. Gussie, and then, in per-

.and Lola’s dearest com-

der that my dear, dead

 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by the Publishers of Briies ano Beacx, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

Vom L—No: 10.

NEW YORK, APRIL 4, 1874.

Yearly, $4.00.

Prick 10 Cents. gistntsrty,

 

 

THE GRAY SHADOW.

BY MARY REED CROWELL.

 

F all people I ever saw, no one ever im-
pressed me so strangely and so strongly,
at first sight, as did Cecile Courcelle.

I remember so very distinctly the moment I
first laid my eyes upon her; how, though I
had been prepared for her beauty by Wal-
bert’s ardent enthusiasm, I fairly started back
in bewilderment that such a combination of
wondrous perfectness of face, form and grace
could exist in any woman.

It was just a few minutes after sunset, and
the carriage that had been sent for me to the
Idledell station drove up to the foot of the
steps, where Isaw Mr. Remington and Gussie
—dear little motherless Gussie!—and Walbert
and another, awaiting
me, in a perfect bath
of golden red glory that
seemed showering down
from the June sun-set-
ting. I laughed—no, I
don’t think I actually
Jaughed, for my heart
was 00 sore when I
remembered this was
the first time since my
sister Aljce died that I
had visited at Idledell;
when I saw Mr. Rem-
ington’s deep mourning
dress, and Gussie’s biack
sash and ribbon in her
golden hair; but I know
Ismiled at my brother-
in-law, and Walbert,
and threw a kiss at

fectly bewildered sur-
prise’ at the splendid
vision, stared at this
woman — girl—angel—
demon, whatever she
was, standing between
Mr. Remington and
Walbert, in the red
glory of the summer
evening.

She wore a_ grena-
dine, black and lustrous,
with heavy, elegant jet
jewelry ; her splendid
arms, short, small, but
exquisitely molded,
gleamed through their
dusky vails like breath-
ing marble; her round
white throat sloped up
from the lace ruffle at
the neck like a column
of ivory. Her hand lay -
on Gussie’s head —a
small, graceful hand,
without ring or brace-
let, but that, in its per-
fect repose, made me
feel its strength, its
firmness.

And then, her face!
her wondrously witch-
ing face! I did not won-
der then that my ne-
phew had raved of her
in his letters, or that
my stern brother-in-law
had more than once
mentioned ‘‘their char-
mingly beautiful friend,

panion;” I did not won-

sister had written, in
ther faint, trembling
hand, ‘‘how more than
‘kind Cecile had been to
ther:” and how it would
be the ‘‘ dearest wish of
ther heart to know Wal-
bert would make her
his wife.”

Such a face! I am
not sure I can describe
it all; I know I can not
portray the fascination
it had for me as I look-
ed straight into her eyes
for a whole minute, and
then, when I had-turned
--way, realizing, with a

 

sharp thrill of horror, pain, fear, that Cecile
Courcelle was a wicked woman, from the
lovely polished forehead from which the jetty
hair was brushed off in heavy, lustrous waves,
to the tiny foot, that, as I looked her straight
in the eyes, began to tap the piazza floor, in
softly falling, quick repeated taps—something
as a tiger swings his tail just before he makes
the fatal jump on his prey.

But I haven’t told you a word of her face
yet; I can not; I might say she had a com-
plexion all red and white, that reminded me
of a damask rose blooming out of a snow-
drift, or of glowing ruby wine dashed among
a bunch of waxen lily petals; I might tell you
of her wonderful eyes, large, slightly oval,
with full, drooping, heavily-lashed lids; eyes
that no mortal could have told the color of,
save that of darkness, so scintillant, so redly

~—-

 

brilliant they were, so keen, so suspicious, so
tender when she chose, so eloquent when she
willed, so blank and unconscious at her royal
pleasure. And her mouth—it looked made for
a lover’s kisses, with its Cupid’s bow of pome-
granate red, its shining teeth, its dainty, co-
quettish smile, its tender gravity when she
closed her well-curved lips.

That was Cecile Courcelle, as I saw her,
that June sun-setting, standing where my
sainted sister would have stood had she not
been with the angels—between father and son.

And neither of them particularly sorrowful
because wife and mother was no more!

Ah! that moment, when I saw Walbert’s
proud blush as he looked toward Cecile, as I
noticed Mr. Remington’s satisfaction as he in-
troduced me, I knew that this siren had al-
ready taught them—only men, they were,

ree

Zz
Ca
r
fs.

 

 

*WALBERT, MY SON, LOOK AT HER, THE FALSE TEMPTRESS, AND THEN PITY ME—OH, PITY ME ic

Ja

human, foolish, pitifully weak—that hers was
the sweetest face on earth for them.

And my Alice only a half-year dead!

T had to put away my dismal forebodings as
I walked up the steps, on Mr, Remington’s
arm; he took me to her—she had not moved a
muscle to approach me—and presented me,

‘Miss Courcelle, this is our dear aunt
Annie, You know her, I am sure, by hearing
of her so constantly. Annie, sister, you must
love Miss Courcelle very dearly. She has
been very good to us.”

She gave him a quick, grateful glance, then
extended her hand, warm, full of bounding vi-
tality, to me.

“T am rejoiced to see aunt Annie. Wel-
come to Idledell. Gussie, pet, kiss auntie.
Walbert, I know you are delighted.”

For a second, I was perfectly thunderstruck.
Her cool, calm assump-
tion of dignity and po-
sition — and the two
men did not resent it,
even notice it,

Welcome me to Idle-
dell! what business had
she to say that to me;
me, the sister of the
dead mistress, the old
aunt who had received
every baby as it came,
and laid it in its mo-
ther’s arms, fresh from
the angels!

Welcome me to Idle-
dell! I felt my blood
boil from crown to fdot-
sole,

“T am perfectly at
home at my brother’s
house, thank you, and
have felt so for twenty-
five years. Gussie, my
darling, where is sister
Lola? Will you go with
me to my room?”

Miss Courcelle simply
raised her splendid eye-
brows, and looked at
me; a steady, question-
ing glance it was, and
I returned it with quiet
interest. In that one
second, we knew each
other, and we knew
that we did; from that
moment war was de-
clared to the knife’s hilt;
from that instant there
settled over Idledell the
terrible gloom that ne-
ver again lifted ; the
pall of the Gray Sha-
dow,

Miss Courcelle’s low,
sweet voice—her voice
was in such perfect ac-
cord with her remark-
able beauty and grace;
low, intensely sympa-
thetic, yet strong and
resolute—this voice, in
its melodious tones, ad-
dressed Gussie.

“Take auntie to her
room, dear, the Green

toom, Lola hasa head-

ache, you remember,
and I am sure would
hardly care to be dis-
turbed, even so delight-
fully as to see aunt
Annie.”

Gussie’s bright little
face fell; she tightened
her hold on my fingers,
but did not answer.

““T have cured Lola
of many a_ headache,
Miss Courcelle, and if
you will be so kind as
to send my luggage to
the Green Room, I will
follow after I have seen
my niece. Gussie, ask
papa if you may take
me to Lola?”

Not that the request
was necessary, but I had
already resolved to show
this woman no defer-
ence, And so the child

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2

and I went slowly along to the dear, well-re-
membered room where the little ones had been
born, and where the mother had died, and
where the daughters slept now, with silent
memories of their terrible loss all around
them,

I opened the door, and from off a low, white
linen couch Lola sprung to meet me, her face
flushed and feverish, her eyes bright and full
of excitement.

“ Auntie! oh, auntie! auntie!”

She almost screamed her welcome, and
threw her arms around my neck so tightly I
could hardly breathe, and clung there, as if in
mortal terror.

“ Lola, child, what is the matter? You are
surely sick! My darling, what makes you sob
so?”

Her bosom heaved with keen, hysterical
emotion; it seemed as if her grief, so strange,
so very singular to me, was concentrated in
her throat, in one lump she could not swallow.

I caught her hands in mine; they were cold
as ice, and damp with perspiration. She was
evidently suffering from something of which I
had not the remotest idea. To calm her, and
then to learn what was the trouble, was my
instant decision. .

“Gussie, lock the door, dear,” I said, care-
lessly.

And Lola raised her head off my shoulder,
instantly.

‘‘And the inner door, too. She is forever
coming in at that door.”

A quick, agonizing suspicion flashed over me;
I felt my heart panting frightfully; my head
reeled, my hands trembled, as I knew that this
fascinating woman, this beautiful siren, who
was dealing out such draughts of nectar to the
two men below, the widowed husband, the mo-
therless boy, had apportioned their cups to my
sweet, fair orphan nieces.

“ She is forever coming in at that door!”

The words repeated themselves to me, over
and over, and I sat Lola down beside me on
the lounge, and caressed her hair, and chafed
her hands, until she could tell me all.

All!

How she had loved Cecile with unbounded
love when she had brought her home to Idle-
dell, for a vacation, from the seminary where
she was pupil and Miss Courcelle a teacher of
languages; how Cecile had won her dear mo-
ther’s affections, and how, when my sister fail-
ed so suddenly in her not over-strong health,
Cecile had given up her engagement at the
school and insisted upon watching day and
night, so carefully, so tenderly, so skilifully;
how Walbert had learned to love her, with all
his passionate young heart, and how his mo-
ther had blessed their betrothal and begged
Cecile to remain at Idledell when she should
be gone; to be a sister to Lola and Gussie, and
an elder daughter to Mr. Remington. She had
staid; and then—and then—Lola grew nearly
suffocated again as she tried to tell me some-
thing, I could not imagine what, but that
seemed to have a fearftil hold on her.

“My child, you need have no fear of repeat-
ing every thing to me. I am your mother’s
sister. Lola, I believe from the bottom of my
heart that Miss Courcelle is a dangerous wo-
man, and you may rely on my discretion and
prudence and assistance if there be need of
such things.”

Lola crept closely beside me—so near I could
hear the gurgle of the blood through the valves
of her oppressed, overburdened heart. She put
her lips so close to my ear that for a second I
recoiled from the hot, arid touch. Then the
jong-endured anguish found a voice—a perfect
wail of horror and terror and pain.

“ Auntie, I am sure she poisoned mamma!
Oh, auntie, my darling, darling mamma!”

Do you wonder I pushed the girl from me in
a sharp impulse of bewildered astonishment?
Do you think it strange that I stood on my
feet in a breathless, spell-bound trance of hor-
ror, until little Gussie clung, sobbing in af-
fright, to my skirts, and Lola, in her turn,
attempted to calm and reassure me, as I had
her?

“Ts it any wonder I am almost beside my-
self, aunt Annie, when I have carried this soul-
sickening burden so many months? I dare not
whisper a word to papa or Walbert—you see
how they believe in her as they do in their re-
ligion. And Gussie is only a baby yet—she is
my only comfort, though, aren’t you, Gussie,
girlie?”

I could not compose myself sufficiently to sit
down. My sister murdered by this woman,
who had stolen in a happy, peaceful home,
and lowered over it the gray shadow of death!
This witching siren, who had thus far sung
Walbert and Mr. Remington into a sleep of
sweet serenity!

Could it be true? Every fiber of my being
answered it was not merely possible, but very,
very probable. And how did Lola know? I
asked her, in a queer-sounding voice I would
never have guessed as my own,

‘Tt happened so strangely, auntie; it was
the night after she died. I can tell you calm-
ly, I think, for it is such a blessed relief to
speak of it after a hundred nights of lying
awake hours, and thinking, thinking, till my
head has nearly burst with the pain. It was
the night after she had died, so peacefully and
sweetly, in papa’s arms, and she was laid on
the bed yonder, on the very pillow where I
sleep, or try to, every night. Every thing
was quiet, and Gussie had cried herself to
sleep, and only papa was awake, as I supposed,
for I heard him walking to and fro down in
the library until morning. I could not bear

to leave her here alone, so I put on my white
wrapper and came in here to the bay window,
and kissed her over and over, and crept away
back among the white curtains, thinking I
would try and pray for resignation. I had

BGELLES AND BHAUX.

locked my room door on the outside, and had
the key in my wrapper pocket, thinking I did
not want even Gussie to come out and disturb
me.

‘‘T had been there an hour, perhaps, when
Miss Courcelle came in through the hall door,
in her bare feet, and a taper in her hand that
she sat down on the stand near the head of the
bed.

“Of course I peeped out, wondering who it
was, and was perfectly astonished to find it
was she, as she had no call there at all at such
an hour. To my surprise, she walked over to
my door, and leaned her ear against the key-
hole, listening; that caused my first impression
against her, auntie. Thenshe called me—very
softly indeed, as if seeing if I was asleep.
Then she turned the handle of the door so
slowly and noiselessly you would have thought
her a professional housebreaker.

“She seemed satisfied with everything, and
her face was as radiant as it could be—for I
watched her with strangest curiosity.

“‘T saw her go up to the bedside, and peep
down in mamma’s face, and touch her, and
then, she unfastened her. night dress and
chemise and seemed searching for something
on her beautiful white breast; and then—I
heard a little faint cry from her, and she seized
the taper and held it closely to her side, and
looked and looked, so long I wanted to scream
out with nervous pain. After that, she ar-
ranged the clothing again, and went away, as
still, as strangely as she had come.

“ As soon as she had gone, I came out of the
bay window, locked the hall door, and searched
for something I had no idea of; and auntie,
right over mamma’s heart, was a curious little
purple spot, that looked as if a needle had been
stuck in and left a tiny sore. Auntie! auntie!
what was that? and what did she know of. it,
and why did she look for it?”

Lola’s voice was clear, and full of an intense
excitement; I, myself, was so agitated I could
hardly command myself.

‘You told your papa? He said—what?”

‘* All the rest of that night I suffered such
untold agony; the next morning I was in a
raging fever, and delirious, they said; and
when I recovered, mamma had been buried a
fortnight or more.”

‘So your papa never knew?”

I think I must have spoken harshly—God
forgive me!—to the girl, for the white lips
quivered so pitifully.

‘Miss Courcelle told me, the first hour I re-
member anything, that I had babbled of very
strange things in my delirium, calling on papa
to find the purple spot, and shouting out that
Miss Courcelle was a murderess, and an ogress
who hunted at midnight for dead » people’s

| bodies. She bade me forget all I had imagined

in my brain fever, and oh, auntie, if you could
have seen her eyes burn and glow, and corrus-
cate, and redden while she told me, so quietly,
there might as well be peace between us; if
not—I must take the consequences. And then,
she dared me ever to repeat my ‘delirious
madness,’ she called it, to a living soul. ‘ Pos-
sibly,’ she said, ‘ you may know I am never at
a loss to confound my enemies.’ Auntie, now,
do you think I am right? didn’t she murder
my mamma with one of those poisoned barbs
we hear of—my own darling, gentle mamma?”

From my soul I believed Cecile Courcelle
had murdered my sister; from my soul I knew
she had cast a dense shadow over Lola’s young
life; in my very heart of hearts I realized she
would still further blight the once happy
household at Idledell, over which the ominous
shadow was lowering, slowly, surely. And I
had come—to sit still and let her work her
way? to sit down, and let her weave her net
around them, and lure them into it, hopeless
victims?

Not I! If I was old, and ugly, and past all
possible expectation of happiness in this world,
save what comes from well-performed duty, I
would meet her—this splendid woman, on her
own grounds, and bring her to her just deserts,
and save my sister’s son, my sister’s husband
from her wiles, if it was in human power,
~ I think I realized the greatness of my task;
I think I fully appreciated the tremendous in-
fluence a woman has over a man who admires.
a witching face, who is as susceptible to a
woman’s wiles as I knew Chester Remington
was; as I knew Walbert, his son, naturally
would be, the child of the father.

Her position was a strong one; she was al-
ready intrenched in the household—already
the betrothed of the son of the house. And
that very fact, together with the one that Mr.
Remington, knowing the engagement that ex-
isted, himself paid the girl so decided an at-
tention, made me feel how very hard was my
self-imposed task, that of unmasking the
woman to her lovers.

But I was obliged to ask myself this ques-
tion at the very outset, was Mr. Remington in
love with Cecile Courcelle?

I would have given worlds had I felt such
was not the case; had I been confident only
Walbert, poor fellow, was to be undeceived..
But I was not sure; indeed, I felt almost sure
he was, and with the acceptance of the theory
my respect and affection for Mr. Remington
began to lessen, until, asa man, I felt almost
a contempt for him, whom, as my sister’s
husband, my sister’s children’s father, I had,
until now, dearly loved.

Granted, then, that Mr. Remington was in
love with Cecile Courcelle, in the very face of
her promise to be his daughter-in-law, I had
no qualms of conscience in instantly deciding
that she either was in love with him, and was
wickedly, cruelly duping poor Walbert, in
the full expectation of coming into the envi-
able position of mistress of Idledell, and the
Remington wealth and position, or else play-

 

ing a very dangerous game with the courtly

 

  

gentleman who paid her such gallant courte-
sies, who seemed to live but in her smile.

Either way, Cecile Courcelle was a_black-
souled intriguante; and while I inclined very
resolutely to the idea that it was Walbert she
would throw over, Mr. Remington she would
marry—else why his wife's opportune death?
I arranged my plans to watch them well; all
three of them, particularly the temptress,
with her beauty that made me shudder, now;
her grace, her quiet, that made me think of
the rattle-snake, arching its crested neck, bril-
liant as a rainbow, ready to strike its deadly
fang into its helpless, fascinated victim.

And so, settled down in the very bosom of the
family at Idledell, I bided my time, watched
and waited, hardly knowing how, or when, or
where my suspicions would be developed into
startling proofs, only knowing I was honestly
working for my dead sister’s family interest.
Iam sure Cecile Courcelle hated me with an
awful hatred; I do net know that she actually
suspected me; indeed, I think she rather
thought I was jealous of her supremacy over
me, at least with Mr. Remington and Walbert.
She never again attempted her sweet, stealthy
patronage; that one assertion of myself was
fortunate for me, as, ever afterward, I was
treated with a cool, quiet courtesy that J
appreciated much more. ;

The summer passed slowly_on; to me, laden
with care, fear, torment; nothing seemed to
develop, nothing seemed to be occurring, and

4 when I at length told Lola, one day, I might

as well go home again, it was only her tears
and implorations that kept me at my post.

“T feel as if I was afraid to be left here
alone again, auntie,” she said, wearily. ‘I
am not near as strong as I used to be, and I
am sure if you go away I will worry myself
down into bed. Poor mamma began just so,
and I used to cheer—”

I grasped her arm suddenly; she screamed
with the pain, and looked into my face.

“Why, auntie, what is the matter? You
look—”

“Your mamma began just so? Good
heavens, Lola, what a horrible, horrible idea
you have put in my head!”

She smiled in a way that made my blood
curdle; then answered so pitifully, so drearily.

“‘T know what you mean, auntie, that Miss
Courcelle is determined to wipe us Reming-
tons out. Iknow it, and I believe she has left
her mark on me, and I feel just as poor
mamma complained, so weak, and listless, and

apathetic. I feel perfectly powerless, auntie,

if Miss Courcelle wants to have me eut of her
way, she will see to it well.”

Lola frightened me as I never was fright-
ened before, not even when she told me of her
own terrible suspicions of her mother’s death.
I dragged her from the lounge to the open
window, and searched her eyes, almost praying
to see thé cloud of insanity, rather than such
hopeless, lifeless inertia.

“Tola, child, what do you mean to tell
me? That here, under our very eyes, under
my eyes, this she-devil is at her tricks again?
Where is Mr. Remington? Where is Walbert?
This very hour she leaves this house, if I have
to get a constable to seize her on my com-
plaint.”

That same weird smile fled over Lola’s
lips, this time with a slight tinge of pitying
contempt, for my daring to baffle Miss Cour-
celle.

“You don’t know her, auntie; sometimes I
think she is superhuman. There hasn’t been a
night this summer that I haven’t found her
leanin , over my bedside if I awoke, with some
kind inquiries of my health, saying she heard
me tossing restlessly.”

“ And you never told me you never locked
your doors! Oh, Lola!”

‘““Why should I tell you what I know you
can not help? and although I know I never
went to rest in my life without locking my
door, still she insists I forget to, else how can
she get in? I’ve been looking all over me for
the purple spot, but I haven’t found it yet.
Perhaps I am going into a deeline—we Rem-
ingtons do, you know.”

I was beside myself with distress, fright,
anger, disgust, pity. What had this family
done to be thus haunted by a presence, whose
shadow reached even to the open grave?—a
dull, drear, gray, gloomy, impalpable shadow
it seemed to me, into which we were all slow-
ly, helplessly, surely being merged.

Good heavens! I pinched myself: I asked
myself over and over if I were I? WasI my-
self, really Annie Arundel? Was this the nine-
teenth century, and Idledell not a hundred
milés from the metropolis of the New World?
What should I do? where should I go? To Mr.
Remington, and be called a fanatical fool, and
perhaps be dismissed the house, and thereby
leave my darling more completely at her
mercy?

To the authorities at New York, and tell
them the strange, wild story of the shadow
that was obscuring all the sunshine at Idledell,
and have them suggest a lunatic asylum for a
superannuated old maid?

Ah! then I felt my powerlessness; then I
realized her strength, and in my dire extrem-
ity, 1 prayed as I never prayed before for
guidance, light, patience, and a thorough
leaving of revenge to that God to whom ven-
geance belongs.

That very night the answer came; that very
hour commenced the beginning of the end.

The day had been awfully hot, in early Sep-
tember, and toward sunset Mr. Remington had
ordered the carriage and taken Miss Courcelle
and Gussie with him and Walbert for a drive.
As they came home I, with Lola, was on the
piazza, waiting for a chance breeze to cool the
heavy air. I remember well that Lola lay
back in an inyalid’s chair, white and tired, her

 

[Apri 4, 1874.

eyes partly closed, with great black circles un-
derneath them.

“ There they come, auntie, just in time to
escape a shower. Don’t you think it will be a
terrible one? It has been so hot.”

I watched her dismount, so graceful, so won-
derfully fair in her black silk suit—such
mockery of grief!—her pink cheeks glowing,
one tress of hair flowing down over her well-
turned shoulder, reaching to her waist in a
loose, glossy, half-curled spiral; her hat, a
tiny black lace trifle, full of glistening crystals,
set daintily on her hair, her kids as fresh and
unsullied as if the thermometer had not been
among the nineties all day.

I think for a moment I hated her as I never
had hated her before ; especially when she
laid her perfect hand on Walbert’s white linen
sleeve, and said:

“You will not forget at eight? I can give
you only fifteen minutes then.”

She looked at him so sweetly, so softly, and
sent him over the piazza to Lola with such a
blush of bliss on his face that I turned away,
in pitying contempt, into the open window of
the library.

I sat down in a little dos-a-dos in the first al-
cove I came to, listening to the hoarse, distant
thunder voices, and wondering.

Then Mr. Remington and Cecile Courcelle
entered the library, and halted near the center
table.

“Thave an engagement at eight, with dear
old aunt Annie, in her room. If half-past
will do?’

I saw him look at her, his whole soul im his
eyes; I saw him stoop and—no, he did not kiss
her, and I hated her worse for the way she re-
fused, with her smile, her gesture, her graceful,
tempting recoil, than if she had boldly lifted
her lips to his.

So, then, both men were her slaves; and
she, the liar—an engagement with me in my
room at eight!—had duped them both!

I saw it all now, as plain as day; she was
engaged, perhaps, to Walbert, and let him
‘suppose she loved him; and their engagement
was not known to Mr. Remington; that I knew
from that moment in the library; I knew it
and rejoiced that Chester Remington did not
deserve the odium I had cast on him.

But he was in her toils! ah, fond, foolish
man; and what would it take to disenehant
him?

That night, at dinner, Cecile fairly outshone
herself; she laughed and talked and fascinated
them both, father and son, one to meet them
for a love-tryst at eight, one at half-past.

I watched her; I watched her glowing, un-
earthly beauty; I listened to her sweet, witch-
ing tones, and wondered which of the two I
had better try to save. J knew her duplicity
—to which of these lovers would I unmask
her?

Then I swore I would tear off her mask
before them both, God helping me!

The storm came up, a fearful gust preceding
it; Gussie shrunk from going to her nursery,
and, at my request, Lola and she remained in
the drawing-room. Mr. Remington, with his
cigar, returned to the library to wait until
half-past eight bade him enter his lady-love’s
presence, and I—

I saw Walbert go off into the conservatory,
and then, at just eight, Cecile left the piano
and sauntered after him.

And then I went to the library to Mr. Rem-
ington.

“Are you engaged? If not, I want you.
Come, come at once!”

I think he saw I was eager, excited, but he
laid his cigar aside, and gave me his arm.

“T thought you were engaged with Ce—with
Miss Courcelle.”

“T am not, as you see. On the contrary,
Miss Courcelle is engaged, by appointment,
with your son—poor, deluded Walbert! Mr.
Remington!

“Chester! my brother, for God’s sake—”

I broke down there, just as a woman is sure
to do, when attemptiug her strongest point.

He looked at me keenly, a flush surged over
his face, followed by a gray shade of pain. My
words had told.

“‘T see it all so plainly—oh, she is working
your ruin; she, so deceitful, so heartless, so
guilty! Chester, see there!”

I whispered it now, we were within sight of
the two, as they lingered amid the fragrance,
the soft silver light, the sound of soft plashing
fountains.

He fairly clutched my hand—afterward
there were five dark spots left by his iron fin-
gers.

It was a sight calculated to arouse the jeal-
ousy of any lover; Cecile Courcelle standing
closely beside Walbert Remington, her dusky
head leaning on his breast, his arm around her,
his impassioned face bent over her, his lips
kissing brow and cheekand lips. We heard no
word; what need was there of spoken language
to such a scene?

Mr. Remington staggered back, dragging me
with him.

“ Annie—help me out of this accursed place!
She—she—God forgive me for my sin! but am
I not punished in forgetting my dead so soon?
Annie, tell me how to bear it—it is my wife in
my son’s arms!” s

Was it never to cease, never? This judgment,
the shadow on the household at Idledell? And,
just then, just as we crossed the threshold to
leave the accurséd place, Cecile turned her
head, and saw Mr. Remington and I!

I heard her utter a little scream, and then,
with a gray pallor spreading over her features,
like a vail of tissue, she seemed to call'the re-
sources of her terribly strange nature to her
aid. te Sees
I saw her draw her graceful figure to its full
hight; I seemed to see the steely defiance in

 

      
   
 
        
     
 
      
    
 
  
   
  
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
   
 
  
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
   
  
   
 
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
    
  
 
  
 
  
   
   
   
  
   
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
    
 
 

 

 

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we

Apri 4, 1874.]

   

BGELLES AND BHAUY.

3

 

her attitude, the grand courage on her won-
drously beautiful face that became a better
cause; I saw, and I know Mr. Remington did,
the peculiar expression of her eyes—a mingled
shame and pride of her power; overpowered
_with an assumed penitence, and a winsome,
passionate glance toward Mr. Remington, as if
she supposed all she had to do was to permit
him to forgive her.

So there, we stand, we four, a smitten,
stricken family, and our scourge in our midst—
his wife ! :

The words had fairly scalded my ears;
Heavens! had it come to that? a secret mar-
riage—with her, her of all living women, who
had—imy thoughts refused to recall the blasting
memory those several seconds we stood there
in that awful silence! '

I started as if some one had fired a pistol be-
side my ear, when that fearful pause was end-
ed—by Cecile Courcelle’s voice, in its matchless
intonations.

‘Chester! I shall not ask you to forgive
me, but I will explain to your perfect satisfac-
tion when that woman shall retire from—”

Mr. Remington raised his head with a superb
gesture of imperative command.

“Silence, creature! I would not condescend
for an explanation from lips whose devilish
talseness is only equaled by their tempting lies!
I would not listen to a syllable, for there is,
can be, no circumstance, or combination of
circumstances, or shadow of a combination of
circumstances that can excuse you—a woman
to whom I have so unfortunately given my
name—a creature in whom my boy is so ac-
cursed in giving his love. Walbert, my son—
Jook on her, the false temptress, the woman
without principle, the creature so vilely untrue
to her sworn vows, and then—pity me—oh!
pity me, and bless your good luck that you
have escaped as free as you are!”

He shivered as though an icy blast was
blowing over him; but he never lowered his
white, set face, never cowered under the fear-
ful simoom of agony and shame that whirled
around him, but stood there, a proud, dishon-
ored man, face to face with Cecile Courcelle,
his eyes never blenching from her half-smiling,
puzzling face.

Walbert had sprung forward, white with
horror, and confronted her, his light figure al-
most swaying with emotion as he listened, and
looked in speechless amazement, while Mr.
Remington’s low, intense voice filled the apart-
ment.

As he finished, Cecile bowed, half insolently,

“Thanks, Mr. Remington. Has dear Aunt
Annie any further developments to reveal—I
presume I have her to remember for this?”

She turned her eyes toward me then, and
instantly her whole face altered its expression,
from half-smiling, sarcastic defiance, to utter,
unparalleled hatred. I think she would have
annihilated me on the spot, could she have
done it.

But I met her fierce gaze; I knew what I
knew, and I had every reason to suppose the
“developments” she tauntingly dared me to
“reveal,” would prove even a harder blow
than she had received.

“Miss Courcelle, I have developments to re-
veal, that I know you can account for. Why
did my sister Alice die?”

I put the question so abruptly—I did it pur-
posely, and it was pitifully astounding to see
the hunted fright that surged over her face.

Only for a moment though, and then she
was impassive, cold as a marble statue, There
was no hatred in her countenance, no fear, no
sarcasm now; only a magnificent impassivity,
a splendidly blank unconsciousness.

“You mean of what she died? Mr. Reming-
ton has Dr. Courtelyou’s certificate.”

Was she going to elude me—this curious
woman, on whom I was anxious to fasten the
awful suspicion? I turned to my brother-in-
law, who seemed, with Walbert, to be perfect-
ly at a loss.

“Chester,” I said, ‘“‘before my God, I be-
lieve that woman stands before us a murderess
—the cause, deliberately and directly, of your
wife’s death, the immediate cause of your
daughter Lola’s declining health that will end
—mark my words—as her mother’s days

ended. Woman! Thing! Reptile!—with your
baleful beauty, and your devilish spell,”—and
I almost sprung upon her in a sudden over-
powering wrath—‘‘I charge you, before high
Heaven with crimes worse than ever mortal
committed before!”

Mr. Remington eaught my hands, and held
me back; I felt his fingers cold and damp with
the terrible nervous excitement; his voice was
hoarse, unnatural when he spoke,

“Good God! and—-and I have held her in
my arms, and kissed her dainty hands—dainty
hands!—red with her blood! Annie, where is
Lola?—she’s not dead—she’s not dead, is she?
Walbert, go find her, and my baby Gussie, if
this creature has not murdered them!”

He was terribly excited—almost beside him-
self.

“Lola and Gussie are alive, in the library,
Lola! Gussie!”

T raised my voice and called the daughters,
and little Gussie’s yoice answered so softly and
naturally that its music was an absolute
relief.

“‘Tola’s asleep, auntie, and I’m fanning
her.”

What made me start and shiver, and look at
Cecile Courcelle as the child’s words smote our
ears.

And then, when I saw a brief, terrible,
meaning smile flit across her face, it came to
me like a hideous revelation.

“Asleep! Lola asleep! you have wrought
the slumber that never shall cease, you sorcer-
ess; you vile, pitiful, God-forsaken wretch!”

And I seized her arms with my hands—her

 

firm, warm, round,. white arms, with their
gossamer sleeves. I grasped them, and shook
her as a cat would a mouse. I shook her with
a fierce, painful strength that exhausted me,
while it hurt her more than she would have
dared to tell. She bit her beautiful red lips,
and smiled as I let her go, pushing her from
me as one would a toad, a viper.

She threw back her sleeves, and looked at
the two purple black circles my fingers had
left.

‘Bracelets, you see. All I need now is the
necklace—a hangman’s rope, think you?”

It was perfectly sickening, her utter com-
posure, and I turned away, rushing into the
library, followed by Mr. Remington.

Sure enough, the shadow that had been
creeping, creeping, creeping over us had en-
veloped our darling in its gray gloom; and
Lola had gone to join her mother in the Sab-
bath-land!

It was heart-breaking—that scene, that
time, the circumstances—Mr. Remington
kneeling at her side, speechless with anguish;
Walbert kissing her cold, white hands, and I
wondering if I should find the purple spot!

Outside the thunder was terrific, the light-
ning flashing incessantly, the rain driving in
perfect sheets, the wind howling and moaning
dismally. I never shall forget it—never; and
yet I did not grieve for my precious Lola as I
did for Walbert and Mr, Remington.

For a moment we had forgotten Cecile Cour-
celle, and then Mr. Remington suddenly ‘arose
from his knees and beckoned Walbert after
him to the conservatory again.

I saw them standing there a moment or so;
I heard them talking—oh, such a pitiful ex-
change of words—brief, agonizing, but bitterly
denunciatory of her, the woman—no, the de-
moness, who, as they decided that her fate
should be left to the hands of Him who said,
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” as they
decided to order her to flee their place and
presence, stood there, behind the screening
foliage, bending her lithe, graceful figure to
listen to her doom, her face ablaze with impo-
tent wrath and stern defiance and boldest
hatred.

She did not see me—indeed, she never looked
toward the door; her whole terribly earnest
attention was bent toward her two victims,
and she heard them, saw them, only as they
agreed to refuse her shelter a moment after
the fury of the storm was past.

As Mr. Remington and Walbert separated
to go back to their dead, Cecil Courcelle darted
from the side door out into the corridor, and I
heard her flying footsteps on the marble floor,
and then I suppose a door must have opened—
an outer door—for the wind puffed in, in a
fitful gust, and the madly driving rain dashed
in on the checkered floor, as if Heaven wept
at the complete enveloping of Idledell in the
shrouding folds of the awful “gray shadow.”

 

A twelvemonth ago it all happened, and I
am settled at Idledell forever, I think; the
quiet, sorrowful head of the family that is so
small, oh! so small.

We miss her so, our darling Lola, and I will
tell you, just here, that for curiosity’s sake, and
yet trembling with fear, I searched for the
fateful purple spot, and found it!

What did it mean? Had they two, mother
and daughter, been foully dealt with by hay-
ing a slow poison injected into their circula-
tion, and did Cecile Courcelle do it?

Cecile Courcelle! she is dead, too, They
found her the early morning after the storm,
lying dead under the horse chestnut tree near
the entrance gates, with a black ring around
her fair white throat, wrought by God’s
Avenging Messenger—the winged lightning!
It shocked me more than I ever can tell when
I saw that trail of death, and remembered
what she had said about her necklace!

Walbert has gone away to Australia for an
indefinite time. ‘‘It may be for years, it may
be forever, Auntie,” he said, when he kissed
me with his quivering lips.

And Mr. Remington, his hair was white as
wool the morning after that awful storm. He
comes and goes, a silent, smileless man, on
whom the gray shadow seems to have eternally
lowered.

While Gussie, God bless her sweet face! her
childish prattle is the only music we ever hear;
her merry ways the only sunshine that illu-
mines our life at Idledell.

 

 

Power or Music.—To regard music in the
light of a medicine seems rather a strange
idea, yet its curative power was fully recog-
nized long ago. Frequently the life of a dy-
ing man may be saved by music not too near
his bedside. It is only to catch his attention,
and hold it with something that imparts
pleasurable feelings, in order to sustain him
beyond the moment of supreme exhaustion,
which makes the crisis of disease. Usually,
however, the ears of the dying are regaled
with no sweeter music than the sighs and sobs
of their sorrowing friends. Of course they
are troubled and depressed, and when the
critical breath comes, fail to catch it, and so
die. There is much in this theory, startling
as it seems. Music, as an agent for promoting
health, is of high value. If invalids would
devote an hour or two daily to practicing vo-
cal music, it would restore them to health.
Persons with weak lungs may thus ward off
fatal lung disease. The effects on the body
and mind are excellent.

Tue intelligence of affection is carried on
by the eye only; good-breeding has made the
tongue falsify the heart, and act a part of con-
tinued restraint, while nature has preserved
the eyes to herself, that she may not be dis-
guised or misrepresented.

