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THE SOURCE OF BEAUTY.
Guido, the painter, toiled and sought
To place the ideal beauty in his heart
Upon his canvas, and failed: but wrought
Such wondrous sweetness by his art
As made men marvel and wish to see
Ills models whence lie drew so faithfully.
A moment Guido paused, then took
A coarse, low fellow from the street;
Then while, diverted, they with laughter shook,
With rapid stroke and pencil fleet,
He drew a face with holy look,
With tenderness divine, with sadness sweet.
“The beauty's in the heart,” said he,
•‘And ’tis no matter what the model be.”
11UETT FALCONER;
—OR—
WHY HE WAS A RECLUSE.
At last, the beautiful but long neglected and
nntenanted mansion, the Elms, had a pur
chaser. A man, past thirty, of superb form,
polished address and handsome but peculiar
fice bought the grand old villa and after a few
weeks, in which relays of workmen and lavish
expenditure wrought wonders in the grounds
end the house, he was joined by his mother.
A 1 the neighborhood wa-i agog with curiosity
concerning the handsome aod wealthy proprie
tor of the E ms, but neither his appearance, nor
his manner were* c&'culaU d '.o encourage curiosi
ty. He was strangely re.ioent, held aloof from
ever one, had it understood that he cared for
no visit rs, did not appear at church or any
public gathering, though Lis seclusion and
that of his mother did not seem to proceed
from haughtiness or stilish conceit for several
kind and generous acts were already set down
in their favor. But the gossips were baffl .d
and the well-meaning neighbors were no lutle
annoy d 10 find lueir friendly advances sj cold
ly nut. All but :he Cuannings, who troubled
tnemselves very little about other peoples’ af
fairs and lived much to themselves, finding in
each others society their best pleasure and in
books and music and daily work resources in
plenty to occupy hands and brain.
The Chacnings had once been extremely
wealthy and Guy Channing—the father-in-law
of the present widow had been one of the most
eminent lawyers of his day and had also held
high political Gfifoe for many years. But he
was a inau of extravagant tastes, and poor busi
ness qualities, and so was his son after him —
the high-toned generous,talented but financially
incompetent, Henry Wood CbanDing, who
had died insolvent three years before, leaving a
wife and a young daughter, now just grown
into a splendid womanhood—the moBt beauti
ful creature one can imagine.
These two mother and daughter—troubled
themselves little about their unsocial neighbors,
and remained calm while all the country for
miles around was pronouncing the Falconet's
an enigma and wondering why they had come
here to seclude themselves.
The Falconers meanwhile, were enjoying the
beauty and isolation of their splendid new
home, oblivious of the investiga ing, and de
bating committees that were setting upon them.
Mr. Falconer, when alone with his mother was
no longer the reserved, cold man that others
saw him.
•Come wba': will, mother, we will wander no
more. This is our home. We will live down
curiosity, and enjoy ourselves, despite suspi
cion.’
Mrs, Falconer sat in her great arm-chair oi,
the porch ; her son, wnn nis cigar, sat on the
step at her feet. Sae leaned forward, and laid
her white slender hand tenderly, oh, how ten
derly upon his head.
•My poor boy ! she said, almost passionately.
He looked np blithly.
•You need not pity me, mother, now. I am
happy.'
•Oh Rhett! it is the world I pity for losing
you.’
•It will never know its loss,’ he said, gad/.
The woman sighed. How brilliant and hon
ored, bow beloved and courted, he ought to
have'been! Instead of that, exiled, preyed upon
by suspicions, hunted down. It was too unjust.
This is wuat she was thinking.
Deborah Channing, with her daily work, had
little time to indulge her curiosity concerning
her new neighbors, even it curiosity belonged
ti her temper and blood. There was very little
p -.etry in this work—two women making their
li . ing off a few stony acres, unaided, except as
N i holas Dale ploughed and reaped their grain.
But in the long and restful afternoons, from her
window s'.e saw the ‘heavily laden wains go by
to'The Elms,’ and wondered over the luxury
of the life such p ssessions involved.
It was ouly a passing wond r, however, and
might never have borne the smallest fruit, but
for an accident.
