Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 9 January 1887 — Page 4

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THE CITY AND THE STAR.

I sat at my casement window, Aurt gszod on the flaring towc Men rushed here, and men rushed there,

And the stere locked coldly down.

I sat nt my casement window, And gazed on the starlit sky Silent their fiitfht through the noiaele&s night,

And a train dashed screaming by.

O, din of a world too near me'. O, poace i.f a life too far! As In vieion I eesm to hear ye,

Thou city, and thoa lone star.

From the city a roar asoesding, It Btu'-ined as it hurtled by, Wild grief and wild laughter blending,

The widow's, the worldling's cry.

With the passionate sob of sorrow, And the passionate shriek for gold When tho first low wail of the infant's breath,

And the- last faint Big of the old.

And the star! O, the alar! What said it? I listened and caught the chiare That they nt» as the more in their constant groove,

From beginning to end of time

Of a law, and a eonree foreordained Not freedom, but God's control And nothing they know of the lawless wo,

Or the weight of a burdened soul.

Bnt as messengers bearing tidings, They post on their pathway enre With speed never hasting, and tire uever washing,

Forever serene and pure,

Then I turned from my casement window, And I prayed for the peace Divine. for the city is rife with jars and strife,

But the way of star is mine!

For the gold here on earth too short is We dream, and it will Dot stay But Somehow the dream is more than a dream yet, O! it is far airay.

London Spectator.

IHONSIETR E 1 E

met (he Cure one evening as I was returning home from Ihe wood, where I had been sketching. The fine old man was standing on the doorstep of his presbytere, locking toward the Bea, which at that moment was glorious beneath the setting tun. I bowed to him as I passed, for hip, presence had always inspired me with sympathy and respect, and I knew how much this tribute from a foreigner would gratify a member of that class, which the Republican government is bringing into disrespect by constant persecutions. 1Jt returned my salute with such kindly ('curtesy that I took tin opportunity, which 1 had long desired, of speaking to him. "A lovely Bight, Monsieur Is Cure," I said, pointing to the sea. '•It is indeed, monsieur," he answered, without looking ronn.J.

Af:er awhile lie added: "If is such sightB ill at reconcile one to this earth. And yet, I do not know one has always the bitter ccrtniniy that very soon the nigDt will come, and all will be dark." "And, on attendant," si.id, trying to laugh away his evident melancholy, "if I do not get home soon the night and her darkness will come mo6t certainly and it's a breakneck path to my house." "But, monsieur," a?.id the cure, "there Is no hurry. I heard from the village people that monsieur had expressed the desire to visit our church. There is, indeed, iittle to see, but if "T should be moat delighted," Bwerea. "1 will get the key/' he said, leading me into his .simple parlor, and bidding me sit down whilst he went up-stairs to fetch it.

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Tne room was one of the poorest in point of decoration and furniture that I had seen in any house in the village and yet there was one object which by its great beautv compensated for Oil the unloveliness of the iest. It was the picture of a young woman, painted in oils, and signed by a painter who about thirty years ago had been at the summit of his art. The girl represented was most lovely, and it seemed to me that her fare wa one which had been the model of ninny other artists as famous as the one who had painted this portrait. A royally feminine face, and here clothed with that expression of timidity, !lu?hiug an.I afraid, which in some women is so sweet and so strongly appeals to all that is noblest and most manly in man.

This was my lirst impression but, as 1 hoked Rt it longer, the timidity, from being subjective merely, seemed to grow objective. It was not a timid girl, it was a girl afraid. Her eyes seemed to look with horror—for. on still closer observation, the fear grew into horror—on something that was not. represented in the picture. How could it be, seeing thai thoHC tear-full eyes were looking out of tho plan, straight over my head, who stood facing her, al the wall behind me? The picture was by far too tine a •work of ait for one to suppose that any attempt had been made to enhance ita interest by an extraordinary and theatrical mise-en-s ?ne, and 1 felt it would be an insult to the great painter to turu round and tee if anything was visible to explain the expression of those eyes. Moreover it wa« the expression that held uie, not the reason thereof. I am not of those who seek in every picture an illustration. 1 had Mood before it sometime, sadly envious cf the technique of the departed liand, and wondering what angel-hand— the angel Raphael's perhaps— had guided the pain'er'i lingers when he had mixed that color of sun-kissed auburn that sung—and colors sing—from those clustering curls of hair, when the Cure came back into the rojtn. 1 turned us 1 heard his step, and as 1 did ho mv eyes foil on the wall on which my buck had be-u turned. Directly opposite th* picture, and in the point, of vision ct its eyes, hung a rapier. As I looked closer 1 saw that the point of (his sword was black—of that ill-omened black tJr.it blood, long since shed, does take. almost felt an^ry. Blood-stained vapier, or chromolithograph of some hobgoblin, ghoul, or spectre, it annoyed me to tliiuk that :iny one should have ventured, with the most vulgar taste of melodramatic eft'ect, to complete what waB already so sublimely ana perfectly complete. 11 was the act of a bourgeois of the boui^eoi?, uneasy and disturbed if the Sevres china statuet of a Watteau shepherdess on this side of his Louis XV timepiece has not oh the yon side of it, fronting her. as pendant, a languishing Corrydon.

