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A sailor for sea.
And a -minster for tea,
\ lnwyer for talk and a soldier for fighting;
A baby for noise,
And a circus for boys,
\inl n typewriter man to do autograph writ
A banker for chink.
And a printer for ink,
\ leopard for spots, and a wafer for slicking;
A crack baseball dinger,
An opera singer,
\ shotgun, a mule and a choir for kicking,
BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY.
Copyrighted by the Author, and published
by arrangement with him.
mil ip had been srmpiy disgusted at first,
hut there seemed a terrible leer in the drunken
,\< ■■-. Could it be the man had come to ex
p'sehim? What was the use of struggling
;i. um l bis destiny anv longer? If he qould
have gone yesterday, he would have saved
all risks. But he lmd waited just too long.
Curran had returned to claim his wife. Jane
Ellingsworth had discovered everything.
And now this (biddings in his drunkard’s
foolishness was threatening what ruin he
“You are not going to do anything rash
are you." said Philip, dropping his eyes in
But ( I hidings came close to him and laid
his hand on his shoulder. Then he put his
face close to Philip’s, with a drunken man’s
false measure of distance. The young man
writhe* 1 al his touch, and held liis breath to
avoid biking the hot fume? of bad liquor the
fellow exhaled. But he did not dare to anger
the low creature.
“Did you think,” continued Giddings with
gushing reproachfulness, “that I aint got
any conscience? You’re doin’ wrong, Mr.
Breton. I aint got no right—no right to
let it, go on. Did you think I aint got no
Philip shook him off and his face grew so
terrible that the fellow winced as he had
done before at that look.
“Don’t strike—don’t kill me, Phil — Mr.
Breton, I was only jokin’—can’t you tell
when a man’s jokin’. Got any money ’bout
clothes, say >‘so; ’in awful hard up. 1 wouldn’t
hurt you; your altogether too nice feller.”
He leered affectionately at the young man,
then suddenly he winked frightfully.
Philip threw him a roll of bills. It was
the last blood money the scoundrel would
ever draw. By to-morrow morning Philip
Breton and his wife would be beyond the
reach of harm, or beyond the reach of help,
one or the other. “There is $100; take it and
go, I have business. '’
“Ten, twenty, and twenty makes thirty,
ten, and twenty and twenty, here aint but
SBO. Thought I’s too drunk to coun’ did
“There is ?100 there.”
“’S lie. Yer takin’ vantage me cause I’m
Tliis creature must be avtoiy if it cost SI,OOO.
He crowded another S2O bill into the fellow’s
“Now go, or you'll stay longer than you
Biddings dried his tears and gathered his
limp joints together to go. But he insisted
on Philip’s shaking hands.
But even after Giddings had got into the
hall Philip heard the felloAv muttering to
himself. He stepped hurriedly to the door of
his office to catch the word, but could not.
If Philip had been a little quicker he would
have heard this:
“Somethin’ up, I ain’t so drung but I ca’
see that. Guess ’sil g’uptothe hoy’s house.
His wife ’ll know me, he, he.”
Would Bertha never come? If they escaped
now it must be but by a hair’s breadth. Ruin
would he close upon them. For the adjust
ment of a ribbon she would sacrifice every
thing; It seemed a great while since Curran
had left the office for the labor meeting, and
he had not so far to go. Something might
have delayed the terrible disclosure for a few
moments, but by this time he must surely
have heard the whole story of his shame and
dishonor. It would stir him to madness. His
noble eyes would flash lightnings, and thun
derbolts of hate and scorn would drop from
his lips. No human being could stand against
thjulivine dignity of such a man’s righteous
wrath. Philip fancied the mob sweeping up
the road behind this outraged husband, seek
ing out his wife for the doom that would
satisfy his mad thirst for vengeance. Now,
perhaps, they were bursting in the gates, now
breaking down the oaken door. And Philip
could not be there to protect the beautiful
woman*who had only' sinned through love for
him. How the color would flee her cheeks as
she looked out on the pitiless faces of the
frenzied mob. There was no arm now to
j&ield her, none but Curran’s, whose love was
“w embittered into hate. There was no pity
in his white, wasted face, only insulted love,
only scorn that could grind her fair life, with
out one ■throb of tenderness, beneath his feet.
IVhy del she not come! Philip was almost
wild with mingled terror and hope. He
walked the room like a caged lion. Now ho
rushed to the door and glanced desperately
up and down the street.
His horses were champing their bits at her
door, but the light ye* burned in her cham
ber. There was hardly time to catch tho
train at the Lockout station. The wild mob
with the maddened lover, the most terrible
of enemies, at their head would be at her
door in a moment. Still other dangers Philip
did not guess threw a gathering shadow
across her path. But she lingered yet.
A POPULAR LEADER.
