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EIGHTH PAGE
(Contir • fnm
~»its Into
sft arpi- beside h-r
horn spoon
-fetched a. slice of
l#J a cupboard in one of
(ind taking all in skilled.
Ids, hands clldTshly small.
1 "brown as nuts, she disappeare.I
.ough the door of the staircase.
He waited, looking about the room, and
at this, and at that, with a new inter
est. He took up the book which lay
on the settle; it was a learned volume,
par: of the works of Paracelsus, having
strange figures and diagrams interwov
en with the crabbed Iytitin text. A pas
sage which he deciphered abashed him
with its profundity, and he laid the book
down, and went from one to another ol
the black-framed engravings; from these
to an oval piece in coarse Limoges-
enamel, which hung over the little shelf
of hooks. At length he heard a step
descending form the upper floors, and
presently the girl appeared in the door
way.
"My mother will see you,” she said,
her tone as ungracious as her lttok.
••But you will say •nothing of lodging
here, if it please you. Ho you hear?”
she added, her voice rising to a more im
perious note.
He nodded.
She turned on the lowest step. ‘ She
is bed-ridden.” she muttered hurried!?.
a F if she felt the need of explanation.
"She is not to be disturbed with houss
matters, or who comes or goes. \ ou
understand that, do you?”
He nodded, with a mental reservation,
and followed her up the confined stair
case. Turning sharply at the heal Jf
the first flight he saw before hint a lung
n arrow passage, lighted by a window that
looked to the back. On the left of this
passage which led to a second set of
sairs were two doors, one near the nead
of the lower flight, the other at the
foot of the second. She led him past
both—they were closed—and up the sec
ond stairs and into a room under th?
tiles, a room of good size but wi‘h a
roof which sloped In unexpected places.
A woman lay there comely with the
beauty of advancing years, though weak
and frail if not ill; the woman of whom
he had so often heard his father speak
with gratitude and respect. It was
neither of his father, however, nor of her.
that Claude Mercier thought as he stood
holding Madame Royaume's hand and
looking down at her. For the girl who
had gone before him into the room had
passed to the other side of the bed. and
the look which she and her mother ex
changed as the daughter leant over the
couch and their eyes met, the look of
love and protection on one side, of love
and confidence on the other—that look
and the tone, wondrous and gentle, in
which the girl, 80 curt and abrupt below,
named him—these revealed a bond and an
affection for which the life of his own
family had furnished him with no prece
dent.
For his mother had had many children,
and his father still lived. But these two,
his heart told him as he held Madame
Ro.vaume's shrivelled hand in his. were
alone. They had each but the other,
and lived each in the other, in this room
under the tiles with the deep-set dormer
windows that looked across the Pays oe
Gex to the Jura. For how much that
prospect of vale and mountain stood m
their lives, how often they rose to It
from the same bed, how often looked at
It In sunshine and in shadow with the
house still and quiet below them, he
seemed to know—to guess. He had a
swift mental vision of their lives, and
then Madame Roynumc’s voice recalled
him to himself.
“You are newly come to Geneva?” she
fl*id. gazing at him.
“I arrived yesterday.”
“Yes. yes, of course.” she answered.
She spoke quickly and nervously. “Yes,
you told me so.” She turned to net
daughter and laid her hand on hers as
If she talked more easily so. “Your
father. Monsieur Mercier.” with an ob
vious effort, “is well, I hope*?”
"Perfectly, and he begged me to con-
his grateful remembrances. Those
of my mother also.” the young man
added warmly.
“Yes. he was a good man! I remember
when he was 111, pud M. Oliausse—the
pastor, you know”—the reminiscence ap
peared to agitate her—"was til also '
The girl leant over her quickly. “Mon
sieur Mercier has brought something for
you. mother,” she said.
“Ah?”
"Tils grateful remembrances and this
letter.” Clnude murmured with a blush.
He knew that the letter contained no
more than he had already said; compli
ments, and the hope that Madame Roy
al! me might be able to receive the son
as she had received the father.
“Ah!” Madame Royaume repeated, tak
ing the letter with fingers that shook a
little.
"You shall read It when Monsieur Mer
cier is gone,” her daughter said. And
with that sh* looked across at the young
man. Her eyes commanded him to take
his leave.
But he was resolute. "My father ex
presses the hope.” he said, “that you will
grant me the same privilege of living un
der your roof, madame. which was so
highly prized by him.”
