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THE STANDARD AND EXPRESS. W. Y Miß< HALK,) Ed,,#r * and Proprietors. VOUK FKIKSiD. You may cot know bim wten yonr uky jg bright; There are fo maDy fac j g sweet and bland, Reflecting Fortune’s smiles as dew-drops mirror liKht, Shining around your way on every hand. You may not know him by his words of praise: There are fo many lips to praife success, And formal flatteries bestrew life’s trodden ways, Like fallen leaves the autumn wilderness. And yon may scale the windy heights of Fame, And gather wreaths and honors without end ; And yet, among the pleasant crowds who name yonr name, You may not know, undoubtingly, your friend. lint, ever should your summer-day be flown. And storms descend upon your stranded bark, Ju-t as you deem yourse’f, with Fear, alone, Your true friend’s voice shall hail you through the dark. THE ANCIENT COOSE, That’s what they said of him. His mustache was gray, he was past thirty nine, and, not being married, was con sidered solitary. It mattered little to him. The care of his patients made bitn bright and active. Hi- profession was sufficient for his wants. He was the loved and respected physician for half the families in the place, and he never wanted for company and friend ship. Why he never married, had been the speculation of the village. The subject was threadbare, and they had ceased to talk of it. He saw much of female society, for he was one of those fine, rare natures that make “brothers to girls.” His genial good nature, and, above all, his ability to keep secrets, made him indeed the brother to half the girls in Wauchusetta. They came to him with their little pains and ills, and their little heart-breakings and love sorrows. For one he had pills and advice; for the other, a ready ear, counsel, help, confidence. No wonder Sally Depford Come tear ful and angry to him, in the little diffi culty with Sam Barrett. A small rage made her the more attractive. As the doctor heard her woeful tale, he could hardly fail to study her face with admi ration. Young, twenty years his junior, rather pretty, reasonably well educated, sensi ble, and quite ready for a joke at any time, she preferred the bright side to everything. Hence her present sorrow. She did not wish to be “ bothered” as she expressed it, with a serious love affair. It was a trouble, a vexation, an interference with lier pleasure, and— “ Well, there ! It’s entirely dread ful, and I don’t want it nor him. Just as I was fairly out of school, and pre paring to have a splendid time with the girls, then this thing comes along, and I don’t like it. “ That is so, doctor. Is it not ?” The doctor had no immediate reply to make. He would consider the case —and her. There was something so attractive about her fac.% it was no wonder that Sam Barrett, the last beau left in the village, was desperately in love with her. She frowned. He was so slow. “Come, sir, parade your wisdom. I can pay for advice, and I want it.” “Go to bed early, get up late, and sleep it off.” “That’s very good for him. Tell him that, please. As for me, it does not help a bit. There it stands. He will pursue me with attentions. I don’t want—” “Snub him.” “ He’s not snubable. Snubbing falls harmless on his good-natured tempera ment. I tried it, and it don’t work. He took it like a lamb. ” “Tell him you’re not at home.” “ Then he leaves his card, and says he will call again. And he is sure to do so.” “ Poor boy ! He has it very bad this time. The symptoms are alarming. ” “ They are, doctor, they are, and I don’t like it. It’s a nuisance, and a bother, and besides that, I bate him. There ! ” “ Feel better, my dear? ” “ Yes ; for I’m getting mad. I leel like, breaking things, and—” “You do. You do it all the time. Poor boy! I’m not surprised! Here you go about the place, being as at tractive as possible, and then you break ail our hearts, and then scold us for it. What do you expect ? ” “ It’s not my fault. I did’nt make myself.” “Well—no—not exactly—” “ For heaven’s sake, doctor, why don’t you do something ? Advise me. ” “ Get married ! ” “Doctor, your are too hateful.” “ I presume so ; doctors always are. But that’s my advice. Get married; then he can no longer trouble you.” “Now, you’re silly, doctor, and 1 shan’t tell you any more. You don’t care a straw for my troubles, after all, and—” Here she began to be teary, and threatened to have a “ good cry.” “ My dear, good advice is not so bad. You must admit that if you were en gaged he would leave you at once.” “ I suppose so.” “ Yes. Then get engaged ; or, if you don’t care to go so far, arrange with some young man to be engaged to him temporarily. Then your Sam—” “ He’s not my Sam, thank Heaven !” “ Then your Sam will take unto him self another wife, and when all is secure you can break your engagement, and all will be serene again.” “ What an absurd idea ! Jump into the liver for the sake of escaping from drowning. I tell you I don’t want any body’s attention. It would be a dread ful trial to be engaged at all, even in self defence.” “Not if the other party would agree to keep himself away, and simply lend adianrnd ring for a while, and play the part of the distant intended.” “ I don’t know, doctor ; it is a des perate measure. But it would be ef fectual.” “ Of course.” , ‘‘lt would be rather amusing to go uome and announce that I was engaged. 