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^Jjtft* 1. 6*5 5* THE TALISMAN. A tove Romance from the Yg*eneli. It as midnight, and a bride of rare beauty was seated within a luxurious boudoir of the gay city, the capital of France. A dainty femme de dhambre had but just left the apartment when Frederic de laTour, the young husband in question, entered. Madame de la Tour was seated near an open wood fire, the folds ot a beautiful robe de chambre of light soft texture thrown around her. "My darling," exclaimed de la Tour, "I could not come before." As he spoke he threw himself on hiskness before her. "Our friends have just gone?" inquired his listener. "Yes and I am with you." "Do not kneel, Frederic there is room for you on this couch/' continued Madame de la Tour. "No, let me remain thus. II seems as if I must be dreaming that all this hap piness cannot be real that you are not indeed mine to love and cherish. I can not remove my eyes from your dear face, dreading that you will vanish from my view." "Be very sure that I do not propose to vanish," responded Madame de la Tour. "Yesterday I was the widow of Lord Melville, and to-day I am Louise de la Tour. You see, strange as it may all seem, you do not dream." Fiederic de la Tour had good reason to suppose that a fairy had been meddling with his affairs. Within a few months past he had enjoyed a streak ot inexpli cable good fortune. He had become rich and happy beyond his fondest hopes. One atternoon, while returning from his office, he was, in the Rue St. Honore, ac costed by a lady, who was driving in a magnificent equipage. "Monsieur! Monsieur!" she called. The footman had lowered the steps, and motioned to de la Tour to enter the carnage. Astonished beyond measure he mechanically obeyed. "I have received your letter, monsieur," continued the lady, in a charmingly mu sical voice. "A letter from me, madame?" respond ed Frederick, in a tone of surprise. "Yes did you not, write tome?" "Never, madame, to my knowledge," was the respectful rejoinder. "You will kindly excuse me, monsieur," continued the lady. "I have made an absurd mistake, and my only excuse is that you so greatly resemble a friend of mine that I mistook you for him. Great heavens!" she added, much confused, "what must you think of me? And yet the resemblance is so striking." Ere the lady had completed her ex planation the carriage had been driven into the courtyard of a magnificent hotel. Frederic, of course, offered his hand to assist his companion to alight. I would explain further, monsieur," continued the stranger. I am lady Melville." De la Tour bowed. By the beauty of the speaker he was positively dazzled, and accepted with delight an invitation to call. My name is Frederic de la Tour," he said I am only a struggling artist." The singular meeting described had resulted, as has been said, in the marriage of de la Tour. Come and sit beside me," continued Madame de la Tour. I have something to say, but cannot speak while you re main kneeling. It is quite a story, and must be told to you." Froderic obeyed. Once upon a time," continued Louise. I knew you would tell me some fairy story," exclaimed the young hus band but while you speak it is music.*' Nay, listen to me, my friend- Once upon a time there was a young girl born of paients who had once been rich. At the age of fifteen she was brought to Paris by her father, who found that at Lyons he was gaining but little money For four years that father struggled val iantly against adversity, but finally ill ness seized him. To be brief, dear Fred rick, he died in a hospital, and soon the pool mother followed, and the young girl was left alone. Had there been a faiiy in the story I relate, she certa'nly would have appeared, but there was none The girl was in Paris without relatives, without friends, and crippled by debts which she had no means to pay. She sought work, but obtained none. Vice extended her arms but there exist sduls whose instincts are so honest they shrink from even the thought, and can remain paxient even while suffering. Time passed. At length every cent was gone, and for twenty-four hours no particle of food passed her lips. 0! Fred eric, you who have never known hunger and misery, cannot understand the suffer ing I might picture, cannot know the pain endured when forced to beg, and yet to implor alms the girl was compel led. At dark one evening she crept forth from her lodgings the night was cold and rainy. In her desperation she ac costed a young man, who halted, search ed his pockets, and then threw her a coin. The stranger did not even deign to touch her hand the look of misery and dis tress offended his eye. At this instant gend'arme perceived the girl. 