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Free Speech, Free Press, Free People.
UBS. A. J. UCMWAT. Editor and Proprietor.
OFFICE Cor. Fbont & .Washington Streets
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Devoted to the Interests or Humanity.
Independent livrolltics and Religion.
Hive to all Live Issues, and Thoroughly
Radical in Opposing and Exposing the Wrongs
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:POTtTjL..AJNT, OREGON, FREDAY, -A-TTGTIST 11, 187C.
OUE EAETH PAST AND PUTUEE.
All nature seems replete with mys
tery. Let the scientist pursue Jiis in
vestigations in whatever direction be
will, and be is met by problems so ab
struse, with obstacles so formidable, or
apparent contradictions so irreconcil
able, that at every step he is lost in
wonder and admiration, or so con
founded as to be tempted to lay aside
the great book of nature as one too pro
found for his intellectual powers, or too
contradictory for his credence. Yet,
thanks to the persistency of modern re
search, much light has already been
thrown upon many of the natural prob
lems that bad previously baffled human
genius, and enough of the apparent
contradictions have been reconciled to
convince the thinking that none really
exist, but that the entire universe is
governed by fixed laws, and forms a
consistent, perfect whole.
Less than a half-century ago the pop
ular opinion, founded upon a strange
misunderstanding of the first chapter of
Genesis, was, that this planet upon
which we dwell, with all the stellar
worlds, was created but about six thous
and years ago. A very 'limited knowl
edge of the sciences of astronomy and
geology, however, is sufficient to con
vince one that our earth has existed for
untold ages.
Tbe law of succession seems to per
vade all the phenomena of nature. Day
follows day; lunation succeeds luna
tion; spring-time, with its leaves and
flowers, returns in its season to be fol
lowed by summer with its blos
soms, autumn with its fruits, and
winter with its chill, and astronomy
tells us that not more certainly does
day follow night, or season follow sea
son, than cycles of about 21,000 years
in duration follow each other. The ge
ologist reads upon the earth's crust the
indelible imprint of not less than six
teen of these successive cycles, which
places the date of creation back at least
330,000 years. I am aware that scien
tists do not agree as to the agencies that
have wrought these wonderful changes
in the physical geography of our earth,
but they do agree that, where we now
see parched deserts and elevated moun
ranges, and fertile, blooming valleys,
sometime in the remote past, old ocean
reigned supreme.
It is well known that the earth has
no less than three distinct motions its
diurnal motiou on its axis, its revolu
tion about the sun once a year, and a
wabbling or gyratory motion, which
causes the pole to describe a circle iu
tlie heavens with a radius of 23i in
20,000 years. This last motion is what
occasions what is called the "precession
of the equinoxes."
The path of the earth around the sun
is an ellipse with the sun in one of the
centers; hence, it will be seen that we
are nearer the great source of light and
heat during one-half of the year than
we are during the other. At the present
time, the nearest approach of the earth
to tbe sun is about the 1st of January.
Then we are some 3,200,000 miles nearer
than on the first day of July. And,
since bodies travel faster when near
the center of attraction than when
farther away, it follows that the earth
passes over our winter portion of her
orbit iu eight days less time than over
our summer portion of it. South of the
equator, however, their winter is eight
days longer than their summer. And,
since the earth is over three millions of
miles nearer the sun during our winter
than in summer, and at her greatest
distance from the sun during the winter
in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be
seen why the Antarctic winters are-
more rigorous than those of the Arctic
circle. Year after year for ages past, a
constantly augmenting quantity of ice
has been forming within the Antarctic
circle, and, iu proportion to the increase
in weight of the Southern Hemisphere,
the earth's center of gravity has slowly
moved toward the south pole, drawing
the waters away from the Northern
Hemisphere, and piling them up toward
the south pole; aud this is probably the
agency that has uncovered the couti
neuts of Europe, Asia, and America no
less than sixteen times. But, Is the
Northern Hemisphere to henceforth
enjoy perpetual immunity from these
aggressions of old ocean's billows, or
will the law of succession once again
bury us beneath the inhospitable deep?
In about ten thousand years there must
come a complete reversal of polar con
ditions aud climates. But how? It is
universally conceded by astronomers
that the ellipse which the earth de
scribes in moving around the sun is
itself revolving, so to speak, making
the circuit of the heavens in about
90,000 years; and, since this motion is
direct, or in the direction that the sun
appears to move, and that of tbe equi
noxes tne reverse, it will be seen that
the conjunctions of the equinoxes
wnicn cause the modifications of cli
mates on the earth, are accomplished
In a much shorter time according to
me calculations or an eminent Scotch
mathematician, in about 21,000 years
Now, our nearest approach to the sun
being about January 1st, in 10,500 years
tbe same will occur on the first day of
July. Now, our winters in the North
ern Hemisphere are short, and comnar
Itlvely mild, and those of the Southern
Hemisphere long and rigorous. Sup
pose, men, that the plauets of our sys
temMars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus,
and Neptune should all be on that
part of their orbits that our little earth
will occupy at her aphelion, she would
be drawn millions of miles away into
inhospitable space to wrestle for months
with conflicting forces, and, when she
did at last break away from them, she
would, according to the third law of
Kelper, fly past her perihelion so
quickly as to make little impression on
the vast accumulation of ice that would
have gradually gathered in the North
ern Hemisphere.
