sShH
i3SK!
fcf'
L
10
i the Old World to share the hardships
:,the new: but the Teckless soldiers, traders
adventurers "took them so-called wives
i the West Indios and Caribbean
Jands. women often as wicked and dancer-
bin as ther were lithe and beautiful. Dona
Hortense felt with all a woman's sensitive-
sets to such surroundings the unuttera-
lfcle sufferine which might come to 1'au
'line de la Chasie on account of her falling
.Unto the power of Captain Cortes. True,
.iCortes was apparently an exception to tne
general rule among the men of Pensacola,
so far as she knew. He had never consorted
-with the most vicious even of the officers,
and his life had appeared to be clean and
noble. Still the danger seemed great;
and besides she had taken Pauline
at once into her heart as her child, and felt
for her all the suddenly kindled solicitude
and tenderness that such a relation under
such circumstances could not fail to engen
der in a breast so long deprived of every
softer experience so dear to a true woman.
It was therefore a matter to start hope in
her over-apprehensive breast when the
young man, instead of assuming the atti
tude of a libertine, began to treat Pauline
with all the delicate politeness of a consid
erate and high-minded gentleman, who
might become a very gallant and by no
-means unsuitable lover. She had never yet
t inquired into the antecedents of Pauline,
' nor had she so much as sought to know by
what current ot destiny the unfortunate girl
had been cast so far away from her native
land; but it was not in the nature of things
for Pauline to keep her secret. Indeed, Dona
Hortense was at once surprised and dis
mayed when the whole truth was poured
into her ear.
"Going all alone to Mobile to marry a
French soldier?" she exclaimed, when Pau
line had ended her story. "Dear child, do
70U dream what you are trying to do7 You
can have no impression of the misery that
you have escaped by falling into my hands
instead of into the arras ot a brutal "
"Hush!" said Pauline, with such com
mand in her voice that the old woman
lnnbpd nt her and started perceptibly.
"Hushl Louis Doucet is not brutal. He
is the very noblest and best man in the
world. I would follow him all over the
earth I"
She sank back upon her pillows pale as a
lily and trembling with the intense emotion
aroused by her thoughts.
"Pardon me forgive me, dear,' crim
Dona Hortense, taking Pauline in her
arms and kissing her. "I would not wound
you for all the world. Doubtless your lover
is all that you sav; but oh! my child, mv
child, it is a dreadful, dreadful life. Think
of dear France and the joyous existence ot
even her working peasants, and then look at
the desolation and the despair which hover
Et. -overnsherel" As she spoke her shriveled
C :!, .J Ami t. EnllnnrniiB, irIO
lace was pmuicu u . , wj .
touched with a hot, flame-like glow. "If I
could go back if I could go back once
if -.1 .......1 if i-n,i1il Ko tolintmia
ar more, sue iuuwiw, .. ... w .-....-.
E, to die and be buried beside my motherly Oh!
little jraunne sweet cuiiu, uu j. jiu j.
could save you, could bear you back to
Prance "
"But I do not wish to go back to France,"
Pauline interrupted. "I wish to go to
Louis. I do not care to live if I cannot go
to him."
As if the mere suggestion of being taken
back to France had given her sudden
strength, resolve and courage, Pauline
threw off the arms of hr companion and
raised herself again to a sitting posture.
"How far is it irom here to Mobile ?" she
inquired in a voice so changed that the poor
eld woman caught breath, as if almost suffo
cating, and, could not answer.
"It cannot be far," Pauline continued,
"and I must go there. Who can take me?"
The Dona clasped her hands and held
them out with a gesture of supplication.
When she could speak she said:
"It is impossible. We are at war. Even
now the commandant here is planning an
expedition to capture Mobile."
The girl sat for some moments gazing
thoughtfully out of the window. Pres
ently she turned quickly toward her com
panion. "Please send word to Captain Cortez teat
I should like to see him."
She uttered these words witb the steadi
; ness and decision of one who has a well-
defined purpose in view.
The Dona recoiled.
"Surely, no!" she exclaimed. "Xon do
, not mean it. It must not be."
f"Yes, I wish it immediately."
"But, my child "
"Lose no time,,but go send for Captain
i Cortes."
The old woman felt the sudden and great
change in Pauline's manner and knew that
it had a deeper significance than she could
I comprehend at once; but although she more
than suspected that it might be the begin-
I ning of bitter shame for the girl she could
t not refuse to grant her request.
f "Don't, don't do this!" she urged with a
piteous weakness in he voice. iou are
too young to have any idea of the step you
are about to take. Let me be your mother.
my dear, dear child, and save ou from the
t dreadful life you would plunge into!"
, 1 Pauline answered with tender firmness,
)- insisting upon seeing Cortes at once.
f ''Well, well, it is always so," the Dona
went on reflectively and sadly. "I was a
girl not so very, very long ago, dear, and I
gave up all for a man, all for love. Look
i at me and at the life I live."
She felt that her words were without ef-
t feet on Pauline; she did not wait to hear the
reply that might have followed, but arose
and went to send a messenger to fetch Cap
tain Cortes.
An hour later the young officer, evidently
not a little embarrassed, was shown into
Pauline's presence. He stood before her,
tall, respectful, handsome, his fine head on
t covered and his clear eyes fixed inquiringly
upon her.
She moved her lips with a soundless ef
fort at speech and made a motion lor him to
sit down. He took the designated chair
with the prompt manner of one obeying an
' order.
Looking into his face gave Pauline cour
age to say what was upon her mind, but
even when the courage came the task was
an extremely difficult one. She ielt that
the request she was about to make must ap
pear very strange, if not impossible of per
formance, still she did not hesitate. In the
directest and simplest way she told her story
to the young officer, leaving out nothing,
aud then in conclusion asked him to help
ber.
