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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, June 06, 1886, Image 2

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regarded his own devotion to his two friends
or the estimation in which they were gener
ally held. Miss Edgcombe was an exceptional
woman, not only in the act that she was young,
wealthy, and handsome, but in having such a
well-balanced mind that, in spite of the flattery
and homage she bad now for six or seven years
been accustomed to re eive, she had lived to
the age of twenty-tour with head unturned and,
so it was said, hear, untouched. Even her best
friends could not successfully defend her from
the charge of coldness ; but, just in time to save
herself from the confirmation of this reproach,
she had encoura ed tne attentions and accepted
the hand of David < Ivn ; and friends and ac
quaintances agreed t’nai she had chosen well.
David Glyn had passed the age of thirty with
out realizing any oi the brilliant prophecies his
friends bad freely made concerning him in his
early youth. Perhaps there had never been
any particular ground for believing that these
prophecies would be realized. The exact foun
dation on which the esteem in which he was
held was built it would have been difficult to
discover. A handsome high-spirited lad, with
a generous disposition and sweet temper, he
had occupied even in b s Eton days a high po
sition among his companions, independently ot
his attainments ether in study or in sport,
which were respectable, but not extraordinary.
A certain natural reserve, with which neither
haughtiness nor sulkiness had anything to do,
gave dignity to the sweetness of his disposition,
and perhaps did more to secure the respect in
which he was held than bis more undeniable
merits. The reputation o’ the boy became that
of the man ; be passed through life making few
enemies and many nends, drifting from the
army to the bar, from the bar to a clerkship in
a Calcutta bank, from the bank to a government
office in London, always steady, always re
served, always looked up to as a good man as
well as a good fellow. His handsome figure and
beautiful grave lace had always attracted a
great deal of attention irom women of all ranks
and ages, and, together with the fact that he
rather avoided their society, had caused him to
be much sought after by them. The climax to
this widespread adm.ration, of which bo had
never been in the east vain, was the interest he
excited in beautiful Miss Edgcombe, who frankly
encouraged his attentions, without any coquet
ry, from the first evening of his introduction to
her—when she h-d been prepared to receive
him graciously—by Charlie Papillon, who min
gled with enthusiastic praises of his friend a
glowing account ot the impression her beauty
pad made upon him. Alter that, it had been
plain sailing tor Glyn ; and in a few weeks,
whether at his initiative or hers neither quite
knew, ho had proposed and been at one© ac
The person who re'oiced the most demon
stratively over this happy consummation was
Charlie Papillon, who considered that he was
the prime mover in the matter, and took a more
than paternal interest in both the young people.
Ho felt quite as much excitement over their
love-affair as he did o er any of bis own, which
were many and varied, ranging irom the purely
Platonic through hll the degrees of light-com
edy flirtation, sentimental interest, serious at
tachment. and hoi eless passion. He was very
good at all but the last, from which, in the
course of a few d y*. either the hopelessness
or th© passion would invariably drop out.
Mothers and chaperons feared him; but
unattached old ladies and matrons with
out daughters to marry petted and tried to con
vert him. For Charlie was an infidel and a
heretic on many points of social and moral or
thodoxy, a blue-eyed cynic, a golden-haired
philosopher, "a most dangerous man, my dear,
quite an improper companion for young peo
ple 1”
But there was not much harm in Charlie, ex
cept that his desperately ineligible caressing
whit© hand and affectionate bin© eyes would
come in the way.of most excellent matches be
tween pretty girls and men with big, red hands
and uninteresting faces, and fortunes which
made poor Chari e s two hundred a year seem a
very poor pittance, indeed. But, when mar
riage made a gap in the circle of his loves, Pa
pillon replaced the defaulting fair one by an
other, or he entered the bride afresh on the
register of his heart under the heading “Pla
tonic,” and all went on as happily as ever. No
husband seriously eared him, nor had any hus
band serious reason to do so ; though, perhaps,
had the master o the house always known what
a much more spontaneous smile his wife had
for th© sunny-faced guest than for his less un
varyingly sweet self, he would have wished that
young gentleman back at the office where he
placed his valuable services, for six placid hours
each day, at the disposal of an unexacting gov
Papillon was not a drone, though he rather
encouraged the thought that he was; he liked
to think that he was quietly husbanding his
strength to do great things in that “ some day ”
which was to bring him his opportunity. In
the meantime mere waiting had its consola
tions, and at five-and-twenty ho could still
afford to lot things slid© for a while. To be
able to debate each a ternoon or evening with
himself, on which of half a dozen pleasant
places he should shed the light of his presence,
with the certainty that at any one of them he
would be warmly welcomed, was in itself a
thing to make liiejj worth living. What he
wotild be at forty he did not ask himself, nor
did any on© els© consider ; at twenty-five he was
a social sunbeam, whioh of itself was not a bad
Ho had been a small boy at Eton when David
Glyn was in the sixth form; but they had
scarcely met since until the return of the latter
from India, sine© when the old boyhood ac
'•quaintaiice had become friendship, and Papil
lon had hoisted his friend on to and
’worshiped him and sang his praises with groat
Th© two men got out of the hansom at Hyde
Park Corner, and strolled through the gates
together. Papillon liked the people, Glyn liked
th© trees. But the philosopher, the cynic, had
an idea that th© influence of trees was bad, un
less you were with a girl—girls having the
power to charm away all noxious influences
that ever threatened his serenity. So he linked
his arm to his iriend’s, and, keeping the
thoughts of the latter diverted by a flow of
bright chatter, led him into th© stream of well
dressed men and variously-dressed women
that throng the Park in the season. They had
?;ot to th© end of the path where the crowd was
hinnest, when a gentleman whose dress pro
claimed that he was not a Londoner came up to
Glyn and greeted him very warmly.
“ I found out your address, and was coming
to call upon you this afternoon,” said he. “ 1
met Barrett last night, and he told me you had
come back from India and were going to be
married. So, as lam going back to Yorkshire
in a day or two, I thought I must find you out
And give you my good wishes first. I wish you
joy. Glyn 1”
“You know who the lady is ?”
“ Oh, I can guess, oi course ! It can be only
the one.”
“Which one?” asked Glyn, with surprise.
“ Why, Mrs. Hodson, of course I 1 didn’t
oven know her husband dead ; but I know
you are not the sort to change, and, as soon as I
heard you were going to be married, I guessed
Who the lady was,” said he mysteriously.
♦♦ You are wrong, though,” said David, laugh
ing. “ Mr. Hodson is alive and in very good
health ; and, even if Mrs. Hodson were a widow
and willing to have me, which is supposing a
good deal, I don’t think I could quite reconcile
myself to becoming th© property of a lady so
much older than myself. Why, in a year or two
I might have proposecWnyselt. as a son-in-law ! ’
♦‘Oh, well, I beg your pardon I” said the
country gentleman, rather disconcerted. “Of
course I didn’t know. When 1 knew you there
at Richmond, two years ago, you seemed to be
always at the house, and people talked, and,
until young Taunton turned up there, you
seemed to be generally about, and But,
oh, I beg your pardon I Er—who is the lady,
then ?”
.“Miss Edgcombe of Ambleside. I wish you
were going to stay in town ; I should like to in
troduce you to her. She is a great deal younger
and handsomer than the impossible bride you
Wanted to give me.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” said th© other man
energetically. “Then I can congratulate you
with a free conscience.”
And, after a lew more remarks, showing more
kindliness than tact, he went on his way and left
the young men together.
Charlie Papillon did not as usual break out at
once into cheerful prattle, but waited for his
iriend to speak first.
“ Good fellow that ”
“In spite of th© cut of his coat. Where did
you pick him up ?”
“fused to meet him very often at Richmond
before I went to India, at the Hodsons’. You
know Hodson, the stockbroker, don’t you?”
“Yes. Gives very good dinners and rides
very good horses, and Do you like him ?”
