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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by the Publishers of Betugs anv Bxavx, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

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Vor. L--No. 4. NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 21, 1874.

 

 

 

TERRIBLE SNOW.

BY RICHARD GERNER.

 

 

H! the snow, the terrible snow.

Laying the plants and flowers low;
Dealing destruction now here, now there,
Driving the hungry wolf from his lair,

Howling,
Baying,
Eyes all aflame,
Through snow-covered forests in quest of game.
A curse to the needy, the poor and low,
And to those that ride and those that go,
Obstructing each path and each thoroughfare,
Making beasts’ burdens much harder to bear.

Oh! the snow, the terrible snow,
The poor man’s torment and the poor man’s foe;
Only hailed with glee by a thoughtless child,
To whose wrappings warm it feels soft and mild.
Driving,
Tearing,
Through broken panes,
And filling up poverty’s courts and lanes,
For a quivering foot, frost-bitten and cold,
To cross it with shoes neither heeled nor soled,
While bloodless lips utter, and not too low,
A curse for the coming of terrible snow.

No fire to cheer the empty grate,
No bread to eat from the old broken plate,
While the snow flocks in through the open door,
And with fiendish glee it covers the floor.
Smiling,
Chuckling,
In cruel sport,
Deaf to entreaty, and caring for naught,
Neither for moans from the suffering and sick,
Nor for faint flares from the cheap lamp-wick,
Struggling to live to cheer up with its light
Those who are freezing in darkness and night.

A small, childish countenance, wan and pale,
Cold, clammy and moist with the driving gale,
Extended with pleading and tearful eye:
““A penny, please!” What a mournful cry!
Falling,
Reaching

No friendly ear,
Met by the snow with a withering sneer,
As it shrouds in white the youthful form,
Benumbed by the cold and the fearful storm.
Until it is covered and hid from view,
Bemoaned by nobody, pitied by few.

A wearied-out traveler pursues his way,
With the terrible snow falling all day,
And dark night sets in, yet it ceases not,
Blinding from sight some hospitable cot.
Plodding,
Dragging

His limbs along,

{Till stopping for fear he was going wrong,

 

Pricz 10 Cans, (geri, ¥0%,

 

 

     

Sinking upon the terrible snow,
Wishing his strength, like his hope, would grow;
But his couch had already marked its prey,

And his hair was white before it was gray.

In a valley stands a romantic cot,
On a charming, delightful, healthy spot;
One winter snow threatened the peaceful dell,
And gathered in strength and size as it fell,
Roaring,
Crashing,

An avalanche
Crushed into the roof of the little ranche,
Striking its inmates all torn to the floor,
Their dread winding sheet all crimsoned with gore;
Their last mutter was, in their fearful woe,
A dying curse for the terrible snow.

 

FRED S VALENTINE.

 

BY MRS. MARY D. BRINE,

 

[PERHAPS if Fred Graham had dreamed of
the consequences, he never would have
stepped out of his pew so courteously one Sun-
day morning, to offer his seat next his mother
to the young stranger who had followed the
sexton up the crowded aisle, The church was
overfilled with people who came to hear the
celebrated Dr, So-and-so, who that morning
for the first time commenced his duties as
rector of ‘St. Paul’s,” and Fred, noticing the
puzzled face of the old sexton, who really knew
not where to find the stranger a seat, had
speedily ushered the lady into his own pew, and
received her sweet smile of thanks, with a new
and very peculiar feeling about his heart.
Fred Graham was really a splendid fellow; no-
body ever denied that fact, and he was a great-
er favorite among the ladies than his masculine
friends cared to confess, seeing that he fre-
quently cut them out, tho’ not intending to do
So.

It certainly was not his fault that nature
had made him so handsome a fellow, and if he
could boast of courteous manners and had be-
side the gift of rare conversational powers—it
was surely not his fault that nature and a very
superior mother had made him what he was.
So if his masculine friends grew sometimes
envious of him, he could not hold himself to
blame in the matter—of course not!

But Fred had reached his twenty-third year
undisturbed by the distressing hopes and fears,
hours of pensive thought, and other sickly
symptoms which generally attack youths some-
where between their eighteenth and twenty-
eighth years—and betray the presence of a
troublesome little god in the region of the
heart.

He gave his friends a sincere, warm friend-
ship, and kept his love only for the dear widow+

 
 

 

 

 

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BCGHELILES AND BHAUX.

 

ed mother whose claim to that love, Fred had
always stoutly declared, should ‘“‘ never be dis-
puted by a wife.” But to return: after our
young friend had reseated himself, handed the
stranger his prayer-book opened at the right
place, and moved his new beaver where her
little feet could not mistake it for the pew
bench, he glanced around the church’ to see if
any of “the fellows ” had seen his movements,
and then for the space of five minutes looked
straight at the minister.

Meanwhile little Miss Shirley sat demurely |
between-his mother and himself, secrotly long- |

ing for a chance to peep at the fly-leaf of the
. prayer-book he had» given her, and find out
who they were, this handsome young fellow
and stately lady who she knew from the resem-
blance between them, must be mother and son.

So the service proceeded,’ and they rose,
knelt and responded, according to the require-
ments of the service, and she discovered ere
long that the gentleman was possessed of a fine
rich voice—a voice, she thought, which would
make a splendid base in the quartette to which
she belonged—(and where, if I may explain,
she would have been singing on this particular
morning, if the church had not been closed for
repairs—while he caught himself admiring the
low sweet tones of. the voice next him, and
thought how charming it must be to sing with
such a beautiful soprano as her voice must
surely be.

Then camte the sermon, and everybody set-
tled themselves comfortably in their pews to
listen, take a nap, or speculate on their neigh-
bors’ affairs, dress, etc., according to the habit
of congregations in general. Mrs. Graham
drew her vail over her face and closed her
eyes, probably to listen better (?. Fred and
Miss Shirley sat side by side, their eyes fastened
upon the reverend Dr.

But somehow the young man failed to be
properly impressed by the sermon this morn-
ing, and presently his eyes wandered from the
clergyman’s face sideways to the delicate pro-
file beside him; and as Miss Shirley from the
same unaccountable restlessness had turned her
gaze in the direction of Fred’s manly profile—
it happened as a matter of course that a slight
collision occurred between a pair of blue and a
pair of dark eyes. The accident was slight to
be sure, but yet it left Fred somewhat injured
since he found it hard to regain his former
composure again.

While he kept his head religiously turned to-
ward the pulpit for a little while after that
mutually embarrassing affair of the eyes, Miss
Shirley obtained the long-coveted peep at the
fly-leaf within her prayer-book, and then dis-
covered the book to have been ‘‘ presented by his
mother to F. H. Graham.” A slight movement
of the young gentleman’s head caused her to
close the book suddenly, and glancing slyly
around, again the blue and dark eyes collided,
whereupon the lady’s cheek grew strangely
flushed, while Fred was conscious of turning
somewhat awkwardly in his seat, and feeling
that all “‘the fellows” were slyly laughing at
him.

But the long sermon came to an end at last,
and neither. Fred or Miss Shirley could have
repeated the text had their lives depended on
it. ‘*So silly of me,” thought the latter, ‘‘ to
care whether he chooses to stare at me or not!
ve seen too many like him to mind it, and
men are so rude, they’re all alike!” But in
her little heart she knew this one must be very
unlike any other of his sex—since in some
strange way he had impressed herso favorably,
and she, pretty Mabel Shirley, was unusually
hard to please, and decidedly haughty in man-
ner. As for Fred, poor fellow! he knew it was
absurd, but somehow he wished the sexton
would show that young lady into his pew
again some time. And as he stepped aside to
allow the ladies to.pass.into.the aisle, so intent-
ly was he pondering the matter, that he forgot
to steal another glance at the young stranger’s
face ere she had murmured her thanks and de-
parted. s

“A remarkable sermon, my son!” observed
Mrs. Graham, taking Fred’s arm as they
emerged into the street. ‘‘ Did you notice that
passage which alluded so feelingly to our con-
flict with the temptations of this wicked world?”

‘‘Hum—no—yes,” stammered Fred, in con-
fusion. ‘¢I believe I did, mother; yes, it was
a very fine sermon! very, indeed!” and the
guilty fellow, fearful of betraying his utter
ignorance concerning the sermon his mother so
seemed to admire, hastily turned the conversa-
tion into another channel, and drew a long
breath of relief.

Weeks passed, and neither of our two young
friends had seen each other since that memor-
able Sunday morning. Mabel Shirley was
again filling the position of soprano in St. Luke’s
choir, and, it must be confessed, indulged in
sundry snatches of thought concerning the
owner of the rich base voice she had admired
on one particular Sunday not long previous, all
the while growing more and more discontented
with the luckless individual who, though sup-
posed to be the basso of that choir, appeared al-
ways in a state of perplexity as to whether he
ought to keep to his own part, or assist the other
voices respectively. But his time would soon
expire, Mabel remembered joyfully—and then

,the committee were to find another basso, who
‘it was to be hoped would prove a “ genuine ar-
ticle.” ‘She knew who would fill the position
splendidly if—if—she only knew him, and
could tell the committee about His voice. But
she didn’t know him, silly girl, and what was
the use of bothering her brains about him, any
way!”

If, as some people say, we are under the con-
trol of fate, and are powerless to work our own
will at any time, then J say it was very kind of
Mrs. Fate to bring Fred Graham and an old
college friend face to face one morning in the

 

crowded street. Not that it brought any par-
ticular luck to the friend to thus meet Fred,
but to the latter, it certainly seemed in theend
as if fate and he were on tho best possible terms.
And before the two gentlcmen parted, Fred
had promised to “ oblige a fellow,” and try. his
voice as base in St. Luke’s choir next Sunday
morning. He didn’t know—how should he?—
who the soprano of that choir might be. And
how in the world could that soprano know that
the tenor was an old friend of “that young F,
H. Graham,” whose prayer-book had betrayed
his name to her? Well, Sunday morning came,
and in due season the tenor of St. Luke’s intro-
duced the new basso to the members of» bis
choir. If he (the tenor), was somewhat amazed
at the expression worn by at least two faces
during the introduction, he trusted to time’to
enlighten his curiosity, meanwhile service had
commenced and quiet reigned.

Fred had solemnly promised his mother not
to sing there except for one or two Sundays,
merely to oblige his friend until they could ob-
tain a regular basso. But, alas! there was no
use mincing the matter, the young fellow for
the first time in his life had left unguarded the
door in his heart, and that sly little imp, Cupid,
not only sent a pretty sharp arrow within that
sensitive organ, but flew in himself and calmly
nestled down for a long stay. When Fred
awoke, to a knowledge of his carelessness, it
was too late to help himself. To argue with
love is what no mortal ever yet could do suc-
cessfully, and Fred had no intention of trying
such a foolish thing. So he did the best he
could for his poor heart—and just kept its secret
safe and sound, and nobody, not even his
mother, dreamed of the matter. In fact, if fate
had not been so exceedingly kind to him, I
doubt if the object of his love would have

‘dreamed of it either, so very closely did he

guard his secret.

Mrs. Graham.understood that it was difficult
to find a basso, and felt reluctantly obliged to
spare her son yet a while longer—for the sake
of his college friend who “really didn’t see
what they should do, if Fred were not so
obliging.” So she went alone to St. Paul’s
Sunday morning after Sunday morning,
and occupied her pew alone, while Fred, the
devoted son, was filling St. Luke’s with the
rich notes of his glorious voice, and yielding
his helpless heart more and more to the power
of the little god hiding within its hitherto sacred
depths.

Valentine’s Day was drawing near, and
Mabel Shirley’s numerous beaux were prepar-
ing sundry beautiful specimens of eloquence
which, each lover imagined (in his blissful ig-
norance), would surely touch that little hard
heart of hersatlast. Poor deluded souls! How
little they knew that she had nothing to spare
for any individual on the face of the earth save
the handsome fellow who sung with her Sun-
day after Sunday in her choir.

Of course, with her woman’s quick wit, she
knew well enough the state of Fred’s heart, and
was provoked with him for being so afraid lest’
that heart should betray itself. She also knew
too well that she cared for him quite as much
as he for her, but of course she couldn’t do
anything but wait and wait until Fred’s re-
markable bashful fit had ‘worn itself out.
Lately they were continually meeting in the
street, or at different picture galleries or
matinees, anywhere it seemed, where Fred could
have a chance to act the “ foolish fellow” to his
heart’s (and her heart’s) content. His blue eyes
told more tales than his lips would have be-
trayed, and once in a while a certain expres-
sion in Mabel’s eyes almost convinced him that
she “‘ would not be very hard ona fellow ”; if he
could ever in the world muster courage to ask a
certain question. But he wasn’t sure about her
feelings yet. He would wait awhile longer and
then try his luck. Fred had no intention of
sharing the fate of one or two of his masculine
friends, who had been presented with ‘the
mitten” more than once, and looked so sheep-
ish afterward, poor things!

 

It was the day before St. Valentine’s and
Mabel, just home from a walk—(if Fred Graham
chose to walk with her half the time, it was
nobody’s business, was it?}—stood before the
glass in her room brushing her hair and think-
ing some such thoughts as follows: “If that
foolish boy doesn’t send me a valentine to-mor-
row, I declare I shall be really vexed with him!
If he does let such an opportunity slip for tell-
ing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth, I’ve half a mind to just cut him and
done with it! Here we are two good-looking
young things, desperately in love with each
other—any one with half an eye could read
Fred’s feelings toward me—and I—poor maiden,
can’t very well say—‘I love you, Fred? until
he has done his part of the business. Pshaw!
I'm positively disgusted with him—or rather I
should be if I didn’t like him so well!” And
while Mabel was thinking all this, her cheeks
were getting redder and redder, and. her little
heart kept filling — fuller with love for the
young fellow who managed to take posses-
sion of it so suddenly.

And what of poor Fred, all this time? He
knew about -valentines of course, and fairly
longed to send. Mabel one, but then he was
afraid she would consider him sentimental, and
laugh at him for his pains, and you must re-
member he was not so sure of her feelings for
him, as she was of his, because a woman knows
better how to guard her secrets. But he had
all that Valentine’s Eve to consider what he
had better do, and so let us leave him alone,
while he is wondering if all fellows who fall in
love, have-such a hard time of it.

Valentine’s morning dawned clear and
bright, and ere long Miss Shirley found herself
the recipient of numberless dainty epistles
wherein were traced Cupids and young loves

 

iW every color from white to gold. She com:
prehended from each of those earnestly dovoted
missives, that she was an angel, a dove—a lily
of the valley, in fact everything but just what
she knew herself to be, only a very humanly
disposed mortal—at that present time very
much in love with somebody who was afraid to
tell her his secret. So far from being an
‘fangel,” according to valentine No. 10, she
was conscious that no angel cover felt so cross
and almost furious as she did, as the day wore
on and nothing but these sickly concerns had
been recé@iyed by her thus far. Finally she
tossed them all into the fire, and took a fiendish
delight in watching the gilt and gold Cupids
with their harmless bows and arrows die in the
red-hot coals. Then she took’ a book called
“ Unrequited Love,” and sat down to read.

Just. at twilight the ‘servant brought her
young mistress a letter plainly enveloped, very
unlike the valentines previously handed her.
Mabel’s heart beat fast as she went off to her
own, room to read the following lines, which
surely but one among her gentleman friends
had the right to address to her: :

“If my long and unceasing devotion is deserving
of one thought from you, and if I may hope for a
dearer reward at some future time, then I implore
you, Miss Shirley, send only one little line, you
surely can guess to whom.

Ever devotedly yours.”

Far from sharing the fiery fate of its prede-
cessors, this valentine was safely hidden next
to the happy heart of our young heroine, and
two very bright eyes bent over a delicate little
note, wherein Mabel hastily penned the desired
response.

That night after his mother had retired,
Fred Graham drew from his pocket ‘a dainty
missive which he had read nobody could dream
how many times, since Miss Shirley’s messenger.
had brought it to him. -We, who are of course
invisible on this occasion, may peep over his
shoulder and read also:

“Fred, Fred, you foolish boy! Your little note is
almost as afraid to tell the truth to me, as you have
been for so long Do you think I could be a true
woman and not have discovered your secret long
ere this? If 1 hadn’t been silly enough to care for

ou—just @ little bit—in return, I believe I should

ave punished you for being such a bashful fellow
£ shall not teli you whether to hope for a dearer re-
ward or not, until you come and behave sensibly:
now, sir! MABEL SHIRLEY.”

Fred’s face had undergone several changes,
from the time of his first receiving that note
until he had read. it over several times, but
whatever his secret thoughts, it is certain no_
man’s countenance ever expressed such utter
delight and joy as his after each reading of the
precious affair.

The next. evening found him awaiting Miss
Shirley’s presence in her parlor, and if he had
considered her charming above all her sex be-
fore, he was more than ever enraptured with
her on this particular evening as she extended
both little hands to him, and blushingly ad-
dressed him as ‘‘ Fred,” making his name more
musical than it had ever sounded. to his ears
before. A long and serious conversation fol-
lowed, and though Mabel couldn’t exactly com-
prehend why her lover’s face wore such a pecu-
liar smile when she alluded to his note, and
why he seemed disinclined to allude to its con-
tents in any way, although very willing to
speak of hers, yet she was far too happy to
trouble herself about his ‘‘ bashfulness,” as she
considered it, and when they parted that night,
Fred was an engaged man, and felt about five,
years older in consequence.

Mrs. Graham (not to make my story too

long) sighed a little resigned sigh when her son }

confessed the error of his ways, but called upon
his fiancee speedily, and congratulated herself
upon having gained so lovely a daughter as
Miss Shirley would soon prove to be. It was
not until they had been three weeks married
that Mrs. Fred Graham chanced to meet an ola
lover—one whom she had many times refused
in secret—on Broadway. She was alone, and
he joined her with so miserable a face, that
Mabel could not help pitying him. In low re-
proachful tones he murmured: ‘‘ Oh! Miss Shir-
ley,” (Mabel started) ‘“‘ surely you might have
answered my little valentine. I asked only
one little line, and it would have made me so
happy!”

A horrible idea took possession of Mabel.
She stopped for nothing but to bid her com-
panion a freezing farewell, and flew rather than
walked to her husband’s office. Fortunately he
was alone and she exclaimed, “‘ Fred Graham,
did you or did you not write me a note on the
afternoon of Valentine’s Day! Answer quickly
—and for mercy’s sake say yes !”

Fred tried to keep his face properly sober,
but the effort was too much and he laughed
outright to save himself from strangulation.

““{—I—was going to write you, dear little
wife,” he began, but Mabel interrupted him
with a half angry sob, and smothered scream.

“ Oh! you awful man! Oh! Fred, you wicked,
wicked fellow! Then you didn’t propose to me
after all—and I—”

“ You proposed to me instead,” laughed her
husband, ‘‘ but oh! dear, darling little wife, I
had wanted to write you all day, only I was
afraid you did not care for me, and your dear
note made everything all right, and I was so
glad! Nobody knows your mistake and I shall
never tell.”

But Mabel didn’t forgive him in a hurry, or
rather she pretended she did not, and Fred had
to make a goose of himself ever so many times
before he had received absolution. Poor fel-
low, he really couldn’t see where he had sinned
in the transaction, but any way it was all
right in the end for every one except the luck-
less lover who did send the proposal. And now
Mrs. Graham sits in her pew Sunday mornings,
no longer alone, but with her son and daughter
who have resigned the choir of St. Luke’s, and
would not go to any church save dear old St.

Paul’s for the world.

 

[Fesruary 21, 1874,

MY BROWN-EYED DASSIE.

 

Ihave a winsome darling,
Who prattles all day long,

And cheers my house with music

. Sweetcr by far than song;

A bright-eyed, brown-eyed lassie,
With teeth of purest pearl,

In whose soft hair the sunshine plays
In many «golden curl.

I know my ladssic loves me,
Her swoct eyes tell me so,
And worm within her bosom
Her hoart }cots-truc, I know;
And often rose-bud kisses
Greet me with tender grace;
And love lights up with glowing smiles
Herhonest, radiant face.

Yet something tells me, sadly,
‘* Not aways will it be

That she will greet thy coming,
As now, so light and free!

For there will come a stranger,
Who’ll make her heart his own;
And far away thy rose may bloom,
While thou art sad and Ione.”

And when this shadow cometh
Between her heart and mine,

Though mine may break with anguish,
Yet I must not repine!

It_is the fate of mortals,
Repeated day by day,

And pays the debt—for once I stole
Some other heart away! -

 

(CONTINUED FROM No, 3.)

THE ROTHCOURT HEIR;

OR,

BETROTHED AT THE CRADLE.

 

By THE AvTHOR oF ‘Or HicH DreGREn.”

 

CHAPTER XX.
REVEALED AT LAST.

Mrs. FLAvERTY’s strange lodger was sitting
upright in her bed when Mr. Roth entered the
top room of Derby Lodge upon that July even-
ing, An old gay-patterned shawl was wrapped
tightly round her shoulders; her gray but still
abundant hair was loosely confined by a beau-
tiful comb of foreign workmanship. As Mr.
Roth entered she leaned back against her pil-
lows with a composed expression upon her face.

“T thought you would keep your promise,”
she said. ‘Sit down—I have a story to tell
you. When I have told it, I shall have lost a
good friend and gained—” She paused, look-
ing at him wistfully.

“T am your friend always,” Reginald put in,
kindly.

“Hush,” she answered—‘“you are one who
does not break a promise easily. I do not
want you to make one that you cannot keep.
Wait until the end.”

Then she lay silent for a while, with a far-
away look in her eyes as they rested on the
strip of sky visible from the tiny window. The
silence lasted so long that Reginald began to
wonder, when suddenly she moved her head
and began to speak, looking full at him,

“The story begins twenty years or more ago.
You are very troubled about something, Mr.
Roth, I see it im your face, which is nfach
changed since. I saw it last. I can guess your
trouble—it is about the beautiful young lady
that you love. ‘You think there is no grief so
deep as yours, I suppose—that in all the world
there has never been so sad a heart as your
own. But there are stories in the hearts of
some men and women that you would weep to
hear, brave man though you are. I am going
to tell you one such—a story of men’s and
women’s heartaches, and passions, and wild
jealousies, and sufferings that were ended be-
fore you were born,

‘At the time I speak of Iwas a young
woman—I am not an old one now, although I
may seem so to you. Well, in those days I was
mad enough to love a man whose position
should have been an impassable gulf between
myself and him; but I was a foolish girl, and
my eyes were blinded by my love and folly. I
loved Lord Roth.”

She went on speaking rapidly, and did not
heed the astonished look in her hearer’s eyes.

“T loved in vain. Although I forgot that he
was a gentleman and I a farmer’s daughter, he
did not. I don’t think he knew my secret, for
he had no thought save for his cousin, Char-
lotte Berney. She was to be his wife, and her
wealth was to lift the Roths from the poverty
and ruin into which their extravagance had led
them. She never became his wife. There was
a misunderstanding between them, and Lord
Roth married another lady—Miss Noel—in haste
and anger. He married her because she was
rich, and because he wanted an heir to kee:
the property in his own branch of the family.
He never loved his wife, and, when he found one
day that the fortune she was to have had was
lost by the ruin of her father, I think he hated
her.

‘““T was married too then, but I was a widow
before my son was born. Soon after that Lord
Roth was given the heir he had longed for—a
son was born to Lady Roth. I asked to be al-
lowed to nurse the little heir, and I went to live
at Rothcourt for that purpose. It was agreed
between Lord Roth and Squire Rutherford that
the little heir should marry the Squire’s daugh-
ter when the two were old enough.

‘« About three or four years after Lady Roth
was so delicate that the family went abroad for
her health. I only of the servants went too. I
left my own child at home with my mother, for
I thought to return after a year or two. We
went to a beautiful place. a few miles from
Naples. Lady Roth did not get better. Iknew
why, and—Heaven forgive me for it]—I was
glad that her heart was broken for love of the
man who had almost broken mine. She knew

her husband hated her, and she worshiped him,
f tried to increase her misery by every careless

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Fesruary 21, °1874.]

word and act of his I could recall. I told her
that Lord Roth had loved his cousin, and my
heart beat for joy when I heard that Charlotte
Berney was in Naples. I wanted Lady Ellen
to see them together—to see how her husband
loved his cousin; I wanted her to suffer because
she had married the man I loved. S

““T had my desire. Her face as it looked in
those days has haunted me night and day ever
since.. I knew the anguish that was wasting
her very life away, yet I did not repent that I
had added to it. May Heaven forgive me for
all she suffered then!

“There was a young Neapolitan—a fisher-
man—who lived near us. I got acquainted
with him, and TI grew to like him. I liked him
at first because he was exceedingly beautiful,
and I worshiped beauty—I liked him after-
ward because he had a true and good heart,
and laid it at my feet. When he asked me to
marry him, I said ‘Yes.’. If the Roths had
been going back to England, I should have said
‘No,’ and returned to my mother and my child.
As they were likely to remain for years abroad,
I thought it would be good for me to have a
home of my own. So I sent for my mother to
come out and bring the child with her, to live
with me and Antonio in Italy.

“One day trouble came to Lord Roth—money
difficulties—and Miss Berney offered to help
him. I think her kindness showed Lord Roth
all that he had lost, and made him mad. He
forgot himself, and fell at her feet in a mo-
ment of uncontrollable passion. I heard all
that they said; I heard him cry out that he
loved her—that his life without her was intol-
erable. She was very calm, and behaved as
grandly as it was her wont to do always.

“Lady Ellen heard too. If I had wondered
at her patience before, I thought she was a saint
when she entered the room after Miss Berney
had left, and tried to comfort her husband.
She was willing to forgive him—to shut her
eyes to the wrong he had done her; she only
saw that he was in great grief, and needed
comfort.

‘He rose up and answered; his bitter words,
his taunts, his upbraidings pierced her very
heart. I saw the agony in her face as she left
him—and for the first time there was something
more than agony. If he had known what he
was doing, I think even he would have held his
passion in check.

“That day little Master Reginald had not
seemed very well, He came to me as I was
packing up my things—I was going for a fort-
nights’ holiday to Antonio’s friends in Naples—
and I noticed that the child’s face was flushed,
that his eyes were unusually brilliant. I thought
that he looked as if he were going to be ill, and
that I had better put off my holiday. I went to
Lady Roth. She was in her chamber. I knew
what had happened; so I pretended not to notice
her strange expression as she stood by a writ-
ing-table in the darkened chamber.

‘‘ She-answered me in a hard, sharp tone such
as I had never heard her use before. She said
she would see to Reggy herself—the child had
a slight cold—I was not to delay my visit to
Naples. SoI went. What possessed me I.can-
not tell, but I returned in three or four days.
Antonio was angry because I was so restless
and ill at ease in Naples. I let him have no
peace tillhe brought me back to Mergellina—I
felt sure that something had happened, When
I reached home, I learned that Lady Roth had
fled with the child, and that no tidings could be
gathered of how or when or whither she had
gone. I do not remember the events of the
next few hours. I was as one insane. It
seemed to me that I was guilty of having helped
to bring this misery on them.

“As I opened a box I found a letter with
Lord Roth’s name on the cover; I knew that it
was left there by her. She did not want him
to have the knowledge of her flight too soon; so
she left the letter for me to give him when I
returned from Naples, She told him in the

‘letter that'she had sailed in a little barque called

the Eloisa-—Antonio’s father was captain and
owner of it. She told him she was going to
Marseilles, and then to Paris; that although
they might never be more than strangers again,
she forgave him the wrong he had done her, and
would restore the child to him either then or at
any future time if he should desire it. I stay-
ed while he read the letter, and I saw the wild
joy in his eyes when he cried out, ‘ Thank
Heaven, I have found my son!’

‘His son! Even then, after his sin against
his patient wife, and her noble offer of pardon,
he thought only of his son. I told you that I
believed he hated her; he was punished for that
too—bitterly. The letter came into his hands
sooner than Lady Roth expected. He told me
he should start at once by the land route for
Marseilles. He would arrive before the barque
came in—he would bring them both home again,
his wife and child.

‘‘He said that to me; there was no one els
with him just then, and it was a relief to him
to speak. He wrote a note telling his ccusin,
Miss Berney, whither and why he was gone; he
left it with me and started immediately—never
doubting that Lady Roth would return to his
roof if he desired her to do so. “When had the
meek lady ever dared to oppose his lightest
word? :

“He went — full of confident happiness.
Three weeks later he came back, the wreck of
himself—alone! He said no word—we did not
wish him to tell us the fearful tale. The news
had come before he returned—to the Berneys
at Naples—to us servants at the villa on the
bay of Mergellina—to Antonio, old Mariotta’s
son. The barque Eloisa had. foundered in a
storm off Cape Corso, and every soul had per-
ished. Even now, at this distance of years, I
dare not recall my agony. Lady Roth was
dead, and I had caused her desth--in my heat
I felt that I was her murderer. Antonio look

 

BHELLES “AND BRAUN.

ed to me for comfort, and wondered that I
could not give it. He was sore distressed —
distressed that his father should have found no
better grave than the ocean for his gray hairs,
and that the shipwreck should have put a bar-
rier to our marriage. The voyage was to have
been the old man’s last—last indeed !—-and the
barque was to have been Antonio’s upon his fa-
ther’s return; by means of its profits he was to
have made a home for me. Now it might be
years before Antonio could make one, for he
was very poor. We must wait—and Antonio
was very sorrowful.

“‘Lord Roth dismissed all his servants, and
gave up the villa on the bay of Mergellina im-
mediately. I told you that I had sent for my
mother and my little son; and amid all this
confusion and sorrow they arrived. I was in
great trouble; I had no home for them, and
very little money. Poor Antonio was broken-
hearted for my sake. Lord Roth went to the
Berneys in Naples. Miss Berney was engaged
to be married to an Italian gentleman of rank.
I think Lord Roth asked her to do something
for me, knowing my situation. She was his
best friend all through. She came to me and
offered to engage me as her maid—she liked my
ways, she said. I had no alternative, and I
agreed. I went to Naples. I took a little lodg-
ing for my mother and child in the town. It
was hard for my poor mother, but she never
upbraided me. Miss Berney was very kind to
me; she gave me many presents for my child,
and she used to take him up in her arms when
my mother brought him tosee me, and pet him.
She was busy just now with her trousseau. I
wondered sometimes whether she regretted that
she was engaged now that Lord Roth was free.
If she did she never showed it. .

“One day she came to me as I was sewing.
She shut the chamber door, locked it, and sat
down beside me. I cannot tell you the words
she spoke. At first I was so stunned that I
could only look in her face, as one turned to
stone. Lord Roth wanted my son, to take and
keep for his own, in place of the poor little
drowned child, It was to be a secret only
known to us three. My son was the same age
nearly as hisown. As yet no news of his loss
had reached England. I did not know then
why he was so eager to have my child; I know
now. He offered to give me asum of money
large enough to enable me to establish Antonio
in business and marry him at once,

“‘T could give her-no reply then; I asked for
a day to consider, and she left me, The night
passed, and my thoughts were still in a chaos.
Restless and sleepless, I walked the room till
dawn, and still I could not decide.

“Then Lord Roth came to me.. He knelt
down by the table at my side and pleaded.
How my heart would have throbbed in the
days gone by had he thus knelt to me and
pleaded so! He told me that he would be grate-
ful to me always—that, if I refused, he should
have a trouble so great that it would be more
than he could bear, He would give mea dow-
ry sufficient to make up for Antonio’s loss. I
looked in his haggard face, and at the gray
hairs that had lately appeared so thickly above
his temples. How could I say ‘ No’ to him?
Had I not helped to bring this trouble and mis-
ery upon him?

‘*T told him that I would do as he asked. He
took my hand and kissed it when he thanked
me. He told me that this secret must never
pass. my lips, save to Antonio, who would keep
it for my sake. I was to give my child up en-
tirely—never to make any claim upon him in
any way.

“Well, I did as they asked. A day or two
later Miss Berney was married. Lord Roth
went‘to Rome, taking my boy with him, and a
strange nurse to attend him. ‘I saw him go; I
held him to my heart close—close—for, oh! I
did love him so! Then I went to Antonio’s
home, taking my mother with me. |The money
I had from Lord Roth gave us many comforts.
Sometimes, in those days, I wondered why, if
Lord Roth wanted an heir so much, he did not
marry again, instead of taking the child of a
stranger. I forgot at that time the compact
with the Squire’s little daughter in England. I
remembered it afterward, and saw the. false-
hood that Lord Roth was acting; but {i could
not take back my word. I saw in the news-
papers the notice of Lady Ellen’s death; it was
given out that she died at Naples. I shuddered
at the lie. No mention was made of the poor
little heir. That silence was a lie too,

“Lord Roth left Rome later on, I saw Miss
Berney — Lady Santucci— when I went to
Naples one day. She told me that he was
traveling from place to place, and that the
child was well and happy. That was the last
I heard of my darling boy. In time my mother
died. No other children were born to me;
and when Antonio died I was alone once more
in a strange land.

“T came back here. I was so altered that,
of those who’ had been my girlhood’s friends,
not one knew me. I heard that tho marriage
of the Squire’s daughter with Lord Roth’s son
was settled. No one but Lord Roth—not even
the Squire—knew of the lie, I could not rest
and see its effects. Iwent to Lord Roth one
night a few weeks ago. I prayed on my knees
that he would not let it be—this marriage, that
was to deceive a good gentleman and a high-
born young lady. But he was furious with
wrath. He held me to my vow—he dared me
to lay bare the lie of seventeen years ago. ' His
anger was terrible, even to me, who had known
him for almost a lifetime. I have tried to die
with the terrible secret in my heart, but I can-
not—I canrot!”

