Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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Lore He. I wander through the blooming wood* ; Where no unhallowed thought intrudes And song and sunshine fall in floods; I hear among the budding trees Contentment sighing in the breeze. And even the winds reprove me, For crying out 'mid scenes like these, ‘'Love me! Love me! Love me I” I mingle with, yet walk apart. The crowds that throng the busy mart, And silent bear my breaking heart, And live—Oh, life! with pain replete, 80 sweetly sad, so sadly sweet, With only one hope to move me. These e hoing h r art throbs still repeat, “Love me! Love me! Love mef The pinions of the day are furled And night enshrouds the sleeping world. But still, like restless billows hurled Upon the shore; my spirit flie-, From star to >-tar with weary eyes Through the pitying skies above me And in its hopeless anguish cries, “Love me! Love me! Love me!” —M. M. Folsom in Atlanta Constitution. The Story of a Picture. BY H. E. CLAMP. It is about 10 o’clock p. m., the hour when life in its lightest and most frivol ous form is on parade in the upper part of the city’s great artery of traffic— Broadway. Madison square is brilliant .with a thousand lights; the great hotels are thronged with idle groups, while up and down the sidewalks continues the steady stream of foot passengers which will not diminish much before miduight. The crowd upon the pavements and in the hotels is frequently augmented for a few minutes by persons leaving the theatres in the vicinity during the entr’acte for ■an airing, refreshments or cigars. The crowd on promenade is a motley one, composed for the most part of well- dressed men and women, and from the animated tones and gestures, the gay jests and light laughter, distinguishable above the steady tramp of feet, the rat tling of cab wheels and the jingling of car bells, one might think that care rested but lightly upon the shoulders of most who are here. Among the crowd of busy talkers, thoughtless idlers and devotees of pleas ure, walking at a leisurely pace and with a thoughtful air, comes a man whose genius has already made his name a household word in many lands. It is Geoffrey Vail, ti e artist. The hand- some, scholarly face, with its delicate white complexion, its large, soft, black eyes and sweeping black mustache which fringes his sensitive mouth, his graceful carriage and the plain but fault less style of his attire, stamps him easily as a man oi superior type even to those who do not recognize in the lone indi vidual the well-known figure of metro- life. ^ —" I " v v. Above the jargon of sounds in the streets rise occasionally from a side street the tones of a piano-organ, ac companied by the voice of a person singing some Italian songs. The artist pauses for a moment to listen to the un usually pathetic ring of this voice, and as he approaches it is struck by the ap pearance of the singer. It is a young girl, about sixteen years of age, with a Madonna-like face touched with a look of most exquisite sorrow. Is it possible that the coarse-looking Italian yonder can have any connection with this lovely child? It is not of this the artist thinks as ho lingers, thro wing coins into the old man’s hat. It is of how that lovely face would look on canvas! Suddenly the girl sees his ardent gaze and her eyes droop to the ground, while a color like the first blush of sun rise mantles her cheek. The artist is yet more charmed, although he diverts his gaze, still following the couple from street to street. Finally the organ is closed up and the two performers prepare to go home. Goeffrey Vail approaches the Italian as he is about to go and touches him upon the shoulder. “Is it your daughter?’’ he asks, point ing to the girl. The man nods his head. “I am an artist and would like to paint her picture,” said Geoffrey. The man shook his head in disap proval. “If you will allow her to come to my studio every day for a month I will pay you liberally.” “How much?’’ asked the man,gruffly. “One hundred dollars,” answered the artist after a moment’s reflection. “She would earn me more than that with the organ.” “Then we will say two hundred.” The man’s greed was satisfied, and he consented to the terms. “When shall she commence?" “Tomorrow, if it suits you,” said the artist. “Very well,” answered the man, and Geoffrey handed him his card. Geoffrey turued homewards, pleased with his discovery. For a long time he had meditated painting a series of pictures representing the emotions. “Here is my ‘Angel of Sorrow’ ideal ized already,” he said to himself as