Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, January 12, 1894, Image 2
Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 12, 1894. wm THE POET'S HEART. To James Whitcomb Riley. ? "Tis true, ‘there is ever a song somewhere,’ Yes, somewhere beneath the skies ; But what does it matter and who shall care If none in the heart arise ? The trilling and cooing of wildvood nooks Though sweet as a Seraph’s hymn— The tenderest strain of the mountain brooks Are distant too far and dim. No music for such hath the moaning sea, No anthem the wind swept pine, *Tis only the poet, and none but he Is blessed by these cords divine, The “Psalm of Life,” its low, sad symphonies Enwrought in each undertone, That swells and rolls from the hidden keys Are heard by his heart alone. o — Juliette Estelle Mathis. ———_—__—_— al] MY NEIGHBOR'S BOY. mre He seems to be several boys in one, So much is he constantly everywhere ! And the mischievous things that boy has done No mind can remember nor mouth declare. He fills the whole of his share of space i With his strong, straight form and his merry face. He is very cowardly, very brave, He is kind and cruel, is good and bad, A brute and a hero! Whowill save ; The best from the worst of my neighbor's lad ? The mean and the noble strive to-day, Which of the powers will have its way ? The world is needing his strength and skill, He will make hearts happy, or make them : ache; What power is in him for good or ill! Which of life’s paths will his swift feet take? Will he rise aud draw others up to him, Or the light that is in him burn low and dim? But what is my neighbor’s boy to me ‘More than a nuisance ? My “neighbor’s boy, Though I have some fears for what he may be, Is a source of solicitude, hope, and joy, And a constant pleasure, because I pray That the best tha t is in him may rule some day. He passes me with a smile and a nod, He knows I have hope of him, guesses, to, That I whisper his name when I ask of God That men may be righteous, his will to do. And I think that many would have more joy If they loved and prayed for a neighbor's boy. —Christian Advocate. —————— HELEN. BY F. C. PHILIPS. When she died—and she was an old woman—the two little cardboard box- es, tied with white ribbon, and contain- ing a tiny morsel of wedding cake, were found in her bureau. But when the first of these keepsakes caine into her hands she was quite young, and, in a way, even beautiful, though hers was never a beauty which commanded general attention, or caused her to be looked after in the street. Understand that, althongh I loved her, and might, perhaps, have won her for my wife, had it not been for him, I am not blaming him at all. I am not animated by any spirit of vindie- tiveness in setting forth these facts, which he will never see. I write them only with a deep sense of their pathos ; with a feeling of eternal pity for ber and for him, and for myself. Who am 1? Be easy—no conscious egotism is influencing me either. I am merely the man who loved her, and my per gonality need not be much obtruded on you. Iam the man who loyed her, and I tell the tale because I am abso- lutely the only person who is able to tell it. Helen herself is dead, and Ar- nold Seymour never understood it. That is why 1 pity and do not blame him; he did not understand, he was dense, and obtuse, and blind. She lived with her younger sister in a village in the shires. Since they lost their mother, she had taken the mother’s place. Her eyes were deep and her face was grave ; she had many responsibilities, and they had left their mark upon her. She earned a hun- dred, or may be a couple of hundred, pounds a year by her pen—Ilittle senti- mental stories in the ladies paper—and this, coupled with her mother’s small bequest, provided tor the two girls’ wants. Their cottage, which was free hold, was the prettiest thing you ever met with. It would almost reconcile you to poverty to see it so refined. Everything was of the cheapest, but dainty and well chosen. And there was a garden, with a few iruit trees and many flowers, so that their table never looked poor, although their menu might be but the cold remains of yesterday’s joint. The younger girl, Lillian, was ex- ceedingly lovely; but after that not much remains to be said of her. It was Helen who contrived, Helen who decided everything. It was even Hel- en who made the little sacrifices. “Lillian is such a child,” she would say apolegetically when this was point. ed out to her, “che does not see ; she is really more unselfish than Iam!” It was declared that she felt herself re- paid for anything she might have done if Lillian gave her a passing kiss, and exclaimed, “What a dear you are!” And Lillian often exclaimed, “What a dear you are!”’