Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 18, Number 32, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 28 January 1888 — Page 2

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IJ

E A I

*!,*» V?|SM A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

NOBQDY KNOWS BUT FATHER. Nobody known of the money It takes To keep the home together INobody know# of the aebta it makett,

Nobody knows—but father.

r|Nobody*«

told that the boys need shoes,

And girl's hutu wfth a feather

uNobodyelse

old clothe* mast choose,

if Nobody—only father.

*Xobody helira that the co* 1 and wood And flour's out together

Nobody else must make them good, Nobody—only father.

Nobodv'n hand In the pocket goes J* So often, wondering whether There's any end to the want* of those «.*

Nobody—only father.

Nobody does—but father. Nobody knows of the home-life pure, Watched over by a mother, Where rest and bliss ure all secure. Nobody can—but father.

4

Dependent—only father. i%4

Nobody thinks where the money will come To pay the bills that gather

Nobody tries so hard to lay Up something for bad weather' And run* behind, do whut he may„"r»

,A

Nobody comes from the world'scroel storm To meet dear ones who gather Around with loving welcome warm.

H.

C.

IX)DOE.

(Writen for lhe Mall.J

Poet and Priest.

A STORY OF THE C0NFE8S1 ON A /,.

BY MIIM. J. M. I).

Pierre IAS Rose was the priest in charge of the little church of St. Marie it the village of St. Croix. It is useless to consult a map to And the place, but it is situated on the banks of the Loire. Vineyards surround it, a most profitable country for the makers of wine.

On summer days these vineyards present a busy scene men, women and children toil at the grapevines never complaining, butalways gay. A Frenchman is always huppy. His peculiar temperament enables him to live gaily, on a mere pittance. He oats little, drinks little, is fond of display, but his indulgences are usually of the finer, lighter sort.

The parish of St. Marie of St. Croix was not a large one the priest's stipend was small, but what cared Pierre I^e Rose. He was loved and respected by all his parishioners. What priest can but be happy when such is the case, when everywhere he is met with a smjle, when every door is open to him. Loved was he by rich and poor alike, from Mr. De Lauel in his chateau to poor Mile. Tout, the village mlilluer. All told him their troubles, mothers confided in him regarding their children, wives their husbands, lovers loved him, he was in the confidence of every ono.

Happy priest. He was handsome as well as good. An elegant figure which his priestly vestments displayed only to better advantage, his dark glowing eyes had a heavenly light in their depths. In Ins full brown locks appeared not ftgmy thread, nor a suggestion of probable baldness. He was tall and graceful. Had ho been of the world and not of the church how many hearts might he have broken, lie was a poet, also his sonnets had made him famed in his parish, if not in the outside world. His sermons showed the fire and enthusiasm of the poet as well as the sensible, sound reasonings of the priest. Many sermons are preached which are beautiful, historical productions, but which lack that glowing spark from heaven to burn hem into the hearts and brains of those who hear them.

Like priest, like people, and vice versa. Ninon Tulpin was a handsome young demoiselle of olghteen summers. She was piquant and saucy, but had gentle manners and a sweet disposition she loved to dress herself in gay colors to brighten her complexion. She was the daughter of one of the wine growers in the neighborhood of St. Croix. Ninon had but little education, little learning being deemed necessary for a girl in her position. Nature had blessed her with a fine poetic nature, and between herself and the poet priest had sprung up through the similarity of their tastes a very warm friendship, which, had he not been a priest, might have been love. Ninon often went to confession, but one secret she never confessed. She loved Pierre Le Rose.