he pursued his way through the still crowded thoroughfare home. The pretty Italian found Geoffrey Vail in his studio awaiting her visit on the following day. The strong light in the studio, where the curtains were purposely drawn back, revealed to the artist that he had not been deceived with regard to her appearance. The face was delicate, re fined and indescribably sad. She had evidently put on her best clothes—a dress of some soft black stuff and a shawl of the same sable hue ( wrapped round her head and shoulders. “You have posed as a model before?” asked Geoffrey, noting the artistic ef fort of this simple costume. “No,” said the girl, “never before.” “What is .your name?” asked the artist. “Consuelo.” “Consuelo,” repeated the artist, “and you look inconsolable.” The girl did not understand his re mark, but her large dark eyes were turned upon him wonderingly. “Well, Consuelo, we must make the best of our time, ” said the artist. “Come, I wifi arrange you as I wish you to sit,” and he placed a chair for her, arranging with soms care her attitude and drapery. “You do not feel timid, do you?” asked Geoffrey, kindly. • * “Oil, no,” answered the girl, looking at him with wonder again. It was in conceivable to her that she should feel timid in his presence. The grave, gentle face of the artist had won her confidence completely. Ac customed to rough looks and sometimes blows, the child seemed in the atmos phere of this elegant studio to breathe the air of paradise. But the look of sorrow did not leave her face; it was too deeply imprinted there. Geoffrey was soon busy with his pen cil. An artist, his soul was in his art. To him the animate beauty was only a stepping-stone to the inanimate, every thing lovely created that it might be copied on the canvas aud immortalized. Consuelo’s sitting was not a long one. He thought it best not to tire her too much the first day, and at the end of the third hour rose from his easel, and thanking her, dismissed her till the morsow. “You will come again, won’t you?” said Geoffrey. The girl’s look answered him. For the first time that she could re member Consuelo w r ent to her miserable home happy. A new vista had been opened to her. She had caught a glimpse of another world with which she seemed to feel some strange kin ship. How gladly those days glided by while the Angel of S >rrow, half real and half the creation of the artist's superb fancy, grew upon the canvas! The last sitting came. Artist and model were to part. Geoffrey, who had grown familiar with the child, took her hand in his own when he bade her adieu. Sudden ly Consuelo burst into tears. The artist himself felt unexpectly and strangely moved. Even to him the parting seemed painful. Why? Blind egotist! unknown to himself he had learned to love. Only_at this crisis did the truth dimly dawn upon him. But why these tears of hers? Strange infat uation! Then the child must love him also. She had turned away to weep. “Consuelo,” he said gravely, “come here. ” Consuelo came at his bidding. “Look at me straight in the face.” “I cannot,” she sobbed. “Consuelo, why do you weepf” The face could be doubted no longer except by the bi nd. Geoffrey folded her tenderly in his arms, unresisted. The lovely head rested upon his bosom. His lips were pressed to the blushing cheek. “Consuelo, would you like to stay here always—to be my wife?” he said rather nervously, half frightened him self. The girl looked at him and seemed to make some sudden resolve. Withdrawing herself from his em brace she wiped her eyes, and then without another word or look fled from the studio. “She is frightened, but I mu;t follow her,” said the artist. How soon she had become infinitely precious to him! He hastened to the door, but no trace of Consuelo could be seen. He paused to reflect. He did not know even her ad dress. The Italian had already called for his money. How should he find her? What strange impulse had caused her to turn and fly so suddenly. It was inexplicable, but; he must find a key to the mystery. How? Would she not re turn to her old avocation, accompany ing the organ? If he searched the streets for a few days he would soon meet her again. But days, weeks and months rolled by, and no trace of Consuelo or the Italian rewarded his anxious search. So his passion died away into a vague and hopeless regret. Nothing remained of Consuelo but the blending of her beauty with his own dreams in the picture. So he devoted himslf with re newed ardor to his favorite pursuits. The “Angel of Sorrow” was completed; extravagant offers were made for it, but the picture was not for sale. Money