Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 June 1886 — Page 2

HARROW SONO, »T *. K. »OWB. On»m EKndteth nut one d»v. W»Wiini| b®r mariner* rich and R*y. And thorn were the Tilbury guns at play And t-M-re «u the bold >*a rover; Up come* I.TOB, »O brl»k ami free. • Makee bi* bow.and be eave. »*»■'he: •Gracious quwn ot the land and too, From Tilbury tort to Dover ’ •Marry, come up,* »ay« good Queen Beas, •Draw it shorter and prone it !<■»« : f bpercbee are thing* we chiefly blast I . ~ when onoc we have got them over; Spenser carries you well alot.g. And the swan of Aron <• rich in eong— Still, we have sometimes found them long I and the bold oe* rover!" •Queen,* he rays, *1 have got in store A beautiful ecliool from roof to door; And 1 have a farm of acres four, And a meadow of grass and clover; " Bo may it please you. good Queen B„ Give me a charter, firm and free ; ; For there i« Harrow, and this is mo. And that is the bold tea rover 1* •Bad little boys," says she. "at school Want a teacher to rede and rule; Train n dunce, and you find a fool; Cattle must 1 ave their drover; By my halidom, I propose You be teacher of verse tnd prose—(What'a a halidom, no one knows, J Even the bold sea rover!) ] •And this is my charter, firm and free, *•’ This is my royal, great decree ‘Hits to the rail sha'l count for three. And six when fairly over’; And if any one comes and makes a fuss, Send the radical off to us. And I will tell him I choose it thus. And so will the bold sea rover I’ FATHBK HYAN'B POEM-<>KEST.” My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed— And I desire, what I have long desired— Bost—only rest t J. "ns bard to toil, when toil is almost vain. In barren ways; Til hard to sow, and never garner grain, In harvest days. The burden of my days is hard to bearr But God knows best; And I have prayed, but vain has been my prayer. For rest —sweet rest. Tie hard to plant in Spring and never reap The Autumn yield; Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field. And so I cry a weak and human cry, \ So heart oppre-sed; And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, „ ’ For rest—for rest., My way has wound across the desert years, My path, and through ths flowing of hot tears ■ I pine for rest And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; For. down the west Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore - Where I shall rest

LOVE AND DUTY.

Among the many fair women assembled on the night of the 18th of February, 1848, in the palace of the Tuileries, there was one who for her youth and beauty shone conspicuously above all. The retiring modesty, the sweet, earnest nature, the kindness of soul and genuine goodness of heart which she possessed endeared her to all who knew her. She was seventeen years of age. and . the daughter of the noble host, who. as an old leader of legions, enjoyed a high and confidential post under Louis ■Philippe. In fact, he was devotedly attached to the old Bourbon cause, and instead of having him simply “king, " they sought to bring back to Louis Philippe the days of the Grand Monarque. This young girl, while the dancers were whirling beneath the splendid lusters in the midst of the enchanting music, was standing in a retired corner, leaning on the back of a chair. By the slight paleness on her face she was evidently waiting for some one. The great curtains of a window opening to a balcony half shrouded her, and her eyes glanced nervously now and •then -toward it. - . While a sense of the gorgeous delights around her, luxury, the pride of birth and station, the dazzling of the lights, the sound of the thrilling harps, all these for a moment gave a proud flush to her beautiful face, it vanished instantly afterwards, for a low and gentle voice whispered the word •‘Lucille” in her ear, and she grew pale as she started and turned round. The next moment she stood in the embrazure of the window, face to face with her young lover. The son of a comrade who* had died on the battlefield, Lucille's father had taken the orphan, St. Maroel, under his charge, and had brought him up in a manner befitting the name and condition of the father he had lost. The old soldier was a staunch rdvalist; on St. Marcel's young, enthusiastijmind the idea of a republic had begun to dawn. He had been at school in the Revolution of 1830, or else, boy as he then was, he would have shouldered his musket and joined the men of the barricades in the streets. The Marshal did not know of this disloyal tendency, but Lucille did, and dreaded it. “Well, well,” ejaculated Lucille, with a tremulous impatience; but her lips were pale and trembled, and she looked with a ( sort of dread upon the noble face of the youth, which now wore an expression so dignified and lofty, as if the heroism of the cause he now held sacred had prepared him for a great sacrifice. “You are stem—you are silent, said Lucille; “have you, then, forsaken me, St Marcel?” and she gave a great gasp of agony, as if she were choking. “Never, Lucille!” he replied. His voice was deep, and melodious, and earnest. “Never, while my heart beats; I have only taken a course that the instincts of my soul have pointed out.” “You have, then, joined with the misguided men who are said to be preparing for an outbreak to-morrow?” “I have not merely joined them; I am to lead a number of them,” he added proudly ; * and there wifi be ” “It is true, then?—this rumor is true?” Lucille demanded. 1 “True!" ejaculated the youth, retreating back a step. “Yes. it is true, Lueiße. Men crv for a republic, and their crv will be heard.”

