Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 April 1886 — Page 2

OHLT eoiHIXS. fMWT VOU HX Ut u» u 1 taut* tby lip. Svraar how UrtSil ooutiuablp. . XAo *"Mater I Yra, Bo doubt; Still, not a «i«ter out and out. Who that ar«r had a litter Valt Mi heart beat when he killed fair? Who by looking, erer knew ~ That hii aiiter'i «yra were bluet Who, ia the name es all he lovra, Beta hi* litter pain ot glorea 1 Charming couiin. tUU are yoa Sliter in a meaaura. too; We can ad a* pleaiei ut, Ro one think! it dangeroni; Talk of lorn or ot the weather, Row or ride or read together ; Wander where we will alone, . Cfareloei of e obaperon ; Th maytdanoe with poor but «• Only cotiaine, dent fw w*. All the lawi <5 aUquMU Charmint couiin. in your eyea - -t-i-To my noaeenee, al they Baton. f What can Harry mean to lay T You may come to know tome day. I Jett one word, rwoet oonitn mlno? . Ere we go to dreei and dtne. U I ever chance to woo, Oouiiu. ebo mnit bo like you; And the one that comes the nearonl To youWelf will be the dearrat; Typo ot what my lore mint be. Count), what if you are she ? AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 1 Thor appointed to meet in the parlor When all of the gueite were asleep, And they parted with sweet protestations That eweh the appointment would keep. They were punctual, juit to the second. And their greetings were soft as a breath As they sat on the lounge in the parlor. - . Whore all was silent as death. ■ yd And they spooned in that fashion peculiar To rerdancy in love's charm—■ba, rooting her head on his shoulder, He, encircling her waist with his ann. ei ■non their eyes to the dark grew accustomed. And then weir enjoyment took wins, Tor they saw, in that parlor, font others Engaged in the very same thing.

IANTHE ALDEN’S SACRIFICE.

BY CELESTE HUTCHINS BARKSDALE.

She had worn chrrßanthemthps the last night he had seen her, five years before; and^p-night when the enrtnin dropped upon the third act, he swept the boxes with his lorgnette and started as he saw that kaughty face and thoic Howers. He smiled and wondered if Rhe knew that he would be here. Then he fell to ■peculating as to what would be their meeting. He could not shun her, for her social world was his; and to seek her might revive old memories, which to her must be unpleasant. He had never cared for her, even in those other days when men raved of her beauty, comj»osed of Clden hair, lily-leaf skin, jet brows and ihes, wondrous gray eyes and perfect red mouth. One of the crowd, he had gone with it ns it knelt in homage at her feet to offer up incense to her statuesque loveliness. Hr had knelt in mock homage. He could simulate passion, and while kneeling before the reigning goddess, had bowed his eurled, black head in feigned adoration over her white hand; and his violet eyes were tilled with a tenderness he did not feel. She had turned from more earnest, sineerer lovers, are, and worthier ones. to lis - ten to the music of his seductive voice, until their world was agog with the affair. Not one of their mutual friends knew that Calmar Cecil had never spoken one word of love to lanthe Alden. When he bad made an unceremonious departure to Europe. that land of exiled lovers, their world arose and proclaimed lanthe Alden the most finished, most heartless coquette in their set. __ ■ /.'■■■■ If lanthe had had nny grief over Calmar? Cecil’s abrupt departure and flagrant de - ■artion she gave no sign, and went her stately way with outward serenity. Her father (tier only living parent) was glad as -the years went by that lanthe would not marry, though _ he sometimes wondered that this stately, roval woman, as impassive' M an iceberg, should have been the merry, warm-hearted little girl who cheered his _ lonely fireside. Once or twice he proposed a tour threw »h Europe, but lanthe had objected, saying that she had had enough of the continent frith her education. Instead they would jaunt to the Yosemite Valley, or up the French Broad, or among the orange and lemon groves of the St. Johns. She was too shrewd a woman not to know that she was not dear to Calmar Cecil, and she was too thoroughly a woman not to ■corn to have him think that she sought him in the tourists’ haunts of Switzerland or along the slope* of the Rhine. With woman's acute instinct she divined that the holy of holies of his being was filled with a love for another; and having divined this, she bowed her golden head to the decree of an implacable Fate, accepting it as her destiny. To-night Miss Alden saw Mr. Cecil as he leaned forward, and she adjusted the lace draperies in accordance with her fastidious , taste, sank back upon the crimson velvet chair, a smile parting her red lips a's she took up the mother-of-pearl and gold lorgnette lying idle beside her bouquet.: She had expected Mr. Ceotl, and so had nerved herself for the self-assigned task when she should catch his eye. Curiously her eves.poted the same lack of sympathy with all that was passing around him. Their eyes met. Miss Alden gave him a ■teady glance, then half smiling bent her golden head in a stately bow of recognition. Under her breath she said; “He is not worth a heartache—yet how handsome he is!” She wore to-night white chrysanthemums, and flowers were unusual to her. She would prove- to him that she had no tender thoughts of the past, and in it nothing to fear. She had no love for chrysanthemums, and saw no beauty in their golden hearts and snowy fringe-petals. He had asked her to wear them once, saying they reminded him of his dead sister, who had loved them; and lanthe had worn —them frequently after that irrthose old days when she craved to please him. ’ ——*l think, my blossom, Calmar Cecil is just opposite us,” her father said, between the bursts of music. “It is very probable, father. I saw in yesterday’s paper he had returned,” she answered, indifferently. r “ ‘Love’s Exile,” murmured an admirer, ■oming into the box. “Since when?” she smiled by way of courtesy. “Tradition saith not.” I “Oh, it is a tradition ! Mr. Cecil would be intensely amused to know that he had become a tradition. You knew him before his ‘exile’ ? No ? My word for it. he has not changed in the least, save to gain more tuvoir faire." ~ “He has grown stouter, lanthe,” her father said. - —— ——— “Possibly, father. < Dining with dukes and wining with lords is apt to increase avoirdupois,” and she laughed a delicious little laugh, glancing at the box wherein ■at Mr. Cecil, noting with cultivated eyes each perfect outline of feature and form,. dainty coloring and haughty manner. “My ivory Galatea has had the celestial fire breathed into her, and has at last •wakened into a gloriously lovely creature.” fee said, under his breath. \ The curtain went up and the ph>y went ■St, both on and off the stage. The friends

