Newspaper Page Text
2he iUcmtgomrri) monitor.
D. C. SUTTON, Editor and Prop’r.
A Dear Little School-Ma’am.
With her funny little glasses you'd have
thought hoi- very wise
If it wasn't for the hunrhtcr that was jn-eping'
from her ej"es;
Just the queerest ami the dearest little scnool
iua'am ever known.
Whose way of teaching boys ami kil ls w as eer
tainly her own.
“I (five my brightest pupil," in a pleasant tone
"A little corner by himself to show that he is
head, . ~
And, to spare the tender feelings of the dull
est boy, 1 put
All the others in a circle so you can t tell
which is foot.
“Whenever any pupil in his lessons doesn't
miss, . ,
I encourage his endeavors with a penny su
gar-kiss: .
And, since this slight upon the rest might too
severely fall,
I take the box of kisses and I hand cm round
to all.
“I’ve asked them what they'd like to be a doz
en times or more.
And each, 1 find, intends when grown to keep
a candy store;
So, thinking that they ought to have some
knowledge of their t mile,
I've put a little stove in, just to show them
how it’s made.
“Enthusiastic? Blessyou.it is wonderful to
see
How interested in such things a little child can
be;
And, from their tempting taffy and their lus
cious lollipops,
I'm sure they'll do me credit when they come
to opeii shops.”
And, with a nod that plainly showed how free
she was from doubt.
She deftly smoothed the wrinkles of her snowy
apron out—
Just the queerest and the dearest little school
ma'am ever known.
Whose way of teaching boys and girls was
really her own!
—Malcolm Douglas, in St. Nicholas.
ONLY A YEAH AGO.
“But you have known me so short a
time—only six weeks —how is it possi
ble that you can love me?”
“How is it possible? Rather ask how
it is possible to avoid loving you? And
besides, is it really so very incompre
hensible, Avis? You have known me
just the same length of lime, and yet—
yet—l have ventured to hope that you
—that you love me, dear. Oh, Avis, is
thesweethopefal.se? Havel deceived
myself? Or will you indeed confirm it
by promising to be, some happy day,
my wife?”
He would have caught and clasped
the fair girl in his arms, but she, keep
ing him hack by a gesture of her little
hand, while her great -dark eves were
fixed with beseeching earnestness upon
his face, answered:
“It is not what I wish—or even what
you wish—that must lie thought of, Mr.
Roy, but your mother —your laother,
who has been like a mother to me also,
so good, so generous. What would .she
say ”
A voice, tremulous, yet stern, inter
rupted her —a voice that made them
start and turn in confusion.
“She would say that you are right
in remembering her. Avis, and that she
is glad of this proof of your gratitude;
for the rest, Roy Livingstone’s mother
looks farther than her own family cir
cle, and higher than to a poor depend
ent, however good or fair, when she
seeks a bride for her only son and a fu
ture mistress for the The Laurels.
Leave us, Avis. Ido not blame you,
ehild; forget this folly, it lias been no
fault of yours. I will speak to you fur
ther presently —wait in my room.
“And so,” she went on, turning to
her son, when Avis, silently weeping,
had left them —“and so this is the re
sult of your artist follv. You would
paint my pretty companion's picture,
forsooth, and while so doing have
stolen her heart and lost your own. I
might have looked for this;' I should
have been more careful. But do you
hope that I shall tolerate such folly? I
overheard you ask the girl, just now,
to be your wife.”
“You did.” The young man an
swered gently, but with a resolution
that was unmistakable. “I love her,
and will marry her.”
“Without my consent? Without your
mother’s blessing? Is this the affec
tion—the duty of my own child?”
He put his arms around her.
“I shall never set you at defiance,
mother, and least of all for Avis’s sake.
She is too good, too ardently attached
to you to do aught that could wound
you. But will you not have compas
sion for us, also, mother? We love.
Avis has been to you as a daughter al
ways; let it be mine to make her so, in
deed. Where could you ever find a
child so truly yours —whose heart and
soul you know—whose mind is of your
own pure training? I love her with a
love that will not change. Unless you
give me Avis for a wife, I shall not
marry.”
“Absurd!” Mrs. Livingstone’s eyes
flashed scornfully, “When our guests
arrive to-day you will find many far
superior to Avis. A foundling! It is
not her poverty —we are rich enough—
but her birth.
