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t TAKE CARE WHOM YOU TRUST. BY COMPTON READE. A fortnight at Blankenberghe wrought mar vels for Raich. His spirits revived nnder the combined influences of pure air, light diet, and change of sene. His companion indoctrinated him fully with the notion that one lung only was damaged, and that therefore his life was in reali ty good—a very well intentioned piece of falsity better in most respects than many specifics. The weather being lovely, to loll on the hot sand, dreaming day dreams, was most delicious. \V hen the hour for return arrived, Sir Joseph Toadie’s prophecy had come true. He was quite a new man. An enjoyable steam from Ostend to Dover, a wild rush through Kent and Surrey, and Lon don once more hovered in an horizon of smoke. His heart beat wildly, his eyes glistened, he seemed like one about to enter Paradise. His carriage whisked him rapidly westwards, and so excited was he that he tailed to remark the black livery of the men-servants. ‘Lady Montresor’s compliments, and will you dine, sir? Her ladyship will see you alter dinner. . x . . , . This was rather a disappointment for his ar dent friendship; but he was hungry after travel, and dusty withal. Perhaps she was wise. A meeting would be more delightful when he was cleansed and fed, and superior to all sublunary eonsiderations. He, therefore, indulged in a bath, and a careful toilette. After which he des cended to the most beautiful banquet conceiva ble There was not a luxury unprovided. Eve ry dish was a chef d' enure. The flowers were almost oppressive; the glass and gold dazzling; the wines glorious; whilst the traditional rose water had been supplanted by Stephanotis. On his napkin he found a sweet little billet abuse of’em. God bless’ee, my pretty miss! To think of our passon being nursed by a cath olic, now!’ 'Is he a clergyman?' asked Sister Clara. ‘Vicar of Mudflat, miss—Mudflat, in Blank- shire. Leastways, ’er was vicar, or ought to be vicar now. About of moving on’em out of this ’ere dratted dung-’eap, miss. How’s it to be doDe ?’ ‘Not to-day, sir; nor to-morrow—perhaps nev er!’ says the serious face. ‘Our doctor has hope —that is all. They have been neglected; in fact, if the police had not notified me that there was such a case, they must have died.’ ‘The Lord be praised!’ ejaculates the farmer, piously; ‘and blessed be the likes of such as you! If ever I seed a Samaritan, you’re the good un! Here’s your religion—here's the real thing. Why, I ’oedn’t a hentered such a ’ole as this, not for worlds! And yet if there weren’t such Christians as you—such hout and hooters—my passon might a’ died—died wuss nor a dog! Lor’ bless your hangel face!. If this ’ere’s the Catholic faith, darn’d if I don’t turn Catholic to-morrow!’ T must go,’ said Sister Clara, rather startled by these jerky apostrophes. ‘Wait a minit. You see this ’ere purse? It ’olds a ’undred and sixty pound, in notes. You take it for’eni. I drawed the money to spec’late in barley, down at Mark Lane, fust thing to- morrer, and I might p’raps earn a fifty p’un' or so, thereby, but I’d rather give the sum to our old passon. Only do’ant for worlds, let’un know who done it.’ And he forced the purse into her hands. ‘A sovereign will be ample until to-morow,’ replied the sister. But the honest farmer utterly refused to touch his purse, and declaring his earnest de sire to have the patients removed to his own house at the earliest date the doctor would per mit, beat a sudden retreat, leaving sister Clara not a little embarrassed by the responsibility of being banker amid such a population of criminals and paupers. One brief scene, and only one. On the lawn of Finstock Villa, Clapham Rise, were placed I degraded my soul—but it was despair, sir; it was never vice ’ ‘ Still you must recollect,’ said Mr. Lovett, misinterpreting his meaning, ‘that the woman you loved was the wife of another.’ The poor soul groaned. He had asked for sympathy, and found a stone. ‘ You don’t understand,’ he murmured, re proachfully. ‘ Our love was indeed pure. It was the meeting of a waif brother and a waif sister in art. If there was one thought wrong in my breast, I repent it; but I do not remem ber one such thought. I believe, too, had she not gone from me, no evil would have sullied our lives. Dear friend, think charitably when I am gone of her—of me. However, it is too late now for words. See,’ placing an envelope in his hands, ‘ There are my last wishes writ ten clearly. God ever bless you and yours ! Doctor ’ Sir Joseph neared the couch. ‘I—I think the time has come. Thank you deeply. Tell them to begin; — piano, very piano.’ As the doctor motioned to the artistes in the adjoining apartment, Ralph turned his head to Theodore Lovett, and with a smile of marvellous peace whispered, ‘Kneel. Pray with me in silence.’ As he knelt, the instruments began the andante from Beethoven’s Symphony in D, rendering that ravishing melody with a perfection so ex quisitely thrilling,as to give pain to the hearer; Sir Joseph behel^ the face of the earnest mu sician light to a singular and beautiful rap ture, and as the last cadences died away, the RELIGIOUS DEPARTMENT. Non-Sectarian—All Churches and all Creeds. ANOTHER FABLE WITH A MORAL. Once upon a time there was a large city in which was published a great daily paper. The circulation of this daily was greater than that of any other daily, as is the case with all dailies. It had a patriotic name, as all good dailies have. One day a poor, pious clergyman came into the office of the editor and asked him to publish a church notice free, as no good clergyman ought to have done. The editor was wise and discreet, as all editors are, and so he told the clergyman that he would publish the notice, if the clergy man would read an advertisement of his paper in the pnlpit on the next Sabbath. This was fair, because a newspaper is as sacred as a pul pit, and what is appropriate to one is appro priate to the other. But this selfish clergyman, like no fair-minded clergyman ought to have done, peremptorily declined the proposition and retired. Whereupon, the editor laughed. Indeed, he laughed as the poet says did St. Nicholas, who had a “little round belly, which shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.” As to why this editor had the aforesaid “capa- soul of the young singer passed forth in a soft cious periphery” will appear in the course of sigh as of infinite .pleasure. Come to me as the clock strikes nine. In my two sofas, which supported two sick persons; I i ! boudoir.’ ‘Thine, Rosa.’ . It was just eight as he sat down to dine, that ceremony over, he awaited impatiently over a bottle of sublimest Margaux the arrival of the slow minute-hand. Could it be the wine, or what caused such strange wild fancies to whirl through his brain ? Anon he was following her o’er wildest moun tains, his brain realising all the excitement of Alpine peril—once again, she was in the upper story of a burning house, and he once had mount ed a ladder, but it was toe short by but a foot, and she cried to him to save her. \erily, day dreams are as unaccountable as their shadows of sleep. The tang of a clock awoke him, and tossing off a glass of the claret before him he slowly- mounted the stairs, experiencing the oddest palpitations of the heart imaginable. If he had to face a grand crisis, his face could not_ have turned paler. .... There was a strange stillness in the house. Rosa Montresor kept servants in the background. She had a righteous horror of noise, with an intense love of privacy. This stillness seemed unpleasant, causing him to quicken his steps, and to tap hastily but gently at her door. Again he tapped, this time louder, a little color rising to his cheek. No answer. Then he opened the door, and entered. On the sofa reclined Lady Montresor. She was clad in the strangest of dresses. A flowing robe, composed entirely of rare and delicate lace, enshrouded her form, but falling aside re vealed a rose-satin bodice. Her head was pillow ed, the features slightly averted asleep. For a second he stood entranced by this beau- tiful sight. Then he ventured to whisper with bated breath, ‘Rosa!’ But none replied. Then he drew nearer, speaking yet louder and more earnestly; anon he touched her softly, gently, firmly. What makes him wail forth that exceeding bitter cry ? Why wring hishands for very despair? Heart, false heart! You have played my lady false. Heart, true heart to the last. For at her feet lies a parchment, executed that very day, where by she bequeaths all her estate, real and person al, to her beloved, Samuel Edward Ralph, musi cian. I 1 $ i ! I CHAPTER XXXI. Do yon remember how we left Theodore Lov ett and Adine lying hopeless in that awful Lon don garret ? Better, perhaps, hide our faces an A shade our eyes, than gaze long on that cruel scene. It is too horrible. Hungry death wait ing for his prey. Hungry vermin plucking up courage to anticipate th<- hand of the great Des troyer himself. Below, drunkenness, dirt, and vileness. Above, a tottering roof, which barely hides a sky befouled by smoke and bad odours; and nothing beautiful or good to come and ex orcise all this hell. Patience. Our friend the policeman keeps an eye on that house. He has not seen the stran gers, in whom he feels an interest of the curious type, emerge from that gloomy portal.