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[For the Sanny South.]
LIFE’S CHOICE.
BY MRS. AMELIA V. PURDY.
To conquer or be conquered; there's your choice!
To let life’s heavy cross crush you to earth.
Or with brave heart to press on, step by step,
And win the crown, to feel it hardly worth
The sum it costs of sleepless, weary nights
And tireless labor ’neatli the noonday sun;
To be so feeble that the crown itself
Will seem of iron weight when it is won.
But what of that? And e’en if life should end
In the grave, and there should be no fairer world,
As standard bearers we should bear aloft
A stainless flag that no mean foe has furled.
’Twere better to be pure and strong and true—
Nobler to conquer than be conquered, and
Nobler to wear out than to idly rest,
To die with lily fame and lily hand;
But sure as stars are, we shall live again,
And he who earns and wears the crown in this,
In the higher life shall sit upon a throne
And spend eternity with God in bliss.
[For The Sunny South.]
THE MUIRSDALE ROMANCE;
-OR,-
A WOMAN’S HATE
BY DIRS. E. BlIltK COLLINS.
A SCRAP OF PAPER.
“ She stood like the thought of a sculptor, carved
In marble, snowy and cold;
But her pure, sweet look was as foul a lie
As ever a woman told.”
Professor Midnight stood alone in his room,
the morning after the occurrences recorded in
the preceeding chapter. There was a strange
light in his eyes, from which the spectacles had
been removed, and his form was not quite as
bent as usual. There was something very mys
terious about this old, mesmeric and clair
voyant physician. In his hand, he held a letter
which he had just torn open, and eagerly peru
sed the contents, the few lines traced upon the
paper, in a bold, masculine hand.
The letter seemed to give him pleasure; he
read it carefully and re-read it; then crumpling
the paper in his hand, he held it over a lighted
match, and as it consumed into tinder, he shook
the fragments into the empty grate. Then he
hurriedly resumed his spectacles, and when he
opened the door of his apartment, shortly after,
and left the room, it was the usual bent and
aged professor, who passed over the threshold.
Hardly had he disappeared down the long
corridor, when the door opposite her own steal
thily opened, and a woman glided hastily forth
—a woman with wild, staring eyes, and a face
white as the colorless faces of the dead; it was
Cora Vavasour.
Hastily shrouding her features in the black
lace shawl which she had flung about her should
ers, she laid her hand upon the knob of the door
coming all other considerations, they pocketed
the money, and moved away in a body to drink
the health of the giver.
Dennis paused before following in their wake,
to reply to the Professor’s assertion.
“ Sure, yer Honor, I wasn’t. There’s many
quare things in this world, ye know,” shutting
one eye, and blinking at his auditor with the
other. “And sure, sir,”he continued eagerly,
“ that’s jist what me Uncle Larry said when his
ould woman died. He lost her three times —
do ye see ?”
“Three times?”
It was the voice of young LeGrande, who had
strolled lazily up just in time to hear the Irish
man’s last remark. It was easy to see that his
advent was not agreeable to the Professor; bat
LeGrande himself was blind to all that. He
was one of those complacent people who see the
world through a pair of very conceited specta
cles.
“Three times !” he repeated, idly chewing the
end of his cigar. “What do you mean, you
rascal? How could a man’s wife die three
times ?”
“ Did I say so ?” howled Dennis, rushing for
ward. “ Sure, and I’ve been and heard stranger
things nor that. If ye’d have been wid me at
Muirs ”
“ Hush /”
“Now, thin!” cried Dennis, wildly, squaring
off for a tight. “I jist want to know who’s a
sayin’ hush to me ivery time I opens me
mouth,? I
“Well, well, Dennis,’ interposed the Pro
fessor, conciliatingly, “never mind. Suppose
now you tell us all about your Uncle Larry, and
how lie lost that wife of his three times ?”
If the Professor had hoped by this ruse to rid
himself of his unwelcome companion, he did
not succeed. The prospect of a long story did
not scare LeGrande. He threw himself negli
gently upon a bench nearby, and lighted a fresh
cigar.