“But here they will not believe it,” alluding to the company within. “My father laughs at it; General - only shrugs his shoulders. My God! it is true; and I to ‘know that my father life will be perilled to-morrow by one lie hath proved a parent to! I dare not tell them so. Either wayT am in torture. Oh! St Maicel.but this is cruel of you!" -J — “Lucille,” the lover gravely said, “do not judge me unjustly. Duty is above all earthly consideration. Everything must give way when our country calls upon us. Men have been trampled upon so much nrrd «o long under foot by injustice and. ojipression, that they will endure it no more. It is a religion to them, is this sublime liberty; must be expunged out of the language of the human race. It must mean something old and obsolete only; for the future it shall signify erime and infamy. Lucille! my beloved Lucille!" said he, taking her hand and kissiag it fondly, “do not rend my heart utterly by this great agony. God knows that I Have endured much in making my decision/ for one way or the other I must have chosen. I decided for the peoples and cannot change. The remembrance of what I owe to your father has haunted me, because the idea of ingratitude’ will assuredly strike him, and he wiH lock upon me as a viper that be nath warmed in his bosom. If he

knew—if ha but knew all, he would exonerate me from all such meanness; he would i'udge me justly, and forgive me. Like din, I ata but the creature of conviction; and after deliberately weighing the demands upon me, both from the King and the people, I felt thift the latter had the greater claim. Speak, Lucillet letme go hence with a blessing from you—r-" “ Ahlejising on him wfeo may, on the morrow, alay my father? Pledge my faith to one who betrays his benefactor and his King’- ; . - “Do not say so, Lucille!" he cried. “Have pity"on me.—spare me these cruel words, which you well know cannot, with justice, be addressed to me, My life is your father’s—it ia yours—and it is the people’s; the first which claims it hath -it. In any case,"and his voice grew low and mournful. “I have nothing to gain personally. |I have no hopes of surviving the fray •" Here she clung to him in an agony of passion. To lose him altogether had not yet entered her thoughts; now the weight upon her heart wac unbearable. She was stricken dumb with fear, and St. Marcel attributed this to other things. ' “If I have offended thee so deeply, iny Lucille, it is I who will endure all the great anguish of our eternal parting. Thou hast been a light of glory to my path; thou hast been the sole object of my dreams, waking and sleeping. To love thee,-to be worthy of thy love, has been the sole aim of my exertions; but think not that a word of blame or murmur shall pass over iny lips; filial piety is strong, and I am willing that thy father should -be greater in thy eonsideratioh than myself.' But give me a word of farewell—a word of love, of blessing — for we may not mee£ more on earth.” With a great effort, Lucille placed her hand upon his forehead, and the dazzling beauty of her face never struck him so powerfully as then. Making an effort, she rose to her feet, and they both stood within the large open space afforded by the window. It was evident that she wished to speak, but what? He could not tell; he only feared; and this last movement indicated something like a weariness at the length of their interview. An expression of sublime regret passed over his face, as she sank on a seat and pressed her hand orirher brow. Mistaking the action,, he said, “Lucille, farewell!—adied forever!" and emerging at the window,by means of a pillar he descended lightly into the street unseen of any. t ~He was soon on the Quai d’Ecole, and began to go with hurried but uncertain steps towards the Faubourg St. Antoine, where he had a rendezvous with those he wasto leadon the fbllowing day. His thoughts were distracted between Lucille, of whom he felt that he had taken an eternal farewell, and the glory of a patriot, that with smiles seemed to open out her arms to receive him. He thought not of the balmy breeze that swept musically by, of the glorious moonlight flooding temple and tower. He was passing by the end of one of the bridges leading to the Isle de Cite when the form of a man started from the darkness and met him. “Welcome, St. Marcel,” said he; “you are faithful and true, I see; and our trust has not been misplaced. And Lucille ” “How! what know you of her?”demanded St. Marcel. “I kno w that she is good, and kind, and beautiful.” said the stranger. “Ah!” ejaculated the young Republican, “you do her justice. She is a pure, angelic being.” “Exactly,” replied the man dryly; “but these are not the times for heroics. Pardon me,” he added, “I do not wish to wound your feelings, for I know you have sustained that which a man may not easily forbear, Look to your future, however; there lies for whieh such as you must hope for.” “I have no future which can apply to me,” returned St. Marcel mournfully. “My hopes are dead; I can only hope to behold our endeavors crowned with success and die also.” — “Die! ball! Let slates and cowards whine thus,” replied the man, in a bold, jovial voice. "Look yonder, and tell me whether the regeneration of a people who dwell in a city like this is nothing to hope for;” and he "led him further on the bridge, in order to point out the picture he alluded to. Truly it was so. Star on star were pouring down their softened light through the filmy sky, and sparkled in the rolling waters 'of the Seine. Far down the river he-could see the Tuileries, and the broad white space of the Place de Carrousel. Nearer rose the Louvre, and from the Place de Chatelet rose the pillar from the Fountain of Palms. Thick, dense, yet well defined, mansions, palaces, and steeples filled up the picture, on both sides of the’ river. From the city rose, black and gigantic, the turrets of Notre Dame, burying in gloom the houses beneath its shadow. Its Romanesque and gargoyled carvings at the turret angles stood in bold relief against the sky; beyond, on the seen the pinnacle of the “Saltpetriere;” and, westward, the eye fell upon the steeple of St. Genevieve.

