OCR Interpretation


The Fairfield news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1881-1900, February 08, 1882, Image 1

Image and text provided by University of South Carolina; Columbia, SC

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/2012218613/1882-02-08/ed-1/seq-1/

What is OCR?


Thumbnail for

WEEKLY EDITION. WIXNSBORO, S. O, WEDNESDAY. FEBRUARY 8. 1882. ESTABLISHED IN 1844. '%
THE BLACK ROBE.
^ BY WILIvlE COLLINS.
?AUTHOB OF?
Ah? 1- WOSIAN rs \7HITE," " TBCE MOOM
fBr \ STONTJ," " AFTZK DA2E," "SO KAJIE."
and vrjrz," '1 THE LAW AM>
TUR LAOr," " TICS NEW MAG1>AJLKS,
ETC., ETC.
I
AFTEil TrIE STORY.
r
nisrr.i'.F!ti.i>'s uiAisr ?.o5'Lti<?i>.
lijth September.?No favorable answer I
so far as the port oi London is concern j
ed. Very little commerce with Mexico, j
and bad harbor in that conntry when i
yoxi do trade. Such is the report.
*> 17ik September.?A Mexican brig has j
been discovered at Liverpool, under orders
for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is
in debt, and 1 hs date of departure depends
on expected remittances. In this
k state of things I mar wait, -with my
PS conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on
U|l board my own schooner.
? 18* A to 20lh September.?I have settled
k my affairs; I have taken leave of my
friends (good Mr. Murthwaite included);
I have written cheerfully to Stella, and
I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well i
provided with the jars of whisky and
the kegs of gunpowder which will
> * effect the release of ?le captives.
* It is strange, considering the serious
matters I have to think of, but it is also
_ _
true tiiat 1 feel out of spirits at ite
prospect of leaving England without
k my traveling companion, the dog. 1
am afra?l to take the dear old fellow
with me, on such a perilous expedition
as mine mav be. Stella takes care of
him, and, if I don't live to return, she
will never part with him for his master's
sake. It implies a childish sort of
mind, I suppose, but it is a comfort for
me to remember that I have never said
a hard word to Traveler, and never |
lifted my hand on him in anger.
All this about a dog! And not a word J
about Stella? Not a word. Those j
thoughts are net to be written.
I have reached the last vo.se of .mv !
M. ti |
diary. I sliall lock it and leave it in j
charge of my bankers on my way to the j
Portsmouth train. Shall I ever want a ;
^ new diary'? Superstitious people might
associate this coming to the end of the
book with coming to an end of another
kind. I have no imagination, and I
take my leap in the dark he pefullv,
with. Byron's glorious lines in my mind:
''Hero's a sigh to those who love me
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
wr Here's a hear: for any fate i"
jti An mciosnre is inserted in this place
between the leaves of the diary. It
consists of two telegrams, dispatched
respectively on the first and second ol
ilaj, 1864, and expressed as follows:
1. " From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth,
England. To Mrs. Bomayne, j
care of M. Raymond, St. Germain, near
Paris.?Penrose is safe on board my
Taclit. His unfortunate companion has
' died of exhaustion, and he is himself in
3 a feeble state of health. I at once take j
him with me to London for medical ad- !
vice. We are eager for news of yon.
Telegraph to Derwentfs hoteL"
2. " From Mrs. Evrecourt, St. Germain.
To Bernard Wintered, Der??
went's hotel, London.?Your telegram
Jf > received with joy, and sent on to Stella
Pin Paris. All well. Bnt strange events
have happened. If yon cannot come
here at once go to Lord Loring. He
will tell you everything."'
3 *****
THE DIAF.Y RESOIED.
fT London, 2d May, 1864.?Mrs. Eyrecourt's
telegram reached me just after
Dr. Wybrow had paid his first professional
visit to Penrose at the hotel. I
had scarcely tine to feel relieved by
yfi. r the opinion of the case which he expressed,
before my mind was upset by
Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose tinder
the charge of our excel ent landlady
I hurried away to Lord Loiing.
tit was still early in the day; his lordship
was at home. He maddened me
-with impatience by apologizing at full
length for " the inexcusable manner in
which he had misinterpreted me conduct
on the deplorable occasion of the
marriage ceremony at Brussels." I
stopped his flow of words (very earnestly
spoken, it is only right to add), ;
and entreated him to tell me, in the j
first place, what Stella was noing in I
* Paris.
* "Stella is with her husband," JLorcl
Loring replied.
My head turned giddy, my heartbeat
furiously. Lord Loring locked at me,
ran to the luncheon table in the next
room arid returned with a glass of wine.
I really don't know whether I drank the
wine or not. I stammered out another
! ' inquiry in one word.
^ . " Reconciled V I said.
r"Yes, Mr. Winterfield, reconciled
before he dies."
V-T. We were both silent for a while.
What was he thinking of? I don't
know. Jliat was I thinking of ? I
j. darenT^nte it down.
a. Lord Loring resumed by expressing
some anxiety on the subject of my
W health, ? made the best excuse for myself
that I could, and told him of the
rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my
object in leaving England and heartily
congratulated me. " This will be welZnAaaA
"yTT>'^ cqirl " "Pafliftr
Mf CUiUC iicnoj ?y ??? ?
Benwell."
|i||* Even the name of Father Benwell now
excites my disgnst. "Is he in Paris,
iC'OT I inquired.
3 "He left Paris last night," Lord Loring
answered; "and he is now in London
on important business (as I understand)
connected with Romayne's afL,
fairs."
I instantly thought of the boy.
"Is Romayne in possession of his
faculties ?" I asked.
" In complete possession."
"While justice is in his power has {
he done justice to his son ?"
Lord Loring looked a little confused.
" I have not heard," was all he said in
r reply.
IfS-"* 1 was far from satisfied. " You are
one cf Bcmayne's oldest friends,'' Iier
' sisted. "Have you not seen him your- |
| self?"
I ''I liave seen him more than once, j
But he has never referred to his af- j
rairs." Having said this he hastily |
changed the subject. "Is there any j
other information I can give yon':" he !
I suggested.
j I had still to learn under what cir- |
! cnmstances Romayne had left Italy for j
France, and how the event of his illness '
j in Paris had been communicated to his j
wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on j
his own lecollections to enlighten mo.
"Lady Loring and I passed the latt j
'.virter in Rome," he said. "Andthere |
we saw Roirayne. You look surprised, i
Perhaps ysu are aware that we tad of- (
tended him by advice which we thought j
it our duty to offer to Stella before her j
marriage ?"
I was certainly thinking of what |
Stella had said of the Lorings on the
memorable day when she visited me at
the hotel.
