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LEWIS M. grist, Proprietor. J Jat Jndfptndcnt family Jtaospptr: Jot[ flu; fromotiim of tin; folitiqal, gonial, gitjtiicaliutpil and (fommcrcial Jnttr^ts of tin; $ou<ft. | TERMS?$2.00 A YEAR IN ADVANCE.
VOL. 38. ~ YOBKYILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, J ANUARY 2Q, 1892. 3STO. 3. ' "* * 1 1 11 1 -VI ? T ZZTIZsT AM 4VIA oown rtrinA^nlo JOHN I BY THEODOR [Copyright, 1891, by Am CHAPTER X. A QHODL AT T1IK FKAST. ISlder Sizzum was the speaker. Mr. Clitheroe's thoughts loved to recur to his native Lancashire, smoky though its air might be and clean shaved the grass of its lawns. I could not help believing that all the enthusiasm of this weak, gentle nature for the bleak plains and his pioneer life was a delusion. It would have been pretty talk for an after dinner rhapsody at the old mansion he had spoken of in England. There, as he paced with me, a guest, after pointing out the gables, wings, oriels, porches that had clustered about the old building age after age, he might have waved it away into a vision, and spoken with disdain of civilization and with delight of the tent and the caravan. Speaking of Lancashire, we fell upon the subject of coal mining. I was surprised to find that Mr. Clitheroe had a practical knowledge of that business. He talked for the first time without any of his dreamy, vague manner. His information was full and clear. He let daylight into those darksome pits. "I am a miner, too," said I, "but only of gold, a baser and less honorable substance than coal. Tour account has a professional interest to me. You talk Kke an expert." "I ought to be. If I once saw half my fortune fly up a factory chimney, 1 saw another half bury itself in a coal pit. I have been buried myself in one. I am not ashamed to say it; I have made daily bread for myself and my daughter with pick, shovel and barrow in a dark coal mine, in the same county where 1 was once the head of the ancient gentry, and where I saw the noblest in the land proud to break my bread and drink my wine. I am not ashamed of it. No, I glory that in that black cavern, where daylight never looked, the brightness of the new faith found me, and showed the better paths where I now walk, and shall walk upward and onward until 1 reach the earthly Zion first, and then the heavenly." Again the old gentleman's eye kindled and his chest expanded. What a tragic life he was hinting! My heart yearned toward him. I had never known what it was to have the guidance and protection of a father. Mine died when I was a child. I longed to find a compensation for my own want?and a bitter one it had sometimes been?in being myself the guardian of this errant wayfarer launched upon lethal currents. "Your faith is as bright as ever, Brother Hugh," said a rasping voice behind me, as Mr. Clitheroe was silent. "Yon are an example to us alL The church is highly blessed in such an earnest disciple." Elder Suraim was the speaker. Ha smiled in a wolfish fashion over the group, and took his seat beside the lady, like a privileged guest. "Ah, Brother Sixzum," said Mr. Clitheroe, with a cheerless attempt at welcome very different from the frank courtesy he had showed toward us, "we have been expecting yon. Ellen dear, a cup of tea for our friend." Miss Clitheroe rose to pour out tea for him. Sheep's clothing instantly covered the apostle's rather wolfish demeanor. He assumed a manner of gamesome, sheepish devotion. When he called her Sister Ellen with a familiar, tender air I saw painful blushes redden the lady's cheeks. Breut noticed the pain and the blush. He looked away from the group toward the blue sierra far away to the south; a hard expression came into his face, such as I had not seen there since the old days nf his hattline with Swereer. Miss Clitheroe at once grow cold and stern. Nothing could be more distant than her manner toward the saint She treated him as a highbred woman can treat a scrub?sounding with every gesture and measuring with every word the ineffaceable gulf between them. Tet she was thoroughly civil as hostess. She even seemed to fight against herself to be friendly. But it was clear to a bystander that she loathed the apostle. That she was not charmed with his society even his coarse nature could not fail to discover. Anywhere else the scene would have been comic. Here he had the power. No escape; no refuge. That thrust all comedy ont of the drama and left only very hateful tragedy. Still it was a cruel semblance of comedy over a tragic underplot, to see the Mormon's cringing approaches, and that exquisite creature's calm rebuffs. Sizznm felt himself pinned in his proper place, and writhed there, with an evil look, that said he was noting all and treasuring all against his day of vengeance. And the poor, feeble old father?how all his geniality was blighted and withered away. He was no more the master of revels at a festival, but the ruined man, with a bailiff in disguise at his dinner table. Querulous tones murmured in his voice. The decayed gentleman disappeared; the hapless fanatic took his place. Phrases of cant, and the peculiar Mormon slang and profanity, gave the oolor to his conversation. He appealed to Sizznm constantly. He was at once the bigoted disciple and the cowed slave, j Toward his daughter his manner was so me times timorously pleading, sometimes almost surly. Why could she not repress her disgust at the holy man, at least in the presence of strangers? That seemed to be his feeling; and he strove to withdraw attention from her by an eager, trepidating attempt to please his master. In short, the vulgar, hardheaded knave had this weak, lost gentleman thoroughly in his power. Mr. Clitheroe was like a lamb whom the shepherd intends first to shear close, then to worry to death with curs, and at last to cnt np into keebaubs. Brent and I kept aloof as much as we might. We should only have insulted the chosen vessel and so injured our friends. With sunset Elder Sizzum, after some oily vulgarisms of compliment to the lady, walked off on camp duty. We also rose to take our leave. We must look after our horses. Mr. Clitheroe's old manner returned ' the instant his spiritual guide left as. "Pray come and see us again this even- j ing, gentlemen," said he. "We will, certainly," said Brent, look-1 ing toward Miss Clitheroe for her invitation. It 4?d not come. "Oh, yes!" said Mr. Clitheroe, inter- \ preting Brent's look; "my daughter will be charmed to see yon. To tell the truth, i our brethren in the camp are worthy people; we sympathize deeply in the faith; but they are not altogether in manners or education quite such as we have been ! sometimes accustomed to. It is one of the infamous wrongs of oar English sys 3RENT. E WINTHROP. erican P ess Association.] terns of caste that it separates brother, men, manners, language, thought and life. We have as yet been able to have little except religious communion with ' our fellow travelers toward the Promised Land -except, of course, with Brother Sizzu n, who is, as you see, quite a man of soc iety, as well as an elect apostle of a greit cause. We are quite selfish in asking you to repeat your visit Besides the welcome we should give you for yourselves, we welcome you also as a novelty." And ihen he muttered half to himself, "God forgive me for speaking after the flesh!'' ' "Gome, Wade," said my friend. And he gripped my arm almost savagely. "Until this evening then, Mr. Clitheroe." As we moved away from the wagon, wherr the lady stood, so worn and sad, and yst so lovely, her poor father's only guaro and friend, we met Murker and Larn'.p. They were sauntering about, prying into the wagons, inspecting the grou js, making observations?that were perhr.ps only curiosity?witn a oase, guilt;/, burglarious look "El 9, he!" laughed Larrap, leering at Brens. "Ill be switched ef you're not 8harj[\ You know where to look for the pooty gals, bio wed ef yer don't!" "E'old your tongue!" Brent made a spring at the fellow. "No offense! no offense!" muttered he, shrir,king back with a cowardly, venomous lx>k. "Mind your business and keep a civil tong ie in your head or there will be offense!" Brent turned and walked off in siler.39. Neither of us was yet ready to begin our talk on this evening's meeting. Our horses, if not their masters, were quito ready for joyous conversation. They had encountered no pang in the region of Fort Bridger. Grass in plenty was there, and they neighed us good evening in their most dulcet tones. They frisked about, and neighing and frisiing informed us that, in their opinion, the world was all right?a perfectly jolly place, with abundance to eat, little to do and everybody a friend. A capital world, according to Pumps and Don Ful.no. We shifted our little caballada to fresh gracing spots sheltered by a brake. We meant to camp there apart from the Mormon caravan. The talk of our hones had not cheered us. We still busied ourselves in silence. Presently, as I looked toward the train, I observed two figures in the distance lurking about Mr. Clitheroe'8 wagon. "llee," said I, "there are those two gamblers again. 1 don't like such foul vulures hanging about that friendless dovs. They look villains enough for any outage/ "But they are powerless here." "In the presence of a steadier villainy they are. That foul Sizzum is quite sum of his prey. John Brent, what can be done? I do not know which I feel moi<t bitterly for, the weary, deluded old j gentleman, doubting his error, or that , nol le girl. Poor, friendless souls!" "Friendless!" said Brent "She has ! made a friend in me. And in yon, too, it you are the man I know." "But what can we do?" "I will never say that we can do j not hing until she repels our aid. If she i wants help she must have it" "Help! how?" "I will find a way or make one." 1 determined not to perplex myself yet with schemes. I knew my friend's bold genius and cool judgment. When he was ready to act I would back him. CHAPTER XI. JAKE BWAMRRRT.ATTi'g BALL. I: grew dusk. Glimmering camp tires marked the circle of the Mormon caravan. The wagons seemed each one in the gloaming a giant white nightcap of an ogress leaning over her coals. The world looked drowsy, and invited the pilgrims toward the Mecca of the new Thingamy to repose. They did not seem Inclined to accept The tramping and lowing cattle kept np a tumult like the noise of a far* city. And presently another din! As Brent and I approached the fort, fo.-th issued Jake Shamberlain, with a d] (linmer on this side and a fifer on that "Pop Goes the Weasel," the fifer bl iw. A tuneless bang resounded from the drum. If there was one thing these ri /al melodists scorned, time was that one thing. They might have been beating and blowing with the eight thousand miles of the globe's diameter betveen. instead of Jake Shamberlain's person, for any consideration they sl owed to each other. Jake, seeing us, backed out from between his orchestra, who continued on, beating and blowing in measureless con tent. "We're going to give a ball, gentlec.uen, and request the honor of your comp.iny in ten minutes precisely. Ki&3 not allowed on account of popular prejudice. Red flannel shirts and boots with yoiler tops is rayther the go fur dress." "A ball, Jake! Where?' "Why, in that rusty hole of old Bridger'B. Some of them John Bulls ha3 got their fiddles along. I allowed 'i would pay to scare up a dance. Guess loom gals wont be the wus fur a breakdown or an old fashioned hornpipe, 'iliey hain't seen much game along back, cf their looks tell the story. I never seed rech a down heel lot" A drummer on this side and a fifcr on that. Jake rail off after his music. We hoard them, still disdaining time, march around the camp announcing the fandango. "This helps us," said Brent. "Our friends, of course, will not join the riot. When the Mormons are fairly engaged we will make our visit." "It is a good night for a gallop," said L He nodded, but said nothing. Presently Jake, still supported by his pair of melodists, reappeared. A stnggliug procession of saints followed him. They trooped into the inclosure, a motley throng indeed. Even that dry husk of music, hardly even cadence, had put some spirits into them. Noise, per se, is not without virtue; it means life. Shamborlain's guests came together, laughing and talking. Their laughter was not liquid. But swallowing prairie dust does not instruct in dulcet tones. Rather wrinkled merriment; but still better than no merriment at all. We entered with the throng. Within was a bizarre spectacle. A strange night scene for a rough handed Flemish painter of low life to portray. "The ragamuffin brigade," whispered I to Brent. "Jake Shamberlain's red flannel shirts and yaller topped boots would be better than this seediness of the furbelowed nymphs and ole clo' swains. Evidently suits of full dress are not to be hired at a pinch on the boulevards of Sizzumville." Brent made no answer and surveyed the throng anxiously. "They have not come?the father and daughter," he said. "I cannot think of the others now." "Shall we go to them?" "Not yet. Sizzum sees us and will suspect." We stood by regarding, too much concerned for our new friends to feel thoroughly the humor of the scene. But it made its impression. For lights at the Shamberlain ball, instead of the gas and wax of civilization, a fire blazed in one corner of the court, and sundry dips of unmitigated tallow, with their perfume undiluted, flared from perches against the wall. Overbead, up in the still, clear sky, the barefaced stars Btared at the spectacle and shook their cheeks over the laughable maneuvers of terrestrials. The mundane lights, fires and dips flashed and glimmered; the sky lights twinkled merrily; the guests were assembled; the ball waited to begin., Jake Shamberlain, the master of ceremonies, cleared a space in the middle cud "called for his fiddlers three." A board was laid across two barrels, nnd upon it Jake arrayed his orchestra, ^ivith Brother Bottery, so called^ for leader. Twang went the fiddles. "Fardners for a kerdrille!" cried Jake. Sizznm led off the ball with one of the Blowsalinds before mentioned. Dancing is enjoined in the Latter-day church. They cite Jephthah's daughter and David dancing by the ark as good scriptural 'authority for the custom. "Right and leftP cried Jake Shamberlain. "Forrud the gent! The lady forrud! Forrud the whole squad! Jerk pardners! Scrape away, Bottery! Kick out and no walkin! Prance in, gals! fiamm ahead, boys! Time, time! All hands around! Catch a gal and spin her! Well, that was jest as harnsome a kerdrille as ever I seed." And so on with another quadrille, minuet and quadrille again. But the subsequent dances were not so orderly as the first Filled with noise and romping they frequently ended in wild disorder. The figures tangled themselves into a labyrinth, and the music, drowned by the tumult, ceased to be a clew of escape. Nor could Jake's voice, half suffocated by the dust, be heard above the din, until, having hushed his orchestra, he had called "Halt!" a dozen times. In the intervals between the dances we observed Larrap distributing whisky to the better class of the emigrants. Sizznm did not disdain to accept the hospitality of the stranger. Old Bridger's liquid stores, now Mormon property and for sale at the price of Johannisberger, diminished fast on this festal night. "Shall we go?" whispered I to Brent after awhile. "Not quite yet. Old Bottery announces that he is going to play a polka. Fancy a polka here! That will engage Sizzum after his potations, so that he will forget our friends," "Now, brethren and saints," cried Jake, "attention