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sessing a certain fascination in her manners al
together charming. Her eyes were soft and
languishing; her character evidently possessed
bat little strength, being made ap mostly of
gentleness and good nature.
“Iam very glad you are so punctual,” were the
lady's first words, after motioning the young
man to a seat.
“ I was so completely mystified at receiving
your note that I could not stay away,” replied
Philip. “It is very strange that you should
have known me.”
“Very likely. Nevertheless, I have been
awaiting your arrival in New York a long while.”
“ Indeed ! And yet no one knew of my inten
tion to visit the city.”
The lady smiled.
“ To tell you the truth, I was passing through
a side hall adjoining the restaurant in which
you were seated, when I heard you say very dis
tinctly, ‘ I am here on business that may decide
my future life.’ ”
“ And you wished to satisfy your curiosuy as
regards that business ?”
“ No. I knew that you were alone here in a
great city, with no friends but a foolish lot of
striplings infinitely beneath you. In short, I
was drawn towards you by a sort of secret sym
pathy. I wished to be your friend, and I wish
to be so now. Will you accept my friendship ?”
“Certainly,” stammered Philip, charmed and
confused at the same t’me. “But have you
told me your only reason for wanting to be
friend me?”
“ No.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Before long I shall reveal to you certain se
crets which you do not dream I possess; now I
cannot tell you anything.”
“But what do you know about me?”
“ In the first place, I know of your whole
life.”
“Everybody knows that.”
“ Don’t try to deceive me.”
“ What do you mean ?” and now Philip began
to look troubled.
“ I know your true name; I have guessed your
business; and perhaps some day I may speak to
you of your father.”'
“ My father!” cried Philip, starting up.
There was a moment of silence, which was
broken by the lady. j
“You see,” said she, “that I would speak
with you upon matters of great importance.”
“Why will you not tell me everything now?”
“Because the time has not yet come; then
again, I wish to know you better myself before
confiding in you.”
“Then I shall return soon,” said Philip, ris
ing and holding out his hand to the lady.
“ Thank you,” she murmured, as she took his
hand and pressed it softly. “ I shall be anxious
to see you soon.”
After this interview, Philip hurried away,
hardly knowing what to think of Miss Cathcart’s
words, and finally according them the credit of
some plan to extort money. He attached so lit
tle importance to them that both they and the
fair one who had uttered them were soon out of
his mind.
While walking along the street, after leaving
the mysterious lady, the young man suddenly
started, as though moved by a sudden impulse,
and walked rapidly up Fifth avenue, only stop
ping when he had reached the notorious De Vere
mansion.
Since the terrible murder of Mr. De Vere, the
house had remained closed to the world, only
offering to passers-by a view of its closely-barred
windows and gloomy front. A janitor who lived
in the basement was its only occupant, if report
could be believed.
Philip snudderedqat the sight of this sinister-
looking building, and seeing the janitor about
to enter, politely accosted him.
1 Would it be possible for me to go through
the house?”
“ What!” exclaimed the janitor; “do you want
to look through a house that has been closed for
five years ?"
“I knew Mr. De Vere,” said Philip impa
tiently. “ I was absent from New York at the
time of his death, and if a ten-dollar bill will be
of any inducement ”
The man shook his head sadly, as he was
obliged to refuse the proffered money.
“I could let you see the garden, but I haven’t
got the keys to the upper part of the house.
Won’t you tell me your name, sir? I knew
nearly all of my old master’s friends. ”
Philip was evidently greatly disappointed,
and, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he
handed the old man one of his cards, and then
walked slowly away.
CHAPTER II.
RUBE AND LEGGET.
In one of the most squallid portions of Roose-
velt street was situated a dilapidated, rusty-
looking hardware store, over which was fastened
a rusty sign, bearing the inscription, “Peters
& Co.” The firm consisted of Peters, alias Lame
Rube, and his boon companion, Legget.
