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r SJ 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.