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3IY OLD StRAP ROOK.
HY HATTIE E. S. CEESKY.
To whom will I give my old scrap book
Bye and bye?
Who'll care lor that or care for me
Wien Idle?
The dear old book, I love it so.
Would I could take :t along;
I’ve made it up from year to year
Of brief little stories and song.
No one wilt care for it like me,
For its songs have been wrung from mv heart.
And I cannot look on its pages now.
But the tears from mv eyes w ill start.
It has grown immensely since he died.
And his poems grace it still;
And the index made by his own hand
I shall soon be able to fill;
For thoughts keen oubbling up Irom my heart,
And I weave them into rhyme:
Oh, I think ’twill bequite running over
Ere I reach life's autumn time.
It did not seem he e'er could die.
He was so strong and young.
Yet death made of him a shining mark
Ere half his songs were sung.
But the i Id S 'rap book he left to me.
With both our names inside;
And I've looked upon it ever since.
With mingled love and pride.
Then to whom will I give the dear old book
Bye and Bye?
Who'll care for that or care lor me
When I die?
Pittsfield. Mas-.
George Eliot and Her Work
The True Story of Her Very Re
markable Life.
A N(r:iii;fp IMittoiiit* Jlarrisisp - How
Slip lias Hanipri a <|nartPi* of
a Tlillion of Dollars l»y
Hrr Pen- IBrr
.TKarvrlous
Ifliiul.
London, August 30 —It seeins to be generally un
derstood—indeed, those in a position to be fully in
formed state it as a positive fact—that Marion C.
Evans, better known as George Eliot, has published
her last book. and has. so far as the public is con
cerned, actually withdrawn from literary life. If
this be true, it is a very important literary event,
for she is incotenstubly the greatest living writer of
fiction in this, or probably in any country. She is
often spoken of ns the most gifted of women novel
ists. which is more than unjust—it is absurd—since
there is no woman to compare with her, and since
genius has never been and never should be consid
ered sexually. She is a master and a mighty one.
Her novels are totailv unlike novels generally in
spirit, aim, character and scope. To mention them
in connection with the fictions of Mary Braddon,
Mrs. Henry Wood, “Ouida,” J/rs. Beecher Stowe,
Mrs. Rebecca Harding Davis, or any other English
or American feminine author, is little less than gro
tesque. They have no kindred with the high-color
ed, morbidly sentimental, feverish stories of DeStael
and of literary France. In no sense are they ro
mances. They are signally philosophic: they are
studies of and from life—extracts, as it were,
FROM THE SOUL OF HUMANITY,
revelations of mind to mind. They are in the same
vein as Balzac anti Thackeray, and yet very differ
ent ; they are in some sense unique, and seemed des
tined to long-continued fame. If George Eliot's
novels do not live, what will live in literature:
They are condensations of thought, pictures of
the real, and models of nervous epigrammatic ex
pression. George Eliot’s just-published work, ‘Life
and Opinions of Theophrastus Such,’ a series of an
alytic essays, has not been written, as many think,
since she produced ‘Daniel Deronda.’ The essays
have been done through a series of years in the in- ,
tervals of more protracted—if not more serious—1
labor, when she had leisure and was in the mood to
do them. They are subtle and sagacious, as all her
performances are and clearly indicate the author
ship of ‘Adam Bede,’ ‘Mill on the Floss’ and ‘Felix
Holt.’ .She has definitely announced it, I under
stand, as her final publication, so that her extraor
dinary literary career may be said to be closed,
making this a fit time to review her professional
and private life, one of the most extraordinary
lives, on the whole, of any writer of the present
time. Notwithstanding her very wide fame, hard
ly anything has been known of her personally, so
that uny and all details of the woman have a double
interest. It is singular that the every-day existence
of the greatest and most renowned of English nov
elists should lie as hidden from the mass of her read
ers at home as though she were a dweller in the
heart of Africa. I11 no biographical record with
which I am acquainted can any details of her ante
cedents lie found. She seems from the beginning to
have shrunk from publicity, even to the extent of
concealing her proper name. George Eliot and
what she lias written is her entire history, and I
have been told that she once said to a friend that,
when she was buried, sbe wished oniy her pen-name
to be placed on a single slab.
