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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Gazette, 1893-09-28, Page 3NOT WISELY, BUT T00 WE CHAPTER XXIV.—(CoNentmen.e The is a long silence, He still leans there, his head on his hand, his face turned towards her as if to gaze his last on the beauty-heloves and remembers with so ab- sorbed and passionate a fidelity. Her eyes, amidst those blinding tears, meet his own longing gaze. She rises from her seat and lslds out her hands, while her voice, broken and full of unutterable sadness, cries out : " Oh, Keith, what should. I say—what should I do? May God have mercy on us both." " If you wish his mercy on you, don't cry," says Keith hoarsely, " or yon will make me so desperate that I shall forfeit any little bit of kindness you may still feel! Be cold, cruel scornful if you please, but don't drive me mad with sight of year sor- row. Mine I can bear—it is no new friend. But yours—" Lauraine dashes the tears from her eyes, and makes a violent effort at self-control. " i cannot ask you to forgive me," she " Francis, you---" she gasps. says ; " it would be better if you could learn "You don't seem very pleased to see me," to hate me. I wonder you do not, when says her husband looking at hersuspicious- ly. " What on earth have you beeu doing with yourself ? You look as ill as possible," He takes her hand and kisses her careless- aays, gloomily ; "I cannot. Do you sup- . ly on the cheek as he speaks. pose that if, by any deed, any power of will, " I have not been well," she falters, try - I could tear your memory from my heart, ing bravely for composure, " and Etwynde and once again know peace, that I would asked me to come to her for a few weeks not do it? God knows how gladly ! But I ! and I thought the change would do me good. How is it you are in London? Did you know I was here?" " Yes. I got your Letter at the club and came on. I only arrived last night." He throws himself into a chair, and looks at her curiously. " What was the row —you haven't told me." Lanraine grows very white. He is going abroad—av ay for years. His engagement is all over. He came to say good-bye," Sir Francis gives a long whistle, " Nom de Dieu ? Is that so ? And have you had a hand in breaking it off, my lady ?" " What do you mean ?" she asks, looking at him with grave surprise. " Mean ? uh, you and Keith were such chums always. I thought he had done it because you -objected. I know you never liked the marriage." "It had nothing to do with rue," says Lauraine, coldly. "And the girl was very fond of him. I am sorry for her." "It strikes me that Jean wasn't so far out, after all," says Sir Francis, with a harsh laugh. "You and Keith do seem to have a remarkably good understanding with each other." Lauraine- looks at him, her eyes dark with anger. "Since when have you taken to speakso familiarly of Lady Jean Salomans?" she asks ; and by what right does she discuss my actions with you?" "Come, that won't do," says her hus- band, throwing himself back in his chair, and looking at her defiantly. "It's rather too like the proverb of the pot and the ket- tle. You discuss me with Keith Athel- stone, I have ns doubt, and` other things too." "Do you mean to insult me?" asks Lanr- aine, rising from her seat, and looking steadily at him. He shrugs his shoulders. " You are always so tragic. Insult you? No. Only before you question my actions, is might be as well to look at your own. Are they quite—blameless ?" atrength will be broken like a reed—that he will never leave her again ; and in his blindness and dizziness and agony of heart he rushes away, flings the door wide open, and finds himself face to face with --Sir Francis Vavasour Fate tricks. The present instance is no exception. Lauraine has sunk back into her chair,faint and spent with emotion ; scarcely conscious indeed, of what is going on around her; and in this state her husband's rough voice breaks upon her. 56 What the devil's the matter? I met Athelstone flying out like a bombshell, and you look like a ghost. Have you been hav- ing—a fraternal quarrel ?" She starts to her feet and looks at him with wild, wide eyes. CHAPTER XXV. "THY HEART'S DESIRE." delights in playing mankind spiteful you think of all the sorrow I have brought into your life." "I have tried my best to hate you," he can not ; I must go on thinking of you, lov- ing you— —" He ceases abruptly, then goes on : " And once you put your arms round my neck and told me you would be