Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 December 1874 — Page 3

RENSSELAER UNION.

JAMES * REAIaET, Proprietor!. RENSSELAER, - INDIAN A-

LATE DATS. *T IOITISA BUBHNEI.L. How sweetly dies the year. Serenely lapsing to its last repose: It flamed with joy when first the end drew near; Kow hushed it sinks into Its golden close. As hearih-flres burning low Lie still and glow. I hear our little maid , Sing through the rustling leaves her cheery song; Her spring-time voice rings out so unafraid. So like to one that has been silent long, I shut my eyes to see If it can be. The past looks all a dream: I doubt my joys, and oh! I doubt mv grief! The shadow mingles strangely with the gleam, And all drops from me like a withered leaf Blown by celestial wind Far, far behind. .Now there remains a rest: And, warmly wrapped within this filmy haze That spreads its yellow net across the west, t'pon the sweet, receding year I gaze, And feel the tender peace Of days that cease. Slower the yolors hnrn: _ Their glowing hearts mns't fail to ashen'brown, And flicker out, and into shadows turn; But then the gentle snow wiU flutter down, ' - A aoft. white sleep will fall. And cover all— That long, long, quiet sleep That falls upon all death from out the sky. Heaven tenderly our fallen leaves will keep— They do not die, they only seem to die. So pray I it may be With me, with me. —AT y. Independent..

A LIFE’S ENIGMA A NORWEGIAN SKETCH.

BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON.

“ Why eit here?” “ Because it’s high and pleasant.” “But it goes so steep down it makes me quite giddy, and the sun shines so dazzling on the water. Let’s go a little further." “ No, not any further.” “Just back, then, as far as that green inclosure; it was so pleasant there.” “ No, 1 say, not there, either,” and he flung himself down as if he either could not or would not go further. She remained standing, with her eyes intently fixed upon him. “ Aasta,” then he said, “ now you must explain to me why it was you were so much afraid of that foreign skipper who . came in just in the dusk of the evening.” “ Didn’t 1 think that was it?” she whispered, and seemed to wish to avoid the matter. “ Yes, you must tell me before you go, else I shall never come again.” “Botolf!” she exclaimed; and she turned, but still remained standing. “ It’s true,” be continued, “ I promised you I wouldn’t ask any questions, and I’ll still keep my word if you like; but then things must come to an end between . us.”— -; She burst into tears and came over to him, with the sun shining full upon her slender little figure, small hands, and soft golden hair, wherefrom her kerchief had fallen. He sprang up : , “ Yes!” he exclaimed, “ you know very well when you come looking like that at me Talways give in to you. But I know, too, that the longer this thing goes on the worse it gets. Can’t you understand that, though i may promise you a hundred times not to wish to know about your bygone life, I never have any peace? I can bear it no more.” His face, too, did indeed bear a look of longcontinued suffering. “ Yes, Botolf, you did indeed promise mfe to let that thing rest—that which I can never, never tell you about. You promised me solemnly; you said you didn’t care about it if you could but have me. Botolf !” she exclaimed again, sinking to her knees upon the heather ; and she wept as though her very life'was in peril, and so looked at him through her fast-falling tears that she seemed at once the loveliest and most miserable creature be had ever seen in all his days. “0 dear me!” he exclaimed, rising, but then directly sitting down again, “ if you did but love me well enough to have confidence ih me, how happy we two might be!” “ If you , rather, could but have a little -confidence in me;" she implored, coming nearer him, still upon her knees, and looking yearningly into his face. “ Love you! why, that very night when your ship had run into ours, when I came up on the deck, and you stood there in command, 1 thought 1 had never seen anybody so brave and manly; and I loved you from that moment. And then when you carried me over into the boat when the ships were sinking I once more felt, what I thought I never should feel again—a wish to live.” She wept in silence, with her hands clasped together resting upon his knee. “Botolf!” then she exclaimed, “be gobd and noble; be as you were when you first.took me! Botolf!” “• Why do you urge me so?" be replied, almost harshly. “ You know very well it can't be. One must have a woman’s whole soul; though for a little while at first, perhaps, one is content without.” She drew back, and said carelessly : “Ah, wtriU then, my life can never come right again! O God!’.’ and once more . she began to weep. “ Trust me with the whole of y r our life, and ntrrmcrely a part of it, and it will all come right so far as I am concerned." He spoke cheerfully, as though to encourage her. She did not answer; but he saw’ she was struggling with herself. “ “Master yourself,” he urged; “runthe risk of doing as I Wish. Things can’t be worse than they are, at any rate." “ You’ll drive me to the very w’orst,” she said piteously. He misunderstood her, and continued: “ Even if you have to confess the greatest crime to me I'll try to bear up; but this I can’t bear.” “No; and neither can //” she ex claimed, and she rose. « “ I’ll help you,” he said, rising also; “ day by day I’ll help you, when I only know what this thing is. But lam quite too proud to be with a woman I don’t know fully about, and who, perhaps, belongs to somebody else.” j A bright flush came over her face. < “ For shame! If you talk of pride, I’m a good deal prouder than you are, and I won’t have you say such things! So stop!" “ If you’re so very proud, then, why do you leave room for my suspicions V 1 * “God help me! I can bear'this no loiiger!” “ No, nor I either. I’ve made a vow it shall come to an end this day.” “How cruel it is,” she Wailed out, “to go on worrying and tormenting a woman who has trustedherself so fully to yon,