“Yes, go on, my good fellow,” he drawled;
“ let’s hear all about it. Take a seat, Professor.”
Biting his lip with vexation, Professor Mid
night seated himself, and Dennis, removing his
cap, and having vigorously mopped his manly
forehead for a few moments with an immense red
cotton handkerchief, launched into his story.
“Ye see, gintlemen,” he bagan, “ me Uncle
Larry and his old woman hadn’t been the best
of friends for many a long day; in fact, they
didn’t thry to be; so, they jist parted dacintly
and quietly—he lay dead drunk on the floor,
and she jist run out of the house. Well, sure,
they niver saw each other agin, and for forty
year they niver heerd so much as the scratch of
the pin from one another. But at last me uncle
he heerd that she was dead, and thin the way he
did cry and take on!—sure, ’twas perfectly
awful! Thin, when paple would say to him,
‘ Sure, ye didn’t see yer old woman for so long
a time, ye should be used to living widout her,’
he would burst out a cryin’, and say (sure, many
a time I’ve heerd him at it), ‘ Och ! thin, sure,
leading into the I rotessor s apartment. She | jf s Leing sich a long time without me poor
glanced up and down the hall; nobody was Jtlolly that makes mein all this throuble. If we
had been living dacently and rispectably to-
visible. There was a little nervous tremor, and
then she turned the knob and entered the room.
Straight up to the grate she hastened, and stoop
ing gazed upon the fragments of paper, which
the Professor had tossed therein. One small,
white hand was hurriedly extended and thrust
into the blackened mass. A look of intense
gether, quarreling ivery day like other married
paple, I might soon git over me grief, and think
perhaps her going on the long road before me
was all the betther. But, ye see, ’twas so long
since I parted with the crature, and she had
gone so clare and cleane outen me head for so
disappointment crept over her pale face, as she man y years, that (now I know she is dead) faith,
saw that he—not satisfied with merely tearing
the paper—had burned it also: and she turned
to leave the room.
“ Ah ! what is that ?” Her quick eye caught
a glimpse of something—one scrap of the mys
terious letter—unburned, unharmed, lying like
a snowflake at her feet. Springing forward she
caught it up and her eyes devoured its contents
greedily.
There was space for but few words; but what
ever those words were they had power to blanch
the white cheek still more ghastly, and make
she comes back to me for all the world as she
was whin I first married her, and I can’t drive
her away. Och, it’s a droll thing to have the
thoughts and notions I had forty years ago com
ing back, young and fresh, into me heart, and
to see the ould face and the ould body outside,
that is like an ould cabin failin’ to ruin, and the
j inside so fresh.’
I “Shure, gintleman, whin he got to that, he’d
always stop and look around, and take a wee
dhrop of the crature—me uncle Larry could
take his sup wid the best. Thin he’d go on to
theMenderformreel like^ a drunkard^, as she ! how he lost her three times. Ye see, gintle-
ui- - - *■ men, when he got word from Dublin that poor
Molly had died in the hospital, and that she had
begged wid her last words to be taken home
and buried dacently among her own paple, and
not be left to lie among strangers in Dublin,
sure he promised before God and man that he’d
niver stop nor stay till he’d bring her home;
so he took a car and put into it a good feather
| bed and an ilegant stuff quilt, detarmined that
the poor crature should have iverything dacint
for her journey home, and that the rain should
not come to her. Well, he took his ould horse
and harnessed him to the car, and soon he ar
rived in Dublin. He wint to the hospital, and
they' showed him the grave where poor Molly
was put in, and he took the coffin and all jist as
it was, and put it into the car, and packed up a
half dozen bottles of parliament whisky, jist to
refresh him on the way and kape the throuble
out of his heart.
“ When the night was falling, sure he did n’t
quite like to be all alone wid poor Molly, so he
made the ould horse gallop while iver he could;
and sure to hear the coffin rattling aginst the
car, faith, t’was very awful! But at last the
coffin seemed to be fixed quite stiddy, for he
heered no more noise. Well, whin he got to
the public house, where they were to shtop for
the night, and they wint out to the car to bring
Molly into a dacint room, where they could
wake her ginteelly, sure the devil a bit of poor
Molly wasn’t there at all, and they found the
wings of the car broken clane away, and the
coffin had fallen out on the road. This he
called losing poor Molly the second time; and
sure he had eleven good miles to go before he
found her agin.
