Newspaper Page Text
THE WEEKLY TELEGRAPH
K*TABLI*IIF» 1820. l
llfcf Telecrapl* PrintingCo.Publisher*. f
MACON. GA.. WEDNESDAY MORNING. FEBRUARY 25, 1891.
I TTMklr.d.oo
I Sln.1. Copy, jri
Copy, J/lve Ceuta, f
th. lereirtr IwlHfht f.lUi
"t, lit tin «f»K' 10 * *■«** '* hld '
the hj'a call’.
nT.oTtaltl twit the katyiim.
hiaar-uddaretl ktn.
« «» <"T.
JKu patbi in < rookaJ line.
— Irlal'a I'd 'tnt.
Maple and P‘>t,
iri tailed num-o—M
Ijnwa the aolca that ealle aal tehy:
TJ'bn! Co' tJOMlel CO' boel"
Mtnoryteke.ua hack to home.,
r.mliu hot to memory now.
.vl.lt tba
*!?>»>. hur the lotting now
.Jt«the herd wind <*»»“ tbolaue,
i Ln.ltelnlh«»«»‘ | ““""“ 11
tki brlt-ta It to be milked again.
Irtadleaud Spot,
Dimple and Dot,
l„A reatntone. roarnlnj. irlaky FI
nahine the wheat eart o'er the tea..
•Co' ha! Co' hoalie! Co' toe!"
“CO’ BOSS 11'].”
From the Cosmopolitan.
Perhaps we knew the mllknsM then.
One sweet u God mftti farmers* (iris
With gentle, helpful ways, and ken
Of only thoughts as pure aa pearls.
Her gift and amlle made water wine;
Her handiwork changed milk to gold
And ne'er was music more divine,
firlndleand Spot,
Dimple end Dot,
Aiid Umu-'ejwZ, fire, fauiuiar Ftoea,
Thau waa her cry to you. of old:
"Co' boil Co* boule! Co* boil"
Lored rnral aceuea of farm and fields
Which retrospective thought recalls,
The different preaent to yon yle’.ds
The twilight of memorial balla;
TUI hall in dream, and half iu truth,
Tha almplor life the country Uvea
Restores at timet our Taulshed youth:
Rrlndie and Spot,
Dimple and Det.
Come borne at milking time with Flo*
nd some lost vote* thp old cell given
•Co* b;sl Co* bossle! Co* bos!"
Love the Conqueror.
Jttii surly dark when the bells were
rib* for evensong in VYdlminater, for
hid been doll snd the time of year
yfccsmber, snd though it wti scarcely
I'deck in ths afternoon, darkness had
aendfd «d 1»7 brooding over tbo Ca-
idnl city.
{at,mn so, there was light enough to
i hot beautiful was the old structure.
▲Ian Adair in Maealliari'* lUgasiaa.
thing to live on, I would give up the pre
tense of singing; but as it is. I may be
thankful I am still a vicar-choral.”
Crispi did not answer; perhaps he did
not agree with hia friend. "But there is
•luff in the choir; you told me of two
boys?” he asked anxiously. Deland smiled.
"1 hat’s all right, Crispi/he said. "You
have not come for nothing.”
M---- ■— ■ It was quite dsrk when they reached the
W Dustiness of the atmosphere added but Close. Crispi looked around him curi-
wder charm to it, softening lU hard out- ously. "It’s a strange old place, this,” he
w so that the gray stones seemed to said. "Good to stay one night in, I should
rl with ths gray surroundings and , say; snd yet I don’t dislike iL It hts an
harmonious whole. There had atmosphere of its own—a place to shut up
close in one’s memory, to dwell upon when
or.e wants to think of something quiet,
something peaceful; a place to moulder
down to one’s grave In.’ 1 A boy passed by
whistling a chant. The cathedral bell
tolled out the time as if corroborating
Crispi’* words. Then the two men naerd
along silently; Deland, racking in his
brains to find something which i
mnoth shaking of heads at the incon-
nity of styles which marred the perfect-
aif the ouilding, a little Norman here,
Gothic there, early Gothic, late
iic-then a touch of Tudor; but all
were agreed on one point, that the
.. . vai beautiful.
Aid if lbs cathedral was beautiful In
If, its surroundings were no less so. It
ia ths midst of green fields, girt in by
that rose and fell softly. There was
hard, nothing abrupt in the land-
r „ Fern from the hills on a sunshiny
>, the cathedral lay like a Jewel spark-
pa its setting, a thing of beauty, with
tdcv« encircling it, and patches of green
* rising above it. The place waa most
mly is the srrisg; bat so bwlmy »•• th*
dlniniter sir that even in December the
dft were not entirely leafless and gave
fkssaat sense of verdure for the eyes to
it os.
^the cathedral brooded a myste-
| «. Service was held in the choir,
lick vae sombre with black oak and lit
muy candles. On this dark December
; the white-robed choir sieging full-
meted added tbslr quota to the almoet
sscs: ktsaty c! the place.
Ilwsss place to dream in, without
nht, bat Wellminster was given to
waiag. Perhaps in the whole city th»re
■ hut one visionary, on** mthmiuM:
stewe was Rath Inland, a daughter of
tefths vicsra-choraL
Wkitksr her dreams had carried her it
* ssay to see, for at the first note of the
ahe sprang to her feet and a look
tiwost divine rapture came into her
uafsce. It was not a beautiful fact; it
w too thin for one thing, and the dsrk
*7*7*1 brimful with longing, seemed as
t*7 had burned themselves into her
ad; but still it possessed mors beauty
unany n one with comelier features,
tosh crept into it as the music rose aud
; her throat airained and throbbed as if
would fain have sung too; but she
•wd her two lipe closely together, mut-
with tightly clasped hands, "Keep
from idolatry, O Lord.” And as the
aittea died sway a little sigh escaped
slsvost involuntarily; she threw her-
[•■ her knees and prayed passionately,
l og nothing round hsr, losing con-
*" i# * of her identity in ths fervor of
■tplesdlngs. And when the organ pealed
t ike snd of ths service she rose, w ith the
, .*?» r !J w on# w k° *>Ad •*•» deep
*thmts holy. Bhe stumbled out of the
•*.»Ull, slender, young thing still
JP* in her dreaming, until the friendly
[ of the verger brought her to herself,
tnrnag for yonr father.miss?” he uked.
‘he answered almost absently *,
f** ’ , in the gathering
*£?**£*[1 uick k*d discerned her
Delsnd, deprived of his surplice,
u ? £f, **?n-looking man enough, red-
snd with grixxlsd hair; a man who
^wiaot discontented nor happy, but
f7»psthstic. rrit
'““!*> to ,h# ,utlon n°". Ruth,’
»" effort to seem bustling, "to
S?#. * h »" toW **»«“ (with a
«ion of his hand toward the dispersing
ir-hoy,) of (Jrispi’s coming, and they
“•d with excitement; but you had
Sf w»«I see that all is
to receiv, him.”
