Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 13 June 1885 — Page 9

Printed by Special Arrangement with the Author. un Mis urn. # A STORY. By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. [Copyrighted 1885, by S. S. McClure—All Rights Reserved.] I became well acquainted, while in England, with a young follow, an artist, by the name of John Seyton. In spite of his fine name, he came from the lower middle class; his elder brother was a gardener. But his genius compensated, to some extent, for this mistake in rank. Though not more than twenty-six years old when I knew him, he painted several remarkable landscapes, which were prominently placed in the Royal Academy exhibitions, and one of which (“The Three Beeches’*) was bought by Lord Picadilly for £1,500. He was slender and not ill-looking, with a nervous, distraught manner, and a singularly delicate complexion; his features were prominent, and his abundant hair of a bright flaxen hue. In temperament he was extremely emotional, and the lack of a regular education had left his infirmity unmodified. In sober, self-possessed England, such a man is like to get into difficulties, and John Seyton was no exception to the rule.

The poor fellow fell desperately in love with the niece of one of his patrons —a Miss Kate Naxon. The family was wealthy and aristocratic, and the maten was out of the queston. Miss Naxon was a tall, dark beauty, of a cast of mind superficially romantic, but, according to those who knew her, sufficiently cool and sensible at bottom. The result of this contrariety was that she got the reputation of being a dangerous flirt. John was flattered and caressed by great personages on account of bis genius, and it thus happened that he not only met Miss Naxon, but was thrown a good deal with her. They spent a part of one autumn together at old Colonel Naxon’s country-seat in Devonshire. It was there that the mischief was done. One afternoon, late in October, John burst unannounced in my library in London, threw down his hat, grasped my hand, and, with an air of almost hysteric excitement, cried out: “What do you think? What do you think? We’re engaged! Kate Naxon and I! The golden age has come, my dear fellow. We’re to be married!” He told me the whole story at great length, and with wonderful color and vividness, walking about the room, sitting down, standing ud, gesticulating, laughing and crying. It was an extraordinary and touching exhibition, quite at variance with the usual amiable self-control of English civilized society. When I remembered the immitigable laws of English caste, I thought he must be mad, but when I pictured the intensity of his wooing, I could see how he might have prevailed over the aristocratic beauty. And yet—would she really marry him? I could not believe it. She might have been hurried out of herself for a moment, and would reconsider the matter later; or she might be taking a leaf out of the book of “Lady Clara Vere de Vere.” At all events, I strongly doubted my friend’s ultimate happiness, but in his present humor it would have been useless to warn him. He described the spot where he had offered himself to her. It was in a small chalet on her uncle’s estate, about 400 yards from the house; they sat in a bay-window commanding a beautiful view of the park. There had been a splendid Bumt, and the moon, a few days old, was shining in the still luminous west. They had been speaking of indifferent matters; but, all at once, as he sat looking at her, and saw the lovely light slowly fading on her eloquent face, the fancy seized him that now—now or never—while the reflected glow still lingered on her cheeks, was the time for him to declare his heart and to prevail. So, without more ado, he spoke; and, when the torrent of his passionate appeal was over, and he held her band in his. and gazed up at her with his soul in his eves, behold, she yielded, and bent toward him. and their lips met.

“It was worth a lifetime! It was worth a life!” exclaimed John, as he stood on my matter-of-fact hearthrug, and clasped his hands with all the ardor of youth, faith and poetry. I admired him. I could not help smiling at him, and I was unaffectedly sorry for him. “For it will be as much as your life is worth,” I said to myself, “if she plays you false. ” The Colonel, meanwhile, had not yet been consulted in the matter —a fact which did not diminish my mistrust of his niece, who must have known what he would say. It was at her request that the affair was kept quiet for a while. It is impossible to say how it might have turned out, had things been allowed to take their natural course. But an event happened which disarranged all calculations. John Seyton was suddenly stricken down with a severe hemorrhage of the lungs. His doctor told him that, if he wanted to save his life, he piust spend the winter in Madeira. To make matters worse, Miss Kate had just started on a trip to Dresden, and would not return before Christmas. It was impossible for John to see her before his departure: but he wrote to her, and received what I presume was a satisfactory answer a day or two previous to his sailing. From my own point of view, however —which, in this instance, was pessimistic —the only satisfactory letter she could have written him would have been a frank confession that she had jilted him, for 1 was sure she would do it, if he lived long enough to get hack. But destiny has other ways than one. He went to Madeira, and wrote me thence, once or twice, to the effect that he was imE roving in health, and was as happy as could e expected. Then, for a long time he was silent, and I must confess that I partly forgot about him. He was first recalled to my mind in a very distressing maimer. I heard the engagement announced of MissJvate Naxon to her cousin, the Hon. Percey Tremayne, a captain in the Guards. They were to be married immediately after Lent. Somewhat to my surprise, I became aware of feeling almost a personal animosity against this young woman. Finding myself one evening at a reception where she was present, I took pains to bo introduced to her. She was certainly vory beautiful; nor was her beauty of the truly correct kind; it was glowing and bewitching. It was by no means inconceivable that a wiser and older man than John Seyton might be willing to waste his whole heart in one kiss upon her perfect lips. After we had eon versed for a while, I said abruptly: 1 a sect of right to some acquaintance. Wo have ari intimate friend in common.” She folded her fan, and bent her bead towards me expectantly. That is, if he be living yet,” I continued. “But it it some months since I heard from him; and he had a dangerous disease—more than one, perhaps.” “Are you sure you are not mistaken in the person?” “He has described you to me a dozen times.” “I can’t fancy whom you mean," she said. “No doubt; in society one finda it difficult to recollect all one's friends. The man I mean was an artist; his name was-—” “Oh! I know him now; it is Mr. Seaton!” she