“ Well, to make a long story short, he started
agin on the way, and, faith, he got so used to
having the poor creature wid him that manys
the shanabos about ould times he had wid her
on the road. He tould her everything that had
happened, since she wint away, and he said he
often thought that poor Molly must be greatly
altered to let him have all the talk to himself.
Sure, when he reflected that he had n’t behaved
very ginteelly to her, for so many years, in niver
sinding her anything, not so much as a scratch
of the pen, he thought he’d make up for it, and,
faith, he jist axed her pardon, and said every
thing that was dacint and comfortable, to make
clutched -wildly at the marble mantel, for sup
port. Then, opening the door, she dashed like
a maniac across the wide corridor and into her
own apartment.
Meantime, Professor Midnight was lounging
over the hotel grounds, with the air of a profes
sional idler. Shunning the different groups of
fashionables, scattered about, he managed to
find his way, at last, to an obscure corner, where
a number of the servants employed at the Ocean
House, were gathered around the form of a burly
Irishman, who, in their midst, with loud voice
and much gesticulation, was regaling them with
some wonderful adventure.
A queer-looking figure, surely ! A red face
from which peered a pair of small, twinkling,
black eyes, like plums in an overgrown dum
pling; a head of frousy, red hair, standing up
“like quills upon the fretful porcupine:” he
was clad in a nondescript suit of clothes, ill-
fitting, half-worn, evidently picked up at inter
vals, from unknown or obscure establishments.
A strange look passed over the Professor’s
sphinx s-like features, as his eyes fell upon the
apparition.
“So soon !” he muttered to himself, and then
quickly drew near the group and observed the
central figure closely.
“Faith!” he was saying, indignantly, “ It was
not in ould Ireland, nor 4 yet in Asy or Afriky,
or any other countery in Europe. So, ye need
n’t be after askin’ me any more sich questions,
I jist tould yez the full sarcumstance, and if
that aint proof that it did happin, then I tell
yez no more. Dennis McCarthy don’t tell no
lies ! And if ther’s ever a man of yez all don’t
belave it, jist let him step farninst this fist of
mine, and I’ll bate the devil out of him; sure
that I will.”
“But, you was saying,” teased asaucy-looking
little fellow in livery, “that you heard them
voices shrieking and howling, and seen the old
one himself—a sitting on the door step, Now,
all I want to know is where that there house is
situated and what’s the reason you keep us in
the dark. If your story is Simon pure, why,
give us the street and number, and we’ll call
on that there family.”
“Sure, there was n’t ary a family at all,”
angrily began Dennis—for by this time the
reader will have recognized the ci-devant coach-
“ Well, he hurried the ould soldier dacintly,
and as he niver agin got money enough to go to
Dublin, faith, poor Molly had to take the will
for the deed and lie contint where she was.
And sure, gentlemen, that’s' the true story of
how me uncle Larry lost his wife three times.”
As Dennis concluded his narrative, Professor
Midnight glances at Le Grande; he was fast
asleep.
The Professor arose hastily, and without
vouchsafing a remark in regard to the Irishman’s
wonderful narrative, he beckoned Dennis aside.
“My good man,” he began, “if ever I hear
of your repeating tales of what you saw and
heard at Muirsdale ”
“ Muirsdale !” exclaimed poor Dennis, “sure,
sir, and I niver mentioned no names. How did
ye know?”
“ No matter, Dennis. I merely wish to say
that if the spirits know of your repeating that
tale—and if you do repeat it they will know it—
they will haunt you, night and day, and you
will see stranger sights, and hear stranger
sounds than anything you saw at Muirsdale.
Will you remember and hold your tongue?"
“Sure, the devil fly away wid me if I don’t!”
cried the thoroughly frightened Irishman. “If
Dennis McCarthy wags his tongue wid that
story, surely, and may it dhrop out intireiy.
