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VOL IV. -H-* & ^ feEA L.S, {PBOPKiaTORS
ATLANTA, ii A., b.\TUill>AY, APRIL 2G, 1879
TERMS i OTAK
>0. 199,
FAREWELL TO OXE BELOVED.
Farewell, the light goes with you love, the shadows
gather grim,
The beauty of the April day is barren, cold and
dim
Fate's angry waters close me round and headlong
into night
Hunges my bark without a star of hope to guide it
right.
Farewell; speed to your happy, home across the
hills of pine
Light heart that well, too well, I know will never
rest on mine.
There is no peace forever more on this fair earth
for me,
Yet if that sweet dream could have been how happy-
life might be.
I watched you speeding from my sight in all your
youthful grace,
The sunshine streaming on your form and hope
upon your face;
And I shall sec those soft, blue eyes, and hear that
voice of glee
Till kindly fate shall still the heart that only b°ats
for thee.
I pray that grief nor time may dim the beauty o
that brow.
The light may shine forever then, that shines upon
it now;
Though far away.and passion tossed upon a sea of
pain
I think, though lost to me, there is a heart for one to
gain.
I thought, nor misery, nor despair could ever break
the pride
That lets my heart reveal the love it cannot quench
nor hide;
But lonely o'er the wreck;o r hope, its fires are burn
ing yet
And would to heaven that I had died ere ever we
had met.
SCARLET BLOSSOM.
An E; isode of the Greenroom.
‘And is this all, Kate ?’
‘This is all, Jerome. I regret that any explana
tion should be necessary, but since you have spoken,
I must answer I can never be your wife.’
The young and pretty actress bowed her head
nervously over the boquet she held to hide the an
noyance depicted in her face. It was behind the
scenes in the Opera House at O , and these two
persons, members of the famous troupe per
forming there at the time, were awaiting their
turns to go before the audience to perform their
parts for the evening. Strange time and place for
a prop sal of marriage; and so the lady seemed to
think, us she turned away with a little hauteur.
Her companion, a tall, dark, fierce Corsican, strode
up and down the room with quick, passionate
steps, clenching his hands as he did so. Suddenly
he turned and the devil seemed to look forth from
his burning eyes.
‘Kate Warren,’ he hissed, dropping the gleam of
those great blacks oibs upon her, ‘you have made a
grievous mistake in the rejection of my suit. Per
haps you think to blind me to the knowledge of
your love for another.’
The woman started and her face grew ashen. He
went on mercilessly:
‘Every one in the troupe is aware of it already,
that you and Julian are—very dear friends.
Ha! 1 thought that would touch you,’ he cried as
he noted the sudden changes in her flushing and
paling cheek. ‘Julian,’ he continued, ‘a baby,
a girl baby at that! a fig for him; he has half a
dozen wives already and still scarcely out of his
teens.’
She started and clenched her hand, while a wave
of passion seemed to sweep over her. This man
well knew the vulnerable points in a woman’s
heart and so he went on with passionate vehe
mence :
‘Yes! and you are willing to add your name to
the list of his victims. It is just like a woman,’
(with a sardonic sneer upon his lips) ‘women are
generally willing Victims.’
Kate Warren turned on him with a look in her
eyes ; hat plainly said she scorned a reply, but tak
ing from ihe table where some one had dropped it
a slender riding whip, she struck him lightly across
the face. The man seized the whip, wrenching it,
from her hand, and tossed it to the farthest corner
of the room, then, grasping one delicate wrist in a
clasp of iron, he spoke in a voice as cold and cut
ting as drops of ice:
'Kate Warren,’he whispered, ‘I will be even with
you for this.’ And 'lien the call boy appeared.
Kate, stifling her emotions, went out uponthe stage.
An actress, no matter what she may endure behind
the- scenes, before the exacting multitude must
play her part and be tragic or gay according to the
role. Truly, she pays dearly for her brief triumph
before the footlights. And so Kate stepped to ilie
wing, arranging her hair hastily as she did so, and
appeared in answer to the round of applause which
greeted her. Some, indeed, did remark the un
usual pallor of the favorite of the company, but it
was attributed to a whim of the lady herself in the
manner of applying her rouge. But the girl was
really suffering, haunted by the wild, maniacal
gleam in Jerome’s black eyes while in her ears as
she sang her part, his whisper kept sounding con
stantly, I wid be even with you.’ And she, know-'
ing him well, bore in mind that he was not the man
to break his promise.