'Come,' he said. 'I arrest you for beg sing. You will follow me to the lock "At these wordsV^JTof despair1"al wrung from the lips of the unfortunate woman, Quicklv the young man inter posea. jj^ ^pgf This young gir is a acquaintance, of mine}nI know her there is no beg S^nS questionl Come,n he continued *n addressing the trembling--woman, 'it is time you were at home. Do not fear it was only a mistake on the part of this good guardian of the public peace.' "Leaning on the arm of the stranger -"the girl walked on. ,"'Do not fear,madenaoiselle,'whispered the young man, placing a purse in the hand that lay upon his. 'I will accom pany you until we are out of sight of this Cerberus.'" "Why, I iremembered the girl!" ex claimed de la Tour. "And I also know the man?" "I do. It was no other than myself." "True. As we passed beneath one of the street lamps, I saw your face, and its every feature became impressed upon my mind. You had saved my lifeperhaps even my honorand I had reason to reher member you." "To remember?" "Indeed, yes. You little thought that the woman to whom you gave alms and protection would become Lady Melville, and was your future wife." "This does indeed seem like a dream," replied de la Tour. "To you but to me it is a reality." "And you, so beautiful, so truly lovely, begged in the open street?" "Once, and once only." "I did not see your face. "No, for it was covered with a heavy veil. On the following dayone, in fact, that I regarded as one of the happiest in my lifean old lady, in whom I had fortunately inspired confidence and some interest engaged me as her seamstress. My gayety returned. From the service I have named I was raised,to the position of companion and confidential friend. One day I was presented to an acquain tance of my patroness, Lord Melville. He was a man of about sixty, tall, thin, but of dignified' bearing. 'Mademoiselle,' he said, addressing me, 'I know your history, will you marry me?' Marry you?' I questioned, much sur prised. 'Yes. I have an immense estate, which I ao not wish my nephew to inonly herit. My health is delicate and mv lite lonely. If I can credit all I have been told, you are good and pure. Will you become Lady Melville?' "I loved you, Frederic, who Knew not oi my existence. I loved you although I had seen you but once. I could not for get, and there was something in my heart and soul that told me we would meet again, that our lives would run in the self same cunent how, I knew not, and yet I felt sure. When I looked at Lord Melville and saw his resolute expression of face, I feared he simply wished to marry me in order to carry this revenge. "His persuasions weie redoubled. I knew that his years were many, and that my fortune would be great. I thought of you and how I could benefit you did I but possess wealth, and at length I yielded consentI became Lady Melville." "How strange it all seems," replied de Tour. "Yes, deal love, as you have said, like some fairytale. I, poor, fuendless orphan, became the wife of one of England's richest peers."' "Happy Lord Melville!" exclamed Frederic "he had the power to enrich you." "He was happy," continued Madame De la Tour, "and never regretted his choice. He knew that I had seen you before our marriage." "Youtold him?' "Yes, all. It was not until after my marriage, Frederic, that I again saw you, and although we soon learned to read each others hearts, our lips were silent. Lord Melville was wealthy beyond my wildest expectations. He could not spend his income, and with that wisdom peculiar to him he realized that while the difference in our ages rendered love impossible, gratitude would attach me to him. Three months after our marriage Lord Melville died, leaving me all hewas possessed, and I resolved never to marry again, unless I could espouse the one man who had always held my heart:" "And you won the love of that man?" "Without his knowing me to be thethe beggar woman his kindness had protect- ed," rejoined Louis de la Tour, extending her band. "You remember," continued the speaker, "that I refused the purse?" "Yes you accepted but one com." "Only one, and at the time I was al most starving. "But it procured you food?" "No," replied Madame de la Tour, un clasping a ruby necklace that encircled her white throat. To this necklace hung an exquisite medallion. "See, dear Frederick, I did not part with my treasure." As she spoke she touched a spring and disclosed'the com. "It is the one I gave you!" exclaimed, de la Tour. "Yes." "And you retained it?" "I would sooner have parted with life I showed it to a baker, and asked him to trust me. He did so, and on the fol lowing day I was able to pay for the food his kindness permitted me to" eat." "Do vou remember the day I met Lady Melville?