Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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THE LEDGER: GAFFNEY, S. C., MARCH 17, 18V8. AT THE CHURCH GATE. Although I enter not, Yet lound uliout the tspot Ofttimee I hover, And near th»‘ sacred (rate With longing eyt-s I wait ''Ss _ Expectant of her. * * The minster bell tells out Above the city’s rout . And noise and humming. They’ve hushed the minster belL The organ ’gins to swell. She's coming! She’s coming! lly lady comes at Inst, Timid and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast. She comes! She's here! She's past! May heaven go with her! Kneel xindisturlx-d, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly. I will not enter there To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. Ent suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, if Lingering a minute, . Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven’s gate Angels within it. —Thackeray. GOSPEL OF TRUTH. Percy Lennox was sufficiently piqued ly tho calmness with which pretty iliss Graham had accepted his attentions to ■wish to rouse her, even to hurt her. This unworthy desire be did not ac knowledger to himsolf. Ke merely acted in furtherance of its indulgence. After ward he told himself that he had erred dimply because he had beeu carried away by the girl’s own high sounding theories. “The woman tempted me,” be apologetically whispered. The Macdonald Castle was nearing England. Four and twenty hours more and she would be rid of her passengers. What time of residence remained to them upon her was occupied in the set tling up of affairs. Bits of needlework were receiving finishing touches, books were being hastily perused to a close, gambling debts satisfied and flirtations carried to various climaxes. Lennox and Miss Graham came to tho end of an important conversation, which had been confessional so far as the man was concerned, somewhat lamely. “You said the. other day that yon would always have the truth at what ever price,” he remarked. “I have given it to yon. Are you glad?” “I am glad, ” she answered firmly, though she did not, as was her custom, look upiuto his eyes as she spoke. “Is there anything more to be said?” he asked. She was still calm—far too calm to please him. He was vexed that in pro portion to her imperturbability his own emotions became roused. “Nothing—so far as you are con cerned. But for myself”— “For yourself?” he repeated eagerly, altering his position involuntarily in response to a movement on her part “For myself; but that need not mat ter,” was her reply as she rose. She gathered her needlework together and moved off. “I have a lot of packing to do,” she explained as she left him. “Mother insists. ” During the journey from Spnthamp- ton to Waterloo the next day he occu pied bis imagination and thinking pow ers, such as they were, with visions of *ud ruminations concerning the girl he had returned from the Cape to marry. Daisy Thornton filled the vacuum left by Mary Graham, and filled it with eunsbinc and gayety. Lennox tossed his head backward and laughed with con tent when one of his visions was real ised, and on the arrival platform he •aw his fiancee) proud in the conscious ness of smartness of form, feature and toilet, waiting his appearance. “There you are, darliug!” he cried as he sprang from the train almost before it waa stopped and grasped her arm. “A sight for sore eyes!” “Percy!” ahe femoustrated, though her own uptarped face bad begged the resounding kim he presently gave her. the first of many the received be- then and their jufrital at her fa- heuse at Gypsy Hill, whither she conducted him, for in the train be ca ressed her fervently, asking her to tell him instantly upon what day he might call her In very truth his own precious little wiffc. “Let’s have our holiday first,” she pleaded with some lack of compliment. “The wedding’s to be a week before you and I go back together to Cape Town. I shall be seasick all the way. I know 1 shall.” He kissed her again and told her not to talk about the voyage. His shrug of the shoulders sought to dispel the vision cf Mary Graham rather than that of Daisy’s fear. He passed to renewed and fervent admiration of his chosen one with such devotion that her conscience pricked her, and she registered a half vow that, though she had determined not to make mountains out of molehills, hut to hide from him a certain lapse that had occurred during his absence in her loyalty to him, she would tell him •ill at a convenieut season and set forth on her new life unburdened by any se cret. This she would find a difficulty in doing, apart from the natural unpleas antness of confessing such a thing, ow ing to her relative position and Percy’s, which for many months before their en gagement bad been that of cat and mouse, or, as Daisy herself expressed it, “she would aud she wouldn’t.” Daisy, her