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LINHEB, O Gr.STLK TIXF..
I.
Linear, O gßtl* tim*.
L'nger, 0 mdUnt grace of brl ht to-diy!
Let not the hour'* chime
OH the* ‘T i
But 1 ei near me atlii with fond delay.
n
Linger, for thou art mine!
f- h* dearer ir-aturaa can th future bold?
It hit sweeter flower* thau thuie
Can ahe unfold f
in.
O, linger in thy flight!
For thadow* gather round, and should we part,
A dreary atarlea* night
M-jr &1! nsy heart •
" ‘ P!I p*uae and I uger yet ere thou depart.
IT.
Linger, f aek no more—
Thou art enough foreror—thou .lone ;
What future cin restore,
When thou art flown,
A!! that 1 hold from then and call my own
MY AUNT’S WILL.
“ We are none of as perfect, thank
goodness,” said Caroline, my eldest
sister, with an aggravating laugh. “ I
do not claim to be a paragon, by any
means, a n d it would take qualities
little short Oj a saint’s to poke dun in
the country and hobble through life at
the beck of a fractious old woman. I
shall not go, for one ! ”
“Caroline!” said mother, in a mild
tone of rebuke.
P.or littie soul! She la ely ever as
serted her authority before the eider
girls. They were all Rush tons, every
inch, led poor little mamma bad learned
all about the Ruahton bio and years be
fore I was born. They were a stern,
proud, arr. gant set, and, in her meek
eyes, were more like queens and ogres
than her husband’s relatives. H>n
Or.irtlrJ RcishU'u came to marry a poor
c’untry curate’s daughter remained a
myitery to his family till the day of his
d*ath, and with a woman’s instinct
• resheued by the memory of my mother’s
sad (ace and tearful eyes, I think she has
puzzled over the enivma through many
1 mely hour*, inly the question might
have been put to her consciousness a
little di’ierently. As, how was it that
she had b<en brought to hold in idolatry
a man of mv father’s temperament.
He was very unlike her imagined hero,
quite unlike the lever ehe had expected
would come up the rose-walk at Aubrey
rectory to ask her to marry him My moth
er rarely ever spoke of her later years as a
wile but often with even enthusiasm of
their fir-t meeting, and the childish
ondness with wh ch she regarded him.
It had been made a matter of reproach
to her always by his relatives, and my
mother, I think, never entirely forgave
herself for her share in his albnation from
Ids family. He died with that autago
nism in his heart, and my mother had
stiff red silently, rearing her three girls
as wo:li as she could on the slender patri
mony left her, with just enough of the
old curare’s dig; ity of character to re
strain her from appealing to the great
people down in Kent.
Caroline, now in her twenty third |
year, had been waiting some yearn, J
rather impatiently, for a dukeor viscount I
to come dowu into the cjuntry and
marry her for her peachy cheeks and
sloe-black eyes. But nowadays duxes
prefer a bad complexion and £IO,OOO a
year top captivating young person whose
side dower is in mere personal attraction.
Edith was a 1 ready twenty-one, and
felt aggrieved at her sister for not hav
ing made a match, leaving the fiedd to
her.
Not strong like Caro, Edith was, how
ever, a pretty girl, with fine, ladylike
hands, and a carriage a pi inceßs might
have envied.
I believe T was seldom thought of by i
■Bny one until it was discovered I was too
much grown to utilise the cast-off' frocks
of the other girls, and was now a tall,
awkward girl of eighteen, with large
elbows and sandy complexion, like the
Aubreys. It was also discovered about
this time that I had made much of my
musical chance, and, what with a few
]<■ sons from the village organist and the
drumming through long winter evenings
on the old harpsichord in the sitting
room, I had suddenly become proficient
in a small wav; enough so, at least, to
admit of my taking a few of Miss Har
mon’s scholars in the afternoons. The
mouey I earned in this way seemed, no
doubt, a prodigious sum to poor mammy,
whose common condition was a state of
perfect impecuuiosity. Mother had often
declared that b >th Caro and Edith pos
sessed the hands ol musicians, so slender, j
supple and white, while mine wereov r !
grown from the wringing of dish-cloths,
and red from boiling water.
Providence had given me rny bony
hands with music in them, and a won
derful vo ce, which Miss- Harmon had
declared made me almost seem prei y
She never knew, Jcind sou!, how she
made my heart actie with a dull, horr.blt i
pain, whoa she dealt me this deprecatory !
praise.
The girls and mammy were in the
little dun-colored morning-room, wtich
had once been my father’s study, with
closed blinds, ripping up an ancient
chair, upholstered in a grand Arab pat
tern of scarlet and gold, to construct an
overdress for Caroline’s cherry silk, the
sleeves and bodice of which were quite
beyond repair. The chair had been !
shrouded in gray holiand f< r the la-t
dozen years, and the silk reallv unworn.
Who ever thought a letter wouiu nuu
its way from the outside world to our j
ober littie house behind these pollard j
willows, like so many transmigrated i
Rush’ons, tall and angular, stili keeping j
guard ovei mammy and her brood.
“Do open it, mamma',” said Edith
impatiently. “ Very likely it is from
some forgotten creditor of poor papa’s’
Poor little mammy’s cap ribbons trem
bled and fluttered while she read the
few words, written, it might be, by an
articled clerk in London inn Fields, tht
letter was s© aggressive.
“ Well, girls’’—with a faint attempt
at cheerfulness—“ here’s a chance for
one of you, at last. This letter is from
your aunt Ruth Rushton, your father’s
eldest sister, who never married, and
never spoke to him after he married me
—though I do not remember it against
her now. I have always thought oi
Ruth as being a superior woman—a very
superior woman. 1 have heard your
father say that she spoke four languages
in her young days, and that she was a
great belle then.”
This brought out a contempiuou
“ Humph ! ” from the girls. This was
the letter which proved the turning
point in my life :
’■ Sister in law : I hear yon are bles-ed
with ilirte daughters. . I am a childless,
hedrtdtien old woman with no one to care
for me. I need some stroDg, aetive young
person daily and fcouilv. Stud me a niece,
she shall be paid for her trouble. I sup
pose you consider them ail pardons: but
heanry is not indist ensable. Honesty and
good moral- are. Let m- kr,ow at once.
Your ob’t servant, Ruth Rushton,
“Of the ‘Pines,’ Kent.”
“ What an insult! ’ said Edith. H r
.-;ble old woman ! After all ye; rs
of negieet, she would now make a nia’d
servant of us, I shall not go,”
VOL. XX. XO. 7.
