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V Z ^iOVTrtS CC'UiCTIOn'
VOL. V. J. a. & w B. SEALS.
EDITORS AND
proprietors.
To Tin; i>oi;r iktist
ATLANTA GA„ SEPTEMBER 13th. 1879. Terms in advance : '
STBSEY I.A\li:it,
Siprav ol "Yellon Jessamine" from Tile
** .Marshes iil iilynn.*’
IlfcI.EN C. HoSTWK'K.
Uu Marsh of Glynn, which one we know has set
lo nohle music, rode we on an eve
Flushed with the sunset. Lush, tall (trasses waved
With willowy grace, touched by the winds that canu
Jo bathe our foreheads, laden with flower-breath
And salty sweetness, caught from ocean's kiss.
Above,arched the soft, fleece-flecked blueof heaven;
Around was spread a wilderness of green,
And here, betrayed by odors, subtly sweet.
Vines trailed their tropic wealth of green, crowned
o er
With cuiis of royal gold, brimful of scouts,
Floating from hidden nooks, so wild and wierd
Bonie Iiryad tliere might well have made her moan
Over the falseness .of some fickle Faun.
1 lie sounds of wood and marsh fall on our ear,
The cushats mellow coo, the croak of frogs,
J he ho it oi hidden owl, I lie mock bird’s note,
1'lie pipe < fthe curlew, the harsh loud call
Of the marsh hen to her mate, as inong the reeds
1 liat h inge tile inland's winding creek she broods
l pou her nest; tin* rustle of tiie leaves
I >11 whirl! the sunset's gilding lingers rest.
J hen slant across the shimmering plain and touch
Tiie scene so richly that a longing comes
lo ha\e tliis beauty voiced in song, and when
1U turned to me—my poet-friend, and asked
“W hat recompense—if any—can 1 give
l or this rare golden hour I owe to you ?”
i quick replied,” “.Set but to music meet—
Oi words and tones—as you alone can do—
1 lie beauties of 11 iis. scene; embalm this hour
In the rare amber of your poesy,
Which proves that A roadie is not a dream
And gallant Sidney lives and w
^ ou've chanted praises of th
Of swaying wheat; of all glad Natur
1 >f wealth and beauty have you suns
Almost too
! are quits.
• waving “corn,"
store
strains
t was your hand
rect;
lose loyal worth
ered
fraud and pure for common ears
And, at our land’s great birtlida
That laid too rmrst oner!ns at n
Verse, pure as pearls unflawed,
‘shall stand the test of time Oil
Oh, soul of inline! high and line
With genius true cliild-like simplicity
And gentle kindliness, tiial bids me dare
To lay at feet of this thine my own flower
Wild blossom from the marshes thou hast sung
Bright yellow jessamine, whose chalice flings
A fragrance so divine, so subtly sweet,
So thralling to tiie senses it may type
Thy verse, Oli! Poet; so ’tis not unmeet
That I should offer this sweet souvenir
him, who sung Tiie Marsh of Glynn; to him
■ proudly own our southern king of song.
MY BETTER ANGEL.
“0 blest lie thine unbroken light
That watched meus a seraph's eye.
And stood between me and the night.
Forever shining sweetly nigh,” Bi'Ros.
ltd fascinating guest.
Phil bp was enchanted
with him. ami long lio-
| fore he rose t<> leave,
bad pressed upon him
an invitation to stay
"'it h us for a fortnight
prior to leaving the
country. 1. of course,
. added my persuasions;
J and, thanking us heart
; ily. he accepted.
He came, ami the first
week of his- visit passed
away happily enough.
1 i is gaity never flagged,
no matter how fatigu
ing the day s exertions
1 might have been. He
was in tin* evening like
a giant refreshed. Four
j days prior to the ar-
j ranged date of his de
parture, in jumping a
i fence he se V ere 1 v
’ sprained his ankle, and
ha l to be driven home.
I found great pleas-
| ure in doing all in my
j power to allay the paiii
I that he suffeied. AH
• day he used to recline
; upon the sofa, and,
j while apologizing for
j the troutde he gave,
j profess that he could
not liear any one Inn
myself to attend upon
| him. Phillip offered to
I remain at home with
| him. but, Captain Bar-
■ nett would not for one
mo m cut countenance
.the idea.