Rube was one of those miserable wretches
who make of crime a profession, and who never
hesitate between right and wrong when a ques
tion of gain is being considered. He was bad
to the very core, and never experienced what is
familiarly termed conscientious scruples. He,
with his daughter Jennie, and his amiable part
ner, Legget, lived in the rear ot the store of
which he was the proprietor.
On the evening following the events related
in the last chapter, Legget was smoking in the
rear apartment when Rube entered.
“ Where’s Jennie?” were his first words.
“In there,” answered Legget, pointing to a
door which led to an adjoining hall room.
“Ain't ye done anything this morning?”
“No; and you?”
“Nothing,” Rube replied, with an oath.
“That’s nice !”
“ What d’ye mean ?”
“ I mean that business is bad, Rube. I don’t
say anything against you, d’ye see, nor against
Jennie, who’s too mighty pious for her position;
but we’ve got to do somethin’ desperate, or we
will all go to the dogs.”
“ Hum !” growled Rube; “ I made an acquaint
ance with some one yesterday that we may make a
dollar or two out of—a young feller who’s cornin’
here to-night. ”
* * Here ? Are you crazy ?”
“I guess not. You wait and see. But I must
have him alone—private business, Leg. ”
“ Well,” growled the other, “Idon’t see what
ye need keep private from me. I ”
He was interrupted by the sound of carriage-
wheels, and at a sign from Rube, arose hastily
and disappeared through a back door. A few
moments later, the carriage stopped, and Philip
alighted.
Rube was at the door to receive the young
man, and led the way to the room which Legget
had just vacated.
“ Well,” he asked, as soon as they were seated,
“ what d’ye want ?”
“ I came to learn something about the . n
murder,” Philip said, without hesitatior
“What’s that?"
“You ought to know, since you were implica
ted in it ”
“Eh?—who told you so?”
“The papers were full of it.”
“You ought ter know more’n me, then, fer I
can’t read yer papers.”
“ Nonsense! Your name is Rube, isn’t it ?”
“Peters, please.”
“ You told me just the contrary yesterday.”
" There’s a hundred Rubes in the city, young
My name’s Peters.”
least,” said Philip, impatiently, “you
were known under the name of Rube at the time
of the murder and robbery committed five years
ago.”
Rube laughed nervously as he replied:
“D’ye come here to cross-examine me? If ye
do, you’ve got the wrong man, I can tell ye. ”
“Well,” said the youDg man, perceiving his
mistake, “you need not have any fears regard
ing my profession. Here’s my card; I am only
a sailor.”
“ What’s that to me?”
“Will you not tell me something?”
“ I tell ye I don’t know anything !”
“Understand me, Mr. Peters. This De Vere
business is given up as an impenetrable mys
tery by justice, and it has been shown that
neither Rube nor Legget, who were the first
ones accused, could have committed the mur
der.”
“The murder? Oh, no !”
“Now, since everything is agreed upon this
point, why should you not reveal the name of
the murderer ?”
“We don’t blow, we don’t.”
“Listen to me,” insisted Philip, hotly. “I
know no one in New York, and therefore I am
not dangerous. I was in Brazil when the crime
was committed. For reasons which I must keep
secret, I want to unravel this mystery. Rob
bery was not the principal object of the murder;
the robbers were probably innocent of the
crime.”
“What’s all that to you?” demanded Rube,
obstinately.
“ I’ll tell you. My interest in finding out the
assassin is so great that I offer all I possess—
two thousand dollars—to him who will tell to
me the murderer’s name, and prove to me that
neither Rube nor Legget were engaged in the
murder. Does that interest you ?”
“That depends ”
“ What do you mean ?”
“I must know what ye mean by proofs.”
“ I want to learn how and at what time the
robbers entered the house; what they saw upon
entering, and when they left. In other words,
precise facts.”
“And all that for two thousand dollars?”
“ Do you consent?”
“That’s not dear!”
“It’s not enough, you mean? But it is all
the money I possess.”
