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r
THE SUNNY SOUTH
KOW FIBST PUBLISHED—FBOM THE AUTHOS’S ADVANCE PBOOF SHKHTS.
AN ISHMAELITE.
BY MISS M. E. BRADDON.
Author of
“Lady Audley’s Secret.” “Nobody’s Daughter,”
niont's Legacy,” “Vixen,” Etc., Etc.
CHAPTER XIX.
“set ME AS A SEAL UPON THINE HEAliT ”
Paquerette had been a dwel er in the rne
Frauehe-colline for nearly three months. It
was spring time, and the flower markets
were gay with primroses and daffodils and
tulips. The poor had their woodland blooms,
while for the rich the season of Parma vio
lets and white camelias and lilies of the
valley was in its glory. Paris was awaken
ing from winter darkness to sunshine and
blue skies; and already the gummy chest
nut buds were glistening in the gardens of
the Tuileries, the nnrse-maids and children
were rejoicing in the advent of spring. It
was mid-Lent, and the beasts were fatten
ing for the great slaughter of Good Friday,
a day sacred everywhere save in the abat
toirs of Paris, where the brute creation is
sa^rsficed in readiuess for the Easter festi
val, and for that extra good cheer which
follows the orthodox feast.
For nearly three months Paqnerelte had
dwelt at peace in her new home. She had
been decently fed, comfortably clad; she
had endured neither blows nor cursing; and
it seemed to her that she had lived a new
life, and had become a new creature—an al
together complex machine in comparison
with that Paquerette of the faubourg, who
had no care but to escape hard usage, no
joy in the present, no hope in the future.
The Paquerette of to-day was full of dreams
and hopes, and vague expectancies and dim
ambitions. She had beeu flattered and
fired by Lisette and Valnois. She had been
taught to believe herself a genius in a smnll
way—to believe that she had gifts which
would bring her gold and fame, and enable
her to drive her carriage in the Champs
Elysees. like the beautiful women with the
Birange histories whom she so fervently ad
mired.
She was pleased with her own voice,
which gained strength and clearness and
flexibility with every day of her life—
pleased with her own fingers, which every
day grew more familiar with the keys of
the little old piano, until they seemed to
have an instinctive power of touching the
right notes and to fall as easily into the
me'ody as the song of a bird. She was
pleased with her existence and its variety—
the afternoon jaunt to the nearest part of
the town, the hours spent before shop win
dows, gloating over splendors which, ac
cording to Lisette, might some day be with
in her reach.
“If you once make a success money will
ponr in upOD yon like a river,” said Lisette.
Hector de Valnois had written a couple of
songs on purpose for Paquerette. They
had been set by his friend of the Palais
Royal orchestra, and one afternoon he took
this gentleman to the rne Franehe-colline
to hear Paquerette sing. He was delighted
with her voice and her appearance; told her
she wanted c.ue year of severe training un
der a fi Bt-rate master, by which description
he evidently meant himself, and that she
might then make her debut at the Palais
Royal itself. He said this with the air of a
man who conld conceive no grander arena,
who knew of no higher pinnacle. To biin
the Palais Royal among theatres, was as
Cotopaxi among mountains Th“ clqjv dif*
ference was in
tinguish the words “to let” scrawled with
chalk upon the greasy black door. Mere
Lemoire had removed herself and her house
hold goods to some other habitation. It
might be that she had found a cheaper shel
ter in some garret under the tiles above his
head yonder, where the roof was still faint
ly lighted by yellow gleams from the West
ern sky.
Ishmael looked in at the little den of a
room near the gateway, which served at once
as habitation and point of espial for the por
ter and his wife.
The porter was mending shoes by the
light of a gutteriug candle, the portress was
frying some cnrious portion of sheep’s an
atomy with a large admixture of onion. The
reek of the onions, the tallow candle, the
-hoe leather, the cobbler’s wax burst upon
Ishmael in a warm gust as he opened the
door.
“Can you tell me where to find Mademoi
selle Benoit?” he asked.
The portress looked at her family of keys,
hanging in three towb on a numbered
board.
“On the fourth story, the first door in the
passage to the right. There must be one of
them at home, for the key is gone,” she
suid.
“The big Lisbeth came in half an hour
ago,” said the cobbler, without looking up
from his shoe.
The big Lisbeth. It was she who had
talked to him so gravely about Paquerette,
who had spoken of him as her admirer. He
had some embarassment at the idea of be
ing taken to task once again by this strong-
minded yonng woman. Bnt he did not
shirk the interview. He mounted the mur
ky staircase, where a smoky oil lamp at
each landing accentuated the gloom, and he
knocked at the door to which the portress
had directed him.
“Come in,” cried a brisk voice, and he
entered.
The room was as neatly kept as his own—
beds.shrouded by red and white curtains, a
table laid for supper, books, flowers, and
the citizen king and his queen smiling on
the wall yonder, on each side the little gild
ed shell which held holy water, decorated
piously with the sprays of palm brought
home from last Sundey’s service.
And this was the npartment of girls who
worked for their living. Why should not
Paquerette so work, and so live?
“Monsieur Ishmael!” cried Lisbeth,
throwing aside her needlework and going
straight up to him with an intent look in
her clear, kind eyes; “you have come to
tell mo about Paquerette—poor little Pa
querelte—who disappeared three months
ago.”
