Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 6 December 1883 — Page 7

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THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1883.

THEVVIFI'S

CHAPTER IV

Captain Ruthven was grateful to his friends. "What should I have done, Harry," he would say at times, "if you had not taken care of me? I had felt ill all that day, and my head had been queer."

Then Harry would say how pleased he was, how fortunate it was that he happened to be at the Station, and how wRtomshe^ he hadfelt at see trig the face of aiftld -jSoIlegerCompanion. "Th" India must weaken a fellow dreadfully.7' said Harry. You did not look as though you wpukl live two days longer when I saw.you, Charley but you will soon be all right now." "•'It was not India that weakened me," returned Charley.

But he said no mora He never told his friends how he had loved and married, juid how his wife had. deceived hiin. ^t^'spoke only of one thing, and that whs hi.s great desire to get back to India as s$on as he could. "Do you want to shoot or be shot at?" asked Harry impatiently. "Get well first, and then we will talk about India.*'

But the getting well was slow work. There was the deep festering wound which nothing could close or heal. There was the remembrance of the fair gentle girl he had loved at Upton, and the remembrance of the woman who had knelt and called him back to forgive her. Long dreary weeks passed, and still the time had not come when he could be called well. "What shall I get to amu3e you?" said

MJCS

Archer to him ou the first day

that he came down into the drawingroom. lliirry was obliged to go out and I have some letters to write, would you like a book?" '"yes," answered Charley, glad of anything that would take away his thoughts from the dreary haunting past. "What kind of reading do you prefer?" asked his hostess. "A nice livelv novel would be the right thing. Ah, I know the book that will iust suit you! I read it las* week. I will sen4 to the library for it." "What is it?" asked Charley languidly.

lIt

is called A Life's Mistake, and just now there is a good deal of talk about it. The papers do nothing but praise it. No one knows the writer, and opinions are divided—some think it is a man. some a lady." "I don like women's books," baid Charley abruptly. 'you will like this," replied $£rs. Archer.. "It is many years since I have read anything like it. There is such a breath of summer running throug&lt one can see the sunshine and smell toe flowers. Whoever wrote it is a genius, whether it be man or woman."

Hearing these praises, when the book crime, Captain Ruthven seized it eagerly. "A life mistake!" he thought. "Can it be greater than mine?" And then he began to read. "Well, how do you like the story?" said Mrs. Archer, an hour or two af terwards, when she returned to the draw-ing-room and saw her guest engrossed in the novel. "Very much," he answered, turning to her with a quiet smile. "The strangest thing is that I fancy I have read it before, some of the thoughts and words are so familiar to me. I am certain I have heard some one talk just as this book is written." "Then, if you are contented, I will leave you again," said Mrs. Archer "for I nave many things that require attention."

When she returned, in less than an hour, some strange change had come over the invalid his face was flushed, his eyes shone brightly, his whole frame trembled with excitement. She could not help fancying that she saw traces of tears upon his cheeks. 'Mrs. Archer," he cried, when she entered the room, "when do you think I shall be able to return to London? I must go to-morrow, or the day after." "What has come over you?" §he asked. laughing at his impatience. •'I must go," he said "it is life or death to me." "'If you are very careful," replied his kind hostess, "I think you will be fit to travel in a day or two. But what is it?" "Nothing," he said but she could see that he was greatly agitated.

What was the cause of it? Something very simple. He had grown much interested in the story he was reading. It was a well-told, powerfully-written tale—the history of

life's mistake."

The heroine—a beautiful, faulty, imperious, wilfulj lovable girl—married in a moment of pique the man she did not love, hi order to be revenged upon the man she did lore. Then came sorrow, remorse*, and -misery. She met him again—and then came temptation. One's heart alniost stood still with surprise as the story went on but what had struck Captain Rnthven almost dumb wore tlie.se few lines in the middle of one her had wrote to him, telling speak to her again. Iri the mid&t of the letter were these words— "I know I am wrong in waiting one mistake does not excuse another. Mine has been tlie mistake of a lifetime. I married without love, and I .must endure the consequences of my own act until the end. Do. i\ot let me see you again. I can live without love but I cannot and will not do wrong. Wrong it would be to see you and listen to you again."

Those wore the few words tliat caused Captain Ruthven to drop his book and wonder for a moment whether he was mad or dreaming. Then he read them again, Word for word, it was the letter for writing which he had almost cursed his wife.