"Romayne would probably have retr>
us." "Lord T,r?rin<r ta
suined, "but for the gratifying circumstance
of my having been admitted to an
interview with the Pope. The Holy
Father spoke of him with the most con- {
descending kindness; and hearing that
I had not yet seen him, gave instructions
commanding Komavne to present I
himself. Under these circumstances it
was impossible for him to refuse to receive
Lady Loring and myself on a later
occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed
we were at the sad change for
the worse in his personal appearance, j
The Italian physician, -whom he occasionally
consulted, told me that there
was a weakness in the action of his
heart, produced in the first instance by j
c-xcessive study and the excitement of |
preaching, and aggravated by the fur- j
ther drain on his strength due to insuffi- j
eient nourishment. He would eat and
drink just enough to keep him alive,
and no more; and he persistently refused
to try the good influence of rest
and change of -scene. My wife, at a
later interview v th him, when they j
were alone, induced him to throw aside j
the reserve which he had maintained |
with me, and discovered another cause !
for the deterioration in his health. I |
uont reier to me return 01 a nervous j
misery from which, lie lias suffered at i
intervals for years past. I speak of the j
effect produced on his mind by the announcement?made
no doubt with the
best intentions by Dr. Wybrow?of the
birth of his child. This disclosure ''.e i
was entirely ignorant of his wife s situation
when he left- her) appears to have
affected him far more seriously than the
English doctor supposed. Lady Loring
was so shocked at what he said to her
on the subject that she has only repeated
it with a certain reserve. ' If I could
believe I did wrong,' he said, 'in dedicating
myself to the service of the
Church, after the overthrow of my domestic
happiness, I should also believe
that the birth of this child was the retributive
punishment of my sin and the
>-v? TV*TT /I Aufll T
W&ttJiUg Ui juixj aji/^/xvwvMiu^ uvuuu. m i
.-lave not tate this view. And yet I liav*
it not in me, after the solemn vows by
which I am bound, to place any more j
consoling interpretation on an event j
which, as a priest, it disturbs and hu- !
tr.iiiaiv-s me even to think of.' That j
one revelation of his tone of though* -will
toll you what is the mental state of |
r.his unhappy man. He gave us little !
encouragement to continue our friendly
intercourse with him. It was onlv
when we were thinking of our return to
England that we heard of his appointment
to the vacant place of first attache j
to the embassy at Paris. The Pope's j
paternal anxiety on the subject of Ro- j
mayne's health had chosen this wise j
&nd generous method of obliging him j
to try a salutary change of air, as well i
?iS a relaxation from his incessant em- {
--1 _A_ On flia 51AT1 I
piUVlllDUlS 1U JklViJ-ic. wu uuv ? j
of his departure we met again. He !
looked like a worn-out old man. "We
could now only remember his double
claim on ns?as a priest of our religion,
and as a once dear friend?and we arranged
to travel with him. Tho weather
at the time was mild; our progress was j
made by easy stages. We left him at
Paris, apparently the better for his
journey."
I asked if they had seen Stella on
that occasion.
" Xo," said Lord Loring. " "We had
reason to doubt whether Stella would
be pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant
to meddle, unasked, with a matter
of extreme delicacy. I arranged with
' 1 ' ii- - i
the JSuncio (wnom i nave me nonor lu I
know) that we should receive written
information of Bomayne's state of
health; and, on that understanding, we
returned to England. A week since,
our ne ws from the embassy was so alarming
that Lady Loring at once returned j
to Paris. Her first letter informed me '
that she had felt it her duty to tell
Stella of the critical condition of Bomayne's
health. She expressed.her sense
of my wife s kindness most gratefully
and feelingly, and at once removed to
Paris, to be on the spot if her husband
expressed a wish to see her. The two
ladies are now staying at the same hotel.
I have thus far been detained in London
by family affairs. But, unless I hear
of 3. change for the better before evening,
I follow Lady Loring to Paris by
the mail train."
It was needless to trespass further on I
Lord Loring's time. I thanked him,
and returned to Penrose. He was
sleeping when I got to the hotel.
On the table in the sitting-room I
found a telegram waiting for me. It
had been sent by Stella, and it contained
these lines:
" I have just returned from his bedside,
after telling him of the rescue of
ponrato "FTa .^osirjik in cap votj Thpro
is no positive suffering ; he is sinking
under a complete prostration of the
forces of life. That is what the doctors
tell me. They said, when I spoke of
wrifcirig to vou, 'Send a telegram; there J
is no time to lose.'"
Toward evening Penrose woke. I
showed him the telegram. Throughout
our voyage the prospect of seeing Komayne
again had been the uppermost
subject in his thoughts. In the extrcm"a
_ _ ? 1- n/-?loTdfl fliof
1CJ Q1 11 IS UISVICSO UV
he would accompany ine to Paris by the
right train. Remembering how severely
he had felt the fatigue of the short
railway journey t ea Portsmouth. I en.v
treated him to let me go alone. His
devotion to Romayne was not to be
reasoned with. While wo were still
vainly trying to convince each other,
Dr. Wybrow came in.
To my amazement he sided with Penrose.
" Oh, get up by all means," he
said ; " we will help you to dress." We
took him out of bed and put on his
dressing-gown. He thanked us, and
saving he would complete his toilet by
himself sat down in an easy-chair In
another moment he was asleep again?
so soundly asleep that we put hira back
in Vii< lipfl without- TcaVinfr Tiim T)nr?fr>r
Wybrow had foreseen this result: he !
looked at the poor fellow's ps-le, peaceful !
face with a kindly smile.
"There is the treatment," he said,
" that will set our patient on his legs
again. Sleeping, eating and drinking;
let that be his life for some weeks to
come, and he will be as good a man as
ever. If your homeward journey had
been by laud Penrose would have died
on the way. I will take care of him
while you are in Paris."
At the station I met Lord Loring. He
understood that L too. had received bad
news, and gave me a place in the coup6 ,
carriage which had been reserved for
him. We had scarcely taken our seats
when we saw Father Benwell among the
travelers on the platform, accompanied
by a gray-haired gentleman who was a j
stranger to both of us.
Paris, Zd May.?On our arrival at the j
hotel I was informed that no message j
had yet been received from the embassy.
We found Lady Loring alone at the
breakfast-table, when we had rested |
after our night journey.
" Romayne still lives," she said. "But
his voice has sunk to a whisper, and he
is unable to breathe if lie tries to rest
in bed. Stella has gone to the embassy.
She hopes to see him to-day for !
the second time."
"Only for the second time?" I exclaimed.
"You forget, Mr. WinterHeld, that j
Romayne is a priest. He was only consecrated
on the customary condition of |
an absolute separation i. jm his wife. J
^ * -? 1.1 1 1 AT. _ X. T I
un ner siae?never xei ner snow mat, x j
told you this?Stella signed^ a formal j
document sent from Rome, asserting i
that she consented of her own freo will J
to the separation. She was relieved 1
from the performance of another formality
(which I need not; mention mora
particularly) by a special dispensation.