said, looking me straight in the face with a quiet smile. “Oh, no, I have not forgotten him!” I was hardly prepared for such composure. “He spoke of having spent a part of the autumn at Colonel Naxon’s place,” I added. “Yes; I saw a great deal of him. I became very much interested in him. His illness is a calamity to art as well as to his friends. And you know him, too? Then lam doubly glad to meet you. Percy,” she went on, as a tall young man approached, “I want you to know this gentleman. He is a friend of Mr. John Seyton—you know.” She mentioned my name, and added, “my cousin—Percy Tremayne.” “Awfully nice fellow, Seyton, wasn’t he?” said the Captain, fixing his eye-glass, and regarding me with a good-natured smile. “Awfully clever, and that sort of thine. Never met him, myself. Kate—er —Miss Naxon's always talking about him. Awfully good fellows, artists, I always think.” “He was of very plebeian extraction,’’ I remarked, amused, in spite of myself, at the incorrigible complacence of British aristocracy.” “Oh, bless yon, we don’t mind that,” the Captain replied, amiably. “One fellow’s just as good as another—if he is as good, you know. I tell Kate I go in for communism, and all that — except when they want to dynamite a fellow —I draw the line there ” And the Captain dropped his eyeglass with a frank laugh. “Men like Mr. Seyton will do more 1 to equalize unjust distinctions than all the dynamiters in the world,” said Miss Kate gravely. “If he is not perverse enough to die,” I said, makine my bow. But I could hardly help liking both of these people the better for this conversation. Miss Naxon had a right to parry my attack, and she had done so nobly. As for Captain Tremayne, he was an honest, handsome, singleminded Englishman, and that was all about it. And yet, between them, tney had destroyed a man who was worth a hundred of them put together. That is the way of the world. John Seyton, however, did not die. How ho received the news of Kate’s faithlessness I never learned: but I was informed, early in the summer season, that he had returned to England, and that he was hopelessly insane. He was placed in on© of the best private asylums, and, though I was unable to obtain an interview with him myself, I heard from those nearest to him that everything was done for his comfort. Where the money for his support came from I know not; perhaps from the sale of his pictures. His health (as sometimes happens when the brain gives way) had in other respects improved, and he would probably exist many years. But what an agony he must have endured before the end came! And all because a young woman was beautiful and selfish! I wished to see Miss Naxon, to discover whether her serenity were in any degree discomposed by this n©w turn of affairs. But the opportunity did not come. I only heard, in common with the rest of the world, that she and her cousin became man and wife at about the time that John Seyton entered the asylum. And this was the end of the little romance! What a fine thing is this English institution of caste, I said to myself. We Americans may be barbarous and provincial, but even vulgarity is sometimes preferable to inhumanity. It was an intolerable wrong that had been perpetrated, and yet there was no possible way of punishing the authors of it—or the author, let us say, for nobody could blame the Captain. I am not one of those who reeognize a special providence in every thunder-storm, but the sequel of this story was, to say the least of it, far more impressive than the story itself, England hart lately been drawn into some of the bickerings of her remote colonists with the natives who surrounded them and finally felt called upon to make a physical assertion of her dignity. The immediate consequence of this decision was the exportation into tropical and hostile latitudes of some thousands of red coated British peasantry, accompanied by some scores of aristocratic graduates of Eton and Harrow to lead them on to victory in squares and columns. It so happened that Captain Tremayne was among those appointed for this service* though he was a bridegroom of only a lew months’ standing. The war was not, of course, a war of any consequence; it was as impossible that England should be defeated as that they should gain any glory by conquering. But this would not prevent some of them from being killed, and had the Captain been marching to Waterloo, instead of the desert or to the backwoods, he could not have said farewell to his young wife with any worse assurance of ever seeing her again. A negro can inflict death (when it comes in las way to do so) just as effectively as Napoleon or Von Moltke. The Captain went off, at ali events, and Mrs. Tremayne was temporarily widowed. She had, I believe, a pretty, old-fashioned residence near Twickenham, on the Thames, and she established herself there, declining her uncle’s invitation to spend the period of her husband’s absence at his Devonshire place. About six months later a baby was born —a little girl. Soon afterwards I myself left England, and was on the continent for upwards of a year. It was while I was away that the singular event occurred that makes this story worth telling. I heard of it in detail afterwards, at various times, and from different persons.