’ ‘ n >wertd softly, and
as u?* . , on * *° B0 PP°*» that she could
W’to anything; but her
* had M h#f falher » B , h>
*.2 V***d nloeg pensively until she
h,.STY h * ?" aint °“ where all the
» 1 hh « h>oked at it
‘"k 1 .*; familiarity with it had not dim
ili
*•*«, ihe dreaming town with l
(L.i| •'Ad* dseaw harmonized well
“id-fashioned garb she wore
a,mo * 1 •P ir “ UJll » «p«»*
R*nwhile Deland had reached the eta-
iL n *iway # seemed an anachron-
-^■l ra ! LI appeared op-
»«h lh. MU. id«L fhVj ilwan
kioe n. I° t0 alowly, as if they
,««»pttlsion, protesting; snd
,h '7 the .ngine g»»« an
,no 't. *l»a to I.it. tlx ancient
,'“,*** “ Ml c! haraos- -ith
“*“' 1 '•uatlin* lib. Troth tS aar,
1.JIz *“ “ ,lcl ' traffic. Tha MopU
* IU* i h *f h * d ®° l “«’■* 10
iu* U»7 did Dot brie, much
'‘'“tb.'n. But l-iia waa net th.
1 to night-seeni, and tha
* ho “Ad* of the train lor
LL.£?? ■“Afkat *lld not lend much
to the traffic On thUoccasion,
» .. ’ . er * w ts a very different pssien-
threshold of life, making their beautiful
gift a source of danger to them. Let them
use it, as now, in the service of God. They
are not, as 1 am, easily touched by the
mere love of the music, against which I
pray as against idolatry: but do not bid
them don a dress which is not theirs, and
strut shout a stage professing to be char
acters which they are not.”
The girl’s eloquent appeal moved her
father. . He took her soft, though tome-
what toil-stained hnnd in his ana stroked
it. But 02 Crispi it produced so «*p*'**ent
effect save that he said suavely, * "Very
well, my dear, very well l” But be raged
in his heart; and when he retired to his
room he wondered to himself alternately
how he had beeu able to refrain from
laughing at the strange ideaa of this pretty
Puritan, and how he had kept himself
from denouncing the narrow Calvinism
that condemned all that waa beautiful in
art, on the ground that the love of the
beautiful belonged to the flesh and must
therefore be hurtful to the spirit. Yet he
co^ld^ot divest himself for a certain ad
miration for the girl as an upright, honest,
gifted woman, though be swore a big oath,
bigeer than the dimity curtained bedroom
of the Close had heard for many a day, that
he would gain her yet. Bathe knew he
must act warily.
The days passed monotonously, bat not
unpleasantly, in Wellminster. There was
no sound abroad but the voice of the
cathedral bells calling to prayer and the
chiming of the church clock telling the
•low hours. The talk was all cathedral,
and still it was not unpleasant to Cri»pi;
for one thing, he had an object in view;
for another, ha could not help feeling the
peaceful charm of ths place. The little,
pale faced foreigner was an artist at heart,
and all harmonious things held a fascina
tion for him.
He felt the charm stroug upon him one
day when he and Ruth were sitting on a
fallen tree in a sheltered place on the hills.
The pair had grown fast friends in those
few days. He arduously avoided talking
to her of anything but music, and that of
the severest kind, for this strange girl
seemed to have no curiosity to learn aught
of the outer world. Her world lay hete,
where all was quiet and mellowed and old.
It was the kind of day that often chancea
in December, almost warm, the eky a clear
,, . . ■omrthing which might in- gray, the clouds very high and’moving but
teresthis^friend, Crispi equally at fault, little; the kind of day that flushes sudden-
They had reached the Close, when sud
denly through the mist-laiden air there
rang out a voice so pure, so clear, that
Crispi started. "Great heaven, what have
we here?” decried, and looked around him
excitedly.
"It is only Ruth singing,” answered the
father. Th* son* is hackneyed now. vet
still frssh with ths impress of genius.
Ruth was edging "Angels Ever Bright and
Fair,” and her bell-like voice, breaking
through the heavy air, calling upon the
old slumbering echoes to testily with her
to the eternal teauty of the angels, was
laiden with such fervid piety that it re
vealed the secret of the girl’e heart. The
song betrayed such a love for all things
divine, auch a longing for the knowledge
of th* hidden perfectness which can never
be seen by mortal eyes, that it was evtn
more touching than it was beautiful. De
land, who knew hie daughter well. wa«
•tirred hy it out of hia anathy. Crispi, whe
r.v*.gni/*d ".aught in it 1 tit the most ror
sumate art, was nearly wild with excite
ment. lie stood m the damp night air.
oblivious of all save one thing—(Kin beau
tiful voice. When she had finished, he
drew a long breath. "You have grounded
her well, my friend, but 1—I wUl finish
her education? Europe will ring with the
fame of (his beautiful sporsno. Was this
then your surprise for me?”
I island said nothing, but opening, th*
lor, entered the poor little sitting room,
a hicb looked inng enough now with its
bright fire. Ruth had left the piano and
waa standing, kett'e in hand, absorb'd in
•he mytteriee of Ua-making. There was a
great deal of lerioutnesa In her manner,
but then she did everything seriously.
Crispi fixed his eyes on her e*gerfy and „
•canned her anxiously. "Figure good,” mere force of hal
he muttered; "ePght, hut the chest is all
right; a little pale, but then there Is always
rouge.” Ruth looked at this strange vis
itor of her father’s with astonishment; she
could cot utter the few words of welcome
•he had prepared, but Crispi was not back-
"Miss Dsland,” he cried, "you are su
perb t” This but affrighted Ruth the more;
she turned to her father with a questioning
ly m aglow at sunset and fills the air with
a soft ro$j hue, causing as it were the very
stones to give out warm color, tho gh it
was too early in the afternoon as yet to
talk of sunset.
They were a curious couple as they sat
side by aide on the fallen log; Crispi, all
subdued fire and energy; Ruth, with
clasped hands like some latter-day saint,
steeped in a subdued ecstasy of exaltation.
They were both gazing at the city at their
feet (the cathedral itself seemed almost
blue against the gray sky), and at the
gentle billalopes beyond, that fell in eoft
undulations to the pasture and moorland.
