MY POOR WIFE.
BY J. P. SMITH.
CHAPTER XIX.
“Great heavens! Was It an accident,
or do you mean she committed sui
cide?'’
“Suicide, ay, that’s what they called
It—I didn’t remember the word until
ye mentioned it—‘suicide while in a
state of trumpery insanity’ was the
Jury’s verdick. For nigh on six months
afore poor little Helen came into the
wurrld her mother wus a hopeless
Ijlot, that ought to have been locked
up safe In a ’sylum, as I ought to know
well."
. “Great heavens! And this was kept
from me—Intentionally kept by that
wretched old woman who flaunts her
religion-"
“Charity an' religion begins at home
with wan o’ her kind. If she bad
tould you, the chances are ye’d have
aloped off an' left on her hands a
burthen she hated an’ had fretted
against sore for the last eighteen year.
Hhe saw her chance and didn’t let it
slip. Who'd be after blamin’ her, when
ye come to think of it?”
“The mildness was Inherited in the
family, I mean?’’ 1 asked, with sullen
hitter ness.
“No, it wasn’t. Horry a Casey I ever
heard of bein’ took that way before or
since."
“What was the cause of It?”
“Sorrow, treachery, cruelty, an’
wrong, them was the cause of It—
wrong such as 'ud drive women o’ my
hind by degree* to the whisky bottle
an’ the county Jail, but which, In wan
summer’* day, turned r"*or Nora Casey
from a light-hearted sunny lass Into,
as I’ve already tould ye, a broodin’
hopeless ijlot!”
“Tell me all about It; nothing must
be kept back from me now. What was
the mother's story? Quick!”
“Alsy, alsy, I’ll tell It ye soon
enough,” remonstrated Molly sooth
ingly, squatting herself on the ground,
her bands clasping her knees. “Nora
was the ould wan's only daughter, an'
the youngest o’ tho family; when the
boys all went their ways she had to
remain at home. She was me nurse
child, and as purty a girl as ye'd care
to meet In a day's walk, and as like
her daughter as two peas, only brighter
an’ more wlnnln’ in her ways, an’
never wld that broodin’ heavy look
K Miss Helen often had. She was let
grow up Jest as yer wife was, with no
more eddlcation or care or lookin’ after
than If she was thrown on the wurrld
without a sowl of her own. She used
to wander about the mountains all day
long, and In course of time met a
scoundrel.
’’lie had come in a grand yacht that
anchored in the bay. Every day he
used to meet her somewhere or other,
an* soon won her heart, for he was
handsome an' elegant, like no wan
she’d never met before. On# day he
tould her to meet him next night at
11 o’clock in St. Brlgld’s ruined church
beyond the point below, an' that he
would have a minister to marry them,
making her swear she was to tell no
wan, for If It was known he was about
to myry a poor girl he'd be ruined for
life. But after a few months he said
he was to come In for a large fortune
and be his own master, an’ then he’d
brlngf her to hts home In England au’
introjuce her to his people.
"Poor Nora believed him and went
to the abbey, where sure enough there
was a minister all in white ready to
make them wan. She kept the naycret
uafe, poor sowl, an', when the cowld
rain and the bleak wind came, he Balled
away In bla yacht, an’ after he’d been
a couple of monthB gone news came
wan day from Droomleague that he
bad been married over in England to
itome grand lady with a lot of money
the week before. But Miss Nora only
laughed when she heard It, an’ didn't
seem In the laiat put out, though 1
watched her close, suspectin’ there was
somethin’ between them, though not
the cruel truth. Heaven knows.
“Well. Just three days after we heard
the rumor, a letter came to Mias Nora
enclosin' a check for fifty pounds, and
tellln’ her that the marriage up at the
old church hadn’t been a rale one at all,
that the minister was only hia valet
dressed up, as he’d dare say she’d sue*
peeled all along. An’ he was mortal
sorry be had to give her up; but hard
necessity obliged him to marry bis
prssent wife, to whom bo had been
engaged for the last two years, an’
he beggsd her pardon an’ wished her
well an’ would never forget or cease to
lots his dear mountain nuld. That
was all
“Whan shod read H an’ understood
It at last, aha want ragin’ through tha
house Itka a madwoman, tha letter In
bar hands; an’ when her mother read l*
too, as' learnt the cruel story for tha
first time, aha Just opened her hall*
duor, an' wld bar own hard hands
thrust tha poor maddened rraythurs
out Into tha eowid night; an* beds her
never cross tha doorstep of the house
•ha had disgraced It wasn’t until tha
middle of tha n«st day we heard what
bad bean dona; an' me ould man an'
me. arid our hearts la our mouths, set
out to search fur her. Wa didn't And
her until tha evening after, thirty
miles away, lyin’ In n ditch, half"
famished and frosea, her poor wits
completely gun*?
