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OGE.
walk ou Kln^-
sjllglit shone
its with shrouded
nade Its moan,
below;
bt, and to and fro
walked,
d topetner talked,
Bridge.
bad riot met for yea re-
hate was once too deep for fears ;
e drew Ills rapier as he came—
1 eapt his anger 1 ike a flame;
V^ith olaxh of mail :e faced his foe,
bade him stand and meet him so,
[o felt a graveyat d wind go by—
(old, oold us was nls enemy;
A stony horror held hlni fast,
he D :fid looked with a ghastly stare,
And sighed, *' 1 know thee not,” and passed
Like to the mists and left him there
On Kingston Bridge.
•Twas All Souls’ Night, and to and fro,
The qulofc and dead together walked,
The quicK and dead together talked,
On King ton Bridge.
Two met who had not met ibr years;
With grief that was too deep for tears
They parted last.
He claBjnd her hand, and in her eyes
He sought Love’s rapturous surprise.
“ObBwtetl” he cried, “bast thou comeback
To say thou lov’st thy lover still ?”
Into the starlight pale and oold
She g>U!8d alar—her hand was chill,
t' hou remember how we kept
(relent vigils T—how we kissed ?
These kisses as of old 1”
[by wind about him swept;
[ow t'bee^ot,'* she sighed and passed
[the dim and shrouding mist
On Kingston Bridge.
Ja 1 ; All Souls' Night, and to and fro
jo quick and dead together walked,
?he quick and dead together talked,
On Kingston Bridge.
KIA.1CH MACKAT HUTOHl»»OW.
Gates Ajar.
["he Vital instinct of the soul, its
[>aven-born, upsptinging lifo, flings
[the silver veil, and reveals the
l^sthat lie beyond, to him who has
to see.
Fhe Gate ef Life stands ajar before
Thousands press eagerly forward
fong the broad avenue leading there-
Yielding to the united force, the
gate creaks upon its ponderous
^es, and slowly opens wide. The
freehold is crossed. The world is
jred, and the strife for the fulfil-
of desire is begun. All is eonfu-
the great crowd wavers, sepa-
and each individual begins
•great life work. The aspirations
some reach almost to the skies;
ihers are content with lowlier things,
it upon each face there seems to
[nger a look of unrest which must be
hsfied.
is we glance across the weary
retch of the broad field before us
lany gates meet our view, all of these
just be entered before we arrive at
it gate through which all pass into
ie great hereafter. Were we gifted
ith prophetio vision, and could see
eyond the misty clomds down the
ig vista of years, and there behold
L ohai#of life-acts that one by one
ted to some trifling deed, or
ittered word, that may der
InB'onfcpathway through life,how
[erent would our words and actions
ith trembling hands do we take
key to unlock the massive gate of
wledge which looms up before us.
idly we insert it in the lock and
wly turn it; greater strength than
is is needed, for we find—
‘The gate Is hard to open,
por the weeds and Ivy vine,
1th their dark and cllnglnjjLtendrils,
ver round the hinges twrae.”
e then is work for us to do. The
must be torn away. The bright
us sunshine, aided by the gentle
ihot^er, has nourished them, and they
ave grown high, thick and matted,
all, noxious weeds ol ignorance,
isobedience, presumption, arrogance,
ishonesty and vice, flaunt their
audy heads before us, mocking our
uipted entrance. They must all
destroyed, the soil carefully culti-
ted, and good seed sown therein.
:y too must be removed. How
oloseUy it clings! See the thousands
of tiny tendrils clasping the bars of
tbt/gat® 9 1 As the rust consumes, only
closer does the loving plant entwine
Itself. Patienoejft needed now^r our
e temple can
is seen, leading on, on",down
into the greatest depths of mystery.
Unceasingly, trustingly must we
labor. Ever before us be the glisten,
ing plainp with tall, graceful trees,
sweet singing birds, and bright fra
grant flowers, while over all the glo
rious sunshine— God’s golden truth.
