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ELBERTOU. GA.
TXT HERE he is prepaied to execute every class
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MAKES A SPECIALTY OF
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J. JM.
Fashionable Tailor,
Up-Stairs, over Swift & Arnold's Store,
ELDER TOY, GEORGIA.
BOOTS * SHOES.
Tiie undersigned respectfully an
nounees to the people of Elbcrton and
surrounding country that he has opened a first'
class
Boot and Shoe
SHOP 2N EXaBERTON
Where he is prepared to make any style of Boot
@r Shoe desired, at short notice and with prompt
ness.
REPAIRING NEATLY EXECUTED.
The patronage of the public is respectfully
solicited.
ap.29-tf CL W. GARBEUIT.
LIGHT CARRIAGES & BUGGIES.
J. F. JOIJIAI,
ELBFiKTGN, CiEORCU.
BEST WORKMAN!
Bierc work:
LOWEST Pit TOES!
Good Buggies, warranted, - $125 to SIBO
Common Buggies - SIOO.
REPAIRING ANDBLACKSMITIIING.
Work done in this line in the very best style.
The Best Harness
My 22-1 y
lira mwlcSy.
3?. J. SHANNON,
Saddler & Harness Maker
Is fully prepared to manufacture
IIARNLbS, itniDl DS
I,KLIM,Lb, SADDLES,
At tb shortest notice- in the best manner, and
on reasonable terms.
Shop at John S. Brown's Old Stand.
ORDERS SOLICITED.
H. K. GAIRDNER,
ELBERTON, GA„
DEALER IN
BEY BIBS. SEBCIEIIS,
IIA lID WAIt E, C HOC KEIt Y,
BOOTS, SHOES, HATS
Notions, &e*
J, Z. IjITTBE,
CABINET
and undbetakse
■Will give close attention to repairing Furniture.
Orders in Undertaking filled with dispatch.
Shop at Lehr’s old stand.
y. m. SWIFT. MACK ARNOLD
SWIFT & ARNOLD,
(Successors to T. M. Swift,)
dealers in
diu t goods,
GROCERIES, CROCKERY, ROOTS AND
SHOES, HARDWARE, &c.,
Public Square, ELIIERTOIS CJ.i.
T. A. r. KOBLETT,
MAeiKtt KASOH,
ELBEHTON, GA.
'Will contract for work in STONE and BRICK
anvwhere in Elbert county [jelb 6m
THE GAZETTE.
New Series.
MARRIAGE after burial.
A True Story.
CHAPTER i.
Antoine Latourette was a merchant in
the gay city of Paris. He was a man of
more than ordinary ability, and had rais
ed himself from a gamin of Paris to an
opulent and respected position in the
mercantile world.
Antoine had a bosom friend named
Francois Damas—also a merchant and
also rich
Latourette had a beautiful daughter
whom he called Pauline, and Damas had
a son, a noble-hearted and splendid
looking youth, whom ho had named An
toine, after his life-long friend.
The two young people had loved each
other almost from infancy, and when
they were still very young it was agreed
between their parents, that they should
marry when they had reached the prop
er age.
That time was fast approaching. The
youth Antoine bad reached his twenty
third year, and Pauline was <u\ly three
years his junior. The weddfPgday had
been fixed and all concerned were look
ing forward to the nuptials as a season
of unalloyed happiness. But “the
courso of true love never did run
smooth,” and the loves of Antoine and
Pauline were no exception to tho gener
al rule.
The merchant Latourette had one
weakness which overshadowed all liis
virtues.
Sprung from the lower order of Pa
risians himself, lie no sooner began to
accumulate wealth than the desire seiz
ed him to become the intimate of those
high above him in the social scale. His
low origin was the one thorn that rank
led in his side, and if he could have
wiped out the recollection of his early
days by the sacrifice of his entire for
tune he would gladly have made that
sacrifice and considered himself the
gainer by the exchange. And so it
happened that just on the eve of the
marriage of our hero and heroine, tho
Marquis Du Laporte—a member of the
old noblesse—was introduced to the
proud .-old merchant. He was a man
sonic sixty years of age, well preserved,
and of immense wealth. He was unmar--
ried, and having seen the fair Pauley
fate decreed that he Should .fall*
atciy in love v dNMPIRNHP
decreed that her ftrtfler should favor
tho suit of her ancient but high born
lover.
