The Camden journal. [volume] (Camden, S.C.) 1866-1891, November 27, 1879, Image 7
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WHAT AIM Tins WORtDt |
" What ail* the world?" the poet cried? ,
"And why does death walk every where?
And why do tears fall anywhere?
And skies have clouds, and souls have careT*
And thus the i*>et sang, and sighed.
For he would fain hare all things glad,
Ail lives happy, all hearts bright?
Not a day would end in night,
V..r wr,.ni' ir.Mllil roi a rielit?
And so he sang?and he was sail.
Thro' ha very grandest rhymes
Moved a mournful monotone?
l.iJjit a shadow eastward thrown
I'r.mi a sunset?like a 1110:111
Tangled iti a J >y-bcU's chimes.
" What ails the world?" he sang, and asked?
And a^kiil and sang?hut all in vain?
No answer came to any strain.
And no reply to his refrain?
The invstrry moved 'round I11111, masked.
" What ?:!. the world?" art nim rime?
" \i'ss tlie "voihi?" The mili-trel hands.
W.'h faioi its or forgot ten hands,
I ..ft up then lii-.s in all the lands,
\n I alike, and ask the same?
Yr . wlmsc soul first soared in song?
1 .1 hi-.iiiu-1 IioiismihI veirsasvay,
'1 1' wii-, sang luu vi-sim-day,
!" !i ,nt or ill deal Mess l,ty?
" W ait a.Is :'ie uyiid '" ciouesfrom the throng. j
1* ,i-...i!.l *: ?. ? ill,, iroil.l fn rest?
.Vii.! tlicy i liiiii* in couwli'ss keys
.\? many ,i? Iiio wav- ?? ( m ;i>,
Ala! a* iliw bi'iitiiiugc ?>f tliu brcezs,
Yetcvcu wheu limy sing their best?
Whrn o'er the list'ning world there float*
Such melody as 'raptures meu?
When all look lip entranced?and when
The sot.g <>t lame floats forth?e'en then
A discord creepcth thro' the notes.
Their sweetest linrps hare broken string*
Their graudest accords have their JarsLike
shadows on the li^ht of stars?
And somehow, something orer man
The song the greatest minstrel sing*.
And S" each song is incomplete,
And not a rhyme can ever round
into the chords of perfect sound,
The tones of thought that e'er surround
The ways walked by the poet's feet.
" What ails the world7" be sing* and sighsNo
answer cometh to his cry?
He asks the earth and asks the sky?
The echoes of his song pass by
Unanswered?and the poet die*.
AN IT THE DANSEUSE.
The prompter's bell rings, the full
notes. <o' the orchestra crash out on the
perfumed air, the suppressed hum of
voices and the soft frou-frou of fans j
cease, the great green curtain raises
swiftly, there is a sound of castinets in |
the air, and Anita bounds on the stage i
with the grace and beauty of?Anita :
alone. For there is nothing to which I j
can compare her, save her glorious self. |
Rather above the medium height, |
8leuder, but not thin. A face that at- i
tracts and repels.
An olive skin, clear r.nd colorless,
long, black, almond-shaped eyes, a delicate,
patrician nose, with finely-curved,
sensitive nostrils, lips always a bright
crimson, the upper short and curved
like the old Greek goddesses, hair black
as night, with a purple bloom in its
. meshes.
You could believe her capable of
k ascending the scaffold to the headsman's
block, with a lirm, unflinching step, and j
H a smile on her mouth, to save one she |
V loved, aud you could fancy her driving }
K the steel of her poniard home to the I
B heart of that same loved one should he i
H prove faithless.
i; As yet Anita had no lovers. Admirers }
^ by the score. But when the, began to
p speak of love she curled her lips scorn- i
Wr fully, and answered them in words to I
match her scornful smile. If that did i
not re{?cl them she opened her almond :
eyes full tipon them, and in few words
gave them to understand beyond nil
aoub: that there was no hope, tiiat she
did not wish to marry. And they slunk
away, wondering how it was that Anita,
who was so bright and quick in all else,
could be so dull iu adiiirs o* the heart.
Marriage indeed! But none had the
temerity to undeceive her.
Her mother had been dead a year, and j
a little over, when oui story opens.