—carelessly, lightly. It was the way she discharged her ob- ligations and showed her gratitude. One almost expected her to ask for a receipt afterwards, the phrase on her lips grew to have such a commercial briskness. Many people noticed these details besides myself, I beg to say. And I would algo mention that it was not be- cause Lillian showed small respect for my sacred calling that I disliked her. Were that eo, I should have been as unfair as she was. I disliked her simply and solely for her selfishness towards her sister. Nevertheless her raillery and laughter hurt me some: times in the presence of the other. I told her once, *‘I was a man before I was a curate.” She answered me, “T wish you had remained one after wards.” And Helen turned her face away to hide & smile. Poor Hel en ; life held so few smiles for you, it was petty of me to grudge you one! Arnold Seymour and I had been at Cambridge together. Of recent years I bad sometimes met him, though we bad never been more than acquaint. ances. One summer he appeared in Whiteoridge, and told me he had come here to spend the vacation—he was at the Bar—and to blow away the cobwebs of his chambers. I thought till then that the briefs were very many with him, but he spoke as if his practice were a large one, and, seeing no reason why he should de- ceive me, I viewed him as a man who was already doing well. : “And you,” be said, stretching his legs in my sitting room on the evening of his arrival, “what do you do in this little Heaven deserted hole, my boy? Your conscientious sermon, your dis- trict—visiting, your amicable teas with the provincial tables, no more? And are you satisfied with it, have you no ambition ? Or do you look forward one day to being made a Bishop ?” He did not wait for an answer—he was never a man to be apnswered—but blew a hugh cloud of cavendish from his pipe, apd vowed a moment later | that he would make me introduce him to all the people in the place. “They will amuse me,” he said, “by their very primness; and I shall not “stay long enough to let myself be ; bored !” i It was in this way that I introduced him to Helen Townsend and her sister; and with that which followed I had little or nothing to do. : Helen grew to care for him, and he fell in love with Lillian. Helen grew to care for him, to watch for his com- ing, to find the day dreary while he was away. Lillian, flattered by attentions suspecting her sister's secret : Seymour engrossed by Lillian’s witcheries, re- garded Helen less as a woman than a duenna. Only I, the man who loved her, saw the whole truth, and waited the result with trepidation. Oue day Seymour told me that all was settled. I heard him with a feel- ing that I could not analyze. For my own sake I bad dreaded that Helen's romance should end happily ; for hers I had shuddered at the prospect of him marrying Lily. “You are engaged to Lillian?" I stammered. He nodded, beaming at me from my rocking-chair. “Yes, he said, “I am engaged. At twenty, I scoffed ; at thirty, I fall! And to a village beauty—strange, isn’t it?? “Your ‘village beauty,’ ”’ 1 replied, suggests a dairymaid. You are mar- rying a gentlewoman ; what more do you want?’ “Nothing,” he declared. “I am su- premely content! We shall live, of course in London, and town will soon bring my little Phyllis up to date. Congratulate me!” : “Have you spoken to Miss Town- gend yet 7’ I asked. “Miss Townsend has consented,” he answered. ‘Between ourselves, old fellow, I do not fancy she is too well pleased to be left alone, Not that she said anything naturally ; but I could gee | Her manner gave one the im- pression of something held in reserve. I had thought more highly of her, but human nature is frighttully selfish at its best.” Not a perception, not an inkling of the real truth ! At the moment I hated him with all my heart. 1 called the following day at the cot- tage to tender my felicitations to the fiance. She was in the room alone. Helen, she told me, was sitting in the garden. the victim of a bad headche. “So iricating, isn’t it?" she said with a pout, “And at a time when I want every one around me to be nice and lively.” I was curious to ascertain whether this girl, too, was wronging my dear one's misery. “At least,” I said distingenuously, “you may be surethat in her heart she is as glad for you can be yourself?” Her eyebrows rose involuntarily in- to her blonde fringe. “Perhaps,” she responded. ‘Bat you mustn’t forget it will be very dull for Helen after I am gone!” Again the unworthy suspicion, again the self satisfied blindness ! “Where is Miss Helen 2” I inquired. “May I join her 2” “Oh, do,” said Lillian, “and try to send her indoors again