of ninth* Alden and Calmar Cecil began to note the by-plav; and when after an absence from his box Mr. Cecil appeared in Mr. Alden's, their social set was on the qui rire. . —x— a “Will you not extend the hapd.of friendship to a wanderer ?” Mr. Cecil Jhad said, bowing low before her. “Indeed, yes !” smilingly extending her hand, still with, a haughtiness that-made him feel that this royally beautiful woman meant that he should not transcend the limits of mere society friendship. "My flowers, please,” as the lending lady bowed in aqswerto an encore. “The star always flatters me by accepting chrysanthemums from me. See !” The white and gold flowers fell at the actress' feet. Stooping, she caught up the bouquet, and .half-smiling, bowed to Mis* Alden. In her room, alone, lanthe Alden knelt to pray. “Oh, God, help me to win his love ! I would repay heartache for heartache! Help me to revenge the womanhood immolated upon the altar of his self-love ! Permit me to avenge the desecration of ideals!" The leading lady carried behind the scenes the bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Sheaaid to herself as she donned her furs: ———— “They are Miss Alden's. 1 will carry them to ray poor lame Jessie. She used to loVe them long ago. when Calmar Cecil and May brought them to her. I saw Calmar to-night—and he was in Miss Alden’s box. I did hear that lanthe Alden had coquetted with him; but looking in her eyes to-night I know that her womanly soul would not stoop to coquetry. 1 will watch her flowers, and in them I will read her heart,” and the star passed out into the night. “See What I bring you, Jessie.” The actress crossed the room and laid the bouquet in the eagerly outstretched hands of her sister. “You always ask for Miss Alden’s flowers. To-night she threw me these.” “Oh, my darlings!" The lame girl buried her face in the flowers. “They are like so many blessed memories, Mag. ” tremulously. “I wonder so fine a lady would, care for so commou a flower—unless "

