration of his misfortunes, and the wretchedness of the world generally. If some fresh grief comes to his heart, see that he has plenty of time to analyze it, trace out carefully its causes, see who is connected with it, and is in any way responsible for it. Do not allow him to forget it for an hour by having some charitable work to do for any other person in distress. Do not allow him to be diverted from his grief by the reading of some useful book, or the teaching of a Sunday-school class, or the watching by the side of some sick bed. If he is to be made thoroughly unhappy take away from him all useful emEloyments and diversions, and let him ave all his time to meditate on his misfortune in all its aggravations and complications. If he has heard anything unpleasant about himself, give him time to go over the neighborhood from one to another, and try to find out all the parties who are, or are supposed to be, connected with the rumor. Let him hold them all to strict account for every word they have uttered which intentionally or unintentionally has touched his honor, and affected his standing in the community. Now, if no single one of these things will succeed in making a man unhappy, let him combine them all. Let him be suspicious, jealous and idle. If the case be not an unusual one, we predict for him an unhappy career.?A?. Louis Evangelist. ? Mother's Last Lesson.?A mother lay dying. Iler little son not knowing of the sorrow coming to him went, as was his custom, to her chamber, saying: "Please do teach me my verse, mamma, anti then kiss me, ana ma me goou nignt: I am very sleepy, but no one has heard me say my prayers." "Hush!" said a lady who was watching beside her; "your dear mother is too ill to hear your prayer tonight," and coming forward, she sought gently to lead him from the room. Roger began to sob as if his heart would break. "I cannot go to bed without saying my prayers?indeed, I cannot." The ear of the dying mother caught the sound. Although she had been insensible to everything around her, the sob of her darling aroused her from her stupor, and turning to her friend she desired her to bring her little son to her. Her request was granted, and the child's golden hair and rosy cheeks nestled beside the cold face of his dying mother. "My son," she whispered, "repeat this verse after me, and never forget it: When my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up." The child repeated it two or three times, and said his little prayer. Then he kissed the cold face, and went quickly to his bed. In the morning he went as usual to his mother, but found her dead and cold. She had heard her boy's last lesson, and he will never forget it. *! ' A PRETTY WAR STORY. When the Federals captured the little town of , in Mississippi, they took Judge Strong's house for the headquarters. The old judge was maa. He de- JS-Jl - A- A 2 ? ciaeu ai once iu gu mu> cAita, He borrowed his own carriage and horses to convey himself and family to the river bank, where they would take skiffs. It looked a trifle like a funeral procession as the women, veiled and weeping, filed solemnly down the steps and took jheir places in the waiting (j^rriage. The They were going into exile. Their borrowed driver, slammed the carriage door upon them and mounted to the box with a solemn "Git up" to his horses. Some one halted him from the interior of the house. The hurried step of a spurred boot alongthe big central hall, and then, standing there with bared head before them, was the young officer upon whose unwilling hands the odium of this ejectment had been thrust. With quick military salute to the veiled women, he turned his troubled eyes upon the judge, sitting sternly erect upon the front seat. He held in one hand a bird cage, in the other a basket of blooming hyacinths torn up by the roots. He knew they hated him, and it was hard to say what he wanted just then to say to them. The hot blood mounted high up to the white temples that were in such sharp contrast to his sun burned cheeks. Tie stammered out his errand presently, awkwardly enough, "I brought these thinking the ladies might want to set them out somewhere else," indicating the hayacinths "and this"?the bird cage?"supposing it had been forgotten." "Present them to the general In command with my respect," said the judge's wife in her most patriotic tones, "and tell him, if there is anything more we can surrender for hi3 comfort, we hope he will not be too modest to indicate it." "Oh, mamma, that is cruel." A girl's veil was thrown back and a pair of little hands were held out for the hyacinths. "It was good of you to think of this. The bird would be in our way. It's mine. I give it to you. These I will take; thank you." Then they were gone, and he had nothing but