MARION C. EVANS
was born in a town in Warwickshire, in many re
spects the most interesting county in Great Britain,
for it contains Stratford, Warwick Castle, Guy’s
cliff, Kenilworth, the quaint old tower of Coven
try, and many other historic places and monuments.
She is the daughter of a country curate who, hav
ing nothing but his small salary and a number of
childen, had not the means to give her such an ed
ucation as her precocious mind and conspicuous
talents deserved. While he was deflating what
means to adopt to secure the desired end, a brother
clergyman, a friend of his, possessed of a handsome
independence, became interested in ner, and asked
the privilege to take charge of the training of her
intellect. The privilege was granted, and, that the
purpose might be more conveniently and thorough
ly carried out, she was virtually adopted by her
clerical friend and went to reside under his roof.
There she had the best teachers procurable, and, as
she was tortured by an insatiable thirst for knowl
edge. she improved astonishingly, and at eighteen
had acquired an extent and variety of culti*-e such
as few persons of either sex attain at that age. The
more she knew tie more she wanted to know, and
she amazed her masters by
BEK QUICKNESS, PROFUNDITY AND ORIGINALITY’
She got beyond them ere long, and at twenty-two
resolved to come to London, having demonstrated
her remarkable capacity to write to everybody
acquainted with her. They all agreed that
literature was her vocation, and that it would be a
sin against nature to prevent her from following it.
She wished, moreover, generous as her benefactor
was, to he independent, and she was confident that
this great capital would ultimately insure her the
independence which she craved. She was near her
twentv-third year when she decided to make Lon
don her home, and it has continued to be her home
ever since. Marian Evans came here with a few
letters of introduction, and began at once to write
for the periodicals, not the merely popular but the
intellectual sort, like Fraser, Blackwood and the
leading reviews. Instead of verses, stories, and
sketches, to which the feminine mind is addicted,
she produced
THOUGHTFUL, SOLID PAPERS,
demanding erudition and research, such as are usu
ally called of a masculine order. After a while she
became a regular contributor to the Edinburgh and
Westminster few persons, save the editor, susjiect-
in „ that the contributions came from a woman. As
she had no general reputation, her earnings were
small, but sufficient to defray her expenses in the
economical way she lived, hhe did her best work
for the Westminster, because she was more in sym
pathy with its spirit, from the outset thoroughly
independent and liberal, and because her welcome
therehad fieen cordial and generous So sincere y
was she appreciated that, during the temporary ab-
sell( . e of toe editor, she acte.1 in Ins stead and dis
charged the arduous duties of the position excel
lently She was barely twenty seven at that time,
and that a woman could be capable of editing the
Westminster, at such an age, proves of what a high
order of mind she must have been possessed. Her
first sustained work was a translation of Strauss’s
‘Leben Jesu’ (Life of Christ.) which appeared in
1S46, succeeded soon after by a translation of Feu-
erliach’s ‘Essense of Christianity. ’ Her English ver
sion denoted conclusively her accurate knowledge
of German and her power over her own tongue.
She continued to furnish articles to the best order
of magazines and reviews for a number of years,
rarely, if ever venturing upon fietiou. Her papers
were then of so philosophic a stamp tout nobody
would have expected that she would have develop
ed into a novelist. She was thirty-seven when she
published, under the signature of ‘George Eliot,’ a
series of stories in Hlackieood bearing the title of
•Scenes of Clerical Life.’ They were marked by a
fresh, racy vigorous style, and speedily drew at
tention, for they proclaimed the advent of
A NEW NOVELIST OF SIGNAL ABILITY.
The signature was generally understood to be a
pseudonym, and great curiosity was felt to learn
whom it concerned. IVas it a man or woman?