Then Caroline delivered the address at
the beginning of my story.
Poor mammy picked the wadding
fr-.-m the back of the stuped chair like a
bird pecking at barley ; all the time a
cloud creeping over her pale face.
“No; of course you’ll neither of you
go, after this letter; but it seems like
flying in the face of Provider ce to
refute. It is not like going out to
service, you know, after all. The com
!ng winter will be very hard on me, and
I can’t see my way out very clearly.
There’s Agnes—we might let her go;
although I should miss her sadly. And
she has not a decent gown to go in. Her
next quarter will eoI he due for a long
time yet.”
j “What does it matte-?” I said at
| last, my heart filled with bitterness.
“ I should not be expected to dress
greatly. lam ready to go just as I am.”
“ Oh, I dare say,” sad Caro, in high
died .in. “ Playing Cinderella is quite
in your line; hot there’s to be no god
mother or prince in the story. You’re
going to drudge and slave for a hideous
old tyrant, and wear her ridiculous finery
for pay. But anything for an excuse to
leave the drudgery here to Edith and I,
yon ungrateful thiEg I”
“ I’ve done it all my life uncomplain
ingly,” I plucked up spirit to say, con
fident it would not help my case, how
ever.
“ Don’t quarrel now, just before sepa
rating,” said poor mammy, almost,
sternly.
And so it was settled that I should
leave home ; the letter was posted to my
hard aunt, who was to look for me Tues
day fortnight, Borne little time being
j allowed for my prtparations. These
were ridiculously simple. My few things
were to be “ gotten up,” as the clear
staichers say, and 1 turned a changeable
silk gown of mammy’s the snuffy side out,
and could have wept at the thought of
how I should look in it. This aDd my
old black, and one cr two prints, were
what I ■ ackei in my mean little trunk,
with many sobs and tears at bidding
farewell to my poor mammy, who cried
so bitterly, her ilia arms wound about
my neck, as if ail her poor heart left her
by misfortune was bursting in twain.
“ Good by, mammy darling, I shall
write often, and if there are any earn
ings they shall come to you.”
One would think that Agnes were
on the eve of starting to America,”
sneered Edith, shaking my hand coldly,
and giving me a dabby kiss on my tear
stained cheek.
Oh, I never knew what a rear little
dun-colored hoo-e it was, until I had
turned my back tipon it iu the chiil Sep
tember rain.
A gray-haired servitor, in gray stock-,
ings ansi rusty small clothes, met me at
the station, with an ancient affair on
four wheels, drawn by an amnia! not at
all unlike olii mao. who said
his name was Dark, and whom I shocked
unutterably by calling him Mr Dark.
I bad plenty of time for reflection as
we left the highway, turning up through
an avenue of paternal hemlocks, to the
no less forbidding house, with a quantity
of wings and windows, a rambling porch,
and one or two statues on the terraces
all soggy with rain, and litered over with
dropings from the pints, whose funeral
branches had for many years kept the
sunshine from that gloomy portal
A staid, elderly woman, in a respect
able silk gown, met me at the door with
the intelligence that my aunt was quite
put out at having the ten kept wailing
a quarter of an hour, which I accepted
as an omen of a bad beginning.
She was already sitting at the head of
the table in the dining room —a gaunt
apartment, with a high ceiling, heavy
mahogany furniture, with tall silver
candlesticks,
A pallid old woman, with snow white
hair, and burning black eyes, with all
their old fire still smouldering in iheir
depths.
She held out one hand shrouded in a
black lace mi stem
“Come here! And i-o you are my
niece? But you are no flush ton. She
has sent me the plainest one, of course.
Well, I cursed your mother for her
beauty years ago. I am glad I shall not
be reminded of it in you. Sit down
here, at the foot, aud don’t keep me
waiting. Hand her the tray, Stevens.”
The pale, ghostly glimmer of the wax
lights on the Ruabton plate, the whis
pering ot the wind in those gloomy trees,
the rustle ot the silk gown aa Stevens
came aud went between my mistress
and I, taken with the strangeness of the
situation, and the remembrance of poor
little mammy’s tearful speeches, and the
plaintive song of the robin, deprived me
of my appetite, and I only minced at
the currant jam and biscuit.
Stevens cleared away the things,
leaving the cloth and cardies, and, stand
ing at the back ol Miss Rush Urn’s chair,
she wheeled her nearer the fire. My
aunt was a paralytic, then.
In spite of that hard face and those
fierce eyes, a sudden, strange pity filied
me. How- hard it must have been, how
hard ‘or one in whose veins still flawed
the wild current of the Rushton blood.
She beckoned me to her side impa
tiently.
“ I want to say, Agnes, that if your
mother sent you here, thinking to make
much of it, she is mistaken. I take you
into mj service as I would any worthy
and disinterested young perron. 1 shall
pay you your wages quarterly, forty
i pounds sterling per year and your
! living, which is all you will be worth;
■ and I do not intend to add one j ourd or
; promise any favors from the fact of
i your being Gerald Rushton’s daughter,
j You uuderstand V’
I nodded silently, feeling too much
I hurt to trust my voice.
“ Sie-vens, my cabinet! ”
She unlocked the box and took out
; some bank notes with he. gloved band.
“ I make it a rule to give one quarter
in advance. Here are ten pounds. Ste
vens will acquaint you with your duties
and show you to your chamber. I shall
not require you before niue in the
morning. Good n ght.”
Net tired, but glad to escape from
that rffgn, I ve'ntured to raise one thin
’•and to my lips, but shrank back—those
j &pg,ers were icy cold.
1 r>as not naturally a timid girl, but
the lofty corridors, highly vaulted pas
sages, and shadowy room, hung with
mouldering tapestry, made me feel cold
and frightened. Everything about the
room was dark and ponderous. Some*
how, the canopied bedstead, with its
blood red curtains, made me think of
the tower where the prince* were stran
gled. I declined the assistance of the
maid and Stevens retired, leaving me
oße wax-light, which threw gigantic
shadows on the wall. My duties were
not hard or various. I was to amuse my
! aunt when she bade me; be always at
her chair back, and speak only when
spoken to. I fell asleep at last, thinking
of poor little mammy’s delight when she
should receive my first quarter’s salary.