“She was royally beautiful to-night, Jessie, in a proud, high-bred way that disdains all admiration for it. Even the-com-mon old chrysanthemums failed to detract from the rarity of her loveliness. And, Jessie." very slowly, "someone else was there. ” -“~r . “Not Cal, Mag!”the girl-gas ped, Mag knelt beside the lame girl, and putting her arms around her tenderly, said: “Yes, dear, none other than Calmar Cecil.” “And he loved chrysanthemums!” The flowers fell in a white heap upon the carpet as Jessie buried her face in her thin hands. “He loved, chrysanthemums, Mag. and she wears them for him. Oh, Cal! Cal!” Silently the elder sister stroked the bowed head. She, too, felt that Miss Alden had worn these flowers because of Calmar Cecil. “I thought you had done with this foolishness,. Jessie.” Jessie straightened up, a white smile, on her lips. ■ “I have, Mag. I was only overcome at the sight of my flowers. They recall so much. Doyon remember what a luxuriant bed Cal and May had, Mag? Large, gol-den-hearted ones, like these. May wore them always, you remember, when they were in bloom.” “I remember, dear." “Calnnd May used to walk over and bring us such fragrant bunches.” “They brought them to you, dear."

“And I wore them ’’ “In your ’bonuy brown hair' until you fell ill with fever,” supplied Mag, as she replaced the fallen flowers. “The fever, that killed May imd lamed me."“Jessiebrokointo a®tgh. “May's coffin was covered over and filled in with flowers like these. If May Cecil had lived, Jessie, her brother would not tonight be the fashionable vagabond he is. We heard five years ago that Miss Alden coquetted with Calmar. llooked into her eyes to-night, and they are as pure as your oWn7 _ Whatever may~be"“(he~ verdict of the” world, I know that Calmar Cecillias played Miss Alden false.” “No, no, Mag!” “Jessie, once Calmar loved you. and because of your lameness you had the moral courage to put bis love from you; since then, dear, he has had no love to give any woman. He made Miss Alden believe that he loved her—she was a girl then, with girlish ideas of the true, good and beautiful. When he found that the reigning belle of the creme de la creme loved him he fled the country ‘for his country's good.' ” “ You never liked Cal, Mag!” “Even so. Why should I? I hope, my darling, that you are not regretting giving him back bis freedom—”

"My heart has ached so all these years, Mag,” pathetically. ! The elder sister drew the other closer to her, and bending, kissed passionately the quivering lips. "Shall I ring for Nellie, darling? lam fatigued; and as to-morrow begins the rehearsal of a new play. I will bid you good night. Do not dream of chrysanthemums.” Alone in her room Maggie Archer said to herself: “I wonder how this will all end! Were Ito send for Calmar would\ he renew his allegiance to my fading flower? Or’ has -constant contact with the world obliterated the memory of her sweet face and dispelled the perfume of her love? Will he again bow before the shrine of Miss Alden’s transcendent loveliness? Will she accept! his homage? I know that it is not love him. I wonder if he remembers—she paused and her lips curved into scornful lines —“that he and I once cared for each other? He has forgotten that It is chtoce, fate, kismet,” breaking into a sigh. The following night the leadmg t lady put into her sister's hands a bouquet of tea roses. " ■

"Miss Alden's gift. Jessie,” she said. “Was he there, Mag?” “Yes, dear: handsomer than ever, very unlike4he Calmar -who onee went ehestntH hunting up in the mountain? with us. Miss Alden was very graeious; with the nir of a princess.” "And he; Mag!” eagerly. “He was all devotion, of course. That goes for nothing, Jessie. Men are that at all times and to all women.’’ ■ “Is she very beautiful; Mag?" ’ ‘ - “The loveliest woman I ever saw!" “If I could only see her once!” “That is not so impossible, Jessie. I will secure you a box, and Mrs. Manners mav go with vou. Would vou like that, mv flower?” . ‘ A “Oh, so much, Mag!” and the eyeVof the lame girl glowed brightly. "I did wrong to propose it,” Slag communed with herself. “It will make her unhappy to see them together, as she will. —loathe -Alden sat- beside her father asusnal, her incomparable loveliness enhanced by the glow of lights: > beautiful, living poem. Sweeping the boxes with her, opera glass her gaze rested upon the fragile beauty of Jessica Archer. Who could it be?: she asked, herself. Then she turned to her father. As 'one gentle num after another came in to pay their devoirs to the~reigning beauty and belle of the season, she made the inquiry'• To each it was a new face. “She watches you intently, Miss Alden,” said one. < '