“ Let’s see your money, first.”
“What do you take me for?” asked Philip,
smiling. “Do you imagine I would walk about
the streets, or come here with two thousand dol
lars in my pockets ?”
“ Well, Rube won’t speak before he’s sure.
Then there’s expenses, and ”
“ Here,” interrupted Philip,taking out twenty
dollars, “I’ll begin with this. Perhaps that will
untie your friend Rube's tongue. In two or
three days you will give me an answer.”
“All right; where d’ye live?”
“At the Westminster Hotel.”
“ I know it.”
“Don’t forget.”
Philip was about to leave the room, when a
second carriage rolled up to the door. Urged
by curiosity, Philip looked out to see who the
new visitor could be.
“ Oh !” muttered Rube, gazing suspiciously
at the young man, “ you are playin’ games, are
you:
Do
“Are you a fool?” said Philip, sharply,
you think the police are after you ?”
“Yes.”
“ Look and see for yourself.”
The burglar did as requested, and im medi
ately gave a cry of surprise.
“A woman !” he whispered.
“Alice Cathcart!” murmured the young man.
Miss Cathcart went up to the side-door and
rang the bell, which was answered by Jennie,
who drew back with surprise as she saw her
visitor, and exclaimed: -
“Is it really you, Miss Cathcart? and at this
hour of the night?”
“ It is really I, Jennie. I cannot come here
in broad daylight. I have a word to say to
Rube; but generally, I wish to keep away.”
“ Oh ! you are right. If you only knew how
I slitter!”
“ Poor girl!’’
“But I am in hope that I may soon be free.”
“ Why so?”
“Do you not remember my telling you of a
man who wanted to marry me ?”
“Oh ! yes, I remember; but look out for him,
child.”
“He is good and kind, Miss Cathcart.”
“I warn you, however; he may be a detective.
Be careful that your father does not suspect.”
The young girl shuddered.
“ Where do you see this man?”
‘ ‘ Everywhere. He seems to guess where I go.
But are you afraid ?”
“ No, not exactly. But I have a favor to ask:
never speak to him of me.”
“ I will not. You are easily frightened.”
“ Ever since that fatal night I have been so.
We must both be careful, as we were both nearly
compromised. But whom do you think I saw
yesterday ?”
“ I don’t know.”
“A man whom I have not seen since the day
of the crime—a detective.”
“ Was he watching you?”
“Yes; but that is not all. Yesterday the de
serted house up town seemed to be inhabited.”
“ Impossible!”
“I saw a feeble light through the shutters —
just as it was five years ago.”
“ Perhaps it was the janitor ?”
“ I was terribly frightened, and hardly slept
a wink last night. But I must hurry; is your
father in ?”
“He was talking with some one a short time ago, ’
“ Have they gone yet ?”
“Wait here; I’ll find out.”
Jennie was about to enter the store, when a
door opened, and Rube appeared.
“Ah!” he exclaimed gruffly, “you want to
speak to me ?”
“ Yes,” answered Alice, “ but I hear you have
company.”
“I had, but he’s gone now. It was only a
young man who wanted me to do something for
him.”
“ Do you know his name ?’’
“No.”
“And yon allow him to come here?”
“D’ye fear anything?”
“There is always something to fear,” said
Alice seriously. “There is in New York at
present a man who may prove our fortune or
our destruction.”
“Eh? Who is he?”
“He calls himself Philip.”
“ What does he look like?”
“He is twenty-two years old, tall, slender,
with bronze complexion, and dressed like a
sailor.”
Rube started.
“I’ll bet it’s the fellow who just left me !”
“ Was he here ? Great Heavens !”
“Yes; and he questioned me, and wanted me
to do something that I was afraid to do. ”
The lady hesitated for a moment, and then,
as if to herself, said:
“ He may become dangerous.”
“He looks sharp,” assented Rube.
