Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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The Pride of the Poor. 'Where'er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see ' There is the proverbial blind man at every street corner, a vender of odd things forever dogging your heels, a little flower girl at your elbow when ever you are in a hurry, and at night. when the company have all dispersed, there is a tramp at your back door, Yet, thanks to a free government, an inspired business sentiment, and a con viction that all have equal opportunity to strive, the poor of our country are limited-very lunited, compared to the destitute that exist under more despo t~c flags. But the beggar and the itinerant are not the poor. They are tradespeople following a profession to their own lik ing-and since others do not strive for it, they have a monopoly and make a good thing out of it, too. No; these are not the poor. The poor are in hid ing. Their wants they never tell, un less you make a bold search to find them out. They pas you every day in the street and unless you look ver closely you iill not discover that then clothes are poorer than yours. The struggle and the pinching goes on in a scantily supplied home, behind a ve effectual screen. If the clothes M stand a cursory glance, the shiny marks of wear can be detected at a nearer i viemfr If the tops of the boots will match your own in decenty, the soles, yo=may be sure, have holes, that let i the poor proud *feet come once too often in contact with the damp earth i on storng days, and the case may be followed to a consumptive patient on a dying bed I Not 6nly do the p.or hide in the A busy haunts, but they alk side by sdo s withyou in society A d you idever sus- C pest it. You wonder why this or t'iat member of a family is absent from an expensive gathering. You talk with the attending representative about it, and with a smiling face you are treated to some plausible excuse, v-hich of course you swallow. A small family of little girl-; attended a Sunday School. Only one came at a time. Upon being asked why they did not all come together every Sunday, one of thelittle ones blurted out: 'Be tase we've only one dood f ock for us all.' She was a marvel to look at-a little old lady in black with a close-fitting bonnet edged with white. It is true her dress was scant and showed a few neat darns, but she looked so clean and sweet, and had such a cheery smile on her white thin face. Oh! Come in, do. You look tired, please stay here and rest.' Only a look from the faded eyes, but oh, so tender, as the tottering steps y drew timidly near the welcome hearth. h 'There. Please take this chair; for know from experenecs it is the easiest the house. That's it. Now I will ri d eyo a cup of tea; for 'm.sure you w A little more bustle and fuss, an oc casional brush across the eyes when the old lady was not looking, and soon I the little table of refreshment was placed before the guest. Another of di those tender looks, as she was enjoined B to partake of what was before her. Just then the dear opened. In came someone who looked every inch a mis-, tress. Ul 'Mary, who have you here?' G Mary explained, but the explanation m did not seem to satisfy. c The poor old lady gave a startled look in the direction of the mistress, and then rose with a not unbecomin w r oor, Stay, where are you going2 - I want you to have something to eat, especial- I iy now it islaid for you l' 'Thank you, madam,' was the sweet ;a but proud reply, 'but I could not eat it 1 now. Good day.' She went out, but the thoughts that troubled her were not harsh or bitter. Inste4d, she was murmuring: 'Poor Mary, poor girl! I shall be very much i distressed if she gets into trouble through me?' A tramp entered a confectioner's II store. The young lady behind .the counter looked hard at the tattered . coat, the dented, slouching hat, the 13 grizzled face, as he advauced and in stantly made up her mind that he had come begging. 'Sorry,' said she brusquely, 'but we haven't anything to give you.' Suirprise,anger,indigaton, all strg-I gled for expression onthehardenedface, t and theh lifting his head as proudly as a I king, he said: 'Didn't ast yer. A S penny cake, please,' and down went E the money with a ring. It is not always safe to judge by ap pearances. She lived in a very uncomfortable t attic, where the sun poured down on the roof day after day, and the showers 3 when the came seemed rather to scald than cool Stitch, stitch, stitch, day in, day out, and only a bare living gained. A knock at the door, an imperative, y'pn plas, and in stepped a hiughty 'Is my dress finhed?' ''oMiss; 1 am very sorry, but I have so much work on band, and it has been very hot.' The needle was held I suspended a moment, and the quiet a face looked up worn and tired, as if to ? emphasize the words. 'You promised it this evening, and if I do not get it by eight, you may not epet any more work from me.' Tere was something unl-earable in the tone, and the gentle seamstress looked up quickly, while a slight blush illumined her pale features. 