Like a lightning-flash, it struck him that she had written the book, and that the sheet of paper he had believed to be part of a letter written to another man was merely a page of the manuscript, He saw it all now. May had deceived him. as die frankly owned but, oh, how small was the fault compared to the one of which he suspected her! She had written the book, and meant to tell him some time. Now he understood the few words that had puzzled him so. She would never do it a^in-Hlear little innocent M.avf. ,.u«

Charley groaned in spirit over his folly but he had no excuse to offer. "Did you not see." continued May, "that it was the half of a sheet of ruled writing-paper, and no letter at all?" "I never noticed it," he said hurriedly "but, May. why did you not tell me what it was? "I thought you knew," replied his wife. "When you hold it in your hands and said I had deceived you, I thought you knew all about it." "I was mad." declared Ruthven find, whenever in after-years he mentioned the subject, that was how he summed it up. "Now tell me all about it. Mav," he added "how came you to write that famous book?" "There is nothing much to tell," answered liia wife, with one of her old .smiles. "I was always fond of writing I think it was because I was such a lonely child. I had many fanciful thoughts about the lives of the flowers and the trees. I used to write Uiem down, because aunt Bessie did not like to hear me talk about them. Then afterwards, wheu I grew older, my life was so quiet, so monotonous, that I used to weave stories and romances for my own amusement. When I was seventeen. I thought how much I should like write a book. I began the one you have read then but when my auuf became a great invalid I laid it asid and almost forgot it. After that can the bright summer when you loved an married me. My life seemed so filled up that I had no time for framing stories. You said one day that you would never marry a woman who wrote so I made up my mind that moment to burn all my papers. I dared not tell you how fond I was of willing, and

was. interrupted Charley. "Nay." said May. "you* had aright to your own opinions. I burned all my short stories 'that night. Charley but when I came to my book I could riot destroy it

tuuea mmseirior niB oiina iury, nis not? to leave any papers aoout. cannot mad rage, his senseless jealousy. tell how that leaf got into my desk. It I might have known," he said to must have been by a mistake. You himself a hundred times, "that she know the rest, Charley." never could and never wpuld really de- "Yes," said her husband sadly, "I ceive me! know the rest. I am

She had written and, moreover, had!May. As you know, people say vou are published a book but what he would a genius." once have resented as a crime now seem-

How small and mean and contemptible he felt as he thought of it all! Some men Would have been proud of a wife who could write as she aid. Her fame was spread all over England. People said that She was® genius—that she hael written Words that moved all human hearts a|fke and he, in his narrow jealousy, wo® have kept her all to himself, would have clipped the wings of her intellect, and forbade it to soar aloft.

His prejudice against lady-writers had been both sincere and strong but. when he began to reflect upon it, it seemed absurd. Ilis wife had never neglected a duty, his house and himself were both equally Well cared for. He never remembered to have seen her untidy or with ink-stained fingers and, if this gift had been given to her, why should 3he not use it?

His repentance and remorse were as great as nis sorrow had been. He could hardly endure the two days' delay which his doctor deplared to be necessary before he started for London. He thakned his kind hospitable friends for their care of him, and with an agitated heart started for the metropolis.

It was not he who had to forgive. He was the criminal it was he who had sinned against the loving gentle girl whom he had made his wife.

In all his after-life Charles Ruthven never forgot that journey—its fears, its hopes, aud its suspense. He did not even know whether he should find his wife at home it was two months since he had left her.

He walked up to the house and rang the bell. A strange face looked into his as the door opened, and he had hardly strength or courage to ask if Mrs. Ruthven were at home. "She is," said the girl "but she is busy packing up. What name shall I say?" "All right," said the Captain. "What rbom is she in? I will go to her."

She is packing up hooks in the draw-ing-room," answered the girl, whose eyes were full of wonder.

In two more minutes he stood in the presence of his wife. He opened the door quietly, and he had time to note how pale ana thin the sweet face had

ffrown.Anger

Then she looked up and saw

lim. and pride were forgotten. She ran to him with a low cry, and he folded her to his breast.

You have forgiven me, Charley!" she said, when he gave her time to speak. "I knew you would. I thought you never could be so cruel as to leave me for ever, ju.st for such a little thing ita-writing a book." "It was not that, darling," he said and then Charley told her all—all he had suspected ana feared and believed.