“Yes,” said Alice, as she had suddenly de
termined upon a course to pursue which, to her
mind, promised to settle the difficulty, “ but
he is young; we can arrange matters. Now,
listen: To-morrow this Philip will pay me a
visit. You must promise to be there.”
“I promise, of coarse; but there is another
thing that may prove troublesome.”
“ What is it, Rube ? Don’t keep me in sus
pense,” and the young lady tapped her foot
nervously upon the rough, uncarpeted floor.
“ Do you know who is this young fellow’s
best friend ?”
“Who?” and- Xube saw by the convulsive
motion of his visitor’s face that he must not de
lay his communication.
“ George Huntington !”
The words fell like a thunderbolt. For a .mo
ment the young woman stood as one deprived
of speech or motion., and it was evident that
whatever her relations were to George Hunting-
ton, they were of no pleassnt nature.
‘, Then more than ever must we be careful,”
she said at length. “Come and see me to-mor
row without fail. We are in a bad position,
Rube, and we must and shall get out of it. Now,
good-bye.”
With these words, Alice turned and left the
house. "
» « —* * «
Upon awaking the next morning, Philip lay
some time in silence, thinking over the various
events that had transpired since his arrival in
New York. From the Red Inn his thoughts
turned to Rube and Alice. What connection
could possibly exist between these two, so wide
ly separated in every social respect ? The young
man had heard stories of people bound by a
common chain of infamy. Was this the case
with them ?
From this perplexing subject his thoughts
wandered to the .deserted mahsion up town,
whose gloom and silence seemed to accuse the
power of justice.
But had Philip’s emotions no other refuge
thon these sombre speculations? Had this
young heart never beaten for something sweet
and endurable ? Did he not carry in his breast
the memories of delighted love ?
In truth, he was in love, and he loved pas
sionately. The object of his affection was a
young girl whom he had met in Italy, but whom
be had never since seen. He had worshipped
her in the silence of his heart from the first
moment he had met her. He had made her ac
quaintance, it is true; but, upon leaving her,
he had hoped that he would forget what seemed
to him a hopeless love. He tried to banish from
his mind the image of her pure, sweet beauty,
but his efforts were useless, as he soon perceiv
ed, for his heart was irrevocably conquered.
Upon arriving in New York, he had experienced
a thrill of joy at tbe-idea of being near her; but
this was soon followed by an aching pain of de
spair. He felt that she could never be anything
to him, for she was rich, and he but a poor
sailor. Besides, there were still grave reasons,
which we will not at present explain.
While thus pre-occupied, he heard a knock at
his door.
“Come in !” he cried.
At this bidding the door opened, and a man
entered. Philip recognized him as the janitor
of the deserted mansion.
“Sir,” began the man with a smile, “I have
come to ask you if you still wish to see the
house ?”
“Certainly,” replied Philip, in surprise.
“ I refused yesterday, you see, because I
didn’t know you; but I know who you are now.
I’ll do for Lieutenant Philip what I wouldn’t do
for a stranger.”
Philip was not a little surprised at this am-
biquous speech, but he thought it best to ask
no questions, and contented himself by saying:
“ When can I come ?”
“To-night, if you wish.”
“I shall be on hand.”
“All right, sir; I’ll expect you. Good-morn
ing.” And the janitor almost scraped the floor
with his head as he tried to make a polite bow
previous to his departure.
“Well,” exclaimed Philip, when he found
himself alone, “that man is rather a queer stick,
but for all that, things are working smoothly.
Now if I can maku Ikabo speak, perhaps I shall
be able to accomplish something before long.”
Note.—“ Under a Cloud ” is founded upon facts which
have occurred in this city.
The Red Inn still stands on Cherry street, although
now occupied as a dwelling, and the stone building in its
rear was, two years ago, discovered to contain an illicit
still.
Mother Dixey is a picture of a woman by that name who
was killed by her husband, three years ago.
The idea of an association of thieves, in which women
are active agents, is taken from the statement of detective
Applegate, U. S. S. S„ and the convict Murray, last
month.
As to the deserted house, there are three buildings now
unoccupied in this city, because of murders committed in
them, the most interesting of which is the one on Twenty-
Seven til street, which has been closed since ISC!).
The murder which was committed in the De Vere Man
sion is precisely my theory of the Nathan’s murder.
The Author.
(This grand story will be continued in
The Sunny South from February 1st.)
For The Sunny South.]
LOVED AND LOST;
—OB,—
The Valley Mystery.
BY MRS. M. B. NEWMAN.
CHAPTER VIII.
At supper, while seated ’opposite Kate and Mr.
Fontaine, he carefully noted the change in her
manner. Her face had lost its bright animation,
and a dissatisfied look was plainly perceptible;
she replied in curt monosyllables to the questions,
or listened to the smooth-flowing language of her
escort; He was evidently determined to be agree
able; and Fred could scarce)/ restrain a smile,
notwithstanding the unrest at his heart, when lis
tening to her cutting, ironical answers to his ques
tions. He secretly wondered what this man could
have done to incur the dislike of one usually so
amiable. Kate could scarcely have answered this
question herself. She had met this man in Vir
ginia, while she was governess to Mr. Grantley’s
children, where he spent much of his time. He
was a favorite cousin of Mr. Grantley, and was a
privileged visitor, often extending his visits into
days and weeks. Feeling from the first no par
ticular interest in him, she asked no questions,
and only knew that he was wealthy and lived in
Lynchburg, about twenty miles from Mr. Grant-
ley’s country home. Thus commenced an acquaint
ance which resulted in his conceiving for her a
passionate love, that met with no response in her
heart. She treated him with the same gentle
courtesy she extended to all; but when he pre
ferred his suit, she kindly yet firmly rejected him.
Mrs. Grantley encouraged his addresses, and he
lingered, hoping in time to win Kate's affections.
They were sitting one evening together quietly
conversing on indifferent topics, when one of the
children came running in with an open miniature
in her hand, and ran up to Mr. Fontaine, saying-
“Cousin Wade, only look what a beautiful
mamma Miss Sefton had,” and gave it into his
hand.
He looked at it curiously, and then turned
deadly pale, and in his agitation would probably
have let it drop from bis trembling fingers had
not Kate caught it from him, saying in a per
turbed tone:
“ How careless of me to leave this on my bu
reau !”
In her haste she did not notice his emotion, and
soon in a calm, even tone he inquired:
“ That is a lovely picture, Miss Sefton; is it a
likeness of your mother!”
“ Yes, it is a picture of my mother, taken in
her youth, before sorrow had changed her,” she
replied, softly, and to prevent further question
ing, excused herself and left the room.
Afterwards, he alluded to the picture several
times, and by adroit questions, learned a few facts
connected with the history of the girl, but she
was too reticent for him to gain much information
from her answers. He renewed his efforts to win
her, and became so persistent in his suit, aided by
Mrs. Grantley, who had hitherto only quietly ap
proved his addresses, that the indifference with
which Kate had before regarded him, turned into
dislike. She began to see him in his true charac
ter, as one who would not easily be thwarted in
his wishes, and who recognized no law but his
own sovereign will, before which every obstacle,
in his career of luxurious indulgence, must bow.
With an instinct of dread, for which she could
give no definite reason, she determined to leave
the home where she was forced to meet him; and
seeing Mrs. Gordon’s advertisement, immediately
applied for the situation.
In this family, where genuine worth was appre
ciated, she found not only employment, but a
home; and it was with a keen recurrence of her
feelings of dread and dislike that she again met
the man she had said to herself was her evil
genius. He was apparently perfectly satisfied
with his reception, and after tea, carried her to a
sofa in the parlor, and quietly sealed himself by
her side, where he continued talking in a low,
even tone, receiving cold replies, that must have
secretly angered him. His face showed no sign of
any inward disturbance, as he spoke of the pleas
ant days spent in her society in Virginia, and the
sorrow he felt when he learned she had gone.
