Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 11 April 1886 — Page 2
SLEEPING CHILDREN.
totutis shape* an* adversaries wild, Ctobiiss with threst'nmgs, dangere*, a^d alarms—
A myriad fierce but neionary barms Beset the sleeping child. I* slumber's toils the little hero screams,
Or with a sigh goes brarely straggling on, And battles greater than a Uarathva, Are fe«ght in childhood dreams.
Bat with the night these dreams fantastic
As thr? the east the dew-bathed sunlight
With laoghtar on his Hps the child awakes To mother lore and peace.
And we—matnrer, wiser oreatnree stykdf Waiting out battles, scaling stony heights, Baffling vaia terrors, seeing grewseme lights** Are like the sleeping child. For who shall say the worldly ills we feel
Are not rain dreams—that life is not Fev'rish and fretful, tram whose stermy Ictep We waken ioto Iaal
WHICH SUFFERED MOST?
She sat beside her cabin door, And sang a sweet, pathetic song. And watched the soldiers pass aleog Down to their boats, near by the shore
Bat when her low passed she signed, And from her lipe she threw a kiss. Which his swift glances did not »iss, got Helen was his fondest pride.
He went to fight, she lingered tkere Within the sad and lonesome dell— Which suffered mostf We cannot tell Which heart endured the most despair.
He bxaTely fought and brarely fell She thout ht of him each night and day, And when her spirit passed away, Which suffered mostf We cannot tell.
Which suffered meet, the warrior brave Who fonght for freedom's gory goal, Or she who mourned natil her soul Found rest and pssoe within the graret —[Howard C. Tripp in Western BuraL
N
By CHARLOTTE M. BHAEMB.
Antker ®t "Dora Tkorae."
CHAPTBB
XXXI.
year and half
A year and a tiiui had passed, aad Lord Arleigh was still, aa it were, oat ef the world.- It
TH
the end of April, a
spring fresh and beautiful. His heart had turned to Beechgrove, where the •ioleto were springing and the young larches were budding bat heooaldnot go thither—the pioture-gallery was a kannted spot to him—and London he could endure. The fashionable intelligence told him that the Duke and Duchess of .Haslewood had arrived fer the season, that they had had their Magnificent mansion refurnished, and that the beautiful duchess intended to startle all London by the splendor and variety of her entertainments.
He said to himself that it would be impossible for hina to remain in town without seeing them—and see them of his own free will he never would again.
Fate was, however, too strong for hiss* He had decided that he would leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the Duchess of Hailewood. He went one morning to a favorite exhibition of pictures, and the first persoa he saw in the gallery was the duchess .herself. As their eyes met her face grew deadly pale, •o pale that ly thought she would faint and fall to the ground her lipsepeaed as though she would fain utter his nans©* To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately than ever—her ssperb costume suited her to perfection—yet he looked coldly into the depths ef her dark eyes, and without a word or sign ef greeting passed on
He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would leave London at once. He was a sensitive man, more tender of heart than men as a rule, and their meeting had been a source of torture to him. He could not endure even the thoaght that Philippa should have lost all claim to his respect. He decided to go to Tintagel, in wild, romantic Cornwall at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glerious scenery. "I must go somewhere," he said to himself—"I must do something. My life hangs heavy on my hands—how will it end?"
So in sheer weariness and desperation he went to Tintagel, havimg, as he thought, kept his detersainatiea te himself, as he wished BO one to know whither he had retreated. One of the newspapers, however, heard of it, and ia a little paragraph told that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone to Tintagel for the summer. That paragraph had one anexpected result.
It was the first of May. The young nobleman was thinking of the May days when he was a boy—of how the comase* near his early home was yellow with gone, and the hedges were white with hawthorn. He strolled sadly along the sea-shore, thinking of the sunniest May he had known since then, the May before his marriage. The sea was anusually calm, the sky above was blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sea-gulls circled in the air, the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow sands.
He sat down on (he sloping beaoh. They had nothing te tell him, those rolling, restless waves—no sweet story ef hope er of love no vague, pleasant harmony. "With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the fair yoaag wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful, loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly. "Madeline, Madalite I" he eried aleud and the waves seemed to take up the cry —they seemed te repeat: "Madaline" ss they broke on the shore. "Madaline," the mild wind whispered. It was like the realisation of a dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning he saw his loet wife before him.
The next moment he had sprung te his feet, uncertain at first whether it was jeally herself or some fancied vision. "Madaline," he cried, is it really you? "Yes you must not be angry with me, Vormsn. See, we are quite alone there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have met."
She trembled as she spoke her face— te him more beautiful than ever—was alsed to hi* with a look of unutterable appeal. "You are not angry,Norman?" "No, I am not angry. Do not speak to jne as though I* were a tyrant. Angcy—
„d ,iU, b-
beloved—how could that be 7" "I knew that you were here," she said. "I saw in a newspaper that you were gone to Tintagel for the summer. I had been longing to see you again to see you, whueonseen myself so I came hither. "My dear Madaline, to what purpose he asked, sadly. "I felt that if I didnot look upon your face I should die-that I could live no longer without seeing you. Such a terrible fever seemed to be burning my very life away. My heart yearned for the touch of your hand. So I came. You are not angry that I came?" "No, not angry but, my darling, it will be harder for us to part." "I have been here in Tintagel for two whole days," she continued. "I have seen you, but this is the first time you have gone where I could follow. Now speak te me, Norman. Say something to me that will sure my terrible pain— that will take the weary aching from my heart Say something that will make me stronger to bear my desolate lifebraver to live without you. You are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach me to hear my fate."
