Newspaper Page Text
Heart# a na Fores t Leaves.
love I watch the countless forest
r jth
l i?, a Jmer hills and in the wooded dell,
be SI> tfuth which sorrow's soul alone per
cci 'jiiive I not learned It well.
human hearts, tike forest leaves., I see;
11 hud, they spread, they wither, ana
hey
drink the sunshine— flutter in the gale.
>n
Left through the winter drear.
*au»t ul j 8 y them side by side.
■rsiwaMatwar*
^En I sba swift-winged eagle that last goal will
With this scarce-moving snail.
L stream turns from the fountain at its
hdhahs not on its journey to the sea;
& S ^~ 8 whi^^r , eSeth
> do a™ hearts sink what in the they silent bo. earth.
And wist not Burns Wilson.
—Hubert
N UNFORESEEN RESULT.
k
’he 10:30 train for— was nearly
I of passengers, and in about three
Lutes more would be steaming from
[station, when two young ladies en
fed, seeking seats.
Dne was a very sweet-looking girl, the
l beautiful, yet far from homely;
ler, Icl'aim whom she resembled possessed enough to
them sisters, a
liming le face, perfect features, hair. liquid
eyes, and waving twenty-three. golden
Both [‘There, were under
Mabel,” said the plainest
king one, “I see just two seats, talk one
(front of the other, so we can
k>n we like.” each!
‘Yes; and just see who occupies and
a horrid old countryman, the
ier a negro.
> shabby,” she continued, as her sis
fc offered to sit by the negro, shall leaving
other seat vacant. “Nor you
■there, either. See here, man,” she
■tinued, addressing the colored per¬
il, Id “suppose you sit by ttiis together.” farmer,
l‘Of allow two ladies to keep
course,” said the individual ad
lessed. “If massa is willing, I is.”
■“Change seats, certainly, Caesar; I
I lurned glad there is room for you here,”
the so-called countryman.
I‘I Iry thank you very much, and am
to have disturbed could you,” said Elsie.
■‘Mabel, how added you speak so to
■angers?” }• she in a low tone to
sister as the train moved on. “I felt
try li for them both, for they heard all
I‘I said.”
don’t care if they did. Who were
Iv, pray?”
P‘Do speak lower. He is not old,
Ether is he tough. He has the finest
Id most expressive eyes I ever saw,
ill, though not fashionably dressed, I
low tie he is a true gentleman,” replied
“How softly. do know pray?
you that,
mere Ink.” you see a gentleman I cannot
|*ln pke the to the kind manner He in has which feeling he
anil low negro. voice!” a
prt, a sweet
[“Since you his picture,” admire him returned so much Mabel, I will
nw you
first, twn’s a great, thick-skulled, boorish
head is to be drawn; long ilang
[ck g black hair, moustache, and moppy
beard.”
fOli, please stop, sister; be does hear,
sees also, 1 fear.”
pi [n the am glad of when it! Perhaps I I will give
fned picture finish it. Collar
down, dog-eared style; coat all
ity, and out of date years ago; hat—
[ [mmed Elsie, did you see that great, broad
[his knee? straw See, head-protector reposing
I have it here exact
| [ feet, I am but only 1 sorry that they I cannot long see
[the moral law, presume and are as
|e cased in cow
boots, so I will put them in as a
Ish.”
Vhile thus this unladylike beauty
itted and amused herself at the ex
ise of another, the train had been
eding Sut suddenly onward at a very rapid jar rate.
a strange thrilled
ry passenger; then thump—thump,
jarful crash, with shrieks and groans,
ng imed splinters, and broken glass, pro
an accident to the ill-fated
in.
L broken rail had thrown it from the
pk fv crushed down a helpless steep embankment, sufferers took and the
Ice of the smiling heedless travelers
it a few moments before filled the
Its. I
^tbel, unharmed. as she saw “I the two fast men and stand hurt,
i am
d will be burnt up, for I smell smoke.
_vft me, save me—do, kind sir!”
Hacked B‘Ob, pall me out first, both of you!”
