New York dispatch. [volume], July 18, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
I fail in, something that would be quite right if
I were a little wiser, if I knew a little more.
And I want you, if you can—you, who are so
good and so indulgent with mo even as I am—
to help me to find out what it is that I miss.
You will say that you are satisfied with me as I
am—l know that. But I want you to be more
than satisfied ; I want you to—to make me
more to you if you only can ; to confide in me,
and see if I don’t deserve it—not tor your sake
—you are a man, and can be sufficient to your
self ; but lam a woman, and I can't. David,
please forgive me for saying this, but to see you
so distant, so shut up from me, is terrible ; I
cannot bear it 1”
She paused a moment, not yet daring to look
up, hoping for some word ot tenderness, of
kindness. She had kept her voice so low, so
gentle : the thrill ot heartfelt earnestness that
rang in ber words only made them softer,
sweeter. Now, as she waited, she felt his left
hand, on which her fingers were resting, slip
gradually from under hers down on to his knee.
She felt a chill ot great fear. He had been cold,
passive, under her timid caresses before, but
never before had ho absolutely repulsed her.
She raised her eyes to his face with the dumb
agony of a mort illy-wounded animal.
David was asleep !
Her soft voice had acted as a lullaby to the
tired man, whose faculties bad at once relaxed
ou finding that her serious conversation did not
concern the subjects just then of most vital in
terest to him.
As cold and statuesque as David in his most
reserved moods, Doris quietly rose, picked up
the despised case of jewels to which ber atten
tion had been called by her accidentally tread
ing upon them, and, without another look at
her slumbering lord, swept from the room like
another Vasbti.
The next morning she returned the jewels to
Gussie, sending them by the groom, with a
rather formal note, saying that she hoped he
would not think her unkind, but that she could
not accept a present of so much value ; if she
were to keep them, it would be ungracious not
to wear them, and, if she wore them, they would
excite remark.
To her husband that morning she was very
cold ; but the change in her escaped his atten
tion. She told him of Gussie’s accession to for
tune, and that lie, in a frantically generous
mood, had ottered ber a Christmas present so
handsome that she was obliged to return it. At
this David’s face clouded, and his wife watched
the uneasy look in bis eyes with some hope that
she bad awakened by accident the taint jeal
ousy which she had given up the thought of ex
citing by design.
■ “ You refused it I” he began, without looking
at ber; then, alter a moment’s pause, “I think
you are too particular, Doris ; it was scarcely
kind to snub poor Gussie for such a very natu
ral impulse toward a lady who had been kind
to him. When a man, an old friend, too, has
been hospitably entertained a great many times
at the same house, be welcomes Christmas as
an opportunity of relieving himself gracefully
from an obligation.”
Doris said nothing. For the moment she felt
again the name sharp sting of disgust and re
bellion against this unimpressionable King Log
which she had felt the night before. She could
not know that, their thoughts running as usual
in separate grooves, her busband’s words were
merely an apology to himself for his action of
the day before in taking down to the Lawns a
pair of diamond solitaire ear-rings as a peace
offering to Mrs. Hodson, who was offended by a
conscience-stricken excuse he had made when
she required his attendance on two consecutive
evenings.
So both Doris and ber husband remained
mute and uneasy after this marital snub, and,
as Christmas eve was a holiday at his office in
Somerset House, David loafed about the house
by himself for a little while after breakfast, and
then sneaked oif to the Lawns, trusting to luck
and his wife's overrated indifference for her to
believe that he was spending the day, as usual,
in town. Mrs. Hodson’s society had become a
necessity to him now. The settling influence
Of marriage had, in his case, resulted in con
firming him in domesticity indeed, but by
the wrong fireside. Where ha had been tol
erated before, he was now welcomed, and Da
vid, though be was beginning to feel very acute
tortures ot remorse now that the tide of specu
lation seemed to have set in unfortunately ior
him, found that the feeble efforts he made to
escape were quite insufficient to break the
chain which the stockbroker’s ingenuity and
his wife’s matr nly fascinations had bound se
curely round him.
By the last post that night Doris received a
stiff note irom Mrs. Melton, evidently inspired,
if net dictated by Gussie, regretting that their
recent bereavement rendered it impossible for
them to pass Christmas at Fairleigh, as Mr.
and Mrs. Glyn had so kindly invited them to
do. So the party was incomplete, and the fes
tivities were damped, and the only people who
enjoyed themselves with an unalloyed joy were
Charlie Papillon and Hilda Warren, who gave
some of their time to a very serious discussion
of the “ something wrong ” in the young house
hold, and ot course disagreed violently as to
the cause of it.
“ He neglects her, I am afraid,” sighed Hilda
sorrowfully.
“ She bores him, I am sure," said Charlie
promptly.
“He sheuldn’t have married her, if he was
the sort of man to be bored by a good woman.”
“Seven thousand a year blinds one to mere
possibilities. Don’t you think it would blind
you ?”
“ Yes,’' answered Hilda frankly, “ I suppose
it would.”
“ Now, if I had seven thousand a year, you
would overlook my faults.”
Poor Hilda 1 She was only too ready to over
look them now. But Charlie, with that discre
tion which was not only an empty boast, had
sought her society lees of late, having no inten
tion of burdening his easy liieb y the care of a
wile. If he were in Gussie’s place it would be
different, and Charlie felt it very hard that he,
of the three once-impecunious friends, should
be the only one left in poverty. He now check
ed the passionate outburst which was in Hilda’s
heart and on her lips by reminding her that
they must both " ma’rry money,” and the girl,
with a pang of jealousy, wondered whether the
money were already dazzling his fickle and
somewhat mercenary eyes.
Christmas passed very quietly, and soon af
terward Doris, finding the loneliness of her life
in the large house by the river quite insupport
able, expressed a wish to live in town, to be
near her grandmother. David, who had now,
■under the pressure of business excitement, los
ing his usual calmness and growing irritable
and almost morose, agreed at once, and they
took a small furnished house near Gloucester
Hoad Station, a situation which David found
very convenient for Richmond and Doris pleas
antly near to old Mrs. Edgcombe’s h mo.
The old lady was always well-informed con
cerning the movements of the society around
her, and it was she who put Doris in possession
of a piece of information concerning the house
hold at the Lawns which the latter imparted to
her husband in the evening, with startling
affect.
“ Do you know, David,” she said, solemnly,
at dinner-time, “I have heard such a strange
thing about Mrs. Hodson ! I should scarcely
like to repeat it, except that grandmamma told
it me as a fact -and you know how particular
she is about scandal.”
“What is it?” asked David, with cold blue
eyes that might have been of glass.
“Why, it seems that, although her husband
is known to be in difficulties, Mrs. Hodson
dresses better than ever, wears more jewelry,
and has just ordered a new carriage 1 It appears
that Mrs. Bramwell, who told grandmamma
this, and who is very vulgarly inquisitive, as
you know, was having her brougham repaired
at the same coachbuilder’s; and, hearing this
pretty new victoria was for Mrs. Hodson, she
•aid she wondered he was not afraid of sup
plying goods to such an extravagant house
hold. And the coachbuilder said Mr. Hodson
was not the gentleman to whom the bill was
sent in.”
Some strange change, showing interest, if
not curiosity, which came over David s face at
her first mention of this gossip caused her to
repeat it much more at length than she had
intended to do. When she finished, he asked,
dryly:
“And who is the gentleman?”
“ I am airaid to think.”
There was a pause be ore he said, in a voice
which would have sounded uninterested and
stony if he had ever shown vivid interest in his
talks with his wife:
" Well, you have made some guess, of
course ?”
“ I am afraid it must be Gussie.”
She was watching him, fearful lest he should
think her unduly censorious. At this, her an
swer, he made a movement with his right elbow,
po slight, so very slight that, as he was turning
away from her to feed the dog, she might al
most have thought it insignificant. But, for
some reason or other, that scarcely perceptible
motion woke in the young wife’s mind the first
faint breath of vague, impalpable suspicion. It
frightened her—for the moment, seemed to
stop her breath. The next minute David was
gently scolding her fbr listening to gossip, as
serting his belief that Gussie had nothing to do
with Mrs. Hodson and her carriages.
