11. '
I of it before.
THE CORAL 1111111.!
BY nus. H: B s'roWE.
We publish below one of the earliest storiea
written by Harriet Beecher Stowe. It first ,
saw the light in a gift book titled 'The Chris
tinn Sovereign; an Offering for Christmas and
New Year‘s." edited by Isaac Shepard and
published by H. B. Williams, at BostOn.
“There is no time of life in which
young girls are so thoroughly selfish
as from fifteen to twenty” said Ed-
ward Ashton deliberately, as he laid
down a book he had been reading and
loaned oxerJhe centgetable.
“You insulting fellow!” replied a tall,
brilliant-Johns creature who was
lounging on an ottoman hard by,o over
one of Dickens’s last works.
“Truth, coz—for all that," said the
gentleman, with the air of one who
'means to provoke a discussion.
“Now, Edward, this is just one of
your wholesale declarations-for no-
thing only toget me into a dlSpute
with you, you know," replied the lady.
“On your conscience, now (if you have
one), is it not so?”
“My conscience feels quite easy,
cousin, in subscribing to that very sen-
timent as my confession of faith, ” re
plied the gentleman with provoking
sang f1o1d
“Pshaw! it’s one of your fusty old
bachelOr notions. See what comes
now of living to your time of life_
without a wifchdisrespect for the sex
and all that. ~ Really, cousin, your
symptoms are getting alarming."
alarming.”
“Nay, now, Cousin Florence” said
Edward, “your are a girl of moderate3
1y good sense, with all your nonsense
-—now don’t you (know you do) think
111st so, too?” '
“Thi‘nk just so, tool—do hear the
creature!” replied Florence. “No, sir;
you can speak for yOurself in this mat-
ter, but I beg leave to enter my pro-
test when you speak for me, too.”
“Well, now, where is there, coz,
among all our circle a young girl that
has any sort of purpose or object in
life to speak of except to make herself
as interesting and agreeable as possi-
ble—to be admired and to pass her
time in as amusing a way as she can?
Where will you find one between fif-
teen and twenty that has any serious
regard for the improvement and best
welfare of those with whom she is
connected at all, or that modifies her
conduct in the least with reference to
it? Now, cousin, in very serious earn-
est, you have about as much real char-
acter, as muchearnestness and depth
, of feeling and as much good sense,
when one can get at it, as any young
lady of them all, and yet, on your con-
science, can you say that you live with
any sort sort of reference to anybody’ s
good—or to anyth‘ 11g but your own
present amusement and gratification?”
“What a shocking adjuratiou," re-
plied the lady, “prefaced, too, by a
three-story compliment! Well, being
so adjured, I must think to the best of
my ability. And row, seriously and
soberly, I don’t see as I 1am selfish—I
.do all that I have any occasion to do
for anybody. You know that we have
servants to do everything that is ne-
eessary about the house, so that there
is no occasion for my making a display
of houseWifely excellence; and I wait
on mamma if she has a headache, and
hand papa his slippers and newspaper,
and find Uncle John’s spectacles for
him twenty times a day (no small mat1
ter that) ,and then” ——
“But after all, what .is the object
and purpose of your life?”
“Why, I haven’t any. I don’t see
how I can have any—that is, as I am
made. Now, you know I’ve none of
the fussing, baby-tending, herb-making
recommendations of “Aunt Sally, and
divers others of the'class commonly
called useful. Inde 1d, to tell the truth,
I think useful persons are commonly
rather fussy and stupid. They are
just like the boneset and horehound
and catnip-very necessary to be
raised in a garden, but not in the least
ornamental " .
“And you charming young ladies,
who philosophize in kid slippers and
French dresses, are the tulips and
roses—very charming and delightful
and sweet, but fit for nothing on earth
but parlor ornaments.”
“Well, parlor ornaments are good in
their way,” said the. young lady, color-
lug and looking a little vexed.
