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[FOR THE RECORD-UNION.]
SET IN A SILVER SEA!
A ROMANCE BY B. L. FARJEON.
AUTHOR OF "BLADE O' GRASS," "BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES," "JOSHUA MAKVEL,''
"KING OF NO-LAND," "THE BELLS OF PENRAVEH," ETC.
CHAPTER IX.
THB BETKAYAL.
" How shall I describe what followed ?
A hundred times have I endeavored to re
call impressions* and events in
r, and a hundred times have I I
I have Baid I was a light sleeper, j
Vfhat was it, then, t'aat rendered me ur.-
OOnadou and powerless, when I should
liav,
ful watchdog to guard my luml/ from the
wolvrs ?
"A i over n3. I look op
j but half-open, and I tec oi ■
■' . ■ res "
aioa is that he has been standing by cur
side for to;r.'j little while, gazing at us.
His action is kind and considerate, and I
thn:k of linn \ leness. In a pli
ant v, iy, i . trice becomes a. with
him, and a number of happy fai.ci>s pre
sent themsslves. While t'.»cy are slipping
from rae and returning in -',1
ii .:■ these words :
"'ftold you, to the la- ! your
bloo.l! But it Ectms to me, if yon I
youi .lines over, that you could
not pay what you have already lost —
I).iubt you? lie reasonable, fellow. W^
trust only our equals.'
"A hot retort ; a contemptuous allusion
to the social position of my master; and
then .1 vision of three men — two w;th
drawn sworJs, one Standing by, amused at
the unequal contest. For the furious
thrusts of our master are parried with
consummate grace and skill by his antag
onist. A pass — another — and the brute
lie 3on the ground, at the mercy of the
gentleman.
" ' Mercy ? lam no. quite sure whether
it would not bo a charity to get rid of
you.'
•■ ■ Leave him to me.'
"' My friend i.-> on your side. I make
you over to him. After all, I doubt
whether you are -worth the killing.'
" Chrico and I are back in the old time,
and ore walking with our father through
green laces. It is a well-remembered
walk, beguiled with loving conversation.
We stop for our mid-day meal outside a
picturesque little inn, the porch of which
is a bower of roses and honeysuckle. The
mistress comes out and gives us a jug • of
clear water drawn from a spring. My
father thanks her courteously, and she
wishes to change the water for wine, but
he will not have it co. We have just be
gan to cat, when two poor girls, in com
parison to whom we are princesses, pass
us, with wistful eyes upon our food. My
father calls them back immediately, and
we share our meal with them. We ques
tion them concerning their history, and
they tell us the story of their lives.
'"Sisters,. no!'
" Who spoke ? Not my father, for he is
gone ; the inn, the flowered porch, the
children, have vanished.
" 'It will be a better kind of slavery i
than that to which. . . You dog ! I believe [
you stole her. . . . You set high price upon
your wares ; but the texture is delicate
and its beauty not to be disputed. How
you caiuc to be the owner is one of the
mysteries. Well, have at you. I'll not
dispute your price. Cut the cards.'
"Are the words really uttered, or cre
ated by my imagination ? I cannot say ;
but spoken or not they convey no warning
to my mind. Blind watchdog ! Sleeping
at your post when you should have been
awake and stirring ! But you have been
well punished for your neglect of a sacred
trust.
"My dreams continue. We are all
seated round the card-table — the gentle
men, our master, Clarice and I. We girls
watch the game curiously as though we are
vitally interested in it. Piles of gold are
before ns, which the gentlemen, in sport,
push into Clarice's lap. At first she is
pleased, but when the gold rises higher
and higher, until she is completely hidden
from my sight, she cries, 'Save me, Mar
guerite, save me !' As lam brushing the
gold away a church bell tolls the hour —
one, two, three, four — and then these words
come to me at intervals :
" 'Do not let it trouble you Better
my slave than yours She shall be a
queen ! . . . .Her clothes ? . . .Twenty gold
pieces ! Well, I don't bargain. Cut again.'
" And now I am visited by a terrible
fancy. Oar master approaches Clarice
and is abont to clasp her in his arms, when
the gentleman with whom he has been
playing advances to him threateningly. I
also make an effort to protect Clarice, but
I cannot move. lam bound to earth by
an unseen agency. I struggle against it,
but am unable to rise. A vapor floats
across my face and robs me of the power
cf thought. All surrounding objects slip
from me ; I hear nothing, see nothing, feel
nothing. lam as one dead to the world.
«♦♦*♦*
"It was late in the morning before I j
woke, and then I found myself lying on a J
couch in a better furnished room than the I
one we had occupied at the top of the i
house. The apartment was in semi-dark
ness, and the woman who had visited us I
on the previous night was looking down i
upon me. My senses were not yet quite j
clear ; my head ached, and my senses were i
in a strange state of confusion. I gazed
at the woman in bewilderment ; she gave
me a wicked smile, and I noticed that my j
ordinary clothes were hanging on her
arm.
" 'Quality hours, mistress/ she said
tauntingly, and her voice brought to my
mind a full remembrance of her treach
erous conduct towards my sister and
myself.
" I turned to speak to Clarice, and saw
to my dismay that she was not by my side,
nor in the room.
" ' Where ia my sister ! ' I cried, spring
ing to my feet.
" The woman did not answer the ques
tion.
'"Do you know what time it is !' she
said. 'Itis an hour past noon. What
are you about to do, mistress ? '
" ' I am going to my sister,' I replied.
"She barred the way, and I could not
pass her.
'"You cannot leave the room in your
stage drti-s. It would not be becoming.'
> " ' Where is my sister ': ' -I asked again.
" Safe enough, no doubt,' she answered.
( ' Here are your clothes. Take off those
i j siik trappings; they are mine.'
j "♦Yours! 1 ' %;i;.
"'Yes, mine. I bought them of your
master and paid for them. 'j
" 'He Bent you to me
■ "' I should • not have code without
orders. [ami in love with you, pretty
i as you think you are. Dress yourself
quickly; your master is waiting for you.'
" With feverish ha3te [ tore off my tine
■ stage drea aad pat on my common
eiuthes.
" ' 2\uw,' I said, 'take me to my master.'
"'A . in good time, my laJy,' the said,
proceeding leisurely to fold up my stage
Ure6s ; '1 most take care of my property.
I'll hire a ring girl of my own and
make money out of her. It would have
been wise in you to have made me your
friend.'
'■ My anxiety concerning Clarice was too
deep to permit of my wrangling with the
woman, who seemed to derive pleasure by
prolonging my suspense. Presently she
bade me follow her, and she led the way
to a room where usy master was sitting
with an empty wine" bottle before him.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his appear
ance was that of a man who had been for a
long time without rest.
" ' Oh, you have come at last !' he ex
claimed with a frown. 'You are a faith
ful servant, detaining me here for hours !
We ou»ht to have been ten miles on the
road by this time.'
'"We are going to leave the town,
then ?' I said, looking round for Clarice.
'• He replied with a storm of curses upon
the place and every person in it. ' I wish I
had broken my neck before I came into
the cursed hole ! May fire seize it and
burn it to ashe3 ! Come.' •
"'I am ready. Where is Clarice V
"He was prepared with his answer.
' She baa gone before ' us. If we are not
sharp we shall not overtake her.'
" 'Gone before us," I echoed, struggling
CO O
j inwardly with a faintness which oppressed
me, like the faintneas of death, ' Alone !'
" 'No : with a friend, who offered me a
seat for her in a wagon that was going our
road. lam careful of my girls, you see.' |
" ' You intrusted Clarice to a stranger ?
My sister, who has never been parted from
me for an hour !'
I "'Why not! It is time she learnt to
depend more on herself. She ' will not
break, not being made of glass. If we de
lay much longer we shall not reach her
I to-night.'
" 'Swear to me that you are speaking
the truth ! '
"He crossed bis heart, half in jest, half
in earnest. .' I swear. And now let me
have no more of your airs. Remember
that you are my servant.'
I "'I do remember,' I said, gazing stead
f ily at him. 'If you are deceiving me, may
your life be blighted and your death ac
cursed ! '
"'Be warned, Margaret. Bear in mind
that you may try my patience too far.
Ask quickly what other questions you have
to ask and make an end of this.' -
"I wa3 so completely in his power and
so entirely friendless, that I could do
nothing but be led by him.
" ' Where are the gentlemen with whom
i yon were gambling last night f
" ' In the devil's clutches, I hope !'
" ' Are they here now, and do they be
| long to this place ? -
" ' They do not belong to the town, and
they left it at sunrise. Is that the last ?'
" ' Yes ;I am ready. Let us go.'
"We went into the street, and at a
signal from my master a small covered cart
drew up. No person in the hotel took the'
slightest notice of us.
"' Claries could have accompanied us,'
I said, 'as we are to ride.'
"If you were not eaten up with sus
picion,' said my master, 'you would see
that there is barely room for ourselves.
Besides, when I sent Clarice off this morn-
I ing, I thought you and I would have had
to walk. You are grateful for kindness .
" ' It is not without cause that I am sus
picious. Shall we be certain to come up to
j Clarice to-night ? '
" 'Not if we stand babbling here all
day.'
11 ' Forgive me; tell the man to drive
I quickly ; we may overtake her on the road.
" My master in a low tone gave instruc
tions to the driver, and then assisted me
into the cart. He arranged some straw
j for me to lie upon, and seating himself at
■ the back of the conveyance drew the can
vas hood close, bo that we were hidden
. from the people in the streets. The driver
sit in front, and I crouched down behind
him in such a position that I could see
the road before us. We drove fast and
were soon out of the town. The driver
did not speak to me nor I to him, nor did
he turn even to look at me. The paths
we traversed were desolate and lonely, and
the few human beings we saw tramping
along were forlorn and wretched-looking.
When we were twelve or fourteen miles
from the town we came to a poverty
stricken accommodation house, and the
man stopped to give his horse food and
watel 1 . My master got out to drink, and
brought me some bread and cheese, which
I could not eat. I so begrudged every
moment of delay that I fretted myself
almost into a fever at the stoppage. If I
had had money I would have given it to
the man as a bribe not to linger ; having
none, nor anything of value about me, no
course was open to me but to wait for
events. With what eagerness and anxiety
did I now examine every conveyance we
met and passed ; asking my master if that
or that was the conveyance which con
tamed Clarice. He had but one answer
forme, 'No.' He did not take the trouble
to look up, and towards the evening be
pretended to fall asleep, and spoke to me
no more. I had plenty of time for thought,
but strive as I would I could not recall
events in intelligible sequence. All that
had passed during the last twenty-four
hours was blurred and indistinct, and I
found it was impossible, although my mind
was clearer now, to separate fancy from
reality. Oi;e indelible impression, how
ever, remained — that by some mysterious
means I had been rendered unconscious,
and that the slpc-p into which I had fallen
was not naturally produced. I would not
allow myself to get further than this ;
every suspicion that presented itself to me,
based upon this conviction, I rejected with
tierce (vehemence. Evening passed and
night came on, and still no sign of Clarice ;
but my ma&ter had held out no hope that
we should overtake her on the road, i : We
must have ridden a great distance, for the
driver did not spare his horse. On we
drove, through the gloomy night, until we
reached a small village, the few inhabit
ants of which had retired to rest. Every
house was in darkness ; not a sound was to
be heard. We stopped at an inn, the
driver jumped down, and my master as
sisted me to the ground.
" ' Wo shall i- it here to-night,' he said.
" '.Then Clarice is ■within?' I asked.
" 'She ought to be,' replied my master,
knocking loudly at the door.
" The driver, after receiving some money
from my master, jumped on to his cart
and drove away. My muter and i were
alone.
"In a few moments a fair- faced lout,
but ha'.f-dressed, opened the door and
stood in the doorway, holding up a lamp to
our LCI 8. ■■ t .
" • What do you want ?' he asked.
" ' Are you the landlord
"'Aye.' '
" ' We wish to rest here to-night,' said
my master ; ' we can pay for our accommo
dation.'
"'Enter.'
"He made way for U3, and I ran in,
calling Clarice !' Clarice !'
"' la the girl mad ! ' exclaimed the land
lord. ' Cease that noise ; you will wake
my children.'
" 'She is calling for her sister,' said my
master.
" 'There is no sister of hers here.'
" 'Who is in the house V asked my mas
ter.
"'No one but my wife and our chil
dren.'
" 'Did not a wagon stop here this even
ing, bringing a young woman about 1G years
of age, who was to remain until we ar
rived ? '
" 'Nothing of the sort. No wagon with
a young woman has stopped at the house.'
" ' But one might have passed.'
" 'A dozen might have passed for all I
know. What will you have to eat I ' ■
" 'Anything you have got ; and let me
have a bottle of red wine.'
" I was almost paralyzed with fear as I
listened to this dialogue. My master put
his questions in a careless tone and re
i ceived the answers with unconcern. What
construction but one that maddened me to
think of could I place upon the situation
in which I found myself ? Clarice not |
here ! Torn from me, her only protector,
herself . a child, ignorant of the world's
ways ! I confronted my master.
" 'Explain this to me,' I said. '■
"His face grew dark with passion.
' Speak to me in a proper tone, Margaret.'
" Tell me what this means 1' I im
plored.
".'That is better,' he said. 'I made j
arrangements that the three of us should
start early this morning. I sent to rouse
you half-a-dozen times, and each time the
woman came back, saying she could not
wake you. That was no fault of mine.
Opportunity offering, I thought it best to
send Clarice before us, as in consequence
of the lateness of the hour, I supposed our
journey might be beyond her strength. I
gave instructions to my friend the wagoner
that if night fell before he reached this
village he was to leave Clarice at this inn ;
but if he had time he was to go on to the
next village, where I intend to put up for
a day or two. As Clarice is not here,
we shall find her further on. That is all.'
" That is not all,' I said, my heart al
most bursting out of my bosom ; ' you are
concealing something from me.'
" 'Think what you please,' he retorted,
shrugging his shoulders ; 'it will not help
you or Clarice. Do not mistake me — be
yond certain limits you shall not go, with
out being made to feel it. I have been too
easy with yon hitherto.'
• " 'I do not want to make you angry,' I
said humbly, subdued by the terror of the
situation. ' I know it will not help me. I
only ask that Clarice shall be given back to
me ! I will work for you day and night —
there is no task you set me to that I will
not perform ; you shall never hear another
rebellious word from my lips ; indeed, in
deed, no slave could be more submissive to
you than I will be if you will take me to
I my sister ! '
" 'I am glad to bear you speak in that
manner,' said my master. 'You have de
fied me too long, Margaret, and I have
borne it too quietly. Remain submissive
and obedient ; it will be best for you.
There is no doubt we shall see Clarice to
morrow. You have discovered, my girl,
who is the strongest. Here 13 the landlord,
with food and wine. Eat and drink.
Obey me.'
"What could I do? What could I do?
Keep my agony to myself, conceal my
i feara and endeavor to soften the heart of
i this man who held me as completely in his
power as though I was bound to him by an
iron chain ! With tears running down my
face I sat by his side and ate a few morsels
of food, endeavoring in a hundred small
ways to awaken some human sympathy in
his breast for my almost unbearable suffer
ings.
" ' What time shall we start in the
morning ? ' I asked.
" ' At 8 o'clock."
" XLet us start at 7,' I implored.
" ' You shall be humored, Margaret ; at
7, then.'
" ' How can I than*, yon ! Is it far to
the next village?'
" 'Eighteen miles ; and we shall have to
walk. You will need all yoar strength.'
"Ah! he was cunning in his villainy.
He turned my misery against myself, and
made me feel that if I opposed his wishes
I should prove myself an enemy to my
sister. Our meal being finished, the land
lord informed me that he had only one
spare bedroom, which my master could
occupy, and that I could sleep with his
children. He showed me to the bedroom
j where his little girls were sleeping. Before
leaving me he stooped over the bed and
kissed their pretty faces, and this natural
and tender action flooded my eyes with
fresh tears. I was so utterly alone — in a
' world of strangers, with no link of human
I love but Clarice, who had been torn from
me ! I thought of her desolation and
despair at our separation, and of the un
happy n^ght she was passing. She was
awake, as I was, thinking of me, as I was
of her. A small clock in a wooden case
was on the mantelpiece, and 1 watched the
j handß until watching became a torture,
they moved co slowly. Then I sank to
my knees, and prayed, and with my
thoughts concentrated upon the necessity
of waking caily, I fell into an uneasy
■lumber.
"At 5 o'clock in the morning J was
standing outside the inn, in the light of
the early sunrise. The presage of a fine
day comforted me a little. ' I shall see
Clarice soon,' I thought, with gladness ;
' I shall see Clarice soon !' And I mentally
vowed that, when she was once more
within the shelter of my arms, nothing
but death should ever /igain separate us.
Never again should I be caught sleeping
at my post. The place I was in was
strand to me.; I had no knowledge of
the roads by which we had reached it,
nor in which direction we should wend
our way to Clarice. The conviction that
if I were left to myself I. should
be lost for ever was one of the
aeutest miseries of my position. I had
absolutely no dependence but my master.
' There is no doubt we shall see Ciarice
to-morrow,' he had said. To-morrow had
came, and in a few hours my suffering
would be over. I walked to a field, and
picking a few wild flowers, made two
posies, one for the landlord's children and
one for my master. I must meet cunning
with canning. I placed the children's posy
in their room, and I gave- the smaller
bunch of flowers to my master, who was
by this time awake and up. lie received
them with a smile, not of thankfulness,
but of triumph, and stuck them in his
hat.
"' Yon are growing sensible, Margaret,'
be said.
"At 7 o'clock, true to liis promi.-e, we
started, and within an hour two lumbering
v. hijks ■ assed ns, going our road. 1 eyed
them wistfully.
"'Can we not ride?' I asked.
" ' All my money has gone,' he replied ;
'I have barely enough to keep us for the
week. We will ride and welcome, if you
will pay for it.'
" ' Alas ! ' I said ; ' I have nothing. '
" I was foolish enough to look wistfully
along the road, in the absurd hope that a
kind providence would place a piece of
gold there, to help us more quickly on the
way. On and on we walked, he often lag
ging behind to try my patience, but I ut
tered no word of complaint. Before noon
there was a change in the weather ; dark
clouds approached us, and the rain began
to fall heavily. 1 was for walking on,
heedless of the storm ; my master would
not have it so. He stopped at the first
lint we reached and sought shelter within.
Tiiis caused a delay of three or four hours,
for he was deaf to all my entreaties, saying
I there was time enough, and that we should
! arrive at our destination by night. In the
I afternoon we started again, the rain being
over, and shortly after nightfall our weary
I walk was done. Then were many houses
and people in the village, and it was alto
gether more important than the one we
had left behind. ' Clarice is there !' I
whispered to myself. ' Thank God, we
shall presently be together ! ' And I said
aloud to my master :
'"Where shall we find my sister *'
" ' At the Salutation Inn.'
" ' Have you been in this place before ? '
" ' Once, years ago. My friend tokl me
he knew the inn w«ll.'
" Hia ready answers confirmed my hopes ;
I had tortured myself with needless fears.
" ' We cannot put up at the Salutation,'
he said ; 'we must seek cheaper accommo
dation. My purse has little enough in it.'
"There was no difficulty in discovering
what he sought— a poor inn, frequented by
the poor and needy.
" 'This will suit,' he said, ' and I dare
say we can raise a little money by our
performances. Remain here ; I will bring
Clarice to you.'
"He would not allow me to accompany
him. Alone he went : alone he returned.
His face was troubled, his manner confused,
and I did not pause to consider whether
he had schoolsd himself into this expres
sion of feeling.
" 'My God ! ' I cried ' where 13 Clarice t
"'She has not been seen,' he replied,
sullenly. 'I do not understand it. Why
should she have taken it into her head to
run away from so loving a sister as you ? '
"The truth flashed upon me in a mo
ment. We had been betrayed.
" ' You villain ! ' I exclaimed. ' You
shameless villain ! 0, that I were a man,
to punish you for your treachery ! '
[To be continued..]
TO PORTIA AT BELMONT.
Quick from the fog and frost away,
My, my ton;;, with greeting gay,
To fair Belmont's lady fair ; -
Up, my simp, to purer air —
Up like soaring lark in spring !
Quick as swallow < ips his win?
Slanting; to the Bummer sea, .
Quick, away, ith frolic glee,
.Humble greeting, greeting gay,
To the Lady Portia !
She is good and she is vise-
She has shapen destinies ;
Swift of tongue, of noble speech,
Learning ever, wise to teach ;
Wise in counsel, firm in deed,
Helper in man's utmost need ;
Brave as wise, and true as brave,
Quick to f ■£■. 1, and strong to save ;
Fly, my little song, and pay
Honor to great Portia, •
Wise she is — and sweet withal, V: ."?:
Queen at life's great festival P
Queen of laughter ; keen of wit,
Quick to arm, and sure to hit, —
Laughing light, and laughing ever,
At the foolish jest and clever —
Laughing first and jesting after,
For she scarce can speak for laughter—
Who our thousand follies sees, % j
Antics, inconsistencies : -
c Wiser than all men, more gay
Than a child is Portia.
i Bright on Adriatic See
Plays the sunlight laiiahinglv ;.
Soft on Bclmont lawn* by night '■"
Flows and spreads ths fair moonlight ;
Countless years has Venice stood
Steadfast on the shifting flood ;
Steadfas heart, unbroken will,
Noble purpose, matchless skill,
Tenderness of moon's soft ray.
Splendor of the Southern day, . .
Charm of Venus at her birth,
. Naught of malice, all of mirth,
Laughter, learning, love and play —
All good things are Portia. >
Fly, then, Bong, across the sea, ;
. Fly to mirth and minstrelsy ;
And when thou dost see the tret*
On fair Belmont's terraces.
Bow thee to thy lady's knife, '
. Kiss the band that takes thy life : 1 1
Take one kiss and breathe one sigh
When she cuts thy cord, then lie
sln her hand, beneith her smile; . f ;■• .-.;
She will laugh a little while—
I For she laughs at llttl* thing? —
Then perchance she'll fold thy wing*, . ..
Lav thee on her heart to rest;
I Then, my song, art tbon molt blest
' On the home of tiuit and play, .
-* Onthe bent of Portia. '
— [J. S., in BUckwood's Magazine.
THE CARNIVAL.
TK2 EATTIE CF "C3BJTE77I" ABB HOW
> „' IT 13 WA&B9 A" HICZ
Paris and the Parisians— Society and Its
Huatlnjr, Religious and Other
Seasons in Franca.
Paris,- February IG, ISSO. ,
The carnival came and went this year
with a step so light that many were not
aware of its presence, iiardi-gras each
year grows thinner and thinner until it has j
now become but a shadow of its former
self, and has dwindled down to almost the
Fame dimensions as Mercredi dcs Lendres.
Instead, however, of weeping over its de- i
parture, the good people remember that ;
other times, other customs, and that likely
something else will come along to replace
it. Only the straggling remains of the
Bonapartist party, who have so many
skeletons in their closets that they
constantly call the attention of.the public
to their gilded ornaments, plaintively re
gret Ihe disappearance of the bai>fn yras,
which formed an import ntfeatniei 'the
carnival during the Empire. These oxen
were attached to a decorated car which
contained persons in fancy costumes, and
the whole were followed by great crowds,
not, however, alone, for policemen almost
as numerous as they accompanied their
steps to arrest the hilarity should it ex
cord the bounds of imperial etiquette.
Napoleon 111. did not spare either inven
tion or ingenuity to occupy the French
with amusements,' remembering that if a
cbild*k given a plaything he forgets that
which has been promised him, and that is
] why there were then
NUMEROUS FETES
Throughout Fiance, and why the French
were constantly dancing and singing with
out, however, being mere disposed to
dance and sing than other nations. Some
year 3 a^o the carnival commenced to be
represented only by children, when the
street 3 were on llaidi-gras crowded with
miniature peasants, kings, queens, knights
and follies; but even the children have
abandoned the carnival to its fate, and,
with the exception of here and there
young girls dressed in boys* clothes
(a costume appreciated by all girls), and
a little couple decked out in hat, cap
and spectacles of grandfather and
grandmother, no other traces of the grand
old carnival remain. It rained almost the
whole day this year on Mardi-gras, which
dampened somewhat the ardor of thosa
disposed to greet the carnival in the streets,
but that did not prevent the theaters from
being crowded to overflowing and numer
ous dinners and parties from taking place
in the evening.
TI!K CAUNIVAL,
An imitation of the bacchacalia, one of
the pagan feasts which has unconsciously
glided into Christian domain, was brought
from Italy into France, and without spe- I
cial assistance and artificial means, like all i
hot-houfe plants, it is doomed to fade when
the solicitude is relaxed. Only on one
point of the French territory does the car
nival each year flourish with ail the vigor
of an indigene. Nice, which has repeatedly
belonged to Italy, France, to Italy and
Franca again, lias fully retained
among the precious lilies of the old
country the carnival in all its brill
iancy and originality. 'The people, al
though loving France, are Italian through i
their language and their customs, and
without any effort on their part they
plunge into all the extravagances for which
special dispensation is given on Mardi
gras. What a fete, and what a fairy-like
scene ! All along the principal street and
on both sides of the street tribunes are
erected before the houses. Flowers of all j
colors in great profusion, floating stream- '
ers, garlands, girandoles of colored glass, j
mottoes, shields with the arms of the city,
all fluttering under a deep, beautiful sky,
and animated by the sun. It is surely a
charming spectacle. But that jis only the
exterior form of a divertisement ; it is but
the aspect of public fetes to be seen through
out all France. The originality of the car
nival at Nice is neither in the richness of
the costumes nor in the pomp of the pro
cession. That which strikes the promen
ader who knows nothing of the carnival of
Italy is the battle of confetti. These con
fetti are regular hailstones of hard paste of
different colors, and not only have they the
form and dimensions of hail, they also have
the same destination. The confetti is created
and brought into the world for the sole
purpose of lashing the passers-by. Eight
days before the carnival all the shops are
tilled with confetti. Industries far opposed
to each other vie in the propagation of this
engine. The baker sells confetti, the
grocerman, of course, but the fruit mer
chant, the umbrella merchant, and still
others whose ordinary occupations would
seem too far removed from that produce,
hang large sacks at their doors. One is
then sure that ammunition will , not be
wanting. However, the day of battle ar
rives and the confetti pass from the mer
chant's sack into the cartridge-box of the
combatants. You see from early in the
morning grave personages , carrying ,in
bandoleers, a sort of game-bag, which at
first sight seem to be swollen with
the presents of St. Hubert (the guardian
of hunters) ; but no,
THEY ARK CONFETTI,
And it is the chase after man which is be
ing organized. ■ All those who are going
to engage in battle are besides fur
nished with a sort of porringer in
tin, whose* handle of reed serves
by means of an elastic .to project the load
ahead. . The maneuver .is very simple.
The porringer is tilled, a slight bend back
is made, the band let go, and — a gentle
man has received the blow full in the face.
It is the custom ; the victim does not even
turn round ; scarcely a slight movement
indicates that he has been touched. Then
one passes to another, and so on they shoot,
they reply. It is a battle fray in which
ten thousand persons take part. | All appa
rition on the. battle field is immediately
s-duted by a general attack ; there is no
neutrality, the enemy is everywhere. , They
draw upon you from every quarter, from
the left, from the right, from all the win
dows, from all the tribunes the confitti fly
crackling on the hats, and leaving every
where a pasty trace when touched.' The
air is no longer ■ breathable, seeing is im
possible, 1 and blinded, deafened, choked,
the stranger, muttering hard things of
these exuberant customs, thinks seriously
of beating retreat, when he perceives that
everybody he elbows is not only armed for
the offensive, but is also prepared for the
defensive. ; All faces are masked, all collars
are : raised, and every one is protected
against the hail. With wire masks cover
ing the face, which masks are cool and
comfortable,
AU. ARE DISGUISED,
And ladies in elegant street or carriage
costumes are no longer to be recognized
the moment they are covered with these
wire masks. The elegant private car
riages are no longer to be distinguished, fcr
pieces of white cloth decorated with
rosettes fall over the sides and thns pro
tect them from the contact of the confetti.
The horses, as wpII, are covered and
decorated with rosettes of various colors,
the driver is distinguished in some fancy
costume, and the whole move as mys
terious as night specters from another
world. The carnival is eminently Italian,
but the most active participants are
English and Americans, and at the head of
the list of the organizers may be seen the
names of Lords and Dukes, the aristocracy
of the British Isles. Coldly, without the
slightest provocation on your part, a lady
of the highest position, who would hardly
Balute yoa were you presented to her,
| showers you with a package of confetti. It
must be said that all this passes silently.
r lhe hight of familiarity is cou fined .to the
bight of reserve, and if you address a word
—a. single word— to the haughty person
who has juat riddled yon with her pro
jectiles, the cltar.n would be broken and
society would reclaim her rights. Most
singular is the character of this fete, very
nearly dumb — a strange contrast,
THIS DISHEVELLED PANTdsiIMK
With the absence of all dialogue ! The
people are contested to gambol behind the
chariots, which are really magnificent.
Drawn by eight ami ten horses, they carry
a- many as fifty persons, a whole society,
who share the expenses between them of
the organization of the masquerade. One
represents Russia with her bum woods cov
ered with snow, another Africa with her
negroes and cannibals ; all have a significa
tion and are competitors for a prise. Prizes
I are also given to societies on foot who may
Ibe the best costumed, as well as to
isolated individuals wto may have dis
covered an original disguise. It is thus
a group of candelabra in old bronze,
with an immense caudle for a head-drtss,
may aun, while others are contented
with copying the different figurations of
the operettas. Am»n» them may be seen
the chevalier of the Roulette who p'.r
sonifies Monte-Carlo, and Diogenes who is
to search of a man. Formed in a long pro
cession, all these band*, all these societies,
all the tingle characters, pass before the
Prefecture, where is the tribune of thecom
mittee of organization. There each ill :
shows what he knows that may aid him in
obtaining the prize. ' There are dances,
gymnastic ptrfonaauces,coniic pantomimes
and iv the evening torchlight-, fireworks,
each society bringing theirs with them, and
all taking place at the sound ol three or
four orchestras. So finishes the day of the
carnival. The day follow ing the carnival,
the rich inhabitants and visitors of Nice,
unmasked and seated in their carriages,
meet each other on the grand promenade
Les Anglais, where t!:ey shower each other
with bouquets. Each - carriage contains
baskets filled with flowers of all huts, ar
rnnged in miniature nosegays, and when
those on the laps of the ladies and gent] -
men have been emptied, an immcn;c bis
ket is passed to the company by the driver,
who has kept* it in reserve nestled at his
feet. This fete, however, is exclusive ai;d
aristocratic, and in which none but the
rich take part.
TESTKUDAY BXQAS THE PUEArniNQ
In the different churches, to be continued
every Sunday throughout the carcme. On
such occasions the most eloquent orators
of the Church are called upon to preach
| humility andcontritiontotheParisians. No
time of the year more than at the present
' are the Parisians at Paris, for the hunting
season is over and all quit their chateaux to
enter the capita! until the month of May,
when the pleasures of the country call
them away again. It is . the fashion for
the wealthy and elegant to attend these
I sermons, and at no time of the year are
the churches so crowded. It is the re
ligious season which follows the hunting
season and forms part of the programme
lof amusements. Each lady is devoted to
j her favorite preacher, and many a dis
cussion takes place among the fair sex as
to the qualities and superior talents of
these celebrated orators.
To-night takes place at the Theater Fran
cais the first representation of "Daniel
liochat," a comedy by Sardon. It is the
first literary work Victoritn Sardou has
presented to the public since he has become
a member of the academy. Therefore much
interest is excited, particularly as it has
been talked about tor months during its
long and tedious preparation by the com
pany, until at last the public had despaired
of ever seeing "Daniel Rochat" on the
hoards. By those who know something of
the piece no great success is predicted for
it, yet it must be remembered that the
company of the Theater Francais are val
iant soldiers, and have been known to win
; many a battle with very poor cannon.
Val.
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A VOICE
— ki:om —
HOW
O. J. AVERELL,
— or the —
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OF
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RES CUED
FROM
DEATH
BT
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Salt Lake City, January 23, is"«>.
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Clerk Supreme Court of th« T«rrilory »t
Utah.
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