New York dispatch. [volume], January 17, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.
How Fwlft they g®,
Lf P 8 many years,
Wf’ t .e:r winds of «*•
Am > hair storms of tears.
And the darkest >4' nights, whoso shadowy slopes
Are lit with the Hashes of starriest hopes,
And their sunshiny days on whose calm heavens
loom
-The clouds of the tempest—the shadows of gloom !
And ah I we pray.
With a grief so droar,
That the years may stay
When their graves are near;
Tho’ the brows of to-morrows be radiant and bright,
With love and with beauty, with life and with light,
The dead hearts of yesterdays, cold on the bier,
To the hearts that survive them are evermore dear.
For the heart so true
To each Did kear,cleaves;
Tho’ the hand of the new
Flowery garlands weaves.
But tho flowers of the future, though fragrant and
fair,
sFith the past’s withered leaflets may never com
pare;
For dear is each dead leaf—and dearer each thorn—
Xn the wreaths which the brows of our past years
have worn.
Yea ! men will cling
With a love to the last,
And wildly fling
Their anna round the past I
As the vine that clings to the oak that fails,
.As the iyy twines round the tumbling wails;
.For the dust of the past some hearts higher prize,
Than the stars that flash out from the future’s
bright skies.
And why not so?
The old. old years,
They knew and they know
All our hopes aud fears;
'We walked by their side, aud wo told them each
grief.
And they kissed off cur tears while they whispered
relief;
And the stories of that may not be revealed
<£n the hearts of tho dead years are buried find
sealed*
Yea ! bright New Year,
O’er all the earth.
With song and cheer,
They v ill hail thy birth;
’They will trust thy words in a single hour.
They will love thy face, they will laud thy power;
For the New has charms whiob the Old has not.
And the Stranger’s face makes the Friend's forgot.
MAURICE STANFORD’S WIFE.
A STORY OF THE NEW YEAR.
Night was closing in with * soft fall of snow—
tho last night of the old year—and the streets
of Munich were lying white under a pale gray
-sky, against which the leafless trees stood in
relief with their powdered branches, aud the
roofs of tho houses were sharply cut, when a
Blender girl, wearing a long, fur-trimmed cloak
and a fur cap, which set off th* beauty of her
delicate features and dark eyes, was walking
down the Konigin strasse, attended by a tall,
handsome man, whose lull, brown heard and
long moustache covered the lower part of his
face, while above a clear aquiline nose, a pair of
gray eyes looked from under straight, firmly
marked brows, between which were two or
three deeply-graven lines indicative of thought
and suffering;
He was regarding with seme concern tho flakes
that were powderinghis companion; but she was
laughing with apparent enjoyment of their
featherly touch as she walked lightly through
the deepening twilight with a look on her face
which made more than on* of those who passed
her think with envy, “H*w happy that girl
seems I” And if they had caught an echo of
her voice they would have been confirmed in
this impression, for surely it was happiness that
epoke in her tone as she said :
“lam glad that it is snowing. lam glad that
the world will have a now dress in which to
greet the new year and the new life which we
are going to begin to-morrow.”
There was som thing wistful in the tender
ness of the man’s glance that turned on her
as he answered :
“God grant that there may bo nothing in the
new life to make you regret the old, my Hilda.”
“And why should there be anything?” she
asked, with an air of smiling defiance. “It is
reversing the order of things lor me to keep up
your courage and yet it is what 1 have to do.”
“ My courage only fails when I think of you,”
he said, simply. “I am afraid that you do not
realize all you ar* undertaking, and that some
thing of the shadow of the past may still hang
over me and darken the sunshine of your
youth.” ,
“If the sunshine is worth anything, it will
soon put all shadows to rout,” she answered,
confidently. “Ah, why do you talk so? Sure
ly you must know that I only care for my youth
or my brightness or anything that is mine in or
der to give it to you ? And when I think of
you as I first knew yon and look at you now, I
know that I have done you good.”
“ Done me good 1” he repeated. “ Why, you
have simply made me another man ! What was
I when you first knew me but a morbid, cynical
creature, for whom there was no sunshine in
the world—only a little pleasure in art, a
little satisfaction in tobacco and beer. And into
this existence you stepped, and from the first
moment your sweet eyes looked at me, 1 seem
ed to wake, first to interest that had long been
dead, then dimly to hope, and then—then to
happiness which hardly yet seems real, though
to-morrow is our wedding-day.”
“ And was 1 not right,” said the girl, “to de
clare that the first day of January should be
that wedding day, so that you might cast off the
old life with the new year ? ' h, res, lam glad
it is snowing—l am glad tin .1 things will be
covered with a fresh mantle oi spotless white
to-morrow—and that we will pass over it to a
; life in which you shall never say again that
there is no sunshin* m the world for you.”
“ I can never say that again, never, never—as
long as you love me I”
“And that will be forever,” she answered
-sweetly and gravely, as she passed one hand
through his arm—for the dusk was now deepen
ing around them, and through the still air the
snow-flakes were floating down more thickly.
An Arctic storm however, would hardly have
troubled these two at this supreme moment of
their lives, nor the skies and flowers of May
added to their happiness. On which side this
happiness was greater it would ,be difficult to
tell—whether on that of the man, who alter
years of dull, hopeless pain, found life suddenly
renewed for him by the wondrous alchemy of
love, or that of th* girl to whom was granted
the great privilege of thus making sunshine for
him whom she loved, and tor whom her com
passion had long been as deep as her love.
Two years before this, Hilda Sterne and her
mother bad come to Munich, in order that the
former might continue th* study oi art which
she had begun in America. Her talent was
striking, her industry great, and it was not long
before her work wa» noticed and discussed
among the artists who form so large a colony in
that art-loving city. And not only the work
but the young artist herself, soon excited atten
tion. She was so pretty, so spirituelle, that tho
pleasant apartment where h*r mother and her
self received their friends became a popular re
sort with all ot the genial brotherhood who were
admitted to their acquaintance.
Among the number, however, Maurice Stan
ford was not included, though as a compatriot
he might have bad special claim to be so. But
■ it had been long sine* he had entered a salon or
Voluntarily sought the society of a woman. His
comrades liked him, though even they found
him unsocial—a grave, reserved, somewhat cyn
ical man who worked bard, obtained high prices
for his pictures, yet lived m solitude, in a care
less Bohemian fashion. Nevertheless, he had a
reputation which, together with the strange
poetic beauty that characterized his paintings,
roused Hilda's interest And with all that she
heard ot him this interest deepened, intensified
by that pity which a gentle woman is so apt to
feel for a lonely and apparently saddened hie.
She went so far as to intimate to one or two of
her most familiar acquaintances that she would
not object to knowing Mr. Stanford—only to bo
answered by a hopeless shake ot the bead. “ A
thorough misanthrope, Stanford,” she was told.
“Never goes near a woman—never looks at one
if he can help it”
“ I am afraid some woman must have treated
him very badly,” said Hilda. “ What a pity he
will not give us an opportunity to show him
that there are women who would not harm
• him I”
But she had been in Munich a year before
chance threw Stanford in her way, or gave her
the opportunity she desired. Then the meeting
was purely accidental. An encounter one day
in a picture gallery, an introduction by Herr
Professor, who was Hilda’s master and with
whom she was walking, a few words of conver
sation, a few glance* from the soft dark eyes,
and 10, the thing was done I The reserve in
which the man had intrenched himself, melted
•away like ice before sunshine. He was touched
by the gentle kindness of those dark eyes, and
did not misunderstand Hilda’s invitation, when
they parted, to visit her mother and herself.
