New York dispatch. [volume], December 23, 1877, Page 6, Image 6

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6
“HAIL AND FAREWELL.”
- Rai) and farewell I” We meet to pari
Even with the greeting on our lips.
Ae these, who from some busy mart,
gee all their wealth go out in ships
That never come again to shore,
go fade our days to rise no more.
Onr three-score years are but a epan.
We scarcely trill an idle song,
Before the funeral army’s van
Passes with muffled drums along.
And sadly then the doleful bell
Moans in the palsied ear “Farewell I” -
Hail and farewell !’* The stars go down;
The billows of the rosy dawn
Are breaking on the idle town,
And night’s weird armies, tar
Fade like dim spectres down the west,
And hope is strong and love is best.
Yes, hope is strong in newer souls,
And love is best lor those that stay,
No more my ship at anchor rolls
And yours is sailing last away,
I lose you, for the ocean’s swell
Breaks now between us. “Hail, farewelll w
The lamp goes out, the embers die,
Pale Dian tips her silver keel
In some far-bidden reach of sky,
While night and darkness round us steal,
And sorrow sits on every sail;
Wo cry "Farewell!” but whisper “ Hail!”
Beyond the ocean, where the palms
Arise beside the jocund streams,
And love rehearses all his psalms.
And youth renews bls happy dreams.
If I may wait your coining sail,
.How blessed then the cheonul “Hail!’*
wlws love.
A CHBISTMAS STORY.
(By the author oj “ The Squire's Darling.")
CHAPTER I.
Once again I The face of the bright heavens
still presents its varied aspects; the tide still
ebbs and flows; the swift rush of the wind comes
down the hill, bending the tall trees with its
force; the snow falls white and soft as ever; the
moon with her attendant stars is queen of se
rene skies; nothing appertaining to nature, it
may be said, has changed 'since the Christmas
bells rang out last year, and the waits sang of
«he herald angels.
Only man changed. There are darkened
hearths, empty chairs, aching hearts, and new
made graves; many hopes and many loves have
died since the Christmas carols told us last year
of the stars that shone in the midnight sky.
Some of us love heaven more and earth less,
and some—alas that it should be so I turn ears
more deaf and eyes more blind to the lessons
Christmas carols teach.
On this Christmas Eve, some few years since,
on which our story opens, the wind held high 1
earnival, It seemed as though every sigh and 1
every moan uttered since the creation of the ’
world was being repeated by it, and sent up in
to the face of the darkening heavens. , ’
It wailed round Lynde Hall, where Clive Ver
ner sat, solitary and alone, trying to forget that ‘
it was Christmas, trying to close his ears to the 1
chiming of the bells and the distant sounds of ’
merriment. The snow fell with a soft, whirling J
sound, but even the falling snow annoyed Clive 1
Verner.
Lynde Hall lies in the heart of the glorious 1
old county of Kent, where legend says the men
are bravest—amid hop-gardens and orchards 1
and broad meadows of golden grain. It has 1
long been one of the show places of the south, (
and is celebrated far and near for the beauty of !
its architecture, for its massive towers, its ‘
grand oriel windows, the gorgeous magnifi- j
cence of its terraces and gardens, the deep '
green shade of its woods, the picturesque nooks ]
and corners with which it abounds; for the rari- 1
ty and value of the pictures, hanging In the <
great northern gallery; for the tew but costly 1
statues, straight from Italian studios; for the
strange mixture of ancient grandeur and mod- ’
«rn luxury.
For many long years Lynde Hall had been j
open to visitors; but Clive Verner closed its 1
rates, and forbade friend or stranger to set
foot within the grounds. He had not been lord
of the estate very long. It was but three years '
Since old Sir Jocelyn Verner, knighted for his
great military services, died, and was succeeded
by Clive. I
The Verners of Lynde were a very old family. !
They hod had no other dwelling-place but the J
Hall and the estates surrounding it. They
bad been lords of the soil for many generations, ■
loved, honored, and revered by high and low. 1
Sir Jocelyn never married. He was a stern, '
grim, old warrior, who, people said, bad never '
looked with love upon the face of a woman. He 1
had no interest in anything but his profession; 1
but, though he never married, his fair young 1
sister Eveline did. Captain Ernest Ayrton per- 1
suaded her to leave all the luxuries of Lynde 1
for his sake, and follow him half over the world, j
Eveline Ayrton died soon after the birth of '
her twin sons, Clive and Lancelot, and Sir Joce- ]
lyn sent for them to Lynde, where they were 1
brought up as children of his own would have
been. He did his very best for them—sent 1
them to Eton and Oxford; spared no expense 1
over them ; brought them np as gentlemen and '
men of honor ; instilled his own fearless right !
, principle into them ; taught them, in his old
fashioned way, to “fear God and honor the 1
king sought to make them worthy English- 1
men, brave, true, and generous.
He succeeded well, although they were Of 1
widely different dispositions. Clive, the elder,
a dark-haired, princely boy of noble face and
noble figure, was thoughtful, studious, sensi
tive, ami capablo of loving with a depth and J
passion unknown to his fair-haired, gallant 1
young brother, who was never without une ■
grande passion, who loved all ladies and all fair '
faces, yet would never have died for one.
Both were generous, truthful, utterly incapa- i
ble of all falsehood or meanness; both were chiv
alrous and gallant. Lancelot was never seen
without a smile on his Ups ;he had gay, bright 1
words and sunny genial laughter for constant 1
companions. Clive smiled seldom; when he
did, his face was beautiful tolook upon, like the '
bosom of a lake brightened by moonbeams. 1
Until they grew older Sir Jocelyn showed no 1
partiality or favor. It seemed to be an under-*' ’
stood thing that Clive was to be bis heir. lie 1
was the elder; he bad a stately figure, and, as
the old knight often said, “ a Verner face.” He :
bad a loyal, reverential love for-the old race ; he
knew the history of the Verners from the earli
est record. He was the elder ; and that deter- 1
mined Sir Jocelyn, who never departed from
established rules, to make him lord of Lynde. ’
One day, when the two boys were both at home, 1
the family solicitor, Mr. Temple, came over, and ;
the good knight made his will, leaving Clive hie
heir, upon the sole condition that be assumed I
the name of Verner. He left to Lancelot twen- !
ty thousand pounds, with which the younger
brother was quite satisfied.
As time passed on, it was plainly to be seen 1
that the old man wished both his nephews to
be soldiers.
Lancelot was one by desire. He had never
cared for any other career. With* him, Sir
Jocelyn fought all his battles over again until
the boy longed with the ardor of an old cru
sader to be away in the midst of war and dan
ger.
The day came when the knight called his
nephews to him and told them decidedly that
he wished both to embrace a military career.
Lancelot consented, with tears of gladness in
his bright eyes; Clive refused, saying he hud
no love for the profession, aud could never fol
low it.
Lancelot obtained a commission in his nn- :
cle’s old regiment, the “Queen’s Own,” and
, Clive remained with Sir Jocelyn at the Hall.
Fortune was propitious to Lancelot Ayrton;
he distinguished himself by his great personal
valor and untiring bravery. In a. number of
dispatches he was well spoken of, and bis pro
motion was rapid; bat the story that thrilled
the heart of England aud made his name famous ■
was this.
In the midst of a terrible engagement with :
the Sikhs in India,, when the foe in great num
bers seemed to be gaining advantage over the
English, Lancelot Ayrton, galloping across a '
field with a message to his commanding officer,
saw a young ensign who carried the English '
colors struck down, and the flag carried off by
the exulting enemy. He delivered bis message
; and then put spurs to his horse. To this day
the dark-faced Sikhs tell how the fair-haired
English boy rode dauntlessly among them with
his bright eyes aud handsome face; now he
fought bis way, sword in band, through their
ranks; how shot fell around him yet never
touched him.; how some of tho enemy’s num
bers fled from him in terror, and others aimed
at his heart; how right and left his braveisword <
emote down those who opposed him, until he
grasped tho flag in his bauds and waved it with
a loyal British cheer; how he rode back un
harmed, untouched by the foes who thought
him more than man, aud returned the standard
to its legitimate guardians.
That glorious deed, the sole result of daunt
less heroism, was.read at home in England, and
the hearts of men and women. thrilled when
they realized the gallant deed of the fair-haired
Stripling.
His promotion was rapid after that; when he
returned to Lynde, after seven years of absence,
he had already attained the rank of captain. Sir
Jocelyn received him with open arms; he gave
him a welcome that gladdened the brave, bovisb
heart.
Lancelot found that Clive was also famous
in his way. Ho bad written a book that was
read throughout the length and breadth of the
laud, a book full of grand and noble thoughts,
that made men and women better for the
reading of it. Lancelot was proud of his bro
ther’s tame, Sir Jocelyn was proud of both, but
with his whole heart he loved the young soldier
best. Everyone saw it, and Clive was never :
jealous of his brother.