After the perfoimar.ee was over, Kate, shunning
Julian for fear of inflaming Jerome to some terri
ble outburst-, sought one of the lesser lights of the
troupe and requested him to escort her to her car
riage. Pleased by the request he gladly complied
and she was soon safe in her room at her hotel.
‘Safe for to-night !’ she thought, ‘but what of to
morrow F
She knew enough of the Corsican s vindictive
character to fear him—less for herself than for the
man she loved. She resolved to be watchful and
warv, but she was afraid to warn Julian lest, with
his hot-headed impetuousness, he should say some
thing to incense Jerome and provoke the violence
she dreaded.
To h r surprise when next she met Jerome he
greeted her in a courteous, even deferential man
ner, which she met with quiet c<-mp- sure. She
could scarcely restrain her astonishment at his un
expected change, l.ut could she have beheld his
face, as she turned away after coldly returning his
salutation, she would have understood Inn better.
New Year’s day came shortly after, and a fresh
opera was brought forward on the occasion. The
‘You have been my best friend; do not be angry with me.’
company had been rehearsing it for some time.
There were two barytone parts, the most importan
one being sung by Jerome, the other had been re
hearsed by a young actor, over whom Jerome had
great influence. But on the very day of the per
formance, the young barytone was not present at
rehersal and sent word that he was ill and could
not play that evening. The manager was in despair
and declared the performance would have to be
postponed, which w ould ruin him, as he was at
heavy expense, and had besides engaged the the
atre and must pay for it, whether his company sang
or not. He swore and fumed in Italian and” Eng
lish, until Jerome coming forward, said quietly :
‘Don’t exercise yourself : there’s a way out of the
difficulty. I know Hartley’s part as well as I do
my own. I will take it.’
‘But your own part f
‘Oh, I will sing both parts. The two characters
are never on the stage at the same time, an, 1 a clever
make up will render me two different persons.’
‘You relieve ine greatly, Vanderis,’ said the well-
pleased manager. ‘It shall be as you say, and I
thank you for the kindness.’
‘I have never known him to be kind except for a
purpose,’thought Kate. ‘What can his motive be
for ihis
Suddenly it flashed upon her. The most impor
tant feature in the part Jerome had just t iken was
the stabbing of the tenor—a character personated
by Julian. In Jerome’s hand the dagger would
play no simulated part. The stab would be a real
one, and the assassi . would plead that it was inad
vertent—the result of excitement and too realistic
acting, and so escape punishment. For he was
cowardly—this dark-browed Corsican, she was sure
of that.
The suspicion came upon her with the force of
conviction, and j et she could not tell it to the man
ager. He woul think it absurd, and bes des it
might be unjust and unfounded. She determined
to seethe sick actor and find out if it was impossible
for him to sing his pan. It was not a long or diffi
cult one. She went to his lodgings, in company
with an elderly matron of the company, and found
him suffering with sick stomach, vomiting and grip-
ings. The sickness had come upon him suddenly,
he said, while he and Jerome were sitting quietly
in their room playing a game of cards.
■And you had ealeu or drank nothing F Kate in
quired.
‘Nothing in the world—yes, we both had a glass
apieee of sherry while we played. Jerome broached
a bottle, but it was very good and pure.’
‘Nevertheless,’ whispered the suspicious spirit in
Kate's breast. ‘It had something in it to make you
ill, that your part might be taken by Jerome,’ but
she said nothing ; she had no proof that her suspi
cion was well grounded.
