New York dispatch. [volume], June 12, 1887, Page 6, Image 6

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

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6
IN THE SUNSET.
BY HELEN MAItION BURNSIDE.
The day is fading, the west is glowing
With tints, whoso glory brings back to m 3
A fair, fair haven with white sails going
Over and over a sapphire sea;
Oh I far, fair haven—oh ! sea bird flying, .
I fain would borrow your bold, brave wing,
To mount and soar while the day is dying,
And follow the red sun westering.
Oh I sapphire sea, set with gem-like islands—
Mine eyes with longing will weary sore,
Ere again I see the corn-crowned highlands
Which guard and girdle that shining shore !
In coigns and clefts that the woodbine covers
Are fairy places 1 knew of old,
Where lips—-ah, haply the lips of lovers—
Have told the story that once I told !
Fair and quiet, and brightly tender,
lhe low light gilded the wood and lea,
For day was dying in royal splendor
As we two stood by that western sea;
The soft wind scattered bright, tiny pieces
From beds of cloud where the sun reposed,
And sent them sailing like golden fleeces
In amber skies ore the twilight closed.
The lovely day was so long a-dying,
But came at last tho euch mting hour
When gentle Zephyr, with long-drawn sighing,
bhook the scent from tho woodbine flow r.
Then o’er the dusk of the oaks and beech s
The young moon mounted her throne alar.
And lit with silver the gray s a reaches
Lying beyond the harbor bar.
Ah, Love’s sweet words will again be spoken,
Like those we breathed on the fragrant air,
And Love’s sweet vows will be lightly broken,
As those have been that we uttered there-
And still the boats will be, wing-like, flitting
About the islands that gem the bay —
Oh 1 human hearts are so long forgetting
Tho bliss and pain of a bygone day !
A DARK MEMORY.
BY CLYDE RAYMOND.
“What a miserable, dreary day !—as bleak
and cheerless as -as my lite,” murmured Marion
Kirby, the last words sinking to a husky whis
per as she turned, half shuddering, from the
window where she had been standing—she
know not how long-watching, with a sort of
gloomy fascination, the depressing scene with
°Ult was a Spring day—a day in which, in the
Very nature ot things, should have been lair
and bright and full of brilliant bloom; yet it
might have been late in November, for all one
Could tell from the bleak, chill winds howling
dismally against the pnne, and the black clouds
Scurrying threateningly across the leaden sky.
A true type, as she had said, of her own life.
It was a sweet, sad face that you saw as she
turned from the window—almost colorless, save
for a kind of inward glow that seemed to warm,
without flushing, the delicate, creamy skin ;
dark eyes that you landed held some strange
story of their own in their passionate, sorrow
ful depths, and beautilul red lips, proud, yet
oftentimes wondrousty pathetic.
She began pacing up and down her room
with a slow, thoughtful step, a worried, impa
tient look on her fair brow.
“ I cannot stand this long period of waiting.
It may be weeks before they will allow me to
resume my school, and all that time I must be
idle—nothing to do but think—think—and too
much thinking will drive me wild. No, I must
go away,” and a troubled shadow settled on the
sweet, white face. “1 will godown to some
seaside town where 1 am not known, and try to
forget myself in watching the gay lite around
mo. Then, by-and-by, I can return to my du
ties here, or”—with brightening countenance—
“better still, possibly I may secure a place as
governess or companion with some one who is
going abroad ; then I will strive to forget the
old lite amid new scenes and busy toil.”
A faint color came into the pale cheeks and
an eager, almost hopeful light shone in the sad
dark eyes. Yes. she would go. That would be
the surest way to escape the bitterness of her
own thoughts.
/he had come to this place a stranger, months
ago, and had taught the village scho >1 with some
semblance of content, throwing herself with a
kind of feverish energy into her work.
The school bad been a great success; but a
contagious fever having recently broken out
kmong the pupils, the little brick school-house
had been closed indefinitely, and again the dark
shadows of unrest gathered around Marion Kir
by’s heart.
‘True, she might have found work enough to
keep her hands and thoughts busy had she
Cared to play tho role of village nurse. But she
had no liking lor the part, and she felt only a
feverish desire to get away to some new field of
action. w ,
Having made her decision she felt happier al
ready, and hastily donning a street toilet she
started out tor a walk, against the driving wind,
to quiet her excited thoughts and to begin some
preparations for her departure.
There was a half smile on her lips as she went
down stairs, and meeting her landlady in the
parlor, Marion gave her a pleasant greeting.
It was coldly returned, and the girl could not
tail to notice an unwonted stiffness in Mrs. Gra
ham’s manner.
“ Going out to get the latest news ?” the lady
inquired, with a sickly, iceberg sort of smile.
“ No,” said Alarion'calmly. “1 am not much
interested in the village news, excepting that
which concerns my pupils. lam so sorry we
had to give up our school,” she said, regret
fully.
“It isn’t likely the school will be opened
again,” returned Mrs Graham, snatching eager
ly at the chance afforded her tor unburdening
her mind. “It won’t with my consent, anyhow
—until we get another teacher,” she added,with
a malicious sparkle in her cold gray eyes.
“What do you moan, Mrs. Graham?” de
manded Marion, speaking quietly, with stern
repression in her low, tense tones, while a deep
red spot began to burn vividly in each pale
cheek. “Explain yourself.”
“ A body would think you hadn’t any need for
an explanation, Miss Kirby,” remarked the lady
with a virtuous sneer in her sharp voice. “ But
you can have it. 1 suppose you know that Miss
Samantha Parkinson has been away, making a
long visit to some of her folks in the western
part of the State. Well, when she happened to
mention who it was that was teachiag*our school
down here, why, somebody that had lived in
H burg”—Marion gave a 7 slight start, al
though she had known what was corUing—‘‘‘told
her just who and what Miss Marion Kirby was.
And it seems,” went on Mrs. Graham, waxing
more and more unfeeling m her virtuous indig
nation, “that she was anything but a fit person
to teach our innocent children. That she was
jlr. Theodore Courtney’s ”
“Hush 1”
That one word fell in low, clear accents, inde
scribably stern and commanding, from the pale
lips of the girl who had stood listening to this
tirade like au impassioned statue. It brought
the woman’s tongue to a sudden stop, and she
almost cowered before the blaze of those im
perious dark eyes bent full upon her own.
“I know what you would say,” continued
Marion, her slender form drawn up to its
queenliest' bight, those red spots burning
fiercely in her cheeks; “butjit is as false as
slander’s tongue itself. True, I lured by a
handsome, unprincipled scotiadrel into a sham
marriage; yet I stand before you new as pure in
heart, as stainless in the sight of God, as you
are, madam. The moment 1 learned the truth
I fled from him in horror, and have sought in
hard and constant toil to forget that one mis
erable blot upon my life. I have done no will
ful wrong, so it matters naught to me what you
or your little world oi gossip may think or say-,”
she added, turning away with an impatient
gesture, half contemptuous. “In any case, I
should not have remained here. This enforced
idleness has become soidisagreeable that I made
up my mnd an hour ago to leave the village. I
was just going out to make my purchases. I
Shall leave by the earliest train to-morrow.”
And with that proud, graceful dignity, so
natural to her, she turned and passed cut of the
room, leaving Mrs. Graham halt-ashamed of her
harshness, and wondering where, under the
sun, they could ever find another teacher for
their aspiring olive-branches, so faithful,
competent, popular and successful as Marion
Kirby.
“And this is what I must expect from the
wojrld at every turn,” groaned the poor girl,
along with suffocating heart and ting
ling cheeks; “ sneers and insults and mere. Jess
condemnation for a ein not willfully committed.
Ob, God, how bitter it is to bear !”
The seaside town which she had decided to
visit was a busy, attractive place, though not
one of the most ultra-fashionable resorts. Marion
did not think it likely that she would en
counter any of her old acquaintances, so she
watched the dazzling scenes around her with a
certain sense of enjoyment, though she took
scarcely any part in them at all.
“All are strangers to me here,” she said to
herself, as she stood alone by the sea one even
ing, watching tho green waves foaming mur
murously as the setting sun pierced them with
his golden lancee. “I might escape the shalts
of scorn and malice, and mingle in some of the
pleasures about me, it I were to take another
name. But no,” lifting her dark head with a
gesture of queenly pride—“ I will not hide mv
identity like a guilty thing. I have done no will
ful wrong.”
