New York dispatch. [volume], October 11, 1885, Page 6, Image 6

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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6
~ —y* ——
the Woodland
BY A. M. CARADOC.
ItO py.tred monumental urn,
. Nor vaunted funereal praise,
'Here lures the passer-by to turn
With mute and reverential gaze.
No cypress throws quaint shadows here
Upon some sculptured marble tomb,
Where rests some one to memory dear,
Amid the churchyard’s solemn gloom.
But in some unfrequented glade,
Where fragrant flowers bloom and die,
And where, beneath the wood's deep shade,
In wild profusion ferns lie;
Where bluebells, with the golden furze,
lhe wild rose and the daffodil,
With ivy, moss and countless burrs.
Lie scattered o’er the verdant hill;
Beside some cool sequestered stream,
Shaded from the stormy weather,
Where the sun’s last lingering gleam
Fades upon the mountain heather—
There, where the moss is soft and green,
With meadow-sweet and cowslips, too,
And fairest snowdrops may be seen
Weeping in the morning dew;
And where the skylark’s evening song
Comes floating on the perfumed breeze,
And woodland music, all day long,
Lingers in the murmuring trees—
Just tb-p-re, beneath that laurel shade,
Where moss and ivy deck the ground.
The truest, kindest friend is laid—
My noble, faithful, trusty hound.
AJiairsjpra.
BY ETTIE ROGERS.
•*Lemon gauze and rose tulle,” Mrs. Sayles
Baid, reflectively. “And you, Amelia, must
have a yard or two more than Margery—you
are so much larger ! I declare it is a blessing
to be small and slight when one has so little
money for clothing ! But, girls, I think I can
afford to got the material for you if you can do
the making yourselves.”
“O, anybody can make a simple overdress,”
Baid Amelia, a stylish young lady, with sleepy,
dark eyes and a cream-and-sirawberry com
plexion.
“I can try. mamma,” said Margery, a slim
little maid with cheeks like peach blossoms,
and long braided hair, which was “brown in
the shadow and gold in the sun.”
“ O, you will never succeed, Meg,” the elder
Bister observed, with languid contempt. “ You
are not clever enough, and one must have some
talent even to properly make the simplest gar
ment.”
“ She is not very complimentary to you, Meg,
is she ?” Cousin Edgar ventured, with a diverted
emile behind his morning paper.
Cousin Edgar was not precisely their cousin ;
he was an exceedingly remote relative of the
family, and he had just come back from the far
south-west, whither he had gone some years
before, when Margery was a blithe miss in piua
for.es. But if she seemed to him no longer a
•child, she still remained the sweet little friend
whose sparkling letters bad brightened many a
gloomy hour in that strange land. He was very
fond of bonny Margery, certainly ; but all the
same, the elder sister had a profound convic
tion he had not yet revealed what he best liked
and most desired. He liked Margery, of course:
but then she was not clever, she had no talent
for anything, she was quite an insignificant lit
tle thing altogether, and Cousin Edgar would
be likely to bestow his choicest affections upon
somebody more brilliant and mature ! And
Miss Amelia did not doubt that somebody had
already been selected, even if he had not yet
announced his preference.
“Oh, Meg does not mind what is uncompli
mentary,” she said, with her characteristic air
oi languid scorn. “ She has not a bit z of spirit—
she is different from me in everything.”
“ Do you think you can really manage the
tulle, Margery?” the mother inquired, anxious
ly. “ Your sister can help you, I suppose, or
instruct you what must be done.”
“ I shall try to manage without her help,
mamma,” Meg said, with a dubious shake of
her long rich braids and with a look of what was
not unlike amused dismay. Perhaps with her
deficiency of the clever, Margery was perverse
enough to apprehend that the help might be a
hindrance, or that the instruction might not be
of supreme advantage to the rose-tulle over
dress.
“ Well, there is nothing like trying,” Mrs.
Bayles said, sententiously.
“And trying avails where boasting fails,”
Cousin Edgar mentally rhymed behind his
newspaper and with a peculiar smile, which
Miss Amelia perceived and was pleased to in
terpret as a hint of his faith in the superiority
•of her own giited self.
“ Meg has a fashion of boasting,” she re
marked, grandly, but with a simper, “ and, of
course, I am willing to let her try whatever she
likes without my assistance. But she will sure
ly make a distressing botch of her overdress.”
Margery said nothing; but her large eyes
flashed an answer of mute resentment through
a swift rush of girlish tears.
“ Never mind, Meg, the little affair is not abso
lutely indispensable to the great party; beside
you have plenty of dresses and you are charm
ing in whatever you wear,” whispered Cousin
Edgar, bending toward her until his crinkling,
yellow beard brushed the shining head.
“ But I am not afraid I shall spoil the tulle,”
Margery protested as Cousin Edgar put down
his paper, arose from his chair and, humming a
merry measure from some popular melody,
sauntered from the room.
“ You are not such a child, Meg. that you need
encourage such familiarity from Cousin Edgar;
I am sure I do not know what he must think of
you,” Amelia remarked, as the outer door
closed behind him.
“ Why, Amelia, how absurd and cross you
can be ?” the mother interposed, rebukingly.
But Margery did not seem to heed the con
cluding sentences. Perhaps she was already
too preoccupied with her plans for the over
dress wh ch she was to have and which she was
destined to neither both nor spoil, all discour
aging predictions notwithstanding.
In the seclusion of her own dainty chamber
she cut and basted and stitched with industri
ous determination, until the completed gar
ment was as perfect as artistic eyes and dex
trous fingers and conscientious painstaking
could make it.
“ And now I will dress just as I mean to
dress for the party, and then I will go down
and show myself to mamma and Amelia,” she
thought, as, with pardonable pride, she sur
veyed the exquisite consummation of her ama
teur endeavors.
Smiling and flushed with the satisfaction of
her innocent triumph, she arrayed herself and
then tripped blithely down to the room where
the two ladies were sitting.
“ Have I not done well ?” she inquired, with
a not unnatural exultation.
“ You have done nothing for which you need
be so ridiculously jubilant,” Miss Amelia de
clared, crossly and rudely. “Of co-iirse that
Bort of material can always be sewed together
Bomebow. But the dress has a distressingly
unfinished appearance, 1 should say—there are
bo many creases and ridges all about the waist
and shoulders, is there not, mamma?—and the
draping is neither correct nor stylish. I should
never dare exhibit myself wearing it, if I were
you.”
All the glad radiance vanished from the
•sweet lace. Margery was so tired from her un
wonted task, and she really had su h a modest
distrust of her own skill. All the light and
color vanished from the bonny lace, the spark
ling eyes brimmed with tears, and a disappoint
ed little cry came from the quivering pink
mouth.
But at the grieved cry two voices, the one
chiding and the other waggish, sounded in
unison.
“She has done her work excellently well,”
the mother said. “ And my judgment is worth
something, I should think. You know I did
dressmaking for my living be oi'e I married
your father.”
“I am inclined to believe, Amelia, that your
own experiment has ended disastrously,” said
Cousin Edgar, who had been standing an un
guessed auditor just without the open door of
the pretty sitting-room.
“O, I decided not to get the lemon gauze,”
Amelia languidly responded, and with some
just perceptible contusion. “I intend to save
the money for my charity fund ; and alter all I
do not care very much about the party—l shall
stay home, I think.”
But despite the assertion, Amelia did not
forego the party.
“I should not like Meg to go without me,” she
Baid to her mother. “Meg latterly has a fash
ion of making herself too forward toward Ed
gar ; and she requires so much watching and
checking. I shall send her home early, mam
ma ; and then I shall have Edgar all to myself,”
Bhe mentally added.
But her little arrangement was not to be a
Buccess.
Cousin Edgar did not care to remain if Mar
gery was to be sent home. He did not care for
dancing and for people whom he did not know !
He preferred to take Margery homo himself.
