VOL. LVI. HARTER, AUCTIONEER, MILLHEIM, PA. J C. SPRINGER, Fashionable Barber. Next Door to JOURNAL Store, MILLHKIH, PA. JJROCKERHOFF HOUSE, ALIiXQHXNT STREET, BKLLKFONTE, - - - PA. 0r- C. O. MEMILLEN. PROPRIETOR. Good Sample Room on First Floor. 99-Free Bom to and from all Trains. Special rates to witnesses and Jurors. 4-1 IRYIN HOUSE, (Most Central Hotel In the City J Corner MAIN and JAY Streets, Lock Haven, Ft. S. WOODS CILWKLL, Proprietor. Good Sample Rooms for Commercial Travelers on first floor. PR.D.H. MINGLE, Physician and Surgeon, MAIN Street, MILLHKIM, Pa. JOHN F. HARTER, PRACTICAL DENTIST, Office in 2d story of TomUnson't Gro cery Store, On MAIN Street, MILUBKIM, Fa. BW 14 VNT F H • FASHIONABLE BOOT ft SHOE MaKKR Shop next door to Foote'a store, Main St, Boots, Shoes and Gaiters made to order, and sat- Isfaoiorr work guaranteed. Repairing done prompt ly and cheaply, and in a neat style. C. T. Alexander. C. M. Bower. 4 LEXANDER a BOWER, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. PlfiT PA* Office in G&rm&n's new building. JOHN B. LINN, ATTORNEY AT LAW, BJELLEFONTE, PA. Office on Allegheny Street. QLEMENT DALE, ATTORNEY AT LAW, BELLRPONTE, PA. northwest corner of Diamond, HOY, ATTORNEY AT LAW. BELLEFONTE, PA. Orphans Court basinets a Specialty. YyM. C. HEINLE, ATTORNEY AT LAW. BELLEFONTE, PA. Practices In all the courts of centre County. Special attention to Collections. Consultations in Gorman or English. J. A. Beaver. J W. Gephart. JgEAVER t7 THE test as to whether a young tree is making sufficient growth or not is made by examining its new shoot?. If these glow twelve to fifteen inches annually neither manure nor additional cuUure is probata y needed. It less than this length of new wood is grown something is need ed to stimulate the growth and increase the vigor of the tree. A HYMN OF WORSHIP. How pure the dawn and bright! A thousand sopgs of waking Joy arise; And to the xenitti, flooding all the skies, Mounts the wide splendor of the light. So rise my soul! to God. Filled are the curving brooks A'lth hast'ning streams and waters running bright, Dancing aud singing in the morning light. Or gliding into grassy nooks, Thus do 1 hope in God. I look for flowers to bloom Along the margin of these streams; the skies Of warmer May, with manj a fond surprise Of violets shall cheer my glootu, Thus do I hope In God, All nature turns her face Towards the increasing sun, and prays the Are That kindles life, and bids the buds conspire, To clothe the earth with forms of grace, Thus 1 aspire to God. The day wanes to its close, The drowsy herd turns homeward and the wing Of every bint ts folded; vespers ring, And weary hearts seek soft repose, So rest my heart! in ood. TUB DOCTOR'S CUKE. It WAS au old piece of business all round, aud lam the only person who knows all about it. To be sure, you may say there was the lawyer who drew up the will, but he did not know the motive: aud as tor Mrs. Germoud herself,' she was the most mystified of all. How I have laughed to myself to hear her, for she was quite coufldeutial with me. "Why, doctor," she would say, "I never saw old Mrs, Bryant in my life. "I had heard of her, but never uutil I came to Merton. "It is the strangest thing," Mrs, Germoud was not a native of Merton, but came there with au invalid husband and two mites of children for oonntry air. 1, being the only phvsican, was soon called in to see Mr. Germond, who was slowly dying of consumption, and had been sent from some large city to try to keep the feeble spark of life aglow by country air and diet. Mrs Germond was a splendid music ian, and had obtained the position o organist In our church from letters of introduction to some of our leading members. In the same way she started a class of scholars amongst our wealthy people, aDrt was thus able to support her family with comfort, if not very luxuriously. It was not long before my profession al interest was as mnch given to Mrs. Ger mond as to my actual patient, and with far greater ooncern, because in ber case recovery was possible; wile with her husband we could do no more than smooth his passage to the grave. She was a slender delicate looking woman, refined in manner, gentle and pleasant, and with the most cheerful face to meet troubles I ever saw. She was not pretty, but ber smile was like sunshine and her voice always sweet and soft. Yet, with all this suuny brightness, sweet even temper, and gentle care for the invalid, Mrs. Germond was one of those quiet martyrs who bear the ills attendant upon overwork and mental strain unflinchingly. I vainly tried to make her save her self. Her watchword was duty, and her will