When her baby was less than a year old it caught a slow fever —something like what we call malaria—and Mrs. Tremayne. fancying that the river air was unwholesome for it. suddenly made up her mind to accept her uncle’s standing invitation to visit him. She sent him a letter to that effect, and set out herself a day or two afterwards. On arriving, late in the evening, at her destination, she found a ball in progress at the house, and no provision made for her reception. Her letter had not been received, and every room in the house was occupied. It was, of course, impossible to return, and she at length made up her mind to spend the night with her baby at the little chalet in the park, which has been already alluded to. It contained two or three rooms, and one of them was already fitted up as a bedroom. Her uncle accompanied her over there, with a maid, and saw that she was comfortably housed. It had at first been intended that the maid should sleep on a mattress on the floor; but, after looking at the room, Mrs. Tremayne decided that she would dispense with attendance. Accordingly the maid went back to the house, and her uncle, after bidding her goodnight, retired also, taking the precaution to lock the door after him and put the key in his pocket. The arrangement was that the maid should come early in the morning to assist Mrs. Tremayne at her toilet An hour or two later, as Col. Naxon was strolling up and down the gravel path in front of his home, taking a whiff of a cigar, with an old crony of his, while the younger people still kept up the dance within doors, he fancied he heard a scream from the direction of the chalet. Turning the corner of the shrubbery, the chalet was in view, distinct in the moonlight, at the further extremity of the broad lawn; The light .vas extinguished in Kate’s window, and all was quiet and peaceful. The Colonel’s companion had heard no sound, and the Colonel fancied he must have been mistaken; nevertheless, he walked nearly half way across the lawn to satisfy himself. Then, as there was still no sign of anything wrong, he walked slowly back again, enjoying the moonlight and his cigar; and not long afterwards the ball came to an end, and Col. Naxon went to bed. Meanwhile this is vhat had taken place in the chalet: The young mother’s first care was to uurse her baby (who had already improved with the change of air), and, when it liacl fallen asleep, to lay it in the bed. Then she took down her hair, changed her traveling di-ess for a loose dressing-, gown, and, as she did not feel inclined to sleep, sat down at the table near the bed to read. Through the silence of the country night she could occasionally hear faint strains up at the great house, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The chalet consisted of two rooms opening into each other, the second of which was ac-. cessible only by passiug through the first. On the left of the second room was a third smaller room, used as a sort of lumber closet. Mrs. Tremayne occupied the first room, but the door between this and the second was open; and as she sat at the table, she had only to raise her eyes to look across the two rooms, and so out of the bow window of the further one into the depths of the moonlit park. The moon was nearly full, and its ravs fell through the bow window and across the divan in the deep embrasure. It was a beautiful sight; but that, perhaps, was not the reason why it so often drew Kate’s eyes away from her book. She knew the place only too well; it was in that window that John Seyton had told his love to her. This had not occurred to her in the hurry and confusion of her first arrival; but she remembered it now. It was the same season of the year, too—early October; indeed, as nearly as she could reckon, it. was the anniversary of the very day. The hour was later, and the moon was fuller, but those were the only differences. Yet no, the. e were two others; he was

THE INDIAINAPOUS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, JUSTE 13, 1885.

confined in & mad house and she was the wife of another man. Poor John Seyton! And poor Kate, too! —alone there with her baby, while her husband stood on some unknown battle-field thousands of miles away. The baby slumbered peacefully; the candle burned with a steady flame; Kate turned again to her book. But presently she raised her head with a start. She had heard—or imagined that she had heard —a slight, unaccountable sound, as of a door slowly opened. It must have been imagination; no one was in the chalet but herself. Nevertheless, after listening for a moment, she blew out the candle. She could light it again if she wished, but if there should be anything, it was better that she should be in the darkness. The noise was not repeated; but, after her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, she preferred to remain aa she was, looking out into the moonlight. She did not care to read, and her mind was full of memories. And the dearest memory of all was of the evening when she and her lover sat together in that divan, and talked of love. And what a lover he was! There 'had been nothing convenfional, nor circumspect, nor halfhearted in his avowal of passion. It had flamed out of him suddenly and irresistibly, and before she knew it or meant it she had kindled with the glorious contagion. Looking back upon that hour (as she had often done), she had been astounded at herself, not because she had acted against her nature, but because, for once, she bad given her nature its freedom. In that one hour she had withdrawn the veil from her heart, and her very soul had uttered itself. Such was the miracle that John Seyton had wrought upon her. And yet it was not him she loved; she had never loved at all; he had only enabled her to snatch one burning glimpse of her own depths. It had been a revelation of possibilities—-no more than that; but that had sufficed to make her recognize forever the frigid and stark realities amirtst which her life must lie. Had she loved John Seyton as he loved her, had he been the goal instead of merely the guide of that strange pilgrimage of the spirit—then, though he were a beggar or a Caliban, she would have clung to him triumphantly in the face of the world. But —alas! for him and for her—he had but stirred that which he could not control. And when, after that glorious hour was past, the tides of her life had ebbed back to their proper level, and she had realized what the experience meant, she had confronted her destiny with a sad determination. Let her marry whom she would —her cousin or anyone else—it did not matter; only one man she would never marry, and that was John Seyton. So much justice, at least, she would do her nobler self. The world might wag its head and smile in its siehve; she would preserve that one place in her soul unpolluted, come what may. Such was Kate’s hidden history, which never could be imparted to any human soul. Her only happiness was a tragedy. So profound ’ was her revery that the phantoms of her mind seemed to be realities. As she gazed fixedly towards the further room she fancied that she beheld there a sac face well remembered, though with a ghastly change in it In the quiet moonlight it wore a deadly pallor; the eyes were hollow and glittering, and the shaggy hair fel! down upon the shoulders. The figure was meager and dark; it stole noiselessly forward, and couched down in the deep embrasure of the window. Was it John Seyton, or his ghost? He stretched out his thin hands as if to grasp something more unsubstantial than himself, and th(n a long, tremulous sigh fell upon Kate’s entranced ear. In an.instant she was aroused, with every nerve alert and tingling. This was no vision—it was the man himself! Had she been alone s e might have felt fear; but the thought of her habv gave her courage. She rose to her feet, silent as a shadow, and throw the lace curtain of the bed across the sleeping infant, so as to conceal it. Then, with a few steps, stealthy as a panther’s, she began to approach the door be tween the two rooms. There was a key in it., though it was on the other side; but if she could reach it before he looked round she might yet be safe. It was true that she was locked in by her uncle’s fatal precaution; but she could call from the window and help would probably reach her before the madman could tear down the door. The space she had to cross was narrow, yet it seemed to her that many minutes were consumed in traversing it. All the while she kept her eyes fixed upon that crouching figure as she might have watched a sword about to fall on her neck. How she prayed that no board might crack, no rustle of her garments betray her presence! And all tho while the crickets chirped drowsily on the lawn, the trees stood black againstx the sky, and the madman sat huddled on the divan, with the moonlight glittering in h ? s eyes. It was strange that the beating of her heart did not arouse him. She stood in the doorway, at length, and stretched forth her hand toward the lock. At that moment the baby stirred in its sleep and sent forth a plaintive cry. Immediately the dark figure leaped to its feet and faced her. Then Kate did a courageous deed. Instead of attempting to possess herself of the key and fasten the door from her side—thereby risking being overpowered before she could accomplish her purpose—she sprang forward into the room, closing the door behind her. There she stood, confronting her lover and looking into his wild eyes.