What could he eay? Heaven help them both—what could he say? He looked with dumb, passionate sorrow into her fair loving face. "You must not think it unwomanly in me to come," she said. "I am your wife —there is no harm in my coming. If I were not your wife, I would sooner have drowned myself than return after you had sent me away."
Her face was suffused with a crimson blush. "Norman," she said, gently, "sit down here by my side, and I will tell you why I have come."
They sat down side by side on the beach. There was only the wide blue sky above, only the wide waste of restless waters at their feet, only a circling sea gull near—no human being to wateh the tragedy of love and pride played out by the sea waves. "I have come," she said, "to make one more appeal to you, Norman—to ask you to change this stern determination which is ruining your life and mine—to ask you to take me back to your home and your heart. Fof I have been thiaking, dear, and I do not see that the obstacle is such as you seem to imagine. It was a terrible wrong, a great disgrace—it was a eretl deception, fatal mistake but, after all,, it might b# overlooked. Moreover, Norman, whea you made me your wi/e, did you not promise to love and to ehensh, to protect me and to make me ippy until I died •Yes," he replied, briefly. "Then how are yoa keeping that premise—a promise made in the sight of Heaven?"
Lord Arleigh looked down at the fair, pare face, a strange light glowing on his own* "My dear Madaline," he said, "you must not overlook what the honor of my race demands. I have my own ideas of what is due to my ancestors: and I cannet Uink that I have sinned by broken vows. I vowed to love yeu—so I do, my darling, ten thousand times better than anything else on earth. I vowed to be true and faithful to you—so I am, for I would not even look at another woman face. I vowed to protect and to shield you—so I do, my darling I have surroanbed you with luxury and ease.
What co.uld she reply—what urge or plead? "So, in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am wronging you "Then," she said, humbly, "my coming here, my pleading, is in vain." "Not in vain, my darling. Even the sight of you for a few minutes has been like a glimpse of Elysiaai." "And I mast return," she said, as I came—with my love thrown back, my prayers an answered, my sorrow redoubled."
She hid her face in her hands and wept aload. Presently she bent forward. "Norman," she said, in a low whisper, "aiy darling, I appeal to you for your own sake. I love you so dearly that I caanot live away from you—it is a living death. You cannot realize it. There are few moments, night or day, in which your face is not before me—few momenta ia which I do net hear your voice. Last night I dreamed that you. stood before me with outstretched arms and called me. I went to you, and you clasped me to your arms. Yoa said, 'My darling wife, it hss all been a mistake—a terrible mistake—and I am come to .ssk your pardon and to take you home.' In my dream, Noman, you kissed my face, my lips, my handB, and called me by every leving'name you could invent. You were so kind to me, and I was so happy. And the dream was so vivid, Norman, that even after I awoke I believed to be reality. Then I heard the sobbing of the waves on the beach and I cried out 'Norman, Norman!' thinking you were still near me but there was no reply. It was only the silence that aroused me to a full sense that my happihus-
BSSS was a dream. There was no band with kind words and tender kisses. thought my heart would have broken. And then I said to myself that I could live no longer without making an effort once more to change your decision. Oh, Norman, for my sake, do not send me back to utter desolation and despair! De not send me back to coldness and darkness, to sorry and tears! Let me be near you—oh, my leve, my love, let me be near yoa! You have a thousand interests ia life—I have but one. You can live without love, I cannot. Oh, Norman, for my sake, for my love's sake, fer my happiness' sake, take me back, dear •takeme back!"
The golden head drooped forward and fell on te his breast, her hands clung to him with almost despairing pain. "I will be so humble, darling. I can keep away from all observation. It is only to be with you that I wish—only to be near you. You cannot be hard— yoa oannot send me away you will not, for I love you!"
vi'
Her hands clung more closely to him "Man men have forgiven their wives even great crimes, and have taken them after the basest desertion. Overlook my father's crime and pardon me, for Heavea's sake 1" "My dearest Madaline, if you would but understand! I have nothing to pardoa. You are sweetest, dearest, loveliest, best. Yoa are one of the purest and aoblest of womea. I have nothing to «rdon it is only that I cannot take disgrace into my family. I cannot give to my children an Inheritance of crime." "But, Norman," said the girl, gently, "because my father was a felon, that does not make me one—because he was led into wrong, it does not follow that 1 must do wrong. Insanity may be hereditary, but surely crime is not besides I have heard my father say that his father was aa honest, simple, kindlv northern farmer. My father had much to excuse him. He was a handsome man, who had beea flattered and made much of." "My darling, I could not take your hands into mine and kiss them so, if I fancied that they were ever so slightly tainted with sin." "Then why not take me homo, Nor* man?" "I cannot," he replied, in a tone of determination. "You must not torture me,
Madaline, with further pleading. 1 cannot—that is sufficient." He rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How hard it was, how terrible—bitter almost as the anguish of a
She was by his side again, walking in silence. He would have given the whole world if he could have taken her into his arms and have kissed back the color into her sad young faos. "Norman," said a low voloo, full of bitterest pain, "I am oom« to lay good-
7
m$i
good-by-"It ha* made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he returned, hoarsely. "Never mind the hardship you will _„on recover from that," she said. "I am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long silence. I will never do it again, Norman."
Never, unless you are ill and need me," he supplemented. "Then you have promised to send for me." "I will do so," she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last words to you were 'Good-by, and heaven bless you.'"
The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the trembling of his face he never complained to her. He knew now that she thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, indifferent—that she thought his pride greater than his love: but even that was setter than that she should know he suffered more than she did—she must never know that.
When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer sun she was gone. He looked across the beach—there was no sign of her. She was gone and he avowed to himself that it would be wonder'ul if ever in this world he saw her again.
