Evening Star Newspaper, October 29, 1881, Page 7

’ MUSICAL AND DRAMATIC, NEW PLAYS. — The Royal Youth, brought out at Daly's success in New York and New York Theater this week, was, as a whole, a suc- cess for a new play. —Clariece, or All for Love, written by Mrs. Mary F Rodgers, and is pronounced by the N. ¥. Tribune to be excellent. other new play, for Katherine —Money Bags, 2 new comedy, written by that excellent actor, J. W. Shannon, has made o hit in PI ladelphia. — After six months of performance The Pro- Sessor is to be withdrawn from the stage of the Madison be f Square Theater, New York, and will wed to-night by Esmereida, a new play by Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, of Washing- ton. devoting herself to The baby is two w —The Abbott s old now. It isa boy. It is said to be very bright. mpany will produce anew ngagement at the Na- The Two Caraliers, or a Jolly Night — Dion Boncicanit is expected in New York about Christmas. return — Mr. to London in the spring. ata which was to be produced at the Norwich festival. Thousand Vi form one of the curiosities of Cologne Cathedrai. — Twelfth Night is generally acknowledged tobe the of allt ‘hakespe an comedies. never been presented in this country in a mat ner calculated to display its manifold beauties advantaze. Fifth Avi maki iy on an e : duce it to the public on Mo , the 31st inst. nest and most perfectiy constructed Yet it has n- to nd will intro- — The part which Wagner took in the revolu- tion of 1843 has not been forgetten. The pri ‘o- posed series of Nileimngentied performances at Dresden has been al opposition of some |} not forgiven his conduct on that occasion. joned because of the personages, who have — Miss Genevieve Ward has concluded a very successful four weeks’ engagement at the Union Square Theater, New York, and appears at the Globe Theater, Boston, for two weeks. Spiler's Web will be produced in that ci The and it is predicted will prove to be a dramatic at- tion. — Mapleson’s new prima donna, Mile. Ferni, who made her debut in New York on Friday night in Mignon, has made a great hit. The pa- are all delighted and some of them rank with Nillson and Lucca, She is twenty-five years old, 3 native of Turin, and comes of a mu- family. Italy last spring wa Heal She has been ‘singing at Madrid the past four seasons, and on her return to warmly received at Milan, where Mapleson secured her. She has a most extensive repertory, ranging from Fra Diavolo te Aira. —Th the Bijou Theater, Andran’s new ope Snake Charmer, on Monday. though magnificently m ¢ Mascotte is withdrawn to-night from w York, to make room for a, The Great Mogul; or, The The Mascotte, anted, was not sung so well by the company the e one at Ford's here. “Blanche Chapman sings in the new opera. — Adalina Patti sailed on Saturday last and @ue in New York by Tuesday next. but twenty-five when she was is She anticipates a great tour here. ‘on, with George Riddle as the “4 'y 100 people. — Herr J Viens, meducti eph Bayer, of the King’s Opera at is | Patti was inthis country. yan, of the Madison Square | They will be supported —Of Bob, which was written for Lotta by Fred Marsden, and which she has been rehears- img with her company for the past fortnight, Rothing has been given out till produced this week in Phiadelphia. It isa three act play. — Mr. Frederick Haase, the famous German actor, is announced to appear every night this week at the Germania Theater, New York, (Wallack’s old theater.) He is an excellent actor and draws good houses. — da Belle Luretie is to receive its first repre- sentation in New York at the Academy of Musi ic in December by Maurice Gran’s French Opera Company, which is now performing in South America. THE SCARC: '¥ OF FLOWERS. of Drouth and Frost— ms Which Are Favorites— New Designs and Changing Tastes. “You wi have to be content with a small a florist to a customer who had ordered a bouquet one day recentiy. H@ had Probably made the remark a number of times within the last few weeks before this tim e, when it was overheard by a Tribune reporter. With the the flori= culty in keeping them supplied. t period is a barren onein th urn of people from the country, and the consequent increasing demand for flowers, | ve for some time had great diffi- he saround the city, for the reason weather, witha frost for a climax, has killed many of the plants not under grass, while the stoe! to yield many blossom pt to delay the the greenhouses has not been ing { of the plants at this season of the year by cut-{ ting back. in order that the flowers may be re- tarded until about Christmas, when high prices are usually expected. gardeners, on account of the drouth, may be inferred from th i one ‘grower in | New Jersey, whe for water for | his plants. ' Dealers has been | livelier than usual during the past summer. s leave the city; but there is apparently of the warm sease of the season's blossoms, often more high! colored and fragrant than the forced growth the winter. is atefulon a hot day. Th demand durin; unusually good. Theater-going, funeral Weddins and other occasions contribute to th demand. a “The worst of it is, cannot tnake any money ket and high pri = it bot now they think they we charge a fair price, and they ¢ bouquet is not as full and rich as at time. So as we have Ft whieh will be me news to t! mirers of the modest blue the-valley have be cially for wedding count of their also searce and in used in almost any design. her rein as queen of floral favorit ere used in all colors and on all oce: good taste or not, from weddii An uptewn florist said on this subject: The distress of flower- In| n weather most of the patrons of the | a 88, Who appreciate flowers and can nm. Who stay in the city a good part . To such persons a bouquet ly a he ii months has also been is, he ” said a florist, “that we fc ctive mar- | xpect to pay | and after | to pay high’ prices rowers now, there is very | © funerals. “Tthink | now Mrs. David Wallace, is mestic drama this winter. He will make atour before rederic H. Cowen has composed acan- Its subject is St. Ursula and the Elecen gins. the same whose bones now | | people are using too much color in some funeral | Pieces. There are plenty of quiet-toned flower like yellow roses, heliotropes, violetsand da to relieve the severe whiteness of funera ematie of love and hay lor a man to give jermetto have been sel Jaequeminc ful enough to mention. 