Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

\ lewis m. grist, proprietor, j % $nkjp:i>fitf Jfautilp fttfospptr: J;or l|c ^rontofioit of t{je |)oIftitaI, Sorial, Hgriralfnral anb Commtrcial |irfimts of % gontjj. { terms--$2.50 a year, in adyance. VOL. 34. YORKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, ADGUST 13 1888. NO. 31. lite j THE LOST CONSCIENCE. Conscience was lost, but things went on J as before. The streets and theatres were < always crowded, men went about their business as usual, stirred by the same ambitions, and, if a good thing came in their J way, each still struggled to be the first to j snap it up. No one noticed that some- i thing had suddenly disappeared, that in ! the great orchestra of life one flute had 1 ceased to play. 1 Some people even began to feel them- j selves more free a&d more at ease in their , minds; they walked with a lighter step, i and understood better the joy of tripping up a neighbor, the delight of flattering, < cringing, deceiving, lying and slandering. It seemed as if the difficulties of life had j t-been done away with by magic. Men j did not walk the common earth, tlrey felt ? thnmaelvaA carried alone above it; noth- j ing affected them, nothing tnade them stop j to think. Everything, present and future, j seemed to belong to those happy people who had lost conscience without even knowing their loss. It had disappeared suddenly?in an instant. Yesterday Conscience had been there, visible to all eyes, a tedious hanger on, always demanding attention, and now suddenly its place was empty. Many troublesome ideas bad disappeared with it, and particularly that moral discomfort which attends an inner monitor. Now, nothing was left to hinder men from floating down the stream of life, enjoying all the pleasures that came in their way. The children of this world felt that they had shaken off the last chain which bound them; and it is needless to say that they hastened to enjoy their liberty. Now came the opportunity of the violent. Nothing was heard of but crime and robbery, and a general ruin began. Meanwhile the unfortunate Conscience lay bruised and trodden under foot in the highway, every one kicking it as he passed. Men walked over it as they would haye done over any other miserable rag, wondering how it was that such a thing was allowed to lie in the busiest thoroughfare of a well ordered town, in broad daylight. Heaven knows that the poor outcast ? , 1~:_ 4.1?Knf LLUgin utivtr mm iucic iuu? cuuugu, uui i for a wretched drunkard, who, after eyeing it stupidly picked it up, in hope that he might be able to sell it for a glass of brandy. All at once, he felt a sort of electric shock through his whole being. He looked about him confusedly, and felt that the fumes of wine were clearing away from his brain. Little by little there came back to him the bitter knowledge of his real condition?a knowledge from which he had escaped at the price of drowning all his energies in drink. At first he felt nothing but fear, that unreasoning fear which sometimes seizes a man when he is dimly aware that some danger threatens him. Then his memory awoke; then his imagination began to speak. From the darkness of the shameful past his pitiless memory recalled every deed of violence, treachery and injustice of which he had been guilty, everything that marked the degradation of his soul, while his imagination gave fresh life to all the details. At last he had awakened from his long sleep, but only to find himself in a court of justice, where he was at ouce judge and prisoner. His past life seemed to the * miserable drunkard one long crime, one perpetual shame. It was not long after question, examination and aqalysis, that this became clear to him? the first glance \fcas enough. He saw his own degradation, and felt a thousand times more severely punished by this tribunal which he had himself set up, and before which his own will had brought him, than he could have been by the harshest human judgment. He would not even plead in extenuation that the greater part of this past life, which he ;o deplored, had been beyond his controldegraded, miserable drunkard that he was; that a mysterious power had cast him into this world, and driven him through it, as a hurricane, whirling across the steppes, drives before it a slender blade * ITTt.^1. *- i? ~4. 1:^0 TI7Uw. - 01 grass. wnatwasiJis past me; itiij t had it taken that course and not another ? 1 And he himself, what was he? These i were questions to which there was no I answer. He was only conscious of com- I plete ignorance and deep astonishment. < And now that Conscience had found him, 1 what good could he do? Had she come < merely to ask him merciless questions to which there was no answer? Had she < visited this ruined dwelling only to revive i in its former life? But then, ruined as it I was, such a shock would be more than it i could bear. Alas! Conscience awakened < brought neither hope nor peace; she only shook off her lethargy to lead him into a < court, where his plea of guilty led to no i punishment. Formerly he had lived sur- i rounded by a mist; to-day there was the i same mist, but it was thronged with faces ( dire; at other times he had been encum- i berea with heavy chains, but to-day their weight was doubled because he understood 1 clearly what chains they were. i Our drunkard began to shed idle tears; t the worthy folk who were passing prompt- 1 ly gathered round him, declaring that I nothing but drink was the matter with I him. "My friends, I cannot help crying," i said the unhappy drunkard; "it is too s much for me," and the people shouted ] with laughter. They did not perceive t that he had really made a discovery which t was breaking his heart. If this crowd { had made a similar discovery itself, it s would certainly have understood that a ] sorrow's crown of sorrow is to find one's s conscience when one least expects it; it i would have realized that it also was as degraded in mind and body as the drunkard who was bemoaning himself before it. 1 "Xo, said the wretched creature, "I i must rid myself of this, cost what it may, i or I am done for," and he prepared at 1 once to throw his windfall into the road, 1 but was prevented from doing so by a 1 policeman, who said, shaking his finger at him: 1 ' 'See here, my good fellow, it strikes I me that you are looking but for a chance ] of distributing revolutionary pamphlets on the sly. We'll soon have you in the i lock up." The drunkard hastily put his i find in his pocket and made off. He went stealthily, looking round to see that i no one was watching him, toward the i wineshop of an old acquaintance