“ Miss Marion I” murmured a deep, strong,
pleasant voice, just behind her. And* turning,
with a violent start, she saw a face that just
matched the voice, strong and pleasant, and
very handsome too—the face of Elliott Morrow,
whom she had known and cordially liked in the
old days, before her awful trouble.
i Marion shrank back involuntary from his out
stretched hand, the hot blood rushing in a
crimson tide across her pure, proud face.
“ What have 1 done to for.eit our old friend
ship?” he asked, impressively, smiling half
gravely, half-playfully, down into her changing
face. “ Won’t you shake hands with me, Miss
Marion ?”
You—you know the story of—mv past,” she
faltered, in tremulous tones, making no move
to greet his smiling request.
“ Yes, I do know it, and honor you none the
less. I know that in heart and purpose you are
as pure and blameless as the stars,” he an
swered, his deep voice thrilling with an ear
nestness and truth that brought a new look to
the dark eyes watching him so doubtlully.
Marion laid her little white hand in his strong
clasp, with only a look and smile for her an
swer. She could not speak just then, the sobs
were too near her lipg- But she knew that he
understood her, for he drew her hand within
his arm, just in the old familiar way, and walk
ed slowly up and down the beach, talking en
tertainingly of this thing and that, just as it no
black shadow had drifted between her and the
gay world of which he spoke.
Ab the days went by he was o'ten at her side.
A thousand delicate little attentions and pleas
ures she owed to his thought ul riendship; and
at last she realized, with a great thrill of shame
and terror, that his presence was becom ng tar
too dear to her—nay, that he had already be
come dearer than all the world beside.
“He could never be more to me than a
friend,” she murmured, burying her flushed
lace in her hands. “He pities my sorrow and
tries to br ghten my lonely, ruined life, but
Uve !—oh, no, no, no ! —that is not for mo I”
IgAnd a storm ot passionate, bitter sobs told
how precious, how sweet was the love, the very
thought of which she must banish from her
heart.
In the midst o'it all—her sweet, unconscious
hopes and her black despair—another strange
thing happened. Poor Marion 1 it looked as if
fate had taken a wh mto play the most cruel
pranks with her broken heart.
“Call up all your courage—all your pride—
for you will need it,” whispered Elliott Morrow,
as they sat together on the piazza one lovely
morning. “He is here—you will see him in
another moment.”
Marion looked up with blanched cheeks and
startled, horrified dark eyes. Yes ; there ho
was—Theodore Courtney ; he who had wrought
her ruin-holding the ribbons over a span of
dashing grays, and just then turning a curve in
the magnificent drive leading to the hotel.
He .capsht a glimpse of her, too, as she sat
thflfie, in her proud, sweet loveliness, by Elli
o'tVs side, and she saw a dark flush sweep over
his'handsome, dissipated features.
From that moment, the old, half-forgotten
passion was re-kindled in his breast. He
seemed bent upon again winning the lieart he
| had cast aside, but Marion would have none of
his attentions. Yet, though she scorned and
I loathed him now, a certain stubborn pride, in
born and uncon uerable, made her resolve to
stay and defy his power, rather than to fly, as
if she feared it.
But there comes an end to all things, and one
evening Courtney found her alone, standing be
side a great rock by the sea. It was the first
time he had found her thus, and, ere she could
turn away, he had caught her slender white
waist in his strong grasp, and declared, in a
torrent of passionate words, that he loved her
again, more madly, more honestly and truly,
than he had ever loved in all his ire before.
“Only come to me again, sweet Marion,” he
pleaded, in his old, beguiling way, “and I will
make you my law.ul wife by the holiest ties ot
Church and State. Trust me again, Marion, my
love—my wife that ought be be,” he added,
softly.
Marion turned upon him, her dark eyes flash
ing fire :
“Coward, unhand me !—let me pass I” she
cried, in low tones full of passionate scorn.
“'Thank God, lam not your wi e I Better my
burden of loneliness and shame than the world’s
respect with your li e-long companionship as the
price of it. Release me, sir 1”
“Perhaps you think to marry Elliott Morrow
—an unsuccessful rival of ’mine in the old
days, I remember,’ he suggested, sneeringly,
as he fell back a step, his dark features livid
with rage and disappointment.
Marion's beautilul face had grown white as
the gown she wore.
“No,” she said, proudly; “I would darken
mo good man’s name with the stain you have
put upon mine. Go! your lips are not worthy
to breathe Elliott Morrow’s name—the name of
an honest man.”
“And a m m who will deem it far more hon
ored if you will consent to share it with him,”
cried a clear, ringing voice, and at that instant
Elliott came around the big rock and confronted
them. “It is well I chanced to be near, since
you seem determined to annoy this lady, sir,”
to Courtney. Then, turning to Marion, with
the long-repressed lovelight shining in his hand
some face : “ And what is your answer, Marion,
—before all the world ?”
She answered, as once be r ore, only with a look
and smile; but it was an answer which both
men clearly understood, and, with a muttered
curse, Theodore Courtney turned upon his heel
and strode away.
A few weeks later they heard of him once
more just a flash of the wires, telling all the
world that suicide's bullet had ended his way
ward, reckless career. Thus passed away the
only shadow in the skies of Elliott and Marion
Morrow, who live in the sunlight of a happy
love.
strangeTuels.
MOST OF THEM OF A COMIO CHAR
(From Chambers’s Journal.}
In the old days of duelling, nearly every one
was affected by the mania—soldiers, sailors,
statesmen, actors, and even members of the
learned proiessions were ready at all times, and
in fact in all places, with sword or pistol to
settle a difference or to wipe out an insult. Drs.
Woodward and Mead fought under the very
gates of Gresham College. Dr. Woodward’s
loot slipped, and he fell. “ Take your life,”
said Mead, lottily putting up his sword. “Any
thing but your physic,” retorted Woodward;
and thus the desire ot these two disciples oi
/Eeculapius to let blood terminated.
AH duels, unfortunately, were not so blood
less as the last. Dr. Millingen, in his “His
tory of Duelling,” states that during the reign
of George 111. no fewer than one hundred and
twenty-two duels were fought, sixty-nine com
batants were killed and ninety-six wounded,
forty-eight of the latter dangerously. The list
of fatal duels is capable of almost indefinite ex
tension; but there is perhaps as much material
in the more agreeable enumeration of disputes
that have had a comic termination. Madailian
sent a challenge to the Marquis de Rivard, who
had lost a leg at the siege of Puy Cerda. The
marquis accepted, but sent with his answer a
case of surgical instruments, insisting that Ma
dailian should first lose his leg, bo as to place
them on an equal footing. The joke stopped
the duel.
Many duels have been prevented by the diffi
culty of arranging “ the how and when” of the
business. In the instance of Dr. Brocklesby,
the number of paces could not be agreed upon;
and in the affair between Dr. Akenside and Mr.
Ballow, one had determ ned never to fight in
the morning and the other that he would never
fight in the afternoon. John Wilkes, however,
was one who did not stand ripen ceremony in
these little affairs of honor, for when Lord Tal
bot inquired how many times they were to fire,
he replied:
“Just as often as your lordship pleases. I
have brought a bag of bullets and a full flask of
powder.”
One of the funniest duels was that in which
Sainte-Beuvo was engaged. It began to rain
slightly, after he bad taken up his position,
whereupon he called for his umbrella, and open
ing it, held it over his head with bis left hand,
while with the right he held his pistol. The ex
postulations oi the seconds had no effect upon
him.
“It is all very well to be killed,” said the fa
mous essayist; “but 1 object to catching cold in
my head.”
There is a-atory told of Perpignan, a literary
bohemian, having an encounter with Charles
Maurice at five paces. The former fired and
missed. The other, taking deliberate aim, said
to his antagonist:
“ Well, now, before I send you into the other
world, tell me what you are thinking of.”
“ 1 am thinking that if 1 were in your place,
I would not lire,” said Perpignan; and to this
cool re.oinder he owed his lite.
There is an anecdote related of an encounfer
between a French dramatic author and his
critic, the latter oi whom was a first-rate shot.
