Newspaper Page Text
w. F. SMITH, Publisher,
VOLUME VIII.
GLEANINGS,
Tennessee will not make a wheat
crop.
Th- peanut crop of Tennessee will be
a, failure.
Oast in Nashville is furnished at $1.75
per thousand feet.
A company is organizing to manufac
ture cars in Selma, Alabama.
St. Aucrtistine, Fla., has a surplus of
$2,740.87 in cash itr her treasury.
A fisherman at Pensacola caught 1,(00
red snapper fish recently.
Selma, Alabama, has a population in
its corporate limits of 7,520.
Th Q mayor of Montgomery, A hi., re
ceives a salary of S!,(KK) a year,
Western corn has killed a number of
horses and mules in Alabama.
By lowest estimate Mr. Davis has al
ready made SIOO,OOO on his book.
Boston capitalists are investing $300,-
*)0() in a cotton factory at Vicksburg,
Miss.
Baltimore capitalists have invested
$1,500,000 in a Davidson county, N. C.,
gold mine.
Iwo hundred thousand young shad
have just been placed in the Congaree.
The. colored people of Abbeville, S.
C., have formed a life insurance asso
ciation.
Yellow fever was not known in Mex
ico until 1725.
Volusia county, Fla., has the largest
orange grove in the world—l,ooo acres.
Mr. Herzler, of Madison county, Ala
bama, clipped 1,400 pounds of wool
from 252 sheep.
The sales of leaf tobacco in the Lync
hburg, \ a., warehouse for the present
year aggregate 13,297,307 pounds.
An apple tree in LaGrange, Ga., has
two or three apples upon its trunk.
r l here is not a sign of a twig or branch,
but they are growing upon the bark of
the tree.
A letter from Southern Florida de
scribes a flight of white butterflies from
the South that has filed the air like
snowfllakes for six days, going North.
A little nine-year-old boy at Center,
Ala., killed his uncle, named Brooks,
by hitting him on the head with a rock.
The uncle had wipped the boy, and the
young reprobate took this means of re
dress.
Nine tenths of the babies born in
Oglethorpe county, Ga., this year are
hoys. This rule also applies to animals.
Ihe males are undeniably on top this
year. '1 his preponderance of sex is said
to be sign of coining war.
1 he spongers of Key West are making
money. The Democrat says there were
over tjQOO worth of sponges on the
vvha r t there one day last week.
The Atlanta Constitution says there
are many lunatics wandering around the
country, because of the inadequacy of
the present accommodations at the Lun
atic Asylum.
Georgia paper: The press of Geor
gia is a unit i t the cause of temperance.
The boys differ somewhat, however, in
their ideas as to the proper mode of
attacking the hydra-headed monster.
We are for killing him with kindness
and coercing him by persuasion. Choke
a dog to death with butter and he won’t
know what killed him.
The San Antonio Express says: Last
week was a good week for killing con
victs who attempted to escape, though
three were laid out instantly and two
others mortally wounded. When it ap
pears to be almost certain death for a
convict to attempt to escape it seems
strange that the attempt should be so
frequent To remain must be almost
worst than death tc a good many.
1 he Pueblos of New believe
that at death they will be carried away
in some mysterious manner to a place
beneath a vast underground lake, where
melons and peaches and beautiful maid
ens and horses and in never-ending: sup
ply for the good. Notwithstanding all
these inducements, some of the Pueblos
are as depraved as if they had been born
in the United State*.
The editor of Paris North Texan thus
defines his position on the liquor ques
tion : We are not a chronic temper
ance core nor a church member. We
are a much, wicked man, and we have
drank whisky, periodicallv, all our life
until last year, when, recognizing the
dunes of a father, remembered that we
sre responsible for our example, we quit
the accursed oractice, and we are in for
the war against the traffic—not those
who sell and drink it.
SfluMlc dwfgii 2Lmus,
ONLY ONE FAULT.
You may see it in Greenwood ceme
tery. A splendid tombstone with a
woman’s name upon it. Not Ruth Hollv
—though that is the name under which
you shall know her—but a prouder
name, and one you may have heard.