and has begged 'and prayed of you-as I have been doing.” She was near again beginning to weep, but with a sudden change of feeling she exclaimed: “ Yes, I see how it is: you think by provoking and exciting me you’ll get things out of met” She looked at him indignantly and tamed aside; Then she heard him say slowly, word by word, “ Will you, or will vou not?” “I will not," replied she} stretching out her head; “ no, not if you gave me all we can see from here!” She went from him, her bosom Leaved, and her eyes wandered to and fro, but mostly looked toward him, now sternly, next sorrowfully, then sternly again. She leaned against a tree and wept; then ceased weeping and returned to her former mood. “ Ah, I knew very well you didn’t love me,” she heard next, and became in a moment the most humble and penitent of creatures. Twice she tried to answer, but instead she flung herself down upon the heather and hid her face in her hands. Botolf came forward and stood over her. She knew he was there, and she waited for him to speak, and tried to prepare herself for whatever he might say; but not a word came, and she grew yet more disturbed, and felt obliged to look up. She sprang to her feet instantly. Botolf’s long, w'eather-beaten face seemed to have become sunken and hollow, his deeplyset eyes staringly prominent, and his whole figure monstrous; and it stood over her with some strange influence that suddenly made her see him once more upon the ship, just as she saw him on the night of the wreck; but now his strength was boundless, and it was all turned against her. “ You have been untruthful with me, Aasta.” She turned away, but he followed her, and continued: “And you have made me untruthful, too; there hasn’t been perfect truthfulness between us a single day ever since we have been together.” He stood so near ihat she could feel his hot breath; he looked straight into her eyes till she felt quite giddy; she knew not what he might the next moment say or do; and so she closed her eyes. She stood as though she must either fall or rush awayv the crisis was coming. In its prelude of deep silence Botolf himself became afraid. Still once more he began in his former strain: “Make everything clear; make an end of all this miserable trickery and* concealment—do it here—now.’* “ Yes,” she answered, but quite unconsciously; “ so I say—do it here —now!” He gave a loud cry, for she rushed past him and flung hersejf over the steep. He caught a glimpse bf her golden hair, her uplifted hands, and kerchief, which spread out, slipped off, and floated slowly down after her by itself. He heard no shriek, and he heard po fall into the water below; for it was very far down. Indeed, he was listening; for he had sunk to the earth. Out from the sea she had come to him that night at first.; into the sea she had now passed away again; and with her, the story of her life. In the midnight darkness of that silent deep lay all that was dear to him; should he not'follow? He had come to that place with a firm determination to make an end of the thing that tormented him; this was not the end; and now it could never come; the trouble was, indeed, only now in reality beginning. Aasta’s deed cried out to him that he had made a terrible mistake, and had killed her. Even if his misery should become ten times greater he must live on to find out how all had happened. She, who was almost the only one saved on that fearful night, had been saved only to be killed by him who saved her. He, -who had gone voyaging and trafficking about as if the whole world were nothing but sea and mart, had all at once become the victim of a lave which had killed the woman of his choice, and must now kill Mm. Was he a bad man? He bad never heard any one say so, neither had he ever felt it himself. But what if, after all, it were so? He rose; not, however, to cast himself over the steep, but to return to the valley; no man kills himself just when he lias found a great enigma which he wishes to solve. But the enigma of Aasta’s life could never be solved now.—Bhe-hadlived in America ever since she had grown up; and she was coining from there when the ships into each other. In what part of America should liis quest begin? From what part of Norway she had at first come lie did not positively know; and was uncertain even whether her family name had not been changed since then. And that foreign skipper. Who could he be? Did he know Aasta, or was it only she who knew something of him? To question thus was like questioning the very sea; and to journey forth to investigate was like plunging into its depths. Surely he had made a terrible mistake. A woman penitent on account of some guilty thing would have found relief in confessing it to her husband; and one still impenitent would have sought refuge in some evasion or other. But Aasta had neither confessed anything Dor had recourse to any evasion, but had sought refuge in death when he so tormented her. Sucjr conduct showed no sign of guilt. But why not? Some folks bad a ! great dread of confessing anything, j Aasta, however, had no such dread; for ’ she had already confessed there wassomething about her life which she could never tell him. Perhaps, then, the great-; ness of her guilt jnade confession impos- j sible? But she could not have had the burden of any great guilt upon her; for I she was often*joyous—nay, even full of j fun. She wal hasty and impetuous, it ! is true; but she was also very full of I tender feeling and kindness. Perhaps the, guilt wash some other person’s and not hers at all? Why, then, had she never told him so?. If she had only done this, all would Lave coipe right. But I supposing there were no guilt, either ou | hqr side, or on that of anybody else, how | then? But she herself had said there j Aas something she could never tell him. ; And then, how about that foreign skipper she was so afraid of? How was it? In the name of goodness, how was.it? Ah, had she’ been still alive, he’would still have tormented her! This thought moved him deeply, and made him reproach and despise himself beyond measure. Still he begad,again —perhaps she was not so guilty as she herself believed; or perhaps not so guilty as others might hav<p thought? How* often did we do v rong quite innocently and only through ignorance, though so few could understand that! Thus Aasta had thought that he, who was always full of suspicion, would not understand it. Out of one clear, simple answer he would have found matter for a hundred suspicious questions ; and so she had chosen to con-