1 should have to tell mother bow it really stood, and father would be, of coutse. let into the secret. The rest need not know. Goodness 1 what a scattering there would be, and how all the old ladies would talk.” “You need not care. It would be eas .T to act your part, and in a few Wet ks all would be comfortably over a ud everything would be serene again.” I declare, doctor* the more I think °f it the more amusing it seems. It is v ery wicked, no doubt, but then, the Ca se is a hard one—” “And demands heroic remedies.” “ Precisely. Now the next step is to get up a good lover. I shall not expect m, ich. Any straw man that’s conven ient will answer. Do you know of one, doctor—a good one ? He must be nice, a ud all that, or T couldn’t endure it.” . “ Well—no—l cannot think of one just now. There are none living near that are available. Perhaps we might import one.” “ Hooter, I have an idea.” “How startling! Bring it forth, that I admire it. ” “ You be the lover.” “ All right. I’m willing.” “ Then we’re engaged.” “ Yes—for the present.” “ In fun, you know.” “ Oh, of course. Till Sam gets mar ried, or till you wish to break it.” “ Where’s the ring?” “Oh, I have one up stairs--an old one. I suppose it will answer to cover onr little arrangement.” “ How splendid of you, doctor !” “ Now you must go. Old Mrs. Davis is coming with her neuralgia. Shall I tell her ?” “ Tell her what?” “ Of the engagement.” “ Yes. Just hint it, and before night the town will know it.” And they did. How they snatched up the stray morsel of gossip and stir red it in to their tea with the sugar. For tunate circumstance. It soured on their stomach—the news, not the tea. Even the sugar and the good Bohea did not save them from expressing with beauti ful freedom just what they thought about it. “Such an old goose to be taken in by that designing Sally Depford ! The minx ! the little contriving artful—” Such language ! It is not pretty. History like this cannot stoop to report all that was said concerning the last new engagement. As for Sam Barrett, he disappeared. He suddenly found a “ tip-top chance for business, you kuow, in New York. Oaght to go right on and fix it up.” His parting with Sally was not par ticularly affecting. She wouldn’t allow it. That curious, antique, diamond ring flashed in his astonished eyes, and his affection melted softly away into nothing, like the cloud of white steam under which he escaped in the 3:40 p. m. express. The whistle echoed among the Wauchusetta hills, and the gentle Sally heard it without a sigh. Some of the other girls could hardlv forgive her for driving away the only available young man in the place, but they Boothed their lacerated feelings with the sweet hope that, as the sum mer vacation was near at hand, anew importation of city visitors from Bos ton and New York might “make it gay again,” and spread wide once more the matrimonial horizon. The suddenness and complete success of the victory rather surprised the vic tor. She had succeeded beyond her ex pectations. Now that it was all over, she would return the ring, and—well, no, perhaps she might keep it just one more night, Cousin Mary Depford was coming to spend the night, and it would be rather amusing to wear the ring a little longer, and to let her into the se cret. She would return the ring in the morning. Pleased with this unspoken plan, she set the ring firmer on her finger and prepared to receive her * ‘ company. ” Cousin Mary Depford was charmed with the ring, and was profuse in her congratulation?. Sally took them quietly enough, “Its all a joke, you know, dear.” “ A joke!” “ Yes, dear, a little—well—game, if I may so speak.” Cousin Mary was properly shocked In the retirement of their own room, she expressed her mind fully, and de dared that she would not wear the ring another minute. It was a pretense and —a shame to do such a thing. Sally was startled and pleaded the dreadful necessity of the case. “ He was such a bore, you know, and really—what could Ido ? It was all in fan. There’s nothing serious. I mean to return the ring to-morrow.” “I wouldn’t wear it another minute, if I were you, Sally Depford.” Sally laughed and still retained the ring. She would return it to-morrow. She would wear it one more night— for it was, really—such a handsome ring. The doctor behaved beautifully. He only called once, and didn’t even ask her to ride or walk. “ He walks fast, and as for that old chaise —you know how it creaks.” I It was a very proper engagement. Bather cool, perhaps. What could you ] expect ? He was past forty, if a day, they said. She did not return the riDg the next day. It rained. She sent a note to the doctor by a friend, the following day, asking him to call for it-. He was away —wouldn’t be back till Monday. Of course she must we r the riDg one more ! Sunday; and she did, in spite of Cousin Mary Depford’s remonstrance On Monday she carried the ring, still on her finger, to the doctor. He was ; just starting off on a professional tour 1 when she came, and he was so merry, and there were so maDy things to talk about, that she quite forgot the ring. Besides, there stood the Widow Bigelow in the next yard, pretending to hang out her clean clothes on the line, and ■ watching with both eyes. I Cousin Mary Depford was harassing. They had a little “ tiff,” after the man ner of girls, and made it up on the strength of a promise from Sally that she would certainly return the ring to morrow. On the morrow she started, ring on finger, to duly return it. He was not at home. She went again just before tea-time. He was at tea, and pressed her to take supper with his good old housekeeper and himself. She hesi tated, then accepted. She could quietly hand him the ring after supper, and in the meantime she might as well “ have a good time.” The fine old house, the elegant dining room, and the cosy table set for three, were charming. The doctor was a good talker, and cultivated and refined in his manners. She had been oblged to bear much wretched gossip for the last week or two. It would be rather amusing to see just how it seemed to be engaged. She might as well have a good time, for it would soon be over. She would re turn the ring as soon as the housekeeper retired. The housekeeper did nothing of the kind. As soon as tea was over she took her knitting, and sat down by the open window in the parlor, where she could see everything that happened both in the house and in the garden. The doctor acted his part with per fection. He was not too attentive to attract attention from the housekeeper, nor did he forget for a moment to be watchful of his guest’s happiness. At 10:30 p. m. Sally returned to her own room, looking wonderfully serene and happy. Cousin Mary Depford was silent and watchful. Presently she saw something, and said, — “O, Sally!” “Well, dear?” “Where’s the ring?” “Oh, my love. I quite forgot all about it; I did, indeed. I’ll take it right back to-morrow. As for the doctor he eat up half the