Rensselaer Union, Volume 9, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 May 1877 — Page 3

The Rensselaer Union. g(!w a 1 1 ’ '’wywrffnu " l 'l' T'" RENSSELAER, i - INDIANA

1 INFLUENCE. Ton tell ua that each pebble dropped On Ooean’s g|a»»y broot Must make a pulao in boundlem deep, Whose ripples never rest, ’ » But ever sweep through coral oaves, Or break on distant sands. Or kies sold faces which the deep Holds far from loving hands; Orjpddy round ihv treasure loot Which her calm bosom hides— Yet sfill forever ebbs and flows Upon the ehabfehut tuioi. 1 ,f : They tell us each word we speak, , the air * : And that although yre hear them not, Around M ever ring t 'VI Ths laugh and sigh of long ago • The khiftihg breezes bring. *■ It’may Ije that with mighty word, Like Whirlwinds on the deep, We {til the hearta of other men. And rouse them from their sleep. It mayeach word We speak, ?: j Like an echo on the air, Though scarcely heeded when ’tis said, Yet leaves its impress there. The life of each is bound to all By cords we cannot sever— A apple that shall neve^,cease Upon Time’s mighty river; litat, like the pulses of the tide, Or the air tvhich echoes still, Must the vjprds and deeds of each of ns The lives of others fill. Milwaukee. Wis. —Chicago Tribune.

WHAT HE LOST.

Tint evening was warmand’still, and all the doors and windo ws in George street were set open, and everybody who could escape from indoor occupation was out for a stroll. The people living here were dec&Ht, hardworking men and women, earning enough to keep their families in comfort, and taking an honest pride in themselves and their dwellings. M ost of the windows could boast of clean muslin curtains, and the doorsteps were as white as hard sconring eould make them. There waaone house, however, whose doorstep could ill bear a comparison with its neighbors ; and, as to its curtains, they were drab and dingy, and had been up all the winter. “ Mias Kennaway don’t regard appearances, that’s certain,” said one matron to another, as they took their evening walk together. “If I were her, I should be sick of the sight of those frightful drab curtains. Ana she with a smart young man coming often to the house!” “ Poor tlimg!” sighed the other woman —acgood-natured sotil, always ready to find excuses for those the world was hard upon—” poor thing! she can’t have a minute to call Her own. What with her dressmaking and her mother’s long illshe must be pretty nearly at her wits,’Apo.” < “ Wei!, if young Parr don’t mind the curtains, and that disgraceful doorstep of hers, I’m Sure I don’t,’,’ responded the first speakdr, sharply. “And here he comes,* looking as natty as you please, anq walking as if the ground wasn’t good enough for his feet!” William Parr, the promised husband of Fanny Kennaway, was ope of those men who aie said take above their station, and are sometimes so .very much above it that there is no keeping them in it. William, however, was industrious enough to find favor with the merchant who employed him. Out of the counting-house he held his head high, and looked down upon his fellow-clerks, who never ceased to wonder why such a lofty fellow should have courted a humble little dressmaker in George street. But very few men of taste would have been surprised at Parr's choice if they had seen Fanny Kennaway in her seat by the window that evening. After a long day’s work, she was resting eyes and hands for a few minutes, and watching for William’s coming. Hers whs a delicate, clearly-cut face, pale as a lily, and serious almost to sadness—a face that seemed lo have little in common with the needles and pins and gay stuffs around her. And yet, In a general way, Fanny worked cheerfully enough at her trade. It was ouly when’nursing as well as dressmaking fell to her lot, and a heavy doctor’s bill was added to ordinary expenses, that her,, little body felt itself aweary of this great world. But there was no weariness in the smile that greeted William, as he entered the humble room. Like a wise woman as she was. Fanny al ways met her lover with a bright look and a cheery voice. ” Come, Fanny,” he Said, “ wbn’t you go for a walk this evening ? Your mother is better, so that youcansurely bespared.” “ Oh, yes; mother can spare me; Mrs. Marks is sitting with her. But there'is a dress that must be finished to-night, William.” „ “ I wonder why we can never enjoy ourselves as other people do,” muttered Parr crossly. “ You are making a regular slave of yourself, Fanny.” “Well, then. I'll go," she answered after a little pause, “ and I won’t be five minutes getting »ady.” She tripped off, and soon returned, look-’ ing so neat in her walking garb that only an ill-humored man could have found a fault in her. But as they walked away together down the street, there was a cloud on William’s face; and presently he spoke grievance.- * ‘Why don’t you get a stylish hat, Tahny, instead of wearing that everlasting bonnet? I can’t think now it is your things last so long; one never sees you in anything fresh and new. For my sake to be a little smarter in your Fanny did not tell him that every sixpence she earned wag spent on the common necessaries of life, and that all her savings had gone to pay that terrible doctor’s bill: but she looked up lovingly into his handsome gloomy face. William was her. first love; she could not wish him changed, even when his magnificent notions caused her some inconvenience. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is not always duly valued; and many people might have blamed Fanny for her tameness. But she was one of those women who would rather hear harsh words than speak them. Instead, of chiding, she patiently set heroelf to bring her companion into a better frame, of mind, and she succeeced so well that William almost forgot the old bonnet. And yet, when he had left her at her own door, and was going back to his lodging, he begdnto thfak of ft again.