fide herself to death rather than to him. Why could he never leave her in peace? She had fled from the things of her past life and sought refuge with him; and | tnen he, forsooth, must constantly bring them forward and fling them in her face! She was truly attached to him, and showed him all love and tenderness; what right had-he., then, to concern himself about her past? Andy if he had any> such right, why did he not say so in the beginning? Whereas, the more hes affection had grown the more his disquiet had grown likewise—when she, not merely through admiration and gratitude, but also -through love, had become wholly his oWn, then, forsooth, he must begin to wish to know all about what she had done and been in days gone by. The more, too, she had pleaded for herself the worse he had thought of her, and the more he had insisted that .there was something he ought to be told. Then, for the first time, arose the question, had he told her everything? Would itj, really be right for husband and wife to tell each other everything? Would all be understood if it were told? Most certainly not.

He heard two children playing and he looked around. He was sitting in the green inclosure Aasta had spoken of a little while ago, but he had not been aware of it till now. Five hours had passed; he thought it "was aTew mlnuTesT The children had most likely been playing there for a long time, bui he heard them now for the first time. What! Was not one of them Agnes, the clergyman’s little daughter of eight years, whom Aasta had loved even to idolatry and who was so like her! Good heavens, how like she was! Agnes had just set her little brother upon a great stone, where he had to be in school, while she was schoolmaster. “Bay now just w’hat I say,” she commanded. * Our Father.” “ Ou’ Farver.” “ Who art in Heaven.” “Eb’m.” “ Hallowed be Thy name.” “ ’Arvid be name.” a ' “ Thy Kingdom come.” “ No!” “ Thy will be done.” “No; s’ant.” Botolf crept away, not, however, because the prayer had touched him, indeed, he had not marked that it was a prayer; but while he looked at and .listened to the children he became in his own eyes a horrible wild beast, unfit to come near God or man. He dragged himself behind some bushes, so that the children might not discover him; he was more afraid of them, than he had ever been ol any one in all his life. He slunk ofl into the forest, far away from the high road. Where should he go? To the now empty house he had bought and furnished for Aasta? Or should he go somewhore further away? It mattered nothing; for w’herever he thought of going he saw Aasta standing there. It is said that when folks are dying the last object they see is pictured upon their eyes; so, too, when a man wakes to consciousness after doing a wicked deed the first object he sees is pictured upon his eyes, and he can never get rid of it. Thus, when Botolf saw Aasta, she no longer appeared to him as she had upon the mountain-slope so short a time before, but she seemed to be a little innocent girl—in fact, to be Agnes. Even the picture he retained of her figure while she was sinking down the steep was That of Agnes, with her little hands uplifted. In whatever direction he turned his thoughts and remembrances of the suflering woman whom he had suspected they were met by this innocent child, whom lie had just heard repeating the Lord’s Prayer. In every scene of his life with Aasta —from the night of the shipwreck to this Sunday morning—the child’s face appeared. The thought of this mysterious transformation so preyed upon him, in both mind and body, that in the course of a few days he became unable to take his necessary food, and a little while after was compelled to keen his bed. Soon everyone could see he was approaching death. He whose mind is burdened by some great life-enigma acquires a peculiar manner, through which lie himself becomes an enigma toothers. Ejien from the day Botolf and Aasta first came tojive in that parish liis gloomy taciturnity, her beauty, and the loneliness ofthe life of both had been the subject of frequent gossip among the neighbors; and now, when Aasta all at once disappeared, the talk increased until the most incredible things said were the best believed. Nobody could throw any light upon the matter; for none of all those who lived upon the mountain-ridge, or the shore beneath, or who were accustomed to go there, had* happened to be looking, toward the steep just when Aasta flung herself over. Neither did her corpse ever drift to land, itself to give evidence. »

Even while Botolf was yet alive, therefore, no end of strange 1 Spiritualistic stories were told about him. He became dreadful to see as be lay there with long, sunken face, red beard and unkempt hair, growing tangled together, and large eyes looking up like some dark tarn in a deep mountain hollow, lie seemed to have no wish either to live or die, and so the folks-said there was a fight for his soul going on between God | and the devil. Some said they had"even j seen the evil one, surrounded by flames, I climb up to tiie window of the dying 1 : man’s chamber to call to him. They j had seen the evil one, too, they said, in' the form of a black dog, go sniffing j ! round the house. Others, who had rowed past, had’seen the whole place on fire; : while others again beard a company of ! devils- shouting, barking and laughing Come up.from the sea, pass slowly toward ; the house, enter through the closed doors, rush furiously through all the rooms and i then go down" once .more beneath tile waves, with the same awful row as they made in coming out. Botolf’s servants, men as well as women, left immediately and told all these tales to Everybody. , Hardly any one dared go ncaj.the piace; and if an old peasant and his wife, to whom the sick man had shown some kindness, had not taken qare .of him, he would have lain utterly unattended. Even this old women herself was in terror when she was with him; and slie used to burn straw under hi 3 bed to keep off tbe evil one; but though the sick man nearly scorched up he still kept alive. ' j He lay in terrible suffering; and the I old woman thought at last he must be wailing to see sonife one, So &e asked him whether she should send for the clergyman. He shook his head. Was there any one else he would like to see? To that iie made no answer. The next day, while he was laying as usual, he distinctly pronounced the name “Agnes.” Certainly, this was not in reply to the old woman’s question the day before;