T?_! . I - ! f.. 1 T? .? ? -'.1
origin. uvuuiuui nosa vainacno. ?ne
had not the high-bred, patrician air of
Anita, but she was a thousand times
more beautiful. A fairer skin, a rounded
dimpled form, and a head of dusky gold,
over which all Spain went mad.
She was a danseusc, like Anita, and it '
was whispered? there was a rumor?
Bah! who that has beauty escapes
slander? And Rosa was very beautiful,
and a danseuse.
Anita's father died when she was an
infant, so she wa? told, and the death of
her mother left her quite alone. To her,
her mother was an angel, and her death
left Anita desolate.
Anita comes before them to-night, her
beautiful limbs bared to the knees, a
short silken skirt of red a blank velvet-.
bodice, narrow comb at tbc back of her
dusky head, a face vail thrown in true
Spanish fashion over it. one red rose at
her breast. She bends low, and smiles
brightly to their applause, and then her
lithe form sways gently, gracefully, to j
the rhythm of the orchestra.
When the dance is finished, she is I
deafened with applause, she is showered I
with bouquets of beautiful flowers. She
stoops to gather them, when from a
private box on her right, a bouquet all
of roses, red roses, her favorites, is tossed
to her. striking her lightly on her breast
as it falls.
She raises her eyes and meets the
earnest gaze of the donor, a fair-haired,
blue-eyed Englishman.
Anita gathers them all hastily, and
retires, trembling in every limb.
The curtain falls, the orchestra plays,
the people talk of her, for a moment
What grace! What beauty! They
never observed until to-night just how
beautiful Anita is; she is always so
colorless. But to-night, when she
gathered her flowers, she was almost as
lovelv as poor Rosa, her mother. And
it was all owing to the bright dash of
crimson that'came to her cheeks. Why
docs she not rouge? Being a danseuse, 1
she could do that sort of thing and be
none the worse. What does it matter 1
what a danseuse does? And then the
conversation amis to me pi&y, or a
little bit of scandal.
And Anita! She is pale enough now, ]
trembling still, and with an angry gleam <
in her black eves. e
?< Is she in her dotage, that a pair of i
blue eyes should call the blood to hex i
cheeks like that?"
She rises hastily, strips off the gaudy t
skirt and its belongings, and presently {
emerges from her dressing-room, a tall, ?
slender figure, all in somber black. 1
As she crosses the stage at the back, 1
her manager speaks to her.
"One moment, please, allow me: Lord i
Erskine, let me present you to Anita <
Camancho." 1
And the donor of the rows Ikwto low '
before her:
* 7> * * * * *Three
months later. The voice of
Mrs. Grundy, or rather Mr. Grundy
?and, by the way, why Mrs. Grundy
% it f ? - *? ? - r? ?ii a\. -
snoum always pain creuu ior an uio i
smart, bitter things that are said, I cannot
imagine. I can assure you I go
through life with my cars wide open,
and Mr. Grundy .ells me more ill-natured
gossip of my neighbors in a month than
does madam, his spouse, in a year.
Fir.:' Speaker. ?" There goes Lord
Er.-kine's turnout. Bang up, isn't it?
And Anita with him as usuaL By Jove!
that girl pla\cd her cards well. Sho
knew her value, and still held aloof.
The result?"
Second Speaker.?"Aw, then- can bo
but onb, you know. Erslcine would
never think of marrying the girl, and
the Camancho is too sensible to expect
it, I should say."
First Speaker*?" I think you make
& slight mistake there, old fellow. And
if Erskine makes the same?well, heaven
help him. For Anita lias a sleeping
devil in her that I should not care to
arouse."
Second Speaker.?"Aw, that's just it.
As you say, old boy, sue nas a sleeping
devil in iiereve; and on one occasion
when I attempted to pass my arm playfully
around her waist, I, aw, thought
him remarkably wide-awake. Doocid
absurd for a dauseuse, you know. What
do you say to a game of billiards?" And
thev pass on.
A faint echo from Mrs. Grundy.
" Why I had no idea Anita danced tonight,
or I assure you, my dear Mrs.