The woman had paused at times while
telling her long story, but her hearer had
neither moved nor spoken. Now as her wail-
ing ery broke the monotony of her voice, he
rose to his feet. She could not see his face in

 

the dim twilight; she wondered at the calmness
of his voice, ;

“No, you could not-die and let so dark a sin
be buried with you. Now, answer me_ before
heaven—who am I?”

In the stillness, before the solemn-spoken
answer fell from the mouth of the dying wo-
man, their very breathing was heard.

“You are my son—Oliver Kenn!”

 

CHAPTER XXI.
WHAT SHOULD HE DO?

Ir was clearer to him now—the indifference
of Lord Roth toward him—the distance. be-
tween two who, as father and son, had lived
beneath the same roof, yet were so far apart.
‘Base blood!” Yes, he understood it now;
still it did not seem so very strange a thing to
him. After he had known it for an hour, it
seemed as if a dim consciousness of this, or
something like it, had been always in his life,
He looked back upon the past few months, and
tried to persuade himself that it was a reality
and not a dream. He wondered that so infa-
mous a lie could have lived without discovery
—that he himself had walked before men as
Lord Roth’s son, and yet no eye had pierced
the deceit, or read his true name and history
written on his face. Why had he not read it
himself? Why had he not had an inward con-
sciousness that his whole existence was a false-
hood, a life-long lie? This was the strangest
thing of all, that he himself should have been
so blind, so deluded. Adrian Rutherford, too,
who would have-been the chief victim of this
deceit—why had he not cried out, ‘This is not
your son,” to Lord Roth, when, after seventeen
years’ absence, he had once more welcomed. his
old friend back again, and looked in the face
of the man who was to marry his daughter,
Beatrix? Then he considered that this last did
not seem so strange. How should any one re-
cognize in the dark, stalwart man the child
whom they had known when only three or
four years old? ;

Lord Roth had foreseen all this, He had
laid his plans, and worked them out skillfully.
He had been very near winning a golden har-
vest as the fruit of his sin. But for Beatrix’s
having proved true to herself, he would. have
won it. A girl’s truth had risen up strong,
and stood between him and the fruit of his

Yes; he could be glad now of her decision,
which had seemed so cruel at the time. He
was glad and content. Things were as they
should be. Beatrix could never have been his
wife, even if she had returned his love. He
thought of all this as he returned home from
Ickston in the summer night. Only once did
the consciousness of his own wrong rise up in
all its bitter cruelty before him. He put it
away—he could not face it yet. Even his
brave heart quailed, and his brain grew dizzy,
as he reflected upon his fate—his hopes blasted,
his prospects ruined, his life a wreck, not by
any deed or -wrong-doing of his own.

He was sure of one thing—that it was his
duty to set the wrong right in the world’s
eyes. He had been the instrument in Lord
Roth’s hands for fulfilling this marriage con-
tract. Now that the marriage was dissolved
by Beatrix, and that he had no tie to bind
him to the man whom he had believed his
father, the only course open to him was to
leave the home to which he had no right.

He looked wistfully at the stately portals of
Rothcourt as they loomed up before him in
the darkness, There was no light but the faint

| light of the stars; the sweet breeze of the sum-

mer night came sighing through the ‘trees and
fanned his burning brow. For a moment he
bent his head low above his horse’s neck, with
a weight of sorrow that tried Ifis strength to
the utmost.

Carlo Marini took his horse, and spoke a few
respectful yet familiar words to the young
master; and his hearer answered quietly, pass-
ing on through the hall and into the room which
he used habitually. There was a shaded lamp
lighted, and beside it on the table the book
that he had left open before he started. His
paper-cutter lay upon the page. He looked at
it and stood lost in thought. It seemed a life-
time since he had left. it there. Was he the
same person who had used that ivory cutter
only to-day? Not to himself, but in others’
eyes the same, Only a moment back his old
servant had spoken to him as usual; he could
not see the great change. That was hidden
with all its bitterness in his own heart, A
long interval elapsed, during which, with a
calm immovable stare, he looked at the various
things about him. Then his resolve was sternly
taken. He would ieave Rothcourt forever.
He would find some work which would take
him away to a new life in another country.
He would begin his life over again—a life just
and holy in the eyes of Heaven, and honest in
the eyes of men, Of the years that were past,
and of this summer, begun with such fond
dreams, and endirg with such unutterable sor-
row, Only a dreamy memory should remain in
the days to come.

Having put his hand to the plow, there
was no turning back with him. He took up
the newspaper and ran his eye eagerly down
the advertisement columns, pausing now and
then in his search. He threw it down presently
and took up another. A very short search
sufficed. A little way down one of the columns
an advertisement told of an agent wanted for
a Brazilian mercantile company. He drew his
writing materials toward him, wrote an an-
swer, and then sealed and directed it,

“To-morrow,” he said, ‘*T will tell him.”

 

Lord Roth lay back in his easy-chair, and
locked out at tho full splendor of the July
morning. He was very feeble, this sickness

 

o

ue taken something more than strength from
im,

A firm steady step crossing the ante-room
fell upon his ears, He knew the step and did
not turn his head at once, although some one
presently stood beside him. He looked round
after a time, with a trivial, fretful remark
upon his lips. Something in the young man’s
face riveted his attention... The sad but stern
gaze that met his told its own tale. Lord Roth
read it aright. ‘

§ “She has told you?” he gasped, with white
ips.

“Yes, she has told me,” came the steady an-
swer, ‘

Lord Roth covered. his face and moaned
aloud. Lhe, other—turning his eyes to the
sunshine without—stood silent,

‘* I knew she would—I_ knew it!” wailed the
sick man, ‘* But, you will not tell it, will you?”
he added, in a pleading, whisper—the once
proud and haughty tone was gone. ‘‘ You will
not lay bare my sin just yet? I am low enough
in the dust, Heaven knows, Do not let all the
world see my shame, I cannot see Philip
Haughton’s triumphant exultation when he
learns it. He will have my home and my
name, though I swore that he never should: do
not let me see his triumph, wait till I am dead
—wait! It will not be long. Spare me—have
mercy on me!’

He lifted supplicating hands to the youiger
man, whose stern face showed no signs of
deviating from his purpose, whatever it might
be—showed no softening as the tones of piteous
agony fell upon his ears.

It. seemed. to Oliver Kenn himself that he
was very hard, very merciless in his strength,
Yesterday he had turned a deaf ear to the
peace for forgiveness of the woman calling

erself his mother. He had not heeded her
outstretched hands when she cried after him as
he left her. _Now he looked on the face of the
miserable man whose pride was in the dust,
and made answer pitilessly:

“Mr. Rutherford must know it, and all the
world must. know it, It is time this lie was
ended,” )

“Adrian, Rutherford! Great Heaven! it
was for his gold I did this thing. He shall not
know it—I say he shall not!” cried Lord Roth,
wildly, the old ungovernable wrath, the mad
passions rising above the feebleness and pain,
|e ea Kenn, the day he knows it I shall

ie.

Oliver Kenn looked down at the agonized
face, with a mixture of scorn and pity in his
own.

“Through your own act of sin and folly you
lost. the son who should be standing where I
stand now,” he answered, bitterly; “and, not
accepting his death as the just punishment of
that sin, you sought to work out your own ends
by committing a yet deeper sin, You would
have stood by and seen me marry Beatrix
Rutherford—nay, urged the marriage by every
means in your power—she and her father be-
lieving me tobe your rightful son and heir.
You would haye let me take the inheritance
that will belong of right to your cousin, Philip
Haughton, after your death. You would have
made my whole life a glaring lie, a wanton de-
ceit; and yet you look in my face, and ask me
to keep the sin hidden from the world, I dare
not. Beatrix Rutherford is banished by her
father because he is displeased that she refused
Lord. Roth’s son; she will be forgiven and wel-

; comed back when it is known that the rejected

suitor is Oliver Kenn.”

‘ Then let it be known!” came the fierce and
dogged reply. ‘‘Let it be so! Publish it on
the housetops! Tell them all—Adrian Ruther-
ford, my oldest: friend—Philip Haughton, my
bitterest enemy —all the world! Let them
come, I say, to triumph and rejoice and to
despise me! I am rightly punished. But they
will not find their triumph complete. Some-
thing will be found wanting!” He set his teeth
and. clutched the arms of his chair, vindictive
passion. and) despair gleaming in his sunken
eyes, ‘

“Something wanting!” the words rung in
Oliver's ears long after he had left Lord Roth,
and was pacing his room in sore perplexity.

He had read the meaning of the words in the
sullen bitterness of the tone in which they had
been uttered—they were but a repetition of the
words spoken just before—‘“The day Philip
Haughton knows it I shall die!”

Yes, he knew Lord Roth well enough to be-
lieve that he was quite capable of carrying his
threat into execution, He would die by his
own hand rather than meet the scorn and con-
tempt which would rise up in the hearts of his
nearest friends when they had learned his sin.
The sin his pride had led him into—the fruits
of that sin his pride could never face. Char-
lotte Berney had been content to live bearing
part of the burden of the falsehood for love of
her cousin; Reginald Roth; but the love of
others for him was not so deep—not even
Adrian Rutherford’s, his old familiar friend.
He knew, it, and, knowing it, would choose
death rather than abasement.

Oliver Kenn, who had read the proud yet
weak man’s. character day by day, knew this;
and was perplexed. He was sure that it would
be impossible for him to keep the secret for his
own sake—for Beatrix’s sake, Yet, should he
reveal it, and as a consequence Lord Roth kept
his terrible threat, it seemed to him that the
erring man’s death would be another weightt
upon.his shoulders, already bent beneath their
burden. He was in great perplexity, and could
see nO Means of exit,

A day and night. passed, bringing neither
sleep nor rest to his troubled mind. Another
day was born and died, and he scarcely heeded
its flight. But the evening brought him a
strange gleam of light where -he had least
looked for it. A Chance word, overheard in 2

y

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

f

 

GELLES AND BGHAUX.

[Frpruary 21, 1874.

 

 

chance manner, placed a thread in his hand
which he was to follow up, to penetrate a mys-
tery. There was another sacrifice, another
pain to be borne, but finally the peace and rest
of which he had dreamed would come.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
THE PRECIOUS CROSS.

THE supper was over in the servants’ room
at Rothcourt, and the butler, Carlo Marini, and
the maids were gathered in a little group by
the open window to gossip.

Oliver Kenn had been smoking on the ter-
race, and afterward he had wandered round to
the stables; finally he had come to the back of
the house, in the listless way of one who has no
settled plan of action. He threw his cigar
away and sat down upon an old garden chair.
The voices of the servants talking by the open
window came distinctly to his ears. For a time
he paid no heed to them, until he heard a name
uttered in Carlo’s voice that riveted his atten-
tion.

“Are you cold this warm evening, Carlo
Marini, that you hover round the fire?” asked
one of the maids, laughing.

“Cold? I am always cold since I lay eight-
and-forty hours lashed to a spar in the sea—
eight - and - forty hours,” repeated Carlo, plea-
santly, yet with dolorous tones. “I don’t think
I’ve really been warm, even in the dog-days,
since then; I think it partly petrified me.”

There was a chorus of quiet laughter, and
then the butler said, curiously:

“That was when you went for a sailor, Car-
lo?”

‘“*Yes—I have never been since, you may
depend; that gale cured me of my fancy for
that profession,” said the Italian. He spoke
English better than his own tongue, lending the
words a certain sprightliness quite his own.

“Then you were shipwrecked? Do tell us
about it, Carlo,” put in the pretty housemaid,
coaxing him.

“« There is very little to tell,” answered Carlo
Marini, warming his hands. ‘‘It wasn’t in the
Atlantic even — only a squall in the Mediter-
ranean, off Corsica. Our barque was the Eloisa,
bound for Marseilles. When I saw-she was
doomed, I lashed myself to a plank and trusted
to the Blessed Virgin. They all perished, every
soul but me; I was in the water eight-and-forty
hours, and then a Spanish frigate picked me up
and carried me off to Tortosa. When we start-
ed from Mergellina, we had a lady on board and
a little child. The child got very ill after two
days’ sail, and the skipper thought it would die;
sc we put in at a little sea-coast town, where
there was a convent, and left them ashore—
the mother and child—or they would have gone
down too with she barque. That was more
than seventeen years ago—I have never been
warm since. Maledictions on the sea, I hate it
cordially !”

His hearers started suddenly, for a dark fig-
ure loomed in the doorway, and the voice of
the young master, sounding strange in that
part of the house, addressed the story teller.

“Carlo, come with me. I want you.”

The Italian left the stove he loved, and fol-
lowed his master through the passages leading
from that part of the house to the other. When
he had reached the library, Oliver Kenn closed
the door and stood face to face with Carlo
Marini.’

“T want to know all that you can tell con-
cerning that voyage you took in the Eloisa—
more than seventeen years ago,” he said,
slowly.

A strange light gleamed in the black eyes of
the Italian as he strove to read the expression
in his master’s face.

‘«T was one of the crew, signor ”—he address-
ed the young man in this way in moments of
forgetfulness; “‘the barque belonged to a Nea-
politan trader, an old man named Mariotta Al-
fieri—he took charge of her himself. I had
known him for some time, but had never sailed
with him before, though I had been to sea four
or five years then. Before we sailed from the
bay of Mergellina—the bay is a few miles along
the coast from Naples—a lady joined us, with
a little boy. She came on board in the evening.
We wondered a little at such a passenger’s join-
ing the barque, but, as she seemed to know
Mariotta, we did not trouble ourselves—for the
reason that sailors get accustomed to strange
things. We put off at break of day, and sailed
with a fair wind, for two or three days keeping
just beyond the coast-line; we were to round
Cape Corso, and so on to Marseilles. Just af-
ter we had sighted Civita Vecchia, the little child,
who had been ailing since we sailed, got very
bad. I don’t think his mother knew, but I
did, when I went into Mariotta’s cabin and
looked at him, that he was sickening for fever.
I think Mariotta Alfieri knew it too. He told
the lady that she must take her child ashore.”

The Italian paused for a moment, casting a
curious glance at his hearer, who stood immoy-
able, betraying no sign of more than ordinary
interest.

“Go on,” he said, steadily. His firm lips
were pressed tightly together; there were hard
lines, telling of strong endurance, about his
forehead and eyes, Carlo Marini saw it all
and marveled.

‘¢ Mariotta Alfieri knew the Mediterranean
coast-line by heart. A little north of Civita
Vecchia is a solitary bay, called, after the con-
vent that stands on a hill looking down upon
it, Santa Croce. Just after nightfall one even-
ing we dropped into the little bay and put out
a boat. Mariotta told the lady that they would
receive her at the convent with the sick child,
and that she would be able to procure a doc-
tor’s assistance. I was sent ashore in charge of
the boat and her—it was but a little way. She
sat in the stern, with the child wrapped ina
cloak in her lap. Iwas a rough fellow, signor,

 

but I was sorry for her and the poor little sick
child. When we had reached the beach I drew
the boat up and left it, while I accompanied
her up to the convent on‘the hill, for I could
not leave her so. She had a little bundle of
things with her; so I took the child in my
arms, and we went together through the de-
serted street that lay in the shadow of the
hill. As we drew near to the convent gate I
gave her back the boy—he seemed in a heavy
sleep, only just moaning now and then. She
thanked me, and gave me some money, with a
little gold crucifix that she took from her throat
—to keep in remembrance of my kindness to
her child, she said. I put the bundle down,
and pulled the great bell of the convent; and
then I left her—for I dared not stay—I knew
the skipper would be impatient for my return.
I did not fear that they would turn her away
from the gates of Santa Croce. I never heard
of her again. The barque perished off Cape
Corso, in a gale, with old Mariotta Alfieri and
all the crew but me—I was a strong man then,
sir, and I lived after being eight-and-forty
hours in the water.”

‘Have you the crucifix now?” asked Oliver
Kenn, quietly.

“Tt has lain on my breast ever since, sir,” re-
plied the old man.

He did not tell that through many days of
want and poverty he had kept the little gold
relic with loving reverence, almost as part of
himself.

“T want you to lend it to me for a little
while, Carlo. I will hold it asa sacred charge,
and return it soon.”

For no one else would Carlo Marini have cut
the black ribbon that bound it to his throat. He
laid the glittering cross in his master’s hand,
and respectfully went out of the room.

When the closing door had left him alone,
Oliver Kenn took the gold crucifix to the table,
held it close to the light of the lamp, and bent
his keen gaze upon it.

He scanned it closely. Yes, there it was, the
first link of a great mystery to be followed up,
or, if he willed it, to be left in oblivion forever.

Three initials in old Roman capitals were on
the back of the crucifix that had been given to
Carlo Marini by a woman standing in the night-
fall with a little child at the convent gates of
Santa Croce, waiting for them to be opened
that she might find a refuge—three initials,
“tN”

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MEETING ON THE SANDS.

THE tide was going out, leaving the yellow
sands and the brown rocks glistening in the.
July sun. Among the rocks were little pools
wherein tiny fish nestled and waited for the bil-
lows to come back and roll over them again.
Pink and white and brown seaweed lay on the
sand, lifting up feathery sprays to the sunshine.
In a nook, sheltered by the cliff from sun and
wind, yet open to the sea in front, sat two girls,
one reading, the other with idle hands folded in
her lap, and her face turned toward the ebbing
tide. If her hands were idle her thoughts were
busy. Presently the reader stopped and looked
at her companion; an amused smile broke over
her face, the smile ending in a laugh; the light
rippling sound made the other turn with a
quick start.

“Beattie, you were not listening—where
were your thoughts?” “

“Over the water just then, Sybil, in the old
chateau where I lived with aunt Margaret,”
answered Beatrix, slowly.

“Was it so pleasant a life?’ asked Sybil
Dare, carelessly.

“T thought so then. When I first came
home and looked back, I wondered that I
could have been so happy at the chateau.
Now I regret the loss of that sweet and peace-
ful life that was so free from the troubles of
the world and wild emotions of the heart, like
acalm autumn day after the radiant spring
and the glowing summer have passed.”

She spoke dreamily, half to herself. Sybil
Dare paid scarcely any heed to the speech—it
was a little beyond her. In silence she read
to the end of the chapter that she was interest-
ed in; then she closed the book and jumped
up.
“T shall go and call for mamma and the
girls at the reading-room, Beattie. Are you
coming?”

“Presently. Iam rather tired, Sybil, but I
will come and meet you.”

Sybil Dare went off, treading the shingle
with the elastle step of youth and health.
Her sun-shade was held before her face, so
she did not see a gentleman who was leaning
idly against the gunwale of a pleasure-boat.
He saw her, and something familiar about the
slight figure made him look after her. One
glance was sufficient—a moment afterward he
turned to that part of the jutting rocks which
she had just left.

Beatrix was leaning back against the brown
rock, stillidle. Her thoughts were busy again
—not at the old chateau now, but under the
lime tree at the Reedes; hearing, not the plash
of the waves, but a low voice speaking of a
love that should live calm and sweet through a
world’s tempest of pain and suffering, to arise
unhurt and bloom to a perfect end.

A shadow fell at her feet, and she lifted her
eyes. Oh, the joy that flashed out of them,
the radiant gladness of the blush that rose
er to her forehead as she sprung to her

eet!

“Mr. Noel! You here?’

“Yes,” was the quiet answer; “I am
spending my summer holiday among the
rocks.”

He did not tell her that he had chosen this
little seaside place only with the object of see-
ing her perhaps once or twice—only seeing

 

‘both. Both knew it too well.

 

her, not to speak or to touch her hand. This
chance meeting was full of bitter sweetness for
Yet for the
time they cast out the bitterness with the tide.
It would return by-and-by, tossing and leap-
ing in great waves toward them, but now it
was far out—almost, not quite out of sight.
Beatrix looked at the handsome face, the
sunny gray eyes, the nut-brown hair beside
her, and was happy. The summer breezes
tossed her long, unbound hair about her flush-
ed and happy face and downcast eyes, hiding
their gladness as with a vail.

 

“Here is a letter for you,” said Sybil,
meeting Beatrix on the hotel staircase, and
placing itin her hand. ‘I won’t tell of you,
but you are very naughty, Beattie.”

Beatrix looked up startled at Sybil’s smiling
face.

“Yes, I know, dear, but I won’t tell,” and,
with a reassuring kiss, Miss Sybil Dare floated
down the staircase. i

The Dares knew of Miss Rutherford’s broken
engagement, and a backward glance this
morning had shown Sybil a tall figure enter-
ing the little cove where Miss Rutherford sat
alone. When, after a prolonged absence, dur-
ing which she missed luncheon, Beatrix re-
turned, flushed and happy - looking, Sybil
“put this and that together” with a girl’s
quick intuition, and leapt to a conclusion.

Full of other thoughts, Beatrix put the let-
ter in her pocket, and forgot it till the even-
ing, when a chance remark of Mrs. Dare’s re-
minded her of it. The handwriting was
Georgie’s.

“‘T wonder what Georgie has to write about
again—lI had a letter from her the day before
yesterday,” she said, carelessly, as she broke
the seal.

It contained but a few words, and Beatrix
read them with shocked surprise. Lord Roth
was dead.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
CLUE UPON CLUE.

Ir was very sudden. Lord Roth’s servant,
entering his chamber one morning, had found
him dead in his bed—the ancient bed with its
purple velvet hangings, wherein many Roths
had died, but none so suddenly or silently as
this one. In the secret watches of the summer
night death had entered the chamber, laid an
icy hand on the troubled heart, and stilled it
forever.

The funeral had taken place. Philip Haugh-
ton, summoned from his Cornish home, Squire
Rutherford, and Oliver Kenn had followed as
chief mourners—after them, all the Rothbury
tenants in procession.

To the world Oliver Kenn was the present
Lord Roth—Philip Haughton, courteous and
polished as of old, had acknowledged him as
such; his cousin’s secret had never been reveal-
ed to him—-the two who only could have dis-
closed it had kept it well. Adrian Ruther-
ford, too, had addressed the young man by his
dead friend’s title. Oliver Kenn had heard
and answered in his grave way. He would
keep the secret a little longer. He held one
end of a thread in his hand; when he had fol-
lowed its windings to the utmost limit, and
read what he should find there, then, and not
till then, would he reveal all.

Philip Haughton returned to Cornwall upon
the day following the funeral. In the evening
Oliver Kenn entered Lord Roth’s private
room, and seated himself before the old-
fashioned davenport. He held its keys in his
hand; yet he sat long, with a thoughtful ex-
pression on his face, before he opened~ it.
What tale, what long-hidden mystery, would
its contents reveal to him?

He placed the key in the lock, turned it
slowly, and lifted the lid. There they all lay
—papers, letters, memoranda, books—in care-
less confusion, as the dead man had left them
last. He handled them reverently, laying
some aside, arranging others in neat piles,
scanning all lest he might miss one that con-
tained a clue to what he sought.

Hours passed, and his task was unfinished—
when it grew dark, he lighted the lamp and
continued his search. It was nearly midnight
when he closed the desk—he had replaced the
papers and documents, reserving only three.
One was a tiny slip of blue paper, carelessly
written and signed ‘‘ Adrian Rutherford,” con-
taining a promise on the writer’s part to give
the estate called Free Chase, with all its reve-
nues, to his daughter Beatrix on the day she
married Lord Roth’s son; the second, a little
packet of letters written in a girlish hand to
Reginald, Lord Roth, and signed “‘ Ellen Noel ”
—fond, loving letters, written during their
brief courtship, and bearing a date of two-and
twenty years ago; the third, another letter
written in that same hand, but dated four years
later. The last was signed “‘ Ellen Roth,” and
on the outside was, “In the hands of Rachel
Kenn, for my husband, Lord Roth.

 

The Squire was taking his after-dinner nap
when aservant brought hima message. Young
Lord Roth was in the library, and wished to
see him in private. He said nothing to his
wife and Georgie, but with unusual wisdom on
his part, quietly repaired to the library.

‘‘You were Lord Roth’s friend, Mr. Ruther-
ford,” said the young man, slowly: “will you
be mine also ?” 5

““My dear boy,” cried the Squire, surprised,
“of course I will—I always have been your
friend as well as your father’s.”

“T have some work to do, and I find that I
cannot do it without help—such help as only a
friend ean give: I am going to ask you to help
me,”

oe a

 

“Tll do anything for you, Reggy,” said the
Squire, impetuously.

He was always ready to plunge headlong
into any ditch if requested. It was his great
fault, and had made him a few enemies but
legions of friends.

“Thank you,” was the answer, ‘but first I
must tell you what it is.”

 

Two days later Oliver Kenn returned to
Rothcourt Hall from London, whither he had
gone immediately after his interview with
Squire Rutherford. ‘“‘ Now,” he thought, ‘‘there
is nothing for me but to wait.”

 

A little man, with keen brown eyes, crisp
black hair and whiskers, a gray overcoat, and
carrying a black leather bag, alighted from the
London express as it stopped at the little station
eight miles from Rothbury, on a wet afternoon
early in August. He gave the solitary porter
a shilling to ofder a fly from the inn, and then
waited with exemplary patience until it was
ready.

“Drive to Rothcourt Hall,” he said to the
driver.

It was a long drive, and the horse took it
leisurely, but the contents of the black bag fur-
nished the tenant of the fly with occupation un-
til the vehicle had stopped at the entrance to
Rothcourt.

Oliver Kenn was in the library when Carlo
brought him a card bearing the inscription,
“Mr. George Gower, Gray’s Inn.”

“« Ask the gentleman to walk in,” he said,

He rose to his feet, his face becoming pale ;
the hand he extended to his guest was tremb-
ling. Mr. John Gower cast a swift glance at
the anxious face; his own looked as if it were
adamant.

“T am glad to see you,” said the young man,
in a voice which he tried hard to keep steady.
‘‘Have you been successful ?”

“T have followed your lordship’s instruc-
tions, and I have been, I flatter myself, em-
inently successful,” was the calm reply.

Oliver waited, subduing his restless anxiety
by simple force of will. Mr. Gower unlocked
the black bag, and proceeded to draw forth cer-
tain blue papers; then he placed a chair near
the center table.

“Tf your lordship will be seated, I will pro-
eeed to read the notes and memoranda I have
made with scrupulous accuracy,” said Mr.
Gower, complacently.

Oliver Kenn sat down to listen.

 

The story contained in the ‘ notes and mem-
oranda” was told. In the dining-room Mr.
Gower was regaling himself upon cold turkey,
ham, and Bordeaux, with an urbane smile up-
on his lips. But, even while discussing a ten-
der slice of the breast, he found time to wonder
a little concerning certain recent occurrences.

*‘Seems a nice fellow, that Lord Roth,” he
mused. ‘I think he was rather affected.
Wonder what all this means? The name on the
garment which they showed me at the convent
was Roth. [ll make a note of it on my own
account, and keep my eyes open. And I wonder
— H’m! how far is it to Ickston?

The last few words he spoke aloud to the
servant waiting upon him.

‘‘More than five miles, sir.”

“Wm! I think I won’t return to London just
yet”—Mr. Gower continued his musing—“ Tl
go over to Ickston and take an apartment—say
for a week. I should like to see the man called
Reginald Noel, who is master of the School of
Art, and who a year ago was teacher of draw-
ing in a London academy.

 

Oliver Kenn was standing in the picture-gal-
lery before the portrait of a lady, and looking
earnestly at it. It was a sad face on which fell
the rays of the lamp that he held—a sad face
bearing the lingering light of its girlhood’s
gladness on the sorrowful brow. Calm gray
eyes, touching in their pa ience, met his own ;
heavy nut-brown tresses adorned the low brow.
As he gazed, a shudder shook his strong frame.

“Tt is the same face,” he murmured. ‘‘ Why
did I not discern it before? The same face,
save that this is sad and the other is still un-
clouded—not quite unclouded of late, I fancy,
but brighter than this, Yes, it is true—not a
wild fancy, but a stern, living truth. I have
put my hand to the plow, and I will not look
back. Yet that it should be thisman! What
mysterious power, what fate, has wrought this
strange event? Beatrix, my lost, my only
love, I will not forget the vow that I made
when your head lay upon my breast! For
your dear sake I will trace the sin to the bit-
ter end—for your sake I will remember and
fulfill my promise !”

(To be continued.)

 

 

“There is a valley that so soft in dreams,
In dreams of sleep and dreams of reverie,
Comes back to haunt me, that it ever seems
Part of my inner self, and I to be
Growth of itssoil and sun. I see
The wood-crowned hills low rounded in their
green,
Circling in sweet embrace the meadows fair,
Where willow-fringed flows on the gurgling
stream
In pools and ripples, while all the sunny air
Is filled with songs of birds and wild perfume,
As if the flowers themselves were set to tune;
I hear the honey bee
Well laden, humming drowsily
Like some argosy,
That floats in music on a summer sea;
I hear the jay
Scream its harsh alarum far away,
While by the brook the blackbird’s merry note
Trills in flute-like music from its tiny throat.”

i ac ee

 

 

 

 

 

wanes |

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

Frprvary 21, 1874.]

BELLES AND BHAUX.

 

 

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

BY M. R. C.

 

 

You want to know if I love him?
Well, look in my eyes and see

If there isn’t an answer ready,
At least—whether he loves me?

Are they shiny, and bright as jewels?
He often says they are;

And you see, it’s because his presence
Looks out—a reflected star!

You want to know why I love him?
As if I (or for that matter, you)
Could help it, after he’d kissed you,
And said, ‘Darling, I love you!”
I never ask why I love him,
But sometimes, with bated breath,
I look at him, listen and wonder
How he can love me, till death.

T have sat all alone, for hours,
And thought over what I had done
To deserve such a wealth of affection
As he gives me, *bove every one.
And then, you ask, do I love him?
Oh, I'd lay down my life for his!
You want to know why? oh, because!
I can’t give any reason but this.

 

THE EVENING BEFORE THE
WEDDING.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

66 \ J E shall certainly be very happy to-

gether!” exclaimed Miss Louise, to
her aunt, the evening previous to her mar-
riage; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes
sparkled with inward delight. Every one
may easily imagine when a bride*says ‘‘ we,”
whom, in the whole world, she means.

“T don’t doubt it, dear Louise,” replied the
aunt; ‘‘only take care you remain happy to-
gether.”

‘Whoever can doubt our remaining happy?
I know myself, and if Iam not quite perfect,
yet my lové to him will surely make me s0;
and as long as we love each other we can not
be unhappy. Our love shall never grow old.”

‘“‘Dear me!” sighed the aunt; ‘‘ you talk just
like a young girl of nineteen will talk on the
eve of her wedding, ina paroxysm of charming
hopes and expectations. My dear girl, remem-
ber what I say. Even the heart grows old.
There are days in which the charm of the
senses must die away, and that delusion once
gone, then only it becomes manifest whether
we are truly amiable or not. When habit
makes what is most captivating an everyday
affair, when youthful vigor fades, when more
and more troubles crowd among the pleasures
of domestic life, then, Louise, and not before
that time, is the wife able to say of her hus-
band, ‘ He is amiable,’ and the husband of his
wife, ‘Her gracefulness is imperishable.’ But
really, on the eve of your marriage, such as-
sertidhs seem, to my thinking, ridiculous.”

“T understand you, dear aunt. You mean to
say we shall only learn the value of our mutual
virtues in future years. But he to whom I
belong, is he not the noblest, worthiest of all
young men in the whole town? Does he not
show, in all his doings, that goodness and no-
bility which always procure happiness?”

‘Dear Louise,” replied the aunt, ‘‘ you are
right: and I may say, without flattery, that
you both certainly have virtues. But, my
darling, they are but blooming, and will take
some time yet before they have ripened under
sunshine and showers. No blossoms deceive
more than these. It is never known in what
soil they take root. Who knows the secrets of
the heart?”

‘Qh, dear aunt, you frighten me indeed!”

“‘So much the better, Louise; it is well that
you should be wakened to such reflections on
the eve of your marriage. You know I love
you sincerely, and therefore I tell you my
thoughts. Iam not yet an old aunt. At the
age of thirty-seven one still hopes and looks
joyfully toward the future. Nor am I a bigot.
T have an excellent husband; I am happy; and
therefore I think I havea right to speak to you
thus, and to draw your attention to a secret of
which pretty young girls know little or noth-
ing, and young gentlemen trouble but little
about; but nevertheless it is of the greatest
importance in every household, and can alone
produce enduring love and indestructible hap-
piness.”

Louise took her aunt’s hands in her own.

“Darling aunt,” said she, ‘you know I be-
lieve every thing you say. You mean to tell
me thatconstant happiness and everlasting love
are not insured to us by mere casualties, by
passing charms, but by the virtues of our souls
which we bring each other as the best dowry,
and which never grow old.”

“That depends, Louise; virtues also grow
old, and with old age become like the charms
of the body, unattractive.”

“Dear aunt, you don’t say so. Pray tell
me a virtue that can grow ugly with old age.”

‘‘When once they have become so we no
longer call them virtues, the same as with a
pretty girl, who is no more spoken of thus
when Time has turned her into a shriveled old
woman,”

“But, dear aunt, virtues are not temporal
or perishable.”

“That depends,”

“How can good-nature become ugly?”

‘The very Moment it changes into effemi-
nate laxness.”

“And manly courage?” .

“‘ Becomes rough insolence,”

“ And modesty?”

“Changes into servility.”

“ And noble pride?”

“To mean haughtiness.”

“ And politeness?” _

“ Acting the parasite.”