St. Marcel was lost for a moment in the contemplation otlhe stately picture, when his reverie was suddenly broken. • “This is a scene lovely to look upon—is it not?” demanded the stranger. “It is indeed beautiful beyond belief,” replied St. Marcel, warmed by the magnificence which surrounded him. “It is worth all human sacrifices to make this place and its people worthy of each other.” “Good! ’tis well spoken,”, observed the. mail. “You apd I have met ere now, as you well know, and I have taken some interest, and more pride, in weaning you from the ties of tender association, and through ■ that of royalty, than you wot of. What of I that? You will thank me—our country will i thank me for bringing one heart and head full of boldness and talent, one strong arm to the field. If every man did but make his proselyte, there would be no blow left for the morrow to strike. It would be an impassive revolution.” St. Marcel was gazing into the man’s face all the time, as if he would endeavor to recall to him some face that was once familiar to him.

“Look upon me, and know me, boy,” said the man, his granjl. powerful voice slightly shaken by a profound emotion; and he flung back the collar of his cloak and bowed his head. St. Mar cel beheld a man whose shoulders and chest were gigantic. His , stature was proportionate, and his great masculine beauty was quiteyas striking. .' ‘ “That face,” Said St. Marcel, “is very familiar to me even now, beyond remembering that I have segn you often; but I know not where I have seen it, so that I can say you are One I nave known when a child.” “I am your father’s brother,” said the - man, hurriedly. “We shall meet again;” and he suddenly hurried away. The next day came. As was expected, the great reform banquet which had been arranged was expressly forbidden. On this the “barricadeurs” had counted, for their prompt and vigorous measures were well taken. Crowds of people assembled in the streets singing the “Marseillaise.” Tne Devolution had begun, and for a few hours, in the great struggle that ensued, we lose sight of St. Mareel, who also last sight of everything else but the wort in hand.By the dawn of morning of the 23d. the progress of the insurgents was very great. Marsh*.! Bugeand, with 100. Odd men. found he had his work to do. Barricades wfere formed; the National Guard fraternized ; with the people; the Municipal Guard

