DEVOTED TO NEWS, LITERATURE, AND THE BEST INTERESTS OF OREGON.
VOL. 11
OREGON CITY, OREGON, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1877.
NO. 52.
THE ENTERPRISE.
A LOCAL NBWSPAPEB
o
rOR T If L
1'ariuer, UudurM nut! Fimll Clrrla
I88VBB I V H Y T H D B BD AT.
PRoPRIF.TOtt AND PUBI.KHHH.
Otttoial Paper for Clackamas County.
Utti: In l.ulerprliic MwlHIwt.
due door South !' Masonic Building. Main Sttvrt.
Tvriuit ot Kubaoriplioii i
3 Copy, uue year, in advance j (0
diugty Cop . otx mouths, in advance i BO
Tfrun of Ail i ortlkius :
Traualeut advertisements. lllQllll1lB ail legal
uotiee. t square of twelve linen, one
we '1 o
iui each subsequent insertion 1 00
Una Column, oua year VM oo
Half Column, one year CO 00
uuwttc Column, one year 40 00
Buslnew Card, one square, CM year 1J 00
SOCIETY NO TICKS.
OREGON LODGE, No. 3. I. O. O. F.
"Meeta every Thursday Evening. 1t-!va.- - t
J J o'clook. in Odd Fellows- nail, C.iT-Si " !
Iaiii Stn .rt. Vlemheri ot the ()rderyiaaL 4
r invited to attend.
By order of X. O.
REBECCA DEGREE LODGE, No. 2.
j. u. u. r., meets on the Second aud
J-uurth luesday Evenings of each month,
at 7 it o'clock, in the Odd Fellows" Hall!
Members of the Degree are invited to
attend.
FALLS ENCAMPMENT, No. 4,
3. O. O. F.. meets at Odd Fellows- Hall tmQ 15
ttw First and Third Tuesday of each month. XbO
.Patriarchs in good .standing arc invite. 1 t
attend.
MULTNOMAH LODGE. No. I.
)A.r.iA. at., noias its regular commuui-
wuoui on ue rirst and Third Saturdays t
in a.V. . . - . 1 , l ....... r V f"
oi BepieniOiT me JOtli of Mur.-li i 1 f
J o'clock from the Joth of Mar, h to tlo-
iOth of September. Brethren in fjood wtaudiui are
invited to attend. By order of W. M.
BUSINESS CARDS.
WARREN N. DAVIS, M. D.,
I'hy n: i:aei unci Surgeon.
(Jraduate of the 1'iiiveraity of Feuasyl vania.
Office at Cliff House.
CHARLES KNICHT,
O AH B T , o I. E Q O X ,
Physician and iruggit.
VPresription carefully filled at short notice.
. Ja7-tf
PAUL BOYCE, M. D.,
Ph.Vi'ian aul Surgeon.
oreuon City, Orf.oon.
Chrome Diseases aud Diseases ot Women aud
Luildieu a specialty.
Office Hours day and uls-bt ; alwjjs ready when
July calls. auu2r.t"-7i;-tl
DR. JOHN WELCH,
DENT I ST.
OFFICE IX ORKUoX CITY OREGON.
Highest aib price paid for County Orders.
JOHNSON & McCOWN,
ATTORNEYS aud COUNSELORS AT LAW
OREGON CITY, OREGON.
Will practice in all tho Courts of thn Slate.
Special atteution given to cases in the Cnited
States Lead cdice at Oregon City. ."lapr'TJu
L. T. BARIN,
aTTOBSEI ax law,
OREOON CITY, OREOOX.
Will practice in all the Courts of the State,
novl, '75-ti
W. H. HICHFIELD,
ESa i ii i i i ss ii o i alnoe i ti, j
Oue door North of Pope's Hall,
I I I ST.. OBKUOX CITT, OKI UON.
7. Ttmvu of batches. Jewelry . and
3lii Thomas Weight Clocks, all of which'
are warranto.! to be u rrr.,Jo......i
Keptrtng done on abort notice; uidthankfti
a' 1'sivi wnan.
Caib Paid tor County Orate ra.
JOHN M. BACON,
nnntrn am km
fICTFRE FRVMES. MOI'I.DINOS AOT MISC1 V
DANEOtS GOODS.
IBiBII n ine to oicikk.
Oregon Citi. OSMOX.
At the P(,st office. Main Street, west side.
novl. '7.-.-U
J. R. GOLDSMITH,
SENEBAL K 1 3 r8 PA 1 1 : R
4'ollrrtor and Solieifor.
PORTLAND. OREOON.
SyBent ol references given. '-' '
HARDWARE, IRON AND STEEL,
II Hl. SjMtkt S. KilllH.
OAK. ASH AND HICKORY PLANK.
XORTHKI I at fMBJWS,
uiai31,'TC-tf Portland, ()rg..n.