'Mv dear fellow,' he
' ■said, ‘your good little
wife always takes the
! greatest possible care of
j mi*; am) in her absence
; Ciolden liitir comes and
chats with me.’
j Holden Hair was hi
! the room .vhe.t lie - Van;
; a r'm.fiwnnl. •' at* she
I mentioned in ')?
i *My darling,' y said
| to her that e*” iing,
I when preparing for
I dinner, ‘you do not
| seem to take such pleas
ure in attending to Cap
tain Barnett as you
generally do our other
visitors.’
She (lushed up it my
words and did not im
mediately answer me.
At last she said:
‘It's very wrong, I know, mamma dear, but
cannot like him.’
‘But why, mv child!—why?’ I persevered.
‘I have tried, mamma dear, but 1 cannot
eyes frighten me.’
‘You funny child!’I said, as we went do
dinner, little thinking that her antipathy w
innate shrinking of innoc
that which was evil.
Captain Barnett bail been with us for a month
when an end came to all my faith in him.
Phillip was out about the grounds and I was
alone in the dining-room with Captain Barnett.
The couch was drawn across the window, and my
chair was placed at the end. I was occupying my
self with some needlework, but at that moment was
attracted by seeing my darling on her pony, led by
li the gate to
wards the village. She had scarcely passed out of
sight when Captain Barnett addressed me.
What a wonderful woman y u are!' he b
his usual sincere t me.
‘TPliat a wonderful man you are for thinking so!'
I respond laughingly.
•Not at all:' lie replied: ‘ym are a wonder—a
mans better angel. Whit a heavenly benediction
your husband received when lie married vou!
His voice was full of pathos as he said this.
1 laughed innocently and merrily at this extra
ordinary eulogy.
‘Ah, there you see,’ he said disappointedly; ‘you
are different from other women.’
He seemed so hurt at my want of seriousness that
I thought I had pained him.
‘You really cant expect me to take such unmer
ited praise seriously,’ I remarked. ‘A little old-
< ;<
No. 218.
T tried to think calm
ly. to draw out in mv
mind some plan bv
which I might clear my-
seli in hi sieves; but the
endeavor was totally
futile. I ii less than two
hours the agony of n.v
cruel position had
brought on ravingdelir-
ium.
quickly, b
with deep i
‘Mv wife
I ut
husband !
it ere I can look upward ;
'motion falls upon mv ear:
My darlin
through in v i
u forgiv
and belli;
niv
S1IE SLEEPS WELL IX TIIE OLD GRAVEYARD. AT THE FOOT OF THE YEW.
Hi;
II to
the
rail in
I was married at the age of eighteen. My hus
band having a comfortable income, devoted hinis
self to a country life.
I am the daughter of a medical man. and my
father was the physician and confidential friend of
mv husband's family. We had grown up together . .
from our childhood, and our increasing attachment oneotthe farm men,^passing thn
had been regarded by our parents with no unfavor-t war " s the village
able vigilance. TV hen he was one and twenty and
1 eighteen, we married. It was purely and wholly
a love match. I can say now with all sincerity
that I firmly believe no two beings ever loved each
other more perfectly than Phillip and I. His only
trouble seemed to be that he could not, in his own
idea, do sufficient to make me as happy as he wished
me to be: and if I had any trouble, it was that 1
felt I could not do enough to return his unbounded
love. There are few married people. I fear, whose
only sorrows are derived from a similar source.
On the first anniversary of our wedding-day, I
was blessed with a daughter. She was our only
child. We christened her Emily: but at the expir
ation of three tears, we never called her by that
name: we called her Golden Hair. Need I tell you
that our reason for giving her that pet name was, , ■ . - , , ,„„ h
the fact ot her possessing a perfect glory of the j "oiuanhke nursing cannot deserve such ei.com-
brightest golden hair that ever decked an infant’s ; UU1S - .
hea l.” ‘It was no/ unmerited, and it was serious, he re-
Even now I sometimes dare to fancy that I am I plied earnestly. You are the best, the most patient
once more caressing those golden locks, while I kiss j wife God ever made. Would to heaven 1 had such
her upturned face. One bright tress, hidden away ! a one!’
in my desk, is all that remains to me of my better; I felt my bosom heave with pride at the mans
angel! words. I felt the tears rise to my eyes with the (
Again I find myself running away from my stos thought that Philip had told him how deal I "as in
ry, but you must forgive me. 1 think you will his sight. 1 could not speak for joy. He saw Hie I
when y<>u know all. The first ten vears of"my mar- tears stealing through my fingers as I held them be- I
ried life were happier than words can tell. Never fore my face. He saw the heaving of my glai. bos- 1
did a cross word pass my husband’s lips; never did om, and, God forgive him, he misinterpreted the .
he wound me with one cross look or angry frown. ■ cause of my emotion.