'Very!. well, madam. You remember I said it1 _ ~ would be fluished to-day or to-morrow. I have done my best. You shall have the dress to-morrow. Good evening.' j She drew her small, emaciated figure to its full height and ushered her visi tor out with the air of an injured: queen. t But ere the door wwa well closed, she dropped to the flber, a poor deso- .3 late heap. 'Mother, mother ! Why c can't I die and come to you? They are' all alike. And now she will not fend t me any more work. But I cannot hear it, if I starve. Oh G~d. have pity, and take me!' Yet in our glorious Repuolic man is f equal. So we all say, and despite all t *outsiders are ready' to say t> the 'ion trary, we are gorig to stick to it. t [The homelier the phrase here, the r better. 1 We are to be pitied as well as the street. arabs. Just thmnk of the draw backs to our rose-hued plans for doing good. At evening, in richly-carpeted ~ and softly-lighted rooms, fired with the glow that a pretty story-just read from one of our leading magazines has left, we feel a poignant sympathy ~ with our less fortunate fellows. In 2 dreams we extend our hands, and I bend smilingly over picturesque rags P and dirt, and feel so satisfied about our a ife: 'Oh I am so busy I am en gaged 'A- company. rft Ettend to the case later.' It is gp easy to iforget. [t saves us the trouble of confessg that our idle evening dreams will no? stand the daylight. 'God helps those that help them ;e1ves.' You frequently use this ex pr ession and feel juqtified in doing so. Well, let your street arabs learn it. 'hey need to. But what are you go ng to do about those that are strug ing to help themselves. 2hee are the poor. As deserving poor they should find the well-worn ?roverb, 'God helps eta,' true. Open rour hearts to the poor who make no arade of their poverty. Respect their lelicate pride; it is the link that binds ;hem to this world. Use your brain to d them, your sympathy to warm hem, and your heart to love them. What if you should be amon the >roud poor yourselves some day! Tese rery ones would be the first to help rou from their slender means. Only he heart and the character can make a ustifiable distinction between men; for re are all born equal. Hfy coat is a coarse one, an' yours may be une Lud I mann drink water, while you may drink wine; tut we baith ha's a leal heart, unspotted to shaw; Ae gi'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'. our mother has o'ed you as mithers can lo'e; Ln' mine has done for me what mithers can do; Ve are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa: 4e gl'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'. 7e love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; lame! 0: how we love it, an' a' that are there! 'rae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw: 'me, gl'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'. 'rail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith, a' creeping alang at his back will be death; yne Into the same mither-yird we will fa: ome, gi'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'.' -Robert NicoU. EDITOB. THE DENOUEMENT? Watch his expression as he reads; See how he bends with bated breath O'er some romance of wondrous deeds Of mystery and awful death. But, toward the bottom of the page His eyes with suddewanger tend, Ile sees-and snorts with helpless rago The advertisement at the end. FUN. The man with a boil on his neck ever borrows trouble; he has enough E it. Strange is slang. It is jtist when yu "get on" to a thing that you tumble." Honor and shame from no condition se. Some men were lowly born on hom there are no Ries. Jepson-"Why is it that men marry idows?" Jobson-"They don't. It the widows that marry them." Johnny (watching his big brother g' angle-worms for bait) -"I say, ob, if a worm will catch a little fish, ouldn't a snake catch a whopper?" "Dear, said a- physician's wife as ey sat in church, "there is Mrs. oldburg sitting in a draft." "Never hind," said her husband. "I will sh that draft later on." "Whar gwine, Sambo?" "Gwine rt to testify." "What for?" . n' 'greed to gib him a godcharac, er for ha'f a dollar." Mitress-"Bridget, do you know: vhat all that crowd was on the corner his morning?" Bridget-"Yis, mem.! t was the police was a-taking a lady o the joog. She had been fighting." "Well, what do you think of the! ew neighbors who have moved in ext door, Mrs. Pryer?" "I haven't ad a chance to form an opinion. They iaven't had a washing day yet." Since the Bridgeport girl ruined her iws with chewing gum the manufact irers of the "society quid" have been orced to put out the following state sent: "Our gum does not paralyze." "I notice, Jennie," said one young idy to another, "that you never lace ight now." "No." "What's the eason?" "Well, P've got a beau now, n~d when he's squeezing me I wanm tc ujoy its full effect." An artist once gave a little supper; t his studio, and he put on his invita ions B. S. C. V. The letters puzzled ome people. who found when they rent to the -"oper that they meant: 'Bring some cold victuals." "Where did you get that cake, kunnie?" "Mother gave it to me." 