It has been found by calculating the
planetary orbits aud conjunctions, that
our earth has been as much as 14,000,000
miles farther from the sun at her great
est eccentricity than at present. This
was about 850,000 years ago. 200,000
years ago, however, the focal distance
was 10,500,000 miles, and the excess of
winter days twenty-eight, which would
unquestionably extend the ice limit far
into the temperate zone.
Look, then, for a moment, at the ef
fect of this state of things, which the
science of geology says has existed in
the world's history, and which the sci
ence of astronomy says must exist
again. Tbe long and hot summers of
the Antarctic will unlock the icy fetters
that have bound that desolate region
for ages; that pole would become cor
respondingly lightened, and, if the esti
mate of the mathematician already al
luded to be correct, that the melting of
a mile in thickness of Antarctic ice
would lower the southern sea level 500
feet, aud with this removed, and that
amount deposited within tbe Arctic
circle, there must be a deepeuiug of the
northern seas of probably 1,500 feet.
The earth's center of gravity would be
moved toward the north pole, the
southern seas drained oil toward the
equator, lands for centuries buried be
neath tempestuous floods would gradu
ally rise above the sea level, enriched
by the sediment of ages, and continents
would appear where scattered islands
only now are seen. And our Northern
Hemisphere ? It must sink a thousand
feet beneath a frozen ocean, leaving but
its rugged mountain tops to wrestle
with pitiless tempests that must beat
upon them, unchallenged again for un
told ages.
Then, all the monuments of the
skill aud enterprise of ambitious man
will lie buried in a watery tomb, to be
biddeu for ten thousand years, aud to
emerge again, as great a wonder to the
then busy throngs of eartli as are the
pre-historic ruins of Mexico and Yucu
tau to us to-day. These changes, as
will be observed, must take place
slowly not perceptibly in the short
lifetime of a single individual; but, if
our maps and histories are preserved
for the use of coming generations, they
will see verified what we only predict
upon scientific hypothesis. Ouoli..
A Tradition of Saratoga Lake.
There is an Indian superstition attached
to this laUe which probably had its
source in its remarkable loneliness aud
tranquillity. The Mohawks believed
that its stillness was sacred to tbe Great
Spirit, and that if a human voice ut
tered a sound upon its waters, tbe canoe
of the offender would instantly siuk. A
story is told of an English woman, iu
the early days of the first settlers, who
had occasion to cross this lake witli a
party of Indians, who, before embark
ing, warned her most impressively of
the spoil. It was a silent, breathless
day, and the canoe shot over the surface
of the lake like au arrow. About half a
mile from the shore, near the center of
the lake, the woman, wishing to con
vince the Indians of the erroueousness
of their superstititiou, uttered a loud
cry. The countenances of the Indians
fell instantly to the deepest gloom. Af
ter a minute's pause, however, they re
doubled their exertions, and in frown
ing silence drove the light bark swiftly
over the waters. They reached the
shore iu safety, and drew up the canoe,
when the woman rallied the chief on
his credulity. "The Great Spirit is
merciful," answered the scornful Mo
hawk; "lie knows that a white woman
cannot hold her tongue!" William L.
Stone, in Harper' s Magazine for August.
Something to Set Us Thinking.
Ninety years hence not a single mau or
woman now twenty years of age will be
alive. Alas! how many lively actors at
present on the stage of life will make
their exit long ere ninety years shall
have rolled away ! And could we be
sure of ninety years, what are they?
"A tale that is told;" a dream, an
empty sound that passeth on the wings
of the wind aud is forgotten. Years
shorten as mau advances in age. Like
the degrees in longitude, mau's life de
clines as he travels toward the frozen
pole, until it dwindles to a point aud
vanishes forever.
Is it true that life is of so short dura
tion? Will ninety years erase all the
golden names over the doors in town
and country, and substitute others in
stead ? Will all the now blooming
beauties fade and disappear, all this
pride and fashion, the love, hope, joy,
pass away, and be forgotten ? "Ninety
years," says Death; "do you think I
shall wait ninety years? Behold, to
day and to-morrow, aud every day are
mine. When ninety years are past, this
generation will have mingled with the
dust aud be remembered not!"
A farmer's wife entered a dry-goods
store in St. Louis the other day and In
formed tbe clerk that she wauted "one
o' them 'ar wimmen's hats that spread
out big, covered with white muskeeter
netting, and which is gittiu' so fashion
able." The clerk showed her one, but
when he mentioned the price, $1 75,
the matron sprang to her feet aud ex
claimed : "Look-a-here. vounir man !