-

 

FAR APART.

BY E. M

 

Beneath the quaint old bridge you hear
The waves make music as they pass;
And winding to the elm tree near,
You see the pathway through the grass
Where we were wont to walk, alas!

The river wanders as of old
Beneath the shade of willow trees;
The sunlit waters gleam like gold,
And ripple to the gentle breeze;
But I am far from thee and these.

The sky bends over broad and blue,
And, in the soft and mellow light,

You tread the lane our footsteps knew
In former days, when days were bright;
Do these days bring such sweet delight?

And still that lane with grass is green;
With fragrant flowers the banks are fair;
Im golden gloss and silver sheen
The bees still haunt the balmy air;
But you will fail to find me there.

Again, perchance, I may not see
The rustling rows of willow trees
(Which lent a leaty canopy
When we strolled underneath at ease);
For I am far from thee and these.

Our joys forsake us. Soon does spring
Pa-s by and for the summer call;

Soon do the birds lose heart to sing,
When fading leaves in autumn fall:
And winter is the end of all.

 

 

(COMMENCED IN No. 5.)
THE MADDEST MARRIAGE EVER WAS.
BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON,

PART. IL.

CHAPTHR “I,
TWO BELLES OF GOTHAM.

A FASHIONABLE suite of rooms in a fashion-
able hotel in a fashionable up-town quarter.
There was semi-gloom, slumberous quiet in the
long parlor attaching to the suite. What
wonder hotel life presents an ever-growing
charm when, as here, all the refinements, all
the luxuries, all the freedom of home life are
presented, with none of its cares.

Some such satisfied reflection was floating
lazily through the mind of the one occupant of
the room, when the dreamy atmosphere was
agitated, a door opened and shut with as much
of a clang as a well-regulated door on plated
hinges was capable of, a springy step and a
breezy presence swept through the long, dim
apartment. Draperies went back and shades
up with a jerk, and the full glory of late spring
sunshine flooded it.

“Ralph, you drone! Don’t you know life
was made for more than such indulgence in
the dolce far niente as you seem to have made
the chief aim of your existence? Don’t pre-
tend to be asleep, sir! Come out of that state
of chronic imbecility yclept laziness, so far as
to give attention to the usual morning lecture,
if you please.”

Thus commanded, a form stretched at length
on the softest of sofas stirred, yawned, and
lifted a head to the support of a shapely, mas-
culine hand.

“Wait a moment, Nell. Give me time to
prepare for the storm. Pass me that hand-
screen and your smelling-salts, please, and I
think I can compose my nerves to endure.”

““Smelling-salts, indeed! As though J ever
had use for Such an abomination.”

‘Tf you knew the pleasure I would experi-
ence in beholding such a necessity. Truth to
say, my dear Nell, your redundancy of animal
spirits is positively fatiguing to witness, not to
speak of being out of place in one of your age.
At thirty-two one expects a woman to have
gained some tone, some mellow dignity—”

‘Oh, you wretch! Thirty-two! Where is
your regard for truth?) I am not ashamed of
my age. I glory in it; I rejoice at having
passed the honey-dew and rose-leaf state of
sentiment ; but thirty-two! Ralph, Ralph!
that is the last straw on the camel’s back.”

“Tt wasn’t more, was it? Somebody is
thirty-two, I know, for is it not recorded in
that antiquated volume which came to you in
addition to our respected aunt Hepzibah’s
legacy, to be faithfully preserved; ‘take it up
tenderly, lift it with care, treasure it under
key, our ages are there,’ and all that sort of
thing? If it weren’t such an exertion to cud-
gel my memory, I would prove it by date, but
considering the existing state of the weather I
couldn’t possibly aver whether Elinor Hepzi-
bah Mowbray was born in 1842 or 1428,”

“Tf I laid claim to the honor of either I
would put en a gray wig and proclaim the
fact. And I positively would make a holo-
caust of that family Bible if it were not for
aunt Hepsy’s condition imposed. Somebody
is thirty-two—you, Ralph Mowbray, and at
such maturity it would be advisable to tack
the four full years’ difference between your
age and mine upon the wrong side. I am not
ashamed of being twenty-eight on my next
birthday, but there’s no need of your recalling
what antiquities we are growing to be.

‘It’s oh for the sunny stream
That leaps by the daisied lea,
And it’s oh for a cot by the wood,
And a good man to take me.’

“Whether to look back or to look forward be
the question, get up off that invention of the
drowsy god’s devoted subject, and prepare to
be in the park precisely one hour from this.”

“My dear Nell, I forgive your turning from
what must be a disagreeable contemplation
with that ‘cot by the wood,’ at such a hope-
less distance yet; but there’s really no need of
pitching into a fellow at that vigorous rate.
Do find some other mode of relief for your
overcharged feelings, and leave me to the en-
joyment of gentle fancies.”

“T have lately come to the conclusion that
you have been too much indulged in gentle

 

 

 

 

fancies, Ralph. I constitute myself a commit=
tee of one to spur you up, to turn over a new
leaf for you if you are too persistently indolent
to turh it over for yourself.”

“What on earth have you been doing for
the last ten years but spurring me up, I should
like to know? Don’t waste your ammunition
on such a hopeless subject, Nell; half the
amount you have thrown away on me would
have brought a better bird to your feet. Think
the matter over, my dear, and, if you're
going, be kind enough to pull the curtain close
again.”

“Tam not going, though. There, don’t set-
tle back again. I tell you I have something in
view for you.”

“So you said—the park, What comfort
you expect me to find there, all dust and crowd
and summer bonnets, I can’t imagine, though
there is something in the bonnets for you, I
suppose, Spare me; don’t insist, or, if you do,
give me my own time and way of putting in
an appearance,”

‘“‘T. do believe you make harder work of
your indolence than many another man would
of climbing the ladder of fame. What will
you do when it comes to putting out your
shingle, building your own office fires and a
practice—the first easier than the last, I’m
afraid—instead of lounging your mornings
through on velvet couches.”

“Tt won’t come to that, you know. Do
stop nagging, Elinor. It was bad enough
when aunt Hepsy insisted on putting me
through a course of reading, but to cut me off
at that was execrable. Fortunately a rather
good sort of institution in the shape of a
sister had her sense of duty up to the scratch,
agreed to pay my cigar and tailor bills and
keep me up, as a necessary luxury. You
couldn’t do without me, you know, Nell, if
you were ever so much disposed, which yout
know again you aren’t.”

“Could I and am I not? You will learn
better, very soon, Mr. Ralph Mowbray. I
give you warning that you are left to your

own resources from this time out. Now,

sir!”

“Then I renounce the park. What's the
use of putting one’s self out for nothing?”

“Open your eyes and talk sense, for once in
your life. I’ve made up my mind it’s time
you are getting married.”

Ralph Mowbray arched his brows critically.

“Getting married! Where did you pick up
such a provincialism, Nell?’ :

“Never mind. I always am ungrammatical
when I am earnest, I believe. That don’t
alter my meaning, however. I’ve made up my
mind you shall marry if you like the form of
expression better, and. I have an unexception~
able parti looked out for you.”

‘Qualifications, my love?’ put Mr. Mow-
bray, lapsing back and losing apparent in-
terest.

‘First, of course, an heiress.”

“Of course.”’.

“A rival belle I want to get out of the
way.”

“Do it with a poisoned bodkin, that’s a
good creature, Nell. Save me a life of
.rouble,” :

‘“Nonsense. A beauty, or considered such;
being ‘my enemy and no quarter’ I don’t
pretend to say.”

“Generous girl!”

“For the present, that’s all. Stop murmur-
ing absurdities and tell me what you think of
the plan.”

“ Excellent as a plan, decidedly ingenuous;
an incumbent and a rival put out of the way
by one bold stroke; but for the matter of ex-
ecution I don’t precisely see how you are going
to manage that.”

“You are provoking beyond measure, sir.
You are to manage it, you are to buckle on
your armor and go forth to conquer like the
knights of old. You can’t expect a prize of
the first magnitude to fall at your feet un-
asked.”

“That means any quantity of tiresome at-
tendance. Obliged for your kindness, but I
don’t think I can avail myself of it. A
beauty and an heiress is so apt to be capricious
and exacting, and there’s sure to be any
amount of opposition in the field. It’s a bore
to be obliged to play the devoted when occa-
sion demands it, now and then, but to run
against @ dozen other fellows in a doubtful
race is out of the question entirely.”

“You'll say differently in less than a dozen
hours from now.”

“Wager you a set of new curls against
any small article you choose to mention,”

“Thanks, but curls aren’t becoming to my
style of countenance, and as nature supplied
me plentifully I haven’t yet adopted the plan
of changing my hair to suit my dress,”

‘‘ Complexion, you mean.”

“T mean nothing of the sort, as you very
well know, sir.”

“You forgot to give me the name of the
paragon who can rival you,”

“T don’t intend to give it. Ihave piqued
your curiosity now and you shall find her out
for yourself. Don’t miss the park, Ralph;
she’s sure to be there. Mrs, Lyndal is to call
for me, and.oh, by the way, can you tell me
who was that gentleman appeared opposite us
at the breakfast table?”

‘Sets the tide in that quarter? Don’t let
your affections fix upon him, Nelly, an ad-
venturer with a wife for each of the four
quarters of the globe, I daresay. These hand-
some fellows who strike your eye at first sight
usually do turn out so. Was it love at first
sight, Nell?”

“Nonsense. Ihad a fancy I had seen him
somewhere. For me—

‘Rattle my bones over the stones,
I’m only a lone woman nobody owns,’ ”

  

 

 

 

 

 
  
    

   
   
   
 
   

   
  

     
   
   
   
  
   
 
    
  

     
   
   
     
  
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
  
    
    
    
  
  
    
   
  
   
    
  
   
  
   
   
   
  
 
  
    
 
   
   
      
      
   
 

 

 

 

 

GHLLES AND BEAU.

[Aprin 4, 1874.

 

 

*¢ Are you off, Elinor?”

“Off? Ishould think so. Time I was if I
mean to have my bonnet on when Mrs. Lyndal
calls.” :

It was a well-balanced, elastic form carry-
ing itself from his sight. Elinor Mowbray
‘was What is known in masculine parlance as a
“fine woman,” a ‘‘ splendid creature.” Lovely
hair was her crowning glory, red-gold; a face
so fair and fresh that a sight of it did away
with the wonder she should hold a belleship
still at twenty-eight. Strong points of re-
semblance were there between brother and
sister, but his features were more definitely
aquiline, his complexion paler, his forehead
higher and retreating, his hair light, sandy,
without any of the redeeming glint of hers.
There were some who considered Ralph Mow-
bray a handsome man, his sister among them,
but his was a face which was apt to inspire a
feeling the reverse of confidence; it had a
latent selfishness in it, which, if developed,
would have been craft and wariness declaring
that indolence of his an affectation. A very
ordinary man, but Elinor Mowbray had con-
sidered him a little higher than the gods.

There was music in the park that day, and
all New York turned out in a brilliant medley.
Leaning back in the carriage, giving smiling
attention to Mrs. Lyndal, a pleasant, plain,
elderly lady, Miss Mowbray acknowledged the
doffing of hats and low bows right and left,

“How mistaken I must have been in imagin-
ing you a comparative stranger in the city,”
remarked Mrs. Lyndal,

‘Tf I could be transported at once from
here into Egypt I would not expect to find
myself a stranger in a strange land,” Miss
Mowbray laughed. ‘‘We are thorough cos-
mopolitans, my brother and I. It is our fate
to know everybody everywhere. That Mr.
Mortimer who passed just now I knew first at
the German spas when he had a good deal less
whisker and a very trifle more brain than at
this present day. Mr. Goldwood was a fellow-
tourist with my brother through Switzerland
and Italy, seven long years ago, although my
own acquaintance with him was reserved for
this later date. Ah, here is Ralph himself. I
have been telling Mrs. Lyndal, Ralph, that
you knew her brother among totally different
scenes from this.”

Mr. Mowbray, conscious of appearing at his
best in the saddle, bowed low and rode for-
ward timing the pace of his steed to their pro-
gress.

“‘Goldwood?—oh, yes. Nell gave me an
ecstatic chapter over the discovery of the
round friendship, yours and hers, his and mine,
a night or so ago. I haven’t seen him yet,
however. Is he here?”

He lost the answer in the distraction of a
passing sight as an equestrian pair, splendidly
mounted, swept a neighboring curve.

“Speak of angels and you hear the rustle
of their wings,” said Elinor, returning their
recognition. ‘‘Is it possible you failed to dis-
cover that that was Mr. Goldwood, Ralph?’

Mr. Mowbray drew his gaze slowly from the
direction they had gone.

“Sure enough. I did not observe him for
the second. Who was that superb creature in
his company, Mrs, Lyndal? From my one
glimpse I should say she is blessed with the
most glorious eyes it was ever my lot to be-
hold.”

‘Ts it possible you have not met her? That
is Madelon Brand, my brother’s ward. You
meet us at the club reception to-night I pre-
sume, Mr. Mowbray?”

“Without fail. Elinor would break her
heart if she missed it.” And Mr. Mowbray

‘\ touching his heel to his horse’s side took him-
self away. Elinor smiled to herself as she
looked proudly after him. This was certainly
the first enthusiasm he had displayed over the
prospect of the club reception.

She smiled again as she moved through the
crowded rooms on her brother’s arm that
night, as she saw his gaze wander in evident
search of something not yet found.

“Come and let me present you to the para-
gon who can rival me, Ralph. I have her per-
mission.” =

“Bother the paragon,” thought Mr. Mow-
bray intent upon his own object, repressing
his inclination to put the thought in audible

   

his way; what a crush it is. Madelon!”
touching with her fan a shoulder that*gleamed
like marble through a web of frosty lace.
“Miss Brand, my brother, Mr. Mowbray;
anxious like all his sex to pay tribute to your
cause.”

“Tf I were a hero of a hundred battles I
could not boast of ever having enlisted ina
fairer cause,” murmured Mr. Mowbray gal-
lantly.

With beauty on every side, with gaslights
flashing, and bright eyes glancing, and rich
robes and rare gems striving each to outshine
and outvie the rest, he enjoyed the felicity of
looking into those glorious eyes, of looking and
rushing straight forward to the fate which re-
ceived him open-armed, which had stood aloof
through his thirty-two years to vanquish him
in a moment now. Ralph Mowbray was in
love at sight with Madelon Brand,

A tall, willowy shape, an oval face, com-
plexion pale clear olive, eyes dark, deep, and
with shadowed lights, hair bronze-black and
rippling—words cannot do justice to Madelon
Brand as she appeared before him, Her dress
was gold tissue over white, like a blaze of
summer sunshine it waved about her as she
moved. :

“‘ Loveliest thing under the sun—the Brand;
moon and stars additional if that assertion
needs more emphasis,” declared Mr. Mortimer
from his distance. ‘‘And Mowbray is going

   

may see; but that’s only the general fate.
He’s in luck, too, absolutely carrying her off to
dance; but who in thunder could have sup-
posed there was a vacant waltz on her list?”

‘Now, what do you say to my plan?” asked
his sister as they whirled away from the scene
of the night’s gayety under the paling morning
stars. ‘Will you marry my rival out of my
way, Ralph, always providing you can secure
the chance?”

“‘Eh, what, Nell?’ Mr. Mowbray started
out of his reverie. ‘‘I forgot to discover that
bugaboo you flourished before me, Who was
she, did you say? Very presumptuous of any
one to enter the lists against you, and impru-
dent to get your rancor up.”

At least there was no malice in Elinor’s
ringing laugh.

“Pretty women are privileged to hate each
other on no greater earthly provocation than
that they are pretty, you know, Ralph. And
the name of my enemy is Madelon Brand.”

‘“Madelon Brand—Madelon Brand!” The
name rung like a maddening chorus even
into his later dreams.

 

CHAPTER II.
OLD FRIENDS.

“ ARE you busy, Ernest?”

Mr. Goldwood, brush in hand, turned to
greet Mrs. Lyndal’s pleasant face and portly
form in the doorway.

“T thought you knew I never was busy,
Lucy. Come in. I am only making a pre-
tense of work for lack of any thing better in
hand, At your service now or any time, if
you require me.”

Thus assured, Mrs. Lyndal came forward to
take possession of an easy-chair, smoothing
down her morning-dress of gray cashmere with
plump, complacent hand.

“‘T wanted to consult you in regard to our
movements for the summer. It is quite time
we are settled upon something definite. Half
the people are already out of town; absolutely
no one will be left in the course of another
fortnight or less. Where are we to go, and
when?”

“Ts it indispensable that we do go some-

where? It appears to me we have done noth-
ing but go in these last five years past. Sup-
pose we stay snugly where we are; I haven’t
been more comfortable on the whole round
than in my own home quarters.”
“Stay here, stay in New York, and it the
first of June! Just like a man to propose such
a thing. Really, Ernest, for Madelon’s sake
you ought to think further than that. I am
divided between the watering places and the
Northern Lakes.” -

““ Well, what does Madelon say?” asked Mr.
Goldwood, indulgently.

‘* Madelon is like you, without a particle of
interest manifested in the question. If you
knew what a task I undertook to oblige you,
Ernest, in turning chaperone to a fashionable
young lady, you would endeavor at least to
lighten the weight of responsibility upon my
shoulders. I don’t want to fail in my duty,
but I find myself falling more and more behind
what is expected of me with every season. If
you could be persuaded to give up your
bachelor ways now, and provide your estab-
lishment with the one thing it has needed so
long—a mistress! I would wash my hands of
all these worriments, forever after.”

“How plaintive you are, Lucy! I never
before suspected you took the situation so to
heart. For me, you know ”—grave and ten-
der grew his tone, while his eyes held a far-
away look only seen there in moments of un-
reserved confidence—‘‘ there can be no reviv-
ing the one dream of love and marriage I ever
knew.”

“ How faithful you are toa memory, bro-
ther, and of one who never could have been
worthy of you! Madelon can not be like her
mother.”

“She has grown more like her since she has
been with us, since the cloud which darkened
her life before has passed away.”

‘*Do you know I fancy the effect of it never
will quite pass, Ernest? She never has been
and never will be quite the same as other
young Jadies of her station. If I were to
speak my mind, I should certainly urge the
necessity of keeping her from all morbid in-
fluences,”

“She is a decided improvement, to my
mind, on other young ladies of her station,
and if your last clause was intended to bring
me to a sense of my duty regarding this sum-
mer’s campaign, by all means let us have her
voice in our conclave.” He touched the bell
and sent a message to Miss Brand, requesting
her to join them there.

She came at once, poising daintily upon
the threshold, with a laughing glance at the
pair.
“Is ita treaty of peace or a party of war?
Something portentous in the air speaks of the
last, and I give fair warning I shall fly the
battle.”

Five years have passed over the head of
Madelon Brand since we saw her first; five
years and a little more since she flung her-
self down in bitter rebellion against her fate
in that deserted garden waste. So wonder-
fully improved, so wonderfully changed, it
would be hard to recognize now, in her, that
dark, despairing, tempted girl—that torture-
wrung, sullen and restless spirit which had
possessed her in those days of gloom and un-
happiness.

“A treaty, by all means, then. Lucy
shall state the case, you shall make such
suggestions as you like, and I will reserve
the decision for myself. I suppose, like her,

“was, and I will not be reconaled if you refuse

‘“With country roses blooming, and country
strawberries waiting, and a hew wardrobe that
deserves a better fate than dust and lack of
envious eyes, most certainly I should. If that
is Scylla let me strand upon Charybdis. What
do you say, Mrs. Lyndal? Newport, or Sara-
toga, or Long Branch, or the River Lawrence
and Canada? My dear guardian, I forgive that
suggestion, preposterous as it was. We have
been at all these places, done them to death, as
the saying is.”

“Then do originate something yourself,
Madelon. I have racked my brain to a fever
and anything further I am at a loss to find.”

“Say on, Madelon. ‘Greenland’s icy moun-
tains or India’s coral strand,’ which shail it
be?”

“Don’t you suppose we might find an inter-
mediate point? What would you say to send-
ing on a retinue to a certain place on the Hud-
son which I remember hearing alluded to as
possessed by Mr. Goldwood, following ourselves
with a select company of all the pleasant peo-
ple we know?”

“Riverbank! Sure enough; why couldn’t I
have thought of that. Used to belong to the
Athols, you know, Lucy; I got it at a bargain
after that sad affair.” .

“ At a bargain! Madelon, my dear, I chance
to have heard it was the only thing saved out
of the wreck of their fortune, saved by Ernest’s
efforts and taken off their hands by him for an
amount which will keep them comfortably all
their lives. If Riverbank is decided upon, I
positively must have my favorite, Elinor
Mowbray, among the first invited there. So
agreeable and clever, she will be a host in the
way of entertaining the rest.”

“That will include her brother then, of
course. Ralph wasn’t more than half a bad
fellow in that way himself, as I remember him,
when he had enough interest in a thing to keep
himself awake. The main point settled, when
will you ladies be prepared to go?”

“There’s nothing now to keep us here, and I
think all arrangements can be made for four
days from this. My dear, we are due for
Madame Bellini’s exhibition of costumes this
morning, aren’t we? There is no more than
time to dress left us,”

They rustled away, and Mr. Goldwood be-
took himself to his pretense of work again, A
broad bar of sunshine lying upon the floor,
slowly changed position; the carriage had been
gone for an hour, when a shadow crossed his
light and he glanced back over his shoulder at
the intruder.

“Helloa, take a chair for a minute, will
you?” Then, as the impression of a glance was
borne to his mind, Mr. Goldwood whirled about;
brush and palette went helter-skelter, and his
two hands grasped the new-comer’s in a hearty
welcome,

‘Bertram, true as I live! When did you
come, how long have you been here?’ My dear
boy, this unexpected sight of you has almost
upset me.”

Cecil Bertram, taller, broader, browner from
the effect of foreign suns, scarcely less demon-
strative in his pleasure, gave back the pres-
sure,

““Landed barely thirty-six hours ago, and
would have been here even sooner but for hay-
ing my luggage unconscionably detained, And
you, Goldwood, don’t look a day older than
when I parted from you, four years and a half
ago.”

“But you do, and decidedly the better for
it. All my predictions of you came true. The
story of your success was wafted back across
the Atlantic ahead of the modest apprisal you
gave me of it, and your haste to acquit-your-
self of what you chose to consider an obliga-
tion. I never had a prouder moment in my
Jife than when I heard it.”

** All due to you, as I am not apt to forget.
‘You have been holding to the old way, I see,”
letting his glance wander about the apartment.
“TY fancied I might find a greater change with
a feminine element introduced here.”

“My sister and ward hold my crannies sa-
ered. They are both out, unfortunately, or
fortunately, as it will be time enough to pre-
sent you to them at luncheon, for which you
must stay. Don’t demur, I beg!”

‘*T must, unwillingly.. I have a pressure of
important affairs on hand, and am invisible ex-
cept to you. Come to my quarters, ——- Ho-
tel, early as you have the inclination.”

“Must you rush off in this unsatisfactory
manner? Can’t I report you for dinner to-
day, to-morrow? Sorry we go out of town al-
most immediately.”

‘* And it would be unpardonable for me to
accept on the very eve of your leaving town.
Besides, I want time to furbish my remem-
brance of civilities before being brought into
ladies’ society. Exiled for so long, I expect to
have retrograded almost to the state of the
original savage.”

“Then don’t tell me you have already made
arrangements for the summer. We go to
Riverbank, Athol’s place on the Hudson that

us at least the greater portion of your time
there.”

‘* With pleasure, Goldwood. Are the Athols
still here?”

“They have a cottage near Jersey City, and
live in perfect seclusion. They were left in
straitened circumstances, you remember.”
Cecil had his head turned and was studying
a picture upon the wall.

“Mrs. Trelawney remained with them I
presume?”

‘“No. I believe she couldn’t endure the
stupidity of such a narrow sphere. She
traveled as companion to a lady going to

 

you would be horrified at the proposition to
spend the next three months in town. Is it
not so?”

 

in stroug, from the first, struck as any one

 

.

Europe, and after that I lost sight of her.

Cecil’s frank smile chased the clouding anxi-
ety from his eyes.

“None, Goldwood. That fancy received
its deathblow before I left America; there isn’t
the shadow of a weakness left.”

Very superb were the costumes Madame
Bellini exhibited that day, and Mrs. Lyndal
who had not overcome the ruling feminine
weakness, fluttered in her obesity and sober
tints between the wonders in silk and sun-
shine, and lace and rainbow hues, with as de-
lighted admiration as any there.

‘* Look at this piece of perfection, Madelon.
So simple and so exquisite, Swiss muslin and
lace, just what you will need at Riverbank.”

“Tt is charming for a young lady, admir-
ably saited to Miss Brand,” madame herself
paused to say as she was passing. ‘If it will
oblige such a patron as Mrs. Lyndal it shall be
withdrawn from display at once.”

A little woman ina purple moire that had
seen better days, a shabby bonnet and a cheap
vail, who was taking notes near, turned
abruptly and took a survey of the little-
group.

“Only one of those women-reporters,” com-
mented madame as she moved on. ‘‘ They do»
so massacre us in their descriptions, but we
are all obliged to open our doors to them..
Ma foi! we all have our trials.”

 

CHAPTER III.
AT RIVERBANK,

RIVERBANK did not see its coming occupants:
at the end of that brief four days’ time.
After-thoughts came in full force, dozens of:
necessary improvements to be made upon the
place that had not suggested themselves at:
first started into unequivocal demand, and it
was two weeks later than the early date
named which actually witnessed the arrival of
the little procession upon the bank of the
Hudson. Miss Mowbray came out with the
family, and it was by Miss Mowbray’s counsel
that their delay had been extended in the
city after other lingerers at last had winged
their flight.

“Nothing could be more delightful,” said
Miss Mowbray when their intention and her
own invitation were delivered in a breath by
Mrs. Lyndal. ‘‘I answer for myself and
Ralph, with a hundred thanks for the compli-
ment you have given us. ‘All the agreeabie
people you know,’ and'I really derive a world
of comfort in contemplating what a limited
circle that willcomprise. Promise me the ereme
of our set in two or three gallants, and an ex-
tra feminine or two to absorb their super-
fluous attentions if you like, and I shall ask
no more from June to November than your
country place and its unlimited freedom, its
sails and its rides and its drives, its exemption
from all the tribulations the flesh is heir to in
the shape of railway journeys, and miserable
little ten-by-twelve rooms in fifth stories, with
pokey old women and frowsy younger ones,
and the pattern beau of the period in atten-
dance, all frightfully demoralized by dust and
mineral water—detestable stuff!—and the
thermometer at ninety-seven, and hops, and
humble-pie of which one is obliged to take their
share in places like Saratoga, where we had
concluded to martyrize ourselves for the com-
ing month or two. The true value of having
friends is proved by the usé to which we can
put them, and you shall surely be promoted to
the head of my list for this, Mrs. Lyndal.”

“You only repeat my sentiment,” laughed
the latter. ‘‘I said to Madelon that I should
find you invaluable in warding off dullness
and discontent after the first novelty of the
change is over.”

“But you can’t expect me to counteract the
effects of damp and mildew and general mus-
tiness, you know. The house has been closed
for five years, you say, and those are some of
the inevitable results of disuse. It will cer-
tainly require more time for its renovation
than you have allowed. I don’t object ta
minor inconveniences on occasions, I don’t ex-
pect anything but great inconveniences when.
I pay for my entertainment, but furnished
gratuitously by my friends I must enter pro-
test against consigning myself to damp sheets
and moldy walls.”

‘“How inconsiderate of us not to have re-
membered,” cried Mrs. Lyndal, aghast at such
a prospect. ‘‘ Ernest sent word to have it:
thoroughly opened and aired, but it never
oceurred to me until this moment that the up-
holsterers must do their work there before it
will answer for a human habitation. How I
wish you were always at hand to advise us.
The place was really an artistic spot under the
supervision of its previous owner, but I dare-
say we shall find it very much out of re-
pars
Thus it was late June when all completed
the ladies were set. down in a body at their
destination. Mr. Goldwood had preceded them
by a couple of days.

And Riverbank! It broke upon their sight
like some fair work of the genii. A stone
villa standing upon a raise that overlooked the
country for miles about, a spacious lawn slop-
ing to the river’s verge, parterres one blaze of
vivid colors in the light of the sinking sun, a
terrace where a large fountain sent up a
volume that broke and fell in spray every
drop of which was a prism of rainbow-rays.
The river lay a broad blue sheet where ships
with white sails “‘ floated like doves of peace,”
a range of low-lying hills bounded the horizon
on the one side, the white cottages of two or
three villages péeped from the midst of green
in that bird’s eye view, and away at the back
the rugged outline of the Dunderberg was
wrapped by the blue haze of distance.

Down from the terrace by a dozen broad

 

My dear boy, does any of the old glamour
linger still?” -

 

and shallow granite steps came Mr. Goldwood

  
      
 

   
        
          
        
            
         
           
        
   
   
   
    
     
     
   
    
  
    
     
    
    
   
   
     
  
    
   
 
    
   
  
    
    
   
  
    
     
   
    
    
     
    
   
   
     
   
   
   
    
   
   
     
    
    
   
    
  
     
    
   
   
     
   
    
   
     
     
  
     
   
 
       
   
     
    
  
     
   
     
     
      
 
  
    
   
    
   
    
    
   
   
      
    
 
  
    
   
 
    
    
     
   
   
    
     
    
  
 
 
  
   
   
   
    
  
      
  
    
   
    
  
   
    
    
  
   
    
  

 

}
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‘while daylight lasts.

Aprit 4, 1874.]

BGHELLES AND BHAUX.

 

 

 

smiling at the unqualified pleasure and surprise
they expressed.

‘‘ Welcome to Riverbank. How do you like
it, ladies fair? Will you be able to endure its
quietude without ennui, nor sigh envy after
the birds of passage you forsook?”

“Tovely. If we are not satisfied here you
should turn us all out for base ingratitude. I
think I could feast on flowers and be contented
here all my life. Have you come into posses-
sion of Aladdin’s Lamp or the Sorcerer’s Wand,
guardian—which?”

“Something as potent as either—knowledge
of what is due to my charge. And you, Miss
Mowbray, could you too be contented here all
your life?” .

“‘T never make rash assertions, Mr. Gold-
wood. Having a corporeal being which re-
‘quires something more substantial than Miss
‘Brand’s diet of flowers, and as I always change
‘my mind with the fashion of my bonnet, I fear
-even the attractions of Riverbank would not
be sufficient to hold my ‘fickle faney’ for such
ian indefinite period.”

“How did you ever accomplish so much in
‘so short a time, Ernest? I have been question-
ing the wisdom of the move since second-
‘thoughts suggested draughts and night-dews

-and all kinds of disagreeable things in a place
gone to rack through disuse, and I find it per-
fect as if never out of the best of care.”

“J take that as a personal imputation, and
reflect that a prophet is not without honor ex-

«cept in his own country. It never has been
out of the best of care, Lucy. I have quite a
taste for horticulture, which I have taken es-

* pecial pains to gratify by proxy. I had land-
scape gardeners here a year ago, while the
permanent gardener and fruiterer, with his
wife, have taken excellent charge of the villa.
Come, let me show you through the house

I have a couple of

friends invited to dine with us who will be
putting in an appearance soon.” :
‘ After all, there is much more satisfaction

in coming quietly as we did, than with such a

crowd as we first proposed. With the Eatons
and Miss Marchmont, who are to come next
week, we will be a decidedly comfortable and

. home-like party. Don’t you think so, Made-

lon?”

*¢ Quite so, Mrs, Lyndal.” Madelon, dressed
for dinner, turned to join the elder lady, paus-
ing at her-door. ‘‘Enough is enough, and I
almost dread to have our present coziness
broken by any more.”

“T don’t know what I should have done
without Elinor in making any limit. I never
knew what a thoroughly improvident and
helpless lot we are until taught by the experi-
ence of the past two weeks. Who did Ernest

“say he was expecting?’

“He did not say, I believe. None of our
people yet, of course.”

A couple of ‘‘our people” in the sense
Madelon had designated they proved, how-
ever, for Mr. Mowbray and Gustave Morti-
mer, together with their host, made a little
knot upon the terrace that turned indoors to
appear in the drawing-rooms simultaneously
with the advent of the ladies. Ralph Mow-
bray, cool-headed in all ordinary matters, had
lost his customary caution, now that Cupid’s
arrow was rankling in his breast.

“In common decency, I couldn’t act on
Goldwood’s invitation, and locate at What’s-its-
name-bank for a week or so,” he had reflected,
dissatisfiedly. ‘At any rate, Nell has given
me to understand as much, though I believe it
was done out of pique after the last approach
to a tiff we managed to indulgein. If I should
chance*to anticipate them with a round or two
of fishing tackle as explanatory evidence, it
will be an easy matter to transfer myself to
the village on the urging they will be in duty
bound to bring to bear. And something may
be gained in way of getting ahead of what-
ever other presumptuous puppies may lift their
aspirations as high as Madelon,”

It was never Mr. Mowbray’s purpose to in-
clude himself among the ‘‘ presumptuous pup-
pies” aforesaid. It never had been his weak-
ness to depreciate himself, and he accounted
‘for his unlooked presence now with the calm-
ness of conscious integrity.”

. “Odd that I should have stumbled across
your precise location all unknowingly. ‘Up
the Hudson’ is such a vague term, I give you
my -word for it I never expected, when I
started out in search of Mortimer here with
the intention of persuading him to a run up
among the Catskills, that I should drop upon
Goldwood first of the two. ‘Man proposes,’
you know. Of course I shall not think of in-
truding until my designated time, but you
ladies will pardon the anxiety to discover how
you have endured the fatigues and ravages of

the week past, which is my plea for so early |

an appearance.” 5

“Did you expect to find us crushed and
turned gray, Ralph? Even grief over your
absence couldn’t accomplish that.”

“Weight of years very soon will, Nelly,” he
answered in an aside.

“And oh, what a bungler! Asif any one
could be deceived in regard to your motive.”

“Since chance has done so much for us I
have insisted that Mowbray shall not put us
off to the latest minute. Time is not so pre-
cious with him that he need let it out by con-
tract. Miss Mowbray, do lay your commands
upon him, as a dutiful brother, to send for
whatever traps he may have in the vicinity,
and depart no more from such hospitality as
we can give him.”

‘J will surely require more effective au-
thority than mine, Mr, Goldwood. Ask Made-
lon to interfere, her comniands are never ques-
tioned I believe.”

““T owe Nell a good turn for that. I vow I
won’t mention her age to her for a month,”

 

   

mentally quoth Mr. Mowbray as he met the
smiling inquiry of those glorious eyes.

“Why not, when all unite in the request?
Pray do, at any consequence short of a broken
promise and reproving conscience.”

“How well you measure men’s weaknesses.
A dozen promises should not stand in the way
when you ask, Miss Brand.”

“And Mr. Mortimer! Are you also one of
us, or did you stumble upon the spot by lucky
chance?”

‘Never was a victim of lucky chance in my
life, Miss Mowbray, I give you my word for it.
I’m like that fellow somebody has strung into
rhyme—Poe, you know—‘ an unhappy master,
whom unmerciful disaster, followed fast and
followed faster,’ and all the rest of it. Dm
staying with my grandfather, one of your
neighbors here, from whom I have expecta-
tions, though the prospect of ever realizing
them is quite another thing. The old gentle-
man remains healthy out of all conscience, and
cranky and unreasonable till I shouldn’t be
surprised if he’d end by marrying some gentle
creature of ‘sweet sixteen’ and leaving me in
the lurch.. That’s what gratitude amounts to
in the generality of cases. I expect nothing
but that the antiquated youth will yet drive
me a victim of lengthened disappointment to
my grave.”

“Guard him then, carefully; don’t let him
be included in our number here,” laughed’ Miss
Mowbray. ‘I should fall in love with him at
first sight, I know I should, and to have your
death laid at my door would be too great a
penalty.”