A strange lover was he! John Seyton had been characterized chiefly by the simple ardor of the human nature that was in hi 14; but there was scarce a trace of human nature in this haggard creature. The glances that he sent through his tangled hair into Kate’s face were more like those of a frenzied animal than a man. And yet this was he who. at their last meeting in that very room, had fallen at her feet, and shaken her very soul with the ardor of his idolatry, and those bloodless lips load been pressed against her own. It was a grisly transformation, and she herself was the enchantress who had wrought it. He would have obeyed her lightest breath two years ago, but what would the utmost exercise of her will and strength avail with him now? Had Kate not been conscious of some redeeming quality in her past conduct, she must surely have succumbed in the horror and misery of that moment. But she felt that her fault—if it were hers at all and not that of the age and cir cumstances into which she was born —had been committed long before she and John Seyton met. There fate had been but a consequence of an evil long in operation. Therefore—and also because the life of her child might depend upon her action —she kept her heart and her eyes firm, and resolved to prove whether she could not still control this mindless being, who had lost himself for her love. She stepped forward quietly and laid her hand upon his arm and spoke to him with all the tenderness and gentleness that she could summon out of her soul. He started at her touch, but her voice arrested him again and seemed to soothe him. Follow-' ing her impulse (for other guide she had none in that crisis) she led him to the window and made him sit beside her on the divan. It appeared to her as if she were rehearsing in a fearful dream and with a kind of ghastly mockery the events of that fatal hour in which the tragedy of their lives began. Ho had wooed her then, and now it was her turn to woo. He had wooed her to love; she must woo him from who could tell what nameless insane violence. He had won his suit —for an hour at least; she would win hers for as long. What she talked to him about, she never knew. Probably her speech was as rambling and incoherent as that of madness itself. Knowing that his brain would not apprehend what his ear heard, she may have spoken aloud things which she would not have whispered to her own reflection in a mirror. He sat staring at her, sometimes patting her hand, sometimes raising his arms over his head and clutching vaguely at the air, sometimes pressiue his clenched fists against his breast, as if he felt a pain there. But if she paused in her flow of words, or if her eyes wandered from his, he would move restlessly, and mutter in a rapid, inward tone, though nothing that he uttered was intelligible. It was evident that if she released her hold upon him, such as it was, he would pass out of her control entirely. Yet every fresh moment told upon her strength; it seemed as if life itself was ebbing away from her; and she began to fear that the strain would end by her falling back dead in her seat But the worst was yet to come. A cry came from tho next room; so faint a cry that it might easily have passed unheard by another; but it penetrated the mother’s heart like a knife. Her baby had awaked, and all her labor and agony were in vain. The cry was repeated, and now the madman heard it also. His expression changed from vacancy to threatening suspicion. For a minute the wretched woman strove to drown the feeble wailing by raising her own voice; she broke into song and laughter—anything to bold his attention. But it was useless. He started up and began to prowl about the room, sometimes erect, sometimes creeping on all fours; ever and anon pausing to toss back the hair from his face and