After the author had fired and missed, the
journalist accurately aimed at his adversary’s
hat, and pierced it with the utmost precision;
whereupon the dramatist flew into a violent
rage, protested that it was unfair, and ex
claimed: “If you had told me what you were
gomg to do, I would have put on an old hat. 11
That a man should lose his life through mis
pronunciation of a vowel seems hard; but such
really was the fact. In the year 1718, Williams
—a Welsh actor—and Quin were playing to
gether at the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre in
the tragedy of “ Cato,” Williams playing Decius
to Quin’s Cato. The former .entered with,
“ Ca?sar sends health to Cato;” but he
mincingly pronounced the name of Cato,
Keeto. Quin, who gave a broad classical
enunciation to the letter a in the word, was
offended, and instead of replying, * Could he
send it to Cato’s slaughtered friends, it would
bo welcome,’ he exclaimed, “ Would he had sent
a better messenger. ’
Tho Welshman was boiling with rage, and
when Cato resumed with, “ Are not your orders
to address the Senate?” he could hardly help
replying. “My business is with Keeto.”
In the short scene he had to repeat the name
ten times, and each time it would come Keeto.
Quin had to repeat it as o.ten, but delivered it
with a broad sound and significant look, which
nearly took the Welshman off his feet, and
brought laughter from all sides of the house.
When they met in the greenroom, Williams as
sailed Quin lor rendering him ridiculous in the
eyes of the audience. Quin said it was in the
ears, and would have laughed off the matter;
but the spirit of the Welshman was aroused, and
would not brook such treatment, and so he lay
m wait for Cato beneath the piazza of Covent
Garden. Quin laughed as Williams drew his
sword and bade him defend himself, and would
have sustained his defense with his cane;
but the Welshman thrust so fiercely that the
other was obliged to draw his sword, which,
without intention on the part of the wielder,
passed through the body of Decius, and stretch
ed him dead upon the pavement.
Coming within our own day is the strange
duel related to have been fought by the cele
brated tragedian Signor Rossi. The latter, dur
ing a farewell performance of “ Hamlet ”, at
Casale, was interrupted by the talking of the
court society present. In the middle of a sen
tence the tragedian stopped, and turning toward
a front box from which the greatest noise pro
ceeded, he bowed and quietly said:
“I shall not proceed bo long as you do not
hush.”
The public applauded, the interruption ceased,
and the play went on. But afterward Rossi was
met at the stage door by a young gentleman
who felt called upon to ask for satisfaction. Tho
tragedian made rather a long face, for he was
expected on the morrow at Milan; so he ex
plained his position to his adversary, and sug
gested that, in order that the little affair might
be settled as speedily as possible, they should
go to his (Rossi s) rooms at the hotel and qui
etly shoot atone another there.
This proposition having been accepted, they
went to Rossi’s rooms, and had just placed
themselves at either end of the salon t to ex
change three whoa the inn-keeper, over- 1
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 12, 1887.
; anxious as to his guest’s health and hours,
knocked at the door, which, finding locked, he
anxiously inquired if the signor was ill, as his
light burned unusually late.
“No,” replied Kossi. “lam going to bed.
■ Thanks. Good-night.”
“ You are deceiving me,” persisted tho inn
i keeper, perhaps enlightened as to the scene at
the theatre. “You are certainly ill.”
“Go to bed,” returned Rossi; “1 am putting
out tho light; ’ and in a lower tone be added to
his antagonist, “ This is the only way out of it
—blow out the candles.”
“ What! Are we to fight with pistols in the
dark ?”
“Not quite. Wo will each smoko a cigarette,
and that will serve to guide our aim.”
“ All right!”
And so the duel was fought; and Rosai
wounded his adversary slightly.
B. BARW DILBMII
THE CHRONICLES GF CARDEWE MANOR,
BY LUCY FARMER.
CHAPTER I.
THE PRETTY MISS BULMAR.
I th'nk that Mr. Barnes, our curate,
thought much about Miss Alicia after her con
nection with tho Haymann picture robbery. Sho
had attracted him for a while, but his strong,
good common sense, as well as his strong,
healthy body and robust habits, soon carried
him out of the “blues” he had lor a while fallen
into. Not th it ho ever went about complaining
-—not he; he kept his own secret, and made no
appearance of any trouble; but, bless you, a
woman can always see 1
After Miss Ratio was married our lives re
sumed their usual dog trot way. Mr. and Mrs.
Cardewo remained at homo all the Autumn, and
Capta n and'Mis. Martyn-Henry came up. Then
all tho talk at the manor -so I hoard--was about
the new s pure, who had built a house near by,
and whose two daughters were reported per ect
ly beautiful. They were so accomplished be
side; cold play duots upon two guitars—what
Charley called genteel banjos —and sing togeth
er l.ke a pair of nightingales, by the hour. Their
name was Bulmar, and tho’squire rode to
hounds.
They had introductions, and soon made
friends—tbe ladies were so good-natured; no af
fectations nor conceit—and when tho vicar re
quested the assistance of the two Miss Bnlmars
for his opening concert in tbe Workingmen’s In
stitute, they went and sang funny duets, until
even Tom Maggot, the carpenter,’who is always
grumbling, declared they did him “ a power of
good.”
“Charley,” said I, as wo returned home from
the concert, “ don’t those young ladies sing
lovely ?”
“They do,” he replied, “and they look the
same. There was one person entirely wrapped
up in their music.”
“ Wrapped, up! You mean pleased, I sup
pose?”
“Yes. Mr. Barnes is musical, and he had
eyes and ears for nobody but them two young
ladies —or one of them, perhaps I should say.”
“ Well, Charley, and where's tbe harm ?”
“ Harm, Lucy ! None at all. Mr. Barnes is a
gentleman, a clergyman—and a man too—a real
ma >, I call him, and does his work well. I wish
ho may get one of the new squire’s young ladies
for his wife.”
“ Ah, and he isn’t the only one, Charley 1”
“ Most likely not,” replied my husband. “It
is rather a qu.et place to bring such pretty lit
tle ladies to,” he continued. “ They’ll not marry
here.”
“ You’ll see, Charley. There’s another person
has his eye on them.”
“ Who is he, Mistress Wiseacre ?”
“ Wiseacre, indeed ! Don’t be so rude, Char
ley.”
Charley stopped and stared at me till I was
getting frightened.
“ Do you mean that?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” I said, looking scared, I’m sure,
for he did.
“I’m sorry for you, Lucy,” he replied, “if
you are t iking to puns like that ! Ha ! ha 1 ha I
Well, it’s not bad—acre—rood-ha ! ha! Now
go on.”
“ I wish you wouldn’t go on like that,” I cried.
“What do you mean? There’s nothing amus
ing being rude ! But Ido mean there’s another
—the vicar.”
“ The vicar! Why, he’s a widower !” ex
claimed my husband.
“ Well, he couldn’t think of Miss Bulmar if he
wasn’t, unless a bachelor, could he? Tbe vicar
admires tbe ladies as well as Mr. Barnes, and,
unless I’m in away mistaken, we’ll have a very
nice double wedding in the church one of these
days.”
“ Rather awkward,” remarked Charley. “If
both our parsons go off honeymooning at once,
who will perform the services ? Well, Lucy,
you sometimes do manage to scent out things ;
and I dare say yon are right; but if I were you
I would’nt say anything to any one—no gossip,
mind.”
A week or two after this conversation there
was a grand party given at the Manor -a garden
party. There was tennis, archery, croquet, and
battledore and shuttlecock, on the lawns, with
many other amusements. The whole country
side was there, and a band from Weymouth.
Tbe vicar, and Mr. Barnes, the curate, were
there; Mr. Hemphill, Captain and Mrs. Arm
strong, the Martyn-Henrys, and to my surprise
and pleasure, 1 found Mrs. Morton Fitzgemld,
who had been married in tbe romantic way I
told you of. Of course, Squire Bulmar and his
two daughters were present, and others be
side.
In the evening I handed tea round while some
of the guests were playing at croquet, and some
shooting at targets. The clergymen were
both engaged in archery, and so were tho Miss
Bui mars, to whom the vicar and Mr. Barnes
were extremely attentive. Alter a while Mr.
Verity turned aside with Mr. Bulmar, and I
came to hand them tea.
After that I came near tho shooters, and could
hear their remarks. Mr. Barnes said :
“ We are keeping well together, Miss Gwen
dolen, are not we ? lam very glad.”
“ Yes,” she replied. “ But why are yon glad ?
There, I’m in the gold ? You tee I’ve deserted
you, Mr. Barnes/’
“I am sorry for it, but I will try my luck
when I get another chance. It is my turn next,
I think,” he added, looking at her very in
tently.
“I shall not shoot any more,” she said.
“ You can take my bow, Miss Arnott—l am go
ing in.”
