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farm. Garden, and Household.;
( ONOUt TEIi ItV I’lTNAM SIMOKTON. g^-iiur lriends who may have communications, ob ;:11ns, facts, suggestions, or anything (if interest, 1 uning to this department, are requested to'commu . i is same to Or. Putnam Simonton, Searsport, who prepare the same ior publication, it ol sufficient im portance. , »Vil ItPTIOX ITSfll SK tXDPBE VKXTTIOV in the January, February amt March num •f the Atlantic Monthly, l’rof. II. I. Bow el Boston, gives some excellent artices ids most important subject—“Consurap m America,” which all should read; but will not, we will give it such wider pub as our limited space permits. Bowditch states from reliable statistics, ] ; inly may lie affirmed of Maine, especial- ] : this part of it, that this scourge ‘nit pres- j ills about one quarter of all who die an i. v in Massachusetts;” and that it is much r; in quoin than formerly. tuning ilio various causes of consumption, assigns “Damp soil” as the greatest; a fact i p it our own experience well corroborates. A ii.de families residing in undrained, wet lo oms, hu\c. we know, been swept off from ■ause, one after another, as with the be ii of destruction. Both in this country and i l.urope, public bodies have sent out com t • ■• . it vesl gale the causes of this dis I-1. wlio report ".soil moisture” as the chief, v important, then, as we value health and ,,.it in selecting the place for our hablta ive should select one free as possible from annul water, and use all the means that . nee and arf can devise to effect good drain i veil in favorable localities. For elevated are not always dry ones; some of the ".• st cellars and adjacent grounds are often end on them, wiiere the ground is springy i.d uudraltied. - consumption contagious? Can one per Minimuiiicatc it to another? as measles or hi pox is (lone. This is a highly important •.ion, ami one on which the medical profes - not well agreed. Dr. 15. has reviewed .■■iincuts and authorities on both sides of ads that the balance of their teaching, i .i as that of his own professional expen go in favor of the idea that this fell ilis in a restricted sense, is contagious;—an pinion in which a third ol a century’s expe llee has made us to fully believe. Very . my eases have we known where a well per il. and not particularly predisposed to it, '■ping with, or too closely attendant upon, usumptive patient, having soon, in the i' way, followed the first victim. And so dways warn against this danger ; a warn _ winch, if heeded, would save, we doubt . many a valuable life, be iu.'lueuce ol the dilferent trades aud pro • oils as causes of consumption, is well an by Dr. li. All those which cause vari i- kinds ol dust to be inhaled into the lungs; •>e which cramp and contract the chest, as ;ii shoemakers, seamstresses, students, rks.Ac.; those which expose to cold and imp ? tfose which fail to supply good air frec — these are among its fruitful causes. Waul ol Sunlight, ol 1’ure Hr, of Good Food uni Proper Digestion, our author finds great • •iicii - in the production of this disease. It remark.-, on “sunlight," as a preventive itn’ miet ol disease, should be read and treat •■ - ‘ ’thus saith the l ord" by every house u ».-i i the laud. Tor who Joes not see, right " i i their eyes, every flower ami vegetable ■’ ken and die when uoi exposed, more or less, ■ i tired sunlight\ et in most homes, with ■ at cure ire its life-giving beams shut out ■ n the human being,—of mare value than my vegetables, and needing those beams still •uoiv than they. /Slice yme carpets and furniture 11 ■ '■ ii'fttr ltj‘‘ this is the terrible price you lei. 1 — Aud not less essential are pure air, and plain, substantial food,—such as the open Ure u c, and “the homely fare" of the last gen eration afi’orded. Am . the cll'ort is to have atr-tight house.-; and ii. by chance, abreulhof pure air steals in, to have it instantly poisoned by noxious gases from close stoves and fur naces. Is it strange, under such circuin ■ lances, ii' consumption is both on lie Increase, uni is incurable? ■Consumption literally means a want of proper nutrition.” Whatever, therefore, wheth er want or fashion, withholds proper food from the system is among its great causes. Dad 'read and worse butter; two or three kinds of rich i akes and pies at the same meal—all eaten on the run, without proper mastication,—al. these indigestioi -producing agencies, Dr. D. places high among the causes of this destroy er A not less one is “Insufficient or imperfect clothing.” The tight lacing and thin shoes of a few years ago were fearful influences; and to-day, the insuffi cient clothing of young ladies returning, the blood all aglow, from the excitement of the ball-room, sends how many to the consump tive’s grave. Aud, we will add, the reckless v.iy in which older women, in putting out , itlies, expose themselves, all reeking with the heat and steam of the wash-room, sends iiuntless numbers to the same end. uur bad system of education ; school houses badly heated aud worse ventilated; few, if any, cleans for securing that highest aud best idea • a all education—a sound mind in asoundbody; inis, aud Mental Emotions and Depressing Pas sions are among the last, but not least, causes which Prof. 15. assigns for consumption. While a tiiiuka, umlor certain conditions, the tem perate use of ardent spirits may sometimes be beuetloial,—“the abuse of liquor—the yood run ■■“'t l”—over stimulating and otherwise derang ing the internal organs, is a frequent cause of consumption, as are all the passions, both of body and mind, when unduly aroused aud in