better ¢om- pany !” She was sitting under the apple tree, her hands lving listlessly in ber lap. It needed all my pains to conceal the compassion that she made me feel. To see her so, to know how those about her were migjudging the sorrow that she was struggling to hide, nearly choked me. “] was told you were not well,” I said, with an effort. “I hope itis not serious ?”' “It is nothing—nothing at all I” she murmured. “You came to congratu- late Lily, of course ? And it was you who introduced Mr. Seymour to us— how grateful to you she should be.!” “And you,” I questioned, ‘‘are you too grateful 2” There was a pause, so brief that un. der ordinary circumstances I should have failed to notice it.” “Look at my sister's happy face,” she replied, gently, and ask me then if you still think it necessary !” All my love for her, the love I knew was vain, but could not stem, mounted for confession. “Helen,” I said, “I think you know what I want to say, I think you have known it for months. I do not ask if (you care for me very ardently ; at least you do not dislike me, and I am satis- fied with that. Will you come to me after you lose your sister 7—will you be my wife, and let me try to make you happy dear ?” She put her hand on mine with a gesture which was a denial before she spoke, “I am so sorry,” she said softly, “so terribly sorry and pained. Yes I did know, I did see—I hoped you would not ssk me ! Dear friend, I shall never marry—I[ am not meant to be any man's wife. I will not say that you will be sure to forget this soon—I know, or at least I can guess, that such suffering as yours is not forgotten I had not | which were new to her, was far from. easily—but do your best to forgel— your utmost! Because never, never shall I marry, as long as I live.” I kissed ber fingers before they crept up to her eyes. and turning on my heel went back into the house. “Ig Helen stopping out there still ?” cried Lily. “Some patterns tor my things have just come down, and I want her to help me choose!” She fluttered the samples complacently. * Lily became Mrs. Arnold Seymour, and Helen lived on in Whitebridge alone. She changed very painfully in the year that followed her sister's wed- ding. The gravity of her manner deepened, and I fancied that she buried herself in her work less from delight in it, or from a desire of the pecuniary reward, than to divert the current of her thoughts. On three occasions the Seymours sent her an invitation to go and stay a week with them in London. The first time she made some excuse ; the second time she went, and returned before the week had expired ; the third she declined again. When a child was born, however, it was impossible for her to refuse to visit them, and after that I gathered that Helen Townsend had gained an interest in her life. It became her pleasure to make things for the child—tiny garments, on which she lavished a wealth of the most intricate stitches. She never made a journey into the neighboring town without coming back with a cloak or some pinafores, or a sun-bonnet, or atoy. If Lillian were as devoted to her baby as its aunt was, the mite was indeed indulged, 1 thought. At the same time I doubted whether Lil-| lian would ever be very devoted in any capacity. I sounded Helen once on the subject ; “Is she a very proud mamma?’ [I asked. “Very I” answered Helen ¢ “and a perfectly contented wife—or would be if——. They are not overburdened with money you ‘know !” I had not known, and said as much. “On thecontrary,” I answered, “Mr. Seymour led me to believe be was an exceedingly busv man.” “I am afraid, then that he was guilty of a little professional brag,” Helen said ; “though, of course, what isa scanty income for a family might easi- ly have been enough for the require- ments of a bachelor. No, their cir- cumstances are scarcely affluent, that is the truth.” I began to think that her attentions to her niece’s wardrobe and her indus- try with her pen might have a deeper motive than I had divined. I had never distressed her by recurr- ing to the love I felt for her, and, per haps in reward for this, she had come to admit me to a more intimate confi- dence than that which had subsisted between us formerly. By degrees she used to discuss the Seymour's position With me quite frankly, suppressing only the fact of the assistance which I was now certain she gave. It appeared to me, though I refrained from expressing the opinion, that Seymour had committed an unjust- ifiable act in marrying while his prac tice was as yet so slight, and I wonder- ed how Lillian bore the unexpected straits to which his concealment of his position had subjected her. When they had been man and, wife for nearly two years, the birth of a