*j "Yes, my dear it was the happiest of my life. I knew you, but you "did. not recognize me." "Surely there has been a fairy in my life," replied de la Tour, thoughtfully. Why you say so?"w -s 4 Becauso when you sa me first I wa only a poor, struggling painter: but from the'time of our meeting the tide changed, and prosperity visited me." Would you know the name of thetc fairy?'' "It was you, Louise!" exclaimed, Frederic joyfully. You bought my picture?"s Many of them, and have won your love?" Yes, my heart my very soul." Frederic de la Tour took the gbM pieceand, pressed it to his lips. To that same""tUofJlCBBGU.hei fortune. "While I am the fairy," continued Louise, "it is yon my dear love, who gave me the precious talisman." itU Xl VJ MB Xipo. i luov bi gold owed happiness and trJlt tttflffSyfiin' 1 "T^ AEG MERR1LLES. Jtfrom Mtos Stebbins' Life of Charlotte Oushman.] It was in consequence of Mrs. Cnippen dale's illness that she was called upon on the, very day of the performance to as sume the part. Study, dress, etc., had to be an inspiration of the moment. She nad never especially noticed the part as it bad been heretofore performed, there was not, probably, much to atract her, but as she stood at the side scene, book hand, awaiting her moment of entrance, ear caught the dialogue going upon the stage between two of the gypsies, in which one says to the other, alluding to her, Megwhy, she is no longer what she was, she doats," etc., evi dently giving the impression that she is ao longer to be feared or respected that she is no longer in her right mind. With these words a vivid flash of insight struck upon her brain she saw and felt by thethe powerful dramatic instinet with which she was endowed the whole meaning and intention of the character and no doubt rrom that moment it became what it never ceased to be. a powerful, original and consistent conception in her mind. She gave herself with her usual concentrated energy of purpose to this conception, and flashed at once upon the stage in the startling, weird and terrible manner which we all so wed rememeber. On this occasion it so astonished and con founded Mr. Braham, little accustomed heretofore to sucn manifestations, that he went to her after the play to express his surprise and his admiration. "I had not thought that I had done anything remarkable," she says, "and when the knock came at my dressing room door, and I heard Braham's voice, my first thought was, 'Now what have I done? He is surely displeased with me about something,' for in those days I was the 'utility actress,' and had no prestige of position to carry me through, imagine my gratification when Mr. Bra hamk said, 'Missthe Cushman.veritablecome cftr repeated. The true heart of human ity responds always to truth, and lecog nizes the absolute ideal, which is only the real in its highest manifestation, and thrills as one string when the master-hand touches it. If theatrical people could o*:"y once recognize this and act upon it, w' at might not the theatie become? A book might well be written on this sub lect, taking the part of Meg as its text and its illustration. Meg behind the scenes was quite as re nmkable as before them. It was a study for an artist, and has been so to many, to v, itness the process of preperation for this notable characterthe "make-up as tbey call it in the parlance of the theatre a" regular systematic and thoroughly artistic performance, wrought out with the same instinctive knowledge which was so manifest in all she did. Miss Cushman." a distinguished lady artist, once said to her, as she wonderingly w&'ched the process whereby the wierd h?g grew out ot the pleasant and genial lineaments of the actress, how do you know where to put in those shadows and make those lines wnich so accurately give the effect of age?" I don't know" the answer I only/eei where they ought to come." And in fact the process was like the painting of a face of an old Dutch master, full of delicate and subtle manipulations, and yet so adapted fc necessities of space and light that its effect was only enhanced, not weakened, wnen