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men to the gallows without much compunction certainly; but I hardly think I should have the heart to condemn one to spend a lifetime with Harriet Crane. Then, on the other hand, there ie Ethel to consider—how can I allow her sister to suffer what is undoubtedly a wrong and in dignity beneath my root t” “It is not that, I assure you. Miss Crane has been the cause of my trouble and great distress; but my confession has only indirectly to do with her. The wrong I have done is-you are quite sure you can listen calmly?” “Yes, yes; get on, man, for Heaven’s sake I The wrong you have done is ” “Is done to you and some one much dearer to you than Miss Crane. Bushton, lam a most miserable and degraded man. You will never be able to forgive me; but I do not tell the story to set myself straight in your eyes.” “We can talk about forgiveness when I know What you have done,” Sir James breaks in. “Finish your story, please. You have wronged me and another person, you say. Will you tell me that other's name ?” There is a pause, during which Mr. Turber ville’s face gives extraordinary evidence ot its mobility; then ho says in a hoarse whisper: “Marcella.” “ Marcella I What harm could you possibly do her ?” “ Wait.” There is a volume of entreaty and abject appeal in the monosyllable. “To make you understand that I must take you along way back into the past—ton time when Marcella was a little child between three and four years old.” “In Heaven’s name, man, speak plainly—tell me what yon mean !” Sir James starts passionately to his feet, al most beside himself with rage and shame and fear, and all the torturing memories Mr. Tnr berville's words awake. The excitement the doctor has forbidden completely masters him now. His visitor meets his imperious glance With deprecating'eyes. “Yes yes—only be calm. I am trying to tell you,'’ he says soothingly, and Sir James breaks into a wild langh. “ Calm I Yes, lam calm,” he echoes grimly —“calm enough to hear andjunderstand. Go on with your story. What ot the time when Marcella was a child I You saw her first here in my house, a girl ot filteen or sixteen, freshly home from school.” “ Oh, no I You are quite mistaken there, Bushton—l was not deceived from the very first. Do you remember when you introduced me to your niece, I told you that her face put strange memories into my head ? Come, you must have some recollection of that fact, for I know the remark made a strong impression on you at the time.” Very pale and grim grows Sir James Rush ton’s face, very stern and steady is the light in his gray eyes. To a convicted criminal he never looked more terrible than ho does to Gustavus Turberville now. “I remember—go on.” Vainly the unhappy man struggles to obey. He halts and stammers, and wipes bis heated brow, and finally flounders on. “ She cast a spell upon me—upon my honor she did. Rushton. When I come to look back upon things, I feel sure that nothing but mes pierio influence could have made me forget all honor and decency and behave with such black guard cruelty to a poor girl who never injured me, or deserved to have an enemy. Blaine Harriet Crane for all that has happened—not me, her miserable dupe.” “‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’ We are familiar with that defense from the days Of Adam downward, Mr. Turberville.” There is a grim quietude in the reply that be wilders the wretched Turberville not a little. He does recognize the fact that passion at white heat sends forth no fiery glow, and that Sir James has long passed the red stage. “Yes, it sounds cowardly, but it is true,” he says miserably. “ Miss Crane hated Marcella for some reason, and made me the instrument of her cruel revenge. Something—l do not re member what let her see that I knew more of Marcella’s history than most people, and she gave me no peace until I told her all.” “ And that ‘ all ’—would you mind repeating it to me ?” Mr. Turberville cowers like a threatened dog ; indeed, the clear, incisive rone, falls upon his ear like the cut of a whip, and he instantly Obeys. “ I told her that I had my suspicions from the first, and watched yonr proceedings after Kath leen Carroll’s trial.” “ Wait!" Sir James Rushton stops him there With a quick, imperious gesture, and for a few moments there is a breathless silence in the room. Just for that short period of time the strong proud man, who all his life has held him self as the supreme master ot his own fate and that of others, tastes a bitterness worse than that of death, for in the sudden clouding of his brain—the momentary suspension of his facul ties just when they should all be most keenly attentive and alert—he has still sense to read a warning of the end, and that end, coming now, would be a tragic mockery of all his plans. “ Wait 1” he cries helplessly again, and then a prayer, the most passionately earnest the man of the world has ever uttered, forms itself on his quivering lips—a prayer for strength and self-control, for time and power to avert the danger threatening Marcella, for time and power to undo the evil that has been so selfishly done. At Jast, after what seemed an eternity of wait ing to ths conscience stricken and alarmed Mr. Turberville, he raises his head and says, with curious gentleness! “Go on.” “Alter Kathleen Carroll’s trial and death, I knew that you took her little girl away, that you sent her first to a farm-house, and then to a for eign school, and finally brought her home, and presented her to. the world as Marcella Rushton —your niece.” A sudden, horrible suspicion that the man’s mind has given way adds the last straw to the already heavy weight on Mr. Turberville’s con science, as he notices the slight, curious smile just touching Sir James’s lips, as he answers, quietly: “ So you played your part of detective well, and knew from the first that Mary Carroll and Marcella Rushton were one ?” “ I did. I could not be deceived. But that was nothing. I would have kept her secret to the last as I did keep it until ” He breaks down, not knowing how to round off the sentence to his own satisfaction. Sir James finishes it in the quiet, unresentful tone that alarms Mr. Turberville more than any show of anger. “ Until you were tempted to betray it. I see. And, when Miss Crane learned Marcella’s his tory, was she content to keep the knowledge to herself?” “ No, ’ Mr. Turberville bursts out, with sav age indignation and disgust. “ She treated me shamefully. I exacted a solemn promise of secrecy before I told her a word, but she What was a promise to her? She wrote an anonymous letter to Lord Glenroyal, warning him that his son had been tricked into such a marriage as might well cause all the old Glen roys to turn in their graves, and entreating him at all costs to save Fergus from social ruin.” “Well, what did the Glenroys do? How did they take the news ? 1 have been kept in ignor ance of the tragedy that has been performed under my roof.” “ They took it as might have been expected— as a crushing blow, all the harder to bear be cause the doctors lorbade them to appeal to you. Lord Glenroyal, between his pity and strong liking for Marcella and his stubborn family pride, was like a madman, they say, but, as a matter ot course, the latter conquered at last. He sent for Fergus and ordered him to break off the marriage.” “ And Fergus ?” Sir James asks, with a sick ening thrill of suspense. Ou the answer to this question it seems to him, and not to any other, Marcella’s happiness or misery hangs. “Fergus refused to obey. Heaven knows what it cost the lad to defy the father he had been accustomed to reverence as a sort of king, whom ho loved, as well as honored, with all his honest heart. But he stuck manfully to the girl he loved, and who was absolutely in nocent of any wrong-doing—stuck to her through thick and thin, in lace of entreaty and threats, until it came to an absolute quarrel be tween him and Lord Glenroyal.” “Brave lad I” Sir James mutters; then in a louder tone, with eyes exultingiy bright— “ Marcella knows nothing then, for, if Lord Glenroyal failed to coerce his son, he is, I know, too generous and chivalrous a gentle man to have threatened a helpless girl 1" “ Wait! ’ Mr. Turberville groans. “ Y’ou have not heard all yet. You are right indeed about the Glenroys—neither from the old chief nor any member of the family did she hear one whisper of the secret. But do you think Miss Crane lot matters rest like this ? One of her weapons had failed, but she had others ia re serve, and she used them without mercy. She told Marcella herself!” A quick, half-smothered cry breaks from Sir James Hushton’s lips. “ A sure wea; on indeed. She know my poor girl’s nature, Marcella herself broke with her lover then “ She did more than that. She went to Miss Glenroy and placed in her hands the story I bad in my senseloss felly written out lor Har riet