'She's always a-giving you maore'n' he does me." "Never mind. Harry; he's going to put mustard plasters on Ls to-night, and Il ask her to let you ave the biggest." Fond lover (after a long-delnved roposal)--"Perhaps I have been >o udden, darling." Darling girl(re ainiug her composure with a mighty ffort)-"Yes, George, it is very, very udden, but" -and here she became aint again-"it is not too sudden." A seedy individual being told that tis coat "looked as if it hadn't had a lap in a dozen years," replied: "I beg -our pardon, but this coat has been ying in my wardrobe two and twenty ears till to-day, and that's time enough a' have had a good long nap." "How do you do, Sam?" said a olored gentleman to one of his cronica Lie other day. "Why you no come t. ee a feller? If I lib as near you as oui do to me I'd come to see you ebery ay." "De fack is," replied Sam, my wife patch my trouserloons so all pieces I 'shamed to go nowhiars." "Young man," said the banker. Ive decided that it's about time for or me to put a check to your aspira ons toward the harnd of my daughter." Oh, thank you, sir. But wouldn't it e better to wait till after we are mar ied, then the check could come as a redding present. It would save my eelings a great deal." A storekeeper was boasting in the resence of a customer "that he could scure a quarter of a pound of tea in a nailer piece of paper than any othef ian in the country." "Yes," said edekiah Dryasdust, who chanced .-o ear the remark, "and you'll put , hint of rum in a smaller bottle thaq ny other man that I ever see, any. TEE NG'S DUST. -4ou shalt die," the priet said to the King "Thou shalt vanish like tbi leaves of spring, Like the dust ot any common thing One day thou upon the winds shalt blow!" "1%y, not so," the Kng said. "I shal stay While the great sun In the sky makes day; Heaven and earth, when I do, pass away. In X3 y tomb I wait till all things go !" Then the King died, And with myrrh an< nard, Washed with palm wine, swathed in line hard, Rolled in naphtha gum, and under guard Of his steadfast tomb, they taid the King. Century fled to century; still he lay Whole as when they hid him first away Sooth, the priest had nothing more to say, He, It seemed, the King, knew everything. One day armies, with tramp of doom, Overthrew the hugh blocks of the tomb; Arrowy sunbeams searched Its chambere gloom, Bedouins camped about the sand-blown spot Little Arabs, answering to their name, With a broken mummy fed the lame, Then a wind among the ashes came, Blew them lightly-and the King was not! -St. Nicholas. 'empted to IlMurder. Naturally I am a jealous man. Per. haps it came from the fact that I was a stray sheep -in the house that was filled with my stepmother's children. They were not content with their mother's love, but exacted from my father all the attention he had to be stow upon the family and he was led to believe me moody and sullen because I resented this unequal division of household duty and felt myself de frauded out of my share in my father's heart. Looking back upon my early childhood, it does not seem strange that I grew up with a great jealousy of the caresses that were lavished freely upon my younger brothers-the sons of my stepmother. This, as I grew older, deepened into a longing for a home of my own, a love in which no other human beingshould have a share. When I had reached the age of twenty-five these aims in life were realized. I held an independent busi ness position and my income was large enough to suppgrt a wife and give her a home in which she would be sur rounded by every comfort that dainty womanhood needs. Fortune had fa vored me from the moment in which I had stepped over the threshold of my father's house, and now my stepmother was loud in my praises and most anxious the elder brother should also push the fortunes of her "poor, dear boys." She even put it to me tearfully whether I had not better reTain un married for their sakes and play the art of the benevolent bachelor uncle o their prospective children. But I had other views in life. Un nown to her I had fallen deeply in ove with Ethel Templeton, a budding elle of the pretty little interior city in which we lived. Up to the time wh t seventeen, she had made he~ iebut in society, I i rho had excited . -seen no out1 ahniration on euethan ordinan nome .my part, but from th< ? . was presented to stately . usbome Ethel I vowed myself to her heart and soul. My love was so grea that I seemed rather to avoid than t< court her, so fearful was I of fright ening and losing her by a premature outburst of. volcanic fires that raget in my breast, and were with dif fculty kept hidden under a calm exte nor. The circumstances of my early lifI had made me extremely reticent.J had no confidants as a byand as] grew to manhood I made no boson friend to whom I talked of myself.] could not have done it if I had tried for the habit of years of reticence was upon me and could not be broken. Sc no one guessed my passion for sweel Ethel Templeton and no one ever yen tured to speak to me about my atten tons to her. At last I spoke my love. We hai been acquainted for a year and hei eighteenth birthday had come. I hadl been waiting for it, and in the morn ig I sent to her