Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Volume 8, Number 43, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 24 May 1877 — Page 4

§he ggfee% gazette.

WM.

C. BALI.

4fc

CO., Prop's.

WH. 0. BAI BPEHCXK P. BALL.

OFFICE, NO. 23 AND 25 SOUTH FIFTH.

XkelAiLT

GAZKTTK is oub. ished every after­

noon except Sunday,and sold by the carriers at 30 per fortnight. By mail •&£ 00per year §4,0©for sis months 12.00 fori months, TheWKKLY GAZBTTB is issued every Thursday, and contains all the best matter of the six daily issues. The TV EMLY GAZZTTX is the larrest paper printed in Terre Haute, and is sold for. One copy per year, IS, six months, $1, three months, fiOc, All subscriptions must be paid for in advance. No paper discontinued until all the arrearages are paid, «nIe»B the option of tne proprietor a failure to notify a dlsoontinuance at the end of the year will be considered a new engagement. Addreas all letters.

WM. C.BALI. & CO., GAZETTE. Terre Haute, Ind.

THURSDAY, MAY 24, 1877.

BARKUM can find Charley Ross if any body can.

PRICES have declined in the Board Trade at Chicago and the bulls of Tel-re Haute are bellowing.

A STRINGENT cow ordinance is needed in Terre Hautei It is useless talking about the place being a city with cows in the street and on the sidewalks and browsing on the shrubbery in every other yard.

''OH, my feathers is the latest slang phrase. According to the Louisville Courier-Journal the man who praises himself, and who is, as it were, an angel, all but the wings, is the chap who needs to "buy feathers."

OPPOSITION to Secretary Sherman in the Republican ranks is one of the rumors from Washington. His determination to resume specie payments is said to be the cause of this. The rumor is not likely to amount to muGh. Sherman will continue to be Secretary of the Treasury and specie payments will be re. sumed, and toon.

THE story from New York, that Mr Tilden through his attorneys proposes to institute proceedings in the nature of quo warranto to outset Mr. Hayes from the White House, lacks thickness. It is too late for such proceedings to be begun. Nevertheless if some of the Louisiana Returning Board could be prevailed upon to make a death bed confession, it would make mighty interesting readina.

ACCORDING t® the Philadelphia Times Haves fully understands what he is about in his southern policy. He is reported as saving: "that he was not surprised at the Republican opposition to his course, as he had expected even more than had. been shown. Had he been a private citizen he would probably have been inclined to oppose it himself, but when he necame president he reflected upon the subject, and having made up his mind that it was his duty to endsavor to to restore peace and harmony throughout the land and protect the rights and liberties of the people, he adopted that course which he believes will best secure these objects, and he intends to stand firm in the execution of his purpose."

FROM thebooks of the Treasury Department it appears that during the eight months ending with February, 1876, the coffee imported by the United States amounted in weight 255,784,000 pounds and in value to $43,140,000. During the tame period the importations of tea amounted 43,331,000 pounds, valued at $14,796,000. For the eight months ending with February, 1877, the importation of coffee was 190,584,000 pounds, valued at $29,344,000. During the 6ame period the cjuantity of tea brought into the country fSvas only 38,565,000, pounds valued at $11,175,000. From this it will appear that the quantity of these articles consummed in this country has suffered a very appreciable decline For the months of this year tinoe Feburary the.declinehas been even more marked. The beneficent policy of the Govnrement in furnishing Mr. Lo •with coffee ought to keep up a steady demand tor coffee and tea.