"Ws brought bar home, cussed an’
nursed her an well an we rould, but
she sat all day lung on a stool before
the fire shiverin’ an’ not seeming to
hear or understand a word that was
goln’ on. We thought that perhaps
when her poor child came. Heaven
would aee fit to give her back her
eenrea. but It wasn’t *o; an’ In leas
than a week after Helen was born ber
mother one night stole out of h*r bed
and threw heraelf from the cliffs down
to the beach below, where, as I’ve told
ye, her body was picked up next day.
That's her story.”
CHAPTER XV.
After a few minutes I looked up to
whisper brokenly
“And her—her daughter, you mean
to say she Inherited you mean I—I
married a-"
“Her daughter,” she Interrupted eag
erly, “grew up In me keepin' like every
other child I reared; there was nothin'
particular about her, except that she
was a bit quieter an' slater to mind
than most babies maybe. When she
was three year old, her granny took
her from me; whether because she was
touched with remorse or because of the
Ill-will and sharp tongues o’ the neigh
bors—some o’ the daylera at Droom
league refusin’ to buy the praties she
sent Into market—I can’t say; but, at
any rate, she took her and kep' her un
til you came.”
"Molly, Molly, you mean lo fell me
you aaw no signs of the mother's
dlsesse—that you believe her to be
free free from—Oh, for Heaven's sake
hide nothing from roc now! I have
been used basely enough among you
all. You rouHt tell roe everything now
—everything!” I cried, roughly seis
ing her hands.
"I »aw nothing wrong about her—
nothing, I tell you, until until, as had
luck would have it, when she was a
slip of a girl of fifteen, she heard her
mother's story, an’ it certainly—I
won't decalve you, sir preyed on her
a Right. She bad a bad fever, an’ raved
a lot, always talkin' about the say and
the shore, wlahln' she was a mermaid
under the water, and a lot like that.
Hhe several times tried to gat out of
her bed and go outside; an’ we had
some trouble in bouldln' her down. An'
when she recovered she told me she
was sorry she didn't die, as she was
no use to any wan In the wurld, an’ her
granny was disappointed she didn’t die
too. Well, for some time aftber, I must
say, a sort of a shiver always came
over me when I saw her walkin’ too
close to the edge of the cliffs; but by
degrees the feelln’ wore away, an' she
became almost herself again."
"Then, Molly, Molly," I whispered
piteously, "you—you have no fear
about her now! You feel she is safe
safe—only hiding from me In a fit of
temper. I—I will be sure to hear from
her In a day or two at the farthest;
you have no apprehension—no-■"
I stopped, for Molly turned her head
away, and, with her hands shading
her eyes, stared mutely out to sea. I
remember feeling the ground surge
strangely under me, seeing the stony
beach where poor Nora’s mangled body
lay move slowly out with the reced
ing wave, and a lurid darkness creep
ing over the clear sunlight; it was only
for a moment. I shook off the dizzi
ness, staggered to my feet, to find a
ragged boy holding an orange envelope
toward me.
“A telegram! »ne Ik round!”
‘‘She la found—where—where?”
gasped Molly, seizing my arm.
“It does not say. The message Is
from my housekeeper telling me they
have news; I am to come at once.
That's all.”
Twenty-four hours later I was stand
ing In the hall at home. Mrs. Murray's
hand resting on my shaking arm.
"Hush, hush!" she said in answer
to my Incoherent inquiries. ‘ In a mo
ment—in a moment I‘ll tell you all.
Come into the study. Master Paul. I’ve
a letter you must read first.”
1 followed her in; she laid an en
velope, directed to me in my wife’s
writing. In my hand.
"It was found Inside your desk a
few hours after you left. I—I don’t
know how you missed seeing It.”
