I
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OLD AND NEW.
I cannot Joy with those who hall
The new-born year;
I rather grieve with those who give
The dead Old Year
A tender tear.
The New—what know X of the New?
I knew the Old!
God's benison upon his corse,
On which the mold
Lies stiff and cold.
Here in the shadow let me stand
And count them o’er.
The blessings that he brought to me,
A precious store—
I asked no more.
He brought me health—a priceless boon
To me and mine;
He brought me plenty for my needs.
And crowned my shrine
With love divine.
Ah! when I think—suffused with tears
I feci my eyes—
Of all the dear delights he brought;
Yet stark he lies
'Neath Winter skies.
Therefore I cannot hail with Joy
The new-born year;
I rather grieve, with those who give
The dead Old year
A tender tear.
ALTER CARSON
leaned back In the
easy chair, drawn
up before his sit
ting room fire at
his Duke street
chambers in Lon
don. The clock had
struck 10, and the sonorous boom
from Big Ben came floating over the
Green park as a sort of benediction
on the rapidly dying year. The roar
of the great city without was not lack
ing in its element of melody, and the
noise of merry revelers in Piccadilly
completed a strange yet fascinating
tout ensemble. Passing down the
street came three young men singing
that old Southern song, “I’se gwine
back to Dixey.” The words and the
melody startled Carson from the rev
erie into which he had fallen. Sitting
upright in his chair, he said, aloud:
“What memories that song recalls!
How my loneliness grows upon me!
What a fool I was ever to have in
dulged in the thing called love! But
there. I’ve tasted the poison and must
abide by the result. What’s that re
sult? Pleasing? Why cannot I be of
the gay throng outside? Here in this
mighty crowded city I am as lonely
as a man lost in a desert.” He rose and,
going to the other side of the room,
opened a cabinet and took from it a
bundle of letters, some dozen. They
were faded and bore traces of much
handling. After reading, he replaced
them, and, walking to the photograph
of a child on the wall, indulged in
soliloquy.
“I know you not, my sweet child,
but your mother was always, and al
ways must be everything to me. How
hard and cruel seems the world! Your
mother and I parted ten long years
ago this night, to meet again in two
years time! What happened to pre
vent us? I wrote many times, but no
reply ever reached me. Three years
alter we separaieu a lenei tame uum
her, and in it I read: ‘Now that I am
married, perhaps you will write.’ Life
seemed a blank, and I came to Lon
don, a wayfarer, caring not what be
came of me. I turned to literature,
and have been what people call suc
cessful. But what is success without
the power to experience that which
makes it other than a metallic grati
fication? Eighteen months went by
before I next heard from your mother,
and then your photo only reached me,
since when all has been silence! Your
mother married a good man, and I
pray for her and for you, too, baby,
that you may grow up in her foot
steps!”
The circumstances under which his
letters to the girl went astray were to
him mysterious, but, as a matter of
fact, easily explained. The girl was
the daughter of a country lawyer, and
he had made her acquaintance when
she was staying in a boarding house
In Bloomsbury, in which he was also
a lodger. Her reason for being in
town was that she might improve a
somewhat neglected education, and
she was taking singing lessons at a
school of music in the neighborhood.
An aunt took away this unwanted
daughter from among the large family
at home, to be a companion across the
Atlantic, and, suspecting her of flighti
ness, opened her letters in the capa
city of guardian. The first of Carson’s
epistles—he was a cautious man and
did not commit himself to paper until
he could not resist doing so—arrived
1 .
when the aunt be
lieved she was ar
ranging a highly
desirable engage
ment for her niece,
and on the prin
ciple of dong
wrong that good
may come, she kept
back the notes of
this obviously poor
suitor.
Carson often felt
desolate, but never
so utterly as then,
and as he paced the
floor the laughter
of the happy crowd seemed to inock
him. He rang the bell and ordered
some tea. The demure little maid
looked at him, and, going down stairs,
said:
“Poor Mr. Carson, he looks so
strange and miserable!”
Returning, she found him sitting in
his chair gazing with half-closed eyes
into the fire. Placing the tea on a
small wicker table by his side, she at
tracted his attention by the question,
“Anything else, sir?”