Maybe you know the vally of 'skeeter
nein' ana wire linlu', and maybe you
don't. I don't care. I know it. lean
take my old hoou-skirt and a nlpr o'
sheetin' aud make that thing for half
nie uiuuey, ana I'll ao It.
Elsie's Secret.
UY HESTER A. BENEDICT.
"I wish you wouldn't do it, Elsie.
I've said so scores of times to you, too;
but it seems to make no difference."
"Does it not please you to have me do
what I think is right, Paul?"
The face that Elsie Heath lifted to the
face of her lover, Paul Devereaux, was
a little flushed; but it was full of earnest,
honest purpose, and anyone (except a
lover) looking at it and listening to her
low, measured, intense tone, would have
left off coaxing, aud reasoning, and
remonstrating, knowing that eitherand
all would be unavailing.
"You put things so oddly, Elsie," Mr.
Devereauxanswered, impatiently. "No
body ever thought you weie doing a
positive wrong in patronizing all the
poverty-stricken people you could hear
of! It may be right I suppose it is, or
you wouldn't do it but it's dreadfully
humiliating to me; and I can't help
feeling that if you loved me"
Something in the girl's face checked
tbe words, and the sentence was not fin
ished then.
"Elsie," after a long pause, "why do
you go among those people? Why do
you haunt the shops, the sewing-rooms,
the alleys, even? for I've followed you
aud watched you when you little knew
I was near?"
"Paul ! you dared to do that?"
"Why not 'dare?' You are my prom
ised wife. Ought there to be a secret
between us? Is it not my duty to
watch over, guard, and protect you ?"
"And to follow, me like a spy, as if
ray work or my play, whichever or
whatever my mission was, were un
worthy Elsie Heath !"
She had risen aud stood looking down
on him, "a saint's scorn" on her young
face, her eyes Hashing, her little form
rigid with indignation. He had gone a
step too far, and he knew it but would
not acknowledge it. He laid down the
book he held, got up aud took her
hands in his, patting them with li is
white patrician fingers with an air that
said, plainer than any words could, "Be
quiet, pretty beastie; lam yourmaster!"
"Elsie, little Elsie," he said, "really I
don't see any reason for your haughty
ways and your angry words. You must
own it's a little hard on a fellow to be
quizzed, and teazed, and tormented as I
am, on every hand, aud by those who
know of our engagement aud of your
secret !"
He pressed her hand spasmodically, as
if the little word "secret" hurt him; but
she did not seam to notice.
"I know of course I know that the
secret, whatever it may be, is not un
worthy you; but why, in the life of a
girl like you, should there be anything
hidden from from the man whose wife
she is to be? It is incomprehensible,
and I I am not pleased that things
should go on in this way longer."
Siie withdrew her hands from his,
leaned a little heavily on the piano, as
if for support, and looked away from,
and asked quietly:
"Will you tell me what would please
you, Paul ?"
"Yes; give up your strange habit of
strolling forgive me! I can't call it by
any other name let the girl-life end
be my wife! O, Elsie, my darling,
don't look at me so ! Don't shake your
head ! I will care for you so tenderly,
dear. I will shield, protect, and love
you !"
"I know it, Paul oh, I do know it
and just uow "
She broke down there, fortunately,
perhaps, for both.
"'Just now' what?"
"Never mind, Paul," she answered.
"My heart was drowning my judgment.
It is better so. I cannot please you in
your way yet indeed I cannot, Paul.
But I love you ! And, dear, be patient
with me and wait."
She had laid her soft hands upon his
and was lookiug at him with her great
soul iu her eyes. But bedid not Bee the
soul. Maybe it was not his fault. He
let her hands fall suddenly, turned on
his heel, and walked suddenly across
the sweet morning-room aud back
again, stopping abruptly beside her, and
saying, almost contemptuously:
"A woman's love must be taken at a
discount, if taken at all, when it will
make no sacrifice for sake of the be
loved. I love you. I would do any
thing, be anything for your sake. But
for me you will not give up even a habit
that is repulsive to me and compromis
ing to yourself. And you love me!"
The quick color flushed the girl's face.
For a moment bitter words were on her
lips, but she kept them voiceless till
they died. Then :
"I think you will be sorry for those
words when you are yourself, Paul," she
said, "because they are unworthy of
you, and they are unjust to me. I do
love you! That love is my breath,
blood, pulse, existence. But
"'The Lord who fashioned my hands tor work
ing Set me a task, and it Is not done.
"You do not know the nature and ob
ject of my labor. Just uow I cannot
tell you. You must trust me, wait for
me, keep faith with me, or we must
drift apart. That is all, and that is
everything to me."
"My God, Elsie! Do you know what
you say ?"
"I kuow what I say I know what I
say."