Oh, how much I had to be thankful for! how very, ‘Ellen,’ he whispered, hoarsely, ‘I love you. Come
very much! " with me away from this place—away from your
I have seen many homes, but I cannot call to neglectful husband forever !'
mind a single one in which there seemed to exist 1 As the words passed his lips, he leaned to where
the same perfect peace and affection between man 1 was sitting. At the touch of liis hand, I rose,
and wife as there existed between Phillip and my- with passion inexpressible.
self. ‘You villain !’ I uttered, with a struggle. ‘You
There were plenty of people ready to call us love- false, despicable villain!’ I could not go on: my
sick, and to twit us with childish sentimentality; j horror of one wiiocould thus treacherouslyen<leav-
but, thank goodness, it all fell harmlessly on our or to betrav the unsuspecting friend who, trusted
vonng hearts. 1 often thought that those who af- him with all sincerity, was greater than words
fected to laugh at our devotion would have felt could express. In a moment li.- recognized the err-
right glad to own a love equal to ours. ror he had made; in a moment he recognized t he
It was at the commencement of the eleventh i speechless indignation and abhorrence he had a wak j
’ a i,f.. ...i first shadow of ened in my breast.
‘Forgive me, forgive me !’ be cried, imploringly. |
'larin. My intense love, '
For- i
At last the moment, of his departure arrived. I »
said ‘‘Guod-hve to him as calmly as I coil'd.
Phillip was to drive him to the depot. I shall 1
never forget the sense of relief that came over me
when I saw mv husband touch the horse with his
whip and drive Captain Barnett, away.
I was a free woman again ! i was no longer
called upon to play a false part, to assume a liking
e "'heiiin contact with i where with all mv soul I felt a loathing.
j Six o’clock was our dinner hour, and I expected
Phillip back early, as it was only two o’clock when
he left, and the distance was but five miles.
How 1 longed to see him returning alone !
►Six o’clock came, lint he did not return. Seven,
eight , nine, ten ! At last I heard the carriage-
wheel on the gravel-drive. The door opened. My
husband entered.
‘tPhy, darling, how late you are !' 1 said.
He did not answer me; lie never opened his pale
trembling lips. With an iron gra-p he took me by ,
the arm. led me into the house, banged the front |
door behind him fiercely, and, pushing me into the
dining-room, thrust me at arm's length from him, ;
fixing on me a cruel, killing gaz \
Breathless and bewildered. 1 staggered against i
the table, mv eyes fixed, with what must have been !
a terrified expression, on my liusban i’s lace. Fie
drew a letter from his pocket, and toi>k it t ''om out
the envelope slowly and deliberately Then he ad
vanced towards me and held the letter out to me.
‘IT’tiat have you to say in answer to that ” he
asked, in a solemn voice. I took the letter from his
hand, t tried to dash the tears away from my
eyes, but they rose thick and fast, and I could not
decipher a single line.
‘Read, woman, read !’ be said, pointing to the
missive that l held.
Once again 1 struggled to read the words before
me, but to no avail.
The terrible chilliness in his voice and manner
was more than I could bear, and reeling back with
a heart-broken cry, 1 fell swooning at hi fei t.
When my senses returned I to aid myself on a
sofa, with my servant at my side.
‘Where is your master I asked.
‘He’s gone out, ma’am.’
How long since !'
‘Three hours ago. ma’am.'
‘I )i ; he leave any message ?’
‘He left this letter, ma'am.’
The girl handed it to me as site spoke. I tore the
envelope asunder with a hind rendered steady
with desperation. It contained two notes—one in
the hand of tny husband, tiie other in the hand of
Captain Barnett.
I read C iptain Barnett’s first.
It ran thus:
month
covered from the fever
into which this the most
pamfui episode in my
life had thrown me
During my illness the
trustwi>rthy housekeep
er had taken full charge
ol the establishment,
and the familv lawyer
had carried out liberal
ly my husband’s ar
rangements as to my fu
ture income. The docs
umeuts were handed
over t<» /lie as soon as I :
'■vas valeseent. He
had left more than half
his income at my dis
posal. In vain did I
endeavor to gain traces
of him. All that
could gather was that
lie had gene abroad.
