Earl Dunraven’s Ghost Story.
"My aoul and body, air* laid John,
the guide, “never »ee such luck in all
my life; most as bad as we had two
years ago when we was camped away
down East by the head of Martin’s
river. You remember, sir, the night
we av the little fire in the woods
close by, when there was no one there
to make it? Very curious that was;
can’t make that out at all. What was
it, do you think?”
“Perhaps ghosts making % fire,
John,’’ said L
“Yes, sir, mebbe; some of our peo
ple believe in ghosts, sir; very foolish
people, some Indians.”
“Don’t you, John?”
“Oh no, sir. I never seed no ghosts. I
have teen and heard some curious things
though. I was hunting once with
two gentlemen near Rocky River—you
know the place well, sir. We were
all sitting in camp; winter time, sir;
pretty late, about bed time. The gen
tlemen were drinking their grog, and
we were smoking and talking, when
we heard some one walking;, coming
up to the camp. ‘Hello I’ said one of
the gentlemen, ‘who can this be at
this time of night?’ Well, sir, we
stopped talking, and we all heard
the man walk up to the door. My
soul, sir, we could hear his moccasins
crunching on the hard, dry snow quita
Slain. He walked up to the door, but
id not open it, did not spoak, did not
knock, do, after a little while, one
of us looked out —nobody there; no
body there at all, sir. Next morning
there was not a track on the snow—
not a track—and no snow fell in the
night Well, sir, we stayed there a
fortnight, and most every night we
could hear a man in moccasins walk up
to the door and stop; and if we look
ed, there was no one there, and he left
no tracks in the snow. What was it,
do you think, sir?”
Don’t know, John, I am sure,” I
said, “unless it was some strange effect
of tne wind upon the trees.”
“Well, sir, 1 seed a curious thing
once. I was hunting with a gentle
man—from the old country, 1 think
he was—my word, sir, a long time ago
—mebbe thirty years or more. My
soul and body, sir, what a sight of
moose there was in tho woods in those
days I and the caribou run in great
herds then; all failing, now, sir, all
failing. We were following caribou,
right fresh tracks in tho snow; wo
were keeping a sharp look-out, ex
pecting to view them every minute,
when I looked up and saw a man
standing between us and where
the caribou had gone. He was not
more than two hundred yards off—l
could see him quite plain, ne had on
a eloth cap and a green blanket coat,
with a belt around the middle—not a
leather belt like we use, sir, but ft
woolen one like what the Frenchmen
use in Canada. There was a braid
down the seams of his coat and round
his cuffs. I could see the braid quite
plain. He had no gun, nor axe, nor
nothing in his hands, but just stood
there with his hand on his hip, that
way, right in the path, doing nothing.
“ ‘Our hunting all over sir,’ I said
to the gentleman; ‘wo may as well g<
home.’ ‘Why, what is tho matter,
John?' says he. ‘Why, look at tho
man, there, right in the track; he’s
scared our caribou, 1 guess.’ Well sir,
he was very mad, the gentleman was
and was for turning right round an?,
going home; but 1 wanted to go up
and speak to the man. He stood there
all the time —never moved. I kind '
bowed, nodded my head to him, and
he kind of nodded his head, just the
same way to me. Well, I started to
go up to him, when up rose a great
tat cow-moose between him and me.—
‘Hook at the moose, Captain,’ said I
‘Shoot herl’ ‘Good Heavens, John!
he says, ‘if I do I shall shoot the man,
too!’ ‘No, no, sir, never mind,’ I cried,
‘fire at the moose!’ Well, sir, he op
with the gun, fired, and tho
moose. She just ran a few yards,
pitched forward, and fell dead; when
the smoke cleared off the man was
gone; could not see him uowhcrcs.—
‘My soul and body! what’s become of
the man, Captain?’ I says. 'Dimuo.
John; perhaps he is down, too,’ says
he. ‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘you stop here,
and I will go and look; mebbe he is
dead, mebbe not quite dead yet.’—
Well, I went up to the place, and
there was nothing there—nothing but
a little pine tree, no manat all, 1 went
all round, sir—no tracks, no sign of %
man anywhere on the snow. What
was it, do you think, sir, we ssw?”
“Well, John,” I replied, “I think
that was a curious inatanco of refrac
tion.”