of his, 1 named Prokoritch. Before going in he ; peeped carefully through the window, 11 and seeing that tnere were no customers in i the shop and that Prokoritch was dozing I behind his counter, he opened the door, 1 quickly ran in, and, without giving Pro- I koritch time to recognize him, thrust into i his hand the terrible find and fled. Some seconds passed before Prokoritch i opened his drowsy eyes; then he felt a < cold 9hudder pass over him. He had a sort of vision that he was carrying on his i business without a proper license; but < after a sharp look round he saw that he 1 had all the papers?the blue, the yellow I and the green?demanded by the author- 1 ities. Then he glanced at the scrap of < paper that he found in his hand and ] seemed to recognize it. i "Ah, ah!" said he, "it's the same mor- 1 sel that I got rid of with so much difficulty before I brought my license; yes, it's the very same." When he was satisfied on this point, he soon came to the conclusion that his ruin < was a certain thing. This is the argument that he followed, as it were, mechanically: 1 "A man is in business, this pest falls upon i him ; there's an end of it. Xo more business for him." Seized with a fear hitherto unknown to ' him, he began to tremble and grow pale, i Conscience, awakened in him, murmured: "No, no; it won't do to go on letting the poor people make themselves shamefully i tipsy." Beside himself with terror, he called his wife, Arina IvanoVtoa, to his assistance. Arina Ivanovna ran to him; but no 30oner did she recognize the involuntary acquisition made by Prokoritch than she cried out in great excitement: < "Help! Police! Stop thief!" "Why am I to be instantly ruined through this miserable thing?" said Prokoritch to himself, wondering who had < passed it on to him. Meanwhile by decrees the tavern filled with people, but Prokoritch, instead of serving his custom- i ars with his usual good will, astonished them profoundly by not only refusing to i jell them any wine, but also by pointing cut to them, in the most touching way, that for the poor all misfortunes began i through drink. "If," said he through his tears, "you 1 would be satisfied with one little glass that would be all very well?it would even be i good thing for you; but your only idea is to take every possible opportunity of i ?? " ? a* /lAnlrofiil an/1 tKon Mr liof 1 JWttilUWlug wliuic taoaoiui auu uiv.ii huuv happens? You get drunk, they run you i n, and you get a hundred lashes for 1 /our trouble. Consider, my friends, is it worth your while to go through all this, ? md spend all your earnings upon a stupid 1 fellow like me into the bargain ?" "Why, Prokoriteh, you must be mad!" said all of his astonished customers. "That's not very surprising, my friends, i tvhen one is suffering from a misfortune such as has befallen me," answered Prokoriteh. "See for yourself the sort of license I have received," and he showed them the Conscience which the drunkard had thrust upon him, and asked if any 1 )ne of them would like to have it. But i is soon as they saw what it was the ques- i [.ion became who could get to the most i respectful distance from it, and no one seemed in a hurry to accept the offer. 1 "You see the grand license, who will | have it?" repeated Prokoriteh, getting < mgry. 1 "But what is to become of you now ?" I his customers asked. ] "My friends this is what I think; there i is only one thing left fon me to do, and I that is to die. I no longer wish to deceive ] my neighbors or to make the poor people < intoxicated with brandy. Therefore, what i is left to me but to die ?" "He's right," his customers said, laugh- 1 ing at him. ! "I even have an idea, continued Pro- ] koritch, "that I Should like to break all 1 the bottles you see round you and let the 3 contents of the casks run into the next i janal, to get rid of the temptation to 1 irink." 1 Here Arina Ivanovna broke in with the 1 simplest words: j ' Tnof tr\? rmoonrS ?PP " TTpr hpftrt.it was evident, had not been touched by the ] livine gift which had so suddenly descended upon Prokoritch. But it was not 1 ?asy to check him; he went on shedding i ;ears and talking continually. "When a misfortune like mine overtakes 1 i man," he said, "it's his fate; he was ] jorn to be unlucky. In thinking over his < position, in trying to place himself, he < would not dare to say, 'I am a trader,' or i I am a merchant.' He could not do so tvithout deep uneasiness. He would sim- < ply have to say, 'I am an unlucky ] wretch.'" 1 And during the whole day Prokoritch jave himself up to these flights of philoso- ] phy, for though Arina Ivanovna resolutely I jpposed her nusband's idea of breaking < ;he bottles and pouring their contents into t he canal, still they did not sell any wine. Toward evening Prokoritch's sadness wore 1 )ff; he became even gay, and as he went s ;o bed he said to Arina Ivanovna, who was crying: < "Well, my dear wife, though we have < jained nothing to-day, what does that < natter? How light one feels when one < las a clear conscience." i And, indeed, he was asleep almost be- 1 'ore his head touched his pillow, slumbering peacefully and not even snoring, I whereas in the days wnen he made money i ind had no conscience he invariably snored. < Arina Ivanovna, however saw things in < i somewhat different light. She under- I stood very clearly that for a tavern keeper lonscience was by no means an agreeable ] tcquisition, or one likely to be profitable, i so she made up her mind that at any price 1 :his unwelcome guest must be got rid of. . She waited patiently all that night, but j hardly had the dawn begun to appear < through the dusty windows of the tavern when she softly stole the Conscience from i her sleeping husband, and hastened out with it into the street. ! It happened to be market day; the carts i if the country folk were already coming i in, one after another, and Lovets, the po- 1 lice inspector, himself was hastening to the market place to see that everything went 1 Dn in proper order. When she saw him Arina Ivanovna had | < whflt seemed to her a brilliant idea. She ! ran after him until she was breathless, ] md, as soon as she had overtaken him, with surprising dexterity she slipped the ' Conscience in the pocket of his overcoat i without his knowing it. i This Lovets was not an absolute shameess rogue, but as he was not particular he j ndulged pretty freely in various malprac;ices. His manner was not insolent, but le was gifted with a too inquisitiveglance. i He had not had a hand in any discredita- ] )le affair, but he snapped up willingly mything that came within his reach. In 1 ihort, he was a very