home my offering o0 fowers with a note requesting that] might have the favor of an interview~ in the afternoon. In the cosy little library of her mother's home, with the scent of June roses stealing in througi the windows, I told Ethel Templetor that I had loved her from the first mo ment I had seen her. It was some what of a surprise to the gentle girl, though, with a woman's intuition, sh4 had always known that I had liked her "passing well." When her mothel came into the room shortly afterwards Ethel's hand was in mine and bei cheeks were as red as the roses at the window. The mother only .lived foi the daughter's happiness, and I lef1 the house the betrothed lover of Ethe] Templeton. Of course my step-mother did no' like it. She said so with emphasis but at last appeared to be resigned tc the inevitable, and the family made great deal of Ethel. This pleased me, a'd. I was glad to see the oldest of thl boys, my half brother Harry, who was just six months older than my be trothed, a frequcnt visitor at the house In my new-born happiness I was will: ig to forget the wretchedness anc loneliness of the past. One day my step-mother asked me to take her out for a drive, and addet that she wanted a chance to talk to m< by myself. Her reQuest gave form t suspicions that had been forming foi some time in my mind that there were sharp 'claws under the velvet of he] touch. Yet I had no reason for any fears and I only congratulated mnyseli that I was finally free from her infin ences. Perhaps my self-congratula ton was premature. I have never forgotten that ten-mile rde through the misty October sun shine to the little lake set like a dia mond in the crown of the Farmingtor kontains. Its memory comes back to me with every recurring October day that is its twin in beauty, but it has been so softened since that no sting is left in it. "Frank," said my step-mother after a while, "do you love Ethel so much that you could not give her up? Dc you think you are suited to her? ould you not both be happier if you should return to your old bachelor life instead of trying to tie this young gir.1 down to your old-fashioned ways?" A mazment kept me snpechlesa for a momentand tb4 I quietly told her that Ethel and Iloved each other and were to be marrie at Christmas and that I could not consent to any such talk and should crtainly refuse to sub mit to any questioning. An ordinary woman would have been quiet, but this one loved her brood with the intense ferocity of a tiger cat and was bound to make all other lives that she could influence subordinate to what she considered their best inter ests. So, after a while, she said that I must really forgive; that she only spoke for my own good, because she thought me too old in my ways, if not in my years, for Ethel; that it would be a pity for Ethel to find outhereafter that she had made a mistake, and much more of this sort. I clenched my teeth and kept silence, saying to myself that the drive would soon be ended. Then my stepmother shot her last arrow. "Don't you think that Harry is much better suited to Ethel than you are? Everyone notices that she is much brigbg and cheerier in his company than V yours. Her little fortune would be a help to him and you do not need it; and, besides, I know that you would not stand in the way of her happiness," and here my stepmother wiped her eyes gently, as if the tears were coming in spite of herself. "Do you mean to tell me that my brother Harry loves Ethel and that she would return his love if I released her?" "I mean to tell you nothing. I have said only what I thought to be right. The rest you can find out for yourself." Not another word was spoken throughout the drive, but my blood was rapidly rising up to fever heat and jealousy fired every fibre of my heart. I spoke to no one except to give direc tions about the horse and then sought my own room to feed the fires of jealousy until such time in the evening as it was suitable to call at Ethel's home, and when I started my brain was that of a-moody madman. There was a sound of music as I neared the house, and when I entered t 'the parlor, unannounced as usual, Ethel was seated at the piano playing I an accompaniment while Harry sang an old-fashioned love ballad. They A were a handsome couple, I could see that at a glance, and well matched physically, and my jealous imagination supplied all the rest. His attitude was love-like, and she-I dared not look at her, I retreated softly out of the room and went to the library and sat there listening to the light catches of laugh ter that came from the other room. They were having a happy hour g together and evidently did not miss me. At last they went to the outer door I together, lingered there a moment too long, I thought-and then Ethel came slowly and thoughtfully toward the library. What was she thinking t about, I wondered, that made her step so slow? Was she planning how to be "off with the old love" before she wast "on with thes new?" c iny, Frank, when did you come In?" was my darling's glad greeting. As she 'came towards me with both lands outstretched and a happy smile 1on her lips, she suddenly. -stopped and. cried