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uii OUR MOTTO. BY H. A. GRAHAM. Arouse! Good Templars of our State, And push with vigor on The principles we advocate Till victory we have won; United work, with hearts elate, And earnest let us be To rescue drunkards from their fate By Faith, Hope, Charity. Long has the fiendish foe we face Allured our fellow-man; Brought frives and children to disgrace, With all who join his van. The echoes 6f the Demon’s yell Shall fill Eternity, When far beyond the joys which tell Of Faith, Hope, Charity. Let all who love our noble laws Maintain our honored name; Support the Herald which our cause Does to the world proclaim; And thus may many a doleful hearth. Where wretchedness we see. Be changed to one of joyous mirth By Faith, Hope, Charity. know, about pooah Henry—they asked faw and low women congregated, who had been a him—so. von see, I found ont quietly he had detective officer. This is not the stuff whereof not been' theaw, though shouldn't have been a peaceman should be made. Is it not some- surpwised at his visiting that chawming Miss thing worth while to be the man who stands up Anatasia, you know. Eh? Well, no, she ain’t between society and anarchy—waving the censer my style exactlv, but stwiking, von know, of authority—as Aaron and his fellows stood After visiting the Pwettidales, Mercers, and Bat- and waved their censers between Israel and de- combes, you know, gave it up in respectable struction ? To do their work in a manly, yet quartas, and went in for the ‘cads.’ Eh? II hat brave and gentle way—as the chevalier ot jus- does that mean ? My deah Miss Bighawne, you tice should—is now accomplished by the higher aw so ingenuous, so to speak. ‘ Cads ’ mean the officers of our home forces, but by tue peace- lowa awdors—hoipottoi, you know—know Greek ? man proper, only rarely. Our system creates Ah! enough to understand that? Ha, ha! very machines of inexorable law, or, too frequently, good! Exactly. Communicated immediately hypocritical temporizers with crime, with the police. Awfully stupid cweetlaws, Mr. A. J. Duffield, who will no doubt be countwy bobbies, you know. Led me a deuce thought a lunatic, has suggested that the police- of a chase after a fellow—turned out to be a so- man should not be elevated. He has proposed licitor's clerk, John Cway, wunning off from his that briefless barristers, “stickit ministers and master—fwaud, embezzlement, five pounds, you young gentlemen generally, with more bone and know. Pooah devil—beg pardon ! But that sinew than they can properly utilize in the gen- ain’t swearin though. Eh? Searched the whole teel professions, should here find a work not countrv—didn’t see a whisk of his tail. Eh ! I unworthy of theii power. Is not this a good hope you understand, though didn't iueah to suggestion ? Have we yet realized what might say Bighawne was a fox. Went every wheah - ; be done in the way of improving this great do- into awfully’ queah places, vou know! Saw mestic service ? vewy stwange things- can’t tell you all. Public- | Why should we not have a noble order of the house at Buwv, Saturday night, ‘ fwee-and-easy.’ ; peaceman? At present, we show our estimate Evwyhody dwunk—women—two bull tewwias of the policeman’s office by taking up shillings fighting—ownas fell out and got afigliting, too— ; to reward his bravery, or granting him £2 out of loiHiht like dogs themselves -bit and scwatehed the poor-box for a broken head and ruined con- end and their kindred institutions in White chapel or Sonthwark. . They are equally de signed to allure and stimulate the feverish thirst The pale and weary girls who, at the humbler places, serve out to ragged poverty and crime or robust labor their lush and stingo, are no worse than the frumped-up beauties who, as they exchange free jokes or affected compli ments with lounging clerks, or dandy blacklegs, or fast young parvenus, keep them alive with flips and tonics. One night Emily, disguised in a coarse wool len dress and a staid bonnet with a thick veil, entered, in the course of her trying round, one [For The Snnnv South.] LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. True Sketch of nn Eminent Lawyer. BY TRAVIS. Is there really a fate in marriage? Are there hearts made for each other—natures meant to be supplemented by others that exist, and when found, instantly reveal the magnetic affinity be tween the two by a sudden attraction, a thril ling of the ‘‘electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound?” of the houses in llatcliffe Highway which had a Thi ! object has been sung