“Why should you suppose that I know
anything about her, mademoiselle?” asked
Ishmael surprised by this sudden cha'lenge.
“1 have made up my mind aooat that
long ago. Either she is dead, or she has
found a sheher somewhere with your help.
Why should I think so ? For this reason,
upon this earth she could count only three
friends—you, my cousins and I—who count
as only out—and death. She must have
gone to one cr the other the night she ran
_ away.” I
ig monntaius Th« Aqlv djfl ‘-you y r -ov .guessud rifihtly,” ianswcrtd
the degree of inaccessibility, : Ishmael Sue oaai9 to me, poor chna.
and that whereas nobody ever got to the top
of Cotopax’, artists have from time to time
Kuoct eded in getting engaged at the Palais
Royal.
Monsier de Valnois left Paris within a
week of this vistt. He was going fora ram
ble in his beloved Rhineland, the country in
which his student-life had been spent—the
land of mnsic, romance, legend, metaphys
ics, whioh he pretended to love so much bet
ter than the soil from which his race had
sprung. He locked up his apartment in the
rue Montorgueil, gaTe the key to the por
tress, took with him for his only luggage a
v rry small valise, and a copy of Goetlie’s
“Faust,” and for all his resources five hun
dred francs, just received from a publisher,
and he shook the dust of Paris from his
feet. When the five hundred francs were
gone he would live from hand to mouth,
sending an article to the papers now and
then, and living on credit at his irn fill the
editor sent him his pay. It wus a happy-go-
lucky life which suited bis temperament, a
more innocent life than he could live in
Paris - a life under blue skies, beside blue
waters, amidst vine clad hills—a life which
regenerated him, he declared, when the
white-hot fever of Paris had dried up his
brains and his blood.
Pai qnerette missed him when he was gone,
though she had seen him but seldom
There was one person less to praise her; and
his praise had been so much sweeter than all
other praises because of the flavor of aris
tocracy that hung about his person—an in
describable refinement of tone, and man
ner, aud bearing which distinguished him
from every one el“e she knew.
Nearly three months had gone since that
dark, wintry morning when Ishmael found
the fugitive of Saint Antoine crouching in
the corner of his stair case, and in that
time there had been no sign or token of the
old grandmother ia the rne Sombreuil.
Whatever steps Mere Lemoine had taken
for the recovery of her orphan grandchild
had been harmless to Paquerette. Ishmael
had scrupulously avoided the neighborhood
of the rue Sombreuil, lest bis very appear
ance there should excite suspicion. He had
warned Madam Morice against any hint of
Paquerette’s whereabouts to the SisterB Be
noit The only wonder was that Paqurrette
had not been recognized inth- s reels ofPar-
is by some wanderer from the fanbourg be
yond the place de la Bastille. Yet, on the
other hand, the sons and daughters of Saint
Antoine are for the most part local in their
habits, and the boulevards and the Palais
Royal are to them as another country. And
again, Paquerette’s personal appearance
had been so altered by Madam Moqne’s
training that she might be said to have been
improved out of ail semblance to her for
mer self. Who would have recognized Cin
derella of the rue Sombreuil in the young
bonrgeoise dressed in a black silk gown, a
shepherd’s plaid s' awl and neat straw bon
net and black veil?
L The time had gone by,and Paquerettelhad
been nnassailed; and now Ishmael thought
the d*y had come when he might venture to
reconnoitre the harridan’s bole and find ont
what dangers might wait for his protege in
the future. So one evening in Holy Week,
a clear April twilight, he descended from
the heights of Belleville after his day’swork
was done, and entered the domain of Saint
Antoine. He did not intend to show him
self to Mere Lemoine. He wanted to find
out from the neighbors how she was living,
or whether she had reconciled herself to the
loss of her grandchild.
The sky was golden yonder towards the
barriere de l’Etoile, bat in these narrow
slums, and amidst these tall old barracks of
Sainte Marguerite and Saint Antoine dark
ness was already filling the oorners and
brooding over the lower windows and lark
ing in the passages and courtyards. In the
quadrangle, whioh had been Paquerette’s
playground, the shades of evening hung
heavy and thick, and candlelight shone yel
low and dim behind many of the windows
in that sjone well of humanity—windows
whioh made patches of siokly light on the
dark, black walls. But there was no gleam
of light in either window of Mere Lemoine’s
ground floor. The door wbioh lsbmael had
always seen open was no firmly abut, and on
going dose np to it he was just able to die.
because she was afraid of death and afraid
to go to you. In this house she felt she
could not be secure from her grandmother’s
cruelty.”
“And you,” said Lisbeth, looking at him
searchingly, almost imploringly; “there
might be a worse cruelty practiced by you
—the orueltj of strength against weakness,
cunning against innocence—the kind of
cruelty which men have been practicing
against women ever since the world began.
: know that yon admired her, that she
loved yon,” continued Lisbeth passionate
ly. “If you have wronged her—”
“I have not wronged her. I have done the
best that lay in my power. I am here now to
ask jonr advice. A young woman’s destiny
is not a problem so easy solved as I once
thought. As to love, that is all nonsense.
Pequerette came to me because I was a
strong man, able to protect her and myself
against an old shrew’s olaws, and because 1
Jived a long way from her grandmother’s
den. For choice she would rather have gone
to you. And now fi'6t tell me about Mere
Lemoine. Is she dead?”