How cold and white she was ! And
cold aud white and crushed her grand
aunt found her, an hour later, leaning
there still on the piauo, just where her
lover had left her, her wide eyes fixed
on tbe finger from which she had taken
the betrothal ring, aud the pink leaves
of the roses she had worn lying, forgot
ten, down at her feet.
"I wish you would cry, child," the
old aunt said, that eveuing, after they
had talked together for an hour. "You
never do anything as other women do.
I don't object to that in the main; but
in this instance a shower of tears over
your white cheeks would make me hap
pier than I was with my first pocket."
Elsie laughed,' aud laughter was bet
ter for her than tears, just then.
"Auntie," she said, thridding the old
lady's silver hair tenderly, "you re
member the divine who, laying his
hands on his dead mouarch's head,
bowed his own, and said: 'God alone is
great!' And 1 have heard you call him
eloquent. I am thinking to-night of
how far more eloquent was he who,
standiug lu the presence of his kiug,
with all the gold aud tinsel aud trap
pings of royalty about him, turned his
eyes from tbe careworn lines on the
royal brow, and from the hollow-heart-edness
of fawning courtiers through tbe
window upon tbe embrace and lovintr
kiss which greeted a tired peasant over
the way, and said, aloud : 'Love, alone,
is life!' Auntie, dear, there was morel
of true God-life in the peasant's kiss and
the bright flash of welcome from love
lit eyes, than in all the circumstance of
kingly splendor, crown, and jewels. It
was tbe divine part of a true man and a
true woman looking upon itself through
human eyes aud human hearts. It was
that mysterious essence of life that in
comprehensible something which wom
an only expresses in the pet name of
God love ! And love is lost to me !"
"You are wrong, my child, my little
one. Love is not lost to you, nor can
be. If his heart is worth your having,
anil if it ever truly loved you, it will
come back to you. There is uo perfect
love without perfect trust. Dou't you
know this, Elsie, child?"
But "Elsie, child," only nestled closer
to the old aunt's bosom, and was silent.
"Mr. Devereaux Is a gentleman, and
he thinks he loves you. But he has no
sympathy witli the working class or
what immaculate society call the work
ing class and he cannot bear that you
should come iu contact witli them as
you do, and must, if ever you are to be
a help to them in any way. You are
down with them when you hunt them
in their homes or at their toil. Your
finger is on their pulse. You watch
their struggles, and you kuow how hard
it is for them. You have a mission a
high mission given to you of God, and
you must not do violence to it, as you
surely will, if for love's sake you cease
to sow and to reap! Of the thousands
who kuow to-day, as a household word,
the name of 'Alixeue,' only three there
are who dream that that popular author
and Elsie are one. A child creeps be
fore it can walk, though there be a few
who seem to step out from tbe mother's
lap erect from the start, and whose
hands and knees were never soiled by
contact witli the dust of the earth. In
literature, as iu any other calling of life,
most of the aspirants for its honors
creep slowly at the start, aud are re
joiced, if when the hour of old age is
upon them, they can look around and
see some fruits of labors and hear some
little commendation of tiieir efforts. If
you walked not from the first, you
crept but little, and you have increased
your pace and lengthened your strides,
until you can look back from your
stand-point of to-day upon hosts of toil
ing ones who are far, far in the distance
behind you. You have accomplished
much; but yon are capable of doing
more and better, and you must. This
is the crisis of your life. To reveal your
secret now, eveu to him, might ruin all
your glorious prospects. As his wife
you could uot put pen to paper for the
public's good, without incurring his dis
pleasure. Your uew work must be com
pleted as it was begun, sub rosa, or it
will never be completed as it should be.
You must rise to the high dignity of
your mission. You feel thespiritof it
thel.longing for it; but the woman in
you makes you faint and falter to-night.
This is but nature as we speak of other
souls of yours, it is your weakness. As
what would be strength in a cord would
be weakness in a cable, so what would
in other women would be great and
grand, in you would be commonplace
and ordinary; and that is death foryour
life is not in tbe heavy atmosphere of
valleys, but in the rarefied state of
mountain-top into which you are being
lifted by God's hand and your own."
"But, auntie, I am so tired to-night,"
sobbed Eisie. "Hands, and head, and
heart are all so tired !"
"I know, dear, and you are wounded
and battle-stained. But God is leading
you by the hand, God, who gave you
glorious gifts, who made you a pearl
among pebbles, au exotic amoug herbs,
a star upou the dark of many and many
and many a life. You have worked aud
you have won, I know. You are high,
you are glorious, in your divinity of
womanhood, but the fields are white
still with the harvest, and tbe laborers
are few. The next ten years are your
best-years. If you cloud and shadow
them, or allow them to be clouded and
shadowed, they are gone forever, with
all their chances for growth and good,
and you cannot, in all the future, com
pensate for their loss. You must either
rest on the laurels already wou, aud step
aside for the next caudidate for honor
and place and influence or you must
go on, up, out of his way to tbe summit,
where you have a right to staud.