The almoet leafless treesmadedsrk patches
upon the distant hlllf. Ruth, seeing all
this with her eyes, had soared far beyond
it in her mind. Crispi spoke first, but
more softly than was his wont.
"I esu imagine,” he said, "that one
would get to love Ids place, but all the
tame it in not good for a loan. Man must
live, uot vegetate, 'i hie place dull* the
faculties.' It one did not pul a strict Kara
upon uur’e nr IT, uui nuulu UcOul* lifci the
unthinking beasts of the field."
Ruth flashed a look at hia. "How
could one,” ahe asked pointing to the
estbadrai, "with that before one?”
"One get* used to it,” answered Crispi.
"One gen used even to a beautiful thing
when it becomes part of one’s daily life.
Your father now takes hia day’s work at
the cathedral ae if be had nothing to do
with it. lie sings as a bricklayer builds a
house.”
"How.do you mean?” asked Ruth,
startled. Crispi waa unfolding a new
thought to her, and it troubled her.
"I mean this.” answered Crispi, watch
ing her narrowly. "Your father singe by
mere force of habit now. I think if he did
not he would cease singing altogether.
You, who know what is meet for the ser
vice of God, must feel that your father’s
voice is now no fit offering to bting bito;
although,” he continued, still watching
her, "1 think you take too narrow a view
of the influence of music. I do not mean
which
j pi>‘
its atmoe-
"Nevermind now, CrUp,” it said In an
undertone. "You do not understand Ruth;
you will frighten her to death; forget her
tinging.”
A gleam of intelligence shone on the
other’s face, and his manner changed. "I
sm so delighted to see you,” he said effu
sively ; "so glad to see your dear father
again. You do not remember me, do you?
You were but a little child.”
“No,” Ruth answered "imply; “I have
no memory of you. But you must be
tired. Will you have some tea?”
Crispi liked the girl’s unaffected manner;
it wns dignified, and she was not shy. He
kept on talking commonplacea for a while,
but after some time he could no longer re
strain himself from speaking of the enb-
ject nearest to his heart. "You sing, Miss
Ruth?” he asked. "Though it b scarcely
fair on you to put that question, for I
have heard you.”
Ruth did not answer, but turned toward
her father The bright blood mounted to
her pale cheeks, and receding left them
paler. Crieni gazed in astonishment at
the pair. What was the mystery of Ruth’s
voice? Most women would have been
proud to own it.
"Ruth singe to me sometime*,” said Do-
land in a hesitating manner; "bat sho has
strange Ideas c ncerning singing, Crispi.
Indeed she was angry with me for telling
you of the two choristers; she woald rath
er you left the to where they are.”
"But I will make their fortunes if they
can eing, Miss Dr!and,”he said eagerly.
"How can you?” she aakoJ simply.
"By teaching them, introducing them to
•;*m« ulu sill get them engagements for
concerts snd operas. You hare no idea
how mock Money a tenor mm mm" Ift
opera; and as for a soprano like yours!"
He stretched out his arms as if his words
would be powerless to expree how much a
soprano could make by her voice.
How will that benefit them' ’ t»ked the
gkh
"How?’’
"Yes," he answered. Crispi noticed thai
her cheek waa beginning to glow, and the
M i ’ .? n » brown-faced insn envel- red blood showed warm under the delicate
lar*/ f . nr ”hMd overcoat, with great \ clearneM of her skin, "tier,” she went on,
CTuTW fl ^onhb thin Lands : "this is what I think of ainginr. It b
|i"lant fieeturen stretched out 1 right to tell you at once; we shall be bet-
I ur friends afterward when you know it.
•qi’7 1 ur friends alterwaru wnen you Know it.
BviS . al he said briskly, i'srhar* I may say rather that I know it
1‘t'le^*r*inf Let us walk J than that I think it It is this. Ood
*Ku iK 0 *’ ****** silting still.” | gives us, who sing, our voice. Nothing
WtfiJ M * ve, » Crispi!” said ; that man can do can make iL It feme*
-'Kt one day older, Ido Us- straight from Ood, and it ehould be poured
' k *SSSr" 7 ** muchfor 3
'!'• ' '• n.: 1-
sg. If I had say- lure away these lade wl.
for Ood alone. There are evil
passions In man. my child, of which you
koow nothing, that music will drive out.
But that concerns you not at all. Your
father U tied down here until be dies.
You will not move hence.”
There was a Uttle silence which Ruth
broke tremulously. "Will ycu tell me
what you mean,” she asked—"exactly
what you mean? Do not try to soften it
or alter iL Dear father! 1 know he must
be getting old; but I didn’t think, I bad
not noticed—" here her voice broke and
perforce she wasaiienL
"Nothing, nothing,” said Crispi hastily
and made a motion to rise, but Ruth
stretched oat her hand to prevent him. "I
am no child,” ahe said, firmly, "to be put
off with your nolhisin. You have said
•ome things that will make a difference in
my life; first, that my fatbffr ling* by
rote; and, secondly, that hb voice now
disgraces hb calling. Do you mean that
be ought not losing?”
"1 mean,” answered Crispi, "that ac
cording to my theories he ought not to
give up a sure income for a few qualms of
con»:ienre, but that if I thought aa ycu
do, I should feel hb tinging to be dese
cration. Far better would it be that you
should choose singiog for s nrofcMion,
using your fresh, beautiful voice to bring
man nearer to God, than for your father
to continue in the cathedral because be
makes hb living there. That b wbat I
meant, Ruth, and if I hurt you I cannot
help It; you wanted to know.”
"Ye^ I wanted .to know," said Ruth
quietly.
Then for the first time Crispi looked at
her. Hb conscience smote him when he
noticed the p»ilur %A the gtii’e 1ms, iU
lines of psin sround the sensitive mouth.
He began to be a little ashamed of him
self, and tried to make excuses.
"Do not think of my words, my dear,”
be said cheerily. "Yon are a good woman,
and mast know more about thb than I do.
Put it from yen.”
"1 cannot, I most not,” she answered
vehemently. "Don’t yon see that I must
think of it? I should be despicable if I
did not.”
The pair bad a very silent walk
after thi*. The sky had become suddenly
irradiated with a beautiful crimson glow,
and Crispi, who loved warmth and color,
seemed to give it most of hb attention,
although he now and again glanced at
Roth’s face far lively. A queer fancy took
possession of him. He wondered o him
self »l.atstrang# transformation the mag
ician Lovt would make in that pure, sad-
dened face. A downright human lore
y thought* from might make an nrGatof thb saint, might
r roan, I will not • •••t lc**e the imprisoned foul within her.
. » *• j Lit would it e*er « oir.e t*. i.-r
are but on the* "Mr. Crispi," Kulh s«kcd as she opeued
the gate that led from the Close to tho
house, "will you let me bring the result of
my thonghtsto you at some other time?