My annoyance was so real that I pasd bnt little attention to all that the Cure, who had now greatly sunk in inv esteem, showed me and told me. I vaguely remember that lie led me through a churchyard, where, by the gtave of his prdecessor. he pointed out the plot of ground whore he was to rest himself that he told me thai thr church w.is many hundred y63rs old, and had been, dans le temps, the h.l^e of company of Knights Templar, whose bodies lay shrouded in stone sepulchres in a remote part of the cemetery. The church was •very uninterefting to me in my preoccupation. There were some fine Louie XI. candleatii ss in massive copper on one of the fclta:s. The Cure had bought them from a dealer in old metals, to whom an ignorant colleague had sold theiu at tho rate of ninepence per pound,

"Then you have some taste," I thought, "Bat that only makes it mor? inexcusable."

I vm eramining these candlesticks when & peasant girl cam* dp to us, and with man* dutosy curtaiee told M. le Cure that nis supper had been served.

Bhe had a motherly tone with the old man, this girl of fifteen, and would not hear of his showing me the vestry. "That will be Tor another day," she said. "The important thing now is that M. Is Care ihould not let that beautiful trout get cold. One has opened a bottle of Chablia to drink with it, and there will be an omelette aox fines herbes and some peaches in the second service." "She seems a very intelligent child," I said, as I accompanied the cure to his dorr. "Is she your servant?" "O, no," he answered, with a smile. "That would not be allowed. My servant is ill in bed, and this girl is taking her place. Bat no, monsieur, I cannot let you go now. You muit come in and share my supper. Jeannette, lay another cover." "I did that in advance," answered the girl. "When M. le Cure has visitors—'"He insists on their becoming his guests. You are right, and monsieur see* it."

The trout, perfectly ccoked, was firm and sweet the Chablis, cool and fragrant, with a faint scent tf violets, gleamed like livid gold in my glass the table was exquisitely laid the silver, the plate of peaches, the yellow rose laid on the white cloth, were very beautiful to the eye, the cure, with his melodious voice fall of caressing notes, charmed my ear, as his anecdotes and wit delighted my mind. But all these delights were powerless to distract my attention from the annoyance I had experienced. My calm was marred. I barely listened to my host, yet gave him enough attention to regret my preoccupation. At another time .hit conversation would have charmed me, who for now many months had heard only the sordid bargainings of the Norman peasants in (heir drawling and inharmonious patois.

He had been speaking about the Oxford revival, and had quoted the pope's remarks on ihe Puseyites, that like bellringers they invited the world to come into Holy Chureh, but themselves did not enter it, when, unable to contain myself any longer, 1 ruddy interrupted him, saying ''But why vulgarize her glorious passion Why make her sub lime fear paltry and ridiculous? One annoys the timidity of children with blood-stained rapiers, skulls, or chromos of 'For's Martyrs.' They cannot ex plain her terror. They only insult tier?"

The Cure smiled, and seeiueJ at once to understand what it was I was referring to. "You are right, monsieur," he said "it is in bad taste. But it is Bette's fault, not mine." "Bette," he continued, "is my old servant. the one who is lying ill up stairs. She nas been most faithful and devoted to me ever since she came to this place, now twenty years ago. I used to that rapier in u'y bedroom, but it was not long before she found it out, and then Bhe insisted on hanging it where you saw it. The arrangement has always rather spoiled my pleasure in the picture, and my reason is the same as yours bull could not find it in my heart to thwart the old woman's wish. She would have it thus, and would take no contradiction on this point," "I suppose," I rejoined, "the old woman was vexed at the sight of the girl frightened at nothing. The blood-stained sword would expkin this fear and make the tableau complete. It is natural In a pleasant woman. But I should have been better pleased with Bette if she had completed it in another way. For instance, if she had hung opposite those terrified eyes a picture by Delacroix or another classic. That would have explained, and charmingly, the horror of a creation of 'a." "Yon are severe on Delacroix," laughed the Cnre. "In my time he was to us what Meissonier is to you to-day." "May I ask, monsieur," I said, "if (here is any connection between the picture and the weapon?" "A terrible one," said the Cure.

His tone was so sad and there was such a sorrowful expression on his face as he answered me that I regretted my indiscretion and apologized to him for if. "It is strange," he continued, alter a pause, "that you should ask me this today, for all this day my thoughts have been going back to the most terrible scene of my life. Nay, do not ask my pardon. I am glad to speak to you of it. Silence does not kill a Borrow it nurses it—I know it. For thirty years I have ver opened my mouth and the wound in my heart has deepened all the more. Never, never be reserved in the troubles of your life. Rather cry lham out aloud on the house tops. Does not a cry relieve a bodily suflering? Then why sL ouId not the same relief be ailorded in tLe same way to the tortures of conscience? Ask for sympathy, human sympathy, and, whether you get it or not, the mere asking will comfort you. I will tell you about that rapier and that picture. My heart has been very full today."