She did
She went bacli to Winiston House and took up the dreary round of life again. She might have made her lot more endurable and happier, she might have traveled, have sought society and amusement but she had no heart for any of these things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely married life in profound study, thinking to herself that, if he should claim her, he would be pleaseil to find her yet more accomplished and educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him. Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring of hope—her old studies and pursuits wearied her. To what end and for what purpose had been all her study, all her hard work? He would never know of her proficiency, and she would not care to study for any other object than to please him. "What am I to do with my life?' she moaned. "Mariana in the moated grange was not more to be pitied than
How often the words occurred to her: "The day is dreary^ 'He oometh not,' she said:
She sard, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead.' It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest lives that human being ever led. That she wearied of life was no wonder. She was tired of the sorrow, the suffering, the despair—so tired that after a time she fell ill, and then she lay longing for death.
CHAPTER XXXII.
It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had not looked for years the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse were plentiful. The prospect for sportsmen were excellent.
Not knowing what else to do, Lord Atleigh resolved to go to Scotland for the shooting there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, where he could be dull if he liked without comment—where he could lie for hours together on the heather looking up at the bine skies, and pussling over the problem of his life—where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge in it, and no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting lodge called Glaburn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to Se a relief to live where he could not even see a woman's face. Glaburn was kept in order by two men, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord Aileigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage-day, simply because he was quite alone. If he spent more time in lying on the heather and thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his own concern—there was no one to interfere.
One day, when he was in one of his mist despairing moods, he went out quite early in the morning, determined to wander the day through, to exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue and then see if he could not rest without dreaming of Madaline. But as he wandered east and and caring less
weet knowing little and caring less whithfir lie went, a violent storm, such as
0UB
around.
not remain in Tintagel
to do so would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope, she had said to herself that in a year and a half be
would
surely have altered
his mind—he would have found now how hard it was to live alone, to live without love—he* would have found that there was something dearer in the world than family pride—he would have discovered that love outweighed everything else. Then she saw that her anticipations were all wrong—he preferred his dead ancestors to Lis living wife.
... THE EXPRESS, TUiRRE HAUTE, SUNDAY, APRIL 11, 1886.
He found himself the center of
observation. The room in which he was lying was large and well furnished, and from the odor of tobacco it was plainly used as a smoking room.
Over him leant a tall, handsome man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray. "I think," he said, "you are my neighbor, Lord Arleigh? I have often seen yon on the moors." "I do not remember you, Lord Arleigh returned "nor do I know where I am." "Then let me introduce myself as the Earl of Mountdean," said the gentleman. "You are at Aoflorton^ a shooting lodge belonging to me, and I beg that you will make yourself at home."
Something in the kind, sympatheticvoice pleased Lord Arleigh. He could not tell what it was, but it seemed as if there was a sound of half-forgotten music it it
Every attention was paid to him. lie was placed in a Warm bed, some_ warm, nourishing soup was brought to him, and he was left to rest. "The Earl of ilouaUiean." Then this was the tall figure he had seen striding over the hills—this was the neighbor he had shunned and avoided, preferring solitude. How kind he was,, and how his voice affected him. It was like longforgotten melody. He asked himself whether he had seen the earl anywhere. He could not remember. He could not recall to his n-iod that they had ever met, yat he had luost certainly heard his Voice. He fell asleep thinking of this, aod dreamed of Madaline all night long.
In the morning the earl himself came to his loom to make inquiries and then Lord Arleigh liked him better than ever. He would not allow his guest to rise.
Remember." he said, "prevention is better than cure. After the terrible risk you have ruA, it will not do for you to be rash. You must rest."
So I. rd Arleigh took the good advice given him to lay still, but on the second day he rose, declaring that he could stand r.o further confinement. Even then Lord Mountdean would not hear of his going. "I am compelled to be despotic with you," he said."I know that at Glaburn you have no housekeeper, only men servants—and they cannot make you comfortable, I am sure. Stay here for a few days until you are quite well."
So Lord Arleigh allowed himself to be persuaded, saying, .with a smile, that he had come to Glaburn purposely for solitude. "It was for the same thing that 1 came here," said the earl. "I have had a great sorrow in my life, and I like sometimes to be alone to think about it."
The two men looked at each other, but they liked eaeh other all the better for such open confession.
When a few days had passed, it was Lord Arleigh who felt unwilling to leave his companion. He- had never felt more at home than he did with Lord Mountdean. He had met ne one so manly, so simple, so intelligent, and at the same time such a good fellow. There were little peculiarities in the earl, too, that struck him very forcibly they seemed to recall some faint, vague memorv, a something that he could never grasp, that was always eluding him, that was perfectly clear and he was completely P^zled"Have I ever met you before?' he afiked the earl one day. "I do not think so. I have no remem brance of ever having seen you •'Your voice and face are familiar to me," the younger man continued. "One or two of your gestures are as well known to me as though I had lived with you for years." "Remembrances of that kind sometimes strike me," said the earl—"a mannerism, a something one cannot explain. I should say that you have seen some one like me, perhaps."
It was probable enough, but Lord Ar leigh was not quite satisfied. The earl and his guest parted in the most frindly manner. "I shall never be quite so much in love with solitude again, said Lord Arleigh, as they were parting "you have taught me that there is something better. "I have learned the same lesson from you," responded the earl, with a sigh. You talk about solitude. I had not been at Bosorton ten days before a party of four, all friends of mine, proposed to visit me. I could not refuse. They left the day after you came." "I did not see them," [said Lord Arleigh. "No, I did not ask them to prolong their stay, fearing that after all those hours on the moors you might have a serious illness but now, Lord Arleigh, you will promise me that we shall be friends." "Yes," he replied, "we will be friends."
