) A or AND TOT TET TRE RT EI ee — RNICHTS 220 SUMMER DAYS, Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by the Publishers of Betis anp Bravx, in the office of the Librarfan of Congress, at Washington. = Von 1 Noe i. EW oN Omaha Pe oa Bie: Yearly, $4.00. Price 10 Cents, Yetrly, #400. BLONDE AND BRUNETTE. BY LUCILLE C. HOLLIS. CHAPTER I, LES BLONDES, e6 ETE! Lete! Are you never coming?” Nora Ellice was the speaker, stand- ing at the foot of the broad staircase that- ended in the high, wide, central hall of Ellice House. Her tones were a trifle petulant, her face and movements decidedly so. She was dressed for riding, in a habit of navy blue, perfect-fitting, that outlined the graceful and symmetrical proportions of her stately, swaying figure. Her light, rippling hair, the very palest shade of gold, was gathered in a loose coil at the back of her head, a shaft of jet thrust through it, and surmounted by a rough, straw, sailor hat, trimmed with a simple band of blue. At her throat—round and shapely, and mar- ble fair—was a dainty linen collar, and care- less sailor-knot of black. In her hand she carried a silver-handled whip, with which she switched her trailing skirts, the floor and the stair, unceremoniously. She waited some moments for an answer to her call, but just as she sent her strong, clear, mu- sical voice, float- ing up the grand old stairway a- gain, Lete ap- peared, and came tripping down, a laugh rippling over her full, scarlet lips, an amused look in her deep, blue eyes. “T presume you have been chafing like a caged leo- pard because I am five minutes late,” she said in her merry, cheery way, that it was impossible to be angry at. And then they passed out to the sun- shiny terrace, where a groom held two fine horses. Speedily the la- dies were in their places, and riding beneath arches of old forest trees that led to Ellice House, and out to open country roads, toward the town whose white spires they could see glistening, in the sunlight, three miles away. They were sis- ters, .these two, Althea and Nora Ellice, _ blondes, and beauties both, yet totally unlike. Althea was twenty, and elder of the twain—a full-figured, glow- ing girl, robed in royal purple that accorded splendid- ly with her bril- liantly pink-tint- ed complexion, and rich, golden- Z, WL YY HU PUM a round face, pretty-featured and merry of ex- pression, with dimples playing hide and seek in her peachy cheeks; laughing eyes, a trifle lazy in their expression, just as their owner was by nature, with arched brows and thickly shading lashes; a full-lipped, scarlet mouth, betokening a sensuous love of ease, pleasure and self. Lete Ellice was handsome, with the beauty of a rosy-flushed, sunshine-gilded June morning; eighteen-year-old Nora, with the cold, proud, passion-repressed loveliness of a calm pale, moonlighted night. , Lete, lazy, good-natured, merry—loving well the luxury to which she had been born—was the life of the gloomy, grand old house, where the sisters—motherless—lived with their quiet, indulgent father, who was well content to hu- mor their every caprice if they would respect his love of seclusion, and leave him undisturbed among his books and papers in his little private study. But if Lete was the warmth and light of the luxurious home, Nora—proud, stately, haugh- tily-graceful, with lily-fair face, showing the faint tracery of delicate blue veins ; great, dreamy, gray eyes, with silken, sweeping fringes, and dark, straight line of eyebrow; features like some rarely-carved marble; fault- less, sensitive mouth, and calm unfathomable- ness of expression—was its grace and dignity. This bright, sunshiny, June afternoon, the sisters galloped into Elmtown, and through its busy streets to the post-office, where Nora sprung lightly from the saddle, soon returning to Lete’s side with hands full of letters, ‘“Who are they from?” asked Lete, care- lessly. “These are for papa; put them in your pocket ;” answered Nora, assorting them, ‘‘And this from Chauncey Waldo; and here is one for me, from Philip, and—another for you, from Miss Le Maire, isn’t it?” ‘Probably. Shall we go to Shayne’s for some ices, and open them?” “Yes, if you choose,” and the girls were soon discussing chocolate ice and exploring the revelations of their respective letters, Miss Ellice spoke first. i Wh re ; | I J a i SE UI ae Tn rt TNT i me A hued, auburn hair. \ She had a plump, Will soon commence “LOOK, NORA; THIS MUST BE YOUR KNIGHT!” ith i HR \ ‘‘Miss Le Maire has accepted my invitation, Nora, and will join our party in about ten days.” “IT hope we shall like her,” remarked Nora, quietly. “Of course we shall; it is easy enough to like any person, if one only chooses to, and she is Chauncey’s cousin.” “Which ought to win her a sure road to your regard. Philip will be home, Thursday, Leté, and Chauncey is coming with him, as you have probably learned from his letter,” “T haven’t opened it.” “You are true to our sex,” Nora said, calmly, and with a slow raising of her match- less eyes to Lete’s face, with an expression that her easy sister neither understood nor cared to understand. Lete made no reply to the imputation, but tore open her lover’s letter, glanced carelessly over the closely-written sheet, and thrust. it into her pocket. Then the girls rode home- ward, through shafts of sunshine, and parted to dress for dinner. The visitors that thronged Ellice House in summer had not yet ar- rived; and the family, as yet small, dined in a pretty breakfast- room, off from \ the large dining- | room overlooking | the gardens. | Here Nora and i Lete met, and | were joined by Mr. Ellice, who put an open letter in the hand of his eldest daughter. “Girls, = you may have heard me speak of Wes- ley Emerson. He and your mother were Cousins, and he is now your only surviving re- lative on that side of the family. He stayed with us | some months, when you, Al- thea, was a mere child, and Nora, here, a babe. As soon as he attained his -majority, he left us, and went wl to Europe travel- | ing, and has re- mained abroad ever since, so that I have heard from him but seldom in all these years, He is now in New York, and pur- poses paying us a - visit. You may | expect him-—when does the letter say, Althea?” | “Two weeks from date, Papa,” | “answered Lete, running her eyes over the note, “Yes, — very well; you will be prepared for him, my dear.” *T hope he will be jolly,” said Al- thea, referring to Wesley Emerson, as the girls loung- ed in the drawing- room, after din- ner. | “J don’t!” an- | swered Nora, de- | cidedly, as she i Ai nn , FN played soft trills on the piano. = “Oh!” laughed Lete, ‘then you in “Belles and Beaux,” a grand serial by Mrs. May Agnes Fleming. are hoping that he will be the ideal man you are hunting for!” ‘‘Am I hunting for an ideal man?’ asked Nora, indifferently. “Of course; do you not denounce the men of our acquaintance as bores, and continually extol the virtues of an imaginary hero? For my part, I think men are very nice as they are; but, for your sake, I hope that this middle-aged cousin of ours will be one of King Arthur’s knights revivified.” CHAPTER II. LA BRUNETTE. Puruie Exvticr, blue-eyed and fair-faced, and exceedingly boyish-looking, despite his light, curling mustache and twenty-two years, was home; and Chauncey Waldo,-one year his senior, and his elder sister’s lover, had come with him. Other visitors, too, had arrived; Jessie, Ella, and Alf Hathaway, stylish Philadelphians ; Lyle Finley and Ed. Nelson, two of Phil’s classmates ; the Misses Avery, three pretty cousins of the Ellices; and now the day had come when Armand Le Maire, the beautiful, brilliant, brunette cousin of Chauncey Waldo, was expected. “Tell me something about this handsome cousin of yours,” whom Philip raves so over,” said Lete to Mr. Waldo that evening, as they lingered on the piazza, while the rest ot the party were gathered on the croquet-lawn, some distance from the house. ‘‘There isn’t much to tell, except that she’s wealthy.” “That is considerable, I should say,” laughed Lete. ‘‘In these days of marrying for money, how is it you didn’t fall in love with her, Chauncey?’ “And I had seen you?” asked Chauncey, throwing inimitable reproach and admiration into his tones, yet feeling a trifle conscience- stricken as he remembered how earnestly, but unsuccessfully, he had tried to marry his cousin’s money. “Flattery!”? exclaimed Althea, “and you know I detest it; but, do tell me, is Miss Le Maire an orphan?’ she continued, not at all disturbed by her fib. “Yes. Her mother and father were divorced when she was a mere child. She and her mother went to England, where they lived under my aunt’s maiden name.- While there, both parents died; and shortly after Armand was discovered to be heiress to a large pro- perty. She returned to France, adopted her rightful name, and, having no relatives there, finally wrote to my mother and came to live with us. That is all the romance there is to her life.” “Is it?’ questioned Lete, absent-mindedly ; she was watching a carriage coming up the drive. And the question remained unanswered for many weeks, for Chauncey said: ‘“ When I took Ellen Gale for my sister, and called her thereafter “little Nell,” I was honest about it; I took Mrs. Gale also for my mother, and John for my brother. Mother, brother, or -sister of my own blood, I have never known; and this relation was more to me than it would have been to another, perhaps. I loved Mrs. Gale with a strong regard, and John no less. “Doctor Jack,” as I playfully called him, would do about any thing for me; he was a good boy. Both he and the mother always called me by the first name—Will; but little Nell, out of her more caressing nature, called me Willie. No one else on this round globe ever called me by that name but little Nell; and no one ever shall; but there is no danger —I was thirty years old last August, and am past the day for being petted, I should think. We used to esteem it a rare bit of humor when I would sit holding little Nell on my knee, and would tell her I was going to marry her one of these days, and call her my fairy wife. ‘‘But you can’t marry your own sister, can you, Willie?” she would say. Though I never wrote tales, I had a natural leaning to fiction, I think, and I used to tell Nellie grand stories of my future life, in which she figured as the heroine; or build beautiful air-castles, with brown-stone fronts, and locate them in West Boston, and dwell in them toa happy old age with my fairy wife. I was to be a great poet, of course, with a large fortune made with the assistance of Fame, and Nellie was very proud of her poet husband. How little I realized that so much of these idle dreams could sink down into that guileless heart and abide there forever. This was all poetry to me, but to her it was as real as any thing else in the future. Yes, I can say now, with perfect candor, that I had no thought of the seed I was sowing; and when she would steal her arms about my neck and put up her ver- milion lips to mine with a dewy kiss, and then sink her head on my breast and sigh softly— ah, how blind I was! But she was so little. Three years passed in this happy life. I thought quite seriously of getting out a volume of poems. The camphor-wood box held three or four score of verdant rhymes that had never seen print; and they never have yet, and never will; for about that time came the change in my life that took me away from the pursuit of the muses and from Boston forever. “Qadd,” said Mr. Wright, the junior part- ner, to me, one morning, in the fall of 1854, “we want a man to take Murray’s place, Yow ’re posted in grains, I think.” “T was brought up on a farm, sir,” I re- plied. Murray had been our grain-buyer in the West, and had perished in a steamboat explo- sion on the Mississippi a few weeks before. It was an excellent place fora rising young man, and when, after a brief conversation with the partners, it was decided I should take the vacancy, I was in fine spirits. But it grieved me to see how sad the tidings made the good people at the house—especially little Nell. While they were glad for my sake, they were sorry to part with me. The night before I left Boston I took Nellie to the theater, and we sat long in the parlor alone. Some new thoughts passed through my mind in that hour; and when Nellie put her cheek to mine and clung to me in a long silence, in the dim light of the room, I felt a thrill at my heart that was new to me; for in that hour I had the first real thought that had ever entered my brain of the possibility of Nellie’s some day being my wife. She was only ten years old then, and it was extremely absurd; but somehow I could tot speak in the old light way about the future, nor call her, as I had done before, my fairy wife. Next day I left Boston, with good-by kisses from mother and daughter, and a hearty em- brace from “Doctor Jack,” now a fine lad of sixteen. “Tf you get fever ’n’ ague out there, Will,” quoth Jack, ‘‘come back to Boston an’ T’ll cure y’up. ” But I never have seen Boston since. I wonder if it has changed much in all these years? I took away with me, at Nellie’s. earnest wish, the camphor-wood box containing all my literary efforts—excepting only an acrostic on the words ‘‘ Little Nell,” which she retained. For more than two years I kept the box, car- rying it with me in all my western wanderings, I was in St. Louis when the news came of the failure of Weston, Wright & Co., and a com- mission-house in that city offered me a like position at once, which I accepted. I got deep in the busy currents of trade; I began, after a while, to speculate on my own account, and made money rapidly. One day, as I was riding up the Mississippi river, I fell to musing on my literary aspirations in Boston. I got out the camphor-wood box from my trunk and began to overlook the fading MSS. it con- tained. How its fragrance revived the memo- ry of those quiet days! ‘Oh, little Nell!” I sighed, and closing my eyes, saw again the happy scenes which now seemed to have ex- isted in a former era of the world’s history. ‘“‘Hullo, Ladd!” cried some one, slapping me good-naturedly on the back, as I leaned on the taffrail, and knocking the box into the water. “What ye lost?” he added, as I bent over and looked after it. : ‘A box of papers,” said I, musingly. “ Any vally?” “No,” I answered, turning toward him, “‘they’re of no value—no value at all.” I was ashamed to tell this realistic money-getter—a brother speculator—that I had been musing over a lot of adolescent poetry. ‘Well, Haw- kins, what are you in mostly now?” I added, in a lower tone. ‘‘Oh, wheat, mostly,” said he. I saw the camphor-wood box floating far astern. “And so good-by to that,” I murmured, under my breath. “That” meant much, 1I— COLOGNE. In the summer of 1860, with a party of friends from St. Louis, I went on a trip from Chicago to the Lake Superior country. I was now well known throughout the West as a successful young capitalist—young, for I was still but twenty-six. The good steamer Planet was taking in her last installment of freight, and her brilliantly- lighted cabins were thronged with a gay com- pany of pleasure-seekers, bound for the cool breezes of the upper lakes, away from the burning August heat of cities. The band was playing a spirited waltz, on the deck, in the evening air. “Oh, dear!” cried a lively young lady near me, teetering sympathetically, ‘“‘how I do want to dance!” : At the moment she caught my eye, and stopped teetering, to bestow on me a well- bred stare. My appearance did not seem to displease her. She resumed her gay tone, and while talking with the group of companiens about her, ever and anon turned on me a co- quettish glance. She was one of a small party from New York, who were unacquainted, it seemed, with any one else on the boat. There was the usual stiffness peculiar to American society, for the first day or two, but gradually we began to feel a homelike feeling with regard to the boat—for the trip to Lake Superior is like an ocean voyage in respect of confining the passengers to a floating prison for days together; and people can hardly sit at the same table, seeing the