Most persons decided it was a man: that no woman
had such grasp or strength; t hat the diction was
unquestionably masculine. The year following the
admiration for George Eliot greatly increased by
the appearance, in numliers, of ‘Adam Bede,’ which
gained fast success in the magazine, and hud an im
mense sa;e when put between covers. The story
p teed her among the first novelists of the day, and
rendered George Eliot a familiar name throughout
the United Kingdom, an i introduced her, 1 believe,
to your side of the water. The work was in due
time translated into French, German, and has since
been done into Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Russian,
and other modern tongues. It brought her the ac
quaintance of a number of literary men (she had al
ways been shy and had sedulously avoided society,)
among them Herbert Spencer, George Henry Lewes,
Dickens, Adolphus Trollope. Thackeray. Matthew
Arnold, Wilkie Collins. Leslie Stephen, and Charles
Reade. Spencer and Lewes were particularly in
terested in her, and a close intellectual friendship
sprang up between them. Spencer informally in
structed her iu his system of philosophy, and Lew- 1
A SPIRITUAL union
which the law, through a technicality, would net
sanction. George Eliot and George Henry Lewes
went to reside under • the same roof, and until his
death, nearly a year ago, they were the best of
friends, the most sympathetic of comrades, the
most harmonious of literary co-workers. They
lived in a quiet quarter of the city, near Regent’s
l’ark, in u modest but comfortable and elegant
home, full of books, pictures, engravings, bronzes,
bric-a-bac, and other objects of taste and art.
She never went out socially, but she received
Sunday evenings during the season with her
friend, and thev who called were almost always
people of some kind of distinction. It was deemed
n privilege to go, and a number of cultured and
liberal Americans have passed delightful hours
there. George Eliot lives there still ; but Sunday
receptions have been relinquished since his death,
and are not likely to lie resumed. She now sees
only a very small number of her nearest and oldest
friends. Lewes’s death was a terrible bereavement
to her, one from which she will hardly recover. He
was a great stay and support to her ; he encour
aged her to write ; was her liest and most stimulat
ing critic, and it is no doubt on account of her loss,
so severe and irreparable, that she has determined
to
LAY ASIDE HER WONDROUS PEN.
She is now 59 and childless, and, though it may
not he called so, hers is a most melancholy widow
hood. She was always referred to, while he lived,
as the wife of Lewes. She never was his wife ; she
could not be, for Mi’s. Lewes proper still survives.
Sin frequently contributes to longevity.
George Eliot’s writings have been very profitable.
Their value in the market has rapid ly increased.
For “Seelies of Clerical Life" she received but £300
($1,500 :| for “Adam Bede” ^lu^s^*-. all told, £3.000
$15,1x10 ;) but something lest, 1 fear, for “Mill on
the Floss.” “Romola,” perhaps her most artistic
and one of the most interesting of her novels, to
cultured people, has never been fully appreciated.
Its earnings have to date, 1 am told, not been much
over £2.000. She has cleared from “Middlemarch,”
issued by the Blackwoods in eight divisions, the
COY. ROBINS' IX. DKMOI RATIO CANDIDATE FOR GOVERNOR OF NKW YORK.
es added largely to her stock of culture by his own
diversified attainments. Spencer, albeit a philoso
phic bachelor,
WISHED TO MARRY HER,
it is said: but she declined his proposal. Lewes was
strongly drawn to her through intellectual sympa
thy, far more so than he had ever been or believed
he ever could be to any human being. He said that
they needed one another: that he felt he could help
her as much as she could help him: that their minds
were correlated and muiually responsive. Lewes
would have been only too happy to make her his
wife. But there was an obstacle in the way of their
nuptuals then or at any other definite time. There
was a Mrs. Lewes already, and, what was worse,
although they did not live together, she could not
lie legally set aside. M’hy? He bad married years
before a woman who had very little in common
with him, and, as he learned too late, with whom
he had still less. He, being of stoic mould, bore the
misfortune uncomplaininly, trying to soften the un
avoidable disharmony as much has he could. She
rebelled violently against her indiscreet acceptance.
Unable to he fond of him, she was so much repell
ed that she drove him by her expression of repug-
nauce well-nigh distracted; for he, like most men
of artistic temperament, was extremely sensitive,
and capable of great spiritual suffering.
After two or three years of discord, she met an
other man who was very attentive to her: she was
then handsome and had an attractive figure, and
she was so moved by his attentions that
SHE RAN AWAY WITH HIM.
Lewes was greatly relieved. If he had been ortho-
d..x ne \\i,uid nave thanked the Lord for his deliv
erance. As he was a rationalist, he regarded his
wife's elopement as a happy coincidence. Mrs.