Crane—the story of her mother’s crime and punishment, and solemnly pledged herself never to share her family disgrace with the Glenroys.” There was another pause a pause ot relief to Mr. urbervilie.who feels that the most pain ful and even dangerous part of his confession is done with now—a pause lor quiet and con centrated thought to Sir James, who asks at last: “ How do you know all this—all that relates to the Glenroys, I mean, and why do you tell me now?” “ I know because Miss Glenroy sent for and cross-questioned me the other night. What a woman she is 1” Mr. Tuberville says, with a shiver and an air ot reluctant admiration. “If young Fergus only makes as good a cross-ex aminer as hie sister, he will soon be carrying all before him in the courts. The way she silt ed the story was a caution. She had nothing but pity and sympathy lor Marcella, but she was merciless to me.” Bad as his thoughts are, angry as he is, Sir James can hardly repress a smile. “ Did you expect sympathy from Miss Glen roy?” “ No; but she treated me like the worst of criminals—her last words sent mo to you, by the-way; I can still bear them and see the flash of her eyes. ‘ You have made all the mischief, Mr. Turberville; it is lor you to set tilings straight if you can. Your'story sounds well enough, but it is all guess-work and conjecture,’ she said severely. ‘ Make a further ssaeh, and perhaps you may find that you have been fol lowing a false scent alt this time.’ Although ot course she knew nothing of what she was talk ing about, her words seemed to give me a sort of forlorn hope, Hushton. I took a desperate resolution on the spot—l would run all risks and make a clean breast of it to you. It was just possible, as she saicl, that I might be wrong, though I could hardly think it—just possible that you might be able to explain ” “Just possible, as you say,” Sir James agrees gravely. “ Thank you for enlightening me at last, Turberville; I might have been kept in the dark too long.” The door opens as he speaks and Lady Bush ton comes fluttering in. She grows quite pale at the sight of the visitor, and looks at her hus band with anxious attention, as she says m soft tones of reproach: “ James, you have been talking business and exciting yourself. I tried so hard to keep Mr. Turberville away.” “Why ?” She does not understand all the quick and keen suspicion of the look that drives that ques tion home, and answers readily: “ Harriet thought it best. She is always din ning the doctor’s orders in my ears. And - oh, dear!—l am disobeying them now, fori came to tell you that Lord Glenroyal and his daughter are here, and, as for some reason Marcella will not see them, they begged for a few minutes’ interview with you.” CHAPTER XIX. ' “ SOMETIMES IT IS EASIER TO FACE FOES THAN FBIENnS.” “ Muriel“ Marcella I” There is a sound of weariness and terror in the first startled cry, and there is a sort ot hope less wonder in the stare with which Marcella Bushton greets her unexpected guest, but Miss Glenroy’s responsive utterance has quite a cheerfully mocking sound. “ You did not expect me to pursue you to Sour last retreat, did you, my dear ?” says iuriel, cordially kissing the cold pale face the girl tries vainly to avert. “But strong measures are necessary with refractory people; and even an uninvited visit to your bedroom may be for given in a—sister-in-law.” “ Muriel 1” The murmured word sounds like a wail of agony, but Muriel will not be moved, she only hurries on, with an emphatic repetition of the objectionable phrase. “ A sister-in-law-to-be, then! It is a case of Mahomet and the mountain over again. You persistently refused to see us, so I told the chief, who is most impatiently waiting down be low, that I should go in search of you, and, as soon as Lady Bushton kindly left us for a moment, I found my way up here. Now, Miss Perversity, I hope you mean to make some amends lor all the trouble you have given.” Her smile is like a ray of sunshine, the frank blue eyes are bright and joyous, her manner has not a shadow of restraint. AU the trouble of the last few days, for any change it has made in her, might have been only an ugly nightmare. Yet Marcella instinctively Knows that nothing is altered—nothing explained, that the woman who clasps her hand so warmly, whose eyes meet hers in such a kind frank smile, is making voluntary sacrifice now of the strongest and most cherished feeling of her life. “ Thank you, dear Muriel,” she cries in a tremulous voice, her heart swelling with a flood ot grateful thanks. “ I think I know all you mean—the errand that brings you here, and I am more—tar more grateful than I can say. You would forgive all—even ’’—she pauses, growing ghastly pale—“even it the world knew; but I am not so selfish as you think me— I will never marry Fergus now 1” “But you must—you shall I We have your promise, and will hold you to it. Como down and see the chief, Marcella; you cannot refuse him.” But Marcella only turns away with a little sobbed-out “ No,” that is not more full of pain than resolution. Miss Glenroy eyes her with increasing gravity and trouble in her kind,rug ged face. Opposition she has indeed expected, but not such quiet despairing obstinacy as this. Is it possible that, having triumped over the stubborn pride ot the Glenroys, Marcella will be doomed to life-long misery by her own ? “ Marcella, you are wrong,” she says sternly. “Nay, more—you are selfish now. Yes, you have'been very brave and noble until now, but there is a time to fight, and a time when it is the truest heroism to lay down one’s arms. That time has come, I think, for you. When an old man like my father—a proud man who has imposed his will upon others all his life leaves his sick-bed and travels down here to see you, just because you are less well-born and, in the world’s eyes, less desirable as a wife for his son than you seemed at first—when he comes to beg your pardon ” “No, no 1” Marcella breaks in with passionate eagerness. “ Muriel, you must not say that I” “ I must speak the truth; I am here for that purpose only. Marcella, am Ito go back to my lather and tell him that he has made his con cession and taken his journey in vain—that you will not oven see him ?” Miss Glenroy’s eyes search the pale tortured face with a merciless scrutiny—read every thought that flits across the girl's mind as plainly as though it were set down on a printed page—the doubt—the fear of her own steadfast resolution that makes her shrink with equal terror from a meeting with her lover or her lover’s father, and finally the yielding that.is heroically unselfish in its way. “ No,” the girl cries at last, with a pitiful struggling smile, “j'pu shall take no euclimes aagejjfuriel. I will see Lori Gtlenroval my self, and thank him with my whole heart for all his goodness to me.” “You dear child 1” Muriel answers heartily. “Do you know I began to tremble, Ella—some thing in your eyes seemed to echo the cry of the Old Guard, ‘Death, not surrender I’ ” She speaks with rather forced and hysterical merriment, for the look she fears is by no means banished yet from the mournful eyes. In her heart she knows that Marcella’s surren der is very far from being complete, but she will not admit this even to herself, and hurries her captive down stairs with an irresistible en ergy. “ ITease wait a moment I” the girl exclaims, pausing in the hall and looking so ill that Miss Glenroy’s practical thoughts fly off instantly in to the region of essence-bottles and aromatic vinegar. “I am out ot breath, Muriel 1” “Your courage is failing' you, you mean,” says Muriel, shaking her head. “ And that is really too absurd. One would think you were going to face a deadly foe; and you have not anywhere a truer friend or a warmer admirer than my father.” There is no incredulity, but a wistful look in Marcella’s eyes and a ring of pain in her low toned answer: “ Sometimes it is easier to face foes than friends. While you were all against me it was easy to bold out; now ” “Now it is quite impossible,” the other finishes decisively; and, as she speaks, she opens the room door. Marcella stands in the doorway, conscious of nothing but the wild throbbing of her heart, the helpless faintness- that is stealing away her strength, just when she most needsit. A prayer forms itself on her pale lips, she takes a step into the room, and the next moment finds her self in Lord Glenroyal’s arms. “ My dear child—my brave good girl!” the old man cries with genuine fatherly tenderness, as he lays a slender shaking hand upon the solt dark hair. “I knew you would not holdout for ever, proud as you ace. There, that is right —cry, my bonnie lass—tears will do you good !” Marcella, alter a brief terror-stricken effort to break from the kind arms that hold her, has let her head drop upon the old chief’s shoulder, and she sobs aloud in a pitiful outburst of griet —sobs frankly and