“Oh, mebby,” saya John.
Hals Callers.
Do not call formally on a lady unles
Invited to do so; dress suitably for the
occasion. Wear a full dress suit, ligbl
necktis— white ties are preferred by soma
rantlemcn. but the fashion of “neck
dress” is not so much in yogas ss it was
a few years ago. It has been adopted
by waiters, and bence the death of tbs
mode. It is necessanr according to ths
dictates of fashion, that gentlemen call
ers should wear pumps or low-cal
French shoes. The silk hose most match
ths tint of the tie or scarf unless this is
white, and then the half-hose can be ol
any color you may please to fancy. The
pocket-handkerchief should be white
linen, or white linen with e very deli
cate border. When you call, etiquette
requires you to limit your visits; do not
remain longer than ten minutea unless
requested to do so by the hostess. Lsava
your overcoat in the carriage, and should
you go on foot, leave this garment in
ths hall; by no means go into tbs parlor
with it on. Fartaks of soma refresh
ments, no matter how mnch disinclined
- yon feel to eat Yon are permitted to
refuse wine if you wish, for no lady wil)
urge you to drink after you have refused.
Do not remove your gloves (not sven
when you partake of refreihments);
their hue should correspond with your
Us and half-hose.
Beveral Salt Lake people, widely vary,
lng in social (landing, have bean as,
(acted by tbs recent strike in the Cora
stock lode, which caused a boom iq
stocks. A hotel cook is able now to lb
tire on $40,000, and a man who has
walked the streets with well van (Slated
iQlothing can now call $30,000 his own.
The yearly product ot American for
ests exceeds in value that of all the
boa, steel god coal combined. , ljm .
A Year’s Wooing.
Twas Autumn when first they stood on tbs
Ripe peart on tho poar tree, ripe oorn ou tbe
The swallows flow swiftly far up In the blue.
And speeding still southward, were lost to tbs
view.
Bald be: “Can you love me, as I can love you?
She said, quite demurely: "Already I do I'
Winter when next they met on tbe
Tbe pearfrees were brown, and white waa tbe
ridge;
The swallows were feathering their neste In
Algiers,
She looked Into his face and she burst Into
tears!
Bis nose It was pinched, and his Ups they were
blue.
Said she: “I can't love you!” Said be: “Nor
I you I"
'Twas Sprlng-Umewhen next they stood on
tbe bridge.
And white waa the pear-tree, and green was
the ridge;
The swallows had thought of nspeedy return;
And the midges were dancing a-dowu the
brown burn.
He said: “Pretty maiden, let by-gones go by—
" Can you love me again?’' She said: "loan
try."
‘Twas Summer when next they stood on the
bridge;
There were pears on tho pear-tree, tall corn on
the ridge;
The swallows wheeled ’round them, far up la
the blue:
Then swooped down and snapped up a midge
let or two.
Bald he: "Lest some trifle should come In tbe
way.
And part us again, will you mention the
day'/’’
She stood, looking down on the fast-flowing
rill.
Then answered, demurely: “As soon as you
wiU!”
—Chamber's Journal.
iyf LOVE ANPPUTY.
A year ago two young men dwelt in
a quiet house in the Rue Crussol, in
Paris, leading their lives in common.
Their intimacy, which had begun at col
lege, was cemented by a similarity of
tastes and characters.
Paul had been educated for an engi
neer; Emile was a notary’s clerk. Af
ter having completed their studies they
found themselves about to begin the
battle of life, and they resolved to pass
together the period of trials between
school days and the entrance on practi
cal life, \yhen the choice of friends ip so
difficult. Never a word or action mar
refi the serenity of their friendship.
Paul was in love with a good and
charming girl who dwelt in the same
house. Paul, who was infatuated with
her. was in no way surprised at Emile’s
friendly attentions to his sweetheart,
and Emile, who was ever ready to wait
on her, never thought of his familiarity
being objectionable to Paul.
Their friendship was founded on es
teem and confidence—a confidence so
great that one morning in April Paul,
who had for some time carried on ne
gotiations with an American company
engaged in the construction of a rail
way, said to his friend:
“An occasion has presented itself for
me to show what I can do and to mako
the beginning of a career. I have been
offered the superintendence of the work
on a railway in Louisiana. 1 shall be
obliged to be absent at least a year. I
cannot take Hortense with me, and the
thought of giving her up breaks my
heart In love distrust is a merit I
will not confide Hortense to mv broth
er. I confide her to you. You will
watch over her as though she were a
sister, and in a year, when I return, I
shall find her pure and worthy of me—
she will be my wife.”
“You can depend on me,” replied
Emile, grasping his friend’s band.
Paul departed tranquil and confi
dent.
Emile and Hortense were left to
themselves —she with all the seductions
and beauty of youth, he with all the
ardor of a young man of 20.
At 20 they made sacrifice—he of his
desires, she of her instincts, keeping in
subordination all thqir thoughts, all
their wishes, all their conversation, to
find their supreme satisfaction in duty
accepted and accomplished.
When Hortense returned from the
shop and Emile from the office they
spoke of love, of a divided passion, he
pleading the cause of the absent lover,
she deceiving herself while listening to
him.
On Sunday when the shop and office
were closed and when they went to
Mendon, to Saint Mande, to fetes, or to
pleasant reunions, the passers-by would
pause to look at the couple, so young,
so beautiful, on whom the sunlight of
happiness seemed to smile, and would
aay:
“How charming is love!”
And Emile's neighbors, looking
through the window into the room
where tbe happy couple sat, would
say:
“There is paradise!”
'that paradise was a helL Forced to
■peak of loro to Hortense, Emile ex
perienced strange sensations, the cause
ct which he sought in vain to ignore.
Forced to listen, Hortenso said to
herself that no voice in the world
could better express the language of
true passion, and that the woman who
might be loved as she could love Emile
would be very happy.. The Same which
they wished to fan for another burned
them.
Without having spoken of their love,
without having interpreted one anoth
er’s feelings from a gesture or a look,
they had become afraid even to con
verse with each other; they had become
afraid to speak of Paul, of his love and
his hopes. His name was never pro
nonnoed; it would have sounded in
their ears like a reproach.
He bought at the stationer’s a photo
graph of an actress, and, showing it to
Hortense, said:
“That is my sweetheart. What do
you think of her?”
And Hortense replied, with indiffer
ence:
“She is very pretty.”
Then the two retired to their rooms
and wept.
When Paul had been gone two
months he ceased to reply to Emile’s
letters. Hortense had written to him
twice without receiving an answer.
This state of affairs continued until
tbe morning of the lstof January,when
Emile awaited the rising of Hortense in
order to wish her a happy New Year
and to present his gift.
He had managed to procure from
Paul’s parent* a photograph reduced
from a portrait, and baa it encased in
a pretty gold looket bearing tbe initial
of Hortense.
When the young girl received the
present and opened the locket, and saw
the portrait of Paul, she blushed, then
torned pale and began to weep.
"Why do you weep?” asked Enrile,
in a chokiog voice. “He will moon re
turn.”
“■V'You do not understand me,” re
plied Hortense. “I weep, but it is for
joV."
Her pent-up feelings found relief in
sighs and tears.
Emile doparted and did not return
until tho evening was well advanced.
Hortense awaited him, seated by the
fire. She was still weeping.
The open locket was on the mantel.
Emilo who was greatly embarrassed,
mechanically turnod his eyes toward it,
then uttered a cry. His portrait had
replaced that of Paul in the locket.
“What does it mean?” he exclaimed.
“Hortense, what have you done?"
“Leave me!” she said, taking the
locket and slipping it into her bosom.
“Leave me! Do not speak to me! I
am mad!”
“Mad?” repeated Emile, really fright
ened.
“Ah, you see nothing! You under
stand nothing!” cried the young girl, a
prey to violent passion. "You do not
sec, then, that this existence is impos
sible! You do not understand that I
adore you, and that this life of deceit
and constraint is killing me!”
And throwing her arms about him
she let her head fall with a sigh on the
breast of the young man,who trembled
violently.
When he had recovered from his agi
tation he disengaged himself from the
ombrace of the young girl, and, lead
ing her to a seat, said to her, in a brok
en voice:
“And I, Hortense, I adore you.”
“Ah, my God!” exclaimed Hortense,
with great joy.
“Let me speak—l adore you! I have
loved you for a long time. I have
aVuggled in vain against this passion,
fool that I was! How could 1 help lov
ingyou?”