My life was an uneventful one at the
Pines. I was never absent from my aunt,
but grew no more intimate with her than
at first We had no company save Miss
Lushton’s surgeon and solicitor, who
came once a month to dinner. I sang
very little, and only in secret, as the
grand piano had not been opened in
twenty years, as Miss Rushton did not
|£>lAF<lti mil Ml**
One evening when she dismissed me
my aunt said, sternly :
“ Agnes, I expect the son of my dear
est friend here to-morrow. He is to be
my heir, and I caution you against de
signing or trymg to secure his favor.”
“ Oh, aunt ’’—the hot blood rushing
to my cheeks.
“Be still. Do I notjknow what the
Aubreys are ? But Hugh is an admirer
of beauty in woman, and I do not think
you will fascinate him. See that you
attend to my affairs and leave Htigh
alona”
But Hugh would not leave me alone
I scarcely looked at him for a week.
Then, as he sat recounting adventures to
my auut, I saw that he was a handsome
man of thirty, with crisp, black hair and
thoughtful grsy eyes—magnetic eyes—
whose glances troubled me for days, and
haunted my dreams.
One November day, while my aunt
was sleeping, I sat in the decayed sum
mer house, at my knitting, singing an
old Scotch song mammy had sang in
happier days. A shadow fell on my
work. Hugh Kennedy stood before me.
“ What a sly little thing you are I
And so you are Gerald Rushton’s daugh
ter ! What are you doing at the Pines ?”
“ Do you not not know ? let me pass,
please.”
“ Why do you always fly from me ?
You have a wonderful voice which
ought to be cultivated. You should
sing more.”
“ Miss Rushton does not like singing;
and 1 am paid to keep silent.”
“ You have a Scotch wit. Please
promise not to hide yourself away, or
r;:n away lrom me again.”
“ I cannot.”
Well, go. T shall find youj'out,
wherever you are.”
I almost had it in my heart to hate
llngK Kennedy for his ClUel pursuit £)f
me; yet, oh, I learred to love him so.
He came into my life when it was barren
and cheerless, and my heart grew around
him, until I felt that it would kill me
to po away. Yet go I must, my aunt
would never forgive me. She had higher
aims for Hugh. Here was a prince for
Cinderella, but no god-mother. I hug
ged my mad passion to my bosom aEd
fled faster and faster from Hugh. One
night my auut’s bed curtains caught
fire, and in rescuing her I burned my
hands and face terribly. She was
wheeled out on the terrace, while Dark
extinguished the flames,
When I came to, Hugh was holding
me in his arms, pitying my poor scarred
hands, and kissing them passionately.
1 rushed from him and hid myself in
my own room, with my great joy Bnd
great sorrow, thinking oniy that Hugh
had kissed me, and that I must leave
hint forever.
Oh, it I could have flung my arms
arous and nry poor mammy, at.d cried my
self still.
Hugh was Id the corridor the next
morning as I came down toward my
aunt's door.
“ Agnes, my darling, you shall hear
me! Agnes, I love you, as God is my
judge ! I mean right by you, my girl.
Will you listen to me ! ”
“ Oh, Hugh, I can not 1 Let me go
let me go, if you pity me ! ”
“ Agnes, first answer me. I am an
honorable man. I claim the right to be
heard. Do you love me ? ”
He was crushing my hand in his. His
breath came in quick gasps. Should I
throw away my only chance of heaven ?
But my promise—
“ You shall not go ! Do you love me,
Agnes? Why torture me?”
“Yes, yes,—l love you, Hugh! Let
ine go now,”
One passionate embrace, and I fled to
my aunt’s room.
“ You have come, Agnes, to hear me
thank you for saving my life. But you
did me no service.”
“ Oh, no. no! I came to tell you,
aunt, that 1 must go a wav— to ask a re
lease from you.”
“Is it Hugh ? If he has proven dis
honorable I shall disinherit him.”
“ It is notthat—only I must go away.”
“ And what if I will not permtt yeu ? ’
“ Oh, aunt, you can not be so cruel I ”
She took my hand in hers still cold
and clammy.
“ You love Hugh, Agnes. Well, you
shall go home to morrow, if you wish it.
Leave me now.”
Hugh had an interview with aunt,
and wrote me the result by the hand o 1
Stevens-:
“My only love: I have nothing to offer
you now but my life—my undivided heart*
We can be happy in each other’s love, for
you must end shall be mine! Hugh.”
This letter 1 wore on my heart. My
aunt’s solicitor cause that night. We
knew the wiii was being changed. Hugh
had offended the hard, cold woman by
loving an Aubrey.
That night my aunt died suddenly of
paralysis. Icn not tell how it shocked
me. Stevens and I dressed her in a white
satin bridal dress, which had been folded
away for thirty years. This stroke was a
retribution for assuming to be what she
was not, as she had rever been a para*
lytic! She was to be married in a fort
night to a man she loved passionately.
He forbade her dancing. She went to a
hustings ball, aud while waltzing re
ceived the intelligence that he had shot
himself. She took a vow never to stand
on her feet again, and she never had.
Stevens told me this.
CARTERSVILLE, GA„ FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1879.
MURDER AS AN ART.
The Tire Bloodiest yeonndrel* oi Modern
T tea.
[Chic: ,3 Time*.
People who have read De Quincey’s
writings will remember his “ Murder
Considered as One of the Fine Arts.”
In the sequel to this, entitled, “Three
Memorable Murders,” there is given
the case of Williams, who, in London,
in 1812 threw all England into a freiizy
of consternation, fear and horror, by his
bloody exploits Somehow,*theie seems
to be something in the case of Williams
that suggests the crimes of Richards, the
Nebraska murderer.
Attention was first called to Williams
—that is to say, to the fact that a mur
derer was abroad, lor his identityVas not
then known —by the fact that a you: g
man named Marr, his wife, an infant
eight months old, and a journeyman
artisan who boarded in the house, were
all found with their skulls smashed in
and their throats cut. A female servant
had gone out for some oysters. When
she left Marr was about closing up for
the night; when she returned, an hour
later, the bloody work was done and the
fiendish workman had made his escape.
Twelve days later, in the same neighbor
hood, just round the corner from Marr’s
house, an old man of seventy, named
Williamson, his wife, some ten years
youDget, and a servant-girl, at about the
same hr ur of the night, were murdered.
As in the case of the Marr family, the
skull of each of the victims was beaten
in and their throats were cut.
