Welsh Newspapers
Search 15 million Welsh newspaper articles
10 articles on this Page
CHRISTMAS TALES.I ----------------------------."---------.--
CHRISTMAS TALES. I THE PRIEST'S SECRET. I BY GEORGE R. SIMS. I {Author of "Mary Jane's Memoir^ The Confessions of a Motker's-in-Law," &c., &c.) [COPYRIGHTED. ] I I T was long past mid- night, but still Doctor Hanson and the Rev John Wannop sat by the tire in the beautiful oak library at Studloy Court. The doctcr was a broad shouldered, healthy-looking York- man, whose age you would have given at forty, but who was really on the wrong side of fifty. The clergyman was many years his junior. A tn. thin young man, with rounded ,hotil- ders, and an awkward, nervous style about him. You looked at tue Rev John Wannop's body and yon thought him a veiy otdinary person you looked up at his face, and instantly you were fascinated. It was almost a perfect face, and the dark, dreamy eyes w^re made all the more beautiful by the pallor of the delicate skin. I Young ladk-s who a»vw him for the first time raved about him. His dark eyes and black hair made him quite a hero. iSorne of them described his beauty as Byfon)c/' others declared that he looked like a Greek god. No one in Studley had ever seen Lord Byron, or looked upon a Greek god iu the flesh. The Rtv Mi Wannop's female admirers simply used the comparison that came handiest to them. The male population of f-tudely were not quite 80 enthusiastic. Thry lived the Rev John, but they thought there was something uncanny about him. Wh =n he first came among them a young curate of six-and-twenty to do the whota of the work for a wealthy vicar, who spent the best part of the year travelling about 'e tor the benefit of his health." they thought he was disappointed in I love, or suffered from some internal complaint. And as time went on and they saw more ot him, and listened to his sermons, those of their; who troubled about him at all made up their minds that he had "done something," that he was a young man "with a past." Hi ai>pointiii<n? to the curacy was understood to be due to the influence of Mr Arkwright-, the new owner of Studley Court. The curate and Mr Arkwright arrived at Stadky almost on the same day, and it was understood ths greatest intimacy existed between them. Mr Arkwright was a wealthy merchant, who bar! rhtired from business after .^massing a large fortune- He came to Studley Court with his wife an ? a large r. cinuc of servants, with carri- ages and horses, and every outward and "isible sigus of wealth. For twelve months previously an army of workmen had had possession of the old Court, which had bean tenantless for years, and everybody Ivh", sw the magnificent improve- ment felt convinced that it had passed into tha bands of a millionaire. There was considerable anxiety to see Mr Ark- wright when he, arrived, but it must 03 eontessud that Stud ley was a. little disappointed in him. There was nothing grand about him. He was a quiet, benev„-j<-nt-lookinj old gentleman, with kind blue eyes and beautiful iron-grey hmr, Ir and his wife was as simple and unpretending as himself. But that he was immensely wealthy there could tie no doubt. His hospitality at Studley was noble, he was a lavish patron of all the local charities, and he soon became the good genvus of the district, and a man of importance u> the country. Everybody liked him, and adorad his wife. A more unassuming couple it would have been im- possible to find. They were always accessible to their poorer ne.goboms, and the amount of good which they did IB away was incalculable. On great occasions such as Studley Races, the Agricultural Show, and the Yeomanry Dril1, fctudtey Court was an open house, and tilled with visitors from town. But as a rale the Arkwrights lived their life very quietly, and confined their hospitality to a few local friends, whose acquaint- ance they had made since their arrival at the Court. The Rev John Warmop was a constant visitor. On fine afternoons it was generally leaning on the curate's arm thac Mr Arkwright walked about his gronnds, and when the Arkwrights drove into Studley town the Rev Mr Warnop very frequently occupied the back seat in the carriage. Of late Dr Hanson had been a frequent visitor as well. Mr Arkwright had not be"n very well. He was troubled with a return of a malady which be had contracted, it was understood, in his early manhood in California. Latterly the doctor had been in daily a tend- ance, and very soon it was known that Mr Arkwright was seriously and dangerously ill. I It was a fever of some kind, it was said, and the pdor old gentleman had become delirious, so I delirious that it was necessary for someone to be si ways with him, and the doctor, the curate, and Mr* A:Jc..r.'g' t, tfcr- voted wife, hud bee»i relieving each other day and, by the sick ma r's beside. Dr Jones, Dr Hanson's professional rival in Studley, shook his head when he heard the details of the illness. I can't make it out," he said. If all I hear be true, they ought to have a professional nurse. A man in that condition is likely to do himself or others an injury at any time. It can't be a ques- tion of expense", and yet there are these two men and the wife wearing themselves out and under- taking duces for which they are unfitted, rather than have proper attendance. It's odd—very odd. I'm afraid Hanson doesn't appreciate the gravity of the case." But Dr Hanson did appreciate the gravity of the case, and that is why ho and the curate are sitting together at night in the great library at Studley Court. I don't know what to do for the best," said the doctor, after he had gazed long and anxiously into the fire as if for inspiration' "Mrs Ark- wright can't go on much longer. At any moment some new case of illness may call ma away, and you must attend to your duties." I can give my nights," replied the curate. Yes, my dear feliow, that's all very well, but if you watch by our poor friend's bedside in the night and work all day you'li soon be worn our." We can't call anyone else in. You know its impossible We might get a nurse who could be trusted. Nurses do have to h<=ar a good deal, and, after all, the secrets of the s:ck room are sacred." Some secrets, yes, but not a secret like this. S<"K»ner than let a stranger hear what that poor fellow says in bis ueiirmm, I would give up everything and remain by his side. And if we 'yielded, you know, Dr Hanson, his wife would never consent." No, poor lady. My God, what a terrible revelation it must have been to her how bravely she has borne it." Bravely. Yes," said the curate, rising and pacing the room, it's marvellous. Do you know, Hanson, that when I first became the possessor oí the secret of John Arkwright's life I thought it would have killed me." Killed you, why ?" You don't understand what it has been to I me. I loved this man, I venerated him. It was he who took me by the hand when I was left motherless and fatherless, and penniless. It was he who educated me and brought me up, and gave me my cbance in life. I felt to him as a -son to a loving father, and when I learned that he was a wits "Hush!" exclaimed the doctor, glancing towards the door. He rose and opened it, looked out cautiously, and listened for a moment. "I thought I heard some one moving about," he said, as he camo back and sat down by the fire. There was a moment's silence, and then the doctor continued the interrupted conversation. Ir "I can quite sympathise with you, my dear fellow," ho said. "It must have been a terribl- blow. I don't think I ever heard such a ghastly I' stcry in my life." "You agree with mo that it is "absolutely necessary to keep silence on the subject. You consider that I have done right in holding my peace all these years." "Most certainly. I can quite understand that as a clergyman, you may at first hava had some II seruplas as to your duty, but looking at all the circumstances I think you arefuliy justified." And you, now that you also know the truth, will keep silence too." Absolutely. If the circumstances under which the story reached me—from the month of a delirious patient—did not justify me, I should only have to trunk cf that bravu devoted wife only have to think cf that bravu devoted wife upstairs and that would decide me. Besides, even presuming that the poor f llow were alane in the world, what go^d' Would asm* cf betraying him now i" Noun, none," replied fchn curate, the tears earning into his eyes. "But I sometimes wi«h that- he himself bad had the mural courah" to confess the truth—to teil his horrible story and risk ev-ryfching." It would have done no good," said the doctor, it would have ruined a life of great usefulness, and I doubt if ever he could have been put on his trial for the crime. He couldn't have been tried here, because this country has nothing to do with the matter, and it would have been an ab- surdity for hun to go back to America and give himself up there. Had he done so, I doubt if anything would have been done. He might not have been believed. It might even charitably have been considered an hallucination on his part." Y es-ye. he said that himself when we talked the urates over." flow did ha come to tell you ?" said the We were travelling abroad together. It was the year before Tie met that lady who is now his wife. I was only twenty then, and, as I have tOll! you, he treated me as a son. He was taken seriously il! in Rome, and had a touch of tht fever. One night he beeame a little lightheaded and talked about his old life, and some words he made use of startled me. The next day he was calmer, and gradually got quite well again. When he was able to get about told him what strange things he had said in bis delirium. He started, and seemed terribly upset, but made DO reply. "Late that evening became to my room and -1d he had something to ,-]! me. Ph said t;- "t "I his Viie he had wanted somebo iy t,) confide his secret to—someone who would understand him and sympathise with him, and then he told | me all." | "It must have been a terrible shock to you." Yes, but I hardly recognised all that it meant then. I suffered more afterwards. I suffer more now. I loved this man, my benefactor, my almost father, then, and I love him more now yet not once, but a hundred times have I felt that the burthen he had imposed upon me was greater than I could bear—that I must go out into the world and cry it aloud. I have felt that I was sharing his guilt-that I was aiding him to deceive and defraud the world in which he was honoured and respected. Dr Hanson, answer me this as man to inen-you have, during the short time he has been in the place, seen him honoured and respected, looked up to, almost revered ? Do you believe, if it had been known that he had taken the life of his wife and child, that one living soul would have taken his hand in friendship ?" The doctor hesistated. "Let us look at the matter calmly," he said. You know it, I know it, aud the wife who sits upstairs by his beside knows it now and we are still his friends we pitv him and you, too love him still." Y.s, that it true, but it is not a fair answer to r"y question," said the eurate, sadly "The knowledge has come to us as a sacred trust." "His wife does not shrink from him." No Bnt from this hour I believe she will be a broken-hearted woman. Life can never be tne some to her again. D.) you believe that she, a tfuo- ;aire, true, loving woman, would have mar- lie t dIU had he come to her and said. 