I have tried to avoid
further mention of the
man who caused this
cruel separation. I have
tried to subdue all the
bitter feeling that rises
:n my breast while 1 re-
rord these things—may
I be able iodo so to the
etii* ! For six months
after my recovery 1
bore my burden as
bravely as 1 could.
Golden Hair soothing
and encouraging :n>
with her great love. J i
myraving. wiien id.si
■ _ had learned the cause /
■ ’ ■ 14 '
up '' m H in,, j lh . r
"°[S hack to me,. -
7 . ,J fi«/rif?mS!i... ev enmg j n ri ,!/,
Lt is no exaggvi — . u
when I state that mv
darling was in mind a
woman at ten years of
age. She had ‘'out
lived herself by many a
day.” In some form or
other God sends us sue-
To some, lie sends it in
Captain Barnett had been stricken with a fatal
illness, and, on procuring Phillip’s address, had
written to him. making full confession of his vil
lainy. and endeavoring tmnnke ah the reparation
ill his I lower. He owned that the annoyance he
, ,, felt at meeting with such a rebuff as the one he ex-
i t v. as fully two , pern need .-it, m> hands, when he had inwardly as.
Jefore I had re- sured himseif that he had suc-ceded in " inning i
guilty affect ion from me. had prompted him to the
■ co'.vapby revenge he had taken. He begged that
Dhihp would hasten to him, anil in person pardon
him eic he died. This last request mv husband
j granted; and Capta n BarneF del with his hand
! m the lorgiving grasp of the friend whom he had
so scc-ely wronged.
And so we aie united once more—husband wife
; and daughter.
! Soon—alas, how soon !—the time came when mv
darling daughter was taken, leaving us alone.
i have told you the story of my darling, mv
Golden Hair. 1 have told you how a merciful
Providence gave it into her faithful trust tosave me
and redeem me. I have told you how God made
her to me my better angel.
She sleeps wed in the little gravevard at the foot
of garden-wall: and the time is not far distant. I
believe, when I, who sit. gazing at her resting-place
in the soft twilight, will join her in her tranquil
1 i sleet).
LYING IN BED,
LazylMan’s View on the Advantage of Not Get
ting Up in the Morning.
(Front London Society
Let us analyze this lyin
I maintain that, in the tin
there is something health;
system. The wheels of i
The proper and legitimate purpose o
bed is to go to sleep. There is nothu
'’’here is no tonic or medicine in tiie
like sleep. The more sleep the brain
: 's the brain work. All great brain
in bed a little further,
e fact of lying in bed,
and recuperative to the
-■ are oiled and eased.
been gre
h
at sit
''A " .uts nine.
?epers. Sir Haiti
than ten hours.
stopping in
like sleep,
hole world
ts the better
orkers have
■Scott could never
A fool may want
cor in our hardest trial;
the form of self-strength and fortitude; through ! and slept, slept and drank, till he drank and slept
The men nln have been tlH greatest
generals are the men who could sleep at ’ Thus
they <! Ii£e: h S^UUK&?n_and Nap " "
aged Palmerston. There is a man who has hPe.’.
attorney-general, whom I have seen bury his face
in his hands over his desk and sleep soundly until
his own cause should come on. ‘‘Sleep,’’ says the
Greek proverb, ‘‘is the medicine for every disease,
if he sleeps he will do well.” A friend told me that
he treated himself for fever. He went to lied with
a large pitcher of lemonade by bis side. He drank
the help of friends; perhaps, though not too often,
through the aid of relatives. To me He granted it.
through a little child gifted with reason beyond
her years. Even through the soul ol my darling
sent He His strength unto me.
I have said that l bore mv trouble for six months
after my illness. Then, anil only then, did I utter
ly break down and fail.
Then seemed my burden too heavy to bear. Once
let doubt creep into the mind as to God’s mercy and
God’s help—once let that blind misgiving enter into
the aching heart, then, unless we at once cast it
it from us as we would a serpent, or unless some
more faithful sou! leads us back to the forsaken and
happy faith, we are irretrievably, hopelessly lost.
I did let that doubt creep into my sad heart; 1
did lose ail faith in God's help.
I shall never forget the night when tuv faith died
within me. I could not sleep, I could not rest. I
tried to pray, but I felt that all my prayers were
wasted and in vain. The light of day brought me
no relief from my agony of soul. This torture
went on for weeks. In vain did my darling try to
comfort me. I treated her with something ap
proaching harshness. I should never see my be
loved husband again. I should never have a chance
to vindicate my conduct. 1 was destined to live a
lonely, wretched life of mental torture, with the
maddening fact ever before me that lie would never
know that I was innocent of wronging him even
in thought.
The weeks had dragged their weary length along,
and Christmas eve was close at hand. 1 had re
solved that that Christmas-eve should be tny last.
God forgive me for it ! I must have been mad.
My darling had grown pale anil worn with anx
iety. I do not believe she one moment felt for her
self on account of my coldness and neglect. 1 am
convinced she thought only of me.
Christmas-eve came, and I was as firmly resolved
as evei'. From my bedroom window. I watched
the wintry sun go down behind the distant hills. 1
watched the golden light that he left in his wake
gl ow fainter and fainter, and then I turned to do
my work of irreparable evil.
himself well again. When vou take to your bed
' get all the sleep you can out of the bedstead, even
j although, to quote Dick Swiveller’s saying, you
have to pay for a double-bedded room, confessing
that you have taken a most unreasonable amount
; of sleep out of a single lied. You will be banking a
I whole store of recuperative energy. Even if you
cannot sleep, still keep your bed. There is no more
pestilent heresy than that you should get up direct
ly you are awake. If it is the early riser who
catches the worm, the worm is a great idiot in ris
ing still earlier in order to be caught. It you do
not get sleep by lying in bed you get rest. You se
cure the fallow ground which will hereafter pro
duce a good harvest. Sleep is of course the prop
er employment for bell, but if you don't sleep you
can lie still and read, 1 don't believe that the man
who gets up really learns or does mi ire than the man
who lies in tied. If, for a moment, the writer may
be egotistical, some of the hardest work which he
has ever done has been from the early dawn till af
ter a breakfast in bed. Of all the sleep in the world
there is none so good as what you get, in Hie way of
treasure-trove, after the usual time of waking .when
in point of fact, you have given up the expectation
of getting any more sleep. As for‘‘being called,
as the saying goes, that: is simply a relic of the bar
barism of our ancestors. 1 should quarrel with any
man who presumed ‘‘to call” me. One of the main
beauties of an occasional day in bed is that you get
an extra stock of sleep, which goes to the credit
side of your sanitary account.
Taking an occasional day in bed, simply on ac
count of indisposition, is. however, a very simple
and rudimentary notion of this glorious institution.
Bed is the natural domicile of every man:
“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
Are born in bed, in l>ed we die."
Bavard, the French physiologist, maintained that
man is an animal who exercises the thinking facul
ty best m a horizontal position. Thus, there are
high artistic, social and intellectual uses connected
with an occasional day in bed. which imperatively
claim discussion. Brinley, the great engineer
when he was fairly bothered and puzzled by some
Gil the dressing table stood a small vial contain- t 'j, nn.piem always betook himself to bed until
1., ,i. L. •< nix 1 iwixn orl..., ...f-.wv.l I.olmMo it II (til . r ' . . • ■ ‘ 11 - .4- l.in. ]
year of our married life when tin
sorrow crossed our threshold
It was on an afternoon in
n in January, close upon ‘God knows I meant no harr
the hour of dusk, when Phillip unexpectedly hitherto subdued, overpowered all restraint,
brought home to dine with him an acquaintance of give me, I implore you !’
long standing, a Captain Barnett, who happened to At first I was immovable in my purpose to expose
be staying at a friend.s house in the neighborhood, him to my husband: but when be beggedanduu-
I was. as usual, sitting in the window, watching plored of me, with bitter tears, to pardon him for
for my husband, when I saw them coming up the his ill-placed love, the existence of which he most
garden walk, with their guns thrown across their vehemently adhered to, an t on his promising to
shoulders. quit our house on the following day, never to re-
Captain Barnett was a tall athletic man, with an | turn, I agreed, led by his insinuations of causing
extremely handsome cast of features. tny dear husband unnecessary pain, to remain si-
Diuner lieing over, we three were comfortably lent,
seated in the parlor, Captain Barnett doing all in On the following morning he declared himself fit
his power to make the evening a pleasant one. His j to travel, assuring Philip that it was of the utmost
anecdotes abounded in wit and interest: his re par- importance that he should take his immediate de-
tee would have immortalized him as a dramatist of parture 1 had to the best of mv ability, eudeav-
themodern school: bis voice pealing forth rich and ore(1 toassume my usual bearing towards him dur-
mellow, would have obtained him high rank upon ; ; the few rem aining hours of his stay. _
the lyric stage. In fact he was most accomplished 1 b
“My dear I’hil.—I could not have the heart to I'll
you by word of mouth wh it. 1 now write. 1 could
not. bear to witness your agony. Of course, I mnif |
judge wrongly: but my experience tells me other- j
wise. All I say is, watch carefully over your wife's |
fidelity.
