New York dispatch. [volume], February 06, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
" Why should sho come on that account ?” he
demanded, facing round.
She shrugged her shoulders.
Most girls like meeting a viscount; beside,
he was there the other night, the sister told
ihe.”
“I know, I know,” ho assented quiokly.
You know ?”
Yes. I—l was walking in the lane, and saw
him leave the honse.”
She nodded and yawned, but her eyes still
Observed him keenly.
“He left early to-night. That was only an
excuse he gave.
» He was sitent, his eyes fixed upon her wait
ingly. ,
“A more idle excuse. At any rate, no was
Hot so anxious to reach barracks, for he waited
in the lane ter half-an-hour.”
“ Why did ho de that? ’
“To talk with Dolores Latimer,” she said
elowly.
His hand tightened on the book he had taken
up, and a spasm crossed his face, transforming
it from a singularly handsome one to as singu
larly an unpleasant one.
“How did you know that?” he demanded.
“You were here all the time, till the others
left.”
“ Yes ; but Greta and I wont to the open win
dow, and I heard voices; they were Lord Ken
dale’s and the girl’s.”
Ho drew a short breath.
“ You might have been—been mistaken ; some
servant ” he suggested.
“ I might have been, but 1 was net,” she said,
calmly. “X asked Greta Latimer, and she said,
4 Yos,’ that >t was her sister’s.”
He went and stood behind her, out of the
reach of her eyes, and stared in her face—now
pale and frowning -in the glass.
“ Hurried away from us to spend half-an-hour
in the society ©f Dolores Latimer,” she went on,
in an indolent monotone; “they were alone to
gether in the garden. Does not look exactly as
if she were altogether insensible to the charms
of a viscount, Seymour.”
He did not speak, but his hands opened and
shut slowly. The jealous, tigerish nature of the
man was working itself to the surface, and as if
ehe were aiming at provoking it, she went on :
“Did you see hew he looked round the room
when he cam® in. as if he were searching for
come one expected ? I did ; and I heard him
ask Greta why her sister had not come, in the
tone of a man who was disappointed.
“ He asked the brother, too,” he said, and the
Words left his lips slowly, sullenly, with a ra
. pressed passion.”
{She laughed.
“I should say, Seymour, that Miss Dolores
had mado an impression. Lord Kendale is not
the man to ask after a girl twice in the same
evening unless he missed her and wanted her !
My dear Seymour, don t reckon without all
your hosts ! When you talk of making Lord
Kendale your brother-in-law, don’t forget that
a remarkably beautiful and bewitching girl lives
next door 1”
A French oath slipped through his lips and he
glided in front of her with his hands out
stretched.
“ Why do you say this ?” he demauded in a
low voice. “ You—you know it maddens me !”
She raised her brows and opened her eyes full
Upon them, then smiled.
“It is as I thought,” she murmured, with
Contemptuous pit<. “My poor Seymour 1”
The taunt, lor it was nothing else, seemed al
most more than he could bear; his eyes Hashed,
his lips writhed.
“Yes I It is !” he retorted, with suppressed
passion. “Do aotpity mo I I will not endure
it! You sneer ? Well, sneer ! But it is true I
I love her I Do you bear ? I love her ! M
She unfolded her fan and waved it to and fro,
With a slow, scornful movement.
, “So I should imagine from your tone, my
dear Seymour 1”
“Yes, I love her!” he repeated, as if the
repetition of the words brought him some satis
faction. “Mark that! I would not, if 1 could,
help it; but I cannot! I cannot! Every time I
eee her, it grows worse ! I have fought against
it—Heaven j how I have fought; but it is use
less 1 It is she and none other ! Day and night
I think ot her. Her name is the first upon my
lips when I wake in the morning, her face fol
lows mo wherever 1 go! There is no other
Woman in the world like her ”
“ Woman ! A girl 1”
“A girl! Yes !” be retorted. “The one girl
in the world for me ! Oh, smile ! You—you
jhave no heart! You are not like me ”
“ Thank Heaven
“ You do not u-nderstand me! Once more I
tell you I love her, and even from you I will
hear no word that links her with that—that
titled hound 1”
His passion found full vent in the opprobrious
word, and ft left his lips as it it were barbed
With poison.
“ 1 would sooner see her dead at my feet than
the wife of another man !”
“ And you would marrv the penniless daugh
ter of a country parson she asked, totally un
moved by his furious passion.
“ I would marry her ? Yes!” he returned, de
fiantly. “ I can carve my own way in the world;
I am a man, not a helpless woman ! I can
make my way, and I will. But even the suc
cess toward which I aim would be as nothing if
1 did not get her ! I will rise and raise her with
me, then I snail have won all worth winning.”
And he lifted his hand and dropped it to his
side with a strange gesture of power and conti
de up e. She was silent a moment, watching him
as if he were an interesting study.
“You don’t seem very near success in that
direction. Forgive me, my dear Seymour ; but
Dolores Latimer docs not appear—l don’t wish
to hurt your feelings—particularly anxious to
reciprocate your attachment. We women—
‘ helpless women ’—arc quick at reading each
Other, and I think that Dolores is rather inclined
to treat you cavalierly, to say the least of it.”
“I know,” he broke in impatiently, “she
treats me coldly; she - she,” he winced, “avoids
me, you would say. But what of it? Do you
think it discourages me, turns me from my pur
pose? No ! it only makes me more determined,
more resolute. Did I say that she loved me?
No, she does not, I know it—not yet; but she
shall, I swear it—l will make her 1”
She laughed softly.
“That is about the one thing you cannot
make a woman do. my doar Seymour.”
“You think so—you do not know. I say I
will make her! Such love as this which
possesses me, which burns like a fire in my
heart, can conquer a heart of ice I I tell you
that she shall be my wife as surely as you sit
there laughing and sneering at me.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“As to laughing, it is too serious a matter,
my dear Seymour, and I cannot sneer—l am
full of admiration, on the contrary I Such a
display of passion is so—so unusual, that it is
quite refreshing. I like to see you in one of
your fits; it is un-English, but it is delightful,
to me at least ”
Every word she uttered only increased the
smouldering rage within him, and she knew it.
“ 1 admire your determination, and wish I
had a portion of it! But, seriously, women are
not carried off nowadays, as the Romans carried
the Sabines .”
“ Bah !” he said, frowning. “ Brute force !
It is ridiculous ! No, they are not carried off
by strength of arm, but'strength of brain. It
does not require the bauds ot a giant to spread
5 net! No !” and he held out his white hands.
41 I spread my nets; i wait and wait till the
proper moment comes, and then He
went through the action ot closing-in a net, and
looked at her with gleaming eyes.
She watched him curiously.
“ And you think .”
“ Think 1” he repeated contemptuously. “ I
know ! My plana are laid already. The net is
spread, I draw it closer and closer. There shall
be no chance of escaping. And you, you who
lie there and laugh at and doubt me, ahall be
the first to profit.”
His tone was so full of confidence and coming
Victory that it aiteeted her. She raised herself
on her elbow and looked at him with open at
tention now.
“Tell me, Seymour,” she said. “ I was not
laughing. I always admire and look up to you.
You are clever—l have always said it ? Tell
me.”
He drew nearer and bent over her.
jgEee 1” he said in a low voice, “ this Lord
Kfinaale and his father are almost in our grasp.
We—l have been working to that end lor
months past. In eur grasp, did I say? They
will be at our feet! Wo will see who is the
dirt then ! Heavens ! how I look forward to
that hour; to repay that old man for his stony,
insolent stare, to have that impertinent young
fool crying for mercy !” He drew a long breath
and his eyes glittered.
“ I see ! I see ■” she murmured. “ But the
girl—Dolores ?”
He leaned forward, then drew back.
“No ! Not even to you 1” ho said suddenly.
*• It lies hidden in my own heart till the time
comes. Bnt the net is round her, and it shall
draw her into my hands I”
The door opened as he spoke and Mr. Melford
Looked in.
He was now scarlet in the face, and his thick
eyelids were mere swollen and stolid than ever.
He brought in with him a strong odor of gin,
and held a clay pipe in his hand which he had
forgotten to lay down.
“ Goin’ to bed ?” he said, blinking heavily at
them. “ Gettin’ late, ain’t it ? ’Ad a very
p—pleasant evenin’ along with the swells, eh,
Di? Good ni’!” and they heard him tramping
up the stairs as if he were pushing a barrow
before him as usual.
