{ title: 'The Democratic eagle. (Cape Vincent, N.Y.) 18??-188?, February 09, 1882, Page 1, Image 1', download_links: [ { link: 'http://www.loc.gov/rss/ndnp/ndnp.xml', label: 'application/rss+xml', meta: 'News about NYS Historic Newspapers - RSS Feed', }, { link: '/lccn/sn94057708/1882-02-09/ed-1/seq-1/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn94057708/1882-02-09/ed-1/seq-1.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn94057708/1882-02-09/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn94057708/1882-02-09/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
Image provided by: Northern NY Library Network
SHSMHC !*-«.: * yUBHSflHD EVERY TnTJRSBAT, AT CAPE VHNCENT, N. Y., BY OHABLES B. 'WOOD, Editor and Prop'r, To whom all letters should he addressed. All correspondence and advertisements should each ua Tuesday morning: to Insure puhlloatlon. JOB WORK A SPECIALTY. «amiririm»aaaB8«»i^rii»irWfm^ # H Potter 18aoT6I c^nniriiiWtTi<rtri^roMiSiaai«a^i»^iaaaac ••\y OHAELES B. WOOD. Editor. Home and Home Interests. TEEMS: $1.50 BT ADVANCE. YOL. X. CAPE VINCENT, N. Y., THURSDAY. FEBRUARY 9,1882 NO. 45. 2%{ Bmotmtin J%/f —,••...„.»••». —,„..,•., ,, RATES OF ADVERTISING. 3PAOK. Uneh.' ainoh's sinoh'a 4 Inch's 6 inch's X Col.. ICol,.. 1 w, I 76 . 1.SS 178 2 6(1 .8'SW ,S00 10 00 2 W. $125 176 2 60 8 26 4 00 7 00 12 00 8-W. $1.76 226 826 4011 4 76 800 14 00 lm. $3 26 2 76 4 00 4 76 660 0 00 10 00 lm, $4 00 6 SO 'TOO 8 00 9 00 16 00 26 00 6 In. to oo 8 Of 900 10 00 19 00 25 OO 4B00 1>. S3 09 ISOO 14 00 l«ft> 20 00 46 00 89 00 Business Cards, five unes or leBS, Sis a year. Advertisements m Local column, ten cento per 1 ne the first week, anfl Ave cents per line eacli subsequent Insertion. Obituary Notices trill be charged nve cents per line lor all over six lines. Notlcea of Marriages and Deaths Inserted fre« *wi.im] i.si»-**«. attOogac j mrtrsaagopwaooagrrnr rr.lf mm UNION HOUSE, JAMES BATES, Proprietor. Nearest hotel to the depot and steamboat landing:. Goodstables and cattle yards. Be* duoed Terms, $1.00 per day. JAMES AUGUSTAS, Dealer in MUST aoA IEAYY HAS1SS, Opposite St. Lawrence Hotel, Market at REPAIRING in all its branches done promptly and at low figures, I make the BEST % COLLAR IN USE I Give mo a call and satisfy yourself. M.J3.LEB, GOOD-MIGHT. There's a lace in the mirror of loveliness rare, Enoircled by round, dimpled arms, sweetly bare, \White lingers, pink-tipped, hide and seek in her hair, A-takmg it oil tor the night. There's a pair of brown eyes, rather sleepy, It's true Bed cheeks that outrival the poaches in hue j A mouth made of rose-buds and holding a few Bent hair pins 'tween teeth pearly white. There's aflutter, of white angel wings, I suppose; A dropping of shoes and a showing of hose; A patter of little bare feet and ten toes, A-running across on the floor. Then darkness—a ghost kneeling flown by the bed; The tiniest prayer that ever was said, A palling of blankets all over the head, And a sweet little musical snore. ASTER MANY DAtS. ATTORNEY Vincent, M. Y. AND COUNSELOR, CAPS Office Cor. Broadway and Point Sts. HdKELSEiv \ Represents the old and rename Coatineatal Fire 1mm Co. Pays tun amount ot Insurance. Capital $1.000,. 000. Surplus $1,038,422. Governed under the N. Y. State land law. A. S. SMITH, M. D. O. M. Apian, Sirpoi, & Aetata.. © office and Besldence next door north of the Episcopal churoh on Market street Calls promptly attended to both day and night. \ S. K. BISHOP, Retail Dealer In Groceries, Provisions, Fruits, Cigin and Tobacco. A lull stock of Furs Liquors and Wlnea. Opposite Post Office, Broadway. ' DANIEL QULNLAN, Dealer In Choice Family Groceries. •fruits, Nuts, Confectionery, Tobacco, Cigars, Slid Notions. Nearly opposite the D-pot, Broadway. WM. T. EBBS, louse, Sign and Carriage Painter. Paper Hanging and Graining a Specialty. Work done with neatness and dispatch. Bhop on Broadway, Cape Vincent. F. A. CROSS, Dealer In Dry Goods, Clothing, Boots & Shoes, Qrocerlea, Provisions, Yankee Notions, so.. Broadway, Cape Vincent, N. Y- GEO. KELLY. Blacksmith & General Jobber, Broadway, Cape Vincent, 13 now prepared to do Hi Mads ot work In his line cheaper than the cheapest. All work warranted. Horseshoeing a speciality. Contracted feet cured or nn pay- O. W. LONDKAVTT.T.W, Fashionable Barber Shop, iflrst door west ot Woodruff's Drug Store, Broadway, Cape Vincent. A number of years of experience will enable me to give satisfaction. MRS. H. EARL, Hair-Dresser, Cape Vincent, N. T. Particular attention given to the manufacture of Ladles' Switches, eto. Retail Dealer In ERESH&SALTMEAT, TTlrst door West of post Office, Broadway- Cape Vincent, N. Y. Casta