Flowers grow about her tomb, and the
turf lies softly over it. You would
scarcely guess her life and its sad end
as you stood there. Rather would you
fancy that love and tenderness sur
rounded one over whom sUch piles of
sculptured marble rears itself from her
birth unto her death.
It is a story such as I seldom write—
this life of hers—one that can not be
ended by happy reunions and the sweet
sound of marriage bells; but there are
too many such stories in the world to
be quietly passed over, haply there be
any warning in them. The lives of others
are, if we read them rightly, the best
sermonß ever preached, and this of Ruth
Holly’s is only too true. Yet it began
very sweetly, like some old pastoral
poem. She loved and was beloved again,
and the man she loved had only one
fault. He was young, he was brave, he
was witty, he was handsome, he was
generous; his love was devotion, -his
friendship no lukewarm thing of words;
he had great talent and great power.
His eloquence had thrilled many an au
dience worth the thrilling. What he
wrote touched the soul to the very quick.
He was an amateur painter and musician
and everywhere was loved and honored
and admired. He had only one fault in
the world—he drank too much wine at
times. When he did so he turned, so
said convivial friends, into a very demi
god. It was wrong, but not so bad as
might have been, and he would sow his
wild oats some day, they said, loving
him as his friends all loved him; and so
Ruth thought. Sweet, loving, beautiful
Ruth, to whom he had plighted his troth
and wooed in verse and song and with
his most eloquent eyes long before he
put his passion into words; but so did
not think Ruth Holly’s father. This
one fault of Edward Holly’s over
shadowed his virtue in his eyes, and
he refused him his daughter’s hand,
giving him the reason why plainly and
not kindly.
“You’ll be a drunkard yet, Ned
Holly,” said the old man, shaking his
head, earnestly. “I’ve seen men of
genius go the same road before. I’ve
often said I’d rather have no talent in
my family, since it seems to lead so
surely to dissipation. My sons are not too
brilliant to be sober men, thank heaven,
and as for my daughter, only a sober
man shall have her for a wife; you’d
break her heart, Ned Holly. ”
So the dashing man of letters felt
himself insulted and retorted hotly, and
the two were enemies.
Ruth suffered bitterly. She loved her
father, and she loved Edward. To disobey
her parent, or to break her lover’s heart,
seemed the only choice offered her. She
had other lovers, she had seen much
society, and had been introduced to the
highest circles in France as well as in
England, but amongst all the men she
had known none pleased her as Edward
Holly did. Not what one styles an in
tellectual woman herself, she reverenced
intellect, and her affections were in
tense. The struggle in her heart was
terrible.
She met with her lover by stealth,
against her father’s will, but for a long
while she resented his entreaties to
marry him in defiance of her father’s
refusal. At last, angered by her per
sistence in obedience, Edward accused
her of fearing to share the fortunes of
one comparatively poor—one who must
carve his own way up life's steep hill
without assistance. The unmerited re
proach sunk deeply into her warm heart,
and in a sudden impulse of tenderness
and sympathy she gave him the promise
he had so long sought in rain. They
were married that evening, and before
morning were upon their way to a far
off city, where Edward, sanguine and
conscious of power, believed that he
should make for himself a name and
position of which any woman might be
proud. To her father Ruth wrote a
long letter, imploring his forgiveness,
Dented t* Industrial Inter. Ht, He Diffusion of Truth, the Establishment of Justice, and the Preservation of a People’s Government,
** MALARIA.*
I found the loveliest spot on earth,
Where sweet and odorous blooms had birth;
I clapped my hands for very gladcess:
Oood-by,” Isatd, "to Ills and sadness,”
When 10, there sprung from out the green
A hideous imp upon the scene!
I cried, “ Dread form, what is your name?”
In mocking tones, the answer came—
“ Malaria!”
I fled unto the nearest town:
Here I resolved to settle down,
’Mid dirt and grime, ’mid dust and mortar—
Myself, my wire, my son and daughter.
The people crept about like snails,
<>r lagging ships bereft of sails.