se- cond child added to his responsibilities. Helen was again with them, and a few days later I received a note from her to say that her return to Whitebridge was delayed by her sister's condition. It was easy to read between the lines that it gave her cause for some anxiety. I waited eagerly for her next letter; she had promised to report to me the turn that affairs took. For nearly a week no further tid ings came, and then a hurried line reached me to the effect that Lillian was dan- gerously ill. It seemed to me no intrusive step, under the circumstances, to present myself at the house, and the same day I took a ticket to London, arriving at St. Pancras in the afternoon, and driving to the address in West Kens- ington at once. I was a little dismayed, when the cab stopped, to find the place a rather shabby lodging. Helen had never gone into details with me, aud I had assumed that they were living in a house of their own. The fly-blown pasteboard bearing the legend “Fur- nished Apartments,” the slipshod ser- vant, and the dirty passage were a rev- elation which momentarily made me doubt the delicacy of my visit. In response to my inquiry, I was shocked to learn that Mrs. Saymore was vot expected to last the day, and giving the girl my card, I was on the point of turning away, when Helen came down the stairs, “Oh, she exclaimed, “this is good— this is kind of you 1” She gave me her hand, and I pressed it in token of my sympathy. “You have heard——?" she falter ed. “I am bitterly, terribly grieved,” I answered. “Still, let us hope and pray for the best. And the child ?” “The child is doing well,” she said ; “but Arnold's agony is appalling. He will scarcely look at it ; he blames the poor little mite for Lillian’s danger.” “A man’s sorrow must always of marriage without any of its joys. When I presented myself at the house again I was asked to enter, and the maid-of-all-work supplemented the invitation by saying-— «Mrs. Seymour is dead.” Prepared in a measure as I had been for it the intelligence dealt me a severe blow. I felt my face turn white, and for a moment 1 could not reply. “Dead |” Isaid at last. “Whendid it happen ?" “The pore lady died about a hour after you went, sir,” she answered ; “and Mr. Séymour he's just took on awful.” Helen came in as she was speaking. Her eyes were red with weeping, and for a few seconds after the servaat’s withdrawal we were both silent. When [tried to express my compas- sion she silenced me, in pity for the effort :— “I know,” she murmured, “there is no need—I know !”’ She sank inte an armchair, and I stood on the hearth, watching her. The clock ticked loudly, and confused me; I could still think of nothing to say. But it was she *who broke the pause, and I who was required to lis- ten. She was good enough to tell me she wanted my advice, and, though this was scarcely the truth, she gave me her confidence, which was honor enough. “What is it about ?”’ I inquired. “Jt is about Arnold—about the children,” eaid she. “Something must be done at once. He has no means to give them a home, and it would be preposterous besides to leave such young children to a man’s care.” “You must not haraes yourself with matters of that sort yet awhile.” I in- terposed ; “we will discuss everything later.” “It is not so sudden as you may imagine,” sbe answered. We had looked for my poor girl's death this three days.” She sobbed, and turned aside a little. “I have seen for some time that the children must come to me ; I want tc know what you think of the plan ?” “Have you suggested it to Mr. mour himself ?”’ “Not yet: but he cannot refuse,” she said. “It will be very—very hard on you, Miss Townsend.” “Hard? On me? Ah, no, it will be hard on the father who must let them go. It is that that makes makes me reluctant to propose it. To lose his wife and part from his children at one fell swoop, it seems cruel !” ; “May I speak quite freely?’ 1 de- manded. “If you please.” “Is he, then, not in a position to re- tain them if he wishes it? His income is not decreased in any way by this sad event. What he could do before, it appears to me he might do still. Pecuniarily he does not suffer.” “You do not understand,” she said. “There have been complications all the time.” “And you?’ I ventured next. “Forgive me, but, if I follow yon exact- ly, the cost of the children’s mainten— ance would devolve upon yourself. Can you afford it either?” “J” She smiled sadly. “It will bea joy to me! I do not commit many extravagances; I am entitled to one, I think, without comment. Besides, Arnold will assist, of course, when he is able. My, idea is this: that he should be tree of the cares that have weighed upon him so heavily during the last two years; that he should live as a single man until his practice im- proves. He can give up these rooms; he can live cheaply and easily at one half of the expense he is put to now. He will feel new born when his misery begins to fade a little. The duns, the bills, the perpetual effort to pay ten pounds out of a five pound note, all that will be a thing of the past with hin. Before you go you must see him, if it is only for an instant; you will be startled at the alternation the worries have made in his appearance. I pro- pose to give him a fresh lease of life, to give his talents scope to exert them- selves. Poor fellow, he has been crip- pled and bound by all his anxieties. And then I love the little ‘ones; and I loved her. Who should take care of my darling’s babies but I?” What could I answer? though in my own mind I thought that for the support of Arnold Seymour's children to devolve upon the woman he had not Sey- married was the cruellest irony of fate... I shook the widower by the hand less cordially than had been my wont, and returned home by an early train next morning. A fortnight later Helen took up her residence in Whitebridge once more, and turned the room in which she was accustomed to write into a nursery. The children thrived and grew sturdy under her care. She lavished on these two little nieces a wealth of tenderness and solicitude that rendered ber spins- terhood un even mere pathetic sight to witness than it had been before. She was a wother to them in the highest, the noblest meaning of the word. And And as the children grew strong and gay, so more and more of Helen's youth seemed to vanish froma her. It was as if the lives she watched absorbed it; as if, like parasites, they flourished on the stem they sapped, When they had blame something.” I said, a shade been with her for two years there was gententiously. “Is she conscious ?” “No not since early this morning.” I asked if there was anything I could do. She thanked me, and an- swered that there was not. “You will not go back to White: bridge to day ?"" ebe questioned. *To morrow,” I' declared ; “and to- vight I will just. come to the door again, in hope of better news.” As I was taking my leave the un- tidy servant girl hurried to Helen with some mumbled message and a slip of paper ; and I saw Helen's hand go in- 1 | an additional sedateness in ber man- ner ; when they had been with her for five, she no: longer looked a young woman. Indeed, she no longer regard: ed herself as a young woman ; she spoke of things “unbefitting to my age.” Yet she was more beautiful than ever ; more than ever 1 loved ber; more than ever, I was secretly convinced, her own heart belonged to the man who had not guessed the tenderness he had inspired. He was latterly, I gathered, making some progress in his profession ; and [ to her pocket and extract a purse. I gathered it from the fact that during descended the steps with my heart the last twelve months Helen had heavy for this woman, who, having failed to attract the man she loved, had yet so much of the responsibilities several times spoken to me proudly of remmittances that he had sent. Previously she had omitted all men- | tion of his promised assistance, and it | had not needed much acumen on my part to understand that the promise was not being fulfilled. Her silence on the point and the redoubled as siduity with which she worked were explicit enough. On the few occasions upon which he had run down to the village I had geen but little of him, though he appear- ed to see me. His well-cut clothes, his admirable boots and hat, his silver headed walking cane itself, jarred upon me, contrasting them with the rigid economy of the woman who supported his children. I know, however, that he wrote to her frequently, and did not fail to express his gratitude and ap- .preciation to her in well-balance pe- riods, which she thought as beautiful as they were undeserved. Now that he was actually sending a little money to- wards the expenses she held him a veritable hero, rising, Phcwnix-like, above the misfortunes of a malignant fate: Yes, it is quite the truth that to his sister-in-law Arnold Seymour was a hero. She reread his letters; she prayed for his success ; his little girls believed him the most noble man who had ever lived. She talked to them of their father in a voice which, to me who listeued, was a confession of her love. When he was coming to see them her eyes would sparkle, her cheeks would flush, almost she was young again, More than once I had been tempted to plead my cause with her anew, and always unconsciously she would in this way give me my an- swer before I spoke. What she antici- pated—whether she anticipated any- thing—I could not judge, but