** Can there be foul play ? •What’s beccme of those lodgers of yours ?’ ‘Don’t know. Up stairs.’ ‘That wont do. I must have a look at ’em.’ ‘Right you are. They’re sing’lar quiet. Per haps they finds sleepin’ cheaper nor heatin.’ Policeman mounts the stairs to find the un- i fortunates delirious. His instincts are quick, and he can well appreciate danger. He des cends promptly, inquiring if any one has ‘seen any of them nuns about.’ It appears that such a good angel is now in • the next court. He loses not a moment in find- j ing this lady, and a few pointed words secure i her services. A boy is dispatched for two or more of the sisterhood, and a medical man. Then sister Clara mounts the stairs, and siDgle- , handed begins her holy work. She is young, this sister, and pretty, with a face of the most intense earnestness. She is as fearless as faith, as holy as hope. Her first act is to discover, if possible, the names of her pa tients, whom she at once perceived to be of gen tle blood. They may have friends, who ought to be communicated forthwith. With this in tention she, with all possible delicacy, searches Adine’s pockets. Therein she finds an empty purse, and in the corner thereof, a small memo randum: •Mr. Roper, Finstock Villa, Clapham Rise.’ Out comes her pencil; quickly, but legibly, she scribbles a few words, describing her pa tients, calls a boy, and dispatches him to the above address. Within an hour the poor suffer ers’ bedchamber is decently edean; they are cared for by a physician, who shakes his head, and prescribes ‘watching,’ and by two other angels of mercy, who battle bravely with the awful i thirst which is parching their lips to blackness. Within three hours, enter Farmer Roper, crying like a child, and bearing in his broad, honest hand a purse stocked with crisp bank notes. •Hush!’ cries Sister Clara; there is danger. You must be silent.’ So she takes him below, and he shakes her little white band, vehemently, crying: ‘God I blese’ee, whosoever’ee be! Wbatlisyoua cath olic? Why, I thought the catholics were all bad’uns! Leastways, I never ’eeard nought but both very pale and shrunken, yet both unmis takably convalescent. The one a clergyman, whose clothes seemed to have been intended for a man of twice his size; the other a slight and fair lady, laughing to a lively infant, who crow ed merrily in response. On a garden chair, puff ing away at a Brosely pipe, a sheep-dog at his feet, and a foaming tankard at his side, sat far mer Roper, the picture of eupeptic good tem per. To him vis-a-vis, arrayed in the stiffest of silk gowns, of fabulous cost and home make, Mrs. Roper, a pair of worsted stockings in her lap, an air of placid contentment around her dimpled cheeks. ‘You be a’ most a man again, passon,’ cried Mr. Roper, cheerily. ‘Here, take a drop o’ this. Darn the doctor. It,s the very best of medi cine.’ Positively the invalid did taste it, and yet again, till some one cried out from the other sofa, ‘Dore, you are imprudent.’ Try a mouthful yourself, ma’am,’ laughed old Roper. ‘Come, Adine, don’t be shy. It’s home brew ed,’added her husband. ,Yes, mem, breewed by these very ’ands,’ suggested Mrs. Roper, glanceng at digits, which, though clean were rough. ‘I don’t quite know. Do you think it will do me good, Mr. Roper ?’ ‘Be the making of you, ma’am. That’s right. One little sup more. Never take two bites at a cherry. Good again.’ ‘Why, I declare, I do feel better, exclaimed Adine. ‘Ah, Roper,’ said Mr. Lovett, the tears well ing from his eyes, ‘how can we ever repay the She appeared deep debt of gratitude we owe you? Vjhen I think of the noble return you have awarded to our evil, I despise myself as much as I honor you.’ ‘Come, passon, you maun talk so. I baint no scholar, and can’t give’ee an answer, as I should. But if you talks of gratitude, give it, sir, to them Catholic women, who saved your blessed lives.’ ‘And to your purse, good, kind Mr. Roper,’ added Adine. ‘No ma’am, I can’t hear of that. It wor the will of Providence, as I wasn’t to lose my mon ey on that there barley, which I sartaiu should a done, and agoodish bit more into the bargain: acause, when you sets the ball rolling it gath ers a smartish bit of snow. Well, gall, what is it?’ This to the servant maid, a Mudflat girl, who came forward with many curtseys. ‘A gentleman, sir. Must see Mr. Lovick, par- ticler important.’ The gentleman, who turned out to be Sir Jo seph Toadie, bowing, followed in her wake, breathing courtly apologies. He came to an nounce painful news. He regretted how often it was the fate of medical men, to be bearers of evil tidings. In fact, if his stereotyped smile had not contradicted his sentiments, you might have imagined him to be a man of most refined sensibilities. ‘I fear that I must take you away with me, Mr. Lovett,’ he said. ‘Your friend, Ralph, has un fortunately burst another blood-vessel, and is now sinking rapidly. My brougham is at the door, and if you wish to see him again in this world, you must not lose time. I shall be hap py to drive you to Westbourne Terrace, whither I return at once. In fact, I only left my pati ent’s bedside at his earnest request, that I would bring you back to him.’ ‘ You are hardly equal to this trial, Dore,’ fal tered Adine. ‘My dear,’ he answered, ‘it is a'sacred duty, and one which I dare not shirk.’ They helped him to Sir Joseph’s carriage. He was still very weak, although two months had elapsed since the crisis of the fever. ‘ It will be a mercy if we find him alive,’ whis pered the baronet. Mr. Lovett clasped his hands in prayer. Ear nestly he longed to see his friend’s face once more. Eagerly did he inquire of the grave faced man-servant if he was in time. The elegance and splendor of the house and its appointments would have struck his min'd with wonder, had it not been pre-occupied by sorrow. He was, however, startled to discover the saloon filled with instrumentalities, who were seated before their copies, apparently pre pared at a moment's notice to obey the bow of their leader. At the end of this room was the lovely boudoir where Lady Montresor had breathed her last. Bowing to the assembled artistes, Sir Joseph led the way to this inner chamber, where on her sofa Ralph lay dying— alone. ‘See,’ whispered Sir Joseph, ‘I have brought Mr. Lovett;’ with which words he drew back to an angle of the apartment. Ah, sir 1’ murmured the dying man. ‘What a happiness is it to look on you once again. You have been my best of friends, and I ’ ‘ True to me,’ almost sobbed Mr. Lovett, over come by the sad scene. ‘ Yes, true, although—although true also to her—my love. I did love her, Mr. Lovett, and she loved me.’ The clergyman took his hand, already moist with the dews of death, pressing it warmly. Then he said: ‘But, dear Ralph, you have been preparing, I pray, for this great change?’ ‘Ah, my friend,’ gasped Ralph, ‘I have sin ned.’ • And you are sorry ?’ ‘ So sorry—really sorry. I sinned against my art, and my art was the life given me by God. CHAPTER XXXII. —Conclusion. Ralph’s letter contained intelligence surpris ing. After premising that he felt bound to carry out Lady Montresor s wishes, he stated that he had, through a clerical agent, arranged for Mr. Blackley to be presented to a benefice near Lon don, and for Mr. Lovett to be re-instated to Mudflat, which btnefice, by bequest, he raised to the annual value of one thousand pounds. He further left as a legacy to the Lovetts, ten thousand pounds, and one thousand to Mr. Roper, as a testimony to his kindness. After charging the estate with a small annuity to his relatives, and with various presents to the organ- our narrative, The editor told it to the printers : and to the “printer’s devils,” and they all laughed, and so did some other devils maybe, j The editor published it, and all “the boys” j said it was a “good hit,” and laughed. And so did many others, who were “tired of these preachers any how.” At another time two commercial travelers came into the editor’s office. One represented a tobacco and the other a wholesale and retail liquor house, and their smiles were “child-like and bland.” The one left a few sample cigars and the other a few samples of his best wines our social life. They have expressed surprise that our notably advanced, scientific age could produce such a crop. We venture to say the charge is to be laid at the door of dancing more than to any other cause,and we are no more sur prised than we would be to see a man, who nev er used his mind or only employed it on un worthy pleasures, a small, inactive and sluggish thinker. . It is immoral because it is a 100 to mental cultur^ jjeentious and tends to lascioions- ness. Whether or not the dancers are conscious of it at the time, does not affect the truth of this proposition. To sustain it we appeal to the consciousness of tfiose who have ever exercised a habit of intros- spection during the progress of the dance. We produce the fact in further proof that it can't live in the day-light. Day-time dances are Dot popular. Apropos to this point, ‘Men love darkness rather than light because their deeds are evil.’ _ . It is further evident when we reflect that men never dance with men nor women with women. They intermingle the sexes. When this fact has been explained its unique fascination will have been discovered. We believe the people feel this is true, for who of us would have confidence in a clergyman who danced ? If it is harm for a preacher it is harm for anybody. We can not hope to discuss this fully m one article. We commend the series of articles in the Daily Constitution to the attention of our readers. Reverend Dr. Hayoood, in a late issue of the Southern Christian Advocate, reviews with just pungency an article lrom the A. I. ban on the alleged decline of religion in the world, tor one we are glad he did it. It seems to us the secular press is hardly in position to write very wisely or accurately about the Church an! 1 , religion. We submit it to the common sense of every man that it is most disgusting egotism for the secular editors to attempt to become writers and counselors in politics, science, law, literature, philosophy, art and religion. And yet, not unfrequently you will see in ist of Blankton, and other friends he left the ! d liqaors and it B0 delighted the editor that ' their solumns an article on Hell, one on the rflmoinrlPT nf hits cfTtuat fnrhino frv fniinH a 1 . a ' 0 i ,. .. , remainder of his great fortune to found a col- j lege for musicians, in or near London. Lady Montresor’s pictures, jewels, furniture, etc., he bequeathed absolutely to Adine. Thus it comes to pass that we say ‘Farewell’ to our friends Adine and Theodore Lovett, in their old home at Mudflat, where they are thor oughly and truly happy. Their return to the Vicarage was nothing short of a triumph, an* they biought with mem back to the old farm, 1 to pay Mr. and Mrs. Roper, who are prosperous peo- ^ 1 pie; and having no cuildren of their own, hope to make Master Lovett their heir. It would be poetical justice to tell how Horace Blackley was punish, d for his sins. However, in this world of inequalities, poetical justice is a fable, and beyond probability. Suffice it, therefore, to relate that he got every stiver of his money out of Mr. Lo7ett; and having se cured an excellent living by the arrangement made by Ralph, is in very solvent and pecu- nious condition. It cost him a trifle to send Nevis and his daughter to Australia, and he is not on the best terms with his wife; otherwise, he flourishes—as the thoroughly wicked gener ally do flourish in this -wicked world. Poor Poodle, ejected from Lady Montresor’s service, flung her fate at Mr. Barwyn. That gentleman obtained her a position as singer at a music-hall. He generously absorbs half her wretched earnings) ji.qj treats her shamefully into the bargain. *e is still organist of St. organist Bathos, but it is i ^ -red darkly that a new In cumbent of that w wnable church intends to dispense with hiaserrices. Miss Effler seems likely to live forever in the Blankton Asylum. Her brother has recently turned up in London, with a fortune, which, if he does not speculate away, he intends to leave to his niece Adine. There remains one whom we must not quit without one word of notice—sister Clara. ‘ Have you any recollection of the good nun who attended us in our fever—I mean of her features ?’ asked Mr. Lovett of Adine. ‘None. You know we were both only half conscious when Mr. Roper moved us to Clap ham Rise.’ ‘ I fancy I can recall her countenance. She was very lovely. Strange! I have heard to-day, in Blankton, her history; and alas! also of her early death!’ ‘ You surprise and, horrify me!’ ‘ You will indeed be surprised, when I tell you that she was the eldest daughter of that hard-hearted man, the Dean. He first refused to allow her to marry the man she loved, for the paltry reason thy.t he had not taken a first- class at Oxford; and then, when she became religiously morbid, and joined the Romanists, he turned her out pf the house. She died in harness, from attending a small-pox case. Now that it is too late, they say the Dean is broken hearted.’ ‘We ought to make her sisterhood an offer ing,’ Baid Adine. ‘ To their holy charity and devotedness we owe our lives, darling.’ ‘ Yes, my pet,’ responded Theodore Lovett. ‘ We will make one offering, and it shall be worthy sister Clara.’ ©n the morrow, Mr. Lovett enclosed a check for one thousand guineas—as a thank-offering for the services of their Order—to the Sister hood of , St. , London. THE END. he thought them to be men “after his own heart,” and did cleave unto them as David to Jonathan. Moreover, he published their arri vals and their departures, and “was glad to see the genial faces of Mr. H. Yana and Mr. 0. L. D. Rye in his sanctum.” Thus this editor flourished as a green bay tree,” and was able ye locals” and “representatives” to gather up for publication all the cases of theft, rapine, murder, debauchery, and kindred oc currences in the country, and, moreover, he was able to employ reporters to write “Sporting Columns,” and to attend the races and other