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ml ft By P. M. HALE. office: Fnt'tteville St., Second Floor Fisher Building. RATES of subscription: one copy one year, mailed poet-paid $2 00 One copy fix months, mailed post-paid. . . . 1 00 v""No name entered without payment, and no paper sent after expiration of time paid for. LIFE'S CHIVALRY. ADVERTISING HATES. . , Advertisements will be inserted for One Dollar per square (one Inch) for the first and Fifty Cents for each subsequent publication. Contracts for advertising for any space or tlms may be made at the office of the RALEIGH REGISTER, Second Floor of 'Fisher Building, Fayetteville Street, next to Market House. VOL. II. RALEIGH, N. 0., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1885. NO. 83. Chambers's Journal. Where, in the busy city's care and strife, Its thirst for riches and its toil for bread, 1 found that soul of chivalry in life, Which some are mourning for a truly dead ? s-hall we seek for it in the forest glade, In hoary dim cathedral, gray with age ; In chancel where the mailed knights are laid With rusted lance, no further war to wage ; In mould'ring castle or in tried tower, Where pomp and pageantry were wont te be ? Ah. no ! But yet the ancient spirit's power Is with us, and its form, if we would see; To labor cheerfully from hour to hour, To do good graciously, is chivalry. VARIETIES OP SOUTHERN LIFE. Tbe Remane lf Saarlse Back. i fMiss Hurfree.J What momentous mornin g arose wi th so resplendent a glory that it should have im printed its indelible reflection on the face of this great; Cumberland cliff; what elo quence of dawn so splendid that the dumb, insensate stone should catch its spirit and retain its expression forever and forever ? A deep, narrow stream flowed around the base of the "paint-rock." Immense fis sures separated it from its fellows. And charged with its subtler meaning it tow ered above them in isolated majesty. Moons waxed and waned ; nations rose and fell; centuries came and went. And still it faced the east, and still, undimmed by storm and time, it reiterated the miracle and the prophecy of the rising eunJ ' 'T war painted by the Injuns that's what I he v always hearn tell. Them folks war mos'ly leagued with the Evil One That's how it kem they war gin the grasp ter scuffle up that thar bluff, ez air four huDderd feet high an' ez sheer ez a wall; it aiu't got foot-hold fur a cockleburr. Lev hearn tell that when they got ez high ez the pictur' they war 'lowed by the devil ter stand on air. An' I believes it. Else how"d thev make out ter do that thar iobt" The hairy animal, whose jeans suit pro claimed him man, propounded this inquiry with a triumphant air. There was a sar castic curve on the lips of hi interlocutor, Clearly it was not worth his while to en lighten the mountaineer to talk of the unknown races whose work so long sur vives their names, to speculate upon the extent of their civilization and the me rhanical contrivances that reached those dizzy heights, to confide his nebulous fan cies clustering about the artist-poet who painted this grand, rude lyric upon the immortal rock. He turned from the strange picture, suspended between heaven and earth, and looked over the rickety palings into the dismal little ' graveyard of the mountaineers. Nowhere, he thought, was the mystery of life and death so gloomily suggested. Humanity seemed so small, so transitory a thing, expressed in these few mounds in the midst of the undying grandeur of the mountains. Material na ture conquers; man and mind are as nitught. Only a reiteration of a well conned lesson, for so far this fine young fellow of thirty had made a failure of life; the material considerations with which he , had wrestled had got the better of him, - and a place within the palings seemed rather preferable to his place without. It was still strange to John Cleaver that his lines should have fallen in this wilder ness; that the door of that house on the -lope of the Backbone should be the only door upon earth open to him; that such men as this mountaineer were his neighbors . and associates. The fact seemed a gro tesque libel on likelihood. As he rode aw;ty he was thinking of his costly educa tion, the sacrifices his father had made to secure it, his dying conviction, which was such a comfort to him, that in it he had left his penniless son a better thing than wealth with such training and such abil ities what might he not reach ? When John Cleaver returned from his medical studies in Paris to the Western city of his birth, to scores of charity patients, and to a tine social position by virtue of the pres tige of a good family, there seemed only a little waiting needed. But the old physi cians held on to life and the paying prac tice with the grip of the immortals. And he found it difficult to sustain existence while he waited. At the lowest ebb of his fortunes there came to him a letter from a young lawyerj much in his own professional position, but who had confessed himself beaten and turned sheep-farmer. Here, among the mountains of East Tennessee, said the let ter, he had bought a farm for a song; the land was the poorest he ever saw, but served his purposes, and the house was a phenomenal structure for these parts a six-room brick, built fifty years ago by a city man with a bucolic craze and con sumptive tendencies. The people were terribly poor; still, if his friend would C"rae he might manage to pick up some thing, for there was not a physician in a circuit of sixty miles.1 So Clpnvpr hart tiimprl bin fara to the mountains. But unlike the sheep-farmer lie did not meet his reverses lightly. The man was at bay. And like a savage thing' ne took his ill-fortune by the throat, suc cess had seemed so near that there was something like the pain of death in giving up the life to which he had looked forward w ith such certainty. He could not console himself with this comatose state, and call 't life. He often told himself that there was nothing left but to think of what he 'niirht have done, and eat out his heart. His ambition died hard. As his horse ambled aloDg, a gruff voice ''foke his reverie. "'Light an' hitch," culled out the master of a wayside hovel. A man of different temperament might j'ave found in Cleaver's uncouth surround iirs some points of palliation. His heart niyht have warmed to the ignorant moun taineers' high and tender virtue of hospi tality. A responsive respect might have '" n induced by the contemplation of their K'de, so intense that it recognizes no su I'erior: so inordinate that one is tempted '" cry out, Here are the true republicans! indeed. Here are the only aristocrats! I l-e rough fellow was shambling out to ''''I' him with cordial insistence. An old 'r' ii' , le aning on a stick in the doorway, "'led after her son, "Tell him ter 'light "teh, Peter, an' tat his supper along "us."' A young girl sitting on the porch, reeling varn preparatory to rude 1 "ly illumined. Even tbe bare-footed. -headed children stood still in pleased ' !' ttation. Certainly John Cleaver's po sition in life was as false as it was painful. "I me great human heart was here, un 'utoied though it was. and roughly ac- 'Mitred. And he himself had found that ,r,-'-k and Latin do not altogether avail. "In the Tknnbssh Mouktains," by wrles KKbert Craddock (Miss Murfree): ninth Boston: I lour h ton. Mifflin & Co, i)rw ork, 11 East Seventeenth Street : The 'v-r6Me pregg. Cambridge. 