University of South Carolina Libraries
LEWIS M. gbist, Proprietor. J 31 n independent iainilt} |tapaprr: i[oi; the fromotion of thq |olitic;il, Social, ^gi[i(ultural and (Commercial interests of the &outh. jTERMS?$3.0? A YEAR IX ADVANCE. VOL. 40. YORKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, FKRIUIA I? V 7, 1894. STO. <5. A TRANSFERR BY EDITH SESS Copyright, 1893, by American Press . CHAPTER XVIII. A DISAPPEARANCE. The sodden death of old Jezebel broke j np the voodoo performances ir. the swamp. All the planters in tbo neigh- 1 borhood l>estirred themselves and gave strict orders to their slaves to keep away from the accursed place. If these practices were continued, it was secretly and in some other locality. No longer were j our ears disturbed by unearthly cries; , ? 1~???*?/>??? otmnira linrbta ttppn at 7**" UU lUU^Cl nviw oviuu^v ??Qu?v ? , dead of night. A pall of silence settled ' down npon the swamp, and the wind that muttered among the pines told another story?a tale of cruel wrong and terrible justice, of a sullen prisoner | doomed to perpetual solitude within the j gloomy environments of this uncanny swamp. This was the punishment meted out to Sidonie, to suffer as she had caused her gentle, amiable mistress to suffer; to see no face save that of her dusky jailer; to hear no voice save his thick accents as I be bade her eat and drink. Not a dissenting word was raised against this retribution. Colonel Marchmont, humaue and kindly master, had endeared himself to his slaves, but their : love for Portia amounted to a reverence. Had Sidonie fallen into their hands she ! would have fared far less gently. During her short reign her arrogance aud J natural cruelty had engendered a feel- ! ing of intense hatred among the slaves, and when they learned the true state of affairs they had no mercy for her. "'Deed she oughter be tohn limb from "Ef 1 wuz mars, I'd flay her alive," : was the general opinion delivered on the j matter. As the days went by, and Portia hovered between life and death, many were the angry lcoks cast toward the swamp and many the maledictions called down on Sidonie's head by her fellow slaves. The gate to the swamp stood open ; now, but no one save the big negro appointed to watch Sidonie went in and out. I sometimes strolled in that direction and looked down into the melancholy vista of somber shade and desolate bog, wondering how the criminal?that - beautiful, intense, tropical creature, i stripped of her stolen finery, clad in the 1 coarsest raiment, fettered like an animal?was existing. What anguish, what despair must be hers! No hope, no ray of light! At such times I pitied her. 1 remembered her beauty, her gayety, her grace. I recalled her words of tragic prophecy, "Remember, Prudence, whatever comes, I ^' that I loved him as few women love." i . Poor, wretched, misguided Sidonie! Her sin had been that she loved too well. Then, when I returned to the .sickroom and looked at my friend, when I heard | the moans of paiu and witnessed the j -x ? ^11 kna. ? I struggle lur uie, an iuj jutj utuvuiw i vanished, and every outraged instinct of my nature cried out for revenge upon the heartless, soulless, hrazen creature who had wrought this havoc and disaster. I now come to an event so awful, 60 frightful that even the remembrance, dimmed as it is by the mists of years, causes a wave of terror to roll again over my being. I sometimes live it over in my dreams and wake screaming and Bobbing, and if I should live to be a hundred years old I can never efface I that terrible scene. Let me tell it as calmly as possible. It was one dull November afternoon, when a ghostly mist was settling down over i the landscape and fine spatters of rain were beating irregularly against the window panes, that George, Sidonie's jailer, rushed into the library, where i the colonel, Maurice and I were sitting, j and with trembling voice and shaking ?j hands implored his master's forgiveness, : for Sidonie had escaped. "Escaped!" cried Colonel Marchmont j in a terrible voice. "You black rascal, what does this mean?" " 'Deed, mars," cried the man, rolling his eyes in terror, "it mus' Ik? do debbil ; hisself holp her. Wen I lef her to come up fer her suppah, she was chained all i right. Alius look de las' t'ing ter see I ef she's fastened. Wen I goes back jus' now, she's gone, de chain broken in two." "Send for Jake," interrupted Colonel j Marchmont imperatively. "Come, Man- 1 rice, we must not lose a moment. Think \ of that creature free to do further mischief!" Presently the plantation was astir. Negroes ran hither and thither, the bay of the bloodhounds was heard, and Jake, Maurice and the colonel, with a crowd of negroes, were hurrying toward the swamp, intent upon recapturing the fugitive. 1 went to Portia's room to see if the unusual tumult had annoyed or alarmed ' her. She had roused from her sleep 1 ' I 'Escaped!" crieil Colonel Marehmont. and raised herself with difficulty on one slender arm. Her great eyes questioned me, and she feebly asked: "What is it, Prudence?" i "Nothing, dear; do not distress your- j self. Lie down; lie down." "1 heard the dogs baying?I heard angry voices. What is it? Tell me. i will know." I hesitated. "Tell me," she repeated, and a fain ; red spot appeared on either cheek. "I liiUOW tVliVV*. JL11U1U ir? UUUUIC, lO lUCiU I not? A slavo has run away?who is it?" ' I could not speak. "Ah, I know!" she cried. "I know?I feel?it is Sidonie?" I bowed my head. "Where are they? In the swamp? Ah, yes. beating the place with dogs and guns. She will be taken, shot, perhaps torn to pieces. Oh, my poor Sidonie! 1 have forgiven her. Let her go. Prudence," wildly, "go quickly. I can trust you. Follow them to the swamp. Find Jermyn and tell him that I. Portia, l>eg him to let Sidonie go?tell him it distresses me. 1 cannot bear it. 1 forgive her with all my heart," and she fell back exhausted on the pillows. I summoned the nurse as quickly as possible, and as Portia still urged and insisted I should carry her sublime message to her husband I set out through the mist and the rain to Dead Man's swamp. CHAPTER XIX. OBLITERATION. I ran down the path, through the gate, nor even stopped till I was under the wide-spreading shade of the moss laden trees. The mist wrapped me about; the rain beat against my face. Afar in the distance 1 heard the sullen bay of the bloodhounds and tho shouts of the pursuers. 1 did not realize my danger, never thinking that one false step mighi plunge me into tho morass, from which it would be almost impossible to extricate myself, but stumbled on, hoping to come up with the others. But their voices receded farther and farther. I called, but ED IDENTITY. JIONS TUPPER. Association, received no answer. Blindly I struggled on, groping ami feeling my way, until at last the appalling truth burst upon mo that I was lost in that awful place! I stopped and reflected upon the gravity of the situation. It was nearly night, and there was a dense fog shutting me in. Portia and the servants at the house would believe me to bo with Colonel Marchmont, and of course the latter and Maurice, if they gave me a thought, supposed I was with Portia. If the fog did not lift, or if I could not summon relief by calling, I should be forced perhaps to spend the night in the swamp. I dared not move. I put out my hand and caught at the branch of a tree. Faintly through the fog I could discern bits of the ugly morass stretching everywhere about me. The only thing for me to do was to stand still and cry aloud for help. This I did again and again, but there was no response. At length, frightened and unnerved, I leaned against the tree near which I stood and burst into tears. "What shall I do?" I moaned aloud. "What shall