Mrs. Caanning was churning early one morn-
j D g__ £0 early that there was still only a bloom
ing promise of sunrise in the east ; and D* bo-
rab a' the critical moment when the butter was
likely to come, had gone with the bucket to a
spring across the road, and was returning with
the icy cool water needed in the dairy, when
she espied in the dust two richly-bound books.
SLelif ed them, and glanced at the ttle-David
C ppe fi d,’ and ‘Old Cuiiosity Shop-new
an 1 unknown names to her.
Thtre was nothing to indicate the owner, but
sl e L.ad no doubt tLat they bad fallen from a
chest of bookB which had gone by in Mr. Fal
con* rs wagon the preceding afternoon.
‘What shall I do about them, mother? she
said, having explained her discovery.
•Dress yourself bj-and-by, and carry them
home. Ii is an excellent excuse forgetting ac
quainted.’
‘Oh, mother! I would not thrust myself upon
s'r.ingtrs so for the world. I almost wish I had
left them in tue dust. But that would not have
b«--en fair. Aud, since I have them, I must not
k-ep ‘hem, or make their return a matter of any
import. 1 will take them back at once. No one
bu*the servants will be up. And she turned
directly to fulfill her resolution.
The sun was rising and she walked up the
road. The mists rolled away in filmy gold from
the empurpled hills; ev-ry spear glittered;
every bird sang with a mad joy. Deborah knew
every phase of this marvelous hour ; she could
feel it thrill while her eyes went g'aucing over
the pa</es of the books she carried.
Straight on to 'Tae Eirns’ she went, devour
ing snamhes of that Underest and sweetts of
storit s • straight up to the very house, towards
the side entrance of time gone by, and, stop
ping mechanically, lifted her eyes and found
her beariogs altogether false.
There was no longer a side entranced least not
here. A low, broad flight of steps tong l renc
windows, a wide room, pannetlwl, fa ted with
rows of shelves, a contusion oi books, and, in
the foreground, as it were ot toe picture, a gen-
awav.
•You were reading as you approached,’ he re
marked with some hesitation. ‘Have you never
read 'David Copperflsld’ ?'
‘I have not ’
•Let me beg yon to do so then,’ and he offered
to return the volume.
•Thank yon. I have not mnoh time for read
ing novels.’
•Allow me to say it is a great misfortune not to
find time.’
•I fear I should have to keep it too long,’ was
her rejoinder. ‘And, besides, if yon begin to
lend your books, sir, yon will find yourself the
owner of a circulating library. Good morning.’
She turned away, and on the instant an ugly
mastiff, who had been following her movements,
sprang before her with a growl.
•Dare ! said Mr. Falconer, in a low tone,
which might have cowed a lion, and he stepped
to Deborah’s side.
The dog cringe! as if he hal had a blow, and
was t-Lnkirg way.
•Did he frighten you ?'
•Not inasmuch as you were so near,’ she said.
‘Permit me to walk with you to the road.
Come, Dare. We owe this lady our gratitude,
not our grow is. What may I call you, madam ?
turning abruptly from his dog to her.
•My name is Deborah Caanning. your next
neighbor.’
•Tuis is Miss Channing, Dare, you under
stand sir.’
Dare gave a short bark. Deborah extended
her hand towards her new acquaintance's bead,
whereat he attached himself to her side.
•It has been my misfortune. Miss Channing,
to have to defend myself against the too keen
interest and solicitude of my fellow-men. Dare
has been one of my means of defence.’
‘Ah !’ said Deborah, quickly. ‘I hov>e Dare
will forget that he has been obliged to attend to
my case. I hope you will forget it also, Mr.
‘What a superb creature, ‘ he mused. ‘I would
venture all I possess that there is neither a sham
nor a secret in her heart •
Mrs. Channing and Deborah went dnly and
formally to call at ‘The Elms.*
Mrs. Falooner was cordially glad to see them,
Rhett having said, ‘Cultivate the Channings, if
you like, mother.*
Her son was ont In fact he speDt two hours—
from four to six—every day about the farm. She
would show the ladies over the house, when
shey were rested ; so she talked.