“No,” was the reply; "but, see, this
is New Year’s Eve. You’ve been a good
servant to me, at least. Buy yourselt
something,” handing her a sovereign.
The amount of the gift bereft the girl
of the power of speech, and with a
curtesy, eloquent in itself of gratitude,
she left.
Carson, sipping his tea, again solilo
quized. “It’s now within an hour and
a quarter of the New Year. What
will that year bring into my life? It
cannot bring the light of love and
companionship. The same round of
weeks and months, and so it will be
to the end. Ten years ago, in Old
Kentucky, we said ‘Good-by.’ It was
a ‘good-by’ forever.”
Apostrophizing the absent woman,
he continued: “Leila, Leila, to my
grave I take with me the love I bear
you. Why did we live to be parted so
ruthlessly? What strange fate has so
guided our destinies?”
He'turned to the story of Evangeline
and read of the sufferings of that
heroic character. The reading soothed
him and he fell asleep.
The clocks were striking the twelfth
stroke of midnight when he awoke.
He barely opened his eyes, then closed
them again, and listened to the joyous
salutations of people meeting in the
streets. He was not selfish, neither
was he bad natured. No man who
every truly loved can be altogether
either. As he listened he said:
“I wish for all a bright New Year,
and Leila, my absent Leila, whom 1
shall never see again, may your life
know no sorrow, may yours never be
the aching heart, and may you be
blessed in your children growing up
around you. My Leila-”
He did not finish the sentence, but
the tears came trickling down his
cheeks as he realized his barren life.
Then he became conscious that some
one had come into the room and been
a witness of his weakness and his se
cret-secret because society said Wal
ter Carson carried his heart on his
sleeve and was incapable of deep affec
tion. So sitting up and turning round
he was startled to see seated on a
chair a tall lady, clad In deep mourn
ing and veiled so heavily that he was
unable to distinguish her face.
“Madam,” he Inquired, too taken
aback even to get up, “I should like to
know why I am thus honored?”
“I came in with the New Year. Not
an omen of ill-luck, I hope,” replied
a musical voice: “but I first want to
know if Walter Carson is not an as
sumed name?”
“Why do you ask such a question?”
“For the best of good reasons, and
as you will not tell me, perhaps you
“I KNOW' YOU NOT. SWEET CHILD.”
will allow me to say that I think your
real name is Herbert Wilton,” pro
ceeded the mysterious stranger.
Carson was utterly unprepared for
this, and his surprise was painfully
manifest. Appearing not to notice it,
the lady went on:
“You are unhappy, I know, Mr. Wil
ton. I shall not call you Mr. Carson.
I am certain of it, because I was watch
ing you for ten minutes before you
opened your eyes. Can I be of any
help to you?”
“I don’t usderstand you, madam,” !
answered Carson. “I have no trouble,
at least none that you could assist
me in.”
“Has it any connection with an old
love affair?” very slowly asked the
veiled visitor.
“I must decline to discuss my pri
vate matters with an utter stranger,”
replied Carson, jumping up.
"Am I an utter stranger, Herbert?"
responded the stranger, also rising,
and as she did so throwing back her
veil.
“Leila!” gasped Carson, looking
Incredulously into her face.
“Yes, Leila.” was the answer whis
pered, while her arms stole round his
neck, “come back to you with the New
Year, never to leave your side until it
so pleases God.”
Then they sat down and she told
him how, three years before, after be-*
ing left a widow, she determined to
find out what had become of the sweet
heart of her younger days. How, by
a chapter of happy accidents, she
learned that he was in London. How,
on knowing this, she hurried over land
and sea, and just at the birth of the
New' Year entered his room. She saw
the tears fall from his eyes, heard her
name mentioned, and his blessing go
out to her. All doubts were then at
an end.
“My children will be here by the
next boat, and you must be to them a
father. Now I must go, as I’m weary
with the excitement of the day.”
Carson drove her to her hotel, and
to him the New Year bells never
seemed to have rung such merry peals.