In vain did the poor girl plead, with
tears in her eyes, that she should not be
sacrificed—in vain did the young lover
—her affianced husband—beg and rave
by turns—in vain did his life long friend
Francois Dumas, appeal to his sense of
honor and point out to him the misery
which would too surely follow a union
of the marquis and Pauline. He was
deaf alike to threats, anathemas and iin
plorations. The idea of his daughter
forming so brilliant an alliance had
fairly turned his head and warped his
better judgment, and he swore his
daughter should marry her ancient suit
or even though she died the moment
thereafter.
The merchant’s will was all powerful
and the young couple were obliged to
submit.
Their parting was a painful one—the
young lover was frantic with grief, and
urged his affianced, by every argument
he could command to fly with him. The
temptation was a fearful one, but her
sense of duty and the dread of parental
anger outweighed all other considers
tious, and she determined to accept her
fate with what philosophy she could.
And so they separated—the girl beg
ging her lover not to subject her to
temptation by remaining near her ; and
in a few weeks thereafter she was united
to her ancient-lover.
Little satisfaction, however, did the
marquis receive from the unholy union :
for scarcely had the marriage ceremony
ended when the bride fell lifeless to the
floor, and all efforts to resuscitate her
proved unavailing.
Great was the grief of the ancient
bridegroom, and deep was the remorse
of the bereaved father, as they followed
the lifeless body of the bride to the
grand mansion which had been fitted up
for her reception ; and grand was the fu
neral which only three days afterward
took place.
Among the mourners present at the
funeral was the young lover, Antoine
Damas. His presence was not prohibit
ed, now that the idol of his soul lay
cold in death, and as he stood by the
grand coffin, looking down upon the
rigid features of the loved and lost, his
tears fell like rain, and the Dosom of
the strong man swelled with an agony
which only those who have been similar
ly bereaved can wholly and fully appre
ciate.
“Farewell, thou wildly worshpiped
one !” he mentally ejaculated; “thou hast
entered the realms of eternal light, and
left me to bewail thy loss, but I will not
remain long away from thee! My soul
shall greet thine iu Paradise ero thou
hast been a day buried! Then why
should I weep?" he continued as ho
harshly brushed the sorrowing drops
from his eyes and smiled hopefully. “Is
it not better that I should own thee in
Heaven, than that another should claim
thee here? Away, thou foolish tears !
and rejoice, oh, my soul! for thy mate
shall soon greet thee where all is joy,
and peace, and eternal union !’’
And so the beautiful dead was laid
away to rest in the grand mausoleum,
where slept the ancestors of the old
ESTYYF??AISi:-XJhI3 1859.
GEORGIA. JULY ?. 1875.
marquis ; and when night had -
on the scene, the bereaved lover took
his way to the lodge occupied byfthe
old sexton, who had charge of ’.the
grounds, and gfcntjy' for- ad
The door was immediaHy opened,
and the sexton—a venj£|t&
haired man of kindly aspgJßpstqpd be
“ How now, my son?” \ gen|.y,
,as he gazed in wonder at fwP' Borrowing
face of the youth ; “why dftgt thou seek
admission into the lodgd^F"okjjgjfeflflMi
at tLis unusual hour?”
“Father,” replied the youth,
of great earnestness, “I would
vor of thee.”
‘•lf, keeping strictly t'c.Che line of du
ty, I can do anything to assuage tkv
grief, my poor youth, or to* assist thee
m any particular, I shall be only teo
glad to do it,” replied the jon
i tone of sympathy. ‘“So speak fpC.fjV
!my son, and let mo know how I cap,,
! help thee.”
1 ‘\l desire to gain admittance c 'intotbo
tomb where my lost love is lyinf;”J*o
lurned Antoine. “Do me but this favm
and I will bless thee wvith my latest,
breath.” j*
“Your request is as unreasonable, a
to grant it is impossible,” returned tl&
old sexton in a tone of sorrow. “Grßsf
has turned thy brain, and rendered
reckless. Get thee to thy home anil tfl
bed, my poor boy, or thou wjlt be a tit'
subject for the mad house before many,
days roll by.”
“I shall be a lit subject for the grave,
ere to-morrow, if thou dost not grant
my request,” said the youth,
“Dost thou think, old man, that I can
sleep with this dead weight in my bo*
som ? As well mightest thou recomt,
mend repose to one undergoing the tor
ture of the rack. I tell tliee, father, f •
must see my love to night, or I shall tel
a raving maniac ere morning ! Let m|
lock upon her sweet face once again,!
and press my lips to hers, and I will cL"
part quietly—and nobody need knoj,
t hat I had the precious privilege, if
thou dost not feel for me the sympathy
which thou du§t affect to feel," he ,
tinned, his hands and fixing on :
the oklsexto# a look of pitiful entreafy, i
pf implore thee lo#g)ant me thm
Ifvor 1' 'rf ......