Shallow, I should not have come. Of
course when they all praised her prudence
and all that sort of thing, I never believed
a word of it. But one must be
amused. However, the creature has
flaunted this allair so shamelessly in our
faces, driving and dining in public,
and all that you know, that really
Bah! let us go elsewhere."
Behind the scenes.?"I say, Mordaunt,
whose coupe is that at the door, and for
whom is it waiting?"
" Don't you know? Why, where have
you kept yourself this month of Sundays?
It is Lord Erskine's carriage, aud
it waits?for Rosa's own daughter."
Of such men assassins are made.
The stone flung at Anita would not
suffice. The noor dead mother must
come in for a lling. It was "pure
womanly'' according to the world's
judgment.
Do not turn away. I do not wonder
you are tired of listening to those
mouth-pieces of the world. I will only
ask you to pay one more visit to-night.
To Anita herself. Here we are. Ahl
stop hack and close the door softly.
! n her snowy rob'' dr nuit, this danseusc,
" Kosa's own mother." kneels and prays.
Monsieur and Madame Grundy.?Go
ye and do likewise.
I'ray the good Lord in His mercy to
forgive your evil hearts and slanderous
tongues.
* * * * *
"Anita, most fascinating of women, I
have something I wish to say to you.
I never thought a woman could affect
me as you have done. Day and night
you are in uiv thoughts. I do not seem
to live save when I am with you. You
haunt me in my dreams. I am unhappy
when I am not with you. Is not this
love, my Anita? And will you not love
me in return?"
"Ah, Ernest, my loved one, have you
not Known long ere this, that this heart
of mine was all thine own? I could not
drive the glad blood from mv cheek as
it leaped there at the sound of your
voice, your footfall, nor the gladness and
joy from my eyes. And I would not, if
I could. Every word, thought, breath
is thine. But. oh, my beloved one, I
need to be an angel to be worthy your
love and your name?and i am, alas!
but a poor little dauseuse! What a
necromancer is love. I used to think
that to be premier dauseuse at the Grand
Theater, oue had a right to be proud,
that it was a position to work for, and to
glory in. Now I am ashamed of it."
ile does not hear her, has heard
nothing since those words, "I need to ho
no angel to be worthy your love and your
name, fell on bis ear. Can she be so
blind?
Jleglances at her face. Ob, the bright
halo that love had flung round it! Yes,
it is clear she thinks so, that he has laid
at her feet the proud old name he bears,
and with that smile on her lips and in
her eyes, lie cannot undeceive her.
? * * *
That night, as Anita steps out on her
balcony, ut the Palace Hotel, her own
name, 111 tne voice so aear 10 ucr, iaus
on the listening ear.
"Anita you refer to, no doubt. Now,
see here, old fellow, don't make any mistake.
There is no better, purer girl in
the world than Auita?not among your
people ui my own. I was first attracted
by her beauty, which is incomparable.
Then, when 1 knew her better, by her
own intrinsic merit?and, I confess, were
it not for my father, who would cut me
ofl with a shilling were I to make 6uch *
mesalliance, I would marry her to-morrow
As it is, it is out of the question to
marry her; quite impossible-equally
impossible to give her up. The crisis! '
Anita gropes her way blindly through
the open window into her apartment,
whispering, softly:
" Impossible to marry hor. He said
that?'impossible to marry her!' Then
it is time for thee to die, Anita."
And they find her there the following
day, a poniard up to its hilt in her
young heart, her eyes wide open, and
wearing a look of horror, an awful smile
on the sweet dead mouth.
Thus died Anita, "Rosa's own
daughter."
Lizzie W. Fletcher asks in a poem
' If I should die to-night what would
rou do'."' Liz, that's a very refreshing
lonur.drum for this season. If you
mould die to-night it would of coutoe
necessitate a visit of the coroner in the
noming. and then, you know, JLiz, wo d
iave to buy you new clothes to wear in
lie other place, and a minister with
jreat lantern jaws would stand over you
md say good things. Then we'd have to
lire carriages, you know, and times are
rery hard, and money isn't very plentiful.
A tirst-elass funeral costs about
MoO, Liz; so don't for the world think
>f going oil'suddenly. Wait until thing?
ook a little better for speculation.
A IMM>, HAD MAS.