hesitated, and withdrew. Louis Philippe, at the last moment, beheld his error, dismissed M. Guizot, who to the last remained faithful to him. Count Mole formed a Ministry which was disagreeable to the people. M. Thiers, aided by Odillon Barrot, the man of a juror revolution, formed a new 'one in the depth of the night, while the air was nocking with the soqnd of cannon, the cry of horses, and the strife of men. The people were irresistible. St. Marcel was in the midst of the hottest of the fray. Heading a grim band of blouseclad warriors, men of the old Revolution, some of whom even had been at the storming of the Hostile, on the 24th they bent their way through a most slaughterous fittrilHide towards the Palais Royal. A band of the Municipal Guards held this place with unflinching bravery; but the cool hardihood of the people was a match for anything. St. Marcel had brought his men almost to bay against a charging squadron. The officer who led’ them on came dashing at the head of his troops, and for an instant only the brave men of the barricades were about to give way. The loud, clear, shrill voice of their youthful leader rallied them, and a short rattle of musketry, which unhorsed many a brave trooper, filled the ear. Men were now panting with the desperate fight. The horses were trampling on the living and the dead; and the butt-ends of the fusils were opposed to the sabres of the dragons. The cap of the officer fell off beneath a blow; and the gray hairs of St. Marcel's foster-father were streaming in the wind. The youth beheld this. With a bound ffe was among the struggling mass. By dint of herculean exertions he made way to the officer just as a huge smith was about to give the finishing stfok- to Hie blow which unhorsed the rider. “Spare him, my friend,” cried S|. Marcel. “Mercy for the fallen.” “Good!” said the man, holding back his hand. “What you, my young captain, command, ought to be respected.” “Thanks—thanks!” returned the youth, hastily; and while extricating the officer, he assisted him into a neighboring house. The eyes of the soldier gradually opened.His deadly sickness passed away. Face to face foster-father and foster-son stood;but the young mqn, profoundly respectful ns he was, did not blench beneath the indignant glance of the other. “It is you, then, whom I have loved like my own. child,—you, son of my friend, that. . I find in arms against your King and country.” “Against the King— for my country,” replied'St. Marcel. ' “I regret it,” replied the other; “and if it were not for the want of magnanimity in the very words, I would say that I regret you saved my life. It is the fortune of war; I thought to have seen you engaged in a better cause. A braver man there is not within the bands of the insurgents, but your bravery is dedicated to an ill cause.” “I will not argue the matter with you now—with you to whom I owe so much; judge me fairly. I have acted as' my conscience uind my honor dictated, without ambition and without ultimate hopes, having even severed myself from the love of Lucille. ” “Lucille!” The old soldier started. “Was it indeed so?” he murmured. .. l. “It was so, my benefactor,” replied St. Marcel, who overheard him; “for I loved her with every energy of my nature. Well, because I believe this cause and holy, I have even given up all — Say that you pardon me this lapse, which must be excused by a logic of a loftier moral kind than I have now time to.urge. Say you forgive me, say that Lucille is Well, and then I depart, for my comrades will want me. You will be guarded in safety to your home, where you will be safe—you are wounded ” ■ “Nothing,” said the > old man, a tear trembling in his eye. “You loved Lucille! —this, then, is the secret of her sorrow.” “Sorrow!” ejaculated St. Marcel to "has she, then, thought of me?” “She loves you, St. Marcel, with all the fondness of a woman’s devotion; I behold it all now. This morning 'T“ would Lave cursed you for an ingrate, now I have beheld your magnanimity. Be it so; if you survive the conflict, Lucille is yours. Revolutions must not be called treason.” And he had parted from her, believing that her prejudices were greater than her love. He had left her, believing that she VoulffsoonLe enabled to forgqt him. Men more loyal ihight be also more welcome to her. Such were the thoughts which rapidly passed across his mind. But rapture and something more. She was promised?to him, ancTSl'.'Marcel felt certain that some divine tvgis would be held over him in danger.

