Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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