Newspaper Page Text
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vxtii, xbxt Kninr.w.
KTIIKI. l.YKN llKKKS.
I d up the robes which the summer litis kissed,
».»• • bey wit. not be missed ;
! the furbelows, fleecy and light:
i the gossamer flistUtig and white;
1 up softly. Kneel tuuitlen, to-day,
ine of summer has melted away.
tidies so fair and soft ail.
Have gone from ‘ lie garden and died in the vale.
And pansies and sent iau and sweet inigmmei le
With the tears of (tetob- r are drooping aim wet,
So, fair little maiden, the light tissue* fold
Ere the sun of November sliir.es whileiy and cold.
\et dream not. to wear them again, as to day.
When the weeds of Hu? year erusli the blossoms of
May;
For ah! the gay bodice may clasp in the breast
A heart full of sorrow and weary unrest;
And 8ombre-liued sackcloth the spirit may shro' d.
While the fo m bears the colors it flaunted un
bowed.
So, folding thy vesture tolay out ofsiglit
With sweet-smelling posies, with heart bounding
tight,
Yet fold in a prayer for the strength you may need—
A prayer which He grants to the storm-beaten reed
For strength in its weakness—a stay evermore
Until winters and summers on earth shall be o’er.
SABA AND THE DOCTOR;
Oil. THE
Avenger of the Wronged.
IiV L.IKUTJ2NAN1- FitLIX.
not seem to Algernon as mo tucuiutui mu
\ A 'Hjrm iij-anL l>u { , lht‘ <lo< 1 = • ther**-
’ V* That sli«* had grown forgetful mid distant, ai
| had let the matter glide from his mind, tliii
I
CHAPTER VI.
Algernon Abel’s situation at the institute was nei
ther largely remunerative or interesting, and yet.
lie liked it. Hi friend, Battsford was a married
man, with one of the most charming of wives, nd
the loveliest of children. The doctor was an inmate
of Battsford’s family, and his time out of school
was passed pleasantly in reading, conversation,
rides, unting and fishing. A line library was, also,
at his disposal, as were horses, carriages, etc.
Charles Battsford, lived in a pleasant yet unpre
tending cottage near the institute; the grounds
about it were laid out tastefully, yet with perfect
simplicity. Charley and Algernon carried oil the
garden, principally, mornings and evenings. He
thought that gardening improved his health, and
gradually worked the doctor into the same idea.
Augusta, Charles’ sweet wife, had but one servant,
and text care of the children herself, not earing to
trust them in the hands of nurse maids. There
were two of the children, a hoy of five, and a girl of
three years, who were always kept tidy and neat.
Not being brought up on candies and sweet me; ts,
they had plump, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes.
Montrose the boy was a perfect picture of his fath
er, with just such hazel eyes, and brown curls; Em.
was a minature likeness of her mother, eyes black
as jet, and dark hair contrasting well with the lily
whiteness of the full forehead and the peachy
bloom of the cheeks. The children—called Alger
non, "Uncle A:>el,” and lie took kindly to the cog
nomen,. He had grown from his infancy up un
loving and unloved, lie hud never possessed a home
of his own. Rising from poverty and obscurity by
his own efforts, making ambition his incentive.
Still, at times, he had ardently longed for friends.
He had found them at last. Brother and sister
could not have been kinder than Charles Battsford
aud his wife ; no home more home-like to him than
theirs. So he let the tendrils of his nature reach
out and cling around them and their children. And
yet, he did not ftnyet tilth’ Sada. He wrote to her
several times after he left, asking if she was well
and happy; and punctual answers came to him that
she was ; but there was one thing he discovered in
the letters, they were cold and formal: they did
not seem to Algernon as the dictation of little Sada’s
' • the conclusion
and sb he
thinking in
a listless apathetic'way : “Well, whatever is, is
right.” Alter all Mrs. Sands was not the heartless
woman he had supjiosed her to lie. Sada was haji-
py, and if she wished to stand aloof from him, she
was welcome to be as icy as she pleased.
Time passed on. and the doctor taught his class m
the college, and played all sorts of games with
Montrose aud little Em, rode out with them, and
Augusta, gardened, hunted and fished with Charles,
attended lectures, and delivered them his little world
being Charley Battstoru’s, quiet pheasant home.
Except two letters with Seda’s signature, Algernon
heard nothing from Maple Grove. He often wondered
if "Three Fingered Joe” had passed through college;
if the lady in black was still at the Hall, and, if so.
what she was doing there. And Sada, he wondered
what she was like, if she had grown proud and
cold too, aud had become a dashing woman of the
world. “Pshaw, what is that to met” he would
say. "What do I care for Sada Sands, or she. for
me!” No, he was a bachelor, now growing old,
when he was past the day of labor, he would havi
little Montrose and Em, and perhaps their children
to take care of him. What a dreamer was Alger
non Abel, M. D.