“Not to my knowledge. She has been
gone from here about six weeks. Her habits
sere abominable.—she was almost always
tipsy, or at least stupefied by drink, and her
neighbors complained to the landlord that
• hey were in peril of being burnt in their
beds, as it was more than likely that she
would set the house on fire some night. As
she was very much in arrear with her rent,
he did not stand upon oeremony. She was
turned into the street and her goods and
chattels which she had reduced to the low
est ebb by pawning, were seized and sold.
No one knows where she went or what be
came of her.”
“Then it is to be hoped that this old hag
will never be beard of again, aud that Pa
qnerette may live the rest of her days in
peace.”
After Ibis Ishmael told Lisbeth all that
had happened since Paquerette’s flight, and
explained his diifioulties in dealing with
such a delicate matter as a young woman’s
destiny. Ou one side were Madam Moque,
Hector de Valnois and Paquerette herself,
urgent for a public career; on the other the
alternative seemed only a semi-starvation,
a life which, to be honest, must needs be
one long slavery, ground to the dust by hard
taskmasters, wedded to abject poverty.
“Woman’s work is wretchedly paid in
Paris, I grant,” said Lisbeth; “but with fru
gality one ean manage to exist. My cons
ins and I live oomfortably enough. But
then there are three of us and we work very
hard; we have worked ever since we were
old enough to hold our needles. Poor Pa-
qnerette has never been taught to do any-
tuing useful No wonder she wants to get
her bread by singing.”
“Will you go and see her?” asked Ishma
el; “yon might be able to give her some good
advice.”
“I will go to her with all my heart. I will
help her with all my hear), if I can,” an
swered Lisbeth cordially.
And then she and Ishmael shook hands
and parted.
“Forgive me for having doubted you,”
she said, on the threshold of her door. “We
women have been so badly treated for gen
eration after generation, that we have learnt
to look upon man as onr natural enemy.”
Feeling himself safe now in pursuing his
inquiries about Mere Lemoine, Ishmael
questioned the porter, who told him that the
old woman had been seen on the outskirts
of Paris, bent nearly doable under a rag
picker’s basket, and that it was supposed
she had migrated to .a settlement on the
boulevard de la Revolte near Glichy, a kind
of fastness of the dangerous classes known
as the Cite du Soleil, and chiefly inhabited
by ragpickers.
Lisbeth went to the rue Franohe-oolline
on the following evening after her woriL It
was the eve of Good Friday, and there was
no performance at the Palais de Gristal; so
Madam Moque and her pupil were both at
home iu the little yellow-curtained salon,
while Monsier Moque was busy below.
The two women were engaged in tbeman-
nfaoture of a bonnet for Paquerette, a new
bonnet made out of the jetsam and flotsam
of Listette’s old days of service, whioh had
eft her a store of silks and ribbons, laoes
and splendid soraps, hoarded in old trunks
and portmanteaux. Paquerette was to ap
pear in a new bonnet on Faster Sunday,
when they were to go to Vinoennes for the
afternoon with Isnmael. Perhaps there
would be dancing, as on that other Sunday
which marked the beginning of Paqnerette’s
womanhood.
The girl dropped her work and flew to Lis-
beth’s arms. She was soaroely taken by
surprise, as fshtaael had called in the after
noon to tell her of his visit to the rue Som-
brenil.
‘‘My heart,” she exclaimed; “how glad I
am t > see you again 1” •
Lisbeth kissed her heartily, and then held
“John March- ^- eJ - at arrn ’ 8 length for a minute or so, scru
tinizing her gravely, severely even.
“And so am I glad to see you, my dear,
but if we had met in the street I should
hardly have known you. I never saw such a
change in any one.”
“For the better, I hope 1” said Lisette,
whisking up a bit of blue silk, and giving
her needle and thread a vindictive jerk.
She was not over-pleased at Lisbeth’s vis
it, regarding her as an interloper, likely to
side with Ishmael, and to give troublesome
advice.
“I suppose most people would call the
ohange for the better,” answered Lisbeth
with her uncompromising candor; “but I
don’t like to see my litt'e Paquerette look
snoh a demoiselle. She has to work for her
living, poor child; and it’s a pity to look
above one's station.”
“Happily no one will ever accuse you of
that,” replied Lisette. “As for Mademoi
selle Paquerette, it is so much better for her
that she has a little air of a born lady,which
only wanted to be developed by a clever
friend. Aud as for getting her living, by
and by, there is work and work; anutcy lit
tle friend here has it in her power to make
her fortune if she likes, without soiling the
tips of her fingers.”
And then Madam Moque held forth upon
the folly of Paquerette’s friend, Monsieur
Ishmael, who wanted to deprive her of a no
ble career.
Paqnerette began to feel uncomfortable
on peroeiviDg that her old and new friend
were not likely to get on very well together.
She asked affectionately after Pauline and
Antoinette, aud hoped she should see them
soon.
“We are going to Ninoennes on Sunday,”
she said. “There is to be a fair, Monsieur
Moque says. How I wish you oould all come
with u», or meet us there ! You would not
mind, would you, Madam Moque?”
Lisette declared that nothing cotfld be
more blissful than such an addition to the
party, and Lisbeth accepted the invitation.
There would be no overpowering burden of
obligation. The entertainmet would be a
kind of picnic, in whioh everybody would
pay his or her share.
