[FOR THE RECORD-UNHW.J
SET IN A SILVER SEA!
A ROMANCE BY B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF "BLADE O* GRASS," " BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES," ''JOSHUA MARVEL,'
" KING OF NO-LAND,'' THE BELLS OF PENR-iVEN," ETC.
*•*-" --.- .; --.-.- .A -"■-. y-. ■ ■ -■ .-, :<-__.T*_s^?te£i£Hi»cft^^ r^.i.v.'-., -:.. ' .'
CHAPTER XXL— (Continued.)
THE WRITING IN THE BIBLE. . .
"'ln the sermon .to which we had lis
tened parallels had been drawn between
the rich and ' poor, . to ' the advantage of
those who lived in humble dwellings and
. worked for their daily bread. It was upon
* this point that Harold and his friend con
versed with the pastor, and drew from him
. his belief that not only was there greater
happiness among the poor, but also higher
virtues. It appeared to: me as if Harold
and his friend were amusing themselves in
a light way at the pastor's expense, but the
kind old man showed no irritation or im
patience ; he listened attentively, and re
plied with dignity and gentleness. Until
the discussion ; was at an end he did not
address me ; he allowed ' Harold to have
the last word, and then turned bis benevo
lent eyes upon my face. "Young lady,"
he said, and there was pity in his voice,
" it pleased me to see yen enter our sim
ple church ; come often ; you will find
comfort in prayer; and if it should hap
pen that you want a friend, cne who will
counsel you as a father would an erring
child, seek me in my home. Any of the
villagers will : conduct you to it." As he
spoke to me he laid his hand upon my
shoulder with fatherly kindness, and while
we were in this position a young girl very
nearly of my own age approached him and
stood by his side, calling him "grand
father." With a hasty motion he drew
her from me, and with a bow walked away
leaning upon the young girl's arm. We
looked after him till he was out of sight ;
he did not turn to look at us .-gain, .7- .
'"There was something in his action
with respect to his granddaughter which
pained me exceedingly. It was as though
he imagined contact with us would do the
young girl harm. And why should he
have used the words to me, "who will
counsel you as a father would an erring
child ?" I have done no wrong.
" ' Harold said he was one of a class of
agitators who take pltasure in believing
that ; the rich are systematically corrupt
and incapable of goodness. "But give
these agitators money," said Harold,
"raise their position, and they change
their note. Then it is the : poor who are
Ticious, idle, ungrateful. As . they are,
they serve us and rob us, and we pay
then', for service and robbery ; the balance
of virtue is on our side." Harold's friend
laughed, and declared that no such balance
could exist, because virtue was a myth.
" What is right in one man is wrong in
another," said this friend ; " it really mat
ters very little ; it is all one in the end.
W hen fruit lies within reach, where is the
hand that will not pluck it?" I neither
understood nor liked the conversation, and
I was glad when the subject was changed.
" 'At times everything seems unreal to
me. I had to play the hostess, which both
gentlemen declared I did very prettily ; I
could scarcely believe it was I, Clarice,
who occupied such a position ! It has
come about so strangely. It is as if I were
in a boat without oars or rudder, drifting
along a beautiful stream. For it is beauti
ful, very beautiful !
"' In the evening we walked in the
woods, and Harold's friend disappeared.
Harold and I were alone, and he spoke to
me in tones so tender that I could scarcely
find strength to reply. Ah, Marguerite 1
why do you not come, and take from my
heart the weight that oppresses it ? Why
are you not here that I might whisper in
your ear words I dare not write ?
' Still no news of Marguerite. Har
old has given me money for the pastor to
distribute among hie poor. "Do not tell
him," said Harold, "that it comes from
me ; he might think it would bring ill
luck with it." "Why?" I asked him.
"Why: repeated Harold ; "because,
dear child, I believe that in his judgment
I am somewhat of a Mephistopheles."
The pastor thanked me when 1 gave him
the money, and regarded me with pitying
glances. It troubles me to see that look
in his eyes : it is always there when we
meet. I have tried to make friends with
his grand-child, but he has prevented it.
He has a kind nature. Why should he be
so cruel to me ?
"'How delicious these summer nights
are! Life is very sweet, But one thing
is needed to render it perfect — the com
panionship of my dear sister. "One day
one day," says Harold, "it will come in
time. Your sister lives, you tell me. I
do not ask you how you know that she
lives. It is enough that you say it ; I be
lieve it, as I believe everything that comes
from your lips. So, one day, when you
and Marguerite are together again, you
will not have to tell her that you have
linen entirely unhappy." Harold is wise,
and tender, and true. He has not taken
your place in my heart, dear Margaret ; no
one could do that. IV.it I should miss him
sadly if he were to keep away from me
now. I have 00 one else in the world to
depend on to trust in. I trust in him.
' How long is it since I wrote last?
Months years— a lifetime I Bat time has
passed quickly: the summer is gone, and it
is now autumn. What has happened in
these few months ? So much, dear Mar
guerite, that I could not write.it down if I
tried. I am wrong ; it is told in a few
words. I am a happy woman - and Har
old's wife !
" ' Marguerite, let me whisper a secret
in your ear. Not to another;; no, not to
another soul in the world. It is yours and
mine— and Harold's. I shall soon become
a mother.
"' I am filled with wonder, and fear,
and aweet delight. This cottage, in which
X have passed so many happy months, is
forever sacred to me. My child will be
born here.
• - "'Now— now is the time that you
- should come to me. Marguerite ! To share
my joy, to take Harold's hand ; in . youra,
and to say to him, "Thank you, brother,
fcr your loving care of . my. dear Clarice ! "
To press my child in your arms' how I
tremble when I write the words, "My
child !" My soul is shaken with "a tempest
of happiness. My child ! My baby!
