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GALLAHER'S INDEPENDENT,
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The Da upliter-in-law.
"Never, never will forgive him,"satd old
Mr. Remiugton. solerouly despositing bis
great gold spectacle* in the green leuther
Mb
“Nor will I," gobbed Mrs. Remington.
"To go off ami wed a diislmig city girl
without so much as waiting for our pemiis
sion.
“But yon know, my dear.” suggested
the old gentleman, we couldn’t have given
it to him, if he had waited half a century.
“Certainly we should not,” said Mrs.
Kemiugtou, emphaticidly. “To think of
our uuly child treating us so cavalierly.
Abel —the only one we’ve got in the world. ”
"He has made his bed and must lie in
it," said the old man sternly, “1 will never
receive his gay bride here, nnd so I shall
write to him immediately. We are scarce
ly fine enough for a Fifth Avenue daughter
iu-law."
As he spoke, thro Id man picked up a
crumpled letter that he had throwu ou the
floor iu the first paroxysms of his auger,
and smoothed out its folds with a mechan
ical touch.
"Why, only thiuk of it, Abel," said Mrs.
Remington, “Maliala Buckley qerved for
six weeks in this girl's cousin’s family and
she says Evolyu Sayre can smoke a cigar
just like a man and used to go skating
with her dress tncked up to the top of her
boots, and drove a barouche, witu a groom
sitting behind, and—"
“Bless my soul," said the old gentle
man, his breath nearly taken by the cata
logue of enormities. “Bless my soul, you
don't say so. And Charles married to this
Amazon.
bo the Couple sat in the room poareh of
the capacious old farm-house, with the
Michigan roses tossing little hilet-doux in
to their laps in scented showers and the
delicious odors of the fresh mown hay
comiug up from the niedow flats by the
river, as miserable an old couple as you
Would want to see.
Meanwhile Mrs. Charles Remington, a
bride of three weeks standing, was making
herself supremely happy at Niagara. She
sat on a fallen log, among the delicious
ohmic of Goat island that bright June day.
with the lights and shadows chasing each
other over her lovely face and turning her
long chestnut curls to coils of gold. Dress
eil in white, she was Tautening a wreath of
flowers into the riblxms of her coquettish
little lmt and siugiug some old ballad soft
ly to herself.
Evelyn Remington *,w very handsome
—neither blonde nor brunette, she con
trived to unite the charms of both in her
roselm 1 complexion, bright hair and mi.st> i
brown eyes, anti the smiles that diinpletl
h r fresh scarlet lips, wee real smiles, ir.es
sengers strait from the heart.
Presently she was joined hr her Inis- j
hand, a tall, handsome young feiiow, in a
white linen suit and a graceful Panama :
hut.
••Two letters, Evelyn," he said lightly,
‘•and hod news in both.”
••Pad news ! Oh Charles 1" and the rose s
faded suddenly from the bride’s cheeks.
“Well, not so bad and not so pleasant.
Read, cnritinma."
He tossed into her lap a stithy written let
ter, on a page of blue paper, signed “Abel
and Mary Remingtona keen expression
of their disappointment in the marriage
he had contracted an assertion of their
determination never to receive his wife as
their dunglit r.
Evelyn looked into her husbands face
with her bright eyes full of tears.
"Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry.”
He laughed and quoted to her the scrip
ture phrase, “ ‘A man shall leave his fattier
and mother and cleave to his wife.' " And
now don't you want to see tho other letter,
Evelyn ?
It was a summons froip the mercantile
firm with which Clinrles Remington was
connected—an earnest entreaty that he
should visit Central America in their inter
ests immediately.
"Cool, isn't it, to request a bridegroom
to w alk off in that sort of a way—for it is
too rough a voyage to ask you to share it,
dear. I leave you to decide—shall Igo or
stay ?
"Go, by all means. Should I ask you
to linger by side when duty calls you away,
a poor wife I should be.”
Hu kissed ber flushed cheeks with ad
miring tenderness.
"And where shall I leave von, my bon
n e bride? I will make a brief visit home
in the meantime. It will cut our wedding
tour short, but then, you know, we have a
lifetime to finish our honeymoon in.”
So the brief Niagara sojourn came to an
end and Mrs. Charles Remington, for the
season was a widowed bride.
“He w ill be back soo,” she said to her
self, "and in the meantime, I must do,oh,
so mnch."
*••••••
"Yes,” said Mrs. Remington, compla
cently, "I think that was a splendid idea of
ours, Abel, in sending for Lot Chauncey’s
orphan to adopt. I’ll tell Charles and his
stuck-up wife that we are in earnest about
what we wrote and Marian Chauucey will
have no city airs or graces. I’m dreadful
anxious to see her. Lot was a likely look
ing fellow and my cousin twice removed,
and his wife was a beauty.”
"I guess, likely, she'll come by the stage
tonight.'’