“So you give up the point then?”
said the gentleman, “that that is all
you girls are good for—just to amuse
yourselves, amuse others, look pretty
and be agreeable?”
“Well, and if we behave well to our
parents. and are amiable in the family
—-I don’t know—and yet” said Flor-
ence, signing, “I have often had a
sort of vague idea of something higher
that we might become—yet really—
what more than this is expected of us?
what else can we do?
“Wellgranting then,that you can do
nothing for your fellow-creatures un-
less yon'are to do it in the most gen-
teel. comfortable and picturesque man-
ner possible, is there not a great field
for a woman like you, Florence, in
your influente over your associates?
With y0u1 talents for conversation,
your 112111 and self-possession and lady-
.. like gi1t of saying anything you choose,
are you not reSponsible, in seme wise,
. for the influence you exert over those .
‘9’ V
by whom you are surrounded.
“I never thoughtvof it.” replied Flor-
‘ once.
Florence rose from her seat with a
heightened color, her dark eyes bright-
ening through tears.
“I am sure what you say is just,
cousin, and yet I have never thought
I will—I am determined
to begin to live after this with some
better purpose than I have done.”
“And let me tell you, Florence, in
starting a new course, as in learning
to walk, taking. the first step is every-
thing. Now, I have a first step to pro-
to you.” ‘ a
2.111121110151112": . ’
f
I
THE EVENIN
“Well, you know. I suppose. '11-'11.
among y'0ur train of 11101111. ,3 1'1. 1.1.1.1-
ber Col. Elliot?"
Florence smiled.
“And perhaps you do not know. 1:11:11
is certainly.true, that among the 1:11:51
discerning and cool part of his 1'11. 111:5.
Elliot is considered as a lost 11111.11.”
“Good heavens, Edward, what do
you mean?” '
“Simply this, that with all his 111-1. _
liant talents, his amiable and 1.' '11'11111 1x
feelings and his success in so1-1-1rv. I'd-
liot has not self- control enough 1:) pre-
vent his becoming confirmed in incom-
perate habits’
“I never dreamed of this,” replied
Florence. “I knew that he was spirit-
ed and free, fond of society and 1x1 it-
able, but pever Suspected anything be-
yond. ”
“Elliot has tact enough never to ap-
pear in ladies’ society when he is not
in a fit state for it," replied Edward,
but yet it is so.”
“And is he really so bad?” 1
“He stands just on the verge, Flor-
ence—just where a wordfitly spoken
might turn him. He is a noble crea-
ture, full of all sorts of fine impulses
and feelings, the only son of a mother
who dotes on him, the idolized brother
of sisters who love him as you love
your brothers, Florence; and he stands
where a Word, a look—so they be of
the right kind—might save him.”
“And why, then, do you not speak to
him?” said Florence.
“Because I am not the best person,
Florence. There is another 11 he could
do it better—one whom he admires,
who stands in a position which would
forbid his angry feeling—a person,
cousin, whom I have heard in gayer
moments say that she knew how to
say anything she pleased without of.
fending any body.”
“0h. Edward,” said Florence, color-
ing, “do not bring up my foolish
speeches against me—aud do not speak
as if I ought to interfere in this mat-
ter, for indeed, I cannot do it. I never
could in the world; I am certain I
could not.”
“And so,” said Edward, “you, whom
I hav e heard say so many things which
no one else could say or dared to say,
you, who have gone on with such
laughing assurance of your own pow-
ers ofpleasing, shrink from trying that
power when a noble and generous
heart might be saved by it. You have
been willing to venture a great deal
for the sake of amusing yourself and
winning admiration, but you dare not
say a word for any high or noble pur-
pose. Do you not see how you confirm
what I said of the selfishness of you
women?”
“W ell, but, Cousin, what would you
have me do, how would you have me
do it?” said Florence earnestly.
