A young man who was once a pupil in the public schools of Milton, said to me, “My teacher, Mr. _____, once said, “A person cannot love anything that is incapable of returning love. What do you think of that expression?” I will now keep my answer. I think your teacher was off. I think he has bitten the knowledge of psychology, and less of metaphysics. Anything that gives us sensuous delight produces love. We love a noble horse, and that animal may in some degree love us in return, or have a liking for us. Perhaps this is instinct, but let it be what it may, there is a fondness expressed for us by the brute. We love the fragrance of the flowers; the beautiful leaves, its pistils, its stamens, corolla; we admire the beauty of a landscape, and the picturesque scenery of the forest; these contribute to our enjoyment, and by their appearance produce a sensuous delight. They cannot love us, yet they unconsciously contribute to our pleasure. We love them, merely because God made them for us to love. The pretty lake embossed by hills and wood, and studded with isles entrance us, the forest, filled with the fragrant magnolia, and other congenital flowers, produce a pleasing effect upon a sensitive nature, and the fields of waving grain, the pastures green; and the golden fruit, are not only things of admiration, to the admirer of beauty and the connoisseur in love, but a source of profit to the owner of these pretty surroundings. And we know from blessed experience, that a person can love something “that is incapable of returning love.” But certainly is there pleasure in bestowing a love that cannot be returned, there is happiness in the love that is interchangeable, reciprocal, returnable. There can be no greater pleasure in this world, but for two loving hearts that truly beat in unison to be united. This is the substance of which heaven is built; this is the magic lever that moves the world; this is the power that overcomes death and the grave.
“’Tis love that drives my chariot wheels
And death must yield to love.”[i]
It has been said, “No one can be unhappy who has something to love.” Possibly this is true.
If there is another accomplishment that adds to the admirable qualities of a Rev. B. T. Coursey, it is his promptness. Before the ringing of the church bell the second time, Mr. Coursey is usually in his pulpit; and when the last notes of the bell have died a way, commences to announce his first hymn. This is a trait we admire, as do all other persons who have a regard to punctuality.
The colored camp in Slaughter Neck will begin on August 6 and continued two weeks; and one will commence at Hazzard’s Woods, near Milton, on August 20. Both of these camps will be under the auspices of the A. M. E. Church.
C. T. Waples, contractor for furnishing the lumber for Lavinia’s Camp, commenced hauling on the ground last week. Workman had begun to the wreck the boarding tent, under the management of the camp committee.
On Clifton Lane there as an old stable, the property of Mrs. Mollie Lingo. One night last week the roof and west gable of this house suddenly turned a saffron color without any apparent cause. There is a legend in connection with this building, which epitomizes would read something like the following: “Years ago, this table was built in Prime Hook Neck. In it, a man by name of Clem. Hurley, killed his wife; it was afterward removed to one other farm, and finally found its way to Milton, as the property of H. B. Lingo, whose heir now owns it. This phenomenon we have mentioned, may be ascribed by the superstitious, to the ghost of the murdered woman coming back to paint the building, not “red” but saffron.
During a baseball game at Lewes during the Fourth, between the Milton and Lewes teams, Thomas Spencer was hit by a ball on the left wrist and much hurt. The ball struck an old wound, where Mr. Spencer had been cut some time ago, which aggravated the present mishap considerably. Neither of the bones are broken, but the tendons are very badly strained, and it will be quite a while before they can properly perform their functions.
Messrs. Coverdale & Outten are painting the residence of John Robbins, near town.
Sometime ago the postmaster took a letter from one of the letter boxes along the street, that had the amount of postage wrapped in a piece of paper and pinned to the envelope, and no superscript thereon. As the envelope had not the cart of the sender on it, the postmaster could not return it nor could not send it; but after a while, by inquiry, he found out the sender. This shows a mistake made by carelessness.
The steamer left on Monday for an excursion to Washington Park, did not stop at the resort as the excursion as decided they did not want to go there. They, therefore, went to Philadelphia and returned to Milton on Wednesday.
Miss Mary Fisher, of Philadelphia, is the guest of her many Milton friends.
P. J. Hart will formally open the Park in a few days.
[i] Quotation from the poem Ascending to Him in Heaven, part of a collection of lyric devotional poetry by Isaac Watts (1674 – 1748), English Christian hymn writer, theologian, and logician.