overcame her weakness. Prostrate one day with the agonizing headaches of physical exhaustion, she was out the next, busy with her scholars, or up all night tending ber husband. When he had died she lay for days en tirely passive, all energy gone for the time; her heart crushed with grief, her frame for once without the ruling power to rouse it to action. But she was not the woman to let such grief overcome her manifest duty, and motherlove came to rouse her. Once more the dreary treadmill bearan to wear her body, now still less fitted for its burdens, and I could only help her to temporary relief and strength, know ing that perfect rest would restore to its natural strength one of the most per fect organizations I ever saw. Ah, how 1 longed tor money in those days when I watched Mrs. Germond treading a path I knew must end in death, without the power to stop her. For her children, as for her husband, she toiled unceasingly, and while her home duties were so engrossing, she never turned from the calls of humanity or charity. Many a dying bed, where poverty wore its darkest frown, was soothed by her gentle presence. Many a dainty dish came from her hands to those poorer than herself. It was impossible lor me to avoid knowing all this, s the invalids of Mer ton had 110 physician but myself, but it was in vain that I urged Mrs, Ger mond to spare hersell. "One would think I was sick," she would say to me, "when I only have a cough that I have had for years, and sometimes neuralgia." "Are you ever free from pain?" "Well, no, not entirely, but it is bear able." And so I come to my mysterions leg acy. I had many times told Mrs. Ger mond that if she would give up her scholars and obey me implicitly for six months she would be well. And at last I did what we of the heal ng profession shrink most from doing, MILLHEIM. PA., THURSDAY. NOVEMBER 1882. I told her that if she did not she must prepare to break down hopelessly, "But see," she pleaded, "how often I break down and yet get up Again. "I cannot give up my work and see my children starve." , What could I say? I had urged upon her the necessity of rest, placed liefore her the danger in which she stood, and I was powerless to do more. It was just at this time that Mrs. Bryant, the owner of half Morton, and heiress to three fortunes—her father's mother's, and her husband's—was taken dangerously ill. She was one of my patients of course, but she hail but seldom called upon my professional service*, having carried her eighty years of life almost without pain r disease. Her illness proved fatal from the first but she hail but little suffering, and her cheerfulness was wonderful. Mauy a long talk we have hail when I had finished my professional visits, aud in one of these she said to me— "Tell me of some charity for Morton to which I can leave a portion of my wealth. "My husband's money I have left to his relatives, but I have not one living who can claim me as ielated to him. "I stand alone, and I have disposed of my own propt rty in benefits to public institutions. "But I sheuld like to do some other good here. "You know so many of our poor peo ple. "Tell mo where small sums, say five hundred each, can be distributed to do most good." With much discussion we made out a list, and then she said— "l have still fifteen thousand for Mer ton." Like an inspiration came to mo the thought of tho prec ous life that money, humanety speaking, would save. The income of fifteen thousand would give Mrs. Germond a support, enable her to devote herself to her children, to be the good angel of many a poor home, and yet to rest from the monotonous labor that was wearing out her strength and depriving her of her power of use fulness. It was a bold thing to do, and Mrs. Bryant looked ratlier stunned at the audacity of my proposal; but I asked her to leave the money, in one sum, to a total stranger who was not an object of charity, "But you tell mo she earns a comfort able support," she said. "At the price of her life." "It is such a strange thing to do, to leave so large a sum to an entire strang er." "Ah," I saiu, "if it were only done oftener. "If the millionaires who leave im mense sums to charities to be doled out in temporary relief, would sometimes look out for a few of the hard-working individuals who are struggling beyond their strength, and give them a sum to insure an income for life." It was one of my hobbies, this suffer ing of what may bo called "genteel pov erty—and I used all my eloquence. Still Mrs. Bryant seemed to be uncon vinced when I left her. "It was such an odd thing to do." "It is an odd thing to do," I said, "but it will restore a useful life