Under these circumstances?communicated
to me while Stella and I have
been together in this house?the wife's i
presence at the bedside of her dying
husband is regarded by the other priests
at the embassy as a scandal and a profanation.
The kind-hearted Nuncio is
blamed for having exceeded his powers,
in vieldirar (even under protest) to the
%/ w \ * /
last wishes of a dying mail. He is now
in communication with Rome, waiting |
for the final instructions which are to j
i^nide him," ~
"Has Bomavne seen his cluld?" I
asked.
" Stella has taken the child with her
to-day. It is doubtful in the last degr?
e whether the poor little boy will
be allowed to enter his father's room.
That complication is even more serious
than the other. The dying Romayne
persists in his resolution to see the
child. So completely has his way of !
' H 3 T Al. ^ 7 !
tiliniiing oeen anereu. uy me apprises*,, |
of death, and by the closing of the bril- |
liant prospect which was before him, j
that he even threatens to recant, with |
his last breath, if his wishes are not j
complied with. How it will end 1 can- j
not even venture to guess."
"Unites the merciful course taken j
by the Nuncio is confirmed," said Lord j
Loring, ':it may end in a revival of the !
protest of the Catholic priests iu Germany
against the prohibition of marriage
to the clergy. The movement began in
Silesia in 1826, and was; followed by
unions (or league3, as we should call
tliem now), in Baden, Wurtemburg,
Bavaria and Rhenish Prussia. Later
still, the agitation spread to France and
Austria. It was only checked by a
Papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating
the final decision of the famous Council
of Trent, in favor of the celibacy of
tne priesthood. Few people are aware
that this rule has been an institution oi
slow growth among the clergy of the
Church of Rome. Even as late as the
twelfth century there were still priests
vho set the prohibition of marriage at
defiance."
I listened, as one of the many ignorant
persons; alluded to by Lord Loring.
It was with difficulty I fixed my attention
on what he was saying. My
thoughts wandered to Stella and to the
dying man. I looked at the clock.
Lady Loring evidently shared the
feeling of suspense that had got possession
of me. She rose and walke d to the
window.
"Here is the message!" she said, recognizing
her traveling-servant, as he
entered the hotel door.
jl lie man appeareu, wimaime wnti-cu
on a card. I was requested to present
the card at the embassy without delay.
4:th May.?I am only now able to
continue my record of the events of
yesterday.
A silent servant received me at the
embassy, looked at the card, and led
the way to an upper floor of the house.
Arrived at the end of a long passage, he
opened a door and retired.
As I crossed the threshold Stella met
me. She took both my hands in hers
and looked at me in silence. All that
was true and good and noble expressed i
i itself in that look.
The interval passed; and she spokevery
sadly, very quietly.
" One more work of mercy, Bernard.
Help him to die with a heart at rest."
She drew back and I approached
him.
He reclined, propped up with pillows,
in a large easy-chair; it was the
I one position in which he could still
j breathe with freedom. The ashy shades
j of death were on his wasted face. In
I the eyes alone, as they slowly turned
on me, there still glimmered the waning
! licht of life. One of his arms huncr
| down over the chair; the other was
j clasped round his child, sitting on his
! knee. The boy looked at me wonder'
inglj, as I stood by his father. Ro|
mayne signed to me to stoop so that I
might hear him.
"Penrose?" he asked, faintly whispering.
<f Dear Arthur I Nctdjing like i
aer" I
I quieted that anxiety. For a moment
there was even the shadow of a
smile on his face a? I tol'd him of the
effort that Penrose had vainly made to
be the companion of my journey. He
isked me, bv another gesture to bend
my ear to him ones more.
" My last grateful blessing to Penrose.
And to yon. May I not say it ?
i'oii have saved Arthur"?his eyes
turned toward Stella?" you have been
her best friend." He jjaused to recover
his feeble breath, looking round the
large room , witnout a creature m it
Lut ourselvos. Once more the melai*
eVinj-lnw r*f i smilp r>ftcc^ri nrni" Viic
face and vanished. I listened, nearer
lo kirn still.
"Winterfield, Death is a great teacher.
[ know how I have erred?what I have
lost. Wife and child. How poor and
barren all the rest of it looks now."
He was silent for a while. Was
he thinking ? No; he seemed to be
listening, and yet there was no sound
[n the room. Stella, anxiously watching
him, saw the listening expression as
[ did. Her face showed anxiety, but
ao surprise.
"Dees it torture you still ?" she asked.
"No," he said ; "I have never heard
it plainly since I left Rome. It has
grown fainter and fainter from that
time. It is not a voice now. It is
scarcely a whisper. My repentance it
accepted, my release -s coming. Where
is Winterfield?"
She pointed to me.
"I spoke of Rome just now. What
did Rome remind me of ? " He silowly
recovered the lost recollection. " Tell
Winterfield," he whispered to Stella,
"what the Nuncio said when he knew
that I was going to die. The great man
reckoned up the dignities that might have
been mine if I had lived. From my
olace h?re in the embassy?"
"Let me say it," she gently interposed,
"and spare your strength for
better things. From your place in the
embassy you would have mounted a
step higher to the office of vice-legate.
Those duties wisely performed, another
rise to the auditorship of the apostolic
chamber. That office filled,
a last step upw*a\l to the highest |
rank left, the rani; of ft prince of the
Church."
"AllVanitv!" said the dying Romayne.
He looked at his wife and his child.
" The true happiness was waiting for
Die here. And I only know it now. Too
late. Too lato."
He laid his head back on the pillow
and closed his weary eyes. We thought
he was composing himself to sleep.
Stella tried to relieve him of the boy.
" No," he whispered; "i am only resting
my eyes to look at him again." We
waited. The chill stared at me in
infantine curiosity. His mother knelt j
at his side and whimpered in his ear'. A
bright smile irradiated his face; his
clear brown eyes sparkled; he repeated i
the forgotten lesson of the bygone time,
ftnrl rolled me onne more " Uncle Ber." !
Romajne heard it. His heavy eyelids
opened again. "No," he said.
"Not uncle. Something better and
dearer. Stella, give me your hand."
Still kneeling she obeyed him. He
slowly raised himself in the chair.
" Take her ha nd," he said to me. I too
knelt. Her hand lay cold in mine.
After a long interval he spoke to me.
"Bernard Winterfield," he said, "love
them and help them when I am gone."
Ho laid his weak hand on our hands
clasped together. "May God protect
you! may God bless youl" he murmured.
*' Kiss me, Stella."
I remember no more. As a man I
onght to have set a better example, I
ought to have preserved my self-control.
It was not to be done. I turned from
them and burst out ciying.
The minutes, passed. Many minutes
or few minutes, I don't icncw wnicn.
A soft knock at the door roused me.
I dashed away the useless tears. Stella
had retired to the further end of the
room. She was sitting by the fireside
with the child in her arms. I withdrew
to the same part of the room, keeping
far enough away not to disturb them.