"I guess, likely, there she is now,” said
Abel, who, sitting by the window, caught
a glimpse of a sleuder figure coming np
the path and carrying a well-packed car
pet-bag. Mrs. Remington ran forwnrd to
s Inkpenkui
VOL. 11.
kiss and welcome the new comer.
Marian Chauncey was exceedingly pret
ty Mra. Remington soon discovered that—
a bright, winsome, little creature, with
gold-brown hair that would curl in spite of
the restraining uet, loving hazel eyes and
treranlons loviug lips.
“Ob, Abel 1" quoth the soft-heated old
ladj, at the end of two days, ‘‘why didn't
Charles wait until lie had seen Marian
Chauncey? Isn’t she sweet—don't it seem
like a gleam of sunshine iu the old house
wnen she is tripping around ?
“And then," pursued the old lady, "she's
handy. She knows where everything is
kept and does up my caps exquisitely. Oh,
Abel, if Providence had seen fit to send us
a daughter-in-law like dear little Marian
Chauncey.”
Mra Remington'* speech was cut pre
maturely short liy the entrance of the sub
ject of it, with her apron full of eggs and
her hand fqll of wild flowers.
“Mrs. Remington," she began, and then
cheched herself with abruptness. “Oh, I
cuuuut bear to call you by that long foiui
al name—muy I say mother V”
“Of course you may, darling," said
the enthusiastic old lady, “and
I only wish you were my real daughter."
Mariuu laid down her flowers and depos
ite<l her store of pearly white eggs in a
basket tm the table, and coining up to Mrs.
Remington kneeling down and nestling
her bright head in tile old lady’s checked
apron.
“Mother," she murmured solftly, “you
do not know how sweet the word sounds.
And you will always love nnd cherish qie
and let mi* be a real daughter to you i
“I should be a hard-hearted old cormo
rant if I didn’t, pet,” said the old lady,
with her spectacles dimmed with tears.
Iu short, Marion Chnuucey became the
light of the old furm-honst —the bright
guardian angel of its low ceiled rooms and
wide, airy halls. She read the paper to
farmer Remington; she compounded cake,
jelly and syllabubs to the astonishment
and delight of the old lady; she kept tin
two china vaceir mi the mantle brimming
over w ith a real rain of roses; she knew by
instinct when to darken the room for tin
old raau’.i uap on the wide, chintz covered
sofa, ami was better than ten doctors when
Mrs. Remington had one of her nervous
headache*.
"I really don't see how we ever con
trived to live without Marian,” said the
>ld gentleman.
“But she'll never leave ns, said Mrs.
Remington, decidedly.
"Marian—little bright eyes—l’ve got
news." called the old gentleman, one
morning through tile hill; “leave those
honeysuckle's for someone else to tie up
and come iu ihere. Clmrlic is eomminp
home-”
“To stay, sir?"
“No, not stay—liis city wife demands
his permanent devotion." Mr Remington
could help speaking with a stiver —“hut In
will spend a day here on his way to New
York. I should like to see Charlie —and I
should like Charlie to see you. Do not
blush—if you are not better looking than
his Fifth Avenue wife, she must he a pa
ragon among women, that’s all Ive got to
say.”
“When will he ho here, sir?"
“In an hour, I should judge from tin
letter? Charlie always did w rite an awful
scrawl—m’s and li'st’s; hut I suppose
that’s the fashion now-a-days !"
Marian Chauncey crept away to her
room to brush out the go'd curls, and ad
just a blue ribbon at the throat nnd won
der slyly to herself what Charlie would
say when he saw the new element that had
contrived so to interweave itself into home
of his boyhood.
"But 1 don't think he'll be angry,” said j
i Marian, in a half whisper, as she pinned
| a white rose to her breast and prepared to
! descend, in obedience to Mrs. Remington V
| call of—
“ Marian, Marian, come down and soe
I my boy.”
Charles Remington stood in the centre
| of the room with his arm around his radi
■ ant little mother, while the old gentleman
from his big, easy chair delightedly watch
ed over the tableau, as Marian slowly ad
vanced.
“Charles,” said Mrs. Remington, beam
ing all over, "this is our daughter, who—”
Rut Charles had sprung forward and
caughted the slight, willing figure in his
: arms, while the golden hair floated in u
j perfect cascade of curls over his shoulder.
"Evelyn! My wife!”
Mr. Remington stared at his wife. Mrs.
I Remington stared at her husband.
"He’s mad." whispered tire old man.
< “Charles, you’re mistaken,” he added ;
| "this is Mnriun Chauucey, our adopted
daughter.”
"N<r, sir, it is not,” faltered the young
lady in question. “I am Evelyn, your
sou's wife. I have stolen your heart on
false pretenses, but I did long mo for your
love. And when you sent for Marian, I
persuaded her to remain at home and al
low me to personate her, just for a few
weeks. Father, mother, you will not turn
tue out of your affections no 1"
"And you knew nothing of this ?” de
manded old Mr. Remington of his son.