1885. lflmo. cloth. ii u Kor le bT " booksellers, or mailed by - uuiuuers on receipt of the price. The little log house was encompassed by the splendor of autumnal foliage. A pur ple haze clung to the distant mountains; every range and every remove had a new tone and a new delight. The gray crags, near at hand, stood out sharply against the crimson sky. And high above them, all in its impressive isolation, loomed Sunrise Rock, heedless of the transitory dyiig day and the ineffective coming night. The girl's reel was still whirling; at reg ular intervals it ticked and told off another cut. Cleaver's eyes were fixed upon her as ho declined Peter Teake's invitation. He had seen 'her often before, but he did not know as yet that that face would play a strange part in the little mental drama that was to lead to the making of his for tune. Her cheek was flushed ; her delicate crimson lips were slightly parted ; the live gold of the sunbeam touched the dead- yellow, lustreless masses of her hair. Here and there the clustering tendrils separated, as they hung about her shoulders, and dis closed bright glimpses of a red cotton ker- cmei Knotted around her throat; she wore a dark-blue homespun dress, and despite tne coarse texture of her attire, there was something of the mingled brilliance and softness of the autumn tints in her humble presence. Her eyes reminded him of those deep, limpid mountain streams with gold en-brown pebbles at the bottom. Scorn iui as ne was, he was only a man and a young man. Wifdi a sudden impulse, he leaned forward and handed her a pretty cluster of ferns and berries which ho had gathered in the forest. 1 he reel stopped ; the thread broke. She looked up, as she received mechanically his woodland treasure, with so astonished a face that it induced in this man of the world a sense of embarrassment. "Air they good yerbs fur somethin' f she asked. A quick comprehension of the ludicrous situation flashed through his mind. She evidently made no distinctions in the heal ing art as practiced by him and the "yerb doctor," with whom he occasionally came into professional contact. And the pre sentation of the "yerbs" seemed a pre scnption instead of a compliment, "No no," he said, hastily, thinking of the possibility of a decoction. " They are not good for tea. They are of no use except to look at." And he rode away, laughing softly. Everything about the red brick house was disorganized and dilapidated; but the dining-room, which served the two young bachelors as a sitting-room also, was cheer ful with tbe glow of a hickory fire and a kerosene lamp, and although the floor was bare and the tmy-paned windows cur tained only with cobwebs, there was a suggestively comfortable array of pipes on the mantel-piece, and a bottle of gracious aspect. Sitting in front of the fire, the light full on his tawny beard and close clipped blond hair, was a man of splendid proportions, a fine, frank, intellectual face, and a manner and accent that proclaimed him as distinctly exotic as his friend. He, too, had reared the great scaffolding of an elaborate education that he might erect the colossal edifice of his future. His hands beat the empty air and he had no materials wherewith to build. But there was the scaffolding, a fine thing in itself wasted, perhaps. For the sheep-farmer did not need it. "Well old sinner!" he exclaimed smi Iingly, as Cleaver entered. " Did you tell Tom to put up your 'beastis' ? He is so ' brigaty ' that he might not stand Were the two friends sojourning in the Cumberland Mountains on a camp-hunt, these excerpts from the prevalent dialect might have seemed to Cleaver a pleasantry of exquisite flavor. But they were not so journers : they were permanently csiaDiisn ed here. And he felt that every concession to the customs of the region was a descent toward the level of its inhabitants. He thought Trelawney was already degenerat ins in this disheveled life mentally, in manner, even in speech. For with a phi loloeist's zest Trelawney chased verbal monstrosities to their lair, and afterwards displayed them in his daily conversation with as much pride as a connoisseur feels in exhibiting odd old china. As these re flections intruded themselves. Cleaver si lently swore a mighty oath an oath he had often sworn before that he would not go down with him, he would not deteriorate too. he would hold hard to the traditions of a higher sphere. But sins against convention could not detract from the impressivenessot tne man lounging before the fire. If Trelawney only had money, how he would adorn the state of nabob ! "Brigaty!" he reiterated. "That's a fanny word. It sounds as if it might be kin to the Italian bragota. Or, see here --brigaf eh? brigare brigarn? I won der how these people come by it" A long panse ensued, broken, only by the ticking of their watches: the waste of time asserted itself. All was silent with out; no wind stirred; no leaf nor acorn fell ; the mute mists pressed close to the window. Surely there were no otner crea- tures in all the dreary world. Ana inis, thought Cleaver, was what he had come to after all his prestige, all his efforts! "Trelawney," he said suddenly, "these are long evenings. Don't you think with all this time on our hands I don't know but don't yon think we might write something together?" A frank surprise was in his friend's brown eyes. He replied doubtfully, "Write what?" " I don't know," said Cleaver despon dently. " And suppose we had the talent to project 'something' and the energy to complete it, who would publish it? " " I don't know," said the doctor, more hopelessly still. Another pause. The foxes were barking in the moonlight, in the red autumn woods. That a man should feel less lonely for the sound of a wild thing's voice ! " My dear fellow," said John Cleaver, a certain passion of despair welling up in