1 broke the seal and read the fol
lowing slowly twice through—
“Paul, I followed you last night into
the wood when you thought 1 was
sleeping quietly In my bed. I saw In
your arms the woman you love, I heard
you begging ber to give up home, for
tune, fame, and fly to the other end
of the world with you, for you could
not and would not live another day
apart from her. And as I listened to
you the cure# which had bung over
me even before I caws tsto the world
suddenly fell,
“The dark still air t>eranie thick with
a thousand faces I had never seen he
fore, yet which I seemed to know as
well ns I knew yours voltes whispered
In my ears, lights, red, blue, yellow,
dsneed before my eyes; n turaih of
rushing buoyant life filled my body; |
felt ns If 1 could have flown round the
world for ever and know no fat Vine,
ail the fever, sufiulsh. struggle ssi
horror of the peat week died In me.
a horrible esullstlun look tbelr |>la<*
*'i felt that tha supreme momeat of
my life had eome, the moment fur
which I had been bom, lived, and euf
fared until then. I felt that It 1 could
not kill you my brain would burnt
I rushed forward blindly, stumbled
over the trunk of a tree, and came to
the ground, where I lay stunned for
a few moments. When I rose, you
had gone.
"I went back to my bed, slept for
some time, and awoke at dawn with
the murderous fpver on me fiercer than
before. I stole Into your room, Paul
I, your wife, the nameless daughter
of a mad mother, who had deceived
you basely, robbed you of peace, hap
piness, honor and love, yet who had
received nothing in return from you
but countless benefits, Infinite forbear
ance, noblest patience. I leaned over
you as you slept, a razor pressed to
your throat. The touch of the steel
or the fire of my murderous breath
awoke you. You looked at me calmly,
and 1 slunk away rowed, loathing my
self, cursing the dsy that gave life tr
such a wretch as I,
"All that morning I knelt by your
pillow in an agony of shame, of re
morse, praying for strength to leave
you before you would gupss my hor
rible secret. Strength seemed to come;
I rose to go when you were driving up
the avenue with her. 1 went to the
window to take my farewell look; you
were standing in the porch together
whispering eagerly, her hand was
clasping yours. I struggled fiercely for
a moment, but passion overmastered
me again. ! ran quickly down to your
study, unlocked a drawer where I had
seen you hide a packet of vermin
poison one day, and poured It into the
glass of wine you asked for. You took
It unsuspiciously; and when It was
half way to your lips you turned with
u smile and a kind word to me—and,
thank Heaven, I was able to dash it
from your hands-thank Heaven,
thank Heaven!
“And now I go from you, Paul, for
ever, with a prayer on ray lips and
In my guilty heart for your peace and
welfare. He happy with her you love,
and forget the wretched woman who
deceived you. rut her from your mem
ory and your life m If she had never
been. Now, I can write no more—my
hand shakes; strange lights are burn
ing before my eyes; a torturing thirst
consumes me, though 1 hear the splash
ing of tool water everywhere around.
1 must go—oh, love, love, how can I
write Farewell?’’
The paper fell from my hands. I
turned wildly to Mrs. Murray.
"Where Is she, where Is she? I>et
me go to her at once. I tell you, she
Is desperate, maddened; there la not
a moment to lose!"
Mrs. Murray, with her hands to her
eyes, answered with a weak whimper.
I rushed toward the door, and then
became aware for the flrat time that
the room was full of familiar faces—
my Uncle Oerard from Kibton, my two
cousins from Leamington, General
Btopford, Doctor Finlay, and some
others I had not the power to recog*
nlze.
(To be Continued.) j
DAUDET'8 CHILDLIKE NATURE.
Pass tonal* Desire to Live, Act and Knjoy
Without lalcrmlMlon.
I beg to Insist for a moment upon tbe
childlike nature of Dsudet’s character,
says Fall Mall Gazette. It Is true that
everything seems to have been said In
praise of Daudet. All the forma of
eulogy have been exhausted In enu
merating his great and lumlnoua qual
ities. Hut I have not seen noted In
any of tbe studies of the novelist this
striking feature of his character. Dau
det was a child, a marvcloua child, ex
ceptionally gifted and possessing all
the beautiful and adorable qualities of
childhood—confidence, generosity, fe
verish imagination and a passionate
desire to live, to act, to enjoy, with
out intermission or cessation. And to
the end of his life, although riveted
to his armchair. Daudet gave the best
advice, showed us how ardent was bis
passion for Justice and humility, and
made us share with him the Joy of liv
ing by Ideas. If I Insist upon this
childlike nature of Daudet's character
it Is because I assign to this trait the
place of honor; It la to the artleaa na
tures, to children and to enthusiasts
that we owe all great progress, splen
did ideas, marvelous inventions, gener
ous and charitable Impulses.