He promised to do so, without any intention of
fulfilling the promise, but fate was'too much for
him. A week later he met mother and daugh
ter in the suburbs of the city, overtaken by a
sudden storm, and accompanying them to their
door, could not refuse to enter. Once within—
• once feeling th* charm of an atmosphere in
which intellectual culture and domestic grace
mot—he who had been long alien from such
associations, felt' like one taken to the gates of
paradise and bidden to look within. Could he
barm any one by lingering a little ? It did not
seem possible, and so be lingered, and to the
great amazement of his friends he finally, be
came one of the habitues ol the little salon. And
from a friend it was an easy step to pass into a
lover with such a woman as Hilda Sterne—not
a woman in whom there was the faintest trace
of alluring art or coquetry, but who charmed
by her intelligence, by her beauty, and, more
than all, by the infinite sweetness ot a character
cast in the most noble and tender lines.
It does not concern this story to relate the
long struggle in which Stanford strove to crush
this love, now how at length it triumphed ; but
among their acquaintances it was the sensation
of the day when it was finally known that he
was to marry Hilda. And the surprise was
greater because it had always been vaguely un
derstood that he was the victim ot some entan
glement which accounted for his dislike for wo
men, and made marriage impossible for him.
However, there was nothing for it but to be
lieve that such a story was without foundation,
«r else that the entanglement was a thing of thy
past, for no one entertained the idea that Stan
ford cou.d Lo guilty of a diaiiouui'ablo action,
While the change in him— the wonderful change
wrought by happiness and hope—was patent
to all.
Patent also was Hilda’s delight and her bright
anticipstions of the future. It was significant
of these anticipations that she chose New Year
day for her wedding day, significant of her de
sire to put the past behind and begin the new
life with all the things now. And now tho eve
of that wedding day had come, and in a new
hours the New Year would dawn. As might be
inferred from the fact that these two were so
quietly walking through the snowy twilight, it
was to be no elaborate or fashionable ceremony
which the morrow was to witness, but the quiet
marriage of the two simple, unconventional
people, with only a few friends to bid them God
speed and see them off to the sunshine and gal
leries of Italy.
Not long after Hilda’s last words they reached
the house in which her mother and herself had
their apartments, and saw the bright light from
the windows shining on the powdered branches
of tho trees without. At the door Stanford
paused, though Hilda said:
“Are you coming in?”
“No,” he answered; “not this evening. I
must leave you to your mother to-night, since
to-morrow you are to bo all mine. Good-night,
then, my Hilda, my own I We meet to-morrow
at tho altar—to part no more.”
“ And will you not wish me a happy New
Year ?” she asked, smiling. “The old year will
be dead when we meet again.”
“ And the old life with it,” he said, in the tone
of one with whom joy is almost too deep for ut
terance. “ God grant that the now year may
bring you all the happiness you have brought
me—and so God bless you, and good-by I”
In the shadow of the doorway an embrace,
and they parted—he walking back along the
snowy street, with a heart full of infinite thank
fulness, she mounting tho stairs to the second
elage, where, at the door, her mother met her,
saying, in a tone of expostulation :
“My dear child, how lata you are I There
has been some ouo waiting for you in the salon
for half au hour.”
“Some one I” repeated Hilda. " Who?”
“ I don’t know,” Mrs. Sterne answered. “A
lady,who did not give her name--a very richly
dressed person, who said she would wait for
you.”
A vague foreboding of evil struck Hilda like
a chill, but saying lightly, “ Perhaps it is some
great lady come to order a picture’” she
walked down the corridor and opened the salon
door.
In the midst ot the brightly lighted and pleas
antly warmed room was seated a figure strange
ly out of keeping with its modest refinement
and artistic grace—a largo woman, still very
handsome, and with traces of what must have
been great beauty earlier in life on a lace
where redundance of flesh had now marred
outlines and run away with delicate tints.
She rose as Hilda entered, and with the light
falling on her toilet of velvet and heavy silk,
her cloak lined with costly fur falling back, dia
monds dashing in her ears and fastening the
lace at her throat, she was certainly a striking
picture.
“ Miss Sterne ?” she said, interrogatively, as
Hilda stopped lor an instant to regard her.
“ Yes, I am Miss Sterne," the girl answered,
coming forward. “ May I beg to know ”
" Who I am ?” said tho other, as she paused.
“ My business here is to let you know that I am
Maurice Stanford's wile.”
There was a moment’s silence—for what can
one say who is struck to the heart? Hilda
stood motionless, all light and color dying out
of her tace, and her eyes gazing wild and star
tled at the speaker. Presently, in a voice un
like her own, she said:
“It is impossible—Maurice Stanford’s wife is
dead I”
“Maurice Stanford's wife is living, and before
you,” replied the other, in the same calm, posi
tive tone which made disbelief impossible. “If
you doubt me, send for him. He will not
doubt, though I have changed a good deal since
he saw me last,” she added, with an involun
tary glance at an opposite mirror.
But this suggestion restored Hilda somewhat
to herself. She thought of the man who had
parted from her a few minutes before with
such high hopes of happiness, and a low ory
oame Irom her lips.
“ God help him—my poor Maurice !” she
said. “Send for him? Nto! It is not I who
will do one thing to cause him pain—he who
has borne so much, and must yet bear more.
But'yon-il you ar* truly what you say—why
have you suffered him to believe you dead ?
Why have you waited until now to declare
yourself?”
The woman thus addressed quietly resumed
her seat, from which she had risen, and lean
ing one arm on a table beside her, looked np at
the girl, who, with dark, tragical, reproachful
eyes, stood before her. She hesitated a mo
ment before replying. Then she said:
“ And how do you know that he really be
lieved me to be dead ? How do you know that
he has not been deceiving you ?”
“How do I know it?” Hilda replied. She
lifted her head proudly. “ I know it because I
know him. And if you think that Maurice
Stanford is capable of deceiving any woman,
and drawing her into a talse marriage, it is you
who do not know him.”
“Perhaps not,” said the other, “yet I had
reason to know him once. However, no doubt
he believed what he wished, and was glad to
believe it. I have no right to blame him for
that. And when 1 first heard of his intended
marriage, which was about a month ago, I
thought I would not interfere—that I would
let him be married if he liked. It was nothing
to me; I did not care. But as time went on I
began to think of you; I began to say to myself,
‘That woman, whoever she may be, never
harmed me, and why should I let her do this
thing without a warning ?’ 1 tried to put the
thought away, but it gave me no peace; so I am
here to-mgbt. I have traveled directly from St.
Petersburg; no one has seen me; no one knows
of my being here. I have come to relieve my
mind by telling you a simple fact, which you
may heed or not as you like. My part is done.
If you marry Maurice Stanford to-morrow I
shall not interfere. But it is impossible to
guard against all the accidents ot life, and
some chance may throw me across your path. I
shall neither seek nor avoid such a chance.
That is all.”
She rose with an indolent motion and began
to draw round her the cloak which hung over
the back of the chair, as if preparing to depart.
Hilda watched her lor an instant in silence;
then, taking a step nearer, she said in a low
tone:
“ And you have come so far to save me—me,
a stranger to you—from the terrible fate of mar
rying a man whose wife is living I What can I
say? Only that I thank you—yes. though my
heart is breaking—and that this tells me that
yonr heart is a kind one.”
“ I—don’t know,” said the other, doubtfully.
She paused and stood looking with curiosity at
the girl who confronted her. A strange con
trast they made, standing thus face to face—
Hilda in her simple costume, slender, pale, full
of passionate emotion, and the large, sunerbly
dressed woman, with her over-mature ‘beauty
and careless sang froid. The latter, however,
seemed a little shaken now. Whatever she may
or may not have expected, she had plainly not
looked for thanks, and there was the dawning
ot sympathy as well as of surprise in her
glance as she looked at the girl who uttered
them.