but she fancied it was, and she rose gladly, went out to her husband and bade him harness the horkes with all speed and drive over to the parsonage to fetch Agnes. When he reached there .everybody thought there must be some mistake, and that it was the clergyman who was sent for; but the old man insisted it was the little girl. She herself was indoors and heard of the message, which frightened her greatly; for she, among the rest, had heard the tales about the devil, and about the company of devils rushing up out of the sea. But she had also heard that there was some one whom the sick man was waiting to see, and must see before he could die; and she did not' think it anywise strange that that one should be herself, whom his wife had so often fetched over to the house before. Agnes’ sisters told her, too, that one must always try to do what dying folks wish; and that if she prayed nicely to God nothing could do her any harm. She believed this, and let them dress her to go. .

It was a clear, cold evening, wherein she could see long, dark shadows following and hear echoes of the harness-bells sounding far off in the forest. On the whole, she felt it was rather dreadful, and she sat saying her prayers, with her hands folded together inside her mull, She did not see the devil anywhere, neither did she hear any oompany of devils rushing up out of the sea while she rode along the shore; but she saw many stars above her and light shining straight before her upon the mountain peak. Up around Botolf’s house all seemed dismally quiet; but the old peasant woman came out at once and carried Agnes indoors, took ofl her traveling-dress, and let her warm herself at the fire. Meanwhile the old woman told her she need not be anywise afraid of the sick man, but must go in to him with good courage and say the Lord’s Prayer to him. Then, when Agnes had got warm, the old woman took her hand and led her into the sick-room. Botolf lay there, with long beard and hollow eyes, and he gazed at her intently; but she did not think he looked dreadful, and she was not afraid. “Do you forgive me?” he whispered. She supposed she ought to say “ yes,” and she said “ yes” accordingly. Then he smiled, and tried to raise himself in the bed, but his strength failed and he remained lying. She began at once to say the Lord’s Prayer; but he made a movement as though to bid her pause, and pointed to his breast. So she laid both her hands there: for this was what she thought he intended her to do; and he directly laid one of his clammy, ice-cold, bony hands upon her little warm ones, and then closed his eyes. When she found he did not say anything after she had finished the prayer she did not venture to remove her hands, but just began to say it again. When she had said it for the third time the old woman came in, looked, and said: “ You can leave off now, my dear—he’s gone !” —2 he Saturday Journal.

Subterranean Fishes.

In boring artesian wells in the Desert of Sahara very small fishes, resembling the white-bait, not unfrequently occur, which inhabit the waters of the subterranean bed of the desert. They are identical with a species from the waters of Biskra. The male differs from the female in being transversely barred, so that some authors have regarded it as a distinct species. The eyes are well formed, although these fishes live a part of the time in obscurity. It seems that as far back as 1849 the Governor of the oases of Thebes and Gaibe, in Egypt, stated that an artesian well, about 105 feet deep, which he had cleaned out, furnished for his table fishes which probably came from tbe Nile, as the sand which he had brought up from this artesian well was identical with that of this river. In the Sahara, as in Egypt, these fishes were carried away by the waters, which filtered into the soil down to the subterranean sheet into which the artesian wells open» Gervais claims to have established the fact that these subterranean fishes are essentially fluviatile, and that some like them are found in the rivers of Senegal and Mozambique, of Syria and Egypt, ofthe Therian peninsula, and even America. Their fossil representatives are not found in deposits of marine origin, and all that we know occur in lacustrine formations. The existence of these fishes cannot, then, serve as an argument for the former presence of the waters of the Mediterranean on the soil of the north of Africa .—Harper's Magazine.

A Facetious Sheriff.

