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EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT.
Organ of the Georgia Teachers Association-
Organ of the State School Commissioner, 6. J, Orr.
W. B. EOKNELL, Editor.
Special to Teachers.
All teachers who subscribe for The Sunny
Stuth on recount of the EdrcatioDal Dtpart-
ment, will address the undersigned,
W. B. Bonnell, Editor.
Three Good Paragraphs.
There are some good reasons for ‘the indispo
sition to manual labor’ among seme ch sscs of
American youth at the present lime. One reason
why the farmers’ sons and daughters get away
trom the faims to the towns, is the intolerably
stupid and slow thing the average farmer makes
of rural life. If a large class ot our American
farmers would summon brains to the front; adopt
improved metl ods'of agriculture;put a few labor-
saving implements in their hanus; make the
house a neat and wholesome place to live in; re
construct the district school;support the Church;
and gradually do what any township of farmers
easily can tor their district, they would find their
children ready to respond. If certain c asses of
our mechanics would quit drirking liquor and
herding in ‘unions,’ to perpetuate their own ig
norance and discontent, and each in his own
best way, * trike lor a higher iamilj life and m »re
weight of manhood, their cLildren would not
come to the conclusion that a mechanic n list
necessarily become an Lshmaelite, and would
loilow the father into a life of manual labor.
And if a good many merchants and manul'actr:-
iers would learn to deal by hoys and girls like
Christian gentlemen instead of slave-drivers, it
would he easier to get the superior youth of the
country into their employment. We honer the
best children ot our couutry lor resolving they
will not willingly encounter a good deal that
some < f us submitted to in our youth.
After reading a brilliant leader in a metropoli
tan religious journal, against the high schools
as nurseries ot ‘indisposition to manual labor,’
we kept our eyes open for half a day. In the
space of tw o hours, w ithout going out of ourac-
oustemed resorts, we found one fine student run
ning an elevator in the pauses. Another wide
awake lellow spent his off-hours m a butter fac
tory, relieving his parents from his support.
Two beautiful girls were found selling bread
over the counter ot their father's 1 akery, where
their broth* r, a Haivard student, reliived them
at vacation. The two last, high-school lady
principals, of these young people, are now en
gaged in educating two large families of younger
brothers and s sters, and enforcing such econo
mies upon then selves as would saiisfy the loDg-
ing ot our Atlantic editor. And every city anil
town in New EoglaDd is crowded with bright
and active young people, the rising hope of the
town, who are graduates of the public schools;
of course the good graduates,— t e., those who
died in the punltc schools,— are what the people
who pay for them and their faithful teache.s
pect,
Tragedy A La Carlyle.
Carlyle has somewhere said that ‘For one to
have capacity and die ignorant, that is tragedy
We are not sure of the exact words. No mutter.
The thought is his; and he has enough more
like it. The most rugged and suggestive of
thinkers, we fear he is not read enough to put
the needed vigor into our nervehss thinking.
But we have not to do with Carlyle here. Our
concern 's with that tragedy. Something, we
opir.e, much like it is being daily built up in
our schools. For the child to go to school and
be practically nn'aught, or, what is worse, m's-
tanght;—for him to he rushed through a series
ot books and a course of study, without ever
being quickened into life by the clear discovery
of his own special field;— for him to be worried
with v.aily tasks, with no help to a full insight
of their real principles, and to the sole end of
acquiring a fixed distaste for study this we call
tragedy. It is to turn the fruit of the tree of
life into apples of Sodom; it is to fling a bitter,
biting frott over the budding life of true learn
ing and true power. And yet, this very thing
is being done in the schools all over the land;
and it s mainly the teacher’s hateful handi
work. So many teachers know so little how,
and take so little pains to teach. ‘Give out les
sons’ and ‘hear recitations:’ they do enough of
that—too much of :t. Compared with their
teaching, it is a mighty ‘meadow of marg'n to a
thread-like rivulet of t. xt,’ and that, the major
part of it,mere apprentice work. So many teach
ers have no ‘speculation’ in their ey< s for indi
vidual capacity and character, if indeed those
things were ever ‘dreamed of in their philoso
phy’- if indeed they have, or ever had, philos
ophy about them. When we see ali this, and
think what its results must be,our v:ist school si s-
tem.in its ostensibly kind concern for onr youth,
is a counterpart of the sympathetic eiephar t,
w hich, striding through a jungle,scared the jun
gle fowl from her nest and lucklessly crushed it
under foot. But, espj.ng the lurlornand help
less brood, remorse came and sympathy was
awakened. Poor little orphaned things,’ she
said, T know what it is to be a mother; I will
take the place of the one you have losf ;’ and so
saying, she sat down with brooding care and
elephantine tenderness on the nest herself.—N.