“Not particularly; but he has a very nice
Wife. I think people go more to the Lawns for
the sake of his wines and his wife than because
they find any great attraction in Hodson him
Charlie glanced at his friend’s ealm face, but
there was no change in its somewhat languid
expression ; it was §lear that the difference in
his voice was not assumed.
“Yes. Hodson’s stolid enjoyment ot his own
dinners is abusing at first; but it is a diversion
which palls m’course of time. I’m rather fond
of Mrs. Hodson ; she is the pleasantest speci
men of the mature coquette I know,”
“ That is rather severe, Charlie. She is an
awfully kind-hearted woman, and I never saw
any coquetry about her. She speaks of herself
in the frankest manner as an old married wo
man still young enough to enjoy the world.”
“Oh, I don’t say anything against her man
ner, and she is a charming woman, I admit at
once I”
“ I think so too. A little unrefined perhaps,
but so genial, so-so jolly I Then she is so
ready to show kindness •'to any one who feels
rather stranded, as it were, and badly off for
relaxation or pleasure. For some time before
I went to India I got most of the enjoyment I
had in life at the Lawns. Instead of giving me
a stiff invitation now and then, and showing me
that I was de Crop if I made my appearance un
expectedly, she absolutely encourag’ed me to
come when I liked, and stay as long as I liked,
and do just as 4 liked. There is a sort of easy
goingness about the whole household, without
any stiffness or any want of order, that makes
it quite the pleasantest I ever was in in En
“ I wonder whether it is quite as easy-going
for those two little girls ?”
“ Nellie and Ethel ? One sees so little of
them; they are always in the schoolroom. Yet
even they add to the charm of the place. They
have such prim, demure, pretty little man
ners, when one does see them and have
auch a quaint old-fashioned look, one won-
wonders what they will grow up into. By-the
by, they were looking rather tall for their short
frocks when I went away; I suppose they must
bo almost grown up by this time ?”
“Oh, no, they won’t grow up for some time
yet!” said Charlie dryly. “Pretty women’s
daughters develop very slowly.”
“They ought not to have to delay much on that
account,” said Glyn, laughingly. “ I don’t con
sider their mother such a very pretty woman.
Jfyou catch her unprepared—and she doesn’t
seem to mind being caught—she really isn’t
pretty at all.”
“Now I don’t agree with you. I think her
very pretty, especially in evening-dress.”
“ But her taste in dress is atrocious; she likes
barbaric colors.”
“ Yes, but they don’t look so ill on her as they
would on another woman. And there are gleams
of a better nature in her fondness for old lace
and Indian muslin. A woman who can afford
to tone herself down with old point and dia
monds may pass muster as well dressed, how
ever far astray her indvidual freaks of taste
may sometimes carry her.”
“A very good defence, Charlie 1” said Glyn,
laughing again. “ However, one forgave her
bad taste for the sake of her good nature.”
“ I beiieve she is awfully good-natured to
young people at a loss what to do with their
time—or their money. I know two or three fel
lows she has been a mother to.”
“ Yon let your cynical tongue carry you too
far, Charlie. But I don’t suppose you can un
derstand such a thing as friendship with any
woman without flirtation.”
“ Well, we won’t discuss it, because, to begin
with, we should not define flirtation in the same
way. Did you ever meet young Taunton at the
Lawns ?”
“The young fellow whose loffse&gn the Der
by made such a sensation last yeifl* ? Yes; he
was a client of Hodson’s. 1 didn’t care much
about him, and when h© began to com© I left
off going there so much.”
“ Ah, he was very well off then ! He was a
great favorite of Mrs. Hodson’s, wasn’t he ?
He’s just been through the Bankruptcy Court.”
“ Don’t be unfair, Charlie. You can’t say she
was kind to me because I was well off.”
“ Well, you had your beaux veux. And you
admit you were not so often at the Lawns alter
Taunton’s appearance there.”
“Butthat had nothing to do with Mrs. Hod
son. It was only a lew weeks before I left En
gland, and I ha (La great deal to do and had not
so much time onfmy hands as before. The hos
pitality of the Lawns was as open as ever.”
“ Have you seen anything of the Hodsons
si ceyour return?”
“ Yes; I met Hodson m the Strand the other
day, and he asked me down to a dance, and I
went. It was the seventeenth of last month, I
“ Oh, he asked me to that, but I had another
engagement. What sort of affair was it ?”
“ The old style there—not too many people,
rooms cool, capital supper. Madame was as
charming as ever; but I scarcely spoke to her.
Missed my two prim little friends, Nellie and
Ethel—gone to school. - ’
“Was Miss Edgcombe there ?”
“ No; it was before I even dared to hope I
had an outside chance with her.”
“ Why, I knew how things were going even
then. Doris is above encouraging a man for
her own amusement.”
“You have known her longer than I, you see.
Beside, her striking beauty and her brilliant
manner fairly dazzled me; I can’t. express the
effect she had on me in any other way. So that
I had neither judgment nor power of criticism
where she was concerned.”
“ I can understand that. If she were not
generally a little cold, we should all be off our
heads about her; when she wishes to please,
she is irresistible.”
“ Cold I I should not have called her cold.”
“No, you would not, of course. She isn’t
cold to me, either. But I’ve seen people she
doesn’t like shrivel up at a look from Doris; and
1 think, it I had done anything mean, I should
run the other way it I saw her coming. She is
a little too good for most people; I had just be
gun to think I should have to send up for an
archangel to marry her, when luckily you
stepped in and made it all right.”
“Draw it mild, Charlie. I’m a little in awe
of her already; she seems to stand out so far
above all the other women I have met. Her
generosity almost appals me. Do ypu know
she absolutely refuses to have any of her
money settled on herself, and insists that
everything she possesses shall be entirely un
der my control ?”
“ Ah, yes I I have often heard her say she
would never marry a man she could not trust
completely, that she would not have any mean
money-quarrels. It has been a great dread of
hers that she would be married for what she
has, and not for herself.”
“ What singular modesty in such a beautiful
girl 1”
“ Yes ; I like her for it, though.”
“One can t help it. But I wish she would
have been persuaded to keep her fortune in her
own hands. To tell you the truth, the respon
sibility alarms my indolence.”
“It wouldn’t alarm mine. Hallo, I think I
recognize that showy little victoria !”
They were walking slowly along with the
crowd beside the ]|ine of carriages, which were
stationary for the moment. A few steps brought
them close to the carriage which had arrested
Papillon's attention, and both men raised their
hats in answer to the bow and smile of a lady
whose appearance was attracting a good deal of
comment of various kinds.
The lady who was the centre of so much ob
servation f'ou'ld not be more than five or six and
thirty, and Idoked younger, a fact which was
due as much to a certain sunny youthfulness of
expression as to the aid of pearl-powder. Her
dress partook sufficiently of the attributes of
that of the grand monde and of the demi-monde
to enable an acute observer to decide that she
belonged to neither. As she sat back, silent
and almost motionless, by the si*de of a judi
ciously chosen friend in brown, she looked
rather like a well-dressed and expensive wax
doll; but when she bowed, smiled, spoke and
held out a dainty and perfectly-gloved little
band to Papillon, it was impossible to deny that
she was charming.
“ I haven’t seen you for an age, Mr. Papillon.
I suppose you won’t condescend to come to the
suburbs in the season. All we poor creatures
just outsidb London can expect is to catch a
glimpse of you sometimes when town is emp
“Scold Glyn, too, Mrs. Hodson, please.”
“ No, no ! I’m the good boy, Mrs. Hodson,
am I aot ? I called at the Lawns ten days ago,
but you were out”
“ Well, come down this evening, and I’ll for
give you both. There are two charming girls
coming, beside several nice people you know.
Oh, I mustn’t forget to congratulate you, Mr.
Glyn ! I only heard the secret to-day. I must
call upon Miss Edgcombe, and implore her not
to keep you all to herself and never let your
poor old-fogy friends get a sight of you.”
The line of carriages had begun to move
again, and with more gracious smiles Mrs.
Hodson drove on, and the young men continued
their walk.