night, pacing his room alone and in the dark. At midnight he was called to see some distant patient. He was glad to go. The eool ride through the solemn dark gave him a chance to think. The next day Sally boldly started for the doctor’s, to return the ring. He was not at home. Of course she could not leave it with the housekeeper. Be sides, why should she take the trouble to carry it to him ? It was not her place. He should ask for it. Cousin Mary fairly raged. For the first time Sally was really unhappy over the matter, and in a little passion she pulled off the ring and threw it in a drawer. “ I’ll return it by mail, Mary ! Now leave me in peace !” There was no peace. Without a thought she walked up alone to the postoffice through the village street to get the evening mail. It did seem as if the whole town were waiting for their letters. It was too warm for gloves, and in her haste to get her letters she forgot the absent ring. Sueh a lifting of eyebrows and whis pering ! Flushed and angry with her self, she darted out of the letter office only to almost run into the doctor’s arms. She hid her hand in the fold of her dress, and with a forced smile bade him good evening. He spoke pleasantly, smiled, and passed on. In a moment Sally heard his footsteps behind her as she walked rapidly home. She would not turn or speak to him on the public road—and that would only make mat ters worse. What was she to do? It was dreadful! How she wished she had never touched the ring! To her surprise he overtook her, and quietly and firmily put her arm in his. For a moment she experienced a sense of unutterable relief and satislaction. She leaned upon him for support, and was gratified as he seemed to draw her closer. How good in him to come to her rescue. “The curtain has not been rung down yet, Miss Depford.” The curtain! Oh! he was only carry ing out tbe joke! With a forced laugh she took the hint, and in a moment was as merry and chatty as ever. Once the doctor looked at her in a questioning way, and onoe he was silent for a whole minute. They walked arm in arm up the village street, aud at the sight half the village was dumb with astonishment, and the other half whispered the dreadfnl news about the missing ring. Little did they care. They walk on, and almost before Sally was aware of it they arrived at the doctor’s ga*e. The doctor opened the wicket, and with a smile held it wide open for her to enter. She paused. Was it right? Was she not carrying the joke altogether too fat? The blood mounted to her temples, and she was silent. “Will you not come in. Miss Depford, and make us a little call?” “No—l—thank you. Not now.” Sue put out her hand to sustain her self, and laid her ungloved hand on the top of tbe gate post. She felt ready to faint with mortification, shame and dis appointment, This was the end. It was only a joke—a pretence—and— “ Miss Depford, said the doctor, in a low voice, “ where is my ring ! ” She snatched her hand away, and, hiding it in her dress, turned away to hide her face. “ Pardon me, pardon me, doctor ; I am much to blame. I didn’t mean any barm, and I hated—hated—” “ Hated whom ? ” “That—Sam Barrett; and I was so glad to escape from him that I’m afraid I’ve done very wrong—very wrong in deed.” “ How £0 ? ” “In carrying out this dreadful, dreadful joke, as you call it. lam well punished for my folly. I took the ring off because I must—leturn it to you.” “But—Sally—l do not wish yon to return it.” She turnel round amazed. Wliat did he mean ? One glance was suffi cient. “ Come in—please—my love.” She took his arm again without a word, and they walked slowly up the graveled path toward the old man sion. The house-keeper came out and bade them welcome in a grand and impressive manner. The crickets began to chirp in the grass. The air seemed laden with the perfume of summer flowers. The ancient ivy seemed to even vaguely hint of autumn, as it hung in motionless festoons from the walls. There was a sober air about the plaoe, far different from her child hood’s home. The doctor offend her an arm chair on the wide piazza. How courtly and dignified his man ners. His hair was gray—with honor able toil. He leaned over her, and whispered “It is an old-fashioned place, and I am such au ancient, solitary—” “ Hush ! It is our home, our liome.” The housekeeper turned proudly away from such childish nonsense, and furtively wiped a tear for the late lamented solitary goose. Humbug on Legs. There is in Kansas city now a horse with a history. The horse in question is a delusion and a snare upon four legs. He is a large animal, finely formed and of splendid carriage, but his merits are strictly superficial. Drive him for a half mile and he breaks down com pletely, becoming a miserable wreck, scarcely capable of getting himself back to the stable. Thousands of dol lars have been lost and made on him for his appearance will deceive the shrewdest jockey. The bare places upon his tides would indicate service in harness, but the bare places, are the esult of artful trimming. It is esti mated that this remarkable horse has been sold upon an average of twice a week for years. The horse-jockey never tells of his own misfortunes, and so the horse has been bandied about. One man, according to the mail, is said to have made a small fortune selling the horse at a high figure repeatedly, and as often getting him again through agents for a small one. The wonderful steed is always for sale, and when he becomes too well known in one locality is transferred to another. He is said to have made the tour of all tbe princi pal towns from New Orleans to Kansas city, and to be soon started working his way through Leavenworth to St. Joseph. — St. Ijouia Republican They have had a spelling match down on the banks of the tranquil Milpitas. There were twenty-seven contestmts, and twenty-six went down on the word “cat,” and the last man would have gone down too, only he stuttered, and couldn’t get in the second “t” quick enough. The season is not very early in the north of Maine, but a local paper states that fence posts have began to sprout up through the snow drifts. CARTERSYILLE, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 