could not buy it. It was hung in the artist’s own studio —his greatest achievement—and many wondered as they gazed upon the sor rowful face whence came the inspiration for it. Geoffrey Vail received many visitors at his studio. Wealthy patrons and personal friends brought others often to sec the great artist’s works, often sadl^ interrupting him when he wished to be alone, but always courteously received. Five years had gone by since his brief love dream had had its sudden birth and tragic finale. His gentle face had grown gentler, and perhaps a tinge of sadness had crept in between the handsome lines: but he had little to-complain of ao far as suc cess was concerned. He is busy in his studio when some callers are announced. They are foreign srs, evidently, from their names. Geoffrey glances carelessly at the card, and, not recognizing the names, is about to excuse himself, but suddenly changes his mind. His visitors are shown into the studio. A gentleman, refined and distinguish ed in appearance, and a lady some years his junior. A white veil partly secludes the lady’s face. Geoffrey bows politely, and advances to meet them as they are announced. The gentleman, speaking in French, apologized for their intrusion and asks permission to look at some of the artist’s work, and the lady, who has observed the artist's favorite picture, lends her companion towards it. After viewing it for some minutes and exchanging re marks of admiration in their own tongue, the gentleman, turning to Geof frey, asks him if the picture can be purchased. “On no consideration,” replied the artist. “It is reserved at a price which even the most extravagant would never care to go to.” “Which means that you do not wish to sell it,” replied his visitor. The artist bowed in acquiescence. “And did you ever see a face which suggested such beauty?” asked his visi- itor, adding “Pardon me, but I have a purpose in inquiring.” “I have seen one,” replied the artist, “with which this creation of mine could but feebly compare.” As he said this his eye caught the face of the lady who had removed her veil. “Consuelo!” cried the artist, forget ting his visitors for a moment.” But they were smiling at him pleas antly. . “Pardon me,” he said. “Some fan cied resemblance compelled me to utter that name.” The lady approached nearer to him. “Do you not remember me, <sthen?” she said, softly. The artist looked puzzled and per plexed. “Surely it is Consuelo; but, pardon me, you have changed your name.” And he glanced significantly at her com panion. “Ah! and you are no more the Angel of Sorrow; you might now pose for the Angel of Jby.” Consuelo teemed to enjoy his per plexity. “And have not you found a true Consuelo also?” she asked laugh ingly. The artist shook hi s head sadly. “Papa, this is Mr. Vail,” said Con suelo, turning to her companion, who offered his hand to Geoffrey with a pleas ant smile. __ * _ l]r JWou are wondering what it all means,” said Consuelo, also smiling; but it is a long story; papa will tell you while I look at some pictures round the studio, and if you wish to repeat the question you asked so long ago, which I never answered, repeat it to him*” The story was briefly told. Consuelo had been kidnapped from her home in Italy and shipped to New York. After many years she had been traced and returned to her parents. She had fled from Geoffrey’s presence because ashamed of her humble origin and parentage, believing the padrone to be her father, and had been rescued immediately afterwards. In Italy she had been educated, pre viously exacting from her father a promise that as soon as her education was completed ho would bring her to New York. Such a story could have but one se quel—a happy marriage. It was assuredly a happy one, and soon after it Geoffrey commenced the twin picture. —[New York Mercury. The Dakota “Rustler.” The Dakota “rustler’’ is the direct product of the blizzard. He moves with a quick, resistless force. He does not rest for sleep or food. He knows no weariness of the flesh. He has no doubts or fears. He believes, and he is an in- spirer of faith. He will build a hotel of 300 rooms on a street-motor railway on the blank prairie and wait for a town to grow up around it. The town always comes, if he be a genuine rustler. You can’t tell by his looks, nor by the cut of his clothes. His grammar is often addled, and he makes a bib of his nap kin at table. But when he turns himself loose upon a project with money in it the project projects. It looms. It yawns. He keeps it ever in the way of your eyes, and before you know it you begin to see rainbows around