"Of course, of course.” she answered
eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “Anne—
I am not myself, sir. able to overlook
the house—you will see to—this being
done?”
"My dear mother, we have no room! ’
the girl replied; and stooping, hid her
face an instant while she whispered in
her mother's ear. Then aloud. "We are
so full, so—It goes so well,” she con
tinued ^tally. "We never have any room.
I am sure, sir—and again she faced him
across the bed—“It Is a disappointment
to my mother, but—It cannot be helped. ’
"Dear, dear. It is unfortunate!” Ma
dame Royaume exclaimed; and then with
a fond look at her daughter, “Anne man
ages so well!”
"Yet if there be a room at any tlma
vacant?”
7
. on
. Know,
ever leaves
are obliged to
ted the daughter's
he said proudly. “It is
'we cannot turn anyone away,
looking up at Anne, “the son
Messer Mercier? You do not thinK—
do you think that we could put him—’
“A closet however small!” Claude cried.
“Unfortunately the room beyond this
can only be entered through this one
“It is out of the question!” the girl
responded; and for the first time her tone
rang a little hard. The next instant she
seemed to repent of her petulence. for
she stopped and kissed the thin face
sunk in the pillow's softness. 'i nen,
rising. “I am sorry,” she continued* stiff
ly and decidedly. "But it is impossible!”
"Still—if a vacancy should occur?” he
pleaded.
Her eyes met his defiantly. "We will
inform you,” she said.
“Thank you,” he answered humbly.
“Perhaps I am fatiguing your mother? '
“1 think you are a little tired, dear,
the girl said, stooping over her. “A lit
tle fatigues you.”
Madame’s cheeks were flushed; her eyes
shone brightly, even feverishly. Claude
saw this and. having pushed his plea and
his suit as far as he dared, he hastened
to take his leave. His thoughts had been
busy with his chances all the time. Ins
eyes with the woman’s face; yet lie bore
away with him. a curiously vivid picture
of the room, of the bow-pot blooming in
the farther dormer, of the brass skillet
’beside the green boughs which filled the
hearth, of the spinning wheel in the mid
dle of the floor, and the great Bible on
the linen chest beside the !>cd. of Lhe
sloping roof, and a queer triangular cup
board which filled one corner.
At the time, as he followed the gi--l
downstairs, he thought of none of these
things. He only asked himself what mys
tery lay in the bosom of this quiet house,
and what he should say when he stood
in the room below at bay before her. Of
one tiling he was still sure—sure, ay anil
surer, since he had seen her with her
mother,
"The sky might fall, fish fly, and sheep
pursue
The tawny monarch of the Libyan
strand!”
but he lodged here. The mention of his
adversary of last night, which had not
escaped his ear, had only hardened him
in his resolution. The room of Esau—or
was it Louis’ room—must' be his! 11c
must be Jacob the Supplanter.
She did not speak as she
preceded him down the stairj,
and before they emerged one after the
other into the living room, which was
still unoccupied, he had formed his plan.
When she moved toward the outer door
to open it he refused to follow, he stood
still. "Pardon me,” he said, “would you
mind giving me the name of the young
man who admitted me?”
"J do not see—”
“I only want his name.”
“Esau Tissot.”
"And his room—which was it?”
Grudgingly s??f pointed to the nearer of
the two closets, that of which the door
stood open.
“That one?”
"Yes.”
He stepped quickly into it, and sur
veyed it carefully. Then he laid his cap
on tlie low truckle-bed. “Very well,”
be said raising his voice and speaking
through the open door, "I will take it.”
And he came out again.
The girl's eyes sparkled. “If you think,”
she cried, her temper showing in her
face, "that that will do you any good—”
“I don’t think,” he said, cutting her
short, "I take it. Your mother under
took that ] should have the first vacant
room. Tissot resigned this room this
morning. I take it. 1 consider myself
fortunate, most fortunate."
Her color came and went. “If you were
a boor." she cried, “you could not behave
worse!”
“Then I am a boor!”
“But you will find,” she continued, ‘‘that
you cannot force your way into a house
like this. You will find that such things
are not dong in Geneva. 1 will have you
put out!”
