About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (May 21, 1887)
2 THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA. GA*. SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 21, 1887 LALLAH GOURTLAND; OR, An American Countess. By T. K. SHARKEY, Author of “Shadowed Hearts,’* “The Heritage of Sin,** “Out of the Depths,’* “Viola,” Etc. CHAPTER XIX. The dreaded scene opened. The secret trial to prove Kenneth Rayburne guilty or not guilty. . , Kenneth entered; he was pale butcompored. An instant later a side door opened and a frail shadowy form glided into the room. The eyes of these two met. “Marjory!” “Kenneth!” _ . , . . ' Only the one. word was uttered by each, then, speechless, they gazed at eachother Behind one of the screens Philip, with a smothered cry, fell back against the detective. “Have you seen a ghost?” whispered Ilen- "T^theTmbrasure of the window two women clutched each other’s hands. And Lallah, shuddering, leaned heavily upon her father ••You! You!" came from Kenneth s white ^Slowly she extended her arms in a piteous appeal, whispering acutely. “Kenneth, have mercyl” “You dare ask for mercy!” She put both hands to her brow, then to her heart and seemed to be stifling with emotion. In the hushed silence they continued to gaze into each other’s face. . With rallied strength she spoke in a voice ever to be remembered—a voice so low and thrilling, so full of a sad melody mingling re proach and remorse: “I do dare to ask and to hope for forgive ness. My sin is not too great to be pardoned, though great enougji for me to kneel to you and our mother for your forgiveness. “Do not call the pure name of mother. Mar jory, you dare not hope for mercy, for indul- re nee at our hands—you who have left us to mourn you as worse than dead, who have stained our good name with dishonor. No, no! You Can never again be my sister nor her dauqhter." . ••//is sisterLailah murmured in a tremor. Marjory crested her head proudly, smother ing the choking sobs while through blinding tears her eyes burned with indignation. •*1 have wronged uiy mother, have wronged you—bit I have not disgraced your name." He started, and stepping quickly towards her said: “You were not betrayed? Y ou were a wife? “I am a wedded wife.” “Then why, the cruel concealment for so many years?” • “I was pledged to.sccresy.” “To demand such a pledge from a woman means treachery in the man. Ah, Marjory! you have been the vie. ini of a villain.” She shuddered. “There was no fraud, at least, in the mar riage Kenneth.” “You can prove it?” She touched her bosom significantly. “//ere, I keep the certilicate of my mar riage.” “Where is your husband and what is his name?” She clutclud her heart with both hands and a spasm of woe contracted her features. “I cannot tell you!” “You cannot? My God! how long would the wretch hold you to such a pledge?” She shook her head sorrowfully. “God knows! Even if he would absolve me from my oath I could not speak now; a dark doom threatens him—1 may never reveal his name.” “Marjory,” he said hoarsely, “what terrible thing is this? 1 find you at last, and God be praised a wedded w.fe; yet, a slave bolted to a criminal—'or you can mean nothing else. My sister, he has basely wronged you to shield his own evil deeds, h’s false life, and you will not speak to cl.-ar yourself from dishonor and to unuva»k ajreart! ess illaiu.. ^ Heave ns! the^j- I command you. Tell me his name and Where) ” She stood in mute agony with a hopeless look fixed upon her brother’s face. Ah, God! where is he—she tlioughl—there were times when she had doubted that she herself knew his real name. “Marjory, if he knew you were rich in your own right, the possessor of over half a million unencumbered, he would no longer desire the concealment of his marriage, if he is legally free to claim you and your wealth.” “What mean you? We were poor, very poor—you dare not deceive me—you, who are truth itself, would not stoop to a false state ment to tempt me to be false to my oath.” “No, 1 would not deceive you even with such a motive. I speak the truth—a rich inheri tance, almost like a fairy gift, fell to us two years ago 1 knew not how to find you, knew not whether you were dead or alive I have held your portion in trust for you. The wealth is yours to command from this moment. Now, will you speak? He will not blame you now for telling that you are his wife.” She was silent. The light of a new hope brightened her face. She thought of the money only as a means of saving him—he was chaiged with crimes but so much money would enable him to clear himself in the eyes of the world—and, he would acknowleigo her—her long weary waiting would come to an end—l e would not want to rid himself of the secret tie between them—and then, she smiled bitterly to think that it would be money that would buy her rights, not love and truth. “How mu;h do you know?” she asked, “(inly what Aunt Debbie wrote to mother.” “l'oor Aunt Debbie!” she said mournfully, “so good, so saintly, and she loved me so well —ah, it killed her—that blow. 1 kuow it—I know it! Did I dare say l was sinless when her death lies at my door. Ah nn! 1 could not help it—she did not know,” her head sunk on her bosom while tears flowed over her white face. “Wliat did she write?” she asked, drying her eyes and looking at her brother with alarm. She told us that a man—(strangely with holding his name)—had deceived you ill a se cret marriage ami w hen you could no longer hide your secret from her you had confessed it while beseeching her to keep it from us, which she was weak enough to promise, think ing then that he might be loyal and would in time acknowledge you—but (here, the phrase was difficult to understand—she seemed to be deeply agitated and wrote almost unintelligi bly) she hinted at some terrible event which had discovered the man to be a traitor to you and bis child—ai:d last, she said that you too, had fallen—that, knowing you were not a wife you had sacrificed your honor, had given up your family, to go away with the wretch whose power over you through a blind love for him was measureless. “Our poor deluded child is lost, dead to ns—God pity her!” was the last sentence and her name abruptly, bro kenly, sinned at the end. T he sealed letter was found and mailed after her death.” “Was that all?” “That was all.” “She told you nothing of Robert. Lindsay’s return, and—” she stopped abruptly with a frightened look, lest the hasty question might be dangerous. “What can you mean? Bob Lindsey, who was lost at sea ” “You saw nothing in the newspapers?” she interrupted, trembling violently and watching his face intently. “J’oor Marjory; your mind must be wander ing, dear. You are fevered." He took her hand, caressing the back of it tenderly. She