Il'ov. in i'l'imilr Alt ire. lie llrrnmni the
i>ri'<u> Killer ill ISoblitii Aristocratic Olrrlr*.
The New York Timet gives the particulars
of .1 sensation that has recently
transpired in Boston by which nearly a
hundred of the most fashionable ladies
Kcr"ini(> tliA victim* of .a blackmailing
operation. A year ago a fashionable
dressmaker of the Hub employed an attractive
young woman whose specialty it
was to call at the residences of her customers
and cut aud fit their dresses.
Miss Annie, as she was called, was a
great favorite, and no dress was considered
complete unless it had the touch
of her artistic fingers in " taking in"
here and "letting out" there. It was
noted that she had a note-l>ook which
she handled as deftly as Julian Hardy,
the reporter in "Fatinitza," and was constantly
making memorandums of batting
and whalebone required to fill out the
ideal curves and irregularities of surface
constituting the highest type of a fulldressed
beauty. These memorandums,
she explained, were necessary to prevent
her losing the recollection of any sudden
inspirations as to the delicate insertion
of a gusset, or the bold cutting of a
shoulder piece on the bias. The business
of the employing dressmaker who had
the good fortune of employing Miss
Annie increased rapidly. It became a
test of true culture among Boston ladies
to have their dresses made exclusively at
her establishment, and the result was an
apparent increase of #Bostonian beauty,
both in breadth and thickness, without
much increase in weight. One dark and
dreadful day that will long be remem
bered by the patronesses o': .\liss Annie,
each of the ladies received at home one
of her cards, and was told that a young
gentleman wished to see them in the
parlor. Each lady had an interview
with a young man who was instantly recognized
as the hitherto Miss Annie,
and was, of couisc, terribly surprised.
The wicked young man who had so successfully
masqueraded as a dressmaker's
assistant, explained with much apparent
penitence that he had been detected and
discharged, and that his sole desire was
to hide himself in California. To do
this money was required, and he presented
a small bill for materials which
he had furnished at his own expense.
Cotton was charged for at tho rate of ?3
a pound, and whalebone at $5. On payment
of the bill he would instantly send
from his note-book the memoranda relating
to her dresses and depart on the
first train for the Pacific Slope. The
story goeB thathe made a complete round
of his former customers, and that his
collections exceeded ?1,000 from the terrified
fair ones.
SHE DIDN'T NIEAN TO TtXL
Yc.?, ray lips to-night have spok>-ti
Yonis i fain iii v snoiiia inn s|ieuii;
And I would I could recall them?
Would I line] not liecn so weak.
Oh. thai one unguarded moment!
We.-e it mine to live again,
All the strength of its teinjitali >a
Would appear to tue in vain.
True niv lips have only uttered
What is ever in my heart;
Into happy when beside him,
Wretehisl when we are apart;
Though 1 listen to his praises
Always lunger than 1 shomd.
Yet my heart ran never hear them
Half so often as it would.
And I would tint, could not, pain him,
Would not for the world oU'etnl.
I would have liiiu ki? e.v I liked hitn
A - a brother as a friend:
ll'ii 1 meant to ke. p one -" .ret
i i my besom aiways hid.
l'or I never meat:! n. tell him
That 1 love liNe?but 1 did
Some Natural History?The Editor.
"What ferocious-looking animal is
this?"
"That is the editor."
"Indeed! Are they very dangerous?"
"Sometimes. When cornered up they
have been known to be quite combative,
ana again tbey Have teen known to go
through a convenient back window.
Generally they are mild and passive."
"When are "they the most dangerous?"
"When intruded upon by a book agent
who wants a forty-live line local for a
seventy-live cent book, or by a poet with
verses about the gentle spring."
"Are editors cross to each other?"
"Only when separated by several
blocks of buildings."
"Do tbey often have fearful combats
with each other?"
"Occasionally when they go out in opposite
directions, and come upon each
other by accident."
"Arc editors ever cowhided?"
"Sometimes the small ones are, but
the big ones are very rarely molested."
"Do editors cat?"
"They do. it was formerly supposed
that they afe at long intervals and upon
rare occasions but it is now a well
authenicatvd fact that they can eat
a great deal when they can get it."
"What kind of food Jo they like the
most?"