“C od alone
Beholds the end of what Is sown ;
Beyond our vision, weak and dim,
The harvest time Is his with him.'*
And now do we come to the gate of
the Future. It too stands slightly
ajar. A mist obscures our vision ; at
times light and flaky, and as a gentle
passing breeze scatters it, we catch a
glimpse of some bright fancy, woven
by the quick shuttle of imagination ;
or dark, thick and heavy, covering all
with a mantle of gloom. Hope bids
us be of good cheer; all is brightness
beyond that misty veil, and—
‘iNo midnight shade, no clouded sun,
But sacred high eternal noon.”
shall be ours, when the veil ot mist
shall be torn asunder.
Nearer and nearer do we come to the
gate of Death, through which all must
pass. Dark, grim and terrible it ap
pears ; how we shudder as we approach
it! Beyond is the cold, cold grave.
Even now we seem to feel the damp
ness of the tomb. Yet, why isthis?
The gate of deatli translated into
heavenly language, means the gate of
Eternal Life—
“There is no deatli; what seems so is transi
tion ;
This life of mortal heath,
Is but a suburb ol the life elyslan.
Whose portal we call death.”
Friend after friend have we watch
ed, “breathing slowly life away
the smile upon the face concealing
bodily pain and assuring us of happi
ness beyond. Perhaps they saw that
golden gate opening,
“Round which the kneeling spirits wait;
The halo seems to linger round those kneel
ing closest to the door;
1 he Joy that lightened from that piaoe shines
still upon the watcher's faoe.”
No, no, the grave is not deep. It is
the soft low tread of an angel that
seeks us. “When the unknown hand
throws the fatal dart, then man bows
his head, and the dart only lifts the
crown of thorns from his wounds.”
Thiough the gate of Death, Heaven
is gained. Christ forever blessed
stands ready with a crown of glory,
for the head of him who has won the
victory.
Anecdotes of Dumas.
oy
[work is b1ow ;
lie completed!
after mi
k& gate sj
! days it
gs easily
A Parisian bailiff dying in extreme
poverty, some of his friends organised
a subscription to defray the expenses
of his interment, and one of them,
who knew Dumas intimately, solicit
ed a contribution. The novelist, with
out questioning the applicant as to the
destination of the money, immediately
gave him a louis ; on which the other
observed that the sum collected would
now be sufficient to insure poor F
a decent burial. “Ah,” said Dumas,
“is that what you want it for, to bury
a bailifF? Why didn’t you say so
before? Take another louis while
you are about it, and bury two.
When hiB drama of “Kean” was pro
duced at the Varieties it was specially
agreed between him and the manager
Dartois, that if the receipts of the first
thirty performances should attain
total of 60,000f. Dumas was to have
2000f. for his share ; but that if even
sou were wanting to complete the
sum he should receive nothing. As
however, the first twenty-nine nights
had brought in no less than 57,999f.
the dramatist felt tolerably sure of
touching the promised “gratification
and toward 9 o’clock on the following
evening strolled into the manager
private room at the theatre, where, to
his infinite surprise and disappoint
ment, he learned that between the
actual totality of the receipts and the
amount stipulated there was a differ
ence, not in his favor, of 7 francs. “Ex
tremely sorry, my dear Dumas,” said,
Dartois, “but you know our agreement,
and—” “Not a word more,” interrupt
ed the author of “Kean;” “it can’t
be helped. “Only,” he continued,
“it rather inconveniences me just now
for I had counted on the 2000 francs,
\ie of science,
^en turned for
-Every traveler
sands of life
..thousands do
& few reach
faintly
[Latimer at the Stake.
The night before his death Ridley
supped with the family of the mayor.