“ Why, my dear child, look how often I am
obliged to be there on business with Mr. Hod
son 1 And I tell you lam sure Gussie is not at
the Lawns once a week.”
David hated himself for this speech ; but he
was too deep in the mire now to draw back
from an occasional lie, implied or spoken ; and
his wife was in a mood that must be satisfied,
be thought.
But it was a bad sign that she seemed satis
fied so easily ; she said no more on the subject
and, if David had understood women better, he
would have been alarmed.
The next day Mrs. Glyn drove to the Lawns
to call upon Mrs. Hodson. That lady was out,
but was expected to return immediately; in the
meantime, would Mrs. Glyn see the young la
dies ? They were both in the drawing-room.
Doris decided to remain, and to renew the ac
quaintance of Nellie and Ethel, whom she had
not seen since they were children. The girls
“ took ” to her, and in a few minutes were chat
tering to her on very friendly terms.
“I wish you would come as often as Mr.
Glyn,” said the elder and more impulsive one,
when the ice was broken.
Doris smiled without pleasure.
“ He goes about more than I do.”
“ Why, yes, he s always here 1” said Nellie,
With a tinge of contempt.
Doris saw the younger and shrewder-looking
girl give a warning glance at her incautious sis
ter, and a sharp pain shot through her heart
like a knife. The dull pain of suspense and
neglect was over; she was jealous.
CHAPTER XV.
“she saw him off with a hokhible sense of
LONELINESS AND LONGING.”
Doris Glyn felt strongly tempted, on feeling
the sharp pang which the two little girls had
innocently given her, to leave the Lawns ab
ruptly and hasten home to prepare for meeting
her husband. A tew moments’ reflection, how
ever, was enough lor her to remember that she
really had no ground for demanding the expla
nation she wished from him. He had, never
concealed from her the fact that he paid fre
quent visits to the Lawns, and the jealous sus
picions she had formed in a moment, based
upon a few words and a look passed between
two thoughtless and ignorant young girls,
would not form a very substantial ground for a
direct accusation. So she decided, while still
listening unintelligently to the prattle of Nellie
and Ethel, that she would see Mrs. Hodson;
perhaps the meeting would either allay her
jealousy or give her stronger reasons lor it.
Doris felt, beside, a sudden vi.'id interest in
the woman whom she believed to bo her rival
in her husband’s affection; she must judge for
herself these charms lor which she had been
neglected.
She had not to wait long.
When, at the end of another ten minutes, a
loud ring at the bell was followed by Mrs. Hod
son’s high-pitched, bright laugh in the hall,
Doris's heart began to beat violently. The next
moment it seemed to stand still, for she heard
her own husband’s sweet, low tones as meas
ured as usual, but more cheerlul than those ho
kept for domestic use.
Mrs. Hodson apparently dashed into the
drawing-room before the servant had a chance
ot telling her who was there ; for, as the door
opened and she sailed in with David in her
train, both their faces suddenly changed. Oi
course the lady recovered herself immediately
and rushed impulsively up to Doris with out
stretched hands and such expressions as are
usually reserved for friends returning home
alter long and dangerous voyages. But David,
less experienced, remained a light yellow-green
color during the embarrassing interview and
kept as much in the background as he could.
Both knew that Doris’s unexpected call was
more than a regretable accident—both would
have guessed it from her manner.
She did not express any surprise at seeing
her husband and responded to Mrs. Hodson's
warm welcome with perfect though somewhat
frigid courtesy. But there was an entire lack of
spontaneity in every word she uttered, a statu
esque stillness about her manner, which could
be the result only of a stern fight with emo
tions too strong to be allowed the least vent.
“ You are looking very pale and ill, Mrs.
Glyn,” said the elder lady boldly, resolved not
to find her guest’s cold dignity disconcerting.
“ That is the worst of these boys,” she con
tinued, with a lively and contemptuous nod
toward David; “ when they marry they don’t in
the least know how to treat a wife. I am al
ways telling Mr. Glyn”—somehow Mrs. Glyn’s
expression seemed to preclude the use of her
husband’s Christian name before her—“ that he
doesn’t deserve to have a wife at all.”
“ It is very good of you,” said Doris.
“ I am afraid you are too indulgent with
him,” continued Mrs. Hodson undauntedly.
“ I don’t believe in letting a man have too much
of his own way. You should have a will ot
your own and let him know it. You are spoiled,”
she added, turning to David.
Dragged,thus by force into the conversation,
he said, huskily:
“ I dare say 1 am. Most women are too good
for their husbands.”
A spasm of pain crossed Doris’s face. Her
husband’s remark was not made m a sneering
tono, but she felt in a moment that it formed
the staple of any complaint he would bring
against her. She was too good for him, she
who had thought herself so much honored by
his choice of her I Mrs. Hodson came to the
rescue in what would have been an extremely
awkward moment.
“Most women? All women!” she said, in
ber round, emphatic tone. “ Even Bertram
would allow that. Now you will stay and dine
with me ? My husband will not be home to
dinner, and it will be a charity.”
Doris made civil excuses, reflecting that but
tor her appearance David and Mrs. Hodson
would have passed the evening tete-a-tete with
the demure little girls playing open-eared pro
priety. As it was, when she rose to go, David
had no choice but to go too.
Mrs. Hodson was very snappish and silent
with her little girls when her visitors were
goue, dropping at once the brilliant manner for
the domestic one, which had in her case few
charms. Nellie and Ethel, who, while kicking
a little against her maternal regime ot sup
pression, worshiped her loyally as the queen of
the world, had the little flickerings ot liveliness
by which they tried to entertain her promptly
extinguished in a most galling manner ; ior in
the inopportune appearance of Doris Glyn that
afternoon Mrs. Hodson foresaw more than the
spoiling of an evening.
So did David. He took his seat in the brough
am by his wife’s side, intrenched in the sullen
silence with which he meant to meet her tor
rents oi righteous wrath. She had never given
him a “lecture” yet; but David, conventionally
minded in this as in other things, cherished a
great horror of a woman’s tongue, and a belief
that all women were at heart termagants, more
or less restrained by good breeding. That the
moment was ripe for good breeding to snap in
his wife’s case, he did not doubt. So he waited
for the deluge.
None came. Doris sat beside him as silent as
he, until they were very near their home. Then
she said, in a voice almost as kind as usual,
though there was a break in it now and then:
“ Shall I go on to grandmamma’s and ask her
if she will come in and dine with us this even
ing ? She has not been with us for four days,
and she may perhaps begin to think herself ne
glected.”
“It is very thoughtful of you,” said David,
with heartfelt relief at the prospect of a third
person to break that ghastly silence or still
more distressing dialogue which was all that
was possible that evening between himself and
his wife.
He was not, indeed, without qualms of fear,
as he stepped out of the brougham and told the
coachman to drive to Mrs. Edgcombe’s, lest
Doris should be reserving herself for an on
slaught upon him in the presence of a person
whom, in the meantime, she would have turned
into an active ally. But he had to own to him
self that this would be mean and unlike Doris,
and he was not surprised, when the ladies re
turned together, to find the elder at least as
cheerful and affectionate as usual.
He had one fright, however, when dinner was
over and he was preparing an orange for the
old lady.
Mrs. Edgoombe cleared her throat and folded
her pretty, fragile little hands one in the other,
as her custom was when she had anything im
portant to say.
David quaked, and the knife and the orange
remained for a moment still between his
fingers.
“ I have something to say to you, David, to
which I shall be glad if yon will give particular
attention. It is a matter on which Doris has
just spoken to me herself, and, as it concerns
the welfare ot both ot you very nearly, I hope
you will not consider that I am taking too much
upon myself in mentioning it first.”
It was an alarming preamble to listen to with
a guilty conscience, certainly, thongh the digni
fied manner of it was but a habit of the old
lady’s.
“ Anything you have to say will, of course,
have all my attention,” he answered, very stiff
ly, arming himself at all points, and coldly hat
ing Dorie for putting him into this intolerable
position of being dictated to by an outsider.
“1 have been thinking, and Doris agrees with
me, that you both want a change, a thorough
change. Doris, as you must see, as everbody
sees, is looking like the ghost of what she was
a year ago, and you are not the same man at all
that you were before you got so much absorbed
in the affairs of the city. None of the pretty
little attentions you used to pay me six months
ago . Why, that is the first orange you have
prepared ior me in the careful way I like for
weeks 1 You are growing irritable, and your
irritability tells on poor Doris; I can see it my
self, though she never complains.”
