About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (June 18, 1887)
THE S THE QUEEN’S SCARF, OK THE STORY OF A SCARECROW. BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURR^. Author of "Joseph's Coat,” “Aunt Bachel,” “Bainbow Gold,” Bto. CHAPTER V. e in whose care y -—., « waa well enough pleased to be nd of ,V Tn hour and a half each evening, and the excellent woman’s pleasure grew from neg- “Sve when she discovered that her Charge begun to want no *«PP" 8 ince h^ had formed the habit of running down to Cas tle Barfield High street of an evening. P” c ® wife had teen "used, ever «^ n * h »^ ld £ member, to see money beaten out wry nne^m^ “But, I say," put in the milder and less ad venturous, “it isn’t ours.” “Yes, it is. Uncle said we were wel come to anything we found here. I asked him if I could cut a bit off this old walnut bed stead to carve, and he said I might have any thing I found here. Now, then, look sharp. You carry the picture. It’s all over dirt and 8tuff.’’ The last order was addressed to young John, who took the picture in his arms with a thrill of reverence for it’s possibilities, and nursed it as carefully as if it had been an infant. In the course of two or three minutes the milder- bov was back with his own hat and his cousin’s. herself had learned the art of ve^over the Ur^st ^s^h^e‘stretch'of^hmiRej .. John’s weekly three shillings over nothing that Darkness was falling fast. The boys stole wm not covered by John's necessities. But to out and the elder reco “ noitred . bTrid of him once a meal per diem, and for all « AU clear,” he said. “Come along. meals on Sundays, was a gracious relief to her. Young John, feeling criminal and excited John’s eveniDgs and his Sundays were passed : ran at their heels. They skirted the house, over books in Moise Brandt s back parlor. ran down t he avenue under the shadow of the Mindful.of hisIP"®***^ doutfroL b ‘ g r0Un - d t - he 1 -° d ? 6 -° n ti P tX ’ and suires a wonderful squat old volume w ANTA. GA., SATURDAY MORNING. JUNE 18, 1887 whom to share bis enthusiasm, encountered the old lady's smiling look. “Exgnse me, madame,” he said; “but this if a chewell Ob, it is beaudiful! It is the druf Cordovan. I have zeen nothing like it foi years—years.” He spoke with the enthusiasm of a true am ateur. “You know something of lace, Mr. Brandt?" said her ladyship. She also was an amateur, and when two real amateurs meet, whether they love pic mres, or lace, or old china, it is all one. The common barriers of life are broken down. “Ah, madame.'” said Moise. The exclama tion was eloquent, and went so direct to her face of the youth, who played in the orchestra. Nature, ever partial to those dwellers in that land of love and sunshine Italy, seemed to have pr xlu ;jd her chef d’auvre in this dark, proudly beautiful Italian, for in form and feature, he was like UDto an A poll >. Hair of jetty hue clustered about his finely shaped brow, and a few damp rings fell across his forehead. His eyes were veiled as they rested on the harp- strings, and involuntarily those lines from Tennyson’s Day Dream, flashed into Jeante’s head: “Love if thy tresses be so dark. How dark those hidden eyes must be!” There was something else, too, besides mere beauty in the face of this young Apollo—some- ladyship's amateur soul that, drawing forth a thing hard to define. It was an expression, as PJJ 8 ®* an© produced a small key with a ribbon accurately as can be stated, indicative of the of faded silk attached to it, and opened the " — case that the other amateur might have the sa cred joy of inspecting i»« contents with abso lute familiarity. "Oh!” said Moise, with a sigh. “It is the drue Cordovan!’’ Nothing less than this absolute enthusiasm could have so unbent her ladyship, but she was fairly conquered. “We have always valued it very highly,” 'she said, graciously. “It was given by the unfortunate Queen of Scots to an ancestref* of mine who attended her at Fotheringay.” “Madame,” said Moise, “it is two times a jewel. It is pel feet” pride of birth and breeding. But then how incongruous! Was he not a strolling musician? Did he not belong to a class that are fonnd among the lazzarsni of Italy 1 This expression must be one of nature’s inconsistencies. All unconscious of the proximity of destiny, the Italian youth played on. The music rose and fell; now soft and low with a sweetness al most sad; now jubilant and riDging, filling the heart with a feeling of thankfulness for the grand gift of life. What were the musician’s thought’s? Did the familiar strain of “Les Sirenes” awaken recollections of sunny Italy? Ah, doubtless in imagination, he hears the sil lier ladyship took the exquisite fabric inber very nightingale of h:s native land; inhales the amidst his stores i written in French r;ws , Sd‘r;»u«'s mRot half of the las’, century. In these engravings was set forth the art of pictorial composition as it ought not to exist, but as it existed in those fearfully and wonderfully artificial days; and, as the author of the book was persuaded, it would exist forever. Old Moise used to translate the text and John made copies of the pictures, which, except as light-houses of warn- ing, were of no earthly use to any art student in the world. But out of this pretentious and feeble old volume came two remarkable things for young John. The first of these two things was that the lad took it into his head that be ought to be able himself to read the mstrac- tions attached to the pictures, which at that time he believed to be works of the loftiest ge nius. Moise welcomed this fancy, and set to work, by the aid of a mildewed grammar, to scoured down the broad, high road towards the glimmering lights of the town. When they were clear of the lodge by some two or three hundred yards, the leader sobered down into a walk, and turned upon young John with a repetition of his question of ten minutes be fore “What do you know about picture restor ers?” “Mr. Brandt is one,” said John. “I heard him say so.” “Where did you hear him say so?” “At his house.” “What brought you at his house?” This query was delivered with overwhelming scorn “I go there to get lessons,” returned John, feeling shy for the first time. “What lessons?” John did not answer for a moment. “What lessons? “Drawing,” said John, selecting that because he felt less of a shamefaced pride about it than he did in his French and his anatomy. “I shall ask him if that’s true when we get teach his pupil the rudiments of the French : there,” said the schoolboy, and then fell to tongue which were mastered with surprising talking in whispers with his companion, rapidity. The next thing was that the author! “ti-ro’a \fr RnnHi'. T -* or compiler of this misleading old work on pic torial art had at least begun at the right end and insisted on a knowledge of the anatomy of the human figure as a first sole necessity for the art student. The anatomy, from some congenital twist in young John s mind, took a greater hold upon him even than the art, and he began to copy whole skeletons and single bones, and to draw muscles and to learn their names and actions with remarkable avidity. Moise watched his boy of genius as if he himself had been a hen with one chick, and when young John took to anatomy “The poy shall pe a creat toctor,” said Moise. •‘I will drain him to pe a creat toctor.’’ With this intent he furbished an old micro scope he had among his belongings; ami, hav ing pinched himself woefully to buy slides for it, the good old man introduced John to the wonders of the great invisible kingdom. A thousand influences were beating down upon the boy’s nature, and until now no man could have prophesied in what direction they would drive him or into what shape they would mould him. But to this last influence he became obe dient and ductile at a touch, aud from the hour at which be first beheld the wonders of the mi- croscope Moise had fitted for him, he was the slave of science. He learned French because the few books of science Moise possessed were all written in that language. lie started at Latin because the scientific nomenclature was taken from it. He went on with his drawing because by it he could preserve a record of his impressions. ... ... , . From that happy hour his life was like a fairy tale. Sometimes Moise would interrupt study and betake himself to a sort of prophecy by retro spection, which John found curiously agreeable and flattering. “Ven 1 vas young," Moise would say, 1 game to London for zeveral years. That is vy my agzent is so hure. If you vant to speak a language you must alvays beg'n ven you are younk. But that is not vot I had to zay. Ven I vos younk in London I vos a bigture re- utorer, and there vos a poy in the same em ploy who vos like you like a pea. He vos also poor as you, and be ran errands and vos kick ed from billar to host. That leedle poy learned to traw. He vorked, and vorked and vorked, he vos never tired, he vos often hungry; but he Forked, and vorked, and vorked, and now vere is he, the leedle poy? There is a blace in Lon don, a pig, pig palace, my clever leedle friend Chon. Ii is s alled the Agademy of Art—the Royal Agademy—and vorthy men are bicked out of all the great bainters, and they are gall ed Royal Agademicians. The leetle poy that vos in the same embloy with me is in the t or- thy. Ah. my clever young Chon! Vot do you ■ay? Eh?” John said nothing, but he thought a great deal. He was a sealed book to everybody in the world bnt old Moise, and nobody else so much as dreamed of the dreams which were covered by the dome of the brimless hat. It was autumn time, and a dim, grey, windy evening when John happened to be sent on a message to the .gardener. He was standing _ , - .. alone in one of the garden paths looking at ! think he is glever, and the beguliaruy of a the great house (which was quite a a palace to i glever man is to know he is a vool I have him and answered more or less to all descrip- great hopes,” he continued, pointingtbis small tions of architectural grandeur he encounter!d sermon for John’s advantage, “that one of in his reading) when a head appeared at an! these days you will know enough to be sure open window and an imperious treble voice i that you are an ignoramus. ” Here’s Mr. Brandt's shop,” said John, af ter a while. “It looks the right sort of place, does'nt it, Algy ?" said the mild boy. “Oh, it looks ali right," returned the other, “bnt I dare say he’s a duffer. Here. Go in. John, finding himself thus signalled, en tered first. Moise was seated behind his coun ter. “Aha!” said he, “is that you Chon? Vot haf you got there, my glever leedle poy? Eh?” “It’s a picture,” said the elder of the two schoolboys, following on John’s heels. “I want to know if it’s worth anything,- and if you can clean it?” “I can glean it if it is worth anything, turned Moise. “Let me look at it.” John handed over the picture, the old man turned up the light in the gas-standard on the counter, and drawing forth a folding gas bracket from the side wall, lit that also and set the picture well in light between the two. “Wait a bit,” he said, when he had peered at it for a time, and leaving the shop, returned afte r a moment’s absence with a black glass bottle and a piece of clean linen rag. He moistened the rag with a little of the contents of the bottle, which had to John’s nostrils very much the odor of the old gentleman’s nightly glass of rum, and moistened the whole surface of the picture. “The bigture,” he said then, “is a good bigture. It has been shame- fnlly famished. That is all.” “Do you know who the artist is?” asked the elder of the schoolboys. “It is a Dutch bigture,” returned Moise, ap plying his moistened rag here and there and peering closely into it. “It is Dutch, and it is beautifully bainted. Ven the famish is away I can tell you more, berhaps.” “Can you get the varnish off?” “Whose is the bigture?” asked Moise. “Strictly, it belongs to Sir George Berny,” said the boy. “But he said I could have any thing I found. Yon can clean it, if you please, and I will see that you are paid. I am Sir George Bemy’s nephew.” “Fery well, young gentleman,” said Moise, setting the picture down carefully. “It shall be gleaned.” “Could you begin now?” asked the younger of the two boys. “No," said Moise, “I must have daylight for the vork.” The boys withdrew reluctantly after some further questioning, and young John lingered. “I have been a bigture restorer.” said Moise, “for dweuty years in Gastle Parfield, and this is the only bigture anybody every brought me to restore.” It became apparent, in the course of a few days, that the boys had really made a find. The neglected canvas was from the hand of no less a personage than Franz Hols. “Some chenius or another,” said Moise to young John, “has govered one goat of famish with another. He has used gommon house painter’s famish, and it has gone black. He thought he vos doing a glever thing, no doubt. There are vools everywhere. I should be quite happy if the vools would leave. the good men’s vork alone. The beguliarity of a vool is to voice called out to him: •‘Hi! You boy there. Come up here.” The caller was about two years John’s elder, but his manner was that of one who had grown grey in the exercise of authority. John start ed to obey, but knew not where to enter. “Go round the corner there, at the first door,” said the commanding boy, “and come up stairs.” John obeyed, and found himself in a lumber- room in the presence of two young gentleman, one of whom was in his shirt sleeves and car ried a lanthorn and a big saw The two schoolboys came day by day to en quire after the progress of their recovered pic ture, and made such determined onslaughts on the library at the Hollies in their search for information concerning Franz Hols, that all the household wondered at their suddenly stu dious propensities. But they kept their secret with inward exultation until the disguised pic ture had actually come to light again. Moise mended and re gilt the frame, being inspired with lively hopes of patronage to come, and when at last the work was finished, he and ! the two boys made a triumphant procession to “Felt those ramps acwu, Aiuiur, saiu uic , . . . ; authoritative boy, ‘and help to pull. Here, you , h 0 ^! 