At the table no shade of the stake
darkened his face or saddened his
talk. He invited the hostess to his
marriage; her reply was a burst of
tears, for which he chid her as if she
were unwilling to be present on so
joyous an occasion, saying at the same
time, “ My breakfast may be sharp,
but I am sure my supper will be
most sweet.” When he rose from
table his brother offered to watch
with him all night. “No, no,” re
plied he ; “I shall go to bed and (God
willing) shall sleep as quietly to-night
as ever I did in my life.” The place
of execution was a ditch hy the north
wall ot the town, over against Baliol
College. Ridley came first, dressed
in hi# black furred gown and velvet
cap, walking between the mayor and
an aldercian. As he passed Bocardo,
where Cflhimer was confined, he
looked up, expecting to see the arch
bishop at the window, and exchange
final adieus with him. Cranmer, as
Foxe informs us, was then engaged in
debate with a Spanish friar, but learn
ing soon after that hi3 fellow-prisoners
had passed to the stake, the arch
bishop hurried to the roof of his pri
son, whence he beheld their martyr
dom, and on his knees begged God to
strengthen them in their agony, and
to prepare him for his own. On his
way to the Btake, Ridley saw Latimer
following him—the old man making
what haste he could. Ridley ran
and, folding him in his arms, kissed
him, saying: “ Be of good heart,
brother; for God will either assauge
the fury of the flames, or else
strengthen us to abide it.”
They kneeled down and prayed,
each by himself; afterwards they
talked together a little while, “ but
what they said,” says Foxe, “ I can
learn of no man.” After the sermon
usual on such occasions, both un
dressed for the fire, Latimer, stripped
by his keeper, stood in a shroud.
With his garments he seemed to have
put off the burden of his many years.
His bent figure instantly straightened,
withered age was transformed into
what seemed vigorous manhood ; and
standing bolt upright, he looked “ as
comely a father as one might lightly
behold.” All was now ready. An
iron chain had been put around the
martyrs, and a staple driven in to
make it firm. The two were fastened
at one stake. A lighted fagot was
brought and laid at Ridley’s feet,
Then Latimer addressed his com
panion in words still fresh—after three
centuries—as on the day on which
they were uttered : “ Be of good com
fort, Master Ridley, and play the
man ; we shall this day light such a
candle, by God’s grace, in England,
as I trust shall never be put out.”
The flames blazed up rapidly and
fiercely. Latimer bent towards them
as if eager to embrace those ministers
terrible only in appearance, which
were to give him exit from a world of
sorrow into the bliss eternal. Strok
ing his face with his hands, he speed
ily, and with little pain, departed.
4Not so Ridley. His sufferings were
protracted and severe. The fagots
piled high and solidly around him,
stifled the flames, and his lower ex
tremities were burned, while the
upper part of his body was untouched,
and his garments on one side were
hardly scorched. “ I cannot burn,’;
he said, “ let the fire come to me.” At
last he was understood; the upper
fagots were pulled away; the flames
rose; Ridley leaned towards them’
and crying : " Lord Jesus, receive my
spirit!” his body turned over the iron
obain, the legs being already con
sumed, and he fell at Latimer’s feet.
About Editing.
and no'
|kn hour ago lent a friend the
last It*
fis I had in my pocket.” “Is
that a*
1?” said the manager
m opening
his cad
L-box ; “take what
n want,”
“Tweij
ly fruut'B will bequfl
enough,”
replied
DhmiHH, and, li^H|
| himself
to thel
Km in question,
led out of
the vM
leisurely uHMg
M entered
it.^fl
of au hoH
ater three
ijlgflnl been
, and the
thirtyjHHj
b^hereby
Ig^toLor’H
A good many people besides fresh
politicians and chronic office-holders
are of opinion they ought to be able
easily and readily to make a living in
journalism. We know plenty of men,
and women too, who have au idea
that because their clever off-hand criti
ques of authors and their bright de
scriptive sketches have moved the
admiration of the home circle, or
drawn eulogy from a partial coterie of
friends, therefore they are fully
equipped to “write for the news
papers.” We may inform these per
sons that journalism is work, unosten
tatious drudgery, a profession which
edicts of its votaries the most con
stant and watchful labor, dry, hard,
and not infrequently repulsive labor.