it. He cares nothing for money after it is made. Ask, and it is given you. Tell him a talc of woe, and out comes his purse. He would moulder in a week behind a desk or in a counting-room. He is always on the lope. Today, he is getting options on corner lots in Pierre; tomorrow, he is building mills at Yank ton. Then he is off to St. Paul bull dozing “Jim” Hill for more railroads, or off to New York placing the stock of a new loan and trust company. He is interested in everything. He lets no enterprise escape him. They’ll all pay, he says, or all “bust.” There is no middle line out there. His Complexion Confused Her. Aggie—Oh, Mrs. Smith, who was that Chinaman you were walking with today? Mrs. S.—Chinaman? Oh! It was my husband; he’s just had the jaundice. —Epoch. THE SLAVE MARCH. Terri A Bio iple Trials of Captives in the African Coast Trade. w In the Head Ends the roubles of the Weak. “Yes , I have seen the terrible slave march,* said Mr. H. F. Moir, who for many y< ars has traveled abroad, spend ing mor s or less time in Africa. He was speaking of the sufferings of those cap tives wh > carry great burdens across the deserts ii t the African coast trade. Mr. Moir is s resident of New York State, and Idst light in the lobby at the Grand Hotel en ertained a few friends with t recital i f some of his adventures. “When the slaves are captured,” he said, “the/ are taken to the headquar ters of thl east coast traders. There i yoke is paaced about their neck, and i: allowed to remain night and day with out beinglonce taken off. The constant rubbing uWn the neck chafes the skin, and gradftlly ugly wounds begin to fester undflttic burning African sun shine. who appear the strongestj^^^^^KB'hose escape feared, sometin^^^^^^^K a to and ou placed the ble goree ^^^H^^fticks. The yoke is ayoungtr^^Wh forked branches. It is generally^Wut five or six feet long, and from three to four inches in diame ter. One which I examined not long ago was about twenty-eight pounds in weight, but I am told that refractory slaves are often placed in yokes weigh ing fifty pounds or more. Through each prong of the fork is a hole bored for the reception of an iron pin, which, after the neck of the slave has been placed in the fork, is made secure by a blacksmith. The opposite end is lashed to the corre sponding end of another yoke, in the fork of which another slave is held, and thus the poor creatures have to march, carrying besides this intolerable weight, a load of provisions or ivory slung across the center of the pole. Other slaves are in gangs of about a dozen each, with an iron collar let into a long iron chain. “Are males alone of tiese captives?” asked an Enquirer reporter, who was one of the party. “No, indeed.,'’ said Mr. Moii. “Wo men slaves are plentiful. A mxn with any spirit can scarcely trust himself to look at the starting of one of the cara vans. I accompanied one which con tained many women. They are all fas tened to chains or thick bark ropes. Very many of the omen in the caravan to which I ref«‘- in .v—•_ heavy vreig^ their little' double weight almost too much, and still they struggle wearily on knowing too well that when they showed signs of fatigue, not the slaver’s ivory, but the living child, would be torn from them and thrown aside to die. One poor old woman I could not help noticing. She was carrying a baby boy who should have been walking, but whose thin, weak legs had evidently given way; she was tottering already; it was the supreme effort of a mother’s love—and all in vain, for the child, easily recognizable, was brought into camp a couple of hours later by one of our hunters, who had found him on the path. We had him cared for, but his poor mother would never know. During three days' journey but from Licndwe death freed many of the cap tives. It was well for them; still we could not help shuddering as in the darkness we heard the howl of the hye nas along the track, and realized only too fully the reason why. The attach ment of the children to their mothers and the mothers’ determination not to be parted from their children,” contin ued the traveler, “combine to carry them along with the slave caravan—that is, so long as their poor little legs can bear them.” slaves keep up under 'asked lo it aarch all day, and fetop, a few handfuls distributed among Idl their food. As soon 'to fail, their conductors lose who appear to be most to their carried long,” was the bej “How their bur “Tb answer, at night, of raw them, an< as any approach exhausted and deal them a terrible blow on the nape of the neck. A single cry, and the Victim? fall to the ground in the convulsioins of death. Terror for a time inspires the weakest with new strength, but each time one breaks down the ter rible scene is repeated. A friend of mine told me that once when traveling in Central Africa he was obliged to at tach hinJself to an Arab slave gang, and that th£ drivers deliberately cut the throats of those who could not march. I have also been informed,” said Mr. Moir, “that in Central Africa these slave-drivers have been known to cut off an arm or any limb with one blow from their swords.”