What will she be like I write "she,"
for I know it will be a girl. 7 What will
she be like ? : I see her lying in your lap,
--j Marguerite, with laughing : eyes looking
I into yours. All your troubles are over, as
I mine have been, except as regards yon,
I dear. Such pretty little hands— the little
I fingers are on my strings now ! ■-
■■ " 'Dear Lord of this sweet earth, make
me grateful for the blessings you have
showered on my life, and let my .'_ little
baby be like Marguerite ! Grant that I
may be spared to show my love to both
these dear ones, and to Harold, who has
behaved so nobly to me !
" ' Ah, Marguerite, that he should love
me, a poor girl — he so high, so faithful,
and wise, and I so low, so ignorant, and
inexperienced — is it not wonderful? "'
" '. He will not be here to-night; he is
absent on some great business. So pres
ently, Marguerite, I shall turn down the
lights and bring you before me. I have
often done so, and yearned to clasp you to
my heart. I shall Bee you standing at a
little distance from me, and I shall creep
to your side, and place my shadow-baby in
your arms. Shadows to-night, but soon to
be real, thank God — soon to be real ! Ah,
Clarice ! there lives not on earth a happier
woman than you.
"' My baby is born. She is a week old,
and lam strong enough to sit on the sofa
and write a few words slowly, to place with
other confessions of mine in my old Bible.
What is there written is a heart record, and
is for Marguerite when she and I are to
gether again.
" 'Being alone for a little while I have
read over what I have written, and I am
glad I had the resolution to continue my
confessions — for so I will call them— from
time to time. I should have forgotten
so many things that Marguerite will like
to read.
" 'My baby is asleep, her winsome face
turned to mine. She is now my life —
dearer to me than my own, more precious
to me than all else in the world. You will
not be jealous, Marguerite, When you
have a child of your own— which I pray
you may have one day, dear sister — you
will feel as I do, that life contains no joy so
sacred, so beautiful.
" ' From this moment summer is in my
heart. I look at my baby in silent wonder
and worship. How sweet is the air — how
beautiful the world !
" ' Harold is not with me so constantly j
as he used to be. Affairs of importance \
keep him from me. When 1 chide him for |
his absence he says, "The world, child, j
the world ! There are other duties besides j
love." Helove3me. Is that not enough? !
" ' And yet I torture myself. Baby is |
now six months old, and Harold should !
notice her more. "I prefer to notice
you." he says to me ; and then he kisses
me and talks to me of the world. Is that
a reason why men do not love children as
women do ! I asked Harold that question,
and he answered carelessly, "It may be so. j
Clarice, be satisfied with thing 3as they
are. . Do not make troubles ; they come
without invitation." "Trouble will never
come to me," I said, looking fondly into
his face. " while you are with me." He
said nothing to this for quite a minute ; he j
seemed to be thinking of the words. I
"While I am with you, child," he then j
said; "is that to be for ever!" "Of j
course," I Baid, " for ever." He smiled i
and said, "Well, well, child, enjoy the)
sun while it shines."
" ' My heart is not entirely at rest. But
I must not make troubles, as Harold says.
Perhaps it is because I expect too much.
Marguerite has spoiled me. There never
lived a human being so faithful and de
voted as my dear sister.
" ' A cloud hangs over. me, and I cannot
shake it off. Have I brought it on myself?
What sin, what crime have I committed
that my life should be thus darkened ?
" ' Last Sunday I went to the village
church accompanied by baby and my maid.
On the way my maid told me that the pas
tor's granddaughter was to be married dur
ing the week, and a desire to bo present at
the wedding took possession of me. For a
long time the pastor and I have not spoken.
It is painful to intrude when one feels one
is not welcome, and as the pastor always
appeared to receive me with constraint, I
ceased to speak to him, contenting myself
with bowing when I met him on my way to
or from the church. He invariably re
turned my salutation with gentleness, and
I sometimes looked attentively at him to
sec if he was angry with me ; but there waa
no anger in his eyes — only pity. But why
should he pity me ? And why should
he be so careful that his grandchild and I
should not be friends ?
" ' I waited at the church door till he
came out ; he would have passed dm had I
not moved toward him, almost entreat
ingly. At some distance from us stood
his grandchild and her lover, who, seeing
the pastor stop to speak to me, would have
come to us had he not, by a motion of his
band, restrained them. Slight as the
action was, I understood it, and the tears
rose in my eyes. " Sir," I said, very
humbly, "I have a great favor to ask of
you, but you give mc no encouragement.
If you knew what pain you cause me. you
would be kinder to mc." He answered :
" I have no harsh thoughts for you, young
lady. Ask what you wish ;ifitis in my
power I will grant it." " Your grandchild
is to lie married this week," I said. Yes.''
he replied, " on Wednesday of this week.',
" I hope," I said, " that she will be very
very happy ! The favor I ask is that you
will let me be present at the, wedding
feast." He shook his head sadly, and aaid :
" It cannot be ; it cannot, cannot be. 77 We
cannot receive yon.".. He ; did . not move
away; seeing that I was deeply agitated
by his refusal, he remained at my aide ' till
I apoke again. "It aeema so hard to me,"
I said, scarcely able to speak for my tears,
"that you refuse my friendship. I have
done yon no wrong ; I am without father
. or brother or sister. We were like your
selves, poor people, working for a liveli
:■-■ . :... -.;. - . -- -.'-t'r • r - ... r, ■■ _r — ■ . ■
hood, and : were not despised— indeed,*; we
Inn ... f, _-, H, l mi |^ -UIWI iffWn [■rm ll rl f rr'ill
were not ! : By all but one person we were
treated kindly,* and were everywhere wel
comed. ; My father is dead ; my sister has
been torn from . me .'. by treachery. ' I am
young, sir, but : I '■ have . been 7 visited ::. by
great . misfortune - and suffering. This
is not a crime ; I should not be blamed for
it. r I have much to be grateful for,
but there is something wanting in | ray
life _ which _ should not "be withheld from'
me when I beg for it. " " There is some
thing wanting .in ,;■ every ; person's life,"
replied the pastor, who appeared -to. be
moved by my words ■•"no life is perfect.
