distinguished his fraternity. It would indeed be unjust for us to expect irreproachable diction of a man who is forced to grind out "copy," in the mood or out of it, with hardly leisure enough to read over what he has written, much less revise it. We expect no rhetorical miracles. We do not ask the editor to mend his style, but we beg him to refrain from mutilating it. It is distressing to notice the apparent paucity of expression that hampers the pens of our journalists. They have reared a new family of words and phrases, squalid and sickly, the progeny of vulgar colloquialisms. They have immersed their editorials in a fountain —a river—an ocean of slang. It is such a convenient thing with which to round a period! It has force if it has not elegance, and then this bizarre style of writing is the fashion. What a strange defense! No one adopts the lingo of a prize-fighter as his model in drawing-room conversation. No one talks slang in the beau monde. These loose-jointed words are the relaxations we allow ourselves occasionally when we chat with an intimate friend. We are forced to forego them in public. How is it that the editor whose utterances are the cynosure of every eye indulges himself with impunity in such verbal license simply because he can hide his personality behind the screen of his paper?

American newspapers, while they are in many respects peerless and above reproach, have faults peculiarly their own. They are astute, far-sighted, sound in logic, quick of wit, not without appreciation or devoid of taste, and, above all, full of enterprise, and of an indomitable determination to keep up with the times. But these qualities fail to elicit their meed of commendation, because they are shorn of their greatest glory, pure diction and fine phraseology-also because they are tainted with that sensationalism which is the bane alike of our literature and art.

unlettered people, asked me if I would not give him a certain copy of the New York Herald which I had. The request surprised me. He had never asked for the paper before, and I knew that he took more kindly to the Clipper. Upon inquiry, however, I discovered that he was anxious to obtain the Herald because he had been told that it contained a most minute and graphic account of the late murder in Hoboken! And here I may observe that I have been very much gratified by the intelligence that a bill has been introduced into the Michigan Legislature imposing a fine of $1000 and imprisonment for a year on any person publishing an account of a murder or hanging.

Very few thoughtful people presume to deny that the tendency of this charnel-house literature is to increase the percentage of crime in our midst. I can easily comprehend the verdict of that New York jury which ascribed the late suicide of a young girl in that city to an overwrought fancy worked up to the fatal pitch by brooding over current accounts of similar acts of desperation. The melo-drama of our newspapers is too vulgar to exert any influence over older and more intelligent persons; but its effect upon the young and unreasoning mind can easily be understood by one who is sensible of the subtle power wielded over the most refined and cultivated by a certain class of writers. I cannot conceive of a more effective stimulant to morbid tastes than the stories of Mr. Edgar Poe. I should not like to be held responsible for their effects upon the mind and conduct of any one who was given to their constant perusal. Yet the carefully worked up accounts of tragic denouements which appear in our papers from day to day are even more insinuating and seductive to some persons, and they are more widely circulated.

how embarrassing it would be to be called upon to furnish frequently any such alliterated and hydra-headed titles as the following, which I clip from a paper of good standing, and which appeared over an unpretending article:

surprised, because I knew the editor to be a man of refined tastes. In defense of his action, he said that the low price at which the paper soldone cent per copy-extended its circulation among the poorer classes of society, to whom, as a rule, reading of that kind was particularly acceptable;

BEAUTIFUL BEASTS BROUGHT OUT AND BESTRODE BEWILDER AND BEWITCH BIG BODIES OF BEHOLDERS.

DECIDED DIFFERENCE IN DISCRIMINATION AND DISCUSSION AS TO DEVELOPMENT DEFINITELY DETERMINED.

CAUSES CONSIDERED.

Here is a fault so patent that a blind man could almost see it. It is, however, comparatively harmless, though certainly indicative of very poor taste. I would pass it in silence, if I could secure thereby a promise that we should be treated to less vulgar humor. I have no words in which to express my disgust and loathing for the vile and indecent "jokes," the broad innuendoes, the outrageous double entendres, the indelicate chaff with which our papers are filled.

Not long since I observed, with regret, that a certain popular paper was publishing a set of stories worthy of Fielding and Smollett. I was

designed to cater to his tastes. What do you

think of that defense?

