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THE NATIONAL TRIBUNE: WASHINGTON, D. 0., JANUARY 7, 1882.
We parted in the winter,
And from the distant hill
She watched my ship sail outward
O'er the waters cold and still.
I could not see the tear-drop
That glistened in her eye,
Nor her dainty kerchief waving
Against the frosty sky ;
But I knew her heart was hreathing
A gentle word of prayer ;
1 knew her eye was streaming,
And her kerchief waving there.
I said before I left her,
" Farewell, my love, farewell ;
3 am sailing to the sunshine,
And the laud where myrtles dwell ;
But still my longing fancy
Will turn to rest with thee ;
My snow-flake on the mountain
Is more than all to me."
You know how the pure snow melteth,
"When the winter's cold is sped;
Ay, so before that ship returned,
My sweet snow-flake was dead.
Ml the Year Found.
THE WHITE LADY OF HILLBURY,
BY MRS. C. DESPAKD.
The year that "began so strangely for Ellen
Montague and her mother had nearly run its
course. They were already in the early days
of December. It had been a quiet year, marked
with anxiety, for, though the Doctor continued
to impress upon them the fact that he believed
all -was well with the wandering son and brother,
from himself they had only received one or two
flying notes, couched in strangely incoherent
terms. In none of these notes did he give his
address. "I shall hear if anything is wrong
with you," he wrote, " as my friend carries on a
brisk correspondence with our Doctor. For the
rest, I do not seem to care for letters j ust now."
"What his plans were, or when he proposed to
return to Hillbury, he did not so much as hint.
But for the interest inspired by their strange
guest, and constant occupation about her, that
would have been a dreary winter for Lady Mon
tague and her daughter. It was the third year of
her widowhood, and she had not yet begun to
mis in general society. Her son's absence and
Theodora's peculiar circumstances were the ex
cuses she made to herself for persisting in her
But on one of those December days Dr. Griffith
called, and reproached her for the isolation in
which she lived. "I have seen your brother,
Lord Mount oy," he said; "he says that you
ought to show yourself a little. Miss Ellen is
nearly twenty years of age."
" I will send Ellen to her aunt's in the sea
son," said Lady Montague. " Harry will have
returned by that time."
" And Theodora ? Have you formed any plans
about her? She cannot remain as she is."
" Oh ! Doctor, why do you force me to admit
that change must come? Can we not go on as
we are doing for a little longer?"
"Well!" replied the Doctor indulgently,
"there is no need for any immediate change,
only one ought to be prepared for all contin
gencies, and, as it will out sooner or later. I
wanted to break my ground."
" Doctor, what do you mean ? "
" Will you do me a very great honor. Lady
"I will do anything for you that lies in my
"That's kindly spoken. Yon know that I am
going into my new house almost at once. Now I
want to give a house-warming to ask every
body all the neighborhood. I am blessed with
neither wife nor sister. Will you do the honors
for me on the occasion ? "
The request was rather a startling one ; but
Lady Montague did not see her way to refusing it.
Dr. Griffith had been the best of friends to her,
and she felt for his Eolitary condition.
" By the bye," she said, when she had consent
ed to preside, " what is your evening ? We must
be at home for Christmas, on which day, of
course, we expect you as usual."
"I shall be away from home for Christmas
week," the Doctor said, "returning before the
New Year. My evening will be the 31st of De
cember. The ladies will come, of course?"
" You think it will be wise for Theodora ? "
" I am sure of it."
" And you are her doctor, so I can make no ob
jection." Helped by sundry young ladies of his acquaint
ance, the Doctor now sent out a host of invita
tions. He told each one of his fair amanuenses in
confidence that the "White Lady of Hillbury"
was to be one of his guests, and each fair confi
dante whispered the secret to one or two inti
mate friends. There was not one of the invited
who did not make a point of being disengaged for
the 31st of December.
He paid frequent visits to Hillbury unpro
fessional visits after dinner in the evening, or
before breakfast in the morning. On one of
these occasions he said to Ellen and Theodora,
who were busy in the conservatory, "'I begin to
be frightened. There are so many people com
ing on the 31st. How am I to amuse them ? "
"They will dance, won't they?" said Ellen.
" But all can't dance at once, and I have a fair
number of nondancers."
"Have we talent enough amongst us to get up
theatricals?" Ellen suggested.
" Talent possibly, not time."