"Not a word; it's Evelyn's own idea.”
And Evelyn, half laughing, half crying,
stole into her mother-in-law’s extended
arms.
‘ It don't si" in possible that this is the
Fifth A vena# girl,” said the old gentle
man. * ‘Come here and give me a kiss,
M—Evelyn, I mean.”
"So she" is our real daughter, after all,"
said proud Mrs, Remington.
Evelyn had couqnered their prejudices
by tho enchanting wand of love.
QUITMAN, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1874.
Tbs Mysteries of Life.
In the western part of the State of Mary
land, among those nigged hills of that Al
leghany rage, stood my uncle’s house. It
was a picturesque place, on a cleft in the
hillside, away track from the turnpike,
walled in hy rocky slopes, fringed with
rough hemlocks nnd muples, nnd facing
high over a steep descent thn north folk of
the Potamnc river. The house of sipiared
longs, was one of those good old relics of
pioneer days which are now fast disappear
ing. Desolate and untenable it appeared,
and the pervading quiet was only broken
by the shrill cry of the blue jay, or the
dismal hoot of tho owl at night. My uu
ole’s life had always been a painful myste
ry. He had graduated at- college with
high honors, and afterward was traveling
and studying abroad, when he suddenly
returned home, nnd retired to the old place
left to him by bis father. There, iu tin
old homestead, without assigning any rea
son, lie kept bachelor's hall in solitude the
reminder of his life, inexorable to the en
treaties of liis friends, whom lie even re
fused to nee.
East fall my uncle died, and to me, his
namesake, willed the estate. Upon re
ceiving news of his death I immediately
visited the old place. It looked gloomy
and dismal enough when I arrived there,
just at dark. The only occupants of the
house were two negro servants, who had
been faithful to my uncle for many years.
They at once got my supper for me, and
afterward ushered me into my uncle’s room,
where 1 spent the evening in looking over
liis papers. Among others, I found the
following which gives a clue to liis strange
life nnd conduct:
“It was but a dream, a fancy of my dis
ordered brain. I believe not iu ghost; for
twenty years I have lived in this solitary
place without a fear. My nerves are as
steel, my constitution as iron. I quail not
alone in tin- darkest, stormiest midnight.
Was it my imagination? No! It was
something more, it was real. The fiend
was here. He sat in yonder chair. I was
not sleeping, but widewake, my senses as
active and as sound as at mid-day. 1 saw
him, aye, felt Ills piercing glance ent-r my
heart and read its secrets; liis hot breath
upon my cheek as he uttered a low, demo
niacal laugh. '1 hat was last night. All
day yesterday the memories of student life
recurred to me; those happy days, gone
forever, which ended in . Would to
God they had never ended, or that I had
never known them, then would my tor
mented soul be free.
And iii the evening I drew out the old
checker-board, iiirangi and the meu, nnd by
the flickering glare of the burning hickory
log on the i earth, mused upon the corn
ers ami stratagems often repeated hy lis,
Frederick and I. and of the corner which
deprived my life of its value, forever. To
this last thought I buried my hands, and
uttered a low moan, when suddenly some
thing touched me. I started up quickly,
to see a dim ghostly form taking a seat be
fore me. The log had fallen from the and
irons, and the fire was low. He placed the
Checker board between us, and said,
“Move.” I stared vacantly, but moved
not. Again I beard the low demoniacal
muttering, saying. “Move.” I did so
while he biased a horrid laugh. The room
was now quite dark, and the autumn winds
without swayed the old trees to and fro,
with many a groan. A fierce storm was
brewing. A strange numbness seixed me.
The clock struck twelve; each stroke seem
ed an hour. I tried to stir, to speak, hot
could not. My body was paralyzed, my
brain on fire. Although in a fever, I
! shook involuntarily with a cold chill. The
I demon’s spirit held me, and forced me to
; play. My hands took, and moved the
| pieces mechanically, nnd yet I was away.
1 striving to avoid his glance. Wherever I
looked his frightful shadow covered me. 1 i
must have plaved well, though I thought
not of the game, for again and again I
seemed ready to corner him, but he always
thwarted me. Ah! he who plays with the
devil needs fearful odds. At his every ad
vantage, the fire seemed to rekindle, and
burn with lurid, sulphurous flame. He
rapidly cornering me, and when at length
I my strength seemed gone, he made the fi
i rial move, and I was beaten. "Your life”
jhe cried, as he vanished. I lay hack in my
j chair as if dead, unable to move until long
j after the sun bad crossed the meridian,
land was slowly descending behind the
I western hills. Then I seized my pen, and
am now writing. "Your life.” How the
j words re-echo in my ears and make me
| shudder. What a life has it been, and
how useless. What an enigma to my
J friends, and burden to myself. In the
! morning I have “wished to God it were
j evening,” and in the evening that it were
! morning. My life was a game. I have
lived no life since I have been here. It led
me to suppose I was playing my game well
with the world. Even last night the devil
gave me advantage after advantage, only
to win against me at last.