Mabel frantically. “I must
MI die! Mamma and papa would
Bren me so. un, save me first,
se!”
fes,” murmured Elsie, with lips
from pain. “Save her first—no one
for me very much. Use all your
jth palm, for her.” brave lady; we shall
|jj%lease soon,
■l^eu both; but I leave you
are free, if I perish while
time the fire was subdued,
iger over, while the dead
play on the bank in a con
! been killed and several
Id her sister were not so bad
i as some, bat each had a
ankle and many bruises.
rat you there are is injured large and house cannot
a near
are you can be cared for. Per
JOiany JOU there?”
Elsie looked up as these words were
addressed to her, and met the hand¬
some eyes of the person who had saved
their lives, bent upon her.
“Would you object to my carrying
you, “I lady?” should glad
be very to have your
help, will in that or help any other wav, if some¬
one also my sister. I cannot
leave her.”
“Of course not Crnsar, you follow
with the other lady,” he added to our
colored friend, as he gently raised Elsie
in his arms and strode away.
“Stop!” cried Mabel angrily. “Can¬
not some other person carry me, I wish
to know?”
“Would you prefer to have this gen¬
tleman? If so, please take my sister,
and I will go with Ciesar.”
‘•Of course, 1 would prefer any white
man. How can you ask such a ques¬
tion replied the selfish girl.
The house to which they were taken
proved While to be a country public-house.
waiting, the stranger distinctly
heard the following conversation:
“Oh, Elsie,” exclaimed Mabel, “how
hard it is to be detained! 1 fear now 1
shall not be home when the rich travel¬
er, Mr. Englewood, first arrives. 1 think
so much of first impressions, you know.
Even if we are in time, I shall not look
half as pretty as usual, when bruised
and lame. It is going to be a great dis¬
appointment if I don’t captivate that
man, and marry him also.”
“Whether you love him or not, sister?
I hope you would not be so foolish as
to “1 prefer shall money to'love and happiness.”
be just so foolish, little Miss
Prim. Riches for me, I say, so I trust
Mr. Englewood will be manageable.”
The stranger’s lips curled into a very
icornful expression as he overheard
these words, which did not vanish un¬
til he hail secured a room, and had
taken Elsie m his arms to bear her
thither.
Much to their relief, they were able
to continue their journey by the next
train, and soon arrived safely in-.
Our rustic friend arrival had accompanied procured
them, and on their had
a carriage for their use, and assisted
them to it.
ing On the bidding door them vehicle, adieu, before he said clos¬
of the to
Elsie, whose name he had in some way
learned during the day:
“Miss Elsie, I trust wo may meet
again on some less disastrous occasion.”
“I hope so. Rest assured, though, I
shall never forget one who saved our
lives at the risk of his own. Will you
call on us at No. 172 - street, that
papa and mamma may thank you for
all your kindness?”
“Why, Elsie,” interrupted Mabel be¬
fore he could answer, “what do you
mean by inviting a stranger so indis¬
criminately to our home?”
“The address, Miss Mabel, is not ne¬
cessary, as 1 crave neither thanks nor
reward for doing as I would be done
by. One smile of recognition from your
sister, should I ever cross her gratefully path
again, I would, however,
prize. I hope it is not too presumptuous
a boon to ask?”
“It certainly is not. I should be
proud to recognize my preserver at all
times and in all places,” murmured
Elsie in a weeks grateful after tone. the accident, when
A few
the young ladies had nearly recovered,
Mr. Vernon announced to his family
that the son of a dear old friend, Ernest
Englewood by name, had returned from
abroad where he had spent in travel the
last five years.
Around the world had he been, and
now had just arrived from Cape Colony,
Africa, and wished to be presented to
his “He family. will call girls,” he
about two, so,
added to his daughters, “there is a
chance to secure a good husband. He
is and very agreeable, wealthy, as anil well is the as good-looking very man I
should like as a son-in-law. In fact,
as you know, his father amt I decided
to wed his only son to one of my daugh¬ when
ters, if agreeable to the parties, his boy
you were both children, and a
lad of twelve, It does not matter to
me which marries him, so that the son
in-law is mine,” he added laughingly,
as he walked away.
“Well, it does to me, very much,” ex¬
claimed Mabel; “as being the oldest,
and I may as well add, the prettiest, I
hasten to appropriate him.”
“Of course,” returned Elsie, “he would
never think of a plain girl like myself. it
It’s all right, dear; for when I marry
must be love, not gold, that makes the
match.”
“Are the ladies at home?” asked a
spruce-looking footman, who had jump¬
ed from a gay carriage that stopped be¬
fore Mr. Vernon’s door.
