\ NEVER TOO LATE. ] There is a good and a bad {a the wayside | inns b On the highways of our Wve } And man can never ba free fir | No matter how hard he strives, i Yot even when down destruction ’s grade Our thorny pathways trend In spite of a thousand errors made, #t is never too late 10 mend.’ There are crosses heavy for men % bear, Aud passions to conquer 100 : There are joys and woes that each must share i Before the journey is through But men may be joor for honor's sake, And trath and right defend, And hope will never this promise break “It is never too late to mend." { Tis never too late for a nobis deed, For, blessed by the angel's tears, I plants in the breasts of men a sead That will grow in after years ; And words of kindness, of hope and cheer, | Wiil always comfort lend, We must live for love, and banish fear— { “It is never too late to mend." ! It is never too late to meud, my lal, No matter what people say, And no man's nature is wholly bad, Even if old and gray : And in our journey toward the grave, Until we reach the end, There is time to change, and time to save | “ft is never too late to mend. { A NR IS HIS GUARDIAN, * “Fair as a lily, graceful as a gazelle Who is she? I would give a thousand dollars if I might but paint that face!” The words were spoken hurriedly, and | somewhat too loudly for the time and} place. | Many bystanders heard i at the speaker, the lady, other, and smiled, But the lady herself—a young, slight | girl, with large blue eyes, pale, golden | hair, and a face like the picture of 8 saint, so fair and pure it seemed—held on her way, leaning on her escort’sarm, | without a change of expression or even | a startled sidelong glance, to show that | the artist’s impetuous wish had reached | her ear. | Calmly she sat in her box at the con- | cert that evening, with her blue eyes | fixed upon the stage. Many an opera | glass was turned upon her from below, and in a secluded corner of tha stalis gat Gervase Livingstone, the artist, ga- zing at her, with his heart and soul in his large, dark, passionate eyes. “Who can she be?”’ an intimate friend. “I do not know. The face one,” was the low reply. “A new one! It looksas if it was but just created —as if those eyes had never | looked upon a sinful world!”’ raved the artist. “Years ago, when I was a school-boy in the country, I knew a child with a face almost as pure and sweet. She died, as earthly angels do. Yet, had she lived, she would have been like that girl. Poor little May!” Leaning his head upon his hand, the artist lost himself in a dream of his boy- hood’s love. When he looked up again the concert was drawing to a close, and the box was empty—the divinity had gone! Hurrying from the house, he inquired right and left among the attendants at the door; and finally, by a gift money, so refreshed the memory of one that he =aid he had seen the young lady drive off ina private carriage before the concert was over, with *‘a gentle- man as mught be her father, sir, and they went to the Everett house." To the Everett House followed the enamored artist, only to be disappoint- ed. The servant whom he feed liberally assured him that no such lady was stop- ping there. Some wild impulse, for which he could scarcely account, led the artist to examine the hotel register He looked for tne name of "May Came ron”’—1t was the name of his earliest love—and it was not thers, them, looked | then at each | he whispered to | is a new of Meanwhile the fair object of his search was speeding from the city as | fast as the midnight train could carry | her toward Boston. Although the hour was 80 late, she was wakeful, ard clasp- ed her hands over her eyes as she rested her head on the pillow, ina vain attempt | to shut out from mind and memory the picture of a haunting face. “He did not recognize me,” she thought with a sigh. *“‘And yet knew him in spite of the change-—in spite of the added height, the altered face, the dark moustache—I knew him at the moment when his eve mel mine, as wa entered at the door.”’ And then she blushed at the memory of the words he had uttered. “Pauline, said she softly. The second ocenpant of the *‘section’” stirred on her couch, and answered, drowsily: “What is it, May?" “Are you asleep?" “What a question? No, not now,” | replied Pauline, stifling a groan. “What | troubles you, my May of Mays? You generally drop asleep the instant your pretty head touches the piliow."” “But to-night, Pauline. I cannot gleep. I have been thinking of all you told me about-'’ “About Gervase Livingstone!” asked Pauline, dnishing the sentence, “Hush! Speak lower, Pauline, There are so IDADY pie near. Yes, I am troubled deeply troubled by what you say of him.” “It is true, May.” “Who told you, Pauline?” “My brother, in the first instance, He knows him well—is often at his rocins ~and regrets his intemperance more than any of the rest of his friends, I think.” “Does your brother think-does he consider him entirely past reform?” asked May, with a trembling voice, Hearing it, and the suppressed sob that followed the question, Pauline Danforth who was a kind hearted little city belle, came out of her nest and sat down beside her friend. “Dear May, my brother James has often said that Livingstone had a reason —u motive—for reforming, his reform would be settled thing."' “What motive?’ “1 explain myself bunglingly, I fear, James meant, that If ry of a child who died a year ago. Itis an odd thing to say of a man like him, but James declares that Livingstone really loved that child, and that be loves | “If that is true” said May Warbur- | ton, drying her eyes, "‘he may yet be saved.” | “What do you mean, dear?” “1 mean that I am that child, Paul. | ine, i “But the child died,” replied Paul- | ine with an astonished look. “No. My cousin, Mary Cameron, | sed it to be mine. Just before her ill- | to my country home, and linding me a “and was it in that little country | town hat you knew Gervase Livingstone as a boy?” inquired Pauline. ‘iYes. Ie had been sent to the house | of some old fanuly servant for his | health, and he remained there for two | years, while his parents were in Europe, | Oh! Pauline, Ite was the noblest, kind- est, most generous-hearted boy! If you will only help me now to save him!" i «11 exclaimed Pauline, i “You,” replied May, caressing and | guch things. He would think Gervase It is | vain to hope for help from him. Bat if you will only assist me, dear, good | Pauline, I have such a plan!” “Indeed!” said Pauline. “So I am to be bribed with a kiss. Well, let me | vase—I mean Mr, Livingstone—and we will see what can be done.” “I shall need your brother’s ald, too, but that you must secure, And ohl | both of you must promise to keep my secret from every one,’’ said May. Then leaning her cheek against Paul- ine’s, she whispered, in the silence of the midnight, her innocent plot for the | redemption of a human soul. ing it toward the light he saw a picture, framed in gems, and bending nearer the large blue eyes of the lovely stranger at the concert looked up at him from the depths of the goblet with an earnest, appealing gaze, prize, Snatching the ebony case from the chimney piece, he searched it eager- ly for some clew to the mysterious gift. Half-hidden in the velvet lining, he found a morsel of paper, and drawing read: s*Not dead, but hoping and praying for you ever, MAY. mel’? he exclaimed. And then, as the full significance of the gift flashed across his mind, the crimson flushed to his temples, and sinking on his kneeg he laid his head down beside the magic goblet, and burst Intoa passion of tears. Those who called at the rooms of the artist during the next week found them closely shut, At last it was rumored about that he had suddenly sailed for England, and a few days more proved the rumor to be true, A year passed by, and at the annual exhibition of the Academy painters a picture made its appearance which took the world of fashion completely by storm. Every paper noticed it; every and so approving were the comments the gallery to see this James like a kind brother consented, with an odd twinkle in his eye, which Pauline could not quite under- his adopted daughter, May, for a visit of some weeks, Jame's eyes seemed to of his own accord, he invited Miss May to join their party on the following May accepted the invitation witha Paul Danforth’s stay in Boston was | but a short one, and on her return to New York it was noticed by her escort for the whole distance, a small ebony mounted in silver, and fastened | with a silver lock and key, *‘A jewel | On the evening of her arrival at the were over, Pauline sought a private interview with her brother’ James, and, after a long explanation, left the ebony box in his care. “May isa trump, Pauline, and you are another,” was the young man’s somewhat undignified exclamation, as he brushed his cambric handkerchief across his eyes, **And Livingstone is well worth saving, and the little box shall be in his possession to-morrow evening before he sleeps.” “Secretly, James, remember,” sad Pauline. “He must not know from " himself worthy of iv." “Trust me for that,” replied her brother. *If there were more women on earth like you and May, women ready to use their influence over men in this fashion, we should be a great deal better than we are, my dear.” So James carried off his prize to hus OWT TOOm. The next evening a party of gay friends met, as they were often in