respectable rogue. But now, all at once, this man began to < ;urn over a new leaf. When he reached :he market place he realized that all the < joodsin the carts and shops or upon the ! stalls did not belong to him, but to other ] people. Never before had he been con- < scious of this feeling. He rubhed hiseyes, i saying to himself: < "Am I ill? All this must be a dream." < He went up to a cart, meaning to help j limself to some of its contents, but his ; i irms hung powerless at his sides. He ! j moved toward another, intending to pull i 1 the beard of a Moujik, but to his horror i t tiis hands remained clenched. Then he ! was terrified and said to himself: ] "What is the matter with me? I shall j 1 be ruining my profession forever. It will < be better for me to go home, as I seem to 1 have taken leave of my senses." Hoping always that this mysterious affliction would pass away, he walked i through the market looking about him. | < It was crowded with all sorts of things; i above all he noticed much poultry, i and everything seemed to say to him, i "You have only to stoop down and help i yourself." The country people, however, i became bolder, seeing that our friend was s not going on as usual, and that he conten- i ted himself with looking very hard at < ni?nn i molrn 1 tiicn guvuo. aiiwj c*tu uaicu iv uiuivw i , fun of him "Niigaud Nigauovitch !" (Son ; 3f a simpleton.) < 44No, I have some unheard of Illness," ! i said Lovets to himself, and he went home ; i smpty handed. I j His wife was waiting for him, calculat-! I ing, meanwhile the number of bags, made j ! Df lime tree bark, that he might be ex-! : pected to bring with him ; for, as a rule, I he took plenty of these out and brought : them back full of his pilferings. But to-1 Jay he returned without a single bag. On i perceiving this Mine. Lovets lost her temper at once, and darting up to her hus- j ' band she said : i 44Where are the bags?" 44Upon my conscience" began Lovets.' ! 44I ask you where are the bags?" 44 Upon my conscience" repeated Lov- j BtS. j i 440h, very well, then, let your conscience! < feed you till next market day. I have' < nothing to give you for dinner," Mme. Lovets declared. Lovets hung his head, for he knew this : was an argument to which he had no answer. He took off his overcoat, and immedi ately his ideas changed entirely. Conscience remained in the pocket of the coat hung upon the wall, and Lovets at once felt light and free and more like himself. Once more it seemed to him that nothing in the world belonged to other people; that it was all his by right. The aptitude for appropriating and consuming everything came back to him. "Ah! Ah ! my good friends, now you won't get off so easily," he cried, rubbing his hands, and he promptly put on his coat again to hasten back to the market. But, strangely enough, he had scarely got it on when his impulse stopped short. He 3eemed to himself to be two men. One, without the overcoat, impudent and unscrupulous; the other, with it, timid and modest. Although he found himself animated by the best intentions he did not give up his idea of going back to the market. "Perhaps," he thought, "I may end by getting the better of it." But the nearer he got to the market the faster his heart beat, and the more he felt impelled to show some kindness to all these poor people who worked in the rain and mud from morning to night to gain two copecks. He no longer thought of taking other people's property. On the contrary, he felt his purse a burden to him, now he realized that it contained, not his money, but his neighbors'. "Here are fifteen copecks for you, my friend," he said to a peasant, giving him the money. "Why do you give it to me, simpleton ?" "It is to make up for my former injustices. Pardon me, for the love of God." "May God forgive you, then." In this way he went through the market, giving away all his money, and when it came to an end he no doubt felt a jreat weight lifted from his mind. Nevtheless he became very thoughtful. "I have certainly caught some illness," he said again to himself. "I had better ?0 home, and take the opportunity of collecting together all the poor I meet by fho ivav onrl orivincr thpm a meal." and I "MV J ? 1 be proceeded to do as he had said. He picked up numbers of beggars on the road, ind brought them into his courtyard. At the sight of them Mme. Lovets held up ber handsin horror, asking what he would 3o next. Lovets came up to her and said in a caressing tone: "Just see these good people I have brought you, my little Theodosia. Feed them, for the love of God." But he had ' bardly had time to hang his coat upon the peg when he again felt clear of all impediments. Seeing from the window ill the beggars of the town assembled in bis courtyard, he could not understand what they meant by coming there. What were they come for? Would he have to 10 out and beat them all ? "Whatare all these people doing here?" be asked, going toward the courtyard. "What! All these people? They are the worthy vagabonds you have just told me to feed," replied Mme. Lovets, dryly. "Let them be turned out this minute," be cried angrily, and he rushed about the bouse like a madman. He paced up and Jown the rooms a long time, repeating incessantly, "What can have happened to me?" How was it that a man who used to be oxact, even fierce, in the fulfillment of his professional duties had suddenly become limp as a rag? "Theodosia Petrovna, my good woman, for heaven's sake have me tied up," he entreated. "I feel that to-day I am capable ' of committing follies which it would take i year to repair." Mme. Lovets saw that her husbahd must be very ill indeed. So she put him to bed ind made him swallow a hot draught. After about a quarter of an hour it occurred to her to go and search the pockets of her husband's coat, to see if he had a copeck left. One of them contained an empty purse; in the other she found a scrap of dirty, oily paper. As soon as she bad unfolded this paper, she cried out: "Ah, here's an explanation of the tricks be has been playing us; he had Conscience in his pocket," a: d she began to think. What puzzled her was how to get rid of Conscience, and to whom she could pass it on. She did not wish to crush with one blow whoever she should choose as the victim, but only to cause him a little terninnAnti/iMiAnnA A AW DAIAA AAn puittl^ UllUUVUiJCUtC* illici OUIIIC Vl/li3ideration she ma'de up her mind that she had better bestow Conscience upon the Jew banker, Brjotski, the promoter of jreat commercial enterprises, and director Df innumerable railway companies. "His back is broad enough, at aDy rate," she said to herself, "it won't hurt him." Having decided this, she slipped Conscience carefully into a stamped envelope, upon which she wrote Brjotski's name and address, and then threw it into the letter box. "Now," she said, going back to her husband, "you can go to the market boldly." Brjotski was seated at dinner surrounded by his family. One of his sons, a boy 10 years old, was next him ; this child was pondering over banking transactions. "What would happen, father," he said, "if I invested the money you have given me at 20 per cent, a month ? How much should I have at the end of the year?" "At simple or compound interest," asked Brjotski. "Oh, compound interest, of course." "At compound interest that would come to forty-five roubles and seventy-nine copecks, not counting the fractions." "Then father, I shall invest it like that." "Invest it by all means, my boy, but be careful that you get a very good security." On the other side of the table sat another of Brjotski's sons, who was 7 years old. < He also occupied with an elementary problem in mental arithmetic. Further aff sat two more, who were both engaged ; in calculating the amount of interest one awed to the other on a loan of sugar :andy. Opposite Brjotski his beautiful wife sat in state, holding in her arms her baby Sfirl, who already clutched instinctively at her mother's gold bracelets. In short, Brjotski was a happy man. He was just tasting a new sauce, so de- ' Hcious that he would willingly have had the sauce tureen decked with gold lace and ostrich feathers, when a servent handed him the letter. He had hardly taken it when he became extremely agitated. "Why should any one send me this thing?" he cried, trembling all over. No Dne understood what he meant, but they all felt that to finish the meal was impossible. I will not describe the torments that Brjotski suffered on this memorable lay. I will only mention one thing, that this man, weak and feeble as he seemed to be, bore like a hero the most terrible torture, but as to giving up the smallest sum of money, notning couiu | make him do it. "What I suffer does not matter," he said to his wife in the moments of the most acute agony. "Only hold me fast, and if the severity of the pain makes me ask for my cash box, don't bring it, my love. Let me die first!" However embarrassing a situation may be there is almost always some way out of it, and one was found in this instance. lirjotski luckily remembered an old promise he had made to give something to a charitable institution of which a certain general who was a friend of his had the management. Time had slipped by without his doing so, but now circumstances pointed out to him the most convenient way of fulfilling his obligations. Without delay he cautiously opened the envelope which he had received by post, drew out the inclosed with a pair of pincers, put it into another envelope with banknotes for a hundred roubles, and sealing it up carefully, went to see the said general. "I wish to help on this good work with a contribution, your excellency," said he, placing his sealed packet upon the table before the general, whose face expressed his satisfaction. 1 "It is a worthy act, sir," he replied. "Indeed, you" Here his excellency stopped in confusion. "Oh, quite so, your excellency?quite so," said Brjotski hastily, happy to feel himself relieved of the heavy burden which had troubled him so much ; "be assured that we fiananciers are animated by the purest patriotism, and are Russians above all things." "Thanks! thanks!" said the general, "and?hem! hem! However" "Yes?your excellency, Russians first, Russians first." "Well! well! Good! good! God be with you." After this Brjotski flew rather than walked home, and by evening had quite forgotten his past sufferings and was him-, self again. He went back to business at once and spent the night in planning new banking transactions on a colossal scale. Thp nnnr Conscience lived like this for a long time and passed through many hands; she was not wanted anywhere. People's only idea Was to get ria of heir, to pass her on at any price, and at last, weary of this \yanderiBg Jew existence, she said sadly to neV lafet possessor, a certain small tradesman whose business never prospered: "What do you want me to do with you, my dear Conscience?" he answered; "you are no good at all." "This is what I suggest," replied Conscience. "Find me a little Russian baby and lodge me in his pure heart. Perhaps the innocent would receive and cherish me; as he grew up he might become attached to me, and take me with him into the world. Perhaps he would not hate me." The tradesman did as she wished. He found a little Russian child and slipped Conscience into his pure heart. As the child grows up Conscience will grow with him ; one day he will be a great man with a great conscience. In that day all falsehood, crime and violence will disappear, for Conscience, grown bolder, will speak and be obeyed.?[New York Press. THE JACKALS OP CALCUTTA. Kind friends had warned us, ere we retired to sleep the first night in Calcutta, not to suppose that there was anything the matter if weshould hear the cry of the jackals. But for that warning I do not know what our feeling would have been when, awakened from our first sleep by them, we heard a pack pass close to the house. It seemed to us as though the eonscience of the whole city had unbarred the portals of hell and put a trumpet in the hand of every liberated fiend. I had presumptuously imagined that familiarity with the concerts of London cats would enable me to sleep through the jackals' efforts. . But though the cat has undeniable power he can never hope to reach the top notes of the jackal. This latter, indeed, lacks the conversation variety of the more domestic animal. He confines himself mainly to one tune, which begins in a semi-apologetic low note, then ascends a little, still with a suspicion of apology and explanation that he did not mean to make quite so much noise but could not help it; and then the flood gates are open, and seeming to say that ho does not care he yells with ecstatic abandon. Terrible as a "wandering voice" of the night the jackal appears a poor creature should he come upon one in his own proper person by day. True, his teeth are to be respected, but that is because, like all carrion feeders, his bite is more^or Jess poisonous. He is himself a sneaking coward, useful, however, beyond description. No system of drainage will enable Caloutta to dispense with its natural scavengers, and of these the jackal is among the most efficient. Peering into dark corners and with a nose keen to scent out what has escaped even the crow's bright eye, little as that seems to miss, he fills a special place in the sanitary economy of the city of palaces.?