The bishop of the diocese happened to visit the church St. Marie to administer to a large class their first communion, after which he lectured the oongregation in regard to sac religious* confessions. Ninon was frightened. The bishop was the cause of her confession to Pierre the very thing she did not wish him to know. The next morning she went to her confession to the bishop, who was still at St. Croix. She thought now she could clear her breast and make the confession which was weighing so heavily upon her, knowing it would be held sacred. She knelt at the confessional aud in soft whispers began: "Most holy father, I love." "Whom, my child?" "Pierre Le ttose." "He is a priest." "I know it, holy tether, but I love him." .* "The church is his only bride." "I know it." "Dost thou feel eoutrition?" "Yes, father, but my heart I cannot control." "Fast and pray." "I do, tether I almost starve and I pray constantly." "Conquer thy love." "I cannot, tether." "Loves he you?" "I know not/ "Why, lovtwt thou Mm?" r. "OS tether, he is handsome, noble, gentr.tus aud manly when I am at mass 1 can not keep my *ye* «n prayer •book for looking at htm when he preacher every word thrills my soul. The glance of his eye smites mv very heart. O, tether, if vou ever loved* you would

Eliv

inc. 1 know that I can never marry im. I know of no remedy but the cloister. O, tether what shall I do?" "Behold my teee," said the voice within. The curtains of the confessional wero drawn aside and there stood Pierre If Rose. Ninon screamed and fainted. Pierre left the confessional and ran to the unconscious roaH^n. He lifted her In his arm brought ho water. and sprinkled in her face. She soon revived. "Ninon" said he, "I have long gumsed your secret, I love you. I never tell to cast my eyee around the congregation to see if yon are present. When I say, 'Domisus Voblscutn," I mean 'The Lord be "1^"

with you and you only.' O Ninon, when in my boyhood I renounced the world and wed the church, when I said to myself, like that Englishman, Sir Galahad,

I naver felt the kiss of love, Or maiden's hand in mine,' I was too young to know what I was doing. When (Sod said, 'it is not good that man should be alone,' he understood, the feelings of his creatures. He never said, 'shut yourselves up in convents or swear yourself into a priesthood from whitfTi you can never escape without heaping upon your head the denunciations of the church.' O Niiion, I love you, but when I find that you love me, my strength fails, my pity for you loosens ray tongue. Yes, for you the church I will forsake, I love you more than I do h*N. "Can you not turn Protestant, Pierre, and go to England and join the establishment? There priests and bishops marry and still retain their orders. Can not you?" "No, Ninon, a Catholic I am and will be. I might turn Anglican, but a rector in an Episcopal church is a victim to the bishop on one side and the congregation on the other. He must please two masters. Ninon, I shall break my vows, no longer a priest am I, but a poet. To-night I journey for Le Havre and across the channel to London. I have written a volume of poems which I shall publish there, and then with my citizen's clothes, and a changed name in that great city, who shall know the escaped priest. You shall go with me, and at St. Paul's in London we will be married by some church of England clergyman." "Sav, Ninon, will you go?" "Yes, Pierre, I love you more than father, mother, church and all." "To-night, then, at midnight," said Pierre, "meet me under the church porch. J*} »v esm

Two figures stealthily left tne village of St. Croix very softly they walked, lest they awaken someslumberer.

When daylight came Father Le Rose was missing. Some reported that he was murdered. His house and the church were both searched. Near the altar of the virgin was found the following: "Dear Parishioners, I leave you, not because I do not love you, but because love freedom, I love poetry, and I love Ninon Tulpin."

The father of Ninon reported that she also was missing. Great was the consternation that followed. The bishop sent men to search for him, but in vain. The poet priest had gone, aud with him Ninon. A week had passed when a letter was received at St. Croix stating they were married in England.

Years afterward in London every one was praising the author of many plays and clever poems. Mr. Danton was everywhere admired and courted. He was a Protestant, attended high church, worshipped regularly and nobody made inquiry about his former history. He wasati anglacised Frenchman.

The priest of St. Croix was forgotten. On a table in his drawing-room stands a crucifix and underneath it a rosary, the only mementoes of the time when he was Le Rose, the rector of St Maries.

The Masked,Wife*

1

AN ANONYMOUS LETTER AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

I had been married nearly two years Happily married, for, as the months went by, I learned to love my husband more than even during the olissl'ul days Of our hbneymbon, and dear .John never gave me one moment's cause to doubt his perfect devotion.