the habit of meeting, at the artist's rooms Wine flowed freely, and the pictures on the wall could scarcely be seen for the cloud of smoke that rose from a dozen cigars, When the revel was at its height | James Danforth rose from his chair and held out his hand to the host: i “Good-by, Livingstone,” ! “What! are you going! So soon?” said the artist, surprised, “Yes. Going for good and all, my “What do you mean?” “I mean,” said Danforth, seriously, | **that there is a time for all things, and the time for reflection has now come to boys—you kmow it aswell asl. An angel bas warned me, and I am going to stop now while I can. Follow my example if you have any regard for yourselves, or for the mothers, sisters and wives at home who love you. Good- by, boys, Good-by, Gervase, 1 shall join you here no more." i He left the room. They all sat gaz- | ing at each other in silence. His words | had struck home to every hear. as he | had intended them todo. One after another of the now quiet party stole | away with some excuse, In half an | hour after James Danforth had closed | the door behind hum the artist sat alone by his firemde, leaning on his hand, and | gazing sadly into the burning coals, “The wives—the mothers—the sisters at home-~who love you,” he muttered to himself, “They did well to obey the call, I would have obeyed it, in my turn, but who lives now to care for me? My mother and little May are in their graves; sister I have none-—wife I shall | never have! Ah, what does it matter? A short life and a merry one for me, and no one will shed a tear over its end- 4 I'll have another glass of wine. hat’s this?" In reaching up tothe mantel-shelf for the glass he had left there, his hand struck against the little ebony chest, which stcod in the place of honor, di- rectly under a little water-color sketch e from memory of the long-lost child, “May.” The silver key was in the silver lock, The artist turned it, wondering how the beautiful toy came there without his knowledge, His surprise increased when the lid flew back, displaying & beautiful drinking cup of " rately chased, enriched, with ru- bles the curving brim, “What a beautifnl thing!" exclaimed the artist lifting the cup ita bed of rose-colored velvet. “Who can have sent such a bring it y wonder? Any itisa : borg AE Rel geo ond and see if I can drive theses mal- thoughts away.” he lifted the a.” Something flask. at that 8 manded some of his secret, whatever it might be. But James proved obdurate, Bhe would know all he said, at the gallery, where the successfnl artist was to be Pauline reflected a moment. “Oh!” she exclaimed; began to dance in her turn, But not one word said the little trait. ress to her friend May. Only she took care that their visit risen from their beds. man stood before the famous picture, waving wings, bent forward over the shoulder of a dark-browed man, walk- ing heedlessly on a flower-strewn de- scent, toward a fearful guif, and drew from his unwilling hand a golden cup overflowing with wine, Pauline gave one swift glance at the angel in the picture and at the solitary arm and while May went unsuspecting- ly forward, the two vanished into an in- ner room, where a portrait gallery had been improvised, Hearing the light step behind him the artist turned away with a crimsoning brow, from the contemplation of his picture, But, with his first glance at the face of the newcomer, he paused, May, unheeding him in her haste to see the picture, lifted her eyes to the She stood rooted to the spot in her amazement, her heart throbbing, eyes filling with tears, “Oh, Pauline!” she exclaimed, in an issaved!” “Yes, thanks to you sweet angel, un- der God, he is saved!” replied a deep Yoloce, She turned and met the dark eyes of the life you rescued?’ he asked, shrinad within his loving heart. Nothing Except Breakfast. srss—— “Ree the sunrise, Gwendolen!" Miriam Mahafly spoke these words ous morning in June, and pulled with stately grace a long striped stocking over a shapely limb, Thrusting her feet into a pair of dainty slippers, Gwendolen stepped to the window and looked out upon the “Is it not beautifull” exclaimed Miriam impulsively, putting on her corset as she »poke, ‘‘The golden pen- cilings of light dart up from below the horizon, touching in fleecy whiteness of the ever changing clouds with a roseate glory beyond compare, See how, in yonder speck of blue that peeps forth so coyly between the great masses of clouds that surround it on every side, there comes a mezzotint of orange here, a beautiful background to the torquoise bloom of the picture, Is it not very beautiful, sister?? . ph ied G for the hair brush, **it rem lemon pie in a blue plate.” “Sea, sister,” continued Miriam, as