* art distrilpfi ;
pnoa tne oTa mao, mournfully, “but* I
suppose no harm can coni9 of granting
thy request, and so thou 3 halt be grati
fied. Coins with me.” And donning
his coat and hat he lighted a lantern
and the two set forth in the dark to
gether.
CHAPTER 11.
Sumo two months subsequent to tho
events narrated in the first chapter, a
grand ball commemorative of some im
portant event in French history, took
place in tho gay capital. It was largely
attended by all the first citizens of Par
is as well as by a large number of tho
nobility.
Among the latter was tho Marquis De
Laporte, who had not yet ceased to
mourn for his fair bride, and who had at
tended the ball more to get away from
his sombre thoughts than any other mo
tive.
The dance progressed. Wit and rep
artee was heard on every side from the
most brilliant representatives of Paris
ian society, and the anjoyment was at its
height, when suddenly tho Marquis De
Laporte, who sat conversing with a
friend, stsrted as though he had receiv
ed an electric shock, and seizing his
companion's arm nervously, asked ex
citedly :
“Count, who is that lady hanging' on
the arm of Damas? Do you know her?’’
His friend fixed his eyes upon the lady
referred to, and after a careful scrutiny
replied :
“Her countenance is familiar to me,
my dear marquis, and but that I know
the thing impossible I would swear she
was Pauline Latourette, your deceased
wife!”
“I would not trust my own eyes,” re
turned the marquis, with no less excite
ment than before, “for my imagination
conjures up her face in every woman I
look at, and I did not know but I might
be mistaken. She is certainly singular
ly like my dead darling! I must be in
troduoed to her. I could not sleep to
night otherwise !” And rising from his
seat the Marquis approached the young
couple.
“Good evening, Monsieur Damas,” ho
said as he reached them—“it is some
weeks since I saw you last, and I am re
joiced to see you looking so much bet
ter than you did. Have you been trav
eling?”
“Not far,” retorted young Damas,
who looked much embarrassed, “I have
been a little way into the country—that
is all!”
‘ And there I suppose you made the
acquaintance of your fair companion,
eh !” asked the marquis, as he fixed a
searching gaze upon the young lady
who, although she tried hard to preserve
her self control, trembled [in every joint.
“Come, Antoine, introduce me!”
“This is Madamoiselle Duval, a cous
in of mine,” returned young Damas, un
hesitatingly—then turning to the lady,
he added: “Cousin Antoinette, this is
the Marquis De Laporte, an old
friend.”
The lady bowed gracefully, but flush
ed crimson as she did so, and the old
marquis, after regarding her in silence
for some time, said:
“You will pardon me, madamoiselle,
but you bear so close a resemblance to
my dead wife that I cannot help regard
ing von with more than strict etiquette
would perhaps warrant.”
“I feel flattered to be told by so dis
tinguished a person as the Marquis De
Laporte that I resemble his wife,” re
turned the lady, smiling; “out is not the
•aucc piucj imaginary on your
part?”
“Imaginary !” exclaimed the marqifi ,
excitedly; “far from it! There is no
im gination about it! Why th** voic e
itse fis that of ny lost Pauline, an i, as
Ili ■•*. von 1 >.v - - moV on the neck in
the exact place and of the same an"ear
ance that she had! This ii wonderful!
Pardon me, mademoiselle, but you
would pwstifo me greatlv bv giving me
the particulars of your birth and par
eat
“I would do so cheerfully, marquis,”
returned the lady, ‘ but I—l ”
Here Antoine Damas came to her as-
jjsistance.
“Pardon me, marquis,” he said in a
whisper so low that the lady did not
jjliear him ; “Mademoiselle Duval is my
iaffianced wife. You have already de
prived me of one wifo and you shall not
; deprive me of another if I can help it!
i Come, Cousin Antoinette, let us join the
dance ! Adieu, marquis !” and placing
'the lady’s arm within his own the couple
walked away.
; * For a moment the old marquis stood
footed to the spot and indulged in a
dong revery.
- He aroused himself at last, exclaiming
3 *s ho did so.
“Mon Dieu ! but this is very strange!