You hare given me much pain, but I am
afraid you have spoken the truth.”
And thb closes the first chapter of
Ruth Deland’s Hie, if life it could be
called. Bhe felt strong within her two
opposing emotion. One was that her
fatner had nothing to briog to the service
of God, was naught but a workingman
earning hb wage—and that scarcely hon
estly : tho other that she ought not, should
not,’ could not degrade her voice by sing
ing for hire. Music was too great a temp
tation a* it wav. If Ruth had been *
Romanist, her courts would have lain
clear before her, her vocation been pro
nounced ; but abe waa not; and meanwhile
she and tier father must live, although she
bad to still many qualms of conscience.
She felt sore too nt leaving Well-
minnter, the pretty, peaceful country
town and the quiet ways of her chidliood
and girlhood, to do that which she con
sidered right in Reelf* though It WM
more right than what had been done.
Crbpi, having gained what ho wanted,
waa generous. He desired tho honor and
glory of bringing out a new soprano
more than even the money to bo mado
out of her; and when h • set out to re
turn to bis beloved Italy, Dflsnd and his
daughter wero ready to accompany him
"VVe shall aay good-by to this Sand cf
fog and mist. You shall see color and
feel warmth. Why there la music in the
very winds that blow acroev my lovely
land, the aun’s own darlingl" ho cried
excitedly.
*'\Ve are not soaked In mist,” the girl
answered vehemently; "we have color
too. In the epring tho woods aro bright
with flowers, such pretty flower*,” she
added with a catch in her voice. "In
the summer there ia the ripe yellow corn;
and in tho autumn the berries and the
flaming leaves are like little tongues of
lira—and It ie England, and i love it<
gaynees—its soberness,”
'i ben the tears would not bo gainsaid
and ran down the girl’e pale checks, but
for all that she never murmured. She
had chosen her path and walk along it
cheerfully, dark aa it was and beset with
dangers. She could not feel any io^
tiie life that was promised her, though
to moot girls the prospect would have
been more than allurine. Crispi rented
an old palace from the last of the Princes
Storneilo, where he was used to pass the
summer. It lay embowered in sweet
gardens and was guarded by tho blue
Albanian hills. He told Ruth long stories
of the loveliness of the old honse, and of
the glories of ite Sculpture gallery, but
Ruth resolutely resolved to ihut her ears
auch allurements, l'erhans in
her inmost heart tbo girl was con«ctou*
of a eido to her nature which slu tried to
ignore—that love of th# beaut if ul which
lies embedded deep in all artistic natures,
which ie in itself the foundation stone of
them ell. Hut tho wrestled against it as
against an evil thing, and turued a faco
of marlle toward all that Crispi prom
ised. For all that the little foreigner did
not despair; be bad lived long, and knew
woman.
Ih
Tho clear moonbeams were streaming
d i»n on tho Palazao Stornallo, tiane-
muting its whito stono front into re-
ruadver. bring...* ..’- tie '.tt T c-
tho ireoa. The air was heavy wiili uew B
and the ffiernu of tho vine and the
roue, home subtle, indefinable intluenco
had crept in and made itself one with the
night, the wondrous moonlit summer
nighL The moon itself, great, colorless,
and iraperlurable, seemed cbaogelesaly
fixed in th* blue sky, ite white light so
cruet and t-qld, so grandly heedless of the
sorrows of the world upon which it
looked with such unconcern. It waa all
so still too, only the chirp of tho insects
and the languid twittering of the bird!,
too much exhausted by tbo great heat of
the day to burst forth Into exultant
strata* Later on ti.»- ingiiiingalo woul 1
coma out, but not ysL
Ruth, in her high white dress and
with her serene puro profile—an old
world Diana strayed into tha nineteenth
century—waa strolling up snd down the
old marble t trace that waa now all
broken down and held together by the
cdoglng ivies, tiho waa tUhthu with
all her might and main against the soft
»eductiona of the summer night, frehng
at her heart that horrible throb of pain
that pi staged defeat. For conscience
sake, and yet againt her better judg
ment, she had tonio hither. And L
what end? That abo mulu only steep
her soul ia the sweet bitterness of enjoy
ment and giva herself up to the idolizing
of what was 'purely beautiful? bhe
w»es’.ltd with herstlf, tr<ing to bring
before her the narrow littlo life that had
satis tied her at Wellminster; the tried to
lull her awakening sente* to sleep with
memories of thr perfectness of her life
of meditation in the old catbedr 1 city.
Had ahe only come hither to estUfy her
craving for the perfect thing with more
one noticed Ruth. The music con-
d. now wild wit'i pain, now calm
tiie quiet of a great despair; and
i it ce.ued a dgh of suaj»ens*» ended
s from the ^iri. hbe was standing
o window immovable as a statue;
cquiaite ro^e-liiieh had stolen into
see, and the very severity of her
protile had. aa it were, relaxed,
Crispi looked nt her. For him the in
terest had ceased with the music. He
loved it, but with a strangely imp-rtonal
; it was just art to him, to be ad-
*4 for »r;’s ;r.'u=. sc: a soul’s revela
tion as it wa* to Ruth. For the first
time in her life *he had caught thcaseuso
oi tho |»Lce wLieh ii.« hwaiitiinl : A-- <n
tho order of tha w orld, and of tho part it
n:i^ht l o made io play. Crispi looked
at her and underi-tood. He saw now
with glance that he would triumph,
and lattorly he U id deepaire 1 of Ruth’s
ever singing aa h*> had dreamed the
might sing. Her voice was always pure
and beautiful, but it w&s the voice of a
nun at prayer, who bad never known
human pain and sorrow.
"Ruth,” he am 1, "play Signor Gem
ma’s accompaniment. I can listen bet
ter when I am away from the piano."
Ruth in her docilo way walked to the
piano. There a little mist before
those erstwhile untroubled eyes of hers
that had been wont to look so straight
If.In ill.' ii.'.ut "1 .liin;s hilly. ’Aim
wt* 11," sit# end •oft!; , and wn« prop mi .•
todo bis bidding when an untoward acci
dent occurred.