“I have never supposed that I had any
heart,” she went on after a moment, “ and oth
ers have had the same opinion. Has not Mau
rice told you so? He always wearied me by
wanting me to feel something that 1 could not
feel, and once—just before we parted—l re
member his telling me that I was like an ani
mal, I oared only to be warm and comfortable
and luxurious. He was quite right, too,” she
added, with indifferent candor.
“ Why, then,” said Hilda, “ have you taken
this long journey, at much inconvenience to
yourself, to warn me whom you had never
seen ?”
“Perhaps because I did not wish Maurice
Stanford to bo happy.”
But the pale, dark-eyed girl shook her head.
“No,” she said, “you are belying yourself—
else yon would not come to me alone and leave
the matter to my conscience. You have a heart;
you are kinder than you wish to appear.”
“ There was no reason why I should deeire to
harm you,” said the other, “ though lam harm
ing you now, you know. After all, it might have
been better if I had left you in ignorance.”
“Better I” repeated Hilda. “If the blow had
killed me, I should thank you for lotting me
know—in time."
“ I doubt it Maurice will thank me,” said the
elder woman with a faint laugh. “Itis a pity—
for him—that I amnotroally dead; butyou see”
—with a glance at her ample proportions—" I
am very much alive. To confirm you in yonr
idea ot my kind-heartedness, however, I prom
ise that if I should die before you are married
to some one else, you shall be informed of my
death.
“Your death?” said Hilda. “Can you think
that even in my inmost heart I would desire it ?
When I consider what death is ”
She paused, and as her great, dilated eyes
gazed at the splendid figure before her, they
seemed to behold as in a mirror all the years of
this wasted life, the sumptuous, terrible years
of sin, and in the pitifulness of the sight she for
got for a moment her own pain.
“ Oh I” she cried suddenly, “ believe me when
I say that I would be willing to endure all my
life long thp suffering of separation from Maur
ice—yes, and the knowledge of his pain, too—if
by that suffering I might win for you the grace
to change your life before death comes, as come
it must at last.”
“And what then?” said the other carelessly.
“When it comes, one goes out like the flame ot
a candle—that is all. lam not one to trouble
myself with childish fancies. And now I must
go. I leave Munich to-night, and it is not likely
that you will ever see me again. But I shall re
member my promise.”
“ And I shall pray for you,” said Hilda.
The gentleness of her accent seemed to touch
the other. She looked at her with strange wist
fulnoss for an instant. Then saying, “Do not
waste your prayers. Adieu,” she left the room,
and a moment later there was only the pervad
ing fragrance which she had diffused around
her to tell her that her presence had not been a
dream.
As one whom a relaxing strain leaves prone,
Hilda sank into a chair, and there she was found
lying back with white face and closed eyes,when
tier mother entered full of curiosity with regard
to the departing visitor. At her hurried “ Hil
da !— ray dear child, what is the matter?” the
-1 roused herself, anti, holding out her hand,
.aid, with pathetic quietness:
“it is all over, mother; there will be no wed
ding to-morrow. That was Maurice Stanford’s
v/..u. Tho nows of her death was a mistake.
Now, help me to be brave, and to remember
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 17. 1886.
that there is work to be done in the new year,
though there will be no happiness.”
The new year, which began with such bitter
fiain and disappointment for the two from whose
ips fate dashed the cup of felicity which they
had so nearly touched, had grown bld in turn,
dropped into the great abyss of time passed,
and had been followed by three more of its fel
lows, of which the last was also drawing to a
close when we see Hilda Sterne again.
To a superficial observer these four years have
made little change in her. The pretty, delicate
face, the soft, dark eyes, the graceful, gentle
manners are unchanged; but how deep the blow
had struck, and how entirely the charming gay
ety of youth perished in the struggle which fol
lowed, only those who know her best are aware.
There was one despairing interview with Stan
ford on that New Year’s Day, which was to have
been their wedding day—an interview in which
tho girl found that she must be strong for both
—and then they parted, not to look on each
other’s face again, but to take up the burden of
life separately and to bear it with what courage
they might.
It was a courage which did not fail with Hilda,
and even Stanford could not sink back into the
life from which her influence first roused him,
when bethought of her brave renunciation, her
quiet acceptance of pain, her life of duty cheer
fully fulfilled, her infinite faithand gentleness.
“See,” she said to him in parting, “if happi
ness was all we had to live for, we might be in
consolable; but, so far from all, it is a low, self
ish end compared to others. Let us lift our eyes
to a higher one, and if the road is steeper and
more painful than that of which we dreamed, we
may do better things in it.”
“I can never do bettor things without you
than with you,” Stanford had answered. But
even to him, as time went on, dulling a little in
its merciful fashion his great longing, some re
alization came of what she meant--of what
things are better than a lifoot selfish happiness.
He began to understand that, to one who can
take its hand with courage, pain is a mighty
teacher, that in the power of sacriflce and self
denial the soul grows strong, and that to relieve
the suffering of others is the beet medicine for
one’s own. His friends found a great change in
him. He was not the misanthropical, cynical
Stanford of other years, nor yet the Stanford who
had tremblingly put out his hand toward happi
ness, but a quieter, graver, gentler man, who
found the road along which he was walking
rough and hard, no doubt, but before whom
shone ever the light of one faithful guiding star.
But it shone irom afar—for since that New
Year’s Day he had never seen Hilda Sterne.
Almost immediately alter her mother and her
self left Munich, spending a year in Italy, and
then taking up their abode in Paris, where they
remained.
And now it was New Year’s eve again. The
last sun of the old year was sinking to his rest
in a clear sky, and all Paris glowed under his
radiance—though it was a radiance which did
not temper the keen coldness ot the air—as
Hilda emerged from one of the many entrances
of the old palace of the Louvre, in the gallery of
which she had been copying, and prepared to
take her way home. Brilliant as Paris is at all
times, it is never more brilliant than as the
i holidays draw to a close; and New Year’s day,
’ which is universally observed by social ameni
ties and by the making and receiving ot gifts,
is at hand. She streets are thronged with peo
ple, and it is a time to make a stranger feel all
the loneliness of isolation, but Hilda’s thoughts
were of Stanford more than of herself, as she
looked at the sinking sun and thought of their
last walk together on that unforgotten New
Year eve four years before. She kuew how
sadly his thoughts were turning toward her,
and saying with a sigh, “ My poor Maurice 1"
she passed out of the palace gateway—to see a
carnage drawn up, and her mother’s face, to
her great surprise, bending toward her from it.
“ Oh, there she is I” Mrs. Sterne said with an
air of relief. Thon, as Hilda drew near, she
went on quickly, “ My dear, this good sister has
come to summon you to a—a dying person in
great haste, and since she did not know you by
sight, I came with her to find you.”
For a moment Hilda looked in amazement
from her mother to the sister of Bon Secours
who sat by her in the carriage, when the words
“ a dying person ” suddenly suggested a
thought which made her grow pale.
“ Who has sent for me ?” she said. “ I know
of no one who would send, except .”
“ Maurice,” she would have added, but her
voice tailed. Her mother understood, however,
and answered quickly:
“ It is a woman—the sister gave me a name
which I do not know, but I cannot help fancying
that it must be the same person who came to
you once—in Munich.
“Will not mademoiselle enter?” said the
sister, speaking now in French. “ The need
for haste is urgent and I cannot leave my
charge longer than is absolutely
Hilda hesitated for an instant Then eaung,
“ 1 cannot refuse to go whoever it may be—and
there is nothing to tear with such a messenger
as this,” she entered the carriage and the
coachman drove rapidly off.
Through the thronged, brilliant streets they
passed—Hilda noting as in a dream the way
they followed, while her mother asked the
sister how she knew where to find them.
