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passed unheeded. I once picked a rich and rare opal, a gira.sole, from the bed of the Gulpha, and the next moment I had tossed it away and laughed at its rich fire-gleam, deep in its heart, as it lay shining in the crystal waters of this mountain stream. I still wandered, and stayed out longer than ever. I was getting weak and heart-sick, and heavy with disappointment. Sometimes I raved, and cursed the old African and his story, and Cursed deep and strong as only a rheumatic can curse when tendon and ligament tighten around his joints like imple ments of torture. I felt that this could not last; I must cease this crazy search and attend to my immediate health. I must return to my doctor, I heard, a human voice, soft, low and sweet, vel vety and gentle as the love-cooing of a dove. The singer was invisible, but the sound seemed to come from a cluster of wild azaleas and bramble just a few feet above me. I listened in wrapt surprise. The song was low and sweet, but in a language I had never before heard. protege. Her lot in life has been a hard one, sir: and yet, she is one of the best children I ever knew.” “ Hold on ! not so fast,” exclaimed Miss Shel ton, “ who said it was impossible? True, such a thing never occurred to me before, but to tell ‘ Yes, sir; I have been so impressed by her 1 you the truth. Joe, 1 believe you are worth more manner and conversation that I would like to know something of her history.” “ Well, sir, her history is a remarkable one, than all the men in the county, notwithstanding your misfortune. On second thought, I believe I will rnarrv vou—on one condition; and that is Lindsy. He did not at first seem to realize the extent of his bereavement; he sat all day list lessly watching the preparations for burial, without uttering a word or sound; but when the body was placed in the coffin he rushed forward and seized the ice-cold hand and stood for some time gazing upon the peaceful face as if bewild- The thought uppermost in my mind was that and if you are not too much fatigued by your j that you will keep your own counsel, and meet ered; then suddenly he threw kimselt upon the some girl of the country had wandered here to day’s ride I will give it to you.” * ' j me at Mr. Green’s, next Thursday evening at ; corpse and gave vent to ^the wildest, most ter- “I am not the least tired,” I gather fern and wild flowers, and was then en gaged at this little pastime, so popular among the ladies of the Valley. I cautiously approached the clump of azaleas, and with considerable difficulty parted the branches and overhanging vines. I looked rely upon him, and not on this dream, this ignis \ through the open space tius made, and saw the fatuus, this goo-roo story of the fetish African; but, infatuated, fascinated like one who follows a jack-o’-lantern, I kept up my reckless, foolish search for a while longer. All the folk-lore of demons and devils, the banshees of Scotland and Rakshasas of In dia, the Sin Leaca of Scandinavia, fairies, sirens, good spirits and bad, went trooping through my mind day and night. The bald mythology of the old Norse plages, their Vikings, their Odin and Thor; the mythical Edda of Iceland; the Ragnarok and Fenris- wolf; the weird old stories of kings and queens who lived immediately after the Azoic period; Aryans in Ceylon, Buddhas in India; the Glo- cial heroes; pre-historic, pre-Adamite men, who dwelt by the light of the jokuls under the north pole before it was merged into the Glacial epoch; the Cabiri; the ante-Shemitic races; the mysteri ous vagabonds that Cain dwelt with, and from whom he obtained a wife; all of these hoary antedeluvians of long-lost years, periods and epochs were mingled in inextricable confusion in my mind, while I thought of the long-lived maiden, who was still fresh and blooming, not withstanding she might have oarried centuries upon centuries, and might perchance be one of the immediate relics of the age succeeding the Azoic period. She could tell me of the hidden past—the mighty, dead, mysterious past. She could tell me of the traditions of early times, the folk-lore of the days of Abraham, Semiramis, the Pharaohs, Memnon, Osiris, Ammon, the sea de ities, the Pleiades, and those old worthies who had so rare and rollicking times in their day. She could point out the exact spot where lay this Fountain of Youth, and then—then—all my trouble would end. Such dreams as these, such madness and folly, bewilderment and mystery, led me on, a willing victim. I had ignored so ciety and had scorned “ my doctor” so long that I felt ashamed to show my sunburnt face and haggard visage again among men. But, with all this unusual exercise and harassing state of mind, my bodily health improved. The nodules and contractions of my limbs and muscles had nearly all disappeared, my gastrocnemius had softened, my metatarsals had straightened out, and the phalanges of hand and foot stood in symmetrical rows. I had produced a cure by actual supersession, a mental cure by a purely mental hallucination, a marvel to myself and to others. But to my story. One day I had wandered further than usual. I had ascended the Hot Springs Mountain at the foot of the Great Tufa