his tones be leaned forward and laid his hand on his friend's knee "it won't do for us to spend our lives here. We must turn about and get back into the world of men and action. , Don't think I'm ungrate ful for this haven you arc the only one whojheld out a; hand but we must get back, and goon with the rest. Help me, Tre lawney help me think out some way. I'm losing faith in myself alone. Let us help each other. Many a man has made his pen his strongest friend ; they were only men at last, just such as we are. Many of them wr noor: the Lett of them were poor. w run trv nothing else. Fred so little J CJ nhanra ia left to US. Trelawney laid his warm strong hand upon the cold nervous hand trembling on hfa knee. "Jack." he said. "I have given it all up. I am through forever with those cursed alternations oi nope ana aespair. x don't believe we could write any thing that would do do any good, I mean. I wore out all energy and afflatus the best part of me waiting for the clients who never came. And all the time my appropriate sphere, my sheep-farm, was waiting forme here. I have found content- ment, the manna from heaven, while you are still sighing for the flesh-pots of Egypt. Ambition has thrown me once, and I sha'&'t back the jade again. I am a shep herd, Jack, a shepherd. 'Pastorem, Tityre, pingues Fascerc opprtet oves, dedactum dicere carmen.' That's it, my dear old boy. Sing a slen der song t We've pitched our voices on too high a key for our style of vocaliza tion. We must sing small, Jack sing a slender song I" " I'll be damned if I do ! " cried Cleaver, impetuously springing to his feet and pac ing the room with a quick stride. But his friend's words dogged him deep into the night. They would not let him sleep. He lay staring blankly at the dark ness, his thoughts busv with bis forlorn position and nis forlorn prospects, and that sense of helplessness, so terrible to a man, pressing heavily upon his heart. In tho midst of the memories of his hopes, his ambitions, and bis failures, he was like a worm in the fire. The vague presence of the majestic company of mountains without preyed upon him; they seemed stolid, unmoved witnesses of his despair. The only human creature who might have understood him would not understand him. He knew that if ho were writhing in pain with a broken limb, or the senti mental spurious anguish of a broken heart, ireiawney wouiu resolve aimseu into every gracious phqse oftiealing sympathy. But a broken life ! his friend would not make an effort. ' Yet why should he crave support? Was it true that he had pitched his voice too high? In this day of over education, when every man is fitted for any noble sphere of intellectual achieve ment and only -inborn talent survives, might it not be that he had mistaken a cul tivated aspiration for latent power? And if indeed his purposes had outstripped his abilities, the result was tragic tragic. TT. 1 3 im . Si 1 J ne was as ueau as ii ue were six icei ueep in the ground. A bitter throe of shame came with these reflections. There is something so ludicrously contemptible in a great personal ambition and a puny ca pacity. Ambition is the only passion that does not ennoble. We do not care that a low thing should lift its eyes. And if it does, we laugh. There was a movement in the hall be low. He had left Trelawney reading, but now his step was on the stairs, and with it rose the full mellow tones of bis voice He was singing of the spring-time in the autumn midnight. Poor Fred! It was always spring with him. He met his misfortunes with so cor dial an outstretched hand that it might have seemed he disarmed them. It did not'seem so to John Cleaver. He shifted his attitude with a groan. His friend's fatal apathy was an added pang to his own sorrows. And now tbe house was still, and he watched through all the long hours the western moonlight silently scale the gloomy pines, till on their plumy crests tbe vellow beams mingled with tne red ravs of the rising sun, and the empty, lonely day broke in its useless, wasted splendor upon the empty loneliness of the splendid night. ii. Cleaver took little note, at this period, of those who came and went in his life', and he took little note of how be came and went in the lives of others. He had no idea of those inexplicable circles of thought and being that touch at a single point, and jar, perhaps. One day, while the Indian summer was still red on the hills he had reason to remember this day while the purple haze hovered over the landscape and mellowed to artistic denca cv the bold. bright colors or bunnse Kock he chanced to drive along in his friend's ricketv buggy along the road that passed on the opposite bank from the painted cliff and encircled the dreary little grave yard of the mountaineers. He became suddenly aware that there was a figure lean ing against the palings; he recognized Selina Teake as he lifted bis absorbed eyes. She held her sun-bonnet in her hand, and her yellow' hair and fair face were unsha ded; how little did he or she imagine what that face was to be to him after ward! He drew up his horse and spoke: "Well, this is the last place I should think you would want to come to." She did not understand his dismal little ioke at the graveyard. She silently fixed upon him those eyes, so suggestive of deep, clear waters in which some luminous . m a a ? planet nas suns: a starry renecwon. " Did you intend to remain permanent lv?" " I war restin' awhile," she softly re plied. He had a vague consciousness that she was the first' of these proud mountaineers whom he had ever seen embarrassed or sby. She was indubitably blushing as he looked at her, and as she falteringly look ed at him. How bright her eyes were, bow red her delicate lips, what a faint fresh wild-rose-bloom was suddenly a-oioom on her check! . " Suppose you drive with me the re mainder of the way," he suggested. This was only the courtesy of the road in this region, and with her grave, deco rous manner she stepped lightly into the ve hide, and they "bowled away together. She was very mute and motionless as she sat beside him, her face eloquent with some untranslated emotion of min gled wonderment and pleasure and pain. Perhaps she drew in with tbe balsamic sun lit air the sweetest experience of her short life. He was silent too, his thoughts still hanging drearily about his blighted pros- nects and this fatal false step that had led him to the mountains; wondering wheth er he could have done better, whether he could have done otherwise at all, when it would end when and how. Trelawney was lounging against the rail fence in front of Teake's house, looking, in his negligent