to health and strength, save a mother to two children, aud I firmly believe do more good than the same money will do split up into small charities, or distrib uted in public institutions." When old Mrs. Bryant died, I had gone to attend the funeral of my son's wife, and I was absent two weeks, a brother practitioner from Hilton, ten miles distant from Merton, taking my place. On my return, in giving me an account of his visits, he made no mention of Mrs. Germond, and I found that he had not been calkd in to see ber. I knew that she was not fond of strange faces, and concluded that she had pre ferred to trust to her own judgment, if suflering until my return. But one of my first calls was at the little cottage, where I found my friend in a state of bewildered excitement. "Doctor," she said, "you have often promised me perfect health if 1 would give up my scholars and obey you im plicitly. Can you still promise that?" "Ithink I canunder Providence." "Issue your orders then. "My scholars are already warned to get a new teacher. "Imagine, doctor, Mrs. Bryant has left me fir teen thousand dollars. "I never saw her. "And the income is to be paid re gularly from the date of her daatb, un til the estate is settled, when the capit al will be at my disposal. "Whv. you do not look half so aston ished as I am." Brought thus to my senses, I put on an expression of surprise; and I think the pleasure was already visible. I lost no time in sending my patient, for the winter, to a softer climate than our village, with moat explicit directions for her daily life. And the result justified my hopes. In the spring Mrs. Germond returned to Merton without one dangerous symp tom, with her solt eyes bright with health, and her slender form strength ened aud vigorous. Thoro is not in all Morton a more useful energetic woman than my former patient, and if Mrs. Bryant could see the many acts of gentle humanity that came from the little cottage, Hhe might still think her legacy to a stronger was, after all, only another form of distribut ing the money in smaller charities. A Cmup of Laborers. Camping and traveling in the forest was u delightful experience, spite of ram and fatigue; but no one of our party was sorry one morning to be mot on the rivers bank by an engineer, who brought a package of letters, and the information that the camps of the Chi nese graderr. 011 the railroad were just across the river, that there was a wngon road to the end of the track, and that he had a skiff and two rowers to set us ucross the turbulent current. We had traversed the whole distance (six liuu dred miles) between the ends of the rail road, which are advancing to meet next year on the summit of the Rocky Moun tains. The news that we sliould see a locomotive that very day was received with enthusiasm. It meant beds, baths, clean clothes, newspaaers, telegrams, napkins, silver forks, and a hundred other things never noticed or appreci ated until out.of reach. We rearranged our luggage, bestowed our bedding upon the half-breed Indian, the Ken tucky negro, and the white lad, who jointly managed the pack-tram, got over the river, and were soon driving through the camps of three thousand Chinese laborers. It was Sunday, and work 011 the grade was suspended. The canvas town Bwarmed with men. Some were having their heads shaved, others were combing and winding their pig-tails ; others stripped t3 their waist, were en joying a sponge bath. One man was on his knees going through some reli gious ceremony over a chicken before dissecting it for the pot. There were Chinese stores, Chinese restaurants, and Cuinese gaming tents. For fifteen miles the woods were literally full of Mongolians. Not a feature of their Asiatic life do they abandon, save that, from the necessity of working in mud and dust, they wear American boots. Their basket hats, blue blouses, and loose trousers are supplied by Chinese merchants, and a large portion of their food—their rice and dried fish, and all their sweetmeats and dainties—comes ucross the Pacific. The road was lined with Chinamen driving fat hogs.to the csimi* to be slaughtered for the Sunday dinner, or carrying buudlcs and boxes, and boards for tent-flooring, suspended to bamboo poles, balauced on the shoul ders in the exaet style of the pictures ou the tea-cheats. The Chinese laborers on the railroad earn one dollar and sixteen cents a day, and are lured by gangs of forty from agents of the Six Companies in San Francisco. The usual estimate of the effectiveness of their labor is that three Chinamen are equal to two white men ; but the superintendent of construction on the railroad asserts that he