1 "I know you are noble, kind and good,"
the said, looking at him steadily but with
eyes whose deep and tender purity sent a
thrill of inexpressible pity throngh him,
"and I feel that I can trust you. Oh, sir,
will you not help me reach Mobile? I have
no one to turn to but you. It was you who
' saved me from the terrible danger, the hor
rible death in the sea; save me now from
this life which is worse than a thousand
deaths and take me to my dear to my
friends at Mobile!"
It was hard for Captain Cortes to say what
ne bad to say; but there was no honorable
coarse for him to pursue sive that ot perfect
frankness. He felt keenly his own situa
tion, while his chivalrous nature burned
with deep and strange sympathy fcr the
sweet, brave invalid before hiin. It abashed
him to thine that he had been nursing
tender dreams in connection with this
beautiful being whom he had snatched lrom
the tumbling waves of the G ulf. Now that
he knew her history, and understood her
desire he saw, how fruitless, aud unmanly
as well, would be any further thought of
claiming Pauline's love; moreover it seemed
, to him the very refinement ot mislortune
, that he must acknowledge his inability to
t aid her as she desired.
"I should be glad and proud to do what
you ask," he said with a sort of soldierly
oluntness in his voice and manner, "but it
is utterly impossible. The French do not
; respect us, nor we them. There can be no
exchanceof courtesies between ns; so you
V tee how my hands are tied in the matter."
k Pauline clasped her hands and great tears
dropped down her cheeks. Cortes saw her
bitter disappointment with a sense ot 6ome-
" Ihing like contempt lor himself on account
j tf his powerless condition.
"Believe me, Mademoiselle," he ex-
pr claimed with sudden fervor, "I would
riadiy give my me 10 serve yuu cicii
fa the least degree."
"I believe you, sir, and I thank you from
Ihe bottom of my heart. You are nobly
f - 1 c rrt l there Inifpwl no w.iv?
Must I choose Jietween death' and the ac
ceptance ot this-life now afforded, to me?"
Something iifher tone and manner sent a
shock throngh the young's man's breast
"Within the past few minutes there had
come, upon him the sweet, rich and yet sad
dening experience of love and loss. Before
him sat the fairest and loveliest apparition
that had ever blessed his vision. In his
heart she had set the fountains ot spring to
flowing the song and the bloom to gush
ing. The old, old story of the sudden com
ing of passion and the sudden realization of
its hopelessness had been told once more be
tween the soft pulses of the sub-tropicbreeze.
He bowed his head until his dark forehead
touched the plume of his hat which rested
on his knee. For one moment he gave way
to selfishness,and tbethought swept through
his mind that he might have his own way
with fate.
"I am sorry to have pained you," said
Pauline presently. "I owe my life to you,
and I fear that I have appeared ungrateful.
Pray forgive me."
Her words sounded to him like the rebuke
of an angel He looked up and said, as if
in seir-delense:
"You owe me nothing but execration. It
was I who sunk the vessel which was bear
ing you to yonr lover. It was I who de
prived yon ot'more than life. Oh, Madem
oiselle, Mademoiselle."
He checked himself with great effort and
rising stood before her quite calm but pale,
his eyes burning almost fiercely, his sun
burnt cheeks showing thelinesof suppressed
but almost over-powering emotion.
"You did but your duty; I have thought
all about it," she said, "and I do not blame
you for it; but I am no prisoner of war,. be
ing nothing but a poor girl whom fate has
cast into your hands, wherefore it seems to
mc that you might let me go in all honor."
"I would not hold you one moment," he
exclaimed quickly. "Yon are as free as I
am; but there is no possible way for you to
pass from her to Mobile. The thought is
utterly untenable the thing is impossible
and not to be dreamed of."
No interview ever was more depressing
and unsatisiactory to the parties holding it,
Pauline ielt that it ended all hope, at least
for the present, and she lay upon her couch
disheartened and purposeless. Cortes went
away thoroughly wretched and at war with
himself. He was in love with Pauline; his
warm, arrogant Spanish nature had broken
the bounds at once and now there was no
limit to the passion that possessed him; but
his chivalrous sense of honor, though over
whelmed, was immovable. The impression
haunted him that, for the reason that Pauline
was in his power, he ought to free her, and
because ot his love for her Be ought to re
store her to her lover. It was well to harbor
these sentiments, but what lover could act
upon them?
SDays and weeks passed by, during which
Cortes brooded over the situation. Now
and again he resolved that he would at
tempt to send Pauline to Mobile by some
clandestine method, but as often he remem
bered his duty as a soldier. The French at
Mobile were the very incarnation of all that
was hated by the Spaniards at Pensacola,
and to do any kind act for one of them was
repugnant to every pulse in a true Spanish
soldier's veins. Doubtless the young Can
tain's passion for his fair captive made this
repugnance all the more fierce and bitter,
for the thought of resigning that enptive to
the arms of Louis Doucet, of the hated
French garrison, was the refinement of tor
ture Still he acknowledged in the deepest
caves of his breast that duty of the highest
and most sacred sort demanded that he
should never rest until Pauline de la
Chasie and Louis Doucet, separated by him,
should be united by him. It is easy to see
how, ordinarily, a struggle of this sort
would end. Love, extol it as we may, is the
hot-bed of a certain kind of unconquerable
selfishness. Rare indeed are the instances
where love has been self-sacrificing enough
to turn over to its rival the object of its de
sire. There were moments when Cortes
would have made the sacrifice, and at all
times he tortured himself between the flame
of passion and the hot iron of conscience;
but he was human, he found excuses for
faltering and hesitating, nay even for what
appeared to him harmless deception.
Almost every day he found time to see
Pauline and to offer her some delicate at
tention. Meantime as the summer passed
away Indian couriers began to bring word
of preparations going forward among the
French at Mobile for an expedition against
Pensacola.
"I have not a doubt that Bienville will at
tack us soon," said Cortes one morning in
September.
"And he will take the town, and then !"
exclaimed Pauline, clasping her hands and
flushing suddenly.
She was sitting by the window. Return
ing health had made her form and her face
doubly beautiful in the eyes of the young
officer.