Market hall was full of excited workmen
when Curran pushed the door open and
stepjx'd in. Some would be orator had been
trying to voice the wrongs of the people, but
when the whisper ran along the seats that
Curran was at the door every head was
turned. Then, as if by a common impulse,
the whole audience rose to their feet, and the
building seemed to the cheer
that burst from the brawny throats. Here
was an orator indeed, a man who could sot
before them their sufferings and wring their
hearts with self pity; who could make each
*oul of them wonder at his own patience.
He made His way slowly up the aisle with
simple greetings for his friends, as they
stretched out their grimj’ hands to him. But
his smile was so sad and hopeless that every
glad fdee sobered as he passed. ’ He mounted
the platform and tunned his face toward
Drim. He seemed but the .ghost of his
former magnificent manhood, but tlie people
cheered him again* and those in rear
leaped upon their seatslh the eagerness to see
>heir hero. Then all held their breath to lis
ten; even the girls in the gallery stopped
■h'*ir excited whispering while they waited
H>r his grand ringing tones that had thrilled
! Jbe faintest hearts so many times before,
o ould he never begin?
“What is this meeting for?” >
The orator his coming had interrupted,
Was only too glad to explain.
“We don’t get our rights. We get a little,
but that’s all, and we mean to fetch - tjje
/ouug boss to his milk to-morrow; don't we,
A shout of.eager assent went up from tftp
crowd. Then all was still again. J'fow would
com * the torrent of words of fnwn<\ Ytes,
Curi an had stepped forward to tnc- very edge
the platform, in his old habit. Bui who
''as the fellow with bandaged hind pushing
ms way so rudely up the main a*sle, as iijlui'
buce tidings? It must be ill tidingsdo ako
him in such haste. But Curran had begun tu
“You are making a mistake, my frienas
r groat mistake. The young master has done
weK by* you, and he will do better, if you
will give him time to think. Such mighty
ideas as have got intA his mind can’t be
Stopped. They will not let him halt long; he
must be swept forward. But you must wait
for him. You have waited for your cruel
and heartless masters thousands of years.
Will you only' show yourselves impatient and
insolent to the first one who shows himself
kind toward y ou? Do you want to make his
name an example and a warning for bis
class? 1 have heard their scoffs and taunts
already—the air is full of them. Look, they
say, at tin* way the people treat the man who
tries to help fhem. Friends, you are making
a terrible mistake.”
iJM vf kk-m.
V x\ V
But Curran had begun to speak.
The light of the mail’s noble genius had
flushed bis pale cheeks and flashed beauti
fully in his steel blue eyes. His voice, that
had seemed weak and unsteady as he be
gan, rang out its bell like tones again as he
saw the sullen faces soften under liis match
“He has made your village blossom by his
low*; he has brought smiles to your weary
children’s faces; he has planted hope in a
thousand desperate hearts. Do you ask me how
I know? I see it in your eyes. I see it in the
way your lieads’rest on your broad shoulders.
And will you use your new manhood to do
him injury ?”
But the man with- the bandaged head lmd
reached the platform, and at this very mo
ment, when the orator paused to let his
meaning sink into the hearts of the people,
he touched Curran on the slioulaer and whis
pered a few hurried words in his ear.
The people saw their hero’s face blanch.
Fie turned to the fellow with a look that
would break a man’s heart, and seemed to be
asking him a question. As the agitator lis
tened to the repl} r his knees trembled under
him and he sank into a chair, and still tho
messenger of evil bent over him and kept
whispering with poisonous breath into his
ear. At last Bailes stood back from his vic
tim, w r ho bowed his head upon liis hands.
Curran’s whole body' shook with the violence
of his passion.
The inert people waited. They knew noth
ing else to do. Their hero might h ire died
before them, they would never have thought
to stir from their seats. But he rose at last,
and Bailes grinned diabolically' behind him.
They wmuld hear another story now.
“Friends, you have heard wlmt I said.”
He spoke as if a great weight was upon him
and his voice came slowly. “I repeat it, be
patient with y'our young master ; he means
well by you.”
But Bailes rushed forward and, tearing the
bandages from his head, threw them upon the
platform at his feet. Disease had settled in
his bruises and his face was frightfully
swollen mid disfigured. Ho might have been
a ghoul or a gnome instead of a human
“Revenge him, men,” he screamed, throw
ing up his arms, “if you have any spirit in
you. I have just told him—some of you
liew it—how that boy has stole his wife and
spit on the laws, as if they were not for the
rich like him.”
It was more like a groan than a shout that
went up from the crowd before him, which
only waited a word from the bowed, broken
man they' loved, to become a bloodthirsty'
mob. Would he give them that word? He
had leaped to his feet and thrown out his
long right arm in its grandest gesture, and
the murmur of the people died down. His
face was as white as a dead man’s, an ashy
white, but his eyes flashed lightning.