Ilrt ween Two Fire*.
lie was a passenger on a faat train
bound for Si. Louie, and when about
fifty miles from that village he Jumped
from the rear platform.
“Why did you do It?" asked the phy
sician at the little way station, when
he had recovered Ills senses.
"It was fate,” replied the sufferer,
with a faint smile. "! might have
gone farther aud fared much worse."
< II dm T Is F allien ess.
l’ldlle Old tlenlleman 1 perceive,
madam, that I need not Inquire about
your health. Nice Old Iduly—Tbank
you. air; I confess that I feel ten years
younger then I am. Polite Old Gentle
man 1’osalbly, madam, but you can
not f*el a day younger than you look.
Why He Wan Id
l*o you think that Hoeckle, the tail
or, would glva me credit for a suit ol
clothes?" "Poee he know you?"
"No." "Oh, In that ease he would."-*
Das Klela* Wltahlalt.
Ill Pwnehstesa Isrinry.
Waggles This a si has ehuwa that
powder should be uellke a child Jag
plea Whsi lu lbs world do you mean?
Waggles ll should be heard but net
seen.
Prince Albert of Monaco la having
a magnetie observatory bu.lt tn the
t lures.
TALMAGK’S SERMON
**A NEW YEAR'S GREETING”
THE SUBJECT.
rr»m Hook of (iuBtab, Chapter slvll.,
Tara* «. aa follow*: "How Olil Art
TkouT" Sow a I.eaauru from l.tfa.
The Egyptian capital was the focus
»f (he world's wealth. In ships and
barges there had been brought to !t
front India fianklucense and cinna
mon aod Ivory and diamonds; from
the north, marble und Iron; from Sy
ria. purple and silk; from Greece some
of the finest horses of the world, and
»ome of the moat brilliant chariots;
and from all the earth that which
could beat please the eye, and ch&rin
the ear and gratify the taste. There
were temples aflame with red sand
stone, entered by the gateways that,
were guarded by pillars bewildering
with hieroglyphics and wound with
hrar.en serpents and adorned with
winged creatures- their eyes and
beaks and pinions glittering with pre
cious stones. There were marble col
umns blooming Into white flowerbeds;
there were stone pillars, at the top
bursting Into the shape of the lotus
when In full bloom.
Along the avenues.llnrd with sphinx
and fane and obelisk, there were
princes who came In gorgeously up
holstered palanquins, carried by ser
vants In scarlet or Hsewhere drawn
by vehicles, the snow-white horses,
golden-bllted, and six abreast, dashing
at full run. On floors o" mosaic trie
glories of Pharaoh where spelled out
In letters of porphyry and beryl and
flame. There were ornaments twisted
from the wood of tamarisk, embossed
with sliver breaking Into foam. There
were footstools made out of a single
precious stone. There wpre beds fash
ioned out of a crouched lion In bronze.
There were chairs spotted with the
aleek hides of leopards. There were
sofas footed with the rlaws of wild
beaats, and armed with the beaks
or birds. As you stand on the level
beach of the sea on a summer day,
and look either way, and there are
miles of breakers, while with the
ocean foam, dashing shoreward, so It
seemed as If the sea of the world's
pomp and wealth In the Egyptian cap
ital for miles and miles flung Itself up
Into white breakers of murble temple,
mausoleum and obelisk.
I* was to this capital and the palace
of Pharaoh that Jacob, the plain shep
herd, came to meet bis son Joseph,
who bad become prime minister In the
royal apartment. Pharaoh and Jacob
met, dignity and rusticity, the grace
fulness of the court and the plain
manners of the field. The king, want
ing to make the old countryman at
ease, and seeing how white bis beard
Is and how feeble bis step, looks fa
miliarly into hla face and says to the
aged man: "How old art thou?"