“No, dear aunt, no. You make me almost
angry. Thus my future husband can never
degenerate, He has one virtue which will keep

 

 

 

 

him from all wrong paths: he has asound mind
and an indelible passion for all that is great,
good, and beautiful. And this tender senti-
mentality for all that is noble liyes in me as
well asin him. Thus there is within us a born
guarantee of happiness.”

“And should it grow old with you, it would
become unpleasant susceptibility, which is the
arch-destroyer of matrimonial felicity. Sensi-
bility I do not wish to deny you; but God for-
bid that my graceful girl should become, in
advanced life, a fastidious and querulous wo-
man. You know the Countess Stammern?”

“Who, about a year ago, was divorced from
her husband?”

“You know the true cause of her divorce?”

“There are many different reports about
it.”

“The countess herself told me the whole af-
fair, and now I will tell it to you. It is in-
structive as well as ludicrous, and may, indeed,
be serviceable as an example.”

Louise being very anxious to hear the story,
her aunt straightway related it:

Count Stammern and his wife passed for the
most amiable, the most enviable of couples.
Their union resulted from mutual inclination
of affection after several years’ acquaintance.
They loved each other with enthusiasm. Each
appeared to have been created for the other—
handsome, kind, and regardful—of perfect
agreement in graces, sentiments, and ideas. I
remember well the scenes that occurred when
they were first formally betrothed, and the
parents, happening to disagree, desired the
union to be annulled. The countess fell dan-
gerously ill, and the enthusiastic lover threat-
ened to terminate his life like Goethe’s Wer-
ther. To save, however, the life of the young
and beautiful countess, and to prevent the
count committing so rash an act, the parents
were obliged, nolens, volens, to become, at least
apparently, reconciled. The reconciliation pre-
vented the untimely end of the betrothed pair.
Scarcely, however, was the countess out of
danger, when the parents again flew out at
each other, and endeavored to postpone the
marriage for two years. But this did not suit
our young couple; so one fine night they elop-
ed, passed the frontier, got married, returned
as man and wife, and forthwith established for
themselves a paradise on earth. From this
moment the union of that couple was looked
upon as one of the happiest, and as a model
pattern of harmony and peace. From morn-
ing to night they seemed to think of nothing
else but how to please each other. They ad-
dressed poems the one to the other, and the
other to the ene, the most amiable, the most
affectionate, imaginable. Winter as well as
summer each embellished the other’s rooms
with the most beautiful flowers. Each sepa-
rate piece of ‘furniture became endeared to
them by some sweet reminiscence or other.
The second year these excesses of sentimental-
ity became a little relaxed, and they went
abroad. But at all parties, balls, and places of
amusement they saw but themselves, looked
but for each other, cared only for each other.
It became almost offensive. The third year
they gave up the amiable naughtiness in pub-
lic. At home, however, they remained much
the same. The fourth year they seemed to re-
cover from this paroxysm of love, and, so far
as they were able to separately—he, here; she,
there—passed an evening, and sometimes a
whole day, in company, without feeling home-
sick. Thus time went on, and each succeeding
twelve months reduced the egotism of their
affection ; until, in the tenth year, they were
like ourselves, or rather like all good and ex-
cellent people who have been married ten
years. Now they had become ten years older,
so had their love, and, alas! their virtues also,
Their sentimentality had made them the pro-
verb of the whole town, and everybody liked
them for it, and sympathized with them.

The seventeenth year misunderstandings oc-
curred, and nothing was easier than to make
one suspect the expressions of the other ; but
this they ascribed to the sincerity of their affec-
tion, for no wound is so poisonous as the dark
look of a beloved person. During the eight-
eenth year frequent disputes took place, but
without serious consequences—and such hap-
pen in the best regulated families. They
looked cold for a day or two, and then smiled
again. The nineteenth year their mutual sus-
ceptibility made them resolve to avoid too fre-
quent contact.

‘You are susceptible,” said the count, “and
irritable. So am I—sometimes. That won’t
do. You may become violent; so may I. I
think, however, it will be best for me to let
you do as you like, while I do as I like. Thus

we can live happily together without worrying

each other. We love each other, of course;
we must not, however, allow our love to tor-
ment us to death.”

The countess thought the same. Thencefor-
ward they kept a double household, and only
met at dinner.

One evening, during the nineteenth year,
after returning from the theater, they supped
together, chatting before the fire. They were
yet full of emotion produced by one of Iffland’s
splendid dramas. The happiness of conjugal
and domestic life, the description of which de-
lighted them so much on the stage, seemed to
be vivified and advanced to actuality now they
were at home. ;

“Dear me!” said the countess. ‘It’s all
very well, if you could but remain young.”

‘‘T am sure you have no reason to complain.
Where is there a woman looking so well as

you do? I cannot see the least difference be-.

tween my wife of ae and my wife of
twenty years ago. ew whims, perhaps;
but these one must submit to. Our union is,
nevertheless, one of the most enviable on earth.
Were I a single man, and happened to see you,

. You may depend upon that.

 

upon my word to none other would I offer my
hand and heart.”

“Very polite, I must confess,” said the
countess, sighing. ‘‘ But, my dear friend, con-
sider, Already twenty years! What am I
now? what was I then?”

“Now a pretty wife—then a pretty little
girl. I would not exchange the one for the
other!” And he kissed her fondly.

““We should be happy—quite happy, but for
one thing, my dear, dear friend. One bless-
ing, which completes the happiness of marriage,
is denied us—”

“‘T understand you; you mean an heir or
heiress—a being to inherit thy gracefulness
and virtue; but,” added the count, kissing his
wife’s hand, ‘‘ you are only thirty-eight, and I
a few years past forty: who knows?  Per-
haps—”

“Oh! how happy I should be! _ Although
one child gives not less care and trouble than
joy. The least mishap may take it from us.”

“Therefore two children, You are right.
And not only two, but three; because, with
two, if one should die, you are still in the same
dilemma. I am sure heaven will hear our
prayers, and three children will yet play around
us.”

“Dear friend,” said the countess, smiling;
“it is almost too much. If they happen to be
boys?” ‘

“Well, we have an ample fortune—enough
for us and for them. The eldest shall enter
the army; the second shall be a diplomatist:
expensive professions, but they will rise in
rank. ‘You know we have relatives and influ-
ence—”

‘‘You forget the youngest, my dear Charles.”

“The youngest?) Not atall! We'll prepare
him for the church—so there is a good prospect
in store for him.”

‘What did you say? My son a priest! No,
never! That shall never be—never !”

“Will you allow me to ask—why not? He
may become a bishop.”

‘“Never—never, I say! I will never be the
mother of a priest. Of what are you thinking?
If I had a hundred sons I would never consent
to it.”

‘CA strange whim of yours, dear wife. In
spite of all and every aversion to priests, you
would not, certainly, oppose yourself to his hap-
piness and ours ?”

‘*T declare, most solemnly, it shall never be!
Call it bad temper, whim, or anything you
please. I know that you have a whim—which
is the love of having everything your own way.
Don’t forget, however, that a mother has cer-
tain rights.” }

‘Not in affairs of this kind, The father has
judgment—”

“Tf such judgment should not, however,
suffice ?”

“Tf mine should not suffice, miladi, yours
would certainly be the last I should ask for.
Should such be
the case, I shall know how to make my will re-
spected.”

“Dear me! Iam aware that you are my
husband and master; but certainly I have not
the honor to be your servant-maid.” i

“Nor I your fool, miladi. I have always
showed you indulgence in everything—perhaps
too much so; but, willingly as I bear with your
caprice, pardon me for thinking there are some-
times ideas which are rather too ridiculous.”

‘Much obliged to you for the moralization,
—of which you have yourself given me this
very moment so convincing and practical a
proof. Whoever may have been the most in-
dulgent, I know that for many years I have
submitted silently to your caprices, and par-
doned them generously—ascribing them to
want of reflection and breeding rather than to
the absence of a good heart—but you tire out
the most divine patience—”

“With regard to that, you are certainly in
the right, miladi. Your whims and vagaries
have tried my patience most severely, and you
may call it good luck that I have endured them
so long; for believe me that I speak sincerely
when I say it has been by no means pleasant to
make one’sself the obedient servant of your
flights. I must tell you so, once and for all.”

“Tf I had only determined to speak my
mind,” rejoined the countess, ‘‘I could have
told you years ago of your being a proud, self-
sufficient egotist, with whom it is really diffi-
cult to get on in any fashion.”

“Indeed! That accounts for your talking
so much about discernment and delicacy. You
may deceive others—thank Heaven! I am un-
deceived. The more perfectly I become ac-
quainted with you, the more disgusting do I
find your affectations; and, upon my word, were

it not that I had compassion upon you, I would

long ago have sent you back to your friends, in
order that I, at least, might live in peace.”

“You only anticipate my wishes. A clumsy
and tiresome egotist like yourself is not created
to make the happiness of a sensible woman, and
after such an explanation you may easily im-
agine that no greater pleasure or relief can be
in store for me than to be quit of you as soon
as possible.”

“ Delightful indeed! All comes aboveboard
now. Itake you at your word, and wish for
nothing better. Good-night, madam! pleasant
dreams to you! To-morrow we will see all this
settled.”

‘The sooner the better, milord.”

Thus they separated. On the morrow a no-
tary was called in. Witnesses were procured,
the act of divorcee written out, and signed on
both sides, in spite of the entreaties, expostula-
tions, and scolding of friends, relatives, and
even persons of high rank. Thus a long and
apparently happy union was abruptly broken
off, The ridiculous quarrel about the future
destination of three song not yet born broke up,
betwixt two persons, that happiness which was

 

expected to last forever. And really the count
and countess were among the most agreeable
persons in the world, Nothing can be preferred
against them except weakness—and to that,
however, we are all liable.”

“Ludicrous and amusing you call this tale!”
said Louise to her aunt, with a sad look. “I
am quite low-spirited about it. I comprehend
now how very excellent people will make their
union turn out unhappily. You ought to con-
sole and comfort me, because you know you
have done much toward making me wretched.
I should never be able to look my future hus-
band in the face without fear for our future
state! Only think! what a misfortune—”

“What do you mean ?” asked the aunt.

“Oh, dear aunt, if I could only remain
young, I could then be certain of my husband’s
everlasting attachment,”

“You are very much mistaken, dear child.
If you were to preserve your freshness and
beauty forever, long habit would be sure to
make your husband indifferent toward it.
Habit is the greatest necromancer in the world
as well as one of the most benevolent household
gods. Handsome as well as ugly, all become
alike. If one is youmg and grows old, habit
prevents the husband from observing it, and
vice versa. If she remained young while he
became old, it might lead to consequences—
the old gentleman might become jealous. It is
better as itis. Only imagine yourself an old
matron, and your husband a blooming young
man! What would your thoughts be then ?”

Louise blushed, and said, “‘I don’t know.”

“But,” continued the aunt, ‘I'll tell you a
secret, which—” :

“That’s it!” interrupted Louise, eagerly.
“That’s just what I should like to hear,”

“Now listen to me,” resumed the aunt.
“Take heed of all I’m going to tell you now.
I have experience. It consists of two parts.
The first part relates to the sources of a happy
union; prevents, in itself, all possibility of dis-
cord; would, at last, make spiders and flies
the very best friends, The other and second
part gives the surest and safest method to
preserve female gracefulness.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Louise.

“Now, then, for the first part. Almost im-
mediately after the wedding, take your hus-
band, and demand of him a solemn promise,
offering to take the same yourself. Vow to
each other that you will never, even for a mere
joke, tease or quarrel with each other. Never;
I tell you, never. Because teasing and quarrel-
ing in fun may change, at length, to teasing
and quarreling in good earnest. Take this as a
warning. Then you must promise each other,
sincerely and solemnly, never to have any
secrets between you, whatever reason or excuse
you may have for them. You must know each
other thoroughly, and if either of you should
have committed a mistake, it should be in-
stantly confessed, without a moment’s hesita-
tion; even should it be with tears in your eyes,
only confess it, And, in the same manner as
there are no secrets betwixt you, endeavor to
keep your domestic, matrimonial, and other

‘matters in secret from your father, mother,

sister, brother, aunt, and all the world, God
and yourselves are sufficient to be acquainted
therewith, Every third person you include
would side with either the one or the other,
and create mischief. This must never be.
Promise this faithfully to each other; renew
your promise with every temptation, and you
will find that all will be well. Thus you will
unite hearts and souls and become one. Many
a young couple, if they had but known on
their wedding-day this simple recipe of pru-
dence, and practiced it, would be happier than
they unfortunately are.”

Louise embraced and kissed her aunt ar-
dently, saying, ‘‘My dear aunt, I easily per-
ceive it must be so; and wherever this com-
plete confidence does not exist, the wedded
couple remain but as strangers, not knowing
each other, even after their union. It shall be
so, for otherwise there can be no happiness.
And now, my dear aunt, something about the
best means to preserve female beauty?”

The aunt smiled and said: ‘You know, my
dear girl, we cannot deny that a handsome
man pleases us a hundred times more than a
plain one, and men like very much to see us
handsome. What, however, we really like in
men, and men in us, is not mere skin, hair,
features, figure, etc., as with a statue, but the
prime source of delight is in the heart, and the
sentiment which, thence arising, gives signifi-
cance and eloquence to every look, every word,
and every action, to earnestness, to joy, and
sadness. Men adore us the more they suppose
us to be possessed of virtues of the heart which
our exteriors promise, and, on our part, we
find a malicious’ man loathsome, however
handsome he may be. A young woman, there-
fore, who wishes to preserve her beauty, must
endeavor to cherish the same mind, the same
excellent qualities of the heart, and the same
virtues, by which she attracted her lover; and
the finest agency by means of which virtue
may be kept from growing old, and enshrined
in perennial youth, is religion. Preserve an
innocent and pious heart, trusting constantly
in God, and you will always have that beauty
of soul for the sake of which thy lover adores
thee at present. Iam no Pharisee, nor am I a
bigot. I am your aunt of seven-and-thirty
years. I am fond of dancing, I am fond of
dressing myself, and I like to joke. So you
cannot take it amiss that I speak to you thus.
Be, and continue to be, a good and sincere
Christian, and take my word for it you will be
handsomer when a mother—still handsomer
“— a grandmother!”

uise, with tears upon her ha ace, em-
braced her aunt tenderly, —

“T thank zm,” said she, “my dear, dear,
angelic aunt|”

 
 

 

 

6

BALLES AND... BEAUX.

[FEBRUARY 21, 1874.

 

 

The author of this exposition (which we find in
the Nyack Cily and Country) deserves:and will re-
ceive the ‘‘ Thank you, sir,” of every sensible per-
son: :

“IT IS NOT GOOD FOR MAN
by TO BE ALONE”

(Gen, ii. 18.)

 

When God, the great Creator, first formed this
world of ours,

And man, to dwell upon it, was placed in Eden’s
bowers,

Where fruits and flowers spontaneous on ev’ry side
there grew,

Adam, as a consequence, had but little work to do.

From all accounts, it seems, he neither plowed nor

sowed,
For all that he had need of luxuriantly growed
Without his cultivation, of either fruit or flower:
Yet Adam was not happy, e’en in that lovely bower.

The climate was so genial, no oa did he wear,
Hence he needed not a wife to keep them in repair;
And though he had no children to require a mother’s

care,
Yet Adam was not happy in that lovely garden fair.
Like, Alexander Selkirk, he was ‘‘ monarch” of the

place,
Yet, not like Alexander, did he ever have to chase
The wild, fleet-footed lama, to obtain his daily meat:
Yet Adam was not happy ip that lovely, lone retreat.

How long poor Adam lived in this solitary way
Before = found ‘‘a help-mate,” the Scriptures do

not say;
But, wate ** non-essentials,”’ they all agree as one
That ee imself declared, ‘‘Man ought not to be
alone.

Historians agree that no place benéath the sky
. Was ever found more beautiful and pleasing to the

eye;
Yet Adam, in his loneliness, was never happy there,
Till ‘* woman ” was created, its loveliness to share.

No doubt our ancient father did verily believe

That of all the flowers around him, the sweetest
was his Eve;

And he loyed her, too, most dearly, in his man-
hood’s early prime,

For — a gentleman—*one of the olden
time,

But a ed mishap soon followed this union of their
souls,
That would some hearts divide as distant as the

oles;
And though Adam ate the fruit, laid the blame upon
is wife,
Yet he loved her none the less throughout his
future life;

Nay, he even loved her more, when from Eden
driven forth—

Compelled to toil and labor fora living on the earth;

For he neyer knew till then what a treasure God

had Linh
To share his earthly trials and whisper hopes of
heaven.

Then Adam, it is said, lived a very happy life,
And Eve, no doubt, was happy in being Adam’s

wife; 3

And, with them for an example, and the facts so
widely known,

Men generally believe it’s ‘‘ not good to be alone.”

 

(CONTINUED FROM No. 3.)

ALIDA BARRETT;
OR,
THE DOOR IN THE HEART.
BY MRS. B. F. ELLET,

AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE COURT OF THE REPUBLIC,”’ “ wo-
MEN OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION,” ‘* THE
BRIDES AND WIDOWS OF THE BIBLE.”

 

 

CHAPTER X.
THE PRISONER,

Amma found ready admittance into the pri-
son. The individual she came tosee was walk-
ing the corridor.

She knew him at once for the gentleman who
had done her a service when she had been pur-
sued by the attentions of her youthful admirer.

Lovel was a noble-looking man; his tall and
powerful frame had the promise of great mus-
cular strength, and was matched by the’ evi-
dence of intellect in his expansive forehead,
deep-set eyes, and firmly-curved lips. At first
sight one could not fail to recognize in him an
aristocrat of nature’s own making.

The impress of a cultivated mind was not to
be mistaken. If he had devoted the best years
of his life to money-making, it had been with a
feeling that he was spending time and labor for
that which profited hin: comparatively little.
He might have “ swayed senates with a states-
man’s voice and eye.” Something: of self-con-
tempt, perhaps on account of this internal con-
viction, was noticeable in his: manher. _-Cer-
tainly, he was in no wise lifted-up by his pros-
perity.

He was pacing the corridor, apparently in
deep. musing, when one of the officers informed
him that a lady had. called. to see him. | He
glanced toward the young girl, and saw at once
she was not the person he at first supposed. The

next moment he shook hands with her, and led |-

her to a seat. She threw back her vail as she
gave him the letter.

“You are very good, my dear young lady,”
he said, after he had read the missive,

““ No—I only obeyed’ the orders I received
from—my mistress, sir.” :

“She mentions you as a young friend of
hers: are you not her visitor?’

“No, sir; I sew for her: she hasengaged me
for a week.”

Alida’s instincts. revolted against being
thought higher in station. than she really was.
Besides, she might with propriety come to this
place as a hired messenger, when she could not
as an equal of the lady who had sent her.

“Tam not the less obliged to you,” observed
Lovel, reading her thoughts, and admiring her
delicate intuition, “for visiting .a poor pris-
oner.”

“T am already your debtor—” she began.

‘* And one you probably have been Jed to
think guilty of a murderous assault upon an
unprotected woman, That was the charge
against me, you know,”

 

“‘T do not believe a word of it!” exclaimed
Alida, with energy.

“Why should you doubt my guilt?”

“Because—the lady herself told me you were
innocent; and then, sir—”

‘* Well—you have another reason?”

‘You would not have been so kind to mé as
you were, sir, the other day, if you had not
possessed a generous heart.”

Lovel’s eyes glistened. He had not been ac-
customed to either gratitude from those he had
served, or justice from those who judged his
motives. He felt the more gratified by the girl’s
words, which he knew expressed her genuine
opinion.

He knew her now for the young girl he had
assisted into the omnibus, and recognized the
noble traits of her character by both her man-
ner and what she uttered.

“‘T must go,” Alida said, rising.
any word to send by me, sir?”

“ Let me think, You may tell Mrs. Burke—
No; I will write a line.” ;

He took out his pocket-book, and from it a
folded sheet of note-paper, and a pencil.

But, even with writing materials in his hands,
his eyes were fixed dubiously on the girl’s face.
Not with the gaze of admiration from which
she had already learned to shrink; but with a
look as if his thoughts were far away.

“T beg your pardon,” he said, after a few
minutes’ silence. ‘Will you give me your
name?”

** Alida Barrett.”

He wrote down the name in his pocket-
book,

‘* Where do you live, my child?”

“‘T shall be at Mrs. Burke’s all this week and
part of next. My home is in street,
No. —.”

Somehow, she did not feel that these ques-
tions were impertinent from Mr. Lovel,

‘You must excuse me,” he said. “You bear
such a strange resemblance to—a person I once
knew, that I am interested in you.”

‘“Was the person a friend of yours?’ asked
Alida, quickly,

“The dearest friend I ever had. One I
loved beyond all things upon earth,” he an-
swered, with evident emotion.

“Will you tell me his name?
been—my father.”

“Tt was not a man; it wasa lady. And if
she were your mother—”

‘Oh, no, sir; my mother is dead.
three years ago, at ——, on the shofe of Lake
Michigan, where we had lived.”

“Why did you say it might have been your
father? Is he living?”

““T do not know, sir; I have never seen him;
at least within my recollection.”

“Then he died when you were young! too
young to know him?’

‘No; I was always told he was living. But
he was away, in some other country.”

An exclamation of surprise escaped Mr.
Lovel. He rose, and paced the corridor several
times without speaking a word. Then he re-
sumed his seat.

“T hope you will not think me intrusive, Miss
Barrett,” he said, ‘‘if I ask a question or two.
You would. like to find your father, if he be
living, would you not?”

Oh, yes, sir!”

“You are sure he deseryed your affection
and confidence?”

‘“‘T am sure, sir, because my mother always
spoke of him so highly. She said he was a no-
ble-hearted and good man, though he had suf-
fered a great deal.”

“Why did he leave her, and you?”

“She never told me; but I know it. was for
the best. | Perhaps he went away to earn money
for our support!”

“Then you were in needy circumstances?”

‘“Not till about eighteen months before my
mother’s death. We always had plenty till
then.”

“And then—how were you deprived of the
means of living?”

“They had been regularly sent to us. When
the supply ceased, my mother feared that my
father was dead.”

“‘ How old were you then?”

“At the time of my mother’s death—fifteen
years old, sir.”

““Since then, you have earned your own’ liv-
ing, by work—eh”

“We had worked at home—my mother and
I—till she died; and after her death—”

“You came to New York?’

‘‘Not at once, sir. I worked at my trade
some time in Chicago and Milwaukee; but it
was hard to get along; and when I had learned
the business perfectly, I came to this city. It
is not more than eight months since.”

‘‘And have you lived all that time in the
same house, which you told me was your
home?”

“ All the time, sir.”

“Working at-your trade, sewing, I suppose,”

‘« Dressmaking!”

“Sewing is not healthful employment,
Would you not like to do'something less fatigu-

ing!”

“Tdo not mind the work, when I can get
plenty todo. But Iam a stranger, and I can-
not always'do that!” :

““You speak like an educated person; at

your manner is like one whose mind has
been cultivated.”

“T have learned the common’ branches, sir;
a have read as much as I could, when T had

“You would like to attend school? you are
so young, you could learn anything yet.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I like to go to school!” ex-
claimed the girl, clasping her hands: “But
indeed, sir, I must not stay here; it is growing
late. Will you please give me the letter Iam
to take back?”

“Have you

 

He may have

 

She died

 

Lovel wrote a few lines, folded the paper,
and placed it in her hands, He walked with
her to the gate of the prison, and whispered a
few words to one of the officers. A

“You must not come here again,” he said, as
he shook hands at ‘parting with Alida. “TI
shall not be here. The order for my release
has come, and I quit this place to-morrow. I
am going a journey. When I return, I will
see you, and we will talk about your going to
school. Good-by.”

Alida hurried out, for she was uneasy at see-
ing the shadows creeping over the sunset sky ;
the street lamps beginning to glimmer.

The officer laid his hand on her arm as she
passed out. .

“Wait here a minute, Miss; I am to get you
a carriage.”

““T do not want a carriage,” said the girl.
“T am going to take the Highth avenue car.
Let me make haste.”

“The gentleman said I was to get you a car-
riage, and he will be angry if I do not.”

“ But it will cost too much,” protested Alida.

“Law, bless me, Miss, the gentleman pays
for it! Here is the money he gave me. ‘Stop
you here a minute.”

He ran around the corner, leaving the girl
standing in ‘no little bewilderment,

“How good it was in “Mr. Lovel,” were her
thoughts, *‘to order a carriage for me! And
perhaps he could not afford it! He must be
poor! If I ever see him again, I will pay it all
back to him,”

She forgot to wonder at the interest.in her
he had shown, by asking so many questions.
She was usually reserved to a fault, and shy of
strangers; but somehow she felt inclined to be
communicative with him. He wasso superior,
and yet so kind! And shut up there for some
one else’s fault! Perhaps he was bearing the
punishment, on purpose to shield somebody
else!

Her thoughts had lighted upon the truth.
The prisoner not only knew who had committed
the assault for which he was arrested, but could
have proved his innocence, had he chosen to do
so, when he was examined. 4

Thé roll of a carriage was heard; the officer
ran back, and threw open the door.

“Get in, Miss,” he said. ‘‘ You need not. be
afraid. I’ve got you a’sponsible party, from
the livery stable in the next street, all ready
harnessed.”

Alida stepped in. She wished she had some
money, to reward the civil man; but she could
only thank him for his service.

‘All right, Miss,” he called out as the car-
riage drove off.

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE BANKER’s. SON,

Ir was nine before the carriage stopped ‘at
the gate of “‘West-End.” Alida sprung out,
thanked the driver, who had already received
his pay, and rung the bell. She made her way
at once to the apartment of Mrs. Burke.

That lady smiled approvingly as she received
the note handed to her by the girl, and read it
in silence. It announced the fact that the pri-
soner had his order of release, and would leave
the city to-morrow. ‘‘I am then going on a
journey,” the writer continued, ‘not a long
one, but which may be productive of good and
lasting results. Perhaps I may return with a
treasure greater than your wildest dreams,
Laura, have ever pictured.”

‘“He does not say how long he will be ab-
sent,” mused the lady, “and I must be in sus-
pense an indefinite time. He must have a
promising speculation in hand. He is not apt
to be over-confident.”

' Alida had gone to her room to remove her
wrappings. Mrs. Burke rung for her maid.

“Has coffee been served in the drawing-
room?” she asked. E

“Yes, my lady.”

Dinner was long over, of course, and the
new seamstress had not dined.

“Shall IT take Miss Barrett to the house-
keeper’s room?” inquired the French maid.

**No; order something to be served in her
own room!” she said.

This was done, and in a few minutes Alida
sat down to her little table, to partake of a re-
past far moré luxurious than any she had ever
before tasted.

“*T wish I could have Lottie to eat these nice
croquettes and tartlets with me,” she thought,
‘Cand to taste this delicious coffee and cream!”
Her sharpened appetite did full justice to it.

When she had dined, with a thankful heart
for this change in her circumstances, she went
to inquire if Mrs. Burke had anything she
wished her to do. Perhaps she would: lay out
sewing she could begin at early in the morning,
for she was in the habit of rising by day-
break.

“Tf you are not tired,” the lady said, “I
wish you would read to me for half an hour.
My Adele cannot pronounce English well
enough, and I don’t like to call on Clara when
she has company. If is her reception even-
ing.” 4

Alida blushed, for she was afraid she could
not read well enough to please so accomplished
a lady. But she only asked what book she
was to read.

“Let me see; what sort of reading have you
been accustomed to?’

‘‘T am not used to reading aloud, ma’am.”

“You would do well to learn. If you could
read well, you might be a companion to an in-
valid. This evening you may take what book
you are familiar with—not much matter what.
The sound of your voice will be soothing, and
my nerves require it.”

From the etagere full -of elegantly-bound
volumes Alida took a book of Common Prayer.
It never occurred to her that this might be a

.

 

welcome diversion to the disquieted nerves of:
the great lady.

She read one or two of the Psalms of David.
Mrs. Burke looked a little surprised at the
selection, but made no remark. She only set-
tled herself comfortably in her easy-chair, and
leaned her head against the velvet cushions.

“You read remarkably well,” was her com-
ment, when the girl had finished one of the
sacred lessons. ‘‘ Your voice is agreeable, and
very finely modulated.”

“T am used to the Psalms,” said Alida,
modestly, ‘‘and can read them better than
anything else. I often repeat them when I am
at work.”

“Do you know them all by heart?”

“Not all, ma’am, but many of them.”

“Go on.”

The listener became quiet as the reader con-
tinued, The girl looked at her, as she lay back
with her eyes closed, and thought she was
asleep. The clock on the mantelpiece struck
ten, and a weariness stole over the young
stranger,

As she laid_aside the volume the lady opened
her eyes. They were dreamy, and had a far-
away look.

“Did you say much to Mr. Lovel ?’. she
asked,

‘‘T answered his questions, ma’am.
was all,”

* Questions about me?”

There was a roused interest in the lady’s face
as she asked this.

“No, ma’am ; I would have told him noth-
ing, you know, and he would have been too
much of a gentleman to question me,”

“What did you talk about ?”

“He wanted to know about my parents. He
said I looked very much like a dear friend of
his, and naturally he was interested.”

“A dear friend?”

“T thought it might have been my father;
but he said it was a lady.”

“What lady was his dear friend?” exclaimed
the lady, coloring to her forehead.

“He did not say what her name was ; but
that he had loved her more than any one else
in the world!”

** Are you sure he said that, child: more than
any one else?”

‘*T am sure, ma’am; and he looked as if he
felt very sad at losing her.”

“Who could it be? Archibald Lovel, the
worshiper of any woman! I would have
made him tell me her name!”

‘He would have told you, ma’am, no doubt,”
said the girl. .‘‘ But there is no reason why he
should tell me.”

“True; you were a stranger to him.
odd he came to mention her to you at all.”

“He said I was like her,” remarked Alida,
innocently.

“Did he compliment you on your Mooks,
child?” é fe

“Oh, no, ma’am; how could he? He merely
noticed the likeness as an excuse for his asking
me who my parents were.”

‘‘T should like to know who the woman was?
Did he say how long he had known her?”

“No, ma’am; nothing at all about her.”

‘“He shall tell me all when I see him again.”

The girl ventured ta ask permission to re-
tire. c

“Certainly; you may go now. Ihave been
pleased with your reading, and with your
attention to my directions. You need not say
to any one where you went this afternoon.”

“*T will not, ma’am.”

They exchanged good-night, and Alida went
to the pretty chamber assigned her. The halls
were yet filled with soft light from the gas-
burners on each floor, and a summer warmth
was diffused over the whole house.

Her room was even too warm. She threw
open one ef the windows and sat some time
watching the far-off lights in the city before
she sought the bed, the most luxurious she had
ever slept in.

The morning sunshine came in at the window,
from which Alida had drawn the curtains, and
forgotten to close them. The light wakened
her suddenly.

She started up, forgetting where she was.
She missed the homely furniture of her den in
the attic, but could not remember how the
change had come.

For an instant swept over her that tantaliz-
ing dream, which the music and the sight of
old paintings had revived. But it was gone,
presently. She recollected that she had entered
upon what Lottie sneered at as menial service.
She was a dependant at the beck and command
of a mistress, and could no longer call her time
her own.

With a vague idea that she might be wanted,
she made haste to dress herself. There was a
marble washstand in a recess, with hot and
cold water, and a towel-rack loaded with fine
damask towels.

The temperature of the room was of a soft,
agreeable warmth.

The girl performed her ablutions, and put on
her neat, black dress. It was the very best
she had. She smoothed her waving abundance
of brown hair, and rolled the glossy ringlets
around her finger. No art could rival the
beauty of those curling-tresses. £

When she was dressed, not finding aught to
do, she went down-stairs, She was sure Mrs.
Burke was not yet up, and it would not be
proper to disturb her,” She did not even see
the French maid...

The porter in the hall, who supposed she was
going out, told her it was snowing very fast;
so she turned into the library, the door of which
stood wide open.

It was a long and lofty room, filled with
books to the high shelves, with a long table
covered with green baize, on which were globes,
volumes full of illustrations, and small writing-

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CELLES AND BERAUX.

 

 

 

desks,
stuffed,

The paintings on the walls drew her atten-
tion most strongly. She thought she would
never tire of looking at them.

She was gazing, rapt, at a fine landscape
representing an opening in the woods, with a
foaming stream dashing down the hillside, and
a beautiful arbor beside the plashing water. In
the arbor a young girl reclined with a youth
on the turf. at her feet. . He held a book open,
but his ardent gaze was fixed on the maiden’s
faees.

‘A pretty scene, is it not?’ said a voice near
her. ‘Said to be one of Poussin’s; but I hardly
believe it.”

Alida started and turned quickly in no slight
trepidation. She saw beside her the young
man she had seen for an instant the afternoon
previous.

“Pray pardon me for frightening you, Miss
Barrett,” said the young man,

As he saw her glance at the door, which he
had closed as he came in, he perceived that she
meditated flight.

“The fact is,” he continued, ‘I am very
glad of this opportunity of speaking to you.”

“To me, sir?’ repeated the girl, still tremb-
ling from agitation.

“Yes. ‘I have to apologize. I ought humbly
to ask your forgiveness; and I do so. You
must have thought me the worst of savages
when I met you the other day.”

“Oh, no—sir—” the girl began. She’ was
eager to find an opportunity of leaving the
‘room.

“As soon as I heard you had become my
mother’s guest, I sought an opportunity of
asking your pardon for my seeming rudeness,”

Pride came to Alida’s aid. She would not
appear in false colors.