A recent number of the New York Tribune contains some intsresting figures concerning the relative number of failurea in the business world during a series of years. It appears that the number of failures to 1,000 was in 1770, 8J^ in 1871, 6,6 1873 7,9 in 1873 9,3 in 1874 10.7 in 1875,13 in X886, 14,3. A curious featuie of tne whole matter is the fact that while there has been a rapid and and considerable increase in certaiu sections, in others there has been a decrease. This is well presented in the following table. 1 870. 1861. *875. 1876. Massachusetts 10.2 7-9

Connecticut 8,2

Rhoce Island 7.9

Texas

A

22.6 30.6

is

16,s 15.6

6,6 22,1 28,2

Michigan IX,2 8,0 14.3 374 Indiana 5»o 3.3

x44 $9

Illinois 7.o 5.4

Minnesota 7.0

14.5

44 $9

Iowa 9-5

133

224

»97

1S®

North Carolina 9° 10,7 22,0 19,8 Tennessee 5.*

22,0 19,8

16,6

South Carolina 7.7 10.9 30.7 19,6 Mississippi

A1

7.3

Louisiana 5»*

8,6 14,8

7°

10,9

a7«3*

whoijk volume of sennons on commercial immorality is embraced in the following paragtaph which we copy from the news column of an exchange. The vice it portrays abound* in the land: "Perhaps the most lamentable circum­

stance in connection with the frauds and failures that have happened during the last three years is the fact that it seems possible for a man to be guilty of almost any delinquency in regard to money, and yet te retain hi6 social position it his dishonesty be only on a sufficiently large scale. To give an instance in point: A man came to a friend for a loan of $100,000, and the friend, with very great difficulty, managed to oblige him. Within a few weeks the borrower failed, haying meanwhile, settled largely on his wife, and his failure caused the ruin of the lender. Not long since the latter observed to a friend, with great emotion. "I have experienced to-day the greatest insult I ever had in my life. That fellow who ruined me, positively had the audacity to ask me to drive up town in his carriage, which, with its liveried servants) was at his office door." The P.'s are reported to "liye delightfully," and their dinners and parties are greatly in request. The head of another firm, which failed at over $6,00,000 not long agO( and haven't paid one cent on the dollar, lives with similar elegance. As long as the doers of such deeds ate exempt from social ostracism, commercial morality will remain what it is."

A SCORCHING SUN. For variety and quantity of news crowded into the smallest possible compass the New York Sun is without a rival in this country. In it's editorial department, few, if any, papers compare with it. As is well known, the Sun does not believe that Hayes is entitled to the Presidency. All the fact6 in the case, it reiterates from day to day and never neglects an opportunity to remind it readers of its belief, In the matter of what may be termed cheek it is incomparable. The following article which we take from its columns will illustrate this point. "The following application, made in writing, was yesterday received by us from the White House:"

EXECUTIVE MANSION)

WASHINGTON, D. C.,May 17,1S77. DEAR SIR: This Department is favoied regularly with copies of many of the most influential newspapers of the country, and if you should desire to add yours to the number, we shall take great pleasure in placing it i^pon the files of the Executive office.

Very truly yours, W. K. ROGERS, Private Secretary.

To proprietor of Daily Sun, New York.

We decline to ftirnish the Sun gratuitously to Mr. Hayes for a number of reasons, as for instance:

I. This paper is made to be sold, not given awav to deadheads. No element that enters into its production is furnishto us gratuitously. The paper, the ink, the telegrams, the leading articles, the reports, and the printing, all have to be paid for. A copy of the Sun every day costs us cash and for tMs reason Mr. Hayes ought not to ask us to give it to him for nothing.

II. With all its varied and surprising excellence, which the application effectively proclaims, The Sun is sold at so cheap a rate—two cents a copy on week days and three cents on Sundays—that every man pursuing any honest industry with success must be able to pay for it, and should be above begging for it.

HI. Mr. Hayes is in the receipt of a handsome salary. Under the existing appropriation made by Congress he is getting $50,000 a year and if he should be cut down, he will still get $20,000 or $25,000 a year. This certainly, should enable him to pay for news-papers, and not ask news-paper publishers to make him a present of a few cents daily each.