I was willing to play against the world.
"Bring on yo ir best talent” I said to my
self. "I will yet be first.” These were
my boyish thoughts and my successes
made me regard them as virtues. At col
lege my ambition was satisfied, and in
many contests I gained the coveted lau
rels. After graduating, I went abroad,
spent some time in Paris, preparatory to
| going to the University of Heidleburg.—
| boon after my arrival there, l became ac
quainted with Frederick. He was a fair
haired Saxon youth of a poetical nature,
and of too delicate organization to long
withstand the storms and rebuffs of this
oruel, practical world. UU life seemed
unruffled by a care, and appeared to be
spent iu the dreamlaud of hope. Though
our natures were unlike, yet by sonn
influence we were brought together, us
opposites often are, and an intimate friend
ship sprung up between us. I loved his
poetry and music, and used to listen with
delight to his rich, clear voice, as we
strolled along the river iu the moonlight
nights. lie was of so coufidiug a disposi
tion, that to me all his hopes uud joys were
known; for beseemed to have no sorrows.
Led by liis quiet influence, I joined him
iu a pedestrian tour through the Tyrol. 1
was tile leader and he the willing follower,
complying in my every wish. He loved
me, and I loved him I thiuk, second only
to myself. Bit despite my constant inter
course with his Warm, sympathetic nature,
I could not reach the heights w here he
dwelt. The mountains over which we
passed seemed to impart to him their free,
airy spirit, to me their barren rigidness.—
At the villages where we rested, he used to
play and romp with the children, and
praise the beauty of the pretty raadehens.
Tims we journeyed several weeks, w hen I
became anxious to return to my studies.—
All passed well after our return, until late
one evening, when throwing my hooks
aside, I proposed to Frederick that we
play a game of checkers. He acquiesced,
'f 1 prided myself upon anything in par
ticular, it was my skill at thisgume. Many
of our happiest hours had been passed
over the hoard. I lmd no fear of Freder
ick's reckless, careless moves, and for a
long time I luul been successful iu a series
of games. AVhile it always afforded me
pleasure to win, it seemed to delight him
equally to watch my manoeuvres and victo
ry. During that day he had laughingly
said, I would not always win; and that
evening his demeanor was more serious
than usual. Yet- unbounded was my sur
prise and mortifioation, when, in our first
game I was beaten. Frederick did not
appear elated, hut simply smiled and said,
“Once beaten." “Yes, but only once,"
said I. But a .strange feeling came over
me that he was my superior. In our sec
ond game I played with great precaution,
he with rapidity uud seeming carelessness.
Again he won, and simply smiled.
Am I thus to he beaten by this boy,
thought I, whom I have always consider
ed luy inferior. The perspiration stood
upon my forehead, us we played otir third
game and rubber. I never betrayed my
outward emotions; but within I was on
lire. My heart throbbed violently, and I
felt a rising, and almost uncontrollable an
ger. His clear blue eyes, beaming with
pleasure, exasperated me the more, for 1
imagined lie was silently chuckling over
my defeat. Again tho third time, despite
my long practice, my former skill, and
present care, I found myself hopelessly en
tangled. One move, and I was beaten.—
I could stand it no longer; my passion
overcame me. I dashed the board from
between uh, and struck him.
One week after that Frederick was laid
in bis eollin.
I can write no more, the rest is written
on my life, my character, and my home.
Siiinoi.s l’oun Own House. —Scene bar
room; time midnight.
Wife. “I wish that man would go home if
lie lias got one to go to.
Lun llurd. “Silence, lie’ll call for a me
tbitig directly; lie’s taking the shingles off
liis own house and putting them ori ours. ’’
By this time Janies began to come to hi*
right senses, and started to rubbing hi*,
eyes, streached himself is if he had just
awoke, and said;
“I believe I will go.”
“Do not be in such a hurray, Janies,"
said the landlord.
•‘O yes I must go;" said James, and he
; started.
After an absence of some time , the land
lord met and accosted tiim with:
“Hullo, Jim; why ain’t you been down
to see us?"
"Why I had taken so many shiugles off
my home that it began to leak, so I
thought it time to stop the leak, so I have
done it,” said James. Young man whose
house are you shingling ?
Who Ilelpe Fanny t
"Oh dear ! what shall Ido ? said little
Fanny Wilton, in a tone of distress. She
had been trying in vain to ring the door
bell. Standing on tiptoe she could barely
touch it; and when she climbed upon the
wall, though the knob was quite within
reach, the wire was so stiff that she could
not move it, She looked around to see if
there was any one whom she might ask to
help her. A tall gentleman was coming
down the street, with his hands clasped
behind him and his head bent forward.—
Ho looked as if he was very busy thinking.