““T am not the guest of Mrs. Burke,” she said,
with a simple dignity bordering on hauteur,
“‘T am only her seamstress,”

She looked more beautiful—so thought Leon
Burke—as she made this disclaimer than if she
had asserted her right to reign in all the splen-
dor of fashionable extravagance.

“You must nevertheless allow me, Miss Bar-
rett,” returned Leon, ‘‘ to solicit your forgive-
ness.”

“You are very kind, sir.
ing to forgive.”

“You will forget my folly, then?”

“T have not thought of it, I assure you.”

“Thanks. I hope then, you will suffer me
to have the privilege of a stranger, to be freed
from disfavor or prejudice.”

Alida knew not what to say. It was so new
to her to be addressed. with this sort of defer-
ence. ‘

“You were looking at this painting. Permit
me to show you an undoubted Salvator Rosa,
one of the choicest gems in my father’s collec-
tion,”

He led the way to the end of the library and
drew aside the curtains shading the bay-win-
dow. The light fell on a large painting, in
dark, mellow tints, that occupied the entire
space between ceiling and floor. The deep,
rich. glow of coloring, the exquisite finish of
detail with the grandeur of harmony in the
outlines, strongly impressed the girl, ignorant
as she was of the rules of art, and unable to
define her own sensations.

Leon Burke explained the admirable points
in the Italian landscape, and gave a slight
sketch of the peculiar genius of the artist.

Then he turned to other paintings, and
showed the beauties of each. Alida listened
with parted lips and fascinated gaze, finding in
his explanations a reason for the awe that had
filled her soul at the sight of these wonders.

Presently he threw open a door, which
opened into a small boudoir, richly furnished,
and looking on the garden in the rear.

“There are some pictures here worth atten-
tion,” he said, ‘‘of a different sort. You may
like to see them.” “4

The room was hung with portraits; in differ-
ent dresses; some old-fashioned, like the cos-
tumes of a bygone century; others in the be-
coming styles of modern life.

“These are family portraits,” he observed,
‘‘of my father’s ancestors and relatives, with
one or two of Mrs. Burke’s.. You must know
we claim descent from the old cavaliers of
Charles Stuart’s time.” :

The poor girl colored as she thought how lit-
tle she knew of that or any other period. She
was familiar, however, with the outlines of
history, and had an idea how far back was the
reign of the merry monarch.

Leon went on, describing the pictures, and
mentioning the peculiar character of each sub-
ject. He stopped before a portrai ... the cor-
ner. k

“This face ought to be familiar to you,” he
said, smiling.

It was that of a very young girl, whose
bright. beauty was absolutely startling. She
was dressed in the style in vogue some twenty
years before. Her golden brown curls elus-
tered thickly around a forehead white as mar-
ble, and the complexion, was of rare. purity,
like a roseleaf shaded with white and delicate
carmine. The full red lips. were parted in a
smile that added witchery to her loveliness.
She held a bird of brilliant plumage, perched
on her white finger, to which she seemed to be
talking.

“The portrait might have been taken for
yourself, Miss Barrett,” said the young man,
looking at her with respectful admiration.

Alida’s face flushed the deepest crimson.
She—resemble this. glorious painting! She
fancied for an instant that he was laughing at
her. But he went on to point out the likeness,
and she could not help acknowledging its reality.
Could. it be that she would be like that fairy
vision, in a similay cress?

The chairs were, of green leather and

But I have noth-

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oe

 

Leon, saw, her embarrassment, and did not
linger over the portrait. He led the way back
to the library.

“Some of the best pictures in the collection,”
he observed, ‘‘are in the picture gallery up-
stairs. My mother will give you the key; it is
opened only at certain times, and there are
some fine specimens of statuary. Are you fond
of sculpture?”

The girl replied, timidly, that she had seen
very little either of statuary or painting.

“You have a natural taste, I can see that,”
observed the young man. ‘ You may be an
tartist without knowing it. It takes cultiva-
ion to develop that sort of thing.” fi

“ Cultivation !” the girl murmured, involun-
tarily. Had she not sighed all her life for
such a privilege ¢

Leon heard her, and divined her thoughts.

““How charming it would be,” he said to
himself, “to teach so a lovely a pupil.” The
refinement of an elevated nature breathed in
all she looked or spoke.

He then opened one or two of Audubon’s
volumes, containing pictures of different varie-
ties of birds, and placed them on the stand, so
that the leaves could be turned easily.

Alida was in raptures. So absorbed was she
in examining these beautiful copies of nature,
that she forgot to notice her companion, who
had retreated to.one.of the.windows, and was
gazing at her with a passionate admiration he
would not have ventured to express to her.

 

CHAPTER XII.
EASY SERVICE.

THE door opened, and a gentleman whom
Alida judged to be Leon’s father, entered. She
noticed at the shy glance she ventured, the
family likeness; but the elder wore on his face
marks of care, and his dark face was lighted
by eyes in which a gleam of. restlessness was
habitual.

At the sight of him Alida turned from her
occupation, closing the folio, and glided toward
the-¢oor. She felt as if discovered: in some
stolen pleasure. .

“Stay, Miss—do not let me.startle you—”
said Mr. Burke, courteously.

“You were looking at these volumes of
Audubon, They are worth seeing. Allow me,”
and he opened one of them. ‘Here are some
different specimens.”

Then he noticed his son, who stood in the win-
dow. partially hidden by the curtain, and look-
ing out.

‘‘Leon,” he said, crossing to him, ‘if you
know this young lady, pray introduce me.”

It was plain that hegtook her for a guest.

The young man performed his task with the
grace of one used to the amenities of society.

‘‘Miss Barrett—permit me—Mr, Burke—my
father.”

The stately master of the mansion bowed, his
surprise at seeing a stranger blended with un-
affected admiration. of her singular beauty.
Alida, on her part, only meditated retreat,

“T think the butler said breakfast was
ready,” observed the elder Burke. ‘‘ Where is
Clara ?”

~“T have not seen her this morning,” replied
Leon. a2

‘¢ Ah, here she comes ! Good-morning my lit-
tle rosebud.”

‘‘Good-morning, dear papa !” was the reply,
as a young lady plainly dressed, entered the
room, and gave a hearty kiss to her father.

“She started at the sight of a stranger.

“This is a visitor of your mamma’s—whom
neither of us have seen before,” said her father,
with cordial politeness. ‘‘ Miss Barrett—this is
my daughter—Clara Burke.”

Alida felt sadly embarrassed, when Clara
held out her hand in courteous greeting. But
she summoned her self-possession, and only a
hightened color showed her uneasiness.

The butler appeared in the hall.

“Now, young ladies, will you lead the way
in to the breakfast-room ?” said, the father.
Clara took the stranger’s hand to conduct her,
but Alida drew back,

“Mrs. Burke will be wanting me,” she said.
‘*T will go up to her.”

“You will not find her awake yet,” replied
Miss Burke. ‘‘ Come in with us.”

“You are mistaken,” said the girl, blushing,
and still holding back.. “IT am the new seam-
stress; my place is up-stairs.”’

Clara pitied her bashfulness. It was not un-
common for the lady of the: house, to have her
employees, if respectable in appearance, at
meals with her family, when there was no com-
pany.

“You must go in with us to breakfast,” she
urged, linking her arm in the stranger’s. ‘“‘ You
will get used to mamma’s ways: she is hardly
ever awake before ten o’clock. She would pre-
fer in the meantime to have you made comfor-
table.”

Her gentle kindness, and a smiling welcome
from Clara’s father restored the girl’s com-
posure at once, She went with them into the
cosy breakfast-room, on one side of the great
dining-room.

It was more simply, though richly furnished,
and the table looked gorgeous in. silver plate
and Sevres porcelain. The butler was in at-
tendance, and placed a chair promptly for. the
new-comer.. She sat at Clara’s right hand.
The coffee was poured out by the servant, and
handed to each person,

It, was a new situation for the humble girl,
but she was soon at ease. The host showed
her particular attention. A variety of cold
meats, with cold roast turkey and the remains
of a venison pie, were on the side-table, and
were offered; but Alida. partook sparingly of
everything. The coffee, made in the French
style, was delicious, and she took a second

1 Gap,

*

She did not join in the conversation, and
the rest seemed to appreciate.and respect. her
wish to remain silent. But when breakfast!
was over, and the gentlemen had retired to the
library, Clara began to talk in a more familiar
strain, as if glad to find, a listener of her
own age.

““You will have nothing to do for at least an
hour and a half,” she said, ‘for mamma does
not like to;be disturbed, She has not slept
well since—the ‘accident’—you know, I sup-
pose you heard of that?”

“TI knew that she had been hurt, and that
her arm and shoulder were wounded,”

“Did you not know that it was an attempt
to kill her?”

“Do you really think so?”

“We are sure of it!”

““By the man who was arrested and sent to
prison?”

‘“Who else could it have been? The man
was.a perfect stranger, and presented himself
at the house without an invitation. Nobody
knew him in the city. He had the assurance
to ask to be introduced to mamma, and took
her away from the lighted rooms into the con-
servatory.”

‘Why should he want to harm her?”

“How can I tell? Perhaps to get money.
She had on some valuable diamonds, and he
could have robbed her of these and got away
before being found out, if the knife-stroke, as
it penetrated her shoulder, had not been turned
aside by her corset.”

Alida shuddered. ‘TI thought Mrs. Burke—”
she began, then,suddenly remembered. that she
was to keep silence concerning the confidence
that had been reposed in her, and. especially
her visit to the suspected prisoner.

“What will they do to the man?” she asked
at length,

‘Nothing at all, I suppose.” Nobody saw
him strike the blow, and they could not prove
the assault. My father is very merciful, and
thought the poor creature insane, so he would
not appear against him. The talk was of shut-
ting him up as a lunatic, but I hear they have
discharged him,”

The young lady then offered to show Alida
over the rooms of the house generally used as
state or company rooms, and the conservato-
ries, graperies, etc. ,

Two hours were consumed in this survey,
and in the picture-gallery, and then the young
seamstress declared it was time to go for work,

By this time the two girls were on the fa-
miliar footing of friends, Clara thought her
companion ‘‘ perfectly lovely, so different from
other sewing-girls,” and. Alida’s soul was ex-
panding with glimpses of a new social world
that seemed Elysium to her fancy.

“Tf you have time early this evening,” said
Miss Burke, ‘“‘come to my room, and I will
play and sing for you. Are you fond of
music?”

How fond the poor girl’s. sparkling eyes and

her timid words, -

Alida was. graciously received by Mrs.
Burke, and proyided with abundance. of work
in refitting dresses and repairing torn laces.
The lady was. ple&sed to-hear that she had
breakfasted with the family, and said she
wished her to do so in future. The ladies
would, lunch together; Miss. Barrett should
have dinner in the housekeeper’s room; for
Mr. Burke or Leon usually brought gentlemen
to dine, and they had company in the evenings;
often an impromptu dance, or a jovial assem-
‘blage of young people, who enlivened conver-
sation with games, as well as music. ;

It was a delight to Alida to listen to thi
music, ;

So.far was she from a desire to mingle in the
society for which she felt herself, wholly unfit-
ted, that no persuasion could induce her to join
the circle eyen on stormy evenings, when they
had few visitors. But she could hear the sing-
ing and playing from Mrs. Burke’s dressing-
room, She would listen for hours, till called
to read to the lady, who grew to be very fond
of hearing her voice, and having the girl about
her. ‘
So it came about that at the end of the week
instead of being turned off, as Lottie had pre-
dicted, her engagement was renewed. indefi-
nitely.

The girl went, at Mrs, Burke’s desire, to give
up her little room, paying the rent up to the
day; and removing what things she had left
there: These were very few, for she had, re-
plenished her simple wardrobe with two plain
dresses—a, brown merino and a dark red cash-
mere, the gift of her employer. Clara had
added several sets of linen collars and cuffs,
some embroidered and some plain,

In one of these visits, she encountered Mrs.
Jackson, as she was leaving the house, and had
to submit to a torrent of questions, :

Well—to be sure! it was a change for a poor
girl, who could hardly earn by her needle the
rent of .a garret-room, to live with grand
ladies, and have time to read books, and listen
to music, and go out to drive, and make up
new finery for herself! How long did she sup-
pose it was going to last? Why didn’t she set
herself to studying—with all the books and the
music—and make herself fit for a teacher; and
then she might have a school, or sing in con-
certs? Or why didn’t she learn to paint, like
Charlotte Le Brun? By the way, that young
lady was offended that she had not been asked
to visit her at ‘‘ West End.” Was the girl
going to cut her old friends? etc.

“By no means,” Alida answered. “I came
in hopes of seeing Lottie to-day. Please to
give her my love, Mrs, Jackson.”

“(And tell her to come and see you? You
might invite both of us to take tea, at least, or
see the flowers. Everybody visits the gardens

 

and conservatories of rich people.”

speaking face declared, more eloquently than |

 

“Tam only a seamstress, and I cannot ask
my friends to visit me,” said Alida, Mrs, Jack-
son gave a sniff of incredulity.

‘Maybe you'll find no better than us, after
all!” she sneered.‘ Well, if you’ve a chance,
you might recommend me as a modiste. I
should like a fashionable connection. You
know I was the means of gétting you the situa-
tion. Don’t forget that.”

“‘T will not forget it, Mrs. Jackson; and |
will speak of you whenever I have an oppor-
tunity.”

She profited by one hint, and she spent much
of her time—for she had plenty of leisure—
in reading books from the library. History
and biography especially engaged her atten-
tion. She took her meals with the family,
except dinner, and learned to feel at ease,
though she never mingled in the general con-
versation.

Leon came into the library, late one after-
noon, when she had gone for a book. He
brought the steps, and got it for her from one
of the upper shelves.

“Why do we never see you in the evenings,
Miss Barrett?” he asked.

Alida replied, frankly, that it would neither
be agreeable ‘to her feelings nor-proper for her
position, to join the drawing-room circle.

“But, we are often alone, and you like
music, I will give you some of my best airs,
and I have some from the last opera worth
hearing,” said the young man,

“T hear you sing very often, Mr. Leon,”
answered the girl, ‘‘ from my sewing-room,”

“Tf you would enliven me with your pres-
ence,” he answered, gallantly, ‘‘I should do
much better.”

The girl looked grave at this speech, uttered,
as it was, with the full, deep intonation of
sincere feeling. Leon saw that he had gone
too far.

“You have a more heartfelt appreciation of
music,” he said, ‘“‘than many who profess to
understand it scientifically. After all, it is the
heart, not, the brain, we want to touch with
music. I should value your approval, there-
fore, far beyond that of cold connoisseurs.”

“T do not see how that can be, sir,” returned
the girl, coldly. ‘I am entirely ignorant, and
my being pleased with a thing I know nothing
about, is no test of its excellence.”

“Do you forget, Alida,” said the young man,
his face kindling, ‘that music professes to
speak, from soul to soul, in a higher language
than that we use conventionally to express our-
selves? May it not communicate between your
heart and mine without words? Tam sure of
it! Tam sure of it! When you are near me I
have a new inspiration! I can sing with more
feeling; my spirit is elevated. How I wish I
could make you understand this!”

Alida made no reply, but moved toward the
door, He laid his hands on hers to detain her,
while his eyes looked into her own with an
expression that terrified her.

“Do not go; I hardly ever see you. At least,
tell me if [have offended you, Alida?”

‘You have not offended me, But I must
go.” Her hand was on the knob of the door.

‘And may we not see you this evening? I
will send Clara to fetch you.”

*‘T-can not come, Mr. Leon.» Your sister
knows how I feel about it, and so does Mrs,
Burke.”

“Why not. come? Do you suppose our friends
who fill the drawing-room are in any way your
superiors? There is not one among the young
ladies who can compare with you in beauty,
Alida.” :

“Mr, Leon—”

“Tn beauty or in delicate refinement, or in
any thing that makes a woman. lovely!” cried
the young man, impetuously, trying to. take
her hand again, But she drew it away quickly.

“You should not speak so to me, Mr, Leon,”
she said, her soft blue eyes filling with tears.
“T am but a poor girl, and have to earn my
living by work; you should treat me with re-
spect.”

*“ By Jove! who dares say Ihave not the
deepest respect for you, Miss Barrett?”

“Tam glad of that. Please to let. me pass!”

“But you think too humbly of yourself.
Would you not come into the drawing-room, if
my mother asked you as a favor?”

“No, sir. It is not my proper place.”

“You are proud, Alida.” "

“Too proud to be an intruder; that is all.”

Again she essayed to pass, and this time he
made way for her, only holding out his hand in
token of reconciliation and good-by. ¥

She placed hers within it. Tt was closely
clasped in both Leon’s, and once more his eyes
were fastened ‘on hers with the magnetic,
passionate gaze from which she shrunk in wun-
speakable consciousness,

How she escaped and got outside the doors
She could never tell. But the next instant ghe
was flying like a frightened bird up the stairs.
She never checked her speed till she reached
her own chamber, and when she flung the door
to, she locked it after her. Then she threw
herself upon the lounge, and buried her face in
the cushions. ;

What could she have done, that a sense of
guilt should thus overwhelm her? a feeling that
she had been false. to the trust reposed in her;
that she had received to her bosom a treacher-
ous foe, that would destroy her peace!

. (To be continued.)

 

 

Wuar is virtue? To.a student who put this
question to the late Archibald Alexander, his
simple and admirable reply was, ‘Virtue .con-
Sists of the performance of our ‘duty in the
several relations that we sustain in ‘respect to
ourselves, to our fellow-men, and to God, as
Tnown from reason, conscience and revela-

4
eeeddle

 
 

aetna

 

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BHELLES AND BHAUX.

| FrBRuaRy 21, 1874,

 

 

 

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1874.

 

 

Terms to Subscribers:
One OOP, ORE Saat oF OIE FANS a. ON $4.00
“«  &"" six months, St a eee es 2.00
“« = three months, - - are. - - 1.00
To Ciuns :—Five copies for one year for $20.00, and one extra copy
to the person remitting.
Single copies, 10 cents. Specimen numbers sent, prepaid, for 10
cents.
Address all remittances and communications to
BELLES AND BEAUX,
98 William Street, New York.

 

 

DrcuinED: ‘‘The Man in the Box;” ‘‘A Narrow
Escape:” ‘“‘What We Saw;” “ Porgie’s Valentine;’’
“The Beautiful Butterfly; ‘“‘ Decoration Day;”
**Rafael;” ‘“‘A Home Picture;” “The Lily and the
Rain;” ‘‘ Miss Merry’s Lost Lovers.”

 

AccreptTep: ‘“Coquetted;” “To Miss S. P. W:”
“Despair Not;”’ ‘‘A Girl’s Strength;” “Out of the
Depths:” ‘‘A Carpet ii “A State of Per-
plexity;’’ ‘‘ The Dying Child.” .

 

We shall give, in our next week’s issue, the
opening chapters of an exceedingly beautiful
and powerful serial by the popular novelist,
Mrs. JENNIE Davis Burton, viz.:

The Maddest Marriage Ever Was.

It is a story of city hearts and homes—a
history of Love’s Young Dream, and a reve-
lation of woman’s nature, when aroused to
assert itself, that is startling in its interest
of narrative and weirdly impressive in its
personation.

 

AS OTHERS SEE US.

HE reception extended to BELLES AND
Braux by the press, by the trade,
by readers, and by authors has been

remarkably unanimous in praise and ap-
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try of what constitutes a good paper—The Am-
erican Newspaper Reporter—is a type of a
great number of notices by our leading jour-
nals, daily and weekly:

‘‘ BELLES AND BEAUX, an unusually sprightly pa-
per for the home and fireside, made its appearance
in New York, January 31st. It is published at 98
William street, and is a handsome specimen of what
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ly well selected, beginning with a serial from the
pen of Mrs. Ellet, and the illustrations are produced
with taste. On the first page the typical “ belle and
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rounding the couple, in vignettes, are depicted the
sports of elegant society. A page of new music
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It should succeed.”

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complimentary have been dropped upon us—the

surest evidence that such a paper was wanted.

From writers for the press, who are very
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“The first number of your new periodical was a
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A noted wit—‘‘ to Fortune and to Fame well
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‘I would I were young again, with a girl upon my
arm, and every Friday evening to myself for spark-
ing purposes—wouldn’t I be happy over this paper!
How can you make an old fellow fellow feel so bad
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casting sheep’s eyes at all the pretty young women,
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your delicious paper. And if they enjoy it, what can
vhe young women of the land do Bat love it!”

Another—the saucy and sacrilegious Joe
Jot, Jr., says:

‘It presents a beautiful appearance, and I hope it
will attain to permanence, and that the bread cast
oo the waters will come back to you in the shape
of gold fish, and a great string of them too.”

A member of the Faust Club, of Milwaukee,
writes:

“The Club has decided to have it on their read-

ing-room table every week, as the members of the
Club all think it an excellent paper.”

A correspondent living under the shadow of
the Danbury News has to say:

“I congratulate youon your paper. It was to me
a pleasant surprise—so beauti and so good—no
silliness, no trash, no trifling, but as good in its
matter as it is beautiful in its general appearance.
ae @ paper will surely become an immense favor-
ite.”

All indications certainly favor the inference
that it has only to become known to find accept-
ance in every well-ordered house, and we trust
its admirers will use their influence to have
all their friends enjoy its weekly visitations.

 

 

Sunshine Papers.
“WHAT'S FOLLY IN A MAN—.”
66 W ™rs folly in a man is guilt in wo-

man

ead

I heard a speaker say that yesterday. His
look, his manner, his tone, linger in my mem-
ory. The words have been ringing in my ears
ever since they were uttered.

Have I been weighing the affirmation in the
balances of my judgment?

Not atall, It is false on the face of it. I
pegative it here and now, What’s folly ina

man is folly in woman! What’s guilt in a
woman is guilt in man! What absurdity it
would be to proclaim that a lie, a defalcation,
a forgery, a murder on the part of a woman is
guilt, but on the part of a man is mere folly!
What is simply folly in John is simply folly in
Jane. Guilt is the same whether it rests on
the head of Henry or Henrietta. Sin is sin ir-
respective of sex.

But I have pondered these words, have been
unable to banish them from my mind, because
it seems to me that, though the fallacy of the
assertion should be apparent to all, it is willful-
ly and knowingly accepted by many of the sex
whose misdemeanors it would fain pardon—
that, through all the paths of life, from the
time the male infant wears his first knee-
breeches to the end of his natural life, he seeks
to condemn woman and shield himself with the
aphorism, ‘‘ What’s folly in a man is guilt in
woman.”

Nay, gentlemen, do not interrupt me. I do
not pretend to assert that you use those exact
words. Indeed, this may be the first time you
have ever heard them. But, I maintain that
the import of those words colors many of your
own acts and most of your criticisms upon the
acts of your lady friends. It is human nature,
I know, to seek an excuse for our misdoings;
especially to accept one that some fallacious
reasoner places ready framed in our hands;
but, answer me truly, ye beaux, is it fair? is it
honest? is it manly? is it true politeness? to
judge others with more severity than you
judge yourselves? :

How many, many times I have. heard you
speak lightly, sometimes disparagingly, of a
lady who has flirted with you. Is it honorable
for you to condemn her for what you com-
menced, what you earnestly strove to lead her
into doing? Are you not equally foolish? If
she lowered her character any by responding
to your smiles, did you not lower yours equally
by seeking to evoke those smiles? Pray, by
what right do you brand her with light words
and sneering voice, knowing, as you must, that
‘faint praise is damning,” and then turn away
considering yourself eligible company for the
retiring, modest daughters of the most fastidi-
ous man in the town? Do not be unjust, and
unmanly, and strive to screen your fame be-
hind the contemptible axiom quoted at the
head of this essay! Own up honorably that if
it was folly on her part, it was equal folly on
yours. Judge her by the standard that you
would be judged by. :

You come home from the store and throw a
torn glove and ripped coat in the lap of sister
Ella, who is deep in the mysteries of embroid-
ery, or the unraveling plot of a new book.
“Mend those for me, Ella,” you say carelessly,
and pass on to your room to prepare to escort
some lady friend to-concert or party. Does it
not occur to-you that only yesterday you criti-
cised Ella’s manners at table, because she said,
“Pass me the bread,” instead of asking, ‘‘ Will
you please pass the bread?” or, “‘ Will you be
so kind as to pass the bread?”

Yet you carelessly tell her to mend your
gloves, and, when mended, you take them
without a “thank you.” It makes all the dif-
ference in the world that you are of the male
and she of the female gender, doesn’t it? You
criticise any omission of politeness on her part,
but think it not at all out of the way for you
to be positively rude.

“Oh!” you say, “‘ girls ought to be perfectly
polished in their manners, but they must not
expect us to be ditto.”

Astonishing revelation, young gentlemen!
And why must they not expect you to be ditto?
An unpardonable sin in a woman to be rude,
you say; merely an oversight on your part. In
other words, your view of the subject is trace-
able to the belief that what is only folly in a
man is guilt in woman. But you know it is
false! Not one of you dare deny it!

‘You can never be a thorough gentleman
until you hold yourself, even in the most trifling
matters, as amenable to the laws of politeness,
as you hold each and all of your lady friends.

You hold your sisters bound to do any favor
that you ask of them; but, when they wish a
bundle brought home from down-town, a note
left at a friend’s, an order carried to the florist,
you quietly announce to them ‘that you have
something else to do besides waiting on them.

Neither are they bound to wait on you, my
dear beaux! (don’t be shocked, but remember
in what a general sense I address you.)

How seldom you ask Mollie to go with you
to concert, theater, or lecture. To-night you
do, because you have a seat engaged for
another young lady, and she has disappointed
you. Mollie politely refuses to play “‘ second
fiddle.” The result is intense indignation on
your part. You call her disagreeable, disoblig-
ing, and rude!

Just stop a minute! Last week Mr. A. B. C.
took Minnie to a concert. Mollie wished to go
too. Papa said he would take her, but for a
previous engagement; and he offered you the
money for tickets, and said he would order a
carriage as he went out, if you would go with
her. Don’t you remember that you refused to
go, on the plea of a headache; but called
around on Ned Farell, and played billiards
with him until eleven o’clock?

Ah! you remember it now! I am glad that
you do! If you please, who was rude, disa-
greeable, and disobliging then? Would you
not have fared better to-night, if you had re-
membered last week that true politeness is as
obligatory on you as on your sisters?

Now, by way of truce, suppose you agree to
make the rules by which you pass judgment on
your own conduct, quite as stringent as those
by which you judge your lady acquaintances,
and see if you cannot win a woman’s sincere
praise of—~‘‘ He is a perfect gentleman.”

 

A Parson’s DAUGHTER,

saat a cn la a I a a en le eis

A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.

NE of the poets whose reputation is now
an almost forgotten memory, is Mrs.
Barbauld; and yet she was a most estimable
writer, both of prose and verse. This exquisite
conception came from her pen when she was
near eighty years of age. It isa gem of ex-
pression and philosophy:
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me’s a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be,
As all that then remains of me.
Oh whither, whither dost thou fly,
Where bend unseen thy trackless course,
And in this strange divorce,

Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I?
* * * * *

Life! we’ve been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather,
Tis hard to part where friends are dear, —
Perhaps ’t will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

The Letter-Box.

[All inquiries to be answered by the editor of this department
should be directed to ‘‘ Letter-Box,” BELLES AND Beaux, 98 William
Street, New York.

The department is open to inquiries after information upon all sub-
jects appertaining to the Household, the School-Room, the Garden, the

ursery, etc.

It 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 Lerrer Box useful, in the
highest degree, gives to correspondents the widest latitude in their in-
quiries upon all subjects or matters proper for reply.]

E, M. We can not aid you.

Witt Watton. Your desire is an honest one, no
doubt; but young ladies, who are prudent, will not
correspond with strangers.

Gro. W.L. We can not use the pencil sketehes,

J. H. H. Poem is passable. Rest of letter an-
swered next week.

Harry K.S. We can make no use of the matter
referred to. We propose to circulate the BELLES
AND Beaux both through the mails and news agents,
and have no special agents.

ArTHUR C. We may open the department you
indicate.

Cuas. C. W. Have written you.

Miss B. B. A sweet breath is certainly a great
desideratum. Bad breath is due usually to ill
health, decaying teeth or a dirty mouth.. A very
excellent mixture for a preparation for sweetening
the mouth and breath is this: Cloves, 12 grains;
cinnamon, 40 grains; ginger, 3 drachms; spirits of
wine, 1 pint; oil of orange-peel, 12 drops; ottar of
roses, 3 drops; essence of peppermint, 114 drachms.
These are to be mixed and allowed to soak for a
fortnight. Then the liquor is to be filtered off for
use. small quantity is to be used to wash out
the mouth in as much water as is necessary. Al-
ways keep the teeth clean—using the tooth-brush
at least twice or thrice a day.

T. R. C. (Richmond, Va.) writes to ask us regard-
ing a wedding present for a young couple in moder-
ate circumstances, about to start housekeeping.
She says: ‘“ Although my friends are not rich, I do
not want to make them a present that is only use-

Such articles they must have, and will not de-
pend upon their friends to ates At the same
time, what is merely ornamental will not suit me
either, as they would probably value what would
combine use and ornament more highly. Can you.
who have all New York spread out before you, help
me by a suggestion?”

In such a case as you describe, where the young
housekeeper will naturally feel some pride in her
home, and especially her table, there is an endless
variety of gifts combining ornament with useful-
ness. Any article of silver-ware, solid and hand-
some, would certainly be acceptable, and keep you
in remembrance for a lifetime. If the necessary
table silver is already supplied, and the young cou-
pie haye spoons, forks, castor and salt-stands,
here are many very pretty additions to the table
furniture that seem ially adapted for-wedding
gifts. Spoon-stands of graceful patterns are an ex-
tremely pretty and suitable gift; stands for pre-
serve glasses equally so; stands for carving-knife
and fork, less expensive, are made in very pretty
patterns; celery glass stands; Lone ober stands,
in which to serve puddings baked in the dish, are a
handsome ornament, and for a more expensive
gift, an ice-pitcher and salver is very suitable. If
you prefer parlor ornaments, the variety is still
greater, or for the toilet table, very pretty silver
ornaments are fashionable. Some of the silver
stands for cut-glass perfume bottles and puff-box
are very beautiful, and there is a wide range in
— ‘hese make an exquisite bridal gift, com-

ining beauty and utility with durability, and can
be ornamented to order with monograms or initials.
A very beautiful bridal gift shown to us a few days

‘oO may please you.
= consisted of three pieces of silver-ware and
cut-glass, designed for a toilet table. The center
piece held a glass puff-box, with a frosted pattern
of lilies and leaves, and on each side of the box a
silver lily to hold rings, brooches or ear-rings at
night; behind these, one tall lily-leaf made a watch-
stand. The two side pieces, also in the design of
lilies and leaves, held, one two perfume bottles, the
other two a jars, of cut-glass. Each piece
had a small plate for the engraved monogram of
the bride.

Mary S. (—, Maine) writes to usin trouble.
She says: ‘‘I have been engaged for two years toa
young ship-builder here, who, owing tothe recent
money troubles, has lost the savings of years,
which he intended for the purchase of our home,
and a startin business for himself. He has been
obliged to take a less remunerative situation, and
my parents now refuse their consent to our. mar-
riage. We were to have been married in February,
and my wedding outfit is nearly completed, most of
it my own needlework. My betrothed is anxious to
have me marry him privately, as he says my par-
ents have already promised me to him, and he has
lost nothing but money. He is industrious, honest
and oe and I am not afrald to trust my happiness
in his hands, but I am afraid the disappointment of
my refusal will drive him to drink, or make hi
leave hishome. Will you not advise me?”

Our advice to you, and to your lover, would be to
wait patiently until his pecuniary affairs improve.
What seems to your youthful affection an act of
harshness on the part of your parents is an act of

rudence, probably, dictated by their love for you.

hey see, With the experience of years, that it is
better for your lover to work a year or two longer
unhampered by family cares, and lay by once more
a nest-egg, in Case of illness or want of work, and
if he loves you with an unselfish ‘affection, he will
yield to their wishes, and start the home before he
takesa wife. You are not called upon by any duty
to break entirely an engagement your parents have
already sanctioned, unless your promised husband
proves unworthy, and you are right to be faithful

 

 

 

 

 

to him, so long as it is only money that he has lost,

 

But do not enter upon your married life with the

| burden of a secret, or your parents’ displeasure,

Wait with loving, patient hearts. and try to do your
share of the work to be accomplished by providing
household linen of your own needlework. Let your
lover feel that you are trying to lighten his labors,
while you are still obedient to your duties as a
child. There is a certain contempt for clandestine
marriages in the hearts of all honorable people.
They grieve every relative who loves the parties
concerned, and they are attended by a train of pet-
ty deceits and concealments that must poison all
happiness. Be open and true, and let your own fi-
delity and patience conquer your parents’ oppo-
sition.

Mrs. G. (@——, Penn.) writes:

‘‘Tam about to marry for the second time, and I
am puzzled about my wedding ring. Should I take
it off, or may I put the other one on over it? I
have never had it off since my weddin day, and the
geutionnn, I am to marry knows that 1 was sincere-
y attached to my first husband, and says to do just
as I please. Isthere any rule of etiquette about it?’

We do not know of any rule in the matter, but it
is certainly customary to put aside the first wed-
ding ring when a second one replaces it. The very
delicacy that prompts your present betrothed hus-
band to allow 7 to retain this pledge of a first
love, if you wish, should make you desirous of re-
moving from his constant sight what must remind
him of that love.