“ Mme. Zaida gave me the address,” sho re
plied, quietly, “ She has been in Paris some
time, and having seen mademoiselle, she dis
covered where she lived.”
“But who is Mme. Zaida?” demanded Mrs.
Sterne, no longer able to repress her curiosity.
The sister looked surprised. “ I thought you
must know,” she answered. “It is, perhaps,
right that you should know, since mademoi
selle, your daughter, is going to her. Sho is a
woman who has sinned, but who is now a sin
cere penitent in the eight of God.”
“ It is Maurice Stanford’s wife, mother”’ said
Hilda in a low tone.
A moment later the carriage paused ; the
great door of a porte-cochere opened, and they
rolled in. A servant ran hurriedly.down some
steps and spoke to the sister, who, turning, said
to Hilda : “ Come, there is no time to lose 1”
and led the way quickly np the staircase to a
large apartment. In the salon Mrs. Sterne
paused, saying to her daughter, “ I will wait for
you here,” while Hilda followed her guide, who
lifted the curtain which admitted them into an
inner chamber.
On a couch in the middle of this chamber a
woman lay, for whom the sands ot life were
plainly running low—a woman whose physical
strength had been exhausted by violent inflam
matory disease, and who now, in her extreme
weakness, hung by a thread, as it were, on the
verge of eternity. Yet, changed as she was
from the superb presence which had faced Hil
da four years ago, the latter felt that sho would
have recognized her at once—and the fierce
flame of fever having wasted away, her features
were now so marked that she could realize the
striking beauty which had led captive Maurice
Stanford’s heart and judgment when he married
the young actress, then in the first bloom of her
youth, sixteen years before.
As Hilda followed the sister to the couch land
there paused, the pale face—white as the lace
edged pillows on which it rested—turned to
ward her, and a pair of eyes which were soft
ened and deepened by the great dark shadows
under them, looked at her, while a feeble voice
said :
“So you have come. I thought you would.
And you see I keep my promise—l said that I
would let you know when I died.”
“You have not sent for me for that?” said
Hilda, in a low tone.
“ Why not,” said the other. “It is only right
that you should see with your own eyes that
the obstacle to your happiness is removed, that
yon can marry Maurice as soon —”
“Hush—oh, hush I” said Hilda. It seemed
more than she could bear to hear happiness
spoken of by those dying lips, to hold out her
hand to it across a grave. She suddenly sank
on her knees. “Do not think of me,” she said,
“ but of yourself.”
Tho dying woman seemed to smile a little and
extended one wasted hand toward her. “And
if I have thought of myself—at last—in the
only true way,” she said, “it is to you that I
owe it. And that, above all else, I have sent
for you to tell you. I have never forgotten
how could I forget?—the manner in which you
met me when I went to you to separaie you
irom him whom you loved. 1 might have looked
for anger and scorn ; I received thanks and
pity. Do you think I did not understaud
that ? And your prayers—for lam auto that
you have prayed ”
“Constantly,” said Hilda, “and offered for
you all the pain I suffered.”
“ You have won for me the grace—the infinite
grace of repentance at last,” said the other.
“ Could I die and not let you know that ? And
to tell you myself is more than if you heard it
from another. It will repay you, perhaps, a
little for what you have suffered.”
“ Repay me—a littlel” said Hilda. She took
the hand extended to her in both her own.
“It repays me a thousand-fold! It is paying
me so great that the suffering is not worth
counting in comparison. Oh, believe me, you
make me happy 1”
“I am glad,” said the other, “for I made you
unhappy before. But you bore it well—l have
never forgotten how well. And your life all
these years has been preaching to me. Long
before this illness came upon me I had grown
heart-sick and ashamed of my Iffe of self-in
dulgence. And so I think that I have a little
true contrition for my sins—and I sent for you
because I wanted you to know, I wanted you to
tell Maurice that lam sorry—for the past”
“Maurice will be as thankful as 1 when he
knows,” said Hilda.
“ You must send for him at once,” said the
faint voice. “It was New Year eve before. I
should like him to be happy on this New Year.
And now there will be—nothing—between you.”
“I should be willing never to see his face
again to win—this,” said Hilda, with tears as
joyous aud as pure as an angel’s.
But when the first sun of the new year rose
with flashing splendor over Faris, the erring
soul had fled, and there was no reason why the
wires should not carry across Europe a mes
sage to turn Stanford’s sadness into joy. One
word—which meant all things—from Hilda,
and that word was, “ Come.”— Godey’s Maga
zine.
Unmabbying a Couple.—The problem
how to unmarry a couple was attempted by a
clergyman in the West Riding of Yorkshire in
the year 1805. He found out, on inquiry, that
he had married a young man and woman who
were brother and sister by marriage—probably
a deceased wife’s sister. The clergyman, afraid
that he might be punished for uniting this
couple, attempted to unmarry them by taking
the bride’s bonnet from her head and placing
the Church Bible thereon; but th* charm was
not successful, and th* loving pair firmly re
sisted this ianovaLca of undoing the hymeneal
knot.
QUAINT JUDGMENTS.
Extraordinary as They May Appear,
They Have the Effect of Bringing Out
the Truth.
(From chambers’s Journal.}
Scattered about in tho various histories of mon
and nations are to be found many decisions of
despotic kings and princes, unrestrained by
the iron hand of statute law and precedent,
which seem equally quaint and yet equally
effective in bringing about the desired result.
The caso in which Portia appeared as counsel is
no fiction of Shakespeare's, though she herself
may be. The main facts of the singular bond
and its attempted enforcement, and the conse
quent trial and judgment, as related in “ The
Merchant of Venice, are fairly Well-authentica
ted matters of history.
There is a story related of a judgment given
by Pedro the Cruel, of Spain, imbued with very
much ot tho same spirit as the one delivered
in the court at Venice. A slater was engaged
in repairing the roof of a houso, and while so
engaged, through some false step or other acci
dent, lost his balance and rolled down the
slanting side of the roof and fell over the edge
into the street below. Just at this moment—
unfortunately for himself, though fortunately
tor the slater—a man was passing along the
street just in front of the house whose roof
was being repaired. Upon him tho slater fell,
knocking him to the ground with such force
that he eventually died of the injuries he re
ceived, while the slater does not seem to have
been much the worse for his fall, being saved
from any violent concussion with the hard
pavement by the interposition of tho body of
the unfortunate wayfarer. The dead man’s son
brought an action against the slater, asking that
he might receive punishment for killing his
father and be made to pay to him (the son)
damages to compensate him for his loss.
The king, before whom the matter was laid,
inquired into it, and satisfied himself that the
slater was in no way to be blamed, his fall and
its fatal consequence being purely accidental.
In delivering his judgment, he said that it was
natural that the son should desire some satis
faction for the death of his father al the hands
of the man who had killed him, and that this be
was ready to order him. The slater must go
and stand exactly in the position where the de
ceased man had been at the time of the acci
dent, and ths son might mount on to the roof
of the house and throw himself thence on to tho
efiater, and so mete out to him the same treat
ment that he had meted out to his (the plain
tiff's) father. The sou, however, like Shylock,
declined to run the risk incidental to carrying
out the judgment.
The Emperor Claud was appealed to by a
young man, who complained that his mother
had disowned him, saying that he was no son
of hers, and in no way entitled to any share of
the family property. The emperor investigated
the matter, and came to the conclusion that,
though there was no way of quite conclusively
proving that the young man was the son of the
woman, there was yet practically no doubt about
it. He ordered the woman to be brought before
him, and said to her :
“Do you still deny that this man is your
son ?” The relationship was persistently de
n cd. “Well, then,” said Claud, "ishe is not
your son he shall be your husband. I order
that you be immediately married to him.”