CHAPTER VI.
“ YOU SEE I MUST QUARREL WITH SOME ONE.”
Everybody goes to the Carshal Races. It is
the one holiday outing in the year which gentle
and simple leel bound to honor; consequently
the town of Carshal assumes on the day in
question quite a festive appearance. All the
shops are shut—excepting those which supply
liquid refreshment, which are more than usually
open—the working people put on their Sunday
best, the young folks from behind the counters
don all the finery they can command, and even
the old ladies at’the almshouse by the turnpike
mount new caps and assume an interest in the
proceedings.
From the large town which lies five miles off
come streams of shows and whirligigs and
cocoanut shies. Even the noble army of three
card-trick men and thimble-riggers condescend
to send a detaohment, thereby conferring an
honor upon the affair which almost raises it to
the importance ©1 one oi the great meetings
Indeed it is almost too wealthy to be called
a small one; the cups o.iered are of great value,
and the betting is brisk and heavy. Once a
horse that had run at Marshal had subsequently
become a well-known racer, and this reflected
an additional glory upon the garrison town.
early as o'clock the crowd began to
collect, and at nine the roads leading to the
course were alive with vehicles of all descrip
tion, from the greengrocer cart, with three
chairs and a stool for seats, to the baroucho of
Mr. Trevanion, the lord of the manor.
A full and appropriate air ot excitement and
importance was perceptible at tho barracks, and
the officers were bustling to and fro from the
paddocks to the lawn, where some o: tho pri
vates were erecting the large marque© in which
luncheon was to be served for those who pos
sessed the much-coveted card of invitation.
To lunch with the officers of the 999th on Car
shal race days confers a certificate of respecta
bility which can carry any one anywhere within
the county, and is a carte blanche to the best lo
cal society.
Already tho betting men have appeared upon
the scene, and the “Trevanion Arms” resounds
to the stentorian cries of thoso gentlemen offer
ing so many odds “ agen the field,” or declaring
their willingness to lay against the favorite,
Gipsy.
Meanwhile tho owner of the horse is up in his
rooms submitting to the sartorial attentions of
Rawlings, and listening to that gentleman’s ac
count of things below.
“Gipsy’s still the favorite, far and away, my
lord,” ho says. “I'm very glad I was lucky
enough to back him when the odds were worth
having; he’ll stand at ‘evens’ directly.”
“ You’ll very likely lose your money, Raw
lings,” says Lord Guy. “Odds dwindling down,
eh ?” but he speaks rather absently, and there
is a great deal more life in his voice when he
asks: “Got the drag all ready? Mind and put
in those wraps and waterproofs; it may rain,
and ladies never remember to bring anything.”
“ Yes, my lord.”
“ And, Rawlings, just see that when I bring
the ladies into tho tent, there are comfortable
seats lor them. I don't want them crushed to
death; do you hear ?”
“ Yes, my lord.”
“ I shall bring the drag to anchor close to the
stand; see that the place is kept vacant. We
shall want some champagne, and mind that it
is iced—not lukewarm as it was last year.”
“ Yes, my lord.”
And Rawlings, withdrawing a step or two to
survey his handiwork and give his master a
last look over, goes down to order the drag.
The excitement which bogins at the barrioks,
extends, like tho circle caused by throwing a
stone in the water, as far even as tho rectory.
For a wonder, Lorrie has consented to accept
Lord Kendale’s invitation, and now stands on
the top of the stairs buttoning her gloves, and
singing “Limerick Races ” with so excellent an
assumption of an Irish brogue that the rector
down stairs in tho study almost groans aloud.
She is dressed in a blue serge, laid open at
the bosom and lined with a shell-like silk over
a white flannel singlet. A straw hat, with a
band of black velvet and an artfully-placed
bunch of Autumn berries, crowns her beautiful
hair; a touch of color is in her ohoeks, the light
oi youth and coming pleasure beams in her
eyes, and she presents a picture that will adorn
Lord Kendale’s drag as brilliantly and effect
ively as ever drag was embellished.
She has forgotten all about the trick she
played Lord Guy anent the photograph, or, if
she remembers it, is not at all affected by it. If
he was offended, well, it served him right.
What business had he to take her seriously ?
Any way sho does not intend to lot the affair in
terfere with her enjoyment. Sho means to bo
happy - gloriously, perfectly happy—to-day,
and she is impatient for tho commencement.
“ Now then, Greta 1 Do be quick ! I’ve been
drossed exactly fourteen minutes, and you are
not ready yet!”
“ Hero 1 am,” says Greta, ©merging from her
room. “ You forget, dear,” with a laugh, “ that
I helped to dress you. I have only been a quar
ter of an hour.”
“So I did 1” acknowledges Lorrio. “But
where’s Jack ? He didn’t help dress me.”
“What’s all tho row about ?” demands that
gentleman from the interior of his chamber.
“ Here, Greta, the button’s come off my shirt
collar ; just come and soe to it, will you ?”
Greta takes off her gloves, which aha has just
put on, and repairs to the rescue, and Jack
calls out :
“ What’s the hurry, Lorrie ? The drag isn’t
here yet. Guy will call at tho Pines first, I ex
pect.”
“Will he?” she retorts. “Oh, indeed! He
had bettor not! You know the condition upon
which lam going—that I should have the box
seat. If I find Diana perched up thore, I re
main at home.”
“My dear Lorrie,” expostulates Greta sooth
ingly, “it will bo all right. Lord Guy will be
sure te call here first. Jack only said it to tease
you.”
“ I don’t care. I mean to have the box seat.
I hate being packed behind like a sack of flour.
If there is any doubt about it, I’d better go and
take my things off. I don’t care about tho going
in the least!”
“Oh, I daresay. Tell that to the marines!”
laughs Jack incredulously. “ You haven’t been
talking about it lor tho last week ; oh, no, cer
tainly not! Look here, young lady, I should
advise you to put your pride in your pocket and
try and behave decently to-day if you can.
Lord Guy has had quite enough of your tan
trums, I expect.”
The lovely face crimsons.
“ Jack ! Say ono word more, and I refuse to
go!”
“ One word more shouts Jack with a grin.
“Pray be quiet, you two!” implores the
peace-making Greta. “Jack, leave her alone.
Lorrie, dear, you shall have the box seat; you
shall have whatever you like, only do be—bo
good ! There is the drag,” she aids quickly, as
the sound of wheels is heard coming down the
lane.
The drag pulls up at the door, and Lord Guy
raises his hat. He" looks as he sits upright on
the lofty perch, with his whip and reins in
hand, like an Apollo Belvedero ; that is, it one
can imagine Apollo in a light frock coat that
fits to per'ection, and a whito bat that seems to
have grown to his shapely head. As ho pulls
up he raises his hat, generally, and addresses
Greta pointedly.
“Good morning, Miss Latimer. Hope I’m
not late.”
To Lorrie he says not a word, scarcely, in
deed, glances at the little graceful figure in its
bewitching costume.
All the way along ho has determined to show
to Miss Dolores Latimer—if manner and voice
can show it—that he is deeply wounded and
grievously offended by the heartless trick she
played upon him.
Ho does not mean to speak to her if he can
help it, but if he must speak, it shall be in tho
most formally polite and distant fashion.
Therefore it is upon Greta and Jack that he
bestows his salutations, and takes no notice ot
Lorrio looking up at him with the faint flush on
the bewitching face, the light oi youth, and
pleasure in her eyes.
“Good morning, Lord Kendale,” says Greta
pleasantly. “ Oh, no, you are not late. What a
lovely morning. How good of you to call for
us first.”
“ All on my way,” ho says. He wil not bo too
amiable. “ Jump up, Jack. Rawlings, put the
stens for the ladies. ’
Greta geoe toward the steps, then glances at
Lorrie.
“Oh, may my sister rido in front, Lord Kon
dale, she doesn’t like riding behind ?”
“ Certainly,” ho says coldly, and ho puts out
his hand to assist her.
But Lorrie put her foot on the stop, and is up
without his proffered aid.
“Ready, my lord,” says Rawlings.
The grooms let go the horses’ heads, and
away they dash.