a memory left, and a very inconvenient piece of army baggage on hand. But never was bird or beast better cared for than the useless little yellow warbler. At the end of the war the family returned. The condition in which they found the premises was a matter of more amazement to the Strongs than it had been to their neighbors. There was not one sign left of the enemy's occupation but the grassy welts on the lawn and the free sweep of exposure to the public road, which at first was a sore trial to the nerves of the whole family. The judge made it his business at once to begin sifting the mystery of this unfathered beneficence to him and his. A little bird gave him the right clue. ? They had been settled In the old house but a few days when two enormous tubs, each containing a thrifty rose-bush, and a glittering gilt Chinese pagoda of a bird's cage, containing a useless little yellow warbler, were added to their effects. These were dumped abruptly down upon the portico with no message of any sort. A tag was fastened to each rose bush, on which was written: "Survival of the fittest," The bird gave them the clue. "Why did you do all this forme?" the judge asked, sitting face to face with the new lawyer, whom he had unearthed as his benefactor. "I don't Know tnat 1 aid ao it lor you," the ex-adjutant said, his eyes wandering from force of habit to where the birds cage had swung and the rose trees had bloomed behind the little office. "For whom them ?" "For your daughter?the one that lifted her veil and remembered to be kind and just to her enemy, even in the snarp hours of her own misery. God does not make such a woman as that every day, and some of these days, when the soreness has worn itself out of her heart and yours, I mean to ask her to be my wife. Not yet though, I bide my time." It is safe to conclude that the soreness . was worn out of everybody's heart before the day when that strolling photographer sprung his camera on the old Strong house, when the family were all grouped on the stuccoed steps, for among the blurry forms on the steps is the ex-adjutant's. He is sitting quite close to the judge's youngest daughter, and if you look at the picture through a magnifying glass, you can see that her fingers are clasped in his, though the petals of a handful of "sunset" roses almost hide them. THE CHILDHOOD OF CHRIST. Let us single out the boy, that we may try to see him as he was?afoot like his brethren, small growing, and therefore slender, says Gen. Lew Wallace, writing in Harpers' Magazine of "The Childhood of Christ." His attire was simple; on His head a white handkerchief, held in place by a cord, one corner turned under at the forehead, and the other corners loose. A tunic, also white, covered him from neck to knees, girt at the waist. His arms and legs were bare; on his feet were sandals of the most primitive kind, being soles of ox-hide attached to the ankles by leathern straps. He carried a stick that was much taller than himself. The old painters, called upon to render this childish figure on canvass, would have insisted upon distinguishingitwithanimbusatleast; some of them would have filled the air over his head with cherubs; some would have had the tunic plunged into a pot of madder; the very courtierly among them would have blocked the way of both mother and son with monks and cardinals. The boy's face comes to me very clearly. 1' 1 il- -1 ..I i imagine mm Dy uie ruuusiue mi u rue* which he has climbed, the better to see the procession winding picturesquely through 1 the broken country. His head is raised in an effort at far sight. The light of an intensely brilliant sun is upon his countenance, which in general cast is oval and del- ( icate. Under the folds of the handkerchief < I see the forehead, covered by a mass of projecting sunburned blonde hair, which the wind has taken liberties with and tossed into tufts. The eyes are in shade, ] leaving a doubt whether they are brown, or violet like his mother's; yet they are large and healthfully clear and still retain the parallelism of arch between brow and 1 upper lid usually the characteristic ofji children and beautiful women. The nose I < is of regular inward curve, joined prettily 1 to a short upper lip by nostrils just full 1 < enough to give definition to transparent ] shadows in the corners. The mouth is < small, and open slightly, so that through j the scarlet freshness of its lines I catch a ' glimpse of two white teeth. The cheeks ] are ruddy and round, and only a certain j sqareness of chin tells of years this side < the day the Magi laid their treasures at j his feet. Putting face and figure together, t and mindful of the attitude of interest in < what is passing before him, the lad, as I 1 see him on the rock, is handsome and at- 1 tractive. When the journey shall have ] ended, and his mother made him ready s for the court of the temple, he may justify a 1 worshipful description of the Saviour of i men in the comeliness of budding youth, 1 his sad destiny yet far in the future. 