'Ia,ma. murderer, I killed my first wife. I killed my child but I love you. Will you be my wife ?' "Well, honestly I don't suppose she would; although the circumstances "The circumstances cannot alter the facts. For all the lift' long sorrow that this poor lady must suff-r now, I blame myself. I should have spoken out; should have insisted on his telling her tho truth before he married her, I hesitated through my great kve for him. and ever sinew I have telt tnat I shared his guilt." "Come, come, my good tellow exclaimed the doctor kindly. "Yuu are a little too hard on yourseif. Tne whole business is very terrible, I grant yon. I myself was inexorts«ibly shocked when I discovered the truth, but as a man of the world I believe you have done nothing of which you need be ashamed." Ay, as a man of the world but I am a priest of God." It is the duty of every priest of God to help the suffering, mourn with them that mourn, to console the wretched, to show the sinner his way to salvation, but surely .it is not the duty of a priest of God to betray his friend and benefactor, to give up to shame and degradation a man he honestly believes to have been the victim of a moment of madness. Come, I have only heard the rough outline of this terrible story. Tell me the whole truth—tell me the circumstances as they were told to you, and let us see if you are reaily justified in torturing yourself in this manner." Yes," replied the curate, I will, and if yon can say, when I have finished, that no blame attaches to me it will be at least some com fort. Would to God I cou d persuade myself that I am innocent." Oue moment said the doctor, "let me just go upstairs and see how Arkwright is. He was asleep when I left him. I will just tell his wife that we are sitting up, and at a word from her one of us will relieve her." The doctor was absent for about ten minutes. "He is still sleeping," he said. "To-morrow we shail probably know the best-or the worst- I think everything will depend upon how he wakes after this long sleep. Now, tell me the whole story." I will tell it to you," said the curate, with a deep sigh, "as nearly as I can in John Ark- wright's own words. I remember them. They are seared on my memory, and I shall carry them to the gtave." "He told me that when he was a very young man, barely thirty, he left England. He had neither father nor mo h^:r, and his uncle, with whom he lived, was a hard, miserable man, who treated him badly. Anxious to got rid of him at any price, he obtained for the young man situation in an office in New York. "John Arkwnght remained in New York for two years, doing very little to improve his position, and just earning enough to pay for his food and lodging. Then he made a move and managed to get to San Francisco, where, after undergoing great vicissitudes, he obtained employment in a drink- ing and gambling saloon kept by a notorious ex- prize fighter. "While there he fell in love with a young girl, whose father had been killed in a drunken row in this hell' one night. The father's friends and associates got up a subscription, and handed it to the girl, who was a hardworking, decent lass, and had done all she could to keep her father straight after her mother's death. While the funds were b°ing raised John saw a great deal of her. He pitied her, and sympathised with her-for her lot was very cruel one-and by a natural process fell in love with her. They were both alone in the world, they were both unhappy, and what was more natural than that they should come together and at last make a match of it. One thing th&y were both agreed upon, and ths.t was to get away from tbeir present miser- able surroundings, to leave San Francisco, and start a new life together far away. So it came about that soon after they were married Jchn and his wife set out with a band cf adventurers fur a wild-put where, it was stated, fortunes were to be made. Thousands of men and women went on the same errand in thüs0 days and, though many failed utterly and died miser- ably, some became the pioneers of a great move- ment. On the lon»ly spots where they settled, made a clearing, and built their wooden huts, mighty cities stand to da.y, to bear witness to their courage and enterprise. "John Arkvvright and his wife were among the unfortunate ones who failed. They found themselves after years of hardship and misery one of a band of men and women settled in lonely spot cut off from civilisation, and sur- round,.ct by a lawless band of half-starved adventurers. "John and his wife starved with the rest, and to add to their misery they had now a iittle child -a poor sickly little thing, whose sufferings only addød. to their uwn misery. "Hard as their lot was it gradually grew harder still. The wife fell ill ot a kind of wasting fever, and the child moaned in ceaseless pain. Then John fell ill and could do no work at all, and starvation stared them in the face. SeIDe of the men and women, rough creatures, hardened to fv by a ceaseless struggle for existence, helpAf them a little; but times were bad all round, and it soon became a case of each for himself and his own. To add to the general misery and terror, a gang of thieves and mur- derers had been at work 111 the neighbourhood. In a camp some miles away, tho women had been murdered and a lot of cattle stolen and driven off. These men were mad, drunken desperadoes, ruffians who would mnrder a whole family for the ^ake of their little money or tho few valuables that might be about the place. "It was notorious that many of the settlers in these lonely places, though to all appearances poor, had money hoarded away—money they scraped together in order to get back to civilisa- tion, or in some instances to buy claims further aiield. The gang, which was at the time I speak of, th* terror of the small camps, had been en- couraged by finding a quantity of gold in one or two shantias, and this had led them to continue their depredations. One night John Arkwright woke up with a strange pain in his head. He tc-id me that it was as if he had suddenly gone mad. He woke up with the idea that he was going to die—that ths. fever would kill him. He looked round him and saw his wife asle--p by his sIde-her baby in her arms. She was terribly ill and weak and h:r face was white and pinched. Suddenly tho terrible idea came to the frenzied man that he was going to die and leave these two helpless creatures at the mercy of the world. He was mad at the moment—I am sure of it—the delirium of the fever was upon him. It shalt not be,' ho said to himself, there is nothing but misery and starvation before them. I cannot die and^leave them to suffer alone—we will die togetheiv "Th°n in his madness, he rose quietly and went to the table and took a knifa that lay there— a long, sharp knife that he used at his work— and The clergyman paused for a moment. "Oh. it is too horrible," he said, you know- you have heard from his own lips. You have heard him rave in his delirium now what be did that awful night. He killed them—killed them as they slept, and took the knife and turned to lift it to his own throat, and just as he felt the cold edge touch his flesh the strength that frenzy had given him suddenly left him, and he fAil down and knew no more. When he came to himself it was bright day- light. He had forgotten everything for the moment, all was vague and dim, and a great mist was before hit eyes and a great buzzing in his ears. Gradually he became aware that there was a noise in the next room. He hears the sound of trampiing feet and voices, and presently a couple of men rushed into tho room. 'By they've murdered 'em,' cried a man, and instantly a orowd of men were round the bodies. No exclaimed another rough voicc, they're not all dead--the woman and the child are, but the man's alive, they didn't finish him.' John felt himself gently raised up and saw a great ring of facts round him. He recognised some of them—they were his camp mates. 'J.Y"n'ç tell hun anything about it yet, poor chnp,' said one man, kindly; levs get him a way. Here, bring him to my place, and see what we can do for him. He'll know what's happened scon enough, God help him.' "They carried John Arkwright geotly away, I they attended to his wound, which was only a slight one, and gradually their rough skill brought hiui to the point at which his life was safe. And then, before he could tell his story, thoy told him thairs. During the night the gang of robbers had been in the camp—they had murdered a poor fellow about a quarter of a mile away, and robbed the place, and tben they had gone on and broken into John's place. John stared in astonishment. Ah, you didn't see'm, I suppose,' said his informant; they must have done their work quietly, while you were asleep. They must have been frightened or disturbed before they finished you, old chap but, God help you, they've killed your wife and child.' 