subjected to them. Everybody will remember this vision ot age, glowing with purp*se, instinct wi*h fidelity, inspired with devotion even unto deathstrong yet weak, full of the contrasts of matter and spirit, subordi nated even in all material manifestations to tne master conception. It is "terrible." "It is lovely." says another "It melts my heart." "She is a witch," says a third, "iiom the crown of her head to the tips of her toes." Look at that attitude! the very limbs express and typify a life of privation of hardship of suffering. Hear that laugh! it tnrills one with the super na*tiral emphasis of a spirit more than a human creature. Then, again, listen to the 3ott, tender, loving tones of the voice, as with the tremulousness of age it croons over the boy the songs of his in fancy, or changes to ringing notes of ecstatic joy, as she sees awakening in his mmd the dim remembrance she is seek ing to evoke. The costume ot Megis another subject on which much of interest might be writ ten how it gradually grew, as all artis ic things must,trom,the strangest materials a oit picked up here^ another there seemingly a mass of incoherent rags and taiters, but full of method, and meaning every scrap of it put together with refer ence to antecedent experiencesthewind, the storm, the' out-door life of hardship, the tossing and tempering it had receiyed through its long wanderings and which an artist's eye is beyond price, seem ingly a bundle of rags, and yet a royal garment, for the truly queenly character of the old gypsy ennobled every thread of it How many of' those who felt this qvtaity in the wearer noticed how the battered head-dress was arranged in vague and shadowy semblance- 'to a crown, the gnarled and* twisted branch she carried su&gesting the emblem of command? Much and great has been the wonder of those who saw the dress off her person, and then no end- I have to han you for most sensa tion I have experienced for a long time. give you my word, when I turned and saw vou in that first scene I felt a cold chill run all over me. Where have you learned to do anything like that?' From this time the part of Meg grew and strengthened, retaining always its perfect unity and consistency, until it bocame what it was, an absolute jewel of diamatic arta standing comment and contradiction of the oft-repeated assertion that the public must and will have variety. The public must and will have excellence, when it gets it cannot have it toothan 'r/-MfrVc*~,~- g*^^yT-^'U"v-7"*'?v es of that extraordinary garment, the full completion of which seemed like anight-" ly miracle, so homogeneous did~-sheTAnd it become Ivhen^braughtUn cbntacr|so completely, as she got it on, dad she ejit er into tne#per8onatiidlnrof Meg and%lve: her own behind. She was always partic ular and perfect in heiwraakerup^anc*! would h,ave been for an audience of a dozen as for one of thousands^ jtVt times, with so much wear and tear some pari of tho cost^ne would- need renewal the stockings, for example, woulwould wear out, of trouble come in preparing another pair, that the exact int ct ag and dirt shouM.beattained. This she achieved by her own hand, by immersing them in a peculiar dye which she had prepared from different ingredi ents not generally known to the regular dyers. During all the .early period ot performance of this pait, when it was used more as an operetta than a drama, it was the custom., for the dra matic personae to sing a finale after the death to Meg. The interval gave Miss Cushman an oportunity to wash the.paint from her face and remove the head-dress and gray hair of Meg, so that when she was recalledas she always wasshe came before the audienee her own sweet, smil ing, pleasant self. The contrast between the wild, weird, intense face of Meg and the genial aspect of the actress was a veritable sensation, which it was a pity to lose when afterward the musical finale was omitted, and the piece ,c6ncluded with death of Meg. =r- TheGerman Onion Market, I am sure you can not guess what sort of a thing a Zwiebel-markt is. The word means onion-market, and I will tell you about one which I saw in German city. I was awakened very early one October morning by the rumble of Heavy carts un der my window, and drawing aside the curtain, I looked upon the great square all alive with a busy crowd of men, women and children. There were huge canvas covered carts, drawn by oxen great lumbering wagons, with a horse and cow, or a pair of droll little donkeys, harnessed together dogs and goats were