20, 1875. A NEW lIELILAII. How they ever came to be engaged was the one thing that puzzled half the young people in society. It was whis pered that they would soon be married. Some of the old ladies who sat in the gallery, where they had a fine chance to see all that passed in the choir, thought differently. Some of the young altos thought they knew all about- it. She was placing a desperate game, and would break or win. The people at St. Mark’s watched the fight with becoming interest, and looked over the tops of their prayer-bo iks to where it would end. The benediction has been pronounced, and the congregation were slowly filter ing out of the church, with a low mur mur of talk and gossip, which seemed like the soft gargle of escaping water. From the organ loft little heed did he pay to it. He took up the theme of the last hymn, and began to improvise upon it. It was a large, lofty church, and had a noble orgaD. Under his fingers it seemed to sing a heartful soug of praise aud prayer. The deep, tremu lous thunder of the diapasons seemed to breathe of awesome reverence, and the liquid tone3 of the flutes li*ted the soul to serent-r heights of holy medita tion and peace. The idle chatter of the people was subdued in the atmosphere of art an 1 beauty he spread about them. The saiuts in the glowing windows seemed to look down upon the dim aisles as if they, too, heard the music and felt its uplifting charm. The murmur of voices in the church died away. A few lingered in silence to hear the music, and a deep calm seemed to fall upon the place. Through it all ran the golden thread of music, soft, delioious, prayerful, beautiful. He sat absorbed in his work. His face was lifted,that he might behold the golden pipes above him. His fingers wandered on over the yellow keys, and his whole being seemed to be absorbed in his work. He knew not that she stood near him, silent, admiring him, and with a petulent frown on her fair face. Young, more than pretty, finely formed, with large blue eyes, and light golden hair. It hung in tangled masses round her low forehead, and fell in neg lected clouds about her shoulders. It was her great charm. She knew it, and treated it accordingly. Her dress was of the best material, and in the latest fashion. What it may have been matters not. It was becoming, and she knew it. She had dressed with special care that day. It was not surprising that he loved her. She was winsome, intelligent, and inordinately selfish. This last he did not know. Her beauty had won him, and they were engaged to be mar ried. He was talented and good-look ing. He was the organist of the fash ionable Episcopal church of the city, and as such was much admired and sought after. She enjoyed the sunshine of his popularity, but hated his work. It seemed to draw him from herself, aud it interfered with her plans and hopes for the future. Even now it took his whole attention. He did not heed her, though she stood by his side. There was no need to stay longer. The people, save a few stupid old ladies, had all gone. Why did he not stop and speak to her? She touched his arm with her parasol. With a smile he brought the strain to a proper close and stopped. “You are very slow to-day. Why didn’t you stop when I touched you ?” “ Indeed 1 did as quickly as I could finish the phrase. You wouldn’t have me stop in the middle of a sentence?” “ I’ve be n waiting, and its time to go borne.” Her speech and manner seemed to grate harshly upon him. Had she no love for the music ? “ Why did you play so long to-day ? It was dreadful tiresome.” He made no reply, but closed the in strument in silence, while she impa tiently tapped upon the back of a seat with a parasol. “You know I was in a hurry to go home.” “My dear ? How could I ” She saw in a moment that she was going too far, and with a gentle, sinuous motion took his arm in hers, and drew him to her with a soft caress. He smiled, and yielded himself to the charm of her beauty and apparent af fection. Thus together they passed out of the organ loft, and prepared to go down stairs into the dim and quiet church. The stairway led directly in the main aisle, and gave them a clear view of the springing arches, the great windows glorious in living color, and the dark roof springing aloft in the shadowy vault above their heads. “What a beautiful place to spend one’s life in. I do not wonder that the old monks were content to spend their time in such scenes. I almost wish we had service every day. “ It would be dreadful stupid.” “ Oh, no. Think what a life such a man as old Bach spent in Thomas Kirche! Nothing to do but to play upon his organ every day. I almost wish I was a cathedral organist in some ancient minster.” “ I’m sure I don’t. It’s bad enough as it is.” “ How so?” “My love, are you so stupid ? What is the position of organist ? I’m sure I hope you don’t think of being one all your life.” “ Why not ?” “Oh ! It’s all very well, now—for a little while—but—my dear, you must see ” He paused on the last step, aud look ed at her as if he did not quite under stand. “See what? Surely you do not ob ject to it ?” “Oh, dear ! no ; but then you know that it isn’t exactly—the thing one wishes to do all his life.” “I’m not so sure. If I was rich I would always play in church, aud, in fact, I would give up my time to the study of music. What nobler ambition could a young man have than to assist at divine worship with the best gifts art and heaven had bestowed upon him ?” She Lai the wit to see that she had gone too far, and with a soft smile and a caressing touch she led him out of the church into the bright sunshine of the street. They walked away in silence. His thought returned to his art and the church. She was soheming how to make the next assault. It so happened that they did not meet again for several days. On the Friday of each week he spent the eveniug at the church in practice and alone. On Saturday the ahoir met, aud he was too busy attending to their wants to do justice to his own. One lamp burned brightly over his head, and cast a bright glare on his book aud the desk. The tipi of the stops glittered, and the pipes overhead each had