“Whose wrong is it then, this hideous crea
ture’s or mine ? I will settle my own griev
ances, I need no mob to right me.” Then
Curran paused a moment. When he began
again it was in a lower tone. “Besides, the
man is wrong,” his voice trembled like a
child’s. “I have no—no,” he almost broke
down, “I have no wife —Ia am not well,
I must go to my bed, but before I go I want
to be sure y'ou will make no mistake to-night
or to-morrow.” He folded his arms across
his broad chest in a sublime effort of self
controL His blood boiled in mad fever, every
moment was worth a world to him, agonizing
pictures floated before his dimmed vision, but
he would not stir from his post till he had
conquered this mob. “Philip Breton ha 3
shown himself fair to you, be fair with him.
If he never did another thing for you—he—he
has y'et deserved your—y'our patience. You
will excuse me now, I will see you to-morrow,
but I need rest. Can I depend on you?” He did
not even look at them; liis attitude, as he
waited with downcast eyes, was of a man
who talks in his sleep.
“Yes—yes,” shouted the people, and then
he turned and stepped off from the platform.
He came down the aisle very strangely. At
first he would hurry and notice no one. Then,
ns if by a mighty effort, he would walk very
slowly, then faster again. Then he would stop
short and put out his hand to some perfect
Many eyes watched him curiously when he
separated from his eager friends at the door
of hall and walked rapidly away. If
CurrSti had turned off to the road that led to
Philip Breton’s house on the hill he would
not have gone far alone, but he did not even
look that way so long as the half tamed mob
could see him. And the people scattered in
disappointment to their homes.
But Curran is no longer walking in liis first
direction; he has turned on his heel and mile
a route for himself across the fields. Flis faco
is pointed toward the lights that yet shine
down at him from the stone house on the hill.
And the roads are not straight enough for
the ernuid he is on, nor is walking fast
enough, he breaks into a run. Now he falls
over a low fence so violently that a limb
might have been broken, but he only loses his
hat anil runs on, his long hair shaking down
over his pale set face as lie runs. His breath
comes like the puffing of a locomotive; he
can hear his heart throb louder than his foot
What Joes he seek? What will he do when
he looks again on his faithless and dishonored
wife mid on the man who has put this dead
liest shame upon him? Punishment can wipe
out nothing, vengeance never assuaged oik*
[>ang of human anguish yet. But mercy or
pity or reason are fled from Iris maddened
soul to-night, while the furies whip him on.
TOO FOND A HUSBAND.
The drunken lawyer very nearly fell as he
tried to step off the counting room piazza,
and almost made up liis mind it would be
more desirable to lie down in some soft spot
rffid'go to sleep, than take the long walk he
had se.t himself. But the cool breeze seemed
to refresh him marvelously, and in another
moment he despised tlie green hollow under
the elm that had looked so inviting, and
hurried up toward Philip Bretonis house.
He shook his head wisely as he walked. It
took a pretty smart man to get ahead Of
Jjhn Giddings, drunk or sober. The young
mfll owncy wasn’t nearly as frightened as
usual. Something was in the wind. He
ought to have watched him closer lately, but
Gkldihgs concluded he was in. good time yet
frith Breton at one end of the village, his
wif% at the ether, and himself, the acute
lawyer, between them.
The lawyer had walked as far as Silas
Ellingsworth s house, when he caught sight
o£ a pair of horses on a fast trot, drawing a
close coupe. Elegant pairs and chariots of
that description were not so common in
BretonviHe a.- to make it doubtful who might
own this one, and besides it must have been
an occasion of peculiar necessity that called
for such unaristocratie haste. Giddings was
perfectly delighted with his own sagacity.
He knew human nature pretty well. When
a man gets another in an unpleasant situa
tion, he must count on the unfortunate
struggling to escape. If it happens to be a
woman, he need not l>e so watchful—women
fire all fatalists. But it takes a pretty smart
man to get ahead of John Giddings.
“Whoa, whoa, I say.” The lawyer had
thrown himself infrontof the exe’ted horses,
and the driver had to pull up to keep from
running over him. “\\ hoa, I say.”
Then he stepped to the door of the carriage
and turning the l*nob threw it wide open.
The moonlight revealed a woman surrounded
with carpet bags and shawls. A thick brown
veil concealed her features, but Mr. Giddings
took off his hat to her.
“Mrs. Breton, I beiieve.”
“Why yes,” she did not recognize him,
“but lam in a hurry,” she said nervously
“Drive on Henry.”
“No, you don’t,” insisted Giddings, mount
ing the steps. “I guess you don't know me.”
His liquor began to overcome him again,
“name’s Giddings. aint goin’ fur, are you?”