5 cents each; te Amasnica are favorites, though tifal. goiden Alamandi blossoms are also. ve where rich color is sought. rs ies p> ‘h colored flowers for to -love but these same Cook, Pearl de Jar- i- Fine tea roses are worth are not yet plenti- Carnations are worth lilies-of-the-valley, 25 cents a The large white blossoms of the Eu- ot They are worth 35 cents a piece. Camel- lias are not much grown now; and tuberoses, whieh a few or their street venders. { years ago were wanted in every . are now, either from their cheapness too self-asserting odor, relegated to the Orange-blossoms will doubtless be in demand as long as their fair wearers are sought for in the matrimon‘al market. signs for bouquets are multifarious. from sli pers and umbrellas to cornucopias and Figged ships—N. ¥. Tribune. E De- full MR. BONFIG’S PROTEGE. L Ebenezer Bonfig was a widower, between fifty and sixty years of age, fresh-colored and alert, exes ingly dapper and natty in his ap- pearance, very well to do, and a member of one or two something more than respectable clubs. It had been long ago forgotten tlat onfig’s | father had made his fortune by the discovery and extensive sale of an esoteric compound known by the title of ‘Luncheon Tickle;” and the son had never been taunted on account of his sire’s connection with trade since he had left college, where of course the nickname of “Pickles” had been affixed to him. But Ebene- zer was no tuaft-hunter; not in the least ambi- tious or desirous of passing himself off for what he was not, and took the thing with great and undisturbed good humor, till the term lost all trace of contemptuous expression, and became transformed into a kindly jocular epithet, used by his particular chums in moments of endear- ing expansion. After leaying college, Bonfi; married, led an even, childless existence, mate: to a lady of a temperament as calm and equable as his own, until death dissolved this stormiess partnership, and left him to nurse in solitude a crowd of sweet and concordant memories. Yet Ebenezer had one ruling passion; if in- deed a sober, worthy crochet deserves to be dignified by such a name. He doted on music | and musicians. He was a steadfast subscriber to the Italian opera; attended every philhar- monic, sacred and classic concert, where good | musical fare was a certainty, and’ was generally | tolerably well posted upin operatic gossip. The | storehouse of his recollections was rich with anecdotes of singers of world-wide fame, many of whom he had known personally in his younger days; and to get Bontig on to his pet subject was a common trick, practised with con- ‘able unction by his friends at the club and here. r.” Ebenezer would say, his pleasant rubi- cund face glowing with modest triutaph, “I had the honor of being on speaking terms with the great Malibran—the great Maria Malibran herself. We shall never see her like again. Pat- ti, Nilsson, Tietjens, don't talk to me of any of them, sir; great artists in their way no doubt, who command our gratitude for the pleasure they give us, but not one of them a touch upon Malibran.* That woman sir, wasn't a woman at all when on the stage; she was an angel and a fury by turns, as the occasion re- quired. Wonderful! wonderful! And do you know what she used, to keep her up to the mark? Porter, sir—good honest porter; she would drink a whole bottleful just before going on the boards; and, by gad, you should have seen the world of good it did her! What a power it gaveher! I have handed her the glass she drank out of scores of times. That was a singer if you like, or I’m a Dutchman!” A host of the best singers were all familiar personages to him. He had either known them from his stall at the Spare house; of. what was even better, fade their acquaintance at 80me of those celebrated garden parties, given by a still well-remembered impresario of former days. Bonfig had contrived to make himself extremely popular in their society, and got to be received with a genuine smile of welcome, where men of high rank and. title were only more or less tolerated on account of their social influence and standing. Indeed, on one or two delicate occasions, his good offices had been solicited to shake the unbending obduracy of some recalcitrant prima donna; and it was mainly due to his passe ee good humor and plausible serenity, a storm in a tea-cup, which might haye proved serious to managerial interests, was averted. Artists knew they bad an enthusiastic, sincere little friend in him; ready to exult with them in their success, and to console them with graceful tact in their failure. His bouquets, flung with a superb flourish, and | with unerring aim. were things to be remem- bered; and his honest face, beaming with undis- guised rapture, was looked for as a sympathetic stimulus, a useful antidote to fashionable British frost. It must not be supposed, however, that Bon- fig was a master of the craft himself. He could not have deciphered a single bar of music to save his life; and was only known to have at- tempted to sing once, when he was so fright- ened by the hideously discordant sounds which came from him, that he retired quite disconcert- e and upset. ‘He simply had an unlimited ca- ity for appreciation; a reverend admiration nything like a decent voice and the power git. He would have risen from a sick Oe | bed, rather than miss a performance of artistic consequence, and postponed his most pressing engagement to put himself at the disposal of. a singer. The grasp of a peer’s hand would not have afforded him a tithe of the gratification which a passing nod from Lablache gave him. and‘as for one of Malibran’s smiles, he would not have bartered it forakingdom. It was a mystery, too, whence he derived his extraordi- nary predilection. Bontig senior’s soul had never soared for “an instant above pickles, and the account at his banker’s; but then to be sure, problems of greater intricacy remain to this mo- imifter the death of his gentle er the ol gentle companion, who, far from checking Ebenezer, had done ie very best to share his enthusiasm, he still continued to interest himselfin musical matters; but his interest grew less active, and found its vent rather more in the retrospective than in the present or prospective. The impresario, who had looked upon Bonfig in a measure as a coun- sellor and staunch ally, had found a successor; new artists had taken the place of the old, and Ebenezer—a Rip Van Winkle, in an old world new, without his even been asleep—was fain to content himself with making his appear- ance as usual in his stall, and indulging in re- grets of a glorious past, whenever he got the chance of doing so. The modern school of song had, of course, degenerated in his opinion; and with it, the modern school of lyrical composi- tion. He was a bitter anti-Wagnerite, and for the life of him could not see what the publi¢ found to applaud in the music of ‘that con- founded German,’ which to him was all noise and no melody.” I. But he was shortly to be roused from this comparative state of apathy. One day he called upon an old college friend, home from India, and staying at a boarding-house situated in one of the squares of the West-Central district. While the two were talking together amicably in the somewhat dingy drawing-room Bontig be- came suddenly disgracefully inattentive to the conyersation, and strangely absorbed in listen- ing to the sound of avoice which seemed to shoot up from somewhere about the basement of the house. , It was, however, a voice well worthy of atten- tion. A man’s voice of pronounced tenor qual- ity, rich, strong, agreeable and of extreme pur- ity; one of those voices which, in ordinary sized rooms, shake the chandelier glasses and cause | asense of vibration in the diaphragm of the listener; but which, in a large hall, lucky in its acoustics, swell into harmoniously-rezulated waves of sound, as fulland majestic as the notes | ofa ehurch organ. Bonfig’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Hark!” he said; “some one is singing: you dido’t tell me you had an artist in the hous “Pooh, it’s no artist! it’s only Louis, the vant. or waiter, or whatever you may call him,” answered Ebenezer’s friend contemptuously. The voice was clearly neither a novelty