“We know nothing of it, and I care
nothing. It is herself I love.”
“Listen, Roy.” The lady’s proud
face softened as she laid one white hand
on her son’s shoulder, while his arm
stole around her fondly. “You are my
only ehild: all my hopes are bound up
ip you. Let us not quarrel about this
foolish girl. She is dear to me, also.
Let us take time to think. Compare
the girl with others. When our guests
are gone, if you are in the same mind,
we will see what is best for all. Will
you promise?”
“To wait for your consent until our
guests are gone? Yes, I can promise
that.”
“And meantime not to speak of this
to Avis.”
“That's harder, mother. But if you
will tell her that you may consent, I
will obev you.”
“I wifi tel! her every word that has
passed between us,” said Mr 3. Living
stone.
And she meant to keep her promise.
But Avis was not wailing for her, as
she had expected. The girl had goue
to her own room, sending to Mrs. Liv
ingstone a piteous little message of ex
cuse. Her head ached. Might she be t
allowed to keep in her owu chamber?
The lady smiled.
“I will set her heart at rest to-mor
row.” she thought. “There is no time
now.” For her expected guests were
arriving.
And when Roy looked at her inquir
ingly, as he missed the girl,
“She wished to keep her room to
night,” she whispered. “All will be
well to-morrow.”
But when to-morrow came a sad sur
prise came with it. Avis had disap
peared.
“That I may not cause you grief or |
pain—you who have been to me a true
mother I fly from a temptation that
would prove too strong if I remained.
When I am gone your son will soon
forget me. 1 pray God that he may—
for his sake. But I shall not forget,
nor cease to love you. —Farewell, dear
est friends. Forgive your little
Avis.”
That was all; and she had gone
leaving no trace, making no further
sign.
In vain Roy sought for her, even with
the help of detectives; having left homo
and eonie to the city for that purpose;
while liis mother, no less anxious for
the safety of the lost girl, made what
excuse she could to her assembled
guests for his absence. After a month
of weary searching he returned, heart
sick and discouraged.
“No news,” he said, in answer to his
mother's anxious questions; “nor will
there ever be. I have lost all hope of
finding- her.”
»“»***
A year has passed since gentle Avis
disappeared, and once more a gay par
ty of merry guests made The Laurels
bright and' cheerful, foremost among
them Rose Brandon, the beauty, and
heiress, and belle.
A great favorite was she with stately
Mrs. Livingstone, and there were not
wanted those who named her as the
future mistress of the splendid but
gloomy house which her beauty and
joyous laughter made so bright.
Even Roy Livingstone’s brow, on
which the cloud of disappointment and
regret had grown habitual, cleared
somewhat as his artist-eyes took m her
fresli proud loveliness; and as he lis
tened to her animated talk, the smile
that had grown so rare stole to his lips,
and shone like a light in hts eves. His
mother, watching him, smiled, too,
well pleased.
“Is she not beautiful?” she whisper
ed to him. “She would make a fair
and gracious queen for The Laurels,
But the gloom came back to his face
as he answered sadly:
“My queen went into exile, mother,
a year ago. I have a constant heart,
and cannot transfer my allegiance.”
“Roy!” cried the clear merry voice
of Rose Brandon—“ Roy, have you given
up painting? You used to be so ambi
tious.' Only a year ago, I remember, you
were enthusiastic about some picture
that was to bring you fame. What has
become of it? Are you an artist no
longer?”
“I painted the picture, but never put
it on exhibition. My mother has it in
the library. I have never painted
since,” said Roy gravely.
A kind of chill fell on the company;
instinctively they felt they were on dan
gerous ground. Even the beauty’s
happy voice took a softer tone as she
questioned gently:
“May we see the picture, Roy?”
He arose without a word and led the
way to the library, the guests all follow
ing, led by Rose Brandon. Last of all
came Mrs. Livingstone with her old
friend, Mrs. Grey, a fair sad woman
with silver hair.
Mrs. Grey was a great invalid; an un
conquerable grief had preyed upon her
heart for years and broken down her
fragile body. She leaned heavily on
Mrs. Livingstone’s arm.
“What is this picture?” she asked
her.
“The portrait of one whom I reared
and loved as my own child, and whom
we unaccountably lost, owing to an un
happy misunderstanding. She was a
lovely creature, and was to have been
Roy’s wife. Sometimes I fear lie will
never marry now.”