for the polky! Pipe tin. RottervP | ?x-? * At the Bound of the creaking polka, a youth, pale and unwholesome as a | tailor's apprentice, led out a sister saint, j Others followed. Some danced teetotum j fashion. Others bounced clumsily about. I Around them all stood an applauding circle. The fiddlers scraped; the dust flew. Sizzum and Larrap, two bad elements in combination, stood together, cheering the -dancers. "Come," said Brent, "let us get into purer air and among nobler creatures. How little we thought," he continued, "when we were speaking of such scenes and people as we have just left as a possible background, what figures would stand in the foreground!" "I am glad to be out of that noisy rabble," said* I, as we passed from the gate. "The stars seem to look disdainfully or ' them. I cannot be entertained by that low comedy, with tragedy sitting beside our friends' wagon." "The stars," said Brent bitterly, "are cold and cruel as destiny. There is heaven overhead, pretending to be calming and benignant, and giving n6 help, while I am thinking in agony what can be done to save from any touch of shame or deeper sorrow that noble daughter." "It is a fine night for a gallop," I repeated. "There they are. We must keep them out of the fort, Wade. If you love me, detain the old man in talk for half an hour." "Certainly; half a century, if it will do any good." Mr. Clitheroe and his daughter were walking slowly toward the fort He appealed to us as we approached. "I am urging my daughter to join in the amusements of the evening," said he. "You know, my dear, that many of our old Lancashire neighbors still would be pleased to see you a lady patroness of their innocent sports and lending your countenance to their * healthy hilarity. A little gayety will do you good, I am jure. This ball may not be elegant, but it will be cheerful, and of course conducted with great propriety, since Brother Sizzum is present. I am afraid he will miss us and be offended. That must not be, Ellen dear. We must not offend Brother Sizzum in any way whatever. We must consider that his wishes are sovereign, for is he not the chosen apostle?" Brent and I could both have wept to hear this crazy, senile stuff. "Pray, father dear," said Miss Clitheroe, "do not insist upon it. We shall both be wearied out if we aro up late after our day's inarch." It was clearly out of tenderness to him that she avoided the real objections Bhe must have to such a sceue. "It is quite too noisy and dusty for Miss Clitheroe in the fort," said I, and I took his arm. "Come, sir, let us walk about and have a chat in the open air." I led him off, poor old gentleman, facile under my resolute control. All he had long ago needed was a firm man friend to take him in hand and be his despot, but the weaker ho was the less he could be subject to his daughter. It is the feeble, unmasculine men who fight most petulantly against the influence and power of women. "Well, Mr. Wade," said he, "perhaps you are right. We have only to fancy this the terrace outside the chateau, and it is as much according to rule to promenade here as to stifle in the ballroom. You are very kind, gentlemen, both, to prefer our society to the entertainment inside. Certainly Brother Bottery's violin is not like one of our modern bands, but when I was your age I could dance j to anything and anywhere, i suppose young men see so much more of the world now that they outgrow those fancies sooner." So we walked on, away from the harsh sonndaof the ball. Brent dropped behind, talking earnestly with the lady. CHAPTER m | He turned sadly around to look at his ' daughter. Mr. Clitheroe grew more and mor< communicative as we wandered aboul over the open. I drew from him, 01 rather, with few words of guidance now and then, let him impart his history, He seemed to feel that he had an explanation to offer. "We belong," he said, "to the oldesl gentry of England. We have been liv iqg at Clitheroe hall, and where the hal now stands, for centuries. Our family 'history goes back into the prehistoric f times. We have never been very fa mous; we have always sustained otu dignity. We might have had a dozer peerages; but we were too much on the side of liberty, of free speech and free thought to act with the powers that be, "There was never a time, until my day, when one of us was not in parlia ment for Clitheroe. Clitheroe had twc members, and one of the old family that gave its name to the town and got for it its franchises was always chosen .without contest. "It is a lovely region, sir, where the town of Clitheroe and the old manor house of my family stand?the fairest part of Lancashire. If you have only seen, as you say, the flat country about Liverpool and Manchester, you do not know at all what Lancashire can do in scenery. "WfiJT,'there is Pendle hill; it might better be called a mountain. Pendie hill rises almost at my doorstep at the door of Clitheroe hall. Pendle hill, sir, is eighteen hundred and odd feet high. And a beautiful hill it is, 1 talked of the Wind River mountaiuf this afternoon; they are very fine, but 1 never should have learned to love height* if my boyhood had not been trained by the presence of Pendle hill. "And there is the Ribble too. A lovely - ' t-'ll- V ? river coming rrom me mus?aucu ? stream as I have not seen on this continent I do not wish to make harsh comparisons, bat yonr Mississippi and Missouri are more like ditches than rivers, and as to the Platte, why, sir, if seems to me no better than a chain ol mud pools. But the Ribblo is quite another thing. I suppose I love it more because I have dabbled in it a boy, and bathed in it a man, and have seen it flow on always a friend, whether I was rich or poor. Nature, sir, does not look coldly on a poor man as humanity docs. The river Ribble and Pendle hill have been faithfnl to me?they and my dear Elllen, always. "Perhaps I tiro you with this chat," he said. "Oh, nor replied I. "I should be a poor American if I did not love to hear of Mother England everywhere and always." "I almost fear to talk about home? our old home, I mean?to my dear child. She might grow a little homesick, you know, and how could she understand, sc young and a woman, too, that duty makes exile needful? Of course I do not mean to suggest that we deem our nevp home in the Promised Land an exile." And here he again gave the same anxj ions look I had before observed, as if he dreaded I had the power to dissolve an unsubstantial illusion. "I wish I had thought," he continued, "to show you, when you were at tea, a picture of Clitheroe Hall I have. It if my daughter Ellen's work. She has a genius for art, really a genius. We have been living in a cottage near there, where she could see the hall from her window?dear old place! and she has made a capital drawing of it" "Yon had left it?" I asked. He had paused, commanded by his melancholy recollections. "Oh, yes! Did I not tell you about my losses? I was a rich man and prosperous once. I kept open house, sir, in my wife's lifetime. She was a great beauty. My dear Ellen is like her, but she has no beauty?a good girl and daughter, though, like all young people, she has a juvenile wish to govern?but no beauty. Perhaps she will grow handsome when we grow rich again." "Few women are so attractive as Miss Clitheroe," I said boldly enough. "I have tried to be a good father tc her, sir. She should have had diamonds and pearls, and everything that younj ladifts want, if I had succeeded. Bui you ought to have seen Clitheroe Hall, sir, iu its best days. Such oaks as I had in my park I One of those oaks is noticed in Evelyn's Silva. One day, a great many years ago, I found a young man sitting under that oak writing verses. I was hospitable to him, and gave him luncheon, which he ate with a very good appetite, if he was a poet. 1 did