J. H. SHEPARD,
BOOT AVIfSIIOISTOKI:.
One door North of Ai kerman Rros.
aBcota and Shoes ma le and repaired aa cheap
m the cheapest. novl, 75-ti
MILLER, CHURCH & CO.
PAY THE HIGHEST PRICE FOR WHEAT.
At all times, at the
OREGON CITY MILLS,
Aud have on band FEED and FLOUR to sell, at
market rates. Parties desiring Feed must furnish
sacks. novpj tf
A. G. WALLINC'S
Pioueer ISook Biuder.v
Httoek'a Building, cor. of Stark and Front Sts..
PORTLAND, OREOO.V.
BLANK BnuKS RULED AND BOUND TO AXT
desired pattern. Music Bocks. Magazines,
-'ipi)rn, etc , bound in averv variety of style
"own to the trade. Orders from the country
Wroiaptly attended to. novl, 'TS-tf
OREGON CITY BREWERY.
HUMBEL fc MADDER,
ui.r8 Purchased the above Brewerv.
cIr " lnfori" "e public that thev areU
ZuiLT"vlt,:'i to manufacture a No. lB
4, OF LAOER BEER,
u-j1 Jk?.L?f1 Lc obtained auvwheie in the State.
MUdWd and promptly filled '
4-1 a
S 1
THKEE KVKMXVN AHB OXK Al'TER.
soon.
Three evenings and one afternoon
Aud this was all her life you know;
And after hopes, and fears and woe
Three evenings and one afternoon.
She hardly dreamed of noons to be.
She never thought of evenings spent;
She treasured moments as they went
The moments of the fatal three.
Aud that one afternoon the air
fined sweeter and the sun more bright
The lake was hid in golden light;
And all wis glory, everywhere.
1 1 i-rucl hours to pass so toon
She wondered as she felt the bliss.
Could Paradise be more than this
ThrM evenings and one afternoon.
Good n'niJ-.
A VINTAGE BONO.
i 'lice more the year its 1 1 loess ours
To iheci '.he heart ot toil:
i 'lice more we take with gratitude
The blessings of the soil.
1 hear the children laugh and sing,
They pull the grapes together;
Vnd gladness breaths from everything
In this October weather.
The winter days were long aud dark.
The spring was slow to come;
And summer storms brought fear and doubt
To many a humble home.
Bat rain and sunshine bad their will
And wrought their work together.
And see: we heap our baskets still.
In this OdOber weather.
My heart has bad its winter, too,
And lain full bare aud gray ;
1 did not think a spring would come.
Much less a summer day.
How little did 1 dream that life
Would bring us two together,
ud I should It- a happy wife
In this October weather!
Doubtless the frosts will come again.
And some sweet hopes must die;
Hut we shall bear the passing pain,
And smile as well as sigh;
Nor let ns cloud the fears of ill
This golden hour together;
Tor God is in His garden still
In this October weather.
Scribner far f'ctobn:
THE LILIES BY THE STEEPLE.
Out in the noisy world, where people
rim hei'o and there, few stop long
enough to study out the soul behind
their neighbor's grimaces. If he smiles,
he must be happy; if he sighs, dyspep
tic, may be. Anil, on the whole, what
u man is does not come into account
one-half so much as what he does. Out
in the world this is; still there are places
where it matters what he thinks of
things. All the public wanted to know
of Jacob Strong was that he sold cur
tain fixtures and cords, locks, keys anal
screws, and that he carried his stock in
trade about with him. One afternoon
in .Time Jacob was going home. Husi
aess alter May was dull; then every
body was moving or cleaning house,
aud he reaped his modest harvest. He
used to shudder as he passed the swarm
ing, dirty tenement houses, for if his
home had not chanced to be where it
wus be could have aflorded no higher
rent than was paid here. This hot day
he treaded his way through the narrow
streets aud past stalls smelling of stale
fruit, stopping only once at a flower
stand. Here somebody jostled by the
crowd had knocked off a tea-rose, bruis
ing the flower, andJsreaking the pot.
"Sell it to me for ten cents?" asked
Jacob.
The angry vender hesitated a minute,
then rolling up dirt and rosebush to
gether gave the paper to Jacob. He
hurried on, turned into an old square,
through a by-lane to the rear of an
ancient brick building. The first floor
was used for offices and a Masonic hall,
the second for a mission school and
storing rooms, the third for offices again.
The style of the architecture suggested
a church, and such, indeed, it had been.