same faces daily, lounging on the same sofas, playing on the same piano, sleeping in bedrooms off the same big parlor, without striking up an acquaint- ance somewhere. I had been sitting on deck reading a magazine all the morning of the second day out, and closed it when I had finished it. The young lady to whom I have referred occupied a seat near me at the mo- ment, and exhaled a delicious perfume of Jean Marie Farina of which I was, you may be sure, very conscious. As I arose to go to my state-room, she addressed me in cruel German: “‘Wollen Sie lass mir lies ihr buch?” she said. ““With pleasure,” I replied, somewhat startled by the extraordinary style of her address. ‘It is a very dull number, I fear you'll find.” “Are you fond of reading the American magazines?” she asked, in a very lively tone, ‘Why, yes,” said I, ‘I like some of our magazines very much.” “You are German, are you not?’ was her next question. “Oh, no,” said I. “French?” ‘“* No—oh, no!” “Youre not Italian?” “Tam an American—a Massachusetts Yan- kee, by birth,” . Why, how stupid I have been!” she cried, with a merry laugh. ‘I thought you were a foreigner.” Thus began my acquaintance with the viva- cious Isabella Thorne, daughter of a wealthy New York merchant. She was ‘a beautiful creature—a type of the loveliness you may see any pleasant afternoon in Broadway—a full, queenly figure, large gray eyes, light- brown hair, and dressed richly and tastefully; and the delicious odor of Farina cologne that always hung about her was not one of: her least attractions, to me. The acquaintance rapidly ripened, as such acquaintances, formed under such circumstances, always do. We danced in the long cabins in the evenings; we promenaded the deck in the star-light, gazing out on the lonely waste of water that seemed so gloomy and made us feel so strongly how much we were alone; we sat on the promenade deck in the cool, sunny afternoons, in the shade of the disused and canvas-covered stern-wheel, where we could talk soft nothings with no one to hear; and I was not long in discovering that I was deeply in love. Of course, Isabella in- troduced me to her mother, and that lady smiled on our acquaintance benignly, to my great joy. It wasa happy time. I look back on it with gentle feelings, for there was not an hour in all those beautiful days that brought one painful thought to my heart. Stop, though; I am forgetting that day when we went to the iron mine on shore at Marquette— when I fell from a crag on which I had climbed for an especially tempting specimen of the ore, and bruised my forehead, so that when we returned to the boat Isabella bound my head with a handkerchief, which she moistened with camphor. Ah, the old per- fume! Little Nell, and the old sea-captain’s house, with its wealth of wondrous trinkets! Somehow, the memory of that last hour in the parlor—that night four years ago, troubled my silly head. And the more I tried to banish those thoughts, the more they came; and it seemed to me, then, that if little Nell were here she would not be content with band- aging my head, but would seat herself by me, lying here on a cabin sofa, and hold my hand confidingly, and press a loving kiss on my cheek as I slept. “Little Nell must be quite a young lady now,” I thought; ‘she’s just sweet sixteen this month.” Miss Thorne came walking through the cabin, and stopped a moment to flirt her co- logne-scented handkerchief playfully in my face, and ask, ‘“Do you feel any better now, { Mr. Ladd?” “Oh, much better,” I replied. But what-a fib it was, to be sure, Before we parted at Chicago, on our return, Thad given Miss Thorne to understand that I had contemplated winding up’ my western affairs, preparatory to going to New York to reside. So when we said good-by on the deck of the Planet that August morning, she pressed a tiny packet into my hand, and said, in a low tone: “Dinna forget, Mr. Ladd. I shall never cease looking for you till you come.” . “TI shall come,” I answered; we pressed hands; ‘“‘and so good-by.” ““Good-by, good-by!” When she was gone, I opened the packet, Inside was a forget-me-not, and the penciled word “Isabel.” Where she got the flower I could not imagine. I concluded, finally, that it was ‘one she had,” for it was already withered; and its fragrance was the fragrance of—cologne, nothing else, The following October found me in Nev York; and an early evening after my arrival in the city found me sitting in a parlor of Miss Thorne’s residence in Madison avenue. She received me with cordiality and both hands, and I was strongly tempted to imprint a kiss somewhere on her fair face; her manner seemed to invite it; but I refrained, through modesty, which I need not have done, I now know. However, we were not long in com- ing to that. I was a constant visitor at the house, and speedily stood in the position of a recognized suitor. We went together to the theater and the opera, and, through her, I soon became involved in the whirl of fashion, It was something novel to me. To be sure, T had known society in St. Louis and Chicago; but the social maelstrom of New York made the petty gayeties of western society tame enough in the comparison, I became known as a Wall street operator of large capital, and my social position was from that hour as- sured, The winter went by with a whirl, and I knew nothing of care. There were times, I confess, when thoughts of little Nell would intrude, and I would promise myself an early visit to Boston; but I never went. And what was worse, I never wrote. Up to the time of my Lake Superior trip I had kept up an unbroken monthly correspondence with my Boston friends; but when I decided to come east again I felt as if I should now be near them, and should see them soon, and so I never wrote to them again—never to this day. These silly thoughts of self-reproach would come, once in a while in quiet moments. And besides these, there once or twice came over me flashes of jealousy regarding may Isabella and her numer- ous beaux. The formal words of proposal and acceptance had never passed between us, it is true; but I considered myself no less her affianced than if the parents had blessed us in due form, and the marriage settlement had been made. Therefore I did not like the length of Isabella’s string of admirers. Especially I did not like Mr. Mortimer Gawley—a “heavy swell,” with killing mustaches and sleep; black eyes, who, I fancied, was quite too mu devoted te Miss Thorne. Once, when I saw q i} i 4 i i i sr eee —- - LZ CGHELLES AND BHAUX. [Aprin 11, 1874. = her talking to him behind her fan in a manner that struck me as being much too confidential,. I quietly asked Isabella if she had not in her heart a feeling of preference for Mr. Gawley. ‘‘How can you be so foolish, Will?” she made answer ‘Mr. Gawley is an old friend of ours, and I wonder you dislike him so much. By the way, won’t you, just to oblige me, try and not treat him quite so cavalierly, when you meet him? Do, that’s a dear good fellow, for my sake; it exposes me to more mortifica- tion than you think; Mr. Gawley asks me the queerest questions about you, and I don’t know how to answer him.” Convinced more by her affectionate manner than by her words, I dropped the subject, and felt ashamed; and next time I met Gawley I was so good-natured that he quite opened his eyes with surprise. That did not last long, however. Soon after, Gawley and I chanced to call on the same evening, and at the same hour. We entered the house together, and together were seated in the parlor. Isabella came in radiant, and exhaling cologne as ever, and advancing ex- tended her left hand to me first, and then her right to Mr, Mortimer Gawley, protesting that it was the most delightful surprise to meet us both together, a circumstance that had never occurred before, she believed, had it? It would have puzzled the most acute ob- server, I think, to have decided which of the two gentlemen then in Miss Thorne’s presence was the preferred one. She divided her at- tentions between us which such impartiality that I could not avoid thinking she cut them