New Year's eve arrived. The opera house was
filled with a fashionable audience. The chief at-
traction of the play would be the fair face and
sweet fresh voice of Ada May—which was Kate
Warren s rtage name. But instead of lingering be
fore the mirror in her dressing room, giving touches
to the studiedly negligent waves and loops of her
abundant gold-brown hair. Kate was in the proper
ty, room looking over the strange medley it con
tained. At last she found what she wanted. Her
eyes lighted as she drew out from under a heap of
swords, daggers, belts, crowns, shields, helmets,
silvei (tin) drinking cups, etc., a piece of chain ar
mor—such as was worn by the knights and warriors
of old as a defence from the keen pointed sjteal's
and swords of their adversaries. This fragment of
armor was no sham. It bad been brought into the
company by an Engl sh actor, in whose fine old
family it was an heirloom. Then she went back
into her room and sent her maid with a message to
Julian t hat she wished to see him a moment. He
came instantly, a handsome, rather effeminate
looking fellow, in a Greek dress that showed his
lithe, slender figure to advantage.
‘What is it, earn rnia ?
‘Something I am afraid you will not do, Julian ;
but please do, to oblige me.’
‘Oh ! I would cut off iny—mustache to oblige
you, my beautiful.’
‘No ! I ask no such sacrifice,’ she said, trying to
laugh. ‘I only ask that you will wear this piece of
steel mail under your tunic in the stabbing scene.’
‘M3" dear Ada. that is a strange request. This
heavy, clumsy thing—wear it—and for wliatF
‘Oh ! it is close fitting. It will not spoil 3'our fig
ure in the loose tunic, and I wish it so earnestly*; in
deed I do, Julian. I will tell you, Jerome is excit
able, and forgets himself while playing. He might
inffict a wound—unintentionally, you know. I have
a presentiment that makes me” anxious : call me
silly, sujierstitious, what y*ou will, but please wear
the armor, Julian.’
‘I will—to please yon,’ he answered, struck by
her earnestness, but attaching no importance to her
words. He thought differently before the play*
was oyer. He found opportune to whisper to
Kate :
‘Your presentiment was a true one. If I had not
worn that armor, I would be a dead man. He
stabbed me with all the force of his r.'.'tn directly
towards nn r heart, and the dagger was not blunted
either. He is indeed excitable—too much so for a
pla3’er. I can see his e3'es now as he gave me the
thrust.
Kate had seen them, too, and she had seen the
look he cast at her as he came off the stage, and
heard his muttered curse. She could not sl< ep for
thinking of that look. It was full of hatred and
vengeful feel ng towards herself.
‘I must not stay in the company a day longer,
she said to herself. ‘I must make some excuse to
Mr. Terelli and break 1113" engagement. Surely he
will pay me for what I have done; he knows 1 have
a moth, r dependant on 1113' earnings. I will go to
my mother and rest. Julian will leave when I do ;
he is under no signed engagement as I am, and can
get as good a place els .where.’
She spent all that Summer with her mother in a
little cottage among the mountains. But her voca
practice was unremitting and she h.-.d the same
teacher that had first trained her voict—a cynical
but kind hearted old man, an artist liy nature as
well as culture, who might have been a musical
director in a Conservatory h; d he willed it, but
who, soured and in ill health, chose to seclude him
self and l>e only the leader in a village choir. Early
in th season, a letter from Mr. Terrelli to. k Kate to
a Western c.t3', where he was about to ii augurate
the season In' a few weeks of English opera. He
wrote that there was three members of his old
troupe in his new company, and on reaching the
| city, she found that two of" t lies* three were Julian
and—Jerome Vanderis She had determined to
I steel her heart against Julian, but she found it im
I possinie. His smile, his voice, the ver3' touch of his
! baud had a fascination for her she could not resist,
j Jerome was imperturbable as marble and took no
j notice of Kate, be3'ond ordinary civility, but more
than once she caught a lurid flash from liis blood-
AY ith this resolve she rose next morning and after ; sh()t eves that stirred her half-smothered alarm,
breakfast called upon the manager in his room, l Tim “ e sse<1 alld at last the opera of L - A frieaine
where he sat toying with the jeweled fingers ot his | was put on lh e stage. The part of Selika was as-
Jte rled e ? a . J past hei first youth, j s jg, le d to Kate, and the entire troupe had practiced
V.* 1 .'.'VI ss ) essor a *’ au ^ account, upon whicn the opera long and faithfully. It was Julian’s ben
her husband was l.berally drawing in his operatic j an ,i i] le house was packed from gallery to par-
ven uie. j quet. The performance was undeniably fine, and
He received Kate graciously ; she was a favorite j the acting surpassed anything that the company*
of his, and she had proved a drawing card this sea
son. But his countenance darkened with a frown
of surprise and anger, when she quietly* but firmly
i announced her intention of leaving the company.