The Marshal and the young leader parted; the one to be safely led to his home, the other to plunge afresh into the battle. The .strife raged with tenfold violence i But the people were at last victorious. The monarchy fell, and the revolutionists stood triumphant upon its shattered ruins. At the taking of the Tuileries, St. Marcel was desperately .wounded and carried to fl, neighboring house, apparently on the point of death. He did not die. This was owing to the nursing he received from Lucille, who had flown to his bedside. And on his return to consciousness the old Marshal also -presented himself, and .St. Marcel and Lucille were married. The young hero rapidly recovered health and strength-, and retired j&4ntually with h'is bride to a beautiful chateau belonging to his father’s brother, the mysterious man who had met him the night before the Revolution. He had had, said his uncle many a time afterward, “the grand privilege of striking a blow for his country's freedom, and had, moreover, succeeded in securing a loving, handsome, and wealthy wife.”

A Bad Case.

“I know a man who f orgot his name and did not recall it for two years,’’ said a newspaper man, “but i ! this case the forgetting was associate with pathetic misfortune followed by . long period in which there was no memory. But the other day a friend of mine came into my office about 1 o’clock, spent half an hour in looking over the papers, and then said: ‘I can’t imagine what makes me feel so queer today. I don’t remember ever to have hail such symptoms as I have experienced within the last hour’ He stopped short in his explanation, and exclaimed: ‘By George, I forgot to cat my breakfast this morning.’ Ami hehad.This is the worst case I have known of forgetfulness in what we may call the ordinary walks of life. ”

A Student of Human Nature.

Stranger (to fellow passenger)—Excuse me, but am I not right in taking yon for a professional man? Fellow Passenger—Yes. sir. Stranger—Thanks. It’s not often that I make a mistake in judging my fellow men. Your work is head work altogether, of course? Fellow Passenger—Oh, yes sir, entirely so. -Stranger—Er—Lawyer ? Fellow Passenger—No, sir;barber.— | New York Sun ■

Westminster Palace.

The old houses of Parliament were burned to the ground -in 1834. The new building was erected on the same site as the old, but on a much grander scale. Sir Charles Barry was the architect, and work was begun on the structure in 1840. The building is known as Westminster Palace, and is one of the most magnificent buildings in England. Its entire cost was about $8,000,000. It is 900 feet in length by .300 feet in width. It was built of limestone takeii' from the quarries of Yorkshire, and was very beautifully ornamented with many fine figures and carvings. Unfortunately, the stone used proved to be very easily injured by exposure to the atmosphere, and the fine effect of the Ornamental figures has already been much marred by their decay. The principal rooms of Westminster Palace are the House of Lords and the House of Commons, which occupy the center of the Iniilding, and run on the line of its greatest length. They are separated by an octagon hall with a diameter of 70 feet. From this hall one corridor runs north to the House of Commons, and another south to the House of Lords. The House of Lords is 100 feet long, 45 feet wide, and 45 feet high. This room is profusely gilded and ornamented with a series of frescoes. In niches between the windows are eighteen statues- of Barons who signed the Magua Charta. In this room is the gorgeously gilt and canopied throne on which the Queen sits when she opens Parliament. In the center is the woolsack of the Chancellor of England—a large, square bag of wool, covered with red cloth, used as a seat, though without back or arms. The House of Commons is the same height and width as the House of Lords, but not so long, and it is not so gaudily decorated, though of very handsome finish. At the north end is the Speaker’s chair, and there are galleries along the sides and ends of the room. Besides these two rooms there are a number of others in the building. The entrance to the octagon hall is by a passage known as St. Stephen’s Hall, which.communicates by flights of steps with an entrance* in the east front, and also with Westminster Hall, a much older building, on the? north. At the southwestern extremity,of the. building is the state entrance of the Queen, which communicates directly with what are known as the royal apartments, the Queen’s robing-room, the guard-room, etc. The libraries and committee-rooms are on the river front of the building. The palace is surmounted in the center, above the octagon hall, with a tower 300 feet high. There are also two other lofty towers on the building—at the southwest corner, the Victoria tower, 346 feet high; at the northwest, the clock tower, surmounted by a belfry spire 320 feet high. This clock has four faces, each 30 feet in diameter, and it strikes the hour on a bell weighing nine tons, called “Big Ben. ’’—lnter Ocean.

Short on Months.