undisguisedly, like a pained and frightened child who has found shelter and sympathy at last. Miss Glenroy looks on with an expression of scared disapproval. She has mapped out the scene in her own mind, and this is not at all the course she had intended it to take. She has half unconsciously put down several magnani mous speeches lor her lather and Marcella, has pictured a contest of generosity between them in which the victory always rests with Lord Glenroyal. But so tar matters have not at all taken the turn that she expected; and, as a natural consequence, she begins to tremble for the result. “ Marcella I” she cries half angrily; and Mar cella raises her bead at the sharp rebuke. Lord Glenroyal releases her then, but only to lead her to a chair and draw up another beside hers for himself. “ Never mind Muriel,” be says, still holding Marcella’s baud and iookiug at her with eyes that have a halt-humorous twinkle now; “ she shall not scold you, and you shall cry as much as you please now you are a good girl and have given in to your fate.” “ I—l do not wautto cry I” Marcella answers, feeling a wild desire to laugh hysterically at the serio-comic fashion in which Lord Glenroyal and bis daughter seem disposed to treat what is so grim a tragedy to her. “ And 1 have only ‘ given in ’ so tar; 1 have come—please do not think me ungratelul, Lord Glenroyal—to thank you with my whole heart for all your goodness, and—and to bid you good-bye 1” “ And FergUs,” the chief says in a musing tone, and rather to himself than to her—“ is Fergus to have no voice in the matter ?” Marcella winces at the sound of her lover’s name, but finds strength to answer, in a low, resolute toue: “ Fergus knows—that—our marriage is— im passible I” “ Indeed he knows nothing of the kind ! Y’ou have promised to marry him and there is no reason why you should not. There is nothing between you but your very obstinate and very cruel pride. And if you will not sacrifice that for his sake, why, you do not deserve that he should love you as he does.” Marcella looks as bewildered as she feels. That Lord Glenroyal should be willing to re ceive her for bis son’s sake, and just a little for her own, was possible, though it had seemed wildly improbable a little while back; but that he should address her in such a fashion, up braid her with that which she had clung to as the sole stay of her self: respect-—. “My pride!” she cries, with a wild little scornful laugh. “Are you mocking me, Lord Glenroyal? Oh, no, forgive me; I did not moan that! Y’ou are much too good—too kind ; but the words are horrible mockery in them selves. What right have I—the convict's daugh ter—to speak of pride? Fergus will forget me. Ob, yes ! Not to-day nor to-morrow, but in time”—the girl speaks hurriedly aud eagerly— “and then, when you sec him happy with a wile of whom he lias aright to lie proud, you will thank me lor ro.using to apo I his lile,” “Never!” the <>bi <-lrot cries with energy e ;iial to h< r own. “If Fergus gives you up now or takes another wi e while you are alive aud single, 1 wilt -u». ■■:> ...st- im ,s : o son of NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 9, 1887. mine. Wilful, obstinate, unreasonable as you are, you will make a wife of whom any man may be proud 1” “ Proud I And how will you bear it when the gossips hunt up, as they will, the wretched sto ry of my birth, when they whisper that your son’s wife was the daughter of ” “ You will be my daughter then I” the old man exclaims, with something of arrogant intol erance in his tone. Straggle against the fact as hard as he may, there is no denying that the words sting the Highlander’s fierce pride. “ And I should like to see the tongue that wag ged against a Glenroy. You will be my daugh ter only then.” “Not quite that, Lord Glenroyal. The world will learn a little late in the day that Marcella is my daughter, too.” Quietly as the words are spoken, they fall with something like a shook upon Marcella’s and Lord Glenroyal’s ears. Absorbed in their own sharp struggle, they have not heard the door open, and it is with the eerie feeling that a spectral visitant might create, that they find Sir James Bushton standing before them, pale, but very bright-eyed and resolute. Closely as the words affect her own interests, anxious as she is to hear more, Marcella’s un selfishness asserts itself bravely still. She re members the excitement against which the doc tors have warned them, the man's frail hold on life and reason, the care with which they have guarded him as yet from any nervous shock, and, remembering this, she darts a warning glance at Lord Glenroyal, and says with forced lightness of tone : “You must not talk business, papa—the doc tor’s orders!” He looks at the sweet face, whose pallor seems all the more pitiful, lighted up as it is by that faint, flickering smile, and an expression of deep shame aud suffering clouds his own. “Her first thought is for me,” ho mutters. “ And I—Heaven help me, what have I not made the poor child suffer?” “ Never mind the doctors, Ella. They have ridden rough-shod over us too long,” be an swers, with a curious, forced cheerfulness. “ I moan to defy them and assert myself at last. Lord Glenroyal he turns to the old chief, who stands drawn up in stiff soldier fashion to his full, stately hight, and who is fingering his fierce-looking, white mustache—“ you have some reason to think that I have not treated you quite fairly and straightforwardly in this matter?” Lord Glenroyal simply bows ; he is to honest to trifle with the truth, and he has wish to blurt it out rudely, at possible risk to the man who. though he defies the doctors, is still visibly on the sick list. So far as Marcella herself is con cerned, affectionate admiration has absolutely conquered pride ; he is so iond of her, so sure she will make Fergus happy, that he is content to take her as she is, but, at the bottom of bis heart, he cherishes a fierce resentment against Sir James Rushton still. That keen observer reads his thoughts aright, aud smiles a little sadly. “I see you condemn me, and you only echo my own verdict; I am self-condemned already, though not of the crime you think. Lord Glen royal, you were content to accept Marcella as your sou’s wife when you thought her my brother’s child ?” Lord Glenroyal turns with ready chivalry, not to the man who questions him, but to the girl who winces at that question, aud lilts her hand to his lips, with a curious mingling of paternal fondness and old-world gallantry. “I am more than content to take her as ehe is,” he answers, with a simple sincerity it is im possible to doubt. And just at this moment, while Marcella looks into the kind, proud face, with grateful, tear dimmed eyes, Harriet Crane comes in from the garden through the open French windew. In one swift glance she takes in the whole scene, and seems to divine its meaning, for her face, which was pale enough before, grows paler still, and the pale brown eyes gleam threaten ingly. No one sees her at first, but, just as she is about to withdraw, Lady Rushton, who has hitherto stood a mute and helplessly amazed witness of a scene that conveys literally no meaning to her, catches sight of the familiar figure, aud cries, in her childish fashion : “ Hattie, come in. Why should you run away —there are no strangers here ?” Muriel Glenroy smiles grimly at the vicious glare with which M.ss Crane answers her sis ter’s appeal. “ A pleasant young woman that,” she thinks ; “ very amiable and trustworthy ! I wonder what Mr. Turberville thinks of his lady-love now ?” Mr. Turberville’s thoughts, judged by his face, as he huddles up against the door-post, trying to reduce his portly form into the small est possible compass, and in a measure obliter ate himself, would hardly bear translation into words. A loathing almost as strong as his late love mingles with an abject terror of the woman who has forced him to degrade himself in his own eyes, and in the eyes of all around. He hopes she does not see him ; he shrinks from the sound of her voice, and yet he cannot keep his eyes from foilwing her every movement. In a curious way she seems to fascinate him still. A groan breaks from his lips, and he half closes his blood-shot eyes as the clear, metallic voice he used to admire sounds once more on his ear. “ No strangers,” Miss Crane echoes, slightly raising her fawn-colored brows, aud with an airy nod that includes all present in its care less, friendly greeting. Strangers would hardly banish me, Ethel dear, but in such a strictly family party X may null waoidvs xuyoolt do trap.” She is moving away with a grace"ui sweep of the long, solt draperies that cling about her slender form, when she is once more recalled, this time peremptorily and authoritatively, by Sir James. “ You will stay, Miss Crane, if you please I” She gives him a quick side-glance, and there is a world of wicked defiance