mine ' for ever.' There are times now when I seem to feeithat soft touch and the thrill ofyour un- asked kiss, and—then, Lorry, I remember that ° for ever,' meant less than—four years." " You—you sine. " Yes, you are right. So I did. I seem to do nothing but make promises and break them with you. Well, there is one comfcrt, after to -day I shall have no chance of doing either one or other. There can be no dis- tanee too wide to set between our lives. And—oh, God, to think of what might have been !" "Life is full of mistakes," says Lauraine, weeping unrestrainedly now. " Oh, had I but known—had I but known! Yet, Keith something tells me that time will bring you cenaolation—tirne and the consciousness that you have done right." " Your words are beyond my power of acceptance," he answers, gloomily. " If I am doing right now, it is from no good motive, I assure you. If again you said to nye ` Stay,' there would be no more parting this side the grave, Lorry, for you and me." promised," falters Laur- His voice is very low and unsteady, but she hears every word, and all the wild love sad longing, the weariness and emptiness of her life, seem beating like waves against the poor weak barriers of honour. " I think I would give all the world to be able to say it to -day," she cries, with sudden passion. " But oh, Keith ! the 'to- morrow,' that would follow ; the sin and misery that would be with us both forever ! Is life or love worth one's eternal ruin? Is our parting now to be compared to that "other' parting that would have to follow —the eternal parting that would be so hopeless because of the guilt that lay upon our souls ?" "I do not think a great love can ever be a sin," Keith answers, passionately. "And mine would last you if ever human love did Iast. So much I know of myself, bad as I am." " You are not bad," says Lauraine, gently. " And I am sure ycu won't threaten me with the worse misery of your recklessness as once before yon aid. The nobler and better your life, the less will be my suffering. And you won't be cruel enough to add to that, will you Keith ?" The pleadiug voice, the tearful eyes, un- man him. "W by don't you abuse me, con- demn me, :all ins the selfish brute I am?" he says; with that rapid contrition that so, often marks his wildest moods. "No, Lorry, I won't be 'bad' if I can help it. I wouldn't wish to add to yoar safferings, though I am so selfish. Let me go now, while I have strength, while the good fit is on me. It mayn't last, you know, and then----" He is standing facing her, and white as death she looks up and meets the mournful gaze of the "bad bine eyes." There is no badness in them now, only a great anguish and a great despair. _ One long, long look they give—a look that seems to read her heart, and all its love that she denies, and all its suffering that he has given. He takes her hands and draws her near, nearer. She trembles like a leaf. Her eyelids droap, her lips quiver. "May I- kiss yon?" he whispers. with Athelstone ? She stands there, and all the colour fades from her face ; her limbs tremble. " I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says, slowly. " But--" He interrupted her roughly. " Don't trouble to explain. Of course we all know you are san repcoohe. Only don't turn the cold shoulder tootberwomen, when you your- self are no better than they—seem. Were I a jealous husband 1 should have forbidden Keith Athelstone your presence long ere this." " There would have been no need," she says, proudly. " I am not a woman to for- get honour and self-respect." " Oh, fine words are easy," -scoffs her hus- band. " To the untempted virtue is no merit. And although anyone could see Keith Athelstone was making himself a fool about you, yet you never cared a straw for him. If you has--" "Well?" she asks, very low, as he pauses. He laughs again. "You would have been no better than —others, I suppose. What you call self-respect is only another word for cold-heartedness." Lauraine thinks of the scene through which she has just passed. Cold-hearted ? Well, if she be, she thanks God for. the fact.