Johnson came down town the other morning looking like his mother-in-law had just arrived with a full purpose and desire of remaining all summer. “Hello old fellow, ” exclaimed a friend meeting him, “what’s the awful matter with you anyhow?” “Why you see,” replied Johnson, leaning up against a lamp post and jabbing the toe of his boot by tits and starts against a brick in the pavement, in a reflective way, “my trouble dates back several years. When I was a young married man, sixteen or eighteen years ag®, I was romantic, and when the first little Johnson appeared to bless our happy home, I didn’t want to be prosaic and call him Thomas or John or any of those ordinary names, so I concluded I’d name him January, and follow this calendrical idea in naming such othels as the Lord in His goodness saw fit to send to our househoiayr— “That was - an excellent idea,” remarked his friend, “for it not only would keep you posted as to their order, but it saves your friends asking questions as to the precedence in age. ” “Just it” smiled Johnson brightening; “it caught me exactly in the same place, and everything went lovely, and when the last came three years ago, we called it December and thought our cup of bliss and our family were full.” “Well, weren’t they?" interrupted the friend. “Yes, until this morning,” went on Johnson, “but this morning at one o’clock twins came, and here I ani at my time,of life with the calendar filled up and a pair on my hands with nothing to draw to for names. ” “Bad, bad,” said the friend sympathetically. “It isn’t the twins I care so much about, as the names of them," pursued the dejected father, “for I ain’t like lots of men who might kick on twins, wnen they had already to set twelve plates at the table, but its the miserable poverty, the culpable incapacities of the almanac that I enter my protest against. It is too much, too much!” “Yes, two too much,” responded the friend, and taking Johnson by the arm ae, led him into a drug-store, where they sold poisons, plasters, arnica, and tooth brushes, but it was none of these the friend asked the druggist to pour out for the heart-broken sire of the surplus twins.— Merchant Traveler.

A Woman’s Courage.

“War is a terrible thing. The first fight I was in was the battle of Shiloh. I tell you, boys, my heart was an my mouth when the rebels commenced firing on us,” said old Tommy Hayfield to visiting neighbors. “You were a coward, Tom,”remarked Mrs. Hayfield. “It. would .doubtless have frightened me if I had been a soldier in that battle; but it wouldn’t have scared me till my heart jumped into my mouth.” “Oh, I don’t doubt it," retorted the ild man. “You are a woman, and a woman never lets her heart get in her mouth.” “Humph!" ejaculated the old lady, “I suppose you think that the reason a woman never gets her heart in her mouth is because she hasn’t any heart ?” “No. my dear.” replied the old warrior, between whiffs of tobacco smoke; “it’s because if her heart were in her

mouth she couldn’t talk. Newman Independent. - . .'.2.... ♦ . ' : ... : .

A Portrait of Castelar.

It was my good fortune to meet Castelar, in the autumn of 1869, when he was • flushed with the triumph of “the greatest effort of his life,” his fervid speech on the Spanish Constitution. The first impression one has on seeing him is that nature has exhaustednerself in building a perfect machine tor human vocal utterance. Slightly above the middle height, and stoutly built without positive corpulence, his notably erect carriage gives to his splendidly rpunded chest seemingly titanic proportions. The effect is enhanced, perhaps, by his habit of wearing a low-cut waistcoat and a slender necktie, leaving a snowy expanse of linen, on which a rare ink-spot at times attests the absorbing character of his studious pursuits. A low collar shows the prominent sinews of a neck of almost taurine contour. Square, powerful jaws enfi'atoe a large, straight-cut mouth. The lips, slightly sensuous in their fullness, are half hidden by a heavy moustache of wiry, dark-brown hair, curved enough to relieve it from the suspicion of bristliness. He is always cleanshaven as to cheek and chin, which makes the clearness -of his slightly florid complexion more noticeable, and brings into relief a rounded button of a mole just below the left corner of his mouth. I saw no trace of stubble on his ' face, even in the saddest days of the Republic, when he, the responsible head of its power, saw the inevitable end approaching, and, like the poor Lincoln after Fredericksburg, might h ave said: “If there is a soul out of hell that suffers more than I, God pity him!” His head, thrown well back, tip-tilts his nose more than nature intended. It might be a better nose, but he seems to be satisfied with it. The eyes are limpid, neither strikingly large nor dark, but they have a way of looking one frankly through and through, as with self-consciousness of integrity -of— convictions. Wellrounded brows slope upwards into a somewhat receding forehead, made more conspicuous by baldness. One looks, and sighs for. the superhuman frontal bulk of Webster Castelar’s chin, too, is inadequate. It is delicately rounded, but there ought to be more of it. If he had possessed. Serrano’s forehead and chin, the Spanish Republic might have been a living thing to-ejay.., But his.voice! Like Salvini’s, once heard it is never to be forgotten. Whether in the softly modulated tones of conversation, when the peculiar Andalusian accentuation is now and then characteristic, or rising to the sober force of demonstrative declamation, or trembling with feeling, or sweeping all before it in a wild Niagara of invective, it is always resonant. His slightest whisper pierces to .the farthest corner of the Hall of Deputies, his fiercest Boanerges-blast is never harsh. This orator found his chiefest implement ready fashioned to his use. He never had to fill his mouth with sea-shore pebbles.— A. A. Adee, in the Century. f