attire like a prince in dis guise, and talking to the mountaineers about a prospective deer hunt. There was a surnrised resentment on his face when Cleaver drove up. but the return of Selina with him made not a ripple among the Teakes. It would have been impossible to demonstrate to them that they stood on a lower social plane. Their standard of mnralitv and respectability could not be questioned ; there had never been a man nr a. woman of the humble name who had criven the others cause for shame :' they had lived ia this house on their own land for a hundred vears: they neither stole nor r.hruiuri: thev paid as they went, and asked no favors; tbey took no alms nay, thev pave of their little 1 As to the arti ficial distinctions of money and education what do the Ignorant mounteineers care about money and education ! Selina stood for a moment upon the cabin porch, her yellow hair gleaming like an aureola upon a oacKgrouna oi crimson sumach leaves. A pet fawn came to the door and nibbled at her little sun-burned hands. At she turned to go in, Trelawney sooke to her. " Shall I bring you a fawn again, or will you have some venison from the bunt to-morrow l 9 . She fixed her luminous eyes upon him and laughed a little. There was no shy ness in her face and manner how. Was Trelawney so accustomed a presence in her life, Cleaver wondered. "Ah, I see," said Fred, laughing too. " I'll bring you some venison." He was grave enough as he and bis friend drove homeward together, and Cleaver was roused to the perception that there was a certain unwonted coldness slipping insidiously between them. It was not until they were seated before the fire that Trelawney again spoke. " How did it happen that you and she were together ? " Evidently he had thought of nothing else since. "Who ? the Lady Selina ? " said Cleav er, mockingly. - Trelawney's eyes warned him to forbear. " Oh, I met her walking. and I asked her to drive with me the rest of the way." Nothing more . was said for a time. Cleaver was thinking of the fawn which Fred had given her, of the patent fact that he was a familiar visitor at the Teake house. His question, and his long dwell ing upon the subject before he asked it, seemed almost to indicate jealousy. Jeal ousy ! Cleaver could hardly credit his own suspicion. Trelawney broke the silence. " Educa tion," he said, "abruptly ; " what does ed ucation accomplish for women in our sta tion of life ? They learn to write a fash ionable hand that nobody can decipher. They talce a limited course of reading and remember nothing. Their study of foreign languages goes so far sometimes as to en able them to interject commonplace French phrases into their daily conversation, and render their prattle an affront to good taste t& well as an insult to the understanding. They have converted the piano into an in strument of torture throughout the length and breadth of the land. Sometimes they are learned ; then they are given over to 4 making an impression,' and are prone to discuss, with a fatal tendency to misapply terms, what they call ' philosophy.' As to their experience in society, no one will I maintain that their flirtations and husband- hunting tend greatly to foster delicacy and refinement. What would that girl," nod ding toward the log cabin near Sunrise Rock, " think of the girls of our world, who pursue society as a man pursues a profession;" who shove and jostle each other and null caps for the great matches. and ' put up with the others when no bet ter may be had ? She is my ideal of a modest, delicate young girl and she is the only sincere woman I ever saw. Upon my soul, I think the primitive woman holds her own very finely in comparison with the resultant of feminine culture." Cleaver listened in stunned dismay. Could Trelawney have really fallen in love with the little mountaineer He had adapted himself so readily to the habits of these people. He was so far from the world; he was dropping its chains. Many men under such circumstances, under far happier circumstances, had fallen into the fatal error of a mitaUianee. Positively he might marry the girl. Cleaver felt it an imperative duty to make an effort to avert this almost grotesque catastrophe. In its very inception, however, he was hopeless. Trelawney had always been so intolerant of control, so tenacious of impressions and emotions, so careless of results and the opinion of society. These seemed only originalities of character when he was the leader of a clique of men of his own social position. Was Cleaver a snob because they seemed to him, now that his friend was brought low in the world, a bull-headed perversity, a ludicrous eccentricity, an un kempt republicanism, a raw incapacity to appreciate the right relations of things I In the delicately adjusted balance of life ia that which is fine when a man is up, folly when a man is down ? She is a pretty little thing," be said, slightingly, "and no doubt a good little thing. And, Trelawney, II 1 were in your place I wouldn't hang around her. Your feelings might become involved she is so pretty and she might fall in love with you, and" ' You've said enough I exclaimed Tre lawney, fiercely. It was monstrous! Trelawney would marry her. Ana ne was as neipiess to Ere vent it as if Fred intended to hang imself. " Your railing at the women of society in that shallow fashion suggests the idea to me that you are trying to justify your self in -somo tremendous folly. Do you contemplate marrying her ? " ' That js exactly what I propose to do. said Trelawney. ' And you are mad enough to think you are really in love with her ? " "Why should 1 not be? If she were differently placed in point of wealth and station, would there be any incongruity ? I don't want to say anything hard of you. Cleaver, but you would be ready, to con gratulate me." "I admit," retorted Cleaver, sharply, that if she were vour eaual in station and appropriately educated I should not have a word of objection to say." ' And after all, is it the accident of po sition and fortune, or the human creature, that a man takes to his heart ? ' " But her ignorance, Fred " "Great Ood! does a man fall in love with a society girl for the sake of what she calls her ' education ? ' Whatever attracts him, it is not that. They are all ignorant ; this girl s ignorance is only relative." " Ah vou know all that is oosn, Fred." "In point of manner you yourself must concede that she is in many respects supe rior to them. She has a certain repose and gravity and dignity difficult to find among young ladies of high degree, whose educa tion has not proved an antidote for flip pancy. I won't be hard enough on them to