I do? Must I spend the night in this fearful plate?" Did my senses deceive me? Had I gone mad, or did there come from out the thick fog close by me a burst of laughter, lirill, harsh and mocking. My heart stood still as 1 listened. Yes, there was no deception. Again that taunting, wicked laughter. "Who?what is it?" I stammered, and my tongue was thick and my lips parched as I faintly articulated the words. "It is I," answered a voice through the drifting fog. "it is I?your old friend Portia?or rather Sidonie." "Sidonie!" I cried, "where are you?" "Not far away," came the taunting voice, "but I shall soon be much far "Oh, Sidouie," I implored, "come to me. Let me take your hand. I have good uews for yon. Portia has forgiven you everything and sent me here to plead I saw a white vj)turncil face. with her husband on your behalf. Come. You know the swamp. Lead me out, I beg, and I will hasten with her message to Colouel Marclimont." Again mat uursc or nenuisn lauguier. "Come to you?tako your hand?lead you out!" came the voice; "impossible, you poor little gray mouse. I cannot bother with you. I am going 011 another errand." "Oh, do not leave me, Sidonie," I implored. "Do not leave me here in this desolate place alone." "I must"? How strango her voice! Was it dying away? "Como back; come buck!" I cried in terror. "I cannot?I cannot?goodby?goodby" Scream after scream broke from my lips as I realized that she was leaving me. I was well nigh insane with fright. Just then the fog parted like a curtain before me, and there in the black morass at my feet I saw s* white upturned face, which seemed to fling a defiant smile at me as it slowly sank from sight in the ooze and horrible slime. Then, as if clutched from beneath, the long black hair outstretched upon the filthy water was dragged down. One slim, white hand remained an instant. fluttering like a broken winged bird. Then it was gone! CHAPTER XX. LOVE. When they found me lying against the tree staring like a dead woman at the fatal spot where a life had been obliterated, they lifted me tenderly and car- ! ried me like a child back to the house and my room. I did not weep. I did not faint nor grow hysterical, but I was like stone. I seemed to have 110 sensation or volition. Over and over I saw that fearful sight. Over and over I heard that burst of mocking laughter. The climax to the nervous strain under which I had been for weeks nearly dethroned my reason. What saved n^e? Love. I was lying on the broad couch before the open tire in the library staring in the glowing coals, seeing there again that hideous picture, when the door gently opened and Maurice entered. He bent over me and said gently: "Poor little brave fighter! You had to succumb at last, didn't you? Courageous little Bunker Hill! When I consider the fortitude you have displayed for weeks, I am filled with admiration. To think of all the horrors you have endured to bo eapi>ed by that fearful experience in the swamp?well, well," he paused as if unable to proceed. "But," he continued after a moment's Bileuce, "we can't have our crack warrior laid low. No, indeed. Just tell me how this plantation will bo run, who "Will ymi lie. vi?/ icifi?" will take care of Daphne, nurse Portia well, look out for .Termyn's comfort and ?occasionally give a kind little smile to i fussy old fellow like me?" I smiled faintly. "That's right. I like to see you smile, Prudence. It lights up your plain, severe little face and makes you beautiful iu my sight." "Beautiful!" I said contemptuously. "Yes, beautiful!" lie retorted. "Not with the classic beauty of Portia's face nor the diabolical witchery of that poor creature whose beauty was her ruin, but the beauty of goodness, kindness, loyalty ami bravery?the beauty of holiness, little woman. Prudence," gently lifting me in his arms and kissing me tenderly on the eyes, "do you know those clear, truthful eyes have looked down deep in my heart? I love you. Will you be my wife?" It is said joy never kills. The words 1 had longed to hear were a ' balm to my sick and tired heart. I wept, : and the tears did me good. I had never known love nor congenial j | companionship. I had never dreamed ; J the}' could come into my colorless exist- ; i^ence. And yet my heart was as young and fresh as a girl's and responded to af- ! fection as a thirsty flower extends its | cup for a drop of dew. I Love and happiness were mine at last. ! I Heaven was in my hands. j When Colonel Marchmont unexpect- , edly entered the room a few minutes j j later, he paused confusedly, murmured , an apology and turned to go, when j 1 Maurice drew mo to my feet, and lead- I ing mo up to our host said in tones of mock solemnity: I "Jermyn, a most astounding geograph- j ; ical phenomenon will be witnessed some ! time within the next six months. Bunker j Hill is to be transported to the shores of ( I Lake Ponchartrain. Congratulate me!" I i CHAPTER XXI. BACK FROM TIIE DARK VALLEY. Portia did not die. Slowly, laborious- i Iv, she struggled back from the valley of 1 ; the shadow of death. For weeks her life I hung by a thread, but tender care, de- j votion and love snatched her from the i I rorrrn nf the frravfi. Only the ghost of herself she appeared when at last she was able to be dressed I and carried down stairs to the library. Her feeble joy at being home once more, the pathetic happiness which shone in i her great pyes?yes, even the tender lit- | j tie caresses she gave her favorite books and cushions?were indescribably affect- j I ing. i The meeting between herself and her i child was sacred. I had prepared Daphne as best I could by tolling her that mam1 ma had been very ill indeed; that she ! must ask no troublesome questions, for some day when she was old enough to i understand everything should be ex, plained to her; that her mamma's heart was full of love for her, and she need never fear she would be scolded or slapped again, then took her to the door ! of Iter mother's chamber. Portia was bolstered up by a small i army of pillows, her sunken cheeks i lighted by a feverish glow, her languid 1 j eyes brimming with a mother's love. Colonel Marclnnont sat by the bed, liold! ing one wasted hand. I opened the door for Daphne and drew back as the child crossed the thresh- : i old. I heard a half suppressed cry, a rapturous exclamation, a rush of tiny | feet, and I knew that in that sickroom was a little bit of heaven. Strangely enough, Daphne at once said: j "You've been away such a long time, ! mamma, I thought you were never com> ing back." She obeyed instructions and never I asked any questions, but ever after re' ferred to the time "when mamma was away." At first Portia did not seem to remem- ! ber what had befallen her. She appeared , conscious of having passed through some , hideous exi>erience with Sidonie, the de: tails of which were veiled in obscurity. ; We pressed her as little as possible on j the subject, trusting that with returned j j health she might be able to recall the , < most important points of her long and i cruel captivity. And so it came to pass as we had hoped. One radiantly lovely twilight we sat upon the piazza. Portia, pale, \ languid, but still beautiful, wrapped in j soft filmy white shawls and laces, was ! reclining in her great chair. Maurice j lay in a hammock, idly* puffing a cigar, j j Colonel Marclnnont sat by Portia, care- i j fully watching her every expression and ' anticipating her every want. The sun was just setting in royal pomp j and splendor. Long hanks of fleecy purple and crimson clouds were piled in the western sky. A mild breeze was springing up, ruffling the tall, nodding lilies standing in huge jars along the { piazza and lightly lifting the little rings of hair on the invalid's brow. She drank