6 boy, lay hold of the end here. That knob on the other side will just do. There's nothing | better to carve than walnut. ; John, in pursuit of instructions, laid his j hands on the post of a massive old bedstead which stood i t one corner of the ro mi. “When I shout ‘Heave ho!’ ” said the com manding youngster, “Full all." Sir George, who was a lean old warrior with a great grey moustache and a liver spoiled by long residence in a hot climate, knew no more about pictures than he did about Sanscrit, but her ladyship, his wife, thought herself learned j in art matters, and pronounced the Franz : llols genuine. auums tvuu 6 oK*, [ “There’s no doubt of its chenuineness, inad- He aud his companion set their hands to the i ame,” said Moise. “It is a nople examble, bedstead also, and at the word of command j aud in beaudiful breservation.” they tu<’"ed altogether. The clumsy bedstead. “But you’ve no idea what a thing it was yielded Tn inch. The two young gentlemen tug- 1 when we found it,” slid the elder nephew. “It ged shouting, and John tugged in sileice, and I looked like a piece of a dirty old coach panel, in a minute or so they had bleated a space two I Didn’t it, Arthur?” feet from the wall. ! “You would seem to be a capable restorer of “Now ” said the chieftain, “you brirg that i pictures, Mr. Brandt," said her ladyship, in lanthorn here, boy, and give me the saw. Now i her own statelyand gracious way. “I shall be hold the lanthorn so that I can see. Here! ; pleased if you will look at some other works I What’s this’’’ ! have here which are sadly in need of cleaning.” He drew from behind the bedstead an old | “I shall be jarmed, madame,” returned picture in a frame of ancient fashion. The frame was chipped and broken and the pic ture was black as if with extreme old age. ‘Oh, I say,” said the quieter boy, Perhaps it’s a Rubens.” It was borne to the window and there ex amined by the fading light. . “There are figures in it, said the autbori- tive boy “But it’s all over with dust. Where’s a towel or something? Hete, you boy, wipe Moise. Moise was in bis Sunday clothes and had quite an artistic and venerable appearance. Lady Berry had some memory of the condi tion of the Franz Hols when it had been rele gated—its merits and worth unknown—to the lumber-room, and though the restorer’s task had be:n the simplest conceivable, she had formed a high opinion of him. “Will you stay here for a few moments, Mr. Brandt?” said her ladyship. “I will have some white hands reverently, and displayed its beauties at the full. Then she disposed it once more in its case, and coaxing with lingering touches and kisses of her fine fingers, surveyed it with one last admiring look and locked it up again. [TO BE CONTINUED ] DESTINY. By Miss Kate Ware. There is some star, I know not what, That blends my destiny with thine. Juvenal. The faint rays of the harvest moon fall with soft brilliancy upon the vine-clad cottage of ti picturesque little Southern village. It hae been an unusually warm day, and even the oaks and magnolias seem dro >ping with heat, but as evening approaches the gulf breeze— that favored child of -Eolus—springs up, and the oppressed, sultry air becomes cool and pleasant. It plays in the tree-tops, and waves the long streamers of gray moss hanging from their branches; the creamy, odorous magnolia blooms quiver and nod in the gathering twi light, and the “spirit of fragrtnee breathes sweet on the air.” In the distance great for ests of dark green piDes meet the eye, and the rising moon throws a glittering radiance over the silvery pine-“needles.” A young girl, silting on the steps of a com modious dwelling, watches the great ball of light emerge from behind the wall of trees; and the moonbeams fall upon her upturned face, which is framed in by the creeping jassamine vines, twining arouud the balustrade. It is a fair young face, that betokens great possibili ties, although there is something wanting- something, perhaps, to awaken the girl’s dreaming life and arouse the latent genius. There is a chord in her soul of which she. is ignorant, that has never been sounded. When it is touched by some master hand, the mighty music will reverberate again and again through her entire being, and the echoes will remain in her heart forever. Jeanne Irvine, for that is the young girl’s name, has pansy blue eyes that are bright with the lustre of sixteen years. At times they are the color of summer skies, but now, as they rest upon the distant horizon, the purple grows deeper and darker, and the sombre depths of her eyes proclaim them black. Perhaps dim shadows of the future deepen their sunny brightness, or it may be only the reflection of a passing cloud mirrored ihere. Sweet maiden “Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet” The wind gently ruffles the fluffy blonde hair resting on her forehead, and wafts to Jeanne great volumes of fragrance from the masses of southern blossoms in the garden. Near the steps are some beds of tube rotes, and their waxen petals, seen in the moonlight, look as though chisselled from marble; and their intoxicating perfume pervades the night air; a mocking bird, perched upon the topmost bough of the huge magnolia standing near the gate, swells his tiny throat in an ecstacy of song, and ponrs forth bis heart in a delightful serenade; in the pine thicket can be heard the plaintive cry “whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will” of that peculiar little night-bird calling to his mate, and Jeanne smiles as the night-wind brings to her listening ears the faint, iar off reply, “whip-poor-will.” “My dear,” calls Mrs. Irvine from within, you ought to be dressing for the party. It will soon be time for you to go.” “Yes, mamma, I am coming,” was the re- jly, and her voice reminds one of Dante’s lost ove, Beatrice, whose speech was ever soft and angelically tuned.” Jeanne goes slowly up the broad stair case to her room, and in a few moments her simple toilet of white muslin and blue ribbons was complete!. Pierce Cleeland, a dark haired youth of the village, was to he her escort, and he soon arrived, and the two were presently on their way to the party. "Miss Jeanne,” he remarked, “did you kno v that we hoys bad engaged a baud of Italian harpers from Mobile, to furnish the music this evening? They arrived this after noon on the four o’clock passenger train, and played a few pieces at the hotel soon after they came. I heard them, and the music was really good; so we’ll have something attractive in the orchestra to-night.” As a general thing, a few old darkeys, with their violins and banjos, furnished the mnsic for the village dancers; so, consequently, the presence of an Italian band at this entertain ment would be as agreeable as it was unusual. The party will be a most enjoyable affair,” said Jeanne, “and the music, I know, will be one of the