It is .now more than half a century since there resided in a large and populous seaport town in the North of England a much respected and eminent attorney, who was ever on the gui vice tor fun and good humor, liis jokes were rrequent, and he was noted all over town for his eccentricities and habitual pleasantry. Being a wealthy man, he frequently contributed to public and private charities, and was a welcome visitor to the abodes of the poor as we 11 as the rich. 1 well remember the time when this facetipus gentleman tided the office of sheriff, and when he indulged bis penchant i for tbe humorous by tlie summoning of i four remarkably queer juriesto ” well and | truly try”, persons at the Court of Quarter Sessions for the town and county in j which lie then resided. And first,.at the spring term, our face- i tious Siieritf summoned a fat jury—twelve of tiie most portly, ponderous men he ; coftld find—and when they were called j on by tbe clerk ot the'court to take their j ; seat in the jury-box it was found almost . j impossible to cram them into it. And; ! when, after much hard squeezing and I grinning, they were shut- up in .the box, j | they became literally a packed jury, and ; ! no mistake. j j Tbe second jury summoned by this droll ; official was the very reverse of his first j panel—twelve of the leanest and lankest | men he could find all,over town—men i with long legs and long faces, who | seemed as though they had been feyd on 1 water-gruel and never tasted roast beef ? in the course of their lives. ! The third jury summoned by our | factitious Sheriff'for tiie September term ] consisted*of twelve barbers, whose sliaV- , ing shops were' near the Court-House; i and in so placing those barbers on l the jury all the barristers who attended coprt that day appeared with tlien’Wigs undressed anil uncombed—a funny spectacle for the officers .qf tiie court, the learned Recorder; and all others who happened to be present on that memorable occasion. ” - But in hia selection of a jury- for the December term of the Court of Quarter

Sessions our good-humored Sheriff capped the climax of his official drollery by summoning twelve men who squinted so awfully at the learned Recorder when he attempted to make the first charge to them that the learned Judge could not help joining in the general laugh, and exclaiming, in seeming anger: “ This is, indeed, too bad, Mr. Sheriff.” Rift the latter only remarked, in a very serious and amusing tone: “ Twelve good and lawful men, your Honor.” And here let me add that I neverheard of “ The Facetious Sheriff” serving longer than one year. — Exchange.

Mechanical Progress of the Century Now Closing.

The great advance in machinery and especially our own active part of it is very recent. Persons yet alive remember the first crossing of the Atlantic by a steamboat, the Savannah. Those yet in prime of life recollect the opening of the first railway to passenger traffic. Horatio Allen drove the first locomotive which was imported. Thus the century under consideration, from a mechanical point of view, is most readily segregated from its predecessors. It is not saying too much to assert that at its commencement the coal of England was scarcely