E Journal.
MARK TWAIN’S YOUTH.
OR THF
CURSE OF MONEY
The irepr< ssihle humorist Mark Twain, was
born in Hawkins county, Tennessee, but much
of his early life was passed in Iowa.
When he v as a young man he learned the
trade of printer iD M scatine. He lived a num
ber of years in Muscatine and v as, for a long
time, conn* cted with a paper there. Like all
printers he was a great hand to get on a ‘jam
boree, and, when he got on a tear ail Mmcrtine
was sure to know it, tor he was the greatest fel
low to t et tbt town wild ever heard of. He was
always playing practical jokes, not only up
on individuals but upon the whole town,
and was eternally up to deviltry of every descrip
tion. He was the terror of the place, and the
citizens actually dreaded to go to bed, not know
ing what surprise would he in store for them in
the morning, or what mad prank would be play-
He would always
THETEiCHIKOFHH
an awmriTanif uen
Israel Torriano was not moved; he became
tranquil, asked Madame to let him band her to
her carriage, as Ue must, move on, but promised
to come to the dinner ■ he next evening.
•He will come,’ said the count* ss to he self,
astonished at his sadden composure. ‘ Nous
verroi s,' and she smiled divinely, as sbo drove
on, at the attache, who passed her at tl at mo
ment. Nous verrons, if we cannot make a fur
ther breach in the fortress.
* * * * * * * *
Into what corners did Israel and Pedro not
dive and creep that night? On the heights of
Montmartre he sat, mourning the beautiful city ;
over Belleville he roamed searching into work
man s wants; at the Morgue he kuoeked and saw
the bared victims of a Christian government;
into cabarets, cheap dining places, absinthe
shops, old clothes quarters, thieves corafs, he
went, carrying with him everywhere the picture
of the beaulitul palace of the Torr ar.os-
On ‘ Change ’ he stood, watching from behind
a pillar the mad raving for goid—he had no
heart to visit the fine places, he saw enough of
them outside; it was inside he looked, and poor
Israel Torriano wept ttars of blood as he marked
the strugglir g, starving, undeveloped mass of
humanity, skimmed ever by superficial finery.
Most of all he gri*. ved at the churches; the beau
tiful graceful Madeleine seemed to him ra’sed
in mockery, for he could not understand the
worship within; the kneeling figures, the Latin
responses, the business-like movements of the
priests aud choristers.
‘ This is no; Curst,,’ he exclaimed. For he re
membered the words of the Countess. The re
sponse might have come from the aisles of the
church— no, it is not religion, it is a ‘ culte.
ed upon them in the nigh
To shie stones in at the schoolhouse win- I play his jokes upon a large scale, and seemed
down, after the style of these and other public
journals, betrays either a lack of knowledge of
what is going on among American children, or
a disposition to r* ckb ss criticism which is, it-
selt, an evil of no common eider.
That the opportunity for training in technical
education should he more generally diffused,
and by the union of pi.b'.icand private funds le
Irouglt to iv«rry district of our country, no
schoolman of any reputation <2-. nies. But tbit
is no reason for raising an ui just and untrue
prijudici against our present system <. f public
schools, as hostile to industry and corruptorsof
youth. We ixpect this, of course, from tie
priests, who are looking abont for an excuse for
the snppoit c-f parochial schools; from the social
and literary aristocrats, who would keep the
children ot the poor ‘in their place'; from stingy
milliot auesand oldfi shioned grumblers against
all new things that cost money; from be feather-
headed philosophers, who create the facts that
str ff out their swollen theories of human i ffairs.