Being answered in the affirmative,
he descended to the sidewalk, opened hand¬
the carriage door, while a stylish
man and entered the
house.
Mrs. Vernon and her daughter Mabel,
the latter looking exquisitely dress, beautiful
in a tasty and becoming soon ap¬
peared to welcome him.
Mr. entered Englewood into greeted and them animated politely,
and an easy
conversation, but his eyes kept contin¬
ually seeking the door, as though watch¬
ing Slabel for another.
was charmed with the polished
and elegant stranger, and chatted with
him freely; yet when meeting his ex¬
pressive dark eyes, she wondered at the
strong likeness he bore to some person
she had met, yet she could not remem¬
ber who the person was nor where she
had seen him.
“Mrs. Vernon,” remarked Mr. Engle¬
wood at length, “I believe you have
-of two seeing daughters. both to-day?” Can I have the pleasure
“Oh, certainly, i will call Elsie, if
you will excuse me a moment,” an¬
swered the lady.
“My sister is a plain little body, and
rarely goes into society,” remarked
Ataoen as ner motner left the room.
“The rarest pearls are ever fotnd be¬
neath the jflainest-looking shells,” was
the quick reply, as the gentleman rose
to greet the young girl who now en¬
tered.
Witli a smiling face and kindling eye,
he offered his hand.
“Oh, sir, is it possible that yon are
here? How ElsiC glad I am to see you!” ex¬
claimed as she clasped his hand
before her mother could introduce her.
“I am so surprised, for I thought to
meet a Mr. Englewood, who is a stran¬
ger to me!”
“My daughter, you mistake. This is
Mr. Englewood!”
“Oh uo, mamma; but this is our kind
preserver—the one who rescued us from
too wrecseii tram, 1 could neVx,.,
never has forget him, although his appear¬
ance somewhat altered.”
“You are right. Miss Elsie, and I am
delighted to see you. Pardon my call¬
ing, Miss Mabel, when you so distinct¬
ly forbade my doing so; but your father
gave me full permission, and I could
not ing deny myself the pleasure of retiew
“Oh, my acquaintance with your sister.”
Mr. Englewood,” stammered
the conscience-smitten and confused
Mabel, “I had no idea that—that-”
“So plainly dressed and boorish a
clown could be the son of yodr father’s
old friend. Mrs. Vernon,” he continued,
turning to the mother, “I had just left
the vessel after a long and tempestuous
voyage. We had been wrecked, had
lost our baggage, and ruined the cloth¬
ing we had been wearing; but I had
been kindly furnished drv, comfortable,
though old-fashioned and rusty-looking
garments, by a person on board tho
vessel that rescued us from the raft on
which we wore hopelessly floating. I
would not tarry in town long enough to
purchase oilier clothing, as I longed to
meet the parents from whom I huu been
separated the I so long; so I passed on. On
•‘And way I made met your fun daughters.” of for which
I now,” you,
am very sorry murmured poor
Mabel.
“While your sister kindly defended
me. However, Miss Mabel, I will for¬
give you, after 1 restore* something I
found of years, dropped during tho ac¬
cident.”
He paused; then took from his pocket
the caricature of himself.”
Mabel eagerly grasped the paper anil
tore it into fragments.
the Turning then to Elsie and her mother,
tion, young thus seeking man changed tho conversa¬
to subdue the angry
tumult, that he knew was raging in tho
bosom of the selfish beauty.
He was conscious of having adminis¬
tered a bitter reproof, but he knew that
it was richly deserved, and he did it for
her good.
As the reader may surmise, Elsie ever
remained liis favorite; and, in a short
time, the plain yet amiable girl bccamo
his dear and honored wife.
The Lime-Kiln Ulub.
“How does your club stun’ on di
workingman Brother Gardner queshun?”
read these lines
from a letter on his desk, and, aftei
looking plied: around upon his audience, re¬
machinist, “Who am de woi'kingman? painter, He am £
car-builder, carpenter, molder, glazier,
white-washer. He works wood-sawyer, for oi
De amount of determined wages. by
wages am
de need of liis services, by de price ol
what he helps to make, profit by liis de employei demand
fur it, and by de
makes. A contractor kin no mo’ pay a
carpenter $4 a day dan de carpentei
kin pay seventy-five cents a an’ pound fui
butter. De law of supply demand
doan’ fix kin de rate wuth of wages sartin altogether.