Cliff, this wonderful calcareous deposit from the hot lime-water, which must have required cen turies upon centuries in its formation, consider ing that a deposit as thin as mica sheets is the result of more than two years’ action of this water as it runs steaming-hot from its thermal reservoirs. The undiminished flow of water, regardless of heat or cold, rain or drought; the invariable temperature except in long, rainy sea sons; the peculiar heat, constant, penetrating and magnetic, fill the beholder and intelligent thinker with amazement. The great central fires that heat their calcareous walls, and send their vapors and electric heats through earth’s inner reservoirs, and force them ever upwards to the cool surface, must feed upon themselves by the spontaneous development of ever-form ing, ever-renewing, latent heat in the earth’s centre. If ever-burning, ever-consuming and unquenchable, like the fanatic’s dream of To- phet, these fires must be kept alive by self development of latent heat, inherent, inexhaust ible, ever-growing, ever-renewing in the molten mass at the centre, feeding upon themselves. Water and caustic lime! Nonsense; the lime would be slacked and the heat would be extin guished within a thousand years. And yet these hot springs have been flowing for centuries— perhaps in the Azoic period, before man was, and when all primitive things were embraced in a few elements, as the gaseous and the solids; and when oxygen and hydrogen first united, under God's mandate, to form water, the union may have taken place around and about the great central fires. Quien sabe ? I had ascended to the summit of the moun tain, passed the old woman’s house, and walked slowty along the rocky dorsum of the hill—dor sum immane—with its crest of novaculite striated with chalcedonic veins—on, still on, along the precipices that overhang the Gulpha, farther, still farther on into a labyrinth of mountains and valleys, far past the old Crater, so called, up and down, across rills and gulches, over fallen trees and rocks, blackened and blasted by lightning and the storms of hundreds of years, into the very heart of the mountain fastnesses where silence broods from year to year, unbro ken except by a straggling hunter, or some cu rious searcher after mineral wealth. I stopped to rest beneath the shadow of a great rock, for the autumn sun was shining bright and hot; the mountain towered high and precipitous; the tall pines waved and sighed, and a sad, oppressive stillness reigned. For the first time, I reflected upon the still ness of the place, the time I had consumed in coming, and the distance I must have traversed. Looking at my watch, I found I bad been out six hours, and it was now noon. I now felt that horror which crushes a man when he finds that he is lost—lost in the forest, lost in the moun tains, or still worse, lost on a boundless prairie. I sat, stone-cold, petrified with terror. I re membered that I had crossed and re-crossed the Gulpha several times in the morning, and I must now be several miles from it. I could not tell the points of the compass; the mosses and lichens grew thick around the bodies of the trees, and the entire surface of the rocks was covered with the same, regardless of northern or southern exposure. I climbed to the crest of the mountain, and looked in every direction. No familiar peak or prominence met my view. I descended again to the huge rock and sat down, exerting the utmost self-control to pre vent a wild bewilderment of my faculties. I plucked a few ferns; the beautiful polypodiem, with its feathery fronds, grew about me; its young leaves were circinated and curled like hairy centipedes, and their touch repelled me with disgust. A spray of wild blue asters, with golden eyes, hung from the rocks, but they had no beauty for me. I was sitting on a huge block of striated nov aculite, and at my feet was a pit, in which lay myriads of stone-chips, that the primitive man ufacturers of arrow-heads had left there years before. The tall mountain was behind me, and a tall mountain in front, with a deep, narrow defile between, with pools of bright, limpid water resting on a bed of beautiful pebbles— some a deep, dark crimson, ferruginous and solfarino; some milky-white, and others clear and translucent as agate. I searched for the course of the drift in this torrent bed, determ ining to follow it, and knowing it must ulti mately lead me to the banks of the Ouachita or the Saline. While sitting with the listlessness and apathy of an almost hopeless case, I heard, or fancied entrance to what appeared to be a cavern, with damp walls, down which the water trickled, and replied, “ and would like to hear it by all means.” “ Well, then; some years ago there lived in this neighborhood a Miss Susie Shelton, who was considered the prettiest girl the county ever produced. But, pretty as she was, she consti tuted one of the strangest compounds of human incongruities that ever existed. Being the sun to the little social system in which she moved, down which huge masses of creepers, lichens j she kept that entire system in constant confu- ! rest.” at once.” “ Now, I am surprised. I will be but too happy to comply with your conditions, if you are in