nor a pleasure to him. “A waiter!” exclaimed Bonfig indignantly. “A man with a voice like that a waiter! Do be quiet for a moment, Jones, I want to listen.” The musician went ‘on, serenely unconscious ot an audience. He was singing one of those Italian ditties so greatly in vorue at the time when the youth of Italy shouldered guns and | marched out to fight and die for freedom and unity. Addio mia bella adaio, L’Armata se ne va; Se non partisei anch’ io Sarebbe una vilta. J Tt was evident, too, that the performer was doing something else besides merely singing: and, judging from the occasional jerkiness of his notes, it might be shrewdly surmised that he cleaning knives, or boots, or at all events arms about with some enerzy. lini! a Tamberlik! a Negrimi!” mur- honest, easily-moved Mr. Bonfig, getting up from his seat excitedly and pacing the room, men “There isn’t aman who can boast of a@ voice pieces | Ls roses, which, if they like that on the stage at the present moment. I say, Jones, 1 should {ike to see this wonder; I must see him: ring for him to coi once, there's a good fellow. peda ee “You want to see Louis?” asked Ebenezer’s friend, not a little aghast at this sud = pected freak. a ee «Yes, why not 2” said Bonfig almost fiercely. “Nothing, only that—do you really mean it?" “Mean it! of course I do!” said Ebenezer, emphatically. “You have no objection, 1 sup: Oh, no, not the slightest o! the singing ceased, and after a ‘brief intery singing ‘ter a there was a Knock at the door. ~ “Come in,” said Jones, who had barely recoy- ered from his surprise. A young fellow entered, dressed in the ordi- nary garb of a servant to a ‘genteel’ household. His not over-clean shirt-front frayed at the edges, and his dress-coat, di: shiny patches, showed that he was kept a deal pad pe ar pee and small wages and extreme hard wor! ‘allowed him but a scanty margin, both of and money, for personai decoration. Bonfig, however, was not ill-pleased by the 2,” replied | cgeaaes of the man, apart He was above the average built, with a deep full chest, rendered as h grease could make it. face was genial and eyes were bright and an Italian, to the trained eye. from his clothes. height, soeey and broad - ders to match; a substantial well-shaped neck, surmounted by a dark-complexioned face, set off by a well-cared for black moustache; and the whole topped by a mop of thickly-fibred hair, luxuriant and glossy as cheap The expression of the ood-tempered, and the yy no means lacking in intelligence. He was a foreigner, and obviously “You did ring? ” he asked, looking at Jones. your man.” Bonfig smiled pleasantly. The servant appeared a trifle way, it was general, or a brandy and not to ask who owned and “Yes; ahem! There you are, Bonfig, there’s “My friend,” , “was that you singing below just sheepish and disconcerted. When people rang for him in this to order a bottle of beer, him whether he had been singing. The amiable widow lady managed the boarding house, ed to his making a noise, and had told him so plainly on‘different occasions. His interroga- tor, however, did not look angry; but on the contrary smiled most genially. “Yes, sir,” he answered, bashfully. “You have a fine voice, a very fine voice,” said Mr, Bonfig; “your singing gave me great Pleasure, extreme pleasure.” The unfortunate waiter scarcely knew what to do under this running fire of praise. He ed his body about uneasily, and his face broke ont into a foolish smile. “‘A man with such a voice as yours ought to do something better than what you are doing,” wasting a precious ft, my friend. “Eh! what can mething. T must work for my livin proper account. in this way!” the interview. The restless Jones, bottles of Bass and some glasses. the wines. brisk attentive waiter. by the Tea ince of Louis with 8] the time to give me a call surprised. “Let me see, to-day is Tuesday; she will have a little serious conversa- “I don’t sup then. We wil haye fair play.” precatory shake of his head. the room. “Thursday, then, don’t forget!” all the evenin: He cle: but there could be no harm in say to everything; besides, it was the that suggested iteelt to him. to anyon culture and training fo make the owner. Why should not Bor posing he did throw away a couple ount Pucke had done more for @ street musician, a peri) civilized and difficult audiences Sweden had given a good example England should do the same. would do so: substantial instructor, and ve his scheme a good trial. pensate Luigi in some way for loss procure him another situation. mission to leave his work for an he sallied forth to Mr. Piccadilly. Yon needn't be; Cheered by the mild beam of and sipped, with the air the wine which had “it is generally considered pretty murmi buono. “And now, “T am Italian,” said Luigi sim; “A aur eene apse the in the face. The waiter, taken by earpiece at pected question, was at a Bontig. go and sing on the stage at once. title you to.” Luigi smiled; he actually smiled. do all that. sir?” he in the way of a gain to the stage. terested inmatters of art: help. Listen, I am going to take another glass of wine while I the least Inconvenience to myself. present state of life, study with a and I venture to prophesy a ou. rouble you; I ¢! myself flect an honor upon me. but w olent, tidy-looking old gentleman te releane kim fross the 4 best thing they've got here; I can’t recommend A quick transformation took place, and the nervous musician magically altered into the card, said ing out his case; “do you think you could this week? I want to have a talk with Yes, sir;” answered the Italian, not ‘Thursday—would that day suit you?’ Lu igi seratched his head thoughtfully. “If Madama will give me the permission, yes, sir.” refuse; Thursday and what would Christine Nilsson, the nightingale, have been but for M. Torncrhielm?— Ii. The Italian waiter was true to his word. Per- had been grudgingly granted to him: substituted a frock-coat, sadly needing repairs, for his shabby waiter’s ewallow-tailed garment, 's chambers, near “Sit down. my friend,” said Ebenezer, eyeing him benevolentiy, “and take a glass of ‘a most fitti be sure.” remarked Mr. Bonfig, cats Hors are Italian, one of a race which has produced h singers and musicians in the world. You are Italian, and I like the tone of pride, the very natural tone of pride, in which you have @mswered. Now what would—what would you say to becoming a singer?” he added abruptly, throwing back his head, and looking Luigi full remarked Mr. Bonfig, sententious! do, sir?” replied the poor fellow, feeling that he was expected to say “I have been a cameriere all my Such is the irony of fate,” mused Mr. Bonfig in silence, contemplatively | rubbing his nose. “Here is a man with a priceless jewel. and he is too poor and too friendless to turn it to its How many village Rubinis and mute inglorious Donzellis have been lost to art An awkward and ridiculoussilence threatened who did not in the least enter into his friend Ebenezer’s feel- ings, came, however, to the rescue. You'll drink something, Bonfig, won't you? Here, Louis, you can bring up a couple of Bass is the ree two bee ct Het fee said mov- ‘0 the door, very glad no doi escape. 