Then, bending over the table to me, he said: "That picture is the portrait of the only woman I have ever laved, and that re pier is the sword with which I killed iny dearest friend. The blood on Ub point is the blood of the only heart of man that ever beat in love and sympathy with mine." "Ah," he continued, "you look surpiised. One does not suppose any romance can be sbrined beneath the scutane of a village Cure, and, perhaps, to look at me, 1 appear the very last man to have had a drama of so terrible a kind in my life. Yet, I am told they miue a very good play of it at one of the boulevard theaters in Paris. The world had the comedy, the tragedy was for melt was juat, quite just. My story? 0, a common one. He was my friend, and sl.e, the lovely woman, was his wife. We had both paid court to her, bnt he hid won her. Be was richer than I, aid in France, yoti know, that is the -st consideration of parents in giving their daughter. Well, though I loved h.tr with all my heart, when she became bis wife I was loyal to her as to him, as a gentleman and his friend. Of course I s, ught her^society—it waij'natural, was it not, that I should do so? Ill-advised, O, ill-advised—nobody sees that better than I do now. But I swear, if swear I might, that my loyalty to him and to her never, even in thought, wavered an instaut. The world, the wicked world, thought otherwise: and wicked t( agues went wagging. He was my best fi iend, and I loved him like a brother— aid all the more dearly that be was her husband. Yet how could I act otherise than I did when one day, urged on b? these wicked tongues, he rushed up to me on the boulevard and struck me in tl.e face, calling me liar, traitor, coward? I was done in the eyes of Paris, and I «as hot-blooded in those days. It was a provocation, a challenge, which I was forced, as I thought then, to accept. We fought next morning in the Boisdes Yincennfs. It was an accident—yes, that thrust of mine was an accident—I shall always say so. He ran upon my point. I could not help myself. Bat, O, the horror of that moment! The artist who painted thct portrait was one of those who took my Paul home. He told me that she looked thus when she saw him as I made him. As for me, I went for many months a crazed man. I think it was my great uncle, the Bishop of who first suggested to me that, it any atonement for my crime there could be, it wonld be in the devotion and Berviee of lifetime.

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took his advice, for I was weary of th? world, passed thro^h oMOl of the aotici&U, En3 Was ordained. My uncle pave me this presbytere, and here I hate lived and worked for thirty years, humbly, obscurely, and penitently. I not atoned—no, no, I have net atoned but 1 sometimes thick that Paul knows all now, and—and, perhaps has forgiven me. "I never saw her again. I never heard of her. Is she dead? Did she marry again Did she, as some say she intended to do. retire to a convent? do not not know. 1. have never ceased to love her, as I did Uien, loyally and devoutly not as the woman I hsd wanted to marry, but as the wife of my friend,, as my dear Paul's wife."

I said nothing. I felt sorry now to have called forth this confession. The qaiet despair of this old man as he told me the misery of his ruined life was a poignant sorrow to the eye and to the ear. When he had finished speaking he sat with his hand covering his eyes. I fancy there were tears in them.

We were setting thus in silence in the darkening room when the little maid came running in. "Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur leCure!" she cried, "come quickly! Old Bette is dying. She calls for you." "O! do not say that," cried the Cure, starting to his feet. "Do not say that. Mv old Bette! My faithful old servant! No, it cannot be that after twenty years of loyal service and sacrifice I am to lose her now." "It is very certain, monpere," said the trembling girl, "that old Bette is dying. She says so herself, and I can see that she is right, for she looks juBt like la mere Manon did before she died. And bIi^ begs Monsieur le Cure to oome to her without delay." "I come, I come! cried the old man in tones of the deepest anguish. "But a doctor, Jeannette, the doctor! Bun for him. 0 that is useless, of coprse. He lives ten mi'es away. What shall we do? What will become of us?" "I have studied medicine," I said. "I may be able to be of some assistance. If Monsieur le Cure will permit, I "Come, come!" he cried, clutching me by the arm. "It is the blessing of Prov idence. Is there anything you want It is disease of the heart. No—then come. But first, Jeannette, run up stairs and see whether monsieur can enter."

The girl had turned to obey, when through the silence of the house there rung the awful notes of a dying woman'i voice. "Rioul, Raoul! where are you? Je me incurs, mon ami."

It was the voice of a highborn lady For what reason 1 know not I turned toward the picture. It seemed the cry that sbouhl come from those lips.

The Cure had started like a man who is suddenly stabbed. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" he cried "Whose voice is lhat?''

And with this cry he turned toward the picture. "Raoul, Raoul! You must come quick ly or it will be too late "It is old Bette that is calling you, le Cure," said Jeannette, pointing to the room above. "It is her voice, is it not?" "Bette?"stammered the Cure, "the old peasant woman's? No, no,no! It was Mireill's. But "Meanwhile, Monsieur," said Jean nette, "the old woman dies." "I go," said the Cure.