Fanny was a little afraid to speak to him;
but she was impatient to go into the bouse,
so she ran down the steps and said, timid
" Will yon please ring the door-bell for j
me, sir ?”
The tall gentleman never looked around,
and I suppose did not understand ber, for
he answered, "Go away—l’ve nothing for
you !” and walked on.
"He thinks I’m a beggar !” said Fanny,
indignantly.
Presently, on the opposite side of the
, street an errand boy came whistling along, ,
with bis basket on his arm. Fanny look
l ed at him a moment and said to herself,
"I won’t ask him;and don’t believe he
would come, and he might be rude and
laugh at me.”
Fanny was mistaken. George Sands
bail seen from a distance her attempts to
ring the bell, nnd came across, saying
cheerily. “Can't you reach the bell? I’ll
ring it for yon."
“Oh, I shall be so much obliged to
you 1" said the little girl. “I’ve been
waiting here a long time, and I'm so
tired."
“I saw you apeak to that gentleman just
now," said George, as, after pulling the
Well, he stood waiting to see that the door
was opened. “Why wouldn’t lie riug it
for you ?’’
"He didn't hear what. I said L**
thought I was begging.”
"You looked at me before Ii n -i.
Why didutt you call me ? '
Fanny colored a little nnd
thought you wouldn’t come, ami \
would laugh at me."
George smiled ns he rejoined, "You
thought that a boy who carried a nig bas
ket, and bail bis clothes patened i.
minc, couldn’t he polite."
Faunysaid nothing, and George went on
"Fine clothes nnd money don't make
people kind uud obliging. Eli tell w hen
I learned my politeness. My um'liei !
taught it to me out of the Bible Yon
know what the ‘golden rule’ is, don’t you V
The Lord Jesus gave it to us. It say
‘Whatsoever ye would that men should d>
to you, do yo even to them.’ 1( you al
ways treat people just ns you would Ilk
them to treat you, that's real politeness,
ad yon shoo ddo that whether you are
rich or poor. Only I don't think it's easy
unless you’re a Christian, because it don’*
Conte natural to thiukshicre of other pet
pie's pleasure than your own; but, if yo*
are a Christian, God will help, M v meti
er taught- me that long ego, and now ,
know* it hy myself.”
“Are you a Christian?” asked Funny,
wouderiugly.
“I hope so,” said George. "I know ’
love Jesus better than anything else.”
At that moment the door opened. Fin
ny repeated her thanks, and George ’ li
ned away, his ohe-fnl whittle echoing
through the streets. But Fanny rein.*” -
tiered what he had said,and evera , ■'
to do to other people as she would I
them to do to her, —Siitfer Aliy: s Sfoi'i's.
Lousiana EMiiitoomo. —Neitt Orlemn.
Oct. 10, 1874.—T> e 77mc' New Orlom •
special says; “Kellogg having, in his
recent address, signified his willingness to
abide by a count of file returns of the -
election of 1H72 by a board of arbitration
prominent Democrats propose Him. tie
returns, now secreted by * 1
MoEnery returning board, be bro •
forward ami canvassed anew, with a \i- *
.to filial settlement of the Ci-ut- sted no.
t ion eases. In order to effect this art unfit,
merit, it will be necessary for both parte
and the several candidates on each t.eio
to agree to submit to the decision in
arbitrators. The proposition Luu
been formally submitted to K . be*
there is reason to believe in; • - ■
satisfied of his election by a Jarg- ru:.j ■j
that he will agree to it, it the mb-.:,
cun be fairly conducted, uud the I.’
erats give proper guarantees of s.n. ii' -
and good faith.”
—
Louisiana Again.— Nr.id Orleans, ■ i
107 1874. — Gdi'M-al Bal ly, arti 14, >■ :
teiidontof police, ofiiri ;!ly port.; ,I
Friday night a Body of urni-'d ' Bit*- m
under the command of ( < h’ A '' 1
marched down Canal : ti. ft - • H.-v aOl 1
Kellogg’* house, and tliecv ‘ • opju
*it<‘ widu of the s*r . t when* the i ';
>i Sergeant Sullivan, of th • nt
pnltCM, in. to demand wlo-lh i
any row going on in mur of tn< * *• 1.
also reports that about onn liun.h -
white men were on Camp street ut‘ •
night.
The Evening TiuVefbi states, that 1
ing rumors of ilLtmbance , two u* t.i.
menfcs of white leaguers turned out and . 1
not return to their homes till hal. -(•*<
one o'clock. This the Republican insist j
is a violation of the compromise. They !
contend that had any disturbance ext;.'. .4, 1
which did not, it was the duty of the con- i
stitilted authority to quell it. Yesterday \
the primary elections of the Republican
party were held, and the commissioner- j
were up nearly all night counting ih
votes.
