The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, October 16, 1875, Image 2
water was at the top of the opening. She heard
it swashing around in the cave, and half an hour
after taking a seat on the shelf, it washed her
shoes. Was nature to be less merciful than the
savages ? Up came the water around her ankles,
and it swashed across the cave until the rocks
trembled.
Callie had kept a brave heart even after being
driven to the shelf, but when it seemed as if she
must be drowned, her courage gave way, and she
tearfully lamented the fact that she had not
trusted herself to the current before the waters
entered the cave. There would have been at
least a chance of life in that—she had no chance
now. She felt the wall on all sides, but it was
cold apd smooth, and there was no such thing as
climbing higher.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
[For The Sunny South.]
LITERARY MOSAIC.
BY KENNETH Q.
There is nothing new under the sun. How
many times has that been said? Trite, is it?
Truisms are generally so. If it be a truism, I
may as well use it; for if I were to cudgel my
brains for some other form in which to express
the same idea, I might succeed in coining some
thing apparently from my own mint, stamped
with my own originality. I might then congrat
ulate myself as an inventor, a producer. Such,
in reality, I should be, provided my coin be not
a re-issue of one of an older date, which I have
some time previously picked up, laid aside, and
forgotten. Still, although I should not recognize
it as an old acquaintance, there may be others
who would, and immediately call it a counter
feit. Such, many contend, is the origin of nu
merous apparent “plagiarisms”—what the pres
ent refined age sometimes styles literary trans
fer work. It seems very probable—very certain,
in truth—to those who have studied man’s pecu
liar psychological organization, that an idea once
imbibed from some external source, should be
retained unconsciously, perhaps for years, and
finally reproduced through the operation of the
laws of association or redintegration, as the legit
imate offspring of one’s own faculties.
But this will not account for all the seeming
literary forgeries. Leaving out of consideration
genuine, intentional plagiarisms, you will find
another class of works which critics have branded
with this pitiless judgment. It is for these tar
gets of unjust criticism—these victims of insa
tiate vampirism—that I sympathize most deeply.
Tell me that the honest work of an honorable
man is spurious because, forsooth, some part of
it resembles that of a predecessor. Is the re
storer of a “lost art” any the less praiseworthy
than the first originator? Assuredly, circum
stances being equal, the one is as great a discov
erer or inventor as the other. Is a man to be
stigmatized as a thief because he gives birth to a
sentiment which another has uttered a thousan4
years before ? Preposterous ! As well forget a be-
gloried Columbus, because the adventurous Scan
dinavians, in all probability, reached our conti
nent five hundred years before he did. True,
there are many minds, but their fundamental
laws are the same. This principle of unity in
diversity, which resulted in the enthronement
language, the first authors had the advantage in
priority in time to their successors. Few in num
ber, they stepped upon the shores of a new and
unexplored land, teeming with a thousand treas
ures. mountains and valleys, rich acres and great
rivers, hitherto unseen by human eye, but now
discovered and claimed for the first time by the
pioneers. Since then, this land of letters has
become densely populated, and is fast assuming
the character of an old, settled country. There
are comparatively few undiscovered and unap
propriated regions—a very small field for new ex
plorations. The majority of the writers of to-day
must content themselves in preserving and refin
ing the work of our predecessors: in rounding
off the angles; in elevating our taste: in popular
izing a purer, stronger standard. Undoubtedly,
though there are rich domains, new continents
in tbe literary world hitherto unheard of, un
dream pt of, equaling, surpassing any yet found,
awaiting the time and the man. But these Eldo-
rados are not for the multitude.
Take the work of the modern tale writers. It
is very difficult to create anything new in this
department. Sift all modern tales; throw out
circumstances and individual coloring, and you
will scarcely have more than a dozen distinct
models, which have been turned and twisted,
moulded and remoulded over and over again,—
a perfectly legitimate procedure, however, and
one which offers a fine field for the exercise of
genius.