Tho candlei at the piano were flaring
unsteadily, blown hither and thither by
the gusts of a soft wind that had arisen
with the deepening nighL Ruth loaned
over to get the music, and os she did so
her light draper en wero wafted across
tho flickering lights. Before any o.io
bad realized what had happened her
drees was blazing—sho uttered one wild
cry—then stood a* if turned to atone. In
ono-instant Gemma had dashed hie vio
lin to tho grour.d, had seized the panic-
stricken girl and wu crushing out the
flames with his hands. It waa bravely
done. Crispi, who was no coward,
rustied to the rescue with a rug which
he flung around her. It was all the work
of a moment, and Ruth was lying on the
sofa, (iotmn i looking ruefully from bis
burnt hand* to bit broken violin. Deland
bonding over hi* daughter in an agony
of suspense. '
"bhe is not much burnt,” said Crispi
quietly; "not al nil hurt, I should sav;
not so much as you, Leonards, but she
was frightened—that is alL”
Not quite alL It was not only the fear
that nia io Ruth faint. hr <>;.♦• ri.• I li.-r
eyes after a little and sought Gemma.
"You have saved my life, signor,” sho
■aid taintiy. *1 iuauk you with al! my
heart.”
When Ruth awoke the next morning it
waa with the consciousness upon her
that she had pasned through some very
important epoch of )i**r life, though she
could not exactly deline in what its im
portance lay. biie kept her room for
three days, mor# because she did not like
to face either Crisp or Gpiiiinr. than »«
ca i*e of auy gerat pain. in.sho
WliJI PEOPLE MO WItlTE-|s o, ? ,D J, AmericaM for
J ‘he Americans were aa God compared to
LITkRARY CHIT-CHAT OF MORE THAN
PASSING INTEREST.
Ruth hesitated a little before she re-
pliod. Could he solve her doubt* for her?
bhe felt a sudden temptation to ask him,
to confide in him.
"I was thinking—” she add, slowly,
looking at him anxiously. "It is so diffi
cult to put into words, but my thoughts
were eoiuethinic like this: When I was et
Wellminster J would not eing o* listen to
music because I felt that it wua in mo to
lovt’ whet was beautiful for beauty’s a ike.
Perhaps it waa a narrow’ creed, but I
seemed to love God less for loving beauty
more. Hut now that I am here, all
seems different to me. Things seem . - . _ .. ■ _ ,
right that onc, I thought »vre -rong J *'“® » n “ lv » ra »ry of
and ail tiling, take n diir.rent placo >■" I JiSi,? a . n<ial 5
tha world to me. Whan you pia, ad the ®I- ’ ? ,insul “ r , “l"'
other night, it seamed the Tory portae- “ m< l ua to toe
tion ot lovrline*. in holine.a And yet, “JS.f'ESS’JS?, of , rt » a »li» •7™-
what wa, ihere of (iod m tl?' ! * ig T Sf
"Uod craated all thing, beautiful." l T* 1 *
an.wared Gemma. “A beautiful aound I h ,**T!.*.P* ak i n «. T h i* lh e fint
ia th* miMrh of fDvd." , l “ a t Robert Browning s or any other
"Yea " protected Ruth, "but we use it voIce b * on he * rd from ^yond the
for th?«Kerrnia” I grave. It was generally known that
"You forcet’’ answered Gemmn ! tiourau d bad got locked up in bis
Bffisgrs.’ssas JSSsSySfcJSS! ES
cord had never been made to yield up
its secreL Yesterday Dr. Furnlvall and
Col. Gouraud happened to meet at my
house, and the president of the Brown
ing Society (Dr, Furnivall) reminded
Col. Gouraud that it wu the anniversary
of their mutual friend’s death, and that
this would be a fitting occasion to test tho
integrity of the cylinder containing his
▼oicto Accordingly, after wiring to
Rudolf Lehmann to meet us, wo ad
journed to Edison Huusw
The small wax oylindsr containing tho
record carefully wrapped in wool waa
beautv? God forbid, I
And aa the stood and wrestled with
herself there suddenly ara*e a sound so
strangelv, so enchaniingly beautiful that
■he felt her resolutions forsake her an t
her being quiver with delight. It was
nothing els* than the sound of a violin
being played in a masterly fashion; and
as the full notes streamed out into the
summer night, Ruth felt a sudden long
ing burn within her—a longing that she
too might give ui’.eranco to something
beautiful, something that would stand
midway between the psin and the Joy,
of the worlJ, and sooth the on* whilo
exalting the otker. Unconsciously she
drew near to the room whence tbo
sounds issued. They drew her on like
the singing of the hirene in the old day*;
ahe stood fascinated and gazed at the
(dayer. She bad known who it wa«; a
young friend of Crispi’s, an amateur
who had come to stay at the Palaxzo
Btornello for a few days.
He had seemed to her an ordinary
young man enough, dreseed in the Iate*t
fashion, who had talked of nothing but
stocks and investments io crispi during
dinner, and who had (to she thought)
looked upon her as upon one of Crispi’*
latest, and perhaps not least profitable,
investment* And yet he was making
the air vibrate with the beautiful munc
of hie, that was neither like the tinging
of the angela nor the sound of tiie hu
man voice, but something akin to both
and infinitely moving. Ituth, fascinated
beyond her powers of telf control, drew
near to the wihdow and looked in. Crispi
was at the piano; bis lain face looked
leaner, hie bright evee more bright f* »r
bU enthusiasm. lie, too, then, had b*«*n
touched by the finger of the gods. Her
own father was •tending near the piano,
hie afiethetic face troubled by a curious
■vpfWMiouof searching for a- riDthing
that was clouding his memory, for a Del
ing peril*;* that ho ba t kuuwn in hi*
young years, and that was Qo w dimlv
returning to h.m. The player Liu.* If ! to y
stood erect, plajing couq*with n ■
wae wuuurt tii.i* burnt. But cs
the fourth day Crispi sent for her for her
uitiial Hinging l«M<>n. hti# sain; nothing
but a few oxeridace and a littlo of Handol;
she w»« afrni 1 to sing out le»t i nept
•V . i dL V ' *«n»* strange thr‘.M
rh site HR had crept into her volet*.
Whether ha knew it cr net, he made no
comment! perhaps he waa afraid of
rrigtiter.sn ; her.
At th* end of the lesson ahe sum
moned up courage, "liow is bignor
Gemma?" she said shyly.
ilia hands are badly burnt,” answered
Crispi. "He will stay here until he is
hotter."
"Then he cannot play," asked Ruth.
"Of course not," said Crispi, almoet
crouiy; "besides, his violin ie crackod.
It is a pity, too, it was valuable."
Ruth looked up in dismay. "I am eo
sorry. It is my fault, you know,” she
•aid piteously: but Crispi only grunted.
"Ill- l.»th-r w 11 » t'ltul. -r lift I* it ...
a famous amount of money. He can
afford to lose even a rood violin."
"But his poor bander protested Ruth.
"They are getting better," answered
Crispi shortly. I’erbape he thought it
wsa dangerous to show himself too aym-
psthethia
' That afternoon Ruth betook herself to
tht MriMag old sculpture gallery.