Sunday came—Easter Sunday—and the
early masses ;u the grand old Paris churches
were glorified by sunlight streaming through
painted glass, and the sky above the white,
beautiful city, the broad, winding river, was
like a summer heaven, blue and cloudless.
Ishmael rose soon after dawn and walked
to the oity to hear mass in Notre Dame. He
wore a frock coat now ou Suudajs, and ou
*eek day evenings when he had occasion to
leave the workmen’s quarter; and he wore
his ooat with an easy air, which made him
altogether different from his fellow-work
men iu their Sunday clothes. With him the
blonse was an accident, the coat an old
habit. People turned and looked at him in
the streets, so superior was that tall figure,
with the broad chest and herculean slionl
ders, and the kingly carriage of the head,
to the effeminate and fine-drawn form of
the typical Parisian. The son of the sea
and the sand marshes yonder, reared in
sunlight and wind, storm and rain, was of
another breed from the townsman, born«of
long generations of townsmen.
After mass Ishmael breakfasted near the
cathedral, and then set out to walk to Vin
cennes, where just in that spot ou which he
aud Paquerette had met for the fiisttime
nearly a jesu - ago, ho fr.und bec.Virei>> (With
•V—rffj. — -fcViO - r. ... , -
smiling, blushing in her new M>nnei,
trimmed with broad straw-colored ribbon,
and blue cornflowers nestli-ig against her
pale brown hair.
She was quite a different creature from
the Paquerette of last year,, in her bor
rowed cotton frook and little grisette cap.
Then she had looked a shy, simple child, to
whom everything in life was new aud
strange. To-day she was a woman, in the
glory of early womanhood, conscious of
her power to charm, looking at Ishmael
shyly still, with those liquid blue eyes; but
the clear brightness of those beautiful eyes
told a new story. Paquerette had acquired
the rudiments of coquetry.
Monsieur Moque had brought a couple of
commercial friends from the rne Franche-
colline, and Madaia Moque had invited the
soprano from the Palais de Cristal, with her
husband, the baritone, the Rigoletto, the
Figaro, who had sung in Italian opera for
one brief season at Bordeaux, about fifteen
years before, and who never forgot those
early triumphs on the lyric stage. The Be
noit girls were punctual and with their ar
rival the party was complete.
The wood was crowded with holiday peo
ple There was a fair going on in the Cours
de Vincennes, the great broad highway be
yond the barriere du Trone, and towards
this festival they bent their way, soon after
their picnic luncheon, guided by the blare
of trumpets, the clamor of thousands of
voices. It was the gingerbread fair; such a
crowd of joyous humanity—such a crowd as
Paquerette had never beheld before to-day.
She clang to Ishmael’s arm as they entered
ihe great wide boulevard of booths amidst
the din of trumpets, fiddles and concertinas,
pandean pipes, cymbals and drums, bell
ringing, women laughing—amidst the reck
of brasiers on which men and women were
frying sausages, fritters, fish—amidst the
clash of words and the trampling of horses,
aud above every other sound in the fair the
roar of a vociferous multitude, rising and
falling with a hoarse aud sonorous oaaence,
like the rolling breakers of a stormy sea.
Paquerette gazed in bewilderment at the
shows, the wild beasts, conjurers, giants,
dwarfs, swings, merry-go rounds. There
were shooting galleries without number,
learned dogs, phenomenal children, acro
bats, cocoa merchants with their tin foun
tains, hawkers of every description, street
musicians of every order. Ou suoh a day as
this it was not easy to get away from the
crowd, nor were Ishmael’s companions by
any means eager for solitude while the at
tractions of the fair was still fresh aeddaz
zling. It was the first fair that Paquerette
had ever seen. The circus riders, the acro
bats, the downs, the learned pigs were all
new to her. She clasped her hands and
opened her eyes wide with rapture at every
fresh figure in the vast kaleidoscope of
moving, joyous humanity. For her all the
joy was real; the painted faces were beauti
ful; the tawdry muslin and gilt paper, the
spangles and gaudy colors, were things to
charm and dazzle.
Ishmael, who had seen a good many suoh
sights In his year of Paris life, was interes
ted and amused at the girl’s pleasure. He
took her into the booths and oirenses, to
see the amazons flying through paper hoops,
the conjurers changing pocket handker
chiefs into live rabbits, and bringing them
ont of the saucepan unharmed by as muoh
as the rumpling of a feather. He stood by
patiently while gypsies told her fortune,
assuring her that there was a tall dark man
with a good heart towards her. He bought
her gingerbread and bon bone, fairings of
all kinds. He let her drink the cup of pleas
ure to th>: dregs, and then, when all the
wonders of the show had been exhausted,
when the roar of voices began to have a
hoarse and hollow Bound, when the olash of
braes and the olang of strident laughter
waxed disoordant, they two wandered to
“Yon must be tired, I’m afraid,” said Ish-
mnel; “it has been a long afternoon.”
□The sun was setting yonder behind west
ern Paris; the dust-laden atmosphere above
the fair was full of yellow light, against
which golden haze the naphtha lamps of
the boot hs began to show red and angry,
like ihe bleared eyes of a drunkard - earthy,
sen*-ual, as oompared with that heavenly
radiance that touched nil things with
beauty.
“Tired !” Not the least in the world. I
never had such a happy day,” answered Pa
qnerette, with her sweet, joyous voice, that
voice which in speech or song had ever the
same bird-like trill. "And to think that yon
would like to shut me np in a convent, to
bury me in a big stony prison, from which I
should nevea get so much as a peep at such
a scene as this.”