“ I preferred a cosy little chat with you,
Meg,” he told her as they entered the familiar
Bitting-room and he led her to an easy chair in
a window niche lighted by the warm spring
moonshine.
But the easy chair was just then occupied by
a capricious and showy work-basket, all emer
ald satin and tinsel and plaitings of lace.
“ Amelia must have quite forgotten her work
basket ; and she is always so particular about
keeping her work in her own room too,” said
Margery, extending a hand to take the article
from his rather awkward hold.
But sbe was too late ; at the instant, bis clum
sy man fingers slipped and the basket fell with
the contents scattered at his feet.
And with the fall, a paper parcel rolled open,
to disclose in the gaslight—an incompleted over
dress of lemon gauze.
“ And Amelia said she did not get it,” Mar
gery murmured in simple astonishment.
“ She disliked to admit that she was not
clever enough for the task,” Cousin Edgar
laughed as they viewed what to even his inex
perienced man eyes seemed one glaring, gigan
tic and irreparable fiasco in lemon gauze.
“I do not wonder she was so cross and criti
cal,” Margery said. “We must not tease her
about it, Cousin Edgar.”
“Why do you always call me cousin?” he
asked, with a look which stirred the bonny pink
roses of her cheeks to a wavering crimson. “ I
am scarcely that, you know ; and beside I have
a reasonable expectation of being something
ftearer sometime/'
“ I know, and I am glad for Amelia’s Bake,
ahe returned gently, but somehow the crimson
blush had paled to pink again.
“ For Amelia’s sake,” he echoed. “ That
Amelia boasts a particular claim to all the talent
of the family I am aware, but I certainly have
not been conscious that she supposes she has
an exclusive and individual right to all of the
relatives also,” he finished waggishly.
“But I thought you were so fond o& her,”
Margery faltered.
“ My darling little Meg I am fond of nobody
but you,” ho answered as he put an arm about
her and kissed the bonny face. “ And you are
so near and dear to me that I wish to keep you
all mine forevermore—my love, my wife.”
When Miss Amelia at length returned from
tho party, she stared angrily as she beheld the
two together—Cousin Edgar contentedly settled
in the easy chair; and Margery shyly nestling
on an ottoman beside him I But the stare
changed to an expression ot mortification as she
perceived the unlucky lemon gauze which had
been deposited on a convenient table.
“ Never mind, Amelia, you must have another
new dress directly anyhow,” said Cousin Ed
gar, noting the startled glance and the changed
expression. “My little Meg must have you lor
a bridesmaid, you know, and I mean to present
something more than gauze to her
maids-of-honor.”
“ Miss Amelia attempted something congrat
ulatory, but she accomplished only an incoher
ent stammer.
“I could not congratulate them, mamma,”
she said afterward to her mother, “ I was too
much amazed. lam sure I cannot understand
why I should always make such mistakes and
failures in everything. Of course Meg is not at
all clever, but she always manages to have
just what she wants.”
a sweet Tove.
LADY CATHCABI’S CONFESSION.
There was no more admired figure in London
society in the season of 1879 than Lady Howard
Cathcart. A widow of twenty-eight, as richly
endowed by nature with W’it and beauty, as by
her late adoring and grateful husband with
wealth unshackled by any odious restriction,
sho might well be reckoned among fortune’s
favorites.
She was the most gracious and charming pat
roness of literature and art, for she possessed
at once that fine receptive and critical faculty
which gives to munificence the higher grace of
sympathetic comprehension. It was allowed
that her l.ttle weekly dinners at her pretty Rich
mond vilia con erred a cachet iof distinction on
any guest invited.
Even the debutantes of the season, however
fresh and fair, were constrained to acknowledge
her supremacy, but men pleaded in vain.
For the most part she succeeded in evading,
with exquisite dexterity, the outspoken expres
sion of their homage, or when this tailed,-she
listened and declined with a grieved and grate
ful sweetness which riveted their chains. So
many brilliant chances had been thus passed
by, that the world said that either her ambition
was insatiable, or that she was one of the few
women who preler personal liberty to social dis
tinction .
Bertha Cathcart sometimes smiled to herself
when some of this sort of gossip was wafted
buck to her ears. Her ambition insatiable,
when she knows it is bounded by the strong de
sire to lay all she is and all she has at the feet
of the one man who alone treats her with a
courteous a.oidance ?
Is liberty so dear to one who finds it too rare
and cold a medium lor the beatings of her pas
sionate heart? On the contrary, what is life
worth, however bright and desirable it may look
to the outside observer, if the one thing which
is held as the chief good lies outside its circle ?
Ten years ago, on her first introduction to so
ciety, she had met young Laurence Kinnaird,
the eldest son of a noble but impoverished fam
ily, who had passed his examinations for the
India Civil Service with such special brilliancy
and success, as to draw toward himself a cer
tain amount of public recognition and regard.
He had obtained the enviable post of private
secretary to a distinguished Governor of the
Madras Presidency, and was within three
months of his departure from England when
their acquaintance began.
The latter part ot that period was passed
by him under the direct influence of Bertha
Maxwell's gilts and graces, as they were both
staying in the country house ol a mutual friend.
She was a girl of whom our choicest English
homes offer so many fair examples; she was
beautiful, highly intelligent, and carefully edu
cated up to the ever-rising standard of the day.
Care had never touched her; life had taught her
no hard lessons, nor exacted any grievous dis
cipline. Scarcely had a wish remained ungrat
ified, or an inclination been crossed. It was
not that she was incapable of sacrifice or averse
to yield obedience, but that no demand upon
her self-denial had hitherto been made. Also
she was an heiress.
Of all the men who had already gathered
round and worshiped the brilliant girl, compet
ing for her favor as knights ot old at a tourna
ment, none pleased her so well as the grave and
rather cynical student, the fame of whose pro
digious attainments had already attracted her
toward him. After the desultory intercourse of
a London season, they met, as we have said,
beneath the same roof, and under conditions
the most favorable for quickening a latent incli
nation into love or friendship. For six weeks
they met and parted morning and night, until
the thought of the coming hand-clasp became to
each an anticipated rapture, and in the light
chat of social*intercourse, or the more earnest
discussions ot thought and opinion, their eyes
intuitively sought each other’s for agreement
or dissent. Then as other guests, less closely
allied to their hostess, dropped off, they walked
or rode together in the cool Autumn mornings,
and the young man, allured by the sweet inter
est sbe showed in all he said (his speech having
become for her something different from other
men’s), opened out his heart.
He told her of his family history; of the heroic
soldier-father, disabled by a long life of hard
service in India, and never uttering a com
plaint of the scanty recognition he had got; ot
the tender sickly mother, oppressed but never
overwhelmed by the weight of domestic cares,
and of the little crowd of brothers and sisters
who were one and all looking to him to pave
his own way to fortune, that he might help them
along the road. It was evident to Bertha that
the chief satisfaction he derived from his pres
ent success was the chance it gave him of ful
filling what seemed to her these somewhat un
reasonable expectations, and he spoke of it
with a simple manly gratitude, not at all as if
it had been won by his own energy of will and
brain.
If the weather were wet, and their rather in
valid hostess not yet out of her own apart
ments, there were the still more insidious de
lights of the poem to be read by one who gave
a finer meaning or a deeper pathos to the
chosen page; or she, in her turn, would sit down
to the piano, and for his ears alone weave the
long-drawn subtle melodies of some Beethoven
sonata, or lend the pure freshness of her voice
to the songs he preferred.
In one word, they loved each other. She knew
it and rejoiced, for what stood between them
and happiness ? He knew it, and took his reso
lution.
She was sitting one morning in the pretty
morning-room which had been set apart for
her use, when he knocked at the door for ad
mission.
“ Come in I” she cried brightly. “ I have fin
ished my letters, and am ready tn talk; or per
haps you have some scheme to propose ?”
fie looked at her for a moment with grave
earnestness; in her pretty thick white gown,
with a crimson sash round the lithe supple
waist, and a red rose in the lace at her throat,
he thought be had never seen her look so fresh
and fair. Her sweet face had that expression
of mingled softness and ardor which was one of
her distinguishing charms. He turned away
from her a little and referred to a letter in his
hand.