“ Never,” says De Quincey, “ through
out the annals of universal Christendom,
has there ‘lndeed been any act ef cne
solitary insulated individual armed with
power so appalling over the hearts of
men as that exterminating murder, by
which, in one hour, John Williams smote
two houses with emptiness, and asserted
hi b own supremacy over all the children
of Cain It would be absolutely impos
sible adequately to describe the frenzy
of feeling which throughout the next
fortnight mastered the popular heart;
the mere delirium of indignant horror in
some, the mere delirium of panic in
others. For twelve succeeding days,
under some groundless notion that the
unknown murderer had quitted London,
the panic which had convulsed the
mighty metropolis diffused itself all over
the island.” It is evident that murder
is regarded of less consequence here than
there, lor the res. on that, although
Richards, the Nebraska fiend, stands
self-accmed of nine murders, and his
victims are all known to be dead, not one
person in five hundred or five thousand
of our p< pulauon knew, until he made
the confession, that the murders had
been committed. It was known within
a limited area that all these people had
been assassinated ; but the fact made no
stir. The nation worked, ate, slept as
calmly as if all these lives had been
extinguished by nature’s gentlest, most
kindly processes. There was here no
“ delirium of indignant horror” or of
“ indignant panic.” The very fact that
this people receives with so profound an
apathy these sanguinary occurrences,
will go far toward accounting for their
frequency.
While .here is the broadest of con
trasts in the feelings engendered among
the two nations by the news of the acts
of Williams and Richaids, there are
many points of resemblance between the
two men. Both rank as wholesale butch
ers. In both the love of murder for it
own sake is a predominant trait. In
killing the Marr family there was not the
slightest need of including the 8-months
old infant, because it could not have
possibly become an agent for the detec
tion of the assassin. Nor, after having
crushed in the skulls of his victims, was
there any necessity of cutting their
throats; and yet this was done in every
instance. This demon states that Wil
liams was nspired by a passion for mur
der. It is true that, in both cases, he
committed robberies, but this feature*
was simply incidental, as the smoking of
a cigar supplements a good dinner, and
yet forms no essential part of it. Rich
ards has stown the same passionate long
ing for killing To slay was to him what
a love of music or of painting is in some
people. F:e killed to gratify an instinct,
as men eat when they are hungry. This
is shown by his confessions. Had rob
bery been bis sole purpose, be could
have effected it in the case of the Swede,
and in that of the woman and her three
children, without a resort to murder.
Moreover, in relating to the members of
th*e Chicago press his diabolical crimes,
he dilated upon them with the same pride
exhibited oy an artist in showing a su
perior painting, or a composer at the suc
cessful rei dering of one of his works.
He discussed them with aa ea-y nonchal
ance which goes to prove that be looked
upon them from the standpoint of an
artist. He had no conscience : he repu
diated any such we-kness, and smilingly
gave his listeners to understand that he
occupied no such groveling position.
Rosy, suave in manner, not unprepos
sessing in appearance, he again reminds
one of Williams, of whom DtQuincey
said : “It vas in haimony with the gen
eral subtlety of his character, and bis
polished hatred of brutality, that, by
universal agreement, his manners were
distinguished for exquisite suavity ; the
f'ger’s heart was masked by the most
insinuating and sneaking refinement.”
Fortunately for the safety as well as
the honor of mankind, the Williamses
and Richardses are rare exceptions. We
have desperadoes like Rande, who num
ber their victims by the dozens, but they
constitute a distinct species. Rande
killed his men in quarrels ; he gave them
a chance for theii lives, and killed rather
from the love of danger than from any
murderous instinct, tie and his type
are generally unmistakable ruffians,
whom it is as easy to know ai.d avoid as
rattlesnakes. Williams and Richards are
of a kind who, to an insatiate desire for
; murder, add a disgusting cowardice,
i They gratify their passion by striking
I unawares, by murdering under the guise
;of friendship, their fiendish designs
veiled by persuasive manners and gentle
j words. In many respects the American
I Richards is a more notable wretch than
the English Williams. So possessed was
the latter by his desire for murder that
there was no room in his soul for the
gentle emotions. Richards has all the
tigerish love of blood than had the other,
with a more capricious nature, in which
dwell many of the feelings belonging to
the best of men. He had appreciation
of a beautiful woman. He could ad
mire her, love her, make her the theme
of tender compositions. To the other
the gleam of a razor was more attractive
than that of the brightest eye which
ever shone in woman’s heal.
However, take them all in all, they
are the two bloodiest scoundrels spawned
by the viciousness of modern days.
CANON FARRAR.
The Orest Church of Knarlnnil Prrarher
in Weaimlnatc. * " tsj.
JCdward Eggleatoain the Brooklyn Tines.
Finding that he was to preach on
Sunday evening, I walked early to the
abbey, and was fortunate enough to
secure a seat in the nave. And now the
lo ty perpendicular arches began to take
hold of me. As the sweet boy sopranos
and the exceedingly rich bass and tenor
voices chanted Me service, I could feel
the influence of the place, the oldest
place of Christian worship in the world,
it is said. How has the abbey stood in
all the commotions and crimes and base
deeds of English history, like a rock
beaten upon by each day’s waves, but
standing still the same !
There was a great throng. Already
Farrar is coming to be a great preacher
in England. Give him ten, twenty
years or more and men will confess that
England has no finer preacher. He
carried me by storm. He preached ou
the bondage of sin and the liberty of
righteousness. Every word was well
chosen. Every thought was fine. The
delivery was good for an Englishman.
But the real eloquence of the sermon
lay, where the highest eloquence always
lies, in the weight of the man behind the
words. Canon Farrar has a pure and
lofty soul, eagerly seeking the highest
ends.
And then he has that sturdy English
pluck that knows no faltering. He set
forth admirably the contrast between
“that glorious young Greek,” Alexan
der, drinking himsel to death in self
indulgence, aud the poor, brave, free old
Socrates, with his cup of poison. He
pronounced a noble eulogy on Cromwell
and the Puritans. It was a brave thing
to do. Right among all the monumental
decencies of Westminster abbey, he
praised the regicide Puritans in the very
abbey whose treasures the roundheads
had rifled, and whose tombs they had
broken. Then he depicted the jwicked
ness of the restoration period, when
Eugland’s licentious king took subsidies
from France. He called Charless 11. a
“ perjured recreant, now sleeping in the
vaults of this abbey.” Then he con
trasted the English with the French
revolution, and nobly set forth to young
men the dangers of those vices which
are more prevalent in England, if possi
ble. than in America. He spoke strongly
on the subject of temperance.