compare tbe loveliness oi per laceor ner fine, unspoiled nature. You don't want her to be learned any more than you want an azalea to be learned. An azalea in a - .... . . a green-house becomes showy and flaunting and has no fragrance, while here in the woods its exquisite sweetness nils tbe an for miles." "Trelawney. you are fit for Bedlam." ' " I knew you would say so. I thought so. too. at first. I tried to stamp it out, and nut it down, and for a long time I fought all that is best in me." "Does she know anything about your feelings ? " " Not one word, as yet." "Then I hope something anything may happen to put a stop to it before she does." This husty wish seemed cruel to him af terward, and be regretted it. " It would break my heart." said Tre lawncv. with an extreme earnestness. "I know you think I am talking wildly, but I tell you it would break my heart. Cleaver fell to meditating ruefully upon the future in store for his friend in this desolate place. King Cophetua and the beggar-maid are a triumph of ideal eon trast. eminently fascinating in an point of view. But real life presents pro saic corollaries the Teakes. for example, on the familiar footing of Trelawney's brothers-in-law ; the old crone with her pipe, his wife's grandmother ; that ignorant girl, his wife oh, these sublunary consid erations are too inexorable. In his slug gish content he would never make another effort ; he would always live here ; he would sink, year by year, by virtue of his adapt ability and uncouth associations, nearer to the level of the mountaineers. This cul minating folly seemed destined to com plete the ruin of every prospect in a fine man's life. Cleaver did not know what was to come, and he brooded upon these ideas. HI. Those terrible problems of existence of which happier men at rare intervals catch a fleeting glimpse, and are struck aghast for a moment, pursued John Cleaver re lentlessly day by day. He could not un derstand this world ; he could not under stand the waste of himself and his friend in this useless, purposeless way ; he could not even understand tbe magnificent waste of the nature about him. Sometimes he would look with haggard eyes on the late dawns, and marvel that tbe sun should rise in such effulgence upon this seques tered spot; a perpetual twilight might have sufficed for the threnody, called life, here. He would gaze on Sunrise Rock, forever facing and reflecting the dawn, and wonder who and what was tbe man that in the forgotten past had stood on these red hills, and looked with his full heart in his eyes upon that sun, and smote the stone to sudden speech. Were bis eyes haggard too ! Was his life heavy ? Were his fiery aspirations only a touch of the actual cau tery to all that was sensitive within him ? Did he know how his world was to pass away ? Did he know how little he was in the world ? Did he. too, wring his hands, and beat his breast, and sigh for the thing that was not ? Cleaver did the work that came to him conscientiously, although mechanically enough. But there was little work to do. .Even the career of an. humble country doc- tor seemed closed to him. hie began to think he saw how it would end. He would be obliged to quit the profession; in sheer manliness he would be obliged to get some thing at which he conld work. A terrible pang here. He cared nothing for money this man, who was as poor as the very mountaineers. He was vowed to science as a monk is vowed to his order. It was an unusual occurrence, therefore, when Trelawney came in one day and found that Cleaver had been called out pro fessionally. He sat down to dine alone, but before he had finished carving, his friend entered. "Well, doctor," said Trelawney cheeri ly, "how is your patient?" Cleaver was evidently out of sorts and preoccupied. " These people are as un civilized as the foxes that they live among,' he exclaimed irrelevantly. "A case of ma lignant diphtheria, a physician their near est neighbor, and they don't let him know till nearly the last gasp. Then they all go frantic together, and swear they had no idea it was serious. I could have brained that fool, Peter Teake. But it is a hope less thing now." A premonition thrilled through trelaw ney. " Who is in at xeaKe sr Cleaver was stricken dumb. His pro fessional indignation had canceled all real ization of the impending crisis. He re membered Fred's foolish fancv an instant too late. His silence answered for him And Ireiawney, a sudden blight upon his handsome face, rose and walked out heavily into the splendors of the autumn sunset. Cleaver was bitter with self re proach. bull he felt an impotent anger that Fred should have persuaded himself that he was in love with this girl, and laid himself liable to this sentimental pain. "A heart! " thought Cleaver, scornfully. That a heart should trouble a man in a place like this! " And yet his own well schooled heart was all athrob with a keen, undreamed-of an guish when once more he had come back from the cabin in the gorge. As be enter ed. Trelawney, after one swift glance, turned his eves away. He bad learned from Cleaver's face all he feared to know. He might have learned more, a secret too subtly bitter for his friend to tell. King Cophetua was as naught to the beg gar-maid. In her dying eyes John Clea ver had seen tbe fresh and pure affection that had followed him. In her tones he had heard it. Was she misled by that pro fessional tenderness of manner whieh speaks so soothingly and touches so softly as mechanical as the act of drawing off bis gloves that she should have been moved to cry out in her huskily pathetic voice, "How good how good ye air and extended to him, among all her kin dred who stood about, her little sun-burned hand? And after that she was speechless, and when the little hand was unloosed it was cold. She had loved him and be had never known it until now. He felt like a traitor as he glanced at his friend's changed face, and he was crushed by a sense of the im mense capacity of human nature for suffer ing. What a great heart-drama was this, with its incongruous and humble dramatu persona: the intie mountaineer, ana tnese two poverty stricken stragglers from tbe vast army of men of action deserters, even it might seem. What chaotic sar casm in mis mysterious oruering ot events, Af ? J " i Trelawney, w ith his grand sacrificial pass ion ; the poor little girl, whose first fresh love had unsought followed another through these waste places; and he, all unconscious, absorbed in himself, his worldly considera tions and the dying throes of his dear am bitiens. And now, for him, who bad felt least of all, was rising a great vicarious woe. If