“Why?” he asked, craftily resorting to
argument. “When I ask only to remain
and be quiet? Why, when you have, or
tonight will have, an empty room? Why,
when you lodged Tissot, will you not
lodge me? In what am I worse than
Tissot or Grlo?” he continued, ‘‘or—I for
get the other's name? Have I the plague,
or the falling sickness? Am I Papist or
Arlan? What, have I done that I may
not lie in Geneva, may not He in your
house? Tell me. give me a reason, show
raw the cause, and I will go.”
Her anger had died dow r n while he
spoke and while she listened. In its place
the lowness of heart to which she had
yielded when she thought herself alone
before the hearth, showed in every line
of her figure. “You do not know what
you are doing.” she said sadly. And
she turned and looked through the case
ment. "You do not know what you are
asking, or to what .von are coming.”
“Did Tissot know when he came?”
"You are not Tissot,” she answered in
a low tone, "and may fare worse.”
"Or better,” he answered gaily. "And
at worst-^*
"Worse or better, you will repent it,”
she retorted. “You will repent it bit
terly!”
“1 may,” he answered. “But, at least,
you never shall.’
She turned and looked at him at that;
looked at him as If ttTe curtain of apathy
had fallen from her eyes and she saw
him for the first time as he was, a
young man, upright and not uncomely.
She looked at him with her mind as weTi
as her eyes, and seeing felt curiosity
about him, pity for Ma>*Celt her own
pulses stirred by his presence and his
aspect. A faint color, softer than the
storm flag, which had fluttered there a
minute before, rose to her cheeks, her
lips began to Tremble. He feared that
sh« was going to weep, and "That is
settled!” he said cheerfully. “Good!”
and he went into the little room and
brought out his ca.p. “I lay last night
at the ‘Bible and Hand,’ and I must
fetch my cloak and pack.”
She stayed him by a gesture. "One
moment," she stld. “You are deter
mined to—to do this? To lodge here?”
“Firmly,” he answered smilingly.
“Then wait.” She passed by him and,
moving to the fireplace, raised the lid or
the great black pot. The broth inside
was boiling and bubbling to within an
the lip, the steam rose from lt-
fragrant cloud. She took an iron
poon and looked at hpu, a new and
Strange look In her eyes. “Stand where
you are,” she said, "and I will try you,
. if you are fit to come to us or no. Stand,
do y’ou hear!” she - repeated, a note of
excitation, almost of mockery. In her
voice, "where you are whatever happens!
You understand?*’
“Yes, I am to stand here, whatever
happens,” he answered, wondering. What
was she going to no?
She was going to do a thing outside the
limits of his imagination. She dipped
the iron spoon in the pot and, extending
her left arm, deliberately allowed some
drops of the scalding liquor to fall on
the bar? flesh. He saw the arm wince,
saw red blisters spring out on the white
skin, lie caught the sharp indraw of her
breath; but be did not move. Again she
dipped the spoon, looking at him with
defiant eyes, and with the same delibera.
tion s7ie let the stuff fall on the living
flesh. This time the perspiration sprang
out on her brow, her face burned sr.^t
denly hot, her whole frame shrank under
the torture.
"Don’t,” he cried hoarsely. “I will not
bear if! Don't!” And he uttered a cry
half-articulate, like a beast's.
“Stand there!” she said. And still he
stood; stood, his hands clenched and his
lips drawn back from his teeth, while
she dipped the spoon again, and—though
her arm shook now like an aspen and
there were tears of pain in her eyes—let
the dreadful stuff fall a third time.
She was white when she turned to him.
“If you do It again,” he cried furiously,
“I will upset—the cursed pot.”
“I have done,” she said, smiling faint
ly. “1 am not very brave—after all!”
And going to the dresser, her knees trem
bling under her, she poured out some
water and drank It greedily.. The| she
turned to him: “Do you undorsi;|nd?”
she ^aid, with a long tense look. "Are
you prepared? If you come here, you
will see me suffer worse things, things
a hundred times, a thousand times worse
than that. You will see me suffer, and
you will have to stand and see It. You
will have to stand and suffer It. You
will have to stand. If you cannot, do not
come.”
"I stood it,’’ he answered doggedly.
“But there are things flesh and blood
cannot stand. There is a limit—”
"The limit I shall lix,” she said proudly.
“Not you.”
"But you will fix it?"
“Perhaps. At any rate, that is fhe
bargain. You may accept or refuse.