listen; and anon emitting querulous noises and mutterings. At length he stopped before the door and laid his hand upon the latch. Aa it yielded to his pressure he glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at that wild look her overtaxed heart gave way, and all her torture and dispair found utterance in the scream that was heard by Colonel Naxon, as he comfortably puffed his cigar on the terrace before his drawingroom window. #■ * * # Early next morning the maid came tripping across the lawn, humming an air to herself, her shadow lying long before her on the closecropped dewy turf, while the ribbons of her cap fluttered in the cool breeze. The birds chirped and sang in the shrubbery, and all things gave promise of a perfect day. The maid ran up the steps of the little chalet, and, havine just tapped at the door, put the key in the lock and opened it. She made a few steps into the room and thee stopped, aghast Mrs. Tremayne was seated in a chair fronting the door, but her face was scarcely recognizable, so old did it appear, so furrowed with the deep lines of terrible emotion, so bloodless and so rigid. At her feet crouched a figure hardly more apalling than herself; his matted head resting upon her lap, and his eves were closed in sleep. In his arms reposed a baby, also asleep, and with a delicate rose flush on its soft cheek. Mrs. Tremayne spoke no word. As her dull, weak eyes encountered those of the maid she slowly raised her hand and laid her finger on her lip. Happily the maid did not cry out. She crept noiselessly back, flew across the lawn to the house, and within five minutes assistance came, and Kate Tremayne’s long trial was over. I saw her once, about a year after this. Her black hair had grown quite gray and she looked like a woman of fifty; but she was still handsome, and her mannerwas exquisitely sweetand gentle. She was a widow; Captain Tremayne had fallen upon the field of battle with a spear through his heart. But her child was left to her—a lovely little girl two years old. And there was another dweller in her quiet household; a person with long, flaxen hair, and a vacant but wild gaze. He was a silent and unobtrusivo creature, neither a child nor a man, nor yet an animal, though evincing some of the characteristics of all. Ho would follow Mrs. Tremayne about the house, wherever she went; when she sat down, he would rest at her feet; when the baby wanted a playfellow she always found one in him. When I addressed him, he looked at me with those strange blue eyes, gravely, but with no gleam of recognition. He was quite harmless ever since that awful night of Ins escape from the asylum; bur he would never recover his reason. He had f '-gotten his name; his life was a mere existence; and yet it seemed to me (so mighty is the vitality of the heart) there might linger in him some dim relic of a memory that he had been K *te Naxon’s lover. A Rainy Day. On a day like this, when the streets are wet. When the skies are gray and the rain is falling; How can you hinder an old rerret For a joy long dead, and a hope lung set, From rising out. of its grave and calling? Calling to you with a. voice so shrill. That it scares the reason and stuns the will. On a day like this, when the sun is hid. And you and your heart are housed together: If memories come to you all unbid, And something suddenly wets your lid. Like a gust of the outdoor weather, Why, who is in fault but the dim old day. Too dark for labor, too dull for play? On a day like this, that is blurred and gray, When the rain drips down in a ceaseless fashion; If a dream that you banished and put away, Comes back to stare in your face aud say Mute eloquent words of passion— If the whole vast universe seems amiss— Why, who can help it —a day like this? —Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

AMATEUR CHIC KEN-KAISERS. How the Fashionable Young Women of New York Employ Their Spare Time. New York Letter in Boston Gazette. Some time ago amateur photography was the rage among the young ladies of New York society. Nearly every one of them had an instrument, and some were very proficient in the art. But fashionable young ladies soon tire of any pastime, no matter how interesting it may be at first: but they have cot hold of an amusement now which has something of the risk of Wall street in it. *nd which is occupying the attention of a large number of them. Instead of a photographic apparatus, they have incubators, and are trying to see which one will hatch out the most chickens in a given time. They do not all of them have rooms built especially for this incubating process, and are sometimes put to it for a place to put up their apparatus. One young lady who i know had the incubator in her bedroom, and put a hundred eggs into it; the result, eight chickens. Os these she was as proud as any old hen. But what to do with them was something of a question. She couldn’t keep them in her bedroom, so as the weather grew milder she brought them down stairs and put them out in her back yard one day and left them there for a minute while she went into the house for some bread crumbs to feed them with. When she came back she saw a sleek old tabby cat sitting on the fence with the fattest and most promising of ner chicks in its wicked paws. It was too late to do anything, for the chicken that had been hatched through so much tribulation was dead, and the brute of a cat was feasting off it. The young lady could find nothing in the yard to throw at it, so she flew into the house and brought out a handful of coals from the scuttle. These, with her own fair hand she threw at the cat; hut, if you have ever seen a young woman throw a stone, you know that the cat was safe. She hit the fence two or three times, hut the cat only looked down and licked its chops and smiled. So she gathered up her seven remaining chickens and took them back to the house. How many have been eaten by the same cat, how many died, or how many still live, I don't know; but as this young lady is a prominent figure in the social whirlpool, I do not think she will perform the duties of an old hen with great success. Then, a foster mother cannot be expected to feel the devotion of a real mother, and while she is very fond of her pets, I do not think that she would give up many races or recreations to watch over their welfare. m mm i ■ ■— Hill Nye ou His Birthplace. Boston Globe. A man ought not to criticise his birthplace, I presume, and yet, if I were to do it all over again, Ido not know whether I would seleat that particular spot or not. Sometimes I think I would not And yet, what memories cluster about that old house! There was the place where I first met my parents. It was at that time that an acquaintance sprang up which | has ripened in later years into mutual respect and esteem. It was there that what might be termed a casual meeting took place, that has, under the alchemy of resistless years, turned to golden links, forming a pleasant but powerful bond of union between my parents and myself. For that reason I hope that I may be spared to my parents for many years to come. There on that spot, with no inheritance but a predisposition to premature baldness and a bitter hatred to rum; with no personal property hut a misfit suspender and a stone bruise, began a life history which has never ceased to be a warning to people who sell groceries on credit. Couldn’t Wait for the Law. Arkansaw Traveler. Old Abner, who had been divorced from his wife, met his ex-spouse on the street. “Good mawnin’, lady, good, mawnin’.’’ “W’y, howdy do, sah; how’s yer health?" “Imprubin’ mightily, thank yer. Look heah. when I weut away frum yer house dis mawnin’ I lef er coat hangin’ on de wall. I'd like ter go up an’ git it." “Law, man, dat coat hab dun been put on by my step husban’.’’ “Look heah, Tildy, yer ain’t married ergin, is yer? 1 ’ “Law, yes, Abner. De facts am, I married ergin 'for dat ar’ 'vorce came out’’ “Did ver chile? Wall, so did I. Folks whut’s got ter tiussleroun’ an’ makeer libin’ can’t efford ter wait or* deso here lawyers. Come down an’ see us sometime. Good mawnin’. A Severe Test Baltimore American. A Salvation Army officer in Delaware has an original way of proving the wickedness of this world. Towards the end of his address he always says: “If there is any Christian in this assemblage let him hold up his haud and I will go home with him and spend the night" Strange to say, no Christian has yet been known to hold up his hand.