“ 1 am afraid,” he answered, with a forced
smile, “that the time is gone by for schemes
or plans. I have received a summons
from my chief—we are to sail in ten days, and
those of necessity 1 must spend at home' lam
come to say good-by.”
Her lips parted, but she checked the excla
mation that had nearly escaped her; she could
not, however, check the sudden paling of her
cheek.
Once more he glanced toward her, grasped
his purpose more firmly, and went on.
“I am going away, as you know, with the
prospect of a long exile from England—my life’s
work cutis out for me. Any regrets I may feel, 1
am bound to stifle. My father reminds me once
more that I have my foot on the first rung of
the ladder, and must mount higher, if only to
pull my younger brothers after me. You
would smile if you knew all the hopes they are
building upon my start in life, at home. It is a
foregone conclusion I must never marry.”
“ Yes,” said Bertha, with that matchless self
command which comes partly from the highest
training, partly from the exigence of the un
written code of social tradition. “ I have heard
you say that before. It is, of course, a much
finer role to play in life to be the prop and head
of one's family than to make some common
place match, especially when it can be played
without effort or denial.” And she had enough
faith in her own courage to raise her lovely eyes
and look at him.
He was silent for a few moments, and then
he said, in the low deliberate tones she knew so
well:
“It seems an unworthy thing to try and
found a claim on your approval, Miss Maxwell,
or pose before I go,in the character of victim or
martyr, but the chances are that we may never
meet again, and it may help me, and 'cannot
hurt you, if I tell you the truth. I take away
with me to India a sorrow that will help to
make my pledge of celibacy easy—a love that I
knew very well from the beginning was hope
less, but that I had not the power, scarcely the
wish, to struggle against or to conquer. Now
struggle and conquest are too late. I don’t
know that lam to blame,and I will not pretend
toask you to forgive a folly that was all but
inevitable—there was nothing in your kindness
which reminded me of my presumption.”
He stopped and looked at her wistfully ; he
could not read the expression of her downcast
face.
“You are not angry with me, dear?” he
asked, in a tone that cut her to the heart.
“Oceans, and plains almost as wide as oceans,
will soon divide us, and what will it matter to
you then that one man whom you may never
see again accepts the bitter pain of your sweet
memory as the test and safeguard of his life ?”
“I am not angry,” she answered gently.
“No p ” he said ; “ you could not be yourself
JNEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 11, 1885.
and not be sorry for me, also you could not be
yourself and I not love you. Give me a passing
thought sometimes, if you should hear of me
as playing my part fairly well in life, and carry
ing' my burdens like a man. Remember, I shall
owe a great deal of what courage or patience I
may show to the wish to be worthier of the girl
I have dared to love.”
For a moment it was in her heart to tell him
how every pulse of her being responded to the
words he bad spoken, and that she asked for
nothing better than to share her wealth, not
with him only, but with every member• of the
family which weighed so heavily upon him ; but
the next convinced her that his pride would re
ject such charity, and that to let him know that
he left her behind to suffer as he suffered would
be to make the sorrow unbearable that he was
now able to bear, thinking he endured it alone.
Therefore she kept her secret, and young Lau
rence Kinnaird sailed for Madras without a sus
picion that he had won tho heart of the sweetest
girl in England.
But that was ten years ago.
Bertha Maxwell had married some twelve
months after his departure, with the full ap
proval of her family andjriends, as well as of
society at large.
She did not marry one o r her youthful suit
ors, but a Scotch peer of great wealth and still
larger philanthropy, who was old enough to be
her father.
Lord Cathcart was not too old, however, to
love the grave and intelligent girl who listened
with such winsome interest to bis manifold
the and schemes for bettering the condition
o. ti.« poor on his estates, and who ultimately
consented to join her life to his for the purpose
of carrying them out.
Was Laurence Kinnaird consequently forgot
ten ? By no means ; but this girl could not jus-
ti. it to her conscience to bitterly disappoint
the reasonable expectations of her friends, and
wound the heart or one of the worthiest of men,
in order to nurse to her grave a hopeless pas
sion.
It might be considered by some a stretch of
conscientiousness, but before marrying the ma
ture viscount who told her that, old as he was,
he had never loved any woman before, she con
fessed to him the unconfessed love of her heart,
and that the eareer of young Laurence Kin
naird, already drawing public attention to it,
would always be watched by her with sympa
thetic interest.
The seven years of married life which fol
lowed were lull of quiet content and widespread
human interests, but they closed with her hus
band’s death, and Lady Cathcart, after a long
period of seclusion, in which she nursed a very
real grief, had again appeared in society, where
she was courted and admired with a greater
zest than when she was either debutante or wife.
Was it a mere coincidence that this stepping
out of her retirement occurred precisely at the
same time as the return of Laurence Kinnaird
from India, he having obtained a long leave of
absence from his onerous post of duty? She
answered the question to herself with the
courageous truthfulness which distinguished
her, owning that it was this circumstance and
this, ouly, which had decided her course of
action.
He was still unmarried and she was free—if
tlwj old love survived, what now stood between
them ?
Their first meeting took place at a crowded
evening assembly, and though be recognized
her instantly - asj indeed, time bad done little
more than develop into perfect beauty the crude
loveliness of the girl—he avoided more thau a
passing recognition.
Was she not now even richerand more desira
ble than before—still further removed from him
on the social plane and sought by men who had
the highest prizes of life to offer her?
What measureless folly to suppose that tho
love which was presumption in the bloom of his
youth could be’ acceptable now that time and
care and the sharp harass of accumulated re
sponsibilities had prematurely aged and worn
him 1 True enough, the one passion of his
heart had not grown old, though he had led too
busy and strenuous a life to pine and fret over
the inevitable. Butin the depths of his strong
nature, wrapped up in its virginal shroud from
all contact with tho common outside world, lay
his love for sweet Bertha Maxwell, as fresh,
pure and vigorous as when bis eyes had last
fallen on her girlish face. And do you suppose
that she, with a woman’s intuition, did not dis
cover this?
She did, and her eyes brightened and her
heart leaped within her with a joy keener than
any joy she had tasted before. He loved her
st. the man who had played so gallant a part
in the thick of difficulties, which would have baf
fled and crushed ordinary men and whose claims
t > honorable distinction were recognized on all
sides. For ten years he had kept her memory
green. Would all her life be long enough to
pay him back for his sweet fidelity ?
From time to time they met and parted with
out a step’s advance to the goal she had in view—
he inaccssible in his courteous reserve and she
striving to overcome it as best a fond but proud
woman may.
It is now very near the end of the season; the
cards for the last of her little dinners have been
sent out and he is to be one of her guests to
night.
She dressed early in a simple black toilette,
which had the effect of enhancing her beauty.
For an hour before her guests could be expected
to arrive, Lady Cathcart paced up and down her
cool Thames-lapped lawns, asking herself again
and again how much a woman dare to secure a
blessedness which is nearly escaping her.
She knew that Kinnaird had spoken of leav
ing England almost immediately for a long tour
on the continent previous to his return to India,
and that this circumstance would almost certain
ly deprive her of all chances of meeting him.
Should she let him go ? This was the point
for prompt decision and yet—and yet
She paused once more on the ’steps of the
porch, overgrown with the mixed wealth of
the many flowering creepers, which led into her
house; but what true woman ever reached an
absolute conclusion on such a point ? Alas !
she must wait and judge and be guided by
circumstances still. But if once more con
vinced that she is right—that to him, as to her,
life will be scarcely worth the having, however
bright the outside show, unless they spend it
side by side—will she not make him somehow
understand that what he is too proud to ask she
is yearning to bestow?