“To Europe,” she answered quickly, recog
nizing him at last. “I have no further occa
sion for your services, I have paid you,
“Not s’much as t'our second husband's paid
me Since,” he gurgied. “If you’re goin’ so
far, guess 111 go to, I like your family, Miss
“Drive on, I command you,”she screamed,
and the horses started. Giddings lurched
forward, and Bertha put out her white hands
and tried to push him back. He clutched,
with an oath, at something to hold to, but
she loosened her India shawl and the man
carried it with him into the ditch. But he
lea[>ed to his feet.
“Hold! stop! police! police!” but Giddings
had no sooner spoken than the village police
man laid his hand on his arm.
“Here I am, sir, what’ll you have?”
“Stop that carriage; arrest that woman,
she is a criminal.” Giddings had shaken off
the policeman’s grasp and started to run after
“You must be very drunk,” said the other,
overtaking him, “that is Mr. Breton’s wife.”
“I know that,” screamed the lawyer, “and
I tell you to stop her, let me go.”
“More likely you’re the criminal. Hallo,
what you doing with that Indy shawl. Guess
I’ll have to lock you up. Come along quiet,
But Giddings was perfectly frantic. He
fought with his feet and hands, and with his
teeth, kicking, tearing and biting like a wild
“Don’t let her escape, I say. never mind
me, I’ll give you a thousand dollars. I’ll tear
your heart out, you villain. Stop her, stop
her!” Tho officer grew angry at last, and
drew his billet, but still the fellow struggled
and screamed like a wild creature, till blow
after blow paralyzed his arms, and finally
stretched him unconscious and bleeding on
“Tremens,” growled the policeman, as he
lifted him to his feet soon after,.and led him
along, subdued at last.
But a woman had stood in her window as
the carriage had rolled by, and she had rec
ognized the equipage, too. A sudden change
came over her face.
“Where n - e you going, Jennie?” Her hus
band looked up calmly from his paper.
“Out a minute,” she hardly looked at him,
“that is all.”
“But it is almost 9 o'clock, my dear, what
can you want out?”
Her breath came fast, and two bright red
spots burned in her cheeks. Mr. Ellingsworth
had never seen her so pretty. He must keep
her so a few moments. Fie stepped to the
door and turned the key, then he put it in his
pocket and threw himself back on liis chair
She faced him with flashing eyes.
“Flow dare you—am 1 your slave? I w'ant
to go out.”
Her husband settled down cozily in his
seat, and smiled his old brilliant smile. She
had never seen him laugh any more than the
rest of his acquaintances. Fie might, per
haps, have laughed before an intimate, but
men like Silas Ellingsworth have no inti
“How lovely you are when you are angry.
I see 1 have made a mistake in being su ami
able with you. What treats I have lost.
Why, you are better than an actress, my
dear. Such coloring as yours does not hurt
Precious time was flying; the carriage had
rolled away out of sight; her victim hail out-,
witte<l her —her hate would be balked for
ever, and all for her husband’s foolish
caprice. She stamped her foot at him. “I
must go.” There was yet time to rouse the
villagers, and fetch back the fugitives from
justice. Oh, what devil of stupidity had
possessed her wise husband to-night? “Give
me the key.” She had come close to him, but
she did not scream when she was angry, her
voice grew low and almost hoarse, “or 1 will
leave you forever. ”
He had laid aside his paper now, with quite
a serious air, and Jane felt vaguely fright
ened; she hud never seen him solier with her.
Could he do any more than others when they
are angry? She did not reason about it; she
only began to be afraid of her own words.
His was the only nature in the world could
have tamed her so completely.
Every moment Philip Breton’s carriage
was bearing the woman Jane hated to safety
and peace tiiat her false heart had never de
served. But there wen* fleeter horses in Bre
tonville than his; they could be pursued; they
could be overtaken and dragged back in
greater ignominy than ever, it would bp
more terrible for Bertha even than if the
blow had come while she sat serene in her
own home. To be overtaken in flight would
cap her shame. Jane threw herself into her
husband’s arms. She kissed his eyes, his
mouth, his white neck; she covered his
smooth hands with kisses; twining her arms
about his neck she lavished the tenderest of
carressing epithets on him. The % she dryw
herself away. Her black hair had been j tart
ly loosened, and as she stood hung well down
her flushed cheeks. She had raised her hands
and clasped them over her bosom; her lips
parted; surely no human being can resist
such wistful beauty as hers.
“Please let me go.”
But before he could answer she heard a
noise like thunder and rushed to the window.
She sees nothing, but the sound comes on
nehrer and nearer; it comes from the hill.
Something white gleams in the moonlight.
“What do you see?” asked Mr. Ellingsworth
carelessly, returning to liis newspaper.
She holds her breath. Nearer it comes,
Philip's white horse Joe on a mad gallop.