"They are not very particular. While
they won't refuse quail on toast, fried
crab or roust turkey about Christinas
time, they have been known to make a
hearty repast olFa dish of cold turnips
and a consumptive herring."
"Can they eat concert tickets?"
"We believe not. Some people have
gained this curious impression from
false teachings in early life, but no
authenicated instance is on record."
"Do editors go free into shows?"
"They do when they give dollar and a
half locals for a twenty-five cent ticket."
"Arooll Knl.l 1M.? *1.:~ on
an vvtituio uuivi, iijvi; liiia uiiu ;
''No; only the married are bald. But
let us pass on; the editor does not like
to be stared at.
A Female Blacksmith.
A woman died in Richmond, Vn., a
few days ago, who had chosen the blacksmith's
forge as a means of earning a
living. Her name was Rachel Yent.
Her father came to this country from
Germany and opened a blacksmith shop
in Richmond, i?he learned the trade in
her girlhood, and became as good a
worker as any man. As her father grew
old she took charge of the shop and sup
ported the family by her own labor.
She wore a tight-fitting woolen dress
and a blacksmith's leather apron, and
frequently 3m?>ked a short clay pipe aa
she toiled. When the old man died she
still stuck to the trade, but a few months
ago she grew enfeebled and rapidly
sunk. Her work had given her in her
best days the muscular strength of a
man. She had eligible offers for mai
riage when young, but preferred to remain
tingle and provide for the family.
! The Common School the Fnrmers' Hope.
Prof. Elbridge Gale, of Kansas, upon
1 the subject of common schools for the
1 rural class, writes as follows in the RuI
ral jScv> Yorker: Much has been said
j and written in regard to an improved
j culture of the rural classes. They are
I demanding something more than
hitherto, and asserting for themselves
a higher position in the social scale.
While there are steps backward as well
as forward in all movements towards a
higher civilization, we may be sure that
the end here sought will be reached.
Agriculture in all its departments must,
in years to come, command a higher
class of talent and a broader culture
than in the past. While we are inclined
to give high honors to the rural press,
to the associations and societies formed
to promote rural interests, and to agri- ;
cultural colleges, where they all recognize
the object of their creation, the
more intelligent among the masses are
feeling that they can justly demand
soinetliing more for the children in the
I common schools than Lis hitherto been
ofiercd them. , We ask that the culture
of the common school shall be turned in
some slight degree towards rural and
industrial interests. A more general
dillusion of knowledge relating to agri
1 1 :?
uuuuiiJi uhii lUUllalliui puiauua w viwmanded.
Our children need culture
that shall impel towards farm life. This
cannot he attained by the instrumentalities
now employed.
Hcncc we propose that the common
school shall be made more tributary to
our rural interests. We want an elementary
course of instruction in matters,
both practical and scientific, that
relate directly to rural life. This should
be so elemeutary in its character that
the great mass of our children may acquire
it by the time they are fourteen
years old. By this means the common
school will, to a certain extent, become
the training school of our agricultural
and industrial colleges. These latter
institutions will then have opened to
them a much wider field of usefulness
and the possibility of a much more
thorough culture to those wlio may enjoy
their advantages.
Fat.
I [Lemart Sentinel.]
If we are not a nation,
Tf political assassinations,
Midday murders, and
Open treason
A re beyond the reach of the gener
i government. Let us either
Proclaim the nation, or
Kick .Mississippi out of the Union.
[Pell? Blade.]
py
Craciousl
Vas
Dot
So?
How
You found him
Oudt?
[New Tork World.]
After mature deliberation we hay
come to the conclusion that
the frenzied utterances
of
the Okolona Southern State*.
and ' J
the Lcmars Sentinel
(being always printed in this staccato
oitj ic;
coutaiu for the
compositors
of these journali
a
! great deal
i of
Fat! ! !
The Multiplied Dangers.
{Burlington llawkeye.j
" You were in the war, then, Captain
! McKillcn ?"
"Uli, yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am; fought
all through it."
" Is there not," she asked hesitatingly,
" a great deal of danger in a battle?"
" Well, yes." the Captain replied, reflectively.
"there is, there is. So many
men standing around you, you know,
and such careless handling of firearms aa
is almost sure to occur during a battle,
makes it really very unsafe."
Ji iss Lollipop shuddered, and then reI
sumed:
" Are not some people severely injured
at times?"
"Yes," the Captain said, " they are.
I once had a friend who was hurt so
badly that he couldn't leave his room for
several aayis."
And then she said she thought there
ought to hi. a law against them, and he
said ho believed the Legislature of Iowa
contemplatfd passing some such law at
its next session.
And she Baid she was so glad.
Building Materials.
One thousand and fifty laths will cover
seventy yards of surface, aud eleven
pounds of nails put them 011.
Eight bushels of good lime, fifteen
bushels sand, and one bushel hair makes i
enough good mortar to plaster one hundred
square yards.
A cord of stone, three bushels lime,
and a cubic yard of sand will lay ono
hundred cub'ic feet of wall.
One thousahd shingles laid four inches
to the weather will cover one hundred
souare feet of surface, and five pounds '
of nails will fasten them on.
One-fifth more flooring and siding is j
needed than the number of square feet
of surface, because of the lap in the sid- j
ing and the matching of the floor.
Five courses of brick will lay one foot |
in height on a chimney; six bricks in a '
course will make a flue four inches wide j
and twelve inches long; eight brick.- in j
a course make a flue eight inches wide j
onrt eirt^pn inr-hpa lnnc.
A lady with a little boy went into a j
well known restaurant the other daj
and after the two had absorbed food, !
demurred against paying for what tlu?
child had eaten, oh the ground that he
was under ten years of age. It was (
with some difficulty that she was made
to understand that railroad rules do not I
apply in eating saloons.
A young lady was endeavoring to
impress upon the minds of her Sunday
school scholars the sin and terrible J
punishment of Nebuchadnezzar, and
when she saia that for seven years he I
a te grass like a cow, she was astonished I
bv a little girl, who asked, " Did he give j
milkf
I
THE DYING SOLDIER.
BY Dn. J.A MOILXK.
[A Legend or Fair Oaks, a l?i trie fought in Virginia,
June 1, lStii.J
On his cot a soldier lay?
a faithful nunc was by.
Praying he might wot dieDying,
but not for a bloody bay.
To help crush rebellion's dire pride
He had left his dear "bonny " bride.
He gave hie lif? for freedom's cause that day.
His lips moved, something to tell.
He thought she *? his mother:
He seemed lite a brother.
Weeping, she watched his bosom's faint swell,
Warmly she clasped each cHl'y palm.
Over his face there grew a calm.
8be faintly heard: "Sweet love, dear homt, farewell!"
He had dreamed, doomed soldier-boy,
Of his own distant home.
Wlirrn jthe would lonelv rosm.
Deploring lier dear, departed joy.
And it wan well. That darling thought
Soothed him in death. Ilia smile was caught
from paradise, where never cornea annoy.
SHABBOXA Qkovk. 111.
The Novel of the Fatare.
INewark Advertiser.]
Epochs in literature are as plainly
defined as those in art, and the modern
novel, the creation of the cheap printing-press,
has attained its climax and
is gradually waning, if not towards a
complete disappearance, at least to
that subservient position in letters
from which it should never have arisen.
Its evanescent quality is seen in the few
books that ever attain to the dignity
of a position on the library shelf. They
are essentially "summer reading;" they
belong to the swift speeding railway
train, to a shady corner on a steamboat,
to the hammock under the trees; and
when they are once read they pass into
the hands of anyone who chooses to
pick them up, or as fair prizes for the
butler or the cook or finally to the
dust-bin and the kitchen fire. Let a
man of means start out now to form a
library, how many recent works of fiction
would he choose for the place of
honor upon his shelves? Everything
that is made too common palls upon
the appetite, and there is where the
sensation novel has met its fate. There
is undoubted genius in all branches of
literature, but it is not exhaustless.
Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, Victor
Hugo, Dumas, Charles Keade, Thackery
and a few others did marvelous, and in
some cases, most honorable work, but
when will they live again in others, or
their books be imitated? A great novel
may be a kindly dish, but we should
turn away nauseated even from salmon,
if fed constantly for a month on red
herring. That there has been a terrible
decline in our literary provender in
the line of romance is plain. They are
Btupid rehashes of worn out subjects;
they distort love, violate the probabilities,
give common sense a black eye and
turn life into a pantomime. What will
the coming novel be? The new era has
hardly opened and while we are waiting
for it there is a large republication of
old standard works, many of them of excellent
quality and which are far better
worth reading than modern trash.