They wore very happy for a time ; then a sud
den calamity fell upon them. For some few
days Str Jocelyn looked sad and anxious; he
abut himself up in the library and appeared to
spend a great deal of time in writing. One ■
morning fie was there unusually early, and i
seemed more than ordinarily busv.
He wore an old dressing-gown'that bad been
bis companion for many years ; no took his
breakfast with the boys, as be still called them,
although they were men.
“I shall want you both to-day,” he said;
“come to me in the library about noon. I have
something very particular to say to you, and I
want it said.”
At noon they went to the library, but he was
Qjere, They found him an boar affa-wur
in bis own room—dead; and when the doctor
came he said the poor old knight must have
been dead for hours.
There were deep mourning and great lamen
tation at Lynde ; for Sir Jocelyn, the grim old
soldier, had been well loved. He was buried
with ell the honors due to bis birth and life.
After the funeral, the will was read in the libra
ry by Mr. Temple, and Chve was declared the
heir of Lynde.
Only one person seemed astonished at the
terms of tho will, and that was Martin Knowles,
the old butler. He was well provided for ; the
master whom he had served so f aithfully and so
well, had loft him a handsome annuity. Every
servant and every friend was remembered; and
Lancelot Ayrton received his twenty thousand
pounds. He was perfectly satisfied, although
hie brother’s income reached fifteen thousand
per annum.
“I am vary glad you are the heir, Clive,” ho
would say in his careless manner. “lam only
a hare-brained soldier; I should be sure either
to spend or to lose all tho money.”
Indeed no one rejoiced in'Clive’s good fortune
as did his soldier brother, Lancelot. In a few
months order was restored at the Hall, and
Clive had taken his position as master. Captain
Lancelot had leave of absence, and his brother
prayed him to spend the time at Lynde.
These memories all passed through the mind
of the man who sat this Christmas Eve alone by
the fire, refusing all comfort—alone in heart
and soul, he said to himself, for evermore—as
the snow fell and the wind moaned. He filled
his own heart with bitterness, saying over and
over again that there was nothing true under
the sun—that men and women were ail false
alike.
What had changed the sensitive, loving heart ?
What shadow had fallen over him, hiding the
beauty of earth and the glory of Heaven ? Why
does he sit alone, silent and wretched, on this
night above all nights, when the whole world is
filled with gladness?
While the Christmas bells chime merrily, - nd
be shuts his ears to the sound, we will tell the
story of Clive Verner’s'love.
CHATTER ll.‘
One year before Sir Jocelyn died a new family
came to reside at Thornbury Castle. For long
years the family of Lord Aston had made Thorn
bury their home, but the expenses of marrying
three daughters and training four eons had
been too much for his lordship. Thornbury
was sold, the purchaser being Sir Reginald
Montacute, the proudest man in England.
Lynde Hall was only some five miles distant
from Thornbury, and Sir Reginald, who looked
down with infinite scorn on half the county,
positively courted the old knight’s friendship.
Lady Montacute died quite young, leaving a
son and daughter. The son was the exact
counterpart of bis father, but a fairy mantle of
grace and elegance had fallen over Ethel. She
was one of the most beautiful and lovable girls
in the county, famed for its fair women. Clive
Verner no sooner saw her than he felt that his
destiny bad overtaken him. He loved her with
all the force and passion of bis sensitive, poetical
nature. He surrendered his whole heart to her.
To him it was given to love with intensity and
truth foreign to lighter natures.
From the first day he saw her under the shade
of the beech trees feeding a tame white dove,
to the hour when he lay down to die, Clive Ver
ner never gave a thought to any other woman.
It is the fashion to sneer at such love, to say it
only exists in fiction ; be that as it may, it was
after this manner that the heir of Lynde cared
for Ethel. , gm
Old Sir Jocelyn rather despised love; it was
at the best, ha considered, merely an amiable
weakness, quite unworthy the attention of sol
diers, fitting only tor women and civilians. He
admitted, however, that Ethel was the most
beautiful girl he had ever seen. In hie old
fashioned courtly manner he treated her as
though she were a princess. When he found
that Clive had no thoughts away from Thorn
bury, he .considered it all of a piece with his
dislike to the army, and merely shrugged his
shoulders as he listened.
But Ethel was not to bo won easily. Clive
had spent long hours in sighing and dream
ing, in writing love-letters, in journeying to
and from Thornbury, before the fair, proud girl
he loved so dearly gave him any cause to hope.
Sir Jocelyn died, and she saw that Clive was
in real and deep trouble; then, true to her wo
man’s mission, Ethel wished to comfort him.
There came a day when Clive Verner was dizzy
with joy, when earth and sky seemed full of
golden, dazzling light, when he knelt and
thanked Heaven for this greatest of gifts, the
love of a true, pure woman.
Sir Reginald signified bis most gracious as
sent, giving Clive to understand perfectly that
his acquiescence was due entirely to bis being
the heir of Lynde. It was generally understood
that Sir Reginald expected some grand alliance
for his beautiful daughter. Clive Verner was
unexceptionable—young, handsome, popular,
talented, and wealthy. Had he been a younger
son or a younger brother, be would have asked
for Ethel in vain. As it was, Sir Reginald most
warmly welcomed him; aud six months after
Sir Jocelyn’s death, when the June roses were
in bloom and the hawthorn grew white upon the
hedges, the engagement was mads public.
The first and most eager to offer congratula
tions was Captain Lancelot, and the elder bro
ther, though he loved the young officer so dear
ty, almost envied the facility with which he won
bright smiles from his beautiful Ethel. Noth
ing was said at present about the time for the
marriage. Clive preferred waiting a year, out
of respect to his uncle’s memory; he spent the
greater part of every day at Thcrnbury; the two
brothers, in fact, seemed quite us much at home
there as at Lynde.
Captain Lance, as he was generally called,
was most popular; who could resist bis bright
face, his gay words and sunny smiles, the sim
ple, kindly, loyal heart so admirably mated with
a brave, dauntless spirit? He was beloved alike
by high and low; and there were times when
Clive was almost jealous of his younger brother,
and wondered whether, if he had been lord of
Lynde. Ethel too would have loved him best.
That shade of jealousy—and it was but a
shade, after all—moved the most perfect char
acter, and altorward produced strange results.
Throughout the long Summer months the
days passed like a beautiful dream; Winter
came; the year of mourning expired, and in the
ensuing Spring Clive resolved to give some en
tertainments.' He had done nothing yet in re
turn for all tho hospitalities lavished upon him.
He was not. without a lady to do the honors, for
Miss Verner,. Sir Jocelyn’s cousin, presided at
Lynde.
How well, as he sits by the fire on that cold,
bitter Christmas Eve, he remembers all these
things—the balls- where Ethel reigned queen,
tho merry, happy, quiet parties; painfuilest of
all, he remembers the time when his love and
faith were so rudely shaken, then died.
It was soon after Easter, and ho had a large
party of guests at Lynde. Lord and Lady Den
ham, with their two daughters, Sir Harry
Younge, and Captain Hope, Lance’s friend. He
remembers a day when Sir Reginald and Ethel
drove over to dine, and the night was so
stormy, the rain fell in such torrents, that Sir
Reginald accepted Clive’s offer, aud agreed to
remain irt Lynde for the night. Sitting soli
tary, he can recall so vividly the delight he felt
at knowing that Ethel would be under his roof.
He starts from his chair with a bitter cry as he
goes orer again the little scene in which she,
in answer to some words of bis, clasped her
tender arms around his neck, and, with the in
nocent, simple grace of a child, told, him how
pleased she was to stay.. Her warm kiss seems
to burn still upon his bps, tho clasp of her ten
der hands clings to him, and he cries out, pray
ing Heavendie may forget or die.
It was brilliantly lighted, the grand drawing
room at Lynde, and on that evening, after sing
ing and playing, there arose a demand for char
ades. Notliing else would satisfy Laura Den
ham or Captain Hope;' as Ethel wished it also,
Clive was all anxiety.
•• Ethel,” he whispered, “ oven in play y.ou
will have no other lover?”
She raised h<x sweet,. fearless eyes to his i
face.
“No, Clive,” she said, “neither in play nor ;
in earnest will 1 have another lover While I
live.”
He bent over her to kiss the warm, loving I
lips; and Lance, entering at the moment, shilled I
dt thepretty picture. Ho, like Laura Denham, i
was anxious t» have the charades.
“Ethel,” said Lance, -“wo shad want plenty ■
of costumes. Would you mind coming with
me ? Miss Verner will take us up to the old I
oak wardrobe, and we can choose what we 1
like.” •
The oak wardrobe was one of the curiosities :
of Lynde—it stood in the large state bodebam- ,
ber. The carving upon it was wonderful to
behold, and the contents told the story of j
many generations. The stiffbrocades, the coat- !
ly point Tab®, the old-fashioned sacque dresses, !
accumulated by the Ladies Verner during many
long years, were all there.