not ask his name; but not three months after I received a volume oi poems, with a sonnet among them, really very well done?very well done indeed?inscribed to the Clitheroe oak, The volume, sir, was by Mr. Wordsworth, quite one of our best poets in hif way, the founder of a new school." "A very pleasant incident!" "Yes, indeed. The poet was fortunate, was he not? But if you are fond of pictures, I should have liked to show you my Vandykes. We had the famous Clitheroe Beauty, an earl's daughter, maid of honor to Queen Henrietta Maria. She chose plain Hugh Clitheroe before all the noblemen of the court?we Clitheroes have always been fortunate in that way. I said plain Hugh, but he was ae handsome a cavalier as ever wore rapier. He might have been an earl himself, but he took the part of liberty and was killed on the Parliament side at Edgemoor. I had his portrait, too, a Vandyke, and one of the best pictures he ever painted, ns I believe is agreed by connoisseurs. You should have seen the white horse, sir, in that picture?full of gentleness and spirit, and worthy the handsome cavalier just ready to mount him." As the old gentleman talked of his heroic ancestor, a name not unknown to history, he revived a little and I saw an evanescent look of his daughter's vigor in his eye. It faded instantly. He sighed and went on. "I should almost have liked to live in those days. It is easier to die for a holy cause than to find one's way along through life. I have found it pretty hard, sir?pretty hard?and I hope my day of peace is nearly come." How could I shatter his delusion and thunder in his ear that .this hope was a lie? "I had a happy time of it," he continued, "till after my Ellen's birth, and I ought to be thankful for that. I had my dear wife and hosts of friends?so I thought them. To be sure I spent too much money, and sometimes had rather too gay an evening over the claret at my old oak dining table. But that was harmless pleasure, sir. I was always a kind landlord. I never could turn out a tenant nor arrest a poacher. I suppose I was too kind. I might better have saved some of the money I gave to my people in beef and beer on holidays. But it made them happy. I like to see everybody happy. That was my chief pleasure. The people were very poor in England then, sir?not that they are not poor now?and I used to he very glad when a good old English holiday or a birthday gave me a chance to give them a little festival." I could imagine him the gentle, genial host. Fate should have left him there ir the old hall, dispensing frank hospitality all his sunny days and bland seasons through, lunching young poets, and showing his Vandykes with proper prid( to strangers. His story carried truth or its face. In fact, the man was .'ill tin while an illustration of his own tale Every tone and phrase convicted him oi his own character. ' It sometimes makes me a little mel ancholy," he continued, "to speak o those happy days. Not that I regret tin result I havo at bust attained! Ah, no Cut the process was a hard one. I hav< Buffered, sir, suffered greatly on my wa; to the peace and confidence I have at tained." "You havo attained these?" I said. "Yes; thank God and this Latter-da; revelation of his truth! I used to thin] 5 rather carelessly of religion in these t times. I suppose it is only the contact r with sin and sorrow that teaches a man r to look from the transitory to the eternal. Shade makes light precious, as an artist would say. I was brought up, you know, sir, in the Church of England, but t when I t>egan to think its formalism wearied me. I could not understand I whatseeined to me then the complex r machinery of its theology. I thought, 5 sir, as no doubt many people of the poetic temperament and little experience think, th.it God deals with men without [ go betweons; that he acts directly on l;ho , character by the facts of nature and the 5 thoughts in every soul. "It was not until I grow old and r sad that I began to feel tho need of something distinct and tangible > to rest my faith upon, and even ; then, sir, I was skeptical of the ; need of revelations and Messiahs and #iniracles, until I learned through the testimony of living witnesses? I yea, oi living wimcoowj?UU, n?,u things have come in the Latter-day. . Yes,' sir, the facta of what you call Mor! monism, its miracles, its revelations. which do not cease, and its new Mes' aiah, have proved to me the necessity of other like supernatural systems in tho past and given me faitL in their ovi' dences, which before Beemed scanty." "Ah! Did Mother Church of England!" I though t, "could you do no better by ! your sod than this? Whose fault is "his credulity? How is it that he needs phe| nomena to give him faith in truth?" "But I have not told you," the old ( gentleman went on, "about my disasters. Perhaps you are getting tired of my prattle, sir?my old man's talk. I am really not so very old, if my hair is thin and my beard gray?barely fifty, and after this journey I expect to be quite a boy again. I suppose you were surprised this afternoon when I spoke of having worked in a coal mine, were you : not?" I The old man seemed to have some little pride in this singularity of fortune. ( I expressed the proper interest in such a change of destiny. "You shall hear how it happened," ho ' said. "You remember?no, you are too young to remember, but you have heard how we all went mad about mills and mines in Lancashire some twenty years ago." "Yes," said I, "it was then that si;eam i and cotton began to understand each other, and coal and negroes became important." "What a'panic of speculation we all * 4 M rusnea into in ijancasmrei utuu wb uiu gentleman. "We all felt, we gentlemen, that we were mere idlers, not doing onr duty, as England expects every man to do, unless we were bnilding chimneys ( or digging pits. We were all either grabbing down in the bowels o 1 the earth for coal, or rearing great chimneys ap in the air to burn it I really 'dunk most of ns began to like smoke letter than bine sky; certainly it tasted sweeter | to ns than oar good old English fog. "Well, sir," continued he, "I wa3 like my neighbors. I mnst dabble in milling and mining. I was willing to be. richer. Indeed, as soon as I began to speculate I J thought myself richer. I spent more money. I went deeper into my opera' tiona. One can throw a great treasure into a coal mine without seeing any re1 turn, and can send a great volume of smoke up a chimney before the mill begins to pay. It is an old story. I will not tire you with it. I was'all at once a ruined man." He paused a moment and looked about the dim, starlit prairie, with the white wagors and the low fort in the distance. "Wisll," Bald he, in the careless, airy manner which seemed his characteristic one, "if I had not been rained I should have staid stupidly at home and never worked in a coal mine, or traveled on ; the plains, or had the pleasure of meeting you and your friend here, lit is all fresh and novel. If it were not for my , daughter and my duties to the church, I should take my adventures as lightly as ( you do when your gun misses fire and , you lose a dinner. "The thing that troubled me most at the time of my disasters," he resumed, "was being defeated for parliament. [ There had always been a Clitheroe there. When my father died I took his seat. k I used to spend freely on elections, but I thought they sent me because they liked , me, or for love of the old name. When I lost my fortune there came a snob, sir, k and stood against me. He accused me [ of being a free thinker, as if the Clithj eroes had not always been liberal! He s got up a cry and bought votes. My own tenants, my old tenants, whom I had feasted out of pure good will a hundred time*!, turned against me. I lost my election and my last shilling." "I! was just then, sir, that my dear wife died and my dear Ellen was born." He turned sadly around to look at his daughter. She was walking at some [ distance with Brent. The earnest murmur of their voices came to us through , the stillness. I felt what my friend must bo saying in that pleading tone. "Everything went disastrously with , me," continued Mr. Clitheroe. "I tried to recover my fortunes, fairly and honestly, but it was too late. My Ci-editors , took the old hall. Hugh Clitberoe in Harry the Eighth's time built it, on land ; where the family had lived from before ( Egbert. I lost it, sir. The family camo to an end with me. I found sheriffs officers making beer rings on my old oak , dining table. The Vandykes went. Hugh, of Cromwell's days, was divorced from his wife, the Beauty. 