The mere mention of blonde and brunette
will call vividly to the mind of the reader the
stereotyped description of tbe different styles of
beauty. When our heroine speaks, her voice is
“silvery,” or like “falling waters;” when she
walks, it is the poetry of motion; when she thrums
the piano, it is the music of the spheres. She
trembles like an aspen leaf, sings like a night
ingale. She clings to her king as the vine to
the oak, and hand in hand they glide down the
stream of time into the ocean of eternity. (I re
frain from using quotation marks). When one
dies, he launches his barque, or goes down into
the valley of the shadow, or the soul is freed
from prison, or the body has become food for
worms, etc. In parting, a chain is generally
broken. Fame is a bubble, or a mountain, or a
scroll with letters of fire. Adversity is a cloud,
prosperity the sun. Hope is a star or an angel;
despair is an abyss or demon. So many winters
have frosted the locks of the aged; so many sum
mers have passed over the heads of the youthful.
Wrinkles on the face are furrows or footprints.
Care is cankering or corroding. Houses are
stately mansions, vineland cottages, or humble
hovels. Ivy always covers crumbling ruins.
Mountains kiss the skies; valleys nestle between;
rivers wind like a silver thread; frozen streams
are bound by winter’s icy chain, or kissed by ‘
his breath. Spring sits in the lap of winter, or
dons her robes of green. The world is cold and
cruel. A ship walks the water like a thing of
life; a railroad engine is an iron horse, or a fiery
monster. The best laid plans are frequently
nipped in the bud. No one ever heard of the
devouring element, the fire-fiend, flood-gates of
heaven, fiends in human shape, hellish designs,
etc. No one of us has ever been reminded that
jealousy is a green-eyed monster; that flowers !
waste their sweetness on the desert air; that
Margaret is always rare and pale; that cannons
[For The.Sunny South.]
WAITING.
BY MBS. SALLIE E. BARNARD MAYNARD.
I am weary, so weary of waiting
For joys that may never be mine—
For moments rich freighted with blessings,
And suns that for me may not shine.
Oh! sad. long withholding of pleasure,
Whose cup sparkles near to the lips!
Oh! fair, shining stars in the distance,
That shadows will surely eclipse!
That mirage of beauty. To-morrow,
That lures me on life's desert way,
Will as fadingly greet my faint vision
And melt in the light of To-day.
From the hope-bounded isle of the future,
The siren song steals to my ear;
But tho’ the bright waves wander shoreward,
They bear not my frail shallop near.
How long, oh! how long ere the promise
With lovely fruition shall mate?
Thus questions my soul in its sadness,
And Faith whispers tenderly, “Wait!”
How long, oh! how long must I wrestle
With dark and unpitying Fate ?
Hope points my glance still to the future,
And smilingly bids me to “ Wait!”
THE
[For The Sunny South.]
END UK A .11 NE DAY.
BY FAITH MILLS.
Dying '. That was the pathetic verdict of the
face resting in dreamful quiet on a low sofa in
the library between the windows that looked to
wards the sea at Vallambrosa, the stately heri
tage and home of a stately gentleman, Paul Gra
ham. The truth was bitter and palpable even
to him—the man who had battled with death for
the young life so long—who loved her, his fragile,
gifted wife, with supreme, unspeakable tender
ness, and to whom the consciousness that she
must die came now weighted with an anguish
too deep for any words or fall of tears, and so he
sat by her side with the little cold hands gath
ered in his strong clasp, silently waiting for the
end. Outside, the sunshine lay warm and bright
on the terrace slopes; the brooding peace of a
summer day filled the vast grounds in the dis
tance; tbe smile of the sea, the white glory of
blossoming meadows, and the beryl gloom of
woodlands—a landscape that the artist eye, so
soon to close, dwelt on wistfully, the sadness of
a great regret in the gaze —the regret of an eter
nal farewell.
“Paul,” the young wife said, with a sudden
brightening of the sensitive, thoughtful face, “I
have had my wish,—I have lived to be happy a
year. And yesterday, while you were away, I
finished the last chapter of my book; my work
is all ended.”
“And now?” he questioned, in grave tender
ness.