So it was agreed that they should be strangers no longer—that they should visit and exchange neighborly courtesies and civilities. [To be Continued in the Sunday Express 1
Mr
breaks at times over the Scottish moors, Years ago a young man in my class in overtook him. The sky grew dark as ears ago j«uug u.«. night, the rain fell in a torrent—blinding, college conceived the idea of securing thick, heavy—he could hardly see his place in the departments here to enablo hand before him. He wandered on for him to study law meanwhile, and wrote hours, wet through weary, cold yet rath-
er rejoicing than otherwise in his fatigue* Presintly hunger was added to fatigue, the following reply and then the matter became more #eri- WASHINGTON, D. C., January, 1871.
—he had no hope of being able to DEAJRSIB: I have yours of the 18th. find his way home, for he had no idea in Should be pleased to aid you if possible, what direction he had strayed. but the chances of your getting a place
At last he gre iv alarmed life did not jjere
being near him' Then it
tigue was so great that his limbs ached {jg possible that 6ome rare good at every step. He began to think that fortune might come to you in getting a his life was drawing near it close. Once place if yoa wish to apply. If you wish or twice he had cried "Madaline" aloud, t0 do so you. can Bend me an application and the name seemed to die away on the
Edmund's Advice to a Student.
Edmund
,8
a
sobbing wind. you
As the hot tears blinded his eyes—tears for Madaline, not for himself—a light suddenly flashed before them, and he found himself quite close to the window of a house. With a deep-drawn, bitter sob lie whispered to himself that he was saved. He had just strength enough to knock at the door and when it was opened he fell across the threshold, too faint and exhausted to speak, a sudden darkness before his eyes.
When he had recovered a little he found that several gentlemen had gathered round him and that one of them was holding a flask of whisky to his lips. "That was a narrow escape, said a cheery,.musical voice. "How long have you been on foot?" "Since eight this morning," he replied. "And now it is nearly eight at night! Well you may thank Heaven for preserving your life."
Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any one guess what life meaat for him—life spent without love— without Madaline? "I have known several lose their lives in this way," eon tinned the same voice. "Only last year poor Charley Hardgan was caught in a similar storm, and he lay four days dead before he was found. This gentleman has been foitunate."
Lord Arleif foowd himself and looked
about it He re
n0
hold much for him, it was wue, but he five ith all the aid I could give you. had no desire to die on those There are literally hundreds of applilonely wilds, without a human
ceived
tf are not more than one in twenty-
can
ts for each vacancy as it occurs, and,
trnt
became painffil to him to walk his fa-1 fuu
to say, Vermont has her
8hare
of people in place here. Still
can for
nd I will cheerfully do what
He grew exhausted at last for some I yoa not to come here even if you can get hours he had straggled on in the face of 1
a
the tempest get here, while in a department, is of the "I shall have to lil down like a dog by poorest, and I think you would be much the road-side and die," he thought to huasel.
No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told himself that after all he had sold his life cheaply. "Found dead on the Scotch moors" would be the verdict about him.
What would the world say? What would his golden-haired darling say when she heard that he was dead?
1
At the same time I strongly advistf"
place. The sort of law education you
the gainer at the end of three or four years studying law in an office in Vermont and almost staive meantime, if need be, rather than to begin your profession in the way you propose. The avera lawyer turned out of the "law school tunning down the bar, I think, pretty fast There is now, indeed, wide room for courage, talent and learning at the bar and that room will be chiefly filled, as it always has been, by men who in poverty and want, but with brave, pure hearts and high purpose, come in through the patient drudgery and ardent labors of a or in a of
Having thus volunteered advice, 1 remain yours very truly, GEO. E. EDMUNDS.
Our Small Army. ..
The debate on General Logan's army bill brought out some curious facte regarding the sice of our army as compared with those of other countries, is now 25,000, and the bill proposes put it 30,000. Twenty countries maintain regular armies larger than ours, though at a much smaller proportionate cost For instance, the standing army of Turkey is six times as large as ours, and yet costs only $23,000,000 for its maintenance azainst $40,000,000 for our owa. Spain's regular army of 152,000 costs only $25,000,000. Great Britain's army of 181.000 costs for its maintenance $90,000,000. Austria-Hungary's army of 284,000 only costs J50,000,000 a year. France is set down at over a half million in her regular army, costing $121,000,000 to sustain it, and Germany 445,000 at an annual cost of $84,000,000.
YOUNG LOVE IS LORD.
It is the fairies 'time o' year, Grim winter's over, they an here Their firmer-tips the alders tinge, Rimming the runs vttfa frailset fringe, While willows from their slumbers ihita, In leafy fountains playing, waken.
It is the fairiee' time o* year, The ekies reoede and mountains near
1
Each shadow startles aa it paasse, The shy emergence of the grasses fy" The fays are busy—brown and gray— 1 Behold! they'respirited away!
Young lore is lord o' earth and_ air, Keepe, day and night, his tzystipss there »'. A quickening touch, a vital thrill Tiinlra field to field, and hill to hill With downward look th' impassioned hoars Call softly to the coming fle'rs. —[John Vance Cheney in the Century.
PAUL BENT'S VICTORY.
One morning anew sign hung on t^e door of an office in the most frequented part of the city ofT It was small and unpretentious, and bore but three words in gilt letters: "Paul Bent, Lawyer." People read it carelessly and passed on some wondered who this young man could be, for they judged he must be young, but no one reeognired the name for some days
Blanche May was passing along the street one morning wheif the new sign met her eyes. She read it the second time, while the blood Tied from ber face. Then she glanced at a window and saw a gentleman gazing at her. He was nicely dressed, the hue of health overspread his countenance, and he looked every inch a
She only looked an insiant, then
let her eyes drop and passed on, sad or happily, it is needless for me to say. Paul Bent was talented business poUred in upon him and success crowned all his eOorts. His name became celebrated throughout the city, and when it was known that he would speak, the court room was crowded, for he was a natural orator.