1 tried to t keep' them together; but scrubs bought them and stuck them up in their vulgar parlors. Sorry business! Sony business!" "You kept a brave heart tlnough it all." "Yes, until they accused me of dishonesty. That I felt; bitterly, anil everyt body gave mo the cold shoulder. I could get nothing to do. There is not much thai; a broken down gentlemen can do, but no one would trust me. I grew poorer than you can conceive. Host all heart. Men are poor creatures?as a desolate man finds." "Not all, I hope," was my protest. "Truly not all, but the frienck; of prosperity are birds that come to bo fed and fly away when the crumbs give out. All are not base and time serving, but men are busy and careless, and fancy that others can always take care of themselves. I could not beg, sir, bu; it came nes.r starvation to me in Chris! ian England?to me and my young daughter, within a year after my misfortunes, i Perhaps I was overproud or overvain, but I grew tired of the slights of people that had known me in my Ixjl ter days, , and now dodged me because I was shab, by and poor. I wanted to get out of sight of the ungrateful, ungracious world. The blue sky grew hateful to me. I must live, or if life was nothing to me my daughter must not f.tarve. I had a choico of factory or co;;l mine to hide myself in. I sank into a coal mine." "A strange contrast!" I said, after a pause. i-- At a. - l. _ ) "I am trying to inane mo wnoio History less dreamy. Each seems unreal? [ my luxurious lifo at Clitheroe Hall, and i my troglodyte lifo down in the coal pit. r Idler and slave; either extreme had its 5 own special unhappiness and unhealthi[ ness." ; How much wisdom there was in the 1 weakness of tho old man's character! Tho more I talked with him, the more pitiable seemed his destiny. "Oh, John f Brent!" I groaned in my heart, "plead with the daughter as man never pleaded before. We must save them from tho f dismal fate before them. And if she 2 cannot master her father, and you, John ! Brent, cannot master her, there is no 3 hope." f My friend made no sign that he was - ready to close his interview with the lady. The noise of tho ball still came to us with the puffs of the evening wind. f I prompted tho communicativo old genie I tleman to renew his storv. "I have seen the interior of some of the Lancashire mines; I have read the blue bcok upon them," I said. "You must have been in a rough place, with company as rough." "It wiis hard for a man of delicate nurture. But the men liked me. They were not brutes?not all?if they were roughs. Brutes get away from places where hard work is done. My mates down in the mine made it easy for me. They called me Gentleman Hugh. I was rather proud, sir, I confess, to find myself liked and respected for what I was, not for what I had. It was a hard life and a rough life, but it was an honest life, and my child was too young to miss what her birth entitled her to. "It was in our mine that I first knew of the Latter-day church. For years I had drudged there, and never thought, or in fact for myself much cared, to come out. I had tried the pleasures and friendships of gay life; they had nothing new or good to give me. For years I had toiled, when the first apostle came out and began to make proselytes to the faith in our country. They have never disdained the mean and the lowly. I tell yon, sir, that we in onr coal pit, and our brothers in the factories, listened to. apostles who came across seas and labored' among ns as if they loved oar so tils. The false religions and outgrown religions left ns in the dark; but the trne light came to us. My mates in the Lancashire mine joined the church by hundreds. I was still blind and careless. It was not until long afterward that the time for my conversion came. "As my daughter grew up I felt that I ought to be by her. I had worked a long time in the mine, and was known to have some education. The company gave me a clerkship in their office, and there I drudged again for years, asking no help or favor. It wa3 in another part of the county from my old residence, where nobody knew rue. My dear child?she has always been a good child to me, except that Bhe sometimes wishes to rule a little too much?my dear Ellen became almost a woman, and all I lacked was the means of giving her the position of her rank. Education she got herself. We were not unhappy, she and I together, lonely as we might be and out of place." The old gentleman had been talking of himself in such a cheerful, healthy way j and shown that he bad borne such a I brave heart through his troubles that I began to puzzle myself what could have again changed his character and made him the weakling I had recognized in the interview with Sizzum. "It is very kind of you," he said, "to listen to a garrulus old fellow. Your sympathy is very pleasant, but I must not test it too far. I will end my long story presently. "I supposed myself entirely forgotten, as I was q uite willing to be. By and by I was remembered and sought. A far away kimiman had left me a legacy. It was enough lor a quiet subsistence for us two, for Ellen and me. I returned to the neighborhood of my old home. I fArin/1 o 'l-iffla era nn fVm Kan Ira nf Ribble wiitlrin sight of my old friend, Pendle hilL There we lived." From this point Mr. Clitheroe's manner totally changed. His voice grew peevieh and complaining. All the manly feeling he had showed in briefly describing his day laborer's life passed away. He detailed to me how the new proprietor at Clitiieroe Hall patronized him insufferably; how his old neighbors turned up their noses at him, and insulted him by condescension. How miserable he found it to cramp himself and save shillings in a cottage, with the house in sight where he had lavished pounds as lord of the manor! How he longed to have his daugher as well dressed as any of the young ladies about ?her inferiors in blood?for no one there could rival the Clitheroes' lineage. How he wished himself back in his mine, in his industrious clerkship, and how timo hung drearily on his hands, with nothing to do except to dream of bygone glories. I saw that he had sighed to be a great man again and had a morbid sense of his insignificance, and that this had made him touchy, and alienated well meaning [people about him. He spoke with some triumph of his arguments with the rector of his parish, who endeavored to check him when he lent what influence he had as a gentleman to get the Mormons a hearing about Clitheroe. He did not, as he said, as yet feel any great interest in their doctrines; but he remembered them with good will from his coal pit days, and whenever an emifssary of the faith came by he always found a friend in Hugh Clitheroe. They had evidently flattered him. It was rare, of course, to find a protector among tho gentry, and they made the most of the chance. Poor old man! I could trace the progrets of his disappointment, and his final fall into that miserable superstition. He had been a free thinker; never industrious or self possessed enough to become a fundamental