in the scene and the soft, ; delicious air. She sighed in ecstasy, and smiled at each of us in turn. Suddenly she spoke. "Oh, how good it is to be alive!" Her husband lifted her hand and kissed it with intensity. "1 remember it all now," she said slowly. "Yes?everything. It has been coming back to me little by little. I ' have pieced together all those dreadful episodes, and the whole frightful story ! is before me. I know you are all long ing to hear it" "Dearest, no!" interrupted her husband hastily, "not until you are quite well and strong. Don't agitato yourself. I beg." "I am well enough now, Uerinyn," she gently replied. "I am well enough to tell you about it. I think it will be a relief to me." "Very well then, dear one, if it is your wish." "Jermyn," she said solemnly, laying her hand upon his head, "I have known for years that Sidonio worshiped you. I discovered this just before our marriage, when one evening I came upon her in the library passionately kissing a rose which had fallen from your coat. The discovery shocked me, and yet I pitied her and spoke kindly and tenderly to her. You know howl always loved Sidonie. I can never forget the agony and despair in her face and her voice as see cried out that I had all in life, she nothing; that she prayed and longed for death; that she cursed the hour she was born. Oh, 1 pitied her?I pitied her," and Portia's voice shook with sublime compassion. There was silence for a few minutes. Then she resumed her story: "After that I was more indulgent and considerate than ever to Sidonie. She was given greater liberty. I intrusted her with many little commissions, hoping that a busy life and a certain amount of responsibility would be some compensation for her sad fate. But she seemed to grow more and more imbittered and despairing. At last, a few days before our marriage, she disappeared. "Do you know," she said, looking earnestly at us, "I always hoped she would not be captured? While I shuddered at the thought of what her fate might be wit*, her fiery temper and her inordinate vanity, still it was a relief to me not to see her, and I fancied that perhaps she would be happier under different environments. Her value as a piece of property never occurred to me. "In my new home and my new life I soon forgot Sidonie, though often a remembrance of her waywardness and her henntv would drift in mv thoughts. I ' was often told of my folly in allowing so valuable a slave to slip out of my hands without greater endeavor to arrest her; but, as I said before, I was relieved to have her <mt of my sight. "When Jermyii was summoned to England two yeats ago, it was with a dull sensation of apprehension that 1 saw him go. Ah! my dear husband, never can 1 tell you my emotion as I watched your carriage disappear. It seetued to me that you were going out of my life forever. "You had not been long away when one morning Jake came to me and asked me what he should do about old Jezebel. He said that she would not remain on the plantation, but spent her time idling about in the swamp, occasionally presenting herself at the quarters for her rations, encouraging the negroes toshiftless and lazy ways and frightening them nearly out of their wits by weird practices and tales. He hesitated to punish nor cm account or nor years aim nccauso to the other negroes she bore a charmed life. In fine, he did not want trouble if , it could be avoided, and would I give I him orders in the matter. I told him I j would see .1 e/.ebel myself and directed that she be sent to me. "That evening?it was just such an | evening as this?I was walking alone through the grounds. I came to the wall ! separating the plantation from the swamp. I had always known of this I old gate, but having had 110 curiosity con- 1 cerhing'the 8wnmp""ha3 never opened it. Now, as I approached it," I thought of the old negress, and tin; audacious idea of exploring this unknown territory suddenly entered my head. In those days I did not know fear, and therefore without any reflection I pushed open the gate and sauntered along the path leading to the heart of the swamp. I decided to investigate old Jezebel's retreat J'or myself and see the hut I learned she had built for her use, declaring the cabin assigned to her at the quarters not good enough for an African princess, as she proudly claimed to lie. "I wandered on, quite enjoying the novelty of my walk. The sun was setting, and the last rays darted across the pines as I entered the gloomy forest. On, 011, farther I plunged into this wilderness and presently came out into the open space near Jezebel's hut. "The old woman was sitting on the ground before the hut crooning and muttering to herself. She looked not human as she peered up at me through the tangles of her coarse, matted gray hair. For the first time I felt a trifle afraid and glanced around nervously. But there was no one in sight. Absurd, I thought. How can this weak old creall II =! ,i iff i m IS #W to ? HI n ffli 11101 ?WI \|J 'opened the door for Daphne. tnre harm me? I spoke to her and asked her what she was doing there. She only stared up at mo with bleared eyes and demanded who I was. " 'I am your mistress,' I said, 'and I am very much annoyed with you. I hear you will not stay at the quarters with the other slaves, but insist upon living here alone. You cannot do this. You aro too old and feeble. You must go back to the plantation. It is your home. I will seo that you are made quite comfortable.' "A wicked glitter came in her eyes, and she answered that she would not go back. " 'Very well,' I said, 'since you refuse to obey me, I shall send the overseer after you, and you will be taken back.' "During this brief parley I was conscious of a feeling that there was a listener to our conversation. I heard no sound, I saw nothing, but I could not banish that curious sensation of another presence near at hand. It was not a pleasant feeling by any means, and I turned to go. " 'Wait a moment, honey,' said the old woman suddenly. 'Come inside and see de lubbly little house I done got. I can't go fer ter leab it.' "Though my judgment, revolted, I nevertheless accepted her invitation, and stepping through the low door I stood within the miserable hut. Again that feeling that there was some one near, so strong this time that it amounted to positive terror. I spoke. 'Who is here?' I demanded. "Then suddenly there was a rush. I was seized from behind in a strong grasp and thrown upon the bed. I shrieked for help, but the old woman quickly tied something over my mouth. As I was lying face down on tho loathsome couch, I was almost suffocated. I knew that strong hands were securing mine, and presently, finding myself overcome and powerless, I lost consciousness. "When I came to myself, I was unable to rise, being fastened down to this pallet. I could not cry out, for my mouth was bandaged. Old Jezebel's hideous face was bent over me, and in the gloom I saw another face?Sidonie's! "I knew her instantly, though years had gone by since I had seen her. I noticed even in my pain and terror that she was more beautiful than ever, and then I remarked something else. It was this: She was dressed in the gown I had worn into the swamp, and it seemed to have been made for her. "I eon Id not understand it. At first i fancied she had come to my assistance and smiled faintly and pleadingly up at her. But she stared stonily at me and made no move to release ihe. On the contrary, she bent down and whispered these terrible words in my ear: " 'Your day is done. Your identity is not destroyed, but transferred to me. You are no longer Portia. I am she. I return to Swamplands and rule there. You remain in Dead Man's swamp?to die.' "Again I fainted. And after that it is all