It was quite humiliating, he said to himself, for a man in his position to have been seen .If,, the company of such a bonnet as that. ,“How are yon. Parr?” cried a loud voice. " Splendid evening, isn’tlt? Come home and have supper, will you ?” The speaker was a dashing young fellow, son of an auctioneer who was reputed to be making a fortune. It was the first invitation that William had ever had from Tom “?hanks,” he answered promptly. “ I shall be very happy to come.” And then the two set off together, and William was by no means ill pleased to walk with a well-dressed acquaintance, who nodded familiarly to one or two men in a sphere above him. The Denys lived in a pleasant villa, with coaca house, stables and greenhouses. Voices anti laughter were heard in the garden as the young men approached the gate: William caught sight of light dresses fluttering abont on the lawn, and remembered certain rumors of the beauty of the Derry girls. . * After George street, and Fanny’s little work-room, it was no wonder, perhaps, that Gloucester Lodge seemed almost an earthly Paradise. Julia Derry, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, was disposed to be very gracious to William. She wore plenty of jewelry, and her costume was made in the latest style. After supper she sang and played-several fashionable songs, with William standing beside her to turn over the music leaves. It was very pleasant, he thought, to see a girl with rings on her white hands, and without the tell-tale roughness on the left fore-finger. It was the old, old story. After that evening, spent at Gloucester Ledge, William’s visit to'George street grew rarer and rarer; and little Fanny drooped visibly. It is not so very hard for a woman to bear up under life’s burdens while she has the strong prop of a man’s love to lean upon. But if the prop breaks, it is well for her if the burden do not crush her altogether. Fanny, however, was not without a certain quiet fortitude. She felt that her prop was giving away, and nerved herself to do without it. “Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennaway, one evening as the young dressmaker sat sewing in her old window-seat. “ you are not looking well, my child; I wish William woulacome and take you out. He hasn’t been here very often lately, has he?”