HUGO'S Ilf SANE DAUGHTER* The Story Confirmed by the Latest Advices from Paris. New York World. The story of Adele Hugo, daughter of Victor Hugo, and of her sod adventures in this country and the Barbadoes, was recently printed in the World. According to this story Adele Hugo, when a young girl, male the acquaintance of an English officer named Pinson, while visiting Brussels, and the two having fallen in love at first sight were secretly married. Pinson promised that he would make her his wife publicly in due time, and soon started for London, leaving her with her parents. The secret marriage, according to some accounts, was only a mock ceremony, and Miss Hugo was simply deceived and betrayed. Having informed her mother of the affair, they both hastened to London, but found on their arrival in that city that Pinson had left with his regiment, which had been ordered to Halifax. Miss Hugo returned to the continent with her mother, but soon afterwards left home clandestinely, reached New York, and from thence made her way to Halifax. She arrived in time to prevent the marriage of her false lover with the daughter of Mr. Johnson, Prime Minister of Nova Scotia. She remained in Halifax three years, during which time Lieutenant Pinson repudiated her. but did not dare deny the truth of the story of her wrongs*. His regiment being ordered to the Barbadoes, Miss Hugo followed him thither. Her father sent her an allowance of a hundred dollars a month, and more when she required it. The memory of her life in Halifax and the Barbadoes is still fresh in the minds of the inhabitants. One narrator, referring to her sojourn in the latter place, thus describes her “In her rare lucid moments she has been heard to say: ‘lf lie had not abandoned me I should not have lost my reason.’ S’ e found herself left without resotirces, and in her distress she appealed to her illustrious father. The help he sent she placed upon the carpet, and told the trades people to help themseives. The first comers took all, whereupon the old negress servant advised her to writ© again to her father. In the interval poverty and distress were endured, which intensified the mania, and finally the poet sent for her to come home. Her insanity is mild and harmless. She can reason well and her memory is good, but suddenly, while at the table, she will put her food iu her pocket Her dress is that of a young girl; her walk is very peculiar; she fills her pockets with a host of things which she picks up out of the road in her daily promenade, and one day she collects the pebbles iu her path, which she replaces in her next walk. She is proud of her father's reputation, and knows his works by heart” llis story bore so many elements of improbability that he has been accepted as the production of some fanciful romancer. This view appeared all the more likely as no mention has been made of Adele in the various biographies of Hugo, or in his own ‘‘Memoires,” and the poet himself, was never known to speak of her. A dispatch from Halifax represents Miss Hugo as being in a New York lunatic asylum at present. This is erroneoua Miss Hugo is at present confined in an asylum near Paris. The Paris Figaro of May 23 says, apropos of the Hugo family: “When the children of the poet are referred to, mention is made only of those that are dead. His youngest daughter is forgotten, the only one living, M’lle Adele Hugo. This unhappy lady will never hear of her father’s death. She has lost her reason. Since 1872 she has been at Saint Mamie, in M’lle Rivet’s great asylum. She is now fifty-three years old. Her father was accustomed to mount the omnibus in the mornings quite often, and go out to see her. In spite of her madness, she never failed to recognize him She would sit on his knees, and beg him to take her home with him, but'would insist that he should take all her companions with her. “Mme. Rivet had thought it advisable to conceal from the poor creature the death of her father. Unless she is expressly ordered to the contrary, which she certainly will not be, she will always leave her under the impression that her father is still living. When Miss Hugo now asks why her father does not come to see her any more, Mme. Rivet answers, *Ho was here only yesterday, and he is so busy that he cannot come out every day.’ As one of the charar.teristics of Miss Uugo’s loss of mind is that shq believes everything that is told her, she tnen goes away contented.” Le GanVois of the same date, referring to the poet’s family, says: “Four children were born from his marriage with Mile. Foucher, of whom only one daughter survives, Adele, the youngest. Evei*yonp knows the tragic end of the eldest daughter, Leopordine, who married M. Vacquerie, brother of the poet of that name, and who was drowned with him near Villequier. Adele Hugo, the goddaughter of Sainte-Beuve, is an inmate of au insane asylum since 1872. She was married to an English officer. Her name was never mentioned in the home of her illustrious father. During his latter years it chanced that Victor Hugo said one day to one of our friends who was congratulating him on his glorious destiny, that his life was far from happy, that his cup of sorrows was full and exceedingly bitter; and, after enumerating the graves of his children and friends, strewn along his life way, he alluded to the sad lot of his youngest child. Adele, saying, in a broken voice, ‘That is the greatest of all my crosses!’ ”

