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Vol. VI.—No. 45. HYMN Our Father, while our hearts unlearn The creeds that wrong thy name, Still let our hallowed altars burn With faith’s undying flame. Not by the lightning gleams of wrath Our souls thy face shall see, The star of love must light the path That leads to Heaven and Thee. Help us to read our Master’s will Through every darkening stain That clouds His sacred image still, And see Him once again. The brother man, the pitying friend, Who weeps for human woes: Whose pleading words of pardon blend With cries of raging foes. If mid the gathering storms of doubt, Our hearts grow faint and cold. The strength we cannot live without Thy love will not withhold. Our prayers accept; our sins forgive. Our youthful zeal renew; Shape for us holier lives to live, And nobler work to do. An Island Prison. To be geographically correct, there will be found at a point eleven hundred and forty miles due west of the nearest South African coast, and eighteen hun dred miles east from the coast of South America, in latitude fifteen degrees, fifty-five minutes south, rising abruptly from the sea, an island—once a great volcano, but for many centuries a quiet spot in mid-ocean. The Portugese orig inally discovered it, in modern times, at least, but the rapacious strong hand of Great Britain seized it in 1651, to be used as a halting place for her vessels bound for India. Irregularly circular, its widest and narrowest diameters are respectively ten and eight miles. The coast line is precipitous, basaltic rock, inaccessible except at two narrow val leys which run upward and inward, both strongly fortified at their mouth, and capable of resisting any invasion. In the larger of these valleys lies the capital, Jamestown, which is now a coaling and watering station, and, as such, is even yet of considerable value to the English. To the world at large, however, it has an altogether different source of interest; for, within its nar row limits, he was penned who held, at one time all of continental Europe, ex cept northern Russia, conquered under his feet. As the prison of Xapoleon the Great, that little island will remain re nowned as long as the literature of to day shall live. Of prison and prisoner the rise and fall were on similar lines; the once fierce mountain that had bel lowed, burned, raged, and made the sky livid with its irrepressible fires, now lies hushed and stilled by the Almighty hand, a dot in the vast waste of waters that make the great south Atlantic ocean; the no less fiery man, a veritable human volcano, whose fervid passion for conquest and blood disrupted em pires, was sent to that circumscribed sphere, not even there to rule—save only the faithful few who followed him voluntarily to his imprisonment. Three miles inland from Jamestown, following the valley upward and in ward, at an elevation of 2,000 feet above the sea, is Longwood, first a farm, then Xapoleon’s residence, now a shrine for historic pilgrims—a one story, strag gling house in its own inclosure. Twice have I stood—a soldier's son—with bated breath, beneath that roof for six years the home of the greatest soldier of modern days. Rapidly my mind re viewed that comet-like blaze through all the grades of power at a nation’s bestowal—sub-lieutenant of artillery at the siege of Toulon, he rose rapidly, till as consul and commander-in-chief, he hinted to the republic he might just as well be emperor—to make the nation more respectable among its fellows. Duchies, monarchies, crowns were free ly given away, though that of Sweden alone remains possessed by the heirs of his beneficiaries. After Jena there was nothing for him to desire but revenge against England and Russia. He made pretence of invading the one, and, in an unhappy moment for his fortunes, did invade the other, reaching Moscow. Here the elements joined hands with man to overthrow him. He could not advance; he could not stay to starve— he must retreat —and did. Cossack and Russ first, the Pole and Prussian after, followed him as hungry wolves do a wounded though still mighty buffalo. Soon the whole of rejoicing Europe was on his track. His magnificent army of veterans had melted away—the heroes of a hundred victories were food for the wolves, as they dropped by the way side; yet, with hastily raised raw re cruits and old cripples, he fought three of his most masterly battles against overwhelming odds. But the toils closed, and at Fontainbleau he abdi cated the crown in ISI4, and was sent to exile in Elba, a small island in the Med iterranean. Here he was too close to his friends, and early in 1815 escaped, arriving in France in June, and was re ceived with the wildest enthusiasm by the majority of the French nation, who had no fancy for their Bourbon king. Collecting all the troops he could, some hundred thousand or more, he marched northward, fell like a thunderbolt on the Prussian army at Ligny. and thor oughly defeated them. Leaving thirty thousand men under Grouchy to keep the Prussians on the run, and away from the British and Belgians, in and about Brussels, he