performances, and tell the people of mighty deeds of valor and value enacted by the sons of the turf. And the sensationalism of this paper promo ted public morals so much that the editor fre quently referred to it as the “conservator of the moral and material interests of the people,” and the people patronized it, and all “the boys” said, “let 'er roll.” And everything favored this paper and it grew, and “blew its own horn," as Punch enjoins persons to do who want their horns blown, and it did magnify itself ex ceedingly. Everything went easy until one day the editors and managers “lifted up their eyes, being in torment.” The above “is a truth for those who can com prehend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot.” The Modern Dance. This question has attracted so much attention of late, that for a religious journalist in this city to fail to discuss it would seem to imply that he did not have convictions on either the one or the Silver Bill, a critique of George Eliot’s last J novel, a criticism of a theatrical performance and an opinion on some decision of the Supreme Court, side by side. The result is that gener- I ally their financial statistics are inaccurate by j about $1,200,000,000. Beecher and Canon Far rar are put among orthodox divines, and about the same ridiculous figure is cut in the depart ments of art, literature and law. There was once a character among the old fogy folks which they called ‘Jack of all trades and good at none.’ His descendants are not all dead. The Rev. S. H. J. Sistrunk, a well known local preacher in Southern Georgia, died in Fort Valley, March, 6, of bronchitis. Reverend Young J. Allen, D. D., a Mis sionary to China, from the Methodist Epis copal Church South, is a delegate-elect to the approaching General Conference which convenes here in May. He went from Georgia and will be most cordially welcomed back to his native state. Holding, as he does, an official position in the Imperial University of China, he has a seven months leave of absence. He is a graduate of Emory College, Oxford, Ga. The tornado which passed through the state, on March 10th, completely demolished the Church of the Innooents (Episcopal) in this city, and we learn it blew the steeple off the Baptist Church in La Grange. In the Episcopal Church the congregation had assembled for worship and were in it when it was blown down. There were no serious casualties. Rev. Dr. J. T. Leftwich has had corres pondence with a church in Baltimore and one , in Louisville in reference to becoming their other side, or else was too cowardly to express J pa8tor . He has had no call to them, as one of ^ em ' ( our city papers states. A call has to come More than that consideration, if it is innocent , through the Presbytery and this has not yet some of its devotees have been treated by words I convened, and actions unjustly; if it is not harmless, its ! A Telephone in Rome Ga. The Rome Tribune says: To Col. J. J. Cohen, more than any other one man, is the city of Rome indebted for its pro gress and prosperity. There is no enterprise looking to the improvement of the city that he is not the first to take hold and help to push it through. He is alive to the progress of the times and always catches at the latest improve ments. True to his progressive spirit, he has ordered the construction of a telephone from his store to his mill. In a later edition the same paper says: Well we’ve got it, It is here sure enough and promises to be a complete success. That enter prising, go-ahead gentleman, Col. J. J. Cohen, tho pioneer in all works of utility in the city, is having one constructed from his flour store in the Empire block to his mills in South Rome, a distance of one mile. Mr. W. H. Adkins, the efficient telegraph operator at this office, has its construction under charge. A Selection A mother once beautifully said: ‘I remember the new and strange emotions which trembled in my breast, when, as an infant, my first-born was folded to my heart. The thrill of that mo ment still lingers; but when he was ‘born again clasped in my arms a new creature in Christ Jesus, my spiritual child, my son in the gos pel, pardoned, justified, adopted, saved, forever saved!. Oh, it W8“3 the very depth of joy—joy unspeakable! My child was a child of God! The prayers which preceded his birth, which cradled his infancy, which girdled his youth, were answered.” — A teacher, who, in a fit of vexation, called her pupils a set of young adders, on being re proved for her language, apologized by saying she was speaking to those just commencing their arithmetic. great prevalence makes it a prodigious evil. So duty rests upon us to speak, and we have no apology to offer for