2 to nurse a project in his brain, till his meditations were interrupted the beer. Ebenezer, one evening ou.” a little well, say on tion. That voice of yours ought certainly to Jones by this time had got to look upon his friend asasort of harmless monomaniac. He listened with a shrug of his shoulders, and a de- Luigi, after he had drawn the corks and poured out the beer, waited to see if anything more was wanted, and then prepared to leave cried Bonfig to him, as he went out; “I shall wait for you “Yes, sir,” replied Luigi, bowing at the door. ‘ly did not know what to make of it all ig “Yes, sir,” only answer After bidding his friend good-by, and on his way home, Ebenezer developed still further the project he had conceived. Here was he, aman of means, of ample means, possessed of money that was lying fallow and of no earthly benefit ° and there was a poordevilofan ItaF ian with a remarkably fine voice, only needing fortune of its nfig, interest himselfand expend some of his superfluous cap- ital in giving the fellow a chance? There was the material in the shape of a voice to work upon; the man was good-looking—the picture of an Elyino—and he seemed intelligent. Sup- of hundreds? sonny Lind; swedish ipatetic songstress, wasting her sweetness on boors in villaze pot- houses, instead of charming the most highly pore Europe! in two He, Bontg’ for art. He mething settled in his mind who should be Luigi's first decided upon givin; le hadn't a living rel- ative; was free to dispose of his money as he pleased, and if his project failed he could com- of time, and hour or two and having wine! id of it; itis your’ own Italian Chianati. 1 got it out expressly for you.” Mr. Bonfig’s glance, Luigi sat down on the edge of a chair, of a timid connoisseur, poured out for him. “{hope you find it good,” said Mr. Bonfig; fair tipple; have had it in bottle these four years.” The Italian, not knowing how to thank his host, took refuge in his native language, and ured something about the signore being my good friend,” said Ebenezer, “I want to talk to you seriously. singing very nicely the other day; I need scarcely ask whether you are fond of music?” You were answer, to “Fou it this unex- loss for words. He eontented himseif with gazing vacantly on Mr. ff course, don't misunderstand me,” con- tinued Ebenezer; ‘I don’t mean that you should I mean that you should put yourself under the care of a properly qualified teacher, and devote your time to study, for ayear, two years, three years; in short. until cuiture and training shall have ren- dered you sufficiently perfect to take the place, which I consider your natural advantages en- “How can I said; “Iam very poor.” “TI know, I know,” replied Bonfig, almost im- patiently, as though desirous of touching as little as possible on the subject of the young fellow’s means; “‘but we musn’t let that stand Tam very in- your voice struck me as far too good to be lost tor want of a little k plainly— am talking. 1am in a position to do what you can’t, without Leaye your master, brilliant career for The mere question of expense need not with that, and you won't be under the slightest obligation to ime; on the contrary, I shall be the obliged, as every success you achieve in the future will re- Singers are my hobby, you know,” he added by way of a) Li didn't understand what a ho! heclearly understood was that logy. was, was offering of waiting day icultly crowd of exacting, diffi and ni upon a plcased and often extremely quarrelsome and men and women. Visions of a happy existence. such as he had sometimes secretly dreamed of, came betore him. Singing well clothed and decently person to be found in the world rich enough and willing to saddle himself with another man, and ut him in the way of entering upon a new life. But Ebenezer argued with such skill and tact; quoted so many examples of artists, in almost identical positions, having accepted the same friendly aid, and turned out a blessing and credit; put the thing so carelessly in the light of amere trifling service, utterly unworthy of even a thank-you, that Luigi was convi at last into uttering agrateful consent. It was agreed that he should quit his place with all ‘ble speed, take a lodging, and put himself at Mr. Bonfig’s disposal. At the end of the interview, a few five-pound notes filled the waiter's soul- cup to overflowing. In his wildest dreams he had never-realized the possession of so much aber became positively speechless through gratitude. By and by, Mr. Bonfig was able to congratu- late himself upon his deed. Luigi proved to be the steadiest and best of fellows, and did his utmost to justify the confidence placed in him. He was a Lombard, from the hilly districts of Como, and had much of the mountaineer’s sim- plicity and rugged honesty of thought, coupled with indomitable industry and.atair amount ot intelligence. His singing master grew raptur- ous on the subject of his voice, and announced that it would be a matter of no great difficulty to make an artist of a man endowed with a Ce and true musical ear, and an earnest esire to make progress. The ex-waiter applied the whole force of his intellect to mastering the intricacies of crochets and quayers, breves and semi breves; and learned in a few months, by sheer dint of application, to read the black notes of a vocal score very fairly at first sight. Time and tune came naturallyto him, like prose to the Bourgeois Gentilhomme; and he displayed an unexpected readiness in acquiring the sub- tle and finish, the faculty of imparting light and shade to singing, which make good artists. It was rather too late, of course, to mould him into a profound musician, but he would, with time and experience, know as much as most operatic singers are ex to know, and his splendid voice would make up for the rest. Mr. was in ecstacies. He often sat in the room whilst his protege was taking his les- son, and listened with open mouth, his bosom inflating with secret pride and joy. “‘Spirto pene moved him beyond expression, and Luigi's singing of “Una furtiva lagrima” dtd, in fact, bring a hidden tear to good old Bonfig’s eyes. Mi and Rubini seemed to him eclipsed. On one or two occasions Ebenezer linked his arm in that of the Italian, and introduced him boldly into society. The ex-waiter, clean, well nourished, and well dressed, looked a very dif- ferent personage, and his singing made him ex- tremely welcome in a drawing room. Besides, there was a quiet natural dignity about the man which successfully fought against early habits and early training. Like an old cavalry horse, harnessed to a cab, and at the sound of a street band, he might turn his head rather too suddenly when a call for refreshments was made; but he quickly remembered himself again, and checked his impulse. He was also, it might be thonght, a little too obsequious in his polite- ness—but then, what won't modern lsdies and gentlemen forgive in # man who is a “‘signor,” and who One day Mr. Bonfig deemed the time had ar- rived to complete his plans for the education of Luigi. He would take him to Italy, where cer- tain finishing lessons from celeb maestre, and a necessary course of dramatic apd stage in- struction, would render him fit to open his pro- fessional campaign, and reveal to the theatrical world a new tenor. Mr. Bonfig understood that. the maesiro in question had the talent of push- ing promising pupils, and that his recommenda- tion alone was sufficient to induce managers to come forward with brilliant offers. He spoke of