earnest.” “Of course, lam in earnest.” “But what will your father say ?” “You leave all that to me and be promptly on hand at the appointed time. I’ll manage the sion by the extreme eccentricity of her own ! “Very well, but vfhat*-pj:oof have I that jou orbit. She seemed to make it the rule of her ; are in earnest?” said the doijrtjting Joseph. life to do nothing that was expected of her, and j she never was known to do or say anything that Is that proof enough ?” said the little sauce box, as she. stood on tip-toe and gave bashful any one else in the world would have done or j Joe a lfiss that raised his kijir on end. said under similar circumstances. Her beauty, , What^Joe said or did at this juncture is tin intelligence and impudence, together with her ! known. * But he was satisfied, and soon after- and mosses swung in fantastic festoons. Still the sound of the human voice undulated upon the air of the damp chamber, the singer still invisible. I walked forward boldly, hoping to see some human being who would extricate me from these mountain wilds, and lead me back to the hotel. Turning a sharp abutment of sand- .... -o — stone rock, gray with moss, I beheld an object father’s reputed wealth, gave her complete sway \ wards leff^hehcrase,-^ happier man than he had that struck me with unutterable, ineffable emo- " " ... ... . * i1 - 1 ' “* tions. Standing within a glyph on the side of the cavern, was the object that struck me with amazement. It was the form of a young girl, of so radiant a beauty, so perfect a figure, so wild and unusual in habiliments, that I stood stock still, with eyes riveted upon her. She was standing on a rock, trailing to the walls a mass of strange wild flowers of brilliant form and color. Her arms were extended upwards, white and smooth as Persian marble; her head hung slightly back, and face upturned towards the mass of vines which she was holding. Her hair hung loose and fell down her back in a rich over all the marriageable young men of the sur rounding country, and from all accounts, she used her power without mercy. Upon one occasion, it was ascertained by some of her humerous suitors that she had re jected every young man who could gain access to her shrine, within a radius of twenty miles from her father’s house—except one Joe Lindsy. Now, Joe was somewhat singular in his compo sition. as well as Miss Shelton. He was a young man of good standing, well connected, and pos sessed of average intelligence. He was really entertaining at times in conversation, when _ dealing with abstract principles; but, strange to mass of living, moving gold, that swayed and j say, his mind seemed to be almost totally devoid curled as if instinct with animated life and joy of soul. Long, wavy and rich it descended to the ground and trailed behind her in curls ever moving, vibrating and stretching out like sen- siferous palpi. A single young fern leaf decked the occifital region of her head from ear to ear like a deeply-dentated comb, the terminal point on one side ending in a circinnated convolution like a torpid centipede. Her dress was a single tunic of white linen, so spare, so scant, so close, and so like the nepinchins of the present day, that the glorious outlines of her faultless figure were plainly discerned. No dream of sculptor’s genius could have rivaled that matchless con tour. No Phrynne, Zeuxis, Ariadne, or Helen, no Venus di Medici, or Hebe, could have sur passed this living, breathing marvel as she stood clinging to the wall and the vines, the effort to stand bringing into play every muscle and limb, and showing in bold relief every line and curve of her lithe and sinuous body. A loose scarf of Dapbue bark hung in a single knot around her waist, after the fashion of the early Celtic maid ens. Still, that low, cooing, dove-voice con tinued in words that I had never heard before— a language of winged, immortal beings, so strange, so unearthly, that I was still standing spell-bound. All at once, the story of the old negro rushed into my mind, and like an electric shock acting upon over-wrought nerves, it forced a cry of joy from me. (TO BE CONTINUED.) [For The Sunny South.J Eainy-Day Sketches. A STRANGE MARRIAGE; OR, The Forgetful Mail. BY M. T. SINGLETON. Some years ago, while traveling through the mountains of North Georgia, I drew rein about sunset in front of an unimposing double log house in quest of lodging for the night. The house was situated near the summit of one of the spurs of the Blue Ridge, and the view from its locality was one of the most magnificent I ever beheld. I will not attempt to describe the scene spread out before me; lor, to those who have ever witnessed a sunset in our Georgia mountains, my picture would appear insignifi cant; and as to those who have never had that pleasure, I could give them no idea of its gran deur. As I waited for an answer to my summons, I became so absorbed in the contemplation of the glorious scene around me that I was somewhat startled as a timid voice said “Light and come in, sir.” On looking around, I saw a little girl, apparently about twelve years old, standing at the gate. She was not very pretty, but there was a sad, inquiring expression about her face— as if she dwelt in