A REMARKABLE MAN. A Louisianian Who Owns a Farm Bigger than All Rhode Island. New York Letter in Pittsburg Dispatch. “That’s a very remarkable man,’’ said Colonel Webb the other day, as we stood in the lobby of the St. Denis Hotel. The object of his exclamation was moving about impatiently, as if waiting for somebody who did not come. He was of slight build, weighing not more than 135, with a keen, alert eye, and a sober, thoughful face. I inquired further, of course. “That,” said the Colonel,*“is J. B. Watkins. Probably you never heard of him. He never blows his horn. He owns the biggest farm in the United States—l,2oo,ooU acres in southwestern Louisiana —considered larger than the whole State of Rhode Island with Narragansett bay thrown in. There are several towns on this fai*m, and lakes thirty or forty miles long. He was left a penniless orphan at seven. He dug in and got an education himself, and it is only fifteen years ago or so that he graduated from a Western college without a dollar in his pocket. He has made money at everything he has touched. To-day he owns land in every county in Kansas, and is at the head of a banking and loaning company at Lawrence, in that State, with branches afr Dallas, Tex., Lake Charles, La., New York and London. Two years ago ho bought this farm I speak of, running 100 miles along the sea coast to the Texas border. It was marsh land, good for nothing, and he is reclaiming it Ho is operating the largest ditching and dredging machines overseen in this country, and has already dug thirty miles of canals. This work is progressing rapidly, and traverse ditches three feet deep are being cut at the rate of a mile an hour. So successful has the work of redemption been that he has put 3,000 acres into rice this spring. He i3 making a garden of a desert, and acting a noble example of usefulness to ’ the laud-sharks who grab great sections of the country only for the purpose of preventing settlement and impeding cultivation.” The person waited for arrived, and the mammoth farmer took him by the arm and led him away. Some Famous Old Maids. North Brititdi Advertiser. Elizabeth of England was one of the most illustrious of modern sovereigns. Her rule o*er Great Britain certainly comprised the most brilliant literary age of the English-speaking people. Her political acumen was certainly put to as severe tests as that ot any other ruler the world ever saw. Maria Edgeworth was an old maid. It was this woman’s writings that first suggested the thought of writing similarly to Sir Walter Scott. Hor brain might well be called the mother of the Waverley novels. Jane Porter lived and died an old maid. The children of her busy brain were “Thaddeus of Warsaw 5 ’ and “The Scottish Chiefs,” which have moved the hearts of millions with excitement and teat's. Joanna Buillie, poet and play writer, was “one of’em.” Florence Nightingale, most gracious lady, heroine of Inkermann and Bnlaklava hospitals, has to the present written 1 ‘Miss” before her name. The man who should marry her might well crave to take the name of Nightingale. Sister Dora, the brave spirit of English pest-houses, whose story is as a- helpful evangel, was the bride of the world’s sorrow only. And then what names could the writer and reader add of