The figure, face and voice exacily the
same, and the mark on the neck also!
What does it all moan ? I must inves
tigate. If she is in tho cofiin where I
loft her of course she cannot be here!
I|'she is not in her coffin then she is
here beyond a doubt!” And leaving
ball-room at once lie bent his
peps in the direction of tho sexton’s
lodge.
•'Three hours later he returned to the
LAI room.
-.ids face was ghastly pale and a look
-®£ stern determination shot from his
piercing black eyes, as looking eagerly
fie observed young D-mias and
or Iwhiying around in Use
mm
lb seized the lady firmly by the wrist,
pulled her rudely away from her partner
and exclaimed in a boisterous tone as to
attract the attention of all upon the
floor, ar, he fixed a look of burning ha
tred upon Damas:
“Villain! Your heart’s blood shall
wash out the stain which you have put
upon my honor! And you, Madame le
Marquise De Laporte, will go home
with mo!”
At once all was confusion. The dance
was stopped and eager listeners gather
ed around to hear what further might
follow.
“This lady,” continued the marquis,
“is my wife! Her death was feigned to
deceive me so that she might fly to the
arms of her lover! They had the assist
ance of an old servitor of mine in whom
l placed the utmost confidence, but the
villain has paid for his treachery with
his life!”
“Mon Dieu! You did not slay the
sexton !” exclaimed Damas, with a look
of horror.
“Yes, villain!” returned tlie Marquis
De Laporte, foaming with rage, “and
the same sword that let out his life’s
blood, shall now ba sheathed in your
bosom !”
As he spoka he dre.v his sword and
rushed upon young Damas, but the
next moment he staggered and fell at
full length upon the floor in a fit of ap
oplexy.
They picked him up and called medi
cal assistance, at once, but the physi
cian arrived too late to be of any serv
ice. The old man’s soul had taken its
flight.
That night Antoine and his much
loved Pauline [for she it was as the
reader must already have surmised]
made their appearance at the house of
Antoine Latourette, when the youth sta
ted that he had mourned Pauline as
dead, and had gained permission from
the old sexton to visit her corpse in the
mausoleum—that while gazing on her
rigid features he discovered signs of
life, and with the assistance of the sex
ton succeeded in resuscitating her—that
then looking upon her as doubly his,
he had taken her to fn obscure quarter
in Paris, determined if possible to pro
cure a divorce for her, and marry her
himself —that he had attended the ball
supposing the [Marquis De Laporte
would be there, and the rest the reader
knows.
The old merchant no longer withheld
his consent to the union of the loving
pair.
They were soon married amid much
rejoicing, receiving tho good wishes and
congratulations of “troops of friends,”
who showered blessings upon the head
of the bride who had been “married af
ter burial.”
—_—•.*.,
A lady in Halifax having occasion to
enter a milliner’s shop had her attention
attracted by a beautiful and very expen
sive French bonnet, and inquired the
price ; she was told it was sold. “Oh,
I have no idea of purchasing such an ex
pensive bonnet," said the lady, upon
which the milliner said, “It is a joint
stock bonnet —that is, it belongs to
three factory girls, who wear it by turna
on Sunday.”
Vol. IV -jSTo. 10.
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GOVERNOR.
Could I see the Governor ?” The in
quiry was from an elderly female, whose
apparel and surroundings breathed of
Adam.
“No, madam. He is engaged.” Thus
the polite secretary.
“O, well! I’m glad lie’s here anyhow.
I’ll just wait and see him when he gets
through. I allow lie’s a power of money,
hain’t he ?"
“No-o, madam (dubiously). Indeed, I
believe the Governor is uot in. No
[more firmly], he’s gone home.”
“Gone home ! Why, uon’t lie live here?
Here’s room enough for his family, I
reckon How many lias lie got in the
family"? Well, this is a pretty pi ce, and
mighty cool up here too. I believe I’ll
take my snack here and wait for him.
Have some biscuit and meat, mister ?”
“No, I thank you,” abstractedly. Picks
up a bit of paper. “Ah! I find the Gov
ernor ha3 left the city. He can't see you
to-day, madam. Ho won’t be back till—
next week.”
Silence.
Enter tho Governor. Lady resuming:
“TV ell, now; may bo you can tell me
where the Governor is?”
“I am the Governor, madam.”