They went in to dinner, a laughing careless
company. The table all ina glitter with sil-
ver and crystal, snowy damask, and an epergne
running over with crimson roses in the center.
Favorites of fortune these to whom Sevres
china, and gold-lined goblets, and men in wait-
ing were every day matters, who might
“wreathe the bowl” of pleasure with fairest
flowers and quaff from its exhaustless draught
at will. If all these had not the power to
strain it from its bitter dregs who on earth
might?

The repast was no more than half over
when a cab from the station drove up to de-
posit a lone passenger at the door.

““There’s only my trunk, driver, and my
reticule which I have charge of myself. Ring,
will you, and get help for that. They were
not expecting me—no.”

With a grin and a muttered ‘‘ Guess it’s not
any of their fashionable folk,” the Jehu shoul-
dered the trunk and deposited it upon the top-
most step.

“There you are, ma’am. Three dollars if
you please,”

“Tt’s too much, quite too much for one lone
woman and a single box. Well, there it is
then, but it’s robbery outright. I would write
up the instance as one of the atrocious swin-
dles put on defenseless woman if I hadn’t a
better prospect of something ahead than pen-
ny-a-lining.”

In from the odorous dusk and the sound of
falling waters to the hall aglow with bright
light, to a glimpse of spacious rooms through
doors standing wide, to the faint sound of
dishes clattering and voices and laughter, and
an easy comprehension of the scene those
sounds indicated, into the presence of a sus-
picious servant, an importation from the city
mansion, the late arrival came.

“The family are at dinner, are they? Oh,
well, I can wait. No, you needn’t take my
name to your master, my man. Show me
somewhere to wait and tell Miss Brand, in pri-
vate if you like, that a lady wishes to speak
with her at her own convenience.”

With an air of unwillingness evident to the
sharp eyes of the lady, the man led the way
into a morning-room remote from those lighted

‘drawing-rooms. A single lamp burned dimly

upon the mantel-piece. He turned it up to a
full blaze, and with a word, a sweeping glance
about the apartment as if to take note of all
small portable articles of value it contained,
left her there.

Left alone, the new-comer*dropped into a
chair, laughing to herself as she took a delib-
erate survey of her surroundings.

“How are the mighty fallen! The man ab-
solutely is afraid I may steal something. Let
me see; two insignificant bronzes on the man-
tel, an insignificant Clytie yonder, a couple of
Bohemian vases and a mother-of-pearl paper
knife, every earthly thing excepting the chairs
and the tables and the curtains and the carpet
and a few odd tags of garniture, none of which
the worst victim of kleptomania extant would
be apt to capture, I would wager that it is
the plainest apartment in the house, and this
very minute doubtless that exemplary serving-
man is fidgeting lest I ‘fold my tent like the
Arabs, and as silently steal away,’ with some
one or all of these inducements. And yonder,
somewhere, they are feasting ‘off gold and
silver dishes from the dainties of the land.’ To
think that ever I was a dweller in ‘marble
halls,’ to think that ever I knew not what it
was to hunger for their rich viands and to
thirst for their wines, and long for their ease,
come and vanished ‘like the baseless fabric of
a vision ’—heigho!”

“A person to see me,” repeated Madelon,
as the same servant dextrously intercepted her
as she was leaving the dining-hall. ‘Are you
not mistaken? Who could desire to see me
here?” ,

‘A person asking to see Miss Brand—I am
not mistaken, Miss Madelon.” His distinguish-
ing emphasis seemed to imply that the person
must be. ‘‘She is waiting in the morning-
room to the left, Miss.”

The sweep of her silken skirts, the silent

 

swinging of the door, and Madelon stood upon
the threshold. A little woman in a shabby

 

purple moire, and rusty black lace mantle, and
a cheap bonnet and flimsy vail, with a face
that was haggard and jaded under a suspicious
bloom, resting back in a great dark chair,
looked up at her as she stood there, with sharp,
blue, speculative eyes.

Madelon took a step forward in doubt, in-
credulity and surprise struggling to a cer-
tainty.

“Surely. I am not mistaken. Surely this is
Mrs, Trelawney.”

(To be continued.)

 

APRIPS CHILD.

BY CHERRY JAMES,

 

 

Sweet Idela, dreamy April

Brought thee as she passed away,
Like the soft south wind, assailing
Our dim senses with regaling -
Of a fragrant cluster, trailing

In the path of dewy May,
Tear-lit, sun-lit April, wailing,

Came to lay thee in our way.

Not is thine the sun-steeped season
Of the odorous summer noon,

With its passion breath appealing

To the musky rose, or stealing

*Neath the dusky shades, concealing
Lilies’ bath in spicy June,

Or where flushed and all revealing,
Clusters crave.the sensuous boon.

Not this hot consuming noontide,
But the timid, dreamy ever
Marked by lowly blossoms, blushing
As the breezes bare them, brushing
O’er them in their happy, gushing
Pranks among their garbs of leaves,
Ah, the timid, tender flushing
Of these blossoms ‘neath the leaves!

Gathered from the dreamy April,
Sweet Idela, thou art this—
Not a noon heat, self-destroying,
But a trembling warmth, decoying
All the pulses and alloying”
All of life into a bliss—
Timorous, half-hid beauty, toying
On the dreamy verge of bliss!

 

 

 

ROSE'S STRATEGY.

 

BY CORINNE ABRAMS.

 

6¢ PNEZ! Inez! Take pity and do not cast
: me off! Do not sell your priceless

heart for gold! I know that, despite your

cold refusal of my love, your love is mine!

““T know that although you refuse to reign
the mistress of my home, still you are willing
for me to carry your image in my heart. Inez
de Garcia, you love me, and you can not in
truth deny it.
man for whom you intend to sacrifice all the
noble feelings of your heart. You spurn me
from you in seeming dislike, but, Inez, there
will come a day when you will bend that
proud, beautiful head in the dust. There will
come a day when you will be willing to lay
down the life, which is so precious to you now,
and will pray to the God whom you now fear-
fully wrong, to take that life and give you
rest in death from the galling bonds that are
now hidden by gold.

‘*T obey the command to leave you, but one
half the anguish of this bitter parting is for-
gotten when I think your heart is mine, despite
all your efforts to make it otherwise.”

The tall, handsome man who had entered
that beautiful room but an hour before, with a
bright look of hope in his great, dark eyes,
now strode from Inez’s presence with all the
light banished from his countenance, and in its
stead a pitiful, agonized expression that mar-
red all his beauty, and with feelings that
almost led him to curse the beautiful woman
he had left.

As for Inez, she sat where he had left her,
with the proud head already bowed, and the
heart, that would love despite her struggles,
nearly broken.

She was a lovely girl, and had but one great
fault. But that one was so glaring that it
sufficed for twenty others.

Pride had made her yield all hopes of a
happy future; compelled her to relinquish the
man she loved, and to take for her partner in
life one whose coffers were filled with tempting
gold, but whose heart was destitute of any
affection for this fair young creature, and
whose only desire to have’ her for his wife was
to possess a beautiful woman, on whom to dis-
play his wealth, by clothing her with all the
grandeur in his power. :

Inez knew this well, but her love of admira-
tion and her pride would not allow her to
swerve from the path marked out by her own
hands, and she had determined to be the
wealthy ‘Mrs. Hastings,” and to cast all
thoughts of Arthur Carrollton from her. She
had begun to think she had succeeded, until
this morning, when he came to her in all the
glory of his noble manhood, and offered her
the boundless love of his noble heart, and re-
vealed to her the startling truth that she loved
him still, and more passionately than ever. At
this moment she would, as he had told her in
his wounded pride, have given almost every
thing she possessed to have changed the events
of the past hour; but again her pride arose,
and, summoning all her self-control, she deter-
mined to keep her real feelings locked in her
own heart.

But every one needs sympathy, and, finding
her burden heavy, she confided the whole story
to her young cousin Rose, who was visiting her
at the time.

By a few well-directed questions Rose found
that Inez’s heart was entirely given to Arthur,
and that pride alone kept her from recalling
him. She pleaded in vain for him, but she
determined to act instead of plead, as she put
her active little brain in a perfect whirl, try-
ing to devise some plan to unravel the web
which these troublesome young folks were

 

You do not love that rich old |

 

weaving around themselves. At last a thought
struck her, but it required such very brilliant
acting to carry it out that she was almost
tempted to give it up; but no other expedient
presenting itself she determined to give it a
trial.

Old Richard Hastings was considered by all
to be a hard-hearted, pitiless man; and when
beautiful Inez de Garcia was said to be bis
promised bride, men shook their heads and
women sighed for the sweet young girl whose
life would be a mockery if passed with him.

Rose knew the reputation of this old man,
and she dreaded more than she dared think to
go to his home and ask of him the great favor
she wished.

But Inez was very dear to her, and she
would have dared any thing for her sake, So
one bright morning she set off to Mr. Hastings
with a sinking heart, but with a firm determing
ation to accomplish her mission.

She found the old gentleman at home, and
in one of his worst humors. The servant who
answered her ring showed her directly to his
private parlor, and then left her alone with
this dreaded bugbear.

Her courage nearly forsook her, but, making
a desperate effort, she managed to stammer
out in a few sentences what she had intended
to put in a long, flowery. speech.

“Mr. Hastings,” she said, ‘I came here this
morning—”

“So I perceive,” replied he, calmly.

“To ask you—”

“Ah! indeed! Did you come to ask me to
a party? If you did, I can tell you beforehand
that I won’t go.”

“Oh, no! nothing of the kind, Mr. Hastings:
I want you to give up my cousin, Inez de
Garcia. You must not marry her, for, indeed,
she does not love you. She wants your money,
sir, and she will give up the man she loves and
barter her soul for it.» They say you never
did a good action in your life. Oh, I pray ,
you, sir, to grant me this request, and do not
rob my darling cousin of her happiness. She
is so young and inexperienced, and she loves
another. Won't you give her up?”

“Tt appears to me that you are rather an
impertinent young woman. What do you offer
in exchange for my bonnie bride? ‘Your.
self?”

‘Oh, no! Excuse me sir, but—but—”

“ But what? Out with it, girl!”

“Oh! I could not consent to that, sir. I am
poor and your wealth is as great a temptation
to me as to my cousin; but, my hand can
never be given where my heart cannot also go.
But enough of this. Will you give up my con-
sin?”

The old man resisted her pleadings for a
long time, but, having really no love for Inez,
he at last succumbed, and then demanded an
explanation of her conduct. She told him of
Inez’s great pride and how she would have
died sooner’ than break the promise given to
him; she told him of her rejection of Arthur
Carrollton, and that she was too proud to re-
call him. And Rose gained great favor in the
old man’s eyes by her loving ways and disin-
terested conduct, and he promised to aid her
all in his power in setting Inez and Arthur
right again, and she returned home with the
sweet thought of having done her idolized cou-
sin the greatest good in her power.

As soon as she ascertained Arthur’s where-
abouts, she wrote to him, and summoned him
home, and revealed to him the good news of
Inez’s release. Nothing was said to Inez about
her release, nor any thing that would lead her
to suspect that any thing unusual was taking
place. Arthur was overjoyed at hearing the
unexpected tidings, but he, also, possessed a
good share of pride, and for a long time re-
fused to take part in the plot against Inez,

But after taking the trouble to win Mr,
Hastings over, Rose was not the girl to be
cheated out of her success by one man; and by
putting her whole energy in the work, she at
last.conquered him, and came from the battile-
field undisputed victor, She was satisfied that
Inez regretted her approaching marriage with
Mr. Hastings and knew that her whole life was
bound up in Arthur’s. It was a daring strate-
gy and subject to unpleasant consequences, but
she determined to carry it through,

Inez still imagined herself to be engaged to
Mr. Hastings, and the wedding-day was set.
To her, the dreaded day came too quickly.
She looked more lovely than ever in her bridal
dress of white silk, with dewy pearls in her
dark hair, and wreathed around the perfect
neck and arms. Her face was deathly white,
with the exception of bright crimson spots on
either cheek. It seemed as though all the fire
of her nature was concentrated in those two
burning spots, for her air was languid, her
action spiritless, and she seemed‘as if walking
in her sleep. The last moment of grace was
passed, and a heavy footstep sounded on the
stairs. ‘‘He is coming!” whispered Rose and
drew the heavy vail over the still anguished
face. She did not look up when the gentleman
entered the room, but passively allowed him to
draw her hand within his arm, and lead her
down to the parlor. The minister commenced
the ceremony and asked her if she would take
the man beside her to be her loved and honor-
ed husband. In faltering accents she made the
responses and leaned heavily against the groom
elect.

“Arthur, will you take Inez to be your
loved and cherished wife?” proceeded the min-
ister. With a wild cry Inez started as she
tore the vail from her face. Arthur drew her
back again, and with a happy light irradiating
her countenance she stood again by his side,
while Arthur requested the clergyman to re-
commence the ceremony; and the answers
came this time in a voice that trembled with
joy, and contained in every utterance a world

 
 

 

 

6

of thanks to the noble girl by her side, who
had saved her from her own folly.
Thanks for the love, that instigated Rose’s

strategy,
THE CASTLE WALL.

BY J. H. H,

 

 

 

The age of chivalry is gone!
Its gallant deeds—the knight's renown,
Are called to mind by this drear stone,
Time-worn and crumbling down,

The tower that was the warrior’s pride,
His peerless fort of solid stone,

That darts and battering-rams defied,
The ivy bas o'er-grown,

The halls, through which gay courtiers passed,
The chambers, richly tapestried,

Quiver and shake at every blast,
And scarce its course impede.

The moat has dried, the draw-bridge Fe
Through age immovable and maimed,
And from its sockets fallen down—
The draw-bridge once so famed!

Where are the fort's defenders now?
Those who were marshaled in its walls?

And where shall we behold the foe,
Threat’ning th’ ancestral halls?

Where shall we find the bearded chief?
And where abides his vassal band ?*
Where is the captive, plunged in grief,

An exile from his land?

No more those warriors cause alarms,
Or seek to know their foe's designs;

No more the chief his vassals arms;
No more the captive pines,

 

 

(COMMENCED IN No. 1.)

KATE DARLING;
oR,
THE BELLE OF THE SCHOOL.
CHAPTER oil

A NEW DEVICE.

 

As Miss Savernake parted from Nathan
Ogleby at the garden gate, she did not hurry
back immediately to the house.

Neither did she exhibit that amount of cheer-
fulness and sprightliness that might have been
expected in her, considering the amount of
mischief her devilish arts had already been the
means of working.

It was as though something had happened to
mar the perfection of her villainous plans.

Her step was slow, her brow contracted, and
she bit her lips thoughtfully.

Yet not one of her diabolical stratagems had
suffered defeat.

Every thing had worked as satisfactory as
even her malicious nature could hope.

Kate Darling was fairly in the toils.

She hated the young girl, no less for her
beauty and goodness, than that she was the
daughter of the man whom fate had made her
husband,

She detested her because she could not but be
aware that the disdain with which Kate treat-
ed her was deserved, and her helpless inferior-
ity galled her to the quick.

Her course had been, as she herself had ex-
pressed it, to “‘ drag her down.”

It was for this that she had secretly nego-
tiated with Nathan Ogleby, hinting of her in-
fluence over the young girl, and of her power
to compel her even against her will.

Not that she ever intended that Kate should
become the old man’s wife.

That would have been but a poor revenge.

It would have spited only Cuthbert Dean,
for whom she had contempt rather than hatred.

No, this was the mainspring of Miss Saver-
nake’s wicked scheming.

To create an impassable gulf between the
two young lovers, and then, having first se-
cured the wages of her deceit and duplicity of
Nathan Ogleby, to frighten the old man from
his intended marriage, by bringing to his
knowledge the fact of Kate’s father being still
alive and a returned convict.

Thus would the young girl be rendered
frienglless and penniless, and with the road to
ruin the only one fairly open before her.

And matters were progressing favorably.

With fatal adroitness Kate had acted her
part to perfection.

How much to Cuthbert Dean’s rage and de-
spair she could well conjecture.

How much to her patron’s satisfaction, she
could have no doubt, for did not she hold a
substantial proof of his delight at that moment
in her hand? ~

The fifty-pound note.

But seemingly she derived no consolation
from the gift.

‘A pretty present,” she muttered, discon-
tentedly; “‘a useful sum to one so wretchedly
poor as I am, but what is it in comparison to
what she will inherit?

“T have blundered.

‘How could I reckon on his being such a
love-sick imbecile.

‘Forty thousand pounds, and all for her.

“For her and for him.

‘¢ Am I blind, am I a fool?’ she continued to
mutter as she paused in the dark garden; “can
I not see what will be the upshot of this fine
plan of mine?

“My share will be the paltry five hundred

pounds.
_ “ His—her father’s—he is not so modest or
so scrupulous, curse him! but that he will make
himself known to her fast enough when there
are hundreds—thousands to be made by it. He
will be enriched.

“‘ He has but to keep the threat over her, that
unless his needs are supplied, he will reveal
himself to the old dotard, her husband, and she
dare not draw the strings of her purse against
him.

“And he whom I thought to hold in check,

 

e 4 _

BGHELLES AND BHAUX.

he whose neck I made so sure to keep beneath
my heel, will laugh at and defy me.

“Can nothing, nothing be done to avert such
ignominious defeat?”

She knew that the prisoner in the china clo-
set could not make his escape, because the door
was locked, so she ventured to take just one
more turn to and fro, on the long dark garden
paths, on the speculation that the father of
wickedness, who had so far befriended her,
would still further take pity on her in her dis-
tress. She was not disappointed.

The brilliant idea descended on her so sud-
denly, that she could only creep under its stu-
pendous weight, with her head bowed, and her
white forefinger tapping her lips.

The only words she muttered aloud were
these:

‘“ Ay, there’s the obstacle. He'll be mad
enough, but he won’t be desperate in the
way I should wish, that is what I fear. And
yet, what a chance. They called him ‘poor
beggar,’ and so he is, and yet if he dared all,
all might be his, wife—fortune—all.”

When she reached the end of the long path,
she stood silent and still as a statue for five
minutes at least, and then like one who had
firmly resolved on acting, with swift steps she
returned to the house.

And in the parlor, which was her own room,
she pulled down the blind and locked the door,
and then she turned the key in the china closet
and released the prisoner.

It was little more than an hour since he, with
a beating heart, but still hopeful that matters
were not quite so bad as the woman had repre-
sented, had stepped into that place of conceal-
ment.

But it might have been a year ago, judging
from his altered aspect.

His handsome face was ghastly white, and
dank with perspiration, his hair hung straight
and limp about his face, and his eyes seemed
burnt with fever. ,

‘Was it necessary to prolong my infernal
torture?’ he exclaimed, hoarsely, and almost
fiercely; ‘‘could you not have returned be-
fore?”

‘* Not an instant before, or you may depend
I should have done so,” she answered, calmly.
“Well, did I tell you truly?) Are you con-
vineed?”

“Curse her! curse them both!” he exclaimed
bitterly, and like the madman he was.

A moment after he asked, clenching his
strong fists:

“Where is he?”

“He has gone.”

“To be sure he has, hang him!” he savagely
responded, as he paced the room. ‘ That was
a trick of yours, I suppose?”

“‘T do not understand you,” she replied, with
a quiet that contrasted strongly with his red-
hot rage.

‘You thought that I might harm the hoary
old villain, and so you let him out and gave
him time to get well away before you came
to release me. Confound you! you know you
did.”

Miss Savernake’s eyes lit with satisfaction.

“You are right,” said she; ‘“‘that was what
I thought, and 1 did as you accuse me of
doing.”

He had left the felt hat that he wore in the
closet, and with a rageful exclamation he now
secured it.

‘‘ Let me out,” said he; ‘‘I shall be choked
if I stay here another minute. The air seems
hot as that of a lime pit.”

““T must first see that you can go without
being perceived,” said she.

- And coolly confronting him, she asked:

‘“Where are you going, Cuthbert Deane,
when you leave this house?”

‘* Can you ask?” he asked, chafing with fury.
“But you are a woman,” he continued, with a
sneer. ‘‘ You cannot understand what out-
raged honor means.”

‘Did I not better understand you than you
do yourself, Mr, Deane,” she answered, calmly,
“Tshould not permit you to reward with in-
sult the service I have done you. Is it gener-
ous, think you?”

He laughed scornfully.

“To talk to me of generosity or of any vir-
tue. There’s no such thing, woman. I did
believe, but my faith is dead; she murdered
it—she, the sweet-faced Judas. My God!
woman, was there ever such infamy—such
perjury? Oh, I could kill her!”

“Her?” repeated Miss Savernake, shrugging
her shoulders.

“Yes; and is she not as bad as he”

“Ts the tempted as bad as the tempter? Is
the snared equally guilty with the snarer?” she
asked, still quietly, and keeping her eyes on
him.

For all the seeming impartiality of his ha-
tred, he seemed mighty glad to catch at the
excuse that Miss Savernake suggested.

“Do you think that he tempted her?’ he
asked.

** That is certain.”

“ Ay, I know; but do you think that—that
she might have remained true to me, had
he not—”

But here his mad jealousy stopped him.

“But what a puling assI am! Should any
thing have tempted her if she really loved me?
No, a hundred times no!”

‘*Then you have the less cause to be angry
with him.”

‘Why?’

“Tf she never loved you, what has he rob-
bed you of?”

“« Ay, but she did!” cried poor Cuthbert, his
passion becoming variable as the wind. ‘See,
now!” said he, hastily tearing open his waist-
coat, and plucking out a locket that hung
there; ‘‘ this is her likeness. Is there deceit in
that face? Is there mockery of true love? Do

 

 

you read the heartless huckster in those eyes?
No! She loved me when this painting was
made. She loved me when this little curl of
her hair”—and his manly voice grew husky as
he touched a spring at the back of the locket
and revealed it—‘‘ was clipped from her pretty
head. She would love me still were it not for
this wily devil with his money-bags shuffling
his way between us.” :

“‘How you must hate him!”

‘Hate him? I could shoot him; I could
stab him in his sleep, the robber!”

Miss Savernake gave vent to an ugly little
laugh.

“That would indeed be a noble revenge,”
said she. ‘‘ Now, if I—but, as you say, Iam
a woman—”

“Speak out,” said Cuthbert, impatiently.
“ What if you—”

“This, then,” returned the woman, fixing
her eyes steadily on him: ‘‘if I had such an
enemy, I should despise such a _ paltry ven-
geance as killing him.”

“What, then, would you do?” asked Cuth-
bert.

“‘T should cast about for a means of spoiling
him of that which he had robbed me of. I
should try if it were not possible to make him
change places with me,” replied Miss Saver-
nake.

“You would try! And I would try to
climb up to the moon were I madder than I
am.’ And yet I swear that I hate him so I
would stick at nothing to be revenged on
him.”

Miss Savernake had not once taken her eyes
off him.

“Ah, if you are in earnest now!” said she
to him.

“TfIam! Test me,” said he, eagerly.

“Sit down, and let us talk a little,” said
Miss Savernake.

Cuthbert did as he was requested.

“My throat is parched with thirst,” said he.
“Ts there any water here?”

“There is nothing drinkable but brandy,”
she replied, rising with alacrity.

She went to a cupboard, and brought out a
full decanter and a glass.

He filled the glass twice, and drank.

‘‘Let us review the position of affairs,” said
Miss Savernake. ‘‘ Here is a young and beau-
tiful girl, of whom you are dotingly fond.”

“Of whom I was dotingly fond.”

“Bah! of whom you are. I ama woman,
as you say, andI know. You have betrayed
that fact within the last five minutes.”

“e How?”

“That locket. You snatch it out, and you
rave over it, and protest, and swear, and then,
with tears.in your eyes, you close the clasp as
tenderly as though you were afraid that you
might pinch the painted cheek, and replace it
in its hiding place. If you had really ceased
to love her, you would have torn it away from
you, and thrust it into the fire.”

Cuthbert drank off another glass of brandy.

“‘Have your way, then,” said he. ‘‘ The
girl whom I still love with all my heart, with
all my soul—”

And whom you would have been content
to marry were she poor and penniless.”

“That is true.”

‘‘And she knew that, and would have mar-
ried you, even though you had been equally
poor.”

‘‘She has told me soa score of times,” re-
plied Cuthbert, with a great sigh.

“‘ And this man, your uncle?’

“The gray-headed cheat and hypocrite!”

“This man, in whose house you were reared,
and who has led you to believe that you might
rely on his love for you, for honorable and
generous treatment, who has deluded you to
think that you would one day inherit all that
he has—this man, old as a grandfather, sets
his lecherous eyes on your treasure, your
heart’s desire, your promised wife, and dazzles
her giddy senses with his gold, and robs you of
her.”

Cuthbert Deane ground his teeth in impotent
rage.

“‘ And not only of her; to compass his mon-
strous scheme, he strikes down all your fair
hopes of prosperity, and makes a beggar of
you.”

““A poor beggar on whom, with a laugh, he
condescended to bestow his pity,” said Cuth-
bert, bitterly, as he tossed off another glass of
the strong. brandy, ‘‘and yet you doubt my
being in earnest when I say that I could shoot
such a villain.”

“ Now, listen,” said Miss Savernake, speaking
deliberately. ‘‘ What if a means could be de-
vised by which Miss Darling might, after all,
become yours?”

“¢ Now you are mocking me.”

“What,” continued Miss Savernake, ‘‘if, in
addition to that, his fortune might be made
yours?”

‘‘ Empty talk, empty talk.
you have to say?”

“Not quite. Now, listen attentively, bend
your head, and listen, for walls, they say, have
ears. Would you give half your inheritance
to secure the working of such a miracle?”

‘Cuthbert Deane’s face was flushed with the
brandy he had drank, and his eyes sparkled
with an unnatural luster.

“‘T should like to know, first, how such a
miracle is to be worked,” said he, with a sav-
age laugh.

“That is not an answer to my question,”
said she. ‘‘ Miracles are mysterious, you know;
they are inscrutable. I say ‘if’ such a miracle
was worked, would you think it dear at half
your inheritance?”

““T should count myself well off with the
remaining half, and with Kate for my wife, as
a poor beggar well might,” he replied; ‘but
waste of time this is,” he continued bitterly;

Is that all that

 

“miracles are not wrought in these days. I
wish to Heaven they were.”

‘Have faith, then, and they shall be,” re-
plied Miss Savernake, laying her hand on
his arm, and speaking with terrible earnest-
ness; ‘do you hear, Cuthbert Deane?—it shall
be.”

“But you are talking madness, woman.”

“Well, maybe it will be a mad miracle that
will be performed; what of that, so that your
purpose is achieved?’

Cuthbert Deane laughed a laugh in which
there was drunkenness.

“T shouldn’t care a jot,” he replied. ‘‘I am
in such a state that the devil himself may help
me if he will.”

“But about the terms?” said Miss Savernake.
“Tf this is to be a business matter, we must
discuss it seriously.‘ Do you accept those that
I suggested?”

““Tll accept them willingly, my good sorce-
ress,” returned Cuthbert, ‘‘and the more will-
ingly, because I don’t for a moment believe in
the possibility of your wonderful charm,
whatever it may be, operating.”

“Will you set your hand te the bargain?”

‘“In what way?”

“In writing.”

“To what effect? Ha! ha! there is a flavor
of brimstone in this. It is like selling one’s
soul to the Evil One.
majesty would give much for the soul of ‘a
poor, pitiful beggar’—these were the words, I
believe—such as I am; no, no, he knows well
that he has only to wait, and it will become
his by forfeit and without purchase.”

Miss Savernake produced writing materials.

“Shall I dictate to you?” said she, placing a
pen in his shaking hand. F

“Yes; commence,” he said, preparing to
write.

**¢ JT, Cuthbert Deane—’ ”

“It is written.”

“¢ Hereby promise and agree—’”

““« Promise and agree,’” he repeated, as he
set down the words.

“¢On condition that Miss Kate Darling
agrees to become my wife—’ ”

““¢ Agrees to become wife—’ ”

“<¢ Within one month from this date—’”

“¢From this date.’ Go on,” said Cuthbert,
still writing.

“<To pay to the person known as Miss
Savernake—’ ”

“Why not to Miss Savernake?” *

““ Because there may be no such person really
existing,” she replied, coolly.

“Part of the miracle mystery, I presume,”
laughed half-tipsy Cuthbert, drinking more
brandy. ‘‘To pay the person known as Miss
Savernake;’ yes, I have written it.”

“<¢One-half of whatever I may inherit
from my uncle Nathan Ogleby.’”

Cuthbert wrote this also, and laughed again,

‘* And you who hope by working a miracle
to get Miss Darling to renounce her pledged
word to the man who has so deeply wronged
me, and to induce her to become my wife, are
content as a reward to share with me the in-
heritance my uncle bequeathed me?” said he.

“Quite content,” replied Miss Savernake,
composedly,

“So be it,” he replied, setting his sign-
manual to the document. ‘If you have such
wondrous faith, why should not I? It is a
bargain.”

“Tt is a bargain,” returned Miss Savernake,
“and I will now bid you good-night. Where
do you lodge?”

“« At the inn by the railway station.”

“Return there at once then, and take care
that the innkeeper and others are aware of the
time that you came in. Bear this in mind,
and this in addition: stir out no more to-night,
nor at all until you hear from me,”

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII,
AN ARTFUL DODGE.

GREAT was Kate Darling’s amazement when,
on the morning following the night on which
occurred the events narrated in the preceding
chapter, Miss Savernake, with an humble and
contrite air, requested a few minutes’ private
conversation with the young girl.

“Are you not well, Miss Savernake?’ Kate
asked, noticing her pale face and dejected as-
pect.

“Tam far from well, Miss Darling,” replied
the governess; ‘‘I am ill of that which no
medicine can cure.”

Though quite alive to the woman’s deceit
and powers of dissimulation, Kate was startled
to hear her speak thus.

At the same time she resolved to be well on
her guard.

‘‘What is it, then, that ails you?”

“Miss Darling,” replied the incarnation of

wickedness, with a solemn air and with tears ~

in her eyes, “‘do you believe, can you believe
that there is forgiveness for so wicked a wretch
as I am?”

Kate could make no reply.

She could do nothing but regard the woman

in speechless amazement.

‘““You are surprised, and I do not wonder,
Miss Darling,” the hands with which she cov-
ered her pale face trembling visibly. “Had
any one told me three days since that such a
change would come over me in the pride ard
strength of my wicked heart, I should have
laughed and deemed it impossible; but after
last night, after the torture of that long, long,
sleepless night, Iam humbled, I am subdued.

Oh, pray, pray believe me!” and here she sunk *

on her knees. ‘‘I am truly—truly penitent.”

The young girl’s suspicions vanished before
this display ef seeming earnestness.

Was it impossible that Miss Savernake
should repent?

Worse sinners had done so before now,

Not that his Satanic ©

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

Aprit 4, 1874.]

=

Should she, to whom this contrite woman
was the first to come in the bitterness of her
remorse, give her encouragement?

Kate’s bright eyes filled with tears at the
thought, and with words of comfort and con-
solation, she raised the penitent to her feet.

‘‘T am thankful for this,” said she; ‘take
heart; make no doubt that there is forgiveness
for the worst among us.”

“But can you forgive me?” asked Miss
Savernake, with streaming eyes.

“T? Indeed I have but little to forgive.”

“Mueh, much. Did I not impose upon your
keeping a secret—a terrible secret? Did I not
with wicked threats compel you to tell lies to
conceal my intent to commit a crime that
would have cursed me here and _ hereafter?
Can you forgive me?”

“Ts it not rather to those whom you have
more deeply injured that you should apply for
forgiveness?’ Kate gently asked her; ‘‘to poor
Dick Kavanah and his wife. Ah, if you are
indeed penitent, reflect how you have injured
them.”

Miss Savernake writhed in her chair.

“Tt is that!” she moaned, dismally. ‘‘ They
were the chief actors in the terrible vision that
last night haunted me. A frightful, appalling
vision.”

And she covered her eyes as though it still
threatened her. :

““T thought, dreamed—whatever it was—
that I was dying, and then that I was dead,
and that the Day of Judgment had come, and
I was to -be tried for my earthly sins. And
they were the chief witnesses against me, the
man Kavanah and his wife, and for the evil I
had done them I was doomed. And I awoke
sinking and shrieking and raising my clasped
hands for them to save me, and they would
not.”

“Oh, terrible! terrible!” gasped poor Kate.

“Yes, terrible, but yet merciful,” replied
Miss Savernake; ‘‘for now I will repent and
seek their pardon while there is yet time. It
was to aid me in this that I sought you, Miss
Darling.”

“‘T?_how can I aid you?”

‘Ah, you can aid me all that I need,” re-
plied Miss Savernake, fervently, ‘‘if you only
will.”

“T will do anything I can; but how?’

“Go to them; go to him, rather, for she
would be slower to believe in my penitence.
Go to him, and speak to him secretly, and tell
him how bitterly, how sincerely I deplore the
wrong I have done him.”

as Yes, »”

*¢ And that I wish to see him.”

*Yes.”’

*““To make amends. I can do more—much
more than he—than you can imagine, and I
will.”

‘What you ask I will readily, gladly under-
take,” returned the handsome girl, delight-
edly. ‘‘Poor Dick! Ah! you should have
seen them and their little one when that day I
restored him tothem! Your penitence, poor
woman, would have been before this if you
had.”

‘But it is not yet too late.”

‘““No. When will you see them?”

“Oh, it cannot be too soon. I would see
him this hour if I could, for I shall be in tor-
ment till I do as my guilty conscience prompts
If I could see him to-night!” :

“Why not? If you will give me the oppor-
tunity, I will go to-day and tell him. Poor
fellow! You can make him amends, you
say?”

“Yes,” returned Miss Savernake, as she
gratefully wrung Kate’s hand, ‘‘but you need
not mention that. I must be cautious. I
should not like to raise his hopes above my
humble means of gratifying them. But what
I can do I will, as I am a living woman.”

** And I will take your message to-day,” said
Kate Darling, joyfully. ‘‘Tell me what I
shall say.”

Miss Savernake, with her head averted, and
her handkerchief in her hand, but with an
amount of deviltry in her eyes that would have
scared the unsuspecting girl could she at that
moment have seen them, affected to consider.

“Tell him, if you will be so kind,” said she,
presently, ‘‘tell him that I have that to tell
him-that no other ears but his must listen to.
Tell him that I have that to say that may in-|
duce him to forgive me, and that I can not’
yest till I have seen him. Bid him, for his
wife’s sake, for his child’s sake, not to fail. —

“Tl tell him that; every word,” said Kate,
‘And at what hour and where shall he meet

ou?”
> ‘‘ Let me consider; at what hour is it dark?”

“« By eight o’clock, quite dark.”

‘Then: tell him nine; no, half-past, that I
may make sure. At half-past nine, by the
pollards-by the stream. Ah, how shall I re-
ward you for doing me this service?”

She still held Kate’s hand in her own when
the former quickly looked up.

“You can reward me in one way fuily,
amply,” said she, in an anxious voice.

“How?”

“By making clear the mystery concerning
my—the man who—” —

“Your father, you mean?”

“Yes,” said Kate, faintly. ‘You were not
deceiving me, then? I hoped—I thought, per:

eo
"a That I was telling you what was not true?
Alas! for your sake, dear young lady, I would
it-were so.. But in what way can I serve you?
You have not told me.” ee

“ By arranging for me to see him, returned
Kate, desperately. ‘‘I must see him. Base,
wicked though he may be, still he is my
father, and if I saw him and talked with him,
I might win him back.”

“Heaven knows; if a winning manner and.

.

%

BHLLES AND BHAUX.

a good heart could accomplish that, you need
not despair of success,” interrupted Miss Saver-
nake. ‘Yes, you shall see him.”

“When shall I?’ asked the poor girl, anx-
iously.

“Tt will be impossible for a few days, but I
will use every endeavor. I will tell you more
to-morrow, and if my prayers—for now that
my heart is softened, Miss Darling, I can pray
—will avail to second your Christian efforts,
you may rely on them.”