“You know that fashion, who makes
180 many wrong turn-sand so many ab.
surd ones, has at last made one right-
one, and it is now a fashionable thing—
to sign the temperance pledge. Elliot.
' himself would be glad to do it, but he
foolishly committed himself against it
in the. outset, and now feels bound to
stand to his opinion. He has, too, been
rather rudely assailed by some of the
apostles of the new state of things who
that he will feel bound to go to destruc-
tion for the sake of supporting his own
did not understand the peculiar points
of his character; in short, I am afraid
opinion. Now, if I should undertake
with him he might offer to shoot me,
but I hardly think there is anything
of the sort to be apprehended in your
case.
ing silly things before now; try now if
you can’t bewitch a. foolish man into
doing a wise thing.”
“Well, cousin,” she said, “I will try.
Though I think you are rather liberal
in your ascriptions of'power, yet I can
'put the matter to the.test of experi-
ment.”
II 0 t t O 3 III
Florence Elmore was, at the time we
speak of, in her twentieth year. Born
in one of the wealthiest families in
, highly educated and accom-
plished, idolized by her parents and
brothers, she had entered society as
one born to command. With such na-
tive nobleness and magnanimity of
character, with warm and impulsive
feelings and a capability of every-
thing high or great, she had hitherto
lived solely for her own amusement,
and looked on the whole brilliant circle
by which she was surrounded. with all
its various actors, as something got up
for her special'divcrsion. The idea of
influencing any one, for better or
worse, by anything she ever said or
did, had never occurred to her. The
crowd of admirers of the other sex
who, as a matter of course, wereala
ways about her, she regarded as. so
many sources of diversion, ,but the
idea of feeling any sympathy with
them them as human beings or of
making use of her power over them
for their improvement, was one that
never had entered her head.
Edward Ashton was an old bachelor
cousin of , “Florence’s, whb,
earned the title of oddity'in general 80-,
ci'ety, availed himself of it to” exery
else a turn for telling the truth to the
various young ladies of his acquaint-
ance, especially‘ to his ' fair cousin
Florence. We remark, by the bye,
that these privileged truth-tellers are
quite a necessary of life to young la-
dies in the full tide of society, and .we
' really think it would be worth while
for every dozen of them to unite to
keep a person of this kind on a salary
forthe benefit of the whole; however,
that is nothing to our present purpose;
we must return to” ou-r fair heroine,
whom we left at the close of the last
conversation standing in a deep rev-
e1ie' by the window. , I 9
“It’s more than half true,” she said
to herself, “more than half. Here am
I, twenty years'old, and I never have
thought of anything, never have done
anything, except to amuse a‘nd gratify
n1y;self no purpose, no object—nothing
Just try yqur 'enchantments;
you have bewitched wise men into do»
having,
b
high, nothing dignified, nothing worthw
living for—only a parlor ornament,‘
heigh ho! Well, I really do believe I
I could do something with this Elliot,
0
and yet, how I dread to try. ” ,
“What a curious ring that is,” said
Elliot to her a day 'or two after, as they
were reading together.
“It’s a knight’s ring.” said she play-
fully, as she drew it 0% and pointed to
a coral cross set in the gold—a ring of
the red- crossed knights come, now.
I’ve a great mind to bind you to my
service 11 lth it. ” '
“Do, lady fair,” said Eliot,s
out his hand for the ling.
etching
“Know, then,” said she, “if you take‘
this pledge that you must Obey ~w hat—
ever commands I lay upon you in its
n.’an1e
“I swear,” said Eliot, in the mock
heroic, and placed the ring on his fin-
ger.
An evening. or two after Elliot at
tended Florence .to a, party at Mrs.