A year soon passed away, and on a pleasant afternoon in May,while Blanche was walking in one of those shaded squares so numerous in our large cities she saw Paul enter at one of the gates. He walked leisurely along with his eyes bent on the ground, and seated himself a bench. She watched him closely, but he never looked up he seemed to be deeply meditating. Then she seated herself quietly by his side, and touched his arm. He looked around, and seeing her, a happy smile broke over his countenance, and he exclaimed: "Blanche 1"
She held out her hand, bat he hesir tated to take it. "Paul," see said, "will you not take the hand of an old friend?" "I am not worthy, Blanche," he said, sorrowfully. "Paul, I know all. I have heard about your terrible battles with your temptation, and I honor you. Before I itied you, now I honor you as a hero. glory in the success which is crowning your eflort and my heart is happy, for in you I see to-day the answer from God to my prayers. Won't you take my hand now, Paul?" she asked with a winning smile.
He reverently raised her hands to his lips, then let it drop and turned away
but she caught him by the sleeve, and in an imploring voice said: "Paul, don't leave me thus! Do you know why I prayed for ydu? It was because I always loved you—and that love is not dead yet!"
She blushed as she made the avowal, but she had hardly finished before he caught her to his breast. Then they seated themselves again, and talked till long after the sun had gone down. Paul tola his whole story, how one night, after months of hard drinking, he had given up all hope of reforming or of becoming worthy of the love of Blanche, who had been betrothed to him in better days. His friends had all long since deserted him, his money was wasted, and every 'article he possessed of any value had been pawned. He steadied himself against the side of a saloon-keeper's door, from which he had been rudely expelled, and looked around him. Far up and down he could see the dark street stretching like an immense Berpent. At la6t ]Kliceman bade him "move on." He .. dked slowly away. He was without ambition his only desire was for rum or death. He walked toward the river, reached the bridge, walked far out on it, then stopped and looked down into tbe
He cast his eyes toward the city, but ilot a living object was to be seen. The streets were tenantless, and the houses frowned on them as darkly as ever. But one window was lighted all the rest were dark, and the city seemed to have laid down to rest and was silent as the river.
He took off his hat and laid it down, removed his coat, seised the top rail, and, placing his foet on the lower one, hegan to ascend.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by a low sound.
tinct, but as she proceeded—for he could
tell it was a woman's voice—it gathered
feT
tleman who oonsiders it only dne a lady that he should give her his bare hand. A young lady told me that she incurred the displessure of a provincial acquaintance because she merely bowed instead of shaking hands with a group of girls, with some of whom she had but slight acquaintance, when entering a parlor at a country afternoon tea. They called it "putting on airs," when, in fact, it was their own ignorance of the social necessities of the occasion that was at fault But the provincial young ladies evidently believed in handshaking as part of the code of manners. Yet at this same gathering my friend said the young people did cot seem to see any impoliteness in whispering or giggling in the room, or rudely staring at any dress that differed from their own style. What a very trying ordeal, too, is the loudvoiced'greeting, where your hand is held and inquiry is made alter your welfare and that of vour family so as to be heard all over the room.
A SEA ADVENTURE.
Story of tbe Unpleasant Side o( Life on the Ocean Wave. John Thurlow, fireman, aud Lewis Lancet, sailor, the only knew survivors of the crew ef the foundered steamer Beda. arrived in port yesterday on the schooner Gotama from Coos Bay.
The fireman, Thurlow, was found by a 8an Francisco Chronicle re|orter soon after the schooner made fast to the Beale street wharf, telling his story to a number of sympathetic tars. He is an intelligent young man, and told a story of suffering and death in a .straightforward manner. "We crossed the Columbia riyer bar," he said, "at 9 o'clock on the morning of the 14th. There was a strong southwest wind, and the bar was very rough. Our hold load of railroad iron made us stiff, I suppose, and the steamer strained so on the bar that we sprung a leak. This was not discovered, though, till next morning. The first mate was just coming from breakfast—it was about 8 o'clock—when I discovered the leak, for the water was making in over the fire-room floor. The wind then was southwest and the sea heavy. Steam was put on the donkey-engine pumps. The deck load of lnmber was thrown overboard, and at 10 o'clock all hands were ordered to the pumps, but the water gained on us. "It kept gaining, and at 3 o'clock that afternoon we were ordered to man the boats, which was done after the fire had been put out Two metallic boats, with air-tight compartments, were manned. In the first boat were: P. Halley, the master Michael Foley, chief engineer Thomas Hasty, second mate, and two men called Dave and Charley. In tbe second boat were: Geo. Donough first *officer P. Murphy, second engineer two seamen, whose names I do not know, a cabin-boy. named James Thontp--son, myself and another fireman. "We left the steamer about seventy miles down the coast from the Columbia river and forty miles out from land. In our boat we had seven men, and for provision one half of a ham, two doien crackers, two cans of condensed milk, three cans of fruit and two eases of bitters. I don't know what provisions the captain's boat had, but not much. The captain's boat lay to a drag, as it is called, being fast to a spar off the bow and we lay to, fast to the captain's boat.
Ma wa8
but she caught him by the sleeve, and in ij no «i,a
'running high, and it was
n.nm
n»
very cold. At 3 o'clock in the morning, after we had been lying that way twelve hours, the captain called out tu 'let go.'