father’s only daughter, had at first considerably looked down upon young Lennox, bis overseer at the boot fac tory in Houndsditch. His persistence and her parent’s high opinion of his business abilities had, however, pre vailed, but not to cause the girl to aban don a conviction of her own immeasur- hble superiority in every particular. It is almost always a mistake for a person on a pinnacle to descend volun tarily from that point of vantage. Daisy Thornton, weary in mind and physical ly ill, retired to her own room, after making confession to her lover, to real ise this truth. A fortnight of the three •reeks that were to elapse before their iage had aped by, and Lennox was on the next lay going up to Manchester to see a married sister who lived them, when Daisy poured forth her tale. It was a very simple one, a very innocent one, and Lennox, had his own mind been absolutely free of reproach, would have laughed the tale to merry scorn aud kissed away the tears that glistened on the eyelashes of his whilom queen. Nevertheless, tho very innocence of tho recital annoyed him now, for growing up in his mind was a realization of the internal workings of matters that had before appeared to him stupidly simple. Business success seemed no longer the fulfilment of every aim. He was haunt ed by Mary Graham’s foolish notions, particularly by the ons that claimed troth to he worth the world aud its wealth and was unreasonably chagrined that Daisy, who knew nothing of such ideas, should be carrying one out. Daisy Thoruton therefore went to bed in a passion of tears, and Lennox left her more really cross, “put out” his fiancee would have expressed it, than he hud ever been—not with her, but even with any oue. What was deserting him was the saving characteristic of his class— the knack of letting things slide. He was becoming critical. All the opposite sides were revealing themselves to him aud with this annoying clamor for truth, which he did uot understand, ringing in his ears the eyes of his mind were confused and knew uot what they saw. In such a mood ho went to Manches ter and there accidentally met Mary Graham. He met her with a mind in which the humility that had last domi nated it on koard the Macdonald Castle was revived. He found that she was teaching in a high school. Her position was that of a lady, of course, so far as her own circle was concerned, though the salary she earned was small aud the rooms sBe cud her mother occupied were poor; but, in the estimatiou of Percy Lennox, it was beneath the oue ho occupied. This pleased him. In the old days when he had first of all aspired to Daisy Thornton he had recognized her supe riority to himself without a pang, for then he had judged every standard by its monetary worth. Now it galled him very much to know that his future fa ther-in-law and Daisy herself held him less high than themselves. He had even tormented himself with occasional convictions that Miss Graham had been looking down upon him on tho Macdon ald Castle, though at the time of their acquaintance this thought had never afflicted him. Travel had dimmed the old conventional faiths, but they had revived with unwelcome insistence upon bis arrival in England again. He met Mary Graham therefore with a humble mind, aud oue most comforta bly bumble because it was cheerfully couscious of superiority in social value at least. Bhe was looking a shade paler than when they had parted, but other wise prettier than ever, for her com plexion was still more duzzlingly fair aud clear than it had beeu then, and into her eyes, until she bade them be come expressionless, a look of glad sur prise beamed which lit them up into surpassing beauty. It was on a tram car that the rencontre took place. The one vacant scat there was that into which Lennox subsided by Mary’s side. Mary sought to mitigate the forbidding repulsion of the glance she had endeavored to flash at him after tho first soft one of welcome by politely bowing aud hoping he was well. Lennox saw his opportunity aud with characteristic eagerness took it. The girls rare beauty aud exquisite re finement intoxicated him, and with sud den clarity of conviction be understood that truth was indeed worth the world and tho world’s wealth and put his conviction to practical utility. “No,” said ho iu response to a fur ther question from Mary, “I am uot married. ” He led her to suppose he was not going to bo by a movement of his mouth aud the sudden turning aside of his head, not a premeditated deceit, but one of which be took advantage when the passing of the conductor made con versation once more possible, and a visi ble relaxation in bis companion’s man ner assured him that she believed him a free man. “I have been thinking a—much of what we used to talk about on board tho Macdonald Castler” be proceeded gently. It was on his lips to say “a lot,” but the expression was