Miss Arnott smiled and looked at Mr. Barnes.
“That was a random shot,” she said, as his
arrow flashed beneath the target.
“ 1 thought she meant it,” murmured tho
poor curate, and just then up came tho vicar
again in high spirits, in his most smiling man
ner.
“Come along, Miss Bulmar,” he said to Miss
Dolcie. “ We’ll have a match. Here, lend me
a bow and a couple of arrows. Thank you.
Now 1”
Miss Bulmar flushed slightly and advanced
to shoot. Her shaft pierced the bull’s-eye.
“There’s a beauty!” she cried, turning to
ward the vicar.
“ All in keeping,” he whispered gallantly.
“Dear mo, Mr. Verity, you are extremely
complimentary. I wonder where Gwen, is
gone.”
“ Never mind Gwen—listen to me. Let mo
tell you ”
Then I was called away; but in about an
hour afterward I was passing the dimly-lighted
conservatory, when Miss Dolcie came out hur
riedly. I heard her say, “ How dare you, Mr.
Barnes—you ought to be ashamed ’’’ — and then
1 knew she had refused him. But she need not
have been so very indignant. After all, a pro
posal is a great compliment. But what about
Miss Gwen?
When Charley and I were in the garden, I
told him something of this scene in the dark
ened conservatory, and ho laughed. Suddenly
we heard voices, and one said, in continuation :
“1 think, Barnes, under the circumstances,
you had better leave.”
I gripped Charley’s arm tightly ; it was the
vicar’s voice, and Mr. Verity resumed :
“I must in fairness tell you that Gwendolen
quite agrees with her sister—and me.”
“Then I will go, vicar. I assure you-it
is ”
“ Yes, it will be best,” interrupted the vicar
“ Things will turn out all right again, I trust.
So cheer up, Barnes. Wait a while ; they will
soon think better of it. lam extremely sorry,
my dear fellow. There is nobody ”
Then we heard no more, for Charlev rose and
walked away as soon as be could go without be
ing seen ; and 1 had to go, too.
“You heard that, Charley?” I whispered
“ Now, what did I tell you ? You see the vicar
and the curate have clashed, and Mr. Barnes
must go ! I’m very sorry !”
“So am I,” replied Charley. “ I’m rather in
clined to think that the vicar should have given
way. He has had his turn, and Mr. Barnes,
though only a curate, may be promoted some
day. Still, I suppose, Miss Dolcie Bulmar is
pleasing herself, and not her father.”
CHAPTER 11.
THE CURATE IS FORGIVEN.
A Sunday or two afterward we ail, or nearly
all, ot us were surprised to boar Mr. Barnes
make a reference in his morning sermon to his
approaching departure. He said that circum
stances of a private nature had occurred which
necessitated his relinquishing his curacy, and
he bade us farewell in a very touching manner.
I glanced round to see how the Miss Bulmars
took it, but neither of them mad? any sign. Of
chourse they must have known all about it, and
I thought one of them might have properly
stayed away from service that morning. How-»
ever, the sermon was ended, and in a few min
utes afterward we were all streaming through
the churchyard and up the road and the lane.°
Mr. Barnes did not appear. Many waited
about, on one excuse or another, to question
him; but he didn’t come out of tbe vestry, and
the vicar went home alone for once. Alter a
while the congregation dispersed.
By next Sunday Mr. Barnes had gone, and
then tongues began to wag. Why had he left?
Was the vicar to blame? Had he superseded
the curate or undermined him in the affections
of Miss Bulmar ? It seemed so, for Mr. Barnes
did not reappear, and the vicar was more than
ever with tbe squire and his daughters. They
looked as pretty and sang as delightfully as over-
Miss Dolcie was radiant, but Miss Gwen was
rather paler than she used to be. After a while
the secret came out. Mr Verity had proposed
to and had been accepted by Miss Bulmar—Mies
Dolcie we used to call her—the elder of the
young ladies.
“ Poor Mr. Barnes! His love affairs don’t
seem to prosper, Charley,” I remarked. “ His
first sweetheart was arrested from him.”
“ Wrested you mean, Lucy, I suppose?”
“No, I mean arrested. Didn’t the young de
tective take her up with the other Haymann
people?” 1 retorted.
“ Well, have it your own way,” replied Char
ley. He always says that, when he gets the worst
of an argument. “ I agree with you that Mr.
Barnes is un ortunate—very unfortunate. Hal
lo ! here’s Miss Gwendolen Bulmar.”
“So she is. Whatever can she want with us,
Charley? Good morning, miss,” said I, with a
slight dip.
“ Good morning, Mrs. Farmer. I dare say yon
are surprised to see me, Mr. Farmer, but I have
a favor to ask your wife.”
“indeed, miss; lam sure we shall both be
delighted to serve you,” said Charley boldly.
“Thank you,” she replied. “Mrs. Cardewe
particularly mentioned you, Mrs. Farmer, as a
trustworthy and most 'kind-hearted person
most discreet.”
Charley’s cough came on so suddenly that ho
had to retire; but 1 waited listening.
“ Airs. Cardewe was very kind always,” I said.
“She says you are an excellent nurse, Airs.
Farmer, and if you could be persuaded to leave
home for a few weeks, I am sure I should be
very grateful. Will you see Airs. Cardewe?
She will tell you what is re mired. Can you go
now ?”
“ Y r os, miss, I will run down at once. If I
can arrange about the child, I will go with
pleasure, if my good man has no objection. He
will let me go, 1 d..re say.”
“ Thank you,” she said again, very sweetly,
and off she tripped, looking like an angel in her
pink summer costume and straw hat.
I went to see Mrs. Cardewe, and returned
quicker than I came out.
“Whatever do you think, Charley? It’s Air. ;
Barnes !”
“What! Air. Barnes? The sick man? Are!
you to nurse him. {”
“ Yes ; ho has a brain fever down Winchester I
way, and Airs. Jones said she thinks he’s en- ■
listed.”
“Enlisted? Nonsense!”
“She said he had got ‘ an army place with the
artillery—a little cannon business.’ Those are
her very words.”
“You are a pair of stupids,” said Charley,
with his terrible “guffaw” laugh. “ You ought
to know better, I should think. He’s probably
a Minor Canon at Winchester. Artillery, in
deed ' Well, Lucy?”
y Never mind. Pm going to nurse him at
Airs. Cardewe’a and Miss Gwendolen’s special
request, as I can be trusted.”
“ Whew ! ’ whistled Charley. “Sets the wind
in that quarter? I think roan guess some
thing !”
“Do tell me,” I pleaded. “Is it about the
vicar ?”
“No; wait until you come back. You will be
home in a week or'two again, I suppose. You
do manage to got away pretty often, I must
say.”
“And the money, Charley. “Two guineas a
week ! v
“That’s true. Well, you must write, mind.”
Off i went next day, and found poor Air.
Barnes in Winchester.' He was in lodgings and
quite light-beaded; singing tunes and hymns,
and occasionally Alias Dolcie’a guitar melodies,
as well almost as she sang them herself. Then
I knew he was in love with Alias Dolcie, and
that she was going to be married to the vicar.
No doubt that had given the poor young man
tever.
Two days after I had been acting as nurse,
who should come in but Alias Gwendolen, to
inquire and to bring a tew things from tbe
manor, with Mrs. Cardewe’a kind regards. Airs?
Cardewe had always liked Air. Barnes. 1 knew
that. Alias Gwendolen seemed very much in
terested in the patient, and even went up stairs
to look at him for a moment. During the fol
lowing fortnight she came four times, and must
have spent a little fortune in railway journeys
and cabs.
He chattered a great deal at times, and one
night, while 1 was reading by tne little lamp, ho
quite startled me by calling out:
“1 am bound to go. Vicar, I must go—as an
honorable man, 1 cannot remain. Dolcie!
Gwendolen! advise me!”
I jumped up. Mr. Barnes was sitting up and
staring about wildly. He had been so much
quieter lately that I hoped and believed he was
getting better than tbe doctor said he was.
“There is something on his mind,” said the
physician. “ Until we can remove the impres
sion, we cannot expect him to be entirely well.”
But next day —the day after he bad called for
advice—be came to his senses. I saw by his
eye he was sane; but be kept looking about
him.
“Are you--Airs.—Airs. Farmer?” he said,
faintly.
Yes, sir; I’ve been nursing you. You’ve been
very ill.”