Her "sweet face wore a pained, startled look as she listened. "And you thought I cared for -some one else, Charley? she said. "You believed .1 had written a love-letter to some oue not rav husband?" "I was mad.,T he replied. "Do forgive me. May." "I forgive you," she said gently—"you have suffered much but, on, Charley. I should nsver have made the same mistake with regard to you!"

?*Do

ed blameless. She had done that, al-, rily. '-They know nothing at all about though she had heard him say that he it. I don't believe I have a bit of genius did not like women-writers, and would jin me but, Charley I will promise never marry one but she had not done never to deceive, you again. I will worse. She was his love, his wife, and never write any more." she had been true to him.

1 locked it away, and decid

ed to ask you at another time to let me finish it/'. "And what then?" asked Charley,seeing that his wife stopped abruptlv. "Why. then. Charley—please do not be angry with me: I could not help it. See." she continued, growing excited as she spoke—"could you stop the sun from shining, the birds from singing, the flowers from blooming?" "No, "acknowledged Charley, "I could not." "Nor could I," said his wife solemnly, "restrain my desire to write. I could not help myself the thoughts would come, tne words would come, and I was obliged to write them down. So, after' we came here, during the hours you were away from home I finished my book. I took it myself to several publishers, and one Dought it. I always thought you would forgive me and he

leased, dear, when you saw the book print. I did not mean to tellyou until then. I pictured to myself how I should bring it to vou and what you would sav. I was alwavs verv caieful

f- f„rt*l

C2E TERRE HA CITE WEEKLY GAZETTE.

not

worthy of you,

they?" questioned his wife mer-

But Ruthven would take no such promise. He candidly avowed that his prejudice had been a very unjust one ana he gave it up gracetully, owning that he had been wrong.

The books were put back in their places, and May Ruthven did not return to Upton, as she meant to do. That was the first and last misunderstanding they ever had. Charley says now, "Each one to his vocation—mine is fighting, my wife's is writing."

They went to India together: but there is a rumor that Ruthven's regiment will soon be ordered home. The world knows now who wrote A Life's Mistake, and Mrs. Ruthven is one of the most admired writers of the day. She is best pleased when she hears her husband say to his friends— "Yes, my wife writes beautiful books but I tell you what she does, sir, besides. She makes the nicest of puddings, keeps a most orderly house, and dresses more neatly than anybody I know. Besides which," he continues in a solemn whisper, "since I haveboen married I have never had to sew a button on myself—you understand."

And, coming "from Charley Ruthven, his wife thinks that very high praise. C. M. B.

The Makeshift Colt.

A TALE OF THE DERBY.

No, I never gamble. I don't profess a pious horror of it. or anything of the sort, you .know, but I simply object to it as a iste of time, money, and temper. Not that I won't have a sixpence on the rub, with three-penny points, or so. just to give an interest to one's whist: and not that I won't put a crown on a horse or take a ticket in a social sweepstakes. But that's mere amuse,ment I never bet or gamble in earnest.

Why don't I? Well, for a very simple reason. 1 once all but made a grand coup I once came within the COCK of a horse's tar of pulling off a very big thing—and I didn't.

What do you say? Funk! No, Sir, I call it common sense. I had a chance such as a man rarely gets more than once in his life, and fortune didn't favor me. I have reasoned it out since, and come to the conclusion that the odds against a gambler are heavier even than anyone supposes. I believe that I should never have such another chance as that, and, upon the whole, it doesn't seem to me to be worth while to gamble now. I am satisfied that I am not a lucky hand in that way.

However, you shall hear the tale. Not that it is much of a story, either, but you say you would like to hear the account of my life. And this one bit of mine is really the most important incident, I think, in my whole career. For, had it gone otherwise—But there! you shall judge for yourself.

Seeing me now*what I am, a flourishing tradesman in Auckland!, New-Zea-land, you would hardly imagine howl began life. I have taken root here and prospered I have a wife and family, as vou see, and am a comfortable man. Yet only a very few years ago my case was widely different.

Ah, yes! Eighteen seventy-two .Cremorne year. It's a queer thing to look back on those times. Only a snort ten years ago, and yet I am quite a different man.

I was a gentleman in those days, if you please, although as poor as a rat an artist to boot, that being one of the well-known .lucrative professions that needy gentlemen are so fond of adopting.

