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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.’