in the expression, though she only answers, with a gay little laugh: “ You are too kind, but really I would rather go.” “And I insist that you remain. I have a lit tle story to tell—a story that concerns Marcella, and I know how strongly you have interested yourself in her of late.” The pale-green color of Miss Crane’s robe seems as though it found a reflection in her face; she enters the room and stands in an atti tude of studied grace, with her slender hands folded on the back of a tall chair, patiently wait ing for what is to follow. “And yet she knows she is found out in all her schemes, and will be exposed soon 1” Mr. Turberville thinks, with a shudder that is not unmixed with admiration. “ She is a wonder ful woman, but, good heavens ! I would rather be boiled alive than marry her now.” (To bo Continual.i LOCK AND KEY LORE. Th© Best Locks Afford but Poor Pro tection to Houses. (From, the St. Louis Sunday Sayings.) The story is told of a gentleman living in the city that he recently opened the front door of hie palatial residence, which was provided with some sort of an expensive patent safety latch, with a key that didn’t belong to the lock at all, and subsequently found, to his amazement, that he could as readily have gained entrance to the residences of hab a dozen of his neigh bors, who had also provided their front doors with expensive locks, supposed to afford the amplest protection against the enterprising bur glar when he is out “ burgling,” as the police man s chorus put it. It occurred to a Sayings representative, upon hearing the story, to interrogate an expert con cerning the peculiarities of locks and keys in general, and in that behalf he held an interest ing conference with a well-known locksmith. While exhibiting a number of locks and keys, and illustrating their peculiarities of make, this expert indulged in the profound observation that some locks were better than others, and any of them good enough to keep an honest man out. Another general observation was to the effect that the ingenuity of man had not yet devised an absolutely perfect lock. Men of great me chanical genius had devoted many years of their lives to the perfection of a lock only to find il lustrated the old saying that what it takes one man twenty-five years to do another man can undo in twenty-five minutes or legs. The best lock ia only a temporary barrier to the expert. Theoretically, the fiat-key lock, ot a kind the locksmith exhibited, and the Yale locks, were the safest, because they couldn’t be opened by keys other than those especially made for the individual locks—no two being alike—but it was easy for an expert to force a door protected by these, without breaking the lock and even without making a noise that could be heard in the next room. He had himself done so. Thus the ele ment of safety could not be said to be wholly secured when it was possible to effect noiseless entrances to a house or room supposed to be protected by a lock. The new Yale lock has a corrugated key, and no other will open it, so it may be said to be as good a protection as any lock will afford, though a burglar or a good locksmith cannot be kept out by any such de vice. Other locks and keys were shown, all more or less alike, yet differing in construction and in the mode of operation of their wards and tumb lers. How a single pass-key will open two or three hundred hotel rooms, all having different locks, was illustrated: and the facility with which a skeleton key will open almost any ordi nary lock. As a matter of fact, a majority of the’cheaper locks can be opened with almost anything, if a sufficient degree of patience is ex orcised in the trial. The machine-made locks in ordinary use, though exact in their fittings, are so nearly alike that it is possible to unlock almost any door in the average private resi dence with the key belonging to any other door, and in St. Louis there are many long rows of flats the key of any one door of which would probably fit the locks upon twenty more doors. That is, provided the openings are of the same size. It is urged by some that this is solely due to the cheapness of the locks, and they are cheap; but the more expensive kinds afford very little more protection than those made in such large quantities in Eastern factories for ordinary use. They are not really of inferior workmanship. On the contrary, some are fashioned with a very great degree of nicety in all their parts; so that it is possible to supply a missing part by noting the number and the make of the lock. More protection against burglars is found in a creak ing h nge and a rusty lock than in some of the best made and patented devices. The inter loper abominates any noise that may herald his design aud-he hasn’t time to spare to oil up a rus- ty look. The old stvle bolt is often a protection, if it works hard, ana often forces the burglar to cut a panel out of the door in order to effect an entrance to the house. TBMDmjomi AN ANGLO-INDIAN SKETCH. (From Chambers’s Journal.) To the dancing, flirting, pleasnre-loving por tion ol the male sex, she will always be a disap pointment. She will never havo her card filled at least a week before the ball comes off, for the good reason that she never goes to balls. She will never stand in draughty verandas with what she calls a “ wrap” across her lair shoul ders, and talk inane nothings to her partner, while far into the night the weary band plays valses that grow more and more out of tune. She will never keep her husband waiting long weary hours while she ruins her health by turn ing day into night at the frequent dances she at tends. No man will ever pay her compliments, though every one can see she is pretty enough to receive them. To ball-loving under-secre taries, unexceptional aides-de-camp, spurred cavalry officers, and gallant antediluvians in the shape of well-nigh retired colonels, she will al ways prove a disappointment and an aggrava tion. A star shining on them at an upproach able distance—a scent of mountain flowers that rests on them for a moment—an unattainable good that under no circumstances could ever have been theirs, because they are aware that she and her thoughts and simple aspirations are above and beyond them. How often have I seen her going about with her big little family, surrounded by natives of different castes and kinds. She greets me with a pleasant smile on her fair face; she stops a moment, and seems to ask me just the right question and say just the right thing; and when, having said good-by, I pause and look back on her and her tram of children and fol lowers, I hope, when 1 at last make up my mind to forsake my bachelorhood, I may be blessed enough to find such a wife as she. You know that neither you nor I, nor any other man, considers her husband at all worthy ot her—that, from our point of view, could scarce ly be; but he ie a good fellow enough, aud that is the best we in our generosity can say. for him. She considers him a thousand times better than herself. She treats him as such a woman would treat the man she loves; though of course none of us men can understand for a single moment how she can love him. She is an excellent housekeeper, not disdain ing the lower portion of her woman’s work. She is generous and gentle with her servants, and her table is always good. But it is as a mother that she shines the moat. Her children are like her, and she is like them. They obey her because they love her, and her reproof is a greater punishment to them than any blow would be. She has never left them to serv ants. They have lived their Indian lives with her as their companion, and boys and girls alike have got the impress of her true woman's mind. She has taught them their first lessons, and, under her tuition, they are in different and interesting stages oi “ Mayor’s Spelling-Book,” from “Ba, 81, Bo,” to words oi alarming length and hopeless pronunciation. In the family she is perfectly happy. Talk of balls, big dinners, picnics and luncheon par ties—she has other attractions, and she does not need these to help her to pass her life. Look.at her now in her happy family circle; see the peaceful, untroubled smile in her sweet eyes, and ae you look, remember that she will never be so happy again. There is looming for her in the distance a time which comes sooner or later to every Anglo-Indian mother, and when it comes you will see some things in her face which are strangers to it now. As the happy years pass, she grows more thoughtful. Now and then a wistful expression comee into her eyes. If, unheedingly, you talk of the future to her, you feel sorry you havo done so the next moment, as she changes the subject suddenly and looks unlike herself. After a time she will steal at odd moments into the children’s room, and, moving gently from bed to bed, will watch each sleeping face with a deep pain at her heart, while the black