I don't say that I had much faith in my own genius. Youthful and verdant as I was then. I knew better than that. But an artist's life seemed an agreeable one to me, and was sanguine enough to suppose that' I could earn a living at it, as a copyist and producer of potboilers. That was about all I looked forward to.

I dwelt in Camden Town, London, in a studio high up at the top of a house that stood in anything but a pretentious street. I was practically alone in the world. For, though I had relations, I saw or knew but little of them. Being poor, and an artist, I was naturally a Bohemian, and my associates were mostly drawn from that heterogeneous stratum of society.

I was poor, as I have said, "but I was not so indigent as some of my friends and acquaintances were. In tneir opinion, indeed, I was far too well off to thoroughly comprehend the luxuries of poverty for I used to receive an occasional £10 note from one of my relatives, who, though he grumbled at my uselessness. vet always sent me that siun whenever I was so pushed as to briug mvself to apply to him. besides that-, I could earn money. There was a picture-dealer who used to give mc an occasional job, to make a copy of the like. And then there were certain pawnbrokers. I was aware of, who would advance some on such pictures as I brought them. Oh. yes! that used to lie a regular system then, and I dare say it is now.

This is the "war of it. you paint a picture and take it {o the artistic "uncle." He lends you on it a certain price,, which he fixes according to the size of the picture, and with small relation to its subject or execution. If you think proper, of course, you can redeem the picture any time within a year, or you could take a possible purchaser to view

pawnbrokers were our only patrons. They lent us a price on our paintings, that, deducting the cost of materials, would leave us what might be reckoned a shilling an hour or so for our own work. And that work, as you may suppose, was far from being our best yet .with our best we could do no better.

We pawned our pot-boilers without a thought of ever'"taking them ouf'again. In due course they passed irrevocably into "uncle's" possession. What he did witty them then we neither knew nor cared.

Among the men I used to meet about

in me studies or consort wicnin cne oar parlor of the Brush and Palette of an evening were many whose sole means of livelihood appeared to be painting for the pawnbrokers. I had another resource as I have mentioned—that pict-ure-dealer, out of whom I used to make wages pretty frequently. And then there was that relative of mine who, though he considered me to be an idle good-for-nothing, would not let me go wrong for want of a £10 note.

I was a sort of Croesus among these out-at-elbows daubers then. They drank and smoked and ate very frequently at my expense in the free, happy style of Bohemia and they also often ''borrowed" shillings and half-crowns with the careless bonhomie of their guild. They made much of me, and tickled my youthful vanity by pretending to take it for granted that personal talent with the brush was the real source of my comparative affluence.

I had no business to call myself poor, for I had, from the various sources, a total income of over two. hundred a year. Then I had a good capital, in the shape of a fair stock of such things as a young artist requires, an extensive wardrobe, some furniture and books. I was comfortable enough in my humble studio, which also was my living-room, with a small bedroom adjoining it. There was no reason why I snould nave felt poverty, but I did.

Like most inexperienced youngsters, I had but the vaguest ideas bf the value of money. Moreover, I was extravagant, never stinting my expenditure, and wasting a lot more money than I could afford at the Brush and Palette and similar places. I was always in ar rears, and, worst of all, I fell into a sad way of betting on races.

Now, goody-goody people would say that such a thing was impossible and incomprehensible but I swear to you that what led me to take to betting and gambling with more than ordinary zea1 was the purest and holiest incentive man could have.

A woman, of course, you say. Well, yes, but a girl rather than a woman she was then. Lucy was the daughter of a small tradesman, a druggist, in Camden Town. I had made her acquaintance in some informal way, and had gradually wormed myself into the confidence of the family. I was madly in love with Lucy, who—well I won't attempt to describe her, for certain reasons not far off us just now. Suffice it, she was, like Traddles' Sophy,"the dearest girl in the world."

Many visits to the little household, and various little trips to Richmond or Epping Forest, play-going, and what not in her company, had the usual result. I told Lucy of. my love, and she consented to become my wife.

Now, had I been free from debt, there was really no reason why we should not have married at once. 1 had as much as many a curate marries upon. But then I was in debt I had duns and difficulties, no present means of making my domicile fit for a wife, and, above all, my little income was some what precarious. Then I had no particularprospects to look forward to.