There was such a brilliant sunset light
without; but here Jacob stumbled up
and through shadows until he reached
a familiar door and opeued with soft
eagerness. Such a quaint room as was
disclosed! The new partitions were of
onplastered plunk now nearly covered
over with brown wrapping paper; above
were the rieu old oaken beams of the
church ceiling: on the spotless floor j
were rugs, soft and old-fashioned, an j
antique chair, tall-backed and once i
richly cushioned, stood at one end of ;
the apartment, which, for some reason
was live siiled. The pulpit chair was a
little removed from theevery-day cheaj)
furniture as if it were the only tit com
panion for the only glory of the place, ;
which was a small round window of
stained glass having in its centre an
Agnus l)ei. Everything else was
homely, but sweet with cleanliness. A
thick white curtain cut on one corner
of the room, and two doors opened out
one into a tiny kitchen, where Jacob
retiredto wash his hands and put down
the rose paper. With his forehead
cooled and his gray hair pushed off it,
one had a fair look at the tall, thin man
and could not learn much from lm im
movable face; but under his black,
shaggy eyebrows were singular eyes
blue and clear, like a child's. As Jacob
turned back, the white curtains parted
uuiekly. aud a small woman in a short
gown and striped skirt seemed to have
come suddenly out from a nap and to
be troubled on that account. She tied
a silk handkerchief about her head,
which was covered with short hair as
white as silver, and in a cheery voice
began to chatter, "Dearie me, Jacob!
six o'clock and no supper for you! And
I lying there like Marjory Daw '."
"What! Ye haven't been and sold
yer bed. have ye? It appears to be
there all the same. There, there, old
lady, don't hurry. Ye know well enough
how it takes the breath out of ye," and
Jacob caught her by the raffle on her
jacket and held her still for a second;
not in play, btit soberly, to break up
her speed, she having started rapidly
for the kitchen. She laughed, showing
even teeth and a gentle, good old face,
only white unnaturally white.
"Ye're right, Jacob; if I go a bit
slower I gain time in the end. I was a
little more tired than ordinary I "
"Have ye been down the stairs this
long day?"
She stammeed like a child before she
confessed that she had.
"Well, if ye go down the morrow,
Dolly, hereafter I'll lock ye in that is,
if I have not yer promise."
"And if ve have it'.'"
"Then what need of a lock?" and
Jacob loosed his hold on her gown, go
ing himself to fill the tea-kettle and set
it to boil on their pocket-edition of a
stove. Dolly drew out tho table, put
ting on bread, meat and one or two sim
ple viands. When the tea was made the
old couple drew their chairs to the ta
ble and Dolly bowed her head, saying
aloud: "We confess our unworthiuess,
we acknowledge Thy goodness, we
? raise Thy tender mercies and give
hee thanks." She could not see that
Jacob looked open eyed at the blue and
crimson window. She turned his tea
from a funny, brown earthen pot, round
like a cannon ball, and suddenly cried:
"Well-a-day ! Here we be a eatin'
away and the door not opened!"
She so emphasized the words that
really they must be put in italics quite
as if there had been but one out of the
room, not three. It was plain what she
meant when she flung it wide open; for,
if their home was queer, this outlook
was queerer. In adapting the old
church to present uses all sorts of ex
crescences had arisen out of and overran
it. Their own snuggery was fitted into
its hypmost, unavailable corner, and this
door opened into an unaccountable bit
of flat roof, away, away up above the
roar of the city, under the glowing sun
set sky, so high that distance softened
picturesquely all ugly sights below, and
the eye could take in at a sweep the
waters of the bay, returning to rest just
here again in the delight of Dolly's
heart her garden; for a garden this
was. That very moment the soft June
air stirred lilies and roses and violet
and golden pansies, all planted in broad
boxes of earth and tended by Dolly's
own hands. She had a bit of rag car
pet out here, and her work-basket by
her rocking-chair, where she sewed
when alone. Y'ou think it must have
been too sunny by day? Ah! now
conies her beautiful surprise the hoary
old steeple, that gave in solemn glory
to Dolly's garden that which was given
to her room in radiance by the stained
window. It is a great thing to come
into possession of bits of church if you
have mediseyal tastes. Dolly had; she
never ceased to rejoice that nobody at
tempted to pull down the steeple. There
it rose over her garden, up, up, grand
and cool, like the shadow of a great
rock. How she loved it! She know
how it looked, soft and gray, against the
pink clouds at daybreak. How cool and
massive in hot noon times, when gay
breezes came behind it to dance with
her saucy sweet-pea vines! And often
at midnight when jmins kept her awake
(for old Dolly was not well ) she watched
it, huge and black, among the stars, the
moon stealing from the clouds over it.
Perhaps Jacob enjoyed the steeple as
much as Dolly, for one-half his life was
in contrast to elevated things was
spent down below, among rag men, fish
markets and people fighting for six
pences, but it was not his way to talk
much. To-night, after supper, they
went out, and Dolly planted the tea
rose, with enthusiastic little sniff's at its
perfume, and a great deal of expressed
rapture generally. Polks had called
Dolly, years ago when young, "a little
fool," because she had a fashion of look
ing for sweetness every where and find
ing it, too, as honey bees can among the
commonest flowers. She had white
hairs now, but was not wiser than then.