dulged. So, for eradicating, or even lessening, con sumption, Dr. Bowditch insists the true means are avoiding these causes of it. Select dry sites for towns and dwellings, and make these drier by good drainage. Erect the tenements with good open chimneys and iire-places, aud all the means for perfect ventilation ; free sun shine to be let iu, and so not too much dark and lamp shrubbery near; frequent bathing; suitable clothing; proper exercise, avoiding both over aud under action; for the body aud the mind, according to their age and condition, the right nourishment. A FAMILY’S SOAP FOH ilniHUG. Nature lias so kindly ordered things that there needs be no waste; that what is a refuse to one thing becomes an clement of, and a useful thing to, another. Thus various materials, both animal and mineral, no longer needed by the living animal, are thrown out by it, and be come highly useful to plant life. It is so with the homely compound sailed soap; so useful in the wants of man—“ cleanliness being next to Godliness,” according to Wesley. When it has served its first purposes, its usefulness has scarcely begun; for, containing abundantly those substances found in its grease and potash, w hich all vegetables require, it is ready through the endless transformations of matter, to great ly minister in the shape of food, to the Inner man. lienee, as a fertilizing agent, nothing is more ; valuable than soap-suds; both because of Its j own properties, and the very enriching sub stances the soap takes from the washed arti cles—substances rich in plant-food. And both from these general principles, and onr own ob servation, we do not hesitate to say that the fertilizing value of soap-suds, if properly util ized, is equal to the soap’s cost. So that who ever has a spot of grouud, and shall apply to it this valuable dressing, will get the original thing for nothing. And not only will you get your money all buck, j but the majority of families will get something | far better than money—a greater degree of 1 health and comfort. For, if such dwellings 1 have one enemy, one source of danger, greater than another, it is the lilthy pools under the sink-spouts—sometimes even in the cellar— 1 >'cekiug with those “ villainous smells,” bearing j to the household and neighborhood the sure 1 seeds of disease and death. For this is the i stuff that Typhoid Fevers, Dysenteries, Chol ! etas, etc., are made of. The best way ol utilizing these house-slops is, as we now and then see, to have them neat ly conducted off’ to the compost-heap, or to the swine yard. When this is not convenient, have them carried out in slop-pails and thrown upon any cultivated land—for fruit trees of all kinds ; for flowers; for grass—nothing better for any thing that grows. Summer and winter, bare ground or deep snow, they are equally, at all times, beuelicial. But even then, some rank slops will accumu late under the sink-spout. All the better; it is a money pot far easier to find than the one the witch-hazel man promises. A load of good 1 muck, or common earth, put there to absorb 1 the liquids, to be replaced by a fresh supply as , often as it gets saturated, will not only make ! the place as sweet as a parlor, but will make a dressing far more valuable than the patent fer I tilizers which you send a long way, and pay a i great price for. ■ Hi i: noon ~ mii:\ to «et. a\ii HOW TO PltEPAnE XT. In every household, fuel is how great an item, both of cost aud utility. To most fami lies to whom these words will go, the old fash ioned iire-wood is the chief, as it is the best kind. And there is iar greater difference than many imagine, as to when it is got aud pre | pared lor the lire. We know far too many peo I pie in the country who get a load at a time, j and cut a tew sticks at a lime, just as necessi ■ ty demands. Aud many a time, while perform ; mg other services lor sucli families, we have j cut their wood, aud, when the supply failed, j have got the neighbors to furnish some. The reason given for this slackness is, they are too poor to get a year’s supply ahead. Of course they are. For if there is oue road more than another, leading straight to poverty, aud all its woes, it is this slip-shod, out-of-season way of doing tilings! See. Just when time is most precious, and for the whole year will not re turn,—when the fences are to be made or mend ed; the planting and sowing to be done; hay i iug and harvesting hurrying you ou, a day every week, oue-sixth of the whole, must be lost in this untimely “ getting something to burn.’’ And lroiu long observation, such an unerring index have we found this of the pecuniary con dition of the people, that we would seriously reccommend as a guide to assessors of taxes; “ to take the valuation of property” by the ; si/,e aud condition of the wood pile. If they ! tind a year’s supply, well cut, and handsomely piled up, or, what is the very best way, have it seasoning under cover in a well-ventilated building, they are No. 1, and always will be in property matters; aud so on, the valuation dwindling as the pile does, down to a few straggling sticks, and to none at all. Greatly do we desire the prosperity of all our readers, and of everybody; and so in this plain way point out this had leak in the fortunes of many families. While unavoidable misfortunes as sail, these remarks do not apply; but with thousands it is an error without excuse, aud disastrous in its consequences. And if there ! any who have neglected this important work, | now, in these bright, uneasy days of waning winter, is the lit and only time to do it; there by securing not only the profit it brings, but