Dorie tried to interrupt her, but the old lady
put up her little hand, and went on:
“ You must get right away from business and
eyerything connected with it.”
These last words, innocently said, made him
wince.
“ You have had no honeymoon: you would
carry out your new-fangled ideas, and do with
out it. But the old-fashioned way is the best.
Be entirely dependent upon each other’s society
for a little while among strangers, and you will
get used to each other and grow into each
other’s ways, as you have never yet had a
chance ot doing.”
Yes, but to be entirely dependent upon each
other’s society when each had failed to like it 1
The suggestion was a knell in David’s ears; for
he knew by his wife’s silence that she acquiesced
in the proposed arrangement, and in the cir
cumstances he was not in a position to refuse
any proposal of hers.
“Where do you want to go, Doris ?” he asked,
in a voice which did not sound promising for the
threatened lengthy tete-a-tete.
“Well, even grandmamma would not propose
an absolute wilderness, 1 should think. What
do you say to Paris ?”
S“I have nothing to say to it—as you please.”
“ Paris let it be then, and let us go soon,”
said Doris quietly.
David’s manner was ungracious, but it could
scarcely be expected to be anything else just
now. His affairs, while under his own control,
having been marvellously ill conducted, were
being gently but firmly taken out of his hands;
and David the god-like, in the position ot a
naughty boy found out, was out ot his element
and sufficiently pitiable. Even he did not feel
the bitter pathos of the situation as keenly as
Doris, who was soon as anxious to get rid ot the
innocent old grandmother, whoso shrewdness
and ingenuousness were alike dangerous, as
she bad been in the afternoon to get her.
When David returned from escorting Mrs.
Edgcombe home, he found Doris engaged in
the drawing-room packing away in cases
specially made for the purpose certain bits of
valuable china which had been among their
wedding-presents.
“ What are you doing?” he asked somewhat
sullenly.
“ Putting these little things out of reach of
the servants’ fingers while we are jtway.”
“ When do you propose to go then ? ’
“ Can’t we be ready by rhe day a.ter to-mor
row ?”
David sp’ke “ a bun r ■:'! e wry” from
her.
“ And what is to « .. • > ’cr-iunss -
your burim-ss ’ A «'•■-< ■■ t:i ,-i:y r ■ i-i v.ry
cr ticnl “t •* • >1 •’
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 18 1886.
Indeed they were in a state more critical for
him than he knew.
“ You can leave the business safely in the
hands of a man in whom you place such abso
lute confidence as you do in—your financial ad
viser, surely ? And at your office you have only
to ask to get your holiday when you please.
Isn’t that so, David ?”
He muttered an unwilling assent, and turn
ed toward the door. His wife’s heart leaped
up. If this were shame at his own conduct,
there was hope for them yet. She flew across
the room, and stopped him on the threshold
with a gentle hand.
“David, David, don’t you w a n’t to go away
with me? Won’t you try to be happy with me?”
David was not hard, though in his weakness
he often had to shield himself behind a dull
reserve which made him appear so. At his
wife's appealing cry he stopped at once; but
there was no flood of devoted affection rushing
up from her heart to impel her to encircle him
with loving arms and win him to her then and
for ever. Timidly, appealingly, she crept up to
him, and, with modest", humble glances, looked
into his face, and failed utterly to read through
the cold blank blue eyes the need he felt of
some emotion stronger than his own to break
through the crust of his daily self and get at
the better man within him that had not the
courage to break its own bonds of custom. In
deed Doris felt no passionate affection for this
pretty gentleman, who had treated her in a per
fectly calm and well-bred way, as badly
as sucha pretty gentleman could do. Her
reverence for him had, with scare ly
any preparation, given place to a chaotic
confusion of feelings in which indignation
and contempt struggled with womanly pity
and forbearance toward the nun who, after all,
was her husband, the companion bound to her
for a life which, however one’s ignorant illu
sions about it might be shattered, one was sti 1
bound to make the best of. This attitude was
of course not tender or emotional enough to
strike into an ardent name whatever love he
still had for his wife. He only said gently:
“Oh, yes, we both want a change—you es
pecially, lam sure 1” And then, after waiting
for a moment for the outburst which was farther
off than ever, he left her to herself.
Two days later they started ior Paris. David did
not dare to see either Mr. or Mrs. Hodson again,
restrained by mingled feelings in which per
haps shame and embarrassment at his new po
sition had the largest share. He contented him
self with writing letters to both-to the former
a purely business communication, to the latter
a civil note regretting that he was leaving ior
Paris without a chance of wishing her good-by;
not an affectionate note by any means, but one
in which the ingenious Mrs. Hodson could read
between the lines that her hold upon him was
not relaxed.
On the contrary, after the first few days of
this deferred mock-honeymoon, David felt more
than ever the need of the vivacious society of
the broker’s wife. Had he been by himself in
Paris, he might have found stimulating distrac
tions, but the duet of perpetual good behavior
between him and his wife made the boulevards
dull, and sight-seeing a bore to both of them.
Doris’s natural cheerfulness and ready wit,
which had easily earned for the young heiress
the reputation of brilliancy, deserted her and
left her spiritless and leaden in the never-end
ing strain to afford her husband a pleasure
which her society seemed incapable of yielding
him. He on his side conscientiously tried to
meet her half-way, and his forced attention and
liveliness made her regret his old taciturnity.
So they passed a horrible fortnight of new con
straint worse than the old, which the one had
not the courage and the other had not the will
to attempt to break, until a startling piece of
news from England released them irom this
galling bondage.
It was the announcement, in an English paper,
ot Mr. Hadson s failure on the Stock Exchange.
David was at breakfast with his wife when he
read a paragraph containing the tidings in the
Times ot the day be "ore. Doris saw him turn
white, and asked timidly what was the matter.
“ Mr. Hodson has failed/’ he said, in a tone
he could scarcely keep tranquil.
“ Oh, 1 am sorry 1” she returned, in a low
voice, after a moment’s shy pause. Then, as
her husband rose from his chair, she asked
diffidently, “ Will it affect you?”
“Yes; and that unfortunately includes you,”
he admitted, in a dull measured voice.
“ Oh, never mind that!” cried Doris, with
animation, as, seeing a hope that this might
perhaps help to bring them together, she got up
and almost ran to him. “ What does that mat
ter? You did your best, and money is such a
trifling thing between husband and wife, be
tween—you and—me. It can’t be helped, and,
if we have lost anything, if we have lost a great
deal even, it will not trouble me at all.”
“ I cannot take the matter like that, Doris,”
said he gently, but avoiding her eyes. “ I
must go back to London this very day, and see
what the position of affairs really is, and what
is to be done.”'
“ We must go back ?” she faltered, with the
slightest possible emphasis on the pronoun.
“ No, no, not you. I shall travel in a hurry,
and may be back to-morrow. You won’t mind
being left by yourself just for a day, will you ?”
Doris looked at him imploringly; she dared
not venture to plead in words; away from her
grandmother, with no one to support her pro
posals, she felt timid; and the result of her first
move toward complete confidence had been too
appallingly barren for her to be bold again. So
she packed his things herself, and saw him off
with a horrible sense of loneliness and longing.
“ You will come back soon, won’t you ?’’ she
entreated with all possible sweetness and
docility, as he gave her a warm but well-bred
hand-pressure in the publicity of the barrier at
the station.
And he said, “ Yes,” of course he would,
smiling at ber much more brightly than he had
done since their coming to Paris.
But Doris watched him disappear from her
sight with fear at her heart.
(To be Continued.)
A LITTLE MAID OF LONG AGO
The Daughter of a King Who Reigned
in Greece Once Upon a Time.
(From the Philadelphia News.)
Away off in the beautiful country of Greece, a
long, long time ago, there lived a little maiden,
the daughter of a king, Her name was Gorgo
—not a very pretty name, perhaps, to us who
are used to calling little girls “ Maud,” and
“Ethel,” and “Helen,” but a strong name, and
therefore quite appropriate to the little maid
who bore it, as you shall see. In those old
times there used to be many wars, and the
country of Sparta, the part of Greece where
Gorgo lived, was famous for its brave warriors,
who never thought for a moment of their own
safety when their country was in danger. Some
times these were not good wars, but wars lor
spite and revenge, instead of for freedom and
for loyalty to beautiful Greece.