IV. In addition to his pay Mr. Hayes is now getting other things which raise him above want He has his house rent for nothing, his coal for nothing, a greenhouse supported by the treasury gives him flowers for nothing, a kitchen garden whose expense is likewise borne by th nation, supplie3 him with fresh vegitables and fruits for nothing while a number of servants, whose wages he is not called upon to pay, wait upon him and administer to his comfort. This certainly ought to put him above any need of writing begging letters around the coun try to get small additions lo these great national gratuities.

We are ashamtd of Mr. Hayes, and if 6uch an application had come from a President who was elected by the people, we should be disgusted. But we will not be too hard upon the present occupant of the White House. We remember the means and the methods by which he got there, and we refuse, without anger, his present eleemosynary application. As long as we have a Fraudulent President we must expect from him things that no elected President would ever think of.

NEGRO IN THE EPISCOPAL PULPIT. Rev. John B. McConnell, the colored rector of Emanuel Church, Memphis, preached in St Paul's church, Chattanooga on Thursday night Funny enough he has a decided Irish brogue. He was born it. the West Indies, on the Island of St Croix, in 1839, and was educated in Bainbridge Ireland. He went to Sibena, in Africa, in 1869, but was forced by sickness to return to St Croix. He af terward went to Memphis and studied for the ministry. This is the first instance in the history of the diocese of Tennessee, that a negro has officiated in the pulpit of the Episcopal Church. It is probably the first instance of the kind in the South,—[Nashville Banner.

ne-fVJWW-^ r* '-a Uttf

1TTH.V a YdMiW $ETJ/.1S AWi' /HIT

FAITHFUL AND FAITHLESS.

Hamper's Weekly.

They lived up among the swallows, in the attic of a second-rate boarding house, these two sisters. Madeleine wrote stories, painted photographs, and sewed, doing whatever else came within the way of her deft fingers. Cecile was a nursery governess.

To-night the weary lessons were finish ed, the villain in the last story disposed of by a dose 01 prussic acid, and the pretty toilers, lonely orphans though they were, sat enjoying the simple comforts of their poor little rookery,

It was Madeleine whose voice interrupted the musical performance of the tea kettle. "It is rather strange, is it not, Cecile, that I have never seen him?" she 6aid thoughtfully.

Cecile looked uppuickly,witha starttied blush. But she required 110 explanation, perhaps because her own thoughts had been treading the same path. "You will see him to-morrow, Madeleit e. He is coming particularly to see you. I wanted to ask him r.ot to do so, but it would have been of no use—he must come some time. Everything here is so—60 different from what he likes."

Madeleine laughed a soft, satisfied laugh, as her head drooped, that was very sweet and pretty. "It is like a fairy story," she said. "To think you are going to marry somebody a6 rich as a prince, and live in one of those wonderful houses! Oh, Cecile! are vou going to forget me quite? I expect "some day your carriage will go whirling past and splatter the mud over a poor oW beggar woman at the corner selling peanuts. That will be I, you understand. Yes, it's quite like a story. I shall write it, I believe, and call it 'The New Cinderella.' Only if I do, she added, with reflective disgust, "Philip Abinger will have to be turned into a duke in disguise, half-killed in a duel, and you will be a rope dancer who nurses him back to life, to make it picturesque.

Cecile laughed in her turn. "Madeleine," she said, admiringly watching her, "you certainly haye the loveliests eyes in the world, but I am afraid of them. When I have my carriage, dear, you shall certainly sit beside me and we will make Philip take the front seat, to hold the parcels when we go shopping."

The next day was a day ®f impot tance in the eyes of these two. Fortunately it was a holiday, Cecile could remain at home and Madeleine, with many a remorseful but stifled sigh as she thought of the untouched quires of blank Bath post lying in her desk, gave herself up to unwonted idleness, and to the discussion of Philip Abinger's visit. He was not to come until evening, it is true, but there was much to be done. After many consultations as to propriety, and the commendable conclusions that there could be not much incorrect where nothing was wrong, it had been decided to receive their guest in their own room rather than in the stuffy boarding-house parlor filled with gossiping boarders. The pretty plants in the window wwre disposed of over and over again, they went to the expense of an investment in new ribbons to tie back muslin curtains, and the few engravings—reminiscences of other days—were hung and rehung. It was finished at last, and the sisters contemplated the effect of their labors with entire satisfaction.