And once more urging on Kate to depart at
once, and take her message to Dick Kavanah,
Miss Savernake, first begging permission to
kiss her forehead, broke into a fresh passion of
remorseful grief, and left her, bidding her God
speed,

‘“‘Tt is a bold game, but it can hardly fail if
my old luck favors me.

“A daring game.

“T had other plans at first.

‘“‘T thought that I could not do better than
trust sweet John Savory, my convict husband.

“Tt is a task that would have suited him,
and the hundred pounds I could have given
him would have covered any scruples the vil-
lain may have had as to the shedding of blood.

“Tt would have been a good plan, because it
would have given me a tighter hold on him,
and enabled me the better to defy him.

‘‘ But it is better the other way.

‘Let Dick Kavanah be the scapegoat.

‘Virtuous, penitent Dick Kavanah, whose
morals have been refined at the hulks, and
who has come back—before his time, by-the-
bye—to guileless rustic life and love in a cot-
tage, along with that meek, whey-faced
wench, his wife, and the curly-headed brat,
her son.

‘‘ Aha! it is an old reckoning, Dick Kava-
nah, but I have not forgotten and I have not
forgiven.

“Tt is an ancient debt, and the interest on it
has been accumulating, and now you shall pay
it in full.”

She paced the room to and fro, resolving on
her desperate plan, and occasionally muttering
aloud—

“Half-past nine for him—half-past eight
for the old man, and at the same spot a mur-
der. ;

“One hour between.

“Not much, bul enough if I am firm and
resolute as I shall be, and my weapons do not
fail me.”

And as she spoke, she softly locked the door,
and took from a cupboard a pistol, loaded with
a bullet and ready for firing.

“This will scarcely fail,” said she, with a
fiendish smile, ‘‘and this should not.”

This was a weapon of infinitely smaller
bulk. :

It reposed indeed in her purse.

It was nothing more nor less than the bank
note for fifty pounds, with Nathan Ogleby’s
name written across the back of it.

“Tt is a heavy price to pay for a piece of
evidence,” said she, handling the note, ‘but
such evidence. Ha, ha! a gaping jury will
gaze on it, and gaze on it until they feel as
though, with their own eyes, they saw the
murder done, and his hand doing it.

“This, and a few sovereigns.

“This!”

And as she still looked at it, a bright idea
occurred to her.

She might make it, as “evidence,” even
more damning than it was at present.

She laid the note on the table face upward,
and then searched in her workbox for her
scissors.

These found, she bared her arm, and fear-
lessly thrust the sharp point into the fleshy
part, causing the bright crimson blood to
start.

Then she smeared her forefinger and thumb
in the blood, and prepared to make their im-
press on the note, when she suddenly drew
back her hand.

“That is how over-cunning people dig pits
for themselves,” she muttered, with an ugly
laugh. ‘‘It is not the impress of a woman’s
hand that is wanted, but a man’s.”

She thought a few moments, and then looked
for and found.a pair. of old, clumsy leather
winter gloves. , ,

One of these she placed on her right hand,
and setting the blood trickling again, dabbed.
the finger and thumb, and taking up the note,
dropped it again. Boa ten :

And there it was with a red stain on both
sides, and any one might see from the breadth
of the thumb and finger that it was a man
who had handled it.

This mysterious feat accomplished, she folded
the leather gloves one in the other, and threw
them into the fire.

Then she locked both bank note and pistol in
the cupboard, and washed the blood from her
arm, and brushed her hair, and put on a snow-
white plain linen collar and cuffs, and there
was as prim and self-possessed a governess as
ever entered a morning school-room.

 

CHAPTER XXIiTI.
THE EYE IN THE CEILING.

TEN minutes afterward, Thomas Pepper,
page, knife-boy, window-cleaner, and general
odd jobber of the establishment, emerged from
a side door on that side of the building at
which Miss Savernake’s sanctum was situated.

Thomas Pepper looked the picture of bewil-
derment and unmitigated surprise. -

He bore his implements over his shoulder,
and his eyes were wide open, and his hair in
remarkable disorder.

But this, to a casual observer, was not the
singularity of the lad’s features, :

His forehead was branded in a strange man-

 

ner,

 

It was not a particularly high forehead, and
what little there was of it was peculiarly flat
between his eyes.

It was a red and crinkled brand on Thomas’s
forehead, like nothing so much as though he
had been uncomfortably pressing it for an
extraordinary length of time against an un-
covered floor-board.

As he stepped out at the door, and shot
across the road to his scullery, he looked fear-
fully to the right and to the left, as though he
thought it not impossible that he might be
pursued.

His only ejaculation, when he found himself
secure in his family retreat, was:

“Well, of all the rummy goes—there’s been
a goodish many by that party lately, and
they’ve been all more or less rummy—but
of ’em all, this ’ere’s the rummiest of the
lot!”

The fact is, Master Pepper had sustained
a severe shock to his not over sensitive
nerves.

He had been engaged’at a job of window-
cleaning on the first story.

The scene of his labors was his own_bed-
room, which happened to be the chamber
immediately above that which, at disengaged
times, Miss Savernake called her own.

Now, as has been casually remarked in the
course of this story, Master Pepper was pos-
sessed of a mind, one of the chief character-
istics of which was inquisitiveness, especially
as applying to those whom he regarded as his
enemies.

Likewise he was an ingenious lad, and his
contrivances for gaining knowledge were mani-
fold.

For instance, in the matter of education.

He had very little of it.

His scholastic attainments were peculiarly
deficient, and his opportunities for learning
rare.

He sought, however, to remedy these de-
fects.

With that ingenuity that invariably attends
upon genius, he had conceived the brilliant
idea that the stealthy and leisurely contem-
plation of the habits and customs of a gov-
erness in private life might tend to elevate
and improve his mind.

Weeks and weeks before he had provided
means for the said uninterrupted contempla-
tion.

It was a simple device, and well worthy of
his innocent mind.

Miss Savernake’s ceiling was immediately
below Master Pepper’s floor boards.

In the center of Miss Savernake’s ceiling,
there was a filagree ornamentation of open
work pattern.

Possessed of a stout gimlet, Master Pepper
became at once master of the situation.

He carefully bored a hole in his floor, right
through to the ceiling beneath, but rendered
invisible from below by reason of the orna-
ment before mentioned.

On the morning in question, observing Miss
Savernake from the widow on which he was
bestowing his labors, Pepper, as soon as he
heard her in his room, slid down from his
perch and deliberately reclining on the ground,
made himself comfortable, with his eye at the
peep-hole.

What he discovered the reader is already
aware.

Master Pepper had taken secret observations
of the movements of the enemy, but never
with such breathless amazement as now.

He could not make out what she said in her
muttering, nor indeed could he, owing to the
limited capacity of his peep-hole, make out
with perfect distinctness what she was do-
ing.

He gained his knowledge by glimpses and
flashes.

He saw her lock the door,

He saw her unlock the cupboard,

But it was only when she turned about that
he observed that she held in her hand a pistol
with a gleaming bright barrel.

Pepper’s first startled impression was that
the mysterious governess was about to commit
suicide, and to speak the truth, although his
hair rose in horror at the idea, he was pretty
equally divided in his mind as to whether ‘it
was his duty to frustrate her desperate de-
sign, or whether she wasn’t best capable of
judging what was good for herself.

Before he could decide ‘the matter, however,
she had laid the pistol down: and withdrawn
her purse from her pocket, ~

The table being in the center of the room,.
was just under Pepper’s eyes, and Miss Saver-
nake laid the purse there. ,

Still muttering, she took therefrom a bank
note.

As to its value, of that Pepper knew noth-
ing, but that it was a bank note he was
sure.

But this was nothing to what immediately
followed.

The tragedy of the scissors!

With his eyes glued to the hole, and his fore-
head so hard pressed against the floor board
that the wonder was not that it left its rough
impression there, but that Pepper’s head did
not clip splinters off it, he held his breath
while he watched her,

He saw her bare her white arm, he saw her
grasp the scissors, point downward:

“‘She’s altered her mind!” gasped Pepper,
mentally. ‘She hasn’t got pluck enough to
blow her brains out, so she’s going to cut her-
self to bits with the scissors.

“She won’t get far with herself before she
finds that that’s a jolly painful death, I
know.”

In this second wild conjecture, however,
Pepper found himself again mistaken.

‘ He saw his enemy smear her thumb and

 

finger with the blood that flowed from the
punctures she made with the scissors in the
thick part of her white arm. .

He saw her approach the note on the table.

He saw her draw back,

He witnessed the maneuvering with the
gloves, and in horror and amazement watched
her as she gingerly took up the note with the
hand that wore the stained glove and drop it
again with the oval patches of crimson mark-
ing it,

He saw her roll the leather gloves together
and throw them into the fire.

And this was all that he did see.

Every one knows the pungent, suffocating
odor that attends the burning of leather.

Miss Savernake was too absorbingly en-
grossed with her diabolical machinations to be
aware of it,

It was different with Pepper.

The titillating fumes ascended, penetrated
his peep-hole, and before he was aware of it,
his nostrils were assailed, and he gave vent to
a loud sneeze, violently bumping his head
against the floor in the operation.

It was this that added to his fright and
made him so wary in his look-out for the
enemy, when at last he ventured from the
scene of horror and made for the scullery.

“Tf she’d ha’ heerd me, it would have been
all over with me!” gasped Pepper. ‘‘ Of all the
rummest goes! I wish I was a scholard, and
then I might know the meaning of it.

“T know what I’ll do,” said Pepper, to him-
self, after long communing, ‘Tl tell Miss
Darling about it.”

But it unfortunately happened that by the
time Tom found time to seek that young lady,
she had already departed on the errand she
had been persuaded to by penitent Miss Saver-
nake.

‘Well, I won’t be beat,” said Tom Pepper.
“T owe her one for keeping the dawg in and
doing me out of many a sixpence I’ll be bound
that that gent as was so sweet on him would
have give me. ‘

“Tf there’s anything to be found out about
the old cat, there will be more credit in it if I
do it single-handed.

“Pll look her up sharp.”

And in pursuance of this laudable determi-
nation, Tom Pepper kept his word,

Half a dozen times that day, when he ob-
served Miss Savernake retire to her room, he
made an excuse to visit his dormitory, and
scrutinized her doings vigilantly by means of
his peep-hole,

He discovered nothing of importance, how-
ever.

She did not, as far as Tom could make out,
pay another visit to the cupboard where the
stained bank-note and the pistol were; indeed,
she was as cool and serene in her behavior as
though nothing at all uncommon was on her
mind. .

Come the dusk of evening, however, Tom’s
lynx eyes followed her, and detected that she
was restless.

As it grew dark, he found out that she was
making preparations for going out, and in
order to guard against the possibility of her
cautioning him against leaving the premises
during her absence, Tom took French leave,
and was out before her.

Hiding in the shadow of the garden wall, he
saw her stealthily emerge just as Clovernook
church was chiming eight.

She was so muffled up in dark clothes that it
was only by her quick walk that the boy re-
cognized her, while the darkness of the night
favored her.

It favored Tom Pepper as well; in his dis-
mal suit of gray pepper and salt he was by no
means a conspicuous object on a murky
night.

By way of extra precaution, however, Tom
took off his boots and socks that he might
tread lighter and with less noise.

Miss Savernake walked very quickly, so that
it was only by increasing his pace to a half-
run that Tom could keep up with her.

On and on, until Clovernook church, now ~*
left nearly a mile behind, chimed a quarter
after eight.

Then Miss Savernake came to a halt just: by
a clump of pollards.

Tom halted, too, though at a very respectful
distance, for despite his boldness of spirit,
after the weird and mysterious ceremony he
had witnessed Miss Savernake perform in the
morning, he was more than ordinarily afraid
of her.

Presently he made out another figure ap-
proaching the pollards.

A bulkier figure than hers, and seemingly
shorter. _

Whether, however, it was that of a man ora
woman, was more than Pepper was prepared to
say.

The figures met and stood still, and appar-
ently talked together.

Then they began slowly walking in his
direction, Tom as slowly retreating, and still
keeping close in the shadow of the hedge, so as
to elude detection.

“T should like to know who it is,” said Tom
Pepper to himself; ‘I’ve a jolly good mind to
creep through this gap until they passme. It
would be easier following ’em.”

Barely had he spoken, however, when his
startled ears were assailed by the discharge of
a pistol; not a sharp report, but muffled, as
though the weapon had been held close against
what it had been discharged at, and instantly
following the sound came a brief cry of pain
and terror.

(To be continued.)

 

 

BELI£VE but half the ill,"and credit twice
the good said of your neighbor. }

 
 

 

 

. BHELLES AND BHAUX.

[Apri 4, 1874.

 

 

 

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sion;’’ ‘‘ The Widow’s Mite;” ‘‘ One of the People;”
“Candle Ends of Time;” ‘‘An Allegory.”

 

AccrertTep: ‘If I Should Die;” ‘“‘A Brother’s
Honor:” ‘‘ The Heart of the Rose;” ‘* April's Child;”
“My Teacher;” ‘Rosebuds; “A Rare Case;”
‘““The Evening Rest;’’ ‘‘Away from Home;” “A
Lady Killer;’’ ‘‘ Down by the Sea.”’

The Letter-Box.

[All inquiries to be answered by the editor of this department
should be directed to “ Letter-Box,” Briirs anp Beaux, 98 Willinm
Street, New York.

The department 1s open to inquiries after information upon all snb-
jects appertaining to the Household, the School-Room, the Garden, the
‘Nursery, etc.

Tt is equally open to persons of both sexes, who, in “affairs of the
heart,” wish counsel and direction. The editor’s eminent qualifica-
tions for such confidences the publishers are sure none will question.

The end and aim being to render Tue Letrer Box useful, in the
highest degree, gives to correspondents the widest latitude in their in-
quiries upon all subjects or matters proper for reply.]

 

 

BROOKLYN BELLES. The lady referred to was
married a second time, three years ago. Her first
marriage, an unhappy one, was dissolved by divorce
more than ten years ago.

Hercuirs. When March 4th comes on Sunday
the inauguration takes placeon Monday. It cannot
take place on Saturday, for the previous term has
not then expired.—Eastman’s Commercial College
isa very good institution, we believe. About its
procuring situations for its graduates, we know
nothing.

H. J. G. Ouida is a woman, we are sorry to say—
an English woman, unmarried.

Miss Grorer: L. The custom of wearing court-
eeeee on the face originated in times of Charles
I, It was first used by the court ladies to hide the
blotches on their faces produced by their profligate
lives. These patches soon became “fashionable ”’
and assumed outrageous dimensions and shapes.
The following is a correct representation of a

 

 

belle of that unsavory period. Hudibras satirizes
the fashion, saying among other things:
The sun and moon by her bright eyes
Eclipsed and darkened in the skies
Are but black patches that she wears,
Cut into suns, moons, and stars.

The Duchess of New Castle, we are informed in
Pepy’s Diary, was given to ‘‘wearing many black
patches because of pimples about her mouth.” We
sincerely hope that sucha disgusting custom may
never again become fashionable.

BionpEe. The Napoleon blue would be a becoming
color, and is very stylish! Make your garment
into an English walking-jacket with revers, cuffs,
and pockets of silk the same shade, and steel but-
tons. We can send you the pattern you describe
by mail, if you desire us to do so.

A MoruerR (Auburn). The blouse suit is still worn
for boys of six years of age, and in our opinion, is
prettier than the vests, and certainly more econ-
omical. Knee-breeches are still in fashion, and suit
the little ones charmingly. Spring fashions for little
boys, give us full skirt waists of woolen material,
with broad square collars, and knee-breeches.
Braiding will be extensively used in trimming boys’
suits, and a profusion of buttons are stylish. But-
toned boots coming very high over the ankle are
the most fashionable.

R. L. (Pittsfield.) Camphorated charcoal is a
simple dentifrice, and can be made by the following
directions:

Two drachms of gum camphor,two ounces of vege-
table charcoal powder. Rub the camphor ina mor-
tar with a few drops of spirits of wine, until per-
fectly pulverized. then rub the charcoal in, alittle
at a time. till well mixed. This dentifrice purifies
the breath while cleansing the teeth.

Traveter. Yes. Articles left upon a seat in a
ear during the temporary absence of the occu-
pant, entitle him to his place upon h's return.

Writer (New Haven). Manuscript sent by mail,
must pay letter postage, according to weight.

Miriam (Greensburg, Pa.) Your long, long letter
calls for some sympathy, yet we cannot hold you
entirely blameless in the matrimonial troubles you
describe. You admit that you have a quick temper
and ‘‘ often say hasty things you are sorry for after-
ward.’’ Would it not be a good beginning in clear-
ing away the clouds in your domestic life, to en-
deavor to overcome this habit of hasty speaking.
and curb your own temperand tongue. You appear
to wish to rule your hushand in most matters, and
say you will not ‘‘be a slave."’ Surely there is no
slavery in a proper submission to a reasonable wish
or desire. It is unnatural for the ruling power in
marriage to be feminine power. Rule by love, if
you can, giving cheerful compliance to your hus-
band’s wishes. and try to anticipate his desires, and
contribute to his comfort. If he “finds fault all
the time,” there must be something radically wrong
in your administration of home affairs. You will
be far better employed in trying to make home
Jaultlessin happy, than in writing four-page letters
of childish complaints.

G. C, (Albany.) You are right! The greatest cat-
aract in the world is Niagara Falls. The river form-
ed from the great upper lakes is three quarters of a
mile in width, and suddenly contracted, falls in two

 

 

selnnane to the depth of one hundred and seventy
eet.

LrGau Opinion (Harlem). Your contract is mere
waste paper, if the other party is a minor.

Lover. A single diamond, simply set, is, at once
the most exquisite, appropriate, and fashionable
engagement-ring. We think you had best put your
second question to the lady herself. Some parents
are very strict regarding the hours for closing the
house, and she may be acting in accordance with
the wishes of her father or mother in dismissing
you so punctually.

Marta M. There are many cosmetics for the
troublesome pimples upon the face, but a friend
from Paris recently gave us a formula which she
Says will surely prevent fresh ones, and in time cure
the old ones. Simply bathe the face every morning
tor fifteen minutes in very hot water, and then rub
slowly, with great pressure, with a rough towel,
pressing out the hearts of the pimples. For atime,
the face will look worse than ever, but if persevered
in the treatment will entirely remove ali eruption.
Avoid all greasy food.

SHAKSPERIAN READER (Pennington, N. J.) writes:

‘* Will you please inform me what is the correct
way to write Loves Labors Lost, with or without
the apostrophe. Are either Loves or Laborsin the
plural?”

In the player’s edition, 1598, both ‘‘love’’ and
“labor” were without the apostrophes, in the plur-
al; butin the ‘first folfo’’ edition (1623) ‘‘love”’
appears in the plural, while labor is apostrophized
—Loves Labor's Lost. Some of the best authorities
claim that the apostrophe should follow love, some
labor, some both to read—Love’s Labor is Lost, or
Loves Labors are Lost.

The modern editions give it Love's Labor’s Lost.
ot puts the apostrophe after both love and
abor.

GariBaLpr. As you give no signature we answer
according to your subject.

Garibaldi was born July 22d, 1807, at Nice.

Amy. Amateur dyeing is rather risky, but as you
write you are so far from any city where you can
have your feathers colored, we give you the desired
directions:

Mix one ounce each of verdigris and verditer in
one pint of gum water. Soak the feathers well in
very hot water, and while wet, draw them several
times through the mixture. Curl them while damp,
with the back of a small table-knife.. As the mix-
ture is a deadly poison, mix it in an earthen vessel
you can destroy after the feathers are dyed. They
will bea delicate green, as you wish.

Mavpe asks:

‘* Will you please tell me where in Shakspeare 1
will find the lines about cutting a lover into stars.
It would oblige me very much if you would give the
exact lines.”’

We presume you refer to Juliet’s soliloquy in the
second scene, of the third act of Romeo and Juliet.
The lines are:

“Come, gentle night; come, loving black-brow'd
night,

Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars.

And he will make the face of heaven so fine,

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun.”

Pure WATER Lover writes:

“Can you give me any sure test to ascertain the
purity of water which is clear to the eye, but may
contain impurities?”

Put the suspected water in a clean glass jar. with
a few grains of the best white sugar. Let it be ex-
posed to the light in the window of a warm room,
uncorked, for several days. If the water remain
clear, it is perfectly pure and safe. If it becomes
turbid, it contains impurities.

A RECENT SusscrRIBER. Bruised geranium leaves
applied to cuts or abrasions of the skin, are the
speediest cure. Bind them on for a few hours, and
a new skin will form.

InguirER. Yes, we have heard what the Japanese
intend to call the days of their new week. They are
to be, Light, Moon, Fire, Water, Metal and Earth.

Daisy (Montgomery). ‘‘ Aei’’ on your locket means
‘* Forever.’ Probably the giver means the duration
of the love that prompted the gift.

M..M. C. Authorities differ as to the origin of
the word Whit-Sunday. the Christian celebration of
the Pentecost. We find some theological writers
trace it to the Saxon word ‘“wit,’’ in its wider
meaning of wisdom or knowledge, while others
think it a contraction of White Sunday. so called in
the earlier days of the church, because upon that
day the catechumens were admitted to the sacra-
oe of baptism, and were required to wear white
robes.

These catechumens, in the earlier ages of Chris-
tianity, were children of converted parents, who
were of Pagan birth, and not fully admitted to the
rites of the Christian church, but who were desir-
ous of having their children baptized and admitted

from childhood.

Mary. We decline giving any advice. The sub-
ject is too delicate for the interference of a
stranger, however well intentioned. Consult your
nearest relative, or, if it comes to the worst, your
lawyer. You are to be pitied, and we sympathizein
your distress, though we cannot offer any advice.

B.C. You may safely cut your new spring cos
tume with a polonaise, and embroider it.’ The re-
cent importations of suits show that this style will
continue in favor for another season, and most
elaborate embroidery will also be worn. A very
rich embroidery for light woolen goods, is in split
gephyr, a shade lighter or darker according to taste.

Youne Curist1an (Mobile). I. H. S. stands for
Jesus Hominum Salvator, Jesus Saviour of Men.

ASmoxer. We never heard of any way of color-
ing a meerschaum pipe except by smoking it.

Hovsewire. In answer to your inquiry, we clip
from the New York Times, a recipe contributed by
Messrs. De La Vergne & Hare, one of the largest
egg-dealing firms in the city:

“To make a good pickle, get one bushel of clean
lump lime, free from dirt and all foreign matter,
four quarts of fine salt, and sixteen ten-quart pails
of pure water, hard or soft. and as free from: vege-
table matter as possible. Slake the lime with two
or three pails of water, and dissolve the salt in a
pail of it: then add the salt and the balance of the
water. Stir the preparation well: let it stand a
short time, and stir it again three or four times.
Finally. let it settle, and dip the clear pickle into
the cistern or cask you are to preserve in, filling it
about half full. After this has been done. dip the
eggs into the pickle with a dipper or basket made
for the purpose. When the cistern or cask is nearly
full of eggs, and they are well covered with pickle,
spread a cotton cloth over them, and spread on
that a layer of two or three inches of the thick lime
that is left after the clear pickle has been dipped
off. Be sure that the eggs are well covered with
pickle while they remain in it, and the lower the
temperature of the pickle is kept, the better the
eggs will come out. The best arrangement for pre-
serving eggs is to build a vat or cistern below the
cellar-bottom, being careful to get it well-made,
tight. and from six to seven feet long. five feet wide,
and four or five feet deep. Eggs pickled according
to the recipe given have been known to keep well
for two years.”

A Reaver. One of the safest and most efficacious
cures for colic in a babe as young as your's is celery
tea. Procure from your grocer or druggist a piece
of celery 7vol, dried. grate a teaspoonful and pour
over it a teacupful of boiling water, sweeten to
taste, and give in teaspoonful doses while warm. It
will relieve the pain, and is a mild, safe opiate for
an infant. No anodyne should ever be given to a
young child, unless by the direction of a physician.

ARDENT ADMIRER (St. Louis). All depilatories or
preparations for removing superfluous hair from the

are more or less touse. Of neces-

 

ae to effect the desired object they must be pow-
erful, and unless very carefully applied, and thor-
oughly removed will make the skin very sore.
Never apply them where there is any abrasion of
the skin.

Procure from your druggist one drachm of crys-
tallized hydro-sulphuret of sodium, ten drachms of
finely powdered quicklime, and eleven drachms of
pulverized starch. Mix in a powder. For use, make
a paste with a ea of the powder and luke-
warm water. Apply to the skin, not longer than
three minutes. Wash off thoroughly with clear
warm water. Apply to only a small surface at one
time. Keep the powder dry.

A Van K. (Cleveland, O.) writes:

“‘Suppose a man comes to this country from Ger-
many, whose name is Schwartz, is it proper
for him to translate his name from the German to
English, which would be Black; or again, I know a
man who changed his name from Mr. Carl to Mr.
Charles, and another from Kurtz to Short. Now
please give me your opinion as to its being proper.

‘““2d. In our daily paper I read the following item,
which I don’t understand. Won't you please en-
lighten me in regard pve | watch upon citizens.

“Paris, Feb. 20th. Duke de Broglie, Minister of
the Interior, has sent acircular to the prefects, di-
recting them to keep watch upon citizens who leave
for Chiselhurst on the occasion of the Prince Im-
perial becoming of age.’’

We do not know how such a translation of names
as that which you mention, would be regarded
legally, but as a matter of opinion, it seems objec-
tionable. Property left to a Mr. Schwartz would be
difficult to claim by the children of Mr. Black. Be-
sides, when one considers the vast number of for-
eign names that are untranslatable, the subject be-
comes confusing. Itlooks asif aman was ashamed
of his name or fatherland, when he changes the pa-
tronymic he inherits from his father, either by
translation or otherwise.

The ‘‘item,” is explained by the present polit-
ical aspect in France. Since the death of Louis
Napoleon, the Republican party have kept a strict
watch upon all influential persons who were sus-
pected of sympathizing with the Imperialists. The
date of the Prince Imperial’s attaining his majority
has been regarded by many as a favorable occasion
for the uprising of the Imperial party, and it is of
vital importance to the existing Government to
guard against any demonstration marking the day.
As the event will be celebrated at Chiselhurst, such
French citizens as leave France to be present and
offer their congratulations, will most assuredly
come under the suspicion of being Imperialists, and
the Duke de Broglie will naturally be desirous of
ascertaining who they are, and what their conduct
may be. There can be little doubt that many will
go as spies, although their congratulations may be
the heartiest.

W. R. Y. (Brookville, Pa.) Your letter has been so
long unanswered, because we have inquired for the
oy you mention, very widely, but are unable to

nd it.

Cuassic asks:

‘“‘Can you tell me anything of the water clock, and
what is the proper classic name for it?’

The Clepsydrw, or water clock, was invented by
Ctesibius, who lived 240, B.C. He was the inventor
of many ingenious contrivances, mostly connected
wlth raising water. He was the son of a barber,
and born in Ascra, though he had a barber’s store
in Alexandria. His inventions, however, raised
him above his obscure calling at an early age.

A Susscriser. The stain left upon a spoon by a
soft boiled egg may be removed by rubbing a little
moistened salt upon the place, with the finger, until
it is bright again.

A. B. J. Any almanac will give the desired inform-
ation. There will be four eclipses in 1874, viz: To-
tal eclipse of the sun, April 16, visible in the South-
ern part of South America and Southern part of
Africa; invisible in the United States. A partial
eclipse of the moon, May 1, invisible in the United
States. An annual eclipse of the sun, October 10;
visible in Europe, Western Asia, and Eastern
Africa: invisible in the United States. A total
eclipse of the moon. October 25; visible in the
United States. It will commence two minutes be-
fore one o’clock A. M., and end ten minutes before
three; at half-past two A. Mm. it will be total.

Mary R. The delicious breakfast puffs are the
envy of every good housekeeper. They are made
as follows: Take two eggs, well beaten, and stir
into a pint of milk a little salt, a piece of butter,
and a pint and a half of flour. Beat the egg and
stir the milk, add the salt, melt the butter and stir
in, then pour all into the flour, so as not to have it
lumpy. Stir up thoroughly, and grease the cups
into which the batter is poured, filling them two-
thirds full. Eat with sauce.

BELLA. Ribbons can be freshened and cleaned |

very handsomely by washing them in pure alcohol,
using as many washings as they seem to require,
and ironing them while damp. Use no water or
soap, but 7uvb out the spots, and change the alcohol
when dirty.

Sunshine Papers.

BUTTONS OFF YOUR SHOES.

RE there any off? Yes?

Bad! bad! very bad, indeed! Ill tell
you why. A young man—ah, you are inter-
ested now. I imagined I should gain your at-
tention immediately; for as surely as the mag-
netic needle is attracted toward the pole, so
surely is femininity attracted by masculinity,
and—in a whisper be it said—vice versa. That
is just why I am going to talk to you about
buttons off your shoes.

Such a digression! Your pardon, mademoi-
selles? To return. A young man, and he is
as nice—and just a wee bit nicer—as the aver-
agely good young men are, has asked me to
pick him out a wife.

There! don’t be excited over it! He isn’t;
in fact, he’s quite cool. Besides, introductions
are necessary.

He is fair and manly to look upon, has taken
honors at college, has no great vices, is a pro-
fessional man, with sunshiny skies before him,
plenty of friends, promises for a_ brilliant
future, and doesn’t tell any more fibs than
most lawyers.

About his wife. He does not care whether
she be richor poor. Isn’t he marvelous? And
her age; well, age is often such a delicate
question with us belles, we’ll leave that out.
She must be pretty; but wouldn’t you form an
indignation meeting (righteous, of course) if it
was hinted that any one of you failed to meet
that requisition?—and educated, and healthy,
and possessed of Christian graces. These are
his ideas of her. But, as I am to pick her out,
I shall be ten times more fastidious. Men are
such ignorant creatures, until enlightened by
experience, concerning the “little things,”
which, after all, make up the sum total of a
true, wifely, womanly woman.

I will not choose for him a girl who has but-
tons off her shoes!

I am aware experimentally that none of the

 

 

|

buttoned-shoes sold partake of angelic qualities.

Even Job, model of patience that he was, would!
have been—no, I’ll not assert it positively, never’
having been personally acquainted with the’
gentleman—might have been tried with them,

if he had been a woman, and lived in an age of’
button-shoes. The buttons do come off, sadly ’
I acknowledge it. But there is no need of”
your ever wearing shoes from which any of*
those little articles are off duty.

‘You can’t help it, sometimes?
fib! you can!

It is only a moment’s task to replace a but-
ton when it rips. Yet you finish fastening
the boots and wear them down to b#edKfast
with the buttons off? You go into the street”
with a button off? You can not spar@ fie”
time to replace one, and wait until two ov
three are gone?

Then you are careless, procrastinative, un-
methodical, and untidy!

If buttons are off your boots, it is pretty
safe to believe that what you wear under those
boots have yawning apertures in them. You
will wear suits before completion; put on
clothes that are ripped, torn, and soiled; never
know where needed articles can be found;
and, as a wife and housekeeper, your own,
your husband’s, and your children’s wardrobes
will be continually dilapidated. You will be
without system, or punctuality in your domes-
tic arrangements; will have careless servants,
a disorderly house, a cheerless home. And, as
a result, the chances are—a discouraged, tru-
ant husband.

Ah! my friend must not marry you!

Are you careful and thorough? When you
buy new boots you will give each button a
strong fastening before using them.

You do this?) Then you will never wear un-
finished garments; will try all strings, hooks
and eyes, and buttons, when the clean clothes
come up from the wash, putting stitches in
unreliable ones; your housekeeping arrange-
ments will be orderly; your duties fulfilled
methodically; your servants superintended,
and trained to cleanliness, tidiness, and econo-
my.

Are you neat and punctual? When you are
taking off, or putting on, your boots and a but-
‘ton rips and rolls away into a corner, or under
the washstand, you will hunt it up and imme-
diately replace it.

You do this? Then your husband will never
wear buttonless shirts or ripped coats; he will
find his handkerchief, slippers, and brushes in
their places; will never be late to church, com-
mittee meeting, or court, because dinner was
not ready. There will be no dust on or under
your bureau; no torn flounces to mend, when
you are hurriedly dressing for a promenade;
no silver missing; no dilapidated articles mar-
ring the beauty of your rooms, Your meals
will be carefully prepared and properly served.
Yours will be a genial, well-ordered, charming
home.

And any one of you careful, thorough, neat,
punctual girls, who never wear your boots
with a button missing, my friend may marry.

A button off a shoe a trifling matter!—nay,
it is an unfailing index of character.

A Parson’s DAUGHTER.

Norisense! a

 

THE DISADVANTAGES OF WEALTH.

rIXHE frequency with which the sons of

wealthy parents go to ruin or “turn
out poorly” is a source of earnest refiectiow
as well as of sorrow to many persons of
wealth. The worst possible incentive to 6x~-
ertion is a full purse; the best inspirer of
study, work or ambition is the consciousness‘
of self-dependence. The rich man’s son has
the purse; the poor man’s son has the spirit of
work. Only one generation is required to
prove that the purse was a sorry inheritance,
for the young man who “wrestled with for-
tune” won, and the rich young man who held
high carnival with fortune lost—fortune was
too much for him.

Of course there are exceptions. Some rich
men’s sons are good workers, sensible fellows,
and use their money rationally. But they are
the exceptions, as every observant person
knows; and the long category of great law-
yers, great doctors, great preachers, great
merchants, great railroad men, great farmers,
great mechanics, great soldiers, great sailors,
who. were made great by their own exertions,
is a most conclusive attestation of the value of
poverty as a master.

Looking over the records of many lives,
the impression is all the while forced upon us
that wealth, as spch, has been valueless, and
there is hardly a poor student who reveres
brain and thought and true achievement who
gives the man, because of his wealth, a mo-
ment’s consideration. The student and all
others regard men, in the end, for what they
achieve, not for what they were worth; and
wealth is, in this sense, a mere cipher. All
wealth can possibly do is to raise such literal
nobodies as Astor, Girard, Peabody, etc., from
their obscurity by their disposition of their
hoard after their death has released it from
their grasp. This is the most wealth can do
for the rich who do nothing all their lives but
gather gold. It does not do even this much
for the great majority of men of great wealth,
who will their means to individuals, and they
are forgotten so soon that their memory is a
myth ere their money is spent.

The moral of this is certainly clear. The
young man who is eager for riches is eager for~
what cannot bring him the most solid pleasure,
nor produces any lasting resulis. It teaches
that the true test of life is the work acc«m-
plished by individual exertion, and advances
the student, the artisan, the thinker, the man
of energy to the foremost front in the history
of a generation.

 

es

  

   

tie

sometime

tm

 
 

eed

ooo ern eaneeeeehampeete

 

Aprit 4, 1874.]

*

BGELLES AND BHAUX.

9

 

 

THOU CANST NOT FORGET.

BY BLANCHE WILDWOOD.

 

 

At noon when the sun in its splendor comes forth,
And floods, with bright glory, the land and the sea,
When a Bae leden flowers shall bend their young
eads,
Your heart will still beat with devotion to me.
Fate severed us, darling, yes, tore thee away,
But seek not, dear lost one, seek not to forget!
The task will be useless, thy heart will be mine,
Thou’lt think of and love me till life’s sun is set.

Sad memory, adown the dark valley of years,
Will oft point thy gaze when life’s morning is past;
Thou'lt think of each spot to affection so dear,
of — hopes that cheered us, but too bright to
ast.
How often at evening when Cynthia’s pale rays,
With silvery splendor lit mountain and lea,
We wandered forth, darling, beside that. clear
stream,
And sipped of its waters so pure and so free!

Your dear hand clasped mine and we plighted our
vows,
When that brook, with low music, ran soft at our

eet;
You stooped by that clear-winding streamlet to cull
The pure water-lily and jessamine sweet.
Fate severed us, darling, yes, tore thee away,
But seek not, dear lost one. seek not to forget !
The task will be useless, thy heart is all mine—
Thou’lt think of and love me till life’s sun is set

 

Remarkable Women.