Jacob brought her the box and dirt and
water, watching while the rose was
planted. Then, walking across the
flower-bordered space, his foot fell upon
something soft. He stopped to pick up
what he thought to be a ball of Dolly's
yarn ; it proved to be a child's red shoo
a little, worn one, wrinkled with use.
He held it for an instant, turned toward
Dolly, and, as she cowered down trem
bling, asked sternly:
"Has she been here again?"
"I made her stay just a little while.
She feared I was sick. Oh, Jacob! Ja
cob! can't you remember she was our
own little .lane?"
"Was. Y'es, was," said Jacob, between
a growl and a groan. "And she brought
that here that thai "
Something in Dolly's white face made
him mutter a word; then his voice grew
louder again: "Didn't I forbid her ever
to set foot in the home again? and twice
she has done it."
He raised his hand and flung the wee
shoe afar out and off into the street be
low, as he would have thrown a live
thing with a cruel wish to kill; then
turning, he shut the door behind him
harshly. She dared not go in, and he
did not wish her to follow. He sat
down and hid his face in his hands, en
raged at fate. Dolly had loved her
pretty daughter. Jacob had idolized
her. She belonged to prosperous days
when he had been a gardener in the
country. Y'es, this little Jane that
"was," seemed to belong entirely there,
among simple, sweet scenes, fitted by
her life and gayety to go along with
birds, butterflies and spring blossoms.
Was she dead? Oh, worse to him she
was lost to him, in anger, not in sorrow.
Down somewhere, this hot night, in the
surging life of the great city was a wo
man and a child; all color gone from
the cheeks and the life of the one the
other shame-branded by its birth. She
was not in actual want; a pittance hail
been left her; but she had sinned she
had fallen, and so he said she was no
child of his. The Christ who had com
passion on one like her might as well
never have lied, for any plea of like
pity in Jacob's heart for this little Jane
that was.
Outside, Dolly watched the stars com
ing out one by one; could not let herself
do anything else for a while as she
pressed both hands over her heart. To
watch or to pray made it sometimes
leap, flutter and then seem to stop beat
ing, so that Jacob and Jane and the lit
tlebabv all faded from her like phan
toms. Dolly had a heart disease, and
many a time was aware of the Death
Angel passing
e r Swiftly by
With the stladness of one who goeth
In the light of (iod most high,
and anv time she knew that he might
stay for her. When she had been alone
a half hour Jacob opened the door to
say she would take cold . It was quite
a shelter to weak things under it; al
ways like a strong father in a storm to
the roses and the lilies."
"A father a father !" Jacob rolled
and tossed all night in troubled thought.
Only once he slept and dreamed he saw
the little red shoe in the mud of the
street, all torn and trampled by horses'
hoofs. Now things fancied at midnight
are so vivid that all at once Jacob real
ized how hard and cruel he had grown
how bitterness and revenge had taken
up all hia soul. But toward morning
God did not let Jacob think how he
loved him and after that he fell into a
deep sleep.
The next day was Sunday a day the
old couple always enjoyed. Jacob
could be at home all day and they
planned to have some little treat, for
during the week Jacob acted as janitor
in the building. It was in this way he
earned his rent and a trifle besides.
They had, in the past, known more
prosjjerity, but had not come to dire
poverty. Dolly never expected to.
Every sparrow under the church roof
echoed to her Christ's words of trust.
On this Sunday, Dolly rose np and
made the two rooms dainty with fresh
touches, with gay flowers in chubby
pitchers. She put on her whitest neck
handkerchief and when breakfast was
over said to her husband, "Don't ye
stay at home, Jacob, because I must.
Go ye to the Church and hear good."
Jacob looked intently into her eyes,
his own curiously bright. "What would
ye like best, Dolly ? I've a mind to
give ye a wish; take yer time now any
thing." She panted, clasping her wrinkled
hands. He ought not to have excited
her thus. Then she whispered, "If
she might come for all day ! If ye'd
just look at the wee baby."
She thought he might be angry, but
he colored, and, for the first time in
years, kissed her awkwardly. Jacob
was tender, but not effusive. Then he
went out and shut the door. He came
back in a few moments, and she dared
not ask if he had sent a messenger, but
believed he had. An hour later, while
the mother lay behind the white cur
tain, the door opened softly, and there
stole in a slender woman, all in black,
save for the baby gathered to her breast
like a lily. She was sadder-faced far
than Dolly, and she had eyes most like
the father to whom she ran- at whose
feet she would have fallen if ho had not
received her in his arms, child and all.