“Well, salies ! lam so glad to see you
have got back safe. Governor, I hearn
you had money for the poor folk, and me
and my old man we had our house
bio wed all over and my bee gums all got
smashed to pieces and all our apple trees
gotblowed down, and my darter she had
a nice, new sewing machine that her
sweetheart had bought second hand from
the city, so he said, and it got broke so
it wouldn’t run no way any more’n it
did before, for we never could get the
tiling fixed; and wo are nearly out’n
provisions, and my old man’s oft’ mule
died with the colic coma Friday three
weeks, and the calf it’s sick and the cow
she don’t give down her milk, and I
couldn’t bring but five pounds of butter
to town instead of ten I might have
done if the calf hadn’t been sick and tho
eow not lettm’ down her milk, and—”
“That gentleman will attend to you,
madam ; I haven’t time,” and the door of
the private office closes with a click of
tke;lock on thejinside.
Secretary, smiling: “Did you tako that
fm: the Governor, madam! We keep
-pCv.’ t .-ie .i... v. .sometimes, lui moar
crazy now. That man is harmless, and
imagines himself Governor of Georgia.
We have one man here, though, that it is
difficult to keep from hurting people. I
believe I hear him rattling his door to
come out now—”
“Lordy !” I must go. "Well I never!
The Governor and the lunatickers all to
gether. Good mornin’.”
[Atlanta Herald.
LOST GOW, BY SHIMINY.
Asa rule there isn’t a better c lass of
people in tho world to deal with than
tho Germane, but occasionally you
will find one whose ideas concerning cer
tain business transactions arc amusingly
peculiar. For instance: A German sub
scriber to tho Journal recently called to
advertise a lost cow, and according to
the long established custom of this well
regulated print shop, we immediately
wrote up the notice and figured up the
cost of publication.
“Vat isli dat?” asked our friend, plac
ing the butt end of his whip on our lit
tle sum of multiplication.
We informed him that it would cost
him so much to advertise his lost cow
three times.
“You make me pay for dat ?”
“Certainly; we always take pay for
advertising.”
“You take pay, eh ? Yell dat ish von
tam shvindle. I shcribe mit dat shour
nal bapers dese dree years, and now you
sharge me yoost for wet leedle advertise
mit mine gow.”
“But we—”
“You shtop my shournal bapers,”
“But you— ’’
“You shtop mine shournal bapers, und
I got some more in Daytraw, pv shimi
ny ; und you come leetle end dat horn
oud."
“But see here, my friend—’
“I go right avav und dond got slieat
mit you, py laachus. Dink you got
some shleep mit a veascl, dond you ?
Sharge me yoost for advertise von gow !
Id vas bedder uv you dond got me med
ven I gome here, and I shcribe mit dat
shournal more as dree year, but you
makes me med und you shtop mine ba
pers before I got id next dime. Dat ish
von man I am kind uv, py shiminy !”
Wo tried to explain; we tried in vain;
we lost him and a three weeks’ advertise
ment of a “lost gow, py shiminy 1”
Whenever you see a young lady sit
down in church, with a solemn lo’ok on
her face, and kneel down at prayer
and not look over the front seat at her
neighbor’s new hat, you needn't imagine
that she is a Christian. She is only
wondering if she couldn’t tic her dress
back a little tighter next time, without
bursting something.
♦ - ;
A man will carry fivo hundred dollars
in his vest pocket, but a woman needs a
morocco portmonnaie as large as a fist,
and too heavy to carry in the pocket, to
escort a fifty cent scrip, a receipt for
making jelly cake, and two samples of
dress goods down town and back, every
pleasant afternoon.
At a spelling match recently one man
spelt it “pasnip,” and got beet.
THOUGHTS FOR THE MONTH.
CORN AND PEAS.
We repeat warning, often given, not to
plough corn deep or branch roots begin
to form. For tho last ploughing, tho
sweep is tho best implement—the Dick
son or buzzard wing for uplands, “solid”
for bottom lands. It, is important that
corn should be laid by clean, and equally
so to broadcast peas at the last plough
ing, if they have not been planted in it
already. It is true that corn may make
a good crop, if laid by foul, provided it
has been well worked previously and the
land is good, but it will inak j still more if
there is nothing present to share with it
the food of the soil. Why then advise
the planting of peas in corn, says one?
Because, in the first place, the pea sub
sists mainly on the deeper lasers of the
soil, and corn upon the upper layers ; in
the next place, because tho pea does not
need the available nitrogen of the soil,
and that is just what the corn wants,
above all things else; and lastly, be
cause even granting that the peas may
diminish the corn crop to some extent,
still the pea crop itself will more than
compensate for the loss in the present
crop of corn, and greatly enrich the land
besides, for the benefit of future crops.