Och, but the howly saints presarve us,” he cried,
crossing himself vigorously. “ Sure, I belave
I’ve shtumbled into a hull nest of ghostesses ”
“Hold on a moment, Dennis, you’re out of
employment now, eh ?”
“ That I am. Sure you know all me saycrets;
I wouldn’t work wid them sperrits at Muirsdale;
so now I am a lone stranger in the hull place,
and ”
“Well," interrupted the Professor, “I want
just such a man as you. I want to employ you
over in the city, and I’ll pay you well. Is it a
bargain ?”
“Am I to work wid the ghostesses ?
“ No, Dennis, surely not. But make haste; is
it a bargain ?”
“Sure, it is.”
“Very well, follow me.”
The Professor, with his new acquisition,
turned towards the hotel. Dennis, in the mean
time, subjected to divers and sundry remarks
from the servants, as they strode leisurely back
from their health drinking—somewhat in the
advisory line—such as
“Go in, Ireland,” “Pull dewn your vest,”
etc.
It was an idle hour for the servants, and,
anxious for amusement, they waited and watch
ed for the re-appearance of the Irishman, whom
they were determined should contribute to
their mirth. But they watched and waited in
vain. They were doomed to disappointment.
Tired out at last, they gave up in disgust, while
the saucy little page aforesaid hazarded the
opinion, which instantly met with approval and
straightway became popular, that “that there
old ghost man had made a mummy out of Erin
go braugh.” However that may be, Dennis
never appeared in their midst again. At twi
light that evening, however, a tall footman in a
scarlet and black livery stole quietly forth from
Professor Midnight’s apartments, and descend
ing the broad staircase which led to the grounds,
disappeared down the long avenue. Soon after
the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and
some one, vigorously whistling “Wearing of the
Green,” galloped rapidly towards the city. It
was Dennis McCarthy, the Irish coachman.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
[For Tlie Sunny South.]
ELISE VON SCHTTLL;
-OR.-
A WAIF’S AD VENTURES.
BY LOVELADY.
man “ sure as my name is Dennis, there wasn’t
nobodv at all, at all. barring the lady with the mmd aad bis own aisy. And so at last they
W, rinc on her finaer.” g ot borne.
big ring on her finger.
With an annoyed look upon his wrinkled
visage, Professor Midnight stepped hastily for-
“ Ah! good morning, Dennis,” he cried blan-
^“ How did ye known me name was Dennis?”
inquired coachy thrusting his hands into his
pockets and trying to look dignified.
“No matter,” answered the Professor, “I
know a good coachman when I see him, and I’ve
not set my eyes on you for nothing.”
Pleased and flattered, the son of Erin sur
veyed the new comer for a moment, with a lei
surely stare.
“ Sure, if ye aint the ould spalpeen that brings
up the ghostesses and things ! Ah! but you
ought to be at
“ Hush!”
The word sounded very close to the ear ot
Dennis. He sprang forward and gazed about
him with a frightened air.
“ Did anybody say hush, jist now t he cried,
wildly.
“You’re dreaming, Dennis,” remarked Prof)
Midnight. , , . ,
He put one hand into his pocket as he spoke,
and drawing forth several coins, distributed
them among the servants, who at first looked
askance at them, fearing that they might be be
witched or something; but soon, cupidity over-
“ Well, sure there was Nelly Lynch—an ould
gossip of Molly’s, and whin they was waking
poor Molly, the night before he was to bury her,
sure, Nelly and me and uncle.Larry, they took a
glass too much in drinking a happy and a bless
ed rest to poor Molly; and Nelly she takes it
into he ’>ead that they should open the coffin
and look at her.
“No sooner said than done; but jist think
what he felt whin he saw a bald head and an
ugly ould face.
“‘Sure,’ he cries, ‘this can’t niver be my
Molly, a clane, sprightly girl.’
‘“Well, says Nelly,’ ‘that bates everything.
Here, you’ve thrying to conceit an ould woman
past sixty, into a purty girl.’
“She looked at her agin and agin, and swore
she’d know her among a thousand, and that she
was n’t one bit changed.