“ You are in favor again now, Glyn. I’ll bet
you what you like madame will not be out next
time you call.”
“Do you think not ?” said the other indiffer
ently. “I think I shall find the Lawns just a
little too far out of my way just now. South
Kensington will bo about my limit for the next
six weeks.”
“ Six weeks! Is it to come off in six weeks ?
In the middle of the season, too ?”
5 A’es. Doris is going to give up the end of.
the season, which is very generous of her when
she is so fond of excitement.”
“ Well, I suppose she wouldn’t give it up ex
cept for something she likes better. You are
not going away, are you ?”
“ No; we shall go straight down to Fairleigh,
her place on the Thames. It will be just the
right time to enjoy it, you see; we are both fond
of the river, and the thought of posting about
through the heat and dust from one place to
another, or hunting about for some uncomforta
ble hotel in some place which is sure to be
either overcrowded or deserted, when there is a
charming home a few miles off only waiting to
be lived in, is absurd, we both think.”
“ What a sensible pair you will be ! A model
husband and wife ! I shall have to show you
off and give lectures upon you. How soon
may I venture to come down to be eaten up with
envy ?”
“ A,s soon as you like. You know very well
yon are always welcome everywhere.”
“ Because I don’t come when I’m not wanted.
I’ll hire a boat, and row up and down the creek
till you signal to me that I may land without
fear of being considered an intruder. By-the
,.bye, where is Doris to-day, that you are off
“ She has gone down to Reading with her
grandmother, to pay a farewell visit before her
marriage to some aunts who are going abroad.
She won’t be back till to-morrow, so I feel
rather stranded.”
“ Shall we go to the theatre ?”
“ Too hot! I want to get out of London; it is
too late to get down somewhere for a pull on
the river now, though. Ah, there is Mrs. Hod
son’s victoria again ! Surely she is a good deal
gjor? made up than she used to be two years
ago I It is the first time I’ve seen her by day
light since I'y§ been baek. Her face looks'
quite blue in the shade. ,
“ Yes; that is the worst of that liquid stuff
she uses; it is extremely inartistic.”
“ Why, you know all about it, or else you pre
tend very welf.”
“ I flatter myself I can analyse any beauty,
and tell you exactly in what it consists, whether
in veloutine, pearl-powder, or natural bloom,
features, expression, or tricks. Well, where
shall we go ?”
“ Suppose we go down to the Lawns ? We
are sure of cool rooms and good champagne
there, at any rate.”
“And Mrs. Hodson promised some charming
girls.i But 1 know the sort ot girl she calls
ch'arming, and I don’t feel tempted. Beside,
I wouldn’t go to the Lawns to-night if I were
you, Glyn.”
“ All right I We’ll go and hear Patti then,”
said Glyn indifferently.
In a house in a well-known square of South
Kensington Miss Edgcombe sat at luncheon
with her grandmother girl-friend, the day
after that on which David Glyn and Papillon had
met Mrs. Hodson during their stroll through the
Old Mrs. Edgecombe was a handsome erect
lady for her age, which was about sixty-three.
She had been the constant guardian and com
panion of her granddaughter, to whom she was
devoted, since the death of her own son and
his wife, Doris b parents. Her advancing age
had begun ol late to make her feel that the
time was drawing near when sho must resign
her post of chaperon to her handsome, much
sought-after granddaughter to younger hands;
she had been eager to see her charge happily
married, and had been the first to re oice over
her engagement to David Glyn. The high
minded it somewhat extravagant principles
which Doris held in money matters had been
inculcated by the elder lady, who had deter
mined to leave her|own property, which was con
siderable, to her granddaughter, under the en
tire control of the latter’s husband. She had bad
reason, in her youth, to be disgusted w ith sor
did money-quarrels, and she held that no man
was fit to be trusted with a girl’s happiness who
could not be trusted with her money.
She bad returned with Doris from Reading
that morning, and, an old schoolfellow who had
called to inquire it it was really true that the
flinty-hearted Miss Edgecombe had at last suc
cumbed to a common human emotion having
stayed to luncheon, the three ladies sat round
the table talking about wedding presents and
the trousseau.
“Shall you be married in white or in travel
ing-dress?” flaked Hilda Warren, a pretty
clever-ldoking little woman, rather eccentrically
“In ivory-colored brocade. I don’t care for
the thought of sneaking into the -church m
every-day dress, as it I felt ashamed of what I
was doing and didn't want to be noticed. I
want to look my very, very bast, to make David
feel proud of me, and to make the very idlers
who crowd round the door to see what the
bride is like—as they always do, you know—
nudge each other and say, ‘My I Don t she
look nice ?’ and think my husband a lucky fel
Both her companions looked at Doris with an
expression which plainly showed that her last
words echoed their own opinion. As she sat back
in her chair, and spoke saucily, but with real
pride and pleasure iu her face, no one could have
denied that, as far as beauty went, her future
husband would have found it hard to mifke a
better choice.
Miss Edgecombe was a brunette, rather above
the middle bight, ot slight but well-shaped
figure, with delicately slender hands and leet,
and almost faultlessly regular face. As is
usually the case with beauties of this type, the
first impression of admiration in looking at the
’ace was frequently followed by a sense that
there was something wanting, that the beautiful
eyes sparkled, but did not speak, the well-cut
mouth smiled, but never grew soft. It was only
at rare moments that some passing emotion
would bring the rich color to her cheek and
light up her face with a brilliancy which was
She was looking her best as she raised her
dark eyes to her old school-fellow’s face and
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Glyn,
“ Haven’tyou? I have a portrait of him up
stairs; come and tell me what you think of him.”
The girls rose and left the room, followed
more slowly by the elder lady, and they all
three went up to the drawing-room, which was
furnished rather sombrely, by a freak of its
young mistress.
The floor was stained and polished, and there
was only a small square carpet in front of the
fireplace. The windows and doors were draped
with curtains of dark crimson plush lined with
silk of Oriental pattern and blended colors.
The wainscoting and woodwork were stained
the same eolor as the floor, and the walls were
not papered, but tinted in pale buff. The fur
niture was covered with crimson plush, with
cushions embroidered in many colors. There
were marble statuettes in the corners ot the
room, in high relief against the dark curtains;
the windows were blocked by stands full of
leafy plants, the only flower admitted among
them being the pale, heavy, washed-out-look
ing hydrangea. There was a striking absence
of ornament, of the stands, the brackets, the
easily-upset tables covered with trifles, which
make progress difficult in most modern draw
ing-rooms. There was a large carved cabinet
full of not very carious curiosities, chiefly re
lics of the campaigns of Mrs. Edgecombe’s late
husband, who had been a soldier; there was a
grand piano, and there was a large pile of mu
“ Do you know, I like this room better than
any I know ?” said Hilda Warren, as they came
“Do you ? Most people call it bare. And I
am beginning to think myself that it is rather a
mistake. It is a sort of temple to old memo
ries. The floor and the hydrangeas are for the
sake of a French country-house I used to stay
at when I was a child; the cabinet and its con
tents are a shrine to grandpapa; the plants are
the same as those we used to have in the con
servatory at Ambleside, where I was born.
And in tfie piano is the spell which carries me
back to any one of those places and the people
who lived in them. This is Mr. Glyn.”
She took from the mantelpiece a framed pho
tograph and handed it to her friend, who look
ed at it it long and critically.
“He is very handsome,” said she at last,
“and he looks very good and very nice, and al
together quite the right sort of man to be the
hero of your romantic dreams. I never knew
that you were romantic until to-day; yon have
given the key of your heart to the right person,
Dorie, for you are much nicer now he has
opened it. And who is this ?”
Hilda, peering about among the things on the
mantelpiece, had unearthed another portrait,
half hidden behind a candelabrum.
“ Why, this one is handsome too ! Who is it,
Doris ? Isn’t Mr. Glyn jealous of your having
another ‘juvenile ’ as a pendant to him ?”
Hilda Warren was an actress; she thought it
was the introduction of a theatrical term into
her speech whioh made old Mrs. Edgecombe
grow suddenly very upright. Doris took the
portrait laughingly from her hand.