he had known this girl's heart secret while she yet lived he might have thought scornfully of it, slightingly ; who can say how ? But now that she was dead it was if he had been beloved by an angel, and was only too obtuse, too gross, too earthly-minded to hear the rustle of her wings. clow pinuuie was tue uiuugui ui her misplaced affection ; how hard it was for his friend that he had ever discovered it. Did she know that he cared nothing? Were the last days of her short life embit tered with the pangs of a consciously un requited love? Or did she tremble, and hope, and tremble again? Ah, poor, poor, pretty thing! mysterious thrill which quivered through every fibre whenever he thought of that humble, tender love . that had followed him so lonsr. unasked and unheeded. It began to hang about him now like a dim ly-realized presence. Occasionally itoc curred to him that his nerves were disor dered,his health giving way, and he would commence a course of medicine, to forget it in his preoccupation, and discontinue it almost as soon as begun. What happened afterward was a natural sequence enough, although at the time it seemed wonderful indeed. One misty midnight, when these strong feelings were upon him, it so chanced that be was driving from a patient s bouse on the summit of the ridge, and his way lay beneath Sunrise Rock along the road which encircled the little graveyard of the moun taineers. The moon was bright ; so bright that the wreaths of vapor hanging motion less among the pines, glistened like ethe- realizcd silver; so bright that the mounds within the enclosure Was it' the mist? Was it the moonbeam? Was it the glim mer of yellow hair? Did he see, lean ing on the palings, "restin' awhile," the graceful figure he remembered so well? He was areaming, surety ; or were tnosc aeep, instarred eyes rcally fixed upon him with that wistful gaze which he had seen only twice before? once here, where he had met her, and once when she died. She was approaching him ; she was so close he might have touched her hand. Was it cold, he wondered ; cold as it was when he held it last? He hardly knew but she was seated beside him, as in that crimson sunset-tide, and they were driving togeth er at a frenzied speed through the broken shadows of the wintry woods. He did not turn his head, and yet he saw her face, drawn in lines of pallid light and eloquent with some untranslated emotion of min gled wonderment and pleasure and pain. Like the wind they sped together through the mist and the moonbeam, over tbe wild mountain road, through the flashing moun tain waters, down, down tbe steep slope toward the red brick house, where a light still burned, and his friend was waiting. He'did not know when she slipped from his side. He did not know when this mad pace was checked . He only regained his facul ties after he had burst into the warm home atmosphere, a ghastly horror in his face and his frantic fright upon his lips. Trelawney stood breathless; "Oh, forgive me," cried Cleaver. "I have spoken sacrilege. It was only hallu cination; I know it now." Trelawney was shaken. " Hallucina tion?" he faltered with quivering lips. 1 did not reflect," said Cleaver. "1 would not have jarred your feelings. I am ill and nervous." Trelawney was too broken to resent, to heed, or to answer. He sat cold and shiv ering, unconscious of the changed eyes watching him, unconscious of a new idea kindling there beginning to flicker, to burn, to blaze unconscious of the motive with which his friend after a time drew close to the table and fell to writing with furious energy, unconscious that in this moment Cleaver s fortune was made. And thus he wrote on day after day. So cleverly did he analyze his own mental and nervous condition, so unsparing and insid ious was this curious introversion, that when his treatise on the "Derangement of the Nervous Functions" was given to the world it was in no degree remarkable that it should have attracted the favorable at tention of the medical profession ; that the portion devoted to hallucinations should have met with high praise in high quarters ; that the young physician's successful work should have brought him suddenly to the remembrance of many people who had al most forgotten poor John Cleaver. No one knew, no one ever, knew its romantic inspirations. No one ever knew the strange source whence he had this keen insight: how his imperious will had held his shaken, distraught nerves for the calm scrutiny of sci ence ; how his senses had played him false, and that stronger, subtler critical entity had marked the antics of its double self and noted them down. Among the men to whom his treatise brought John Cleaver to sudden remem brance was a certain notable physician. He was growing infirm now, his health was failing, his heavy practice was too heavy for his weakening hands. He gave to the young fellow's work the meed of his rare approval, cleverly gauged the clever ness behind it, and wrote to Cleaver to come. And so he returned to his accustomed and appropriate sphere. In his absence his world had flattened, narrowed, dulled strangely. People were sordid, and petty, and coarse-minded ; and society his little clique that he called society possessed painfully predominating element of snobs; men who had given him no notice before were pleased to be noticed now, and yet the lucky partnership was covertly com mented upon as the freak of an old man in his dotage. He was suddenly success ful, he had suddenly a certain prospect of ... , - - , TT weaitn, ne was suuueniy outer. xic thought much in these days of his friend Trelawney and the independent, money scorning aristocrats of the mountains, of the red hills of the Indian summer, and the towering splendors of Sunrise Rock. That high air was perhaps too rare for his lungs, but he was sensible of the density of the denser medium. As to that vague and tender mystery, the ghost that he saw, it had been exorcised by prosaic science. But it made his for tune, it crowned his life, it bestowed upon him all he craved. Perhaps if she eould know the wonderful work she had wrought in his future, the mountain girl, who had given her heart unasked, might rest more easily in her grave than on that night when she had eome from among the moonlit mounds beneath Sunrise Rock, and once more sat beside him as he drove through shadow and sheen. For whether it was the pallid mist, whether it was the silver moon, wbetber it was tne lantasy oi an overwrought brain, or whether that myste rious presence was of an essence more ethereal than any, who can know ? In these days he carried his friend's in terest close to his heart. He opened