ANNA DICKINSON

 

 

BY MRS. E. F. ELUET.

 

F we call to mind how much Miss Dickinson
has accomplished, what an impression she
has made on the public mind, and what cele-
brity she has gained in a field scarcely at-
tempted by any other woman, we shall be
amazed to reflect that she is yet not thirty-
thrée years of age. She is the undoubted
possessor of genius. No impulse drove her
into the enterprises she dared, and brought her
success. But her case is no exception to the
rule we find illustrated in every instance of
triumph over difficulties, that success is the
fruit of laborious effort, and that persevering
effort is usually the result of necessity or of
severe trial.

Her trials came upon her in early youth, in
loneliness, poverty and disappointments. She
withstood temptations and discouragements
which might easily have crushed the spirit of
an inexperienced girl. Her unfaltering cour-
age and stern will leveled all obstacles, and
opened her way to independence. In the per-
formance of what she esteemed her mission
she threw out a widely extended influence,
which she sustained with a dignity and moral
force of character that silenced calumny, and
elevated her beyond its reach.

Anna Dickinson’s parents were descendants
of the early orthodox Quakers, and resided in
Philadelphia, where she was born, about 1842.
Her father was a merchant; her mother, Mary
Edmundson, belonged to an old family in Dela-
ware, and was a woman of cultivated mind
and refined habits and manners. It is recorded
by her friendly biographer that Anna’s infancy
was ‘‘tetchy and wayward” as that of Richard
of England, and that she was very troublesome
to manage. At school she was deemed an in-
corrigible child, and was often in disgrace as
arebel. She felt herself an Ishmaelite, and
had to fight her own battles in the free schools
of the Society of Friends. With the cruelty
for which school-girls are noted, her compan-
ions would taunt her with her ‘‘mean clothes.”
She would reply bravely that her mother was
poor, and could not afford to dress her better.
Yet inwardly she chafed at these insults, and
resolved to make the shallow girls yet feel her
superiority. Her widowed mother, after their
loss of means, supported her five children by
keeping a school and taking boarders. At
twelve Anna was placed in the ‘‘ Westown
Boarding School,” and remained there two
years; thence removing to a ‘Friends’ Select
School” in Philadelphia. She applied herself
with great diligence to her studies, and read
with eagerness every book she could get,
shortening her hours of sleep to indulge herself
in reading. She determined to become a pub-
lic speaker at a very early age. She quitted
school at seventeen, and retired to bear wil-
lingly her share in the housework at home.
When these tasks were performed she would
do any thing for others to earn money for
buying books. At seven years of age she read
Byron’s works, hiding herself under the bed to
enjoy them. Her love of oratory led her to
attend all the lectures she could pay for.
Once she scrubbed a sidewalk for twenty-five
cents, to hear Wendell Phillips. Failing in
efforts to get an engagement as a teacher, she
took a place as saleswoman, but did not long
retain it. Her first experiment in public
speaking was made at an Association of Friends
to discuss ‘‘woman’s rights.” On one occa-
sion, being withstood by an insolent man, she
poured out her wrath in a flood of eloquence,
dwelling on the wrongs and insults borne
through her struggling girlhood, painting her
hard experience and the helplessness of women,
and fairly electrifying her audience. Her op-
ponent, humiliated by her sarcasms, sneaked
out of the meeting. This occasion helped her
to friends who appreciated her genius and en-
couraged her ambition.

Her mother was concerned at this sudden
outbreak, and feared that Anna was venturing
too daringly, and might bring discredit on her
family. But in Dr. Longshore and his family
she found the friends her generous and im-
pulsive nature most needed. Her intense sym-
pathies were stirred for the Southern slaves,
and she always manifested a horror of the

slave system.
: In April, 1860, sho made the first specch to

   

 

which she had given thought, in a school-house
in New Jersey. The subject was ‘“‘Woman’s
Work.” The auditors were astonished at her
power, and demanded another speech in the
evening. She gave it on the subject of ‘Sla-
very.” A collection was taken up for her.

She now took charge of a district school in
Bucks’ county, with a salary of twenty-five
dollars a month. She attended Sunday meet-
ings at home once in two weeks. On one
occasion she spoke in favor of the right of
slaves to resist their oppression, with startling
effect. In the summer vacation she spoke to
large audiences in New Jersey, in a grove,
and at meetings. Contributions were taken
up for her; and she began to think of public
speaking as a means of support. At the close
of her school she gave another lecture on
““Women’s Work.” At an anti-slavery meet-
ing her speech was reported, and she was
called ‘‘a juvenile Joan of Arc.” Her speech
was pronounced ‘‘ decidedly the feature of the
evening.”

She next addressed eight hundred people in
Concert Hall; and her two hours’ lecture was
considered a marvelous performance for a
young girl. She herself felt that she was not
equal to the occasion, and regarded her effort
as a failure.

She now longed for some new work, active
and profitable. The confinement and poor
pay of a schoolmistress gave her a distaste to
the occupation. She succeeded in obtaining a
place in the United States mint, where she
worked from seven in the morning till six at
night for twenty-eight dollars a month. The
atmosphere was close and impure; she, there-
fore, soon was transferred to the coining-room.
After the day’s labor was done, she would go
to the hospital to write letters for the sick
soldiers, to read with them, or to talk with
them. In November, 1861, she made a speech
in Westchester, on the events of the war,
which increased her unpopularity, and she
was dismissed from the mint. Her accusation
of General McClellan caused this loss of her
place. She now resolved to labor no longer
with her hands for bread, but to open a new
path.

In many of the neighboring towns, she
lectured during the winter, on the political
aspects of the war. She began to think less
of the wrongs of women and negroes, and
more of the causes of revolutions. Thus she
became available in party polities. Garrison
‘nvited her to his house in Boston, and she was
‘nvited by Philadelphia friends to repeat her
speech of November. The hall was filled at
‘en cents admission, and she found herself in
possession of a larger sum of money than she
had ever had before. It was decided by her
and her friends, that part of this amount
should be invested in a silk dress, a luxury she
had never had before. Nature had endowed
her with a graceful form, and an expressive
and intellectual countenance, with a sweet,
rich and musical voice, adapted readily to
every intonation of feeling, and interpreting
offectively her glowing ideas by fluent lan-
guage. Her utterance was that of a born
orator. But dress is an adjunct dearly prized
by every woman; and few who have appeared
in public are not sensible of the self-possession
and ease inspired by the consciousness of being
well dressed. It is not likely that Anna was
superior to this peculiarity of her sex.

She went to New England; and through Mr.
Garrison’s influence was invited to speak in
Theodore Parker’s pulpit, on the ‘National
Crisis.” She was intensely anxious for suc-
cess before a Boston audience, and could
hardly sleep or eat for two days previously.
Her friends, fearing a failure, refused to sit on
the platform. Perhaps they felt that she had
gone counter to public sentiment in entering a
pulpit, and on the morning of the sacred day.
Judicious friends ought certainly to have
warned her not thus to tempt the disapproval
of religious persons. But the radicals saw no
irreverence in what she did. Mr. Garrison
opened the meeting by reading a chapter in
the Bible. Anna began in a hesitating man-
ner; but soon became absorbed in her subject,
and by her glowing eloquence fettered the at-
tention and admiration of all who heard her.
She gave the same lecture in several New
England cities, and was voted ‘worthy to be
admitted as a particular star in the large and
brilliant constellation of genius and talent
now endeavoring to direct the country,” etc.
Her appearance was pronounced “ decidedly
attractive, earnest, and expressive.”

The following summer was spent by her in
reading and study, collecting materials for
other lectures. She continued to visit the
government hospitals, and converse with the
soldiers, from whose experiences she drew her
materials for her popular lecture on ‘“ Hospital
Life.”

In October, 1862, she was paid one hundred
dollars for a lecture before the Boston Frater-
nity Lyceum... But she could not make lucra-
tive engagements. People were too much de-
pressed and discouraged for lectures. After
her last lecture at Concord, for which she re-
ceived ten dollars, her prospect was very poor
for the future. She suffered that winter, pen-
niless and alone, with a scanty wardrobe, from
cold, weariness and disappointment. She
wandered about on the trains, lacking means
to go home, in a. vain search for employment.
Having borrowed money to begin her journey,
she could not ask again. But her lecture on
Hospital Life at Concord, N. H., was the
turning point. The tide in her affairs had set
in for fortune. She was to enter upon work
never before offered to a woman,

The secretary of the State Central Commit-
tee heard her, and resolved, if possible, to em-
ploy her to give that lecture all through New
Hampshire, to secure the Republican triumph

   

 

in the State at the coming election. She was
invited by the Committee, and on the first of
March commenced her regular . campaign
speeches. Large audiences listened to her;
she triumphed everywhere, and the election
was carried. The Republicans were just
enough to award her due credit. The Gov-
ernor acknowledged that her eloquence had
gone far to secure his election. Ovations
honored her success.

The same party in Connecticut were so dis-
heartened as to despair; but Anna Dickinson
went among them, made speeches to large
audiences throughout the State; and turned
the tide of popular feeling. She created such
a furore as never did orator in this country.
Immense multitudes, political foes aswell as
friends, rushed to hear her; they named her a
Joan of Are, sent to save the State, to the
loyal party, and the nation to freedom.
When the victory was gained at the election,
the people shouted for and serenaded Anna,
and sent presents to testify their gratitude.
A gold watch and chain were presented as a
memento of her valuable services; a hundred
dollars were paid her for every night she had
lectured, and four hundred for the last before
election, in Hartford. It was the most impor-
tant speech in the campaign, and it was a flat-
tering proof of confidence in her eloquence,
tact and power, that the Union men were
willing to rest their case upon her efforts.
She seemed, said the press, ‘‘ to have that ab-
solute mastery over her audience which Joan
of Arc is reported to have had of the French
troops.” Everywhere she aroused respect, en-
thusiasm, and devotion, not only to herself,
but to the country.

In May, 1862, she was announced. to. speak
in Cooper Institute, New York. She received
a splendid ovation. There was unparalleled ex-
citement. The hall was densely packed, hun-
dreds being unable to get in, and the platform
was crowded with the distinguished and the
fashionable. Mr. Henry Ward Beecher intro-
duced the fair speaker, and for more than an
hour she held the vast audience as by a spell.
The subject was “‘ The Day—the Cause.” She
was described in one of. the papers as being
“of the medium hight, slight in form, grace-
fulin movement; her head adorned with full
and heavy dark hair, displaying ‘to advantage
a pleasant face, which has the signs of nervous
force and vigorous mental life.” = “‘ Her voice
is of wonderful power, penetrating rather than
loud, clear as the tone of metal, and yet with
a reed-like softness.” Applause burst. fre-
quently and irrepressibly from the audience.
Her profits from this lecture were nearly a
thousand dollars.

One of the greatest political organizations,
the Philadelphia ‘‘ Union League,” invited her
to speak in that city; and she addressed an en-
thusiastic audience, her remuneration ‘being
seven hundred dollars. Her grace and elo-
quence were highly eulogized by the city
press, and she received many social attentions.
At a meeting called in July to enlist colored
troops in the State, Anna Dickinson. was as-
sociated with Judge Kelley and Fréderick
Douglass. The first regiment raised paid the
compliment of a serenade to the fair orator.
She spent the summer in study; and in Sep-
tember was present on a field-day at Camp
William Penn. As the day closéd,’it was dis-
covered that she was there, and ‘‘a speech”
was called for. Standing on a gun-wagon,
she addressed the troops Gen. Pleasanton had
reviewed, with moving eloquence. ‘

She was invited to Ohio in the autumn, but
accepted the proposals of the politicians of
Pennsylvania. She traveled through the min-
ing districts in that campaign, and enduréd
many discomforts and dangers. It was said
no man would have ventured to go; and._threats
and peltings of stones and rotten eggs: more
than once assailed the delicate woman in her
speeches. It was admitted that the Repub-
lican victory was largely owing to her; yet the
committee would not fulfill their pledges. She
received not one cent for her services. In the
winters of 1863 and 1864, she was invited to
speak before the Legislatures of Ohio and
Pennsylvania. In January of 1864, she made
her first address in Washington;. being pre-
sented at the close to the President. and other
distinguished men. It was the most flattering
ovation of her life. The value of her services
in the campaigns was acknowledged, and she
was again compared to.the Maid of Orleans.

She was invited to repeat the-Washington
speech in Philadelphia, and again in New York
and Boston. An English author and member
of Parliament, said of her speech: ‘‘ For its
pathos, its argument, its satire, its eloquence,
its humor, its sarcasm, and its well-directed
denunciations, it has never been surpassed ‘by
any I have heard before.” :

She was now at the hight of a well-estab-
lished reputation. She spoke nearly every
night that winter in lyceums at a hundred dol-
lars. She gave her lecture ‘‘ Chicago:—or the
Last Ditch "—in the northern cities; and made
campaign speeches in Connecticut. She did all
she could to prevent the renomination of Lin-
coln; for she distrusted his plan of. reconstruc-
tion. She declined the most lucrative engage-
ments to speak in his favor in California and
elsewhere. The Republicans showed their in:
dignation by withholding invitations; but they
came in afterward. In 1865, she lectured in
Philadelphia on the Lincoln movement, and
gave the proceeds, a thousand dollars, for the
cause. She spoke in September, 1866, in the
Convention of Southern Loyalists in Philadel-
phia. It was a powerful and impressive ap-
peal, and moved many to tears. When she
ended, the Southern delegates came and pinned
on her dress the badges of their respective
States. :

Tt was the first time a woman’s voice had

been heard effectively in party politics, and
her appearance at the crisis in American his-
tory was a strange phenomenon. One of her
friends states her belief that ‘‘ Anna Dickinson
w.ll be as great a wonder to another genera-
tion as Joan of Arc is to this.” She labored
conscientiously in the darkest time of the civil
war; and she saw the dawn of peace and
emancipation. She drew her inspiration from
the great events of her day.

Anna Dickinson continues to lecture, though
the time is past for the intense enthusiasm
called forth by her campaign speeches. She is
still successful and admired; but finds the avo-
cation of a lecturer laborious and wearing to
the constitution. There was a rumor last year
that she intended going upon the stage; but
probably there was no foundation for it.
Anna’s individuality is too strong for an
actress; she could not lose herself in the per-
sonality she represented. She can no doubt
command an independence, as well as accom-
plish much good by her lectures; and there are
subjects interesting and important enough, to
he illustrated by her teachings.

 

A WOMANS SACKIFICE.

 

BY ABBIE CLEMENS MORROW.

 

JIVIAN ADRIAN, pure, fresh, and sweet
as the early spring flowers blooming
in her hand, tripped merrily down the gravel
walk, across the shadowy park, and up the
broad avenue which separated her boarding-
house home from the residence of her friend,
Mrs. Walden. She entered the mansion, step-
ped lightly over the soft plush carpets, and
stopped suddenly half-way up the second flight
of stairs. The color and sparkle all fled from
her face. She crushed the blossoms until they
withered and died in her hand, like love, and
hope, and faith, in her heart.

This is what she saw and heard:

A library door ajar. <A dark-eyed, hand-
some man, with a glory born only of love on
his face, clasping her friend’s hand.

A quick, passionate exclamation: ‘‘Do you
really? I am so happy! I never loved any
other woman!”

Vivian turned away—retraced the avenue,
the park, the walk—-never again the same
blithe, happy, hopeful maiden.

To this woman she had given true, ardent
friendship. She had knelt with her at the mar-
riage altar; rejoiced with her when first tiny
child-fingers clung to;hers; wept with her when
her first-born, two-year-old darling had strayed
from her and been lost; watched with her be-
side her husband’s dying bed; and together
they had planted early, fragrant flowers upon
bis Greenwood grave.

To this man she had given her first, pure,
womanly affection, His lips had never said,
““T love you,” but his softly clinging hands,
his passion-lustrous eyes, had telegraphed it
many atime. And now she had heard his ten-
der love-words to the woman, not yet two
months a widow.

A hot flush of shame dyed Vivian’s cheek as
memory recalled that she had foolishly con-
fided, to Eleanor Walden, only two days be-
fore—‘‘Chandos is my very ideal of truth,
honor, and nobility. I can no more help loy-
ing him, than I can help breathing.”

These two, she thought, were not what she
had deemed them; henceforth she would have
care, nor faith, nor love for any human soul.

Half @n hour later Chandos Allaire sent up
his card, to Vivian.

“He comes for me to congratulate him.
How can I!” she groaned,

into the mirror. Her hair was disordered, a
scarlet flame burned on either cheek, her eyes
were heavy with the passionate mist of unshed
tears. She could not meet him thus. Hastily
she penciled on his card:

‘Am engaged, and ask to be excused.”

She glanced over the words. They were
false. She destroyed the card and wrote an-
other.

‘Am indisposed; please excuse me.”

Was this also false?

Her wildly throbbing temples, her hot, aching
head, her sorely wounded pride, answered.
She sent the latter message down.

The next mail brought a letter from her
aunt, in Cleveland, her sole surviving relative,
informing her of the death of her husband, and
beseeching her tocome and live with her. Two
days afterward, Miss Adrian had gone; neither
Mr. Allaire nor Mrs. Walden knew whither.

 

Four years of Vivian Adrian’s life were num-
bered with the past; years of faithful devotion
to purity, charity, and religion. Then camo
her reward.

One bright June morning, as she was visiting
among the poor, a little urchin, standing in the
open doorway of a dilapidated tenement-house,
said to her:

“Missis, the organ-grinder’s awful sick;
mebbe he’d like ter see yer. Back room; top
floor.”

She went up to the desolate apartment. On
a pallet of straw lay an old man—emaciated,
dying. At his feet sat a fair-haired, mournful-
eyed child.

The glassy eyes of the old man turned to-
ward Miss Adrian. A look of terror passed
swiftly over his face, succeeded by one of
triumph. ‘

*“You’ve come too late. You can’t have me
arrestednow! Take-—the—child—I’m—dying.”

One long, deep gasp, and the shadow, which
coming once is never more lifted, fell over his
swarthy face.

Miss Adrian closed the sightless eyes, and,

 

turning, raised her jeweled hand to push the

With quick, womanly instinct she glanced

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LO

BHELLES AND BEAUX.

 

[Aprin 4, 1874.

 

tangled, golden mass of hair ‘back from the

child’s forehead.

The little one shrunk from her, and cried im-
ploringly, ‘“‘Don’t beat me. Pop used to, but
you look so good.”

“My dear child, not for all the world,” and
the first kiss that had trembled on Vivian’s lips
since she had caressed her friend, years before,
was given to the orphaned, friendless little
waif.

Miss Adrian made arrangements for the poor
man’s burial, and took the orphan to her own
home.

For six years, it was her ene, supreme joy
to care for, educate, and caress the hitherto ne-
glected child. And the little one worshiped
her as they should worship who have been re-
deemed from hunger, stripes, and neglect to
plenty, happiness, and loving tenderness. The
severest reproof Vivian ever had cause to give
her was a reproachful look.

One day Eva sat at her foster-mother’s feet,
poring over an old scrap-book. Suddenly she
looked up and said:

“LOST OR STOLEN—$500 Rewarp: A little
child, two years old, with blue eyes and light hair.
Had on a white embroidered dress and blue ribbon
sash. The above reward will be given for any in-
formation concerning the child’s whereabouts.

‘‘Mrs. WALDEN, 132 Montague Ave.”

Before the young girl had ceased, a terrible
suspicion flashed across Vivian’s mental vision.

It came to her now; the explanation of the
look in Eva’s eyes, which had puzzled her so
often; the terror on the organ-grinder’s face;
the soft, gentle, melodious voice of the child, so
strangely like Mrs. Walden’s—and she knew,
that the waif she had cherished and idolized,
belonged to another.

Eva looked up for her answer. Vivian only
kissed her tenderly, sadly, and went away
alone, to the great struggle—the one crisis of
her life.

There be some women who cling to and
adore a beloved child with an affection more
zealous, more vehement, than the strongest
love-passion of many another woman’s life.
Such a one was Vivian.

“Her mother need never know—the child
would never care—I have adopted her—she is
mine—my own—TI will not give her up, to the
- woman who robbed me of the one man I
loved,” she raved, in the first paroxysm of
temptation.

The contest was long, fierce, agonizing; but
when it was ended, the exquisite peace which
God gives to the victorious trembled over her
gloriously beautiful face, and filled to com-
pleteness her conquering soul,

 

Once more Vivian Adrian ascended the
broad steps of Mrs. Walden’s stately mansion.
The young girl, who only knew that they were
going to her mother, marveled at Vivian’s
white face, and quivering lip, and trembling
hand. As the servant ushered them into the
reception room, Vivian said:

‘Tell your mistress an old friend wishes to
see her.”

She seated Eva in the shadowy drapery of
the silken curtains, and stood waiting.

Mrs. Walden, in a long, black cashmere
wrapper, came softly down-stairs and opened
the door. One instant she hesitated; then, as
Vivian’s white lips parted with the word,
‘« Rleanor,” she gave a quick cry of joy, and
throwing her arms around her friend, mur-
mured:

“Vivian! Vivian! I have prayed for this so
long!”

As Vivian felt the warm kisses and téars on
her face, she knew that not with such demon-
stration of joy would Eleanor Walden greet
her, if, in thought, word or deed, she had ever
been untrue to her. Though the mystery of
the words overheard so long ago remained un-
solved, she no longer doubted her friend.

“Vivian, tell me,” Eleanor continued,
‘‘where have you been all these years? Why
did you not write to me? It was very cruel.”

‘Yes, it was cruel,” she answered slowly,
“but I think you will forgive me. Eleanor,
are you strong? Can you bear a surprise? a
great joy?”

‘“ What do you mean? Now that you have
returned to me, there is but one other joy my
heart has craved, that my lost child might be
restored tome. Tell me—”

There was a rustle among the silks and laces
at the window. Eva sprung forward, and,
threwing her arms around Mrs. Walden’s neck,
exclaimed, ‘‘Mamma! mamma! I’m your lost
little girl! Auntie found me! The organ-
grinder stole me! Oh! Auntie’s been so good
to me.”

Though Mrs. Walden had clasped her con-

‘ vulsively, and was covering her lips with pas-
sionate caresses, the child still held out one
hand to the woman who had rescued, pro-
tected, loved her—and was resigning her.

 

Again Chandos Allaire and Vivian Adrian
stood face to face. The years had brought no
vivid changes to her, but he had grown taller,
manlier, nobler-looking, and the black, lustrous
locks were tinged with gray.

“ Vivian! my darling!”

In these three words, spoken tenderly, anx-
iously, eagerly, were the love, the hope, the
despair of ten long years.

He opened his arms and held her close.
Then he said:

‘* Vivian, why did you go away?”

“T thought you would marry Eleanor.”

He believed she evaded his question, and
answered, ‘‘I did ask her.”

“Yes, I know; I was here. I heard—”

“You here? heard? I do not understand.”

“Yes, I was coming up-stairs. I heard you
say, ‘I am so happy, I never loved any other
woman—’ ”

He unclasped his arms, and turned away.

 

“‘Vivian Adrian, you have believed this of me
all these years?” _

They were the first and last reproachful
words he ever uttered to her. Before she
could reply he turned and said with infinite
pity in his voice:

“My poor child, your suffering must have
been greater than your wrong. What a ter-
rible mistake it was. Not when you heard
me was I asking Eleanor to be my wife. I
loved you, but I had not courage to tell you.
You seemed so young and innocent. I con-
fided to her my apprehension. She said, ‘Go
and ask her. Iam sure she loves you.’ Then
in my joy I uttered the words you over-
heard.”

Vivian’s face, scarlet in its woman’s shame,
was hidden by her hand. She never spoke.
Chandos continued:

“Years after, when I had given up all hope
of ever finding you, I asked Eleanor to marry
me. She was lonely and mourned so for her
lost ones. I was ajl alone in the world, and I
thought we might comfort one another. She
answered me, ‘ We do not belong to each other.
I can never love you as I did my lost husband.
I will not defraud you. -Be patient. Vivian
will come back to you some day.’ ”

Vivian’s eyes were overflowing now. How
she had wronged these two noble souls!

‘‘Her prophecy has come true; Vivian, dar-
ling, don’t weep. Look up and tell me it is
true—you have come back to love me, to be
my wife?”

“T do love you. I have always, but I am
not worthy.”

“Vivian, my Vivian, you are pure and
true. I love your faults, and I can never love
any other woman’s virtues. The mistake—it
was as God willed it. The years are not lost.
Let us believe He has been refining us for
each other.”

So these two were married.

And the fruit of Vivian’s sacrifice was the
purest wedded happiness mortal lives can know.

PORSAKEN.

BY D. B. M.

 

 

Forsaken, deserted, thus to stray,
Lonely on life’s rugged way—

Left ’mid sorrow, woe, and pain,
Soiled by sin’s polluted stain.
Wanderer lone, shall thy hard lot
E’en to memory be forgot?

Left thus, shall no friend be near

To wipe away the falling tear?

Or Seen with her tender hand,
Soothe thee with her magic wand?
Deserted! On life’s tempestuous wave,
Dost one heart crave thy soul to save?

Cast on the rocks where dashing spray
Doth shower its mist and ebb away,
Thy soul with deep’ning sorrow see
No haven of rest where it might flee,
And will no helping hand be near

To shield thee in the hour of fear?

A fugitlve from thy fatherland—
Forsaken by thy kindred band,

Deep is the anguish of thy heart,

And no dear one to bear a part—

To share with the forsaken one

The trials, on life’s journey just begun!

Forsaken! and by all/

Made to drink life’s bitterest call?

No, not by alt! it cannot be,

As long as sympathy shall be free;

And ond above, so just, so true,

Will, wanderer, see thee safely through!

 

(COMMENCED IN No. 1.)

ALIDA BARRETT;

oR,

THE DOOR IN THE HEART.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET,

AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE COURT OF THE REPUBLIC,”’ ‘‘ wo-
MEN OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION,” ‘* THE
BRIDES AND WIDOWS OF THE BIBLE.”

 

 

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE WIFE’S CONFESSION.

Mrs. BuRKE was sobbing violently, and for
some minutes took no heed of the soothing
words of her husband. At last she started up,
and sunk at his feet.

“Oh, Stanley, Stanley!” she gasped; ‘‘can I
ever hope that you will forgive me?”

He raised her, embraced her, and placed her
on the chair; then drew another close to her,
and seated himself.

“Laura, my love, confide in me. I am your
best friend, am I not?”

‘‘Oh, Stanley, did you hear what that vil-
lain said?”

‘‘T heard your voice in angry tones, and I
hurried up-stairs. I heard you order him out
of your presence. What had he done? Not
dared to insult you?’-

“He accused me wrongfully! Oh, Stanley,
I never deserved such horrible words!”

‘He shall answer to me for all he has said
or done to offend you. I know him.”

“You know him? Who is he? Oh, Stanley,
who is he?”

‘Not a person who should venture to claim
acquaintance with you, or come into your
presence, Laura. Tell me on what pretext he
did so.”

‘He wanted to extort money.”

‘IT suppose so. Did he dare to threaten
you? Laura, my wife, you must tell me all.”

‘* How can I tell you?” exclaimed the wife,
weeping afresh, and covering her face with
both hands.

‘Did the villain menace you with any threat
—of injury to me?”

“Oh, no, no! but—”

‘‘ What hold could he have upon you? There
is something strange about it all! Laura, you
must tell me what is the meaning of all this?”

‘‘Oh, my husband, how can I?”_ .

“There is a mystery—which I do not under-

 

stand. Have you kept any secret from me, |

Laura?”

“Thave! Ihave! You may kill me if you
wish; I deserve it! but not what that villain
said!”

“Compose yourself, my wife, and tell me
all! You must have no secrets from me.”

“Oh, would that I never had! If I had only
had the courage to confess—”

“To eonfess? You fill me with dark conjec-
tures! Have you ever done any thing that
justifies such language?”

His manner was stern and cold, and he with-
drew his arm from his wife’s form.

“You are angry! I merit your anger; but
I have never been what that man said.”

“Speak more plainly. Is there a secret
which he has got hold of—that he dared to
threaten you?”

“Yes, a secret; the secret of my life,” Mrs.
Burke answered, in a dying voice.

The banker rose, and stepped to the door,
which he locked, and then saw that the other
door and windows were fastened. Then he
returned to his wife’s side..

“Now, Laura,” he said, ‘‘ I must know every
thing. Remember, I too have done what fills
me with remorse. I shall not be hard upon

ou.”

She looked at him, and saw in his eyes the
love that can pardon every thing but want of
good faith. Yet she shivered, and turned
away her head as she spoke.

“ Before you married me—I was—”

“Go on, Laura. Surely you need not hesi-
tate. You were an innocent school-girl when
I courted you.”

‘A school-girl, but not the artless creature
you thought me, Stanley. Full of ambition,
hating the narrow sphere I moved in; wily—
scheming— Oh, you did not know me; for I
wore a mask to you! I was—”

Again she covered her face.

The husband’s face darkened.

““You were so young then,” he said. ‘‘ Could
it be possible that you deceived me?”

“Yes; I deceived you!” cried the wife.

“Your seeming innocence was a mask? You
laid snares for my wealth?” the banker mutter-
ed, bitterly. ‘‘ You were lost to virtue, and
me the victim—”

“No, no!.you must not speak so! I had
only sinned in deceiving you! I was a married
woman!”

‘(A married woman?” repeated Burke, in-
credulously.

‘““Yes; long before I entered that school I
had been a wife and mother.”

The banker started up, and paced the room
once or twice. Then he resumed his seat.

“You will cast me from yeu, and I deserve
it!” moaned his wife.

“Go on, if you please.”

‘“‘T was married at the west, and lived with
my husband four years. He was poor, and
misfortune pursued him. I longed for wealth
and luxury; and when he was absent on his
long journeys, I suffered even want, with my
poor little child. I took a desperate resolution
at last. I had grown to dislike the man who
had brought this hateful poverty upon me;
who stood in my way. The laws of Illinois,
you know, made divorce easy.”

Mr. Burke struck his forehead, and an ex-
clamation of anguish escaped his lips.

The wife went on:

““T knew a lawyer, who promised to do ev-
ery thing for me. I obtained the divorce, but
Thad to give up my child. He claimed her—
the father; and I did not oppose him.”

‘She would have been an obstacle in your
way,” muttered Burke.

“T thought of that; but when I heard she
was dead, I suffered terribly. I was not heart-
less, Stanley. Do you remember the illness I
had after our return from Europe? It was
caused by grief; grief for the little girl I had
abandoned.”

“This is more than I can bear!” wailed the
banker, again starting up.

“This is what I have to confess. Stanley, I
have deceived you; I have been a hypocrite
for years. You will punish me. You can ob-
tain a divorce from me. I will submit to the
fate I have merited.”

“You are mistaken, Laura,” the husband
said. ‘‘If your divorce was legal, it forms no
ground for one from you. If not legal, you
never were my wife.” :

“Tt was legal—the divorce; I am sure of
that. I have a certified copy of the decree.
But you can be released from the wife who has
deceived you.”

“Falsehood is no ground of complaint,”
Burke replied, sarcastically. ‘The wife who
can hoodwink her husband has the advantage.
Oh, Laura, how have you shattered the idol of
my worship, and laid it in the dust!” s

“JT deserve all! I have sinned beyond par-
don. Iam not worthy of you, Stanley!”

‘What do you expect from me, Laura?’

“ Only my punishment!”

She had stooped her head on her arms, upon
the table, and was weeping softly tears of bit-
ter remorse and humiliation.

“Taura!” cried the banker, suddenly, ‘‘ was
the man I found in this room—was he your
former husband?”

She looked up quickly; fire in her eyes, a
crimson flush on her cheeks.

“He my husband? Oh, could you think I
ever had fallen so low? That villain! He did
not even know I had been: married before—I
never saw him till to-day.”

“Then what was the business he came about?
What agitated you so much?”

“He came to tell me the child—my little
daughter—was not dead, as I had been inform-
ed. He wanted money for producing her; and
for keeping the secret. He thought her a child
of shame—” :

 

Another burst of tears. —

“Ts she in his custody?”

“Tt appears so. Her father believed her
dead; but he had been deceived. This man, in
some way, got the proofs of her identity, and
traced her out. He demanded a fortune for
restoring her to me, and letting no one else
know of her existence.”

“Do you want your child, Laura?”

She looked eagerly at him.

“T gave her up to her father; and he has
been robbed of her. If I could get her out of
that villain’s power, I would give her back to
her father. He has been wronged; he is no-
ble; and he loves his child.”

“This man offered to restore her, for
money.”

“T could not pay him his price, Stanley. I
would not appeal to you.”

“Why not? It were an act of humanity
and charity to rescue a young girl from such
a villain.”

“Oh, my husband! would you—”

-“T will not pay the man for his stolen prize;
but he can be made to relinquish it. You
shall have your child, Laura.”

He took up the card Gideon had left on the
table, looked at it, and put it in his vest-
pocket.

The lady sprung up and threw herself at
Burke’s feet.

“You shall not prevent me this time!’’ she
exclaimed. ‘‘May Heaven shower blessings
on your head!”

“Rise, Laura; it is not becoming your pro-
per state to kneel like a slave, or a culprit.
You must give me time to get over the shock
of what you have told me. I can not bear
more now. But you shall have your child.”

He did not dare ask the question burning in
his heart of hearts—who was the husband of
her early youth.

She gave him a suppliant look as he took
her arm to lift her from the ground.

But his face was impassive. She only saw
that a gray pallor had taken the place of its
healthy color. Her revelation had shaken
him more than any of the previous occur-
rences.

With the promise that he would do every
thing necessary, but without a caress or word
of endearment, he left the room.

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE MASK THROWN OFF.

Ir was evening before Gideon reached the
hut in the forest. His daughter came out as
he alighted from his horse—for he had ridden
—and beset him with questions.

She was tired of her sojourn in the woods.
She had found poor Alida but a dull compan-
ion, with the jealousy between them; for
Charlotte was bitterly jealous of the fair girl.
Her native refinement, her gentleness, her
tender beauty, were an offense in the eyes of
the girl who had plunged into the feverish at-
mosphere that invests the path of guile and
evil.

The young visitor had passed the day in
study; her unwilling hostess in wandering
about the woods, and seeking vainly for ob-
jects to divert her attention.

“You must manage the affair by yourself,”
said the daughter, after inquiries which her
father evaded. ‘‘I shall go to New York to-
morrow.” ,

“We will all go, and together,” answered
Gideon. ‘‘ Have you had supper?”

“No, Hester waited for you. I see that
you have failed, by your refusing to tell me
any thing,” the girl said, sulkily.

“That does not follow. On the contrary, I
make my final and successful move to-mor-
row. Come, let us go in; and after tea, leave
me alone awhile with Miss Barrett.”

The horse had been turned out to pasture on
the leaves and wild grass. Gideon carried the
saddle and bridle to a log outhouse.

They supped almost in silence. Alida dared
ask no questions; though she was trembling
with excitement, and could taste no food.

When the meal was cleared away, Charlotte,
at a whisper from her father, left the room,
closing the door behind her. Gideon placed a
chair for his guest, and took one on the other
side of the table, on which the small lamp was
burning dimly. :

“T am sorry, dear girl,” he said, “that I
have to bring you painful news. Your mo-
ther—”

He paused an instant, for the eager gaze of
the girl’s blue eyes half disarmed him of his
nefarious purpose. :

Then he went on pitilessly:

“Your mother refuses to acknowledge
you.”

Alida uttered a low cry of dismay.

“One can hardly wonder at that; she is a
lady of high standing, a wife of blameless re-
pute; to own you publicly would be ruin to
her.” .

“Why was I born?” moaned the young girl,
“to be a shame and a burden to her who gave
me life! It was not my fault, yet the punish-
ment falls on me!”

The pathos of her lament might have touched
even the heart incased in a triple armor of sel-
fishness.

“Do not be cast down,” Gideon said; “TI
can remedy all that.”

Alida lifted her hopeless face.