But neither good taste, good culture, nor good
citizenship guides the pen or tunes the voice to
undermine the confidence of our people in the
American system of public tchools. These
schools defective, as .the people are; are im
proving all the time; are tc-day far more apen
to bemficent changes than the State, or the
Church, or any great institution in American
life. We hope the bad habit of ‘shieing stones’
at the schoolhouse bell will be discontinued.—N.
E. Journal.
It is snpp< sed that the dead languages were
killed by teing studied too much,— Ex,
The Rights of Children.
BY JOHN KENNEDY.
The children have a right,- first, to find their
paren s’ i flection in the teacher’s chair, inspir
ing their aiih, hope, ard perseverance;second,
they have a right, to sound instruction and cor
rect example: thiid, they have a right to that
perfect and strong maturity that comes of cor
rect training.
1. Schools and teachers are artificial contriv
ances; there are no such existences in the natu
ral order of things. Instruction is a parental
duty. It is founded upon the affectioLS, which
secure to the parent the custody of the child.
Love considers the welfare of its object, and in
struction is necessary to the welfare of the child.
Many circumstances make it necessary to pro
cure this instruction through schools. The
teacher, when such a contrivance is devised, is
simply a person in loco parentis, vested with cer
tain parental relations lor the discharge of cer
tain parental duties We have 6aid that the one
imperious moral d< sire of the child is the desire
of love. The child has a right to that love which
it craves, and should never be out of its atmos
phere. It is presumed that the child is ever
within reach of parental sympathy and assist
ance, both at heme and at ichool. I s duties to
the teacher are likewise the same as those to the
parent; viz., obedience, respect, aud filial love.
The mutual relations remain urchanged.
2. The smceptibility to instruc ion and exam
ple givis lise to the right to sound instruction
and correct example. The child is helpless to
select wholesome physical, mental, or moral
food. Hence the selection is a parental duty.
Sad, indeed, are the results of failure to read the
whole meaning of innocent, helpless, trusting
childhood ! Infamous are the customs that
make traffic of their lights, and change them
from budding angels into incarnate fiends !
3. But towering above all the specific rights
of childhood, and embracing them all in its wide
significance, is the grand right of maturity,
the right to the complete unfolding of its pow
ers; the right to attain its end; the right to be a
man; the right to read the Creative mind spread
abroad upon b's works; the right to the infinite
pleasures that await upon mature susceptibili
ties; the right to scatter happiness here; the
right to retire in peace from a well-employed
mortality.
This is the meaning of childhood and its
rights. This is the grand fabric which affection
should build, but which ruthless injustice is
everywhere preventing by making an early
to delight in keeping the town in a ferment of
excitement all the time.
He would throw people into an excitement by
a rapidly circulated report of the death of some
prominent person; by terrible accidents in a
dozen parts of the town at the same time; by a
steamboat collision or explosion in the river,and
by aDjthing else he might happen to think of
tl at would create a sensation or make sport,
lie would have the whole town up al midr.igtii
by a false alarm of fire, and would always man
age to get the fire companies into a grand fuss.
It' he knew ot a young man who had been for
bidden to'visit another man’s daughter, he would
confidentially in.orm the father on the street
tLat he had just seen ‘young so-and-so’ drive
rapidly past in a carriage, and when the ‘old
man,’ haif-crezed by the idea of a possible elope
ment wou,d wildly dash after the retreating
buggy, throwing cane, hat and coat aside in the
chase, he would quietly and quickly tell a doz
en that that ‘wild fellow running up the street’
was an escaped lunatic, and would have a crowd
chasing him ins'antly. It they caught him the
old fellow, wild at the thought of delay, would
fight to get free, shouting ‘daughter,’ ‘elope
ment,’ etc., which would fully show his captos
that he was crazy. While this was goi: g on Sam
would spread the report that there was an ‘aw
ful big tight’ in progress up on the corner of
such a street, and have crowds running there in
no time, when the ‘roughs' seeing one man ap
parently struggling with twenty, would think it
not fair play, and would pitch in to ‘back up
the old cock,’ aud -then there would be a big
row. And so Clemens would keep it up ah libi
tum, until it would get wind that the whole
thing was one of Clemens’ big jokes. The town
was never dull while he was in it, and yet he
was so sly and quiet that no one would ever sus
pect him ef loving mischief.