Lewes’s lover presently grew tired of her and
abandoned her. Then she repented and sought her
husband with pathetic contrition and plenteous
tears. He was generous, chivalrous, tender-heart
ed ; he had 110 love for her, but, fearing that she
might go to moral perdition, he nobly and in the
face of public piejudice. and what he knew would
be a jeering world, took her back ; replaced her in
his home. He believed that he had done liis duty :
he was truly one man in ten thousand. He had
sacrificed himself for what seemed to be her good.
Before the year had passed, Mrs. Lewes, who had
resumed her old attitude of opposition and defiance,
repeated her offence. She ran away again.
Whether she a second time repented and begged a
second time to be restored to marital favors, I do
not know. It is not likely, had she done so, that
her liege would or could have pardoned her. He
felt that he bad had enough of wedlock ; that
henceforth celibacy would be forever alluring.
And it would have been, doubtless, under ordinary
circumstances. But meeting George Elliot was
not, to his mind, an ordinary circumstance. He
had no passion for her, no romantic attachment, no
sentimental prejudice. He loved her intellect;
HE WORSHIPPED HER GENIUS :
he knelt at her mental shrine. But he could not
marry her, and without marriage society and
custom forbade them to be close companions. The
law here, and with you, too, I think, will not grant
a divorce under any circumstances where disloyal
ty had once been condoned. He had condoned his
wife’s elopement ; for her second elopement he had
no legal remedy. What could, what did he do ?
He submitted the matter after due reflection to
their common friends, entirely conscious that
George Eliot would, by living with him, place her
self under ban ; that she would expose herself to
misunderstanding, to harsh comment, to cruel
criticism ; that she could hope for only the recog
nition and esteem of the few. Their friends were
among the best and most intellectual persons in the
United Kingdom. They discussed the question
from every side, and finally gave their verdict in
favor of
I enormous sum of £8.000, and for “Daniel Deronda”
about the same. “Silas Marner,” one of her strong
est stories, was not very profitable, while “Felix
Holt,” not at all equal to it, gave her six times as
much money. Her poetry—she has issued six
volumes—has not been liked, nor does it deserve to
be liked in any measures with her novels. Still
she prefers her poetry, anil would rather be ranked
as a poet than a fictionist. Her entire earnings
have been about $250,000, s;-.d she could make a
contract any day for a new'atory for which she
would be guaranteed $40,000.
HER MONEY-MAKING POWER
*s not excelled by that of any writer in Great
Britain.
In her case genius has been rewarded. George
Eliot is one of the most learned authors of her
time. The amount of her acquirements is wonder
ful. She is mistress of French, German, Italian,
Spanish, Dutch, has a tolerable acquaintance with
Romaic and Russian, is up in all the sciences, is
a critical Latin and Greek scholar, an admirable
historian, an archeologist, understands music,
painting and statuary, and is a brilliant conversa
tionalist. Beauty she has not, and nothing like it.
Some persons count her very plain, even homely ;
others hold that she has a very interesting face. To
me she is in no wise remarkuble in appearance ; she
does not look a bit like a genius—geniuses seldom do.
She has gray eyes, rather large features, abundant
hair streaked with white, a medium figure, neither
stout nor slender, and a pleasant, well-modulated
voice. She has been extremely industrious in her
profession. She composes rapidly often, but cor
rects with great care, and frequently injures her
health, not robust by any means, by her excessive
application. She is a pronounced Rationalist! * n
belief : in most respects a wonderful woman, and
surely a prodigious intellect.
Beauties and the Prince.
Is Scandal's Breath to Smirch ''the
Lily of Jersey?”
The Prince of Wales Cansing Trouble Between
Mrs. Langtry and Her Husband. A New Beau
ty Basking in Royal Smiles-The Heir to the
Throne Careless of his Fame.
[Letter to the New York Times.]
London, September 6.—I have it on the very test
authority that the husband of the famous London
beauty, Mrs. Langtry, has commenced proceedings
for divorce, and that the Prince of Wales is set
down as the co-respondent. My informant declared
lie had seen the preliminary papers necessary to the
first legal steps iu such a suit. Now, without for a
moment desiring to make the case worse than it is,
or casting any more reflection upon the persons and
“personage” concerned than the bare facts war
rant, I would suggest that the injured feelings of
Mr. Langtry are developed at the very period when
the lady’s ascendency seems in danger of eclipse.