his intentions to his protege. and then tt was that he learned for the first time that Luigi had a sweetheart. She was some little humble _work-girl, whom the Italian had known and “kept company” with, in the days when he was poor and friend- le: His change of fortune had not altered his patlections, and the two were now anxious to marry. Luigi would do nothing without the sanction and consent of his benefactor, but he pointed out respectfully that he was very much in love, that they had been waiting hopefully for a long while; and that now, with this jour- ney to Italy before him, he felt emboldened to state his case, and to ask permission to be al- lowed to take her with him as his wife. She would be no additional expense; the sum that Mr. Bonfig paid over to him was liberal enough to maintain three wives, not to speak of one. ‘This was Mr. Bonfig’s first touch of grief,after. a long and uninterrupted 1 period of happiness. He had never dreamed Luigi being, like other young men, subject, to the affluence of blood to the heart, which is called love. He had formed pet theories of his own on the score of artists, and one of them was that celibacy was a desirable qualification. . He looked rather grave, therefore, when his protege laid bare this Rew phase of his character... “You desire to marry, my friend,” he said. “The feeling is natural, very natural at your age, Iadmit; but let me ask you, have you given this matter serious consideration?” Luigi replied that his affection for the young ‘woman was the growth of years, and that one fthe ambitions of his life was to make her his wife. “Well, well,” said Mr. Bonfig, “I I ought not to be surprised, tho I confess you have given me something ofa shock. Yon see, Luigi, myfriend, your position is considerably changed now; you are in a fair way of becoming a somebody; your prospectsin life are promising, Geseahalen ped Promising. Through yourindustry, goed-will and natural capacities—which have surpassed my most sanguine anticipations—you a seu, to arisen in the world superior, far superior, I hope, to your past or present; and, and—don’t you think now, that a tie of the kind you mention would—wouid—dear me! how shall I put it? hem! prejudice your fature?” Luigi, seeing that his patron scarcely ap proved of the contemplated union, bowed hi head sadly, and looked the picture of misery. “Far be it for me,” continued Ebenezer, who detested the thought of seeming unkind, “to seek to influence you in any way, orto appear toexert an authority to which I distinctly wish to have no claim. You are at liberty to act as you please; and I—I am merely offering you the counsel of a friend. This—ahem!—this young person—a most lovable girl in all other no doubt—is—is, I imagine, scarcely fit to take her place in the world to which you willhave a right to belong; don’t you think that if you could—if you could now, say, go to Italy alone, and see how you bear absence from her for a little while, come to a better and calmer ex- perience of this affection?” Mr. Bonfig was obviously ‘ a little en- tangled, and paused, relieved by the idea that he had contrived to convey his meaning. Luigi still hung his head very low. “I love her,” he said simply, ‘‘and she loves me; I shail as love her, and she will always love me.” “Yes, yes, no doubt,” said Ebenezer, trying to smile; “that is how lovers talk as a rule, I believe. ' Well, let us drop the subject for the present, and consider that I have said nothing. I—I don't wish to influence you in the nfatter at all; you are free to dispose of yourself as you please. The news has come upon me rather Suddenly, that’s all, afd that is why I have spoken. We can resume the conversation another time—another time. my friend. In the evening Mr. Bonfig’s laundress entered his sitting-room, and intimated, with matronly indignation, that there was a ‘‘young person” waiting in the hall who desired to see him. “Somebody wishing to see me?” asked Eben- re “Yes, sir; & young person.” Ominous em- phasis on the word *"pemsone" “Dear me! who can it be?” said Bonfig puz- zled, and positively blushing under the severe glance of his attendant. ‘Are you sguite sure there is no mistake, Mrs. Partington? “No, it ain't no mistake,” said the virtnous female; “she asked for you right enough.” “Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Bonfig once more. “Well, I—I suppose you had better ask her to come in.” ‘The laundress sailed out with a stately sweep, and in another moment led in a timid, poorly, but neatly clad young girl. “Pray be seated,” said Mr. Bonflg courteously, though a trifle nervous and cofifused. The new-comer seemed eyifjently in some sore distress of jaind. . “Oh, sir!” she said, half inclined to burst into tears, “I hope Thaven’t done wrong in coming, but T couldn't stay at home ‘hay longer without easing my heart. yourself," my child, said Mr. “Try and collect Bonfig, paternally. “You are the gentleman wfio has been so good to Louis?” she asked. “Oh, 'sir, [ am his sweet- heart, and I have come to tell you what a bad, wicked girl I am, and to as} you to forgive me centittersye? HET with Lops ? She began to rly. : “Don't give way; my ciijid,” sald Bonfig « me your sorrow. and if there is anything I &in do—” ‘3 he’s displeased “It's all on my account you,” continued the girl. {t's all my it; it was I who pressed him to me; you see, sir, we've been waiting a while, and his ing away all those miles ed as if he would forget me, and I should nev. him any more, and I amso fond of him! I worried him into it, but I can see now Seah Bie woorant gin Wks bi come to you and will never afternoon fotell you A ‘wild tt so Pve come to tell you.” obbing no lonzer tobe restrained, slzed she broke down. Mr. Bonfig had never much as he despised hi villain! a scoundrel! that's what he was; an what is more, he had been trying tains of others. What right had he to inter- fere in the love affairsof these two young peo- ple? What right had he to break the heart of pretty, decently-s out before him? Pp the been the his ol Milan, The out 0” bodily arts fary. n but for you! You my saint! ter! This isa debt, a sacred debt. to ‘see Fi old gentleman your eyes like a sensible girl,” he shall ask Louts to-morrow to forgive me, and ou shall both marry and go to Italy together. alone am to blame in all t and I know it, only don't cry any more.” His persuasions by degrees had their effect, and the young spirits, and left with her heart fall of gratitude and veneration for her sweetheart’s benefactor. Luigi, whose whole being had been racked by orments of love, and the consciousness of looking men, face which int word ‘ for starting at the sight of a poor old ragged sandwich man, and yet he did. He not only started, but he went close up to the man, and looked st “Ciclo? he exclaimed,’ ‘can it be? It is!” Bonfig looked up in mute surprise. “La he said, calmly hours instead of years had separated them. “Yes. Luigi, answered the other, tearing, in a franti¢ state of excitement, the Mr. Bonfig’s back, and kicking it into the road— a doubly meritorious act, since it was his own hurling in the my letters have never been answered! how my inquiries have all led to nothing! Maria Madonna Santa! have I lived to see this?” He hailed a passing cab, and lifted Bonfig name he was They di helping jons as Ex of taters.” uccess, into