covered her eyes with her disengaged hand anil was silent—thinking—can it be pos sible that he knows nothing of that! She would try him a little further; uncovering her eyes and looking at him searchingly, she said: “Perhaps I am not quite right at times; perhaps in a fevered dream sometime I saw in the papers that poor Marjory had been put into prison and that Robert had come back from over the seas.” Kenneth took her in his arms, kissel her many times, then laid her head against his breast and continued to smooth the dark hair while he spoke gently: “Poor little one! Dear little sister! IIow you must have suflered to have had such dreams. Do not think of it again, dear. It was the delirium of pain, of fever. Our sweet Marjory was never ill prison, never suspected of a crime; never guilty of anything but too much love for a heartless man.” She raised her face and smiled mournfully. “Will you not guide me to your husband, that together we may persuade him to do you justice; there shall be no violence; I promise to control myself for your sake.” “Not yet; I cannot! I am afraid for him. 1 have clang to him through all. He is my hus band and I left all for him—left aunt Debbie to die from the heart-wound 1 was forced to deal to her gentle nature; and my mother—ah, you do not know how I love her, how I have suffered and yearned for one kiss from her, one word of forgiveness. I could not help it; it was my fate.” The words rung with pain. “IIow is she, Kenneth?” she added softly through her tears—“our sweet mother, where is she? Does she never speak of me?” A black-robed figure parted the curtains at the window and glided up to them. Marjory stepped back from Kenneth’s arms. She leaned forward with parted lips and a pit iful prayer in her white face. “Mother!” “My child! My daring!” There was an intense silence during the long clinging embraceof mother and daughter. CHAPTER XX. Lallah Courtland stole softly from behind the screen and approached the party in the centre of the room. “Forgive me, Kenneth,” she said gently, with a shy look, as she passed him. Mother and daughter raised their heads, but kept their arms about each other. Philip came out slowly from his hiding- place. There was an indescribable expression of mingling sensations in his face—a forced humility, yet underlying it a certain defiance. During the two days he had supposed Mar jory dead, his heart had yearned strangely for the love he had slain; all her heroism, her martyred love, with her beautiful face and no ble character, had occupied his thoughts dur ing his prison hours, forcing a feeling of re morse, with a tender regret for the wife, who was the only being be had ever cared for save himself. And when there, behind Iho screen, while listening to the affecting interview be tween brother and sister, his heart had gone out to her with the same ardor with which he had wooel her in the only happy days of all his life. His plan was formed quickly, but, in the necessarily rapid survey of all the ground, he strangely forgot the presence of Mrs. Kay burns, lie would, he decided, hum bly confesi his wrongs to Marjory, acknowl edge her to be his wife, lie would brave the condemnation for his attempt to commit big amy; and he would defy all other charges. He was safe from all suspicion of Robert Lindsey's murder; the only living witness to that deed was the faithful woman who had proven herself equal to any sacrifice to shield him. He would throw himself unon the mercy of Sir Richard Courtland, calculating that to save the-publicity of the matter, to spare their proud name, both the Baronet and his daughter would conceal his guilty deception. That Marjory was rich, he had never before dreamed. Her money, he thought with satis faction, would answer his purpose as well as Lallali’s—aye, better, since lie loved her-, al most he was glad of all the complications and revelations which would, at last, result favor ably to him. He would yet be the Earl of Delvynne, with money, and the lovely devoted Marjory his countess He had planned all this hurriedly and cow stood ready to act his part, never once considering who Mrs. Ray- ourne had been, and that she with her past was there to face him. Sir Richard and Mr. Ilennon had also with drawn from behind their screens and paused in the rear of the others. Hennon’s face was a study, the Baronet’s white and sternly watchful. Still another, who had been con cealed with Mrs. Raybume made her appear ance from among the alcov*. curtains—unseen, she stood on the outskirts of that centre group. \ __A tujainixlis.-twtich..ovthe-/-viaL wvwfir signs of surprise or eiuvteuu from Marjory “kjftyncousin, Mr. Delvyunt,” said Lallah, introducing him to Marjory, in order to break the singular spell of siience. Marjory bowed as if greeting a stranger, ber face impassive. Ho looked at ber with wonder, and an unut terable tenderness flitted momentarily over kiB face. “Brave, true woman!” he said. Her eyes were lifted with a wild appeal. He stepped closer to her. Her arms fell frem her mother’s waist and she drew back a pace, trembling with fear, and staring at him wanungly. “Marjory!” lie said. “Are you mad?” she whispered. To the other* present, she still ignored him. “No, not mad,” he said aioud. “Though 1 have acted the madman most cruelly towards you and ruinously to myself. Mr. Rayburne,” turning towards Kenneth, “I am the man whose name and whereabouts you have just demanded from your sister.” “Impossible! S’deatk!” exclaimed the Baro net. Lallah laid a detaining hand upon Kenneth’s arm, whispering: “Forbear! for her sake, for mine.” Kenneth, though shaking with rage, obeyed that voice and touch. Philip looked around, measuring the faces of his audience, theu spoke slowly, humbly: “To the company present I have a grievous confession to make—first, that tins noble wo man js u y wife lawfully weeded.” Aii awful silence ensued. “1 stand before you confessed—a guilty man." A groan was rung from the poor wife’s lips. “But not guilty of murder nor the attempt upon her life.” Marjory lifted her face eagerly; her hands were still clasped in an agony of fear for him. “Bear with me patiently my judges. More than six years ago I married her secretly. At that time there was a good reason for the con cealment of our marriage. Afterwards there came betwpen us a black cloud which is yet known only to her and myself. As it has no bearing upon the confessions now needful I will not reveal that trouble to my present hear ers. Suffice it to say that it wrought a sad change ill me Then, tile story of my true birth was made known to me and I was called to a new sphere in life. I at once realized that a poor unknown girl was not a fit wife for the future Earl of Delvynne. How to lid myself