You do not know where I stand, and I
do. You must see and be blind, feel and
be dumb, hear and make no answer, un
less I speak—if you are to come here.”
"But you will speak—some time?”
”1 do not know,” she answered weari
ly. and her whole form wilting, she
looked away from him. “I do not know.
Go now, if you please, and remember!”
CHAPTER m.
THE QUINTESSENTIAL STONE.
The old town of Geneva, cramped for
many generations; within the narrow
corslet of its walls, was not large; ani
it was still high noon when Mercier,
after paying his reckoning at the "Bi
ble and Hand,” and collecting his pos
sessions, found himself again in the Cor-
raterie. A pleasant breeze stirred the
leafy branches which shaded the ram
parts, and he stood a moment, resting
his burden on the breast-high wall, and
gazing across the hazy landscape to the
mountains, beyond which lay Chatillon
and his home.
Yet it was not of his home he was
thinking as he gazed; nor was it his
mother’s or his father's face that the
dancing heat of mid-day mirrored for
him as he dreamed. Oh, happy days
of youth wlien an hour and a face
change all. and a glance from shy eyes,
or the pout of strange lips blinds to the
world and the world's ambitions! Happy
youth! But alas for the studies this
youth had come so far to pursue, for
the pure source and fount of evangelical
doctrine! Alas for the venerable Beza,
pillar and pattern of the faith, whom
he had thirsted to see, and the grave
of Calvin, aim and end of his pilgrim
age! All Geneva, held but one face for
him now. one presence, one gracious per
sonality. A scarlet blister on a round
white arm, the quiver of a girl's lip a-
tremble on the verge of tears—these and
no longing for home, these and no mem
ory of father or mother or the days
of childhood, filled his heart to over
flowing. He dreamed with his eyes on
the hills, but it was not
“Of Providence, foreknowledge, will and
fate.
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge
absolute."
•the things he had come to study; but
of woman's trouble and the secret life
of the house behind him, of which he
was about to form a part.
At length the call of a sentry at the
Porte Tertasse startled him from his
thoughts. He roused himself, and un
certain how long he had lingered he took
up his cloak and bag and. turning, has
tened across the street to the door at
the head of the four steps. He found it
on the latch, and with a confident air.
which belied his real feelings, he pushed
it open and presented himself.
For a. moment, lie fancied that the
room held only one person, a young
man who sat at the table in the mid-
due of the room, and, surprised by the
appearance of a stranger, suspended his
spoon in the air that he mght the bet
ter gaze at him. But when our hero
had set down his bag hehind the door,
and turned to salute the other, he dis
covered his error; and despite himself
he paused in the act of advancing, una
ble to hide his concern. At the table
on the hearth, staring at him in silence,
sat two other men. And one of the two
was Grio.
Mercier paused we have said; he ex
pected an outburst of anger if not an
assault. But a second glance at the
old ruffiian's face relieved him: a stare
of vacant wonder made it plain that
Grio sober retained little of the doings
of Grio drunk. Nevertheless, the siient
gaze of the three—for no one greeted
him—took Claude aback; and it was but
awkwardly and with embarrassment that
he approached the table, and prepared
to add himself to the party. Something
in their looks as well as their silence
whispered him unwelcome. He blushed
painfully, and addressing the young man
at the larger table,
“I have taken Tissot’s room.” he said
shyly. “This is his seat, I suppose.
May I take it?” .And Indicating an
empty bowl and spoon on the nearer
side of the table, he made as If he would
sit down before them.
In place of answering, the young man
looked from him to the two on the
hearth, and laughed—a foolish frightened
laugh. The sound led Mercier*s eye* in
•the same direction, and he took In for
the first time the aspect of the man who
sat with Grio; a man of great height
and bulk, with a large plump face and
small grey eyes. It struck Mercier as
he met the fixed stare of those eyes,
that he had entered, perhaps with less
ceremony than was becoming, and that
he ought to make amends fo* it; and. in
the act of sitting down in the vacant
seat, he turned a.nd bowed politely to
the two at the other table.
“Tflssothis timult, jam peregrintis
adest!" the big man murmured in a
voice at once silky and sonorous. And
then ignoring Mercier. but looking bland
ly at the young man who sat facing
him at the table. “What is this of Tis
sot?” he continued. “Can it be,” with a
side glance at the newcomer, “that we
have lost our—I may not call him our
quintessence or alcahest—rather shall I
say our baser ore. that at the virgin
touch of our philosophical stone blushed
into ruddy gold? And burned ever
brighter and hotter in her presence!