["Turbans aud Tails." Clothing and Drinks in Summer.? It is best to wear dark clothing in the summer. The black absorbs heat when it is in the sun's rays. On the other hand, the heat will pass out through the black textures rapidly, so that the radiation of the heat from the body would be much ireer in a person ciocneci in DiacK man white. This statement is forcibly illustrated by the white coats of animals who live in the arctic regions. They are clothed that way for the reason that the color holds the bodily heat, and does not allow it to radiate as rapidly as black. Thin flannel shirts are good for summer wear, and it is best to wear them next to the skin. Lemonade is a good drink for hot weather, but, taken in excess, it has a scorbutic effect. The best and most wholesome summer drink is cold water. It should be freely used, and should be cooled by keeping it on ice, and not by putting ice in it. A few bottles placed in the refrigerator every morning would be sufficient to supply the family during the day. An excellent practice for those in cities where soda-water fountains are numerous, is to occasionally make use of that beverage. Soda taken when thirst calls for it is healthful and refreshing. The flavored syrups sold at these fountains should never be taken in hot weather, as they are very heating. ?[Dr. Cyrus Edson. A Cure for Laziness.?A late reverend gentleman who resided in Yorkshire, and was as well known for his eccentricity as his talents, one day sent his son, a lazy lad about twelve years of age, to catch his horse. The lad went sauntering along with a grain of corn in one hand and a bridle in the other, dragging the reins along the ground. "Thomas," said the father, calling after him in a solemn tone of voice, "come here, I want to say a word to you before you go." The lad returned and the parson proceeded: "You know, Thomas, thUrTgave you a great deal of counsel. You know that I have taught you, before closing your eyes, to say, "Now I lay me down to sleep," etc., besides a good many other things in the way of explanation and advice. But as this is the last opportunity I may ever have of speaking to you, 1 couldn't let it pass without giving you my parting charge. Be a good boy and always say that pretty prayer before going to sleep. I fear I shall never see you again." As he said this in a very sad and solemn manner the poor boy began to be frightened, ana Dursnnio lears wun imsexciamauon ; "You'll never see me again pa?" "No; for I will probably die before you get back with the horse." This quickened Thomas's ideas, and gathering up the reins, he ran and caught the horse in less time than he had ever done before.?[London Queen. Famous "Moll" Pitciiek.?One "Moll Pitcher" was a celebrated New England fortune-teller, originally of Marblehead, who settled in Lynn, as the wife of ltobert Pitcher, a shoemaker, 17G0, and died in that place in 1813, at the age of 7.3. She was consulted not only by the poor and ignorant, but by the rich and intelligent class, and many strange legends of verified predictions have crept around her name. She is the heroine of Whittier's poem of "Moll Pitcher." There was another "Moll" Pitcher, who became famous in the Revolutionary war. She was the wife of an American artilleryman. During the battle of Monmouth, while she was bringing water from a spring for her husband, she saw him fall. An order was given to withdraw the gun, as there was no one to manage it. The gallant Mary took her husband's place, and performed the duties faithfully. Washington afterwards conferred on her the title of sergeant. She was called, by both the French and Americans, "Captain Molly." IpSfcnaiiMus t THE ROMANCE OF WILKES BOOTH. J A Washington letter says: "Several t years ago, when John P. Hale was here as o Senator, his daughters were among the } most admired of all the belles. They v lived in elegant style at the National, and n entertained with a great deal of vivacity J all who visited them. The youngest was J really a very pretty, fresh, piquant girl of eighteen or so. Of course there were a great many admirers, and among them the actor, John Wilkes Booth, was most p devoted to Miss Eighteen. You perhaps c remember Booth's appearance, a hand- y some, dark, melodramatic fellow, and r among a certain set here he was a great o favorite socially. At night he played s; his Charles in Schiller's 'Bobbers,' and p Miss Hale was always at the play, I with bouquet and smiles for him. In si those days who could guess the sad sequel b to a romance of love that promised bright \ enough? # o I remember a night when the hotel was o _ LI -f i: ?L* rnu? /.:..:nn> x. U UIU/A3 U1 UlfllU AUG gucsio WC1C giViyg I. a 'hop' for their friends, and between the ^ waltzes every one was good-naturedly t gossipping at the devotion of a couple who walked up and down the rooms, and ri were apparently oblivious of place and tl surroundings. They were a very attract- 44 ive pair, he tall and dark-eyed, she fair ii and sweet as an English rose. There b were some who cavilled at her choice; a the father must be wild to permit such an tl alliance, they said?the daughter of a 41 United States Senator to marry a play- u actor. But the many to whom the young \\ girl's sweet face seemed excuse for any e infatuation, looked with indulgence at the s< little drama of the 'old, old story.' I (b remember too well another night, just the h eve of two days later. We were at Ford's d old theatre. Again a blaze of light, and q, music, and a crowded house, to look on at i] Laura Keene in the 'American Cousin.' u How many times have you heard the story r< of that night, too dreadful to talk of even ? ^ The sudden pistol shot, the uproar that ti followed, and in the figure that sprung ^ from the President's box I saw the lover d of two nights ago, and knew that even as I he whispered in that young girl's ear he I was planning this dreadful scene. it In Wilkes Booth's pocket was found the tl picture of his betrothed, and she wrote of a the assassin that she would marry him at n th? font-, nf the* pillows. Such devotion a hangs like a divine fragrance about our h recollections of this wretched, mistaken it man, and though it cannot blot out, yet si surely let it dim a little the horror we rightly feel at his work. a WHAT ARE SHOOTING STARS ? h What do we know as certain facts with u regard to shooting stars? e 1. They are vastly more numerous than I any one has an idea of who has not tl watched them continuously for many v* nights. Astronomers who have kept a tl