He was generally considered at that time as a
dissolute, madcap sort of a fellow, who would
sooner or later go to the gutter. He is of a very
humorous and fun-loving nature, and it cau be
seen by the joke he pi;yed on the preacher in
‘A Literary Nightmare,’ by repeating the horse-
car rhymes’ to him, that he has not yet lost his
his love for practical joking.
SILliE. TALLANDIEAR*
The first sensational sale of the season took
place the other day at the Hotel Drouot; it was
that of the effects of Mile. Tallandiera, that
strange, wild actress discovered by Alexandre
Dumas, whoa few years ago made her debut at the
Gymnase in ‘La Brin cess Georges.’ Her choice
of a theatre was unfortunate. She was birn to
play melodrama, and the elegant correctness of
the Gy innate was not suited to her style. In
many respects, too, the piece she had chosen for
debut was ill suited to her. She failed entirely
to reproduce the high-bred grace of the heroine
of Dumas. She was neither a princess nor a so
ciety lady, but she gave full relief to the jealous
agonies of too insulted wife. I remember her
well, with her lithe form, great gloomy black
eyes, flat bandeaux of black hair, and a mouth
whose mobility and expr< ssiveuess but half re
deemed its coarseness. With what fire she
played ! There was the half-restrained fierce
ness of a savage in her gestures and in her
hoarse, contralto tones. She had sprung from
ti e lowest orders of society, a dancer at the
Bullier bal’s, and yet her genius had led her to
devote herself to art and that successfully. She
died last winter of consumption, striving to the
lest aga.it st her sufferings, rehearsing and pre
paring for her part of Fantine in ‘Let Miserables’,
literally till her dying day. Her friends
remonstrated with her in vain. " If you
persist in acting you wiil die upon the stage,”
said one of her comrades to her. "That is my
hope—my dream—to die before the footlights,”
was her answer. But the end came suddenly
at last and the poor creature was spared the real
ization of her feverish desire. The other day all
Paris pressed to attend the sale of her jewels, her
furniture, her costumes. She, the daneer of the
Btudents’ ball, died amid luxury and splendor.
The show case that held her jewels was one blaze
of diamonds. Her toilet table was bordered
with superb Duchess lace. Bronzes, marbles,,
pictures, carved furniture, fine poroelain crowd
ed the room. And over all the bust of Dumas,
by Carpeanx, a fine original in olay, looked
down with his scornful smile, as if tosay;tialy
all this mockery.
Israel had come to the Count’s dinner, who
had left a card at the Hotel of the Boulevard.
The Paris cousin was disgusted with Israel, whom
be could persuade into no speculations, into no
undertakings, who would not be presented to
the Emperor and the grandees’ but went about
eccentrically, study ing the people, as if there
was any thing to study. ‘It is the people.’ That’s
enough. But Israel remembered Him who had
gone about among the people.
The Count was a gentleman, in the general ac-
eptuion of the word. His manners were fault
less, unobtrusive and conciliating; two ugly
features were in hi3 face—a sensual chin ana a
saicastic mouth. To him ail was meat that came
to teed his overweening selfishness; father,
mother, sister, brother, wife, and child were
nothing compared to the gratification of a pass
ing desire—lawful or unlawful.
Israel had received in the course of the day a
small scented Dote:—
Madame the Countess of Montferril will receive
Monsieur Israel Torriano tc-night in her private
parlor.’ —
Israel read thiTiiOte, and put it in his pccket;
it passed from his memory.
He went to dinner with an inward determin
ation to see or.e more phase of fashionable Par
isian life; life among the men that composed it.
The dinner was short, crisp, and delightful;
ti e wines perfect, the manners txqr.isite, the
cookiug recherche and the conversational egantly
slang-. Israel remained almost silent; ‘all the
better,’ thought thb Couut. Madame will catch
him in her meshes, and I shall have an easy
draugl t of fishes.
After ( inner, Monsieur led Israel himself to
Madame’s salon, remained a few moments, and
iff n w.thdrew, nnder pret- x tba‘ ho must play
host in the smoking-room, and that he would ex
pect Monsieur Torriano there in due time.