“ No, mother, not very often.” " I think you are working to hard,” continued the poor woman, sighing. “ I get well very slowly, Fanny; and the beef tea and port wine cost a great deal. I’ve made up my mind, child, to write to my brother at last.” “ But, mother, you’ll be dreadfully distressed if he doesn’t answer. Anavou have often said that he would never torgive you for marrying poor father.” “I’ve been a widow for nearly five years, Fanny. Surely Stephen can bury the old grievance in my husband’s grave!” “ You know best, mother. But father always spoae of him as a hard man.” “ Well, at any rate, I shall make an attempt to soften him. Don’t try to talk me out of it, Fanny. I believe it is the right thing to do.” Fanny held her peace, but she had little hope that her Uncle Fenwick would reply to his sister’s letter. She knew that he W’us a rich city merchant several years older than her mother, but she had never seen him, and had founded her opinion of his character solely on her father’s dislike to him. The "late Mr. Kennaway had been one of those men who have a natural turn for borrowing money, and are generally severe on the friends who refuse to lend. Perhaps Mrs. Kennaway had taken some pains to hide the father’s faults from the child’s eyes, for Fanny had never discovered them. “Now, Fanny,” said honest Mrs. Marks, bouncing into the little room, “tomorrow’s Saturday, and you are going to have a whole holiday. Everything’s planned, so you may leave off shaking your head. Martßaker has promised to come and sit witlryour mother. My man and I have arranged to take you right off to Durrant Farm, where my sister fives.” Mrs. Marks and her husband were the Kennaway’s next-door neighbors. They were a childless couple, and, instead of wasting their affections on dogs and parrots, they looked out for young people who needed love and sympathy. Fanny had no idea they knew all about her sor. row. She did not realize how easy it is for shrewd eyes to read the signs of a sick heart. Early the next morning a hired chaise rattled out of George street, containing Fanny and her two friends. Of course it could not be quite a perfect holiday without William; but the girl enjoyed fresh air and rest, and was grateful for kindness. It was a long drive, and when they reached the farm-house, Mrs. Marks declared that Fanny had picked up wonderfully. A day or two in the country, she said, would put a little color into those pate cheeks, and brighten the eyes that were dull with watching and working. Ah, poor Fanny! Durrant Farm stands upon the outskirts of a wood, which has always been a favorite haunt with picnic parties. The Fates had decreed that the Derrys should give a picnic that day; it was early in Septem-, ber, and townsfolk wanted to make the most of the waning summer. Miss Julia Derry wore an entirely new costume, bought for the occasion, and a charming rustio hat adorned with poppies, ana wheat-ears. It was very agreeable to be admired, even by a mere merchant’s clerk, and she lavished her sweetest smiles on William Parr.

Aria in arm the pair strolled away from the rest of the party. He talked nonsense, and she laughed and listened, and led him on, without a thought beyond the hour’s unusement. She was wiser in the world’! ways than foolish William, whose vanity I ad been tickled until he really believed t«at he had made a conquest. He was bendingdown to his companion, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, when a turn in the path suddenly brought them face to face with Mrs. Marks ana Fanny Kennaway. Even then things might have turned out well, if William had only been true to himself. But’ there was Fanny in her shabby, evety-day gown, and the bonnet that had gone completely oat of fashion; and there was the superb Julia, hanging on Parr’s arm, and quizzing his betrothed with haugh’y eyes. The worst part of the young man's nature came uppermost at that moment. He gave one quick glance at Fanny, and then swepton, without besto wingeven a how of recognition on the little dressmaker. “ Well,” said Mrs. Marks, drawing a long breath, “ I only wonderthatthe earth don’t open and swallow him up!” Fanny took her lover’s desertion in a very quiet way. She knew that the end had come, and did not try to get any comfort out of a dead hope. When the fire has gone out, die is r. wise woman who sets herself to rake away the ashes, and clean out the grate, even when she

knows her hearth-stone will be cold for many a year afterward. Our little dreaamaker went on sewing and snipping as usual, saying never » want about ter trouble. Meanwhile the household burdens were lightened. Mr. Fenwick wrote a kind reply to his sister’s letter, and Inclosed a sum large enough to supply her with all that she required. “ You can get yourself a new gown now, Fanny,’’said her mother, cheerfully. “It has made my heartache to ape you wearing that oil. gray thing. I like my girl to be well dressed.” Brave Fanny! If a sick heart whispered that it didn’t matter what she wore nowadays, she never heeded the voice. She chose the material with as much care as if it had been the stuff for her wedding dress, and set about making it up in her best stvle. When it was finished, Mrs. Marks came in, and resolutely cleared away the signa of work, and then sent Fanny up-stairs to put on the new gown and go out walking In it. It was getting late in the afternoon when Fanny returned from her stroll. It seemqd to her, as she entered the little parlor, that it was full of people; her mother sat by the window, looking nervous and tearful, yet happy withal; and by her side was an elderly gentleman, talking earnestly. A little apart from these two was a young man, sitting at the table and turning over the pages or a little volume of poems which had been a gift from William Parr to his affianced wife. Both gentlemen rose quickly as Fanny came in, and the elder introduced himself at once.