A man be only a sure
at any craft. Wox-kingmen Do realize dis
as well as philosophers. working¬
man has just as fa’r a show as de mer
chant. Supply an’ demand regulate
prices, an’ goods are wuth only so much
to any consumer.
“I has no tears to shed ober whal
am termed do condishun of do laborin’
classes. De boy who sots out to larn a
trade betters himself instead of sacrific¬
in’ anythin’. De man who am aimin’
$2 a day If ought kin to airn lib mo’ in let a him $2-a-day spend
mo’. style. If he can’t let him satisfied.
he be
De aiverage workin’man libs in a com¬
fortable cottage and has it comfortably
furnished. His condishun, as dey call
it, am robust health, sound sleep, plen¬
ty an’ to eat, a an’ good fire, children in school,
a pipe workin’man a newspaper arter business sup¬
per. De has no
buyin’ what he can’t afford.
“An’ what has popped up de Iasi
score of y’ars to make de laborin’ man
discontented? I tell ye, my frens, il
am de sperit o’ false pride dat am
playin’ work de for ole his boy wid de He man who has
to money. wants to
appear better oft' dan he railly is. He
wants to furnish it better dan he can
afford. His daughter mus’ have an or¬
gan or pianner, his son w’ar fine cloze,
an’ his wife walk out in garments neb
ber intended fur her. It takes mo’ dan
goin’ I doan’ wages believe to keep dar up dis workin’maD false show.
am one
in fifty who am satisfied to lib widin
his income. If de man was satisfied
his wife wouldn’t be. It has got so dal
de daughter of a laborin’ man am
ashamed of ile fack. It has got so dat
gals consider it a disgrace to do house¬
work. It has got so dat sons of labor¬
in’ men want to spend money fast, an’
suthin has got to drap. When de
daughter of a whitewasher an’ de wife
of a wood-sawyer mus’ have fur-lined
cloaks de condishun of de laborin’
classes am sunthin’ dat no one man kin
tackle. Let us pureeed topureeedin’s.”
—Detroit Free Press.
The Law as to Party Walls.
A party wall in law is the wall divid¬
ing in'eommon lands of different proprietors, used
for the support of structures
on both sides, Iu common law, an
owner who erects a wall for his own
buildings, which is proprietor, capable of being
used by an adjoining proprietor, when he cannot shall
compel such
build next to it, to pay tor any the portion
of the cost of such walL On other
hand, the adjoining proprietor has no
right to make any use of such wall with¬
out consent of the owner, and the con¬
sequence may be the erection of two
walls side by side, when one would an¬
swer all purposes. This convenience is
often secured by an agreement to erect
a wall for common use, one-half on each
other’s land, the parties to divide the
expense; if only one is to build at the
time, he gets a return from the other
party of half what it costs him. Under
such an agreement, each has an ease¬
ment in the land of the other while the
wall stands, and this accompanies the
title and descent But if the wall is de¬
stroyed by decay or accident, the ease¬
ment is gone, unless by a deed such
contingency 'walls is provided for. Repairs equally; to
party are to be borne
but u one has occasion to strengthen or
improve them for a more extensive
buudingthan compel was the at first other contemplated, divide tho
be cannot to
expense with him. In some states there
are statutes and regulating the undoubtedly rights in
party wails, one may
acquire rights by prescription on a wall
built by another, which he has long
been allowed to use for the support of
his own structure.— Building.
SNEERI NG AT C AltLYLE.
Carlyle My first visit was to the heuse where
was born. It was a two-story
cottage of medium-sized rooms and one
closed over a wide gateway. The room
below has a grate and oven; it is paved;
the room above has an old cupboard.
The house is now not as it was in Car¬
lyle’s days. New doors have been put
in, and the walls have been renovated.