Sweet, simple Ethel uttered a cry of admira- :
tion as treasure after treasure was brought to i
light. She bout with the delight of a true wo
man over the velvet and damask silks, the for
mer wearers of which slept so soundly in the ‘
vaults of the Verners.
Captain Lance held alolt the wax taper, smil- ■
ing at Ethel’s delight, tolling her she would be
Mrs. Verner soon, and then the treasures would 1
be all her own.
Suddenly Miss Verner remembered a small ;
box of antique jewelry that lay in an old buhl ■
cabinet in her own room; she left Etnel and :
Lance together and went in search of it.
Something or other detained her; she was ab
sent more than twenty minutes; when she re
turned, Ethel had left the shining heap of cos
tumes, and sat on a small couch, her face quite
white, aud her eyes strangely shadowed. Lance
stood over her, pale even to his lips, and look
ing like a man who has received some terrible
shock. Was it Miss Verner’s fancy, or did she
really hear Lance whisper as she’entered the
room something that ended with the words
“ until we die ?” She went up to Ethel.
“Are ypu il), Miss Montacute?” she asked
anxiously-
. “Not ill,”' replied Lance, Speaking for her;
“but Miss’ Montacute is like me—she cannot
endure the odor of patchouli, aud these things
are full of it.”
“It is very strong,” said Ethel; and Miss
Verner saw when sue rose that she was tremb
ling in every limb.
They selected tho dresses; it was Lance who
chose them, who talked gayly, who laughed and
tried to make Ethol smile.’ Miss Verner saw
that all tho gayety and happiness shining
in the voung girl’s beautiful face one short hour
ago bad vanished.
They carried the spoils of the wardrobe down
jtairg, but Ethel cared no more forth" ofijr
NEW YORK DISPATCH, DECEMBER 23, 1877.
tides. She went up to Clive, aud her pale, wea
ried, sad face alarmed him.
“Clive,” she whispered, “do not let them
tease me about the charades. I cannot join
them. lam tired and ill.” ,
“Did you see any ghosts in the old state
rooms ?” he asked, with a smile. “My darling
shall do just as she wishes. Lance, what has
frighted Ethel ?” ;
“Nothing,” he replied; but Clive fplt sure
that a glance of intelligence passed between
them.
So Ethel, with a wearied, sad, puzzled ex
pression on her beautiful face, sat and watched
the cbarados, Clive wondering the while frhat
had come over her, why she had so suddenly
lost her bloom and brilliancy.
“Have you enjoyed this evening ?” ho asjred,
when it was time for them to separate.
The eyes she raised to his were full cf won
dering pain; her lips trembled as she tried to
answer.
Was it a dream, a fancy with him, or did he
really hear Lance whisper to Ethel something
he could not catch, but which ended with “ We
must keep our own secret?” He was just quit
ting the room, and could not tell if ha had heard
rigntly. It must be fancy. What secret could
his brother and his betrothed wife have un
known to him? Why should Lance whisper,
and she listen? What did that look mean which
passed between them ?
He thought a great deal about it; he remem
bered how bright Ethel looked as she went with
Lance up to the old state-rooms. She was ab
sent so short > time, and then returned so
changed—what had happened ? “ Could it be,”
whispered Jealousy, “that Lance had presumed
to speak to her of love—his brave, gallant young
brother, reverenced alike by friend and foe? ’
Ah, no, it could not be! Were all the world
false, Lance would be true. And Ethel did not
look like one who had been listening to love
stones; yet how many times that evening had
he seen her eyes lingering wistfully on the fair,
frank face of his brother.
As the distant sound of the Christmas bells
flame to him, Clive Verner went over and over
again the pain of these doubts and fears.
CHAPTER HI.
From that night peace and happiness fled
from Clive Verner. He noticed trilles light as
air, and held them confirmation strong of the
doubts that marred his life.
On the morning after the charades, he saw
what no no one else appeared to notice—Ethel’s
eyes worn with tears, as though she had spent
the night in weeping. He taxed her with it,
and, though she tried confusedly to deny it,
her face flushed and berjeyes .droopped before
his.
Another time he felt quite sure that ho saw
Lance slip a little note into her hand; there
could be no mistake. Still she did not appear
to love him less. She was all that she had ever
been to him—frank, kind aud loving—but in her
manner to Lance he saw something that was
quite new, a tenderness of look and word that
surprised him.
One evening he and Lance had dined at
Thornbury, and the conversation had turned on
heroes. Olive and Sir Reginald told what he
roes they loved best. The former saw Ethel’s
eyes fixed with love and pleasure on his bro
ther’s face.
“I know a hero,” she said, in a dreamy, ab
sent voice, “one whom the world will never
know—but I may not tell his name.”
This time there could be no mistake ; a glance
of warning from Lance flashed full upon her,
and her face grew crimson under it.
Clive now remembers all these trifles—how,
day by day, Ethel lost her brilliancy and spirits,
seeming to love Lance more; yet, strange to
say, loving himself no less, until his brother’s
leave of absence expired, and he bad to prepare
for returning to his regiment.
They were speaking of it one morning when
the brothers, as usual, were over at Thorubury.
Sir Reginald was telling them that he had heard
that the Queen's Own were to be sent to New
Zealand, where the Maories and English colo
nists were at variance. Ethel was present, and
as she listened her fair face grew deadly pale.
“Going to New Zealand!” she said. “Oh,
Lance, you should stay here in safety!”
Before he had time to reply she burst into a
passionate fit of weeping that startled them.
In vain Clive told her there was no danger, and
then, yielding to angry jealousy, bade Lance
cell her so himself; in vsin Sir Reginald ex
pressed, in dignifiedterms, his dislike to tears;
in vain Lance looked warningly at her —she re
fused to be comforted. She quitted the room,
and a disagreeable restraint fell upon them.
Lance alone seemed unconcerned.
“Ladies always magnify danger,” he said,
carelessly. “It is rather a good thing forms
that 1 have no wife of my own to weep when I
—go where glory awaits me.”
The brothers walked home together, and, for
the first time, Clive shunned, avoided, nay, al
most disliked Lance.
A few days passed, and Sir Reginald gave a
grand farewell dinner to Captain Lancelot. The
brothers went over to lunch, and promised to
spend the night at Thornbury. ’Clive made up
His mind that he would speak to Ethel—ask her
what shadow had fallen over her—if she had
ceased to love him—what sorrow robbed her
cheek of its bloom, and her lip of its smiles.
He saw her alone a few minutes before dinner.
She stood in the drawing-room, a serious, wist
ful, far-off look on her face.
He clenches his .strong hands in hot anger as
he now recalls tho scene. He sees again the
graceful girlish figure, the superb evening dress
of white, gleaming with gold, falling around ber
and sweeping the ground with its rich folds, the
queenly head with its coronet of light golden
hair, a cluster of lilies against the white breast.
From that day to this Clive Verner finds deadly
meaning in the shining leaves of a lily. Ethel’s
face, so delicate in its dainty coloring, so poei
less in its perfect beauty, wore an absent ex
pression that he could not bear to boo.
He wont straight up to where she stood think
ing so deeply, and clasped her hands in his—
white, cool,’firm hands, that lay quietly and
trustingly in his grasp.
“Ethel,” he said, gently, “look at me. 1
want to ask you a question.”
She raised her clear blue eyes to his; he read
no guilt in them.
“Do you love me as yon once did, Ethel?” he
asked; “or have you learned to care for any one
else ? Do not be afraid to toll me.”
For answer she took ber bauds from his, and
clasped them round his neck -for the first
time in her life she laid her head upon his
breast, and whispered such loving words to
him as he had always longed to bear.
“I love you more than ever,” she said. “I
love you better every day, Clive; never doubt it,
and never doubt me.”
He was going to ask ber what the shadow I
was, but ha had no time; they heard the sound
of approaching footsteps, and Ethel moved
away from him.
He was happy, and he remembers the night
as being the last happy one for many years.
The day was Tuesday, and Lancs was to'leave
on Thursday evening.
Ad Wednesday Clive spent in helping his
brother; he lavished money with a princely
hand upon him, ordering everything that he
■ thought Lance would like or require.
On Thursday—it was after twelve o’clock—l
Lance came into rhe library where Clive sat
writing, aud told him he was going out, just
for a last stroll in the park.
“Do not follow me, Clive,” he said, with one
of the smiles that never came on any other
face—“do not iollow me. I am going to be
sentimental, to bid farewell to 1 every tree and
flower,’ etc.” j
Clive did not think of following him; but, ’
half au hour afterward, wishing, all unknown
to Lance, to place a little roll of bans notes
in his portmanteau, he went up to his brother’s
room. His heart smote him with pain when
he saw all the preparations for departure, and
realized how soon the bright brave face would I
be gone from his horns.
As he stooped down to the portmanteau he
saw a crumpled, half unfolded note lying upon
| the floor. Knowing bow careless Lance was of
I everything, be picked it up and straightened
i it. He was placing it upon the table, when
i suddenly be saw that the handwriting was that
; of Ethel Montscute, his promised wife.