Which shall it be, my darling?"
The June roses were nodding sleepily
in the moonlight on tbe casement be
side them; the small hand bad forgotten
to thrid the silver hair; tbe young head
lay on the old bosom quietly euougb;
but tbe heart in the young bosom had
been crying at Gethsemane, and God
aud the angels knew how, in that still
hour, so fragrant and so fair, Elsie
Heatli climbed up the Calvary heights,
bearing tbe burden of ber cross.
"Which shall it be, my darling?"
"I will be wedded to my work,
auntie," the girl answered, lifting her
face from over the old heart whose idol
and hope she now was; "I will be
wedded to my work. Pray God I may
not die at the altar!"
A year later, Paul Devereaux saun
tered lazily into the sanctum sanctorum
of the book reviewer of the Loudon
World.
The former had been for six months
on the continent; tbe latter had been his
playfellow iu boyhood, bis chum iu col
lege, his stanch, true friend always.
"What have you here, Will?" in
quired Mr. Devereax, laying his gloved
finger's tip down on the marked page of
an open book.
"Oh, something that will make wry
faces here in England and iu our own
America, too, for that matter but a
truth, nevertheless, a grand, sorrowful
truth. Listen : 'To work or not to work,
is the question every woman thrown
upon her own resources struggles to an
swer. To work brings independence,
strength, and the means to a pure, use
ful life. But if she be of a fine, sensitive
nature, she has learned there is uo com
panionship, no sympathy or encourage
ment for her among tbe people whose
work she does. The moment she takes
tbe needle in her hand to stitch out the
daily bread of her existence, that same
needle digs a ditch so wide, a cafion so
deep, that the piteous voice of a starv
ing girl can never reach the hearts of
those to whom the needle belongs. Not
to work means starvation, suicide, or a
beastly sell of body aud soul to the
deepest depths of hell !' It's true, Dev
ereaux; every word of it is heaven's own
truth, and you and I know it. Of all
the" women in all the world, I would
like-best to get ou my knees at tbe feet
of Elsie Heath."
"Elsie Heath !" Mr. Devereaux's face
grew suddenly very white. "In the
name of all that's mythical, what do
you kuow of Elsie Heath ?"
The young reviewer was busy with
his thoughts just then, and did uot ob
serve his friend's agitation. He heard
his words, however, and answered, ab
sently: "Oh, only what all the world is find
ing out, namely, that she promises bet
ter than any female writer of the age,
in short. 'Alixeue' and 'Elsie Heath'
are one, as you will see by the title
page." What Paul Devereaux saw on the
title-page was not only that "Alixeue"
and "Elsie Heath" were one. He stood,
holding the chastely-bound volume for
a long time, his face to the window, his
back upon his friend, and that soft June
morning a year agone seemed scattering
its roses about him; hecouldsee the flut
ter of his darling's dress; tbe pained,
pleading look in her drowned eyes;
could hear her saying, "I do love you !
That love is my breath, blood, pulse,
existence!" And once again the glory
of ber presence and of her love was over,
and around, and through him "just as
of old;" and the twelve months of weary
wandering were for the moment lost to
sight and to memory.
Twelve hours later Paul Devereaux
was on board the "Oceanic" homeward
bound.
"I am only one of a world of worship
ers at your feet to-day," he said to Elsie
Heath, one hour after the ship's arrival
in New York. "I hold your hand in
mine, and to devote my energy, my life
to you is the grandest, best object and
aim I have in my life, though to walk
in the same pathway is not amoug its
hopes. I did you grievous wrong. I
was a fool I was mad. I meant to
bend you to my will, and I failed. I
thank God that I did fail, though you
are lost to me; for you stand so high to
day in the world's worship, and I love
you enough to rejoice, unselfishly, iu
the joy that has come to you a better,
worthier, grander good than as my wife
you would have compassed ever. But I
want your forgiveness, dear. On my
knees I beg you to forgive me for the
cruel wrong I did you !"
For many minutes she sat, still as a
statue of pearl, ber hand iu his, her eyes
toward the moon that was climbing up
over tbe sycamore in the garden; then :
"Women like me love not lightly,
and never love but once," she said, lay
ing her disengaged hand upon ber
lover's locks, and smiling down on his
lifted face. "You asked me to forgive
you, Paul. I will if if "
"If what? Tell me tell me!"
"If you will give me back my ring!"
And the swallows slept among the
sycamore blooms; the moon climbed up,
and on, and away; the winds were wild
with joy for "the jubilant June;" tbe
world was sweet, and glad, and young;
and somewhere, I think, iu some sweet,
limitless land, the seraphs smile to
gether over little Elsie's Secret.
How Mrs. Peduncle Got Even.