It is as poor a little place as one can
easily conceive. Carlyle’s father lived
here when he was a mason. His earn¬
ings in those days were probably not
larger votild than 8 shillings a week, and it
of surprise Carlyle’s me birth to hear that at the
uine the rent of the
wee place could have been more than
£2 a year. The sireet here is wider
than elsewhere, and between tho houses
the stream runs. A paved path is be¬
fore the doors on either side, and the
housewives cast their waste water from
the pavement down a muddy bank
which reeks of refuse. Up the archway
1 had referred to there is a sort of court,
containing altogether other similar tenements, tho
group dozen families containing much ground about a
on as as
might renting be occupied by two £20 modern The cot¬
tages at, say each.
birthplace is not in occupation. An
elderly person in tho court keeps tho
key and admits visitors’s visitors. books In lio the birth- tho
room the on
table, the first namo entered being
“Joseph Cook anti wife, Boston, U. S.
A.” The entries are fairly numerous,
perhaps forty or fifty for each year. table
There is no furniture, except tho
and chairs aforesaid. The old care¬
taker could say very little. It was ob¬
viously puzzling to her that Mrs. Car¬ She
lyle should keep this bouse empty.
thought the lady would heard surely let folks it
soon, that though there she had furniture some
say was more com¬
ing, and that the bed-room was to bo
entirely Carlyle’s furnished from London.” “auld Tom Her
house in
Scotch thrift stubbornly resisted all be¬
lief in that proceeding. “It wad be sic
a waste.” Folk came from far and
near, and some played sad pranks—
wanted to tear bits of the paper off the
walls, sometimes kissed the iloor, etc.,
etc. 1 was reminded by the good lady’s
talk that the immortal Potlgers was un¬
known in his own house.
I met a good body who saw the funer
al. Very few had gentlemen been there. Just
three or four old from Lon¬
don anil a batch of reporters, perhaps
twenty in all; hardly any of the Eccle
fechan people had troubled to come. It
had been a wet, cold, uncanny morn¬
ing. She remembered Tom Carlyle
week He was “a queer, crazy auld
body, though nae Uoobt a great mon.”
He bail not been too good to his wife,
neither, as tho woman remembered,
though she bad never heard any of tho
strangers saying so, anil bad never
heard of any books about it. Sbo could
tell “lang stories an’ need be, but it was
wark clattering.” greatly Nay, respected the in Carlyles Eecle
were noways mine
fechan, for sure. 1 went over to
inn, and there I met a considerable gen¬
tleman who had been James Carlyle’s
landlord when he farmed three miles
away. Ho had nothing They good to frac¬ say
about tho Carlyles. were a
tious race, the whole of them, with
never a civil word for anyono. As for
Toni Carlyle, he thought too much of
himself, and everybody hear else was good dirt.
“No him,” use coming said the hero to any ho
of great The person as al¬
rose and strode out. thing was
most as amusing as pathetic. Theso
Ecelefechan people could not see what
the world sees in Carlyle, and what they
could see was not to their taste.
At the station I had a long chat with
the station-master while waiting for a
train. Ho had much to say. about tho
funeral, but nothing different about tho
Carlyles. “They were a disrespected Carlyle’s
lot,” he repeated. thought He him knew ill
father, and a coarse Carlyle’s
natured man. He also knew
mother, and heard her say, “I canna
mak’ nothing of our Toom’s writin’s.”
And this is the atmosphere in which
Carlyle lies buried .—Liverpool Mercury.
The Colored Pencil a Colored Man Bought.
The colored messenger who waits on
the treasurer of the United States is a
character—a very good character. Last
spring he was very anxious to have
freedom on Emancipation day in order
that he might join in the procession that
gives Africans glory to that great He festival of tho the
every about year. leave of spoke to for
treasurer absence
that day the week before. The treas¬
urer gave him a somewhat evasive re¬
ply. He would see about it. Nothing
more was said. Emancipation day came.
The treasurer a mo to his o flice, so did
tho messenger. By and by he hinted
to the treasurer that this was Emancipa
ion day, and that it would hardly be
complete "Yes,” if he was not in the proces¬
sion. said the treasurer, who
down had forgotten the stationery all about division it; “well, and go
to get
•no a colored lead pencil so that I can
mark these papers, and then I guess
you ’flew can go. The messenger fairly
through the corridors. “Why,”
said the treasurer, when the messenger
handed him the pencil, “that lead’s
black, Iwanta colored pencil." “Well,”
said the messenger, “I thought if a black
man was a colored man, a black lead
pencil must be a colored pencil.” thiladel- He
was in the procession.— ‘Jor.
ohia Record.
Squeezin' limes.
On a train going West the other eve¬
ning were two residents of tho city,
who were canvassing the general situa¬
tion as to business, and both agreed
that it was a time when every business
man should pare his apples very his close.