squarely in two in the middle, as she would an apple, mentally saying, you take half, and you take half. True, she had offered her hand to me first, when she entered the parlor; but it was the left hand; nothing could have been more impartial. I was not in a good humor that evening; I had lost very heavily in Erie that day, and my future was beginning to look a little dubious in Wall street. To force Miss Thorne to some expression of preference, I arose and walked into the next parlor, to ex- amine a painting with which I was already on perfectly familiar terms. My intention was to keep out of easy talking range, by looking at all the paintings first, and after that, if there was no demonstration, there was the conserva- tory beyond, and Isabella knew my passion for exotics. I did not think I should disconcert the enemy quite so suddenly, however. Chanc- ing to glance at the pair, as they sat on a tete- a-tete, I saw Isabella withdraw her hand quick- ly from Mr. Gawley’s grasp, give him a warn- ing look, and walk over to me. Gawley flushed angrily, but he turned it off with a yawn, and arose to go. “ Haven’t time to prolong the call this even- ing, Miss Thorne,” said he; ‘‘only dropped in for a word or two. An engagement just below —at Winterson’s—sh’ll have to say au revoir. Evening, Ladd.” “Now, Belle,” said I, after he was gone, ‘‘T’m jealous of you, without joking. Will it be impertinent in me to ask how that man dared to take your hand in that manner?” “How uncomfortable you are to-night, Mr. Ladd,” said she, her gray eyes emitting a light such as I had not seen in them before; ‘“‘do you catechise all your lady friends so severely?” “Tf you Mr. Ladd me,” said I, ‘‘I shall cer- tainly Miss Thorne you in return. Belle!” I added, with flushing earnestness, ‘this is child’s-play. I am only candid with you when I say, I do not like your manner with Mr. Gawley. If, in catechising you, as you term it, I assume a right that is not mine, I wish to know it this hour—for I shall not proceed in the direction I have been going, if I have been mistaken all this while.” She looked a little frightened, at this, but I did not think it best to spare her. I proceeded: “Pardon me if I speak too plainly to render it possible that I should be misunderstood. You must choose, Belle, and choose to-night, between Mr. Mortimer Gawley and Mr. Wil- liam Ladd. We two can not occupy the same plane.” “Will,” she said, placing her white hands on _my shoulders as she stood, ‘“‘ you grieve me to the heart. How can you doubt as to my choice?” Looking into her wide, upturned gray eyes, feeling her caressing hands on my shoulders, how could I, indeed? “Between us,” she continued, “ there should be perfect confidence. If you make me say mere words to you, Will, you give me pain; you indicate the absence of confidence, and that I can never bear.” ‘* Forgive me, Belle,” I murmured, drawing her to my breast, ‘“‘I am wrong, and you are right.” ‘Must I speak the words?” she breathed, looking steadily in my eyes, with her face close to mine. My answer was, to close her lips in one clinging kiss, while that sweet per- fume floated up like incense from the laces on her throbbing breast. That was our last mis- understanding. I have mentioned that I had lost largely in Erie that day. I had been speculating heavily in stocks of late. The next day I lost still more heavily, and on the third day I awoke to the consciousness that when I had entered Wall street to wrestle with the skillful opera- tors there, I had ventured into an arena that held too many men who were my superiors in the game. My western grain spoculations had never trained me for the combats of this ring. Not to trouble you with details about what . now troubles me not in the least, it is enough to say that I was a ‘“‘ruined man,” the victim of “cornering.” If you don’t know what that is, I hope you never will know by bitter ex- perience. ¥ Of course it was not long ere my financial decease was known. I felt the first sensation peculiar to my fallen state, when Mr. Addison R. Thorne—my idol’s father—passed me in Pine street with a cold bow, in striking con- trast to his usually cordial salutation. I had read of cuts like this before, but had never quite believed that human nature could be so brutal. Truth to say, however, this was not the common treatment I received from my former antagonists in the arena; but that is of no consequence at present. That evening I called to see Isabella. ‘Not at home, sir,” said the servant-girl, with an imperturbable countenance. I knew she lied—if I may be allowed the expression— and I did not call again. But I wrote to Isabella. I forget, at this time, precisely what I wrote; but I remember that in the letter I said, in a burst of high magnanimity which cost me a great effort, that I freely released her from the implied engagement if the change in my circumstances had altered the feelings of her heart toward me. But oh, I begged her not to dim my con- fidence in all humankind by showing me that she, she of all the world, should forsake me in that hour. And so on. I never got any answer to it. I can speak lightly of these things now; but it is none the less true that then my heart seemed nearly crushed. There is no need to prolong the history of that period in my exist- ence. That was the last of my acquaintance with Miss Isabella Thorne—since married to Mr. Mortimer Gawley, from whom she separ- ated within a year. If my thoughts now turned to the delicious quiet of the old sea-captain’s house in Boston— if I thought with renewed tenderness of inno- cent little Nell—I was ashamed, in that hour of my adversity, to turn for solace to those whom I had neglected so basely in my pros- perity. This was the spring in which Sumter was fired on. I enlisted as a private in the —th regiment, and marched off to the war. Many a cordial hand-shake I had from good fellows I knew, at parting; but I had no occa- sion to whistle about ‘‘the girl I left behind me.” III—JOINED. I was made a sergeant when the organiza- tion of our regiment was perfected. Subse- quently, I was constituted a supernumerary lieutenant, but in the second year of my ser- vice this position in the army was dispensed with, thus virtually throwing me out. At this time came the news that my father was dead, and, relenting toward me in his last hours, had made me his sole heir. The property was not large—it only embraced the old homestead, and a broad farm in the loveliest valley of all New England—but I was conscious that I was no longer a beggar. Idid not go home, how- ever. I had enlisted for the war, and I meant to be “in at the death” of the rebellion. I was. When the battle of Fort Steadman occurred, I had attained the rank of a major. That was the last pitched battle of the war. Grant was watching. Richmond with his steady eye; Sherman was marching down to the sea; the assault on Fort Steadman was the last desper- ate effort of the rebels. Our corps (the Sixth) did its duty in that battle, as always, every- where. I wasshot ina bad place—the right shoulder. The hospitals were overcrowded at that time, and as my hurt was a perilous one, they put me into the first hospital reached— that of Armory Square. I lay unconscious for over twenty-four hours. The twilight of the next evening was creeping through the wards when my senses returned to me, and I gradual- ly became sensible of where I was. Nurses were moving about in their sober garb. There was the subdued hum of low voices, with an oc- casional groan from some poor fellow in the doctor’s hands. Some one was bathing my aching head with camphor, and the perfume did its inevitable work. Again I was in the old sea-captain’s house in Boston; again I saw the little room where the grape-vine clambered over the window; again little Nell stood at my side as I built poesy, pressed her soft cheek to mine, looked lovingly with her brown eyes in- to my blue, put up her vermilion lips with a dewy kiss. Where was she now, that pure- souled little maiden, whom I had neglected so basely, but whom I had never, never forgot- ten? Involuntarily I murmured, “Oh, little Nell, little Nell, where are you?” The soft womanly hand I had held a moment before came fluttering down upon my forehead; it crept along my cheek; it glided to my neck with an eager caress; and then in the gather- ing gloom a white, white face bent down to me, and I heard a whisper: “Willie!” “No!” I half shouted, husky and eager. “This is a hospital! Nell?’ Then I listened, with staring eyes in the dim twilight. “T am here, Willie,” came her answer. Thrilling with joy I raised my well arm and drew her dear head down; her lips pressed mine with dewy coolness; my trembling touch went groping over her hair, her neck, her waist, her hands. “Oh, God!” I cried, “if this be not a dream, I bless, I thank thee, Giver of good!” Nell, and when I felt her tears.upon my cheek, that was the touch of reality that assured me. Lights came; and then I discovered that the beautiful creature at my side was no longer the little girl I had used to hold on my knee. In her place, was a sweet, womanly face, an exquisitely rounded form, belonging to a young lady of some twenty years, who sat at my side and held my left hand with quiet confidence. But how came she here? That puzzled me. “Tt is no dream, Willie,” murmured little f Her young face with its ripe red lips seemed strangely out of place in this abode of mature and motherly nurses—I was too happy and too feeble to care much, however; so I just lay and looked at her, as one might look at angels right down from heaven. One of the surgeons approached. ‘¢ He has spoken, John,” whispered Nellie. A flash of jealousy ran through me. Who is John? He bent over me and took my hand away from little Nell. ‘Well, major,” said he, ‘‘how do you feel now?” “Don’t you know him, Willie?” asked Nell. ‘“‘T know his face, I think,” said I, uncer- tainly. ‘‘What! Doctor Jack! My dear boy, get down here and take a one-handed hug! God bless you, Jack, you’re a real surgeon, aren’t you? And you brought her here?” ‘‘She came to visit me,” said Jack. ‘‘ Been here a week. Sherecognized you. I -wouldn’t have known you from Adam. She’s been watching youever since. She’s afraid you’ll run away, I think.” ‘‘ There’s danger,” I said, smiling peacefully, as I clung to her dear hand. What a brave little thing she proves herself! How many young women could sit by and see the cruel probes thrust deep into the quivering flesh of the man she loved (and she did love me!) prodding and grinding in search of the ball for two long hours of agony. Her face was as white as my own, butthe hand that held mine never twitched nor trembled. And when at last they found the ball, she took pos- session of it. A month later, I was well enough to go home on leave of absence, Nellie had remain- ed with me all this time, and when I went back to the old homestead I took its light with me, for Nellie was now my little wife. “ Dear Willie,” she murmured, as we sat by the window in our new home on the first night we occupied it—she in her old place, on my knee, ‘‘ the prayer of years is answered. Since mother’s death, one earnest prayer for myself has ascended to the dear Father—that he would give me to you some day, and that I might make your home the happiest spot in the wide world. Iam here; the rest is in my hands.” Then she added, suiting the action to the word, ‘“‘And you are in my arms, my brave brown soldier?” I sat at the open door, one mild October af- ternoon not long ago, looking out upon the shadows on the distant hills, and listening to the soft murmur of the trees, that breathed a hymn of peace tomyheart. The poplars were dropping their leaves downward; the orchard was laden with plenty, and the landscape rich with the glory of the dying year. The sun shone on the gold and flame of the maples; the flowering dogwood had turned its leaves to purple, and its coral berries were gleaming be- tween; the old burning-bush by the gate glow- ed with fire; the white feathers of the virgin’s- bower swayed in the soft wind. There is a winding foot-path that leads over the hill across the fields to the village, and down it was coming a vision of flowing robes and fluttering ribbons, which, translated, was my fairy wife —who bore in her fat little hands a wreath of orange and scarlet, the berries of the climbing bitter-sweet. ‘ ‘“‘ Willie,” she cried—for she still persisted in calling me by that ridiculously loving name— ridiculous, I mean, for an old and war-scarred veteran of thirty—‘‘ what do you think I have seen at neighbor Young’s?”’ “‘T can’t tell, I’m sure, little wife. phant?”’ “Your camphor-wood box!” “ No y? “‘Just what I knew you would say. But it is true. Mrs. Young says the box was sent to her by her brother in Iowa, six years ago, and that he fished it out of the Mississippi river.” “Strange!” I exclaimed; ‘‘I will have that box, little wife, if it costs me a thousand dol- lars.” An ele- Come and pay me a visit some time, and you shall see that box. Its contentsare: a ragged, twisted and battered bullet that came from the right shoulder of one Major William Ladd, and a sheet of faded paper, upon which is written an acrostic on the name of L-i-t-t-l-e N-e-1-l. The following remarkable poem by W. W. Story, the eminent sculptor, appeared many years ago in Blackwood. Aside from the magnificence of its diction, the idea of the poem{is so bold and origi- nal that very few will feel themselves familiar with it, even on a second reading. CLEOPATRA. Here, Charmian, take my bracelets— They bar with a purple stain My arms; turn over my pillows— They are hot where I have lain: Open the lattice wider, A gauze on my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odors That over the garden blow. I dreamed that I was with my Antony, And in his arms I lay; Ah, me! the vision has vanished— Its music has died away; The flame and the perfume have perished— As this spiced aromatic pastille, That wound the blue smoke of its odor, Is now but an ashy hill, Scatter upon me rose-leaves— They cool me after my sleep— And with sandal odors fan me, Till into my veins they creep; Reach down the lute and play me A melancholy tune, To ryhme with the dream that has vanished, And the slumbering afternoon. There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, Through slender paphri, that cover The sleeping crocodile. : The lotus rolls on the water, And opens its heart of gold, And over its broad leaf pavement Never a ripple is rolled; The twilight breeze is too lazy Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As stone above a grave. Ah, me! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh! for a storm and thunder— For lightning and wild, fierce rain! Fling down that lute—I hate it! Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred. Hark! to my Indian beauty— My cockatoo, creamy white, With roses under his feathers, That flash across the light. Look! listen! as backward and forward To his hoop of gold he clings, How he trembles, with crest uplifted, And shrieks as he madly swings! Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony, Cry, ‘‘Come, my love, come home!”’ Shriek ‘‘ Antony! Antony! Antony!”’ Till he hears you even in Rome. There—leave me, and take from my chamber That wretched little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaningless, And its silly tinkling bell! Take him—my nerves he vexes— The thing without blood or brain— Or, by the body of Isis, I'll snap his thin neck in twain! Leave me to gaze at the landscape Mistily stretching away, When the afternoon’s opaline tremors O’er the mountains quivering play; Till the fiercer splendor of sunset Pours from the west its fire, And melted, as in a crucible, Their earthly forms expire; And the bald, blear skull of the desert With glowing mountains is crowned, That, burnfng like molten jewels, Circles its temples round. J will lie and dream of the past time, ions of thought away, And through the jungle of memory Loosen my fancy to play; When a smooth and velvety tiger, Ribbed with yellow-and black, Supple and cushion-footed, { wandered, where never the track Of human creature had rustled The silence of the mighty woods, And fierce in a tyrannous freedom, I knew but the law of my moods. The elephant, trumpeting, started When he heard my footsteps near, And the spotted giraffes fled wildly In a yellow cloud of fear. I sucked in the noontide splendor, Quivering along the glade, Till I heard my wild mate roaring, As the shadows of night came on. To brood in the trees’ thick branches, And the shadow of sleep was gone; Then | roused, and roared in answer, And unsheathed from my cushioned feet My curving claws, and stretched me, And wandered my mate to greet. We toyed in the amber moonlight, Upon the warm flat sand, And struck at each other our massive arms, How powerful he was and grand! His yellow eyes flashed fiercely As he crouched and gazed at me, And his quivering tail, like a serpent, Twitched, curving nervously; Then like a storm he seized me, With a wild, triumphant cry, And we met, as two clouds in heayen, When the thunders before them fly. We grappled and struggled together, For his love like his rage was rude; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck At times, in our play, drew blood. Often another suitor— For I was flaxen and fair— Fought for me in the moonlight, While I lay crouching there, Till his blood was drained by the desert; And ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me To breathe him a vast half-hour. Then down to the fountains we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink; Like a bolt we sprung upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, And tore them limb from limb, And the hungriest lion doubted Ere he disputed with him. That was a life to live for! Not this weak human life, With its frivolous, bloodless passions, Its poor and petty strife! Come to my arms, my hero, The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger’s ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me! Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior that storms a fortress! I will not shrink or cower. Come, as you came in the desert, Ere we were women and men, When the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then. Random Leading. SOME OF THE CAPITAL BELLES. Of the ladies who reign in Washington as social queens, and who wield more than a local influence, we have these photographs on the spot: ven CONKLING.—Coming down to K street, we enter the house of Senator Conkling, of New York. Here we find a soul wearing the “rose of womanhood ”—a white rose, without blemish and without a thorn, and of a quality so fine and exquisite that it seems sacrilege, almost, to hold it up here even for a moment. Mrs. Pomeroy.—A few doors this side of Senator Conkling’s is the abode of ex-Senator Pomeroy. Mrs. Pomeroy, handsome and full of bonhomie, has always been a positive power for good in Washington. She is active and unceasing in charity and good works, one of the managers of the Colored Orphan Home and of the Woman’s Christian Association; alike in sunshine and in shadow, through evil and through good report, she pursues her cheery and helpful way. Mrs. BourweLL.—Crossing Vermont ay- enue, we come to the home of Senator Bout- well, which in inward tone is of the same type as that of the Vermont Senators. Mrs. and Miss Boutwell are models of the old idea of re- publican simplicity in attire and demeanor. It would be impossible for them to “take on airs,” | | | ; | | Aprin 11, 1874.] BGELLES AND BHAUZ. 15 and equally impossible that each should not have very positively ‘‘a mind of her own.” Intelli- gent, critical, and kindly, they give no uncer- tain opinion on any subject under the sun and would make a positive force in community. Mrs. Winpom.—On one side of President’s Square, Mrs. Windom, the wife of the Senator from Minnesota, fair, bright, and smiling, re- ceives her friends, with her lovely children around her, in a home as serene and peaceful as if far beyond the great tide of fashion roll- ing up to the “ Arlington,” outside of her door. Mrs. Scourz.—On the other side of the Square, with her fair daughter and only son, “little Carl Schurz,” we find an ideal woman, yet real enough to be ‘‘ not too good for human nature’s daily food.” A woman born to be loved and to love with an idolatry which only the deepest and sweetest natures yield—a poem | in herself—is the wife of Carl Schurz. Mrs. STEwART.—Opposite is the present abode of Senator Stewart, of Nevada, over- flowing with the costly furniture and exquisite cabinets which await their places in the unique mansion now building on Connecticut avenue. Mrs. Stewart is the daughter of ex-Governor Foote, of Tennessee. Born in Virginia, in aspect she is a true daughter of Pocahontas— stately, dark, and handsome. She is emphat- ically a leader of society—a woman of the world; but of heart strong and deep enough to have another world behind for home, husband, and children. Her house on Saturdays is a fa- vorite place of fashionable resort and her hos- pitality is of the most refined and generous character. ° HAS HE A CALL TO BE A HUSBAND? Has he a call to be a husband who thinks more of his horse than of his wife? Has he a call to be a husband who spends six evenings out of the week away from home, and complains because his wife will go Tuesday evening to prayer-meetings? Has he a call to be a husband who spends $5 a week for cigars and an occasional glass; but can’t afford to take a newspaper for his family? Has that man a call to bea husband who makes elegant presents to other ladies and grumbles if his wife wants a new dress? Has he a call to be a husband who swears if the one hundredth button is missing, and never speaks a word in commendation of the ninety and nine that remain immovable? Has he a call to be a husband who never buys a book or a picture to make home attrac- tive, and still wonders why a, woman can’t be contented to stay at home seven days out of the week, and ever singing, ‘‘ There’s no place like home?” Has he a call to be a husbarid who loses money by-betting on elections and horse-races, and when he becomes involved attributes it to his wife’s extravagance? MORE ABOUT POOR PAREPA. The following interesting anecdotes are re- lated of that noble woman, Parepa Rosa: She pronounced the Boston Handél and Hadyn Society the best choral organization in Ameri- ca, and said that she took greater pleasure in singing with that body than with any other. She regarded the members, nearly one thou- sand in number, almost as personal friends. One day at rehearsal she inquired why a tem- porary flight of stairs were placed in front of the stage. ‘‘They are expressly for your use,” was the answer. She quickly and smilingly answered: ‘‘I declare I won’t sing unless I can come in with the rest of the girls.” On the occasion: of a benefit to Mr. Lothian, of the Boston Theater, a few seasons since, Miss Meh- lig was prevented from appearing, and Parepa (who was sitting in a private box), hearing of the fact, and not wishing the beneficiary nor the audience to be disappointed, asked permis- sion to replace the absent artist, and amid the greatest applause she appearod in walking dress and hat, and when the audience had tes- tified its acknowledgment of her kindness, she sung, very appropriately, ‘‘ As I’d nothing else to do!” EATING TOO MUCH AND TOO LITTLE. While many people doubtless eat too much, we believe that some are over-anxious lest they should err in that direction. The follow- ing passage, from the translation of a recent paper by Dr. Max von Pettenkofer, is worth noticing in this connection: ‘‘ It is only a short time ago that it was customary in physiology to speak of a superfluous or luxurious consump- tion. According to certain physiologists, as long as the body is able to perform its func- tions, even though suffering from hunger, to take more food was luxury. But Bischoff and Voit fully demonstrated by their experiments on nutrition that the result of a nourishment so restricted is a state of want—a continual famine incompatible, in the long run, with the normal conditions of life. The body has need of a certain