Newspaper Page Text
: ^tgister.
CARNESVILLE, GA.
Drifting Apart.
A <rnn in the crowd, and a moment we stand
Face to face and hand clasped light in hand, soul¬
While your eyes, that are with a
ful loam.
Awaken iti mine own an answering gleam:
But a moment— then not knowing whither
wv’io hound, around
A« the human tide that ts surging
Rolls between, we rush on with the hurrying
throng, hlendsbipi* but forgotten
And < nr a forgot— song,
Pm -■( t w hi e it lasted, but soon
A Dower Hint has faded—a dream that is not.
A firmer hold and a stronger clasp,
A kindlier smile and a heartier grasp. unheeded
And tie-crowd might have swept
But who by. give It—you I?
was to or
So a sweetness is gone from our ilvcs.and the
flower
Whose tienuty has gladdened us manynnhour might have
Lies dead, and the dream that we
mn-ie irue blame—I
Liken shade has fled. Who is to
or you?
Alt, the world Is so wide, and, further day by day.
We drift lioin ench other still away;
So ninny ar ound us with smiling applause
That b-m iningiy sates us, we never pause
To think of a friendship that might have
been.
Till a world-wide distance lies between.
And the tide has turned, and stranded a
lone
On the tut re, bleak shore, unheeded we wearily by; moan
For that love wo let pass
Then who Is the sadder—you or I?
AUNT BETSY’S PRESENT.
“Well, I must say I think it is horri¬
bly mean of your Aunt Betsy, Estella.
After making such a favorite of you all
your life, and having you with her ever
since you were a mere baby, she might
have sent you something worth having
on your twenty-first birtnday, especial¬
ly as she knows how poor wo are since
your father’s death,” said my mother
sharply. had better take it as a hint for
the future, and not build any more cas¬
tles on what remarked Aunt Betsy is likely Lena, to do
for you,” my sister
with while Waiter, provoking my only brother, added,
a grimace: sister Stella’s
“Here endetn my
‘great expectations. I 19
“You need not make such unpleas¬
ant remarks,” 1 answered pettishly.
“In sending me the portrait of her old
sweetheart, poor old auntie has given
me her greatest treasure, and she, no
doubt, thinks 1 shall value it as much
os she does."
“Well, it may come in useful, after
nil, for if, as I expect, you never get a
sweetheart, you can imagine old he was
yours, when you are a sour maid
like Aunt Betsy,” little said Lena, who prid¬
ed herself not a on being engaged
at eighteen, vyhilo I, at twenty-one, had
never had an offer, not oven the ghost
I had lived with Aunt Betsy down in
her quiet country home in the south of
Cornwall until my father’s death two
years before, when coming up to Lon¬
don for his funeral, I found my mother
left in such straitened circumstances
that I felt it my duty to stay and. earn
what money I could to help her: there¬
by, however, I incurred Aunt Betsy’s
anger. “Surely,” she
wrote, "your brother
havo and sister can help leave your mother; you
old no need to I me lonely in my
ago, after have had ail the troub¬
le of you as a child,” etc., etc.
I would willingly have returned, for
a close London lodging was not at all
to my taste after my aunt’s largo airy
country-house, lean but my mother soemed
to on me, and so to dread my
leaviug her, that I had not tho heart to
go- Betsy neither
Aunt came nor wroto,
and I had < juito resigned myself to tho
Idea that I was hopelessly on her black
books when tho above related event
took plaee.
Now I know that I was forgiven. In
her early youth Aunt Betsy, then the
beautiful Elizabeth Marston, my fa¬
ther’s only sister, had been engaged to
the son and heir of a wealthy Loudon
banker.
Ho had been sent abroad, on business
for his father, just before thoy were to
havo been married, and through the
jealous madly treachery of another man who
loved her. and wished to sup¬
plant been his rival, tho engagement hud
suddenly broken off by him.
He then remained abroad, and Aunt
Betsy never heard from him nguiu.
Just before ho left England, he had
presented miniature her with a beautiful little
of himself set in gold and
diamonds, and this she had kept, to¬
gether lover with her maiden-name—no oth¬
er ever induced her to change it.