Dolly parted the curtains, then sank
back among the pillows. She listened
to the low voices and soft sobbing for a
long time; she grew once or twice faint
with happiness, and half wandered in j
her mind, always, though, in a dim,
beautiful shadow land a region tinted
by her flowers, her bright window al
ways with sweet, solemn thought of j
God's great love. How, "Like a father
pitieth his children, the Lord pitieth
them that fear Him." Jacob summoned
her by and by and seemed to want to
make everything go on as usual not
like a scene of any sort. The young
woman carried the baby out among the j
flowers and left it for Jacob to study
with a kind of grave curiosity while she
went back to help her mother. A great
load seemed to be slipping from her in
this old atmosphere of home. It was
again a holy Sabbath day; she had wept
for such- -as left behind her forever.
Then Dolly was so happy ! She went
about singing, "Jerusalem the golden,"
and murmuring: "She'll never go
away ! She is here at last ! Jacob can't
turn them off now !"
Of the two women Dolly was really
the younger. She had her life-long
walked in the light; the other had been
Bhadowed by blackness, and it is sin, I
not time, that tells in this way. The
baby crowed and shouted at the straw
berries grandmother displayed for din
ner aud clung to its grandfather as if it
had planned its own siege upon his
heart; so as the hours went by Dolly
was perfectly content about its power, j
When all the cheerful bustle of dinner
was over, and baby asleep along with
the shut morning glories under the
friendly steeple, then Jacob said :
"Come, little Grannie ! Get ye into
yer pulpit and preach us our Sunday
lesson !"
Dolly laughed softly, for she knew
what he meant. Ever since Jacob se
cured the old carved thairinthe per-!
version of the church to its present uses,
that had been invested with a kind of j
sanctity. Jacob would never sit in it.
Dolly, when alone, when in bodily suf
faring, when in agony of soul for her !
fallen one, used to kneel there, as in an
oratory. Again, Sunday afternoons,
the condition upon which Jacob would ,
listen to Dolly's "psalms and hymns
and spiritual songs" was, that she sat
here in state; sweet in her holiday tidi
nasa and as much of a saint in his eyes !
as any ecclesiastic who in older times
might have used it.
"Come, come, Dolly ! Give us a text;
ye'll get no bigger congregation by
waitin'."
"Put awav teasin', Jacob. Ye need
no sermon this day; ye've lived it for
yourself. Haven't ye lifted our Janey
up with ye where God's sunshine can
fall on her ? Let a body do the like,
and there is small need of works about
it only it'll fall back upon ye in bles
sin' out of the tender hand of the great
Porgiver; mind ye that, Jacob ! And
now, Janey, child, the wee baby has
been baptized with over many tears; let
it lift up its little head with God's other
pretty flowers; they'd never thrive un
der no end of rain and shadow. Ye'll
do no harm to take note, moreover. Ja
ney," she added softly, "that a body
forgets all about the dirt any of 'un
comes up out of, if only after a little it
jblossoms out sweet to the very heart of
I it. I'm weak like now; and then alivin'
up here above the people, I'm out of
sight of things that used to seem black
tome; but with the lilies and the stee
ple and seemin' nigher to heaven, I
can't worry or get afeered. I believe so
much in the 'light that is sown for the
righteous.' and the 'gladness for the
upright in heart'- nay, nay, Janey,
don't ye hang yer head ! I'm not a shut-
C0URT3SY OF BANCROFT LIBRARY,
UXIVZRSITY OF CALIFORNIA.
tin' ye out from that blessin'. The Lord
raiseth them that are bowed down. And
dark, but away to one side the lights on
the water twinkled like fire-flies. The
air was heavy with the perfume of Dol
ly's lilies she herself unseen, but her
voice fell on his ear plainly :
"O Lord, in much patience must my
peace be, so help me not to think all is
lost when a thing falls out against me.
Let me abide in Thee and the darkness
cannot tread me down. Let Jacob know
how God loves him and think if he de
serves it. Make us live in faith, walk
in love and be taught by the Spirit how
to make our corner of earth a little like
heaven. O wash her poor soul white
and give the little baby an angel to keep
watch over it. Put evil far from us, for
Christ's sake."
Dolly was still then a few moments
before Jacob said kindly, "Come in
now; ye'll get over tired;" and when she
came in he made unusual efforts to be
gentle. Dolly might have done a good
deal more with Jacob if ske had only
known her power. As it was, she struck
a master stroke that night by exclaim
ing, before she fell asleep, "How fear
some lonely ye'd be, Jacob, with nobody
to be good to ! Y e've a will like a rock,
but ye mind me often of the stone tower
when He raiseth ye, ye'll be 'upright, '
never fear !"
The little old woman's breath began
to come with labor, aud Jacob made her
stop talking that Janey might read to
her instead. Then the baby awakened
and seemed to find a great deal too much
solemnity in the air, for it laughed and
chattered and spun about with most un
sabbatical levity. Jacob wondered at
it, and, as he gazed, the wonder grew.