thinker. No man can stand long on nothing?he must think out a religion or accept a theology. Now that busy days were over, and. careless youth gone by, Mr. Clitheroe began to be uneasy and was ready to listen to any scheme which promised peace. If a Jesuit had happened to find him at this period, Rome would have got a recruit without difficulty. Instead of Jesuit Sizzum arrived. Sizzum was far abler than any of his Mormon, compeers. He was proselyting alxiut Clitheroe, where he found it not difficult to persuade the poor slaves up in the mill and down in the mine to accept a faith that offered at once a broad range on earth and, in good time, a high seat in heaven. Sizzum was the guest of the discontented and decayed gentleman. He saw the opportunity. There was an old name and a man of gentle birth to rally followers about. It would be a triumph for the Latter-day Saints to marcli away from Clitheroe, a thousand strong, headed by the representative of the family who named the place and had once been in parliament for it. Here was a proselyte in a class which no Mormon had dreamed of approaching. Here, too, was was some little property. And here was a beautiful daughter. I could divine the astute Sizzum's method and success with his victim, enfeebled in body and spirit. By the light of that afternoon's scene, over the tea, I could comprehend tho close of Mr. Clitheroe's dreary story and see how at last Sizzum had got him in his gripe, property, person and soul. Did he wish to escape? No. On! on! ho must go on. Only some force without himself, interposed, could turn him aside. [to hk continued next wkek.] Out of Employment.?<;I seldom find anybody out of work except those who are looking for something that they are incompetent to perform. A man who is able to adapt himself to circumstances and take any job which offers is never out of employment, and it is only for a short time at most that lie is obliged to do anything that is really beneath his ability. As soon as he demonstrates to his employer his fitness for a higher position, he is sure to be nromoted. Those who aspire to something above their ability, however, are very numerous. Many of these are actually ignorant of the fact that they are unqualified for the kind of work they are seeking. It would be a mercy to many such men if some one would tell them kindly that their search is vain, because other men are better qualified to perform the duty they aspire to than themselves, and will therefore be preferred. There is many a man who would make an excellent porter that fritters away his life as a lame excuse for a book-keeper."?Business. ISPB" It is said that there is a doctor by the name of Miller in nearly every town in Missouri. piscfltaticflus ?Mittg. THE BOY WAS RIGHT. They came into a restaurant, a man and a boy. The former wore the air of a business man out for his noonday lunch, and as it was Saturday, it was easy to guess the boy was taking half his holiday helping in the office. The man sat with his preoccupied air while waiting to be served, and answered the boy's questions in an absent-minded way which showed that he had not thrown business cares off. The boy chatted about this, snickered about that, fumbled his knife and fork until he dropped them, and eyed every waiter who passed with a quizzical stare at the contents of his tray. And the manner of their eating was as different as the manner of their waiting. The man hustled his food down his throat as if he neither enjoyed it at the time nor expected to later. The boy took time to arrange his side dishes to his own notion, those he liked best nearest to hand, and then went to work leisurely to take a sip of this, a taste of that, or to season another to suit. He may have taken large mouthfiiil* boys will?but he took plenty of time to talk between bites?boys will also do that. The father filled his mouth and washed the food down with scalding hot coffee. The boy got his coffee sugared and creamed just to suit him, and then let it stand and cool off while he was eating. The father finished with lemon custard pie and gave his mouth a swipe with the napkin in precisely nine and three quarter minutes from the time he "broke ground" on his cold roast beef, while the boy had only just cleverly laid aside his soup spoon and was working along towards the best parts of his chicken potpie. "Can't wait for you, Fred," said the father impatiently, after noting the progress of the boy and looking at his watch : "I'll go on to the post office and stop in as I come back," and he went to pile a fresh load of responsibility on his mind while his stomach was groaning under a load of badly chosen food, hastily bolted under unfavorable conditions. When he came in, five minutes later, the boy sat with knife and fork on a standstill between apple-roll and rice-pudding and kept the impatient man of business waiting two whole minutes longer while he finished it and drank his coffee. "Pretty good lunch, papa," he said cheerily. "Stuff and rubbish," growled the | man. "Always sets like lead. Afraid he won't be the man for busi, ness his father is, doctor," to a friend I sitting at a table near by. I "There's where Mr. Blank is wrong," remarked the doctor to his companion j after the others hud gone out of hear| ing, "and the boy is right. If he keeps I 011 eating that way he'll be an active, clear-headed business man ten years longer than his father will ever wear with his boaconstrictor style of eating. No, the boy is right."?Detroit Free Press. YOUTH AND CRI3IE. A very large proportion of the criminal offenses brought to the notice of the courts consists of those committed by boys, or young men under the age of twenty-five years. In many cases the crimes are the result of the influence of elder criminals, or are committed without a realization of the great wrongfulness of the act. Sometimes, however, the criminal instinct is strong in even immature youths. A boy of 15 years of age, who was brought before me a few years ago, was convicted of a high degree of robbery, and it appeared that in other cases he had been guilty of similar offenses, but on account of his extreme youth had escaped punishment. He took part with older men in assaulting citizens on the street and taking property from their persons. The managers of the House of Refuge, to which institution I committed the boy, refused to receive him because of his previous crimes and the bad influence which he exerted upon other inmates. I was unwilling to send him either to the penitentiary or the State prison on account of his youth, and because I felt certain that association with older criminals would only render him more hardened and vicious in his career. He was detained in the city prison for many months and finally discharged. Other instances of the early depravity of members of the criminal class have come to my attention. The fact that so many crimes are committed by persons of immature years, however sad it may be, proves that, to some extent at least, the penalties of the criminal law are effective in preventing crime. Young men who have had their first experience in a reforming or penal institution either learn caution, and do not again expose themselves to conviction of serious offenses, or become convinced that honest employment at some laborious occupation is, after all, more profitable than a criminal career, with liability to detection and severe punishment. Some, of course, of the young offenders continue their lives of crime and become professional criminals. The number of professional criminals is, however, smaller than is ordinarily supposed.?Circuit Judge in Scribner's I Magazine. REGARDING LATE HOURS. "Whatever other lessons I may teach my sous," said a sensible woman, "there is one bit of instruction that will not be forgotten, and that is, to go home at reasonable hours. There are moro scandals, more annoyances and more damaged reputations caused by late callers than any one social mistake in the world. A gentleman calls upon a lady. He enjoys her soi cicty, and presumably she enjoys his, or she would not invite him. When the hour grows late he does not incline to go, and the lady scarcely feels like hinting that his absence is desirable, and so lie stays. Possibly he hints that it is time he was going, when she, for courtesy's sake, says : 'Oh, it's not very late yetand although she most , ardently wishes that he would leave, j he settles himself for another hour's j chat, and remains until there is no possible excuse for longer delay. Xine times out of ten the lady suffers some annoyance in consequence of such a protracted call, and the gentleman also suffers in the esteem of right-minded persons." One of the most philosphical of modern society men recently said: "If men knew enough to go home at 1 *1...,,,. .,.