It was generally conceded that of all Lady
Cathcart’s successful little dinners the last mos't
nearly touched perfection, and to explain the
phenomenon where a woman rules alone, it
was remembered that her late husband, who
had been just as much of an epicure as be
comes a wise man, had bequeathed her his cel
lar and his c/ief, with all the rest of his real and
personal estate.
But she herself: when had her beauty been
more influential, her voice touched with ten
derer inflections, or her talk more characterized
by that sweet freedom and culivated thought
fulness which made her, every other charm
apart, the most delightful and stimulating of
companions ?
The most silent guest at her table was Lau
rence Kinnaird, but then his taciternity was
proverbial, and might be excused in a man of
action; or it might be that he thought it gave
more effect to his weighty and incisive words
when uttered.
When Lady Cathcart rose from the table with
the lady who was her constant companion and
friend, she signified that, the evening being so
sultry, she had ordered coffee to be served in
the garden Kiosk, but at the same time begged
that they would consult, not their courtesy, but
their inclination in regard to joining them
there.
Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before she
saw from within the shelter of her summer
house Laurence Kinnaird approaching the spot,
and he was alone. Behold the opportunity sbe
had desired, granted her even before she was
prepared to meet it ! But where was the su
perb courage, rising above all feminine and
social conventions, that she had resolved to put
forth ?
No young girl’s heart could have beat more
strongly, or her cheek changed color more
swiftly than hers. Still was she such a coward ?
Should love’s labor be lost for want of the fitting
effort on her part ? She rose from her seat, and
tying the black lace handkerchief she had just
thrown off over her hair and under her dainty
chin, said carelessly:
“ I will go and meet Mr. Kinnaird, and show
him my flowering yucca. He will laugh at it,
no doubt, but at least I would rather know
what can honestly be said in its disparage
ment.”
A few moments more, and they were walking
side by side where she had walked alone that
afternoon, with the full-brimmea river gently
kissing the green banks, and reflecting on its
clear surface every leaf of the lush overhanging
foliage, and every tint of the sunset sky.
Kinnaird looked about him, and heaved an
involuntary sigh.
“ These are the scenes,” he said, “ which a
man dares not to recall in India, or he might
well go mad with longing. How often I have
sympathized with the wish expressed, I think
by Leigh Hunt in Italy, to bathe for five min
utes in the green grass of old England 1 But
this is morbid.”
“ You are very hard upon yourself,” she said.
“ I can so well enter into the feeling you de
scribe, but why do you call it morbid ? Is it
morbid, according to your creed, to let even a
wish escape the bounds of reason ? ’
“If it were 1 should stand very much con
demned by my creed; but I suppose all sane
creatures do their best to square their practice
with their theories, and draw on their reserve
of patience when they find their ‘best’ a very
inadequate quantity.”
“Ah!” she answered, “you are not much
changed from the old times—you were always
one of the men whose reach is so much higher
than their grasp, and yet some of us might be
well satisfied to have lived your life during the
last ten years.”
“And what does Lady Cathcart know of such
an insignificant life as mine ? It cannot have
touched hers at a sipgle point.”
“All that the world knows,” she said eagerly,
“and more beside. I know of the hard and
thankless work done through good report and
evil report, through sickness and health. I
know how much of all that with which your
chief was credited was the result ot your brain
and courageous patience. He is the first to ac
knowledge it; he said to me himself, just before
he returned to Madras six months ago, that you
were the one man who had served under him
who cared for the good done, and totally disre
garded the credit of doing it. Surely that was
high praise.”
“If it were, it would be saj’ing very little for
human nature; but there were a dozen men at
least more disinterested than myself. If I did
not labor and scheme for my personal profit, 1
did for that of my kith and kin, I was always
on the look-out for a corner into which I could
insinuate Jack, or some opening that would help
poor Tom’s career. I was eager enough to util
ize any good-will that tell to my share for their
benefit. I am scarcely to be persuaded that I
am a hero, even by Lady Cathcart.”
“Do you admit that there is any satisfaction
in having succeeded so well in doing what was
required of you ?”
“A little,” he answered, with an impatient
sigh, “but scarcely enough to justify a man’s
career. And there is another side to my good
deeds, Lady Cathcart, and a very seamy one.
XVbat ol the miserable and far-reaching mistakes
which I have made in my official capacity?—of
temper, of judgment, aye, even of justice and
mercy. Then, again, what merit lies in being
without ambition, when you know the one prize
of li.'e is out of reach?' To do stolidly one’s
routine duty saves many a man and woman
among us from despair. But lam forgetting to
whom I speak—or no, I remember it only too
well, but it seems with less power of self-con
trol than when I was a boy !”
He turned away abruptly as he spoke, as if
with the intention of breaking oft the interview;
but she laid a detaining hand on his arm.
“ Stop I” she said, iu a low but firm voice, and
with a sudden flame of color sweeping over her
pale cheek, “you shall not leave me this time
under a mistake. I am going to confess how
much that boyish self-control made me suffer.
Suppose I had told you that sad Autumn morn
ing that if you went to India you would take
with you all my joy in life, would you have
stayed behind? And yet it was true I”
He started, and turned a little pale.
“ Aye ! You can venture to own a girl’s folly
now, but you wisely kept your secret then I”
was his answer.
“ I kept it,” she answered with a sweet for
bearance, “ though it cost me a hard struggle
to do so. You were bound to go away—you had
the fortunes ot your family to make—you would
have refused to take what I yearned to give. It
would have hindered, not helped you. if you
had known how keenly the girl suffered whom
you had left alone in England.”
“For mercy;s sake,” be said hoarsely, “spare
mo, and say no more ! Is it not the very refine
ment of a woman’s cruelty to tell me of a good
I never knew I had until I lost it? You loved
me once, but thought it kind to keep the secret.
Would that you had kept it till the end ! Is it
within my right to ask if the girl had ceased to
suffer when she became a wife ?”
“Yes and no,” said she, fixin" her softened
eyes upon his agitated face. “When we have
buried our dead, and take up the daily duties
of life to those still left us, we do not cease to
remember because we consent to submit to the
inevitable. You had told me our love was hope
less, for you could never marry, and it seemed
to me wrong to sacrifice the reasonable wishes
of my dear parents, and refuse to make a good
man happier. He was quite willing to take me
even when he knew what I have told you, and
from that hour I strove to do my duty toward
him, and was happy in the doing of it. I hushed
my love to sleep, and buried it out of sight and
hearing. I thought,” she added, almost in a
whisper, “ that it was dead—but—but the old
life stirs in it yet!”
He caught her hand eagerly and leaned to
ward her, to question more closely the glowing
averted face.
“It is not pity?” he asked, with the sharp
abruptness ol intense feeling,'“ not a woman’s
passion lor self-sacrifice ? Are you sure that
what you lelt long ago was anything more than
a noble girl’s sympathy with'the pain she had
given ? or that now—now your kindness goss
beyond compassion for the love you have de
tected after so many years’ fidelity ? But even
if you were in doubt, at least you give me leave
to try and win you—sinking my unworthiness—
and no future will be long enough to tire out
my patience, my love, my queen ! ’
She looked at him with a smile, though her
beautilul eyes were wet with tears.
“ Take what tho present, gives you, and let
the future take care of itself,” she said. “No
need to wait or try for whaty .u have got already.
I believe I loved you in tho past, Laurence, and
I have strong faith that I shall love you iu the
years that are to come; but all that counts for
nothing in comparison with the conviction that
1 love you now—.now, with all my heart and
soul 1”
A CimiTNALJiOMrNCE.
Arrested for Murder Committed Thirty
two Years Ago.
(I<\omthe St. Louis Globe^Democrat.)