It was an interior wall worth Beeing. It made
Deborah think of her dreamland, &Dd her moth
er of her early bridal days, when she litila ex
pected the old honse at Hillbush would be her
lifetime home.
•It is Rhett's taste" said the hostess. ‘A
quiet country home has been his hobby for
some years.*
•Unless he is well inured to quiet, he will be
apt to find it tiresome after a while, • remarked
Mrs. Channing.
A deep orimson flash passed over Mrs. Fal
coner's handseme face, as she said :
*M> sin has too many resources at command
to suffer from eaui.’
‘Yes,’ said Deborah, warmly, ‘with his books,
his horses, his laud to look after, I am sure he
ias enough to content him.’
‘You think so, Miss Caanning?' said a deep,
rich voice from the foot of the stairs which the
ladies were descending. ‘Should you be con
tented with these and nothing more?' and ne
smiled a welcome, extending his hand.
‘I am content with much less, Mr. Falconer,’
she rejoined.
‘les, the case is diffjrent,’ ha muttered.
By Mrs. Falcioer’s order the tea-table had
been laid during their tour of the house, laid
for three.
‘I want you to taste our raspberries, Mrs. Chan-
niDg ’ said Mrs. Falconer. *We are country
Remember, I speak as a dying man.
ing apparently paused in his work among his
boSks to enjoy the outdoor splendor out of
which Deborah Channing with her red-gold
fair, her sumptuous height, and free tread,
seemed to appear like an incarnate A .rora.
Khe ulan ed at him more coolly than heather.
T have found a couple of volumes in the
road! which I suppose belong to Mr. Falconer,
she said closing and bolding them out.
•Yes, they are mine,’ he answered, courteous
ly. ‘I am under many obligations.
lie took them, and she bowed ai d turned
Falconer. If I had a servant, I should not have
done my own errand. At this hour I trust you
will acquiie me of any intention of making a
ca'l tx.)r--8sive of either solicitude or interest.
Mr. Falcoi.er crimsoned at her sarcasm. And
as she ceased speaking, they reached the gate.
Ho laid bis hand quickly upon it.
•Miss Ccanniug you h ive done me a kind
ness, and I have received it like a dog. I can
not let vou go with the impression you muet
have of me.’
I am not quick at impressions, Mr. Falconer,
and mother is waiting breakfast for me.’
‘In that case it is to your interest to succumb
quickly,’ he smiled. ‘You must accept the loan
of ‘David C jpperfield,’ in token that you have
no opinion of me at all.’
‘There is no token needed. But if you keep
me a minute more there may be, and either case
precludes my taking the book.’
‘He bowed without a word, and opened the
gat« for her.
•Guod morning, Mr. Falconer.’
‘Shortly, Miss Channing, I am going to ascer
tain where you live that 1 may have the pleas-
ol bringing David Copperfield’ over by-and-by.
‘Mr. Falconer,’ she said demurely, ‘do you
think I might borrow Dare?’
He laughed this time.
‘You will not need him. My interest or solic
itude never take the form of calls/
He saw her preparing mischief in reply.
•Permit mo to say tl.a my mother does not
share my peculiarities. Sue will be happy to
fo m the acquaintance of Guy Channing s grand
daughter.’
D borah’s face lighted at the allusion.
•Mother and I will pay our respects to Mrs,
Falooner, with pleasure, ‘ she said, unaffectedly.
‘It is going to be a warm day,* quoth M:.
F.t couer.
•Y-s, for the haymakers,* responded Deborah,
and they were back to the- sale level of the com
mon-place.
■This :s my home, ‘ said Deborah, loftily, at
the hingtless gate. ‘If you will come in, I can
eff r you a pl..ts of butter-milk. ‘
•Thank you ; it might taste of hospitality on
which I have no claim.*
He lifted Lis bat, motioned to Dure, who
s ood uncertain which to follow, and the inter
view was over.
Deborah had not known she was excited. Sud
denly she felt how wildly her mart beat.