Philip Abinger sauntered down the streets with somewhat the sensations of a man who walks the dreamland. He regarded himself with a vague astonishment as he left the stately precincts of the avenue of palaces, wandering on through the various and so perceptible shades of respectability, till he reached a block of brick buildings that bore the signe of boarding-houses in every square inch, from the grimy upper windo'vs to the unwashed steps and littered areas. He paused a moment before he toucked the bell. She lived here! The woman who was to be his wife lived here, and plodded a weary daily round, teaching his younger brothers and sisters their letters for her bread! And then a generous emotion glowed in his heart, and gave another turn to his thinking. The woman who was to be his wilt! The brilliant-eyed and lively beauty wh had promised herself to him—she would grace the queenliest of all the crowns. Heaven bless her! How different would her life be, how heaped with happiness, when ortce it was given into his keeping!

Mounting to the little room where Cecile was waiting to receive him, he took her hand in his, and mumured one of those greetings of which the words are the merest nothing before he was quite aware that Madeleine was in existence. When Cecile said, in her timid, pretty fashion, "My sister.Madeleine, Mr. Abinger," lie raised his eyes to her for the first time. Cicile was looking at her sister for she longed to read the impression that Phillip would make, and save herself the waiting until he was gone before she could hear it. She observed her sister's fate with wonder. The unusual color that excitement had brought into her cheeks paled quite away, leaving them white her calm, deep eyes lightened with an expression very foreign to them' and sank as suddenly and heavily as if their lashes had been lead a faint shiver ran througn her shoulders, as though a cold wind had blown on her she looked almost like one who struggles to repress a sudden terror. It was a minute, perhaps, during which neither responded to the introduction, and then Philip Abinger stepped forward and took her hand, muttering some commonplace words. Neither of them understood the phrai es, nor cared to,and he turned away with a strange air of troubled constraint Poor Cecile's face discovered her disappointment. It was hard to think that these two should dislike each other, even from the very first, as it was too plainly evident they did—these two.upon whose affection tor each other she had builded so many cloud castles that must now fall, like the rest of thetn!

But before long. Philip's savoir-faire and Cecile's pretty attempts to entertain him, warmed the first frosty air into one af pleasant freedom. Madeline joined in the talk after a while, which soon became animated enough, yet with still an indescribable shadow in the micUi of all the causerie-

When he had gone away Cecile curled herself on the floor at her sister's feet, with her warm, bright hail shining down her shoulders. "He is not, is he, quite what you fancied he would be, Madeleine dear?" half whispering the tender words.

"I fancied?" impatience. V»

with odd

6aid Madeleine, "But what has

•**•»«*-,»*• ,.v*^

THE TERRE WATTTE WEEKLY GAZETTE. ^3¥ TB?p j8H 1 TW

that to do with it? He is not my fairy prince, Cecile." But she added, with a quick change of expression that covered the former one. "Still he wiH do very Well for one, considering the days he lives in. I like him—yes, Cecile." "But you

are

disappointed, Madeleine?"

said Cecile, raising her eyes doubtfully. "Am I?" Madeleine held her head on one side in characteristic fashion, looking fixedly at the coals dying in the grate. "No, Cecile, I do not think I am. You surely would not have me value him quite so highly as you do?" ''Two great tears had gathered ilowly in Cecile's violet eyes and rolled unnoticed down her cheeks while her sister was speaking. She made no answer, for her voice was untrustworthy.

