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COME IN BEAUTIFUL DREAMS.
George D. Prentice wrote many pretty things, but
never anything more quietly beautiful than the
following:
Come, In beautiful dreams, love—
Oh! come to me oft,
When the light wings of sleep
On my bosom lie soft;
Oh! come when the sea
In the moon's gentle light,
Beats soft on the air.
Like the pulse of the night—
When the sky and the wave
Wear their loftiest blue.
When the dew is on the flower—
And the stars on the dew.
Come, In beautiful dreams, love—
Oh! come, and we’ll stray
Where the whole year is crowned
With the blossoms of May;
Where each sound Is as sweet •
As the coos of the dove.
And the gales are as soft
As the breathings of love:
Where the beams kiss the waves
And the waves kiss the beach,
And our warm lips may catch
The sweet lessons they teach.
Come, In beautiful dreams, love—
Oh! come, and we’ll fly
Like two winged spirits
Of love through the sky;
With hand clasped in hand.
On our dream-wings we'll go,
Where the stai light and moonlight
Are blending their glow;
And on the bright clouds we'll linger,
(Of purple and gold,)
Till the angels shall envy
The bliss they behold.
STACIA;
AN OLD MAN’S DARLING.
She stood in the garden among her flowers,
with the sunshine all about her; and John Ash
ley, watching her from the doorway, with a ca
nons, thoughtful expression on his face, could
think of nothing bat a bird or butterfly, as she
flitted about from rose to lilac, with her yellow
ourls flying about her face in a cloud, and her
eyes full of sparkles like water in shadowy
places.
His years were more than double hers. He
was a man whom study had made sober and
thoughtful in early manhood. He had a brave,
strong faoe, with a strange gentleness in it now,
as he stood and watched the girl in the garden.
She was the only ohild of an old friend of his
who had left her to him when he died; he had
accepted the trust willingly. He had tried to
be faithful to it; and he had succeeded.
'She is growing into beautiful womanhood,’
he said to himself. ‘Some one will be robbing
me of her one of these days I suppose.’
He sighed a little as he Bpoke, and the
thoughtful look upon his face grew deeper.
‘Unless—’ and then he stopped suddenly, and
shook his head, as if to assure himself that what
had been in his mind that moment was not
to be thought of seriously.
The girl in the garden began to sing. Her
voice was clear as any bird’s, and the still
morning air rung with its melody. John Ash
ley left off thinking to listen. A bird perched
on one of the lilac bushes by the gate began a
song in pure rivalry. It seemed as if he would
split his slender throat in the attempt to out-
warble the singer in the garden. She listened
» moment, and began again; she ran up and
down the lines of melody in lights and dips of
sounds that made him thii&c of a bird flitting in
mid-air.
‘Bravo!’ he oried, clapping his hands as her
voioe died into silence, and the bird flew up and
away in the blue overhead. ‘You have put your
rival to flight'
‘Why, John!'—she always called him that—‘I
didn’t know any one was listening.’
‘You would make a fortune with your voice,’
he said. 'But I wouldn’t like to have you try it. ’
‘Why?’ she asked.
• Because 1 don’t want to lose you,’ he an
swered.
‘You’ll never be fortunate enough to do that,’
she laughed. ‘I’m going to stay with you al
ways, John.’
‘You’11 change your mind sometime,’ he said,
gravely, looking away toward the mountains in
that way he had when thinking deeply. ‘Wait
till Boy comes.’
‘I wish Boy were here,’ she said, coming up
the steps, and stopping close by him. ‘You
have told me so muoh about him that I want to
see him.’
‘He will be here to-day or to-morrow,’ he an
swered, thinking that with Boy’s coming there
would be an end of the old quiet life, in which
he had Staoia all to himself.
Someway it had seemed to him all along as if
Boy would marry Stacia, They were suited to
each other. He knew of no one he would sooner
give her to, but—and always at the thought of
giving her up to any one there was a curious
little pain at his heart. He wanted her for him-
Dhat night Boy came.
I like him very much,’ she told John Ashley
rt morning. ‘Weshall be the best of friends.’
Or lovers, ’ he added, with a grave, slow
ile.
Oh, no; only friends,' she said, dropping her
js before his earnest gaze, while a soft color,
e that in a rose's heart, came into her face,
n going to have no lover but you, John.’
Wait and see,’ he answered. ‘You don’t
dw your heart yet.’
Jut Stacia only shook her head.
She and Boy were the best of friends as she
1 saip they would be. She had never known
brother’s love or companionship, and Boy’s
asant ways won a place in her regard from
i first. There were long rows on the river,
the pleasant days when all the world was full
summer sweetness, and walks in the twilight,
d John Ashley, sitting apart, with only his
tughts to keep him company, saw the two to-
her, and told himself that what he had fore-
d had come true. Boy loved her, and he was
ng to lose the woman he loved.
I must be a fool to think of such a thing as
king her life and mine together,’ he said, bit
ty, one day, as he stood at the window, watch-
r them rowing slowly up ftnd down the river.
Im almost an old man. May and December
re not meant to mate together. And yet, wo-
n have loved men as much older than they
re, as I am older than Stacia. If she could
e me how complete life would seem 1 With-
t her, I shall always be a lonely man.’
)ne day Boy and Staoia were in the garden
ether. They were tying up carnations.
I don’t know of anything in the world sweet-
thftn carnations except your cheeks’’ said
y, all at once. .. .
That’s a very pretty compliment, said Stacia.
suppose I ought to give you something in re-
m. Here is a carnation. That s fair you
e compliments and I’ll pay in carnations.’
I’d rather you’d pay in kisses, said Boy.
> you know I am jealous over that kiss you
re uncle John this morning ? You never kiss
in that way.’ ,
Because I keep my kisses, for the one who
res me best,’ she answered, softly.
I love you,’ Boy said, suddenly. ‘Yon must
re seen that, Staoia! I have loved yon sinoe
> first time I saw yon.’
I never thought you cared for me—not in
it way, at least,’ said Stacia, pulling away
i hand Boy had taken possession of. *1 hope
aven’t done or said anything to make von
nk that—’ and then she stopped, at a loss
w to explain her meaning.
'Yon have’nt tried to make me love you, or
exerted any wiles to oatch me, if that is what
you mean,’ he answered. ‘But I thought you
did care for me, Staoia?’
‘So I do, as a very dear brother,' she answer
ed. ‘I love you very muoh, Boy, but not in
the way you meant just now.'
Boy’s faoe was full of keen disappointment.
He had hoped to woo and win this girl. But
it could not be.
‘I am .sorry, very sorry for you, Boy,’she
said, tenderly, touched by the sight of his dis
appointment. ‘Let me be your sister Staoia,
and forget that you ever thought of me as any
thing else. You shall be brother Boy from this
time forth. Is that agreed on, Boy ?’
‘Yes, sinoe you will have it so,’ he answer-
ocl*
He understood that it would be useless for
him to urge his suit. Staoia always meant what
she said.
‘Let me seal the compact with a kiss, then,’
she said, and kissed him.
Looking up, after the caress, she saw John
Ashley's face at his window. He had seen her
kiss Boy, and his heart was full of keenest pain
at the sight. He thought it was Buoh a kiss as
a woman gives to the man she loves, and sighed
to think his life must be barren of suoh kiss
es.
That night he was in the parlor alone, think
ing of her, when she came in.
‘I have been hunting for you,’ she said. ‘I
am lonesome; I want some one to talk to.’
She drew a little stool up to his feet, and sat
down, leaning her head upon his knee.
‘Lonesome, are you ?’ he said, stroking her
yellow hair gently. ‘Where is Boy ? He ought
to keep you from getting lonesome.’
‘I don’t want to talk to Boy,’ she answered.
‘I want you, John. You don’t act as you used
to before Boy came. I don’t have you all to
myself for a quiet talk as I used to.’
‘You don’t miss my company, do you ?’ he
said, threading his fingers through her tresses
in an absent way. He was thinking how muoh
he should miss her when Boy took her away.
‘You know I miss you,’ she answered. 'I like
to talk to you better thah to any one else.’
‘Better than to Boy ?’ he questioned.
‘Yes, better than to Boy,’ she answered.
‘I suppose it is all settled between you and
Boy,’ he said, by-and-by, breaking the silence
that had fallen about them. His voice had a
sharp touch of pain in it It hurt him to talk
about losing her.
•Yes, it is all settled,' she answered. Has he
told you ?’
‘No; but I saw you kiss him in the garden
this afternoon, and I have known how it would
be from the first I hope you will be happy,
very happy, Stacia. It will be hard for me to
give you up; I shall miss you more than you
can think, but I am not selfish enough to try to
keep you, when love calls you elsewhere.’
‘I don’t understand you,' she said, looking
up at him in a puzzled way. ‘I kissed Boyiin
the garden, but it doesn’t follow from that that
you’ve got to give me up, or that love oalls me
away from you. It doesn’t, John. I am going
to stay with yon always, and be your Stacia.’
‘Don't you love Boy ?’ he asked, lifting her
face up that he might look into her eyes.
‘Yes, I love Boy ?’ and we’re going to be the
best of friends. He is brother Boy to me, and
I am sister Stacia to him.’
‘And nothing more?’ There was a strange
eagerness in his voioe.
‘Nothing more,’ she answered softly.
‘Stacia, I wonder—’ he began, and stopped
suddenly.
‘Wonder what ?’ she asked.
‘No matter,’ he answered, getting up and go
ing to the window, where he stood looking out
into the night, with a shadow on his faoe.
‘But I want to know./ she said, following him,
and laying her hand upon his arm. ‘Tell me,
John !’
‘Would you force me to tell you that I love
you ?’ he oried, passionately. ‘That I have been
fool enough to dream that I oould make you
happy ? Go away, Stacia, and let me think of
my folly, and try to conquer it.’
‘Is it lolly to love me ? she asked, softly, lift
ing her shy eyes to his. ‘Oh, John, I could b6
happier with you than any one else in the
world!’
‘Do you mean that you could care for the old
man as the old man cares for you, Stacia ? Have
you thought of the years between us ?’
‘I only know I love you,’ she said, and put
her hands in his. ‘If you want me, John, why
take me!'
‘But’—with the old haunting thought throw
ing its shadow in his face—‘I am so much older
and soberer than you. Do not take me out of
pity, Stacia. It is love I want You will be in
woman-hood’s prime when I am a white-haired
old man.’
‘Then I will be an old man’s darling,’ she
said, softly.
And John Ashley bent over and kissed her
with a great joy in his face. She was his—all
his I
How She Played Her Little Game.
These are the days when an unmarried man
had best keep his optics clear and bright as win
ter-night stars. There is a game at cards called
casino which is played by ‘pairing,’ the winner
making a ‘sweep’ which tells a happy result.
There was another game of casino played in the
courts, in which the ‘pairing’ did not come off
so well, nor the ‘sweep* tell anything but a tale
of woe. The adventurous casino-playing female
is an offshoot of the laxity of the times—lax in
morals, lax in honesty, lax in religion, lax in
nothing minimum, in all things maximum !
Certainly there are plenty of adventurous male
rascals, but with these we have nothing to do
just now. The female who steals a march on a
poor victim, who inveigles him into making
love, and spider-webs him into marriage for a
purpose other than darning his socks and sew
ing buttons on his shirt—it is this shoplifter of
the male heart that produced such a strange
paradox of a human being as
A MABBIED MAN WHO NEVEB HAD A WIFE.
‘MarriageB are made in heaven, are they ?
Well, my friend, I know of some rather sug
gestive of having been brewed in t’other place,
and a few others, according to the court records,
are celebrated under protest in jail! Mine
was.
‘The’devil!’
‘Yes, that functionary doubtless had more
to do with it than the Lord. Between you and
me, old fellow, I don't believe the Lord bothers
himself much about poor folks like us anyway.
WormB, that's what we are; some of us get tram
pled on, and some manage to wriggle out of the
way, that's all the difference between us.’
‘What had you been about to get yourself
mixed up in a jail wedding ?’
‘Nothing ! It was just my lack to walk into a
boarding-house where there was a girl with
more ‘cheek’ then decency, and because I was
idiot enough to pay her a little attention, she
got it into her head that I was courting her, and
hanged if she didn’t contrive to have everybody
in the house, from the landlady to the soullion
even, wink at me in a wise sort of way, as if
they knew something mighty funny about me,
and wanted to give me a hint that they ‘knew
how it was themselves.’ I got my dander up
and tried to choke the girl as gently as I oould,
as she seemed harmless in her oonfonnded lik
ing for me, so I used to keep away from the par
lor evenings. But one night, late, I was mak
ing for my room. I confess I felt a little con
fused, having taken a drink or two with the
‘boys,’and I discovered I had got into the wrong
oorridor, and was groping my way back, when
a door near me opened and a head trimmed in
curl papers appeared and a voioe reproachfully
trilled upon my somewhat stupified senses,
saying :
*0, you naughty man, I do believe you are
tight!’
I protested and declared ’twas no suoh a thing,
and feeling confident that I was telling the truth,
and having deodorized the drinks with doves
(from habit) on leaving the saloon, I challenged
her to ‘smell my breath' if she still doubted my
word.
Would you believe it, the girl—for it was the
girl—had the impudence to take me at my word;
and as the smelling prooess required close con
tiguity, I—of course, I kissed her, and the first
thing I knew I was standing in her room trying
to follow that kiss up with a second, sinoe she
seemed to like the first, when the huzzy began
to howl and scream like Bedlam let loose. I
woke up in jail the next morning, conscious
that I‘d been caught in the quicksand of an in
triguing woman, and determined to pay the pen
alty rather than endure the soandal of a suit
that I was confident would be pressed against
me. I had no money to speak of, so I knew the
girl would either be a drain upon my earnings
or I would have to marry her. I was almost a
stranger in the city. My word would be noth
ing compared to the evidence sworn to by the
whole boarding-house in regard to my attentions
to the girl. Besides, I had been caught in her
room.
Well, the upshot of the business was, I mar
ried her as she requested, to ‘save her fair
name. ‘ i made some attempt to save myself by
a ohanoe of discovering that she was an adven
turess beat, but failed. We were married in
jail, and by a minister. I gave her what mon
ey, I had and told her I was going to Australia
and she might go to—some other place.
She said all right—all she wanted was a mar
riage certificate. I ascertained that her people
lived in the country, were respectable, and that
she had got herself into trouble with a man who
could not marry her, and this was the way she
had Baved herself. She went home, and I have
never seen her from that day, fifteen years ago,
up to the present time.
ALL THE WORLD OYER.
Bill Langley, the Texan desperado, has been
sentenced to be hanged. He thanked the Judge
and jury for their oourtesy and invited them to
be present at the execution.
In Goooh Behar, India, if a man cannot pay
a debt he has to assign his wife to his creditor
as seourity. Every married man in the coun
try is insolvent, and the bloated capitalists aver
age a hair and a half per head.
The marriage of a handsome young lady of
Quebeo with a promsing young lawyer had been
fixed for this week; a few days ago, without any
notice or explanation, she went into a convent
and he joined the Jesuit order.
With Murder and Suicide. Cincinnati, O.,
Sept 21—Chris Prehn shot his wife at 10 o’clock
to-night, killing her instantly* He then shot
himself in the head and expired in a few min
utes. The double murder resulted from domestic
troubles.
The trial in New York of the suit of Amelia
Hansen against George W. Gibson for damages
for breaoh of promise of marriage resulted in
the jury rendering a verdict of $2,000 for the
plaintiff. Each member of the jury presented
the girl’s lawyer his fees, to be used for k her
benefit.
Fariner'Atkins, of Camden County Missouri,
had so violent a temper that his eleven year-
old motherless daughter ran away to a neighbor’s
house. He brought her baok; tied her to a post
and whipped her with hickory and thorn switohes
till she fainted. She died two days later. Atkins
was promptly arrested and—fined.
Bobert Carvella went up in a balloon at Syra
cuse, N. Y., on the 14th, intending to trapeze.
The balloon caught in a high tree and Carvella
jumped upon a branch, which broke and pre
cipitated him fifty feet to the ground. A leg
was broken, the spine seriously injured and the
lower part of the body was paralyzed. He was
not expected to recover.
Bill Longley, who is to hang October 11, still
expresses a lingering doubt whether, indeed,
he ought to be bung, and wants an interview
with the ooroner’s jury that sat on the body of
his victim, Anderson. Bill, who has ‘planted’
thirty-two persons, is still down on newspapers,
and says Texas editors, after he is gone, can
send their daily or weekly editions to his ad
dress in the sulphurous regions.
Increase of Mobmonism.--It is a curious fact
that since the death of Brigham Young, Mormon-
ism has rapidly increased. There is a oonstant
and silent influx of converts from foreign coun
tries. ‘Stamping out yellow fever’ is a difficult
thing to do, but stamping out Mormonism is
still more so. The latest European cargo of
converts amounts to about six hundred. With
the Mormons and the saffron apostles of Joss
under full headway we shall have a heathen
millennium.
Delia Coe, an unfortunate girl, pretty and at
tractive, who had been seduced from virtue by
a young Washington City aristocrat, committed
suicide last week, in a New York Palaoe of Yioe
by taking onloroform. She was missing at the
table in the morning,but her door was not brok
en open until in the afternoon when she was
found lying on the bed cold and stiff with a bot
tle of chloroform clenched in one hand and near
the others scrap of paper on which was written:
‘Please do not mention my name in the papers. ’
Even in her dying hour the wretched girl had a
remnant of pride.
The Child Pbeacheb.—There is now in Louis
ville a little negress who is a perfeot ohild won
der. She is a Scriptural marvel. She does not
even know her letters, yet she oan quote accu
rately almost any passage in the Bible. At the
age of nine months she oould talk, and would
frequently tell her mother what her idea of hea
ven was. As she grew older she would sit for
hours and expatiate on the beauties and glories
of the other world. The old colored folks would
listen to her sayings for hours. A reporter in
terrogated her, ‘What is your name, little girl ?’
‘Alice Coatny.’ ‘How old are yon?’ ‘Ise just
four years and twenty-eight days old to-night’
‘Where were you born ?’ ‘I was born in Liver
pool, England—’cross de Atlantic.’ ‘How long
since you felt the power within you ?’ ‘I don’t
know; Ise always felt the power of God.’ ‘What
do you talk about when you speak to a crowd ?’
‘I talk about Jesus, about heavenly things,
about how Jesus died and was crucified; how
He rose again in three days and sitteth at the
right hand of God.’ ‘Can you spell 1’ ‘No, sir;
I don’t know my A, B, C’s.’ She then went on
in a rapturous strain about things biblical and
spiritual, completely nonplussing the reporter.
She was accompanied by two colored men.
They talked in an enthusiastic manner about
her. She said in her conversation that she be
lieved in two kinds of baptisms. She spoke of
the different modes of salvation; how to reach
Paradise; how to be converted from a bad man
to a good one, etc. Her sayings were entirely
original, and were not spoken in a hesitating
voice, bat in a quick, keen and forcible man
ner. As young as she is, a negress, without ed
ucation in the principles she sets forth, her
power partakes strongly of the marvelous.—
Louisville Couritr Journal
FUN.
A ragged little urohin found fault with a
jacket given him, because it had no watch
pocket
‘I have asked her to marry me,’ said a disap
pointed young man, ‘and I have the refusal of
her.’
‘You seem to walk more erect than usual, my
friend.’ ‘Yes, I have been straightened by cir
cumstances.’
An Irish lover remarks: ‘It’s a very great
pleasure to be alone, especially when yer sweet
heart is wid ye!’
A little boy having lost his balloon, his sister
said; ‘Never mind, Neddy, when you die and
do to heaven you’ll dit it’
Dr. Mudd, of Atlanta, has written a treatise
on yellow fever which is as clear as Mudd—
can make it Who will care for Mudd-er
now?
A contemporary informs us that ‘Texans raise
hemp.’ We can inform our contemporary that
hemp often raises Texans.
In themake-up’of the modern small boy there
is altogether too muoh whistle for the amount o
boy. It is most too much like using a two-quartf
funnel in a three ounce vial.
The same backache which makes a boy howl
when he’s digging potatoes, wreathes his faoe in
smiles when he slips off the baok way to the pic
nic. Boys are curious insects.
Love may be blind, as they say, but we notioe
that in all the records of the ages it has never
kissed the girl’s mother by mistake when it
reaohed atter the girl.
A woman dreamed that her husband would
come home as drunk as a biled owl, and woke
up at two o’clock in the morning, to find it true.
To prevent dreaming, go to bed without sap
per.
Truth is mighty and must prevail, but a man
can give truth an awful tussle when |he goes
home at two o’clock in the morning,and his wife
resolves herselt into an investigating commit
tee.
No matter how hard it is to find a rooking
ohair daring the day, a man is sure to fall over
one when he is in search of the match box after
dark.
‘Oh spare me dear angel, a lock of your hair, ’
A bashfnl young lover took courage and
sighed.
‘Twere a sin to refuse you so modest a prayer,
‘So take the whole wig,’ the sweet creature re
plied.
A man was sitting for his photograph. The
operator said, ‘Now, sir, look kind o’ pleasant
—smile a little.’ The man smiled’ and then the
operator exclaimed: ‘Oh, that will never do! It
is too wide for the instrument.’
What agonies must that poet have endured,
who, in writing of his sweetheart, asserted in
his manuscript that he ‘kissed her under the si
lent stars,’ and found thecarelesB Western com
positor had made him declare in print that he
‘kicked her under the oellar stairs!’
A good wbith up.—A heart-broken parent
writes: ‘Our daughter’s name was Suzen,mother
called her Sue and I oalled her Betzie, but she
was a good girl, five feet eight inches high, and
was fat, she was never married, and was sixteen
years old, she died and was taken sick about
two weeks ago: my heart is broken and mother
feels bad, give her a good write up.’
Gradual Approach to the Climax.—A young
olergyman, whose maiden sisters were ‘awfully
sot’ against his entering the marital state, kick
ed over the traces and got married. He then
sent a friend to break the news gently to the
girls with instructions to open the negotiation
by saying that he was dead, and then gently
work up to the real faot
Distinction Without Diffebench.—‘I’m a
tough cuss from Bitter Creek,’ is the expression
employed by the Plains desperado, to inform
every body that he is ‘on the fight.’ Farther
east the corresponding member of society says:
‘I’m a wolf and this is my time to howl.’ In Ken
tucky he says: ‘I’m a yard wide and all wool.’
Sir William B. being at a parish meeting,
made some proposals which were objected to by
a farmer. Highly enraged, ‘Sir,’said he to the
farmer, ‘do you know that I have been at two
universities, and two oolleges at eaoh universi
ty?’ ‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘what of that?
I had a calf that sucked two cows, and the
observation I made was, the more he sucked the
greater calf he grew.’
A boy was caught in the act of stealing dried
berries in front of a store, the other day, and
was locked up in a dark closet by the grocer.
The boy commenced begging most pathetically
to be released, and after nsing all the persuasion
that his yonng imagination could invent, pro
posed, ‘Now, if you’ll let me out, and send for
my daddy, he‘11 pay you for them, and lick me
besides.’ This appeal was too much for the gro
cer to stand out against.
Comfortable Religious Experience.—At a
Methodist ‘Experience Meeting’ our attention
was drawn to one old farmer who appeared to
be very happy under the pressure of his convic
tions. When his turn came, he spoke as follows:
‘Friends, perhaps there air some here that don’t
know me very well: My name is Mr. B—, I live
over in the town of X—, close agin the far yon
timber, but now I have come here to live because
I want to be near folks. I kem to this country
in 1838, and I hadn't nothin’ but my hands, but
my hard work and the grace ofGod;I’ve become
quite rich.’ He then sat down.
Lower Level Love.—Both are rioh and have
spent many seasons at Saratoga; names Willie
and Minnie. The mother says they have been
engaged to each other since childhood; that both
have been reared with care and tenderness, and
though she does say it, both are ‘well-born, 'and
that the wedding ceremony will soon take place.
They live in the city of Boston. The following
conversation took place between them in my
hearing:
Minnie—‘I don’t like mountains; they are so
—so big and dirty. Do you, Willie dear?’
Willie—‘No, indeed, Minnie, I don’t Great,
awkward, uncouth things, and are so— so muoh
in the way, too. But when I left Boston uncle
Charles told me I must take you up on top of
Pike’s Peak.
Minnie—‘Oh, Willie, do you think I would
ride up there on a vulgar mule—the idea is so
absurd—no, never, never! Willie, I shall faint!
Willie—‘Oh, dear Minnie, don’t faint; I will
stay down here in this sweet valley with you un
til the others return.’
Unfriendly remarks about the camel.—No
human royal family dare be uglier than the
camel. He is a mass of bones, faded tufts,
humps, lumpB, splay joints and callosities. His
tail is a ridiculous whisp, and a failure as an or
nament or flybrush. His feet are simply big
sponges. For skin covering he has patches of
eld buffalo robes, faded and with the hair worn
off. His voice is more disagreeable than his ap
pearance. With a reputation for patience, he is
snappish and vindictive. His endurance is
overrated; that is to say, he dies like a sheep if
not well fed. His gait raoks muscles like the
ague. And yet this ungainly creature oarries
his head in the air and regards the world out of
his great brown eyes with disdain. The very
poise of his head says: 'I have come out of the
dim past; the deluge did not touch me; I helped
Shotoo build the great pyramid; I knew Egypt
when it hadn’t an obelisk nor a temple. There
are three of us: the date-palm, the pyramid and
myself. Everything else is modern. Go to!—'
A Hard Slap on the Human
Automaton.
BT MBS. M. LOUISE CROSSLET.
Self-styled philosophers—they of the Darwin
school, in their olamorous promulgations of
evolution, natural selection, materialism, etc.,
have most kindly and logically brought man
down from the anthropoid ape to what Professor
Huxley in grandiloquent style, calls an atomi
cal automaton.’ He tells us that our actions
are only the result of moleoular arrangements of
the brain,’ and human nature he flatteringly
designates ‘the cuuningest of all nature’s
clooks.’ Granted I am a clock, that when wound
up I must run, willy-nilly, till the machinery
stops, will Prof. Huxley please tell me who
wound up the clock ? If I am an atomical autom
aton, it would make me happy for some learned
and lucid philosopher to inform me who pulls
the wires behind the scenes that set my auto
matic self in motion. And I would not have
him filter me the information through a veil of
mud, but let it be clear as a sunbeam, logical as
fact, and convincing as death itself.
Dr. Charles EUm, in reply to a leoture by
Professor Tydnall, gives a telling stroke upon
this branch of the learned gentleman’s so-called
science. Dr. Elam says: ‘He discovered only,
who Proves, and it seems somewhat hard on
those who seek truth for its own sake, wherever
it is to be found, to be so urgently, even clam
orously, called upon, under heavy and myste
rious penalties, to believe in a oertain doctrine,
apparently for other reason than that it is un
supported by any evidence, and susceptible of
no demonstration. If man is to be robbed of
free-will and all volition; if we are consequent
ly called upon to relinquish not only every
form of religious belief, but all the principles
upon which society and its laws are founded,
and the most deeply rooted and fundamental
intuitions of our consciousness, we on our part
have the right to claim that the science in the
name of which these requirments are made,
shall be sternly accurate in faot, rigid in
method, cogent and conclusive in logic.’
He then quotes from Professor Tait’s reoent
remarks on the teachings of natural Philosophy,
who says: ‘To say that even the very lowest
form of life, not to speak of its higher forms,
still less of volition and consciousness, can be
explained on physical principles alone, that is,
by the mere relative motions and interactions
of portions of inanimate matter, however re
fined and sublimated, is simply unscientific.
There is absolutely nothing known in physical
soience which oan lend the slightest support to
such an idea.’
Further on, Dr. Elam adds: The aggregate
oomrnon sense of the world rejects these conclu
sions; and the authors of them cannot write or
speak six consecutive sentences on any ques
tion of ethics without praotioally confessing
their own unbelief in the very principles they
are upholding. They speak, and speak elo
quently, about duty, choice, right, wrong,
virtue vice, temptatation, resistance, determin
ation, and the like; all of whioh, on their au
tomatic theory, are simply unmeaning and
ridiculous expressions for things that have do
existence whatever,’ and that make God, the
soul, oonsoienoe and human responsibility all
gross, selfish and repulsive delusions. ‘But,’
continues Dr. Elam, in Professor Tydnall’s
imaginary dialogue with his too logical crimi
nal, he certainly tries to manifest the courage
of his conviotions. ’ He grants freely and in
unequivocal phrase that the murderer cannot'
help murdering, but pleads also that we cannot
help hanging him; we are mutual compensating
machines preserving the harmony of society.
But he utterly fails to argue it out logically, and
if it would do the criminal any good to argue
at all, he might easily show that his is a very
hard case.’
‘If,’ says the robber, th9 ravisher, or the mur
derer, ‘it I act beoause I must act, what right
have you to hold me responsible for my deeds ?’
Professor Tyndall replies: ‘The right of society
to protect itself against aggressive and injurious
forces, whether they be bond or free, forces of
nature or forces of man.’ ‘Then,’ retorts the
criminal, ‘you punish me for what I cannot
help.’ ‘Granted,’ says society, ‘but had you
known that the treadmill or the gallows was
certainly in store for you, you might have
“helped.” We entertain no malice or hatred
against you, but simply with a view to our own
safety and purification, we are determined that
you and suoh a3 you shall not enjoy liberty of
evil aotion in our midst. The public safety is
a matter of more importance than the very lim
ited chance of your moral renovation, while the
knowledge that you have been hanged by the
neck may furnish to others about to do a3 you
have done the precise motive which will hold
them back.’
‘Hold here,’ says the criminal, ‘you deny me
any free agency in this matter, but you assume
it for yourself. You say you are determined
—what does that mean ? You talk about malice,
and hatred, and motive, and right to do this,
that, and the other—also of liberty and of evil ac
tion. What do you mean by ail these? If all
action be mechanical and automatic, resulting
from molecular arrangement of our brain over
which we ha\e no control, how oan anything be
either evil or good? and are you not talking
something closely resembling nonsense? To
whioh the only consistent and coherent reply
would be: “ It may be as you say; I don’t be
lieve much in anything. All I know is, that I
have at present both the will and the power to
hang you, and I shall do so.” I pray you,
therefore, to let this hanging be effected with as
little noise as possible, as you disturb th9 har
monious molecular arrangements of my brain
by creating aerial vibrations with your objec
tions.’
‘0 fools and blind!’ if there is any common
sense, logic, science, or philosophy in this
twaddle, then we must all confess we are too id
iotic to see it But we will turn from such
coarse and disgusting doctrine, and quaff a
pure, crystal-clear draught from Dr. Elam’s
dosing words of his own—words that have the
ring of the grand moral hero—of man indeed
made in the image of the one true and living
God:—‘Upon man everywhere, debased, de
graded, fallen from his high estate though he
may be. I see the seal and impress of his spe
cial and divine origin. His commission is to
have dominion over, not to claim kindred with,
the beasts of the earth. His privilege is to do
earnestly, faithfully, and intelligently the work
given him by his Creator—not as an irresponsi
ble maohine, but as a free agent, able to stand,
yet free to fall. His one supreme hope is, that
when his little span of material existence is
dast, he may enter upon a higher and enduring
life, to hear, as the portals of eternity open be
fore him the blessed words, ‘Well done good
and faithful servant’
Horrible Crime.—Cincinnati, O., September
18th.—A special despatch says: In Maroh last,
the log-house of John Hurley, Seneca, Mich.,
was burned and one son perished in the flames.
Mrs. Hurley and her infant escaped, but were
so horribly burned that they died next morning
Harley and the boy, who slept upstairs escaped
unhurt There were suspicious circumstances
at the time; but nothing was developed till last
night when Harley was arrested on charge of
murder made by his father-in-law. One of the
motives to the orime was probably an illegiti
mate intimacy with the wife’s unmarried sister,
who now oharges him with the paternity of her
two ehildren, one born before and the other af
ter the oatastrophe. i