Lorrie looks down from her perch and draws
a sigh of relief and satisfaction; she has got her
way, and ia inclined to be gracious. But when
sho glances up at the handsome face she gets
no reaponsivo glance in roturn; Lord Kendale
seems so awfully occupied with his horses as to
be unconscious of her presence. She waits a
minute or two, but he does not offer a remark;
then sho says:
“ What a lovely morning! just tho day for
races.”
“ Yes,” ho says, concisely, carefully refrair
ing from looking at her, and flicking a fly oil
the near horse’s ear.
“ I hate a wet day on such occasions,” she re
sumes, nothing daunted by his ourtnesa—
“everybody gets wet and grumpy, and ono
spoils one’s things.”
“ Yes,” be says again.
She looks up at him questioningly, and her
glance wavers and drops. He is offended, then,
end ho means to sulk all the time, perhaps !
Her heart misgives her.’ Where will be her
pleasant day if he is going to be sullen and ©on
line himself to “ Yos” ? It is too stupid 1 Shall
she make peace with him, offer an apology at
once, and get it over ? It would certainly be
the best way, but Lorrie’s prido will not per
mit of it—not yet. She will make ono more at
tempt.
“ I suppose your horse is going to win?” she
says, amiably.
“ I don’t know.”
His heart is melting, melting; he longs to
turn to her with a smilo and forgive her—to
bask in the sunshine of her presence and enjoy
his day; but he has some pride on his side, and
he determined not to give in—yet.
“ I promised pupeio I wouldn’t bet; but bet
ting for gloves is not roal betting, is it?”
“I don’t know.”
The blood comes rushing to her face.
“ You seem to be particularly ignorant this
morning,” she says, with a threatening pout.
“ Not more so than usual, Miss Dolores. I
am a very simple fellow. lam easily taken in;
don’t you think so ? ’
“ I don’t know 1” she answers, in an exact im
itation of bis former tone.
“ uh, I should have thought you did. But it
doesn’t matter.”
“ Certainly not,” she assents, aggressively—
“ not to me, at least.”
“ Just so.”
Silence for a moment, during which she
stares resolutely before her. But as the mo
ment grows into a minute, her desire to talk
gets too strong for her. She can’t sit mum
chance by his side all day, though he does in
tend to sulk.
“ I am afraid we aro giving you a great deal
of trouble, Lord Kendale. You must be very
busy to-day, and have quite enough to do with
out driving a carriage load of people about.”
“Thanks, it is no trouble,” he says, still
keeping his eyes from the lace which he is long
ing to look at.
“it is very polite of you to say so. Now I
think ot it, I feel wo ought not to have tres
passed upon your good nature.”
No answer.
“Lt isn’t too late now. I’m sure Greta and
Jack wouldn't mind walking, if you'll pull up
I’ll ask them,”
“ 1 am going to drive your b a> d shs'.er
to the course,” he says resolutely.
“That means that it 1 like to get down and
NEW YORK DISPATCH, FEBRUARY 6 1887.
walk I’m perfectly at liberty to do so,” she re
torts, an angry Hush rising to her face, her oyes
beginning to flash.
“It you would rather walk,” he says. “It
you find it so extremely distasteful to sit beside
me for a few hours,” he says.
“Distasteful I Oh, certainly not!” she re
torts. “It is so charming to sit next a person
who only speaks when he is spoken to and then
in the fewest possible words. Charming ? It
is joyful, hilarious I”
“ 1 didn’t know that you wished me to speak,”
he says almost at extreme melting point.
“And I don’t—particularly,” sho says, and
gives herself a little twist that enables her to
put about two inches of space between them.
“ Oh, very well,” he says, and bestows a fliclc
on the off-horse this time.
So they go on until they reach the Pines
lodge, at th© gato of which stand Diana aud
Seymour. She is dressed to perfection, and
Lorrie feels instinctively that her serge frock,
however pretty, is as nothing compared with
the costume which, elaborately simple, decks
the beautiful form of the heiress of the Pinea>
Lord Guy greets thorn with marked cordiali
ty, just for Lorrie’a benefit.
“ Mind how you get up, Miss Melford. Take
care, Rawlings ! Got plenty of wraps inside,
Miss Melford, so you needn’t be afraid of the
weather. Hope you’re fond of races. Mr. Mel
ford well? I daresay the ladies won’t object to
a cigar, Mr. Melford, if you care to smoke.
He is cerdiality itself—puts it on, indeed, a
little too much—for Lorrio looks round, after
exchanging greetings with the new-comers, and
says:
“Perhaps Miss Mel "ord would like thio box
seat, Lord Kendale.”
Tno suggestion is made with suoh apparent 1
cheerfulness that Greta, who overhears it,
knows that Lorrie has been quarreling already.
“No time to change now, ‘ says Lord Guy,
and he sets the horses going.
“It is such a pity that Miss Melford isn’t
here,” says Lorrio. “There is such a capital
view, and you could talk to her so much more
easily than breaking your neck with trying to
turn round.”
“ I don’t want to talk to her particularly,” he
says.
“No? Really, you have quite relieved me; I
thought that I was the cause of your taciturni
ty. 1 see; someth ng has put you out of humor.
Is the horse lame ?”
“No.”
“ Oh!”— sweetly, too sweetly— “ are yoa
afraid you are going to lose a 10l of money in
betting ? ’
“ No.”
“Ah 1 I can’t think of anything else, except
ing that you may have got out the wrong side
of the bod this morning.”
At this, uttered with tho most decisive so
lemnity and solicitude, his gravity gives way
breaks up like ice iu tho sun.
“It’s no use,” ho says. “Look here, Miss
Dolores,” and he drops his voice so that those
behind shall not hear, “1 meant to—to stand
on my dignity to-day.”
“ Another word .‘or sulking. People always
talk about their dignity when they intend to do
or say something unpleasant. Well ?”
“ Well, look here. Do you think you have
treated me very well. Now, I put it to you—
about that photograph, you know ”
She turns her face up to him; it is sunny with
tho reconciliation, all alive with mischievous
delight and enjoyment.
“Oh, that was it! I couldn’t think—not
quite what had offended you. Didn’t you like
it ? Rather too dark, even tor me, wasn’t it?”
He laughs, half with anuoyauoe, but ho
laughs.
“ ’Pon my word it was too bad. If you knew
how delighted 1 was at tho thought ot getting
your photo, how I tore up to my room with it,
and—aud—what I felt like when I saw the por
trait of that confounded nigger ”
She tries not to laugh, but in vain.
“Oh, if I could only have seen you I” she
says breathlessly. “1 would have given all I
possess, including my new hat, te have seen
you i”
“It’s fun to you, but it was death to me !” ho
says, half grumpily. “ What made you play mo
such a trick, Miss Dolores ?”
“ What made you oo silly as to think I should
bo such an idiot as to give you my portrait?”
she demands indignantly. “Did you think I
had taken leave of au my souses? You were
served no worso than you deaerved ; beside, he
is a very good bishop, i'ou can frame him and
put him over the mantel-shelf, and he will re
mind you, in tho future, not to ba so impertinent
as to demand ladies’ photographs !”
“ You offered it to me,” ho urges.
“I didn't! But nevermind. I will be gen
erous, and forgive you ”
“ You will forgtvo ne /”
“ Yos,” gravely, “and we will say no more
about it—that is, it you’ll promise not to sulk
any longer, aud be as pleasant as you know
now.”
“All right,” ho says resignedly. “You get
tho better of me, Miss Dolores. I’m not equal
to you. You could give me fifty up and beat
me hollow ! It’s peace then, eh ?” and ho looks
down at the lovely, bewitching face.
“It’s a true©,” sho says. “I don’t know
about peace—you see, I must quarrel with some
one, aud it’s better fun quarreling with you
than with Jack.”
“All right, *ho says. “Quarrel with mo if
you I ke. Do what you liko. Only bo happy
for to-day, that’s all.”
“ I meau to,” she says. “ And now tell mo
all about th© horse and tho race and—oh, every
thing—only talk.”
Tho difference between Lord Guy’s face when
ho drove up to tho rectory and when he tools
the drag up to its reserved place in tho enclos
ure, is as the difference between Stormy aud
Fair.
Their appearance is hailed by the immense
crowd with a shout, aud the yelling of Lord
Kendale’s name and that oi his horse, tor Guy
ia popular and Gypsy ia tho favorite.
“What are they shouting at you for?” de
mands Lorrio, looking round with sparkling
eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Lord knows,” he says, rather confused.