1 ‘\\ hat — break 3*our engagement, madam !
YVhat. reason upon earth do you assign for this?’
‘None ; at least none that I am afraid 3*011 will
receive. You will think it unreasonable or untrue,
but it is not; I feel it, though I can not prove it to
you. I have an enemy in this company that I am
afraid will work me harm in an underhand way.’
‘Y\ 7 lio is it F
‘I cannot tell you. I wi.«h to injure no one, and,
as I have told 3'ou. I have no proof.’
‘Miss YVarren, this is a very poor excuse for break
ing an engagement. I trust ir, is some impulsive
freak, and that you will recall it tomorrow.’
‘No, it is not indeed.’ Kate said with firmness. ‘I
have determined to quit the company Maud Bell
inger will supply 1113* place, I am sure. But—Mr.
Terrelli, 3'ou have lieen 1113* best friend, m3' benefac
tor, do not b? angry with me. Indeed it is im
possible for me to fulfill m3' engagement—I—am
suffering, I ’
Her voice broke ; her hands she had clasped ap
pealing^' fell to her side. Mrs. Terrelli gave her
husband’s hand an entreating pressure and urged
him towards the girl. H s better feelings gained
the ascendency.
had before achieved. Miss Warren, incorpor
ated a great deal of reality in her acting, since
; Julian was the Vasco of the opera : and the song
that Selika sings while Yasco is sleeping was per
i feet in its wail of despair and its burden of liope-
| less love. Once, w hile singing, she glanced upbe-
! hind the wing and caught the fierce gaze of Jerome,
| who, dressed as Nelusko, was await ing his call on
| to the stage. She trembled involuntarily, but b, nd-
j ing over the unconscious form of her lover, she
went on with her song, and the audience accepted
I her agitation as a portion of the performance. At
length came the closing scene in the last act. Ever3’
mui U’Vin Imcu ifnaccnH k T A fnino ivv/x’ n-i 11 won/.ml. ..
Uncle John upon Babies.
I am very fond of babies, and c n tolerate an3'
brand of them except the dirty brand. I suppose
I was a baby m3*self once. Of course I don’t re
member whether I was or not but I wish I could
remember. 1 would particularly like to recall the
delighted excl.'tifi.utions of the 3'oung ladies—‘Isn’t
he sweet !’ 'O the little darling !’ ‘He's just too
lovely for anything !’ ‘Do let me kiss him !’ ‘He’s
so sweet I could hug the very life out of him !’
No, I regret to sax* that I can’t remember it.
YVlien I was a young man, and was studying for
the min stry, I boarded with an elder sister who
had a y*earl;ng baby. I think that baby had the
most magnificent set of lungs that ever emitted
sounds. Talk about y*our steam caliopes, and loco
motive whistles, and fog-hot ns. The voice of th it
bab3’ would have drowned them a".
I said that I was studying for the ministry at that
time, and of course it was essential that 1113' mind
should be trained in ihe line of meekness, humility,
and long suffering. But. I regret to say, Christian
forbearance finally gave out. I quietly, but with
malice aforethought, proceeded to invent a machine
to cure that baby of cry ine. My idea was that the
3'oung rascal hau led simply to hear himself, and
that if I could get up a machine by means of which
I e could not hear his own yawp, he would soon give
it up in disgust and become a reasonably quiet in
fant.
After weeks of labor I produced the machine.
It was constructed thus: An air receiver made large
enough to hold the baby, attached to which was an
air pump to exhaust the air. A rubber tube was
arranged to be fastened over the baby’s nose at one
end, and the other end to be outride of the receiver.