‘Why, child, erbd her mother, ‘where have
you been so long ? And who was that who lelt
,>cu at the gate? 1
Mr. Falconer, mother. His dog frightened
me. so he insisted on coming home with me.*
‘Really 1 And they say he has not spoken a
civil word to any odd in Hillbush. ‘
‘I can hardly imagine bis speaking a uncivil
word,* said D.borah, warml-.
Her mother glanced toward her. How bril
liant she looked.
•Did you go there bareheaded, Deborah?*
•My bat was on my arm. I forgot it. 4
Mr. Falconer walked rapidly home. Strangely
enough, his heart, too, bta*. more rapidly than
common.
neighbor’s, and mrs not be formal.’
‘My dear mother, yonr tea-table looks decid
edly informal for a^hungry farmer,’ remarked
the sen.
‘I did not expect a ‘hungry farmer,’ for an
hour to come, responded the mother. ‘Mrs.
Channing, let me persuade you and your
daughter to sit on the porch fora half-hour, and
hen share our supper before returning.’
‘Air. Falconer declined my hospitality, for
fear he should not like its taste,’ remarked D_-
horah; ‘and besides its onr milking time.’
But Mrs. Channing was less loath to sup at
the ‘Elms’ and Rhett said to Deborah, ‘Please
stay,’ in a tone that made her color come. In
short, they found themselves detained, not un
willingly, while the cook, glad of a a opportunity
to display her skill, served them sumptuously
within the hour.
While they were waiting, Mr. Falconor took
Deborah to the library, saying:
want to show you how hard I have worked.
My books are placed and catalogued.’
•I wish you could see my library, said Debo-
•ab; it is in the garret.’
•I shsuld like to see it, but you know—I never
visit.’
‘Ah,’ said Deborah with displeasure.
‘See,’ he said, ‘here is a little niche I am mak-
og for my ‘David Copperfield.’
D ) you, then, value it so highly ?’
‘Yes. since the other morning when you found
it in the dust.
Airs. Channing and Deborah walked home
ward in the starry twilight.
‘Most agreeable people, really,’ remarked the
-lder lady. ‘The Doles and the Weaton’s will
be somewhat surprised tc hear of our reception
•at The ‘Eiui3.’
‘Oh mother, pray let us not speak of it.’
‘Not speak of it! But, well, I don’t know
iiut you are right. S ine one appreciates you,
Deborah, that is evident. Ah, such a settlement
as that! dear girl—’
Alother, I implore you never to hint such a
thing again !’
•Silly child, of course I shall not hint it all
around Hillbash. But it was so evident- his ad
miration. What barm in speaking of it together?
‘Mr. Falconer may admire me,’ replied the
girl, steadily, ‘or what seemed admiration may
be his usual manner; but—there is something,
mother, about him unlike other men.’
Mrs. Cha ining smiled in the dusk. The ad
miration was reciprocal she conceived.
We will have tiiem to drink tea with us some
day,’ she remarked. ‘I think my biscuits are a
little lighter, and my j-lly a trifle clearer, than
* veu their professed cook can make.’
Deborah was not suffered to endure the pangs
of hope deferred in the coming days. Mr. Fal
coner did not visit, as ne had said, but he con
trived some intercourse between the houses for
almost every day. He stopped at the gate with
a string of trout, or a book, or a buuoh of flow-
ms, and, having stopped there, lingered to talk.
Ora message came fr«<m Mrs. Falconer, beg
ging Miss Channing to fetoh her work ever to
‘The Elms’ for an hoar of an afternoon; and the
whole thing went forward so quietly, that but
one person outside the two families suspected
the intimacy, or concerned themselves about
the consequences.
This one person was Nicholas Dale. A man
less slow, less persistent in his passion, would
have decolared his love, and had it rejected
years before; for he had adored Deborah since
his earliest recollection. He had been her pas
sive slave in their school days—the patient vic
tim of her caprices sinoe. He was not over-dis
criminating in most things, bathe knew enough
not to hazard his chance upon an avowal yet.
Carefully avoiding the role of a lover, he bided
his time.
With the flue instincts of love, he now divin
ed this new intimacy and its new character.