Madeline rose and went to the dressing glass, beginning to take down and braid her hair. She looked into the mirror at the pale, handsome face before her with uneasy, shadowed eyes beneath the contracted brows. What her thoughts were it would be hard to guess, but they surely were not pleasant. A long-pressed sigh, stifled painfully on the lips, caught her ear presently, and with sudden horror of herself she turned from the glass and walked impulsivelv to her sister. She leaned over her, with both hands on her shoulders, hating herself for the shiver of reprehension that accompanied the act, and kissed her tenderly twice on the forehead.

Phillip Abinger wondered at himself no more as he walked down in front of the block of boarding-houses. It was the path that his feet were most accustomed to tread nowadays, and he seldom came tnither without some rare token from the upper world, some fruit or flower which had hitherto been but a name to these dwellers in the barren shadows of poverty.

Yet Cecile was not quite happy There was no open enmity between Phillip and Madeleine, but far less the quite agreement and affection she had once hoped for.

There

was an avoidance, a restless­

ness, in her eyes, and often an unaccountable bitterness in her words. Yet Phillip, she knew, came sometimes when he was aware that her duties took her from home. So she still, vaguely and without much reason, promised herself the ti.ue would come hen they would forget their strange antipathy.

Ce-

A less trusting heart than that of cile might have suspected there was another reason then that of dislike to ward Phillip to account for Madelein's unquiet manner and evident unhappiness when her sister's lover was near but to Cecile the explanation came with the force of a calamity whose approach could never have been imagined.

One lovely afternoon in spring, when the earth was fragrant with the breath of the budding flowers, the illness of the pupil gave the little teacher an unexpected holiday, and fully two hours earlier than usual she turned her steps towards the old boarding house. As she turned the corner nearest home, she saw Madelein and Phillip walking slowly down on che other side of the street. Phillip's head was bent down, perhaps no closer than the need of talk required in the midst of the roar of the city_ streets. Madelein,s face was turned aside and drooping. There was surely nothing strange in it that she clung closely to Phillip's arm in a crowd like this nothing so strange in so mere an act of friendship that it should make Cecile's heart thrill with such a sick, deadly pain What was sheaftaidof? Cecile walked homewhard with an ever-lagging footstep, a pallid half-smile

on

her lips, and

putting out her hand instinctively to aid herself, for her eyes hardly guided her, saying over and over to herself, whether aloud or silently 6he knew not: "Madeleine is right. I am very foolish. Maddie is alwaps right. O God what a terrible thing it is to be to very foolish

She went straight to her own room and sat down on the chair by the window, drawing it far in among the plants, in pretty bloom and full leaf. She was wondering vaguely when Madeleine and Philip would come back again. How long she sat there 6he could not have told. The minutes passed unconsciously but presently she heard steps and voices near the door, and recognized those of her sister and lover.

Cecile tried to move, but the power was denied her. A cold weight oppressed her limbs. She sat still and dumb, and the door opened. They paused on the threshold of the twilight room. "And you will, not come in, then?" asked Madeleine and it was in that tone that longs for and fears assent. '•I

cannoi

to-night, I cannot see her

to-night. Madeleine, I would rather have died tnan met you. Shame and penitence and pity and despair—let them go." "I

know

how it will end' You will

leave me.

It

is right you should. Let

me go mad or die, my God, before he does what he must—what is right!"

Philip caught the speaker in his arms. In the half-articulate words of endearment that followed there seemed as deep a pain as passionate tenderness. •'My love my life my darling In the name of God, why did I love you? It is a sin but the sin, the suffering, is its own reward. My love I will not leave you.

Madeleine struggled to free herself from his embrace. "What will become cf us?" she murmured despairingly. "If one must be sacrificed let it be me." "I swear I will not give you up. Madeleine, you do not love me." "Philip, let me go! I thought better of

myself

and you than that this would

ever be from the moment I saw you, there was sin and treason in my heart. Philip, leave me, and let me think I am tortured and half crazy. Philip! PI letmegol"

Madeline wrenched her hand from Ins grasp and opened wide the door of the room beyond.