amusingly, "what, is the matter? What makes you look like that?" The demon of jealousy .which had been at work in my heart all the eve ning hadr= iast emastered me. Irage disto'rted everything and eveasthe sweet face before me could not calm - the storm. I rose to my feet and put -forth one repelling hand. "Ethel-before we go any, farther you must answer me one question. Do you love me, or has my brother Harry usurped my place? My stepmother todme today that I was tooold and grave for you and that you preferred my brother's society-but I gave no Icredence to it until I stood in the parlor tonight and heard your new lover singing a love ditty to you. Answer - me-are you true to your promise to me, or do you love him?" The face of my betrothed seemed to iturn to marble as I spoke and her form grew statelier with indignan~t wrath. No one but a madman would have persisted in the terrible mistake that I was making. "Go!" was all the reply she made. "I have no explanation to make to the man who has doubted my word." Her hand pointed to the door, and though it was ng -;et too late for re pentance I passed out into the darkness insane with jealously., Five years passed before I saw again the face of Ethel Templeton. Imme diately after our engagement was broken off I had sold out my business and gone to one of the great Atlantie cities. My stepmother wrote to ine Ifrom time to time, and seldoin without alluding to the prospects of Harry's marriage, and at last she announced it as a fixed fact. Determined not to be looked upon as a rejected swain, I made swift courtship to a pretty, friv olous butterfly of fashion, whose alli 'ance was supposed to be a step in social advance for me, and we were speedily married. Then I went to Europe with my wealthy wife andI Imade a tour of the continent as befitted a fashionable couple. It was on a steamship returning from Liverpool to New York that I saw Ethel after our long separation. A little statelier, a trifie thinner, sheI was still Ethel Templeton. We met ,as strangers and I dared not question the friends who were escorting her, but my heart gave a leap of joy when I heard she was yet unmarried. The next moment I knew how I had ship wrecked my life and what an idiot I had been to listen to the stories of a woman whose only thought was to make me a tool for the advancement of her sons. No one can yet hear without a thrill of horror the dletails of the collision in mid-ocean which sent the goad ship Cleopatra on which we were embark ed to a midnight grave. A great crash was followed by* one prolonged shriek from hundreds of terrified souls, and then came the panic of crew and passengers, the lowering of boats and rafts into the tempestuous abysses of the sea, death in the darkness of the waves, cries for help that might have rent heaven, a sudden lurch and plunge and the final disappearance of the sorely wounded vessel under the surging waters. IEthel, my wife and I were in one of the boats when the steamer went| down .a the eddis caused br th NA final plunge siapod the boat and threw us all into the sea. It was the work of a moment to swim to a crosw tree that was floating near, and as soon as I found myself in safety I turned to find the arms of Ethel and my wife stretched out tome as they battled with the devouring waves. Which should I take? I knew in that supreme moment that I still loved Ethel and had never loved another, and that my wife had always been a stran ger to my heart. Love prompted me to save Ethel at any cost. Never was man so sorely tempted as I was in that moment of time which seemed to stretch out to eternity while the temptation lasted. I knew that I should be virtually a murderer if I let my wife go down to death; but ah, how could I abandon the woman to whom I cried aloud "Ethel " and she smiledeveninthe agonyof death. Then, with arms inspired to duty by her, I drew my wife up on the crosstree and for the first time in my life I fainted dead away. I looked around me as I recovered, and there was Ethel, saved by other hands. I called to my wife, but there was no reply. She had been wept away by another wave while they were lashing me to our temporary raft and trying to restore me to life. That was five years ago, for the last three years Ethel has been my wife. She forgave me readily when I knelt t her feet and asked forgiveness. [ndeed, she forgave me as soon as she hed learned, as she did when Harry bad been persuaded by his mother to ffer himself to Ethel, and in so doing iad let the cat out of the bag, how I iad been made the victim of her am bitious schemes for her eldest born. he had always loved me, she said, and oould never have married any but her irst and only love. Our married life has no clouds. 3ut there is one secret which I have tlways kept from my wife-how near y I was tempted to mu er when her vhite hands were lifted imploringly to ne from the waves of the Atlantic and knew that If I left those other hands hat bore a wedding ring to sink under he waters I would be free to win Ethel back. Let me add that I have ceased to be jealous man. Why Minnie Could Not Sleep. She sat up in bed. The curtain was Irawn up, and she saw. the moon, and t looked as if it were laughing at her. 