“Ah, my darling!”
“Let me speak. When I perceivod
that this love had taken possession of
my heart the memory of Paul came to
me like a reproach. At this very mo
ment I see him before me, the embodi
ment of my remorse.”
“I love you!” stammered Hortenso.
“Be silent! Such words must not be
spoken. Poor boy! he is calm as he
stands there, trusting in our honor,
counting upon your loyalty, upon my
word, and we ”
He stopped, choked by his tears.
“Why is Paul not here?” said Hor
tense.
“Because he has confidence in us.
Whatever it costs me, I will not betray
it—l will rather die!”
“And I will die too!”
They paused, and a strange look
passed between them like a magnetic
current. All their accumulated ideas,
all their emotions, seemed to fix thom
selves upon that one thought of death,
which had suddenly presented itself as
a refnge or an expiation.
“Oh, yes!” said Hortense, summing
up all her impressions in that second,
“I would rather die than think of "
She did not finish. She was about to
pronounce the name of Paul.
Emile took her hands, and, gazing in
her face as if ho would read her
thoughts, said, slowly and mournfully:
“You wish it?"
Hortense raised hersoif to her full
height and said, calmly and solemnly:
“At once.”
They threw themselves into each oth
er’s arms and remained in a long em
brace.
They were about to pronounce their
own sentence of death.
Early tho next morning the postman
presented himself at Emile’s lodging
with a letter bearing the postmark of
New Orleans.
He knocked in vain at the door. No
one answered the summons. The post
man was about to go away, when one
of Emile’s neighbors, a woman, called
him back, saying that Emile was in his
lodging.
Tho postman knocked again. Sud
denly the woman turned pale.
“Do you notico nothing?” she asked,
in a frightened tone.
“No”
“That odor. It is of gas. My God!
has there been an accident?”
The porter was questioned and said
that late on the previous night Emile
had gone out to buy a bushel of char
coal.
The neighbor remembered that sev
eral times on the preceding evening
she had seen Hortense at the window,
her eyes swollen and red from weep
ing.
“Without doubt,” she exclaimed,
“they have perished. Tbe authorities
should be warned."
This was done and the door was op
ened.
The fears of Emile’s neighbor proved
to have been not without cause. The
two young people were found senseless
and cold— Hortense on tho bod and
Emile in a chair. Every care was be
stowed upon them, but all efforts to re
vive Emile were useless. The fumes of
tho charcoal had done their work—ho
was dead.
Hortense still breathed, and they
succeeded in reviving her. When she
came to her senses tho officer of the
law proceeded to open before her tho
letter addressed to Emile.
It contained only these words:
Mv Deab Fiiiksd: Receive iny wishes
for the happiness both of yourself and
your little wife, for you know that I am
not fool enough to think that you have
waited for my permission to make lore to
Hortense. Do not regret this little breach
of trust on your part. 1 have been married
a month. Paul.
Hortense, when she had heard the
letter read, roso and ran to the chair in
which lay the corpse of Emile, and,
holding the letter before the face of the
lifeless man, exclaimed:
“Is it not funny, this farce?”
Then she turned away, breaking into
loud laughter. She was mad.
This anecdote about himself was told
by tbe late I)r. Magoon: When the
doctor was a student at Colby his
supply of monoy was very small. One
Saturday he started for Pishou’s Ferry,
intending to preach on Sunday, with
out a cent in his pocket. He walked
as far as the ferry, but how to get
across was a problem. "The ferry
man was waiting, ami to hosiiate was
to bo lost,” said the doctor. “So I
stepped into tbe boat and sat down
with apparent unconcern. ‘Where are
you going?’ asked the ferryman. ‘Go
ing across to preaoh,’ I replied. As
we touched the other shore I asked
how much the fare was. ‘Nothing,’
waa the answer, and I took my bundle
and went on my way rejoicing.”—
WatervHit HciUincL
SOLDIER AND CAMEL.
Ongant Buuoui Why ths Two Cannot
Get Along Together.
Among tbe astounding items of in
formation which came all the way from
the Soudan to this country by cable was
the statement that the British infantry
in retiring from Gubat upon Abu-Klea
sreferred5 referred walking to camel-riding.
his information is not surprising.