a long bar of yellow light. The outline of the large instrument was almost lost in the shadow. The church seemed to spread around, below and above him in silence and dusky shade. The arches overhead were barely visible, and far away the gilded leaves of the Bible on the desk caught the light in a spot; of yellow radiance. The windows looked black and deal, and every where, save by his seat, it was gloomy, vague and unreal. Absorbed in his music, he went on by the hour, little heeding any thing save the work in hand. The dim, si lent church behind him was quite un noticed, and he turned leaf after leaf, forgetful of both time and place. There was a soft step on the carpeted stairs, and a light figure in charming apparel and lovely looks came in and stood near by in silence. Presently he stopped, and, wiping his forehead, said, aloud : “ It is glorious.” She felt a pang of conscious jealousy in her heart, and silently advancing into the organ-loft she stood near him. He discovered her at the moment, and without rising, extended his hand and welcomed her with a smile. “ I happened to pass, and I tried the door. I found it unlocked—” “And you came in. How kind of you, dear.” “ Yes, I came in because—l want to see you—and to talk to you.” He made room for her on the broad smooth bench, and grasping one of the stops for a support, she mounted the high seat and sat clown. What a per fect picture she made, under the top light, and with the dark, carved organ for a background ! She turned partly round, and supported herself against the stops. Her splendid hair half ob scured the music-book, and one hand toyed with the white keys. He drew a soft stop on the other side, and sud denly the keys discoursed broken, dis cordant music beneath her jeweled fingers. He pushed the stop in hastily, and the keys were silent. “ Don’t; I want to play.” “ Oh ! you do care for music—just a little.” He drew another stop, and tier fin gers brought out rough bolts of noisy thunder. “ How provoking in you. That isn’t pretty. Give me something else.” He drew another stop, and the sounds flowed in liquid bird notes. ‘ ‘ Pretty —but trifling like most music.” “ Not all ?” “ Nearly all ” Then she paused for a moment, and’ straightening up sat close beside him, and gently drew her arm about his shoulder. * Then she said, abruptly: “My love, do me a favor.” * “ With all my heart.” Will you, really aud truly?” “Name it.” “Give up the organ.” “What do you mean?” “Give up the place. Don’t play any more.” ““Why not? ’ “ Because I want you to. Because— because it is better to go into business— just as other men do—and make a for tune —perhaps.” “ My love is ambitious.” “Yes, very.” “You are very frank,” he said, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s not for myself that I care. lam ambitious for you.” The lamp above them shone full on her fair face. Her airy, floating hair almost swept his cheek, and she suffered him to suppoit her with his arm. She was indeed winsome and very lovely. The organ-pipes were cold and glisten ing like frost. The ohurch seemed dark and chill. She alone, so near hm, seemed to express hope, joy, love— everything. It was a sore trial.. So young and so fair. She must be trne. Perhaps she was wise- He would hear her. “You see, my love, being an organist leads to nothing. If you gave it up you could give your whole attention to busi ness, and perhaps get on —and—well—l think it would be so much better every way.” “ Yes, it would be a gain in time; but you forget that I have not been very successful in business. I have not the business faculty. My education natu rally leads me to something different.” * l l know it, but you can not make any money.” “lam not so sure. My pupils in crease every day and the pay is excel lent.” “Ob, yes! but who wants to be a music-teacher ?” “I do.” “I know it, and I wish you didn’t.” “My love! we are coming to a dis agreement.” “ You are—you won’t do anything to gratify me.” “ Anything in reason, my dear.” , “ Oh ! if I’m unreasonable I’ve noth ing more to say.” She slid off the seat and stood erect on the floor behind him. He turned round and faced her with open-eyed surprise. “My dear ! you know I love you.” “ I am not sure. You will not give me what I want.” “I cannot.” “ Then you do not love me.” “ I love you too well to gratify your wish. It would be a serious mistake. I cannot change the whole manner of my life-” “ Not even to please me ?” “ You are not generous.” Without a word she turned away as if‘ to go down stairs into the church. Si lently he lit a candle that stood near, turned off the gas, and prepared to close the organ. The dark church seemed darker still. Gigantic shadows spread over the walls. His hands shook, and, in spite of himself, his eyes grew misty and dim. She was perfectly familiar with the place, and boldly went down the dark stairs aloue, with anger in her heart and bitter tears in her eyes. She was thank ful that the darkness would hide them. He followed her down the stairs, and, not finding her in the church, went into the vestibule. She was not there. She must have gone out. Blowing out his candle, he opened the street door and looked out. She was not in sight. Call ing her by name in the vestibule and church, aud receiving no answer, he went out and locked the door behind him. Annoyed and much disturbed that he could not find her, he walked on hastily toward home. She had not been there, and he hastily walked round the next square to her father’s house. To his surprise there was only one win dow lighted, and that was the drawing room window. He rang the bell, and a frightened servant girl put out her head and asked who was there. Was her young mistress not afc home? No; she had not returned. At first he had been angry, now he was alarmed. He re turned to the church. A watchman, as was his duty, had tried the door, and was just coming down the steps. Had he seen a young lady about ? No; young ladies were never out alone so late. He must go into the church to look for her. No; tbe watchman would not all w it. In vain he protested that he was the organist, and had a key. After some parley over it, the watchrraa consented, but