They rang into his life a New Year is
every sense. A few days later there
was a quiet marriage, and on the fol
lowing New Year’s Eve, as Carson and
"I CAME IN WITH THE NEW
YEAR."
his wife listened to the hour of mid
night strike, they thought, with hearts
full of love and gratitude, of the joy
ous meeting twelve months before.
Hopes of the Fature
With the coming of the New Year
all our hopes of future good for our
selves and for humanity at large re
receive a new impulse and an accession
of power. If we are alive to the wide
extension of knowledge, the conquest
of the material world, the imminence
of new and important discoveries and
changes which shall make the possibil
ities of life more interesting and beau
tiful, we cannot but rejoice that we
are born into this wonderful epoch.
Tennyson’s poem, written in the flush
of young manhood, voiced the scien
tific fact in eloquence that can never
be forgotten, but the thoughts of men
are widened by the process of the
suns. It is truly to the thoughts of men
that we owe all the triumphs of civil
ization, the triumphs of religion, art,
industry and science, as in the last re
sort all that is and all that we hope
for resides in the thoughts of men and
in the feelings and emotions which
give birth to these thoughts, and be
tween which there is such a constant
interaction.
When the year is ended and the
final summing up of accounts is finish
ed, it is comforting to look back and
to be able to say, in all sincerity, that
we have done the best we could for our
selves and for those about us. It is
more than comforting to see that we
have gained something, that our ef
forts have been crowned with success,
and that we are by this advance
ment enabled to score a victory, even
though it may be trifling, over ad
verse circumstances. It encourages us
to redouble our efforts to make a bet
ter showing for the years to come, to
so order our affairs that this season’s
gain will be but the beginning of bet
ter things, and that the great and
grand fabric of bur future may rise,
ever increasing, ever more and more
beautiful, and end in a noble, manly,
womanly, Christian, symmetrical char
acter that will make its possessor
known and honored of all men.
To the Young;.
While the opening of the New Year is
a significant season for persons of all
ages, it is especially so to the young
and those in early maturity. There is
so much ahead of the youngsters; so
much for them to look frward to, to
hope for, achieve; so much that will
help them to make their lives worth
living, and to make the world the bet
ter for their having lived in it.
Welcome the new year. Welcome
its work, its cares, its responsibilities,
Its trials, crosses, losses, sorrows and
bereavements. Welcome its work,
because it is only by work that we
achieve successes and make ourselves
Strong for the toils and tasks that are
to come. Welcome its cares, for they
are the world’s educators, developers
and teachers, and they lead us Into
those ways of prudence, thoughtful
ness and moderation which are the
forerunners of prosperity and plenty.
—H. S. C.
Brace up! Acquit yourselves like men;
Swear off! And don’t swear on again.
—L. A. W. Bulletin.
The Diamond Bracelet
By MRS. HENRY WOOD.
Author of Enit Lynne, Etc.
CHAPTER XVII.
Once more Gerard Hope entered his
uncle’s house; not as an interloper
stealing into it in secret, but as an
honored guest to whom reparation was
due. and must be made. Alice Seaton
leaned back in her invalid chair, a joy
ous flush on her wasted 'cheek, and a
joyous happiness in her eye. Stiil the
shadow of coming death was there,
and Mr. Hope was shocked to see her
—more shocked and startled than he
had expected, or chose to express.
"Qh, Alice! What has done this?"
"That,’’ she answered, pointing to
the bracelet, which, returned to its true
owner, lay on the table. "I should not
have lived many years, of that I am
convinced; but 1 might have lived a
little longer than 1 now shall. It has
been the cause of misery to many, and
l.ady Sarah says she shall never regard
it but as an ill-starred trinket, or wear
it with any pleasure.”
"But, Alice, why should you have
suffered it thus to affect you," he re
monstrated. "You knew your own in
nocence, and you say you believed and
trusted in mine; what did you fear?”
“I will tell you, Gerard,” she re
sumed, a deeper hectic rising in her
cheeks. "1 could not have confessed
my fear, even in dying; it was too dis
tressing, too terrible; but now that it
is all clear, I will tell it. I believed my
sister had taken the bracelet.”
He uttered an exclamation of amaze
ment.
