Weekly Mail

A DREAM ROMANCE. Before I ¡eft home in America my mother called me to her. h You are going to England, Robin, my dear," she said. H You will see your father's people. It will be a new experience to you. You will se the place where he was born, and portraits of his ancestors. Now, his is a very old family but mine is just as old, only mine is French, We were titled people. An ancètor of mine was a count—the Count Jouvin. lie was a splendid creature, I am told, but in his youthful days a little wild. Dear, dear, he lived nearly 200 years ago; but my grandmother had old letters that he had written, and his watch and his miniature. The family fled to America during that awful re- volution, and there is no title now; but, re- member, you are as well-born on your mother's side as on your father's. 1 think I will give you the portrait of the count. You may show it to your aunts, if you like. See, I have it here;" and she laid before me a little miniature set in gems —the portrait of a dark-eyed young man. with straight eyebrows and a full chin. and something in his face that struck me as familiar, but which I did not understand, until my mother cried out, Why, Robin, j you are exactly like him. It might be your portrait." Then I saw the likeness myself. I was indeed the exact counterpart of this ancestor of mine—this wild young count who had lived 200 years before, It delighted my mother very much to know it. I was silly enough to be pleased myself. "When I left America I carried the miniature with me, and it arrived safely in England. My paternal uncle and his sisters lived in a fine old English mansion, some milp.i fmm -} iT [ reached tbe hours of railway travelling, com and weary, and ready for a good dinner; and having been admitted, I was left, for a few moments, in a large parlour, over the mantel of which hung a very old picture of an English officer. He was a young man, with stern, gray eyes, and seemed to stare down upon me from the canvas in an aggressive sort of way, so that, had he been alive, I should have expected a challenge on the spot, I sup- posed that he was an ancestor of mine, but he did not look friendly, and I took a ter- rible dislike to him, though I laughed at myself for it. Try as I would to turn my eyes from his pictured face they wandered back again, and it was only when a voice at my elbow said, Mr. Robin Rawden, I believe," that 1 averted them, and let them rest instead upon the smiling face of a prim old lady, who, having saluted me with a sort of courtesy, explained that she was the housekeeper, that the family were absent, having gone to a wedding, but that she would make me as comfortable as she could until their re- tun;, and would I have supper now or go to my room first P I chose supper, and having discussed it sought my apartment, not sorry thut there was no need of doing the agreeable that night, for I was both weary and sleepy, and consequently, stupid. The room into which I was ushered was a tremendous one, with a wide fireplace set about with a screen, and a four-post bed, with curtains, in which ten persons could easily have slept, The floor was of oak, with a square rich carpet in the centre, and there were straight-legged chairs, and straighter tables ranged about at intervals. All was stiff, and massive, and ugly, with one exception—that exception was a picture, the portrait of a young girl with powdered hair and a very low-cut bodice, who held a half-blown rose in one hand and shaded her; eyes with the other, It was an old picture, but the tints were still fresh, and the beauty of the face as soft [ and new and tender as though it had been painted yesterday from a living model who still awaited her seventeenth birthday,instead of a couple of hundred years before, so that the belle who bad sat for it might have died a withered octogenarian beyond the memory of any living man. As I loolied at the face an odd fancy camej upon me, I felt that I had known this girl and loved her. I felt that I loved her still. I wanted to kiss those ripe, pouting lips—to hold the little round-tipped fingers, that grasped the rose. I actually found the tears in my eyes as I turned away and prepared for repose, and I put out the light with a mar- vellous regret at losing sight of the face that so impressed me. H Am I falling in love with a picture p, I asked myself; and a sudden comical remem- brance of Sam Weller's young hairdresser, who conceived a tender passion for von of the vax images" in his window, ended the matter by making me laugh aloud. Having laughed, I yawned—having yawned, I fell asleep—sleeping, I dreamed, I fancied myself not myself, but another man—in fact, my titled ancestor, the Count Jouvin. I walked up and down a long green lane, with my riding-whip in my hand; beyond, a groom held two horses, one bearing a lady's saddle. I seemed to be impatient and looked at my watch often. I expected some one—who was it ? At last I knew. A step sounded on the grass; a voice called 11 Henri." I turned. The lady of the picture stood before me. In living presence I saw