that she still loved Arnold Seymour with all her soul I had no manner of doubt. One afternoon when I went to see her she told me she had beard from him by the morning’s post. She was quite gay. Thechildren were romp- ing in the garden, where, seven years before, I had asked her to be my wife, and she and I sat chatting by the win- dow. “He is coming down,” she said, with a delighted tremor in her tones ; “he will be here by tea-time. You must stay and meet him.” I made some objection, but she overruled it. “He would be hurt,” she said, “if you ran away. He even refers to you in his letter. Take down a book from the shelves, and amuse yourself while I make the chicks nice and smart for ‘papa’. She called them in, and retired with them upstairs, whence I could bear laughs ahd splashings. The servant came in with the tea-things, and laid the table with the best service and lit- tle glass bowls full of fiowers, in whose arrangement I detected the handiwork of Helen, The brilliancy of thejday was subsiding, and the fruit trees beyond were mellowed in the radiance of the declining sun. The breath of the hay blew in with the light breeze. It was very charming when Arnold Seymour sauntered up the path. Noth- ing was incongruous but Arnold Sey— mour. He was go kind as to profess himself enchanted to find me there, though, when I looked at Helen's eyes as she greeted him, I could easily have wished myself away. He kissed his daughters ardently, and produced for their delectation some trifling presents from his bag. “As a matter of fact, old fellow,” he said to me, “I was coming round to your quarters to see you presently. And I want you to put me up for the night, if you will ; we can have a talk together, you and I.” To Helen he said, “Send the child: ren away for awhile, will you? We can get on better without them.” I took this as a hint to make my de- parture, but he detained me. After all, you may just as well hear what I have to say now,” he observed. “Helen won’t mind, [ am sare.” I resumed my seat, and he lit a cig- arette before continuing. “Helen,” he said, ‘and you, my dear fellow, you are the two best friends I have in the world. Qae of you is the sister of my poor wife, and the other introduced me to her. When I loet her, life seemed finished to me; and I have no hesitation in declaring that everything I have to day is due to the tenderness of the woman who has been a comrade to myself ard a mother to my babies.” He flickered the ask off the cigarette, and paused a moment I took advan- tage of the pause to lift my eyes from the floor and glance at Helen, whose color was fluttering in her cheeks. ‘But Helen, here’ he pursued, ‘Hel- en, whom the world calls my sister-in- law, but whom I, as I have said, call my ‘comrade,’ I should now have been an adventurer in the Colonies. She took my children, she permitted me to continue my profession, she has been loyal and tender and devoted. I owe her so much that [ am glad, and in- deed proud, to acknowledge it before another—to have another present to see how I have come to herto-day.’ ‘Arnold I’ she said, and something I had never seen there before was in her face. ‘I am succeeding,’ said Arnold, ‘by glow degrees I am making a respecta- ble practice ; and I propose to take a step which I want to discuss with you. Helen I am anxious to marry again ; but you have been everything to me, and I cannot do it without your sanc- tion and approval. It will advance me very much in my profession, the marriage I project ; it will bring me many briefs, and, later on, in all prob- ability, a very fine appointment. Bat if you think I should be wronging your sister's memory. if you think I should be bebaving badly to the children in giving them a stepmother, I will waive my interests, and my af- tection for the lady and obey your wish. There is nothing to cry for—I will obey your wish.” I bad not known she was crying, for I could not look, ; ‘Answer me,’ he said ; ‘what is your view ?’ ‘The tears came at the. thought of parting with the children,” Helen murmured ; ‘and they were foolish, selfish tears!’ ‘I can bring them up very different- ly, it I marry,’ they will have every advantage that wealth can give.” I got up, and looked out of the win- dow. The sunset had faded, mund shadows were falling upon the trees and flowers. For a second neither the man nor the woman behind me spoke. Only, the wind, which had risen moaned a little among the "boughs. ‘I pray that you may be very, very Bary 1” the voice I loved said stead- ily And, turning, I asked Seymour to give me one of his cigarettes, in order that Helen might suatch a moment to look out of the window too. = The Question of the Hour. Every Person is Interested Now In Making The Dollars go Far. “Take carg of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves,” is a maxium that is peculiarly appli- cable to these hard times. Wasteful- ness at ali times is foolish ; it is worse ' than that now when thousands are sufelop for lack of the necessaries of ife. The Pittsburg Times is an object lesson in proper economy. It presents one of the chief necessities of life all the news at the lowest possible cost, Notwith- standing the fact that The Pittsburg Times is gold for only one cent a day, the claim is made for it that it is the most complete newspaper printed in Pittsburg ; that every occurrence of hu- man interest in every part of the globe is promptly reported in its columns; that it is essentially a paper for the home, everything of an objectionable character being excluded ; that it is the only paper in Pittsburg whose market reports are reliable and revised every day in the week ; that it is the only Pittsburg newspaper which prints dai- ly a carefully prepared department for the ladies, and once a week a report, prepared by experts, of special interest to agricultural readers; and, finally, it is the only Pittsburg newspaper which prints daily the highest class of fiction. In addition to all this, The Times offers to all its readers at a nominal cost the opportunity of securing one of the highest class magazines printed in the country, and to the ladies their choice during the year 1894, of twelve of the most approved paper patterns, with privilege of selecting from a list of 50,000. Send for a sample copy of The Times, which will be mailed you free and see how their promises are fulfilled. If there is no agent for The Times in your locality a profitable business can be established by writing for the agency. When a Boycott is Legal. en re PHILADELPHIA, January 2.—Justice Dean in the supreme court to-day de- clared an opinion which defines the le- gality of a boycott. It was in the case of George M. Cote against Hugh Mur- phy and others from the common pleas court of Allegheny county, and the de- cision reverses the judgment ot the low- er court. The plaintiff obtained $1,500 damages from the defendants on the grounds that the latter ‘‘by un- lawful and successful conspiracy in- jured him in his business.” The defendants were members of the Planing Mill association of Allegheny county and of the Pittsburg Builder's exchange. The plaintiff and six other dealers refused to join the defendants in boycotting contractors who conced- ed to the demands of strikers in May, 1891, and the members of the as- sociation then refused to sell them ma- terial. In reversing the judgment the supreme court decided that when the trade associations boycott contractors and dealers who encourage strikes and concede to the striker’s demands, and when such associations extend such a boycott is legal. Gotham’s Bridge of Sighs. It Will Connect the Criminal Court House With the Tombs. The New York bridge of sighs, which is nearly completed and will be put in- to practical use soon after the New New Year, will connect with the fa- mous old Tombs prison. It is of solid iron, with no woodwork on it, and hangs some fifty feet above the street. Over this prisoners will be conveyed from the Tombs to the court house for trial of sentence. Just within the court house is an iron barred room, as sclid as any in New York’s various prisons, where the un- fortunates will await the caliing of their cases. Then there will be no more cas- es of prisoners escaping while being transferred from prison to court. The bridge is an exact ‘reproduction of the famous Ponte dei Sospiri, or Bridge af Sighs, in Venice, which con- nects the Doge's palace with the prison. That bridge was built in the year 1589 by Da Honte and is one of the land- marks of the old world, having been perpetuated in prose and verse. One of Japan’s Jewels. The great attraction of Kamakura, and one of the jewels of Japan, is the Daibutsu, or great bronze Buddha. We approach it through a three lined ave- nue and get the first and best view of is at a distance of some 200 feet. Itis a sitting figure, 49 feet 7 inches high, 97 foet 2 inches in circumference. The face is 8 feet 5 inches long and from ear to ear 17 feet 9 inches wide. The eyes, which are pure gold, are nearly 2 reet long. The circumference of the thumb is 3 feet. These figures give some idea of the size, and the figure is elevated on a stone platform some 12 to ‘15 feet above the person approaching it. But no description can convey an ides of the majesty of the face. Itis bent gently forward as if in brooding contemplation of the infinite. It represents perfect peace— the repose of the attained Nir. vana.