Two strangers came in and placed
themselves on either side of Romayne's
chair. He seemed to recognize them
unwillingly. From the manner in which
thev examined him I inferred *hat they
were medical rien. After a consultation
in low tones one of them went out.
He returned, again almost immediately,
followed by the gray-haired gentleman
whom 1 had noticed on the
iournev to Pans, and by Father Ben
veil.
The priest's vigilant eyes discovered
us instantly in our place near the fireside.
I thought I saw suspicion as -well
as surprise in his face. Bnt he recovered
himself so rapidly that I could not
feel sure. He bowed to Stella. She
made no return; she looked as if she had
not even seen him.
One of the doctors "was an Englishman.
He said to Father Benwell:
" Whatever your business may be with
Mr. Romayne we advise you to enter on
it without delay. Shall we leave the
rnnm 9"
" Certainly not," Father Benwell answered.
" The more witnesses are
present the more relieved I shall fee!.."
He tnrned to hi.s traveling companicn.
"Let Mr. B.omayne's lawyer," 'he
resumed, " state what our business is;."
The gray-headed gentleman stepped
forward.
"Are you able to attend to me, sir?''
be asked.
Eomayne, reclining in his chair apparently
lost to all interest in what was
going on, heard and answered. The
weak tones of his voice failed to reach
my ear at the other end of the room.
The lawyer, seeming to be satisfied no
far, put a formal question to tiie doctors
next. He inquired if Mr. Rama
jue was in full possession of his facilities.
Both the physicians answered without
hesitation in the affirmative.
Father Benwell added his attestation.
" Throughout Mr. Romayne's illness "
he said, firmly, " his mind has been its
clear as mine is.:' z
? * it. AM5
Willie tills was going on ine cnua
had slipped off liis mother's lap with
the natural restlessness of his age. B'e
walked to the fireplace and stopped,
fascinated by the bright red glow of the
embers of baming weed. In one corner
of the low f?nder hr loose little
/
bundle of sticks, left there in case the
fire might need relighting. The boy,
noticing the bundle," took ont one of
the sticks and threw it experimentally
j into the grate. The flash of flame, as
the stick canght fire, delighted him.
j He went on burning stick after stick,
j The new game kept, him quiet; his
mother was content to be on the watch
j to see that no harm was done.
In the meantime the lawyer briefly
stated his case.
" You remember, Mr. Romayne, that
your will was placed for safe keeping in
our office," he begani "Father Ben
well called upon us a?& presented an
order, signed by yourself, authorizing
him to convey the will .from London to
Paris. The object was to obtain your
signature to a codicil, which had been
considered a necessary audition to secure
the validity of the will. * Are you favoring
me with yoor attention, sir?"
Romayne answered by a slight bending
of his head. His eyes were fixed on
the boy?still a.bsorbed in throwing his
sticks, one by one, into the fire.
" At the time when your will was executed,"
the lawyer went on, " Father
Benwell obtained your permission to
take a copy of it. Hearing of your illness
he submitted the copy to a high legal
authority. The written opinion of this
competent person declares the clause,
bequeathing the Vange estate to the
Romar Church, to be so imperfectly expressed
that the will might be made a
subject of litigation after the testator's
death. He has accordingly appended a
form of codicil amending the defect, and
we have added it to the will. I thought
it my duty, as one of your legal advisers,
to accompany l'..:!ier Benwell on
his return to Paris in charge of the will,
in case you might feel disposed to make
Eklljr ?L1 UCi C> nun. -i-fcv/ .,n*v? fWMM
and the child as he completed that sentence.
Father Benwell's keen eyes took
the same direction. " Shall I read the
will, sir?" the lawyer resumed; "oi
would you perfer to look at it yourself ?"
Komayne held out his hand for the
will in silence. He was still watching
his son. There were but few more sticks
now left to be thrown into the fire.
Father Benwell interfered for the first
time.
"One word, Mr. Romayne, before you
examine that document," he said. "The
Church receives back from yon the property
which was once its own. Beyond
that, it authorizes and even desires you
(by my voice) to make any changes
which you or your trusted legal adviser
may think right. I refer to the clauses
oi the wilJ which relate to the property
you have inherited from the late Lady
Berrick?and I beg the persons present
to bear in memory the few plain words
that I have now spoken."
He bowed with diamitv. and drew
back. Even tlis lawyer was favorably
impressed. The doctorsi-J-'ied at each
other with -silent approval. For the
first time the sad repose of Stella's face
was disturbed?I could see that it cost
her an effort to repress her indignation.
Tee one unmoved person wasRomayne.
The sheet of paper on which the will
was'written lay unregarded upon his lap;
bis eyes were still riveted on the little
I 3gure at the fireplace.
The child had thrown his last stick
into the glowing red embers. He
looked about hi in for a fresh supply, and
found nothing. His fresh, young voice
rose high through the silence in the
room.
" More!" he cried. " More 1"
His mother held up a warning finger,
"Hush!" she whispered. He shrank
away from her, and she tried to take him
on her knee, and looked across the
room at his father. "More!" he burst
out, louder than ever.
Romavne beckoned to me, and pointed
to the boy.
I led him across the room. He was
quite willing to go with me, he reiterated
his petition, standing at his father's
knees.
" Lift him to me," said Romayne.
I could barely hear the words ; even
his strength to whisper seemed to be
i fast leaving him.. He kissed his son
with a panting faiigne nnder that trifling
exertion pitiable to see. As I
placed the boy on his feet again he
looked up at his eying father, with the
one idea still in his mind.
" More, papa! More!"
Romayne put the will into his hand.
Tie child's eyes sparkled. " Burn!'
he asked, eagerly.
"Yes I"
Father Benwell sprang forward with
outstretched hands. I stopped him.
He struggled with me. I forgot the
privilege of the black robe. I took him
by the throat.
The boy threw the will into the fire.
"Oh!" he shouted, in high delight, and
clapped his chnbby hands as the bright
little blaze flew up the chimney. I
released the priest.
In a frenzy of rage and despair he
looked round at the persons in the
*nr.rr\ T foTta -cr/vn oil +/\ Trritr?Aoa " Via
1VVU1* JL HUUV JVU I'W TI UG
cried, "this is an act of madness I"
'! You yourself declared just now,"
said the lawyer, " that Mr. Romayne
was in perfect possession of his faculties."
The priest turned furiously on the
dying man. They looked at each other.
For one awful moment Romayne's
eyes brightened, Romayne's voice rallied
its power, a3 if life was returning !
to him. Frowning darkly, the priest
pnt his question:
"What did you do it for?"
Quietly and firmly the ansT*# came:
Wife and child."
The last long-drawn &;gh rose anc
fell. With those sacred words on his
lips Romayne died.
***** *
L-ondon, 6M May.?At Stella's requesi
I have returned t-o Penrose, with but
one fellow traveler. My dear old companion,
the dog, is coiled up fast aslee?
mv feet while I write these lines.