again the sweet face, the flowing hair, the white bosom, the snowy hand, its fingers holding a rose. I rushed to meet her. 1 pressed a kiss upon those hands. I led her forward. I spoke to her-not in my own language; I spoke in French. I told her from that moment I was her slave, and she wept; and I led her to the spot where the horses stood saddled and bridled, and we rode away, the moon shining down upon us) her eyes turned always upon my face. Out of this dream I was awakened with a start. It waa still night. The room was dark. I It was all a foolish dream, but I felt guilty and remorseful. Somehow it seemed that my conscience was troubled, and I found it im- possible to sleep for a long time. At last, in the gray dawn, I once more lost conscious- ness, Again I slept; again I dreamt, I was standing in the midst of a lovely park. The branches were bare, the brown leaves lay scattered at my feet. Opposite me stood a tall man, with a high nose and stern gray eyes. He was armed with a sword. So was J, Two other gentlemen stood near us. Another stood a little aloof. Once more I was not myself, but the Count Jouvin. YY e were evidently lightincr a duel, this gray-eyed Englishman and 1. I did not de- sire to kill him, but but ho evidently en- deavoured to take my life. For a long while I merely defended myself, At last such conduot became impossible. One of us must be wonnded. Human nature for- bade further forbearance. My sword entered his body, and he fell backward upon the ground. I saw the blood drip from the point of niy blade as I withdrew it, I heard my second niiitter, III e-st and I heard the English- man whisper, H Dootor, is he dead?" I turned towards the doctor, saw for a moment his grave, square face, and then awoke, I was the Count Henri Jouvin of the past centnry no longer, I waft once more myself—Robin Kawden, an American, on a visit to his English relatives; and there was a polite knock at the door, and a calm, Kti^l uh servant brought my auut's love, and had I slept well, and breakfast would lie ready in half an hour. When I had dressed I had still an uncom- fortable memo: y of my dream, as of a thing that had actually happened. I could not quite believe in my cwu identity, and I still felt an odd tenderness for the girl in the old picture. I looked at it long and earnestly, and it smiled upon ir e. H You are, doubtless, my grandmother's great grandmother," I said, looking back over my shoulder; but I do believe I've fallen in love with you." Then I went downstairs to be welcomed by a prim old gentleman, who announced himself as my unde. and two old ladies in high lace caps, who were my aunts. They were kind, hospitable, cheery. They asked loving ques- tions about my father, and they bragged a little about our good old family as to one as proud of it as themselves, and all the while the gray-eyed officer stared sternly down upon me from his tarnished frame on the oak panelled wall. At last it was impossible to avoid speaking of him. t his is an ancestor of mine, I suppose, sir I said to my uncle. I; Yes, Robin," replied he. óI Yes, yes; that was Colonel James Hawden." lie doesn't look cheerful," said T. (i lie must have been a very unhappy man," said my uncle. "Of course, as you may guess, he lived two hundred years ago, and he died in a duel." A duel ?" I cried. Ii Priscilla," said my Aunt Deborah, II the gentlemen will excuse us." I arose and opened the door for the two ladies, "W hen 1 had olosed it my uncle went on Yes, Robin, this long gone ancestor of ours died in a dueL It seems that he mar- ried a beautiful girl, and was too cold and stern to win her love. She, remember, was not of our blood. Her picture hangs over the j mantelpiece in the room you slept in. Perhaps ( von rpnmrl-fld it ? RJip o,1rvr>v,r-:iU v,V S nobieman. Loionei Rawden followed him ana fought him. The Frenchman killed him. It's a sad story, She must have been a pretty girl, and he a fine, brave fellow, but it all went wrong, somehow. Yes, yes, and though it is so long ago, one feels sorry for it yet." Yes," said J, still repulsed by the cold, gray eyes of the picture, though I tried to soften my heart to it; "and, of course, no one knows the name of the Frenchman, It is so very long ago." "The Frenchman was the Count Henri Jouvin," said my uncle. 11 NVhy, my dear nephew, you look ill." I felt ill, but gave no explanation. But I did not speak of my mother's aristocratio an- cestor during my visit to my father's rela- tives; and to this day I shudder when I re- call my strange dream. Coupling it with my likeness to the Count Jouvin, the sense of identity with him which I felt even on awakening, and the passion with which the beautiful picture on the wall of my ancestral mansion inspired me, I ask myself if there can be any truth in the fancy some have en- tertained that one soul sometimes inhabits more than one body. For if I could have faith iu this, I should believe that I, Robin Rawden, was once no other than the Count Ilenri Jouvin, and I do not respect that fellow, and am not pleased with the idea. Event/ig World.