“I have believed it all along. She
had called to see me that night, and
was lur a ill mine or rwo 111 rne room
alone with the bracelets; 1 knew she,
at that time, was short of money, anti I
feared she had been tempted to take
it—just as this nnforuinate servant
man was tempted. Oh. Gerard, the
dread of it has been upon me night and
day. preying upon my fears, weighing
down my spirits, wearing away my
health and my life. And 1 had to bear
it all in silence—that dreadful silence
that has killed me.”
“Alice, this must have been a mor
bid fear."
“Not so—if you knew all. But now
that I have told you let us not revert
to it again; it is at an end, and I am
very thankful. That it should so end
has been my prayer and hope; not
quite the only hope,” she added, look
ing up at him with a sunny smile; “I
have had another.”
“What is it? You look as if It were
connected with me.”
"So it is. Ah, Gerard! Can you not
guess it?”
“No,” he answered, in a stifled voice.
“I can only guess that you are lost to
me.”
“Lost to all here. Have you forgot
ten our brief conversation the night
you went into exile? I tojd you then
there was one far more worthy of you
than I could ever have been.”
“None will ever be half so worthy;
or—I will say it, Alice, in spite of your
warning hand—half so loved.”
“Gerard,” she continued, sinking her
voice, “she has waited for you.”
“Nonsense,” he rejoined.
“She has. I have watched and seen,
and I know it; and I tell it you under
secrecy; when she is your wife, not
before, you may tell her that I saw it
; The Promotion of the Admiral III
Morley Roberts,
Mr. Smith, who ran a sailors’ board
ing-house in that part of San Fran
cisco known as the Barbary Coast, was
absolutely sui generis.
Every breeze that blew, trade-wind
or monsoon, had heard of his iniqui
ties. He got the best of everyone.
“All but one,” said Smith, one night,
in a moment of weakness, when a doz
en men who owed so much money that
they crawled to him as a Chinaman
does to a joss were hanging on his
lips; “all but one.”
“Oh, we don’t take that in," said
one of the most indebted; "we can’t
’ardly believe that, Mr. Smith.
“Yep, I was done brown and never
got the best of one beast,” said the
boarding-house keeper. He looked
them over malignantly.
“I kin lick any of you here with one
hand,” he went on, “but the man as
belted me could have taken on three
of you with both hands. I run against
him on the pier at Sandridge when I
was in Australia fifteen years ago. He
was a naval officer, captain of the
Warrior, and dressed up to kill,
though he had a face like a figurehead
cut of mahogany with a broad axe.
And f was a feelin’ good and in need
of a scrap. So when he bumped ag'in
me I shoved him over. Prompt I
shoved him. Down he went, and the
girls that knowed me laughed. And
two policemen came along quick. I
didn’t care much, but this naval jos
ser picks himself up and goes to ’em.
Would you believe it, but when he’d
spoke a bit I seed him donate ’em
about a dollar each, and they walked
off round a heap of dunnage on the
wharf, and the captain buttoned up
his coat and came for me.
“I never seen the likes of it. He
comes up dancin' and smilin’, and he
kind of give me half a bow, polite as
you like, and inside of ten seconds I
knew I’d struck a cyclone, right in the
spot where they breed. I fought good
^^V''NAAA^AA^WVVVVVVVVVVWVVV
in The Strand.
(you know me) and I got in half a
dozen on his face. But I never fazed
him none, and he wouldn’t bruise
mor’n hittin’ a boiler. And every time
he got back on me I felt as if I’d been
kicked.
“He scarred me something cruel, r
could see it by the blood on his hands.
’Twarn’t his by a long sight, for his
fists were made of teak, I should say.
And in the end, when 1 seemed to sec
a ship’s company of naval officers
around me, one of them hit me under
the ear and lifted me up. And an
other hit me whilst I was in the air,
and a third landed me as I fell. And
that was the end of it so far’s I
remember. They told me afterward
he was the topside fighter in the hull
British Navy, and I’m here to say he
was.”
"And you never got even?” asked
the bartender, seeing that no one took
up the challenge.
“Never set eyes on him from that
day to this,” said his boss, regretfully.
“And if you did?”
Smith paused—took a drink.
“So help me I’d Shanghai him if he
was King of England!"