You will never get a journalist to acknowledge that he is pursuing a wrong policy. If you disparage anything that goes into his paper, he says, in a patronizing way: "Yes, I know it is below proof. But, my dear sir, you do not understand this business. We do not exercise our own discretion in these matters. We put in what we know will please the people. The public has no opinion, no mind of its own. It is a creature of impulse

and prejudice. We understand that perfectly."

There is real humor in the situation, when we consider that at the very moment when the editor is making these remarks, society is saying, with poignant regret: "Oh, these journalists are so degenerate! They have no conscience at all, much less principle. It is surprising that they have managed for so long to retain their respectability."

DURING Sherman's immortal achievement in the march through Georgia I fell sick, and being unable any longer to sit my horse, I was left behind about fifty miles inland, at a small farm house belonging to a Confederate farmer. Here I fell in with a young lieutenant from a Vermont regiment -Ephraim Baxter by name-who had been badly wounded in the head, and consequently incapacitated, like myself, from keeping up with the army.

We both felt down-hearted enough as we saw the last straggler, and heard the last bugle-call of

our comrades die away in the distance, leaving us behind, sick, wounded, and unprotected, in the enemy's country.

However, we tried to make the best of matters, swearing eternal friendship over our pipes, and forming a firm compact to stand by each other to the death. I soon found out that my companion's wound made him extra nervous and even flighty at times when the pain in his head was very bad, and this irregularity of imagination took the form of extreme suspiciousness of everybody and every

"Hurrah! hurrah! we'll shout the jubilee,

Hurrah! hurrah! the flag that set you free,"

he sang at the top of his voice, tapping his pipe viciously on the sill of the farm-house window. "Anything to keep one's spirits up; I could knock out the little brains the bullet left behind in my noddle, to think of it all. It's just my confounded luck all through. No one to talk to here but the old man and woman and that sulky nigger. I am hungry as a catamount. I'll go in and hurry up the tea and fixings." So saying, he began to pound at the bolted door, by no means in the sweetest of tempers, for his wound was just then paining him a good deal.

"If I had my pistol here, I'd darned soon blow in this door and fetch 'em."

"The old man's coming, I hear him shuffling," I said. "Don't get impatient, Baxter; the old folks are deaf, and I dare say no more pleased to have us here than we are to be obliged to stay. It's in our interest to keep them sweet.”

"Oh, you're too civil to them by half, cap'n. I've been a prisoner once over yonder in Libby, and I know 'em, darn their rebel skins. I wouldn't trust 'em an inch from my nose. Shuffle, shuffle -I hear him. Come 'long here and open this door," he shouted, loud enough to waken the seven sleepers.

"Why, I declare, I hear horses' hoofs," I said, listening again.

I wish I'd shot at him with my six-shooter!" Just then the farmer, a beetle-browed, sourlooking old man, with a week's stubble on his chin, came past us, looking down the road as he shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Who are you looking for?" I inquired.

The old man's eyes twinkled maliciously as he turned slowly round, replying, "I'm lookin' fur my friends to come.

"There, durn him, didn't I tell you so, cap'n. He's looking for the rebs, and we shall be cut into apple sass," cried Baxter feverishly. "Now look here, old skunk," he went on, turning sharp on the astonished old man, and laying a heavy brown hand on his shoulder, "we're officers of Uncle Sam's army, and we insist on knowing who that fellow was who has just galloped off so slick." "That man with the saddle-bags?" "Yes."

"The varmint with the blue coat and "Yes, yes."

"What! the fellow that blew the horn ?" "Yes, you pesky old coon."

"Him that come out just befo' me?"

יי?.

"Yes, I tell you. Come, no more sliding about -answer."

"That? Why that's the Slopercreek postman, that is," said the old man, cackling and exploding with a vexatious laugh. "Wal, I reckon you is the queerest Yanks I ever see in these parts."

"What! that the postman, and carries pistols?" "Yes; 'bliged to, the roads is so full o' these

"Nonsense," I replied, as the door of the farmhouse this moment flew open, and a rough-looking, sinister-faced man in ragged dress, slouch hat, and long boots, came out leading a horse. His saddlebags were stuffed full of something, and he carried a pistol and bowie knife in his belt, while a horn slung back over his shoulders. He scowled at us

as he leaped on his horse.