“ Oh, no; Mr. Glyn has no need to be jealous;
that is not a hated rival!” said she.
“ Rival! I should think not I” broke in Mrs.
Edgecombe severely. “ They ought not to be
mentioned iu the same breath. lam surprised
nt you, Doris, for allowing a portrait of David
Glyn to remain on the same shelf with that of
Augustus Melton.”
“ Well, grandmamma, don’t be angry; I didn’t
even know he was there. He had the sense to
creep into a corner where nobody could see
him and frown at him. We’ll take him away
altogether, and leave David in undisputed
sovereignty of the mantelpiece.”
“Doris, I think that joking way of talking
about them is very unbecoming. I should think
Mr. Glyn would disapprove ol your keeping a
portrait oi Augustus at all.”
“If Mr. Glyn objects, Gussie shall go. Only
don’t call the poor boy ‘Augustus,’ grand
mamma, please,” said the girl good-humoredly.
But Mrs. Edgecombe was offended; and in a
few minutes, a‘ter turning a deaf ear to all her
granddaughter’s conoilatory speeches, she
made some excuse about fetching some work
she wanted, and left the room.
“ Now grandmamma is offended for the rest
of the day,” said Doris, when the door closed
upon the old lady. “I am so sorry; and yet I
don’t think it was my fault. I did "not mean to
vex her; but I don’t like to hear the absent con
signed to stern silence without a little pity.”
“ Who is this wicked Augustus, or this un
fortunate Gussie ? Is he a ne’er-do-weel ad
mirer for whom you have just a glimmer of
lingering tenderness ? I shouldn’t have sus
pected you. of such a thing before to-day; but
now that you have proved yourself to be human
by falling in love with Mr. Glyn, why, you may
even be guilty of the feminine weakness of being
sorry for a scapegrace ! Do tell me the story,
Doris; I’ve told you all my love affairs, and
given the benefit of a long experience in these
matters. Now tell me yours, and I will take
your one confession as a balance to my half
dozen. You know I can keep a secret.”
“But there is no secret to keep,” said Doris,
laughing. “ And what do you mean by asking
me to tell you my ‘ one’ love-story ? I have had
only one, and you know—my engagement to Mr.
“ But that is not what I call a love-story—it is
not romantic enough,” said Hilda impulsively.
You are not what I call in love with Mr. Glyn
at all.”
“ Then I am afraid I shall never be what you
call ‘in love.’ But what do you want me to do ?
You don’t expect me to talk abouthim in blank
verse, or spend my time on my knees before his
photograph, do you ?”
“ Oh, yes, that is what I always do when I’m
in love !” said Hilda dryly.
“Now, Hilda, tell me seriously what you
mean. You have brought a grave charge against
me, and you must prove it or withdraw it. You
have accused me of want of warmth ”
“ Oh, dear, no ’ J was quite touched by the
enthusiasm you showed whey I asked ydu at
what time Mr. Glyn was coming to-day. ‘ Oh,
he may come at three, or he may come at four,
or perhaps he won’t be here till we go out, soon
alter five !’ That is what you said, with just as
much excitement as it it had been a tradesman
coming for an order 1 Why, if I were in love,
and expecting the man I was fond of, I shouldn’t
be able te sit still; I should be mad with the
hands of the clock for not going round faster; I
should get a book and set myself a task of read
ing so many chapters before I would let myself
see what the time was again; I should upset all
those nicely-arranged flowers by rushing to the
window twenty times I Long before three
o’clock came, I should be in a fever; while you
Doris, I believe, if he were not to come un
til—until six o’clock, you would only say, ‘ How
tiresome of him to put out all my arrange
ments I’ Of course I know your emotion of im
patience because he upsets your plans is much
better bred than my impatience to see the man
because I love him, but then you know I am
only a Bohemian.” ♦
And the girl, whose restless excitable nature
betrayed itself as she spoke by quick nervous
movements of the hands as much as by the vol
ubility with which she poured forth her words,
dropped from her chair onto a cushion at the feet
of her calmer companion, with a little curl of
the lip to belie the humility of the end of her
“ Yes, but you don’t make allowance for the
difference between my temperament and yours.
You cannot imagine me hopping about between
the clock and the door with my hands through
my hair every two minutes, any more than I
can picture you sitting quietly and stiffly on a
chair waiting with beautiful submission until
your hero, as you call him, chose to shed on
you the sunshine of his presence.”
“ Oh, you want me to think that the differ
ence between us is only that your affectiows are
under better control than mine ! Well, then, I
don’t believe it. You could no more sit there
and chatter to me calmly about a dozen differ
ent things while you were expecting Mr. Glyn,
if you were really fond of him, than I could.”
“ You mean that I am ft cold-blooded oreft-
tore—a sort ot fish by nature, quite incapable
ot feeling any emotion above tepid-point.”
“ No, i don’t. mean that you don’t feel any
emotion above tepid-point for Mr. Glyn.”
“ But, Hilda, you mustn’t say that. Indeed
it is not true!”"said Dorie, rather disturbed.
“ I am not nearly so excitable as you, I am not
even sure that I can feel quite so much—cer
tainly I could not show as much, but I admire
Mr. Glyn more than any man • have ever met;
I respect his opinion in everything: I am never
so happy as when 5 am with him; I try to
please him far harder than I ever tried to
please any man before, and I feel jealous of
every other woman he looks at. Surely that is
love worth having I At any rate, it is the best
1 have to give.”
Hilda shook her head.
“ Too calnj !” said she briefly.
“And don’t you think a steady feeling like
that, which never rises and never sinks, is a
better foundation for a love which is to last a
lifetime than a spasmodic emotion which can
not last, which brings, on the whole, as much
pain and discomfort as pleasure even to the ob
ject of it, and which you yourself admit you can
feel for a succession of people?” finished Doris
“ And how can you be sure your admiration
and respect will last a lifetime either?” asked
the young actress persistently. “ You have no
more reason to be sure that this Mr. Glyn,
whom you have known only a few weeks, will
always be worthy of the respect and all that
which he has inspired you with than 1 had for
supposing the poor painter who followed me
like my shadow, would become the greatest
artist of the day, just because the very sound of
his voice set me trembling with happiness.”
“Do you mean to say that reason ought to
have nothing to do with love ?”
“ I don’t say anything about ‘ ought,’ but I
think reason has very little to do with it.”
“ Then the less one has to do with love the
“ Yes, perhaps, if one could choose : but one
can’t, you know.”
“Some can.”
“ You think you can. Of course you may be
right; I don’t* know. But I don’t think such a
nice woman as you are, and romantic, too, will
be able to get through life without—loving.
Have you read Alfred de Musset's lines on a
woman who died without having loved ?
M ‘Elie est morte sans avoir veou,
main est tombe le livre
Dans lequel elle n’a rion lu.’ ”
“ Yes, that is very pretty :
“ ‘Without having lived she is dead.
From her band the book has fallen
From which she has nothing read.’
But I shouldn’t go to De Musset for a standard
of conduct.”
“ No ; you may not go to him to find out what
one ought to do, but you might do worse than
go to him to find out what one does.”
“ Oh, you wicked play-actress ! What would
grandmamma say if she could hear you ?”
“ She would be very much shocked, of course.
Bui she hafl read apd thought over the matter
we are discussing long before she met your
“Then you really think, Hilda, that I shall
lose my head some day—l, who have arrived at
the age of lour.and-twenty, retaining the full
possession of all my faculties ?”
“But are you sure you have never been in
love—‘lost your head—whatever you like to call
it—already? I'erhaps you won’t confess to
me ?”
“ Yes, I would, if 1 had anything to confess.
But I am ashamed to say that my attachment to
Mr. Glyn, which you despise, is the nearest ap
proach to that love you say I must feel that I
have ever had for any man. And now, you see,
I am going to settle down to matrimony, so that
my chance of a romance is over. For I hope
even you, with your alarming code, will allow
that I shall be safe then.”