Never hasty, however, he waited and watched.
Deborah herself could not have chronicle l ev
ery incident with more exactitude. And yet
sae never suspected his j ealousy, least of all its
results He continued his visits, on Sunday
evenings, just a3 of old. He was ready and
friendly, as he had always been, in neighborly
offices. His self-control was the price he laid
out to pay Deborah. For he meant to have her.
Nothing in Heaven or earth, be said, should
lake her from him. He was young, good-look
ing, wail off, and Deborah had liked him for
ytars. Should a stranger cime betweeu them?
-a stranger, who had that poorest ot all records,
no record at all —who might be a thief, or a gam
bler, or worse—should he come in and snatch
the prize from a worthy and patient wooer?
Ni ;holas Dale’s whole will said, No !
The summer came to an end. The dreary,
lonesome autumn weather bung over ‘The
E ins ’ On one of the dreariest and most lone
some afternoons Nicholas Dale,for the first time,
walked up to the library, where Air. Falconer
was reading alone. He rose and offered hi3 vis.-
tor a seat. Nicholas waved him away.
‘I have come on business that can be transact
ed standing. 1 have come, Mr. Falconer, to
know if you have any intention of seeking De
borah Channing in marriage, and ,i; so, whether
yonr character and antecedente entitle you to
woo such a woman ?’
It was plainly put, at least. Rhett Falconer
almost staggered as he stood. I: was so utterly
unexpected; it involved what was so painful;
above all, it was so coarse.
‘It seemed to cost you little to put your ques
tions, Air. Dale. May I inquire—in order that
we understand each other - on whoso authority
you act ?’
‘My own.’
‘Upon Misj Cuannings knowledge?’
•No.'
‘Then I deny your right to question me en
tirely. On what pray do you found it?’
‘On my love for Deborah Channing, which
would outweigh my love of life ; and on my
suspicion of you, sir, who would come between
ns.’
‘Mr. Dale, you overstep the bounds of discre
tion and good breeding. Go you and try your
fortune with Mrss Channing, as I, if I see fit,
will try mine, and excuse me from any farther
discussion on the subject to-day.’
‘Mr. Falconer, you think to carry things
with a high hand, but I have come here to make
terms to-day. Ysu cannot escape me'—and
Nicholas Dale touched the breast pocket of his
coat significantly. ‘I will know who and what
you are, and whether or not you love Deborah
Charming —or I will kill you 1’
Ruett Falooner stepped toward the ball-rope
for reply, aDd as he rang, Dale, maddened by
j alousy and failure, drew his pistol, aimed and
tired.
His victim fell, the blond opnrTng from his
mouth.
There was a wild shriek through the house,
and in an instant Mrs. Falconer was bending
over the prostrate form of her son. Fright aud
confusion surged through the house, messen
gers came and went, doctors arrival, and
through all Nicholas Dale, having dropped his
pistol, and sunk upon a couch, covered his face
with his hands, and sat there impassible. Some
body thought of him at last—and shuddered at
the thought. Young Dale a murderer ! It was
too drta ii'ul to believe. He was taken into cus
tody, however, to await the issue of his act.
Ou, that waiting! Both for the one who knew
now how wildly and wickedly he had acted, and
how in any event he had lost Deborah, and for
the otheis - the innocent man stricken and suf
fering for no fault of his, the distracted motherl
watching while life and death hung in the bal
ance.
Tuere were weeks of terrible suspense to all
involved. The physicians had little or no hope
of Mr. Falconer’s recovery from the first, and
when eventually some unfavorable symptoms
appeared, they broke to him gently his critical
condition. He smiled.
‘If they knew how little I had to live for, ’ he
said to his mother, when they were gone. ‘But,
mother,’ he continued, 'I nave a wish which it
is time to indulge. I wish to see Deborah Cnan-
ning.’
‘1c is true, then, Rhett; you love her ?’
‘What has a dying man to do with love, moth
er? I am going to tell her. my secret.’
Deborah came. It was, oh, so cruel that he
should have sufforei for h9r; and she faltered
something to that effect.