Mr. Peduncle went out to milk the
other day. Now, if there is one thing
Mr. Peduncle prides himself upon, it is
his perfect command of a cow. With
his bucket on the ground, he milks
with botli hands, and sings meanwhile,
occasionally bestowing a word of warn
upon tlie cow If she whisks her tail at
him or tries to scratch her back with
her hiud foot. On this occasion be tiad
nearly finished aud was singing cheer
fully :
"My soul (so now) be on thy guard;"
(What in tlie Egyptian sandhills ails
this cow?)
"Ten thousand (thunder and borax !
stand still) foes arise "
And as Mr. Peduncle raised himself
up from the barn floor ami wiped tlie
milk out of his ears and nose, be saw up
in tbe loft the wife of his bosom with a
long switch in her hand, with which
she had been tickling tlie gentle ani
mal's nose, and she said in an awful
voice :
"Oliver Peduncle, I'll reckon you'll
wrap your old tobacco-box In my hand
kerchief again, next Sunday, won't
you? and have me take it to church
and sling it out on the floor hey ?"
When he milks now, Mr. Peduncle
sings very softly indeed, and keeps one
eye on the loft. Chicago Courier.
Lillie Devereux Blake gives the fol
lowing iu the New York Era : "A poor
womau came to a friend lately, begging
for work. Why, Mary,' she said, 'I
thought you were employed iu the city
court-house.' 'So I was, ma'am, but I
lost me vote.' 'Lost your vote !' ex
claimed the lady; 'did you ever have
one?' 'No, ma'am, but me husband
did, and he's dead.' Actually, this
womau, who had been employed to
scrub the court-house, had been turned
out because she had uo vote to represent
her! If she had been a voter herself,
she would not have lost her work."
Weighty Thoughts. A regular at
tendant on the ministers' meeting at
Boston is reported to have said: "Some
of tbe brethren have weighty thoughts,
but have difficulty in uttering them;
others express themselves with facility,
but communicate little of value. The
former have ball without powder; tbe
latter powder without ball." This is
just tlie difficulty of the majority of
ministers, outside of that seat of learn
ing as well as iuit. A proper combina
tion of powder and ball, well fired ofl,
is an exceedingly felicitous thing.
Samuel J. is not a handsome man,
and probably no Governor ever gave tbe
Albany photographers so much trouble.
One of them says: "I never saw such
a countenance as bis when lie sits for a
picture and tries to look his prettiest.
Tlie expression of studied repose be
comes quite painful; the eyes seem to
shrink from the ordeal; the lines about
them multiply rapidly, aud the brows
gather until tlie whole upper part of the
face comes out in the picture like the
photograph of a piece of old tripe."
The more married men you have, says
Voltaire, the fewer crimes there will be.
Examine the frightful columns of our
criminal calenders you will there find
a hundred youths executed to one father
of a family. Marriage renders a man
virtuous aud more wise. The father of
a family is not willing to blush before
his childreu.
An illiterate preacher improves upon
the ordinary version of the holy scrip
tures by sermonizing from the text:
"First cast out the bean in yerown eye,
and then you'll kuow how to cast out
the bats that's in his'n." This probably
rendered tbe command more effective
in the agricultural districts.
The Squire's Attachment."
"Bax !"
Baxter Jones, called "Bax," for short,
was Squire Syphax's office clerk.
"Yes, sir," answered Bax.
"Fill me out a writ of attachment,"
said tho Squire. "I'll stand no more of
tbis nonsense."
"Yes, sir; what name, sir?"
"You'll find it there," said the
Squire, writing on a card, and tossing it
over to Bax, who picked it up and sat
about his work. The document was
speedily finished and presented to tbe
Squire, who affixed his signature.
"Give it to Constable Darby, and tell
him to serve it without delay," said the
Squire.
"Yes, sir."
"And when he brings In the prisoner,
report to me."
"Yes, sir."
Squire Syphax, magisterially, was tlie
sternest of men; individually, he was
one of the mostsoft-hearted aud yielding.
For the moment he was filled with of
ficial indignatiou toward a delinquent,
on whom, for some coutemptuous disre
gard of the law's behests, he was deter
mined to visit its weightiest penalty.
He was still feeble from a recent and
severe attack of illness, aud while
waiting the return of the warrant he re
tired to seek a little rest, meanwhile
forgetting the cares of office in a de
licious reverie, of which tbe charms of
a certain lovely creature were the cen
tral feature. In this occupation let us
leave him for the present, merely pre
mising that he was a bachelor, both
diffident aud susceptible.
Bob Darby was a constabulary model.
He did his duty to the letter, and ex
pended few words about it.
When tbe servant came, in answer to
his ring of widow Goodheart's door
bell: "Is your mistress at home?" Bob
inquired.
"She is," was the response.
"Tell her I must see her," said Bob.
"She's very busy," replied tlie maid,
"and, unless the business is very par
ticular" "It is werry partie'lar," interrupted
Bob, brushing past, and entering with
out ceremony. "I'm werry sorry to ill
conwenience you, mum," be said, when
Mrs. Goodheart had made her appear
ance; "but I've got to take you over to
tbe Squire's right away."