Among many pleasant friends I possessed one—a young widow—who was constantly my companion when John Was obliged to be away on matters con nected with his business. She was still young and beautiful, although older thau J, much cleverer, aud much more versed in the w&ys of the world.

The chief event of the season that year was to be a masked ball. My husband had promised to take me, and I looked forward to it with delighted anticipation It was arranged that Mrs. Duckworth should go with us, and that we should all wear lovely and most becoming historical costumes of the time of Charles I.

Three days before the ball was to take plaoe, Mrs. Duckworth called on me to make some final arrangements about our dresses. After chatting some time on that all-engrossing subject we began discussing other matters. Presently I •aid: "Won't John make a splendid cavalier?"

Mrs. Duckworth assented. Then, like the fond and foolish little wife I was, -I went on to extol John's fine qualities of hbart and mind. "Ah, Molly, dear, you are young yet," Mrs. Duckworth said with a smile of amusement at my enthusiasm. "You may yet live to find that your paragon of a husband Is no better thau other men." "If you mean that John will be ever fickle and faithless," I answered warmly, "I am sure you are wrong. I can answer for John's faith as for own."

Mv companion shook her head.

t,rf

bey are all alike," she said, with the ironical smile which always touted me so much. "Some of them are kind and generous, I allow, but they are all ready for any foolish flirtation which offers. The best of them are but weak and inconstant if onoe they come in the way of temptation. Happily temptation aoes not assail all of them." "How can you talk so?" I cried. "Iam sure, no matter what temptation John was placed under, he would always be faithful and true to me." "It remains to be proved," Mrs. Duckworth said. "I hope and trust, Molly, yout confidence is not misplaced." "I know it is not, and I will find some way to prove my husband's constancy to you, you unbeliever."

Mrs. Duckworth laughed. She said no more on the subject, and soon took her leave. Her works rankled in my heart when she had gone, and all at once a plan flashed across my mind by which I might prove my husband's fidelity, and convince even Mrs. Duckworth of one man's immaculate virtue.

I at once set about carrying out my design. I wrote a letter in a feigned handwriting. I did not find this a very difficult task. The power of imitating the handwriting of others has always been one of my accomplishments. Yet I made many attempts before I wrote a letter which satisfied me, and then not before I had exhausted all the stock of letter-paper in my writing case and was reduced to my last sheet. The letter ran thus: "Mr. Vernon will be greatly snprised to receive this letter. The writer has but one excoae to offer for the boldness of her act—the excuse that she loves him. She is also encouraged by the conviction that Mr. Vernon is unhappy. One that loves and understands him begs him to meet her at the masquerade next Thursday evening. In order that the writer may easily reoogniae him, he is requested to wear a dark blue domino with a red aatln favor attached to the right shoulder. The lady will wear a domino similar in color. The utmost

caution is necessary. Mr. Vernon must find some pretext to prevent the attendance of his wife at the ball. He might inform her that he is obliged to take a jouraqy and is therefore unable to be present at the masquerade. USTKNOWN.

I concluded hastily for I fancied 1 could hear John's step on the stair. He must not see me writing. He would be sure to question me as to whom myepiswas for#

Then I addressed the letter in my assumed handwriting. I took care to slip it into the post myself. I could trust no hands but my own. We were at breakfast the next morning when the postman came. When the maid brought in the letters I looked anxiously to see if mine was among them. Yes, there it was actually in John's hand. 1 was so frightened, I almost dropped the teapot, from which I was just filling the cups— my hands trembled so. Luckily my liusband was busy studying the outside of his correspondents, and did not observe my confusion. According to Ms usual habit he did. not open his letters while still at the table1 but carried them off with him to his study to read at his leisure. What would he do with my missive, I wondered. Would he bring it at once for me to read and laugh at? Perhaps he would think it beneath his notice, or imagining it might annoy me. would burn it as soon as read.