woman in attendance, whose child has died but yester day, looks up with a cheerful smilo and tells her “ all the babies are asleep.” And so the very last month arrives. Grind lay A Co. have taken passages for a gentleman and lady, six children aud two native servants. The children are in raptures. They jump and clap their hands; they fling their old toys into the compound with contemptuous jeers at their battered ugliness, and ask her a hundred ques tions about the English toyshops, the mighty ship, the wonderful place where there are no black people, and where their innocent young minds imagine no one tells lies or steals, be cause they are English. She packs their small wardrobes into overland boxes; ehe wanders in and out through the old familiar rooms, and out into the compound, whore she has often seen the children play, and where, if she return ever so often to the same house, she will never see them play again. She lets her precious tears fall on the head of their small, rough pony, when she gives him a car rot for the last time, and on that ot an old brown and white pariah dog they have loved and cherished. The children have very different thoughts from these. Twenty years hence they mean to come back to this very house, they tell her, and she ie to have all their old pets and servants ready to receive them I She listens to these plans, yvbiolj iu«y XiOvcr bo xonli cd; oho looks into their small, earnest faces with wistful eyes and turns away. We in the station see her go with a decided feeling of regret; we feel, when ehe and her ba bies have left, a certain good will has passed away with them. We are of the earth; she will one day boot heaven, we believe. It has been pleasant to watch her lite and see the simple faith that guided it. Doubtleee, to know her has made us at all times feel a longing for something better. Her world is not the tinsel one of gayety and pleasure; the light that illu mines the stages on which she acts out her life comes, we teel, direct from heaven, while ours is but the garish glow of the footlights. Bure, good aud beautilul, she passes away from us, and probably not one of us may ever look on her gentle face again. Still, we cannot forget her, though she passes from our little world into another; the impress of her purity and sweetness will long remain upon our memories’ page. And so sho goes. Her home is broken up; her family and she will soon be parted ; that is the one appalling thought that is with hor—the last at night, the first in the morning. Her chil dren will grow up away from her, and in time they will forget her. Other hands will lead their faltering footsteps ; other voices will cheer or chide them. She, their mother (after two rather sad years, in wh’ch the shadow of her parting hangs on her like a funeral pall), goes back to India. Having said good-by to them at night, she cannot brave the morrow; but stealing once more to the side of each Bleeping child, gazes with an awful broken-hearted sor row on the well-loved faces, and breathes a helpless prayer lor her deserted little ones, and tears herself away. To-morrow, when they wake, she will smile on them no more. “Not, no more ; oh ! do not say no more,” I hear some Anglo-Indian mother like herself ex claim. “Some day, let her come back, and be united to her children once again. Let her for get the lost years in their young lives when she is only a far-off dream to them ; when friends in England are all in all to their baby souls ; and “mamma” in India is a mythical somebody the young onee have quite forgotten, and the elder remember now but dimly. When ehe prays her simple prayers, site know that “ He is faithful that promised,” and thinks and be lieves that they will meet again ; and so, as she passes once more across the nloonlit sea back to her foreign home, hugging the fond hope of a future meeing to her gentle breast, let us say, as the ship grows a dim speck on the horizon, “Amen I and God bless her.” THE MAGIC LINE. A DAY MAY BE LOST OR WON AO CORDING AS YOU SAIL. (From Chambers's Journal.) The first land that the new day dawns upon is Easter Island, about 230 miles west ot the coast of Chile, South America; that is to say, the : d of July breads here within a few hours of the Ist having broken on the American coast to the east, and the two days run on alongside—the 2d in Easter Island and places the Ist in all places on the American continent. We may, therefore, realize this idea—that at 7:20 any morning of our lives in Great Britain, the next day ia commencing on the world, and is to be found at this little island in the Pacific Ocean, whence in due course it will travel round to us. But to have thus the start of the world is not an unmitigated advantage of these islanders. Sup pose one of them sails east to America, what is the result? He will find they keep the day there under a different date 4 and ho will have to reckon one day in his calendar twice over to put himseli right with their notions. On the other hand, if an American crosses from east to west this wonderful magic line where the day begins, he will find the dates in this fresh part of the world are one in advance of him, and he must needs strike a day out of his calendar to keep up with the times. This fact was curiously illustrated in the case of Magellan, the Portuguese captain, who sailed round the world from east to west in 1522, and, having crossed the magic line of “ day’s birth” in bis wanderings, his calendar became, of course, a day in the rear. The sailors were completely ignorant of this, and finding, on landing at home, that their Sabbath was falling on a Monday, they accused one another of tam pering with’the reckoning. It was not for some time that the true explanation was discovered. The converse case is made the hinge in the plot in Jules Verne’s “Round the World in Eighty Days.” where the author depicts an eccentric Englishman, Phineas Fogg, who made a wager that he would go round the world in eighty days. He accomplished his feat in what he thought was eighty-one days, but, on arriv ing in London, found his friends anxiously ex pecting him,and discovered he had just won his wager. He had crossed the magic line east ward, and had forgotten to subtract the day he had thus gained. To put the matter in another way: In sailing round the world eastward the days are each a little less than twenty-four hours, according to the speed of the ship, as the sun is met every morning a little earlier. These little differences added together will amount in the course of the circumnavigation to twenty-four hours, giving the sailors an extra day, not in imagination, but iu sober trutb 3 as they will have actually eaten fin extra day’s food and consumed an extra day’s grog. On the other hand, in sailing west ward, the sun is overtaken a little each day, and so each day is rather longer than twenty four hours, and clocks and watches are found to be too fast. This also will amount, in sail ing round to the starting point again, to one whole day, by which the reckoning has fallen in arrear. The eastern ship, then, has gained a day, and the western ship has lost one, lead ing to this apparent paradox that the former ship has a clear gain of two whole days over the latter, supposing them to have started and returned together. “ CHECK YOI'irBAGGAGE I” BY M. QUAD. The mors I go about the country by rail the more I want to kill a railroad employe. It was fully filteen years ago that I first got the idea that I should some day shed the blood of a railroad man, and that belief has been growing stronger every day since. I used to think it surely would be the man in the ticket-office, but I have let np on him. I happened to get into conversation one day with the ex-presi dent of a railroad, and he assured me that ninety-nine out of every hundred railroad ticket agents— 1. Were born with the dyspepsia. 2. Had corns on every blessed toe and bun ions on both feet. 4. Had been disappointed in love, or had married unhappily. 