Tissot gone, and with him all those fair
experiments! Is it possible?”
The young man's grin showed that he
savoured a jest. But, ”1 know nothing,”
he muttered sheepishly. “'Tis new io
me."
‘‘Tissot gone!” the big man repeated
in a tone humorously melancholy. “No
more shall w©
"Upon his viler metal test our purest
pure
And see him transmutations three en
dure!’
Tissot gone! And you, sir, come in his
place. What change Is here! A stran
ger. I believe?”
“In Geneva, yes,” Claude answered,
wondering and a little abashed. The
man spoke with an air of power and
weight.
“And a student, doubtless—In otir Acad
emia? Like our Tissot? Yes. It may
be that we have gained and not lost.
And that qualities finer and more sus
ceptible underlie an exterior more pol
ished and an ea.se more complete—” he
bowed, "than our poor Tissot could
boast! But here is
‘Chir atone angelical whereby
All secret potencies to light are brought!’
Doubtless." with a. wave of the hand he
indicated the girl who had that moment
entered—“you have met before?”
”1 could not otherwise,” Claude answer
ed coldly—he began to resent both the
man and his manner—"have engaged the
lodging. And be rose to take from the
girl’s lhand the broth she was bringmg.
She. on her side, made no sign that she
noticed a change; or. that it was no
longer Tissot she served. She gave him
what he needed, mechanically and with
out meeting his eyes. Then turning
to the others, she waited on them after
the same fashion. For a minute or two
there was silence in the room.
A strange silence, Claude thought, lis
tening and wondering.: as strange and
embarrassing as the talk of the man who
sinared with Grio the table by the fire
place; as strange as the atmosphere
about them, which hung heavy, to his
fancy, and oppressive, fraught with un
intelligible railleries, with subtle jes's
and sneers. The girl went to and fro.
from one to another, her face pale, her
manner quiet. Had he not seen her
earlier with another look in her eyes,
had he not detected a sinister some
thing underlying the big. man's good-
humour, he would have learned nothing
from her; he would have fancied that
all was as it should be in the house and
in the company.
As it was he understood nothing. But
he felt tlhat a something was wrong,
that a something overhung the party.
Seated as he was he couid not with
out turning see the faces of tilt two
at the other table, nor watch the girl
wlhen she watted on them. But the
suspicion of a smile which hovered on
the lipsf of the young man who sat op
posite—and whom he could see—kept him
on his guard. Was a trick in prepara
tion? Were they about to make him pay
his footing? No, for they 'had had no
notice of his coming. They could not
have laid the mine. Then why that
smile? And why—this silence?
On a sudden he caught the sound of
a movement belhind him, the swirl of a
petticoat and the clang of a pewter plate
as it fell noisily to the floor. His com
panion looked up swiftly, the smile on
his face 'broadening to a snigger. And
Claude turned too as quickly as he could
and looked, his face hot, his mind sus
pecting. a prank to be played on him; to
his astonishment he discovered noth
ing to account for the laugh. The gil
appeared to be bending over the embers
on the hearth, the men to be engaged
with their meal; and baffled and per
plexed he turned again and, with ears
■burning, bent over his plate. He was
glad when the stout man broke the si
lence for the second time.
“Aigrlppa,” he. said, "has this of amal
gams. That whereas gold, silver, tin
are valuable in themselves, they attain
when mixed with mercury to a certain
light and sparkling character, as who
would say the bubbles on wine, or the
light resistance of beauty, which in the
one case and the other add to the charm.
Such to our simple pleasures”—he con
tinued with a rumble of deep laughter—
“our simple pleasures .which 1 must now
also call our pleasures of the past, was
our Tissot! Who, running fluid hither
and t'hither. where resistance might be
least of use, was as it were the ultimate
sting of enjoyment. Is It possible that
we have in our friend a new Tissot?”
The x o,ln 8 man at the table giggled.
"I did not know Tissot!" Claude replied
sharply and with a burning face—they
were certainly laughing at him. "And
therefore I cannot say.”
"Mercury, which completes the amal
gam,” fihe stout man muttered absently
and as if to himself, “when heated sub
limes over!” And then turning after a
moment's silence to the girl. “What says
our Quintessential stone to this?" he
continued. “Her Tissot gone will she
still work her wonders? Still of base
Grios and the weak alloys red bride
grooms make? Still—kind Anne, your
hand!”
TO BE CONTINUED.
Thrilling Events That Led
Up to the Momentous 4th of July
MANNERS.
Manners are of more importance than
laws. In a great measure the laws de
pend on them. The law touches us but
here and there and now and then. Man
ners are what vex or soothe, corrupt or
purify, exalt or debase, barbarize or re
fine us, by a constant, steady, unifom.
insensible operation, like that of the air
we breathe. They give their whole color
to our lives. According to their quality
they aid morals, they supply them or
they totally destroy them.
(Continued from Second Page.)
the guaranteed right of free trade was
repudiated, and the navigation act rigid
ly enforced.
SOUTH CAROLINA.
It was not only in the more northern
eoionies of England that oppression and
extortion were rife. In 1689, affairs had
come to such a pass in South Carolina
that the governor called out the militia,
and proclaimed martial law. He did not
stop to recall the fact thait the militia
were the people whom he sought to pun
ish. Unwittingly he had placed himself
in the position of a child who threatens
what he cannot perform. There was no
response to his orders, and he had no
troops to establish martial law. When
James the Second abdicated, and Wil
liam and Mary ascended the English
throne, this revolution in England led
to a similar upheaval in nearly all the
colonies. The governors appointed by-
king James were deposed, and a general
upsetting of existing condition took
place. Tills revolution in New England
excited great alarm in old England, as
indicating the daring spirit of the colo
nies- It was prophetic indeed, the shad
ow of coming events. Only one thing
prevented a general uprising against
the unnatural mother country, and that
was the numerical weakness of the
down-trodden colonies. There were only
about two hundred thousand colonists at
this time, Massachusetts leading off
with forty-four thousand, and Carolina,
which term included the coast country
down to the Florida line, brought up
the procession with eight thousand.
And thus the tale of oppression upon
oppression, injustice upon injustice, was
written all along the line of the century-
preceding the “day we celebrate.” But
at last it reached its culminating point,
in the year 1775. It was then that the
long-suffering colonists wrote the word
“Finis” at the foot of the long list of
English oppressions. By this time there
were nearly three millions of them, and
they began to realize the power of united
resistance to tyranny. An increase of
the already heavy tea tax, was the last
straw that broke the patient camel's
back. A great public meeting was held
in Philadelphia in October, 1773, and it
denounced “whosoever shall aid or abet
in unloading, receiving, or vending the
tea” as ‘‘an enemy to his country.”
Town meetings were held all over the
country-, in which the Philadelphia reso
lutions were indorsed.
When the tea ships arrived at Boston
tlieir captains were warned not to at
tempt to land their tea. They would
have left the port, but the governor re
fused to give them a clearance, so that
they could depart, until their cargoes
were landed. Every reader of history
knows how the tea-war ended, and how
a band of devoted patriots, disguised as
Mohawk Indians, boarded the ships, and
emptied their cargoes of three hundred
and forty-seven chests of costly teas
into the waters of Boston harbor. It is
to be hoped that the fishes enjoyed their
great dish of cold tea more than the
owners did. Other tea ships arrived at
other ports. Some of them were refused
Pilotage through the channels. From
other ships that reached their destina
tions, the tea was treated lik© unto that
of the Boston ships. One ship succeeded
In landing its tea in Charleston, but it
was stored in damp cellars, and was
rendered worthless.
The colonists were now thoroughly
aroused. They had at last been driven
to bay. The glorious Fourth was al
most born. In May, 1774, General Gage,
with four regiments of soldiers, was
sent from England as governor of Mas
sachusetts. Far from being overawed
by this show of force, the study colonists
sent Paul Rever, a Boston mechanic, and
a "Son of Liberty.” to New York and
Philadelphia to ask their cooperation in
armed resistance. Public meetings were
held at Providence and Newport, sug
gesting a continental congress. A com
mittee in New York proposed “a con
gress of deputies from the colonics."
and sent a message to Boston to urge
the. committee there to fix a time and
place for its meeting. Similar resolu
tions were adopted in Philadelphia. Bal
timore and other cities. The legislature
of Connecticut condemned the last acts
of parliament, and recommended a con
tinental congress. The Virginia honse,
and many other of the colonies appointed
a fast day-. The royal governor there
upon dissolved the house, but that did
not deter many of the members from
meeting, and publicly- declaring that an
attack on one of the colonies was an
attack on all.