“ Yes, I know, and talked a great deal of non
sense. I dare say. Didn’t I see Alias Bulmur
sometimes, or was 1 delirious?”
“ You were delirious: but Aliss Gwendolen
came over many a time with fruit and flowers.
Airs. Cardewe and others called, but Miss
Gwendolen oltenest. The vicar and Miss Dolcie
camo, too.”
“ Aliss Gwendolen came, then —alone, did you
say ?”
“ Sometimes, sir.”
“ Did she leave any message ?”
“ No, sir, she came and peeped in at you once
or twice, and was rather anxious.”
“ Really, Airs. Farmer?”
“ Yes, sir, she was; and was most particular
about everything.”
“ When will she come again—to-day?”
“Can’t say, sir. Shall 1 tell her anything ?
You must really rest now, sir, or you’ll be off
again.”
He laid himself down like a lamb, and was as
quiet as a mouse.
* * * * sp *
Next daj r Miss Gwendolen and her sister both
called. Mr. Barnes was much better. So the
time passed, until one day when the clergyman
was able to leave his bedroom, and I was* thin
king I had better go home again, Airs. Elliot, the
lodging-house person, came in and said that the
two young ladies and Airs. Cardewe wished to
see Mr. Barnes.
He was sitting reading m an armchair as they
came in. 1 waited for a few minutes, and then
went into tbe adjoining room for a short time,
and as I was returning into the
Aliss Dolcie said to the curate :
“All is forgiven and forgotten, Mr. Barnes.
The mistake is evident.”
Then Miss Gwendolen bade him good-by—
very kindly, I thought—and I let the three
ladies out.
There was something in this more than a
more visit to a convalescent friend. “ All is
forgiven and forgotten 1” What was there to
forgive and forget? Something which Air.
Barnes had done. It could have been nothing
wrong, because i. so, all his friends would have
avoided him; beside, ho was a gentleman and a
clergyman.
Ho quickly rallied, and I was soon able to re
turn borne again ; but I had not fathomed the
mystery. In three weeks we heard that Air.
Barnes’s uncle had died and left him some mo
ney.
“ Now, Charley,” said I, “ he will marry, and
the bride will be Miss Gwendolen Bulmar.”
“ Why, he proposed to the other one,” said
Charley, with a twinkle in his eye. “Didn't
you hear that?”
‘•Yes,’l exclaimed, “I did. Do you know
tbe secret, then ? Do tell me more.”
“ I think 1 know as much as any one,” he re
plied, “and more than some people. Air.
Barnes, that very night of the party, you re
member, proposed to Aliss Dolcie Bulmar, who
at once refused him, and gave it him well,
too!”
“ What for, I never could understand,” I
said.
“ Why, for making love to her sister and pro- ’
posing to leer alter all! She was angry, I can
tell you.”
“I am suro Mr. Barnes never meant it, Char
ley. I see how it happened. It was in tbe con
servatory, wasn't it? You remember, it must
have been. Yes. I Bed.”
“ Very likely. Go on.”
“Well, then, I can explain it. lie took Miss
Dolciefor her sister! You know they
alike are yery much alike when apart, and
speak m the teiy same vay ! Yu j Jmay
depend that be made a mistake in the dark, and
Ivliss Gwendolen heard of it. So he had to go ’
No doubt this brought on his fever. lam sure
Aliss Gwen is in love with him, as he is with
her.”
“I dare say you are right, Lucy. Toor Mr.
Barnes !”
“It was a bad dilemma, wasn't it? He
couldn’t propose to Miss Gwendolen, and she
wouldn’t look at him, of course; but when he
was ill she came round quick enough. It will
be all right, now, Charley.”
So it came to pass. Air. Barnes and Aliss
Gwendolen were sincerely attached to each
other, and they were married after Easter in
tho following year. He is now the vicar of a
large parish, and has quite got over his dilem
ma. Mr. and Mrs. Verity are still alive, and
remain in the old vicarage here near the manor
as happy as turtle-doves.
~AMAZED?~’
THE PESKYJfEW INVENTIONS.
(From the Youth’s Companion.)
Tbe discoveries made by scientific men and
inventors daring the past few years have sur
prised the most intelligent people, and it is not
to be wondered at that the simple-minded and
ignorant should ba stiU more amazed at the
wonders thus revealed. A gentleman spent a
night at the house of an old farmer, who, with
his wife, had never been beyond the limits ot
the county in which they were born. Amused
at their simplicity, the traveler passed the even
ing in describing some of the recent electrical
discoveries.
“ Well, well,” said the old lady, “ there ain’t
nothin they don’t try to git up nowadays.”
“No, there ain’t,” said “pa.” “What with
their sewin’-maohinee an’ patent corn-planters
an’ mowers an’ so on, it does beat all 1”
“ Au’ I was readin’, not long ago, ’bout them
cabling clean acrost the ocean. I couldn’t make
no sense of it, but pa he reckoned it was some
new way of telegraltin’."
“ Yes, that is what it meant,” said the stran
ger.
“ Hear that, ma I” cried the old gentleman,
excitedly. “He says, they do. Well, I jest
don’t believe it s right. It pears to me like the
doin's of the old Nick hlsself.”
“It don’t seem natch’rel,” said ma “an’
what’s agin niter aint right."
Highly amused, the stranger said:
“Of course you have heard oi the tele
phone ?”
They had heard of it, but did not under
stand. An explanation of its mysteries was be
gan, which the old lady interrupted:
“Now you don’t mean to say, mister, that
they really talk by wire ?”
“Indeed they do.”
“Gracious I How far can they hear?'’
“ Ob, from fifty to one hundred miles.”
•’ Wb-a-a-t! 1 don’t believe it,” said she, flat
ly-
“ I don’t, neither !” cried pa.
“Now, there’s Jonas Hixon,” said ma. “He
can talk louder’n any man I ever heard of, an’
they say he can call hogs two miles of a cl’ar
day. He prides hisself on it; an’ yit if this tel
lyphone thing is so, Jonas aint nowhar.”
“It’d cut Jcnasup mightily to find out he
was beat,” said pa.
“So it would,” said ma. “ An’ he’s jest grit
ty enough to go an’ hunt up one of them telly
phone things, an’ see which kin yell the loud
est.”
“ Well, I’d hate to be within a mile of the
place when they had their trial,” said pa. “ It’d
be enough to bust one’s head op'bn to hear ’em.”
HE KEPf iF GREEN.
A PATHETIC STORY TOLD BY AN
OLD ALLEGHENY SEXTON.
(From the Pittsburg Chronicle-Telegraph,)
“ There’s no grave in this ’ere place ’ll look
purtier nor that,” and the old sexton retreated
a few paces as he uttered his soliloquy and care
fully surveyed his work.
The mound appeared in strange contrast with
its neighbors, inasmuch as it was well kept,
symmetrical in outline and adorned with several
plants in bloom, 'l he others were unkempt,
and many were hi-lden from view in the tall
grass, for this was tho spot reserved for thepau
i per dead.
This scene occurred in one of the Allegheny
| cemeteries early in the morning ot Decoration
I Day, boiore the living had assembled to pay
! tribute to fallen heroes. The old sext.n bad
done his work well—apparently with more care
than circumstances warranted, and the writer,
who had wandered on the scene, was move I to
ask him why. He seemed annoyed at the inter
ruption, and for a moment his weather-beaten
face assumed a harsh expression, but presently
the tender look that was at first observed re
turned.
“All, sir,” said he, “ that’s a sad case, an’ I
never think on’t ’thout almost cursin’ them tine
men. Poor girl! she's better off now, ’cause
she was deserted and alone.”
“ It's nigh onto twelve year now since I
covered up them two. Yes, two -her wee
baby. Oh, sir, she wus a purty girl, an’ i’ll lay
my life she never sinned from the time she first
saw the light ’till I found her and her baby out
on the road near my house yonder. Cold ? Why,
sir, it don’t get no colder in this ’ere latitude,
and ther wind blowed over them hills like as if a
ghost wus a chasin’ it. 1 went out to look
’round, as I alius does, an’ I cum across that air
gurl near the fence where she sunk down when
she could go no further’. She’d took the shawl
she had an’ tucked it ’round the baby—l ’mem
ber it, sir, ’s it’t wus yesterday. I couldn’t be
lieve my eyes. Sez 1, ‘ What’re you doin here?