prefers the Chinese man for man, to suoh white labor as can be bad on the Pacific coast. The railroad operations iiave caused to grow up at Cabinet Lauding, a gro tesque and hideous town of tents and shanties clinging to the hill-side, among the pines—a town subsisting ou the wants and weaknesses of the working men, and flaunting in their faces facili ties for all the coarser forms of vice. Across the river from this pandemonium of frontier dirt, drunkeuuoss and de bauchery, is another transient railroad town, where the engineers and overseers live, with their wives and children, in clean tents, prettily embowered with evergreens Kbblug au4 flowing. The flow and ebb of the tide in rivers arc the effect of two agencies—first, the tidal motion forth and back transmitted by the ocean through the estuaries of the river; second, the opposing river current flowing from the interior by force of gravitation towards the sea— the former being a periodic, the latter a permanent force. At the mouths of great rivers, as the Ganges and Amaz on, the resistance of the current of the stream to the incoming tide produces the huge wave called the "bore," rising sometimes thirty feet as a high wall of water. This powerful influence of the downward river current causes tlio tides of rivers in general to take much more time for the ebb than the flood. At London Bridge the flood-tide rims not quite five hours, while the ebb ruus nearly eight hours. At Quabec the water rises during a period of three hours, and ebbs during nine hours. The true explanation of this longer period for the ebb, or apparent falling of the tide, is obviously this: that the falling of the ■water is made slower by the river cur rent taking, in part, tue place of the water which is ebbing seaward* The more rapid the river current, the more quickly will its volume replace the water of the receding tide, and thus help to keep up high water longer, making the ebb take proportionately more time than the flood. If our correspondent would make experiments to test the ebb-tide (i e., the rate at which the water falls), during periods both of freshet and low water, in the Delaware, it is probable be would fiud that when the velocity of the river current is greatest, the time required for the tide to "run down" would be greatest. —A large Scottish colony will settle in Arltaneas early in the spring, A XortJi Carolina Venice. An Atlanta writer says : I suppose Morehead city is the only city in the world without a wheel in it. I* do not think there is a wagon or a buggy horse in the town, and very few in the county. Everything is done in boats. There is not a home in the county that a boat cannot get within a mile of. Not a doctor or lawyer in the county owns a horse —they practice in boats. The people go to funerals in boats, and when 1 hey arrest a man they carry him to jail in u boat. The main export of the town besides track is fish, but the fish caught here embrace everything from a whale to a shrimp. Last year two or three whales were taken off this coast, anil a whale is worth from $1,200 to $2,000. It is said that they get between the shore ami the gulf stream, and in trying to beat out to sea are sickened by the warm water. They turn 111 shore aguin, and soon strand themselves. Along the bays and inlets mackerel are caught in large quantities in nets. But this whole sale fishing is neither picturesque nor interesting. A pretty sport practiced along shore is spearing flounders, A small row boat is put adrift. A man with a flambeuu walks alongside up to his knees in water. In the bow of the boat sportsmeu stand with slender gigs. Along the bottom, by the reflection of the light, can be seen white flounders half buned in the sand. They remain perfectly still while the gig is poised above them, and never move until they are either speared or missed. The only drawback to this sport is that occasion ally your torch-bearer is stung by a stiugaree. A stingaree is simply a long and buggy whip, broken out with small pox and filled with steel springs, aqua fortis and needles. When ne hits you, lockjaw is the mildest possible result. The "colored man" contingent about Morebead makes its living by crabbing. With a little boat, hardly bigger than a tub, they go out in the surf, and flopping in and out like amphibia, soon oome in with a bushel or so of the ugliest looking and sweetest tasting things that swim the water. One other very important industry of this most interesting place is the raising of " marsh tackies. - ' The marsh tackey is a shaggy pony hardly larger than the Shetland, tight built and hardy. He lives in the water and will not eat corn or hay. He is brought up on the marsh grass, which he eats between tide'. They cost literally nothing, breeding in droves as wild horses. Each drove has its leader, who selects the eating grounds and decides when the tides are going out or coming in. Once every year the owners have what, is called a "pony penning." All the pomes along the coast runniug iu o the thousands, are driven in by boats and either branded or sold. They bring from sls to S3O apiece, and it is a tribute to their wilduess, that a 4 4 broke " pony, that is, one that can be ridden or driven, is called a 44 trained tackey," and brings S7O. They are in great demand io the middle part of the state, eating little and doiug aheap of-work. They run down to skin and bones before tney learn to eat corn or hay, but then fatten rapidly and lose the ugly reddish color the salt water gives them. There are men who buy them in large numbers, train them, and take them to the mount ains and get fancy prices for them. As I write there is a drove of tackies march ing in slow and sedate procession against the horizon. The leader, bearing his responsibility with dignify, picks the way caretully, and his company follow with a blind sense of confidence. The water, as it splashes about their legs, glistens like showered silver, and their red sides shine against the sun like bronze. On they go, as birds beat home ward in the twilight, growing smaller and more indistinct as they plod their steady way. At last they are but specks above the water, moving dumb and pa tient to some well desired goal. l'Hdily gained lua point. Years ago there resided in the* County of Longford, Ireland, an individual not ed for his thieving propensities and for the ready wit he brought to bear in screening himself from the penalties for his depredations. On one accasion the craving of his appetite induced him to iuvude Father Maguire's yard, and he stole from him a fine fat goose. This, however, hung heavy on his pliable conscience, and he was forced to ac knowledge the theft in the confessional, reserving, however, the name of the per son from whom the goose had been siolen. "My sou," said tliegood man, "steal ing is the most grievous offence against the law of (iod. A thief cannot be for giyeu until he has restored that which he has stolen. You must therefore bring back the goose to its rightful owner, ask his pardon and thou come to me again." Restitution was not to be thought of and so the rogue fell back on that which never deserted him—his "mother wit" "I'll give the goose to your River ence, and ask your Riverence to forgive me," he said. "No, my son," said the good priest, "that will not do. You must restore it to its rightful owner." "Rut, your Riverence," s.ii i the ras ed, "I offered it to. the man [ stole it from, and he wouldn't take it." "If you did that," said the priest, "you could do no more." And so Paddy gained his point. An eminent Erench scientist lately pre sented a note to the b'rench Academy on the antiseptic properties of bichromate of potash. Experiments had shown him that the addition of one hundredth part of the bichromate iD ordinary water prevents the putrfaction of ali sorts of organic mat ter such as meat, urine, etc. A thousandth part of bichromate prevents beer from turning sour. After three months' immer sion in a solution, meat was hardened and dry. Faithful to his Master. A Riohmand, Virginia, paper recently gave the particulars of the absence from home of Mr. Augustus Green, a wealthy Euglish gentlemen, who came to this city about ten years ago. Across the sea, iu his home in Merry Old England, his family had found the smiles of for tune, and in the estimation of the pub lic held high rank as men of great bus iness enterprise and undoubted charac ter. Some years since the father died and left his fine fortune to the several sons of his old age. A part of his wealth consisted of the Green Line of steamers, which runs between Liverpool, England, and Melbourne, Australia. The deceas ed who w®s of a convivial disposition, ailed for Virginia, arriviug in due sea sou and purchased a farm about eight miles from Richmond, in the county of Chesterfield. His old habits followed liim here, and it was not long before he found ready friends to lift the glowing bumper and add to the dangerous temp tation that had been the bane of the young Englishman's life when under his native skies and in the bosom of his family. His habits in consequence re mainednnchauged audliis means received from abroad permitted the most lavish indulgence of his tastes. He stocked his farm well, employed a housekeeper, aud, like a genuiue old-fashioned Virgi