“T will not contend even for my natural
right,” she ealtered. ‘‘ The mother is ashamed
of the child she cast on the hard world to
suffer for her error. Let her enjoy her splen-
dors. I will go back to school.”

‘““T told you I held the remedy in my hands.
Trust implicitly in me, my child, and I will
remove the difficulty. I will place you where
your mother will be proud to own you.”
Aprit 4, 1874.]
= eee

“T do not want such a mother. I would
rather not see her!”

“But you must not give up, dear Miss Bar-
rett. You must settle your own future. And
I am ready to help you.”

“ How can you?”

“Be guided by me. I can secure you the
fortune that will place you on a level with the
haughty dame who would repudiate you. I
will do so at once, if you will only consent.”

““T do not understand, sir.”

“You are alone; you can of yourself do
nothing. You must have a guardian whose
interest is the same as yours. You must have
a husband, Alida.”

The girl started up.

“T begin to see through all this!” the girl
murmured to herself.

“You shall marry me, Alida, to-morrow
morning.”

Her quivering lips strove to echo the words

~ in sheer consternation, but made no sound.

“T have arranged every thing. I will take
you to the city and to the church. Charlotte
will be your bridesmaid. I see you are sur-
prised; but it is what I have counted on all
along. Did you suppose, Alida, that I was
working for you without hope of reward? I
loved you, girl; I have loved you longer than
you can imagine. If your mother had con-
sented to receive you, I would have waited to
ask her consent, and to woo you as a young
lady of position ought to be courted by a
suitor. But now I have no resource. . You
must marry meat once, and then I will demand
restitution of what is yours, in defiance of your
mother’s scruples, and I will extort it from her
fears.”

While he spoke Alida had succeeded in quell-
ing the tumultuous feelings that impelled her
to burst into shrieks or violent weeping. She
had forced herself into something like com-
posure. .

“Mr. Weir, I will have nothing of this. I
did wrong to leave school. I have a guardian
who placed me there, and I should have waited
till he came himself to give up his charge.
But I did so long for my mother—”

Her voice was suffocated by sobs.

“Dear child! your longing was natural.
Your guardian knew it when he commissioned
me to take you to your mother if I could find
her. Inso doing he did relinquish his charge
of you.”

“He never ordered me to marry an utter
stranger in this hasty manner.”

“You are mistaken, Alida. Both he and
you have to be guided by circumstances.”

" “Tf he did order it I will not obey him!”
cried the girl, passionately.

“ He—and I—judged it for the best. Do
not recoil from me, dear girl! If I am older
than yourself, I have culture and experience;
I have some command of .means; I can place

_ you in a proud position.”

“Pray say no more, Mr. Weir. I can not
consent. I could not, even if my mother made
it the price of her acceptance of me, or if it
would lift me out of the disgrace that clings to
me. I thank you for all your kindness. I
will go back to school, and Mrs. Arnot will
help me to gain a living in some humble way.”

She had risen, as if wishing to close the
interview, and her trembling hands busied
themselves in folding the dressing-sacque she
had brought in her sachel. Gideon thought it
time to end the drama.

“You are beginning your packing for de-
parture already,” he said, meaningly. ‘ But
you will have to yield to a strong curb, my
pretty filly. You are never going back to the
school.” oe

Alida looked at him in amazement.

«You promised Mrs. Arnot to bring me by
Saturday, Mr. Weir.”

“J have changed my mind. In fact, I do
not mind telling you I never meant you should
go back. And since you are so soon to change
your name for mine, young lady, you need not
call me ‘Mr. Weir’ any longer. That name
has served its turn. Mine is Gideon Drake, at

service.”
ye With blanched cheeks, and with open, fixed
eyes, the girl drank in the horror of his words.

“Now you know all. I have done a little
masquerading, all for love of you, to win a

vely bride.”

x And —did not Mr. Lovel send you?”

“J do not know your Mr. Lovel. I had
seen his handwriting, however, and I me a
tolerable adept at imitation of manuscript.

“You forged a letter from him?”

“Tt was only a card of introduction, As to
your mother—she isareal personage. I have
seen and talked with her to-day. I offered to
bring you to her, to prove your birth, and
keep the secret for a fair sum; but she fired
up and refused my overtures. She got on her
high horse, and ordered me out. Her husband
came, hearing the noise, and I left them to the
nice little explanation that had to follow. :

“ Oh, heaven! what will become of me,” ex-
claimed Alida, clasping her hands.

“You have nothing to fear. You shall
marry me, as I said, and I will carve you out
a fortune equal to the best of them.” :

He stretched out his hand. But Alida
snatched hers from his grasp.

“You have acted like a villain!” she cried.
“<-You can never compel me to obey you.”

“J think you will find yourself mistaken.
You cannot leave here without my consent.
You shall not, unless you go in my company.”

“J am your prisoner?” asked the girl, trem-
bling.

Gideon nodded.

“The captive, not of my bow and spear,
but of my skill and my art. Come, dearest
girl, do not waste strength in struggling
against bonds you cannot break. Submit to

me. I will make a loving and indulgent bus- |

 

 
  
 

BGELLES AND BHAUSX.

 

band. TI will make you happy in spite of your
aversion. The thing must be. If you will
not go with me pleasantly I will keep you
here till a minister can be fetched to join our
hands; and you will find there is no use in re-
sisting my will.”

Alida stood revolving the chances of escape.

““T see—you hesitate”—said her captor, in
his smooth, soft tones. ‘‘‘The woman who
deliberates is lost?) You will be guided by me,
love, and march on to fortune! | Eh?”

The girl sighed, deeply, and sunk upon her
seat.

“In that sigh fled her dream of indepen-
dence. She is mine! ‘ Faint heart, etc.’ I see
you are overcome, dear girl. We will speak
no further, for all is settled. Shall I call Lot-
tie to help you prepare for bed?”

““Tf you please,” Alida replied, faintly.

Not a doubt was in Gideon’s mind, as he left
the room, that he had come off conqueror.

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE WEARY WAY.

Ir was late at night, and the hut was pro-
foundly silent. Gideon had gone, three hours
before, to-his chamber in the loft. Charlotte
had retired to her couch behind the shawl that
served for a screen, and her regular breathing
bespoke the most profound slumber.

The fire had died out, and the lamp was ex-
tinguished. Only a faint line of moonlight
came through the narrow casement, and fell on
the floor.

Alida rose noiselessly from her bed.

She had put on her night-sacque over her
traveling-dress when she pretended to disrobe,
and had not removed her shoes or stockings.
Her sachel, cloak, and hat lay close to her
hand. She gathered them up and moved to
the door, so softly that a bird would not have
been scared from its perch by her movements.

She had made up her mind at once, when
Gideon threw off his mask, to escape from her
prison. Her passiveness, her wearied submis-
sion, were assumed to hide her real purpose,
And no mistress of the dramatic art could have
put on the air and mien of a thoroughly con-
quered person more successfully.

Gideon was completely deceived by it. He
regarded his cause as won. He did not even
think it necessary to caution his daughter, for
the idea of the girl’s attempting to gain her
freedom never once occurred to him.

Just after Lottie had retired, on some pre-
text or other, Alida had gone to the other end
of the room, making pretended efforts to
relight the lamp. Then she had lifted the cur-
tain, for a few moments, and while fumbling
at the pane, had removed the fastenings of the
door. With the remark, that she had found
what she wanted, she lowered the curtain, and
returned to bed.

The temptation to feign sleep was too great
to be resisted, and a perfectly excusable decep-
tion. Thus she had deceived Charlotte, who
really felt no interest in watching her.

Now her soft fingers undid the door, and
closed it quietly after her. Then she inhaled a
deep breath of the cold night air.

She fled like a fawn along the path—taking
the direction from which they had come two
days before.

She stopped and listened when she had gained
the road; and for an instant deliberated which
way to take. The moon was obscured by
clouds, but she could see the track of wheels
leading across the clearing to the woods be-
yond, She would gain the station, she thought,
by the road they had traveled.

For two hours she continued her flight, till
she came to the further edge of the wood.
Then she sat down on a log to rest.

She felt faint and hungry. There was a
spring close by, and she drank of it. She drew
from her pocket two or three biscuits, which
she had taken from a plate on the table, before
going to bed, with a view to this need of re-
freshment. Bread and water were a nourish-
ing meal for her. After a prayer for further
guidance, she arose to pursue her journey.

Suddenly it occurred to her that, her captor,
if he came in pursuit, would naturally take the
same track, He would infer her desire to reach
the station, and her keeping the road over
which she had been driven. Terror took pos-
session of her at this thought.

She was now on a tolerably beaten road, and
it was not long before she came to a branch,
leaving it almost at right angles. The last was
anew way and she hesitated not to take it.
She might get to the railway by this, as she
saw the general direction was still westward.

Oh, how weary she felt, as she dragged her
steps along the wet grass and dusty road! She
was obliged to sit down many times. Then she
would start up in affright—listening for the
sound of horses’ feet behind her. She was
chilled to the heart. She resolved to stop at
the first house, and crave succor and shelter.

She had come, she thought, full twelve miles;
perhaps fifteen. Her progress was slow; and
when she saw the moon go down, and utter
darkness swallow up the landscape, she was al-
most in despair.

But she reflected that the friendly dark-
ness would effectually screen her from the dan-
ger of discovery by any pursuer; and she could
make some little progress by keeping the road.
This she did for a long time, till fatigue quite
overpowered her.

There was a cluster of bushes by the road-
side, and creeping behind them, she sunk on the
ground, resting her head upon her sachel. At
once she became unconscious; but whether
sleep or a swoon had overcome her, she never
could tell.

Daylight was upon her when her eyes un-
closed. The red sun was peering above a dense

* |

bank of clouds in the east.
wild alarm.

She started up in

Her limbs were stiff with cold and the con- |

strained posture, but she felt refreshed by the
rest. The object that struck her eyes was a
line of smoke curling above trees about a quar-
ter of a mile distant.

She hurried to the welcome shelter. She
saw a woman outside the log-hut, picking up
a basket of chips, and a man milking the
cow.

Going up to the woman she craved per-
mission to warm herself and rest in the house.
She had walked nearly all night, she said, and
had missed her way.

Surely—the woman said, she was welcome.
She led the way in, placed a willow chair,
and made the fire burn brightly. It was
strange to see so young a girl in such a plight,
and she asked numerous questions.

Alida’s thoughts were ever on the probabil-
ity of pursuit, and after some hesitation she
thought it best to confide in the hospitable
dame. She told her story in as few words as
possible, and received warm sympathy and
promises that she should not be betrayed.

In answer to her inquiries, she learned that
the railroad was still seven or eight miles dis-
tant.

‘‘ But, you’re safe enough,” the dame said,
“or my man would go with you. You’vea
straight road, and in an hour or two there’ll
be plenty of wagons; you can get a ride in one
of them.”

Reassured, the tired girl yielded to the de-
licious feeling of restfulness and safety, and
received warmth and comfort.

The breakfast preparations gave her a keen
appetite. Presently the fried pork, hot corn
cake, baked potatoes and steaming coffee were
placed on the uncovered table. The aged
laborer asked a blessing before partaking of the
meal.

Never had food been so sweet to the taste
as this to the forlorn wanderer. When she
was ready to start again, she drew out her
little purse, in which there was a dollar and
some change, and offered payment to the
good woman, with thanks for her entertain-
ment,

“TI not take a cent from ye,” protested
the worthy dame. ‘It’s welcome you are to
everything. I can see you are poor as well as
myself; and God send ye good luck.”

Alida could not prevail on her to accept
even a remembrance in the little silken purse,
But her heartfelt thanks and blessings were
gladly received.

She went on her way again, with : enewed
strength and walked rapidly, looking out for
wagons that did not come. It was still very
early.

By this time, she thought, with a thrill of
fear, her enemy would be up, perhaps making
provision for her expected journey with him.
But Charlotte was a late riser. Her flight had
not yet been discovered. She had perhaps an
hour or less of possible safety. Then—she
would be pursued on horseback.

She quickened her pace, and kept on in a
fast walk for an hour anda half or more, It
seemed that she must have come at least five
miles.

She heard the roll of wheels behind her,
and ran to the shelter of a piece of woods,
She felt dreadfully fatigued, and her heart
grew sick at the thought of being recaptured
so near a safe termination of her flight.

A wagon rolled by, loaded to the top. She
decided to follow it, but not to ask help. As
she emerged from the thicket, an unexpected
sight met her view.

Half a mile or more distant, down in the
valley, were the clustering dwellings of a vil-
lage! Could it be a railway station?

She hurried on her way. She overtook the
wagon and spoke to the driver, inquiring
what place that was. He shook his head; and
growled ‘Ich kann nicht English.”

Alida took hold of the wagon behind and
ran, dragged on by it, for her overtaxed
strength began to fail again.

They reached the village. The girl stopped
before an old-fashioned pump, used for water-
ing horses. Her very breath seemed gone.

She sunk on a box by the sidewalk, She
could not speak to the passers-by.

Then she tried to pump a little water to
drink and bathe her head. She was so long
about it that a brutal savage who was waiting,
uttered an impatient oath, and flung the water
from the trough over her. Her dress was
drench and soiled.

She determined to make her way to the
tavern, and dry her clothes before going on.
She felt a stupor stealing over her, with a
burning pain in her head, and was fearful of
falling. Should she swoon in the street, and
be claimed by her persecutor, who would save
her from him?

By asking one or two passengers, she found
the way to the little inn. She entered and
was making her way to the kitchen.

Two or three men, boisterously talking,
came from the dining-room. Alida shrunk on
one side to let them pass. One of them no-
ticed the wet and draggled appearance of her
dress, laughed, and pointed to a room opposite,
the door of which stood partly open; bidding
her go in there and dry herself.

She went to the door and pushed it open:
The warm glow of firelight filled the room.
A table neatly spread stood in the center, and
a gentleman was seated at breakfast.

The girl started back with a cry of surprise
and dismay. At one glance she had recog-
nized Leon Burke!

She fled along the passage without a second
look. But her exclamation had been heard by
him, and he was at the door. As she turned

 

for an instant, the recognition was mutual. ’

 

LE

=. =

“Miss Barrett. Good Heavens!” he ex-
claimed.

A woman’s first impulse, we all believe, is to
think of her dress, in any critical situation.
Alida remembered the condition of hers, and
blushed with shame. She would have rushed
away to avoid any acquaintance; but Leon
had grasped both her hands and poured forth
questions she was unable to answer.

“Come in here, poor child!” he said, and
drew her into the room he had just quitted.
He placed her in an easy-chair near the fire.

“You are almost fainting; your dress is
drenched! No—do not try to speak now.
Drink some of this.” He held a cup of warm
strong coffee to her lips. But she put it
away, and asked for a glass of water.

In a few moments she was able to thank
him. But he would not let her talk, till he
had summoned the landlady, and made her
bring dry garments, and a glass of wine, and
left her to minister to the comfort of her
guest.

“What a lucky chance my having to come
here late last night on business for my father!”
he remarked to the dame. But he said noth-
ing to call attention to the strangeness of
Alida’s being there,

“She has had a terrible walk”—replied the
good woman to his inquiry about an hour
later, ‘and an awful fright too, I’m thinking!
The best thing she could do would be to have a
good sleep.”

“Then have a room prepared for her imme-
diately.”

But Alida would not stop. Though she now
felt perfectly safe, she was anxious to reach
her destination—Mrs. Arnot’s’ School, Morris-
ania.

She resumed her traveling dress, and pre-
pared to continue her journey. The station
was yet a mile distant, and she could easily
walk that far.

‘Young Burke sent in a request to see her.

She felt impelled to confide in him. Desolate
as she was, it was a comfort to meet sympathy
she knew to be sincere. And he was so full of
tenderness and pity, and warm regard not al-
lied to the love that had once driven her from
a home.

She forgot altogether what Miss Le Brun
had told her of her betrothal to him,

So she told him, in all simplicity, the story
of the fraud practiced on her; the appeal to
her unknown mother, and the project of her
captor. Not till she had mentioned that the
villain was Charlotte’s, father, and that his real
name was Gideon Drake, did the recollection
flash upon her, that Miss Le Brun had claimed
to be the affianced wife of Leon Burke.

She stopped suddenly, overwhelmed with
mortification.

Leon made no comment on her story. But
he said:

“You shall go no further alone! I have my
phaeton here, and I will drive you to Mrs. Ar-
not’s.”

“Oh, no, Mr, Burke! I can go in the train.
I know the way very well from the station.”

“You have had walking enough! ‘You are
in danger, now, of illness from fatigue! And
you would not be safe. I will take you: but
you had better rest till afternoon. It is only a
few hours’ drive.”

She could not rest. She was too anxious to
go. It was Saturday, too; and Mrs. Arnot
would be expecting her.

Deaf to all her protestations of being able to
pursue the journey alone, Leon ordered his
phaeton. He was driving it himself. He took
a warm shaw] offered by the landlady, wrapped
it round the shivering form of the pale girl,
and sprung into the seat. They took the car-
riage road.

Alida drew her vail down, and closed her
eyes, with a sense of security and comfort.
She fell into a doze as the light phaeton glided
along the smooth road. '

Leon did not disturb her by speaking. He
saw that her utter exhaustion, with the dread-
ful excitement she had undergone, had brought
her to the verge of brain fever. Her face was
flushed; her breathing was oppressed and irreg-
ular.. Rest alone could save her from illness.

At the hut in the forest, there had been an
exciting scene. Gideon rose early, and had
brought out from an outhouse a dilapidated
wagon, to which he meant to harness the horse
he had ridden. He spent an hour or two
mending the harness; then called Hester to get
breakfast ready.

Just as it was prepared, Charlotte uttered a
ery from the inner room. She had that in-
stant discovered the flight of her companion.

Without waiting for breakfast, Gideon sad-
dled his horse, and started in pursuit. He had
no doubt of soon overtaking the fugitive.

(To be continued.)

To the objection, ‘Time spent in amuse-
ment is time wasted,” I respond, time spent in
amusement is not time wasted; it is the re-
quired response to a God-imposed need of our
nature. As well may the objector say, ‘Time
spent in eating, in sleeping, is time wasted.”
It may be a weakness that we need to spend
time eating, sleeping, but let a man rise on the
stilts of pride and refuse to bend to the weak-
ness of eating, sleeping, things will not long
go well with him. So it may be a weakness
that, to retain his powers in full strength, a
man must at intervals cease work and play;
yet unless (confessing his weakness) he does
just this thing, it will not long go well with
him—he will never attain the highest possibili-
ties of work in him—play is bread to him, re-
creation to him. Says Talleyrand, “It is
wonderful how a little nonsense refreshes a
man.” When aman becomes a Christian, he
does not cease to be a man—amusement is

needful and proper for him.—Dr. Nesbit.

     
  
      
    
        
   
    
   
   
   

 

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—=<—

(or OOOO
i EN .

 
    
      
             
 

 

GHELLES AND BHAUX.

[Apri 4, 1874.

 

 

A FAREWELL.

BY 8S. M. HARPER.

 

 

Farewell! Forever fare thee well,
Our friendship now must sever,

The sadness of these lines must tell
How well I loved thee ever.

Yet though a thousand worlds were thine,
And all the wealth that’s in them,

I would not that this heart of mine
Should ever strive to win them.

No heart but mine can ever know
What I have suffered for thee,

No one has heard the sighs of woe
Since passion’s change came o’er me.

In former years I deemed thee true,
But thou at last deceived me—

False one, I care no more for you
Since I cannot believe thee.

Deceiver, I can bid thee go,

My heart has learned to hate thee,
And yet it cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee—
It was thy wickedness that made

My heart from thine to sever,
f{meonstant one, I hate thee now,

So fare thee well forever.

 

 

SOROSIS AT HOME.

 

BY 8S. J. CURTISS.

 

66 BY George! Here’s something rich. I
J say, Syd, let’s go.”

Sydney Clayton lazily unclosed his hand-
some hazel eyes, and removed the fragrant
Partaga from between his mustached lips.

“Go? Go where?” he repeated.

For answer Tom Everett tossed toward his
friend the missive a servant had just handed
him.

‘Read, and confess that the end is not yet.”

And Sydney drew from its large, unsealed
envelope, addressed in bold characters to Mrs.
Everett and daughter, an invitation couched
in these remarkable terms:

‘Miss Amanda Grimshaw requests the plea-
sure of your company this evening at the
weekly meeting of the Sorosis Society of this
village. Please present this invitation at the
door. Gentlemen will not be permitted to
enter.” ‘

With a sigh Sydney resumed his cigar, and
pointed to the concluding clause, deeply and
darkly underscored.

“We can’t go,” he said, sadly.

** Nonsense,” returned Tom, ‘‘’tis the easiest
thing in the world; we have only to borrow
the garb of the fair ones.”

“And sacrifice our manhood?” faintly cb-
jected Sydney.

“Only for a time, my friend, and in a good
cause,” was the consoling reply.

So, promptly at eight o’clock, both gentle-
men, armed with the all-powerful passport,
and gracefully and effectually disguised in
barege vails and waterproof cloaks, effected an
entrance within the select parlors of Miss Grim-
shaw.

A few of the strong-minded had forestalled
them, and were formally ranged along the
rooms in high-backed chairs. Tom and Sydney
prudently took seats near the door, and within
its friendly shadow. Soon the rooms began to
fill, and the tongues of the fair ones to wag
more freely; but the gentlemen maintained a
discreet silence. They listened with com-
mendable patience to the reading of a wordy
report by the President and hostess, while
Sydney glanced cautiously, but critically, at
the sharp, hard featur s of his neighbors.

‘“ What an ugly set of women,” he ejaculated
at length, his feelings finding vent in a danger-
ously emphatic whisper. ‘‘Is this the flower
of Fairview femininity?’

“Creme de la creme,” answered Tom.

But a warning gesture from that young
man checked further comment. For the old
lady in front had turned round and was view-
ing them with an unfriendly, and what was
worse, a suspicious glance. The subject, how-
ever, had deeply impressed Sydney. Under
cover of the storm of applanse called forth by
a spirited denunciation of man’s tyranny, he
broke forth again.

“T say, Tom, what makes them all such
guys?”

‘oTis their principles, my boy,” was the
soothing answer.

“Then, ‘from all false doctrines, heresy and
schism,’” he began.

But his pious reflection was cut short by the
entrance of a lady young and fair, with a face
of child-like innocence, yet telling of much
thought withal. With the least suspicion of
embarrassment she crossed the room, holding
a roll of MS. in one small, white hand, and
seated herself beside Miss Grimshaw. The
latter rose. #

‘An essay will now be read by my niece,
Miss Durwood.”

And Sydney listened while the sweet, girlish
voice uttered scathing denunciation against
his much-abused sex, called loudly for the
ballot, and declaimed against the abuses of
society. The pink cheeks gained a deeper
hue, the fine eyes shone with a light which
might have meant enthusiasm—or could it be
scorn? It certainly looked like it, as the reader
paused abruptiy in her discourse, and tossing
aside the paper, exclaimed:

““T must beg to be excused from reading any
more of this; I can not consent to be even the
mouthpiece for sentiments so utterly repug-
nant to me!”

“Grace Durwood, what do you mean? I
wrote that essay.”

“I know it, aunt,” the young girl’s voice was
trembling a little, and she stepped back out of
reach of Miss Grimshaw’s avenging hand,
which was moving with threatening alacrity
toward her ears. ‘‘ I should have looked it over
before I consented to read it, and known what
was required of me, but—”

 

“Good! good!” rung out in clear, manly
tones from the other end of the room.

And Tom, poor Tom thought it was all over
with them, for Sydney, forgetful of his sur-
roundings, was vigorously applauding, and it
was unmistakably a man’s hand, a man’s coat-
sleeve that were protruding from that water-
proof cloak.

“Goodness, gracious me!”

“A man! -A man!” shouted a chorus of
feminine voices, and all was wild confussion.

But, even at this trying moment, Tom’s pre-
sence of mind did not fail him. He saw one
way, and but one for escape. With a quick,
dexterous movement he extinguished the lights,
then pocketed the contents of the match-box
and seized Sydney by the arm.

“Now let us run for dear life!”

And run they did, over the bamboo chairs
that adorned Miss Grimshaw’s veranda, through
her fragrant flower-beds, knee-deep amo g
petunias and heliotrope, out into the summer
night and under the driving rain.

Five minutes later they had gained Tom’s room
and donned dressing-gowns and slippers. Tom
placed a huge meerschaum in Sydney’s hands,
and himself took another.

“Smoke,” he said, laconically. “It is our
only hope: we must prove an alibi.”

So well did they improve their time, that
when Mrs. Everett, shortly after, stepped to
her son’s door to see how that young gentle-
man and his guest were getting along, she
found a perfect picture of bachelor comfort.
Books and papers were strewn liberally around
and the atmosphere odorous with tobacco
smoke.

“Well, boys,” commented the good lady,
‘“yvou seem to keep warm and dry in here.

““Eh?”’ queried Tom, half opening his sleepy
eyes, ‘‘ raining, is it?”

““T guess you would say so, if you were
out,” and Mrs. Everett departed, satisfied that
the boys were enjoying themselves, and that
there was no danger of the stormy evening
hanging heavily on their hands.

Great was the excitement in Fairview at
the unlooked-for termination of the Sorosis
meeting, and many were the surmises in-
dulged in as to the identity of the intruders.
Suspicion pointed her long finger at Tom and
Sydney, but Mrs. Everett, who was a woman
of undoubted integrity, came forward, and
asserted in such broad and unqualified terms
that neither had been out on the evening in
question, but had passed the time quietly in
their own room smoking and reading, that she
confounded their accusers, and almost con-
vinced the delinquents themselves that such
was really the case.

It was not until long after that Sydney
ventured to confess to Grace, among his other
shortcomings, his attendance at the Sorosis
meeting.

“ And after all, darling,” he concluded—for
Sydney had gained the right by this time to
call her by that endearing title—‘‘ foolish as
the escapade was I have never really regretted
it, for it was there I first saw and loved you.”

““Tndeed,” returned that young lady. ‘‘ Well,
it is now my turn to enter the confession-
al—”

“< Proceed.”

And acknowledge that I caught a glimpse of
your face on the evening in questich, recog-
nized you at once afterward, and in fact—”

** Have never cared for any one else since,”
concluded Sydney.

“ How absurd.”

But though Grace did not admit his con-
clusion neither did she deny it, and Sydney
was left to draw his own inferences.

 

“HIBS, GREAT AND SMALL.

RANCIS BACON has said that ‘‘ no plea-
sure is comparable to the standing upon
the vantage-ground of truth.” We would not
say there is a general disregard of this kind of
pleasure, nor of the obligation of speaking the
truth under a sense of duty; but obviously,
when party purposes are to be served, or when
some narrow kinds of selfishness or silly vani-
ties are concerned, there is little care about
being truthful, or, what comes much to the
same thing—the truth is artfully suppressed to
serve a particular end.

In speaking as well as writing the truth,
there is doubtless an improvement—we mean
in England—as compared with former times,
pictured by historians and essayists. Yet,
things are not what one could wish. Although
the character of a habitual liar is far from
being reputable, many go on telling lies and
conveying false impressions all their days,
without incurring serious question. They fall
into the habit of telling droll or heroic stories
about themselves that are no better than a ro-
mance, at which their friends laugh or pass
over with a smile, though known to be false-
hoods. The mind of these romancers seems to
be twisted off its balance. They perhaps do
not deliberately mean to lie, but, carried away
by their feelings, and wishing to show off, they
plunge into a recital abounding with ingenious
but ridiculous inventions. As they begin, they
stick to the truth, but warming up, you see,
by their impassioned glare, that they have
dashed headlong into the realms of fiction.

That these romancers, to call them so, derive
pleasure from their fabrications, can hardly be
questioned. We have known several—seeming-
ly a happy sort of beings. They did not do
much harm by their lies, for the world had
learned what was their foible, and laughed as
much at as with them. ‘In these arms Aber-
crombie died!” a middle-aged gentleman used
to say, with fervid emotion, when detailing
circumstances in his past life. Everybody
knew he was romancing. He was looked upon

 

 

as a harmless and amusing version of Baron
Munchausen.

The bad example set by some ladies, in di-
recting their domestics to say they are ‘ not at
home ” to visitors, instead of candidly men-
tioning that they are at present engaged, can
hardly fail to be demoralizing. It accustoms
servants to lie on their own behalf. Whether
arising from this vicious practice, or from nat-
ural infirmity, female domestics, in particular,
are occasionally found to be desperate roman-
cers. Several occur to our remembrance. If
too late in coming home at night, they would
dress up the most extraordinary tissue of false-
hoods to account for their detention. One ex-
celled in lying. Her stories were really in-
genious. For having been out all night, she
told, with symptoms of distress, that ‘‘ on her
way home in the previous evening, a messen-
ger overtook her from her mother in the coun-
try, to say that her foster-brother had, while
crossing a field, been savagely gored by a bull,
and was not expected to live; that this foster-
brother was a foundling; he had been discov-
ered under the shelter of ‘a bush, wrapped in a
dark-brown shawl with a yellow border, and
was a sweet infant with light-blue eyes, pret-
tily dressed in a cambric frock; that her
mother, being a kind-hearted though poor
woman, could not resist the desire to keep and
suckle the child, who had grown up a dutiful
son, and been a good scholar; that on being
hurriedly summoned to the death-bed of this
worthy young man, she had gone off in all
speed to see him, but that he was dead on her
arrival (shower of tears), and that her mother
was inconsolable; that she waited as long as
possible to assist in regard to the funeral,
which was to be next Thursday at one o’clock;
and that her mother trusted she would be able
to be present at this last and distressing
scene.” The romance was credited, compassion
was excited, and a benefaction for behoof of
the heart-broken foster-parent was given. It
was not till some time afterward, when the
lies of this accomplished fictionist became too
palpable for belief, that the story of the bull
and the alleged foster-brother was found to be
a falsehood from beginning to end. This
woman should (if with the ability to spell and
construct sentences in decent English) have
taken to romance-writing. Her inventiveness
as a domestic only got her turned about her
business.

Of course we have to draw a distinction be-
tween the inventors of lies for a mischievous
purpose, and the relators of professed fictions,
or the utterers of jokes and humorous sallies,
which are understood to have for their object
a little passing amusement, or it may be the
chastisement of some impropriety. Just as
parables or similitudes were employed to con-
vey instruction in an effective way regarding
moral and social duties, so have the story-
tellers of all ages been appreciated for bring-
ing imagination to the support of what is
characteristic in human nature. So, also,
with the Improvisatori of Italy and the East,
who invent incidents as they proceed in their
poetical harangues, not to deceive in the quali-
ty of liars, but to ‘“‘hold up the mirror to na-
ture,” as is visibly done in the action of the
drama, to which, when conducted in a right
spirit, there never can be any rational objec-
tion.

Those who meanly indulge in the fabrica-
tion of falsehoods in order to mislead, or to
cover some personal delinquency, stand in an
entirely different category. They are con-
stantly presenting themselves in endless varie-
ty, from the wretched domestic who tries to
deceive her mistress, to the learned disputant
who unworthily maligns a successful rival in
science, or to the political ~ riter who does not
scruple to invent and circulate what he knows
to be untrue, with a view to help the interests
of his party. Of this last variety of lying we
have unfortunately almost daily specimens,
greatly to the discredit of a press which other-
wise merits a eulogium for its purity. One is
the more disposed to lament any such imper-
fection, when remembering that through a
disregard of truth, and a pandering to na-
tional weaknesses, the Parisian press diverged
into wholesale and systematic lying as regards
the events and issues of the Franco-German
war, thereby damaging the very cause which
was yrofessedly espoused. It might almost be
said that France has been ruined by lies.

The most melancholy of all lies are those
with which a man tries to impose upon him-
self. Conscience tells him he is acting wrong-
ly and he endeavors to deny the fact by some
kind of delusive subterfuge. This kind of in-
ternal lying is finely referred to in Carlyle’s
Cromwell: ‘‘False in speech; alas, false in
thought, first of all; who have never let the
Fact tell its own harsh story to them; who
have said always to the harsh Fact, ‘Thou art
not that way, thou art this way!’” What an
uncovering of human infirmity!

There is, we believe, a theory that a coun-
sel, however earnest, must not give it as his
own opinion that his client, the defendant at
the bar, is innocent. That would be going too
far, and possibly meet with rebuke. With
this reservation, every device, as it would ap-
pear, may be employed to rebut the evidence
for the prosecution, and secure an acquittal.
To what extent this may be done with a safe
conscience, when there is a private knowledge
that the defendant is guilty of the crime laid
to his charge, is a question rather painful to
consider. Doing their best professionally on
the side of the weakest, one would not like to
pass a severe judgment on the sayings and do-
ings of counsel in the ordinary class of cases;
but we may at any rate avow that the latitude
in which certain of our ‘learned friends”
sometimes indulge is so far beyond the bounds
of propriety as to produce no small degree of

 

astonishment. Recent events haye materially
contributed to lower ‘‘the bar” in public esti-
mation—a thing to be regretted.

Falsehoods to palm off essentially fraudulent
commercial schemes, such as those for which
Americans have gained an unenviable notorie-
ty, too often, like base political lies for party
purposes, escape with the most casual remark,
as if a matter of no consequence. The dispo-
sition to treat a political lie as a thing which
will just serve its turn for a day, and be not
heard of the next, argues some ignorance of
facts, as well as a heartless trifling with truth.
The canard, as a political falsehood is euphem-
istically called, may last no more than a day
or a week in the place of its birth, but its eca-
reer is not then at an end. Talleyrand is said
to have made the sage remark, that ‘if you
give a lie half an hour, you may chase it round
the world.” What in his time took days and
weeks, is now performed in a few minutes. A
lie of some note issued in London is next
morning over the whole of North America,
has reached India, Australia, and New Zea-
land, and who can tell the injury it may have
inflicted in its world-wide excursion? The
celerity which marks the progress of various
kinds of lies was discovered long before the
days of Talleyrand. Dr. John Arbuthnot, the
friend of Pope, Swift, Gay, and Prior, in his
* History of John Bull” (1712), makes some
smart observations regarding lies and their
duration: ‘‘ As to the celerity of their motion,
it is almost incredible. There are several in-
stances of lies that have gone faster than a
man can ride post. Your terrifying lie travels
at a prodigious rate, above ten miles an hour,
Your whispers move in a narrow vortex, but
very swiftly. It is impossible to explain sey-
eral phenomena in relation to the celerity of
lies, without the supposition of synchronism
and combination. As to the duration of lies,
they are of all sorts, from hours and days to
ages; there are some which, like insects, die
and revive again in a different form; good ar-
tists, like people who build upon a short lease,
will calculate the duration of a lie surely to
answer their purpose; to last just as long, and
no longer than the turn is served.”

Were we to draw up a catalogue raisonne
of the various departments and qualities of
lying, it would—if we embraced the different
orders of romancers and canard circulators—
be a somewhat startling production. That,
however, is beyond our role. All we ean do is
to offer a useful hint. Books have been written
on the Anatomy of Sleep and the Anatomy of
Drunkenness. At present, there is a peculiarly
favorable opening for a work on the Anatomy
of Lying, with a chapter specially devoted to
ingeniously fabricated false evidence in Courts
of Justice.

 

KNICKNACKS.

 

 

rFXHE world in general may be divided into
two classes, the one thinking all they
have and do perfection, the other disparaging
their own possession, and coveting and ap-
proving all that their neighbors do or have.
Perhaps neither plan is to be too highly com-
mended, but it certainly is advisable to try to
improve our surroundings by the experience of
our friends; and seldom does a better opportu-
nity: occur of so doing than in a round of
social visits. Friends’ houses are seen to the
very best advantage when in apple-pie order
for guests; and women are wont to sit cosily
round the fire many times in the day gossiping
of the needlework on hand, and of other in
prospect. Lacework and knitting carry alk
before them still, and not a few ladies have
established quite an artistic reputation for silk
embroidery and applique work. Several yards
of exquisite trimming have been produced by
making a bordering of flowers in floss silk,
copied from nature, on tulle; the foundation,
when complete, being cut away from round
the pattern, and quite hidden in the flowers,
both right and wrong side showing only silk.
This is the kind of trimming which formed
such a costly addition to the beautiful evening
dresses worn by the Princess of Wales and her
sister during the visit of the Shah. It may,
of course, be advantageously applied to any-
thing, and if used as a bordering to light-blue
silk curtains, it makes a charming boudoir.