Cecile, whose bonnet and shawl had been removed, waited a few moments, and then followed her to her retreat, as though she had but just come in. But Madeleine caught the deadly pallor of her sister's face, and cried out. "Cecile, what has happened? Are you ill?—you look like death!, Something the matter what is it£' "I am tired, Maddie," said Cecile, in a low, wistful tone, as utterly different from her ringing cadences as was this ashen— hued, lifeless face from the sunbrighf and glowing cheeks that made half of her brilliant beauty. Madeleine was con-science-stricken, and she asked no further question, judging all too truly that her treachery has

been

discovered.

Two or three days passed away, and each, conscious of concealment, grew more constrained in the vain effort to banish constraint Cecile was ill bodily

SffiSiiiS

as***

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H&Uii&.+trAHVrCK viN.r-v-jW-^RJy»,

her cheeks paled, her eyes grew hollow and dim, and beneath them a purple shadow bore witness to her pain and' weary thinking. Philip had not been to the house since that evening, nor had there been any remembrance from him.

The sisters had been sitting together all day iong, Madeleine busy with her pen. Cecile's languid fingers folded listlessly together, while her blue eyes wandered over the yet bare branches of the trees in the city square which their window gave upon. All day long they sat together, and scarcely a monosyllable broke the silence, until the shadow* of twilight gave Madeleine leave to raise her head from her weary task. She said nothing for a little time, leaning her head upon her hand, and looked at her sister for almost the first time that day.

The awful suffering in the quiet face roused her conscience, and with a desperate impulse she cried out: "Cecile, why are you so quiet? What is it you are thinking of? 7 ell me the truth, Cecile!"

Cecile turned her fa slowly toward the speaker, without even a sigh, her pale lips motioning for a sort of smile more distressful than any tears could have been. "I was thinking of something I ought to have told you before Maddie," she said quietly. "Do you remember the story of that poor princess—it is only a foolish fairy story—who lost all her happiness forever because she was not content with the gift of her god-mother, and tried to crown herself with the sweet noon sunrays, when she was told to choose only the morning diw It was foolish, but very sad. It is so natural to wish for sunshine. And so hard—ah! so hard— to lose it!"

Then there was a long silence but presently she spoke again: "I am thinking, Maddie," she said in a soft, wistful tone—"I am thinking that, after all, it is not, perhaps, either the sunshine or dew-drops makes one happiest, and that I could give up both."

Still Madeleine made no answer. "You will not understand me, Madeleine," said Cccile, She laid her hand on her throat, as if to press back the physical pain of speech, and her next words came with effort. "I have been thinking of it for"—oh, what a voice was this!— "a long, long time, Maddie, and—and I can giye Philip up." A long pause followed. "His love was the sunshine and dew and all the bloom and glow of life to me. It is dead. He does not love me any longer. He is not mine now, Maddie." •'Give him up?" said Madeleine, when she must speak, in a voice unnatural and cold. "You do it very easily it seems. Why should you give Philip up? Celile, you are ill."

Cecile made no shadow of an answer She forbore even to turn her eyes upon her, lest the mere look might have conveyed her reproach.

Now happened one of those chances that occur often enough in life, but seem unnatural in fiction. Philip's step sounded on the staircase A red surging flush, hot and painful, stained Madeleine's cheeks but not a tinge of color passed over the quite face turned toward the dying daylight. Yet ahindiscribable change was visable the pallor seemed to increase, and the calmness was like that of death

He, too, was different. The laat week or two had left its mark upon him. Therd were incipient lines upon his forehead his eyes had the harassed, hunted look of a man pursued remorsely by troublesome thoughts. "Cecile," he cried, bending down to take her hand—"Cecile, how ill you must have been And you have sa'd nothing to me I could not eome before. I have been kept away I have been busy." "I am not ill, Philip," said Cecile, withdrawing her hand quietly. "Today I have suffered with a headache, but it is gone now. 1 am very glad you have come. I have bpen wanting you." "And you did not let me know !I would permited nothing to detain me, Cecile."