In 1853 a man named Jacob Akard, living
about ten miles south of Taris, Texas, was way
laid in the woods where he was making boards,
and shot down by concealed assassins. Circum
stances pointed strongly to a neighbor named
Robert T. Alexander, and his son, John Alexan
der, as the authors ot the cowardly deed. There
had been an old grudge between the elder Alex
ander and Akard, and shortly afterward old
man Alexander boasted to another neighbor
that ho bad shot the old , and it
was also learned that big son was with biirj M
tho tirns of the killing. 1 A Wajrjint Yfas Issued
tor their arrest, but they flecl the country and
for years were lost sight of. They went to the
swamis of Louisiana and there led a precari
ous existence, lumbering, hunting, flatboating,
otc., and when the war broke out, both father
and son entered the Confederate service. The
close of the war lelt them stranded with other
debris of the conflict, in Arkansas, and here in
Texas tho murder ol Akard was well nigh for
gotten.
Iu 1873 it was learned where Robert Alexan
der was. The old indictment was brought forth
from its sleep of twenty years, and an officer
was dispatched for him.' He was captured and
brought back—a half-blind, broken-down, gray
haired old man. He was placed on trial, and
the evidence against both father and son was
damaging. It was proven that they crept up
to their victim iu the woods and shot him in the
back. Roberi was sentenced to be hung, but
his attorneys appealed the case to the Supreme
Court, and'the case was reversed and remand
ed for a new trial. The excitement was intense.
Mrs. Akard, wife of the murdered man, testified
that she heard a gunshot in the woods, and
knowing of the trouble between her husband
and Alexander, went out to where ho was at
work cleaving clapboards. On the road she
met the two Alexanders, the father armed with
a rifle. She asked him where her husband
was, and old man Alexander brutally replied
that he had shot the — , and would do it
again if it was necessary.
The dead body of Akard was found, partly
covered with leaves, with a bullet-hole in the
back. Robert Alexander was put upon his
second trial and this time was sentenced to the
penitentiary for life. He was taken to Hunts
ville and put at hard labor, but his twenty
years of fugitive life told heavily on bis once
powerful constitution and he drooped day by
day. He became entirely blind, an imbecile in
both body and mind. Through the interposi
tion of powerful friends he was, after about
eighteen months' confinement, pardoned out by
Governor Coke and brought home to die. He
lingered for about three months after his re
lease and agaiu the murder of Jacob Akard
dropped out of sight, for it was supposed that
John Alexander had either been killed or had
died in the Confederate service.
Early last Spring some United States detec
tives, while looking around in the mountains of
Western Arkansas lor illicit whisky dealers, ran
across an old farmer living near Nevada, Polk
county, Ark., whose name was John Alexander.
Inquiry revealed the fact that he was identical
with the stripling who, thirty-two years ago, in
Lamar county, Tex., went out into the woods
with his father to kill Jacob Akard. Again the
pigeon boles in the District Clerk’s Office were
ransacked, and again an indictment, yellow and
stained with age, was brought forth. Another
warrant was issued, ahd Deputy Sheriff J. A.
Burris was commissioned to arrest the fugitive
of a third of a century. A requisition from the
Governor of Arkansas was obtained and Burris
started to get his man. The nearest railroad
point to Nevada is a station on a branch road
leaving the St. Louis and Iron Mountain Rail
road at Hope, Ark. From there Officer Burris
rode eighty miles through the mountains to
Nevada.
He found Alexander plowing in his field. He
had a small but well-tilled farm, and a family
consisting of a wife and three or four children.
When Officer Burris read the warrant, Alexan
der entered no protest, but meekly gave himself
up. Within an hour the two were en route to
the railroad. When Burris arrived at the rail
road with his prisoner he found that they would
have to remain over night for the train. They
took lodging at the only boarding-house in the
place and occupied one bed, the officer fasten
ing the prisoner’s wrists to his own by means.of
handcuffs and a chain. Officer Burris was tired
out with his long ride, and fell fast asleep.
When he awoke in the morning his bedfellow
had flown, leaving both pair of bracelets with
the officer. The disgusted officer immediately
re-mounted and struck back for the wilds of
Polk County. A five days’ search, in which he
was assisted by the officers of Polk County,
failed to materialize the missing Alexander, and
he returned home to report his bad luck.
Sheriff J. M. Hopkins, of Polk county, how
ever, kept a close watch for the fugitive, and
Alexander’s house was kept under constant
surveillance. The result was that last Wednes
day Alexander’s horse was found hitched in the
woods near his house. A posse of men
were placed to guard it, and about daylight
Thursday morning Alexander was seen ap
proaching it from the direction ot his house. He
was ordered to surrender, and threw up his
hands without a word. Sheriff Hopkins reach
ed here with his prisoner Saturday, and turned
him over to the proper authorities, thus ending
the second act in a tragedy begun nearly a
quarter ot a century since.
The prisoner is now a man of about fifty
years old, and bears quite visibly the marks ol
time, care and suspense. He is very reticent,
refusing to talk to anybody about the tragedy
except his attorneys.
He states that since his escape from the officer
last Spring he has been roaming about from
place to place, hiding in the woods and paying
stealthy visits to his family at long intervals.
He had grown tired of that kind of an exist
ence, and when arrested he was making his last
visit to his wife and children preparatory to for
ever forsaking his home, and was going either
to Florida or Northwest Missouri. He had lived
in Polk county nearly ever since the war, and
was much respected by his- neighbors, having
held several offices of trust and profit.
The District Court is bow in session, but it is
not yet known whether his case will be reached
or not. Mrs. Akard, the wife oi the murdered
man, is still living, as v ell as a number of other
important witnesses, 1 ut opinion is much di
vided as to whether the accused will be con
victed or not.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
GOOD PLACE FOR IT.
A telegram dated from Chicago Baid to a
Detroiter yesterday:
“ What would you do if you were hero and
out of money ?”
The reply went back:
“ I’d wait awhile and shovel snow.”
BEN IS CLEAR.
“ Mister, will you please give me a solid cent
for this penny with a hole in it?” he asked at
a fruit stand "yesterday.
“ I'll take it for an apple,” replied the
man.
“ But I can’t do that. I must have the
money.”
“ What for ?”
“ Why, my brother Ben was left to tend a
peanut stand up here, and he got temporarily
insane and embezzled two cents. The man
says he’ll knock off one on account of Ben’s
youth, but he’s got to have the other by 4 o’clock
or our family name will be dragged in the mire.
Please do.”
He did.
NOT THE KIND HE WANTED.
There was an individual roving up and down
Griswold street yesterday in search of a lawyer
who would prosecute a claim lor him and take
half the damages as pay. When asked by some
one what his claim was he replied:
“ I propose to sue the Police Court for $20,-
000 damages.”
“ What for?”
*’ For sending me to the Workhouse for thirty
days without notifying me what sort of an in
stitution it was.”
“ What difference did that make ?”
“ A great deal, sir. I was charged with drunk
enness, and an officer swore that I was drunk.
I denied the charge, and his Honor said: ‘ I
make it thirty days.’ ”
*• Well ?”
“ Well, how did I know whether he meant a
drunkard’s home, a sanitarium, or a prison?
He explained nothing. Instead of going to a
sanitarium I brought up at the work-house.
The shock to my nervous system has set me
back ten years, and I'm going to be paid for it,’’
VICTORY AT LAST.
He had a weed on his hat—a very fresh one —
and yet he was smiling and rubbing his hands
and apparently feeling so jovial that nobody on
the car could quite make out how to take him.
“Well,” he finally said, as he turned to an
ac juaintance, “ I’ve bought it.”
“ What ?”
“ The paint.”
“ What paint?”
“Why, for my house, of course. I’ve lived
in that house eighteen years and it’s never been
painted. Everybody has noticed how shabby
it always looked, but I couldn’t help it, you
know.”
“ Couldn't you paint it any time ?”
“No. When it was finished I wanted to paint
it brown and trim with majender. My wife
wanted it yaller with green trimmings. Neither
of us would cave, and so the house was never
painted.”
“ And now?”
“Sho died two weeks ago,” he whispered.
“ I went down this morning and ordered the
brown paint and majender colors. Yaller with
green trimmings has passed from this earthly
sphere, and brown with majender trimmings is
still on deck.”
A DECIDED BARGAIN.