I He read the note word by word; he saw great i
I stains as though tear drops , had fallen upon •
I the paper. These were tho sentences that slow |
Clive Verner’s love, aud struck him from the |
! roll of useful men:
“I mast see you, Lance, before you go. I
lam .sure Clive suspects us. Ido not think I can ■
■ bear >iie pain of this concealment. I shall be ’
i in tho park on Tbursjlay morning, near the I
5 beech grove;'let me see you there, Do not i
fail me, Aly heart is almost breaking 1
“ Ethsl.”
; He road the letter carefully and slowly, his
i lips growing white, and his face flushing with
hot, angry shame. There never came'again
■ such an hour in his life; no torture could equal
’ it, no death could be so bitter. He stood si
| lent and immovable while "the first anguish of
I his paiu stung, him. This was the secret then
: —she loved hie brother 1 This was why she
■ had grown sad and careworn—why she had
I wept those bitter tears when they spoxe of
I Lance’s departure—why she was so changed.
He hated himself as ho remembered the falsa j
words and false caress. She had dared to clasp ’
I her hands round his neck, to look into his face i
’ with a lie on her lipa ami deceit in her heart; '
I she had dared, after telling him that she loved '
i him better than ever, to appoint a clandestine .
meeting with his brother.
He had been tricked, duped and deceived by ;
those ha loved best aud trusted most. For some
minutes Clive Verner stood stunned by the
force ot tho blow. Then, with a muttered curse
on his white lips, he went out to follow and
confront them.
How ruthlessly he trampled upon the flowers
aud crushed the sweet blossoms under his feet;
how violently he dashed asida the hanging
boughs ! He saw them at last standing in the
beech grove, Lance banding bis handsome head
over Ethel, evidently using all his powers ol
persuasion, and she weeping and objecting.
That much he could see in tho distance; ho
went nearer, and heard Lance say:
“ Como, promise me, Ethel; wo shall be hap
py then. I shall not go away until you have
promised.”
“I cannot.” said Ethel; “it is against honor i
and good faith; and yet, oh 1 Lance, I cannot
lose my love.”
“Always trust a soldier where honor is con
cerned,” he said, gayly, “ and, if you will prom
ise me, Ethel, you cannot lose your love.”
Then, with angry despair in his white face
and wild eyes, Clive Verner went up to them.
With scant courtesy he took Ethel’s hand from
Lance aud flung it from him.
| “There is but little to Bay. Lot there be an
| end now to all lies and deceit. Is this your i
writing, Ethel ?” he cried, holding before her ,
the-letter which had been a death warrant to !
him.
“Yes,” she replied, briefly, “it is mine.”
“ You purposely planned this clandestine in- j
terview with my bx-other?” he asked.
An expression of surprise came over her face '
as she looked at him.
“ I wanted to speak with Lance,” she said,
hesitatingly, “and asked him to come here.”
“ There shall be no barrier to your meeting
for the future, he said, haughtily. Turning to
his brother, he added, “I will see this lady,who
was to have been my wife, safely home. I will
settle with you afterward. ”
But v to his surprise, there was no fear on
the bravo, bright face—only a kindly, tender
smile. • , -s “
“ I will wait for you here,” said Lance; “ you
will not be angry long at a trifle.”
“Men of honor give such actions as this an
other name,” said Chve, ns be turned away.
He walked through the Summer woods, by
. the side of the girl he loved with so deep and
true a love, speaking no word. She went in
proud silence with him. . When they drew near
the house he turned to her.
“Ethel,” he said, “for the sake of the love
yon have slain, answer me—can you explain
what you have done? Will you explain why
you came to meet my brother here? Will you
tell mo what you wished to say to him ?”
“No,” she replied; “Lance has my promise.”
“And you tell me thatl” ho cried. “I had
your promise first.”
“ I do not understand you,” she said.
“I have always heard,” he continued, with
a bitter laugh, “that no woman can resist the
charm of a uniform—l believe it now.”
She stopped, and, turning round, looked at
him straight in the face.
“I am your promised wife, Clive Verner,”
she said, “and an honorable woman. Say in
few words of what you suspect me. I do not
understand you.”
Her blue eyes had no shadow in them as
she raised them to his. He thought she was
defying him—trying to deceive him again.
“Of what do I suspect you?” he said. “Of
that which some women consider no crime,
Ethel—of being false to your love, to your
promise—false to me; of duping mo for my
brother’s sake!”
“Hush!” she interrupted; “do not use that
word to me. So that is it? You 'accuse me,
in plain words, of falling in love with your
brother, although I am your promised, plighted
“I do,” he said. He saw gathering scorn
in her eyes, the proud flush on her face, the
haughty curving of her lips.
“You dared,” she said, slowly, “to think
me so light of love, so weak of faith! Now
hear me. For this reason and no other—no
other, mind you,. I swear—l take back my
promise: I am no longer yours. I would not
marry a man who suspected me, if my heart
broke twice over in leaving him.”
She gathered her shawl round her with the
grace of an injured quben.
“Do not seek my presence again,” she said.
“I hold the poorest laborer upon my father’s
ground who knows how to trust a woman
higher than you. No one living could have
shaken my faith in yon—not even death itself.
You have had none in me; therefore we will
part. I have loved you well, Clive, but we will
part.”
He tried to interrupt her, to say something,
but she waved him from her with the proudest
gesture.
“I did not understand before,” she said; “I
did not know that you suspected me of this.
That knowledge, Clive Verner,.is a stronger
barrier between us than even death itself would
be. I shall tell Sir Reginald to-night that you
and I have parted for ever.”
CHAPTER IV.
Clive Verner watched Ethel as she entered
the gates of Thornbury Hall. Her proud step
never once faltered; but the passion had taken
deep root in his heart, and he could not believe
her innocent. He said to himself that the wo
man who could be untrue in one thing could
be false in all.
He went back to the beech grove, where the i
young soldier still awaited him. Lance went
up to him and held out his hand.
You are not angry now, brother?” he said,
quietly. “ Shake hands, and let ua be friends.”
“There can be no friendship between you
aud me,” said the master of Lynde; “you have
been in league with the girl I loved to deceive ■
me.”
“ Has she told you ?” cried Lance, his face
flushing as he spoke.
“She has told me nothing,” he replied; “my
own senses have told me.”
Lance looked greatly relieved. He had laid
bis hand on Chve’s shoulder, but the angry i
man flung off his grasp.
“Brother,” said Lance, gently, “can you not j
trust mo ? Is it likely that I, who love you as 1 :
do, should deliberately try to steal the best part
of your life from you? I, whom men are pleased 1
to call a brave soldier and an honorable one
am I a thief, Olive? Would I not, like another 1
Damon, give my life for you? Answer me.”
“ Tell me why you came here to meet Ethel,” i
he said, touched, despite 'his fierce anger, by
his brother’s words. “Tell me what she want
ed to hoar—what was the promise?”
“No,” replied Lance, “I’cannot do that.
Trust mo, Clive—trust me, brother. I love you I
better than myself. I would guard your honor
as I would my own.”
“Tell me what promise Ethel Montacute has <
made you,” said Clive.
“ I cannot,” replied Lance.
“Then,” interrupted Clive, “I swear that
fromi this moment you and I, Lancelot Ayr
ton, shall be strangers, {not brothers. I will
not enter my house again until you have quit
ted it.”
“Trust me,” pleaded the kindly voice again.
“I am your own brother; touch ray hand before
I leave you. Bid me God speed over the seas.
Clive.”
“No,” he said, “I swear that I will never
speak to you again unless you tell me the whole
truth.”
“You will think better of it,” said Lauoe.
“Before 1 reach New Zealand you will be
friends with Ethel, and forget this. It is but
nonsense, Chve. For our mother’s sake, do not
let us part in anger.”
While he lived Clive never forgot the scene.
Lance came up to him; he placed both bis
hands on his brother’s shoulders and bent over
him with tears in his eyes. Taere was a mut
tered cry, an angry word, and Clive had flung
his brother far from him.
I There was no anger on Lance’s face as he
turned to him.
“ Good-by, Clive,” he said; “always remem
ber, in the years to come, mv last words were,
‘ God bless you.’ ”
When Clive Verner returned home his bro
ther was gone, and somehow, though he doubt
ed, almost hated him, he could not forget the
. young soldier’s parting words.
The next morning he received a cold, short
note from Sir Reginald, saying that his daugh
ter had mtormed him that the engagement was
at an end. Five weeks afterward Clive heard
that the whole family had left Thornbury and
gone abroad for a year or two.
All this happened two years ago, and Clive
Verner was a most wretched man. He shut
himself up at Lynde.; he elosed his gates alike
against friend and stranger. He never went
out; he never mingled in any society. He
brooded alone over his outraged, injured love.