Behind them was a farmer and son,
and, as the gentlemen finally ceased
talking, the old man observed:
“William Henry, did you hear what
they said?”
“Yes, dad.”
“ ’Bout iron furnaces bustin’ up, and
rollin’ mills shuttin’ down?”
“Yes.”
“Hullsale houses goin’ to the wall,
and corner groceries bein’ knocked
higher’n Gildroy’s kite?”
“Yes, I heard it all; and what of It?”
“What of it!” echoed the old man,
as he half-wheeled thick-headed in his seat idiot, “Why, it
yon infernal
means that I’m goin’ to git ready fur
squeezin’ times, and if you don’t pay
me them $7 you owe me by next week
Thursday, all-firedest I’ll cover my lickin’ shorts by William givin’
you the a
Henry ever fooled with.”— Wall Street
Hews.
Reminiscences of Dr, Ripley, of Concord.
I remember, when a boy, driving
about Concord with him, and in pass¬
ing each house he told the story of the
family that lived in it, and especially ho
gave me anecdotes of the nine church
members who had made a division in
the ohurch in the time of his predeces¬
sor, and showed me how every one of
the nine had come to bad fortune or to
a bad end. His prayers for rain and
against lightning "that it may not lick
up our spirits;” and for good weather;
and against sickness and insanity, “that
we have not been tossed to and fro until
the dawning of the day, that we have
not been a terror to ourselves and
others,” are well remembered; and his
own entire faith that these and petitions
were not to be overlooked, were
entitled to a favorable answer. Soma
of those around me will remember one
occasion of severe drought in this vi¬
cinity. when the late Rev, Mr. Goodwin
ottered to relieve the doctor of the duty
of leading in prayer; but the doctor
suddenly remembering with the season, humor, re¬
jected his offer some as
with an air that said to all the congre¬
gation. “This is no time for you young
Cambridge men; the affair, sir, is get¬
ting serious. I will pray myself.”
One August afternoon, when I was in
his hay field helping him with liis man
to rake up his hay, l well remember
bis pleading, almost reproachful thunder looks
at the sky, when the gust was
coining up to spoil bis bay. lie raked
very fast, then looked at the cloud; and
said, “We are in the Lord's hand; mind
your rake, George! We arc in the
Lord’s hand;” and seemed to sav, “You
know me; this field is mine,—l)r. Rip¬
ley’s, thine own servant!”
He used to tell the story of one of his
old friends, the minister of Sudbury,
who, being at the Thursday lecture in
Boston, heard the officiating clergyman the
praying for rain. As soon as ser¬
vice was over, be went to the ministers, petitioner,
and said, “You Boston as
soon as a tulip wilts under your win¬
dow, go to church and pray for rain,
un til all Concord and rode Sudbury with him are un
der water.” I once to a
house at Nine Acre Corner, to attend
the funeral of the father of a family. his
He mentioned to me on the way
fears that the oldest son, who was now
to intemperate. succeed to the We farm, presently was becoming arrived,
and the doctor addressed each of the
mourners separately: “Sir, I condole
with you.” “Madam, I condole with
you.” “Sir, I knew your great this grand¬
father. When I came to town,
your great-grandfather was a substan¬
tial farmer in this very place; excellent a mem¬ cit¬
ber of the church, ami an
izen. Your grand-father followed him,
ami was a virtuous man. Now your
father is to be carried to his grave, full
of labors and virtues. There is none
of that large family left but you, and it
rests with you to bear up the good namo
and usefulness of your ancestors. If
you fail, pray.” Iehabod, the glory manly is departed. he
Let us manly Rigid he could always was,
and the remember thing little speech
say. I can a
he made to me, when the last tie of
blood which held mo and my brothers
to his house was broken by the death
of his daughter. He said brothers on parting,
“I wish you and your to come
to this house as you have always done.
When “Put” Merriam, after his re¬
lease from the call State prison, doctor had the old ef¬
frontery to on the as an
acquaintance, in the midst of general
conversation Mr. Frost came in, and
the doctor presently said, “Mr. Mer
Frost, riam, has my brother to take and tea colleague, with mo. Mr. I
come
regret very much which the cause makes (which it you
know very well) ask impos¬ and
sible for me to you to stay
break bread witli us.” With the doc¬
tor’s views, it was a matter of religion
to say thus much. Ho had a reverence
and love of society, and the patient,
continuing courtesy, carrying the end, out widen every
marks respectful what attention is called to the of
manners
the old school. Lamb’s His rule, hospitality and obeyed fine
Charles “ran to
die last .”—Ralph Waldo Emerson, in
November Atlantic.