record for many years assured us that the ^ average number seen by one observer at h one place on a clear, moonless night is n fourteen per hour, which is shown by cal- t< culation to be equivalent to 20,000,000 tl daily for the whole earth. a 2. They are not terrestial phenomena, si moving in the lower atmosphere, but ce- ji lestial bodies moving in orbits, and with tl velocities comparable to those of planets t' and comets. Their velocities are seldom tl under ten miles a second or over fifty, and t< average about thirty, the velocity of the ** earth in its orbit around the sun being t< eighteen. n 3. They are of various compositions, t' comprising both a large, majority of small- E er particles which aie set on fire by the a resistance of the earth's atmosphere, and a are entirely burned up and resolved into il vapors long before they reach its surface, P and a few larger ones known as meteors, li which are only partly fused or glazed by u heat, and reach the earth in the form of o stony masses. h 4. They are not uniformly distributed ti through space, but collected in meteoric a swarms, or streams, two at least of whieh lj revolve around the sun in closed rings, n which are intersected by the earth's orbit, P causing the magnificent displays of shoot- tl ing stars which are seen in August and s< November. d 5. They are connected with comets, it ri having been demonstrated by Sciaparelli o that the orbit of the comet of IOG61 ci is identical with the August swarm a of meteors known as the Perseids, and J connection between comet and meteor streams have been found 111 at least three other cases. The fact is gen- j] erally believed that comets are notn- ? ing but a condensation of meteorites ren- h dered incandescent by the heat generated o by their mutual collision when brought o into close proximity. t< G. Their composition, as inferred from ci the larger meteors which reach the earth, P is identical, or nearly so, with that of ? matter brought up from great depths by d volcanic eruptions. In each case they ? consist of two classes, one composed main- e< ly of native iron alloyed with nickle, the is other of stony matter, consisting mainly n of compounds of silicon and magnetism, a Most meteorites consist of compounds of h the two classes, in which the stony parts A seem to have broken into fragments by p violent collision, and become imbedded si in iron which has been fused by heat into ti plastic or pasty condition.?[Contempora- is ry Review. ci d PHILOSOPHY OF CHANCE. is "For here we have no abiding place or continuing city." The old proverb, "a _ rolling stone gathers no moss," is born out of the stupidity of greed. It is appropriate only for the barnacles of the race, who must fix themselves tightly in one place, al their life work being only to keep their fl mouths open and gather?slime. j1 To be tied for life to one place, one 11 house, one home, one round of association P and one unvarying rut of occupation is to a retard growth. Use continually (jne set c< of muscles in a certain way, and all the e rest suffer and shrivel for lack of due ex- a! ercise. Similarly, if fastened to one local- a ity, but one system of mental faculties is " called out, the other powers suffer for lack t( of exercise. tl Imagine a human being confined until s< 40 years of age in a single room, seeing 0 during that entire period but the same persou at certain stated hours. In what 0 condition would such a person be when d liberated to meet and cope with the world ? a Yet, relatively, people who stay in one ai place their whole lives are little better off C( when taken out of their corners and placed P in unaccustomed conditions and surround- h ings. -A The destiny of the awakened soul is to travel, to explore, and to gather to itself n new thought, new idea, new suggestions e; frnm nfiw lands, new oeonles and new conditions of life. To stop is impossible. The instinct once awakened demands its bi expression. It feels enriched by each st change of place or condition, and the bet- rr ter prepared to meet the next. It will be w ever making new homes for itself among si new peoples and new hearts. It carries II over with it its real and only home?the g ever increasing, ever widening world of sj its own mind, and this world is ever en- b< larging. p If you crave a home and rest, look li around and see how many "ideal homes" vv you will find. How many that will bear w inspection. IIow many whose inward ir peace corresponds with outward seeming " How many wherein the monotonous rou- v tine of the conventional life is not wear- w ing out somebody. To be so much on T the move is a pitiless prospect, you say, s( no abiding place or continuing city?a ii Wandering Jew. . tl Bnt the very rest you seek may come of change and changes. What is it you de- j sire? The truest comparyonship. Can e' that come of a barnacle? or of one who is lesiYes to make of you a companion barlacle ? Trust in the power that desires ou should realize your greatest happiiess, and launch boldly your craft on the inknown seas. You may be traveling oward a home rather than away from ne. Your fellow apostles are all travelers, fou can affiliate with none other. You rant the association (of experience, origiiality, varied thought and varied interest. sTone other can satisfy you.?[Prentice lulford, in New York Star. A NOBLE ACTOP HEROISM. I remember a little incident that hapened many years ago. When I was in tornwall, in 1864, 1 visited the mine fhere the incident occurred. Carlyle efers to the story in one of the chapters f his "Life of Sterling." Two men were inking a shaft. It was a dangerous bus essfor it was necessory to blast the rock, t was their custom to cut the fuse with a harp knife. One man then entered the ucket and made a signal to be hauled up. Vhen the bucket again descended, the ther man entered it, and with one hand n the signal rope and the other holding lie fire, he touched the fuse, made the ignal, and was rapidly drawn up before he explosion took place. One day they left the knife above, and ather than ascend to procure it they cut lie fuse with a sharp stone. It took fire. The fuse is on fire!" Both men leaped nto the bucket, and made the signal; ut the windlass would haul up but one at time; only one could escape. One of tie men leaped out, and said to the other, Upwi'ye; I'll be in heaven in a minte." With lightning speed the bucket 'as drawn up, and the one man was savd. The explosion took place. Men defended, expecting to find the mangled ody of the other miner; but the blast ad loosened a mass of rock, and it lay iagonally across him ; and with the exeption of a few bruises