a way in the crowd, but Trelawney held back from the hands stretched out. He had be come wedded to the place. The years since have brought him a quiet, unevent ful, not unhappy existence. After a time he grew more cheerful, but not less gentle, and none the less beloved of his simple neighbors. They feel vaguely sometimes that since he first came among them he is a saddened man, and are moved to ask with sympathetic solicitude concerning the news from his supposititious folks " down thar in the valley whar ye hails from." The fortune in sheep-farming still eludes his languid pursuit. The red brick house is disorganized and dilapidated as of yore ; a sense of loneliness broods upon it, hardly less intense than the loneliness of the mighty encompassing forest. Deep in these solitudes he often strolls for hours, most often in the crimson and purple eventides along the road that passes beneath Sunrise Rock and encircles the little graveyard of the mountaineers. Here Trelawney leans on the palings while the sun goes down, and looks, .with his sore heart bleeding anew, upon one grassy mound till the shadows and the tears together blot it from his sight. Sometimes his heart is not sore only sad. Sometimes it is tender and resigned, and he turns to the sunrise em blazoned on the rock and thinks of the rising Sun of Righteousness with healing in his wings. For the skepticism of his college days has fallen from him somehow, and his views have become primitive, like those of his primitive neighbors. There is a certain calm and strength in the old the ories. With the dawn of a gentle and hopeful peace in his heart, very like the comfort of religion, he goes his way in the misty tnoonrise. And sometimes John Cleaver, so far away, as with a second sight, becomes subtly aware of these things. He remem bers how Trelawney is deceived, and a re morse falls on him in the still darkness, and tears and mangles him. And yet there are no words for confession there is no thing to confess. Would his conjecture, his unsupported conviction, avail aught ? Would it not be cruel to reopen old wounds with the sharp torture of a doubt ? And the daybreak finds him with these questions. unsolved, and his heart turning wistfully to that true and loyal friend, with his faithful, unrequited love still lin gering about the grave of the girl who died with her love unrequited. A BITER BIT. Suits, Lawanlts and Second-hand, tDetrolt Free Press. "I pelicf I want some more lawsuits," said Mr. Dundar, as he entered the Cen tral Station in a highly indignant state of mind yesterday. " What's the matter this time? " asked the Captain. "Yhell I vhant a suit of clothes, you know. Dot oldt suit vhas no good any more. My wife she feels oshamed of me, und my poy Shake looks me all oafer und says : " ' Fadder, peoples vhas shudged by der clothes on deir backs more ash an odder vhay. If you don't get some new clothes peeples vhill say our peesness vhas all gone to pieces.' " Dot Shake vhas a shmart poy to rea son like dot, und I see how it vhas. I go oop on Michigan-ave, last night to puy me some suits. Vhell, I look und look. Some vhas for four dollar, und some for ten. Eaferythings vhas warranted not to fade, und to fit me like a clock. You see dis suit?" " Yes." "You like him?'" " No. That's a second-band suit and as homely as sin." "You vhas right. He ask me nine dol lar for dis suit, but I don't take him. I laugh at him. I make fun of him. By und by I feel in der pants-pocket. Dere vhas some pocket book in dere." " .Left there by tbe former owner of the suit?" " Dot's how I pelief." " Felt pretty bulky, didn't it? " " Felt shust like it vhas crowded mit greenbacks, und I feels tickled all oafer. Captain, I puys dot suit queek as light ning." " Of course." " Und I runs half de vhay home only to find dot it vhas an empty pocketbook. Here it vhas." "Worth about ten cents." "Dot's vhat Shake says. Captain, I shall see dot man." " You can't." "But I vhas swindled ! " " You swindled yourself." " Can't I do somethings? " " Not a thing." " Vheel I vheel 1 Captain, I like to sphoke to you." "Go on." " I pays taxes in two wards, I vhas nom inated for alderman. 1 can t sthand such shokes on me. I shall go oop that blace to-day. I shall take that shwindler by der neck und fling him down, und vhen he vhas down I shall sit on hin und make him eat dis pocket-book. If some clerks in terfere it shall be badt for 'em, und if some boleece comes aroundt I vhas a dangerous man. Captain, I warns you in time." CORSETED YACHTS. Nautical Yarn-Spinning by Women. f Pittsburg Chronicle. "Oh, Lucy, what do you think of the yacht race ? " "Indeed, I don't know much about it; how was it ? " "Oh, don't you? Charley was up as usual last night, you know, and he told me all about it you know Charley takes a great interest in these things." " Yes, tell me about it." "Well, when the Puritan started she stood on her starboard tack and broke it." "No! what's a starboard tack ? " "I don't know, but pretty soon the Genesta luffed her spinnaker boom and passed a red boy on the port side." "A red boy ? An Indian, was it ?" in terrupted Lucy. " I don t know. I'll ask Charley. And then they both stood on the starboard tack awhile, till the Pari tan's mainsail got mixed with the stern sheets " ' What are the stern sheets ?" I don't know. Til ask Charley and the Genesta stood on some more tacks, and the Puritan held her own " " Held her own what ? " "I don't know. I'll ask Charley and then the Puritan held her own until the Genesta was a mile, to leeward " " The leeward ; what's that ? "I don't know. I'll ask Charley and by that time they both broke tacks with each other, and " Broke tacks; that was bad." " Yes. very bad; and then they rounded so a. e more boys, and the Puritan went in corsets and " "What! went in corsets?" repeated Lucy, shocked. "No, not corsets; went in stays is wnat Charley said, but it's tbe same thing; and then the Puritan came out ahead, and the yachts " "The yachts what are yachts, my dear?" "Oh, I don't know; I'll ask Charley, and" And we had to get off the car. HOW TO KEEP HOUSE And Keep from Losing Tour Appetite. fArkansaw Traveller. A careful housewife, upon entering her kitchen, said to the colored.cook. "Great goodness. Jane, you must be more careful. You are not clean enough in your cooking." " Lady," replied the cook as she took up a piece oi oeei tnat naa iauen on tne floor, " I sees dat ycr's gwine ter ack fool ish wid me. Ain't yer got nothing' ter do 'cept ter fool roun' out heahT " " it's my business to come out here oc casionally." "All right den, hab it yer own way, but I wanter say one thing : Ei yer