They belong, however, to the past, and
can only fill an interregnum. Circumstances
seem to be tending to something
even more realistic than what we have
had, because more faithful to nature
and to' home. The novel of the past has
put all its characters on stilts?hereafter
they are likely to walk on the ground;
they have worn doublet and hose?now
they will come to us dressed in the fashion
of to-day. Novqls, like pictures,
must have colorine: thev must lake a
bit of life here and a bit there, and an
exact record of the daily existence of
our Darbys and Joans would be as
tasteless as soup without seasoning, but
we may hope to find hereafter, whatever
may be the frame work, those charms
and beauties which, born of a correct
taste and artistic skill, shall largely deal
with the world as it is, and present to
the mind those ideal existences which
the young may read without having
their passions excited and their ideas 01
humanity distorted. Let the lessons of
literature be sound and wholesome and
there will be little to ask for.
Severe Droughts.
An interesting record is that of severe
droughts as far back as the landing of
the rilgrims. "How many thousand
times are observations made like the following:
"Such a cold season!" "Such a
hot season!" "Such dry weather!" or
"Such wet weather!" "Such high winds
or calms!" etc. All those that think
il -1 IV V 3 1 _ . A il
me ury speu we naa last spring was me
longest ever known, will do well to read
the following:
In the summer of 1621, 24 days in
succession without rain.
In the summer of 1630, 41 days in
succession without rain.
In the summer of 1657, 75 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1662,80 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1674,45 days in succession
without rain.
In tho summer of 16S0, 81 days in succession
without rain.
Ill tllr. wlim.i.ny rwf 1 C.0.1 RO .Im.u Ir,
cession without rain.
In the summer of 1705, 40 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1715, 61 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1728,61 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1730, 92 days in succession
without raiD.
In the summer of 1741, 72 days in succession
without rain.
.In the summer of i7-40, lOSdaysin succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1755, 42 days in succession
without rain.
Jn the summer of 1762,123 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1773, SO days in succession
without rain.
In tlin Qitmmoi* aF 17Q1 R9 rlotru in au/%_
AM kiily >IU<IIIIIV* VI XI VA, U-VIUJJ 1U OUUcession
without rain.
In the summer of 1802, 23 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1812, 28 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1S56, 24 days in succession
without rain.
in the summer of 1871,42 days in succession
without rain.
in the summer of 1875, 26 days in succession
without rain.
In the summer of 1S76, 27 days in succession
without rain.
It will be seen that the longest drought
that ever occurred in America was in the
summer of 1762. No rain fell from the .
first of May to the first of Septemlwr,
making 123 days without rain. Many
of the inhabitants sent to England for |
hay and grain. I
Sentimentally Drunk.
[Proildenc* Journal.]
The lights were out, the streets wer?
itill, and all other presences were silent
in the presence of the peaceful night.
And at this time the soft but slightly
unsteady tread of a man was heard approaching
the station. He took a chair
near the door, dangled his legs over the
chair's arm. hung his peaked hat en the
toe of his hoot, and in a low \uiee addressed
theoilicer: "Iwaa here a year
ago and listened to the song of your
cricket under the mat there, and I want
to hear it again. The cricket comes
into my life exactly. He sings and all
his green-coated comrades sing of the
dying summer. There are millions of
these little mourners under the leaves
to-night, and they all have one song of
pensive sadness. There is a cricket in
my heart. There used to be summer
there. I am a sort of an old cricket myself.
I crawl into the natural-formed
grape grottoes on the highway and sing
my own sad song there. Speaking ot
cool, wild graperies reminds me that I
am athirst. Say, Sergeant, can't you
send a sleuth messenger to the CIud of
the Purple Cluster and tell the vinous
triumvirate that are crowning their
chaste and marvelous brows with beautiful
chaplets to send me, not an old
ltoinaii punch even, nor a Greciam
amaranthe juelp, but a tod, a mere
modern tod. Tell them 1 am always
with them, and I often commune when
on my promiscuous pilgrimage with the
disembottled?pardon me, I mean dis
embodied?spirits; I see their faces rapt
and purpling with the blood cf the
broken-hearted grape of the Garter
stream. But say, Sergeant, my blood ia
turning into the channels of melancholy.