'You needn't look at me, Moon," she aid, "you don't know about it, you an't see in the day-time. Besides, I 6m going to sleep." She lay down and tried to go to sleep. er clock on the mantle went "tick ock, tick-tock." She generally liked o hear it. But to-night it sounded just a if it said: "I know, I know, I know." 'You don't know either," said Minnie, opening her eyes wide. "You weren't here, you old thing! you were up tair." Her loud voice ok.tpro1E ook his ha r -r~"ina's awick ed stor, you naughty bird!" said Min nie. "You were in GrTandmia's room, so now!" Then Minnie tried to go to sleep again. She lay down and count ed white sheep, just as grandma said she did when she couldn't sleep. But there was a big him? in her throat. "Oh I wish I hadn't.' Pretty soon there came a very soft patter of four little feet,.and her puss7y was very quer a if pussy sad "I know. 1_know." "Yes, you do know, Xitty," said Min nie, and then she threw her arms around Kitty's neck and cried bitterly. -mamma!" Mamma oi-ened her arms when she saw the little weeping girl coming, and then Minnie told her miserable story. "I was awf1ul naughty, mamma, but I did want the custard pie so bad, and so I ate It up, 'me'st a whole pie, and then, I-1-0, I (:on't want to tell, but s'pect I must, I shut Kitty in the pantrto make you think she did it. Butlm truly sorry, mamma." Then Mamma told Minnie she had known all about it. But she bad hoped that her little daughter would be brave enough to tell her all about it herself. "But, mamma," she asked, "how did you know it wasn't Kitty?" "Because Kitty would never have loft a spoon in the pie," replied mamma, smilig. Kentuck.y Church4 Chronicle. A Cat Commits Suicide. A tabby cat belonging to the family of David B. Paul, Waliingford, is re ported to have committed suicide while grieving over the loss of her family of five kittens that had been drowned in order to keep down the cat population. When the old cat missed her offspring she went tearing over the house, showing her great dis tress by loud mewing. Failing to find the kittens after a long search she went up to the third story and deliber ately jumped out on the porch roof below. When picked up old tabby wa dead, her neck being broken in the fall. An Old Book. "Where Have You Been?" is the title of a sketch by Kate Thompson which has just been published in England. The main merit of the story consists in the fact that it is written entirely without the word "and." The scene is laid at a place called Kent College, where young ladies and gntlemen are trained in a course of sesthetic lectures, delivered by a professor who turns )ut to be a scamp, and makes love to his pupils, running away with one of them. Young Girl (at fortune-teller's "What! I'm going to marry a pom man and have seventeen children! It's outrageous! My friend Sarah had her fortune told her, and you said she was to marry a millionaire and live on Fifth avenue. Here's your quarter." Fortune-teller, with dignity-"Yorr friend Sarah got a fifty-cent fortune, miss." "Hans," said one German to another in the streets of Frankfort, "what are you crying about?" "I'm crying be cause the great Rothschild is dead," was the reply. "And why should you cry about that?" was the further query. '-He was no relation of yours, was he ?" "No," was the answer, half smothered in sobs, "no relation at ll, u'J thot's just what T am cry.' FOUND THE DIAMONDS HOW A TURKISH DETE sE R COVERED STOLEN JEWELS. e Poses as a Merchant and Invokei the Aid of a Tribe of Turcomans. Some years ago the diamonds of the Austrian Ambassador at Constanti nople were stolen from her toilet table. A large reward was offered for their recovery, and Dindar, one of the secret police-agents of the Grand Vizier, was given the case. In the course of a week Dindar got a clue to the perpetrators of the robbery, The plunderers were numerous; and as the jewels could not be sold withoui great risk of detection in Constanti nople, they had resolved to carry them for sale to Teheran, where they had no doubt of finding a ready market. Dindar found out their intended route, and on the arrivals of the rascals at Kars, a respectable merchant from Koordistan, in a high cap of black sheepskin and a huge robe, entered their caravanserai, and very dexter ously managed to extract from them, in the course of conversation, an avowal that they had diamonds for sale. For these the pretended mer chant, who was no other than Dindar himself, offered to give a handsome price, and thus save them the trouble of continuing their journey to the capital of Persia. After a great deal of bargaining, the robbers agreed to sell the jewels for 90,000 piastres, or ?900 sterling; and, with apparent reluctance and hesitation, the merchant produced a teavy leathern bag and counted out the sum in silver beschliks. The money was some counterfeit coin manufactured in England or Russia by a gang of coiners. The robbers left Kars joyfully on their homeward route. At their Arst halting place, however, some of the more wary began to suspect the accom modating merchant who had so oppor tunely interposed to save them the weary ride to Teheran. At any rate, the thieves examined the contents of the money-bag, and soon discovered the beschliks to be spurious imitations. The gang returned at full speed to Kars, found the treacherous merchant quietly smoking his chibouque in the caravanserai, furiously accused him, deprived him of the briliants which he had so unjustly obtained, beat him severely with brindles and belts, and pipe-sticks, with the full and unquali lied approbation of the bystanders, and, finally, only abstained from drag ing him before the Cadi from the fear that some of the party might be un pleasantly familiar to the myrmidons or magistrates of Kars. Having thus regained possession of the diamonds, they hastened on to Teheran. A fresh plan was soon formed, and ~Dindar mounted his horse and rode as *f is possible on the road toward Persia, aid by seeking a little unfre quented pass in the mountain range had the gratifican of arriving before the robbers. j was some time before he encoun tered a band of nomads fit for the psipose he had in view. At last he ariived among a tribe of Turcomans, ,people, brave, hospitable and' faith Ad, but with exceedingly medissval -ofditright's ouopetv- .To the'ehieftain of this horde, Sultan Moorad, Dindar told a plaintive tale of wrong and violence. He had been cheated out of the price of a set of superb jewels which he had sold to .some Kaffrs of merchants at Kars. The unbelieving dogs, rank heretics, as well as the swindlers, had taken away the money they had paid him for the diamonds by force after he had given his receipt; and when he complained at the footstool of justice, the Cadi of Kars, that son of a burnt father, and grandsire of asses had taken a bribe from the thieves to apply the bamboo to Dindar, and to drive him with blows from the court. Whereupon there had remained no other resource to thE ill treated and disconsolate Dindar than to prostrate himself in the dust of the Turcoman encailipment; and to adjure the brave and victorious Sultan Moorad, before whom the universe trembled, to put himself at the head of his lion-eating warriors, and sur prise the robbers on their road to Teheran. Dindar added, that besides the diamonds, the rascals had taken 90,000 piastres in silver in their pos session, and that he should be content with the restitution of the gems, leav ing the money to his faithful ally, whom he finally implored by the beard of his father and the salt of his hospi tality, to protect and avenge him. The Turcoman chief sympathised with the wronged and injured Dindar, and his eyes sparkled at the mention of the piastres. He agreed to pnns Dindar's enemies, and to restore him the gems; and forthwith plucked his spear from the ground, where. it was planted before his tent, mounted his steed, which had borne-him on many a day of battle, and called around him his young men, who mustered gladly at the first announcement of a foray. To the dismay and astonishment of the Stamiboul thlieves, as they emerged from the intricate passes of the moun tains into the open plains they were charged by an overwhelming force of Turcoman cavalry. Half of their number fell beneath the scimitars and lances of Sultan Moorad and his fol lowers; and the survivors, having been stripped and plundered, were detained in a state of slavery among the wild horde. As for Dindar, the chief kept his word most faithfully. The dia monds was given up to the wily thief taker, who returned forthwith to Con stantinople, restored the jewels to the Ambassadress, and duly claimed and received the reward. The Turcoman chief was content with the counterfeit comn. Strange Kesmeric Phenomenen. The, following strange meemeric story appears in L.ucifer, the magazine of the Theosophists, edited by H. P. Blavatsky: "I will tell you now a strange case. You remember, perhips, that for over five years before my comn ing to meet von in Paris (1884) I suf fered almost constantly from a violent pain in my right arm. Whether it was rheumatism, neuralgia or anothing else, I do not know, but besides great physical pain, I felt my arm becoming wit every day more powerless, so that when rising froi sleep I could ard? ly lift or even move it. This made me dread final paralysis. Then I went to laris. You also remember the little old gentleman called M. Evette, the mezmerizer, who tried to cure you br magnetism, only without any results. It was you, I believe, who suggested that he should try to cure my arm of the pain I was suffering from, and you will remember also that from the even iny when he first tried a few passes from the right shoulder downward I felt better. Then he visited us regu larly every day for some time, and never failed to mezmerize my arm. After five or six seances my'arm was entirely cured, all pain had disappear ed, its weakness also, to such an extent that my right arm suddenly became stronger than my left one, which had never given me any trouble. Soon after we parted. Ireturned to Odessa, and itever feeling any pain in that arm from that date to this New Year'sDay, i. e., during the four and a half years, I very soon lost every