By this time they bail reached the
library. Os the many paintings on the
wall, one only was concealed by a heavy
curtain; Roy drew the crimson folds
aside.
An exclamation from Mrs. Grey and
Rose Brandon, and a murmur of admir
ation from all the rest, bore witness to
the loveliness of the image that was
disclosed.
Mrs. Grey pressed forward eagerly, i
her weakness seeming for the time for
gotten.
The portrait of a graceful girl, fair
as a lily-flower; the lovely, wistful eyes,
with a world of loving tenderness in j
their midnight depths, looked out from j
a face of exquisite beauty, tmt as ivory, j
clear and pale; a tender, dimpling j
smile upon the scarlet lips, a trailing
spray of scarlet blossoms in the blue
black hair, soft and glossy as the ra
ven’s wing—a simple rots; of white,
and on one lovely snowy arm a curious
golden bracelet. This was all.
Mrs. Grey stood like one entranced,
her agitation visible to all. Her deli
cate hands were tightly locked together,
her breath came in quick gasps.
“How like!” she murmured; “how I
strangely like! In Heaven’s name, who j
is she?”
“My adopted daughter,” Mrs. Liv- |
ingstohe replied, for Roy had turned
aside in silence, overcome by the sight |
of the beautv he had loved and lost, i
MT. V ERNON. MONTGOM ERY, CO., GA., THU RSI >A V, < fCTOBER 7, I*Bll.
"lweive years ago 1 took her —then
five years old -from a poor old fisher
man down on the beach, three or four
miles away. He had rescued her from
the sea on the night of a great storm,
j two years before, and had cherished
and cared for her tenderly; but finding
sickness and old age fast robbing him
of health and strength, lie sought to
find a friend for his little girl in me.
“Imagination cannot picture any
| thing lovelier than the child was then.
I loved her at first sight, and have
loved her always. I adopted, educated
her, and brought her up as my own. I
have the clothes she wore when she was
found, but they furnish no clue to her
parentage, but on her arm, clasped
firmly above the elbow, was a bracelet;
it fits’her slender wrist now; you see
she wears it in the portrait; upon it is
a single word—the old fisherman took
it to be her name, and so called her; we
never changed it. ‘Avis’ was the word,
and ‘Avis’ she is called ”
A erv from Mrs. Grey interrupted
her; she sank upon her knees before
the picture with outstretched arms.
“Avis!” she cried. "My child it is
my child! Fourteen years ago the cruel
sea washed her and her father from my
arms. The waves restored him dead,
but she was seen no more. Where is
she—oh, where is she? And the clothes
she wore?”
She sank back in Roy’s supporting
arms speechless, almost insensible.
Mrs. Livingstone hastened from the
room, but returned immediately with
the little garments.
Weeping with love and joy, the long
’oereaved mother identified them all.
“Blessed be the merciful Heaven that
has kept her safely, and restored her to
me after all these years. And you, my
friend,” turning to Mrs. Livingstone,
“how shall I thank you for your
love and care! Oh, bring her to me.
Let me clasp her ouce more in my
arms. Why do you hesitate? lam
strong enough, joy does not kill. What
is it?” she continued wildly, gazing
with growing fear upon tiie pale avert
ed faces of mother and son. “Has harm
befallen my child? Have I found her
only to lose her? Avis, my daughter!
Where is she?”
Rose Brandon rushed to her side.
“Be calm,” she cried. “Avis is safe
and well. No harm has come to her.
Listen to me, 1 can tell you where to
find her.”
“You!” it was Roy whospoke. “You
know Avis?”
“I know her well, but 1 have never
known, until this moment, of her con
nection with tliis family. Why hsve
you kept your loss and grief a secret,
Roy? I could have helped you, had I
known your troubles, long ago.
“It is nearly a year since she came to
us, in answer to an advertisement for a
music-governess for little Ida. Mother
was sick when first she called, and con
sequently I received her. She was so
beautiful and innocent, and vet so sad
and friendless, that my wiiole heart
went out to her from the first. She
told me the simple story of her adop
tion here, and of Roy’s love and hers,
but without mentioning a single name,
so that I never thought of you. She
had left, she said, in order that he
might forget her. She gave me, as a
reference, her own former music
teacher, who, while answering for Avis
in every way, declined to tell anything
that the girl had left concealed. So
she came to us, and has dwelt with us
ever since, quiet and sad, poor child,
but safe and kindly eared for. 1 left
her at home with Ida and mother when
I came away. She is there now.”