Takes genuine “Tommy Atkins,” who
has probably never been across any
thing but a highly-tamed donkey on
Hempstead Heath, and put him outside
the hump of a healthy camel, and he
will undoubtedly echo the words of the
cablegram—he prefers walking to cam
el-riding. On the contrary, there is
much suffering for the unsophisticated.
The camel has by some poetical indi
vidual been dubbed the “ship of the
desert." In that particular case the
builder most decidedly builded better
than he knew. Os course riding upon
a camel will not give anybody sea-sick
ness, but it is only because of the ab
sence of the sea. All the other ele
ments necessary to mal-de-mer are
present in camel-riding. The exercise
may be an exercitant physically, but it
rcarcely produces the calm which is
supposed to sleep upon the pool of
Bethesda.
The process of riding a camel pro
duces grievous and sundry vexations
oven for expert equestrians. In the
first place, the animal must be com
pelled to lie down. He is provided
with a peg in his nose, the peg is at
tached to a string, and when the string
is pulled he is supposed to go down
upon his bended knees. Ho does not
go down, however, without a protest.
>u the contrary, lie snarls in sounds
that can be heard half a mile off; if
there is anybody within biteable dis
tance he will bite; and if there is any
thing objectionable to him within reach
of his gaunt, sprawly hind-legs he will
kick out with an earnestness worthy of
a better cause. The bite of Mr. Camel
is nothing to be trilled with. His jaws
have a horizontal action, working from
side to side, and the lower maxillary
churns above the upper maxillary with
a grit and a grind that would make any
person with delicate nerves shiver with
the devotion of an aspen to its peculiar
business of shivering, Not once nor
twice, but often has the camel lifted
off at one fell bite the cranium of somo
Arab or Hindoo who had reposed so
much confidence in his good intentions
as to stand beneath his nostrils and
smoke villanously strong‘tobacco.
As for the kick of the camel, it i*
what might be described in a certain
vernacular as a “holyterror.” As far
reaching as a sheriff’s warrant, it has
at the same time the force of a Krupp
cannon. When an excited billiardist
whirls around a cue with which to an
nihilate the man who has just beaten
him, the cue resembles the camel’s
kicking leg. It gyrates, it seems to
flash, and then it floors most absolutely.
In Arabia there is a legend that the
camel of the Prophet lifted one of its
legs with such effect that a wicked gen
tleman was summarily imbedded in a
rock exactly five miles away from the
spot where the camol performed his
aaitatory feat. Whether or not tho
camel knows his powers, his kicking
possibilities are greater than those of a
disgruntled politician. His kick has
a far-reaching, corkscrewical effect
which is difficult to describe. With its
old-fashioned, sponge foot a camel caD
knock even tho checkoff a Ninth Ward
politician, for even triple brass cannot
avail against its intensity of applica
tion.
There is one thing pleasant about tho
camel. That is the lustre of his eye.
Juno was called the “ox-eyed” from
the rich resemblances of her eyes to
those of a placid cow, but richer in
snbdued lustre than the eyes of the ox
or (he gazelle is the eye of tho camol.
Nevertheless, it is the kind of wicked
optic described by Longfellow and
plainly hangs out the signal of “be
ware!” Gazing into the eye of a camel
is like looking down into the depths of
a clear well—dark, glittering, profound,
and containing a light which irradually
fades away into ineffablo dark-brown
shadows. Nevertheless, the romance
Is taken eat of the beautiful, mild eye
ot tbe eamel by the knowledge that
there skalk* beneath It a bite ol terri
ble proportions end behind It a kick
that weald seem to make dynamito a
superfluous luxury of civilization.