The day wee hot, oppressively hot, and
the verv shade of Use trees in the garden
seemed laden with heat. The sculpture
gallcrv wa* comparatively cool, end the
■MMnMmuBMg among the etaioedt
chipped marbles, trying to picture to
tieraelf what the world waa like in ita
young days when men mado those
Images to worship them. Hhe had taken
a book but eoold not rood. Still tho
earns Ruth, oasily impressed by the
beauty of her surrounding* with firm
convictions ae to right and wrong, she
wan thinking drowsily of the feelings
that had prompted men to fashion theae
once beautiful things. Waa it a feeling
of devoCioo which led them
represent their goda as lovely to
look upon, or wu it beauty alone
they worahipped? And she herself, w-s
•he not drifting to the same state? But
she wee not allowed to continue her
mueinge. The heat had driven Leonardo
Gemma to take refuge in the gallery. He
God ia the service of man.*
After that talk in the picture gallery
Ruth became much more at homo with
Comma, indeed, they soon grew to be
inseparable companions; and Ruth, who
had never known wh»i it wu to come in
contact with any one who would think
out problems for himself, soon grew to
lean upon Gemma, to bring him all her
doubt* and longinge. He satisfied her,
and when a fortnight had passed, she
grew to dread hia approaching departure
more and more, Hhe never stopped to
ailc herrelf why. 8he had never dreamed
of loving, of lieing loved, like moat girls
do. Her nature had been ao stooped in
the worship of things holy that human
love wu almoet unknown to her.
Sho eang to Gemma constantly. Her
voice had never given her so much pleas
ure as now, when eh* used it to while
away the time for him. For all that she
knew, and perhaps he understood, that
■he never gave utterance to th* fervor
and yaamiuge within her. There waa
always something repressed about her
■mging, as if she feared to give voice to
her own true self.
Gemma’s hands wero nearly well; in
deed, he could have used them had ho
been so uilndod, but he loved Ruth’s care
o! him. Ruth her*elf watched their
progross with a fooling of mingled fear
and hope; she wanted them wtll for his
sake, but ebe also wanted him to have an
excuse for staying on.
They were strolling in the gardens one
afternoon. A kind of brooding heat,
forerunner «f a storm, made the air
dense and heavy. The aky was darkened
except when lurid clouds broke tip the
gloom. Both Ruth and Gemma felt the
oppression of the atmosphere. "I am
going to laave the day after tomorrow,"
■aid Gemma, shortly and suddenly, anu
fixed his eyes upon'Kuih. The girl wu
so taken by surprise that ahe could not
dteeemcle. "80 soon,” she faltered; and
thon shecontinned bravely, "I shall miss
you.”
"Will you?” he asked. '*1 am glad.”
They wero both silent for a little while
after this. "You must- play to me
tonight,” said Ruth. "I must hear you
pi*
had wondered a little what bad become
of Ruth the*e three days, hut had re
frained from asking for her, although be
had thought of her much. Her pure,
cold. Northern beauty bad fascinated
him. He had a sort of conviction that
one day she, loo, might retch tire, and be
would fain be the one to kindle the flam*.
Ruth gave e little cry when she first
caught »ig tu of Gemma’s bandaged hands.
"1 am so grieved," she murmured; the
words w ould not come quickly, but tiie
tears rushed into her eves. "Those hands
of yours that made such beautiful music!
To think of their taing useless, aud all
through my fault; and, then, yon must
have suffered eo much pain l Can I do
nothing for youT bhe looked at Gemm*
appoalwglys all her shyness had van-
"It was not in tbo least your fault,”
snawerel Gemma quietly; "and it ie not
to every man that it Is given to save the
life of a great singer.”
"At least let roe drese your wound for
vou; 1 have quilt light, cool linger*,"
begged Ruth impuLdstiy."
Gemma smiled. "No; you would so
hat* the eight of them. You only like
what ie plfuint to look upon," answered
Gemuia. "Hut you can do very much
for me; you cun talk to me and tell me
all about your home in England; and
then you can sing to me, because I can
> befo
Are you strata
&
awereti.
Bttlhf”
I uui not afraid 0“ anr stc-m-," an
swered the girL "On i*»o contrary, I
like to waten them."
They turned toward the hot*?*, not many
moments too soon. The sullen thunder
was growling, the lightning seemed to be
more vivid, and craat drops were falling
from tne sultry clouds. It waa a terri
ble scene. Ruth, who had not imsgine'l
anything wor»o than an ordinary En-
Uib thunder »;nrm, smMeuly lost all con
trol over her nervaa. 8ho nearly screamed
when a flash lit up the garden end was
followed by a great crash of thunder.
Nearer and nearer she drow to (lemma,
feeling a security in hie proximity that
■he could not understand. At first he
had talked lightly of many things to keep
her thoughts from the scene hut gradually
the awe of the elements came over him
too, and silently they watched it togffther
and in some strange fashion they Loth
felt drawn more closely to each other by
thb very silence.
All th* afternoon and part of the even-
the itorm raged. It wus nearly 10
>r* the rein ceawd and the low mut- j
tered growl of the thunder died away in
the dutaat bill* Crbpi and Deland
were still lingering over their wine; Ruth
and Gemma were in the drawing-room.
The girl was still pale and a little agi
tated; Gemma wae very silent.
"I sns going to play to you tonight,”
he said more softly than wm hb wont,
"ami you ahall ait still by the open win-
down and taka in the scent of the fresh
ened grasses."
Ruth obeyed, and Gemma began to
play. Hb hands hod not lost their cun
ning. The sounds be drew from hb
violin were softer, more love-laden than
ever. What it was he played Ruth did
not know.
"Wbat b itr ahe asked breathlessly,
when the last note had died away, and
he answered very qublly, not looking at
her at all, "It b the most beautiful love-
song in the world. It 1* Beethoven’s
•Adelaide.’"
"A soogr” ahe asked, and her face
flushed. "A song! Then I can eing lb”
"If you will, I will play for you.”
Then Ruth took the music with her
trembling hands and commenced. Of
court* ebe stambled over Use new words,
but that mattered not, for the music b d
crept into her soul eo ihst the mi-auing
of it was plain without need cf words.