't
warning was so short that we shipped a sea and filled half full before we could get head on the sea again. It was dark then, and we lost sight of the other boat at once and never saw her again. She may turn up all right, but I am afraid not"Well, we were out like that for three days and three nights. We lay to a drag, made of an oar, the first day, and then fitted up an oar and blanket for a sail and maae for 6hore. The first day there was a frightful hail storm and the cabin boy died. The poor little iad was not strong enough to stand the wet and cold and exposure. Three times we filled with water through shipping seas, but tbe boat kept afloat and we bailed her out. What little provisions we had were spoiled by the sea water, except the bitters, and they ought to have been. Murphy, the second engineer, was the first of the men to give up. There was nothing to eat and only the bitters to drink, so the men drank that and slept too much, for the cold hurt those most who slept most. "On the third night we got up to the breakers and made an attempt to run them, but failed. Then we decided to lie to again until, morning. The men were quiet and well behaved, but the cold and exposure had kind of stupified them. We dia not talk much. The mate had chargc of the boat, but he acted on the advice of
Lancer, who is an old fisherman, and had more experience with small boats than the mate had. Well, the next day we tried the breakers again, and again failed, Murphy by that time was nearly dead,
He paused in alarm and as dead in the boat, and as for looked around him. A loir, ,soft notej ^e
sweet as the voice of an angel, sounded across the water. He paused as though he had heard a Divine loommand, and half sitting on the top rail, listened. The fir3t note was followed by others as ravishing, and then a voice that sounded
strangely familiar broke forth in tones of I
first, and some of the words were mdis-
0 U8
ot
Old memories crowded fast upon him he seemed again to hear the voice of his promised wife ss she said: "Paul, my father fills a drunkard's grave. I cannot trust my happiness to one who may follow in his path. I love you, Paul. Prove yourself a man, and in three years come to me I waiting for you."
A few low notes and the music ceased, and all was still again, but the silence found Paul Bent greatly changed. Deep sobs were shaking his frame and his knees were bent in prayer, for a soul and life had been saved.
He arose after a while, and nicking up his old coat and hat passed over the bridge and through the town out into tbe country. ten by all but a few in great city Five years later he returned a new man,
When he had finished his story Blanche asked. "Did yon ever find out the name of the singer?" "No," he replied. "I hope to some day, for I wish to thank her." "You need not wait long," die said. "You can do so now. It was I who sang the song."
Politeness is Society
Says the Christian at Work. It amusing to read lately, cabled all over the world, that Mr. Gladstone kissed the queen's hand. The custom of withdraw, ing the glove in handshaking is now a thing of the past It had its origin in the knight of the olden time, taking off his iron gauntlet so as not to hurt his lady's hand, and has gradually become aa obsolete fashion, though one yet wee a gen-
jt like a choice beand drowning in the
tween starving breakers. "We took a vote on the question, and the five of us who could Tote agreed_ to chance the breakers. They were breakin, heade* keep at it
{or hal£ a mile off
'shore, but we
Qn once more
sweetest melody. I till we reached shore or drowned. The The voice was low and melancholy at
determined to kee|
mste and put on
he preservers, but the
j,erg not though they could if they
had want4Mi t0
The first breaker cap-
an
volume and the sentences rolled over the jor j^jphy died just as we determined to try the breakers—and four of the live
water distinct and grand. He was entranced. A strange trembling seized him, and, without knowing why, he got down ofi the raising and quietly stood there, drinking in every word and note of that magnificent verse, .so descripti\e of his situation.
threw the two dead-
men into the waves. I was the only one who clung to the boat. She was rolled over and over, but I never let go. Lan cet swam back to the bout ami was washed off three times, but every time came back and got hold again. The third breaker righted the boat We heard tbe mate cry for help, but what could we do for the or fellow? Soon after she righted the at touched bottom, and we xnew we were safe. We jumped out and dragged her ashore. We never saw any of the °{i, I other men after we capsized, except the
I mate, and him only for an instant
Father Drunkard. Daughter Burglar Officer Gittings, says the Oswego Pal Jadium, arrested little 8-year-old Daisy CahilUupon a charge of burglary and larceny for entering the rooms occupied by E- F. Farrell, tbe painter on east Second street, and stealing $15 in currency.
And'sron his name was forgot I The youthful burglar says she got into .that I the rooms by taking out a back window, and found the money io the pocket of a pair of pants hanging in the room.
When asked what she had done with it die said she had spent it for shoes and roller skates for herself and the "Mahoney" girl. She was locked up to await an examination. The child is a bright, black-eyed little girl eight years old. She is the daughter of James Cahill, who has a number of times within the past few years figured in the police court for being drunk. The little one has been allowed to roam the streets at will while other children of the same age were peacefully sleeping in their beds. It is no wonder she has brought up in jail on such a charge.
Austria's Long Winter. Vienna has had the longest winter in fifty years. The plains of Hungary had on March 14 been covered with snow since the middle of December.
tV*
ON THE BRINK.
Two successive Sundays in the red church over the way tbe curate had plaintively published the bans of matrimony between "Adrian Eliot bachelor, of the pariah of St Mammon's, and Marjorie Guildford of this parish," and the bride-elect, sitting at heme on those two Sundays, had devoutly wished that some person would be obliging enough to declare some cause or just impediment why those two persons should not be joined in holy matrimony.
Mr. Eliot was highly desirable from every point of view and he lovtd her, which was the only important point The prospect of the future offered her satisfied her parents perfectly, and supposing that she had to sacrifice her own inclination just a little to meet their wishes, why the chances of future nappiness were so much the greater.