like a terrible nightmare?a confusion of harsh words, of bitter drafts, of awful sounds. There were moments of consciousness when I could see through the half open door the glare of the red firelight and dusky forms lea [ting around it?a frightful sight; when, too, I saw the faces of my tormentors, Jezebel's like a fiend and that of Sidonie sardonic and triumphant. After many days Sidonie brought a little instrument with which they pierced my arms and injected their drugs and poisons. I begged feebly for mercy, but they showed me none. But my bodily sufferings were as UPthing comparrd with those of my mind. When I could realize anything, I thought of the wicked deception being practiced upon my husband, of my child. Oh, God! it was terrible?terrible." "My darling, my darling," cried her husband, catching her to his heart, "say no more. You will only make yourself iii T " Ill a^illll. Olw|i, i I?n >*'H. There is nothing mure to say," said Portia feebly, smiling with brimming eyes ami tremulous lips. "There is nothing more to say, only that I am safe and God is good." TIIE END. I Joan, theVehialoT'o|ic. One of the most curious of the mediaeval legends is that which purports to givo the life history of Joan (some authorities give her name as Agnes and others as Gilberta), the "female pope." That such a person never existed and that the story is a fiction invented by the reformers in order to lower the Catholic church in the eyes of the common people there is not the least doubt, yet the narrative, from the standpoint of this department being a purveyor of curious and out of the way information, is very interesting: Joan is said to have been of English descent, but born in Ingclheim or Mainz, Germany. Slit; fell in love with a young Benedictine monk named Fulda, and in order to be near him dressed in male attire and was admitted to the monastery where her lover was cloistered. - i 1 1.^.-1 V. ,i.. 1- i l logeilier .loan aim runin siuuumi noin iu Athens iiml in Rome, an?l in tin; latter place, her sex being unsuspected, Joan was made a professor. When Leo IV died, the cardinals, by general consent, elected the "professor" to the pontifical chair. other authorities say that she succeeded Adiian II, who died in the year 872. Her sex is said to have been discovered when, acting as pope, she was leading a procession to the Lateral) palace. Immediately upon discovery she was stoned to death. w ' I lie Duke llelurns a Check. While in Chicago the Duke of Veragua wrote an article ahout his ancestors for The North American Review. He sent it to General Briee, and he received a check in return. This was more than ho expected, and he returned the check and asked that it be contributed to some charitable use. ! FULPIT AND THEATER I | A SAFE COURSE FOR THE PROFESSED | CHRISTIAN TO PURSUE. Sermon hy lie v. Madison C. Peters at the j tiloonilngdalo Iteformed Church In New York?Tho Church and the Stage?Plays | and Players. I Tlio theater owes its origin to relii gion. In tireece, India and China the drama was originally a religions ceremony, and it was intended to promote j religion. In tho conrse of time tho drama ceased to bo a religious ceremony j and became a work of art. Every student of church history j j knows that the modern drama sprang j ! originally from trie cnurcn. in trie dark ages the priests put the whole of theology on the stage, and in this way tho rudo and unlettered mob that gathered on saints' days wero taught in an effective way tho truths of religion, so that in the Christian era the first thea- j ters wero tho churches and tho first actors tho priests. But secular competition grew apace, : and in 1378 the dean and chapter of St. ! Paul's cathedral petitioned Richard III j to stop certain dramatic performances < which wero being got up in London j outside the church. Why? Because i the cathedral clergy of St. Paul's had i spent so much money on church scenery j nnd costumed inside tho cathedral they j wero eager to crush all secular compe- j tition. Perversion of the Dramntlo Instinct. | In Elizabeth's reign the secular drama ; had grown so popular that a preacher j exclaims: "Woe is me. At the play; house it is not possible to get a seat, i while at the cburcli vacant seats are ' plenty." Tho clergy did not object to j the principle of acting, or becauso the ! play wae immoral, except when it satir- j i ized the diunken and smoking rector, i Nor did the clergy object to the play I because it hurt the people, hut because . J it pleased them. They groaned when the people shouted, j God has implanted a drumatic ele- j ment in most of our natures; recognized | and cultivated it in tho Bible. It is not something built up outaido of ourselves | by Thespis and ^Eschylus and Sophocles ; and Euripides and Terence and Plautus and Seneca and Congreve and Farqnhar : and Corneille and Alfieri and Goldsmith | REV. MADISON C. PETERS. and Sheridan and Shakespeare. Man is [ not responsible for tho dramatic eloI ment in his soul, but for tho perversion ; of it. If vacant seats are so plenty in the j church, whuso fault is it? Tho human | mind is tho same in the pew as in tho theater. The world suffers inoro from too little dramatic power in tho church than from too much outside of it. A j preacher asked Garrick, tho tragedian, "Why is it you are able to produce so ! much moro effect with tho recital of J your fictions than wo do by tho delivery of tho most important truths?" "My lord," said Garrick, "you speak truths as if they were fictions; we speak fictions as if they were truths." And j wherever today, all Christendom j through, there is a man with graceful > gestures, modulated voice, elegant expression, appropriate emotion and graceful action; wherever you find a 1 ' man as natural and'impressive, as au- ; diblo and as interesting as the actor, i yon will find a full church. Let tho j | preachers work at the people with the same power,?intelligenco and will as tho actor is obligod to work at the public, depend upon it their achievements will be in proportion. The actor does not grumble because tbe people won i come | | to tho theater. Ho says, "I am to j blame." People don't come to church j because they are not interested. Let na i learn from tho actor how to read and j how to infuso life into our service. Other things besides religion are ' good. Dickena' works are eternal arguments against injustice, and in writing i , novels he was as well employed as in i preaching the gospel. Mendelssohn, by j his sublime compositions, did better serve the world than going out as a missionary to China, and Shakespeare served tho world and his Maker better as a dramatist than as a bishoppreaching : sermons that nobody wanted to hear. The Arts and sciences must go hand in hand with religion and morality. Tho Church and the World. The church of the past stood aloof from the world. The church of the fu- j ture will assimilate with it. Tho church has spent much time peering into amusements to see what evil they con- j tained, and has kept digging away at this instead of putting divine gruce into them and letting that elevate and regulate them. Wo have been absorbed in j ferreting out and declaiming against the evil and forgotten that we have a j corresponding duty to develop the good. ; Tho church has failed to regulate popu- { lar amusements, it has withdrawn itself from them, and if tbo devil has 1 come in and taken full possession tho church is to blame. i I know that I overstep the mark of i received church opinion, but I would j rather be right than consistent. If the j church has with mistaken zeal fostered a false position, it would bo cowardly, having discovered tho error, to withhold ! tho truth from society through fear of being turned oh and