“Seriously, lam not so sure about that. If
I were a man, I should feel safer in marrying a
girl like me, who had sown the wild oats
of her affections, as it were, than in marrying a
girl like you, who has never loved anybody and
whose capabilities have therefore never been
sounded. Of course a man, in marrying you,
can pride himself on being your first love, but
in marrying me he might feel a great deal surer
of being the last.”
“ I shall tell David what you say, and ask
him if he feels nervous.”
“ I don’t think he need feel so.”
Not after all your complaints of my ‘ tepid
affection ’ for him and your warnings about the
‘ unsounded capabilities ’ of cold women? ’
“ No. I believe this Mr. Glyn is sa sweet
tempered and handsome and good that you
will really love him after you are married to
him. I believe you have a nature not easily
kindled; I won’t believe you have no warmth
in you at all.”
“ That is what they all tell me, though,” said
Doris slowly—” all but David, that is to say; he
makes no complaints of me in any way. And,
if I am warm enough to please him, what more
cau I want?”
“ Nothing indeed,” said Hilda, looking at her
narrowly. “ And who are the ‘ all of them ’
who complain of your coldness ?”
“ Oh, the ether men who have wanted to
marry me—and my money 1” said Doris, in
rather a hard tone.
“ But why do you sneer, as if it were im
possible for them to care for you yourself apart
irom your money? And, however devotedly
a man might love you, he couldn’t be quite in
different to the fact that you were rich.”
“ David is.” said Doris, turning round quick
ly, with a gleam of pride and pleasure in her
eyes. “My money absolutely stood in the way
of his proposing to me, not through his diffi
dence, but his distaste for thelresponsibihty of
being rich.”
“ Oh, he is perfect, of course !” said Hilda
rather impatiently. “ I expect you were rather
hard on the poor fellows who hadn’t arrived at
such a sublime pitch of disinterestedness.”
“ Now you are sneering; a minute ago
“ No, I’m not. I want to know how you
penetrated the sordid motives of your other
admirers, and in what way you * dismissed
“ Dismissed them ! I didn’t dismiss many,
and I didn’t care enough about them to care
what their motives were. I have had very few
downright proposals—not more than two dis
tinct offers of marriage, I think. Y’ou see, a
man can’t ask you to be his wife unless you
have given him some sort of encouragement, if
he is not an absolute idiot.”
“ I think it is very good of you, with your
opportunities and advantages, not to flirt more
than you do. Why, with very little trouble,
you might have half the men in town at your
feet I”
“ And all the women in town about my ears.
I haven’t the courage to maintain such a posi
tion as that, even it I had the inclination. You
know I am called a coquette now, because 1
feel bound to be civil to everybody—at least,
everybody I don’t dislike—in return for the at
tention most people pay me. I sometimes think,
if I were not so well off, I might play at
being a little cruel now and then, for my
own amusement; but, placed as 1 am, if I
were to encourage a poor man—one of those
charming detrimentals, for instance, who al
ways flirt more pleasantly than anybody else—
and then throw him over, as other girls do,
without feeling that they have done any great
harm, why, in me it would be worse than cruel
—it would be mean !”
“ You always seem to be thinking more of
your money than of yourself. It seems to be an
absolute burden to you.”
“Itis in some respects. People will do such
mean things for the sake of it—people you
never believed capable of deceit,” said Doris,
with warmth. “Itis a very painful and humili
ating thing to find out that the attentions, even
of a person who was indifferent to you, were re
ally directed not to you, but to your fortune.”
“Has that ever happened to you, Doris?”
asked Hilda, much interested.
“Yes. I will tell you about it, and then I
don’t think you will be so much surprised by
what I see you consider the strained way in
which I look at money-matters. You know I.
spend part of every year at Ambleside with
grandmamma, at my dear old Delhi Lodge,
where I was born ? Well, last Autumn, when
we were there, some friends of ours, the Bry
ants, had taken a house at Bowness, and of
course we were always riding and driving and
rowing and fishing together. There was a
young fellow staying with them who was always
about with Marion Bryant, who is a very nice
girl, two or three years older than I am, not at
all pretty, but very good-natured. Soon after
my appearance there, he transferred hfa atten
tions to me, and devoted himself to me With £fi
utter disregard of everybody else which made
us all laugh. Marion took his desertion very
good-^ujnoredly t and everybody seemed to
think it very natural, and nobody thaught seri
ously about it. He was about two years younger
than I; but he was so very boyish and had
such bad spoiled manners that he seemed a
great deal younger, and we all treated him as if
he had been about fifteen. He seemed so head
strong and thoughtless and made love to me in
such a silly, candid, schoolboy sort of fashion
that I never for a moment suspected his disin
terestedness or believed that he thought about
me seriously at all. He took possession of me,
and laughed at my jokes and took my snubs
and my scoldings just like a cross spoiled child.
We got on beautifully together, and, when he
made love to me, I laughed, and he left off and
just followed my lead i« everything. Then he
went away suddenly, and I rather missed him
at first—he used to laugh so heartily! but more
people came, and I soon forgot all about the
ooy. Then, when we came back to town, I met
him again one day at the Bryants’, and he
worked his way round to me and tried to pick
up our acquaintance just where it had dropped.
Of course that was out of the question ; the boy
was nothing to me—if he had been, I should
have been hurt and unhappy at his abrupt dis
appearance from Bowness without saying good
by to me. As it was, I was obliged to snub
him, and the lad, who has no more character
than a child, was so utterly crestfallen and sub
dued under my rebuke that, when I met him
again, I was obliged to be very kind to him, lor
he shrank away from me just like a dog that
has been whipped.”
“Then you did coquette with him?”
“ I did not mean to, but a word, either kind
or unkind, had so much more effect upon his
weak, excitable nature than it would have had
upon any other man. It seemed absurd to
think of him as a man ; he was a great over
grown, spoiled boy.”
“ What was he like ?”
“He was a great big broad-shouldered fel
low—uncouth, the men called him—with pretty
vacant gray eyes and such lovely teeth; his face
I should have called handsome if it had only
expressed anything. But he had a low fore
head, to show he hadn’t any brains, and a
mouth like a woman’s.”
Hilda gave a glance at the photograph which
had been displaced from its hiding-place on
the mantelpiece and lay now on a chair, Dons
did not notice the look, and continued:
“ Thon be began to try to talk seriously to
me whenever we met. 1 always stopped him
and laughed at him, but sometimes that made
him cross lor about a minute and a half, for he
hadn’t character enough to sulk consistently.
Then he talked to mo about his expectations in
away which led me to believe he was very well
off. I was never unkind to him, I never took
him seriously, and I never for a moment gave
him cause to think, if he had not been so very
silly, that I cared about him. About that time
David Glyn was introduced to mo, and this silly
boy had to be snubbed again for showing an
noyance because 1 spoke admiringly of him.
Then one night, at a dance,” Doris went on
hesitatingly, in a lower voice, “ Gussio lost his
head; and, when he had taken me into the con
servatory after a waltz, and I had sat down and
leaned my head back among the flowers in
that delicious half-weariness you feel when you
have been dancing and you still hear the music,
and the light is soft and the flowers are sweet,
he suddenly threw himself beside me and flung
his arm round me, and, if it had not been for
the sound of the voices of two other people who
were just coming in, he would have kissed
“ And what then ?” asked Hilda, breath
“ Of course he started up; and we went out,
and I was very angry, very much offended, and
would not sneak to him again that night. And
next day they told me that he was deeply in
debt and had no expectations at all worth
speaking of, and that he had been told that
nothing but a good marriage could put him
straight. It would have made no difference to
me if the headstrong boy had been a million
aire, but I was very much disgusted to think I
had been deceived, for I had not for one mo
ment thought his childish attentions inter
“ Do you know, I think you treated him very
“ I can’t agree with you. A few days after
ward I accepted David Glvn, and Gussie had
the shockingly bad taste to insult him. Of
course David treated his petulant insolence
beautifully, and was quite sorry for him, even
when I told him the boy had only wanted my
money. Now do you understand my feeling
about it?”