THE EARLY BOYCOTT.
Jn Massachusetts, the general court,
recommended entire abstinence in using
British goods, and asked Governor Gage
to appoint a fast day-. He refused, anJ
the court proceeded to fix one itself, and
passed a resolution citing that a colonial
congress was necessary in order to con
sult on the prevailing state of the coun
try, and suggesting that it be held in
Philadelphia, on September I. When the
governor heard of these bold proceedings,
ho dissolved thp general court, and thus
ended the last session of the great coin i
of Massachusetts. Meantime, public
meetings held in Boston and other places,
had adopted the non-importation and non-
nnnsumpfion agreement. All the colonies
joined hands in stern resistance to their
tyrants, and appointed delegates to a con
tinental congress.
This, the first congress of the colorne.-.
met on the 5th of September. 1774. There
were present fifty-three delegates from
twelve provinces. Georgia not being rep
resented. They met in Philadelphia, and
pe.vton Randolph was elected president of
the congress. It was enthusiastically re
solved that Massachusetts should be sup
ported In her brave stand against the
common enemy-, A "declaration of colo
nial rights” was adopted, claiming the
right of self-government, and enumerat
ing eleven acts of parliament passed since
1760. which derogated from the rights of
the colonies. The “American association ’
was founded, denouncing the slave trade,
and pledging its members to non-intei-
course with Great Britain. Ireland ana
the West Indies, and to non-nonsumption.
The first continental congress also
adopted an afldress to the king, a oetf-
tion. rather, a "memorial to the inhabi
tants of British America,” and an ad
dress to the “inhabitants of Canada.” The
signature of the "American association.
October 20, 1774, was the actual begin
ning of the mighty union of today.
On the 18th of April, Governor Gage
secretly dispatched a force of 800 men
to seize a store of arms and ammunition
gathered together by the patriots. The
attempt was discovered by the Americans,
and when the British reached Lexington
at dawn, they found seventy minute men
drawn up to oppose them. On their re
fusal to disperse, Pitcairn, their com
mander. orderod his men to fire. There
and then was shed the first blood of the
revolution. The fourth was almost born.
It was a foregone conclusion that sev
enty militia could not successfully resist
800 seasoned veterans. Eight patriots
were killed, several wounded, and the rest
scattered. Under the circumstances, no
other result was possible. The Britisn
then marched on to Concord, destroyed
the colonial stores, and hastily returned
to Lexington, harrassed all the way oy
the minute men and but for the timely
reinforcement of 900 more of their com
rades, few of the invaders would have
returned to Boston.
And now the struggle had begun in
earnest. The continental army became a
reality, and thousands of determined men
who had been secretly drilling for months,
sprang to arms, resolved to win their
liberty or die. The second continental
congress met in Philadelphia in May,
1775, and voted to resist further tyranny-,
and to raise an army of 20.000 men for
that purpose. Colonel George Washing
ton was unanimously eleeted “general and
commander in chief of the armies of the
united colonies, and of all forces now
raised or to be raised by them.” Other
generals to serve under him were ap
pointed. Articles of union and confeder
ation were agreed upon by the delegates
from the entire thirteen colonies.
By- this time British troops to the nnm.
her of 12.000, and several war vessels,
had arrived at Boston. Then came the
Battle of Bunker Hill, which is a mis
nomer. by the way, for while it was in
tended to be such. General Prescott, tile
American commander, made a mistaKe,
and mistook Breed's hill for the Bunker
hill he had been prdered to fortify. It
was a fatal mistake, for while the lat
ter was protected from, the former was
exposed to, the fire from the ships in
the harbor, and that meant all the dn-
ference between victory and defeat.
Every-one knows the story of the first real
battle of the revolutionary war. The
Americans were 1.000 in number, the
Uritish 3,000, and the latter were sup
ported by the fire of their ships. Yet
they were repulsed twice, and hut for the
failure of ammunition, would have been
the third time. As it was, the Britisn
lost 1.000 men in killed and wounded, and
the Americans less than half as many,
but the brave General Warren was in
cluded among the killed.