Talking of curtains, how far more indus-
trious were our grandmothers and great
grandmothers than are the present generation!
We have quite lost the art of embroidering in
wool, in which they so excelled. Tokens of
their labor and skill remain in many an old
country house, where coarse-twilled calico, or
perhaps a flimsy woolen fabric of neutral
tint, has been transformed into a priceless
heirloom, covered diagonally by foliage and
birds in worsted embroidery, the worsted be-
ing apparently of a double twist and worked
into a firm, compact surface. The tints they
chose were of the greenish brown tone, which
fade so slowly. There is a richnesss and dur-
ability in this work that ought to commend
itself to willing fingers now-a-days.

There is a novelty in braiding of late,
which has been successfully applied to night-
gown cases, round mats, and bed-pcckets.
The pattern is drawn on pink, green, or blue
calico, which is laid on the white pique or
jean, and the stitches of the braiding are car-
ried through both. When finished the colored
calico beyond it is all cut away, leaving the
appearance of a strip of braiding on color
resting on a white foundation. In round
mats this is particularly pretty. The center

will be white, then comes a bordering of .

braiding in color, then some more white, fin-
ishing off with fringe. The pattern should be
somewhat straight at each edge, or it is diffi-
cult to cut the color away neatly; but when

 

    
   
   
     
    
   
    
   
    
    
 
  
 
   
  
    
   
  
     
    
  
    
    
 
  
  
  
  
    
    
    
   
    
    
   
  
    
    
    
  
  
     
   
    
   
    
     
  
     
   
  
  
    
  
  
     
   
    
    
   
  
   
 
  
    
    
    
   
     
   
  
    
   
   
 
   
    
   
   
  
   
 
    
  
    
   
   
   
  
     
  
  
    
   
  
 
  
   
   
   
 
  
   
   
  
 
   
  
   
  
   
    
  
    
  
   
  
  

 

 

 

Pe ERREPRNRRRRrOES

       
  

 

   
      
      
        
 
     
     
     
       
 

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Aprit 4, 1874.]

BGHELLES AND GEAUX,

 

this is not the case it may be surmounted by
laying a straight line of braid outside the
pattern, and cutting away beneath that.

Round d’oyleys in the new Honiton lace
work are quite superseding the round Madeira
ones and others. They are very quickly
made, and are so transparent that they do not
hide the pretty china now so general for des-
sert services. i

As the subject of house furniture and de-
corations is of unusual interest to all the
ladies, perhaps some of them would be glad
to hear how the country house of a well-known
connoisseur in matters of taste is furnished.
Each bedroom is of a different color, but in
all other respects alike. The carpets through-
out are black; the panels, wainscots, doors and
furniture ar® also all black, with a little gild-
ing introduced. The walls are not papered,
but are covered with the same cretonne as the
curtains and bed furniture. Each bed has an
eider-down quilt covered with the same cre-
tonne, and each window has plain muslin
curtains, with goffered frills as well as cre-
tonne curtains. Black is coming into great
favor now in the decoration of houses; and
lace-workers are beginning to see that furni-
ture lace never shows to such advantage as on
black velvet or black satin, relieved by colored
bows, either for writing or Belgravian tea-
tables, mantel-pieces, brackets, or the like.
Satin is more durable than velvet, for soap
and water carefully applied will make it as
good as new.

In selecting flowers for the decoration of the
dinner-table at this season of the year, care
should also be taken that they are of a color
which will stand artificial light, as it is by that
they will mostly be seen. Many that present
most delicate and lovely tints by daylight, ap-
pear, when under artificial light, ugly and in-
distinct. Take some of our mauves and yel-
lows for example. For this purpose there is
nothing more effective than white and scarlet.
Of course, the stands must be regulated ac-
cording to the size of the table; but a table
should never be over-crowded, for if overdone
it looks even worse than one only half done;
and the same may be said in respect to the ar-
ranging of the flowers in the stands. Above
every thing, avoid crowding and excess, for no
matter how handsome the blooms may be, if
they are crushed up against one another they
lose their shape and distinctness. For the de-
coration of a table (say) eight feet long, there
should be in the center a Marchian stand with
a trumpet out of the top tazza, and grouped
round it several specimen glasses. ‘Should
this not look furnished enough, at the top and
bottom can be placed a well-grown fern or
other fine foliage plant; but these will be
found ample in the case of decorations for ev-
ery-day use.

We have long been fond of introducing
flowers into our sitting-rooms; but in many of
our handsome houses the corners of the draw-
ing-rooms are filled up with small boughs in full
foliage, placed in water in antique gilass vases.

It is not money that is wanted to secure
beauty for our surroundings. Lately some
wooden bowls were bought for a few pence at
the village shop, and painted black, which, be-
ing deftly covered with colored pictures, filled
up empty spaces, and showed to advantage as
a background to old china on an oak cabinet.

 

WHAT SATAN SAID TO ME.

BY WALLACE PUTNAM REED,

 

 

Ihave lately seen the Devil,
And the tale 1 have to tell
Smacks a little of the evil
We’ve attributed to hell;
Such a story should be pondered—
Should be told, with bated breath—
Let the moral not be squandered,
Nor forgotten, short of death.

Said the Devil, when he found me—
“Sit thee down and listen well,

In ethereal coils I’ve bound thee,
And no man can break the spe!!;

Sit thee still and give attention,
I'll be brief, but I relate

Matters worthy of a mention—
Matters small and matters great.”

Then the Devil, waxing bolder,
Talking briskly all the while,
Though the room was growing colder,
Smiled a most infernal smile;
Then a chair he took beside me,
And himself sat softly down—
Never did such luck betide me,
Till I saw this wicked clown.

Tn my chair I sat as rigid
As a figure made of stone,
And my manner grew more frigid
At the Devil’s scornful tone;
But he would not stop his leering,
As his ote still faster ran,
And his scoffing and his jeering
Were against both God and man.

As he trifled with my taper,
He proposed the strangest thing—
Said that I must start a paper,
With a strong religious ring;
He would give me in a twinkling,
As his project then was ripe,
Of his plan sufficient inkling—
Leaving me to get the type.

Such a ee would find favor
With the truly pious class,
And the men whose faith did waver
Still would take it with the mass;
Others too, the artful sinners,
Would support it with a will—
In the game of life the winners,
Good or bad, are cunning still,
would be of advertising
reer abundance of the best, —
For, indeed, it’s quite surprising
How such woe are ee
isements of good liquor,
aay erckag balls and finishing-schools—
These would come in, fast and thicker—
Ink and type are useful tools.
4 i ment I, awakin,
se = odd and wretehed dream,
Gave myself a sturdy shaking,
Just as day began to gleam;
Blowing out my feeble taper,
I at once addressed a note
To a certain ‘* pious ” paper—
‘Send no more” was what I wrote!

 

Random Reading.

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR CELIBACY?

Why are there not more marriages?) What
shall be done, is loudly asked by Mrs. Greg
across the water, and taken up by Gail Hamil-
ton in Harper’s Weekly. The latter gives us a
dolorous account of eight unfortunate demoi-
selles promenading into a Saratoga ball-room
escorted by one gentleman, and then gives a
graphic description of the flower and chivalry
of America engaging in hunting and fishing on
the Rocky Mountains, preferring that to the
society of the butterfly young ladies of ‘the
present day. She says men won’t marry be-
cause they can’t support the folly and extrava-
gance of the majority of wives, and thus it is
that so many women pass through life without
a husband’s strong arm to lean upon, and so
many men find a substitute for home in clubs.

Gail Hamilton is severe on her sex. She
has been so before, and, doubtless, will be so
again. But is it a just severity?—that is the
question. Is it the women alone who are re-
sponsible for the fearful increase of celibacy?
We answer, as a man, no. The men are not
one whit less spendthrifts than the women of
society. The women of society, too, whom
Gail so mercilessly flails, constitute but a por-
tion—far less than one-half—of the sex who
are proper wives for proper men. These pro-
per women are, in almost every sense, quali-
fied for a wife’s responsibilities; but even they
are neglected by the men. Why? Because
the men haven’t correct ideas upon the subject
of matrimony: because they prefer a season
of what they call harmless dissipation before
“settling down;” because they are a restless
set, eager to make money, and don’t want to
be “‘hampered” with a wife and family; be-
cause they have pet habits and tastes which
they don’t care to abandon; these are the real
reasons of their non-marriage at or before
thirty years of age, in the great majority of
cases, we believe. Honest confession is a
good thing, sometimes; so is candor in a case
like this, where women are made chiefly re-
sponsible for a most wretched condition of
affairs. Whatever the reason or reasons for
the rapidly-growing unwillingness of men to
marry, it is but a miserable pretext at best to
assume that the extravagance and folly of
women alone drive the men to isolation and
“independence”—Gail Hamilton to the con-
trary notwithstanding.

 

 

OLD FRIENDS.

We are now informed that among the inex:
pensive fabrics for Spring wear, we find old
friends resuscitated from long oblivion, such
as quaint pongee and India silks, cassimere,
and prunella. And there are several new
fabrics, or they may be old rejuvenated ;
among them are fine, soft, light reps, in brown
shades, called croise cloth, and there is a new
German cloth of finest, softest wool, which
will be a formidable rival of cashmere. The
Napoleon blue, this season almost a black blue,
will be more fashionable eyen than last year.
Its most formidable rival will be the mahogany
browns. Evening silks are reproduced in
more decided yet extremely lovely and delicate
tints, such as ocean-mist, sea-foam, conch-shell
pink, burning lava, palest of lake blue, the
faintest of gray blue, all blossom tints, groseitle,
mother of pearl, which is pearl-white with the
slightest possible shadowing of pink, a pure
rosy lilac, and others equaily perfect. The
fabric is much finer than the heavy gros grains;
indeed, the surface may almost be called
smooth as in taffeta; and in this, too, we find
economy both in wear and cleanliness. To
correspond in beauty, dainty white tulle neck-
| ties are carelessly knotted about the throat,
| and the two bows are fastened by a bunch of
roses, frou-frou, crimson and white; or, if pre-
ferred, a little bouquet of bright flowers, such
as scarlet-geranium, rose-buds, geranium-leaf,
and a violet or sprig of heliotrope.

 

ROSES A LUXURY OF THE ANCIENTS.

To enjoy the scent of roses at meals an
abundance of rose leaves were shaken on the
table, so that the dishes were completely sur-
rounded. By an artificial contrivance, roses
during the meals descended on the guests from
above. The Roman Emperor Heliogabalus, in
his folly, caused roses to be showered down
upon his guests in such quantities that a num-
ber of them, being unable to extricate them-
selves, were suffocated in flowers. During
meal-times they reclined on cushions stuffed
with rose-leaves, or made a couch of leaves
themselves. The floor, too, was strewn with
roses, and in this custom great luxury was dis-
played. Cleopatra, at an enormous expense,
procured roses for a feast which she gave to
Anthony, had them laid two cubits thick on
the floor of the banquet-room, and then caused
nets to be spread over the flowers, in order to
render the footing elastic. Heliogabalus
caused not only the banquet-room, but also
the colonnades that led to it, to be covered
with roses interspersed with lilies, violets, hy-
acinths and narcissi, and walked about the
flowery platform.

THE PRINCE OF MILLINERS.

That is what Worth, the man milliner in
Paris, is called, But he should be named the
Fashion Autocrat, for it is his word, his taste
that makes or kills a style, costume or fabric.
A lady who has had experience with this Eng-
lish-Frenchman (for Worth is an Englishman
born and bred) thus reveals his way of doing
business:.

‘‘ Every one who has a friend in Paris sends
for one or more of Worth’s dresses.
who has just returned home from Europe tells

 

   

 

18

 

me how Worth treats you. The man is an
Irishman, and a perfect autocrat about his
business. A lady goes to him, and he gives
her a look of careful scrutiny. With a critic’s
eye he passes her imperfections by, and pays
extravagant compliments. Next, he opens a
box that contains samples of silk and satin in
every shade; he bunches up together at least
four shades of the same color, and claps them
against the lady’s cheek, and then exclaims,
‘That will suit.’ But the lady remonstrates
and says, ‘Oh! Mr. Worth, that is too pro-
nonce for me.’ The gentleman becomes irate,
and says he never submits to dictation, so she
resigns herself to the tyrant, and behold the
result. A dress with a front width of rose-
colored silk, side gores of mauve-color, and a
bouffant court-train of dark plum-color satin,
with the sides turned back with crimson silk,
very low neck, and short sleeves of the plum-
colored satin, with revers of the pink, mauve
and scarlet. Some pronounce the combination
bad, others that it is odd and beautiful. And,
said I, ‘What did he charge you for that
dress? ‘Three hundred and seventy-five dol-
lars,’ she replied. ‘ When I said that I wanted
two waists to the dress, he begged of me to let
him make another dress, for the high-neck I
wanted, and when I declined, he charged me
$70 for the high-neck waist alone,’”

 

WHY ON A FRIDAY.

There has been some gossip, says an English
paper, concerning the selection ef a Friday as
the wedding-day of the Duke of Edinburgh. It
is said that the queen, who is credited in some
quarters with a desire to show contempt for
the usages of the church of which she is ex
officio the head, was anxious that the marriage
should be performed in Lent—as was that of
the Princess Louise—but that the bride’s fami-
ly could not be brought to consent to this in-
fringement of the rules of the universal
church; and so the marriage was arranged for
some day in the last week of January. But
the Thursday of that week is a fast day in the
Greek church, the Saturday is the anniversary
of the death of a saint, and in Russia no mar-
riage can be solemnized on Sunday. So Fri-
day was chosen, much against the will of the
duke, who has the usual sailor’s superstition
against Friday as an unlucky day. However,
in Russia, Friday is looked upon as a lucky
and not an unlucky day.

 

HYPATIA,

One of the purest celebrities of the famous
school of Alexandria, in which city she was
born about the year 370 of the Christian era,
was Hypatia, the daughter of Theon, the cele-
brated mathematician. She was taught geom-
etry and astronomy by her father. Meeting
the famous philosophers of the day, and at-
tending their schools, she acquired the funda-
mental principles of other sciences. After a
journey to Athens, then the brilliant center of
Grecian civilization, whither she went to in-
crease her knowledge, she returned to Alexan-
dria so learned that the professors of the
schools and the mayor of the city called her to
occupy the professorship of philosophy, made
illustrious by celebrated men, and recently held
by Plotinus. To her beauty, purity, and en-
chanting eloquence, she added a profound
knowledge of philosophy and the sciences. She
married Isidorus, the philosopher, and was on
intimate terms of friendship with Licenius, the
Bishop of Cyrete, and Oreites, the Governor of
Alexandria, who, although Christians, had a
just esteem and admiration for the fair pagan.
It is supposed that on account of his friendship
for Hypatia a struggle ensued between Oreites
and Cyrillus, the Patriarch of Alexandria. A
fanatical partisan of the Patriarch, a school-
teacher named Hyerax, who was also a per-
sonal enemy of Hypatia, having been killed,
one Peteo, a reader in the Church of Alexan-
dria, spread the report that Hyerax had lost
his life at the instigation of Oreites and Hypa-
tia. Placing himself at the head of a mob, he
surrounded Hypatia’s house, dragged her to the
church called Cesaree, and there murdered her
without pity. This odious murder, disgraceful
to the Church of Alexandria and Cyrillus, was
committed during Lent, in the year 415, A. D.,
during the reign of Theodosius the younger.
The fact that her murderers were not punished
points to the complicity of the Patriarch.
Hypatia left a large number of works, which
were burned during the great fire which de-
stroyed the library, of Alexandria. Among
these were a treatise on Astronomy, a com-
mentary on Diophantus, and an essay on the
conical divisions of Appolonius.

 

A WONDERFUL ART..

The manufactory in Rome where pictures
are copied in mosaic, being thus rendered al-
most everlasting, or time proof, is the most
celebrated establishment of the kind in the
world, some of its productions being little
less than miracles of artistic genius, beauty
and skill. The mosaic is formed of tiny bits
of opaque colored glass of various shades,
amounting, it is said, to the almost incredible
number of 30,000 different and distinct shades,
themselves so arranged as to form a picture
perfect in every detail—in light, shadow,
shade, and color. It is described as correspond-
ing, in some measure, to the pictures formed
in Berlin wool. The various pieces of colored
glass are placed in their pre-arranged order on
a table covered with a sort of cement, and
when this tedious process is over—for there
are many thousands of pieces in each picture
—the surface of the picture is then smoothed
and polished. These are the main features,
mechanically considered, of this wonderful

A lady /art.

A real mosaic is of course expensive, Even

 

a breast-pin having one of these inlaid designs
costs as much as a gem. But they are so
unique, so highly wrought as works of art,
that every lady’s jewel collection ‘ought to
contain at least a pin or brooch of mosaic, *

 

WEDDING ‘ MISERIES.”

Some very practical Iman says: ‘‘ Mankind
has agreed to surround the marriage ceremony
with some observances of a distressing, not to
say ridiculous, nature. It is generally as-
sumed, we need not ask with what accuracy,
that a marriage is in itself a cause for con-
gratulation to the persons most immediately
interested, and, therefore, it is inferred that
they should suffer cheerfully the small de-
duction from their satisfaction which is in-
volved in making themselves a show to their
acquaintances and to the public generally, As
the world becomes more civilized, there is a
tendency to diminish the quantity of cere-
monial observed; the couple are allowed to
seek refuge in flight, instead of being exposed
to the coarse conviviality customary in former
times; speech-making is rapidly dropping out
of fashion, It may be that in time two humaa
beings, performing the most solemn act of
their lives, will be allowed to get through the
business quietly and seriously, without being
exposed to the ‘intrusions’ of the outside
world!” If that time does come, marriage
will then be a mere form of law or conveni-
ence; it will be shorn of much that is delight-
ful, and romantic, and inspiriting. We are
among those who believe in a certain amount
of show and ceremonial on the marriage occa-
sion; and shall greatly regret the substitution
of a common-place and unfeeling form for the
present custom of bridegrooms, maids, ele-
gant dresses, etc., etc.

 

HOW TO LIVE LONG.

They live longest, as a class, who lead calm
and even lives, mentally and physically; who
are most exempt from the turmoil and shocks
and strains which are incident to human ex-
istence, and who are assured of to-morrow’s
bread. There is no one thing, aside from the
blessedness of an implicit reliance on the pro-
vidence of God, which has such a direct influ-
ence in promoting longevity as an assurance,
felt to be well grounded, of a comfortable pro-
vision for life, for all the ordinary wants of
our station.

Not long ago a man died in a _ poor-house in
England, where he had been taken care of for
ninety years; he had no anxieties for to-mor-
row’s bread; he had no quarter’s day to pro-
vide against, in default of which wife and
children would be turned into the street from
the doors of the elegant brown-stone mansion.
He had no notes to meet in bank, which if not
paid by a day and an hour would involve pro-
test and financial ruin, Ah, this load of debt,
how it grinds one’s manhood to powder; it
agonizes the sensitive heart; it shames a man’s
honor; it has driven to desperation, drunken-
ness, to suicide, to murder! How the anguish
of it takes the energy and health out of a man,
and makes him pine and languish for weary
days and weeks on beds of thorns, which pierce
through the body, into the soul!

So, one way to avoid sickness and prema-
ture death is to avoid debts as you would the
devil.

 

PAPAL BULLS.

Bull was originally the name of the ball-
shaped leaden seal annexed to letters from the
emperor or the Pope; it is now applied ex-
clusively to documents issued in the name of
the Holy See. The seal bears the image, of
St. Peter and St. Paul on one side, and on the
other the name of the reigning Pope: the
writing is in Gothic letters, and is inscribed on
the rough side of the parchment. Bulls of
grace are fastened with silk cords, and bulls of
justice with hempen strings; while bulls of
which the effect is intended to be permanent
begin with the strange phrase, “Jn futuram
Dei memoriam.” Briefs are less important;
they are written on the smooth side, in
modern characters; they are not signed by
the Holy Father, but by a special secretary;
they are sealed with the Pope’s own ring,
the fisherman’s signet.

 

LACE AND PERFORATED PAPERS,

These are among the prettiest materials em-
ployed in fancy stationery, so light and deli-
cate; and so successful the imitation produced.
Half a century ago the French made this
pierced lace-paper chiefly for ornamenting
fruit packed in cardboard boxes; and later ap-
plications of the same material were used as
ornaments for lamp-shades, and as mounts for
small religious pictures. About forty years
ago, M. Riviere, a Swiss watchmaker, settled
in London, obtained a patent for a new mode
of perforating zinc and other metallic sheets,
The founder of the great firm of De La Rue,
recognizing the usefulness of this invention,
purchased it for application in the fancy pa-
per and cardboard trades, Perforated paper,
whether called lace-paper or not, is now manu-
factured in large quantity, and in almost in-
finitely varied forms, not only by the leading
firms, but by many others. Some of the per-
forated cards and cardboards are used for em-
broidering on with silk and colored beads;
some as lace bordering for note-paper; some

for lining and covering fancy boxes of various
kinds,

 

A BEAUTIFUL LOVE,

An Indianapolis paper relates the story of
the recent death, in that city, of a husband
and wife whose love was something sublime.
The parties were a Mr. and Mrs. Salisbury.
He died on Monday, February 16th, and she

 

 
  

 

 

14

   

GELLES AND BEHAV.

[Apri 4, 1874.

 

on the Saturday evening following. ‘Some
of the circumstances,” says the journal, “at-
tending the death of these two most amiable
and excellent persons were not only very
touching, but rather extraordinary. They
formerly resided in St. Louis, and while there
were called upon to mourn the loss of two fine
children, their sole family, who were lost to-
gether, while skating near St. Louis. They
were a young lady, aged eighteen, and a lad
of fifteen. They were drowned on the 21st of
February, 1864, precisely ten years before the
day of Mrs. Salisbury’s death.

‘“This double affliction almost broke their
hearts, and henceforth they lived for each
other alone, concealing their grief as those
only can understand who have been similarly
bereaved. Naturally congenial and devoted
to each other, their lives grew more closely to-
gether, by reason of the hard providence
which, at one dispensation, had removed both
their darlings from their sight, without a word
of parting or of warning. Two weeks ago,
when Mr. Salisbury was taken sick, his wife
watched at his bedside with sleepless affection.
Day and night she ministered to his wants, till
it was feared her own frame, never very
strong, would wholly give way. About
twenty-four hours before his death, finding him
able to converse a little, she asked him if he
knew her. He said yes, and: smiling, called
her by name. To her inquiry if he was willing
to die, he said yes. She said, ‘Thomas, you
want to go and see the children, do you not?
He answered yes. Then she said, ‘I will fol-
low you soon; do you wait for me, I will come
very soon.’

From that moment she evinced no more anx-
iety about herhusband. She seemed to regard
his death as certain, and her own so soon to
follow. Yielding to the advice of friends, she
retired and slept till just before her husband’s
death, when she rose and bade him good-by.
Immediately after his death she took to her
bed and began to sink rapidly. No physical
derangement was apparent, but it was a clear
case of broken heart, or insupportable sorrow.
The doctor did what he could, but it was a
case that wholly baffled his art. Her malady
was ofa kind that no human remedy could
reach, The gentle lady was entirely resigned
to her situation, and seemed to contemplate
her approaching death with entire composure.
During the week she steadily sunk until it was
apparent that her end was near. On Saturday
evening, a short time before her death, her
friends were startled to see her face illuminat-
ed by a bright smile. It beamed with a light
that never shone on sea or land, and told of
unspeakable joy. Her eyes gazed into dis-
tance and her hands moved as if to welcome
some one. A solemn stillness fell upon the by-
standers, and the thought struck all that she
was greeting her children. From that moment
the lady neither spoke nor moved, but sunk
away and passed from mortal life with the
same eloquent smile upon her face. She kept
her engagement with the husband, and follow-
ed soon after him, to complete the family cir-
cle in the land of the Hereafter.”

 

A RUSSIAN DINING-TABLE.

A novel dining-table is now in use in one of
the palaces of the Emperor of Russia. The
table is circular, and is placed on a weighted
platform. . At the touch of a signal, like a rub
of Aladdin’s lamp, down goes the table through
the floor, and a new table, loaded with fresh
dishes and supplies, rises in its place. But this
is not all; each plate stands on a weighted
disk, the table-cloth being cut with circular
openings, one for each plate. If a guest de-
sires a change of plate, he touches a signal at
his side, when, presto! his plate disappears,
and another rises. These mechanical dining-
tables render the presence of servants quite
superfluous. In this country, at the Oneida
Community, they employ dining-tables having
the central part made to revolve. Here the
goblets, spoons, tea and coffee, casters, pitch-
ers, and other necessary articles of table furni-
ture are placed; revolving the center piece, the
sitter brings before him whatever article may
be desired, without the intervention of a spe-
cial waiter.

 

AN AMUSING EXPERIMENT.

The gas of our cities can be lighted by fric-
tional electricity, excited by a lady’s ordinary
fur muff. Thus: place four tumblers upside
down, upon these lay a boar! or other sub-
stance to stand upon, within reach of the
burner. Upon this insulated board let a person
stand, and a second person take the muff and
rub it a number of times down the coat of the
first, by which he or she (if it be alady with a
woolen shawl) will become charged with elec-
tricity sufficiently to light the gas with the tip
of the fingers as effectually as if done with a
match. To perform the experiment will re-
quire four persons, one to turn on and off the
gas, for if done by the person insulated and
charged he will not only receive a shock, but
discharge the electricity before applying it to
the gas. A number of persons can participate
in the amusement at the same time by insulat-
ing themselves and joining hands. Let the
friction ef the muff be applied to the person
furtherest from the burner until all become
charged, and the person at the other end can
light the gas, all feeling a sensible shock at the
time of the igniting or discharge of the fluid.

 

VOID MARRIAGES.

The decision of the Supreme Court of [Ili-
nois, in the case of Lyndon vs. Lyndon, will at-
tract a good deal of attention in legal circles.
A brief statement of the case will refresh the
memory of our readers. Lyndon was a man
of middle age, or, perhaps, a little under, em-

ployed by Colonel Hancock as a coachman.
His duties brought him into contact with the
daughter of his employer, a young lady of fif-
teen or sixteen, whom he finally persuaded to
marry him. The ceremony was performed,
immediately after which the young lady re-
pented and returned to her home, confessing
the marriage and desiring to be absolved from
it. She never lived with Lyndon afterward,
and was not seen by him. Finally, the lady
brought an action to set aside the marriage. It
was proven that she was under the legal age,
and it was contended that she could not, there-
fore, eontract marriage without her father’s
consent. It was also shown that Lyndon, in
obtaining the license, swore that the girl was
eighteen, thereby committing perjury. The
plaintiff insisted by reason of these facts, that
the marriage should be set aside. The court
held differently, however, and the case was ap-
pealed to the Supreme Court. It will, no
doubt, surprise many to learn that the latter
court have reversed the decision below, and
have decided that under such circumstances a
marriage is a nullity. The court say that the
case is unique, the only one bearing any re-
semblance being found in the Texas reports.
That there are cases, however, involving the
principles of this one, can hardly be doubted.

 

SENATOR BENTON’S FAMILY.

Baron Boileau, who was sentenced to im-
prisonment by a French court for his connec-
tion with the -Memphis and El Paso Railroad
affair, is confined in the Conciergerie. Mme.
Boileau is at Boulogne. She and her six chil-
dren live through the generosity of their friends.
To many people of the United States this para-
graph will convey more than a passing inter-
est. Nine or ten years ago, Baron Boileau was
a French consul at New York city, trusted and
respected by the Government, and popular and
accomplished in his intercourse with the people
of America. He married, while consul in
New York, Susan, daughter of Colonel Thos.
H. Benton. The marriage was a most happy
one. Baron Boileau was afterward appointed
Minister to Ecuador, and it was while perform-
ing the functions of his office in that locality that
he was recalled and discharged by the French
authorities. During his stay in New York he
had become involved in railroad schemes, and
had been induced in an evil hour to recom-
mend in his capacity as an official agent of the
Government, the negotiation of the Memphis
and El Paso Railroad bonds. In this he vio-
lated the plain law of his country. Rigid iw
all such matters, the French Government car-
ried out the law to the utmost, and imprisoned
him. Fremont is a brother-in-law of the Bar-
on, and the same court which tried and found
his connection guilty, also sentenced the Gen-
eral to serve aterm of years. He made his
escape from France, however, and in the ab-
sence of any thing like an extradition treaty,
will probably keep it good. There was once a
period in the affairs of Missouri when Colonel
Benton was its political autocrat. Troubles
not a few have come to those whom he nurtur-
ed and loved. Mrs. Fremont is the wife of a
man who has been declared a felon, because of
a speculation which ruined his brother-in-law,
bankrupted his family, and consigned his wife
and children to charity. Another daughter,
Mrs. William Carey Jones, now a widow, re-
siding in San Francisco, Cal., has felt almost
terribly the misfortune of life, and though not
enduring all the privations of extreme poverty,
is supporting herself and children on the small
wages paid to her as a teacher in the public
schools.

 

HARD TO SUIT.

There was something pathetic in the posi-
tion of the German florist, who, in the bitter-
ness of his heart, exclaimed: ‘I have so much
drouble mit de ladies ven dey come to buy
mine rose; dey vants him hardy, dey vants
doubles, dey vants him fragrant, dey vants
him nice golor, dey vants him abery ding in
one rose. I hopes I am not vat you calls von
uncallant man, but I have sometimes to say to
dat ladies, ‘Madame, I never often see de
ladies dat vas beautiful, dat vas rich, dat vas

| good temper, dat vas youngs, dat vas clever,

dat vas perfection, in one ladies. I see her
much not.”

RATHER EMBARRASSING.

Modest young men might find the mode of
salutation employed by the fair senoritas of
Peru somewhat disconcerting, though not un-
pleasant. The mistress of the house enters the
reception room smoking a cigarette, wearing a
black silk skirt, and a red or blue sacque, and
with her magnificent hair braided down her
back in two plaits that almost sweep the floor.
Advancing to you she removes her cigar, spits
upon the carpet, although it may be white
velvet tapestry, and folds you in both arms to
her matronly bosom, pushing your head gently
down upon her shoulder, and patting you soft-
ly on your back. This singular proceeding
answers to our hand-shaking. All classes meet
and embrace. Young men and old women,
old men and young ladies, and even children,
all unite in this parting embrace, and rarely
kiss. If the daughters delay coming into the
room, the mother opens the piano and plays
you some national dances, sad, yet brilliant, in
a plaintive minor key. Or she claps her hands,
and a native brings in a bottle of wine and
fruits of various kinds, and you are expected
to partake, if ever so little. The daughters
never keep you waiting long, if they are not
at mass or shopping; and, if at home, never
excuse themselves. They wear white wrap-
pers, trimmed simply with native lace, and the
heavy braids of hair like the mother’s, Con-

 

 

versing with them, you soon ascertain the ex-

tent of their acquirements—a little French and
a knowledge of the geography and history of
Peru. They seldom know more than to read
and write Spanish, and know nothing else, and
care to know nothing else but about Peru.
They can all sing and dance, and are very
charming in appearance; but you can see that
they are illiterate and ignorant; that though
the diamonds glisten upon small, perfectly
formed, brown hands, the hands are not only
dingy, but dirty; that the nails are not clean;
and that the tiny foot, peeping from the trail-
ing white wrapper, often has either no stock-
ing or a very dirty one, and almost always the
slippers are torn and slipshod: Only ‘“‘ pretty
barbarians,” after all.

 

DECAY OF TEETH.

The causes of the decay of the teeth are two
—acids and a minute fungus, abundantly found
in the mouth, and called leptothrix buccalis.
All acids, both vegetable and mineral, act
promptly on the teeth by dissolving the enamel
and by softening the dentine. Sour fruits and
vinegar salads are likely to injure the teeth,
unless the mouth is carefully Washed out after
eating them. The little parasitic fungus can
only be removed by alkaline mixtures. Soap
is one of the best of dentrifices. It appears
that the parasites grow and multiply very
rapidly, and especially between the teeth. It
would be advisable, therefore, for those who
wish to preserve good teeth to carefully use
the toothpick and scrub the teeth with soap
and water after every meal, or at least twice a
day.

 

A FATHER’S REWARD.

The pretty little story of the “Family
Tryst,” by Christopher North, was repeated in
this city during the late panic. ‘Wife and
children, there is no need, surely, to beat about
the bush. I will tell you the worst in a word
—I am ruined! All my property is lost and
gone, and we must give up our home. We
must leave this street.” A slight, convulsive
motion went over the circle, and a female
voice sobbed, ‘‘Leave our home?’ But the
good wife said, calmly, ‘‘We have seen many
happy days, but surely we must seek and find
contentment elsewhere. I will not lose a
night’s rest. If you can bear it, I can.” Mr.
A. was a hard-working, industrious man, who
in an evil hour had become surety for an
acquaintance, through whom he was utterly
and irretrievably ruined. He felt the mag-
nanimity of his wife, and begged the forgive-
ness of his assembled family. Upon this his
eldest son stood up, and first looking with the
most respectful tenderness on his father, and
then with a cheerful smile on all around, said:
‘“‘Father, never more utter these words; never
more indulge these thoughts; you have fed us,
clothed us, educated us, taught us wha. is our
duty to God and man. It rests with us to
practice it. We all love you, father. We are
all grateful; if need be, we would all lay down
our lives to save you. But there is no need of
it. What has happened? Nothing. We are
all well and strong. We can all work.” At
this all care and despondency fled. Certainly
that father was repaid for his sacrifices; and
that mother must even have rejoiced at a ca-
lamity which brought out her children’s char-
acters so nobly.

THE FIRST MEERSCHAUM PIPE.

In 1823 there lived in Pesth, the capital of
Hungary, Karol Kowates, a shoemaker, whose
ingenuity in cutting and carving on wood, etc.,
brought him in contact with Count Andrassy,
ancestor to the present prime minister of Aus-
tria, with whom he became a favorite. The
count on his return from a mission to Turkey
brought with him a large piece of whitish clay,
which had been presented to him on account of
its extraordinary light specific gravity. It
struck the shoemaker that being porous it must
naturally be well adapted for pipes, as it
would absorb the nicotine. The experiment
was tried, and Karol cut a pipe for the count
and one for himself. The clay, however, in-
stead of assuming a dirty appearance, as was
naturally to be expected, when Karol had
wiped it off, received wherever the wax had
touched a clear brown polish, instead of the
dull white it previously had. Attributing this
change in the tint to the proper source, he
waxed the whole surface, and polishing the
pipe, again smoked it, and noticed how admi-
rably and beautifully it colored; also, how
much sweeter the pipe smoked after being
waxed. Karol had struck the smoking phil-
osopher’s stone; and other noblemen, hearing
the wonderful properties of this singular
species of clay, imported it in considerable
quantities for the manufacture of pipes. The
natural scarcity of this much esteemed article,
and the great cost of transportion in those
days of limited facilities for transportation,
rendered its use exclusively confined to the
richest European noblemen until 1830, when it
became a more general article of trade. The
first meerschaum pipe made by Karol Kowates
has been preserved in the museum at Pesth.

 

FRAUD ON ANTIQUARIES.