It was the first time sbe had ever thus
challenged him—the first time that they two,
together and alone, had argued the question
of her destiny.
“Don’t say that I would like to shut you in
a convent, Paquerette,” replied Ishmael,
gravely reproachful. “I should like to do
what is best for yonr happiness here and
hereafter.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders and made
a wry face at that word hereafter. The
world which it represented was suoh a long
way off. Why should one be troubled about
it? People shut themselves up in convents
for the sake of that hereafter. It was for
that they rose at untimely hours, and went
to heur masses ia the bleak early morning
It was for that they deprived themselves of
all manner of pleasures. The very idea was
a bugbear.
“Why should I not be a singer? Why
should I not be an actress?” nrged Paquer-
etee. “That would be best far my happi
ness; that would make me quite happy. Yes,
even if I never rose any higher than that
girl we heard singing in the booth just now:
and I am sure I can sing better than she
does.”
“Do you think that her life is a happy one,
Paquerette? My poor child, you don’t know
what you ere talking about. Those poor
creatures, whose red lips are one perpetual
smile, lead an existence as wretched as ever
yours was in the rue Sombreuil. They have
to endure toil, scanty fare, miserable lodg
ings, hard weather, vilest laugnage, blows
even.”
“I would rather lead Fiich a life than go
into a convent,” Paquerette murmured,
doggedly.
“You shall not go into a convent. I told
Madam Moque weeks ego that I would nor
persuade you even to try the oonvent life
against your will.”
“Then why not let me be a singer? I am
burden to you now, useless, co-ting you
money every week. Let me be a singer and
I shall earn my own living. Madam Moque
says I shall make a fortnne—monsieur de
Valnois said so—and his friend «t the Palais
Royal. They must know. And it is such a
pleasure to me to sing. To win a fortune
like that, without hBrd work, just by doing
the thino; which one likes best in the whole
world—think how delightful that must be!
And you deprive me of that happiness.”
She looked up at him pleadingly, piteous
1>, her large blue eyes brimming over with
tears. She wounded him to the quick by
her reproaches, half petuiant, half pitiful.
Never had she been lovelier in hi? sight
than she was at this moment, leaning upon
his arm—a slender, willowy figure— a frag
ile, exquisite, useless thing—like some love
ly parasite hanging from a branch of a
grand old ceibu tree iu the depths of a
Guatemalan forest. Tears, too, in those
pathetic eyes; the first reproachful tears
that a woman had ever shed for any act of
his.
“My child, my heart,” he murmured ten
derly, “you must kuow that I have no au
thority over you, no power to forbid or deny
you anything. If you must, be a stage-
singer—a mountebank to be applanded by a
gaping crowd—to have coarse things said
about you, vile looks gloating on your
beanty; ah, you don’t kno , child, you can’t
op deg ftan Aj If ypif t bemi-iE-set on sneh.u..
life l have no power to stop you, only if, on
tbe other hand, you have any regard for me,
I beg. 1 implore yon to avoid such a life as
you would shrink from a pestilence, fever,
death. No, yon shall not be shut in a con
vent, my treasure. That would be a kind of
mnrder, like catching a butterfly with the
bloom on its wings and shutting it between
the leaves of a great heavy book. No, you
shall not work for your living. I will work
for you, I will cherish you. Be my wife,
Paquerette, my love and my delight, the joy
of all my days, the glory of my life. The
fortune shall be made, sweet one; but these
strong arms of mine shall toil for it. Be
my wife, Paquerette.”
He had his arm round her, he drew her to
his breast in the dying light, they two alone
in the twilight in an avenue of budding
limes. He held her close to his loudly
beating heart, looking down at her with
passionate eyes that had a power stronger
than any vanities or fancies of hers. Sbe
felt like a caught bird, yet with a blissful
sense of all-pervading love and protection,
courage and manhood guarding and cher
ishing her which made captivity very sweet.
She gave him back his ki6s with a faint,
languorous sigh.
“Does that meau yes, Paquerette?” he
asked, looking tenderly down at the fair
girlish face.
“It means whatever you like,” she an
swered softly; “yon are the master.”
And this ended, for a while at least, the
difficult question of Pnquerette’s destiny.
[to be continued.]
Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly for
June.
This magazine is really what its name
claims for it, and each number should in
crease its popularity, for the publisher ia
constantly adding to its attractive features.
The contributors to this number are: J. N.
Ingram, Evert A. Duyckinck, Dr. Robert
Brown, Herman Menvale, Mrs. M. E. W.
Sherwood, Philip Bourke Marston, Spencer
W. Cone, Alvin S. Southworth, T. G. Irwin,
Etta W. Pierce, and other celebrated writers;
and the contents embraoe articles of great
interest and replete with information—seri
al and short stories, sketches, adventures,
poems, etc., and a miscellany instructive
and entertaining. “Australia and its Colon
ial Confederation,” “The Sons of Libe ty,
and New York City in their time,” “Two
American ShipB,” “How Plants were Dis
tributed over the Earth,” are some of the
leading features of the present number.
There are 128 quarto pages, over 100 illus
trations, and a beautifully colored frontis
piece, “The Feather in her Cap.” Price 25
cents, or §2 50 a year, post-paid. Address
Mrs. Frank Leslie, Pnblsher, 53, 55 and 07
Park Plaoe, New York.