valued except for household uses. As to the coal of America, its extent and its utility were not even suspected. Machinery as yet was not. The steamengine of Newcomen was pumping in some few mines in England. This engine condensed its steam in the cylinder beneath the-piston, cooling the cylinder at each stroke, and using the condensation of the steam as a means of producing a partial vacuum in order to obtain the value of the atmospheric pressure above the piston. The duty or valuable effect of the Newcomen engine in 1769 was 5,500,000 pounds of water raised one foot high by one bushel of Welsh coal. Watt’s inventions were made, between the years 1769 and 1784, and before the year 1800 the duty of the Cornish engine was quadrupled; by 1840 it was again quadrupled. Watt added to the steamengine the separate condenser and the airpump. By the former he avoided the cooling of the cylinder before each eflective stroke of the piston; by the latter he made the vacuum more perfect. He subsequently made the additions of the parallel motion , of the steam-jacket to the cylinder, and of the cylinder cover , and made the steam act positively against the piston, instead of merely using it to produce a vacuum. Afterward he made the engine double acting, that is, used pressure of steam on the sides of the piston alternately; then he increased the strengtn of the parts, the rapidity of the stroke, and the pressure of the steam. Coal, the black slave, had been chained below from time immemorial, and Watt contrived a way of setting him to work. Up to this period there had been scarcely any progress; after it hosts of inventions crowd upon the scene and clamor for notice. The Watt period inaugurates the century whose progress in the mechanic arts is under consideration. The utilization of coal in the production of steam for driving machinery is the turning-point in the history of mechanical evolution and development, and made possible improvements in various other directions. The multiplication, in the course of years, by fifty-fold of the working power of England caused such an enormous increase of material that privy councils, armies and fleets vied with each other in explorations by sea and land. The Northwest Passage, which has a literature and a history of its own —a history exultant and yet sad—only meant a short road to India around one end of that terribly long continent which barred Europe from sailing westward to Asia. There is no more truthful accessible test of the comparative ingenuity of periods in a given country than the number of patents granted therein. Our national patent system has been in operation only since 1790, but that of England is much older. The following table gives the number of patents granted in decades for the two centuries. Previous to 1790 patents were granted by individual States, as to Fulton, Fitch, Rumsey, Evans, and others: Decade \Decade United -ending England, ending England. — States. ipso agjati.--... 297 .... lti(XJ.... 55 1790 512 1700 101 1800... 075 3U6 1710: 20U810 9:56 1,086 172.) 45! 1820 1,125 1,748 173!) 94|1830 1,533 2.980 1740 48,1840. 2,710 5,488 17,50. .ill*. 85!l8i0 4,066 • 5.942 ■ 9911800 25,201 28,140 1770 , 221 j 1870 35,079 79.012