Roy Livingstone caught her hands in
his, and pressed them to his lips.
“God bless you, Rose!” he cried,
hoarse with emotion. “You have given
me hack happiness and love. Mrs.
Grey, I will bring your daughter toyou.
I go by the train that leaves in half an
hour; before nightfall you shall fold
her in your arms. Adieu, all!” and he
was cone.
f * * * *
The dusky grey of an autumn twi
light filled the lonely schoolroom that
afternoon, but occasionally Hashes of
light, from a small but cheerful lire,
fell on the slender girlish figure that .
sat before it in a low armchair, her
soft pale check supported by one little
hand, her eyes fixed on the glowing
coals.
A world of longing love and fond re
gret was in those great dark eyes, that
saw not what they gazed upon, but
were looking far away into the past.
Thinking of Roy—always thinking of
Rov. Where was he? How fared he?
Had he forgotten Avis? Alas! poor
Avis could not forget! Hark! what was
that?
A footstep in the hall outside the
door. Nothing in that to make the
eyes so bright and the pale cheek flush
to vivid crimson! Ah, hut it had
sounded like Roy’s footstep. Roy’s
footstep here—what idle dreaming!
What strange tricks fancy played her
oftentimes.
She could close her eyes, and hide
her face in her hands, as now—now,
partly for shame at her own fond folly
! and fancy, oh, such things! Fancy
The Laurels her happy home once
more, and Mrs. Livingstone her kind
adopted mother! Fancy Roy’s tender
smite and loving look; recall the very
words be spoke—his earnest tone —his
sigh.
What was that? That was not fancy,
surely? She sat quite still her face
still covered by her hands—arid listened;
a sigh had sounded close beside her,
breathed like the very echo of her
dream; and now a voice—oh, Heaven,
what voice!—whispered h<-r name:
“Avis! Look at me, Avis!”
She turned, she rose, gazed for one j
moment in his face as if bewildered;
| then, with a cry of love and joy unut
i terable: “Roi! mv beloved!” sprantr to
"SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER.”
the arms, sank on* the breast of her true
lover.
“You have found me!” she cried.
“Y'ou have found me!”
“Never to lose you again. Avis
never again!”
“Aud your mother?"
Her great eyes searched hi-* face tim
idly, anxiously.
"She will welcome you as 1 do. Wo
shall part no more. You will learn,
dear, that she never meant to part us.
And another waits for you. On, conic,
love,'come to the heart that aches to
welcome you to the arms of your own
true mother.”
* * * * *
Only one month later, a brilliant
bridal party aroused to joy and mirth
the slumbering echoes of The Laurels.
And who so fair as Avis, the sweet
bride, with her troop of lovely brides
maids, of whom Rose Brandon laughed
and blushed, the merry chief? Who so
rich, so proud, so happy as Avis now?
Avis, the foundling, found, indeed, at
last, and by her own true mother. Avis,
the lost, restored to all who loved and
mourned her; Avis, the joyful bride of
the generous noble lover who. in the
(lays of her poverty and nainolessness
-—in spite of time, and absence, and si
lence, and desertion loved her faith
fully and truly to the last.
Gen. C. I’. Smith at Kort Donelaon.
Fro~, General Lew Wallace’s illus
tri t«d account of the capture of Fort
Eonelsou, in the December Century. wo
«-uote the following: "Taking Lau
mau’s fcr'gade General Smit h began the
advance. They were under fire instant
v. Tlie guns iu the fort joined in with
the infantry who were at the time in
the rifle-pits, tho groat body of the
Confederate right wingboing with Gen
eral Buckner. Tho defense was great
ly favored by the ground, which sub
jected tho assailants to a double ii.’e
from the beginning of tho abatis. Tho
‘nen have said that ‘it looked too thick
for a rabbit to get through.’ General
Smith, on his horse, took position in
tho front and center of the line. Occa
sionally he turned in his saddle to see
how the alignment was kept. For the
most part, however, he held his face
steadily toward the enemy. He was,
of course, a conspicuous object for Ihe
sharpshooters in the rifle-pits. The
air around him twittered with minie
bullets. Erect as if on review, he rode
on, timing the gait of his horse with the
movement of his colors. A soldier
said I was nearly seared to death, but
I .f,'wv lAo old man's white >‘iustaohe
over his shoulder, anil went on.’