By* this arrangement, when the baby was placed in
the receiver, and the air was exhausted around him,
he could breathe through the tube. As the air was
gradually pumped out his voice would become less
audible, for you know there is no sound where there
is no air. Finally, as the process of air exhaustion
went on, the baby would find that h’s attempt to
cry was a lamentable failure. In spite of his most
strenuous efforts, and the most vigorous straining
of his lungs, he could not get a sound that he could
hear, and then he would give up the attempt in
disgust.
well, one dav my sister went out to spend the af
ternoon and left me to mind the baby. As soon as
she was gone the youngster commenced to howl and
I went up to my room and got the machine. I fixed
the baby and went to work on the pump. It worked
admirably. The cry got faint and fainter, and the
baby- looked the picture of mingled astonishment
and disgust. I was so enraptured with t he success
of m3' achievement that I went to work with re
doubled vigor at the pump, paying no further no
tice to the baby-, but delighted beyond measure as
the crying ceased to be audib’e.
Just then my sister, having forgotten something,
entered the room. I first learned this by a scream
that nearly took the roof off the house, followed
by a bound towards the baby, and upsetting of the
receiver.
The cause of the excitement was plain enough.
The air tube had slipped off ti e baby’s nose, and
he eouldn’t breathe. His face was as black as my
hat, and in a minute more he would have been ef
fectually cured of crying.
YVhen my sister got through with that machine
there wasn’t a piece of it as big as a match. I went
away a short time for my health.
I had been studying for a Baptist minister, but I
afterw ards found my mind drifting more toward
Presbyterianism, as it was at that time—fifty years.
The doctrine of infant damnation seemed to com
mend itself to me. The result of it was t hat I gave
up the idea of being a minister. That abortive at
tempt to do humanity a service by inventing a ma
chine for curing crying babies caused the church
to lose a minister and led to this screed, from
Yours truly-, Uncle John.
! one who has witnessed ‘L’Africaine’ will remember
j it. The blue and smiling sea, while in the distance
| vanishes from sight the ship that bears Vasco away
j wi; h Inez, his chosen bride, and Selika, who love's
j him without hope, will never behold him on earth
! again. On the shore stands a huge tree, with wide-
| spreading branches and blossoms of vivid scarlet,
several of which are scattered on the ground. It is
the dreadful mancanilla tree of the tropics, the
perfume of whose blossoms, it is believed, cau-es
instant death. And this woman, who so hopelessly
loves, comes to this place, wafts a farewell to her
depar ed lover, and inhaling the deadly perfume of
a scarlet blossom lying at the foot of the tree, bids
the world adieu forever.
Kate sang the song as though her heart was break
She dropped down under the tree and pressed
«o with you, but I seiTtii "t"the work woul.f’be i &3R"!SS*& SS*25
too much tor y-ou. Go to your mother and rest
until next season. But keep your voice in bril'iant I
training for an early* engagement then. I release ]
you from this one with that understanding. Yon!
shall receive your full salary for the three weeks
you have given me here. I hope to hear that you
have recovered y-our spirits and health. Your wel
fare will always be dear to me and to my wife.’
Kate thanked them brokenly, and went away.
‘Poor girl,’ said warm-hearted Mrs. Terrelli. ‘I
think I can guess what is the matter. She loves
Julian and doubts him. He is fond of her and they
have been much together—too much, I am afraid,
unless his intentions are fully honorable ; I can see
a gathering anxiety* in her face.
continued—wailing, despairing—still she held the
blossom closely to her lips ; the song wavered and
ceased—ceased ere it was half finished ; her little
hand dropped powerless to her side, she strove in
vain to rise. The audience, spell bound at such
wonderful acting, as they imagined it, never
dreamed that it was reality*, until Jerome, enter
ing upon the scene to sing” his words, raised the
slender form in his arms, and turning to the audi
ence, calmly pronouuced the words. ‘She is dead.’
There was a rush for the stage. It was, indeed,
too true : there she lay, cold, calm, rigid. An ex
amination produced the verdict of death from in
halation of a certain subtle poison, with which the
petals of the scarlet blossoms were found
to be
That night, in the private parlor of the late opera
singer, two men met face to face above the little
his pass on for our beautiful Kate. He has had
sad history—married at eighteen to a designing
woman, wholly unworthy of him, he is now sepa
rated from her, through her own misconduct, but
not legally divorced. He has not inst tuted pro
ceedings for divorce until lately*, and she opposes
it. for mercenary* reasons. I think he has acted un
wisely in keeping this matter from Kate. It would
be better to be perfectly candid with her. But
Julian is a strange fellow, 1 do not understand him
myself and I am very sorry Kate YVarren became
facinated by him. She is very young and has a
brilliant art-career before her, if those strong im
pulses and keen sensibilities that make her such a
fine emotional actress, don’t find too real a vent
and wreck her art prospects and her life together.”