With wonder cam j admiration, with that
a softness in his blue eyes. Anybody
might have seen that before many days
that tiny foot whose shoe he had so
fiercely flung away would have trodden
a little path straight to the warmest cor
ner of his heart.
"Bring me the baby, Jacob,"' called
Dorothy, after a while. "Let it lie in
my lap and look at the window. Y'e can
stay out with Janey and see the sun set."
So Jacob lifted the child and carried
it to her. The baby was charmed by
the soft radiance, shifting rainbow-like
over its white dress. It waved its small
hands back and forth in the blue and
crimson rays, and watched them wonder
ingly as they played over Dorothy's
snowy locks. Without, they heard her
crooning softly to the child, and it, in
response, cooing like a dove. By and
by, when the air grew chill, Jacob and
his daughter returned to the room. The
old head rested against the carved cher
ubs; the little one lay quiet, having
just discovered the pictured Agnus Dei.
Dolly's face could not be paler than
usual; but Jacob did not see, as always,
the outward signs of the poor fluttering
heart. Janey bent forward then both
know that the mother had "gone along
the way of peace to the land of everlast
ing light." Aiinef C. AW in Chris
tian Union.
A Bexevolext Sixoer. The princi
pal singer of the great theater at Lyons
one day observed a poor woman, with
her four children, begging in the street.
Her decent ami respectable appearance,
in the midst of extreme poverty, inter
ested the kind-hearted vocalist. He de
sired the poor woman to follow him
into the Place Bellour, where, 2"acing
himself in a corner, with his back to the
wall, his head covered with his hand
kerchief, and his hat at his feet, he be
gan to sing his most favorite opera airs.
The beauty of his voice drew a crowd
round; the idea of some mystery stimu
lated the bystanders, and five-franc
pieces fell in showers into the hat.
When the singer, who had thus, in the
goodness of his heart, transformed him
self into a street minstrel, thought he
hail got enough, he took up the hat,
emptied its contents into the apron of
the poor woman, who stood motionless
with amazement and happiness, and dis
appeared among the crowd. His talent,
however, betrayed him, though his face
was concealed ; the story spread, and the
next evening, when he appeared on the
stage shouts of applause from all parts
of the house proved that a good act is
never thrown away.
Bancroft, the Historian. George
Bancroft has the reputation of being
one of the most thoroughly educated of
living Americans. When he was a stu
dent at Gottingen, he learned the Orien
tal languages from Etehborn, ancient
history from Planck and Heeren, natu
ral history from Blumenbach, and
Greek and Roman antiquities from Dis
zen. He afterwards heard the lectures
of Wolf, the famous Homerist, Hegel,
and Schleiermacher. He has been in
timate with Humboldt, Yarnhagen von
Ense, Cousin, Schlosser, Goethe, Ben
jamin Constant, Manzoni, Chevalier
Bunsen, Niebuhr. and a host of dead
celebrities. One of the things of his
youth was a small volume of poems,
enthusiastically describing the scenery
of Switzerland and the ruins of Borne.
He published the first volume of his
"History of the United States," forty
three years ago, and the work is yet un
finished. He is still at work on it. and
hopes to live to complete it, and he
probably will, as he is of robust consti
tution and in excellent health, and was
seventy-seven on October 3d. Those
who know him regard him as one of the
youngest old men of their acquaintance.
A gentleman- gave a party in honor
of a distinguished missionary lately re
turned from his field of work. The la
dies appeared in very decollete dresses,
and as his host feared the style might
shock his reverence, he apologized to
him for it, saying that fashion demand
ed it. "Oh, I don't mind it at all," re
plied the missionary; "I have been ten
years among the savages."
Wuex he was a young man he rushed
into a burning building and gallantly
dragged her out by the hair of the head.
They were married the next Winter,
and now she rushes in and drags him
out by the hair of his head whenever
she feels like it. Such is true love.
Edwin Forrest.
SKETCH OF THE OR EAT TRAOE1HAX
LAWREXf'E BARRETT.
BY
An article on Edwin Forrest in the
forthcoming number of the Galcu-y, from
the pen of Lawrence Barrett, commands
attention as the opinion of an intelligent
actor and a friend of the famous trage
dian. Mr. Barrett's article is in a meas
ure a review of Mr. Alger's "Life of
Forrest," with which he expresses him
self as disap2ointed. "The most that
may be claimed for this work," says Mr.
Barrett, "is the endeavor of the biogra
pher to maintain his hero upon the high
est of human standards." In this maga
zine article the writer does not attempt
to review even the leading incidents of
Forrest's life, but simply "to pay a
tribute of reverent affection for a great
man and a lost friend." After some
general remarks on drama, and Mr. For
rest as one of its best exponents, Mr.