nian—like a hospitable, old-fashioned Euglish gentleman—kept liis door ajar for all frieuds, with plenty of good cheer within. On the 13th of September Mr. Green was last seen at his home. Short ly after midday on the day mentioned he left the house and made off toward the woods, accompanied by two of his dogs—one a large Euglish setter and the other a half-grown English mastiff of genuine blood. It was nothing un usual for the proprietor to be absent a day or two at a time, and several days passed without exciting alarm. At length inquiry was made, but nothing was heard from the missing man. The alarm increased aud Mr. Maury, the financial agent here of Mr. Green, was informed of the fact. He at once em ployed Detective John Wren for the purpose of ferreting out the mystery. Wren sent his force out and went with it himself. He found that, lacking one day, a week had elapsed since Mr. Green of any of his dogs had been seen; that at this time the mastiff puppy had come home nearly starved to deatii; that it had been fed, and that it had started out to return, but upon being followed turned back at a given point Here was a clue, aud the detective and his men went to the spot at which the puppy was last seen. Here the force scattered, and pretty soon amao found a watch and hat lying close to gether in the woods about three. miles from Manchester. Pretty soon after ward a large number of buzzards were seen wheeling their lazy, droning flight in circles in the air about half a mile distant. The detective and his men pushed on. Presently they came to a ravine, or, to speak more plainly, a deep gully; in the very bottom of which a little water oozed along, and in places where deep indentations occurred, stood in lazy pools. The company divided, one half going down on one side of the gully and the rest on the other. Pres ently the men saw the setter-dog and called it by name, but the dog retreated, and upon being followed was found stauding by its dead master. The body was nude with the exception of an un dershirt and one shoe, and was lying in the bottom of the gully, with just enough water underneath to wet that portion of the body nearest the e rth. The clothing was found scattered around, a neck-scarf and pin being picked up some distance from the dead man. Heroes or Sou*. The tenor is generally a cooper, a baker, a cabman or a tanner, who has been caught singing oyer his tubs, his hot rolls or his hides. Why is a tenor so rarely a law student, an architect or an apothecary's assistant? This prob lem is one for physiologists to solve. The only thing quite certain is that the tenor is never a prodigy of learning. Grammar, especially, perplexes him; orthography drives him to despair. He therefore adopts a phonetic system of his own invention. "Let him take lessons, then," you say. Very good; butHaking lessons in spelling is a con fession that he cannot spell. His pres tige would sutler. What would the idolatrous crowd thiuk of thgir idol on learning that in a letter to his mother, he had written, "Hevery mornin i heat a raw hegg for the sake of my elth?" And his fellow-singers in the green room? Wouldn't they make fun of him? Consequently, the tenor abstains from writing; or, if absolutely obliged to write, he takes refuge in a prudent lacouism. One sweet-voiced gentleman, compelled to answer a manager who had proposed, by letter, a reduction of his salary, thought of sending his card with the simple phrase "I maintain my pretentions." But the last syllable of the word sorely puzzled him. Not liking the look ot it with at, he tried it with a double ss, and finally decided on ac, "pretencions." His geographical knowledge is equally at fault. He is offered an advantageous engagement at New Orleans, and, without reflec tion, signs at once. * Xou are going to see a beautiful country," says the manager. "No doubt; I hare often heard speak of the Maid of New Or leans, aud I am particularly fond of New Orleans plums." "Ah!" says the manager, opening wide his eyes. "We start in three weeks' time. Send your luggage at once to Liverpool." "Liver pool? I don't know him. Where is his office?" •'Liverpool is the seaport where we take ship." "No ship for me, if you please. You can go by sea. if you prefer; I shall take the express tram instead," It was the same indi vidual who fancied that horticulture was the art of cultivating orties (nettles), and who thought to give dignity to "Robert the Devil," who was a cheva lier, by wearing the cross of the Legion of Honor. Another drawback to the tenor's happiness is that he himself is the slave of his organ. That voice, which is the source of all his