it. “Povero amico! Cuore d’ oro!” he exclaimed; unal his feelingsin anything saye his native lang- uage, and all but weeping over his 6ld patron. “Have I, Luigi, una cosa du niente! lived to see my benefactor in such @ state? ‘downright good downright anger. rove to a substantial-looking house in Bloomsbury, and Bonfig soon found himself on sofa, ina pleasant room, surrounded by the loving glances and affectionate caresses of Luigi and his wife. He listened to their story, his old smile gradually finding its way back to his lips. His protege had gone on progressing more and more; and now England was at last anxious to hear this marvel, and he had come. In time, Mr. Bonfig rose mechanically to go. “Where are you going?” asked Luigi, fiercely. “ Back to where you found me,” berfe- feebly. ‘Maledizione!” cried the Italian, with real any more, there's a good child, iy patting the girl's shoulder. not in the least angry with Louis; I never.was, and you shall marry him to-morrow if you like, only don’t cry any more, my dear, I can’t bear | ‘ou crying.” Extremely affected, the ing, one of a chain of men, by sf himself 80 now. He was to make vi! ken girl, erying hereyes he think because he had & man on a bit in life— actuated more by foolish vanity than any real honest motive—that he had the right to-he the arbiter of two existences, to settle imperiously the fate of a strong and honorabi Wasn't marriage a natural thing? Hadn't he. Bonfig, been married and happy? He thanked Heaven, however, thatthe girl liad had the good sense to come to him in good time. set matters right at once. nid oe pee le attachment? He would he am blew his nose vigorously. continued: “I Tm an old fool, woman s00n recovered her to Mr. Bonfig, nearly broke down the next day, at this rurther proof of his pa- tron’s goodness, and swore loudly that there was not a nobler man on the face of the earth. The two married, and Ebenezer, who had come down very handsomely, and insisted upon giv- ing the girla check representing four figures, as | a wedding gift, accompanied them to Italy exerted himself actively on his protege’s behalf. In six months Luigi made his appearance in | ; caused areal genuine furore, and Mr. Boniig’s dream was realized. Iv. From that day fame andsuccessshowered thelr sweetest smiles upon the ex-waiter. He sang at the principal Italian and French theaters, and Mr. Bonfig, who had returned to England, read of these triumphs in the newspapers with ex- ulting eagerness—till which absorbed his whole thoughts and time. & disaster happened Glasgow Bank failed, and Mr. City Bonfig, aks was one of the principal share- holders, found himself a beggar. Nota beggar | in 8 comparative sense, but a beggar in the full- est and sternest acceptation of the term. was one of the “one thousand ruins” brought about by that celebrated concern. goul of honesty, and surrendered every farthing; he was the soul of pride, and morbidiy shunned all his friends, hiding ai toearn daily bread. But old gentleman do, amidst the cruel strife of the coarser millions, fighting for a bare existence? He had beet easy life of a man of means; he knew not one of the thousand practical forms of work i money may be earned; he woz timid ant sensitive, and spirit was broken. He became like a manin a dream. ° Not even he himself could have told you how he contrived, day by.day, to prolong an exis- tence whieh had become a burden to him. was abitter dream to him, and he lived in It; and it must have been while his tho in this Upas-scented dreamland, that he found self one sunny June day in slowly walki side of the curt shoulders a flaming poster announcing a per- formance at the Opera House, and the appear- ance of a new singer. Admit that Dame Fortune can be brutally cyni- cal when she likes. She had so willed it, that by a strange fatality the man who had been the declared friend of a host of past celebrites, and | He He was the imseif, and endeavoring what could this poor ress and n accustomed to the which keenly be was getting very old. His It were \t-st., the tones, bearing strapped to b the constant and liberal supporter of the opera, | ‘should be turned, in his declining years, into its “sandwich!” Yes, that is to what the poor old gentleman had come. Reduced to the very verge of starvation, there soon came the mo- ment when he did not know how to even the hardest of crusts, witheut seeking the cold charity of a workhouse. lingering—taking good care, however, to avoid observation—near the door of the Opera House, he noticed a motley group of ill-dressed men | shambling in and out of the dark and narrow side entrance. and came out again loaded with huge placarded | boards. Bonflg timidly ventured to question one of these men, and, such asthe freemasonary | of sorrow, got to be in a very brief time on the confidential terms of a fellow “mate” with him. “I'ma sandwich man, procure One day, whilst They went in free from burden mate, but it’s batter nor the workus, and I cal allus get my two penworth of rum, aud a blow It was, indeed, a hard life as Bonfig himself experienced, when, driven by absolute despair. he placed himself under the tutelar guidance of his not unkindly companion in misfortune, and Just kept body and soul miserably together day after day, Bonfig with his white hair stream- ing from under his battered hat; his shabby clothes showing, in apite oftheir decay, a feeble attempt at tidiness and cleanliness, was still recognizable, and he trudged along, one of a crew of broken-down, loafing, dranken, abject- with that stony expression on his tense suffering and misery have the power of imparting to the bravest and best resigned. As a contrast, there came walking onthe same side of the way, a big, stout, good look ing, well-dressed, sirarthy, foreigner, you could tell by seemingly glad to ascertain, asa matter of fact, that England couid boast of one day of sun. shine, at least; and pleased with the world at large, and with himself in particular. Such a happy, prospefous person, every fold of whose coat seemed bearded iellow- the cut of him— proclaim in large letters the could have no possible reason raight into his face. and gently, as though ae dust. “This is why This is Crema dei somini!” to express Oh! He shook his fist al ‘ou bad him in id El “You shall not stir one step! I forbid a I will not let you! What should I have "Look! “you see me; if you do not consent at once to stay here; I wi go break my engagement, and never sing one more note. { will become Luigi the comeriere Sacramento! iuro!” warmth to stay. Ebenezer, weak from waning strength and exhausted want of food, “T must not stand in the way of art,” his old smile, yet with a “England smiling swimming in his eyes; you.”