The room he called his own, was pleasantly situa
ted: the front windows partially shaded by their
crimson and white curtains, commanded a fine view
of the villa'll common; those in the rear, overlooked
n lieautiful'sweep of country roiling away in one
vast undulating prairie, until it met the rim of the
horizon on far in the East. Between the two front
windows was a table where his bonks aud papers
were left unmolested. The mantle was kept beauti
ful with fragrant flow, rs in the summer, and au-
tii’itn leaves and grasses, together with wax flowers,
in the winter. How thoughtful Augusta was! And
he o ten wondered why it was, that she had noth
ing of the tired appearance of a hard working wo
man. One day he asked her how it was she could
accomplish so much in a day, and her answer
miaht prove useful to some of our lady readers,
who if thev do not overlook their own house
work ought to, and others. who are wearing them
selves into an earlv grave with hard tabor.
“Well I’ll tell you all about it, Abel, you area
bachelor, but perhaps you can comprehend at least
a part of what 1 say. When 1 was married 1 knew
no more altout liouse-keepmg than a church mouse,
i ituufo a theorv of liouse-work, au<l I connected
nracliv with it. My husband's limited salary, only
one thousand dolluw per year, demandedon my
„ lirt „,„, nn iv. and yeti didn’t feel pinched and
stinted or hurried to death, so 1 determined to save
my hands by a little head-work, and my feet and
puise by a little management. You understand me
S * siietowied < her brown curls coquetishly, and her
knitting needles made merry music as she awaited
^YesTthhikTdo,’’ he replied, taking little Em
upon liis knee, and giving her a silver h;df dollar to
.Atteif h. en •’ she continued, “out of this small
i was obliged to pay a girl one hundred dol-
sahii V 1 «■ °‘a. r Vnigiit have obtained a girl
forone-half that sum, but not such a girl as Bessie
• ’L L.. I,or vet and I would not take a small for-
place of ’her services, now, that reduced
to nine hundred dollars per year, and our
..nrchase out of that. I had been well
clothes b I as my wardrobe was concerned, by
supplied, f niarriago. And Charles had
my mother^tore i y ^ n^^lously; my
two good * f th e garden; we kept a couple
br’ri^a^w tiia ^t US but little, and yet
of I*g« mid , jpjj a. s we had neither lard nor
we . th e former supplied the lamp, the lat-
meat to buyi tte nnr ^ tho we nee< ied,
teT A^U the butt^we used, *nd knew how to wa. h
and all tn , an( j mend, and was as neat as a ,
and iron, a n The one hundred dollars a year
pm in the K u invested, for, if I had tried to
1 paid her,i_, nivse if and saved tho money, I’ll
doM “Lw it woSdhave been. In the first place,
b-ij y°“ “2 h ave had time to keep Charlie’s clothes
I shouldnt h_ o . r he would have been obliged
dean and™ iderable in buying new, or have gone
to spend c j j kn „w nothing of housework, and ,
: looking sliab W asted much. I had not \
would
w’nddtoS" w^t I lT^‘i U ^e l ¥y^«1d 1 ^-
ing bills, etc. Then I luid time for recreation, read-
hid, riding out, etc.: the other way I would have
been a drudge, worried, and worked to death, with
no time to devote to my hnsband’s amusement, or
my own instruction.”
“You are a wonderful reasouer,” replied Alger
non earnestly.
Augusta shiiled. and tl<**?i addeil, a little proudly.
“I’ll tell you something else. Air. Aliel. 1 haw had
time to make my home a jileasant one. 1 have en-
d-vivored to nsi' economy, y et. not to b. miserly or
scriinping. ! like to look nirely and dress well, I
don’t want To make myself look lik" a grandmother
at fliirty. < u- dress Like a dowdy. I hail rather have
two nice dresses. and lie caveful of them, than half
a dozen common ones.”
"If there was so much work b> do, how did Bes
sie manage P> do it!” asked the doctor with a littl*
leasing spirit, “Bessie don’t look like a slave, ami
yet, if she ,nd all the work you intimate, it would
have ms-1 ■ her one.”
Augusta knit her pretty brow, bewitchinglv:
"Why. you incorrigible old bachelor, can’t you
understand, that two can perforin a piece of work
easier than one; I guess, if, in addition to what she
did do, Bessie had all I did, to do, she would have
had very little time to read new novels, and write
long letters, and play on the piano, or take walks
and rides and enjoy herself.”
“So Bessy does nil these nice tilings, does she!’,
“No. you provoking old bachelor, of course she
can’t; but 1 was just supposing; she has time, as it
is, to attend to her clothing, and go out whenever
she likes, and earns her one hundred dollars a year
besides.”
“And how do you get along now, Augusta,” he
asked: “with two more to care for and to do for,”
pointing to little Em, who still sat on his knee, and
to Montrose, who was amusing himself with a new
top on the floor.
“Why, you have an opportunity of seeing for
yourself. But to show you. however, bow £ man
age, I will give you a programme of a day’s du-
“Froni five to eight, devoted to nursery: from
eight to ten, domestically engaged; from ten to one,
in exercise, riding, walking, or romping in the gar
den with the children, and dressin;- myself and
them for dinner; from two till four, r< ailing wri
ting, scwii g, anything I please; fro:;; four to: lx,
generally with my needle; the lest of the evening,
after supper, engaged in various things. I have
plenty of time, no.io to spare, and 1 don’t waste
any. I have time to <li> all 1 hove to do."
