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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.