The morning passed. John came into my room once or twice, but he made no allusion.to my letter. I dared not question him about his correspondence, lest I should betray myself. At last I madeup my mind that he had destroyed the letter and that I would think no more about it. When the masquerade was over, perhaps I would confess my foolish act, which I had itiready begun to regret. 1 wondered whether John would be angry or only laugh. At dinner that evening John seemed in unusually good spirits, and chatted pleasantly about the news of the day. Presently he broke off to say in his coolest, calmest manner: "I am so sorry, Molly darling, but I am afraid I shall not be able to take you to the masquerade to-morrow night. I have seen Johnstone this afternoon, and hesays it is most important that I should see Mr. Robinson. He will be in Epson to-morrow evening, and I mustgo down there. aud m^et him. Johnstone will i.ot aus\M«r .or the consequence if I do not go. Don't look so unhappy Molly there are worse trials in life, surely, than missing a masquerade."

What was he saying? What could he mean The room seemed to go round I felt miserable enough: no wonder looked unhappy. "I am very sorry, little woman. Is it such a dreadful dissappointment?" John, continued, as I did not answer.

I began to recover a little. It would never do to give way at once in this cowardly fashion. "Oh, John!'1 I cried, hardly able to control my emotion, "do not go! Why should yoii take that long, dreary journey? Stay with me, and I will promise you I will give up the ball and remain at home with you." "No, Molly, I really must go. You do not understand how much depends on my seeing Mr. Robinson myself, aud the .opportunity may not occur again. I confess it is very unfortunate, and a great disappointmont for you."

Nevertheless I meant to go. For was not this journey an excuse suggested by my own letter?! He must mean to go to the ball himself.

How miserable I was! Too wretched even for tears but I was determined now to play my part out to the end.

After dinner 1 procured a domino of the required color, and then wrote a note to Mrs. Duckworth, briefly explaining the state of affairs, and begging he* t* call for me at the

appointed

tnown,

hour.

How long the day which followed seemed—surely the longest I had ever known! I could settle to no employment or amut-ement. I could think of nothing but what was to happen in the evening and all the time John busied himself in his usual fashion, apparently as cheerful and happy as though he had nothing weighing on his conscience.^ Instead of looking ashamed and guilty, one might have taken him to beasinno cent as a new-born child.

When the evening arrived he said good-bye to me as pleasantly and affectionately as he had always done, and then started on his journey as calmly as though no black treachery toward me were on his mind. A thousand times I wished I had never written thjit foolish ietter. But I managed to dress myseif, and did my best to rouse my failing courage. If John were really false to me I must know the worst, and then I would leave him forever.

A gay and brilliant scene met our eyes as we entered the ball room. A throng of masked figures, arrayed In every imaginable kind of costume, moved through the brightly lighted rooms to the strains of lively dance-music. Under other circumstances how amused 1 should have been in watching the strange fantastic crowd. Unusualy, too, I was devoted to dancing, but that evening I declined every invitation.

A friend soon discovered Mrs. Duckworth and carried her away to join in a quadrille, I was glad to take refuge in a corner alone, from whence I oould observe the laughing, chattering throng.

All at once, among the ever changing crowd and moving toward me, I perceived a cavalier in a dark-blue domino with a red favor on his shoulder. For one moment I hoped it was not John. Some one surely, £y chance might have fixed up the same dress but no. I looked again, could not be mistaken in.John's tall figure and upright carriage. 1 could not see his face, for, like everyone else present, he was closely masked. In a second he was by my side. "At last," my husband's voice whis-

sred low in my ear "at last, fair unwe meet. I know you must be fair or you would not have had courage to write to me." "It was wrong and foolish," I murmured, "but all is fair in love." "Ah! dear unknown, how can I thank

?ng

rou for your kindness?" he said, pressnearer and trying to seize my hand. I drew back. I felt as though I must rush away from him at onoe and forever. Then I recollected myself. I must play my part, no matter now painful, and then I should see how be would acquit himself inl his role. So when he again attempted to take my hand I offered no resistance, but, leaning forward I whispered: "What would your wife say?" "Why need you remind me ofner?*' he answered, bitterly. "Cannot you let me forget my fetters for a moment?"