turned with great rapidity toward that city, and welTnigh caught* the Iron Duke "(of Wellington) napping. At Waterloo, some distance from Brussels, Xapoleon found his foe strongly posted. All day he cannonad ed, charged, fought, cannonaded and charged again. By all the rules of.war he ought to have won; but he had to deal with a man who, like our own Grant, did not count the word defeat in his vocabulary. How it might have ended there is no telling; but Grouchy let the Prussians slip, and they arrived in time to turn a drawn battle into an irretrievable rout. Xapoleon tied; —the great rocket had burnt out, and there came down a stick; that stick was cap tured, and, in the fall of 1815, was sent to St. Helena by his persistent enemies, the English. Imprisonment for life was the doom of the most commanding military genius of inodern days. Im prisonment where hope was left behind —there could be no escape save by such a combination of treachery as would be impossible. — O. H'. Holmes. On thought's pinions we are back again to that sitting-room at Long wood. We see him who played with armies, now solacing that martial spirit with the mimic battle of chess. We look upon him who had no patience when in power, now playing solitaire with cards to while away the slow crawling hours. These he casts aside with the petulance of a tired child, and sits in that deep arm-chair, with chin on chest and moody brow—thinking, think ing if—aye if, that dismal bar-sinister across many a shield of promise. Mos cow, Leipsic, Waterloo, Grouchy, Wel lington were all terrible ifs, and their parade is too appalling. He starts up and paces the room with hands clasped behind him, dwelling upon some possi ble if which never materialized. There was no parole, no pardon for him. Death alone could loose the bonds and give enfranchisement. Six years thus, then the candle dickered and went out. Standing beside that railed enclosure in the pleasant vale where, for a while, was laid the mortal of such vivid im mortality, we hear the sea breezes whis per through the willow weeping over the erstwhile grave, and gently stirring its dickering leaves. What do they murmur to us ? The value of content ment ? Of a surety. To each mortal is assigned a sphere more or less con tracted by omnipotent power, and he who will ever grasp at one more plum will assuredly fall out of the tree sooner or later. The shores of time are scat tered with the innumerable wreckage of those who knew not when to stop. St. Helena now only boasts the mem ory of Xapoleon, for his bones rest in the Hotel des Invalides, Paris. To a great nation have justly been restored the bones of her greatest citizen. R. F. “ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.” STILLWATER, MINNESOTA, JUNE 15, 1893. Hereditary Criminality. We hear much, in these days of half formed minds and whole formed opin ions, of hereditary criminal induences. Wise (?) penologists will contribute Tor $ or advertisement) excellent ar ticles to current literature, setting forth in a masterly manner elaborate theo ries regarding the criminal types, the causes of their production, and the method to be followed for their cure; prominent among these theories stands the one mentioned above—hereditary criminality. The phrase is a mislead ing one, and belongs only in the vocab ulary of shallow thinking persons; a catchpenny phrase which weak-minded philanthropists hold out to the public —“the dear people”—in order to save them from the herculean task of think ing for themselves; and the public ac cepts it, in spite of all reason and evi dence to the contrary. The criminal must indeed be low* in the scale of humanity, who foists upon his ancestry the viciousness acquired by himself; and those who do it for him are but little removed from himself; for they are doing for others that which, under like circumstances, they would do for themselves. The child in its cradle has unnumbered generations behind it; if hereditary influences counted for any thing, why must it learn its a-b-c from another?’ Why does a generation of thieves produce a preacher, and vice versa V We ask the same of lawyers, statesmen and authors, and so on ad in finitum. Why does one offspring stand a peer among’his kind, another in the garb of a felon? “Ah, there's the rub” —why? I doubt if any of the nu merous class, who seek notoriety by formulating elaborate views on crimin ology, had they stood in the shoes of the one they condemn, would have done one whit differently from what he did. Of course they say they could— but could they? Hereditary criminal ity, I reassert, is a misleading phrase; one of the many of like kind used to hide the public and likewise the crim inal from a sense of their own negli gence. The public says, “he’s a crim inal; you can’t do anything with him; send him to prison; punish him; take his manhood away; his liberty away: that’s ail we can do. Once a criminal, always a criminal.” If he has children nothing is done to clothe or feed or ed ucate them; he should not have had a family! Several years afterwards should those children, from press of