"But he will not take the town," he re
sponded. "Our force is very strong and our
fortifications and fleet are far superior in
guns and effectiveness to anything he can
bring against us. No, we will destroy him,
almost entirely."
"No. no!" cried Pauline, "the French are
always victorious. Are you sure they will
come? Oh, butl pray that they will and
then I shall be free! Ther will destroy
you."
Cortss smiled, but there was a deadly
pang behind that smile.
"You will be disappointed, Mad
emoiselle," he said. "It is not possible."
Pauline saw the smile, and instantly a
flash of indignant resentment made her
checks burn.
"When my people come," she said, "I
shall see how you will destroy them."
"We are nearly 2,000." remarked he,
still curling his lip a little, "and they are
scarcely 600, Indians excepted. I tell you
that they can do nothing, absolutely noth
ing." Pauline sprang to.her feet.
"You do not want me to be free J" she
cried, her voice rich with passionate accusa
tion.
He arose and looked down at her with a
curious mixture of tenderness and harshness
in his face. At that moment he realized
how fully he had determined that this girl
should never go away from him. What
would life be worth without her? Who
was Louis Doucet, that he should hold the
exclusive ritrht to such a prize ? Would
not the water of the gulf be now rolling over f
her it he, uortez, nad not saved -her I Mow
ungrateful she was 1
Pauline, looking steadily into his eyes,
read his thoughts. She saw the change in
his features and manner, any felt that all
hope was gone.
"And not1 long ago you said that you
would give your life to help me I" she
cried, a bitter contempt ringing through her
trembling voice.
"I did iay that; yes, and I spoke truly," he
replied, almost fiercely. "Even now. Mad
emoiselle," and here his face swelled with
the pressure of violent embtion, "even now
I would acrifice more than life. I would
cast away honor for you."
He did not wait to hear what she would
say in response to this, but turned and left
ber with almost rnde abruptness.
CHAPTER HL
The 17th day of September, 1719, dawned
on the bay of Pensacola with a slight fog,
dim and gray, hovering over the water and
fringing with fantastic trailing festoons the
shores of the island. The fort on the hill
behind the town loomed up quite grandly,
and showed the projecting mnzzles ol its
heavy guns, while the fleet in the bay and
the earthworks on the island gave -an ap
pearance of great military strength to the
little Spanish post. Doubtless a feeling ol-
periect security possessed the garrison, tor
there was no sign of unusual vigilance,
albeit on the evening before some Indian
rnnners had come in to assure them that the
Prench were advancing by both land and
sea.
The commandant at Pensacola was not
aware that the Comptede Champmeslln had
reinforced Bienville's little army at Mobile
with a fleet ol three ships of the line, nor
that a strong torce of Indians had been in
duced to join in an expedition against Pen
sacola by land. The routine of military
discipline was kept up in a perfunctory
way, while both the officers, and men of the
Spanish garrison gave themselves over to,
the dreamy and relaxing influence of the'
rVmMK Wn rff rltur ther l-nrd Jn
Vrj
picturesque groups .under the grateful "shade
of the trees, or sought the rude amusements
offered by the low-roofed buildings wherein
gaming and drinking were indulged in by
the.verv officers whose orders prohibited
snch indulgence.
To Pauline life grew irksome and depress
ing day by day. After the interview re
corded in the foregoing chapter she saw no
more of Cortes for a long time. The Dona
Hortense, after exhausting everv means in
her power to distract the girl's thoughts
from the subject of going to Mobile, had
given over the task in bitter grief and dis
appointment. This gave Don Alphonso
most excellent excuse, as he seemed to think,
for much sarcasm at his wife's expense.
"Your daughter," he was fond saying.
"is certainly a model of dutifulness and
gratitude. Just see how she honors all your
wishes."
"She is a girl, Alphonso, as I was once
a girl. She has seen a man to love, as I
did. He has beckoned, as you did, and she
would follow, as I did. Will you tell me
how much X honored my mother's wishes
when "
"Not much when you married me. That
is true," he interrupted with a laugh which
was devoid of mirth. "But after all have
you not done fairly well?"
"Perhaps then Pauline might do fairly
well if she could go to her lover."
"Let her go to him, her lover is Captain
Cortes."
"She does not love him."
"Well, but she ought to love him;
her life Is his, he snatched it from the very
jaws of death. It is base ingratitude, it
is soulless perfidy in her to reject him."
"You do not understand women."
"Yes, I understand them. This is no
very rare instance ot their utter lack of a
high sense ot obligation. Every dictate or
conscience, every impulse of unselfishness
would force' a hign-souled woman in
Pauline's place to give herself to the one
who so nobly earned the right to her love."
"But she loves another."
"Loves another! There is the gross self
ishness I spoke of. She is thinking all the
time of herself. That's the way with a
woman. True gratitude, noble unselfish
ness would address itself , to considering the
happiness of her chivalrous and brave de
liverer. All she cares for, however, is to
gratify her own love."
"And what a terrible mistake she some
times makes by so doing!"
"Granted," said Don Alphonso, rising
and making a superb obeisance before his
wife. He took his departure without lurther
remark.
Pauline was compelled to overhear most
of this conversation, as she sat in an adjoin
ing room, and it came just at the moment
when it could affect her most strangely.
With the swiftness of lieht her thoughts
flashed back over all the kindness and un
selfish nobleness of Cortes, from the moment
when he took her in his arms, there
amid the boiling waves, down to the pres
ent, and something like a chill of self-abhorrence
ran throngh her breast. She
had not been kind to Cortes, nay,
she had been bitterly unkind to
him it now seemed to her. She had been
absorbed in herself without room in her
heart for any thought save that of ''gratify
ing her own love," as Don Alphonso had
said. How far from home she was, and all
alone, with such a burden in her heart!