well-being—of a small excess of nourishment in order to preserve its strength and vigor. What just prevents death from hunger is not sufficient. It is as if we were to restrain the organism from producing any more heat than suffices to prevent death from cold, under pretext that all beyond this limit was superfluity and luxury.” ABOUT PHOSPHORUS. One of the largest manufacturers of phos- phorus in Europe has stated that the whole stock of the article in the chemical establish- ment where he was trained consisted of a little stick two inches long. He has lived to see it pulled by his own machinery in a cord un- counted miles long, and dispatched by the ton together for use in both hemispheres. The duced phosphorus for use by the friction match manufacturers at $2,500 per pound. Now de- mand and competition have reduced the price so low that a single pound can be bought in the city for about one dollar. It was at one time feared that the demand for bones for ag- ricultural purposes would so enhance the cost and diminish the supply as to raise the price of phosphorus to a high point. But the dis- 6overy of the immense deposits of phosphatic rocks in this country and elsewhere has set at rest all apprehension of this nature. We have phosphorus enough quietly resting in the South Carolina rock‘beds to meet the demands of the world for thousands of centuries, and no one need be anxious concerning a full supply at cheap rates of the indispensable friction matches during his own lifetime at least. A CAT’S DREAM. Some of our readers who have watched cats or dogs while dozing, have probably been amused at movements showing that they were really dreaming in their way. Land and Water tells this story of a cat, which evidently had a dream: ‘‘She was very still and appeared to be fast asleep when suddenly she sprung into the mid- dle of the room, where she fixed her feet on a limited spot on the floor, to which also her nose was applied, as if closely grasping some- thing which she held in her claws. This,con- tinued for a short time, when the nose gently raised, and the visible attention was directed to the feet, which still continued their grasp; but after a time one of them was gradually re- moved, and then the other, on which puss ap- peared greatly at a loss to imagine where the imaginary object could have gone so as to es- cape her grasp. She looked in various direc- tions along the floor with a foolish face of con- fusion; and then again her attention was di- rected to the spot on which the feet were closely pressed, as if to examine closely wheth- er the presumed escape had been by sinking through the floor; and when this seemed un- satisfactory the disappointed animal, widely awake, retired slowly from the spot, but she returned more than once to re-examine the place, as if she found it impossible to compre- hend how an object she had so plainly seen and grasped should have sunk into nothing. Many minutes elapsed before this cat appeared to be»reconciled to*conviction that what had seemed a dream was not in truth a reality. LEGEND FROM THE TALMUD. Alexander the Great arrived with his victo- rious army before a! town inhabited only by women, and prepared for the attack. The women sent him this message: ‘“‘ Why dost thou wage war against us? If thou vanquish, thou wilt have no glory, for the world will say, ‘This: great hero has conquered women.’ And if the battle end in our triumph, then thy shame wlll be greater, since thou wilt have fallen by the hand of women.” Alexander of- fered unto them an honorable peace, and asked for provisions. The women brought unto him gold bread in gold plates. ‘‘ Why,” said the king, ‘do they eat gold in this country?” ‘‘Cer- tainly not,” answered the shrewd women; ‘“but is there no bread in thy empire that thou has come to seek bread in our land?’ Then Alexander departed with his soldiers; but, be- fore starting, he wrote these words on the gate of the town: ‘I, Alexander of Macedonia, was heedless and without prudence, until I came to this African country, and learnt wis- dom from the women.” A PRETTY PRISON STORY. A prisoner in the Missouri penitentiary, too weak to work, and who had the run of the yard, one day asked the warden if he could be allowed to cultivate a small corner of the inclosure. ‘‘What do you want to raise?’ “Cucumbers, sir.” ‘‘Why, you can’t raise them here; the other prisoners would steal them.” ‘‘No, sir,” said the man firmly, “they will not steal one of them.” “Well, go ahead,” said the warden; ‘“‘if any of your cucumbers are stolen don’t come to me with your complaints.” ‘‘You will never hear from me on that score, sir.” The cucumbers were planted, watered, trained and cultivated, and an immense crop was the result. As fast, however, as the fruit ripened it disappeared, and the warden became convinced that the owner sold it for liquor, produce or some other contraband article. He directed the man to be watched, and finally he was detected in the act of carrying his cucumbers to the hospital and giving them to the poor fellows who in their sickness craved them. Not one had been stolen. = A NEW LIST MATRIMONIAL. A fresh list of weddings is called for, so how are these for hy-meneal? Sugar wedding—A marriage with an attend- ant suite. Wooden wedding—Marrying a lumberman. Tin wedding—One that ‘‘pans out” well. Crystal wedding—Marrying one addicted to the glass. Silver wedding—Marrying a gray beard. Golden wedding—When the groom is a minor and the bride a little vein. Diamond wedding—When the ‘‘ washings” are large. And here are some others: Sugar wedding—Marrying a ‘candid man.” Wooden wedding—Marrying a perfect stick. Tin wedding—One amid the pansies. Crystal wedding—The Glasgow ceremony. Silver wedding—An end of “spooning.” Golden wedding—One of the species we like. The Mail-Bag. Lucifer matches were taxed last year $1,500,000. Count Waldeck the painter is still living in Paris at the age of 108. Wendell Phillips is reported to have cleared by his lectures over $100,000, Phoebe Couzins says the Queen of Sheba was a lawyer by profession, only she was ashamed to tell of it. It is said that the kind mothers of the east are so affectionate that they give their children chloroform previous to whipping them. The canary-bird opera troupe of South America has been outdone by a Berlin, Prus- sia, individual, who exhibits a company of drilled fleas. Iceland holds out almost irresistible induce- ments to emigrants from New England in the announcement that there isn’t a solitary lecturer within its boundaries, A bandmaster in the English army for a period of forty-nine years has just retired, and has been awarded the munificent pension of ten cents a day, the highest sum the law allows. A needle, with two inches of thread attached, has just passed out through the skin of a young lady at Yorktown, Indiana. For some time previous she had been complaining of a stitch in the side. The last match in the box generally fails to burn; so he who walks in the dark all his life, and strikes for light only on his death-bed, is im danger of awakening to naught but a strong odor of brimstone. There was a jumping match between seven young ladies at Waupun, Wis., for a silver medal. The contestants wore loose trowsers and no skirts, and are described as so bewitch- ing that the spectators cheered themselves hoarse. Sarah Jane Smith won. Old John Brown’s cabin, out in Kansas, has been taken down and stored by the enterprising man who owns the old squatter’s farm. But many visitors go to the place, and he does a lively business in selling his spare kindling- wood as relic pieces of the cabin of the old hero, ‘‘ whose soul goes marching on.” One of the best detectives in New York is said to know 1,500 thieves and bad characters. The detectives do not follow up any moderate robbery; it must be a large one to secure their attention. When traced, they always recom- mend the victim to compromise, and the re- wards and emoluments go to the thieves and detectives together, and in fat proportions. The calicoes this season are marvels of beauty in finish and