” Now I understand two things. May I say
them ? One is that you were a great deal too
hard upon the boy, as you call him: the other is
that you were a great deal nearer being in love
with that unlucky Gussie than you have ever
been with Mr. Glyn.”
The front-door bell rang as Doris rose from
her seat, laughing.
** Hilda, you will read everything by the light
of your imagination, and not by that of common
sense. That is David’s voice.”
The bright color had come into her face at the
“ And what are you going to do with * poor
Gussie ?’ ” said Hilda, taking up the photo
graph hurriedly.
“ Oh, ‘ poor Gussie ’ can stay where he is !
David has no reason to be jealous of him,” an
swered Doris contemptuously.
(To be Continued.)
When Johnston, about the middle of July,
1864, turned over the command ot the Confed
erate army in and around Atlanta to Hood
things looked so blue that the humblest pri
vate soldier could realize that nothing but some
desperate stroke of luck would save us. In
deed, most of us looked upon the “ Cause ” as
hopelessly lost. That feeling was the natural
cause for homesickness, and it was talked
among the men that it was no erime to get out
from under the impending blow in the best way
possible. I had no home or friends to go to,
but thousands of others had, and there were a
good many desertions, and a good many other
unsuccessful attempts.
One of Hood’s first moves was to put a check
on this business. He issued very stringent or
ders, and it soon came to be known that deser
tion would bo punished in the severest man
ner. Ido not know that any one was shot for
this offense, but there were a dozen men wait
ing court-martial, and but for circumstances
they would have been tried, convicted, and,
perhaps, led out to a disgraceful death.
One night, while I was sergeant of the relict
guard around our camp, the sentinels captured
a young private from an Alabama regiment who
was plainly trying to desert. He was sent off
under guard, and the next day he was brought
before our brigade commander. I took him be
fore the general myself, and I heard most of
the conversation between them. It seemed
that the boy came from a fighting family, and
had not only served for a year and a half in the
ranks, but had been twice wounded, It was
clearly nothing but homesickness which had
stirred him up to play the part of deserter.
The general knew his lather, and he talked to
him of the disgrace—of the grief the old man
would feel—of the stain which would rest upon
him after the war—of the cowardice of leaving
his comrades to bear the brunt, and by and by
he had the boy crying. It was a clear case, and
the p.risoner could have been reported to head
quarters, but the general seemed adverse to
this. He talked as kindly as a woman, and he
closed the matter by saying :
“ I want you to return to your regiment and
wipe out this stain. There will boa great
battle soon, and you will have opportunity to
prove my trust in you. Here is my hand. Go
back to duty, and when the hour comes do not
fail mo.”
The boy uttered his thanks in a broken voice
and went away. Only his own captain knew of
what ha'd happened, and he also knew of the
general’s kindness.
It wasn’t many days after that before we
moved out to fight the battle of Peachtree
Creek. I had my eye on the boy as soon as we
got under fire, and I knew by his looks and ac
tions that he meant to wipe away that stain.
Once he turned and looked me in the eyes. I
gave him a friendly nod, but neither of us
spoke. He knew of what I was thinking, and
1 saw by the blaze of his eyes that nothing
would dismay him. At one part of the line the
Union forces were unprepared for the sudden
assault and were temporarily rolled back. On
our wing they had been aroused and were wait
ing for us. Wo had pushed ahead in solid
battle lines, torn by their artillery, but closing
up again, and by and by we got the word to
charge. Then came tbe confusion, the smoke,
the hurrah, the whirl and turmoil of battle.
We kept crowding ahead, now obliquely slightly
to the left, now to the right, and, as they would
not give way, we were finally among the
guns in battery. We drove beyond them,
were breasted back, fought over’ the pieces,
gained and lost them, and the boy I was watch
ing was ever at the front.
Men on either side of him went down, but he
was still unwounded. When wo got among the
guns it was a hand-to-hand fight, with bayonet
and clubbed musket. I saw blood dripping
from his bayonet—l saw him raging up and
down with only the gun-barrel for a weapon.
Twice, as I gathered a few men about me to
drag off one of tbe pieces, men in blue surged
up, and the boy drove at them almost single
handed and raged among them like a lion.
Wo held our ground perhaps twenty minutes,
our poor old skeleton regiment. numbering
hardly a full company as we gave ground. We
had just begun to retire, tho boy standing ex
posed and blazing away with a musket he had
picked up, when I saw him fall. Two or three
ot us picked him up and drew him undor the
shelter of a bank, hoping he was only wounded,
but there was none more dead on the battlefield.
A volley must have been fired at him alone, ior
at least a dozen bullets had struck him below
the head. Death had come to him in one in
stant, and on the face was the smile he had
worn as he entered the fray—a smile which said
to me:
“ You know all, but I have wiped the stain
away I”
So he had, poor boy 1
(From th? Louisv'd'e Weekly Commercial.)
I’here is a young and beautiful woman just
on the eve of leaving that mysterious period ot
lite called girlhood, whose fate is, or promises
to be, a most remarkable one. Who she is cannot
be published, as there are but a few who know
ot what is here given, and they are bound to
secrecy by family pride and dislike of the no
toriety that would be given if her name were
made known. Suffice to say, in regard to the
latter reason, that if her likeness could be pro
cured it would appear in every pictorial paper
in the land. All that can be said is that she
lives on Third avenue and is the daughter of a
wealthy citizen, and that she attended school in
this city, and is neither a decided brunette nor
blonde. Giving her age would be increasing
the chances of discovering her identity, so it is
also withheld.
The strange thing about this young lady is of
a personal nature, and was discovered only last
week by the purest accident. It is none other
than that her entire person is phosphorescent
from her glorious head of hair to the soles of
her dainty feet. It is not as bright as the glow
ot a fire-fly, but is very perceptible, even in the
dusk, and is much like a parlor-match that has
been rubbed between wet fingers. The dis
covery was made when standing in her room
with her mother, the daughter attired in a thin
sleeved dress, just after turning down the gas
preparatory to going down-stairs late one even
ing. The daughter noticed it first, and, believ
ing her eyes were affected, called her mother’s
attention. To her horror, the mother gave one
look and called aloud for her husband. He
glanced, saw the astounding revelation, and
the family physician was immediately sum
The physician gave as his opinion, on being
told by the principal in the scene that she felt
perfectly well, that if she didn’t feel sick—
although he did not understand the case, and
said it was unprecedented—he thought nothing
serious would result, and advised that no
change at all be made in his peculiarly afflicted
patient’s mode of life. With still greater pres
ence of mind he advised the family, who in
their excitement knew not what to do, to kepp
quiet about the matter. But tho servant girl
was on hand, as she always is when she isn’t
wanted. Since then there has been no percep
tible change in the young lady’s condition, but
there is hope yet that she will ultimately re
coyer, as it was thought that there was a slight
failing away of the unwelcome glow. It is
probable that the affliction came suddenly. If
she recovers her name will be given.
Grandpa was telling about some one who
was very heavy for his size, and he said: “He
is the biggest man I ever saw for his size.”
At this all smiled, so he tried it again.
“ I mean he is the heaviest person for his
weight I ever know.” Then, after a pause,
“ What are you all laughing at ?” and grandpa
walked off in indignation.
There was an exultant smile on his face as
he walked into the office of a well-known capi
talist, and there was a proud ring in his voice
as he said:
“ For twenty years I have lived from hand to
mouth, waiting for something to turn up. It
has finally came. I have made a discovery
which, if you will back it with a few hundred
dollars, will give us both fortunes.”
“ State your case.”