1 MANNERS AND CUSTOMS A CENTURY AGO. w At the end of 1788 luxuiy had to some th extent gained ground. Dinners were still ac at 2 o'clock, or for company at 3. Of soups, is even then we had only gravy clear, or with te vegetables, cut small, swimming at the th top. White soup was used for ball suppers, ej but a white dinner soup, or mock turtle, ti had only found their way down as far as P* the Lord Mayor's table, real turtle being 0 dressed only as a ragout, never as a soup. Beef or mutton brotli was sometimes sent up in a large dish, with the meat and veg- F etables all together. Of fish, in winter, fii cod and smelts were a choice dish, and ui also herrings. sprats, oysters and lobsters th when hawked in summer, salmon, sea or fo river, salmon trout, generally pickled; ai mackerel, haddock, Dutch plaice, shrimps, is and prawns; river and pond fish all the so year,stewed, broiled, fried or water touched pi in a tureen in the centre. The next course, ai two dishes, roast and boiled, with appro- in priate vegetables, and dumplings, and for if a friend generally a third was added, ce These were ordinarily joints of beef, mut- (4 ton or veal, replaced sometimes by a calf's ti head or rump, steak in slices sent up hot, in or a knuckle ofveaLwitoa gaaamoa^of- oi bacon, ham being a very expensive luxury ti and only used for gala dinners. In winter a delicacy was a boiled leg of house lamb rr with lamb chops round. Mutton heated a m second time was never brought to table; fc geese and ducks could be had only from g< June to old Michaelmas Day; fowls and ec pigeons round the year, but very frugally tl used. Company puddings were lemon, fc Eotato, ground rice, vermicelli, marrow, yi oiled batter, and bread in molds or cups, ni pancakes, apple fritters, omelets with tarts lc of various kinds, with custard or cream, gi Then cheese, &c., as now; but macaroni re and other savory dishes were not then in- hi troduced. Malt liquor, cider and perry a1 were the ordinary drinks at dinner, and ic port and Madeira were put upon the table fii afterward, with a trifling dessert. If the pi gentlemen assembled wished to make a m drinking bout, which was often the case, tl it uc^au auui 3ujjpci. cv MASON AND DIXON'S LINE. ^ Oar commissioners are on a still hunt for I( the old Mason and Dixon line between Ad- nc aras and Fulton county, dividing Frank- bi lin from the Maryland side. They say -is that it is the worst job they have under- pi taken for many years. They started in Fulton county, crossed seven mountains and landed at the foot of Clap Lick moun- x tain. During the trip they only found one p( stone missing, and that was in Polecat val- tr ley. That stone was taken by some mis- 01 creants from Baltimore, who happened tl there some > ears ago on a hunting expedi- jr tion. What they wanted with the stone is unknown and will remain a mystery. vv It is a singular fact that every fifth stone \T has upon its face the crown of England, jj When we of to-day, taking history as our w guide, find that this line was run in 17.30, a and look over the years intervening, it is a bi wonder that all the stones have not been bi mutilated or destroyed. tc The above is taken from a Pennsylvania ti paper, but the wrong date is given. Many d, of the people of our country have no idea r( what Mason and Dixon's line is, or what \$ it was run for. The general impression is ti that it had a great deal to do with the 5, slavery agitation from 1840 to 18G0, and C( that the line was established to separate ti the slave States from the free ones. From ^ 1G81 to 17G8 there were many conflicts between the rival proprietaries of Maryland C( and Pennsylvania as to the proper bound- ti ary between them. The vicinity of this g line was often the scene of riot and blood- ti shed. After many years of fruitless wrang- a ling they concluded to settle the matter, aj and Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon, s] two English mathematicians and astrono- t( mers, were employed to do the work. a They arrived in Philadelphia, November h 15,1763, and commenced theirwork in De- n cember. They were discharged in 1767. b They ran the whole distance in dispute ti except thirty miles on the western side. The Indians prevented them from completing the work. At the end of every y mile they set up a stone. At every fifth ^ mile a larger stone was set up with the arms of the Penn tamily on one side and r( those of Lord Baltimore on the other, v The four intermediate stones have a P on u the Pennsylvania