“The Women oMle Late War.”
An Address Delivered in Hibernian
Hall, Charleston, S. C., Feb
ruary 11th, 1874.
In Behalf of the Confederate Home,
Charleston. S. C., by the Rev.
Charles Wallace Howard,
When an unaccustomed traveler enters a
mountainous region, he is at first filled with
surprise aud admiration. The lofty peak,
the bald and overhanging rock, the dark end
precipitous ravine, the hoarse and foaming
cataract arrest and powerfully impress his
imagination. Bnt when he has wandered
for days amid these rugged forms of nature
weariness succeeds admiration. And if in
addition, the mountain mist has enshrouded
him, thereby adding dariger to weariness,
and the mountain storin ha? drenched him,
with what delight does he hail the blue sky
appearing throngh the parting clouds. With
what agreeable sensations, at a turn of the
road does he look down upon the quiet,
pleasant valley with its gentle flowingstream,
its green meadows, its grazing herds, aud
its home-like farmery which smiles beneath
him.
Or, when for dayR we have been tossed by
a storm at sea, hearing no other sound but
the har?h creakiDga of the ships timbers,
the whistling of the winds, the roar of the
waters and the peals of the thunder, and the
only objects meeting the eye the black skj
above aud the enraged ocean around us,
with what pleasure, as we have unexpectedly
rounded a point of the shore, the clouds
breaking and clearing away, the wind and
the waves having spent their fury, do we gaze
upon the quiet harbor thus brought to view,
its shipping seourely at anchor, the spires of
the distant city gleaming in the sunlight, the
whole scene inspiring us with thoughts of
rest and safety.
These illustrations are instances of the
pleasure wo derive from a transition from
the contemplation of the stern and rugged
in nature to the peaceful and serene. This
pleasure also occurs from similar changes
of the objects of thought in the moral
world.
But a few years have elapsed since we were
suffering from all the horrors of war. Since
that time we have suffered scarcely less from
the stern struggles of life. Our property
being swept away, it has been a continued
effort for something to eat and to wear. The
hand of the government has bore heavily
upon us. Our whole social system has beeu
disorganized We are distracted with doubt?
and perplexities. The minds of men have
been strung to the highest tension. Even a
momentary change in the snbjectof thought
would be a relief and an advantage. Wan
dering wearily among the alpine difficulties,
we Jong to look even fora moment upon the
bine sky aud the pleasant valley beneath.
Tossed upon a sea of anxieties, we crave a
glimpse of some quiet harbor, which shall
invite us to repose. Wearied with the bitter
struggles of life, we sigh for some gentle
theme on whioh the mind may rent, even
for a brief hour, and from it gather refresh
ment and strength. Is there no such theme?
There is.
Instantly onr thoughts are tarned to the
consolatory truth revealed in the oracle? of
God, and brought ooastantly to our view?
from the sacred desk.
But there is another theme, not heavenly
but human, yet allied to the heavenly. A
theme winch has connected with it naught
that is angry, all that is peaceful, naught
that is selfish, all that is generous, naught
that is hateful, all that is lovely, naught
tiiat is gloomy, all that is hopeful. Forget
ting for a brief season the tumult and anx
ieties of life, I offer as the theme of our
meditations “The women of the lute war."
It is one so suggestive, carrying with its
announcement a rush of thoughts so rapid
that I do not presume by my remarks to add
to its inherent interest. To attempt this
nld his ^
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily.
To throw a perfume on the violet,
Or, add another hue unto the rainbow.”
Frank Leslie’s Sunday Magazine.
The Jaly number opens with a descriptive
article by Rev. Edward Barrens, M. A., enti
tled, “The Cannibal Islands,” with thirteen
illustrations. Another, by Laurence Lamb,
i* descriptive of “The Cherokee Nation,”
with seven illustrations. “The Gospel Ac
cording to Rembrandt,” is a remarkable
article, giving etohinge by that eminent art
ist, and arguing that hie works show what
the common people in Holland and Germa
ny aotually believed in the sixteenth centu
ry oonoerning the Gospel of Jeeue Christ.
“Scenes in and about New Orleans” has
eight illustrations. The editor, Rev. T. De
Witt Talmage, bee a characteristic article
on “The Divorce Abomination,” and a ser
mon in the Home Pulpit, “The Floral Gos-
E jl." There are two serial Stories and
ketbee, Essays, etc., by G. A Davis, Ange-
line Alexander, Hervey, J. A’ Pet ton, etc.,
etc, several poems and a comprehensive
miscellany. The embellishments are
merous and admirably executed. Prioe 25 , n jan phalanx was not more impenetrable.
Yet exposure to light is needful, that the
luster of refined gold may dazzle the eye of
the beholder. The lily hidden by tall climb
ing plants will fail to please by its pale love
liness. The violet most be culled, lest it
“waste its sweetness on the desert air."
Aud even the rainbow's hues must bedeck
the extended arch of heaven before they can
charm by their exquisite colors.
I have ventured to invite yonr attention
to this subject from a two-fold motive. The
one that we might experience the grateful
relief already spoken of in turning from
topics stern aud anxious, to the one so gen
tie as the beautiful devotton of our women
to the country’s cause. It is to be regretted
that this pleasure cannot be enjoyed with
out alloy, as we cannot seperate them
wholly from the bloody scenes of our late
struggle. The other, a hope to impress
upou the sterner sex a just estimate of its
indebtedness to woman during the contin
uance of tbe war.