Here Ellen's eyes fell upon Theodora, who,
paying no attention to their talk, was standing,
her watering-pot in one hand, the other gather
ing her white drapery from under her feet, look
ing out with dreamy eyes on the wintry land
scape. It was a pose that Bernhardt might have
"I have it," said Ellen, striking her hands to
gether; "poses plastiqucs! Theodora shall be
let me see Iphigenia before the Grecian host
or Cthonia yes! yes. She would be splendid ! "
And looking at her friend, the girl intoned Swin
burne's fine lines:
For now being conic to the altar, where as priest
Death ministering should meet her the maiden stood
With light in all her face as of a bride
Smiling, or shine of festal flame by night
Far flung from towers of triumph.
Don't you know, Doctor! With her Greek dress
and her jewelled girdle, and her hair about her,
1 brighter than a bridal veil.' "
The Doctor did not at once answer his young
friend's rhapsody. His eyes, in which there was
, a strange gleam., as of a triumph, were fixed on
Theodora. "Yes," he said, slowly, after a few
moments' pause. "I think that would do. It
would be her first appearance to our little pub
lic, but there must be other pictures. Will you
try and get up the thing for me, Miss Ellen ? "
"Certainly," she answered, "if Mamma does
The Doctor went away satisfied. On that day
he was starting for his Christmas journey.
The thirtieth of December came round in due
course. The Doctor had not yet returned to his
house, and no one had heard of him. Then came
a letter for Lady Montague which made her eyes
dance with pleasure; but she told no one of its
contents. That singular man, the Doctor, had
begged her to keep her own counsel.
Every one at Hillbury was busy meanwhile in
costume-making, consulting, rehearsing. A few
of the best-looking young people in the neigh
borhood had been gathered together, and poems,
plays, and celebrated works of fiction had been
consulted for striking situations. With some
difficulty Ellen had succeeded in making Theo
dora understand what was required of her : but
this first difficulty was the only one she had to
encounter, so far as her guest was concerned". So
soon as Theodora discovered that she was desired
to dress in a particular way, and throw herself
into a particular position, she proved so graceful,
clever, and supple, that Ellen was convinced she
had in some period of her former life practiced
the mimetic art. She was to pose as Cthonia
before the sacrifice in Swinburne's "Erechtheus."
Ellen arranged that Theodora's should be the
last representation, and no one was to- see her
until the moment when, according to the Doctor's
programme, she was to burst in all her beauty
and grace upon their little world.
This last day but one of the old year found Dr.
Griffith in London. He was seated in a private
sitting-room of one of the large hotels with a
single companion a young and very handsome
man, dark-eyed, fine-featured, his face bronzed
with exposure to wind and weather. The two
were deep in talk. The Doctor appeared to be
exposulating. He looked hot and anxious.
"You will not play me false at the last mo
ment," he said; "say this is a whim of mine."
" People have no business to have whims," the
young man replied fretfully. "Pardon me, Doc
tor. You have been a good friend to me. I
ought to be more patient. But the idea of re
turning home settling down looking life in
the face is horrible."
"I do not ask you to settle down, was the
calm rejoinder. "I ask you to see your mother,
to do your old friends honor : after that, go away
again as soon as you like."
The young man sighed impatiently. " I vowed
I would never go into the world again. I am
not fit for society. I am a fool a brute a man
who does not recognize perfection when he meets
it." Then, breaking off suddenly, "Doctor," he
cried out, "do you think I shall ever be able to
forgive myself? "
"I think you are morbid, my dear boy ; fright
There came a very boyish expression into the
face of the young man. "Perhaps you will not
believe it," he said ; "but it is true. When she
told me her profession the thought of my mother
made me hesitate. She has the old-fashioned
ideas, you know. She thinks actors and actresses
of necessity wicked."
"I thought as much," said the Doctor; "and
this is partly what has kept you from home all
these months. You were unjust to your mother,
Sir Henry. If she had known the lady as you
"I am afraid her prejudices are unconquerable;
however, as you say, I did not give her the chance,
and now it is too late."
" You ought to think of the living," said the
Doctor. "You have been unjust to your mother
yon owe her reparation. I should tell you that
I have written to her. She has consented to pre
side to-morrow. I said I would try and bring
you back with me."
" Then that settles it," said the young man,
with the air of one who rejoices in being freed
from the burden of deciding.
The two left London on the following morning,
and reached Dr. Griffith's house about an hour
before his guests were expected.
The party- from Hillbury were there already.
The Doctor shut up Sir Henry in the library,
and went to the drawing-room.