Penrose has gained strength enough tc
keep me company in the sitting-room.
In a few days more he will see Stella
again.
What instructions reached the em!
1 m ?"? 1- _ LI T>
i oassy irora Jttome?wnetnarifcomayne rej
ceived the last sacrament at the earliei
period of illness?we never heard. Nc
objection was made when Lord Loring
proposed to remove the body to Engj
laud to be buried in the family vault al
Vange Abbey.
! I had undertaken to give th? nsees
:
/., ik : r - 1
sarj directions for the funeral on mj
arrival in London. Returning to the
hotel I met Father Benwell in the street.
I tried to pass on. He deliberately
stopped me.
" How is Mrs. Romajne ?' he asked,
- ? i- 'i.? -T_ T
Tfitii tuai suavity wmuu ue seems always
to have at command. "Fairlj
well. I hope? And the boy? Ah, he
little thought how lie was changing liis
prospects for the better when he made
that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mi.
Winterfield, yon don't seem to be quite
so cordial as usual. Perhaps you are
thinking of your inconsiderate assault
on my throat? Let us forgive and
forget. Or, perhaps, yon object to
my having converted poor Romayne,
and to my being ready to accept from
Lira the restoration of the property of
the church. In both cases I only did
my duty as a priest. You are a liberalminded
man. Surely I deserve a favorable
construction of my conduct?"
I really could not endure this.
" I have my own opinion of what you
deserve," I answered. " Don't provoke
me to mention it."
He eyed me with a smile.
"I am not so old as I look," he said ;
' I may live another twenty years 1"
"Well?" I asked.
"Well," he answered, "much may
happen in twenty years."
With that he left me. If he means
s?n :?T
luv lurtiier ULiioouieij x uau ten jjuuui tina
?he will find me in liis way.
To turn to a more pleasant subject.
Reflecting on all that had passed at my
memorable interview with Eomayne, I
felt some surprise that one of the person?
present had made no effort to present
the burning of the will. It was
not to be expected of Stella?or of the
doctors, who had no interest in the
matter -but I was unable to understand
the passive position maintained by the
lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance
in two words.
"The Vange property and the Berriok
property were both absolutely at
;he disposal of Mr. Bomayne," he said.
"If he died without making a will,
he knew enough of the law to forsee
that houses, lands and money would zo
co Jiis ' nearest of kin.' In plainer words
iiis widow and son."
When Penrose can travel, hs accompanies
me to Beaupark. Stella and
her little son and Mrs. Eyreconrt will
be the only other guests in my house,
lime must pass, and the boy will be
older, before I may remind Stella of
Romayne's last wishes on tha: sad
xorning when we two knelt on either
side ol him. In the meanwhile it Is
almost happiness enough forme to look
forward to the day.
Xote.?The nert leaf of the diary
is missing, Jtsv some acciaenc a manuscript
page has got into its place, bearing
a later date and containing elaborate
instructions fo: executing a design
for a wedding-dress. The handwriting
has since been acknowledged as her
own, by no less a person than Mrs.
Eyrecourt.
the end.
'j HS HOME DOCTOR.
Food.?Food is an agent of tremendous
power. Feed mankind with the
same science that birds, kine and horses
are fed?to wit, on their natural food?
and then we may look for the healthy
results obtained with those animals.
Dairymen know how to feed lor
health and milk. Hostlers know how to
feed their horses, and ladies their canaries.
They all seek to give the normal,
natural food of the animal under their
care. Now. if man would treat his own
race as he treats his animals, we think
human nervous systems would not show
such signs of weakness. ? Dr. Footers
Health Monthly.
Moles akd Wakts.?We could never |
quite understand why any gentleman,
and particularly any lady, should consent
to remain conspicuous, bv reason
of, an ugly mole on the face, when the
defect may be easily and safely remedied.
We "have extirpated a "hat fall''?
" be the same more or lees"?and have
done our work so thoroughly that there
is not the ghost of a chance that a siDgle
mole will return to torment its former
possessor. Our plan is this: Where
there is but one mole, not too large, we
simply freeze it with a ipray of ether,
and then -make a curved incision in the
direction of the folds of the skin, from
a quarter to half an inch in length, on
each side of the mole and close to it, so
as to close it between the curved inci
sions; and then we remove the mole
with the small portion of skin on
either side of it. We then sponge the
wound until it stops bleeding,and riraw
the edges of skin accurately together
with several very narrow strips of court
plaster, In three or four days it will
heal; generally so that the least scar or
line can bo seen. If there are two or
more moles to be taken out, or one large
one, we take our patient-to a neighboring
dentist who administers gas, and
while under its inflnence we can dispose
of three or four moles, and then apply
the plaster afterward. Thns the whole
operation is painless, and entirely safe.
Corks.?To cure corns, the first thing
to be done is to remove the cause , that
is, avoid the pressure. So long as the
irritating pressure exists, application of
plasters, etc., will be of little service.
A different shoe, one that does not
touch and rub the part, will often effect
a cure. A thick buefc-skin, with a hole
cut to admit the corn, and distribute
the pressure to the surface around it
nrill fvffon aflfnrd vpllpf. Til a Cnffl. Tiot
only is the skin unnaturally thickened,
but the flesh below is irritated and sensitive,
hence any remedy must tirst be
directed to the removal of the hardened
skin, which may be done with a razor,
tai ing care always to not cut too deep.
Some corns extend downward like a
peg, pressing upon the tissues below ;
these are excessively painful, and may
give rise to serious ulcers. In every
city and large town there are skilled
chiropodists, and where a respectable
one is at hand, it is better in such cases
to consnlt liim. But avoidance is better
than any of the many remedies, none of
which can be effective so long as the
cause remains. Soft corns between the
toes are often distressingly painful.
These are also produced by undue
pressure, or by friction due to badly
fitting shoes; they are kept moist by
perspiration, and are usually very sensitive.
They are often cured by simply
wearing * plug of cotton wool between j
the toes, which, by relieving the pressure,
removes the cause, and the cure
takes place. Benefit is said to result I
from wetting the cotton with tincture j
of arnica, or in spirits of turpentine, but
having found the cotton alone effica-'
cious, we have not tried either. A corn j
npon the sole of the foot sometimes J
occurs. To cure this, wear a large shoe j
or boot in which is placed an insole of
binder's beard, thick paste board, in
which is to be cut a hole properly
large, just where the corn touches.
This distributes the weight ever the
whole sole and relieves the pressure.
Si:*..
- ~y - r.rii^.-'.Vr'ri -i "~T -r
A LI^E 0? TICISSHUDF.
The Career of a Brilliant bu: Erratic Newspaper
Writer.