Algernon wanted to tel! Augusta she was .< per
fect .jewel of a wife, but he didn't, for a pair of
boxed ears might have been the consequence, but
liis eyes anil his smile spoke volumes of kind!}
praise.
And so the days, the weeks, yes. the years glided
quietly and uneventfully on to Dr. Algernon, and
though he thought often of Sad i, and resolved to
make some effort to learn all about how she had
fared. 1>« • never put his resolve into effect, but con
tented himself with vague castle-bnikling, and
dreaming of "what might have lieon." had lie been
a dashing young man, whom little Sada might
have smiled upon.
But at last a change came over the spirit of his
dreams.
The day had 1 icon bright and warm; unusually
so, for a December day. The snow lay sparkling
and deep on the ground, am 1 glist; med in the rays
of the sun like diamonds. There had been no exer
cises at the Institute that day; it was the 25th of
Dee., 18—, and a week’s vacation had been given
the . students, some going to their respective homes
to spend rile holidays, while others preferred to re
main and pass the time in social) gatherings, sleigh-
rides. skating parties, and the like. The evening of
the a.stii was as bright as a moonlight night can be;
bells jingled, silvery laughter and merry voices
mug out-on the frosty air. diaries and Augusta
did not join the party. Algernon, instead of enaos-
ing a pnrtner from among the fair lailies of the
neighborhood, brought round his sleigh for Mon
trose and Em. The children were delighted, and
ran through the house shouting for cloaks and muf
fles, and the doctor ai ranged the buffalo robes, so
as to tuck the little creatures up warm and smart,
“Let me sit u]K»n the seat with vou, Uncle Abel,”
said little Em.”
“No, I’m th<* oldest, you're only a little girl, sis,”
said Montrose, quite portly, in his numerous wrap
pings.
“Vndyjvi 1 snnpi :<> '.pill be driving, Mister
Montrose,” said Dr. Aliel. smiling at his import
ance, “I lmd better sil on the bottom of the sleigh,
myself, and give up the entire seat to this gentle
man and lady.”
Augusta came out with a pair of warm overshoes
for little Em’s dainty feet, and compromised the
matter by giving a kiss to the one who would give
up first. This was Montrose, and the doctor rode
off in triumph with Miss Em by his side.
“Good-bye, mammal” was wafted with the mer
ry jingle of bells 111 x>n the night wind. Dr. Aliel
looked back. Augusta stood upon the parch look
ing after them. Charley came out and stood by
her side.
“Take good care of them, Uncle Abel,” cried out
the fond mother. The company was far in advance,
so the doctor cracked his whip, the prancing horses
set off at a galloping pace, soon leaving the pretty
little village far in the distance. "Take good care
of them. Unde Aliel!” Ah, the future proved how
he fulfilled that promise.
CHATTER VII.
The ride was a lung one, out. the sleighing was
excellent, the company in tin* best of spirits, and
the horses pranced along as if they enjoyed the
sport as well as the party. Th ■ ringing laughter,
the chiming of sleigh ixils. u ! tteiiiuin of young
voices prevented any feeling .' rediousness. The
party had engaged supper :i : !h- "Double Cross
Roads,” a house, but lately built, and the proprie
tors, desirous of patronage. had put forth their ef
forts to please. Montrose .v.iil ii>; !e E111, were hot 11
fast a-leep when the j tarty : veil there, but the
cessation of motion aroused them, and when slipper
was announced, were as ready to be conducted to
the table as any in the company. But. somehow.
Algernon felt ill at ease. The emu.. rsution of those
around failed to interest him. To tell the truth, a
sense of foreboding had crept nv< r hitn, perhaps, he
was not conscious of the fact then, but a fact it was,
nevertheless.
“Why, how uninteresting you are tonight, Doe-
tor Abe!.” said ;,i pret’y girl of > ■ .vnteen, who had
fluttered away from the side of her attentive swain,
to vex him.
“And why uninteresting!”
“Why, now, just as if you didn't know. In place
of bringing the widow Bringham, you brought there
two babies. And inxin ray word, doctor, you
have’nt spoken a word tliis evening, except, when
addressed.” Abel made no reply, he could not
even coax himself into a smile; so” the pretty girl,
thinking, no doubt, she was wasting her sweetness
on the desert air, left him to his meditations: and as
soon as lie could do so without being particularly
noticed he culled for his horses and sleigh to lie
brought around, bundled Montrose and Em in hasti
ly, and started for home at galloping speed. He
could not explain the cause of the feeling that made
him urge on the horses with whip and rein, until
the light sleigh seemed scarcely to touch the snow.
The nearer he approached the village the more did
this nameless foreboding, seem to freeze the blood
in liis veins.