“This vexed me uncle Larry, and he wint up
to the coffin, wid a candle in his hand, and he
pulled down the winding sheet, and there was—
not Molly, sure enough—but a poor, old soldier,
wid a wooden leg, and covered over wid the
marks of wounds. This was what he called
losing Molly for the third time—and afther all
the trouble and expinse he had to bring her
home!—And to think of his opening his heart,
and telling his secrets to a stranger, and a man
too, instead of his poor ould woman !
CHAPTER XYI.
Alphonse took the paper and the cross anu
entered the sleeping apartment, leaving Henri
in a state of great anxiety and suspense. He
had not long to wait, however, for the old man
soon returned, and, to Henri’s great surprise,
said, with a smiling countenance :
“Good news, Senor ; better than we dared
anticipate. Here is the Pope’s own signature,
which will remove the bolts of the deepest dun
geon in the land. I had no dream of such per
fect success.”
“How did you effect such a miracle, Al
phonse ? ”
“Between sleeping and waking, I got the sig
nature. I explained it to him while he was
asleep, and gave him the cross while awake. I
read your petition to him while asleep and
waked him to sign it. He growled and asked
for Mark. I told him Mark had been called off
for a faw minutes on urgent business, and he
replied : ‘ True ; wait till morning. I don’t
know where is my signet. Let the young man
sleep in the palace. ’
“May it please your Holiness, I presumed
to say, this young man has done what you con
sider a great service. His request is simple,
but there is life involved in it.
“ ‘Did you say he is in prison? He shall be
released.’
“No, may it please your Reverence ; but his
best friend is in danger.
“ ‘Well, I am sorry, but Mark has my signet.
He will see to it when morning comes,’ said the
drowsy Pope.
“Here are pen and ink. I will not even
bring the light near to blind you. Just write
your name across this paper; it will be suffi
cient.
“ ‘Look you, old man ! You are a bold fel
low to disturb me so persistently, and Mark is
over-bold to be off when I want him. But, let
me see—the youth did me some service. I re
member that very well; but I can’t exactly
think what it was—and this request is small
recompense, I imagine—and here is my cross
again. I am too sleepy to be troubled about it.
Here, take the signature and be gone, and call
Mark to his post. I’ll look into all this to-mor
row ; ’ and as I left the chamber I heard the
heavy breathing of his drug-stupefied slumber. ”
Henri felt that stratagem had been practiced,
and he rightly surmised that Alphonse must
have induced the half-conscious potentate to
believe that he himself was in danger and de
sired liberty. But the danger of the Baron
was imminent, and without a moment’s delay
for further explanations, Henri eagerly ques
tioned Alphonse as to the next step.
“ Let us hasten to liberate the captive, and as
soon as you get him outside the gates, fly—fly
for your lives. To-morrow the Pope may repent
of his clemency, and if the Baron is again im
prisoned, woe to all your efforts.”
“Alphonse, this kindness makes me your
debtor. You may be in danger here yourself;
will you not go with us ? ”
“lam not ready to leave yet. I am notin
any danger. You will hear from me again.”
“Well,” said Henri, “there is still a favor
you can do for me. You are acquainted here—
tell me where I can conceal my friend until I
return to the inn and get ready to start.”
“My abode is in sight of the palace gates. I
will give you the key, and you can conceal him
there until you are ready. Indeed, my watch
will be about expired, and I will accompany
him there myself.”
This conversation had been held in a whis
per, as they walked swiftly and noiselessly
along through devious halls and long passages,
until Alphonse at last opened a door and de
scended a flight of stops. There he produced a
small lantern from under his mantle, lit it and
raised a trap-door; still descended another flight
of stone steps and stood before a large door.
Henri feared that at every angle in the corridors
they would ^encounter interruption, but the
household was fast asleep, except a solitary
monk now and then. Alphonse boldly knocked
at the great oaken door, which was openened by
a gigante with harsh, repulsive countenance—
sucli as might have served critically for an art
ist’s design of the basilisk—and in a stentorian
voice asked why he was disturbed.
“I come with an order for the immediate re
lease of a prisoner. Here is the Pope’s endorse-
ment.”