“ Bay I for Heaven’s sake lend me two cents 1”
he gasped, as he rushed into a saloon near the
foot of Jefferson avenue yesterday. *
“ Lend you two cents ?”
“ Yes, yes I All I want is two cents I”
“ See you hanged first 1”
“ Say, lend me two cents 1” exclaimed the
man as he rushed out the door and nearly up
set a pedestrian with a satchel.
“ I’ll give you two kicks instead !” replied the
man as he recovered his balance, but the other
had skipped across the street to importune the
driver of an express He was finally
asked what he wanted of the money and he ex
plained :
“ I was over at the depot. Fellow with a big
neck rubs again mo. I tells him to look out.
He says he will lick me for two cents. I feels in
all my pockets, but I haven’t a red. Just
imagine my embarrassment I”
“ You’d better drop the matter.”
“ What! when I haven’t had a fight for seven
months, nor been licked for two years 1 Never 1
It’s the cheapest offer I ever had and I’ll accept
it even if I have to steal the money 1”
And he continued his way up the street and
halted every pedestrian to appeal:
“Say, if you have any mercy on a poor, for
lorn man, lend me two cents !”
SALMAGUNDI.
The best hair preserver is celibacy.
The man who never swears is a saint. The
man who never wants to swe,.r ia a hypocrite.
Solftude is the best incentive to industry.
When a man has no other company he falls in
love with work. r " •_ r -
We have no right to say that any man’s or
woman’s death is premature, because wo can
not know what work God has for them beyond.
Four German generals have recently cele
brated the fiftieth anniversary of their entering
the army. It is noticeable that military people,
after they reach a certain rank, are apt to be
afflicted with longevity.
There is a double sense in which leisure pro
longs life. Not only does the man unracked
and unworn with excessive toil and worldly
care live to a greener old age than his fellows,
but his life does not pass rapidly away as if on
wings of wind. The days of the busy man are
like a shadow that passeth away. One day is
so like another, that the flight of time is
scarcely noticed. On the other hand, time
often seems to lag with the man of leisure. His
days, his months, his years are long, and, if he
be not miserably idle, they may be happy. He
alone takes record of the flight of time. He
alone stops and distinguishes to-day from yes
terday. He alone can say, “My days have
been many in the land.”
Gwin and McCorkle’s Duel.
After Tearjng Each Other’s Clothes a
Startling Discovery Was Made.
(From the St. Louis Republican.)
“An event which excited national interest
was Senator Gwin’s duel with Congressman
Joe McCorkle. McCorkle represented a Cali
fornia district, and fell deeply in love at Wash
ington with a Tennessee girl, but if she had
any affection for him it was alienated by Mrs.
Gwin, who was a beautiful and accomplished
woman and a superb diplomat. McCorkle’s
animosity was aroused against Gwin in conse
quence, and the feeling between the two Cali
fornia representatives was so intense that the
Washington papers at the time published a
great deal about the affair. There was then
only one ship a month to the Pacific slope, and
Gwin and McCorkle, although so hostile, went
out home together. On board, their relations
were very stiff and stilted.
“ When the ship touched at Santiago I went
aboard and accompanied them to San Francis
co. I was a friend of both men,' and endeav
ored to bring about a reconciliation between
them, but as soon as we landed at San Francis
co McCorkle challenged Gwin to a duel, and
Gwin accepted.
“ I called on Gwin the day after the chal
lenge, and he, having heard that I had agreed
to second McCorkle, exclaimed, ‘My God, Ma
jor, are you, my old friend, going to turn
aga'nstme?’ I assured him that I would take
no part in the affair. The sheriff, however, in
terfered and prevented the duel at San Fran
cisco. Finding they could not meet for the
purpose there, they decided to go to Monterey
and have the duel at a place about fifteen miles
out from the town.
“ All the preliminaries being arranged, for a
week prior to the time of the encounter, each of
the principals practiced assiduously with the
rifle, and there were a number of spectators at
the practice shooting. Each man, too, had his
friends among the witnesses of the other’s prac
tice, and thus got ideas of his opponent’s skill.
Their shooting in these rehearsals was mag
nificent, and every one thought one or both of
them would surely fall in the actual encounter.
“On the appointed day Gwin and McCorkle,
accompanied by their seconds and friends, re
paired to the selected spot, and the dreaded
duel was fought. They were fifty or sixty yards
apart, and blazed away with rifles. They tore
each other’s clothes, but after firing seven shots
had drawn no blood. This did not satisfy them,
and they called for more ammunition. Then a
discovery was made. The ammunition had
been exhausted, and they were fifteen miles
from Monterey and about 1,000 miles from any
where else, ft was plain that the duel was over
for that day. In great disgust, but still as ven
omous as ever, the parties departed for San
Francisco. The differences between McCorkle
and Gwin were afterward adjusted. This blood
less duel became historical, and. is one of the
most famous in dueling annals.
“ Gwin soon left California and I never saw
him afterward.”
A NEW FINE ART.
WOMEN AND THEIR HAMMOCKS.
(From the Detroit Journal.)
One of the prettiest studies in still life inci
dental to the Summer months is furnished by
the fashionable woman who wears a hammock.
There are two classes of women who depend
upon hammocks. To one of these belongs the
woman who swings herself in the face of the
public for effect, and to the other the woman
who defies criticism for the sake of the solid
comfort she is able to get out of the swing.
Where a woman climbs into a hammock for
effect, there is more motive visible than where
unadorned comfort only is desired. Few wo
men can master the whims of a hammock grace
fully. There are so many opportunities for do
ing the wrong thing at the right time, that nine
women out of every ten grow bewildered and
lose the thread of the argument. They want to
accomplish too much in too short a space of
time. The consequence naturally is that some
body or something is pretty certain to be over
worked.
The woman who gets into a hammock all of a
heap, and is afraid to move for fear she will
break her neck, seldom becomes a star in the
profession. The world admires composure,
even in its painted hammocks. The young wo
man who makes the hammock a careful study,
and does her practising out in the back yard
somewhere, will eventually win the game.
a w-aa
How He Won His Freedom.—Among
the wealthiest bankers of Russia are the noble
members of the house of Schalouchine. A cou
ple of generations ago their ancestor was a serf,
owned by one Count Scheremetef. By dint of
great industry this serf, as Life (London) re
lates, amassed an enormous fortune. All his
efforts to purchase his freedom, however, were
of no avail, and offers as high as $250,000 were
scornfully rejected by his master, who seemed
actually to enjoy the torture he inflicted on his
millionaire slave, who could neither bequeath
his fortune to his children nor otherwise bene
fit them without the consent of his lord. It hap
pened one day that the count had invited sev
eral friends to a dinner party, and when his
maitre d'hotel laid before him "the menu for in
spection he was aghast io find that oysters did
not figure among the hors-d’awres. In answer
to his indignant remonstrances that functionary
assured him that oysters were not to be had at
any price. At the* hight of the angry scene,
which was continued even in the presence of
the guests, Schalouchine was announced, and in
order to vent his wrath on the unfortunate serf
the count shouted out:
“Show the slave in. What do you want,
dog? If you want your freedom, I tell you I
will never grant it. I care not for any offer you
may make—no, not for a million roubles. A few
dozen oysters at this moment would be worth
more to me.”
“ Do I understand, my lord,” asked the serf,
“ that you would grant me my freedom if I pro
cure them for you ?”
“ Yes,” replied the count, much to the amuse
ment of his guests.
As it happened, Schalouchine had brought a
barrel of oysters with him as a gift to his mas
ter, knowing of the great dinner-party. They
were brought in, the deed of freedom was im
mediately signed, and the count, addressing
his former slave with the utmost courtesy, said:
“ Sir, may I invite you to join us ?”