As a girl, 1 bad often seen and rever¬
I ently admired tho pretty souvenir, and
had taken all a girl’s keen interest in
tho love-story attached to it. Aunt had
always told mo it was to bo mine, and
now I fell curtain with this treasure in
my possession, that I had not quite lost
my old plaee in her favor, thougla I
heard in tho same lottev in which she
solemnly commended the portrait to
my care, that she had adopted an or¬
phan and girl probable iu my place heiress. as her compan¬
ion
I put the letter and portrait away
with a sigh of regret for my old happy
home, with its quiet aud freedom from
the toil and care and worry that were
now Things my daily portion.
went on from bad to worse
with us, and my twenty-second birth¬
day found me in desp air.
Walter, unable to get on here, had
gone to New Zealand; Lena had mar¬
ried on a very slender income, and
gone to live in tho North. I could not
bend to ask help from Aunt Betsy, and
my mother was ill, and my work so
scarce that I could barely fiud us in
the necessaries of life.
At last, 1 too, became ill, and we had
not a penny in tho house; everything
we had, even poor mamma’s engage¬
ment “Stella, ring had gone for food.
you must go and get some
money. Mrs. Burton says sho will
have tho rent" by to-morrow, or we
shall have to turn out into the street.
There is—would you mind, dear?—
Iour_Auut BqUj’j you (yuld
get enough lor that tt> keep ua for a
long time.”,
“Mamma dear, I cannot, dare not
sell it! Anything of mine I would with¬
hold, but this—oh, don’t ask me!”
“And yet the generous donor has
never sent us the price of a loaf.” said
my mother bitterly. “Well, take my
wedding-ring; it has never been off my
finger since your poor dear father put
it on, twenty-live years ago; but it must
go now.”
“No, no, mamma, you must not, you
shall not take it off. I will go and
take aunt’s present, not to sell, hut to
the pawnshop; then I may, perhaps,
get it back when Walter sends us some
money.” heart lag¬
With a heavy and weary
ging steps, I departed on my sold, hateful
task. All our things had been we
had preferred to lose them to going in¬
to that last digraceful refuge of thedes
titute, a London pawnbroker’s.
Arrived outside, I paced to and fro,
until my tottering limbs, weak from ill¬
ness and continual lasting, warned me
that my strength would not hold out
much longer.
I entered. Only one other person, a
tali dark gentleman, whose face I could
not see in the semi-darkness, stood
there “I talking to tiie shop-man.
tell you, my man, the plate is
here. It has been traced by a clever
detective, who will join me here in a
few minutes. He is only delaying be¬
cause he thinks he has traced the
thief, and has gone to follow up the
search.”
“Well, sir, I am sure you are mis¬
taken, but my principal will be here in
a few moments, yon must talk to him.
What can I do for you, young woman?”
he asked, turning to me somewhat ea¬
gerly, his evidently uupleasaut glad visitor’s of an excuse to
evade conver¬
Unable to speak, I drew forth my
treasure. The shopman looked suspic¬
iously at me as he took it up and test¬
ed it.
“Your name and address, please,”
he said sharply. “And how much do
you want?”
“I want a—a little money, if you
please,” As 1 spoke I faltered. the gentleman turned,
and I could feel a pair of bright keen
eyes scanning my pale face. 1 grew
absolutely more helplessly confused, my tongue
refused to utter a word.
“Tell the shopman how much you
want, and your name, my good girl,”
he said in a kind and pitying tone.
Then, for the first time, I raised my
eyes to his Merciful face, feeling I had found a
friend. heaven! was 1 dream¬
ing, or had my late troubles driven
reason from my brain, and filled it in¬
stead with wild delusive fancies.
Surely there stood the original of my
aunt stalwart Betsy’s portrait, but young and
as he had been forty years
ago, when it was taken.
In vain I tried to speak. I could on¬
ly point with helplessly to the portrait; the
shop, its occupants and its con¬
tents, swam around me, and with a cry
for help, I sank fainting to the ground.
When I next awoke to consciousness,
I was lying on an improvised bed on
the old couch in our sitting-room at
home. I moved my l head, it felt weak
and sore. Then tried to lift my
hands, but to my surprise I was power¬
less to do so. A woman, plainly dress¬
ed, with a kind motherly face, was sit¬
ting I near me, and rose as I moved.
looked around
“Mamma!" I called feebly.