“Your extreme coldness is a poor return for all
my devotion,” he at last said; “what have I done
that you treat me as an enemy, and will not allow
me the smallest token of regard ?”
“You render me miserable by pursuing me with
attentions you know are distasteful. Your instinct
as a gentleman should make you see this and cease
your persecutions and leave me alone,” she replied
with haughty frankness.
“My great love for you should excuse my per
sistent attempts to win your favor,” he answered
calmly,” “you are my destiny, and every thought,
feeling and hope are merged into the one great de
sire to make you my worshiped wife. I cannot re
sist the impulse that draws me to you and you
must, you will love me in time.”
“I cannot stay and listen any longer to such sen
timents,” she said, wrought up to a pitch of re
sentment utterly foreign to her nature. “If you
say another word of this kind 1 will leave you and
allow the company present to draw their own con
clusions. Already I have noticed several regard
ing us in wonder.”
“Stay then, and you will have no cause to be
come so angry again, though I must say, your pres
ent mood is infinitely becoming,” heanswered with
provoking coolness, and with a face as impassive
as though he had uttered the most commonplace
words.
Frank Merton read the vexation in her coun
tenance and came to her relief, saying :
“Miss Sefton, is there not a song called ‘Valley
of Chamouni?’ ”
“Yes,” answered Kate, experiencing a feeling
of great relief; “the verses describe a Swiss valley,
situated among the snow-capped Alps, and in some
respects it is a good description of our own beauti
ful valley of Laurens.”
“If Mr. Fontaine will excuse you, will you sing
it for me? We are ail sighing for some music.”
“I must beg pardon for monopolizing Miss Sef-
ton’s company so long,” said Mr. Fontaine, rising,
“and if Mr. Howe will kindly introduce me to that
golden-haired blonde with whom I saw him con
versing just now, I will not be guilty agaiu of such
high treason to the young men present.”
“ Certainly,” said Mr. Howe, coming up to
where the three were standing. “ I had forgotten
the fact that you were an entire stranger to all
present except Miss Sefton. Come,” he added,
leading the way to where May was sitting.
Soon the gentleman introduced was bending over
the fair girl, conversing in his low, persuasive
tones, apparently oblivious of every one present,
but in reality covertly glancing at Kate and listen
ing to the clear, liquid tones of her voice as it tilled
tho room with melody.
Many whispered comments on the grace and ac
complishments of the young teacher passed among
the guests while she was seated before the instru
ment. Evelyn Mosley heard the remarks, and
when a lady near her, who was unacquainted with
the girl’s position in the family, inquired, “ Who
is she?” she shrugged her shoulders, and iu a
contemptuous tone replied :
“She is only the governess of Mrs. Gordon’s
children—a nobody, though she gives herself such
airs.”
“ Ah ! really. I imagined she was some wealthy
relation of the Gordon family on a visit here. One
thing is certain—she sings well; and young Mer
ton is struck with her; and only notice how that
dark, Italiau-looking gentleman watches her every
movement. She is a born coquette.”
“ Yes; but uo nice young man would marry a
governess.”
“And why not marry a governess, Evelyn, if
she is in every respect worthy of affection?” in
quired Fred Gordon, who, coming up unperceived,
heard the last remark.
His clear, gray eyes were bent on her with an
expression of displeasure, and with evident confu
sion she replied :
“ Why, Fred, of course a governess is never
taken into good society and treated with the same
courtesy that wealthy, well-bred people receive.”
“ You mean a society composed of people who
receive their heritage by birth, and who have only
their fathers and grandfathers to thank for their
success in life—those who have not the moral
courage to face difficulties and follow the com
mands of God given to our first parents, and who
despise those who are compelled to labor. I am
truly republican in my feeliugs and I believe in
awarding merit where it is due, without regard to
casto. I shall never be governed by public opinion
when it would lead me to refuse the fellowship of
any individual on the ground that he happens not
to be so fortunate as others in being high-born and
wealthy and if I am ever so fortunate as to find
the woman possessed of the grace of mind and per
son that constitute my ideal of a perfect woman, be
her station in life ever so lowly, if she consents I
will lift her to mine.”