A piece of woodland lay between the “Double
Cross Roads” and the village, and the road ran di
rectly through it. He had often passed, in the night
time, through this woodland ou professional calls,
but before that night, he never felt a shadow of
timidity, or fear; he was no coward, and never
thought of meeting anything natural or sujiernatu-
ral that would terrify him. This night, however,
was an exception. As he drew near to the wood
land, a nameless dread settled over him. If he
could have gone around, by passing a dozen miles
out of the way, he would have done so, hut that was
out of the question, aud he lashed the horses into a
gallop as he entered the shadow of the woods. The
road was dimly revealed by the slanting rays of the
setting ni< on, but the i orses knew the track, ai d
kept it well. He was nearly through, and began to
breathe a little freely; he called himself, “A fool,’
for his terror, when, standing just at the edge of
the woodland, he saw a figure dimly revealed by
the bright moonlight. It was the form of a woman,
with long hair, wildly floating uncoufined over her
shoulders. He had a glimpse of the face, as he
passed. That face, where had he seen it before? He
did not stop to think, he only heard a loud .shriek, a
wail behind him, and 011 he went with unabated
speed. The village was in view, lights gleamed here
and there, where lonely vigils were kept with the
sick, or where the members of the gay sleighing i
party were awaited. Bright lights were burning
in the cottage windows of Charles Battsford’s house,
as he flew around the corner. “.Auguste, is wait
ing, tor lhe el i!i iron,” he said, tohimseif, "she’s a ten
der mother. Site can’t rest if liti ie Montrose and
Em are not in their ccsv trundle bed.”
Chan :• but I sb mi came out to meet the doctor, his
lace was as white as that of a corpse, iiis eyes
looked wil ! and buns-d witn a strange light.
"What is it Charley:” asked Aliel. with that
naincli ss h rmr taking a tangible hold tqmn him.
••Don.;:''
He said only that word; who was dead, what did
Charley mean! The doctor shook like an asjien leaf.
“!;.-id. who is dead! For Gods' sake, speak, 1 liar
lev, who is dead.”
Battsford ion', edtil *lg. monlike a somnambulist;
lie nid not cm to hear Abel. The do.'tor shook
him r< uglily,.
"Sileak, roan, what do vou mean!'"
Just then Bessie • sir * out to tike the children,
her eves were red nifi ing.
"What fcf.it, Bessi -. Shr looked at the the doctor
sadly, pitifully.
"Silo's dead. The children have 00 mother. Oh,
Doctor Abel, if you had but bei u boro; 1 lay bo von
might have saved her.” Abel, never forgot that
night, that pale dead face, Augusta's fa.ee, and that
tiny one by her side. Charles sitting mute there,
holding her cold hand in his. nearly crushed by the
sudden I flow that had fallen upon him. Algernon
never saw so pitiful a sight before: he was all un
used to weeping, but lie went that night, still; it was
more for the living than the dead. He wept for
Charles Battsford's wrecked happiness, wept for
his crushed hopes, his desolation: wept for the little
ones bereft of a mothers care, for their bereave
ment, more to be felt in the distance of coming
years; wept for the household broken up, for the
home now rendered desolate.
“Oh, Augusta.”
“What are you crying for. Abel!” said thobe-
reavedman. “Iloved her b ter than < could
have don ■. and e, 1 don t ••• < ep; s « m’fcyon see,
how very calm 1 am? There i- fire in my brain.
There is fire in mj soul, my teal’s are all dried up;
and vi:. i 1 m calm. Sit down thi rc, there, tin t's
it, where you can loi.k or her fac \ Don't you tfiuil
she is sl< eping? < ’ome, av ike, awake, Augusta, what
makos vou so cold! Abel, what are you .crying
about! she is oniy sleeping. Don't step heavy, it
might awake her.”
Bessie ; one. I at the door softly mid motioned the
doctor out: “There’- woman at the door that wants
to see you. Dr. Abel,” site said, in a whisper.
"Who is she!”
"I don’t know, she looks like a beggar, I con'd
lot pui her off,” sai! Bessie as she led the way, “she
wouldn’t tell me her name, or what s le wanted.”
Tlwre it was, the same figure Abei had passed one
hour before at the roadside; he started Dock; that
face, how it startled him, where had he seen it be
fore; ah, he knew, despite the changes wrought
there, lie could rot bo deceived; it wvs Mrs. Sands’
servant girl, Biddy Magix in.
"The llon ly Viirgin Lie praised, that I see ye.
Docther Aliel;” cried the poor thing, wringing his
hand, and covering i't with tears, "it’s a sorry er
rant I've in-tie oii, but, it I live to do it. it’s tuesiif
that is eontint ”
"What is it, Biddy!”
But the poor creature did not answer; she leaned
heavily on the doctor's arm; she had fainted. Al
gernon called Bessie, and they carried the insensi
ble form into the kitchen. Blind laid it upon a quilt
on the floor. What a pitiful sight that was, blood
ing hands and frozen foot, scant, tattered clothes,
wan and poor as a skeleton.
“Who is she,” asked Bessie, as she rubbed the cold
hands compassionately, and tried to force a little
brandv between the shut teeth,
“Biddy Magoon, but you don’t know who I mean;
get me cold water and flannels, and then go up and
stay with poor Charles, he's nearly crushed, I'm
thinking. Bessie ”
The girl obeyed him and he and th*' woman were
left together. Poor Biddy, she might lx? dying for
ought the doctor knew, dying with her object un
accomplished, her mission unfulfilled.
“Biddy, Biddy,” he called again and again, as he
rubbed her coid limbs, striving to bring her back to
consciousness, but cold and exhaustion had done
their work, and it was a long time before she opened
her eyes. When she did so, she only said:
“It’s hunger that’s the matther wId tne, docther
dear. It’s mesilf haven’t tasted tc<xl for two days.”