- That her husband should speak thus to her fills her with an intense shame. After all, would he have cared so very much, if -- The evil thought coils round her like Slie makes no answer in words, for speech a serpent, she feels sick and " stifled, and is beyond her. She forgets everything full of pain and fear. now, save that she loves, and that this is an eternal farewell to her lover. There - comes such a moment of forgetful- ness to all women who love, otherwise-, in- deed, there would be none to fall for love's sake -only. Otherwise, how easy would be the conflict that, of all others is the wild- est, the ftercust, and hardest to wage. She lifts her head. The anguish„ the entreaty in her eyes frighten, and yet gladden him. For in this moment he - feels he is master of her fate, and she is uncon- scious of the fact. Did he but hold her in his arms—did the tide of passion, locked back within his throbbing heart, find Vent "I ent "I am going to my room," she says, hur- riedly. "Will you excuse me? I—I ain not very welt" "Machere," Iaughs her husband, roughly, "one doesn't stand on ceremony after a few years of married life. "Don't stay here for me. 'I'm off too, now. I have heaps of things to do." " Will you dine with us to -night?" asks Lauraine. " To -night? Well, yes. I suppose it will look better, and I should like to see what sort of fellow your aesthetic friend has captured. Jove ! if men only knew what. fools they are to marry !" in -one word, one caress, he knows he But Lauraine has left- Sir Francis takes could not answer for himself—for her ! • up.his hat. His face is dark and disturbed. It is the critical -moment of Keith Athel- "Jean was right, There is something," - stone's life. Ail that is best and worst in he mutters. " Bat Lauraine is not like— her. Should I be better pleased if she were? Sometimes I think I would give the world for freedom.; and yet---" - The door opens. Lady Etwynde sweeps, in, as radiant and fair a vision aseyes could wish to behold. "Sir Francis ! You here, and alone ! Why, where is Lauraine?" "Gone to her room. Not well, or tired, or something," he says, as he shakes hands. "I am glad you have had her here ; she , his heart are at war ; all that is most hard to resist wraps him in a flame of tempting that bairns away all good resolves, and al- most stifles the faint whispers of a con- science that pleads for her. For her—for her. To save her from her- self as well as from his awn mad love, To heave her unharmed, untainted by the baseness of his selfish passion; to be worthy of love, as love had been in those sweet, glad, ehilfiiazi days These thoughts flash like light:mg ' mopes herself to death down at -the Chase. though his brain, even .as he meets her 1 I can't see what she is so fond of it for. I mournful eyes and reads their nneonseious betraank "Oh, love, good-bye ! Let me g ► !" he craw, wildly, and -throws her hand`; aside with almost cruel force.. ; - " - detest it inyse.lf-" "There are associations, you see," says Lady Etwynde, quietly. " Her child was born there, and there died." He feels somewhat ashamed. He thinks Bois blind and dienywith pain. . A word l,'of his wife ---how young, how Sorrowful she look from hey, &.ria :he know tat- kle looked; bow* the life and radiance seemed crushed`nut`of leer heaat. `Bat then the old weariness and impatience assert themselves. Life with Lauraine has been so flat and monotonous a thing. "Weil, at all events it does not agree with her," he says brusquely. "I was glad to find her in town. I got her letter at the club. I am only up for two or three days myself." "Will you dine with us tonight?" asks Lady Etwynde. "We are quite alone, sb it won't be very lively, and you have had s' touch brilliant society lately.." He looks" quickly at her. He is always suspicious of women's words ; always given to looking under them for some hidden meaning, But Lady Etwynde's face is in- nocence itself. " Thanks. Yes. I told Lauraine I would come," he says, not very cordially, for in- deed an evening with these two women looks a dreary penance to him. "And you will stay here, will you not ?" says Lady Etwynde. You won't go back to an hotel while Lauraine is in town ?" "Oh, I could not think of inflicting my- self upon you," he says, hurriedly: "and it is such a flying visit—thanks all the same. And now. good-bye till to -,fight." "Good bye," says Lady Etwynde, coldly. She thinks his behaviour both strange and callous, and very uncomplimentary to his wife. Then he leaves, and she goes to Lauraine, and Ends her lying in a darkened room, white, spent and exhausted. "My dear, what is it?" she asks, in alarm. "Has anything happened? Are you 111?" For a moment Lauraine hesitates, Then the sight of the sweet, compassionate face melts the hardness that she fain would keep about her heart, and in a few broken words she relates the whole sad tale of that inter- view