“This is strange,” said the jailer, scrutinizing
the paper closely; “ yet I must obey; the signa
ture is genuine. I suppose I must not question
my conflicting orders, but always obey the last.
Yet I don’t understand it.”
“Nor I either,” replied Alphonse. “The or
der was given this young man, and I was in
structed to see it executed.”
Henri said not a word, and could scarcely
conceal his impatience at the delay. The jailer
eyed him closely and malignantly.
* Henri realized the peril of the situation, but
he was made of the right metal, and in the cause
of a friend counted it honor to dare much. At
last, after a seeming age, the jailor turned in
sullen silence and led the way down into the
earth to the dark cell which contained the
Baron. The bewildered prisoner could not re
alize that it was his beloved Henri who embraced
him, and his surprise was greater when Henri
said:
“ Gome, dear Baron; let us hasten to quit this
place.”
“What! going? I thought you had come to
share my cell.”
“No; I have come for you at the Pope’s or
der;” and he continued in a whisper: “ Say
nothing—not a word, as you value your life;
only hurry to leave this place.”
They left the cell, and without a word the
jailor led the way to his own door, and as he
was entering, said over his shoulder:
“ You can find your way out as you came in.
I shall keep this warrant as my safeguard.”
“Certainly,” responded Alphonso; and as the
great door banged to, he continued: “Now, my
friend, hasten quietly.”
The trio reached the gates, and Alphonso
pointed to a small cottage near by, and handed
Henri a key, saying:
“ X shall join yon as soon as I call Mark. Yes,
there is the signal for a change of the watch !
Fly-fly !”
Henri flew on the winged feet of Mercury to
the little inn, aroused the landlord, told him he
had heard of the danger of a friend, and wanted
to start immediately. The gruff host began to
make loud objections, but Henri handed him
twice the amount of the night’s reckoning as
recompense for the disturbance, which quite
reconciled him to the trouble.
“ Very well; I am always at the service of such
reasonable customers. What is it I can do ?”
“Fresh horses;” and he began to open his
purse, which sight had the magic effect of mak
ing everything possible with the considerate
landlord.
J ust as Henri was entering the house, a little
discreet forethought induced him to turn and
say:
“ Give me your best horses, landlord; the road
to Naples is long, and in some places rough.”
When he saw vigorous preparations afoot in
the stable-yard, he proceeded to arouse the Bar
oness, and soon made the excited lady compre
hend that for some reason of vital importance to
her husband, they must immediately set out.
“ But, Henri, I do not like to leave Rome un
til we see or hear from him. Are you sure we
are acting prudently ?”
“My dear lady, can’t you trust me? His
safety requires our immediate departure. When
we are off, I shall tell you everything; now, we
must use every dispatch and secrecy. The very
walls have ears here in Rome. Say nothing—
only make haste and trust me.”
She and Elise were waiting on the doorstep
when the carriage drove up. Henri dropped
some extra coins into his host’s open palm, made
some inquiry about the route to Naples, and the
carriage went rolling over the streets of Rome.
Before the little house of Alphonso, Henri drew
in the reins, saying:
“ We will take in another passenger; only be
quiet and speak not a word above a whisper.”
Two forms emerged from the darkness, and
in an undertone Henri leaned out and said:
“ Alphonse, when and where shall I hear from
you ?”
“At Front Abbey within the month. Now
fly, Senor—fly for your lives!”
While they were exchanging these few words,
the other figure entered the carriage, and the
Baron was embracing his wife and child.
“Alphonse, how far is it to Naples?” said
Henri, as he gathered up the reins; and without
waiting for the reply, let fall his whip about the
horses’ flanks, and away dashed the good steeds,
bearing the happy, reunited family from the
city of danger.
[For The Sunny South.]
MT TREE OF AMBROSIA.
BY SYLVIA HOPE.
CHAPTER XIX.
ORAND, THE GUIDE.
“ Heaven’s.sovereign spares all beings but Himself
That hideous sight—a naked humau heart.”
[Young’s Night Thoughts.