J Of course they had deceived him. It was
I plain that they weie in love with each other,
and sought to blind him. There could be no .
other secret between them but this.
He shut himself up with his books— they were
true friends—and during those dreary rears ha :
followed up bis first success by the publication :
j of another book tuat added to his fame. They
I who read, who admired the wondrous elo
quence, the unutterable .pathos, little knew ’
that his aching heart was revealed in each line. 1
He heard but once of Ethel Montacute, and '
then some light rumor came to him that she '
was betrothed to some Italian prince living in ,
Venice. He only laughed bitterly when he ,
heard it, and thought to himself, women man
i age many loves. She was ail the lass worth
i grieving for, bo said ; aud yet there never was ,
I one moment, night or day, that she was out of s
, his miud. From Lance he heard no word. How I
he missed them both who shall say? There '
| were times when his pride and courage gave i
■ way, when wa wept like a child, calling for .
■ Lance and Ethel, and wishing he had died while
i he believed iu both.
i He never questioned his own judgment, or .
. inought it possible that they could be innocent; I
but one day—he will remember it until he dies j
—as he sat out iu the garden among the flow- ;
ers, a letter from Lancs' was brought to him— ;
a letter from the far-off New Zealand shores.
It was a bright warm day in Julv. A thou
sand flowers bloomed around him.' The roses ! ,
and lilies were iu all their luxuriance, the acacia ,
drooped its white blossoms over him ; the birds i
were singing; the sweet south wind wafted
odorous scents from the far-off meadows. The
sun shone gaily while Clive Verner opened the
: fetter written by the man he bad sworn never
. more to see. His first impulse was to destroy
; it; but those words, “You will like to remem- |
i ber, iu after years, that I said * God bless ■
| you!’” prevented him.
Word for word that letter-was burned in up
; on his brain and heart. Ho cried aloud that
| the heavens might fall on him—he was not
worthy to live among his follow-men; for
Lance’s secret was told.
“I should not write to you,” the letter began,
“ but that I am dying, and 1 know you will par
don iu death what you could not have pardoned
iu Hie. Wa ware loving brothers, Clive, and I
have never wronged you—ah, no, never even in
thought. I loved your Ethel ns a dear sis
ter —as .nothing more. But she and I had
a secret — one wo kept religiously from
you. Living, I would never have toldit; dying,
it is yours.
“Can you go back iu memory, Clivo, to that
night when Ethel went with me up to the state
room, to the old oaken wardrobe, to choose
some costumes for Hie charades ? You remem
ber the evening—Miss Verner went with us,
' and she left us to look for some antique jewelry.
1 While she was gone, I saw ray uncle's old dress
ing-gown, tho one he wore tho morning that ha
died. You remember the faded golden tassels
that he was so proud of ?
Seeing it there, for lovo of him I took it out
and opened it. It fell from my hands upon the
floor, and I heard a peculiar sound, as if some
thing was in the pockets. Can you guess what
is coming, brother? I felt iu one of the largo
pockets, ipid fnrtnp a sheet of Darcliment. 1
drew it out, Ethel watching me all*’the time'
and we both saw, in large letters, the words,
, ‘The Last Will and Testament of Jocelyn Ver
! ner, Knight.’
i “ I read it through, ©live, and Ethel road it
i with mo; try to forget it. I am sorely grieved
j to tell you. It was a will revoking the one made
in your favor, and, because I had been a suc
cessful soldier, Idaving mo our uncle’s heir. I
cannot tell you when it was dated. I did not
look to see. Ido not know who drew it up, nor
do I know who witnessed it. I did not care to
know. I remember (seeing the name of Martin
Knowles, and then I remembered his surprise
when the will was read.
“ Ethel and 1 read it together. I shall never
forget her, brother. She fell on ber knees with
a bitter cry.
“‘Ob, Lance 1’ she said, ‘I shall lose my
love!’
“ ‘ Why?’ I asked.
“ ‘ I would marry him,’ sho said, ‘it he were
as poor as the poorest, but my father is proud,
and be will take me from him.’
“ ‘I knew how much she loved you when I
heard ber weep. The parchment was not very
large. Before she had time to speak I bad cut
it into narrow strips and burned each one as far
as I could in the flame of the wax taper.
“That was all our secret, Clivo; we had no
other—no guilty lovo, brother—believe me,
none.’
“I looked up at her with smiling eyes, but
she was more aghast than ever.
“ ’What have you done, Lance,’ she cried—
‘ what have you done ?’
“Let me do her justice, brother. I could not
comfort her. In vain 1 told her tho property
was yours by right, thatl should detest the bur
den of it, that I would not be bored with it. I
could not reconcile her to what I had done. I
made her promise mo never to tell you, and I
knew she would lose her life rather than break
her word.
“That Is why she wept when I was going
away. She thought I ought to be rich, idle, and
safe at home. She thought it a deadly wrong
that I, whom she chose to consider the heir ot
Lynde, should go to he shot at.
“She wrote to me—it was the letter that you
found—begging me to see her; and when I went
sho wearied me with prayers for permission to
tell you, even after I had gone; but I would not
—I would not, Clive! I knew you too well.
Evon though the will was destroyed, you would
have made me abide by it, and Ethel would
have lost you. I thought you would forget it
all in a few weeks’ time, and I have been wait
ing over since to hear of your marriage. Sure
ly you are not at variance still. She would nev
er tell our secret, I know; but you must have
known her to be innocent of all wrong-doing.
” Tell her now, if she is by your side, that
her promise is no longer binding; and, without
reading my letter, she will tell you the same
story. And, Clive, it is better to be safe. 1
feared at first that there might be some copy of
this second will, and that in years to come there
might be danger to you or your children, so, be
fore I left England I made a will, leaving every
thing to you. It lies nowiu the hands of Messi s.
Malcolm & Co. It strikes me that my uncle
was busy over that will before he died, and that
he wished to tell us all about it when he asked
us to eome to the library to him—do you re
member ?
“Ah me, Clive, I shall never hold your chil
dren in my arms—my eyes will never rest on
your face again! I am dying very slowly—it
may bo weeks before my pains end. A Maori
chief took aim at my heart, and two ot his bul
lets still remain in my chest. Good-by, dear
old friend—dearest, bout-loved brother! I can
hear the long low moan of the ocean waves; I
can see tho bright sines. When I meet you
again, brother, you will know that all I have
told you is true. Kiss Ethel for me. God bless
you!’’ •
Was it any shame to Clive. Verner that, when
he had read bis brother’s letter, he knelt down
with it in his hands and covered it with tears—
that he prayed to Heaven to hide him from his
follow-men—that he longed to kneel at Ethel’s
feet and ask her to forgive him—that he loath
ed and hated himself just as much as he ad
mired and loved them?
Brave, loyal, kindly Lance, whom he had
flung from him with such infinite scorn, whom
he had denounced as traitorous and untrue I
Ah, dear Heaven, how mean and pititul he
seemed by the side of such| a man 1 Was it
too late? Was there no hope that he should
hear his pardon from his brother’s lips before
he died ?
They tell to this day at Lynde how Clive Ver
ner started for New Zealand with less prepara
tion [than suffices some a visit to Loudon
—bow he carried off with him at ruinous- ex
pense the cleverest doctor in England. They
tell, too, how‘be reached the camp where his
brother lay—how tho two met, and dive knelt
humbly as a child to ask pardon of the loyal
young hero whom he had dared to doubt.
Lance Ayrton did not die; the clever doctor,
under Providence, pulled him through, and the
brothers went to Italy together, where Lance
recovered his health, although he never quite
recovered his strength. ...
They made an amicable compromise. At first
both stoutly refused to take Lynde, but Doctor
Levison, who was called into council, advised
Clive to retain Lynde; tho large sum of money
saved by Sir Jocelyn, added to the twenty thou
sand pounds already given to him, made Lance
a rich man. He consented to take no more.
Olive was sure that, even should the rumor of
Ethel’s. engagement prove false, she would
never forgive him. Lance declared she would.
Strange to say, the first news they heard a t
Lynde was of Sir Reginald’s return.
“Wait until to-morrow,” said Lance; “it is
Christmas Eve, and no Christian could refuse
to pardon on such a day as that.”
CHAPTER V.
The Christmas bells are chiming in Hilston,
Church—Hilston, near Thornbury Castle; the
snow falls softly and lightly; all the Winter air
seems th.ck with the mystery that for more
than eighteen centuries has never grown less.
It is near two 'thousand years since the Star
shone over the stable, yet tears rise in our eyes,
and love in our hearts, as though it had been
but yesterday. The wind has rallen into a soft,
wailing murmur; the snow has ceased; the blue
Winter sky is studded with silver stars; the
world lies in its white dross, fair as though no
sin had ever darkened it. All the, trees in
Thornbury Park are fringed with snow; it lies
in little soft heaps on the laurel and hoily
leaves; it has covered meadow and wold aud
hop-garden. Far as the eye can roach is a deep
sheet of silvery white.