Tne history of every struggling people af
fords some striking instances of female he
roism. Bat the ie are the scattered trees of
the park, as oompared with the close unbro
ken forest; they are the occasional uplift
ing of billows, as compared with the grand
swell of the ocean. They are but instances,
this was a heroic movement of the whole
mass. It is my belief, not hastily, but ma
turely formed, that there has not occurred
in any country or in any age, an occasiou
which during a protracted struggle,the whole
female population so nobly and so univer
sally did their duty as was done by the
women of the Southern Confederacy. And
as far as in me lies, I desire now to maintain
and illustrate this position.
When the war so monstrous and unnatu
ral on the part of those who forced it upon
us, commenced, it was natural to expeot
that the whole population wonld fly to arms
Whatever difference of opinion there may
have been among ns, as to the wisdom of
the States that effected their secession,
there was no doubt on any m nd as to their
right so to act. When ooercion was threat
ened by the Federal government, and ar
mies were summoned to enforce the threat,
the purpose of the seceded S'ates became as
the purpose of one man. The area of these
State covered thousands of square miles.
The population was sparce and to a good de
gree strangers to each other. Yet when the
call to arms was sounded, it was heard and
answered by the uprising of almost the
whole people from Virginia to Texas. They
eame from the State over which the lone
star once shed its pale lustre—they came
from the State in which the waving cane at
once supplies a necessity and a luxury to
man—they came from the State whioh the
Father of Waters separates, but not divides
—they came from the State through whioh
the Alabama pours its flowing tde—they
came from the State in which the flowers
ever bloom, and stern winter olothes him
self in tbe many hued garments of Spring—
they oame from the State founded by Ogle
thorpe, consecrated by prayer and nurtured
by philanthropy—they came from the State
on whose soil the Palmetto grows, fit em
blem of that endurance, whioh laughd to
soorn a mighty and most important fleet—
they eame from the old North State, from
wbioh issued the first deliberate resolves of
independence in the first revolution—they
came from the volunteer State, whioh holds
in its saored hermitage the ashes of the war
rior statesman—they came from the State,
whioh is the mother of States, statesmen and
warriors, and whioh has given to mankind
Washington, Stonewall Jackson, and Lee,
and then came a band oQgallant men from
these other States, the majority of whose
people had bowed the knee to the oppressor.
From all these they came. The Maoedo-
gether away from the broad highway and its j ——. --—■ i mou *«««*> iiiii«iiott»«n.
avenue of painted booths into the outskirts it
of the wood of Saint Mande—not a very
lonely spot, for there were other wanderers,
arm in arm, at every torn,oouples who look
ed like lovers—here and there a happy pair,
as if unconscious of an external world, with
girlish waist enoircled by manly arm, gri-
sette’s neat little oap reolining on bloose s
shoulder.
dress Mrs. Frank Leslie, Publisher, 53, 55
and 67 Park Plaoe, New York.
PALMER’S Perfumes. EXQUISITE.
PALM ER 8 Toilet Soaps. LOVELY.
PALMER’S Lotion, the great skin oure.
PALMER’S Invisible, the ladies’ delight.
PALMER’S Manual of Cage Birds free.
The Russian was not more enduring- The
Coasaoke was not more agile. The Briteh
S enadier was not more stubborn. The
d Gaard was not braver. Victory on an
equal field always perched upon their ban
ners. The august spectacle was presented
of a whole people in arms with those rare
exceptions whioh are but spots upon the sun.
But while this unanimity among the men
might have been expected from the charac
ter of the people, and the causes which pro
duced the war, a different result in the gen-
tler-sex would not have oreated surprise- I
do not intimate the possibility, that under
any circumstances, the women of the Con-
frideraoy would have proved disloyal to their
oountry. To the imperishable honor of the
sex, it may be said that a female traitor was
a white raven or an unspotted leopard.
But at the comme-cement of this war,
the resources of the North were enormous,
ours were most limited. We had no ami.
nition, ho army, no vessels of war. In such
a contest, if success were achieved by us, it
mast be evidently after years of privation,
suffering and loss of life, shocking to hu
manity. These terrible alternatives, it was
necessary to look full in the face.
With such probabilities before them, it
might have been expected that a portion of
our women would have faltered. Not from
terror in view of their own possible fate,
but from their knowledge that the blood
which was to flow, would be the blood of
their brothers, husbands aDd fathers. But
they did not falter. They wer- not divided.
All Grecian and Roman fame pales before
this unanimity. From the stately edifice of
the opulent, from the dwelling of the arti-
zan, from the cabin of the farmer,—above
the hum of the city, above the sighing of
the forest, there arose a cry of our women,
clear, calm, feminine, yet resistless majesty,
summoning lovers, brothers, hnsbands, fa
thers, to arms, proclaiming imperishable
glory to the brave, and deathless infamy to
the coward.
Tne relations of the women of the Con
federacy to the war, were not confined to
the ntteranoe of patriotic seutiments. They
made themselves part of it. They identi
fied themselves with it. They will of right
divide the glory of our final triumph..
The war name upon us like thunder from
a clear cloud. It preceded preparation.