But Philip is not upon him. Who is that
rider, with long, uncovered hair and pale,
haggard face? He strikes the maddened ani
mal every moment for better speed, though
now they seem flying faster than the wind.
The man is Curran. Let him be his own
THE OF HAPPINESS.
The Breton carriage had passed the last
house in the village, when Philip leaned out
for one last look at the home of his childhood
and the scene oi the only work he should ever
do. He was almost a boy yet; it seemed
only a few days since he had looked at the
great world only as a play ground. It was a
short work L e had done in the few days of
jhi.s manhood, and even that had ' been con
demned. Dear old mills, with their bold
towers and massive walls, but his no longer.
His heritage was sold, his birthright lost. He
turned his eyys away; it was more than be
could bear. Uo the hill back above the vil
lage he saw for the last time, as the road
*u>und off toward Lockout, his house, that
was. “Deserted” seemed wri -tea on its stone
walls. It had never looked so noble to bun,
aso nr of hate seemed to float aoove ft. He
could see the window of the room where
was born, but; for what a worthless life.
“Good-by.” he murmured. The road as it
followed the winding river made another
turn, and tho lights of the village were shut
awi%' Rom liis misty eyes.
The hors*s were trotting -t the’r best.
There was none too much time.
It was far better than he had hoped. The
dangers bad gathered so thickly, there had
seemed at one time hardly more than a chance
for escape. Peril seemed on every hand,
enemies to spring from every covert, and
stretch out their hand .to stop the fugitives.
But the village was far vhind now. A few
moments more and the steaming horses would
draw up at the Lockout station, and they
would lx* whirled away faster than any pur
suer to peace and safety and honor.
“How odd it all is. setting out in this way
as if we were eloping.’’
Philip was reaching forward to take her
hand, but be drew back, as if he were stung.
Flow terribly thoughtless she was.
“I explained about the steamer’s early
“Do you know,” resumed Bertha softly,
“how pleased I am to have- this trip to Eur
ro;x> ? It is a sort of wedding journey isn't
it ?” '
Flow good God had been, to let him keep
the awful truth from her. It would have
crushed her. the very thought of her shame.
It was crushing him.
“I shalPenjoy it very much,” she said, put
ting out her hand to him, in unusual fond
ness. “I am afraid 1 haven't returned your
goodness very well.” No more she had
“Where shall we go first?”
“To the south of France, God willing,” he
Bertha looked at his face with anew anx
iety. The moonlight seemed to bring out all
the marks of his terrible care and suffering.
But lie gazed at her in astonishment; lie had
never seen an expression so near love in her
eyes for him. Was her heart softening,
would she yet make up to him in her new
love all that he lost for her sake? But her
lips were moving.
“I shall be better with j’ou than I used to
be. I—l—’’she dropped her eyes before his
passionate joy, the sadness had gone iii an
instant from his face, his future seemed beau
tifully radiant again. “I feel different to
ward you, dear.”
He bent forward to draw her to his heart.
He was paid for everything. He had taught
his wife to love him as he dreamed she could
love. She had lifted her rapt face toward
his. It had come —the moment he had given
his life for. But suddenly his heart stopped
beating; there was a sound of a galloping
horse. Philip kissed liis wife, but as solemn
ly as if she were dead, and put her away
from him. He leaned forward and looked
back over the road they had come.
He saw nothing at first, but he heard the
sound of a horse’s hoofs. He put his head far
out. It might have been a white speck in.
the road, but as he looked the speck became
larger and clearer. It was a white horse, at
a dead run, on their course. Philip Breton’s
heart, that had just been almost bursting
with its new happiness, was a great, cold
stone in liis breast. And he fancied he could
escape, with enemies like his and a whole vil
lage against him. Ho could see only one pur
suer. Ah, he knew who it must be. And
that pursuer grew nearer every moment.
“Drive faster,” he shouted to the coach
man, “run the horses.”
How like the wind his pursuer came.
Philip had thought there was but one horse
that could leap so mightily. Why this was
that one, his own horse Joe. Why it might
be a servant from his home with something
that had been forgotten. It need not be the
worst peril his fancy Could picture? Buthe
dared not hope.
“Isn’t this delightful,” exclaimed Bertha.
“There can’t he any danger of our missing
the train at this rate.”
“Whip your horses; don’t spare them—
If anything should break their troubles
would all end that night. And the strain on
the harnesses and the groaning axles was be
yond all calculation of the makers. Tlie
horses, too, had got past the control of the
driver. He had no more occasion to urge
the wild creatures; instead, he was pulling at
the reins with all his strength, but to no pur
pose, except so far he had kept them in tho
The rider of • tlie white horse was hatless,
and his long, loose hair and his swinging
hand, as he struck the panting white flanks
of the horse, gave him an uncanny look as if
there were no deed of horror too blood curd
ling for him to do. The horse dropped big
flakes of foam from his mouth, foam mingled
with blood; his eyes and nostrils were dilated
with agony; his breathing was like fierce
gusts of wind in a tempest. Philip Breton
knew' the rider as well as the horse. His pur
suer was Curran; and the implacable laws
made him yet the husband of the woman
whom Philip Breton had made liis wife.