Some wicked man would wish to avenge an
injury he had received, and in order to do this
he would go about among the different king
doms and try and persuade the rulers to join
with him and try to overcome his enemy, and
then there would be terrible bloodshed in order
to satisfy one wicked man’s revenge. Aristago
ras was such a man ae this. He was di: satis
fied with his king and wished to become the
king himself instead. One day he came to
Sparta on this evil errand and tried to persuade
King C leomenes, the father of little Gorgo, to
help his base project. He talked with the king
a long time. He promised him power and
honor and money if he would do as he wished;
more and more money, and, as the king refused,
still more and more money he offered, and at
last the king almost consented.
But it happened that when Aristagoras had
come into the presence of the king, the king’s
little daughter was standing by his side with
her hand in his. Aristagoras wanted Cleom
enes to send her away, for he knew very well
that it is much harder to induce a man to do
something wrong when there is a dear little
child at his side. But the king had said, “No ;
say what you have to say in belt presence, too,”
and so little Gorgo had sat at her lather’s feet,
looking up into his face with her innocent eyes,
and listening intently to all that was said. She
felt that something Was wrong, and when she
saw Ijer father look troubled and hesitate, and
cast down his eyes, she knew the strange vis
itor was trying to make him do something he
did not quite want to do. So she stole her little
hand softly into her father’s and said :
“ Papa, come away, come, or this strange man
will make you do wrong.”
This made the king leel strong again, and
clasping the little maid’s hand tightly in his
own, he rose and left the tempter, and went
away with the child who had saved him and his
country from dishonor. Gorgo was only ten
years old then, but she was worthy to be a
king’s daughter ; being good and true herself,
she helped her father to be good and true also.
When she grew to be a woman she became
the wife of a king, and then she showed herself
as noble a queen as she had been a princess.
Her husband was that King Leonidas who stood
in the narrow pass of Thermopybe with his
small army and fought back the great hosts of
the l ersians until he and all his heroic band
were killed.
But before this happened there was a time
when the Grecians did not know that the great
Persian army was coming to try to destroy
them, and a friend of theirs who was a prisoner
in the country where the great Xerxes lived,
wishing to warn the Spartans ot the coming of
the Persians, so they might prepare, sent a
messenger to King Leonidas. But when the
messenger arrived, all he had to show for his
message was a bare, white waxen tablet. The
king and all the lords puzzled over this strange
tablet a long time, but could make nothing out
ot it. At last they began to think It was done
for a jest and did not mean anything.
But just then the young Queen Gorgo said,
“ Let me take it,” and after looking it all over,
she exclaimed:
“There must be some writing underneath the
wax 1”
They scraped away the wax from the tablet,
and there, sure enough, written on the wood
beneath, was the message of the Grecian pris
oner and his warning to King Leonidas.
Thus Gorgo helped her country a second
time, lor if the Spartans had not known that the
army w s coming, they could not have warned
the other kingdoms, and perhaps the Persians
would not have been conquered. But, as it
was, Leonidas and the other kings called their
armies together, and when the Persian host
c .me sweeping over the plains, the Greeks were
-ea \v to meet r.nem and tq fight and die lor the.r
H; mi l‘.i •I' Gt)
s . Hi k>;l tt o maid ot hundreds ot years
..go, ; r n -eui and queen, he’pjd to s ive her fa
, t . > rum iisgra o and her country from ru ! .a.
And we may feel sure that she was strong and
true to the last, even when her brave husband,
Leonidas, lay dead in the fearlul pass of Ther
xnopyl o, and she was left to mourn in the royal
palace at Sparta.
IMY HOLT’S EMGAmEn.
BY CATHERINE OWEN.
“ And lam really engaged I I can hardly be
lieve it. How often have 1 thought and won
dered who my husband would be, or if I ever
e should marry. But I suppose all girls have the
same thoughts; at all events, my future is now
settled. 1 wonder if Tom will always care as
much ior me as he does now ?”
Mary Holt sat in the bright firefight, watch
ing the flickering flames, and thinking of her
new position.
She was very young and inexperienced, and
Tom Cowell s declaration of love and somewhat
masterful wooing had taken her by storm. She
had hardly realized that ne was dear to her be
yond friendship, when he asked her to be his
wile, and, in spite ot the suddenness of her be
trothal, it the bright dimpling smile and sunny
eyes might be taken as a sign, she was a very
happy little woman indeed.
Tom had not been very long in Mapleton
when he met and fell in love with Mary, who,
tor her part, much as she liked his groat broad
shoulders, and honest, handsome face, was long
before she could believe that she, who was said
to be the pretiest and most admired girl in that
pari of Pennsyivaian,could ever love such a very
different man from the one she had pictured as
her conquering hero.
Her ideal had such a very superior
creature—quite unlike good-natured, Hand
some, but, to Mary’s eyes, who judged by the
Mapleton standard, somewhat commmplace
Tom Cowell.
He hftd seemed to her, too, to have an un
pleasantly good opinion of his own people and
his home, which was Limet n—as every one
knows, much behind Mapleton in culture and
refinement, although it c uld boast of greater
wealth, but wealth in such a sooty atmosphere
lost all attraction for Mary. Yet he quoted
Limeton, and what the limetonians did,
thought, and intended to do, and the effect of
their intentions on the coming election for
President, which was exasperating to Mary,
who, like all loyal Mapletonians, was quite sure
their own city was the brain of the State, even
if Limetone did represent its wealth; so that
what the former said and thought was of far
more importance to the country, and she would
smile at the purse-proud ignorance of Lime
ton.
Even when she saw Tom’s honest admiration
for herself, and found that she enjoyed his vis
its and attentions, she belie ed it was only the
magnetism of his good humor and breezy,
healthy nature that pleased her; she was sure
it was nothing more.
And yet the day came as we see, when she had
been brought to know that she loved him, and
to look forward to being hie wife as her greatest
good. But then, in his growing affection for
her, and his absorbing anxiety as to its being re
turned, he had left off quoting “ my mother” and
Limeton quite so often; and Mary flattered her
self it was because he was beginning to see the
superiority of Mapleton, and thus tacitly ac
knowledged it.
A few days after ber betrothal she received a
letter from Mrs. Cowell, inviting her to go and
stay with her a lew weeks, in order that they
might both become better acquainted.
The letter was kind and motherly, and Mary
felt that it was so; but although there was no
actual faults of spelling, it was evidently not
the production ot a cultured woman, and she
thought.with some dread of her future mother
in-law. It would all be very tolerable it Tom
did not think so over-much ot his own kin, but
he evidently looked on his women-folk as the
most superior of their kind.
However, she had to meet them sooner or
later, and as Tom was so anxious, it was best
to go.
Tom was delighted when she told him she
would accept his mother’s invitation. His
face glowed with satisfaction as he expressed his
thanks.
“You will like my dear mother so much,
Mary, and Louise will be a delightful com
panion for you, darling. She is such a sweet,
sensible girl, and a prodigious housekeeper.
You will learn a great deal from her.”
“I have no doubt I shall like your mother,”
says Mary, not very enthusiastically, it must be
confessed.
Tom’s face falls. “ And Limeton, Mary, it’s
such a splendid city—quite different from this
place.”
Mary fancies she detects a slightly depre
catory tone in the way he says “ this place.”
“ Yes, I suppose it is very different. Hor
ridly dirty, isn’t it? ’
“Not more dirty than a prosperous manu
facturing city must inevitably be, and within a
mile all round there is the loveliest scenery you
can imagine. Our place is about a mile from
the city, so the dirt will not annoy you; and you
will meet such pleasant people there that you will
not mind the smoke. lam sure, Mary, you will
come away quite in love with Limeton, and pre
fer it to this prim old place.”
“ Pre r er it to Mapleton ? Never
“ Well, well, we’ll see,” and in his proud con
fidence he kissed her and left her.
Mary felt indignant. “I’m sure we shall
never get along if Tom remains so wrapped up
in his mother and sister and Limeton. A great
deal to learn from Louise, indeed !”
