to say that "the landscape-painter who does not make his skies a very material part of his composition neglects to avail himself of one of his greatest aids." He says he was advised to consider his sky as "a white sheet thrown behind the objects." He claims that the skies have what he calls a natural history in the changes that they show. As West once told him: "Always remember, sir, that light and shade never stand still," adding: "In your skies always aim at brightness . . . even the darkest effects there should be brightness. Your darks should look like the darks of silver, not of lead or of slate." It was the fault in the skies that led to the rejection of Constable's picture, "Flatford Mill," by the Royal Academy.
How much life depends upon its
skies.
(2969)
SLACKNESS
Mr. C. E. Russell, in Hampton's Magazine, gives some experiences of Dr. H. H. Hart, of Chicago, member of the National Prison Association. One time he went to an Illinois jail in a small rural town, and asked to see the sheriff: It appeared that the sheriff was visiting in another part of the county. Doctor Hart asked for the jailer. The jailer was absent, attending a funeral. Was any officer within range? Oh, yes, there was a deputy sheriff somewhere about. After diligent search, Doctor Hart succeeded in running down the deputy sheriff, and announced that he had come to inspect the jail. The deputy sheriff said he would get the key. He felt in one pocket after another, and at last announced, with some trace of annoyance, that he could not find the key. For a moment he stood silent and meditating, until at last a bright thought seemed to occur to him. "Wait a moment," he said, and disappeared into the barn. Presently he returned with another man. "This is one of the prisoners," said the deputy. "I guess he has the key." Accordingly, the prisoner dug the key out of a pocket and ushered Doctor Hart into the prison. On another occasion Doctor Hart visited a jail, and found it apparently deserted. He could discover no sheriff, no jailer, no deputy. A man was sweeping the sidewalk, and of him Doctor Hart asked for news of the county officers. The man shook his head. "I guess I'm the only prisoner here. The sheriff and the jailer have gone out into the country on a picnic." "What are you in for?" "Oh, for murder," said the man, nonchalantly, and resumed his sweeping. Incredible as it may seem, this man was telling the truth, and not long afterward he was tried and found guilty.
(2970)
SLANDER Against slander there is no defense. It starts with a word, with a nod, with a shrug, with a look, with a smile. It is pestilence walking in darkness, spreading contagion far and wide, which the most wary traveler can not avoid; it is the heart-searching dagger of the dark assassin; it is the poisoned arrow whose wounds are incurable; it is the mortal sting of the deadly adder, murder its employment, innocence its prey, and ruin its sport.—Catholic Telegraph.
(2971)
SLANDER IRREPARABLE
The man who breaks into my dwelling, or
meets me on the public road and robs me of
my property, does me injury. He stops me
on the way to wealth, strips me of my hard-earned
savings, involves me in difficulty, and
brings my family to penury and want. But
he does me an injury that can be repaired.
Industry and economy may again bring me
into circumstances of ease and affluence. The
man who, coming at the midnight hour, fires
my dwelling, does me an injury—he burns
my roof, my pillow, my raiment, my very
shelter from the storm and tempest; but he
does me an injury that can be repaired. The
storm may indeed beat upon me, and chilling
blasts assail me, but Charity will receive me
into her dwelling will give me food to eat,
and raiment to put on; will timely assist me,
raising a new roof over the ashes of the old,
and I shall again sit by my own fireside, and
taste the sweets of friendship and of home.
But the man who circulates false reports
concerning my character, who exposes every
act of my life which may be represented to
my disadvantage, who goes first to this, then
to that individual, tells them he is very
tender of my reputation, enjoins upon them
the strictest secrecy, and then fills their ears
with hearsays and rumors, and, what is
worse, leaves them to dwell upon the hints
and suggestions of his own busy imagination—the
man who thus "filches from me my