Barrett says:
My own acquaintance with the great
man began one summer's evening twen
ty years ago. Coming to New Y'ork, a
stranger and a youth, I saw Mr. Forrest
announced as Lear at the old Broadway
Theatre. The impression of that per
formance has never been effaced by
any subsequent effort of his, and has
certainly never been disturbed by that
of any other actor. His greatest Shaks
j:earian parts were Lear, Othello and
Coriolanus. The former grew mellow
and rich as age came on, while it still
maintained much of Rs earlier force.
His Othello suffered from the same
causes, although his grand intellect
was apparent to the last in all his work.
Coriolanus died with him "the last of
all the Romans." He was greater, how
ever, in such parts as Yirginius, Wil
liam Tell and Spartacus. Here the
mannerisms of the man were less ap
parent than his Shakspearian perform
ances, and were overlooked in the rugged
massivensss of the whole creation. Ham
let, Richard and Macbeth were out of
his temperament, and his performance
of these were unworthy of his fame.
I can testify to the warm interest which
Mr. Forrest took in all young actors
who seemed earnestly to desire advance
ment and were willing to labor for that
end. While I was fulfilling an engage
ment at the Chestnut Street Theatre in
Philadelphia many years ago Mr. For
rest, then at home for his vacation, oc
cupied a box nearly every evening dur
ing my performances, and between the
acts he would send me in a few lines up
on a card of an encouraging character,
or point out some error which he had
detected. I was only too happy to be
thus instructed, and felt deeply the
compliment paid to me in this way. In
all his suggestions and corrections I
found him to be in the right. 1 never
rebelled but once, and he kindly refer
red me to the authorities upon the sub
ject, when I was taught humility, and
my apology and thanks covered the
shame of my rebellion. During this
engagement I saw much of him socially,
anil rarely discovered any of those
harsh features of character for which he
was noted among men. He spoke in
varibly of his fellow actors with tender
ness, and when he had been deceived or
Jiis confidence had been abused he
silently passed the offeuder by. In this
respect, I presume, his conduct had un
dergone a change from his earlier habit.
Success had made him egotistical, cer
tainly, and this egotism showed itself
sometimes in a humorous way, some
times in a serious one. . My
last days with him were passed in New
Orleans, where he was acting, and I was
remaining to assist in the opening of
the new theater there. His health was
poor and he rarely left the room till
evening. He would send me in the
morning for breakfast, as it was his
pleasure to know that I could assist him
iu mitigating the ennui of a sick room.
Here 1 learned how extensive had been
his reading and how much of his educa
tion he owed to his professional training.
He often declared that to be a successful
orator a man must have acquired a lib
eral education in the progress of his
professional work. He certainly was an
illustration of his own theory. He loved
books keenly, and knew them too. He
was going through Texas on his way
home, after finishing his engagement in
New Orleans, and I sent for his reading
en route a copy of "Lecky's Rational
ism," which he had never met. He
wrote me a most flattering letter of
thanks from Galveston, the last I ever
had from his hands, and particularly
dwelt upon the favor I had done him in
calling to his knowledge an author who
paid such a tribute to our profession, a
fact which alone would have made him
an admirer of Lecky. The impression
he left upon me I have tried to tell in
this brief sketch, and I am only paying
a debt to a friend when I ask that when
the faults of Mr. Forrest are rehearsed
justice may be done to his virtues,
which would more than trim the bal
ance. In summing up a life like this, where
strength and weakness are in forcible
contrast, it is impossible to deny that
no man had appeared before this time
who was destined to exercise so great
an influence upon the drama as he did.
He loved his art with all the fondness of
a woman, and he gave his life and for
tune to it. Possessing the grandest
qualifications for an actor, he omitted
no labor to improve himself, scorning
alike the evasions of the sluggard and
the trickery of the charlatan.
New Bird. Prof. O. C. Marsh an
nounces a new genus and species of
toothed bird, which he calls BptomU
adrenvs. He also describes a new fossil
lizard, by far exceeding in magnitude
any land animal hitherto discovered,
which must have been fully "() to GO
feet long. It was probably a herbivo
rous reptile. It comes from a bed on
the eastern flank of the Rocky moun
tains. I The other morning a mav receiveu u
. i a . : t -
telegram that her father was dead.
"Now," said she, "John can't help buy
ing me some new clothes."
. . . iU. . L.waaia a " , J SalaVaVa
Dirtiness of 'War.
A Danube correspondent says that
one of his hopes that all war will soon
end is that as people become more civ
ized the dirtiness of it will become un
endurable. What characterizes an army in the
field above anything else is dirt. One
is clothed iu it, one eats it, drinks it,
smells it. Officers who once were
doubtless as brilliant as butterflies in
uniform , spotless as the lily of the field ,
become draggled, stained and rusty.