The tension upon her nerves was greater
now than at the time when she was clinging
to the splintered spar in mid-sea. Again
and again the words of young Cortes came
to her: "I would sacrifice more than life. I
would castaway honor for you." His proud,
fine, passionate face, with its sudden flash
of strange pallor after its heat of momentary
anger, haunted her vision. She had not ex
pected to see him again; but early on the
morning of the 17th he came to the house
and asked to see her.
She met him with distrust of both herself
and him. He "was pale, and his eyes showed
that recently he had been suflering.
"I have come, Mademoiselle," he began
at once, speaking in the maimer of one who
acts nnder the force of ill-suppressed emo
tion with the necessity of haste upon him.
"I have come to do what I cannot help do
ing, what I have struggled not to do, but
what cannot be resisted. Mademoiselle, I
love you." In the old knightly style he
went down upon his knees, his sword clank
ing against the floor. "I adore you and
I must tell you so. What word have you
for me, Mademoiselle? Speak and let me
live or die."
Pauline could not command herself. She
sat silent, the stupor of an overwhelming
embarrassment upon her.
"I have tried to Btav awav from vou." he
went on, "but I have not been able to do it.
You have filled my whole life; I can think
of nothing bnt you. Oh, Mademoiselle,
Mademoiselle, do not hate me, do not spurn
me when I love you so."
"I do not hate you, I do not spurn you,
Captain Cortes' she exclaimed, the effort
sending a rich sympathetic timbre into her
voire. "You have been so noble and so
good you have done so mnch for jne."
His lace took on a look of hope and he
reached forth his hand to take hers.
In those days melodramatic things did
happen. The jarring thunder of a heavy
cannon rolled up from the bay and shook
the house from root to foundation. Another
and another crash were followed by the
heavy pounding sound of falling round
shot." Cortes was too good a soldier not to
respond instantly to the summons of battle.
In a moment he had sprung to his feet and
was standing in a hearkening attitude.
Like some perfect actress in a tragedy, more
than like a startled girl in real life, Pauline
sprang forward and flung out her arms with
a cry more of joy than of terror.
"They have come! They are here!" she
exclaimed. "They have attacked the
town!"
Cortes did not hear her words; he saw
only her wondrousiy lovely face and her
arms outstretched toward him.
"Darling!" he cried, and clasped her
close to his bosom.
Again,like the bursting of a thunderstorm,
the cannons roared out their startling
detonations. Trumpets were sounding, in
exerv direction arose the noise and bustle of
soldiery making ready tor battle.
Cortes pressed one long kiss upon Pau
line's lips and rushed forth to do his duty,
leaving the dazed and trembling girl stand
ing in the middle of the room.
The fleet of the Compte ae Champmeslin
had sailed into the bay, and was pouring
broadside after broadside against the slight
works on the island, while, at the same
time, Bienville, at the head ot 600 men, was
hastening bv land to attack the fort on the
hill behind the town.
The Dona Hortense, very little excited
by an experience not in the least new to her,
came into the room and put her motherly
arms around Pauline. The girl returned
the caress with a fervcr born of the emotion
that was making a wild tumult in her
breast. To her every cannon shot, as it
hollowed and boomed, told a sweet story ot
hope and love. She fancied that it was
Louis Doucet's hand that was firing every
gun; she even imagined that sho could hear
his voice, vague and far, but clear and
sweet, above the general din, calling to her
to have courage.
"He is coming! He is here!" she cried,
with her head on the Dona's shonlder.
"Be quiet, my child," was the calm an
swer, "we cannot know what may be the
end of this."
They went to the window and looked out
to see the heavy ships drawing in toward
the town and firing as they came. The
Spanish fleet was at anchor close to the
mainland shore in such a position that its
funs were unavailable. Soon enough the
attery on the island was quite silenced.
while at the same time arose the sound of
guns and musketry in the direction of the
tort on the hill.
The Dnna recognized the battle yell of
the Indians who were fighting under Bien--ville.
She had heard that savage cry be
fore, and knew well its meaning.
"The Holy Virgin shield'us it they suc
ceed." she murmured, showing excitement
for the first time.
"Oh, but they must succeed, they .must
not tail !" cried Pauline. "And see! the
ships are taking down their colors the
French have won! Oh, Louis! Louis!"
In tne hysteria of her joy she turned and
ran oat of the house and down the little
(treat toward the strand.
Boats well manned were putting but from
the French vessels to come ashore. Mean
Jim fh' firing nHh f"rt on the h)IlWM
iiAa ,
THE PITTSBURG- DISPATCH?- -BCTNBAY? '-JWjZ
thick and heavy, and the Indian allies of
Bienville were making the air hideous with
their howling.
Pauline had rarely been abroad in Pensa
cola, and the streets, such as ther were,
were quite unfamiliar to her. She .had run
forth without any definite object in view,
though a vaguely outlined thought of 'find
ing Louis Doucet among the assailing sol
diers was certainly uppermost in her mind.
The Dona followed her, but so swiftly did
the fly she was soon out of sight.
"Oh, my poor, poor childl" wailed the
old woman, stopping all out of breath and
wringing her hands.
While she stood there Captain Cortes,
leading a small body of men, approached
her. The intrepid young officer, seeing that
his vessel must fall into the enemy's hands,
had hurried his crew into th.e small boats
and brought them ashore with a view to
taking possession of a small block-house in
the upper part of the town.
"You herel" he exclaimed, with the
blnntness and sternness of authority. "And
where is Mademoiselle Pauline?"
"She is gone I do not know where she
ran away Oh! Ohi" moaned the trembling
and weeping woman.
"Gone!" he echoed. "Gone! which way?
Where? Tell me be quick!"
Dona Hortense simply lifted her hands
and closed them over her ears, as if to shut
out the dreadful sounds of the fighting.
The earth seemed to rock and palpitate; the
air was sulphurous with the dritting films
of powder smoke.
"Yonder is the young lady," Exclaimed
one of the men, pointing with his cutlass.