THE PREMIER'S PRIVATE SECRETARIES. A rather curious blunder is made by London, a new weekly paper, which declares that Lord Salisbury's two private secretaries, the Hon. Sohombevg M'l^onnell and the lion. S. Greviile. are unpaid. The same writer (says our London correspondent) sympathises with these gentlemen, but feels sure they will some day drop into fat berths at the Civil Service. Possibly but, as a matter of fact, they are both-for private secretaries—well paid, one receiving £ 200 and the other £ 250 a year.

THE ADVENTURES OF A PARISH REGISTER. A strange story of the devious wanderings of one of the parish registers of Cwm, Flint- shire, was uufolded before Mr. Hannay at the Marlborough.street Police-court a day or two ago (writes our London correspondent). A well-known antiquarian bookseller bought the manuscript from another of the trade, and inserted it in his catalogue as for sale. It thus came under the eye of the Vicar of Cwm, who laid claim to it as parochial property, which could not be bought ox conveyed away. The magistrate was dubious on the point of law, but inclined to the same view, upon which the bookseller readily handed over the volume to the vicar. It is gratifying to know that, after an absence of many years, the volume is restored to its rightful place, whence there is little likelihood of its being again permitted to stray. But what about the right of the British Museum to the many registers that have found a home in that great repository ?

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¡ A LEARNED EMPRESS. Whose Death was a Merciful Deliverance. [By FLANEUR."] Beloved by the French though German. The Frenoh have ever reserved a kindly corner of their hearts for the Empresso* Augusta and Frederick. True, Prino# Bismarck detested both ladies, and the affea« tion was returned: he arbors petticoat in* fluenoe in politics. With the discomfiture of her favourite, Comte d'Arnim, the political role of the deceased Empress terminated, anif with the death of Frederick the Good hi4 widow naturally withdrew from public lifs, Not only did the French sympathise with boJa ladies from having a common enemy, but it was their influence on the old Kaiser which postponed the bombardment of Paris. In addition, the ladies were kindness itself to* the siok and wounded French soldiers. She Knew Something. The Empress Augusta's name also re-calls sad episodes. She was the recipient of the bulletins of victory despatched by her hus- band in 1870-71 My dearly-beloved Augnster, We've had another burster Ten thousand French are gone below, Praise God, from whom all blessings flow." Grand-daughter of the Czar Paul I., the deceased inherited his hasty disposition; that her husband excused on account of the Russian blood in her veins. She could indulge in sarcasms that bit like nitric acid. Peared in the intellectual environment of Weimar, her taste for all that was refined in art and literature never waned. She knew Goeth Humboldt, Meyer, kc. She can conversS with us, for she knows something," Nvrotd Goethe. « Extent of Her Learning. She was familiar with at least eight languages, wrote essays for her friends, coiiiz,, posed music for the Court and marches for the soldiers, and painted pictures for charity bazaars-the last two years ago, at the age of 74. Schiller's widow wrote that the deceased "has a resolute will and that she never abandons anything she takes in hand!4 Married in 1829, the union was neither a model nor a happy one. The quarrels of the ill-matched couple during the first score yearsf of their married life were proverbial. Therf it became diplomatically calm till broken ug by death. Etiquette was respected. Can Parsimony Further Go P The grandmother Empress bad two chil- dren Frederick, who reigned 09 days, and thii present Grand Duchess of Baden. The latter has only one eye, and that is next to sightless. She inherits her mother's parsimony, which extends to counting the morsels of