an immaterial world, and was in constant wonder at her own existence and the incomprehensible things around her—an ex pression which, at the first glance, struck me so forciby that I have never forgotten it. “Is your father at home?” I asked. “I would like to spend the night with him.” “Mr. McMillan lives here,” she replied, “and I am living with him. He and aunt Carrie have gone down to the spring. Walk into the house, sir, and take a seat. I will go and call them.” “Mr. McMillan is your uncle, then,” I said, as I threw my bridle-rein over the gate-post. “No, sir; my name is Susie Lindsy. I call him uncle and his wife aunt because they are so kind to me.” “You have been so unfortunate, then, per haps, as to lose your father and mother?” “ No, sir. My father lives over the mountain, but—he doesn’t know me." And great tears rushed to her large brown eyes as she ran off towards the spring, leaving me deeply regret ting my inquisitiveness and greatly mystified by her last words. I did not go into the house, but met Mr. and Mrs. McMillan at the fence as the3 T returned from the spring, the one carrying a huge jug of butter-milk and the other a cake of nice, fresh, yellow butter just from the ice-cold “spring- house.” As I introduced myself, they greeted me with as much cordiality as if I had been an intimate friend and invited me into the house. The house, though built of logs, was snug and comfortable, and indoors was remarkably neat and tidy, while about everything there was an air of prosperity. The supper, which Mrs. Mc Millan and little Susie prepared themselves, consisted of nice, hot Graham bread, cold tur key (wild), home-made cheese, poached eggs, fresh milk and butter, and honey, all served with a cleanliness truly bewitching. The recol lection of that supper, sitting down to it as I did with a most ravenous appetite, always brings with it such a longing sensation about me that I j refer to it reluctantly. During my stay here, I met with that genuine mountain hospitality of the olden time, which the war and modern progress (?)—or modern cupidity—have to some extent obliterated. Af ter a short conversation, I found that Mr. Me- j Millan had known my grandfather, and we soon became fast friends. of the faculty of memory. Often, in trying to recover some lost idea, he would get things strangely mixed up. Indeed, into so many awk ward and embarrassing positions did this sad deficiency throw him, that he led a rather se cluded life and scarcely ever mingled in society, and when he did, it was only to become a butt of that class found in every community, who never scruple to have thei fun and amusement at the expense of others, regardless of their feel ings. In order to have a little fun, then, these van quished knights managed, in some way, to cre ate the impression upon Joe’s mind that Miss Shelton was very much in love with him, and I guess the poor fellow, being possessed of his share of that common heritage of the human race, vanity, was not hard to convince. This impression being once fixed in Joe’s cranium, they found no difficulty in persuading him to propose to Miss Shelton forthwith. Accordingly, he set out at once for Judge Shelton’s residence, his advisers following, but stopping at a con venient distance from the house to await the re sult. The Judge met Joe at the door himself, and the following conversation ensued: “Good morning, Joe.” “Good-morning, Judge.” “Your father and mother well?” “Very well, I thank you. How is your fam ily?” “Quite well. Walk in, sir.” “No, thank you, I haven’t time. I only wish to speak with you a moment. ” “ Well, sir, what is it?” “Tom Kelly, and some of the boys, were tell ing me that you had a filly you wanted to trade. I thought I would come by and see if we couldn’t strike a bargain.” Why, no, Joe; there must be some mistake. I have no such animal.” “Well, there must be something wrong. Per haps I have forgotten—what the deuce was it those boys told- me ? I’ll find-&ut and call again. Good morning. Judge.” “ Good morning, Joe.” And thus ended Joe’s first courtship. “I say, boys,” exclaimed Joe, on rejoining his companions, “what does this mean? Judge Shelton says he hasn’t got any filly.” “Well, who said he had?” replied Tom Kelly. “You said so.” “No, I didn't. I told you that his witch of a daughter was dead in love with you, and that you could get her for the asking. Did you see her?” “Oh ! that was it, was it? No, I don’t think I saw her—am not certain. I’ll go back again.” And away he went on his second tour. “ Well, Joe, I am glad to see you back again,” said the good-natured Judge, as he met him at the door the second time. “Walk in, sir.” “Thank you, sir. If Miss Susie is not en gaged, I would like to see her a few moments on important business.” “Very well,” replied Judge Shelton, as he conducted him into the parlor, “be seated, and I will send her to you.” Although Joe had but a short while to wait, his eyes had become satisfactorily confused, when the gay anu gushing Susie presented her self before him. “Bless my life! if it isn’t really dear old Joe Lindsy ! To what strange freak of fortune am I indebted for this visit? I thought you had en tirely forgotten me.” “I am rather forgetful, Miss