Pauline was standing in the middle or the
little street apparently bewildered. Her
head Was bare and her long, bright hair was
floating on the wind. She was an apparition
to make a man forget battle and danger and
death. Cortes ran to her and laid his hand
on her arm.
"Mademoiselle," he said, very firmly, but
with infinite tenderness, "come with me'
Then he turned to bis men, and bidding
them follow, he started toward the block
house. Suddenly he thought of the Dona. Delay
was full of danger at the moment.bnt he
halted again and sent a man tobring the
old woman, who still stood weeping where
he had left her.
As the little company resumed its march
toward the blockhouse a great increase of
the din was observable up at the fort, and at
the same time a body of men came charging
down the street that ran from the hill to the
beach of the bay. This was a small detain
ment of French soldiers headed by a tall
young officer, who swung his sword around
his head and encouraged his followers by
the most vivacious example and spirit
Cortes saw that it was too late to reach the
blockhouse. He quickly put the women in
the rear and formed his men.
Pauline's eyes had seen and recognized
the young French leader.
"Ob, Louis! Louis!" Cortes heard her
cry out, "Here I am! Cornel Cornel"
Did the French officer also really hear
her? It appeared so, for with a loud shout
he leaped forward and hurled himself with
his men down upon the now closely mar
shaled Spaniards. In an instant had begun
a close and deadly struggle, a hand-to-hand
combat with sword and musket butt
CHAPTER IT.
Pauline found herself in the arms of her
watehful guardian, the Dona, who was
praying and crying at the same time. They
were rudely pressed backward by the recoil
of the men when the French detachment
struck them at full charge. There was a
'crash of blows and a volley of horrible oaths
mingled with cries of rage and pain. A
man came reeling out of the crowd and fell
at Pauline's feet, where he writhed for a
moment, with the blood leaping from a
wound in his neck, and died face downward
biting the sand of the street
The nearest house was a low, mud-daubed
structure, the rudest form of dwelling in
nse by the colonists. The dcor stood open
with the threshold on the level of the
ground. Into this dark room Dona Hor
tense pushed Pauline just in time to escape
a volley of pistol shots fired by a half dozen
of the Frenchmen. The Compte de Champ
meslin had run his ships in close to the
mainland, and now began raking the town
with broadsidesatsbortrange. Theballswent
bounding along the ground and tearing
through the frail buildings with that pecu
liar suggestion of resistless energy so well
remembered by every experienced soldier.
The roof overhead was shattered. Down
from a long, ragged, diagonal rent fell a
shower of boards and splinters.
"Holy Mary save.usl" prayed the Dona,
sinking upon her knees and lifting her
clenched hands.
Pauline, strange to say, felt no fear. From
the beginning she had been in that numb
and bewildered state which often comes upon
one in the midst of overwhelming danger.
She went to the doorway and looked out.
The combatants, French and Spanish, were
all mingled together fighting hand to hand
without regard for discipline or order.
Blows were falling thick and fast; swords
clashed with swords; clubbed blunderbusses
rose and fell with such, sounds as would,
under ordinary circumstances, sicken the
strongest heart She looked on possessed by
a subtile fascination, feeling little ot the
true horror of the occasion. With the
strange double power of the mind at such
times she was noting every detail of the
strnggle before her, whlie;at the same in
stant she remembered all the long series of
events by which she had been led to take
upon herself this life of incomparable ex
citement and danger. The vines and gar
dens of Provence with the roses and the
odors, the dear old days of love and
joy, the sunshine, the shade, the
moonlight on the dnsky orchards,
the church bells and all the sweet
incidents and accidents of home life, came
upon the field of her, vision and shimmered
before her, dream-like and yet so real, a fine
idealization of her girlhood's dearest ex
periences. Through the roar of cannon and
the clangor of swords, above the yelling of
wild savages and the oaths of Cbristians.she
heard the bubbling of the Rhone and the
mellow songs of the nightingales in the leafy,
odorous closes beyond the Avignon. Sweet
words that Louis Doucet had murmured in
her ear, the pressure of his hand, the be
trothal kiss, a thousand touches of sentiment
and of gentle romance thrilled her again.
And yet there were the pools of blood in the
street, red pools that slowly sank away into
the sand, and there were the fiercely strug
gling men trampling their dying fellows as
they iought. Strange that the fragrance of
the early autumn roses growing and blowing
in a neighborlngplot should have impressed
her senses at such a .time, but the sweet
breath came over the scene of terrible passion
and brought into her consciousness its touch
ot pleasure despite the awful strain of what
she was witnessing.
Louis Doucet and Captain Cortes met face
to face, and crossed srrords near the middle
of the little street The Spaniard knew his
man. Pauline's cry of recognition awhile
ago had told him who was the swift-footed
and handsome young leader of the French
detachment. As for Doucet, he knew noth
ing more than that an enemy worthy of his
steel was before bim. A voice that he had
heard a few moments before had seemed to
him to utter his name with a tweet tender
ness that recalled, in some strange way, the
homesickeess of his first year of absence
from France. It was no time for gentle re
flections now: the voice could notreallv
have called him, he thought, and the mere
flash of nostalgia passed as quickly as it
came. His sword rang sharp and clear on
that of Cortes. The two men glared at each
other, the ooncentrated hatred of yean of
war and hardship burning in their eyes.
The meaning of inch a look can never fall
short of deatn
They were well matched in every way,
Cortes was a trifle the taller, but Doucet ap
peared rather more compactly built than
his adversary. Both were sufficiently heated
by previous exertion to make their blood
twift and their muscles ready.
No'tlme was lost; the fight was desperate
from, the beginning, neither combatant at
first thinking of anything but rushing upon
and bearing down the other. Both. how.
'ever, discovered very toon that it was neces
sary to have a care for self-defense at well
as for attack. Thev fenced fnriontlv and
adroitly, neither giving an inch, utterly
.forjtfnl of wht wnspnlnponnronnd fhpm.