The widow turned pale and trembled.
"Has tbe dear mau has he had a re
lapse?" she asked, in a tremulous tone.
"Coultlu't say, mum," answered Bob.
"All I know is, it's a case of 'tach
ment." "A case of attachment!" exclaimed
the widow, the color mounting to her
handsome face. .
She saw it all. A relapse, perhaps a
fatal one, had surely set in; aud the
Squire, whom she had long beeu wait
ing for to speak his mind, but whose
modesty had hitherto prevented, had
doubtless selected this critical moment
to declare his feelings. She would
have preferred to see a mission so deli
cate entrusted to other bauds than
those of the town constable, but the
suddenness of tlie emergency, it was
likely, had left no room for choice.
"I shall be ready in a moment,"
said the widow; aud so, indeed, she was.
"There's a kerritige at the door,
mum," said Bob; aud, when he had
handed the lady iu, nothing more was
said till they reached the Squire's door.
That functionary, like many country
magistrates, kept his office at his house,
and into the apartment so appropriated
the widow was at once ushered.
Bob Darby, having duly signed the
return upon the writ, handed it over to
the Squire's clerk, who proceeded
straightway to notify His Honor.
As the latter entered he started witli
surprise. Instead of the contemptuous
culprit, Dick Slote, at whoso guilty
bead he was prepared to hurl the law's
anatiiemas, it was tlie lovely widow
Goodheart, the angel of his dreams,
whom he saw before him ! Iu the
name of all the Dromios, what diabol
ical error was this ?
Catching up tlie returned warrant, to
his horror he read:
To Any Constable, Guektino: You are
hereby commanded to take the body of Doro
thy Goodheart, and brin;; the same forthwith
belore me, etc.. etc. C'alkii Svi'iiax, J. P.
Darling a look of wrath at tlie clerk
and the constable, he ordered them to
withdraw.
"My dear Mrs. Goodheart," began
the Squire, blushing to the tips of li is
ears, "how can I atoue for this annoy
ance 1"
"Oh, it's no annoi'ance, I assure
you," simpered the widow. "I'm so
glad to find you are uot ill."
"But but this unfortunate attach
ment," stammered the Squire, dashing
aside tbe ill-starred document.
"I I have long returned it," naively
murmured the widow, turning as red as
himself.
A gleam of gladness flashed over the
Squire's countenance. Could it be she
was ignorant of tlie indignity she had
suffered ? And then, to find the ice so
happily broken ! He clasped her hand,
pressed it to his lips, and poured out
the tale of his pent-up love with au
ardor and eloquence which fairly aston
ished himself. Tlie widow's pretty
head dropped on his shoulder, as, with
alteruate smiles aud tears, she listened
rapturously to what she had been so
long waiting to hear.
Tlie Squire came back a happy man
from escorting the widow home that
eveuing. But the sight of Bax Jones
aroused his fury.
"How dare you pay me such a trick ?"
he thundered.
"What trick?" inquired Bax, inno
cently. "What trick? Why, putting Mrs.
Goodheart's name in that attachment."
"I put in tiie name you gave me,"
answered Bax.
"It's false !" roared the Squire.
"Here's tlie card," rejoined the clerk.
Tlie Squire glanced at it. It was one
of Mrs. Goodheart's cards, left witli some
delicacy which she had sent during his
late Illness. Ou the blauk side lie had
unwittingly written the name to be in
serted in the writ. Whether tbe clerk
had copied from the wrong side by mis
take, or had played ofl a practical joke,
was not quite clear to the Squire's
mind; fur Bax, in point of gravity, fell
far short of his distinguished namesake,
the author of "Saint's Rest."
However, in view of the happy
issue, and Bax's earnest professions of
innocence, he was finally let ofl, but
with a caution both to him aud Bob
Darby never to mention the affair under
pain of the Squire's hot displeasure.
But a story too good to keep always
will get out. Judge Clark in New York
Ledger.
Correspondents writing over assumed signa
tures must make known their names to the
Editor.or no attention will be given tothe''
communications.
Facts about 0 Porto.
O Porto is in size the second city in
the kingdom of Portugal, and iu business
equals, if it does not surpass, Lisbon,
its superior iu magnitude. It is situa
ted ou the left bank of tlie river D'Ouro,
and coutains a population of 90,000
bodies or more. From the village of
Saint John at tlie mouth of tbe river up
to O Porto, the river runs between
mountain banks rising precipitately
from the water to a height of several
huudred feet, aud these banks present a
beautiful appearance at this seasou of
the year. From bottom to top, terrace
upon terrace rises covered with grape
vines, fig and orange trees, and shrub
bery of various kinds, while upon every
favorable spot a house clings to the
niouutain side as closely as the ivy
clings to its sides iu turn. Everywhere
the appearance bears to the eye of the
beholder the impression of antiquity.