I did not follow him I had some feeling that there would be something solemn—something sacred was to be re vealed in this last interview between the old Cure and his dying servant. I knew that great as may be the devoiion and self-sacrifice of the man, the self-sacrifice and the devotion of the woman that loves him, or has loved him, can be immeasurably greater, and I believed that the Cure would find out that his lifelong penance had had even on this earth its passing great reward, and that the love of the woman he had worshiped in his youth had been with him and around him, silent, watchful, all these years. "It would have been a splendid devo tion," I said to myself, as I made my way home, "and one possible only in a woman, to humble herself as he had humbled himself—yet lower, to leave the boudoir of the woman of the world for kitchen of a village presbytere—to put off the elegant toilet and to put on the peasant's gown, aye, and more than all this, to live by his side, unknown to him, respecting his loyalty to the dead it was sublime."

A year later I visited again They told me that the old Cure had died about two months ago. I saw his grave in the churchyard, but it was not in the spot that he had laughingly pointed out to me when he had shown me the church I found it hidden away in a corner, from which a splendid view of the sea could bo obtained. There was another grave by its side, adorned with a simple white cross, on which was written the one word, "Mireille."

I had fashioned forth no untrue romance. Robbbt T. Shebaeo.

OLD JOHN'S SLYNESS.

How a Dog Mftnsgid to Go With His Master on a Hunt. Chicago Herald. "Talking about dogs," said Colonel Bjnd, of south Water street, "I used to have a railroad dog named John, who was a regular curiosity. Johu was raised by an engineer on the Burlington when ihe trains of that road used to run into the depot at the foot of Lake street. Tht dog regularly accompanied his master on bis runs, sometimes in the engine cab and sometimes in the baggage car. He had a great love for railroads and cars, and whenever anything went wrong with him he started straight for the Illinois Central depot, probably to get consolation from the trainmen, who always made great pets of him. One day John V. atson ana I were getting ready to go oil on a hunt. We packed up our guns, bigs, jacket* and other accoutrements, including fish rods, etc. Old John was standing around looking on with glee aud wagging his tail. Watson asked me iiI intended taking John along, and I replied no—that he would have to stay at home this time. Old John's tail lnslantiy dropped between his legs, and he hung around almost with teare in his eyes, watching the guns and things as they were loaded into a wagon at the front door.

When we were ready to start old John was nowhere to be found. I thought that he had gone ofl and laid down some place to pout it out. We got on board the train and began our jonrney, not thinking of old John. When the train stopped at Aurora I went forward to see how my dogs were getting along in the baggage-car. Imagine my surprise when I found old John there with the others looking at me as roguish as you please out of the corner of his eye. You see, he knew that we were going to take a train, and started off to the only depot he knew anything 8bout, and got aboard the first train he came to. It happened to be our train. The baggageman said that when John first arrived he slunk into a corner of the car behind a trunk and refused to come out and be comforted. When I went into the car with my other dogs he lay low and never made his presence known to me till we had got so far away from Chicago that I couldn't send him back. Old John went with us on that hunting trip, and many more thereafter. I finally lost him, and I suppose he ran off with some railroad man. A locomotive had a strange fascination for him."

President Dwight, of Yale, has sent a toboggan to the dean of Canterbury.

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On* oI tii* Moat Taciturn of PrlDoea at Wharai Bat lltU« Was Known Before He Beoaine Krupator. (Alexander lit. wa« always one of the most taciturn of prindfl, bePOTe no came emperor very little was really known of his character and opinions beyond the limits of the court. When tula is the case with an heir-apparent, there 'fire plenty of people ready to invent bonmots and ideas for him, iiut he certainly gay* the impremion of being almost without a care, and of having a ready capacity for enjoyment. No one at the theater laughed more at the comic parts of a play but it is hard on a man when he can not applaud the ingenuity of three actresses who stood together, one dressed in red, another in white, and the third in blue, after the German ambassador had remonstrated at tha tricolor being displayed on a St. Petersburg stage, without being at once set down as the stannchest Francophile. The tragic event of March 13, 1881, undoubtedly sobered him, and he has ever since been a sadder and graver man. On that fateful Sunday afternoon he bad parted from his father after a servioe at the riding school, and was sitting down at luncheon half an hoar later with his wife at the Anltchkov palace, when the news reached him that nis own accession to the throne was imminent, and they both hastened to the

Winter palace. At 4:30 they drove away again from the emperor's deathbed through a dense and sympathising crowd, the new empress weeping bitterly. For a long time afterwards her shattered health and spirits required the greatest solicitude, and they eonseqnently lived In Strict retirement, which was readily misconstructed by the friends oi the Nihilist movement: butsinee her recovery they have paid five visits to Moscow, and have been warmly received in the Crimea, Warsaw, Kazan and in the country of the Don Cossacks.

The emporor is an athlete in app9arance— tall, broad-shouldered, and of considerable weight. He was born on March 10,1845, so he is 41 years of age. Of all the Danish king's sons-in-law he Is the most popular in Denmark, where he has resided fjr weeks at his father-in-law's palace, content with the society of bis wife and oi ber family, and with sach simple amusements as the Castle of Rosenborg could afi'ord. As a youth he was much adverse to study, and his father did not press it on him, believing a vigorous constitution to be of more importance than erudition but when the unexpected death of his brother made it probable that he would same day bear the scepter, he took pains to fit himself for his new prospects. Educated by what we should call a very High Church and Conservative tutor, he has shown no inclination to make any extensive alterations in the Russian administration. Indeed, according to that tutor, who is now the emperor's representative in the Holy Synod. Rassia "has been suffering from over-legislation and overreform aud what she now requires," he says, "is a period of rest, to enable her to digest the innovations which were forced upon her duriog the last reign, and which conduced to sustain a feverish inquietude among her people."