1 They broke into my place,' said John, half in a dream. Yes the place is upside down. They turned over everything to see if yuu'd got any money. We shot two of the brutes dead this morning in the open, bnt the rest got clear away.' That was all John heard, for he was faint and weak—the excitement had been too much for him, and he swooned away. When gradually he recovered, and his strength slowly returned he hesitated to tell these wild lawless men the truth. They might not even believe him. He almost tried to persuade himself that he had been the victim of a delusion. The circumstantial evi- dence was all in his favour. There was no doubt these men ransacked the outer room of his dwelling. "On one of the bodies of the men who had been pursued and shot had been found property taken from his home it was of no value, but it was known to be his—an implement of his trade with his name carved on the wooden handle. The men must have broken in and searched his place and have taken alarm at soms sound before they had time to enter the second room and see the two bodies that lay there. The whole sett-lenient believed that John Arkwriaht's wife and child had been brutally murdered by the robbers, and that John owed his escape to their having left him before they had completed their barbarous work. For months afterwards he suffered the most terrible mental torture, but his fortunes under- went a change. A stranger arrived in the settle- ment for a time—a man with a certain amount of capital-he took a fancy to John and invited him to go with him to a big city. John Arkwright was glad to leave a place haunted by such ter- nble 11Iemories, and accepted the offer. The two men became partners in the city their enterprise succeeded, and chey made a for- tune with the rapidity common enough years ago in the United States. Then they separated, and John speculated on his own account, and last came back to England, at the age of 50, a man of wealth and position. It was in London that he inei me and our friendship commenced," said the curate, after a pause. He was my benefactor and protector, and you know the rest. He had me educated for the church since that was my aim, and it was just before I took holy orders that he told me under the circumstances I have narrated to you, hi" ghastly secret." Then he met the lady who is now his second wife, and until this week I have been the only living man who knew the story of his past. You have discovered it as his poor wife has discovered it, listening to the ravings of a. delirious man— and now— The doctor looked up from the brown study in which he had fallen. "Tell me," he said, "how much does his wife know ? What do you mean ? "She has hparcl h*< terrible confession, but she cannot know any details—unless you have told her." I have told her nothing. I only know she heard him denounce himself as a murderer." "Then?" said the doctor, "my task is easier than I thought." "Do you mean that I mean that she really does not yet under- stand thoroughly what her husband has said. She knows that her husband accuses himself of a horrible crime—a murder. Yon told me when we came away from his bedside enough to con- vince me that he was speaking the truth, but I have all along tried to persuade her that it was the delirium which suggested the horrible charges he brings against himself." "But she agrees that we three must watch him between us—that no stranger must come near him." "Naturally, no wife would want strangers to go out of her house with such words as these ringing in her ears. They might believe them." The curate rose from his seat and paced the room. "Dr. Hanson," he said, "do you wish me to be party to a further deception. Do you wish m-e to he to .J ohn Arkwright's wife." No, I wish you to say nothing more. I com- mand you to say nothing. Mrs Arkwright's health is in my charge, and I warn you that you are to do nothing and say nothing which, at such a time of anxiety as this, might have terrible con- sequences. Do you understand 1" "I understand." And you will obey ?" "Yes—for the present, I will obey." Then good-bye. Yuu goo home and get some rest. I will stay in the house all night, and re- lieve Mrs Arkwright. Remember, until I as the medical man in attendance here, responsible for theitves of my patipllts-for the shock other husband's crime has been a severe one to Mrs Arkwright-give yon leave to speak, you are to remain silent. Now, good-night." They shook hands, and the Rev John Wannop went out into the night- He went home but he could not sleep. He sat till the dawn by the window of his room looking out at the shadows, and crying out that he, a priest of God, was shielding the blood guilty, and when the dawn came he flung himself down on his knees and prayed to Heaven for light and guidance. The next morning after his duties were over, the curate went up to Studley Court. He n et the doctor near the lodge gates. The doctor took him by the arm. "Old friend," he said. you will have a sacred mission in that house presently how will you perform it? "What do you mean?" said the curate, uneasily. I mean that this morning early there was a great change in John Arkwright. He will not live till to-night." Is he—is he unconscious." Y ès-and you can go to him, go to him and comfort him. and when he is gone it will be your duty to speak words of hope and comfort to the poor woman that loved hibi. You will have to decide what those words shall be. Will you as a priest of God raise her drooping heart and give her a message of hope or will you, as a priest of God, ten her that the dead man she loved was what the world would call a murderer That is what you have to decide. Good-bye till we meet again. John Wannop went sadly through tho gates of Studl C :urt and up to the great hous?. The dying man's wife tc.ok him gently by the hand, and led hun to the bedside of her husband. Then she left them alone. John Arkwright knew that he was dying. The delirium was over now, and he couid speak calmly of the end. j [n put out his weak hand and drew the priest gently towards him. "John," he said, "I am going far beyond the punishment or the forgiveness of man. Will you leave it God to punish or forgive me? Will you promise me that my secret shail die with me, that the woman who has given me her love shall never know from you when I am gone what I was ?" The young clergyman bent his head. Why do you ask me that?" he said. "Because. John, the doctor has told me that I have been wandering and talking, that I have said strange things, and that my wife has heard them. Ho has told her that they were nothing, that they are the terrible words which como sometimes to fevered brains. But he has also told me that he has guessed the truth, that you have confirmed his suspicions, and that you are hesitating even now as to whether you shall assist him in—in deceiving my wife. John, I have loved you ae; my own son, you can repay that love now. Let me die knowing that you will not say the words which would break a desolate woman's hsart and leave her to bear the bitter- ness of my guilt. Promise The young priest's pale lips moved for a moment as if in prayer. Then falling on his knees by the bedside, he took the dying man's hand in his, and answered softly :— I promise." They buried the master of Studley Court in the little green cemetery out beyond the town, and the people came in crowds to the funeral to show their respect for • the good man who had passed away. The doctor and the curate left the church- yard together. Outside the gate their hands met, and they said no word, for their hearts were full. But that grip was a silent renewal of the promise the priest had given the dying man. Buried in tottir hearts for ever is the secret they will carry to their graves. They alone will ever know that the good man, over whoso grave there stands a marble memorial on which are re- corded his honourable life and his Christian virtues, was a murderer—the murderer of his wife and child. THE END.
---"--Badly Soared.
Badly Soared. Kosciusko Longhprn is one of the most adroit liars in the Lone Star State. At a social gather- ing, the cheerful subject of death being under dis- cussion, Mrs Pucy Yerger asked him Do you thmk animals fear death very much ?" I know they do. I know of a remarkable case right in point," replied Murphy. Let us hear it." I was coming through the woods, when I per- ceived a black object on a limb, about 40 feet from the ground. I crawled up and perceived that it was a crow. The bird did not perceive my approach until I was within 30 feet of it. The crow then caught a glance of me, and trembled all over. I brought my gun to bear au it, but at first Icouldnotseewhereitwas." "It had become frightened and had flown away. "No, its feathers had turned snow white with fear."
[No title]
UNCERTAIN.—Foggs Hello, old man, I hear that you are to miu ry Miss Dutton.—Trotter So did I. I'm going up now to aek her if the report is true.
NEVI GAMES
NEVI GAMES FOR CHRISTMASTIDE SOCIETY. BY JENNETT HUMPHREYS. Author of "FIRE-SIDE JESTS FOR CHKISTMAS GUESTS," &c., &c. I A Snowball. ROVIDE a number of pieces of white paper, about two inches square, and give three each to your company seated round a table, m the centre of which are twp pools, one empty, the other hold. ing such contributions as yon may have de- creed. Let every lady write the name of a, gentle- man present on each piece of paper (a differ- ent gentleman for each), fold it to hide the name, and throw it into the empty pool the gentlemen (who must write ladies names) doing the, same. Thi3 heap of folded papers is the snowball. Let the leater draw out one piece of papsr and put it down before himself, everybody else doing tho same, till the snowball has melted. Next, let each player open each of his papers (no neighbours to overlook). Under any gentle- man's name found, let a lady's be written under any lady's a gentleman's (always of present com- pany) and let each paper be again folded and thrown into the pool, the snowball thus once more gathered. Lastly, let the drawing-out again be done, p:\Ch drawer reading aloud the names found and wherever the same two names appear in conjunc- tion let the papers holding them be put over one another in allotted piles. At the end the lady and gentleman whose united names prove the most frequent, take three counters each from the pool, the second best take two each, the third best one each (or in that proportion, according to the :counters divisible), and with fresh contribu- tions the game re-begins. On the Watch. MEAN TIME. Call upon everybody who has a watch to bring it out, and hold the ring of it (where the XII is) to himself, face upwards, but without looking at it. Tell them to wait for a given signal before consulting their watches, give the signal, and then, obliged to read backwards, call upon them instantly to tell you the exact time, to a minute. Very lew will be able to do it. Give a Dog a Bad Nams. The leader of the game is to read aloud the fol- lowing rhyme. As he reads, the company are to select a name apiece, the ladies selecting feminine names, the gentlemen masculine. One of the com- pany, when all is settled, can write, these names down for reference, in case the company is large enough to require it, for by them only are the players to be known :— What is a bad name, please, to give to dog ? Oblige me by stating the full catalogue. Is Tristram ? is Nelly ? is Dandy ? is Box ? Is Queen ? or is Lily ? or Lion ? or Fox ? Is Pompey ? or Caesar ? or Nimrod ? or Tray ? Is Bandy ? or Flossie ? or J essamme-spray ? Is Boatswain a bad naine ? is Diamond ? is Nero ? Is Fido ? is Tiny ? is Nep'une ? is Hero ? Is D.1isy ? is Birdie t is Negro ? is Prin ? Is Gipsy ? cr Topsy ? or Bryan O'Lynn ? Is Mignonette bad '? or is Jumbo ? or Fluff ? Is Dash ? or is Rover ? or Terror ? or Rough ? Is Hector a bad name ? is Carlo ? is Jack ? Is fairy ? is Trusty ? is Susan-Eyed Black ? If all names are good names, and dogs are con- tent, Be siienc, for silence will mean you consent. The leader then proceeds to read with the utmost rapidity any couple of line?, or two couples of lines, of this rhyme he likes, and as each name runs off his tongue the owner of it is to get up, bark, and sit down again. Continuing to shoot out these little bits, "dodging" here and there, and repeating here and there, at his plea- sure, the leader's sudden and unexpected stop is always to be followed by a rise of all the dogs, a turn round three times, and re-seating and on failure of a bark at the right name, or the com- mission of a bark at the wrong name, or of other fault, the failers and wrongdoers are to be hustled off by the rest (they calling out his name) to the kennels, which can be a corner of the room chaired off from the remainder. Every now and again the leader is to read the first two lines of the rhyme, when the convicted dogs are to howl and break out of kennel back into place, being welcomed by a general bark of gladness and every now and again the leader is to read the last two lines, when 110 sound is to come from anybody. Noise of the slightest sort is a fault. Fun a La Fourchette. At the supper-table, challenge the company to do what you do. When they have agreed, "take tip your fork, say, "This is a fork," and put it down again. Tho company will do the same, properly. Next. take up your knife, say, This is a knife," and put it down again. They will do that also, and properly. Then say, "That's all," you will find you have won. The company will break into a laugh, or into scorn. To say, "That's all," will be the last thing they will think bf. The Hay. Gentlemen, hand in hand, and close, form a ring. They are a fence, keeping an enclosure, at present, empty. Ladies stand anywhere outside this fence, and are haycocks to be caught and carried into it. Let oneof the company beat thepiano,and sud- denly strike up merry music, at which all must fall into movement, singing;— Hay! Hay! Olivette! Olivette! We our ) scythes, the grcon £ rass to You < sil'jipE?n\ your J get. The movement of the gentlemen is to raise their arms very high and go round and round in thpir ring, enlarging or closing it at pleasure, according tc- their chance of carrying a hay-cock. The movement of the ladies is to dance into the enclosure (which the raising of the gentlemen's arms will permit), and to danca out again, all trickily and quickly, and, briefly, to avoid being caught and these movements and the song go on till the pianist stops the music, when any hay- cocks the gentlemen may secure by adroit dropping of arms and closing in of the fence are carried," and are to kneel backs to backs in the centre, facing thelfcaptors. This is repeated at sudden intervals and stoppages of the music, till all the haycocks are enclosed, they forming them- selves prettily into a haystack, by two or three standing as a centre, their arms raised and hands grasped, and by the rest, hands grasped, kneeling round them, close up, faces always towards the fence. The song to it is ;— Hay Hay Olivette! Olivette The meadows are cut, the mowing we get And it goes on till the music stops. The game changes then. There has to be the Hay-Festival. The gentlemen let go of hands. The ladies rise, make a complete ring, faces still outvvards towards the gentlemen, the music strikes up, and the ladies dance round in their ring, singing. Hay lIay Olivette Olivette Choose you your partners, the best you can get! At the sudden stop of the music each gentle- man takes the lady precisely opposite him, the ring is then made an alternate one, lady and gentle- man all round, and, to a renewal of the music, it dances into a centre and out again, and merrily round and round, till the pianist decides to cease. and the game ends. [" The Hay was a genuine old English dance at hay-harvests, its counterpart being OJivette" at olive-harvests in France and to keep the-ie merry-makings in memo. y is the reason why their titles have been strung into the above song- words* Fiower-y Fan-cies. H.t-e a fan, and a confederate, who is to dis- cover what flower the company fixes on when he is out of the room. On his re-entrance, the strokes of your fan, in the action of fanning yourself (which you must do markedly), are to let him know the vowels he wants; the initial letter of tome phrase you wiil utter are to let him know the consonants. Make the company do the counting of your fan strokes aloud (which will mystify), their counts being 1, 2, 3,4, 5, according to the j,vowel you stroke to, and 1 being a, 2 being e, &c. Example. — Violet. Directly your confederate is back, say such a phrase as Very well now we begin," t'ery givingtbet'. Next say "Fanning. Count my strokes," and fan 1, 2, 3, and step, the 3 being i. Then fan 1, 2, 3, 4, and stop, the 4 being o. Cry out "Xook r.ow or t.o that effect, took giving I. Say "Fanning. Count fan 1, and stop, the 2 being s when you can say, "Tell me now what it, is," for fell gives the t. In such a case as Violet the confederate will know it before it is all out, and can announce it. Let him be quick, he better's the trick. To say "Fanning" before each fan operation lessens chances or error ;but with proper precision it can be omitted. A Serviette Scene. Folt THE JUVBNILKS. Tie a knot in one corner of a serviette, into which put the fort-linger of your left hand, the rest of the serviette draping your hand in the ordinary manner. This is Claude, a boisterous, bouncing boy. Drape your right hand Ivith another serviette, your forefinger raised to form a peak or head, your thumb and second finger enfolding it, to keep it. in position. This is Maud, a loving and tender little girl. Alter your voice emphatically to distinguish the two children; even putting a lisp for Maud. CLAUDE—A merry Christmas to you, Maud. MAUD—What is a merry Christmas, Claude ? C.-A stocking full from Santa C'aus,— M.—With furniture for my doll's house ? C.-A rocking-horse, a flicking whip,- M.—With tea-cups for my dolls to sip? C.-A pair of skates, a leather purse,— M.—And baby dolls for them to nurse? C.-A dinner full of turkey, beef,- M.—But Dolly has not got her teefl C.-And pudding made of raisins, pluuis- M.—Before my dolly's tootsies coines ? C.—Oh, Maud you make me cross, all through 1 At.-But, Claude, I am not cross with you C.-You think of other people's good M. Of course For, Claude dear, so I should C.—And I am I to do that, pray ? M.—Yes Once a year On Christmas day I" C.—Then let me kiss you, pretty Maud M. — I must, to make you happy, Claude (Let them kiss plentifully, alid bob up and down with much merriment.) Another. The characters in this are both girls, Nora and Dora. Drape both hands as for Maud, therefore, or have two dolls elegantly dres.-ed. Nora is proud and scornful, Dora in sulks and mournful. Mark the difference. NORA. — tfour dress is not the fashion, Dora. DORA.—You put me in a passion, Nora N.—Now, what I wear is quite delightful D.-And what you make me feel is spiteful N.—Why look at your poor trimming, Dora D. (cries J.-My eves with tears are swimming, Nora! N.—It is not silk, it is not satin, Nor fit to dress a tabby Colt in i D.-I can but keep on sob—sob —sobbing My heart will break with throb—throb- throbbing N.— It is not near the ia new colour, It is too bright, it should be duller D.—My chest is heaving—heaving—heaving N.—Then, look child, at that ugly sleeving D.—I thought it pretty with the smocking N.—Oh, dear, no, child 'Tis shocking, shock- ing D.—I thought it nice with kilt and yoking N.—Tut, Dora You are surely joking D.—Oh, Nora, will you stop your chatter ? N.—Yes, yes, for dresses do not matter; The thing which matters lies within you, If that be wrong, why then begin you All the wrong to cast without you, All the good to get about you. D.— Oh, why, then, did you tease me, Nora? N.—I did it just to please me, Dora. D.—Then here shall end our Christmas play, So (to the company) give three cheers for Christmas day ( Which the children may be encouraged to do vociferously.) A Third, And Last. Two characters. Mr Long and Mr Strong. For them have two knotted serviettes, like as for Claude, Be very comic. Mr LONG.—A merry Christmas, Mr Strong Mr STRONG.—A Kerry Mistmas, Mr Long L.-Get along! S.-Certamly. [Exit S.] L.— Oh, oh I did not wish it taken so, But, as he goes, why, I shall go. [Exit L.] (They are made ta raeet, face to face.) S.—You made inj angry, Mr Long L.- Yon atile me mangry, Mr Strong S.-Your English, sir, you speak quite wrong. L.—Then I will try to sing a song. {He dors.] S.—Oh that is worse. I run away [Exit S.] L.—And as lie goes I shall not stay [Exit L.] ( They wet once more.) S.—Again, good man, do you come here L.-Da.d Cnristmas conies but once a year! S.—Well, let us sing a Christmas song L.-And sing, like Christmas bells, ding-dong L.—Ding-dong Ding-dong (Antics. For as long as is thought desirable.)