reachin me of a in all the wide " replied Gwendolen, ast,” valine of Land, Farewell! re —————— “I go to-morrow,” I sald as we sat { down on a flat stone beside the road. *Yes so I understand.” **Aud js that all you have to say Bell?” . “1 wish you a pleasant journey and a safe return,” she said, bending over her flowers to arrange them, “Whendo you think you shall be back, Wil- liam?” This was not what I wanted, Cousin Bell was too quiet and calm. I wanted | her to feed my craving vanity by some { look or word, or tear of love, that I could carry away with me to feast on— { und she would not. I determined to touch her some way, even at the expense of the truth. **Perhaps never, Bell! If I succeed in business, I shall most probably settle there, marry there, and live and die there,” She did not answer “Would you care for cousin?” “Hum! I don’t know. 1 wish [ could find another violet to match this, Look, what a beauty!” “You would ecare—you do care— though you sit there talking about your flowers!” I sald hastily. “Tell me, don’t you love me a little bit, dear Beljg» I drew her nearer, and a softening, Yielding look came over her faee, “And if I did, William?” ’ “1t would make me happier in one way, Beli; for I should feel that my journey was only taken for your good, and that in time you would thank me for making it.” “What do you mean, Wilham? Have you lost your senses? What have I done, or sard, or looked, to make you think what-—what you have just said?"’ ++] was saying it all for your good,” 1 blundered out, sulkily, “And going away for your good, too,” “Recause you thought I loved you too much—was that it?" HY esl? sand so you were kindly going to take yourself out of sight till I had for- gotten you?” I was silent. | “Oh, grant me patience.” she ex- | claimed; and then, as if I had stung her | to the very heart, she buried her face in | her hands, At last she looked up. » that my dear | this—I suppose ali men are so,'’ she | prise, | now. | will know women betler now,” 1 hope, when we meet again, you than | asked, feeling with a strange perversiiy, | just at that moment, that I would bave died to win her. she smiled and push- ed them towards me with her fool. “Help yourself, William.” 1 took up a daisy and a violet and put | it in my bosom. hint ‘at last, and followed her example, | But her silence and her anger did for { came into my my mind as 1 sal alone, it | was sure to be the face and form of Bell that beautified it She still remained unmarried, Three years passed away, and during the summer of the fourth I | turned, and keep her there with me for- ever. tarned from her spring trip to town | when [ arrived, and my favorite sister | Maggie was only too glad of An excuse {to call upon her and see the recent | fashions had brought. “I am obliged to have an excuse, nowadays,” said, with a merry | laugh, “for Bell is very proud, and | seems to forget that | together day after day at school. | often think! [ should like to remind her | of 18, but she has grown such a fine lady I hardly dare.” Bell proud and a fine lady! Icould | hardly imagine that, It was in the orchard that we met, “Well cousin,’ she said, smilingly, “when you have looked at me long | enough you will talk to me. A penny | for your thoughts!" | “They were not very gallant ones, I | am afraid, for I was thinking that | though you have grown very beautiful, | Bell, you have also grown very heart- lesa.” She laughed carelessly. “And a perfect woman of the world." “Thank you sir!” she answered, with a graceful bend of the head. **You are be, 1 see. | have been, or may be. Tell me what | you have been doing all these years?’ | © “Thinking of you, Bell,” I said | bluntly, but truly. She changed color a little, but soon recovered herself, *It strikes me that you might have employed yourself better. I think the air is growing chilly—shall we join our friends and go back to the house P'* 1 placed myself in her way as she turned. . “Don't go just yet, Beil. You are not cold, though Jou affect to shiver, and you must what 1 have come all this distance to say. Will you?” She shrugged her shoulders leaned against a tree, and looked out towards the sunset west, “Do you remember our evenings long ago?” I asked as our eyes turned to- wards the sinking sun, “Those were pleasant days.” “Yea 1 a a a ors WHE. 3° ’ am you Why did you not write to me, Belton font a) wer of blessoms to the sho said: Don't know-—been over of me?” . when I have had noth. ing tt todo" mt Pet ET “And do you quite forgive me for wounding you, as I must have done?” “Oh, dear, yes!” “1 ought to have asked forgiveness long ago. I was but a boy then, and little knew what | was throwing away.” =‘ And you think you