Susie, replied Joe, coloring, “but I have not gone so far yet as to forget my friends.” “It looks very much that way. I haven’t had a real good look at you, even, since you used to climb the chestnut trees for us girls, when we went to school to “old Bangs,” and knock down and “ crack out” the green chestnuts for us— against old Bangs’ orders. And my ! what hor rid faces you would make as I picked the briers out of your fingers afterwards ! And then we girls used to whisper and “tell ” you, when you went to recite, and old Bangs would make us stand in the middle of the floor on one foot for it. Do you remember it, Joe ?” “I don’t believe I do, exactly, Miss Susie; but it doesn’t matter.” “ The idea ! You certainly could not have en joyed those school-days as I did, Joe, or you would not so soon have forgotten them. How ever, I believe you came to see me on business, did you not?” “Did I? I really can’t say—let me see—I be lieve there teas something i wanted to say to you, but I can’t think what it was just now.” “There it is again ! Well, while you are try ing to refresh your memory, I will go to the piano and sing you a little song.” When she finished the song Joe was standing by her side with boyish tears trickling down his cheeks and a bright boyish expression on his face which it had not known for years. “Susie,” he said, “I remember those school days now. You girls used to steal my dinner bucket, and sing that song while you marched around it, with joined hands to keep me from it. And I also remember something that used to take possession of me then, and rendered me happy and miserable. And this sweet recollec- eight o’clock, and have the ceremony performed rible bursts of grief ever heard. He raved like 1 a mad-man when the corpse was removed from the house, and continued to do so until late in the night. By morning, however, he had sub sided into, if possible, a more complete forget fulness of himself and the world than ever, and he looked at least ten years older. Joe Lindsy has never spoken from that day to this, nor has he since recognized his little daughter. On the day after his wife was buried, I brought him and his daughter to my house, but no sooner was my back turned than he rushed from the door and ran home as if all the furies in the universe were after him. I brought him back several times, but always with the same result. Finally I confined him in a close room, where he remained perfectly quiet for about an hour. Then he made a sudden dash at the door and tore it from its hinges. Finding one door of the next room closed, and myself entering at the other, he made a rush for the window and actually went through the sash. I never molested him afterwards. He has ever been before. Jfeaaonnted his horse at the gate and put him at once into a full gallop. Nor did he heed the shouts of his friends in ambus cade, but maintained his speed until he reached his father’s house. Miss Shelton watched him from the window until he passed out of sight; and then returned I lived at his old home ever since, and is one of to her daily duties with the single remark: “ I guess there’ll be some excitement in this community about next Friday.” Joe slept well that night; in fact, too well, for while he slumbered, some invisible hand, as it were, wiped from his mind all record of the events of the previous day, and by morning Joe Lindsy was himself again. This temporary restoration of his lost faculty I seems rather strange, but not more than the fact j of his having lost it, his mind being in other the most harmless, inoffensive beings you ever saw. He never leaves his room, but sits quietly in the corner, never speaking or noticing any- thing. His food has to be placed in his mouth, and it is often difficult to get him to eat at all. An old negro woman who nursed him when a child lives with him and takes care of him, and she performs her trust well. Little Susie goes over every day in all kinds of weather to see him, and always carries him some little delicacy in the way of food, prepared respects apparently sound and vigorous. But j by her own hands. To see her fondle and caress this is something for the doctors to discuss. Joe’s prospective bride, however, was not to be thwarted in this way, for, .anticipating a re lapse, she procured an ally, and through his agency had all the preliminaries perfected in due time. She also manoeuvred as to receive an invitation to spend Thursday night with her friend, Miss Julia Green, which she accepted— after some hesitation—her ally making himself responsible for the appearance of the bride groom. That personage put in his appearance about eight o’clock, and Miss Shelton soon found op portunity of having a little private conversation with him. As she suspected, he had forgotten him, and try to get him to notice or speak to her, is a sight that would bring tears to any one’s eyes. I was the purchaser of Judge Shelton’s place. The house, which stood further down the hill, was burned several years ago. I bnilt this as a temporary shelter, and have not yet been able to build a better one. The J edge will return to Georgia next fall and take charge of the Lindsy property, which now belongs to Susie. I am managing the estate at