"Hush, hush, my dear miss,” said
tho "You kind-looking speak; woman soothingly. is
must not your mamma
asleep So I lay and you might wake her.”
still, wondering weakly who
she was, and who had sent her there;
but presently, seeing her stir the fire
into a blaze, I forgot her caution, as all
my old anxieties carno back, and I said
pleadingly: “Don’t fire,
burn poke quickly, tho please. It will
out too and wo havo no
more coals.”
“Oh, now, miss; you havo beon
dreaming. tho coals The collar last is nearly full,
Again I only came in week.”
gently, essayed to such answer, but was
so yet with authority, or¬
dered to be quiet, that I was glad to
obey, so I lay still enjoying tho sensa¬
tion In of being able I not even to think.
a day or two grew stronger, and
one morning to my delight my mother
came in, and I had leave given mo to
talk a little.
Then I heard all about my late ad¬
venture.
“It is really a most wonderful event,
my dear, and reads liko a chapter out
of a three-volume novel,” said my
mother, who, by the way, looked quite
fell bright down and in strong again. let “When you
a faint, you fall tho en¬
velope in which you had carried tho
miniature, and the gentleman who was
in the shop-”
“I remomber him, mamma,” I cried
excitedly, portrait. “he was the very imago of
tho I fancied I must bo
dreaming.” “That is tho
strangest part of the
story, but you won’t let mo tell it to
you properly my dear. That gentle¬
man saw your name and address,
brought you homo in a cab, sent in a
nurse, and everything wo wanted, and
has been our good angel ever since.
Ho is Arthur Rashleigh, the only son
of after your mourningwhe aunt Betsy’s old lover, who,
supposed faithless
ness of his old love, married late in life,
and has not long been dead, leaving
Arthur a largo fortune. His astonish¬
ment at seeing you with his father’s
portrait, However, you may be sure, was very
great it was a very lucky
thing for us; after all, Aunt Betsy’s
present was not such a poor one. By
the way, here it is; Mr. Rashleigh was
kind enough to bring it back with
him.”
There was one thing which did not
appear to concern my mother in the
least, but made my pale face flame,
and that was the idea of receiving all
these benefits from a mere stranger,
upon whom we had not the slight ft, st
claim, unless the fact that his fath n r,
lover, forty years before, had been my aunt’s
conld be considered one.
So I made up an eloquent speech in
which I thanked him warmly for all his
goodness, convoyed the and information delicately yet firmly
that I intend¬
ed could to fully repay him, as soon as I
get to work again.
But carefully as I rehearsed it, that
eloquent did I wonder speech was never uttered, nor
at my mother's wllling
aegt to receive benefits from him, when
once I had seen and talked with him.
He was so lonely, he said, he had not a
single friend or relative in England,
and a man-servant, whom he had treat¬
ed with kindness and confidence, had
just robbed him of some valuable old
family plate which his father had
thought with him highly in all of, his and wanderings. had carried
For me—may I confess it without
shame?—the grateful interest I felt in
him soon grew into love, and, ah, hap¬
py as my life has been since, can lever
forget that happy evening, when walk¬
ing homo from the theatre, whither he
had tasen me, he told me that ho loved
me dearly, and asked me to be his
wife.
“But I—I am poor, lam not pretty,
and 1 am so old!" I pleaded, fearing to
accept this sweet new happiness, and
mindful of Lena’s depreciation of my
personal appearance, age, etc.
Arthur laughed and drew my arm
closer in his.
“If you are too old for marriage at
two-and-twenty, six how may I hope with
more years added on, ever to enter
that blissful state?” lie asked.
So I said yes, and soon after, we all
I went down to Aunt Betsy’s, and there
was married at tho little village
church, to the son of her old lover, who
loved and reverenced the queer touchy
old maid not a little, for her loyal de¬
votion to his father.