Last night the gate of Eternity open
ed to iet In, amid the great throng of
departed centuries, the soul of the dy
ing year. Under the twelfth stroke af
the brazen hammer of the city clock
the patriarch fell dead, and the stars
of the night were the funeral torches.
It Is most fortuuate that on this road
of life there are bo many mile-stones,
on which we can read just how fast
we are going tow’ard the Journey’s end.
I feel that It is not an inappropriate
question that I ask today, when I look
Into your faces, and say, as PharAoh
did to Jacob, the patriarch, “Ilow old
art thou?"
People who are truthful on every
other subject lie about their ages, so
that I do not solicit from you any
literal response to the question I have
asked. 1 would put no one under
temptation, but I simply want, this
morning, to see by what rod it la we
are measuring our earthly existence.
There Is a right way and a wrong way
of measuring a door, or a wall, or an
arch, or a tower, and bo there is a
right way and a wrong way of meas
uring our earthly existence. It Is
with reference to this higher meaning
that I confront you this morning with
the stupendous question of the text
ana ask: How old are thou?" • •
It la not sinful egotism for a Chris
tian man to say, “I am purer than I
used to be. I am more consecrated to
Christ than I used to be. I have got
over a great many of the bad habits
In which I used to Indulge iu. I am a
great deal better man than I used to
be.” There la no sinful egotism in
that. It Is not base egotism for a
soldier to say, ‘T know more about
military tactics than I used to In-fore
I took a musket In my hand and leurn
cd to ‘present arms,' and when 1 waa a
peat to the drill officer." It Is not base
egotism for a sailor to say, "l know
better how to clew down the mltaen
topsail thun I used to before I bad
ever seen a ship." And there Is no
sinful egotism when a Christian man,
fighting the battles of the Lord, or, If
you will have It, voyaging toward a
haven of eternal rest, say, know
more about spiritual tactics and about
voyaging toward heaven than I used
to."
Why, there are those In this pres
ence who have measured lames with
many a foe and unhorsed It There
are Christian men here who have be
roue swarthy by hammering at the
forge of ralamlty. They eland on an
entirely different plane of character
from that which they once occupied
They are measuring their life on earth
hy golden gated ffaldwihe, by Pente
costal prayet meeiinj. b> e»iunniitton
tables, by baptismal fonts, by hallelu
iahs In the temple They have etood
on fflaai, end heacd It thunder. They
have stood ua ftegab, and looted over
Into the from lead Ish<I They have
stood on Calvary, and sees the cross
bleed. They can, like faul the Apoa
tie. write on Ihetr heaviest I roubles
•‘light" and “hot for a moment." The
darheot night their soul Is Irradiated,
a* was the night over Bethlehem, by
the faces of those who have come to
proclaim glory and good cheer. They
are only waiting for the gate to open
and the chain* to fall off and the glory
(o begin.
I remark again, There are many—
and 1 wish there were more—who are
estimating life by the good they can
do.
John Bradford said he counted that
day nothing at all in which he had
not, by pen or tongue, done some
good, If a man begin right, I cannot
tell how many tears he may wipe
away, how many burdens he may lift,
how many orphans he may comfort,
how many outcasts he may reclaim.
There have been men who have given
their whole life In the right direction,
concentrating all their wit and In
genuity and mental acumen and phys
ical force and enthusiasm for Christ.
They climbed the mountain and delved
Into the mine and crossed the sea
and trudged the desert anil dropped,
at last, into martyr's graves, waiting
for the resurrection of the Just, They
measured their lives by the chains
they broke off, by the garments they
put upon nakedness, by the miles they
traveled to alleviate every kind of suf
fering, They felt In the thrill of every
nerve, In the motion of every respir
ation of their lungs, the mugnlflcent
truth: "No man tlveth unto himself.”
They went through cold nnd through
heat, foot-blistered, cheek-smitten,
back-scourged, tempest-lashed, to do
their whole duty. That Is the way
they measured life -by the amount of
good they could do.
Bo you want to know how old
Luther was; how old Richard Baxter
was; how old I'lilllp Doddridge was?
Why, you runnot calculate the length
of their lives by any human arithme
tic. Add to their lives ten thousand
times ten thousand years, and you
have not expressed It what they have
lived or will live. Oh, what a stand
ard that Is lo measure a man’s llfo
by! There are those In this house
who think they have only lived thirty
yearn. They will have lived a thou
sand—Cbcy have lived a thousand.