It would have been better for yor. had you
remained always poor. 7 I ' grieve for your
misfortunes ; you are young to ■ have ■' seen
so much, to have suffered so much ; but
there is a path in which we _ must stead
fastly walk if the esteem of mankind is to
be deservedly gained. That path is vir
tue. " Better -. battle day and' night with
poverty, better endure the pangs of ' hun
ger, better die, than wander .; out of that
path which leads direct to Heaven and
happiness hereafter !."/.. I could not at the
time grasp the meaning of his speech, it so
dazed and bewildered me. "At least, sir,"
I said, "let me wish your grandchild joy,
and press her : hand once— onee — in
friendship." Again he shook : his head.
"Even this small thing," he said, .'_ I,
whose heart is overflowing with compas
sion for you, cannot permit to be doie.
It is my duty to protect those who have
no knowledge of the world's sinful ways."
With that he moved away, and I Walked
sorrowfully home.
*-• In what way have I sinned? "It
would have been better for me had I re
mained always poor!" Does my sin lie at
Harold's door, because he is rich I. re
member what Harold said of this pastor,
and of the animosity of his class to those
who were higher in worldly station than
themselves. Can it be that No, there
is a hidden meaning in the pastor's behav
ior to me — hidden, terrible meaning,
which no one can explain but Harold. . I
dare not think — I must wait till Harold
comes.
"' Oh, baby, baby ! A little while ago
we were so happy ! And now
*******
"'After three weeks' absence Harold
came to-day. He remained with me but a
few hours. I am' in despair. Let me en
deavor to write what passed between us.
"'I related to him what passed be
tween me and the pastor. He listened in
silence, never once interrupting me, nor
assisting me when I hesitated. His man
ner was cold and . ungracious ; I was
frightened ; I saw that he was angry.
When I had finished I asked him if I had I
done wrong. " Very wrong," he replied ; j
.'.' why do you seek the friendship of such j
a man or of people in his station '! "
"There is no other church near," I said
timidly; "in God's house all are equal."
"Is that oneof the pastor's platitude-.
asked Harold. "I have heard my father j
say so," I answered, "and it came into my
mind." " There is no such thing as
equality," said Harold,' "inside or outside
church or any Harold, "inside or outside 1
rch or any other walla. Some are born
to rule, some to obey, and all must fill
their stations becomingly. Let the worthy j
pastor keep to his ; I keep to mine. For
you, Clarice, you must choose between us,
it se3uis. Well, that is your affair."
"'Marguerite, at that moment I was.
animated by your spirit; a strange courage
possessed me. " Harold," I said, "do you i
no longer love me ?" " What a question I" (
he cried ; "of course I love yon. But I !
will not be crossed. Clarice, nothing vexes :
me more than unnecessary annoyance — i
unless it is being asked for explanations, i
Life is too short for explanations. When i
a lady in whom I am interested sets me up j
against another person, or sets up another \
person against me, I must confess to feel- :
ing wearied. Life wis made for enjoy- •
ment." "You would not .wish," I said, ]
"that I should be despised." " Why put ;
yourself in the way of being despised '■"
he said. My courage did not desert me. |
" Harold," I said, " you must yield to me j
in this. The pastor's words to me implied j
that 1 was not worthy of the friendship of
his grandchild, for a reason which I should j
blush to explain." "I shall not know the
reason unless you do explain it, Clarice,"
he said, biting his lip. "He thinks me
unworthy," I said, iv a tone of shame, " of
the friendship of a pure and innocent girl.
It is a humiliation, Harold. The pastor is
a good man ; give me the means of setting I
myself right in his eyes." " How can Ido
that?" asked Harold. "I have no record
of our marriage," I said, and was about to
proceed I was stopped by an expres
eeii when I was stopped by an expres
sion in Harold's* face I had never seen
there before. " You are aware, Clarice,"
he said, without any display of anger,
although I felt he was exercising con
trol over his feelings, ."that there ' were
obstacles in feelings, of our there mar
itaclcs in the way of our being mar
ried iv church.". "Yes, Harold," I said,
"you told me bo." "It was sufficient
for you then," he continued ; ."it should
be sufficient for you now. Ours was a
civil marriage, privately contracted. Were
it in my power— which it is not— to place
in your hands what you require, I Bhould
decline to do so. I will not have my pri
vate affairs exposed to the : gaze of stran
gers. You should be satisfied that I have
behaved towards you like a gentleman !
If from some cause outside myself or my
actions you choose to doubt me, I cannot
help it ; nor shall I take any steps to disa
buse your mind of suspicion. Your course
is before you, Clarice ; be wise, and choose
the right one. You are young and beauti
ful ; you "have both sense and discretion ;
continue to trust me and all will be well.
Nothing is to be gained, dear child, I as
sure you, if you act in opposition to my
wishes. You can see how yon have an
noyed me ; I am ashamed to present my
self to yon in any but an entirely agreeable
guise. Pardon me, I beg. Never renew
this subject ; it will be unkind and inju
dicious ; I will see you again soon, when
this little cloud has passed away."
" 'He left me, and the cloud remains.
It will never pass away ! It will hang over
my life until I draw my last breath ! ;
" ' Confirmation : of ,my fears has come
too soon— too soon !, lam not fit to touch
the hand of a pure and innocent girl.