and farewell, "My only comfort is that at last he will go—surely he will leave me," she says, in conclusion. "Indeed, it is time. The strain is ::tore than I can bear. Besides, Sir Fran- cis hae noticed it—he said so; and his words were scarce a greater insult than I deserved, for if I have not sinned as the world counts sin, yet I have not been guiltless—far froiu it." Lady Etwynde looks at her wistfully. In her own great happiness she can feel ten- fold the sorrowful fate of these sundered lives, " And he is going to break off his mar- riage?'' she says,.anxiously, " Yes," says Lauraine. " He says to go through with it is beyond his power." " Poor fellow !" exclaims Lady Etwynde with involuntary compassion. She is angry with him, and yet sorry for him, for he has proved so faithful; and, after all, is any love quite unselfish if it be worth the name? " My poor Lauraine !" she murmurs, in- voluntarily. " i'onr marriage has indeed been a fatal error ; but, as I have said be- fore, there remains nothing but to make the best of it. The only thing for you and Keith is separation. Alt other feelings except that one forbidden one are a poor pretence. I feared that long ago. I am glad you have been so brave, and he too. Believe me, hard as duty is, the very effort of doing it creates strength for further trials. The consciousness of right is a satisfaction in itself, even when one is misjudged." Lauraine listens, and the tears stand on her lashes, and roll slowly dawn her'eheeks. "My life is very hard," she says, bitterly. "Would it be less hard if you had ceased to respect yourself, if you bad lost the creeds and faiths which still make honor your one anchor of safety? I think not." "I can think of nothing now save him and his unhappiness," cries Lauraine, al- most wildly. "I have never loved him as I love him to -day. Oh ! I know it is wrong, shameful to say such a thing ; but it is the truth, and I must speak it—this once. Why, do you know that when he said good-bye to me I could have flung myself at his feet and said, 'Let the world go by, let sin or misery be my portion for evermore—only do not you leave me !' It teemed as if noth- ing in life was worth anything beside one hour of love ! And yet—well, how good an actress I must be, Etwynde —he called me cold-hearted." "Thank God he did !" exclaims Lady Etwynde. " Oh, Lauraine, yoargood angel must have saved you today. I did not think it had come to this ; and I cannot find it in my heart to blame you, for—I love too." "And my husband taunted me with being no better than othet women, simply because. I had never been tempted," continues Laur- aine, presently. "Well, perhaps in heart I am not. He may have been right, and vir- tue is, after all, only a. matter of—tempera- ment." "Oh, hash! I cannot bear to hear you talk like that," cries Lady Etwynde. "Does Le—does- Sir Francis suspect any- thing?" "He said he knew Keith loved me," an- swers Lauraine, wearily. "Fancy hearing one's husband speak of the love of another man ! I_ felt treacherous -shamed ip his sight and my own. He could not understand —he would not believe in the long, long struggle, the pain, the suffering of it all. I feel as if conscience and honor had both suffered in the conflict, as if with my child I had lost all that was pure and of any worth to me. And now the world may say what it likes, rdon't care even to contradict it." "That is not true," exclaims Lady Et- wynde. "You have struggled nobly, you have done your best, and the fruits of the victory will be yours in time. At least you hold_the hope of meeting your little child, innocent and unshanied, despite fierce tempting and all the weariness and sorrow of your life." Lauraine's tears fall: fsster and more fast. "My child! Oh, why was he not left to me.? The touch of his innocent kiss, the sound of his voice, the clasp of his arms were strong as all the chains of duty cannot. be. And now there is no one—no one. And I am so lonely, so desolate, and Iife looks ao long, and death so far away !" The tears rushedto Lady Etwynde's eyes. " Oh, my darling ! What can I say to com- fort you ! Do you know Lauraine, once— in years that are gone—when I felt reck- less and despairing as yourself, I left the house, and went out full of some wild re- solve t t -bla to ti It entered the church the first thing that met to the great tanited roof, Iheard again the beautifai voice, and it sang these words : 0 rest in the Lord.; wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' You