This must not be. Here are three coins.
I put one into wine and the world
flushes up to me; a second coin, and I
own that block there, I am Mayor of
Pawtucket,11 walk on thrones;' a third,
and I hear rapturous music, I float on
fair rivers, my old coat becomes as the
garment of a great ruler; I put my
warm heart against the cold marble of
the world and I warm it with its gencroue
glow. The world is no longer a marble
tomb to me. It opens, and enchanting
forms come forth and embrace me ana * *
bid me go on. The gates of eternity
open with a majestic welcome to the
man who defies fortune and dares to
grandly live it out"
"But those are not coins," said the
officer, " they are buttons."
"Well, buttons so let them be?ah!
that song again?the song of the cricket.
Officer, let me sleep here under the
magnetism of the mighty midnight
heavens, and let the lady cricketa
serenade me."
hoiuiion or a Aystery.
[ChattiniO"-,';i (Teuu.) Commercial.]
In the summer of 1838, the Third
United States Artillery, commanded by
Col. Gates, was encamped at the foot of
Missionary Ridge engaged in the removal
of the Cherokee Indians. One
day the Colonel ordered out a fatigue
?arty to clean out the spring, a beautiul
fountain bubbling up. at the foot of
the ridge. Shortly after the Sergeant
reported to head-quarters that his mea
were all drunk. Says the Colonel:
"You should not let the men drink
whisky."
"I did not," replied the Sergeant;
"they drank nothing but water from
the spring."
The Sergeant and men were ordered
into the guard-house, and a new detail
ordered, and a Lieutenant placed in
command with orders to npt let the mea
have access to- any spirits. Not long
after the Lieutenant reported the men
all drunk. The men were ordered to
the guard-house and the Lieutenant,
under arrest. Another party was ordered
out, of which Col. Gates took the .
command. He took a seat on a stump,
bo he could overlook the wbole ground,
determined that there should be no get
ting drunk this time.- But behold! in
a short time his men were all drunk.
He was certain they had drunk nothing
but water, which they frequently did,
getting down on their knees and drink- *
mg from the branch just below the
spring.
The Colonel was at his wits' end.
The men were ordered to the guardhouse,
and he repaired to his tent to
think. After weighing the matter pro
and con he had to give it up, and repairing
to the guard-house, he told the
men that, if they would show him how
it was done he would release them, otheruric/*
lio wmilrl nnniqli tlipm ?ju*nrnlv
To thia they agreed, and took him to the
spring; just below the spring in the
branch they unearthed a five gallon jug
partly filled with whisky, the mouth or
which was stopped with a cork, in which
was inserted a quill that readied to the
bottom. When hurried in the sand the
upper end of the quill was just above
the surface of the water, and when they
wanted to drink they stooped down, inserted
the quill in their mouth, and
while apparently drinking pure water
were drinking whisky, and the Colonel,
sitting on the stump in plain view, waa
none the wiser.
He Had "Buggers."
ISleubctiTllIe Herald.)
The primary class in anatomv, physi
i i : i.^.i ? _
uiufzv anu iiv^iuiiu uuu a jiuw atuuuu,
and the teacher had forgotten to post
him as to what answer he should give
when the question came around to him.
The head was the subject under discussion
that day, and the teacher began
with the members of the class who had
been present on previous occasions.
" What have you in your head ?" she
6aid to Johnny Jones.
"Brains, Miss," replied Johnny quite
correctly.
"Ana you?" she said to Tommy
Brown.
" Muscles and nerves," answered
Tommy Brown.
" And you, Jimmie Jackson?"
" Bones and teeth and tongue," came
the reply.
" And you?" she said, this time turning
to the new scholar, who was very
of Knitiir itnturhf
a wicked looking thorn into his nearest
neighbor, "and you, little boy, what
have you in your head ?"
"Buggers!" lie snug out, scratching
that orgau and looking as if he deserved
a reward of merit.
It is surprising how many people
there are in this world that do not like
to work between meala