“But who can be the enemy she spoke of s”
“I don’t know unless it’s that fierce-eyed fellow,
Jerome Vanderis. He has fallen madly* in love
with her I think, and love, with these (Corsicans,
soon sours into hate if it is thwarted. Well, I must
go at once and see if Maude Bellinger can be got to
take Kate’s place. If not our venture at English
Op^ra is a dead failure ma’am.”
Kate hurried away from the city by the very
next train, leaving only a farewell note for Julian.
form coffined away from their burning gaze ; and
Julian bowed his head, while the hot teal's dropped
upon the coffin lid.
•I loved her,’ he murmured, and there was heart
break in h:s voice. ‘She should have been my wife!’
But regrets were useless.
Jerome, stand'ng by* the coffin, hoarsely* mutter
ed : ‘I loved her, too ! and she should never have
been your wife.’
The two men looked at each other menacingly*.
***** * * * *
A few days after, a local paper stated that ‘a
rumored duel too place at between two well-
known actors, in which one had fallen severely, if
not mortally wounded.’ * * *
The following week the manager of the troupe
received a note from Julian, resigning his position
in the company* and his profession forever.
An Oxford (Ala.) man is so close fisted that he
will net advertise in the papers, but ties his card to
a pig’s tail and turns the grunter loose.
Madame Bonaparte’s Jewels.
The collection of jewels left by the late
Madame Bonaparte seme of them of great in-
trir sic value, others of vrlna chi'll? for the
fissoeiations conm cted with them, will, it is
announced, be preserved in the family. The
most expensive article of the collection is a
necklace ajid pendant composed of at least five
hundred diamonds. The gems are old India
stone, superior to aDy now in the market, and
savs Mr. Gale, the Baltimore jeweller, who ap
praised them tbev are handsomer than any he
has ever seen. The necklace was the gift of
a distinguished nobleman to Madam Bonaparte
while in Europe. Mr. Gale appraised it at
$18 000, thongh he is of the opinion that but for
its antiquity and the associations connected
with it, the nccklaoe wonid not now sell for
more than $5 000. Some of the diamonds in
this superb ornament weigh two and a half ca
rats each, and the others are smaller. The col
lection consists of necklaces, finger rings, an
tiques, vinaigrettes, bon-bon boxes, earrings,
and other articles. They were presents f.om
her parents, from relatives and friends, from
her husband during her brief married life,and
from persons she met during her long sojourn
in Europe One fine cameo ring is valued at
$150. One pcir of diamond ear-tings, lea'-shape,
are exceedingly beautiful. They consist of two
large solitaires at the top, with smaller di
amonds, forming the leaves below. These are
worth $1,000. A crown of amethysts and pearls
was very costly, but is now worth only $500.
There are four pearl necklaces, the lowest in
vnlne being appraised at $50 and the highest at
$500. Two antiques in the collection are superb
specimens, and would bring large snms if sold.
One of the greatest curiosities in the lot is a
bracelet made of gold wire, about twenty-two
carats fine, made from gold found upon the
arm of a skeleton discovered in the ruins of
Pompeii. There is a black enamelled bracelet,
made in Paris and set with American quarter-
eagle gold pieces, worth $100 Another bracelet
is made ef six five-dollar gold pieces and a
French coin linked together with gold. There
are three watches, unique and beautiful, but
not of much iutrins'c value. Two of them have
plain hunting cases, blue eramelled open face,
and the third is a double case watch,ornamenti d
with pearls. Or e of these wa'ches was a pre
sent to Madame Bonararte while she wi s Miss
Elizabeth Patterson, from her grandfather, and
Mr. Gale is of the opinion, from its style, that
it vas made three hundred years ago. The ap
praisement was a matter of form according to
the rules of the Orphans* Court, and was made
at the office of Mr. Charles Joseph Bonaparte,
executor of the estate of his grandmother.