^.,,1/1 nrtf Kn nnp | proper iiunis nivii; HWUIU uu? v,..~ I scandal where now there are ten. ; And they can say what they please, it i is not the fault of the woman. No , woman likes to send a man home, but j if he hasn't sense enough to go of his i own accord she should do it and save | herself endless annoyance, and possibly ' open disgrace. "Young women who live with their parents are less likely to be annoyed in this way than those who are dependj cut on themselves and lead more inde' pendent lives. The fact of existing j natural guardianship is in itself a proi tection, for a big brother or father is | sometimes an uncomfortable adversary. "But it is the friendless girl who is ; the victim of such indiscretion. Men i call themselves the stronger sex, and should, therefore, be the guardians of all women, especially those who are i young, weak, or defenseless. The man who takes advantage of a woman beI cause he can is a coward, and not j worthy of the name of man. | u3Iy sons have from their earliest cmianooa oeen laugnt taut an wumcu and girls are to be respected, and that they as boys and men should act toward them in such a way that no one can be scandalized by their conduct." ?Exchange. ALL HER BEAUTY WAS GONE. "The ugliest woman I ever saw," said the recounter, "was a Cuban, and she was so ugly that it was really painful to look at her." "It takes the exception to prove the rule," said his vis-a-vis. "Tell us about her." "She was a woman of the humblest class, and it was at Havana that I first saw her, tethered to a goat that she was herding among the stubble of the sugar-cane. Her husband was a charcoal-burner, and when I first saw Estella, I wondered how any man living could have married such a caricature." "Love goes where it is sent," said one of the after-dinner crowd. "Yes, and the charcoal-burner married for love. But he never would have won Estella if a dreadful providence had not favored him. The Cubana had once been the most beautiful girl in Havana, and as good as she was beautiful. Her eyes were big and black, her skin a glowing' olive, and her hair a mass of blueblack silk. That is what an old dame told me with much Spanish lingo. Her father was a bodigero?a man who kept a wine-cellar. The girl's mother was dead. One night her father went home drunker than usual and turned her out of doors?" "Brute!" exclaimed one of the party, with that quick sympathy that the sorrows of beauty always arouse. "She did not go to her lover, nor did she fly to the refuge of some adobe roof where she had friends. She simply pillowed her head upon the gray donkey that had been her friend and playmate from childhood, where he slept against the tumble-in thatched roof of the pen in the chaparral, prayed to the Black Madonna, and slept soundly like a child in the moonlight." "And the brigands came and carried her off to their fastness ?" suggested one of the party. "Nothing of the kind. When her pillow, the little donkey, rolled over in the morning she arose another person. She ran into the house and her father screamed, 'Santa Maria!' and drove her out as a stranger. She had slept in the Cuban moonlight, the fairest moonlight in the world, but as deadly as the shadow of the upas tree. Her face was drawn out of all shape resembling a human being. It was the horrible, distorted mask that I saw, with the features of an imbecile. Her father drove her from him with curses, but the lover with whom she coquetted married her at once, and they told me he had made her a good husband. "But you will hear the Cuban mother calling her young daughter into the house when the full moon is flooding the halconies with its silver lieht, and the light seems made for lovers to wander in, for everybody there knows the story of Estella." HOW CITIZENS ARE MADE. Judge Bischoff was making citizens of a batch of aliens in the court of common pleas yesterday, and among the lot was a number of King Humbert's subjects, "What kind of a government is this ?" the judge asked one of the swarthy Italians. "Georga Wash'! Georga Wash'!" the man exclaimed enthusiastically, and with an air of conviction, almost before the judge had completed the question. "Yes, I know," said Judge Bischoff, "but what kind of a government do we have in this country ?" The emigrant from Italy looked blankly out of the dingy window towards the Federal building, but said nothing. "Don't, you know what kind of a government this is ?" persisted the judge. There was a painful silence for a few seconds, and then one of his countrymen prompted the would-be citizen, so that he answered : "Si, si, Republicana!" "Who make the laws ?" continued the judge. "Georga Wash', Georga Wash', answered the future voter. Judge Bischoff persisted, and finally, after considerable coaching, the man told the court that "de peep" make the laws. The next subject was a Russian with a name a yard long. "What kind of a government is this ?" asked the judge. There was about as much expression in the man's face as there is in the side of a barn, and he looked at the judge without answering. "Don't you know what kind of a government this is ?" continued Judge Bischoff. The question did not produce the slighest effect on the candidate for citizenship. His face remained unchanged, and in the belief that he did not understand English, the question was interpreted to him in his own language. The only effect that it had was to cause him to shrug his shoulders slightly and look duller than ever, if possible. Half-adozen more questions were put to him, with results such as followed the first question, but he became a citizen nevAttfUftlooo Vntv Vnrlr PnQt V/l bUV/lVOO( A1VIT A v?*? A vw?. A Strange Trade.?On n sidewalk stand in Vesey street, just below Church, a shrewd little Irishman keeps a queer stock of second-hand and damaged articles. It is about the most heterogeneou collections imaginable. The greatest thing on the stand today when I passed was a job lot of secondhand artificial teeth. "Great Scott!" exclaimed an oldwomau who happened to glance at the heap, "I wonder if he thinks any person would ever buy these teeth after being worn by other people ?" I was also anxious to find out why the teeth were lying there, and asked the owner of the stand. "Those teeth are for sale, my dear sir," answered the man. "Would you like to look at a set?" When informed that I did not want to purchase, but was curious to know J if any person ever bought second-hand artificial teeth, the proprietor smiled. "Yes ; at times I sell a great many sets of these teeth. Where I mostly get them is at pawnbroker's sales. I buy them for ten, twenty or thirty cents, and sell them sometimes for $3. I have had old men and old woman? poor people, of course?walk up to my stand, pick out a set, examine them, try them, and immediately pur- I chase saying that they were fitted bet- ! ter than a dentist could suit them. An old man purchased a set from me last winter and he was so well pleased with them that he brought his ??fWYt 1 net it'nnl' tn <rnt ept T luwl ?11U lUijfc livvn. VU ^vv 1? .