A New York letter contributes the
following reminiscences of a brilliant
but dissip*'- d newspaper Bohemian :
The n of Pfaff's reminds me of
the history, h'alf paihetic, of one of the
true Bohemians, a type now almost extinct,
related +lie .other night in a popular
resort ne-ar "the square" bv a former
associate,' one who would not bear
the ills of newspaper life, but flew
to other that he knew not of by embarking
upon the treacherous sea of
^ ^ ^^ /*"W Al%o/?-n ?A
i'pccuiaixuii. u^ovuiu
origin and the most limited advantages
onr Bohemian developed into a man of
marvelous resources, wide knowledge,
incisive wit and brilliant attainments,
bat in him were united a most remarkable
combination of good and bad qualities.
The peer intellectually of the
brightest men of. bis day, he delighted
in the companionship of the dissolute
and debased. He would pawn the coat
on his back for charity but would
never pay a debt. He was a born newspaper
man, and possessed a versatility
that enabled him with equal readiness
to pen a scholarly and analytical art review
or describe a sensational murder
with all the brutal justice of a photograph.
In a reportorial way he was
equal to anything from a humorous j
paragraph to a five column interview, |
from an Italian opera to a base ball
matcb, from a Presbyterian synod to a
prize-fight. He was by turns an idle
and bloated vagrant, and a man of clear
brair;, untiring energy, fertile in expedient,
and incomparable as a newsgatherer,
but always strictly unreliable. I
When of his own volition he undertook
a task no obstacle conld dishearten him,
no personal hardship was too great, and
he would persevere until his object was
attained ; but give him a set task, even
though it might assure equal or greater
compensation, and he was qnite likely
to neglect it altogether.''If jou ever have
anything very particular ou hand," he
said one day when about to receive an
important assignment, "don't intrust; it
to me, but in great emergencies, when
left to myself, look oat for me." One
evening, while dragging out a miserable
existence by occasional reporting in
vxuviuuaui) yui j^vu^uiau uvuivi v* w
railway accident a few miles distant.
In an instant there was a magic
transformation. The news gathering
instinct was aroused. The
shuffling -vagrant became the alert reporter,
with every faculty active.
Hastening to the office he found every
mouth closed. The facts were to be
suppressed as long as possible, and no
word of information could be extracted.
This much he knew; the disaster had
occurred near a country town about ten
miles from the city. Without a moment's
he sitation he took to the track.
Tt, TH5 ?. dark, srnrinv nip-ht-. and the
rain came down in torrents, but he plodded
along manfully and cheerfully, and
shortly before midnight reached his
destination. The station operator said
the wreck was five miles further on.
Time was precious and the seeker after
news pleaded in vain for a statement of
the facts. The operator, governed by
instructions, curtly refused to divulge
the slightest detail. Argument and entreaty
were alike unvaling, and the reporter
was in despair, when the telegraph
instrument began to click. Instantly
he grasped his opportunity, and,
requesting permission to dry his rain|
soaked clothing, seated himself by the
stove, where every sound could be distinctly
heard. Among his varied accomplishments
was a thorough knowledge
of telegraphy, and as he sat
shivering over the cheerful blaze, his
practiced ear, drank in every word that
passed over the wire. From the station
beyond, where the train employees had
gone, came a tolerably comprehensive
account of the accident (a collision
caused by the violation of orders) the
names of four or five persons killed and
as many wounded. It was a supplementary
report and explicit enough to
serve the purpose. A neighboring
farmer -was hastily aroused, and the
promise of liberal compensation induced
him to harness a team and drive the
reporter with all speed to Cincinnati,
where the Enquirer office was reached at
2 o'clock in the morning. An hour later
a column report of the accident, embracing
the essential facts with some
imaginative embellishment of details,
had been put in type and the esteemed
contemporaries of the Enquirer were
badly "scooped," while the chagrin
and anger of the secretive railway
authorities was simply indescribable.
This ingenious bit of work was liberally
rewarded, and its author given regular
employment. But the incentive to continued
action was lacking; the first important
assignment was deliberately neglected
and the depths of degradation
were again soundsd.
In time the Bohemian drifted back to
New York, where he underwent every
fyv-f or?/3 on T4 rt +
iUiX?t Ul ^iivauivu iuiu uiiu /
poverty can inflict because he would
not be a man.
An artful borrower, he lived cbieflv
upon the bounty of those who admired
him in spite of his faults. His appeals
at least had the merit of frankness. It
was rarely "Will you lend me a dollar?"
but "Give me a dollar; it's safe to
assort that I'll never pay you." Remonstances
against his manner cf life were
unavailing. He would listen attentively
to the catalogue of his misdeeds, and
then remark complacently to his
accuser, "My dear fellow, you flatter
me; you positively do," adding a confession
of offenses, compared with
which those for which he had been
arraigned were trifles of utter insignificance.
When fickle fortune smiled
upon him at rare intervals he squandered
his small possessions with as much
I rvrir>i"'?>lTr fts if tVlPVA WPrf"
millions in reserve. He would give
his last cent to a brother unfortunate,
when not knowing where he himself
would sleep that night, or how he
would procure his next meal. "I am
generous, but not just," he would say.
But neither dissipation nor privation
could check the spontaneous flow of
his wit, which was singularly bright and
sparkling. He wrote numerous sketches
when his nightly bed was upon a bench
in Union Square and a five cent mntton
pie was to him a banquet fit for gods.
It was during his darkest days that New
York was convuised by terrible labor
riots. To interview Cardinal McClosky
iinAn anl-nn/st- Ti7Qa on tliflf; MmA
| ?
I to him like an inspiration. He was
| almost in rags, dirty and unshaven, and
| a silver dime constituted his entire cash
I assets. The dime procured a clean
! shave, and, pinning the collar of his butI
tonless coat closely abont his neck to conceal
his lack of linen, he boldly presented
I himself at the good cardinal's door,
insisting so persistently upon admittance
that the servant doubtfnlly
permitted him to enter the first comfortable
apartment he had seen for
months. One of his nnblackened shoes
had bnrst wide op-.-n, and this he skillfully
masked beneath an ottoman and
calmly awaited his victim. He had
; never seen the cardinal and expected to
J behold him entering, like ''Richelieu,"
clad in rohes of crimson and ermine,
ready to lanncli the curse of sacred
Rome upon the rash intruder. The
j door opened and there entered an ol?i
gc-ntleman if mild and benevolent
aspect, who courteously inquired :
"Did you want to see me, sir?"
"No, sir," replied the visitor. "I
want to see the cardinal."
"I am the cardinal."
"Oh Hsaid the audacious iiaterriotrer,
! Titheasy familiarity."Sitdom,cardinal.
V
ou see the present labor disturbances J
is a topic of vital importance just note, |
and any expression of your views would
be read with great interest by the entire
countn. Now, what do you think
abont "
"Excuse me, sir," said the good ma ? 1
with a shade of asperity. "This inter" 1
view is unwarrantable. I have pos itive" 1
Jy declined to be interviewed upon ^
this subject. What paper do you represent
?"