This unexpected command reawakened in her
the maternal feeling, and, confessing hur per
jury, she tally acknowledged the young man as
her son.
It is related of tho Sultan Soliman 11. that
upon his return to Constantinople, after the
conquest of Belgrade, a poor woman came to
him complaining that her cottage had been
broken open by some of his soldiers, who had
carried away ail her goods while she slept.
Soliman smiled, and told her sho must be
sleeping hard if she had not heard the noise
the men must have made in carrying off her
property.
“ It is true, my lord,” she boldly replied,
“ that I slept soundly, because I believed your
Highness was watching over me.”
rhe Sultan, though he felt the force of her
rebuke, nevertheless admired her reply, and
took steps for the restoration of her property
and the punishment of her spoilers, giving her
as well twenty pieces of gold.
The Duke of Ossone is celebrated for the
many quaint judgments and decisions delivered
by him while Viceroy ot Naples. Some of them
seem actuated rather by a spirit of pleasantry
than by one of justice. One day the duke had
to choose a galley slave who should be liberated
in honor of some great festival. He went on
board one ot the galleys, aud, standing in front
oi the first bench of rowers, six in number, he
began to question them all as to what had
brought them there. The first one contented
himself by calling God as a witness to his inno
cence, and protesting that he was there for no
reason at all. Tho second said his punishment
and disgrace were the work of his enemies, and
not the consequence of any crime. The third
protested that a crying injustice had been done
him by hi* being sent there without any trial.
The fourth said that the lord ot his village had
become enamored of his wife and had caused
him to be sent there out oi the way. The filth
declared that he camo from the hamlet of Som
nai, and that he bad been implicated in a rob
bery there, in which he really had had no part
at all, and that all his neighbors would bear
witness to his honesty. The sixth, who had
observed that all these excuses and justifica
tions did not seem to please the duke, took a
different tone.
“ Your Excellency,” he said, " I come from
Naples, and though the town is a large one, I
do not believe that it contains a greater scoun
drel than myselt. They have been meroilul to
me in only sending me to the galleys.”
The viceroy looked at the man keenly for
some momenta, and then, turning to those in
attendance upon him, said : “ Let this scoun
drel bo released from his chains—he will cor
rupt all those honest men.” Then he pre
sented him with some money to provide bim
sok with clothing and besought him to try to
live a better life in the future.
Two days afterward another prisoner was to
be liberated and the duke again proceeded to
the galleys to select one. Information as to
what had happened on the previous occasion
had reached the slaves in the galley which
the duke boarded, and they believed that the
best way of getting their liberty was to blacken
themselves as much as possible, seeing that
that course had succeeded so well before. Of
all the 300 in the galley, there was not one
who who did not confess that he was soiled
with the vilest crimes and had riebly deserved
wheel or gallows.
“This is strange,” said the duke, “to see so
many people with souls so black. Their pun
ishment is the health ot the State, which they
would infect by their bad example. What
crimes would they not commit if they were at
liberty I I shall order them all to bo still
more vigorously guarded,” which he did, free
ing only a monk, because he ingeniously said
that the chains ot the galley were less oppres
sive than those of tho monastery. His pun
ishment was the penalty of a double apostacy
of which he had been guilty.
“Well,” said the duke, “return to your
monastery, since there you undergo a severer
punishment.”
A rich old merchant, seventy years ot age,
named Morelli, boasted that he had gained the
whole of his fortune without leaving Naples.
He had never been away from it, he said, for
five and forty years, and he vowed he would
never go beyond sight of its walls. The Duke
oi Ossone heard ot the old man’s speeches and
sent him to one of his officers forbidding him,
on tha part oi the king, to leave the kingdom on
pain ol forfeiting a fine of a thousand crowns.
Morelli received the prohibition with mockerv
and jested about it with bis triends. To leave
the kingdom was the last thing in the world he
should think of doing. Had he not said that
nothing could induce him to travel out of sight
of his beloved Naples ? Soon, however, he be
gan to feel a curiosity as to what could have
prompted this command of the king’s, and he
began to torment himself by all sorts ot vague
guesses and reflections, till the matter took
such a hold of his thoughts that it threw him
into a nervous and miserable condition, and
even prevented him from sleeping. At last, to
deliver himself from a state of inquietude
which he could no longer bear, and to satisfy
his longing to do that which had been forbid
den him, he sent a thousand crowns to the vice
roy, and passed over the Neapolitan border in
to the Papal States. He stayed there only one
night, and then returned to Naples. The vice
roy, upon hearing of his return, distributed half
of the one thousand crowns among Neapolitan
hospitals, and returned the rest to Morelli, say
ing that this would suffice to teach the public
how tools were punished.
About the same time there was in Naples an
other rich merchant named Ferronelli, noted for
his avarice. This man had had the misfortune
to lose an embroidered purse containing fifty
gold ducats and fifty Spanish pistoles, together
with a ring worth a thousand crowns. This loss
was a cause of great grief to Ferronelli, and he
sent a crier through Naples, proclaiming that
any one finding the purse and restoring it and
its contents to the owner should be rewarded
with the fifty pistoles. A poor old widow found
it and brought it to Ferronelli. As soon as he
saw it and its rich contents he felt tempted to
cozen the old woman out of the greater part of
the promised reward. The temptation was too
strong for the avaricious man to resist, and
while he was counting over the pistoles he dex
terously pushed out of sight thirty of them, and
said to the widow:
“I promised the fifty pistoles that were inside
the purse to the finder, but I see you have al
ready taken thirty of them. Here are the other
twenty.”
The old woman protested that she had not
taken a single coin, but it was in vain. Ferron
elli insisted that she had already appropriated
thirty ot the pistole*, and must therefor* now
be content with tho balance of twenty. The old
woman was obliged to yield, and went away
with what she could get, which was indeed a
large sum for her.
Talking matters over, however, with her
friends afterward, she was advised to lay the
affair before the viceroy and beseech his inter
ference. The merchant was summoned before
the viceroy and gave his account ot the matter.
The duke, when he had heard Ferronelli’a
story, replied:
“It is not likely that the old woman should
have abstracted part of the money in the purse,
as ? if she had been dishonestly inclined, she
might have taken the whole. This purse can
not, therefore, be yours ; for yours, you say,
contained fitty pistoles, and this one does not.
In my opinion you ought to be punished for
having appropriated what docs not belong to
you.”
“ My lord,” urged Ferronelli, “ I recognize
the purse perfectly. I know the embroidery;
beside, there are my ring and my fifty ducats
in it. I beseech your excellency not to allow
me to be deprived of what is rightfully mine.”
“You must bo deceiving yourself,” replied
the viceroy. “Does not the mint turn out all
ducats alike, and is it not possible that the
jeweler should have made more than one ring
like yours, and that there should be more than
one purse embroidered in the same fashion as
yours ? The essential point is that your purse
contained fifty pistoles, which this one does
not.”
Then addressing himself to tho widow, ho
said :
“ Go, my good woman ; take the purse. You
are fairly entitled to it.”
Ono example more of this viceroy’s method
of dispensing justice and we conclude. There
was in Naples's young Spanish exquisite, one
Bertrand Solus. One day, while he was loung
ing about in one of tho busier parts the city, a
porter, carrying a bundle of wood on his shoul
der, tried to make his way through the crowd.
Solus was directly in his path, and the porter
called out to him several times, “ Make way,
please,” without producing any effect.
He then attempted to pass him as best he
could; but, unfortunately, the wood came in
contact with the young man’s velvet dress and
gave it an ngly rent. Highly indignant, he
laid an information against the porter, and
asked that he”might be punished.
The viceroy, having inquired privately into
the circumstances before going into court, told
the porter that he was to pretend to be dumb,
and was to reply by signs only to anything
that might be said to him.