. . - ' - V
,&,.. t'. . ' A u'iJ1
"&aV SSiir.V. A'
Mi.PS
their whole souls focused, so to speak, in the
one desire to kill and, by killing, to live.
Cortes was aware that Pauline was near
by and probably looking on. The thought
in some way nerved him powerfully. She
should not see Louis Doucet vanquish him;
he would show her that a Spaniard for once
was superior to a-Frenchman.
Doucet had no such extra stimulus; but
his was an iron frame and his coolness and
courage needed no aid when a Spaniard
dared cross weapons with him. With the
dexterity drawn from long practice and
with the fierce fury of young tigers thirsting
for each other's blood, they struggled back
and forth and round and round, while their
companions, fighting quite as madly, swept
on down the street leaving them to occupy
the already corpse-cumbered and blood
stained ground. In those days soldiers of
the better class knew the use of the sword
and were over-proud of the knowledge.
Under the excitement and exhilaration 01 a
hand to hand combat the accomplished
swordsman always feels that his strength
is doubled; but the peculiar circumstances
attending the struggle between Cortes and
Doucet added immeasurably to this feeling.
Each found the other an antagonist whose
vigor and swiitness made every moment a
crisis and whose steadfast gaze caught in
advance every motion of wrist or "body.
Cortes, in what may be safely called a sub
conscious way, recalled in the midst of the
fight what he had said to Pauline about
sacrificing life and even his honor to serve
her. Strange that at the same time he
could see, by indirect vision, just beyond
Doucet a dead man lying on the sand in
the road. The face was upturned and dis
torted, the arms outstretched. Like a dark
shadow, shot across his brain the thought:
"Shall I soon be lying here in that con
dition?" It was not startling, it was more
like an idle waft of suggestion, gone as
soon as it came.
Both men became aware presently that
the cannonading has ceased and that the
rattle of musketry was no longer heard. A
great calm had lallen after the storm the
battle was over and the Spaniards to the
number of 1,800 had surrendered themselves
prisoners of war.
One Spaniard, however, was not yet con
quered; one Frenchman was still battling
lor victory,
CHAPTER V.
Louis Doucet was the better swordsman,
it appeared, when it came to the test of en
durance and steadfastness of attention. It
must have been that the knowledge of
Pauline's presence and the thoughts en
gendered by the probability that she was
witnessing the struggle somewhat distracted
the nerve of Cortes, or it may have been the
persistence of the dead man in lying there
in the sand in the line of hit vision, for he'
at last lost his guard and the quick, point of
Doucet's sword pierced his breast He
scarcely felt the wound, however, and
quickly springing back he recovered him
self and made' a furious rush upon his an
tagonist It was at this moment that Doncet'a eves
in some way caught a glimpse of Pauline's
face as she stood in the low, dark doorway
of the cabin. The glance cost him dear.
With the celerity of light the Spaniard's
blade found a bloody sheath.
Out irom the doorway sprang the young
girl, letting go a short wail and holding up
her white arms as she flung herself between
the bleeding men. The Dona followed,
calling upon the Virgin and laying hold of
Cortes with a desperate energy.
It was too late now to renew the fight for
loss of blood was making the limbs of
Cortes sink nnder him. He tirned blind
and fell upon the sand pale and motionless.
Pauline had but time to throw her arms
about her lover and call him by name whefi
he, too, sank down with the blood spurting
from his wound.
Bienville, accompanied by a number of
officers and a squad of soldiers for body
guard, came along the street a little later
and found the two women nursing the heads
of tne fallen men. He halted and made
some inquiries; then ordering a surgeon and
some attendants to remain and examine
further, he passed on, going to have a con
ference with the Compte de Champmeslin.
Dona Hortense begged . the surgeon to
order the bleeding men taken to her house.
She led the way, praying as she went.
Poor Pauline had tainted, and was borne
along in the arms of a stalwart soldier. It
was a strange procession moving through
the silent, storm-shattered town.
It is recorded that Louis Doucet and
Captain Cortes both recovered; but Doucet
was never afterward able to be a soldier,
iuouku ne iivcu tu ue a very uiu man. iie
and Pauline were married at Mobile by a
priest called Father Roman, and soon after
ward they returned to France and made
their home in Provence, amid the scenes of
their childhood, and in the very house made
holy to them by their betrothal. The legend
further says that their children numbered
11, 7 of which were sons; the others, pre
sumably, were girls.
The subsequent career of Captajn Cortes
is not certainly known, bnt in an old,
though not well authenticated, chronicle
preserved at Seville mention is made of an
officer of that name who, "after valiant
service in the Floridas and in many other
countries wherein he followed the Holy
Cross, was granted an estate in Mexico,
near by Vera Cruz, where he lived and
died unmarried, always true to his king and
to the Holy Church; and it was the pro
ceeds of his estate, bequeathed for the pur
pose, that built the Convent of the Sacred
Heart."
Recently, while sojourning in Pensacola,
I spent some golden April days, with the
record in my hand, trying to locate as near
as possible the exaot spot whereon Doucet
and Cortes fought and fell. If ever you
chance to visit that picturesque and charm
ing little city by the gulf it may please you
to walk up the main street toward the site of
the old fort on the hilt When you reach a
rather narrow, flower-fringed cross street
about half way on your journey, turn into
it to the right and go forward" until you
come to a small garden on the left On the
flank of this garden, or flower plot, you
will see a low, home-like, old-fashioned
cottage, over whose wide veranda
climbs a rose-vine of wonderful lux
uriance, heavy with masses of strange
ly fragrant roses. Standing on the
sidewalk nearly In front of this cottage,
turn your face toward the bay and let your
eye) seek and rest npon the tallest spire in
sight This done, let your gaze fall straight
down until it reaches tne ground some ten
yards in front of you.- That it the spot
Near by is a mulberry tree, a little beyond
stands a clump of oleander, with a hedge of
spirea and crape myrtle straggling away
from it You will feci the breeze from the
Buccaneer Islands blowing over yon, a
mocking bird will ting in the moss-hung
live oak yonder, the bay will glimmer and
toss its foaming waves and over all will
hang a sky as blue and pure as that ot
Provence itself.