An’ with tho sot tost an’ pitifulost voice 1 ever
heard, sez she, ‘ f’m not doing anything wrong
sir; 1 am just resting; I wdl go in a moment.’
Wall, I thought authin’ was wrong, and I sez,
“ Where are you goin’?’ An’ she kinder
stopped an’ thought an then I sez. ‘ Alakes no
odds where yer goin’, you’ll jess cum with me to
tho 010 woman an’ let her take care of ye over
night.’ Wei!, 1 almost carried her to the house,
an’ the ole lady she put her to bed, an’ she
never got out till wo carried her.
“ Who was she ? Wall, sir, she never told us
! that ’xactly, but her father's some rich man
■ down in tho city, who’s proud. Why, proud
ain’t no name fur it. She didn’t say nuthin’ till
one day she found she wus goin’ ter die, an’
then, my soul, wasn’t it sad. It was this way,
sir : She fell in love with a handsome man,
an’ her. father wouldn’t let ’er marry him,
and so one day they goes an’ gits the knot tied
unbeknowns to ther father. She went back
home as if nuthin’ ’ad happened, but at last
she could keep it no longer, an’ she up an’ told
ther truth. Laws ! but he was mad. He raved
an'tore aroun’ an’ drove her from bis door
like a dog, an’ wouldn’t let any ot bis fam’ly
see her, either. Well, sir, what do you think
this’ore husband o’hern done? He took her
to some boardin’-honse an’ kep’ ’er awhile, all
the time tryin’ to git her to have the ole man to
take her back, so he could git some place to
stay ’thout workin’. But he wouldn’t ans’er
none o' her ’peals, an’ so that scalawag
left that air gurl, his wife, ’thout a cent to her
name. They took her to a hospital an’ her baby
was born. They didn't know ’er there, an’ o’
course they can’t keep a person all the time, so
they let er go. She didn’t have a soul to goto,
an’ in wanderin’ kinder reckless about hap
pened to come this way.
“ Wall, sir—it was Spring then—one day her
little baby died, an’ it party nigh broke my
heart to see her. She ’peared jes’ like an an
gel, an’ she looked up an’ sez:
“ ’Kind friends, that’s all I had to live for, an’
now it’s taken, an’ I want to go with it.’
“ We could see theu that she wasn't long fur
this : ero world. That evenin’—one o’ them
qu et, restful sort—she called us around her
an’ took our hands in hern, an’ we bent down
to her, an’ she sez: ‘Good-by; God bless you
fur this,’ an’ sir, her pure young life went out
as calm an’ peaceful ez that a.r day had been
beautiful.
“ We laid the little baby on her breast’s ef
they wuz asleep, an' we put’em down there,’
air, togethex*, in that air grave, an’ it don’t
want fur no care as long as I’m around this
place.
“ J. took an oath when I buried my purty lady,
air I’ll keep it if I live to see that man that cru
elly left her. I said ef 1 ever met him I’ll crush
him as I would a varmint 1”
And as the old sexton turned away, some
thing in his lace indicated that he would keep
his word.
TIIE "DETROIT SOLOMON.
Disturbing the Peace —His Birthday —
The Same Mary.
DISTURBING THE PEACE.
“Moses Johnson, you were disturbing the
peace last night," said his Honor to the first
prisoner out.
“ I didn’t dun it, Bah-no, I didn’t.”
“ You were more or less drunk, and you sat
down on a cit zen s door-step and sang. You
sang him out ot his sleep, and you sang him to
the window, from whence he warned you to
skip or take the consequences.”
“I doan’ dun ’member it sah.”
“ What do you remember ?”
“ I’members dat I cum out o’do lodge an’
started fur homo, an’ I ’members dat I had an
awful time to keep on de sidewalk. Somebody
had run de sidewalks all ober de street,”
“ Now ! Aloses, you were drunk.”
“I can’t believe it, sah.”
“ And you routed a dozen people out ot bed
with your singing. I like singing, Moses, but
there is a time for it.”
“ i’ll nobber do so no moah, Jedge.”
“I hope not. It’s thirty days, Moses.”
“ An’ I doan’ git off? ’
“Not this time.”
“ An’ i’ze got to go up?”
“You have.”
“ Den I’ll come out to sing all day an’ all
night. I'll sing high an’ sing low ! 111 sit on
de steps an’ warble, an’ 111 stand in de street
an’ !”
“Remove the prisoner to the corridor !” in
terrupted his Honor, and Aloses was run in be
fore he could finish his sentence.
HIS BIRTHDAY.
“George Schott, you were found lying drunk
on a vacant lot last night.”
“Vhell, mebbe he vhas so.”
“Instead of being in the bosom of your
family you were stretched out on the broad of
your back. Your red nose pointed at the mid
night sky, and your gurgles and grunts and
snores mingled weirdly with the wild wind
sweeping drearily in from Lake Erie, Have you
any excuse, prisoner?”
“ 1 liaf one oxcuse so big ash a barrel. He
vfia? mv /ythday. ’ , ,
“ And you fforc .
“ I vhas. I take file drinks or r, ®°suso
I vitas forty years oldt. It makes me. fool foO
good, and I lay down for a leedle slxleap."
“ How about your next birthday i”
“ Vhell, I drink some more peer,
“ Oh, you will. Well, I shall fine you $5.
“ I oxpect her, uud I pays der money. Here
he vhas, uud she vhas all right. It do't was all
dis morning, I take my hat uud go home.
Oxpeet me next year at dis time, it I vitas
alite.”
THE SAME MARY.
•• Is this Mary Williams ?” queried his Honor
of a little stoop-shouldered woman, with one
eye in mourning.
“Of course it is,” she shouted. “Indeed
you know it is. You know me as well as I know
you.”
“ Then you are.the Mary I have sent up three
or four times within a year ?”
“ Certainly I am. You don’t take ma for an
angel, do you ?”
“ No, Mary, I don’t. I presume you know
tbe charge ’ ’
“ How should I ? All I know is that a copper
tapped me on the shoulder, as I was going
home, and said you were lonesome to see me ”
“ How did you get that black eye, Mary >'•
“ Ilan against a corner of the City Hail, sir."
“ And what’s in this hottie, taken from’ your
pocket 1”
“ Some calls it catsup, but maybe you’ll call
it vinegar.”
“ Mary, you’ll have to go up again.”
“ Who said I wouldn’t ? Tell mo some
news.”
“ It’s lor sixty days.”
“ That’s me. 1 like to be a steady boarder
when I strike a high-toned place. Sixty it is,
Judge, and may the bald spot on your head
never grow to tho size of a dishpau.”
Too Much Sweetness.—lt would by
no means be a bad idea to start a society for tho
suppression of perfumery. Every public place
where people are brought together, and especi- I
ally whore women congregate, is almost sure to !
be rendered offensive to sensitive persons by
the overwhelming odors which are exhaled
from the persons and clothing of people who
have supposed they were rendering themselves
attractive’by the use of these powerful scents.
There are many people to whom these odors
art a’.war- offen.-ivo.
gUtelLwm IMto.
H ard Lines for the Squirrel. —Says
the Kingston Freeman: This morning an odd
combat was witnessed in Rondout between five
robins, about an equal number of sparrows,
and a squirrel. The birds were all arrayed
against the squirrel. The fight, which lasted
over an hour, was witnessed by William Van
Valkenbergh and wife and several other people.
When first discovered, the birds were chasing
the squirrel irom branch to branch of a large
tree. Each attack was led by a ro in with a
breast redder than the others. The birds
swooped down on the squirrel and pecked it
witii tueir sharp bills. In vain the little animal
tried to catch its enemies and defend itseb from
their repeated attacks. It ran from tree to tree
in its efforts to escape. Its feathered antag
onists were always on hand, and pecked it un
mercifully. Growing tired of continuing the
one-sided contest, the squirrel ran down the
tree, crossed the road, and a moment later was
seen on the root of Mr. Van Valkenbergh s
house. The birds espied it, and once more re
sumed the battle. Down the leader of the
house slipped the frisky little animalj the birds
all the while uttering shrill cries. Across the
street it darted back again, and up the tree
whore the fight first began. Attack after at
tack was made by robins and sparrows. In
among the leafy branches and crotches of the
tree ran the squirrel, seeking a hiding place.
The birds gave it no rest, but kept continually
darting and pecking at it. Finally it ran to the
top of the tree, crawled out on a slender limb,
and dropped on the root of Mr. Barber's house.
It climbed over the roof, pursued by the birds.