"Look here, you venerable coon," said Baxter, "you just keep a civil tongue in your shaky jaws, or I'll soon settle your hash for you. We don't intend taking none o' your sass. Jump round quick now and get us some supper."

Some way my better judgment was overruled, and I began to regard the old couple with the

"What's that to you, mud-sill?" answered the man, looking down at his pistol in a menacing manner. Who was your nigger last year?" And saying this, he struck spurs in his horse, blew his horn loudly, and dashed down the road out of sight.

"Didn't I tell you, cap'n, it was an all-fired

them, his mistrust infecting me in spite of myself.

That night when we went to bed-we slept in the same room-Baxter broke out again. He was very feverish and restless. All at once he bounced out of bed.

"Look here, cap'n," said he, "I can't sleep here nohow. Depend upon it, there's some mis

chief brewing; that old skunk is too quiet. There's some confounded plot to blow us up, and these darned cans" (here he kicked a row of cans at one end of the room) may be full of nitroglycerine, for all we know. Then here's this pesky cupboard" (trying the door) "that's locked as tight as a clam at high tide; who knows what's in it, or where it leads to ?-some trap to push our dead bodies into, I'll be bound."

"Come, come, old boy, don't kick up such a row this time of night," said I soothingly.

"Oh, no! and have a lot of rebs spring through that door at us to cut our throats, or be burned in our beds; I guess so!"

"Those are only oil-cans."

"Yes, and what feeds fire better than oil." "Well, if you will hunt around at unearthly hours for causas belli, for gracious sakes keep your suspicions to warm your own imagination. I don't care a rap, so you'll let me sleep."

But it was all of no use. The lieutenant was half-crazed with anger and mistrust.

Opening a window he began rolling the cans toward it, and lifting them cautiously, tossed three or four out into the court-yard below. It was useless trying to restrain him.

Presently we heard the voice of our host shouting up for us to stop.

'Here, strangers, here," he cried, "none o' them tricks; you're spillin' all the oil the carrier left here for Sy Peck's stores at Slopercreek, and I'm answerable for 't."

"Didn't I tell you," said my irascible companion, turning to me red in the face from tugging at the cans, and throwing another out, "he's going to set fire to the house, and this is to make it go slick. I've a mind to set the whole darned concern going myself to pay him out."

66

'You'll do nothing of the kind, if I know it," I said quietly. "You're crazy, to be going on like that."

"Look here, liftenent," shouted the old man, "if you'll only lay by till me and the old gal kin dress, we'll come up and tote them ile-cans that seem to sorter rile you."

Satisfied with this diplomatic arrangement, Baxter yielded, and soon the obnoxious jars were carried away by the old people and their negro.

Nevertheless my comrade refused to sleep unless I kept guard, so we agreed to take our rest by turns, portioning the night off into different watches.

The next morning at breakfast the old couple were very sullen, and the rheumatic old negro who kept slouching about with an axe in his hand once more aroused Baxter's suspicions.

Drawing his six-shooter and laying it beside his plate on the table, the touchy Vermonter remarked: "I don't mean no harm, old folks, but if that nigger o' yours keeps loafing about behind my chair with that axe kinder handy, I'll make the tallest corpse of him to be seen in these dig. gin's, sure as there's wattles on a rooster; so he'd better look out."

In the afternoon we were lounging on the grass in the orchard, out of sight of the house, and were just dozing off, being much fatigued after our broken rest of the previous night, when a horrible and unearthly noise roused us. It was like the clatter of a dozen mill-wheels going off at once, together with a score of burglar-alarms and a perfect medley of watchman's rattles.

"That's a signal," said the lieutenant anxiously; "come along, cap'n; draw your sword, for we're in for it now, and if we don't get a shy at the rebs and scare them a bit, I wouldn't give three strips of a louse for either of our lives in this darned place."

We dashed over the fence, racing along in the direction from whence came the infernal racket, until a gap from a second orchard into the cornfield was reached, where the noise was positively deafening.

"Double-quick it," shouted Baxter; "we'll drop slick on their sentinel before the main body comes up."

We were quickly round the corner of the stack, and there we found the enemy; a little sun-burned sly urchin, who was stuffing his mouth full of doughnuts with one hand, while with the other he sprang a great flapping bird-scarer's rattle.