“I only hope,” she answered, with a glance of
wistful meaning, “that there are some lives in
the great world, which has praised me so much,
who have been lifted, through my agency, out
of the grossness of absolute materialism. If I
of Reason in the German philosophy, is essen- ; belch; that the sun is the day-god, or king of o
tially a correct one. Then, is it not the absurdity ' day; that the moon is pale and fair, or silver; have learned one to aspire, I should be satisfied;
" ies to affirm that one intellect can- | .at night broods over the world, or hangs over [f j have awakened in anyayei
of all absurdities
not independently arrive at the same result that
another has reached before it? It is impossible
that it frequently should not. Beware, then, how
you recklessly call such creations bastards. To
do so is, to say the least, an evidence of lament
able thoughtlessness, and a virtual affirmation
it like a pall, or is wrapped in a sable robe, and
pinned back with a star.
The season of “commencements”—of school
girl essays and collegian’s orations—has just-
passed. Being young and inexperienced, they
naturally incline to those forms of expression,
tfcstra ywtfr,'totally thej^ithjh^pr^n } he l
litnrofnrp pnnlfl nnf wif limit frrnco tVondnlotiott Will De
literature, could not, without gross fraudulency,
compare the cheeks of a lady to sea-shells, or
her teeth to pearls.
It thus seems to me that there are three classes
of literary productions liable to be called trans
fer work, viz: intentional plagiarisms, uninten
tional plagiarisms, and genuine, original work,
similar to, yet wholly independent of, some
thing created by others. I have thought it due
to those concerned to make these remarks before
as'TTS'SMrt'ttfe -
themselves—which impression, by the way, is
not wholly unwarrantable.
The young orator—and the average public
speaker may be classed with him—rises, makes
an exquisite bow, and regrets that some one more
competent than he has not been selected to fill
his responsible position. He informs us that he
is totally unprepared, and, after a lengthy pro
logue, principally apologetic, proceeds to his
subject. Ten to one he does not get through a
earning for a higher
life, I am content.” •
The weariness of that which was coming to
her was in her voice, but the powerful intellect
still held the sovereignty of its sway in the frail
form, and the beautiful heroism which had dis
tinguished her through all her youth did not de
sert her now.
face. The translation of the look'was, the mind
to the last asserts its rule.
“And, Philip, don’t you remember,” the silver
tones falter a little, and then went on. “when
we used to study together, how often we have
paused when troubled by the abstruseness of a
thought or a theory, and looking into each
other's eyes, have said, ‘Ah ! if we only knew?’
My brother, there will be no need that I should
say it ever again after to-night."
He took her hand in his at her words, the rev
erence of a great regard in his eyes, and he an
swered her with a gentleness as supreme and
sweet as a woman’s:
“Little sister, the memory of those days shall
be my inspiration in the future that. I must live
without you, and whether I go down in the bat
tle of life crowned or crownless, I shall always
remember to do my duty because ”—his voice al
most failed him in the confession—“I have
known you.”
An expression of intense gladness came into
her face at his words, and with a look he never
forgot, she lifted one white hand toward the sun
set and said, with pleading earnestness:
"Promise, then, that you will meet me beyond
earth. ”
His creed was very different from hers, and
she knew it; but the haughty head went down at
last in acquiescence to her wish. For her sake
he would try .to go back to the faith of his youth.
His friendship was too great for her to allow him
to fail her now in any sense, however small;
and there was that in his pure, platonic regard
which any woman might have found sweet,
since he was what he was,—a kingly gentleman
who held “the flower of a blameless life ” un
challenged before the world.
The end was nearer now, and in the luminous
sunset silence that filled the room, the two
watchers sat by the low couch and waited for it
in unspeakable anguish, seeing the dew of death
gather on the fair, fine face, its dark gloom in
the lustrous eyes, the sensitive mouth quivering
now and then with the pain it would not utter.