"Well, now, the fact is, cardinal, I '
may say frankly and confidentially that
I don't happen to be regularly con- ;
nected with any paper. You see, car- J
dinal, I haven't eaten anything since
yesterday morning, and that wasn't at :
Deimonico's, and I have only very dim ]
and misty recollections of what a bed is 1
like. In my present extremity it just i
occurred to me that if you wonld give ,
me a little talk on this matter, I could j
get four or five dollars for it from al- j
most any paper in New York."
Tha eminent churchman crazed at his '
singular visitor in blank amazement,
until his indignation gave way to amusement,
and then to compassion. He
granted "the little talk," and the result
was a wonderfully graphic and forcibly
written interview of two columns, which '
the Herald gladly published next mom- ,
ing and paid twenty dollars for.
One night, jast as the old year was '
dying, John AlcCormack, then city editor ;
of the Cincinnati Enquirer, was told that
j the strange character whom he had so ]
often befriended was lying helpless in ;
an attic not far distant, and that the *
end was fast approaching. He hastened :
to the squalid apartment, and there, !
alone, haggard and uncared for, was '
the pitiful wreck ol one endowed with <
mental gifts which, properly employed, ;
would have made him one of the brightest
journalists in the laud. He shook !
his head sadly and smiled feebly :
"It's no use, John, old fellow?I'm 1
beyond help. My life has been a fail- 3
ure, but it will soon be ended. Oh, if
T nr>lv have known what if I !
could only have seen " J
The living sat beside the dead, and
the ns.^iwnn; btiis rang out the
merry tidings of a new year's birth.
No Place Like Home.
"There is no place like home?none
People in boarding-houses sigh for it
and sing about it, and always will, so
long as the hand organ is heard in the
land. Everybody remembers the old
homestead where he was born?one of
those old rambling houses that cover
four acre^ of ground and are full of innumerable
highways and byways, nooks, ?
comers and closets. "Why, I remember
of going to one of them out in Wisconsin.
Tney took ms to the spare room ]
| ?that place of desolation in any house (
' ^ O ]]AW 4
Ill nil UiIC~ttUU 5??w ? wmu it | (
candle to go to bed by. And then <
there was one of those old feather beds <
six feet high, that yon wonder how <
under the sun you'll ever climb into. 1
When you do succeed in falling into it, <
you go down, down, clear out of sight, ]
your legs and arms sticking out in four <
directions from the coverings, that are 1
too short and too narrow, and you get j
colds and rheumatism and consumption <
and die in six months. And then there t
is the hole in the window for the air? j
and the cats to come in. Both came: c
the air the most numerously, but the $
cats to stay the longest. Then they always
eat breakfast in the night in these old
houses, and the kitchen, where they 1
nnnntiM frAm I j
U.\J 1*1, J.O iVUi WUMV4WW v- -- , ,
spare room, while the thermometer is j j
191 degrees below zero and scratching j1
hard to get lower. 11
" Home is more to a woman than to a [ <
man. It is her tempk. She is its trod- ! <
dess, its priestess?but oftener its jani-1 <
tor. A man doesn't look so longingly ; ^
back at the old horns, though it never j <
cost him a cent, bought all his clothes j ]
and sent him to college. A man likes ! j
his home when he gets acquainted in j :
it, because there his stupidi'y passes for j |
the profoundest wisdom. His jokes are j 1
all laughed at (though it needs a glos- j
sary to get at their meaning) if he only j
indicates the laughing place. When a
man dies he is wept for at home, but j
the cold world moves right along a3 if
nothing had happened ; fond lovers j
come to his graveyard, even; wear his
tombstone smooth sitting on it, con- j
tract bad poetry and worse rheumatism !
and burden the air with labial confectionery.
I've heard that there were ;
skeletons in man? homes. They never
get there unless they are brought. Secrets
in the family are bad things.
There is one, though, that's all right,
and that is a handsome Christmas pres- :
j ent for the husband, for the bill is sure i.
to he sent to him four days before |
Christmas, so that everything is made ;:
ovely and harmonious."?Durdstte.
?
Abont Water.
!
Water is composed of two gases, i
oxygen and hydrogen, united in two
proportions of one measure of tli<? j
former to two measures of the latter ; j
it exists in nature in three form?, j
dependent upon the quantity of heat, j
The point of greatest density' of water j
is 39.5 degrees. Water boils at 212 :
degrees, when the barometric pressure j
is 29 92 inches.
When*we asceni mountains this pres- |
sure is less, and water boils at a lower ;
temperature than 212 degrees. This t
fact has been utilized in measuring alti- j
tudes. Both liquid and solid forms of !
water are volatile. A certain quantity ;
of water can be suspended in the atmos- j
phere, dependent upon temperature ; f
thus: one cubic yard of air at 50 de !
grees becomes saturated, that is, when !
it can not hold any more, when one-1
half cubic inch of water is diffased j
throughout it; at 75 degrees, one cubic j
inch: at 100 decrees, two cubic inches.
"When a cloud saturated with moisture j
at a temperature of 75 degrees, is sud-'
denly cooled to 50 degrees, its capacity j
for water is diminished one-half, and !
this comes down as rain, hail or snow. I
Steam is hotter tiian boiling water, al- j
though a thermometer mark*! 212 ae- j
grees in both. The heat which holds j
the atoms of steam apart is latent, and ;
is equivalent to 534 thermal units, j
Water cooled below 39.5 degrees ex- j
pands; one quart of water at 39 5 de- {
grees becomes, when frozen, 1.09022 ;
quarts of ice. Fishes and other inhab- j
itants of lakes and rivers do not die, j
because the temperature of the deeper i
waters doe3 not fall below 39 5 degrees, j
and this degree of cold is not incom- i
patible with life.
No matter how cold it may be deep |
lakes and risers are never frozen their j
entire depth; the cold water being ;
lighter rises to the surface and forms a ;
still lighter crust of ice, -which can not!
sink. This expansion of water when |
frozen provokes great changes in na- :
ture. Snow, which is composed of
crystals with six radii and of innumerable
varieties of designs, acts as a cloak
to young vegetable life.
Seven-eighta of the weight of man is ;
composed of water. Pure water can \
only be obtained from the ice caverns i
of the Alps or the laboratory of the |
chemist. Arctic explorers never want i
for drinkable water; they melt ice, !
which dissolved, is free from most im- !
purities. Fio^t crystallizes free from ;
impurities and salts. The various!
natural mineral waters are solutions of i
chemical substances "preoared in the j
ground by the pharmacy of nature." i
i "?"?"?. . i
The 2,92S newspapers, magazines and j
quarterlies of Great Britain havy an ag- >
grcgate circulation per iseno of 22,258,- i
000. and an averse circnla'ion rer issue 1
f >t eAch journal ?r "erindical o: 7,6f 2.
- , V.':' . -< >'
il'ilrlii' i.lWifTiM> wT'iirti " ppvc ''
STUDENTS DUELS.