This was an open declaration of his intention to
disregard the wishes of their respective families,
and for a moment she was completely stunned,
scarcely comprehending that he considered it his
right to make his own choice of a wife; but soon
the full import of his words fell on her like a
knell of doom. She turned livid with rage and
mortification and sank back heavily in her chair,
from which in her excitement she had partly risen.
Pride came to her aid in this trying moment, and
by a mighty effort of will she recovered her com
posure and said, indifferently:
“I wish you joy, if you succeed in finding your
ideal, but 1 do not believe one so perfect will ever
spring from the lower ranks of life, so your parents
will be spared the mortification of receiving a
daughter from the dregs of society.”
He did not hazard a reply knowing that in her
present mood he would only add fuel to the flame
of anger that he saw was inwardly consuming her,
but he continued standing by her chair in embar
rassed silence, secretly wishing that one of his
friends would come up and relieve him from his
painful position. Evelyn was sitting in one cor
ner of the large room and when Fred came up and
began talking with her, others moved off, leaving
them alone.
A short time after Frank Merton passed near the
silent couple with Kate Sefton leaning upon his
arm. She looked very lovely in her white dress
of cool translucent muslin, outlining her slender,
graceful figure. Frank’s gaze was fixed on the re-
reating pair, and when he could no longer see
them he unconsciously heaved a sigh.
Evelyn read his heart’s secret in that sigh and
’said, maliciously.
“I think it is evidently Mr. Merton’s intention
to try and lift Miss Sefton to his station in life,
and judging from the pleasure she receives from
his attentions he will be successful in his suit, but,”
she added pointedly, “I am not in love with him,
and have no objection.”
“I do not think he could find a fairer, more gen
tle, more gifted bride, and her virtues will ennoble
and elevate his character,” he answered, his fine
eyes glowing with the generous magnanimity that
stifled personal disappointment and rose above en
vy of a favored rival.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
[For The Sunny South.!
Fashions of the Fast.
In The Sunny South of December 10, is print
ed an account of bow a fashionable lady in the
middle of the last century dressed and spent
uer time. But as she was an English lady, per
haps the fair readers of The Sunny South would
like to know how the fashionable ladies and gen
tlemen of America dressed about the same pe
riod. This information will show that all the
frivolity was not confined to the ladies, while
the contrast with the fashions of to-day will pos
sess an interest for the descendants of the “brave
men and fair women ” of more than a century
ago.
The fashions in this country in the middle of
the last century were somewhat curious, and
certainly more splendid than might have been
expected at that time in a distant colony ot
Great Britain. In general, however, they were
said to be a pretty exact imitation ot those ot
the mother country. The following account is
taken from an old book printed nearly half a
century ago:
“Seventy years ago, cocked hats, wigs and
red cloaks were the usual dress of gentlemen.
Boots were rarely seen, except among military
men. Shoe-strings were worn only by those
who could not buy any sort of buckles. In
winter, round coats were used, made stifl with
buckram, which came down to the knees in
front.
“Before the revolution, boys wore wigs and
cocked hats; and boys of genteel families wore
cocked hats till within about thirty years ago.
“ The ball dress for gentlemen consisted of a
silk coat and an embroidered waistcoat, and
sometimes white satin breeches. Buckles were
fashionable till within fifteen or twenty years,
and a man could not have remained within a
ball-room with shoe-strings.
“It was usual for the bride, bridegroom and
maids and men attending, to go to church to
gether three successive Sundays after the wed
ding, with a change of dress each day. A gen
tleman who died not long since appeared the
first Sunday in white broadcloth, the second in
blue and gold, the third in peach-bloom and
pearl buttons. Till within about twenty years,
gentlemen wore powder, and many of them sat
from thirty to forty minutes every day under the
barber’s hands to have their hair creped, suffer
ing no inconsiderable pain most of the time
from hair pulling, and sometimes from the hot
curling-tongs.
“ Crape, cushions and hoops were indispen
sable in full dress till within about thirty years.
A sailor walking in one of the streets of the city
met two ladies whose hoops entirely occupied
the pavement, and seeing no way by which he
might pass them without going into the street
(there being no pavement), he, with no small
agility, sprung completely over the hoops and
through a vacancy made by their extension, to
the infinite diversion of the spectators. At the
elbows, the ladies wore from four to six rows of
rufties. They wore no bonnets whatever, and
the head-dress consisted of a large quantity of
wool laid on the head, with the hair hipped fan
cifully over it; these were denominated cushions,
and were generally six inches high. Another
kind of head-dress, which was called a calash,
was made in the manner of a gig-top, and was
drawn over the face when the heat of the sun
became too oppressive. No parasols were in use
then, and a gentleman who brought a large um
brella from England was, in consequence of it,
considered a great fop. The ladies wore shoes
with sharp toes and large silver buckles set with
brilliant stones. Silk stockings were worn by
ladies and gentlemen, cotton ones not being
known then. Ladies’ gowns generally had a
train from two to three feet long. Some ladies
were dressed the day before the party, and slept
in easy chairs to keep their hair in fit condition
for the following night. Most ladies went to
parties on foot, if they could not get a seat in a
friend’s carriage or chaise. Gentlemen rarely
had a chance to ride.
“The latest dinner hour was two o’clock;
some officers of the colonial government dined
later occasionally. In genteel families, ladies
went to drink tea about four o’clock, and rarely
stayed after candle-light in summer. It was the
fashion for ladies to propose a visit, and not
wait for an invitation.”
The Farm the Place to Make Men.
In glancing over the list of successful business
men, the larger portion of them will be found
to have received their early training for life-work
on the farm. Our leading professional men
generally were trained in the common schools
of the country, and there learned habits of in
dustry and frugality, which is the groundwork
of their success.
Country boys—farmers’ sons—that labor on
the tarm during the summer months, go to
school five days in the week in the winter, and
work at home on Saturdays, think their lot a
hard one, in comparison with that of their city
cousins. But did they but know it these lessons
of labor give them an appreciation of education
that city boys never possess. The country boy
delights in going to school, whilst the city chap
hates the monotony of the school-room, and
this accounts for the fact that a large majority
of the successful men in the various walks of
life spent their early boyhood on the farm.
Boys just verging into manhood in the city
feel that they have more requirements than
those in the country, and therefore spend more
and acquire habits of improvidence diametric
ally opposed to success. When once bred in
the bone, it requires but a few generations to
spoil the stock, and new importations have to be
made from the country before business or pro
fessional life can regain its strength. Business
men in the city forget to what they owe their
success, and in their desire to give their sons
the best ot advantages do that which enervates
instead of strengthens. The boy may be stuffed
with such advantages, but it takes self-denial
and a sprinkling of hardships to make the man
Let not the sons ot farmers, therefore, deplore
their lot or look with wistful eyes on the imagi
nary advantages ot their city cousins whilst their
own chances of success are many per cent
higher than those of city boys. No/i s P it neces
sary to success that farmers’ sons should follow
the vocation of their fathers. If they have talent
^ tr l e °H rpr0 e nr- aI Ufe ’ let them embrace
f£?*Wfch smts their inclination, and never
Slf dcni^r/T h .t y WOrk hard and exercise
th^, al ^ a Ju theyare never to rise above
frnfa w / c, odhoppers. Such trials are in
truth but advantages of a more substantial order,
nTwT.. 6 sterl1 ?? men of those who make
the most of them.—Baltimore Sun.