“ Because they liko it, I suppose. I must leave
you now. I’m sorry to say. Got to go iuto tho
committee room and dress, you know. Jack,
Rawlings has got some champagne—look after
the ladies.”
Lorrio watches him as he goes along by the
stand with his easy, faultless gait. The stand
is crowded With tho county notabilities—Lord
and Lady Largefield, the Dowager Duchess of
Garlauds, three or four generals and an admi
rial aud their womeukiud, and Lorrio sees the
shower of bows and nods and wreathed smiles
which descends upon the head of Lord Guy as
he sauuters past.
Sho knows, or feels rather, tho glances of
envy which dart from th© eyes of some of the
younger women at her, seated on the drag, an I
the glances somehow only seem to add to her
happiness. What would some of the generals’
numerous daughters give to be in the place of
Miss Lorrie Latimer, the rector’s penniless sec
ond daughter 1
But the hubbub of the racecourse has begun,
and, standing up, she looks down at the surg
ing, shrieking, seething crowd and beats time
with her tiny foot to the music of the 999th
regimental band, and is forgetting everything
but tho scone arid tbo en.oymeut which it
brings, when a low, sort voice says iu her ear :
“ Quite a large crowd, Miss Dolores,” and she
is awakened to a consciousness of tho existence
and presence of Mr. Seymour Melford.
He has scarcely spoken to her yet. All the
way from tho Pines he sat in smiling coaverso
with the others, but listening to her and Guy's
chatter, aud not a laugh that has been uttered
by either of them but has struck and rankled
in his bosom. He had calculated upon sitting
next to her during the drive, and instead, sho
was there beside Lord Guy, talking and laugh
ing with him as if she had known him for
years 1
Butthough he had to speak to her twice be
fore he could get her attention, he still smiled.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Melford; I
didn’t hear you f Yes. ‘ Look, they are going to
have a race ! What is it, I wonder ?’’
“Nothing very important, I think,” he says.
“The great race’ doesn’t come oft’yet awhile. I
am so sorry you were not with us the other
night, Mias Dolores. It was a great disappoint
ment.”
“Thanks. But what race can it be? I wish
I knew. Would you mind going and seeing ?”
He cannot re.use. With a smile that answers
• for a scowl, ho descends to the ground and goes
off to got a card.
The shouting of the crowd is almost deafening,
and going a little apart from it, he walks toward
tho stand.
As he does so, an individual who has been
standing watching the drag, and Mr. Seymour
in particular, comes up in a shy, lurking
fashion, and putting a dirty finger to his cap,
speaks his name.
Mr. Seymour looks round.
The man is not the kind oi acquaintance a
gentleman ot Mr. Seymour’s refined tastes
would care to acknowledge at the most secluded
of places, certainly not in front of the grand
stand. He is dressed ia a showy, vulgar stylo,
which is worse theu shabby, and is redolent of
the stables and the pothouse.
But Mr. Seymour knows him, and throws him
a quick sidelong glance and the brielest of
words, expecting the man to be satisfied there
with and sneak off, but instead the disreputable
individual sticks to him.
“ Beg pardon, Mr. Melford. Got anything on
here ?” and he nods at the course.
“ Seymour Melford looks at him keenly; then,
in a lower tone, flays:
“Why?”
The man jerks his hand toward a compara
tively secluded spot behind the stand, but Mr.
Seymour shakes his head.
“No; say what you have got to say here.”
“ I’ve got a good thing,” the man Buys in an
undertone, opening a book as it he wero enter
ing a bet in the ordinary way. “Are you for or
against the lavorite ?”
“ Why?” demands Mr. Seymour.
The man looks round with the manner of a
man accustomed to keep a wary eye on his nat
ural foe, the police, and drops his voice to a
husky whisper.
“ Because if you can make it worth my while
you can lay agen him,” he says. “ I wouldn’t
do it for no one else, but I know you, Mr. Sey
mour.”
“Go on ! Quick !” says Seymour, the blood
rising to his face for a second and leaving it pale
again.
“ He’s a good horse and must win, barring
accidents,” says the man. “Good as gold, but
shy—shy ! Do you twig, Mr. Mellord? Sup
pose a man, for instance, was to getup near that
last _ump aud shout an’ wave something ,ust to
encourage him, you know, like as not he’d shy
and chuck the whole thing over I”
Seymour saw the man’s meaning at a glance.
“ it’s a dangerous game; wants playing pretty
carefully, gov’nor,” said tho man, eyeing him
watch ully: “but it’s to be done, and I’ll doit
for a fiver.”
Seymour Melford hesitated—not because of
any scruples on the score of morality, but be
cause of the r:sk.
Tho man seemed to read his mind as if it wero
a book.
“Lay me five pounds Gypsy wins, and send
it to me here,” bo said gravely, and he thrust a
greasy eard into Seymour’s hand.
Seymour slipped the card into his pocket, and
turned without a word, and tho man dived into
the crowd and disappeared.
A few minutes afterward Lorrio saw him mak
ing his way toward the drag, and he climbed up
smiling.
“ Here is the card,” he says, “and now you
must make a bet with me, Miss Dolores. I will
bet you a dozen of gloves that Gypsy wins.”
Lorrio shakos her head.
“I couldn’t. I want him to win,” she says.
“I’ve just bet your sister that be will.”
“So do I,” he says, “and I have been laying
a small fortune upon him,” and he shows her a
scribbled memorandum in his pocket-book.
“ But if you won’t bet against him, I suppose I
must.”
“ And you’ll lose !” cries Jack, with a tumbler
of champagne in his hand, and his handsome,
boyish face all aglow. “Gypsy is bound to
win 1 Lorrio, make him give you odds !”
“Be merciful, Miss Dolores,” says Seymour
with affected earnestness. “ Well, I’ll make it
two dozen to your one, aud I know I shall lose,
for, as your brother says, Gypsy is bound to
win I”
Ho enters the bet With a smile in his book,
gets Lorrie a field glass and adjusts it, and
stands smiling by her side. But his keen black
eyes are roving round tho crowd, and present
ly he sees the shabbily-overdressed man mak
ing his way toward tho hurdle which fences in
the course by the big jump.
The small races aro finished; the groat ©vent
of tho day draws near. Lorrio has seen noth
ing of Lord Guy since ho went to dress, and is
looking out for him now with an eagerness
which if she was accused of she would indig
nantly deny. Suddenly a roar of greeting rises
from the crowd, and a spook of colors show at
tho saddling paddock. Tho horses for tho steo
ple-chaae aro coming to tho start.
With her heart beating last, Lorrio watches
them. She knows some; there is Harry Tre
vanion, the son of the lord of the manor; Cap
tain Wildish; little Bobby Staples, the subal
tern, and lastly, in his blue jacket with yellow
stripes, Lord Kendale.
Tho crowd shouts his name, and madly yells
that of the horse, as the Gypsy—fresh as paint
and looking every inch a winner, but with a
little nervous look in his brilliant eyes, and a
tremor ot his delicate ears—makes his way to
ward the starter’s box.
Lord Guy, calm and self-possessed amid the
roar, looks round and thon up toward the drag.
For a second his eyes meet Lorrie’s—can he see
the sudden transitions of color in her lace from
the distance ?—then touching his cap to her—
her, the penniless daughter of the country par
son—ho brings Gypsy in line and keeps hia eyes
fixed on the horse’s oars.
Amid a sudden silence the flag falls—and
they are off!
(To be OoatinuelJ
beyondT
A WINTER IDYLL.
(Prom Chambers's Journal:}
Wo would protest against the conventionalism
which ordains that Winter shall always bo sym
bolized by dreary landscape or a weak old man.
If our artists could with brush or pen hint at
tbo wealth of life beneath the snow, the force
hidden by the white beard, it were well; but
colored cards have no “ beyond,“ and those who
draw from them their chief ideas of nature are
apt to look on nature’s beauties as the touches
on a painted page. “A real Winter’s day,” we
say, when the world is clad in snow ; whereas,
indeed, the bright green Winter days number
by tens lor every one of these. And then we go
forth to admire; the white snow and bending
trees strike pleasantly on tho eye, and we com
pare the frosted boughs to finest lacework, the
fields to sugared cakes. “Beautiful as a pic
ture,” we pronounce it. and we say well. Fair
it is to us as the colored page to whose loveli
ness is no “ beyond.”