“On to the abatis the regiments mov
ed without hesitation, leaving a trail of
dead and wounded behind. There the
fire seemed to grow trebly hot, and
there some of the men halted, whereup
on, seeing the hesitation,General Smith
put his cap on the point of his sword,
held it aloft, and called out, ‘No flinch
ing now, my lads! Here this is tho
vay! Come on!’ lit! picked a path
through the jagged limbs of the trees,
holding his cap all the time in sight;
and the effect was magical. The men
swarmed in after him, and got through
in the best order they could not all of
them, alas! On the other side of the
obstruction they took the semblance of
re-formation and charged in after tlwir
chief, whofountl himself then between
the two fires. Up the ascent he rode;
up they followed. At the last moment
the keepers of the rifle-pits clambered
out and fled. The four regiments en
gaged in the feat the Twenty-fifth In
diana, and the Second, Seventh, and
Fourteenth lowa planted their colors
on Iht! breastwork. And thegray-hair
ed hero set his cap jauntily on his head,
pulled his mustache, and rode along
the front, chiding them awhile, then
laughing at them. He had eome to
stay. Later in the day, Buckner came
back with his division; but all his ef
forts to dislodge Smith were vain.”
He Stopped the Gar.
The car was going down French’*
hill, and there were a few jovial pas
sengers aboard. At Prospect street a
lady got out. A young man, who,
with a few of his friends, were having
a hit of quiet fun and had evidently en
joyed themselves, said: “I’ll bet ci
gars for the crowd that I’ll stop tho
car without ringing the bell, speaking
to the driver or conductor or asking
anyone to stop it.”
“Oh, you’ll go outside and slap hold
of the brake. You’re too smart, you
are,” remarked one of his companions,
smilingly. “You’ll cut yourself if you
don’t mind.”
“No. si ret!, I’ll do no such thing.
I'll neither touch the brake nor ask
anyone to touch it for me, arid I won’t
ask anybody to stop the ear.”
The bet was taken.
Up jumped the car-stopper, and seiz
ing one of the straps, tugged at it as
hard as he could.
The conductor saw him and conclud
ed that the man was a greenhorn who
wanted to get out and was yanking at
the wrong tag. He stopped the car
and threw open the door.
The man had sat down again.
“Don’t you want to get out here?”
said the conductor.
“Oh, dear, no.”
"Then why did you pull the strap?”
“I was only trying to see if it was
firm enough to hold me if I happened
to come along in the car some night
when I couldn't get a seat.”
jhe door slammed, and the conduc
tor said something as he leaned against
the rear brake, ft was something not
very complimentary to such darned I
footing.
But the man had won his bet. Ho
liad stopped the ear.— Fall Iliver Ad- j
vance- {
Tennyson's "You! You!"
Lord Tennyson’s alleged "poem” on
the English navy appears at such a
time and uses such language that it
looks like an attempt to scare Russians
from making an attack on tho English
ships. The first expression with which
the so-called poems opens, “You! you!”
sounds exactly like an Englishman of
too much respectability to ust* vulgar
epithets shaking his lists with passion
and trying to call names in a dignified
way. “You! you!” would seem to such
a man an expression of superior con
tempt, something liko “follow,” or
“sirrah,” but more aristocratic. Then
follows the warning that “the fleet of
England is her all in all,” and if “you!
you!” injure it, "on you will come tho
curso of all the laud.” The Russians,
who aro said to be singularly unculti
vated, nnd to understand poetry in a
literal rather than an esthetic sense,
will probably conceive these linos to
mean that, if they blow up with torpe
does or otherwise seriously injure an
English fleet, they may expect to en
tluro a universal British “curse,” which
all continental people understand to
bo an emphatic pronunciation of the
ejaculatory word‘‘damn,” or language
to that oiled. Whether they will bo
deterred by the probability that alt En
gland will rise up and swear if they
meddle with her fleet is a problem to
be solved by events.
The middle of the poem is a palpable
conundrum, which seems to bo ad
dressed to tho chief political end man.