side and an M on the D Maryland side. In 1782 Alexander McClean, of Pennsylvania, and Joseph Nev- *j ille, of Virginia, completed the line. Iu u 1842 the former surveys were tested cj and found to be correct. The line is on the parallel of 30?, 43', 2G.3".?Carolina Spartan. j, - a SLEEKSTHUJAS AIIULT DELS. It is amusing to note the superstitions 0' and fancies concerning bees which have f. existed at different times, some of which e) still have their adherents in rural places, ^ There is in Lincolnshire, Essex and Corn- ? wall, in England, a superstition that bees L desert a hive on the occasion of a death in g, thefamily, unless informed of it by rapping ^ on the hive. The belief that bees should k be wrapped in mourning is current in n Lincolnshire. In Northampton the en- w trance of a bee into a cottage is deemed a a] certain sign of death, and if a swarm of v bees alight on a dead tree or a dead branch ^ of a tree, there will be death within a ^ year. In Yorkshire there is a custom of inviting bees to the funeral. These were ft doubtless originated from an observation ^ of the fact that bees are attracted by the jr scent of the fresh varnish, working on superstitious minds. It is said by some that bees will never live in a quarrelsome . family. What a blessing if among bee- J* keepers such an idea would quell all rising ni feelings of difference in the family. Some think they will not thrive if stolen, while in other places it is considered un- S lucky to purchase bees; that the only way to get them is to have them given, catch . a wild swarm, or to steal them. Acting 111 on this silly superstition, we have known ai good people to go to a neighbor's house, take a hive of bees without his knowledge, and leave in payment some other goods, ^ thinking that "ill luck," would follow . them if money be paid. In this supersti- #! tion there is a shade of truth. Among such people bees are got from their nearest u; neighbors in summer, when bees are flying w freely, and carried quietly home. Of course ra the old bees return to the old stand the next day, and the removed hive is "un lucky," because weak in bees for some time until it can recuperate. If the colo- 111 ny has already swarmed, as is often the P( case, the remaining bees are too few to 11 build it up in good swarm that season. ^ The observation of results without a P( - .. , tn knowledge of the cause or the raetnou 01 preventing it gave rise to the superstition in minds already inclined thereto. The Georgics of Virgil contain common superstitions at that early period. This writer, t0 with others, attributes the virtue of "tanging" to attract bees to qualities implanted in them by Jupiter that distinguish them la from solitary bees and other insects.?Rev. sh /. W. Shearer, in Beekeepers' Magazine. fa The Giant's Causeway.?The Giant's ej Causeway is a series of columnar basaltic th rocks in County Antrim, on the northeast in coast of Ireland. For eight miles along so the coast the land abuts on the sea in cliffs G< yf basalt, many of them made up of pi rude vertical columns, and the appearance of] if these columns from the sea suggests a m partial resemblance of architectural forms, of rhe name Giant's Causeway is often ap- ce plied to all this coast range of cliffs, but it IT properly belongs to only a small part of it, qu which is a platform of basalt in closely th irrangea columns?iroui uuecii iu imny- a.u six feet high?which extends from a steep du iliff down into the sea till it is lost below hi ow water mark. It is divided across its hi: breadth into three portions, the Little, th Middle and Grand Causeway, these being dr separated from each other by dikes of wi msalt. The columns are generally hex- fis igonal prisms, but they are also found of he ive, seven, eight and nine sides, in al- do nost every instance being fitted together Ch ith the utmost precision, and it is said lat even water cannot penetrate between Ijoining columns. The name causeway ( given to the the platform, as its columns ]( rminate at so nearly a uniform height h tat it presents an almost smooth area t (tending to the water, seeming to primi- v ve imagination a road that had been pre- f ired for the convenience of giants.?Inter- j cean. rj ? ? ? o Physiology of Forgetfulness.? t orgetfulness as to events occurring in the s rst two or three years of life is not I matural. The brain has not become a loroughly organized, the cells have not s rmed their numerous connections which r *e necessary before the association of ideas h possible, and the vast multitude of sen- f rtions crowding together upon the im- r ?rfect brain cannot be separated one from i lother and each makes its proper strong s npression, all of which must take place t memory is to result. After a while the \ ills become slowly united into groups e 'centers") and these establish connec- \ ons between themselves, ever becoming \ lore and more extensive, and memories s ' the organiaed form, arise and ^ecoUec- 1 on becomes possible. 