called inconsistent. This age needs men who havo tho cour- , ago to meet prejudice. Let us bring tho leaven of tho gospel into the amusement lump, and teach tho people how to uso amusements without abusing them, and save tho church from her present hu- : initiating attitude as the declared enemy of tho drama, from attending which she has no power to restrain her j Tim vvurlil k crnvviiiiF hotfpr: the church is growing wiser. Wo aro ; in n transition age. Religious opinion is bridging over the scandalous chasm which has so long existed between j church and stage. As an ethical question, most persons are agreed that amusements in the abstract aro not j wrong. .Some people mistako their prejudices for conscientious scruples. "Man has an animal nature as well as ( rational faculties; he has instincts that are purely animal as well as characteristics purely intellectual and spiritual, , and the playing out of these impulses ! within the limits of moderation is ; just as sinless as in the animal puro and simple." Thb mind kept on the con- j tinual stretch of serious duty will pre- ] maturely lose its healthy action. Old \ and young alike must have their times j Ot sport, anil U is 1101 necessary mat wu i bring tho hours of recreation under too \ rigid scrutiny of reason. Tho scrutiny j I of conscience must ho there. However i pleasant it may ho to do wrong, it is , never right to do it, and sin committed j in pursuit of pleasure is as sinful as if ! done for tho sake of profit. Hut having I made this reservation tho wisest of us : can sometimes afford to lay nsido our dignity and become children. .SiiiihIiIiio and Gloom. As Martin Luther romped with the children, and the immortal Chalmers trundled a hoop, so our amusements, trifling in themselves, may be considered wise for the same reason "that the ' bow needs to he completely unbent." 1 do not take the untenable and un-Chris- j tian position of condemning everything in life unless invested with seriousness, j That would make life too gloomy. But if, on the other hand, we make life all sunshine, and sport continually in its beams, like insects of the day. pleasure j seekers only, it is a very different I thing. That which may be commended | as an occasional recreation becomes ' a* imM'/vni mil v if mnflo ! vet y 1111111 111 ij ui mi ?T\Mtuui<; ? immmv . the object of daily pursuit. Our amuse- J merits may ho prostituted to evil; so j may horses. Decnnso they are so often tho gambler's richest resources shall wo | refuse to nso them? Tho theater is primarily for amusement, and not for j moral instruction. The home, the social j circle, tho church, the Sunday school, tho companionship of good books, and, abovo all, tho Bible, nro to teach us 1 what is right and true. Tho chnrgo that religion is scoffed at on the stago is false. Hypocrites and charlatans ocnsionnlly furnish subjects for its characterization. The causo of religion docs not suffer when its spuri- j ous representatives nro held up to ridicule and contempt. Christ did tho ! sarno thing. Tho closing passage of an old play?"Tho Hypocrite"?contain- j ing such a character would seem to bo a sufficient answer to tho chnrgo to | which 1 linvo just alluded: "Nay, now. my dear sir, I must take tho liberty to tell you, you carry things | too far and go from one extreme to an- j othor. What! Because n worthless wretch has imposed upon you under the | fallacious show of an anstero grimace, j will you needs have it that everybody is ; like him? Confound the good with the i bad and conclude there are no truly I religious in the world? Leave, my dear ' sir, such rash conclusions to fools and libertines. Let us be careful to distinguish as between virtue and the appear- i ance of it. Guard if possible agaic6t j doing honor to hypocrisy, but at the j same time allow thero is no character in life greater or more valuable than that of the truly devout, nor anything more noble or moro beautiful than the i fervor of n sincere piety." Actors and Preachers. All actors are not moral. All preachers are not moral. There are bad men in all professions. There aro men and women on the stage whose characters are as spotless and their lives as beneficent as any in our churches. Crimes are committed on the stage; so they are in the Bible. ; Goodness and badness are put in opposi- 1 tion in both books and plays. The chief j themes of the theater Hre the passions of men. So are the subjects tor the chisel of Angelo, the brush of Guido, the pencil of Dore, the burden of the [ sermon on the mount by Christ, in whose lips there was no guile, and whose ev- j ery thought was without spot or blem- ! ish. If the exposure of sin is an inde- i cency, to be consistent ull the literature of the world, both sacred and profane, must be committed to the flames. Call ! the roll of all the plays that achieve the widest and the most permanent success. They are as innocent as milk, and the leaders of the stage would be astonished j at being accused of producing an im- j moral piece. The preacher contrasts virtue and vice from a positive point of view; the diamatist presents pictorial- | ly the contrasts between virtue and j vice, and I know of no standard play in I which tho former is not always trium- | phant in tho end. Tho Roman actor j charged with having corrupted the j youth of the city said before tho senate: When do we bring ft vice upon tho stage That goes off unpunished? Do we teach By tho success of wicked undertakings Others to tread in their forbidden steps? We show no arts of Lydlan panderisni, Corinthian poisons, Persian flatteries, But mulcted so in the conclusion that Even those spectators that were so inclined Go homo changed men. Water cannot rise higher than its Bource, and the character of the theater cannot be sustained above the character of those who attend it. Playwrights and | actors are not to blame for what we j often get on the stage. Tho Americans like slang and vulgarity. Playwrights and actors do not live to write and act; ' they have the bread and butter huinun weakness, ana write ana act to uvu. They know what the peoplo want, and they give it to them. The noble sentiment raises feeble applanso, but the word that looks two ways, or the exhi- j bition of doubtful propriety, brings ull i the feet down and makes all hands clap. The theater and opera will never in tone and tendency be above the lifo that , attends them. The demand will con- j trol the supply. In nothing else do i Americans show such bad taste as in their indorsement of plays and players. | "Hamlet," "Macbeth," "King Lear" and "Richard III"?are theso the types which most frequently appear? Look ! at tho placards on tho walls for the an- 1 swer. And the Shakspeares,-Goldsmiths and Slieridans are not likely to bo popular so long as peoplo throng the theater to hear poor puns and silly songs which the compounders of gayety burlesque j provide. Still I am hopeful for tho future. A j larger and more refined class of people j attend tho theater than ever. A higher tone of morals prevails in | the best plays and is manifested in the character of tho players. Tho church has made a tremendous i mistake in its wholesale denunciation of the theater. A larger part of tho community attend tho theater, and tho ma- f jority of our population are moral and virtuous. Amusements are proper for Christians because the divine law written in our hearts makes them so. There is nothing in the precepts of our religion that makes us march down the path ' of lifo to the tune of tho "Dead, March In Saul." Tho pulpit's vituperation of tho theatrical profession is so tin-Christian as only a clergyman who never saw i a good play would ever dream of making. The stago seldom or never strikes back. Tho numerous scandals of American clergymen now serving terms in ! the various penitentiaries of the ianil afford legitimate material for the stage. These materials remain unused because the dramatist, the manager and the ac- j tor have too great respect for the religion of Christ to weaken it by emphasizing the sins of any of his servants. Some men who write against thosensuality of tho stage remind mo of the preacher in Canada who declaimed against dancing in such a manner that j the dancing went on, hut tho parson was himself discharged on account of tho vulgarity of his discourse. Tho j time has passed for offensive dictation j and inquisitorial condemnation 011 tho part of bigots. A Word of Caution. Tho theater is hero to stay. Reform is tho notetf tho future. Eliminate the ' bad. Encourage tho good. Tho shame- j ful posters, tho female attire, or rather tho lack of it, tho compromising attitudes, tho silly things accepted, tho 1 commonplace persons admired and com- j mended?thunder as much at these as you will. Let ridicule, sarcasm and denunciation exhaust their armories upon these abuses, these positive evils. "Can I go to tho theater?" asks tho Christian. 