Mrs. Wheeler is now the beauty whom the fashion
able reporters are following about. Is Mr. Lang
try jealous of Mr. Wheeler ? For there is a hus
band iq this case as well as the other. These social
problems are too much for me. I only for the pres
ent notice that just as one hears tbat an indignant
husband—whose injured feelings have slumbered so
long -is going to “pull up” the Prince, another,
with his beautiful wife, is yachting with the heir
to the English throne, and that the historians of
current “society” are careful to chronicle the move
ments of another belle of Mayfair. This is how the
society papers note the royal doings at and off
Dartmouth: “His Royal Highness takes it all
very quietly, living chiefly with his hands in the
pockets of a blue yachting suit. The maidens of
Dartmouth are dreadfully jealous of the pretty
Mrs. Wheeler, and those who affect the seas are lie-
ginning to show that they can be guilty of the sin-
cerest flattery. The wonderful costume in which
Mrs. Wheeler yachts, and, when she condescends to
go ashore, walks, has already become a tradition of
the Dartmouth boudoir, and a subject of discussion
in the tiaths of Torquay.” Mr. Wheeler accom
panies his wife, and probably if he were to take a
turn through the baths incognito he would lie very
much astonished, not to say indignant, at the way
in which certain ladies who bask in the smiles of
the English Prince are sjiokeii of. Heaven forbid
that I should traduce the fair fame of any woman,
beautiful or homelv, and I believe Mr Wheeler is
a worthy gentleman and held in high esteem. But
“Wales is a devil-of-a-fellow, you know,”t eysay
who do know, “though one of the jolliest in the
world,” and when newspapers in their chronicles
say this kind of thing—“Mrs. Wheeler really must
he careful; the sun and sea air are beginning to tell
in a really fearful manner”—one arrives at the con
clusion that Madame has come to be regarded as an
established “professional beauty” with her hus
band’s consent. If this is not the case, he should
take means to warn the fashionable repirters that
he does not sanction or tolerate the s~rt of adver
tising which has become a scandal and disgrace to
society.
It is. of course, peculiarly hard if a Commoner
and his wife ca.mot be seen with the Prince of
Wales without scandal wagging its tongue against
the lady; but the liushind should surely resent in
vitations to parties of pleasure upon wnicli the
Princess of Wales does not smile her personal ap
proval . The Prince is i.ot more to blame than the
misguided married ladies who are honored with his
patronage: for he reads the newspapers, and must
know what is thought and said about society belles
who go yachting when he does, who visit certain
fashionable resorts when he does, and who are in
vited to semi swell houses to meet him at aristo-
c.utic parties where the Princess does not come. If
ail this sort < f business is innocent, if t is merely a
pleasant interchange of social cour.esies, then the
Prii.ee is damaging the leputations of respe -table
men and beautiful women; ami what is of more
concern to himself, he is falling in the esteem of the
English people, who are 1110s; anxious to hold him
highlit their love and admiration. He might be
one of the most popular Prince-: that ever lived,
and sh mid li“ succeed to the throne one f the most
revered of iuonarclis; but he runs the risk of being
neither one nor the other. Why does not some
great good man solemnly warn him ! Does he live
in such a sacred atmosphere that Lord Beaoonsfield
himself cannot lay his hand on the royal shoulder
and bid the Prince reflect? Or has the old Earl
cautioned him in vain ? Should the Prince by any
series of adverse circu ustances, ever stand o. enly
in a court of law convicted bef re the public of a
c mtemptuous disregard of bis high social duties,he
will have a- much <• ance of sitting on the British
throne as I shall. That portion of the English peo
ple which is intensely loyal is also intensely moral;
it claims from royalty that it shall uphold the mor
al law, that it shall, at least in social life, assume a
virtue if it does not possess it: anil,once the Prince
convinces this great class that lie is unworthy of
their allegiance, his chances of hearing the sceptre,
or conti’ uing to wiel I it if it be in his grasp, are at
■“nil. It i 11 A L ndon opinion which governs Eng
land: it is the country that controls Parliament • it
is the provinces where act ve loyalty and disloyal
ty are found, and the day had passed away when
the provinces will continue to reverence where they
cannot respect.
As the fashionable paper says of Mrs. Wheeler,
“you really must be careful;” so I venture to say
not in mv own person, but as guaging public opin
io . the Prince of Bales should pause and reflect.
The people will forget all the good he has’ done:
they will cease to remember all his good qualities
the moment tome great injudicious act destrovs
his popularity. I recall the sensation, nine yeairs
ago, when lie stood in thn witness-box in the no
torious Moi daunt divorce case. He cannot afford
another such a trial. It was fortunate for him that
Sergt Ballantv ne proved himself more of a courtie
than a barrister: for lie declined to exercise his
privilege of cross-examination. The painful inci
dent of the heir to the throne being cited to deny
on oath that he had outraged domestic honor and
sullied social friendly relations, was one which
greatly nfflicf< d the national conscience. The press
at the time u >k a linn, if kindly and loyal, tone in
regard to the affair, arguing, if I remember right
ly, that it is not enough for a Prince of B ales in
these days to be an example of manliness, not even
enough to be pure and noble, but he must, like Ce
sar's wife, be above suspicion, and that any serious
fall from the high estate must have grave at.d se
rious consequences. The whole nation was de
pressed when it became well-known that he j was
included among the men charged with improp-r
visits to the unhappy daughter of the Moncrieffs,
and a load was lifted off the public mind when he
s.ilemnly, the Bible in his band, declared himself
innocent of the offence. Her Majesty the Queen
was reported at the time to have urged the Prince
to volunteer his evidence, anu he went upon the
stand with a firm, manly tread, and looked and
acted like a 1 artyr to scandal. Yet many persons
believed he had made conscientious sacrifices to he
lady’s reputation, to his '’oval mother, > nd to the
situation, for lie no longer field that high place in
popular esteem in which he and his gracious wife
had been enshrined. I saw him und the Princess
make their royal entry into London, and it was a
sight of pageantry and jubilation never . o be for
gotten; 1 saw the Prince years afterward on the
stand in the Divorce Court, before Lord Penzance
and a special jury’, and I was present at St. Paul's
when his long and sad illness hail rehabilitated his
reputation in the eyes and sympathies of the na
tion. If that central incident of the Divorce Court
—the black half-way between two national pi (.ces
sions—has had no warning lessons for his Royal
Highness, he may he assured that another divorce
suit, in which his name is mentioned, will revive
Uie old story, with its correspondence, in which ev
er}- letter of the Prince to Lady Mordaunt conclud
ed with hopes that he might soon see her again.
There was in that collection of letters one very
notable one which it took all his royal oath to wipe
out.
DUKE, THE MASTIFF.
Concluded from 1st page,
snow, at a speed which showed that his strength
was by no means of the common order, and at
length reached a narrow defile in the side of the
mountain, up which he proceeded easily, though
the path was rugged and difficult, Brave Duke fol
lowing.
The defile at length ended abruptly in a perpen
dicular chasm, on the opposite side of which was a
broad platform of solid rock, shelving gradually up
ward.
The muleteer laid Lionel gently on the ground,
and producing a small silver whistle, suspended by
a cord from his neck, blew thrice a shrill, clear
note.
The echoes had hardly died away amongst the
rocky crags when some half dozen men appeared
running down the shelving platform, suddenly as
if they had been phantoms evoked from the mid
night air by art of sorcery.
“What now, Filipo ?” said the tallest of the ban
dits,— for such they were—in a harsh voice. “Hast
thou brought us news ?”
“Aye, by the Virgin, have I,” returned the mule
teer, “and something more substantial than news.
See here.”
He pointe 1 to the body of Lionel as he spoke,
which, from the darkness of the night, the men had
not vet perceived.
“What is it, good Filipo ? said the bandit chief.
“Perdition seize thee! dost thou think that men’s
eyes are like those of owls, that they can see in a
hole black as the mouth of the bottomless pit ?”
“’Tis a traveler, most mighty chief,” sdd the
muleteer. “The nog who is here behind me, drag
ged me to him, but a while ago.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the bandit chief, “some poor
devil belated on his way, and not worth abaioccho.