Mary could not get it through her little Ma
pleton head but that she was about to honor
Limeton infinitely by going there, and that her
Mapleton manners and dress would be envied
and copied by its unsophisticated people, and
now to be told that she was to learn from
Louise I
Of course she had a little cry and made sev
eral foolish resolutions, and then set about her
preparations for an early departure with a heavy
heart.
A week later Mary was whirling along to
Limeton, wondering what Tom’s relations would
be like, and whether they were like him—un
polished diamonds. Now that she had left
him, she had begun to hope better things of
them. Could he think so much of them if they
were not very nice ? And though all the people
she knew from Limeton, except Tom, had been
suggestive ot petroleum to her, they> surely,
would be exceptions.
Mary’s heart sank within her as the train
neared the depot; such miserable shanties
formed the outskirts, such gloom hung in the
air, that she shuddered at the thought of having
to stay even a week in such a place. Her spirits
did not revive when she saw Mrs. Cowell and
Louise, who were waiting to receive her, and
welcomed her with much cordiality.
As they rode home in the dusty “ carry-all,”
Mrs. Cowell was evidently studying Mary’s ele
gant and expensive traveling dress, from her
liussia leather satchel to her dainty boots
and gloves; while Mary had taken in at a
glance the terribly dowdy appearance of Louise
and her mother -the old lady’s black alpaca
suit, made evidently at home, and Louise’s
Scotch plaid dress, and dyed, and too scant,
silk over-skirt; and yet, with such toilets, it
was a relief to her to find they were not coarse.
As they passed through the town Mrs. Cowell
and Louise pointed out the lions, which they
considered must astonish their visitor, and
were evidently disappointed at the equanimity
with which she regarded them. Mary, how
ever, could be very sweet; and although an
idea was forming in her mind that Mrs. and
Miss Cowell could never become relatives of
hers, she exerted herself to charm them, and
succeeded. Thefold lady thought she was a giddy
young thing, quite unused to traveling, or she
would never wear a dress beautiful enough for
gala day attire, on the cars, but that when she
became’ toned down by Louise’s example all
would come right; but at the same time she de
termined herself to give her a few hints on ex
travagance, especially on the folly ot wearing an
Irish poplin dress to travel in.
The Cowells lived in a large, comfortable
house, with fine old trees around it, and Mary
began to hope, when she saw the wealth of syl
van beauty, that her visit might not be so un
bearable as she had feared.
The interior was not so promising; it was
Mrs. Cowell and Louise over again—plain, sensi
ble, thrifty, but perfectly unendurable to luxu
rious Mary, who was accustomed to elegance,
and loved it.
She sighed as she sat on the hard hair-cloth
“ easy ” chair, and, trying the harder sofa,
found it utterly impossible to adapt her round
little figure to its angles.
No wonder Louise was so prim if she had
been brought up amid such furniture! And
then her thoughts turned to Tom. He was not
prim. But even in that short time she bad come
to the conclusion that he was not like the rest of
the family. Then why, oh ! why, did he quote
them so often ? Could it be possible that he
would expect her to live in a similar fashion ?
Perhaps that was why he had told her she could
learn housekeeping from Louise.
Whatever Tom’s idea on the subject may have
been, it was evident that his mother meant to
make her visit an apprenticeship to the future
life she expected her son to lead.
Conversation had not been very brisk hitherto,
and when tea was announced Mary, determined
to make talk, praised the biscuit, the cake, and
the delicious butter.
“Yes, my dear, Louise’s butter is excellent,
although 1 say it. I suppose you know how to
make butter? But I could take a hint myself
from Louise, and it will do you no harm to learn
some of her housekeeping wrinkles. Tom has
always been accustomed to fine butter, and I
hear in Mapleton they churn up the milk with
the cream.”
“I am sure I know nothing about it,” eaid
Mary, forgetting ber resolve to be amiable.
However, Mrs. Cowell seemed almost pleased
to know that Louise’s instructions would be
given where they were much needed.
“ Never mind, my dear; you are quick, I’ll be
bound, and we will soon make a good house
keeper of you. There's one thing to begin on—
if you travel in your handsome dresses you will
never have anything decent to wear. Get your
self a nice, neat black alpaca, that will never
show dirt, and last ior years.”
Mary listened for a moment in speechless in
dignation, and then said:
“But I wish to be as well dressed when I
travel as at home—any lady must do so.”
“Ah ! you will soon lose that notion when you
are married. Limeton ladies are much more
sensible. ’
Mary was prudently silent. It was evidently
useless to argue with the old lady. After tea
Mrs. Cowell went to sleep in her chair, and
Louise took h-r visitor to Tom’s own room,
showed her his wonder.ul uvenile achievements
in drawing and caligrapby, and seeing Mary was
somewhat silent, said suddenly:
“You must not mind what mamma says, dear
Mary; she is old-fashioned in her ideas, and I'
have been brought up to be something like her,
but we can’t expect every one to be cut out after
our own pattern. Tom is not.”
The intention was, no doubt, very kind, but
the tone seemed to Mary one of tolerance. She
fancied Louise meant to patronize her, making
allowance for her shortcomings, and she could
not brook that in her present mood, so she an
swered somewhat tartly:
“ I am afraid I should not meet the expecta
tions of any of you, not having been cut out by
any pattern at all, that 1 know of.”
“There, you are offended, and I am sorry.
But mamma meant well, and so do I,” she add
ed, after a pause.
Now Mary prided herself upon being exceed
ingly reasonable, and so she reflected that Mrs.
Cowell and Louise had acted according to their
lights. It was not to be expected that they
should understand her, so she graciously said:
“Don’t speak of it any more. We see things
from such different points of view, that it is'
scarcely likely we could agree on such a sub
ject. I can see that you are very kind, Louise,”
she added, putting forth her little white hand,
which Louise clasped in her shapely brown
ones, and then they joined Mrs. Cowell, who
had just awakened from her nap.
“Let us have some music, daughter.”
“ With pleasure, if Mary will put up with my
simple playing.”
Mary protested that she was delighted, liked
simple music of all things, and then resigned
herself to listen to “ Yankee Doodle ” with vari
ations, and perhaps, byway of something su
perfine, “ Warblings at Eve.”
Louise, however, said, “I must sing mamma’s
favorite first, and then you shjll hear mine,”
Mamma’s favorite was ‘‘Old Folks at Home,”
which Louise sang as correctly, and with far
more expression than most of Mary’s fashion
able friends could have done ; and then she
sang “Auld Robin Gray” with a pathos that
brought tears to the eyes of Mary.
It was a revelation to her that a girl who con
tented herself in a tasteless home and a coarse
stuff gown, when she had the means of better,
should have soul enough to give expression to
the exquisite old ballad.
During the next few days Mary learned to ap
preciate the character of Louise, without being
in the least desirous of emulating her house
wifely virtues. Limeton did not meet with her
approval. She could scarcely repress her dis
gust as she walked the grimy streets, saw the
vulgar, over-dressed people, and then thought
it might have been her home. To change clean,
beautiful Mapleton for Limeton !
Tom had told her that he would like their home
to be Limeton, but had said that if she would
be happier in Mapleton he would forego his
wish. His business permitted him to live in
either place. Not to be outdone in generosity,
Mary had declared her happiness was to be with
him, no matter where. The subject had not
been renewed, but Mary had now quite decided
that Limeton could never be her home. She
had, indeed, balanced whether Mrs. Cowell
could ever be her mother-in-law, but as she
thought of Tom, she felt that infliction could ba
borne—away from Limeton.
Tom was to come the following Saturday and
spend a few days at home belore she went back
to Mapleton, and she awaited bis coming with
eagerness. She wanted to let him know that
she could never make her home in Limeton,
before he could make any plana with his mo
ther.
When Saturday came, she told Louise she
thought of going to the depot to meet Tom, and
Louise, with more delicacy than Mary had given
her credit for, said :
“Oh ! that is just the thing. I have so many
things to see to that I would rather not go, and
yet we could not let him arrive without some of
us going.”
bhe also managed to keep Mrs. Cowell at
home, feeling sure that Tom would enjoy Ma
ry’s company alone better than with them.