1 answer, If you can. "Let every man bo persuaded in his own mind." Refuse to do or go where your conscience forbids, hut retrain also from j n..?wl..n,vimr iiniirliliiir whose coll Xj\JII... ........H , science may not require liim to walk in tho saino path you have markcil out for j youraclf. From amusements that demand of you an outlay beyoml your moans you ] had better stand aloof. If you have dol- i lars and days for tho theater, and mites 1 and minutes for the church, you need j reconstruction. Confirmed theatergoers j are unfitted for life's duties. I have scores of women jn. my church who jpay ' good prices for their matinee seats Saturday afternoons who reluctantly drop a dime in tho contribution box on Sunday. These women never have time nor money for the Lord's work. How many of you are so given to levity, so giddy, fo frivolous, that you are incapable of a serious thought? Your hearts aro set on having "a good time." Once a man stood stunned at tho first sight of the Niagara. When ho got his breath back, lie simply said, "I wonder how much machinery all this would turn?" Wo aro told thero is enough power thero when converted into electricity to light tho world. And there is enough vigorous manhood and womanhood in this city, if rightly applied, to illumino our whole country. But behold tho thousands wasting that power, throwing it to tho four winds. A Wasted Life. * If at last wo aro compelled to look back upon a wasted life, wo ourselves will bo tho severest critics. And remember this: When you go out of this world and your life baa been wasted, no encoro can ever bring you back to reenact it. "As tbo tree falleth, so it lieth." Your character at the last moment will bo your character through all eternity. Mr. Palmer, the Londou actor, dropped dead on tho stage while quoting tho words of tho play, "OGod, is thero another and a better world?" 1 do not know what will be your exit, but in that hour there will come before you all yon have been and all you might have been. Oh, men and women of the theatrical profession, to whom these words may come, preparo for the closing scenes of this life, when the footlights will be tho burning world, the orchestra the resurrection trumpets, tho tragedy the upheaval of a world of graves, and the closing scene tho dispersing of tho audience to their everlastiug homes of gladness or sorrow. Amid all his levity and excess Burns had moments of deepseriousnees, recognized man's spiritual and immortal part, and the necessity of living for something higher than this present world. I was struck the other day with these lines, a grand sermon, which he sent to an intimate friend: The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies. That something in us never dies; That on this frail, uncertain state Hang matters of eternal weight; That future lifo in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone. Whether as heavenly glory bright Or dark an misery's woeful night. Since then, my honored first of frienda, On this poor being all depends. Lot us the important now employ And livo those who never die. pisfdlanrous failing. "WHERE'S MOTHER?" When the tired father returns ut night from the office or shop, when the children come home from school, the first question is always?unless she stands in the very hall before their eyes?"Where's mother?" It is often said that the mother is the home. This question is one of the many proofs of the proverb. Unless the mother is in the house, the vital principle of the home seems to be lacking. She comes, and comfort, love and joy seems to enter with her. She goes, and there is a sort of breathless and uneasy waiting till she comes back again. To the true mother, the knowledge that she is thus indispensable to the loved ones should be one of the choicest possessions. It is only by cherishing the spirit which prompts the question, "Where's mother?" that she can properly instil into the hearts of her children that "passion for home" which one of our great writers has called the "first characteristic of manly natures." And yet not infrequently a tired mother will exclaim impatiently: "I wish that I could stir without having an outcry, 'Where's mother?'" To one who sets true value upon life and its duties and pleasures, such words come with an awful shock. Pearls seem to be. cast out wastefully before the feet of such women. Hut even if a mother holds most dear this precious tribute of love, how many npn ttipi'n u'hn tuL-p nnius to bent borne when the children come? Or, if she must he absent, to leave word for them ; or to tell them before they go in the morning or at noon that she expects to be gone when they return, with the reasons and regrets? It is only by mutual thought fulness in these socalled trifles that the harmony of the home life can be preserved, and woe to her who does not appreciate them at their true value. It is impossible that the busy mother of a family, with shopping to do, calls to make, and meetings of various kinds to attend, should always be in when the children come home from school. It would show an undue regard for sentiment if she were to shut herself away from the outside life which every woman needs so much, and which she needs especially for the benefit of the family, lint by following this rule, to tell the children in the morning, whenever she can, just where she is to be, and how soon she will be at home, she may keep alive and still foster, though she is absent, the sacred flame which she so highly prizes. A lady was calling recently upon a friend, when a small boy came bounding in at the basement door about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, with the usual inquiry : "Where's mother?" "O, I remember," he added impatiently, "she said she was going to the mothers' meeting this afternoon. I wish she would hurry up and come-back !" "She didn't go," said the good natured Irish girl to whom he had been speaking, "she had word there would not be any meeting." "O, goody !" cried the urchin, leaping up the stairs two at a time, and bursting into the room where the ladies were sitting, llis face was wreathed with smiles?but his shoes were muddy. "0, Tommy !" exclaimed hi? mother, in a reproachful voice, as she pointed to the tracks he had left behind him. "Well, I was so glad to see you ' " ' > 1 ? n..l..?n.rK!? nomty lie Cxpuinicu, aa lie auiuii.il ma visitor in boyish fashion, and imprinted a resounding kiss upon the mother's cheek. "I'm sorry about the mud, but here's my ball for you to sew up, and here's the geography you were going to cover; and may I go over to