One hundred and seventy years may not
be a large part of the past, but certainly
large enough to have compassed the growth
of the greatest nation of the earth. It in
telling this story I have preserved one in
cident of that history, surely the telling has
not been in vain. Such bits of romance
terve to show ns how far our civilization is
removed from that which molded the lives
and directed the loves of those whose for
tunes I have found it a pleasure to record.
TUB XXS.
Copyright, 18S9: all rights reserved.
Could Hot Afford a Hat.
Clothier and Fnrnliher. J
Dashaway I hope you'll excuse me for
saying it, Prettyman, but that hat yon have
on Is positively disreputable. Why in thun
der don't you get a new one?
Prettyman The fact if, old man, I can't
afford it By the way, come around to my
tailor's with, me, win yonr i. want to order
me a nut
Earilr Prof table.
Pnck.1
Misa Begreen I d
'ties how the ocean
.steamers can 'afford tojtrantport people inch
along djstance, andVboard them, too, at
such a low. price.
Mr. Pegreen (who Vhu beta' aoross)
Bard doesn't cost mudh. ' " .
n- -.
1889.
THE DIFFICULT TASK
Is
the One That is Always
Host Highly Begarded.
the
DAYID AND BETHLEHEM'S WELL
Eot. Georga Hodges Explains a Yery Im
portant Distinction.
A COMMON ATTE1BDTE OP GOD AND MAN
IWniTTEJf rOB THX DI6PATCn.:
It was in a time of war. David was fight
ing the Philistines. David and his men
held the rocky hills, and the Philistines
Were in the green valley. And one day
when the harvest sun was hot, and shade
was scanty, and the battle long and weari
some, David grew very thirsty. And he
thought, as thirsty people wtll, about. the
sweet taste of cool water. He remembered
a well at Bethlehem, beside the village
gate. He had played around it as a boy.
The trees grew near It, the winds blew over
it, and the clear water, deep in the rock,
was the coolest and sweetest in the world, to
David's taste.
He looked out over the tents of the enemy,
afar into the green valley, and he fancied
that he could almost see the little village,
with the well beside the gate. And he
spoke and said half to himself, "Oh, that
I had a drink of water from the
well of Bethlehem." And three men
heard him three stout soldiers of his army
and away they started for the well. The
whole host of thePhilistineslaybetween,nd
Bethlehem was the enemy's headquarters.
Nevertheless, these heroes made their way
through the entire army of the Philistines,
and got a cup o'f water from that well and
brought it back. It reads like a story of
the days of chivalry. And what dia David
do? He took the cup as if it were the chalice
in a sacrament, and poured the water rever
ently out upon the ground, like a libation
in a sacrifice. He would not drink it
"He would not drink thereof, but poured it
out unto the Lord."
. But why? It was the same water of
which David had drunk often and care
lessly. The look of it, the taste of it, had
not altered. If it had been analyzed no
chemical change would have been dis
covered. It was just a common cup of com
mon water. Again and again at Bethle
hem, beside the well, one friend and an
other had given David the same kind of
cup filled with the same kind of water, and
had offered it with the same gesture and
the same words. And he had never refused
it before.
THE DIFFEBENCE.
It was very good water, but it had never
occurred to him berore that there was any
thing sacred about it But now he could
not drink it. Now it was somehow
changed, consecrated, sacred. He could
only stand, thirsty as he was, and pour it
all out upon the ground, with tears in his
eyes. Why? Not because there was any
difference in the gift, but because there was
a difference unspeakable in the giver and
in the giving.
The story turns upon one of the universal
truths of human nature. A large part of
tne secret ot value It dimculty. Among
the hills of Switzerland the best gift which
a lover can give his lady is a sprig of edel
weiss. The edelweiss is not a particularly
beautiful flower, but it grows in particu
larly difficult plaoes. It takes long, hard
and dangerous climbing to get it, and so
it is a gift just as the cup of
water was which means something. It
means difficulty. The gift is consecrated
by the difficulty of the giving. These il
lustrations touch, it is true, the exceptional
tide of life, but the truth for which they
ttand holds good everywhere and every day.
For everyone of us, nnless we are -rery
selfish, the value of a gift depends upon the
love of the giver, and the love of the giver
is shown by the pains which he has been
willing to take to get the gift
Now. by studying the nature of man we
make discoveries about the nature of Ood.
God has, indeed, told us about Himself, but
always and of necessity in terms drawn
from our own experience. That is the only
language which we can understand. We
must by the constitution of our minds think
of God as the superlative of man, the posi
tive. We take the best in the nature of
man, and, multiplying it by infinity, gain
an idea of God.
AS IHFIN1TE TBUTH.
And so this truth about ourselves, is a
truth also, we may believe, about God.
Whatever we do easily does not greatly
please God. He thinks as little of it as we
do of easy and umimportant things done for
dr. It would displease Him it we were to
leave easy things undone. Because they
are so easy there is so much the more reason
for doing and not neglecting them. But we
are not to think that we have really done
anything for God, when we have done only
easy things. It is the hard things which
please God. Let me say that over again,
the whole message of the sermon is in that
sentence; It is the hard things which please
God.
The hard things please God not for their
own sake not because they are hard, that
was the mistake of the old ascetics. They
did a great many hard things under an im
pression that pain somehow pleased God;
that the more uncomfortable human life
could be made, the closer it approached to'
the ideal or me which uod had. It would
be a very hard thing to hold yonr hand in
one position, pressing the finger tips against
the palm, until the nails should grow
through the festered flesh. Bnt that would
not please God. There would be nothing
about such an act except its difficulty. It
would be a sign of nothing else but the per
severance and endurance and foolishness of
the doer. David would not have applauded
the heroes of that adventure, if they had
simply done that daring feat for the sake of
doing it. God does not want us to do hard
things just for the sake of doing them.