About twenty miles north of Florence, in
Italy, the country bordering on the range of the
Appenines is irregular and broken. This re
gion is unproductive and thinly inhabited, ex
cept in the small fertile valleys. Along the
main highway, two or three centuries ago, might
be found at convenient distances small wayside
inns for the accommodation of travelers; but
horsemen and footmen who chose the shorter,
more difficult routes across the mountains were
often compelled to rely on their own knapsacks
for refreshment, and at night seek safety and
repose in some crevice of the rocks.
A single horseman—not the proverbial hero,
mailed and spurred, but an old man in citizen’s
garb—wended his way along the valley, seeking
a refuge for the night. The season was deep
winter, and a threatening storm lowered over
the valley. The distant muttering of thunder
echoed from the mountain sides and impelled
the rider to urge forward his jaded horse. The
gethering mists almost obscured the distant
prospect, and the traveler was ready almost to
despair of finding a shelter, when his straining
eyes caught sight of a red glimmer of light in
the distance.
The tempest and the darkness were hand in
hand fast approaching as the worn-out horse
halted before the door of a hut, from which the
flood of cheerful light was pouring.
The traveler’s hail was answered by a portly
man, backed by a troup of men, women and
children. Food and shelter were readily prom
ised him, but for his weary horse, the only
comfort was a shelter under a neighboring cliff,
with a scanty bundle of hay. The horse being
consigned to the tender mercies of a shaggy-
headed urchin, the traveler entered the hut with
the curious occupants.
(.O BE CONTINUED.)
We all have dreams and visions of things
beautiful. Fancy takes wonderful flights oft-
times and brings back to the mind’s kaleido
scope pictures that seem too ethereal for earthly
creation. We delight to linger over the religion
of ancient Rome and Greece; to live over the
days of fabled gods —giving delicious shivers
at the thought of rousing the ire of some divin
ity of Olympus, and being turned into a great
horned cow; or having some impassioned swain
coming a supplicant to our dwellings and hang
ing a garland bedewed with his tears at our
doors; or, better still, gaining entrance to Thes
salian groves, and, under the inspiring strains
of Apollo’s lute, dancing, laughing and drink
ing ambrosia.
Am I dreaming this New Year’s morning, or
am I in the sun-girt land of Thessaly? The
sun shines down through curtains of gray; the
earth is covered with a carpet of snow, and my
orange tree, weighty still with its golden
fruitage, is draped with a mantle of whiteness,
through which the luscious balls gleam, while
pendent below is a fringe of icicles so bright,
so sparkling and fantastic under tne sun’s rays,
that “ ’twere better not to breath or speak,” lest
the vision of enchantment should vanish for
ever.
It is the tree of ambrosia—ready prepared
food for the gods,and waiting for Hebe to gather.
The sun delights to turn that way; his gaze
falls with lingering caress upon the oranges
half hidden in their drapery of white and
green, and presses kisses upon the hem of
fringe so ardently that it shrinks and tears of
crystal flow.
It is the tree of the gods—sparkling, scintil
lating, radiant with immortality—the only cheer
ful thing in all the wintry landscape.
A narrow, long sheet of white, a tall row of
snow-capped houses, a pallid sky meeting a
pallid horizon, and one blue spot through
which the sun shines, is the picture. Away in
the West the pines move their iced needles
shiveringly; the ground is brown and bare un
der the snow; the chrysnthums frozen, and the
merry little birds trembling at the severe touch
of winter.
Poor, timid ferns! they, too, are blanched
and still in their dark homes: hart’s tongue,
maidens’ hair and aspleniam. Naught is left to
tell the tale of our sunny land to the New Year
save the oranges, and they are snow-frosted,
icicledand prepared for the banquet of the im
mortals.
Where has gone our pleasant clime ? Where
are the azure skies, the mellow, wintry sun
shine, the hardy blooming plants, and the
sweet, low drip of rain—a drip, drip, drip that
charms the ear and lulls the senses like ab
sinthe ?
A spell is over the land, cognate of North’s
harsh touch—a vague, faint augury to our South
ern hearts.
And Boreas is abroad. He rushes with a hol
low, consumptive sound, passes by beyond the
great earth-mounds, rising white and spectral
like icebergs, and hides with a wild roar in the
depths of the pine ferest.