refused. Unconsciously be cleaned bis mind of slang in her presence. He was his better self outwardly when she was by. “Have you?” she asked lamely. “Yes. And what you said about truth is my belief now. People would save themselves a great amount of trouble if truth were their watchword, Miss Gra ham.” Mary Graham began to feel uneasy. Though she was the woman of the Mac donald Castle this bourgeois at her side was not the man. Something had low ered him. She felt it was so. Even her innate goodness and generosity forbade the denial of this fact. She began to look forward eagerly, as if to make sure that her destination was uot passed. Lennox noticed the movement and rec ognized what it meant, and upon his part registered a vow to treat her mer cilessly, to follow her if need he wher ever she went, to pester her with adora tion, to wring from her a consent to marry him. The indifference of the early days on board the Macdonald Cas tle when ho was wont to flirt patron izingly and for him quite pedantically with the little girl, as he called her to himself, hud turned on him and was rending him with the fiercest pangs of love. With a bitter hate he thought of Daisy Thoruton. She had enjoyed a brief interlude of amusement with a man oue summer at Margate. The wretch bad once even trieu to hold her hand in his. What was she to keep him to a promise? She would find many a fellow willing to take her hand and her money, while he—Percy Lennox— would be champion of the cause of truth. It was Mary Graham be loved, uot Daisy Thoruton. Thought* such m these were foreign to his nature. They tripped one nuotber up iu his mind, leaving him like a man bewildered and a little frightened, full of fretfulm-sH aud impatience. Mary Graham held out her baud before she alighted from the car. “I may walk with you just u little way, may I uot?” he pleaded. She shook her head in negation. “I am close to home,” she said. “I will come,” he muttered and fol lowed her. There was a public park just oppo site. Mary Graham led the way into it. “Now,” she said, turning to Lennox, “tell mo what you want.” “Will you marry me?” he asked. “Will you answer me oue question with absolute truth?” she asked, “be fore I answer?” He consented, little thinking what it would be. “Is your engagement really broken off?” she demanded, aud thougli the words were searching her eyes once more began to shine with the wonder ful love light she could uot quite deny them. He reddened and was speechless. Theu Mary Graham faced him. “You are uot free, ” she said iu cutting ac cents, “and yet for the second time you offer yourself to me. I have thought sometimes that plead as I might for you with myself you were worthless aud cruel at heart, and now I urn convinced. I am going to leave you immediately, and I shall never willingly see you agaiu. If I should see you, I shall not acknowledge you. Do not attempt to come farther. If you do, I will appeal to a friend of miue whom I see sitting on that seat to protect me from you.” “Say goodby to me,” he, urged, his lips trembling aud his face white with hidden sorrow. She turned impetuously and stretched forth both her hands. “Goodby,” she said, “goodby. God bless you and make you a good husbuud, Mr. Leuuox.’’ Then she agaiu left him, every limb vi brating to the painful heating of her heart. Tho next day at noon Lennox was back at Gypsy Hill. He had found a tel egram awaiting him that evening at his sister’s announcing the serious Bluets of Daisy Thoruton, w’ho bad beeu at tacked with severe cold the day after his departure, and when he arrived at his prospective father-in-law’s house it was to learn that she was suffering from pneumonia. Strangely enough, this unexpected turn of events did not distress Daisy nor fill Lennox with remorse. Daisy was too ill to know how ill she was and lay iu a kind of martyrlike stupor, half glad to suffer for that little Margate sin’s sake, with the comforting convic tion that Lennox would accept the peu- ance aud forgive fully aud freely, while Lennox whs existing, after the passion of what had passed, with a mind para lyzed into acquiescence for what was in store for him. The interlude indeed was welcome to the pair. Neither for a moment doubted its brevity nor ex pected any ending to it but that cf their weddiug. But it came to pass that the serious side of the affair had at lust to be brokeu to Lenuox. With almost a tenderness the old Houndsditch boot aud shoo maker told him one evening that there would be not the remotest chance of the wedding taking place before Lenuox had to leave E igland. He added that though it seemed a cruel shame to say so his advice to Percy was to proceed to South Africa, whither he, her father, would bring Daisy when she was recov ered from her illness and was able to travel so far. Again Lennox accepted the inevitable with the sullen, unfeeling doggeduess that bad marked his hearing of Daisy’s illness. So he departed, with no bitter ness in bis farewell to Daisy, iu accord ance with the doctor’s orders, but with the air and manner of a brokeu hearted man. At the end Daisy's father hesi tated much as to whether he should give or withhold a letter he had written to him concerning the real opinion of med ical men upon Daisy’s case. Utterly crushed and desolated himself, old Mr. Thornton was yet man enough to fuel the deathlike blow that such a commu nication would deal to one so shortly to have become a bridegroom. Yet he gave the letter to Leuuox when he said good by and told him to read it some time on beard ship. “It was of no great conse quence,” be declared, soothing his own uncertainty as to whether ho ought or ought not to have delivered it; “only a little matter.' ’ Lennox changed the clothes be bad worn on embarking to others when he got on board ship and left the letter in a pocket of the ones he discarded. It happened, therefore, that he never thought of Mr. Thornton's parting charge until he had been five days out at sea, aud theu it was only with a very lukewarm desire to read the epistle that he fetched it aud took it up with him on deck. It was a warm, weird evening. The sun had set behind bars of light cloud, which now were angrily red, while the sky itself was luridly, curiously c<*’or- ed. Lennox was oblivious to atmospheric influences. Had he been habitually proue to observations of nature he might have noticed an analogy between what he saw and his attitude of miud, for just as the sullen, brooding sky was so was he—snlleu,. brooding—aud us the snlleuness of that brooding was bound to end in rapture so was his. The letter lay read beside him pres ently, aud soon a puff of wind took it aud carried it overboard. Lennox made no effort to recover it, but sat absolute ly motionless, apparently unconscious of thought, but with a miud which quickly seethed with tumult, realiza tion, regrets, maledictions, tumbling over oue another iu u veritable mael strom of disorder. Ho bad learned from the letter that there was uot a shadow of hope that Daisy would recover. As his thoughts crystallized into recogniza ble conclusions be became aware that all his soul revolted with sickuuing dis gust against the edict. It was not Daisy be regretted. She lay there, pushed aside into a corner of his mind, a poor corpse covered with her winding sheet, cut off from forcher consideration. Fronted him Mary Grubsun, her eyes serene with judgment, her face calmly con clusive. No spoken words proceeded from those firm, red lips, yet Lonnox knew his sentence. “Even if I went back,” bis miserable conviction ran, “she would not have me. ” That was the truth, and be was aware of it r.nd was aware that no shuffling, no jug gling, no miracle, would compass alter- atiou. “Curse the truth,” be muttered constantly, “curse it, curse it, curse it. And chance—curse that too. If I’d never met her in Manchester and lied to her and misled her and played the fool with her, I might have worked it. To think I should have beeu as near her theu as I was only to lose her!” He began to move about the detfit, walkiug with curious twitched step, ns if some impish gnome tripped him up as he went. His lips moved constantly, and now abd then he spat words out. He blamed fate, he blamed himself. IJe looked back aud could have died with the vebemeuce of his loathing for him self as he was now compared with himself as be had been, basiuesslikt^ selfishly careless, scheming, debonair, on hoard the Macdonald Castle, when he first met Mary Graham. Honor and be hud made acquaintance when Mary had come into his life, aud though he had batteued the thing down, had turn ed a deaf ear to its teaching, bud smofli- ered its rare fair face aud trampled on its cleanly hands it lived to his undo ing. “She wouldn’t have me now," he groaned. He knew she wouldn’t. Mary wq« as dead and buried for him as Daisy was. Tho lurid sky, the steely sea, . heaved to meet aud demolish oue an- ' other. The heavens seemed to Lennox ; to be pressing around him. He put up bis bauds to his head, afraid. Then nn impuiso took him to where a heap of rope lay coiled upon tho deck, fie mounted it aud stood gazing over at the water, his head nodding us if in motion with bis body, but really in rhythm with the execrations that were tumbling and turning in his poor miserable brain. It was getting dark and cold. Down below aud even on tho deck the dinner bell clanged, now loud, now low. Len nox did uot heed it, hut still stood iu foolish, unmeaning contemplation. “A nasty looking night, sir,” re marked a sailor whose acquaintance ho had made. Lennox moved off a Lit, but preseut- ly resumed his place. “The bell’s gone some time, sir,” the man observed, passing him again. “Oh, let it go,” responded Lenuox. The mere speaking of the words recalled him. He laughed a little aud