Mary almost forgot all about Mrs. Cowell in
the pleasure of meeting Tom, but after he had
asked her a dozen questions about herself, he
said :
“And bow do you like Limeton, Mary?”
“ Oh, perfectly detestable I " I cannot think
how anybody can live there.”
“Ah I I see you have still those Mapleton
ideas, Mary. Now, I hate Mapleton and am
always glad to get out of it, the people are such
snobs. You are the only pleasant person I ever
met there. Limeton people are substantial,
true-hearted and-and, in short, Mary, 1 am
much disappointed that you don’t like the finest
city in the union.”
“ Finest city in the Union, indeed!” says
Mary, stung by his disparagement of her native
city. “It is a most unpleasant place, smoky,
grimy and unhealthy, and the people, as far as
I have met them, may be substantial enough,
but they are dreadfully tiresome and uninter
esting. I don’t mean you, Tom,” she adds, see
ing him glare down upon her in angry astonish
ment.
“ I am much obliged, I am sure, that you
made an exception in my favor, but 1 cannot
take credit to myself at the expense of my mo
ther and Louise.
“Oh 1 I like Louise.”
“ And not my mother, I infer ?”
“No.”
Mary had not intended to tell him this point
blank, but he had taken such a line with her for
not liking Limet n, that she felt indignant and
not inclined to mince the facts at all. The re
sult was what may have been expected : Tom
stalked on in solemn silence, while she, full of
resentment, held her little head very much in
the air.
When they arrived at the house, Louise saw,
notwithstanding Mary’s unusual animation, that
something bad gone wrong between them, but
chose the wise part of silence. Mrs. Cowell saw
nothing but that her son was not much in love,
as she feared he would be, with Mary. She had
not found the latter as tractable as she had
hoped in the way of imitating Louise, and
had discovered that she had not that ad
miration of frugality and thrift that befitted
the future wife of her son; therefore she was
contented to see that son’s cool politeness to
Mary, which she took as a proo 1 that he was
not likely to be led away by her caprices.
The next morning Tom joined M.try in the
garden, and said:
“ Under the impression that /ou would like
Limeton, I had written about a place here 1
wanted to buy, but from what you said last
night, I conclude that any plan of that sort is
useless.”
“ Quite useless,” said Mary, decidedly, “ and
I really think, Tom, that you had better decide
your future without reference to me. I—that
is—there are several things that would, I think,
prevent our being happy together.”
“In short, you are tired of your engage
ment ?”
“If you take it that way, yes.”
“ Oh, you women, you women!” said Tom,
bitterly; but Mary had walked off, and he did
not follow her.
Later that day Mary said she thought her
presence was required at home. Louise looked
sad, but no one made any remarks on her
sudden leave-taking. Only Tom, when he
drove her to the depot, talking painfully small
talk as they went, to avoid past and gone top
ics, wringing her hand as the train moved off,
said:
“ God bless you, Mary. I hope one of your
Mapleton fellows will make you as good a hus
band as I should have wished to be.”
“ Thank you; I must take my chance,” says
Mary, forcing back her tears till he is gone,
then, dropping her vail, she cries her way
home.
******
A year later Mary is alone in the world. She
has lost her father, and as she sits in her
mourning dress she thinks of the past, and is
not afraid to tell herself now that but for her
own folly she might have had good, true-heart
ed Tom Cowell to help her in her trouble; that,
grieved asjshe would have been ; at her father's
loss, she could never have been alone in the
world so long as Tom had lived; and now she
would be alone forever, for, disguise it from
herself as she had tried to do, she knew she
loved Tom still; all other men seemed poor,
weak things to her, and for Tom’s sake even
Mapleton did not now seem such a very supe
rior place as it had done, and, in consequence,
Limeton was not so horrible. She knew in her
heart she had been somewhat prejudiced, and
told herselt that the unpleasantness of it should
have counted as nothing compared with Tom’s
love.
All this she had seen long before she con
fessed it even to herself; probably, but tor the
grief that had lowered her pride, she never
would have so confessed.
She sat musing in the firelight, as she had
done a year ago, when a card was brought to
her.
“Mrs. Henry Charlton I I know no one of
that name. Show the lady in.”
A lady, dressed handsomely, but with Qua
ker-like simplicity, then entered, and Mary rec
ognized Louise Cowell.
After the first embarrassment of meeting had
passed, Louise told Mary of her marriage with
one of the “ dearest men in the world,” that
they had just returned from their wedding
trip, and had so timed their arrival as to meet
Tom on his return from Europe./
“It was only last night w'e heard of your
father’s death, and then, dear Mary, I could not
retrain from coming to tell you how sorry I
am.”
Tears filled Mary’s eyes at the mention of her
father.
“ 1 am very much obliged to you, Louise, and
heartily glad to see you. Are you going to stay
here long ?”
“ Yes, we shall pass the Winter in Mapleton,
and, being a stranger here, I shall o.'ten inflict
my company on you, if you will have me.”
“The oltener the better, dear Louise,” re
plied Mary, sincerely.
She liked Louise. At the same time, she
thought with some trepidation that these visits
from Louise must result in her meeting Tom
again, which she felt very reluctant to do; but
pride came to her aid, and She asked herself
why she could not meet a man with indiffer
ence, who could so meet her ?
And so she resolved to avoid neither Louise
nor him.
Perhaps Louise had a little project of her own.
At all events, she appeared to have much satis
faction when she found Mary did not shrink
from the mention of Tom’s name, and accord
ingly he became her chief topic of conversation,
bhe even hinted at his unhappiness, and her
fears that his disa_ polntment would be a life
long sorrow.
“Ah 1 you dear, innocent Louise. Shake
speare know men better than you, and he says :
•••Men have died irom time tv time.
And worms have eaten th -iu. but not for Jove,’ ”
Mary said, w.th .'or<-e 1 g iyety.
At last .om and M iry did meet, and then
Mary found all her fortitude necessary, for Tom
evidently had no intention of carrying matters
off with dignity, but rather showed her in every
word and look that she was the one woman in
the world for him.
Can ’t every one guess the end ? That Tom
took an early opportunity of calling himself a
fool and begging Mary’s forgiveness, and Mary
contradicted him, and with many tears shed on
his waistcoat, declared herself an unreasonable
little vixen, not worth his love, and that she was
willing to live in the very heart of Limeton, if
necessary.
“ Joo late, my dear,” says Tom merrily, “ for
I have my eye on a lovely little nest in Maple
ton, and am not going to have my plans upset a
second time.”
Then Louise came into the room.
“ ‘ Blessed are the peace-makers,’ ” said Tom,
going to his sister and kissing her.
NOSES.
CONSIDERED HUMOROUSLY AND
PHYSIOLOGICALLY.
(From Chambers’s Journal.)
A popular lecturer in one of his discourses
had occasion to speak on noses, and he him
self, “ defecive only in his Boman nose,” de
clared, had he the ch ice of noses, his face
should be ornamented by a “ regular weather
cutter.” The desire was commendable and
worthy attention, for strangers are instinctively
judged by their noses. The nose indeed pro
claims the man, and is the outward and visible
Symbol of inward mental calibre and intellectual
character. Men of note almost invariably pos
sess decided and prominent “ leading.articles;”
while an insufficient nasal accompaniment not
unfrequently donates inanity, lack of moral
vig r, and at once negatives qualities which
would otherwise give respect and credit. Of
course there are extremes and exceptions, but
generally, it is, that the more prolonged the
probosis the more striking is the countenance,
and the more original the force of character.
An extreme case is recorded of a Lancashire
man, whose prodigious feature became a centre
or attraction in the busiest thoroughfares of
Manchester, while he was on a visit there. Be
coming at length either tired or confused by
the inquisitive attention and wonderment of a
crowd of admirers, he seized his nose with both
hands and gave it a sudden and impatient twist,
as th ugh removing an obstruction from the
footway, and said sharply: “There—be quick,
an-d get past as soon as you can.”
A Yorkshire manufacturer whose good living
had given him “ a nose as red as a comet,” was
told by a wealthy friend very bluntly, “ I
couldn’t afford to keep that nose of thine.”
Another friend assured him that he had no
cause for fear of not living comfortably, lor
should ail other means of subsistence fail, he
c.mld easily hire himself out as a railway dan
ger-signal.