1 In extreme old age the nerve cells lose lore and more of their ability to take on a ew impressions, the heart acts with less \ irce; nutrition gradually fails, and for- t stfulness becomes more and more mark- 1 i. The later impressions having made e le slightest change in the cells are soonest t rgotten, while those made in earlier c ears, when the processes of growth and a utrition were most active, remain the t ingest. Old Falstaff, dying, "babbled of r. reen fields," andtheaged not infrequently t iraember nothing but the scenes of child- s ood and early youth?all else has faded j ivay forever. During profound sleep, if ri leas arise in the mind they are not suf- i ciently strong to make any lasting im ression upon the brain cells?they are 1 Dt registered. In dreaming a portion of r le brain is active, while the rest is quies- s mt, but the disturbance of consciousness i so light that a large proportion of dreams s *e not remembered even on first waking. ; frequently happens that a dream is relembered when one awakens in the night, 1 lit by morning the impression has van- i hed. and no means can be devised tocom- 8 3l recollection.?Globe-Democrat. s Human Beings Turned into Trees.? he principal part played by trees in apular mythology is in connection with ansformation scenes, there being obvijsly no greater difficulty in conceiving le sudden conversion of a human being ito a tree than into a rock or star. In the yrol you may still see an Alpine rose hich sprang from the blood of a girl who i defence of her innocence lost her life, hen there is an Austrian tale of a girl hom, for falling in love with soldier, her lother cursed her into a maple tree; her Ddy became rough, her skin turned to ark, her hands to branches and her hair ) leaves. Near Nuremberg are three ees which were originally maidens who ecoyed strangers to a wood and there ibbed and murdered them; they were at ist struck by lightning and turned into ees, and their cries may still sometimes e heard after the evening's bells have sased to ring. In a certain state of cullre there is nothing incredible in this ind of occurrence. All through the middle ages stories of inversion into trees abound. An Alsaan girl, praying constantly to the Virin that she may remain unmarried, is jrned into a lime tree which stands near , church dedicated to the Virgin. Or, } ?ain, Charlemagne, having defeated and aughtered a number of Saracens, wishes ) bury both friends and foes, yet to sep- . rate the Christians from the infidels, in is perplexity he prays earnestly one , ight, and the next morning beholds the ody of the enemy changed into thorn ; ees.?Gentleman's Magazine. Where Are tiie Manly Boys??Can j ou find me in any of our great cities a , .1 ? O la.ui.y uvy ; If so, he is an exception. Where are the , lystering youths of our early days? ^here are the boys who defied the police, psetash barrels, raced around the block, layed ball in defiance of authority, climbi trees, flew kites, played marbles, wresed with each other by the hour, had earty appetites, red cheeks, sturdy musles and dirty hands? You can't find thera. There is no such thing in existence with1 the bounds ot any city. Your boys now re milksops, with long tail coats and dude illars that hold their chins in air, rings n their fingers and jewels on their shirt onts,' pale, weak eyed, puny fisted, cigartte stinking machines. If in the very eyday of youth, when red blood should ump thro' their veins with the vigor of a avalanche, if when sleep should be cveet and restless occupation a continuous esire, they are flabby muscled, feeble need, listless as to manner, aping the janners and fashions of the vile, what 'ill they be when age settles upon them d the duties of life confront them ? And et these are to be the husbands of our iris, these effeminate, puling, monkeyed babblings are to be the fathers of our randchildren, whose votes are to shape le destinies of the republic, whose facules are to be the props of great enterprises 1 years to come.?Howard's Letter. i Man's Responsibility.?Not the ex- ? ;nt of our sphere of duty, but the perfect 1 lling of that sphere, is the real measure of 1 ir merit and our meed. One's sphere of uty exists; because he exists it isanes(ntial part of his very being. As one's \ >ul has its bodily limitations, so also " le circumference of one's sphere is the ' nmediate limitation of his spiritual work id influence. Not for the extent of that i >here, then, but for the manner and per- l ctness of our filling of it, will God hold i responsible. Our sphere is the gift of od, as our life and our powers are his ft. This spiritual sphere, this limit, this . ft, is like the horizon which surrounds . s. Every one of us must have a horizon hich surrounds us. Every one of us < mst have a horizon whether he will or it, albeit one's every movement affects ie form and breadth of the horizon. Yet J lere is no movement that one of us can [ ake which will annihilate his horizon or r jrmithim to step beyond and outside of * . He is within that circle because he is ithin it. No man's sphere, therefore, can }too large for him perfectly to fill, nor ^ o small for the full sway of his powers. ? 