Lady Montague was there alone. The young
ladies were in an inner room preparing for the
parts they were to take later.
The Doctor led Lady Montague to the door of
his study. " One moment," he said, pausing on
the threshold ; " as a favor to me do nob let Miss
Ellen know her brother is here until the theat
ricals are over. It might excite her, you know."
" Yes, yes," said the mother, tremulously. In
another moment she was alone with her son. No
sooner had the young man seen his mother's face
than he was ashamed of his own injustice, while
as for her, in less than a moment, his long silence,
his apparent indifference, the mystery of his in
coherent letters, was forgotten. It was enough
for her that she saw her darling that he was
strong, well, and beautiful as ever, and that he
had not forgotten to love her.
They spent an hour together, then the Doctor,
looking radiant and excited, much like a benevo
lent wizard, Lady Montague thought, peeped in.
" Our friends are arriving," he said. " I am afraid
Sir Harry must dress."
Lady Montague went to the large drawing
room to receive the Doctor's guests.
Presently the room filled. Then Sir Henry, in
his evening dress, with his bronzed face and the
fine aristocratic manners that everybody knew,
appeared from the clouds, as it were, creating the
greatest excitement amongst his mother's friends.
He noticed that a large, heavy crimson curtain
was drawn across one end of the room. " I sup
pose there is to be dancing presently," he said to
a lady standing near him.
"Yes," she answered ; "after the theatricals."
"After pardon me ! "
"Amateur theatricals tableaux viuants, or some
thing of the kind. Miss Montague takes a prin
cipal part. I believe they are to begin at eleven."
Sir Henry Montague bit his lips. His neighbor
gathered that he did not approve of his sister's
acting, and hurried off to report this fact to one
of her intimate friends.
Sighing deeply, the young baronet took a seat
in a remote corner of the room. The Doctor
went up to him. " I am afraid all this recalls the
past to you," he said.
Sir Harry, being sensitive, thought he might
have been spared that remark at least.
"Stay where you are," went on his old friend,
indulgently. "I will see that no one disturbs
The curtain was drawn up, tmd for about an
hour scene succeeded scene upon the little stage
which had been erected for the purpose. They
were all prettily conceived, and correctly carried
out. Most of them were greeted with immense
applause. Sir Henry did not applaud. Those
who could command a sight of his face said he
had grown ill-tempered. When he did not
frown he yawned.
After about six scenes had followed one an
other the curtain was drawn down, and those
who had taken part in them entered the drawing-room,
where people were crushing upon one
another to get a better view of the stage.
"Is anything going to happen?" asked Sir
Harry of a young lady whom he knew.
The young lady looked at him. " Surely you
know?" she said.
"On the contrary," he replied; "I'm in com
"Hush! hush!" she said, excitedly. "The
curtain is moving."
Languidly Sir Harry turned his face. It
might be amusing to see what it was that so ex
cited this little provincial world.
Dr. Griffith was by his side now, grasping his
arm with a nervous pressure which perplexed
and annoyed him.
Slowly the curtain rose, amid a great silence,
followed presently by a hum, and expressions of
delight "Marvellous" "Beautiful! " "Strange! "
"Tn4- tvVio Haa -if. moon 9 WVirv t-T-xr-ct I 'J
Sir Harry had sprung to his feet ; unconscious
of the crowd, unconscious of the tightened grasp
upon his arm, and the anxious eyes upon h is
face, voiceless, he stood like one paralysed. Was
it love at first sight that had seized and swayed
him ? There stood Theodora, clad in her Gre
cian robe of pure white, her lovely throat bare,
her eyes uplifted, " with light in all her face as
of a bride, smiling," and her sweet lips "trem
bling with pride in pleasure." It was such an
image as a man might die for, and die blessing
Heaven for the solemn gift of life.
There were other figures. An altar, with fire
burning upon it ; a priest; a man dressed as Cho
rus, with snowy beard, and flowing robe. But
they two the Doctor and his friend saw only
When the curtain fell, Sir Harry found him
self in the library, with the Doctor looking at
man wiped his brow, on which
drops of cold sweat were standing.
" Then I'm mad," he said in a low voice.
"What, Sir Henry?"
"As surely as I see you, so surely I saw her,
or her wraith."
" Whom did you see ? "
" I saw Mabel as she was in that famous scene.
I must be ill or dreaming. There could not be
two such women. Doctor, you are smiling. You
despise me, of course. Oh, God! I shall go mad."