Paul for Hides a-jd Felt*, H. N. BUSHNELL, M. D. Dealer In DRUGS, MEDICINES Wall Paper, Window Shades, HARDWARE AND GROCERIES 1 • AT BOTTOM: PRICES, FBXGEP MARKS, Dealer In FUR. Wf ITURE, ' Lumber, Coal, Salt, &c, At Cross\ Old Stand,,Capo Vincent, N. Y. HENRY PEO, WHOLESALE DEALER IN Lake Ontario Fish, Cape Vincent, N. Y., Prices as low aa any other reliable house. JEROME'S HOTEL, AND BILLIARD ROOMS, Ice Cream Always on Band, tttly) Cape Vincent IS\. S. THOMAS MASSON, M. B, Graduate of Queen's Mfeisity Kingst'n (Successor to Dr. Eatrbalrn.) utiles at Mrs. Knssler'a. Professional tails puuctu&lly attend' d to at all hours, day and night. A long luxurious room, all wine-color and gold. Velvet carpets were under foot; silken curtains draped the windows; from cabinets of ebony gleamed exqui- site gems of chiseling; on the wall hung delicious morsels of color, the chandelier was all ablaze; in the wide steel grate'an anthracite fire leaped and sparkled with innumerable reflections. Without, the rain fell, the winds howled drearily, the trees rocked and groaned this desolate autumn night. Here, all was light and warmth and luxury. One of the massive doors swung back and a girl came into the room—a little, slight, childish fig- ure, clad i n a trailing blue silk dress, a dainty, youthful face, with features a trifle short for classic perfection, big, azure eyes, oheekB like pink roses, and pale gold ringlets falling in glittering showers t o her waist. She came over to the mantel and stood, with idly clasped hands, looking up at the picture above it . Such a wonderfully handsome face, olive-skinned and Greek featured;, bright and reckless and boyish on the whole; but one instinctively knew that back of i t lay an impulsive, passionate temperament. So absorbed the girl stood she did not hear the door upon and and some one enter. \You won't t o be positive you'll re- cognize him, Iva,\ laughed a voice be- hind her. She turned swiftly, a little shyly, hex- face luminous, The lady who had entered and now stood regarding her with a happy, quizzical smile, though elderly, Was straight and imposing and Btately. Her s*ft satin robes swept the rioh carpet; an exquisite morsel of Mechlin rested oa her- dark hair. One glance at her face and grave eyes involuntarily rever- tedvto the pictured one above the man- tel, but the face of the mother was as that of the son, aged and exaggerated, colder, sterner. Wow. as she glanced, up at the cold young face of him who was the last representative of a grand raoe, all the p,roud adoration of a moth- er came into the keen, old eyes, and she oould well say, with the Countess Dani- cheff. \For that name and that son, everything. For the rest, nothing.\ \What exquisite flowers, Iva!\ For just where the foamy lace flowed back from the girl's slender throat.nest- led a cluster of \pink fragile, hot house blossoms. '•Yes; Mr. Lawrenoe sent them.\ \Mr Lawrenoe! Take care, little girhe! My prophetic soul tells me that Mr. Lawrence will grow a great deal too fond of you if he is not that already. He is a very wealthy man, dear—an honor- able gentleman—but Cyril holds your promise. Nothing; nothing.\ she rei- terated, -almost passionately, \shall break that.\ \Dear Aunt Adelaide, anil likely to forget i t when I loved him so? Three years since he went—I was 15 then— and i t has seemed like three centuries.\ \Hark how it storms. It is not omi- nous of his coming home, however.dear I am going up t o my room a while, but be sure I shall hear the first sound of carriage wheels.\ She left the parlor and Iva Russel walked to the window, and drawing aside the curtain looked out: A dreary blustering November night. The rain fell heavily, steadily, uncom- promisingly; the wind wailed and shrie- ked like a thing in pain; the trees writhed and flung their huge arms aloft. For the girl who stood there, looking out with such Bweet, glad eyes, all the joy of the present, all the hopes of the future, lay i n three little words thrilling through the heart and brain—\Cyril is coming!\ \Ah!' She was turning away, when she stopped short, with a terrible gasp. Her blue eyes, dilated with fear, were rivet- ed on the window. Against it was pressed a face as white as the face of the dead. Wild dark eyes traveling around tho room, then fixed themselves on her. Even as then, - glance met, she sprang to the casement and flung i t open with a cry of breathless, bewildered recogni- tion. \Cyril Cyril!\ The man came slowly, dazedly into the glow, the light, the sparkle of the room. From his overcoat and slouched hat the water dripped. His face was that of the portrait above the mantel, but woefully changed, wan and worn andht^gard. \Iva holding out his hands with a sad' weary smile, butndt offering t o kiss her, \dear little Iva!