The ring given you by your first husband was a
link binding you to be true and faithful to him
alone, but since the sacred tie is now broken by
death, this symbol of your vow to him becomes use-
Jess and of no significance. Since you have so far
overcome your love and grief as to have entered in-
to a second engagement, it can cost you but little
additional pain to remove the ring that you have
worn so constantly, but which is now a valueless
symbol of a union death has sundered, and a love
you have replaced bya second one. Byall means
put your ring aside when you marry again.

CHARLEY C. (Dayton, O.) ‘‘ What were the names
and attributes of the nine Muses?”

The nine Muses were:

Calliope, the muse of Epic Poetry and Eloquence;
Clio, the muse of History; Melpomene, the muse
of Tragedy; Euterpe, the muse of Music; Erato,
the muse of Lyric Poetry; af dateaaen the muse
of Dancing; Urania, the muse of Astronomy; Thalia,
the muse of Comedy; and Polymnia, the muse of

Singing.
ou say you have a ‘‘puzzler ”’ you would like an-
swered, if we take any notice of your letter. Send
us the ‘* puzzler,’” and we will puzzle it out for you,
if possible.

James L. (Buena Vista, Ind.) asks:

‘Can a railroad ticket bought a week ago, and

’marked ‘Good for this day only,’ be used next

month, as unexpected detention will prevent its
use until that time?”

Yes. Many court decisions declare that all rail-
road tickets are good until used, and conditions
“for this day only,” or otherwise limiting the time
of genuineness, are of no binding force whatever.

GERTRUDE (Cambridge, Mass.) Most certainly a
lady should refuse the acquaintance of a gentleman
who introduces: himself, even if, as you say, ‘‘ you
like his looks very much, and feel sure he is a gen-
tleman.’’ The very fact that he has acted in the
manner you describe, in trying to force his acquaint-
ance upon you, proves, conclusively, that he is nud
a gentleman.

All cosmetics are injurious to the complexion if
used habitually.

Trim your brown poplin with bias folds of velvet
a little darker, and make the revers, pockets, and
cuffs of the redingote of the same velvet.

A Wipow Lapy, in close mourning, inquired of us
if there is any way of removing the dye from mourn-
ing garments left upon the neck and arms.

‘ihe most effective wash is poisonous, and must
be carefully labeled and kept in a place where
it will not be liable to be touched by children,
or mistaken for an innocent mixture. With this
caution in mind, our friends may use the following
preparation :

Grind together in a mortar, or obtain from a drug
store, already mixed, one ounce each of oxalic acid
and cream of tartar. ae this in a tightly-corked,
wide-mouthed bottle. ash the neck and arms
with warm water, and, while wet, apply the powder
with a piece of soft flannel or a powder-puff, cover-
ing entirely all the stained places. Wash off imme-
diately with clear water; dry thoroughly with a
towel; wash again with soap and water, when the
stains will entirely disappear.

The same mixture, applied as directed, will also
remove the stains from black or purple gloves,
from the hands, and remove ink-stains from the
skin. But, while giving the desired receipt, we
would advise wearing a close-fitting jacket of thin,
white cotton under all mourning garments, to pre-
vent the stain from dress-linings, as all prepara-
tions strong enough to remove stains, tend to
roughen the skin, and should be avoided, if pos-
sible. In choosing material it is advisable to get
the best, as good mourning will not dye the skin.

We have among our friends a lady noted for her
er eee endeavors to aid women to obtain
employ. me from Dyer, Ill., she asks us to an-,
swer. The correspondent writes for advice about
coming to New York to obtain work as a dressma-
ker. She says, ‘“‘I am making sufficient money here
to live comfortably and lay up something each year,
but I am anxious to see the city and to obtain the
higher prices, I understand, are paid in New York
for ees.

We would strongly advise Miss R. to remain where
she is doing well, and not to throw aside a certain
competency for avery uncertain increase of wr
The difficulties she has already overcome, of ob-
taining a good class of custom, must all be met
again in a new place, and with the added disadvant-

e of working among entire strangers. The very
high prices of which she has heard are obtained
only by dressmakers of established reputation, and
against them must be considered the great addi-
tional cae a of living in New York. There is also
a probability that a dressmaker would find herself
bewildered by the ever-shifting fashions in the
metropolis, and probably she would lose some
months in learning to accommodate her needle to
them.

If you “esire to see New York you had better
persevere where you are until your savings will
warrant the expense of a ——— trip for a few
weeks, when you will probably learn much that will
be valuable to you in your business, as well as enjoy
the rest and recreation. Unless you can come to
New York with an ee in Frente in some
of the large dressmaking establishments, or are in
some other way certain of immediate and profitable
employment, we most warmly recommend to you to
keep the work and position that enables you to live
is comfort and secure a provision for sickness or
old age. aisle

It S one of the most mischievous of all the ideas
that haunt young people in the is or-small
towns that, if once they can come to New York,
their fortune is made. The truth is that the aven-
ues for labor in large cities are always overcrowded
by applicants for employment, and ‘mechanics find
that only finished workmen or women are in much
demand. It requires years of patient toil, discour-
agement, and often underpaid labor, to establish
the positions that dazzle the eyes of those who are
far away from the ste ping stones, and see only the
result. For one of a ere cases of success
there are hundreds of utter failure, of which the
world never hears, where the homesick sufferer,
dying in a stifling tenement-house, without means
to return to the home left with such high hope,
recalls in vain the chances for employment in the
dear old farm-house, or the offers made in some
humble station in the quiet town.

Energy and industry will find a position as well in
the smaller cities, towns, or villages, as in the over.
crowded large cities,

Zant pig init

 

|
|
4

ae

7

 
yr

Frpruary 21, 1874.]

AT THE, LAST.

 

BY PERT A. DOROTHY.

 

Come once, just once, dear love, when I am gone,
(Ah, God! I would it were this hour to-night!)
And look your last upon the marble face
That was to you a summer’s brief delight.

The silent lips will not entreat you then,
Nor the eyes vex you with unwelcome tears;
The low, sad voice will utter no complaint,
Nor the heart tremble with its restless fears.

I shall be still—you will forgive me then,
For all that I come been, or failed to be;

Say as you look, ‘‘ Poor heart, she loved me well;
No other love will be so true to me.”

Then bend and kiss the lips that will not speak—
Just one kiss for the dear dead days;

or once: ‘God rest her soul!’ then go in peace;
May no haunting ghost meet you in your ways.

 

(CONTINUED FROM No, 3.)

KATE DARLING;

OR,
THE BELLE OF THE SCHOOL.

CHAPTER VII.

TWO MYSTERIOUS CUSTOMERS AT THE “‘ HARE
AND VULTURE.”

MEANWHILE there was another person—nay,
two persons, who were not altogether indiffer-
ent to the movements of the fustian-coated
dog-dealer, alias Cuthbert Deane.

He had made their acquaintance in a man-
ner that was somewhat singular.

The railway that had brought him to Clover-
nook had its station at
the far end of the vil-
lage,

Cuthbert was quite a
stranger in the place.

His position was
SOmewhat embar-
Yrassing.

He was disguised in
a picturesque, but de-
cidedly low-looking cos-
tume, and accompanied
by a large and formi-
dable-looking mastiff.

Being, moreover, as
anxious as possible to
avoid public observa-
tion in that quiet, out-
ofthe-way place, he
was at a loss of whom
to make inquiries as to
what part of it Miss
Gritty’s establishment
might be found in.

At last he espied a
Wayside ale-house, not
Very inviting as to. its
interior, and with a

ingy sign, “‘The Hare
and Vulture,” swinging
above the door.

Adjusting his cap,
and with his mastiff
Close at his side, he
ventured in.

Is was a slack hour
foy business at the
“Bare and Vulture,”
Which might be best

scribed as a house of
Call for roughs of the
loose fish tribe who are
-tobe found among the
floating population of
very rural district.

The only individual
left to attend the bar
Was a dirty, half-idiotic
young girl, who seemed
to have just sense en-
ough to draw a jug of
ale, and take the money
for it, and nothing be-
yond.

Cuthbert ordered :
j f ale, and inquire
if abe could tell ham where Clovernook Acade-
my was to be found. ;

She could give him no information.

“Taint much that I knows about ’cade-
mies,” naively acknowledged the young girl.
“Py’aps they in there might be able to tell
od yu.”
lead as she spoke, she pointed to a little
room at the side, the door of which stood open.

Within sat two men at a table, with a bottle
between them, engaged in close and whispered

vi tion.

ak Beet they were so engaged when Cuth-
bert, on his entrance, glanced in their direc-
P atliets caps were pulled down over their eyes,
and they seemed anxious to escape rather than
co servation. : :

te aia mentioned, the simple question
he had asked of the slipshod girl behind the
ae Ca you tell me where there’s a ladies’
school, called Clovernook Academy?”

A question least of all, one would _have
thought, likely to interest two such individuals
as those seated in the tap-room. j

Coarsely-clad men both of them, but not of
the agricultural class.

That was evident ata glance.

Men used to severe labor, judging by the
appearance of their hands—men habituated to
work out of doors and in all weather, if their
bronzed and sunburnt faces went for any
thing. :

Men whose work had been ill requited, and
who had toiled thanklessly, if there be any
truth in the proverb that ‘sweet is the con-
tent that honest labor brings,”

 

 

 

THEY WERE HIDD:

 

BHLLES AND BHAUX.

There was no content on these men’s faces.

They were not ill-looking fellows, nor old.

The younger not more than four or five and
twenty; the other, maybe, ten years older, and
bearing traces of having been once a handsome
man.

A man who at some period of his life had
moved in altogether a different sphere.

His hands, though corned and freckled, were
curiously small for his bulk, and though the
finger-nails were worn down and blunted, there
was that in the shape of them that is never to
be found in the low-bred hind.

His teeth, small, white, and regular as those
of a lady; his eyes were bold and keen, and his
forehead broad and intelligent, and, despite his
rough exterior, there was that in all his move-
ments that bespoke a perhaps long ago, but by
no means limited acquaintance with “ gentle
life.”

His companion was a man of altogether dif-
ferent stamp.

A sadder man, and one with much less fire
in him, with less desperation, too, and more
subdued.

It was singular, however, they both seemed
to be moved with the same wonder and curiosi-
ty when they heard Cuthbert’s inquiry.

Simultaneously they uttered a subdued ex-
clamation, and when, responding to the girl’s
suggestion, the disguised young gentleman
turned toward them, he found both with their
faces upraised, and regarding him keenly.

«‘‘ Did you speak, sir?” inquired the elder man
of the pair, fixing his piercing dark eyes on
Cuthbert.

“T was asking the way to a school here-

abouts, called Clovernook Academy,” Cuthbert
replied, not particularly liking the looks of the
two men, and resolving to have as little as
possible to say to them. ‘‘Can you inform me
where it is?”

‘Whose school is it?” he asked.

Deeming it advisable, under the circum-
stances, not to know too much, Cuthbert shook
his head, and said he did not know.

The elder of the two regarded him curiously,
at the same time touching the foot of his com-
panion under the table.

“Ts that your dog ?” the man asked, after a
pause,

Cuthbert was about to reply with a remark
concerning the stranger’s curiosity, but in good
time he recollected the part he was assuming.

‘Yes, it’s mine at present,” he replied.

‘‘He wears a better coat than his master,
then, and a better collar, too,” returned the
other, rudely.

“ All the better for him,” said Cuthbert.

“‘ Ay, ay, my lads, dogs are better kept than
men in these days.”

“Dye think so?”

“That’s been my experience, anyhow; but
what do you mean, mate, by the dog being
yours ‘at present? Won’t he be yours for
long? He’s for sale, I suppose?”

“Yes; that is, he was for sale.”

<< But now he is sold, and you are taking him
home, eh?”

“That's about it.”

“Then why couldn’t you say so at fust?”

<< Because I didn’t see it was any business of
yours to ask,” Cuthbert replied, angry with
himself for having allowed the fact to be so
easily wormed out of him,

 

 

“Tt is true, then?’

And as he spoke, the man regarded the mas-
tiff with anything but a friendly expression of
countenance.

A compliment that the dog seemed to appre-
ciate, judging from the subdued growl. he
gave.

And then, after a pause, the man asked
abruptly:

“You are taking it home to the school, you
say; who ordered it?”

‘“That’s more than I can tell you,” replied
Cuthbert, beginning to feel uncomfortable, lest
such a remarkably shrewd person should pre-
sently detect his disguise, and tax him with it.
“Tt isn’t certain that it’s sold yet. If it suits
them they’ll buy it, I suppose,”

“How came you to know that they wanted
such a dog?”

“That’s my master’s business. It’s common
enough for people who deal in dogs to have
customers for them, I hope.”

“So it is, lad; what would you call this one,
now?”

‘‘ A watch-dog. He looks as though he was
good enough for such work, doesn’t he?’ re-
plied Cuthbert, cautiously. ‘It wouldn’t be
good for a thief who crossed his path in the
dark. But you haven’t answered my question
yet as to whereabouts the school is.”

“Up tother end of the village—straight
ahead,”

Glad to get away, Cuthbert hurried out of
the house.

He had not proceeded far, however, when
the fellow who had shown himself so strangely
curious overtook him.

DEI IR

“You won't be staying very long up yon-
der?”

““T judge not.” ;

“You'll be coming back this way?” said he.

“ Yes. ”

‘Well, I should like to know how you get
on. I'll stand a quart of ale if you'll just look
in as you pass and tell us.” .

And to get rid of him, Cuthbert hastily pro-
mised that he would, and as much amused as
annoyed, went his way to perpetrate his bare-
faced imposition on Miss Gritty.

The stranger watched him until he was lost
in a turn of the road, and then with a lowering
brow and muttering to himself, he returned to
his companion.

“Did you ever hear of anything so infernally
odd?” he asked in a low whisper.

“Tt does seem strange they should have
taken into their heads to have a watch-dog
just now.”

“Strange; one would think that the devil
himself had a hand in it. So he has, for that
matter,” he continued, grimly; ‘‘the devil is
never far away from her elbow.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders in
deprecation of the other’s impetuous anger.

‘¢You are not even sure that she is there as
yet,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t jump at con-
clusions too hastily, if I were you, Savory.”

“No fear,” returned the other, bitterly; ‘‘no
instinct is so keen as that of vengeance. I feel
as sure of her as does the hound who is on the
trail of the fox. And this last move, what
does it mean?”

“Nothing that can affect you, anyhow,”

‘* Why not?”

 Pish} you don’t know her, man, though,

 

 

/

EN IN A LITTLE BOWER, AND IT WAS THROUGH THE OPEN LATTICE-WORK THAT KATE SAW HIM,

 

by Heaven! you have reason for doing so if
ever a poor fellow had. _She’s as cunning as
the father of evil himself, and as far-seeing.”

“But you don’t suppose that she has kept a
reckoning of your time, and when you were
likely to return?” said Savory.

“Why not?”

“Because it would be quite impossible for her
to do it. You yourself did not know for cer-
tain, It might have been a month ago—it
might have. been a month to come.”

“Well, well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t see
why I should trouble my head,” returned the
other, with a short, savage laugh. ‘‘ It will be
all the same inthe end, I reckon.”

“You are still bent on the old idea, then.”

““What has happened to turn me from it?”

‘“‘T tell you as I told you before, I don’t be-
lieve any good will come of it.”

“ Pshaw! you think that I cannot control my

» temper; besides,” he continued, with an ugly

laugh, ‘‘who has a better right to seek an in-
terview with her? Doesn’t the law say ‘ until
death do us part.’”

“Better wait, John, better wait; say till to-
morrow.”

‘Bah! because they threaten to have a dog
on the premises,” returned the man, with a
sneer; ‘‘ you ought to know me better than
that, Dick Kavanah, Id fight my way through
a pack of bloodhounds to get at her. You
would help me, too, if you had the pluck of a
man,”

“Tf I had the vindictiveness of a fiend, you
mean, Savory,” answered the younger man,
calmly. ‘‘ Perhaps if my case was as desperate
as yours, I should feel as you do.”

‘* But you think that
it is not,” sneered the
other.

“T fervently hope
and pray itis not. No,
no, it cannot be so bad
as that.”

“Suppose that it is
worse.”

The younger man re-
garded the other with a
sudden start.

“What do you mean,
Savory?” he asked, with
a twitching of white
lips that betrayed his
emotion,

“What do you
mean?” he repeated, his
dark eyes flashing and
his voice tremulous.
“Do you imagine it pos-
sible that my dear Sue
—my—”

“T should be sorry to
wound your feelings,
Dick,” interrupted the
other, grasping the
young man’s hand;
“and as for your wife,
I take your word for it
—your word a thousand
times repeated, I may
say, that she is as good
as gold; but two years
is a long while, Dick
Kavanah.”

“The Lord knows
that I have found it so,”
returned the other, with
a bitter sigh,

“Two years of wait-
ing with every worldly
comfort surrounding a
woman, and there may
be nothing to fear, but
just.take the reverse of
the picture.”

The young man shiv-
ered and turned away”
his head,

“Picture to yourself
a@ woman young and
helpless, and perhaps a
little child to incumber
‘ her, a young woman,
innocent as her babe, but with her good name
darkehed with the shadow of crime, having to
face the hard, pitiless world for two long years.

“Tell me, Dick Kavanah, what you would
think if, under such circumstances, what might
happen has happened?

“What would then be your feeling toward
the fiend incarnate who has plotted and planned
and brought about such wreck and ruin?”

The young man’s face turned deadly white as
the other, with his lips close almost to his ear,
in a fierce whisper, drew this terrible picture of
what might be.

“*T should kill her,” he replied, with his voice
so hoarse as to be hardly intelligible. ‘I
should have no thought—no reason, Savory. I
should feel like a wild beast, and yearn like one
to kill her.”

“To be sure you would,” returned the other
drinking in Dick Kavanah’s words witha te
relish. ‘To be sure you would, Dick; you
would do as you say, and I should commend
you.

‘‘But why should I torture myself by imagin-
ing anything so unlikely?” continued the young
man, wiping the perspiration from his forehead
and striving to speak cheerfully.

“It’s as well to be prepared for the worst,”
remarked the other,

“But why, man? I have made no search
for her yet; I have been back to the old place
barely four hours, and have not asked a single
question respecting her, and here we're talking
as though I had made a month’s search for her,
es was in ‘despair at not being able to discover
rer,

“God forbid that T should suspect her if she
is alive! My Sue is true to me, if sheis alive!

 

 
 

 

ee eee ee

 

 

2 en en eee es eae

Se

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LO

BELLES AND BHAUX.

 

[Frepruary 21, 1874.

 

And his face grew husky, and he put up his
hand to wipe away what was not perspiration.

“And as for you, John Savory,” he con-
tinued, ‘‘ who knows but that the slender infor-
mation you have received of the woman who
has served you so cruelly, being still here, is
all false?

“She may be by this time hundreds of miles
away. She may be dead !”

But the man addressed as John Savory paid
no heed to his companion’s last observation. He
was otherwise engaged. His quick ear had
caught the sound of footsteps, and starting from
his seat, he hurried out of the house.

They were Cuthbert Deane’s footsteps that
he heard.

Cuthbert, still wearing his disguise, and
barely yet done laughing to himself, in the
highest of spirits at having so successfully
accomplished the daring trick he had under-
taken. :

So absorbed was he in reflecting on it, and on
what its possible consequences might be to him-
self, to Kate, and to every one concerned, that
it was not until he came within fifty yards of
the “Hare and Vulture” that he bethought him
of the promise he had. made.

His first thought was to turn back and avoid
a second encounter by seeking some other road
to the station where he had left his man ser-
vant, and who no doubt was by this time im-
patiently waiting his return. ©

Before, however, he could make up his mind,
there was the fellow to whom he had made the
promise, at the door of the “‘ Hare and Vulture,”
beckoning him.

At once he made up his mind to face the
difficulty.

“Tt’s all part of the fun,” said Cuthbert,
gayly, as he hurried his steps. ‘I am in for it,
and why should I not see it through without
shirking ?”

The man met him at the threshold.

“Well ?” he exclaimed, interrogatively.

“Well?” responded Cuthbert, very good
humoredly.

‘“‘ Where’s the dog ?”

“ve left him behind, as you may see ; he’s
gota new home. I hope he’ll like it.”

““You’ve sold him?” ;

“Ay, and got the money, lad. I can afford
to be a quart to your quart now. Come on.”

But John Savory took no heed of the ques-
tion. He seemed not to thirst so much for beer
as for information.

“You've been to the school?’ he asked,
dragging Cuthbert into the taproom, and speak-
ing in a whisper, as though he was afraid he
might be overheard.

- Yes.” -

“ And you saw—who did you see ?”

Fun was uppermost in the young gentleman’s
mind. It struck him as rather ludicrous that
an individual of this one’s aspect should ex-
hibit so much anxiety respecting the inmates
of ‘a ladies’ academy.

“You are alluding to females, of course ?”
fe “ Yes, yes.” é

“T saw several ladies,” said he, laughingly.
“Young and old. If you will describe the one
your tender affections are fixed on, I may be
able to tell you whether I saw her or not.”

It took all the fun out of him, however, when
the other gravely nodded and took his sugges-
tion in grim earnest.

“Tt’s not easy to mistake her,” said he;
‘she’s not an old woman nor not a young one.
She would be about thirty.”

Cuthbert reflected.

It must be one of Miss Gritty’s domestics the
man was speaking of.

“T did not see any of the female servants,”
he remarked.

“She’s not exactly a servant,” John Savory
replied, with a covert sneer; ‘‘she’s quite a
superior and educated person; she’s a gover-

« ness.”

“A governess!” said Cuthbert, eying the
speaker in amazement.

“Ay; an assistant I suppose you would call
her.”

“Tall or short?”

“A tallish woman.”

“With gray eyes and light eyebrows ?”

“cc Yes. ” pa

“* A person with a straight nose and thin nos-
trils’?”

“Yes, yes; you hear, Dick ?”” he continued,
turning exultingly to hiscompanion. ‘Aha! I
told you so.”

“A woman with large white teeth and with
a mole close to the corner of her mouth,” con-
tinued Cuthbert, more and more: amazed.

“Her portrait as though she had sat for it,”
exclaimed John Savory, between his set teeth,
and with his voice trembling with savage satis-
faction.

“May the devil—may the darling live for-
ever. That’s her, my lad, and thanky. Now
my mind’s easier and we'll drink.

“Not ale, that’s too cold and weak; let’s
‘-haye brandy—rum—something that'll prime
us up, eh?”

And still curious to learn what might be the
connection between the grim Miss Savernake—
for he could see that it was she the savage
stranger evinced such peculiar interest in,
Cuthbert sat down until the brandy was
brought, though the other man _ protested
against it, and declared he would drink none.

He seemed anxious to get away.

“We may be sorry for this, John,” he said,
significantly.

But Savory took no heed, and when the
brandy came, he tossed it off, and then filled
and drank in.

“So they bought the dog, eh?—and at a
handsome price, too, I’ll wager,” he remarked,
presently.

““Yes, they bought the dog,” said Cuthbert,
perceiving from the cunning expression of the

 

other’s eyes that he was about to attempt the
process vulgarly known as ‘‘ pumping.”

‘* Did you sell ’*em a kennel as well?”

““ No. ”

“ They’ll want one, eh?”

“ Maybe. ”

“Or p’r’aps they mean to let him run loose?”

“T should think not. He might run away if
they did,” said Cuthbert, innocently.

“* Loose in the garden I mean, stupid.”

‘Oh, ay; I suppose so, of nights.”

“Tt’s a large garden, isn’t it?” asked John
Savory, after a pause and filling up Cuthbert’s
glass.

“A pretty good size.”

““There’s an orchard and a kitchen garden as
well.”

“Ay; I saw something of it.”

“With a wall round it?”

“ce Yes.”

“* There’s spikes or glass, or something on the
wall, isn’t there?”

“Not that I noticed.”

““ Ah, there’s a door or gate, or something—a
kind of back way?’

“To be sure there is. I went in at the back
way,” returned Cuthbert, anxious now to en-
courage the questioner.

“And that isn’t far from the back of the
house, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Not very far.”

‘ And there’s—”

John Savory’s excitement was increasing, as
well it might, since between every question he
took a sip of the raw brandy.

At this stage, however,
checked him.

“Time’s up, John,” he exclaimed, laying a
hand on the other’s shoulder, and regarding
him with a look it was impossible to mistake.

‘What do you mean?” returned Savory, re-
senting the interruption, and frowning savage-
ly.

his companion

““T mean that I can’t ‘wait another minute.
Come, let’s be going. You know our agree-
ment.”

Whatever it was, the mere mention of it
seemed to recall John Savory to a sense of his
indiscretion. ;

He, too, rose from his seat, and picked up
his cap, that had fallen unheeded to the ground
in his excitement.

“You’ve done me a good turn, and I’m
much obliged to you,” he remarked, with a
sneer, as he regarded Cuthbert evilly. ‘‘ I wish
that the train that brought you had smashed
up or fallen into the river. Good-day.”

And he stalked out, his friend going with
him.

“A Junatic, no doubt,” muttered Cuthbert,
as he too took his departure. ‘‘ Perhaps the
other fellow is his keeper.”

But as he strode along the road toward the
railway station, and turned the matter over in
his mind, it gradually assumed a different com-
plexion.

Why had the fellow expressed so much
anxious curiosity respecting the dog?

Why had he been so particular in his in-
quiries respecting the garden wall, and how
far the gate was from the garden?

What had occasioned that final and seem-
ingly uncontrollable outburst of spleen, and the
savage wish that the train that had brought
him had been smashed?

Only because of the mastiff.

The formidable brute, that from that night
would guard Miss Gritty’s garden.

By the time he reached the railway station,
close by which, and at a quiet little inn, a
trusty man-servant was waiting with his port-
manteau containing his proper clothing, he had
quite made up his mind as to what was the real
state of affairs.

“Bob,” said he, “‘ take the next train home,
and from thence a cab to my lodgings, and
fetch my pistols.”

“Good Lord, Master Cuthbert! You are not
going to fight a duel?” exclaimed faithful Bob,
turning pale.

“By nomeans. I’m going to shoot a bur-
glar or two, if I have luck, and you shall help
me, Bob. But not a word. Be back here in
three hours, and you shall have a guinea for
yourself.” _

 

CHAPTER VIII.
A STRANGE OCCURRENCE.

THE letter that joyful Kate found inclosed
in the mastiff’s collar, covered four pages of
large-sized note paper, but there was one little
sentence that concluded it, and to Kate’s mind
it was worth very much more than all the rest
put together.

It was this—

“And now, my dariing, I must wish you good-by,
not, thank Haat ot; foi bined a drea: P ims as hag
elapsed since 1 last saw your sweet face, not for a
day even, only for a few hours. Should the con-
spiracy, in which Turk is an accomplice, prove suc-
cessful, I shall see my little girl this evening—nay,
I shall enjoy the unspeakable felicity of holding her
in my arms, and perhaps, if I am very.good, and she
is very kind, of feeling her rosebud-lips pressed
against mine. As the church clock chimes half-
past nine, I shall be in the garden at the south
end, but, in sober earnest, I must ask you to pro-
tect me against Turk. He is such an affectionate
villain, that unless you hold him back, he is sure to
come raving and tearing the moment he catches
sight of me, which might lead to awkward.conse-
quences,”

And now Kate was in a dilemma.

Should she reveal all to her schoolmates?

Her heart prompted her to do so.

To fly to them at once, and reveal to them
her Cuthbert’s precious letter, to disclose to
them the wonderful means of conveying it to
her that had been suggested to him by his
ardent love.

On the other hand, it was such a prodigious
secret, that she might not be doing right to dis-
close it without Cuthbert’s leave.

Finally, she resolved that she would first 2s

 

him, and she was content to compromise. the
matter by showing them part at the same time,
promising to satisfy fully their tormenting
curiosity on the morrow, provided they asked
her no more questions, and left her to do as she
pleased.

What that was, the reader
guessed.

To steal down the stairs and into the garden,
while it was as yet barely dark, and the church
clock had not two minutes ago struck nine.

She had fully a half-hour to wait, but it was
better to do so in the cool evening air, than
within doors.

Besides, she was not without companionship.

The mastiff was there.

As soon.as dusk had set in, he had been turn-
ed loose, and was roaming at large in the
garden, where he occasionally gave vent to a
bark that might give the most inexperienced
thief a tolerably correct idea of the dimensions
of his throat, as well as of the size of the jaws
it issued from.

With a joyous whine he came bounding up
to her, and after a few demonstrations of fran-
tic delight, consented to walk peacefully by her
‘side!

The dusk increased, and speedily it grew
dark.

It was not yet time, though very nearly.

From the south end of the garden, where
she was, Kate could plainly see the back part ,
of the house.

She could see the window of Miss Savernake’s
room, which was a back parlor, for there Was
a light in it.

The blind was drawn, but she had no doubt
that Miss Savernake was within.

There was a shadow on the blind, that could
be no other than Miss Savernake’s shadow, and
it was evident from the movement of the
hands, that that exemplary lady was at work.
This was satisfactory.

So long as the shadow remained on the win-
dow blind, Kate knew that she was safe.

There was no fear of the delightful interview
she so fondly anticipated being interrupted by
the lady principal.

Miss Gritty, as Kate was aware, was out on
a visit, and would not return for an hour or
more.

A quarter-past nine chimed from a neighbor-
ing church.

“Only fifteen minutes more,” murmured
Kate, ‘‘he is sure to be punctual—a dear fel-
low, he knows—he must know how anxiously
I am awaiting him.”

Scarcely had she uttered the words when
Turk, who was crouched at her feet, suddenly
pricked up his ears, and uttered a faint grow),

“Down, sir,” whispered Kate, with her foot
on the dog’s huge head; “‘he is not coming yet,
there is no one there.”

But the sagacious watch-dog knew better.

Making nothing of the restraint she imposed
on him, he started up on his feet with his eyes
ahgrily peering in the darkness toward the
south wall.

With a beating heart, Kate gazed in that
direction.

Turk was right, there was some one there. .

’ The young girl was unable to make out the
figure distinctly, but there could be no doubt
there was a man.

On the wall. :

Lying flat down on it, as though hesitating
whether to advance or retire.

Pshaw! who could it be but Cuthbert?

Yet it was not strange that she could not re-
cognize him in the darkness and at that distance
—for the wall was at least twenty yards dis-
tant—for Turk could not. %

Had the figure on the wall been that of the
most perfect stranger, the dog would not have
exhibited more uneasiness.

-But Kate Darling called to mind the timely
advice her lover had given her in the letter.

“T must ask you to protect me from Turk;
he is such an affectionate villain that, unless
you hold him back the moment. he scents me,
he will come at me raving and tearing.”

It. was plain that he anticipated precisely
what was happening.

But it was difficult to hold him.

Kate had one hand griped in his collar, and
she could feel the hair of his enormous throat
bristling with excitement, and besides the exer-
cise of all her strength, it needed all her powers
of persuasion as well as of threatening to hold
him back. ,

He whined imploringly, as though to say,
“You had better let me have my way. I un-
derstand these matters better than you do.
Yow ll be sorry if you don’t let me go.”

It was strange that the figure on the wall
advanced no further.

He could not see Kate or the dog.

They were hidden in a little bower, and it
was through the open lattice-work that Kate
saw him.

Surely it was Cuthbert. ‘

It. was with rapidly beating heart that the
anxious girl asked herself the question.

She had obtained a more distinct glimpse of
the figure.

For some reason or other, Miss Savernake
had approached the window. of the room in
which she -was sewing, and pulled aside the
blind, so that a stream of light from the lamp
within shot out into the darkness, sheer across
to the wall, and for a moment rested on him
who was crouching.

He was not. dressed as Cuthbert.

Brief as was her opportunity of observing
him, Kate saw that he wore a rough reefing
jacket and a black cap.

But in an instant the anxious girl laughed at
her momentary fears.

has already

 

What was more likely than tiai Ler lover
should come disguised?
Not in the diguise that he had assumed in |

the morning—that, would be too monstrous, but
in some other, so that in the event of an acci-
dent, none of the griffins who guarded the es-
tablishment might be able to recognize him?

Turk started and uttered a low whine of
protest as the man on the wall dropped onto
the soft garden bed. :

“‘Cuthbert, Cuthbert, here I am!” Kat
called, softly.

But the man took no heed.

The light at the window seemed to attract
him.

Perhaps Cnthbert had seen the face of Miss
Savernake peering out a few moments before,
and for her sake was anxious to make sure she
was safe in her room before he joined her.

He took extreme precaution not to be seen
anyhow.

Crawling: on his hands and knees and with-
out the least noise that Kate could hear.

But Turk heard him.

It was only by grasping his muzzle with
all her might that the young ‘girl was able to
prevent his whining from becoming a furious
bark.

And all the time she never for a moment
withdrew her eyes from Cuthbert — if it was
he.

Saw him approach the window quite closely.

Saw him raise, himself. up and with one
knee on the window-sill, endeavor to peep over
the blind.

Saw him, catching her breath in horror at
the sight, leap up to the window-sill, and
thrust his shoulder through the glass with a
tremendous crash, which was followed instaat-
ly by Miss Savernake’s shrill shrieking, and
the man leaped into the room through the
wreck of shattered sash and splintered wood.

‘Help! help!” screamed Miss Savernake,
“Murder! help! thieves!”

There was no such thing as holding the
great mastiff now. °

He broke away out of Kate’s hands, and
with furious noise made for the window, the
girl following, and echoing Miss Savernake’s
cries.