He dropped into a chair and covered his face
from the light. There was a screen in the Doc
tor's study, from behind which there came
sounds of movement. The doctor held up his
hand warningly. Then he laid his hand upon
the young man's shoulder.
" Sir Henry," he said, " be a man."
His hand was shaken off impatiently.
The Doctor continued to smile. "Let us sup
pose," he said, "that what you saw was a reality.
What would you do ?"
"Can you ask?"
"There would be no more hesitation? You
would acknowledge her before the world?"
Here the bowed head was raised, and eager
eyes, set in the midst of a face haggard with
pain, were fixed on the Doctor, who, as he found
his young friend voiceless, spoke again. He
spoke clearly, emphasising his words, as if he
wished them to reach further than the one pair
of ears to which they were addressed. " Let us
suppose for a moment that it is not as you think.
Let us suppose that there was one person that
night who had his wits about him ; that the prima
donna was saved ; that, as there was danger of
her wits deserting her, the person who saved her
pretended she was dead, and carried her away
from a life which, even without this accident,
would have been too much for her brain. Let
us suppose further, that this friend, by working
unjustifiably on the feelings of an admirable
young lady, procured his patient a home, where
she would be tenderly and lovingly treated ; a
home, too, where, as this subtle friend was aware,
she would soon become dear for her own sake."
But here the good Doctor broke off. Sir Henry
had realized the whole plot, and, with a fervency
which was quite too much for the hardest feel
ings, he was wringing Dr. Griffith's hand.
"Where is she?" he said.
The Doctor made another sign with his hand,
and from behind the screen came Theodora, led
forward by Ellen and Lady Montague. She
looked bewildered. "Try you and make her
understand," said Lady Montague, gently, and
left them together.
Is it necessary to say that Sir Henry succeeded?
When the New Year was about two hours old,
and Dr. Griffith's guests were dancing merrily,
the young Baronet appeared amongst them,
gloomy no longer, but radiant and happy, with
the loveliest woman in the world on his arm.
The little erection that had served for a stage
was now converted into a platform, whence the
non-dancers could gain a good view of the room.
Lady Montague was sitting there, looking pale
and happy in her dress of black satin and antique
lace. Sir Henry went up to her. She rose, blush
ing like a girl. " Mother," he said aloud, " allow
me to present to you the lady who, if God Avill,
is to be my wife some day. Her name is Mable
Hetherington, and for a few months she was
known as a famous singer."
Meantime the music was silent, the dancing
had ceased. Lady Montague was the centre of
a little crowd. She answered, "My son, I con
gratulate you." Then she held out her hand to
the girl she had known and loved as Theodora.
"Mable will make one of the best wives," she
A rosy color overspread the young girl's face.
She stooped, and pressed her lips to Lady Mon
tague's hand. "Now I understand," she whis
pered, " why your face haunted me in my dreams."
That was the prettiest flattery Lady Montague
had ever received.
PICTURES OF ANCIENT EXTRAVAGANCE.
Crassus, when a candidate for the consulship,
gave a feast of 10,000 tables, to which all the
citizens of Pome were indiscriminately invited.
Cajsar, to celebrate the funeral of a daughter, gave
one of 22,000 tables, with accommodation for
three guests at each. This entertainment was
repeated and exceeded for his triumph. He
brought together more gladiators and wild beasts
than were ever produced on any former occasion
in an amphitheatre, but his exhibitions of this
kind were so completely outshone that it were a
waste of time to dwell upon them. In a docu
ment annexed to his testament, Augustus states
as a title to public gratitude that he had ex
hibited 6,000 gladiators and brought more than
3,500 wild beasts to be killed in the circus. In
the course of the festivities instituted by Titus
to celebrate the opening of the colosseum, 5,000
wild beasts were let loose and killed by the
gladiators. The Emperor Probus collected for a
single show 100 lions, 100 lionesses, 100 Libyan
and 100 Syrian leopards, 300 bears, and 600
gladiators. Having caused the circus to be
planted with trees to resemble a forest, he let
loose 1,000 ostriches. 1,000 stags, 1,000 does, and
1,000 boars, to be hunted by the populace, who
were to keep whatever they could catch or kill.