Cheese at the White Heuse. A Washington correspondent of the Albany Journal presents the following bit of reminiscence: Then oame another widower, President Jackson, who banished etiquette and fashion from the White Houss, and introduced the sovereign people. 1 remember well one very amnsing reception in Jackson's time, when a patriotic set of democratic dairymen in New York had made and sent to him a mammoth eheesa, which he generously had distributed among his visitors. Cheese "was the order of the day and the account of the scene by that fastidious wilter, N. P. Willis, shows how his aristocratic senses were troubled. Visitors fonnd the sidewalk, extending frem the gateway to the White House, thronged with citizens of all classed—those coming away having each a small brown parcel and a very strong smell those advancing manifesting by shakings of the head and frequent exclamations that there may be too much of the good thing, and particularly of cheese. The beautiful portico was thronged with boys and coach drivers, and the odor strengthened with every step. We foroed our way over the threshold and eneoun tared an atmosphere to which the mephitic gas floating over Avernos must be faint and innocuous. On the side of the ball hung a rough likeness of the general, emblazoned with eagle and star, forming a background to the huge tub in which the cheese had been packed, aud in the ceqter of the vestibule stood the "fragrant gift," surrounded with a dense crowd, who, without crackers or even "malt to their cheese," had in twe hours eaten and pnrveyed away fourteen handred pounds! The small segment reserved fer the president's use counted for nothing in the abstractions.

Pierce and Hawtorne.

Ben Perley Poere,

lii.'i*iii^M'P*y $ i'^' rfflSTiSLiwari^it»

Tflll EKPBHW, TAM HAUTE, B0SRDAY, JAKVAKT 9, 1*17.

THB BMPBROR OP RUSSIA.

the Boston Budgeet.

Soon after #eneral Pierce was eleeted president he visited Boston and received a visit from his old friend, Nathaniel Hawthorne, to whom he said: "What can I do for you, Nat?" "I have long wished to see you," replied Hawthorne, "and I haye hoped that yon would be able to appoint me to a foreign mission." "No, no," Teplied Pierce. "Let me tell you a little story: Soon after General Taylor was elected president, Jenifer went to him and asked for a foreign mission' saying he could live on his outfit and save up bis salary. The president appointed him. Be went to Vienna, lived snugly on his outfit, saved his salary, and was happy in the realisation of his plans. "On the eve of his departure he called on the Countess d'Esterhazy, who was mistress of ceremonies at court, and expressed to her that his social position as a bachelor prevented him from reciprocating the attentions whieh he had received. The countess listened to him graciously, aid then said it would not do for him to go away without giving an entertainment. This she offered to arrange, and told him all he wonld have to do would be to pay the bills. The entertainment was a magnificent one, and the bills Amounted to upward of $8,000. So Jenifer came home penniless and had to take a subordinate clerkship in the treasury department. "Now," continued the president-elect. "I do not propose to sena you where you will have a repetition of Jenifer's ease, but I will give tou the consulate at Liverpool, where you will be able to save a little money." The Liverpool eoaEUlate was accordingly given to Hawthorne, and he was enabled to save a considerable sum while he held it.

He Saved Victoria's Life. The man who saved the queen's life near Kensington palace in 1821, when her majesty was only 2 years old, was an Irish soldier named Moloney, says a London correspondent. He was walking near the catriage in which the intent princess was driving, and when the carriage was upset he rushed to the child's rescue and brought her safely out of tbe broken vehicle. He broke his leg, however, in the attempt, and sustained other injuries from which he suffered for some time afterward. The duchess of Kent, ths queen's

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mother, gave him the munificent reward of £1 for his heroic act. In a few yean he was sent out to India with his regiment, and there he spent upward oi twenty years, retnrniag to Eegland a pensioner on sixpence a dav. Being in great distress—sixpence a day being namaintain the poor fellow—he wrotetoTe#BRJsstj finding her gf the important service be had MBaeS®

her in early life. No notice wluie?ff was taken of the application. Nothing daunted, however, t»e wrote again and again, but still no response came from Windsor. To shorten the story, he kept reminding her majesty fer newly twenty yean that he had saved bet life, and as he was beginning to think it last thaf he oonid never susceed IB eSaJtin* the royal gratitude to do anything .for mill he oeived through the post a small donation' anonymously. The following week it Was repeated. Upon the introduction of postal orders ha got oce for almost every weak, the donor being still nameless. As the orders, however, bore the Windsor postmark, he suspected the source whenee they oame. At last one day a slip of paper which appeared to haye been pet Into the letter accidentally revealed the fcatne of the senderSir Henry Poosonby, the qaeen's private secretary. Since that time Moloney has got the postal orders without any disguise whatever from Sir Henry. Moloney was originally intended for the church, but be!a/ a wild yoanc fellow he left home daring his Undent days, taking wt»h him a large sam of money which belonged to his lather. This he soon spent, and then he enlisted. He knew clavtes fairly wall, snd while soldier used te amnse hlq companions bv quoting verses from Latin and Greek poets. He is now over 80 years of age, and lives at Hounslow, near London.