There is groat rejoicing ai Thornbury Castle.
Sir Reginald has been absent two years', and ou
the occasion of his return he has given a grand
Christmas party, to which friends and neigh
bors from far and near are invited. The win
dows are ablaze with light, that falls in great
floods upon the white snow. Inside, the old
walls seem to rock with merriment; willing
hands have twined such glorious masses of
Christmas evergreens, shining laurel, scarlet
berried holly, dark, tapering fir, white-flowered
laurustinus, and the pretty, graceful mistletoe.
There are evergreens in such profusion that one
sees nothing else ; they are wreathed round the
picture-frames, at the feet of the statues ; they
stand in massive bunches against the walls.
The house looks like a miniature forest.
In the great drawiug-rooui the Yule log burns
on the hearth, the golden light of the chande
liers falls upon fair faces and flashing jewels.
The fairest lady there is tho tall beautiful
blonde who wears tho superb dress of blue vel
vet, so richly trimmed with pearls—a lady with
a magnificent face aud a queenly head crowned
with golden hair—a face that has both pride
and courage in it. For Ethel Montacute can
show both. She has never coasod to love Clive
Verner, but she cannot forgive him that he sus
pected her. For his sake, and because she can
not forget him, sho has refused Italian princes
and English lords. Sho does not know where
he is. They have only been four days at Thorn
bury, and no one has yet mentioned his name.
Sho docs not know if he has yet discovered the
secret, for no word has reached her of either
Clive or Lance since she left Thornbury with
Sir Reginald two years ago.
Sir Reginald has been kmi to her. Ho has
not pressed her to accept any ot the brilliant
offers made to her—and she appreciates hie
kindness.
Timo has but improved ber. She is a glori
ous woman now, with a tingo of sadness in her
manner, for she cannot forget her first love, his
deep, fervent devotion, his jealousy and despair.
There are times even when she regrets having
been so proud at their last interview; yet sho
says to herself: “He suspected me.”
The banqueting table in the great hall groans
under the weight of good cheer—turkeys and
geese, aud goodly capons, the time-honored
“boar’s head,” the noble sirloin, venison pas
ties that would have satisfied Robin Hood and
his “merrie men,’’plum puddings that can only
bo made in old England, mince pies—ah, well,
we know what Christmas cheer means.
The hall is hung round with evergreens ; tho
scarlet berries seem to flash smiles upon tho
guests. The grand Christmas supper was just
ended, when Tewson, the butler, camo up to
Ethel, and told her that some one was waiting
to see her in the library. She imagined it to
be some guest who had arrived late, and went
quickly into the room, the old butler looking
after her with shining eyes. She opened the
door—the fire burned gaily and brightly on the
hearth ; ths lamps were lighted. There were
two visitors—gentlemen—and they stood some
what in tho shade. She went quickly up the
room, a careless, courteous smile on her face ;
but she soon stopped and uttered a low cry as
her eyes fell upon the white, agitated features
of Clive Verner.
It was Lance who came forward and caught
her hands.
“ Dear Ethel,” he said ; “ sister Ethel—this is
Christmas Eve; you will forgive my brother,
will you not ?”
She made no reply; but he felt her hands
tremble in his.t
“ Forgive him,” be continued ; “he has suf
fered more than you or I.”
“ Ha knows ?” she said, gently.
“ Yes,” replied Lancs, “he knows at last.
See, Ethel, for many long weeks I lay dying, as
every one thought; but Heaven was good to
me, and I recovered. Believing that 1 was at
the point of death, I wrote and told Clive all.
He has made such grand atonement for it, Ethel,
oh, forgivs him 1 I have been so near death,
sister, I can understand how we all need to for
give that we may be forgiven.”
“Have you been so ill, Liuce?” sho asked,
gently. “I am very sorry.”
“ I felt grieved,” he said, “when I thought
that I should' never see you, or Clive, or old
England again ; but, Ethel, if my death would
have given you back to my brother, I wonld
pb/>flrhillv have died.”
a‘ “¥ou always wera a boro, Lance,” she said.
0, Then some one else took her hands from the
r- young soldier; another voice—the one she
loved best on earth—pleaded to her for pardon,
it She stood still, pride and love doing fierce bat
fl tie, two earnest faces watching her the while,
e when suddenly, amid the chiming of the bells
> and the gentle wailing of the Winter wind, she
I heard the music of the “ waits.” They sang of
it love and peace and mercy, of “good tidings of
ir groat joy,” and ended with the old familiar'
o words :
n " God make us love each other
e On Christmas Day.”
"One word, Ethel,” whispered Clive—"say
F yon forgive me, for it is Christmas Day.”
“ She bent over him and laid her clasped hands
on his bowed herd.
’ “I forgive you,” she said; “Ilove yon, and I
am proud, but love is stronger than pride ”
Sne never finished that sentence, for Clive
8 had clasped her in his arms, and—she could not.
Lance made his esoape ostensibly to find Sir
. Reginald, but he was long in returning. When
~ he did, bringing with him Sir Reginald, it was
’ Ethel who spoke.
l " "Papa,”she said, “ Cliveandl quarreled, and
1 now we are friends.”
“I always liked you, Clive,” said the baronet,
0 simply. “'Come and let us spend Christmas to
’> getber.”
At that very'Christmas party bravo Lanes fell
“ in love with pretty Kate Duncan, who afterward
made him the best of wives; and the two wed
~ dings took place when the May flowers bloomed
and the birds began their bummer songs. No
'■ Christmas party ever ended so happily as that,
f There was one especial bunch of mistletoe that
Lanoo declared be would preserve while he lived
A —he best knew why. The “ waits ” had never
i sung so sweetly, the bells had naver chimed so
A merrily; and from one to another went the sweet
K old salutation which we, dear reader, give to
you—“A Merry Christmas and a Happy New
5 Year.”
d «
• AN EDITORIAL OKATION.
a IT NOMINATED A WOMAN FOR
‘ SCHOOL OFFICER.
t Enoch Emery is editor of the Peoria (Illinois)
1- Transcript. A few months ago he married a
d Miss Mary Whiteside, who at the time was su
d perintendent of schools in that county. In the
■t course of time the election season rolled around
'• and the lady aspired tor a renomination to the
>- office before the Republican county convention.
Her husband was a delegate, and the following
8 account of how he presented her to the conven
tion is given in an Illinois paper.
i When Enoch Emery arose In the Peoria coun
d ty convention to nominate the candidate for
8 county superintendent of schools, there came a
1 sudden lull in the proceedings. Every one be
’■ came interested, and the delegates leaned for
-8 ward in breathless attention. One could have
heard a horse cough in that awful stillness. The
• emotion extended even to the good Enoch him
! - self. He arose, diffidently toying with his spoe
-3 taeles, first cleaning them with a new cambric
■ handkerchief, and then placing them on his
' forehead, said:
“ I put in nomination for the office of county
superintendent of schools Mrs. Mary Whiteside
• (a long pause) Emery. (Flutter among the del-
8 ogatos.) I nominated her four years ago (sou
? sation), and as I was in some scuse responsible
1 for her as an official, I got to watching her.
(Cheers.) I watched her close and saw her real
1 worth. (Encouraging cheers.) I was drawn
1 nearer and nearer to her (cries of “ good, go
1 on 1”), and the closer I got to her the better 1
1 liked her.” (Storms of cheers, yells, and cries
3 of “Whoopeel”) She was nominated without
’ a dissenting voice.
1 iwwsmßswiwwiwMwesaiwiaaigi
! A POEM FOR THE YOUNG.
Puss and Her Three Kittens.
B ..
BY THOMAS HOOP.
Onr old cat has kittens three;
1 What do yon think their names should be?
i One is a tabby with emerald eyes,
And a tail that’s long and,slender;
But into a temper she quickly flies
If you ever by chance offend her.
I think we shall call her this—
I think we shall call her that;
3 Now, don’t you fancy 44 Pepper-pot ”
A nice name for a cat ?
. One is black, with a frill of white,
And her ieet are all white fur, too;
If you stroke her, she carries her tail upright,
And quickly begins to purr, too.
I think we shall call her this—
’ I tliink we shall call her that;
i Now, don’t you fancy 44 Sootikin u
i A nice name for a cat ?
One is a tortoise shell, yellow and black,
• With a lot of white about him;
1 If you tease him at once he sets up his back—
' He’s a quarrelsome Tom, ne’er doubt' him.
3 I think we shall call him this—
I think we shall call him that;
t Now, don’t you fancy “Scratcbaway ’*
r A nice name for a cat ?
Our old cat has kittens three,
Y And 1 fancy these their names will be:
44 Pepper-pot,” 44 Sootikin,” 44 Scratchaway
I there 1
Were there ever kittens with these to compare?
f And we call the old mother—now what do you
j think ?