know them, do you not, and the music that weds them so exquisitely from the ` Elijah 9' I knelt there with my head bowed on my hands, and the tears falling down my cheeks. I remembered nothing ; neither place nor presence. It only seemed as if an angel's voice was breathing comfort to my passion - wrecked soul, as if that beautiful promise fell over my spirit and brought peace, and healing, and rest. ` Thy heart's desire !' Oh, Laurine, think of that ! Twelve long years ago that message came to me, and I was comforted and soothed! Twelve years, and now God has fulfilled His promise. My heart's desire is mine." Laurine has listened, stilled and awed. " Thy heart's desire." The words sink into her very sou), and awaken a thousand varied emotions. " But my `heart's desire' is all wrong— all sin—whichever way I look at it," she says, half despairing. "God can make it right," whispers Lady Etwynde drawing the white, sad face down upon her bosom, and softly kissing the weary lids. "If you can take those words home to your heart as I did, my darling, your burden will grow easier to bear ; the strength you ask for will be giv- en. Oh, life is hard, terribly hard, I know! There is so much sorrow, so little joy ; and then the errors, the sins which beset, the weakness that shackles us !—but still, still, we are not tried beyond our strength, and we tray be able at last to look back and see it was all for the best !" " What would I not give to recall these last four years !" cries Lauraine, bitterly. "How different my life might have been !" " There's no turning back," says Lady Etwnde, solemnly. " Errors, once commit- ted, are irrevocable ; for them we must suffer ; by them we must abide. Ah, my dear ! who would not live their time again if they might, and by the light of the pres- ent alter all the mistakes of the past ? But it cannot be done. All the remorse and all the regret are so futile. Tears of blood cannot wash away one memory, take out the sting of one mistake. We must just bear life as it is, till Death seals all; its woes into forgetfulness." " You are so good," cries Lauraine sadiy. " I am not like you. I am wicked and re• bellious, and I cannot accept my fate with patience, even though I know my own past weakness is to blame for all my present misery." " I am not good. Do not praise me," says Lady Etwynde, humbly. " And I know 1 do not deserve my present happiness. It makes me fearful of my great joy. For I was so wicked and rebellious once, and I wonder often that God did not take my life instead of sparing. it, and blessing it as he has done. Now, darling, you look worn out, and must needs rest. I will leave you for awhile, If your husband suspects any- thing you must try to banish such suspicions, or your married life will grow yet more unhappy. The great wrench is over, the worst is past. Time, and the consciousness of having done what is right, will give you peace and comfort at last. Youth and trength are yours still, and many good gifts of life and if you throw yourself. into eeeliers' sufferings, and widen your sympathy with the inter- ests and trials of those around you, believe me it will do much to making your own troubles less. I speak from an experience as bitter as, if less hopeless, than your own." And once more kissing the closed lids which seemed too weary for tears, she lays Lauraine back on the pillows, and softly leaves the room. "' Thy heart's desire !' " Lauraine cries to herself. "Oh, God ----not that—not that should be my prayer. Teach my heart to say, ` Thy will, not mine !' " (TO BE CONTINUED.) A Stran a Tribe in India. The Bombay Times says: Scattered over the breezy downs of the Nilgherries, in lit- tle villages of wicker houses that look at a little distance like nothing in the world' so much as a colony of beehives, lives a com- munity of 600 or 700 people, who are vari- ously believed to be the descendants of one of the lost tribes of Israel, the aborigines of Southern India and a community of Mani - chasers. They believe in a strange trinity and a hell, a dismal stream full of leeches, and this they must cross by means of a single thread. The soul burdened with sin is too heavy for this slender support and- -the sinner falls into the stream, but the threadsustains easily the souls of the good The funeral of a Toda, for that"is the name of the singular tribe, is as odd in its way as its religious belief. His body is wrapped in a new cloth and his toes tied together with red