by poets and dis pense for Honor, music, and daneinm The cus , s ? d f b * Philosophers. Facts that occur m real lite would lead us to decide in the affirma tive. One incident especially that I recall at Let Faith in God give to our mind Hoj»o of immortal rest; With Charity to all mankind We will be ever blest. Then let our triune Star shine forth In all its brilliancy: That all may feel the lasting worth Of Faith, Hope, Charity. And let us strive, w’hile life shall last, To raise our motto high, That angels bright, when life has past, May greet us to the sky. Then in a Temple shall we meet, Where parting ne’er shall be; When seated near God’s mercy-seat, By Faith, Hope, Charity. Wyandotte, April, 18G5. encii other, wolled about woom—people all look ing on—women clappin’ their hands and swear ing tewible—police sent in—deuce’s own wow. Beg pardon! you look pale; best stop. Eh? No —well, went to common lodgin’-house, you know—Nawich. Seen them at Westminster? The dickens you have ! Aw, well, saw woman dwunk in bed—"wolled over, you know, on her baby- police took her off—child quite dead—suffocated by its own mother, you know. Awfully shock ing, eh ? Heard afterward woman woke up and went mad about it. Made me quite unwell, stitution. The proper recognition of the police man's services should come from the State, and the head of the State and fountain of honor is Royalty. Institute, therefore, for the police force an Order of Merit. Recognize the true status. Raise its character. Attract to it hon esty, ability, and even ambition. Make way, I say, for the’ Most Noble Order of the Peaceman ! One word more. The safety of society is committed to the care of this order. Should it not also be an order of sobriety? Every peace- man should be a total abstainer, whatever li- lieense for liquor, music, and dancing. The bar below was filled with sailors of every na tionality, engaged in drinking, in polyglot blasphemy, and coarse courtship. Lascar, Swede, Russian, Pane, Dutchman, Italian, mingled with the sons of the three kingdoms. Here possibly Henry might have found his way i to endeavor to get a berth in some obscure ves sel. Through the crammed bar a lane was forthwith made, at the call of the stout land lady, as soon as the inspector's face was seen ; while the publican—a powerful man, who had 1 been a detective in his day—turned with lu dicrous solemnity to remonstrate with a tipsy woman for using improper language—a remon- i stranee she treated with derisive levity. Up a few steps through a door, they passed into a room resounding with odd orchestral music, a lofty room with a ventilating skylight. The walls were decorated with paper in gaudy j panels, in the middle of which were depicted highly-colored Terpsichorean beauties, display ing their charms with Grecian naivete but un- Orecian grace. By the door was the semicircu BLOODY LINKS; —OR,— The Devil’s Chain. BY EDWARD JENKINS, A Member of the British Parliament, and the Au thor of “ GSix's Baby," etc. Jdaht a chain : for the land city is full of i is full of bloody crimes, and the iolence.— Ezekiel. LINK THE EIGHTH. There was mourning in the house of Big- horne. Ten days had passed since the depart ure of the son and heir, and not a word had been heard of him. He had with him very lit tle baggage. A note was left for his father. This was merely to inform him that the writer had engaged to go down to Norfolk with Conis- toun for a week’s hunting, the latter having promised to find the horses. Mr. Bighorne accepted the explanation, and troubled himself no further. Emily was the only one who felt uneasy, and she kept her anx iety to herself. She could not help hazarding guesses in her own mind at the reasons of Henry’s conduct, but she did not impart her laneijes to either of her parents. At the end of eek, however, driving down Piccadilly, “^detected Captain Oonistoun, who xecated a rather obvious retiring movement St. James’ Passage with too great celerity to be caught by the servant, She became thor oughly alarmed. Mr. Bighorne, on hearing that the Captain was in town without Henry, also grew anxious. He looked the Captain up, and, at the end of a couple of hours’ search, being a determined man, found him at an obscure and dubious club. Then he learned, after a good deal of fencing, that Henry had asked his friend to keep out of the way for a week, as he had private business in the country, and desired to use Conistoun’s name to explain his absence. The poor Captain was obliged to get into a cab and accompany the father home, where he got it severely all round for lending