Lucy's father, like most men of his

class in London, particularly if blessed with a large family, as he was, hardly said either yea or nay to the matter. He allowed us to judge for ourselves. I was a gentleman, he said—meaning thereby an honest man—and meant to act straight by his girl so what more was there for him to say?

Well, by the spring of 1872 our engagement had continued for some months, and I was daily getting more deeply involved by reason of my pursuit of luck. I betted on every event, hoping to pull mj-self up that way, but only with the result of throwing away the best part of what I earned.

Things were in this state shortly before the Derby. I was going on in a bad way.. 1 knew that something must be done before long. I knew that I must carve out a new path for myself somehow that I must contrive some fresh plan, or go without Lucy, and also

to universal smash. Yet what to do did not know. I waited, in a hopelessly hopeful condition, for something to turn up. I put trouble and worry away from me, and would have none of it.

Do you not know that curious dreamy condition you'get into sometimes, when you refuse to allow yourself to think of the future? You live in a kind of unreal reality, to use a paradoxical expression. The present you make to occupy your thoughts entirely for the unexpected. "Well, that was my case then. I was as gay as ever, I made merry with my friends as usual, and talked to my Lucy —God forgive me!—as if I were coming into ten thousand a year the next week. Meanwhile. I threw oflF daub, after daub, until even my accommodating "uncle,' looked suspicious and' hesitating, and nearly all the resulting cash was put on horses whose names lutd been mysteriously confided to me as .those of certain winners.

I was not very heavily booked for the Derby, as it happened, having intended to put" something on" on the day befdre the race. An uncomfortable assurance was with me of impending trouble. I felt that the crisis of my fortunes was close at hand.

I{e got lii's living in ono of those

terious wavs common to Bohemia,

Sometimes he sat as a model in the studios of such artists as could afford the luxury. In this way he may have earned a good deal at times—for models are often very well paid—and he has figured in many a character on the walls or Burlington house.

Jimmy seemed to be known by everybody. He hung about newspaper offices, particularly those of a sporting charac-

B0CHBrat,N.

E.CHESTER PAEK, M. D.

The Greatest Blood iPuwfler Known! RHEUMATISM CUBED.

It was the Monday morning before the Derby, that race, as everyone knows, being nta upon a Wednesday. I was sitting in my studio at work, knocking of those thin experiments ltt color whicn took but a day to complete, and upon which "uncle" would advance me 15 shillings or a pound, half of that profits or earning to me. the balance covering cost of canvas, colors, and frame. In the midst of my work there entered to me the O'Hooligan.

Evidently there was something in the wind Jimmy's entrance was dramatically impressive. Cautiously projecting his head and shoulders through the halfopened doorway, he asked: "Are ye alone?''

He was, apparently. His eyes were dancing and glittering in his nead. his hands demonstrating, and his whole person indicative or eagerness. He coidd hardly speak, so strong was his agitation. I began to feel the excitement extending to myself, and knew that I was destined to give way to it. "See now," he continued. "I've surprised wan av the deadest saycrets av the turf,wanavthe biggest things that's ivver been. I tell ye we could make our fortunes if we'd ownly enough to( put on. It's a plant that's just goin' to make this Derby the most astoundin'! wan iwer run! I "No! It don't matther how I got it.! I can't tell even you that. But I said to myself, ye've got to keep this thing dark. There's just wan chumye're goin'to take in wid yer. Him an'you's goin' in on this thing, an' goin' to do the biggest

You wait sbtroke ivver ye'll git the chance of yei whole lives! I've put on ivery blessed penny I'm worth, an' here I am, me bhoy!"

It was no use trying to keep calm. Ilis excitement mastered me, and I felt that, come weal or woe, I had to do as he wished. He went on: "Whisper now—its a solum sacred saycret between us two, remember that! Did ye iwer hear av the Makeshift Colt? No ye didn't, nor nobody else. But I tell ye. that's the horse that's goin' to win this year's Derby. "O, ye needn't look at the lists he's not in the bettin' at all—not yit, anyway. They've held that colt Dack, an' kept'm as dark's the back of Hades. An' now, thim as is in the savcret, they're goin' round takin' the odds on the quiet.