The factory system is tne growth of the century now closing. When Richard Arkwright was traveling over the hills of Lancashire buying the tresses of the country lasses to make wigs, and Hargreaves was working at the rudimentary carding-machine, the artisans of the country worked each in his little shop. The wool-stapler dealt out his lots of wool to the carders and spinners, who tookit-home and returned the agreedupon quality and weight of yam; to another set of workmen the yarn was apportioned for weaving; other tradesmen finished the work. The same practice prevailed with the hardware-makers and iron-mongers ; the nailers of Wolverhampton, the artificers of Birmingham, the cutlers of Sheffield, tbe"’carpeUweavers of Axminster —each received at his house a, .quota of material such as he or his family could make-up in'afew\days, and returned the finished work to his employer. It is easy to imagine how this may have been managed, for it is only within a comparatively few y ears that tbe boot and shoe business has been -aggregated into factories and performed bymachinery.

In th 6 factory the labor-saving machines which have superseded the laborious aand operations are employed in great numbers with comparatively few attendants. The steam-engine, fed by coal and water, or the water-wheel, provides the power required, and the duty of the attendant is to supply 1 the constantly recurring need for fresh materials, to mend breaks, or repair faults. Instead of being; a mere fashioner of a piece a time, the workman becomes a supervisor of nearly automatic machinery, whose appetite for material he is required to anticipate and satisfy, and whose Occasional eccentricities it is his duty to correct. Ihe development of the cotton manufacture furnishes the best and perhaps earliest example of the factory system. Arkwright appears to have worked at his cotttrn machinery for several years, and in company with several partners, who successively furnished means and then tired of the project, before he Greeted the mill at Nottingham, which was worked by horse-power. This mill was erected in 1770; another one was established in 1771, in which the ma-

chinery was driven by a water-wheel. Bo new waa the idea of employing other than hand or foot labor that his spinningmachine was long known as the “ waterframe,” and the product as the “ watertwist.” His other improvements were patentedin 1775, and thus the century starts with Mr. Arkwright fresh upon the track, leading in a race the* success of which has changed the aspect of onr commercial and social systems. — Harper's Magazine-for December.

Plain Dresses.