They were almost at Lockout. The car
riage gave a terrible lurch at a turn in the
road. The horses were almost taken off their
feet, but still there was no accident; the win
dows of tlie carriage grazed the solid wall of
rock without being broken, and in a moment
the horses, now subdued, were trotting down
the hill toward the city.
But the fugitives had hardly escaped the
cut through tlie rocks when the pursuer en
tered it. He had almost overtaken them.
He struck tlie horse’s white flanks a pitiless
blow. It was at the very spot where Curran
had saved Bertha’s life from the mad dog,
that tire old horse, forced beyond bis strength,
stopped as if lightning had struck him. Tho
blood welled in torrents from his mouth and
nostrils; he quivered like a leaf, and then
fell dead in his tracks. The rider shot over
the creature’s head with the gathered mo
mentum of that rnad race, and struck the
jagged rock with a sickening crash.
Curran was dead.
As the dawn broke in the east that Thurs
day morning, Philip Breton stood on the
deck of the steamer Salvator. The look of
feverish watchfulness, that had never left his
face for so long, was gone at last. The great
fear that had chased smiles from his lips, had
given place to a great hope. A divine calm
and peace had come at last upon his soul.
Fate had seemed invincible, lie had pitted
his beautiful mills and his home and his
hopes of glory against it, all for the love of a
woman who had no heart for him. lie had
conquered, and he did not begrudge the
price, this royal lover; for he had won the
love of his bride at last.
Below in her stateroom, weary with her
unwonted exciten ent, Bertha was sleeping;
sleeping like a child unconscious of the terri
ble peril and infamy she had escaped by only
so much as a hair's breadth. The hurrying
ship rocked her gently in the great cradle of
the deep and bore her to lands of undreamed of
beauty: where the light of anew eternal Jove
would be on everything.
A Visit to Gibraltar.
Before saying adieu to Spain the trav
eler should pay a visit to Gibraltar, that
wonderful key to the Mediterranean. The
fortifications, which are almost impreg
nable, were begun in A. D. 711 by Takik,
the Moorish conqueror of Spain, and have
been added to and improved on from time
to time ever cincA
There is always an English regiment
stationed at Gibraltar, and a good deal of
pleasant gayety goes on, but the place is
under martial law and the gates are ri’g
igly closed at Bp. m. Perhaps if the sea
son is winter or early spring the traveler
may cross over to Algeria and Tunis, to
feast cn dates and the little mandarin
oranges and to gaze wonderingly on* the
cosmopolitan population, the wandering
Bedouins, fresh from the desert, the half
wild looking Zouayes, the swarthy Moors,
and amongst these eastern personages a
goodly sprinkling of European ladies, in
the most elegant of and
men in light and airy costumes. —Cor.
San Francisco Chroniele.
College “Tree Planting.”
Ivy planting planting make
college commencements the true time of
“arbor days." Some love for trees may
be the result of the ceremonies,' and arbor
day orators may be produced from tho
CHILDREN OF ISIIMAEL
HOW INDISCRIMINATE ALMSGIVING
ENCOURAGES IDLENESS AND VICE.
The Short Sightednc-s of Public Charity.
A Chart Which Illustrates Social Dp*
gradation— Hereditary Influence—The
Unwisdom of the Charitable —Prevention.
The children of Ishmael are still with
us. They are uot the roving Indians or
reckless cowboys of the western plains,
nor the desperate “moonshiners” of the
Tennessee mountains. They live near us
in New York, or wherever our homes may
be. Their garments touch ours in the
public places. Strangest of all, we may
be responsible in one sense for the Ish
maelitish madness in their blood; and yet,
if we recognized that responsibility, wo
would complacently count it to ourselves
for righteousness. For we consider alms
giving a cardinal virtue, while we are too
short sighted to estimate the effect of
much indiscriminate almsgiving in en
couraging moral flabbiness and mental
and physical inertia, in increasing pauper
ism and crime, in multiplying the number
of the children of Ishmael throughout our
This isonoof the most suggestive topics
treated at conference of
charities and correction recently held in
Buffalo, and elsewhere considered at some
length. The speaker, Rev. Oscar C. Mc-
Culloch, of Indianapolis, illustrated his
study in social degradation by a chart
showing the social condition of thirty
families through live generations. This
meant some illustration of the life history
of 1,G92 individuals. Their history had
been followed for fifty years. There had
been several murderers in the group,
arud thieves without number. The ma
jority lived by begging or petty thieving.