Turk was first, however.

With a flying leap he was through the shat-
tered window in an instant, seeking the prey
that for the last’ ten minutes he had been pant-
ing for.

He found it. When, with starting eyes, and
trembling with fright, Kate came to the win-
dow, she saw a sight that filled her with horror
and dismay.

A man, older and bigger than Cuthbert,
struggling on the ground with Miss Savernake.

He with his black hair all tossed about his
face that was as white as paper, and all dis-
torted with rage.

She with her long, lean hands wound in his
silk neckerchief, thrusting him from her, and
writhing and twisting away from the short
bright blade the man grasped in his hand, try-
ing to stab her.

While Turk, with the instinct peculiar to his
race, had the thick part of the arm attached to
the hand that griped the knife, hard and fast
between his teeth, thereby doing Miss Sayer-
nake good service, and doubtless saving her
life.

“T told you I should return!” hissed the man.
“T promised you then, seven long years ago,
that with all your devilish cunning, you had
not got rid of me, and I’ve kept my word!”

“Spare me! For God’s sake, John Savory.
spare my life!” cried Miss Savernake. “ Spare
me, and I will make you every amends! I pro-
mise! I swear it!”

“You wicked wretch !” gasped the man?
panting with fury, and half-choked by the pres-
sure of Miss Savernake’s wiry fingers in his
neckerchief.

“Do I not know you, and what
swear—what you have sworn?

“Had you twenty lives, the loss of them
would not atone for the years of suffering and
pain you have caused me. Aha! you won’t es-
cape me!”

Miss Savernake was making desperate endea-
vors to do so.

Catching sight of Kate at the window, she
gained courage again, and shrieked:

“Help! robbers! murder! Fetch some one,
Miss Darling, pray!”

Then occurred a marvelous thing.

Hearing the name that Miss Savernake utter-
ed, the man suddenly raised his head and look-
ed round. ;

And there stood Kate, helpless and_spell-
bound in horror, with her face ghastly pale,
and her hands clasped together.

It was the man who shrieked now.

With a herculean effort he shook off the
dog, leaving a shred of red-stained shirt and
jacket-sleeve in the maw of the mastiff, and
leaped to his feet.

“Tt is the dead from the grave!” he cried,
covering his face with his hands. “It is she
whom I so basely—cruelly murdered, come
back again! Hide me from it! Blind me that
I may not see it!” :

And he staggered to the wall, and ground his
face against it,,as though to shut out the sight
that so appalled him.

The change in his demeanor was so sudden
that Miss Savernake seemed paralyzed with
amazement.

She rose slowly from the ground, and secur-
ing the open clasp-knife the man had dropped
in his fright, flung it through the window.

As for Kate, she still kept her place at the
shattered frame, helpless and spell-bound.

Suddenly John Savory caught Miss Saver-
nake by the wrist, and with his face still avert-
ed, rapidly whispered: .

‘“‘ Por the present let there bea truce between
us! Your safety, as well as mine, demands it.

sat the girl, who—who is she?’

‘Phe pirl?’ repcated Miss Savernake.

you will
.

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.

Frprvuary 21, 1874.]

BHLDLES AND LBREAUX.

 

 

“Ay; she at the window! Or is it but a
fancy of my tortured brain? Speak, woman!”

With her sallow face distorted with rage,
she made behind his back a hateful grimace,
but it seemed as though she dared not disobey
him.

“The girl’s name is Darling, and she is a pu-
pil here,” she replied, but in so low a voice that
Kate did not hear what she said. ‘‘ Why do
you ask, John Savory?”

“But who brought her here?” continued the
man, trembling with emotion, and not heeding
Miss Savernake’s last question; ‘‘ who is it that
—that—but it can not be; who would have
cared for her when her mother died?”

Miss Savernake’s face grew paler even than
before, and her thin lips retreated from her
great white teeth like those of an angry cat.

“Of whom are you speaking, John Savory?”
she asked, in a hoarse whisper. ‘“‘ This girl—”

But she was not permitted to finish the sen-
tence.

Terrified and conscience-stricken as John Sa-
vory was, the instinct of self-preservation was
Still strong within him.

The house was now thoroughly alarmed.

At the very first cry of ‘ Thieves!” and
“Help!” the maids in the kitchen and the val-
iant Tom Pepper had bolted and barred them-
selves in so as to be safe from the attacks of
the robbers. :

After awhile, however, Pepper was induced
to escape by the area wicket, and go in search
of the village constable.

With his hair on end with fright, and roaring
“Murder!” at the full stretch of his lungs as he
ran down the quiet lane, he presently came full
tilt against a person who was not the village
constable, but who collared him quite as uncer-
emoniously as though he had been.

It was Cuthbert Deane, and close at hand
was his active man-servant, Bob Bailey.

Cuthbert Deane had been unayoidably delay-
ed beyond the agreed-on time.

With all his hurrying, Bob had found it im-
possible to return with the pistols in time for
Cuthbert to keep his appointment witl Kate in
the garden at half-past nine.

Tt was nearly ten, and they were hurrying
down the lane, and Bob had remarked to his
master that they had yet two hours to spare,
because it was against the Act of Parliament
for burglars to begin operations before mid-
night, when they encountered Pepper howling
up the lane as aforesaid.

“Good Heaven! we are too late,” exclaimed
Cuthbert, springing forward at a run; ‘“ my
suspicions were but too true, it seems.”

And, as in his excitement, he withdrew his
pistol as he seized on Master Pepper, that
young gentleman, catching sight of the gleam-
ing barrel of it, made sure that it was more
burglars, and slipping down on his knees,
changed his tune and howled for mercy.

“Speak, can’t you, you confounded young
imp?” said Cuthbert, in a tremendous state of
excitement. ‘Do you come from the house—
from the school, I mean?” _ :

“Yes, sir,” replied the recreant Pepper,
with his teeth chattering; ‘they are a bad lot,
sir, and it serves ’em right if they’re all mur-
dered, specially Miss Savernake, sir; she’s the.
worst of ’em, sir. Arter her, I think I might
recommend the cook, if I might be so bold.”

“What are you talking about, boy?. Who. is
being murdered?” ;

“ A whole lot of ’em, sir; they was shrieking
orful when I came away to—to warn you
against running into danger,” said Pepper,
dexterously turning the sentence; ‘‘there’s the
new young lady and the dog, all of ’em mixed
up in it.” <i mers

Cuthbert waited to hear no more, but to
Pepper’s great relief, flung him aside and set
off with Bob after him at the top of his speed
toward the garden gate, at which the quaking
rheumatic old gardener welcomed them very
heartily. a

“The Lord be praised for help
claimed the shaking old fellow.
way!
it.” :

At this moment a shrill shriek was heard in
the direction of the house,

Its origin may be easily explained.

John Savory’s quick ears had caught the
sounds of voices and hurrying footsteps, and
instinctively he had made a dash for the win-
dow.

In this movement, however, he was inter-
cepted by the ever-watchful mastiff, who, im-
agining the. movement meant an attack on
Kate, who still stood there, was at him in an
instant, dragging him down despite his great
muscular strength, and bringing him to his
knees and holding him there with his fangs
buried in his jacket collar.

It was at this instant that Kate uttered the
shriek that Cuthbert heard, following imme-
diately on the savage cry the dog had uttered.

“Kate, Kate!” he cried aloud, “T am here,
my darling, I am here!” :

She seemed to recover the use of her limbs
and her voice on hearing him, and with a loud
hysterical ery, she ran and met him and was
quickly nestled in his strong arms. :

“Thank God, you are safe, my darling!”
Cuthbert exclaimed, pressing the trembling
form to his bosom. ‘‘T am to blame, much to
blame; it was rash to delay so when I knew
what was about to happen.”

Kate looked up into his handsome, manly
face in surprise.

“You knew, Cuthbert?”

“J had strong reasons for suspecting, pretty
one, and I acted as I thought best,. but I will
tell you all by-and-by. Where are the ruf-
fians? Have they escaped?”

“There is but one, I think,” replied the af-
frighted girl, shuddering. ‘““and Turk has him
by the throat, and—”

at last!” ex-
“Quick! this
I hope that you are in time, but I doubt

 

But this moment Miss Savernake’s voice was
heard calling from the window in a tone of
entreaty.

“Call off the dog, you without, there; call
the dog off!”

“Nay, that would be absurd, if he has pinned
the villain, as you say, Kate,” said Cuthbert,
“Thank heaven, here: are your companions,
who will take care of you. Now, Bob, you
come with me.”

But, to his amazement, Kate, still trembling,
so that she could scarcely speak, held him ner-
vously.

“Don’t hurt him, Cuthbert,” she whispered
hurriedly in his ear; “‘for my sake, let him
escape—for my sake, dearest.”

** Let him escape—not if I—”

“Yes, yes, I ask it, I beg it, Cuthbert,” in-
terrupted the young girl, with strange earnest-
ness; ‘‘call the dog away, Cuthbert, or I will.”

“Well, if it must be so, so be it,” replied
Cuthbert Deane, lost in bewilderment.

And taking a little silver whistle from his
pocket, he blew a shrill little blast, and the
next moment Turk, with his great tongue loll-
ing out and his eyes glaring, came bounding
toward them.

And what had induced Miss Savernake to
bid them. call off the dog?

It was not of her own free will that she had
done so.

Tf she had had it in her power, she would
have urged the mastiff to kiJl him.

It would have given the cruel, mysterious
woman exquisite pleasure could she have seen
the man called John Savory throttled and laid
dead before her eyes.

But while he was alive she feared him and
dared. not thwart him.

“You will not give me up,” he exclaimed,
as Kate Darling, hearing her lover’s voice, flew
from the window; ‘‘you are not so tired of
your own life‘ and liberty that you dare do
that.”

“*T will help you if I can; but how?” she re-
plied, hurriedly. ‘‘The house is alarmed, and
T hear strange people in the garden.”

“Tell them to call off this infernal dog who
is choking me,” -cried Savory; ‘‘and I will
manage the rest. As for the old score between
us, let that rest till we meet again. Don’t
think that I am balked for good and all, my
dear wife. No, no; we shall meet again.”

She seemed to hesitate for an instant, and
then she went to the window, and called out
as has already been shown. :

““Now show me a way to escape,” said he.
“Quick! But stay; first give me some
money.”

“‘T have no money, John,” said the woman.
“‘ But take this; it is worth ten pounds.”

As she spoke, she slipped from her neck the
gold chain to which her watch was attached.

The man laughed grimly, as he flung it to a
corner of the room.

“What, you are clever still are you?” said
he. _ ‘‘ You would trap me once more, No, my
good lady. I, too, have served a useful appren-
ticeship since we last saw each other. Give
me money, do you hear?’

She had heard before, but in her fiendish
hatred for the man who called her his wife, it
would have suited her much better had he
taken the watch and chain.

Finding that he would not do so, she meekly
took her purse from her bosom and handed it
to him,

There was a note as well as some gold in
it, but with the former he would have nothing
to do.

He returned it to the purse, and flung it:

down, and thrust the gold into his pocket,

“Now show me a way out,” said John
Savory. ‘

Trembling as she was with fright and fury,
she nevertheless hastened to do as he requested,
and opened a door. oF

“ Keep straight through, and open the front
door,” she said, hurriedly, ‘‘and bear in mind,
John, this act of mercy in your deadly hate

against me.”

But he was gone ere she had ceased to speak,
and she closed the door and turned the key
in it.

At the moment Cuthbert, who had intrusted
his precious charge to the girls, and the old
gardener with Master Pepper, came hurrying
to the window. ;

“Where is he, madam?” cried Cuthbert,
wondering to see Miss Savernake alone in the
disordered room; ‘‘ where is the robber?”

“He has escaped,” she replied, calmly.

“ Escaped ?”

“Through that window. You need not be
astonished, you gave him time and opportunity
enough, and I could hold him no longer,”

“But which way did he take?’ Cuthbert
asked, excitedly.

“He ran toward those laurel bushes,” re-
plied Miss Savernake, ‘“‘and unless he has
succeeded in climbing the wall, you will find
him there now.”

And at once there was a demand for lanterns
and a strict investigation of the garden, and
while this was being done, and the village con-
stable was sagaciously tracing where the rob-
ber had imprinted his feet in the garden
mold, and scraped the wall with the top of
his boots, John Savory was lying under a hedge
a mile away, still panting for breath, and still
shaking with horror at the apparition of the
dead .come to life again he had seen at the
window.

(To be continued.)

 

 

The more and the greater are life’s difficul-
ties, the more honorable it is to carry off the
victory. Man may be disappointed in his
greatest hopes in life, without, on that account,
becoming unhappy.

 

LIFE, DEATH, ETERNITY.

BY 8. M. FRAZIER.

 

 

Blood-red sinks the sun in the west;
Darkness spreads over the aon

The unchain’d wind comes from his rest,
Waking calm ocean from its sleep.

\ Destruction, hovering, is above me;

Life is swamped by the wave,

But Hope lights the gloom before me—
Hope that in life dreads not the grave!

# * * He * * * * %

Thicker grew the damp mist round me,
Fiercer howled the Storm-King’s breath;

Evening’s waning sunlight found me
Stranded by the gates of death.

Founts of Mem’ry’s tears have started,
Golden Hope can seal alone;

Those we knew and loved departed—
Through death’s shadow traveled home.

Billows still are madly heaving;
Morning’s sun breaks through the clouds;
Winds and breakers yet are weaving
Robes of foam—the victims’ shrouds.
On life’s ocean all are drifting,
Often drifting aimlessly—
Tl at last, death’s thraldom lifting,
Finds us in Eternity!

 

Remarkable Women.

JESSTE BENTON FREMONT.

 

BY MRS, E. F. ELLET.

Me: FREMONT may be called a remark-
i able woman in a peculiar sense, Though
she has had her share of adventure and active
life, she is hardly a subject for history. She
has hot, like Mrs. Gaines, associated her name
with any great cause or event; nor has she had
a life mission like Miss Nightingale, Yet what
she has done is not of less real importance in

 

that it has been an influence only discernible in

its effects upon other minds. Had she lived in
France, she might have entered openly into the
arena of politics, and ruled in the councils of
the nation. In America her sphere of action
was limited; but no control could fetter the
animating spirit she sent forth, through her
social relations, acting on minds that controlled
the destinies of the country. No woman has
had a more extensive acquaintance with lead-
ing statesmen, and few who haye known her
have failed to be swayed, one way or another,
by the force of her powerful nature.

She always possessed extraordinary ¢clear-
ness and quickness of perception, with a bril-
liancy of wit in her lively conversation. It is
the great charm-of her humor and repartee,
that they are perfectly spontaneous. Almost
at all times her discourse is sparkling—flash-
ing, it may be said—with rich and picturesque
illustration. In this she resembles her cousin,
William C. Preston, of South Carolina. Prob-
ably few women in thé United States ever
equaled her in this kind of splendor. There is
vivid force in her word-painting. She elicits
new ideas as she speaks on the most ordinary
topic, and her fancy gives a fresh coloring to
old ones. Her ornament, withal, is unstudied
as the play of a sunlit fountain.

She is a woman of rare culture, and has her
mind enriched by observation in the varied
scenes she has witnessed. Yet there is no pe-
dantry about her, and while she enriches the
lightest social gossip with her mental stores,
she does it without effort or even conscious-
ness,

In person and manner she has been said to
resemble her father, the distinguished Colonel
Thomas H. Benton, of Missouri, who sat thirty-
one years in the United States’ Senate. Her
birthplace was a picturesque spot in Virginia,
on the estaté of her maternal grandfather,
Colonel James McDowell. This was in Rock-
bridge county, extending ‘from the valley to
the tops of all the hills in view;” the point of
view being a lakelet formed by the meeting of
two streams crossing the valley. Mrs. Fre-
mont’s great grandfather held the original
grant of this domain, with a thousand acres in
Greenbrier county, and other thousands in
Kentucky. These grants had been made by
the British Government to their young officers,
in reward for military service. The inheritor
of these magnificent estates divided his patri-
mony with his mother and sisters. The most
careful cultivation was bestowed on the lands,
the chief crops being tobacco and wheat. The
Scotch settlers had introduced'a thorough sys-
tem of farming; the best imported stock and
horses belonged to the property, and’ the thrift,
order and abundance that reigned, were
worthy of the most prosperous era of the early
Virginian planters, who were like kings and
princes in the land. Thése lords of the soil
were often distinguished not only by noble
aspect and dignity of manner, but by upright-
ness, justice, and liberality, with a temperance
rare in'those days.

The dwellers in this region, at that period,
presented an illustration of the country life pe-
culiar to the true Virginia home. It was the
pride of the proprietors to have it known that
they lived on land that had never been bought
or sold; and that in sixty years no negro had
been transferred to another owner. Each
plantation was a little principality, producing
within its own limits everything needed except
groceries and fine cloths, which were brought
from Richmond in the wagons that carried the
harvest of flour and tobacco,

The central portion of Virginia, cradled
among the mountains, where lie the Sulphur
Springs, the Hawk’s Nest, the Natural Bridge,
and other wonders of scenery—not far south
enough for the operation of planting interests—
was the region where the old ancestral pride
and contempt of mere moneyed-aristocracy sub-
sisted in sternest purity. Its farming, rather
than trading or planting interests, was first
broken in upon after the invention of the cot-

 

 

ton-gin, which revolutionized, southern inter-
ests. Many among the leading families—such
as the Randolphs, Wythes, MecDowells, and
others—had no belief in the continuance of
slavery. Some went further, and, in their wills,
emancipated their slaves, while others did so
during their lives. Mrs. Benton, the mother of
Mrs. Fremont, was one of these; and she gave
the freed slaves a helping hand, supporting
them by way of giving them a start in inde-
pendent life till they could live alone,

It is interesting to look back on those days,
never to return for Virginia. Then, pedigree
was a prized qualification; and the titie, “ Vir-
ginia gentleman,” since usurped and brought
into. ridicule, had a meaning, Simplicity of
character, good faith, honesty of purpose, loy-
alty toa conviction, a liberal hospitality, and a
life spent in the honorable discharge of duty,
were indispensable traits, Thackeray gave us
George and Henry Esmond as types of the best
class in Virginia society. ..Could he have
painted a lovable woman, he might have given
the feminine side of the character, But Ma-
dame Esmond is only the colonial Englishwo-
man, losing the calmness that marked the caste,
through the wear and tear of managing igno-
rant servants and tenantry,

In those days there was a classified, sifted,
and solidly established order of society. There
was a substantial foundation for prosperity
and homely. abundance, and a frank truth-
fulness in, the mode of life, in contrast to the
often deceptive display of commercial com-
munities. A temporary show of splendor, at
the cost. of real impoverishment, would have
been regarded by the staid, honest inhabitants
as a kind of forgery for the purposes of an
adventurer,

The daughters of prominent families went to
school or to visit on, horseback, and in their
old-fashioned carriages, with attendant slaves;
and their brothers had their special servants,
dogs, guns, and horses. Besides the ordinary
branches of education, and the duties. of mis-
tress of a household, the girls were taught fine
embroidery and the care of their complexions.
A high-born Virginia maiden would hesitate to
‘‘spread her hand.” by turning a door-knob, or
handling a heavy object. Long gloves and
deep sun-bonnets were constantly worn, and
they ate little meat or butter.

.Colonel. Penton’s family, like the MceDow-
ells, was of English extraction, and native to
Virginia. His daughter Jessie passed her early
years amid the beautiful scenery surrounding
her birthplace, where four generations.of culti-
vation had. spared the time-honored oaks of the
primeval ,forest. Mr. Benton, after his en-
trance on public life, kept his family in Wash-
ington every winter, .where Mrs. Benton’s
winter circles were composed of the most dis-
tinguished. persons. in he capital. Her _ bril-
liant coteries were really as historical as the
most famous ones of French princesses. ‘Jessie
was often a listener-'to social and political dis-
cussions, by which, unconsciously, her opinions
were shaped, When she was ten years old she
was invited toa ball at the Russian Embassy,
because she could speak French and Spanish,
and act as interpreter... Her first state dinner
party was at the President’s, when she was not
quite thirteen. At fifteen she was first. brides-
maid to Madame Bochisco; Mr, Buchanan, then
Seeretary of State, standing with her,

The journey, to St, Louis, requiring three or
four weeks, it was only taken at. the close of
the short session of Congress... The family of
Col. Benton spent the time from. March to No-
vember in their Western home. . The, big old
yellow chariot, lined. with red leather—chris-
tened. ‘‘ Cinderella’s Pumpkin,” was a time-hon-
ored and useful possession,. From March to
May they were sometimes in New Orleans.
That. city was a, provincial Paris, far removed
from the social laws that governed the Virgin-
ians,. 'The changes of moral, atmosphere, with
the,travel to and fro through the liberal and
growing West, the polished and luxurious life
of the Crescent City, with the varied experiences
of Washington, where Europe as well as the
United States was represented, contributed to
enlarge the ideas of the young people.

In October, 1841, Miss. Benton was married
to Mr, John C, Fremont, then Second Lieuten-
ant of Engineers. She made her. home. with
her family for eight years, her husband being
often. absent on long and dangerous expeditions.
She acted as his private secretary and amanu-
ensis, Sometimes she went to meet him at the
frontier, in the country of the Delaware In-
dians; joining him in a tent or a log cabin.
At her dinner‘table Delaware chiefs, in cour-
tesy, have rivaled the high-bred ease of men
accustomed. to the elegant, culture of society.
As she used to say, she has entertained. and
been. entertained, ‘through. not only the
gamut, but, the chromatic scale of society.”

On Mrs. Fremont’s first.expedition to follow
her husband. to. California, she was detained
seven weeks on the Isthmus of Panama, and
suffered severely from the climate. On Gener-
al Fremont’s fourth expedition, commenced in
October, 1848, she accompanied him as far as
a Government post in Kansas, and remained
five or six weeks at the encampment.

In, California, in the rough days of 1849,
when there was gold and nothing else in the
land, Mis. Fremont found a new experience,
The fullest tide of emigration had not yet set
in.. Her residence was at Monterey, and pro-
visions were. usually obtained from the Sand-
wich Islands, . It was there the convention. sat
for framing a constitution for the State of Cal-
ifornia; and Mrs. Fremont has been assnred
that her experience and influence largely aided
in the decision to make it a free State.

She had her. full share in the adventure of
Western life. . At one time for. six weeks she
was not once in a house; sleeping in a travel-
ing carriage, and moving about during the day,

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a

%

SELLES

AND BHAUX.

[FEpRuARY 21, 1874.

 

 

When lumps. of gold and bags of gold dust
were brought down from the mountains, there
was no place for their deposit but under the
carriage seat, or in her trunks at Monterey.
Some Spaniards from Sonora, working for Gen-
eral Fremont, received half the gold for their
labors. Twenty of them wished to return
to Sonora, and wrote to ask for their propor-
tion. Fremont was at Sdn Francisco; but he
sent an Indian to Monterey with the key of
the trunk—three days’ journey by land—direct-
ing the Spaniards to open it, weigh out their
part of the gold, and send back the key. This
was done with perfect accuracy, not an ounce
of gold being taken beyond their share.

The negotiations to which Fremont’s proprie-
torship of the Mariposas property gave rise
took him to Europe in the spring of 1852. Both
he and Mrs. Fremont had a flattering reception
from men eminent in science and letters. They
spent a year of unbroken content in Paris. At
the English court they were in the privileged
list, including the diplomatic corps, on account
‘of General Fremont’s position, and his being
one of the medalists of the Royal Geographical
Society.

On her return to Paris Mrs. Fremont saw
the eagles of the Empire restored to the flags
of the troops at the great review of the Champ
de Mars, May 10, 1853. She saw the imperial
nuptials, and attended all the fetes succeeding.
The picturesque part of the new court inter-
ested her; but she preferred the genuine royalty
of that “dingy St. James.” She recalls a scene
when she stood two hours in the throne-room
of the English palace. Near her stood the
Duke of Wellington, Mr. Gladstone, then
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and on the wall
hung a large picture of the battle of Waterloo;
while at the head of the line of ladies belong-
ing to the diplomatic corps stood the Countess
Walewski, representing France as the embassa-
dress of the empire of another Napoleon. She
wore the famous Cis-Alpine pearls that cost
poor Josephine so dear; this association, with
the wonderful resemblance of Count Walewski
to his imperial father, added to the effect of
the historical grouping.

In the political campaign of 1856, when
General Fremont accepted the Republican
nomination for the Presidency, his wife sym-
pathized cordially in his plans, acting as his
secretary, and aiding him by her counsels.
She was again in Paris in 1857, having had
the large experiences of a political revolution.
General Fremont had made arrangements to
reside in Paris some years with his family; but
impending war demanded his services at home.
During the war St. Louis was for a time the
home of his family. The anxieties and trials
endured by Mrs. Fremont left their record on
her luxuriant hair, which in a few days changed
from glossy brown to silvery whiteness. She
has always regarded this gray hair as the
sacred scars of a veteran.

For some years past Mrs. Fremont has let
her house in New York and resided at her
beautiful country seat on the Hudson, “ Po-ea-
no” (the old Indian name), near Tarrytown.
The region is associated with recollections of
the great manorial lords of colonial days, of
wild adventures during the great Revolutionary
struggle, 6f quaint Dutch customs, and curious
traditions.

Mrs. Fremont’s children received all their
instruction at home. The cultivation of music
was a part of her domestic life. Her library
is a splendid one, containing the greater part
of Humboldt’s among its treasures, and all the
standard works, with others rare and valuable.
Mrs. Fremont was the teacher of her daughter,
who is accomplished in several modern lan-
guages. She has also been an efficient co-
worker in the management of several charita-
ble institutions. In her benevolent labors she
obtained sympathy and aid from many with
whom she was associated in past years, for
even political opponents remembered her with
respect and esteem. At her request to Con-
gress, a ship was granted to convey supplies to
Charleston and other Southern ports. If in a
railway station, she had a recognition and
greeting from some statesman who has influ-
enced the country’s destiny, she often re-
ceived afterward a letter from him referring
to past events. She might go with certainty
of welcome to homes in every State iti the
Union, and to nearly every country in Europe.

 

 

 

ENCOURAGE YOUR CHILDREN.—Encourage-
ment works wonders with almost anybody, no
matter what his occupation in life may be. A
boy likes to be encouraged; so does a girl; a
man likes it; also a woman; and even the old
grandfather and grandmother have a relish for
it. Some parents often make a mistake in not
giving their children credit when they do a
thing well; and some unintentionally let a les-
son that has been studied very hard, or a piece
of work that has been well done, by a boy ora
girl, pass by without the least notice. This
discourages a child, and has a bad effect other-
wise. Encouragement puts new life in a child,
especially if it be bestowed by a parent. Yet
there are people, who, though anxious to have
their children do well, are continually, and in
a dispiriting way, telling them that they
shouldn’t do so and so, and that it is wrong,
etc., without ever having a little friendly talk
with them, and giving them good advice, and
encouraging them when they do right. Some
parents also make a mistake in leaving the
education of their children wholly to the
schools. They think if they send their children
to school, and pay their way, that they—the
parents—are doing their part, and that the
children should do theirs.. This may work well
with good boys, but with the careless, the
thoughtless, and the indifferent it does not
werk well,

 

SOUND THE LYRE!

BY A. P. MORRIS, JR.

 

 

Sound, sound the lyre! its soothing strain
Awakes an echo in my heart—

What sweeter panacea for pain,
When treasures of the soul depart?

The music first its swells of bliss
To angels played immortal ome)

*T was kindly roused in spheres like this,
Where joys are few, nor life is long.

The lyres of heaven and earth are one,
For music is the dew of love;
“The wills of Heaven on earth be done ’—
And like our vespers like above!

The bosom that drinks not the draught,
Nor ear that glads, nor vein that thrills,
Are made for naught, nor yet have quaffed

The rarest pleasure life distills.

Sound, sound the lyre! It makes me feel
A spirit rising to rejoice,

Whene’er its murmuring strings reveal
The majesty of Heaven’s voice!

 

GOLD FOR DROSS.

 

 

BY CORA CHESTER,

 

cok Ce to-day,” mused Mil-
4. dred Orme with a deep sigh and a sus-
picion of tears in the soft hazel eyes. ‘ Let
me see, Mildred Orme, how the last ten years
have dealt with you.” ~~

She pushed aside the heavy curtains with
firm hands, letting in a perfect shower of daz-
zling, pitiless sunshine, then proceeded to stand
in the midst of it and scanned herself in a mir-
ror opposite, calmly and critically as she might
have eyed a perfect stranger.

“ Growing a little lank and a trifle ‘old maid-
ish,’ a word I don’t approve of but it is exactly
what I mean—that indescribable, prim manner
that comes with years to us lone, lorn women,
strive as we will against it. Well then, Mil-
dred Orme, you are growing decidedly ‘old
maidish’ and must face the position boldly, for
years will not mend matters.”

She pulled out a gray hair from her dark
locks a little impatiently, and proceeding to a
box took out her back hair and commenced
pinning on her chignon.

““You have tolerable eyes, good teeth and
decent complexion, but, my dear, you have
failed to make your market, have grown passee,
and will soon be ostracized from polite society.
This is harsh, but, like poor Becky Sharpe,. I
must be mamma to myself and not spare Mil-
dred Orme’s feelings by disguising the truth. I
feel old maidish and school-marmish all over,
and how my pert pupils would giggle at the
very idea of Miss Orme’s having a beau! It is
ten long weary years since my happiness fled
from me forever.”

She sighed again as she fastened her linen
collar with a prim jet pin, smoothed back her
glossy hair with two shapely white hands and
then, seating herself at her desk, unlocked it
and was soon busy throwing aside papers in
the search for something.

The morning sunlight fell over her gray
dress and pale face, transforming the window
of flowers and the silent occupant of the room
into a pretty artistic picture. Mildred shaded
her eyes from the light with one hand and
wiped the dimness from them with the other.
She had found what she had been in search of,
and a tear fell upon the porcelain picture as
she gazed upon it. :

“Ts it possible that ten years can change one
so? Is it possible that once I was the counter-
part of that picture—young, happy, beautiful
and rich? What happy hours I spent in those
old days and how disproportionate were my
griefs and joys to their causes! Why, I would
sing all day over a new bonnet, and cry for
weeks at the death of a canary! After all,
does wisdom pay? WasI not happier before
grim necessity compelled me to dive into the
mysteries of philosophy, geology and quadra-
tics? Yes; but one cannot be a child forever.”

The picture was that of a young girl whose
mischievous brown eyes looked up at the
heavy-lidded pair studying them with a half-
mocking laugh. The cheeks were beautifully
rounded and the red bow of a mouth, although
forced into a prim smile, could not hide the
deep dimples playing hide and seek in its cor-
ners. The dark hair was caught up high on
the head with an outrageously large comb, but
this style of head-dress became the little beauty
well, and made her look as if she had stepped
out of some old-fashioned picture. -

This effect was hightened by the square-
necked, flowered dress she wore and the large
fan held coquettishly up in one small hand.

 

By a strange coincidence, while Mildred
Orme is dreaming of the past, two of these
same pictures of herself are on two other per-
son’s desks and their possessors are also review-
ing the past.

In a dim, dingy office of a western town sits
aman of perhaps thirty-five. As for his ap-
pearance it is rather prepossessing than other-
wise, and the broad brow, searching eyes and
thoughtful mien tell of an intellect that may
one day render its owner famous. His name
and occupation can be easily discovered, for at
the foot of the very steep stairs is a bright sign
bearing in very black letters the words:

Gorpon BRENTLEY,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law.

This lawyer is not reading any abstruse
document as he sits half lost in thought, but is
doing what very few persons in their senses
would ever dream of his being guilty of: Gor-
don Brentley, the grave, unimpressible bache-
lor, is dreaming over the picture of a saucy,
dark-eyed girl, and, after giving a guilty
glance over his shoulder to see that no sharp
office boy is within spying distance, presses the

 

red lips of the picture—once, twice to his own.
‘What would the gossips of Camden say to that,
Gordon Brentley?

‘Dear Milly, poor little girl! If she only
would have let me comfort her, but, what was
poor, awkward Gordon Brentley without name
or position to Mildred Orme, the spoiled, pet-
ted child of fortune? She never knew I loved
her—no, nor ever shall. If I ever meet the
rascal who played her false, ’ll—no, how futile
are threats after so many years! Robert Rad-
cliff has gone—heaven knows where, and Milly
is either dead or married. Lost to me, at any
rate.”

He closed his eyes and seemed toagain see an
old mansion, gray and ivy-colored, where he
had spent his boyhood with Milly Orme. Those
blessed days when to the Western boy happi-
ness consisted in lifting Miss Milly over ditches,
pricking his fingers in attempting to reach im-
possible roses, and bruising himself in a vain
search after imaginary bird-nests that his ty-
rannical little mistress was quite sure she spied
in the top of some high tree. He followed her
like a faithful spaniel, and was happy as her
attendant, even though he often got fearfully
snubbed for his pains. Heserved her days and
dreamed of her at nights, and at last dawned a
wild hope that she indeed valued his little at-
tentions,

Her eyes began to droop beneath his eager,
loving glance, and once when he lifted her
across toa boat, that she might not soil her feet
in the wet grass, she actually blushed as she
thanked him.

The friendless young man began to cherish a
hope, foolish as he knew it to be, that in time
he might win her love. It might be months
or years; he cared not how long so that she
was his at last.

His dream did not seem so very absurd to a
shrewd observer, after all, for Milly’s heart
was evidently awakened, and a subdued, pretty
bashfulness took the place of her old petulance
when he was by. What might not this germ
of love have blossomed into in time had not an
unforeseen event nipped it in its bud?