So Aunt Betsy’s present saved my
dear mother’s life, and also saved mo
from tho dreadful fate Lena had threat¬
ened me with. I had it made into a
locket, and I wear it constantly. It is
generally mistaken for the portrait of
my dear husband, so is the large oil
painting of his father which hangs in
miniature our drawing-room, from which this
We was copied. when
brother are Walter very happy, home, and my
comes as we ex¬
pect him to do with his new bride, next
Christmas, we shall have a wonderful
story to tell him of that same present
which ho and Lena thought so little of.
His Success.
One of the reasons why President
Clark has been so successful in the
practical management of the New York
& New England railway, says the Bos¬
ton Advertiser, is because of the good the
feeling company’s which employes. he creates Mr. among Clark all
turn¬
ed to a journalist, who was standing
beside him one day while he was talk¬
ing with the engineer of one of the p as
seuger express trains, and said: “When¬
train ever you that write the anything engineer about is all wool this
say
engineer, and yard a he wide.” said: Then “You addressing the
were not run¬
ning New the other York. day "How when do I came over
from you suppose
I knew? I noticed that tho train was
a little too slow on the down-grades.” up-grades, and
a little too fast on tho
Discriminating p raiso of this kind is
very effective with a workman who
takes pride occasion, in his coming occupation. from New On
another
York, the train was twenty minutes late
at Willimantic. It was not difficult to
make up that amount of time before
reaching Boston; but the nice thing to
do was for the engineer to recover the
twenty minutes possible so discomfort gradually as tefthe to cause
the least pas¬
sengers. Mr. Clark remarked happened to be on
the train, and ho to a com¬
panion with some enthusiasm: “There,
ifls he’s watch doing this little just later right.” and Taking the out
a added: noting “I’m
time of passing stations, he
going to give the engineer $5 when we
reach Boston.” A few minutes after¬
ward he added: “I guess I’ll give the
fireman too.”
When the train finally slowed into
the station upon the precise moment of
the advertised time of arrival Mr. Clark
walked up to the cab and handed the
engineer $5, with appropriate words of
explanation, and then he passed a
similar here’s sum to the fireman, remarking: You
“And $5 for you, too. Jim.
kept the coal on in good shape”—or judici¬
words to that effect. The same
ous observation and comment in other
departments is what England has brought the
New York & New railroad in¬
to its present condition of efficiency,
where vituperative harshness and mili¬
tary martiuetism havo had an opposite
effect in the past.
Modesty on Sleeping-Cars.
“I have just come from that painful
luxury correspondent tho sleeping-ear,” Albany said a belle to
a of the Argus.
“How for incongruous instance, discover and improper that the it
was, to
grumbler mildest remark iu au in tho upper berth, of whose long
course the
night was ‘It’s cursed hot up hero’ was
general. noue other By than day a full-fledged major
he was a gorgeous
vision of spectacular gallantry, by night
a howling demon tho of commonplace profanity. But
enough their of men, plain crea¬
tures; ways are as as an op¬
ened book, and their characters as easi¬
ly read. Let us return to the inex¬
haustible field for psycho-authropologi
cal resource. The first night in a sleep¬
er is nothing remember to the first morning. Well
do I my first ex[ jerience.
The toilet is circuinstaupes. accomplished Said uiul er such
harrowing adjoining a stout
young woman from an sec¬
tion: ‘I havo traveled all tuo way from
San Francisco in a sleeper, and I’ve
lost the last shred of modesty.’ I be¬
lieved her when I saw her sitting on the
end of her berth iu her corset, with
loosened lacings, drawing on her boots,
with a lavish display of plumply-fiiled
hosiery, the curtains pushed back, and
men and women passing to and from
tho toilet-room. It was a needless ex¬
emerged posure. from The girl her across the curtains aisle. No. 8,
closet with
not and a crinkle iu drapery, boots satin button¬
ed, hair as smooth as to the
line where it broke into billows of
crimniness over her forehead, How
did she do it? She was in tho toilet
room with the first streak of dawn, for
I peeped through my curtains as she
passed voluminous by in dressing-sack and her skirts,
the drapery held on by arms,
and the crimping-pins a lovely
turban. There was a difference! She
could travel to Chiua and back without
danger to her modesty.” *
A Pittsburg confectioner has a dog
and a horse that are as fond of kissing
each other as are the average young
occupies married couples the seeu at Niagara. Each
tame stall and the two are
inseparable.