quickly turned. “I’m uot going to jump over if that’s what you mean,” said he, shuf fling off with some of bis accustomed swagger. He turned his head over his shoulder and flung a parting jest at the man. “You make your boats too jolly difficult for suicides,” be said. Dowu in the saloon bis mood changed. He became expansive. A man with whom he had struck up a traveling comradeship received from him a half whimpering, qaite pathetic history of bis sad case—the case, that is to say, as affecting Daisy. He never mentioned Mary. A great deal of sympathy was expressed for him iu the rough, odd way of men of his class. The two drauk a lot together, and the companion en couraged Lenuox in his disposition to gulp down much more than he usually did. He thought he hud done a good night's work for Leuuox when ho as sisted him to bis berth, amass of maud lin grief and tears. “We’ll make a day of it, him and me, when we land tomorrow at Fun chal, ” the kind creature determined. They did make a day of it for other reasons than sorrow, for on tho Mac donald Castle coming up to Madeira a telegram was handed up directed to Lennox. This his friend took to him, where he lay, very wretched, in his berth. “Read it,” be commanded. The man tore it open, and the mes sage spoke: “Daisy much better. We come by next boat.” “It’s as well,” Lennox was under stood to remark. But his friend did not see his face till he emerged on deck for the day’s outing. Lenuox had hidden it, and many more vehement curses, in bis pillow.—Black and White. On* Light That Never rails. Every one must recognize the beauty and many advantages possessed by the electric light, but perhaps few have thought of the discomforts to which a large part of the population would be put if this most modern aud perfect il- luminant were to supersede all the old er forma in use. An excellent example of this is to be found in the large workroom of the re porters iu The Bun offica In this room are scores of incandescent electric lamps, aud no one lacks for light, hut at an odd corner there is always burning oue lit tle gas jet, whose light is insignificant, but dearer to the men who work about it than all the electric lights iu the room. Day aud night, year iu and year out, this gas jet turus with a flame uot more than half an inch high and a quar ter of uu inch broad, aud day and mght it 4s the Mecca of every man who re sorts to tobacco smoking to soothe his nerves or kill idle momenta Everybody knows where to find u light for cigar, pipe or cigarette. But this was uot true years ago when the electric lights took the place of the old gas jets which lit the room. With these open lights iu profusion no oue hud ever found it nec essary to keep a stock of matches at baud for starting a smoke. For niouy a day and night after the electric lights were established there were great hunts through the office for matches, and then finally it became the fixed custom to keep a gaslight going at a corner near the sporting desk to accommodate the —■New York Son. ASYLUM TOCOLLEGE. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY'S LEGACIES FROM BLOOMINGDALE. A Cat and an A|<-d 8«rvitor Who P<*1 ! Thvmsviws at Home Among tho Stu dents — Old Tom's Kcfloctions on tli* Change Prom Old to New '‘Inmates.** Many years ago, when the present Columbia university site was simon | pure country and was known far aud ! near as Bloomingdale, there came to gladden the hearts of tho rather irro sponsible inmates a frisky little kitten which through the period of its early ; infancy was just like any ordinary kit ten, but as time went on gave promise of becoming a beautiful and imposing tomcat. As the years rolled around the said Tom, realizing that much was ex- • pected of him, gave up his kitteuLk ( autics, probably feeling that in a com- ; petition with tho other inmates tho I margin of profit in the nature of fame was altogether too small to permit him to enter the lists. As a result of much ( pondering there settled down upon him a dignity far in excess of his station. He took up his fixed residence at Bloom- ingdule, and for several years acted in | the capacity of janitor and night watch man, inspecting carefully all those who went iu as well as those who came oat, the latter being a far easier task. What a motley company was that! And what an opportunity for the psychological study of humans presented itself to Tom! But times aud circumstansces do oc casionally take a tumble, and in the shuffle things sometimes get mixed aud settle dowu to a queer level. One line summer day the placid Tom, sunning himself with content, saw a strange caravan pass out through tho gates, and, what was stranger still, it never came hack. Surely such a freak had never happened before. Here was food for thought. In the middle of hisspecu latinos, before his point of view was properly adjusted—for tbiukiug is a more laborious