success, has to be regarded and nursed with jealous care. Sobriety, even austerity, have to be strictly observed. Syrups, gruels, lozenges, liquorice, potions and flannel neckties are his fat*. Resides which are to be reckoned his profes sional labors, mental and physical. Thus between 1830 and 1870, Mario, the famous tenor, learned by heart, studied, rehearsed, dressed and per formed more than one hundred grand operas by Meyerbeer, Mozart, Rossini, Verdi and a host of composers too numerous to mention, to say nothing of minor pieces, concerts aud the like. Was that the life of a sybarite? And his final destiny is to be forgotten. The painter leaves his pictare behind him, the sculptor ,his statue, the author his book, the composer his score. What permanent record of the tenor remain s, not merely after his death, but after his operatic life is ended? History speak sof Sophocles, Pnidias, Appeles; but what historian, two thousand years hence, will rescue Rubini from oblivion? How many of our younger readers have ever even heard of Rubini? Unhappy vocalist, in the midst of thy triumphs "Memento, tenor, quia, pulvis, esf" (Remember, O tenor, thou art but dust!) Tb Vk. v The yak is found in a wild as well as well as a domesticated state. Formerly very little was known cf the wild variety, Nothing can be more dissimilar than the two varieties. "The wild one inhabits the loftiest peaks, seldom venturing be low the perpetual snows, except during unusually severe weather. It is a fiercp brute, and has been known to exceed sixteen hands in height. Hue records cros ing a stream in which a wild herd of yak had been imbedded in the ice and fr. Zen to death, their forms being perfectly distinguishable through the ice. To the Tartars it is a most useful animal, being employed not only for food, but as a beast of burden, and its sare-footedncss renders it invaluable for mouiitaiu traveling. Hue; describee whole droves with their loads on their backs, sliding down the frozen Bides of steep mountains. IrUh History not Dramatic. Tnere is one difficulty in writing a readable history of Ireland which no amount of new information can remove, and which almost forbids us to hope that such a work can be made popular with the general public. History is attractive in so far as it can be made dramatic—so far as each crisis in the nation's fate is summed up in some one decisive struggle, or can be told in the form of a biography of the chief actor. The popularity of Greek history rests upon the mode in which it can be thrown into acts, each terminating with some brilliant stage effects, after which the curtain falls, to rise and disclose a new plot and a fresh cast of characters. If we carefully examine the popular con ception ot English history from the fall of Harold to the arrival of William 'IIL, we perceive that it may without difficulty be divided into a series of dramas, each with a marked and effect ive termination. A history can be writ ten biographically when the force which manifestly pro luces marked results is the surpassing genius and energy of a conspicuous individual; the straggle, for instance, of {Scotland against Eug land in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries lives only in the deeds of Wallace and Brace, and is popularly believed to have terminated with the battle of Bannockburn. The history of Ireland cannot be writ ten dramatically or biographically. The changes which took place were all pro duced by unobserved lorces acting over long periods. The transformation of the Northern feudal lords into quasi- Celtic chiefs resulted trom many and not obvious causes, and took "two cen turies to effect. The only complete drama in Irish history is th i reign of James H. The history of Ireland is also almost —if we may use the term— heroiesg. Of the Celtic population the only man who has left an enduring name in history is the King Brian; of all the Normans who fought and died during three centuries there remains only an indefinite memory of the Geral ' dines as a fami.y. Cromwell is remem bered not because he personally achieved yery much irw Ireland, but because he manifestly did something; and from Cromwell to Gaitan and O'Connell not one man has left a mem ory. It is strange but true that although there was incessant war in Ireland lor five centuries, no one out of Ireland who lias not specially studied Irish history could name any battle, except that of the Boyne, or siege except that of Londonderry; and the reason of this is that during the entnre period the fighting never resulted in any decisiye success which determined, once for all, the course of subsequent events. NO 44.