While he was speaking, . quietly,
bravely, and with a certain felicity of
epithet and phrase that moved the audi
ence like electricity, the sun struggled
throuarh the clouds and shot a golden
stream into the windows of the clerestory
above, which fell away down f hundred
feet or so through the lofty chancel until
it lighted on the preacher. All the
thousand associations of the Abbey
rushed upon me at once, and tears came
into my eyes. For now there was a soul
in it—it was not only the burying place
of brave men, but the battlefield of a
brave man. God has not left Himself
without a prophet, even in this, our day,
to stand in this ancient place and speak
His words to the people. As I knelt at
the communion under those venerable
and lo ty arches, I felt that Westminster
Abbey was none other than the house o }
God.
I went again in tha afternoon. There
were other preachers in London, but
there was only one Farrar. The Abbey
was full to overflowing. The transepts
were jammed, aisles and all. The choir,
the nave, even the chancel, were full of
people from the four quarters of the
globe. The question over which En
gland is now seething is not Russia or
Turkey,but the confessional in the Church
of England. Canon Farrar spoke on
this matter with wonderful eloquence for
the better part of an hour. I stood the
whole time on the hard stone pavement,
and I could have etood twice as long
He brushed aside all intervention be
tween man and God. It was a fresh
breeze of nineteenth century reasonable
ness sweeping away cobwebs. It was
like the voic of the old reformers.
What the Chinamen Say.
Philadelphia Record.
Up to his elbows in suds, and up to
bis eye-brows in soiled linen, a bald
pated child of the Orient was founi yes
terday. A reporter wanted to ask the
Celestial as to the state of his feelings
regarding the congressional bill winch
restricts the immigration of the Chinese
to the land of inflation, influenza and
enterprise. Pigeon English is a language
very difficult to master,*but when rat
tled off like bobbin it is as difficult to
hold as a mule’s hind leg. From ths
conglomerated compound which the
queue-toyer ejected, something like tie
following was gathered:
Individually and collectively the Chi
nese now in this country do not care a
continental whether the bill becomes a
law or not. If immigration is stopped,
business will be better for those already
here. In California, where there are
thousands of them, very little mouey is
made, and many of them aie very poor.
Allee samee to Chineyman ; when be gets
all the cash he wants he will return to
his native clime and live in luxury ;
when John he got nothing to do, he
bummee, just like Melica man.*
“ Ah 1” broke in the newsman, “ has
he also learned the scientific art of bum
ming ?”
“ Ulee bet. Heap lot Chineyman in
Xalefonnee; walkee round all day and
bummee, he no good. Keepee him away,
more business; make heap more money,
then go bock to Chine® aisamee.”
. .Adolphe to Ariminta fc on their way
to church: “ How I would I were the
prayer book you clasp so lovingly.”
Reply: “ How I would you were, for
then I could shut you up,”
FREAKS OF FORTUNE.
How Jlonrj Holt* Away From Urn Who
lit com i Saddrnl; Kirh,
New York Snn.
“ Easy come, easy go,” remarked a
sportsman to a friend, on reading the
account in ti e Sun of the drawers of the
principal prizes iu the late extraordinary
French lottery.
“ Then you don’t believe,” queried the
friend, “ that lucky hits in lotteries are
of lasting benefit ?”
“ I never knew them prove so, and I
have known of many so-called lucky
strikes.”
“ Can you mention a case in point ?”
“ Yes, half a dozen. There was Noah
Taylor, of JeH&y City ; he drew $70,000
in a ’ottery years ago. At fiflrt he fljur
ished. He burn a iarge hoiel in Jersey
City. Then he laid in a heavy stock ol
whisky before the war tax was imposed,
making heaps of money out of that.
Finally, however, his fortune dwindled
away, it is said, until he Lad lost all.
“ Then there was George Smith, of
Chicago. He came here about the time
the Crysial Pa ace opened. Within a
month he won $lOO,OOO cash. The next
summer he had to borrow a dollar to get
a dinner.
“Take John Morrissey or another
example. He made a hundred lucky
hits. Alter his death his estate amounted
to nothing.
“ The most remarkable case, however,
is that of Mr. Penistan, the Paiiauelpiiia
liquor dealer, who, five years ago, drew
the largest prize ever paid iu America.”
“ 1 remember his case,” broae in the
friend ; “ but I have heard so many con
flicting stories that I don t know which
to believe.”
“The facts are those,” continued the
sportsman, “as I have them from Mr.
Penistan’s associates : Mr. Penistan was
doing a comfortable business in Phila
delphia, but was not making money
enough to indulge in his love for fast
horses. One day in the spring of 1873
he read an advertisement of an extn.
drawing of the Royal Havana lottery,
which was to take place April 23d, in
which the first prize was announced as
s>£oo,ooo. The idea struck nim that he
might draw that priz?, and show the
boy3 what he could do in the way ol fast
horses. Acting on the idea, he wrote to
Ma.tinez & Cos , agents of the Spanish
lottery in this city, enclosing money for
the ticket. On receiving the letter, a
clerk of the agents took the top ticket
(1077) and sent it to Mr. Penistan. In a
few days a dispatch came from Havana
to the effect that ticket 1077 had drawn
the capital prize of $500,000. Martinez
& Cos. telegraphed Mr. Penistan that his
ticket had drawn the great piize. Mr.
Penistan jumped for joy on hearing the
great news. Slapping the brother of his
father-ia-law, Thomas B. Whitney, on bis
shoulders, he exclaimed: “If this is
true, old fellow, 1 11 give you half of it.’
Then he insured his life, and, in company
with the brother of his father-in-law,
£&ixio gu to J-oor fK tn/mfiy. They
found that they would havo to wait
about a week, until the Havana steamer
arrived with the official drawing, before
the prize could be cashed.
“ The party enjoyed themselves seeing
the sights of the metropolis until the
official drawings came. Mr. Penistan,
who was then about forty five, tall, slen
der and gentlemanly, bore bis good
fortune with rare modesty, studiously
avoiding any display. As soon as the
drawings came, Martinez Jr Cos. paid over
$440,000 in cash, the amount due after
deductinz the difference between Arneri
can dollars and Spanish money. This
was the largest prize ev-r cashed here.
Two years previously, ticket 9414, draw
ing $200,000, had been paid.
“ The fickle goddess who bad smiled so
blandly on Mr. Penistan, now began her
capricious capers. The brother of his
father-in law sued him for the alleged
promised half of his suddenly acquired
wealth, together with a claim for ad-,
vances, or something of that nature. A
lawsuit loomed up, and it is said that
Mr. Penistan, nervous and worried, paid
over $50,000 for peace and quietness.