—Cincinnati Enquirer. The Bible in the Frozen North. At Norway House, on a certain occa- ion, says Mr. Egerton Young, mission- ry of the Canada Methodist Church here, a number of Indians came into iy room, noiselessly, after their fashion, o that the room was filled with them •efore I knew it. When I became ware of their presence I asked whence hey were. “From a journey of four- een nights,” they replied, for they eckon distance by the number of nights hey hre delayed to sleep. “We have got the Ke-senaychen (the Great Book), but we don’t understand it, although we can read it.” I thought they were joking, for the Indians can not read unless some one has taught them, and I knew from their account they mu?t live far away from any mis sionary; but I asked them: “From what missionary did you learn?” “We never saw a missionary nor a teacher.” I took down from my shelf our Bible, printed m the beautiful syllabic character of the Cree language, and opened to Gene sis; they read it with ease and correct ness. I turned the pages, and they read in many places. I was amazed, and asked them again where they lived. They described it to me. It was far away, north of Hudson’s Bay, hundreds of miles from any mis sionary. Their hunting grounds, it seems, adjoin those of some Christian Indians—they cover great distances in hunting—and, continued my visitors, “We visited your Indians and found that they had the Kessenaychen. We got them to read it and then to teach it to us, and we were so pleased with it that wo all learned to read it during the winter.” Every soul in a village of 300 popula tion had thus actually learned to read the Bible without ever having seen any white teacher; and having providential ly come into possession of some copies that happened to be in the hands of the Hudson Bay Company’s agents, these heathen Indians had journeyed through the snows fourteen nights’ distance,that to them might be given instruction in the book they had thus learned to love. PEARLS OF THOUGHT. About Slate Pencils. In the north-western part of the town of Castleton, Rutland County, Vermont, is the only manufactory of slate pencils in the United States. The slate rock as it comes from the quarry ic first sawed into blocks as wide as the slate p2ncil is long. These blocks are easily split into slabs a little thicker than the finished pencil, which is about five-sixteenths of an inch. These are passed through a slaning-machlne and over an emery belt, which makes them even and smooth. Next they are pushed into the jaws of a machine called the “crocodile,” which consists of a pair of steel plates, in the under one of which are six rows of curved knives, each being set so as to cut a little deeper than the preceding one. These plow out parallel grooves half-way through the slab, which is then turned and laid on a steel plate having ridges which just fit the grooves. This slides jack under the six rows of teeth of another “crocodile,” which cuts the grooves on the other side and leaves the square pencils side by side. They are then rounded and pointed Icling tK«v onST—~ v—a <. „„ day. This factory makes 30,000 pencils daily, and employs twenty-five hands. We might wonder where so many pencils 50, but when we consider that there are 1,000,000 or 2,000,000 school boys and girls, aud many of them rather careless, and that slate-pencils are easily broken, we have no doubt the factory will have its “hands full” to supply the demand. The old way of making pencils was to saw them out square from the slab one by one. They were then boxed and distributed among poor families, who whittled them round by hand for about half a dollar per 1,000. Pencils are made from slate much softer than the slates upon which they are used, and very nice pencils are made from soapstone. Diagnosing Disease by the Hair. A Pittsb'Tg doctor says he can diag nose ailments by examining a single hair of the patient. Two young men as a joke, took him a hair from a bay horse. The doctor wrote a prescription and said his fee was $25 as the case was pre carious. They were staggered but paid the fee, and after they got out laughed all the way to the apothecary’s. The latter took the prescription and read in amazement: “One bushel of oats, four quarts of water, stir well, and give three times a day—and turn the animal out to grass.” Then the jokers stopped laugh ing.