FACTS AS TO FEVERS.
Imely Hints Relative to Typhoid and Its
Treatment.
The influence of the human mind
over the body is remarkable. We break
out in cold perspiration when in great
♦error and cause the hot blood to rush
to another’s face by a word. Grief and
anxiety turn the body actually from paths modify of
health, and sometimes
the nutrition to such an extent that
great changes take place. The hair may
turn gray or furrows and wrinkles come
in the face.
It is a weH-known fact that nearly
every student of medicine, in his early
attem pta to acquire medical lore, will in
turn nave well-marked symptoms of
every disease he reads about. Those
who are not accustomed to daily contact
with diseases, and are easily impressed, human
should notread descriptions medical of books,
ills, and should avoid
especially the pseudo scientilic medical
books classed as “popular,” Physician,” such “Dr. as
“Everybody His Own
So-and-so’s" Home Treatment,” and
their like.
The tendency that people have—that
is, the tendency to think they have the
very symptoms of which they read—is
one of the bogus doctor’s strongholds.
He will detail a indicative long list of half symptoms dozen
which may be of a
diseases, and the reader, who probably
does not feel well, finding that him three exactly, or
four of the symptoms fit
paying no regard to the many laid down
which do not fit him, thinks this is the
very medicine, or the very doctor, he
wants.
There are a class of persons who may
be called chronic medicine-takers. On
the other hand, there are others who go
to the opposite extreme and take none
whatever. These are the extremes of
the evil, and both are bad. There are
many who take so much medicine that
their systems become habituated to the '
commoner remedies, and when tho ne¬
cessity arises for them to receive some
treatment then the usual doses are with¬
out proper effect. On the other hand,
the ones who have a prejudice against
any remedy whatever are frequently
sufferers thereby. There is an instance
in this city where a well-known man
recently lost his life by refusing treat¬
ment.
The great thing ‘skilled is to know just when
to apply to one and trained in
the healing art. There are people by
the score who, if they want an opinion
in the matter of theology or law, go at
once to a theologian or a lawyer, but
when health is at stake, a matter
worthy of a learned opinion, instead of
applying to the doctor in whom they
have confidence, go rather to a charlatan
or seek relief in some of the many nos¬
trums constantly upon the shelves of
the druggists. intended here depreciate
It is not to
the simple remedies of household use
which have been found time and time
again to be of so much benefit, but the
approach of some diseases are so insid¬
ious that the gravity is not at once re¬
cognized, and self-administered harm. This remedies
frequently do purgatives taken is often the
case where are at the
beginning of typhoid fever. typhoid,
Fevers, anil especially are
not always frequently easy to recognize the at that the out¬
set It is case the
medical attendant will remark: “You
are threatened with fever.” There is
no such thing. Either the patient has
or has not fever, and when you are toid
that you are “threatened” it is only a
makeshift to put you off until the dis¬
ease develops enough to enable the med¬
ical attendant to determine.
The province typhoid-fevers, of the physician is not
to cure because this can¬
not be done; but to watch the case,
note the symptoms, and guide and assist
nature in her endeavors to cope with
the disease, until it arrives at a success¬
ful issue.
The first symptoms of the disease are
headache, loss of appetite, pains in the
limbs anil back, and increase of bodily
heat, which is most marked in the eve¬
ning. Frequently restless the in patient will be
pained and of the night, but the after evening the and
fore part turn
of the night fall which, into a sweet disturbed, and re¬
lasts freshing far into sleep, the if not After
morning. the
first few days the face gets very heavy
and expressionless, marked, the evening tempera¬
ture gets more the tongue coat¬
ed with a little triangular red space at
the tip and tenderness to pressure on
the right side of the abdomen.
When this point is reached it is usual¬
ly a well-marked case of fever, but the
first-named symptom may be indicative
of a half-dozen other diseases.
There is a disease Which so nearly
simulates deceived by typhoid it—many fever who that many only are
are not
well informed in matters pertaining to
the sick room, but even physicians.