I screamed with laughter; not so my nervous friend, however, who was inclined to take the joke au sérieur. He gave the youngster a sounding box on the ears, grimly confiscating the rattle, and, more out of temper than ever, turned and left.

That evening at tea we were soundly berated by the old couple, who were most indignant at our treatment of their grandson-the innocent rattlespringer-and of our suspicions, and our behavior generally. They wanted to do their best by us, they said, and make the best of the reverses of war, but we still remained mistrustful and arbitrary.

If it were to go on this way, they would give up the house, fixings and all, to us, and go right away to their married son's at Slopercreek. "I don't mean no harm, and I want to get along smoothly," said the old farmer; "but there don't seem to be no ways o' satisfyin' you Yankees. You seem to think we're all trash and thieves down here in Georgia, because we don't go in for your old rail-splitter 'stead o' Jeff Davis."

Despite our host's harangue, however, we were by no means reassured when we retired that night. We spent a long hour talking, discussing the danger, and resolving, if surprised, to die fighting; for with one of us wounded, and the other weak from long sickness, escape would be out of the question. "And if the time does come," remarked Baxter, "I'll just keep my last shot for that old skunk down-stairs. He shan't get off scott free if I can help it."

The great brilliant harvest-moon was shining like a gigantic yellow lamp over the mottling cornfields as I got into bed; for my sleep was first that night. About half-past three o'clock I awoke and took my place in the tumble-down arm-chair by the window near the bed, and opposite the locked cupboard which had already roused my comrade's fears.

"The everlastin' firmament," he grumbled drowsily, as he turned in between the sheets, "I am pesky sleepy." And in a minute or two his pipe dropped from his mouth on the floor, he murmuring the while his favorite lamentation over the "rebs."

The night was feverishly hot and close. There were mutterings of thunder in the air, and the sky was black, sullen, and starless. The moon was qutite extinguished in huge masses of vaporous clouds, and as I opened the window the silence was almost oppressive. No sound of night-bird or insect reached my strained ears, but only the occasional uneasy and distant growling of the coming storm.

It could not have been very far from daybreak when, overcome with fatigue and a dull pain in my head, brought on by the thunder heat, I fell asleep. My dreams were none of the pleasantest. I thought I was still gazing out of the window on the black night, when the rifles of a whole rebel regiment suddenly pointed at me through forked flames, which broke into a blaze of light, disclosing the old farmer's sniggering face cackling

over my discomfort. I awoke fancying I heard the sound of hoofs, and imagining the rebel cavalry had already gotten on our track. But I soon fell asleep again, this time dreaming the old couple had poisoned us, and as we lay twisting and writhing in our horrible death agony they came to our bedside gloating over us with faces distorted with malice and revenge and taunting us with being so easily fooled.

The sharp, clear report of a pistol awoke me. There was no mistake now, and I hurriedly seized my sword and roused Baxter. My first thought was that the old man had crept into our room and murdered the Vermonter as he slept, and that the next barrel would fetch me. But I was mistaken, and I felt, when I was thoroughly awake, that the shot must have been fired at one of us through the open window.

It was gray dawn, and light enough to see everything in the room, and as we stared at each other, uncertain from whence an attack might be made on us, Baxter, with a ghastly look of terror that seemed to turn his face to stone, pointed to the cupboard door. There, from beneath, was creeping slowly and sluggishly out a winding stream of thick crimson blood, which, widening over the floor, in a moment had almost reached our feet, rooted in horror to the spot.

"Some one has been murdered in there," I faltered. In another moment I flew at the door and tried with might and main to break it open. There was a heavy crash within as of some one falling, but no reply to our muffled cries. Baxter, always more hot and passionate than myself, cut the knot summarily. Placing his revolver at the key-hole, he blew the door open with a single shot.

It was but a brief moment's work to drag down the planks, and we beheld, not a man weltering in his blood, but a huge broken bottle of preserved currants, which, newly corked, had fermented with the heat and had exploded in the alarming manner I have described, while the thick red juice under the door might have alarmed persons with less reason to be suspicious than ourselves.

I am happy to say this was the climax which solved all after-doubts, and the remainder of our stay with the old couple was harmonious and friendly, for in the clear light of common sense they proved to be the most harmless people in the world.