3. Would [commit suicide in a few years, anyhow, and nothing could be gained by killing them. That was my reason for letting up on them, although there are times and places when it is awfully hard to restrain one’sjhand. There is a chap in the Union depot st Buffalo who is hourly courting death. I shan’t kill him, but some day some other suffering victim will surely shed his bilious blood. I was in Buffalo the other day, and naturally wanted to come to Detroit. I think the same feeling would have possessed any other stranger in Buffalo. There is not one single valid reason why any one should remain in Buffalo when he can start for Detroit. He was figuring on the distance of the sun from the earth when I stepped to the window. I waited seven minutes before inter rupting him, and then asked for a ticket to De troit. He flung down his pencil, yanked a ticket out of the rack, stamped it in a vicious manner, and flung it at my chin. It was a ticket to Louisville. “ I wanted to go to Detroit." “ Why didn’t you say so, then ?” “ I did. What time does the train go ?” “Eight o’clock to-morrow morning.” “But I want to go to-night.” “Then why didn’t you say so? How did I know when you wanted to go? Train goes at ten o’clock.” “ But the time-table says eleven o’clock.” “ Then why did you ask me ?” I started to apologize, but he shut the window down on me. Then I told him through the glass that I would go to Louisville, wait over till morning, or do almost anything else to secure his forgiveness, but he continued obdu rate and refused to see me again. It is the baggageman, however, whose gore I sigh lor. It sometimes seems as if they were employed to add to the number of lost souls. When I wanted to go down to Cincinnati the other day, I said to the man at the depot: “Can you check this trunk for Cincinnati?” “Humph!” he replied, looking at mo in search of hayseed. I took the check he offered me, saw him place another on the trunk, and four days afterward, after much worry and considerable cost, got my trunk from Cleveland, where it had been carried as straight as a string. When I think of taking a trip from Detroit to Moscow there are no anxieties connected with change of cars, or jumping to steamboats and back. I know I’d bring up all right and at the head of the procession, but my trunk—l’ll bet a hundred dollars to one it would never go beyond Toledo. The boss baggage man in the Union Depot in Cleveland has been living for forty odd years, but bis days are numbered. It won’t be my hand which will make his wite a widow, but the slayer is no doubt on liis way there. I had been down to Elyria. I checked my trunk from De troit to Elyria, but ot course it didn’t go there. The Lake Shore road felt under obligations to me for patronizing twenty-five miles ot its line, and therelore carried my trunk on to Norwalk. I tried hard to appreciate the kindness of this “long haul” clause, but didn’t succeed until the baggageman at Elyria got his coat off. The trunk finally came back with one hinge broken and the lock out of repair, and throe days later I checked it for Cleveland. I had a check reading Irom Elyria to Cleve land, and I saw another put on the trunk. I was assured by the baggageman and the ticket agent and the drayman that I need not worry. I stood there and saw it put on the train, and I saw it come off in Cleveland. Alter getting a bite to eat I wont into the baggage-room and my trunk was not there. After two hours hunting, I found it in the baggage-rooms of a Lake Superior line of boats. I went back to tackle the depot baggageman, and after I had jawed him for twenty-five minutes without a break, he coolly turned and said: “ Twenty-five cents for this transfer please 1” “ But I didn’t order it transferred I” “ But it was checked that way.” “ Then your man at Elyria is to blame.” “ Perhaps, but lam not the man at Elyria. 1 am the man at Cleveland.” We jawed and called each other liars and horse thieves, but I paid the transfer. Then I got the trunk end tied it up with 111ty feet of clothoa Uno, and wrote “Detroit” on it in thir teen plac?s 1 an.d said to the checkman : “Can you check this trunk for Detroit by steamer?” “Certainly.” “ And will it go there ?’’ “ It will.” “ To-night ?” “Yes.” “ No mistake ?” “ What do you take mo for ? Are you getting soft in the head ?” He checked it. When I reached Detroit it was not on the boat. It had not been put on. A telegram said it was not in the steamboat bag gage-room in Cleveland. It had not gone back to Elyria. It was not on its way to Norwalk. It had not come around by rail. Three days later I got news of it. The telegram read : “ Trunk with check 986, carried up to Kennard House, Cleveland, by mistake. How shall we forward it to Detroit?” And I telegraphed back : “ Send the whole durned thing to any hospital which will accept it as a gift.” A HISTORIC LOG. IT WAS HERE IN THEREVOLUTION (From the Youth's Companion.) A hollow trunk of an oak which lies decaying, covered with moss and lichen, in a meadow near the city of Wilmington, in Delaware, ia aaid to have a singular history. The men-of-war, “ Hoebuok” and “ Liver pool,” with their tenders, during the war of the Revolution, sailed up Delaware Bay, and bom barded Wilmington, then a village. The inhab itants could make but feeble resistance. As it was known to the commander of the “Roe buck” that a small body of soldiers was in the town, on its way to join Washington, a company of Hessians was sent ashore in boats to attack and disperse the party. The men, who were lew in number, could make no stand against the Hessians backed by the cannon of the men-of war. They were hidden hastily by their friends. One of them, Captain Joseph Stidham, after discharging his rifle in the face of the approach ing line of soldiers, fled for his life, and took refuge in the house of his cousin, Jonas Stid ham, on the outskirts of the village. The gun ners on the “ Roebuck” saw him eater it, and they turned their fire upon the house. The Hessians attacked it furiously. “ The balls,” says an old chronicler, “ rained upon the roof.” The mercenaries broke down the doors and windows, and rushed into the house searching for the Yankee captain. It was a large, rambling building, with many closets and leantos. But Stidham took refuge in none of these. Passing through the house he reach ed the barn-yard, and crept into the hollow trunk of an oak tree, in which he had oiten play ed hide-and-seek when a boy. It was so long since he had hid in it, that the moss and lichen hung over the opening. The Hessians searched for him in vain. Two of them, it is said, sat down upon the log while he was in it. They returned to the ship at nightfall, and he escaped to join Washington. When the village of Wilmington grew into a city, the old log was removed to a field, where, so it is said, it still lies. wiiFisjHjFfHus ? HOW MARRIAGE MAN. (From the San Fi-ancisco Chronicle.) It does look as if after a man got married he lost all capability for looking after himself. How is it that a man who is a bachelor is the pink of neatness, the glass of fashion and mold of form, when he gets a wife never seems to be able to do anything in the way of dressing himself properly without his wile’s assistance? This young man was at one time a most notor ious flirt. He had the best cut coats, the most beautiful boots, the most elegant neckties in town. He has been married several years, and he hardly knows how to button his collar now, and would wear his coat inside out if his wife didn’t Koep an eye on him. Is it natural cusaodness? Just a desiro to give his wife all the work and worry he can, or is it a psycho logical phenomenon attributable to domesticity? He had a lucid moment once, this young man, in which he noticed hie boots were pretty well worn. It lasted long enough for him to say to hia wife: “ Haven't I got any other boots I can wear ? These are awful.” “ Yes,” she said, “ there is a pair of side button boots in the closet there.” He fetched them out. “ How does it come that I’ve had these boots all this time and been wearing these worn out ones Then be put them on. “ Yes, I knew there must be something the matter with the blamed boots. They don't fit mo at all. leant walk in them.” And he made faces as he stamped up and down the room. “They are not my boots, yet they are a man’s boots. Madam, who is so familiar in this house as to have a pair of boots ” “ Well, dear, they’ll perhaps bo more com fortable if you’ll put tho right boot on the light foto.” HUMOR OF THE HOUR. BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND. SOME COMING. “Any pews?” asked tlio reporter of a Ger man, on Clinton street. “ Vhell, I can’t say as dere vhas shuat now.” “Then you expect some?” “Ido. Der man who makes der taxes vhill be here to-day, und I oxpeot dot I shall lick him all to pieces in shust two minutes py some clocks. Come aroundt to-morrow.” WHAT HE MEANT. “ Witness,” said a lawyer in the police court the other day, “you speak ot Mr. Smith being well off. Is he worth $5,000 ?” “No, sail.” “ Two thousand ?” “No, sah, he ain’t wurftwenty-five.” “Then how is he well oft?” “ Got a wife who s’ports de hull family, sah I” IT FAILED. It was raining hard, and he stood under the shelter of a Jefferson avenue awning and watched until the right sort of a man came along. Then he stepped out and said: “Ah, I was laying for you, old fellow ! That umbrella was stolen from me three months ago I” “ Chestnuts !” was the reply, “Don’t you believe me?” “Hushl I just got it five mimrtes ago by playing this same game. Tackle the next man.” AN ARTFUL SHOPPER. A woman entered a dry goods store and ap proached one of the clerks. “Please do these up,” she said, handing him two old newspapers." He looked surprised, and she explained: “I ain’t out on a