present. I must beg your pardon for spinning out my story so long. I did not intend to do so.” I assured him that no apology was necessary; their former interview, but confessed to a cons- that I had been too deeply interested to note ciousness of his love for her, of which, he said, her presence could never fail to remind him, and expressed his eagerness to have their for tunes united. Whereupon the indomitable Su sie conducted him forthwith into the presence of Mr. Obdaiah Green, J. P., who sat in the next room, quietly reading the county paper, and made known to him their wishes. That worthy’s astonishment can better be imagined than described. He remonstrated in vain; all his objections were in turn overruled, and the couple remained determined, while Miss Shelton's ally and Miss Green took their side of the question. Both parties being of age, the Squire finally aknowledged himself vainquished, and pro ceeded to tie that complicated little knot at which so many couples have gnawed and fretted through life. Just before the party broke up, Susie took from her hand a quaint, old ring which had been worn by her grandmother and placed it upon Joe’s little finger as a reminder of what had trans pired, which lie solemnly vowed never to forget. Next morning, before the news of the marriage had gained circulation, Judge Shelton, on his way to his farm, met Joenear his front gate, who after the usual greeting asked if Miss Susie was at home. “No, she spent the night at Mr. Green’s and has not returned yet. Any message to leave for her?” “I think,” said Joe, handing the Judge a small parcel done up in tissue paper, “this is her ring. I don’t know where I got it; must have picked it up somewhere.” “Yes.it is hers,” replied the old gentleman, “ I am very much obliged to you. I will hand it to her.” And the two separated, both wondering how that ring came into Joe’s possession. As a matter of course, the news of the marriage produced a great sensation in the county and was the great topic of conversation for many days. Judge Shelton rebuked his daughter very severely at first, but, like all sensible men should do when they can’t help themselves, soon became reconciled. Ater some discussion between the two families, it was agreed that the pair should live, for the present, with the bride's father. The constant talk of the affair, together with his wife’s presence, convinced Joe that he was married, and he accordingly took up his abode in his new quarters. Susie - or rather Mrs. Lindsy—began at once every little art imaginable to recall past events to her husband’s mind in the hope of restoring his memory. But greatly to her disappointment every effort failed. Even the little song which had produced such a wonderful effect on a former occasion, and others of the same kind, proved ineffective. These old songs and recitals of past scenes seemed, however, to act upon his imagination, for he would often claim that they reminded him of things which never happened. Everything went on smoothly enough, however, so long as he remained in the presence of his wife, but if he ever went off anywhere without her, he remained out for the day, and when night approached, as if by the force of an old habit, he would go straight to his father’s house i and quietly enter his own apartments, and , there he would remain until sent for or remind- j ed that he had a wife. About two years after his marriage—by which ' time he had acquired the habit of returning to ■ Judge Shelton's at night—Joe became the father of a little girl, now our Susie. A short while after this event, Judge Shelton becoming involved sold out and went to Texas, and our youn Lindsy’s. the passage of time. This strange story of real life haunted my dreams that night, and little Susie’s sad, in quiring face sometimes disturbs my slumbers, even now. Funny Mistakes of Amateurs We have had a large share in amateur acting in our time, and can recall a good many incid ents which were death to the actor, but fun to the spectators, though the dramatic illusion was for the moment destroyed. On one occasion a performer, having to re count the particulars of an interview with a lady, suddenly forgot part of what she had said to him. Moving to the prompter’s side, he asked, in a loud whisper: “ What the devil did she say to me ?” The prompter, at that moment, had his atten tion drawn from his book and was scolding the call boy. “D.on't be such a d d fool,” exclaimed the prompter to the boy. The actor immediatety and most unconscious ly repeated the words to the immense diversion of the audience, who had heard the prompter. The old stage blunder in “Richard the Third” of substituting “ My lord, stand back and let the parson cough," for “let the coffin pass," was a piece of unpremeditated transposition which has often been repeated on amateur boards. We have heard a “gypsy tent ” for a “ tipsy gent,’’and Macduff, in the tempest of his lament ation, say: “ What! all the little chickens and the ham" for “ their dam.” Another point in which amateurs often fail, though rationally gifted with “ the gab,” is in impromptu addresses to an audience when cir cumstances call for an apology or explanation. We were about to perform the opera of “ Guy Mannering” at an amateur theatre, when just before the hour of commencing, we received a note from the intended representative of Henry Bertram, informing us that there was joy in his household, for his wife had presented him with a son, and he could not possibly appear; the opera should be postponed. We exclaimed, on reading the letter: “ What a calamity !” But as we could not then postpone the per formance—for the audience had assembled—we requested a friend. Captain Thomas, who was dressed for Colonel Mannering, to go forward and explain to the people what had happened, and claim their indulgence for a person who would read the part of Bertram. Thomas, with our sudden exclamation ringing in his ears, went before the curtain and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, in consequence of a severe domestic ‘ calamity’ Captain C., who was to have played Henry Bertram," etc. The audience rose. “Heavens ! what has happened? Is Mrs. C. dead ?” She was universally respected. Several gent lemen rushed out, but before the house could be cleared the Captain suddenly appeared radiant with smiles. The alleged “calamity” was a real “blessing;” “ the mother and child were doing well,” and ■with the help of Mrs. Wins low’s soothing syrup, there was every prospect of a happy christening. Fifteen years ago a company or club of ama teurs were indulging at Long Branch in a ma tinee performance of a comedietta, when some one came in with the direful news of the disaster at “Bull Run.” The words thrilled the audience. We were walking on the piazza when two young I ladies, with a scared look, asked us where the couple moved over to old Mr. ; bull was, and which way did it run ? - . | Reform in French Dress.—No doubt there is a S f >me a fter this second move, Joe great deal of room for reform in woman’s garments; or> an j until women dress themselves with some true knowledge of the structure of their bodies, and with some regard to the laws of health, there al ways will be a crying need for reform. There will also be a need for reform while women con tinue to dress without regard to their position in life, and the relative amount which they ought to spend in clothing. But to effect these reforms will would frequently go to hxs last residence and make himself perfectly at home until convinced of his mistake, and then he would never seem to understand exactly the situation. A year or so later, old Mr. Lindsy died and his wife followed him in two months. These bereavements—for he loved his parents—had a very sad effect upon poor Joe’s mind. He not only lost his memory entirely, but his mind 1 generally became impaired, utterly helpless, and losing In fact he became i require a long education, both mentai and moral- even his recollec tion of other days brings me to my business of to- ! tion of faces, soon ceased to recognize any one day. As you know, I have been so unfortunate as to be deprived of that happiness which every one must enjoy while dwelling upon what is pleasant in the past. You possess the power but his wife and daughter. Susie’s marriage proved, of course, an un happy one. She was perfectly devoted to her husband and made him a good and true wife, both to bring the dead past to life again and to j but soon found that she had made a grave mis- makemy future bright and happy. I want you i take, one that had caused her life to prove a My host and his wife, having no children of ; to become my wife, Susie, and sing that song for ' failure, their own, of course made a great pet of their ! me every day. Will you ?” ' 11 ward. My interest in the child was so great from the first—there was something so fasci nating, to me, about the expression of her face, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from her a moment. Mr. McMillan noticed this, and when Susie had retired for the night, said to me: You seem to take some notice of our little “Why, Joe, the idea is perfectly ridiculous. If I were to promise to marry you you would forget it before night.” “Excuse me, Susie, I ought to have known that such a thing was impossible,” said poor Joe, coloring deeply. “I’ll never trouble you again. Good bve.” * Her natural vivacity and buoyant disposition, upheld her for a long time. But her husband’s rapid decline together with her accumulating cares and anxieties finally told upon her, and when her spirit did break she never rallied, but sank rapidly and steadily until she died of mere exhaustion and worry. This last blow was worse than death to Joe an elevation of the whole tone of society on the subject of dress—which we hope for, but have not j yet attained. To write a hymn to order would seem to be quite an easy task for almost any poet, and yet it has been found a very tough job. The Baptists of i Brooklyn, New York, advertised for a “Centennial | Hymn,” suitable to be sung in their Sunday- schools and in their centennial commemorations of I •he present year. Dr. Cutting, of Brooklyn, re- ! ports that about one hundred hymns were pre- ! sented for competition, but that the committee j whose business it was to decide which hymn was j the best decided that none of them were up to the | desired standard. What a lot of awfully disap-1 pointed poets ! A