himself to this deception, Miss Emily putting it to him in a cruelly sharp way. “ He Is so greatly indebted to you, Captain Conistoun, and knows you so intimately, that, perhaps, it is no wonder he should have asked yon to help him like this ! You know I felt so satisfied when I knew he was with you, because, of course, one was certain there could be noth ing worse than usual,” etc. The Captain afterward said he would rather have been in the Balaclava charge than go through that ordeal. He was now as alarmed as the family themselves, and, for the first time, won Emily's approval by the activity and shrewdness which he put forth for the occasion. Mr. Bighorne could do nothing. He was almost paralyzed with apprehension. Emily forthwith took charge of the arrange ments. ’ She determined to keep the matter per fectly quiet, but to engage two detectives. An advertisement, the drawing up of which occu pied the Captain two hours, in a cunning en deavor to reach the proper person without giv ing any one else a clue, was so grotesque that Emily laughed at it in spite of the gravity of the subject.: “To Cornu Grande,—Return to your native Geneva, a la creme. Most anxious to see you again. Your sister, Emily.” It was a supreme effort of the Captain’s mili tary genius, and he felt sure its ingeunity would baffle the strongest intellect among Henry Big- horne’s numerous friends, although he had given them at least three clues. Emily, however, dis carded it. and simply wrote: “ Henry. - Return to your sister.” Her heart told her that if anything would briDg him back, that would. The detectives, who were put upon the scent (luring the next few days, began to get up Mas ter Henry’s history for a month or two before his disappearance. This was an annoyance to Captain Conistoun, since the threads of that history were continually crossing and recross ing his recent paths, and sometimes in very awkward conj unctions. As every one, however, who really knew anything important, was inter ested in keeping it quiet, the tenth day had come, and the police confessed that they had not even an idea how this young gentleman got out of London. Conistoun, meanwhile, had gone to Norfolk. It was the blind looking after the blind, and quite a forlorn hope, but Emily had a faint sus picion that Henry had mentioned his real des tination. The Captain shall tell his own story. “Aw ! my deah Miss Bighorne, heah I am again ! as they say in the pantomime—I—I beg your pardon ! Yaas—I wemembah—you’ve ab- jewawed the theatre—and I must say, Miss Big horns, yan are quite wight—the ballet, you know. Eh ? deuced objectionable. Eh ? What does *deucid’ mean? I—I beg pardon. Bad habit. I know it is. So sawry ! Well, Miss Bighorne, in accawdance with your instructions, I poasted to Nawfolk—always liked Nawfolk, most chawm ing country—and dropped in casually, you know—you wemembah thg * ameteua casual ?’— on theBwown-Wobinsons,yeaw fwiends—denced pretty girl, Miss Anastasia Bwcwn-Wobinson, ain’t she?—Ah! yaas, yaas, yaaw, the only woman I know who does justice to her fwiends— ewy generous, eh? Nevaw let on, you y OU know. Eh? Oh! nothing-do anything cense we may give to other services. Ylake our for you. Mean to take the pledge if this sawt new order models of virtue, bravery, self-re- o’ thing goes on much longer.” j straint. The anxiety of the Bighornes had increased | Ladies and gentlemen who shop and lounge as the months went by, and no hint of Henry’s j in the splendid streets that display the wealth fate had come to them. The elders thoroughly ! and luxury of the metropolis, rarely think that | collapsed, and Mrs. Bighorne was sadly nursing j they are walking and driving on the shores of a | her husband at their country place in Hamp- | desolation, often as extreme and melancholy as 1 shire. Emily, whose sorrow was deepest, alone ! that of any disaster-ridden sea—or, to change preserved her balance. She remained in Lon- ; the figure, they are skirting wildernesses of bu- don, energetically originating and pursuing | man destiny, which, like the mangrove swamps plans of discovery. Sue drove back into her j of Western" Africa, hide lurking-places of the heart the fear that her brother had taken away his j foulest malaria and most perilous savagery. And own life, and worked on hopefully, now with the ; there, amongst those dim recesses of life, men i police, now with the family solicitors, and now j ply a trade which exaggerates disease, and adds with friends like Captain Conistoun, or Mr. : vigor to the powers of evil. Dainty ladies, con- Iloliwell. She had a dread suspicion of the j ceive what it was for Miss Emily Bighorne, un cause of Henry’s flight, but kept it strictly ! der the chivalrous impulse of her nature, to within her own thoughts. • * ' seek her brother in and out among those shad- | Captain Conistoun was indefatigable. All that ows of death ! I Henry had told him was simply that “there; Through city slums, in alleys of Soho or was a woman in the matter,” news which the Bloomsbury, in the squallid streets of White- I Captain philosophically staged was a “ matta of chapel or Southwark, to see this fair and noble cawse.” But he had become a very changed ; girl pick her way, was a spectacle not without man. In his frequent interviews with Miss Big- ; significance. It brought into contrast the ter- this moment would tend to confirm me in the belief that there is a destiny in marriage. This little incident occurred about twenty years ago, in this very busy and thriving city of Atlanta, at the time when it was just entering upon the wonderful progress in growth and business en terprise that has won for it the name of the “Gate City of the South.” Tuere resided here at that time a young lawyer, Mr. H , who, even then, gave promise of the great ability which has since raised him to public eminence among distinguished Southerners. Endowed by nature with a fine analytic mind, which edu cation had carefully improved, he had devoted himself to his profession with an assiduity that commanded success, and was rapidly growing into a most lucrative practice. He was studious and retiring, cared little for social amusements and relaxations, and went but little into ladies’ company. He was especially reticent upon the subject of matrimony; but when urged to an i opinion, it was always that he never intended to lar bar, where three women were kept busy in i marry; and as this sentiment seemed well drawing and mixing the liquors. Over the bar the orchestra urged its doleful jollity of sound. On one side of the room were narrow tables and seats, just then crowded with men— chieliy sail ors and women all of one class. The rest of the grounded in a strong firmness that formed one of the prominent traits of his character, his friends had but little reason to expect that his intentions would ever be changed. . One Sunday afternoon in May, I was leisurely large space was devoted to dancing: a strange strolling with my friend near the outskirts of amusement of halt-drunken coarseness and town, enjoying tne sight of the pretty suburban folly. Women sailed to and fro to the bar to flower yards and the freshness of the breeze fetch liquor to their companions, or to buy it plowing from fields and woods cooled by the last ; lor themselves,and then they could be seen going night s shower. The sun was just sinking in the rounds with their own hot toddy, exchanging j c i 0 nds of floating crimson. Bees overburdened a sip of it indiscriminately with any one who j w sweets hied by, and a bird sang rapturously would give them a pull at pewter or glass. It ■ j n tbe branches of a fine oak tree near. Not far was plain enough in flushing lace and glancing j from where the grand state house now stands was eye how this horrible mixture was working, j a woodland space, whose neatly trimmed trees Emily turned quickly away to scan the faces of j formed adeligfitful grove, where the inhabitants the men, hut Henry was not there. of the city loved to stroll, and where Cupid had Just as she was leaving, her eye caught sight 0 f ten played his mischievous pranks with the ot a girl, quite young, whose lace looked fresher ^ y onn „ am f f a j r . The fresh coolness of the hour, and prettier than any of the rest, and whose j tde beauty 0 f the sunset, the song of the birds— dress was neater in fit and appersance. She had just raised to her lips a glass of punch, which all these lovely and tender surroundings nat- just raised to ner ups a glass oi punen, wmen ; ura ity suggested the subject of love and mar- she drained, and then rushed into the dance j r j a „ e — a su pject that was usually distasteful to with feverish animation. 