It is this “ beyond” that we would fain seek
out from behind tho mask of outward seeming.
The snow has melted now and we can see and
feel the flood ot life and its enchantments which
the whiteness hid. Come forth into the clear
sunset ot this perfect January day. Cold, dead
Winter? For a moment, the infinite fullness of
life on every hand intoxicates us, so that wo can
only stand gazing in mute incomprehension up
to the oloar blue sky and down again through
its warmer harmonies of crimson to tho net
work of purpled boughs and the sunlit grass
beneath. Then sfowly our poor minds struggle
to take these mysteries one by ono into their
feeble grasp.
Those leafless trees—have we been blaming
Winter for stripping from them Summer’s cloak
of brilliant green / \\ hy, every leaf is there
before us, could our weak eyesight only pierce
beyond the bark which hides them now. Do
you point to the dead heaps of rustling brown
beneath? T->ose are not leaves, only tho use
less iramowork which was cast aside when the
true leaf—the vital principle which should sure
ly be to us the real leaf—returned into tho pa
rent stems. What are those spreading trees
but the life of infinite leaves? They bloom
forth in green splendor for one short Summer,
and then —we mourn for them as dead; they
rustle out a mocking laugh as the brown husk
drops to earth, and the life, tho spirit of the
leaf, slides back to strengthen and increase the
stem from which it sprang.
Talk not to the trees of death while their
roots aro still striking downward into th© silent,
dark “beyond” of earth. If you would know
what death is, look at tho withered branch upon
the ground beside. While there aro roots still
diving deeper into earth’s mysteries, life must
increase. Sever lifo from the infinite, rest on
th© surface only, and nothing but withered
death can follow.
So with the flowers; those that were bloom
ing hero arcund us last year are around us still,
resting beneath the surface of mother earth, hid
by her mystery. When we thought they died,
they only’went to sleep for a little while, soon
to awake, refreshed. The blossoms alone that
we have gathered never can come again.
Heaven forbid that we should blame the bands
that picked them ! Those flowers may have
fulfilled their highest mission; only from earth
are they gone forever. They have been sev
ered from earth's never-ending circle of recur
ring life, and their placo shall know them never
more.
Here, under the trees, the flowers are already
beginning to reawaken. The snowdrop spikes
peer forth with pale timidity; the celandines
spread abroad their glossy leaves in triumph to
the light again. The Winter-aconite has al
ready bloomed, and lies in streaks ot sunlight
over the brown earth. First of the flowers, wo
hail it us a triend, and hasten to look nearer at
the bright face that bids us hope for Spring.
We will not pick it, only look our thanks to the
golden head raised from its ruff of green, and
strive in vain to read the mystery written there.
Ay, we have come again upon a mystery too
deep for our wisest to fathom.
Some botanists are trying to convince men
that tho flowers can movo, and do, each in its
little orbit, each iu its own routine. To us, as
we gaze down into tho flower-face that looks so
nearly human, thore sooms no reason why it
should not movo as it listeth, and speak to us
of what no botanist can know. Would that the
flower could only speak, and tell us what it
does below the ground 1 it is wiser hero than
wo—tho aconite; wiser, inasmuch ns it knows
more of earth’s deep mysteries. We, with our
human skill, can dive down further than the
flowers, and cut groat holes ot awiul depth; we
can despoil the earth of her treasures, but we
cannot force irom her the secret of life that
every snowdrop knows:
For boaHta and birds have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
The birds soar upward, and the flowers spread
downward, while wo can only walk between,
and look and long in vain.
Even thought, our tireless messenger, cannot
help us hero. She will fly round the earth at
our command, swiltor than any swallow; here
she is powerless. In vain wo bid thought pene
trate the clear, deep blue above;in vain we say:
“ The moon is something other than a silver
lamp; tho stars more than clear sparks of most
pure, tender light; fly forth, and up to them,
and bring us word of what they really are.”
Thought wings her upward course only to sink
wearied to earth again, saying: “ 1 will believe
that the bright stars aro worlds, that on the
moon rise chains of mountains, but I cannot
reach them.” In vain we tell her that beneath
the grass whereon we stand stretch depths ot
mysteries, most marvellous hidden springs of
life. Thought strives at our behest to dive
beneath, but owns her efforts vain. Dazed and
bewildered, sho can only tell us that she knows
the earth is not the crust it seems, but cannot
penetrate below the sur:ace.
But what if thought must always fail? Were
it not better she should weary her pinions in
aching, unavailing struggle to reach tho limits
of “ beyond,” than fold her wings in placid con
templation of earth’s beauties as pages ot a
picture-book ?
If beauty were beauty only, thon the mind
should surely rest content to-night. The
western flame glows with a duskier red; the
blue above is growing more intense. One star
trombles above the sunset, and the moon gleams
softly from the deepening sky. From earth the
sunset glow has faded, and the only brightness
lo t is in the aconite gleams from tho wood.
Tho sheep are herding together m the meadow;
the birds bid us good-night m a chorus wherein
we try in vain to catch the echoes of grief or
joy which must sound beyond the twittering
harmonies.
AU last week’s snow has vanished, except the
shapeless heap which shows where our great
snowman was built. Whore is the splendid
sphere that foamed his head, the nose of propor
tions so heroic? All disappeared. And yet we
know that in nature’s vast economy each tiniest
snow particle remains intact, it is our handi
work which has disappeared forever—tho snow
man has only changed his term.
Does it not seem a strange freak, this of na
ture’s? that she should be so miserly over tho
least of her own elements, so prodigal of man’s
labor, God’s completes! work. When tho toil of
a lifetime crumbles into dus-t, she mocks the
worker, saying: “My elements, wherewith yon
wrought and worked, are indestructible; I hold
them safe through endless ages in an altered
form. Your toil, your restless days and sleep-
less nights, aro gone forever, leaving no mark
behind.”
Then a wonder strikes us whether this can in
deed be so; whether in God’s providence so
great an inconsistency exists, and for one mo
ment we seem to catch a glimpse of a yet more
marvelous “ beyond,” whither, after its one
short bloom of action, our force slides back to
render stronger yet the stem from which it
sprang.
But a cold wind rising from tbo dying sunset
bids us hasten home. Back w© go into the
house, with its cheery fires, and the bright cur
tains that shut out all our sunset. Walls can
not bound our horizon now, ter wo have learned
our lesson, and we know that on every side of
the bright room stretches an infinite “beyond.”
A KISSTfiIHARK.
BY NINA.
Charlie Farren had long coveted a kiss from
the rosebud lips of bis cousin, Nelly Colqu
houn—he was so terribly “gone” on pretty
Ne ly I
Sho was a consummate coquette—to the man
ner born, in fact. She had gained hearts in her
nurse’s arms and broken them in her short
petticoats, and she had away with her against
which no male creature was proof. No wonder
Charlie succumbed to the fascinations of tho
little witch 1
But although she teased and trifled and
turned the poor fellow’s head with her bewitch
ing ways--al though she had no objection to a
thorough-going flirtation with the handsome
barrister-cousin—she had not the faintest in
tention of going further—if only he had known
it 1 For one thing, she held the admirable
theory that a kiss is a last favor, not a first, and,
for another, her little heart—which was sound
at tho core—was already given away to a better
man—in her eyes—than poor Charlie, and for
this other she reserved her kisses, as in duty
bound.
Charlie was spending Christmas at Nelly’s
home—a rambling, old-fashioned and most hos
pitable manor-house, far away from London—
where a merry party was assembled for the fes
tive season, aud ono evening, after dinner,when
the fun and frolic among the young people had
waxed more demonstrative than usual, ho fol
lowed his cousin out of the drawing-room into
the big hall, where a great tassel of mistletoe,
threaded with pearly beads of berries, hung Irom
the lamp in the centre. Charlie thought ho saw
his opportunity as Nelly paused for an instant
beneath the “kisaing-bough,” but she was too
quick for him. She slipped deftly from under
the mistletoe, like the tantalizing little fairy that
she was, and hurried up the wide-open stair
case out of his reach. Then she hung over the
carvod-oak balusters, a charming vision in her
white gown, with the light from the lamp
shining full on her flushed cheeks and roguish
bright eyes, and blew him a mocking saluto off
the tips of her taper fingers.