“ Then wide-awake horsemen received
him with open arms. He was what they
term an angel—-one with plenty of money
to expend on horseflesh. A few of his
horses turned out well, and made
a noise at the time. One great and
respected horseman, who will never
gamble a penny on a horse, paid Mr.
Penistan $15,000 for a splendid stallion.
He bought Fellowcraft after his great
achievement at Saratoga. In the main,
however, Mr. Penistan’s adventures
turned out poorly. The fickle jade sel
dom smiled ; Bhe seemed to have forgot
ten her old favorite Mr. Penistan,
however, was hail fellow well met with
lovers of the horse. He kept extensive
breeding farms, poured out money lav
ishly, while the best vintages moistened
the l ; ps of his many guests. A man
fond of and willing to pay well for fast
horses trots quick y into the affections
of the aristocratic old breeders, especially
in Kentucky. Here Mr. Penistan ex
pended $2OO 000 on a stock farm. He
had a theory that by blending the fast
raciDg with trotting stock the fastest
trotters in the world could be produced.
Glowing statements were at times sent
to him of promising colts that were to
be the horses, but when the time
came to try them they were found want
ing Indeed, it is said that he often
paid extravagant sums for cods that he
had never setn. At a sale of his trotting
stock in Fayette county, Ky. ; early last
fall, seventeen head, including stallions,
mares and geldings, which had cost
round sums, the highest price realized
w;i“ $lOO, and tbs lowsst $Sd, for a single
horse. The others averaged about $2OO.
Then came tumbles in .sal estate, and
the man who bal become rich with a
wave of fortune’s wand found himself
overwhelmed by waves from a sea of
troubles. Me sold out. after an experi
ment of less than three years in Ken
tucky, and animals that cost him heavily
were sold for a song. Hm farm brought
far less thau the cost price. It only
shows bow goon a fortune of $500,000
can be got away w th by fast horses and
a bad run of luck.
“ l am told,” said the sportsman in
conclusion, “ that Mr. Fenistan remarked
to an old friend, recently: ‘Major, it
would have been much better for me if
I had invested in five twenty bonds in
stead of 2:20 flyers.’ But then, you see,
he was not the man to reverse the adage,
‘ Easy come, easy go.’ ”
THE PACAS.
The Ntrnugr Slorj or Lradlng llarjrlnnd
Fn rally.
New York Snn.
When John Paca, after a good long
life, and useful one, too, for he cultivated
his land (turning the 2 700 aens into
rich wheat fields and sending the fiist
exportation of breadstuffs from the
United States to Eugland), at last died,
his son William B. Paca fell heir to the
estate. William B Paca had three sons,
John P., Chew and James Phillips—
both of the latter weak minded. And
so the family lived up to and through
the war, being ardent unionists.
William B. Paca lived atWve Hall
when the spring of 1875 opened, his son's
having grown to manhood. On the
mainland lived Mrs. Marianna E. Paca,
widow of William’s younger brother,
Edward Tilghman Paca, and her son
John and brother, Albert Jones, both
remembered now as manly young fellows.
On the morning of the Bth of March,
1875, John and Albert were leaning
agaiast a fence by the roadside when
William B. and his sons came riding by.
William 8., who seems to have been of
overbearing manners, spoke harshly to
his nephew, bidding him leap the fence
and approach his horse. The uncle
flourished a riding whip, and John feared
that it would be diawn across his thoul
ders should he obey. He therefore stood
by the fence and laughed. The two
younger sons of William B. Paca, Chew
and James, had their ducking guns
across their saddles. As soon as they saw
the laugh they unstrapped the guns.
“ I’ll take John,” said Chew.
“ I’ll take Albert,” replied James.
John and Albert turned to run, but
the aim of the imbeciles was perfect.
John and Albert fell dead in their tracks.
William B. and Lis son, John P..were
tried at the May term of the Talbot
county court, 1875, and found not
guilty. The imbeciles had done the
shoot lug. Ciiew and James were tried at
the May term of the Caroline county
court, and acquitted. They were imbe
ciles, and if the killing were murder,
then the father, William 8., and the
sound minded son, John P., were respon
sible for it. So there was no one pun*
ished for the crime.
Shortly after his acquittal the news
papers announced that “ William B.
Paca, * eon of a signer,’ had been found
dead at Wye Hall, Queen Anne’s,
Maryland.” A year passed. John P.
Paca, the heir of Wye Hall, moved
about like a shadow. One morning his
body was found stretched lengthwise of
bis father’s grave, a bullet hole in his
head and a revolver in his grasp. Not
many months after this fourth violent
death, James Phillip, one of the imbe
ciles, took the pet dog of Wye Hall and
led him down to the river. He tied a
heavy stone the dots’s and
moved to the edge of the boat landing.
He raised the struggling, snapping dog
in his arms and gave a forward toss. In
the nick.of the fall the imbecile’s arm
caught in the rope, he was dragged for
ward with the das', and James Phillip
Paca, pet deg and stone went into the
Wye with a splash, never.’to come up.
The maiden name of Mrs. Wm. B. PJaca
was Phillips. She was an excellent
woman, and loved her husband and boys
dearly. She stood the strain for a long
time, but at the last tragedy lost her
mind, and is now an inmate of the Bal
timore asylum for the insane. One of the
Pacas, Chew, still lives. In the spring
and summer he can be seen playing jump
rope with the children.
Scon after the news of the death of
Mrs. Marianna Paca (who was a blood
relative of John P. Kennedy, the author
of note), bad reached Wye, a puff of
smoke came from the extreme end of the
right wing of Wye Hall. The islanders
gathered quickly, shoremen ran across the
ice from the mainland, and dredgers
stopped their work at the mouth of the
Wye, sailing up to see the end of the
Pacas. Several men hurried for buck
ets, many entered the hall to save the
furniture, but the mass stood with their
hands in their pockets, while the wind
whistling Irom the Chesapeake made
havoc with the burniug place. There
was one thing to be saved, explained the
keeper to a crowd urging them to go in.
“ Wfiat,s that?” exclaimed the bystan
ders, thinking of bags of Paca gold.
“The great painting of Governor Paca,
the signer of the Declaration of L.depen
dence,” said the keeper.
Yet the picture was not rescued.
A Locomotive in a Quicksand.