♦‘Tabitha Longclaws Tiddleywink.” •
Weary Amid the Glitter.— A lady,
whose husband held one of the highest places in the
, government the Chicago Times, Washington corres
-3 pondent informs us, stood in her magnificent home,
r attired for her weekly reception. 44 How gladly
would I give up all the finery, show and insincerity
’ of this public place and go back to the rooms I lived
• in when we were first married. I would throw
r my silks and diamonds away and sit down to my
> supper of chip beef and tea at sunset, and afterward
1 take a long, quiet walk with Will, and rest on the
stump in the moonlight, and tell my little plans for
3 the future, and what I had done every hour while
3 he was gone, and know that we were alone in the
3 world, living only for each other. Those days seem
like days in Heaven. I work harder now than any
1 slave ; often three hundred calls to return in a
1 single week ; receptions or parties every night ; see
7 the same people, hear the same talk, eat the same
1 things, come home disgusted, wonder what I am
3 living for, where I will go to when I die. 4 Bettie,
I must have Hon. and Secretary here to-
. morrow ; I must get their influence ; you must talk
, music to the secretary, and you must ask Hon.
i about monolith ; monolith is his hobby. Do your
best : I need their help.’ So it is always. Help, in
fluence, power—a smile on my face, interest in my
• manner, living a lie, feeding my soul on husks.”
"i
, Grecian Death Watl. — The only
f stirring news in Athens, says the Boston Advertise?*
Athens correspondent, is that of a duel which was
j* recently fought about four miles from here, by
1 which Greece lost one of her best army officers, Mr.
• Bourbachis, Captain of the Universal phalanx. Tnis
3 gentleman, who was universally beloved and re
-3 spected.was, last Wednesday morning, shot through
f the heart by his most intimate friend, in conse
. quenco of a foolish complication, for which the de
ceased was in no way to blame. The funeral service
j and procession were very numerously attended.
On the day of the duel I went, with many others, to
the bouse of mourning to see the body, and heard
. one of those myriologues, which tbe nearest female
1 relative of deceased persons in Greece are wont to
• extemporize over "their remains. By the bier sat
J the aged mother, who in her young days took a he
l roic part in the defense of Missolonghi, where By
j ron died, and the sister of the departed soldier; the
! former calm and resigned, the latter almost frantic
3 with grief. Placing her arms round the 44 dreamless
head,” and looking lovingly into her brother’s face,
she poured forth her rude wail in gusts of heart
rending grief, such as Electa is represented by
3 Sophocles to have displayed over the urn supposed
3 to have contained the ashes of her brother.
Sorrowful Story of a Depositor.—
3 She descended the stops of the savings bank says the
t* • Reading (Pa.) 'Eagte, and her eyes red and inflamed,
1 were full of tears. The woman about thirty-five had
been weeping in the bank, and her woe seemed tu
j be too deeply seated to release her at once. She
was asked her story. In her trembling bands she
I clasped a well-kept bank-book, in an envelope
musty and brown. It showed a deposit of $167.
Her thin lips quivered and a fresh deluge of tears
' came as she tried to tell of her troubles. 44 It was
all we.had in the world, sir. Days and nights Den
-1 nis and I have worked and worked and saved, sir.
. Every penny we saved together, and did without
• clothes and things so that we might save something
j for us and the children when we’re old. Dennis has
been away these throe weeks looking for work, and
, he brought me the news that the bank was shut up.
I I heard that a bank had shut, but I never dreamed
} it was ours. O Lord, this is a terrible blow to us.
1 They just told me they could give no money to me—
" that they had none.” The poor woman could say no
I more. Her tears told the remainder of her story,
r and she wept as though her heart would brea .
, There have been many-such scenes about the Read,
ing Savings Bank this week.
> —
J A Double-Headed Snake. — Last
1 Thursday, says the San Francisco Post, Pec. 13th,
> while J. W. Linden, of Los Gatos, Santa Clara
; county, was superintending the removal of some
3 wood on the South Pacific Coast Railroad, one of his
t workmen discovered under a stick a small snake of
y the kind generally known as gopher snakes. The
’ workman was about to kill it when Mr. Linden no
ticed that it had two heads, presenting a most ex-
“ traordinary phenomenon. He captured it without
0 injury and exhibited it alive and well to-day in the
“ office of tbe Post. The snake, which is of a brownish
B color, is about twenty-two inches long, and, as
; nearly as can be judged by experts, from four to
s six months old. 'The heads are perfect in every
3 respect, the eyes being especially well formed, and,
as his snakeship has perfect command of them, he
t can solve the problem of seeing round a corner.
v Each has its separate neck, from 1 to inch in
'length, set, apparently, at an angle of about ten de-
9 grees, and they can be distinct y traced for a few
> inches after they blend with the body. This snake
is a most extraordinary natural curiosity, and, it is
8 understood, Mr. Woodward is anxious to secure it
for his gardens. It is perfectly harmless.
Fraudulently .Using a Father’s
Corpse.— Says the Covington (Ky.) Ticket : Some
i. time last Summer a man named Blakenship, who
3 was under bail to answer as an accessory in tho
n Parker murder case, was reported to have been
i shot and killed while fishing in the Licking, near
/ the Lower Blue Licks. His hat was found pierced
}• with bullet-holes. The general supposition was that
l s this was a ruse, and that Blakenship had skipped
I, out. In fact it is claimed that he has been heard of
> in the south. One day this week the upper half of
a man’s body was found, partly buried in the mud,
| along the bank of Licking. Two teeth were missing,
’ by which Blakenship’s friends claimed his identity.
However some suspicions were aroused that the
half of the corpse might be that of the father of
5 Blakenship, who died recently. The father’s grave
was opened, and behold tbe upper half of bis body
Id was gone! The younger Blakenship’s life was m
fiuied for S2.GUQ. and July yunjora are afloat .
Successful Treatment of Hydropho*
1 — A l corr ® B r°’3dent w.io was in India some yearf
back, when hydrophobia was very prevalent in tha<
country, sends us the following cases which wer<
successfully treated there by resident English
medicsl men. One was that of a boy who was placi t
under the care of Doctor Wylie at
Ihe patient was seated on a cane-bottomed chair.
r naked ; a pan of live charcoal was put uuderneathj
, the chair, and all were enveloped in blankets, leave
, ing the boy’s head tree. Mercury waa now thrown
over the charcoal. In a quarter of an hour saliva
poured from his moutu and rigidity ceased. Hd
lived, and so did many other patients treated in the*
same manner. Tbe second oaao was under th<s
care of Mr. Barnes, medical officur of the Charitable
Dispensary, Hooshipore. Tbe patient was suffering
from violent and frequent attacks. Ho was- tied cw
a cane-bottomed chair and surrounded witm
blankets, leaving the head frea ; a vessel of boiling
water was placed under him, and a mixture of ©qua#
parts of mercury and sulphur well rubbed together*
was placed in a broken piece of earthenware over
charcoal fire, and put alongside tb» vessel of boiling
water ; fifteen grains of cal tmel were given at once,'
and five grains repeated every hour, the mercurial*
vapor-bath being kept up till all the symptoms bat®
subsided. .In about four hours the man wa< per*’
fectly calm. The after-treatment w r as tonics*,
nourishing food, and gargles io remove Balivaii9P» ’
He was discharged cured. ,
A Romance in Brief.—A soldierin'?
Cromwell’s army, passing with his oomrados over:
St. Mary’s bridge, Derby, observed a young gir>»
ladling water from the river. In a spirit of frolic
and mischief he threw a large stone, intending iti
should startle her by making a suddOn splash. Bub
it struck her on the head, and made a bideouni
wound. She fell into tbe river. The soldier did no®
wait to see that she was rescued. He galloped on*?
feeling that he had been guilty of a wanton murder. '
The unknown consequence of his folly preyed upon s
his mind. His conscience was always upbraiding,
him. Years after, when he was discharged from the*
army, he settled down in Derby. He took a publid?
house in Bridgegate, and after a short acquaintance
with a woman of suitable age, got married. Very}
soon after he saw his wife combing her hair, and in-1
quired how she got that great scar which disfigured/, 1
one side of her bead. She replied*: ?
44 Some wretch of a soldier had ones nearly killed*!
her with a stone, but if ever she that maifc
she would pay him for it.”