thread; grain, sugar, tobacco and money ale wrapped in the funeral toga to provide him for his journey- across the Styx and the dark plain beyond. Two buffaloes are slain beside the corpse and the dead man's hands are placed upon their horns; a piece of his skull, his hair and his finger nails are re- moved to be used later on at the great cele- bration of the death of all those who,during the twelve months, have "taken the leap ever the great precipice into the bottomless abyss." W hen these tokens are removed, clarified butter is smeared on the fragrant wood of the funeral pyre and the body is burned to ashes and the ashes scattered to the four winds. Hanged Himself While Tolling a In a church belonging to the Franciscan Order of Priests in Austria, an attendant the other day committed suicide under pe- culiar circumstances. His office was to ring the .ball, and as he suffered from lung disease he was accommodated with a chair. On this particular occasion, while tolling the bell for a funeral, and between the pauses of the mournful strokes, he hit upon a means of death. Mounting the chair, he drew the rope up and made a slip -knot. Placing his head in the noose, he kicked away the chair and swung midway in the cathedraL When the Franciscan fathers Kaall oa •err. men on: was a Sunda I remember 11 Th their gaze was the poor bellringer hanging nu y evening, remem ,r we e bells were sounding everywhere, and I walk- to the bell rope. He was quite dead. ed on through the quietstreets with mad- ness in my heart, Suddenly, as I passed The United States has 12.35 lighthouses the open door of a church, I heard a voice and beacons, thirty-two light -ships, 107 fog singing. Involuntarily I stopped, listened, signals worked by steam, 187 by clockwork, eat -erect. It was a large church, and full of 17 61 river lights and 4286 buoys of various people. Someone gave me a chair, and I kinds. sank down wearily enough. ' Then, peeling We ca notalways oblige; but we can al- ways the chords of the organ, floating up ' ways speak obligingly. COINS AN D COINAGt The Carthagenians had leather coins. Tin coins were cast by Dionysius of Syra- cuse about 405 B.0 . The first New Jesey coins were copper cents, struck in 1786. The Chinese " cash" is said to have had its origin about B. C. 1120. The gold talent is variously computed at from 61256.21 to $1216.62. The first Roman coinage of silver was, according to Pliny, B. C. 269, The Turkish piaster is a money of ac- count, there being no piaster coin. The best workmanship on Roman coins was done during the reign of Nero. Julius Caesar was the first Roman to hat$ his face represented on a coin. Solon was the first to establish an exact amount of gold in the coinage. Some of the Maccabinan coins have the words, " Jerusalem the Hely." The coins of Alexander the Great were the first to bear the name of a king. The Mint of -Philadelphia has a ,ollec- tion of over 8000 coins of different nations. The first Canadian coinage was struck for the French by command of Louis XIV. Stone coins are frequently found in the funeral mounds of the American Indians The first attempt at a face on a coin was made by Archelaus of Macedon, B. C. 403 The earliest coins were irregular, oblong masses of metalstamped only on one side. The first American counterfeiter, so far as known, was one William Buel, of Ver- mont, The first coinage of money after the re- volution bore in many cases the image of Washington. The tao, or knife coins, of China, made current B.C. 2453, were of iron, in the shape of daggers. Thebronze coins of Austria and most other nations have 95 per cent. copper and 5 per cent, tin. The "Virginia halfpennies" were issued about 1773, but whether for Virginia or not is tmknown. The Aztecs filled quills with geld dust sealed them and passed them from hand to hand as coin. The Roman sestirtius was like our "bit,' a money of account, having no coin to re- present its value. The earliest coins of New Hampshire were of copper pence; 108 to the Spanish dollar, issued in 1776. The first woman's face represented on a coin was that of Pulcheria, the Empress of the Eastern Empire. Amost every Roman city in Italy or the colonies had and exercised the right of coin- ing money of its own. In 1645 the Council and Grand Assembly of Virginia passed an act to issue "quoines," but none were struck. In China cold and silver are merely com- modities, whose price is regulated by the laws of supply and demand. The rei of Brazil is an imaginary coin, no piece of that denomination being coined. Ten thousand reis equal $5,45. 