1 — • “Do you know who that poor girl is?” said Emily to her conductor. borne, his admiration for her lucid intellect and ■ rific distance, moral and material, between the cool decision of character was proportionate to J limited wealthy class and the hordes of labor, the consciousness of his own lack of those quali- ! misery and crime. The Drury Lane Music-hall, with its several bars, its pits tilled with small tradesmen and their wives, and fast clerks and porters with their girls ; its galleries crowded with doubt ful men and women, its upper galleries crammed with boys—the gamins of London, viewing on the stage the pleasures of vice—the apotheosis of crime—was only a few degrees do s vn below j the more elegant and glittering, saloons of a ; The idea^of ,the police that Henry Bighorne j higher society. There young rasc/.ldoiri learned j had never left London constantly pressed on i how to drink and swear with the worst There j Emily’s mind. From YVest to East End, by her Emily saw children, not as high as the bar, ties. He dropped out of several of the worst : cliques in London, and became an exemplary attendant at St. Thomas’s, where he could see Emily worshipping, and himself worship her. He told a fellow-guardman, in the confidence of an evening punch: “’Pon my soul, Bwady—you know — I’m afwaid she’ll make a weligious man of me. I nevah saw goodness so beautiful.” “ 0 yes, miss ! It’s the saddest case I know of. She hasn’t been long at the East End, and she won’t stay here long with that face and figure. She is a girl called Lucy Merton. A young law yer’s clerk, named Cray, brought her down here. He had run away from his employers, solicitors in Bedford Row, with some papers and a tew pounds of money. That girl was with him. They had to knock about in low places to keep out of sight. When we caught him they were well-nigh starving, and after we took him away, there was not much left to her to do but what my young friend. He spoke upon it briefly, and ended it with his usual assertion that he had determined never to marry. Scarcely had he uttered this emphatic declara tion when two young ladies who had been out upon the hill, enjoying the grand sunset, came walking through tue grove arm in arm, and ap proached us slowly. Both were very handsome, but of different styles—one being tall and com manding, the other petite and symmetrical, with a countenance of great sweetness. My friend, who was yet walking very slowly, with his body slightly inclined as if reflecting deeply upon the subject we had just been dis cussing, had no sooner raised tiis head and she’s doing. We don’t know where she comes flashe d his eyes upon the smaller lady of the urgent directions, detectives had sought him in | taking hot gin-and-w^r as ■ * —(k—* tr—— ■*" : — attempts the obscurest haunts without success. Her con- j staggering ofi to heaven-kn. nection with the mission in Westminster en- j to emulate the wickedness of their «*lders. abled her to assure herself that he was not ! Searching a court out of Grey’s Inn Lane one there. But she was haunted with the fear that j night when the “ Old Arm-Chair” public-house in other places other eyes might overlook him. j had emptied its last frequenters into the street, She felt certain that no disguise could hide him she had seen her conductor, a policeman, pene- from her. So this young lady resolved that it trate a crowd of drunken wretches, stretching was her duty to seek him through London for their necks to see a man who, in drunken fury, herself. ■ Strong and adventurous men set out from England, to court dangers in all parts of the ; globe. In the ranks of the rude Herzegovi- nese, fighting for deliverance from the vulture rapacity and inhuman tyranny of the Moslem had caught the hair of his wife, also drunk, and twisting it round his hand, was hauling at the shrieking victim with his knee upon her chest. It was when the public-houses were about turning out in Whitechapel that Emily tqok her Europe; among fierce Albanians, bloody ! way thither with the inspector and his sergeant Bashi-Bazouks, the semi-barbarous hordes of ! to canvass the recking lodge-houses in search of Russia pushing eastward in fatal and resistless ! the wanderer. An early visit to the places in conquest; in perilous pilgrimage to Mecca; in Flower-and-Dean-Street and thereabouts, where the heart’of Central Africa, among slave-dealers sometimes as many as three hundred beds are and jealous savages; in China, or Perak, or the ; occupied of a night at threepence or fourpence Andaman Islands, or the Northern Provinces of j apiece, opens up to the thoughtful mind a vista India, with the Byaks of Borneo, or among the 1 of sorrows so long, so various, and so horrible, annibals of Polynesia—justly resentful of the j that one might well shrink from encountering from, but I should say she was out of a West End shop. I’ve tried hard to get her to tell me, but it ain’t no use. She’s going through a sort of stage now—just running on as you see, trying to drown all and forget like. YVe see such cases sometimes, though not often. If they wouldn’t take to drinking they might come round again. Your friend ain’t here, miss ? Then, we’d best go- ! undesired benevolence of a forcible hiring to i labor in the sugar-fields of Queensland tor civi- ' lization and Christianity; in South American I republics, with volcanoes bursting up altern- ! ately from the earth and from society; or in the mines of California, British Columbia, or South ! Africa; and they return alive to tell the tale of all they have dared and done. Yet, if danger he all "that is sought, and a demonstration of re sourceful bravery be aimed at, might not a Bacon, or a Burton, or a Speke, or a Living- I stone, or a Butler, or a Stanley, setting out i alone to explore the regions of London savagery, the intense awfulness of the spectacle at an hour when half a hundred neighboring gin- shops are disgorging their throngs of drunken customers. It is there that you may learn that however bad human nature may be, there is something you can administer to it and make it worse, and that there is nothing so devilish but what drink will add to its deviltry. Strange and dismal outcome of civilization ! To enter the thronged kitchen of these caravan saries of crime and beggary, and look around eagerly for the beloved face, was to Emily Big- horne to learn a harrowing lesson in humanity. encounter risks as great as any to be withstood j A mixed crowd—thieves, tramps, beggars. Here, | i n perilous journey by land and sea? And let perhaps, a Scotchman on crutches, arguing even all quiet, respectable and comfortable people be on that weak basis, with an inspirited Irishman; I mindful’that to the innate or cultivated rascal- ; there, a group of youngish pale fellows, whose ity, the degraded ferocity of classes of the pop- ; hands showing they did no honest toil, but ula’tion to whose existence they deliberately shut ! preyed with light fingers on the watches of their eyes, there is ever added the licensed dan- mankind ; their glances furtive, their faces «er of a supply always ready to hand of that j sometimes marked with scars and bruises of which can add tenfold intensity to cruelty and ! night affrays, or tied up in bloody kerchiefs, tenfold wantonness to crime. I, for my part, I Here, again, a weary traveler, with a great shock cannot look upon the continuous flare of public of rough hair, in a suit of shabby velveteen, ' houses in Whitechapel, or Westminster, or who had dropped ofi’ asleep with his hat and i Uarvlebone, without shuddering to think that ; bundle at his side. And again, a gentleman’s J in tile event of a popular outbreak, the legisla- i gentleman, evidently under the weather, with a I ture and the magistrates between them have ' black suit, very seedy, and his tall hat brushed j laid in the people’s hands, in criminal profusion, I into a bright polish, sitting apart in disconso- j Emily’s heart was bleeding. “ Stay,” she said. “ She is not dancing now. Will you ask her to come here ?” The girl came forward at the policeman’s sum mons; how different from the bright, light hearted maiden that tripped along St. Martin’s Lane a few months since ! The cheeks were still comely, but flushed with the heat of wine. There was sadness in the blue eyes which were growing so hard and saucy, and in the dark rings beneath them were the written evidences of ill- health of body and soul. Emily raised her veil. At the sight of the beautiful pale features and the sweet eyes regarding her so sadly, the poor girl shrank back, but Emily took her hand. “Let me go !” cried Lucy Merton thickly, for ’twas late and the drink was telling on her. “No,” replied Emily firmly. Come with me.” The superior spirit conquered, and Lucy Mer ton suffered herself to be led through the crowd at the bar till they got out into the street; then she tried to break away, but the policeman held her. “Let me go !” she said, crying with terror and vexation, “I’ve done nothing to you.” “True,” said Emily. “But, my poor sister, can I do nothing for you ?” “Sister!” she said, with a shower of tears. “ Don’t mock me, miss ! I don’t know what you do here. Y’ou are a lady. Go away and let me alone. You are cruel; you are bringing back all mv sorrow 1” of “ Y’es, I repeat it, ‘ Sister !’ Do you not know One who called a sinner ‘ daughter?’ I, who two than his face lit up with a sudden glow of admiration and interest. When they had passed, he exclaimed impulsively: “Yes, I will marry, and there is my wife—if I can get her.” The expression was so contradictory of the one he had made but a few minutes before, that I could only regard it in the light of irony or lev ity, either of which was difficult to reconcile with my friend’s usual candor and gravity. In answer to my inquiry as to wno the young lady was, he replied tnathe did not know, never having seen either of them before; and true to the old adage that genuine love is always sly and cunning, we had no sooner passed than he quickly proposed to turn the course of our waik so as to meet the ladies once more—a move ment which was so skillfully made as to excite no suspicion that it was not entirely acci dental. Night now closing in, -we repaired to our re spective homes without the events of the day making more impression on my mind than a passing feeling of having seen in my friend a restlessness and variability out of keeping with his usual quiet, self-possessed manner. Y T ery soon after this I left for the far West, and after an absence of many years, returned to be hold the great change that had taken place in the city of Atlanta. A new society had grown up, and of course I was anxious to see the ac quaintances of my younger days, and straight way sought out my friend H. Ascending from a prominent street into a spacious office, I found him, as I expected, surrounded by books and papers, literally overwhelmed with business, preparing for the coming court. As soon as cordial greetings and expressions of pleasure at meeting had been exchanged, I said: “ I suppose I have found you as you declared you always would be—a lonely old bachelor, wedded only to your profession ?” No,” said he, “you were never more mis- know my own sinfulness, cannot shrink from ta j_ eI1) f or j fl ave ’ long since married. Do you owning an erring sister. My dear girl, can I not j remem t, e rthe little lady we met in the grove, and save you from your sorrow, or, at least, allay it? whoge looks im p resse d me so suddenly? Well, There is always hope. ^ ^ ^ ^^ A T | she is now my wife, as I said she should be; and, “ * _ Jill ,-I , OllC lO UW « 1U V II 1*0, no a 5 — x No, no ! You need not tell me that. I never , ag y, tliere was enchantment in the spot, as well the*inspiring elements of the most horrible dis- ; late incongruity with the rough elements asters. Agamst this dire possibility, we have around him. Slovenly mothers with dirty chil- set up a system of police, and about this I crave dren—girls with coarse, repulsive features ; leave to say a word or two. 1 some with black eyes, the tell-tales of the dan- I hold that the office of the policeman is, or gerous life they led ; and here and there the oui’ht to be, an honorable office. It is an office j scrofulous infant, whose appearance made the that should be properly esteemed by society . observer shudder to think what a hopeless above that of the soldier. A friend of mine J thing was life for it from cradle to grave. You has told me of a little girl who calls the man we irreverently term “ bobby,” the peaceman. Herein is a happy and even noble allegory, bright with sensible suggestion. W hv should not an able home secretary sit down for a day, or mayhap a week, and work it out in practical |shape? The policeman, or peaceman, should have - much the same qualifications as certain officers could not have collected two pounds among the hundred, and yet, there was hardly one who had not left a to'll that night at the public-house. Profits of theft, proceeds of pawn or sale of the last passable garment, day’s begging, or casual wages, all gone down into the till of the pub lican to leave these people as they were—nay, worse, and with no less of hope ! Thus he, the Publican, emissary of the brewer in the church: ne should be husband of one and distiller, works at both ends ; to bring wife, vigilant, sober, modest, not ready to quar- down the high, to confirm and deepen the rel or offer wron» as one in wine, not doubled- i degradation of the low. : tongued not given to much wine, not greedy of Here is his shop, divided into compartments filthy lucre -let him be taught to feel the true for bar, retail and refreshment. Two or three ; honorableness of his office, and even to mag- I rows of ivory-handled pumps, their brass n jf v jt. bright and shining : dinted pewters and pol- Isavhe is greater than a soldier, your true ished glasses ranged along the metal shelves. 1 policeman. The powers with whom he contends j Sometimes a row of great pipes of spirits, tap- are not onlv of this world. If he be a sterling ped to pour their fiery water into the cans man, and a'good peaceman, he will apprehend which supply the model barrels of glass on the that he is also one of the missionaries of society, shelf behind the bar ; and hundreds of bottles For him there is not alone catching and making of every shape and every hue of bright contents ready for hanging, or other method of security, arranged in dazzling ranks wherever a standing but work akin to that of the clergyman, the place can be found. Flaring gas, bright mirror, doctor, the brother or sister of charity. foaming pewter, smoking glass, quick barmaids, In the police force now embodied, there are drawing, drawing, drawing from endless store, some who feel alter this ideal, dimly though and dropping, dropping, dropping with a merry sought to be as I am. It came to me. I was in nocent. I know not why it came. I curse God every day I live for it; and now I’ll live it out.” When a fine nature wakes to the fact that it has been outwitted by some devilish subterfuge, and has lost forever the virtue whereon it prided itself, it rarely stops to consider circumstances and estimate exact responsibilities. The reac tion from trust and hope is often madly extreme. And the fact which in our social existence comes most cruelly home to a woman wronged, as was Lucy Merton, is that there is written by English opinion over the door of society the notice to such as she—Nulla retrorsum. Miss Bighorne again took the girl's hand, but she broke away, and hastily drying her eyes, ran back into the room. Spite of the inspector’s remonstrance, Emily pushed through in pursuit, but arrived only in time to see the object of her as in the fact, of that first meeting, 1 have pur chased and settled for life within a few feet of where it happened.” It was true. Afterwards I visited his home — a large brick mansion, erected in the most com modious style, shaded in front by tjie very oak from whose sunset-gilded summit the robin had sung so gaily that summer evening, and trom the parlor window, the same pretty, petite lady we had met in the grove so many years ago, looked out upon a group of lovely children sporting on the shaded turf below, and smiled a welcome to her husband, now one of the most distinguished lawyers in the Empire State, and filling the high position of Solicitor-General. The Female Head Beat. . . , The cr en teel female dead-beat is, perhaps, the care toss off a glass of wine and resume the hardegt tQ get a i ong Wlt -h. she puts on airs and Ah!” said the inspector sententiously, as they went away, “if it wasn’t for the drink that girl might be saved. Now she s taken to drown ing out her sorrow that way, it ain’t a bit of use, miss—you take my word for it.” (to re contisued.) Pay of American Authors.—Mr. Frothingham tells us, in his “History of Transcendentalism,” that twelve years elapsed before the first five utnrorl imnioc of F.rnQrtjmi’s “Nfttnre ”—thG dignities. She talks of her former fortune, and of her expectation. She has sources of income at present shut up, but sure to be opened in time. Or she has a small income, terribly inadequate, at best, but not yet due. She wants something to bridge over the gulf that yawns between the last dollar and the next. Sometimes she lubrica'es her speech with tears, but dignity, and great self-respectful ness, and a beautiful show of faith in God and man, are her principal instruments; and it takes a puise that shuts like a steel trap to withstand her honestly. But they are few. The other day in | Whitechapel I came across a fine-looking man keeping a public house, where common sailors chink, the hopes and healths of many a cus tomer into their tili^«kDie r iaA«iiIlYjaA£" r ence trulv between t hundred copies of Emerson’s “Nature"—tne ’ a pea j a _ Some of these women selfishly stay at result of long and earnest thought—-were pur- jj 0me or j n gome nice boarding-house, and push chased by the public Hawthorne toward the ^ ^ childrenj and even their young and well- close of his life, succeeded in living J educated daughters, to do their borrowing for them. nX ‘ntW^^LElmo^TsTeonirYmer: One whom we know,-confessedly a non-attendant XL*£iS5*St S 5to»“ “J church,—rails ...he church *»».(«.£ ;“,fif“,u thousand dollars for .novel, on ,e- por.i.g her -Prelt, follower, of Jesu, Chnsl! ceipt of the manuscript. Washington Irving, she thinks the church members are. one of the most brilliantly successful of our an- \ ~ ; ~ thors, received just two hundred and four thou- Two guns belonging to the Spanish armrda, sand dollars for more than fifty years of arduous which have been under water for 228 years have literary labor—four thousand dollars a year—the been recovered off the Scotch coast by « diviny of a chief clerk. party. IN t INSTINCT PRINT