That proud and quiet endurance of suffering
was a part of the noble development of her wo
manhood—one of the lessons she had taught
herself in her lonely youth. Hope Graham had
been denied the beautiful boon that is the birth
right of all, parental love. Her father was a
memory, her mother a dream, and the slight,
all-eloquent story of her childhood was orphan
age. She had been left to herself, and so she
had grown up to be a scholarly, exclusive girl;
and there had been no one in the world to whom
she could tell the thoughts impersonal and sub
lime that came to her—none to whom she could
impart the fervid conceptions of her genius, no
one to whom the artist soul could turn for com
prehension; and so the great, sensitive tide of
life had beat and surged within itself “until
soon the wound was large enough for death.”
Philip’s friendship and Paul’s love had both
come too late to save her.
For an hour there had been no word spoken
in the chamber of death, but now the eyes of the
young girl opened in yearning appeal, And
dwelt on her husband’s face.
“Oh, Paul, the world is nothing to leave; but
you—in the dark grave I cannot see you smile.”
Her voice was so low and faint that they who
heard her thought that she would never speak
again. But an instant later the small hands were
lifted pleadingly upward, and the words came
choked in their utterance from the ashen lips:
[For The Sunny South.)
LULA’S MARRIAGE.
AN EVERY-DAY STORY.
‘Oh! Christ, come tenderly!
By thy forsaken sonship in the red,
Drear wine-press—by the wilderness outspread,
And the lone garden where thine agony
Fell from thy brow—by all of those
Permitted desolations, comfort mine!*’
And Paul Graham, holding her in the close,
softlyJxi dbo still- tender clasp of his arms, looked down on her
i V j _ it . J 7 t' in liiai <1 nan
mentioning any particular instances, not attempt- Aen . ° ne n fT es a
ing, however, to decide to which of the above halt dozen sentent ‘ es before he rolls back the
classes they may belong.
All will perhaps recognize this in some form:
“God no sooner builds a church than the devil
puts up a chapel.” Its authorship is attributed
by some to the voluminous Defoe, who puts it
thus:
“ Wherever God creates a house of prayer,
The devil is sure to build a chapel there;
And 'twill be found, upon examination,
The latter has the largest congregation.”
Robert Burton, tlieauthor of the quaint” Anat
omy of Melancholy,” expressed the very same
thought about a hundred years previously, in
these words: “Where God hath a temple, the
devil will have a chapel.” The Jacula Prudentum
contains the same sentiment.
Campbell has been accused of plagiarizing in
his beautiful lines:
“ ’Tis the sunset of life gives us.mvstical lore,
• And coming events cast their shadows before.”
The foundation for the accusation is in a sen
tence of Shelly’s: “Poets are the hierophants of
an unappreliended inspiration; the mirrors of
the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon
the present.” One writer thinks the poet re
ceived the idea from Hebrews x:l—“For the law
having the shadow of good things to come, and
not the very image of the things,” etc.
We can hardly pick up a modern writer without
reading this aphorism of Longfellow’s: “Though
the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind ex
ceeding small. ” It is said to be a translation from
Frederick von Logan, a German. It may also be
found in Padre delsla’s Friar Gerund, and so on,
perhaps, ad infinitum.
“When nature made thee, she broke the
mould,” is an Italian proverb.
“ Sighing that nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die in moulding Sheridan,”
is from Byron.
Campbell wrote, “Like angel visits, few and
far between.” Robert Blair, before him, had it,
“Like angel visits, short and far between.” But
earlier still, Norris said, “Like angels’ visits,
short and bright.”
Probably there is no question as to what Frank
lin should be called when he copied an allegory
from Jeremy Taylor into one of his own works,
which, by the way, was quoted by Kairnes and
credited to Poor Richard.
Innumerable examples might be cited from
Shakspeare. In truth, the Bard of Avon was
not over conscientious in this matter.
“ Man wants but little here below nor, wants
that little long,” is from Goldsmith? Young has
it, “Man wants but little, nor that little long.”
Milton, Dryden, Pope, Moore, not to mention
English lesser lights, or American poets, come
in for a liberal share of such charges.
Only one more. How that diligent detective
must have crowed when he succeeded in nail
ing the label to Swinburne as the author of this:
“ I dare not always touch her, lest the kiss
Leave my lips charred.”