oue, also, that is not less—greater activity, and more system in doing things. TO KEEP NII.V ■:» WAKE 1'IIOH T A It XIHHIXQ. Many complain that the air and moisture causes their silver ware to tarnish, which is a true oxidation, or rust. This evil may be avoided, a good house keeper informs us, by | keeping each piece separately in a cotton flan , nel bag, tied up as air-tight as possible. VALUE or CHEESE. We cut from the Utica Herald the following remarks on this subject, by Hon. Horatio Sey mour, President of the American Dairymen’s Association : “Cheese should be used more for food in this country; it was wise to do so on account of a matter of economy. Cheese has been used in all the world’s history. The American people lost the habit and skill when they first came here; pork and otiier animal food could then be easily produced, and thus we lost the habit of eating cheese. It was a great cost to cook animal food; there was a great waste in the same, and the poor of our people always pay the highest price for th« poorest food. If they would eat cheese it would costless; cost noth ing to cook and there was no waste in the same. He thought the American dairymen could look forward to an increased home mar ket. Cheese was decidedly the cheapest arti cle of food, and it would not go down in price. It was a cheap necessity and not a cheap lux ury as was generally thought. He hoped some steps would be taken to Impress the importance of using cheese upon our people. Pork was distrusted and justly too. We should call upon our government to make cheese one of the ra tions of the army. Our armies could have been more easily supplied with cheese than with pork. Cheese could be easily carried; it would keep; it was a condensed article; it could be carried on horseback and military men had said it would have been an excellent thing. Such a consumption of cheese would create a new market. He suggested that some resolu tions upon the subject should be passed and the I question of supplying the poor with cheese be : urged upon the authorities.” MINCE PIES. Eight pounds of apples, four pounds of beef, boiled tender, a pound and a quarter of suet, two pounds of sugar, half a gallon of cider, or Madeira wine, a wine glass of brandy, one nut meg, two ounces of cinnamon, once ounce of cloves, a quarter of a pound of citron, two pounds of raisins, chop all fine and mix well. The Beauty’s Choice. BY ESTHER S. KENNETH. Mrs. Hawley’s prettiest boarder was the bit of a blonde girl named Florence Cas tlettm. It was a romantic name, and she had a romantic history. Her parents were dead ; she was the heiress of their proper ty, and had a guardian. He had been in love with her mother, and was very jeal ous of the daughter’s guardianship, treat ing her with arbitrary power, and teasing her quite as much as pleasing her by his affections. Yet it was quite exasperating to the young men to see her lounging on his arm, aud he a handsome bachelor of hardly forty. He boarded at a hotel; she had Mrs. Hawley’s prettiest set of rooms. They were furnished by herself, and most charmingly, in rosewood aud blue damask. She had canaries, and a paroquet, and a King Charles spaniel, and a maid under her authority ; and it was but a short time af ter her arrival before every young man in the house was marked subservient to her. She was very pretty. Her hair was of a bright gold color, her cheeks rose pink, and her eyes always made me think of blue larkspur, they were so deeply and glowing ly blue. I have seen the sea show such a color, but seldom anything else ; and they did not change like the sea from blue to gray aud Tyrean purple ; they were always that deep, steady, unaltered blue. I have seen her wear dresses and sacques of the same shade. Jsho was a living romance heroine, and I used to observe the little episodes she oc casioned in the house, with the expectation that she would finally occasion some seri ous rivalry or elopement, or break some body’s heart, aud so give the material fora story. But tor several months she pursued the even tenor of her pretty way aud brought no one to grief, aud I began to think no one was going to break his heart for her, after all, and that the beauty of the boarding house would not furnish me with a story. There were four young men in the house. Charley Childs, Fred Grove, Leonard Mar tin and Dick Manchester—all bright, agree able, marriageable young men—and all ad mirers of Florence Castleton. Finally there was another, but he was too plain and bash ful to be admitted to the elegant ranks of Miss Castleton’s galaxy ol beaux, aud not one thought of his being any one’s lover. His name was David Atwood. He was a book-keeper, was plain in dress, and evi dently straightened means. He had one of the smallest of Mrs. Hawley’s side rooms, spent all his days and most ol his evenings in the otlice where he was employed, never went to theatres or to the opera, and pos sessed not the slightest style ot manner. Yet I noticed him from the first, as hav ing a face of great sense and kindness—a face pleasant to see, having so much seri ousness and strength with its youth. Yet it was very plain—the thin light hair fall ing lankly about a large, pale forehead, the eye-brows being almost imperceptible, the eyes of a light-yellowish grey, the nose and mouth large, and a characteristic blush ris ing aud paling continually. His smile was sweet aud pleasant; he looked good ; and many a time have 1 turned from the shal low brilliancy of Fred Grove and the rat tling gayety ol Dick Manchester to observe David Atwood, quietly reading, with a sen sation of relief that there was yet some sound sense aud real worth left in the world. The others laughed at him—he was so shy, and awkward, and bashful. Aud Flor ence Castleton often joined the laugh silver ly ; yet uo one offered him any disrespect. Indeed they all acknowledged him to be ‘a good young man but so homely and awk w ard!’ Florence Castleton had a pretty voice lor singing, and used to play upon a guitar, a beautilul one inlaid with pearl, which her guardian had given her. One evening after David Atwood had been at the bouse about six weeks, she brought it down to play. The young men gathered to sing with her. Leonard Martin sang very well,, and Charley Childs sang better. While they were engaged in singing, David At wood came in. He slipped into a corner aud sat down in his shy way, and was unnoticed until Dick Manchester, who was restless for mischief, called out— ‘Mr Atwood, won’t you come and sing with us?’ Every one looked at Atwood, I expect ed to see him blush and stammer, and mur mur an inaudible reply, but a new expres sion had come upon his lace since he had entered the room. ‘I do not sing,’ he said quietly. ‘Not play?’ asked Dick. ‘Only upon the violin.’ Florence was mumming her guitar care lessly. ‘Won’t Mr. Atwood let us hear him play upon his violin?’ asked Dick, glancing sly ly at Martin as if he was starting game. I awaited Atwood’s answer with a certain de gree of interest. ‘I have not used my violin since I came here. I will unpack it, if none of the strings are broken I will play,’ said Atwood ; and he rose quietly and went out of the room. ‘How could you say that, Dick? He probably plays execrably,’ said Miss Jea nette Manchester, Dick’s sister. ‘I never knew a country bumpkin who hadn’t a fantasy for a fiddle,’ said Martin. ‘There, he’s coming back ! Now if any one has fastidious musical sensibilities, I’d ad vise him to decamp.’ ‘I shall stay,’ answered Dick. ‘We’ll all stay and see the fun,’ said Grover, sitting down by Miss Castleton. David came in. I began to understand what was coming as he bent his head over the violin and drew the bow lightly across the strings. In a moment he glided softly into an air of Verdi’s so light and graceful that it was like the fall of sea spray. Eve ry eye and ear was given in wrapt atten tion ; some in delight, some in troubled doubt, as if they could not believe their own senses, some in splean or envy, and all in amazement. Astonishment was the prevail ing emotion. When he finished the opera air, he ask ed— ‘Is there any tune you would particularly like ?’ and he glanced toward the side of the room where Florence Castleton sat, rather than at Dick and Martin. ‘Will you play the ‘Phantom Chorus’ from Faust?’ asked Florence, quickly; and the mild, sweet tones came forth obediently, in beautiful perfection. Air followed air. The company sat spell-bound until the sud denly revealed musician laid down his bow. A chorus of eulogistic praises and expres sions of gratitude followed, but David At wood smiled only at Florence Castleton’s simple,— ‘We thank you !’ He left the room. After a little while, I went through the hall, and met him. ‘You surprised and delighted us all with your performance, Mr. Atwood,’ I said. He smiled. ‘1 learned to play to please a little sick sister I had once,’ he answered. ‘Since she died I do not care to play much, although I love music.’ Just then Florence Castletou flitted by and went up stairs. I thought that she had heard what he said. ‘Do you tliiuk she liked it?’ he said, with amusing simplicity and directness. 'Yes, I am sure she did.' I auswered. 'She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ cried he, with the same amusing naiuette. ‘Yes,’ I answered.. ‘Good night,’ I said. ‘Good night,’ he responded, and went in to his room. I smiled at my thoughts as I let down my hair before my dressing glass. Yet it might prove hardly a smdiug matter for a poor, honest fellow like David Atwood to get in love with Florence Castleton, the beauty and heiress. It soon became perceptible to all observ ing people, how much David Atwood was in love with Miss Castletou. She divined it swiftly, and I thought it did not displease her. The others railed her, but she put off their jests lightly, and was none the worse for them. Poor David did not ad dress her ; he could hardly summon courage to approach her when necessary; and it was altogether beyond his plain, passion ate heart to disguise his sensitiveness in re gard to her presence. He would turn pale every time she spoke to him, aud once, when he brought her a chair in an awkward hurry, I saw him trem ble like a leaf under her beautiful blue eyes. They were together that evening, with three or four others in the parlor. ,Miss Castleton,’ one said who idolized Florence for her beauty, after the manner of school girls, ‘your eyes are just the col or of the water off Half-Moon Beach, where I saw it last summer.’ Miss Castleton laughed. ‘They are like the summer skies,’ said Charley Childs. ‘I swear that they are just like the bind ing of ‘Owen, Meredith,’ iu Blue aud gold,’ said Dick Manchester. ‘Aud what is your comparison, Mr. At wood?' said Florence, looking archly at David. His answer was involuntary. ‘They are like the blue larkspur which used to grow in my mother’s garden.’ Florence blushed ; it was the only time 1 had ever seen her blush. Looking up, she suddeuly met the eyes of her guardian, Mr. Grey, who was present. Rising quick ly, she went to the piano and seating her self played a light air. That night a clang of fire-bells awoke me. I lay unaffected for a moment, until I suddeuly perceived the odor of smoke. The hall was filled with smoke, and there was confusion iu the house. The cry of ‘Fire ! Fire !’ arose. I flung on a wrapper, drew on slippers, and commenced putting my most valuable papers into my writing desk. While I was doing this there came a quick step on the landing. I opened my door again, and saw for the first time that the doors of all the other chambers were open and the occupants had fled. It was a servant. ‘Oh, come down, for Heaven’s sake !’ cried she. ‘The back part of the house is afire from cellar to roof, inside !’ There were doors iu the halls shutting off all the back part of the house from the front. ‘Are all out: 1 asked, flinging a cloak arpund me, and taking up my precious writing desk, ‘Miss Forbes, Mr. and Mrs. Blake, Miss Houston and Miss Castleton ?’ said I, as I went through the smoky hall. ‘God have mercy !’ cried the Irish girl, ‘but I dont think Miss Castleton is out! I’ve not seen her. O ! what’ll I do ?’ Just then a figure came leaping up the stairs. ‘Go down !’ he cried out to me as he sprang past me. He flung open the door between the two halls, a volley of smoke poured out, and I retreated. It was David Atwood. I knew instinctively that he had gone for Florence, and that she would immediately be safe. Down the stairs the people were carrying out furniture, aud the greatest confusion and consternation, mingled with much ac tive energy, pervaded. The fire engiues were coming rapidly up, and a crowd were gathering. I was preparing to go across the street to the house of a friend, finding that I could be of uo assistance, when my attention was attracted by the form of Mr. Grey rushing into the hall, at the same in staut that Mrs. Blake put her baby into my arms for safe keeping, while she wrap ped two little shivering forms in shawls preparatory to putting them into a carriage for a frined’s house. Mr. Grey caught the arm of Mrs. Hawley as she flew down the stairway, with a pile of valuable clothing. ‘Miss Castleton ! Mrs. Hawley, where is she ?’ he cried. ‘I don’t know ! I don’t know !’ she ex claimed despairingly. ‘Some one went for her, I have not seen—’ Mr. Grey interrupted her with an oath, sprung to the stairs, but at that instant the figure of David Atwood emerged from the smoke on the stairway, with the senseless form of Florence Castleton in his arms. She had apparently fainted with the fright, or had been overpowered by the smoke. She was half dressed ! her beautiful gold en hair swept over David’s arm, the white unconscious face was clasped to his breast. They carried her out into the air, and she soon revived, and was carried to the hotel where Mr. Grey resided. The fire was finally extinguished, but the honse was very much injured, and rendered untenantable until repaired. It was spring and I went out of town, but that summer I received the following letter from Jeauette Manchester: ‘My Dearest Esther:—I’ve such news to tell you! Elorence Castleton has married the horrid, awkward David Atwood, who is a fright, i if lie does play beautifully on the violin. It j seems that he saved her from the Are, and she went into a passion of gratitude, and he told her that he loved her, and there was a pretty . state of affairs for that aristocratic Grey, who | was more than half in love with Florence him self, I believe. But they say that Florence said to him, “Dear guardian, remember my mother,” and he gave her right up, and let her marry Atwood. I wasn’t at the wedding; she was married at the Greys’ country seat, and they say the bride wore blue larkspur in her hair. Horrid ta ste, etc, etc. ‘J. Manchester’ I smiled. I was very glad. Eddystone. THE HISTORY AND ROMANCE OF THE LIGHT HOUSE. A report was current on the evening of Wednesday that the Eddystone Lighthouse had been swept away by the storm. The light-keepers, it was added, had been drown ed, a piece of unnecessary detail; since, if the news had been true that the waves had dashed down the beautiful and proud struct ure of Smeaton, they would have made short work of the poor creatures living in the desolate sea-tower. “Eddystone Lighthouse down?” people said, one to others ; “could such an event happen? Is it not the ‘house built upon the rock," against which the winds may roar and the waves beat till the stones wear out, but, till they wear out, no storm can lay low?” Yet who knows the power of an Atlautic roller, driven by the fierce “sou’-wester ?” A New York steamship, the Pereire, put out from Havre a short time ago to cross the ocean for America. She was as powerful and handsome a ship as could float, and oue of the quickest among ocean-going steamers. Yet, four days out, she rau her nose uuder a huge roller, piled up by the gale, and sev en huudred tons of water, it is estimated, in oue ugly gray avalanche of furious spume and swirl, broke upon her deck—crushiug everything flat to the plunking, breaking the backs of passengers, and with the blow of that one billow completely disabling the ship. It was asked whether, perchance, some such vast mass of the sea, driving up with the storm, and falling in the full pow er of its impulse upon the lighthouse, had crushed and annihilated it. In that case how sad the fate of the poor light-trimmers, swept into death beyoud all chance of escapo or even knowledge of their doom ! No need to tell us that the three men were gone, if the lighthouse was no more ; their lives would be mere bubbles in the crash—oue moment prolonged, and the next extinguished in the rush of the fierce wa ters over the leveled tower. Aud then thoughts arose of the peril which would en sue to homeward bound vessels. Every captain coming up the channel is used to make out the fixed white light