When the viceroy took his seat on the bench,
Solus laid his complaint before him, and asked
for judgment against the porter. The viceroy
turned to the porter and asked him what ho
had to say in reply to the charge. The porter
only shook his head and made signs with his
hands.
“ What judgment do yon want me to give
against a dumb man ?” asked the viceroy ot
Solus,
“ Oh, your Excellency, the man is an impos
tor. I beseech you not to believe that he is
dumb. Before he ran against me I distinctly
hoard him cry out, • Make way.’ ”
“Then,” replied the viceroy, “if you heard
him ask you to make way tor him, why did you
not? The fault ot the accident was entirely
with yourself, and yon must pay this poor man
compensation for the trouble you have given
him in bringing him here.”
UNDER TWO ffiAGS.
A Man Who Wished He Were in a
Confederate Grave.
(From the Atlanta (Ga.) Constitution.)
The civil war was such a big thing, it lasted
so long and covered such a vast expanse of ter
‘ritory, that it was an easy matter for a man to
fight in both armies and escape detection and
punishment as a deserter. A few mouths be
fore Georgia seceded, a bright New Englander
settled in one of our country towns. His North
ern birth caused him to be suspected, and on
this account he was probably more outspoken
in tho expression of secession sentiments than
he would have been under other circumstances.
The State went out of the Union, and the trou
ble commenced in earnest, and volunteer
pemoa began to oxgauize anu go to the front.
Our New England iriend felt that the pressure
of public opinion was too strong to be with
stood. It was bard to fight his own people, but
if he did not become a Confederate soldier, the
people were liable in some hour of mad excite
ment to lynch him. So he donned a suit of gray
and trudged ofi to Virginia with a musket on his
shoulder.
The unwilling volunteer stood camp life very
well. He bore his part manfully in many a
skirmish and battle, and in the course of time
was made a lieutenant. He came very near
going through the war without a spot on his
record, but in a fatal moment he yielded to
temptation and disgraced himself and his uni
form. It was a cold, wet day in April, 1865.
The lieutenant had become separated from his
command on the march. He lost his way and
threw himself on the wet ground completely
worn out. His physical weakness depressed
his mind, and he gave himself up to a fit of
despondency. A flood of bitter thoughts rushed
over him ? Why should he, an alien, risk his
life in defense of a people who hated him. Why
should he struggle on, he knew not bow many
years longer, lighting against his kinsmen and
friends ? Following an impulse which seemed
irresistible, he rose to his feet and set his face
in the direction ot the Federal lines. Before
nightfall he was in the camp of the enemy.
The poor fellow told his story afterward with
mournful pathos. He said that the Federtfls
wanted to treat him as a spy. When they re
fused to believe his tale of desertion, he offered
to volunteer, as a proof ot his good faith. The
offer was accepted. He got into a bine uniform
aud found himself once more in active service.
Two days later General Lee surrendered at Ap
pomattox. In another month the deserter was
mustered out.
The man was in a quandary. He dared not
go ba. kto his New England home. The people
there all knew that he had been in the Confed
erate army. On the other hand, he could not
go to Georgia, where he would be denounced
and despised as a deserter. He drifted to Bos
ton, and there he narrowly escaped getting into
prison. His tongue got him into trouble. He
remarked to a lady in his boarding-house that
he wohld rather lie in an honored Confederate
grave down in Dixie than own half of Boston.
The lady was furious. She reported the con
versation to the Provost Marshal and that offi
cer sent a file of men to march tho deserter to
bis office.
The unfortunate man unbosomed himself to
the marshal, concealing nothing. He admitted
using the language reported, and said that it
reflected his state of mind. If he had held out
against temptation two days longer, he could
have returned to Georgia with a proud record
as a true and tried Confederate. As it was, he
lelt himself an outcast, with no country, no
flag, no comrades, nothing but a blasted char
acter. The Provost Marshal was a sensible
man. He listened in silence, gave his prisoner
a cigar, and said: “You may go, but don’t talk
that way any more.”
Sometimes this follower of tho two flags
passes through Georgie on a business trip. He
never hunts un any of his old ex-Confederato
comrades. Occasionally he finds himself in a
crowd where they are all telling war reminis
cences. As soon as he can, he quietly retires.
He has no war stories to tell. During recent
years this man has done fairly well in a busi
ness way. But prosperity does not satisfy him.
He seems to be under the shadow of that dis
gracetai Aprit day in ’65. He is almost a mo
nomaniac on this subject, and to-day he would
give up his lite, his family and everything, if
he could be resting in one of the graves m our
cemetery, under the shadow of the Confederate
monument. What an intoierable torture such
an existence must be I
HE WAS COLD.
And the Judge Excused Him for Drink
ing Fire Water.
(F-om the Cincinnati Times-Star.)
A tramp stood in the station-house,
His toes all full of frost and blisters;
He tackled a oop for fitty cents.
And tbe-blast shrieked through his whiskers."
Thus chanted the Below-Zero Choir from be
hind the anthracite stove near the door when
his Honor, muffled up in a green handkerchief,
a sealskin cap and an ulster, broke the icicles
off his ears and passed up to the mercy seat.
“ Thank yon, gentlemen, for your kind at
tempt at vocalism,” remarked hie Honor, “but
I think the weather has affected your throats !
Number Five, please brush the enow off tho
stove and take this icicle and stir up the fire !
You will now ”
•' Tbs flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra-la,
Breathe promise of merry sunshine I
As we merrily dance and we sing tra-la I
And we ”
“ Stop. Mr. Washington, stop I Tho fact of
your wearing the title of the father of your
country will not save your hide.”
“ Jist a hummin’ to keep wahm, Bah," meekly
continued Samuel Washington, a colored citi
zen, whose name graced the docket lor drunk
enness.
“ How hard does a man have to hum to keep
warm ?”
“Doan’ know exactly, sab, Yo’ Honah.”
“ Explain to the goddess of justice and my
self why you got so drunk as to lay down in a
snow drift and tell passers by that you were a
‘nigger Santa Claus ?’ ” asked the court.
•‘ 1 wah down on de leve* an’ hit wah oncom
mon freezy an’ col’, sah, and I tuck a cohpl* of
dem paralyzin’ drinks, an’ I swab to Moses ef I
didn’t sort o’ go off in er faint I Never knew
nuffln’ twel I woke up hinter stadium house I”
“ You got drunk to keep warm ?”
Yassah.”
“And just now you told mo that you hummed
a song from the ‘Mikado’ to keep warm?”
“ Yassah.” |
“ Then why didn’t you hum the ‘ Mikado ’
.down on tho levee to keep warm ?”
“ Blame me ef I know. Guess I must ha’ for
git hit. Wush I hadder thought of hit.”
“Samuel Washington, the cold weather has
saved you from the Work House 1”
“ God bless de col’ woathah 1”
“I’ll keep your name on the book for a
month, and if 1 hear of you getting full again,
out you go I”
“I’se a gwine down Soul imeejickly an’ I
guess yo'll nevah see me no mo’ I”
" Remember the Mikado ‘ hum' and never
drink I” ,
THE INDIAN QUESTION.
THERE WAB A BLIZZARD.
A tall and commanding-looking Indian from
the Canada side, having a big back toad of door
mats on his back, was tramping up Randolph
street yesterday when a man in a saloon beck
oned him in. Tho red man’s face lighted up
with a “ ten-centa apiece” smile of satisfaction
as he walked in. There were three men pres
ent, and they seemed to be in a hilarious state.
“ See here, old copper-face,” eaid one, as he
shut and locked the door, “ I’m down on Injuns
first, last and all the time. They shot an uncle
of mine, and I’ve sworn revenge. Maybe you
are ready to take the all-firedest licking a red
skin ever got 1”
<• H" !” r-nlfod tb" Lid'r.n as he looked from
I UUu lU luv Vvuvi.