B ’s. Everything was gay and bril1
hunt, and there was no lack of wit 01
wine. E1110; was standing in a- little
alcove spread wtth refreshments, with
a glass of red wine 1'11 his hand. “1'
forbid it; the cup is poisoned? said :1
voice in his ear. He turned quickly
and Florence was at his side. Every!
one w-as busy laughing and talking
around, and nobody saw the, sudden
start and flush that these words ’pro‘
duced, as Elliot looked earnestly in the
lady’s face. She smiled and pointed
playfully at the ring; but aftei all
there was in her face an expression of
agitation and interest which she could
not repress, and Elliot felt, however
playful the manner, that she was in
earnest—and as she glided away in the
crowd he stood with his arms folded
and his eyes fixed on the sp0t where
she disappeared.
“Is it possible that I am suspected—-
that there are things said of me, as if
I Were in danger?” were the first
thoughts that flashed through his
mind. How strange that a man may
appear doomed, given up and lost to
the eye of every locker on before 'he
begins to suspect himself! This was
the first time that any defined appre-
hension of loss of character had oc-
curred to Elliot, and he was startled
as if from a dream.
“\Vhat the deuce is the matter with
you, Elliot? You look as solemn as a.
hearse,” said a yo1 ng man near by.
"' I'Ias \Iiss Elmore cut you. 9” said an-
other.
“Come, man, have a glass,” said a
third.
“Let him alone, he’s bewitched, ” said
a fourth. “I saw the spell laid on him.
None of us can say but our turn may
come next.” > . ‘
‘ An hour later that evening Florence
was talking With her usual spirit to :1
group who were collected around her.
'when, suddenly looking up, she saw
Elliot standing in an abstraCted man-
ner at one of the windows that looked
out into the balcony.
“He is offended, I dare say," she
thought, “but why shoulg I care? F01
once in my life I have tried to do a'
right thing, a good thing. I have risked
giving offense for less than this many a
time.” Still Florence could not but feel
a little tremulous when, a few m0-
ments after, Elliot approached her and
offered his arm for a promenade. They
walked up and down the room, she
talking-volubly and he answering yes
and no and anything else at cross
purposes, till' at”l'e‘ngth, as if by acci-
dent, he drew her into the balcony
which overhung the garden. The
moon was shining brightly and every-
thing without 1in its placid quietness
contrasted strangely with- the busy,
hurrying scene within.
“Miss Elmore,” said Elliot abruptly,
“may I ask you sincerely, had you any
design in a remark you made to me in
the early part of the evening?”
“Yes, Mr. Elliot, I must confess that
I had. ”
“And is it possible, then, that you
have heard anything?”
“I have heard, Mr. 11111111,.111111 which
makes me tremble for. you and for
those whose life I know is bound up in
you; and, tell me, were it well or
friendly in me to know that such
existed, and not to warn .you of it?”
“Have I offended? Have I taken too
great a liberty?” said Florence gently.
Hitherto Elliot had only seen in Flor:
ence the self-possessed, assured, light- .
hearted woman of fashion, but there
was a. reality and depth of feeling in
the few words she had spoken to him
in this interview that opened to him
entirely a new view of her character.
“N 0, Miss Elmore, ” said he earnestly,
after some pause, “I may be pained;
offended I cannot be. To tell the truth;
I have been thoughtless, excited, daz-
zled; my spirits, naturally buoyant,
have carried me often too, far, and
lately I have often painfully suspected
my own powers of resistance; I have
really felt that I needed help, but have
been too proud to confess, even to my—
self, that I needed it. You, Miss El
more, have done what, perhaps, no one
else could have done. I am over-
whelmed with gratitude, and I shall
bless you for it to the latest day of my
life. I 1am ready to pledge myself to
anything you may ask me on this sub-
ject.” .
. “Then, " said Flor~nce, “do not shrinkI
from doing what is safe and necessary[
and right for you to do, because you
have once said you would not do it.
You understand me?”
“Precisely,’ replied Eliot,
shall be obeyed. ” .