Her voice swelled and vibrated with the
passion she had so lone aappresrod; clear
and full. It unconsciously proclaimed
aloud the triunyih of love,
Crbpi heard It from the next room and
realized two things-that thb wae tho
voice be had dreamed of, on I that he
had loot hit pupil forever.
machine, the voices ot
houso on the night of April 7, 188D, were
accurately reproduced. First cam* a
message in CoL Gouraud’s voice addressed
to Edison, informing him that Robert
Browning’s voice would follow hb own,
and then, whibt in breathless silenco tha
little, awed group stood round the phono
graph, Robert Browning’s familiar and
cherry voice suddenly exclaimed:
"Ready!” and Immediately afterward
followed:
"I KftlTqJd^eSj - *^^*' * n< * 110,1 ***•
And all went on in a moat ipirited man
ner dow to the words:
"Speed echoed the • • A h
then the voice aaid hurriedly, "I forget
it! er ” (some one prompts), and
Browning goes on:
"Then thegato shat behind as, the light* sank
(and again the poet halted); "I—I am
exceedingly sorry that ! can’t
my own varsea; but ono thing I remem
ber all my life b the astonishing sensa
tion produced upon mo by your wonder
ful invention.” Then there wss a pause
—Rudolf Lehmann reminded us that
Browning left the speaking-tube, but 00
being asked to authenticate bb own
words, returned. 80 presently in a loud
voice came shouted at us, "Robert
Browning." The murmur of. approach-
h* W? (h4 Henning of hands
followed. After thb * extraordinary
seance, tho wax cylinder was taken pos
session o! by Mies Ferguson, who had
manipulated tho phonograph on
night of April 7,1S.V.»,
Tho cn« for wh) h «h* little con .
had met wae accommieheu; e few rvibulo
persons could now boar witne** to the
fact tuAt tus i-crrrJ cf ScbvT* M—wring's
voice wss audibb, satisfactory, and con-
sidsring that tho cylinder did not repre
sent tho latest phonographic improve
ments, wonderfully j-tfecL Th# wit
nesses wero then token phonograph)•
caily, each speaking a few appropriate
words into the mouthpiece; The cylinder
containing the record of the witnesses
was finally added to tho Browning pho
nogram, anti thb invaluable relic was
theu restored to its place in CoL Goa-
reud’e already hbtorio library of vi *
A TUIonof Jane Kyre.
At* backiwaj) KitchWa Kacullaetieas.
One of the most notable persons who
ever came into our old bow-wlmlow
drawing-room in Young street b a gurnt
never to be forgotten by me, a tiny, deli
cate, little person, whose small band
the cocknsys,” says tho philosopher.
tl ;* Cardiol there ncro Mr-.
Kilzott and Miss Perry, Mrs. Proctor and
her daughter, most of my father^
habitual friends snd compan-
to 01 * , In the recent Life of Lord
Houghton I was amused to see a note
quoted in which Lord Houghton also
wae convened. Would that he had been
present—perhaps the party would have
gone off better. It wts a gloomy and
■Bent evening. Every one waited for the
Dniiiant conversation wmen never began
at alL Miss Bronte retired to the sofa in
the study and murmured a low word now
•nd thon to our kind governess, Miss
Truelock. The room looked very dark,
the lamp began to smoke a little, the
conversation grew dimmer and more
dim, tho ladies sat around still expectant,
my father wss too mu:h perturbed by
the gloom and the silenco to be able to
cope with it at alL Mra. Brookfield, who
was in tbedoorwav by the study, noarthe
corner in which Miss Bronte was sitting,
leaned forward with a little commonplace
■inoe brilliance was net to be the order of
the evening. “Do you like London, Miss
Bronte?” she said; another silence, a
pause, then Miss Bronte nnswers "yss
and no” very gravely, and there the con
versation drops My sister and I were
much too young to bo bored in thoso
days; alarm*!, impressed we might he,
but not yet bored. A party wa* a party,
a lioness; and—shall I confess it?—at that
time an extra dish of biscuits was enough
to mark the evening; Wo felt all the
importance of tho occasion; tea spread in
the diningroom, ladies in tho drawing
room; we roamed about inconveniently,
no doubt, and excitedly, and in enn of
my excursions crossing tho hall, 1 was
surprised to 6oe my father opening the
front door with hb hat on. llo put hie
fingers to hb lips, walked out into tho
darkness, and ahut the door quietly be
hind him. When I went back to the
drawingroom again, the ladies asked
ms where he was, I vaguely answered
that I thought he was coming back,
I was puzxlsd at the time, nor was it
ail mada clear to me till long years after
ward, when one dsy Mrs, Procter asked
ms if I knew what had happened once
when my father had invited a party to
meet Jane Eyre at his hause. It was ono
of the dullest evenings she had ever
•pent in her life, she said. And theu
with a good deal of humour she de
scribed the situation, tho ladies, who
had all come expecting eo much delight
ful conversation, and the gloom and the
constraint, and how finally,overwhelmed
bp the situation, my father had quietly
left tha room, left the houso and gono to
hbcluU Tbo ladies waited, wondered,
and finally uepstwd ikv, r.u J zz
were going up to bed, with our caudles,
alter everybody was gono, I remembor
two pretty Mise L’s, in shiny silk droeto*
arriving full of expectation. Wo still
said we thought our father would soon
be bock, but the Miss L’s dsclind to wait
on the chance, laughed and drovo away
again almost immediately.
dav vibrating, I can still see the scene
auita plainly—the hot summer evening,
tne open windows, the .carriage’ driving
to the door aa we all sat silent and ex
pectant; my father, who rarely waited,
waiting with us; our govarnss^ and my
sister and I all in n row, and prepared
for the great event. We saw the car
riage atop; end out of it arrsog the ac
tive, weil-knit figure or young Mr.
George Smith, who wae bringing Mbs
Bronte to see our father. My father,
who had been walking up and down
the room, goes out into the hall to
meet hb guests, and then after a mo
ment’s delay the door opens wide, aud
the two gsntbmeu come in, leading a
tiny, delicate, serious, Utile lady, pale,
with fair straight hsir, and steadv eyas.
She may be a little over SU.sheb dressed
in a bsr’ege dross, with a pattern of
faint greeu mo»*. She enters m mittens,
in silence, in seriousness; our hearts are
beating with wild excitement Thb b
the authoress, the unknown power whose
books have set ail London, talking read
ing, speculating; soma people even say
our father wrote the books—the wonder
ful books. To say that w* little girb bed
been given ‘Jane Eyre? to read scarcely
represents tho facts of the case; to sty
that ws had taken it without leave, rea l
bite here and reed bits there, been car
ried away by an undreamed-of and
hitherto unimagined whirlwind into
things, times, places, all utterly absorb
ing and at the same time absolutely unin-
toUigibln to ue, would more accurately
describe oar states of mind on that sum
mer’s evening ae we look at Jane Eyre—
the great Jane Eyre—tne tiny little lady.