Down the leader it slid rapidly, and. running
across the yard, disappe red from view and
from further pursuit. It is said that s juirrels
very oiten steal eggs from birds’nests and suck
them. Probably this squirrel was alter eggs,
and was caught in the act.
A French Drama. —A trial involving
a rather mysterious drama has just come off
before the Rhone Assizes. The accused person
was a young woman of prepossessing appear
ance named Marechai, who was charged with
having caused the death of a Greek sea cap
tain. Marechai was met by the Greek, Garoia
lo, in one ot the most horrible dens of infamy
in Marseilles; a place, in fact, which was the re
sort ot Levantine cutthroats and cosmopolitan
blackguards of every description. Garofalo
took the girl Marechai on board his vessel, a
brig, which was lying at anchor in the harbor,
and about midnight the sailors heard loud cries
and groans proceeding from the cabin of the
captain. There they iound the girl with a pen
knife in her hand, while the Greek was lying on
the floor, blood flowing freely from a small
punctured wound in the stomach. Garo alo
told his men that the girl wanted to murder
him, but when the doctors who came to attend
him pronounced him out ot danger he went
back on his statement and averred that he had
tried to kill himself. While he was ill, the girl
Marechal nursed him, and on his recovery he
took her to sea with him. During the voyage
to Tunis, whither the vessel was bound, a tem
pest arose, and, owing to the work which he
had to do, Garofalo’s wound reopened, and he
was carried dying to his cabin. Before he
breathed bis lust he told the sailors to beat the
girl Marechal, and to throw her into the sea, as
she was the cause ot his death. The captain’s
cousin, however, who was among the crew, put
the girl ashore and had her arrested by the
French Consul at Sassari. At her trial her
counsel contended that the woman had defend
ed herself against the drunken brutality of the
Greek. She was acquitted.
i A Jealous Rival’s Revenge. —So
| many unsuccessful attempts have been made to
commit murder by means of infernal machines,
that most people have come to regard these en
gines as comparatively harmless. But that
they can do their work with deadly certainty
when all the circumstances are favorable, is
proved by a terrible crime which has just been
committed in Spain. A young medical man at
Archidona was engaged' to a young lady of
great beauty. Dur ng a visit to Granada, he
learned that the lady was carrying on a flirta
tion with one ot his friends. He at once re
turned home and compelled her to give the
rival his conge there and then. Two months
later the doctor and the lady were married, and
all went well. About a year alter the wedding,
the doctor received one day by railway, from
Madrid, a wooden box. He opened it, in pres
ence of his wife, and the next instant they were
both blown to pieces. The incident of the rival
was known m the town, and he was arrested
upon suspicion of having sent the box. The
length of time which elapsed between the cause
of offense and the diabolical vengeance, is —
supposing the accused to be guilty—probably
due to the intricate mechanism of the infernal
machine, which, in the opinion of experts,
would require many months to perfect.
Eating Before Sleep. —lt is a com
mon impression that to take food immediately
before going to bed and to sleep is unwise.
Such a suggestion is answered by a reminder
that the instinct or animals prompts them to
sleep as soon as they have eaten ; and in Sum
mer, an after-dinner nap, especially when the
meal is taken at midday, is a luxury indulged in
by many. Neither darkness nor the season of
the year alters the conditions. If the ordinary
hour of the evening meal is six or seven o’clock,
and ot the first morning meal seven or eight
o’clock, an interval of twelve hours, or more,
elapses without food, and for persons whose
nutrition is at fault, this is altogether too long a
period for fasting. That such an interval with
out food is permitted, explains many a restless
night, and much ot the head and backache, and
the languid, half-rested condition on rising,
which is accompanied by no appetite for break
fast. This meal itself often dissipates these
sensations. It is, therefore, desirable, if not
essential, when nutriment is to be crowded,
that the last thing before going to bed, should
be the taking of food. Sleeplessness is often
caused by starvation, and a tumbler of milk, it
drunk in the middle of the night, will often put
people to sleep.
Natural Metallic Iron. —On the
North Saskatchewan river, in the Northwest
Territory ot Canada, about seventy miles above
the town of Edmonton, Alberta, there is an in
teresting example of naturally reduced iron.
Along the river bank a lignite formation crops
out for several miles, overlaid by clay shales
and soft, argillaceous sandstones containing
nodules of clav ironstone. These nodules are
similar to others found at Edmonton, and
proved by analysis to be carbonates of iron,
containing 34.98 per cent, of metallic iron. The
Saskatchewan seam of lignite has, at some time
or other, been burned, leaving a bed of ashes,
clinkers and burned clay, in places twenty feet
thick, and now covered by a dense growth of
grass and underwood. From this mass ot
burned clay pieces of metallic iron can be
picked out, weighing in some cases fifteen or
twenty pounds. They have evidently been re
duced irom the nodules above mentioned by
the heat of the burning lignite. Most of the
pieces of iron are much rusted; but when
scratched with a file, they show a bright sur
face. The observation is interesting, and to
some may help to explain how primitive man
originally discovered the reduction of iron ore.
The German Housewife. — In the
richest German household the mistress super
intends the kitchen and lends a hand to the
cook. There are dishes which she always makes
with her own hands, because her Fritz likes them
so. She may boast thirty-two quarterings on
her escutcheon, and be very proud of her line
age, but she has no nonsensical ideas about its
being degrading to put on a canvas apron, lard
a piece ot veal, make jams, or dole out with her
own hands prunes that are to be put into the
potato stew. She keeps her best attire for Sun
days, and makes it serve on many of these
festal days, for she aces not follow fashion
blindly or in a hurry. Oh ordinary days she
dresses with a plainness that wbuld fhe
contempt of a French woman ; but, then, Lef
culinary pursuits do not prevent her from be
ing by far the intellectual superior of her French
or Belgian sister. She reads serious books,
that she may be able to converse as an equal
with her well-taught sons. She practices music,
that she may remain on a level with her daugh
ters, who are trained to be brilliant pianists
and she finds time to read the newspapers iu
order that she may understand what her Fritz
Ms to say about the topics of the day.
L.» T est TR ‘ ?i Tenotism. —T h e
chief French surgeons and medical professors
have for some time been careiully studying the
effects of mesmerism on the female patients of
the Salpotriere Hospital, Paris, an 1 M. Babin
ski, a clinical surgeon of that establishment, has
just effected a series of experiments, the results
of which would seem to open up a now future
for medical science. M. Babinski tried to prove
that certain hysterical symptoms could be trans
ferred by the aid of the magnet from one
patient to another. He took two sub ects, one
a dumb woman, afflicted with hysteria and the
other a female who was in a state of hypnotic
trance. A screen was placed between the two
and the hysterical woman was then put under
the influence of a strong magnet. Alter a few
moments she was rendered dumb, while speech
was suddenly restored to the other. M. Babinski
also effected temporary cures of paralysis in the
same manner. Luckily for his healthier
patients, however, their borrowed pains and
symptoms did not last long, and they were
saved from a calamity almost similar to that
which befell Dr. Jekyl when ho swallowed too
much salts and irrevocably became Mister
Hyde.
An Obliging Husband. —Says the
Manchester Courier: Lady Arden complained
of a toothache. All the remedies used on such
occasions wore applied, but still she found no
relief. At length she decided on sending to
Edinburgh, a distance of fifty miles from Clydes
dale castle, for a dentist to e-.tract the suffering
tooth, and when he arrived she declared that
her nerves were unequal to submitting to an
operation unless she saw it performed on some
one else first. The few friends admitted to the
sanctuary of her boudoir looked aghast at this
declaration, each expecting to be called on, but,
after a silence of a lew minutes, and no one
offering, she told Lord Arden that he must have
a tooth out, that she might judge from his man
ner of supporting the operation if she could go
through it. He appeared amazingly discon
certed, made a wry face and expostulated, but
the lady insisted. The obedient husband sub
mitted, and a fine, solid tooth was extracted
from his jaw, after which she declared that she
Lad seen enough to convince her that she could
not und. r.;c a eimib r operation.