As (or the “ship of the desert” being
all that fancy paints it, the experience
of Tommy Atkins in tho Soudan ex
presses just about tho truth of the
mattor. First a rock forward, then a
jolt backward, and suddenly a catch
up in the middle, which makes the ver
tebrae quiver like blanc mango in tbe
hands of a careless waiter, are just
about the general characteristics of
camel-riding. Attached to all this
there are physical pains which, to nso
the singularly expressive language ot
the cablegrams permitted to be dissem
inated by Gen. Lord Wolseley, make
the British troops “prefer walking to
camel-riding.” An experienced mahout
upon the neck of a “jungle” elephant
in the ravines of Kinchunjunga could
not possibly be a more deplorable
wreck of humanity than an English in
fantry soldier perched with all his ac
coutrements upon the back of a Sou
dan camel. To him an equinoctial
storm in the Mediterranean would, in
comparison, be a pleasurable experi
ence; he would probably prefer an
earthquake, a volcano, a thunderbolt,
or anything else that would suddenly
fiut him out of “extreme" torment,
n short, the camel is a very mnch over
rated animal. He is a growler,* a
grumbler, and misanthropically vicious;
his sole virtues lie in padded feet, a
capacious stomach, and a suspendable
power of chymilication, chylification,
and deglutition, and a familiarity with
the peculiarities of the trackless ways
of the desert Hence it is oasy to un
derstand Gen. Lord Woiseley’s intima
tion to the world that the Gubat troops
perfer marching to camel-riding. In
deed, it probably conceals particulars
about unnumbered pains suffered by
the unsophisticated British camelry in
their retreat from Gubat to the concen
trating point at Abu-Klea.
This is found pasted up in a black
smith's shop in Jackson, Ga.: “No*
tice—De copartnership heretofore
tilting betwixt me and Mose Skinner
is hereby resolved. Dem what owe de
firm will settle wid me, and dem what
the firm owe settle wid Mose.”
How and Then-
BT lOUISX CHAIfoLBB MOULTOX.
And tad you loved me then, my dear,
And had you loved me there,
when still the sun wss In the east
And hope wss Id the air—
Who* all the birds sans to the dawn
And I but sang to you,
Oh had you loved me then, my dear.
And had you then been true I
But ah 1 the day wore on, my dear,
And when the noon grew hot
The drowsy birds forgot to Bing,
And you and I forgot
To talk of love, or live for faith.
Or build ourselves a nest.
And now our hearts are shelterless,
Our sun Is In the west.
[Si The cobweb style of penmanship
among young ladies is no longer declar
ed fashionable.
‘ The Beauty of Coal.
Lyell, in his experiments with ooa’.
remarks “that alter cutting a slice so
thin that it should transmit light, it
was found that in many parts of the
pure and solid coal, in which geologists
had no suspicion that they shoulcl bf
ablo to dotect any vegetable structure,
not only were annular rings of tho
growth of several kinds of treos beau
tifully distinct, but even tho mcdulary
rays, and, what is still more remarka
ble, in some cases even the spiral ves
sels, could bo discerned.” Again, in
another place, "the high state of pres
ervation in which many of the objects
occur, the perfect condition ot tho
leaves, and other parts of many of th«
ferns, tho preservation in which many
of tho sharp angles of numerous stems
and plants known to be of soft am',
juicy nature, with the surfaces of a
sagillariic, especially marked with
lines, streaks, and flutings so delica*
that the mere drifting of a day would
have inevitably destroyed them, togeth
er with the occurrence of certain fruits
which are found in heaps aud clusters,
together with many other facts of like
nature leading to similar conclusions,
convince us that these objects have
nover been subjected to drift, but were
buried on the spots where they lived
and flourished.” We quote these evi
dences of tho perfect preservation of
fragile plants and of fruits of a remote
ago as an important reason why further
inquiry as to its cause should be made.
If these plants were suddenly immers
ed in a fluid which excluded light and
air and preserved them while becom
ing solid, it is analogous to the preser
vation of plants and insects in gum
copal, and does not require unusual ar
guments to obtain relief. The presence
of trees standing upright where they
grew and imbedded in coal suggested a
probability of immersion in the same
way. The recent discoveries' of im
monso deposits of petroleum in subter
ranean cavities or streams suggests tho
theory which is here offered—that this
"mineral oil,” as it was first called,
may be the origin of coal and not its
product Note the thickness of many
strata of coal—some aro sixty feet
thick and are of uniform structure—
with slate of limestone floors and roofs;
and coal also has stratification closely
resembling stratified rocks which de
serves attention. Petroleum, bitumen
and asphaltum are classed together as
of a similar nature, although tho first
is a liquid and the last-named a solid.
We find a great difficulty in believing
Setroleum to be a vegetable product.
t any species of vegetation yielded
more resinous or oily products in form
er ages than those of to-day, theso
products wore either drawn from the
earth, water or air to supply the vege
tation that held them. It also seems
unreasonable to have so much vegeta
tion derived from the vegetable fiber,
when the entire growth of vegetation of
any soil or climate appears inadequate
to represent a uniform body of coal
sixty feet thick.