Bitten in Bed.—Says the Hartford
(Conn.) Post: A few nights ago H. K. Stoughton,
of South Windsor, dreamed that he was bitten
by a snake and when he arose in the morning
he found one of his forefingers bearing the im
pression of a couple of teeth. It was stiff and
somewhat swollen and caused him more or less
pain. The blood escaped from the affected por
tion when it was pressed. The following morn
ing the finger was no better and considerable
blood was forced out through the injured parts.
Mr. Stoughton was unable to account for the
bite. While in his room during the day, sitting
near the window, he discovered an adder mak
ing its way through from the vines which shaded
the sides of the house. The reptile had climbed
up the lattice-work, winding its way along and
darted into the chamber. There it was killed
by Mr. Stoughton. Whether it had been in the
room before of course cannot be known posi
tively, but the supposition is that it had and
that Mr. Stoughton was actually bitten by it
while ho was asleep. His hand was probably
outside the bed-clothes and the snake may
have nestled near it for warmth. The sensation
from feeling the reptile may have caused a
movement of the hand while Mr. Stoughton was
asleep and occasioned the bite. Adders fre
quently get into houses in the country and
have been found curled up in bed. The bites
are poisonous, though not necessarily fatal.
The fiat-headed adder is an occasion of dread
wherever it is found and one is thoroughly
justified in trying to escape from it without giv
ing it battle,* unless he has a long club at hand
with which he is sure of killing it at a blow.
Methuselahs in Mexico.—Says a Mex
ican letter to the Boston Ilerafa: The other day
an old fellow named Jose Gnoire Ojeda, died
over in a town of the State of Jalisco, aged 115
years. He had been married twice, and only a
year ago thought seriously of a third wife, when
death came along to stop his matrimonial
schemes. Some time ago an old fellow was liv
ing at San Miguel do Allende, aged 13 * years, a
man still vigorous. The records of the parish
church confirm bis claims to a great ago. Not
long ago, down in tho pretty little tropical vil
lage of Orizaba, there died ap old woman aged
140 years, and a few months ago a woman
named Martina Riviera, died here at the age of
250 years, a fact thoroughly attested. The In
dians have a proverb that their hair is black
when that of the Spaniard is growing gray. A
local paper noted the other day the case of the
Indian, Juan Santiago, who died in 1844, at the
age of 143 years. This old chap left two depend
ent grandchildren, both aged men, whose years
were respectively 111 and 100 years. The grand
father married, as the Indians do, very young,
and it is not surprising that he should have left
descendants who were themselves centeuari-'
ans. Tho secret of this extraordinary longevi
ty among the Indians is their simple diet and
regular habits. They themselves say that when
an Indian goes into service and eats the food of
the white man, thd luOjan’s teotji to de
cay. Their perpetual grinding on toYtillas keeps
their teeth white, and the lime in the torlilla
makes teeth bone.
De ’Possum IN Jedgment.—
Says the Macon (Ga.) Telegraph: A planter
owned a slave named Mose, who was an invet
erate ’possum hunter. Away back in 1838 there
was a most remarkable meteoric shower, popu
larly known as “ when the stars fell.” Uncle
Mose wft.3 out in a hurricane track, where the
logs lay thick, indulging in his favorite pastime.
His boy Jeff was with him, and they had caught
a ’possum and inserted its tail in a cleft sap
ling, in the usual fashion, and Jeff was carrying
the pole on his shoulder. Suddenly the whole
earth was illuminated jby the shower bf falling
meteors. Uncle Mose gazed up in mute aston
ishment, as the blazing stars went shooting
hither and thither, stretching their flaming tails
across tho horizon in an awe-inspiring manner.
Then he stampeded. He would run a short dis
tance, fall over a log, and then get on his knees
and pray. Then he would make another dash,
trip over a decaying branch, and begin praying
again. Jeff scrambled after him, still holding
on to his ’possum. All of a sudden Mose re
membered that it was Sunday night, and then
he prayed louder than ever. Jeff called out:
“Daddy, wot mua’ I do wid dis ’possum?”
“ Great Lord o’massy 1 Jeff, hab you got dat
’possum yit ? Turn ’im loose ! let ’im go, yo’
fool niggah ! De worl’ am commin’ to an een’,
an’ we’n de Lo’d ax me wot I mean by huntin’
’possum on Sunday night, doan yo’ know I doan
want dat ’possum to ’pear in jedgmoni agin
me ?”
Cyclones Scientifically Described.
—The English government astronomer of Hong-
Kong has published an account of the pheno
mena which precede typhoons. The first signs
are feathery clouds in the sky of the cirrus
type, looking like fine tuits of "white wool, and
which travel from east to north. These appear
ances are accompanied by a slight rise of the
barometer, clear weather, heat, and light winds.
The barometer then begins to fall; the heat be
comes oppressive; there is a swell on the sea,
and the "sky assumes a threatening appearance.
As the storm approaches, these effects become
more marked, while the wind gradually in
creases in force. Near the centre of the storm,
the wind blows with such violence that no
canvas can hold against it, and the rain pours
down in torrents. Still nearer the centre, the
sea is lashed into such fury that this is the most
dangerous position for ships. Typhoons are
most common during September and August,
but they are met with all the year round.
Tobacco and Cholera.—The Anti-
Tobacco Society of France, says the Lancet t has
offered a prize for the best essay bearing upon
the question of the liability or otherwise of
smokers to contract cholera. As the object of
the society in offering the prize is stated to be,
not the condemnation of tobacco in the face of
facts, but to ascertain the facts as they are, the
essays must not be based upon theories, but
must be supported by actual occurrences,
although the anti-tobacconists would very
probably not be displeased to find themselves
supported in their hobby by statistics. If a
healthy stomach be a safeguard against cholera,
it is possible that excessive smoking may dis
pose to the disease by disordering digestion.
The Tomato.—ln almost any condi
tion, simple cookery alone is admissible for the
tomato, writes Sir Henry Thompson. Doubt
less, if ripe and fresh, it is best of all when
eaten raw; but, if served hot, only plain boil
ing, baking or broiling will cook this delicious
half-fruit, half-vegetable, so as least to alter or
diminish its natural flax or. But it is excellent
also boiled, peeled when hot, and served cold,
adding salt and pepper, with cold meat, or
with savory rice, or, indeed, in many ways.
But to serve hot tomato by stuffing it with
onion, parsley and eschalot is mischievous
meddling carried to its highest pitch.
Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral
Is an anodyne expectorant, of great curative power. It aids the throat end lungs in
throwing off diseased matter, and, at the same time, allays the irritation which causes
the abnormal action of these organs. A. B. Deming, Atchison, Kans., writes: “I liavo
used Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, for throat and lung difficulties, with marked success. It
effected a complete cure at a time when I had almost despaired of recovery. I con
sider it an invaluable remedy for all diseases of this character.”
Ira Eno, Dale, Ky., writes: “I have used Edward E. Curtis, Rutland, Vt., writes,*
Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, aud find that it “ For years I was in a decline. I had
WEAK
the system, allays all tendencies to cough, and suffered from Bronchitis and Catarrh,
promotes natural and refreshing sleep, Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral restored me to
and most effectually checks the progress health, aud I have been, for a long time,
of a cough or cold. I would not be with- comparatively vigorous. In case of a
out it for many times its value.” J. 11. sudden cold, I always resort to the Pec-
Cushing, Brownsville, Texas, writes: “ I toral, and find speedy relief.” Dr. 3.
have used Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral with Francis Browne, Philadelphia, Pa., writes:
most satisfactory results. It cured me of “Twenty years ago, being then in activo
a terrible racking Cough which the pre- practice as a physician, I obtained th®
scriptions of several physicians failed to formula of Ayer’s Cherrv Pectoral, anff
reach. It is the most effective remedy I I have often prescribed that remedy wUJI
have ever used.” gratifying results.”
PREPARED BT
DR. J. C. AYER &. CO., Lowell, Mass., U. S. A. ,
For Sale by all Druggists.