I was bursting with rage and indignant scorn but I managed to control mv voice as I said: "You must Indeed be unhappy. Poor follow! Enslaved for life through the thoughtlessness of one rash moment!"

I waited for him to reply, but he was silent. And then, I know not what possessed me, but in my dispair I acted the part of coquette as I did not know before it was in me to act. I used every art to captivate him. I told him his wife had never understood him, and that I, the unknown, alone really understood and loved him as he deserved.

He pressed his lips to my hand with passionate emotion, and at the same moment a cavalier in a scarlet domino passed us and then repassed, glancing very pointedly at as several time. I

turned away, and when I looked again he had vanished. His appearance seemed in some way to disturb my companion. He asked, a little hesitatingly: "Are you married?" "Does that make any difference to you?" I said in my coolest tones. "Not in the least, but I should like to know." "Why?" -'V:1 "Because there seems to be some one"

"You mean the scarlet domino. Don't be alarmed. I am married but my husband does not attend masquerades." "He may be here without your knowing it. I am only anxious on your account—1 have no fear on my own but I should be sorry to come into collision with any one to whom you are in bonds."

What dreadful thing was going to happen? I was so frightened I could notspeak. "Sweet unknown,** the blue domino continued, in still lower tones, "grant me one favor—meet me in the conservatory a few minutes. I long to see your beautiful face, if only for a moment, and it is too public here to unmask. Caution is absolutely necessary, We must not be seen going together. If you will go around through the card room, I will make my way there by the large ball room."

And with auother pressure of my hand he vanished. Like one in a dream I slowly rose and passed through the card room to the cool conservatory beyond it. I seated myself in a deserted corner at the farthest end, where I was somewhat hidden by the foilage of some tropical plants.

In a few moments I heard footsteps, and by the light of the Chinese lanterns which illuminated the conservatory I saw the blue domino approaching me Now, at last, I thought 1 shall drink my cup of misery to the dregs. I will make him confess he never loved me, and then farewell forever.

JER was by my side. He seized my hand and began to speak in tones of tenderest love. Again footsteps, and the scarlet domino stood beside us. He laid his hand on the arm of the blue domino, saying: "Sir, I request you to follow me." "What do you mean, sir?" the other asked, in a threatening tone.

His voice sounded strangely changed. "I mean, sir," the scarlet domino answered, unmasking, "that you area despicable villiau, ana that I am one who knows how to avenge his wife's honor!"

What a terrible moment for me! The scarlet domino was none other than John! What had I done?

He turned to me and said: "Wait here till 1 return. I have heard everything. I must reckon with him first. Your turn will follow!" "For Heaven's sake, John!" I cried, almost beside myself with fear and despair "dearest John, believe me, it is a mistake—a jest." "A jest!" he repeated, scornfully. "A jest which may be dearly paid for!'' "Then he turned to the blue domino, whom, till now, I had mistaken for John: "Follow me. You need have no fear I only require to see your face and your card. All shall be formally arranged. "I am ready, sir, to grant you satisfaction," the blue domino answered.

They both turned to leave me. "Oh'John!" I cried, in agony of grief and fear, "I beseech you to listen to me, but it is not as you tnink!"

He would not hear me, but, turning to the blue domino, he said: "Your card, sir. Why are we linger ingheto?''-

The blue domino drew out his card (base ari& presentbd John with eara from it. My husband read the name and said," with a frown: "I beg you will meet me in the park close by, at the gate house. I will be there shortly."

Then he turned and left us. "What an unlucky fellow I ani!" the blue domino muttered, as though to himself. "I am always getting into these difficulties. How many more duels must I fight?"

His words, if possible, still further increased my alarm. "Oh, sir!" I cried, "if you have any feelings of pity, listen to me. Everythingls very different from what you imagine."

Then I told him the whole story of the anonymous letter. He appeared to listen somewhat impatiently. When I had finished he said, angrily: "So yon wish to deny now all the kind things you said to me only a few min utes ago? You were flirting fast and furiously with me then, and now you tell me you were only acting. You acted well, madam I admire your talent."

With a scornful laugh he left me. Almost fainting I sank upon a seat. I was in despair. I could bear no more. A few moments slowly passed and I again heard footsteps. Involuntary I glanced up. The two dominoes were approaching me arm-in-arm. "My dearest Molly, do not take my jest so deeply to heart. Only confess, darling, you did deserve a little punishment."

It was John who spoke. I sprang up. The blue domino this time had removed his mask, and I recognized Sam Gilbert, a friend of John, whom I had met once before, and whom, till this moment, I had firmly {relieved to be in Scotland.

Forgive me, madam." he said, bowing low to me. "Your husband pressed me so urgently otherwise I could not have consented to perform such a oart."

How relieved I felt I can never describe, I could have danced for joy. But I was not going to admit all at once that 1 had been in the wrong and indeed John had been very cruel. "But, Molly dear," he said, drawing mo closer to him, "when you wish to lay traps for your unsuspecting husband, in the form of anonymous letters, you should not send him your real address. You disguised your writing famously but look at this."

While he was speaking, Johh had drawn a letter from nis pocket, which I easily recognized as my own clever effusion. Turning to the hut page hepointed to some writing in the corner. I read: "Knowle House, Bath."

I don't know how it could have happened, that in folding my letter bad never perciived this writing at the back It was probably a sheet I nad written my add rem on and then thrown on one side. I hid my blushing face in John's scarlet domino, feeliug dreadfully ashamed of myself. "But, John, it wss vpry unkind of you. If Mrs. Duckworth had not" "Yes, yes, I know." he interrupted me. James told me all about it." "But really. John," I said, almost crying again, "she was not so very wrong after all. I am sure you ccted Don Juan as though vou bad been doing nothing else all your life, for I know you changed dominoes just now." "Yes, so we did. But then, yon see, I knew all the time it was my own dear little wife I was making love to so warmly, so the role was a very easy one." "You dear old John, I promise you will never try to catch you tripping again."

The use of a single bottle of Hall's Vegetable Sicilian Hair Renewer will show Its efficacy la restoring the natural color of the hair and cleansing the scalp.

A Few Gostroaonleal Items. Senator Joe Blown, of Georgia, says the sweetest thing on earth to him is "puddled duck and sweet potatoes," and an old waiter at Washington says that John C. Calhoun dearly loved sweet potatoes and opossum. He would come into a restaurant and say: "I, want you to get me a nice fat oppo8Bum.| You must cook it the day after it is killed parboil it first and then put it into a hot oven with bo&ed $weet potatoes around it, and cook it slowly until it is brown. If you con get a 'coon make some 'coon gravy and pour it over the 'possum and flavor with salt, pepper and sage.

Calhoun often hunted 'possums himself. He liked hot corn bread and buscuits, and th3 only part of a chicken he would eat was the breast Andy Johnson's favorite bread was the old fashioned corn dodger, and Zach. Taylor, upon sitting down to an elaborate dinner and looking with an annoyed expression at the bill of fare, was asked if there was anything more that he wanted. He replied, as he scanned the pate de foi gras and the other French dainties: "This is all very well, but I would really prefer some flitch and eggs." Taylor was very fond of iced milk, and it is thought that the lunch of cherries which he washed down with iced milk on the day of the laying of the corner stone of the Washington monument had a great deal to do with helping htm into his coffin. —Frank G. Carpenter in New York World.