circum stances, get into trouble, they will be looked after in a summary manner; sent to jail; thence to a reform school, and discharged—confirmed criminals. And the hereditary criminality writer tallies one for his pet theory. Leonarijus. From Different Points of View. The man who is unfortunate enough to meet with misfortune, so unphilo sophical as to bemoan his fate, and so unwise as to murmur his complaint in unmusical prose, is set down as a cynic. But if he has the talent that will enable him to utter his lay with rhythmic mu sicalness, and according to the laws of poesy, men will listen to his wail with solicitude and compassion, and will ac cuse him of possessing nothing more intolerable than a poetical tempera ment. This conclusion I arrive at after a vain effort to recall to mind one in stance of ever feeling any resentment towards the individual, who told me, in three stanzas, that his was the hardest luck. The euphonious quality of the verse seems gifted with the power to allay our constitutional opposition to having some other-body’s trouble poured into our ear. And no matter how strong an effort we may make to escape him who blurts out, in his first period, that his is the hardest luck, we always lend a willing ear to his more fortunate brother of the three stanzas. This may be only the somber reasoning of a cynic. Naturally I am a little inclined that way, still not so far gone but what I can enthuse a little now and then; as was the case last week. He had just arrived and was completely discouraged. Ilis. immunity from the turmoil and strife engendered by the struggle for existence extends over a more lengthy period than that which I enjoy. I don’t know whether that was the primary cause of my enthusiasm; moreover, 1 do n't think my feelings on that point would bear a very close analysis. lam of a conservative disposition, and, as a consequence, my efforts were confined to the methods commonly pursued. What day the 13th of June, 1902, fell on. —where he was going when he got out, and other live questions seemed to have no interest for him. I admonished him to look to the future. “ That’s all well and good,” he replied, “but it needs a Yerkes telescope to give me a glimpse of my future, and as I have none, I am denied the moral stimulus derived from 4 looking to the future.’” 1 was some what taken aback at his manner, but continued: “Youcan’t always tell; mis fortunes are sometimes blessings in disguise.” “ I have heard that before ? ” he replied, “and always thought that if the costumer who disguised this bless ing for me, could transfer his proficien cy to the disguising of misfortunes as blessings, I would as soon have them as the bona fide article, and would not be afraid but what I could realize ninety-five cents and a street car ride for every dollar's worth of them.” I saw he was skeptical, and began to en tertain doubts 'as to my qualification for the duty assumed, I thought that perhaps he was brooding too much over his condition, and that it would be a good plan to try and withdraw his mind from it; so, what would be more nat ural than that I should refer to the splendor of the day; how it infused a desire to roam amidst the beauties of nature, and, incidently those of the sum mer resort; of the successful opening of the World’s Fair, and how every one would be there. I can't imagine' why he took umbrage, and a right and left swing for my jugular, can you? J. F. The probability of such an event causes no alarm to the inhabitants of our little village, but I know of a little American village in China of about the same population, to which it will mean financial disaster. This colony which settled in China several years ago, in vested thousands of dollars in starting a ship yard, machine shop, foundry, glass works and an electric light plant. Success has crowned their efforts, and their work is to-day a credit to the land from which they sprang. Why should those innocent people suffer because a few poor ignorant Chinese have failed, either through fear or superstition, to take out certificates ? I have not the least doubt that the intelligent portion of these aliens have complied with the letter and spirit of Mr. Geary’s law. One objection which these modern Kearneyites have to their almond-eyed brethren is that they send all their earnings home to China. There would be no sense in a law which would com pel a man to spend his money in the locality where he made it. There is no cry of indignation raised against our American globe-trotters, who take good American gold across the ocean, and scatter it to the four winds of the old world. In my own experience, the lit tle money that I earned there was brought back to this country without any opposition on the part of the Mon golians, or any hesitation in accepting it, on the part of the New Yorkefs among whom it was spent. I have reference to the American quarter of the city of Shanghai. SINBAD. There is nothing quite so interesting in this world as other people’s affairs. — Puck. Tcduo. * SI.OO per year, in advance, i tHMs. | Months 50 Cents. The Chinese Will Retaliate.