—Chicago Herald. Usefulness is the true measure. Love is satisfied only with love. ’Tis but a short journey across the isthmus of now. There is little influence where there is no great sympathy. Jealousy is the sentiment of poverty, but envy is the instinct of theft. Have the couragj to prefer comfort and propriety to fashion in all things. We gain nothing by falsehood but the disadvantage of not being believed when we speak the truth. Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. To be comfortable and contented, spend less than you can earn—an art which few have learned. It does not depend upon us to avoid poverty, but it does depend upon us to make that poverty respected. It is never the opinions of others that displease ois, but the pertinacity they display in obtruding them upon us. If mind-reading becomes a success, lies will be impossible, and lawyers will have to look around for some other busi ness. There are several ways to speak: to speak well, to speak easily, to speak justly, and to speak at the right moment. Elephants on the War Path. An elephant stampede, which was nearly taking the same disastrous turn as the one which occurred recently at Munich, is reported from Riga. Eight trained elephants have lately been ex hibited at the Salamonski Circus. A few evenings ago, one of the animals, in stead of going quietly through the per formance, raised his trunk suddenly and began to trumpet. His comrades at once became unruly and made for the door. One of the grooms closed it, but the first of the elephants burst it open without trouble. A laly who attempted to run across his path was seized gently round the waist by the animal’s trunk and safely deposited on one side. The huge quadrupeds burst through another door into the passage and found their way to the box office. This seemed to excite their curiosity, and they examined it minutely. They then entered a small court-yard and began a regular war dance, uttering piercing cries as they pranced about in their wild antics. Eventually they were mastered and walked off to their quarters. Two of them, however, again got away, and, curiously enough, trotted back towards the circus. They missed their way, and rushed into the yard of a neighboring wererousecn^jptheir slumber* uy mo elephantine assault. It took several horn's to recapture the fugitives. RELIGIOUS READING. THE BLESSIXO OF 80X0. “W bat a friend we have in Jesus," Sang a little child one day; And a weary woman listened To the darling's happy lay. All her life seemed dark and gloomy, All her heart was sad with care; Sweetly rang out baby’s treble— “All our sins and griefs to bear.” She was pointing out the Saviour, tV ho could carry every woe; And the one who sartl? listened Needed that dear Helper so! Sin and grief were heaw burdens For a fainting soul to bear; But the baby, singing, bade her “Take it to the Lord in prayer.” With a simple, trusting spirit, Weak and worn she turned to God, Asking Christ to take her burden As he was the sinner’s Lord. Jems was the only refuge, He could take her sin and care, And he blessed the weary woman When she came to him in prayer. And the happy child, still singing, Li:tie knew she had a part In God s wondrous work of bringing Peace unto a troubled heart — Christian Observer. WHAT IS THE END OF LIFE? The end of life is, not to do good, although many of us think so. It is not to win souls, although I once thought so. The end of life is to do the will of God. That may be on the line of doing good or winning souls, or it may not. The maximum achievement of any man’s life after it is all over is to have done all the will of God. No man or woman can have done any more with a life; no Luth er, no Spurgeon, no Wesley, no Melsuchthon can have done any more with their live*; and a dairy maid or a scavenger can do as much. Therefore, tie mpreme principle upon which we have to run our lives is to adhere, through good report or ill, through temptation and prosperity and adversity, to the will of God, wherever that may lead us. It may take you away to China, or you who are going to Africa may have to stay where you are, you who are going to be an evan gelist may have to go into business: and you who are going into business may have to be come an evangelist. But there is no happi ness or success in life liil that principle is taken possession of.