A Humiliating Punishment.
At the commencement of the cam¬
paign of 1864 Gen. Meade hesitated at
one time about advancing, but Gen.
Grant positively ordered him to move
forward. This was alluded to in a let¬
ter sent to a Philadelphia newspaper of
by Mr. Edward Cropsey, been a reputably native
Cincinnati, who had
connected with several loading news¬
papers. Ho said in his article: “His¬
tory will record, but newspapers can
not, that on one eventful Grant’s night during
the present campaign and the nation presence
saved the army too; not
that Gen. Meade was on tho point of
committing a great blunder his unwitting¬
ly, but his devotion to country
made him loath to risk her last army
on what he deemed a chance. Grant
assumed the Richmond.” responsibility, and we aro
still onto
When the newspaper containing this
paragraph reached the Army of tho
Potomac, Gen. Meade issued an order
that Mr. Cropsey bo arrested, paraded with
through the lines of tho army a
placard marked “Libelerof tho Press,”
and then be put without the lines and
not permitted to return. This humili¬
ating punishment was carried out in
the most offensive manner possible, been and
Mr. Cropsey, after having horseback, escort¬
ed through the camp on
bearing the offensive label, was sent
back to Washington. — Hen: Perky
Poore.
The Original “XAttle Eva."
“Little Eva” is in town, not the “Lit¬
tle Eva” of the stage, but the “Little
Eva” of the story. She has never been
dead. She is now older than she was
when the story was written, but she has
grown old gracefully, and is as lovely
as ever—much lovelier, in fact, than she
was in the story. She was a Mias
Letcher, of the famous Virginia-Ken
tucky family, afterward the wife of Gen.
Kennedy, of Lewis another Clark, Virgiuia-Kentucky
family. the points who she worked gave Mrs.
Stowe that up
into “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and who
figures therein as George Harris, was
owned had almost by Gen. and much Mrs. imagination Kennedy. He M
as
Gen. Mrs. Stowe, Kennedy, for himself he made Legree of the out of
one most
amiable and admirable of men. St
Clair Shelby# was Gen. Kennedy's Letcher#, and son. Hie
were tho so on.—
Washington Capital. --
LIFE SAVING.
Statistics aro abunui.nt to prove that
the years of life have been greatly
lengthened. Dr. Charles L. Dana as¬
sembles them in an article in the
Forum. The death rate in London in
1680 was 8 i m t.000; in 1750, 31 per
1,000; in 1880. 23 per 1,000. The mor¬
tality in Paris in the fourteenth century
was 50 per 1,000; now it is 26 per 1.000.
Records of death rates have been kept
in Geneva since 1590; since that time
the expectation of life has increased
from 5 to 45 years. The average dura¬
tion of life in the sixteenth contury was
only 18 years; now in England it is 41
years. In 1729 three out of every four
children died before the ago of five
years. Now, outside of large cities only
30 per cent of all deaths occur under
the age of five. In recent years there
has mortality been a steady for the decline in the annual
rate whole population.
In from England and Wales it has fallen
22.5 per 1,000 in 1861 to 19.3 per
1.000 in 1880-82. This means that out
of every 1,000 children born, 29.4 more
roach tiie age of 15 than did twenty
years ago. It moans in this country,
for example, that than 20,000 inoro children
grow to be 15 under older methods
of Compared living. with al«
though particular a individual century ago, reaches
no
any greater age, the average duration
of life has doubled. English statistics
show that since 1861 tho decreased
death rates adds 200 years to tho lives
of 1,000 males, of which years 70 per
cent and 60, is passed tho productive between tho ages of 20
Sanitarians have poriod. with
furnished us
somo estimates of the economic value o'*
this saving of life. Tho valuo of a child’s
life in money, says Sir James Paget, is
$200. It costs an average of $500 to
rear a child. Its death at the beginning
of tho productive age is therefore so
much lost. The valuo of an adult life
to tho stato is placed by Dr. Farr a(
$750, which is regarded as very low,
and its annual productive power at $95.