said he should wait outside. Begging a match, he entered the church, found his candles, aDd with trembling steps entered the great dark church. It seemed cold and cheerless, and for a moment he paused perplexed. What had become of her? Had she fainted in the church ? It had hardly seemed possible. He went up tbe stairs, held the candle over his head, looked everywhere, called her name again and again. Not a sound in reply, save the echo of his own voice. In de spair he walked up the broad aisle. Nothing there. He went round to the side aisle, and nearly cried out of ter ror. She lay at full length upon the floor. The glare of the flickering can dle fell upon her pale face, and with a erv of anguish he knelt by her side and felt her pulse. Thank God! She was not deal. Setting the candle in a pew, he took her geutly up in his arms, and, carrying her to the chancel, laid her down on the step. A pew cushion made her more comfortable, aud with his hand kerchief he brought water from the baptismal font and bathed her fo uhead. She sighed a little, and he hastily pro cured the candle and lighed one of the chancel lamps. He would call the watchman and send for a carriage and help. As he started to go, she opened her eyes, recognized him, smiled feebly," and then closed them, as if in pain. “What is it love? Are you hurt ? Wbat ?” “A sprain—my foot. I heard you coming on the stairs and I hid myself, but I must have fainted. Take off—” “ Ah, yes, the shoe.” She put her hand over her mouth as he unfastened her gaiter. The foot was swollen, and she crie i out in spite of herself with the pain. “We must get you home at once. I will call a carriage.” “No—no—it will be better soon. Bathe it, please, dear.” He drew off her stocking and prepared to bathe her injured foot. His touch was like a woman’s. The water from the colil marble font seemed to relieve her. She sat up and leaned against the chancel rail, and watched him in silence. Presently she said : “How strong you are and so kind. What should I have done if you had not returned ? I recovered once in the dark, before you came. At first I thought I was dead—then—the pain reminded me, and then—that is all f remember. Strange, wasn’t it, that we should have had such a dreadful quar rel ? I was very angry when I came down stairs, and I did not mind my steps.” “We have had no quarrel. It takes two, you know.” “Oh! then you m' an to give it up ? Oh! lam so glad. “ Give up what?” “ The organ.” “ I did not say so.” “ Oh ! my love, you did.” “ Not knowingly.” Here a sharp twinge of pain caused her to catch her breath with a little cry and a start. “What is it?” “My foot—l think you are right—l must get home.” “Yes ; there is a watchman just out side. I will bid him call a carriage.” He ran breathless through the aisle, and in a moment returned, radiant. It would bu here in a moment. Let him wrap his coat about her foot aud carry her out. She suffered him to wrap her up, and then be took her up as if she had been a child. “Wait—wait just a moment. Sit down a moment. It has not come. Let me rest—so—in your arms.” How long the carriage delayed ! They sat thus on the chancel step for several moments, and then she said : “Oh ! I am so glad you mean to give up the organ. There’s n j money in it, you know.” “Why do you speak of it ? You know I can not. Ask some other favor, but not that.” She made a movement as if to escape from his arms. He restrained her not, and she tried to stand up. 'Die pain in her foot was too severe, and she sat down, white with aDguish. “You do not love me—it is no matter. Why has not the carriage come ?” “It will be here presently. Then you can go home.” For a few moments she turned away her head and was silent. Then she said in a constrained voice: “You will come and see me some times—and perhaps be my—friend—l shall miss—Hark ! Is that the carriage?” “No.” Then there was a long pause. Neith er spoke, and they could hear nothing save the drearv ticking of the clock in the gallery. She bowed her head upon her hands and he sat up, alert and list ening, but with a dreadful war in his heart. Was she so selfish? Was she really in earnest? Were they to thus part, and in such a place, at such an hour ? Thank heaven! for a moment at least he would fold her close, and then— A convulsive sob startled him. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. “Deaieat! None can see us save God. We are alone in his temple. In His name I ask you to forgive me, but I can not over-turn my whole life to please you. If we must part on this—it must be so, and God give me strength to bear it. I see that your heart is fixed on something else. Let us part in peace— if it must be. ’ She replied nothing for a moment, and then said, slowly: “You have the strength of a Samson. Your will is like iron.” “Yes. When I think I am in the right.” “And I suppose to carry out the an alogy you think me anew Delilah.” “Frankly, yes. You seek to bring me to the Philistinism of mere wealth and fashion. It is upon these things that your heart is placed. ” “You are cruel.” “Say, rather, truthful.” “It nurts, for all that.” “Oh, my love! my love ! how can I wound you. 1 mean no ill, but only the truth. Be strong, and Bee things as they are.” He drew her gently to him, and in mmgled shame, love and gratitude she laid her aching head upon his breast, and said : “My Samson ! Thou hast conquered me.” “Thank God! Hark! The carriage!” “Stay! one moment. Forgive me— and kiss me. Love is greater than money !” II AM IS OF AUTHORS. flow the World's Benefactor* Worked. The habits of “ those whose spectre ::s the pen, whose realm’s tiie mind,” will always have a curious interest for those who acknowledge their sceptre. The following scraps will go a little way toward gratifying it: BYRON. “At Distati,” says Moore, “ his life was passed in the same regular round cf habits into which he naturally fell. ’ These habits included very late hofirs and semi-starvation, assisted by smok ing cigars and chewing tobacco, and by green tea in the evening without milk, or sugar. Like Balzac, he avoided meat and wine, and so gave less uatura brain-food room for more active play. SCHILLER. Schiller