What Is the matter here?” I cried,
And many a trembling voice replied
“ Malaria!”
From out the fated town we spect;
We climbed the mountains; overhead,
Where the proud eagle builds her nest,
We pitched our tent to take our rest.
One marning, bright with eastern gold,
f woke, and cried, “ I’m hot;’ k •Pm cold;‘
* 1 born;” “Ifreese.” "Whatcan it be?”
The answer came from crag and tree—
“ Malarial”
The doctors, now, who lack the skill
To diagnose each pain and ill,
To this one thing they all agree,
No matter what their school may be:
With “ Hem!” and “ Haw!’’ and look profound.
Your tongue they scan, your lungs they sound.
And then exclaim, ‘‘My friends, tutl tutl
Your case, I find, Is nothing but
Malaria!”
I’ve chartered now a big balloon;
I hope to occupy it soon.
If ” It” comes there to ache my bones
And waste my flesh, when ’neath the stones,
I hope my better part may soar
To some fair land, some golden shore,
Where 1 may never hear the cry,
That haunts me like a ghostly sigh—
“ Malaria!”
— Mrt. M. A. Kidder , in Baldvnn's Monthly .
INDIAN SPRINGS, GEORGIA.
but the answer crushed all hope within
her bosom.
“As yoti HOW sow, so must you reap,”
were the words her father wrote. “I
have no longer a daughter,” and Ruth
knew that henceforth (for she had been
motherless for years) she had in all the
world only the husband for whom she
had sacrificed fortune, and what is worth
far more, the tender protection of a
father.
In those early days Edward did his
best to make amends for all, and she
was so proud of him and so fond of him
that she soon forgot to grieve.
She heard his name uttered in praise
by all. She knew that he had but to
keep steadily on, to mount to the proud
est seat in fame’irtiigh temple, and for a
year she had no fear of his faltering.
Now and then a feverish something in
his voice and manner, a strange light in
his eyes, a'greater flow of eloquence in
his talk, a more passionate demonstra
tion of love for her than usual, told that
he was under the influence of wine, but
the fact only seemed to enhance his power
of fascination. Never was he so brilliant,
never so handsome. Almost could Ruth
have laughed at the sermons preached
by the temperance folks of the harm sure
to follow wine-drinking.
If the story could end here, the true
story of Ruth Holly’s life, it would be
almost a happy one, but alas, the sunny
slope adown which it seemed so easy to
slide, daily grew darker as the years flew
on. How they began to tell her the fate
before her, Ruth hardly knew.
A little flush of shame came first when
his step was unsteady and his voice too
loud. Then a grieved tear or two when
he was unreasonable. Then a sorrow
that kept her heart aching night and
day, for the man who first won inspir
ation from the glass now lost it in its
depths; lectures to be delivered were not
given to the expectant public because
“of the illness of the lecturer.”
Ruth knew what that illness meant,
and tried to hide it. Literary work was
neglected also. Money was lost that
might have been easily won. Debts
grew and credits lessened, the handsome
suite of rooms was exchanged for one
quite shabby. Ruth’s dress became
poverty-stricken, her husband was out
at the elbows and at the toes—he was in
toxicated from morning until night, and
yet she loved him and clung to him,
and in his sober moments he loved
her as fondly as ever. Sometimes
the old strength and the old
hope would be aroused in him
and he would struggle to regain his
lost position, but it was all in vain,
rum triumphed, and in five years from
her wedding day Ruth found herself
with her one remaining child, the first
having died within a year of its birth, in
the dingiest of wretched tenement
houses, in a state bordering upon beg
gary.
Edward had been more madly intoxi
cated than ever before; he had even
given her a blow, and now, as the night
wore on, he muttered and raved and
galled for brandy, and cursed her and
himself until she trembled with fear.
At last, as the clock struck 10, he
started to his feet and staggered out
of the room, vowing to get drunk some
where.
. Poor Ruth stood where he had left her
for a few moments. The memory of the
past was strong on her that night. Just
at this hour five years before they had
fled from her father’s home together.