To read a book at one’s leisure and
then sketoh the pleasant features in it
tend or jaJatlve in the familiar
>f pe
affair. To cram a volume dow
mental throat in an hour and be ab’
to hit the point* most representative
of its merits and defects, requires
years of training added to rare adapta
bility for the work. Working up a
character sketch in political or literary
life in idle days or weeks and detailing
it for the delectation of one’s friend in
entertaining style is no proof that he
or she who achieves this, for amuse
ment or to kill time, would be capable
of gathering the salient point in the
career of all the literary or political
celebrities in his or her head, ready to
be unloaded on paper the moment one
of them died or did something out of
the common.
The journalist, if fit to be so designa
ted, must daily go patiently over at
least one representative newspaper of
each party from every seotion of the
country. That is, two from the
North-west, two from New England,
two from the Middle States, two from
the South and two from the South
west—ten papers in all,to be scanned
with care, and every Item of current
history in them, as well as the leading
comments thereon, either stored in a
retentive and well-ordered memory or
clipped and arranged for reading and
study.
An editor, or a contributor of the
higher order, must be “up” in all that
concerns his own constituency and
well posted in all that goes forward of
the large events in the civilized world.
Writing is but a small part of his
labor. Anybody, almost, can write.
To know what to write, when to write
it, and how much to write—like Dog
berry’s reading and writing—these
instincts come largely by nature
Editors of the very highest order “are
born, not made” by the schools or
other training.
There are “more curses than cop
per*” in the business. Few writers
on the daily press of this country com
mand liberal salaries. There a>*e not
ft dozen women, all told, who can
earn more than a bare living at the
editorial table or as correspondents.
There are attractions about the
work, very many of them, but even
those are reserved for the men and
women who labor for the love of it,
and find their reward not generally in
public applause but in the approval of
their own conscience and pride. Thou
sands of people take papers and read
them for years, never knowing who
the real editors are nor caring to
know. Other thousands say this or
that paper is a good one without a
thought of the special labor performed
in any of its departments, or of those
who are credited with the brightest
and beat of the leader*. There are
many hands in the labor needed to
produce a daily paper. Individualities
are not practicable or possible. Oue
never knows whether the best feature
of a paper was an accident, an offshoot
of genius, or the result of patient toil
by one the public will never hear of.
We have referred to the ability to
write as not the prime editorial equip
ment. Striking illustrations of this
are scattered over the history of jour
nalism of the last few years. John
Lothrop Motley, the great historian of
the Netherlands, the fine magazinist,
the “valued contributor” to many
journals on many topics, came within
a mere scratcn of ruining the New
York Times. He was literally at the
mercy of every oue in the establish
ment,from the devil up to the man
aging editor. He had no preliminary
training. Had done none of the
drudgery in the lower before attempt
ing the higher role. His failure was
complete, disastrous to the paper, hu
miliating to himself. A lumpish busi
ness man *ucceeded to the control who
had the practical idea. He hired the
right sort of brains, and from impecu-
niosity he has risen to the stature of a
millioiUnre, from the ground where a
literary emperor had broken his own
reputation as a man of versatility, and
nearly ruined the property of his em
ployers.
Editors and publishers who succeed
are those not merely adapted by men
tal structure to the business, but they
are also the men and women who work
systematically aud spare not them
selves, regardless whether the great
public smiles or frowns upon the fruits
of their labors.
“Well, sir, I suppose you’ll go back
to school rested by your holiday,” said
a New Haven father to his “chubbiest”
boy. “Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with
a brightened expression, “and I’m
going to ring the bell.” “Is that so?
I thought Sammy Goodboy rang the
bell.” “Well, he used to; but I’m
ringing it in his place now, don’t you
see?” And what does Sammy do?”