reg'lar shopping tower, and ain’t agoin’ to buy anything, but there’s that Mrs. Simpson, that has half of our pew at church, just loaded down with bundles. She II never know the difference." As the clerk was tying up the newspapers she said, in a low voice: “Make it look as much like a silk dress pat tern as you can, mister; it’ll worry her more.” COMMERCIAL FLATTERY. It is an old saying that, Flattery to the face Is open disgrace." Whether this be true or not, it is, to say the least, in very poor taste. A lady ot this city once'rebuked a flatterer in so decided a manner as to show she was angry at the presumption. She was visiting a millinery establishment with her young daughter, who was attracted to a Paris imported hat. The milliner, desirous of selling it, said: “ Take it, my dear. I bought it for your pretty face.” The mother immediately responded: “ Leave it, daughter, for some other pretty face,” and indignantly left the store. A CHOICE OF TERMS. Dr. M is a very enthusiastic surgeon and delights in cutting up the defunct m the cause of his profession. He was lately called upon to attend a case at St. Mary s Hospital. A poor fellow had his face filled with bird shot and one arm nearly taken oft. The Doctor had come directly from the dissecting room and his head was full of his work there. Walking into the ward with both hands in his pockets, as is his way, he approached the bed. “ Is this the subject?” he asked briefly. “ No, Doctor,” the poor fellow answered, “ I’m not a subject yet, I’m only an object," and he smiled comically. The doctor nodded grimly (he likes a joke, even at his own expense), but he gave an extra touch to his professional care for the witty patient. STILL LARGER. “So you are homo from New York ?” “ Yes.” “Been there often?' “ This was the tenth time.” “ Did the city look as large as when you first went there ?” “ Much larger.” “It did? That’s just the opposite of my ex perience. After the third or fourth time I was not at all impressed with its size ?” “ Well, I stood on Broadway at Canal street and looked around me, and it seemed to me that I could never get out of the city.” “ Shoo I That was a queer impression.” “ Well, 1 dunno. I just had my pocket pick ed of my last dollar, didn’t know a soul to bor row from and the hotel clerk was making out my three days’ bill. Yes, the city seemed to be forty miles across to me.” HE HAD A CHOICE. In one ot the Miohgan rigiments engaged at the battle of Second Manassas was a private sol dier named Abo McDowell. Abe was looked upon as a soldier who had an eye open for a safe place during a fight, and on this occasion, as soon as his regiment had become a little dis organized, he sought the shelter of a dry ditch. His captain found him there and asked what was the matter. “Sleepy,” replied Abe. “ Now you come out of that I” exclaimed the captain. “Do yon want all the men to call you a coward ?” “Callin’ names don’t hurt nobody.” “ W hat did you enlist for ?” “ To die lor my country.” “ But you seem to have changed your mind.” “Oh no, I haven’t. I’m going to die for her, just as I swore to, but instead ot letting the robs knock me over I’m going to sleep to death. Good-by, captain—farewell to all th? boys I” r.z.ACllr.t> THE LIMIT. A Detroit peddler of tinware took out some egg-beaters on his last trip, and as the price was only fifteen cents each, and they worked on a new principle, he calculated on big sales. Hie first experience will answer for all others. He drove up to a farm house in the western part of Wayne county, and took a beater in to ex hibit. The people liked it exceedingly well, but the old farmer said: “Young man, I want to see your patent.” “I have none.” “Then your written authority to make sales.” “Don’t need any.” “Then you must give me a bond, with two sureties, in the sum of-fl,ooo that you willstand between me and any trouble.” “ But I can't do that.” “Then I can’t buy. I’ve just had to pay a roy alty on a drive well, damages for using an in fringement on a patent gate, and have a law suit about a hay-fork and another over a windmill, and we don’t even buy a dishpan without a bond that it don t infringe on somebody’s patent bath tub.” NO JOKE ON HER. A woman living on Columbia street east came down town the other day with a “ yearling ” in a baby carriage, and when she reached a cer tain dry goods store she left the cab at the door and went in to trade. The youngster was good natured over being left alone, and one of the clerks in the store who knew the mother well thought to play a joke on her. While she was busy trading he slipyed out and wheeled the carriage into an adjoining store. A rush of cus tomers prevented him from seeing the woman as she went out. She stood at the dpor for a moment, as if wondering if she had forgotten something, and then started off and went straight home. By that time “bub” had' become uneasy and was raising a row, and they sent in for the clerk to come and get him. The mother having de parted for home, he was obliged to follow her with cart and baby, the latter howling at the top of his voice and attracting general attention. The clerk had reached the gate when the wo man came out, and as she saw baby and cart she threw up both hands and exclaimed: “ Dear me, but I thought it was a spool of twist I had forgotten I” WHY DO PEOPLE DROWN ? THE OPINION OF AN EXPERT. (From the Pall Mall Gazette.) The obvious answer to the above question is because they cannot swim. But Mr. Johnson, the well-known swimmer, in the following inter view, goes deeper: “ I suppose,” I remarked to Mr. Johnson, that such a cork as yourself can not quite understand how a person sinks.” “Oh, yes, but loan. It is only such as my self, who study the science of floating, that can understand the mystery of sinking. A swimmer becomes a swimmer by endeavoring to find out, not so much how to swim, as how not to sink. Man or woman can float-there is no exception. The big secret is knowing bow and being self noesessed enough-that is, in cases of emer gency—to take advantage of. one’s knowledge. But directly the boat capsizes, or the canal bank subsides, or the sands shift, or the deep part of the river asserts itself, the ignorant mortal (ignorant of how to use his powers of buoyancy) sets about to sink himself.” “Sinks himself, Mr. Johnson?” I observed, dubiously. “ Yes; sinks himself. Up go his hands, and down he sinks like a flagstone. Of the 10,001 frenzied actions in which a drowning man in dulges, notone is there that tends a tittle of buoyancy. In the first place he catches at the proverbial straw, and there is no surer way of sinking one’s self than by thrusting the hands out ot the water. The consequent lurch of the bodv strikes fatal terror in the man’s heart, he struggles spasmodically, and then, bereft as he is of all consciousness, vanishes to his doom. Take as instance the yachting accident off Ilfra combe the other day. A jovial party set sail in a crazy fishing smack, an extra capful ot wind upset her. Instantly there was chaos and con fusion, as is always the case, and fourteen luck less souls drowned themselves. It is simply suicidal for a non-swimmer to risk his life in uncertain craft.” “ Suppose, then, Mr. Johnson, that you and I are cruising. The boat has capsized ; we are in the water. What am I, a non-swimmer, to do ?” “If there is anything floating, catch at it steadily. The least particle will support you. This beading (which was no more than an inch souare) would keep your head above water. But if there is nothing at all within reach, this is what you should do.” At this juncture Mr. Johnson sprung to his feet. Throwing back his head and placing both hands in the small of his back, his form assumed a slanting position. “So long as you remain as I am now, so loug would you float.” “ Then it is not necessary for the require ments of floating that one’s toes should be level with his nose ?” “ Not in the least. The mode of floating in a moment of emergency is as I have just illus- trated-or at least, my experience tells me that it is the safest and the easiest. It would be an inconsiderable matter lor people to familiarize themselves with the principles of floating, and 9 simple acquaintance with the subject might prove to be of life-long service. To be ot any real service swimming must be studied to per leotlon. A man or woman is termed a good swimmer (and the man or woman comes to tninK so, too) who can manage, say, a score lengths of a bath twenty yards long. Here the water is tepid and smooth, but it is different at sea. How many yards would that same swim mer traverse in troublous waters ? But the chances are that ho could float till rescued, which is always the end sought after.” A MARTLIf PEOPLE. GERMANS AS DUELISTS—THEIR WONDERFUL LOVE OF ARMS. (From the Nashville American,) A reporter yesterday had a very interesting conversation with Mr. Joseph G. Branch, who