of the Eddy stone, it is as sure to be there, with its friendly gleam, he thinks, as the white cliffs and green meadows of “home” beyond. Once inside the Lizard Point, the master’s order is to “keep a look-out for the Eddy stone and when it is seen “home” is as good as reached. The pilot presently comes out, and the ship’s voyage is all but over. If the lighthouse were really goue, we might hear next that a great ship with her crew and cargo had gone bodily upon the dreadful stone, at the very moment when the mariners were wondering why they did not make out the weil-known beacou. It would have to bo built up again, too, at a heavy cost, and with an interval of long delay and danger ; for even with modern appliances, it would be no small task to ri val Smeaton, and place another Pharos up on the desolate, perilous crag. All these gloomy thoughts were happily brought to an end by the welcome news that the light house was as safe as ever. The thick weather of the tempest had obscured the gleam, and some Plymouth bound vessel, we suppose, failing to make it out in the sea drift, had come into port with the notion that it was gone. Yesterday morning, how ever, the light was made out well enough from the breakwater, and we may trust that no gale, for many a long year to come, will shake down one of the noblest works creat ed by man. There seems no reason, indeed, why the Eddystone Lighthouse should not stand as long as Pharos at Alexandria, which lasted from B. C. 470 to A. D. 1303 ; almost, that is to say, for two thousand years. The fa mous Pharos, it is true, had no such sea to withstand as that which rages many times in the year around the base and over the sides of Smeatou’s tower. But the chan nel beacon was built to fight the billows, and it. has been the model of all the light towers in the modern world. The light houses of the Bell Rock, the Skerry Yore’ , Bishop’s Rock, the Brehat, Barfleur, and many others, were fashioned after the ex ample of this solid and perfect piece ol con struction. The waves themselves taught Smeaton bow to build, for they let nothing but the firmest work remain on that lashed and lonely rock. Everybody knows the story of the place, I how treacherous and deadly it was, lying j under water right in the fairway of the channel, till Wiustanley, the mercer, first lighted the reef. Miss Ingelow has told, in charming verse, how the good haberdasher, sad at the loss of more thau one of his ven tures upon the Eddystone, vowed that no more lives and vessels should not be cast away upon that rock if he could help it. People laughed at him for his courage and humanity; but he stuck to Ins purpose. After many failures he got his piles and cross-beams fixed upon the reef, and hoisted the first light over it. Thus many a life was preserved; but at length the channel billows rose and swept the timber-stuff all away November, 1703. Next, Redyard tried his hand, and rear ed a strong tower, solid and well plauued enough ; but in this case fire did what wa ter failed to effect, and the building was burned down. Smeaton was then called upon to set up something which neither wa ter nor fire should be able to destroy ; and he went, as wise engineers should do, to na ture. He saw how the bole of an oak tree holds up its gigantic mass against the tierce est winds, although they lay hold of its green and spreading head, and beud its vast limbs. The knitted roots and thick base keep the forest monarch firm; and Smeaton resolved to make a sea-oak tree of his lighthouse. Broad at the base, and solid as the rock on which they stood, with their stones bound together and inter-knit ted like the fibre of the tree, he laid his lower courses. Upon these he raised his hollow super-structure, of great thickness and strength, but tapering upward inside the lines of his foundation. If anybody washes to read a “romance of real life,” let him peruse Smeaton’s “Narrative of the building of Eddystone Lighthouse,” and lie will see how mau al so learns to make “even the wildest waves obey him.” It is remarkable that the form selected by the renowned engineer for his sea-tower, as being nature’s owu idea of solidity in vertical erections, is nearly iden tical with the symbol used in the Egyptian hieroglyphics for “strength.” The priest represented that notion by the figure of an obelisk almost precisely resembling the out lines ol Smeaton’s light-house ; aud a hun dred years of weather have proved that they aud the engineers knew what they were about. The light burned for the first time upon the new building in October, 1759 ; it burns now, all safely; aud it is likely to burn through many a stormy win ter to come. Aud if we uu land have almost affection for these sturdy turrets erected in the defi ance of the strongest forces of nature, -to save life and property, aud to light the mar iner toward his home, what must sailors feel ? A landsman can scarcely realize the blessings of these friendly lights. He knows that they save life. Firm as Smeaton’s tower is the huge erection shudders in the shock of such a tempest as has lately rag ed ; the winds howl iike maddened devils upon its head, while the big waves burst upon it sides, aud fling their sheets of greeu aud white right over the gallery aud lantern. Strange sights aud sounds are the recreatiou of those hermits of the tower—the storm torn craft driving wildly past—the laud birds dashing in the darkness against the glass of the light—aud sea-wrack, mingled some times with dead bodies, flung against their water-stairs. It is not for a little that men are found to live in the dismal solitude of such a place as the rooms