Thk Italian Befbaglieri.—Th© Ber
saglieri of the Italian army are justly regarded
as a corps a > ebte i and their feats of activity and
endurance are remarkable. The author of
“Military Italy” relates how the corpa first be
came appreciated by the authorities. On one
occasion General della Marmora, the father of
the Bersaglieri, mounted on a celebrated Arab
charger, drew up a battalion to salute the late
King Victor Emanuel on his leaving Genoa.
The king traveled forty miles with English
post-horses, changing horses four times. At
the end of his ourney, wh*t was his surprise to
find an almost unrecognizable battalion of travel
stained Bersaglieri again drawn up to receive
him, with della Marmora, on the same favorite
while Arab, at their head ! They were the
same troops, who had traveled at great speed
over hills and valleys, fording rivers and
streams, and taking a direct l.ne to the town
tho king was making for by the high-road.
General della Marmora like I to recount this
episode, and how afterward he had his own
way in all questions connected with his favor
ite troops. Bersaglieri receive abouf three®
pence a day extra pay
The Sultan’s Sister.—Some years
ago a German merchant at Zanzibar fell in love
with the sister of the Sultan, by whom his affec
tion was reciprocated. It not being possible to
overcome the opposition of tho Sultan, to whom
this love for a simple Christian merchant seemed,
monstrous, the lady married the German se
cretly and fled with him in a ship to Hamburg*
There they li\ed in restricted circumstances,
and the husband dying, the ex-princess found
herself, with three little children, reduced to
poverty, and scarcely manage 1 to earn a little
money by giving lessons in Arabic. One day
she throw herself at the feet of the Turkish Am
bassador and implored him to procure for her
the protection of the Sultan of Turkey, but the
Ambassador told her that it was impossible for
the Sultan to beg any iavor rom the ruler of
Zanzibar, much less to accord to her his protea?
tion, her brother being an independent king.
But when Bismarck conceived the idea of Send
ing men-of-war to Zanzibar, the princess and
her three children were sent under the protec
tion of Admiral Knorr, who was ordered to ad?
vance the cause of the princess ad a German
subject.
What an Appearance He Must Hath
Made. —Dr. Lansdell, the famous missionary,
was wained when entering Bokhara that hid
conventional clerical garb would not impress
the natives with a proper sense of the wearer’s
importance. “ I had,” he related, “ the red
hood I wear as a doctor of divinity and my
square college cap. I also had a very elaborate
example of a sort of Persian waistcoat which I
had purchased as a curiosity. I had also, as &
Free Mason, my Royal Ar.collar and apron
and several Masonic jewels. Before entering
Bokhara I put on my doctor of divinity’s hood,
my Pers on waistcoat, my (Royal Arch collar
and apron, all the Masonic .jewels which I am
entitled to wear, and, fastening my little travell
ing Bible to my Royal Arch collar, was pre
sented to the deputation sent out to receive me.
They were a very dazzling crowd, in gorgeous
attire. They received me with great distinction
and I rode in at the head.of a very gallant pro
cession, one of the wonders of Bokhara, and*l
think I smiled frequently as I thought oi th®
appearance I made and contemplated the
evident sensation I create I.”
The Car line Island:?.—-Th© Caro
line archipelago is situated to the south of the
Ladrones, to the west of the Marshalls, and to
the north of New Guinea. It consists of about
five hundred islands, of which the greater num
ber are only coral islands. The number of real
islands is only .orty-eigbt; but, as each of these
is surrounded by a certain number of islets, it
may be said that the archipelago consists of
forty-eight groups ; forty-three of these are low
coral islands, while five are composed of basaU
with coral at the base. The superficial areA
over which the archipelago is spread is about
forty-five square leagues. The‘islands are of
astonishing fertility ; the principal productions,
are the bread-.ruit, co oa-nut, the palm, bam
boo, orange, and clove-ti\ e., sugar-cane, betel,
sweet potato, Ac. Tho population is generally
estimated at eighteen thousand to twenty thou
sand. In some oi the islands there are two
languages, as In Java—the vulgar and the pol
ished- >
——■-r-mUye
A Cow With a Wooden Leg.—Says’
the London Field: Some time ago a valuable
cow, the pro, erty of Mr. Botterill Hudson, of
Malton, broke her leg, and Mr. Hudson, being
desirous o saving the cow for the sake of a fin®
well-bred calf then running with her, desired
Mr. Snarry to amputate the limb. This was
done, and the veterinary then tried the ingeni
ous plan just carried "to successful issue. A
rudely constructed woo leu Leg was made un
der Mr. Snarry’s direction, and the cow did so
on the artificial limb - the stump of the leg
healing so naturally, loo—that, when all swell
ing had subsided, the veteri iary had a more
artistic and permanent “ timber” constructed,
and the cow may now be st.e.i stumping about
the meadows as c<?Rtented, and apparently ab
most as a Gve, as when supplied with the full
complement of legs intended for her by nature.
Prof. Williams, of Edinburgh, says he knows of
but one case anything like a parallel to this,,
and that occurred in Wales.
Salvation Oil, the greatest cure
earth for pain, has made a most brilliant debut.
All druggists and dealers in medicine sell it wt
25 cents a bottle.
Cloth i \g for Sea Wayfarers. —W©
have much pleasure in calling attention to a
new material which is intended more particu
larly for the clothing of those who risk their
lives on the water. It has been invented by Mr.
William Jackson, o r London, and it consists of
cotton, silk, or woolen fabrics interwoven with
cork cut into the thinnest shreds imaginable.
The material was lately submitted to a severe
test. Three persons who could not swim were
dressed in clothing made of it—one as a naval
officer, the second in boating costume, and the
third in ordinary lady’s attire. The three wer®
then unceremoniously thrown into the sea from
the end of Ryde pier, with result that they
floated without difficulty and without any kind
of exertion on their part. We may mention that
machinery has been contrived that will cut the.
cork into shreds as thin as paper or linen.
“ It Will Do You no Harm.”—There
resided a few years ago -perhaps Still resides—®,
in one of the British Channel Islands a retired
military o'ficer who considered it his duty ia
season and out of season to circulate tracts
among his fellow-creatures. His gardens, of
which he was very proud, were sometimes opea
to the public, and in a conspicuous position
there was suspended a basket full of tracts,
with an inscription attached to it, “Please take
one; it will do you no harm, and may do you
some good.” One day, when, on the occasion
of a garden-parly, tne grounds were crowded, &.
witty but michievous visitor transferred the
placard from the basket of tracts to the branches
of a Aery fine p6ach-tree which the gallant
owner valued extremely. The result may be
guessed and the old soldier’s remarks im
agined.
A Large Poplar.—ln the Botanical
Garden at Dijon there is a poplar of
colossal dimensions (species not stated) to
which M. Joly devotes a note in the Journal de
la Societe Rationale d'Horticulture. The hight..
of tho tree is one hundred and thirty feet. It®
circumference near the earth is forty-six feet,
and at sixteen feet above the earth twenty-on®
feet. Its bulk is now one thousand five hun
dred and ninety cubic feet; but six years ago,,
before the fall of one of the large branches, it
was one thousand nine hundred and forty.
From some historic researches made by Dr. La
velle and a comparison with trees of the same
species in the vicinity, it has been pretty well
ascertained that this poplar is at least five hun®
dred years old. 4
Celery and Turnips.—Celery has
commended as an antidote for various disorders
for some years. Now, the turnip takes its turn,-
leaving the plebeian potato in the background©
It is authoritatively said that “ a diet of turnips
and celery is a specific for facial neuralgia and
toothache.” In the days when drugs are dis
pensed with, perhaps, we may come to know a
man's pet ailment by the food he uses, and con
versation like the following may occur : “ Some
body at the J 's has the toothache.” “ Who
told you?” “I saw the grocer carry in a peck
of turnips to-day.” “Did you know Mr, 8—•
was nearly dying with insomnia?” “Yes. I
suspected it. I heard that be was trying to live
upon lettuce.”
We are much deceived when w© fancy
that we can do without the v. oi Id, and still mor®
so when we presume the world cannot do with-