“ I am your uncle, Stephen Fenwick, Fanny,” he said, taking her hands. “ Give me a Kiss, my dear. You are like the daughter I have lost. This is my son, your cousin, Walter.” The young man came forward, and asked if Fanny were willing to make friends with an unknown relative. His manner was natural, his voice very gentle, and Fanny felt at once that he treated her with as much deference as if she had been a peeress instead of a poor little dressmaker. What be thought of her she did not learn till long afterward; but certain it is that the image of a sweet, pale girl, in a brown dress, haunted Walter Fenwick’s mind for tnanv a day. “ Your uncle wants us to go and live with him, Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennaway, tremulously. He is a widower, and has only a housekeeper to take care of him. Shall we go?” “ Will you come and be my child, Fanny?” asked Mr.' Fenwick. She turned and looked steadfastly at him for a moment with her eyes full of tears. And then, slowly and gratefully, she answered yes. Only a fortnight after Mr. Fenwick’s visit, the inhabitants of George street ran to their doors to catch a last glimpse of the Kennaways. The two women came very quietly out of the little house, and entered the fly that waited for them and their luggage. Mrs. Marks waved a tearful farewell; her husband stood on the pavement, smiling broadly to hide his real feelings, and then the vehicle rattled away, and the folks went indoors again, saying that they supposed the rich uncle was going to make a lady of little Fanny. And how was it meanwhile with William Parr? His intimacy with those gay friends, the Derrys, had come to an end with the summer. Julia got tired of his attentions and snubbed him; her elders said to each other that young Parr’s frequent visits were becoming quite a nuisance ; even Tom at last gave him the cold shoulder. They were a heartless set, he said to himself, feeling abominably illused. And then it suddenly occurred to him that he was only getting the very same measure that he had meted to another.

“It serves me right for treating Fanny badly,” he mused. “She was worth a hundred Julias. And she is such a good, forgiving little thing, that I almost think she’d make it up with me if I went back to her again.” It was a chilly evening in late autumn when William Parr once more took his way to George street. A host of old recollections came crowding around him as he drew near Fanny’s home; he began to wonder how he could have stayed away from her so long, and to be eager for the first glimpse of her sweet face. He knew just how she would look; his fancy pictured the glow and brightness that would welcome him. There wae light m her parlor—a warm, cheery beam, that told him he should find her sitting as usual at her sewing. “1 won’t make a doien wretched excuses,” thought the young man. “ I’ll just ask her to forgive me, and tell her that I could not live without her.” He knocked at the door, and stood waiting with a throbbing heart for Fanny to open it. A few seconds passed away, and then he heard the inside latch lifted, and stood face to face with a ta|l, hard-featured woman, in a widow’s cap. “Is Miss Kennaway within?” he faltered. “ She doesn’t live here!” responded the woman shortly. “Not live here!” said William. “ Then where is she? Can you give me any information?”

“ I don’t know anything* about her. I’ve beard that some people named Kennaway lived here before I came, but that’s all I can tell you.” William turned away from the door like one half stunned. It was all so different from the pleasant end pathetic little scene he had been picturing, that he could hardly believe in this stern reality. And then as he still stood dreaming on the pavement, he bethought him of Mrs. Marks. She had been the Kennaways’ familiar friend, and would surely know something about their change of residence. Alas! Mrs. Marks’ house was quiet and dark. The shutters were closed; not a gleam of light could be seen within; and William’s knock remained unanswered. “ That house is empty,” said a girl’s voice at his elbow; and looking round he saw a decently-clad lassie with a parcel under her arm. “ The Markses are gone away to live somewhere in the country,” she added. “ Can you tell me what has become of Mrs. Kennaway and her daughter?” William asked eagerly. “ They're gone to London. Some rich gentleman found out that they were his near relations, and he has taken them to live with him.” Without another word William walked away, hardly knowing what direction he was taking. Until that moment he had never realized how strong was the tie that had bound him to little Fanny. He had neglectrd her—trifled with himself and his best feelings—and weil nigh broken her heart; but bad he ever really ceased to love her? She wasgone; she had quietly vanished out of his way, and made no sign. Three years passed away. William Parr had stepped into the place left vacant by the death of a senior clerk; his salary had been raised, and be had moved into