How Books are Made.

If you will go into any great library you will find there shelf after-shelf loaded with books of travel, adventure, and exploration; and you- will find on Hie title-pages of these books some of the great names wliich you are constantly seeing in the newspapers and hearing in lectures and sermons. Take one of the oldest and qne of the latest of these names: The first shall be Marco Polo—a famous traveler, who was born at Venice in the middle of the thirteenth century, fifteen years before the great Italian poet Dante. His father was an eminent merchant in a city which was then the great merchant city of the world, trading with the far East and the. far West of that day. Mareo Polo was taken by his father among the Mongols when he was a young man, and he learned their language and customs so rapidly that he soon became better acquainted with them, if it were possible, than the Mongols themselves. His judgment and ability were soon recognized, and he was employed as an agent to transact business with the neighboring rulers. Wherever he went he made it a point to study the people, and know how they lived, and what their customs were. In this spirit he became acquainted with a part of China and with the great cities of Eastern Asia, many of which had never before been seen by an European. On his longest jurney he passed through China, and, taking a vessel, made the journey of the China Sea and the Indian Ocean, finally reaching Teheran in Persia. Later he returned to his own country, and in a notable battle between the Venetians and the Genoese was taken prisoner, and shut up in a dungeorrin Genoa, the city which was afterward to be the birthplace of Columbus. It was while he was locked up in this dungeon that he wrote his travels, just as Bunyan wrote the “Pilgrim’s Progress” in Bedford Jail. He was afterward liberated, went back to Venice, and died in 13*23. His book remains one of the oldest and one of the most interesting records of travels which we have. Turn now to the latest work of the same kind—Lieutenant Greely’s “Three Years of Arctic Service.” The story of that wonderful voyage, and of the. terrible hardships which are a part of its history, are too well known to be repeated here. It is enough to say that these books are a story of travel, adventurer and discovery. Lieut. Greely has simply written out what he saw, discovered, and suffered in those terrible three years’ struggle with the Arctic darkness and cold. In like manner all books of travel, discovery, and adventure, so far as they are trustworthy, are simply records of fact. There is no invention in them, no imagination, but a straightforward account of what actually is, or has happened. They are pictures of life or of the world, as bravg and self-sacrificing men have seen both, in distant • countries, and ofteh amid terrible hardships.— Christian. Union. He that from childhood has made rising betimes familiar to him, will net waste the best part of his life in drowsiness and lying in bed.— Locke. Favors to the ungrateful* are like colors to the blind.

CHARACTER IN AN ELEVATOR.