‘I do not regret it, Deborah. If I did not lie
here dying, I could uot tell you what I mean to
to-day. Will it shock you, DeboraU, to know
that I have bean an inmate of a prison for ten
long years ?'
It did shock her terribly. She sat silent.
‘That,’ Rhett continued, ‘I might have told
yon anytime—when I could' The rest I c u.
only tell because I nave but a few more days to
live. I inherited a fortune,’ he went on, ‘and,
not from necessity, but from love of business,
look a clerkship, when quite young, in a bank.
Taere was a forgery committed, and circum
stances pointed to me as the forger. With proofs
iu my posses non which would have criminated
another, I was tried, convicted and sentenced.’
Deborah could not control her norror. Slu
shuddered.
•The guilty party,’ said Mr. Fa ! coner, calmy,
‘was a young man, but with a wife and child.
What was the sacrifice of my life to his? B. sidas.
he was my dearest friend. I would have died
for him. 1 c.uld certainly suffer imprisonment
for him.’
‘But j ustice,’ murmured Deborah.
‘It was accomplishea. I knew he would
never sin again.’
‘And he has not ?’
‘No. He lives respected, honored and beloved.
I, since my ten years impris mmeut, have gone
skulking through life. I thought here, at last,
1 should find peace. I shall, Deborah, the peace
which passeth understanding.'
‘Ou, miserable, ‘Elms’ would you had never
seen the pla is !' «
•Not so. For then, Deborah, 1 should never
have seen you.’
‘Me ! You must hate me!’
‘No. Deborah, I lov6 you. R*me nber, I speak
as a dying min. I never knew I should want
an untarnished name, as I have want d it to
offer you. I would not offer one stained as
mine is.'
‘S ained ! she murmured ; ‘sc, then, are the
martyrs.*
He pressed her hand feebly.
‘It is too late. ‘
She spraug to her feet before him.
•It is not. Rhett—Rhett—I love you ! Live
for me 1‘
The doctors next morning found their patient
worse—much worse. The symptoms
them. Yet some way he gained strength in
spite of them. Ha battled with disease ; he
clung to bis life. And he lived.
•The Elms’ was soid in the spring, and in
June there was a quiet wedding in the old Cban-
mng homestead, and then Channings and Fal
coners went away from Hillbush—the mystery
deepened, not solved; and Nicholas Dale, older
and sadder, knew that he deserved his loss.
Rhett Falconer was a wanderer once more,
hut nowise discontented with his lot. But it
seemed to him that their obscure, if happy
life would be irksome to Djborah.
‘Aly wife, he said, ‘the man far whom I suf
fered once is merciful aud j ust. If you say so I
will go to hirn. Ai my demand, he will confess
his fault aud his deception. Ai his own ex
pense he will reinstate us.’
Deborah shook her head.
‘Let him keep his false j iwels and wear them.
We know that we have the true, even if we have
co wrap them in a mystery.’
•
Quotations.
Popular Sayings of Distinguished
Men.
Sir Joseph McIntosh.—“Diffused knowledge im
mortalizes itself.”
“Remained in a wise uni masterly inactivity,.*
“Disciplined inaction.”
‘•The frivolous work of polished idleness.”
Robt. Hall.—“His imperial fame has laid all na
ture under tribute.”
“He might be a very clever ru m by nature.”
“He laid so many books upou his head that his
brains could uot move.”
“Call things by tliuir right names.”
“Ask for a glass of liquid Are aud distilled dam
nation.”
Kotzebue,—“There is another and a better w >rld.”
Brydges.—‘‘The glory dies not, aud the grief is
past.”
Win. Wordsworth.—‘*Aad he is oft the wisest
man, who is uot wise at all ”
“We met thee like a pleasant thought when such
are wanted.”
“Thou unassuming common place.”
“Or but a wandering voice.”
“One of those heavenly d tys that canaot di j.”
‘‘sihe was a phantom of delight.”
“A creature uot too bright or good,”
“A perfect woman.,nobly planned, to warm to
comfort, and command.'’
‘‘That inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude.”
“The sleepless soul that perished in his pride.”