process for cats than for folks—a new aud wholly untried race of people appeared before Tom and ap propriated everything in sight. Wise and intelligent as Tom was iu many ways, not a hiut of the gossip had reached him about the sudden change of fortune that had turned out all his old friends, to whom, queer and crazy as they were, he had grown accustomed; had sent them fur away to a new home, and had left in their place a small army, just us motley and appareutly just as queer, who had taken complete posses sion and begun to tear dowu aud destroy everything. Confusion worse confound ed reigned for several years. There was a babel of tongues. Weird structures suddenly sprung up from nowhere aud, picking up things the size of an ordi nary house, swung them through the air an it they were tossing rubber balls. Surely, thought Tom, the old ones never played any prauks half so queer. Still, Tom had been brought up iu a uuique school. Far be it from him to be sur prised at what he saw. He learned, therefore, to watch events and to deter mine upon a course afterward. So all daring the years that Colum bia’s new buildings were iu progress Tom transferred his living quarters to a stable on On-a Hundred and Sixteenth street, spending his days prowling around tho excavations, wandering through all the subterranean passages and, as the buildings progressed, through the different rooms and even to the roofs. But Tom kept a-thiukiug and a-lookiug. His whole future was at stake, and the matter required cautiou. Evidently be decided that the new place, though vastly changed from all resemblance to the old, might still prove a pretty good place after all. For a time, it is true, he was on the fence, not being quite able to decide a question so momentous in the life of a tomcat. But oue day he went a-strolliug and witnessed the sophomore cane rush. Then he felt himself at home. No more uncertainty for this cat! It looked as if all bis old friends had come back again, or, if not,then these new inmates couldn't be so awfully different from the others. That cane rush clinched matters for Tom, and be is now one of the most re spected members of tho university facul ty. His special abiding place is the library, where be stretches his majestic proportions and suns himself by the hour. He has grown sleek and hand some and wanders around unmolested with stately tread aud a high intellec tual tilt to his head. There seems to be a silent understanding on the part of the officials aud the students that lue cat is a privileged animal, a sort of mascot, whose liberties are not to be infringed upon. No one thinks of in sulting his dignity by an occasional caress or even a gentle stroking. He goes his own way, simply taking no tice, but rendering no account to any one. Tho task of providing Tom with three meals a day has been assigned to a special janitor, and the hiut has beeu dropp' d, at least so gossip runs, that if Tom’s appetite is found to he capricious aud to indicate a highly refined palate a few expensive tidbits may be pur chased aud the same charged to the ad ministration. Another legacy besides the cat which Columbia received from Bloomingdale is an aged servitor whoso early years were devoted to a faithful performauce of duty for those unable to care for themselves. He, like Tom, was unwill ing to migrate when the asylum was moved to White Plains. Tho superin tendent, appreciating the faithfulness of tho old man, bus retained his serv ices, and he now does work around the grounds. Lately tho boys disfigured the trees and parts of the buildings by tack ing up huge posters advertisitig concerts and other college showa. When the su perintendent charged the old mau with dereliction of duty aud told him he should not have done this work for the boys, he looked somewhat quizzically for a moment and then replied: “Ocb, sure I aiu’tdoue nothing about it. The inmates did it”—New York BORO BOEDOR. Sun. A Great HnddliUt Kuln Iu Jarm That HI* vaU Uu- f*yrauii<U. i Miss E. R. Scidmore has wtyten for The C’< ntury an account of a visit to i the Buddhist ruins in Java, under the title of “Prisoners of State at Boro j Boedor.’’ Miss Bcidmore says of the fr<*at temple; A gray ruin showed indistinctly cn » hilltop, and, after a run through a b ng, arched avenue, we came out sud- . douly at the haw- of the hill temple. In- j Kt ' U( * a mad, triumphant sweep around the great pyramid, tho ponies balked, ruitid themselves past any lash ing or ‘Gr-r-ree-ing, ” and we got out I and walked under the noonday sun, around the hoary high altar of Buddha, down an avenue of tall kanari trees, ! lin'd with statues, gargoyles and other such rccha, or remains of ancient art, to the passagran or government rest- house. j The deep portico of the passagran commands an angle and two sides of the square temple, and from the mass of blackened and bleached stones the eye