She blushed, that adorable Countess; she knew
she was a catspaw for gambling purposes, and
she would not have objected to play a long, may
be a lasting game with her priy. She had be
come interested in her ‘ sauvage ’ friend, and
entered into the matter with full spirit.
Dressed in a plain white evening dress: no
ornament in her rich hair, 6he received her vis
itor bltshing, timid, and reserved.
•You look sad, sir.’
‘ No. I merely feel depressed in towns; I could
not live long in them.’
‘ But it :s the only life worth having.’
‘ To you, not to me; I enjoy space. I have no
faith in our modern congrega.iois of millions;
the land is there for us to dwell in, and I believe
too much centralisation :s a mistake.’
‘Ah, you talk politics; we French women, da
bon ton, don't indulge in it; it mak< s one ugly
and sei ions.
‘And are you never serious?’
‘When my husband is stingy, or my maid tire
some.’
The Countess looked as innocent as a child.
‘Madame, I may never see you again; sing me
that song again.’
‘Not see you again ? Ob, Monsieur.’
‘Please sing me that song.’
She thought she had better comply, and took
her guitar; but the words came timidly at first,
stronger afterwards, stronger still, till they
melted away in a few low-toned notes.
Before the Countess stood Israel Torriano-
‘Merci, I shall now go to your husband’s Bmok-
ing room. Forgive me this trouble, and remem.
ber my words of the other day; a beautiful form,
a magnificent voioe, and the devil lurking be
hind. Cast him out, as they did of old; cast
him forth, and return to the memory of early in
nocence, that must have been yours some day.
Madame, I will send an answer to your note to
morrow.’
The Countess was prepared for much—not for
all this: she heard him leave the room; smoth
ered her face in the cushions, and sobbed for a
few moments, then she ensconced herself in her
softest easy cl air, and took one of Eugene Sue’s
novels to forget the whole affair.
The Count thought his star was in the ascend
ant.
They pat by the table at ecarte. Sums, fabu
lous sums, went round. The double door was
closed; all sounds were hushed; only the tick
of a clock aud the anxious breath of some loser
could be heard. Silence reigned in the room,
the still sil jnce of suspense. One man atflasted
Israels attention,—a young fellow of about
twenty-two, with an angelic expression of coun
tenance, on the verge of utter demoralizing dis
sipation. The young man was almost too pret
ty ; his countenance bore the stroDg marks of in
decision. He played madly ; evidently he meant
t» win; certainly he lost. Israel soon became
sure of his game. His natural sagacity was as-
tcuRdiDg; it seemed as if some unimpaired
power worked in him* He wod, won largely,
won tremendously, and drove the men around
him to desperation.
The buffet wi s resorted to; wine was taken,
not niggardly, hut plentifully; countenances
became excited; blood was stirred, aud tempers
could no longer be res'r ined. The pretty
young man became desperate; he went on, and
on, and on. ‘I must win,’ he said under his
breath, ‘or all is lost.’ Round again went the
cards. The Count’s face became ve#y ugly; Is
rael’s very stern; those of the other men desper
ate, desponding, or merely excited, as their
share of the h sses happened to be. Still Israel
won; still the fair young man lost. One more
game, and dice were fetched. The matter be
came n ad now. Within half an hour moneys
had changed in th t closely-shut room of a do-
bieman s hou^e that would have astonished the
richest bankers. Israel had been their tempta
tion; Israel proved their fall. Suddenly the
fair young man groaned T am lost now ! all is
gone! dishonor stares me in the face! The
money of others is gone, gone, gone ! I and
mine are lost !’
‘Stupid driveller !' said the Count. ‘We are
men; don't use such language here. If you are
lost, blow your brains out, and there is an end.’
‘So I will. Ah ! poor Elis*-; as you say;’ and
ihe young man hung his head over the hack of
the chair in utter despondency.
‘Look here: you must leave, if this go's on,’
said the count sneeriogly.
•Leave? Whut for? They are lost. She is
gone. I am a wretch.’
‘Go; here is a pistol for a present.’ There
was a crash. Israel rose like a towering pre-
phetio hero of old. He took hold witfi one
hand of the young man, kick* d with his foot the
table and sent it iff on the ground. A candela
bra ay on the i’oor, heaps of gold rolled about,
and the men sprung up in astonishment. One,
thinking Israel might be a spy aDd the Count did
not know it, took out a pocket pistol, and held
it at him.
•Put that up, my friend; who am I, to fear
you? Ah ! Monsieur le Comte, you invited me
to pluck me, and I have turned the tables on
you. You have not got the Torriano money;
rather than have witnessed this scene tc-night,
I would have given you every farthing of it.
And yon are Christians- CLristians; there is not
one cf you who would dare to s and up and say
that he would deny that name. Then, you are
cowards and liars; you have no right to that glo
rious appellation. Call yourself what you will;
I do not care, hut do not hide your sins under
a cl ak that fits you not. And this is your
boasted industrial civilization ! How many
thousand hands had to be put in motion, Low
many hundreds of ‘rades Half starved, before
this room could lurnishtd for a human hell,
this house for the purpose of harbouring im
purity of all kind ! Yes, Counl; little as I
know, I saw at last through your plans. But Is
rael Torriano, the eastern Jew, knows more of
Christianity than you, and know s it to repre
sent brave men and pure women.. ^Wla ! men
tion His name ? No wonder modern Christian
ity is derided. You have sullied it with the
loathsome images of your own selfishness, and
there is no one to call you to account. Take
your trash. Young man, come with me; open
this door, or I .’ The Count opened the
door; he was white, and his face boded no good
Israel dragged the forlorn gamester with him
out of the house.
»**•»»
The next day a letter was addressed to the
Countess i f Montferil, containing 100,000francs,
in answer to hei note to Monsieur Israel Torri
ano, and for that delightful soDg.
Israel Torriano found his way to the smoking-
room, as it was called, in the residence of the
Count; he started back at the sight it presented.
Supreme and effective elegance pervaded every
corner; mirrors surrounded it; on one side a
tempting buffet, charged with every dainty,
wines, and frnits; on the other, a table round
which the gueets of the dinner were noncha
lantly sitting with cards in their hands. Heavy
candelabra stood on the table; conches were fix
ed round the room; damask curtains hid every
ray of dusky light from without. The Count
started as Israel entered; it w as rather too soon;
bo the bait had not taken, and Israel was not en
amoured of the Countess. Well, he must make
the best of it. The men were somewhat confus
ed ; there was something in Israel that preclud
ed familiarity.
He was asked to play t ‘Thank yon, I do not
even know the names of the cards,’
*We will teach you.'
•Very well.’
CHAPTER IV.
Israel Torriano had drawn the gamester through
the hall of the Count’s house, the ser\ ants star
ing at the two; outside, Israel had himself call
ed a fiacre and driven to his hotel. Ti e young
Frenchman, haviDg perfectly collapsed, was
with difficulty got out of the vehicle and made
to ascend the stairs, and, once in Israel’s room,
he fell on the coach exhausted and helpless.
Pedro rushed in irom the street.
‘Who is he, maestro ? Will he die ?’
‘A moral death, if he does; he quiet and help
me.’
Is there a mesmerising power in perfect,pure
manhood, that has its own healing influence ?
Why should the herb and the mineral, far lower
in natural development, cure bodily ailments,
and the electric stream from human nerves, far
higher in intrinsic worth, not be efficacious?
Why do we acknowledge oi e kind of strength
and smile at the other ?
The Frenchman lay on the couch in a heavy
swoon; it was doubttul whether his :eason had
not received too violent a shock, that it could
recover from the palsying terror of worldly pros
tration—the man looked a human wreck. Israel’s
sympathetic nature had never been called in
requisition; his remarkable self-concentration
had given him an insight into the larger con
cerns of mankind that depend upon the action
of principles, and left him almost callous to in
dividual sufferings. But this man’s life was eb
bing away it seemed, and the desire to preserve
a fellow creature's existence, stirred impercept
ibly hidden springs of strength in Israel; he took
the yonng man in his arms, laid him down in a
straight position, gave him fr< sh air, and then
unconsciously moved his hands gently over his
countenance, as if pit. ing or bl. ssing him. It
was all done from an inner uncontrollable im
pulse. While Pedro fetched water to throw
over the fainting man, in order to bring him
b ck to life, Israel was lulling by his superior
vitality the shattered nerves of the Parisian into
comatose repose, in which they would remain
at his will, gaining renewed strength, and per
haps recovering from the dangerous shock they
had received.