has spent several years at German universities and has recently returned home. Speaking of the military spirit in Germany, he said: It prevails everywhere, penetrating every thing, not being confined to the men and wo men of the empire, but the very children aro imbued with it. It is a common sight in Germany to see on the streets a child dressed cap-a-pie in the Ger man uniform, dragging his toy cannon. In a few years he exchanges this toy for tho ienoing foil of a student, and this for the gun of a private soldier or the sword of an officer. The father gives his child, for toys, minia ture forts, cannons, flags, tin soldiers and the like, while the mother buys books and pictures illustrating the great deeds of their military heroes. No people carry hero worship to such an extent as the Germans. One can enter few German homes without seeing pictures of the emperor in ha full regimental uniform, dec-b --orated with his numerous orders, or busts of Bismarck or Moltke. The most popular pictures are war pictures, especially those representing scenes in the lata Dranco-German war; around these always lin ger admiring and patriotic crowds. Tb.e “Zenghaue,” or arsenal, is ever crowded with parents and children, while the evolutions of the sentinels, on going on and off guard, never fail to attract a crowd. No city presents a more martial appearance than a German city, crowded as it ever is, with soldiers and officers. In Berlin alone are stationed twenty-seven thousand soldiers, or more than the standing army of the United (States. The child is reared, his mind enthused, by such surroundings, by such books and pic tures. He is taught that the grandest life is the h eot the soldier; the noblest death, to die for his emperor. In Germany there are two classes, separate and distinct. To the first class belong “difl allgemeine Leute,” consisting of the laboring class, while to.the second class belong the no* bility, the soldiery and the professional men. The professional man is held in high repute, owing to tho long training, both military and academic, through which it is necessary for him to pass before acquiring a degree. On the contrary, the soldier, earning only twenty cents a day, looks witn distain upon the mer chant following a profession “ fit only for a Jew.” XV bile every German subject must serve in the army from one to three years, according to his means, his military education really be gins from childhood. 1 have seen two little Germans expertly fenc ing, while their delighted parents looked on applauding every advantage gained by one or the other. When the age ot childhood is passed there is implanted in the mind a martial spirit that is life-long. He enters a university, his faculties thoroughly trained by tho excellent course in the gymnasium, his body finely devel oped, and his spirit as martial as that of the Spartan of old. His first duel is to him of great expectation, to his mother of anxiety, not that he may be injured, but that he may not con duct himself with true bravery. 1 remember well seeing the first duel of a young German friend. His expectations knew’no bounds, all his friends were invited, while his “kneipe,” or club, were present in full force. The two combatants on taking their stands presented a striking contrast, the one with his face so scarred from numerous duels until it was revolting to see, and when contrasted with the smooth, youthful face of his antagonist,who was now to fight his maiden duel, made a sight more disgusting than is usually seen even iu German duels. I noticed my debutante closely, but not a quiver was to be seen in his face. He took the long, keen sword handed tG him by the master of ceremonies with a hand as firm as his vete ran antagonist. He fought as coolly as when practicing with his fencing master. The first cut he received was a mere scalp wound, the second a frightful gash laying open his cheek from his eye to his chin; yet ne never flinched nor moved his head until the word “ halt ” had been given. But his nerve is only what is seen in every German duel. He had fought his first duel, had vindicated his honor and was the happy possessor ot a frightful scar. What more could he desire ? While dueling is prohibited by law, it really is encouraged by thoss in power, even by the emperor himself. Bismarck, in his day, was one of the finest of fencers, and still bears the scars of more than one duel upon his person— scars of which he is yet proud. It seems strange tne admiration tho young ladies evince for young men wbuse races are ohdPDod almost beyond recognition. The smooth-faced young man is looked upon as effeminate and too much like a merchant. He stands no chance as a lover until he adorns his face, not with a mustache, as the American youth does, but with hideous scars, which serve to give his countenance a variegated and inter esting appearance. In order to make the scars more inflamed, and hence more attractive, he often rubs beer in the fresh-cut wounds. Tru ly, tho beau ideal of a German girl is a soldier —of course in the German uniform. I remember I was once refused permission by some young ladies to introduce an officer in the German army who happened to be dressed iu citizen clothes, “because he was a civilian.” On informing them oftheir mistake, their apolo gies were profuse. But this military spirit is not confined to the young ladies and students alone; even the street-car conductorsand drivers array them selves in gaudy uniforms, regulated by the gov ernment with military precision. Not to be outdone, the droschee, or cabmen, strut about in flaming blue garments, while even the street cleaners try to present a martial appearance in their loose, white blouses and blue caps. Almost every one wears a uniform except the merchant, and he will not be allowed, even if he wanted to so adorn himself, for the line must be drawn somewhere—so thinks the cabman. The result of this military spirit, even fostered by Bismarck and inflamed by the vic tories ot 1870-’7l, has been to make the German army the most perfect in existence and the peo ple a race of soldiers. PECULIAR HOHB. THE KIND THEY HAVE IN AR KANSAS. (From the Arkansaw Traveller.) The Tennessee hog is a character, individual and alone in h;s peculiar collection of traits. In the magnificent belt of country in which Nash ville is situated the hog is conventional, but in the mountains, and especially in the ridge por tion of Sumner county, he is a character. He is not always particularly wild, but is nearly always lean, and has a habit of winking at a stranger. “ Well, it’s about train time,” said an old fel low who lived near Richland Station. “ I sec the hogs goin’ out.” A man who had just arrived in the neighbor hood looked up in surprise. “ What bearing do the hogs have upon the running of trains ?” he asked. “ Why, they always go out to see the trains pass. At a certain time o’ day, hogs that live way out in the country will strike a trot an’ never stop till they get to the railroad. Then they wait for the tram. They know the time, an’ if the train happens to be behind, they git restless an’ grunt an’ walk about. 1 havo knowed ’em to wait till twelve o’clock at night, waiting for a train. They don’t try to keep track o’ the freight trains. Bless you, when they air expecting a passenger an’ a freight comes along it makes them as mad as a hornet. They know all the conductors.” “ What I” “ Yes, sir, know them as well as I do. W’y, they have a special likin’ fur an old feller that runs the commodation, an’ there’s an old spotted sow that belongs to Lias Fulgum that waves her tail at him as long as he is in sight. You’ve seed great knots of mud bangin’ to hogs’ tails, haven’t you ? Well, sir, tell you what that old sow did: She hunted all over the country till she found some white clay an’ plastered a great lump o’it on her tail. Wanted it white so it would look more like a handkerchief. Some times the old feller fails to recognize her, an’ then you ought to see her. Fights everything that comes along.” yyjnagiwrai mh« ■!,!!* 1 bl w ■ umw—iw pai 1 »vi>iniTWM—MWM Spiow to Skm&Scalp Diseases with the CiJTicUn v /\ Remedies. Torturing, disfiguring, itching, scaly ant pimply diseases of the skin, scalp, and blood with loss of hair, from infancy to old age, are cured by the Cuticura Remedies. CCticura Resolvent, the New Blood Purifier, cleanrea the blood and perspiration of disease-sustaining ele ments, and thui removes the cause. Cuticura, the great Skin Cure, instantlj r allays itching and inflammation, clears the skin and scalp of cruets, scales and sores, and restores the hair. Cuticura Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifler, is indis pensable in treating skin diseases, baby huTnors, skin blemishes, chapped and oily skin. Cuticura Remedies are the great skin beautiflers. Sold everywhere. 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