'The most valual le Roan coin was the aureus, of course of gold, about the size of a $5 gold piece, and worth 65.03. The Chinese stamp bars or ingots of gold or silver with their weight and fineness and pass them from hand to hand as coin, The Troyes pound, or, as now called, the pound Troy weight, was introduced into England as a gold measure in 1517. The first gold coins made by the United States Mint were finished .July 31, 1795, and consisted of 744 ten -dollar pieces. The Roman inscribed on bronze coins only the legend, monata sacred, money, be- cause bronze was a sacred metal The earliest Roman coins were stamped with the figure of an ox, hence the English word pecuniary, from peens, cattle. Leaden coins, or tokens, were in use by many ancient nations, and, up to a short time ago, were employed in Burmah. The coins issued Ji the Byzantine Em- pire form, daring 1000 years, the connecting link between ancient and modern coinage. The "Reversible Fails " in the St. John River. But the most picturesque, as well as the most striking, manifestation of the tidal rise and fall is at the mouth of the St, John River, at St. John, New Brunswick. Here may be witnessed on every tide a change of conditions as sudden and as complete as a quick change of scene in a drama ; the beauty of the landscape, enhanced by the handiwork of man, adding greatly to the impressiveness of the phenomenon. This is locally known as the "reversible falls," al- though "reversible rapids" would be more appropriate. In a reap of St. John and its environs, drawn in 1784 by an officer of the St. John's Loyalists, the matter is referred to in a marginal note : "The falls in this river are justly ranked among the curiosities of the world ; they are at the month of the river, about one mile from the entrance, and are navigable four times in twenty-four hours, which commands great attention, as only a few minutes are required to pass in safety. "The tide rising from twenty to twenty- four feet, at high water is six feet higher than the river, which occasions a fall in the river as well as out, the whole water of the country having to pass between two . rocks sixty yards distant-" The scene of these rapids is a beautiful gorge through which, in remote ages, the river appears to have its way. For twenty minutes on each ebb and flood the river here is as placid as a mountain lake on • a tranquil day. Suddenly a sterak of white spreads across the gorge, and in a few min- utes the calm is sueceeded by the turmoil of rushing, whirling waters. The reflections of she rocky shores and of the graceful outlines of the suspension and cantilever bridges which span the mouth of tha gorge are obliterated as if a mirror had Suddenly been ruthlessly shattered. If all seconds were as averse to duels as their principals, very little blood would be shed in that way. The repeal of the British navigation laws in 1849 allowed foreign built . ships to"be registered rigsh l'abjeet s, and allowed any- ship gas tion to'bring any merchandise to per MIN TheButte T):e hr: se retied alter canoe-, w-:, ti it anh3 )1; there arf:i H,1dsoo w. e al:o:ncr fahoiy r0::; i ' erher.',T: was �1:.1f1e were sc t'aic strange; . e. the lux - Cit tere'l ux-cattere'i course. lett: 1:, - .5 stars, F v: thr- ; Eat ttir, mien and v(,: _F s,.. others, tha. C(0nviet.OL (JA Zack rou r._at 51) Icoked ;; tr kn.ie He entre i o,'i., ,rt Wrw`, wr.:sk,v ,. 10 haus fire r^I1cf: of t., t tos ,ut. his own infirmity, wife ani hew:: out o her <;`. eatt. oily,: a mark 1n or_1er U: tt.erre Strange: bro t. 1.0 the v.ciri great fir Pre=eot Itnaca,; v arilonct of t'-ien corr. fore, wa- t gets and locality. iifc to the the: posy i -,i produce, a:t , h,r. _. hope f•ee:r, r, \V nv, claimed : h ed a tea: lap a liv made ove own hare that the poor, be market.. rte 7e. reeler,<ed earth G) y "Come the wav, cellar Lia iy pride. wt : ei weary c Sure encu there, ti. Lound:ng sweeter a merited Hew pr, of her lab not 10 e in the= r_ The p - cheered t the table it woe; amenii:e for ll:nn of ehie gu goads an late wild a etau e apprecia Ii u t do we Iou:: them we next yea asermo: by a reit ise that five mi held a m Cem' to warty spare wean suc hard to Forty fee for e and thr emp:fed for our home, a in nee, pyasa ton to The shore. their WI lifted a skirts, sioned Isawt she said 1h but hav .Every t and aga papers, turned asked. "aa.d 1 lather newthe a gree Iw and by