pleasant features of the occasion.” “I’m glad you are pleased.” “How do the musicians look?” she idly asked, glancing up at the starry splendor of the Southern skies above her. They are dark, foreign looking men,” he replied, “and are all of them old and uncouth except one. He is, I must say, quite a hand some youth, and seems to be more intelligent than the others.” At this moment they arrive at their destina tion, and as they ascend the long flight of stairs leading to the hall, the sweet harp music is borne to their ears, and Jeanne, for the first time in her life, listens to the sad passionate strains of “Les Serenes.” To the girl this night will be the turning point of her life; never again will she be still the same as before, but she is unconscious of Destiny’s decree. As they reach the top step, she pauses a moment and looks hack actoss the moonlit beauty of the town, then the hall door opens, and a flood’ of light falls across her face. this ” Tohn wiped the oicture'with a handful i of the pictures brought here at once for your of bis smock frock. “Yes, there are figures in | inspection.” it Here’s a fellow with a can in his hand, i With this she left the room, followed by Sir What if it were to turn out a Jan von Steen.’, | George. The chamber was large and lofty, “Wouldn’t that be jolly?” said the other, j and on one side was a great window which “Lot’s take it to uncle and ask him if we shall opened in two leaves directly upon the circular have it cleaned. I suppose there is no such i i awn . y 0 r many years Moise had not stood in fellow as a picture restorer in Castle Barfield.” i any apartment approaching to this in grand- “Mr. Brandt is a picture restorer,” said j eur> and he was itclined to abase himself John. The young gentleman turned upon him with ^•What do you know about picture restor- “Mr. Brandt is a picture restorer,” returned young John unabashed. “He is a picture re storer from London.” “Oh, I say,” broke in the quieter boy, “that’s the old Jew in the High Street. He sells curiosities and all that kind of thing. He’s get a lot of pictures in his window, some of them ever so jolly old—you don’t know.” “Well, take it to him,” said the authorita tive youth, “and ask him if its worth cleaning. Put your jacket on, Arthur. And, I say, you run round to the hall and get my hat and your own, and if any one asks where we’re going, hold your tongue.” somewh it in spirit before the furniture. By- and-bye he began to inspect the water colors and engravings hanging on the walls, and the circuit of the room, being but half complete, brought him to a big table of ebony and ivory on which was set a small ebony case with a glass lid. He bent over it to observe its con tents, and stood there with clasped hands. “Beaudiful! Beandifnl! Beaudiful" said Moise, half aloud “Howloaflay! Howloaflyl” The object which so excited the old xan’s admiration was one which her ladyship had always preserved like the apple of her eye. Everybody has a weak point somewhere, and Lady Berny’s foible lay in the little ebony case. She bad entered the room in time to hear the exclamation which testified toMoise’s pleasure and she was flattered by it. The old man turning round to find somebody with It is the day following the party, and Jean ne, idly reclining in a hammock, which swings to and fro in the shade of two large oaks, is enjoying the dokefar niente of a Southern sum mer afternoon. What a fair picture she makes! Her face reminds one of those fair ideal angels that Guido loved to paint, and you half expect to see her step back into the mists of dream land. Ah! surely destiny must have a kindly feeling for this fair Earth-child, and perhaps Lachesis, Antropos and Clotho add a few bright threads to the warp and woof of her life. Jeanne’s broad-brimmed straw hat is thrown aside. One hand rests against her cheek, and she sees again the beauty of that dark Italian the other gently wields a palm leaf fan. Tar- face—feels again the splendor of those slum- co, a pet peacock, is perched upon a limb brouseyes gazing into her soul. At last, at overhanging the hammock, and there is a last, she has seen again the face which has bright, almost human expression in the bead- been the guiding star of her life. The girl perfume from myrtle groves; and sees above him the cloudless azure of Italian skies. Per haps these remembrances have caused the half sad, half tender smile that plays round the prond lips. Who knows? The Gulf breeze steals in through the open windows, fanning the heated brow of the dan cers; the sound of the music, the laughter, the merry voices, invades the stillness of the sum mer night; in the old magnolia by the gate, Jeanne’s little serenader, the mocking bird, twitters sleepily to himself; the whip-poor will has fou d his mate; and—at last those splen did dark orbs are unveiled, and the handsome musician is looking straight into the pansy blue eyes so near him. The girls heart flut tered strangely; those slumbrous eyes seemed looking into the very depths of her soul, and she felt as thouth a new element had come into her life. What caused her hands to trem ble so? What thrilled her entire being with happiness so vague and exquisite till it resem bled pain? Ah, Jeanne, it was Destiny! As the sweet harp music sighs around her, brilliant soft shining star rises suddenly upon the horizon of her existence. It is that star commonly called Ambition, but which is, in reality, only a longing for something higher, purer, better. Here is a more explicit description of the ef fect prod act d upon Jeanne Irvine’s life by that dark, handsome face. There are, in this world, two dis'inct forms of love. One fills, absolutely fills, the heart and mind with thoughts of the loved one; and it also affects every action, almost every wor J, The glorious hopes, the possibilities, the aspi rations of existence are fettered and sink into oblivion before this all-absorbing affection. In fact, it becomes a luminary around which life itself revolves. Now this Jove is decidedly “of the earth, earthy,” for often it generates sel fishness, and is therefore not elevatiog, not en nobling. It chains mankind down to a certain level, above which tiere is no rising, but is “ac lording to the fates and destinies,” aud is the commonest form of la grande passibn. ~ This other form is more difficult to describe because it is rarer. It inspires within the hu man heart, a wish to become better, nobler, to keep one’s self pure in heart, and “unspotted from the world.” If there be genius, it arous es ambition, and the heart is filled with a de sire to become great, famous, renowned. Some sleeping element, in the inmost recesses of the heart, is awakened and life, with all its glow ing realities, its brilliant possibilities, rise sud denly before the gaze of the enraptured one, It exalts the object of affection to a high standard of excellence, and the soul, in con tinually striving to become, in every respect more worthy to feel this love, is in the end, it self exalted, and male to occupy