Who could resist such a challenge? Not
Charlie, of course; he Instantly darted up tho
stairs three steps at a tun©. Nelly fled before
him, silently and swiftly, down the long dim
passage—there was no gas at the manor-house
—Up one Short flight Of Steps, down another,
along a dark corridor, Charlie following in hot
pursuit, through a green baize door which
swung to behind her. Chirlio just saw tho
gleam of her white gown as it disappeared into
a room on the right, when a door was shut in
his face, and he was left out in the darkness
alono.
It was rather like a cold douche, but tho
young man's blood was up. He fattened him
self against the wall close by tho door, and
waited. He was well up in tho ways of tho
bouse, and he knew that Nelly was bound to
reappear shortly in the drawing-room. As the
only daughter of the family, it was her duty to
make and dispense the tea, which had not yet
been served. So, holding bis breatli, and steal
ing gradually and silently nearer and nearer to
th enviable closed door, Charlie bidod his time.
Presently a creaking sound revealed that the
door was being cautiously opened two or three
inches. Evidently some one was reconnoiter
ing; the sudden manner in which the invisible
scout retired, denoted suspicion, and Charlie
came perilously near suffocation in his efforts to
efface himself still more completely. A gong
sounded, ia distance. It was the summons
to the tea-table. In another half-minute the
door opened again, this time with a bounce.
Charlie sprang up instantly, seized a figure in
his arms and showered eager kisses upon an
upturned lace.
A piercing shriek followed. Charlie was
dimly conscious that the struggling form he
hold was more solid than Nelly’s fairy-like pro
portions warranted him te expect. Hurrying
ootsteps approached, lights flashed in tho hith
erto dark corridor, and with the swiftness of
magic revealed the fat, red-faced cook of the
establishment in Charlie’s arms.
“ What is it—a thief ? I’ll have him ! Don’t
cry, Polly !” shouted the voice of the coachman,
as he hastened to tho relief of hia sweetheart.
“ Why, Mr. Farren, sir”—turning his lamp full
on Charlie’s discomfited countenance—“ what’s
the meaning o’ this, will you please tell me,
sir ?”
“I—lnevergavehim.no liberties,” sobbed
the woman, “ and I—l don’t seo why he should
ha’ took ’em, 1 don’t. It wasn’t my ’tault, Jim
far from it. I—l never ” —with a fresh access
of sobbing and a dangerous indication of hys
terics—“ I never was so in—insulted in my lite
afore. Miss Nelly, she come up here just now,
and—and she arsked me to letch her a can o’
w ish bar hands with,and I, was just
a-going down the kitching stairs to get it, when
the gentleman jumped out and kissed me afore
1 knew anythink about it. And I call it shame
ful, I do 1”
“ it’s—it’s a mistake—l beg tho woman’s par
don. I had no intention of annoying her. Here
—hang it all, let m© pass, some of you !” cried
the unlucky Charlie, elbowing his way through
a crowd of open-mouthed staring domestics,
and making for the shelter of his own room.
“Tho little witch,” he muttered—“ she’s boon
one too many for me, by Georgo I What an in
fernal ass she has made ot mo, to be sure I I
give her up—yes, I give her up.”
And eo he did from that hour. Hie left the
manor-house by an early train the next morn
ing. A couple of gold pieces smoothed matters
over with the coachman and his bride-elect,
and probably shut the mouths of the house
hold.
Years have passed; pretty Nell is happily
married to her “ am love,” but Charlie Farrant
is a bachelor still. He has had many an adven
ture “ by field and flood ” since that Christmas
tide in Oldshire, but he always declares to the
few who are in bis confidence that the worst ex
perience of all his life was that Kiss in the Dark.
improWeniQbinters.
Most of Them Spend Their Wages Free
ly—Some Notable Exceptions.
(From the Milwaukee Sentinel.)
Printers, as a rule, are not a provident class,
although they receive wages equal to those of
nearly any skilled mechanics and larger than
many. A* type-setter on a morning paper in
Milwaukee, it he be a “fast” man, usually
“ pastes up a string” at the end of the week
that will measure him all tho way from $lB to
S2B. Th© expert morning newspaper printer
seldom works over five nights a week. He gen
erously contributes one ot his night’s work to
the “ sub ” who is posted on the foreman's list,
and who is either unable to secure regular
“ cases,” or who is “carrying the banner” from
town to town. The “regular” who lays off in
this way is rarely other than a generous fellow.
He is anxious that his less fortunate craftsman
may have a chance to earn a few dollars, and
while be ftj idle is not infrequently found spend
ing his money with a lavish hand. This, how
ever, was more strictly the case in days gone
by, when a printer was not a Printer until he
had circumnavigated the globe or traveled, at
least, over the English-speaking part of it. The
printer nowadays who wanders irom place to
place is regarded with more or less suspicion.
A printer whose eyes have become dim from
following the foxes, and whose shoulders have
been bent until his chin rests almost upon bis
chest, from his lifelong toil at tho “case,” told
me the other day that ho had been setting typo
lor thirty years.
“During that time,” he said, “I have held
cases in every city of over 100,000 inhabitants
in tho United States, and have earned irom sls
to $75 a week. In tho days of the rebellion I
worked in Philadelphia tor a while, and earned
so much money iu lour nights that my time
during the succeeding three days of the week
was fully occupied in getting rid of it. Other
printers were like me— in fact, there were
not half a dozen who saved anything. Since
the war, however, prices for composition have
dropped, to forty and forty-five cents per 1,000
eras. I can think of a great many ot my old
chums who have struck a money-saving gait,
built comfortable homes, and got down to busi
ness. There are quite a number of composi
tors on the Now York, Chicago and St. Louis
papers who are worth a good deal. Several of
the old-timers on the St. Louis G-lobe-Democrat
own houses in the suburbs worth $5,009, and
one man in particular that 1 know well, and
who is yet charmed by the music of the click ot
the types, is worth at least $20,000, and he has
saved nearly all of it out of his ‘strings.’
“ The New York Tribune has a half-dozen men
on its force who were there in the days when it
made printers famous to successfully wrestle
with Horace Greeley’s* copy.’ One or two of
the number are rich, and own homes in the city
and cottages itt sea-shore resorts, where they
spend a lew weeks in the Summer. But there
are only a few such exceptions. The majority
of us fellows aro broken down iu health be tere
we roach middle age, and we become tired of
the battle, and drop iuto a careless way of liv
ing. making but little preparation ter the future.
I know lots of old men who have become pub
lishers and proprietors ot big job printing
houses who have at the age ot fifty returned to
the cases to earn their daily bread, and they do
it good-naturedly, and appear to be glad that
they are back at their starting point.
“Old John Hanna, who once owned the big
gest job office in Louisville. Ky., is setting type
in a Chicago job office. He is as old as tbo hills,
but miikes the boys ‘ lay down’ hard for a ‘ fat
take,’ and don't sneak off into a corner to paste
up his string either. It will always compare
favorably in length with that of auy ol the
younger printers.”
“Are any oi the Milwaukee printers of a
provident nature ?”
“ 1 should say there were. I can name sev
eral who have homes of their own, and quite a
number that carry a bank-book. There is no
aristocracy here, though. We have one man iu
our midst*—a middle-aged fellow, who ; q
means a fast printer,who is reputt Ito ;.<■ v ro>
between $7,000 and SIO,OOO in solid cash. The
fellow rarely makes over $lO a week, yet he has
saved over two-thirds of his earnings. Ho is,
of course, of an entirely different nature from
the average typo. He neither smokes, chows
nor drinks, the close habits of his life forbid
ding any of these things, although I am told he
has been hoard to say that ho would chew to
bacco it it didn’t cost so much. Ho has been
employed, as a rule, while in Milwaukee, in the
small offices, where he has been allowed to plod
along at his own gj.it unmolested, unknown ex
co.pt by a few of the ‘gang ’ that took a tumble
to his odd way of living, and looked the matter
up.
“Ho has no family or relatives that I know of,
and gets along without a landlady. For a long
time I wondered where he boarded, and I
found out no one knew. One night I followed
him and saw him enter a rookery on the West
Side, partly used for a livery stable and partly
as a store-room for old pieces of machinery,
engines and boilers. He had a room on a top
floor, the furniture of which consisted of a cot,
two pairs of blankets, a half-dozen old dishes,
one chair, a table and a rusty old stove. Here
is where he lived—his own landlord. The
butchers in the neighborhood said he never
patronized them, but it was found that he was a
good customer for one of the grocers a block
distant from his bachelor quarters. I asked the
proprietor if the old printer traded with him,
and he said he did, but that his purchases in
eluded only crackers and cheese, and it has long
been the accepted theory among the craft that
he has existed on this plain fare, eating no
meat nor humoring his stomach with any of the
delicacies that the average stomach demands.”
ourwarheroes.