Mr. Eliot, being very much in love in a quiet way, was very agreeable and atentive. Marjorie's parents were affectionate, her friends kind she found herself at a premium generally. But, within a few weeks of the time set for her marriage she found herself in love with Frank Mowbray.
Marjorie's last Sunday of home and freedom Mr. Eliot spent with tbe Guildfords as usual. To his annoyance Frank Mowbray walked in in the afternoon.
Marjorie had not expected him, and ffelt uneasy at the encounter between the two men, under the circumstances. Frank Mowbray had come up on |ur pose to get a few minutes' private conversation with her. Mr. Eliot divined bis intention, and set himself to thwart it. At last, however, a6 he was departing, Mr. Mowbray got a chance to slip into her Band a note. When Marjorie went to her room that evening she read it with great agitation. She strugg'ed feebly against her feelings, but they conquered. As she thought of the future, to which she had pledged herself, a feeling of positive horror seised her. She burst into a passion of tears.
As Mr. Eliot was walking up the road toward Marjorie's home, the next morning, he saw Marjorie in the distance coming toward him. He himself was screened from view by the trees.
She stopped near a pillar-box and drew a letter from her pocket She locked at it a moment, gave a quick, nervous gaze around, and, catching sight of an advancing from among tne trees, she raised a trembling hand to the aperture and hastened indoors, without a backward glance, and consequently all unconscious that her letter had fallen on the ground, instead of slipping down the aperture.
Mr. Eliot saw it and picked it up. He glanced casually at the address ae he was putting it Into the box. He saw on it '•Frank Mowbray, Esq., in Marjorie's handwriting.
He tore open the envelope, with an ugly expression, and read: DKAB FRANK:
He reached the Guildfords' just at dinner time that evening. When they went into the drawing-room, who should be sitting tbere but Frank Mowbray.
Mr. Eliot observed with satisfaction that he looked pale and worried, and that his eyes sought Marjorie's inquiringly more than once. She averted hers persistently. Beyond a cold "How lo you do? she did not say a word to him all the evening.
Mowbray was evidently deeply offended, and took his leave early. He felt very wretched as he closed tbe door behind him. He had no longer a shadow of hope. Marjorie's silence ami cold avoidance of him convinced him that she had not only no intention of acting as he had entreated, but that she was oflended by tbe suggestion.
He put his hand into his great-coat pocket for a cigar, but could not find the case. He took out some papers to make certain it was not there.
He could see the various documents retty plainly by the light of a street .amp Among them was a letter addressed to him in Marjorie's handwriting, and the seal was broken. He cast a hasty glance over the other envelopes. They were addressed to Adrian Eliot.
The maid had given him the wrong coat. His heart began to best thickly. He read the letter through, and was master of the situation in two minutes.
The sudden change from the certainty of failure to the certainty of success made him giddy, but, collecting his energies, he set himself to reflect on the wisest immediate course of action.
The scoundrel Eliot should taste a little of the deceit he practiced. He (Mowbray) would go back to tbe house and change the coats quickly, being careful to leave the leiter where it was.. He would be at church to-morrow as arranged, and he and Marjorie would leave it the
happiest couple in the world. Mr. Eliot made a point of calling at the Guildfords' early the next afternoon. Mrs. Guildford came out to him in the hall she was very pale, and held an open telegram in her hand. "Bead thai," she said, forgetting tbe usual greeting.
Marjorie Mowbray to Mrs. Guilford Frank and I have just been married You will understand it when you know Please send my boxes, which are already packedto Victoria station before 3. Will ycu write to-night.
The Word Boycott
The late labor troubles have as yet, so far as known, created no new word or odd phrase, but one word of cemparatively recent manufacture has passed current everywhere. It has become as well known and as much used here as in Ireland, its native land. The word is Boycott. The story of its creation is, briefly, as follows:
Some six years or so ago a man named Captain Boycott was the factor or agent of land owner in Ireland. By his course and policy Boycott came to be very offensive to the tenant™, and so greatly was be disliked that the tenants petitioned the proprietor to remove him. This, however, that person would not do. The consequence was that the tenants and their friends refused to work for Boycott or under his instructions. The situation did not at first seem to be serious, but when the crops were to be harvested the people would not touch them, and this feeling spread among all their acquaintances, so that
no one
J""'
be found who would
could
*s "2 *. A.
-Wrf' i"v i-*
r-"Ah,
Those few lines of yours
have acted on me like magic. I have made up my mind to sot as you wish. I am thankful to have been able to oome to this resolation at all oosts, for I feel that I should be happier with yoa in poverty than with Adrian Eliot and a million bat I am a sad coward, dear Frank, and I don't believe I should have been able to make op my mind to ran away with yon if yon had not got the lioense ana made every arrangement without consulting me. 1 will be at the church yon name to-morrow morning. It yoa oome to-night as yon propose, we mast be
Tory
careful. Do not
attempt to say a word to me in private, and be prepared for my trying to appear moon oolder to yoa than nsaal. Yonra with my whole heart
MABJOBIX.
With quivering fingers Mr. Eliot returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his pocket, then with one venomous glance at the house across the way he turned back in the direction of the town. He was in a position to prevent the allimportant communication from reaching its destination, and if Mowbray did go up up in the evening Ma jorie would be cold as ice to him. He, not having received any answer, would not be at the church in the morning. He kne# Marjorie's high spirit well enough to be sure that she would never forgive such a humiliaation.
'X'.-X.