Philip, I have something to tell you," she said. "No Madeleine, don.t go, please. I had rather you would hear it too." she stopped a minute to gather calm and strength. but her tone was very soft and natural and motionless when she spoke again. "I want to ask you, Philip, if you do not think it would be—better if our engagement shoulJ end. I am not saying, you see, that it must he so, but only do but onlv do you not think it would be better "You are the best judge," he said, hoarsely, at last. And, 6trange as it may seem, a sense of injury, a sudden anger, caused the color of his cheeks to deepen, and warded off both shame and pity, "It is rather singular that you have not intimated such a wish before, Was it for this you wished to see me "Do not be angry with me, Philip," pleaded the girl. "I was in the room the day—the day that you and Maedleine were walking, Philip. I was there when you came home. Neither of you saw me, for the room was dark. I ought to have spoken, but—but I could not speak. I heard—what you said. I tried to tell Madeleine then—oh why could I not Bnt, Madeleine, you were not quite, ignoant

There was no answer, nor did any sound disturb the silence for five longjminutes. They had called her a child in their hearts and comforted themselves with thinking that if she felt grief, it would be but light and easily forgoten. In simplicity, in truthfulness, in sweet and trusting confidence, she seemed indeed a child. But not in shallow-natured insensibility that refuses to suffer, or in the elasticity that rebounds from pain—not in these things, if this white face might be taken in evidence, whose ashen pallor contrasted so pitifully with its yet contour, and more strangely still with the red red-gold hair, that chught }he last gleams of daylight, ceepenining them into sparkles with its own living hue. Philip buried his face in his hands. "Cccile, I am not worthy to speak to you," he said at last brokenly. "4f ou will not believe what I am goin* to say, and I cant blame vou, It does not excuse me, either but, as God is my witness, I meant to be faithful to you. Until that evening, if Madeleine knew 1 loved her, I had not told her so. But—but you heard everything. I straggled against it—forgive me Cecile—and meant to tell you but how could I I cannot ask you to pardon me, but don't blame Madeleine. It was not her fault, nor mine, God knows. I could not help it."

She held out her hand at this but jmt the dim forms in the room swam round her, a dazzling, agonizing light struck across her aching eyeballs, and all the world vanished suddenly, as one blows out a candle, into dark nothingness.

They lifted her ap and laid her on the sofa, Madeleine's hot tears falling on her head. "And they saw her face, as it had

1 -*\iM"¥fsp,3e•"*-***'

A

been the face of an angel." Philip bent down and kissed her brow, his bosom thrilling with strange anguish, and oh incotftequent heart—with blind regret. "ft is farewell," said he.

What remains is eatily enough imagined. There were many hours of pain' before the safe calm of sacrifice could be attained, many supplications for pardon, many tearful assurances of regret and remorse, before the sacrifice was made perfect by acceptance.

But the bridal dress was worn at last. And none who looked at thejfair wreath,, adding beauty to the pale full brow beneath it gueabed that a sting was hidden in every whith heart of the blosoms, or imagined the troubled memory lying in the depths of the bride's calm, shining eyes.

Cecile stood beside her «i«ter that day. There is such a glory in self-abnegation that I dare not say the bride w*s the happier of the two. Cecile looked down the fair path she pictured for her sister, and saw the passionate-hearted rose of life, that should have been her own, yielding its sweets to her, saw her own sunshine gilding her sisters bright days, and her own heart-mesic leading her along the way that should have been snoothed for other treading but the light on the bride maid's wistful brow was crossed by no shadow of regret. I dare not say the bride was the happier of the two. She also had visions sweet eyes made sadder for all their lifetime, a fair face paied by her doing, a low voice sapped of its ringing happiness.

SCOTTY BRIGGS.