—Henry Drummond. HELP UPWARDS. I shall never forget the feelings I had once when climbing one of the pyramids of Egypt. When half way up, my strength failing, I feared I should never be able to reach the summit or get back again. I well remember the help given, by Arab hands, drawing me on farther; and the st-p I could not quite make myself, because too great for my wearied frame, the little he p given me— sometimes more and sometimes less—enabled me to go up, step by step, step by step, until at last I reached the top, and breathed the I mre air, and had a grand look out frem that ofty height. And so, in life’s journey we are climbing. We are feeble. Every one of us, now and then, needs a little help; and if we have risen a step higher than some other, let us reach down for our broth er’s band, and help him to stmd beside us. And thus joined hand in hand we shall go on conquering step by etep, until the glorious eminence shall ( e ga : n d. Ah! how many need help in this world—poor afflicted ones; poor sorrowing ones; poor tempted ones, who have been overcome, who have been struggling, not quite able to get up the step; trying, failing; trying, failing; trying, desponding; trying, almost despairing! OH, give such a one help, a little kindly aid aud the step may be taken, and another step may then bp taken; and instead of dying in wretchedness at the base, he may, by a brother’s hand be raised to safety, and finally to glory I Your mission is to be Christ to such, to take such by the band; “for, to you, to live is Christ.*—BtsAqp Simpson. Gladstone on Washington. When I first read in detail the “Life of Washington, ” says William E. Glad stone, the English statesman, I was pro foundly impressed with the moral ele vation and greatness of his character, and I found myself at a loss to name, among the statesmen of any age or country, many, or possibly any, who could be his rival. In saying this, I mean no disparagement to the class of politicians, the men of my own craft and cloth, whom, in my own land and my own experience, I have found no le=s wanting than other men of love and of admiration. I could name among them those who seem to me to come near even to him. But I will shut out the last half century from the compari son. I will then say that if, among all the pedestals supplied by history fot public characters of extraordinary no bility and purity, I saw one higher than all the rest, and if I were required at a moment’s notice to name the fittest oc cupant for it, I think my choice, at any time during the last forty-five years would have lighted, aud it would now light, upon Washington. The man who was blown thirty feet in the air out in a Pennsylvania town, while repairing a natural gas main, re marked that he had been thrown out of work. What a Moslem Relieves. Every Moslem, says Taylor in his “Leaves From an Egyptian Note Book,” believes devoutly in a personal God, in an overruling Providence, in the mission and miracles of Christ, whom they desig nate as the Messiah, in the duty of prayer, iu the immortality of the soul, in a future state of rewards and punish ments, and in the inspiration of the Bi ble. An educated Moslem, if asked why he does not become a Christian, may not improbably reply that, according to his own interpretation of the New Testa ment, he is one already. Thus, in a let ter lately received from one of my friends, he styles himself “a Moslem and a Christian at the same time.” Though a most pious and sincere Mohammedan, he claims to be one of those “who pro fess and call themselves Christians,” for whom we pray every Sunday that they may be led into the way of truth. They hold that Islam was the latest revelation, perfecting the Christian revelation, just as Christianity supplemented the revela tion given to the Jews. Mohammed may be considered as a reformer of Christianity; like Luther he denounced certain superstitions that had grown up. The Koran says that God gave the Gos pel to Jesus to proclaim, and that He put kindness and compassion into the hearts of those that followed Him; but “as for the monastic life, they invented It themselves.” “In the time of Mo hammed,” says one of my friends, “Christianity had become corrupt, as many of your own writers admit, and it was these corruptions that it was Mo hammed’s mission to reform. We reject the corruptions of Christianity. But we claim to have a final revelation, predict ed by your own prophets, just as the coming of the Messiah was foretold to the Jews, who nevertheless blindly re jected Him as you reject Mohammed.” |can aay ' -of | to Snn- on the many thought ' us