The fiercer animals were encountered by the
gladiators. It does not appear how long this
Tiberius, whose life at Capri was a disgrace
to human nature, was fonder of saving money
than of spending it, and he left an immense
sum in the treasury, which his successor, Caligula,
managed to dissipate in two years by extrava
gance of the most senseless kind. As if in rivalry
of Cleopatra, he swallowed pecious stones dis
solved in vinegar, and caused his guests to be
helped to gold (which they carried away) instead
of bread and meat. One of his favorite amuse
ments was showering money among the populace
from the Basilica of Julius Cresar. He built
galleys of cedar, covered with jewelry, and large
enough to contain vines and fruit trees, and had
canals cut for them along the coast. The stable
of his favorite horse, which he talked of naming
Consul, was of marble, the trough of ivory, the
harness of purple, and the collar of pearls. The
set of emeralds and pearls worn by one of his
wives, Lollia Paulina, was valued at 400,000
The principal extravagance of Claudius was in
public games. One of the shows organized for
him was a naval combat on a lake, in which the
galleys were manned by 19,000 men. He was
fond of good cheer, and was in the habit of in
viting himself to the tables of the rich. He
came on one occasion with GOO persons in his
It was to Nero that Tacitus applied the expres
sion, incredibHium cupitor. What he not only
desired but achieved in the way of cruelty and
vice would be declared incredible if Romanhistory
had not already shown what revolting atrocities
may be conceived by a diseased imagination and
executed by irresponsible power. After the burn
ing of the city, he gratified his taste, in entire dis
regard of the proprietors, in rebuilding it. He at
once appropriated a number of the sites and a large
portion of the public grounds for his new palace.
The porticos, with their ranks of columns, were
a mile long. The vestibule was large enough to
contain the colossal statue of him, in silver and
gold, 120 feet high, from which the colosseum got
its name. The interior was glided throughout,
and adorned with ivory and mother-of-pearl.
The ceilings of the dining-rooms were formed of
movable tablets of ivory, which shed flowers
and perfumes on the company; the principal sa
loon had a dome which, turning day and night,
imitated the movements of the terrestrial bodies.
When this palace was finished he exclaimed : " At
last I am lodged like a man." His diadem was
valued at half a miflion. His dresses, which he
never wore twice, were stiff with embroidery and
gold. He fished with purple lines and hooks of
gold. He never traveled with less than a thou
sand carriages. The mules were shod with silver,
the muleteers clothed with the finest wool, and
the attendants wore bracelets and necklaces of
gold. Five hundred she-asses followed his wife
Poppaj in her progresses, to supply milk for her
bath. He was fond of figuring in the circus as a
charioteer, and in the theatre as a singer and
actor. He prided himself on being an artist, and
when his possible deposition was hinted to him
he said that artists could never be in want. There
was not a vice to which he was not given, nor a
crime which he did not commit. Yet the world,
exclaimed Seutonions, endured this monster for
fourteen years ; and he was popular with the
multitude, who were dazzled by his magnificence
and mistook his senseless profusion for liberality.
On the anniversary of his death, during many
years, they crowded to cover his tomb with
The utmost excess in gluttonny was reached
by Vitellus, who gave feasts at which 2,000 fishes
and 7,000 birds were served up. He prided him
self on his culinary genius, and laid every quarter
of the empire under contribution to supply ma
terials for a dish, which contained livers of mul
let, brains of pheasants and peacocks, tongues of
flamingoes, roe of lampreys, etc. Tacitus states
that he spent what would be tantamount to sev
eral millions sterling in less than eight months
in eating or giving to eat Quarterly Iieuieic.
Evil is wrought by want of though
As well as want of heart. Hood.
A his for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.-Hood.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
BLOOD-ATONEMENT IN UTAH.
An astonishing story is told by a Salt Lake
correspondent in a recent number of the Chicago
Tribune : With regard to blood-atonement, I am
assured that it is practiced to-day as frequently
as it was twenty-five years ago, though not so
openly. There are no coroners in Utah, and
when a body is in death it is simply buried.
Poison does the work and there are no inquiries.
When a man gets tired of his wife he poisons her.
One crime, which was committed here only a short
time ago, I must describe. Mrs. Maxwell came
to Salt Lake City with her husband in lt69.
Two years afterwards her husband took another
wife, and one year subsequently he was sealed to
a third. Mrs. Maxwell had two sons, aged re
spectively fourteen and sixteen years. Their
father urged them to go through the Endowment
House and become Moraions, bound by all the
oaths of the Church. Mrs. Maxwell, having led
a life like that of Mrs. Hunt, objected, and in
order to prevail over her sons she told them the
secrets of the Endowment House.