AN UNDBRTAKKR EQJJ AL TO BRST HARTK'S FRIBND.

Austin (Nev.) Reveille.

We noticed on the street yesterday our old friend Charley Brown, the great mining expert and principal owner in the Houston mine. Every one knows Charley as one of the most polite and affable of undertakers living Some years a^o he presided at a mournful occasion in Virginia City, brought about by the shooting of a gentleman who kept a saloon. He was a popular man and was buried by the fire department. Several companies were in advance,with bands, of music and a large concourse of peoples The officiating clergyman was a comparative stranger, acting for the time for one of the resident clergy. When everything was in readiness and the services about to commence, the thoughtful Charles quietly approached and softly remarked: "Par son, I reckon you're a stranger up here?' "Somewhat," replied the clergyman "Thought so," said he "look kind strange like. You didn't know the de ceased?" "No." "Well," added the ac commodating Charley, "I thought no body but me would be likely to help yo out, so I thought I'd tell you. He wa shot innocent, he was. He was just a pourin' out a glass o' whisky, free, yo know, and that miserable skunk just and draw'd and shot him dead, and ther he is. He wouldn't a-harmed nobody, wouldn't. Why, that man had a men agerie in the corner of his 6aloon. wher he kept tamed animals an fed 'em with his own hand every dav. Dogs and rats and cats an mice and little pigs and lizards and horn toads and a monkey, and every dame kind ef varmint like that eats each other And he let the little boys and girls in see 'em for nothin'. He was kind to ani mals and little children. Put it in. I will please the boys. Yon hear me? mean to have this thing go throug clean." The parson "put it in," and did "please the boys." At the prope time the procession was formed with can iage at the head, then a band of mu sic, a fire company, then the hearse an so on. When the clergyman came ou he said "Mr, Brown, I think there some mistake about arrangements. carriage should not be at the head of th procession, but immediately preceding th heare." The prince of undertakers gav him one severe look, and said firmly "Parson what do you know about awa-u funeral? You ride, head you're the prin cipal man in the outfit except|the corpse. The parson took his seat, and as these quel proved he was the principal ma for at the first blast from the leadin band his team started, and ran violentl reaching the cemetry a full half hour 1 advance of the procession. Charley me the clergyman some years after and speaking ofth». circumstance, said: "Y remember that, do you? Well, don't yo 6ee,

I can always make things plcasan and agreable in them affairs by just giv ng the parson a word when he needs it.

THAT QUO WARRANTO.

WASHINGTON SPECIAL TO THE GLOBE DEMOCRAT.

If any weight is to be attached to th views of men eminent in the counsels Mr. Tilden, there can be no longer an doubt that there is to be an attempt get through the next Congress Davi Dudley Field's qno warranto bill provi ing a course of procedure to test th question of the right to the office re id an if in is it certain that such a proceeding will be stituted, with a view of ousting Pres dent Hayes upon the evidence taken the congressional committee sent to th doubtful States, and now in the hands the great contestant. It will be remem be red that this bill was prepared by Field in the last days of the last Con grens, and that frantic efforts were the made) to secure its passage, but witho avail. It will also be remembered th since the election of the present Coi gress many futile attempts have bee made to induce some of the membe from New York City to retire, to enabl the friends of Mr. Field to return him the work just commenced, and for th accomplishment of which it is though he is the most competent man, not alon on

the

score of ability, but of perseve

aiice. The National Republican to-da indorses this story, and says there h» been an interchange of views betwee Tilden and his friends and certain dis fected Republicans.

HOMME OUI GRINS.

The babe shows the divinity of its o~ gin and end by smiling upon us, an then, as worldly wisdom comes upon th little thing, it crows, it chuckles, it grin and declares to him with ears to hear the heirdom of its immortality. may take a triumphant stand upon broad grins, and bie sweetly tickled wi the knowledge that he alone of all crea tures laughs.—(Douglas Jerrold.