Will Smith's corner with my roller skates??there's such a daisy sidewalk over there!" Verily, well may the mother forgive much in such a case. And blessed is she who can answer the children's question with a glad "Here I am !" and hear their sweet words of joy in her presence.?Congregationalist. Millions of Cuitku Coins.?There arc 1 ID,DOO,000 copper pennies somewhere. Nobody knows what has become of them, except that once in a while a single specimen turns up in change. A few years ago 4,">00,000 bronze U cent pieces were set alloat. Three millions of these arc still outstanding. Three million It-cent nickle pieces are scattered over the United States, but it is very rarely that one is seen. Of 800,000 half cents not one has been returned to the government for recoinage or is held by the treasury. Congress appropriates from $100,000 to $150,000 yearly recoining the uncurrcnt silver coins now in possession of the treasury. These are mostly half dollars, and are not circulated because there is no demand for them. Not long ago the slock of them amounted to #26,000,000 hut it is only half that now. The money set aside for rccoining is not intended to pay for the cost of minting, hut it is required to reimburse the treasury of the United States on account of the | loss in weight winch the silver pieces | have suffered by abrasion. This loss 1 I amounts to $30 on every $1,000, and ; it has to he made good in order to set : the treasurer's account straight. DANCING. Dancing is an exercise which ap- | ! pears to have been practiced by man- I I kind from the most remote ages. 1 With the Egyptains, Assyrians and j i Persians, the founders of the three great empires of the ancient world, ; i dancing was a favorite exercise or ae- | i complishment, and the practice was HOI ICSS JIM'VUH'lll illllOllg UICII" MILLCS: sors in power and importance, the ! i Greeks and Romans. The Jews, also, i ; we learn from Scripture, were strongi ly attached to the exercise at all pe! riods of their history. When their na! tion was at its summit of independent i power, the greatest of their monarchs, ! King David, gave expression to his de- i ; votional joy and gratitude by dancing. ; j The games and religious festivals of the Cireeks were graced with dances composed in honor of the object of I adoration. The Greeks had also their ! war dances, as the savages of America and other remote parts of the habitable globe have at the present day. i At all stages of her career, in her ! days of glory as well as in her decline, i | Rome carried the passion for dancing j i to excess. While half the known j ! globe was subject to her, the influence ( , of Rome, doubtless, would tend to dis- i j seminatc the love of the exercise 1 | through many countries, i From the universality of the prac- j tice of dancing, however, among the ; ! rude nations of America, Asia and Africa, at the present day, the custom may justly be regarded as one natural to man, and which he requires no | promptings to induce him to to pursue. The great difference in the forms of j the dances of various nations confirms ( this view of the subject. The fandan- j goes of Spain, the coutra-dance of France, the waltzes and allemandes of Germany, the hornpipes of England, | ! the reels of the Scottish Highlands, and the jigs of Ireland, are well-known ; instances of national forms of dancing, all differing considerably from each j other, and all preserved apparently for j a great length of time in the countries ; [ where they are practiced. Almost ! every people that exist, whether bar- j J barons or civilized, have, in like man- j I tier, their own form of dancing. It is J this universality *of the exercise that ; makes dancing a subject of importance, j INSTINCT OF SELF PRESERVATION. I never realized the strength of the | instinct of self preservation in man, ! says John F. Thompson, in the St. Louis j Globe-Democrat, until I witnessed a ] test of it on a steamboat. Among the i passengers was a man who had a black'j 1 rattlesnake in a box with a glass top. i I The snake was a very vicious one, and { would strike the glass whenever any | one approached. The owner of the I ' reptile challenged any one in the crowd j to hold his finger on the glass and let j the snake strike at it. There could not be any danger, and there was not 1 a man who did not think it an easy ' I thing to do. One big fellow, who | looked as if he never knew what nerves were, tried it first, and after repeated j attempts, gave it up. Then every passenger on the boat attempted it, and failure followed in each case. It simply could not be done. Instinct was stronger than reason and will power combined. I witnessed another illustration of this in Paris. A young man had lost his last sou at a gambling table. Not only was he without means, but he I had lost a large sum belonging to his | employer. He started for the Heine to drown himself. On the way there ; was a great commotion, caused by the > escape of a tiger from a strolling menagerie. The animal came down the ; street, and the people fled in every | j direction. Instantly, the man who was j seeking death climbed a lamp-post and : hung on to the top of it, trembling in ; every muscle. When the animal was | captured and the danger was over, he j went to the river and committed sui- : I T ...An rti.AL>inil in llin nn/lnllllt ! I UIUC# 1 luiruoicvi lit uiv uvwut.v , ! of the suicide, and, prompted by curii osity, went to see the iiody, instantly ; recognizing it as that of the young | | man whom I had seen make so frantic j j an effort to escape death, evidently but | I a few minutes before he sought it, and | | at the very time that he was seeking ; an opportunity to end his existence. WHY EVE HAD NO HELP. A lady furnishes some of the reasons i J why Eve did not keep a hired girl: j ! "There has been much said about the . 1 faults ofwomen and why they need so , much waiting on. Some one (a man, I of course) has the presumption to ask : I 'Why, when Eve was manufactured of a spare rib, a servant was not made at I the same time to wait upon her? She ! didn't need any, Adam never came , whining to Eve with a ragged stocking to be darned, buttons to be sewed on, gloves to be mended right away?quick ; ' now ! because he never read the pa- , 1 pers until the sun went down behind j the palm trees, and stretching himself i | yawned out: 'Isn't supper ready, my dear?" Not he. He made the fire j and hung the kettle over it himself, \ we'll venture, and pulled the radishes j peeled the potatoes and did every- j thing else he ought to do. He milked the cows, fed the chickens, and looked after the pigs himself and never brought half a dozen friends home to dinner when Eve hadn't any fresh pomgranetes. He never stayed out until 11 j o'clock at night, and then scolded he- | cause poor Eve was sitting up crying inside the gate. He never loafed around corner groceries while Eve was j | rocking little Cain's cradle at home. ! j He did not call Eve up from the cellar ! to get his slippers and find them in a corner where he had left them. Not ' he. When he took them off he put ; them under a fig tree beside his Sun- | j day boots. In short, he did not think j I she was especially created for the purI pose of waiting on him, and he wasn't under the impression that it disgraced i j a man to lighten his wife's cares a little. [ That's the reason Eve didn't need a l hired girl, and without it her decend- | unts did." ? I Many shoe stores and some shoe | i factories now make it point to prevent women from finding out what size shoes they are buying. That seems j [ curious, but it grows out of a t?ceuliarity of womankind which gives the slino elerk 11 irront ileal trouble Thev j say that the majority of women will not . try u shoe that is the right size. They : nearly all want them to he too small. It I often happens that a woman buys a.shoe i which she has declared to he the most comfortable that she ever put on her feet. Then she gets home and sees the number or sees it before the purchase is wrapped up, and if it is a shade larger than she has been in the 1 habit of buying, she will not take the j purchase. On this account there has grown up a custom of marking shoes | with a cipher system, which only the manufacturers and dealers can under- i i stand. The result is that many wo- ! I men are more wisely shod than ever j before. 