under the Eddystoue lamp. Two watchers used to keep this melancho ly but useful garrison ; but one died, aud the other was forced to live with the corpse till the relief arrived, lest he should he ac cused of murder. Since that time three have always occupied the house. The sailor blest knows how well worth paiDS aud cost the trouble ard scrupulous attention are. Each sunset finds the patient keepers care ful trimming the light aud setting the polish ed reflectors, and not for a moment is that brilliant glare allowed to relax. The light-keeper can uot see what help he gives ; his business is to guard the bright monitory gleam. But, far away from his rock, the blasted mariuer, anxious and in doubt, suddenly “makes out the Eddystoue.” Some keen eye forward or aloft catches the tiny spark over the dark waters, aud then the lead-lino aud the fearful watch are no more wanted. “So shines,” as Shakspeare says, “a good deed in a naughty world.” A good and brave deed it was to plant the cross of help upon the ugly Channel-rock, as Wiustanley first did, and as Smeaton after him succeeded in doing, with a work which many such gales as this sou’-wester will leave Safe and sound—the monument of man’s audacity, and, better still, of man’s brotherhood. [English Paper. A Few Things that Are to Be. Be fore the imprint of the Journal bears the date of 1900, science and art will have so advanced as to have effected complete rev olutions in many of the industrial process es and methods of securing health, comfort and convenience to the human race. Vast gas-mauufactories will be found in all the great cities and towns, in which the invisible ageut will be manufactured solely for the purpose of cookiug the food anil warmiug the dwellings of the inhabitants. These works will be independent of those established for making illuminating ga~. It will not be necessary to purify the fuel gas so fully, and it will, iu most places, be made from wood. The cost will be so low, aud the couveuieuce so great, other kinds ot fuel will, iu a large measure, be dispensed with. No ashes, no smoke, no dust—what a glorious realization this will be ' At that time, the air, the earth, aud ihe sea will be full of conducting wires, aud electric cur rents will flow constantly in every direction A new order of things will prevail iu our post-offices. The click ot the telegraph instrument will be heard, instead ol the soap of the lock which closes up the wide mouths of the mail-bags. The small sum of ten cents (perilous less) will place cor respondents in iu.-haut communication with each other, no matter how widely they may be separated. Although the industrial arts will have enormously increased, less steam power will be employed. Electrical or some other of the hidden forces of nature will be harnessed to the primary moving wheels of the great manufacturing estab lishments, and smoke and vapor will no longer mark their location to the distant traveller. Tlie sick will Dot be required to swallow disgusting doses of medicine. Remedies will be administered through other avenues than the stomach. Chemistry will have eliminated the vital, active principles trorn all curative agents ; and through the cellu lar sub-cutaneous coverings, and by other at present closed doors of access, the influ ence of therapeutic agents will be brought to bear directly upon diseased parts. Ligli. will be let in upon nearly all the organs of the body, so that the physician can observe the extent and nature of disease, and no longer be compelled to diaguose in the dark. The publishers of this and other journals will perhaps be able to issue simultaneous editions in all the great central cities of the country. A knowledge of practical science will be more generally diffused among the people, elevating and improving the masses, and consequently rendering them happier, healthier and better fitted for the duties and responsibilities of life. [Boston Journal of Chemistry. S. C. Hall related the following anecdote at the dinner-table of a distinguished poet in London : “A worldling was once visit ed, iu his illness, by a well-meaning but dol orous clergyman, who disfigured his coun tenance and wore a face of perpetual mourn ing. As his sad visage appeared in the doorway, the sick man started up ai.d ex claimed: “Why! what’s the matter? You look as if yonr religion didn’t agree with you 1” Fight With Wildcats. [From the Middletown (N. Y.) Mail.] Over in Sullivan county, along the Nev ersink, is a little settlement kuown as Eden, so named, probably, as a kind ot compen sation for being as unlike the primitive Eden as one could readily imagine. Oq.8 of the celebrities of the ueighborhood is Jouas Brooks—'a thoroughgoing backwoods man, a terror to all sorts of “varmiut” that prowl about that part of the country,, aud particularly to wild cats of which he has killed immeuso numbers, so many that he is known everywhere about the region by the sobriquet of “Jonas Brooks, the Wildcat Killer of Eden.” His various exploits aud adventures in that line, if properly writteu up, would make a book of thrilling interest, a worthy companion to “Turn Quick, the Indian Slayer.” Some few weeks ago Jones espied one of these hated teiiues, while goiug through a piece of woods, aud, true to his instinct, he made after the animal, without stopping to consider that he was uuarmed—not even having a jack-kuife about him. He follow ed it until it retreated to a sort of caveru in the rocks, where Jouas made up Ins miud to “go iu” aud capture the “varmint.” So. pickiug up a tough hickory club, he proceed ed to enter the cave. After passiug the en trauce, to his surprise