“Of him who walked iu glory and in joy.”,
“Above the reach of ordinary men.”
“Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.”
“Sensations sweet—felt in the] blood, and felt
along the heart.”
Pope.—“He can't be wrong whose life is iu the
right.”
••But all mankind's concern is charity.”
“Order is heaven's first law.”
“Honor aud shame from no condition rise, act
well your part, there all the honor lies.”
“Worth makes the man, and want of it the fel
low.”
“a wit’s a feather, and a chief a rod, an honest
man the noblest work oi God.”
“The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind."
“But looks through nature up to nature's God.”
“From grave to gay, from lively to severe.”
“Thou wert my guide, philosopher, audfrieud.”
“a ed al! our kuow ledge is, ourselves to know.”
“Halt our knowledge we must snatch, not take.”
“A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn ”
“’Tis education forms the common mind.”
“Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined."
“Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death*”
“Fine by defeei, aud delicately weak.
‘‘With too much quickness even to be taught, with
too much ihiuking to have common thought.,’
Lord Byron.—'“Besides, they always smell of
bread and butter.”
“That soft bastard Latin which melts like kisses
from a female mouth.”
“Heart ou her lips, and soul within her eyes."
“Of him who treasures up a wrong,”
** ''hey never.fail who die in a gseat cause.”
“Whose table, earth—whose dice were human
bones.”
“1 loved my country, and I hated him.”
.“My days are iu the yellow leaf.”
“Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.”
“ ’Tis sweet to know there is au eye will mark our
coming, aud look brighter wlieu we come.”
“siweet is revenge—especially to wome->,”
"Man’s love ii of man's life a thing, a-part,"’Tls
woman's whole existence*”
“So lor a good, old, gentlemanly vice I think. I
must take up with avarice.”
“A pure aud true religion,”
Agriculture to the Front.
Georgia is gofog into the agricultural educat
lion business having a department f jr that pur
pose iu the State College, with a branch a-
Dalton, and a law to turn the old capitot build
ing at Milledgeville to the same practical pur
pose. Always foremost in education the old
empire has discovered thit the strength and
prosperity of States depend upon their agricul
tural developments, an i that said developments
cannot progress favirably without trained
ability. This proposition has been wisely dia-
ctvered, and happy the State whose citizens
harmoniously unite to build upon that founda
tion . The time has come, an I come forever,
when, agriculture must come to the trout as the
first, the most important of all the industries.
It will no longer yield precedence to any othbr.
it has taken a long, loiuj time lor those whj sus
tained ail the life to gain respectability. Ages
upon ages they have submitte 1 to be called the
lowest class, and to be carried about in armies,
ruled over, transplanted or butchered at the will
of potentates without voice or resistance ; but
they have found out th ir power, aud education
has done it, together with the growth of repub
licanism throughout the world. Some wise
heads foresaw it, but few believed it. Science
worked at tbe problem for a long time, and
added uum rous facilities, but science herseif
Hi i not seem to fully comprehend its grand im
port. Of late, however, she has burnt forth
anew, ex dted berselt to be the lofty teacher of
this new school, and !o! the unlettered peasant
becomes the thrifty farmer. And now he feels
his power, no longer the automatic football of
kings and princess, to build pyramids aud high
ways without wages, but a member of the proud
human race, with inalienable rights* and a
voice in the counsels of the nation.
.j&y se-
Sir Win. H treourt made at Oxford recently
thS most brilliant, as well as the most weighty,
attack on the Beaconsfield Government which
has yat been delivered by any of the Liberal
1-aders. He described the offer of the Turkisa
Government to reform itself, if we would only
urovide it the pecuniary means, as very much
resembling the propos il ‘of some ruined scamp,
who promises to become respectable if you will
only lend him a thousand pounds.’ As for Eng
land, she would say, aud rightly say, like
Cauning’s ‘friend of humanity* to the knife
grinder: T give thee sixpence? I'll see thee
damued first!* The Chtoman E npire was doomed,
and ‘residuary legatee of its fortunes will be
the Power which commands the sympathy of
the populations which will go forth from the
ruins of that Earopean Bastille.’