“What a atrinigr,' pathetic, loveliness.” •he mused, as she looked straight into the bright, big •yes of Jessica Archer, who noted each beauty in Miss Alden’s face. I think that tt tn the lamb sister of our star. 1 was told so a moment ago/* exnlaine<k< gentleman coming in. “By the live, they are friends of Cecil’s —one an old love. Sad dog that Cecil! ” Mr. Cecil strolled into the box at that moment and sat down beside Miss Alden, taking up her bouquet of japooieas. The quiet coldness of this woman pleased the taste of Mr. Cecil, and "he had more than once within the past few weeks anathematized himself as nn idiot for his conduct and his years of exite. ~ The play ran on, the curtain went up and down, bnt the bright eyes never wandered from the two in the box together. As the leading lady came out in scene after scene she watched in vain for an answering glance from het Bister. Always away from the stage the star-bright eyes shone, taking in each curve and beauty of the high-bred face of Miss Alden. At last the play was over. . ■ “I will not throw my flowers to-qjght, Mr. Cecil,” Miss Alden said. “Tnever offer such flowers as japonicas to this actress. I have long ago learned that she did not care for such. A bunch of violets, a few scarlet-hearted roses, a spray of heliotrope or chrysantheTtnum pleases her better. I ain told that she carries them hpme to an invalid sister.” She gave him a sidelong glance which he misunderstood. Just at that iqoment he glanced across into the box opposite and met the full gaze of Jessica Archer fixed upon him. He turned slightly pale, and with a frown, he carelessly toyed with the flowers he held in his bund, as he glanced over the sea of faces.

Miss Alden saw it all, and comprehended the look of mute, pathetic entreaty in,the face of the girl opposite, comprehended that she had once had a place in< this man's heart and had given it up. Slje felt that she stood face to face-with an implacable fate, She shivered as she drew about her the rich furs, and taking her father's arm went away. “Oh, God,’’she prayed, when alone, “give me strength to put from me dawning happiness. L cannot accept that which is another's. Deliver me from temptation!” “I was mistaken;” Mag said to herself. “Calmar loves her; I saw that to-night. I must go to Jessie. Poor child, she has had her wish gratified.” When-the sisters were alone, Jessica exclaimed. passionately: “He loves her, Mag! I saw it to-night! And she, ah, how beautiful she is! She—she does not care for him as he deserves. She is too cold—too cold!” “My dear, she is not cold! No, no! The lava runs hot enough beneath that cold exterior. ” “He is no longer my Cal, Mag!” bursting into tears. In her own room, with Jessie's sobs audible, Maggie Archer prayed: “Oh, my Father, spare me this one treasure—this last loved one! Give to her that which her heart craves!” The season swept on, a gay season, the gayest for many years.- Wagers were laid for and against the match betweeh lanthe Alden anil Calmar Cecil. Even Mr. Alden began to wonder what he should do when lanthe left him.

One night, late in the season, the last appearance of the star of Theater, Miss Alden sat in the box alone with Mr. Cecil, her father having been called away for a few moments. Mag came on the stage as Desdemona; glancing at the Alden box, as usual, her heart sank as she saw Miss Alden wearing "se ason. This confirmed the reports. She wore his flowers again. Well, it did not matter much. Jessie would soon be gone. Between the lines of the tragedy Desdemona wove heruwn tbonghts, and iL her acting" was more pathetic to-night than it had ever been, it was because of the sweet, wasted face of her sister. The play ran on; lago triumphed in his villainy, Desdemona was murdered, Emilia stabbed; at last the curtain rolls down, and the audience breathe freer. 1

—“Your pencil;" Mr.- Cecih 4 ’ MiBB eyes were filled with a light he had never seen itx them, the light of divine self-abne-gation. On a card she wrote: “To Jessica Archer from Calmar Cecil.” Mr. Cecil was looking at the letters she formed. His face paled and he put forth his hand to take the card. Quickly, nervously, Miss Alden buried the card t in the depths of the bouquet, and as the curtain rose she leaned forward and threw the bouquet at the feet of the resurrected denioua.j lanthe Alden held her breath. She trusted her future to fate. If the actress accepted the bouquet she knew that the lame girl would get the message—if not, possible happiness dawned for her. Maggie bowed right and left, then stoop, ing she selected from the multitude of flowers the white chrysanthemums, kissing them, bowed to Miss Alden, and the curtain closed upon the two tragedies. Calmar Cecils fingers closed over lanthe’s hand nearest him, and he leaned forward, asking, huskily: , • “What do you know about Jessica Archer?” — —

