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GALLAHER'S INDEPENDENT, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT 1: i r rm a(i A J. C. G A L L A H E R. TKUMS OK SUBSCRIPTION I 7 II"0 DOLLARS per Annum in Ailrmcr. 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.