Spurn him into the ravine with thy foot, good
Filipo. Thou might’st have saved thyself the pains
of bringing him here.”
“Not so, most worthy master,” returned the
muleteer. “This is a prize worth the taking. It
is the rich young English Lord I gave you news of
but yesterday. ’
‘Say you so,’ exclaimed the bandit chief, with a
hoarse chuckle. ‘Per Baccho! then we are in luck.
Up with the bridge, Jacopo—why do you loiter ?
Hurry, ye devil’s spawn.’
The bridge, a huge bat strong ladder, was hoisted
from the depths of the ravine before mentioned,
and placed across the gulf.
The muleteer, again raising Li. nel in his arms
crossed it, and Duke, with a "hine of satisfaction
prepared to follow, when the bandit called out— ’
‘Carajo, Filipo, we have the master, hut we do
not want the dog. Turn him hack.’
The man, quickly crossing, drew the ladder away
and so cut off Duke fr m his master.
The width of the ravine was far too great even
for his powerful limbs to spring across, and Duke
set up a coarse, harsh hark of fury.
‘Carrambo!’ inutie ed the bandit; ‘the brute
makes 1 oise enough to be heard across the frontier.
Take that for your howling!’
H ■ drew a pistol from his belt as ne spoke and
fired poir t-blank at Duke.
The noble anima' made an ineffectual attempt to
eap the ravine, and then, falling, roiled over' the
blood flowing from a deep wound in his broad
chest.
Lionel had lost the best and most faithful of his
protectors.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FATE OF THE BANDITS.
When Lionel recovered his senses, lie found him
self in a scene of rugged grandeur, almost amount-
1 ing to sublimity.
It was night, and his gaze wandered around him
it fell 11 01 surroundings which were equally strange
and terrible to him.
He was lying unbound, but helpless from his weak
condition, upon a rude couch, strewed with dried
grass, an«l placed in the centre of a rocky plateau.
On three sides burned three large fires, fed from
time to time with brushwood and huge logs of
pine.
As Lionel gazed around him, a pleasant, merry
voice said to im, in a frank manner:
‘My faith, monsieur ! It is a romantic scene, is
it not !’
The language in which flies * words were spoken,
was French, and as Lionel understood the speaker,
he languidly turned his head to see who it was that
had uttered them.
He saw, seated by the side of his rude couch, a
handsome, slightly-built young man dresse t in
rags.
‘Parbleu !’ said the young Frenchman. ‘I see you
are Io< iking at my costume. Diable ! it is not o\ er
picturesque in its cut. and few. I thins, even of
the intimates of Francois Delafosse, lieutenant of
the chas ears, would recognize him in these rags.’
‘You are, then, not one of—"
‘No, monsieur: though, I graut£you the error
was pardonable’’
‘Then,’ said Lionel, ’perhaps you will be so good
as to tel' me where 1 am. and how I came here
‘Willingly, monsieur. I will tell you wuat I
know myself, which is little enough considering
that I have resided here six m nths. In the first
place, you are 1 he captive of that most redoubtable
chief, Santa Muerte. His object in bringing you
here is to extort as much ransom as possible from
your friends, if you have any.’
‘The deuce !' said Lionel. ‘This is an unpleasant
position; but I trust if money is his only objec;,
that I shall not he detained here long.’
‘It depends entirely upon the length of your
purse,’ said the young lieutenant, with a smile.
‘But here comes Santa Muerte himself, to put you
through your catechism. Take my advice, and
submit quietly to his extortion.’
The interview with the bandit chief was short,
because of Lionel’s readiness to grant any sum
wheih Santa Muerte chose to fix for his ransom;
and accordingly Lionel wrote a letter to Major
Harding, asking him to pay the messenger of the
brigand a sum of money amounting to nearly fifteen
hundred pounds English money.
The letter was despatched, by means of Filipo.
to the village, but lie return! d with intelligence
that the English Senors had departed, no one knew
where, after making every search for the body of
their young friend, who was supposed by them to
have perished 111 some remote ere. asse of the moun
tain.
Suddenly there flashed upon he memory of
Lionel the treacherous blow Captain Oliphant had
dealt him, and the sight of his face as be had seen
it looking down upon him when he fell over the
verge of tiie icy precipice.