Ambition came to Milly Orme in the form of
a wealthy, handsome lover, and choked the one
unselfish passion of her girlhood! Robert Rad-
cliff’s society manners, evident adoration for her-
self, and pretty style of love-making, won upon
her imagination, and she ceased to think of her
love for Gordon save as an absurd, childish in-
fatuation. Gordon stood the sight of their coo-
ing and love-making as long as it was in the
nature of man to witness a rival’s success, then
left abruptly for the West, taking with him
only a memory of summer days and Milly’s
picture to remind him of the happy past.

Not till nine years later did he hear the
story of Rob Radcliff’s falseness. How Milly’s
father had died bankrupt, leaving his daughter
only her own wits and a dishonored name to
get through life with. How the once devoted
lover found, the day before the wedding, that
love had flown from his heart, and that he
could not do the woman he respected the wrong
of marrying her when he felt that his feelings
were only those of a sincere and deep friend,
etc., etc.

The rest of the cant is very well known to
men of Robert Radcliff’s stamp, and proud,
quiet girls like Milly Orme will die before they
lift one finger to recall such a recreant knight.

Miss Orme had heard him through without
one visible trace of emotion; acquiesced when
he asked if his explanation was satisfactory,
and handed him the engagement ring without
one word. Rob Radcliff had-expected a scene
and was agreeably surprised. When he saw
how coolly she took it his pique was roused and
he half wished he had not released her.

“ By George!” he soliloquized; ‘‘ I am half a
mind to go through withit. But, hang it, she’s
poor and I must marry rich. No; good-by,
Milly, little girl; I see I have loved not wisely
but too well.”

He hurried away, and Milly with her wed-
ding dress and vail yet on, ran to her chamber-
window to watch him off. His self-love would
not have been flattered could he have seen her
curled lip and scornful eyes. These were her
words, scarcely more flattering :

“Thank God, Robert Radcliff, for unmask-
ing you even at the eleventh hour, thank God !”
then with the first tear she had shed that day:

“My poor Gordon with his true, tender
heart and priceless love! But, it is useless re-
gretting my past folly; I have made my bed
and must lie in it.”

The gossips wondered and talked for nine
days, then Milly was allowed to go her way un-
molested. Two months later, Robert Radcliff
courted and married Lena Fay, a pretty butter-
fly, said to be an heiress but whose only wealth
consisted in her doll face, as her husband found
to his horror after marriage.

 

Robert Radcliff, althoigh a married man, is
also dreaming over Mildred Orme’s picture, this
sunny spring morning, but it is not the be-
witching, teazing little elf of ten years ago
that he sees before him. :

Mildred Orme, dignified, stately, bewildering
in her calm, womanly gentleness haunts him;
Mildred Orme as he had seen her at her school
examinations, only two days before.

“Such gentleness, such purity and angelic
patience,” was musing this anything but angelic
man, over his morning cigar.

“Oh, Mildred, once so nearly mine! My
very ideal of a true wife, why did I forsake you
for a bubble that burst when I grasped it? I
hate my chains and I hate senseless, silly butter-
flies !”

The door opened and a slight little figure
bearing close resemblance to those much abused
insects in the gorgeousness of her toilet, crossed
the room and stood with lowering brow before
the grate fire, Her golden hair was done yp in

a ean inc ssi a isi iiinioiiaaal sail x
a ttt enact ce —— % aa

 

a careless knot at the back of her head and
looked as if a good brushing was a stranger to
it. One small foot, with which she impatiently
tapped the carpet, could easily have taken leave
of the kid boot, guiltless of buttons, whose
lining was rolled over and trailed on the floor.
Her little pink hands were loaded with rings
and the collarless buff wrapper looked mussed
and soiled. Such was Lena Radcliff’s exterior,
The few words she muttered gave some insght
into her character.

“What are you doing now, Rob? Breakfast
has been waiting half an hour and you sit here
smoking and taking your ease and very little
regard you have for your poor, sick wife. If I
wasn’t tired of trying to get some of my heavy
burdens off on your shoulders, I would make
you whip that horrid Bobbie, He has just
pulled up all my hyacinths and crocuses, That
boy will be the death of me yet, and you two
together make my life a perfect burden. You
will drive me out of my senses!”

“Tt wouldn’t be a long drive, as Artemus
Ward says,” returned Radcliff with a disagree-
able, cynical sneer, “‘ for you aren’t’ hurt with a
great amount of sense, any way. But come ;
stop, for heaven’s sake, Lena, or I'll go mad.”

Seated at breakfast this unhappy couple com-
menced again. First, Master Bobbie upset his
coffee-cup over the table-spread, then Kitten,
the one year old baby, innocently put her small
hand in the butter-dish and then proceeded to
give a loving pat to her father’s coat-sleeve.

“Good heavens, Lena, this child has ruined
my coat!” giving the innocent a stinging slap
over the head. ‘There, will that teach you
better, next time?”

Squalls from Kitten followed by a perfect
shower of tears from his wife.

“‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Robert
Radcliff, to hurt my poor darling so? Great
ugly brute! Kitten, mamma is with it and
won’t let naughty, cruel papa do it again.
Hush, now hush!”

“A smart way to bring up a child, Mrs,
Radcliff, but I could expect no more judgment
from a woman of your stamp.” :

‘“You were to blame yourself for slapping
her.”

‘““T was not to blame!”

“You were!”

And so on ad infinitum.

 

‘* Miss Orme, I have heard so much of your
patience and talent as a teacher that I have
ventured to bring you a troublesome charge.
Master Bob and Kitten here are sadly deficient,
and both, I fear, are spoiled by over-indulgence.
Will you undertake the task, for the sake of
old. friendship?”

Robert Radcliff, widower, stood in Mildred
Orme’s little parlor ten months after his wife’s
funeral, and looked down into Milly’s eyes
with his old lover-like smile as he asked the
question.

Mildred read his thoughts,and inwardly scorn-
ed him for his egotism, but there was no con-
sciousness in either voice or manner as she
withdrew her hand from his and answered in
cold, formal tones:

‘Miss Orme is only too happy to have any
pupils added to her little number. I thank
you, Mr. Radcliff, and will do my best—”

“To fill a mother’s place?” finished Robert Rad-
cliff, with what he considered a killing glance.
“Will Mildred, for the sake of old times, take
care of my little ones?”

‘“‘For the sake of duty and remuneration J
will do s0,” answered Mildred, with a touch of
real annoyance.

“Pa thays,” lisped Kitten, “that we must
love ’ou ever and ever tho’ much.”

“Yes,” giggled Bob, ‘‘and Aunty Green
told Squire Button that pa was sneaking round
here mighty sly, before ma was cold in her
grave. Are you going to marry pa, Miss
Orme?”

“Hush, Bob. No; of course not; but I am
going to make a good boy of you, so you
mustn’t be rude or saucy.” :

Bob had a wholesome fear of school-marms
in general, and Miss Orme in particular, so he
subsided and did not add the rest of Aunty
Green’s gossip as he had intended.

“That old maid needn’t be settin’ her cap
for him, for ’tain’t no sort o’ use. She'll have
to whistle for a man now, for she gave two
beaux the slip in her galhood, and it hain’t in
the natnr’ of men to choose old wimin when
they can have young and pretty ones for the
askin’.”

Miss Orme had dismissed her last pupil, and sat
one warm summer morning, in her tiny school-
room looking over old copy-books. So absorb-
ed was she in her task that she failed to notice
the opening of the door, or the entrance of a
gentleman.

“Milly, I have dared to come in unan-
nounced.”

The suddenness of his entrance brought the
warm blood to her cheeks, and he, misinter-
preting her emotion, bent and left a kiss upon
her forehead ere she could prevent it,

Mildred sprung from her seat, the angry
blood dyeing face and throat.

“Robert Radcliff! how dare you? This is
really unpardonable!”

“What! have you not guessed, Milly, how
how your image haunted me all these years?
It was a cruel fate that separated us. You
will not send me away again?” :

Mildred laughed in spite of her distress.

“ Your memory is fashionably unretentive,
Mr. Radcliff. It was you who went of your own
accord, and not I who sent you. I have never
ceased to thank God for my escape every night
since. We are not congenial, never were: and
Iam surprised that you have clung to a past
that I had almost forgotten,”

“And this is a specimen of woman’s con-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

i

vos

Pama

 

 

 

Fusrvary 21, 1874.]

 

BHLLES AND BHAUX.

 

13

 

 

stancy!” gasped Radcliff. ‘‘ Why, I felt cer-
tain that you loved me. What else have you
been waiting for all these years?”

He was terribly excited, or he would never
have allowed these words to have escaped
him.

“Your egotism has misled you then. Be
careful how you make such mistakes in the fu-
ture or you may become an object of ridicule
to your many lady friends.”

His eyes dropped beneath her amused, con-
temptuous gaze,

“T did not come her to be humiliated by you,
Mildred Orme. “You have scoffed at my love
and rejected it. Believe it or not, as you
choose; I have never ceased to love you since
that day we. parted, eleven years ago. God
knows my punishment has been hard, and if re-
venge is sweet you have it to comfort you.
Farewell.”

Mildred watched him down the street, and
then her composure gave way and she burst
into a flood of tears.

But she was not weeping over the loss of
Robert Radcliff. Deep down in her heart lived
memories of the sweet, glad summer she had
spent in her happy girlhood—memories that the
years had not dimmed, and she wept as she
dreamed of a happiness lost through her girlish
folly.

A week later she descended to her little par-
lor to meet another visitor.

A tall, distinguished looking gentleman met
her, and she paused, half puzzled as he bent
over her hand. .

“Milly, how lightly the years have dealt
with you.” wo

She knew the voice then, and drew back a
little from the window.

“‘Gordon Brentley, is it you? I have fancied
you were dead or—”

“Married? How could I be after all my boyish
dreams of happiness which were never realized.
I never heard, until two years ago, of how life
had gone with you, and then I worked with re-
newed energy, for I worked for an object.
Will that object for which I have been toiling
ever be mine, Milly?”

“Tt depends in a great measure upon what
it is,” murmured Milly, with a hysterical lit-
tle laugh.

“Tt is your love, Milly. That has been the
goal for which I have toiled. ‘You have been
Gordon Brentley’s good fairy. Will you share
his life and fortune, Milly?”

His voice faltered as if he dared not hope
for success even then.

Milly looked up into the honest gray eyes
and she knew then what she had waited for all
these years. She saw the man’s true nobility
only the more plainly by contrast with Robert
Radcliff’s fickleness and hollow affection, Her
eyes filled with happy tears, and as Gordon
bent and left his first kiss upon her forehead
she realized how poor and starved her life had
been.

“‘T have never loved any one but you, Gor-
don, I have been punished enough all these
long years for my folly. Thank God, my
weary waiting is over.”

Later that evening as they sat before the fire
dreaming over their newly found happiness,
she added:

“Why will we women crucify our hearts
for our false pride and love of worldly show?
There is no denying it, we do, and will I fear
so long as we fail to detect true nobility and
worth when hidden beneath an unpolished: ex-
terior, As a foolish girl I loved you better
than my own life, Gordon, but vanity triumph-
ed and I gave, as so many girls do, my pure
gold for dross.”

 

ABOUT AMBER.

RNAMENTAL objects, such as beads, made

of amber, were at one time held in popu-

Jar veneration throughout Europe, and till the
present day such objects are in great request
in Mohammedan countries. Two hundred
years ago in Scotland, ‘‘Lammer Beads,” as
they were ordinarily called, were esteemed
with a kind of superstitious reverence. The
mystery as to the nature and origin of amber
was enhanced by its electric properties, and we
cannot wonder that this bright yellow and
transparent substance inspired a certain degree
of awe. We now know all about amber. It
is a resinous gum, which, originally in a liquid
state, has hardened to the appearance of a pre-
cious stone, Amber, however, belongs to a
geological period anterior to what now exists,

 

-and is found on the shores of the Baltic, in

Spain, Africa, and some other quarters. Occa-
sionally pieces are washed up by storms on the
eastern coast of England.

A remarkable thing about amber is, that
many pieces of it contain a variety of beauti-
fully preserved insects, among which are many
entire Diptera (common flies and gnats), Or-
thoptera (grasshoppers, crickets, and cock-
roaches), Hymenoptera (saw and turnip flies,
bees, wasps, and ants), one Lepidoptera (butter-
fly), and several Coleoptera (beetles). Leaves
and stems of plants, and a small shell, are also
preserved. All such objects, animal and vege-
table, were of course incorporated with the sub-
stance when it was in a liquid jelly state. The
flies and other creatures had stuck, and could
not get away.

When the amber is first found, it is in a very
rough state, and can only be detected by a
practiced eye, and requires to be rubbed down
and polished before the curious and beautiful
fossils it contains can be seen. Although the
communication between the Baltic and the Ger-
man Ocean is broken by the land of Denmark,
and only exists through the island of Zealand,
and others which lie between Denmark and
Sweden, it is quite possible, and by no means

 

improbable, that-currents may have conveyed
pieces of amber from the coasts of the Baltic,
through the Cattegat, into the North Sea, and
thence they would occasionally, though rarely,
be picked up on our eastern coasts. They may
perhaps have been brought thence during the
post-Tertiary period (a date comparatively mod-
ern in the geological history of the globe),
when the now land of Denmark was depressed
beneath the ocean, and hence the North Sea
and the Baltic would form one uninterrupted
expanse of water. There is no reason to sup-
pose that any Tertiary deposit exactly equiv-
alent to the amber-bearing earth about to be
described exists at the bottom of the North Sea;
otherwise, amber would be found in abundance
on British shores washed by it.

Perhaps one of the richest deposits of amber,
and for which it has been long celebrated, is a
province of Prussia called Samland, bounded
on the west and north by the Baltic. In a
portion of this district, fine sections are exposed
of the Tertiary formation, varying from eighty
to a hundred and twenty-five feet in thickness.
It consists of two different deposits, the lowest
being composed of thick beds of glauconitic
sand, sixty-five feet thick; overlaid by the
brown coal formation, from sixty to a hundred
feet thick. This glauconitic sand (which is
marl containing a large admixture of green-
sand, and forms what is called firestone or
glauconite) in the north and west differs from
that in the south. In the former, the upper
part, about sixty feet, consists of light green-
sand, made up of large quartz grains and bright
green granules of glauconite; elsewhere, the
lower portion of this greensand is cemented by
hydrated oxide of iron into a coarse sandstone,
which contains numerous fossils. Below this is
a deposit of finer quartz grains, more glaucon-
ite, and much clay and mica; and associated
with this, a wet sandy stratum called quick-
sand, because it contains a large quantity of
water eight feet thick; underneath which is a
blue earth, or amber-earth, three or four feet
thick, fine-grained and argillaceous (composed
of clay). In this the amber is found abund-
antly, but irregularly distributed, occupying a
narrow zone; the pieces are of various sizes,
usually small; those weighing half a pound be-
ing seldom found, and more rarely larger ones
of greater weight. The surfaces are worn and
rounded, and bear little resemblance to their
original form, as the liquid resin of a tree,
formed between the bark and the wood, or be-
tween the yearly rings of growth of the stem.

Fine impressions of the parts of the plants
which produced these amber nodules can be
distinguished on the surface. Evidently, then,
they were for a time subject to the action of
water before they were imbedded in their clayey
bed. Pieces of fossil wood are ‘also associated
with the amber. When any of the latter is
attached to the wood itself, it is so completely
penetrated by it, that it has the appearance of
amber filaments. The amber-earth contains
many fossil sea-shells, echinoderms, corals,
ete.; and these show that this Tertiary forma-
tion belongs to the oldest or Eocene period of
geologists. The amber itself was evidently
derivative, and washed down, probably, by
floods from the land on which the amber-trees
grew, into the sea, and there deposited with
the marine remains which are now associated
with it; although it seems probable that the
land was not very far from the shore where it
was abundant. Above and below the amber-
earth, only a few pieces of amber occur. In
the south, the amber-earth is thicker and com-
posed of two different layers. Professor Zad-
dach, of Konigsberg, shows further that the
trees which yielded the amber must have
grown upon the previously formed beds of the
greensand when the chalk was deposited, flour-
ishing luxuriantly on the marshy coast which
then surrounded the great continent of North-
ern Europe. Probably the temperature was
then higher than it is now, and seems to have
extended to the now frost-bound Arctic regions;
a fact which has been proved by the remarka-
ble plant-remains (chiefly leaves) of temperate
climates which have been lately discovered
there.

The amber flora of the Baltic area under re-
view contains northern forms associated with
plants of more temperate zones, and with oth-
ers even which live in much more southern
ones; thus, camphor-trees occur with willows,
birch, beech, and oaks, cone-bearing trees re-
sembling the American Thuya occidentalis; a
great variety of pines and furs, including the
amber pine, which has been proved to be a
true pine, allied to the Pinus balsamea, though
it no longer exists. Thousands of these, the
professor supposes, might already have perish-
ed, and while the wood decayed, the resin with
which the stem and branches were loaded
might have been accumulated in large quanti-
ties in bogs and lakes in the soil of the forest.
If the coast at that time was gradually sinking,
the sea would cover the land, in due course
carry away the amber and masses of vegeta-
tion into the ocean, where it was deposited
amidst the marine animals which inhabited it.
But in higher districts, the amber pines would
still flourish; and so amber still continued to be
washed into the sea, and deposited in the later-
formed (Tertiary) greensand, and still later
overlying formation of the brown coal.

Amber has been discovered in Russia, in
Italy, probably in Tertiary deposits of the same
age; alsoin Africa, Brazil, and South America,
probably derived from strata of this age. It
has been met with in Sweden, on the coast of
the North Sea, and may yet be discovered in
many other localities, when the stock is ex-
hausted in the richer Baltic Provinces, and the
demands of trade compel the dealers to search
for it elsewhere. Vast quantities are washed
up on the shore near Memel, also in the Baltic
in the extreme north-east, and are thought to

 

have been derived from certain Tertiary depos-
its containing amber in the extensive adjacent
region of Russia and Poland, where brown coal
containing amber has been discovered overly-
ing chalk. Stores of this valuable gum still
lie hidden in the interior of the country, and on
the Baltic coast, though much is, no doubt, still
buried under the sea, the amber-bearing strat-
um often lying too deep to be attainable.

Besides the plants which are occasionally
found in amber, the most interesting and remark-
able fossils are the insects, which, from their
usually beautiful and perfect state of preserva-
tion, are more interesting to entomologists than
the more imperfect remains of this class contain-
ed in many other and older formations, and are
therefore more easily determined. As the plants
of the older amber-earth in the glauconite series
differ from that of the newer brown coal, it is
possible that many of the insects would differ
also; while those in African amber would pre-
sent a greater diversity and a more tropical
character. Asa general rule, all the Tertiary
fossil insects have a more decided European
character, more like recent forms, than the car-
boniferous, liassic, and oolitic ones; and sev-
eral are still found living now, though many
are extinct—that is, are unknown at the pres-
ent day. From the lucid clearness and beauti-
ful transparency of amber, and its soft yellow
coloring, the insects can be easily examined. It
would seem that they must have been caught
suddenly by the liquid resin as it oozed out of
the pines, and thus were entombed alive, which
will account for their wonderful state of pre-
servation. Many of them, no doubt, were
caught while on the trees ; and even the cun-
ning spider, while watching for his prey, was
like ‘the biter bit,’ enveloped also. Others
may have been imbedded at the base of the
trees, where the amberous exudation was un-
usually profuse. Amber also contains Myria-
pods, creatures to which the common centipede,
scolopendra, and julus belong, and which would
abound among the decaying wood in the hol-
lows of the trees in the ancient Tertiary forests
of the period. When quickly enveloped, the in-
sects and other organic remains are well pre-
served, retaining their natural colors and their
more delicate parts. Those which died, and
were long exposed to the air, are more or less
injured, and are surrounded with a white
moldy covering, which obscures them, and
discolors the amber. This is especially the case
in some of the Prussian amber, but has not been
noticed in the Pomeranian, which is always
bright and clear. The families, genera, and
species of insects found in amber are supposed
for the most part to agree with existing forms,
and even identity of species. Though many be-
long to our latitudes, others decidedly do not so,
as, for example, some of the smaller flies and
gnats, the cockroaches and other beetles, and
the majority of the Hymenoptera (bees, etc.),
which especially resemble exotic forms.

Many different species occur, as at the pres-
ent day, but only those families are preserved
in this fossil resin which are found in wood or
on trees, and searcely ever water-beetles. As
we should expect, many varieties of beetles have
been discovered ; also bees, ichneumons, and
ants are particulary numerous. Moths and
butterflies are rare, but have been met with,
and several caterpillars. Flies and gnats are
extremely abundant, so that the old adage of
‘flies in amber’ is well borne out by the inves-
tigations of science, There also white ants,
may-flies, ant-lions, cockroaches, grasshoppers,
and locusts.

Collections of insects in amber may be seen
in the British Museum, the Oxford Museum,
and at Berlin. Many of these belong to tropi-
cal and temperate climates, approaching more
as a whole to South American and Indian
forms, rather than those of Europe. While
some are like existing species, others agree
with no living species, both the insects and
plants being extinct. Among other curious
relics, lizards are stated to occur in Sicilian
amber. A scorpion is known in Prussian am-
ber, a genus properly a native of warm cli-
mates, certainly never occurring so far north
as Danzig. There are also spiders, more like
some found in the south or America. A few
of the insects indicate a northern climate.
Perhaps, like some of the Lias insects, these
were brought down by streams from the higher
and cooler regions of a mountainous country
adjacent. At all events, we may conclude
that the climate and temperature of Europe
have undergone considerable change—which
other animal and vegetable fossils of the same
era prove—since the Tertiary period. The
presence of tropical insects testifies that the
amber-producing tree did not vegetate under
such a climate as that which Prussia, especially
the land watered by the Baltic, now enjoys.

As in many other articles of commerce, par-
ticularly where we have to deal with gems and
precious stones, frequent deceptions have been
practiced upon the unwary, and even collectors
of fossils have been taken in, There is a sub-
stance very like amber, gum-aneme, a modern
secretion forming at the present day. It
exudes from the stem of a North American
tree, the Rhus copalina, so closely resembling
amber, that only a practiced eye could detect
the difference; plants or insects imbedded in it
would, of course, belong to living genera and
species; and it is of little value when com-
pared with the true amber. There are other
kinds of resinous gum—namely, gum-copal,
used in making varnish, and a gum which is
derived from modern fir-trees, but all of recent
vegetable origin. AJl may, however, be chemi-
cally distinguished from one another. Thus,
aneme is very transparent, and copal differs
from it by a faint opalescence and a pale
greenish-yellow tinge. True amber, as we have
pointed out, is derived, not from a living, but
extinct coniferous tree, perhaps from two dis-

 

tinct trees, though probably a Pinus, like the
living Pinus balsamea, and only existing in the
earlier and later Tertiary formations. One
certain test to distinguish it from modern gums
is, that it does not soften when heated, as they
do. To those who are not acquainted with the
geological history of this earth long anterior to
the creation of man, and the marvelous story
which the ‘testimony of the rocks” has told,
it may seem very wonderful that an ancient -
resinous gum should yield so much of interest
and value, not only to the scientific, but to the
commercial world. Yet it is.not more aston-
ishing than the conversion of vegetable matter
into coal, or the formation of masses of lime-
stone rock of vast extent and thickness by
corals and little microscopic shells (powerful by
their enormous abundance), and which are now
making, as in times past, a thick deposit of
calcareous ooze at the bottom of the Atlantic.
The elaboration of gems, too, in nature’s labo-
ratory is an equally striking proof of the inor-
ganic wonders which science has made known
tous. No one, therefore, need feel surprised
when he sees or reads of ‘flies in amber,” or
finds, which, if wise, he’ will do, “sermons in
stones, and good in everything.”

 

OLTIO.

BY HAP HAZARD.

 

 

How full of music must they be

Who first see light in Italy!

A younger son of royalty

Has traveled far, by land and sea,

To lay his sweet gratuity

Down at the feet of you and me,

Ff seem since we be

Of those soft strains of melody

That issue from the box that he,

Upon his back, so jauntily,

From house to house, o’er hill and lea,

Delights to bear, that great and wee

May feast their souls in ecstasy

On dulcet floods (in any key)

Of strange, celestial harmony!

And this—ah! this, as air, is free!

The simple privilege craves he—

Without a price, without a fee—

To plume his fancy’s wings and flee

Up in the blue immensity!
* * * * * * * * *
Ah! scion of old royalty,
If I was sure that none would see,
For thy sweet strains, right cordially
I'd like to shy a stone at thee!

The starting tear, oh! why compare
To diamond or to pearl?

Tis brighter far—’tis purer fair—
Than tawdry gems, sweet girl!

The simil, dear, were nearer true,

Were ’t likened to a drop of dew!

 

 

Random Reading.

 

A ROYAL MARRIAGE.

HE marriage, in St. Petersburg, on January

28, of the Duke of Edinburgh and the
Princess Marie, commenced at noon in the Win-
ter palace. The galleries were filled with ladies.
The prevailing costumes were peculiarly Rus-
sian, the ladies being mainly in velvet and
diamonds, and the men were in uniform, with
the exception of the American diplomatists.
After assembling, the procession was formed,
with grand equerries and Chamberlain’s officers
of the Court leading. Then came the Emperor,
Empress, Imperial Prince and Princess, the
Prince of Wales, Princess Imperial of Germany
and Denmark, and Prince Arthur; then the
bride and bridegroom, who wore the Russian
naval uniform. The bride was appareled in a
long, crimson velvet mantle, trimmed with
ermine, and wore a diamond coronet. Her
train was borne by four pages; then followed
in procession the Imperial Family, Princes,
Princesses, and Court officials; the Imperial
Russian Prince, wearing the uniform of the
Cuirassiers; the Prince of Wales, in scarlet, a
British uniform; the Prussian Prince Imperial
that of a Russian colonel, all decorated w:
the Russian Order of St. Andrew. The Prin-
cess of Wales was dressed in dark crimson
velvet, with a diamond coronet and collar, and
pearl necklace, The Imperial German Princess
was dressed in the same style. The Russian
Princess’ dress was of blue velvet and gold,
Prince Arthur, in the uniform of the Rifle
Brigade, acting as groomsman.

The procession, upon reaching the Russian
church, was received by the Metropolitan
Head of the Russian church, the Holy Synod
bearing crosses and sacred vessels of holy wa-
ter. The Emperor conducted the bride and
bridegroom to the middle of the church, assum-
ing his station with the Empress immediately
behind. Around the bridegroom stood Prince
Arthur and the Grand Dukes. The wedding-
rings, borne on golden salvers, were deposited
on the altar temporarily by the Imperial Con-
fessor. The chapel was illuminated with wax
candles, the floor covered with a velvet crim-
son and gold carpet, the pillars and altar co-
vered with gold.

The Greek marriage ceremony was unique.
In the absence of music, chants and intoned
prayers were given. During the service,
crowns were held suspended over the heads of
the bridal pair, Prince Arthur holding the
crown over the Duke of Edinburgh, and the
Grand Duke Sergins that over the bride. The
Imperial Confessor then said:

“Thou servant of God, Alfred Ernest Ed-
ward, art crowned for this handmaiden of God,
Maria Alexandrovna, in the name of the Fa-
ther, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Prince Arthur, becoming tired of holding
the crown, was relieved. Then was read the
Epistle to the Ephesians, fifth chapter and
twentieth to twenty-third verses,

After the reading of the epistle was con-
cluded, the gospel of the marriage at Cana of
Galilee was read. Then the crowns were re-
moyed, the marriage couple walked thrice

 
 

 

 

 

ER aide

 

 

around the raised dais; holding to the tip of
the confessor’s robe with one hand, and a can-
dle in the other.

At the conclusion of this ceremony the Sacra-
mental Cup was brought forward, blessed, and

-partaken of by the bridal pair, the confessor

presenting the cross, which both Rissed. The
Deacon gave an admonition on marriage duties.
Afterward a chant was sung by the choir,
“Glory to Thee, oh Lord!” concluding with the
benediction. Thus ended the Greek service.

The procession then slowly formed, proceed-
ing to the Hall of Alexander for the Anglican
service. Dean Stanley, of Westminster Abbey,
officiated. The hall was rather small. » The
walls were decorated with battle pictures, ° Dean
Stanley, who, during the Greek service, wore
his Episcopal Doctor of Divinity hood and
gown, now appeared at the altar wearing his
Episcopal surplice, with the jeweled collar of
the Order of Bath around his neck, assisted by
two resident English clergymen.

Members of the English Colony, including
bankers and merchants, gathered at the left of
thealtar. Conspicuous among them were Gov-
ernor Jewell, American Minister; Lord Loftus,
the English Minister, and the Corps Diplomatic.
Many of the British wore scarlet uniforms. Es-
pecially noticeable was Prince Gortschakoff for
his venerable appearance, surrounded by lead-
ing members of the Russian nobility gathered
on the right side of the altar... The Episcopal
chants were sung_by Russian choristers, lads in
long crimson dresses.

When the marriage procession entered, the
bride was between her father and the bride-
groom, with Prince Arthur behind. The ser-
vice concluded, Dean Stanley warmly con-
gratulated the couple.

 

DISOBEDIENT PARENTS.

We have changed the old commandment in
this country. It is no longer ‘‘ Children, obey
your parents,” but ‘Parents, obey your chil-
dren.” And our youth are determined to en-
force the commandment, eyen should they be
compelled to exterminate every parent in the
United States. A few weeks ago we were
furnished with another instance of the deep
determination of the young men of America.

_ A widow woman of Jersey City, named Free-

man, refused to let her son Joseph have two
thousand dollars. He peremptorily demanded
the money. Again this disobedient mother re-
fused. This naturally irritated the son, and he
pulled from his pocket a pistol and deliberately
shot her dead. When a few more disobedient
parents like Mr.-Walworth and Mrs. Freeman
have been killed, parents will then discover
that they must obey their offspring. And this
is but proper.. The parents were unfit for
command. It was no uncommon thing for the
mother to dress up her daughters and plant
them in the parlor while she slaved in the
kitchen. Fathers worked and toiled and grew
old fast that their sons might become members
of aristocratic clubs, drive fast horses, keep
faster woman, and riot in luxurious do-nothing-
ism. The parents showed themselves unfit for
command, and the children have assumed it.
The murder of Mrs. Freeman is a terrible ex-
ample to all parents who disobey the command-
ment: “ Parents, obey your children.” Let us
hope that they will accept the situation with
becoming resignation. The young and chival-
rous men of the country should at once present
young Freeman with a series of resolutions of

' thanks for his spirited behavior in murdering

his mother. A service of gold plate, with ten
thousand dollars placed to his account in the
bank, would also be a gracious acknowledgment

‘ of his great worth.

SIGN OF THE HANDS.

A little work on “ Modern Palmistry” brings
together a large amount of amusing gossip,
but we cannot say how much you believe of it,
Ther person who will carefully study the
wrinkles, furrows, lines and hollows on the
hands, will be able to tell fortunes as well as
any modern gipsy. If the palm of the hand
be long and the fingers well proportioned, etc. ;
not soft but rather hard, it denotes the person
to be ingenious, changeable, and given to theft
and vice. If the hands be solid, hollow, and
well-knit in the joints, it predicts long life, but
if over-thwarted then it denotes short life.
Observe the finger of Mercury—that is, the
little finger; if the end of it exceeds the joint
of the ring finger, such a man will rule in his
own house, and his wife will be pleasing and
obedient to him; but if it be short and does
not reach the joint he will have a shrew, and
she will be boss. Broad nails show the person
to be bashful, fearful, but of gentle nature.
Narrow nails denote the person to be inclined.
to mischief, and to do injury to his neighbors.
Long nails show a person to be good-natured,
but distrustful, and loving reconciliation rather
than differences, Oblique nails signify deceit
and want of courage. . Little round nails denote
obstinacy, anger and hatred, If they are
crooked at the.extremity, they show pride and
fierceness. Round nails show a choleric per-
son, yet soon reconciled, honest, and a lover of
secret sciences. Fleshy nails denote a person
to be mild in temper, idle and lazy. Pale and
black nails denote a person to be very deceitful
to his neighbor, and subject. to many diseases.
Red and marked nails signify a choleric and
martial nature, given to cruelty; and as many
little marks as there are, speak so many evil
desires.

“KETTLE DRUM” PROPRIETIES.

As already herein noticed, one of the features
of the social winter is what is called the “‘ Ket-
tle Drum Call ”—a new phrase of the Surprise
Party, which is now very popular in the cities.

The etiguette geverning these affairs is decid

 

 

edly simple—a restoration Of old-time hospital-
ity. Servants are not only not admitted to the
rooms, but are not even permitted to usher in
the visitors. The beverage of the evening—tea
—is usually made by the lady of the household
and handed by the lady guests to the gentlemen
present. Never does the reverse take place.
This affords an opportunity, otherwise’ unob-
tainable, for ladies without impropriety to in-
dicate their preference of partners in this half-
hour’s society. The gentleman can wnder no
circumstances refuse to accept the tea; but, if
addressing the lady who brings the cup, he
adds, ‘‘ Sugar, please,” it is held to indicate his
reciprocal preference for her sweet society, and
a tete-a-tete at once takes place which is often
followed by the happiest consequences.