Wonderful ingenuity ! rare erudition ! He knew
then and there the idea was stolen from the de
scription of the monkey which
“ Married the baboon's sister,
Smacked his lips, and then he kissed her
Kissed so hard he raised a blister.”
But enough of this. It is ridiculous to what
an extreme monomaniacs have carried this sub
ject. What appears fun to a healthy mind, is
to them but foul corruption.
It must be admitted, however, that the crea-
billowy tide of time, or looks through the dim
vista of the ages, to the glorious days of Greece
and Rome. He never tires of invoking their
heroes, historic and legendary. Their history
and mythology are inexhaustible sources of illus
tration, and the deeper he draws from them, the
abler, in his opinion, is his effort. More recent
history is laid under contribution also. Bruce,
of spider notoriety, and Cromwell are favorites.
Napoleon and Wellington and the sea-girt isle
are never forgotten; nor Washington, first in
war, etc., the father of his country, which, by
the way, is the grandest system of human gov
ernment the sun ever shone on. He inevitably
steers something through Scylla and Charybdis,
probably the ship of state. The Augean stables,
the tortures of Tantalus, the sword of Damas
cus, the tub of Diogenes, the wealth of Croesus
and the gems of Golconda are generally success
ful candidates for notice. Some one leaves the
plow in the field, shoulders the musket, and
swears by several things that the banner which
floats above him shall never trail in the dust;
that the tyrant must bite the dust; that the
shackles of oppression must be broken; and
that liberty, the precious heir-loom which our
forefathers purchased with their blood, must be
transmitted to latest posterity. And when at last
the white banners of peace wave from every hill
and tower in our broad land, the battle-scarred
veteran returns to his home and converts his
sword into a plough-share; while the bird of
freedom flaps his wings fearlessly over a smiling
land, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the
Androscoggin to the Rio Grande. The speaker
will propose to permit any one to make the laws
of a people provided he may write its ballads.
The lightning must be chained; steam must be
harnessed; the course of empire must take its
way westward; music must sooth the savage
breast; somebody must leave foot-prints on the
sands of time, etc., etc.
The newspapers set before us the same dish of
hash day after day—the seasoning being varied
now and then. There is generally no necessity
ness, “what you have been to others, the world
has told you in its applause; to me”— He hesi
tated, and bending forward, took a full-blown
white rose from a vase that stood on the low
window-sill, and placing it within the palm of
the transparent hand he held, he went on speak
ing, oh ! how tenderly: “As fair in soul as it is
in blossom—as perfect, and pure, and fragrant,
your life has been in my home.”
This great appreciation of a great nature had
always been sweeter than anything else in the
world to -this woman of warm, poetic tempera
ment; and even now she thanked him with a
smile of such deep meaning that he turned away.
It was almost a torture that he could not bear, to
know what she was to him, and to see her die.
She saw his pain, and as if to divert the channel
of his thoughts, asked quietly:
“Have you telegraphed for Philip and Floyd?”
“Yes; they will be here on the four o’clock
train. Is there any one else ?”
“No; none that I desire to see now. You know
they made my world until I found you.”
And after that the silence was long between
them. But what need was there for words ?
Those marvelous, brown, pathetic eyes had read
his soul like an open book, and though he made
no allusion to it, she felt that the greatness of
his suffering was not less than her own—her re
nunciation of all joy on earth no more complete
and entire.
“Ihaxe but one regret,” and now her voice
was so low that he had to bend his head to hear,
“and that is bitterer than the death which is
coming to me. Look in my face, Paul, and tell
me what that is. I want one last proof of how
completely you understand me.”
“That is leaving me.”
“Yes; the thought has stabbed me through all
the serenity of this hour. And yet, what more
could I ask? I have lived to realize all my
dreams, and it is sweet, very sweet, to die on a
day like this, looking into your eyes. And you
know, Paul, God never meant me to live long,
because he gave that fatal, sensitive tempera
ment ”
She stopped, the tears in her eyes, and he
knew that it was because of som| memory of how
much she had suffered on account of that same
temperament; and he thanked God that though
the fineness of her nature unfitted her for earth,
it fitted her for heaven.