those same ideal heights it had assigned to an ideal zed being. There are but few in the world who possess the capability to feel this love, and perhaps it is better so, for the “Lost Chord” which some hearts lack, is this love, which they could have felt, had not Destiny ordained otherwise A singular combination, you will say? Per haps, but nevertheless true. 1 When Jeanne Irvine looked into that band- some Italian face, all unknown to herself, this latter love awoke in her heart; she had seen ( the one face, in the world that was. destined to Inspire her to her life's Work; to show to her the ultima thule of her capabilities; to stir the great deep of her soul; to “make her life sub lime." i The great palace of the Princess Fondola is brilliantly illuminated, for she gives a bail to night, of more than usual splendor, in honor of a famous artist who is spending the winter in Florence—dear Florence, the fairest city of bright, sunny Italy. Lords, ladies and prin ces of high degree throng the grand saloons, bat theie is one in their midst who was not born to the purple, but who wears the royal stamp of genius on her brow—an American girl with yellow blonde hair, and pansy-sweet eyes. It is Jeanne Irvine—our little Jeanne of five years ago—now a great artist, whose name rings through all the art ciicles of Eu rope. She is feted, honored and admired wherever she goes, for fame, ah! how sweet to her. She has won, aid therefore the world delights to do her homage; but still, as in the time of patient striving, a dark, handsome face, which years ago, all unknown to herself, stirred the secret depths of her heart, is re membered; still this face remains the inspira tion of her life. Titled suitors, handsome and courtly, seek her hand, but in vain. A divine love, known to her as Ambition, fills her heart, and ali men are to her like shadows.” To-night Jeanne Irvine feels an unwonted excitement, au unacconntable exhilaration, which is manifested by a starry glitter in her eyes, and a brilliant flush on her usually pure, cold face. Somehow, the spell of that ideal ized past is upon her. That summer night in the long ago, the moonlight, the sweet harp music, even the caressing touch of the per fumed Gulf breeze, all come back to her, and “memory bells chime soft and low.” Never lad she been so fascinating, so lovely, and the admiring throng press closer around her, pay ing tribute to her youth, her beauty, her world-famed genius. Presently there breaks through the circle one who approaches her aide, bowing low as he says: “I come as an emissary, an ambassador. Miss Irvine. Prince Bernardo da Vecelli is lere, and begs the great honor of knowing jou. Would an introduction be agreeable to jou. I await your decision." “I will be pleased to meet the Prince,” she graciously replied. The power, wealth and pomp of the da Ve celli family, their princely estates, their patri cian nobility are known throughout Europe; vnd Prince Bernardo is the pride of this illus- :rious house, the flower of all who bear this mighey name. Although Jeanne Irvine’s world and that of this young nobleman is the same, although tb<?ir paths have often crossed in the circles of European society, yet they have never met; they have never seen each other. The ambassador and the Prince draw near, and the crowd gives way for their approach. A few conventional words of introduction, and the fair young artist bowel, and then glanced up to behold again—“the handsomest face that e’er the sun shone on.” The same, the samel Ah, heaven, what a thrill of divin es, happiness sweeps over the girl’s soul as like eyes that look down at Jeanne so intently. The twelve brilliant tints of his costume glitter in the sun’s rays, and in the blue, green and gold of his train, flash apd scintillate the hun dred eyes of the murdered Argus. Occasion ally be gives vent to the strange, discordant cry peculiarto his kind, which, though harsh and unmusical, has an under!} ing note of sad ness that somehow appeals to the heart of the hearer. But Jeanne is at present unmindful of her pet. The pansy blue eyes rest npon the whisper ing canopy of leaves above her bead and in their depths is a new, strangely bright expres sion. It was not there last evening, when in the twilight, she watched the moon rise above the distant pines; and listened to the whip- poor-wills calling to each othe r. The purpose less, aimless look is gone, and that which was wanting to make np the “perfect whole” has been supplied. What is the cause of this change? Has the unknown chord been sound ed? From whence came the new Psyche in those pansy sweet eyes? Last evening at the party, Jeanne was claimed for the first dance by Pierce Cleve land, and their feet weie soon keeping time to the sweet waltz measure. Down the room they whirled and as they passed the musician's stand, JeaDne’s heart gave a strange throb, and she looked up to behold the handsomest face “that e’er the sun shore on.” It was the i thinks not of the strange incongruity—that the Italian harper, the strolling mnsician, wander- iog in a foreign land, and this proud noble man, should be the same. Ah, no, she is con- teat to feel that he is near her—that again she is In the presence of destiny. “I am honored to be in the presence of one ho great, so famed;” he said, bowing low be ta® her. , »I thank you, Prince da Vecelli,” she re plied, with a vain effort to stay the trembling of her hands. Je, too, seemed strangely affected, and there was a slight tremor in his soft and liquid voie. As he stood before the great artist— sh* who had received even royal favor as a triJute to her talents—did he, did that titled assembly dream that it was the light of his eye that had penetrated the secret recesses of lor heart, and awakened the Genius sleep inf there—that it was he who had touched the unknown chord in her soul? Ah, if he ha4 but known! if he had but known! j t this moment the violins in the orchestra ch ) a soft sweet prelude and then glide into a tfeamy waltz measure. -•Miss Irvine, can I have the pleasure of this daice?" he asked, bending his princely, patri- ciau head towards her. «Yes,” she replied, and their feet were soon keeping time with the music, as they whirled doxn the great ball-room. As his arm iightly pressed her waist, a burning blush swept over her face, an! when his land clasped bers, an exquisite thrill quivered in her heart The music throbs around them in an enveloping cloud of harmony, and together they pass into an enchanted land, far removed from the world—a land with all the fair beauty of Para dise—a land where Earth-born mortals bow to their sovereign Love. Presently the air the musicians were playing changed, and Jeanne Irvine, for the second time in her life, listens to the strains of “Les Sirenes.” As the thrilling, passionate notes sigh in low soft cadences around her, the girl wonders vaguely if he remembered, if he had forgotten that summer night in the Southern pine-lands, long and long and long ago. The glass halls and marble courts of the flowers were open; so, the waltz over. Prince da Vecelli led his companion towards the con servatories. Here, Chinese blossoms—strange flowers that change color thrice a day—nodded towards great banks of scarlet begonias, while rare exotics exhaled a delicately sweet fra grance, and orchids of every clime and color glowed in the mellow light from the crystal chandeliers. Ah, through what a fairy land of beauty they wandered! “When there is so much loveliness, so much purity and goodness in the world,” be said, as they paused near a marble Aotinous, which reigned over a world of gardenias, and gazing, not at the flowers, but at the fair face by his side, “how can the cynics aver, Miss Irvine, that life is a hollow mockery—is, in fact, as false, cruel and delusive as that— ‘ fair enchantress. Who 'ured onward with her smile To their deaths the fated sailors. With her sweet but fatal guile?’ ” “Let me give yon an illustration of a cynic’s disposition, Prince da Vecelli,” she said. “Have you never seen a flower that from some freak of nature, grew with its bead downward, so that the rays of the sun did not touch it, while others of its kind looked ever upwards towards the warm, glittering beams? So it is with the cynics. Let ns not be unjust toward them. They are so cons ituted that they can not see the bright side of life, and like the flower, live only amid the shadows.” “Granting what you say to be true, Miss Ir vine, what benefit can a cynic ever be to man kind? It is said that nothing was ever created without an aim for some good to be accom plished, but in this case I fail to see the anal ogy.” “Ah, Prince da Vecelli, they unconsciously teach us the lesson of gratitude ti God. We turn from a contemplation of their dreary lot with a feeling of thankfulness to our own hap pier fate, and are grateful for the gift of life, for the loving kindness of our fellow creatures— grateful that we, too, have the joys and sor rows common to mankind.” “Well, Miss Irvine, you have convinced me that there is a special niche in the world for the cynics, and that they, after all, perform a good mission for we mortals here below.” They passed on, talking the while, to where the musical waters of a fountain fell splashing into a marble basin, wherein tiny gold fish darted and swam. He spoke to her of her be loved art, of her success, and finally the con versation turned upon literature. “Which of the poets has succeeded most in depicting the depths of sime divine despair?’ he asked. “To whom belongs the palm, Miss Irvine?” “To Milton, I think,” she replied. “The very acme of hopelesss misery, of utter despair are portrayed in that passage from his Paradise Lost where the proud Lucifer, so lately fallen from his high estate, seeks to address the hosts assembled around him. ‘Thrice he etsayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn, tears—such as angels weep—burst forth.’ ” “You but echo my opinion," he exclaimed with pleased animation. “Our ideas are alike. We must be what the world calls congenial spirits.” His proud lips, firm, yet tender, were wreathed in a smile of surpassing sweetness as he gazed down at her; and Jeanne, looking up into his slumbrous, dark orbs, sees an express ion in their depths which causes the white lids to droop over her own pansy-blue eyes and a brilliant blush to tinge her cheek. “I have seen your face before,” he said, as they paused in their promenade and seated themselves in a little alcove near where the armless Cupid of the Vatican smiled at them from amid the roses of a hundred leaves. “I was one of a band of Italian harpers who played for a dance in a little Southern village in your native land five years ago. It was there that I saw your flower like face. Do you remember me?” “Yes,” she murmured; and then, as she real ized the difference between that wandering mu sician and the Italian prince, continued: “But how was it that you, a nobleman, could ” “It was during our exile,” he interrupted. “Through the evil machinations of political en emies, our family were for two years banished from our own dear land, Italy; and I, in my youthful, impetuous resentment, would not even remain on the continent where we had been so unjustly treated. So I crossed the seas and dwelt in a foreign land. There it was that I, with my talent for music, led the life of a strolling Italian harper, for music was then my only comfort, my only joy.” “How strange to think that yon, with yonr illustrious title, your vast wealth, should be that wandering musician. It is like some tale from the Arabian Nights.” “It is rather an unusual story. Although I did not even know your name,” be continued, 'I went again and again to the village; but I never saw you any more." “I was gone. I went soon after that night to study art in Rome, and remained there three years.” “Ah, if I had but known !” he exclaimed, "but I dii not. So when our family were re stored I sailed over the summer seas to my na tive land, with the memory of a face fairer than the fairest enshrined in my heart, and my soul was sad and weary, for I could net forget you and infancy. I often lived again the few brief hours of that summer night in the pine lands. Ah, I did not know, when I heard on every hand of the young American artist, that you and the bright star irradiating with such brilliancy the art circles of the land, were the same. Ah, no.” The divinely sweet fragrance from the flow ers float around them, and far off through the glittering flower land the happy strains of the music are throbbing in joyous measures on the perfumed air. “Oh! love, why longer stay the words that are trembling on my lips?” he cried. “Soul of my soul, I love you. That night in the long ago, when yonr flower l'ke face dawned upon my existence, your pansy-sweet eyes lured away my heai t, and since then I hive wandered weary through the world for your sake—dear love, for your sake. Can I ever hope to call you mine own? First and only love, do not tell me nay, for without you I cannot live.” Jeanne listened, entranced, to his impas sioned pleading, and then, as he paused for her answer, gave him one shy glance from her true, sweet eyes; and in that glance the “old, old story” was told again. Prince Bernardo kissed her soft lips with rapturous delight; and then, as the last faint notes of the music quiv ered forth, drew her bonny fair head to a rest ing place on his shoulder. On! life, oh! love, how beautiful! woul< ! tur ? l 5 eir backs and rebuke the slanderers. Ingalis has been to Texas, and gone home disgusted with the prospect of ed ucating the negro co vote—that is, to vete for the republican party. They don’t take enough interest in politics to please him. Sherman r came down to organize his party and break the solid South, but they failed in their mission. ’ Sherman was sweet on us when here, but has gone home belligerent, and is breathing out threateuings and slaughter. But they can’t beat Mr. Cleveland. Ho stands like a rock on his first declarations, and the people are for him and for Mrs. Cleveland too, and all their children. We like the Btock. We have got Cleveland's and Folsom’s down here, and they are high-toned, and sure grit wherever you find them. The Cleveland’s all descended from Oliver Cromwell, it is said, and Grover has got the firmness of Jefferson Davis, and I hope will die with a good record- the(oi/ntf^y ^PHILOSOPHER [Copyrighted by author. AU rights reserved.] Note.