“ Well, sir, I have discovered that banana
peelings can be utilized for all kinds of table
jellies. A peck of old peelings can be made to
bring forth twelve tumblers of the finest cur
rant jell, and the profit is
“ Hold on right there,” interrupted the capi
talist; “you are just two years too late. A chap
in Chicago not only discovered that, but he
found away to work in apple rinds and cores
and orange peel, and we can’t infringe on his
“ But
“ It’s no use. I’d like to see you get along,
but you must drop that. Don’t be discouraged,
however. Perhaps you can discover away to
make pressed corn beef out of old boot legs. All
you want is a machine to run in ths streaks of
There were three middle-aged women and
two middle-aged men in the car. The men sat
opposite each other, and pretty soon one of
them exhibited something which looked like a
horse-chestnut and said to the other :
“ Here is what I was speaking of. It’s the
most subtle poison known. A little scraped off
into a cup of tea or milk will kill within an hour
and leave no trace.”
“Can’tthe doctors discover it?” asked the
“ No, sir. It is absolutely impossible to de
tect its presence in tho human system. It a
wife wasn’t living very happily with her hus
(The three women looked at each other.)
“ what a boon this would be. She could
have a little ot this ready for his cup of tea at
supper time, and he would go to his bed, fall
asleep and die without a struggle. She
(All the women craned their necks to see the
“ would give the alarm, summon the doc-
tor, and of course do more or less weeping and
grieving in order to carry out her part. The
(The women looked at each other in a know
ing way.)
“ doctor would call it a case of heart dis-
ease, and not the slightest suspicion could pos
sibly attach to the widow. The only trouble
(Each woman bent forward and held her
breath to listen.)
“ is to get the article into the hands of
such women as would like to use it, and to have
them understand that I was a person who could
be trusted. How
(Each woman shook her head as if saying that
it would be dangerous.)
“ ever, perhaps I shall hit upon some
plan. I’m off here. Good-bye.”
Each woman followed him with her eyes until
he turned a corner, and then they looked suspi
ciously at each other and nodded their heads,
as if saying : “She’d like that poison—you bet
she would I’’
The Brunswick Hotel is no more the Water
Office than the High School building is the City
Hall, but there are people who are determined
not to understand this. An average of half a
dozen per day walk into the office of the hotel,
plank their money down on the counter and
call out:
“ I want to pay the water tax on No. 254
Blank street.”
When the affable clerk informs them that they
have made a mistake, which is only what au af
fable clerk should do, there is a feeling on the
part of these people that they have somehow
been abused, and they go off mad.
Two or three weeks ago a very stern-faced
man, carrying himself very rigidly, entered the
hotel, rapped on the counter with his knuckles,
and icily observed:
“ I’ll never pay it—never!”
“ What?” asked Clerk Brown.
“ That infernal water tax I You can sue and
be hanged!”
“ This is not the Water Office.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, sir; you’ll have to go down four doors.”
“ But it this is not the Water Office what do
you have the sign up for ?”
“ We have no such sign.”
ft“ Well, it looks like the place.”
“ Not at all, sir. Please call lour doors be
“ I’ll be durned if Ido ! Why didn’t you tell
me when I first came in that this was a ho
tel ?”
“ I supposed you knew it.”
“ Oh, well, perhaps you will make something
by this, and perhaps you won’t.”
A week later the stern-faced man entered the
Water Office one morning, reached his hand
through the window to one of the clerks, and
“ Shake, old boy. I was out of temper that
morning, and have been very sorry for it.
Odd, wasn’t it, that I came into this hotel in
stead of the Water Office ? You treated me like
a gentleman, and I beg your pardon.”
“ I—l don’t understand,” replied the clerk.
“ Why, I came into this hotel one morning
not long ago, and ”
“ But this is no hotel. This is the Water Of
fice 1”
“ But why don’t you put up a sign ?”
“ There’s one at the door, sir.”
“ And where's the hotel ?”
“ Please call four doors above.”
“ I won't do it. No, sir—never I See you
hung first! Good morning, sir—never’ll pay
that infernal tax if I die ior it I”
The Italian of the lower order is not very
particular about his eating. What he wants is
something to eat, and he cares very little about
how it is prepared or in what shape it comes to
One street leading off from the Theatre San
Carlo is for a mile a sort of market devoted to
the sale of comestibles, and there are long rows
of booths for the preparation and sale of ready
made meals.
The street itself and the alleys leading from
it are indescribably dirty, so dirty that to make
a description that will convey any idea of it is
as impossible as it would be to describe the
hues of a rainbow. Imagine every possible
description of garbage, with every other species
of filth, thick on the streets, reeking, ferment
ing and festering under a tropical sun, and you
may have some idea of it.
There are kinds of filth mixed with this mass
which may not be described in print, for the
Italians of the lower classes, male and female,
have no sense of the commonest kind of de
In the midst of all this stench there are booths
for the sale of macaroni and everything else
edible that can come within the compass of a
cent a portion. There are the hideous cuttle
fish, boiled and cut into portions.
The seller, with a fist that is as black and
grimy as original sin, places a portion of the
fish upon a slice of brown bread, dashes some
of the hot water in which it was boiled over it,
the consumer with a hand equally grimy seizes
it, and in a moment it is gone.
The macaroni eater takes the long strings in
his hand, tbrowa back his head that he may
lose none of his pennyworth, and swallows it.
There are fish fried in loud smelling oil, fish
boiled in filthy water in still more filthy kettles,
fish picked and fish in every form, the only
difference being that some look more dirty than
the others. They are still on an equality in
this respect, however, being all as dirty as they
can be. But nevertheless everything is eaten,
and everybody seems to be satisfied with it.
Vast quantities of fruit are eaten in these
markets, as it is very cheap and good. Oranges
are worth next to nothing—five for a halfpenny,
and sometimes cheaper; and other tropical
fruits are just as cheap. They ripen the year
round, and there never is a lack of them.
One article of food is plentiful in Italy, and
always good—namely, eggs. The Italian takes
naturally to hen culture, it being a pursuit just
suited to his nature.
The hen is, unlike its owner, an enterprising
being, and can skirmish tor her own living.
The hen providing for herself, the gathering of
the eggs is exactly the Italian’s idea of labor.
He is equal to the.picking up of eggs if they
are not too much out of the way, and it is a la
bor that precisely suits him, because the hen
does all the work. Therefore, he cherishes the
hen, and looks upon her with great favor.
He would like the donkey better if the donkey
would only load himself, trot on without guid
ance, and unload himself. As the hen boards
herself and requires no attention whatever, the
Italian being put only to the inconvenience of
gathering the eggs, the Italian loves the hen
above everything in animated nature.
He not only can get the product of her work
without any exertion, but the egg, when he has
got it, can be consumed without labor.
The Italian sells it when he is not hungry, and
when he needs the nourishment he can eat it
raw. The hen is the Italian’s best friend.
The fondness for hen culture furnishes the
residents with fresh eggs always, and their style
of cooking them is really appetizing. They fry
them in oil, they torture them into omelettes
with oil, and as in respectable restaurants, ho
tels and families, the oil is always good, the re
sult is entirely satisfactory.
Fortunately, oil is very cheap, and there is
but little inducement to adulterate it, and the
hen is always present. So he who can live on
oggs can get ou well in Italy.
Crawling Over Red Hot Bars of Iron in
His Fearful Frenzy— A. Scientific In
vestigation and Its Results.
(From the Cincinnati Times-Star.)
“ Opium or death !”
This brief sentence was fairly hissed into the
ear of a prominent druggist.on Vino street by a
person who, a lew years ago well off, is to-day a
hopeless wreck I
One can scarcely realize the suffering of an
opium victim. De Quincy has vividly portrayed
it. But who can fitly describe the joy ot the
rescued victim ?
H. C. Wilson, of Loveland, 0., formerly with
March, Harwood & Co., manufacturing chemists
of St. Louis, and of tho well-known firm of H.
C. Wilson & Co., chemists, formerly ot this city,
gave our reporter yesterday a bit of thrilling
personal experience in this line.
“ I have crawled over red hot bars of iron
and coals of fire,” he said, “ in my agony dur
ing an opium frenzy. The very thought" of my
sufferings freezes my blood and chills my
bones. I was then eating over 30 grains of
opium daily.”
“ How did you contract the habit ?”