It is good policy also t'o work peas when
ever practicable. Because they can in a
jitasure take care of themselves in the
“smuggle for existence,” we are often
tempted to neglect them; but they re
spond as generously to the plough and
hoe as any other crop. See what acorres
pondent says on another page, about mak
ing 30 bushels per acre. Ho has not
signed his name, but it is known to us,
and we have no hesitation in vouching for
ns truthfulness. How much food could
be raised the present year if every farmer
would at cnce put his wheat and oat
fields in pi as—drilling them in rows
to 3 feet apart, and dropping 6 to 8 peas
>very 18 inches! [Peas yield best
planted quite thick.] It is true an early
frost might prevent a crop planted- this
nonth fn m maturing fruit, but even in
this event, wlmt a wealth of forage there
would be
COTTON.
Plough at intervals of 2 to 3 weeks
quite shallow, and leave surface as fiat
as possible. A good hand with sweep
will leave little for the hos to do. As
cotton approaches maturity, the work
ings should be at longer intervals, that
growth maybe slow instoad of rapid, and
the force of the plant diverted to fruit
instead of weed making. Sudden checks
arc very injurious, and total arrest of
growth undesirable, but continued
growth gradually decreasing to Ist Sep
tember, is tho condition most favorable
to a maximum crop, Shallow plough
ings at gradually increasing intervals
furnish the best means of bringing this
about.
TURNIPS. .
Too early yet to plant any variety but
the Rutabagas; but it is none too early to
Login of land for* tbia crop.
When the time comes to plant the seed,
the soil ought to bo perfeetly clean—no
undecomposed weeds or. grass mixed
with it, and in the finest possible tilth.
The lattor is absolutely essential to the
growth of a large crop. A rather light,
sandy soil is the best for turnip, and the
richer tho bettor. The old fashioned
plan of cow-pening a turnip patch, where
practicable, is as good as any, if not tho
liest. Plough well, selecting a rather
dry time, before turning stock upon it.
Every week or ten. days plough again
(cross) —never plough when the ground
is “heavy,” and just before time to pant,
run smoother and harrow as often as
may be necessary to pulverize thorough
ly. Lay off shallow drills 2£ feet apart*-
put in Buperposphato at the rate of 250
lbs per acre, and bed tip —not very high.
At planting time run a scantling [rigged
with shafts] to cut off the top and fresh
en the surface ; do this just after a rain
or late in afternoon. Make a shallow drill
by running a light wheel with V shaped
edge along the freshened ridge, drill the
seed and cover by running the “scant
ling” lightly over the bads again to cov
er, and at the same time “firm” the soil,
something liko a roller. This “Ih’ming”
is essential to tho germinating of seed,
if the weather is dry.
[Cultivator for July.
THE GKOWTH OF LONDON.
The Leisure Hour, in speaking of tho
gro vth of London, says:
“The metropohVof theßritisk empire,
the largest city the world ever saw, cov
ers, within fifteen miles radius of Char
ing Cross, nearly 7(30 square miles, and
numbers within these boundaries 4,000,-
000. It contains more Jews than the
whole of Falestine, more Homan Catho
lics than Homo itself, more Irish than
Dublin, more Scotchmen than Edin
burgh. The port of London has every
day on its waters 1,000 ships aud 9,000
sailors. Upwards of 120 persons are
added to the population daily, or 40,000
yearly, a birth taking place every five
minutes, and a death every eight min
utes. On an average, twenty-eight
miles of streets are opened; and 9.000
new houses built every year. In its
postal districts thoro is a yearly dcliv
ery of 238,000,000 letters. On the Po
lice Register there are the names of
120,000 habitual criminals, increasing
many thousands every year. More than
one third of all the crime of the country
is committed in London, or at least
brought to light there. Tliero aro as
many beer shops and giu palaces as
would, if their fronts were placed side
by side, roach from Charing Cross to
Portsmouth, a distance of seventy tbreo
miles, and 38,000 drunkards are annual
ly brought before its magistrates. The
shops open on Sundays would form
streets sixty miles long. It is estimated
that there aro aboye a million of the
people who are practically heathen,
wholly neglecting tho ordinances of re
ligion. At least nine hundred addi
tional churches, synagogues and chapels
would be required for the wants of the
people.”
————
What is that which, by losing an eye,
has only a noso left ? A noise.