Later, when she seemed to sleep, the door
opened, and in the perfect silence a man entered
and knelt down by the low couch, reading with
wistful eyes the mournful annunciation of com-
(oftentimes no possibility) to say anything orig- ing death in the beautiful face. A sudden radi-
inal, especially in their news columns. Year after
year they print the same thing over and over,
changed only in dates and circumstances. A re
porter who can write a desreiption of a call or
a public meeting, can sit in his office and “write
up ” a dozen of them without even attending
them. I once wanted to publish reports of the
commencement exercises of two colleges, both
of which oecured on the same evening. I visited
one of the institutions and took notes of the pro
ceedings. Next morning I procured a programme
of the exercises of the other, and from my own
knowledge of such entertainments wrote an elab
orate report of the proceedings, which was es
pecially complimented for its accuracy, fair crit
icisms and originality. It would greatly surprise
many readers if they knew how much of the
matter of their journal was made up in just this
manner.
Many of our jokes, puns and arguments are
but reflections and rehashes of those current a
century or two ago. I can only mention the
Christian ministry in this connection. Hdw
much of originality is there in onr sermons?
“ After all,” says George Wakeman, “there is a
great deal of nonsense written about originality.
The earnest man does not write to show his fel
low creatures how great a genius he is, but to
do the best he can to interest and reform the
tive period in our literature seems rapidly nar- greatest number of his readers. His success in
trowing in an inverse proportion to the inorease i this is the measure of the success due him.”
Jof writers. In the rough, vigorous youth of our , But (if you can) be original.
ance flashed into the room from the setting sun,
and Hope awoke, smiling, when she saw the face
bent down in grieved tenderness above her own.
“Philip, my friend, you have come?”
“Yes,” he returned, calmly; “and I should
have been here earlier, but I waited for Floyd.
She sent me word at the last moment that she
could not come. Her father is dangerously ill;
nothing less could have kept her from you. ”
“Philip,” she said, after a time, a pathetic
ring in the clear, sweet voice, “I am very near
the infinite of which I used to talk so much in
the old days, and I am not afraid.”
He had no words with which to answer her,
this man held great as an orator and statesman
in the world. Proud and self-i. zsciplined as he
was, his anguish mastered him.
“ Ah ! why should you grieve ?” and while his
heart ached under the soft rebuke of her voice,
she held up to his glance the white rose which
Paul had given her as a symbol of her own soil
less existence on earth, and then continued,
calmly: “In the blushless birth of this flower
there is a secret as inviolable as there is any
phase of that something we call life: to-day I
cannot fathom it—to-morrow, what shall I not
understand of all the mysteries of which time is
so pathetically full ? Oh ! believe me, it is not
sad, my friend, to die and find out all the mean
ing there is in eternity for a soul.”
a lid ans werUd her vitheut a falter in liisi deep,
sweet-toned voice:
“ ‘For I am persuaded that neither death, nor
life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers,
things present, nor things to come, nor height,
nor depth, nor any other creature, shall bt able
to separate us from the love of God, which\is in
1 Christ Jesus our Lord.’” \
The mobile mouth quivered. \
“Enough,” she sighed; and in the dreamy
dusk, Hope Graham lay dead in all her girlish
grace and perfect loveliness, the kiss of eternity
on her brow.
AYords miss being pathetic, and there are none
with which to tell what this loss was to Paul
Graham. His wife a year, and dead ! All the
meaning there is in such a loss, of despair and
bitterness, he realized as he knelt by the coffin
that held his darling, white-robed and ready for
i the grave. Every breath that came through his
lips-was like a dagger stab of steel through the
hurt consciousness of his spirit; and once when
his eyes dwelt on the “haunting fairness” of
the face sculptured in between folds of misty
lace, a great sob shook him from head to foot,
and he moaned:
“Oh, God ! to lose you !”