The moment b so breathless that dinner
comes as a relief to the solemnity of the
occasion, and we all smib ae my father
Are or enthud
that was fine to •«.*
h-.k <
— But Ruth —
h-rsrif ••»»» on ln«iruf her ideutitv in » stoops to offer hb arm, for, geniim though
the passionate strains of the world’s | »be may be, Mbs Bronte can beret/ tmu
most beautiful love-song. And when the I bb elbow. My own personal impressions
lost drawn sigh. Adelaide! f-U from her < are that she b somewhat grave and stern,
lips, her eyes suddenly met Gemma * specially to forward littb girb who wish
She had betrayed what she had not I to chatter; Mr. George Smith has since
known herself; she scarce know it now 1 told me how she afterword remarked
indeed, but her lids fell under Gemma’s \ upon my father’s woodsrfui forbearance
burning gaze. and gentleness with our uncalled-for in-
"Conse with me into the garden, cursions into the conversation. Bhe sat
Ruth, be whispered, and in n trance she ' feeing at him with kindling ey«e of
followed him. < interest; lighting up with a sort of ilium-
Than, in the quiet peecefulneae of an ! inaticn every now and then as she on-
evening after storm, under the hsaara of * swered him. I can see her bending for-
n moon, struggling to free itself from ' ward over the table, not eating, but
no longer make music. And you must clouds and therefore lees plsrid thao j listening to what he aaid as he carved
not think my hands will take long to heal; usual, with all the rain-awakeaed scents 1 the duh before him.
' of the flower* making the air fragrant I I think it must have been on thb very
round them. Gemma told Knth his tab 1 occasion that my father invited some of
of love, told her the sweet tiu>e-wom*J I hb friends in tbeeTonbg to meet Mies
•tore that men never tire of telling, to I Bronte—for everybody wae interested
which women never tire of listening; end anxious to see her. Urc. Crowe, the
told her how Love the Conqueror would 1 reciter of ghost stories, wss therto Mrs.
destroy ail the tangled web of her doubCe ! Brook field, Mrs. C'srlyla Mr. Carlyle
and wuuki teach her to love G»^ through bin self was there, so l am told, “ ~
Ruth
ee them better.
fiuahed. She would fain have
to fting, but could not.
1 do what 1 can for you," she
taxi. ‘‘You saved my life, ana I owe U
<.u own me nothing.” answered
na, ’ Lut what you are *il[ii>;to
Wbat were you musing about
I ciUicj the gftllt ryr
Row Ho llecante a Writer.
CoL Jonscon—for ho Lome iuil »!•!«—
is tall and elderly, his hair and mustacho
being white, but hb eyo ia clear, lib
manner gracious, and ho is a nioei on-
t ’ruining tnlk**r. Iuh •;-* ' i oU h.tvmg a
■ S.»it»iern flavor, llo wua with
(•Whitcomb Map when the re-
r Cftui# upon h;m r.: !*c=bcn 2&BS
and that gentleman kindly gave hr* a*-
sbtanco to draw the ooionel out, "Story
writing,” said the colon*. I, b tho L-t
thing for mo in literature, and I camo to
it in a way altogether accidental. I hud
published two or three volumes on En
glish literature, and in conjunction with
a friend hod written the life of Alexander
btephens, and also a book on American
and European literature, but had no idea
f >•' iy -At .11'.,; f.r m u**y. Two ur
three stories of mine found thoir way
into the papers boforo I left Georgia."
"When wa* 'Abraham BillTnnlsa*
written?" inquired Mr. Kiloy.
"O, that b 1 scent, only three years
ago, I went to Baltimore in 1607. I La i
been a professor of Englbh literaturo in
Georgia, but during the war l took a
school of forty boys to Baltimore. *lh«re
was at Baltimore in 1870 a periodical
called the Southern Magazine. Tho first
nine of my 'Dukeborough Tales’ wera
contributed to that magazine. These
fell into the hands of the editor of Har
per’s Magazine, who asked me what I
got for them. I said; 'Not a cent,' and
he wanted to know why I had not sent
them to him. 'Neelua Feeler's Conditions*
the first story for which 1 got pay. It
waa published in the Century over the sig
nature of'Bhibrnonl’ercb.’ Dr. Holland
told Mr. Gilder to tell that nun to 'wrico
under bb own name,* adding that h*
himself had mada a mistake in writing
under a pseudonym. Sidney Lanier
urged mo to write and said that if I
would do so he would get the matter in
print for me. 80 he took ‘Neelus Heeler's
Conditions,’and U brought mo V*'J. I
think he wae more greatly rejoiced over
the money than 1 waa—and I am nut a
tuan to turn my back oq |80l 1 wa» at
first really surprised that roy stories
were considered of any value, either in
n literary or pecuniary way. I sm a
littlo surprised yet. I withdrew from
teaching about six years ago and since
that time have devoted tuj time to au
thorship;
"I have never put a word In my
books,” continued CoL Johnston, "that I
have not heard the people use, and very
fsw that I have not used myself. Bowel-
ton, Ua., b my Dukeborough. I was
born fourteen mibs from there and the
road Uadiagdown to that place was a
rough one. The firstof the ‘Dukelorough
Tale*’ was the *Gooeetown SchooL’ Of
the female characters that l have created,
Mise Dootana Lanes b my favorite, while
Mr. Bill WiUUimJ b my favorite among
lb* male characters. I started Doolana
to make her mean an l stingy like her
father, but 1 hadn’t written a page be
fore the wrenched herself out of my
ham!*, Bhe salu to me, *1 am a woman,
and you shall not make me mean,’' and
aho just ***" •- herself • n, l aha was
like her mother.
"These stories all uro of Georgia as U
waa before the war. In the hill country
the institution of slavery was very de
ferent from wbat it was in the rice re
gion or near the coast. Do you know
the Gee Hi a negro has five times the
sense of the South Carolina nogre? Why?
Because he ha« always beeu uear his
master;their relations are closer. My
father’s negroes loved him and he loved
them, and if a negro child died upon the
place ray mother wept for iL Some
time ago I went to the old place and an
old negro came eight miles, walked all
the wav, to see ra.\ — — —
Ifegot in the hoi
before"5* o’clock ~ln the morning, and
opened the shutters while I aal-**p.
With 1 cry lie ru.l.-J to: J th. room. 11h,
UuuDfck.' W.erirftoMch uiUr'.
.rnis. W. h».i t' t”. L. 7* ’ -"’ rr '
of xnr slaves ft tow a Li-hop—BUliop
g I I.uciui lluirey. 11. i. ot to. m».t
— — at etckn.yi upon I dojiunt bmb Ib Gwrfft aaJ lis “
hcoick mount,iu .id.*, tb.c. wore ,ln>* Augu.i^"