How tender he was, how loving,
how gentle! How he vowed that
she would never regret that night, and
how had lie kept those promises ? He
had broken every vow—he neither cher
ished nor protected her. His worldly
goods he had given to the ravenous de
mon, drink, his love had become a some
thing scarcely worth having, and yet
she loved him and clung to him. She
tried to feel cold and hard toward him,
but she could not; she strove to remem
ber the blow he had given her, the oaths
he had uttered, but she answered herself
as she did so, “It was not him who did
it—it was rum.” She listened to the
uncertain, reeling footsteps in the street
below and burst into tears.
“My poor darling,” she whispered, as
she thought some grievous calamity had
smitten him into the thing he was, and
he had not himself “put an enemy in his
mouth to steal away his brain,” unmind
ful of her pleading, unmindful of her
woe and of her shame. She thought of
him reeling helplessly along the street,
and feared that some harm would come
to him. Ho might fall in some out-of
the-way place and lie there undiscovered
and so freeze to death that bitter night,
and in her agony of terror poor Ruth
could not restrain herself from following
him.
Her poor weakly baby slept; she
wrapped it in a blanket and laid it in
its poor cradle. Then she threw her
shawl over her head, and hastened
down the street, busy this late Saturday
night with market-going people of the
poorer classes.
A little way before her reeled the
handsome, broad-shoulderect figure of
her husband, and she, a lady bred and
born, fastidious, elegant, accomplished,
reared in luxury, heard poor laborers’
wives warn their children to beware of
the “drunken fellow.”
She heard oourse laughs at his ex
pense, and under the shadow of her
shawl' her cheek burnt hotly, but for all
that she never thought of going back
and leaving bim to himself. As soon as
she could she gained his aide and called
to him by name:
“Edward! Edward!
Hetturned and stood unsteadily look
ing at her in a bewildered way.
“You?” he said. “You ought to be
at home this time of night.”
“Sfo ought we both,” said Ruth.
“Come, dear.”
He threw her hand off.
“I’m my own master,” he said. “I’m
not tied to any woman’s apron string!”
and staggered away again, Ruth follow
ing through the long streets with every
face turned toward them as they passed
—some laughing, some contemptuous,
some terrified; out at last upon the
wharves, and there the besotted man sat
down more stupefied by the liquor he
had swallowed, in that fresh, cold air.
Ruth was thinly clad—the chill of the
searblast seemed to reach her very heart.
She thought of the babe at home and
teai h coursed down her cheeks. Again
and again she pled with the mad man
at her side. Again and again she tried
to bring to his mind some lingering
memory of the past days when his love
and protection had been hers. In vain.
Y\ lid fancies filled his brain, demons
born of the fumes of rum held posses
sion of his senses. Sometimes he thrust
her from him, sometimes he gave her a
maudlin embrace, and bade her bring
him more liquor, but go home he would
not. The distant hum'of the city died
out at last, all was still with the strange
stillness of a city night. The frosty
stars twinkled overhead. Now and then
a night boat passed up the river, with
measured beat and throb. Once a ruf
fianly-looking fellow sauntered past
them on the pier, but though he flung
her an insolent word and yet more inso
lent laugh, and went away singing yet
more insolently, he did not approach
them. So benumbed had Ruth grown,
so cold to the very heart was she, that
the power of motion had almost deserted
her, when at last, as the church clock
not far away tolled the hour of four, the
degraded man staggered to his feet and
reeled homeward. She followed feebly,
and only by clinging to the balustrade
could she mount the wretched stairs. It
was bitter cold within as without, but she
was glad to find herself at last under
shelter. Her babe still slumbered and
she did not waken it. Her frozen bosom
could only have chilled the little crea
ture. There were a few bits of broken
wood in one corner, and with these she
made a fire in the old stove, and crouched
over it, striving to gain some little
warmth, while her husband slumbered
heavily upon the bed in the corner,
to which he had staggered on his en
trance.