— Time. One of our ex sank on the pat real tear is le for changes is responsib) foliowing: Lightning struck a hive of bees in Kansas the other day. told. The misguided light hive quicker than it went ‘The painful story is soon if came out of that in, and went off into casas its tail between its legs. Moral— neve) Pee siete hee Fon ere nee ae with the folks. r held up his “That may do-it _—. and add a Brown, “there's a fortune in said ‘that ” “T know,” 8 “Tve an » Smith, put my \ its existence, and stills alike with its hot | the hizh walls of your packing-house, and hear and | ‘Wen at Last. From the Chicago Tribune. ‘So you wish to marry my daughter?” These words were uttered by a man who fairly hissed them through his teeth as he stood, with a cruel sneer on his lips, in front of a young man. the nervous twitchings of whose clear-cut frat urestolé more plainly than conld any words, b ever freely interspersed with adjectives, the tor- ture he was suilering. “¥es, sir.” said Herbert McIntosh, loo king up into the face of him who had spoken. “I love Myrtle with a-rich,warm, tempestuons love that recks not of obstacles, but sweeps away with a mightly avalanche the difference in social posi- tion that exists between us. My passion” is a deathiess one that, like the mighty simoon of the desert, gathers force with ev instant of breath the life of manand beast. I know that appearances are against me. Tam poorandlionest, | and last Saturday night I had a king-full beaten at the Owl Club, but I cannot conceal my love. You are rich and successful, and I can see from the window of my little room in which I work the plaintive cry of the stricken pig who has his interior scoo} out and is cut Into hams and clear sides before the echo of his death-shriek has ceaced to linger inthe musk-laden air of the stock yards. You are living under turquoise- tinted skies, while I am in great iuck to have sky at all. It is not my fault that you are ric I love your daughter, and she returns my love; and. saying th Herbert looked anxiou: the direction of the window, his breast giving a great, throb of joy as he saw that the blinds were | closed, and the old man could not throw him out. “Hark ye, my lad,” said the pork packer, while a cold, skating-rink smile hovered o'er his face, “you say you love my daughter, and would win her for your bride. So be it. I have naught against thee save thy poverty. Come to me | within a month with $1,000 gained by thine own and Myrtle shall be your wife. her hand is given to a friend of mine who owns a glucose factory.” “But you would not force her to marry against her will?” said Herbert. ‘She has plighted her troth to me. “I know not of your childish vazaries,” re- repliedthe old man. “Ihave said my say. In three minutes I shall untie the bull-dog.” Herbert went away. . Midnight on Wabash avenue. Five men are seated around a table with a | hole in the center of it. Herbert is in the party, and opposite him sits his hated rival, the man who owns an interest in the glucose factory. Herbert is dealing. Herbert looks at his and bets $100. “Five hundred,” says the glucose man. “A thousand,” says Herbert, reaching into his pocket as if for money. “Oh, never mind ope out your roll until the hands ," said th qiorillbe exty fn you, and ony call bar “Strnight fash,” said Herbert in low, bitter tones, as he laid’ the cards on the table, and pocketed a thousand dollar bill which his adver- threw across to him. next night Herbert and Myrtle occupied one chair in the parlor of the pork packer's resi- dence. “We will be married in the fall, my sweet,” she said in a soft, low tone, kissing him passionately as she spoke. “Yes, geen he murmured; “in the fall. ‘We can live with your folks next winter.” ‘The Diphtheria Plant. Some light was thrown upon the origin ofdiph- theria last night in a lecture before the Academy of Natural Sciences by Professor Horatio C. Wood, who gave the result of his researches in sidious disease is propagated by a microscopic plant, or fungi, existing in all human beings, | especially in the mouth and throat; but lacking | the mucous membrane which attend sore throat when caused by cold. ‘The investigations were | Health and extended’ not only to the pheno- | | mena attending the ordinary epifiemic diphtheria existing in Philadelphia, bat to the more vio- lent form occurring from time to time in differ- ent places. Dr. Forman visited an infected town on Lake Michigan, where one-third of all the children in a marshy district died of the epi- demic; and brought back with him specimens of the diphtheric virus, several of the false mem- branes which are invariably formed in the throats of afllicted persons and portions of their ‘igcera. In all blood, said the professor, there are two kinds of corpuscles, the red_or color-giving and the white. By careful study and experiments, both in human beings and the lower animais, it was found thatthie infinitesimal plant fastens upon the white corpuscles, and multiples its cells, altering their character until with the in- terior destroyed they burst and the plants, set loose in an irregular m: ‘and go off individually, to continue the ctive work on other corpuscles. Thus increased they poison the blood, choke the vessels and are found in myriad numbers in the spleen and bone marrow, wi the blood is manufactured. Professor Wood's inv tions show that the false mem- brane, to invariably indicate the pres- ence of diptheria, maybe cgused by ammonia, Spanish fly or any other irritating influence in the throat, so that its presence is not infallible as indicating the existence of this disease. But in any case the false membrane is built up by this parasitical plant, which grows and multi- plies upon its inflamed surroundings, whatever may be its cause. It is when the plants grow strong enough to extend to the blood, either poisoning ft themselves or carrying the poison with them, that diphtheria sets in. This little jantis exactly the sameas found upon a coated tongue. When Professor Wood put plants such as found upon a healthy tongue in sterilized matter they failed to grqw. On the contrary, plants from the throat or blood ofa person af- fected with diphtheria multiplied rapidly. The result of the investigation pointed out was the possbility that diphtheria, if existing theories hold good, may be prevented by artificial vaccination. In the case of splenic fever caught from animals, which has been ‘oved to originate ina somewhat similar plant, Pasteur has found that the plant, when e: sufficient time to the air, by the action of oxy- gen loses its poisonous character, and when then introduced into the system es the ani- mal sick, but is no longer fatal. The deduction is that that this diphtheric plant, scientifically known as “‘micrococi,” may in time be cuiti- vated so that when inoculated with tt the sys tem will no longer subject to the disease in its fatal form. Concluding the lecture, Professor Wood was applauded when he said that these discovcries could never have been made but for the aid of vivisection, against which there is a foolish prejudice in the minds of many.