of the unfortunate tie became my one thought and purpose. Ambition had taken hold of me with such force that it absorbed all other sensations. Yes, 1 think all the time I loved my wife. In the four years past 1 have lived two separate lives. One among the peers of England—the heir apparent to an Eaildom —the other, though short portions of each year, in a peaceful happiness with this devoted wo man, the hem oi whose garments I am not worthy to touch. I had deliberately planned to make my cousin, Miss Courtland, my wife. Through a union so desirable I would gain the wealth needful to restore the grandeur of the ancestral estates, to keep the grandeur of the proud title I would inlieiit. But not until re cently was I sure enough of that triumph to take any positive step to free myself ir jin the old tie. 1 was attached to my poor wronged wife, hut the love of power and liches was boundless and swallowed up all lesser loves. The time had c»me when I must sacrifice her and my oxen i'te to my wicked ambition. “I would pause a moment here, to solemnly swear to you all that the last two agonizing days have wrought in me a most marvelous change—when believing my wife dead I yearn ed with an intolerable hunger for the love I had been deliberately planning to cast out of my life; and the wealth, the title, tho power which 1 had craved, ft r which 1 had sacrificed all, became in a moment pitifully empty. 1 would have given up all for the power to bring her back to life, to me.” He stopped speaking a moment when his head drooped forward ou bis breast, and ins face was white and drawn in the tension from excessive pain and shame. “My God!” he resumed, “how can I tell the rest! I must confess all, in order to clear my self from the charge of murder. That vile deed tv put away my wife, which I conceived in my mad wickedness, was monstrous, and now, bereft of my insane pasBion—ambition and love of money—I see it as it was in all its blackness, and it is like a hideous dream to me.” Marjory stared at him, a wild incredulity burning in her eyes, her lips blue and parted —and then a sickening horror swept over her face as the truth dawned upon her. “Tell no more! Spare yourself that—spare mel” came from her lips in a sepulchral whis- per. A burning blush of shame spread in his face, but he continued: “I sent to her a wretch—a hired villain—to show her proofs that her marriage certificate was a forgery, and to make vile propositions to her to elope with him. Secreted, 1 listened to my base tool while he made love to my wife, after shocking her with the proofs of her dis grace. I heard his pleading with her to fly with him—of the two I was the greater wretch, the baser villain, but in my blind passion, my mad thirst for a rich career, temptingly open to me, I did not realize my own baseness. The brave, defiant woman, with faith in her mar riage rights unshaken, proved too much for the villain; and, infuriated at bis failure, he conceived on the instant the idea to murder her, thinking he would command from me the price t ffered for her betrayal. As he lifted the dagger the steel flashed on my horrified eyes and 1 sprung forward to stay the blow— but I was too late. She saw me and thought the dagger was in my band instead of the ruf fian’s. In horror at his own deed the man fled, dragging me forcibly away with him. Afterwards we fought—but the shot by which he died was from bis own hand, not mine, I had lost my pistol in the struggle. A third party came up to part us, when, in attempting to wrench the pistol from him, it fired and en tered the man, Upsher’s, heart.” Marjory’s head sunk on her bosom. She was half stnpified. What she heard seemed so monstrous her brain whirled. A suspicion of the truth had come to her when she had whispered to him to tell no more—but when spoken in actual words by his own lips, it fell upon her like a pall over the dead. “By what right did you assume the name you bear?” asked Mrs. Raybume. “There was but one son born to I’hilip Delvynne, and you have dared to steal that son’s birthright.” Over Phillip’s face there came a bluish pal lor; but he threw up his head as au animal at bay. “Prove itl” he hissed. “Prove it!” Repeated Philip, clinching his teeth togeth er with a snap like a mastiff. “She can prove it,” said a woman’s sweet voice from the back ground—while the speak er moved up closer to the central party. Lallah held her breath as she looked at the beautiful woman she thought must be Keu- neth’s wife. Philip’s hands clinched, his knees knocked against each other with spasmedic jerks. His eyes darkened and dilated. “Herbert (Castleton. Your evil reign is over,” she said to him with withering scorn. Then turning from him she said; “Sir Richard Courtland, allow me to intro duce myself, a kinswoman, to you and your daughter. I have never claimed the relation ship because of the unhappy event in the sep aration of my parents, and my father’s exile from his native land, which in his proud family in the old world was never spoken of. As you know, the exile was accepted and ever afterwards there was a silence upon Eric Del vynne sudden disappearance. He came over to America, as you all learned after his death, and assumed the name of Eric Oliver. All the years he lived in his adopted country he was as one among the dead to his family abroad. My mother followed him to his new home and country. Unknown to him she se cured tho position of housekeeper and lived With us as a stranger, or worse a servant for years. She sometimes took leave of absence, remaining away for several mouths at a time. Knowing her then only as our housekeeper we made no inquiries as to the nature of these mysterious trips. She always supplied her place with ail efficient substitute and we asked no questions. Her mission in these absences I learntd only after her death, of which I will tell you later. First, I wish to give you the his tory of Herbert Castlcton’s advent into our home. He is iny cousin, but not on my fa ther's side as I was taught to believe. He is the son of my mother’s brother, who was my father’s foe. He was a bad man. The son did not grow up to he a bad man, perhaps when lit first attained manhood there was noth ing to bring ont the evil traits he inherited from his father. But the time came when he was tempted and fell. The evil in his nature, combined with more daring than his father possessed, developed not only a had, but an infamous man. When a youth, my mother brought him into our home as au orphan boy in her charge. My father took a ,great fancy to the boy. This affection was Iai!tercel by the housekeeper. And then she ' sto the tpie fitoryg-. ■ . . - „f ti.u wife, under false iiin»rcssions., n . L , r i al . P in* herself from him to return to her