remembrance of my past suffering. "Ent lo, and Yehold! On January 1st, 1889, I suddenly felt with dismay that my right arm was again paining me. At firt I paid no great attention to it, thinking it would soon pass over. But the pain remained; my arm began once more to feel half-paralyzed, when finally I found it in just the same con dition as it had been nearly five years before. Still, I hoped that it was but a slight cold which would disappear in time. It did-not, however, but became worse. My disillusion as to the po tency of magnetism was a complete and very disagreeable one, I assure you. I had labored under the impres sion that magnetism cured once for all, and found to my bitter regret that inmy case it had lasted only four and. a half years! . . . "Thus I went on suffering till-tha end of the month, when ohe day I re ceived the January number of the Revue Spirite, which I go on subscrib ing for now, as I did before. I began to look it through, when suddenly, under the title of "Obituary Notices," my eye caught these lines: 'Le 15 Jan vier courant, on portait en terre la depouille mortelle de M. Henri Evette, magnetiseur puissant.' (On January 15th were buried the mortal remainsof Mr. Henry Evette, a powerful mes merizer.) I felt sorry for the good old man, evidently the same that we have known, when suddenly a thought struck me. Japuary 15 new style, means with ia January Sd in Russia. If he was buried on that date, then he must have died on Jan uary 1st, or- thereabouts, since in France, as elsewhere, people are rarely buried before the third day after their death. He must have died, then, on New Year's day, precisely on that day when the long-forgotten pain had re turned into the arm he had so success fully cured some years before! What an extraordinaryoccurrence! Ithouglit. I was thunderstruck, as it could never be a simple coincidence. How shall we explain this? Would it not mean that the mesmeric passes had left inmy arm some invisible particles of a cair ative fluid which bad prevented the return of pain, and had been, in short, conducive to ahealthy circulation in it, hence of a healthy state, so far?a But that on the day of the - -eie' death-who knows? perhaps, atth very hour-these mysterious particle.% suddenly-.left me!- -Whither hsive A--. thi no ieessstrprwIa Have they run away like dsserters, or - simply disappeared, because the ~vitak pod9er which had'fixed them Into my arm was broken? Whocea tell? I would if I could have some experi enced mesmerizer, or those who know about it, answer me and. suggest an explanation. Does any one know of cetees where the death of the mesmer izer causes the diseases cured by him to return in their former shape to the patients who survive him, or whether it is anunheard-of case? Is it a com mon law, or an exceptional event? It does seem to me that this case with my arm is a very remarkable and suggst lye one in the domain of magnetic cures.I Joaquin Killer's Western Home. ~ A slender, sparely built man, well along in years, with long, yellowish white hair that lay on his shoulders in - curls, sat for a long time in front of the Leland Hotel, Chicago. He was dressed in black, moderately well worn and not of the latest cut. At his throat a loose white neck scarf was negligently caughtover a diamond collar-button. On one of his fingers glistened a large, brilliant yellow dia mond that was in strange contrast to the seamed and tanned hand. In speaking of his home in California, he ~ said: " Itis a terrestrial paradise. I shall live there until I die. You know I went there by almost an accident, but it brought me satisfaction andeven fortune, for Iam arich man at last. Three years ago, when I went out to California with Col. Howard and Mr. Sutro, we arranged to plant a- little Island off San Diego with trees. We had hardly done so when fire killed them. Then I went to San Francisco and bought my little tract of ground in the mountains. It is two miles from Oakland, and 750 feet above the ocean. For 200 acreslIpaid from $50 to $75 per acre, and now they want to buy it for town lots. I am really rich, but I have worked hard," and the Western poet glanced at his hardened hands. " It is 'py philosophy. It Is the founda tion of my latest and longest work, ' The life of Christ.' He breaks least commandments who lives by the sweat of his brow. In three years I have planted 15,000 trees. I thought it , would take me only a short time, but I am still at it, and I and my mother shall always live among them." The Latest Thing Abroad. The latest thing in fashion for men in England is known as the Americani shoulder. It consists of a coat padded at the shoulders in a manndr quite un ique. Pieces of lead of quite an im posing size are employed in the pro cess, and when the dude is properly "fixed up" he appears with a sort of epaulet arrangement, calculated to transfix the gaze of the less enlight- i' ened observer. The "American -i shoulder" is only just coming into vogue, but it was decidedly conspic uous in Piccadilly, London, last Sun day afternoon. A London tailor says that he is putting twelve ounces of lead into some of his "padding" I 7;