Battle after battle, event after event
now came crowding together. The horn
ing of "The Day We Celebrate” was
very close at hand. On the 7th of June,
1776. Richard Henry Lee. of Virginia,
introduced a resolution Into congress de
claring that "the united colonies are and
ought to be, free and independent states.
That they are absolved from all allegi
ance to the British crown, and that their
political connection with Great Britain,
is and ought to be, totally dissolved. ’
Seven colonies voted in favor of the reso
lution. and a committee, composed of
Thomas Jefferson. of Virginia: John
Adams, of Massachusetts: Benjamin
Franklin, of Pennsylvania; Roger Sher
man. of Coneoticut, and Robert R. Liv
ingston. of New- York, was appointed io
prepare a deelaration. Jefferson was
chosen chairman, and assigned to draw-
lip the momentous document.
On the 1st of July, the declaration now
so famous, was submitted to congress,
and adopted by- a large majority. On the
4th of July, the “Oeclaratlon of Tndepond
enee of the United States of America”
was unanimously and formally adopted by-
congress. The great declaration was pro
claimed throughout the land, and every*
where was greeted with cheers, hells'
ringing, artillery salutes, and general io-
joioings. The Deelaration of Independ
ence was a wise and well-timed stop. At
^ne
bold stroke i t transformed the war
from a contest between subjects ant
their acknowledged sovereign, to that of
a free nation battling for its existence
against a powerful enemy. And it en
abled father nations to assist and recog
nize if as such. The war was now not
a rebellion, but a revolution. The Declar
ation of Independence, then, was an a’l
of wisdom. Tt had been a long, long
time a-hornlng, but when it did come to
life. It came full grown, and full of
majesty and glory, pointing to a magnifi
cent future among the mighty nations o 4
the w-orld.
Fallible Typos Make Writers
Swear and Jtngels Weep ||
M
(Continued from Second Page.) ; &!
that time "from a high rate of moral- Ijl
ity."
A letter more or a letter less makes
strange havoc of a sentence. Early- in
the French revolution the Abbe Sieves,
in cor rooting the proof slreerts of a.
pamphlet in defense of his political con
duct, read: ‘‘1 have abjured the repub
lic”—a misprint for adjured. “Wretch!”
he cried to the printer. “Do y-ou wish to
send me to the guillotine?” What is
treason, once asked a wag, but reason
to a “t”?—which “t” an accident of the
press may displace with awkward ef
fect. On the other hand, a printer who
omitted the first letter of Mr. Caswell's
name might have pleaded that it was
"as well" without the "C.”
ERRORS IN THE BIBLE.
Pope Sixtus V, in orrli r to exclude
every possible error from an edition or
the Vulgate Bible, whicTf he assayed to
publish, personally superintended the
painting of every- sheet, yet It swarmed
with errors. Heretical printers made
great fun of this demonstration of papal
infallibility, especially of the bull prefixed
to the tirst vwltnne excommunicating all
printers who in reprinting the w-ork
should alter the text.
An ediTion of the Bible printed at the
Clarendon press in 1617 is known as
"vinegar Bible” because in the title of
the twentieth chapter of Luke the para
ble of the vineyard is printed "parable
of the vinegar ” T’erhaps the most fear
ful error of the press that ever occurred
was caused b»- the letter “e” dropping
out of the following passage in a form
of the “Book of Comthon Prayer.” ,> ©
shall all be changed in the twinkling of
an eye.” When the book appeared the
passage, to the horror of the devout read
er, wan thus printed: shall all be
hanged in the 'twinkling of an eye.”
Mistakes in punctuation, such as the-
omission or misplacing of a commV
sometimes greatly change the sense of
a passage, as when a compositor nrobn
bly a crusty old bachelor, in settin- tin
the toast: “Woman—without her 'man
would be a savage," put'the comma in
the wrong place and made the sentence
read: "Woman, without her man would
be a savage.”
During the last half centurv there has
been a remarkable improvement i n re
gard to errors of the press. A writer to
day may use the word “eclectic” with full
assurance that It will not be metamor
phased by th© typographical i mp , nto
electric,’ and may take llp a P proof
f u°aa a V y r !i"* ?tab,e Publisher without
shuddering with fear that, in rtnna'Z
phrase, all his roses have turned into
noses, all his angels into angles and HI
rost aPP,neSS ,nt ° papp,nes — 1 Philadelphia