family here, of the ship wreck and death of l’hilip Delvynne. All of this was revealed to you, Sir Richard, and to his family in England, when you were apprised of my father’s death, of the fact of my existence as his only child, and of the disposition of his estates. All of which is true save the presentation of a false heir to l’bdlip Delvynne’s name and heritage in England. The man who stands before us, a ballled culprit, has fraudulently borne that name and its honors for four years. He was never deceived. He has always known his true parentage. It was a premedilated vil lainy, quite in keeping with his other dastard ly acts, and it was cleverly executed. I did not expect you to believe without credentials. Hence, I brought with me proofs to substantiate the revelations which was the purpose of my journey to the American Capital. In the last day’s travel 1 met by accident with Mrs. l!ay- burne. I knew her history through mv moth er’s dying confessions. I, at once confided to lie • the nature of my business since she was so deeply concerned in it. To Mr. Ilennon, the efficient detective, is due our presence here, to witness, unseen ourselves the remarkable scene that is just over.” “Aliow me,” she added, while presenting a package of papers. “You will find therein all proofs needed. In conclusion, I beg you all to believe that I was deceived also regarding Herbert’s parentage. 1 believed him to he the soil of uiv uncle l’hilip Delvynne. And now I wish to present to you the ti ue so a and heir, and to be the first to be congratulate my new cousin upon’liis accession to an Earldom and upon hiH just recovery of al. his rights of b:rth and heritage ” She approached Kenneth, took him by the hand and presented him as ‘Lord Delvynne.’ Sir Richard, white with suppressed passion, turned to Herbert wrathful!) demanding: “Is ail this true?” “It is all true!” Driven to the wall he could not deny it. The ashy pallor of his face and tierce dilated eyes gave him the look of a crea ture suddenly possessed with devils. The cruel stab had gone home to the tender heart of Marjory and the sweet face was like the face of a dead woman. She had stood mo tionless trying to understand, trying to realize what she heard. Lallah, in the terrible excitement almost im agines that tier own ears deceived her. “Will you not welcome me a kinswoman,” said Adrienne to her. Lallah embraced ber. And theu Adrienne moved away leaving Kenneth and Lallah alone, standing apart from Hie others. “Then, she is not your wife Kenneth?” “My wife!” staring at her in astonishment. “ They told me you were married—that your wife was here in Washington a short time ago.” “It wts my mother. Who could have made such a blunder in telling you she was my wife?” Lallah caught the back of a chair to steady herself looking at him in a dazed way! “You fought that duel in Vienna!” He started; then, looking innocently into her accusing eyes, he told her in a few brief sen tences that it was his cousin Kenneth Rayburae who was the principal in that affair abroad. “Why did you not explain it? ’ she asked breathlessly. “Explain? When the letter from Kir Rich ard and yourself expressly commanded utter silence on my part—stating that you had learned to love another and desired a legal re lease from the tie rashly entered into and deeply regretted afterwards.” “Another instance of his treachery,” she said pitifully. “Oh! Kenneth, arc you true? The circum stances were al! so strange!” “1 swear that lo man has ever been more true to a woman. Every beat of my heart, s nee we separated, has been- loyal to the one love. It will be always so, though your heart is given to another—” He paused hastily. “Forgive me, my darling. It was cruel to speak of it—cruel to forget all that you have just gone through. It was dreadful to you who lured him." Sue laid one hand on his breast, and her clear eyes looked into his. “How blind you have been!” she said. “How cruel to both of us has been my own pride and Stupidity! I have never loved him. I have loved but one man all my life, my ovm true husband." A radiance was in his face while he gazed in to her face rapturously. “No, my beloved,” she continued softly. “I have never been untrue to you. 1 have never looked into another man’s face to care MTV CSStelllS,. son; and for it. I have been true to you as Heaven is true.” Their hands were clasped—a joy supreme. In the meanwhile in another part of the room Marjory was crouching on the floor with her face buried in her mother’s lap. And Her bert stood looking down upon his unhappy wife. “Marjory 1” She did not speak, did not raise her head as he called her name while bending over her. “Marjory,” he repeated, laying his hand up on her head. “Noble, true, martyred wife, forgive me if you can.” At last it was more than the faithful woman could bear. She shrank from him with hor ror. “Go! I never want to look upon your face again I” “ 1'ou, you too 1 You desert me when all the world turns against mel You have borne so much, could you not Buffer this to save me? Once you said to me, ‘Give me back your love, or I will die.’ Marjory, I say it to you now. Before God, I love you now. I never loved any other woman—not even when my heart bad grown cold to you. I have sinned deeply. But aB you loved me, forgive me.” She only looked up once, and ever after wards his face, with its passionate appeal, re mained a memory and a remorse. “Has it come too late—the love you lived for?” She was weeping in silence. “Look at me once 1” She kept her face bidden. “You will not forgive? Then, farewell!” With a swift movement he drew a pistol, and before a step could be taken towards bim by any one in the room there was a loud, dou ble report Marjory had sprung to her feet at the sound of the click of the pistol lock. She saw the flash, the smoke,' heard the heavy fall, and with a heart rending cry she fell forward across the dead body of her husband. • ••*** The tragedy was a nine days wonder in the capital, but the true story was the secret of the English nobtenu::’* household. Various ru mors, differing romances, of the exchange of heirs were rife in the city. All that was posi tively known was that the false hier had shot himself; that the true heir, the real l’hilip Del vynne was the person who had been known as Kenneth Rayburne. While this tragic gossip was still the fash ionable topic of the day, the world was startled by the announcement of the private marriage of the new Lord Delvynne and the beautiful Miss Courtland, which took place at tho Bar onet’s residence with only the immediate fam ily present. The new state of affairs in the change of nantefe demanded the repetition of the marriage ceremony. Besides, it would spare them tlio^gdditional gossip concerning