The one life that had comprehended his in all
the unspeakable ways for which we have no
words—that would have climbed with him with
out faltering to any height—that had given to
his very existence an intense, ideal charm—that
life was lost to him forever ! His wife had had
the genius of a Hypathia, and the world had
given to uer its applause; and yet, there had
been no law so supreme to her as his will—no
joy but in his smile. Their union had been of
God—they had felt their oneness—soul had an
swered soul, for theirs had been that perfect un
derstanding which never exists between any but
great natures. Here, in this room, where she
had dreamed and written the books that had
given her name to the royalty of fame, was it
possible she had died ?—here, where she had so
often sat at his feet with her bright head leaned
against the arm of his chair—silent, when his
mood was too grave for conversation, but some
times sharing his studies and talking about them
with that perfect freedom which his love allowed—
glad to follow his guidance into any realm of
thought, and gladder still to be won from any
opinion of her own by his imperious will and
masterful eloquence. And now—oh, God !—the
soul that had translated his selfhood so nobly,
purely and tenderly, was lost to him forever !
The charm of her presence still lingered in his
desolate home, but to-morrow she would be car
ried across the threshold where she had so often
waited, smiling, for his coming—to-morrow he
would be alone in the old house which she had
so brightened and left dark—in which she had
bloomed out her youth and died. He had the
noble strength of a noble nature; because he
was a man he could live; and yet every memory
of the past came to him like torture] every
thought of the future without her bruised his
heart like a hammer stroke. It was an anguish
beyond words to see her dead under his eyes,
and signless as a stone under the warmth of his
caresses,—to know that millions of common
women lived, while the only life that could
understand the deeps and heights of his being
was exiled from him forever, and the heart that
had beat so nobly in unison with his had hushed
its idyl of existence under the iron hand of
death. And now, no more until God, who had
joined them on earth, gave her back to him in
eternity, should he find his wife.
The June day had ended.
Mrs. Hoge had 'hree pretty little girls of whom
she was very proud, although it was her way to
talk but little about them, and to dress them
with sensible plainness in gingham and merino,
with their faces and hands well protected from
sun and wind by bonnets and gloves of her own
manufacture. Such long sun-bonnets as they
were! but when they were taken off it did one’s
heart good to see the* fair, healthy skin, the bright
eyes, and silky hair that had been sheltered
under them.
Lula was the oldest. She was four years older
than her next sister, and by and by she bloomed
unconsciously into lovely womanhood. She was
not faultless, like a novel heroine, but as fresh,
and fair, and modest-looking as a wild rose just
opened under the skies of June. She was an in
dustrious little mortal, bustling about daily in the
performance of such duties as fall to the lot of
farmers’ daughters, and busily plying herneedle
in the intervals of time, for she delighted to
dress her plump little figure as fashionably as
the extent of her means and information would
allow.
Walter had often noticed the pretty sisters at
church, or elsewhere, and once or twice, when
he was visiting their father, they had shyly
shaken hands with him and talked a little about
their childish sports. But one day, while mak
ing a business call on their father, he became
suddenly conscious- that the young girl who
opened the door and said in a lady-like way that
“Pa was not at home, but would come in half
an hour,” was no longer a child. The brown
hair did not ripple about her face and neck as
of old, but was put up in some simple way, and
a shy, sweet, womanly dignity had taken the
place of childish ways. She took him into their
little parlor, and while waiting for her father,
tried to entertain him with girlish talk about the
weather, and other topics of common interest.
Walter thought all she said very interesting,
and afterwards recalled every word, remember
ing especially the smile or look that had accom
panied each remark she made.
Well, after that, Walter’s visits were more fre
quent, and he seemed to have more and more
business with Mr. Hoge—nothing to be won
dered at, when they followed the same calling,
and had dealings with each other; but Walter
sometimes made very trifling pretexts for com
ing, and remained much longer than was neces
sary when Lula was at home. He was always
welcome, however, for all the family liked the
handsome, pleasant-spoken young man.
By and by, people began to say that Walter
was really visiting Lula — courting her, the
bolder of the gossips proclaimed: and some of
the brave ones among them openly assailed him
on the subject, hoping to discover the truth; but
the laughing glance of his clear eyes met theirs
without wavering, as he answered that certainly
he went to see Miss Lula—so pretty and inter
esting a young lady was not to be passed by;
1 and then he launched out into praises of her
younger sisters, and ended by declaring that if
he wished to marry, he would think himself
very happy to secure the hand of any one of Mr.