tackled to small wagons that rattled along over the cobble stones, while the drivers' whips were cracking like hundreds of torpedoes, and every cart,large and small* were heaped with onions. Where did they all conie font, for it was barely sunrise then? While eating breakfast, which I tqols^ .an^Jiour garjier usual that morning, I asked my landlady abouW and ^she'told,me that it was Zioiebel^markt, and would continue three or four days. "It is really the sea son when the harvest is gathered, and the farmers come to town to sell their country produce but instead of making it a mere stupid time of traffic, they turn it into a grand holidav. The town puts on itsfishing, gala attire, the shops are bright with all manner of glittering things street musi cians draw around them crowds of happy peasants, who stand and listen in open mouthed delight Punch and Judy shows, dancing bears, trained bears, trained dogs and talking birds, are all to be found in ents or booths at every corner. So, you tee, it is not by any means made up engive tirely of onions As I walked through the streets I found that there were all sorts ot vegetables, such as we see in our markets at home at Thanks giving time but an air of beauty was giv en to the whole by the tasteful arrange ment of the various ai tides. Bright yel low carrots, with their delicate fol'age, contrasted with white cauliflower and the crisp, curling leaves of the red cabbage turnips, large and small,'were arranged in fantastic heaps, their green leaves still bright: and strings ot shining onions were piled on the ground in gigantic pyra mids, a great deal taller than any man. The peasants take great delight in this holiday season. Whole families come to gether, and camp out during the night just beyond the city limits, returning each morning before sunrise to their places of sale. The largest collections of fruit and vegetables are left under the care of a guard at night, but the smaller wares, such as poultry, eggs, butter, cheese, nuts, grapes, etc are packed into the same carts which brought them to town, and carried off by their owners to the place of their encampmentGolden Hours. The Dove's Mosque. In the city of Stamboul the Dove's Mosque, or the Mosque of Brajazet II., has a special charm. The court, entered by gates elaborately decorated in ara besque, is exceedingly beautiful. In the center is a marble fountain under a canopy and sheltered by & cluster of trees." As you enter the*court yb'u hear the roar of wings, and for a moment the air is darkened with the suddenTflight of myriads of doves., These brrd.s, the .off spring of a pair purchased from a poor woman by Sultan Bajazet and presented to the mosque, are as sacred as was the ibbsofold. Av grave and.^rjev.erendr fel low with^Jinge^i:urJ^uSrt&."ui)der 'Jhe cloister and sells grain to the faithful and the fickle. The former feed the doves 'for, chanty, thfeJlatferT for fun.himself While the fountain is knee-deep with swaiming birds and the trees^.^logged with them and all the eaves of the clois ter lined, and even the galleries of the lender minarets not unvisited by the9e feathered dervishes,,you,throw handful of wheat' into the court, and like a thund er-clound the whole tribe swoops upon you with the rush and roar cf a storm| They crowd onet another and^ieap them selves fogether-and-stanet h-their heads in their eagerness to get ,a morsal of grain. In a moment Som'C mre enters the court, and Jhe, birds ^takeu^ight, stirring the wind in^he%fofetef ,ai|658lling the air^ with soitfleatihgdownrirtufbaned gray bear'I near- by sells ?q^e#a*ndTjferJuipjes! and there is^aiso the fe" how she ever contrived to get into it no twho cries "Sherbet," and crashes his bra earthly creature, but herself and Sallie. 'zen cups till they ring likelymbalg, Ikiew the mysterious expa nd entranp- fate Hand there are loungers from dawn to dark i together for engagement rings. r""'" e*A-CWrears |l'jy.'"' p*T~ who drop in to see the doyes of Brajazet plunge into the -cofirY lim W^aTancheou!066"w of dusky, irnpurpled sn^w, an of itiagain.,a winged cloud ofsmoke. At the mosque on Friday^ iji#I ^distri bution of bread?,to dogs, and fhei*hungr fellows come from all pattspof thfffeitylto get their portion. h* L' .'j* ii 11 j'iwtfsH Good-bye! Ah'mef "TJil.wo^s iSfe^Atd, As balls that toll for spirits fled. Good-bve forewarns the goal is neared,-*^ 9 And yet good-byes are lightly saidi 'i. a The farewell falls fromS laugjung-lipg-'i*J*/*spi.pstsoundV/'liuovan that ldlvscafchtb^ though our