"Good Heaven !’ muttered Lionel, 'he thinks that
he has murdered me, and has returned to England
to tell mv father, we.l knowing that the shock
would kill him. Heaven help me, what can 1 do :’
‘Becalm, my friend,’ said the young lieutenant.
‘1 have been 111 worse scrapes tlian tins, and hate
got safely out of them.’
Lionel explained the terrible difficulty in which
he was placed.
‘That is, indeed, unfortunate : your p.oor old
father, too. But there is nothing for it but to write
at once to him in England. The letter may reach
him in time to save him from dying of grief.’
The letter was written, and Santa .Ifuerte readily
promised that it should he forwarded instantly. It
was, but it arrived too late. The old Earl of Glas-
tondell had died under the shock of the news of his
beloved boy’s death, and Reginald Oliphant reaped
for a time, t 1 e reward of his parent’s crime.
Lionel, with aching heart, waited for news from
home. None came, and he began to despair.
‘It looks bad, my friend,’ said the young lieuten
ant, ‘but the worst has not yet come to you. As
forme, my doom is sealed.
Lionel gave him a startled look of inquiry.
‘I have refused to demand more money of my
aunt,’he continued. Twill not see the poor old
lady stripped of her little fortune f: >r the sake of
her graceless nephew and so I have determined to
refuse to write ; and here comes Santa Muerte to
demand my answer.’
Even as he spoke, the brigand chief strode up.
‘You know for what I have come,’ said the ban
dit, sternly.
‘I do,’said Delafcsse. You have come to ask me
to extort more motley for you—villia.11 thut you are
—und I toll you that I refuse !’
‘You know the consequence,’ said Santa Muerte,
of ‘defying me.’
‘I do.’
‘And you still refuse to write ?’ said th > brigand,
as he coolly cocked and levelled his weapon.
A calm smile of contempt was the only reply.
The next moment the bandit pulled the trigger,
and Delafosse lav stretched upon the ground.
Lionel remained for an instant petrified, horror-
struck at the tragic deed. The next moment an
explosion took place.
Then, ar. if in a dream, Lionel rememliered the
sharp reports of carbines, the fierce shouts of the
soldiers, and the terrible cries of the surprised rob
bers. Then all this died away into a confused mur
mur of voices, and Lionel knew that some one was
wringing his hand vigorously, and that something
else was springing up at his face, and licking it.
And then, after a time, he awoke to the conscious
ness that he was in the presence of his faithful
valet, John Thomson, and that of his faithful mas
tiff, brave Duke.
*****
Duke had himself been the means of rescuing his
inasttr from the fate which threatened him : for
maimed and bleeding from Santa Muerte's bullet,
he had contrived to crawl back to the village,
where he found the old valet, who had resolutely
stopped behind, determined to discover the body
of his dear young master.
The old valet had tended the noble mastiff until
he was sufficiently recovered to lead him .to the
bandit’s bridge.
There Thomson, suspecting by the dog's anxious
manner that his master was still alive, succeeded
at length in forming a body of carabiniers, who,
led by Brave Duke, surprised the bandits in their
stronghold, and cut them down to a man.
It was a joyous return to theii home.
Captain Oliphant and his son fled the country,
when they heard of Lionel’s return, and were both
crowned in a small vessel they had hired, hoping to
cross the channel undetected.
As for the noble mastiff, Brave Duke and the
valet, they grew old and gray together in years
and honors.
The old superstition regarding the house of Glas-
tondell has not yet been fulfilled, nor does it seem
likely that it will be so just yet, for a goodly line
of sons and daughters assemble ;n the old halls of
Abbey Cheyne, and often listen to the story of
Brave Duke the Mastiff.
The intolerant spirit of the proprietor of the Man
hattan Beach Hotel, is condemned by enlightened
people all over the land. The exclusion of Jews
will not tend to increase the patrenageof an estab
lishment which should extend a welcome to all who
are acquainted with the rules of polite society, and
govern themselves accordingly. Tabler’s Buckeye
Pile Ointment cures Piles, and is offered to Jew and
Gentile with the assurance that it will cure all suf
ferers with that disease. Price socts.