the first marriage ceremony of which the world was ignorant. And thus the society world, knowing noth ing of the long and faithful attachment of the bride and groom, commented amusedly upon the hasty marriage. There were smiles and knowing nods, and every mouth everywhere repeated: “And so Miss Courtland js the Countess of Delvynne all the same. What cares she or the Baronet about the changed bride groom, the man himself. The individual is of little consequence; the title is the article married, and remains the same always.” But the young American noble and his love ly wife only smiled in the happiness of the lit tle secret of their love, all their own. • ••*•• Marjory could never be comforted. Her slight figure grew frailer and frailer and the dark eyes sadder and sadder, with a far off look in them which seemed to be ever reading melancholy dreams. Day by day the sweet, flower-like fare. drooped and faded into an early grave. . And the secret of Robert Lindsey’s murder died with her. [the end.] is h« boas in Funerals. Demorest's ^izinc says: The Rev. Henry Wald Beecht^gpieath may mark the begin ning of asnew!dtVarture in the conduct of fu- In .icccj-dance with his wishes, no '"j »r any of the customary en.- 'faK- While the remains were ;,li#,e was kept open and b/il- —- ■ - WHO if ~jf a sad one. There has long ’ dislike to the old-fashioned I. of tho dead. The first man ecall, who forbade his family ar 'mourning, was the great the(oiTnt^y PHILOSOPHER [Copyrighted by author. All rights reserved.] them in the 8unny South under the copy right* No other papers are allowed to publish them. The Georgia Philosopher in New York. Nearly forty years ago I stopped at the Astor honse in this great city. It was considered fine then—yes, superfine—the acme, the ne plus ultra of hotels. The aristocracy of the land stopped there and the youthful swells who coaid not afford to stop there picked their teeth on tho steps. It is considered a very comfortable old stone barn now and so for auld lang syne I halted there and took a room at one dollar and a half a day and had the privi lege of eating where I pleased. I liked this very well. My room was on the second lloor and was just high enough for me to stand up and write my name on the ceiling over my head. I measured it and found it only six and a half feet. There was one little window eighteen inches high and the sash opened on a pair of hinges and the window on the grave yard of St. Paul’s church. How immensely grand that Astor house used to look. IIow insignificant and humble it looks now. It cer tainly has shrunk down and drawn up, but it is a good bouse still. Bat as I had no business on Wall street I departed those coasts and took up my abode at the Fifth avenue, where everything is grand even to the charges per day, but I thought I would play the consequential a little while, and strut around with the magnates. Senators and governors and counts and generals are common here. General Sherman lives here and be and I pass and repass and take our meals near together and I expect get a slice from the same turkey. He is very peaceable now. There was a time when he didn’t divide are so close together as to require two leaps in quick succession. And last and most perilous of all is a stone wall with a ten-foot ditch on the farther side, and that ditch full of water. None but the best trained horses can clear that, and none but the best trained rider can stick to his steed. Now, all of our country boys know that it 1b not an easy thing to stick to a horse as he jumps a ditch or a five rail fence. Sometimes the horse goes on and the boy stops, or the horse stops and the boy goes on. But these hedges and walls are from five to seven feet high, and these splendid riders did not show any daylight in the saddle, but seemed glued to it; in fact they seemed to be part of the horse, and moved with him in perfect grace. The track was just a mile round—a mile on graBsy, close-sheared turf, green and smooth, and the hurdles were here and there on the course, and inside of it at irregular intervals, and the horses had to leave the “flat,” as the running course is called, and take the hedge or wall or ditch wherever it was placed. When the race was closely contested, you could see four or five horses on the wild leap at once, with barely a neck between. We witnessed five races, and in otte of threa miles there were thirteen splendid horses engaged. The riders were all men, not boys, and averaged from 135 to 170 pounds, and they were clad in showy garments of green and blue, and canary and gold, and silver and velvet, and satin and stripes, and spots and sashes of all colors, so that the eye could follow them around the track and not be deceived as to which horse was ahead. Well, of course there was betting, but there was no trickery. The owners of the he rses were supposed to be above tricks and strata gems. They already had as much money as any reasonable man could desire. Money had failed to satisfy, and now they were trying sport. No ordinary man could come into this ring. To get in a man had to be above the necessity of plotting and scheming to make money. The prize of §2,000 to the best horse was nothing but a little spice among these men. There was betting ouus'de, lots of it, hut not on a large sca’e. Old men, old women, young men and young women, all bet, say from five to twenty dollars, on every race. Some bet on their judgment, their knowledge of the horses or on horse flesh in general. But most of the five thousand people bet at random, just for the excitement. They would pick out a name they liked and bet on it. Lots of men and ladies bet ou “Orphan Boy” just out of sympathy, and the Orphan got left. 1 was much amused at an old gentleman with gray side whiskers. lie bet every time—§20 every time and lost. At the last race he said, “Well, I’ll try it once more. My wife picks out the hind nag every time and I have to bet on him to please her. I’ve lost eighty dollars already and here goes auoiber twenty.” He lost that, ton, and as he paid over the money he said: “Well, my old woman will have to stay at home this summer, X do reckon, for all her spendin money is gone.” But tie old woman looked at him with a tone of voice that meant: I reckon I kuow what I’m about, and there is plenty more money left in the till for me Cedarhurst is a lovely place—just as pretty as a painting. The deep blue ocean was just be fore us and the maguificent Ocean hotel near by facing the beach. All along the 25 miles that we rode by rail the earth was carpeted with blooms. There were signs everywhere of industry and thrift, but none of poverty and decay. There are three millions of people near by lo feed, and these working farriers can sell anything and everything they raise. I heard a little gill boasting that she had already sold twelve dollars’ worth of roses and six dollars worth of tulips that she grjw herself. Well, 1 rode across the Brooklyn bridge, one of tho grandest triumphs of the human mind that is in the world or ever has been. I saw Miss Liberty, with her torch in hand, and I rode for.miles and miles on the elevated rail ways that now carry half a million passengers every day. I went to the Eden Musee, where But Yet a Woman. [Journal of Education.] With all ber faulta 1 love her still— Who wouldn’t? The trouble Is that, welt until The prettv dear had talked ber fill, You couldn’t. Ber nimble tongue you’ll always And A-’olog. . , She’s always prompt to speak her m n ?