those whom the great world may not know trot we know, and the little world of the viliage, the church, the family know and priae beyond all worlds! _ THE ROTHSCHILDS. Sketch of a Famous Family Whose Influence Is Felt the World Over. Boston Commercial Bulletin. This famous firm of Hebrew bankers and capitalists, which is known throughout the world, originated in the city of Frankfort, Germany. In the Judengasse, or Jews’ alley, a short distance from the chief thoroughfare, 142 years ago, lived a dealer in old clothes who had a red shield for a sign, which in German reads Both Scbild. It was in 1743 that a son was born to this Israelite. The name given to the boy waa Anselm Meyer, who also became a clothes dealer and a pawnbroker, succeeding to the business of his father. By degrees he extended his business, lending money at high rates of interest during the wars of the last century, managing his affairs with such skill that Prince William, the Landgrave, made him his banker. When Napoleon came across the Rhine in 1806 this clothesdealer was directed to take care of the treasure of the Prince, amounting to $12,000,000, which he invested so judiciously that it brought large increase to the owner and especially to the manager. This banker died iu 1812, leaving an estate estimated at $5,000,000 —not a very large sum in these clays—but he left an injunction upon liis five sons, which was made binding by an oath given by the sons around his death-bed, which has had and still has a powerful influence upon the world. The sons bound themselves by oath to follow their father’s business together, holding his property in partnership, extending the business, that the world might know of but one house of the red shield! (Rothschild.) The sons were true to their oath. The eldest, Anselm, born 1773, and who died in 1835, was his father's partner and successor at Frankfort. The second, Solomon, born 1774, died in 1855, was established as the representative of the house at Vienna. The third, Nathan Meyer, born 1774. and died in 1836. settled at London, and was the leading member and ablest financier in the firm. The fourth, Charles; born 1788, died 1855. went to Naples, and James, born 1732, died. 1869, to Paris. The five brothers thus occupied great financial centers, and were geographically located in excellent positions to use their Anancial Sower and skill to the best advantage. fathan, in London, amassed money with great rapidity, and the same may be said of all th© others, the wars of Napoleon being favorable to the busiuess of the house. Nathan went to the continent to witness operations of Wellington in his last campaign against Napoleon, prepared to act with the utmost energy, let the result be as it might. He witnessed the battle of Waterloo, and when assured of Napoleon’s defeat rode all night, with relays of horses, to Osteud; went across tho Channel in a fishing smack —for it was before the days of steam —reached London in advance of all other messengers, and spread the rumor that Wellington and Blucher were defeated. The 2<Jtli of June in that memorable year was a dismal day in London. The battle was fought on the 18th; Nathan Meyer, of the house of the Red Shield, by hard riding reached London at midnight on the 18th. On the morning of the 20th the news was over town that the cause of the allies was lost, that Napoleon had swept all before him. England had been the leading spirit in the struggle against Napoleon. The treasury of Great Britain, it will be remembered, had supplied fund* to nearly all of the allied powers. If their cause was lost what hope was there for the future? Bankers flew from door to door in eager haste to sell their stocks. Funds of every description went down. Anselm Meyer was besieged by men who had funds for sale, but he was not in the market. He had no desire to buy. He, too, had stocks for sale. What would they give? But meanwhile he had scores of agents purchasing. Twenty-four hours later Wellington’s messenger arrived in London; the truth was known. The nation gave vent to its joy; up went the funds with rapidity, the general advance pouring, it is said, $5,000,000 into the coffers of this one branch of the house of the Red Shield. The House of the Red Shield is the greatest banking house of the world—the mightiest of all times, and has made its power felt the world over—in the Tuileries of Paris, in the Ministerial Chamber of Benin, in the Imperial Palace at St. Petersburg, in the Vatican at Rome, in the Bank of England, in Wall street, State street and by every New England fireside. The House of the Red Shield, by the exercise of its financial power, can make a difference iu the yearly account of every man who I’eads these words of mine! Though Anselm Meyer has been half a century dead, though several of his sons have gone down to the grave, the house is the same. The grandchildren have the spirit of the children. The children of the brothers have intermarried, and it is one family, loyal to each other, carrying out the desire of the founder of the firm, and animated by a common pnrpose, that the world shall only know one Red Shield.

Heart, Sad Heart. Ho <rt, sad heart, for what are you pleading? The sun has set and the night is cold; To fjo on hoping were over bold— Dead is the lire for want of feeding. Tears are keeping your eyes from reading The old. old story, so often told. Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading! The sun has set, and the night is cold. The wind and the rain in the dark are breeding Storms to sweep over valley and wold, Love, the outcast, with longing bold. Clamors and prays to a power unheeding— Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading? Louise Chandler Moulton. The Queen’s Red-Nosed Secretary. London Letter in Chicago Herald. The first thing that strikes the beholder about Sir Henry Ponsonby is his red nose. One cannot help feeling that, on a man so high as the private secretary of the Queen of Great Britain and Empress of India, a red nose is singularly out of place. The rest of his countenance is in keeping with the nose; watery eyes, pimply face and a general appearance of ill-health. His body is bent, and even in his tightly-buttoned and much-padded military tunic, with stiff stock and too obvious stays, his stoop is painfully out of keeping with the gay trappings of a warrior. In manner Sir Henry is querulous. I never saw him nor spoke to him without pictures of half forgotten scolding old women rising in my mind. He looks like an old man maid who passes the greater part of his life in submitting to scolding and inflicting scoldings on others. The Queen is fully aware of the undignified appearance of her right-hand man, and would gladly replace him by a younger secretary, but. long years of intimacy with every public trans* action of the sovereign have rendered hiui almost indispensable. Kissed and Robbed. London Letter in Baltimore American. A Frenchwoman, while walking in the stroets of Paris, the other day, found herself suddenly seized in the arras of a man and vigorously Kissed. Highly indignant at the proceeding, she promptly gave the offender in charge, but by the time they reached the police station she found that the man had stolen something more man a kiss—her purse was gone. Shis is not the only case of this kind that luis occurred lately in the French capital. In London, the rough who goes for a woman’s purse, as a rule, takes the preliminary step of knocking her down. The more gallant son of Gaul has hit upon a bettor way; he combines business with pleasure. Advice to a Young Woman. B. J. Burdette. My daughter, when you note that the man who wants to marry you is just too awfully anxious to learn whether you can bake a loaf of bread or wash a shirt with Chinese dexterity, before you close the negotiations, do you just tiy arotmd and ascertain whether that man is either willing or able *to earn enough Hour to make a biscuit, and if he has paid for the shirt he want* you to wash. Nine times out of ten, daughter, the man who only wants to marry a housekeeper can be kept more economically in the workhouse than he can in your father's house. e. An Inconsistent Clerk. Boxbnry Advocate. Employer to clerk: “I don’t object to your going to a funeral onoe in a while; think you might bring mo home a fish or two." Sunblush on the end. of the clerk’s noae extends rap* idly to his ears.

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