That is poisoning illuminating from gas. This may It
be sewer-gas or gas.
has been noticed in this city frequently
among those who work in the gas tren¬
ches, or impregnated people living with near by has where been
earth gas
thrown up and allowed to lie. It has
every symptom of fever except the ten¬
derness in the abdomen. This disease
lasts for about a week, or less, provided
the patient gets the good services air of to breathe. physi¬
He will require a
cian only to make the diagnosis.
Just what hard the causes of typhoid-fever times it
are is very to say. At can
be rendered traced"positively foul by to filtering some well from which
is an
adjacent deposit or refuse material of
some sort, but this is one of the diseases
which attack alike hovel. the king’s palace
and The the physician beggar’s is frequently asked
whether or not this disease is “catch¬
ing.” In one sense it is, and another it
is hob The disease is communicated
from one to another by means of some¬
thing from the food patient becoming drink ming¬ well
led witn the or of a
person. This is disgusting, natural but true. ef¬
It may be from some of the
fete material thrown off. or even from
clothing saturated with perspirajion. It
is possible to acquire the disease by in¬
haling odors arising entirely from these emana¬ the
tions, but it is safe to enter
well-ventilated room attend of his a typhoid pa¬
tient, or even to wants, pro¬
vided cleanliness is observed.
Two-thirds of the cases of this disease,
it may be 6afely said, will recover with¬ than
out any medicine whatever other
good nursing, sponge-baths with cold
water when the fever is high, proper
food, and continual cheerfulness in the
roQXU. br both nurses and visitors.
“Hope springs eternal in the human
breast, but oue lugubrious old woman,
or head-shaking, long-faced man, will
knock more hope out of a sick person
in a minute than can be inspired there
during the subsequent week.
Good nursing, especially in typhoid- the
fever, will do more toward curing
patient, provided always that there are
no serious complications, than half a
dozen of the best doctors in town.—
Fitttburg Dispatch.
Tbe Ironing Table.
Irons that have once been red hot,
.ever retain the heat so well afterward,
and will always be rough; therefore,
while losing no opportunity of using
your fire, be careful not to put them on
the stove hours before they are needed;
and after using them, do not set them
away flat on the floor or shelf, always
stand them on end. When it is possi¬
ble, have every really useful modern ap¬
pliance, of which there are so many
now-a-days, to make work easy. To
the woman who has no assistance in
her work, even a small expense may be
looked upon as economy, if it saves
strength; that unpurchasable thing prodi¬ of
which young women are often so
gal. 1 know, however, there are homes
where true economy is recognized, would and be
where a few dollars not
grudged to lighten the wife’s burden,
yet if the dollars are not there how cau
>t be done? Let us hope then, at least,
the husband is handy with tools, and
can make some things shelf he just cannot where buy. she
That he can put a
needs it, to save her holding a lamp,
while she cooks the winter supper, and
if he can make an ironing table which
shall hold the necessaries for ironing,
and when not in use form a seat, so
much the better, but one thing not dif¬
ficult to make, and which will save
many a weary backache, is a seat ex
needing ae tly suited to the small height things of the woman just
it All can
as well be ironed seated as
if the seat be right. chair
Many a tired woman takes a
and makes up her mind she will iron
the collars and small things, seated, but
the resolution lasts only a moment, she
is soon on her aching feet again, and
then she believes she is too nervous to
work in a sitting position. It adapted is nothing
of the kind, the seat is not to
the height of the table, and she disadvan¬ really
finds herself working at such
tage for her arms, that mechanically
she assumes the old position. Let seat
an a%lable be adjusted to her, and she
will soon find ironing or making cake,
or rolling out cookies quite as easily ac¬
complished in sitting as standing. The
seat must be high enough to bring and give her
elbows well above the table,
her the same command of it as if she
were standing, and with this seat she
would of course require a stool or box
on which to rest the feet.
Such a seat will be of little use in
cooking, without forethought to see that
you have all your materials at hand be¬
fore you begin to work. with I know abundant many
Btrength an energetic will woman “oh, 1 would sit
say, not
to work” and feel that it was a poor
less way of doing. perhaps But there who have are lost women the
strong, prided
Btrength themselves, on which they once readily
and will just as say:
“If I only could manage to sit.”