It is not recorded how she punished her
when he confessed being her assailant, or how greater
was his relief when tue haunting thought of a wan*n
ton murder was removed from his mind. He wa«t‘
one of the five troopers who rode under the oak!
where Charles was hidden at Bosoabel. From thisv
soldier was descended Mr. Hutton, a well-knovvia
antiquary of Derby, who related the above. j
A Vury Strange Story.—-Two singn-i
lar incidents, which will furnish nuts to crack toi
believers in the supernatural, have come to light Inrf
England in regard to the recant.loss of the Ava-<
lancne in the British Channel. A lad, who was a
great friend of the apprentice who was lost, made
arrangements to accompany him down the channel
and come ashore with the pilot, but at the last mo-«
ment before sailing be was seizad with such an in*'
definable and ungovernable misgiving that be de-x
dined to go go, and thus escaped almost certain
death. The apprentice who was lost had a retrieve®
dog which was very fond of him, and which
swered to a shrill dog whistle which he carried. Om
tbe night of the shipwreck his mother and aunb
were in the sitting-room aud the dog in the kitchen. ;
Between nine and ten o’clock ths ladies wore star-*!
tied by hearing a shrill whistle up stairs, in count®
resembling that of tbe dog whistle used by tb«
young man. The dog heard it (also, gave his usuaftj
recognizing bark and bounded up stairs, where ba?
supposed his master was. The whistle was heard!
just about the time that the Avalanche went down J
and it was heard by two credible witnesses, whOMj
testimony was confirmed by the response made tat
it by the dog of tbe lost sailor.. j
Novelties in Flobicultvbe.—A very;
old but good Btory has just boon rehearsed in tho(
columns of tbe London Land and Water, by Mr. W. 4
H. Webb. In substance it is os follows: Dr.
gill/an English botanist aud physician oi note iufi
the eighteenth century, successfully treated a ship I
captain who arrived at London ill of yellow fevers
The doctor would take no money for his cervices*
but requested the captain to bring him two barrelet
of earth from Borneo. At length tbe earth wafii
brought, and the doctor, having burned the surface}
of a piece of ground very thoroughly, sprinkled thdi
Borneo earth upon it. The result was that one hun»‘
dred different sorts of new and curious plant#-}
sprung up. These novelties in floriculture, ineludo
ing geraniums, have since teen diffused throughout
the. gardens of England. In these days, when the{
introduction of new plants is so sedulously pursued./
it is surprising that the method of Dr. Fpthergiijj
has not been more extensively tried, as communica- ;
tion with tropical regions of germ-charged soil itft
infinitely more frequent now than then. >
Removal of the Whbat Belt.— Tho.
removal of the 44 Wheat Belt” westward is strikingly
exhibited by the trade of Cleveland. Only thirty*4
five years ago she shipped more wheat than any
other port on the great lakes, Buffalo alone excepted?;
Massillon, now scarcely known in the wheat*’ traded
was the chief point of original receipt, and rCceivod.
a larger amount of wheat than any other port in the*
world from the actual producers. How both Oleve*-
land and Massillon dra w a large proportion of theiw
bread-stuffs and grain from the Northwest. West-*
ward the wheat-producing region takes its way a
but this condition'of affairs.’although it will
many years, will not be permanent. With
agriculture, wheat will again ba grown in large*
quantities where it is now neglected ; and the in<»
creased settlement of the West wHu after a certaiot
point is reached, provide consumers near the place#
oi production in that region.
Charms Against Yellow Faran.— Th»
negroes down South are noted a very superstitious
set. 44 During the late yellow foyer panic we no -4
ticed,” says a writer in a Southern paper, “ several
little street Arabs playing about, who wore little cal*
ico bags suspended from their nooks as a sort of tal
isman to ward off the blow of ttxo dreaded disease
that was then supposed to infect tho whole comma-'
nity. Some of these bags contained gum camphor, i
others Were packed with mustard, and one little fel<»
low wore a tiny bag filled with flirt. * Mammy donw
fotch* it clear outen de cemetery/ explained the ur«*
chiii. 4 She done got it outeu dat gax's grave dat wu®-
knocked iu de head wid an ax/ A curious theory/
we thought, that the earth taken from a murdered!
woman’s grave can ward off pestilence; and yet it 1#
firmly believed.
A Negbo Nimbod.—A party of thread
young mon of this city, says tho Obarlotto (N. C-i
Observer, started out on a bunt a few days ago and j
returned with twenty-one rabbits and birds in proJ
portion, making an aggregate weight of about eighty l
pounds of meat. A noted colored sportsman ac-'
companied the party, and himaoit “jumped” sevJ
on teen of the twenty-one rabbits, sad one of them*.?
he ran down and caught in a square race, witbouts
tho assistance of the dogs. It is related, too, of tbit*
latter-day Nimrod, that a few weeks ago he wont outj
hunting with one of the fine shots of the city, and'
when they came to count up game in tho evening, ift
was found that qut of the seven rabits which haS
been killed, the wnitc sportsman had killed two with'
his fine breech-loading shot-gun, while the darky
had killed the other five with rocks and sticks,
i
A Great Viluan.— In 1783, died in('
prison in Flanders, a man of tho name of Peten
Defaile, who was a worse wife murderer than De*
Tourville. His father, a lawyer in West
left a large fortune. Although ho wai a secund son,
he got possession of almost ail offlt tnrough a forged/
will. He went to London with more than $226,00®
and there married a rich lady. After he had spent;
her fortune she died. In the twelve following
he married successively five wives, «all of whom ho
poisoned. • When be had squandered everything ho>
set up a gambling house, insured it at a high rate, ‘
and then burned it down, escaping suspicion,,
Afterward he committed all kinds of rascalities»
His crimes having been discovered, he was convict-*
ed, but escaped the gallows by dying in prison. . ’
Stalking a Tig. b.—An exceedingly
clever stalk of a tiger was made some time back by
a native hunter of India. The shikari saw tho beast t
asleep under the shade of a large tree on the side of\
a tank, and found no prospect of getting a shot froirt
the land side. So he had recourse to the following!
expedient. He waded from the opposite bank, gun:
iu hand above the water, which was breast high,
with a long cord fastened to his waist, the other end.
of which remained in the hands of a confederate ou
the bank confronting the tiger. Wnen he had got
noiselessly within twenty paces of tho sleeping beast 3
he delivered his shot, and was immediately jerked i
violently back under water by his partner. If
turned out that there was no need of this excetsiYQ
caution, for one bullet had done the business. '
Hrs Won’t Publish a Dream Book.-j/
Some days since a citizen of Crawford street, De*"
troit, named John Wilmer bad a rifle stolen frona
his house on ‘Sunday, while the family were absent?
there was no cluo to the thief, but Monday night of
this week Mr. Wilmer dreamed that he met the man.it
in Windsor who took his gun. He saw the thief sa
plainly in his dream that he yesterday crossed thof
river iu search of him. Wonderful to relate, b«
met the man of bis dream on the street, and did not
hesitate to collar him. More wonderful to relate
the man he met proved to b® a respectable citizen,
of the town, and indignant at being called a thief,!
he knocked the dreamer down and stepped on him'
pretty badly. Mr. Wilmer is not intending to pub
lish a - \
—— . i
On Neutral Ground.—A singular cir-2
oumstance occurred in the office of a steel company!
in Bridgeport, Connecticut, a few days ago. The?
authorized agents of the Russian and Turkish gov-J
ernments respectively met there, each for the pur-*
pose of contracting lor bayonets to be used by tboj
two belligerent parties among the mountains of Tur-4
key. With a look oi mutual surprise the two gen-j
tiemen met each other very affably, and dtecussedl
to some extent their cbinmon business. A singlet
test satisfied both th it they could get the goods!
they wanted, and ordered, the one 800,000, and th©J
other 600.000 bayonets, wi ll which to impale their]
fellow subjects. The steel company, on tho occa«-
sion, displayed the quintessence ci neutrality. \
Weddings in Russia.—Among Rus->
Bians pure light blue is the nuptial eolor, and
coronet of silver ribbon stands in place of th®.
wreath. Tbe wedding-ring for flho bride is of gold/
or some yellow metal, but i-t is not a plain hcoj) ; itl
is generally a double ring with enchased stars. Tha(
bridegroom has a ring too, which the bride puts out
his finger at the altar after shehas received his ; and!
this is mostly a plain one. The clergy make muct*
ado about tbe rings being of pure metal, and thereby!
keen the sale of them iu their hands, though
would not always be safe to test with a touchstone
the purity of tbe ecclesiastical gold.
Why Has it Never Been Tried '
Humboldt describes a spot in the Atlantic Ocean, s;
little to the west of tho Azores, of very great extent,
cowplitely covered with a douse mass of mariu<
vegetation. A Frenchman proposes that the expor- 1
iment be made of taking from this place t ome oi
the rank growth for ter iilizing purposes. His plan
is that the vessels employed in cod fishing shall, aK
those seasons of the year when they are not so eu-<
gaged, make voyages to this district, and he believerf
that enough material may be taken from this inex-J
haustible source to fertilize annually more
I, acres of laud.
An Eventful Lu’e. —In the StaW
Prison at Charleston Mass., is a man named Dunan<
nin, who has had au eventful career. He was therej
when the war broke out, serving a sentence of thirty
years but he was pardoned on condition that h<(
would enlist in the army. His bravery quickly worn
the rood will of his officers, who know nothing oft
his antecedents, and after tbe battle of FredricksJ
burg acted as a spy, gaining important information J
He was afterward sent to Libby prison and paroledj
He broke the parole, re-enlisted, deserted, ooum
mitted a burglary, and is back in bis olq quartan*
again, with twelve years more *