better lodgings. Perhaps if he had sought to renew his intimacy with tho Derrys, he mighthot have been repulsed, b»t ha was w a sadder and a wiser man. The sense of loss had never entirely left him; nor had he asyet found anyone who could be what Fanny had been. No tidings of her had ever come to her old lover; in the days of their intercourse she had been silent about her Uncle Fenwick, and William had not even heard his name. z One day it happened that William Parr was dispatched to London to transact some business for his employer. It was winter, but the weather was clear and sunshiny, and when he arrived at the great metropolitan station it wanted an hour to noon. Among the numbers waiting on the platform, one figure attracted William’s eye at once. It was that of a lady, richly dressed In velvet and sable, who was evidently looking out eagerly for seme one in the train. As she cattght a glimpse of the face she was watching for, her own brightened and flushed jn a way that William well remembered. Just so had she greeted him, when hehad been wont to pay his evening visits to the little house In George street, long ago. A quiet-looking, gentlemanlike man stepped out of a first-class carriage and was about to draw her hand through his oil: But William, yielding to a powerful impulse, approached and spoke. • “Fanny—Miss Kennaway,” he said, nervously, She gave a very slight start; for an instant her color deepened, and then she frankly extended her hand. “Not Miss Kennaway now,” she answered, smiling. “ This is my husband, Mr. Fenwick—Mr. Parr.” William scarcely knew how he returned the gentleman’s salutation. A Soment more and Walter Fenwick and s wife had passed on, leaving himstanding on the platform, tiying to collect his scattered senses. Both had seen plainly that he was far too confused to enter into conversation. “Poor fellow!” said Walter, looking down tenderly into his wife’s face, “ I do not wonder that he was agitated by this sudden meeting with his lost love. He is a greau loser; and I am a great gainer, Fanny.”— Cowell's Magazine.

The Sanjak-Sherif.

Even if English capitalists were not the creditors of the Porte, it is easy to discern why, if Her Majesty abandon the position of neutrality which is not very firmly taken, her sword and her purse will be at the service of the Sultan. In her Indian dominions she is the sovereign of more Musselmans than are found in all Turkey, and the interest she has in siding with the spiritual leader of so many millions of her subjects is obvious. Though head of a branch of the Christian Church and hereditary Defender of the Faith, the Queen of England has fewer Christian than Mohammedan followers, and should the Sultan choose to make the current war one of religion, Her Majesty might be compelled to choose bej tween tie loss of a portion of her Indian Empire and an active support of the Crescent against the Cross. As a Turk, the Sultah could not shake the loyalty of the Mussulmans of Hindustan, but should he take the field as Commander of the Faith ful and unfurl the Sanjak-Sherif, it would be notice to the adherents the world over of the most fanatical of all forms of religion that Allah called upon them to strike down the Christian dogs and die, if need be, to save the temporal power of the Mahommedan Pope. v The effects of the English diplomatic agent at Constantinople are directed toward the localizing of the war, but more especially to the prevention of an acceptance of the Russian invitation to enter upon a war of religion. England fears to see the Banner of the Prophet unfurled. In a crusade against the Christian emblem she dare not take a part, yet Would she be able to keep down Mussulman insurrection in India? Fighting the Crescent, Russia must have the sympathy of Christian people ; but can England endure the capture of Constantinople by Russia, even if it be followed by the planting upon St. Sophia’s of the Cross, the emblem of that faith which the Queen is sworn to defend ? The English Government, then, is deeply interested in giving to the Sultan’s attitude that of a sovereign fighting for his empire, not that of a pontiff warring for the supremacy of his church and animating his followers by every art of the bigot and the ecclesiastical demagogue against the followers of Jesus. The Mohammedan, whether the immediate subject of the Sultan or owing allegiance to some other Asiatic despot, reveres the Sanjak-Sherif as the most sacred of emblems. A fanatical priesthood will not suffer the faithful of any land to forget the significance of its appearance on a battle-field where the Commander of the Faithful leads. It must wave in triumph or the Mussulman must die. There is no alternative. It now reposes in a mosque at Constantinople, where it is wrapped and rewrapped in coverings of silk, carefully guarded by emirs who never cease their supplications to Allah that it may be saved to signal some great triumph for its prophet. It was Mohammed’q, own banner. If, in the lapse of centuries, it has disappeared, and a counterfeit has taken its place, as is sometimes represented, the change works no difference in the devotion of the blind follower of the Prophet. He believes that it is the veritable curtain that hung before the door of the favorite wife of Mohammed, and his life’s blood leaps to flow in its defense. It descended to Omar, the Second Caliph, and came down thence to the Caliphs of Bagdad and Kahira, and was borne across the Bos phorus by Amuralh lll.— Chicago Timet.