Aliel brought her some mi'k r drink, and a slice
of hr-ad. S*»e ate and ‘viiif-and
begged for more.
“Not now, Biddy.” said the doctor. ‘Til leave
you a little while: try and 1 cp: when I come back
you shall have more refreshments, and then I’ll hear
•ill you have to tell sue.”
"The girl cross: d herself reverently, “The hov/ly
Vargin reward you. docther dear, and give me the
strength to tell ye the sad story I'm come so many
miles to toll ye) Slape, shure, and its mesilf that
nades it, for me eyes haven't closed for many an
hour.”
Abe! pointed to a small bed room that opened
into the kitchen.
“Go in there,” he said: “I’ll send Bessie to you,
and she'!! give you some dry clothes, and there try
and sleep. After you are well rested, I'll hear ail
you have to say.
The poor young girl obeyed, and silently won
dering wh.it it could bo that had brought her to him.
The doctor sought poor Charles, to give him that
sympathy he did not care to receive from neigh
bors, who had come into offer their services.”
"Poor Augusta, the sunbeam of our home, why
so ruthless, iili! death,” murmured Algernon. lie
almost distrusted e.u ever-ruling Providen ie.
"Mama!” called out little Em’s bird-like voice,
but that mothers ear was deaf to her cry.
“Poor little Em, you may well weep. You will
shed more bitter tears when you are older, and
come to a full realization of your loss,” said Abel to
himself.
Charles bowed his head arid wept: the plaintive cry
of his motherless child unlocked the fountain of his
grief, his reason was saved.
"Thank God!” the doctor murmured fervently.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
What Came of a Cooking' Lecture
Miss Corson’s lectures on cooking had a singular
effect upon the wife of a gentleman residing in
Washington. The gentleman was awakened from a
sound sleep aliour -■ o'clock in the morning by a il«x;d
of gas-light in the chamber coming ii mu the jets in
the chandelier burning at full head. Standing over
him evidently in a somnambulic state, and in a
pose closely resembling that assnim-d by the late
Charlotte Cushman in the celebrat ■ l sleep-walking
scene of Lady Macbeth, stood his w : while in
either hand and ominously flashing in the gas-light
she grasiied the mammoth carving k:i fe and fork.
Curious to know just what was going to be tile de
nouement of this singular scene, lie kept quiet while
the lady soliloquised: ‘Hold the carver in an easy
position in the right hand, thus.” And sho dipped
the [mint of a huge knife as gracefully as a fencing
master in the broadsword exercise. “Then,” eon-
tinned the culinary student, “bead slightly the left
wrist and insert the fork in the breast of the turkey,
one prong on either side of the breast bone.” And,
suiting the action to the word, she was about to
plunge the fork into my friend’s anatomy, alxiut
where the ribs join the sternum, when he caught aud
disarmed her. She drew back and glared at him
for a moment and then, pushing back the sleeves of
her robe tie nu it, pointed her finger toward him and
exclaimed in a loud theatrical manner: “The only
way to reach your husband’s heart is through his
stomach!' Since that night tills gentleman has slept
in another apartment with the door bolted and a
stack of trunks piled up against it.
The Death at Jena.
THAN si.A TED FROM THE FRENCH FOB THE AMERICAN
ULT.TJ VATOR.
Defacing a Brother's Monument.
John Youdan was brought before the magistrate
at Sheffield charged by the Sheffield General Ceme
tery Comjiany with having defaced a monument
which had been put up in their cemetery to the
memory 1 f his brother, the late Thomas Youdan.
The deceased was well-known in the town as a mu
sic hall proprietor, and many years ago he adopted
his niece Harriet Youdan, and she lived with him as
his daughter. She married Mr. Sbuiton, and since
the death of Mr. Youdan they have erected a mon
ument to his memory at the cost of #1,000. It set
forth that it was erected by his adopted daughter.
On the 25th of August the defendent went with
hammer and chisel and erased those words, making
the inscription to read, “Erected to tin* memory of
the late Thomas Youdan by his , Harriet You
dan.'’ In defence, he said the words were not true
and ought not to Vie on the monument. He wished
sticcee*ling generations to know the truth. He was
fined #50 and costs, or two months’ imprisonment.
I11 the beginning cf J;. ,unry. 1807, -1 on one o' cait. treason i'<
th.- ciihlest nights of that winter, which was very leva mid too nu
severe. Monsieur Mot? a; knocked ::i the door <*:' ins J.IniisiihT, you i
v. ife's chamber—JI. Moreau v.as a 1 inker, hit. ly by ik M. de
in:• rried, who had passt n for';/ • me years age, but your vile—>v c
; whose age, however, hail nor "ate I him iiom "Hue ! Mudu
soliciting witn r.igen thee:. 'laughter > I'M. som what rev-.
Durand, hs hiHinat* triend: lie hud ’ 'qxiu me-. 1 ,
this marriage as a serf of basin: ss ntiVr. and nud ! >.. I sn;
spar. .1 no jiams i„ir let" an;, ...til'.c- 01 r i.-.e unent- "'1;:
■ p.o • I to lu-complMi h's ..n'ls. T!i-- affair once
S'*tt!eil. that is to s y. t! «■ ymiliggirl married, lac
■< !c . bjeet of his life .->• e..; -d attaintxl, uim! his for
tune made. Unoccupied ..s He r.ov. was. M. .’.iorc: u
lx-gun to lore his wife—he had coveti d the fortune
. -e’ Mndeimit:«*!!,■ Eugc: ■ Durand: he possessed it:
love was now the oniy thing left him to think of—a
subiivt which, until the day of liis marriage, had
. but little occupied bis attention. Mndamc Moreau.
however, was worth his jiaius; sla- was a lienutiful
I bniuette—hair of jet black, large, brilliant eves,
j and a graceful and slender figure. She was hut
I twenty-two years of age, lr r features regular, and
| piquant at the same time, having that half-disdain-
I fui, half-proud air. which never fails to pic 1 - men
whose seif-love is flattered by conquering this dis
dain and softening this proud spirit.
< >n this evening M. Moreau came home to his wife
filled v* itli two sentiments e<|tuilly strong—t ive and
jealousy. He knocks at the door. 110 one replies;
and he, with his ear at the key hole, eagerly listen-
in;,'-, curses the carpet which deadens, with mt uouid,
the sound of footsteps within. He knocks a second
time: his wife -ijieiis if.
"Are you alone, Ma-kiuic!" h -asked, with the
hesitation of a man at the srune : i; ie jealous and
he irons, who has suspicions end vet fears to dis-
i-age. when Eugenic, who. im.oovalile
had not chang'd her position. ! ..-air
’ You have basely d.eeeiNed us Uith," said; ,
ner husband, "and t la-eveang wh.-n M ,,s ,’|..
suddenly appear* >1 !..;' .1- • me. am! when lev.';... ,
i love extended re me his arm; full of life, love and
youth, we might have rendered v**u deceit for d|.
a !o
oat
- i if
hav
• :«xi much
"•■nge. No,
■11 dece.ve'l
tile lover of
lt>
f 1 in your Mia !
•I-' ‘s :i<4 wisli to In
is your wife."
cxeliiiai. il VI. Moreau, who had
-d ; : •>'!> his fright and ast*i'iish-
>'■ 1 'it means lids language! Do yon think
on not see for yourself!" r -p!
■, rue young
“’Imlauie. tiarilon me- you have—"
"U hat, Monsieur!”
"My porter told me—excuse me, Mad uuo—that
tliis evening a young man came here, and that he
led not y-‘t gone out.”
“Be seat; d, if you please. Monsieur." said Madame
Moreau, pointing to a chair placed near the fire, op
posite her own.
"Good gracious, Eugene! I do not understand the
cause of your anger.”
“My anger? I am very onlm. Monsieur; yon will
soon understand the sentiments which agitate me;
will you then lie seated!”
“But. my dear friend, there is nothing in my de
mand to irritate you. The jiorter told me taut a
young man had lx-eii here. I have visited every
part of the house and seen 2:0 one. The porter tuny
have been mistaken, no one may h ive eotnc in, or,
if indeed so, he must have gone out v,itliout his ob
serving it.”
“Then you do not wish to sit down, Monsieur!"
she repeated to her husl mnd. who had remained
standing all this time.
A bitter smile prevetded M. Moreau from contin
uing. He sat down, drew his snuff-box from his
I oeket and played with it in his fingers.
“You well know. Monsieur,” said liis wife to him,
“the circumstances which preceded and accompa
nied our marriage.”
“O. my dear Eugene! can you lxlievc than I
.■dni'ild ever forget so hatipya day! My whole life—’
“JV root tne, nevertheless, Monsieur, to recall to
your mind fae’s which probably ire look at in a
different manner. A year ago, I was asked in mar
ri-age ny Monsieur E'iward dc la Salle, then lieuten
ant of hussars. M. de la Sail.' did not stop to con
sider that I was an only daughter, that 1 should
have a large dowry, and that I should Vie a rich
heiress. He had loved uie since our earliest child
hood—you know that this sentiment was share*! by
me, and that with age it became a mutual passion.”
“Yes, my dear Eugene, I know all that. M. de la
Salle loveil you first because he knew you first, and
you are so beautiful that you could only beloved
for yourself alone—in that respect the history of M.
de la Salle is like mine—”
"That is what I do not precisely believe. Mon
sieur. But let me continue—my father did not re-
51 d“ \n Kulie ■ he »nlv told him that he was
vel’v voung and not far advanced ie. his career—he
saiii still more; he promises 1 him not to dispose of
rue without first warning him of it. Some time af
ter, Monsieur, you learned that if. would be advan
tageous to marry me, and, with that tenacity which
has served in making your fortune, you had" the art
of incessantly surrounding my father with persons
who spoke to him advantageously of you, and made
him regard tliis alliance with a flattering aspect.
They did not conceal from you the demand of M. de
la Salle, or my passion for him; but an old mer
chant like my father would naturally prefer a man
of his professiohn to a lieutenant of hussars—you
skilfully profited by this disposition, and fortune
favored yon also, for on one side >f. de la Salle set
out for the army, and on the other his father died
anil left him whom 1 loved—and whom i love still—”
"Whom you love still, madunie!" exclaimed M.