Here and there a building looks as if it
had been newly painted in red and
white, yellow and white, or green and
white, but on the most of them there is
a uniformity of old, faded, worn colors,
and stone walls blackened by time.
The ride up tlie river is oue full of ro
mantic interest. Once iu the city, cu
riosity multiplies. Along the riverside
is a solid stone wall, built, no one
knows how long ago, which at oue time
enclosed the city. It is said by some to
have been built by the Moors, who
once inhabitated the country, and of
whose presence some ancient laud
marks still remain. Long ago, how
ever, the city outgrew the limit of the
stone wall, and it remains only along
the river front, and iu several points in
accessible to builders upou tlie moun
tain sides. From the water two prin
cipal streets lead directly up into the
city. They are very roughly paved
with huge stones, and one wonders if
ever a loaded team attempts to climb
them. A late improvement was the
building of a new street for a long dis
tance upon a gradual inclination aloug
the elevation of the hills. But there is
no possible way of getting up into the
city without climbing, sometimes up
long niguts ot stone stairs, sometime
up narrow, crooked streets, but always
up until you obtain the desired alti
tude. Then, if you wish to move in au
easterly or westerly direction up or
down tlie length or the city, you must
either climb or descend, or both, again,
for the city covers these high hills.
There is, oue might say, no manufactur
ing doue here at all. Cloths, silks, cot
tons, etc., are all imported from
England and France. All of their coal
is brought on ship-board. Vessels
bring fish from Newfoundland, al
though there are plenty of fish iu tlie
river and sea but a few miles away.
Wheat and corn are imported from the
United States, and but for this supply
of late years, I am told, there must have
beeu a famine iu Portugal. Oak wood
aud staves and sulphur are also im
ported. In fact, about ail that is needed
to make a city is brought from over the
sea. The country produces a- great
abundance of nuts of various kinds, and
oranges, olives, onions, grapes, wine,
and cattle. All of these are exported
largely. But it is tiie country, aud uot
the city that produces, and that should
be beuefited by them. The fact is,
however, that here we have what is
cursing ourown land a very large com
munity living entirely upon the mere
work of exchanging for tlie farmers and
shippers what they should exchange for
themselves. The people are, however,
not so poor as they are iu our country
under similar conditions. There is an
abundance of ignorance aud poverty
everywhere to be seen; but, having
made it my conscientious aim to see
life here as it is, so that I might speak
of it confidently, I am compelled to say
that, iu any city of the same size in our
country, oue will see far more of abject
poverty, ignorance, degradation, aud
real misery, than can be found here.
Why is this? The answer must be,
not that the system of education or the
government of the country is inferior to
what exists here, but that the cost of
living is so much less. With us, tlie
worst degradation and poverty and ig
norance is to be found amoug immi
grants who are Catholics, so that it can
not be said that it is Catholicism that
makes the difference. Put these same
people into a country where the cost of
living would be doubled, and they
would sink speedily into what we see iu
all large communities, such as Boston,
New York, or London.
Tlie very highest wages paid for labor
here is seventy-five cents per day, and
the average wages is thirty-five cents
for the women still less than that.
There are many church holidays when
all work is suspended. Aud most of
the working people are without any reg
ular trades, there being but few trade,
and they pick up work wherever and
whatever they can get. Tlie loading
and unloading of vessels furnishes em
ployment for many of them, because
the city hasn't a single wharf by the
side of which a ship can He to discharge
her cargo. She is moored in the stream,
aud a long heavy plank from the stone
quay aloug the river to the rail is tba
bridge over which the entire load is
carried upon tiie heads of men, aud often
women, loo, when the cargo is anything
iu bulk that can be taken up iu conven
ient loads. It is astonishing to see what
au enormous load one of these porters
will carry. Our graiu is in bags weigh
ing 222 pounds each, and oue man will
take one of these bags ou his bead aud
shoulders and carry it ashore with ease,
and will keep at it all day long, too.
Tlie women also carry burdens that
would frighten one of our delicate
American girls into consumption im
mediately. But they are hardy, healthy
looking people, though quite small iu
stature, as a general thing. It is amus
ing to go out upou the roads leading
into the country morning or evening
and meet the women as they trudge to
or fro from home to market. Huge
baskets that would make a good-sized
wigwam, full of oranges, pears, cher
ries, cabbages, onions, salad, peas, beans,
chickens, etc., as firm upon the top of
the head as if they grew there, tbe arms
swiuging free by their sides, while,
barefooted and barelegged, they tramp
away with a long, steady swing that
would task an old campaigner. Some
times you will come upou a knot of
them, girls generally, who have set
their baskets down and are resting
themselves by joining in a merry dance
in which they accompany themselves
with songand laugh that defies dull care
aud keeps their brown faces young.
"Whrt is true by the lamp," says
Joubert, "is not always true by tlie
sun."