and a little scorchig, he was unhurt. When asked why he rged his comrade to escape, he gave a fason that skeptics would laugh at. I 'ould not be what is to-day called a skep<Ts>m n 1 1 fUrt umnlfk rtf i 1h* Ck l^ltf it iui an tut vvtaivii ui tuo nvnv? i^uv rhat did this hero say when asked, "Why id you insist on this man's ascending?" n his quaint dialect, he replied: "Because knowed my soul was safe; for I've gie ; in the hands of Him of whom it if said, lat 'faithfulness is the girdle of His reins,' nd I knowed that what I gied Him He'd ever gie up. But t'other chap was an wful wicked lad and I wanted to give im another chance." All the infidelly in the world cannot produce such a ignal act of heroism as that. Valuable Advice to Young Girls, l lady of intelligence and observation as remarked: "I wish I could impress pon the minds of the girls that the chief nd of woman is not to marry young." f girls could only be brought to believe iat their chances for a happy marriage 'ere better after twenty-five than before, iere would be much less misery in the mrld than there now is. To be sure, they light not have so many opportunities to larry as before, but, as they do not need i marry but one at a time, it is necessary lat that one should be satisfactory. As girl grows older, if she thinks at all, le certainly becomes more capable of idging what would make her happy lan when younger. How many girls of sventy would think of marrying the man ley would gladly have married at sixAt. thirtv u woman who is some 'hat independent, and not over-anxious ) marry, is much harder to please and lore careful in her choice than one at wenty. There is good reason for this, fermind has improved with her years, nd she now looks beyond mere appearnce in judging men. She is apt to ask : this man who is so very polite in comany is really kind-hearted. Do his pote, genial actions spring from a happy ature, or is his attractive demeanor put n for the occasion and laid off at home as e lays off his coat? Avery young girl ikes it for granted that men are always 3 she sees them in society?polite friend/, and on their good behavior. If she larries early the man who happens to lease her fancy, she learns to her sorrow liat in nine cases out of ten a man in iciety and a man at home are widely ifferent beings. Five years at that peiod of life produce a great change in pinions and feelings. We frequently Dme to detest at twenty-five what we dmired at sixteen.?[Scottish American ournal. The Love of Kecognition.?Lately a conversation with one of the most brilant, yet solidly intellectual, women it as been my privilege to meet, we spoke f the personal love of praise, approbation r appreciation that seems to be natural 3 people. She said that they should not are so much as they do about receiving raise. "But," I replied, "setting aside isincere flattery, which is easily detected, 0 you not think that honest approval of enuine appreciation judiciously bestowd, either upon children or grown persons, > right when they deserve it? Does it ot encourage and stimulate the moral nd mental faculties? It seems to me that uman beings are, in this respect, like owers. In order to grow they should be lanted in the right soil and receive the anshine as well as the rain. Apprecia,on is to an individual what the sunshine 1 to a flower." The lady answered : "I itch the thought, and it is true; but you 0 not use the best word to express it. It 1 neither praise, approbation, nor (to put fine and correct noint upon it) apprecia on that people need. It is recognition." -[Hartford Times. Solitary Confinement.?This solitay confinement is a relic of a barbarious ge. The history of the middle ages is ill of cases where men have passed years, i some instances almost a lifetime, walklg back and forth in a lonely cell which, erhaps, may have been a dungeon. All re familiar with the story of the prisoner infined in the Castle of Chillon, in Switzrland, who, chained to a pillar, walked to nd fro as far as his chain would permit, nd wore a deep furrow in the stone under is feet. The prisoner is gone, but the jurist may to-day visit the old prison by le side of the placid Lake Leman and ?e this furrow, and ponder on the story f human suffering that it tells. In America much of the rigor of imprisnment has been alleviated by the introuction of contract labor. "Imprisoned t hard labor" may seem to imply a melncholy lot, but compared with solitary Dnfinement, with nothing to occupy the risoner's attention, or his muscles, hard ibor means an existence far preferable. Lmerica is doubtless in the advance in lis reform. The most thinking European ations come next, while Russia still lingrs in the twilight of barbarism. A Frehii View of Life.?Much might e said on the wisdom of taking a cononflii frouli irintir nf 1 i fo Tf ie nrip nf thp """'J' *?<-? V ? ? -? ? loral uses of the night that it gives the 'orld anew to us every morning, and of eep that makes life a daily recreation, f we always saw the world, we might row weary ofit. Ifa third oflife were not ient in unconsciousness, the rest might ecome tedious. God is thus all the while resenting the cup of life afresh to our ps. Thus, after a night of peaceful sleep, 'e behold the world as new and fresh and onderful as it was on the first mornlg of creation, when God pronounced it very good." And sleep itself has a diine alchemy that gives us to ourselves rith a primitive energy of body and mind, he days are not mere repetitions of themilves, to-morrow will have another meanig; I shall come to it with larger vision lan I have to-day.?[T. T. Hunger. Be rude to none; rudeness harms not ven the humblest and poorest to whom it < i directected, but it injures the exhibitors. MALE IRRELIGION. Fewer men than women attend church. Why is this? While there are fewer men than women in church, there are more men than women in prison. Shorter-sighted and more dull of perception, a man fails to discern the degradation and folly of evil doing, and so is more easily led into crime. The perpetration of felony and the neglect of religion are but different manifestations of the same trait of character, a failure to appreciate the dignity of spiritual elevation, and inability to see anything worth seekinc excent the coarse ^ratifications of the present moment. The creed of worldliness and crime is that the present Is ta be preferred to the future, the immediate -w to the more remote, the material to the spiritual, personal interests to the welfare of humanity; while the underlying principle in religious striving is that the true way to live is to live for humanity, not self alone?for the moral and spiritual, not sensual and material. It is the man that inclines to the former view, the woman who is more easily won to the latter. It is not, then, because men are stronger- 0 minded that they are less attentive to religious things; it is because they are actually weak of vision, unable to perceive that the spiritual is nobler than the sensual, that the cultivation of moral interests is wiser than absorption in material things. The lofty contempt with which worldly men regard religious earnestness is of the same nature as that with which the ignorant man regards his neighbor who spends his time over books, or the thief regards the one who is too tenderly conscientious to steal. It is not because of greater sagacity, but because of inferior discernment that fewer men than women attend church.?