\ \Cyril!\ It was just a whisper. Into her eyes had crept a vague dread. \Iva where's your mother?\ \Up stairs.\ She could only answer mechanically and. in monosylables. What a different home coming-to that which she had expected, \You—you got my letter! You were expecting me?\ nervously, with a swift glance around the bright, cozy room and back t o the little silk robed figure be- fore him; \but oh.Iva, Ival\—the words breaking from him passionately, his voice hoarse and shaking—\you were not expecting my wife.\ \Your wife!\ \My wife.\ He flung himself on his knees beside her low chair. He caught her soft, parkling hands i n his ownfieroe grasp, and then he bowed his handsome, hag- gard face upon them. \Listen Iva,\—breathlessly rapidly \It was in London I mother. We boar- ded at the same house, She was an Englishgirlwho supported herself and her invalid father by teaching. One night the house took fire. My room was in a remote part; and the firemen could not or would not Audit. She led them through the rain of sparks, and flama, and falling timbers, till they burst open my door and dragged me out, unconsci- ous. She bears the marks of those burns to this day. In carrying me out I was struck by a falling beam. For weeks I lay ill and delirious. When I awoke t o reason it was to find that she who had saved had nursed me. Every scrap I had in the world, was burned—money, letters, clothes, everything. And ah these weary weeks she had been supporting me, ministerinp t o me. As I grew stronger I came t o see what —thorough woman though she was— she strove t o conceal—a love for which I was most unwishful, most unworthy. Dear, what could I do? My honor led me through dishonor—I married her. She is here t o night at the hotel—she and my baby. \Why don't you curse me, Iva?\ lifting to hear an anguished, pallid face. ' - Had ever man a more bitter task than mine has been to- night?\ Stonily the girl had heard him. Every tinge of color had faded from her face and left i t deadly white. \You love her?\ she questioned very low, He dropped his dark young head with a groan. \God help me,\ he said, \no.\. \Cyril!\ cried a fond, proud voice from the doorway; \Is i t you, Cyril my darling boy ? and I did not bear you come,\ And his mother had rushed across the room and clasped him i n her arms. \Wait a moment, mother,\ drawing back hastily from her embraoe and stan- ding up before her all white and nerv- ous. \I have something, t o tell you first. I am married.\ \What?\ She staggered back as though from a blow. 'Yes, I have told Iva—\ he began his voice low and hurried. But she silenced him with one swift imperious gesture. Now you saw that her stem old face did not belie her. It was flashed darkly with passion; her eyes were blazing. . \And you dare—yon dare to come and tell this t o me—me?—in the presence-of the girl t o whom you were bound in honor! Out of this housel Out this moment, I say ! Yon are no son of mine.\ He did not cry for mercy as a weaker man might have done. His temper was a reflex of her own. He turned t o go as quietly as he-bad dome, On the sill he turned simply as a sob smote upon his ear, To Ids dying day; he never forgot the picture that met his eye. And William Lawrence, entering un- announced with the freedom of an old friend, drew back i n bewilderment. In the centre of the rich, gaslit room, stem and dark-browed and unyielding as was ever a mother Sparta, Mrs. Cal- vert stood? and at her feet, where she had flung herself in passionate applica- tion, the kneeling figure of the- girl, all shimmering in silk and costly lace and pure pink blossoms. Her clasped hands wore uplifted imploringly: her lovely; tear wet, childish face was white and quivering. \Aunt Adelaide — Aunt Adelaide don't! Remember if you loved him; so did I.\ The man i n the doorway caught bis breath sharply,and Cyril Calvert dashed away with hasty strides into the stormy November night. \God bless her! Godblessher!—my first and last love!\ \Good-bye dear. It's getting late— I must be going.\ And a little sombre clad figure by the fire laid gently down the cMld she had soothed to sleep, and began putting on her wraps. Cyril Calvert's wife; a pretty, fragile English girl, with eyes too bright for health and a scarlet spot o n either cheek rose too. \It's too dark t o go alone, Iva. Wait for Cyril.\ \No no, dear,\ hastily. \Is she as hard as ever, Iva?\ Iva shook her head sadly. \Yes the struggle between her love and pride is fearf nl. It is eating away her life,\ 'Tm sorry we ever eame,,' Alice Cal- vert said, fretfully, ' 'Cyril would have it so, and now I have not the strength nor the means t o leave. He is working very hard, but joiirnalism gives very light support t o a novice. Without you Iva, I do not know what we would do. You. and that annonymous friend who is so inexpressibly good t o us. Yester- day there came- a basket of hot house fruit. I saw the gentleman aa he stood with the messenger at the corner of the street pointing out the house. His face was so strange t o me, but I shall know him if I eVer see him again. It must have been from him there came two months ago, when we were so hard up, that $50 bill in the printed enve- that she was very ill, stopped to in- quire.\ What a clear, crisp, amber night. Bright and bracing and invigorating, with, a' breath of winter 06 its frosty sweetness.' ' Even Iva Russel, pale and worn from nursing poor Alice Calvert, felt a strange, new thrill of peace and happi- ness. They went together into the dark- ened room. Cyril, kneeling by the bed bis face buried in his hands'and not looking up. \ \Iva! Iva!\ Alice OalverSs hot fin- gers closed feverishly over her friend's. \Who—is this?\ William Lawrence came a-step for- ward into the light. ^ \Yes it is he,\ cried the dying wom- an. \Iva—Cyril this is thegeutlemau who has befriended us so long.\ Iva Russel lifted her pure fair face and looked at him. ~ i How blind she had besiy When two hours later t§>ey went from that quiet room, leaving behind them peace eternal, William iawrence car- ried Cyril's child in his arms. They brought him t o an old woman, sitting sad and lonely i n her splendid home. Iva opened the door and pushed him gently before her into the room, They saw the wee one toddle across the floor; they heard his pretty, Jhsping baby voice say the word they had taught him, \Danmal\ Then, as she caught him to her with- ered breast with a quick cry, they drew back reverently and shut the door, knowing Cyril's Cause was won. \You are tired,\ Witliam Lawrence said, gently. \A little,\ she smiled. He stood opposite her, and she thought—as she had thought many a time, of late—what a grand honest gen- tleman he was, and how securely one could trust one's happiness in his hands —felt, with a hot glow\ of maidenly shame that even her heart should con- fess it t o herself, that tiiis strong, new, ennobling affection which had come to her was the love of a lifetime, and no brittle, childish passion. At the door he paused and turned to her. \What a bright, beautiful night, Iva! How different from that other one, one year ago, when the sweetest hope of my life was crushed—a hope that has of late sprung up and blossomed again! Dear I have hoped—1 have fancied that per- haps after all—\ The little hand he had taken lay con- fidingly in his. Her happy eyes looked up t o the frosty, glittering stars. \Yes she said, softly, \after all!\ aianied. for Honey. A 3?ow \Hows.' How innch happier life might be if minds could be trained to forget past trouble. How hard it 13 to avoid listening and lik- me; to listen to scandal 'afoul; our •''neigh- bor. How tame life would be without trou- bles and difficulties to overcome. How few value or cultivate a good pair of legs and lungs. How the old are forgotten by the young. How unfortunate that so many of the aged should make themselves unattractive and even repulsive to the young. How strong we feel when we have never been sick._ How many men and women are there without a weak spot somewhere? How whiskey does bring out a man's true nature and show the makeup and and artificial side of moral character 1 How much better is a \dog's life\ than the lives of some men and women. How few new brooms, after all, sweep clean unless there is a clean sweeper be- hind them. How sorry some people are for faults which they will commit next month. How awfully awfulit would be if every- body without a warning told the truth. How we love to shut our eyes to what we fear may be a reality. How much good we could do were we only rich. How contrary the eccentric seems to one who thinks for him or herself. How very large the book in which might be written all we don't know. How very small the book in which might be written all we do know. How sew barbers can shave a man with- out trying on him their conversational powers. How much more we know at twenty than at forty. How useless it is to argue woman when she is angry. Short of Moat. frith a God bless him for a good and true friend, whoever he is.\ \Good night, Ival\ \Good night Alice!\ And she kissed the baby and his mo- ther and went away, A block from the house she met William Lawrence, and they walked home together through the snow and starlight. Just one year from that night when Iva Russel Was waiting for her lover, William Lawrence stood on old Mrs. Calvert's doorstep. He sent np his card t o Iva with one line inscribed on the back;- \She is dying. Come.\ Tenroinutes later they were walking swiftly toward the city in the frosty, yellow twilight. \How did you know it, Mr. Law- rence?\ \I was passing, and, having heard A Methodist minister travelling in Michigan was entertained by a family, whose hospitality was greater than their means, and who were short of meat. In order t o spread a good dinner for the parson, it was decided t o slay the pet hen which belonged to the little boy of the family. This was a sacrifice, but the interests of religion and hospitality seemed t o demand it, and so the bird's neck was wrung, After dinner the mi- nister was asked to lead in family de- votions, which with true olerical cour- tesy he consented t o do. The family being called together, all knelt down on the floor, which was of boards, liberally adorned with knot holes. While the prayer was going on, a lonely little chicken, one of the children of the de- ceased hen, came running under the house, lamenting the loss of his mother The afflicted little lad put his mouth to a knot hole, and sympathetically said to the chicken: \Peepy peepy, I didn't kill your mother. They killed her for that big old preacher's dinner.\ That \big old preacher\ was startled out of all sense of prayer-fulness, and suddenly brought his devotional exercises to a close. \ » m 6 —The American magazines published in London are Very popular among En glishmen. -—The United States i n 1881 eonsunv ed three times as much canned palmon as they did i n 1880, In the dlning-ropm of a stately mansion on the banks of the Mersey were seated two gentlemen. The elder one was tall, good-looking, with flashing black eyes, which inspired the beholder with some- thing akin terror when they werelit up with passion;the other one was fair haired, with blue eyes and a merry smile ever playing about his face The first gentleman was Harry Wilmot, the master of the house. Before him wa s placed a large table, covered with papers— apparently bills—which he was examining with a gloomy and dejected countenance. After being thus employed for some time, he gave the tableau impatient push, and said to his friend : \I wish this piece of business was end- ed. By-the-way, have you heard that I arn going to be married ?\ \No replied the other, whom we must not forget to introduce- to our readers as Mr. Clarence; \and may I ask on whom you are going to confer the honor of your hand?\ , \Miss Harper.\ 'I cannot say that I admire your choice,' replied Mr. Clarence; \she has neither blood, beauty, wit nor common sense,\ \All that you say is too true, and be- tween you and me, £ cannot bear .her my- self; but then she is rich, and if L do not get some money, I shall have nothing; be- sides, my creditors are becoming clamorous and, after all beauty is but skin deep; and as for blood, she is the daughter of a toy- maker, but highly respectable people you know.\ \Well but you have said naught about her want of wit and sense,\ said Mr. Clar- ences \The first is a dangerous weapon in 'a woman's hands, and the second I hope she will acquire i n time.\ \How tfue it is,\ remarked Mr. (Jlar- ence, \that gold is the god, the wife, the friend, and the monty monger of the world! But what is her fortune?\ \Fifty thousand pounds, which 1 can assure you, will be very useful to file, as I am not worth so many pence at the pres- ent moment'.'' \When is the wedding to take place ? \ ''On the 10th of March.\ \Well I wish you much happiness; but remember, a man cannot possess anything better than a good wife, nor anything worse than a bad one. But I must now say farewell.\ When Wilmot was left alone his reflec- tions were anything but pleasant ones. He had a habit of thinking aloud, or talking to himself, perhaps on the same principle as the village school-master, who gave as his reasons~for doing so—first, \that he liked to talk to a sensible man;\ and sec- ond, \that he liked to hear a sensible man talk.\ Be that as it may; wo. will listen What he says. \Clarence thinks I am a fool, and 1 al- most think so to—going to be married to a woman 1 all but hate 1 for what? Gold, hard, round, unthinking, unmeaning gold, Aht how different to Helen Aubrey! She has every attribute to make a man happy. What a pity it is jshe-has not money, and what a bore it is we cannot do without i t 1 That Miss Harper seemed to be talking very lovingly to Captain Dent last night. Oh, if the jade turns out a flirt, I shall go halt mad I and I think I am nearly so al- ready. There was some truth in what Clarence said above a good wife; and if t o all my other troubles that of a bad wife is added, what shall I do ? However, it is no use meeting troubles half way; they come quite soon enough without, I think 1 will go and see Miss HeUa. One may spend a happy hour there; and I suppose I must even bid good-bye to that when she gets to hear of my marriage, for although she is as good as an angel, she is as poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer.\ • We must now introduce our readers to Hawthorn Grove,the residence of Anthony Harper, Esquire; for although Anthony was only a toy maker, yet, on account of his great wealth—he being tho richest man in the village—he was usually styled the squire by the population; that, and the seeming deference always paid to him, made him consider himself, his affairs, and his property to b e of the first importance in the county. Mr. narper was not an ed-. ucatedman. He was wont to declare that he considered the whole system of educa- tion a great waste of time and labor; and yet withal (and curiously misplacing them) he had a fancy for using long words. Shortly after the conversation with Clar- ence, Mr. Wilmot called on Miss Harper; but before we describe the interview, it will be but polite to describe the lady. She was tall and thin; her hair was red, her eyes were pink, and her features were large and sharp. After making the usual polite inquiries about her health, etc., he said: \What a long time it seems to look for- ward to before I can oall you mine!\ \Oniy a fortnight, you know; but papa was saying that h e was afraid the marriage settlements could not be completed in time the lawyers are so Blow in their work.\ \What need have we for settlements ?\ exclaimed \Wihnot. \Do I not love you fondly, madly, passionately? Will not all that I have be yours? Oh, do not delay a moment beyond the 10th of March! I hardly know how ,1 Bhall^wait even that long—or, at least,\ he mentally added, \how my creditors will.\ To which Miss Harper replied. \Well I will ask papa about it.\ \Do my darling; and now, farewell! It is like tearing soul from body to leave you even for a short time. Thank my stars, 1 have got away at last!\ he muttered, as he walked down the stairs. Mr. Clarence paid his friend,'itr. Malvin a somewhat early visit one morning, and found him sipping his coffee and looking at the newspaper. \Have you heard the news, Malvin? 1 ' exclaimed he. \No tie latter, laying aside his paper, \what is it? Did you win at the last Derby races, or discover a new cut of a coat, or been fascinated by a pair of bright eyes?\ \No; you are entirely wrong. In the first place, you know that I was not a t the Derby. Your second guess is still more ridiculous, as I trust always to be above such trifles. Besides, you know beauty un- adorned is adorned the most; and as for being fascinated by bright eyes, I prefer fascinating; it is infinitely more amusing, and I flatter myself I am pretty (skillful at it, and could pick a wife from among the faireBt damsels in the land if I only chose to ask them.\ \H'unphl\ returned Mr/AIalvin, \1 j like that, now; it is so very modest; but you may be thankful that none of the ladies are here,or they may give you some new ideas on the subject; but tell me, what is the news ?\ \Harry Wilmot was married to Miss Harper last Thursday.\ '*No, you don't say so! He has married her for her money; of course ?\ \Yes and she married him for h.s posi- tion in society, so it seems to be pretty equal, with this slight difference—that she has got the one. but he has not got the other. Air. Harper settled all his wealth upon her,so that he can't touch a penny.\ \Well it almost serves him right, if a man will so deseorate marriage, he de- serves all that he gets. Better have a wife with a fortune in her than with hcr-^un- less you can have both together. That's my sentiment; but how are the happy pair now?\ \The happy pair, indeed I They are chewing the cud of disappointment, and he endeavoring to get accustomed to his wife's ways.\ \Well well,\ said Malvin. \I wish— I wish him much happiness \ \And so do I; and don't wish that he may get it; By the way, I saw a note of her writing, and just looked for all the world as if a spider had walked into an inkstand, and then walked out of it along the paper; such a scrawl!'' \Well I wonder what the future Mrs. Clarence will be like. I shall expect her to he a perfect paragon of excellence. With your fastidious taste, take care you don't pick up a crooked stick at lost, old.fellow; but I have an engagement, and so X must wish you good morning. In the privato room of a hotel sat Mrs. Wilmot, painfully regretting the past and reflecting on the future, when Mr. Wilmot entered the room, and addressed her with : \Matilda dear, I want you to let me have five hundred pounds.\ \Sou are very obliging. You have done, nothing but ask me for money since I mar-\ ried you. I have come to the determina- tion of lending you no more.\ \Before the month is over 1 will seek a divorce.'' \Do so, and set all tongues in town talking about you.\ \Confound the woman!\ he muttered, as he strode out of the room, \she knows my weak points, if she knows naught else; but what must I do ? One thing at least I will do, and that is, to warn all my friends never to marry for money. Sliootin™ Chamois. Tho Royal Tombs ot Austria. To tell a buok from a barren doe in early autumu at any but the shortest distance requires long practice, and even, mistakes not infrequently occur; for the latter have also a misleading propensity to sneaking about alone, and at the sea- son of the year of winch I speak resem- ble the bucks in all but the position of the horns, which very slight difference can, of course be detected when the ani- mal i s quite close. Only the day before I had killed a, barren doe, mistaking her for a buck, and though they are perfect- ly legitimate game, yet it is ambition of the cognoscenti to kill only bucks. My glass assures me, however, that not only is the . animal -a buck, -but the large size of the horns ranks him unquestion- ably among the very largest-the so call- ed \capitals-bocke.\ I let him proceed halfway down the gully, bringing, mean- while, my rifle very slowly ny to the Bhoulder, Here he halts, apparently to survey for the last time, the ground, be- fore he makes his rush. This is the de- sirable moment, and, though the buck will get a nasty tumble of some sixty or seventy feet, for he has barely enough footing. I prefer a long and steady shot to a much oloser running one. My Ex- press, the same that i n the Far West has rolled over, in not dissimilarly wild sur- roundings, many aproud bighorn—gives forth its loud report, and the solid bul- let, (a preferable missile t o the usual ex- panding bullet for such small game as chamois,)propelled by what Continental sportsmen consider a terribly large charge, i. e., five and one-half drams, pierces, as I afterward discover, the wary old fellow from end to end, send- ing him his legs turned upward, t o the bottom of the precipice, where he lands with a dull craslt Twice more do I shoot at chamois coming singly down the gully, and from precisely the same fatal spot does my quarry take its head- long plunge. The last head, however, coming quicker than the preceeding ones, the beaters being by this time close be- hind, makes an examination with my glasses impossible; and so, to my cha- grin, I find when all is over that my last victim is a barren doe, By this time the drive is drawing t o a close, and wherever one looks one sees, generally in the most impossible places, beaters descending from the heights above. As one watches now one, then the other, edging bare- footed along fearfully uarrow bands of rock, terrible abysses yawning at their side, one can not fail to see that these men are not moved so much by the poor pay (about half a crown per diem) as by the inherent love for sport, t o follow Buch an exceedingly dangerous vocation, while they could earn as much, if not more, in their ordinary calling. There- suits of the drive when, after the numer- ous roports of the keepers had been heard, one couldform a correct estimate, were the following: Abont ninety cha- mois were in the drive to start with. About forty broke back through the line of the beaters, or escaped at the sides, while the rest came tothe four guns, who with thirty-one shots, killed eleven head, namely: seven bucks, all with the exception of my first one, of moderate size, three barren does, and, unfortun- ately, also, one mother doe, who, hav- ing lost her kid in tho frantic rush, ap- peared quite alone, and hence, being mistaken for a buck or barren do?, paid with'her life for her unmatronly conduct A correspondent writes of a short tour in the Austrian and Bavarian Tyrol and most delightful—to Salzburg and'Grun- deu, on the beautiful Tram Lake, and to l'sclil, where the Imperial- Austrian family pass the summer. At Ischl the River Tram runs swiftly with a- clear green, and, with the hills and mountain on every side, the scene is lovely. To walk in the pine forests beside mountain torrents or flowing brooks, to smell the delicious cyclamen on the high, mossy, rooks is a great boon to the invalid, as well as to the strong, and all i s so ac- cessible. Here the banks of the river are built up on either side with walls, except at some places, and there are promenades, seats, and cafes all along, and a band to pday—a cheerful scene, and withal so old a look. The trip down the Danube t o Vienna is accomplished in .about nine hours, while the trip up the requires twice as long a tinv. This river is not so bright and beautdfulas the Rhine, but is mas- sive and imposing and broadin it effeot. I mean the mountains are big and round and so sharp, it looks more like the dwellings of the Nibelungen. The castle where Blondel sought Richard Coeur de Lion, and found him with his song, is still imposing and magnificent a t a sharp turn in the river, which takes many sharp turns. You do not land at Vien- na immediately from the river steamer, but chauge to a small steamboat which takes you by a canal almost to the mid- dle of the town. The inner town is en- circled by this canal on one side, and by a sort of boulevard on the othei-jmaking about a two mile circuit, and called the \Ring As all the streets radiate flora this ring i t is very eaBy to find one's way about. The city is very showy, with almost endless fine buildings around these bordevards, and buildings are still going up; a splendid opera house in the Renaissance style, Eathaus, ministries of this and that, academies of arts and sciences, and the palace, whioh is im- mense and contains treasure chambers, library, &c, &c. A private collection of paintings, the Liechtenstein, has the best portrait Rembrandt ever painted (of himself it is), and it is certainly wondeiful; also the best Van Dyek, a portrait of the Prinoess d'Este, together with many others of less importance, but all good. An old gouty man went about with us ar.d pointed out the beau- ties like a lover. Ho has a book in which all the famous artists and others have declared that this Rembrandt is the best existing, \ \* There is also wonderful collection of paintings at the Belvedere—a master- piece of Durer's, the \Trinity a great many Titians (among them the famous \Danas\), a large collection of the Ve- netian school, the \Jupiter and Io\ of • Oorreggio, that has been so often en- graved; the \Ecce Homo\ of Guido.and the \Mater Dolorosa\ that we see every where. There is also a collection of old armor, embroideries, ivories, missals, jewels, and wood carvings that is the richest imaginable. Each ivor/ (and there are cages of them)is a gem Ware _ which one could worship. A helmet of a Doge of Venice and his shield was of much interest; indeed, the whole collec- tion deserves real study. The royal treasure chamber has tlie crown jewels, which are gorgeous, with no end of old jewelled clocks, watches, carved crys- tal goblets, dishes, and enamels. We went t o the Royal tombs and I was glad t o have gone to Maximihans's sarcophagus, and to pay homage to the martyred hero. It is covered, and so is the wall behind, with, bows and long hanging ends of satin ribbons of differ- ent colors, with inscriptions and mot- toes embroidered by royal and mourn- ing friends, and there were three or four silver wreaths. A Capuchin monk took us down in the vaults, and it was very solemn t o b e there—the trees wav iug aboya through a small grating, and to hear the life and stir of the buBy world above, and all this royal dead still -forever. They are all there, from the founders of the family, from Rudolph of Hapsburg down. The friar pointed out i n one division the sarcophagi, of four\ Arch duchesses and four Kaiserin- nen, without even naming them, which was almost democratic for royality. The Augustines have the imperial hearts, which can be seen through a little grat- ing in a small erypt and enolosed in brass vases. Another church has the entrails and the Capuchins have the bodies, and the money, they receive from showiujr the sarcophagi purchases bread and soup with which they feed 180 people every day without asking who they are, The X'*acoclc. In olden times tno peacock was a favorite with the lords and ladies of high degree. It was customary to send the roast bird to .the table in its natural envelope. The peacock was considered in the •days of chivalry not simply as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish of pecu- liar solemnity. When it was brought to the table, decorated with its plumage, its comb glided and a sponge i n its bill wet with spirits of wine and lighted, it was the signal for the gallant knights present t o make vows to accomplish some deed of chivalry \before the pea» eock and the ladies.\ - -.'»*' i - \