he found qu te a lofty caveru, extending back some thirty feet, aud iu the furthest extremity glowed not only oue, but half a duzeu pairs ot teroei ous eyes which betokeued warm work tor aay intruder'. Jouti^ i*as undoubtedly “nomethiu’ took back,” as be expressed it, at the sight ot so mauy glistening eyes fix ed upou him, but as it was not iu his uature to retreat under any circumstances, be cau tiously advanced into the cave. He soou discovered that lie hud walked into a leal litter of wildcats—two old ones and four joung oues—and about the time he I ad got through euuutiug them the Ing est one of the six "went for him.” Throw tug himself back iu au augle of the cavern, the herculean backwoodsman met (he fero cious monster with a well swung blow of Ins cudgel, which rather “wilted” the aui mal lor a moineut ; but before Jonas lntd time fairly to recover himself from the first onslaught, the other old cat made a dive at him, catching on his right arm and should er and almost rendering him powerless, so terrible was the grip of the monster’s clan s. With his left hand, however, Jouas grasped the throat of the auimal, and after a desper ate struggle succeeded iu shakiug him off. Jouas uow thought that discretion iu such a case might be the “better part of valor,” and accordingly begau to consider the chan ces in his mind “iu about the millionth part of a second,” he said, and came to the con clusion that it wouldn’t do tor him to leave the little angle in which he was so well post ed. Both of the old wildcats, meanwhile, were lashed into a state of the most iuteuse ferocity, their eyes glaring like coals of lire, and their hair literally standing on end. And to add to Jonas’s discomfiture, the four young ones—which, although only “kittens,” were not exactly of the kind which a lady would like to hold in her lap —began to exhibit symptoms ot joining in the fight, just to “get their hands in,” as Jonas naively told our iutormaut. This was a situation. Jonas began to think this would be Iiis last fight with wildcats, and the wild cats would probably have the extreme felic ity of eating Jonas Brooks for their supper. All these thoughts of course passed through Jonas’s mind, while the animals were for a moment kept at bay by the lively niotious of his hickory cudgel. Only tor a moment, however, as his antagonist again took the in au attack, and although she met with a sharp blow of the cudgel, the whole litter followed iu such quick succession that Jo uas was unable to keep them off. And now eusued a struggle which it is useless to at tempt to portray. The furious animals clawed into Jouas in every quarter, while he made almost super human efforts to tear them off—kuuckuig about right and left with his club, as well as be was able, and clutehiug them by the throats with his left hand when be got u chance. Luckily Jouas was arrayed iu a good suit ot homespun, instead of “shoddy.,7 or he wuiild have been stripped to the situ, iu no time. The fight was a fierce and live ly one for a time, as can readiiy be imagiu j ed. Jouas was fighting tor Ins file, howev er, and soou succeeded iu pulling me yuuug cals hors du conbat, by cracking ttieiu judi ciously over the heads. His bio vs up*-u the old ones also began to tell, and alter it last desperate struggle, in which one ot them got a finishing blow, the other retreated to the back ot the cave, where Jouas proceed ed to go lor hiui also, leaving Jouus "mas ter ot the situation.’ Au inventory ot our hero’s wardrobe, taken after the light. ex hibited one suspender, about hail a vest, one | leg ot a pantaloon, no shirt to speak of ami j a pair of hoots that wouldn't “shed a heavy dew,” as Jouas expressed it. fits whole body and limbs were frightfully lacerated, and the blood lanly ran from his wouuds. Notwithstanding which, Jouas tied the. tads ot the six wildcats together, aud swinging them around his neck, he walked home with ins trophies. Lightning as a Detective. A great many curious tales arc related of extraor dinary interposition ol the electric force in some of the most striking dramas of hu man life. Arago gives an account of the chief of a baud of brigauds being struck down iu the court-yard of a prisou iu Ba varia, iu the midst of his comrades. He was seated on the pavement, or on a stone, being fastened by au iron chaiu to a fixed ring or staple, his companions, bound iu a similar manner, around him. The electric charge, controlled probably in some degree by the chaiu and the iron fixture to which it was attached, passed through the body of the chief and instantly killed him. His comrades, knowiug nothing of the natural laws by which this natural agency is con trolled, were struck with consternation, be lieving that the lightning had intelligently selected their ringleader, by the special judgment of Heaven, iu retribution for his crimes. In this case, and indeed, in many such cases as this, the body of the brigaud was so situated as to form part of a chaiu of communication well adapted for the elec tricity to pursue in its passage from the at mosphere to the ground. It is always dan gerous in a thuuder shower to be so situated iu relation to surrounding bodies that are good conductors as to form with them a channel for the passage of the force. [Ja cob Abbott, in Harper’s Magazine. Professor Bickmore, iu his “Travels in j the East Indian Archipelago,” relates a long [journey to the interior of the island of Pa daug, where lived a tribe of cannibals known as the Battas. Singular enough, this peo ple are so far civilized as to have iuvented an alphabet, and yet their fondness for hu man tlesh is unconquerable.