Another authority estimates tho value
of a healthy adult at $1,000. Roc hard’s
estimate for every Frenchman is $219.
Wliilo tho number varies in different
countries, it is safe to say that nearly
one-half of the population die during
the productive tho number ago. deaths In tho United
States of annually
at diminution the productive ages is about 400,000.
A of even a small per cent
in tho death rate would thus represent
a great economic saving. Further,
every death represents two years of
sickness, or 24 cases of sickness lasting
one month. In the United Stales there
are, therefore, 1,500,000 persons sick
constantly, or 36,000,000 sick for ona
month every yoar. In England and
Wales it has been found that every
workingman half of sickness averages a week and a.
every yoar. Rochard
estimates that tho annual wages loss to
Franco from sickness is $70,000,000; tho
total loss. $141,000,000; tho loss from
death $188,000,000. Wo are assured
that the death rate can in time bo re¬
duced from the present average of 20
per 1,000 to 10 or even 5 per 1,000,
while the amount of sickness ought to
bo reduced nearly one-fourth, or from
200 per 1,000 to 60 per 1,000.
The efforts to save human life or pro¬
long it on tho part of tho medical pro¬
fession have achieved notable results.
Typhus of fever its victims in England previous killed 30 per
ceut to 1825.
Tho death rate has since been reduced
to 20 per cent or perhaps less. Ague,
pneumonia, diabetes, Bright’s disease,
tho fevers and diarrhoea! diseases of
children, are less mortal than they once
were. Death ratos in hospitals bavo
fallen from 20 per cent (for 40 years tho
ratio in Bellevuo Hospital) to 10 and 12
per cent on the admissions. In 90 years
(1741 to 1827), the proportion of cures
to deaths in St. Bartholomew's Hospital
increased fivefold. Consumption, being
moro quickly recog nized and moro
rationally formidable and treated, h as become less
death rates from that
source have steadily declined since 1850.
In public 20 institutions, puerperal where one died, out of
every women tho
ratio is now less than one in 200. Just
as certainly the surgeon has done his
share. Tho ratio of death after amputa¬
tions has declined from about 40 per
cent to less than 20. Every year mod¬
ern surgical skill saves tho lives of thou¬
sands of did patients whom once tho sur¬
geons not dare to touch.
There is, after all, says Dr. Dana, a
steady increase, in tho proportionate
number of defective, dependent, tho
chronic invalid, and degenerative class¬
es. The only marked decrease obtain¬
ed in late years is in the zvnotic (mias- in¬
mie, etc.) diseases, while thero is an
crease in the local diseases—those of
the heart. lungs, kidneys, etc. Con¬
sumption has decreased in fatality in
most countries, about 7 per cent; fewer
persons liavo the disease and more who
have it get well.
the Among United 10,000 persons in Europe found or 8
Slates there will be
deaf nuites, 10 blind, 13 criminals, 14
insane or idiotic, 20 chronic inebriates,
100 paupers, and 400 chronic sick, of
less altogether defective 563 persons dependent. who are more Among or
or
10,W0 male adults in the working sufficiently years
of life, over 2.500 aro not
perfect, physically, for military service.
Every physician who has had experience
in nervous diseases notices the fact that
the race is filling with persons whohavo
some degenerative taint or constitu¬
tional vice. It is those who misuse
narcotics and stimulants, hypochondriacal, who are epi¬
leptic, eccentric, per¬
verse, cranky and even criminal. What
c ther result can be expected when our
c. aily multiplying asylums and hospitals who
pour forth vast numbers of those
are crippled and sickly, but are still
able to exist, perhaps prepagate their
kind; when foundling institutions take
without question the products of disease
and crime; when the libertine knows
state that, will however suckle diseased and try to his body, his off- the
rear
spring.— Good Housekeeping.
The Albany Argus attempted the
other distinguished day to citizen publish of a Albany, letter from under %
the heading: “The Income Tax—A
’jurist’s View of an Interesting Mat¬
ter.” The exasperating types got its
“A Peevish View of an Interesting
Matter. ”
The exchange fiend has to climb six¬
ty-five steps to reach the editorial rooms
of the Boston Post. By the time he gets
to the top he is so out of breath that the
smallest writer easily wipes np the flops