The children died young. Licentiousness
characterized all the men and women.
From this came mental and physical weak
ness, general incapacity to work, and in
certain cases, hopeless idiocy.
MGJiIJTD HEREDITARY TENDENCIES.
This study of hereditary morbid ten
dencies is most interesting, but it pro
sents nothing absolutely new. Maudsley,
of England, and Charcot, of Paris, have
naturally included the subject in their
study of mental pathology. In fact, in
the present century —and especially since
Galton developed the study of heredity
into a science—hereditary influences of
all kinds have received the most careful
consideration, not only by medical stu
dents of pathological states of the mind
and body, but also by novelists. We
need recall but one instance, the Rougau-
Macquart series of Zola, in which that
uncompromising realist has essayed to do
precisely what Mr. McCulloch did upon
the chart—that is, trace the development
and effects of morbid tendencies from
generation to generation.
But Mr. McCulloch himself has used
this study of heredity merely as an illus
tration of his striking declaration that
the tendencies to mental weakness and
general incapacity which he describes are
met and encouraged by the benevolent
public with unlimited public and private
aid, which is practically an incentive to
an idle and vicious life. He charged that
our elaborate systems of public charities
are in a large degree responsible for the
perpetuation of this idle and vicious
stock, and what public relief failed to ac.
complish private benevolence supple
mented. “The so called charitable people
who give to begging men and women and
children have a large sin to answer for.”
The remedy indicated by the speaker was
to close up official outdoor relief, check
private indiscrirainatf charity, and get
hold of the children. The last is an ad
mirable suggestion. There is no practical
way of restricting private almsgiving,
save by educating people to the idea that
unwise alms foster pauperism the
bringing of more paupers into the world.
It would be impossible to do away with
the great public charities of New York
even if it were desirable. But the ten
dency of charitable work can be modified
and turned toward prevention rather
than cure. Children who are early taught
a spirit of independence and self reliance
will not become paupers. If public char
ities encourage this spirit and rigidly in
sist that nothing can be had without
working for it, if work is possible, their
evils will be reduced to a minimum.—
How to Utilise Grasshoppers.
The grasshopper plague iu Minnesota
has assumed so serious a character that
the farmers around St. Paul have decided
to pay $1 a bushel for the insects in order
to stimulate the efforts for their destruc
tion. In Venezuela a prize of
$4,000 was offered to anybody who would
invent a means of profitably converting
locusts into grease or any other useful
article. We cannot claim originality for
the idea, but why not adopt the Indian
system? The aboriginal farmers of the
plains, we have been told heretofore, do
not regard the grasshopper as an unquali
fied evil. When their wheat crops grow
undisturbed by these insects the Indians
eat tlie wheat after it has been prepared
in the usual way. When the grasshop
pers come and eat the wheat, however,
the Indians eat the grasshoppers. In
this way they are always sure of-a good
crop of one kind or the other arid are
happy in any event,
There is authority for the statement
that fried grasshoppers are not unpalata
ble, the testimony of white men who
have dined on them being that they have
a “rich, nutty taste,” not unlike peanuts
or something of that sort, and that the
most squeamish person would enjoy them
if they were served up in batter or
under some other name. We do not
care to press the subject too far, but why
not give the frisky visitors a chance to
redeem their reputation by transferring’
them from the field io the kitchen, from
the furrow to the frying pan? The Indian
holds the oyster and shrimp in scorn, and
his, we know, is a blind and unreasonable
prejudice. Why not learn from him, at
the same time that we teach him to es
teem our delicacies? Let our friends in
Minnesota, then, name the grasshopper
the' “prairie shrimp, instance, and
gather him in and make the most of him.
Charleston (S. C.) News.
When I.t Is Too Late.
A gTeat many of Nature’s laws aro
written so plainly in consequences, that it
seems very odd thai ao many of us pass
our lives without paying the least regard
to them , too often it is only when they
are written in our very life’s* blood that
we heed them at all, and then it is too
late. The anxious man of business-, the
fretting, over-solicitous mother, the
worrying housekeeper, each iu his or her
way is laying up a debt against vitality,
and becoming involved in a very serious
oontest? with nervous force, in which they
are sure to come off worsted; ,and for
what? Often for the most ridiculous
Interview With a Coin Collector.
“What are the main requisites for mak
ing a collection?''
“Patience, energy and cash. To a be
ginner it is an unknown world; let hirm
trust in Divine Providence, find a re
sponsible dealer, and let him and ex
perience and intercourse with advanced
collectors be his guides. Avoid the dealer
who knows everything. Buy the best ; it,
as in all else, is the cheapest and most
satisfactory, n and will hold its vr.lr.c 1 cst.”