However, before anything unpleasant occurred, an unexpected something outside the stable,, barrin' me an' you turned up. It came in the person of my The book-makers'll just give anny odds friend Mr. .lames O'TIooligan. at all about the horse they don't know

Jimmy O"Hooligan was a boisterous his name yit, even!" Irishman, very well known in the Uolie- And so on, and so on, till, after an mia of London at that time. lie was a hour's talk, I was as completely per-middle-aged man. of somewhat hand- suaded as anyone could wish, and yieldsome appearance, and earning himself ed myself up entirely to the fever of with a military air. He possessed a which O'Hopligan was the present exglib tongue, an amazing uml of anec-1 ponent. I soon saw that he was thordote, had a musical voice aud ear. and oughly in earnest himself, and it was all the social advantages of one who has not long before I was as mad on the subkissed the Stone of lJlamey. Need I ject as he. I saw that I had got a add that .Jimmy was extreme Iv popular' means, at least, for relieving myself of with the ladies and gentleinen'of his ac-! my difficulties, providing myself with nininhncp« actual capital, and for making my mar-

SOKOVULA CURED.

Apr. 6th, '83.

RheumatitSvhty Co.: GBST9—I nave been a great sufferer from Rheumatism forsix yeaivandhsariagof the sneoess of Rheumatic Syrup I concluded to give it a trial in my own case, and I cheerflilly say that I have been greatly benefited by its use. 1 can walk with' entire freedom from paid, and my general health is very much improved. It is a splendid remedy for the blood and debilitated system.

Powr BTKOX, W.Y^Feb.

Xheumattc fynp

-There's no one knows a word av It

witfl

ter. He was SdEfiie^nes XSfnSdto of theaters. He was on the free-list at belongedto me as holder of the field every music hall. He knew every promi- rpo be Cmtinucd.] nent member of "the fancy" and the I R., and all over London he was hailed as a cherished friend by publicans and bar-maids.

These characteristics threw a roman-

Co.:

I had been doctoring fbr three or four year*, with distant physicians, for scroftila, as some called it,

pat

found no relief until

MRS. WILLIAM STRANG.

Manufactured by RHEUMATIC SYRUP CO., Plymouth Ave., Rochester, N. yT*

£3TF0R SALE BY DRUGGISTS. Price $1 per bollle or six bottles for $5.

gut, among, cnougn a raider vulgar, coarse, ana disreputable soul, it must be admitted. But he was a frequen visitor to the studios of Camden Town, and was quite one of our free-and-easy fraternity.

I was. and said so. Then he slid slowly into tne room, like a snake, holding trie door as closely as was compatible with the passage of his body. Once inside, he quickly closed the door, and summoning into his face a 16ok of in-, ___ tense excitement. He seemed to be *. laboring under the pressure of some !»,bT*5^Ldby tremendops secret, which was strug

gling to force its way out of hipo| Suddenly he crossed the rooiH toward ine with long, slow strides, and on tiptoe, holding up a warning finger tne while, and literally gleaming on me with fixed meaning eyes. Laying his hands on my. shoulders, he whispered hoarsely. "Our fortune's made!"

Then he stood back and eyed me. "Oh, inde.ed," I said, for I knew Jimmy. "Another straight tip I suppose?" "Another!" he shrieked. The straight tip. me bhoy! The straightest that ivvef —there! eighties, to wan! a hundred to wan! and sartin as the fate av sinnersl"

I struggled desperately against the contagion of Jimmy's manner, for I knew Dy experience what it all meant. I said: "Look here, old man. I've had about enough of your tips. They never come off you know!" "Ah, now, see here! Ye've been playin' at bettin'—no more. I give ye tips, 'tis true, and they didn't come off. That's partly the reason why I'm givin' ye this, to make up for thim others. I'm airnest, this time!"

WEST'S

l"**

Sell ivery blessed stick! Sweep out the whole bag o' triek«! Pawn the *o:it aff ver back! An" crack the bilin" on to the'Makeshift Colt!" was Jimmy's ad-! vice.

I found on inquiry that I had, curiously enough, drawn "the field" in a big sweepstakes at the Brush and Palette. I As the Makeshift I'olt was a name unknown to the lists, it had not been put,

Washiogton Gazette—Mi«s May Stakl left here on the local, Saturday evening, for Tare Haute, where she will visit

tic halo over Jimmv, to my young aud She will remain till somewhat verdant ound. Moreover, he bnstnuw. She stopped off at W \3 the life and soul of everv nartv ha VlDceuneSj lo visit s^vcisl friepds.