The Leavenworth (Kan ) Tim s says :
Mention was made in the Times during
the summer of a singular accident which
occurred on the Kansas Pacific road at
the bridge crossing Kiowa creek, thirty
two miles east of Denver, in which an
engine attached to a freight train went
through the bridge into the bed of tbe
creek, instantly disappearing iu tbe
quicksand and baffling all attempts to
recover it. For the past six months the
search for the missing locomotive has
been kept up, resulting in success two or
three days ago, when it was found
buried forty feet deep in the quicksand.
The sand has been removed for a great
number of yards around the scene of tbe
disappearance of the engine, a hydraulic
ram being used, the locomotive befog
found at last alter a search of six months.
The instance is one of the most remark
able or record.
Tlie Champion C>jrn Cob.
Watliington Star.
A remarkable corn cob over a foot
long and of the small circumference that
indicates a large-grained variety of corn
has been received at the dead letter
office. It was sent to a Massachusetts
paper by a Kansas granger, who made
the postage on the paper insufficient by
scribbling cn it the following explan:- tory
note: ‘‘ln Kansas we fatten our purp
on the com, and then we use these cobs
jor atove-wood to roast the purp with;
and thus iu our prairie homes we mate
both ends meet (meat). In favorable
seasons one stalk has a little gourd of
shelled corn growing on it for chickens.’
S. A. CUNNINGHAM,
TWELVE GOLDEN MAXIMS.
ON C ‘N6TANCY,
Be not unstable in thy resolutions,
nor various in thy actions, nor inconstant
in thy affections. So deliberate that
thou mayest perform, so perform that
thou mayest preserve. Mutability is
the badge of infirmity.
ON CONDUCT TOWARD A FRIEND.
Hast thou a friend, use him friendly ;
abuse him not in jest or earnest; conceal
his infirmities; privately reprove his er
rors. Commit thy secrets to him, yet
with caution, least thy friend become thy
enemy and abuse thee.—[Bishop Hall.
HOW TO USE PROPERTY.
So use thy property that adversity
may not abuse thee. If in prosperity
thy security admits no fear, in adver
sity thy despair will afford no hope ; he
that in prosperity can fortell a danger
can in adversity see deliverance.
ON SECRET ENEMIES.
He that professes himself thy open
enemy arms thee against the evil h©
means thee ; but he that dissembles him
self thy friend, when he is thy secret
enemy, strikes beyond caution and
wounds above cure. From the first thou
mayest deliver thyself, from the last
good Lord deliver thee.
ON ANGER.
Beware of him that is slow to anger.
Anger, when it is long in coming, is the
stronger when it comes and the longer
kept. Abused patience turns to fury.
When fancy is the ground of passion,
that understanding which composes the
fancy qualifies the passion; but when
judgment is the ground, the memory is
the recorder and this passion is long re
tained.
ON LAW AND PHYSIC.
If thou study law and physic, endeav
or to know both and to need neither.
Temperate diet, moderate and reasonable
labor, rest and recreation, with God’s
blessing, will save thee from the physi
cian ; a peaceful disposition, prudent and
just behavior, will secure thee from the
law. Yet, if necessity absolutely com
pel, thou mayest use both ; they that use
either otherwise than for necessity soon
abuse themselves into weak bodies and
light pulses.
CHARITY ALLEGORIZED.
Charity is a naked child giving honey
to a bee without wings. Naked, because
excuseless and simple; a child, because
pleasant and comfortab’e; to a bee, be
cause a bee is industrious and deserving;
without wings, because wanting and help
less. If thou deniest to such thou killest a
bee ;if thou gives!, to other than such
thou preservest a drone.
ON DIET AND REGIMEN.
If thou desirest to take the best ad
vantage of thyself, especially in .matters
where the fancy is mostly employed,
keep temperate diet, use moderate exer
cise, observe seasonable and set hours
for rest, and let the end of thy first
sleep raise thee from thy repose; then
hath thy body the best temper, thy
soul the least incumbrance; then no
noise shall distuib thine ear; no object
siiall diven tiiiiiu tjc y iVicn , if ever* shall
thy sprightly fancy transport thee be
yond the common pitch, and show the
majoxim of high invention.
ON COMMUNICATING NEWS
Let the greatest part of the news thou
heare st be the least part of what thou
believest, lest the greatest part of what
thou believest be the least part of what
is true; and report nothing for truth, in
earnest or in jest, unless thou know it,
or at leaat confidently believe it to be so;
neither is it expedient at all times or in
all companies to report what thou know
est to be true; sometimes it may avail
thee if thou seem not to know that
which thou knowest. Hast thou any se
cret, commit it not to many, ncr to any
unless well known unto thee.
ON DRESS.
In thy apparel avoid profuseness, sin
gularity and gaudiness; let it be decent,
and suited to the quality of thy place
and purse. Too much punctuality and
too much movosity are the extremes of
pride. Be neither too early in the fash
ion, nor to long out of it,'nor too precise
ly in it. What custom hath civilized
hath become decent; until then it was
ridiculous. Where the eye is the jury,
the apparel is the evidence ; the body is
the shell of the soul, apparel is the husk
of ttat shell, and the bust will often
tell you what that kernel is. Seldom
does solid wisdom dwell under fantastic
apparel; neither will the pantaloon fancy
be inured within the walls of grave
habit. The fool is known by his dyed
coat.
ON CONVERSATION.
Clothe not thy language either with
obscurity or affectation; in the one thou
discoverest too much darkness, and in
the other too much lightness; he that
speaks irom the understanding to the
understanding doth best. Know when
to speak, lest while thou zhowest wisdom
in not speaking, thou betray tby folly in
too long silence. If thou art a fool, thy
silence in wisdom ; but if thou art wise,
thy long silence is folly. As too many
words from a fool’s mouth give one that
is wise no room to speak, so too long si
lence in one that is wise gives a fool op*
portunity of speaking, and makes thee
in some measure guilty of his folly. To
conclude, if thou be not wise enough to
speak, be at least so wise as to hold thy
peace.
ON BEARING ADVERSITY.
Hath fortune dealt thee ill cards, let
wisdom make thee a good gamester. In
a fair gale every fool may sail; but wise
behavior in a storm commends the wis
dom of a pilot. To bear adversity with j
an equal mind is both sign and glory of ,
of a brave spirit. As there is no worldly
loss without some gain, if thou bast
lost thy wealth, thou hast lost sonae
trouble with it; if thou art degraded of
thy honor, thou art likewise freed from
the stroke of envy; if sickness hath
blurred thy beauty, it bath delivered
thee from pride. Set the allowance
against the loss, and thou shalt find no ;
great loss. He loseth little or nothing
who keepeth the favor of his God, aDd
the peace and freedom of his conscience.