on the Eiose words I know many children ej that, and they know and if each word. Every child j day school knows that cross to save sinners; bi there are who have never j very much of what He suffer cross. They have often heard read, “He was wounded for our transgres sions.” but they have never taken It to them selves an 1 said. “He was wounded for my transgressions.” “Jesus died for me.” It is my most earnest prayer that every child who reads this paper may understand why it was that Jesus had to suffer on the cross for us that we might be > aved. , Some time ago I was in the cemetery at Nashv lie, Tenn., and I called to mind t he touching story of a stranger who was seen there pi nting a flower over a soldier’s grave. When asked, “Was your son buried t here?” “No,” was the answer; “Your son- in-law?” “No!” “A brother?” “NoP’ “A relation?” “NoP’ After a moment the stranger laid down a small board which he held in his hand, and said, “We 1; I will tell you. When the war broke out I was a farm er in Illinois. I wanted to enlist, but I was poor. I had a wife and seven children. I was drafted; I had m m >ney to hire a sub stitute, and so I made up my mind that I must leave my poor sickly wife and little children and go and fight the enemy. After • I was all ready to go a young man whom I knew came to me aud said, ‘You have a large family, which your wife cannot take care of—I will go for you.’ He d d go in my place, and in the oattle of Ci ickamauga he was wounded, and taken to Nashville hospital; but after a long sickt.ess he died, and was buried here. Ever since I wanted to come to Nashville and see his grave, and so I saved up all the money I could, and yesterday I came on, and today found my dear friend’s grave.” With tears of gratitude running down his cheeks he took up the small board and pressed it down into the ground in the place of a tombstone. Under the saldier’s name was written only these words: He died for me. No wonder the tears were running down that farmer’s cheeks. He well knew that soldier bad saved his life. Gladly, therefore, he spent his time and hard-earned means to do w hat little he could to express his love and gratitude. If you bad stood by the side of that grave and heard him say, “There is the grave of a man who went in my place, and died for me; but I don’t care; I didn’t ask him to go. Ho might have staid at home, if he had a mind to, what would you have thought of him? I think I hear you *ay, “A mai: that would talk in that way ought to be shot.” I say so, too. But did you knew that the dear, loving Jesus has died a more dreadful death for you, and yet, if you are not a Christian, you ilo not love him for it. You have never thanked him for dying for ' ou. You have never shed any teal's as you have thought of His great love for you.—E. P. Hammond. European Postofflces. In mere numbers Germany heads the European countries in the number of post offices with 18,638, the United Kingdom coming second with 17,587. England ha% however, in addition to the above number of post offices, 19,163 other receptacles in which letters can be posted, consisting of wall and pillar boxes, etc., which make its postal fa cilities, on the whole, superior to those in Germany. If the number of post offices is considered in proportion to the population, then Norway and Sweden come first, with 480 to every million of inhabitants. If Norway be considered separately from Sweden, it stands still more to the front, having 1217 post offices, or 680 to every million Inhabi tants. Russia comes last, with only fifty-five to every million of population. It is better to be nobly remembered than nobly born.—Ruskin. It is a great shame to a man to have a poor heart and a rich purse.—Chaucer. They must keep close to the thron ;of Grace who would win the throne of glory.—Trial. A man that can not mind his own business is not to be trus’ed with the king's.—Saville. Nothing is too sacred to be profaned when men are under the influence of wine.— Barnes. The finest epitaph ever carved on a stone was a little girl’s: “Her companion said. ‘It was easier to be good when she was with us.’ ” Baron Liebig, the German chemist, says that “as much flour as can lie on the point of; a table-knife contains as much nutritive con- ’ stituents as eight quarts of the best and most nutritious beer that is mado.” i Frances E. Willard mys: “Theiiodern de- lenda est Carthago is ‘The saloon, the saloon, the saloon must go.’ Our loyal temperance legion marches to this time and tune. The Rorisl Templars, of Preston, Out., have united with the W. C. T. U. ta erecting a temperance halL