Thus an hour passed by, and Ruth
also fell asleep. The silence, the pleas
ant warmth at her feet, the fancy that
all her trouble was over for the night,
lulled her to pleasant dreams. From
them she was awakened by the loud
ringing of the factory bell and by the
sound of cries and shouts in the street
below. She cast her eyes toward the
bed—her husband was not there ? to
ward the cradle—it was empty. She flew
to the window—the street was full of
factory boys with their tin kettles. Some
great jest amused them mightily. They
roared, they danced, they tossed their
ragged caps on high, they shrieked in
unmusical laughter, and the object of
all this mad mirth was only too evident.
On the steps of the liquor store op
posite stood Edward Holly, holding his
child in his arms and exhibiting for the
benefit of the delighted crowd all those
antics of which an intoxicated man alone
is capable. He called on the grinning
master of the gin-cellar to “give this
child i some brandy;” and turned the
screaming infant about in a manner that
left no doubt that he would end by drop
ping it upon the broken pavement.
Wild with terror Ruth rushed out into
the street, and made her way through
the crowd to the spot where her husband
stood, but before she reached him the
scene had changed.
•
Some boy more brutal than the rest
had thrown a handful of mud into Ed
ward Holly’s face, and he, reeling and
blaspheming, had dashed forward to re
venge the act.
The child had been flung away at the
first step, but fortunately had been
caught by an old woman who, though a
degraded creature herself, had enough
of the woman remaining to save an in
fant from injury.
And now the whole horde of boys beset
the drunken man, pelting him with
sticks and stones and decayed vegetables
from the kennel, and reveling in the
brutal delight with which such a scene
always seem to inspire boys of the lowei
classes.
Ruth saw that her babe was safe and
that her husband was in danger, and,
forgetful of all else, Slew toward him.
She cared nothing for the jeers of the
mob; before them all she flung her arms
about tbm and interposed her beautiful
person between him and his assailants.
The hekd that had carried itself a little
proudly in the presence of the highest of
the land —that had seemed more queen
like than that of the Empress herself at
the court of France—that had awakened
the envy of titled English women when
the young American woman dwelt
among them—dropped itself low npon
the bosom of the drunken wretch who
was the jeer and scorn of a low mob, and
only in love and pity, not in anger, did
she gpeak to him:
“Gome home, Edward! They’ll hurt
you, my poor love! come home with me.”
Mad as he was—filled with the demon
of drink, to the exclusion of the soul
Qod had given him—the soft, sweet
voice, the fond touch of the white fingers,
awakened some memory of the past in
| the man’s breast.
“Go you home, girl!” he whispered,
“I’ll kill them? Don’t fret I’ll kill
'em, and—”
“Gome home, darling,” she whispered
again, and he stopped and gave her a
kiss. At that the boys yelled derisively,
and flung more mud and stones at them!
One threw a stone—a heavy stone, sharp
pointed and jagged. Whether he ever
intended to strike the man is doubtful,
but the missile flew fiercely through the
air and crashed against the golden head
of the devoted wife. A stream of blood
gushed from the white temple and poured
down upon the bosom where it dropped
never to lift itself airain—never, never
more. Only with a quivering shudder
of pain she felt for the face of the man
who had sworn to love and cherish her,
and had broken that vow so utterly
while hers had been so truly kept.
“Good-by, Edward,” she whispered.
“I can’t see you now—kiss me. Oh, be
good to babyl Be good to baby!” and
no word more.
The crowd was hushed to silence. A
sobered man bent over the dead woman,
whose hands had dropped away from his
breast, and the love and truth and ten
derness of her heart were all manifest to
him in that terrible moment—manifest
in vain, for repentence could not restore
her to life, nor blot out the, love which
had crushed her heart through all those
weary days of her sad married life.
“What is the matter here?” cried a
voice, as a portly man forced his way
through the crowd. “A woman hurt?”
“ A woman killed,” said the policeman,
“ and that brute is the cause of all,” ana
the gentleman bent forward and started
back with a cry of anguish.
“It is Ruth !” he said. “My Ruth! ”
and fell back into the policeman’s arms
in a deathlike swoon. Forgiveness and
repentence had come alike too late for
poor Ruth Holly. Her father could give
her nothing but a grave.