A Bare Instance of Self-Denial.

In the last German war, a Captain of cavaliy was commanded to go foraging. He set out at the head of his company, going to that section which was assigned to him. It was a secluded valley, where nothing could be seen but woods. He perceived at the door of an humble cabin an old hermit, with white beard. “My father,” said the officer, “show me a field where I can forage my horses?” “ Directly.” This good old man, placing himself at their head, recrossed the valley. After a quarter ot an hour’s march they found, a beautiful field of barley. “This is what I want,” said the Captain. “ Wait a moment,” said his conductor, “ you shall be satisfied.” They continued to march,andarrived, abont a quarter of a mile further, at another field of barley. The troops immediately dismounted, reaped the grain, placed it upon their croups, and remounted The cavalry officer then said to his guide: “ My father, you have made us go too far unnecessarily; the first field was better than this.” “That is true, sir,” replied the old man, “but it was not mme.” —The most intelligent setter known —the type-setter.

Chased by an Elephant.

A correspondent of the New York News gives this account of a fright in an English village caused by an enraged elephant escaped from a menagerie. Ayoung man from India recognized the brute as one he had befriended when in that country, at the time while crossing a broken bridge, and he takes advantage of the elephant’s gratitude. A light carriage containing only a lady came dashing over the hill behind the school-houte, while in close pursuit, with terrible trumpeting, rushed a gigantic elephant. The horse cleared himself from the carriage, and as ho did so the lady was thrown insensible upon the grass by the roadside. The school-house door was open, and the affrighted steed sprang through it. Terror-stricken faces thronged the windows; but the elephant was without, and there was no retreat. We could hear the wild snorting of the horse, mingled wi’h the screams of the children, as the elephant, trumpeting forth his rage, with trunk aloft, ran fiercely around the building. “ We must gain the clump of maples in rear of the house,” said Victor. " and try to divert his attention, or he will tear the building to splinters.” Accordingly we ran to the spot designated, and commenced shouting—the ? marled old trees close together being our ortress. Just as we reached the wood, the horse, snorting and rearing, thrnst his head through a window with a prodigious crashing of sash and glass, and out he came. Then the elephant, ignorant of his enemy’s escape, came tearing around between ourselves and the building. Perhaps he suspected what had happened, or it may have been our voices that made him turn and look around him. The moment we had avlew of his ferocious countenance, his small eyes and huge, flapping ears, Victor sprang from cover. /“ ’Tis Mizra Sahib!” he cried. “ Mizra Sahib! Mizra Sahib! come to me! Oh r you rascal! What are you doing here, Mizra Sahib?” Victor did not venture far from the trees, yet his words had their effect. He followed up his advantage with some sentences in Hindostanee. The elephant took a step toward him, then struck off obliquely, as if to walk around us. Then Victor stepped boldly forth and approached him. “ Mizra Sahib, you are an old fool. Come to me.” The great brute came shuffling toward him. “ You have not forgotten the broken bridge, Mizra Sahib ? For the sake of old friendship, give me your hand. We have together made our camp by the Brahmaputra.” The monster extended his trunk and laid it upon Victor’s shoulder. The meeting was really affecting. Victor soon delivered the noble creature to tpe custody of his master, who had hurried to the scene.

Turkish Capture of Constantinople.