“Only that you loved her before you ever knew the; only that you love her, knowing me, and that you are going back to her. No,” and a smile more pathetic than tears curved her perfect mouth, “you may save yourself the trouble of denial, I know it all. You were never true to me: never true to yourself; it is late now for it. but you must be true to her. Let her life shame you into manhood.” “Did you know that I came to-night to ask you to be my wife?” he asked, hoarsely. “I surmised as much;” for an instant the clear, sweet voice faltered. "I could not accept such a sacrifice—” “ •Sacrifice!’ Oh, God! when I love you better than life. lanthe!” he said, passionately. "Your place is beside Jessica Archer. -Go to her this niubt. make her your wife. ” “But I love yon, lanthe-” . —“Hush!” she cried, imperiously. “I am not the lanthe Alden of five years ago. Our fate lies in those chrysanthemums, and we accept it. Yes, father, I am ready. Will be pleased to see you at any time. Mr. Cecil. ” She swept him a regal bow, and left him alone. i . “Chrysanthemums again, Mag?” Jessie leaned eagerly forward to take them. “Even so. These are the last you will get. Miss Alden flung them at me as though they burned her dainty fingers. She watched me so intently that I thought once I would leave them lying there to show her fine ladyship that Mag Archer did not care for her flowers. I hope they will bring you more happiness than any othersever did. Cal Cecil was in her box tonight. What is the matter. Jessie ?" The girl gave a cry, and Maggie sprang toward her. t - “See, Msg! see, Mag!” she cried, between her sobs, holding up lanthe Alden’s card. “Mag! Mag! he loves me still!” The door opened softly and Calmar Cecil came into the room. Straight he walked to the chair of the lame girl, and never heeding Mag's presence, took Jessie in his arms, saying: “I have come, dear, for my wife." Mag went oui Of the room, the card in her hand, her eyes blinded with |tears.

Going to the light she scanned the card clokefy. / “As’ I thought, Calmar Cecil never wrote tli.s.' That grand’woman, lanthe Alden, ; did; She ioveg him, yet she senda him to Jessie?’ Tears strennled down Mags fa e; ' she had npt expected such generosity. “I will ' not interfere this time. My flower will not bloom on earth through another year— I aye, before the ehrysautbemnjns t>loss<iin' I again she will be gone; and.her presence I may ennoble, enrich the man's heart for that other ope.” .

The morning papers announced the marriage of Mr. Calmar Cecil to Miss Jessica Archer. " £ i - “How exclaimed Mr. Alden, a« his daughter read the notice. “An‘unearthed romance, I knew jt a great while ago?’ “Humph!" with a suspicious glance at his daughter's statuesque face, . ■ ’ “What have you to do, father?" “In business?" . ‘‘Yes?’ ’ “Nothing; business is dull; I say, lanthe, suppose we take that trip to Europe? I am confoundedly tired of tread, mill existence. ” “As you like, father, —only wait several weeks—until the season closds.” Miss Alden was very gay during the following evening, her world had never seen her so regally beautiful and so gay. Before sue went to sleep she said, to a faded chrysanthemum she held in her hand: “Pretty blossom, would you not like to creep close up to God's footstool and rest? I would! Oh, Father, temper thou thy wind to the shorn lamb.”— Chicago ledger.

The Semblance of Gravity.

There are few qualities which may in the World of society be made to serve a man more materially, than the semblance of gravity. Indeed, this maynot inexactly lie called the secret of social success, and the person who is by nature endowed with the semblance of gravity, or who has by well directed efforts obtained it, has already more than half won the battle of making his way in life. We are frequently instructed in the importance of being able to listen well, but this is only ; one of thp ways in which the art of assuming a 1 'demeanor of seriousness makes itself felt. can but cover himself with the semblance of gravity he wilL.be a {wrfect.success as a listener,, and a corresponding favorite with all who love to talk—a class' embracing nine-tenths of mankind—even though they comprehend not a ygord of what is said to them, and never offer a single remark that might not have emanated from the brains of a towp pump. And the principle is one of universal application.

A society girl, being asked the secret of the immense popularity with her sex of a certain man about town, answered, after due consideration: “It is all because he is so touch in earnest. He asks you how vou are with*a seriousness and an intensity, as if he were perfectly absorbed by a desire to know, and he listens to whatever you say, even if it is only a platitude about the weather, with as devout a seriousness as if he were hearing a Princess speak. No woman alive coiild resist the flattery of that fascinating gravity of his.” Is tile man of whom she speaks more earnest, more serious, more intense than his fellows ? As a matter of fact,

nothing in the universe but his own pleasure interests him in the slightest degree. He has achieved perfectly the semblance of gravity, and, as a consequence, he is success.. That is the whole story. Of course, in this case, the thing we advise savors rat her strongly of hypocrisy; but one who is too conscientious to oblige his neighbors by a trifling exaggeration of the interest he feels in affairs and their words, had better retire" at once tq the solitudes of the wilderness; while those who remain may satisfy their conscience by endeavoring to make their seriousness as genuine as possible. In either ' case, whether one likes it or dislikes it, it does not seem easy to deny that one of the most effective in the whole list of social accomplishments, and yet one of the most easily cultivated, is the semblance of gravity.— Bouton. Courier.

Life in Other Spheres.

Proctor argues that every celestial body must at some time pass through a life supporting period, which must be very short compared with the duration of the world’s own existence. Concerning the date of life era in other worlds than ours he remarks; “In the presence of time-intervals seen to be at once infinitely great and infinitely little—infinitely great compared with the duration of our earth, infinitely little by comparison with the eternities amid which they are lost—what reason can we have, when viewing any orb in space from our little earth, for saying now is the time when that orb is, like our earth, the abode of life ? Why should life on that orb synchronize with life oh the earth? Ate not, on the contrary, the chances infinitely great against such ia, coincidence ? If, as Helmholtz has well said, the duration of life on our earth is but the minutest ripple in the infinite ocean of time, and the duration of life bn any other planet of like minuteness, what- reason can we have for supposing that those remote, minute, and no way associated waves of?Sfe mtfst needs be abreast of each other on the infinite ocean whose surface thej scarcely ripple ? * * * It is more probable that life is wanting than that lift exists at the present time. Nevertheless, it is at least as probable that everj member of. ’nur order—planet, sun. galaxy, and so onward to higher anc higher orders endlessly—has been, ii now, or will hereafter be, life-support ing ‘after its kind? "

There is an excellent chance for th< inventor of a simple peat-cutting ma chine for Russia, which can be workec by a team of horses, and would take the place between- the ordinary hand cut-ting-machine and those worked by steam, the latter of which cost aboifl id,500. Large deposits of peat exists in the country, which it is intended to use instead of coal as soon as they can be worked cheaper than coal. In fact, on the Northern railway of Russia the locomotives hitherto burning wood oi coal are being adapted for peat-burning, as a considerable saving is expected tc be realized. The hand by the way. have the drawback that the peat cannot be worked below eight feet, while the steam cutting-machined penetrate twenty feet and reach a superior kind of peat. T’/ ?

Politeness.

Politonewi, nowadays, is popularly understood to imply a strict observance of the conventional rules of—rixdetywhivh regulate our hehaviortn our-daily intercourse, f ;It is a code of good manner* which exacts from Us polish of address, suavity of demeanor, and elegance of deportment. It aims at cutting off from the barbarity of our own nature every rough point and edge, and leaving us sleek and snjooth as polished ivory. Every word and action of the aspirant to modern politeness must be moulded in Conformity with its decrees; every gesture and look must obey its dictates. In his social intei-eourso lie must fashion himself, both in the adornment of his outer person and the exercise of his taste and sentiments, according to the mandate of the polite law. It furnishes him with ample,provisions for this purpose, and enacts tlje appropriate behavior for his assumption in every situnation in which he finds himself, whether it be in the withering sneer with which he crushes his enemy br the declaration of his amorous devotion to his anaiHorati. It teaches him when to Ik>w and when to evince condescension, deference, submission, hauteur, or complaisance. It metes out to him thq degree of mirth he may enjoy and the amount of demonstration which pleasure mav evoke from him, and, in a word, gives him an artificial rule whereby he - may measure out his amiability or moroseness. as circumstances require. Books of etiquette are in greater demand than in any previous age, and their contents are devoured with an avidity and zeal which is bestowed upon no other branch of knowledge. They are becoming as universally used in AeL education of the young as the multiplication table and the handbook of history, and it is considered as well nigh necessary that the youthful mind should be stored with the polite methods of using the knife and fork, and the refined manner of blowing the nose, as it is that he should be informed how many beans make six or who was the father of his .country. But there is another kind of politeness which is distinct from that which aims solely at the perfection of human mannerism and insinuating address. It has its first principles, not in the precepts of the book of etiquette, but in the sentiments of the heart. Goodness, virtue, nobleness, are the foundations upon which it arises its superstructure; they are the prime elements which generate the polite results which are so earnestly striven after. Good manners are their spontaneous and natural product, and a man possessing them needs only be natural to be polite. They are the common property of mankind and . their influence is as often seen in the workshop as at the., mansion. But this species of politeness is not and cannot be universal, and it is therefore well that the world endeavors to dissemble it. Wealth and modern refinement sup'] ply a very specious substitue for it, and often succeed in hiding its barrenness of soul beneath the glittering Covering .of and artificial manners, ii ~W6Tahuot have to orr advantage to possess the semblance, and to the majoriry the tinsel and tinfoil is not apparent, and the delusion is as satisfying as it is