[Christian Inquirer. Make it Right.?There are few persons who are not conscious of having wronged their fellow men. They may dispute it or deny it; but they know that it is true, nevertheless. The question then arises, What should be done ? There are many who know the wrong, but will not admit it; there are others still who both know and admit the wrong doing, but who take no steps towards repairing the mischief they have wrought or undoing the wrong which they have done. Strictly speaking, the wrong act done can never be undone; the wrong word said cannot be unsaid; but no man who has been ? mi - / 1 u 1 ? ^,i I gumy 01 wrong snuuiu rest snusueu uuui he has done his utmost to make suitable reparation. If he has wronged his neighbor pecuniarily, let him make restitution, not in scrimped and scanty measure, but liberally, heartily and ungrudgingly. Let him restore four-fold. If he has said wrong things, let him promptly and openly recall them. Let nis apologies be as distinct and hearty as his accusations have been. Let him in a manly and Christian way, so farasinhim lies, remove all occasion of grievance. Let him see to it that the false impressions he has given be corrected, that the slanders he has uttered be recalled. Thus, and thus only, can he win back the love he has forfeited, and hope to receive the blessing of the Lord whom he has offended.?[Christian Standard. He Must be a Gentleman.?Both in the ranks of workers and in the ranks of society we still find the ideal gentleman. We are charmed with the good breeding which we discover in the humblest as well as the highest ranks of American society. We find in every .class in college some natural born gentleman, and in every . -~profession, in every branch of inddsti'y, there is a man with a good heart, modest, unselfish and noble; who is not thinking of himself, but of that mother whom he hopes to support; he is working for her and not for himself; he begins thus to find the road to fame and honor. In the banking house, in the dry goods store, in the railway office, do we look for the "coming gentleman," the man who is not working for himself, but for some one else. That cultivation, which is the parent of good manners, is, however, necessarily left out of the training of such a young man. He has got to do it all himself ; he must make himself a conventional rontlpmen. Tf a man is a scholar, think er, a reader, manners will come to him, even if, like Burns, he starts from the plow; but if he has to work he must think of his manners.?[Mrs. M. E. W. Sherwood. Household Drudgery.?A woman should never allow herself to become a household drudge; and when she finds she has no time to read an occasional good book, to write a letter to a friend, to read a story to the children, or to walk or talk with her husband, she may conclude that there is something wrong somewhere in her domestic economy; and the more quickly she recognizes and remedies the evil, the better it will be for herself stnd family. If she is obliged to do her own family sewing, every tuck or ruffle that she puts on her children's clothes is a crime. The hour or hours spent in mak- . ing an elaborate dress that baby will look "lovely" in, is a waste of energy that a mother who does her own work cannot afford. Give the matter serious thought, 0 tired housekeeper! and see if you do not daily take many unnecessary steps, and do much that you might, without injury to any one, leave undone. Rest your body and improve your mind, keeping your face and heart as fresh as possible, if you value the love of your husband and children.?[Rural New Yorker. Household Notes.?"All things work together for good," is the silver lining to manvacloud. If home duties were shared by all, each member bearing a part, there would not be so many tired mothers. Ten minutes will till and polish a lamp; ten more will sweep a room. Who can afford to have dingy lamps or untidy rooms ? There is a train of every-day duties for each to perform; if we allow the disappointments we meet to cast a shadow, we are not qualified for them. If there are a number of things to be done in an hour, always choose those you would prefer having done in case of sudden company; sweeping should be among the first duties, as you can neither sweep in the presence of your friends nor look tidy without it. Men at home. How many men help their wives "keep house?" A friend says: "My husband can never find his hat nor boots; his learning to 'keep order' was slow work indeed. When he began wearing glasses, his trouble increased. I placed a small spool basket on the mantel for the express accomodation of those glasses, but they are seldom found there." How to Head Books.?It is almost always worth while to read a thing twice over, to make sure that nothing has been missed or dropped on the way, or wrongly conceived or interpreted. And if the subject be serious, it is often well to let an interval elapse. Ideas, relations, statements of fact are not to be taken by storm. We have to steep them in the mind, in the hope of thus extracting their inmost essence and significance. If one lets an interval pass, and then returns, it is surprising how clear and ripe that has become whichj when we left it, seemed crude, obscure, and full of perplexity. All this takes trouble, no doubt; but then, it will not do to deal with ideas that we find in books or elsewhere as a certain bird does with its eggs?leaves them in the sand for the sun to hatch and chance to rear. People who follow this plan possess nothing better than ideas half hatched and convictions reared by accident. They are like a man who should pace up and down the world in the delusion that he is clad in sumptuous robes of purple and velvet, and when in truth he is only half covered by the rags and tatters of other people's cast-off clothes.?[John Morley.