Telling All About the DlflTerent People Who j Ring the Eleetrie IteU. A visitor was going up ii\ the elevator at the Blank Building, when some one rang the bell. It. was a quick, timid ring, as if the person who called . had just toughed the key with the tips of his fingers, uncertain whether to ring or not. The sound had scarcely ceased when there came a loud, <leeided, das-r. fiant ring, evidently from another floor, one of those rings in which the full [>ower of the battery is invoked, notprolonged, but long enough to show that the ringgr is ex}>ectmg, to be called for in due toe to be carried down. Then came one of those prolonged rings that vex" the ear and make one impatient, as if the person calling thought the elevator was put in for his sole benefit and run for his particular accommodation. “What blank fool is that ?’’ someone remarked. “I know who that is, ".said the elevator man, who is a deep student of passenger nature. “Ho always rings in that way. I’ve got so,” he continued, “that I can always tell who the tenants are when they ring. I can’t always tell anyone else, of course, but I know the ring of each tenant perfectly. There is a similarity in some, but yet all are different. One is a shade' louder, or longer, than another, but by watching closely I’ve got so I can tell them every time. There is a great deal of character in the wAy one rings a bell. I’ve studied into it a good deal, as I have been traveling up and down here for three years, and I fancy I can tell something of the character of each tenant in the building. I make a study of the tenants as they pajks up and down. I notice their nqotionsj the expressions of their faces, their, build, their companions, if they have any, and 11l venture to say that I can tell to a T what sort of a fellow every tenant in the building is, at home for instance, and what he is at home he is everywhere. Does he give, the bell a timid, light, hesitating touch ? Depend upon it, he is that sort of a fellow. You’ll find him to be a timid, noncommittal, hesitating man, unsuccessful in business, perhaps, a modest man who doubts whether he has. any rights at all in this world.' Does he bring out all the power of the battery by aft impressive, commanding ring? That’s he every time. You’ll always know where to find that man. He has business on hand and is ready to attend to it. He is a frank-hearted, generous man of positive convictions. Is he a lawyer ? See him in the courtroom; he has his case thoroughly in hand; he looks the judge squarely in the eye; his argument is clear a,nd convincing. He means what he says. Is he a broker? You’ll find he lives in a square-built, brown-stone house on Madison avenue. .It is paid for, too, every dollar; no mortgage on his property, and ” “Well, what about the man who rings the bell so long?” the visitor inter-.-ruptedL-.-—l__-~ ; “He?” replied the elevator man. “Why, he is selfish, narrow-minded, foppish sort of a chap who had a fortune left him by an aunt, I believe. When he gets into the elevator, it would tickle you to death sometimes to see him. He takes a position squarely in the center of the car and gazes at himself in the mirror. He pulls up his shirt-collar, pulls down his waistcoat, stamps on the floor, gives an extra twist to his feeble mustache, carries a bun--dle of papers in his hand, the same one every time. He claims to be a lawyer, I believe, but he is what I call a consummate—” Just then the bell began to ring and never ceased till the seventh floor was reached, and there stood the “consummate ” —New York Tribune.

Pruning.

One of our chief aims is to form an evenly balanced, open, symmetrical head, .and this-can -often be accomplished better by a little watchfulness during the season of growth than at any other time. If, for instance, two branches start so closely together that one or the other must be removed in the spring pruning, why let the superfluous one grow at all ? It is„. just so much wasted effort. By rubbing off the pushing bud or tender shoot the strength of the tree is thrown into the branches that we wish to remain. Thus the eye and hand of the master become to the young tree what instruction, counsel, and admonition are to a growing boy, with the difference that the tree is easily and Certainly managed when taken in time. Trees left'to themselves tend to- form too much wood, like the grape-vine. Of course fine fruit is impossible when the head of a tree is like a thicket. The growth of unchecked branches follows the terminal bud, thus producing long naked reaches of wood devoid of fruit spurs. Therefore the need of shortening in, so that side branches may be developed. When the reader remembers that every dormant bud in early spring is apossible branch, and that even the immature buds at the axil of the leaves in early summer can be forced into immediate growth by pinching back the leading shoot, he will see how entirely the young tree is under his control. These simple facts snd principles are worth far more to the intelligent man than any number of arbitrary rules as to pruning. Reason and observation soon guide his hand in summer, or his knife in March, the season when trees are usually trimmed. Beyond shortening in leading branches and cutting out crossing and interfering'boughs, so as to keep the head symmetrical' and open to light and air, the cherry does not need very much pruning. If with the lapse of years it becomes necessary to take off large limbs from any fruit tree, the authorities recommend early June as the best season for the operation.— E. P. Roe, in Harper's Magazine.

It Was the Judge.

, “What a murderous-looking yilltiifi the prisoner is,” whispered'an old lady in a court room to her husband. ‘'EiL be afraid jo get near him. ” “Sh! B warned her husband, “that ain’t the prisoner. He ain’t been brought in yet. ” s “It ain’t! Who is it, then?” . ..