was a night-worker and e coffee-drinker, and used to work on champagne. Not only so, but he used an artificial stimulus altogether peculiar to himself—he found it impossible, ac cording to the well-known anecdote, to work except in a room filled with the scent of rotten apples, which he kept in a drawer of his writing-table, in order to keep up his necessary mental atmos phere. Shelley's practioe of continually munching bread while composing is not a mere trivial gossip when taken in con nection with more striking and intelligi ble attempts to ruin the digestion by way of exciting the brain, and when it is remembered that his delicate and al- j most fiminine organization might re- j quire far less to throw it off the ba’ance than naturally stronger frames. , OOETHH. There are, however, two great imag inative authors of the first rank whom believers in the plainest doctrine that the highest and freest work can be done under tha healthiest conditions of fresh air, earlv hours, daylight, and temper ance—which does not mean abstinence have always claimed for their own. One of these is Goethe. He md Balzac are at precisely opposite poles in their way of working. Here is the account of Goethe’s days at Weimar, according to Mr. G. H. Lewes. He rose at seven. Till eleven be walked without interrup tion. A cup of chocolate was then brought, and he worked on until one. At two he dined. “ His appetite was immense. Even on the days when he complained of not being hungry he ate much more than most men. * * * He sat a long while over his wine, chat ting gayly, for he never dined alone. * * * He was fond of wine, and drank daily his two or three bottles.” There was no dessert—Balzac’s princi ple meal—or coffee. Tbeu he went to the theatre, where a glass of punch was brought him at 6. or else he received friends at home. By ten o’clock he was in bed, where he slept aoundly. “Like Thorwaldsen, he had a talent for sleep ing.” No man of business or dictionary maker could make a more healthy ar rangement of his hours. SIR WALTER SCOTT. The following instance of imaginative work triumphantly carried on under the most admirably healthy conditions is that of Scolfc. He used to finish the princioal part of his day’s work before breakfast, and when even busiest, seldom worked as late as noon. And the end of that apparently most admir ably healthy working life we also know, “Ivanhoe,” and the “Bride of Lsmtner moor” were dictated under the tt rrible stimulus of physical pa’n, which wrung groans from between the words. The very two novels wherein the creative power of the arch-master of romance shows itself strongly were composed in tbe midst of literal birth-throes. It was then he made the grimmest of all bad puns. When his audible suffering filled every pause, “Nay, Willie, ad dressing Laidlaw, who wrote for him and implored him to rest, only see that the doors are fast. I would fain keep all the cry as well as ail the wool to ourselves; but to giving over work, that can only be when lam in woolen.” Herker is aoensed by De Quincey in direct terms of having broken down prematurely because he “led a life of most exemplary temperance. * * * Surely if he had been a drunkard or an opium-eater he might have contrived to weather the point of sixty years.” This is putting things pretty stiODgly, but it is said of a man of great imagina tive power by a man of great imaginative power, aud may, therefore, be taken as the opinion of an expert, all the more horiest because he is prejudiced. The true working life of Scott, who helped nature by no artificial means, lasted for no more than twelve years, from the publication of “Waveriv” till the year in which his genius was put into harness; so that of the two men, Soott and Bal zac, who began a literary life at nearly tbe same age, and were both remarkable for splendid constitutions, the man who ived abnormally beat the man who lived healthily by full eight years of good work, and kept bis imagination in full vigor to the end. DR. JOHNSOX. Johnson—who, whatever may bs thought of his imaginative powers, was another type—struck off his “Rambles and Idler.*,” at a heat, when the sum mons of the press forbade his indolence to put off his work for another moment; he did not give himself even a minute to read over his papers before they went t? the printers. He wonld not have written “Rasselas,” except for the necessity of paying for his mother’s funeral; and yet he was a laborious worker where the imagination was not concerned. VICTOR HUGO. Victor Hugo is said to have locked np his clothes while writing “Notre Dame,” so that he micnt not escape from it till the last word was written. In such cases the so-called “pleasures of imagination” look singularly like the pains of stone-breaking. THE BEST TIME EOR LITERARY LABOR. That night and not morning is most appropriate to imaginative work is sup ported by a general consent among those who have followed instinct in this matter. Upon this question, which can scarcely be called vexed, Charles Lamb is the classical authority. “No true poem ever owed its birth to the sun’s light. The mild internal light, that re veals the fine shapings of poetry, like fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sunshine. Milton’s morning hymn in Paradise, we would hold a good wager, was penned at midnight; and Taylor’s rich description of a sun rise smells decidedly of the taper.” Retail cigar dealers are unhappy over the new cigar box which has per forated coupons on the inside edge, corresponding with the number of cigars in the box. The coupons are furnished by the government in place of stamps,- and when a cigar is sold a coupon has to be destroyed- before the purchaser. Before long they will have each ocktail, manufactured for married men, announced to their wives by a telegraphic bell-punch VOL. 16-NO. 21. BAYI3MS AND DOINGS. Eatiko onions is ground for divorce in Missouri if husband or wife want to be mean about it. It is said that linen dusters, after the Ulster pattern, reaching to the heels and girded \.ith a belt, will be fashion able for gentlemen this summer. They may be fashionable, but they won’t be pretty. A man