11rsuANDs ami Wivks.?A good 1 husband makes a good wife. Some 1 men can neither do without wives nor ' with them ; they are wretched in what I is called single blessedness, and they j make their homes miserable when they I get married. They are like Tompkin's i ' dog, which could not bear to be loose, J i j and howled when it was tied up. I Happy bachelors are likely to be hap- ' < py husbands, and a happy husband is the happiest of men. A well-matched couple carry a joyful life between them, as the two spies carried the cluster of Kschol. They are a brace of birds of Paradise. They multiply their joys by sharing them, and lessen their troubles by dividing them. This is fine arithmetic. The wagon of care rolls lightly along as they pull together, and when it drags a little heavily, or there's a hitch anywhere, they love each other all the more and so lighten labor. ^ Si.mim.kCi'RK for CiKit'.?The plain, old-time, humble remedies oftentimes appear to be advantageous in modern diseases, where new tangled medicines fail to accomplish any good results. Hon. (ieorgc James has been suffering from a severe attack of the grip for some days. Tuesday he was feeling considerably better and attributed the change to a generous use of horseradish. 'T was complaining to Dr. Hambleton a couple of days ago about my generally miserable condition, and he asked inc why I didn't try the etlieacy of horseradish. It struck me that there was no reason why the fiery root would not he a good thing to use. The grip is a mucous a flection, and I know of nothing that will excite the mucous membrane into lively action quicker than horseradish, so I began to use it generously with my meats at mealtime. I am sure that my improvement is due to it, and that others afflicted with the grip would receive beneficial results by following my example.--Washington Post. ? Jackson was born in abject poverty and never became wealthy. Van Huron was the son of a tavern-keeper, and had a fight with poverty. Johnson's youth was even more unfortunate than Lincoln's. He was apprenticed to a tailor, barely learned to read in his minority, and was taught to write by his wife after marriage. Grant was born only moderately poor and never became rich. So of Hayes. Cleveland's youth was one of privation and toil. Harrison was of good but not wealthy family, and was, up to recent times, a country lawyer in good circumstances. He is but moderately wealthy. The "aristocracy of wealth" has never made any inroad upon the White House. fHHT The loquacious boarder at the country hotel loves to hear himself 4-11. . ?i i.? i i.:? 4i.? iuik j iiuu iju uuica jus vjuiiiiuuca at tuo table by insisting that he eats always, not from inclination, but from a sense of duty. Desiring to bring in his platitude once more, but in a new form, be adopts the conundrum style, and says to his bright companion opposite at the table, "Why should I remind you of the early martyrs who were burned alive?" He expected she would answer, "Because you go to the steak from a sense of duty but she both literally and metaphorically turned the tables by saying, "Because, like 'oem, you ought to be fired." The sense of duty seems to have been weakened in him of late. We are indebted to Pompeii for the great industry of canned fruits. Years ago, when the excavations were just beginning, a party of Cincinnatians, found, in what had been the pantry of the house, many jars of preserved figs. One was opened, and they were found to he fresh and good. Investigation showed that the figs had been put into jars in a heated state, an aperture left for the steam to escape, and then sealed with wax. The hint was taken, and the next year fruit canning was introduced into the United States, the process being identical with that in vogue at Pompeii twenty centuries ago. tried, and almost every kind of moss can be made into paper. There are patents for making paper from sawdust and shavings, from thistles and thistledown, tobacco stalks and tan bark. It is said that there are over two thousand patents in this country covering the manufacture of paper. No matter what the substance, the process is substantially the same. The material is ground to a pulp, then spread thinly over a frame and allowed to dry, the subsequent treatment depending on the kind of paper to be made. About Papkr.?Paper can be made out of almost everything that can be pounded to pulp. Over fifty kinds of bark are employed, while old sacking or bagging makes a good article. Paper is made out of banana skins, from bean stalks, pea vines, eoeoanut fibre, clover and timothy hay, straw, fresh water weeds, and more than one hundred different kinds of grass. Paper has been made from hair, fur and wool, from asbestos, which furnishes an article indestructible by lire; from hop plants, from husks of any and every grain. Leaves make a good strong kind of paper, while the husks and stems of Indian corn have also been Longevity Amo.nc thk Birds.? Small singing birds, technically known as "warblers," live from 8 to 18 years, provided tbey meet with no accident. Ravens have been known to live for more than 100 years in captivity, and parrots even longer. The average life of the common barnyard fowl is 171 years; geese (wild.) 100, and swans, .800 years. Ornithologists believe that the extrordinary longevity of some species of birds is nature's plan of compensation for their feeble fertility and for the great mortality among their young. flaJT According to the Norfolk Virginian, a girl residing in a Lake Michigan town has recovered $000 damages from a steamboat cojnpany for naming a boat after her without asking her permission. An exchange says she took offense at a marine item stating that "Kittie Marshall, having been thoroughly scrubbed, painted, refitted with canopied stern and new boilers, will hereafter serve as mail carrier, and poke her pretty nose in the lake business for all she's worth." Poor Presidents.?It is still true, even in these days of great fortunes undreamed of when it was founded, that the American presidency may bo aspired to by men who arc not rich. Our wealthiest presidents have been the first and last elected?Washington and Cleveland. Washington was the wealthiest man in the country at his time. Adams was worth $ 100,000 at his death. Jefferson was "land poor" and in straits. Madison and Monroe had comfortable estates in those days. ? Undue Perspiration.-?A celebratted physician prescribes the following for checking undue perspiration : Place three or four ounces of oak bark in a pint of boiling water, and boil ten minutes. Add half of this to a basin of hot water, in which also place a dessert spoonful of powered borax and the same quantity of powdered starch. Sponge the alfeeted parts with the preparation night and morning. fcif A celebrated Frenchman, Voltaire, we believe, once listened to an argument to abolish capital punishment. lie replied that he was willing, hut suggested that murderers set the example. If lynch law is to he abolished, let the rapist remove the cause, by desisting from committing this crime which provokes the lynching.