know now,” she said, looking mestraight in the eye with an indescribable glance. My heart beat fast; the blood flew to my temples, Did she love me, after all? I caught her hand in mine, and murmured, “Oh, Bell, my darling, none can know better!” “Well, what de you think it was?" “The noblest, purest, and fondest heart that ever beat in woman’s breast,” 1 answered, eagerly. *‘‘The truest and teuderest love——'’ 1 stopped, amazed, for the blue eyes grew dim with tears, and a deep flush covered her neck and cheek and bos- om, “Stop, then!” she sald, hurriedly. “You have sald enough, already, to humble me to the very dust. It might have been all that when you first knew have touched one of the old chords, 1 spare you. You, at least, shall never have 1t to say that Bell Gordon has tri- fled with your happiness. I meant that you should, but you have brought back my better nature. Now go, and leave, me William; and, believe me, 1t will be better for you to meet me no more,” “What do vou mean, Bell?”’ She laughed bitterly. “(Go ask any one if I am all you said— any one who knows me well, and see what they will say, They call mea flirt and a coquette, as well as a heartless creature, a woman of the world, And it is all true. If any one is idiotic enough to give me hisheart I only know of my early years,” she said, laying ber hand on my shoulder, “and for the sake of—of no matter what, I give you fair ! warning,’ “J tell you that I love you,” I said. “I ask you to be my wife.” “It is too late.” she replied, dryly: “we are not children to play at this game any longer. it is your better way. ried soon. I am to be mar- There is the pledge!” eyes which she wore upon the third finger of her lefthand. She is still the wife of the wealthy | man she married, and a queen of fash- i fon. She has one son, who bears my name, and my eldest daughter is called | Bell? I never hear from her—I1 shall never see her in tius world again; but 1 | often sit and think about her, as 1 have | done to-day. Others have loved me | more fondly, and made me happier; yet the golden glory of my “first love” lin- gers about her head, and 1 cannot, and [ would not if I could forget her. | There may be many more beautiful, and { better far; but to my life’s end jhere will be none so fair for me, Faréwell, | sweet dream of my vouth! Farewell! ———— A A ——— Equine Anger, | I will relate a little circumstance | which took place in Mexico a few years | before 1 left there. One of my friends had a borse, extremely gentle, and of such an easy agreeable gait that he took | the greatest care of him and held him at a great price. A well-fed, big and lusty friar was a friend to our neighbor, world as well as he liked 10 ride out to the small towns bordering upon the City of Mexico and take dinner with the bonny lasses and countrymen inhabiting i those villages, He used to ask my | friend to loan him his horse to take these excursions just around the Cap- i ital; and, as his requests were granted | his favorite animal to go to Cuernavaca, | a distance of eighteen leagues. As this | happened preity often, our friend com- | plained one day of the indiscretion of | the friar. 1 asked him if he could pro- same time, Hedid so. I dressed my- self in the filar’sdress and went in | where the horse was. 1 took a good { whip in my hand and made him do pen- | nance for no other sin than that of too | much gentieness. Going out I took off | my friar’s dress and went in again in | my own dress, and handled him gently. i Ire the operation a few days, at | the end of which 1 took the horse back | to his master, and told him he might {lend him to the friar whenever he { pleased. A day or two after he came | to my store. “Your remedy,” said he, | “has had a marvelous effect. Our | monk has just left my bouse, perfectly | persuaded that my horse Is possessed { with the devil. For when the holy per- | sonage came up to take him by the bridle to get on him he was so fright. ened and wheeled around so quick and flew away from him with so much ter- ror that one would have said be took him for the destroying angel.” The friar crossed himself many times, hur- ried away in all haste to the convent to sprinkle himself with holy water, and never asked my friend for his horse again. In this case the horse remembered the dress, not the features of the individual who used the whip on him. Buthorses can remember features as well as cos- 3 tpios stil: ag 1 iil oe me Youthful Senators, Pouring the ceremony of unveiling the Marshall statue, while the senators were absent from the senate, the pages had a grand lark. The boys are sharp observers of the great men with whom they are thrown in dally contact, and soon detect the peculiar