Angrily Israel waved back Pedro and the wa
ter, pointing to the placid expression the facial
mnsles of the young Frenchman were assum
ing. A few more sweeps with both hands over
the prostrate form, and a gentle, profound sleep
seemed to envelop the miserable gamester. Then
Israel sat down by him, wiping the heavy drops
of anxiety from his own b ow. For the first
time in his life, Israel Torriano had a dim, wav
ering notion what terrible wretchedness man
prepared for himself in this world, and how aw-
tnl was the curse of individual suffering, cover
ed over by the deceptive outside of our loose
civilization.
The patient, his preserver aud Pedro, all three
had been asleep for hoars, Israel started np
from heavy dreams. It appeared to him as if
the time had come when he too mnst enter in
dividually into the strife of this onr life—when
he too most make it a hand-to-hand fight with
some one else’s interest- when he too mnst give
np contemplation and mental repose—and when
that animal nature cf his would assert its png-
nacions tendency, and draw him into the magic
circle of struggling for superiority witn his fel
low creatures. ‘Go back to Olivet,' whispered
an inner voice. Ah! but he could notjthe draught
once tr.s’ed, must be drained; the world of men,
once entered upon, would be thoroughly known;
the lesson must he lear t, and, come what may,
Israel must enter upon that inheritance wLich
the taste of the first tree of knowledge has given
to us all.
He recollected himself and bent over the
Frenchman, taking his hands into his own; sud
denly, the young man sat up, staring around
him as if risen from a trance.
•Let me go; I must gtt the money I owe the
Count.’ Recoil* ction took up the thread of the
last occurrence.
‘Bnt you have not got it.’
‘Then I mnst sell what I have.’
‘That will beggar your family, you say.’
‘It cannot be helped; it is a debt of honor.’
‘A debt of honor ?’ asked Israel, sternly. ‘You
call tLat honor, to take their all from innocent
people, and throw it to snch miscreants ?’
‘They ate gentlemen, men of my own set; the
laws of society must be obeyed. I cannot be
called a coward, surely ?’
Bitter bear that and live it down, by payiDg
the debts gradually and leading a more^ration-
al life.’
‘You do not know what you say, maD ; my very
name : s at stake. Gambling debts must be paid
within twenty-four hours: tell me how long I
have been Litre.’
‘A few hours.’
‘I thought much longer; what has refreshed
and strengthened me so? I remember not how
got out of the Count’s house.'
‘Perhaps my des re to help you has dooe it:
I believe human sympathy might cure much,
bodily and mentally, were :t exercised benevo
lently, and not madly destroyed by irrational
ways. Come, now, shall I pay for you ?’
‘You! Are yon rich ?’
‘Do you not know who I am ?’
‘Ah, y- s; I remember now, the rich Jew,whom
we were all to pluck, and who plucked us.’
‘Well, shall I pay ?’
‘No, they would know it; and if they did not
it would be all the same. It would be your mon
ey not mine-, / must pay, /must he ruined and
/ must suffer, for I have deserved it. I must go
— look there, the morning is full upon us: let me
go; 111 go to another Jew; he’ll let me have the
money, and sell me up before the wiek is out.
‘Whom else will he sell np ?’
•Oh, pray don’t speak of it. My sweet sister,
who lives with me, my Elise will have no home.
My little brothers at the military academy will
be beggars, and I shall have to join the army
corps in Algiers—my marriage is as good a3
broken off.’
‘Have yon no father or mother ?’
•Both dead. I am the head of the house and
take care of the others. ’
■A line head,’ said Israel, ironically;‘look h ere,
shall I bay all uj ?’
•You! But will you settle here ?’
‘No, I cannot; let me buy it and return it back
to you, till you have paid me back.’
•No, no; you do not understand the matter.