We are not prepared to admit that America at the present moment is very far behind the rest of the ; world in either of the two forms of politeness we have indicated, or there is amongst us a perceptible decay in them. We have not, perhaps, the chivalrotis hardihood of the knights of the middle ages. The public peace would think itself outraged if we donned chain armor and challenged all comers. Tournaments have given place to athletic sports, and the good old feudal institutions to notions of universal quality, but surely our decay in politeness cannot be dated from these changes A man nowadays can hate another with just as j nytoh' persistency/ as when his chivalrous spirit led him to think that lie owed it as a duty of society to rid the world of the burden of his enemy's existence, and the polite modern method of evincing hatred by malignity and backbiting is, perhaps, preferable to an ounce of lead at sunrise - .’ We are making iapid strides toward the kid-glove refinement of Athens in its palmiest days; our beaux are the paragons of polite excellence; our belles are a mystery of fashion and enchantment. On every side we see untiring efforts to conform to social conventions, and it is surely unjust on this account to convict us of being “less Christian, less civilized, less humane or less chivalrous than our fathers or our founders. ” The beneficial influence which this devotioq to mannerism may exert upon out national character or the strength of our nation may be a .subject open to controversy, but there can be no doubt that American politeness is rather on the increase than decline.— American Cultivator. ’

The School of Patience.

My dear boy, if a man can only cultivate patience and strengh, it seems to me he will be a good neighbor, a pleasant man to do business with, a safe man -to trust and the kind of a man the world . loves, even though he lack wisdom,.andhas no genius? and can’t tell a good story or sing a note. does the fretful, restless, hurrying old world owe to the patient man, who finds his strength “in quietness and confidence,” who can be patient with our faults, our fancies, our wickedness; who can be quiet when the softest word would have a sting; who can wait for storms to blow over and for wrongs to right themselves. ; who can patiently and silently .endure a slight until he has forgotten it, and who can even be patient with himself. That’s the fellow, my boy, who tries my patience and strength more than any man else with whom I have to deal. I could get along with the rest of the world well enough if he were only out of it. I can meet all my other cares and enemies bravely and cheerfully enough. But when myself comes to me with his heartaches and blunders and stumblings, ■with his own follies and troubles and sins, somehow he takes all the tuck out of me. My strength is weakness and my patience is folly, when I come to' deal with him. He tires me. He is such a fool. He makes the same stupid blunders in the same stupid way so many times. Some-

times, when I think I must put up wjth him and his ways oil his life I want to, give up. And then the next tiffi? cOiaes to me witli Ips earen and the same.old troubles fib seenis'sb helpless and penitent that I feel sorry for him, and try to be patient with him, and promise to help him all I can onoe more. Ah, my dear lujy, as you grow older, that is the fellow who will try you and torment you, and .draw on yoqr sympathy, and tax your patience and strength. Be patient with him, poor old fellow, because I think he does love you, and yet as a rule you are harder on him than any one else. — Burdette, in Brooklyn Eagle.

Wearing Her Life Away.

There is nothing sadder looking than the over-worked woman who is a slave to her children. For her there is no rest. At midnight, at noon, and at evening, she is in relentless demand. Her spirit is broken, and with a voice stirring in its tones, of resignation, she speaks of her hardships. A neighbor visits her. The visitor is shown into a room devastated by recent romp and riot. “No, I never go any place. lam so tired that—Edgar, don’t saw that ehair, dear. He’s not very well to-day. He didn’t sleep but little last night.' Louis, don’t climb on the table; There!” The table falls over with a bang and Louis sets up a howl. “There, now,” says she, as she smooths back his hair and kisses his forehead, “it won’t hurl long, dear. Mamma’s got something niee for you—yes, she has.” “Somethin’fbr me, too?” Edgar yells. “Yes, something for both of you. Run along, now, Louis, and see what little sister is doing.” “Don’t want to see.” “Well, run along out and play; run along, that’s a good "boy. ” “Don’t want to.” “Please go, now, like a good boy. You run along, Edgar, and he’ll follow vou.”

“No, he won’t,” says Edgar, as he lingers in the doorway.; !‘Now don’t you’'see'h'e won’tT i_ ”’*"''' . “Well, both of you run alopg like—” A distressing cry arises. The woman rushes out and retums beanng a little child in her arms. “Did mamma’s little darling hurt herself? Yes, she did. Now, don’t cry. The lady will laugh at you.” “I don’t care if she does.” “Oh! shame on you to talk that way. Nobody will love you if you talk that way.” “Don’t want anybody to love me.” “There, dear, run along and mamma will let yon go down town with her when she goes.” “Me, too?” yelled Edgar tod Louis. “Yes, you may all go.” “Are you goin’ right now?” Ekgar asks. f .. ’ “No, not now.” __±When.’”„ “After awhile.” “Oh, that’s what you always say.” ♦♦#«* ♦ ‘ ♦ 1 = She sits by the bedside. She has just placed a wet cloth on a little feverish head. The house is silent. The other children have gone over to stay at a neighbor’s house. She sighs and then, unable longer to restrain her feelmgs.sheburios her face -in the bedclother,„and bursts into tears. Neighbors gather around her. They tell her that God knows best. She hears the minister repeat the divine words: “Suffer little children to come unto me.”- ;

• * » \ ♦ * ,-*• Jk - Years pass, A man who has just arrived in town, in the town where he was born, goes to the cemetery. He stands with uncovered head near a sunken grave.' The green growth of years covers the stone, but he reads the name of his mother. He knows that he helped to wear her life away. How often had he pained that dear heart which is now dust beneath his feet. He feels that his mother is now looking down upon him—knows that her soul is at rest. He turns away and t meets a woman and several children. “Tommy, you must not throw stones. Come here, Andrew, and let me wipe"’ your nose. Millie, what is the matter, dear? Fell down-? Well, don’t cry, dear, it won’t hurt long. Andrew, take that shell out of your mouth. Now, look at you, got your clothes all dirty. Come on, now, and lets go home." “You promised to stay a long time?’’ one of the children petulantly says. " “Well, haven’t we stayed a long time?” “No, we haven’t. ” “Please let us go home. Poor mamma is so tired.” “No, vou ain’t.” “Yes, I am.” “Come on, an’ let’s go down here.” They drag her along. The man hears her sigh. He knows that-the children are wearing her life away.

Heaven’s Lamps.

A little 4-year old who had been told by her mamma that the stars were -“Heaven's lamps, ” lying in her mother’s lap while the latter was sitting after twilight on the front porch, said: “Mamma, less do id der woom.” mother. . . ’ “No! no!” replied the little one;“less do now. ” “Oh, it’s dark in the room, baby.” “Well, Ute de lamp." “It’s too soon, daughter." “No, ’tain’t, mamma,” and looking at the stars said: “Don’t on see Dod’s done lite Hees lamps?”— DetroitfiFree Press. In the middle ages anybody at all distinguished by knowledge of science was credited with the art of flying, and, indeed, in many cases did not scruple to claim it. Albertus Magnus was one of these, but refused to give particulars to the_worl<l at large. He.fells us, however, how to make thunder. Says he: “Take one pound of sulphur, two pounds of willow carbon, arid six pounds of rock salt, ground very fine in a marble mortar; place where you please in a covering made of flying papyrus to produce thunder. The covering, in order to ascend and float away, should be long, graceful, and well filled with this powder, but to produce tkuhder the covering should be short and thick and half fu|l,”- r