‘ And sharper than the keen March wind That's blowing. She has ldeaa on everything. And alra ’em. She lores to bear the choir sing, And then, with comments meant to etlng. Compares ’em. Bbe tains and talks the livelong day Till night comes; And then she goes to sleep, they say. She seeps on In the same old way Till light comes. With all her faults Hovs her still— Who wouldn’t ? The trouble Is that, watt until The prettv dear has talked bei fill, Job couldn’t. A Boy’s Composition on Girls. oar girls. Girls are very stuckup and dignified In their maner and be have your. They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and rags. They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of guns. They stay at home all the time and go to church on Sunday. They are al-ways sick. They are al ways funy aud making fun of boy's hands and they say how dirty. They cant play mar- bels. I pity them poor things. They make fun of boys and then turn round and love ’em. 1 dont beleave they ever killed a cat or any thing. They look out every nit^ and say oh aint the moon lovely. Tbir is one thing I have not told and that is they al-ways now their lessons bettern -boys. nerals. crape was uj blems of ii:tj unburied nanny nett. i ringed been a grv - sombre obsr qdj of notui’^V and * Dickens. Ifis example has been ?-'«<, ‘ nt, y followed, and it is no longer the fasfSm to go about in dismal ap parel because ofllie decease nf a parent, hus band or brother. The arguments to justify this new point of view are varied, and not al ways consistent. The Christian, confident oi a happy life hereafter, sees nothing to regret in “ehuiiling off this mortal coil,” while the ag nostic bold a the view that life is so lull of mis ery to the great mass of mankind that it is un reasonable not to welcome death. One of the most curious chapters in the history of the race is the funeral customs of tiie various na tions. They have appealed to all the emotions of mankind, lamentations on the one hand aud joyous ceremonies on the other, which last have sometimes degenerated into drunken fruiics, such as havecaaracterizid Irish wakes. Henry Ward Beecher was a great man in his generation; but will he live as one of the first- class men of his century? lie has written many books and delivered numberless public addresses and sermons. Doubters say that none of his work* will live. He was not a ere- ative genius.' lie leaves no successor, he founded no church, he is idemitied with no creed Ho was a reformer, a liberalizer, and taught a humanity somewhat in advance of his religious environbent; but hi3 influence was disintegrating, not formative. Hence, like Theodore Parker, if he exists at ail in tue fu- ture # it will be as a memory, not a force in hu man affairs. God Bless the Old-Fashioned Girl. [Omaha Bee.J Bishop C’esgrov), of Davsnport, la., deliv ered a notable sermon in that city last Sunday on the immoral tendencies of the times through the breiking down of safeguards which once protected girls and young women As a model for the rising generation, the Bishop pictured .lie “old-fashioned girl” of thirty years ago it the following words: “She was a little girl iniil she was 15 years old, and she helped !nr mother in her household duties. She had her hours of play, and en joyed herself to tic fullest extent. She never said to her mo .hr: *1 can't—I don’t want to,’ for obeliene was to her a cherished virtue. She arosrin the morning when called, aud we do not stijpose she bad her hair done up in papers am crimping pins, or banged over Her forehead. She did not grow inoa young lady and tak about her beau before site was in her teens, snd she did not read dime novels, nor wa-t se fancying a hero in every plow-boy sue met The old-fashioned girl was modest in her denBa or, and she never talked slang n ir used bywords. She did not laugh at old peoide nor sake fun of cripples. She j ti lers they are, too, but I am vain enough to had respect for in - elders, and was not above I believe that if I could have called back forty listening io wordsll counsel from those older I years I would have taken a hand in that con- than herse'f. Sin did not know as much as | test, a - 1 * not been left far behind. Sometimes I do want to be young" again—that is a fact. turkeys with us nor ch'ckens nor hogs nor sheep, but took them alt and kindly threw us j there are hundreds of wax figures, likenesses the bones, but that was war and now it is j to the life of notable men and women, past peace, blessed peace and tranquility. He looks ' and present. Mr. Beecher is the last, and he quite old and harmless now and moves about stands before y ou so perfectly natural you without exciting more than ordinary attention, j wait a moment for him to say something. A The fact is New York has not got time to ; waggish friend said: “Well, now, suppose we waste on anybody. It is in one feverish tu- hand that policeman a dime and go. lie ex- muliuous rush. Bat everybody seems about as peels something." I got my dime ready and happy here as they do elsewhere. I have seen ; extended my hand, but a laugh from the boys no beggars no misery. Years ago the ragged told me that the policeman was wax. The children and miserable old women used to be truth is, I was too wrought up to distinguish at every crossir,? pleading forcharity, but they , the living from the dead a'l around the halls, are not here nos*. 