You Jews don’t see our fine points of honor. I
must pay: / must be ruined, for I must keep my
honorable name. That nobody shall touch.’
Israel rose: ‘No; I, a Jew, as you say, do not
understand your fine points of honor. To lose
your all and that of others in a drinking bout,
and to refuse reasonable help, that those others
should not be beggars in a state of society where
a poor man or a beggar is below the level of hu
manity almost, appears to me drawing honor to
a very fine point. Yonng man, you are a sel
fish brute still. ’
‘You dare call me so? My name is still un
touched; I'll call you to account.’ He sprang
up with threatening gestures.
‘No, you madman, I’ll notallow you. Let me
go to youi family; ‘
‘Ah, my Eiise; how she will weep, my good
angel sister. Look here, will you marry her ?
You are a Jew, it is true, but you seem a noble
felow, and it does not matter now; we are too
much advanced in France to trouble about it.
Come, when you are in the family, then you
may buy me up.’
Israel's face was dyed scarlet at this off-han d
offer of marriage.
•I shall never marry; how dare you offer your
sister like that, as if she were a piece of chattel ?’
•Oh, it is done every day, and she would do
any thing to save me. Elise is beautiful,’ whis
pered the brother, ‘ and pure; not like her who
you saw last night;’ meaning the Countess.
‘No, no, no; I'll have no human buying and
selling; besides I would not marry.’
•Then, I must be sold up. Let me go, I say.
The place will be given up: El se go to her aunt
in Normandy, or to England as governs s; I shall
j join a regiment of the Chasseurs a’Afrique, and
1 my brothers will have to struggle as best they
can, till the Emperor is good enough to make
var and give us a lift. I thank you for yiur
goodness; you cannot help me, only a member
of the family could, for the name of the family
must be maintained.' He prepared to leave.
‘Ob, by-the-bye, do something for that poor
Countess. She had to invite you on her hus
band s account, to get 100 000 francs from yon;
they’ll be sold up, if you don’t. For old Torri
ano, your consin, when in a rage, is not to be
played with, and Le is jealous, since the Couc-
tes a , with whom he fliris outrageonsly, preferr
ed you to him at the dinner. It’s the talk of
the set; do help her, she is good to my Elise.’
Nothing could detain him; he went, as he said,
to prepare Elise, and then to ask the Paris Tor
riano to buy him up as a favor, that tae affair
might be done quietly.
Israel sat down and wrote to his oonsiu; told
him that a youDg man, who had incurred a
heavy gambling debt at the Count of Moutferil’s
house, would call upon him to sell his property
and that Israel begged his cousin to buy it in,
and make it over the next day to the yonng
man’s sister, Elise, absolutely as a gif*; he also
begged him to send him 100,000 francs in French
paper money, and place both amounts to the
account of old Moses, who wonld but be too
pleased that his master drew money; both mat
ters were to be kept a secret. Finally, Israel
took leave of his cousin, having, as he said, sat
isfied his ouri* sity in beooming acquainted with
French life, and being about to prooeeed to Vi
enna.
Pedro was sent with the letter and bronght
hack the 100,000 francs and a short ep'stle.
My Dear Cousin:—We are sorry to lose you,
but I understand that Franoe does not snit you.
Here we must give up the narrow ideas of indi
vidual life and keep up with the vast intersts of
real civilization. Viei. na is a better city for you;
civilization is there in its infancy yet. My opin
ion is that you could spend your money for a
better purpose. It is awful for a Torriano; not
a single transaction daring your stay in Paris.
Give np your scruples and oome back to us;
Your devoted cousin,
Antoinb.
Israel Torriano smiled a bitter smile when he
read that here one must understand the vast in
terests of true civilization. What civilzation?
he thonght; surely some new hiothen god hi d
been sit np, some other golden calf, as did b's
forefathers of old, below Sinai; the calf of ‘gain
to satisfy selfish material dcBires.’ Nothing else
seemed to move these people.
'Pedro, when this letter has been delivered to
the Countess of Montferil, come back auick
and pack. I can stand it no longer.’
(TO BE CONTINUED. )
We become familiar with the outsides cf men
as with the outsides of houses, and think we
know them, while we are really ignorant of all
that passes within them.