our utterances. We will be acquitted of the charge of narrow ness or prejudice when we say that our opinions are the combined result of experience and ob servation, and had their birth not in religious scruples but in moral convictions. Our opinion is briefly this: the modern danoe is inherently and essentially immoral. Should we be charged with producing the im purity we allege, we accept the indictment with as perfect a consciousness of its falsehood, as its author’s assurance of the correctness of our opinion of this social and moral upas. We enu merate our charges against it. 1. It is unhealthy. The general system of late hours which has become grafted into our social life is traceable to the dance. Viewed from the stand-point of a looker-on it is a spectacle, a dream which cannot ‘feel the truth and stir of day’without impairing its delicious self-forget fulness which is necessary to its perfect enjoy ment ‘Whatever will serve to heighten the il lusion and seductiveness of it—whether it be late hours, with the glow of artificial light which they make necessary, small waists, to render the female form as insect-like as possible that it may resemble some imaginary sylph, rather than that grand old mother Eve, whom God created for a wife to Adam—or whether it be their dress floating like a fleecy cloud about the person of the wearer—no matter what it be, provided only it will set off the dance. Fashion decrees it and women adopt it.’ We submit the question to any competent observer, most confidentially, has not the dance given rise to nine-tenths of our silly social customs of dress and habit that impair health? 2. It dwarfs mental growth. A company of men and women come together and instead of sitting down quietly and practising their pow ers of mind in conversation on interesting and serious subjects, string themselves out into Terpsichorean phalanx and proceed to execute heathenish gyrations of body, which would not be surprising in the cannibals over a feast of man-flesh, but which in civilized people and in professedly refined people, over a mere social feast, as acute an observer as Thackery could not otherwise describe, than as tne amusement of a simpleton. Our literary men of taste and culture have asked a solution to the mys tery of the large harvest ol ‘small talk’ and me chanical phrases prevalent among the young iu Rome, March, 4th. —Crowds broke the wind ows which were illuminated for the Pope’s cor onation, and were dispersed by the troops. Dr. Thos O. Summers of the Nashville Chris tian Advocate thinks the approaching General Conference in Atlanta, will not and ought not to sit longer than three weeks. Rev. H. II. Parks has been spoken of, for one of the bishops of the Methodist Church South to be elected in May. Who is he ? One of the best preachers you ever heard, and pastor of the First Methodist Church in Atlanta. The venerable Dr. Lovick Pierce proposes to write an autobiography of his life and labors soon. It will only be equalled by that of Guthrie if he does. The 59th Convention of Georgia Baptists meets in La Grange 25th-29th of April. Good Breeding.—We are all gentlemen and gentlewomen. Any nint to the contrary is a gross insult; yet every day we violate the laws of good breeding. Incivilties abound. There must be a radical wrong somewhere. Our gen tlemen and women are Dot home-made—gentle from the heart out through all the fine strata of their growth and experience. Our mansions and cottages are not all homes of kind feeling and gracious expression, sending out genial cur rents through the whole social system. Too many sit in dingy fustians, with unkempt and slipshod manners, at their firesides, and talk barbarisms at their tables, and then put on vel vet robes and paradise feathers-dress coats and suavity, and go forth—puissant gentle-folk. But their fine feathers will get away on parade and disclose the coarse habits beneath Slang phrases, ridicule, slovenliness, vulgar attitudes and oaths, are admitted into no system of good breedmg, and the thoroughbred can by no pos sibility be surprised by them. — Mary Anderson has declined to play Rosa lind upon the score of delicacy, and the French Twin Sisters have lost an excellent engagement at the Tivoli, New York, by refusing to enter the “wine-room. These three actresses, al though following two distinct and entirely sep arate lines of the profession, and totally differ ent in character, are prompted by the same womanly feeling Miss Anderson's objection to Rosalind, which would be prudery in an act ress ot more years and longer experience, is altogether praiseworthy in a young lady. — Red headed girls use for their hair comb, so as to make the hair turn auburn