A Thirty-Seven Day’s Fast.
A mr.n named Van der Veker. was dis
covered on the 11 th inst, stretebe lin ui
silile in a bed in a garret of this city. 11,.
was taken to the hospital, and tin'll \..v
signs of life; but it was not till the ii>" t i
day that he had strength to speak. !
lie asked what day it whs and on !.,
info med that it was the 121 lj of A ; " ‘
said: "I have been here these t!i:
days.” A tittle later ho became in
able to sp, ak, and in reply to quest’-.-
hi informed the doctor that early in -in
lie had been stiff ring f.nno spitting ,/ 1
blood. He was alone in his gat cl, te - 1
expecting that he would he better and I
not wishing to trouble any one, ho lay ,
down on the bed. Here, however, ho |
found liiinsolf becoming so weak that ! r j
could not rise, and though he tap; ed on :
the wall, no one appeared to have heard ;
him. Near his bed was a pitcher of water,
and, he was able by means of a small can,
to get some out of it from time to time.
Little by little ho lost his remaining
strength, until he found himself unable to
move. He could not speak, and his sight
became dim from time to time, until a 1
power of vision faded. Still his sense of
hearing continued most acute, and he said
-be could detect the smallest sound, tln ungq
utterly powerless to artioulate a syllable.
He is now recovering, and it is expected
will, with care, be throughly restored.—
Antwerp Precurseur.
It k cool—Tho grasshoppers has fled.
iioW a Philosophor C rnered.
A MaUmalistio 1 a ttirer and a city mis
sionary met the* other day iu to
(iiacnfls before nn audience the question of
respomubiity. “Science,” said |ne pliil
o.sopher, “hi.B proved beyond doubt that
at the end of a few 3*enrs not a particle in
n>> body or bruin reinuiun; every atom has
nn*Bod away, wild the new matte* forms a
rv >v man, who cannot be held accountubh*
for the conduct <f another.” The tmtfi
ence Formed enchanted. Then Wrose the
city uii'-s.onaiv uud .said: “Latin h atid
gen tie met), it ts a matter of regret to m"
that I have to engage in n discussion with
a ft) a a of quefftionahin cleuantcr,—witii
nu ''i ' *< ' whom living with a women
tu w 1 i* n t married,” Uj> rose, iu
• tS*’*n iii..teiin!ißt; “Stf. thi ia
■ ••id I repudiate your yin si din 11
r. y v eh:, nu ter. T defy Vou
yonr cluoge. I wna ujar
jflDfc. ''V w /e. twenty years ago, and we
v * bsppily together ever since.
• * a mere attempt at evading Ihe
replied the city missionary, T
r '. ! h-m my charge. You were never mar*
' to lae person with whom yon are
aviUg. twenty years ago two* other
; 1. may nave gone to church, bearing
nHh iia,n, , but there is not one-atom in
. v >!,t Bodies remaining of those which w uv
tl.t u married. It follows inevitably that
** ,4,( ' living in coneubinn, e, unites you
1 Li admit th.d you uu the same man who
... :,i,. iivd twenty you;* since.” The
M ” ; *' wets compelled, amid great
- - • • ' hew tii.it, somehow or other,
'* di: ml (iiHo*' j d't for past actions must
•< j,uuuu even by Materialists.
Tiie Groat Pianists.
n miieu 111 the Aihmtic for October
■ ' !<, i cv-ine Great Musicians,” coin-j
■ •'* • - iiv'in a talented young lady j
The following, written in j
”tho writer hud just heard]
i-. : ’’<i‘ the Hist time, will interest
eAc m.oici:i person;
' • h'-'uni both Rubinstein and]
*-•- •,. i.< a iicc.t since I last* wrote. |
■”'•! wonderful, but hi quite a 1
• - •• vvi.v. Liszt’s trill is like the
” f bc oi >* 0,10, Tuusig’s is as much so.
**“ n. it lass tho greatest power and
I. 'amici- 11 i uV-ying that you can imagine,
extremely exciting. I never paw
a mao to v.liom it seemed to be so easy
‘ l*h v It m us though he were just
Doitiiip; mHt) the piano, and could do
-• *•* I ''“used with it. Tausig, on the
•ontruly. 1., extremely restrained, and has
qniie euiiiiiHia-in enough, lmt he is
absolutely perfect, and plays with the
"?rc*ucst expression. He is pre-eminent
01 grace aim delicacy of execution, but
seems mtid oack liis power in a concert
• on), wii.chio very singular, for when lie
pi ys t< !;; classes in the Conservatory he
‘'■m-, all passion, and thrills you to the
uiMi M.w oi your bones. His * conception
so very refined that sometimes it is a
uue too much so, while Hubeustein is
'."ifhoLnUy a lit tie too precipitate. 1 ;
have not yet decided which I like best, j
b , in TM ty estimation, Clara Schumann
is superior to both, although
she doesn’t begin to have their technique.