The child born amidst want and pen
ury, nourished by a half-starving mother,
pined away and died in the luxurious
home to which its grandfather bore it;
and now, as the old man sits alone in his
splendid home, he sometimes hears a
strange, wild cry in the streets outside,
through which a drunken creature reels
and staggers, howling ever and anon,
“Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!”
It is Edward Holly, who ever in his
drunken madness searches for his mur
dered wife. It is the pitiful, horrible,
heart-breaking wreck of the once splen
didly-beautiful man of talent, who had
only one fault. —Mary Kyle Dallas.
An Incident of the Blockade.
A correspondent of the Boston Adver
tiser, discussing the subject of color
blindness, relates the following as coming
under his own experience when em
ployed in the blockade of the port of
Wiimington, North Carolina, 'during the
war of the rebellion: “The ships on
blockade duty got under way at sunset,
and at dark moved to their regular sta
tions, some going well in toward Fort
Caswell and others further off, keeping
under low steam and in a specified beat.
To prevent as far as possible our own
ships from mistaking and firing into each
other, each supposing the other a block
ade runner, as did happen more than
once, my own ship getting three 24-pound
shells from one of our own vessels, a
system of challenging and answering sig
nals by showing or flashing a red or white
light was established. As we all knew
the station or beat of each ship, we could
usually tell with tolerable certainty what
vessel was sighted. But, to prevent ac
cidents, it was the rule for any ship
doubting to challenge by showing the
challenging signal for that particular
night. If no answering light was shown,
or an incorrect one, the challenger had a
right to fire. One night my own ship
was challenged. We were so near that
all hands on my vessel knew well what
ship made the challenge. We answered
by showing a red light for three or four
seconds. Again we were challenged and
again we answered as before. All hands
were at quarters. Almost immediately
after our second answer the lock-string
of the 100-pounder rifle on board the
challenger was pulled, the gun, pointed
directly at my ship, happily missing fire.
Before the gun could be reprimed we
were made out, and no harm done. The
next day an interview was had with the
commander of the challenging ship, and
he was informed by me that his chal
lenges were correctly answered, I my
self seeing it done. Why our answers
were not seen by his ship could not be
made out. He informed me, however,
that he had been many months in com
mand of his ship, and never before had
that gun missed fire.”
What Mamma Said.
The young woman who, with her lover
and little niece, sat in the shadow of the
curtain while the company was in the
room adjoining, had a good deal of pres
ence of mind when the niece said very
loud, “Kiss me, too, Aunt Ethel.” “You
should say kiss me twice, or kiss me two
times, not two,” said Aunt Ethel, calmly.
It is to be hoped that the well-known
English “beauty lady” was equal to the
occasion, also, when an elderly and emi
nently respectable gentleman made an
afternoon call, and, as elderly gentlemen
often do, he took the child and kissed
her. “You must not do that,” said the
child, struggling, “I am a respectable
married woman!” “What do you mean,
my dear?” asked the astonished visitor.
“Oh, that’s what mamma always says
when the gentlemen kiss her!” replied
the artless infant.
Advice given to gay Lotharios by M.
Aurelian Scholl: “Whenever you write
a letter to a married woman date it
‘April I.’ Then, if the husband finds it,
clap him on the shoulder, point to the
date, and say with a burst of laughter:
,Fooled again, old fellow.’”— Figaro.
SUBSCRIPTION-*51.60.
NUMBER 45.
INTERESTING PARAGRAPHS.
A cabin was first built to a vessel iu
1228.
Kitchens in South America have been
known to be furnished throughout with
utensils made of silver.
‘ ‘ V OLtJMMOsrn ” and * ‘ funipotent ”
are two new English words which have
just appeared. The last is applied to
spiritualists in Pollock’s “Spinoza.”
Anew safety lamp for miners emits a
loud sound whenever an explosive mix
ture of gas and air enters it, thus giving
warning of the presence of fire-damp.
The favorite day for marriages in Paris
is Saturday, on the morning of which
there may be seen on the streets landaus
and barouches with white horses driven
with white reins.