'is powers are the measure of his sphere; f id being so, his first and last duty is, day / day, for larger or for smaller, perfectly a fill that sphere. <j ! E Solace eor the Aged.?One of the t meuts of old age is that no new friend- h lips are formed. It is a rather mournful f ct that most persons who pass fifty years f se the gift of pleasing. The sparkling f 'e, the merry laugh, the hearty speech, c e sympathetic manner are all gone, and 1 place of these a guarded bearing and a p ber habit of thought and judgment. 3, aod-looking young people, with their i; easant faces and enthusiasm, win friends n f-hand, but the saddened and mature v an gets more and more isolated. Those e his own kind give only what they re- fi ive, and the young shrink from him. o has lost the glow of youth and the contering vivacity of youth. He estimates 1 e pursuit of life with frigid skepticism, o d those who still delight to collect the I ist in the race course are offended at o m. He may be ever so just and kind, but li 3 exterior bears the scars of pain, and f( e average man or woman instinctively "V aws away from an invalid. If he be Ii se he will fall back upon books and a r; hing rod in season and make friends in tx aven, for his chance of making any I wn here is decidely slender.?Pittsburg S ronicle. si THE TERRIBLE FLORIDA HOG. Writing of the Florida hog the Palatka Florida) News says: We have seen his ong tu9ks divide a dog like a sword?we lave seen a panther so terribly wounded hat the poor cat crept off in despair to die, vhile the hog recked not of flowing blood rom his own neck and shoulder, butproudy challenged a renewal of the fight. At ["ocoi lately a hog made it a point to stand in the track whenever he saw the locomoive coming, and the considerate engineer topped for four successive days to drive lim off. At last, tired of humanity which .roused no gratitude, the train hands asembled, by invitation, to see the ho? denolished. He was on the track awaiting lis doom?and extra speed was drawn rom fat pine hurled into the furnace with nalice prepense. The hog raised his head n surprise when no stop was made, and, eeing his danger, started ata gallop down he track. In vain the engine rushed forifrtM/I ?tt t iU <\ /I /I /\rt i n 4*11 iU A a/\n Ak viiiu wiLU ixiauueuiiig sjjccu tin wic tuawr is rocked and ladies screamed in terror? vhen the train reached Palatka the hog vas leisurely eating waste corn at Vertrees' table. That hog has since been struck by ightnipg, so.that he is uofcfpx sale as a race, torse. On another occasion the writer of this vas sleeping in camp and around lay a jack of hounds who had often proved that i bear at bay brought no terror to their marts, and who carried scars honorably >arned in strife with the wildcat and panher. But a number of these razor-backs lame around in the dead of night, and vhen the dogs attempted to drive them off hey charged like warriors true and tried, fhey swept off the dogs and charged over he hunters?blankets, guns, cooking utenlils and fishing-rods became things of the jast, and stout men took refuge in the boats, rhen, to save the dogs, revolvers entered nto the fray, and finally the fierce grunt;rs moyed off in search of pastures new. iVith the early 'dawn came a long, lean nan. whn narriprl a rifle ns lnnc ns himself. md he assessed the damages, which the logs should have paid, and carried off the ilain, which the victors did not want. Under the World's Heel.?How lathetic are the instances of men who are lot only in misfortune, and who have lost ill they once held, but whose very names ire forgotten. I remember there was a onductor on the Eighth Avenue railroad, vho ran his car between the hours of 11 in he night and 11 the following morning. 