Events followed each other in a succession
so unusual, accustomed causes so failed of
their effect, the sanctity of pledges, the stip
ulations of honor, the requirement of com
mon honesty were so disregarded by our en
emies, that when the blow was struck, it
found us wholly unprepared. It was neces
sary, not only to raise an army, but to feed
and clothe it- We were without Commis
sary and Quartermaster Department - The
large proportion of our soldiers were poor
and unable to provide their own clothing.
1’he young government oould not snpply
tbese necessities; the women of the Confed
eracy oame to tbe rescue; the army was
chiefly clothed by them during the first year
of the war, and to good degree during its
continuance.
In looking back to that period of peace
ful experiment, we are brought inevitably to
the conclusion, that if there had not occur
red this simultaneous self-denying and nc-
tive effort on the part of our women, the
cause would have been lost in the first year
of the war.
Houses were stripped of their blankets
and carpets, that the shivering soldiers
might be protected against the winter’s cold.
Delicately nurtured women, nnaccus*uin-
ed to labor, toiled the live-long day for the
HoldierR. The morning dawn lighted them
to h-ir lab ir, and the midnight lamps wit
nessed thbir close. The factories being in
adequate to the emergency, the hand-loom
was made to supply the deficiency. The
spinning wheel again uttered its once fa
miliar music, as it was termed by hand?,
accustomt d only to the instruments of the
d awiug room.
Fairy fingers used alone to try with deli
cate embroidery, boldly seized and m uie
the coarse garment of the soldier. Toe
ordinary pursuits of life were interrupted,
ordinary associations ceased. One idea en
grossed them. The army must be clothed,
and by their hands. It was an herculean
task. But it was accomplished by onr noblo
women, without money, without toreign aid,
without past experience, by these desultory
efforts; each house being a work shop,
cloth was spun, woven and manufactured
into garments sufficient to clothe the grand
ntuay <jf *.fao Con/eUcrttcfy* Naturtr .'\» ■
a parallel to this result, when the coral in
sect creates an island in the deep sea, but
uman history afford no parallel to this
clothing of vast armies by the nnaided and
unoombined energy of women.
These efforts were not confined to the
clothing of our soldiers. The government
m the beginning of the war oould but im
perfectly supply them with food. Every
plantation and farm became instantly a
storehouse of supply, and from their abun
dance the destitute were relieved. Table?
groaning under the weight of solid and
substantial food were 'spread at points at
which the trains conveying soldiers were
delayed, and the hungry men were fed with
food a thousand fold more palatable, be-
cau-ie it was offered by the hands of their
country women. As in regard to clothing,
also, in regard to food, the first year of the
war conld scarcely have been sustained but
for the unwearied effort of the women of
the Confederacy.
The sick also received their earne°t and
early attention. It was the work of time to
organize a medical department. We were
withoot army hospitals.
The siok and wounded were therefore
without proper care. Everywhere the pri
vate dwelling was open to them, proper
medicine, as far as possible, was admiui?-
tered, the throbbing temple was bp.thed,
the burning fever was cooled, and the gaping
wonuds were closed by the female mini?-
ters of mercy. And when the wearied or
wounded soldier, bonnd for his -distant
home to seek restoration there, or to die
among his kindred, faint with travel and
with hunger, had almost perished by the
way, the blessed Wayside Home opened to
him its inviting doors, and there without
money and without price, he found food,
rest and shelter, and above all that which
the heart most values, the utterance of
earnest sympathy.
If it be a satisfaction to know that the
good we designed to do is successfully ac
complished, and that those to whom it is im
parted are trnly grateful, then may the
women of the Confederacy enjoy most fully
the satisfaction. Could they have heard the
weary sentinel as he drew olosely round turn
his blanket (the gift of some female associ
ation) to protect him against the perishing
cold or the pitiless storm, or the half fam
ished soldier as he sat down to the bounti
ful table of the Wayside Home, or the half
unconscious siok soldier in the hospital as
he felt the soft hand of a woman upon his
forehead, or the dying soldier as a form, to ,
him, almost angelio, flitted around him on
her errand of mercy, conld have heard each
of one of them utter the earnest prayer :
“May God bless the noble woman. May He
defend them always against insult and suf
fering;” it wonld have repaid their generous
hearts for their wearisome labor.
It was not however, alone in the relief of
the physical wants of others, that the hero
ism of the women of the late war was ex
hibited. In countless instances their per
sonal sufferings were intense. Women born
to affluence were suddenly reduced to ey -
treme poverty in its severest form. Their
farms were devastated, their homes burned,
their supplies of food torn from them. They
were compelled not merely to perform me
nial labor, but multitudes felt the gnawing
pains of hunger while a brutal soldier riot
ed over their plundered food. This was
true in thousands of individual oases; com
munities felt the suffering in its most ag
gravated forms.
Hurned Columbia oould tell a tale of hor-
ror : .The oounty town of the oounty in
wmoh the speaker resides, was burned by
order. Not a single house was left. The
women and ohildren near midnight, and in
a pitiless storm, were allowed fifteen min-
l®*ve their dwellings. Unprotected
and shivering in the rain, they awaited the
”7 to seek some friendly refuge. The
whole female population of the oity of At
lanta, young and old, Biok and well, were
ejected from their homes, and lighted on
their weary way by the flames of their own
dwellings. To many of these unfortunates
an _ empty railroad oar was for months
their only habitation. Suoh instances
might be indefinitely multiplied. They
(Continued on Eighth Page.)