—By special arrangement with the author of these articles aud the Atlanta Constitution, for which p-per they are written under a special contract, we publish them in the Sunny South under the copj- right. No other papers are allowed to publish them. Goi.d Cake.—One-half cup of butter, one and one half cupt of sugar, two and one half cups of flour, cne-balf cup of milk, one-half teaspoonful of soda, ond teaspoonful of cream of tartar, or two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, yolks of six egge, and one teaspoonful of vanilla. If you experience a bad taste in the mouth, sallowness or yellow color of skin, feel stupid and drowsy, appetite unsteady, frequent dizzi ness, you are “bilious,” and nothing will arouse your liver to action and strengthen up your system like Dr. Pierce's “Golden Medical Dis covery.” By druggists. Mother at Tea-table—Jack, who helped you to those tarts? Jack (aged seven)—The Lord. Mother—The Lord? Why, what do you mean, Jack? Jack—Well, I helped myself; and father said yesterday the Lord helped those who helped themselves. The Beecter Memorial Committee have de termined to place the statue of the great preacher in the Brooklyn City Hall square. The sum needed for it is §J5,000, of which nearly two-thirds has been secured. Dr. Mcffctt’s Indian Weed Female Medicine gives bloom to the cheek, elacticity to tne mus cles, mental vigor to the brain, an! joyous, happy smiles where all was despondent gloom, sadness and depression. A woman woke her husband during the storm he other night and said, “I do wish you would top snoring, for I want to hear it thunder.” Bnled Icing.—Whites of four aggs, one pint of sugar malted in water and boiled to a clear thick syrup, add to it the eggs and beat uuti cold.—Eransville, Ind. Van’ Well, I suppose that we have got to go through it all again. Another national cam paign is impending and the red shirt is to be the banner. Already Sherman has raised it on a pole and we see it. We thought for awhile that the tariff would be the issue, but no—they can’t unite the party on that. Fighting the South is the last resort. It is funny and it is sad. Every four years the South gets awful ugly and don’t know it. We think we are behaving very decently. IV e don’t think that any judge in Christendom would bind us over to keep the peace. When any of our big men make a big speech on a big occasion, and says anything about the North be speaks as gently as a sucking dove. Our folks keep on inviting them to come down aud see us, and bring their knitting. Was there ever such a kind hearted, long-suffering people as our people. The ene my smited us on one cheek and we turned the other. They took away our coat and we hun' - ed up the old cloak and gave it to them. We are helping to support their invalid soldiers and their widows and orphans and to keep up their cemeteries, but still they are not happy. They don’t like us and they don’t want to. They didn’t want to give us ground at Gettys burg to build a monument to our dead. Gov. Curtin is an old man and lives in the state of brotherly love, and be made a venomous speech the other day and said it was possible to for give the rebels who fought through ignorance, bnt the leaders were arch traitors and had no claims upon the charity or the clemency of the nation. I would hate to take his chances when he knocks at Sr. Peter’s gate. There is a cur tain between him and heaven sure. If such men are saved, it does look like there will have to be a purgatory and a long probation in it. There is the Rev. John libey Thompson, who made a decoration speech the other day that a Northern paper, the Kansas City Times, says was grotesque, extravagant and blasphemous, and its central idea was eternal hate. This he never forgot nor cast aside for a moment. He said the South alone was responsible for the s n and the curse of slavery. The South made slavery and then made war, and God had to raise up Grant and Sherman and Sheridan to put down the infamous rebel ion. Well, now, it won’t do for the good concervative men of the North to apologize and say: “Oh, this fellow Thompson is but one man. He does not reflect the sentiments of our people.” He does reflect them, or they would not choose him for the big gun of the occasion. They knew his sentiments before they selected him, and they admire him for his boldness in dar ing to utter the sentiments they try to conceal on account of policy or business. Our folks are trading with thousands at the North who are juet as mean and devilish, but smother it so as to get our custom. They will go up and congratulate Thompson as soon as he comes off the platform. Now we pat up our demand on the minutes. That sort of talk has got to stop, and stop ail of a sudden, or we of the South will go to talking and hating too. We have been holding out the olive branch about long enough. Thompson says that Grant, Sherman and Sheridan, were raised up by the Almighty to save tbe nation, and they saved it, and that Grant has now an office that suits his full- grown energies among the stars of heaven.” The Times touchingly says: “An office— given an office! If it were not that this fellow Thompson is a paroxymal fool tbe irony of that expression would be horrible. Grant’s highest reward in glory is to hoid another of fice. After having had everything in that line while in the flesh that was great enough to tempt mortal ambition, he is gone into tbe of fice grabbing business again over beyond the wonderful river.” Thompson leaves out General Thomas in his idolatries became he was a Virginian and a slave owner, and the Times says, “Did he not know that the curse of slavery was a divided curse ana that equally with the South, the North should have been made to share in tbe torments of its uprooting? The North owned slaves, traded and trafficed in them, was up to ter eyes in the slave trade, but when slave la- ber no longer paid she sold all she had bodily to the South and then went into the emancipa tion business, then folded her hands meekly across her belly and sanctimonously cried aloud: Pin Wing, the fireman’s son, Was the very worst boy in ail Canton. He ate his mother’s pickled mice, He threw the cat in boiling rice, He ate her up, and then said he, “Me wonder where that mew cat be.” Isn’t that splendid, and all the more splen did because it is the truth. It is history. We thank the Times for saying it. What a con trast to the utterances of tlm average northern republican politi’.ian. The Times thinks that Grant, if living, would be disgusted with such talk, and that even Sherman, once an impecun ious school teacher in Louisiana, shaking with the swamp