3e was a subject of so much talk among he night editors of the morning papers vho rode upon his line that I once went >ver it at the request of one of them one light just to see him. He was as ^ne and iristocratic a looking man as I have ever een. No one ever found out his history, or he could not be drawn into conversa,ion. He did his work in a quiet and repectful way for a year, and then disapleared, nobody knows where. In a like nanner I have seen porters in big dry foods houses, clerks and men in almost ivery lowly walk of life, whose faces inlicated a history that was unmistakably mthetic. The waifs of the street, the children of ;he gutters, the unhappy little ones in warding houses and the outcasts of slums ire more to be envied than the gentle, courteous and dependent old men- who lave been forced under by the iron heel of i world that thunders along at a breakieck pace, and from which they try to shield themselves by a gentleness that the ushing world has not time to see. The Girl Who Helps Mother.? rhere is a girl, and I love to think on her md talk of her, who comes in late when there is company, who wears a pretty little air of mingled responsibility and anxety with her youth, whom the others seem to depend on and look for many comforts. She is the girl who helps mother. In her own home she is a blessed little saint and comforter. She takes unfinished tasks from the tired, still fingere that faltarat their work: her strong figure is a staff upon which the gray-haired, whitefaced . mother leans and is rested. She helps mother with the spring sewing, with the week's mending, with a cheerful conversation and congenial companionship that some girls do not think worth while wasting on only mother. And when there iomes the day when she must bend, as girls must often bend, over the old wornout body of her mother, lying unheedful in tier coffin, rough hands folded, her long lisquiet merged in rest, something very sweet will be mingled with her loss, and the girl who helped mother will find a oenediction of peace upon her head and n her heart.?Catharine Cole. The Printing Press.?Four hundred pears ago the first book was printed; yes, there was once a time when children had 30 books. The grown people had a kind of bookswritten, not printed books. These were )n long slips of parchment that rolled up! iueer books, were they not? and costy as well as queer. None but the rich :ould have them. The first printing was done with woodin blocks. The letters were stamped on i block, and the wood was cut away, eaving the raised letters. With this the Dage was printed. But it was slow work, md costly, too, as a new block had to be nade for each page. About 1428, JohannesGuttenberg, a German, thought of having each letter on a leparate block so they could be used over tnd over. So he invented the printing)ress, and since then the world has printed jooks. gtvrt.izrnf; Sexegambia.?'The French ire trying a plausable scheme for rapidly ipreading civilization throughout their jreat domains in Senegarnbia. They irgue that the quickest way to subdue the :ountry will be to educate the children of he chiefs. These children will some day )e persons of much influence, and the Trench argue that if they can train their ninds and imbue them with right notions )f progress in their youth, they will, in he future be splendid missionaries of civlization. They have, therefore, establish;d schools in the most important towns rom the ocean for a distance of 600 to 700 niles inland, in which the children of the ;hiefs are receiving instruction at the ex>ense of the French government. Col. Galieni, who organized these schools, says le thinks they will prove the mostpowerul means of extending French influence. No More Weeping.?The glorified veep no more, for all outward causes of rrief are gone. There are no broken riendships nor blighted prospects in heavn. Poverty, famine, peril, persecution nd slander are unknown there. No pain listresses; no thought of death or bereavenent saddens. They weep no more, for lifl" n?o noitfonHu sonMiflo/l Nn '*ouil ill \J ^v/livv/uj ^uvviuvvii *w v ??? ieart of unbelief' prompts them to depart rom the living God; they are without ault before his throne, and are fully conormed to his image. Well may they ease to mourn who have ceased to sin. ?hey weep no more, because all change is iast. They know that they are eternally ecure. Sin is shut out, and they are shut n. They dwell within a city which shall ever be stormed; they bask in a sun /hich shall never set; they drink of a rivr which shall never dry ; they pluck fruit rom a tree which shall never wither. Origin of the Name Campbell.? "he Campbells, as are all the great nobility f the three British kingdoms, are of 'rench, Norman or French-Angevine rigin. The founder of the family was a ieauchamp, a Norman from Rouen, who )llowed William the Conqueror, to whom William gave large estates in England, u the Thirteenth century it was customay among the nobility to give Latin names ) their estates. Beauchamp translated in (atin makes Campo Bello; translated in axon English it means Fairfield. So, ich is the origin of the Campbells. A