Fireside Jests for Christmas…
Fireside Jests for Christ- mas Guests. By the Author of "CHRISTMAS GAMES AND PASTIMES," FROLICS AND FRUAKS FOR CHRISTMAS WEEKS," &C. A Christmas Card. ERE Christmas greets another year, Here Christmas brings th# best of cheer, Swdet kisses, crackers, indoor fun. For lass and lad nnl everyone. Hurrah I See Christmas wears his holly crown, And Christmas tosses laughter down His silver iooks mean silver gifts, His joyml face to joy all lifts. Hurrah Then spread the board with Christmas fare Take heed the p o.' the good shall share; Fcr keep that Christmas Pocr-Law true, And Christmas doubly blesses you. Hurrah (H)o rn i-tho ugli -logical Riddles. TO BE ASKVD AT TCKKEY-TIMK. 1. Which bird could hold up a lily ? 2. Which birds are boys sent on 5. Which bird is obliged to be a bachelor? 4. Which bird could converse bee-fashion, busily ? 5. Which bird is an innkeeper grown wealthy ? 6. Which bird would the fox be ? 7. Which birds m.iy oats be likened to, cock- neys ? 8. Which bird do you put in a picnic-basket? 9. Which bird is most like a comic story ? 10. Which bird could lift you ? 11. Of course. But if it fails ? 12. Winch bird can mean both one chanticlesr and a cnuple ? 13. Which bird might have helped Noah ? 14. Which bird is the most educated? 15. Which bird was the girl who refused you? 16. Which bird was the girl who accepted you ? 17. Those answers were expected; but which bird expresses your humour after the first catastrophe ? 18. And what did you do after the last ? 19. Which bird will freeze a pigeon ? 20. Which bird is almost a íhh ? 21. Which birds will you (1.11 break into at these too vntly riddles. Fcur Charades. TIIK FIRST. Of two parts am 1 made; Both born in France. The first—There music plays And young folks dance. The last—There mince-pies 90, And mince-pies bake. My wllOJe-A statesman who To Ireland spak«. THE SECOND. I have myself, and I am phesbus, In Latin form, possessive Casa That is, my first half so is sounded By custom, whether Peer cr Place. My ether half is what a fog doe3 To Phoebus, hiding it away. My whole, tha Cabinet has headed, And may again—s:> some folk say TKK TH HI). Two syllables complete me, My first, so near a hare, The tail is merely missing To make it really there. My last, delights a, maiden, When lads flock roundtto do it. My whole, preserves his country, Or wrongs it—as you view it I THE FOURTH. Do yo know a, pronoun Accusative of she • Do yo know a fish-home, You pick up by the sea ? Then, pray, name the Law-Lord Those two word reveal, lie who twice has flourished Lord-Keeper of the Seal. Fun Apropos. The Silver Question is not only exercising Indians and Financiers. Imaddition, there is Carmen Sylva. It is generally three-penny bits. A house agent has not one personalty only. He can be at the same time a Capital Letter, Switzerland is a parent. It has a bairn. (Bern). France is provided with Lyons and Vannes. These are the neeleus of a travelling managerie. TLe applAj splice to the cook like popular comic-sing-rs to their new audiences,. Core us I" they cried. The discontent of the Irish arises because they are not sect fr'?e. A sad cry comes from the London Venice. It is 0, limp here (Qlympia). King Humbert will not lend Queen Victoria his tureen. (Turin). He keeps it m Italy. People used to send » line to thoir friends. What they now send is a wire. It 13 now certain that Topsy was always straight. She was n^vor found topsy-tnrvey, So ;x>:mlar is urbanity, there is a talk ot intro- ducing Ziisbanity. Peop'e gird at Africa nowadays. They cry, Yor. ('ander (Umr.ulaj. All provincial eiUorLa^ment-givers are about to paste up Baila-lo bills. The mojt popular authors becer.:e like scarlet poppies. They are rrJ. uEed). Literary Levity FOR CRACKER TOlE. Sir Francis Bacon Rogers (Sam :) Did many waken. Knew Charles Lamb. Daniel Defoe. George, Lord Byron, All boys know. Let his ire run. Jonathan Swift Thomas Moore Had Satire's gift. Grew *0 poor. Sir Walter Scott Mary Howitt Imnvnso in plot. Did "the 0and thou" it. Fanny Burney Rudyard Kipling Took a journey, Clever stripling! Mr Payn, Write, attain A Hint to Housekeepers. (Strikingly Original.) For Chnstmas dinner get what I advise;- A bounteous Christmas pudding light mince pies Sir Loin o' beef roast turkey hung in chains; And serve for luncheon what remains. A RECIPK. Take letter ro, and letter e, Take letters double r ;— For in that piece of easiness I My meaning lies that far. Take the letter i, and letter m, Take letters e, n, t And smiles may break upon your face, For Merriment you see. ANOTHER RECIPE. W>"( Richer.) Love, take a p, and take an 1, And add a little ease Then, should I vow it spells a Jiist^ Be sure you answer Please Engiand Sbired Relies Required. COCTXTJES ÙOVKT. 1. Which shire is cannibal ? 2. Which gives must credit? 3. Which contains the most mistakes? 4. Which is not uncle's? 5. Which is the shiniest sbire? 6. Which is smaller than Rutland ? 7. Which holds your best singing notes? 8. Which did ths little Londoner say to W* dilatory mother? 9. Which could you best build with ? 10. Which is badder than bad ? 11. Winch do the men of the rod go to! 12. Which may have founded a noted line of steamships ? 13. Which is part of an auxiliary verb ? 14. Which is the fitst half of stiaing ? 15. Which says what the cook says of her best jellies? 16. Which means the Meet is over ? 17. Which could we all go to sea in ? 18. Which do we all hope to sleep in ? 19. Which is the disconsolate shire ? 20. Which shire is not pacific ? 21. Which shire shows what we all feel 011 Boxing Night ? 22. In which shire are you told what to do with a crossed cheque? 23. Whicit shire moan;, the reverse of sbort- lIJoney" to a banker ? 24. Which expresses what, the parson is doing tc the young people ? 25. Which plays mournful music ? 26. Which could be used in a military band? 27. Which might belong to Germany? 28. Which is always in the way ? 29. Which is the nearMt to haste and rapidity 30. Whicn tells us to lessen the area. of the Kingdom ? 31. IViiieh is where they make the most game 32. Which is the most celestial ? A Lover's Petition. Ah, take a y, and take an And take a crooked s And never say me nay again, But always pretty Yest A Sugar Plum. Will you take it sweet, ere to night we part ? Will you wed the sweet to a loving heart ? When we stroll, as close, far away from viewed May I dare to say, I would fain be yours A Question. You give the inch, men take the elt," A good old saw doth go. But what is given when men are driven, To take the miss-ell-toe ? T-Total T—Ching. FOR OVER THE TEA-CUPS. T makes an error terror—which it shouTdj T makes me met—an sweetly good I T makes ruth truth, an ear a tear, A star to start, and sounding clear T makes sand stand, the sea a seat, Oh, wonderfiil And makes fee feet,' A forge forget, a sigh a sight, My own my town, and nigh to night; A pin a pint, poor art a tart, A rouble trouble, car a cart. It makes our tour, an ape some tape, And war a wart (of hideou » nipe). It makes old told, and sale turn stale, His this, wine twine, and ale a tale. So oil is toil, so ease is tease, So pain is paint—though Painting pleasft Then act is tact, and we grows wet, And foolish verb To Be To Bet Te comes and I am it !-Oh, rare And he is thee, and here is there, And horns are thorns, and aM is tall; Bnt-I am fea-dious End, my scrawl. Father Christmas's Good Wish. AT PARTING. May you sleep a happy night 1 May you rise with appetite 1 Answers. (H)ORNI THOUGH LOGICAL RlDDLES. 1. The Stork. (Stalk1. 2. Herons. (Errands). 3. The Eagle. There is no She-gle. 4. The buzz-hard. 5. The (h)ost rich. (Ostrich). 6. A robbin'. (Robin). 7. The 'oss prey. 8. The field fare. 9. The wag tale. (Wagtail), 10. The Crane. 11. Take another. Then the two ca.n. (ToirejfflilL 12. The Cock or Two. (Cockatoo). 13. The L'trk. He could have taken his ark oat of,it. 14. The Vultiire is the nearest to Culture. 15. A Goose. 16. A Duck. 17. Chough. (Chuff)> 18. Crow 19. The Widgeon. Or at any rate it will rim-tit. (Rhyme). 20. The Qwhale. (Quail). It is very like A Whale. 21. (H)owis. FOUR CHARADES. The First-Bal. Four. (Ball. Oven). A The Second-Sol',g Bux,.y. (Salisbury). The Thud-Har(e) Court. (Harcourt). The Fourth—Her Shell. (Herschell). ENGLAND SHIRED REPLIES REQUIRED. 1. Gnaw-folk. 18. Beds. 2. looking 'em shire 19. Darby. He has nt (Buckinghamshire). Joan. 3. Errorfordshire. 20. War-ic. 4. Aunt's (Hants). 21. Merry on it 5. Gloss-ter. (Merioneth). 6. Less-ter. 22. In Dorset (endorse ifc> 7. Chest-er. 23. Lang-cash-shire. 8. Come, Ma Then 24. Knotting 'em. (Caermarthen). 25. Glum organ. 9. Flint, 26. Fife. 10. orse-ter. 27. Hesse-ex (Essex). 11. Angle-sea. 23. Cumber land. 12. lhe Canard vun Z9. It is Surrey (It it (Carnarvon). hurry). 13. Wiltshire. 30. Waste more land 14 Suffolk(Suffoc-ation) (Westmoreland.) 15. "Some are set" 31. Hoax-fordshire (Somerset) (Oxfordshire.) 16. Hunting done 32. Heaven shire 17, Barks (Berks). (Devonshire.)
Papas Forcible Remark!
Papas Forcible Remark Mamma, does the dictionary haTa all the words in it ?' ¡ "Yes, dear." All the words they is ?" Yes; all there arM." All' what they mean?" Yes." Can I look in the dictionary, mamma V Yes, yes, and keep still while mamma talks with Dr Antibngues. Johnny disappeared into the library and was gone 20 minutes. When he came back he wore a look of deep disappointment and struggled with the weight of Webster unabridged. "I can't find it, mamma," he observed with a frown. "What is it you want to find, Johnny?' inquired the good doctor. What papa, said when I breaked his shaving mug," was the innocent but suggestive remark.
[No title]
Bishop Wilson, of Calcutta, was a very eccentric divine. His sermons were very racy. Preaching against dishonesty, especially in horseflesh, as one cf the great English failings in India, he went on, Nor are we, servants of the altar, free from yielding to this temptation." Pointing to the oocupant of the reading-desk below him, There is my dear and venerable brother, the archdeacon, j sitting down there; he is an instance of it. He once sold me a horse; it was unsound. 'I was a stranger, and he took me in.
THE SYREN. 9'
THE SYREN. 9' A Tragedy. By CARMEN SYLVA. (Queen of Boumania.) [COPYRIGHT.] 'IE fleeting cTouds nrew their broad shadow over the sum- mits of the mountains, ,n the small glades amid the gigantic fir trees glinted green amongst he labyrinth of tall -rowing bracken. In one of these glades lay prone the black hollow trunk of a tree,in the cavity of vhich grew huge feathery ferns. At the time of which we write a charming young girl with bright expressive features: knelt before the fallen tree, and was pouring milk from a brown earthenware jug into a small cup, whilo four little collie pups, with coats as curly and as rough as young bear- crawled from within the trunk, barking and wagging their tails at the sight of the milk. The young girl laughed merrily as she rose up and contemplated the little famished animals. A rich mass of chestnut hair, crisp and wavy, shrouded her face, and made it appear still rounder and prettier than it was by nature. A bit of bright green mo-s had clung to her curls and glistened like an emerald amongst them. Her eye-brows were dark and heavy, her eyes had a greenish-grey tint and were strangely rest1ess, The mouth denoted cleverness, but there was a malicious expression which did not impress you with the amiability of its owner. She would willingly have caressed her little nurslings and have thrust her white fingers into their thick shaggy fur, but no matter how deftly she tried to catch one of them they eluded her grasp and barked and leaped around in defiance. "Well," cried she, laughing, "you are very ungrateful little monsters, for you were starving, and now whoever sa w such fat little cubs ?" She pronounced these words in so loud a tone that all the dogs barked in unison, while her gay laughter sounded clear and ringing as a. bell. She then set out in search of shade, and leaning against an enormous beech tree, began to pour forth in a flute-! ike voice iuns, trills, and cadences, 8) that the very birds came near and answered her. One of them even perched itself on to a branch opposite to her, and at the end of every shake chirped and turned its little head as much to say, "Is not that pretty now?" then it grew silent and again listened, scanning her first with one eye and then with the other. This by- play lasted for some time perhaps the young girl wa3 thus warbling with some other intention besides that of amusing the birds. At all events, a young man who was standing under the spread- ing branches of a pine tree. contemplating this little scene, seemed to think so. This man was tall, broad-shouldered, well set up, and there was an air of conscious power and self-possession in his mien thick, dark hair crowned his prominent forehead, which overhung a pair of small, deep- set, black eyes; his nose was large and straight, with flexible nostrils, while a heavy brown beard shrouded the rest cf his face. He did not even smile at this graceful picture, but gazed on it with folded arms, and without blinking he seemed to be holding his breath in order not to beak the charm. Suddenly a sharp breeze passed through the forest, the young girl turned her head, and their eyes mot. She feigned astonishment, and a slight blush overspread her pale, delicate face; she seemed to be on the point of Hying away, but the young man already stood in front of her, and said, in a low, harmonious voice: "011, do not run away, I beg of you. I have but imitated the trees and the birds in listening to your song. Does not the nymph of the forest permit that privilege to vulgar mortals?" "I do not think that I am the nymph of the forest," said the young girl. I should only like to be such a creature, but that is not possible." "And why. if you please?" Because T am a child of the sea, I was born on the watefc," Then you are a Syren in the fullest accept- ance of the word." "That can hardly be, either, for you do not follow the example of Ulysses." Ah, perhaps I am even more imprudent than Ulysses," was the rejoinder. "No, I think not, only more heroic, perhaps A man who permits himself to be bound cannot consider himself a. hero "Perhaps it might be better so, than to incur danger and perish." But there ia no danger at all here we are on terra firrno." "Who knows? One can wander away into a forest and lose one's way." People sometimes desire to lose their way," said the young girl, smiling maliciously. But who niav you be, brave Ulysses, for you have not named yourself to me ? Do you prefer that I should take you to be a, tree ? If so, adieu." And bowing her head she prepared to depart. led he. "I am not a block of wood. I was About to name myself, and in leturn to ask the little Syren by what name she is called." "My name is Marina." Marina What a charming name for a maid of the sea." Yes, 'tis from the sea I take my name," said she. Ci I am callsd Arnold, the artist," said be, and I am a great admirer of the beauties of nature" 11 11 la are the celebrated sculptor then of whom I have heard so much," said Marina, blushing, aud of whom I have often dreamed of meeting." Then may I hope that you will visit my stud'.o?" "Syrens do not enter the dwellings of mor- tals. Who knows if they were ever invited ?" asked he. Adieu," and, bowing charmingly, Marina sped away like a deer. Arnold was in his work-room next day, and the sounds of the chisel and the hammer were heard outside, the blocks of marble glistened in the sun, and everything was covered with a fino white dust. In h s sanctuary he was examining the model of a fountain, the water was to flow from a rock, before whioh knelt a nymph holding in her hand a large broad leaf in which to catch the sparkling liquid. This nymph was a marvel- lously beautiful conception, supple in every posi- tion. and almost enveloped in her magnificent long hair. There was a touching solicitude in her attitude, as if she regretted the sacrifice of the flowing water. Suddenly the sculptor raised his hand and mercilessly crushed the statue to atoms. He then set to work to fashion it anew. In -his pre- occupation he had not noticed the entrance of a young person who bore so strong a resemblance to the broken nymph that it was evident she must have served for the model. The tall, flexible form, the light, silky, chestnut hair, which fell in two luxurious plaits almost to her feet, were faithfully copied. With bright, quick eyes the young girl gazed on the work of destruction with pain and astonishment—unshed tears filled her eyes, but she quickly dried them. Her lips moved from time to time, as if about to address the sculptor, but they remained mute. At length Arnold drew back, as it was only then that he knew of her presence. "What! You here Lia? Are you all alone?" he asked, as if aroused from a dream. "Yes, for mother is marketing, and I thought, Arnold, that wa might pass a short hour plea- santly together." But you have not been here an hour already ?' Her lips faltered as she replied, Almost, I think." Arnold grew greatly embarrassed. I fear that you must be both vexed and astonished, in that I have destroyed my statue, but I have a much finer conception, a very beautiful idea; I am only sorry that my sweet fiance should have let me lose so much time before I knew of her presence." said Lia, "the time was not lost, for I passed it near you." Arnold toother in his arms and tenderly em- braced her. You are an angel," said he, I do not deserve to possess you." Li:, snw a oloud pass over his face. Who is to take my place there ?" she asked. A Syren who sings divinely; yes, she will sing until one seems to hear her voice rise and float above the murmur of the waters." Have you seen such an one ?" Yea, I think so," said Arnold, dreamily, without observing the inquiring look which came to the bright eyes. Yes, I have seen such a Syren, and I am moulding her from memory." "Who might she be?" asked Lia. "That I know not," replied Arnold. Ah nh take care or I shall grow jealous of your Syren! yes, what could a poor little nymph do against such a jwwer Lia's mother now entered the studio, and looked with surprise and consternation at the shattered work. At least, yuu might have put it aside, and taken care of it, Arnold," said she. "It would. have been a joy to me for the rest of my life to look on Lia as the statue cf a nymph." "You are quite right," said Arnold, "but we artists are such impulsive people that we sacri- fice everything to an idea." Did you say everything?" asked Lia in an anxious tone, which, however, escaped his notice. "Yes, everything," he replied, critically ex- amining his work. But not the happiness of your own life, I hope, Arnold f' Perhaps even that," murmured he in alow voica, which how 'vcr reached the ears of Lia although she was aIr-any at the door. He did not raise his eyes to bid h^r farewell," but con- tinued to work feverishly at'the statue. A f.w days later on it was Marina who sat as a mod*.I in Lia's plaoe. She had at last allowed him to discover h. r whereabouts, and had come to him many enfr-.aties on his part, and r- fusals on her side. He begged of her to sing to him during the wholo time of the sitting, so that he inieht reproduce the form of her lips and throat faithfully. This was a somewhat difficult undertaking, for when she sang he was so much under the charm -f her marvellous voice, and of her fascinating person, that he forgot his work, and when fatigue compelled the Syren to rest, he had to wait until she recommenced her song. For these reasons the sitting 5 were of long dura- t;on, and took place at short intervals. During this time the studio door remained closed no one, not even Lia, might see the statue until it was quite finished. Arnold's residence was situated at the foot of a hill, and commanded a view of the whole town. Lia's eyes often wandered sadly over the magnificent panorama which lay before her, and sometimes, growing impatient and uneasy, she would go to the door of the studio, and finding it still closed would say— "I will not disturb you." During one of these prolonged sittings Marina said to the artist, "I know your affianced wife quite well did she not tell you we were school- fellows ?" No, indeed, never," said Arnold. That is not unlike her," answered Marina. "She was always loving and forgetful—'out of sight out of mind Her nead and heart are like a filter, or the barrel of the Danaides, but if it were otherwise she would not now be your pro- mised bride." "And why not, pray?" asked Arnold with flashing eyes. Because she has already loved another. The poor unfortunate young man is almost in despair, although she takes compassion on him and meets him now and then in the garden to console him for her faithlessness. He often accompanies her here even. I see him every day wandering near her house, waiting for her. It seems she wishes to accustom him to the idea that she ia en- gaged to another." Marina spoke in a light tone, smiling the while, but there was a sneer in the corner of her mouth, and* mocking laugh in her eye3. Arnold felt his ears tingle, while black specks danced before his eyes. Who told all this to you ?" be cried. Marina pointed to hereyesand ears, and bent her head Arnold flung aside his apron and hastily seized his hat, saying, You must excuse me. if you please, but I cannot work any more to-day. You will come again shortly, will you not ?" Ho rushed out of the house. Marina craned her neck like a little snake as she looked after him, her lips curled more than ever, and her eyes flashed with the cold, cruel light. Suddenly Arnold came back, and said, I should like to know with whom I share Lia's love ?" After a moment's hesitation, she said, Will you swear not to harm her ? Will you believe that he is the dupe, and swear to avoid him ? Otherwise I will never come back again here you will have seen me for the last time." I solemnly swear," answered Arnold. Well, then, he is a poor young fellow named Hubert, who writes learned books, and he is dying of hunger. He would never be able to keep a wife, so he has no chance with her, poor fellow. Arnold rushed away like a hurricane, and finding Lia at home, and alone, he seized her by her delicate wrists, and cried out breathlessly Lia, I know eveything I have learned all your hypocrisy I am come to bid you an eternal farewell." You accuse me of being a hypocrite? Since when. if you please ?" Have you not always been one ? Do not play the innocent with me false women always appear to be the most candid and genuine, but what they try craftily to conceal comes to light in the end, and happy is he who discovers their treachery in time. Good-bye, I hope you will forget me speedily, you who have so short a memory." Lia stood for a moment speechless as if turned to stone, then utterance came to her. If you are in search of a pret. xt to break off our engagement do not rack your brain to seek one, take back the promise which has become a burden to you, but you scarcely need to have insulted me." "True, true, I have been hard and cruel, and have wounded your sensitive nature, one ought to be polite even when foaming with rage," said Arnold, bowing Ijw, and adding, Goodbye, for ever wo shall never meet again," he rushed away. I thought it would be so said Lia as she pressed her hands to her bosom, panting far breath. All at onca she felt something moist and warm rise in her breast, and then the bright red blood rushed like a fountain from her lips. On her mother's return she found that ia had I fainted, and she was a long time before She could restore her suffering daughter to consciousness, and a much longer time elapsed before she could tell the cause of the illness. Lia lay on her bed consumed bv f-wer. and tormented with a constant racking cough. Whenever she tried to recount to her mother the interview which had taken place she was seized with a severe shivering lit, and her teeth chattered in her head. ) Several weeks passed thus. The mother wished to appeal to Arnold, but Lia would not allow her to do so. "No, mother," said she, "He wished to be free, and I am too proud to desire to chain him to my side again." Marina wished to visit Lia and see how her treachery was working, but whenever she ap- proached the house she found the door closed however, at length, during the absence of the mother, she succeeded in seeing Lia. Oh, my poor, poor child," she cried, with tears in her eyes, how changed you have be- come. I should scarcely have known you. Oh, dear, dear, how sorry and grieved I am." Lia's nostrils and lips dilated with agitation from her short, rapid breathing, as she said :— Rejoice, for it is you who have killed me, and now the happiness is for you." You may say it is, I who have killed you. You are feverish, and must be delirious! I do not know what happiness is. Who thinks any more of the mod"! when the statue is finished ? The model, the statue,' both Shattered, both destroyed," murmured Lia. Poor child," repeated Marina, pityingly. Go away, I beg of you," said Lia, for I am tired and wish to sleep." The poor invalid tried to turn herself towards the wall, but the effort was too great, and a fresh fit of coughing brought her mother to her side. At the sight cf her Marina fled like a. feather before the wind. Some weeks after this interview between Marina and her victim, the whole town was dis- cussing the betrothal of Arnold and Marina, which caused much comment ami shrugging of shoulders amongst the gossips. Even before his former love is laid in the grave," said they. It is indecent—unheard of." One evening as Marina was leaving Arnold's studio, a young man, pale as death, his hair hanging in disorder over his thin temples, and with eyes in which burned the fire of fever, accosted her roughly, saymg- Marina, if what they are spying about you be true I shall go mad! Something will burst within me if I know that you are unfaithful to ms." Do be reasonable," answered Marina, for you know, Hubert, we can never marry we are both too poor—penniless eveu. I tell you, I shall marry whomsoever I please in spite of what you say. If you crcats a scandal I shall tell everyone that you are deranged, and be quite sure that they will believe me I" It was strange how quickly the rumour spread throughout the whele town that Arnold had dis- covered Lia's unfaithfulness, and had abandoned her in disgust, and that the modest Lia was not, after all, such a saint as she seemed. None knew with whom the report had origin- ated, it was a tact patent to all the world. Yet people did not cease to feel a certain interest in Lia when they learned that she was hopelessly ill they remembered that her eyes had been always too bright, her cheek had a hectic flush, and her tall, slender form, with its narrow shoulders, had always seemed to indicate con- sumption. Evil tongues vied with each other in inventing stories to her discredit, and closed the mouth of those who were willing to give the poor creature the benefit of the doubt. Lia grew daily weaker and weaker, and the sight of this beautiful flower drooping uncom- plainingly to the tomb was deeply touching to those who were permitted to see her. It was now the eve of Arnold's wedding day. He had just dressed to go to a party at the house of his bride a brilliant assembly of artists and cultivated men. To his dismay Lia's mother was announced, and before he could make an excuse for not seeing her, she was in his presence, beseeching him with floods of tears to come to her daughter's side-even for a moment. "She will not live many days. She only wishes to say one word to you. The step which I have taken has cost me much, but my dying child urged me to come. She does not wish to speak of herself at all, but she says the happiness of your own lifa is in peril. She bade me say that she has something to con- fide to yau which no other may hear she will be sad unto death if you will not come." "Not to-day! I oaanot come now, madam— some other tune." Ii But when I repeat my child is dying." Once on a time such words would have made me desperate," said Arnold, but now, no cord vibrates within mo. No, I cannot go to your house to-day," and bowing he left her alone, The poor woman returned to Lia., distressed and almost broken-hear ted. She replied to her daughter's questioning look only by a negative shake of the bead, and neither of them could utter a word. Those persons who saw Arnold after his mar- riage were immensely surprised to find him much more staid and serious than previously. To. warda hi." young wife his maiiner was almost surly, although she flattered him and over. whelmed him with constant delicate attentions, and obeyed his every look, as if she feared him. IV I. Matina was now to be seen at dances and parties, everywher" where s-he could exhibit her talents, and by her wit and repartee she became the life of the company. Very soon their little world talked ouly of Marina, the charming creature—the Syren—as they named her—after having seen the plaster cast of the fountain. In this statue the Syren seemed to be stepping out of the basin she held by one hand to the rock, where a little bird had perched to look at her, while she secn.ed to beckon to it with the bent fingers of the other hand. The most mar- vellous points in the figure were the swelling throat and the open lips, from which the sounds ever seemed to pour forth like pearls. Py some it was said that at night the statue sang m a low voice an echo of Marina's songs. When Arnold heard talk of this he looked with gloomy eyes on the Syren, but made no comment. The neighbours shook their heads and said that Arnold had been bewitched since the death of Lia, that the wife whom he had married would lead him to perdition with her demon-like eyes. Previous to this, one evening, Arnold entered Marina s apartments when she was preparing to dress for a ball. L'a is rlead," said he, abruptly. Yes, I know that," was his wife's answer. "You know of it, and whv did you not tell it to me V' Because, perhaps, I am still jealous of the dead," said she, fondling him, and pressing against him, softly. He pushed licr aside, saying :— "Leave me alone, you are quite too ridicu- lous." Yes, that is true," said Marina, drooping her head, and hanging down her arms like a scolded child, while his Hyes had an expression of repent- ance. I shall not go out this evening," said Marina, commencing to take the flowers from her hair. If you wish to please me leave me alone, and go to this party without me your presence there is indispensable." She still preserved her caressing attitude, as sh-) added: Let it be so, then, but I wish to shine only for you." "Since when, pray ?" Oh Arnold, why do you ask that ? You have never, a. 1 far as I can remember, biddenyourlight under a bushel." "All my attraction has been caused by you. I was quite unknown before." "You are not truthful," said he, and quitted the room. Marina followed him with her eyes, and then put her finger to her lips and reflected. A losing game," she hissed. Then she began to warble her trills and cadences, which she con- tinued as she went downstairs and out at the street door. She did not remain long at the party, but was fascinating as usual, and attracted everyone by her beautiful eyes and marvellous voice. It is a pity," said the guests, "that her hus- band's marble Syren can never have expression of her eyes, though they do resemble cat's eyes somewhat." Tiger's eyes rather said one. "She is a demon, and one must beware of her," cried another. But why does her husband treat her so coldly now ? he who was at the beginning so madly in love with her." "Perhaps he has discovered the demon, and fears its close embrace." His Syren is passing-strange. I really think I should be afraid of her." Some months had passed now since Arnold's marriage, and happiness seemed never to have dwelt on his heart! there appeared to be some secret grief iu his life, which ha could reveal to no one. Was it remorse of conscience, or the knowledge of the truth, which he had discovered too late? Perhaps it was Lia's last request that he should go to her, and to which he would not listen, that tormented him. People feared to look him in the face, for they said ho had given to his marble Syren an infernal expression--something which seemed to incite to crime. They talked much of, and pitied the poor young wife, whose beauty and talented voice charmed them more and more. But this voice now made itself heard only for strangers, as Arnold went away whenever she began to sing, saying he did not like so much music. But you sing also, do you not ?" remarked an indifferent person. Arnold's brow clouded as he replied, "I have been hoarse for a long time now, and can 110 longer ciis nguish a false note from a true one, nor good from bad music. I have completely lo-t my ear." At this Marina raised her eyelids. I will not fail to let you know when I sing false," said she, laughing noisily. Thus time passed on with this ill-assorted couple. When they were alone Marina would try to amuse her husband by recounting things which had happened before her marriage. Did I ask you about that?" he would say, rudely. I have never questioned you as to your past, neither do I wish to hear anything about it." Truly, Marina had wonderful self-command, for she never replied harshly, nor did her face become clouded. Her house was perfectly ordered, never- theless she did not receive a word of praise, or even comment from her husband. One evening Arnold was seated on the veran- dah, looking down on to the town which lay enveloped In the light mists of autumn the full moon shed so clear a light that one might have seen to read by it, and the steeple and roofs of the houses shone in the moist air. Silence reigned around, an owl brushed against the windows of the studio, which was only lighted by the moonbeams, then it perched on a tree opposite, and screeched its weird cry and flew away. Arnold's pensive gaze followed the bird in the distance. Soon Marina came from out the studio. Will you not look on your Syren once more, Arnold? You know that to-morrow morning it will be taken away the statue seems as if alive in the moonlight." Arnold rose slowly and entered the studio in truth the Syren did seem to be endowed with life. Soon he heard rapid steps beneath the veran- dah, and in an agitated, excited voice these words were pronounced, Hubert! Lia Marina Arnold He grew attentive and listened, then he heard the voice of Ins wife. Hubert for God's sake what do you seek here, at this hour of the night ?" I seek yon—you wicked creature—you, the diabolieal Syren yon who have killed Lia you have deceived Arnold, and driven me almost to madness." I, I killed Lia, you say » you must have taken leave of your senses, Hubert." Oh, you need not deny it, for I know all your treachery. It was but natural that you should be unfaithful to me, for Arnold is a great artist, while I am nothing. But that you should dare to impose upon him by saying" that I was the lover of Lia- she who died of grief f:>r the loss of Arnold she who was chaste and purs as the sunshine this is too much. While you, you whom I havs held in my arms, and to whom you sworn eternal fidelity when only the moon was a spectator, and the moon has kept silence." Tho sound of a heavy How, a clashing din, roso from tho studio and interrupted their quarrel. Marina rushed to the studio, and found Arnold standing with clenched fists before the Syren, which was cleft in twain from head to heel. The hammer with which he had struck the statue had rebounded from the violence of the shock and lay on the ground behind him. "Arnold screamed Marina, You know that poor wretch outside is hopelessly insane." But ovbii while she was speaking the heavy hammer was wielded by a pitiless hand, and descendingon her head felled her to the ground, where she lay in the agony of death. Hubert then entered the studio, and would have crushed her with his foot had not Arnold pushed him asidfc with violence. Then Hubert, with the strident laugh of a maniac, cried, Ha ha you have slain the fals? Syren, and I wished to show you which was the real one, for you seem to be rather stupid; but now your turn has come, for Lia has sent me to bo her avenger "Do your work quickly, then," said Arnold, bowing his head to meet the blow, but the mad- man let the hammer drop from his fingers. "No, no, not thus; the tragedy will he more complete when I tell the world that you first killed Lia, and afterwards murdered tha Syren, then there will be a grand execution in the market place, at which I shall danco with joy I will tell everything, and I will show to the people how I kissed her even in your presence." Saying thesa words, he raised the head of the dead Marina and kissed her, furiously. Arnold was so horrified at the sight that he fled out into the night, he knew not whither. The calm, unconscious moon shone for a, long tin., on tho studio where the madman crouched. When the neighbours visited it in the morning, they found the dead Marina laid in the arms of the broken Syren, and Hubert seated in a corner grimacing and crying out ;■— I teU you she sang false, and that drove Arnold mad!" They could never learn what had really taken place, for none had been there to see, only the bright ipooa and she was discreet aud silent. Even the name of Arnold, the sculptor, had not been mentioned of late, it was not known if he were still III existence, when one day a magnificent marble statue arrived to ba placed on the tomb of Lia. There was no name attached to tt, and the men who brought it said that it was sent by the great sculptor with white hair, the master Liamo, who lived in Italy. It was the statue of the Nymph for. which Lia sat as model long years before, but instead of the waters of the spring a serpent issued fronl the rock, anu soiled itself around the leaf held bv her delicate hands. Lia's mother shed many bitter tears before thIs graven image cf her dead child, which possessed so much beauty and charm, but alas not Life! (THE END.)
-----------LAMB'S BICYCLE;…
LAMB'S BICYCLE; A TAKE-OFF SCENE—A Suburban Railway Station. ACT 1. Lam I: (a tyro, showing off his new machine): Yes, a bicycle, is a big thing. Now, this one I have just bought has all the modern improve- ments- a pneumatic. auto-mobile brake, to pre- vent the machine from getting away from me going downhill, the acme foot-rest, to cock up my feet on under<he same circumstances then look at this electric lamp You see I carry a small storage battery under the seat, and the mere action of the wheels in going downhill stores up enough energy to keep the light going in case I want to use it at night. Then this patent mud arrester is made of solid steel, and effectually prevents any dirt getting on my clothes. Thi? little pouch contains ail my wrenches, oil-cans and tools, and I can carry any necessary toilet articles and a change of underclothes in this bag that I hook on here; and that funny little arrangement of brass and iron is an air-pump to keep the tyres jelled. You see what I want in a bicycle is solid comfort—a machine that I can coast down to the station on in the morning, and can pedal back up to the house in the evening, or find all ready equipped for a quiet SpIn, if I have time before dinner. (Between Acts I and II. a period of one month is supposed to have elapsed.) ACT II. Lamb (an expert, showing off the same machine): Oh, yes, I've got this bicycle business down pretty fine. Why, when I got this thing it was simply loaded down with a lot of useless attachments, like one of tuese men who go around paying a whole brass band and a brass drum. Mud guard ? What's the use of a mud-guard 1 Why, man, it's made of steel, aud weighs two pounds and nine ounces. All I have to do is to keep an extra pair of trousers at the station and change '"in twice a day. No brake ? Of course it hasn't a brake. I took that off long ago—it wergtied twenty-seven ounces A brake's no use, anyhow. If you want to stop her, just press your heel against the tyre, so. No place to rest my feet when I'm coasting ? Don't want any place ju.-t let 'em hang. Thos» rests weigh an ounce and a half each. No, I don't car. y a lantern. if I go out after dark, why, I light a cigar. My first lantern weighed two pounds my last lantern weighed four ounces but no lantern weighs nothing. I got rid of that and the bell last week. The bell weighed nearly two ounces. Some fellows carry a regular ma- chine shop around with them but my motto is, "Get everything adjusted and screwed faet before you start out,"—if you pm; a hole through your tyre, all the pumps in America can't pump it full of air, so it will stay full. Zvly pump alone weighed nine ounces. Now, this is what I call a bicvcle. It's a frame joining two wheels, with a seat on it. a handle to sceer by, tmd two pedals tc make it go. What more dries anybody want ? ACT III. First Citizen: Did you see Lamb's bicycle yesterday ? He'- taken off almost everything he's taken -— Second Citizen Oh, but you ought to have seen it last light Lamb started to coast down after dark without a brake or a lantern, and ran into a policeuiau. He took off Lamb, and then he came back and took off the machine. That beats Lamb.
[No title]
MIl Hudson, wife of the English railway king assail-d by Carlyle, was a worthy successor of Mrs Malaprop. Thero is a storv of tier related by Mr Vurnoa H'-at.h in his Kecolh etions Mr Hudson bad issued cards for an evening party to meet the Dukaof Wellington." The night arrived, the guests assembled, and th< rooms were crowded, but no duke, though at < lare hour his grace arrived, when Mrs Hudson, who was ready to receive him, said Oh, duk;, you aro so late, and I have be;-n so anxious for to-night, yon know, you are my prima donna ASTRONOMICAL ITEM.—The other night an in- toxicated individual who had for some time been swaying to and fro, in earnest contemplation of a telescope in Union-square, finally mustered ha powers of locomotion, and approaching the pro- prietor said in a persuasive tone "See here, you —say, when are you going to touch her off? J More'n dozen people's sighted the thing. Now. why don't you touch her off ?"