For nearly 425 years Constantinople has remained undisturbed in the possession of the Turks. On May 29, 1458 the city was then the capital of the Byzantine Empire —it was stormed by the Turks, the first Byzantine Emperor, Constantine 111., losing his life in the defense. The taking of the city is thus powerfully described by Richard Knowles in his history of the Turks, published in 1603, and a second edition in 1610: A little before day the Turks approached the walls and began the assault, where shot and stones were delivered upon them from the walls as thick as hail, whereof little fell in vain, by reason of the multitude of the Turks, who, pressing fast unto the walls, could not see in the dark how to defend them-, selves, but were, without number, wounded or plain; but these were of the common or worse soldiers, of whom the Turkish King made no more reckoning than to abate the first force of the defendants. Upon the first appearance of ihe day Mohammed gave the sign appointed for the general assault, whereupon the city was in a moment and at one instant, on every side, most furiously assaulted by the Turks; for Mohammed, the more to distress the defendants, and the better to see the forwardness of the soldiers, had before appointed which part of tlie city every Colonel with his regiment should assail, which they valiantly performed, delivering their arrows and shot upon the defendants so thick that the light of day was therewith darkened; others, in the meantime, courageously mounting the scaling-ladders ana coming even to handistrokes with the defendants upon the wall, where the foremost were for the most part violently borne forward bv them which followed after. On the other side, die Christians, with no less courage, withstood the Turkish fury, beating them down with great stones and weighty pieces of timber, and so overwhelmed them with shot, darts and arrows, and other hurtful devices from above, that the Turke, dismayed with the terror thereof, were ready to retire. Mohammed, seeing the great slaughter and discomfiture of bis men, sent in fresh supplies of his janissaries and best men of war, whom he lad for that purpose reserved as his last hope and refuge; by whose coming on his fainting soldiers were again encoiiraged, and the terrible assault began afresh. At which time the barbarous King ceased not to use all possible means to maintain the assault; by name calling upon this and that Captain, promising unto some whom he saw forward golden mountains, and unto others in whom he saw any sign of cowardice threatening most terrible death; by which means the assault became most dreadful death there raging in the midst of many thousands. And albeit that the Turks lay dead by heaps upon the around, yet other fresh men pressed on still in their places over the.r dead bodies, and with diverse event either slew or were slain by theii enemies. In this so terrible a conflict it chanced Justin ianus, the General, to be wounded in the arm, who, losing much blood, cowardly withdrew himseif from the place of hia charge, not leaving any to supply his room, and so got into the city by the gate called Ro nana, which he had cairned to be opened in the inner wall; pretending the cause of his departure to be for the binding up of his wound, but being, indeed, a man now altogether discouraged. The soldiers there present, dismayed with the departure of their General, and sure charged by the janissaries, forsook their stations and in haste fled to the same gate whereby Justinian us was entered; with the sight whereof the other soldiers, dismayed, ran thither by heaps also. But, whilst they violently strive together to get in st once, they eo wedged one another in the entranee of the gate that few of so great * multitude get In; in which so great a press and confoaion of minds 800 persona were there by them that followed trodden under foot or thrust to death.

The Emperor himself, for safeguard of hb life, flying with the rest io that pre.*, as a man not regarded, miserably ended hb days, together with the Greek Empire. Hb dead, body, was shortly after found by the Tuiks among the tdifn, and the Turkish tyrant,’ by whose commandment it was afterward thrust upon the point of a lance, and, in great derision, the city. The Turks, encouraged with the fight wall, crying “Victory;” and by tho breach entered as if it had been a great flood, which, having once found a breach in the bank, overflows, and beareth down all before it; so the Turks, when they had won the outer waft, entered the city by the same gate that was opened for Jmtinianus, and by a breach which they had before made with their great artillery, and without mercy cutting in pieces ail that came in their way, without further resistance became lorus of that 'most famous and imperial city. la thb fury of the barbarians perished many thousands of men, women and children, without respect of age, sex or condition. Many, lor safeguard of their Hves, fled into the Temple of Sophia, where they were all, without pity, slain. The rich and beautiful ornamentsand jewels of that most sumptuous and magnificent church—the stately building of Constantine, the Emperor—were, in the turning of a hand, plucked down and carried away by the Turks; and the church itself, built for God to bo honored in, for the present converted into a stable for their hones; the image of the crucifix was also by them* taken down, and a Turk’s cap put upon the head thereof, and so set up ana shot at with their arrows, and afterward, in great derision carried about in ff.eir camp, as it had been in procession, *ith drums playing before it, railing and spitting at it, ana calling it the God of the Christian, which I note not so much done in contempt of the image as in despite of Christ and the Christian religion.— N. F. Graphic.