Moreau.
"Yes,” continued his wife, “whom T love still—
left him, t say, not so rich as he was supposed to !«';
then, my father wrote a polite refusal to M. de la
Salle, gave you his word, and you wi representixl to
me. 1 did not conceal from you my aversion—”
9“Your aversion, Madame!” repeated M. Moreau,
whose pale complexion reddened at. this word.
“It is as well to call things by their right names,
and why not acknowledge now what passed six
months ago. You let this first storm pass over,
and sure of the assent of my father, you did every
thing co persuade the public that your suit was ac
cepted. At last, one day, my father called me to
him; he had a letter in liis hand from Jena—from
Jena itself—from the field of battle; it was from
one of the comrades of M. de la Salle. He whom I
loved had fallen on the field of honor, had died the
doath of a hero, shot in the breast by a Prussian
ball. ‘This premising young officer was lying (so it
was written), surrounded by enemies whom he had
killed." That letter my father received from you,
who had prudently desired that / should not be in
formed of that circumstance. After my deep grief
was in a measure subdued, then they represented
that my marriage with yon was marly public, aiul
that- it was time for me to marry. Mv father at
first ordered me—he afterwards entreated me—he
was old, sick, he said, and did not wish to die with
out seeing me established; without being able to
overcome my repugnance, I yielded—”
“Ah, well, Madame, I became yonr husband, nud
in spite of your continued coldness, in spite of that
repugnance which attests only too much the present
bitterness of your words, of what can you complain!
Which of us Ts wanting in love, may 1 ask you!”
“Of what do I complain? You have deceived me,
Monsieur!"
“1. Madame !”
_ “Yes—you—M. de la Salle is not dead: no Prus
sian ball ever entered Lis bre -st; this brave officer
did not remain on t.he battlefield of Jena; on the
contrary, he entered Berlin with his emperor.”
“Madame, it is true that ’twas I who gave your
father the letter announcing the death of M. de la
Salle; I had it from a friend, a relation of the offi
cer who wrote it, and I affirm to you upon the hon
or— ,
“Yon have imposed upon me,” exhhumed Eu
genie with violence. “Yon knew that M. de In-
Salle was living. That letter which deceived me is
false—there is no officer by that name in the
regiment of M. de la Salle; your porter has not de
ceived you—in fact, a young man did come in here
this evening. You have not searched well, Mon-
sier; vou have yet to examine my apartment; enter
this closet, Monsieur, and you will see who was with
me when you knocked at the door; it is M. de la
Salle, who died at Jena!"
The doer of the closet opened, and a young officer
advanced slowly towards M. Moreau; his naturally
pleasant face was stem; the e.legant uniform which
he wore, instead of giving him that easy :uni grace
ful appearance which distingushes the arms under
which he served, appeared in the eyes of M. Moreau
of a somber brilliancy which made him shudder.—
M. Moreau rise from his chair and drew back in
voluntarily. The young officer advanced with the
accusing letter in his hand, and, holding it under
the eyes of his rival, said to him:
“Well, Monsieur, will you deny your treason?”
There was in his accent, in his look, the bitter
hatred of a generous man, whoso dearest objects on
earth have been torn from him by treachery and
deceit—whose heart had been willfully broken and
his life embittered. His dark and indignant eyes
wandered from this woman whom he loveil so much
to this man, who by an odious lie had robbed him
of her. He was on the point of giving vent to his
•1 will have nothimj to s,<:Monster. J,.,t
i 1 :11st prepare to renouii.T me!"
■ Never, Madame, never,” exclaim*-, i ?.!. Moreau.
Eugene made no reply—she rang f. a her femme
tie chamber.
"Justine, wake up the coachman, let him harness
the horses and prepare to follow me."
Tins order was received with so little ,*st .nish-
ment, and the carriage so quickly p od . • 11
Moreau judged that the ! km had Ixvn’pV. vine-
agreed upon, and that Justine anil th- A can
lutd been forewarned. He tried to sj»-.!:- they
won ie ’-4 list.;:: to him: he ti'i**.' to leave ; .
men;:—M. de la Salle prevented him Wit. n liad-
ii! s ' Moreau was ready, when she had tied on her
bonnet and was enveloped in her cloak, she held ex
tended her hand to the young officer, and turned
away her head us she passed her hushtaid. The two
rivals were alone. M. de la Saiie began to speak:
At last we . r-alone together—the offender and
the offended. Do yon heat the noise of the carriage
wheels which b-ar away Eugenie—yonr wife! She
departs, alas! with a hope which may never be real?
iz< ti. slit* !<*«>V- s f<» uie a mission that 1 cannot ac-
contplish precisely as she expects."
“ \Vhat do yon mean. Monsieur!”
Yourwife will live no longer with yon: she
wm not be the eternal victim of the treachery which
has united vou—you must sign a bill of divorce.”
. , ' ! • Mousa-ur. said M. Moreau, who had no
H.eaof r< signing a woman whom he loved or a long
coveted fortune.
“Permit me,” continued the officer, ■•/d< sire stil]
more wnutyoi'r wife desires will not suttie.. forme.