design. These are called “satin foulard finish,” and in quality and smooth satiny surface are difficult to distin- guish from the real. French foulard silk, calicoes, and percales are alike manufactured in this style; soft, silky, and closely imitating foulards in design. Michigan convicts are hereafter to be treated with distinguished consideration. Striped gar- ments are to be abolished, and no State crimi- nal will be regarded as being too depraved to be allowed the privilege of corresponding with his friends. Besides, the uneducated ones are to be educated, and when discharged, each man will receive a suit of clothes, $16 in,cash, and- such money as he may have earned by overwork. Lemontinia Smith died at Wolverhampton, England, a few weeks ago. She was a famous Gipsy oracle. More than one hundred Romany chals, representing all the tribes in England, attended the funeral. Returning to their en- campment, a grand ceremony of cremation took place. All the wearing apparel, trinkets, and domestic articles belonging to or in any way used by the dead woman, were solemnly burned or otherwise destroyed. Sashes, shoulder bows, and favors are all the rage in England, made in the Russian national colors, black, red, and yellow. Some are com- posed of six colors, the English red, white, and blue being alternately added. The patriotism and good nature of the people are expressed in all these fashions, but good taste will suggest that no amount of admiration for a Russian bride can make the combination pretty or de- sirable in dress ornaments. Near Merrillan, Wisconsin, is a curious bluff known as the Silver Mound. It contains about 300 acres, and consists principally of hard quartz rock, being circular in form, about 200 feet high, and having a depression of about 60 feet in the center. There is evidence of ancient mining about the mound. At the top shafts were sunk fifteen or twenty feet, and a drift runs from the bottom of one of them perhaps forty feet. Hieroglyphics are carved in a sandstone ledge. The Commercial Bulletin says that 500,000,- 000, is about the number of wooden toothpicks sold by the Boston house which controls the whole business in this country and the number increases enormously each year. These tooth- picks are made of white poplar, and are all manufactured at one factory in Maine. The refuse wood is done up in bundles for cigar lights. So great has been the popularity of cheap wood toothpicks in this country that the experiment of exporting them is soon to be tried. Soft twilled vigogne, alpaca, pique, soft fin- ished cambric, and undressed linen are the materials most in vogue for children, with vel- veteen or woolen cloth for jackets; English waterproof for cloaks and talmas; and tweeds and English Melton cloths for boys’ spring chemist still lives in London who first pro- Diamond wedding—Jem’s marriage. suits, above the age of five. Hats for boys of all ages are now finished so as not to require trimming—and. their gloves, shirts, neckties, handkerchiefs, and the like are finished with as much nicety as their papas’. Paper made from the papyrus plant lasted from 1,822 years before the Christian era to the eighth century. Egypt was invaded. by the Arabians, and her trade destroyed. It was then, for the first time, that cotton paper was imported from China by the Arabians, who, two or three centuries afterward, sup- plied us through Turkey. The manufacture of their flax paper was so successful, that cotton paper was completely laid aside until the com- mencement of the present century; when once more it expelled from the market the linen paper. It will be impossible just now for the poet of the period to sing of ‘ flowing robes,” for nothing can be more stiff and square than the Medici over-skirt and the newly-imported Henry ITI. basque, perfectly fitting, without wrinkle or seam, over the hips, as if one was clad in armor. To add to its lack of grace, it is longer in front than behind; nor is its beauty increased by the very stiff, upright puff extending quite around the arm-hole more and more like head dresses, poised, and not al- ways straight, on the top of the high hair, and resembling the castellated towers of feudal castles. The bonnets of the present time are small edifices, two or three stories in hight, composed of flat layers, or ruches of crepe or tulle. Between the stories are placed flowers or ribbon bows, and the whole is surmounted by a plume of some sort. They are almost al- ways of the same color as the dress, for match- ing is more than ever the fashion. Fun HMlashes. The man who tried to light his pipe With a billiard match said he did it out of cue-riosity. Why is a monkey that can’t hold his head up like next Monday? Because its neck’s weak. Three old boots, a gaiter and a hoop-skirt in- dicate that the family has moved. Love-matches are often formed by people who pay for a month of honey with a life of vinegar. Louisville maidens blondine their hair, and mournfully remark with Cesar that the dye is cast. A suspicious wife, on being asked where her husband was, replied that she was very much afraid he was Miss-ing. Charles Lamb, when speaking of one of his rides on horseback, remarked that “all at once his horse stopped, but he kept right on.” It is a rule of etiquette in Arkansas that no true gentleman will eat with his leg thrown over the back of his neighbor’s chair if he can help it. “The lilacs are budding,” says a Wisconsin editor. ‘You lilac Satan,” responds one of his readers. ‘‘ You violet truth,” politely re- plies the editor. . ‘“Why don’t you give us a little Greek and Latin occasionally?’ asked a country deacon of anew minister. ‘Why, do you understand those languages?’ ‘‘No; but we pay for the best, and ought to have it.” This engagement was broken off. A young man in the wilds of Nevada bought a dress pattern for his fiancee, and a pair of red flan- nel pantaloons for himself, and—he delivered the wrong bundle. “Jury,” said a Western Judge, “you kin go out and find a verdict. If you can’t find one of your own, get the one the last jury used.” The jury returned a verdict of suicide in the ninth degree. A good brother in a Baptist church of Miami county, Indiana, while giving his experience, not long ago, said: ‘Brethren, I’ve been a tryin’ this nigh onto forty years, to serve the Lord and get rich both at onct, and, I tell yer, it’s mighty hard sleddin’!” An exchange says: ‘Miss Flora Rodgers, of Kansas, sued Archibald Brown for breach of promise, and settled it for a pair of steers and eighty bushels of corn in the ear.” Without going into the merits of the case at all, what enormous ears that woman must have to hold a pair of steers and so much corn. Shakspeare has been shown to be a jack-at- all-trades. Of course he was a bank examiner and detected fraud in account books which looked all right to the dull eyes of befooled bank directors, or he would not have written, ‘How sweet the moon sleeps on this bank. Here let us rest,” “May it please your honor,” said a lawyer, addressing one of the city judges, ‘‘T brought the prisoner from jail on a habeas corpus,” “Well,” said a fellow, in an undertone, who stood in the rear of the court, ‘these lawyers will say anything. Isaw the man get out of a hack at the court-room door.” Two neighbors had a long and envenomed ~ litigation about a spring, which they both claimed. The judge, wearied out with the case, at length said: ‘What is the use of mak- ing such a fuss about a little water?” ‘Your honor will see the use of it,” replied one of the lawyers, “when I inform you that the parties are both milkmen.” There is a, story of Judge Grier, which everybody delights in, how he set aside the unjust verdict of a jury against an unpopular man, with this remark: “Enter the verdict, Mr. Clerk. Enter, also, ‘Set aside by the Court.’ I want it to be understood that it takes thirteen men to steal a man’s farm in this court,” 16 GHLLEHS AND BEAU. [Aprm 11, 1874. GRAND MARCH ALEXANDROWA. : Co sed by H. SIBOLD. % Maesioso. 3 mposed by Piano. 1st time. | 2d time. % | po a i ii pl A nt ST oa