Gibraltar.

Gibraltar formore than a hundred and seventy years has been in a condition to defy any attack from any quarter. It is a mass of solid gray marble, connected with the southern extremity of Spanish Andalusia by a narrow peninsula which is entirely commanded by the fortress. This rock—at its highest point 1,439 feet above the level of the sea—is completely honey-combed with batteries, bomb-proofs, and every species of defensive contrivance. Cannon of the largest caliber frown along its face, steep escarps bar all the paths up the almost perpendicular ascent, immense cisterns ana magazines furnish abundant supplies of water and ammunition, and there is always a sufficient stock of provisions to last three years. The ordinaiy garrison consists of about 5,000 infantry, 1,000 artillery, and a picked corps of engineers; and in case of emergency there are accommodations for double this force. The last and most memorable siege Gibraltar has endured began in June, 1779, and ended in February, 1783. . The combined armies and fleets of France and Spain pounded the impregnable walls in vein for three years and eight months, and then gave up the hopeless task. The British lost 382 killed, 536 from disease, 43 from desertion, and the wounded numbered 1,008. The casualties on the other side are not known. . Since then there has been no attempt to rob England of her priceless possession—a possession, by the way, of which she robbed Spain. The present strengthening ,of Gibraltar means that England does not intend to be “ caught napping,” and that the Government does not know how soon this matchless citadel may be needed as a base of active operations in the Mediterranean and the further East. Louis XIV. threat-, ened to turn the tideless sea into ** a French lake; ” Alexander, if he had the opportunity, would gladly make it a Russian lake; but as long as England holds Gibraltar—the key of the western door—the Mediterranean is, to all intents and purposes, an’ English lake.— Chicago Tience.

Pictures of Death.

In the temple of Juno, at Elio, Sleep, and his twin brother, Death, were represented as children reposing in the arms of N ight. On various funeral monuments, of the ancients the Genius of Death is sculptured ss a beautiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings folded and hisfeet Crossed. In such peaceful attractive forms did the imagination of ancient poets and sculptors represent death. Ana these were men in whose souls the religion of Nature was like the light of stars: beautiful, but faint and cold. Strange that in later days this angel of God, which leads us with * gentle hand into the land of the great departed, into the siflht land,” should have been transformed into a monstrous and terrific thing! Buch is the spectral rider on the white horse, such the ghastly skeleton with, scythe and hour-glaM; the reaper, whose name is Death! One ofthe most popular themes of poetry fa the middle ages, and continuing down even into modem times, was the Dance of Death. In almost all languages is it written—file apparition of the grim specter putting a sudden stop to all business, soft leading men away into the “remarkable retirement” of the grave. It is written in an ancient Spanish poem and painted on a wooden bridge In Switzerland. The designs of Holbein are well known. The most striking among them is that where, from a group of children sitting round a cottage hearth, Death has taken one by the hand and is leading it. out of the door. Quietly and unresisting goes the little child, and in in countenance no grief, but wonder only; while the other children are weeping and stretching forth their hands in vain toward their departing brother. It is a beautiful design in all save the skeleton. An angel had been better, with folded wings and torch inverted.—Xmg- ‘ , Ths three great staples of the West—bacon and bams, lard and pork—oonttitute two-thirds of the total value of all kinds of provisions annually exported. In fiscal year 1876 these three articles amounted to <87,837,963, or to 62.37 per cent, ofthe $108,768,446 of exported provisions. It is noteworthy that this value largely exceeds the like export in any other year in cur history, the next largest having been $85.976,904 in fiscal year 1878.— Chicago Inter.(ktan. —Even a tramp has his advantages in