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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.