—Phila- a Sympathy with Invalids. Sick persons are, it is to be feared, not al- ways objects of sympathy to those imme- diately around them. Indeed, Charles Lamb, than whom probably no kinder man ever ex- isted, admitted openly that he not only did not pity sick persons, but positively ted th ‘This feeling of impatience with invalids appears occasionally to extend even to institutions ex- pressly established for the relief and mitigation of their sufferings—to judge by an almost in- credible statement at an inquest held a ew days ago before the “Macclesfield coroner. A woman, eighty-eight years of age, who was admitted to the infirmary in conse- quence of aes received by an accident, was, it was stated, ordered to leave the institution “because she moaned at night.” The jury, in recs Mey verdict of accidental death, ex- pressed their disapproval of this’ pro- strong ceeding; and it must be admitted that, assum- ing the evidence given to be trustworthy, the story is, to say the least, remarkable. If an old woman eighty-eight years of age who has met ower of reproduction until given increased | a j vitality by those disordered conditions of the | duce Irish poplins for winter use, These dura- | arrangement of plush, connevtion with Dr. Henry F. Formad, involving | terk the important discovery that this fatal and in: | (ain ceo Ve made at the instance of the National Board of | terra-cotta FASHION LATE STYLES. Brack toilets continue as popniar as ever. Nesciex is a new shade of Russian gray. Born lange and small bounets will be worn ‘Rost red is among new shades of that WRINKLES, New bead embroideries are gorgeous beyond description. Acasov, the color of San Domingo mahogany, is popular for millinery Movs@veTarré gloves, negligently wrinkled on the arms, continue to be the height of fashe . jon. Tits new poke bonnets are very high and very narrow about the ears. The crowns are mostly : of the Mother Hubbard shape. Tue trimmings most in vogue for the winter will be furs and passementeries, often both together. Heavy embroideries will also be . much worn. Ivrortep toilets are ali exceedingly bouf- ; fant in effect, and the fashion ts quite displens- ing to short, stout women, to whom it is very unbecoming, Tartan Pi.arpsand Roman stripes are now shown in cheviot materials, and make very stylish street dresses trimmed with plush of mono- chromo color. Iv Seems to be definitely decided that rasset brown and dark myrtle green are to be exceed- | ingly fashionable colors for walking and travel- ing costumes. Real. Sinver and also new steel buttons are displayed, cut in facets which sparkle like dia- monds, and look very rich upon street Jackets of velvet or plush AMoNG new materialfor dn fronts isa rich de bands of the mater fringe woven in the fab- fal, with heavy chen ric, falling over them. FvLt. triple-plated fraises are in vogue, made after the fashion of the ruffles seen in portraits around the neck of Sir Watter Raliegh. They are called “Raliegh ruts.” New shoes of silk velvet for evening wear are laced up the fronts with slender cordsof gold or silver, and the toes are covered with embroidery worked in silver or gold threads. VeLovr ottoman silk isa novel dress fabric ; which promises to be very popular for bridal and evening costumes. It comes only in white and very delicately tinted shades of color. To-pay's STAR, as usual, is full of advertise» ments of the leading dry goods, millinery and lace houses of the city. Read them if you want to know what to buy and where to buy it, Gord axp Si.veR, either in the form of emi- broidery or heavy passementerie, are among the most favored trimmings for ball dresses. Gold- wrought Spanish lace is in greater demand than ever. For Travetive and extreme neglige wear there are still shown ulsters. They are in che- viot material. An extra skirt is added at the hip on the new ulster, giving the garment the eflect of a jacket and plain skirt. Fringes of the most elegant description have appeared, and, combined with the new pas- sementerie bands and beaded gimps, will prove strong rival to lace as a garniture for elegant costumes, both forthe house and the prome- nade. Leapixe millinery windows in New York dis- play a startling bat of scarlet felt, trimmed with ‘vet or plush, and the plumage of a brilliant looking tropical bird. This hat ts tmodelled somewhat after the shape of the | “emuggler * hat worn last season. A STRONG attempt is being made to reintro- ble and elegant fabrics are dyed in new ex- quisite shades in h the ugly and unbecoming olor, to mect the exigencies of mod- ern wsthetic taste, have not been omitted. Ose OF THE Most VaLvasLe improvements recently made in jewelry is the “Hellene” brace- let, which is aflexible coil that springs together automatically, which is a safeguard against loss \d conforms exactly tothe arm, which is @ great comfort to the wearer. Tar Stawrep VELVETS used last year, bro caded in large fower patterns, are being used this season by leading modistes for applique work upon handsome satin dresses, the large velvet blossoms and leaves being cut out and transferred to plain fabrics with effect. Tuer New Veirs have large dots on the black net said to be injurious to the eyes. Veils of smaller dots, though not of late date, are safer and more becoming. Tissue and grenadine veils come in wine color, bronze olive, gray and cream color, with or without dots. Axone the new fall “‘confectiona,” as they are the neck to the dept each cape is trimmed witha wide band of gimp. Maxr Lapres who have fine figures are wears lain ungored skirts. Ni ‘ing Tent a broad sattin ribbon, which is fastened at the sides of the bodice, carried to the end of the point in front and tied intoa bow and long ends P which fall over the skirt of the ress. fall; cess dress is also adi rptcpllabie nme cy, an figure with closeness of the cuirass, ness beginning just below the hips the effect of the much admired Marie panier flounces, the pes stripes of colorings, as plum, dabilia, etc. Indeed, never has more or better provision been made for retrimming dresses. Tere is atendency to the use of plain cloths this season. Greyhound color is the latest fash- jonable shade, though golden brown, called va- riously mustard and pheasant brown, is also worn. Greyhound color is a deep bluish gray, a little grayer than any army blue, and is espe- cially Stylish in a tailor-made suit, with a turban and muff to match, trimmed with the brilliant blue feathers of the impion. A turban and muff trimmed with pheasant feathers Is stylishly worn with a golden brown cloth dress. The turbans with either of these suits may be of solid feath- F- ers or with a crown of cloth led with feath- ers, but the muff is of the material of the dress, asoft little made muff trimmed with feathers and a long stylish bow of watered ribbon. Tue Wixtrr Boxxets and hats are conspic- uous through their lack of hardness or naked- ness. Theface surroundings are all fuffy, to which is added the charms of fluffy hair fringe on the forehead. These eiong He — pape 4 beauty which give a piquant ness iainesty omit of feathers arranged about the Se fe over the ears, covering thows not always perfect ditions to the head, feather raches soft plush, radiant fowers and plush fruit with satin and shaded velvet leaves. == accident isturned out of elgg es for moaning at night, all other jent 01 in common = be ‘rested, with to hold them responsible for the difficulty they | ti experience in drawing their last breath. Per- haps, however, in well-regulated rend absolute stillness is enforced, patients A $10,000 Victim of Pink-Eye. ‘From the St. Louis Republican, October 15. Mr. Samuel Ecker’s bay stallion Pilot Templ twenty-two years old; died of “‘pink-eye” tween 8 and 9 0% , Friday m . Temple was sired (by Pilot, om of Temple, the dam ora Temple, whose record remained at the head of the Pilot was one ( nae : i : or the two curving feathers of the paradise, are reyivedfrom the days oat infirmaries| ,yono Some Very Pretty Hovse Dresses is ak P| f and for | Tolita. re | pare ders | toes but he has mencing under gent and highly | bows laid flat prized by quite | long tight i i BI