^vvi ? ....... . none at the time and lie promised to call this week. A person might as well save a few dollars in buying teeth as in any other way. Take them home, wash them and they are just as good as new; in fact, hotter, for they have been 'broken in.' "?New York Telegram. How the Musical Scale was Invented.?How was the musical scale first invented? That query, which has troubled the theorists of all lands, and has had its answer hitherto only in mystifying speculations and unintelligible theories, the Chinese will reply to by a legend most ingenious and most appropos, which they hold [ oilers a complete explanation of the mystery. In the reign of Hoang-ty, ' they say, there was once a prince, called Lyng-lun, who was the most beautiful man and at the same time the most profound musician in China. He, under pain of a severe penalty by the order loving emperor, was commanded to arrange and regulate Chi Utrse lilUOUs UU vao oaiuv whereon Hoang-ty had arranged law and politics throughout the Chinese empire. Full of thought Lyng-lun wandered to the land of Si-jaung, where the bamboos grow. Having taken one of them he cut it pff between two of the knots, and pushing out the pith blew into the hollow. The bamboo utterered a most beautiful note to Lynglun's intense surprise. Simultaneously the river Hoang-ho, which ran boiling by, roared with its waves, and the tone was in unison with the note of the bamboo. "Behold," cried Lynglun, "the fundamental sound of nature !" Two magical birds then came and perched themselves upon some trees near, and sang one after the other the seven notes of the scale, starting from the tone which had been roared by the Hoang-ho and warbled by the bamboo. Here is a scale, say the Chinese, at once intelligible, inimitable and easily revealed. Lyng-lun had merely to cut seven more bamboos and tuned them to the pitches he had heard, and the scale was made. This he did; and thus was the art of music inaugurated .and-.founded by Hoangity's court .musician on a firm and unalterable basis. It's Worry That Kills.?It is not the work, but the worry which kills. There is no tonic for the body like regular work of the mind, though this is unfortunately not often appreciated or not allowed by tbe physicians to whom anxious mothers take their growing children. There is nothing so sure to steady the nerves of the fretful and excitable child as regular school work in the hands of a real teacher. Many a child who is celebrated for dangerous fits of temper at home becomes entirely transformed under the influence of such a school, till its nearest relations would not recognize it if they would ever take the time and trouble to visit the schoolroom. I do not mean a school-room full of competitive examination, of "marks, "and of irrelevant inducements to make the child commit to memory a mass of unrelated and undigested facts. I mean one where, without any inducement but the natural desire for knowledge, wfiich is all-sufficient with any American child, if it be rightly directed, you find steady and wellordered labor, without haste, though not without rest, and honest, thorough, pleasurable work. We may learn a lesson from this fact?for it is no theory?of the effect of regular work on our tired nerves, and wise shall we be if we apply it. Even the most consistent homeopathic physician could not object to this kind of tonic, though he would tell you, and truly, that tonics are worse than of no use for overworked nerves.?Exchange. "The Blue Hen's Chickens."? Everybody knows that the natives of Delaware are called the "Blue Hen's Chickens," but not one in a hundred can tell why they are so called. The epithet is said to have had its origin in the following: One of Delaware's most gallant fighters of the Revolution was a Captain Caldwell, who was notorious for his fondness for cock fighting. He drilled his men admirably, they being known throughout the army as "Caldwell's game cocks." This same Caldwell held to the peculiar theory that no cock-was really game unless its mother was a blue hen. As the months wore away Caldwell's men became known as the "Blue Hen's Chickens," a title which only increased their respect for the old game cock captain. The nickname became famous, and after the close of the war was applied indiscriminately to all natives of the "Diamond State."?St. Louis Republic. VST Daniel Webster, when in full practice, was employed to defend the will of Roger Perkins, of Hopkinton. A physician had made affidavit that the testator was struck with death when he signed the will. Webster subjected his testimony to a most thorough examination, showing, by quoting medical authorities, that doctors disagree as to the precise moment when a dying man is struck with death, some affirming that it is at the commencement of the disease, others at its climax and others still affirming that we begin to die as soon as we are born. "I should like to know," said Mr. Sullivan, the opposing counsel, "what doctor maintains that theory?" "Dr. Watts," said Mr. Webster, with great gravity: The moment we begin to live We all begin to die. The reply convulsed the court and audience with laughter. 10?" Cyrus W. Field said a few days since: "I don't see why the chances for young men are not as good now as ever. It is true much is done by com binations of capital, still, the field is larger and the possibilities are fully as great. As to my advice to young men, I would say: Stick to what you undertake. Be punctual in your appointments, be honest and bo brief. Remember that time is money and that brevity and punctuality are among the best elements of success. I don't believe in long business letters. There is no business so important that you can't put the whole of it on one sheet of paper. I have cultivated brevity throughout my life and I think it has . paid me to do so. I believe in early rising and I find that my brain works best between the hours of 6 and 8 in the morning." Choosing a Business.?There are a great many kinds of business and some of them are too mean for decent people. Every man who produces something?something that the world needs?is a public benefactor. So every man who does something that the world needs to have done is a public benefactor. But any man whose business makes the world any worse than it was before can not be such a business man as he ought to be. The first thing, then, is to choose a business that shall make the world better, not worse. Perhaps you may not thus choose the business which will make make you rich the quickest; but, nevertheless, you will have chosen as you ought to choose. 1'OISTS tUK UIKIA 1 UUI Juuuiti in your best friend. Tell the pleasantcst things you knowwhen at meals. Do not expect your brother to be as dainty as a girl. Have nothing to do with girls who snub their parents. Exercise, and never try to look as if you were in delicate health. Introduce every new acquantancc to ( your mother as soon as possible. Don't think it necessary to get married. There is plenty of room for old maids, and they arc often happier than wives.?Drake's Magazine. fl?1* Three things to admire?intellectual power, dignity, and gracefulness. Three things to love?courage, gentleness, and allection. Three things to hate?cruelty, arroi gance, and ingratitude. Three things to delight in?frank| ness, freedom, and beauty. ; Three things to wish for?health, friends, and a cheerful spirit. Three things to avoid?idleness, loi quacity, and flippant jesting, j Three things to pray for?faith, peace, and purity of heart. Three things to contend for?honor, I country, and friends.