BY CHARLES K.BISHOP.
One by one the heroes of our great civil war
are passing away; but it is a gratification to
those in whose behalf they fought to know that
their services are not forgotten; that the coun
try for whose sake they periled their all is not
unmindful ot the sacrifices they made, nor of
the glory which their valor has reflected upon it.
Death has, indeed, snatched them from our
sight, but the lustre of their gallant achieve
ments will be ever bright upon the page of
American history.
But while we know this, it is sad to think that
the eyes of the people will never more behold
the forms of those whom they looked upon but
to admire; that the eagle vision which swept the
battlefield has been quenched in darkness; the
lips from which issued the most stirring words
of patriotism closed forever. We shall miss
them from the councils of the nation; we shall
miss them at the reunions ot our noble veterans,
and their own families will sorely miss them at
the social fireside.
In looking back upon the career of the com
manders who have seen the last of earth, while
wo are proud of the fame they won, we are apt
to forget the various exacting duties they have
to perlorm; of the sleepless nights passed on
the tented field; of the anxieties they had to un
dergo; of the responsibilities they had to as
sume; ot the vigilance they had to exercise.
Tbiuk, for instance, of the extraordinary care
which devolved upon the unpretentious but il
lustrious U. 8. Grant; particularly at the siege
of Vicksburg, where he had not only skillful
enemies in front to fight, but ignoble political
foes at a distance to combat—men who would
have rejoiced at his non-succese and been eager
to proclaim the whole war a failure. Fortu
nately, however, Grant was not a man to be in
timidated by either an open or a secret enemy,
and he prosecuted the work assigned him with
the dogged persistency characteristic of the
nature which finally overcame every obstacle
raised against him.
But it is not the object of this article to con
fine praise to any particular individual; on the
contrary, it is our desire to do justice to all the
heroes who helped to maintain the integrity of
the Union, whatever may have been their share
in the task. All were not equally successful,
but their efforts were toward one end. They
chose different methods to accomplish the same
result, and their fame differs among the people
“as one star differeth from another in glory.”
We bear in vivid remembrance what Sherman
did in his triumphal march to the sea: and what
Sheridan achieved in the Shenandoah Valley.
We recollect the services of Thomas in the West
and Burnside in the South. We remember
Meade and Hancock at Gettysburg, and McClel
lan at Antietam; and while we glory in the bril
liancy of our West Point commanders, wo do
not forget the two patriotic civilians who in
scribed their names high on the roll of renown
—Blair and Logan. The latter has but just 108
us, and his praises still linger on the tongues of
his hosts of admirers and friends.
It is not necessary to mention all the heroes
who have left honored names behind them,
whether officers or privates; nor is there need
to recur to the exploits of our dashing navy,
which had such spirits to boast of as Farragut
at Mo-bile and New Orleans, and Winslow, who
sunk the Alabama. The army and navy co-op
erated with each other on many very important
occasions, and their combined efforts were of
signal aid to the country.
That the civil war produced men of heroic
mold is something that wo may felicitate our
selves upon, but it should not. excite our won
der. There were heroes in the struggle for
American Independence, in the war of 1812, and
in the Mexican war. Washington and his com
patriots in the first; Jackson and Hull and Perry
<n the second, and Scott and Taylor in the third
National conflict—all were heroes that the peo
ple of the United States delight to honor.
Nor during the civil war was heroism limited
to one section of the country. It is but justice
to those who fought against the Union to ad
mit that they displayed all the qualities that aid
to make heroes. They fought as we think in a
bad cause, but they fought well, as Americans
North and South have always done, and as they
doubtless would do again in a war against a
common foe.
Most of our heroes have died before their time.
There can bo no question that the exposures
incidental to camp-lite shortened their exist
ence. They may not have been conscious at
the time of any serious inroads upon their
health, but even men of iron constitutions
must sooner or later yield to the attacks of
disease engendered in malarious d.stricts. But
eveu in climates considered healthy, late and
irregular hours, bodily discomforts, and mental
disquietude must have their due effect, and
help to plant the seeds of some malady that
will come to view in the near future. Therefore,
in consideration of the privations our heroes
have suffered in our behalf, to say nothing of
their prowess in the field, whether leading a gal
lant onset, or defending an important position,
we cannot be too grateful lor the zeal and enthu
siasm which they brought to the work of saving
the Union. Those of us who have never been
engaged in deadly conflict cannot possibly im
agine what one’s feelings must bo on an occa
sion of the kind though he may write or speak
flippantly ot it. Shakespeare says : “He jests
at s ars who never felt a wound.” And many a
would-be military critic has felt competent to
conduct a campaign without knowing anything
personally of the dangers that attend it. It
should be the duty of the American press to
stand by the heroes of the late war, to eulogize
their virtues, and do justice to their deeds,
which, for the most part, were undertaken
without expectation of lee or reward.
We say this because we notice on the part of
some of our citizens a disposition to speak
lightly of the members ot the Grand Army of
the Republic; to refer to them as mon who
claim too much at the hands of the government
and people, and who have had more than their
share of public consideration. As the brave
aud sturdy Gen. Logan said before his death,
the country cannot do too much for the soldiers
who fought against rebellion. The sums award
ed to its survivors for the loss of health or limb
sustained by them, are, it is true, in the aggre
gate very large, but the pension granted to each
is no more than a just compensation for the in
juries received, and far distant be the day when
those pensions shall be made less. All honor
to Logan for his masterly exertions in Congress
in aid ot the claims of our veterans—not upon the
generosity of the nation, but upon its justice.
Those who fought for the Union under the Stars
aud Stripes, should ever be the wards of the
government for upholding the one and being
true and loyal to the other. Palsied bo the
hand and paralyzed the tongue that would
write or speak one word in derogation of our
■war-worn patriots.
The lamented Lincoln took a deep interest in
the welfare of the heroes of the war. He knew
the trials they had to encounter, and he knew,
also, their unselfish devotion to the cause in
which they so promptly enlisted. He was not
oblivious to the mistakes that some of his gen
erals made, but he thought they were all
guided by the true spirit of patriotism, and
their short-comings were overlooked, their
errors condoned, and when there was occasion
lor praise he did not spare it.
flitness his letter to Grant alter the surren
der of Vicksburg. He honestly thought that
Grant had taken the wrong course to capture
that stronghold, but when it fell, he was quick
to write to Grant an acknowledgement of his
error, and to say in so many words, “You were
right and I was wrong.” Were Lincoln living,
his pen and his tongue would be unceasingly
employed to promote the interests o; all who
fought for the union when disunion threatened
it. Abraham Lincoln himself was not a hero in
a military sense, but lie had a soul to appre
ciate heroism in others, and his heart went out
to and beat with responsive throbs to every
heroic act of a boy m blue, whether a commis
sioned officer or one of the rank and file.
All nations honor heroes. Monuments are
erected to their memories and the volumes in
our libraries are illumined with tributes to
their achievements. Napoleon in France, Wel
lington in England aud Giant in America are
the three moat renowned captains of their age
in their respective countries. Our own Wash
ington, of course, will always be first in the
affections of the American people, and Jackson,
the hero of New Orleans, will always have his
admirers; but it was reserved for Grant to be
the central figure in the greatest of modern
wars, and to have history say of him that he
never suffered a defeat.
As our heroes depart from among us, let us
continue to do full honor to their names, aud
cherish the recollection oi their valuable serv
ices to a great and prosperous nation; one which
was never more respected throughout the world
than now, by reason oi the great strength it ex
hibited in preserving the government in all its
original vigor.
Tuero were periods during the war when for
eign countries anticipated the dismemberment
of the nion. and were ready to pronounce the
republic r. failure. They could not be persuaded
! ih*i inn-ait io :nffiffi upon the will of the
•• ' ' nj j \ ive the shock o: so icrmidable
i a rebellion. But the hour came when thoy were
j forced to admit that they had undervalued the
, power of a nation fighting to save itself from
I destruction. The struggle was a long and ter
rible one, but the end proved ..th at it was worth
all it cost. The States were not disunited, and
one Hag continues to float over all.