“ Excessive business cares broke me down
and my doctor prescribed opium 1 That is the
way nine-tenths of cases commence. When I
determined to stop, however, I found I coud
not do it.
“You may be surprised to know,” he said,
“ that two-fifths of the slaves ol morphine and
opium are physicians. Many of these J met.
We studied our cases carefully. We found out
what the organs were m which the appetite was
developed and sustained ; that no victim was
free from a demoralized condition of those or
gans ; that the hope of a cure depended entirely
upon the degree of vig )r which could he imparted
to them. I have soon patients, while undergo
ing treatment, compelled to resort to opium
again to deaden the horrible pain in those or
gans. I marvel how I ever escaped.
“ Do you mean to say, Mr. Wilson, that you
have conquered the habit?”
“ Indeed I have.”
“ Do you object to telling me how ?”
“No, sir. Studying the matter with several
opium-eating physicians, we became satisfied
that tho appetite for opium was located in the
kidneys and liver. Our next object was to find
a specific for restoring those organs to health.
The physicians, much against their code, ad
dressed their attention to a certain remedy and
became thoroughly convinced on its scientific
merits alone that it was the only one that could
be relied upon in every case of disordered kid
neys and liver. I thereupon began using it and,
supplementing it with my own special treat
ment, finally got fully over tho habit. I may
say that the most important part of the treat
ment is to get those organs first into good work
ing condition, for in them the appetite originates
and is sustained, and in them over ninety per
cent, of all other human ailments originate.”
“ For the last seven years this position has
been taken by the proprietors of that remedy
and finally it is becoming an acknowledged
scientific truth among the medical profession;
many of them, however, do not openly acknowl
edge it, and yet, knowing they have no other
scientific specific, their code not allowing them
to use it, they buy it upon tbe quiet and pre
scribe it in their own bottles.”
“ As I said before, the opium and morphine
habits can never be cured until the appetite for
them is routed out of the kidneys and liver. I
have tried everything—experimented with
everything and as the result of my studies and
investigation, I can say I know nothing can ac
complish this result but Warner’s safe cure.”
“ Have others tried your treatment ?”
“Yes, sir, many, and all who have followed ft
fully have recovered. Several ot them who did
not first treat their kidneys and liver for six or
eight weeks, as I advised them, completely
failed. This form of treatment is always insist
ed upon for all patients, whether treated by
mail or at the Loveland Opium Institute, and
supplemented by our special private treatment,
it always cures.”
Mr. Wilson stands very high wherever known.
His experience is only another proof of the
wonderful and conceded power of Warner’s safe
cure over all diseases of the kidneys, liver and
blood, and the diseases caused by derangements
of those organs. W’e may say that it is very
flattering to the proprietors of Warner’s safe
cure, that it has received the highest med Peal
endorsement, and, after persistent study, it is
admitted by scientists that there is nothing in
materia medica for the restoration of those
great organs that equals it in power. We take
pleasure in publishing the above statements
coming from so reliable a source as Mr. Wilson,
and confirming by personal experience what we
have time and again published in our columns.
We also extend to the proprietors our hearty
congratulations on the results wrought.
A Midnight Visit to a French Drinking
Place Where Bright People Go.
(Para Letter in Boston Herald.)
The Chat Noir is by no means a brasserie
where beer is consumed by the gallon. From
the day it was opened—then it occupied hum
bler quarters on one of the exterior boulevards
—it became the rendezvous of yoiwg poets,
painters, sculptors and journalists, who, over
their pipes and beer, found relaxation after the
day’s work in discussing topics of common in
terest—the last new book, the coming or past
salon, the premier of the night before. They some
times talked wildly, and many mad theories in
literature and art were started, but what they
said was flavored with more or less witty bon
most, versos were recited, comic chansons sung,
and thus a sort of modern cafe Prooope came into
existence. In tbe public room with which we
begin our inspection, the eye is fairly dazzled
by the number and variety ot bibelots of all
kinds, many of them very valuable. There are
stained glass panels, old china, ancient arms and
armor, statuettes in marble and bronze, pieturee
in oil and in water colors, etchings and engrav
ings. Most of these are sketches by artiste of the
impressionist school and by habitues of the place.
We followed the sound ot mandolins into a
back room arranged to resemble a largo arbor.
There is growing ivy on the walls, and the ceil
ing is of green lattice work. Here we find a
troupe of Spanish mandolin players executing
those airs, now slow and solemn, now quick and
lively, now tender and caressing, which Spain
has inherited from the Moors.
Then we are taken up-staire and ushered into
the editorial sanctum of the Chat Noir. Yes,
the editorial sanctum; for Rudolph Salis, ths
intelligent and shrewd patron of tho cafe, the
“cabaratier gentilhomme,” as he calls himself,
hit, some years ago, on the happy thought of
starting a comic paper, which he named after
his establishment. The illustrations are by real
artists, the letter-press is contributed by mon
many of whom write well, and the general man
agement is looked after by Salis himself, who
can on occasion wield a pen right cleverly. The
Chat Noir is already in its third year, and you
will find it for sSle at all the kiosques on the
boulevards. While we are looking over two
albums filled with curious and funny autograph
poems and sketches, a tall fellow, wearing a
swallow-tail coat, ornamented with wide green
embroidered palm leaves and a dross sword—
the livery of the waiters at the Chat Noir is the
uniform of the members of the French Academy
—came to tell us that supper Was ready. While
eating it, I point out to my friends certain
celebrities of Parisian Bohemia at neighboring
tables. One of these is Willets, chief artistio
contributor to the Chat Noir, a man who, in his
particular line, ranks as a master. Ho has a
long, thin, pale face, with a tired look about
him, and a pair of sharp eyes. His work is not
of a kind calculated to attract the general pub
lic, but artists admire the way he draws, and
also his coloring, iu which the black, white,
metallic grays and pearly pink tints predomi
nate. Here at the Chat Noir he is a sort of a
demi-god, and that panel over yonder is con
sidered his chef d'ceuore. It represents a skele
ton on horseback, galloping over a stretch of
snow dyed blood-rod by the rays of a setting
sun, that barely hides the ghastly corpses ol a
a strange" eight.
A desperate battle between a horse and a dog
took place at Louisville last Sunday aiternoon.
Both animals belong to a livery stable man, and
were confined under the same roof. Tho horse
broke his halter strap and wandered about the
stable. He stopped at the stall occupied by the
dog, which is a large, handsome Newfoundland,
and began nipping hay. The dog growled at
the intruder and made a feint as if about to pre
cipitate an attack. The horse resented the af
front, and laying back his ears nipped the dog
on one ot his tore legs. This challenge seemed
to be accepted with great alacrity, and in a jiffy
the representative of the equine family found
himself in a helpless condition. The dog had
fastened a set of strong teeth in the horse’s jaw
and held on as if determined to end all differ
ences without delay.
By a great effort the horse shook the dog loose
and then began a vicious attack with his fore
feet, cutting and stamping the handsome New
foundland in a terrible manner. The dog even
tually got the horse by the throat and hung on
until he was forced to release his death-like
grip by a number of men who had been at
tracted to the spot by the disturbance. It was
found that the horse was so badldy torn and
lacerated that he will probably have to be
killed, while the dog did not fare much better.
The latter animal is the one whose intelligence
and strength rescued his master from a couple
of foot-pads last Winter, who had begun to in
flict a terrible punishment by the use of billies
and clubs, and is known to be one of the best
bred brutes in the State.
Buemese-wise. —The Burman marries
early, and, though polygamy is permitted, has
only one wife, whom, with the other females of
the family, he compels to do all the work. Di
vorces by either party are easily arranged, and
are very common occurrences. It two persons
are tired of each other’s society, they dissolve
partnership in the following simple but conclu
sive manner. They respectively light two can
dles, and, shutting up their hut, sit down and
wait quietly until they are burned out. jha
one whose candle burns out first leaves tho
house at once and forever, taking nothing but
the clothes he or she may have on at tbe time,
all else becoming the property of the other
1 jparty.

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