, v ociuva playing is the most ex ri
.. I ever heard. The last piece on
in programme was a Hungarian I! mpsody
oid it was all octaves. The first
v !."• played so pianissimo that you
**.dy iuarit, and then he took the
• • theme and played it tremendously j
I' was colo.-sal! Hijf scales surpass
Setmiuann’s, uud it seems as if he
; ’ t with velvet fingers, his touch is so
He played the great C major
•• - *<y Beethoven—Moscheles, la
v‘;i know. His conception of it
‘••G.-inl ns I expected it would
v< and dreamy. His first
pi C.itlly w'ns very piano. He
beautifully, but I was not quite
tho last movemen , tori
•i' iu: would make a grand climax
• pasdonate trills, but ho did ]
'-•nopiu iu* p'aya divinely, a and that
* * iiaci.’s that 1 used to play
Ji played it like lightning,
* perfectfy bewitching.
? n is u great in an lmt Clara
yo p4it:i herself cn rapport
tbately, and theivioie I
p.eaiest genius, although
o (ievviiaiui vvoulu not agree
lg Inih such a little hand
oe iius been able to acquire
I'.ui.ily, He is very snort, !
hort. in fact, for good look.-,,
remarkably keen nnd vivid
jac aaol-v thirty years old, nnd is
*• r 1 i* than iiobiubltin or Billow.
* ;_i .ftw Escape Oi'a Balloonatic.
i t i-tsbui;.; iJ?a.) Dispatch, of Mon
a hr.s me following account pf the hr
-t'l . m 1;: Aid in tiiat city on Saturday by
1 •■•'* 1 •of Barnnm’H Hippodrome;
I’li-iny it was,found that the large bal
jl ■ <. I, in which it was proposed by tin
j .iiaiiugcnu ut of the hippodrome to give
: r latives >f the afternoon papers
j,* vr.y:i y:a to cloud land, could not be pfe
jt ’""i time, liather tlmu dir-appoint
;'h ;“ pi who had gathered in thou
] k-arids at the fjipppdronie and about the
■ 'mb i'iofeasor Donaldson decided to
m b ' an ~ wen-don in the small balloon
b ivas rather hurriedly iu
fl did. and instead of a car the daring
;l .laced himself astride a rope,
on 'i- h he had hung ail uuchoras well
... grappling irons, but look uo ballast.
TANARUS: : oon ascended rapidly, amid the
. iv. f thousands of people, but it was
not inflated for a long voyage,
highest altitude was not above
.e t bom the ground. It passed
-on of the city in uhuut the
- - i-m as the “Barnum" on
• •’l. st, and was suddiilly seen to
fl" ■ / diopping. It appeared that as
lot b.dlooii reached a current, ol
~ , ! : r r.’siug from the river the gas con
trade 1. and was no longer able to sustain
Mi -weight of its load. People who were
closely watching the air vessel saw its
'apid descent, and from its appearance
juuged lout it had collapsed. A large
crowd followed in the direction where it
seemed to be fulliug, expecting to find tlie
shattered remains of the intrepid Donald
sou. That gentleman, however, wnseqiial
to the situation in which he found himself.
As lie neared the ground he was seen to
lower himself by his hands and hang
suspended to the cross ropes on which he
was seated. He was evidently looking for
a clear place to jump, but unfortunately
the wind took the matter into its own
hands and dashed the hallo’ „ against Mu
glass works of Frank A Cos., at. Franks
towu station, ou the Oonnellsvile road,
about two miles beyond Soho, The pro
fessor was very much shaken by the
concussion, but escaped without serious
injury. His ship was badly torn.”
He eheerfnl at *ll time*.
Agree, for the law i& cottly.*
Drowning men catch at straws,
If you wish to he priiiseiT— die. ’
Do nothing yon want to cotieeitl.
Power of evil- -I'ovyor of attorney,
What i* to.he?#rrA verb,,oteoaiiu-.
f The family’ jiir is frequently
Lay in your wiuter of coal.
A suit that rarely lita Well— LaW anit.
Wonder is the daughter of ignominy
’ Ail object of interest—Hftyeii’-TMIfF l
Cure not far what you can never pose -
And indented eiiiu shows..thirat fin nix
j fection. ' •
It is better to retrace a wropg i)tep, than
: to pursue a wrong course,
They who talk a nob should kwwsre of
those who hsten attentively. •• • ,
Liberality niakea friends of
pride makes enemies of friends.
A question may bo queer, but the om¥
who asks it always the querist,
The thinking uiun Ims witigsj the actiiqf
man lias only feet and bunds- ,
The best thing to take before singing-
Breath. ,
A man may bo very dirty, and yet, nut
be a genius.
Mm willingly believe what they wish
be t rue. ’ , * ■■■
El- quence inay be. spoiled by prottt ptd
oratory,
A tough thing to manage—Rqurdip, .