digging a well in New Jersey oame acros3 a hoopskirt eighteen feet beneath the surface of the ground, and it flew up and struck him across the nose just as naturally as if he had oome across it in an alley. A very pretty Sunday-school song is the one entitled, “Put your armor on, my boys.” There is, however, a young lady in our town who doesn’t like to hear it. She says it sounds like “Put your arm around me, boys,” and it al ways makes her feel loneeome. The National Live Stock Journal does not go much on bullocks weighing from two to three tons. It says : “The me dium sized bullock is not only the best beef, as a general rule, but is by far the most profitable. The big steers are always fed at a loss, unless the owner gets his money back by exhibitions, or some other means than th* sale of the carcass. ” Robert Burns’ autograph sold in London, the other day, for £6O, while Q leen Elizabeth’s brought only quarter that sum. “ The rank is but the guinea’s stamp. A man’s a man for a’ that.” Barbara Freitchie’s hash having been settled, and the discovery made that she is a Quaker lie, gamie with Hessian fly sauce, will somebody now inform us if any such boy as “ Excel sior” ever existed and climbed a hill with “a banner of strange device?” — Richmond Enquirer. Dinoler’s Pyrotechnic Journal con tains an account of researches made by Dr. Otto Krause, of Annaberg, on to bacco smoke, which he finds contains constantly a considerable quantity of carbonic oxide. The after effects of smokiDg are said to be principally caused by this poisonous gas, as the Bmoke: never can prevent a part of the smoke from descending to the lungs, and thns the poisoning is unavoidable. Dr. Ivrause is of opinion that the after-effects are all the more energetic, the more in experienced the smoker is, and he thns explains the unpleasant results of the first attempts at smoking, which are generally ascribed to nicotine alone. Friendship, love and truth ! Aye, my brothers, they are “three sunny islands in the river of life; three links amid the golden fetters” which link heart with heart in the sweet confidence of a sublime brotherhood. They are “ Three watch-lights on the stormy highlands, Of earth’s wave-beated strand ; Three harbors among the rocky islands. Begirt with treacherous sands. Three life-preservers on time’s ocean, With dangerous reefs below; Three voices ’mid the heart’s oommotion, To hash its strains of woe. “Three blossoms from the land of flowers. To cheer the fainting soul; Three rays of beauty from the bower, Be\ ond life’s utmost goal. Three strains of rapturous music swelling. Around the burial sad; Three pillars in the holy dwelling, The temple of our God.” Dan Davis, of Virginia City, paid a visit to Promontory, on the Central Pacific railroad, and was charmed with the manners and customs —almost patri archal in iheir frank simplicity—of the people. He stopped at the principal hotels of the town. It was a nice place, and the landlord w s a very agreeable and friendly sort of a man. Says Dan : "When dinner was ready the landlord nan e out mto the street in front of his hotel with a double barreled shot gun. liaising the gun above his head, he tired off one barrel. I said to him, ‘What did you do that for?’ Said he, ‘To call my boarders to dinner.’ I gaid, ‘ Why don’t you fire off both bar rels ?’ ‘ Oh,’ said he, ‘ I keep the other ot collect with.’” The Month op May.—Here is what Jack-in-the-pulpit says in St. Nicholas for May: This is May, my children, but 1 m not at all sure that she will give us spring v eather. The months seem to have a curious way of swapping weather with each other. March will borrow some fine days from May, and theD, when May comes along, we find that she has tiken some of March’s blustering winds ip. payment. By the way, the pretiy school mistress wr tea very queer piece about the months one day, just to amuse tbe children, as they sat with her upon the willow stumps in my meadow. She called it an acrostic. I couldn’t help learning it by heart, not because I thought it pretty, nor because it was so tueer. bat because each one of little f elks ia turn insisted upon reading it alond. So you, too, shall have a chance, my dears : THE BAD HTOBY OF LITTLE JANE. Jan—e. little saint, was sick and faint, Feb—rifnge she had none; Mar—malade seemed to make her worse, Apr—icote were all gona. May—be. she thought, in some fair field, June—berries sweet may grow ; July—and June they searched in vain, Aug—menting a'l her woe. Sept—imus failed to find a pill— Oct —oroon slave was he; Nov—ioe, poor thing, at feeling 11, Dec—eased ere long was she. A Circus of Fleas. The latest excitement in Berlin is the exhibition of drilled fleas. The exhibi tion takes place on a large sheet of white piper, fastened upon an ordinary table, to which all the spectators approach in turns, so as to be able to witness in all details the extraodinary macoauvers of these little, but marvelously powerful aid gifted rascals. Here you see one of the muscular fleas rolling a small barrel along with its feet, as the men do in the c reus ; there you see a slim, voluptuously built madam of the species walking along in crinoline and carrying her parasol, with all the affectation of a <r ty miss; at another place a well trained follow performs on the flying trapeze without any danger to his neck, how ever, since the biggest fall would not break that; while below the trapeze, on the paper, a host of little ones are turn ing somersaults at a fearful rate. The largest specimens of the collection have been trained to draw wagons, drays, carriages, etc. To fix the harness properly on them, the flea-tamer places h s pupils on a piece of paj>er oovered with mucilage, where they have to stick. Be then, by the aid of a watchmaker’s loop, arranges a strong gold thread aiound their bodies, and attaches it to ti e wagon or carnage. The ladies of Berlin attend the exhibition in large numbers, and seem to take an extraor dinary delight in the performance of the little creatures, who ate fed Tegu larly every morniag from the arm of-the gi eat flea- tamer. A similar exhibition wis given, we believe, in London, a few years ago.