wants to loy yesse I at de table an eat wid er 'com in' anertite yer'd better stay outen dis kitchen . Yas," she added as as she wiped a dish with a dirty rag. "Yer'd better not nose roun' heah' fur cookin' is er bua'ness wid me an when er ousson is Vaged in business, foolishness is awful trouble soma." The Secretary of the Treasury has re ceived a conscience contribution of $158 in an envelope post-marked New York. j. TBE SCOTCH CROFTERS. How they Came Why they Weat. Rockingham Rocket. J The immigration into Robeson and Rich mond counties of some thirty families, we believe, of " Scotch Crofters," which took place nearly two years ago, was accom- Slished through the instrumentality of a iss McLcod, resident in Scotland, and citizens of the Communities desiring them as settlers. It is true, as an act of gener osity and in response to solicitation from Robeson's former Senator, Mr. McEachern, the Department: at Raleigh paid $600 to wards their transportation; but this, we think, was only - what was required to pay expenses from some point after th had reached our shores. For the importation the State was not responsible further than to extend the aid mentioned above, which, we think, under the circumstances, was little enough to have done. It was then practically a private enterprise, and one which resulted in mutual disappointment. Our staid old Scotch farmers of lower Richmond and Upper Robeson found that fishermen from the banks of " Isle o' Skye " ?;ave promise of making quite indifferent aimers, turpentine dippers, or lumber getters, and that they had to be taught from the stump in all the ways of work which are peculiar to our country. They, on the other hand, lured across the ocean by pictures probably self-created, found that the situation in fact was by no means such as to have! warranted their high ex pectations. As a result, many of them soon drifted away from their first moorings and are still unsettled and dissatisfied, while others long since have returned to the "land o' cakes." Of course there were exceptions, and, of tbe comparatively small number that re mained, we know two most excellent young men in this county. The county would gladly welcome; many more like them. Whether immigration generally shall prove a blessing to our country remains to be seen. We hove grave and honest doubts about it, and we think it will come quite fast enough without any extra effort to stimulate it. We know of no one who is anxious to invest money in another Scotch Crofter experiment. i . THE ROBESON FOLK Who Live Long, are Alao ProapM-aa. Robesonian.J Noj citizen of Robeson coun ty, without regard to "age, color, or pre vious condition of servitude, can travel over this county without be ing proud to acknowledge himself a Robesonian.; Take, for instance, the Carthage road for twelve or fifteen miles there is a new dwelling on nearly every farm, upon the Whiteville road Messrs. J as. S. McNeill, S. Crump, Jno. D. Briggs and dthers have new houses, and this is the case in almost every direction that; a man travels in this county. New dwellings, new gin houses, new stables, etc., are constantly in sight. Thirty years ago a painted house in the country was a rarity, and places were distinguished in that way. There was the "White house" in the lower end of the county (in honor of which a township has been named), and the "Red house," and the "Yellow house" intheup- Ser end of the county. jnow painted ouses are so common as to excite no com ment whatever, while in many instances our stock are; better boused now, tnan were our people at that time. These are all unmistakable evidences of the prosper ity and thrift of our people. It is to the' credit of our people that they are improv ing their premises, rather than wasting their money upon things of doubtful val ue. Some time ago a patent churn-dasher man, who visited Granville county with his invention and carried off several thousand dollars, remarked that there was more money and more fools in Granville than any place he ever saw. Is it not bet ter to judiciously invest the little we have, than to throw away a great deal, and for our pains' merit the remark of the churn-dasher man? WATCH AND PRAT As Understood In Arkaniaw, fArkansaw Traveller. J " Well, Coleman," said an Arkansaw planter, addressing one of his tenants, " how is your crop this year T "'Tain't so mighty good, boss; taint so mighty good." " Buffered from drouth, 1 suppose ? " . "No, sah, we've had rain er plenty." "The boll-worms, I suppose, have in jured your cotton ? " No, sah, I Bin t seed no boll-worms dis yeah." j " Rust, then, eh ? " "No, sah, no rust." " What, then, is the cause of yoUr poor crop ? " " Too much, trust in de Uwd, sah." "What?" "Too much pra'r, boss, an' not ernuff work. Yer see dat I thought dat I'd try whut de preacher said I mus' do watch kn' pray. Wall, de whole fambly would watch an' I would pray ebery now an' dan, 'specially when de wedder wuz hot, but somehow it did n' 'peer ter do no goed. Boss, does yer Know wnut i trieoes i " What do you believe, Coleman ? " " W'y, sah, I b'lebes dat whea dacotton is in de grass,; elbow greese is wuth er daim sight more'n pra'r. fra'r is an right. iur Sunday, but endurin' de week days r pus- . son has -ter aortar work his j'ints." The Waya or Lawyer. ' 1 yew York Times. I Counsel (for the prosecution) You will admit that your client was in Boston at the time the affair occurred? Counsel (for defendant) No, sir. Counsel You will admit that . your . client was in Boston about the time the affair occurred? Counsel No, sir. Counsel You will at least admit that there is such a place as Boston? counsel lempnaucauyj o, sir. xi iu prosecution wishes to establish in evidence that such a place as Boston exists, it has got to prove It. We admit nothing. Kind's Mountain High School, which always opens auspiciously, has this time surpassed our most sanguine expectations. Almost all the Southern andsome ot the Northern States are represented at this ses sion. The faculty this season consists of Capt. Bell, Professors Matts, Eaton, Hall, Arrowood, and Mrs. Matts. There can be no doubt that under the management of the above instructors, the King's Mountain High School will maintain its estabusnea reputation for good training. Shelby Au rora. "I The President has, through the . Secre tary of thej Treasury, asked frof. A. Agassis to take the office of Superinten- dent oi tne uoast ana ueoaeuc our.cj, vice Prof. Hilgard, resigned.
The Weekly Raleigh Register (Raleigh, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Sept. 30, 1885, edition 1
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