Their coats have holes, their boots are
patched. As for the soldiers, they are
simply filthy. You will meet them
more ragged than the poorest Irish la
borer, and those who were once snowy
white of vesture have fallen to the low
est depth of darkness. As for some
further details of the sort which I must
not dwell on. a hint should suflice
everybody cuts his hair as short as
scissors will do it before entering on a
campaign.
A moment arrives, after no long time,
when soldier servants give up washing
in despair, and accept all the dirt that
comes to them. Then they cease to ob
serve whether their masters' thii gs are
clean or not, despise the humble duty
of washing cups and plates an.l forks,
ignore the use of soap and all that civil
ization has laboriously impressed upon
the menial instinct. They return to the
customs of primeval man, and we fol
low of necessity. Thus forks and
spoons are ignored at an early stage,
plates and dishes somewhat later. At
this very moment a grimy wretch, upon
whose hand one might plant mustard
seeds with a reasonable hope, is em
employed beside me cutting up sugar.
He has brought forth a snowy lump
and a butcher's knife, and upon the bare
earth he is hacking off chips. These
he collects and ranges in a greasy tin
box, popping each alternate lump into
the black cavern of his mouth. All is
done with the foul fingers, upon the na
tive soil, between whiffs of tobacco; aud
no one protests; the great number do
not even observe such things now. We
are so conscious of dirt, so resigned and
hopeless about it, that a little more or
less is not worth disputing. I shall not
linger upon this theme. Let your read
ers turn up the page of "London Labor
and London Poor," in which the dens
of St. Giles are described, and the way
of life in that quarter. The manners
and customs pictured there are not so
filthy as those we necessarily adopted.
This army is but little worse than oth
ers. War itself is foul. There are
more wounded die of dirt than of lead
or iron.
Meeting Death at His Post.
Somebody blundered on the Detroit
branch of the Lake Shore railroad re
cently. The Canada Southern express
train waited near Toledo for the St.
Louis express on the Wabash road, and
finally received orders from the train
sender to "run wild." At Air Line
junction the conductor learned that
freight train 51 had been abondoned ,
and accordingly he signaled the engi
neer to go on. It was midnight, and
there was a dense fog; the train was
running a long curve at the rate of
thirty miles an hour; and trundling on
the same track in the opposite direction
was the freight train. The fireman
of the express train saw a light on
the track, and jumped for his life. The
engineer whistled "down brakes," re
versed the engine, and remained at his
post, with his hand on the lever aud
eyes fastened on the approaching en
gine. There was a great crash; the en
gines and freight cars were wrecked ;
the passenger cars remained on the
track, and nobody except the engineer
was so much as scratched. Imprisoned
in a shapeless wreck of iron, steel and
wood, with steam escaping from the
shattered Aires aud flames raging behind
him, he had paid the penalty. of some
body's blunder. An iron rod was driv
en in between his shoulder blades, his
skull was tossed into the cab and hia
body was jammed between the boiler
and the tender. Mr. , but stop! it
is not worth while to "Mr." a man who
dies like a hero in saving his fellow
creatures. Lewis Y'cung was his name.
A'. Y. TriJmne.
A Great Grx. The Whitehall Re
rieir describes a formidable gun called
a "cannon-revolver." jnst adopted by
the French Government. The peculi
arity of this arm consists in its capabil
ity of throwing eighty shells per min
ute of rather more than one pound
each, which break up into twenty-four
fragraents. The cannon-revolver can
be brought into action and the range
determined with great rapidity, anil
when once sighted it can be worked
without the slightest recoil and t ravers -
! ed by pivot action. Its destructive el
I fects can thus be brought to bear ou
I . i t a . . 1
troops either in column or nepioyeu.
It commences to be effective at the tre
mendous range of over 3,000 yardH.
The first delivery of this formidable
arm to the French Government is prin-
.. . r ii,. ML.
1 cinallv ior ine ttte ui um uavj. xuc
l 1 ..1 r j i: iV
guns are nreu irom auu reauug on iue
bulwarks, and are intended for torpedo
boat searching. In this form the
weight of the piece is only about 700
pounds, but as field pieces the addition
al gear required brings them up to
about 1,000 pounds. Two men only are
required to move the gun itself.
A orave magistrate was sitting at the
table between two coxcombs, who took
it into their heads to attempt making
him the but of their ridicule. "Gentle
men," said he, "I plainly perceive your
design; but, to save unnecessary trou-
i ble, I must beg leave to give you a just
i uiea oi my cnaracter. lie it known to
you that I am not precisely a fool, nor
altogether a knave, but (as you see)
something between both."
American- travelers in the Alps this
year can crawl up on the top of their
hotel bills and see the spires of New
Y'ork.
The Haxckeve calls the Prident's
i trip "the boss bum."
I
(