Sammy ? Why 1 he’jyiothlng but
Humorous.
rimary school, not very Jong
ago. the teacher undertook to oon-
vey to her pupils an idea of the use
of the hyphen. She wrote on the
blackboard “bird’s-nest,” and, point
ing to the hyphen, asked the school,
“What is that for?” After a short
pause a young son of th« Emerald isle
piped out: “Plaze, ma’am, for the
bjrd to roosht on J”
Practice makes perfect: It was at a
railway station. The trains were being
made up. Puff went the locomotives,
whirr went the wheels, and the whist
ling was terrific. There was backing
and forwarding, and all manner of
shunting on a labyrinth of rails.
“What the deuce are they doing?”
“Pracicting for a railway accident.”
“I’m not very proud of your progress
in school,” remarked a New Haven
mother to her son, who was struggling
along in grade five. “There’s Charley
Stuart away ahead of you, and he isn’t
as old.” “I know it. Teacher said he
learned all there was to learn in my
room, and that left me without any
thing to learn.” The boy will keep
without ice.
“My son,” said a fond New Haven
mothei to her oldest son, who had just
attained the cigarette-smoking size,
“I fear you are not making the most
of your manhood, of your selfhood,
my dear. I do so want you to becom*
a man of great hearthood. Oh, James,
for my sake do exercise a little con-
sciencehood.” “Just so, mother.
You’re quite right. How long befor*
supper is ready ? My stomach need*
a brace,” and the dastard smiled be
cause his mother was shocked at such
flippancy.
Anecdote of Baron Rothschild.*
Baron Jame* de Rothschild one day
at diuner perceived that the artist
Delacroix, who was his guest, was
looking at him in a peculiarly search
ing manner. The baron asked the
reason, and Delacroix responded that
having for some time been vainly
searching for a head such as he would
like to copy for a prominent beggar in
his new picture, he was suddenly
btruck with the idea that his hos
would make a splendid model. The
baron, who was fond of art, gracefully
consented to sit, and next morning
appeared in the studio of the painter,
who dressed him in rags, placed a tall
staff in his hand, and put him into a
mendicant’s posture. In this attitude
he was discovered by a young friend
and pupil of the painter, who alone had
the privilege of being admitted te the
studio at all times. Surprised by the
excellence of the model, he congratu
lated his master at having at Inst found
exactly what he wanted. Not for a
moment doubting that the model had
Just been begging at the porch of some
church or at the corner of a bridge
and much struck by his features, the
young man espying a moment when
the artist’s eyes were averted, slipped
a twenty-frane piece into the model’*
hand. Rothschild kept the money,
thanking the giver by a look, and the
young man went his way. He was, a*
the banker soon found out from
Delacroix, without fortune, and
obliged to give lessons in order to eke
out his living. Sometime later the
youth reoeived a letter mentioning that
charity bears interest, and that the
accumulated interest on twenty tranca,
which he, prompted by a generous
impulse, had given to a man in ap-
pearance a beggar, was lying at his
disposal in Rothschild’3 office, to the
amount of ten thousands francs,
having borne five hundred fold.
The Storage of Power.
During an address by Prof. W. E. _
Ayrton on the “storage of power^rf
the lecture theatre was lighted, a
oular saw driven and an elevator oj]
rated by means of electric tne|
which had been stored the prevfl
day in Faure accumulating batter!
The total quantity of energy was
000,000 foot pounds—a little more th
twenty-five horse-power exerted
one hour. A single cell contain!
eighty-one pounds of lead and
lead, is found to store 1,410,000 poi|
of energy.
The oity of London proper co]
an area of 122 square miles—tt
the area under the operation/
Metropolitan Local Governing
The postal district, however,
over about 250 square miles, a^
police llstrict 690 square miles.j
The wst complete sewliq
ran nuHjtod by