There ure those who think they are
eighty year* of age. They have not
even entered upon their Infancy, for
one must become a babe in Christ to
begin at all.
Now, 1 do not know whut your ad
vantages or disadvantages are; 1 do
not know what your tact or talent Is;
1 do not. know what muy be the fasci
nation of your manners or the repul
Miveness of them; but 1 know this;
there Is for you, tny hearer, a field to
culture, u harvest to reap, a tear to
wipe away, a soul to save. If you
have worldly means, consecrate them
to Christ. If you lmve eloquence, use
It. on the side thBt Paul and Wilber
force used theirs. If you hav# learn
ing. put It all Into the poor box of the
world s suffering. lint If you have
none of these—neither wealth, nor elo
quence, nor learning—you, at any rate,
have a smile with which you can en
tourage the disheartened; a frown
with which you may blast Injustice;
a voice with which you may call the
wanderer back to Ood, “Oh,” you
say, “that Is a very sanctimonious
view of lire!" It Is not. It Is the only
bright view of life, and It is the only
bright view of death. Contrast the
death-scene of s man who has meas
ured life by the worldly standard with
the death-scene of a man who has
measured life by the Christian stand
ard. Quin, the actor, In his Inst mo
ments, said, “1 hope this tragic scene
will soon he over, and I hope to keep
my dignity to the last.” Malherbes
said In his last momenta to the con
fessor. "Hold your tongue! your mis
erable style puts me out of conceit
with heaven.” Lord Chesterfield In his
last moments, when he ought to have
been praying for his soul, bothered
himself about the proprieties of the
sick-room, end said, “Give Dayboles a
chair." Godfrey Kneller spent bis last
hours on earth In drawing a diagram
of his own monument.
Compare the silly and horrible de
parture of such men with the seraphic
Klow on the face of Edward Payaon,
ns he said In hla last moment; “The
breeses of heaven fan me. 1 float In
a sea of glory.’’ Or, with Paul the
Apostle, who said in Ms last hour.
“I am now ready to be offered up, and
the time of my departure Is at hand.
I have fought the good tight, I have
Kept the faith. Henceforth there la
laid up fur me a crown of righteous
ness which the Lord, the righteous
Judge, will give me." Or, compare it
with the Christian druth-bcd that you
witnessed in your own household. Oh,
my friends, this world Is a false god!
It will consume you with the blase
in which It accepts your sacrifice,
while the righteous shall be held in
everlasting remembrance; and when
the thrones have fallen, and the monu
ments have crumbled and the world
has perished, they ahali banquet with
the comiuerora of earth and the hier
archs of heaven.
This la a go«>d day In which to be
gin a new styla of measurement. Itow
old art thou* You aee the Chriettau
way of measuring life and the worldly
way of measuring It. I leave It to you
| to *ay which la the wlseet and best
way. The wheel of time has turned
very swiftly, and It haa hurled us oa
The old year haa goaa. The new year
haa come. For what you and I have
been launched upon It, Ood only
known Now let me ash you all
Have ><>u made an, prcpareiion |.»r
the future* You have made prepare*
ilou for llius, mr dsai brother; have
you made any preparation for eter
nity f !hv you wonder that when lhal
man on the Hudson river. In Indiana*
lies, tore up the tract which waa
branded him. and Juet one word landed
on hta coni sleeve the reel of the
irart being pitched lots the rlrdf*
that oae word aroused his soul? It
was that ona word, so long, so broad,
so high, so deep—"eternity!” A dy
ing woman, in her last moments, said,
“Call it back.” They said, "What do
you want?" "Time," she said, “call
It bark!" Oh, it cannot be called
bark; we might lose our health, and,
perhaps, recover It; we might lose our
good name and get that bark; but time
gone is gone forever. • • •
What fools we all are to prefer the
circumference to the center. What a
dreadful thing It would be If we
should be suddenly ushered from this
wintry world Into the May-time or
chards of heaven, and If our pauper
ism of sin and sorrow should be sud
denly broke it up by a presentation of
an emperor's castle surrounded by
larks with springing fountains and
paths, up and down which angels of
God walk two and two.