At first, it may seem”that you have to
jump up and down so often that you
save little, but by degrees you will find
the benefit, even if you only are enabled
to sit five minutes out of twenty that
you would otherwise stand, and as you
get used to the sitting, you will be as¬
tonished to find how many things you
can do sitting, and how little the jump¬
ing first, up will that be needed appeared when so tiresome at
you have got¬
ten used to providing against it Many
things we now stand to do, as 1 say,
may be done seated, but 1 began to
speak Most especially of ironing.
board people, now-a-days, use the skirt
for ironing everything. It should
be covered with three thicknesses ol
heavy flannel, an old blanket is best,
but a comfortable can bo made to do;
over this securely baste part of an old
sheet, or any white cotton cloth without
seams, you may prefer for the purpose.
The bosom board should be covered in
the same way, and tho covers of both
frequently changed.— Catherine Owen,
in Good Housekeeping. Holyoke, Mass.
The Limitations of Science.
It may not be amiss for me to supple¬
with ment or qualify the which foregoing have differ- pages
a page or two a
ent bearing. In tho first place, let me
say that I have not so much spoken for
myself therein as I have spoken for that
attitude of mind which makes science
miDd or exact which, knowledge possible—a state of
in our time, 1 am aware,
is carrying things with a high hand. I
know full well that science does not
make up the sum-total of life; that there
are many things in this world that
count noble for more than exact knowledge. impulse,
A sentiment, an heroic
courage, and self-sacrifice—how all your
exact demonstrations pale before these
things! But I recognize the fact that
within its own sphere science is supreme,
and its sphere is commensurate with
human reason; and that, when an ap¬
peal is made to it, we must abide by
the result. Theology assumes to be a
science, the science of God,, and as such
the evidence, the proof upon which it
relies, must stand the test of reason, or
be capable of verification. Religion, as
a highest sentiment, good, as an aspiration after formu¬ the
is one thing; but,
lated into a system of theology and as¬
suming to rest upon exact demonstra¬ is
tion, is quite another. As such it ex¬
posed In other to the words, terrible question. within Is it true? the
it comes
range of science, and must stand its
fire. When miracles are brought for¬
ward as an evidence of the truth of
Christianity, bound the natural philosopher place? is
to ask. Do miracles take
If our life were alone made up of
reason would be or all of in exact all knowledge, So far science it
to us. as
is made up of these things, science must
be our guide. But probably four fifths
of life is quite outside of the sphere of
science; four fifths of life is sentiment.
The great ages of the world have been
ages of sentiment; the great literatures
are the embodiments of sentiment.
Patriotism is a sentiment; love, benevol¬
ence, admiration, worship, are all senti¬
ments.— Science Monthly. John Burroughs, in Fopular
_
LET WEL L ENOUG H ALONE.
Sensible Dresses for Promenade
House Wear. ana >
HoV nice a pretty girl looks in
house dress. Even if she isn’t what a
majority call pretty this style th a
makes her of gowa
Everybody come precious in near beimr so
with eyes his head sees for
himself that the street costume is built
on its natty principles, of revealing that it has attained
purpose the form di¬
vine, and yet keeping up a proper de¬
gree of temperature by reason of its raa
terial. It can’t be denied that the OTgijt
unimpeachable tailor-made admirably
suits the climate and out-door life. Now
that fact has been recognized and its
benefit and use established, fashion will
doubtless caper much to the other ex¬
treme But let and not send borrow the sensible trouble dress for flying
us the
fair sex. Heaven knows they hare
-enough now, getting their tailors to
make a faultless fit As to the florid,
graceful that also gown destined for though, house wear',
ing by its causes ultimate agony, this judg¬
success, agony
is turned to joy. It has taken five or
six centuries to produce this “simple
frock.” All the portraiture that is fa¬
mous the world over furnishes patterns
and models for it. The great masters,
the ly Vandykes—by Vandyke—Titian, the way, there is on¬
Sir one Joshua Reynolds, all those Rembrandt,
of beautiful and painters
dress, really women responsible picturesque for
are these
present styles, which—Heaven save the
mark—have been “reproduced.” Never¬
theless, art, when it does not try too
hard, daintiness, accomplishes its object. There is;
quaintness, sumptuousness,
or whatever taste dictates, in the house
dress of the Miss present Marryat’s day. It may cost,
begging only $25, for such things pardon, have $200,
. been,
or
and the flesh and blood inside was
sweet to see in the esthetic becoming setting.