It was not more than a week before
“and you
the news was cire ilated that even
George Eliot had signed the pledge of_‘
temperance. 1There was much wonder-
ing at this suden turn among those
who had known his utter repugnance
to any measure of the kind, and the
extent to which he had yielded to
temptation but few knew how fine
and delicate had been the touch to
which hispride- had yielded.
I
”Aformation from the Saxon forest.
‘ Vjéc'dote'that he hasbeen able to gather
, Since the-Prince’s ‘eighty- first birthday,
1 and not' 1n a strange land. ”
‘ know, creates an appetite, overcomes that
things were said, that such danger
l
,found his occupation almost gone, al-.
, been his pleasure to talk with.
‘VG, 3 1i
9:1". BISMARCK 'AT ElGHTY-ONE.
"Odd Bits of Humor sin—d Reminiscence
from the Exile of Friedrichsruh.
Bismarck receives comparatively few
strangers now, and consequently the
vast number of speeches and interviews
which in former years came, from
Freidrichsruh has dwindled to only. an
occasional remark or a story. The
German purveyor of Bismarckiana has
though but a. year or two ago he was
able to fill columns with the latest in-
Here
are about all the odds and ends of an- ’
on April 1.
A professor at, luncheon. with Bis-
marck about" three weeks ago remarked 1
that the Prince’ 3 special knowledge of ‘
mediaeval- history and geographyo was
amazing.
“Oh, yes,” was the old Chancellor’s
reply; “if I had not leafed so much in
my youth and had only learned to sit
more industriously in a- chair I might
have amounted to something.”
Bismarck spoke of the German lack
of aggressiveness and self esteem in the
days before the conquest of Austria and -
France. He often had felt, he said,
that a. German never would be able to
feel the proper amount of confidence in
himself. He had changed his mind,
however, after meeting Richard 1Wag-
nor. the composer. Wagner had enough
self esteem for a whole. nation; he was
the most conceited German it ever had
The old Chancellor has also told an-
other drinking story, only a little one,
to be sure, yet as a Bismarck drinking
story perhaps worth repeating. He
and a neighbor of his early manhood
had tried a whole afternoon to drink
each other under the table. Four bot-
tles each of heavy Rhine wine and five
quarts of champagne had been emptied
before Bismarck had his horse brought
to the door and made ready to start for
home. His host called two men to help
put him in the saddle.’ Bismarck, how-
ever, leaped into the saddle unaided,
and started off, erect and fast in his
seat, on a swift dash down the road.
When his hat blew ofl he turned, rode
for it at a gallop, leaned over and
snatched it up, and then, straightening
up __in hissaddle, waved it to his aston-
ished friend. The next day Bismarck
went back to try to settle the question
of superiority at the cups, but his friend .
declined the challenge. ' He said the
hat trick had discouraged him. .
Schweninger is trying to persuade
Bismarck to go to Kissingen or Gastein ‘
next summer. The change, he thinks,
would benefit the Prince’s health. Bis-
marck, however, is determined to re-
main in Friedrichsruh..
“The railway journey is tiresome,"
he says; “but, worst of all,..I always
fear now that some accident may hap-
pen to me, and I have come to the point
where I feel I must die 1n my own bed,
Since he ceased to worry over the po
litical vagaries of the youug‘Emperor,
thePrince has groWn noticeably quieter
in mind and stronger in body.~ He is
again erect and. strides through the
Saxon forest with the vigor of twenty
years ago. His only stimulants now
are Bavarian beer and very dry cham-
pagne—New York Sun.
an’t
This is the complaint of,
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They have no appetite; food
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the stomach and'digestive organs, which
a course cf Hood’s Sarsaparilla will give
them. It also purifies and enriches the
blood, cures that distress after eating and
internal misery only a dyspeptic can
tired feeling and builds up and sustains
the whole physical system. It so prompt-
ly and efllciently relieves dyspeptic symp-
toms and cures nervous headaches, that it
seems to have almost “a magic touch.”
ood’s
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HOOd’S Pills are the best after-dinner
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