Hoge’s pretty daughters. So people were left to
surmise and talk, which they continued to do
until they were quite tired of the subject. Mean
while, Walter continued his visits without appa
rently bringing matters any nearer to a crisis;
and finally, those who were impatient to see the
end began to say they did not believe he was
courting, after all.
But nobody outside of Lula’s home knew
' aught of what transpired there one clxilly even
ing, late in autumn, when the young lovers were
seated side by side before a blazing fire that cast
a cheerful glow over the walls of the little parlor,
looking into each other’s eyes, and making won
derful discoveries of what was in each other’s
hearts. Lula never would tell me just what was
said at this interview—very wise in her, no
doubt—but she confessed that they found out
they loved each other, and were made very
i happy by this knowledge; then Walter asked
her to be his wife, and when she gave him a
timid promise, they were still happier.
But unexpected obstacles arose in the pathway
of the lovers, who, in their joyous present, were
forgetful of the long, care-burdened future.
Their desire for a speedy union was remorse
lessly frowned upon. Mama said, “too young.”
Prudent papa had graver objections. Both said:
“You must wait a few years; time will prove
your affection.”
“ We are young and can wait; we are willing
to have our love proved,” answered the lovers;
and they did not even think of an elopement, or
of allowing their hearts to break.
“They may soon forget all about it,” the
parents said to each other.
“I’ll win her yet,” AValtersaid to himself; and
was more diligent in business than ever.
“Pa and ma will let us get married some day,”
Lula said; so she neither lost her appetite nor
her color, nor shunned society, but set herself
to learning how to become a true companion and
help-mate for a husband; read books and sought
friends that would improve her mind and en
large her knowledge of life, and at the same time
instructed herself in the mysteries of house
hold economy.
And Walter worked on, earning more and
more money to invest in the home that was to be
theirs, visiting Lula at home, but seldom offer
ing her attention in public. So people said, by
and by:
“ They will not marry, after all.”
Other beaux came around Lula, and she
smiled so sweetly, and talked so gaily with them,
as if her heart was her own, to give to whomso
ever she pleased.
Then another sister bloomed into lovely
womanhood. She was more beautiful than Lula,
and Walter sang her praises so often that the
world began to say, .“It was not Lula, but her
sister he would marry.”
But there is an end to all things, and there
came an end to this patient waiting. There
came a day when Walter could again ask Mr.
Hoge for the hand of his daughter, and receive a
willing consent,—when all the clouds that had
hung over the pathway of these two devoted
lovers quietly rolled away, leaving visible the
clear, blue sky. that all the time had smiled be
hind them. Then the wedding-day soon came.
There was a quiet little party of the nearest and
dearest friends of the pretty bride and the hand
some bridegroom, and everybody felt glad and
happy.
And the young couple have launched their
boat upon life’s stream, better prepared to steer
it through the eddying current because they
have waited until their hearts are strong and
their hands skillful to manage the oars.
While a rag-money fiend was spouting finan
cial heresy at a political meeting near Cleveland,
Ohio, a burglar broke into his house and stole
a bag of gold, which was secreted in an old
trunk. Consistencv forbade him to inform the
police of his loss, but he sits out upon his stoop
of the back-yard, as if he meant to shun the
The two men exchanged glances, a hint of society of his fellow-creatures for the balance of
Me. Cboll, the celebrated geologist, in his new
work on “Climate and Time,” declares that look
ing back at the terrestrial phenomena through
past ages, we are able to realize from the altered
aspects of nature that a great change is in pro
gress. At present, the eccentricity of the earth’s
orbit is diminishing. In less than 24,000 years
it will be as nearly circular as it can ever be.
No cycles of extreme heat or cold will occur for
the next 150,000 years. We are entering a pe
riod of comparatively equable climate, arising
from a more uniform distribution of solar heat
over the globe.
their pride in her flashing across each powerful ] the season.
The earliest post-boy we know of is Cadmu3,
who carried letters from Phoenicia into Greece.