The penalty for revealing these secrets is dis
memberment of the body, the throat cut and
tongue torn out. Mr. Maxwell overheard his
wife, being in an adjoining room, and forthwith
he informed the elders, who sent for the unfor
tunate woman and her two sons. They were
taken into what is called the " dark pit," a blood
atoning room under Brigham Young's House.
Six members of the priesthood then performed
their damnable crime; they first cut off their
victim's tongue, they then cut her throat. The
sons were compelled to stand by and witness this
dreadful slaughter of their mother. The sons
went directly to the house of a friend, to Avhom
they related the butchery of their mother, and
obtaining a package of provisions they started;
but on the following morning they were both
dead they had met the Danites.
HOW LEATHER SCRAPS ARE UTILIZED,
Every little scrap of leather that flies from the
cutters' knives in the Auburn shoe shops is saved,
and either goes into leather-board, shoe heels, or
grease. Who says this isn't an economical age?
About two months ago a factory was started tor
making shoe heels in Auburn. They now have
about twenty-five hands at work and are making
about one hundred and twenty cases of heels per
day, or about 15,000 heels. The heels are made
entirely of small scraps of upper leather. The
scraps are first cut into the right shape by dies.
They are then packed and sent to Chelsea, Mass.,
where the oil is extracted from them by a secret
process. They come back dry, and are then pasted
together in wooden heel molds. The grease is
extracted in order that the heels may be bur
nished. They take as nice a polish as a genuine
sole leather heel. All the pieces that will not go
into heels are dried out, and the firm gets two or
three barrels of grease per week from this source.
It is used again for leather dressing. The firm is
endeavoring to obtain possession of the naphtha
process of extracting the oil from the whole
pieces, and thus save the expense of shipping to
Massachusetts. Their heels are largely used in
Auburn, and sell at $1.30 to $2.40 per case.
Lexmton Me.) Journal.
TALES OF A THUMB.
If everybody will look carefully at the end of
his thumb he will find that the surface is ridged
with little thread-like ranges of hills, wound
round and round in tiny spirals. If he will
take a magnifying glass and examine them
closely he will find that there is a good deal of
individuality in the way in which these are
arranged. No two thumb3 in the world are
exactly alike. The miniature mountain ranges
are as fixed and decided as the Alps or the
Sierras; the geography of the thumb is unmis
takable. Now the Chinese have made use of
this fact for establishing a rogue's gallery.
Whenever a criminal is examined by the law,
an impression is taken of his thumb. Smeared
with a little lamblack, partially wiped, and
then pressed down on a piece of white paper,
an engraving of the thumb is made and kept
in the police records. It serves just the same
purpose which is served by our photographing
our burglars and pickpockets. The accused can
be identified with great certainty. Nothing
short of mutilatiQn or burning the thumb can
obliterate its features. Sometimes a ghastly
proof of guilt is furnished ; a murderer, red
handed with his crime, may touch his fingers7
ends upon a white wall, and so leave in the
color of his guilt a photograph on the accusing
wall. His signature is left just as unmistakable
as if he had signed the bond of his iniquity ; and
thus great crimes have been brought to light,
and deeds of blood made to tell their own
story. But this individuality in the skin in the
tip of the thumb, strongly marked as it is, yet
admits of strong family likeness. Brothers and
sisters who will take impressions of their thumbs
will find resemblances among each other that
they will not find comparing them with the
thumbs of strangers. Even thus minutely does
that strange thing, family likeness, descend.
What wonder is it that faces look alike, voices
sound alike? How can it seem strange that
members of the same family should have simil
arities of temper, of mental aptitudes and
hereditary diseases, when such minor peculiarities
as the texture of the end of the thumb, and its
ranges of hills, should also have family resem
blances in the midst of their infinite diversities.
"The hairs of our head are numbered," and not
only so, but if examined with a powerful magni
fying glass, show peculiarities as strong as the
trees of the forest. No two are exactly alike.
Everything, from the smallest to the greatest, is
impressed with a specific character and individ
uality. The Creator's invention is exhanstless,
and he no more repeats himself in the geography
of a thumb than in the geography of a continent.
Now, if anybody doubts this let him take a little
black or analine color and try. He will acquire
an acquaintance with his thumb and a respect
for it that will be quite interesting. Baltimore
Joseph J. Gilman, of Lynn, Mass., claims to
have been the youngest enlisted man who went
to the war from Massachusetts, he having enlisted
in the navy on September 20, 1S61, at the age of
13, and served four years.