“ And the infernal varmints scalped and
roasted my grandmother I" put in the second
white man. “ I didn’t care particularly about
the old lady, but it’s the principle of the thing I
look at. I’ve got to have Injun blood I”
"Hu I’’ said the Injun as he seemed to catch
on. •—*
“ And I,” put in the third man, “am down
on Injuns in a general way. After these other
two fellows have got through with you, I pro
pose to walk on the mangled remains. Let the
performance now begin I”
It begun. People who looked in at the win
dows could see nothing. People who got a
look through the open door saw hats, door
mats, saw-dust and chairs hovering in the air,
but not for long. In about three minutes the
red man stalked forth, somewhat flustrated
and a little bit way-worn, but he had not lost a
drop of blood nor a door-mat.
Inside the saloon all was peaceful and serene.
The man whose uncle was snot was lying under
a table ; the one whose grandmother was shot
seemed trying awful hard to remember how the
affair began, and the one who went in on gen
eral principles was looking out of two black eyes
at a ruined nose.
“ Hu I” called the Indian, as he was ready to
move on.
But no one hewed.
A PHILANTHROPIST.
DOT POY SHAKE GOT HIM IN
SOME TROUBLES.
“Sergeant,” said Mr. Dunder, as he entered
the Central Station yesterday, “ dot poy Shako
has got me into some troubles again, und I like
to ask some advice.”
“ What is it ?”
“ Vhell, Shake vhas a purty good poy. If he
goes oudt nights und I foller him mit a glub,
you net'er see how he flies for home. He goes
mit Toledo und Chicago, und he vhas sharp ash
steel.”
“ I'os, I know about Jake.”
“ Yesterday a man mit a paper in his hands
comes in my biace und vhants me to subscribe
a dollar to help some asylum. He says some
pody tells him I vhas a philanthropist. Dot
tickles me, you see, but Shako vhinks und
holds oop his finger, und I tells dot man to
come in again. Vhen he goes oudt, Shake says
to mo:
“ Padder, it seems like you potter go back to
Shormany. Eaferpody takes you for some
suckers, und you doan’ know vhen somepody
makes a fool of you.’
“ ‘How vhas dot ?”
‘“ Vhen dot man calls you a philanthropist
bo means you can’t see after lour o’clock. He
vhas insulting you, und you vhas tickled I Vhy,
fadder, if somepody in Chicago calls a man a
philanthropist he vhas knocked down so queek
dot der sidewalk vhas astonished.’
“Vhell, sergeant, dot makes me hopping
madt. If I lend somebody money und doan’
get him back dot shall be all right,’but if some
body makes a fool of me he must look a leedle
oudt 1 Dis morning dot same man, mit dot same
paper in bis hand,comes in mit a beautiful shmile
on his nose. Shako vhas dere, und he makes
me a sign to go in und broke dot feller all oop
like kindling wood. Sergeant, you ought to
see how limber dot chap vhas after I let go of
him I”
“ I heard of it. He was at the police court an
hnur tn gnt a. warrant for you.”
“No!”
“ Yes, he was. That affair will cost you $25.”
“ But ho calls me names 1”
“ Oh, no. He was flattering you.”
“ Und doan’ he believe I vhas some green
horns ?”
“ No.”
“ Und he doan’ make some fun of me ?”
“ No.”
“ Say, sergeant, keep your eye on mo till I
shpeak to you t I buys Shake a watch for
Christmas. I goes home und shump on dot
watch until nobody can find a vheell We buy
him a suit of clothes. I goes home und takes
dot suit und makes splinters of him !”
•• Yes.”
“Und after dot I call Shake down cellar to
look for rats, und ho finds so many, und ho
vhas so tired out dot be doan’ leave his bed for
two weeks. It vhas some put-up shob to haf
me arrested und gif me avhay in der papers,
und I . Say, sergeant!”
“ Well ?”
“ Doan’ let some policemans sb top at my
place if ho hears shrieks und groans und wails.
It vhas only me und Shake. If I doan’ bring
dot boy oop in der vhay he should go, he brings
my gray hairs in sorrow mit de gallows.”
Little Tommy in this instance didn’t make a
groat sacrifice when he
PROPOSED GIVING UP GOING TO CHURCH.
The minister bad preached a sermon on "Sacri
fice,” in which he urged the benefit of giving up
some cherished pleasure for the cause of religion.
Little Tommy had listened thoughtfully and his
mother thought she woulca'md out how deep an im
pression the sermon bad made.
“Don’t you think. Tommy,” said she, “that you
would feel better if you were to give up some cher
ished delight, some pleasure that you value, in so
good a cause ?”
“ Yes,” said Tommy, ”1 think perhaps I might.”
" Well,” said the mother, greatly gratified at his
religious interest, •• well, Tommy, and what plea
sure do you think you had better give up ?”
•• I don’t know,” said Tommy, thoughtfully.
" Supposing I should give up going to church ?”
Here is a story from Philadelphia which has
more vim and vice than moat Philadelphia stor
ies. It is about
MARIA’S WASH MONEY.
“’Nother blanked bustin’ outrage.” said a seedy
looking individual yesterday afternoon as he came
up the steps from one of the toney barber shops on
Chestnut street.
"What’s the matter this time?” asked a bystand
er, who was picking his teeth with the air of a man
who would like to make other folks believe he had
had some dinner.
"Matter?” he snorted. "Matter enough. I come
to town from Pottsville this morning*, an’ I had
$3.50 clear cash over my railroad fare in my clothes,
*n I laid out to buy Marier ’n the chil’n somethin’
for Christmas. In fact Marier expected it, too; she
airnt the money washin* for the neighbors, though
I ain’t allowin’ her to wash for common trash, 'n
when she helped me into this here sweet o’ beat
clothes this mornin*, she said, eez she, * Thomas * —
she always calls me Thomas if everybody else does
call me Tom. Lemme see, where’d Heave off? Oh,
yes, she sez to me, 'Thomas, dont drink nothin*
while you’re gone *n you’ll tend to things as wall as
I could do myself.’ Now, that ’r made me feel sort
o’ proud, you know. I never rinsed out the dust
owce on my way to the keers, but I was tired w’en I
got to Philly 'n I took one nip jest to brace me up.
The ol’ woman—Marier, I mean—wouldn’t 'ject to
that; how could she'f I only took one? Anyhow
I'd put the price o' the drink, I thought, onto the
bonnlt that I was goin' to git her, 'n she’d never
know.
"Waal, just as I was cornin’ out o’ the s’loon I
met Mike Pheifer, that I hadn't soon for a dog’s age,
*n he took me in 'n give me a hummer. Then I
give him one. Then he give another, 'n I give him
another. Thor’ might a been a drink *r two arter
that, but nothin' to speak of, but I went down
ther’ just now 'n got my hair cut. It only costs me
ten cents at Pottsville, but drat me if they didn’t
put it onto me for a quarter, *n now I’ve only got
a nickel left. What’ll Mariar say ?”
" Got a nickel?” insinuatingly asked the man with
the toothpick.
•• That's all,” was the lugubrious response.
“ Well,” continued the toothpick man, “ I know a
place less’n a square from here where we kin git
two drinks fur that. Come on, I’ll show you the
place 'n you set up the benzine.”
The man from Pottsville cast one sorrowful look
back to the shaving saloon, as if he wished he
could think of some way to put the price of that
hair cutting " onto Mariar’s bunnit.” and then he
followed the lead of his knowing friend to a Sansom
street saloon.
The funny man of the Yonkers Gazette (one
of the best of the gang) gives us this specimen
of
THE MODERN SHAKESPEARE.