Ip a girl has pretty teeth she laughs
often, if she’s got a pretty foot she’ll
wear a short dress, and if she’s got a neat
hand, she’s fond of a game of whist, and
if the reverse, she dislikes all these small
affairs.
It is related that a California pioneer,
seeing a Chinaman coolly draw a “navy
six” and shoot a white ruffian neatlv
through the abdomen, exclaimed with
much earnest enthusiasm: “ Them Chi
nese is takin’ on Christian ways surprisin'
fast!”
Yoitng man, don’t be afraid that hon
est, legitimate overwork will shorten
your days. It is better to wear out in a
home, built up by your own efforts—at
the age of sixty-five, than it is to rust out
in the poor-house five years later.—
Whitehall Times.
Whittier says that the first money he
ever earned was paid for a copy of
Shakespeare, and that it proved to be
the best investment he ever made. ‘ ‘The
long years since,” he adds, “have only
deepened my admiration of the great
creative poet.”
A Montreal thief had thrown a bun
dle of goods out through the rear window
of a store, and would have followed in
safety, had he not stopped to read a par
agraph which caught his eye in a news
paper lying on the counter. The delay
caused his capture.
Ralph Nickleby was a hard, cold,
selfish man, without a grain of generous
impulse. Newman Noggs was a kind
hearted man, without a grain of self in
his composition. Nickleby was rich;
Noggs, poor. The one was a wise man;
the other, a fool. Question for debate,
Which was the happier of the two?
In China literary property is on the
same footing as other property. A per
son printing and selling the works of an
author without his permission is liable
to a punishment of 100 blows of the bam
boo and three years’ deportation. If he
has stopped short at printing and not
begun to sell, the penalty is fifty blows
together with the forfeiture of books
and bloeks for which it is intended to
print.
“Dean” Buchanan tells in hig con
fession of a fortune-teller in Philadel
phia who reads destiny by the light of a
candle made of human fat, of a doctor
who goes to Europe annually and brings
back love-powders, which he represents
are compounded at the shrine of Cupid,
in Minerva’s temple, and of a concern
which sells the pulverized gizzard of a
chicken as a compound to produce arti
ficial digestion.
The site of an ancient camp of Indians
at Cambridge, Mass., has for many years
been occupied by a Baptist Church. The
spirits of the red men haunt the spot,
because they cannot rest under the wrong
done them by the whites, and three times
they ‘have burned the meeting-house.
On each occasion an Indian war-whoop
was heard, mingled with the crackling of
the flames. Old residents tell this story
with great solemnity.
Second Life.
Men may inquire solemnly and with
many a doubt whether any other world
than this awaits the human race ; but,
once admitting a second life, the dark
cloud of punishment must be seen on
that remote horizon. There can be no
second life without a memory of the
events of this career. It is the chain of
memory which makes a resurrection from
the dead possible. If a person should
arise from the grave and have no con
sciousness of ever having lived before,
that would be no second life only in a
most trifling and unjust sense. Dr. Ed
ward Beecher once published quite a
volume to show that man is now in his
second world, and at death will pass to
his third and last. But if we have most
utterly forgotten any such first life this
is made our first existence by the very
fact of such forgetfulness. If we did all
live once before in this planet or in some
other planet, that fact has been forgot
ten with an amazing uniformity and
thoroughness. Memory makes this our
first life. A thousand volumes from all
the wise men of all nations could not in
tervene, with their learning and elo
quence, and oppose the simple evidence
of memory in this strange case. It is
your first world. Your memory can
pick up its twenty or thirty or forty its
sixty years, and can hold them all in or
grasp and say I once lived one of those
summers and winters. We can all look
at that bunch of faded flowers and say I
saw them when they were fresh and
beautiful. ThiA recollection is, there
fore, that mental attribute which alone
will make possible a resurrection from
the dead. The only immortality that
can be thought of is, therefore, one
which can look back upon this first ex
perience of being. Unless friends shall
know each other, there will be no meet
ing of friends, for take away the recogni
tion and all else is empty. Thus the
future world awaits wholly upon mem
ory—the creator of immortality.— Prof.
David Swing .