“What, after all. is the good of it?”
“Let me, Yankee like, ask, what is the
harm? 1 look on it as an efijoyabid in
vesit-nent, and, it is true, a hobby, but a
fascinating ono. A person not ‘afflicted*
can’t appreciate it, but we collectors, be
ing possibly pitied by the outside world,
form a little world of our own. There
exists a good will, rivalry and Free
masonry among us that is honorable,
grateful and sincere, and go where i will,
from Maine to California. I find ‘coin
cranks,’ aud am welcome and agreeably
and hospitably entertained. So those
coming here hunt me up. No other intro
duction than the fraternal, numismatic
feeling is required, aud it is my pleasure
to exhibit my treasures and ‘do the right
thing.’ Then, again, ihe old couplet says;
The intrinsic value of a thins
Is just us much as it will bring;
and a dollar that will realize the holder
SSOO has an mu.vidualify different from
one worth only 100 cents. Coins are not
us perishable as paintings, nor as fragile as
china, and’ 1 am mercenary enough to be
lieve that an a vestment of money in rare
coins will certainly prove remunerative,
as evidence. 1 by the. past. More collectors
are constantly joining the fold, and coins
are becoming rarer aud rarer, and while
in the past few years pursuit was a
pleasure, wo in w have too much pursuit
and too little possess.oil.”
“What corns me most in demand?”
“United States coins. Copper first. Sil
ver next, gold very far last. There are
three very good reasons for the collecting
of United States coins. First, familiarity
with the types, coins, * etc., which pre
vents imposition cf counterfeits; second,
our coinage began in 1793, is yet procura
ble and not interminable like old foreign
countries; third, patriotism, as possibly
the coin I now hold may have been in
Washington’s pocket once, and my wife
adds, the greatest advantage is she can,
when I am tired of them, spend them for
face any way, whereas the foreign coins,
etc., wouldn't pass current.”
“You wish your granddad had care
fully put by a lot of old coins?”
“Just so, but had he,done so, and many
more granddads the same, the supply
would bt greatly increased, their present
and prospective value impaired, their
rarity lessened, and collecting would, to
'a large extent, be devoid of the pleasura
ble excitement that now exists.” —Frank
Hunnieutbs Rheumatic Cure En
dorsed by the Medical
A GREAT BLOOD PURIFIKR,
Atlanta, Ga., Nov. 4,1887.
H. R. C. Cos.;
Gentlemen — 1 have used five bottles
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mend it as the best blood purifier and
tonic I have ever used Bince taking
yourcuiel have gained twenty pound®
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. AN ATLANTA PHYSICIAN SPEAKS.
Atlanta, Ga., Oct 26,1887.
H. R. C Cos :
Gentlenjen —I have used your Rheu
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P. O Box 62 J. A. Nelms, M. EL
A CURE IN EVERY CASE.
H. R.C Cos.:
Gentlemen —I pronounce your Rheu
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pronounce it good. Very respectfully,
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432 Walnut St , Louisville, Ky.
FROM THE AUTHOR OF UNCLE REMI’S.
Atlanta, Ga., March 3, 1888.
H. R. C. Cos.:
Gentlemen—l take pleasure in saying
that your Hunnicutt’s Rheumatic Cure is
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Joel Chandler Harris.
A PROMINENT ATLANTA LAWYER**
Atlanta, Ga.. IX-c. 28,1887.
Hunnicutt Rheumatic Cure Cos.:
Gents—l have taken your Hunnicutt’*
Rheumatic Cure for Inflammatory Rheuma
tism with great benefit. It is, in my
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Jxo. D. Cunningham,
Ex-Judge U. S. Court of Ala.
A u. s. marshal tells his experience.
Atlanta, Ga , Feb. 4, 1888..
Hunnicutt Rheumatic Cure Cos.:
Gentlemen —It affords me pleasure to
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John \V. Nelms.
Price —$1 per bcttle Bix bottles $5.
Prepared oily at Laboratory of Hunnicut
Rheumatic Cure Cos., Atlanta, Ga.
JilpFor sale by all Druggists
Send for book of valuable iff formation
and testimonials of well known citizens.
Ketter Than Bloody Battles.
General Wheatcroft Nelson, says: “My
experience in th* English army as well as
in America, convinces me that nothing
so thoroughly purifies the blood or adds
to health, vigor and life as Acker’s English
Blood Elixir.'’ This great Remedy is sold
under a positive guarantee by J. R. Wikle
Exposure to rough weather, getting
wet, living in damp localities, are favora
ble to the contraction of diseases of the
kidneys and bladder. Asa preventive,
and for the cure of all kidney and fiver
trouble, use that valuable remedy, Dr. J
H. McLean’s Liver and Kidney Balm
SI.OO per bottle. 6-8-3 m