It asks tho puzzling question: “What
would all their votes be worth, and
what, avail thine ancient name of free,
were thou a fallen state?" This is not
addressed to tho United Slates, or it
might lie the immediate duty of Secre
tary Bayard to reply in proper diplo
matic phrase, that wo give it up. For
tunately it is, seemingly, addressed to
Mr. Gladstone. He lias considerable
reputation as a solver of British conun
drums; and his answer is awaited by
the audience with considerable curiosi
ty. But, as his fame very considerably
rests upon iiis ability in dealing with
Hie exchequer, ho will probably take
time to look over tho figures before
venturing to give an opinion as to wluit
England would be worth under such
circumstances.
Tho conclusion of the poem seems to
be addressed to tho commanders id I lie
British fleet It informs them, in poetic
phrase, that if they permit those Rus
sians lubbers to whip the British fleet,
they may expect to be “kicked” by tljo
“wild mobs’ million feet,” in spile of
the protection of the police. “England
expect!.every admiral to do bis duty,
on pain of being kicked by a mob,” is
the noble sentiment under which they
will steam into action. Or it may ho
that they will bo kicked if they venture
to risk the fleet in action, considering
that "England's all in all" may there
by he subjected to violent damage.
The mere fear of such a thing so ex
cites tlio noble bard that he shrieks
“you! you! at the commander of the
fleet also. This poetical blowing up
ought to have prepared tho admiralty
in some measure lor the practical blow
ing up with dynamite which almost
immediately followed. After the two
together the public ought not to be
surprised at anything. iJelroit Font.
! A, fudge's fill tic Joke on fits I'iieinl.
Since the great Chief Justice Lemuel
Shaw, no Judge in Massachusetts has
been so celebrated for his power and
peculiarities as the late Judge Otis i*.
Lord. During the sixteen years that
Judgo Lord sat upon tho Superior
bench it was gall and wormwood to
him that his hurried decisions at nisi
prius were to he carefully scrutinized
and often overruled by the Supreme
Judicial Court. His complaints were
constant and at times were loud over
what he considered unfair treatment
by the higher court. At. times hi: could
not or would not speak of that honor
able body With patience, and li is hostil
ity to certain of the Judges was well
known, it was supposed by most law
yers that should opportunity come to
him he would refuse a promotion which
would necessitate sitting upon the same
bench with Judges for whose legal at
tainments he hud so often expressed
contempt; and when, in 1575, his name
was sent in as successor toJuiJgc Wells
upon the Supreme Court bench many
looked to see the honor declined. For
a number of days, indeed, it was gen
erally reported that Judge Lord was
hesitating in the matter, and even his
intimate friends had doubts about bis
acceptance. One morning, as the late
Stephen B. Ives, who probably possess
ed more of Judge Lord's confidence
than any other member of the bar at
least, was entering the court-house, lie
pet the Judge, coining down from tho
lobby. “Well, Judge,” lie said, "have
you decided about going on to the Su
preme bench?” Looking him squarely
in tho face, Judge Lord gravely re
plied: “Stephen, I have thought the
matter over as to where I could be of
the most use, and have concluded tore
main where I am.” “But, Judge,"
expostulated iiis friend, “you should
not be hasty in this matter.” “It’s no
use, Stephen,” interrupted the Judge,
“I tell you I have absolutely made up
niy mind to stay where I am. ’ “But,
Judge,” continued Mr. Ives, “I am
terribly disappointed, and you will
! grieve all your friends if you insist upon
! this course.” “I think not, Stephen, 1
! think not,” said Judge Lord, as belaid
his band kindly upon the shoulder of
his tried and trusted friend, “for,” be
continued in an exultant voice, "I have
this morning qualified as a Justice of
j the Supreme Judicial Court, and,” he
j added more gravely and quietly, “I
j hope I shall live long enough now to
j show them that I do knowaiittlelaw.”
j —Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.
VOL. I. NO. 31.
Surplus of liawyera. .jr
Complaint ot the overcrowding ot
the legal profession is noticeable in
widely separated sections of the coun
try. In Vermont, towns which used to
raise and support solid lawyers of the
old school, learned in pleadings, do not
afford income to keep one alive. In
the South it is said that the profession
of law is having dull times in many of
the larger towns, while in Philadelphia,
where a well-known proverb implies
that a superior assortment is maintain
ed, a large proportion of the 1,500 law
yers starve. A statistician reckons
that in that city only five have an in
come of $30,000 each and upwards,
about thirty SIO,OOO each, and 100
.s.'>,ooo, while 1,000 average not over
SSOO a year from legitimate fees.