CUBE:

N. Y., March 12, *&

Sfrup Co.: linos November, Ut? been a constant sufferer neuralgia and have no

commenced taking your Syruj*.|irom pain After taking it a short time, to theuse of my surprise, it began toll el pine, have felt Continuing its use a few weeks, I found myself as well, as ever. As a blood purifier, I think it has no equal.

known what it was to be fre irom pain until I commence Rheumatic Syrup, no pain since using t' fourth botUe. I think it the remedy I have ever heard of 1 purifying the blood and forth cure of rheumatism and nee *lgia. W. B. CHASE.

KAIL'S

CORSETS

^hepMoti fiotdwbem llA ras bought.

ti—, raui

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NERTZ

WENT,a

Adress

ASP BEAIN TRK&

guaranteed specific for Hysteria, Dis\ nees. Convulsions, Fits, Nervous Nearalgr. Headache, Nervous Prostrationxaused by the ty of alcohol or tobacco. Wakefulness, Mental £. pressiou. Softening or the Brain resulting in 1' sanity and leading to miebfy, deeny and deatl Premature Old Age, Barrenness, Loss of powt in either sex. Involuntary Losaea and Sperm orrhoea caused by overexertion of the brain, se^.' abuse or over-inaulgenefe. Each box con tail one month's treatment. $1.00 a box, or 6ix boxv for $5.00, sent by mail prepaid on receipt of prior

WK (il'ABAKTEE SIX BOXES To cure any ease. With each order received tqrc for six boxei. Accompanied with $5j00, we wV. seal the purchaser our written guarantee tori fund the money if the treatment does not nn( acure. Guarantees issued onl*by

C. F. ZIMXSKXAK, Druggist, Sole agent. Corner Thirteenth and Main streets.

AU those who from Indiscretions, excesses or other causes are weak, unnerved, low spirited, physically drained, and tinaole to perform lift's m* •lea properly, can be certainly aud permanently cured, without stomach medicines. Kudcrued by .doctors, ministers and the press.

The

Afed-

ieal Weekly

says: "The old

ilan of treating KerroMDskility, rh/«tei" Ar., is wholly sup* fHEHABStOliBOU'S.

Itv+UT, ipded t)

Even hopeless easea assured of certain restoration to full and i»erfieet *mmmiMMMl, Simple, effective, cleanly, pleasant. Send for treatise. Consultation witn. fit/SsTON 'REMEOV CO.. 46

14th BU. New Tork.

AMOTT BUGGY COMPAM

WlratoMl* Oarriac* Manufacturer* STATE and 20th ST., CHICAGO. HX. Retailers at low prices. Second largest builden jf of first-class bnegtes in the world. The Timkec

ijpring a specialty! the only easy riding side bai

niHo Hio at'jhln harrin' mo on' vim :nade. We make every variety of one and tw(

seat«d open and top buggies and carriages. No thing but the finest material used: put together it die beat possible manner fl nishfed and trimmed al prioes to suit customers. Our facilities are suet chat it is impossible for anyone to compete witt •s ou our own wound tor equaHy ood wcrt.

(KJLD MkDAl- PlSSria, nAiri lira

MM Cocu.

Warranted

mbmtluUly putt

Cocoa,

from which the excess 'cX

Oil has been removed. IthasfAm

times the ttrtngth

of Cocoa ailxec

with Starch, Arrowroot 01

Bagas

and is therefore far'more economi caL it Is delicious, n^vrlshiafc strengthening, easily digested, ao admirably adapted for inv^le a well as

tor

j*ersons in" health

SeU by Grocers ererywhesf?

mEEB GO., Dorclisster. It

PATENTS

KTTKN CO.. of the SmcJmpic AMKHTOAJT. tinue to net itii Solicitors for intents. Caveats. Tt Marks. C-op'yrights. for the Uiiil ,d State*. Can* Enatand. France. Germany, etc. Hiind Book mt Patents sent tree. Thirty-eeven years'ezperiea

Pat»rt-obtaiiu*d'lhTOuznMLT?X A CO.arenotl in the ScieNTircc

AMBRITAIN",the

largest, best,

most widely circulated scientWks paper Ki.20a Weefc!« Splendid enfrravines and interesting fimaa.'ion. Specimen copy of toe Scientific Asa taaasuitiree. Artdresc MCNN & CO.. SclXJfTI

iiisicuf

Offlc*. 351 Broadway Hew Tork.