For me your life is necessary—yes, the law might
disunite .you: it would te niit me to mam* her
\\!om I love: but you will nonetheless hare been
uer Inis.land—} ou will none the less have robbed me
ot it.} first iove. I wish to ! - able to forget this
f.:i;u event. [ wish to sec you no more; 1 cannot
submit to meeting you in my walks, at the assembly
at t.je theatre. T cannot l ave the world say, when
st eing you—• t'h ere goes the brok> r Moreau, the first
Husband of Madame de la Salle.’-—no. we cannot
both live; Monsieur, do vou understand! and I
shall not leave you until death parts us.”
There was so much decision in the words of the
lieutenant, that Moreau, who was not wanting in
courage, saw plainly l hat a duel was the only part
left for liiin to take—his wife would necessarily in
sist upon a divorce or a set in ration, and who knew
what change a duel might . fleet in the heart of Eu
genie ! Moreau might be happier than his adver
sary; he might Ik? wounded, and a woman never
refuses a little esteem for one who exposes his life
for her.
He accepted then, and both silent and too proud
to speak inure, awaited the daybreak with impa
tience. As soon as daylight dawned, and a dim,
grayish ray stole through the curtains of the apart
ment, the lieutenant abruptly broke the silence wiih
the question,
“Y* hat are your arms. Monsieur
"The sword,” replied M.ueau.
“Have you any affairs to settle ?”
"None; I have no children, and mv affairs are'all
regulated.”
“Your witness • '
„"My valet de ehamhre will follow me.”
"If it pleas* s you. Mons', ur."said the officer, “we
will stop at the house of a friend of mine, who will
accompany me.”
“Willingly.”
And they set out. Having arrived at the wood
where affairs of this sort, are terminated (then more
common than at the present day), thev drew their
swords, ai d after a brief struggle M. de la Salle
was slightly woundi-d in the arm, but he thrust his
sword deeply into the breast of his adversary, who
fell dying at his feet.
"? flo ii..' "egret lite,” said re to the officer. "I
feel that 1 merit no better fate. Go to Eugenie—
forget that she was ever mini'; make her yourwife
and lx- happy. Had you fallen in tliis Himliat I
could not have braved the disdainful look of Eu
genie, and she never could have forgiven the fraud
l>y which I jx>sst s>t.sl her.*’
Something within revealed the horror with which
he won id inspire his ** if \ nnd even if the fortune of
the duel h;iii had an opposite result, he never couhl
have prevailed with her on his ri^ht as a liuslnnd.
?ind that lie to which he owed tho possession of her
would now serve as a sufliei**».t excuse for his rival.
Soon after this, M. de la Sail* was promoted by
the emperor: and laden wi»h honors, he married
Eugenie, who was hippy to abandon i name which
bad so long ! een odious to her, and she mourned no
more for the death at Jena.
d»cm$ of Thought
The greatest misfortune of all is not to be able
to bear misfortune.
The history of the world tells us that immoral
means will ever intercept good ends.
Fortune has ;ts extremes as well as the rest of the
virtues, and ought, like them to be al ways attended
by prudence.
Success is more highly valued because we learn
by painful experience how much of effort it re
quires to accomplish it.
A minister without oldness is like a smooth file,
a knife without an edge, a sentinel that is afraid to
let off his gun.
Great geniuses, like great ministers, though they
are confessedly the first in the commonwealth of
letters, must lx? envied and calumniated.
The men “after God's own heart” are only so for
a time and mission: every one is “a man after God's
own heart’’ for the functions that he does best.
There are many men who appear tei lx- struggling
against adversity, and yetja . happy; but yet more,
who, although abounding in wealth, are miserable.
"• He who is always in want Oi sometning cannot
be very rich. He is a poor wit who lives by bor
rowing the words, decisions, mien, invention and
action of others.
It is a proof of onr natural bias to evil that gain
is slower and harder than loss, in all things good;
but in all things bad getting is quicker and easier
than getting rid of.
His faith is exceedingly limited who has no idea
of any other miracles than those recorded in the
•Scriptures—who has no eye for the miracles that
are continually going on around him.
What quarrel, what, harshness, what unbelief in
each other can sulxist in the presence of a great
calamity, when ail the artificial vesture of our life
is gone and we are all one with each other in prim
itive mortal iuxxis!
There are two metals, one of which is omnipotent
in tin- cabinet, and the other in the camp—gold and
iron. He that knows how to apply them Ixith may
attain the highest station, but he must know some
thing more to keep it
There are habits contracted bv bad example or
bad management, before we have judgment to dis
cern their approaches, or because the eye of reason
is laid asltx?p, or has not compass of view sufficient
to look around on every quarter.
Without the sun, without the other planets ni*dit
would cover the universe; and if it were not en
lightened by the word of God we should differ in
nothing from those birds which are fattened in dark
ness and fed only for death.
The Commissioner of Emigration shows that
6 ooo.ooo emigrants have landed at the port of New
York in the last thirty years. Thus far this yea
126.487 have arrived.
m 1S77 Great Brit >!:: re : veil 32,000,000 pounds
°f tea front IiM' . and 1 ■ was rated at from 12 to
25 cents per pound above Hie price of the Chinese
article.