MISS MBRRIMAN'S DREAM.

She Saw In a VISUta Her Steles Wateti Hidden In Apple Tret. New York San.

Miss Irene Merrinuun, IS years old, lives with her widowed aunt, Mrs. C&r rie Beman, in Leland avenue, New Roehelle. Mrs. Beman is a sister of ex Recorder Jaoies M. Smith. Miss Merriman reported to the police that she had !een robbed of a gold watch and f27 in cash, and that burglars had been in the house and packed up aeeal plush sacque, a brown dress trimmed with brocade belonging to her, her aunt's browu cloth dress, and a shawl, all of which were left on the floor.

After Bhe had reported the robbery she said to Captain Conk ling that she had dreamed during the night where the watch was, and bad gone out and found it in the fork of an old apple tree, jcat where she dreamed it was. She said she did not dream wbere the money was. Conkling deoided to make no investigation.

Yesterday a reporter saw Miss Merriuian. She said that at) 2:3© o'clock at night she was disturbed by the rattling of a newspaper in her room but being sleepy she turned over and went to sleep and dreamed that the house was being robbed. She remerobsred that the robber in her dream was a good-looking, medium-sized fairhaired young man, with a blond moostache and splendid figure. He acted in the most gentle manner. She dreamed that he took a long stick, poked under the bureau wheTe the money and watch were kept, pushed them out and pressed them to bis reset as he departed. Then she dreamed he went down stairs and packed up before described. She then had another scene in her dream, in which she saw the yeung man carefully hide the watch in the fork of an apple tree in aa orchard near the house. Then, she says, she woke up and went to her aunt's room and said "Aunt, the home is being robbed come down with me."

Her aunt, she said, was timid, and so bhe went alone. She found everything as she saw it in her dream. Then she called up ner nearest neighbor, George Schlrmer, by firing ofi'a revolver, and ne came in and witnessed the condition of things. She then went out and found the watch in the tree. The money was not found. She did not dream where it was.

This is the third time that burglars have been reported in this house. The last time was in August. It was then reported that the girl had been ohloro formed and the house robbed of $40 Two weeks later the girl heard burglais again, and went to the window and fired off a revelver, which so frightened the robbers that they did not enter.

ALICE *0ATE6

Tbe Downfall tbe Qstea of Opera Booffe—A Former Resident of Terre Hante.

Alice Oates, who was the original queen of opera bouffe (in finglish) in this country, is reported te be dying from a complication of diseases, ot wh'eh hys tera, paralysis and consumption are the principal, at tbe home of her husband Mr. Sam P. Watkins, at 724 North Twentieth street, Philadelphia. Poor Alice! She was the sauciest, most reek less and most alluring of all the rollick ing, good natured, dsvil-may-eare good-for-nothings that have gone before or sac ceeded ber. It it hardiy ten years since she wss in the zenith of her glory, ihsr iag with. Aimee the public regard, snd making money by the btllhel in Han. Francisco how royally she spent it and with what joyous bedevilment she lived for the enjoyment of tbe present moment and gave no thought to the morrow! The quantity of champagne consumed at the Arcade house, where the idel of ths stage then lived, csme near cresting famine in that commodity and her outlay in the way of luxuries was stn pendous. Even ner lanndry bills were as big as those of a Tarkish seraglio, and one liverystable keeper retired on competency accruing from ber patronage. It seems incredible that tbls bright area* lure, who was then the incarnation of health and joyoasness, and who, more over, seemed to possess a constitution capable of defying any demands upon it, should be dying before she is forty years old, just at the same time that one of her husbands, poor Tracy Titus, is also on his way to join the majority.

Dead Men tn the World. Wheeling Intelligencer. An Arkansas girl firmly believes she is dead, having, as she thinks, departed this life in August last. Her friends are unable to persuade her that she is still in tbeleeh.

This is a sad ease, but not so sad as that ot a more nnmeroo* class of people who are dead and don't know it. They breathe and move, eat, sleep and wake, take np just as much room and coat the world as much to keep as though they were alive. They are like ths spectre trees of the forest, of forbidding aspect, leafless, sapless, bearing no fruit, afbrding no shelter so worthless that it would Be wasted time to hew them down, tbey are left to rot themselves out of the world.

The unn is dead who takes his share of the apod things of this boontifully provided world and rfvss wAhing back whose soul is wrapped op is his own tight and hsrd bids who takss but does not give who lets every good wnse take ears of itself: who has so feeling heart and no helping hand for the stricken hearts that cannot help themselves. Who wonld want to live in a world of dead men?

For the Express^

THE OLD CHURCH.

The day was calm end beautiful, the birds sang gaily in the tMW shielded from vftw by the many lined leave#. Jt Wan too beautiful to work, or to do anything but wonder on and on, down winding lanes and across green meadows, and qoite too balmy to wear a hat or think or oare how one looked. By the reads!de stood an old crumbling weath-er-beaten, vine-covered church. The sunlight rested in a soft smile on the Utile graveyard where slept the dead forms of many homes, whose loved names Wdt* inlerik$d on the leaning afibs and wormeaten boards 111 niC.re than one sunken, forgotten grave lay the d«K of one who had been a mother's joy, a fathers pride. In the distance stood the village whose people had grown tfl be too many and too critical for the little old chfltfih where their parents and gran parents had been taught life's greatee', grandest lesson—how to live and die. The deer old ladies in wbite oaps and kerchiefs no longer sat upon the stiff-backed seate and blessed the old church with their sweet wavering voices. All was changed now. The villagers did not trouble themselves to go wFere they had nothing to eall them, and moat strangers avoided it, thinking it an uncanny spot, seme people having a horror of old churches and gravey&rdfe, forgetting, or not choosing to remember, that they mast sometime lie upon as lowly a couch. Down ths winding road came a lady, tall and stately, with the sweetest and calmest of faces.

It was a young faee, not handsome, but expressive of exquisite delloacy and refinement. Pausing by the roadside she leaned on the crumbling fence and looked dreamily at the vine-clad walls, where the birds flitted about as if singing a song to themselves and the bine sky £lale Grover felt as one who has been hemmed in by city walls always must feel when thev look upon nature's green fields and inhale the pure country air, free from the city's dust and smoke. How it reeled that UretJ head to sit on the soft green grass, and dream not of the future or present but oi the

fiast.

She felt as if she must never stir rout the old church yard, but jnst go on resting and dreaming forever. Again she felt the loved ones' presence beside her, again she heard the manly voice whispering such words as only hearts that love can appreciate. ThiB had been seven long years ago. Many changes had taken place in the girl's nature from 1$ to SB. An impulse came to her to wander through the little graveyard, and see who of her old time friends were sleeping there. With reverent touch She brnshed the rose hushes aside and read- the insertpiflitaa on the stones. "Qrace jBerry, agBd 17." How well she remembered the sweet young fece, with it's starry-blue eyes and golden ringlets. And where was her brother Ben—the idle dreaming boy who ran away to"sea? With reverent fingers she plucked the fairest roses, and arranging them carefully, unbound the ribben belt she wore and tearing in two tied one piece around the flowers and laid them en the jrave. "For thesakeof auld lang syne, Cfracie," she said softly as she moved away. Here a stone on this side bore the name of honest Farmer Qreen. Many a time she had sat on his knee and eaten the fragrant brown ohestnuts which burly, goodnatnredTom and Joe had roasted for her.

.1,^0^7,^0 Tender memories were they all and deserving the bunch of blossoms that she gave. On and on she went, reading on almost every side a well-remembered name, and always leaving on each her tribute of Uowers. A new train of thought seized her, and sitting dpwn beneath a tree she leaned her head in her hands. The thorns of arose bush pressed her fingers and involuntarily sheglam^d up. "John Cumberland, a stranger age not known." "Not John, my John!" she murmured.

So long as he was living Elsio could be stem and unforgiving, but to know that he was dead.

If he had found her she wtihld not have forgiven him but how she threw herself forward on the grass, her hands clasped above her head, but she shed no tear. Again and again she pressed her handkerchief to her burning eyes to shut out those words. O John, John was suoh a trilling thing to separate

A tall, dark-bearded man came strolling down the road, as she had done, as If looking upon a familiar sight, and started as the flower-strewn graves met hia sight. "They told me it was deserted, that no one ever came her now. Borne stranger, then, mast love it as I have always done," he murmured, thoughtfully. "Seven years ago. Perhaps," with a sigh, "I may dnd h,er grave. What is this? A handkerchief, and a grave lhat has been freshly strewn with flowers," and then his eyes rested on the name—his own. "What strange freak is this? A woman weepiog over a John Cumberland." He lifted the handkerchief and saw the name, "Elsie Grover" in the corner. With rapid strides and radiaut face this wilful loving man hurried on. The open church door, the kneeling figure, the flood of sunshine felling on woman's sunny hair, was what he saw. .Reverently bowing his head, he entered with noiseless tread and knelt beside her. The sunlight fell with an equal splendor on golden hair and black, like a blessing from on high. Elsie's sobs had ceased, and the face ehe raised was calm and gentle. "Elsie, forgive me

She started to her feet quickly, but there Was no mistaking that cilm, earnest voice, or the manly face raised to hers. He was kneeling yet, She held out her arms and with a feeling of rest and peace was folded to hia breast. Not many weeks after four persons ere gathered within the old church walls. One is an old man, joining two livest ir time and eternity. One is an old lady laughing and crying alternatfly tfc' others are John and Klsie, and their faces show that they are at peace with Qod and man, that they are conscious of whnt this union means, and are prepared to boar all sorrow, all Badness, and be happy as God may direct.

There is a grand white house gping up across the way from the little old cbnrcb, and so all have conquered themselves, the mother, the son and the daughter.

LILLIAN M. Jaokson.