Mistreated Him.
One day, several years ago, while
Addison was sitting in his “garrety”
room, revising his Cato, he received the
following note from Dick Steele: “My
darling Addison: lam in that cavity
profanely known as Gehenna’s excava
tion. My morning hours aro disturbed
by collectors and my evening moments
are made harsh by the footsteps of the
man I owe. Addison, we have always
been good friends. lam a whig and
you are a whig, in this kingdom by the
sea—as Edgar Poe will in the future
express it—but can’t you help me out
of this fix?”
Addison had but little money. In
fact he owed the grocer, the barber and
tho candlestick manipulator, blit lie
pawned his gold spurs, his richly orna
mented sword, his silver tea-pot—his
all, and raising a hundred pounds, sent
the sum to his distressed triend. Sev
eral days afterwards, when Addison
found himself in Steele’s neighborhood,
he decided to go up and see if there
were any other way in which he could
help his poor friend. As ho approach
ed the door leading into Steele's room,
he heard music and dancing and sounds
only befitting the abode of those who
felt the weight of many nickels, but
halting not, he shoved open the door
and entered. Steele, dressed in a suit
of tawdry clothes, stood in the middle
of the room. On the sofa sat a young wo
man with a discolored eye; beside her
reclined a woman with bad teeth; while
at the right stood women who were not
grand-motherly in appearance. Dan
dies and hilarious bucks stood around,
and upon tho whole, the scene was ono
of fashion and excessive refinement.
When Addison entered, Steele, who had
been turning tho crank of a musical in
strument, arose and said:
“Ilah, Jiere is Mr. Addison. We are
all glad to see him. Addison, how do
yon find yourself?”
Addison was disgusted. He looked
at the table, loaded with ham sand
wiches and said:
“I thought, sir, that my donation
was intended to keep you from pris
on?”
“Correct you arc, cully,” exclaimed
Steele, "but now that I am out, wo
should enjoy ourselves. Henry," ad
dressing a boy, “bring Mr. Addison a
glass of beer. Ah, my dear essayist,
you do not seem to bo enjoying your
self. Had to soak your household goods
to keep me out, eh? Glad to hear it.
Fine thing to have friends, Addy—fine
thing. Hadn’t been for you, I would
have been in jail. AajMa, lam giving
a dinner. Say, cap’o /Ucnd mo aer
enty-five cents?”* \
/ 0 *»J that
3toele.—Ar-
A Tragedian Among tbe Bojrg.
“I have been a school boy myself in
a small way,!’ said Mr. Lawrence Bar
rett, the tragedian, to the pupils of the
Central Grammar School m Brooklyn
yesterday.
Tho actor seemed a little nervous in
addressing his youthful audience, and
said so.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “the rea
son I have faced larger and possibly
more critical audiences with less nerv
ousness was the reflection that I was
but endeavoring to interpret the almost
divine thoughts of another instead of
speaking for myself. We are all, all
groping in tho dark, blindly looking
out for tho tasks.be they great or small,
laid out for us. Out of labor comes re
pose; out of work a ducsense of happi
ness at labor well done.”
After speaking upon the grand re
sults achieved by education Mr. Barrett
said:
"I am sorry I cannot say any more
it this time, but if I had tpo saying of
a thousand words I could not do more
than wish you, as I do now, all tho joys
,nd happiness of life until it ends.”—
New York Journal.
Damalas.
M. Aristides Ambrose Damalas, Sara
Bernhardt’s husband, is the third son of
M. Damalas, who was formerly Mayor
of Syra, a post which he renounced after
the Greek revolution of 1862. M. Da
malas, Sr., left $60,000 to each of his
four children. M. Aristides Damalas
did not practice any profession, but had
a strong inclination for the stage, and
much frequented the company of actors
and actresses. Four years ago, when
war between Grcoee and Turkey seemed
imminent, lie took service in the Greek
cavalry, but soon left it and obtained a
post as Chancellor at the Greek Consu
late at Moscow. This, too, he soon gave
up and returned to Paris, where he spent
the last of his fortune. He took a fe»
lessons from Delaunay, and entered Sara
Bernhardt’s company.
jQSt behold and read attentively.
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