Slaughter House* of Paris. Close by the market of La Villette are the slaughter houses where the oxen are killed by a blow from the merlin anglais, a sort of sledge hammer, one extremity of which is rounded into the form of a punch. The slaughter man strikes the ox in the middle of the forehead and punches a hole X7hich stuns the animal, and through this hole he plunges a cane Into the brain and the animal dies instantly. The ox is only bled after it is dead. The Jewish butchers, on the other hand, who have a special organization depending on the consistory of Paris, bleed their beeves alive. At the slaughter house the Jewish butchery is directed by a controller, who has under his orders schohtim or sacrifleers. There are generally five schohtim. When a butcher wishes to have an ox killed for Jewish customers he applies to the controller, who sends him a schohet to kill the beast according to the Mosalo law. The ox has his four feet bound with a cord, which is atbuched to a windlass and tightened until the animal falls on its side helpless. A helper pulls back the head of the ox, and the schohet, reciting mentally a prayer, advances and cuts its throat at one stroke, and the animal is left to bleed to death and die in agony so terrible that it melts the hearts oven of the slaughter men, who often give the ox a blow with the hammer to put an end to his sufferings in spite of the Mosaic code.—Paris Cor. New York Sun.

Nationality in Beards.

An observant friend who had been examining a collection of faces representing a large number of the public men in the United States, made the following general conclusions in regard to national types in the cutting of the beard, which contain more than grain of truth. "Tho simple mustache, with the rest of the l'ace clean shaven, is the prevailing American type," he said. ''The old time Yankee chin whisker,ilike that «pf the trfulitionnl Undo Sam, is no longer the national cut. In the same way the old French type of the imperial, or heavy mustache and long goatee, has given way in France to the present type of a close cut full beard trimmed to double points on the chin. The German and Russian national tjjpes are heavy full beards parted at the middle of the chin. The English type is a small, short cropped mustache, with small square side growths. The general south European type of Spain or Italy is either an entirely clean shaven face or else a very small mustache and goatee crowded close about the mouth.—Boston Advertiser.

Foreigners In a Restauraut. Notice a Frenchman, or an Italian, or a Spauiard enter a strange restaurant, and tee how he reveals his European training as soon as he crosses the threshhold. He raises h!s hat slightly, bows aud takes a seat. This little ceremony means in English: "Gentlemen, I am a stranger, but I hope no intruder." When he has paid his score to the cashier, especially if she be a dame du comntolr, as in his own country, he tips his hat, bids her good day and goes out into the world again, leaving a sunny ray of courtesy behind him. These little things count in the long run.—New York World.

The Caricaturists of Parts. The French caricaturists wero busy during the recent crisis making M. Grevy and M. Wilson targets for their wit. One showed the republic in the gulso of an avenging angel driving the president and his son-in-law from the Elysee. Another showed M. Wilson leaving that palace, with M. Grevy weeping at the window. Another portrayed M. Wilson standing at the door of a curiosity shop, asking passers by to step in and purchase decorations, while M. Grevy was in the background taking in money at the counter. Yet another pictured MM. Clcmenceau and Rochefort vainly trying to hoist M. Grevy out of the presidential chair by means of a crane, and finally exclaiming: "Oh, it's no use! He's screwed fast!"—Chicago News.

New Knfflaod's Blue Blood.

1

The Boston Transcript intimates that there is very little blue blood in New England in the English sense of the word. "The Pilgrim Fathers," it says, "wwe good, plain, intelligent people, above the yeomau class of their day, yet neither of nor on a level with the gentry of their English home. From just such a stock came the Americans of today. It Is an ancestry to be proud of. But, alas! for the sensibility of cur plutocracy, it is not noble."—New York Tribune.

v..

A Lisbon, N. n., shoe pes manufjicturer found sale in Germany for the cmtire production this year of his tectory— 24,0U0 bushel*.

Oar American belles-Oar American belles— Bar sweet Is the story their beauty tell*— They are wise bellea, too. Jfor It their wont To um every day their SOZODOJiT Which sweetens breath and keeps teeth well. No wonder we're proud of oar American belles. ________

Why has Sosodont

Beoome the staple Dentifrice of America? Simply because It is impossible to use it, even for a week, witfiout perceiving its hygienic effect upon the teeth, the gums and the breath.

Breakage is immaterial if yon have SPALDUQHI GS.CS at hand* 21-4w

ENGLISH SCHOOLS.

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN "NATIONAL" AND "PUBUC" INSTITUTIONS.

Kton, Barrow, Rugby and Westminster^ Cost of an English Boy's Education. Defects and Advantages of the System.

In After Life.