4
aasisfor^wark inKhetJharvest that year. The crops were in great danger, whea some men from Ulster, tinder the protection of troops, did the work for Boycott Bat it did not end there. The tenants had formed a strong fraternity among themselves, and before the contest had progressed a great way further, their powerful league was shown. An idea may be gained of the thoroughness and extent of their organization by these instances. It was agreed that if any one had any dealings with Boycott or those who represented him, thai no one was to have any dealings with that person: or if a .man worked for Boycott, his old friends and neighbors refused to recognise, speak to, or have anything to do with him no one would buy of him or sell to him, and he was to be looked upon and treated as a total stranger. To "Boycott" any one, therefore, came to mean a great deal, and the word became popular among the Irish, and then generally so, and now it is a part of our language.
CURRENT NOTES.
Harold—"Papa, when I grow up can I get married Papa—"My son, do- not let us anticipate the worst.
Algernon—"Dearest Amelia, when do you suppose your father will be here?" Amelia—"Well, Alger on, judging from past experience, I should say just a minute before you leave.'.
At the party: Mr. De Garmo—"Ah, Miss Racquet, I hope I shall have the pleasure of finding you at home Thursday evening." Miss Racquet—"I am sorry to say, Mr. De Garmo, that I am going out Thursday evening." De Garmo
well, I will leave my card that
will do as well." Tramp—"Will you please give me ten cents, sir? I'm on my home to die." Gentleman (handing biai the money)— "I don't mind giving you ten cents for so worthy a purpose as that, but your bieath smells terribly of whisky." Tramp—"I know it does, sir. Whisky's what's killin' me."
School-teacher—"Now, Master Thompson, tell me the denominations into which the money of the United States is coined." Master Thompson "Don't know." School-teacher "Don't you know how the money your father brings home every Saturday is divided?" Master Thompson—" Tain't divided. Ma takes it all.
Washington Critic. "Grover," remarked Colonel Lamont to the president in the sanctified seclusion of their private parlor, will you lend me a corkscrew?" "Dan," inquired the president gravely, "is this the season of Jeffersoptan simplicity?" "Of course it is," was the prompt reply. "Then, Dan'l, pull the cob oat witn your teeth," and the president smiled good-naturedly as he carelessly laid his round, fat hand on the jog.
Detroit Free Press: "Have you any tobacco, friend?" asked a Manchester (N. H.) man of a stranger in the depot the other day. "Plenty of it, neighbor," said the ''friend,'* drawing out a 40-cent plug and handing it to tbe "neighbor." "I say, friend, does it make_ any difference to you where I bite this
V' asked
the neighbor, turning it over and over in his hands as if looking tor a good place. "Not in the least," said the friend in surprise. "Well, then, I'll bite it in Boston," said the neighbor, stepping aboard the train at it started out
Judge—"What have you got to say for yourself?" Prisoner—"Your honor, I'm a stranger in the city on a visit. The cold must have affected—me." Jadge— "Drunk 1 Ten dollars or ten days." Prishonor, I have oner—"But, your hono:. money." Judge—"O a vagrant Two months." Prisoner (getting "Pray listen, your honor!
I'I
scared)-i no va-
grantt" Judge (growing impatient)— "Well, if you can't pay your fine send for some of your friends." Prisoner— "BHt I have no friends here." Judge (waving his hand)—"Ah, a tramp I Six months."
JUMBO'S CONSORT.
Mr. from
Bnriitim Will Brliif Alle# th* London "Zoo." A Ix)ndon special says: Mr. P. T. Barnuin's new elephant, Alice, the consort of the late Jumbo, was fettered at the "Zoo" to-day, preparatory to shipping her to America. She was in an obstinate and vicious mood, and a large force of workmen were occupied several hours in moving her a hundred yards, although she had been kept several days without food in order to weaken her hysically and render her submissive.
During the process of moving her she offered such powerful and dangerous resistance that it was resolved to immerse her in a pond close by when it should be reached. Her keepers and their assistants managed to get her into the water and artly submerged, but the huge beast rove tbem off bv filling her trunk with water and squirting it upon them until they were nearly drowned, and waded back to terra fir ma. She was finally confined in the massive box in which she will make the journey to New York, but before she could be secured she had smashed several "of the heavy timbers forming the framework and nearly demolished the front end of the structure in her furious efforts to escape. She was vigorously prodded about the head with a dosen or more sharp-pointed pikes, and ultimately became moderately tractable. The managers and employes of the 'Zoo seem to be delighted to be relieved of the presence of the vicious brute."
The Pentateuchal Story a Myth. "Mr. Gladstone and Genesis," by Pref. T. H. Huxley, in Popular Science Monthly fer April: My belief, on the contrary, is, and long has been, that the Pentateuchar story of the creation is simply a myth. I suppose it to be an hypothesis lespecting the origin of the universe which some ancient thinker found himself able to reconcile with his knowledge, or what be thought was knowledge, of the nature of things, and therefore assumed to be true. As such, I hold it to be not merely an interesting but a venerable monument of a stage in the mental progress of mankind, and I find it difficult to suppose that any one who is acquainted with the cosmogonies of other nations—and especially with those of the Egyptians and the Babylonians, with wboin the Israelites were in such frequent and intimate communication—should consider it to possess either more or less scientific importance than may be allotted to these.
Anthracite in Ireland.
The explored coal beds of Ireland, according to the latest blue book, contain about 209,000,000 tons of worksble coal, chiefly anthracite.
Bigger Families in Britain. There is an average of one voter to every four persons in the Lnited States, while there is one voter to every seven in Great Britain.
Cheap Sale of North Carolina. North Carolina, formerly called South Virginia, was once sold to tbe king's •gent for a house and £200.
Irrigation in Arizona.
In Salt river valley, Ariz, there are niiMt irrigating canals, which cost $026,000 and water 163,000 acres.
Cold Weather in England. The past month has been the coldest March is England for seventy years,