7. '.'', 'In a lane near to the cottage in which
I ; live ■I ; saw a beggar-woman. '_£ She ; held
out her hand ; I had no . money to ' give ;
my purse waa empty. She raised her face
to mine. ; : It was the face of the woman
who was given to me as a companion , on
the day I lost Marguerite, and whom Har
old discharged because I disliked her. The
; moment she recognized me she placed . her
! self before me defiantly/ 7." Oh, my lady," :
; said the woman, "this is where ; you live !
jA 7 pretty ,7 hiding-place .V It has ' lasted
i longer than' I expected., You must have
managed the great man cunningly. : How
1 did you . manage :it ? Tell me. '•' Though
I'm too old ami .ugly to pro.it by the .'
I lesson. -; And 7 are . yon ;. together * still, 2or
have you replaced him ". by ,' another 'V I
attempted to pass her,' but she would ; not
allow. me. 2." You were the cause of ; my
losing a good service," she cried : " I don't
love you for that.' You have been the
cause of my wanting food ;' I don't love :
you for that. 7: Had it not been for yon, I
i should never have \ hungered ' for bread,",
"I am sorry," I said, and knew not what
I more to say. -The woman's grudge against
me was justified, 'if .what she said was
j tiue : and it seemed to be so, for want was
in her face. . : "It is convenient to be sorry \
l when it is too late," she said.. " But it is
too late for you as well as for me. Your
master- " I interrupted her, and de- '
manded to know of whom she was speak
ing. "0 f your master, " she repeated. "He
would have paid me well but for you ; he ,
would have rewarded me finely, tor he is i
rich and generous, when he has his way. '
To please you he sent me packing with the '
barest pittance, and since then not a morsel .
of good luck has fallen to. my share. All i
your fault, my lady. Take credit for it ; -
I set it down to your account. Have you .
found him . out yet, as others have done ]
before you ?" "If you are speaking ;of 1
my husband," I said, "he will punish you 1
for your wicked words." She laugiied •
loudly. " Husband 1" she cried ; " only \
one lady has ever had the right to call 1
him by that name, and the lady is not you, s
my pretty one ! You had better . have '
kept me with you ; I could have shown ]
you of what sort of stuff such gentlemen's i
hearts are made of! " I stopped to '
hear . no more. Strong as she was, she
could not prevent me from escaping, and I
flew back to my room, with the horrible
words she had uttered burning before me
in the air.
'"They are true, I feel they are true.
Harold's manner towards me in our last
interview proves their truth. And this
very morning I received a Utter from him \
—in the fewest words — telling me he was <
afraid he would not be able to come and j
see me for many weeks. That means he
will not come again. 1
"'The pastor was right. It was Ms <
duty, he said, to protect those who have '
no knowledge of the world's sinful ways. '
I had such knowledge. 0, yes ! I, the i
guilty Clarice, had such knowledge, and to i
associate with me was to be defiled 1
'"0, Thou all-powerful Lord before ]
whom I shall appear on the Judgment ]
Day, teach me and direct my faltering <
steps ! Whither shall I fly ! To whom ]
shall I turn ? Marguerite ! Marguerite ! j
come to me, and let me hide my shame ]
upon your faithful bosom ! ' '
'"Fly! I dare not. I must live and
face the world. Harold shall do me ,
justice. For the sake of my child, my .
pretty, innocent child, he shall do me '
justice. I will go to him with my child in |
my arms ,
"'Come, my dear one. We will start
to-night— very night. You smile at
me, now ; one day you will be ashamed to
look into my face. When you know the
; truth you' will shrink from the unhappy
girl who presses her lips to yours, who
kisses your pretty lingers, whose tears
stain your sweet face !
" ' If at this moment we both could die !
O, Marguerite, Marguerite, pity and for
give mc !'
(To be continued.)
THE LEGAL STATUS OF BED BUGS.
.Campbell 0. Bishop appeared before
Judge Thayer recently, and urged his mo
tion for a new trial in the case of Peckham
vs. Garvey. It will be remembered that
the defendant, Dick Garvey, the railroad
ticket agent, was sued by the landlord of
a fashionable hash-house for a month's
board, and pleaded bed-bugs in bar. The
room had been engaged for a month, but
the lodger decamped the second day, be
cause he went there to eat, and not to be
eaten. He testified that the bed-bugs
preyed upon him worse than a guilty con
science, sad he could not sleep. The jury
gave the landlord a verdict for half the
amount claimed. Mr. Bishop argued that
the instructions were erroneous and the
verdict ought to be set aside. He cited
a, number of English authorities in
support of his motion, and one 'or
two of them seemed exactly in point. The
law, as laid down on the other side of the
water, is that when a man rents a furnished
room the landlord guarantees that it is
habitable and wholesome. If his slumbers
are disturbed by bed-bugs, he has the right
to abandon the premises without notice,
and is not bound to pay any rent for the
time he has tarried. A case was cited in
which the witness gave full details of the
manners and habits of English bed-bugs,
which are supposed to belong to the same
breed as the American insect. _ It seems
that the bed-bug has eyes, but shuns the
light. He frequents cracks and crevices
in the bedstead, the floor, the ceiling, the
walls, and ensconces himself in the seams
of sheets and pillow-slips, where he patient
ly waits from dewy morn till eve, and when
the lodger retires tor the night he sallies
forth, armed with the weapons supplied by
nature, and drinks the blood of his uncon
scious victim. An English expert stated
that it was very difficult to exterminate a
colony of j these insects. Scalding them
only causes them to increase and multiply,
and crushing them facilitates the hatching
of the eggs. The only effectual remedy is
poison ; by the use of a mixture sold by
the druggists, a settlement of bed-bugs
may be strangled in a couple of days ; but
they will come again, as they migrate in
families, going . from boarding-house to
boarding-house, and generally selecting the
best. These and other facts were urged
upon the attention of the Court by Mr.