finally arranges and follows out tho brokeu lines of the terraced pyramid, covered with such a wealth of orna ment as no other one structure in tho world presents. The first near view is almost disappointing. In tho blur of details it is difficult to realize the vast J. proportions of this 12 century old struc ture—a pyramid the base platform of which is 600 feet square, the first ter- ' race walls are 1100 feet square, and the final dome rises to a height of 100 feet. Stripped of every kindly relief of vino ; and moss, every gap and ruined angle | visible, there was something garish, ; raw and almost disordered at the first plauce, almost ns jarring as newness, ; aud the hard black and white effect of ! the dark lichens on the gray trachyte j made it look like a had photograph of the pile. The temple stands on a broad plat form aud rises first in five square ter races, inclosing galleries or processional paths between their walls, which are covered on each side with bas-relief sculptures. If placed iu single line, these bas-reli* fs would extend for three miles. The terrace walls hold 480 niches or alcove chapels, where life size Buddhas sit serene upon lotus cushions. Staircases ascend iu straight lines from each of tho four sides, passing under stepped or pointed arches the keystones of which are elaborately carved masks, and rows of sockets in the jambs show where wood or metal doors once swung. Above the square terraces are three ; circular terraces, where 72 latticed da- gobus (reliquaries iu the shape of the calyx or bud of the lotus) inclose each 1 a seated image, 22 more Buddhas sit- i ting in these inner, upper circles of Nirvana, facing a great dagoba, or final j cupola, the exact function or purpose j of which us key to the whole structure is still the puzzle of archaeologists. This final shrine is 60 feet iu diameter and either covered a relic of Buddha or a central well where the ashes of priests and princes were deposited, or is artsfrm surviving from the tree temples of (tho earliest primitive east when nature wor ship prevailed. The English engineers made an opening in the solid exterior aud found an unfinished statue of Bud dha on a platform over a deep well hole, and its head, half buried iu debris, still smiles upon one from tho deep cavern. A staircase has beeu construct.*! to tho summit of this dagoba, and from it one looks dowu upon the whole structure as on a ground plan drawing and out over finely cultivated fields and thick palm I groves to the matchless peaks and tho nearer hills that inclose this fertile val ley of the Boro Boeder—“the very finest ( view I ever saw,” wrote Marianne North. Three-fourths of the terrace chapels and the upper dagobas have crumbled; hundreds of statues are headless, arm less, overturned, missing; tees, or fin- ials, are gone from the bell roofs; ter race walls bulge, lean outward aud have fallen in long stretches, and the j circ ular platforms aud the processional paths undulate as if earthquake waves were at the moment rocking tho mass. No cement was used to hold the fitted stones together, and other Hindoo pecul iarities of construction are the entire ' abse nce of a column, a pillar or an arch. ; Vegetation wrought great ruin during its buried centuries, but earthquakes and tropical rains are working now a slow but surer ruin that will leave lit tle of Boro Boedor for the next centu ry's wonder seekers, unless the walla arc soon straightened and strongly bracc*l. Japanese Gardening. The Japanese have the art of dwarf ing trees to mere shrubs and of cultiva ting plants iu a similar way. Tho peo ple taku great delight in their uiiuia- ture gardens, which require a special gardener to keep them dowu to desired limits. The author of “On Short Leave to Japan” writes: “A Japanese gaaden is generally about ten yards square, and in this small space is found a park aiid demesne, with lake, summer house, temples, trees, all complete, and all iu keeping with tho dimensions available. The lake is four feet long and full of small goldfish. On the border stands a pine tree*, exactly 18 inches high and 60 years old. Beneath its shade is a tem ple carved out of oue piece of stone tho size of a brick. On a lofty crag of some 2 Uj feet stands a fine maple tree, per fect in form and shape, 15 years old and 12 inches high. We bought three of these miniature trees later—a maple, a pine and a bamboo clump—each about 15 years old and 18 inches to 2 feet I high, growing in shallow dishes. We ! were told of a complete garden contaiu- ! id iu a shallow two dozen wine case. Everything was complete, down to tho fish in the lake, a sheet of water only a few inches square aud the footbridges over the watercourses. Teahouses there were, and numerous trees of various kinds, each about ft inches high. Old as the hills theae, but full of vitality, and yet never growing bigger. ■ *9* ' t*-. tHjMl