' ' yO
Deliberate am! Bloody Butchery l>y German
Duelists.
a. correspondent of the London Glo b
srites as follows: It was 8 o'clock
on a foggy morniog as a friend and myself
marched along the M>*riahilfer
3trasse, in Vienna. My friend was a
roung surgeou 01 pruxiuae.
"It is a 'mensur,'" quoth he; "there
will be hot work, for some of them are
aid hands."
A batch of student's duels vas to be
fought- off, and my friend was doctor for
ills old corps, the "Silesia!"
' You must be a colleague for the
nonce," said he, as we turned down a
narrow side street '! can hardly introduce
you to a mensnr' unless you
pass as a doctor."
So I buttoned high my coat and
looked professional. We entered a ^
little restaurant, passed through to the
back, and so by a narrow passage to * . . .%
iW? TTiVU O \ gc.
"Ah, doctor!" called "hall a- %Z?ij
voices, as we entered.
My conductor, turning to me, said:
"Gentlemen, here is an English colleague
of mine desirous of witnessing
our 'mensur,' let me introduce him."
Long lasted the bowing, shaking of
bands, and exchanging of names, for
punctilious politeness is never more ae
rigueur than on such occasions. A
long room with a table at either end,
fcha walls hung with blaV?j gold
Sags and shields of the "Siiesia"~an
arsenal of swords in the racks-gloves,
masks and paddings in profusion. A
group of red-capped students standing
and sitting round one table, a group of
green capped students at the other?
the whole in a fine atmosphere of tobacco
smoke. Plastered were the facos
Df many, and almost every left cheek
bore proud traces of doughty Mows.
r\ j ~
J Ux ^UVCi^lXCO ail Wi-Vi Viuyi CUU VL VUV
room were "Saxoni*.,r
My friend and his colleague of the ^
Dther corps now busied themselves in
AyiDg out the implement* of their arl
?while the first pair of combatants
prepared for action. Coat? and waistcoats
were removed; tho sword arm was
iwa'.hed in many folds of black silk as
ivas also the neck, while a wadded garment?horribly
stiffened and discolored
from use?protected the body, and the
jyes were guarded by goggle-like spec:acle
frames. A fellow got up in this ,
juise has a right "uncanny" look about
turn, especially with the long straight
sword with the fearfully sharp blade
md a great basket ''guard" in his
nand.
" We will commence at occe, if it is
igreeable to y ju."
" We are entirely at your service."
The presidents of either corps saute
ceremoniously, the crowd of stuients
fall back, the combatants advance
;o chalk line. The presidents on
either side are in full student gala.boot
;d, capped and ribboned?tneir naEea
> words ready to parry an unauthorized
slow. The recorder reads the protocol
)f the fight, the senior calls.: " Si.entium
! Ready ! Guard !" There is
i second's pause, and then at the word s
' los !" (let loose) the hammering begins.
It is not at all like broadswords
)r singlesticks?still less like foils, for
he student's " paukerei" is quite sui
jenesis?an inelegant hacking at close
quarters with nothing but the over
juard " terce and quirt."
Tfiey are to ngnt ior nueeu miuutes
?rests not included?unlc-ss, of course,
i>efore that time the docior declares
it to be dangerous to procecd. " Halt"
is called for a few seconds. First blood.
"It i3 nothing," declares the doctor,
ind the swordsmen advance again, but
3ne of them has a dripping gish in the
?heek. "Halt" is called at least a
lozen times, and each time another
?ash is recoried. One man can hardly
;ee for the biood which trickles down
!iis forehead and gets under his goggles,
asd so the doctor, with calm readiness,
smears the upper lim with the
crease from a plate cf "gaylasch," and
thus diverts the gory stream.
" Our man can go on a bit more,"
from the Saxonia
"Our man is quite ready," from the ?
Silesia.
"Ready! Los!" once more, flam
mer, hammer; clash, clash.
"Ealt I" a lock of hair flatters to the
ground; Saxouia staggers back; the
doctor is at his side.
"We mast 6top," remarks ^E<culapius,
after a glance; "a deep scalp
wound."
The recorder advances, and reads
passively from his notes :
" 'Mensur' between X of Saxonia.
and Y of Silesia. Stopped by Dr.
Z , after fourteenth round, 'after
twelve and three-quarter minutes actual
fightiDg."
And n-.w the doctors fall to work,
and a right ghastly sight it is ; gory
paddings, steaming liot, are loosened,
and wine poured down between pale .
lips. Next duel was a far finer affair,
for practiced slashers yield tho steeL >
Everybody tools tiae trouoie to iook on ;
even the most crashed of topers pat
down his beer and ashamed a critical
mien. Lightning quick flashed the
blades, whizzing ominously ; but the
touches were less frequent by reason of
greater skill in parrying. All at onca
Silesia dropped his weapon and fainted
outright. His whole hand was laid open
by a skillful under switch. This concluded
the second affair.
Polite to lite Policeman.
"Talk a!>ont bold bank burglaries,"
said a member of the po!iee4??2e this
morning, "the slickest steaif,^S?I^ ^
heard ot was the robbery of a bank "
down in Rhode Island, sis or seven
years ago. It wa3 a bitter cold nigbfc,
and a night-patrolman noticed a dim
light in the "bank window, and going
up to the door rapped.
'Is that you, patrolman ?' asked a
voice from withm.
" 'Yes,' was the reply.
"'Step in and get"a heat,'said the
voice from within. The patrolman
stepped inside and ecconntered a daplittle
fellow wearing a green shade over
his eyes and a pen behind his ear.
" 'Yon're working late to-night,' said
the patrolman.
" 'Yes,' said the dapper little fellow,
I've been detained to-night straightening
np aeconnts.'
"The patrolman warmed himself at
the roaring big fire tliafc blazed on the
hearth and went ont again on his beat.
An honr after the patrolman came that
way, and still seeing the light throngn
bUC wmuun la^cu
" 'Is that yon, patrolman?
" 'Yes.'
" 'Come in and warm yourself.'
"The pa'roltnan accepted the invitation.
44 'It's a howling cold night,' said the
man with a green shade over his eyes.
" 'Yon bet,' said the patrolman. So
he took another heat and retarned to
his beat. Be was rather snrprised nest
day to learn that his fireside friend of
the night before had got away with
some ?90,000 of the bank's funds."
In Memory of Her Husband.
Nob only at Balmoral, but also at
Osborne and at Windsor castle, tbe
units of rooms which were occupied by
the prince consort hare never b?ea altered
in any way since his death. Everything
remains the same as he left it.
The rooms are kept locked up during
the absence of the court, but. as Qieen
Victoria comes to each palace, they are
opened and lighted up every evening
during her stay. At Windsor she usu
fillj* pats'1? a pari uacu -m
the j-rineo ccns :rt> sitticsr room ' Js
j

xml | txt