My tree of ambrosia shivers at his touch. It
was reared in a land
“Where the winds of the North, becalmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.”
and warmth and gentle Notus were its play
mates.
What will be the sequence when my tropic
pet puts on mortality again ? Will the oranges
fall to the ground, chilled to their hearts’ core ?
Will the green of leaf fade and the parent stem
die? To-morrow will tell; to-morrow the snow
will melt and my tree of ambrosia vanish.
ABOUT WOMEN.
Sporting with words blew aside a little the pow
der-smoke of the battle of Shiloh, and etherized the
pain of one of our soldiers whose cheek and chin
had been carried away by a shot. “ What «an
we do for you?” asked his comrades. “Boys”
said he, with what articulation was left him, “ I
should like a drink of water mighty well, if I only
had the face to ask for it.”
Zeal is very blind or badly regulated when it
encroaches upon the rights of others.
Madame Rudersdorf, the singer, has a beauti
ful model farm at Lakside, Mass. It is culti
vated under her own eyes to a charm, and she
owns quantities of live stock. She makes re
markable butter—so good that it is sold in Bos
ton for ninety cents a pound.
Last year, it will be remembered, a young
English lady, Miss Stratton distinguished her
self by making the ascent of Mont Blanc in
mid-winter—on January 31. She is a large,
handsome girl, with a private income of six
thousand dollars per annum, and is about to
marry the Alpine guide with whom she has
made many ascents. Although in love with her,
he could not wed her, he said, unless she would
become a Roman Catholic. She has decided to
abjure the Protestant faith, and is now building
a chateau near Argentine, in Switzerland, where
the happy pair will dwell.
From New York comes a touching story of
Miss Eliza Weathersby, the beautiful actress so
well known and so much admired here. It tells
how Claude Burroughs was her first betrothed,
her first love. And when his charred remains
were taken from the ruins of the Brooklyn fire,
she alone of women was allowed to see them;
nay, demanded the privilege, saying she was no
child. And they tell of how, night after night,
she fainted between the scenes at Niblo’s, where
she was the light and life of Baba; and so they
put only the exquisite flowers she sent, out of
all the beautiful tributes that covered the poor
actor’s bier, into his grave.
A missionary in Armenia writes: “ Girls here
newly born, are hastily engaged to boys not yet
a year old. In every house there are several en
gaged girls, and also several engaged boys; so
that if we should wish to engage our Zenope
(about four years old), perhaps we could find a
girl, but it would be necessary to wait until a
new one was born; then, if we heard quickly of
her birth, we might secure her—otherwise there
would be no chance. These past days several
children were married who could not tie their
girdles, they were so small. In my school some
of the boys and girls are married, and some are
engaged* The girls are sold as cows or other
animals, for from seventy-five to one hundred
and seventy-five dollars.
A Novel Newspaper.
London has a large weekly newspaper called the
Obituary, devoted, as its title shows, to obituary
and mortuary proceedings. Undertakers who get
up funerals in every variety,cremationists,embalm-
•rs, vault-makers and grave-diggers all have their
say in its columns, while the makers of humble
tombstones and the sculptors of gorgeous monu
ments are ready to decorate the last home of man.
Crape-makers, manufacturers of all sorts of fun
eral appliances, and especially mourning mantua
makers, claim the attention of the afflicted in their
special advertisements. Wills of distinguished in
dividuals are given, and lost wills advertised;
the cards of attorneys drilled in probate matters,
and advertisements for absent heirs, make up a
potrion of its patronage. The reading matter is all
suited to the subject, while the obituary notices
form a staple item, and ,if necessary, choice notices
are written by distinguished writers for the afflicted
friends and relations of deceased persons.
Great poets are charged with the utterance of
grand and eternal truths, which though they may
have been before unuttered, will at once strike the
popular heart. With them the words are of small
moment—the thought is everything. They who
have little to say are solicitous to make the most of
that little by draping it in the finest trappingsof
language. Much ornament of style oftener than
otherwise results from conscious feebleness of)
thought.