The expression, "public schools/' is one which bears a totally different meaniug. in this country from that which it bears in America. What we Americans call public schools are known here as "national" or "board" schools. These are comparatively a modern institution, and, though they do not afford an absolutely free education as they do with you, yet the charge of them is very small, and it is about certain that in a few years they will cease to make any charge at all Free education one of the cries on which the Radicals and the democratic Tories, led by Lord Randolph Churchill,, seem to be of accord. as.

But in almost every way these "national" schools are as different from what are known among Englishmen as "public" schools as it is possible 'for one kind of school to be from another. Indeed, the English public school is ono of those purely natural growths which are peculiar to this conservative country, and there is said to be nothing in the least corresponding to it in any other country in the world.

The names of Eton and Harrow, and perhaps Rugby and Westminster are familiar to most readers of English fiction, and the conventional description of the young man who has received all the advantages of an "Eton and Christchurch education" (aud is not infrequently an Intolerable prig in consequence) is not unknown. But, probably, most people have but a very votzue idea of what is the nature of these "seminaries of sound learning," as they are pompously termed in an old English composition, and of what sort of life the boys lead at them. And yet there is hardly any one institumtion of English life which could be named that has a greater influence in molding the character of the upper classes in this country and in influencing—through them —the course of the history of the English people generally than these same public schools.

To give a definition of a public school would be as impossible as to give a definition of so many other of the anomalous and illogical institutions which have arisen in the course of centuries, apparently of their own accord, in the British isles. But what is meant by public schools, in common parlance, may be somewhat roughly explained if we say that there are certain large boarding schools containing from 300 to 1,000 pupils each, at which the cost of maintaining and educating a boy varies, including all his expenses, between something like $500 and $1,250 a ytfar, unless the boy be exceptionally clever, in which case he can largely pay his own way, and which have received a share of favor among the landed and professional classcs of English society sufficient to entitle them to assume a description which is so highly prized as is that of a public school.

The custom of sendinc boys away from their homes, to be herded with a crowd of other boys for ten months out of the twelve, while they are between the ages, perhaps, of 11 and 18, and during all that time depriving them of the softening effect of home and feminine influence, is one that, certainly does not at once commend itself to the thoughtful mind. And yet so universal is it among the leisure classes and the professional classes and a large portion of the wealthier commercial classes in Ensland that it is safe to assert that if through delicacy, or dislike of parents for the system, any boy belonging to one of those classes has not had the benefit of such an education, he feels himself at a loss for the want of it pretty frequently throughout the course of his life.

An education at an university is a distinct gain to a vnun, but the absence of an education at a public school is a distluct loss. It is difficult to say why this should be so. There are few people who have reached years of discretion who would assert that the education offered by the English public schools was even as near an approach to an ideal education as the same amount of expenditure could afford. It turns out boys generally quite unable to converse in any language but their own boys who think that the most shameful act they can be guilty of is any display of emotion which comes under the damning desciiption of "bad form boyf in whom originality and often even genius has been as much crushed and suppressed as these godlike qualities can be, and who have had their corners all knocked off to mako them fit—though square originally —into the round hole prepared for them In school life, and boys too often who esteem more highly succc In the cricket field than the highest prizes which can be won in the universities, the law courts or parliament.

Thinking Englishmen in after life may often be heard to regret that instead of spending those six or seven years of their life going through the mill of an English public school they had not been given a couple of years is France, a couple of years in Germany, and perhaps a couple of years at an American college to finish up with. And there can be no doubt that such a course of treatment would in all probability have turned out a more brilliant and accomplished man than does the usual routine education. Yet so conservative, and we may say unreasonable, a thing is life in England, tbst we believe that the man who in his boyhood had been given such an education as has lieen outlined above would, if his lot in after day* had been cast in England, be found frequently regretting that he had not the associations, the friendships and the mors! qualities which his friends around him had derived (rom their school days at Eton, at Harrow, or at Rugby.—San Francisco Chronicle.

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Druggist, 157 8. Second Htreet. f|

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