" Hist, boy I Didst thou hear grimalkin i’ the
night ?'
" Mine ears do hear resemblance o’ the same, but
I’ll be sworn ’tis deadlier than that.”
"Go to, Henrico I Than a Thomas cat with tubes
cacaphonous all resonant, there’s naught more dire
ful on the echoing earth.”
"Thereinto prejudice thou’rt idol, child. Cats
be there, quotha, that will jar the nerves as they
were rooted deep in bedlam’s soil, and gramercy,
they'll howl thee runes o’ night that will to ague
give the average spleen; but cats are not competing
for the cake when there be settled in the neighbor
hood some new aspirant for the concert stage, fresh
loaded with Wagnerian caprice.”
“ A hit, and nathless not a hit, thou rogue. Thou
hast eaves-dropper played this early eve, when I did
struggle with arpeggios.”
" Forsooth, thine inference were sometime pat.
When thou’rt ambitious, and fortissimo doth fill
the fullest yawning of thy mouth, thou canst out
yawp the feline sonneteer; but Donna Guineahen,
who late hath come from seven years’cackling at
Venezlo, she hath a shriek that would so bury
thine, that one would swear thou wast but whis
pering, ’Tis her that now doth split the atmos
phere, and cracks the dome of heaven with such
alarum as makes good Gabriel turn to his horn,
with fear that fiend has spoiled him of his job.”
When the baby hasn’t come, there are chances
of making
LITTLE MISTAKES.
We heard a good one the other day on—well, we
hardly know which it is on. the lady or gentleman.
The gentleman was expecting an addition to his
family, a fact which was, of course, known to the
ladies of his con—there,we came near letting the cat
out of the bag—and they, of course, took a deep in
terest in matters.
The day before the advent of the little stranger a
well-known lady of this city was passing the house,
and spoke to the gentleman, and he, wishing to show
her some improvements that had been made on his
building, said:
“Come in. I want to show you something pret
ty.”
“Oh, dear I” said she, her face beaming with de
light. "Of course. I’ll come in. Which is it—a boy
or girl?”
There cannot be any doubt but that
THERE IS WONDERFUL SOIL IN THE WEST.
" Do we have any cyclones out in our country ?”
echoed the passenger from the West. " A few. Two
or three times a year one comes along and makes
things howL We have got used to 'em, though,
and don’t mind 'em any more. Ths soil is so fer
tile that we are able to copper the cyclones in great
shape.”
" But I can’t see what the fertility of the soil has
got to do with it when tornadoes come along every
once in a while and carry off your buildings.”
"Of course you can t see it. Nobody ever could
see it until he went out West and looked around a
little with his own eyes. We hain’t got any trees
in cur country to anchor things to, and th"?
wouldn’t ba of any use, anyhow, in a regular old
cyclo. But, stranger, right thar the fertility of ths
soil conies to our assistance. Every well-regulated
house, barn, stable and granary in our neighbor
hood is tied to a cornstalk, an* the cyclones can't
budga ’em an inch. That’s ths kind of a soil wa
have out our way.”
| SCINTILLATIONS.
Th© Mormon question—“ Will you be
my nineteenth wife, dear? The only one I eves
loved ?”
The fashionable button is so large that
givers of dinners find them handy when the plate
gives out.
Heaven helps those who do not help
themselves. It rains and washes the streets of New
Orleans.
Migratory birds left Sweden unusually
early this season. Must be a naw opera singer
screeching over there.
A Southern chiropodist is worth $15,-
o#o. It is rare that a man amasses such a fortune
from sobers not hereditary.
The saddest part about this life is that
the fool-killer works slowly and the earthquakes
swallow up the wrong class of men.
It is a wretched thing to say, whea
Winter comes in like a lamb, “ this is beastly weath
er.” All wethers are; so are lambs.
The Boston girl’s equivalent for the
flash exclamation, " Ah, there I” is: “ Alackaday, tn
the environment of the adjacent remoteness I”
A woman may not be able to sharpen
a pencil or throw a stone at a hen, but she can
pack more articles in a trunk than a man can in
a one-horse wagon.
Eor every actor who dies, two hundred
are ready to take his place on the stage, and for
every actor who makes SI,OOO a year, a hundred ara
dead broke four days out of seven.
The sacred white elephant which be
longed to King Thebaw, of Burmah, was not white,
after all. So he was in the circus business, tool
Now we know why he was deposed.
Customer—“ Hang this up.” Barten
der—" But I hung one up for you yesterday. You
can’t be always hanging ’em up, you know.” C.
"That’s so. Chalk this one down?”
The remarkable statement that “a
guager has resigned,” is telegraphed from Washing
ton. The poor man must have lost his mind and
resigned so as to have time to hunt it.
The talk of the day : Mrs. A.—“l
hear that the Montmackingtons are going to spend
the Winter in Paris.” Mrs. B.—“ Indeed ? You
surprise me I When were they bitten?”
Sam Jones says: “The truth flows
from a good man like molasses from a jug.” Poor
Tom Ochiltree’s got a cold, if we may judge by the
way the molasses of truth flows from him.
A personal in the New York Herald
says: “ Chloe—Come back. Fritz and the dog are
waiting for you.” If Chloe is wise she will not
come back unless she wants a trip to Paris.
The clergy, you may have noticed, are
much more forcibly reminded of the " uncertainty
of life” when a millionaire dies suddenly than whoa
a poor man drops dead.— Norristown Herald.
Husband (jokingly)—" Oh, I’m the
mainstay ot the family.’’’ Wife—" Yes, and the jib.
boom, and the—and the— Small Boy (from ex
perience)—" And the spanker, too, mamma.”
A story in an exchange is entitled
"How the Devil Spent His Christmas.” Owing to
tha high temperature of his dominions, it is safe to
wager that he didn't spend it by going sleighing.
“ I like smart women well enough,”
said Fenderson, “but I wouldn’t care to marry a
woman who knew more than I did.” "And so,”
suggested Fogg, "you have been forced to remain
single,”
Says the Sunny South: The editor of
a newspaper in thi, Stat, thus appeals to his da
linquent subscribers: "To all those who are in
arrears one year or moie who will come forward and
pay up arrearages and for one year in advance, we
will give a first-rate obituary gratia in case it kil:i
them.”
Black—They tell me your wife is a
great whistler ? White—She is; she whistles most
of the time. Black—And you allow it ? Don’t it
annoy you ? White—lt don’t annoy me, and as for
allowing it, I encourage her in it. Black—Why ?
White—Because a woman can’t whistle and talk at
the same time.
Mr. A. (a comparative stranger in
Chicago)—" Who is the young fellow driving by in
a cart, he looks an awful swell?” Miss X. (whose
father made his money in Chicago before the fire)—
" I don’t know. One sees so many nouveaux riches
nowadays that really one doesn't know who is
who.” It turns out to be Mr. M , whose father
made his money in Chicago after the fire.
Not .Regarded as Equals.—ln Rus
sia, says Madame Greville, women are not re
garded aa equals. The peasant expects his
wife to plow, to harvest, to work like a beast of
burden. Thia would be comparatively nothing
if they were well treated and loved. Their
husbands do love them, bnt in a peculiar fash
ion. For the first two or three days after the
wedding things go on very well. That is, while
the families are exchanging their visits. After
that, the husband beats his wife. And if ho
does not beat her, she thinks it is because he
does not love her. Once, when I was there, a
girl who had been married only ten days came
to me with her mother, and begged me to use
my influence with the newly-made husband.
They wanted me to make him beat the girl, ac
cording to her situation as a wifs. It was a long
time before I understood the reason. I found
that it was founded on jealousy. If a husband
is not jealous he does not beat his wife, and if
he is not jealous, he does not love her.
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7