hobby each senator has, As soon as the senators were fairly out of the room the boys prepared for sport. One long, lank red- haired stripling, by unanimeus consent, “Ieause he’s got the mot gall,’ as one urchin said, took the seat of the presi. ding officer, and in Mr, Edmund's most austere manner sharply called the meet. ing to order. The boys heartily entered into the humor of the occasion. They dropped into the seats near the presi- ding officer, “Mr, President,” yelled half a dozen voices, “Now you fellows just shut your clack,” returned the president. **Do yer think this Is a democratic caucus? What do you want he continued, addressing one, “J want to talk he promptly respond- ed, “Well, go ahead.” “Now, Mr. President,” continued the youthful statesman, throwing him- self into Senator Dawes’ favorite atti- tude and imitating his peculiar intona~ tion, “what this country ought to do is to go for them Injuns. Why, Mr, Presi. dent just look at ’em. Gaze upon the wild sons of the west who come here on their trips to the Great Father —an ig- norant lot, whose chief pleasure consists in tomahawking the teachers we send out to instruct them. What should be done? Why, make ’em learn. Tum the army into a regiment of teachers, Force arithmetic into their thick skulls at the point of the bayonet.” “Well, what does the member pro- pose?” asked one of the senators of-an- | hour impatiently, fearing that his chan- | ces to hold forth were being lessened by the prolixity of others. =“Appropriate fifty millions for the purpose of compulsorily educating the redskins,’, replied the supposed Mr, Dawes. ‘“That will solve the Injun question.” The proposition was received with | boisterous applause, “Say, Mr. Presieent,” shouted one who could be easily recognized as Sen- ator Logan's counterfeit presentment by his proposition, “I motion to ap- propriate five hundred millions to pay the expenses of a commission to lnves- tigate the true condition of the Ameri- can nigger and ascertain the progress he has made since the war.” “I hope the gentleman will not insist on the motion,’ remarked a polite page blandly, “because [ was going to ap- point a committee consisting of true and faithful republicans to investigate the Danville outrages.” “Hello, Bher- man!” cried one who from his lack of | respect was undoubtedly a democrat, “1 also hope the gentleman will not insist on his motion, for it is clearly unconstitutional,” piped a voice in the rear of the chamber, The lads broke into a loud laugh, recognizing Senator Jones’ caricature, and immediately got into an excited constitutional discussion, *‘Logan’ holding that his scheme was clearly constitutional, remarking that he “had looked up them points, and he seen they wasn't no good.” But others, seeing there was little chance of “getting their work in” unless order was restored, insisted on the senator's ““drying up.” I'hen followed a number of ridiculous motions—to put cigarettes on the free list, to tax pig fron $100 a ton, to de- clare women eligible to the presidency. The boys kept up their sport until it was announced that the sexrators were returning, when they scattered. The whole proceedings was a very clever take-off of the senate. EE Famous Discrowned Queens. i No image is more pathetic than that of the discrowned Queen. She | who has once the object of all men’s homage has fallen from her high estate, pale and bowed down | among the ashes where formerly she | ruled her joeund court radiently from her golden throne, golden crowned. Zenobia, led by her golden chain like some fair savage before the triumph- al car of her not ungenerous conquer. or—shackled with gold and laden with jewels, as marking her past value and present shame—is the type of the Queen who once greater than the greatest, is now humbled and despised. Cleopatra, too, occurs 10 One's memo- ty as another of those pathetic figures of history who from supremacy fell to ruin, and from love sank down to de. spair, Artemesia, voluntarily discrown- ed, forgetting her dignity, and conde- scending to a love unworthy of ber, and to a vengeance more unworthy still, to end all from that sad Leucanian rock which saw another victim--also in her way a queen—voluntarily discrowned; her namesake, that other Artemisia who died of grief for the loss of her hus- band, Mausolus, onisba, denied to the man who loved her, and forced to save herself from the same degradation as that which Zeuobia underwent the sharp redemption of prison; Antonette from le Pettit Zrianon trans. lated to la Conclergeri, and from Ver- sailles to the scaffold; Queen Margaret, , lost in Wood, trusting EE : he h £ § z : Hi : Hn
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers