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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, March 13, 1887, Image 7

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coming i-ome to roost.
You may take the world as it comes and goes.
And you will be sure to find
That fate will square tn© account she owes,
Whoever comes out behind';
/And ail things bad that a man has done.
By whatsoever induced,
Return at last to him. on© by ono,
As the chickens come home to roost.
You may scrape and toil and pinch and save,
While your hoar led wealth exp > nds,
'Till the cold, dark shadow of the grave
la nearing your life’s last sands;
You will have your balance struck some night,
And you 11 find your hoard reduced;
'You’ll view your life in another light
When the chickens come home to roost.
'You can stint your soul and starve your heart
With the husks of a barren creed.
•Rut Christ will know if you ►play a part,
. Will know in your hour of need;
| And tbrn as you wait for death to coma
h What hope oan there be deduced
■ From crt*ed alone ? you will lie there dumb
’ While your chickens come home to roost.
•Sow as you will, there’s time to reap.
For the good and bad as well.
* And conscience, whether wo wake or sleep,
Is either a heaven or hell.
And every wrong will find its place.
And every pafsion loosed
Drifts back and meets you face to face—
When the chickens come home to roost,
Whether you’re over or under the sod
The result will be the same;
You cannot escape the hand of God,
You must bear your sin or shame;
No matter what’s carved on a marble slab.
When the items are all produced
You’d find that St. Peter was keeping "tab,**
And that chickens come homo to roost
—Chicago Inter- Ocean,
t!SE£!SXXS!S!3SSB3SSZSSSS3EXZ3SKS%jSI
JOHN DAVIDSON.
THE STORY OF AN INVENTOR.
CHAPTER I.
Miss Victoria Egerton sat in a secluded cor
,z nor of a ball-room, somewhat discontentedly
scanning the laces of ths dancers just now
pacing and circling, to the music of a string
band, through the figures of the lancers. Sud
denly she raised herself a little and looked
steadily over to the door, her expression slowly
brightening into interest.
Jt was a large ball for a private one, and there
were plonVy of pretty faces to be seen at it, but
there was certainly not ono other so pretty or
so lull ol subtle fascination as Miss Egerton’s.
Tbs ball was being held at the house of Mrs.
Hattley, an elder sister of Misa Egerton’s, in
the suburbs of a large manufacturing town.
The older of the two sisters, although of course
an Egertou like Victoria—granddaughter of an
eurl and second eouain to some of the oldest
families in England—had, on receiving an offer
of marriage from Mr. Hattley, the famous
millionaire cotton-spinner, some tew years ago,
gladly accepted it. Victoria had first been horri
y lied, and then had tried to laugh her sister out
of her resolution.
The two girls were at the time living on the
bounty of a maiden aunt in London. It was
not nice, living on any aunt’s bounty, the elder
Bister argued very sensibly. And then she was
distinctly plain. Victoria had considered in
dignantly that any Egerton could do better
than this. So a storm had raged between them
for a little while, the aunt unexpectedly sup
porting Victoria, but it all ended in Sophia
.Egerton accepting the offer.
Mr. Hattley, a plain-mannered, middle-aged
man, had, to tell the truth, waited very com
placently for his answer, of course, knowing
nothing of the storm. To do Victoria justice, it
was more on account of the man’s being so
decidedly middle-aged and of such distinctly
I plain manners, than for anything else, that she
had objected. Sophia was not pretty, but she
was a sparkling, spirited girl of twenty. The
a Egerton women were always spirited. How
ever, in spite of this opposition, the marriage
bad taken place, and then Mr. Hattley and
Sophia had gone to settle down in Bremingly,
- and Victoria, with the maiden aunt, had started
lor a town in Germany. After two years in the
German town and another year traveling hither
and thither, Victoria had come on a long visit to
A Bremingly to her sister s. In the carriage, on
F the way from the railway station, Mrs. Hattley
had promised her young sister some pleasant
society. t
“It isn’t a nice town,” laughed the girl,
glancing out at the smoky atmosphere, “ but
I’m glad it contains nice people.”
“ Oh, I hardly know any of sAe?n,” answered
Mrs. Hattley-, drawing herself up a little. I re
ferred to the people who are staying with me.”
“And how does Mr. Hattley like that?” said
Victoria, after staring lor a moment at her sis
ter.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. Hatt
ley, still more stiffly.”
“ Well. Sophia,” said the girl, as they got out
at the. portico of Mr. Hattley’s palatial resi
r dence, “ I will only remark that when you began
so sensibly by marrying Mr. Hattley, it was a
pity you did not continue in the same path.”
Then, soon after this home-poming, had fol
lowed tl‘?c Lail.
As Victoria sat thus, with her head a little
raised, looking earnestly over at the door, Mrs.
Hattley came up unobserved and touched her
on the shoulder.
“ Absorbed in your mania, as usual, Victoria,”
she said, a little grimly, but casting a quick,
loving glance into the girl’s beautiful face—she
adored her younger sister.
Victoria had never been without a mania of
one sort or another since the days of her child
hood, It was part of her nature always to be
, enthusiastic over something. About a year
ago she had chanced on a passion for phrenol
ogy and physiognomy. During this year she
had probably read at least half the books that
ever wore written on the subjects, and claimed,
beside, to have made several important discov
eries on her own account.
Mrs. Hattley complained that this mania was
ir more grievous than any of the others, for it not
only exceeded them in power, but actually ap
peared to be growing stronger as it became old
er. Victoria started delightedly round at Mrs.
Hattley’s touch on her shoulder.
“Sophia,” she said, in a quick undertone,
" who is the young man standing in that nearest
doorway : Ho has just come in.”
“In the nearest doorway,” repeated Mrs.
Hattley, turning to look. “Oh,’rather indif
ferently, “ that is John Davidson.”
She studied him in the same absorbed way
for a moment longer.
i “A most remarkable lorehead, Sophia,” she
said, energetically; “a forehead which may
prove exceedingly serviceable to me in many
ways. Please go round and bring John David
son here. '
Mrs. Hattley attempted, as usual, to remon
strate.
“It is really perfectly ridiculous, Victoria.
Beside, I saw you dancing with Sir Archibald.
Where is he?”
“ If you don’t go and secure John Davidson,”
said the girl, still furtively watching, “ he may
escape nie. I know every line of Sir Archi
bald’s face, and each line is more uninteresting
than the other. I sent him away to look for my
fan. 1 shall not dance again to-night.”
A few minutes later, with a somewhat indif
ferent grace, Mrs. Hattley, a little flushed by
‘ her repeated incursions about the outskirts of
the lancers, returned with the young man from
the doorway.
“ Mr. John Davidson—Miss Egerton,” she in
troduced, frigidly.
“How do you do, Mr. John Davidson? Sit
down,” said Victoria, and there was so much
eagerness in her tone that Mrs. Hattley, already
sweeping haughtily away, shivered as if from
_X a sudden chill. This was the very last time, she
aaid to herself, that she should ever encourage
Victoria in her mania.
The young man had meanwhile sat down as
requested, a little surprised at the warmth of
his reception. He had not merely, as Miss
Egerton had said, a remarkable forehead—
every one of his clear-cut, strongly-marked fea
tures was equally so. Just as Miss Egerton
was making a hasty study of his profile, he
turned and fastened his eyes—gray and steady
and piercing—upon her. He had followed Mrs.
Hattley, on his side also, with indifference; and
first the girl’s face and then her name had struck
i him. Of course, this must be Mrs. Hattley’s sis
ter—the beautiful Miss Egerton. Yes, and she
was very beautiful.
Mdanwhile Miss Egerton had made her hur
ried study, and now launched headlong into
conversation, just as any other young lady, not
a physiognomist, might have done.
“ What a very disagreeable town Bremingly
is,” she remarked.
The gray oyea, which had been softening into
•an unconscious smile, suddenly clouded. Mr.
John Davidson knew all about the views Mrs.
Hattley bad as to Bremingly and its people;
-and, of course, Miss Egerton was her sister.
“I am sorry you think so,” he answered,
gravely. He was sorry ; he had been remark
u dng what a frank, sympathetic expression the
girl had. and it struck him as remarkable that
she should bold the same narrow view as Mrs.
H attley.
She noticed the change of expression in the
eyes and understood the reason for it.
“Ch, but I was only alluding to the smoke,
you know,” she explained, laughing a little,
9 ‘ and even to that in a general sense. In the
particular case of Mr. Hattley’s tallest chimney
at the manufactory, I rather admire it. I can
see the top of that chimney in the distance from
my bedroom window, over the trees of the gar
den. 1 always rose early abroad, and I have
•pot got out of the habit yet, and when I am
dressed 1 sit down on the window-sill and medi
tate upon the white smoke rising out of that
tall red chimney up to the blue, quiet sky. Oh,
yes, I was not thinking of what I said. lam
very fond of Bremingly.
He kept his eyes fixed on her intently; he
could not decide whether or not she was laugh
ing at him.
“ A very good subject for meditation it might
fcrovo to you or to anyone. It ought to touch
your human sympathies, you know, by making
you think of all the deft, patient fingers busy at
work at the looms below, and to move the artis
tic side of your nature, there is the thought of
the looms themselves.”
She bent forward eagerly.
“ I know I am very hard-hearted, but I seem
to lose all recollection of the people just in that
.very thought of the flying looms. I picture
them to myself with all their vibrating, hurry
ing hands, and revolving spokes, and
little wheels, and great, silent, big wheels, until
I verily seem to be standing in the midst of
them. Machinery in motion has all the awe
•nspirjng power of eoms of the grand phenom
of nature.”
The dancers were still pacing to and fro; all
the gay dresses glittering in the gaslight; the
buzz of talk and laughter mingling with the
music. He looked away from the girl straight
in among them; for some reason or other she
had touched him strangely.
“ Yes; that dull droning of the wheels, how
often I have listened to it, ’ he said at length, in
an entirely new tone of voice. “There is no
music on earth capable of moving me more
deeply.”
“ And yet you are passionately fond of music
of other kinds,” she remarked, with a quick
look at him.
She had found out this from the shape of his
brow—but he was not to know that. She was
fathoming all the deepest recesses of his nature;
she had touched him again.
“There is very little good music to be heard
in Bremingly/’ he answered, trying to speak in
differently. “I run up to London if there is
anything particular going on; and I am often
abroad.”
“ You paint, don’t you?” she inquired, in the
same eager way.
He almost laughed now, a sudden revulsion
of feeling coming to him. The girl was so quick
with her questions, she did not even give him
time to know his own surprise.
“As much as 1 have time for,” ho answered,
glancing drolly round at her. “Yes, lam mu
sical, and I paint, and I always was a very good
arithmetician. But when I have said that, 1 am
a.raid I have said about all. 1 hope you are not
determined to find out very much more. I
am a poor linguist, for instance. What scrapes
I got myself into at Antwerp, last week ! And
then I have not always a particularly patient
temper.”
She met his fun-lit eyes with a look as comi
cal.
“I see; and if I don’t take care I shall begin
to try it. That is what you would have me un
derstand. By the way, which paintings par
ticularly impress you in the Antwerp gal
leries ?”
For an hour or more Miss Egerton and Mr.
John Davidsou, resolute against all interrup
tions, sat in this corner and talked of the Ant
werp galleries. At the end of that time it was
as it they had known each other for years.
The same evening, after the ball was over,
Mirs. Hattley attempted once more to remon
strate a little with her sister.
“ Victoria, love,” she said, “I really think
Sir Archibald felt that vou had neglected him;
and Mr. Beauchamp-Eanuiston simply left the
ball-r.om.”
But Victoria had been standing at the top of
the grand staircase to catch Mrs. Hattley, and
she was not to be distracted by such informa
tion as this.
“Oh, Sophia, I thank you so much for intro
ducing me to Mr. John Davidson. 1 have spent
a most delightful evening in deciphering his
forehead, and have beside discovered several
important characteristics about him.”
But Mrs. Hattley, with a gesture of impa
tience, had already passed on to her room.
CHAPTER 11.
“ Who is Mr. Davidson?”
It was the morning after tlie ball, and Victoria
stood, with her walking things ou, fastening her
gloves and speaking to her sister, just prepara
tory to going out. She had been receiving some
commission for a fancy-wool shop, and still
held a bundle of flossy silk in her one hand as
she buttoned the glove with the other. In the
middle of the buttoning she asked the above
question.
“ Mr. John Davidson, pray,” corrected Mrs.
Hattley; “every one always calls him so. You
see there is another Mr. Davidson we know, a
very important man indeed, not far from Brem
ingly. Oh, Mr. John Davidson is really a mere
nobody—Mr. Hattley’s manager, in ract. But
he has made some important invention regard
ing looms, which has brought him into notice,
and so, of course, we have to be civil to him. I
positively do not understand, Victoria, what you
can find so interesting about that young man.”
A few minutes later Miss Egerton was wend
ing her way along the crowded suburban high
road leading into the heart of Bremingly. It
was a brilliant August morning, and she had
on a cool toilette of somewhat delicate shade.
As she came fair into the sunshine of the high
road, she put up her parasol with such intense
earnestness of manner that an observer would
have judged her in great anxiety as to the prob
able effect of the sun on her dress.
In point of fact, however, she was completely
absorbed in a thought of an entirely different
nature. She had studied Mr. John Davidson’s
lorebead last night very carefully, and yet had
failed to decipher the existence of this inventive
genius of which she had just heard from Mrs.
Hattley. This was very serious.
As she walked on thus in profound and par
ticularly aweet-looking gravity, she lifted her
eyes and became aware that Mr. John Davidsou
was just crossing the high-road before her into
a side street. His face was turned toward her
—a singularly grave expression on it too—and
as sho looked he lifted his hat.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she made him a
somewhat excited little sign to stop. When she
had crossed over and found him standing still,
grave and a little pale, waiting for her, she felt
almost contused, and could not imagine why
she had made him stop.
“Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” she faltered,
with high ten ed color.
“Good morning; I hope you are not tired
with last night’s dancing. I wonder to see yon
out so early.” He was perfectly kind and com
posed, looking very neat and gentlemanly in his
plain gray clothes, but he was evidently expect
ing her to say why she had stopped him. There
were some papers in his hand, and after this
remark he stood in silence, evidently waiting.
But in the one flash ot her disturbed blue
eyes up to Mr. John Davidson’s face, Miss Eger
ton had recovered confidence. No, she said to
herself, she would never have suspected him of
this inventive genius; she must, whatever it
cost, investigate further. She was writing a
paper on this very subject.
“I am going this way,” she said, with sweet
and easy dignity, and with a little well-bred
glance of surprise at his expectant attitude.
Then she began walking up the cross-street.
Somewhat hurriedly, Mr. John Davidson joined
her. Miss Egerton had begun at once again
about the Antwerp galleries; and turning her
beautiful eyes very frequently round on Mr.
Davidson, unheeding the changes in the road,
she talked steadily on, amid the dust and heat,
upon the same subject.
Every time Miss Egerton’s eyes were turned
on him, Mr. John Davidson met them. Beau
tiful as they were, and sweet, there was a certain
scrutinizing look in them which puzzled and
a little irritated him. The truth was,
he had bean haunted and pursued ever since
last night by the recollection of Victoria, but he
was a little disappointed in her that she could
deliberately have waved him to stop to walk
down thia cross street with him. He answered
her queries as to the pictures with rather less
evident interest than he had exhibited yester
day; from time to time even a little stiffly. Per
haps, beside everything else, he was the least
bit tired of the Antwerp galleries.
Meantime, Victoria was so absolutely en
wrapped in her vexation at having failed in
such an important point of discernment that she
was barely conscious of what she was saying.
No, no, she would never have known. ’Was
this all the progress that a year’s study had
brought her ? she asked herself with stern bit
terness, an almost tragic express'for the
moment flashing into her eyes. She had thought
herself a clever physiognomist and phrenolo
gist, and here was’a great inventor and she
would never have known it. Enthusiastically
earnest in her hobby, Victoria’s distress was
very real. At last, almost involuntary, she put
it into words.
“I hear,” she said, suddenly, with a slight
quiver in her tone, “that you are an inventor.
1 should never have guessed it.”
Mr. John Davidson started and quailed. It
was, ot course, an awkward remark ot Vic
toria’s, quite unworthy of her. Many and many
a time before now, not infrequently in a pause
of conversation in some drawing-room, people
had said, across the room, to John Davidson,
that they understood he was an inventor, add
ing an inquiry as to the nature of his invention.
1 But these had been people visibly incapable
of comprehending the cruel feeling of lacera
tion such dragging forth, with rough grasp,
into light, of a delicate and dear idol can cause.
He had got into the way of expecting such
questions from people of this sort, and of setting
> his lips and bracing himself up to answer
steadily, but this had descended on him just
• now liko a thunderbolt.
> All the color flooded his brow; but, before he
t had time to reply, a strange, soft sweet change
had swept into Victoria’s face.
r “Hark,” she said, pausing and holding up
her hand in a listening attitude. “Oh, Mr.
> Davidson, hark 1”
They had just turned, into a narrow, very
. quiet lane, only some fifty yards long, a short
; cut between two busy streets. It went in a sort
of semi-circle, and at the point where Victoria
, had paused, where there was a deserted two-
- storied house, came the dull roar of machinery
> in motion.
t At Miss Egerton’s abrupt call to harken, Mr.
. Davidson stood, crossing his arms with a rapid
movement and bending his head a little.
2 There was aomething going, some great piece
of machinery, louder than all the rest, just in-
, side the window, with a thud and a whirl, then
, a rasping sound and a whirl again. Slowly Mr.
) Davidson raised his face, all the pain and em
r barrassment ot a few moments ago gone from
i it, a strange smile hoveriug about his lips, his
i eyes slightly dim.
“ Yes, I hear,” he said, in a tone with a soft
) ring in it; “it is a fine sound; I have listened to
i it before. That is my loom.”
He had turned his .ace round, in h : s strange,
t ‘slow way, without altering his bent attitude.
, Miss Egerton, her beautiful features radiant,
i met his eyes. A stranger and softer expression
than any flashed into both their faces and was
3 gone. Mies Egerton started and went hurry-
- ing down the lane, Mr. John Davidson follow
ing her.
t Neither of them spoke. Miss Egerton was
i trembling—sb.e could not have told why—an
J odd, choking sensation at her throat; feeling,
t too, as if a dozen years had come and gone
- since she entered the lane—feeling as though
f the old life were long since dead, and this, a
new era, had now begun for her. Mr. David
son was pale and grave as when she had waved
1 him to stop at the entrance to the cross street,
t Bwilt as lightning a total revulsion ot feeling
e came to Miss Egerton. What was the explana-
- tion of her own intense emotion? How dared
? this man call it forth in her? She abruptly
1 burst into a little peal of laughter.
f “ Fancy my listening to a loom under a win-
- dow I” she cried.
Mr. John Davidscn paused, raised his head
with a jerk and looked blankly before him, then
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 13, 1887.
turned a searching and rapid glance round at
the girl, as though this had jallen upon him i
with such incongruity that he Was half unable
to comprehend.
Suddenly be paced ou with increased rapidi
ty, a terrible change coming to his eyes.
And he had spoken to this girl of his loom !
They were now at the door of Mr. Hattley's
factory. Not a word had crossed either of their
lips since Miss Egerton’s little mocking re
mark.
They paused at the door of the factory, and
Mr. Davidson turned to her, his face expressive
of cold disapproval.
“I have come all this way past the wool
shop with you,” she said, with a little attempt
at bravado, “ and now I think you ought to go
back with me.”
“Most willingly,” replied Mr. John David
son, frigidly. And before she could prevent
him he had wheeled round and walked to the end
of the street with her. At the door of the wool
shop he lifted his hat and left her.
It was later in the day, and even warmer,
when Victoria got back to Mrs. Hattley’s, and
in the quiet solitude of her own room sho threw
herself into an easy chair and burst into a pas
sionate flood of tears.
CHAPTER 111.
More than a month had passed. It was the
last day of September—a chilly, windy morning
-—and Mrs. Hattley, turning into the courtyard
of the factory, in her handsomely-appointed
barouche, pulled her sable mantle closer and
shivered. As tho carriage drew up at the por
tion ot the building whore Mr. Hattley’s offices
were situated, Mr. John Davidsou appeared at
a doorway. Mrs. Hattley alighted hastily and
shook h inds very graciously.
During the past month John Davidson had
been frequently at the Hattleys’. Mr. Hattley,
on the point of starting for an important busi
ness trip to America, had much to settle with
his manager. Mrs. Hattley had, at the begin
ning, almost felt offended at Mr. Davidson’e ex
treme formality ot manner both to her and Vic
toria. Often Mr. Hattley would invite him to
stay to dinner, after the business meetings, but
it was not often that he would allow hfmself to
be persuaded. It was not that Mrs. Hattley
cared much about John Davidson’s opinion;
but there was something particularly galling in
so very evident a resolution that their acquaint
anceship should not develop into intimacy. If
there was to be any such ban at all, she re
marked to Victoria, it should certainly have
been on thoir side, and Victoria had assented.
When all was said, the man was young and
good-looking and gentlemanly and talented.
Mr. Hattley predicted all sorts of future great
ness ior him, and Mrs. Hattley, spirited and
popular and young herself, did not quite like
that he should look so coldly on her and her
pretty sister. However, she was glad that Vic
toria seemed to have lost all interest in deci
phering his forehead.
Then a change had.come. He had suddenly
grown very markedly interested in all pertain
ing to Victoria, and Victoria, on her side, bad
appeared to return to the scrutiny of the lore
head with vigor. In the middle of this Mr.
Hattley had started for America.
Just before his departure his wife had man
aged to whisper a word of her alarm to him,
and he first had opened his placid blue eyes,
and then had laughed and said he did not feel
himself entitled to interfere.
Then she had tried reasoning with Victoria.
There was such a thing, sho assured her beau
tiful sister very gravely, as compromising one
self by studying even a man’s forehead too
seriously. Victoria had laughed still more
than Mr. Hattley.
As the days went on and things seemed to be
becoming more pronounced, Mrs. Hattley de
cided that some serious action must be taken.
Victor a was undeniably a great beauty and be
longed to an excellent family. The very con
templation o such a union was ridiculous.
She had ordered her carriage this morning,
leaving Victoria absorbed io the contemplation
ot a miniature loom, and had driven along the
dusty roads to the factory, determined on what
she was to do. The first person she saw, com
ing out of a side doorway, was John Davidson.
She went over and shook hands w.th him par
ticularly graciously.
“Itis so bitterly chilly,” she remarked. “ I
quite regretted all the w’ay having ordered an
open carriage.”
“I am sorry there is no fire in here,” said
Mr. Davidson, opening the door of a little pri
vate office. “I can easily have it lighted.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she answered ; “I am
not going to stay.” She spoke hurriedly and
with a certain trouble in her manner. John
Davidson's steady eyes were noting her un
usual confusion, and she knew that it was so.
“I—l have had a telegram from my husband.
He has arrived quite safely at Chicago,” she
ended, feeling unequal to proceed with what she
had to say at once.
“ Yes, the journey so far appears to have
been remarkably pleasant,” ho answered, po
litely. “i had a telegram from him this morn
ing myself.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Davidson, the fact is, it was
not exactly about the telegram 1 camo. I have
something I wish to say to you, and I can only
hope that you will accept it in the spirit in
which it is spoken. 1 consider it right to ex
plain to you now what I think my sister Vic
toria ought to have explained herself at the
outset, in case of any misunderstanding on
your part—that, being exceedingly devoted to
the study of physiognomy and judging your
face and forehead a remarkable one, she has
been ardently cultivating your society with a
view of improving her knowledge of the
science. Mr. Davidson, if you unhappily have
mistaken This interest of my sister’s ior a
deeper feeling, I can only say that I regret
much that it should be so, and I would ask you
to remember, should you bo inclined to think
hardly of Victoria, that she is very young.”
It was not strictly true all this -that she was
saying to him—not true to the letter; but she
looked him straight in the face as she said
it. She was aware that she was not acting
honorably in thus misrepresenting what she
knew to be her sister’s feelings, but, having
made up her mind, sho deliberately did it.
Not the faintest quiver of change came to his
expression. After Mrs Hattley finished speak
ing a perfectly dead silence followed, broken
only by the loud ticking of a clock on the man
telpiece.
“ I must thank you very much for this warn
ing,” said Mr. John Davidson at length, “of
which the forethought is so remarkable that you
will pardon its taking me completely by sur
prise. Under the circumstances, however, does
it not strike you that any such warning has
been a littlo unnecessary ?”
“ Under what circumstances ?” enquired Mrs
Hattley, drawing herseh up and flushing. Mr.
Davidson’s attitude was still gravely and grace
:ully polite, but the look of repressed, and very
contemptuous, amusement m eyes and mouth
there was no longer any mistaking.
“ Lallude to my immod ato departuro for
America. I start for Liverpool this afternoon.
It is true that I must return here era 1 set sail,
but virtually, after to-day, I shall have said
‘ good-bye ’to Bremingly. As Mr. Hattley
will probably intrust me with the carrying
out of the arrangements lor our new fac
lories there, it will, in all likelihood, be a
year or two before I get back again. Before that
time I feel perfectly assured your sister will
have removed all danger out of my way by
definitely levelling her researches one some
object more worthy their attention. Neverthe
less, Mrs. Hattley, 1 must thank you once again
for your extreme forethought on my account.”
She had complained of feeling cold, and the
repose of her manner had over and over again
been adjudged perfect, but with a crimson flush
on her face she was hurrying out ot the office in
away she would have condemned iu her own
housemaid.
“This is surely very sudden?” she managed
to stammer.
“So far as the early train this afternoon goes,
yes ; but a business man s time, you know, Mrs.
Hattley, is never his own. I regret that I shall
not have an opportunity of giving your sister a
final physiognomical interview. You will wflsb
her all success from me in the prosecution of
her scientific studies.”
A few minutes later Mrs. Hattley, in a min
gled fev6r of indignation and humiliation, such
as she had never known before, was driving
rapidly homeward. She had gone to this man
and spoken as she had done, and all the time
he had been thinking about them so little that
he bad never even cared to let them know of bis
coming departure.
Stay; he must have told Victoria; yes, and
this was why Victoria had laughed when she
had warned her against the danger of such an
intimacy. It was too bad, too unkind of Victo
ria, not to have explained matters.
Arrived at home, the tears of vexation rising
in her eyes as John Davidson’s face of repressed
amusement presented itself to her mental
vision, she went at once, indignantly, to her
sister.
“ Victoria,” she began, “ why did you not tell
me John Davidson was going away to America ?”
Then, as Victoria’s start spoke more plainly
than words: “What! you did not know either?
He is leaving early this afternoon, and will not
be back for a year or two. Just to think,” she
went on, a sudden and very illogical ieelmg of
anger sweeping across her at John Davidson’s
indifference to her sister, as she noticed the
strange bent attitude Victoria’s figure had
taken: “ Just to remember the kindness we
have shown that man, and he does not even tell
us he is going away, or care to say good-bye. Is
it not too humiliating ?”
But Victoria, the bright and strong and high
spirited, answered nothing at all. Bhe had
fainted.
* * * * 5f *
It was evening; a windy, dusty evening—just
such as the morning had been premonitory of;
and Victoria, a long cloak over her black lace
dress, was beating against it alone—away down
amidst the crowds in the city. Rough workmen
on their way home; and pre-occupied clerks;
and bustling message boys; and apple-sellers
shivering at their stands—hardly one but turned
a more or less curious glance after the girl’s
graceful, hurrying figure.
She went rapidly on, without ones raising her
eyes. It was still very early evening, but from
end to end of the sky there was nothing but a
dead, lavender-colored gloom, that cast a dreary
shadow over everything. By-and-by Victoria
turned into the little lane passing the back of
the factory. For the first time she put back her
vail and looked up.
She had reached the angle of the lane, above
which towered the back of the factory, and now
camo to a dead stand there.
The lane was perfectly deserted, and she
stood in the middle and fastened her eyes fever
ishly on the building she had been determined
lo come to ; to gaze* just ones at that building
before putting aside forever all old. thoughts*
and had stopped away unseen in her absorbing '
unhappiness, indifferent as to what alarm Mrs.
Hattley might suffer. She would never bo ;
happy again, she told herself; never be a free,
light-hearted girl again. The wound might be
partially healed in the years to come, but she
would never be quite the same woman again.
Sho had loved John Davidson, and he had
slighted her.
Work was all over for to-night. The great
gray back of the building, at which sho stood
gazing, was silent as the grave. From the slow
deepening of the gloom overhead, it seemed as
if there might soon be rain.
All at once, as Miss . Egerton stood there, a
sudden sound macle her start round.
John Davidson, whom she had believed to be
miles away in the hurrying train, was standing
beside her.
His head was a little bent forward; ho was
straining his piercing eyes at her as if, from tho
mere turn of her attitude, he would fathom her
to the very soul.
How well he loved her ! Little did Mrs. Hatt
ley think that the very first idea of his depart
ure had come to him while the terrible purport
ed disclosure as to Victoria’s feelings was being
macle. He knew at once, in that moment, that
bis only hope out of a misery which might end
in tho destruction of his whole future, lay in
the instant exo dement of new scenes, anew line
of life and thought.
It never occurred to him to doubt Mrs. Hatt
ley |n the slightest. He remembered all; tho
way Victoria had looked at him; her laugh while
listening under the window o! tho factory. Of
course she had been mocking him all along.
How that laugh haunted and stung him. He
had announced himself summoned abroad, and
made hasty preparations lor leaving by an after
noon train. Then a chance had delayed him
until evening.
He bad been making some indispensable pur
chases; biddidg emiling adieus from time to
time too, with a canker-worm bitter as death at
his heart, and talking much of tho new Ameri
can factories.
Suddenly, in tho very middle of ono of these
adieus, he had been struck dumb by tho sight
of Victoria’s hurrying figure. Tearing himself
away unceremoniously, leaving his friend look
ing alter him iu surprise, he bad swiftly followed
her, filled with r vague hope he could not have
defined. He had come fair up after her into the
lane here, and had found her enwrapped in
contemplation of the point ho, too, only a little
earlier, had been contemplating with sad emo
tion.
“Victoria,” he burst out, “I have been de
ceived; it was not true about the physiognomy;
or supposing it to have been true at first—you
love me now. You have loved me* —oh, tell me
that it is so—from tho day we stood here to
gether listening to my loom.”
It had come so suddenly on her. In the mid
dle ot the whirl of her other emotions she had
an awlui sensation ot tear at the wild beating of
her own heart. She could not move. She raised
her eyes and looked at him and waited until she
could speak.
“From that day—certainly,” ehe answered,
distinctly, at last. “I cannot attempt to deny
it I think, even, that I had loved you from the
night I first saw you enter tho ball-room. But
what does it matter?—you are going away.”
He came forward and closed his two hands
tenderly over ono of hers—his features, that
had been set so firmly, quivering with deep
emotion. He had never, not even a moment
ago, dreamed of such an intoxicating answer as
this.
“ Never, now,” ho said, brokenly. “ Ah, Vic
toria, it was for your sweet sake that 1 was
leaving, and for your sweet sake I will remain.”
COURTSHIP IN GREEN LA N I).
IN THIS RESPECT A GOOD COUN
TRY TO LIVE IN.
Tn the countries o" the extreme North the
nights are six months long. What a place that
must be to spend tbe evening with a young lady.
Just think of it! Think of it, ye poor young
swains who are obliged to make your calls no
longer than the miserable space of four or five
poor hours. Think of the picnic an Esqui
mau du lo has when he starts out for a call on
his inamorata. He arrives at her. house just
after dark, and the two ait in the front parlor
for a few weeks, not realizing that it is-long past
ihe hours of gloaming, and that the room is as
dark as the tricks of a politician. Then her
mother comes in and I'ghts the gas, saying:
should think you children would have
better sense than to sit here in the dark. You
had better have a little light on the subject.”
Then the old lady skips out to give the young
people a chance, for she doesn’t believe in
young girls lasing time, and in Greenland there
is only one night a year.
. After her departure the young people sit on
the so a and look at the photograph album for
a week or two. This is no novelty to them, as
they know every photograph in the book, from
hers, taken when she was in short skirts, io his,
taken only yesterday morning, representing
him leaning over the back of a chair, twirling
his alleged mustache and smiling so persuas
ively that he looks as it he were trying to get
trusted for a halt dozen shirts. They sit closer
as they begin to get more deeply interested in
tho photographs. She snuggles up to him and
points with her sealskin-gloved finger to the
portrait of her cross-eyed aunt, who was bitten
by a Spitz dog tbe night before. He is deeply
moved, although he has seen tho picture be
fore, and ns he draws nigh to take a closer look
he presses his arm lightly around her waist,
whose symmetry is concealed by her bearskin
Mother Hubbard. After his manly arm has
been there a few days, she notices it’ call him a
“ horrid thing” and flounces across the room to
the piano. Sbe plays for a fortnight and then
he, wearying ot looking at the pictures in “ Bun
yan’s Pilgrim’s Progress” on the centre-table,
tip-toes across the floor and embraces her just
as she strikes a diminished seventh on the pia
no. She turns around on the piano stool with
an alluring little giggle and their lips meet in
one brief but blissful kiss—about four days in
duration !
This is all very pleasant, of course, and they
sit holding each others .hands and looking
volumes of Byronio poetry into each other’s
eyea for a few more weeks, when an interrup
tion takes place. Tho parlor door squeaks, and
in the twinkling of a hook-and-eye the young
man occupies the sofa at one end of the room
and is reading an evening paper, while the
young woman is looking over the music. It is
an embarrassing two hours for both of them,
when the father enters and looks suspiciously
from ono to the other. The old gentleman
comes ostensibly to bring the young people
some candles to eat byway of a little supper, to
be washed down by a bowlful of suow. In
reality, however, he is there to sec how they are
behaving themselves. Anon he leaves them,
first winding tho clock in a rather suggestive
manner, and then setting the alarm ‘our months
ahead, in order that he may surely get up in
time for breakfast.
What a relief when he is gone! Tho two
kindrod souls again proceed to intercommu
nion, and no sounds are heard but the barking
of tbe pet seal out in the woodshed and the sug
gestive ticking ot the well-trained clock as the
weeks fly swiftly by.
It seems to the’twain that the night is yet
young, when in about two months and a half
her big brother, comes home from the theatre,
where a melo-drama in 147 acts has been ren
dered by the regular stock company. Her bro
ther is late, because, being somewhat smitten
on the leading lady of the company, he took
her out lor a little supper, lasting the greater
part of a week. He no sooner vanishes than a
sound as of two heavy boots falling on the floor
means that adieus must be cut short, and that
there must be no hanging over the front gate
for thirty-six or forty-eight hours. The young
lovers grapple each other in a convulsive em
brace. It seems hard that they should have to
part, that he must go so soon, but it must be.
Fate is against them. Time waits for no man,
and the Spitz dog is untied. They cling about
each other’s necks for throe weeks, breathing
vows of fealty, and then kissing her again (time,
twenty-four hours), he hurries to tho gate just
as a gruff voice 13 heard from the top of the
stairs, saying:
“ Clara, is that young man never going ?”
Clara answers:
“Do go ’way from the hall, pa. Somebody
might see you?’
Then she looks tho door, goes to her boudoir,
and dreams about him —to her the only him in
all this wide, wide world—for the next two or
three months.
PUZZLING THE PHYSTIANS.
A LITTLE GIRL UNCONSCIOUS
FOB A MONTH.
(From the Chicago Tribune,)
The little daughter of Dr. L. H. Montgomery,
of tho Health Office, became sick about a month
ago, and her disease has assumed a phase
which has puzzled the various physicians of the
city who have been to see her. During the
greater portion of the time since she was first
taken down she has been unconscious. The
very nature ot her complaint is a mystery, and
what it is tho physicians can’t find out. The lit
*tle girl (Esther) is three years of age, and had
always been unusually healthy. She was pretty,
plump and lively, and of more than ordinary
sunny disposition.
It was at first thought sbe had the measles,
as the symptoms seemed to indicate it. She
was at times able to play about the house, and
then again would be held in the arms of a nurse.
Four weeks ago, after she had been ailing lor
four days, she was seized with convulsions,
which continued at frequent intervals in spite of
everything which could be done until early the
next’ morning. When the convulsions ceased
she was found to be still unconscious. She at
first appeared to be asleep, and lor nearly three
weeks remained in that condition.
Within the last week she has revived some
what, and it would seem that she was aware in
a measure of what was going on around her.
There does not appear to be any sign of intelli
gence in the eyes when they are open, and yet
they follow the movements of her mother
around the bed from one aide to the other.
When the mother talks to the child there is no
response of any kind—no indication whatever
that the little one is conscious of what is being
said to her or of what is going on around her.
Esther lies perfectly still most of tbe time,
only occasionally moving her hands. Some
times there is a movement of the body, and the
physicians who are in waiting upon her—Drs.
Earle and Hoadley—say these movements are
the signs of nature, which indicate that the body
craves nourishment, the child, however, not be
ing aware of any desire for food ci any kind.
Sha ie not given any medicine, and Im nour«
iehmont consists of peptonized milk taken from
a spoon. She has not lost lieati until within the
lact week. Aionday last near noon she had a
sinking spell, from which she rallied, but atone
time it was thought she was dying. The next
day at the same hour she had a similar spell,
but not ot so grave a nature as the*first. Since
that hour she has rallied and to all appear
ances has improved.
Many of the most prominent physicians in the
city have visited the house and viewed the lit
tle patient, but the case continues a puzzle. It
is the unanimous opinion, however, that some
portion of the brain has been affected by dis
ease, but no one has been able to exactly locate
the trouble.
With the Colorado Cowboys.
BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Youth's Companion.)
Cattle-raising in the Western States is one of
the most profitable and important industries
which attract onr young men. To the imagina
tion ot school-boys, there is an atmosphere of
romance hanging over the wild lie of the
ranch.
To be a cowboy; to roam the prairies on a
fleet mustang ; to-wear a broad sombrero, boots
and spurs and leather leggings, a belt stuck full
of cartridges, a bristling-knife and revolver ; to
live among herds of cattle, to fling the lasso and
to be the peer of the boldest and gayest com
panions, this ie the dream of many a sober
youth, in the midst of his hum-drum occupa
tions. Then to the desire for a free, expanded
existence, so natural to the young, is added the
glorious hope ot
This is certainly better than the wish to be a
pirate or a highwayman, with which many ro
mance-reading boys are inspired. For the cow
boy, who varies his liie by train-robbing and by
requesting stage-coach passengers to hold up
their hands, is not, be it understood, the cow
bov of our sketch.
There is little of that sort of romance, or in
deed of any other, attending the real life of the
Western herder. The haze of illusion that col
ors it is a creature of fancy and distance. It is
about as hard a life as a young man can under
take, unless he enters upon it with his hands
lull of gold ; even then it is no boy’s sport, if he
is in earnest.
I know a graduate ot one of our great Eastern
colleges, a young man of culture and fortune,
who went to Colorado two years ago,with money
enough to buy and stock a large ranch. He was
wise enough to know-that success depended
upon strict attention to business; and out of a
home of luxury he stepped into a hut, where
to-day he cooks his own breakfast, washes his
own clothes, sleeps hard and works hard, all as
cheerfully as if he had never known a life of
less hardship and toil.
In Summer he starts off before sunrise, with
a piece of jerked beef at his saddle-bow, to ride
all day among his cattle, seeing that they do not
stray too far from good feed and water; return
ing only at night, to co >k and eat a hasty sup
per, and throw himself, wearily enough, but
thoroughly contented, on his bard couch.
Sometimes he does not come homo at all for
days. Often in Winter ho rides up into the
mountains, among the canons ot which his cat
tle find shelter from the storms, and sleeps on
the snow, wrapped like an Esquimau, with just
a breathing-holo in his blanket; resting comfor
tably, with the temperature of the Colorado
night sinking below zero.
This is the life of his choice. But he is his
own master and the master ot other men. There
are other former college boys, who are now cow
boys; but only a small proportion of them have
ha immense advantages.
He acts as his own foreman, thereby saving
a groat expense. Foremen ou large ranches
command high wages, often a share in the in
crease of the stock; but it is only an experienced,
able, and, one may add, a fortunate man who
obtains a situation ot this kind.
The ordinary herder works hard under strict
discipline, obeying orders like a soldier, for S3O
or S4O a month. A good “roper,” however, gets
more. A “ roper” is one who can throw the
lasso, and capture a steer stronger, perhaps,
than his horse. It requires skill and ag.lity to
do that.
By saving his wages, and investing them in
cattle, the cowboy may in time get a small herd
of his own, which will rapidly grow to be a large
h rd. Many prosperous ranchmen have begun
business iu this way.
But.the majority of cowboys remain cowboys
until they wear out, or weary of the work and
turn to something else. The hard life they lead
induces reckless habits; and drink is the curse
of many a generous follow, who without it
could not fail to become an honorable and use
ful citizen.
The traveler notices a great difference among
cowboys, in different sections of the country, in
respect to sobriety. Here, as a class, they are
steady and industrious; there, reckless and dis
sipated almost teaman. It seems as if a few
strong spirits among them influenced the rest,
for good or ill. Hence the danger which every
young man incurs who leaves family and friends
and becomes the daily associate ot a powerful,
generous, jovial, but too often unprincipled set
ot men.
To a “tenderfoot” who comes among them,
timid and complaining, afraid of hardships,
they can bo rough enough in their fun-making.
But a stranger exhibiting quiet qualities of
pluck and endurance, will find them as kind
and helpful as brothers.
In Winter the cattle on open ranges are most
ly left to take care ot themselves. They get to
gether in immense, straggling herds, from dif
ferent ranches, feeding on sage brush, dry buf
falo-grass and bunch-grass, and drifting with
the storms, protecting one another by the mass
in which they move, until they strike the moun
tain or some sheltered vale. Traveling through
Western Kansas last Spring, I saw the carcases
of thousands of cattle lying on the north side
of tli© fences bordering the railroad track,
where their “ drifting” had been intercepted by
the fence, and they had perished from cold and
starvation.
It is the business of the cowboy to prevent, if
possible, such calamities. Then in Spring comes
the general “round-up. ’ The herds of various
owners are all mingled together, and some have
strayed twenty or thirty or more miles from
home. The country has to bo scoured twofor
three times over, to bring in all the stragglers
from the gulches and small streams, and weeks
are spent in bringing together in one enormous
“ bunch.”
All the herders of the region unite in the work
of the round-up. They travel in companies, each
with its cook and camping apparatus, carrying
their canned lood with them, even their canned
milk, if they wish milk for their coffee ; for one
thing a cowboy never does is to milk one of his
herd.
If they wish for frosh meat, they may, per
haps, shoot an antelope or deer, while such
wild game still abides. Otherwise they choose
a “ Maverick ” out of the herd for the butcher’s
steel. A “ Maverick ”is an animal that has no
brand; so called after a man of that name whose
herd, it was noticed, increased magically, and
who was found to make a business of picking up
stray cattle that bore no owner’s mark.
It no “ Maverick ” is handy, they choose any
well-conditioned steer, kill aud eat it, crediting
it to the owner whose brand it bears.
The round-up has reached its most important
stage when all the cattle ot that part of the coun
try have been “bunched.” Then comes the
work of “ cutting out.”
The most skilled of the cowboys ride in among
the frightened and bellowing herd., and separate
the different brands, “ cutting out” with won
derful dash and rapidity the cattle of each
owner.
The movement, the yelling, the bellowing,
the rush of rider and horse, the flying rope, the
running out of the selected animals—all this
gives great animation to the scene.
Occasionally, in the round-up, neither the
brand nor the ear-marks of a beast can be read
ily made out. In that case the rope is used,
the creature thrown, and its sides washed, to
bring out traces of the hot iron, which, once
burnt into the flesh, are never wholly effaced.
The laws concerning the brands ot cattle and
sheep are very strict. In Denver there is an
official register of all the legal brands in the
State. No man is allowed to imitate another
man’s brand; and he must have his own duly
registered. If he buys an animal, he at once
adds his own brand to that of its former owner.
Cowboys become very skillful riders, and
they are sometimes fond of “ showing off.” In
Southern Colorado I witnessed some perform
ances which were as good as any equestrian
feats I ever saw. A cowboy rode through the
streets of a small town at full gallop, picking up
whatever was thrown in the way before him -a
hat, a whip, a handkerchief This he did by
stooping from the saddle, putting down one
baud to the ground, wh le he held on by the
other and by his feet, and springing up into his
place again without even slackening speed.
Then he galloped through the streets, lasso
ing dogs, cattle, and even his friends. I noticed
that the rope was gathered in a coil, with a
noose at the end about six feet long; this was
swung around the rider’s head several times,
and finally projected twenty or thirty feet, with
surprising accuracy, at the object to be cap
tured. A dog usually slipped his head out of
the loop as it tightened, and ran away yelping;
but a horned creature had to wait until re
leased.
But the most exciting fun was when two cow
boys, in picturesque hats and fantastically
fringed leather leggings, mounted on the brisk
est of ponies, attempted lassoing each other. As
one flung his rone, the other would dodge it by
dropping down on his horse's neck, or leaning
over the side of his saddle; then he would
spring up and fling his rope in turn.
Once both were noosed ; then it was diverting
to see the trained horses pull and back and
brace themselves, and the men haul at the
ropes, each trying to free himself and at the
same time drag down his antagonist. The
horses seemed io understand the friendly game,
and to enjoy it as well as the men, though they
themselves sometimes got lassoed over the
neck or about the legs.
In concluding this sketch, I most earnestly
advise every youth, who is ambitious of beingja
ranchman or a cowboy, to learn something of
the trials and hardships he will have to under
go before attempting that new lite; then, if re
solved to undertake it, to set out fully prepared
to encounter, with Spartan sobriety, hot suns,
cold nights, and the hardest of hard fare and
hard work. Unless his health is of the sound
est, let him not risk it in the saddle aud bivouac
of the Colorado cowboy’s life.
If ho has money and wishes to go into the
business ot cattle-raising, let him first learn
that business on a well-ordered ranch. After a
few months he may be able to decide whether it
will suit him, or whether h£ can safely invest
his life and capital in it.
A MAD-CAP MARRIAGE.
HOW MARY CURTIM WAS DI
VORCED.
(From the Lancaster, Fa., Examiner.)
One of tho legislative committees at Harris
burg, recently, in delving among the archives
of the House of Representatives after traces ot
an old committee report, came across a docu
ment which possesses a romantic interest, and
recalls a somewhat exciting incident of social
life at the State Capital in 1865, which never got
into print, and was known to but a limited cir
cle at the time. The document is the original
of House bill No. 2, of the legislative session of
1866, the introduction oT which at the first ses
sion at which the House was fully organized
was the first act in the legislative career of Mat
thew S. Quay, now State Treasurer and United
States Senator elect. It was a bill to divorce
Mary Wilson McConnell from her husband,
Henry Lloyd McConnell.
Mrs. McConnell was the young and handsome
daughter of the then Governor Curtin, and
thereby hangs the romance of this story.
Through the efforts ot Mr. Quay and Senator
Lowry, of the Crawford district, this divorce
bill, without going to committee, passed both
Houses of the Legislature iu lees than two
hours. This was on January 10, 1856. Mr.
Quay, whose fine hand was seen in the railroad
ing ot the Philadelphia Magistrates bill through
some weeks ago, evidently began to get on to
the rapid legislative methods very soon in bis
political career.
Miss Mary Wilson Curtin had just budded
into her teens when her father was elected Gov
ernor of Pennsylvania, and was a school girl
when she came to Harrisburg to live at the
Executive Mansion. She was sprightly, good
natured and had charming manners. By 1865
she had grown to bo one of the handsomest and
most entertaining and most sought alter of all
the buds iu society here and iu Philadelphia,
where she was well known and is still remem
bered as a belle.
One evening, at an entertainment at the Gov
ernor’s mansion, she met young Captain Henry
Lloyd a dashing officer of the army,
who was taken ill during the reception and was
kindly taken care of by the Governor’s family.
This led to frequent meetings between Miss
Curtin and young McConnell, who was a fine
looking follow, but of no particular social status,
and would not have been listened to by the
Governor as a suitor for the hand of his daugh
ter. But Cupid and the captain’s shoulder
straps played havoc with the young lady’s heart.
The result was that one afternoon a pair of
timid lovers appeared in the office of old
“’Squire” McLaughlin and asked to be mar
ried. 'I he young lady was vailed. The Justice
did not dream that she was the Governor’s
daughter, whom he knew by sight as one of the
pretty girls of the town. He readily agreed to
perform the ceremony. His little nephew, who
was present, witnessed the marriage certificate.
The young lady gave her name as Miss Mary
Wilson Curtin, with strong accent upon the
last syllable.
The old ’squire and his nephew are both
dead, but there is still a living witness to this
ceremony in Hamburg—William McLaughlin,
the justice's son, who was home from the war
on a furlough, and happened to be in the office
at the time.
“Captain McConnell,” said Mr. McLaughlin,
in relating the story of the marriage, “ was a
very handsome fellow; but I guess that’s about
all there was in him.”
The captain walked down the street to the
Executive Mansion and left his bride at the
door, going to his own quarters, presumably to
let the storm blow over. But the storm never
did blow over. The governor, as was to have
been expected, was in a towering rage when he
was told by his daughter what she had done.
The young lady was hurried off to a boarding
school and out of reach, and negotiations were
begun with the husband to got him out of the
way as well. Governor Curtin’s political power
at that time was greater probably than that of
any men in the State, and means were found to
induce the young and daring captain to leave
the State and make no claims upon his wife,
who, ho was told, had repented of her marriage
and didn’t care to see him any more.
In a few days the captain left Harrisburg and
was lost sight of by his friends. He subse
quently became a United States marshal in the
West, where be now lives.
Whether the young bride protested against
the summary wav in which she was snatched
from her husband’s arms is a matter ot con
jecture; but it was current gossip among the
few who knew of the circumstances that the
irato Governor had locked his daughter up jn
her room in the Executive Mansion until the
captain was out of the way. The marriage was
kept pretty quiet considering the circumstances,
and, although the story did leak out in society
in a piecemeal sort ot way, the particulars were
never known and the papers knew nothing of
the affair. As soon as the Legislature met, a
divorce bill was presented, as has been seen,
and the marriage annulled. Since then Miss
Curtin has married a gentleman in every way
worthy of her, is well known in society circles
at the National Capital and in New York, and
looks back upon her youthful folly with the
philosophy which comes with more sober years.
• W . • w * tr »
Here is a shoat poem concerning
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER.
Gold-haired miss of nineteen years
Teaching class of boys;
Thirteen years of age are they,
Learning gospel joys.
Lady friend by teacher’s side.
Dressed in latest style.
Eougish eyes on young men’s class
Straight across the aisle.
“Abram pleads for Sodom—boys,
Who can tell to-day
What the lesson is about ?—
(Light mustache, you s iy ?
Oh. he is an awful dude,
Flirts with every one.)
Do not talk or eat, please Frank,
’Till the lesson’s done.
“Abram prayed to God that he—
(Hard to make it plain ?
Yes, indeed, I guess it is;
Thera, he laughed again !
If that dark-eyad one would turn
So you'd see his face)
Find the map now, Johnnie dear.
And hunt up the place.
“Sodom—that’s right—now go on;
What did God say back ?
‘All shall live for fifty’s sake’—
(That’s a lovely sacque).
Then when Abram asked again
‘lf there should lack five’—
(Honestly, this room's so warm,
I shall roast alive I)
“Get out your handkerchief, May !
(See him using his I)
Yes, that’s right—‘lt all but five,
Sodom stands as ’tia.’
‘Aud if forty shall be found/
Abram said again—
(Did you bring your gossamer, May?
It's begun to rain.)
“ Charlie, this time ? Tea, that's right—
• All for these I'll spare.’
(You must show me. May, to-night,
How you do your hair.)
Mark the class-book—time is up.
Get a cent from each.
Now all sing the closing hymn.
(Yes, it’s hard to teach.)"
“ Carl Dunder ” is still uttering his brevities
of wisdom under the title
LIKE IT VHAS IN SHERMAN.
Dot same peoples who spit oaf er deir finger for
luck vhen dey see a white horse vhill loaf aroundt
sooner dan work for twolf shillings a day.
Vhen I vhas content In my mind I vhas as rich
ash Vanderbilt ; vhen I vhas all proke oop der riches
of Shay Gould would not make me happy.
Der friendship of a goodt man vhas like der Inter
est on ten tousand dollars at sefen per eent.
Peeles who build der biggest castles in deir
minds shenerally lif in der poorest houses in real
ity. I doan' gila bushel of turnips for dot ship
which vhas to come in for somepody.
I tell my poy dot Truth vhas mighty und must
prevail, but he hadt potter look a leedle out if he
sees a man drunk und goes und tells his wife.
Sometimes a lie vhas shust what makes peoples
happy.
Der reason vhy we look pack on our shildhood
mit sooch fondness is peeause we can't remember
der tears und heartaches.
Dot same man who doan’ pelief in Heafen pecauae
he can’t see him will accept of a jug of whisky sim
ply by der shmell.
One time vhen I goes mit der boleece to see about
a deadt dog in my neighbor's yard, he coomes oop
und finds two deadt cats under my own woodshed.
It vhas a golden principle to be honest, but if all
man liv.ed oop to him der peesaess of der country
would fall off one-half in a week.
It vijas always my pelief dot gnideboards were
put up at highway corners to make more miles for
trafelers. If we doan’ know bow long der roadt
vhas we come to some place all der sooner.
Some day vhen I shall come to pelieve all der
worldtvhas badt, I shall slip out to der barn und
hang myself for fear dot I vhos der only good one
left und would be lonesome.
Nature vhas mighty good to some folks, but you
vbill most always see dot she run short of brain
material after making a handsome face.
I know vhas ails der times, und I can sbpeak der
needs of der country, but I let him alone. It vhas
petter dot some one who doan’ pay taxes und goes
oop py der work-house for a loaler tells der peo
ples-
Maype it vhas true dot sharity pegins at home.
Some husbands act dot vhay vhen dey vhas asked
for money by deir wives.
Nopody should be older dan he vhas, but it should
be remembered dot some odt folks can make fools of
demselves on very short notice.
The Indianapolis Journal tells this story of
SHAKESPEARE AT A DISCOUNT.
A story is now told by one who is a force in Colo
rado politics, on ex-Senator Tabor, almost aa inter
esting as the nightgown story told on Colorado’s
ex-legislator when he was filling somebody’s unex
pired term in the Senate. The fame of Tabor's Opera
House, at Denver, is world-wide, and when Mr.
Tabor determined to build a theatre at Leadville,
he announced that he would have one built that
would make his former effort at Denver look like a
shed. He loudly asserted that ho would knock the
earth out, especially in the decorations of the Lead
ville home of Thespis. He sont to Italy for his
decorator and did not go inside the Leadville struc
ture until the Italian sent him word that he would
like his opinion. Mr. Tabor went in company with
the artist, and after careful scrutiny expressed him
self as quite satisfied.
But tell luo,” quoth Mr. Tabor. “ what man are
you making famous by putting his portrait up
tHcrp.”
«. Why, that a very true presentment of Shake
ppcar°. ’ replied the ;* vriiifc.
i • >» h<; is U-- ’? ’ ask ;, .i ths ex-tsinsr,
“Way. the yi v.at .hamutLt, ot courss t and not only
the greatest playrlght, bu‘ the greatest bard as
well."
“ Well, he have been of a Big fellow, »
but 1 never heard he did rttu'oh for Leadville.
Just paint him out of (bat, and paint ni'e in,” And
Mr. Tabor’s portrait overlooks the iiwditofium.
The San Francisco Chronicle is’ tespbiisibla
for this incident of the man who
CASHED HIS OWN DRAFT.
It was in the days of the early railroad”, When ft?
was yet new; the days when the journey New
York was less of a little jaunt than it is now; when
greenbacks were not popular here. One surUmer
morning, a man, walking in happy and feverish
haste, with wild excitement beaming all over his
face, stepped into the office of a well-known banker
“I want exchange for this in New York.”
*• All right. What is it?”
The man looked fearfully around him, and then
brought out a packet.
“It’s $25,000 in greenbacks."
♦‘ I guess I can do it. Going East ?’’
“ Yespl’m going to-morrow. I don’t want to car
ry all this 1 with dm. Couldn’t do it. Sure to get
robbed. So give me a draft. How much?’’
“ Oh, seeing it’s you, 1 per cent; $250 "
“ It goes/’
So the banker made out the draft on New York
and took the money.
“’You are going to-morrow, are you ?"
“Yes.”
“Would you'mind taking a little parcel for mo
and handing it to my brother ?”
“Certainly not. I’ll do it with pleasure."
The banker went into the other room and pres
ently came back with the parcel.
“ Just put it inyour valise; and don't lose it, will
you?”
“ I’ll take the best care of ft."
“Thank you. Good-by. Pleasant trip."
Arrived in New York, the Californian went to the
address aud delivered the package.- Then bo pre
sented his-draft* The man opened 1 the-package and
gave him the identical $25,000 in greenbacks he had
in San Francisco. Ho had carried thorn all tho way
himself.
SCINTILLATIONS.
A receiving teller—the newspaper in
ter viewer.
George <3. Milnis preaching “Hamlet"
in Chicago.
An actress may be a Pole by birth and
a stick by profession.
The lobster lays 42,003 eggs a year.,
Go to the lobster; thou hen !
The printer is a free-hearted follow.
He is always ready to set ’em up.
The new Secretary of Agriculture
should bo enjoined from sowing any political soedi
A subject for a debating society -—
Which is the greater evil, Spring elections or house*-
cleaning ?
Beggar to Doctor—“ Please, kind sir,,
help me. I’ve twelve small children." Doctor-—
“ Put out your tongue.”
He (at a Boston musical)—* 1 What
glorious interpretation !’* She (a Chicago youftsj
woman)—“Yes, Mr. Waldo, I call that good fid
dling."
“ Well, but if you can’t bear her,
whatever made you propose ?’’ “ Well, we had :
danced three dauces, and I oouldn’t think of an j
thing else to say I”
We oftan see the heading, Shipping
Intelligence,’’ in the papers, and lately we have fre
quently wished that some could be shipped to the
Indiana Legislature.
The thought that gen tie Spring is near
Sets all our hearts a-throbbing.
Now see which liar will soonest hear
The first notes of the robing.
We admire enterprise, but we despise
the man who would try to vote four times in tho
one subdivision without changing his overcoat*—
London (Canada) Advertiser.
Raphael was a very successful artist
in n certain way, but h» never did half aa much
busiuoss as bs might have done if be had connecteS
a well-stocked tea store with his art department.
When Cayenne pepper is higher than
Scotch snuff, the eauff is used to adulterate it.
When the reverse is the case, the pepper goes into
the snuff. It’s a-poor rule that won't work both
ways.
Telegraph Clerk (reading—over tele
gram): ■••ToMrs. Grabbatt: Hear—with—grist—
death—of—Aunt—Judith. Will— iu —our — favor?-
Two words too many, sir." Mr. G.: “Eh? Oh—
eh ?- urn—um ? Oh, well, look here—cut out ‘with
grief.’"
Husband (at the end of the first act) —•
“Shan’t I go out and get you some caramels, dear ?”
Wife—“ I brought some with me." Husband—
“ Why will you always munch candy between the
acts ? When you get through munching I'll come
back.”
Teacher—“ Miss Sinnico, please pars®
the sentence, ‘Adolphus married Caroline.’ " “WolL
‘Adolphus’ is a noun, because it is the name of a
thing; ‘ married ' is a conjunction, because it Joins
Adolphus and Caroline, and ‘Caroline' is a verb,
'cause it governs the noun.”
Countryman (in the gallery of tha
Stock Exchange)—“How much does it cost, mister,
to do business down there?” Mister—“ The seats.
I think, are worth about thirty thousand dollars."
Countryman (fetching his breath)—“ Gosh, I don’t
wonder most of ’em stand up.”
Tommy was presented lately, by his
older sister, with a neat pen-wiper for uso at school,
where he had just begun attendance. He admired
it, but remarked, “ I don’t have much use for it,
Jennie." “Why not, Tommy? You uso a pen
every day at school." “ Yes, I know it.” “Why
don’t you need a pen-wiper, then?” “’Cause I
always wipe my pen ou the girl's hair that sits la
front of mo.”
WHAT THENAHONSWAMT.
GENERAL LEW WALLACE’S VIE W
OF THE EUROPEAN SITUATION.
{lnterview in Cincinnati Post.)
“ What is Germany’s ambition in all thia fuaa
over the prospective partition of Turkey?"
asked the Post.
“ Why, Biamarck’a desire is that Austria shall
annex Macedonia on the South and acquire Cou
gt&ntinople, whereupon Germany will demand
tbe cession to her of Austria’s German-speak
ing provinces. That is the view hold by th®
most enlightened Eastern observers ot the pres
ent complications.”
“ Well, what about Bulgaria, Ser via and Rou
melia, which lie in the path of Austria to Con
stantinople?”
“Austria does not want to incorporate them.
She desires them to remain eemi-independent
states, to act as a buffer between her and Rus
sia.”
“ And Russia also, of course, wants Constan
tinople?” pursued the Post.
“Yes, and Asia Minor and Persia, that sha
may control tbe trade of tbe Tigris and
Euphrates valleys. She wants Afghanistan and
Beloochistan that her flank may be protected by
the Suleiman Mountains, which guard the iron-*
tier between India and Afghanistan.”
“ And the French ?”
“They want Palestine. The French, ever
since the days of the Crusader, have had a ro
mantic affection for Palestine, and a feeling as if
the Holy Land were almost an inheritance of
theirs. They have an ambition to be ‘ the most
Catholic nation/ and they feel that the
session of Palestine would qualify them to
claim that appellation.”
“ And England ?’ still queried the Post.
“England wants the Nile Valley. She has it:
now and means never to relinquish it ?”
“Then you think Germany does not want to
colonize Africa /’
“Oh, no! Bismarck’s dream is ot consolida
tion. Bismarck wants to see all the Germ ante
races united in one grand, firm, united empire.
If he can see that before he dies he will be con
tent.”
“Will they all get what they want?”
“ Who can tell?”
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7

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