Among the South Sea islanders the nose is
made to be a medium of expression of affection
and amity. Tribes swearing everlasting peace,
seal the compact with a promiscuous rubbing of
noses against noses ; by the same frictional pro
cess, maidens declaim their woes at parting and
joys on reunion with other maidens, the action
being attended by—so said an eye-witness—
“the shedding of a power of tears.” Lovers
make their amatory declarations through their
noses, their courtship being a protracted series
of rub-rub-rubbing of nose to nose.
We recall an interruption Dr. Binney had
while he was preaching on one occasion. He
saw opposite to him, in the gallery, a country
man making elaborate preparations for putting
his handkerchief to the common usage ap
pointed to it. The doctor became interested,
and stayed expectant in his discourse just be
fore the crisis. The countryman blew a terri
ble blast, awakening the echoes, and almost
perceptibly shaking the building to its founda
tions. The doctor, having
Met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow,”
waited for the fainting echoes to die, and then
said, with impressive gravity :
“ Let us now resume.”
Charles Lamb’s rebuke to a man who by self
assertion pronounced himself devoid of any
peculiarity, ought not to be omitted.
“ Wh-which hand do you b-b-blow your
n-n-nose with ?” inquired Lamb.
“ With my right hand, to be sure.”
“Ah I” said Lamb, pensively, “ that’s your
pe-pe-pe-peculiarity. I b-b-blow mine with my
hand-kerchief.”
The nose is quite a proverbial topic; for ex
ample, “To turn up the nose,” “ Put his nose
out of joint,” “Paid through his nose,” and
“Putting his nose to the grindstone,” “ Led by
the nose,” and many others equally felicitous.
“Driving hogs over Swarston Bridge” is a
Derbyshire polite way of expressing snoring;
and several stories are told respecting pig
drivers. A small boy was once asked :
“ Is your brother musical ?”
“ Yes, sir; ’e is that.”
“Can he play? ’
“ O yes, sir ; ’e plays beautiful.”
“ On what instrument does he perform ?”
“ Why, sir, ’e plays on his nose !”
A celebrated divine was preaching before the
king and court in Stuart times, when the mon
arch and several noblemen “ nodded gentle as
sents” to all he said, “for they slumbered and
slept.” The divine, wishful to reprove, but
fearful to offend, at last summoned courage to
shout to One of the somnolent nobles :
“My lord, my lord, don’t snore so loud, or
you’ll waken His Ma u esty 1”
The subject has not commended itself gener
ally to poets, yet there are few who would be
inclined to say that there is nothing poetical
about the nose. Here and there wo do find
pointed references in poetry to the homely fea
ture more or less poetical in expression. We
can easily fancy Cowper’s picture "of “ the shiv
ering urchin, with dewdrop at his nose,” while
our poet-laureate indulges in a higher flight
over a maiden’s nose “ tip-tilted like the petal
of a flower,” which sounds very refined indeed.
Henry, Lord Brougham, whose nose was some
what pt this latter order, did not feel flattered
by a similar reierence to it. In conducting a
case in Yorkshire, he was bothered in cross-ex
amining a witness by a constant repetition of
the word “ humbug.”
“Humbug,” said Lord Brougham—“hum
bug ! what do you mean by humbug ?”
“ Whoy,” returned the Yorkshireman, “ If I
wer’ to tell ye ’at ye’d getten a nice nose, I
should be humbuggin’ ye.”
Nursery rhymes are not complete without a
nose or noses, and they are constantly being
quoted, for instance:
‘•Says Moses to Aaron:
* ‘Thy nose is a rare uni*
Says Aaron to Moses:
‘Let us swap noses !*
And we cannot forget:
“ The servant in the garden hanging out the clothes.
By came a dicky bird and popped off her nose I”
“I am satisfied on every point but one,” said
a gentleman to an applicant for service—“l can
not get over your nose.”
“ That is not to be wondered at, sir,” replied
the applicant, “ for the bridge is broken.”
This last incident gives us a moral wherewith
to adorn our paper, that, out of all noses—col
lective, defective, conceptive or reflective—it is
better to have an ill-shaped nose than no nose
at all.
A SINGULAR INCIDENT.
HOW AN EARTHQUAKE SHOCK
PRODUCED A VERDICT.
(From the San Francisco Chronicle.)
Many things have been said and written upon
the subject of earthquakes and their peculiari
ties, but so far no person has ever had the hard
ihood to characterize one as being useful and
beneficial to mankind. Such is the case, never
theless, and has been clearly proved so by a re
cent occurrence in one of the criminal courts of
this city. The incident is well worthy of being
placed on record. It was on the morning of
May 26, th s year, that the jury trying Harry
Huff for the murder of Matthew T. Eddy re
turned into court, alter being out all night, and
asked Judge Toohy for further instructions.
Just as the Judge concluded the reading of
this second charge <nd the jury was about to re
tire again, a strong earthquake shock sent a tre
mor through the old building, accompanied by
a loud rambling noise. Among the first of the
many who rushed for the door was Juror Alfred
Larsen, a recent arrival from the East, now
working as a clerk in a wholesale grocery house
down town. A deputy sheriff intercepted his
flight, however, and conducted him, with the
others, to the jury room for further deliberation.
Larseu’s pallid cheeks, trembling lips and
bulging eyes were too evident proofs of the fears
and misgivings which agitated his timid soul for
the other jurors, all old Californians, to resist
the temptation of accomplishing a brilliant
stroke of combined policy and revenge. Lar
sen had been holding out from the first on a
verdict of acquittal, the other eleven being all
for a conviction of murder in the first degree.
Larsen had kept them up all night, refusing to
listen to either arguments or pleas, and they
were naturally very much incensed against him.
This earthquake shock, however, gave them the
opportunity which they wanted, and the manner
in which they commenced playing upon his fears
was something astonishing.
“Look there, Larsen,” said one of the jurors,
excitedly, as he pointed to a large aperture in
the plastered wall. “Do you see that crack ?
Well, that was made by the great earthquake of
’6B, when so many buildings were destroyed in
San Francisco.”
“ Yes,” was the eager interruption of another,
“ this old death-trap was so badly shaken up at
that time that those iron girders you see up
there had to be put in to keep the walls to
gether.”
“Im getting confoundedly uneasy,” said
some one else, “for the first shock is always
followed by two or three more, and this rotten
pile of masonry is liable to go crumbling and
crashing to the ground at any minute. 1 wish
I was out of here. ’
“My God I” cried Larsen, almost in tears,
“is it so bad as that? Ob, gentlemen, what
shall I do ?”
“ Come over to our side and agree to a ver
dict of murder in the first degree I” was the
almost unanimous chorus.
Seriously frightened as Larsen was, he would
not consent to this, but offered to compromise
on manslaughter. To this proposition, how
ever, the others would not agree. A short dis
cussion ensued, which finally resulted in a com
promise on murder in the second degree, and a
verdict was rendered to that effect, . bus it
was that a sftnple earthquake was instrumental
m brin ring about the conv.ction of a murderer,
who was afterward sentenced lo imprisonment
tor hie.”
SHRIMPS.
Twenty-two Tons Caught Daily in San
Francisco Bay.
(From the San Francisco Call.)
“Grab him by the throat. That’s it. Turn
him over. Now break bis back.”
The voice came from an alcove in an oyster
grotto, the next to which a Call reporter was
frugally regaling himself on a modest Califor
nia stew. The voice was that of a man—harsh,
guttural and betraying some excitement. He
was evidently giving directions to some confed
erate. Had some poor rustic been lured into
the place drugged and was being robbed ?
“Oh, I can’t doit. lean never do it,” came
a second voice, evidently that of a woman.
“Bosh! Why not?” repled the first voice.
“It is the easiest thing in the world. Now see.
Bend him over backward until his back breaks.
Now I pull him apart and the meat is free, just
like a kernel of a nut.”
They were only discussing a plate of shrimps.
The reporter breathed more freely.
“Queer thing it is that a woman can never
learn to eat shrimps neatly,” the man’s voice
continued:
“But aren’t they delicious?” the feminine
voice added, after a pause. “ They are nasty
looking things, though. A gentleman once toid
me that they fed on people who were drowned.
Do you think they do?”