.. A pair of drawers— straws in lemon
ade.— [Puck. A pair of pants—two
dogs after a long chase.—[Philadelphia
Chronicle. A pair of slippers—two eels.
—[Albany Arg us. A pair ol shoo’s—two
women chasing ft hen.—[Rochester
Democrat.
WAIFS AND WHIMS.
TIME’ WONDERSUL CHANGES. fi
H- htl<l hsr nullity or hi* brnut, • >
Ciose to h ■ thiobbmg h art;
“ Mt darlinx.’’ quoih h* teto* If,
“ We’ll neTer. nvtr part.”
Time rolled along, their eti gr
They alwayr change, (e foico;
“ Old gal,” he cried mo t Utterly,
“ I-et’i get u* a dltore# ”
..“There’s music in the heir,” says
Jones. Jones has a bian-new baby at
his house.
. He is the only rich man in the
world who has learned to be content
with what he has.
..Two things go off in a hurry—an
arrow dismissed from a bow, and a beau
dismissed from a befit.
.. A shoemaker’s wife, out west, calls
her husband “Sequel,” because he is
“ always at the last.”
. .The difference between our sanctum
and a dairy is: One has an easy chair
and the other a cheesy air.
.. If you B weep your own doorsteps
clean you will have little time to criti
cise those of your neighbor.
..“ Anoymous articles will receive no
attention,” the editor remarked when a
baby was left on his tiont door-step.
. House-cleaning is like a man going
through a tunnel on a dark night. He
never knows when he’s through.
.. Many a man who feels himself great
among little people would find himself
little if he were among great people.
...They woe cousin?, and he lisped,
From the summit of his chin, .
“ Can’t 1 hare a kith, Amelia?’’
And she answered, “ course you kin " tk
.. ** What weriT ffiTT w rat VbsuTts of
the civil war ?” cried an orator. “ Wid
ows !” shouted Jones, who had married
one.
.. Never tell a man that he is a fool.
In the first place he will not believe
you, and in the next place you make
him your enemy.
.. Life seems a howling wilderness to
a man who stands in a bedroom with a
Niagara of water dripping from his face
and hands and no towel in sight.
..Says Giles: “My wife and I are
two, yet faith I kown not why, sir!”
Quoth Jack : “ You’re ten, if I think
true —she’s one and you’re a cipher.”
..Secretary Sherman thinks the govs
ernment will not be able to “get rid of
its coin. ” Why on earth dosn’t it start
a daily newspaper then ?—[Hawkeye. 4;
. .A young lady, when solicited for a
kiss by an inebriated suitor, refused,
but couldn’t keep him from pressing her
hand. She says she escaped by a “tight”
squeeze.
..A NvVda woman scolded her Chi
nese s rv mt for not properly cleaning a
fish, and, going into the kitchen soon
after, loui and him energetically washing
it with brown soap.
..The K. aton Advertiser relates that
the same ship lately took to Africa eight
hundred thousand gallons of rum and
one missionary Heavens 1 what did
they want of bo much missionary.—
[Buffalo Express.
.. “ First class in astronomy, stand
up. Where does the sun rise 7” “ Please,
sir, down in our meadow; I seed it yese
terday.” “ Hold your tongue, you dunce.
Where does the sun rise 7” “ I know;
iu the “ Right! and why in the
last? “Because the’east makes every
thing rise.”
.. A road in western New York is ve*
ted the premium for meanness. It hired
a gang of snow-shovelers at one dollar
per day and board, then ran them off
the track in the woods, kept them there
twenty-four hours without anything to
eat, and refused to pay them for that day
because they could not work.
.. The wife ef a printer in New Ha ve™
has applied for a divorce, on the ground
that her husband had no Btyle about
him ; he wouldn’t brace up, had no dash,
cut no figure, had no point, lived to no
rule, was of bad form and make up,
wasn’t a man of letters or up to the pe
riod, was a poor type of the genus, was
out of quoin, and couldn’t impose on
her any longer.
..In a case tried before the recorder,
a witness for the defense, in giving his
evidence, observed : “ The whole affair,
your honor, did not amount to a row of
pins.” Counsel for the prosecution:
“ What is the value of a row of pins?”
Witness (naively scratching his nose):
“ That all depends upon the extent of
the row.” Counsel: “ I have no more
questions to ask this witness.”
Novel Readiug.
Toionto Globe.
We do not agree with those who con*
tend that novels are usually pernicious
in their effects. We believe that the
taste for solid literature is very often
due to the hunger for information which
has been stimulated by novel reading;
and we quite agree with Thackeray, that
all healthy literary appetites relish nov
els as children relish sweets. Some nov
els arc trash, just as some histories, some
poems, and some works on science are;
but no one wants history, poetry or sci
ence to be banished from the libraries.
It should not be forgotten that mechan
ics’ institutes have other objects than
the instruction of tbe public; they are
intended to furnish people with tbe
means for enjoying leisure cheaply, as
well as with the means of improving
ir.. The young men and women who
lose themselves in the pages of the nov
elist, at least are doing no harm while so
engaged; and there are few modern nov
els which convey aDy but good lessons,
or stimulate their readers to other than
noble efforts. Many a man has been led
to the higher life by such works as
“ John Halifax.” “ VaDity Fair” has
warned clever women like Becky, fools
like Amelia, and stupid good fellows
like Dobbin against the temptations of
the World & Cos. Scott has done
to make the people realize that the cru
saders, knights, men-at-arms, Stark moss
troops, and gentle ladies of feudalism
were once really alive—eating, drinking,
and subject to the vicissitudes of daily
life like ourselves —than all the histori
ans of the language ; and George Eliot,
teaching to-day the infinite complexity
of life, causes us to feel pity for the sin
ner destroyer very often on the side of
virtues by the consequences of a set of
acts, the first of which was hardly
wxong, though its logical results is the
I destruction which overtakes him. Will
i any one assert that the tendencies of
I Dickens’ novels are immoral, or those <g|
| Anthony Tro'lope, or Charles ReadeJjH
Miss Thackeray, or indeed any of Jj|
works of the most popular writer#gjiM
i fiction? “ Ouiua” certainly does sjß
limes forge t to mete out due
to her fascinating roues, but in
the bad boy often escapes drowning'aA.
he goes skating on Sunday, and onA
a way it is not displeasing to see tH
good-natured scamp of fiction allowed
plenty of time to reform and be all that
is noble for ever after.