There are two or three causes for
this siipcrlluity of lawyers. In nearly
all the states the old and intricate sys
tem of pleadings has been done away;
it was cumbersome lumber, but it re
quired a good deal of study to master
it and so served to keep down the num
ber of aspirants to the liar. The much
simpler modern systems are more easi
ly mastered, while the multiplication of
law schools has rendered an education
for (lie liar much more'aceessible. Old
lawyers are apt to think that a deteri
oration of the profession has resulted,
but that does not follow. What was
formerly a close trade-union, guild or
profession has been thrown open to
more general entrance. Nothing has
been lost liy throwing aside the old
pleadings, however difficult they may
have been to acquire, if after acquisl
sition they were lumber and encum
brance. The modern law student may,
if he chooses, spend upon a general ed
ucation the same time lie would apply
to them, and secure at least as much
mental discipline. This ought, per
haps, to bo more generally required.
<>n the other hand the avoidance of
litigation is more generally sought than
formerly. Under the modified system
of codified statutes, all in one volume,
men of ordinary intelligence can con
sult the statutes themselves; as to the
common law, or that rendered by the
courts, the cases ordinarily arising have
now been so thoroughly adjudicated
that honest counsel of fair ability
ought not to lead his elie ,t astray.
Moreover, there is » general disposition
among more honorable members of the
bar not to encourage litigation, unless
it is necessary; whether that is more
true than formerly it would be difficult
to say.
It is certainly not a misfortune to the
country that less wealth proportionally
1h consumed in litigation than former
ly; if such is the case in the administra
tion of the criminal law, there must be
increasing expense for the maintenance
of courtMtml public prosecution so long
as crime increases.
Aelivity of business always gives rise
to dash of interests, and makes litiga
tion. The great mass of this is now be
tween real persons and corporations, or
bet ween corporations on both sides.—
Spring field (Muss.) Jlcpublican.
Grant at Fort Donclson.
From an illustrated article on “The
Battle of Fort Donclson,” by General
Isiw Wallace, in the Decenilier Century,
we take the following: “There were in
attendance on the occasion some offi
cers of great subsequent nobility. Os
those Ulysses S. Grant was first. The
world knows him now; then bis fame
was all before him. A singularity of
the volunteer service in that day was
that nobody took account of even a
first-rate record in the Mexican War.
The battle of Belmont, though indecis
ive, was a much better reference. A
story was abroad that Grant Imd been
the last man to take boat at the end of
that affair, ar.d the addendum that he
had lingered in the face of the enemy
until he was hauled aboard with the
last gang-plank, did him great good.
From the lirst; bis silence was remark
aide. He knew how to keep his tem
per. In battle, as in camp, he went
about quietly, speaking in a conversa
tional lone; yet he appeared to see
everything that went oil, and was al
ways intent on business. He had a
faithful assistant adjutant-general, and
appreciated him; he preferred however.
Ills own eyes, word, and hand. His
aides were little more than messengers.
In <1 re>s lie was plain, even negligent;
in partial amendment of that his horse
was nlwa/s a good one and well kept.
At the council calling it such grace
lie smoked, but never said n word.
In all probability be was frani g the
order of march which were issued that
night.”
Shoddy Aristocracy.
If you will take a historical telescope
and look over the social horizon for the
past two centuries, you must observe
that every decade brings the idea of ar
istocracy lower and lower every year.
The status and the idea are growing
very much the same, too, and tne time
must come when all the requisites that
dance attendance on social life in Amer
ica under the name of aristocracy will
be nationally recognized as shoddy.
Martha Washington and the mothers
of the republic were content to live
plainly and respectably, and the dis
gusting practice of referring to women
as the leading ladies of the land palls
on the taste of sensible people. In the
social circle, prescribe within the
bounds of the home, is woman’s sphere.
In this country we worship women be
cause they are mothers and wives, but
the people do not believe in raising
special class to national distinction and
i identify them with the government at
Washington. Society is all right, and
fashion is all right, but they should
stay where they belong.— Williamsport
Breakfast Table.