Bishop, who also claimed that his client
had never agreed to take the room for a
month, but merely on trial. 7 Judge Thayer
did not seem to admit the applicability of
the English cases cited, but took the mat
. ter under advisement. [St. Louis Globe-
I Democrat.
— — —•- - .— —
j ■ . I For the Üboosd-Usiox.]
MIGNONETTE.
I took from the shelf this volume old, ' -
1 1 Covered for years by the fray, (trim dust, I *-;
: 'A ghost from the land ol my long-gone youth.
: When my heart beat high with love and trust.
I found 'mid its leaves A flowret pale,
, _ Placed there by a hand long cold and dead.
- tin! it brought to mv mind the twilight hour
When we two bent o'er the page and read. .2 »
" To remember me," she softly breathed, -*■■
■7: As she pressed ite petals with snowy palm, .7
. And her sunny hair just brushed my cheek ; - r
. How I strove my heart's quick throbs to calm.
- And this dry, dead blossom awakes again *
Love strong and true as it was vain.
•S "->,"" :'"-"*. .". ■■.-' ■• ■'.: iJ' [Alice Gray Cowan.
-7 An eminent Vienna [ physician . protests
against sending consumptive patients to
warm climates, without regard to the stage
of their disease or their cirumatances. Of
fifty cases of j such patients who have been
sent to spend a winter in Italy, or ! Egypt,
he found only three who were benefited by
the change.
_.:-.---
THE SALON.
MORE AB'jUf -" ART ■ AND < E.OKE NOTA
/' ** BLE PICTURES. - - ,
About • luu&crs-ln-L&w— Story or ■. lluider
and Tragedies— A New Feat— Won-'- .T
• derful Female Swimmer .-V 7/7
y: 7 ty-' 7 Paris, May IS, ISSO.
7, : Definitively Mr. Bouguereau is growing
out "of date, and ' not ' a single critic has
been able to 'say a ; good i. word ? about his
" Flagellation de ' N." S. 'Jesus" Christ,'!, a
large painting which is to be found in the
first ! square mile. The Christ, which lis
ready to faint under the blows of his per
secutors, looks as though he would faint
away without any assistance from the want
of blood in his veins.. It is nothing more
nor less than . a wax figure tied by the
hands, with its eyes rolled up. The men em
ployed in scourging him are intended to bo
sort 'of Hercules ; but although : all their
muscles are in the right place, swollen to
the proper dimensions, and they are well
armed with thongs, with which they are
persecuting the wax figure, they do not
seem to be in earnest— aro not real men ;
and they are so slick I and smooth, that
they might have been rubbed up and down
with oil. * One can not help wishing that
the artist were less devoted to science and
more to nature. : His other picture, "Jeune
Fille se Defendant centre -I' Amour," 'is
more . pleasing. Particularly • charming is
the little Amour with his light curly hair,
blue laughing eyes, and rosy feet. Amour
has a right to bo fair ' and have a com
plexion of his own ; hut the young girl,
who, after all, seems more to be encourag
ing the little elf than repulsing him, is in
tended as a brunette. Yet even through
her dusky skin there seems not to be the
slightest circulation . of blood, or all ab
sence of it. If, as they say, it is the rapid
circulation of the blood in youth which
makes his heart beat at the voice of love,
the young girl of Mr. Bouguereau has
nothiug to fear from the attacks of the
wary cupid.
JCLES LEFEVRE
Exposes only two portraits. After all an
JfLES I.EfKVKi;
ies ouly two portraits. After all an
artist requires a little over a year's repose
after the completion of a picture such as
he exposed at the salon last year. . " Di
anne Surprise au Bain " was really mag
nificent—the first large painting composed
of many figures this artist had ever under
taken, for his specialty is the nude ; how
ever, in this subject he had | ample oppor
tunity of exercising his remarkable talent,
for Dianne bathing in a mountain stream, j
with a whole host of nymphs partaking of
the same exercise, was not supposed to be
embarrassed with surplus clothing.' ; How
ever, the fair huntress, on perceiving the I
presence of intruders, had partially
covered herself, while her nymphs were
rolling themselves up in towels, hunting
arrows and grape leaves. What a gorgeous
array of beauty ! It is now a year since I
have seen the picture but it is still vividly
before me, and never can I forget the
marvelous head of the goddess, expressive
of immortal indignation. .It was at first
proposed to award M. Lefcvre the medal of
honor for this picture, j but a law prohibit
ing the voting of prizes to any of the mem
beis of the jury placed M. Lefevre outside
of the question, and ' the medal of honor i
was given to Carolus Duran. After all
every one came to the conclusion that
R given to deserved it more After all i
f one came to the conclusion that'
lus Dawn deserved it more than any
one else, members of the jury, included. j
Carolus Duran has- two portraits at the '
salon, one his own child— in fact, all of his
numerous children appear at the salon suc
cessively. It must be said that they are
/BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN,
And it must give their papa great pleasure
to paint them. This little boy is 'dressed
in red, from the ribbon of his hat to his
shoes ; he stands by a red-covered table
against a red background. Such is the
favorite tour deforce of this artist — the
combination of the different shades of the
same color. His other portrait is that of
a lady, beautiful and delicate in appear
ance, a model such as I have never seen ,
painted by Carolus Duran,' for his bold
strokes and often unfinished | style are bet
ter adapted to large, fleshy and sometimes
coarse-looking women. He has on this oc
casion perfectly succeeded in producing the
refined and delicate features of -an aristo
cratic-looking person. The lady is dressed
in a dark-blue satin dress, the very rich
quality of which is easily discerned ; the
front of the skirt and waist is of light
blue satin, and a high, stiff _ lace collar
stands up around her neck, opening down
the front, which gives the picture the re
semblance of an antique . portrait. . One
gloveless' hand rests upon the red velvet
cover of a table, while her other hand
fails by her side. The background is a
rich dark-red velvet curtain. Surely no
one equals Carolus Duran as a portrait
painter, unless it is Bonnat, who
as seldom exposes the . portrait of
ladies as Carolus Duran those of gentlemen.
Bonnat has two portraits — that of
Jules Grevy, the President of the Repub
lic, and that of Job, which I suppose
ought not to be called a portrait, as the
poor old man, such as he is there pictured,
could never have had an idea, of appear
ing-iu public. Job is a picture of desola
tion, victim of all the evils of which hu
man flesh is heir to. His long white beard
falls upon his emaciated breast ; his thin
hands are clasped and his eyes rolled up
in supplication. One can count the bones
in his legs and the wrinkles on his stom
ach. It is said that a modest English lady,
just arrived from a quiet province in her
own country, approached this picture,
and reading under the name of Bonnat
in the catalogue, Portrait of Mr. Grevy,"
President of the Republic, looked at it a
long time, then turned away with a look of
supreme . disgust on her : face as she
grumbled, "Shocking! to expose the por
trait of the head of a government in such
a costume J" The portrait of Mr. Grevy
is as good as it possibly can be, and it is
not the artist's fault if the original has a
face which says nothing, the same as its
owner, who is opposed to doing anything
for the progress of France. 7
Vincent Palmaroli \ exposes for the first
time in France since the Exposition of
18157, when he received the second-class
medal. He presents to the public ; , '-• "
;; BLANCHE DI NAVARRE,
Who was imprisoned by Gaston de Foix in
the Chateau d'Orthez, where she died
poisoned by , her sister Lconore, in 140 S.
The picture is very large and the one fig
ure is of life size. 7 The fair victim , sits in
a chair on whose arms her own are resting,
her hands . clasped : above ' an open prayer
book '". on j her j lap," and her I face turned in
rapturous devotion towards an image of the
Virgin on the table beside her. 7: Her light
brown dress, after passing over I the large
embroidered - cushion ( on which \ rests her
feet, falls in folds on the light grey floor ;
the I waist Sof -> her *i dress : is surmounted
by 77 a V chemisette 7; i, which modestly
covers ; her ; ; shoulders '7"7 and -77 renders
softer the whiteness "of ''■'- her 77 throat ;
her 7 very § large j sleeves g fall 1 gracefully
around her as though a scarf ; her hair is a
deep auburn, and falls down her back like
a rich veil, producing a harmonious blend
ing with '". the ' brown of her dress. Beside
her on the table are scattered flowers, and
farther back is a jewel-casket ; the ' table
cover is a light green in fact, none of the
colors ■ are deep or decided, but seem tc
float one into the ; other .v* The face ia ex
quisite Un. color, X yet ■ is \ expressive of sc
much -■ sweetness, \ sadness : and % devotion,
that the picture jis L one which,' the longei
one looks at becomes more and more in
t one into the other. The face is ex
site in color, yet is expressive of sc
eh sweetness, sadness and devotion,
t the picture is one which, the longei
looks at it, becomes more and more in
teresting. One \of | the ' most I remarkable
pictures this year by an American artist ii
that of W. L. Picknell, of Boston, called
•' La "• Route \de ; Concarneau." ■'.- It I merely
represents j a broad white . road, extending
straight > before ■■ yon,' until : lost amidst, an
i venue of trees in the * far distance ; noth
ing is tote seen on ii this "road; but a two-.
Dtorsa wagon filled with .".eaves ,i.,! floviers
rf plants, such : as serve for the niakiug of
iii or other purposes ; a man walks beside
the wagon, with a whip in hand, and seems
as little disposed to hasten his steps under
ihe warm sun ss the horses j themselves,
rue landscape is one of .the post ordinary
:o be seen in France ; there are j clumps of
;reea on the right,' bushes I and small i trees
in the left. After all the subject is of Ut
ile importance in comparison to the j mau
ler of treating it, for notwithstanding the
nonotony of the landscape, every one in
.'oluntarily stops before t this - picture,* so
;reat is the audacity displayed, so ! numer
ins I the \ qualities to be | observed.' The
trokes seem given with marvelous power—
lot one too many, and each in : the right
*lace.77 : ' 7_7 ; ■ VV2'yVVV2Vy- V7~,
A very pretty . picture which attracted j
ny ■ attention on ■- the 7 opening ; day, but
vhich * I - did not suppose to be that of
in American, is by John Ames Mitehel of
Sew -York, titled "Un Marriage 7 Poli
ique." 7 7 Two ; small children of about C
md 7 years of age are undergoing the mar- !
yrdoin of all the ceremonies pertaining to ■
i royal . marriage ;'■ the little boy, a head
aller than his companion, seems at his
ase ■in his 'i tight fitting, 7 purple- velvet
ireeches and jacket, but the little girl
ucli is not her case — for she seems to move
vith difficulty beneath the weight of her
oyal finery, g Her dress is of white ! satin
iver; an 7 immense crinoline ; around her j
raist is a girdle of precious .stones, which
xteuds and trims the front of the skirt j
[own to the feet ; a great standing- ruflle !
.Imost 7as large as herself encircles her
lead ; she , has a heavy : pearl ; neck-lace
round her neck, each pearl ! of which is
a large, not as her teeth, but her eyes, and
hen on the top . of that poor little head '
ests . a crown whoso weight seems to
hreaten the overthrow of .
-," \ 7.7 '■■ THE FRAIL BODY
Jeneath. The very long train of the j
less of the little bride, whose efforts j
re exercised in maintaining her equilib- j
ium, is carried by a tall and very stately- j
_>okir.g lady, whose serious expression I
f countenance suggest! the importance of
he occasion. Behind this lady follow a j
lumber of others as well as gentlemen, all !
■ stately and serious., and all treading |
:pon the red velvet carpet spread for royal j
eet. On a slightly raised platform stands j
he master of ceremonies, as straight and
8 stiff as the spear in his hand. Further i
a are the numerous priests, in gorgeous ,
owns, with very . long lighted candles in
ne hand and hymn-books in the other, all
inging at the top of their voices. The
rieture is charming, most [ excellent jin I
olor and drawing, and is certainly one of I
he most pleasing to be seen. 7 The Ameri- j
ans, I think, are falling into
■"• A VERY BAD HABIT
Vhich they must have contracted from the j
"Tench; and that is the exercising of wit i
n '.heir mothers-in-law. _ All women i
hould resent such an outrage, for many I
vho. have not been mothers-in-law are .
iable to become such some day. The !
'Vench daily . fill books on this subject, j
vhich, to my mind, is very poor taste. No
me in France will live with a mother-in- ;
aw, and so universal is this prejudice that
iveu the mother of an only child, and she '
i: widow at that, is invariably turned ;
<ut of the house when the son or a daughter |
;ets married. That state of things has led j
'o the establishment' of institutions in- I
ended fir old women and for old men, I
where for so much a year they are cared I
or, enjoy gardens and parks, and so on. .
Cheir children, who place them there, i
state that they find there a society suited |
:o their years and can not be unhappy, as i
.hough old age did not approach in charac- |
:er to infancy and . enjoyed mostly the
society of children. As horrible us such a I
state of affairs appears to be, the condition |
af old people living alone is even worse. !
The country resouuds with the
HISTORIES OF MURDERS
Principally perpetrated on old women. j
Two days ago an old lady, whom I had j
often seen, was murdered, which circum- !
stance has very much impressed me. Grey |
is a little tillage in : the Department of j
Seine and Marne, which means that the j
land lies between these two rivers. The i
majority lof the houses possess gardens
which extend down to the banks of the
Marne, generally a wide, turbulent and
treacherous river, but here a clear, beauti- j
ful stream, bordered by lovely trees which j
bend over as though to kiss the ripples.
As we daily rowed to the mill, some dis
tance down the river, we passed a beauti- I
ful white house situated on ' a knoll, all
covered with shrubs and flowers, and
which joined a large park extending along |
the stream. Herein we often noticed an
old lady wheeled round in an invalid's
chair by ■ a woman almost as old
as herself. The lady's son lived
but a short distance away, and came each
day to see her. The park and grounds
were well guarded on the river's banks by
a number of hunting dogs. The front of
the house was peculiar, in that the
gate possessed a small opening near the top,
closed by a slide which was withdrawn be
fore the gate was opened each time one
rang the bell. . This precaution seemed to
us strange, and carried us back to the mid
dle ages, when one's neighbor was one's
foe. It seems the old servant stepped out
of the gate an instant, but long enough for
three men, who had been waiting their
chance to step in and hide themselves in
some outhouse in the garden. 7 In the
evening, when the old servant was wheel
ing I her mistress through the corridor to
her bed-chamber, these three men jumped
upon them and cut their throats. The
murderers carried away with them §S,OGO
in money, which they must | have known
was in the house. ; What a spectacle for
the son the next day when he called to see
his mother ?