The e,yi-s of other people ure the vy-v
that ruin us.
Truth is simple, requiring Je if!:cr
study nor art.
A brum!, square chin indicates d'eVoß'a
attaclihieiit.
The hardest thing to deal with— it
pack of bards;
YVlmt is virtue but a medicine, ntia.vi-.*
but a wound! ■ .-
A child hasn’t sense of proper ty i-n.'-i p
wants pockets.
If, thy enemy wrongs thee,. buy ei.fuyu
liis ehildreu a drum.
. When you wish to borrow tin u: -F-- * f —
do it iii dry weather.
Never co-diil-- v -O'.-se. vets to a f! ;
“Blood will tell; ”= - -a
A good hotel-keeper is n men the i
cun always-put up with. '
How to stop a cock fioht. Ret - t
ties [-resent claim a fowl.
Gotunion senses—Pennies.
Nohh was nn ark-itectof the first w; ’ -
The first lio,x of tootli-puwder i.
rouch e-l; Denven
Ministers of the iuteii.yr--the cook',-;
the doctor.
Candy shops adjaec uf to soliools re; - .
brisk fall trade.
The vilest sinner may return —<v. - *
save an umbrella.
They made a roan pray seven ho’uv '
stealing a niulo in Delaware.
The “Knockeniijtiffs” is the name o!
New Ilaven base,ball nine.
A book is a letter to the nnknov,
friends one has in the world.
Leisure without learning is death,’s’
idleness the gifllve of a living man.
Do not consider death as nn ineonvr
ience, you will find it a ealannt-y.
The popular thing at Long Branch e
is to rob nnd drug ignorant visitors.
The snre way to be deceived is, to i
lieve ourselves more cunning than qti.
The geological charneter of the ryel;
which drunkards split is said to be’qn: -'
Cun a mail who is full of the miia
human kindness eat a lobster with
-
You can tell an Agrieu-tiiral De;
ment clerk in Washington by..his se.-jiv
appearunee.
Bathe often, hut lit proper tinies; if# e.-t
after u meal or directly alter violent ev- *•-
cist-.
The grasshoppers have devoured u-au-;.
everything in Kansas excepting the poo
ticians.
Ffivor exalts a man above hi..; .t#q- .. ,
but his dismissal from that favor.} I
him below them.
It is proposed that men vHicr are E.n
headed have* their ni'otiOgranis painin' - u
the bare s|>ot. * - •
In Missouri, after 187t’>,. every -v ~
must be able to.read and write, ,'j b d
for Florida is 188 Q.
Trust him little who praises # afl ;F;
loss who censures"’ all; aiid hvhi leu-51 w
is indifferent about all. : "
If von let tint cat out of tbe'bfiti nev.
try to cram him back again; itt-oUiy.H..-
mutters worse. , . • ... ,
Mothers ne'er cease your eybqrtgii--
I to Jonat-lian and Jeruslm Ann pd stand.
NO. 24.
and walk erect.
The smallest lmir casts a Shadow ; n
ions trifling act has its consi quonCeV. if
lu re, at least hereafter.
A young man who shot lriinaeh m-.i .
tlngn believes a hip pocket is m;t a g
place to eiu ry ammunition.
A girl, a tali of coal-oil, and a thank - ’
tire, are three things that should lii vr t.
left in a room together.
An exchange asks: "Where dors
toil go?" We Know where a good tV h
it goes,' but don’t like to tell.
The odor of Brooklyn sanctity w
strong that when the wind ts i
East, New Jersey people shut do . ..
windows.
Won't someone hurl a mailt £
young man of .the Boston IV; t v
j trying to revive public interest in -* 1
drumr.
Now the Sultan of Turkey “n >-)
wero'dead." Dr. Mary Wrikerris tk.'
The world’s memory is short •
forget you if do not jog'it. ’fn-oncii’’."’
The pillow’s in the Duluth hoK-\;
large that travelers can’ hardry : . p
them. "* ■ ' "?. •!
Terre Haute claims to he "the hitch.•
uitlcentre of the world for big.- whiter., i
ous." -
Josh Billings says: “Tew enjoy a'get
reputasbun, giv publicly and steal prr -
ly.” _____
The activity of the young is like tl.
rail ears in motion- -they tear ifldhiy
noise and turmoil, and leave peace be
Ibem. The quietest notflts pervaded 1
them lose their quietude as they pass,
recover it only ou their departure, 'j’im.
best gift to us is serenity.
Water drinking between meals should
be nedbrding to thirst. It is a mistake t
loud a weak stomach with water on and o
theory that it is a tonic, Asa habit;.
w< hto take a tumbler, or part of on., of
, pure soft water after dressing ia the me. ,
ing.
It is reasonably safe to kick a mun win u
he is down, and the opportunity seldom
passes withont improvement.