And one of the crowd who had put
down the San Francisco Chronicle in
order to hear this yarn picked it up
again.
“S’elp me," he said, in breathless ex
citement, “’ere’s a funny cohincldenee.
'Ere’s a telegram from ’Squimault,
sayin’ as how the flagship Triumphant,
Hadmiral Sir Richard Dunn, K. C. B.,
is cornin’ down to San Francisco!”
“By Jove, let’s look,” said Shanghai
Smith. He read, and a heavenly smile
overspread his hard countenance. He
almost looked good, such joy was his.
“Tom,” he said to the bartender,
“set up drinks for the crowd. This
is my man, for sure. And him an
admiral, too! Holy sailor, ain't this
luck?”
and said it. She is a lovable and at
tractive girl, and she does not and will
not marry; you are the cause."
"My darling-"
"Stay, Gerard," she gravely inter
rupted; “those words of endearment
are not for me. Give them to her; can
you deny that you love her?"
"Perhaps 1 do—in a degree. Next to
yourself-"
“Put me out of your thoughts while
we speak. If I were—where I so soon
shall be, would she not be dearer to
you than auy one on earth? Would
you not be well pleased to make her
your wife?"
"Yes, I might be.”
"That is enough, Gerard. Frances,
come hither.”
The conversation had been carried
on in a whisper, and Lady Francis
Chenevix came towards them from a
distant window. Alice took her hand;
she also held Gerard’s.
"I thought you were talking secrets,"
said Lady Frances, "so l kept away."
“As we were,” answered Alice.
"Frances, what cd.n we do to keep him
among us? Do you know what Col.
Hope has told him?”
“No. What?”
"That though he shall be reinstated
in favor as to money matters, he shall
not be in his affection, or in the house,
unless he prove sorry for his rebellion
by retracting It. The rebellion, you
know, at the first outbreak, when Ger
ard was expelled from the house be
fore that unlucky bracelet was ever
bought; I think he is sorry for It; you
must help him to be more so.”
“Fanny,” said Gerard, while her eye
lids drooped, and the damask mantled
in her cheek, deeper than Alice's hec
tic, "will you help me?”
“As if I could make head or tail out
of what you two are discussing!" cried
she by way of helping her out of her
confusion, so she attempted to turn
away; but Gerard caught her to his
side and detained her.”
“Fanny—will you drive me again
from the house?”
She lifted her eyes twinkling with a
little spice of mischief. “I did not
drive you before.”
“In a manner, yes,” he laughed.
“Do you know what did drive me?”
She had known it at the time, and
Gerard read it in her conscious face.
“I see it all,” he murmured, drawing
her closer to him; “you have been far
kinder to me than I deserved. Fanny,
let me try and repay you for it.”
Frances endeavored to look dignified,
but it would not do, and she was
obliged to brush away the tears of hap
piness that struggled to her eyes. Alice
caught their hands together and held
them between her own, with a mental
aspiration for their life’s future happi
ness. Some time back she could not
have breathed it in so fervent a spirit;
but—as she had said—the present
world and its hopes had closed to her.
"But you know, Gerard,” cried Lady
Frances, in a saucy tone, "If you ever
do help yourself to a bracelet in reality,
you must not expect me to go to prison
with you.”
"Yes, 1 shall,” answered he, far more
saucily; "a wife must follow the for
tunes of her husband."
THE END.
He went ojit into the street and
walked to and fro. rubbing his hands,
while the men inside took their drink.
“Was there ever such luck? Was
there ever such luck?" murmured Mr.
Shanghai Smith. “To think of him
turnin' up all of his own accord on
my partlc’lar stampin’ ground! Holy
sailor! was there ever such luck?”
The morning of the following day
Her Majesty’s ship Triumphant lay at
her anchors off Saucellto, in San Fran
cisco Bay.
Though the admiral did not know
it, one of the very first to greet him
when he set his foot on dry land at
the bottom of Market street was the
man he had licked so thoroughly fif
teen years before in Melbourne.
“Oh, it's the same,” said Smith to
his chief runner, who wa8 about the
"hardest case” in California. “He
ain’t changed none. Just so old he
was when he set about me. I'm goln’
to have thlshyer admiral shipped be
fore the stick on the toughest ship
that's about ready to go to sea. Now
what's in the harbor with officers that
can lick me?”
"Well, I always allowed (as you
know, sir) that Simpson of the Cali
fornia was your match. And the Cali
fornia will sail in three days."
"Righto,” said Smith; “Simpson Is
a good, tough man. Bill, the Califor
nia will do."
"But how'll you corral the admiral,
sir?" naked Bill.
“You leave that to me," replied his
boss. "I’ve got a very fruitful notion
as will fetch him. If he's half the man
he was."
Mr. "Say-it-and-mean-it” Smith laid
for Admiral Sir Richard Dunn, K. C.
B., etc., etc., from ten o'clock till half
past eleven, and he was the only man
in the crowd that did not hope the vic
tim would come down with too many
friends to be tackled.
The admiral came at last; it was
about a quarter to twelve, and the
whole water-front was remarkably
quiet. And the admiral was only ac
companied by his flag-lieutenant.
The two were promptly sandbagged,
the lieutenant left on the street and
the admiral carried to the house in
the Barbary Coast. When he showed
signs of coming to he was promptly
dosed, and his clothes were taken off
him. As he slept the sleep of the
drugged they put on a complete suit
of rough serge toggery and he be
came Tom Deane, able-bodied seaman.
By four o’clock in the morning Tom
Deane lay fast asleep in a forward
bunk of the California’s fo’c's'le as
she was being towed through the
Golden Gate. And his flag-lieutenant
was inquiring in hospital what had
become of the admiral. And nobody
could tell him more than he him
self knew. Flaring headlines an
nounced the disappearance of a Brit
ish admiral, and the wires and cables
fairly hummed to England and the
world generally.
(To be continued.)
Came to Tempt the Sportsman.
Hunting big game has an Irresistible
attraction for all sportsmen, and the
more rare the species being sought,
the more keen is the hunter’s delight.
The big game of this country is com
paratively well known, but Asia offers
some rare species, they are sought
every year by countless sportsmen of
all nationalities, usually without suc
cess.
An ambition of big game hunters
is to capture, or shoot, a snow leopard.
This rare animal lives on the snow
covered Himalayas, and seldom is seen
at an elevation of less than 11,000 feet.
He is a beautiful creature, white as
the snow he lives among, and is both
wild and savage. Even in the great
altitudes where he makes his home
he is extremely rare, and not only
have few persons shot him, but few
even have seen him. Any one who
wants to stand in the first rank of big
game men should try for a snow
leopard; if he gets one his reputation
is made.
An animal known to exist, but of
which no white man ever has seen
the dead body, is the mountain ibex of
Kamchatka. This great peninsular of
Kamchatka, whose half a million
square miles is inhabited by less than
7,000 people, is probably the least
known of any land in the world not
circumpolar. Down its center runs a
chain of great mountains, many of
them active volcanoes and others cov
ered with thick forests up to a height
of 4,000 or 5,000 feet. Above the tim
ber line lives a species of ibex, or
mountain sheep, larger and stronger
than any that exist elsewhere. The
natives show bits of the skins of these
animals and some of their enormous
horns, but no white man ever has seen
a whole one alive or dead, much less
killed one.
Monumental Brasses.
At the beginning of the thirteenth
century it occurred to some one to
preserve the likeness of his departed
friend, as well as the symbols of his
rank and station, says the Gentleman’s
Magazine. So effigies were introduced
upon the surface of the slabs, and were
carved flat, but ere fifty years had
passed away, the art of the sculptor
produced magnificent monumental ef
figies. Knights and nobles lie clad
in armor with their ladies by their
sides; bishops and abbots bless the
spectators with uplifted right hands;
judges lie in their official garb; and
merchants with the emblem of their
trade. At their feet lie animals,
usually having some heraldic, connec
tion with the deceased, or symbolical
of his work; e. g.. a dragon is trodden
down beneath the feet of a bishop,
signifying the defeat of sin as the re
sult of his ministry. The heads of
effigies usually rest on cushions which
are sometimes supported by two
, angels.