THE BODY OF A NEGRO
Has lately been taken out of the Seine,
which was some days in the water. In one
of his pockets .there was found a tin box,
the lid of which was fastened with putty,
to prevent the water from penetrating it,
for it contained very curious letters. ."This
negro was the son a chief who had revolted
against the negum .of Abyssinia. 7 His
father had been killed, and his brother and
he were taken prisoners. A woman aided
the escape of the two : brothers. -.-' During
the day they hid themselves in trees or in
caves; in the night time they walked, liv
ing on wild * fruit, and were constantly in
danger lof l becoming 7 the 7 prey 7of wild
beasts. The younger brother died a trag
ical death. They had lost their way ; the
elder ; climbed " a tree to 7 try and 7 dis
cover II where 7 they V were, -'. when all
at once he heard most fearful
cries, v.. He quickly ' descended, ? and : saw
an' enormous serpent rolling itself j around
the body of his brother. 77 Without arms,
heart-broken, in despair, he could not defend
him. "Jj It was only after a march of several
weeks across impracticable countries that
he arrived, attenuated and worn out, at the
outposts of i the Egyptians. 7 The soldiers
procured for him clothing and food ; he re
mained there several days to rest and then
continued on to Cairo, where the Khedive
sent • him - money, with which jhe came to
Paris. The memoir finishes in the follow
ing manner :' " I believed that I would be
able to live at Paris ; j but, as everywhere
else, one must needs be useful," and I did
not .. know how-to ; do : anything. 7To - the
torments of hunger I have preferred a vio
lent death." - '" \ ' -'* : j|^^
'.' A NEW. FEAT
Has just -■■ been accomplished jby the inde
fatigable swimmer, Miss Agnes Beckwith,
at London. Last year she made over eight
miles in six hours : in , swimming down the
Thames, Friday last, in presence of her
mother, of her father, a well-known swim
ming professor at London, and of a crowd
of people, she swam during '. thirty \ con
secutive hours in the large whale basin at
the Westminster aquarium. 7 Before the
signal of departure several persona arrived
to assure themselves j that Miss Beckwith
waa j net provided g with any floating j ma- J
chine. 1 *? Dressed ?asl a * sailor, she j plunged
into the basin ; j then, on reaching the .bot
tom, rapidly unfastening . her J clothes,"' she
reappeared ; on the [surface with a simple I
page's waist -. of = the Wat'.eau 5 style . and
drawers of | black ; silk bordered 'with j nd*
During the first hours Miss Beckwith went
through the water .with vigor , in 7 perform
ing all sorts of movements | with j remarka
ble . ability, ■; even ■-, waltzing 7 around ?, the
basin. - .-; Near 711 o'clock in - the \ ever «
ing . she ;71 commenced •*. to float .-' on
her r ;^ back. .:. Although, 7 according to
the • conditions of : , the bet, ' she was : per
mitted to come out of the water once and
rest ' for * half i; an hour, 7 she" refused ." to
profit by this favor. 17 At. meal times her
parents gave her tea, meat and fish. When
the two judges, '"-■ representatives of V Bell's
Life and of the Sporting Life, informed the
spectators that Miss Beckwith had finished
her journey and that she could leave tho
basin, applause broke out in all directions,
md the young swimmer was covered with
dowers. '.'■"■"- 7. 'V'/VauV'-V
7 JBY GOODS.
CHEAP .DRY GOODS' I
INTAKE NOTICE
Our Unusual Low Prices
ta Wo respectfully call attention to our VERY
LOW I'i. ICES in 77V* *
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOfIOOOOO
dress goods
0000000000000 o ooouoooooooooo
SILKS, 7 HOSIERY,- '-
AKr
DOMESTIC GOODS
It costs you noshing to call, and where you can
get the most and best for the money is the place to
bur. We make no idle brags, but mean business,
a? our stock must be reduced previous to our con- -
ten; plated change.
! mil Further Satire, we will nell :
MOSQUITO BARS (all colors)... .....50«
is Yards PHINT n
WHITE R0CK.:....... »c
LONSDALE.. 9e
BLACKSTONE...... .........9e
FRUIT -..10c
NEW YORK MILLS. 13c
104 PIQUOT SHEETING 32} c .
9-4 SHEE ' SOJc
8 4 SHEETING.: i 27*0
FIGURED LAWNS. 12 yards for $1
DRESS GOODS . at HALF PRICE
GRENADINES 10, 15 and 20 cents per yard
.BUNTINGS ....'. 20 cents per yard
ALL-WOOL SHOODAS, 45inch...... 50 cents
; -77*. And so on right through our entire stock.
ta Don't fail to embrace this rare op-
portunity to net cheap goods. ■■••;
S.LIPMAM.&.CP.,.
FIFTH AND' 4 STBEr.TS.... SACBAMEXTO.
PORTLAND, ' NAPA CITY,
VIRGINIA CITY, NEW YOUK CITY.
. m27-3plmiswlavcS
- Cuas. H. ste^l:.s. J. T. Crifi-itts.
C.H. STEVENS &CO;S.
3t=»o__e»"CTl»-^.JEt
MY GOODS HOUSE
IMMENSE STOCK
— OF —
T DRESS - GOODS! '
■.- > . ,
I
15c to 31 50 per yard.
■ ' -■' ' 7-«r*m"
SSXX.JECIS
SATINS
DRESS TRIMMINGS,
i IN ALL THE NEW . STYLES AND COLORS.
ta V.'c Guarantee prices as low as any
house on the const. IYe have ne-rer hum*
bugged the people in the past 15 years.
Call and Examine Goods and Prices, er ■
Send to us for PRINTED PRICE LIST and
i SAMPLES. ' :2:-V 77 2
ALSO
, BUTTERICK MONTHLY FASHIOH PAPER, FREE.
ta Orders filled same as if in store. **"a
SHOE DEPARTMENT!
FINEST . STOCK OF 7
LADIES' AND •_ CHILDREN'S ". SHOES ': IV
THE CITY.
- Prices very lowes - , as we buy only from manufac-
turers. ;
A3" SEND FOR SAMPLES AND PRICE LIST TO
C. H. STEVENS & CO.,
COB. EIGHTH AND J STS., SACBAMENTO.
ml 2 3plmiswlawW
WIEHB 1 TERRY
LUMBER COMPANY.
MANUFACTURERS, WHOLESALE AND RE-
• tail Dealers :in - every kind and variety »;
of BUILDING ■ and '■' FINISHING TIMBER and ':
LUMBER.
-7 ta. Cargoes, S Car-loads '-. and 7 Special - Ordera
promptly . filled, and shipped : direct from « tho
OREGON, 1 REDWOOD and SUGAR PINE MIJ_-____3
of the Company. _
General Offics, No. 1310 Second Strbst, hear M. '
Brakch Yard, Corker Twelfth axd J Strxbts.
■,r-::. : -, ■-.--.-. -.---Vj-,---j.mlB.Bplm. '••-■■■ .--- r
■■_! /% ■ T - "____^ ,^S_\
__Z _£_%_ m ■ __T_fc>. P
MILWAUKEE BEER !
/"CELEBRATED * FOR ': ITS ; PURITY, £XCEL.
\j ■: lence and unilormity of quality. .-' For sale by
alldealers. - >:?■;'■.;-' 7 x '^-^sriJ-ti^SKßjrfita
-77 ii WILCOX, POWERS & CO.,
ta SOLE T GENTS - FOR " SACRAMENTO. ,**B_»
■ ''--•■*'-*' ■'■'- m29-2plm : ■■-..-.■--'.-
Teachers^ Examination.
".'■■"• ■-•-" '• • *
THE COUNTY BOARD OF EDUCATION WILE
- hold a regular session for the Examination ot
. Teachers, in the office of the County Superintend, nt, ■
commencing on -; -.; = .•:-.-. '^ : 7 7' • • 7*,.77 ;
- Wednesday, June 10. 1880. it . - .
At 9 o'clock* A. M. 7 AppHoantswill be rcquireri to
. pny.accordinittelaw.afeeofgl.^-.V; ■'• ■/". -r *:
*~ CHAS. E. BISHOP, Fuueniiteuecn.,
ju7-Ui4_|wt<i 18, C.J