ague aud dus'ng with quinine, but afterwards great, famous, sung of in song, told of in story, general over all, rich, happy, aud loved by tbe sweet girl graduates, wouldn’t tbauk hnn for sucb utterances. And of Sheridan siys: “Would he, a stunt ed captain of iufautry, playing seven up with a greasy deck of cards on the frontier, half way in notion of putting on a breech clout and turning Indian, dwarfed by barrack life, sick of alkaii water, no future by a jimerow fort and nothing but sagebrush forever in sight— afterwards Grant’s right bower, one of the north’s idols, the Winchester man, the mao that swept the Shenandoah valley and was in at the death at Appomattox, and to-day isOgen- eral over ail the army, rich, happy and content with bis scars and his laurels—would he thank the Rev. John Rhey Thompson? Ought not these three generals bless luck, fate,chance, or the slavery cursed South for the opportunity to wm all this glory, grasp all those sugar plums, hear all this praise and have all these monuments? ’’ This commentary of the Times upon Thomp son and all of his sort, is rich, racy and pecu liar. It says that most all these decoration orators were sunshine fellows during the war, with as many gew-gaws and trappings as there are ribbons to a prize ox. and when pinned down to name his company always evaded an answer by assigning to the secret service de partment tbe giorv of his valor. But the mod est soldier, one who fought according to the faith that was in him and never boasted; who was patient in defeat and merciful in victory, is the man who deserves the praise, and should be chosen to do the decoration honors. We will all stand on that hand. Blaine may bluster and Sherman may howl, but if we can find ten men in a town at the north who will talk that way, we will pray the Lord to save it from fire aud brimstone. We don’t care a cent whether a man is republican or not, the ques tion is one of eternal hate. Sherman ana In galls and Blaine might just as well make hate the issue, for it is the issue. Ttey may cover it up as they please and write what they please on their campaign banners, but in its last an alysis it is hate. Then these notable men get on the stump and abuse the South the people say amen and hallelujah. If they didn’t hate A Printer’s Poem. THE BELLE OF UTICA. An 8 A now I m<“sn 2 write 2 y< u. sweet K T 4, Tne virl wilbutT a jj. The belle of U T K. 11 ter If vou N terrain The cilm 11> A blight, Th»i sT miles irom vou i must M this chance 2 write. & 1st. •hould N E N V U, B E Z. mind It net: If Ny triendshlp sh'<w, B sure The; shall not B 4iot. From virtue nev“ r D V8, Her ii fluence B9 A'>ke induces lOuerness Or 40:ude divine. & If U cannot cut a — Or excite an !, I hone you'll put a . 2 17. R U for anXatlon 2 Mi cousin, h-mt & jyr H« i Hers in a A J broad of .and. H» «ays he loves U fo X S, U e »lrtnous h-o Y’e; In X L N C, U X L All others in his i’s. Tnis 8 A. urn 1 ’ I U C, I pray U to X Q’a, Aud do not b on in F I G. My quaint and waywaid muse. Now. fare U van dear K T J, I tiuit th •' U R trr»; Wher tMs U C. men U can say An S A 1 O U. The following is an old story, but well de serves repetition. In a pleasant company each one asked a question. If it was answered the questioner paid a forfeit, or, if be could not. answer it himself he paid a forfeit. An Irish man asked: “How does the little ground-squirrel dig his hole without throwing any dirt about the en trance?” When they all bad given it up, Pat said: “Sure, do you see, he begks at the other end of the hole.” One of tbe rest exclaimed: “But how does he get there?” “Ab,” says Pat, “that’s your question. Can you answer it yoursell?” The Ingredients. [Chicago Rambler.] A leant, square foot of flannel blue, Some ribbons white, A tassel and a bow or two, OI colors bright. Some apertures where arms go through Which ribbons deck; A vacant space In which to view A snowy neck. A tap'T waist that Is laeed In T ght as can be; A pair of rronseis that begin Above the knee. A Jaunty cap of colors, brleht As dre> ms oft dream pr. And s cklngs tb t an aucuorlte Would surely tempt. A smile so sweet that for l>s sake Yourself would sbool; These articles all go to make A bathing suit. A colored man taking oat a marriage license was asked the usual questions: “How old is the woman you wish to marry ?” “Well, boss, I s’pose she’s ’boat 15.” “Then she is under age and you will have tev get the consent of her parents.” “O, boss, you know de gals alwa} s tries to make darselves young, but I kin swar she’s 20.” “Do you swear to that!” Up went the hand. “How old are you?” “Well, Use thirty-five, but I kin be oider If necessary.” The First Dolly Varden. Upon the appearance of the first Dolly Var den, worn by Nancy Hall, an old washer-wo man of colored extraction in the village of Mag nolia, Miss , Mr. R. J. R. Bee, who then lived there (since deceased), wrote the following— clipped from the Magnolia Gazette: Old Nancy’s dress; ohl ye gods, ’Us a wonderful thing: Each breixith Is a wonderful rtory— There are l zaids and snakes, there are birds on tbe> WlDfif, With huntsmen and dogs In their glory. There are Jolly hay makers wllha donny brook row. And (I moopsrly beg Nancy’s pardon I) Bm mere is a bull that Is chasing - cow Down the side of her gay Dolly Varden! Za tbeiy made Iod, and old Nancy got mad— And (to her companion) tneae words I heard: “L ze, don’t lake any skeer of that teller. Lot him take blmself off-1’.| i ut a head On him with my new un brreiltr.” Van Sportt goes by on the Avenue with his new Siberian bloodhound. jgj. Miss A.: “SDlendid brutes, arn’t they?” . 1 Miss B : “Which?” Miss A.: “Both.” Homer’s Case, rrtxas Siftings.] Old Homer’s case was very sad. Aid commentators all agree That blindness wa» tbe ill-'e-’ad And this Is very Odd—I—see ’ Landlord (to stranger). “The properly is worth thirty live thousand dollars. I wouldn’t take a cent less. ” Stranger: “1 don’t want to buy. I am only the tax assessor.” Landlord: “Oh, I beg your pardon. I should consider myself a very fortunate man if I could get seventeen thousand dollars for that prop erty. I am going ro a ball, Baby mine, baby mine I Don’t you dire to pot np the equall, Babj mine, baby mine 1 D id will stay at home with yon He will spank yon if yon do— Sjshk you till yi u’re black and bine, Baby mine, baby mine. For Why do ducks go below the water? divers reasons. Why do they come up? For sun-dry reasons. Why do they go down again? To liquidate their little bills. Why do they bob up serenely? To make a run upon the ban! s. “A demise, love, makes teeth of booe For those woom late has left without; Ami nars provision for bis own By pulling other neop e’s out.” A little girl in the primary school was asked to tell the difference bitween the words “foot” and “feet.” She said: “One feet is a foot* aid a whole lot of foo.s is a feet.” The woman with a disagreeable bang is she who haiLiners on a piano is the house next door. Patti has returned to Europe, and the United States Treasury at Washington still lives.