Yours ever faithfully,
Henry Barnett ”
I hagun to see through the mystery now, 1 be
gan to see through the deep villainy of the man
whom l had spared. I turned to my husband s let
ter, and read:
“When you receive this. I shall have gone. When
you read the enclosed you will know why 1 have
gone. Your conduct when I handed you Captain
Barnett’s letter to-night, confirms the veracity of
the suspicions therein conveyed. Proper provision
shall he made for your maintenance. Slay God
forgive you; I cannot. Farewell, and forever.
Philip Golding.
With a moan of agony l cast the letter from me.
Gone ! Gone forever, with scorn and contempt,
with loathing for me—me his guiltless, his once be
loved
he had solved it. Most people have a great kind
ness for Lord Melbourne, who, under the affectation
of frivolity, used to get up Hebrew and the Fath
ers and imperturbable good humor to bear with his
wife, Lady Caroline, while the pretty,Byron-struck
termagant used to smash the drawing-room furni
ture. His intimate friends would find the premier
oabillv taking breakfast in bed, with letters and
dispatches strewed all over the counterpane. The
w laudanum. A wine-glass stood beside it. With
a firm hand 1 removed the stopper from the vial;
and then 1 poured into the glass sufficient of the
poisonous opiate to have killed the strongest man
living.
For a moment I replaced the glass upon the dres
sing-table. ;
‘Just one look,’I cried, peering at my haggard
face in the looking-glass, ‘one last look at the face ,,,,
be once loved so well. Good-bye, Philip, my dar- j J^ts have been terrible fellows to get out of bed.
dug. good-bye !' ; I suppose it is because the visions of the day and of
Mv wicked hand ts stretched out to raise the 11itrlit sweetly intermingle. The poet Thorn-
death draught to tny lips, but as it touches it, an cultivated laziness as a fine art, and thought out
agonizing cry rings in my ears. Another hand, his j )oem s in lied. Pope was a still worse fellow,
smaller ami more fragile than mine caught the glass \y linn he had a tit of inspiration on him, he would
and made a desperate effort to take it from my keep the servants running about for him all through
grasp. 1 the night. Hemadeamendstothembvtheplente-
‘Mother, mother, you must not! It is a sin. God | ous!less „f his “vails.” We take a later instance,
would be angry. And mother, would you lease j iij S i Il;l jvk sas's, according to Dr. Busch, ‘1 was
troubled with varicose s'eins in ik66. I lav full
■(), God, my child !’ As the words pass my lips,
I dash the deadly opiate from me.
In an instant her tiny' arms are flung around me,
her subs convulsing her fragile frame. The sight is
more than I can bear with calmness—the sight of
my unselfish, noble child, heartbroken with anguish,
teaching me my duty, saving me from a terrible
crime !
She has called me to my reason; she has brought
back to me my faith; she had brought back to me
that belief, which in forsaking I had lost all.
I can bear it calmly no longer, but lifting her in
mv arms, I carry her locked in my repentant bos-
length on the bed, and had to answer letters of a
very desperate sort with a pencil.’ He has given
us some of his experiences when lying in bed.
used to lie awake full of all sorts of thoughts and
troubles. Then Yarz’n would suddenly come up
before me, perfectly distinct in the minutest partic
ulars, like a great picture, with even all its colors
fresh—the green trees, the sunshine on the stems,
the blue sky above. 1 saw every individual there.
1 struggled to shake the thing off: and when at last
1 ceased to see it, other things came in—reports,
notes, dispatches, and so on; but 1 fell over aliout
morning.” Bismarck at Versailles used to lie in
he cannot keep himself
ife—raging ia his breast ! Gone without one om to the bed, on which I cast, myself in a flood of |, C( | ;i ^eat deal, ‘bei _
word at parting, save the cruel accusation of a thankful, blessed tears. While weeping as if my' ivasonablv warn! in any otlier way.’ I sympathize
crime that never held a place in mv innocent heart would break, the door gently opens, and ‘ with Bismarck. Accept, Prince, the marks of my
heart !’ feel some one s arm steal round my neck. 1 start j distinguished consideration.