Onlda an OM Boar Woman. London LMttf. Among tho distinguished arrivals in London this week is Louise de la Ka-

,-fts

mee, known to the American pahlte as On id a, the novelet. She ooeopies apart* meets in the Lang bam in lonely grandeur, refusing to see representMlv« of the prees and even personal atqUht» ances. It is understood that she ieaVSe her snnny borne in Flcrraoae tt breve th# bitter cold and fogs of .London in order to qdarrel with her publishes* Admirers of Ou Ida's unwholesome writings on our side of tbe water will be interested in knowing that she is new a sonred and diMtaitented old woman, practwally destitute of bamaympeUtr and companionship end deriving little or no comfort froth the fame which her work his secured ber.

NEW YORK POLICE.

Speeinen Oaf#s of fttllM HIimMK 1*. Kiw York. New York Oommeretal Advertiser.

The woman is vouched for by pionrP nent citizens by wbjfo she has been employed, as honest, sober and industrious. On her wsy home at night she was obliged to ps£ the officer at the corner of Thirty-third str£9t and Eighth avenue, snd he wantonly iceplted her as she went by. Her sole offense C»s to reply to this insult, whereupon the policeman kicked her, and she seized his -'eg to bieak the forue of the blow. Then, cording to the story, the polkemarf struck her with his flub, breaking her jaw, and took ber to tht police station, where she was locked npoVfeT night without medical attendance, upon his charge that she was drunk and disoraAty- In the morning she was taken biftfore a magistrate and fined $10 without being allowed an opportunity to make fense, since tbe broken jaw preetwled her speaking, and no inquiry was mae'e ae to her condition. Ho severe were IkT injuries that she was two days in •.hospital befurd inflammation subsided

They are not Newspapers—How Tbey £MflVr From I hole tn (be trsltad States. Loudon Letter.

Most assuredly tbe journals of London take first rank among the peculiarities. •Speaking generally, it Would be a misnomer to call them newspapers—that is, da the word is understood in the United States. The lapse of two or three dayB between the date of an event and the ap pea ranee of its report apparently makes no diflerence to these daily reviews, and tbe value of that event as a piece oi news is generally sharply limited to its home effects. I mean that the president's message to congriB9 would be given two lines of telegraphic summary—for example, although it really might indicate the It policy of his administration of the affairs us of 60,000,000 of people, while a special

forever, but you were proud anil passion-1 correspondent would be allowed to fill ate. Your mother was unkind and the paper's columns with the mansuvert scorned me, and I could not bend to h^r. She called me poor and proud because I would not consent to make my home with her when I married you. You were a dutiful son and would not leave her. You did net love her best, 1 know it wss not true when I said it! Her handkerchief was wet now with tears and she arose with the determination of staying near thifc—his grave. With trembling hands she polled up the weeds and thorns that almost hid the sacred mound, twining the vines about the wooden slab, and rising from her knees, passed swiftly from the ground. She tried the ohurch door as she passed and it yielded to her touch. In there she knew hi9 face hiffl last been looked upon, and in there she knelt to pray, a flood of sunshine falling on her from the open door

of the breach-clouted tribes ot savages, over one of whom the qneen had a sort of godmothership.

In local news there is no comparison, because that seems a dish with which the papers fear to serve its readers. A whole page was frequently given to the beastliness of the Crawford-Dilke trial, the movements of the royal family are followed with scrupulous toadyism, but of the thousand and one things we are accustomed to consider first rate reading material no mention is made. It may be that it is, as the French say, an embarrassment oi richess, but one would imagine that the embarrassment might be got rid of by giving a private sum mary of events.

General Lew Wallace baa been reeeiv ing marked social attentions in Boston.

SCRiBNER'S

MAGAZINE.

Published Monthly.

With Illustrations.

First Number Ready

THE MOST COIIPLm

that the broken could be setAnother case thaf J? brought to light this morning is that of a i«wn of seventy years, who lives in Brooklyd, *od who was ran over and injured, in fta first place, by tbe patrol wagon on CfatfstStaa morning. He was taken to a hespltt^ untJonaelooe, but revived uwto treatment, was bandaged up and fbnt home. On the wav 'fie old man suddenly be-, came wesK ffRu Jess of blood and fainted, when along oa'tte a policeman, and, ofoouroe arrested him on a charge oJ drunkenness. Anothte- officer at tbe gtation-horifte received (ms charge, and the injnred man gjnnt Christinas in a rough cell, in an unconscious eonaktan*

The other case we have referred ft concerns ihe merry Christmsg eve pranks of ail officer of tbe Carmansville squad tvho ordered a group of yotipg men (o go into a saloon and "get full" at his expense, and when one declined the invita.tion, clubbed him until h« ran awsy. And theu fired t«o shots from a revolver after him. Later at night the officer met his victim and aeciised him cf having reported lo the captain of the precinct that he (the officer) was drank. Then be arrested the young man on a totally fiotitious charge of assault snd he wss looked up until yesterday, when bis trial in the Court oi Special Sessions brought out the facts in the case. The victim of the ofiioers assault was badly injared, but tbe officer was not restrained of his liberty, though one of the justicee did venture to remark that the police commissioners ought to investigate tbe cue.

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