sugar for a teacup and locking up the butter bowl afterj )-)rcalifast iiiteiisive thrift. a a Death r.m9 a a t1reat ReleaM. lue ):,111 pr:S3 Il Šl H:e "tnè last years was a paralytic. She was daily made up, and a good push would have shivered her to pieces. She Rachelised to the verge of lugiiij briousness. She bad a waxwork neck and shoulders laden with jewellery, that could be lifted on and off like a pelerine. The artifices of the toilette were only on a pai with those secured by her physicians. She had a pair of Jack-in-the-box oon. structed crutches that sprung her û] to receive and to salu te some august visitoc Her carriage had internal undulatory spring! that raised up and let down, and which wal her manner of salutation to the crowd. Th muscles of her face having lost their strength, she could hardly speak, and when she did not speak she had to hold her chin to stop iti perpetual palsied motion. Every organ of her body was afflicted with disease or infir- mity, She never forgot that before becoming the spouse of a Hohenzollern she was th daughter of a jomanoff. It was merciful on the part of Death to lower the Imperial Standard always flying over the little palace Under the Tilleuls," —w—mmmmma——a—————warn

I The Royal Burlesque, Though expected with interest and witl something like impatience over its repeated delays, "Tra La La Tosca," Mr, F. G. Burnand's new burlesque of "La Tosca" al the Garrick, fell exceedingly flat on tha theatre-going public last week. I have pur- posely delayed writing of it in the hope that very decided improvement might be wrought iu the production before many nights had passed, There seems, however, not to have been a very decided change for better, although I hear that Mr. Arthur Itoberts appears to be a little more at home in his part than he was on the first night. The play has not, unfortunately, the advantage of a strong cast but it is prettily staged, and the skilful management and arrangement of Mr. Augustus Harris, who is one of the directors of the Royalty Theatre, is discernible in the pretty costumes and in the admirable" quiok changing" scenery. Moreover, there is certainly one redeeming point in an otherwise weak cast—Miss Margaret Ayrtoun, as Tra La La Tosca, Miss Ayrtoun. There can be no doubt that Miss Margaret Ayrtoun is actress of decided talent. Her burlesque of, Mrs. Bernard Beere's La Tosca is one of the neatest bits of mimicry that hal been witnessed on the London boards foi many a long day. To some slight reseiuf blance in feature to that actress she adds i grace and ease of movement which appean to be rather natural than assumed Altogether there is about this charm- ing actress a certain rarity r, I appearance and a winsomeness of manner which might alone serve to bring her to the front. Moreover, I hear, and can quite believa (writes our London correspondent), that Miss Ayrtoun has spared neither time nor trouble in her careful study and representation 01 Mrs. Beere's individualities. By a series ol quaint little touches, and by a faithful mimicry of La Tosca in voice, movement, and even facial expression, Miss Ayrtoun hit achieved an emphatio success. The Essex Ring. One by one (observes our London corl'. spondent)we are robbed of allourmostcherished historical traditions. The Essex Ring, which I noticed at the time of the opening of the Tudor exhibition as the object of perhaps tbt deepest human interest in the whole collec- tion, as re-calling to us the wonderful tal. concerning Elizabeth and her unfortunate favourite, can, it seems, no longer be regarded as genuine. In the first place, doubt is cast on the fact that the ring in question ever belonged to Esser and, secondly, the opinion of several experts who have been expressing them,- selves on the subjeot even goes to prove that the whole tale must, in the iaterests of historical acouracy, be regarded, like the Dukt of Wellington's famous saying of Up Guarcli and at them I" as non-proven.