1 have inquired about tli n i New York is a wonderful show and I wish and am pleased ro learn that the charitable io- ' all the children of the land could go there and slitutions have pwvided liberally for all tbe ; }i;ui money enough to stay a week and see the unknown T <ieUS It does',,ot take a'countryman so very long l tay?’SSoSS ° onVrftv '\ aJ . s aild 11 ‘i 0 **P e - flie | a south bound tra n and every mile brings me second day I learned the ropes of the elevators nearer home 1 ° ai d could bob up serenely to the fourth floor _! without attracting alter, ion The provincials Thinus Worth Ynnwiii* make a great mistake in imagining that any-, inings VVortli Knowing, body here cares one copper about who they Ink stain may be removed from white goods are or where they came from or how they are 1 saturating the spot with water and “then dresstd. I like that. A friend of mine who I covering with pounded salts of lemon. Putin broke down in Georgia and lost his patrimony, ' dm sun for live minutes, wash with soap and said he had several reasons for coming to New 1 rinse. A paste o: chloride of lime aud water York to live and one was that New York didn’t 1 well rubbed in will take ink stains from silver care whether he had ever been rich and proud or plated ware. Wash aud wipe as usual, or not. There was money here and a fair re- j To clean nickel on stoves use soda wet in ward for labor and for brains. But down in ! ammonia. Apply with an old toothbrush and his old home some were glad that he failed j rub with a woolen cloth, and others pitied him and lie didn’t want i either. Town gossip feasted on tli ' First Omaha Girl—“Dear me! So you’re engaged. I wonder how it feels to be proposed to. Were not you scared?” Second Omaha Girl—“Awfully.” “Didn’t you feel like running away?” “I certainly should have run if I hadn't been so much afraid he would.” A Lesson on Pride. The following odd bit of versification was picked up from the floor after the auction sale of a lot of rare, old and valuable books: KING AN1> COMMONER. I dreampt that I was dead and slumbering In my native clay; Close by u y side a common begear lay. And as so mean an ot J ct shocked my pride, riius, like a corpse cl constq leuce I c.led: •Scoundrel, begone, and uenceforin thy touch wnhtiold. More manners learn, and at a dlstar.ee mould! •‘Scoundrel!” wi'tt a htughty tone crl«d lie: •‘Proud lump ol fl sb, I sc un tby words and thee! Here all are (qual—now tby case Is mine, l uis It my mouldering place and that 1* thine. ” out of P all and mv nioT,’, i a JI ' ,son j ar > in la l' fcr ' l ‘' ' livide '- h « ^"gar and 1 £ " !i v £ w „ , 6 a ', ld makL ‘ I10 ;! e here -’ wine-glass full three times a day. Well, it is hard to have to go to the bottom ot ‘ , * the bill and climb up again after oue has been ( keautjful spreads for small tables of silk at the top. ft cuts like a knife when there is \ P !ush lia Y e ct ’ ms r squares of antique lace, and a wife and children involved—an affectionate deep edging of same lace. The newest wiinkle The Clergyman’s Mistake. “You have daughters, have you not, sir?” said a minister to an old gentleman with whom he had formed a easual acquaintance as a fel low passenger. The old gentleman essayed to answer, but the question strangely affected him. “i b*sr your pardon.” said thd minister, gently, “if I have thoughtlessly awakened In your mind recollections of a painful nature. The world is full of sorrow, sir, and perhaps my question recalls to your memory a fair, beautiful girl, whose blossoming young life withered in its bloom. Am I not right, sir?” “No, not exactly,” replied the old gentle man, sadly. “I have five unmarried darters, mister, aud the youngest of the lot is 28 years old.” Mother—Tommy, how are you coining on at school. Tommy—First-rate, ma. “Mention the names of some of the domestic animals.” “The horse, the dog, the pig.” “Mention some more, Tommy.” “The goose, the hen, and the duck.” “Yes, I was thinking of four-legged animals. M'hat animal is that which lives mostly iu the house, but which often makes a dreadful noise so that people canuot sleep?” “Four-legged animal! ” “Yes.” “Don’t let people sleep?” “Yes.” Tommy (triumphantly)—“The piano.” trusting wife, who was reared to luxury and knew no wants. As for the children, it does not go so hard, far they can soon acquire habits of industry, and maybe it will be a’l the better for them. J found other friends here—good friends, whom I had not seen for years; and had almost lost them; but they were doing wed, and we enjoyed oirv re uni m and talked gushingly of the halcyon days of yore. The married daughter of an old schoolmate greeted me early. With her is to gild these iaces with two or three coats of Florentine bronze, which gives a very rich deal-gold effect. Pretty runkahs of East Indian fans a-e cor. vei led into lace screens by staining some pretty color and adding tasseled fringe prompons corresponding in cflor. Shaded beads festoon the lan mingled with the tassels; aud the ef fect is barbaricaliy beautiful. Katin and vel vet ribbons cross aud re cross each other on the handle, ending in a large bunch of tassels and her own lovely lassie of thirteen summers j at the end. When not in use, tins screen we drove through Central park and spent a whole afternoon ou the road, and visited the great museum where paimiugs that cost sixty thousand dol ars are mixed up with those that makes a lovely wall ornament. Chinese gloss starch is made of two table- spoonfuls of raw starch, one teaspoonful of borax, dissolved in oue and a half cups of cold cost six hundred, aud it takes a smarter n an , water. Dip the thoroughly-dry, unstarched titan me to tell the d fference. Just so was I ; cuffs, collars and bosoms of shirts iu this, then about the fine horses, fori didn’t see uioro ■ roil thtrm up tight Rn<l let them remain a few than about two hundred dollars difference be hours iu a dry cloth, then rub off and iron. tween Tremont, who sold recently for oue bun- , , . . . .... dred and forty-five thousand dollars, and a A good w.iy of curm a sty on the eyelid is horse near by that sold for five hundred. It is i ‘° ^. eat a 'f a *P aouful <‘ f camphor and apply it esteemed a great privilege to be allowed to rub | 10 1 SWtl l11 ®* Tremont’s nose with just one stroke* and a j an 7 P erf5 ° n w ho is liable to poison with hair from his tail would bring ten dollars, with poison ivy, will take pure olive oil after be.ng In the parlor th-v w?-re fitting— Sitting by the tre ight’s tfiow, Q ilckty wt-rrt the minutes fluting, Till atUst he rose to go. W»th fcls overcoat she puttered. From her eye escaped a tear— “Muit you go sosdOl?’' ►he muttered. “Won t you stay to bieahlast, dear?' tha’iks. With my lady friends and some nice gentle men I went to Cedarhurst, on Long Island, to see the great hurdle races. It was a sight long to be rememberi'd, even by a patriarch; for exposed to it, he will feel no bail effects, and the oil will neutralize the evils of the poison, if a few doses be taken even after the poison has broken out. To prevent hair falling out take a haudful of who ever gets too old to enjoy the beamy and southern-wood leaves, and put in a large- majesty ot line horses, and the grace and j mouthed bottle, cover with alcohol, let staud power rin I poetry of their motion, especially in I over night; add one teaspoonful of this to a a leaping race? Solomon and David and Job j third of a cup of water, and wet the scalp all pay tribute to it, and why not we? They j thoroughly once a day until the hair stops admired him when he “swelleth his nos rils ' co uing out. and snuffeth the batUe from afar.” Then why stains from tea or coffee will come out at not look at him in peace. Cedarhurst is a 1 once, if they are taken immediately and held over a pail wbile boiling water is turned over them. high-toned association of tony men, wiio have no jockeying, and many of whom ride their own horses in these hurdle races. Splendid her mother, nor dl she think that ber judg ment was as good *8 that of lur grandmother. She did not go to arties by the time she was 10 years old, aud t*y till after midnmht danc- iug with any chan<3 youna man who happened to be pre. cut. Sh* went to Ivd in season, and doubt ess said berjrayeis, and slept the sleep of innocence, rose up in the morning bappy and capable of givug. happiness. And now, if there be an old-fshioued girl in the world to-day may heave bless and keep her ami raise up others lik.her.” Ths ERecta Exhmtl.tl.M. Many diseases,*!*dully those of the ner vous eyatem, artbe products of dally «- newedmental exmsfion. Business avoca tions often lnvols amount of mental vre* SSsssi‘-=i liostetteFs SteunSBitters, tliati*compen- M^to?thlsund»b» s ‘' ft,ssue * »“'• tluu * Smrartsnevr cneif «“ ‘he brain and nerves. Tt.bSp.ty w.tlfihjf h i t renews'weakened medicine cures ^ an 4 CO usti- rh.umat.sn. chrtl««^ r l n P „. rakncsa 5KL 0 ."’^1;f.TtsVicians also commend U M a'Scat^ Wleut and remedy. Cut jewels should never be wiped after washing. Wash carefully with brush and castile soap suds. Rinse, and lay, face down, deep into line sawdust until dry; boxaood dust is best. Most every old man does, 1 reckon. At least j If a new broom be immersed in boiling wa- they lovo to tell about their youthful triumphs, j ter until it is quite coll, and then thoroughly Well, I have seen the day when 1 was us much . dried in the a r, it will bo far more pleasant to at home on ahorse as on the ground, and a tlse ; ■“:(! will last much longer. Frequent good deal happier. My ambition was to ride j moistening of the broom is conducive to its the pony express for Wells & Fargo across the ; usefulness and also to the carpets, plains to California, but I never got there. j Do not place raw meat directly on ice, for Well, our newspaper friend secured pass- ! the juices are apt to be withdrawn. They It takes the first thirty years of a man’s life to tiii i out that it isn’t the mail with the shi niest ha; who draws the biggest check. “I may not be so eloquent as some of them,” said the Senator from Middlefork. “but when 1 make a speech nobody is able to answer it.” “Very likely,” replied the hotorable Sena tor from Hampsex. “Did you ever hear of an echo to nothing? ’ The Senator from Middlefork is still won dering what the honorable Senator on the left was driving at. Little Fanny looked intently at her mothei for some lime. Tbe.i she said: “Mother you ain’t a girl, are you?” “No, Fanny.” “What are you.’ ’ “I am a won an.” “You were a girl once, were’nt you?” “Yes, Fanny.” “Well, where is that gir, now?” ports and badges for our party, aud we had choice scats on the club house veranda, where li ibody is allowed but folks of consequence— like ITince Leopold and three or four Counts, and Jim Keene, and the representatives of the great New York dailies. Jim Keene’s son, Foxball, was oue of the riders—that is he rode his own horses, only oue a r . a time—and he won two races. It actually made me have kinder feelings toward Jim Keene because his son did ride and rode well, and took the peril of it, and bee .use Jim Keene looked on with anxious, paternal pride. Langtry was not there, but Freddy, her Freddy Gebaard was, ! and he had two horses in the ring, but Freddy j didn't ride. He is saving himself very care- j fully, they say, for Langtry, and they are to be married soon. These steeple races are more intensely ex- ! citing than the “fiat” races, as those without hurdles are called. Some of the hurdles are cedar hedges, some are stone walls with turf on top of them, some are plank fences, some are corn stalks, a kind of grasshopper fence. Tin n there are “doubles,” where two fences should never be left in the wrapping-paper, l’ut them iu an uucovered eartheru dish aud then set them on the ice. Keep cut-flowers fresh for several days by filling a vase with clean sand, to which is added a liberal supply of powdered charcoal. Imbed the stems of the bouquet in this, and water occasionally. A CARD. To all who are suffering from the errors and indiscretions of youth, nervous weakness, early decay, loss of munhood, ic.. I will send a recipe that will cure you, FREE OF CHARGE. This great remedy was discovered by a missionary in South America. Sond a self-addressed cnvolope to the Riv. Joseph t. Inman, station D. AVto Tork Cits. Dr. Moffett’s Indian Weed Female Medicine gives bloom to the cheek, elacticity to the mus cles, mental vigor to the brain, and joyous, happy smiles where all was despondent gloom, sadness aud depression. So long as there are flats in the world, sharps will never have much difficulty in makiu* a living. Fulfilment. BY HELEN" LEE CARY. G vd never let a 11 >wer fall to earth Bur what Ills drwstaa quenched Its thirsting once l> >a never 1st a slrearale reach tin-sea But What His ralua had ti led Its channels once. <> nuinau heart! thou, too, shall Lhe alM B ow from some cim, swt et fu urearawlnu near. Aid feel God’s friendship c.oslug round you ouco. An Exception. ; Is it truh,” said au old toper to a physiol- ogist, “that the liumau body is composed of eighty-five per cent water anti fifteen per cent solid matter?’ “Ordinarily that is the case, but there are exceptions ” “Indeed?” “Yes. Your own body forms one of them.” “How so?” “Well, you see, while it is true that the or dinary hu nan body contains liquid and nolid matter in the proportions you have mentioned the iiqnid is not always water. Your case, as I before observed, is one of these. I should say your body is composed of ten per. cent sotida and ninety per c« nt beer and whisky.” “The early bird catches the worm,” said Mrs. Wigwug to her lazy husband. “Yes,” drawled he, “but then, you know, the early worm is caught by the bird! Guess I’ll not be in a burry—don’t know whether I'm to figure as the bird or as tho worm!” Squelching Him* I’olite masher (in railroad train)—“Is this seat engaged?” l’retty girl—“No, but I am.” The dramatic want of tbe day is plays writ ten to make bad actors appear like good ones. Shakspeare is too trying. One of tbe most frequent deadheads at the theaters is Yorick’s skull.