Now here is a most sensible way for Belles
and Beaux to fraternize and pave the way for
“the happiest consequences.” The parties are
not only inexpensive—the guests supplying the
refreshments—but one so informal as to break
down formalities and’ reserves; human’ nature
has a chance to assert itself, and men and wo-
men learn how much true pleasure there is in
simple things. More Kettle Drums and less
balis and soirees!

 

VALUE OF SLEEP.

Belles and beaux, a word for you. We
know it is not “‘just the thing ” to retire to bed
at ten o’clock, punctually, every night, espe-
cially when the old folks retire at nine, and
leave you young folks to come to bed when
you see proper. But the laws of nature, for
all your desires to defy them, are never for a
moment ‘suspended. In the night all things
sleep. There is something in darkness that
compels repose. The night means rest, recupe-
ration, invigoration, but only to those who im-
plicitly obey the laws which govern the physi-
cal and mental world. Sleep, balmy sleep,

“Tired Nature’s Sweet Restorer,”
is a precious boon, but, oh! how abused, espe-
cially by the young, who do all their flirting,
visiting, concerting, dancing and. courting, far
into the night! To these dissipators a word:

Sleep obtained two hours before midnight,
when the negative forces are in operation, is
the rest which most recuperates the system,
giving brightness to the eye and a glow to the
cheek. The difference between the appearance
of a person who habitually retires at ten o’clock
and that of one who. sits up until twelve is
quite remarkable. The tone of the system, so
evident in the complexion, the clearness and
sparkle of the eye, and the softness of the lines
of the features are, in a person of health, kept
at “‘concert pitch” by taking regular rest two
hours before twelve o’clock, and thereby ob-
taining the “‘ beauty sleep” of the night. There
is a heaviness of the eye, a sallowness of skin,
and absence of that glow in the face which
renders it fresh in expression and round in ap-
pearance, that readily distinguishes the person
who keeps late hours,

 

A SECRET ABOUT SHAWLS.

We have often known of the tearing up of
good. garments in order to obtain strips for rag-
carpets, but never until now did we know that
many of our costly shawls are made by first
cutting up a fine new cashmere shawl. into
strings. The revelation of whys and hows
comes—from Paris, of course!—in this extract
from a late letter of an Ameriean lady now in
the French capital:

““M. Guyetaut took me to see one of his first
artists, who works at home, In the front room
of a modest apartment was the intelligent
artist, working at his lathe, and in the back
room was his wife working upon an Indian
shawl. A fine cashmere, worth 4,000 frances,
or, perhaps, $1,000 in New York, was cut into
strings or figures, and on glancing at it I could
not help crying: ‘Ah! how in the world did
this fine shawl] get so badly damaged? . Was it
eaten by the rats? M. Guyetaut laughed and
said: ‘Oh, monsieur, it is not damaged at. all;

I am. rearranging it.’ Probably my. lady,

readers will be as much surprised as I was, to
find that these costly shawls are purposely cut
in pieces and then sewn together again. The
philosophy of it is this: Some years the fashion
is for white figures, running about in scrolls as
in cashmeres, and sometimes for black. Hence
shawls with white ground figures are cut when
black sell best, and the black cuttings sewn in.
Sometimes, when a lot of shawls have been for
many years on hand, the disposition of the
figures is changed in order to suit the pre-
vailing taste. Now, the work was done so
well that I could not distinguish the seams, but
it seems to me that if I were to buy a shawl
worth a thousand dollars, I should greatly pre-
fer to have it as it came from the Indian loom.
I was told that hundreds of these rearranged
shawls are annually sold to American ladies at
very high prices, and if those who have them
find that they come in pieces they will under-
stand the reason. They have only to send the
shawl to some racommodeuse, like the person
of whom I write, and the shaw] will be ele-
gantly done again. This industrious artist and
his no less industrious wife earn a very hand-
some living from their common labor.”

This is a secret well worth knowing. Our
belles may find it not only a singular commer-
cial fact, but one that may be utilized. Why
shouldn’t a shawl, only half worn, of any of
the broche, India or Cashmere patterns, be re-
made? No earthly reason for throwing them
aside. Here is the idea. Work it out!

TOBACCO DEVOTEES IN SPAIN.

Dr. Prime gives us some rather startling in-
formation regarding the immoderate use of to-
bacco by all classes and all ages of persons ia
Spain. He states that possibly by advertisins

BSHLEES AND BHAUX.

 

 

country who does not smoke might be found,
but even that is problematical. And yet,
strange paradox, notwithstanding this devo-
tion to “‘the weed,” its culture is strictly for-
bidden by law! The conditions for success in the
culture are all highly favorable, but by that
kind of legislation or decree peculiar to Spain,
and constantly reminding one of the Chinese,
the mother country, Spain, is prohibited from
raising tobacco in order that the daughter,
Cuba, may have the monopoly. The right of
importation is sold to contractors, who make a
great business of it. In the middle of the
fifteenth century the Spaniards began to get
tobacco from America, and they have been get-
ting more and more of it ever since. In 1860
they smoked 7,000,000 cigars, and cigars are
not the thing they usually smoke. They have
their tobacco rolled up in little bits of paper,
and these they carry in their pockets, with
matches. Often they carry the tobacco and the
paper separately and make a cigarette when
they want it, making one while smoking
another.

Children smoke at an earlier age in Spain
than in other countries. It is not uncommon
for them to begin at six, or even five, years of
age. And they never leave it off until they die.
Ladies smoke. Not often do we see them with
a cigarette in their pretty mouths on the street
or in the cars, but in the cafe and in the draw-
ing-room they enjoy it, as well as in the boudoir
and the bath. By cool fountains, in a marble
paved patio, among the orange trees, or lolling
at noon on their silken hung couches, they live
to smoke, and their lords have spoiled their own
breaths and taste too effectually to make any
objection. Where both eat garlic it amounts
to the same,

Tobacco and garlic! Imagine a beautiful
senorita whose breath smells of both! “We are
glad that an ocean rolls between us and that
country !” S

 

MILTON.

Professor Bascom, in his sixth lecture on
English Literature in the Lowell Institute, re-
cently, said that the great name of the Eliza-
bethan age is Milton; as Shakespeare stands at
the beginning, so Milton steps forth at the close
and sees down the light of the coming ages.
Spenser is a light, gentle, meditative spirit,
bringing a cheerful, benign aspect to the world;
he is the poet of conventional forms in religion,
Shakespeare is the poet of natural religion, of
morality; he deals with the fearful shocks of
the moral world, because the soul is convulsed
by them. Milton is the poet of definite pro-
gress, of dogmatic religion that lives to conquer
—a religion that struggles to win a new future
The religious sentiment was divided—a part
lingered, a part moved onward. This spirit the
soul of Milton gathered into itself. The style
and thought of Milton are due to this insight of
mind; he is the poet of supernatural religion.
The Hymn of the Nativity opened his powers,
and other poems of his early years disclose his
genius. Then he gave himself the champion-
ship of ideas—ideas that plucked at thrones and
gave a new commonwealth. Milton went to
the conflict of argument, and sent truth like
artillery to the fray. Milton is placed in the
Elizabethan age on account of his affinity to
the elements that composed it. The next period
—the last half of the seventeenth century—the
lecturer classed as a transition period, an era of
violent contrasts. The reign of Elizabeth, on
the contrary, had been one of coalescence. The
conflict was one of principles brought into
social life; it lay between the Royalist and the
Puritan. After the revolution of ’88, the ele-
ments became blended, and there comes a new
era and a new literature.

A MANTLEPIECE ORNAMENT.

A pretty mantlepiece ornament may be ob-
tained by suspending an acorn, by a piece of
thread tied around it, within half an inch of
the surface of some water contained in a vase,
tumbler or saucer, and allowing it to remain
undisturbed for several weeks, It will soon
burst open and small roots will seek the water;
a straight and tapering stem, with beautiful
glossy green leaves, will shoot upward and pre-
sent a very pleasing appearance, Chestnut
trees may be grown in the same manner, but
their leaves are not so beautiful as those of the
oak, The water should be changed once a
month, taking care to supply water of the same
warmth; bits of charcoal added to it will pre-
vent the water from souring. If the little
leaves turn yellow, add one drop of ammonia
into the utensil which holds the water, and they
will renew their luxuriance. Another pretty
ornament is made by wetting a sponge and
sprinkiing it with canary, hemp, grass and
other seeds. The sponge should be refreshed
with water daily so as to be kept moist. Ina
few days the seeds will germinate, and the
sponge will soon be covered with a mass of
green foliage.—Scientific American. ;

 

HOW TO COURT.

How to court—that’s the question with the
uninitiated. To such the noted Dean Swift
gave the following recipe:

“Two or three dears and two or three sweets,

Two or three balls or two or three treats.

Two or three serenades given as a lure,

Two or three oaths, how much they endure.

Two or three messages sent in one day,

Two or three times taken to the play.

Two or three tickets for two or one times,

Two or three love-letters writ all in rhymes.

Two or three months keeping strict to these rules

Can never fail making a couple of fools.”

But the Dean was not a model man, by any
means, even if he was a dean in the Church of
England, so it won’t do to believe implicitly in
what he says. The truer mode to obtain cor-

rect information -is—try itt< Nothing’ like

and offering a large reward, one person in that i »,acticai information. The first. veuture or

 

 

|Fesruary 21, 19874,

two may not be a success, but don’t be dis-
couraged. If one pretty girl pouts or ‘“prims”
when you try to be. “sweet on her,” go for
another, and you'll find, after a while, that
courting one girl is far easier than to be flirt-
ing and gallanting with a half-dozen beauties.
Only this thing must be borne in mind: court-
ing is mighty serious business in the eye of the
law—as a suit for breach of promise may de-
monstrate.

 

A PROPER REPLY.

Miss Brown—whoever she is—makes a very
pertinent reply to the arrogance of a
writer in a popular English magazine, who
in an article on “ Milton and Divorce,” chal-
lenges any woman to show that, in the Bible,
woman occupies any but a subordinate posi-
tion. » After citing numerous instances of true
greatness in the Biblical woman, she says:

“And when it comes to true helpfulness, and
faithfulness beyond death even, it is the women,
surely, who furnish the examples. It is they-who
sat at the foot of the cross, hoping to soften by
their devotion the agony of the dying Christ. They
followed after to see ‘how his body was laid,’ and
then returned to ‘prepare spices and ointments;’
and they, again, whose loving care led them to be
the first discoverers of the resurrection.”

All of which is beautifully true. The man
who aims to belittle woman is a person to
avoid. _He who honors woman because she is
a woman is pretty sure to be of sound head
and heart. In the language of the West—
‘he'll do to freeze to.”

 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LACE,

Ruskin, the erratic but brilliant and sug-
gestive writer on art topics, in a late dis-
course upon the applied arts, or economies of
the beautiful, ‘thus concludes his dissertation
on lace:

‘The real a of a piece of lace, you will find, is
that it should show, first, that the designer of it had
a pretty fancy; next, that the maker of it had fine
fingers: and lastly, that the wearer of it had worthi-
ness of dignity enough to obtain what is difficult to
obtain, and common sense enough not to wear it on
all occasions.”

A beautful piece of lace is something that a
lady may very justly be proud of, and may
wear with satisfaction. The coarse imitation

laces so much worn are to the real lace what a.

cheap ‘‘chromo” is to a true work of art—but
a “make-believe.” Yet, as these chromos
subserve the good purpose of educating the
people toward something better, so the cheaper
laces educate the taste for the richer and more
beautiful work. A fine piece of lace is eyi-
dence of the taste of the wearer, usually, but
not always, for Mrs. Shoddy, having plenty of
money, may wear very rare fabrics.

 

A BARBER-OUS JOKE, ~

We have just heard of a joke that illustrates
how the Brooklyn belles ‘‘go for” their beaux
when they don’t fancy their face and forms, A
young society man was horrified a few days
since at receiving what looked like an infernal
machine, being a small box done up in paper,
and accompanied by a note. The parcel was
delivered at his office in this city. He was at
first inclined to give it the usual cold bath, but,
on second thought opened ‘the letter, which ex-
plained the contents of the box—being a pack-
age of shaving paper, a razor, powder-box,
brush and comb, cake of soap, shaving-brush
and mirror, all being of minute size, and hand-
somely finished. Haplanation: The gentleman
was growing a fierce pair of whiskers, which,
in their youth and stumpiness, gave him a very
fierce look, and was not pleasing to several of
his lady friends, who adopted this method of
making known their disapprobation.

The remarks in the letter alluded to were de-
cidedly suggestive and so seasoned with wit as
to deserve repetition. Of the box itself the let-
ter said: ‘‘ This is a hard case; but not a hope-
less one.” The contents of the box were refer-

- red to variously, as for instance : “I’m a little

shaver, exceedingly sharp.” ‘ Fear not to face
the powder, and if chaps annoy you, Pll give
you a friendly puff.” ‘‘I comb expressly to
smooth matters, but if ill-used, can show my
teeth, and bristle with rage.” ‘While there’s
life there’s soap,” “‘ Hoping this barberous pro-
ceeding will cast no reflection on you, and that
you will soon see yourself as others want to see
you.”, That the young fellow didn’t get mad
and smash things, showed his good sense; he so
enjoyed this evidence of female interest in him
as to show his present to all the other fellows,
and now, itis said, they are all letting stubby
whiskers grow just to see if the girls won’t fa-
vor them with a nice dressing-case each!

THE DOLLAR ($) MARK.

Where did it come from and what its signifi-
cation is answered by a writer in the Atlantic
Monthly magazine, who, in brief, thinks that
the two parallel upright marks may be traced
to the pillars of Hercules, and the S-like figure
in the scroll entwined around them: Accord-
ing to tradition, when the Tyrian colony landed
on the Atlantic coast of Spain, and founded
the ancient city of Gades, now Cadiz, Melcar-
thus, the leader of the expedition, set up two
stone pillars as memorials, over which was
built a temple of Hercules. As the temple in-
ereased in wealth the stone pillars were replaced
by others, made of an alloy of gold and silver,
and these two pillars became, in time, the em-
blem of the city, as a horse’s head became that
of Carthage. Centuries later, when Charles V.
became Emperor of Germany, he adopted a
new coat of arms, in which the pillars of Gades,
or Cadiz, occupied a prominent position in the
device. Hence, when a new coin, the colon-
nato, was struck at the imperial mint, it bore
the new device—two pillars, with ‘a scroll
entwined around them. This coin became a
standard of value in the Mediterranean, and
the pillars and scroll became its accepted sym-

 

 

 

‘ aa Seale

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mig

 

 

 

BHLLES AND BHAUX.

 

 

bol in writing. The two horizontal bars which
cross the symbol of the English pound sterling
are also thought to have a similar origin, In
the same paper the symbolic origin of the pil-
lars of Hercules is traced far back into the
remote era prior to the dispersion of the human
race from its Asiatic birthplace. They are
identified with the household pillars of the
Scandinavians, and the idea from which the
concrete embodiments spring is to be found
alike in the Sanskrit Vedas and the glowing
imagery of the Hebrew poets. ‘They are the
symbols of day and night, of light and dark-
ness, which, to the dawning intelligence of the
Arian races, were evidence*of the Omnipotent,
and, to the Jewish patriarchs, the work of a
revealed Creator:

This is going a good way back. for what any
clerk or bookkeeper would say was a very
simple matter; but, you see, it makes the trade
signet all the more respectable to associate it
with Hercules.and the Vedas. Nothing like
the Odors of Time to make even a fossil enjoy-
able. '

 

MISMANAGEMENT OF BABIES.

Parents, from misguided affection, are often
the immediate agents of the ruin of the health
and welfare of their children.. The instinctive
wants of an infant during the first year of its
life are manifested by restlessness and cries;
but whether want of nutriment, the privilege
of motion, relaxation of the closely fitting belt
or band ‘with which itis girted. from the hour
of birth, of sufficient breathing space, of relief
from extremes of temperature, whether heat or
cold; from laborious digestion and its concom-
itants, or from the daily and nightly torments
of an officious, over-smart nurse—each and all
of these causes of uneasiness, the loving, ten-
der mother thinks to remove. by putting the
child to her breast. If the cries have proceeded
from hunger or thirst, then, of course, it is
pacified; but if from any of the other mention-
ed causes, it is soothed but for the moment,
and soon again utters its distress. After a
second or third failure at the breast perhaps, it
is bounded upon the knee, taken to the window,
patted upon the back and shoulders, and a dozen
other unreasonable efforts made, when, may
be, it occurs to-the agonized mother that ‘‘a
pin must be sticking the baby;” and thereupon
it is freed from its tight wrappings, gets a
chance to take a good, full breath, and then
falls asleep before the offending pin has been
found. Day after day, week after week, and
month after‘month, this struggle of the mother
or nurse goes on to keep the little darling quiet,
each new trial, however, not only proving less
successful, but a fresh cause of disturbance,
and the failure of the efforts is excuse for
Winslow’s soothing syrup, or other stupefying
poisonous doses, with which it is daily drugged.

 

DEFACING THE MOUNTAINS.

We Americans have been sharply and justly
criticised for our fashion of disfiguring famous
natural scenery, such as the rocks of Mount
Washington and of Niagara, with advertise-
ments of ointment, liniments, pills and squills;
and in fact the Legislature of New Hampshire
has been forced to make a statute imposing a
severe penalty for this odious offense—a statute
which ought to be duplicated in every other
State of the Union. But it must not be imag-
ined that America is the only sinner in this re-
spect. During a recent tour in Switzerland,
Emile de Girardin, while ascending the Rigi,
saw in gilt letters on one of the highest. and
steepest rocks of the mountain, above a preci-
pice, the announcement..by a Paris chocolate-
maker that he had a branch shop at Neuchatel!
Foreigners, too, are imitating our advertising
devices in other respects, and even surpassing
them; for a Paris shopkeeper has contrived an
umbrella which he distributes gratuitously on
the simplest of conditions—namely, that the
recipient shall agree to use it whenever it
rains. The umbrella is covered with the
donor’s business notices!

It was a Frenchman, we ~ believe, who
mounted a brass band in a large wagon and
parading the streets, with signs plastered over
all the wagon box and wheels, called attention
to the newly introduced hoop skirt; but that
rather noisy proclamation was soon silenced by
the police. °

This same mode of advertising has. been
adopted in this country only to be suppressed
as a nuisance. The “art” of advertising
reached a culminating point when a certain
weekly paper publisher announced his success
by asalvo of artillery in the public-park. The
New York Graphic, with its big balloon,
couldn’t exceed that stunning dodge.

 

IMPURE WATER.

Public attention cannot be too often called
to the danger of using impure water in house-
holds. The origin of typhoid fever, which so
frequently runs through families in city and
country, is oftener in wells and springs than is
supposed. In cities it is easier to understand,
when aqueduct water is not supplied, how wells
may become Contaminated, but for many it is not
so easy to see how wells in the country, among

’ the hills or in the green valleys, can become so

impure as to be sources of disease.

Since the general introduction of ‘aqueduct
water into large cities, typhoid fever has be-
come more common in the country than in
the city, and-this disease is certainly zymotic,
or one which results from a poison introduced
into the blood. -Wellsin the country are very
liable to become contaminated with house sew-
age, as they are generally placed for conveni-
ence very near the eo = and the waste
liquids thrown. out upon, the f
aati by percolation through the soil to the
water. The instances of such contamination

ound find easy-

 

which have come to our notice, and which gave
rise to fevers, are numerous. The gelatinous
matter which is often found covering the
stones in wells affected by sewage, is a true
fungoid growth, and highly poisonous when in-
troduced into the system. It is undoubtedly
concerned in the production of typhoid fever.
How it acts it is difficult to determine, but it is
at least conceivable that the spores of the fun-
‘gus may get into the blood and bring about
changes after the manner of yeast. in.-beer.
These spores, as is well known, are developed
rapidly by a kind of budding process, and but
a little time passes before the whole circulation
becomes filled with them, giving rise to abnor-
mal heat and general derangement,» called
fever. -These fungoid or confervoid growths
are always present in waters rendered impure
by house drainage, and great caution should be
used in maintaining well-waters free from all
sources of pollution.

 

HAVANA AS IT IS:

A correspondent writes that ‘‘ the wall that
once surrounded the city of Havana has crum-
bled to dust, and presents a sad spectacle of ne-
glect and decay. The canal that inclosed the
wall_is in as bad condition, and its pools of
green scum poison the air. The Home Govern-
ment extorts the last farthing, and leaves no
tithe for the repairs of the ravages of time.
The houses, save those of the rich, bear the un-
mistakable garb of age and neglect, The
streets are not wider than two passing vehicles
demand and the sidewalks but two feet. The
stores are most unattractive retail establish-
ments and barn-like wholesale houses. .The
public buildings are picturesque in their tropic-
al style, but inexpensive; and the saloons plain
to rudeness. Yet, for all this, Havana isa
beautiful city, and highly attractive in its an-
tique style. The traveler lingers there in a
gloomy fascination that seems never to weary.
Her harbor, the securest~in, the world, with its
fringe of villages and innumerable gondoliers,
presents a picture not as brilliant as the bay of
New York, nor as historical.as that of Naples,
‘but.as charming in its poetic suggestiveness.
In the absence of music at the camp of Mars
and the Goyernor’s gardens I passed many
evenings sailing on the bay and enjoying»the
three hours’ tropical twilight where the moon
looks down not through the gray air of our cli-
mate, but an atmosphere of vermilion. The
native Havanese is an excellent specimen of
humanity, slightly less than medium size, with
graceful form and usually handsome face. His
intellect is quick, and often brilliant, but rare-
ly strong or philosophical. His friendships are

|} warm, but rarely enduring; and, though alto-

gether asympathetic and companionable person,
I would not select him for the friend of my soul.
Yet I believe his qualities of mind-and heart
are such as would, under self-government, de-
velop a first-class race. There are but few good
scholars in Caribbean Islands, though one is
struck with their wonderful facility in lan-
guages. You will rarely meet a Caribbean,
white or black, who does not speak English,
French, and Spanish, The Cuban women, like
every other race on earth, are greatly inferior
to ours. They are usually short, fat, and
brown, with black hair and eyes. Their man-
ner of life precludes the possibility of beauty or
health, They never exercise, nor take, except
late in the afternoon, any recreation. in the
outer air except in carriages. I did not, in
some months’ residence, see a woman, save per-
haps a laborer, on the streets of Havana, except
in her vehicle or carriage. My first observa-
tion of Cuban. female beauty was in the bril-
liantly lighted gardens of the Governor at a
popular concert, when the black eyes, powder=

ed skin, and gorgeous apparel of the senoritas”

was seen to full advantage under the roseate
transparencies.” a

The Mail Bag.

The wife of Chief-Justice Waite, is said to be
handsome, stylish, and fond of society.

One of the largest land-owners in California
isa lady, Mrs. M. E. Peals, She owns 173,065
acres. .

The failure of the opium crop in Bengal will
make that article much higher even than it is
now.

Wm. Saunders, a Scotchman, holding a sub-
ordinate official position in Washington, is said
to be the founder of the Granger movement.

Philadelphia now proposes to organize a Cen-
tennial Musical League, national in character,
and with branch leagues in all other cities.

A man can send a telegraph message from
Land’s End in England, to Kirkwell in Scot-
land, a distance of 700 miles, at one cent a
word,

Helen and Judith, Hungarian twins, were uni-
ted in a manner similar to the Siamese twins.
They were born in 1701 and lived twenty-two
years.

‘A teacher ata deaf and dumb school in Eng-
land has offered to teach an unusually intelli-
gent ape, in the London Zoological Gardens, to
speak.

It is proposed to import humblebeesinto New"
Zealand. ‘The bees are to be moved while dor-
mant, the nests being surrounded by ice during
transportation, =

Sectarian rity must be dying out in
Rows et ae a Quaker lady was re-
cently married to a Methodist, by two Presby-
terian clergymen, in a Methodist church,

The population of Nebraska was 28,000 in
1860. It is now estimated.at 300,000, and half
this increase has been made sinee 1870, when
the last census was taken.

 

 

 

The law association of St. Louis rejected an.

applicant for admission, the other day, because
he had advertised to procure divorces ‘‘ with
secrecy and dispatch.”

A curious and important discovery in_photo-
graphy has been made by Dr. Vogel. It con-
sists in making the non-actinic rays, under cer-
tain circumstances, actinic.

The statue of Stonewall Jackson, ordered
some time ago, is finished and ready for ship-
ment at Nuremberg, Bavaria, but $20,000 still
remains to be paid for it, and a subscription is
on foot in the Southern States to make up the
deficiency.

The State agency of Iowa Grangers has been
a medium for the sale.of $200,000. worth of
machinery during the past eight months, and
has orders for $18,000 worth more, on which it
is expected that the purchasers will save at
least, $7,000.

In the Michigan University are ninety-one
lady students. .The mysteries of. law. engage
seven, thirty-six are studying the art whereby
to relieve some of the ills that flesh is heir to,
and forty-eight are endeavoring to develop la-
tent genius in the department of arts.

A negro named Santee has been creating a
sensation in Louisiana and Mississippi by doing
a lively business as a prophet. The curious
thing about his prophecies is that they proved
to be true, He is said to have foretold the pes-
tilerice at Shreveport a year ago.

Horse-thieves in. Texas, nowadays, go. in
gangs, headed by a pretended clergyman, who
gets up protracted meetings, and while the
people are at the houses of worship, the rank
and file of the gang go for the stables.

In one of the country schools in England the
art of telegraphing is taught to the children
with much success. The Postmaster-General
approves of the scheme, and is highly pleased

at its adoption. 7

A small stream near Yellowstone Lake is split
in two by a small peninsula, one branch follow-
ing the Yellowstone and Missouri to the Gulf,
the other making its way into the Snake River

and thence to the Pacific.

Portions .of northwestern Wisconsin are set-
tling with marvelous rapidity, and in counties
where, three years since, hardly a civilized soul
resided, there are now two to three thousand
inhabitants,

Railroad cross-ties are the circulating me-
dium in portions of Kentucky, being taken in
exchange for groceries and dry goods, at fifty
cents apiece—ten thousand having exchanged
hands at that price in the last three months.

The people near Farmersville, Livingston
county, Mo., were scared nearly out of their
wits a few days ago, by the fall of an immense
aerolite. It now lies imbedded in the ground,
and is said to be about twenty-five feet in di-
ameter.

A Maine benedict was recently tied to a tree
by some of his wife’s obliging friends, while she
administered a cowhiding tohim, Which may
to some extent account for the reluctance of
male New Englanders to enter into the holy
state of matrimony.

Cornell University will provide a chair for
the Professor of Journalism, and will teach as-
pirants to the chair editorial every thing from
setting type to writing leaders. Diplomas are
to be given to graduates. Then—the graduates
will be prepared to take practical lessons.

“Washington society ” is disposed to turn up
its nose at Mrs. Delano, because she receives
callers with knitting in hand. And yet, if the
country had to choose between the dowagers
knitting their brows, and Mrs, Delano knitting
her stockings, their voices would be a ‘ you-

| knit” for the latter.

Mendelssohn’s sons and daughters have de-
clared their readiness to present to the royal
library of Berlin all the musical manuscripts
left by their father, on condition of Govern-
ment’s founding two exhibitions of the annual
value of seven hundred thalers each for com-
pleting the education of talented and struggling
musicians,

Arithmetical calculation of the annual ex-
penditures at West Point develops the fact that
each cadet, at graduating, represents an outlay
of eight thousand dollars of Government mo-
ney. Yet the country will not begrudge the
cost, nor twice as much, so long as the Acade-
my continues to furnish our army with officers
of honor, intelligence and cultivation.

Mammas complain that it is difficult to get
an old-fashioned, plainly-dressed doll for their
children, nowadays. The doll of the period is
elaborately dressed, wears jewelry, and is al-
together too nice and costly to ‘knock about.”
The rag doll which our grandmothers used to
play with is extinct; ditto the old wooden girls
dressed in calico,

Fashionable Christianity in London is grow-
ing to be amusing. People are now invited to
prayer-meetings precisely as invited to a social
soiree or an evening-party. The Newcastle
Chronicle prints the following transcript of a
card which it has received: ‘‘Mr. and Miss ——
propose (D. V.) to hold a Bible reading, on ——
evening at 7 1-2 o’clock, when the company of
friends is requested. Subject—Rev. ii. Read-
ing from 7 1-2 to9 1-2. Morning dress.” A
writer in the Broad Churchman states that he
got a card of invitation, which, so far as the
body of it was concerned, might have applied
to a dance or card party, but in the corner
were the characters, ‘Tea and P.” After
awhile he discovered that the cabalistic sign
stood for Tea and Prayers. He went, and
when he found them handing Ribles round on a
tray, le left disgusted.

Han Nlashes.

 

Can a lover be called a suitor when he
doesn’t suit her?

The way to make tall men short, in these
times, is to ask them for a loan.

A four-year-old little boy recently complain-
ed that his teeth ‘‘had trod on his tongue ”

When the waiter passed Spicer some very old
cheese at the hotel table, the other day, he re-
sponded, ‘‘ Not a mite.”

The tradition that a sailor has a wife in
every port probably arose from the fact that
he is always a marryin’ her (mariner.)

At a late conference session a clergyman
gave a reason why the Baptist Church is like a
beaver’s hut; “‘ There is only one entrance to it,
and that is under water,”

Kissing a lady with an “Elizabethan” on is,
we are assured, like embracing a circular saw
in full motion, If this be true, then our belles
should be made to drink out of a saw-sir.

“There !” said Jones, as he wrathfully
pushed away the pie which his landlady had
just served him, “that stuff isn’t fit for a pig to
eat and I ain’t going to eat it !”

A thoughtful father in the rural districts
talks of putting his front gate in the parlor so
that his daughter and her young man can
swing on it without catching cold.

The Danbury man says that a New Haven
editor spent last Sunday in Slawson, and at-
tended church. When the contribution-box
came around he was in a doze, but on being
nudged exclaimed, ‘I have a pass.”

A newspaper paragraph says that a Chicago
girl has been robbed of 224 gold rings. Where-
upon, a mean paragraphist observes that, prob-
ably, at least two hundred of them were en-
gagement rings,

“Thomas,” said a father to his son, ‘don’t
let that girl make a fool of you. Look sharp.
Remember the adage that love is blind.”

“Oh, that adage won’t wash,” said.Tom.
“Talk about love being blind! why, I see ten
times as much in that girl as you do!”

Last week, in Ohio, a young lady died from
what a round-headed old doctor said was ‘‘ heart
klot, or embyolism of the main flue of the
heart,” but she revived in an hour, and it was
found had been temporarily choked by a chew
of gum which she had swallowed.

A western genius has just invented a patent
self - raking, stem-winding, breech - loading,
seven-octave, non-explosive automatic urchin
chastiser and combined hair-comb, editorial
protector and hash-cutter. . He expects to make
a colossal fortune. s

“Wife, I thought you said we were going to
have a goose for dinner?”

“So I did; and I’ve kept my word.”

“Where is it?”

“Why, my dear, ain’t you here for din-
ner?”

Mr. Smithers couldn’t see the point of the
joke,

A young lady, the daughter of a rich pe-
troleum operator, before returning from board-
ing school, had a party given for her benefit,
Upon the bottom of her invitation cards she
caused to be inscribed ‘“‘R. S. V. P,” and one
was sent toa young man who had also made
his money by boring, He did not come, but
sent a card with the letters ““D, 8, GC. ¢.”
Meeting him in the street, she asked him what
the letters meant. _‘‘Tell me first what yours
meant.” ‘Oh, mine was French for ‘“ Respond,
if you please.’” ‘‘ Well, mine was English for
‘Darned sorry I can’t come.’”

A chap came home one night, roggy as
usual. While manipulating about ie kitchen
for something to eat, he got hold, as he sup-
posed, of a boiled potato, which he stuck into
his mouth and commenced chewing; but in-
stead of a potato it was a ball of woolen yarn,
and finding that something was wrong, he un-
dertook to get it out, and in so doing got hold
of the end of the thread, which, as he pulled,
came out by the yard. Becoming alarmed, he
called to his wife: ‘I say (hic), Mary, d’better,
git up (hic), som’in’s loose, think I must be un-
ravelin’!”

In relating what he knows about farming, a
Western editor touches up the hog question in
this style: “‘To make Berkshire pigs out of
your hazel-splinters, select a cool day, stand
them on their hams, tied to a sa ling, and
drive their noses back into their § oulders,
leaving about an inch protruding. If you
look at the agricultural papers, you will
see that all blooded hogs are fixed that way.
If you have any whose noses are longer than
the rest of the body, better sell them to an ar-
tesian well company for drills, as you can not

drive the noses back without telescoping the
whole hog.”

The village young man’s greatest trial is not
when he makes his advent at the barber shop,
and receives the stares of the customers and
the grins of the operator, but when he first
makes his appearance with a young lady at an
entertainment. It isnot enough that the usher
should get into the wrong aisle, and thus make
him and her go round to the front and come
back up the middle aisle, to the enjoyment of
several hundred people, but he has got to escort
her through a file of his acquaintances at the
door, after the performance is over, and is
obliged to bear, with stolid indifference, the
grins of delight showered upon him, and to
hear, with Christian composure, the young man
at the head of the row adjure somebody not in
sight to “‘Hold my clothes,” and some exquis-
itely facetious inquiries from. one to another as
to “Who will care “for mother now?’ and
| ““Wewit you look at our Johnny?”

 

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pee a cate a ae can erect Remar eae ot
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

16 BELLES AND BHAUY. | [Furrvary 28, 1874.
BELLES AND BEAUX FANTASIA.
Transcription by FE. CURTIS. MERCADANTE.

    
   

     
   

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