In 1M6 the French resolved that at
Ghent they would huve a kind of mu
sical demonstration that had never
been heard of. It would be made up of
the chimes of hells and the discharge
of cannon. The experiment was a per
fect success. What with the ringing
of the hells and the report of the ord
nance, the city trembled, and the hills
shook with the triumphal march that
was as strange as It was overwhelming.
With u most glorious accompaniment
will God’s dtar children go Into their
high residence, when the trumpets
shall sound and the Isist Day has
come. At the signal given, the bells
of the towers, and of the lighthouses,
and of the cities, will strike their
8wcetness Into n last chime that shall
ring Into the heavens and float off
upon the sea, joined hy the boom of
bursting mine snd magazine, aug
mented hy nil the cathedral towers of
heaven the harmonics of earth and
the symphonies of the celestial realm
making up one great triumphal march,
fit to celebrate the ascent of the re
deemed to where they sbsll shine af
the stars forever and ever.
GREAT SPANISH ACTRESS.
The Daughter of a Hloh Mara haul ol
Madrid.
One must love Madrid and be famil
iar with lie history to know how rep
resentative ia the Kpaniah theater of
Its glory, Its genius and ita beauty,
says the New York Herald. It aroae
phoenlxlike from the very unites of the
fainotiH Collgcum of the Croon, whoue
performers, toward the rlone of lant
century, created that atmonphere of
abandon und fantany which la the very
breath of life to the modern Spanish
stage. For twenty years the famous
Kafae) Cairo made (he Spanish theater
the representative of the choicest dra
matic art of hiH people. His death left
a vacancy which wan not Ailed until
the appearance of Marla Guerrero.
The Henson in Madrid lasts barely six
months. During the rest of the year
the company makes tours to the prov
inces or abroad. In 1897, for example,
it scored brilliant successes through
out the countries of Spanish America.
This year a tour of Europe Is con
templated. with a Arst appearance at
Paris. The choicest classic and mod
ern drama will form its repertory. The
company, which the Figaro has hap
pily called a “company of hidalgos,”
Is managed by Mme. Guerrero and her
husband, Hcnor Fernando Diaz of
Mendoza, a fellow-actor, and by title
the marquis of Fontanar.
The daughter of a rich merchant of
Madrid and carefully educated in a
convent, ar. Irresistible vocation at
tracted her to the stage. She made
her debut at the Spanish theater In
1890. In 1892, at the Comedia, she
made her Arst great success. She has
ever slnre retained her place at the
head of her art in Spain.
Euctljptsi I'm t« mm I*.
Germany la about to make a radical
departure In paving Home of the atreeta
In its big cities with the wood of the
eucalyptus tree. The substance has
been tested thoroughly in the Antip
odes, and the German authorities are
satisfied that it la better than stone
for the purpose. Eucalyptus wood has
been In use in Sydney, N. S. W., as
street paving material for the past ten
years. It has proved to be so service
able and durable that nil the principal
streets of that city have been paved
with it. The great density, hardness
and elasticity of the wood of certain
kinds of eucalyptus trees, rich in pitch
and fatty oils make the wood more
adaptable for the purpose than that of
uS>' ether tree. It Is said to be proof
against rapid deterioration and does
not absorb the moisture of city streets.
For hygienic us well as economical
reasons Germauy la now experimenting
with it. in l^lpclc a street In the
busiest section of the city has been
paved half with eucalyptus wood and
half ordinary material under equal cir
cumstances and conditions. Despite
Its hardness, the wood surface does
not get slippery and It seema to be su
perior to asphalt In many ways. Dres
den t.iid several other German cltlee
are inaklug similar experiments.
SxalStr
A anecdote to show the evils of
I intemperance la found In Modern So
ciety. A Ituaalan peasant returning
from town, where he had bought a new
pair of boots sad drunk a few glasses
of spirits, fell asleep by the rue debit.
ts4 a as stripped of his boots by a
light Angered tramp The fellow s
sleep remained unbroken until n pane
tag wagoner, seeing him lying halt
sc rose the track, shouted lo him lo
take hie lego owl of the way,** “My
legsT" echoed the half aroused sleep
ee, rubbing hie eyes, ' those lego ain't
mine mine had boots oal"
Why but a man who wear* speeU
clea troubled with see-ol*.hasset