At this season of the year plain wool dresses are objects of desire to housewives, other busy women, and schoolgirls. With pure wool merinoes selling for sixty-five cents a yard, empress cloths at the’ same price, and English serges ol single width for forty cents, women of moderate means can afford to have a good supply of these plain and serviceable dresses. That they are also in good taste depends upon the colors selected, the fine fit, manner of making, and the simple trimming. The choice this winter is for the darkest shades of positive colors; thus, seal and nut browns are preferred to those with yellow or red tints; blue is the pure deep Madonna shades without any purple; gray is clear and dark, or else of the slate hues tinged with blue; the deepest shades of rich cardinal red are worn in the house by both blondes and brunettes; green is in great favor when it has no olive tints, and is so dark as to be scarcely distinguishable from black; while black is worn more than all these colors together. As wool dresses serve for both house and street, it is well to have them complete costumes, and it is best to trim them with themselves rather than with fringe, braid, velvet, or silk that will not change color precisely as the wool fabric does. The skirt should just touch the floor in the house, but should be provided with a string and rings at the top for drawing it up in the street. Modistes object to lining the skirts of such dresses, but experience proves that they wear better if lined. A practical dressmaker suggests that a facing of skirt-braid should always edge the lowest flounce in dress-skirts to prevent the flounce from fraying. These wool skirts should be trimmed alike all around, or else left without any trimming save that of laying the back breadths in box-pleats. A stylish trimming for woolen skirts is two very full puffs, shirred between, yet drooping slightly, and a close side-pleat-ing below; when completed, this cluster of trimming should cover at least ten inches of the skirt. Another plan is to have two shirred bias ruffles, with a pleating o£_j the same width between them. The long deep apron is pretty> with such suits, and should be edged with a knife pleating. The basque for such dresses is the cuirass shape, or else the pleated waist so becoming to slender ladies. This pleated waist has become so popular that ladies are using it for plain black silk dresses. The sleeves should have three bias bands piped around them below the elbow, or a cuff that turns both ways, ox a single widn band with many rows of shirring quite close together, or else a knifepleating turned toward the wrist. The flaring standing collar is universally worn. The dress waist has no trimming, but a piping or pleating on the edge oi the basque. With high short shoulder seams, neatly worked button-holes, and a belt, this corsage is not without style, and completes tiie pretty suit. A better class of dresses is made of the black cashmeres that are now selling in very good qualities for $1.25 a yard. Some silk pipings and bows are added for trimming, and a sloped piece of silk trims the back and front of the basque down the middle. Modistes now import from London ready-made skirts of blgick poplins and fine empress cloths trimmed with many shirred ruffles and knifepleatings. These serve various purposes; some ladies use them to complete black silk suits that have grown rusty around the bottom of the skirt, others wear them on rainy days, or alternate them with better black skirts, and still others use them as Balmorals. They cost $25.00 and are of walking length, or else with draw-strings and loops behind for drawing them up in the street. Pirn’s Irish poplins are also being used for second-best dresses, now that they are reduced to $1 .25 a yard. A basque and single skirt of sueh dresses are suitable for the house. The trimming is a single velvet fold around the skirt (which has a box-pleating behind), velvet pockets, cuffs, collar and belt. The prettiest black beaver mohairs and alpacas seen this season are almost without trimming. The skirt and cuirass are absolutely plain, but fit admirably. The long apron has a knife-pleating on the edge and a sash bow of gros grain behind. The lowpriced plaid goods already are qged for polonaises and basques with long, simply shaped over-skirts, and worn over black silk skirts.— Harper's Bazar.

Revolvers vs. Stomach Pumps.

Yesterday, about dinner-time, Jep Rice observed a seedy deadffieat slipping into his dining-room without registering himself at the captain’s office. On stepping into the hall he observed the hungry patron laying in a generous supply of first-class grub in the Moat approved style. Times being hard, Jep could not stand the onslaught on his bill of fare without revenge, so he sent for Mat Matson, who c %6on appeared and stationeiL himself at the door. After a long siege at the table our cadaverous D. B. requested a tooth-pick and walked carelessly* to the street door, where he was politely stopped by Mat, who asked him if he had dinner.' On replying that he had dined, he was marched in to interview Jep. “ Well,” said Jep. “ You had dinner?” “ Yes.” “ Did you have a good dinner ?” “ Yes, one of the best I ever had in my life, and the only meal I have eaten for three days.” “Well, how did you like the bill of fare?” “ Oh, first rate.” “ Have you paid for it?” “ No, but I am just going down to get a little money, and will come back and settle it.” “ Well, that don’t pay my bills, so we will just settle r.ght here,” said Jep, reaching away under the counter in a threatening manner. “ Hold on, Mr. Rice,” said D. 8., looking alarmed. “ What are you reaching for?” J " A revolver,” said Jep. “ Oh, well,”, said the dead-beat, “ that's all right. I was afraid you were reaching for a stomach-pump.” Jep caved in at this cool rejoinder, invited him to be shre to be around at 6upper time, and took the . crowd down to drink. —Leavenworth Comttwrcial.