Aside from the influence the
house dress exerts, it is necessary to
personal all day comfort. in cloth After vise being it squeezed
up a must be re¬
freshing to the slip out into that sublimated
wrapper, tea gown, or into some
little home dress, soft and silky, flowing
and graceful, and which relieves that the heavy
pressure air changes for purely masculine, feminine.
horse-racy the
Women ought They to be happy. But, they
are not! insist on trying to im¬
prove a fashion, that, for a marvel,
chances to be adaptive, almost hygienic,
and they are miserable. Painting the
lily is ruination to the lily; in other
words, why will purveyors of woman’s
raiment not let well enough alone.—
Boston Herald.
Surrounded by Lions.
In all my previous African experi¬
ences I had never known what it was
to be in real danger from the attacks of
lions. The king of beasts had hitherto
exhibited a provoking shyness and a
persistent dislike to cultivate my ac¬
quaintance—so much so that I often
used to complain that I gained nothing
from my wish to know the lion at home,
and that 1 might learn more about him.
in Regent’s Park than in the savagest
wilds of Africa. But ever since the
troubled night which we spent at the
Mkuynni I ask no more for leonine
visits, especially in the darkness of the
small hours, and will content myself
wjtli an occasional journey to the zoo¬
logical gardens, where I can see this
grandest of cats Soon in a safe and had comfort¬ retired
able cage. after we
to rest on this occasion, when the men
had begun to snore round their fires,
wrapped up in dusky white cloths like
so many mummies, and when the leader
of the caravan was curling himself
snugly between the blankets, the most
terrific roar you ever heard startled us
all into sudden wakefulness. Though
the lion that uttered it was probably
forty or fifty yards distant, the sound.of
his thunderous bellow seemed to come
from our very midst. 1 sat up in bed
and looked uneasily around me, but no¬
body complaiued of being eateu. so I
lay down again, and even began to
think this very interesting and very
African, full of local color, and so on.
But now on our right and left, on either
side of the river, a chorus of loud roar¬
ing began. Tho night was as yet
pitchy dark, for the moon would could not
rise till the early morning. We
cordon see nothiug of-fires. beyond the blaze of that our
However, feeling
was tame to lie still in
and go to sleep while my porters
shivered with fear, I arose, took my gun
and fired into tho bushes where the
roaring was loudest. This, the men in¬
formed me, was the unwisest thihg I
could do; of course I killed nothing, and
the noise of the firearm, instead of
awing the lions into silence, only
seemed to exasperate them. I certainly
never heard anything like the noise
they made. My men averred that we
were surrounded by ten beasts—1 sup¬
pose they distinguished ten various when roar-'
ings; examined certainly "the the next morning,
we precincts of our camp,
the many footprints of different sizes
which were marked in the soft vegeta¬
ble soil of the river bank indicated un
questionably that a whole troop of lions
had been in our immediate vicinity
fact during the night I noticed a curious
connected with the unseen ap¬
proach of these beasts. Whenever a
lion was nearing our camp and before
he attested his vicinity by a roar, we
were, when we had learned to read the
warning, made aware of the fact by the
sudden nervous twittering of the small
birds in the branches above. It was a
tremendous diapason of fear, most
singularly impressive. On several sub
se quent occasions the approach of large
wild beasts has been signified to me in
the same manner.— Kiuma-B'jaro Ex¬
pedition, by H. Johnson.
Origin of a Slang Saying.
“I’ve got the dead wood on yon” evi¬ is
an expression signifying that the
for dence the of unfair dealing the are defendant. producible It
justification of man’s wife _
died originated in this way: coffin A ordered.
and a first-class was
The coffin, supposed to be of rosewood,
and was lowered clumsily it into knocked the grave, off.
one corner of was
The gentleman took the piece of wood
home and found it was pine. The bill
was presented, and a rosewood coffin
was one of the items. The undertaker
was forced to sue for the amount, and
when brought to court the defendant
produced his chip in evidence. So goes
the tlotj.—Birming/tam (Ala.) Age.