The exposure of the colossal swindle known
as the Shapira collection of idols, vessels, and
pottery, with ancient inscriptions from Moab,
adds another chapter to the history of forgery
and credulity. It is now about two years
since it began to be rumored in London that a
certain Jewish Protestant convert living in
Jerusalem, was receiving from an Arab small
quantities of pottery, vases, broken and entire,
figures of animals, and rudely executed
statuettes of men and women. Presently it
was discovered that on many of these things

were inscriptions in old Phoenician character

 

in which the Moabite stone was written. The
German Government, unwilling to lose so
great a prize, bought the whole collection for
£1,000, and had it transferred to Berlin, the
museum of which city it now adorns. A
second collection was immediately commenced,
and has been going on with commendable zeal
and rapidity, until recently, when a sudden
and disastrous stoppage *to the whole business
was caused by M. Ganneau’s exposure of the
fact that it was a forgery from beginning to
end. M. Ganneau possessed, to begin with, a
certain Rnowledge which put the unhappy
artist, the forger, at a disadvantage; for he re-
cognized the handwriting of the inscriptions
as being that of his old friend, Selim el Gari.
He reflected that to manufacture pottery re-
quires the assistance of a potter, &hd so, with-
out exciting the suspicion of Selim, he began
by visiting in turn all the half dozen potteries
in Jerusalem, and making the acquaintance of
the workmen. The result was that he speedily
found the men who had assisted Selim, and
has been enabled to send over a graphic con-
fession of the whole swindle, describing the
process by which the “‘ ancient” collection was
manufactured.

 

MILD WINTERS.

The mildness of the present season, though
unusual, bears no comparison to that of some
winters “‘long gone by.” In 1172 the temper-
ature was so high that leaves came out on the
trees in January, and birds hatched their
broods in February. In 1289 the winter was
equally mild, and the maidens of Cologne
wore wreaths of violets and cornflowers on
Christmas and Twelfth Day. In 1421 the trees
flowered in the month of March, and the vines
in the month of April; cherries ripened in the
same month, and grapes appeared in May. In
1572 the trees were covered with leaves in
January, and the birds hatched their young in
February as in 1172; in-1585 the same thing
was repeated, and it is added that the corn
was in the ear at Easter. There was in France
neither snow nor frost throughout the winters
of 1588, 1607, 1609, 1617 and 1659; finally, in
1662, even in the north of Germany, the stoves
were not lighted, and trees flowered in Febru-
ary. Coming to later dates, the winter of
1846-47, when it thundered at Paris on the 28th
of January, and that of 1866, the year of the
great inundation of the Seine, may be men-
tioned as exceptionally mild.

 

SENSIBLE ADVICE.

Lamps must be filled every morning. This
is an imperative duty for every housekeeper
to see performed, for as the oil burns down in
a lamp, there is created a highly inflammable
gas, which gathers imperceptibly over the sur-
face, and as fast as the oil is consumed this
gas increases, so when the oil is nearly out of
the lamp, the slightest jar of the table will set
the gas on fire; an explosion follows instanta-
neously, and a bombshell would not be more
destructive, for its touches are deathly. But
if the oil is burned only half-way down in
your lamp, the gas is not of sufficient power to
do any injury; -therefore, let me beg you ne-
ver to defer the operation of lamp-filling to
another day, but see yourself that it is done.
When I read of deaths occurring from trying
to light fires with kerosene, I always think the
verdict of the coroner’s jury should be “Served
them right;” for it seems impossible to believe
that any mortal could be so foolish as to tam-
per with such a highly inflammable liquid.
Better try to kindle fires with a powder-can,
well filled, than with the contents of your
kerosene-can.

 

NECESSARY AMUSEMENTS,

A certain amount of harmless amusement is
necessary for people. No particular posses-
sion, or condition, or course of conduct, insures
happiness. The rich pine over what, when
poor, they thought would be sure to make them
happy. He who, in his days of toil, has sighed
for leisure, finds, when it has been obtained,
that the pains of vacuity are not less than
those of oppressive labor. Rigid adherence to
particular systems are alike found to disappoint
their votaries of the calm felicity which was
expected from them. But let us think what
sort of a world it would be, if only one particu-
lar tangible thing, or one particular condition,
or one particular course of conduct, were to
confer happiness. Evidently it would be a
world of utter sameness and languor, instead of
the world of infinite variety and incessant activi-
ty which it really is. It is then evident that hap-
piness was never designed to be the invariable
concomitant of any such particular things, but
to be a temptation toward an infinite variety
of pursuits, and a perpetual activity of our
faculties. How otherwise could we have been
active beings? How otherwise could the whole
of our faculties have received employment? It is
true that some things continue longer to give
satisfaction than others, and that some of the
highest of our affections and sentiments never
tire of exercise. We do not, for instance, so
soon tire of bread, or sound animal food, or
any other of the staples articles of life, as of
the luxuries which are more rarely represented.
Nor can the practice of any lofty duty ever
appear less excellent than at first, but rather
the contrary, ‘‘as streams their channels deeper
wear.” But, while the reason of these peculi-
arities of our economy are obvious, it is equally
clear that changes in diet, and varieties of ob-
ject and employment, are necessary, in order
to maintain the stimulus of life. There ought
to be much amusement, and ample facilities
for obtaining excitements of an innocent kind.

 

SPOILING HORSES’ FEET.
It is almost impossible to get a horse shod

        
        
      
       
       
      
        
          
       
      
        
           
      
    
      
      
      
   
    
 
    
    
         
        
      
        
   
        
      
    
      
        
     
    
 
   
  
   
  
 
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
   
   
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
    
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
    
  
 
  
    
   
   

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

ane Hey

  
       
 
          
     
 

 

 
 

 
 

 

 

erent

———

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Apri 4, 1874.]

BHELLES AND BHAUY.

   

15

 

without having the frog cut away. All vet-
erinary surgeons, all horsemen, all leading
blacksmiths, agree that the frog should not be
pared one particle, not even trimmed. No
matter how pliable and soft the frog is, cut it
away smooth on all sides, and in two days it
will be dry and hard asa chip. You might as
weil cut all the leaves off trees and expect them
to flourish as to pare away the frog and have
ahealthy foot. The rough, spongy part of the
trog is to the foot what leaves are to the tree—

‘the lungs. Never have a red-hot shoe put upon
the foot to burn it level. Jf you can find a
blacksmith that is mechanic enough to level
the foot without a red-hot iron, employ him.
If you do not think so, try the red-hot poker
on your finger-nail, and see how it will affect
the growth of that. There are many other

“important points in shoeing horses, but these
two are of more importance than all the rest,
level to the apprehension of men not skilled in
horses, and the two most disregarded.

The Maitl-Bag.

Sheep-raising is hurting California cities by
keeping immense tracts of land from being
made into farms.

A New York paper computes that since sail
vessels navigated Lake Erie 20,000 lives have
been lost in that lake.

One hundred and sixty-three newspapers
have suspended publication during the past
year in the United States.

Dakota has been doing sums and finds that
she has only three-eighths of a white man to
an acre of ground,

The execution of Evans, the other day, was
only the eleventh in which New Hampshire
has indulged herself during 134 years.

New York brides are introducing the Lon-
don fashion of wearing bonnets at the cere-
mony when performed in church.

The Bombay Gazette says that the study of
Shakespeare is becoming very common among
native students in India.

Massachusetts has 122 clerks in the Treasury
Department. These Yankee boys are, doubt-
less, very smart. Does their presence there
account for the deficiencies in the revenues?

Chang was worth $20,000, and Eng but
$10,000. We don’t see how this could be, ex-
cept on the supposition that Chang was in the
habit of picking Eng’s pockets.

A wealthy Buffalo lady of sixty has just
married her own widowed son-in-law, and the
children of two families are now puzzled to
settle their relationship.

Richmond is worth capturing again. It is
overstocked with pretty girls, and there are
fewer eligible men there to turn them into
good wives than in almost any other city of
double its size in the whole country. .

The press law of Japan prohibits newspapers
from discussing the laws, attacking the Gov-
ernment, or publishing any articles of an evil
tendency. The penalties vary from chain-gang
to being burnt alive.

A female lecturer on hygiene told a New
York audience that alt women and children
needed was strong chests. This was construed
to mean Saratoga trunks, and the market for
them was correspondingly lively.

The Acclimation Society of Cincinnati lately
received $3,000 worth of birds from Germany,
comprising many varieties never before brought
to this country. They will be turned at large’
next Spring.

Cincinnati is short 32,620 hogs compared
with this time last year. Happy Cincinnati!
the number of hogs one meets in traveling led
us to believe that the race was rapidly in-
creasing.

There are said to be 25,000 establishments in
Paris where absinthe is sold. Absinthe is the
vilest of all alcoholic drinks. Its use in this
country is on theincrease. ‘“‘ Jersey lightning”
is distanced in its powers to kill.

A book of advice to young men, just pub-
lished by Professor Blackie, begins with the
statement that books are not the proper sources
of knowledge, and that their value is much ex-
aggerated. ;

Two data are given from which to estimate
the value of a fowl for the table or market.
A table fowl should be all breast, with short
limbs and small bones; also, fowls are in per-
fection for the table only before they have at-
tained maturity.

The new Atlantic cable will not leave Lon-
don before June. This cable, coming by the
Agores, gives us three cables to Europe, and
guarantees an opposition to the existing scan-
dalous monopoly that will reduce rates one-
half. Hurry it up!

Bloomington (Ill.) has appointed a lady to
fill the office of pound-master. If she is em-
powered to impound all the beasts she finds
running at large, drunken men will soon be
scarce in that town. It wouldn’t be a bad
idea to give her that power as an experi-
ment.

There is always some one thing which each
man and woman can do better than any other
thing, and the waste of power that ensues from
failing to discover what this thing is, and en-
tering into unsuitable spheres of labor, is in-
caleulable.

There has never been a clergyman, lawyer,

 

“

- physician, editor, deacon, steward, church-

warden, class-leader, nor son of a clergyman,
in the New Hampshire State Prison. The
New Hampshire State. Prison never was much
of a jail, anyhow.

Douglas county, Oregon, boasts of a lady
who has been married nine times, has eight
husbands living and is living with none of
them. More than this, she has a daughter
who is now twenty-three years of age and
living with her third husband.

They have a town in Illinois which boasts of
having no liquor or beer saloons, and of hay-
ing had none in eight years. It rejoices in the
somewhat singular name of Onarga, is said to
be a lively business place, contains 1,800 in-
habitants, and is growing rapidly.

California has taken hold of the liquor ques-
tion at the other end from that which is usual-
ly dealt with by the law. The Assembly of
that State has just passed a bill making it a
misdemeanor to invite any person to drink, or
to accept an invitation to drink liquor at any
public bar.

Rev. Dr. Nesbitt, of Samoa, said lately that
sixty years ago every island in Polynesia was
under the spell of heathenism. There are now
about 400,000 Polynesians who profess Chris-
tianity, who have been reclaimed from heath-
enism, and from many of whose islands canni-
balism has been extirpated.

Providence, R. I., is looking up. She has
got the rate of interest which she pays for
money down from eighteen per cent. to five
per cent., and now her water works are going
to cost half a million dollars less than the first
estimate, and they are to be better than any
other works of the kind in the country.

The fortune left by the late Baron de Meyer
Rothschild is expected to exceed $15,000,000
gold. Not so great as the fortune of any one
of six or eight Americans to be named. Van-
derbilt owns, in his own name, over thirty-five
millions of Central stock, worth more than
par.

The Turkish Admiralty has ordered a new
iron-clad to be built in England. She is to be
a formidable vessel, and will cost £120,000.
She will be provided with a powerful ram, and
will mount four guns each twenty-five tons in
weight, arranged in a high central battery.
Ahmet Pasha has been sent to England to con-
clude the contract.

About two months ago a fossil saurian was
unearthed a mile south of Fort Randall,
Dakota. The skeleton measures 18 feet in
length, and if perfect would probably measure
22 feet. It is armed with paddles like the
whale, has crocodilian head and jaws, conical
teeth, and immense eye-holes. Its food was
probably fishes and reptiles.

A famous queen of the Gipsies died recently
at Wolverhampton, England. Representatives
from all the Gipsy tribes in England, to the
number of one hundred, attended the funeral,
after which the property of the deceased, in-
cluding her clothing, trinkets, domestic arti-
cles, ete., were solemnly burned or otherwise
destroyed.

of the present day, with its big words, has not
yet brought down boys so low that they will
stand many such sentences as the following
from a book just issued: ‘‘ Ships are, as it were,
the electric sparks of the world, by means of
which the superabundance of different coun-
tries is carried forth to fill, reciprocally, the
voids in each.”

A hotel waiting-girl of Davenport, Iowa,

tate in Ireland worth over $1,000,000. The
estate has been in chancery for about fifty
years, and it is just now it has been settled
who is to have it. The maiden name of the
heiress was Kate Stewart. She married a
hotel clerk there a short time ago, who, in
company with his wife, goes to l!reland to
claim the fortune.

Men send their sons to Europe that they may
learn languages; but every man can not -go to
Europe. It is not safe for every one to go
there. We have seen men come back from
Europe who reminded us very much of their
valises—pasted over with the names of a great
many hotels and cities, and half-defaced pic-
tures of mountains and lakes, but with con-
stitutions very much battered, and less inside
than when they started.

Texarkana, Texas, is about seventy-five days
old, built in a dense forest. It is located nine-
teen and a half miles from Fulton, Arkansas.
It now numbers over two thousand bona fide
citizens, and there are two hundred buildings
going up. There is a general ticket office, two
railroads, two express companies, two tele-
graph lines, and forty saloons. It is called the
Enchanted Village of the Lone Star State, and
bids fair to outshine its older neighbors.

A writer in the Medical Times and Gazette
refers to the fatigue of the limbs produced af-
ter a long railway journey as due mainly to
the trembling motion of the floor under the
feet, and states that, having suffered consider-
ably from the abuse, he was induced to try
the experiment of using the well-known air-
cushion as a footstool. This answered so well
that he has never traveled without using one
in this way, and has found the effect to be a
remarkable improvement.

Marriages and railway travel do not seem to
be very closely connected in America, but in
India the reverse is the fact, for we find an of-
ficer of an Hast Indian Railroad Company ex-
plaining a falling off in the passenger receipts
of the year by the fact that it was a “twelfth
year,” which is regarded by the Hindoos as so
unfavorable to marriage that no one, or scarce-
ly any one, ismarried._ And as weddings are
the great occasions in Hindoo life, when there
is great pomp and a general gathering to-
gether of friends, they cause a great deal of

 

traveling.

An English critic hopes that the literature.

named Mrs. McQuade, has fallen heir to an es-*

 

 

Dr. Schmidt, Professor of Astronomy in the
University of Athens, has just completed his
great map of the moon. lt is two metres in
diameter, and is a marvel of accurate mapping
and minute draughtmanship. The shading is
so exquisite that any part of the map may be
examined by a lens without the appearance of
coarse or rough work. The map represents the
labor of thirty-four years, and is without doubt
one of the greatest astronomical results of the
century.

 

Hun Flashes.

Lot’s wife got into a pretty pickle.

Lazy husbands are known out West as stove-
watchers.

Very, very blonde hair is now called ‘“ the
light fantastic tow.”

A doctor calls his dog Cinchona on account
of the bitterness of his bark.

Why is a chicken just hatched like a cow’s
tail? Because it was never seen before,

A platform philosopher says that a man
falls in love as he falls down stairs—by acci-
dent.

Some vocalists take pride in exhibiting a
fine falsetto voice; others in displaying fine
false set o’ teeth,

Johnny assures us that a railroad conductor
punches a hole in your ticket to let you pass
through.

“Pa, what is the use of giving our pigs so
much milk?” ‘So that they may make hogs
of themselves, darling.”

If there is anything pleasanter than to see a
runaway horse go away from the driver, it is
to see the driver go for him.

An English wag asserts that machinery is
the most modest of all things, since it almest
always travels in cog.

Spicer says that a cheap boarding-house re-
minds him of a grave-yard—it is so suggestive
of dust and hashes,

Nature provides no reserved seats for the
rich and daintily reared. When there is ice
on the pavement they sit where they can.

Composition by a little boy—subject: ‘‘ The
horse.” ‘‘The horse is a very useful animal,
it has four legs—one on each corner.”

A Detroit female of just twenty-five was
married to her fifth husband lately, All the
gentlemen are alive, and the first four are do-
ing well.

“See,” said a sorrowing wife, “how peace-
ful the cat and dog are.” ‘ Yes,” said the
petulant husband, ‘‘ but just tie them together,
and then see how they'll fight.”

It is pwonounced an ominous sign when a
man, who has been murried scarcely twelve
months, begins to betray an abnormal inter-
est in the causes of lockjaw.

A Western paper says of the air, in its re-
lations to man: ‘It kisses and blesses him,
but will not obey him.” Blobbs says that de-
scription suits his wife exactly.

“Old age is coming upon me rapidly,” as
the urchin said, when he was stealing apples
from an old man’s garden, and saw the owner
coming whip in hand,

Experimental philosophy—Asking a young
lady to marry you. Natural philosophy—
Looking indifferent and saying you were only
in fun, when she refuses you.

When a Chicago ‘girl quarrels with her
lover, she communicates the important fact to
her friends in the remark that she isn’t on
squeezing terms with the fraud any more.

The Hoosiers like work when it is disguised
as fun, The other day twenty of them hand-
led over thirty-five cords of wood to get at a
rabbit, which escaped after all.

A happy misquotation by a young lady
whose gentleman caller staid too late caused a
speedy good-by. The clock struck twelve,
and she remarked, ‘‘ Now is the witching hour
of night, when people yawn.”

Any boy can learn to chew tobacco by be-
ing hopeful and persevering; but unless his
hips are fully developed, he cannot wear pants
without suspenders and have his shirt foam
jauntily out over the top.

A Lancaster man, who is a veteran member
of a lodge, says that while leaves may have
their time to fall, the curtain-lecture season
lasts from January 1 to December 31, with no
postponement on account of the weather.

The difference between having a tooth prop-
erly drawn by a professional surgeon and hav-
ing it knocked out miscellaneously by a fall on
the pavement is only a slight distinction—one
is dental the other accidental.

A man in Carroll county, Ohio, read in an
almanac that his feet could be kept warm by
lining his boots with cayenne pepper. He
don’t feel much like walking now, but he says
he would like ‘‘to find the man what put that
in the almanac.”

A veteran observer says that ‘Old friends
are like old boots. We never realize how per-
fectly they were fitted to us till they are cast
aside, and other, finer and more stylish per-
haps, but cramping and pinching in every cor-
ner, are substituted.”

Lamartine was asked by a friend if he did
not spend too much in advertising. ‘‘ No,”
was the reply, ‘‘ advertisements are absolutely
necessary. Even Divine worship (le bon Dieu)
needs to be advertised. Else what is the mean-
ing of church bells?”

Dio Lewis says the women will do all the
work—the-men will only be required to pay
the expenses. Was it an Irishman who re-

 

 

joiced over the fact that all he had to do was
to carry bricks to the top of the house—a man
up there did all the work?

A bright-eyed Italian boy stopped his organ
before a dairy window, and after playing for
awhile turned to examine the rotary churn
which was in operation within. ‘My churn is
the best,” he said at last; ‘“‘it makes bread and
butter; yours only makes butter.”

A Western minister told the young ladies of
his congregation that the first step to ruin was
an ostrich feather and a yard of gay-colored
ribbon. One of his hearers having occasion
the next day to use some ribbon, asked the

*| clerk for ‘three more steps to ruin.”

Two young men, out riding, were passing a
farm-house, where a farmer was trying to har-
ness an obstinate mule. ‘‘Won’t he draw?”
asked one of the young men. ‘Of course,”
said the farmer, ‘‘he’ll draw the attention of
every fool that passes this way.” The young
man drove on.

“T see,” said a young lady, “that some
printers advertise blank declarations for sale;
I wish I could get one.” “Why?” asked the
mother, ‘Because, ma, Mr. G—— is too
modest to ask me to marry him; and, perhaps,
if I should fill up a blank declaration he would
sign it.”

A young lady of Lyons, Iowa, recently said:
‘Some men are always talking about patron-
izing their own town—always harping on that
duty—and yet they go abroad to get married,
while we all stand waiting! I do hope that
some of these men who marry Eastern women
will get cheated.”

A few days ago a very handsome young
lady entered a dry-goods house and inquired
for a ‘‘beau.” The polite clerk threw himself
back and remarked he was at her service.
“Yes, but I want a buff, not a green one,”
was the reply. The young man went on mea-
suring goods immediately.

The imaginative advertiser is a Southern
man who gets up as follows: What is Woman/
—A gentleman once asked, ‘“‘ What is woman?”
when a married man replied, ‘‘She is an essay
on goodness and grace, in one volume, elegantly
bound, Although it may be dear, every man
should have a copy of it.”

“Ts Miss Bliking at home?’ asked Mr. San-
ders of the Irish girl who answered the ring at
the door. ‘Yes, I b’lave she is, sir.” “Is
she engaged?” ‘An’ is it engaged you say?
Faith, an’ I can’t tell yo, sir, but she kissed
Mr. Vincent last evening as if she had not seen
the like uv him, an’ it’s engaged I b’lave they
are.”

“Mr. President,” exclaimed a member of a
debating society, ‘‘our country’s fate looms
darkling before us, without a star above the
horizon on which the patriotic mariner can
hang a scintillation of hope, but with ominous
features of fast-coming doom, gloomy and ray-
less as the eyes of a tree-toad perched upon the
topmost bough of a barren poplar, enveloped
in an impenetrable fog.”

Two single ladies of an uncertain age named
Hill attended a party New Year’s night. Dur-
ing the evening a good natured individual per-
petrated a witticism which created considera-
ble amusement as it had often done before.
Whereupon a wretched man in the company
unguardedly shouted, ‘Cheese it, Tompkins,
that joke was born before you were. It is old-
er than the hills.” The Hills immediately in-
quired for their things.

In the earliest days of the human race, when
population was more sparse than it has ever
been since, and introductions were also scarce,
with little or none of form or ceremony attend-
ing them—‘‘no cards”—our first parents, after
their first surprise, had to introduce themselves
to one another, though the following dialogue
is not found on record:

Adam—‘ Madam, I’m Adam!”

. Eve—‘‘ Adam, I’m Madam!”

They embrace.

Mr. Hornaby attempted to go down cellar
the other night and get a pitcher of cider.
His wife warned him to be careful and not
break the pitcher. He slipped on the first
stair and fell to the bottom, skinned his elbows
and knees, bumped his head, broke his nose,
tore his coat, and landed on the cellar floor a
total wreck, but saving the pitcher. Mrs,

Hornaby called to him in horrified accents:

“Mr. Hornaby, Mr. Hornaby, did you break
that pitcher?” He growled back, “No, I
didn’t, but by thunder, I will!’ And he did.

As soon as the Congressional chaplain closes
his appeal to the Throne ‘of Grace there is a
clapping of hands all over the floor. It is the
way the members haye of calling pages to
their side. Every Congressman begins his

‘day’s labor by giving an order to a messenger ;

hence the clapping is universal and uproarious,
‘Well; that beats me,” said an elderly man in
the gallery, with mud on his boots, which
looked as though it had been brought from the
other side of the Potomac. “T don’t see any-
thing in that prayer worth cheering.”

The irrepressible joker at the Banks Club
the other day, while touching up his oysters
with pepper from the castor, observed to the
waiter that “the pepper was half peas.” “ Oh,
no,” said the polite waiter, ‘that is the best
sort of pepper.” ‘Well, I tell you it is half
peas—call Mr. Mills.” That gentleman came,
and the joker remarked: ‘“‘I always expect to
get the best of everything in this house, but
the pepper is half peas.” ‘That can’t be S80;
we take especial pains to procure it and have
it ground in our own mill.” ‘Well, it is so,
and I can prove it.” ‘If you can I should like
to have you.” “Well, John, you just spell it.”
And the amiable proprietor retired with a
sweet and gentle smile on his benevolent face,

 

   
     
       
          
         
           
       
       
      
       
    
   
     
   
    
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
     
   
  
   
 
   
    
     
  
    
  
   
 
   
  
 
   
   
   
  
  
  
     
  
  
   
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
 
   
   
   
  
   
     
 
   
   
   
    
     
   
  
     
   
 
 
   
 
  
  
    
  
 
  
   
 
    
 
   
   
  
    
     
  
  
  
  
    
    
   
   
  

 

  
      
          
    
 

  

  
16

[Apri 4, 1874.

 

BY THE SUMMER SEA.

BY G. B. W.

 

 

Tis sunset, and along the shore
By the shining sea—I muse;
Dim twilight falls, behind and ‘fore,
; Vailing the ocean’s views;
While aparting ray from the sinking sun
Like the last faint gleam from a dying fire,
Proclaims the day is done. 5

The soft wind steals along the sea,
Sometimes in joy—in pain,

Its everchanging melody
Drifts o’er the billowy main;
My heart, according with its strain,
Repeats its sadly sweet refrain,

Now twilight’s fled, and queenly
Comes the moon, to shine serenely
O’er the fairy shore and ocean,
Which seems to pause in its weary motion,
While o’er the dark and heaving deep
Comes a long, sad sigh, and the waters
Calmly and sweetly sink to sleep.

Beneath the moon’s pale silver beams
Our sand-beach low, as lovely seems
As golden shores we see in dreams.
Our dwellings on this glorious night
Are bathed in a flood of argent light,
And appear unto our ’tranced sight
Like palaces of dreamland bright.

Along the west were cloud-banks high,

Which tke west wind light, with mournful sigh,

Had driven t’ ware the east, and soon

In their misty depths, inclosed the moon.

* ee * * * * *
When the clouds had cleared from the starlit sky,
Yhe moon had set, and darkness ruled.

 

HEAD AND HAIR.

 

WHAT HAS BEEN AND WHAT MAY BE.

N our issue of March 21st we adverted to

ancient modes of dressing the hair. That
we have made no progress in the art of per-
sonal adornment is evident, for in the Greek
and Roman coiffures we behold a classic ele-
gance and beauty which no later art has ex-
celled. Indeed, our modern art seems to run
into perversions of all correct principles of
beauty. Our ladies appear to dress their hair
with no idea of true heauty; their sole effort
is to be as ‘‘ stylish” as their companions and
a little more so; and this spirit of emulation
leads them to extremes which bid fair to re-
store the monstrous head-dresses of the last
century, which we propose now to notice.

Im ancient times young ladies, before their
marriage, used to wear their hair uncovered
and untied, flowing loose over their shoulders;
but when they entered the wedded state they
cut it off and assumed some sort of head-gear.
A little later they made it into long tresses,
which sometimes reached their heels. in Rich-
ard the Second’s time, the hair was worn con-
fined in a golden net or caul—an Eastern cus-
tom, probably brought over by the Crusaders.
Then came those high conical caps introduced
by Isabeau de Baviere, which were made of
such extraordinary dimensions that doors had
to be altered to admit them. A specimen of
these may still be seen in the ‘‘ Pays de Caux,”
a part of Normandy, where they are worn by
rich farmers’ wives. During the earlier half
of the fifteenth century the horned head-dress
was adopted, and its form and dimensions be-
came the frequent butt of the satirists and cari-
caturists of the age. In Queen Elizabeth’s
time, flaxen hair was greatly prized as being
the queen’s own color, and we find it frequently
alluded to by poets of the period.

‘Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow,”

says Julia, in the ‘‘ Two Gentlemen of Verona,”
and Bassona, in the ‘‘ Merchant of Venice,” ex-
claims, on seeing Portia’s likeness:
‘Here in her hairs

The painter plays the spider; and hath woven

A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men

Faster than gnats in cobwebs.”’
False hair was also often resorted to at that
time, and appears to have been varied acecord-
ing to the age of the wearer, if we may judge
by the following epigram written by Lord
Brooke:

‘Coelica, when she was young and sweet,

Adorned her head with golden borrowed hair;
And now in age, when outward things decay,

In spite of age she throws the hair away,

And now again her own black hair puts on

To mourn for thoughts by her worth’s over-

thrown.”
Under the reign of Charles II., short curls on
the forehead, and ringlets at the sides, came
into vogue. This was called the ‘‘ Sevigne”
style. In the last century head-dresses as-
sumed the most extravagant dimensions. They
were complete edifices rising some two or three
feet above the head, and comprising every possi-
ble and impossible ornament. The illustrations
will convey some idea of these coiffures, the de-
nomination of which is at least as quaint as
their appearance, and which inspired the fol-
lowing squib, in the London Magazine for 1777:
. ‘* Give Chloe a bushel of horsehair and wool,
Of paste and pomatum a pound;
,. ‘Ten yards of gay ribbon to deck her sweet skull,
And gauze to encompass it round.” 3

It is not impossible that these styles may
recur again, and become essential features of
a full toilet. Absurd and unlovely as they
really are, they are not much more absurd
than the late ‘‘ waterfall,” or the twists of jute
and false hair which now are deemed neces-
sary.

The ladies are not, by any means, alone in
the preposterous nature of their toilette, for
men, even before these monstrous head-dresses
were introduced, wore ruffs, and laces, and
velvets to an extent which seems to us the
hight of the ridiculous.
the poet Taylor wrote a. D. 1630:
‘Now up aloft-I mount unto the ruffe,

Which into foolish mortals pride doth puffe;
The little falling bands encreased to ruffes:

 

 

ee

 

Of these ruffs, ete.,

And though our faculties should wake oure care,
Ruffes, growing great, were waited on by cuffés,
We make our cuffes as careless as we are.”’

And of another article of men’s wear we
are told that ‘during the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, of England, the famous daughter
of Henry VIII., the ‘trunk hose’ was worn
by the Earl of Leicester and his compeers.
This article of dress was made of velvet, silk,
satin, or damask, of the brightest colors. They
were short and very full breeches, gathered
into tight bands at a short distance above the
knee, and distended so that their wearers
could attain the coveted circumference of
nearly three yards about the hips by a stuffing
of curled horse-hair, and sometimes bran was
used., It is stated by an English writer that,
in searching the person of a young dandy,
arrested for some crime, the padding of his
trunk hose consisted of ‘a pair of sheets, two
tablecloths, ten napkins, four shirts, a hand-
glass, a comb, and a night-cap.’ It is not
mentioned why this unfortunate dandy made
himself a walking: valise, as his offense was
not larceny.”

After this it is not in order for ‘‘we men”
to point the finger of derision at a woman’s
toilette’ of a century and:a half ago. We
certainly have the advantage, in this century,
of simplicity in our attire—a_ superiority
which some women so regret: that they seri-
ously propose to don the coat and breeches,
This will never be, however, for what is a
woman without drapery, laces, and jewelry?

; sates ore

 

 

 

 

TOUCHING OUR THUMBS.
oor

 

HE thumb is the whole of life.”
is accountable for this statement.

Newton said that, in absence of all other
proof, our thumbs would convince him of the
existence of a God.

Chiromancy asserts this digit as standing
first, greatest, and strongest among the fingers,
and superior to any other part of the hand.
From philosophers down to the smallest urchin
we have, any day, proof of the truth of this as-
sertion. Even little Jack Horner, as all re-
member, gave unconscious evidence in its favor
when, eating his Christmas pie, he did not rely
on fore, middle, fourth, or little finger, but

Put in his thumb,

And pulled out the plum,
which at that particular period of life was the
coveted object of his desire.

According to palmistry, our thumbs repre-
sent the reasoning will, logic, and decision.
Those versed in this science place the sign of
the mind or moral sense at the base or root of
these members, and judge of the intensity of
our reasoning faculties by the measure of the
length and thickness of the rising, or mount,
as it is termed by the initiated, found there.
By the shape and size of the thumb is also ex-
pressed our love and affection.

Representing then, as they do, intelligence
and feeling, we find it an interesting fact that,
in the same measure as the hands are defective

Taine

 

and incomplete without thumbs, so when the’

moral will and reasoning faculties, of which
the thumbs in different degrees offer different
signs, are found blunted or imperfectly devel-
oped, these members which denote them are
inert or wholly wanting. Common sense

teaches us this is but natural, and the world-

freely illustrates in this instance, as in every
other, the truth of the statement that, ‘‘ When
the substance is absent, the symbol must fail.”

Born idiots, as medical statistics show, fre-
quently come into the world without any
thumbs, or, having them, they are found to be
powerless and inactive.

Infants, until they arrive at the age when
a ray of intellect comes to their aid, con-
stantly keep their tiny hands closed with the
fingers folded above the thumb. Open the
little hands, straighten out the passive fingers
as often as you choose, and soon as the re-
straint of your own touch is gone the thumbs
will seek their accustomed place beneath the
other fingers. By-and-by, as the mind de-
velops with the body, thumbs in turn shut
over the other fingers in convenient and
tempting position for use, and are, as all can
testify who are conversant with nurseries, the
members which first receive the first intelli-
gent attention from their young owners. The
epileptics, in their fits, fold the thumbs first,
the fingers afterward closing over them.

At the approach of death the thumbs of the
dying, as it impelled by some vague fear, seek
refuge under the fingers, and when thus found
are an almost certain announcement of the
end. So in leaving this world it would seem
that our hands in their last desire for move-
ment assume with our growing unconscious-
ness the same suggestive position in which
the hands of the new-born babe, with facul-
ties all dormant, first shape themselves,

People with small thumbs are governed by
the heart rather than the head; they breathe
more freely in the atmosphere of sentiment
and romance than that of thought and earnest
purpose. The possessors of large thumbs are
endowed more generously with intellectual
gifts, and are controlled by the dictates of rea-
son and common sense rather than feeling.
They are also free from those rash and oft-
times disastrous impulses which urge the sen-
timental and mawkish possessor of a thumb
small in proportion with the remainder of the
hand to the attainment of ends which do not
justify the means of their accomplishment, to
the enjoyment of pleasures which too quickly
fade away, leaving the disenchanted illusionist
with the full appreciation of the folly of at-
tempting happiness without the aid of princi-
ple and judgment.

And in turn a hand with a thumb out of
symmetry, because too large to be in harmony
with its other parts, represents all head and no
feeling—a cool, calculating, domineering being,
of whom it may truly be said his wife ‘is
under his thumb.”

eLong thumbs go with the long heads ; their
owners have the gift of peering into futurity
with an almost prophetic vision. When they
allow a ‘‘bird in the hand” to escape, you
may be assured it is only to make room for
two or more in the bush, the reaching of which
they have so accurately planned and calculated
that the prize sooner or later is found in their
grasp. The Third street broker who is noted
for buying and selling stocks just in the right
season, the real estate agent, the merchant
who always finds gain, blow the winds ever so
ill for most people, you will ascertain, if you
but take the trouble to observe, bear long
thumbs, thumbs which tend to bend backward,
denoting sagacity, curiosity, and address; the
ends of which are square rather than pointed,
indicating industry, their theory of things, the
knowledge of facts.

Wherever you find hands with thumbs short
and thick, rest assured they are raised oftener
in violence and cruelty than in blessing; if
these members are flat and blunt, when you
come in contact with their owners look well to
your purse.

Great nervous power is denoted by the thin,
wiry thumb.

Our moods are oft-times suggested by the
manner in which we use and hold our thumbs.
When assailed by doubts and perplexities we
invariably twirl these digits; if nervous and
excited there is an involuntary desire to press
or rub the same; if sorrowful and dejected we
find ourselves sitting with our thumbs resting
closely against or over the fingers; if joyous
and buoyant these members are found apart
from the rest of the hand, and often upright.
The old Romans, in. their bloody circuses,
when generously inclined, opened not only
their hearts but their hands as they raised
their thumbs in token that the prostrate gladi-
ator should live, while the same were closed
and the thumbs reversed if thirst for cruel ex-
citement was not satisfied, but must have the
death of the plaything of their sport to gratify
its cravings. Some one, we do not remember
who, has ranged women under two classes,
those with small thumbs and those with large
ones. The woman with small thumbs, they
assert, is not endowed with a high principle of
sagacity, neither does she find within herself
great resources of enjoyment; or in the general
world much to interest and entertain. Of her
it may be said that love forms her whole exist-
ence. Love, under the guardianship of the
woman with large thumbs, attains its object
and desires without reproach. Passion is
always under restraint, having more root in
the senses than in the heart; one can confide
in such a one’s judgment, knowing that con-
stancy and mental charms added to love and
good sense, form a combination which gives us
the woman Wordsworth wrote of ;

‘A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort and comma’, -

as.

 

+R eS

~