A Humane Bullet. — An article in th©
ZTnsere Zeif, a Leipzig periodical, asserts that
the accusations so freely bandied during the
Franco-German war, as to the use of explosive
bullets, were largely due to the splintering
which the ordinary leaden pro e tile undergoes
in piercing the human bo- ly. Ihe hole by which
it enters seems minute, but it wriggles
and sputters in the interior so much that
the aperture by which it makes its exit is
four or five times larger. The damage done is
sometimes so great as to resemble the effects of
an explosive bullet, especially at short ranges*
lor this reason Germany hails as a boon to
mankind the invention by Messrs. Lorenz of
Karlsruhe, of a steel-clad bullet of lead with a
slight alloy of antimony, which, in addition to
increased powers of penetration, gives a much
flatter trajectory, and is w rranted to pass
through our bodies without causing unnecessary
discomfort. This is killing two birds with one
stone. Jt will also kill two, or even three men
at one shot, il they happen to stand in the way,
A Curious French (’lock. —If we
Lave to look to America for the production of
ingenious machinery, says 'n ambers* s Journal.
we still find that elegant and beautiful things
come to us from our French neighbors. We are
reminded ot this by seeing the description of a
now form of clock which h -s recently been pat
ented in France. The novelty of it is in the
dial, which is made ot parchment, and painted
with garlands of flowers. Among these flowers
are seen two bees, which literally Hit from flow
er to flower; but while one gets round the dial
in an hour, the other lakes twM e hours to run
its course. The parchment has no opening in
it; and it puzzles many to understand how the
busy bees can be made to move without any con
nection with the interior works of the clock. Here
is the explanation: Just underneath the parch*
merit face are the ord n->ry hands of the clock,
each forming a magnet. The bees, being made
of light steel, readily ollow the paths of the un
seen magnets below the parchment dial.
Rackarock. —The various explosives
which, like dynamite, owe their parentage to
nitro glycerine, have the great disadvantage of
le iving behind them, alter e plosion, unpleas
ant and dangerous fumes, which produce head
ache and nausea in those exposed to their in*
fluence. In much-confined situations, such as
the interior of caissons in bridge-making, much
valuable time is often sacrificed in the endeavor
to clear the limited working space of this nox
ious vapor. For this reason, dynamite is now
giving place to another explosive called Racka
rock, which is free from the fault indicated. It
has, too, some other advantages which are
worth noting. It consists of two ingredients, a
solid and a liquid. Neither of these is explosive
in itself, and they need not be mixed until re
quired for use. The s did is made up in the
usual cartridge form, and is saturated with the
liquid when it is ro uired to assume its ex
plosive properties. Rackarock is as powerful
as dynamite, but far more sa.e to handle.
About Gloves. —lt is a matter of liis*
tory that Queen Elizabeth, or “Good Queen
Bess,” as English writers o ten term her, was
the first English queen who wore gloves. These
articles, previous to her reign, were unknown
in a lady’s toilet, although the form of glove
called gauntlet had been adopted by men. The
gloves worn by Queen Elizabeth were unlike the
ones in common use to-day, being exceedingly
elegant and costly affairs. .Some were of kid,
reaching nearly or quite to the elbow and
trimmed with gold braid and fringe. Others
were lined with velvet and las oned with gold
buttons and jeweled buckles. Others again
were of silk, gayly embroidered on the backs
and fastened at the wrists with gem set clasps.
For many years after their introduction gloves
were scarce and expensive, but . ueen Bess soon
had a pair for every dress, for she was exceed
ingly vain and delighted to be arrayed in rich
and costly apparel.
Bishop Fowler’s Advice. It is said
that Bishop Fowler of the Methodist Church
once gave some advice to a conference congre
gation in this fashion: “ Don’t say anything
against the man who is to come alter you. A
minister who didn’t bear this in mind was asked
by his parishioners what k.nd of a man his suc
cessor was. ‘Oh, Brother is a good man,
but .’ ‘But what? If there's anything
wrong that is just what we want to know. Notf
tell us what’s the matter.’ ‘ Well, Brother
is a good man, but the fact is, brethren, he
parts his hair in the middle.' ‘We won’t have
him. VVe don’t want a dude. Conference mustn’t
send him.’ The appointed Sunday arrived, and
with it the dude minister. As be walked up the
aisle a broad grin overspread the faces in the
rear seats. By the time lie reached the pulpit
the congregation broke out into a roar of laugh
ter. The minister was bald.”
Death of an Executioner —One of
the most original and best known characters of
Cologne, the hangman, Leonard Lersch, died
this month, at a green old age. He was an ec
centric but otherwise good matured jack-ot-all*
trades, who, during his long public career, had
been a dog catcher, reporter, healing artist fol
man and beast, detective and executioner. Ha
had, moreover been the only one of his col
leagues, who, on the strength of the Code Na
poleon introduced and still maintained in the
Rhenish provinces, en oyed the privilege of the
guillotine in the performance of his supreme
functions—a privilege which, in point of costli*
ness of transportation, 1 >ss of time and extra
labor, sorely tried his patience. For upward of
twenty years he kept bis coffin in his chamber,,
and in it a span-new black suit, iu which he de*
sired to be, and was, buried.
Radius cf a Lightning Conductor’s
Protection.— The question has often been
asked: “ What is the radius of the circle of
protection afforded by a good lightning conduc
tor r” A well known Gorman architect, Herr
Schiller, has lately thrown some light upon the
matter by the publication of facts, which came
under his observation last June. A pear tree
thirty-three feet high was struck by lightning,
no protection being afforded it by a conductor
which stood on a school-house forty yards
away, or by another one, 110 yards distant,
which was carried to the steeple of a church
more than fifty yards high. Roth these con
ductors when tested showed that they were in
excellent condition. From these data, the con
clusion is drawn, that the area of protection
round a lightning rod is a space equal to twice
its hight.
Woman’s Invention. — Occasionally
one sees a gleam of the sense of fitness in the
most unexpected qu irter. A story is related of
a bleak and bony old Scotch Duchess, who, not
being able to secure a certificate oi ill health
from the court physician, which would enable
her to wear a high-throated gown, appeared at
the queen’s drawing-room in alow-necked dress
worn over her long-sleeve 1, high-necked meri
no undershirt. The vigorous old Scotch wo
man declared she’d not show her ancient bones
—not for the whole royal family -and tis said
the Prince of Wales upheld her.
Comes of a Noble Strain. —One of
the most efficient post-office clerks in the Union
is employed in the Bainbridge. Ga., post-office.
He is Patrick Fayette Henry, a great-grandson
of the immortal Virginian, whose impassioned
eloquence did more to light the fires of Ameri
can Independence and inspire the genius of lib
erty throughout the world than any other one
cause. This great-grandson ot the immortal
Patrick has not yet reached his majority, but hQ
knows his business just the same.
Another Argument. — The Depart
ment of Agriculture at Washington, has'been
investigating adulterations of food and drink
and lias found out, among other things that
our beer is adulterated with poisonous 'sub.
stances which have a deleterious effect on the
kidneys and are liable to produce Bright’s dis
ease. In view of the alarming prevalence and
fatality of that disease, this is the strongest
!«inp<?ranCo argument that has been made tor
some tfuie." ■
Electric Lights.— ln the Svdney,-
Australia, lighthouse, is the largest elecfrio light
in the world. It has a power o 180,000 candies,,
and may be seen from ships fifty miles out at
s ia. The next largest is in the Palais d’lndus
trie, andbas a power of 150,< 01 canilles. The
largest light in America is 24,030'candle p>wer.
It is at San Jose, Cal.
Don’t Wait
Until your hair becomes dry, thin, and.
gray before giving the attention needed'
to preserve its beauty and vitality.
Keep on your toilet-table a bottle of
Ayer’s Hair Vigor—the only dressing
you require for the hair—and use a little,
daily, to preserve the natural color and.
prevent baldness.
Thomas Munday, Sharon Grove, Ky.,
writes : “ Several months ago my hair
commenced falling out, and in a few
weeks my head was almost bald. £
tried many remedies, but they did no
good. I finally bought a bottle of Ayer’s
Hair Vigor, and, after using only a part
of the contents, my head was covered
with a heavy growth of hair. I recom
mend your preparation as the best hair
restorer in the world.”
‘‘My hair was faded and dry,” writes
Mabel C. Hardy, of Delavan, Ill.; “but
after using a bottle of Ayer’s Hair Vigor
it became black and glossy.”
Ayer’s Hair Vigor?
Sold by Druggists and Perfumers.
Pimples and Blotches,
So disfiguring to the face, forehead, and
neck, may be entirely removed by tha
use of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, the best and
safest Alterative and Blood-Purifier ever
discovered.
Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass».
Sold by Druggists: $1; nix bottl-s for 85.