All honor, we repeat, to our war heroes I In
life we cannot care too much for them; in death
they should bo crowned with all the glory which
a grateful people can confer upon them.
BECRETF(fl r 'pALMIS f RY.
HOW TO TELL FORTUNES BY THE
LINESOF'THE HAND.
(J’rom the Baltimore Herald.)
As many persons want to know how to tell
fortunes by the hand, “just for the fun of the
thing,” the following brief directions will suffice
to enable any reader to emulate the prowess of
the gypsies in an art which is held to bo pecu
liarly their own.
Begin w.th the lino of life, starting from a
point an inch below the bottom of the first fin
ger, and tracing it to its termination at tho base
of the thumb. If well defined and unbroken, it
is said to denote long lifo ; if cut and intersected
by other lines, illness. Every inch of the line
of life is supposed to stand for ten years, and a
distinct break atjany point indicates death at that
age, estimated by its distance from the starting
point of the line.
The line of the head, or, as it is sometimes
called, “ the lino of intellect,” is the next thing
to be looked lor. It sweeps horizontally across
the palm, starting simultaneously with tho line
of life. If clear and unbroken, it is supposed
to indicate a logical intellect, if much noffi ied,
with lines entering it from other parts, it indi
cates that this intellect may run into many fan
cies; as, for instance, if tho lines enter from tho
base of the middle finger tho tastes will run to
weird books or to solitary scheming.
Tho lino above the last named, running from
between the bases of the first and second finger
to the base of the little finger, is the line of tho
heart, indicating sociability and affection. When
much broken and intersected, it means that the
owner will be the slave of bis or her passions,
especially those passtons which are designated
as “ tender ” or erotic. It is usually the most
broken and irregular of all the lines of the
hand, on which account the ancient palmists
probably selected it.
Tho line which runs perpendicularly from
the root of the second finger to the wrist is call
ed tho lino of fortune, and the more broken ana
irregular this is tho better for the possessor.
It the broken and added linos aro generally
parallel to th© original line they denote streaks
of good luck or good fortune; if they cut it
across they denote “ crosses” or “ ups and
downs” in life. Unfortunately, the latter is the
rule.
The “ mounts” are the little fleshy promi
nences at the roots of the fingers and between
the joints. At tho foot of the first finger is the
mount of Jupiter; tho second is sacred to
Saturn, the third to tho Sun, and tho little fin
ger to Mercury. Below the latter and on the
right side of the hand is the hill of Mars; still
further below, is tho hill of the Moon. Of these,
Jupiter is propitious; Saturn moans ill-luck,
the Sun riches, Mercury knavishness and
‘smartness,’’ Mars war or military genius, and
tho moon moodiness, crankiness, or a tendency
to philosophical speculation.
According to the extent to which tho lines on
these “mcnintß” are marked and th© promi
nence of the “mounts” themselves, the charac
teristics and fortune of tho individual aro fore
told. Three strongly-marked horizontal lines
at the base of the hand, when present, consti
tute the “ regal bracelet,” and are supposed to
indicate long and prosperous life, with strong
will power.
AS CHEAP ASIIIRT.
How an Auotioneer Puts Up Goods and
Then Puts Down the Price.
(From the Philadelphia North-American.)
“There! Now there is a razor, a brush, a
hone and strop, a mirror, and a piece of soap,
and i’ll sell them all for a dollar and a half.”
It was tho voice of the auctioneer in tho cheap
as-dirt store, and the way that he emphasized
the “all” indicated that ho wanted the three'rag
-ged boys and the negro who were looking won- 1
daringly up at him to believe he was doing them
a personal favor.
“ W hat! Nobody want’s ’em ? Well, I’ve got
a hairbrush and three combs, and I’ll put them
in and soil the lot for a dollar and a half.
“ No one yet ? Well, I’ll pat in this fine clothes
brush and still I’ll take a dollar and a halt.
What! Not a dollar and a half for them? May
be none of you brought that much money along
to-day. Well, if you haven’t, I’ll make you wish
you had. Here’s a fine blacking-brush, and that
goes in for a dollar and a half. No ? Well,
here's a first-class box of O. N. G. French black
ing. I’ll put that in too. Now, who wants tiia
lot for a dollax* and a half ?
“ Nobody wants it? Well, I’ll make it a dol
lar forty—thirty—a dollar twenty-five —twenty—
ten—one dollar. Now, that’s the most I’ll give
and the least l’il take. Now, who wants the lot
or a dollar?”
The negro felt in a lonesome way of the bot
tom of his pocket, and one of tho boys looked
hard at a five-cent piece.
“Remember, the razor is warranted to ehavo
you and do it right. If it don’t, bring it back
and get your money. It’s a fine rust-en-holm.
Well, nobody’s got a dollar. But I’ll tell you
what I’ll do. I’ll divide the lot. Now, here is
the razor, the strop, tho soap, the brush and tho
mirror, and I’ll sell them all for fifty cents. No ?
Put ’em up, then,” and the auctioneer chucked
his quarter’s-worth-at-half-a-dollar lot back on
the shelf.
“ Well, now, here’s this lot. What’s the mat- 1
ter with this? Here’s a fine hair-brush and
three combs, a clothes-brush, a blacking-brush
and a box of blacking, and 111 sell them all lor
half a dollar and no less. Don’t want ’em at
that ridiculously low figure? Then I’ll divide
them again. Hero’s this fine hair-brush and M
three combs. You can have them for a quarter. >
What! not yet? Put ’em up, then, and l’il try
you again. Here’s a clothes-brush that’s worth
half a dollar, a blacking-brush that will sell
anywhere for a quarter, and a box of the very
best O. N. C. blacking. You can have the lot for
a quarter.”
“ Not even now ! Well, see here. Hera ia
this box of blacking. It will sell anywhere for
ten cents, and you can have it for five. Don’t
want it? See here, I’ll put another box on it,
and you can have the two—no, I’ll put on still
another, and you can have all three of these
boxes lor ten cents. No? Put ’em up, then,”
and the auctioneer, who seemed able to live on
wind, shoved his blacking back, rolled out a lot
ot knives and forks and began bis harangue
again.
A STRANGER IN HIS PLATE.
Rubbles Has an Unpleasant Experienco
With the New Servant Girl.
“ What’s this ?”
Perhaps if there were half a dozen interroga
tion points and twice as many exclamations
after those two words it would express more
fully the tone in which Bubbles uttered them as
he came down to breakfast. But there was no
answer, and Bubbles reached over and picked -
up a cold, clammy looking thing that lay on his ’
plate. Bubbles is not a, dude, nor a bloated
aristocrat, but he doesn’t know much about tho
mysteries of the kitchen, and he was unable to
decide what it was he had in his hand.
Then three little Bubblesea came and stood
beside him and looked in open-eyed wonder at
the thing that their father was fingering. But f
neither one spoke. *
“ What’s this, 1 say !”
Bubbles looked irately at the steel engraving
of Joseph going into Egypt, which adorned the
opposite wall, but Joseph maintained that dis
creet silence which has from first to last charac
terized his sojourn on the wails of Bubbles*
dining-room. Then Bubbles poked the forefin
ger ot his dexter paw into tho thing, which
looked to him more like a pink India rubber
banana with tho ends puckered than anything
else he could think of.
Just then Mrs. Rubbles camo into tho room.
“ My dear,” said the other half of Bubblesdom,
as he shoved the offending article toward tho
newcomer, “I have asked seven times what this
disgusting thing is.”
Mrs. Rubbles looked at it mournfully and
said:
“ My dear, that is a link of sausage. We have
a new girl, my dear, and she is an idiot. Bhe
didn’t cook the sausage, and that is the reason
why it presents so strikingly peculiar an appear
ance. Maria !”
The new servant poked her head in from the
kitchen, and left tho rest ot her physical devel
opment on the other side of the door.
“ Maria, come and get these sausages, take
them into the kitchen, and cook them in the try
ing pan.”
And Bubbles sat down and mechanically un- -
folded in his lap tho hand-towel which the now *
girl had put at his plate instead of a napkin, aud
the family waited tor the sausage to get hot,
while the coffee was keeping up the equilibrium
by getting cold.
Rubbles’ new girl is a treasure, so she is,
Cuticura *
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