live were And yearswere seas saUe^swiftiyround. Good-bye! Ah me! The w6fds'a/efraught With Vanished hopes an& brokfm ties', With lessons all too rudely taught. And angry clouds in summer skies. From heart to heart the words should pass When friendlv hands clasped closely lie For swiftly runs the fatal glass, And surely comes the last good-bv'eJ1*''' miles by land then across the sea. Buy him a railroad ticket tc culcutta or Aus tralia but don't send his precious, body to ssa." "There's the Adiion5ack." Where he'll get to hunting deer and gambling, A cook-fighting, and every thing else that's bad-,, Lwould send him to Chicago at once." $ 4 Brother Webb here mildly suggested that he was whilom a citizen ofe Chicago,didn' to which Squiggs replied that i *0 A i ,*i Parson Swope's Yacation. When our church decided that Parson Swope should have a vacation and money to travel on, the people, without a dissent ing voice, said it was a compliment paid to a worthy man and a Christian. said so, too. The Parson had been with us two years, and at steady work the only va cation he had during that' time was the few days during which his wife's mother lay speechless from sickness. We felt that the good man needed rest from his labors, and the sheep thought that the wolves of sin wouldn't dovpur them if the shepherd did go abroad. Therefore ^e-^the.V^ou'ncil of the churchmet to* decide about the vacation. The parson was not present. Elder Jones said that the parson would like to inspect the missionary fields amog the Sandwich Islands "No, you don't get him there!" said Deacon Uutter. "Send him trlerer~and see him^come hpme eaten up by^themlun godly beAthehsJ Stnd$him. to |T,ur$^y." "And let the Cossacks slay him?" cried Jones, in turn. "Not one cent of mine sends Brother Swope into the jaws of death." I suggested that a tour Jhrough ^ng and would rest the parson Can he go by land?" inquired Elder SqHiggs. "Then I object I Not a dollar ot mine sends him ,u,pjon the ragjtngji ocean,,|l I would sooner send bam*' 4eto! i" i tliouttm i care if he would die there. I moved my chair to a spot between tne brethern, and suggested as a compromise that we the parson liberty to explore, the White mountains. lfh S "No, sir!" Taylor said, fiercely. 1 know a preacher who went there, and fell and broke his leg I would send Brother Swope to the South." This seemed to strike the council favor ably, and the particular place was can vased'. i I ra t". "New Orleans," suggested Taylor. "Bad as Chicago!" snapped Squiggs, with a glance a(t Webb. "If you send him South I'll leave the church'." said Jones. "My mother-m law is a ranting Baptist down there, and she'd want to come home with hint." "Then he don't travel to the' Sandwich Islands with my money 1" Taylor returned. "Nor to Europe with mine!" "Nor to Turkey!" "Nor to the mountains!'? I came to the rescue by suggesting that we vote the money, and Jet the -par son travel where he pleag&U ',J J: Jones refused tp subscribe, as he might og South, Taylor walked out mad because they wouldn't send him down there and but five dollars was raised. How far will that take him?" asked Webb. It wouldn't get him a square meal in Ohieagbj" said Sqhiggs. Or abed at Long Branch.''*" We came to dead-lock. Word had gone forth that the parsOn waa to have a vacation, furnished with traveling money,*"* and it wsis too'late to recede. ^'J For three mortal hours we wrestled with the ponderous subject. Every place on the majp^waacqMultedfaife and every thing coneWed.i At -one moment we were about to "send the parson to Canada at another he was almost looked for Cuba Alternating thus between antagonistic temperatures, the parson was kept for a long time. 'If grew late. The clock struck eleven. Mrs. .Jones came and took her husband home, and Squiggs qujckiy followed., fAt, laefcLifye came to our relief.4 Ther smile Of joy and recognition upon his face. He looked like a person ready to climb the golden stair. "Biethren,4' ,3*1 3 WoVi he- said, sweetly, tliank swu: a thptusajidf timesrn ipfeiZlnrrJbe, iMRm&fiMy There is rest theresweet rest for My wife's'motheY^sMckW tgam the'physician says-she wiMTn, I nd me. me. 'and evr speak cation at homjejirh^ wig/were eager to give him far from its burnble^recmete. The favorite, ^h^^ement^rmg New Yofk js^, fh^atPof gold supporting a solitaftemarnrjnd, but a saphire and ald', ^i^dniblnte of W& '6hresemer is sometimes usedX* tThree-pearl^' 'jBink, white, and cmam-^olor, are sometimes set if- -st JS*j&^**2&ditXM!>li *wJ MhigW^'ilVfi