“Dunno. Good enough for me, anyhow.”
And here the conversation relapsed into a dis
cussion of the play at the theatre.
The reporter's curiosity, however,was aroused,
and as ho passed out he inquired of the loung
ing proprietor:
“ Where do shrimps come from ?”
“ Shrimps come from ? Why the bay is full of
them. There are eight or ten fisheries "along the
bay coast, one at San Rafael, another at San
Quentin and several down south. It was esti
mated by the Fish Commissioners, a couple or
so years ago, that as much as twenty tons of
shrimps were daily taken from the bay. The
business is now entirely controlled by Chinese
—they are the only ones who can make it pay.
They bring them around daily to the restau
rants. The greater quantity, however, they dry
and send to China, where they are esteemed an
epicurean dish. I believe a considerable quan
tity of the supply is also fed to hogs, which wax
fat upon them. The California shrimp, you
know, I suppose, is the largest and most edible
of its kind. The Fish Commissioners, when
they write about them, I see, call them the
shrimp franciscorum, or some sort of a jaw
cracking term. The shrimps we used to have
in New York were not near so large, and they did
not have the flavor of the California shrimp.
When I first came here, eighteen ago,
people did not know the superiority of our
shrimps, and there were few of them to be got
ten. The Italians first took to the business of
fishing them. They used to sell them at two
bits a pound. They were found to be so plenti
ful that the price went gradually down, sinking
to fifteen cents, then to eight cents. This was
too cheap to pay for the fishing, and th®
Italians gave the business entirely up to the
Chinese. We now buy them at the regular price
of five cents. They are being received with
continually increasing favor, and have spread
from a restaurant dish to private tables. They
are generally served at all oyster saloons as a
prelude to regular dishes.”
“Do they live on cadavers ?” inquired the
scribe, remembering the -query propounded by
the feminine voice.
“Nonsense I No, the shrimp is an epicurean
in his modest, aquatic way. His principal diet
is marine insects, although he is not averse to
a piece of raw fish when he gets an opportu
nity. However, he is more the hunted than the
hunter. Many larger fish esteem him a rare
delicacy, and they make bis life a burden to
him. When he is not foraging for food tha
shrimp buries himself in the sand, and ail there
is visible of him are his two long eyes pro
truding.”
“ How are they caught ?”
“ Well, you ought to go down and sea the
fisheries. Fishing shrimps is reduced to a sci
ence, and is very interesting. The Chinamen
stake out nets between two posts in the water.
The nets are funnel-shaped, and as the tide
comes in the shrimps drift in in regular chan
nels. When the tide g es out the fishermen re
verse the funnel and catch a new lot. The
shrimps when alive are white in complexion.
They are then thrown into a vat of boiling
salt water, and as they are cooked they assume
that rich auburn hue.”
“ Is that all the culinary preparation they re
ceive before they are put on the table ?”
“ Yea, that’s all. They are brought to us al
ready choked and we dish them up as they are.
As I said, the greater portion of them are dried
and sent to China. This process in itself is in
teresting. After co king them the Chinese
spread them out in the sun, where they remain
until perfectly dry and the meat is shriveled
up. They then go at them with a flail, as
though they were thrashing grain, and the dry
shell is broken and beaten off. Those are
blown off and the kernels collected and packed
in boxes for shipment to China. Now this, I
think, is entirely wrong, and the Shipping Com
missioners ought to see that the traffic is stop
ped. Several tons are shipped on every steam
er and the result must end in the extirminatiou
of the shrimp irom the bay in time. During tha
last few years these shipments as well as the
sale of fresh shrimp in the city have largely in
creased.”
“ Are there any shrimp shipped East ?”
“ No. They will not keep. We are obliged
to get our shrimps fresh every day, for they
spoil in about twenty-four hours and must be
thrown out.”
TWO BLOSSOMS.
BY NELLIEF. O’NEILL.
Ou the fourth floor of a large tenement house
in one of the poor localities in a great city, in a
small, back room, a little child lay ill. She had
been ailing irom her birth, and the neighbors
said it was a wonder that she had lived so long,
she was such a sickly little thing.
In the next room a woman toiled wearily over
a washtub, rubbing and wringing, rubbing and
wringing, while the perspiration rolled down
her face. Every little while she would stop,
and taking her arms out of the steaming tub,
wipe them hastily on her apron, and putting
her head into the tiny bedroom, ask : “Do you
want anything, dear ?” And the little child,
shaking her head, would answer feebly: “ No,
ma’am.” Then the woman would go back to tho
tub and rub, rub, rub, and think, think, think,
till a tear mingled with the perspiration on her
face, and then, brushing her eyes quickly, she
would sav : “ What is the use of thinking and
fretting ; it won’t make things any better.” and
she would turn again to the tub, and rub, rub,
rub, and think, think, think.
Very often the neighbor down stairs camo up
to see the child, and watching the woman work
ing would say : “ Sure, woman, you’ll kill your
self workin’ so hard.”
“ I don’t mind it. I’d work my finger-nails off
if she was only spared to me,” the woman would
answer, nodding her head in the direction of
the other room.
“Indeed, I hope she will be,” the neighbor
replied, but when she was down in her own
rooms she would say, with a long drawn sigh :
“ It would be well for both of them, if it was tha
Lord’s will, if He would take them to Himself,
ier I see nothin’ in this world for the poor but
hard work and sorrer.”
The little child never complained, but lay for
hours and hours looking through the window
at a small bit of blue sky, just visible between
the housetops that shut in the narrow yard.
The harsh tones of street peddlers, calling their
wares, and the shrill voices of children as they
played and squabbled in the yard below, camo
in through the window, but she did not appear
to heed them, but lay calmly watching the bit of
sky and the clouds that passed over it.
She was very fond of Howers, and some one
gave her a geranium in full bloom ; but, owing
to its having been forced in a hot-houae, the
leaves soon turned yellow, and it lived only a
short time. The child felt so grieved that tho
woman obtained a box, and, remembering tho
little cottage with the tiny porch in her country
home, that she had left years before the child
was born, planted some scarlet runner beans,
and placed the box on the ledge of the window
of the tenement below. Very carefully they
were wartered each day, and in a little* while
began to show their heads. When told, the
child asked : “When can I see them ?” And
the woman replied : “In a little while, dear.”
So the child watched the blue sky and waited
patiently till one day a tiny leaf lifted its head
and looked in. Then the little girl was glad.
And soon another leaf appeared, and then an
other, and she forgot the bit of sky and the
clouds floating over it, and watched the vine as
it grew. In a short time a bunch of green buds
pressed against the pane, and the little child
smiled for she knew the blossom was nigh.
She seldom turned from the window, unless
some neighbor looked in and asked : “Do you
feel better, dear?” and she would answer in a
weak, little voice, “Yes, ma’am,” and turn
again to the window to watch the ripening
buds.
“I never saw her so taken up with anything
before. I think she must be getting better,
the woman said.
And the neighbor answered, “She does look
brighter.”
One morning the little child found the buds
tipped with scarlet, and her eyes brightened
and she thought: “ They will open to-morrow;”
but the next day came in dull and cloudy and
the buds were no nearer opening. All daylong
she watched and waited, but the buds were
waiting for the sun before they could burst
through their green prison walls. When the
day closed and they did not open, tho little
child grieved, and turning her face to the wall,
listened to the rub, rub, rub in the ne ;t room.
In the morning the sun shone out bright and
clear, and the buds burst their bonds and,
nodding their glowing, scarlet heads, tapped
merrily at the window.
The curtain was drawn, and the rub, rub,
rub in the next room had ceased, and in the
small back room the little child lay, with small,
thin hands folded and weary eyes closed, for
she had found the eternal sun and bloomed in
the laud of perpetual Summer.
The next day, while the tiny form lay in the
small, pine coffin, the woman opened the win
dow, and, plucking the bright-hued blossom,
placed it tenderly on the pure, little, pulseless
heart.
To-day, in a cemetery out in the suburbs of a
great city, people pause and gaze curiously at a
small grave, around wh.ub the scarlet runners
run and twine lovin;lv. au.d away up th®
fourth floor o: a b-nuim-nt :>• use a w.uuan
rnh.s, rubs. rubs, and thinks. Uuuks.