It is true that there is a good deal said in
the Bible about the difficulty of the Chris
tian life. We are promised tribulation.
We are told to beware when all things are
going smoothly and all men are speaking
well of us. We are assured that life is, as
the old Persian called it. the Path of the
Two Destinies: that the right side of the
path may be known by its excaeding nar
rowness and difficnlty. and by the small
number of the travelers upon it, and that
the easy and comfortable and popular side
of the path leads to a destiny from which
may God deliver us. We are reminded
that they only are worthy of their Master
who deny themselves and take up their
cross daily and follow Him.
SHE OEEAT ZXAVPIA
The central fact in the Christian religion
is the crucifixion of Christ, and the most
sacred symbol is the cross. The true Chris
tian life is full of difficulty. You remember
the beautiful and significant story of St
Martin's dream. A great light filled his
room, and a shining vision, as of the Christ,
stood beside the saint And he saw a glori
ous chariot of fire like that which carried
the old prophet from the banks of the river
Jordan to th,e fair borders of the River of
Life, and he heard a voice bidding him en
ter, for hit mother had come to take him
alo to the realms of joy. And St Martin,
lifting his foot to step into the chariot
looked at the heavenly vision of the Lord
Christ and look again, and drew back.
"Where is the print ot the nails?" he
said. For the hands were soft and fair.
There were no scan there of any pain.
"Where U the print of the niilt?"
And ' the vision vanished. It
was not the Christ, but the
fiend. Such a vision entices us a vision
of an easy Christian life, of a life unmarked
by any print of the nails of the cross. But
the vision is a lie. There is no place for
ease and self-indulgence in the Christian
life. The Christian life for every nuui and
woman who it honestly living it is full of
difficulty.
But this eleseat of difficulty andbere it
whatlaskynu to notioc-thls element of
4
ft-T
1
Bl.jiiiJtui.tSftj. i. " .f&.Afi.'Va.'"..-' '. . f.Ji . . .. 1 ... . .. a.4 ..
iWiMlrlrTlii'TTtaTHriniTrM 11 aLi 1 TaaW'iiMW i Ui'iliJi Til .-4j' t- iinfflWiJtiataji
difficulty is not one which God-has added in
any arbitrary way. God has not deliber
ately made the ideal. Christian life hard, as
a retreating army cuts down trees and flings
them across the path to impede the progress
of the pursuers. God doesn't pile up hard
things in our path, as the inquisitors laid
the redhot ploughshears in the way for the
Queen to walk over with bare feet o that
they could see whether she was good or not
NECESSAEr CONDITIONS.
No, the' difficulty is there in the nature of
things. The teacher doesn't insist upon all
the hard text books, out of any delight in
the toil of ihe scholar. The hard text books
are simply the necessary conditions of
knowledge. All those monotonous and
wearisome exercises which small fingers get
so tired ot are not appointed, as the little
players sometimes think, for the sake of
their difficnly, in order to make the study
of music hard. They are the necessary con
dition of learning music. The perplexing
conjugations of the German verbs were not
invented by the grammarian. They grow.
They a-e in the grammar because they are
in the language. They have to be mastered
not as a piece of mental labor,but as a neces
sary condition of understanding German
speech. Work, self-denial, perseverance,
are the necessary conditions of any kind of
success, just as climbing is the necessary
condition of getting to the top of a hill.
And the difficulties of the religious life
are only the necessary condition of follow
ing Christ and of obeying God. It is like
this: God wants us to love him. He wants
as to be loyal to Him. .He wants us to live
after a certain high ideal. But we cannot
be loving and loyal toward God or follow
this divine ideal withont doing hard
things, any more than we can learn without
studying or ascend a hill without climbing.
By nature we please ourselves. By nature
the lower part of ns masters the higher.
We must say "no." We must do hard
things if we will obey the will of God.
Gods will is so high that we cannot obey
it withont trying, and trving hard. It is
not easy to be loyal to God. The world, the
flesh and the devil get in between us and
every act of loyalty, as the Philistine army
stood between the hero and the well. Now
comes the test of loyalty. Are we loyal or
not? Are we loyal and loving enough to
fight onr way through these 'opposing forces
of the world, the flesh and the devil, and do
that loyal thing? If we are, then we show
God how much we love Him. The hard
things which we are willing to do in order
to obey Him testify to that
And for that reason, not for their own,
sake, but as conditions of all worthy living
simply as symbols of our law lor that
reason only, the hard things please our
Heavenly Father. God is not a taskmaster.
God js our dear loving Father. -He does
not like to see us staggering under burdens
and carrying crosses no, but He does like
to see us loyal to Him, desirous of pleasing
Him, eager to do for Him however hard the
deed. He doesn't want us to seek for hard
things to do, but he does want us, when the
hard things come in the way.bravelyand lov
inglv to do them. He likes to see our love,
and He sees it when we hold fast to our
loyalty and keep his word, and do His will
even in the midst of difficulty.
Geobge Hodges.
THE TELOCITY OP LIGHT.
We Sao the Stars as.Tbey.Were Three Years
A so.
The Touth'i Companion.
Light moves with the amazing velocity of
185,000 miles a second, a speed a million
timesas great as that ofariflebullet It would
make the circuit of the earth's circumfer
ence, at the equator, seven times in one beat
of the pendulum.
For a long time light was thought to be
instantaneous, but it is now known to have
a measurable velocity. The discovery was
first made by means of the eclipse of Jupi
ter's satellites.
Jupiter, like the earth, casts a thadow,
and when his moons pass through it they
are eclipsed, just as our moon is eclipsed
when passing through the earth's shadow.
Jupiter's shadow far surpasses in magni
tude that of the earth. His moons revolve
around him mnch more rapidly than our
moon revolves around the earth, and their
orbits are nearly in the plane of the planet's
orbit Consequently they all, with the ex
ception of the fourth and most distant
satellite, pass through the planet's shadow
and are eclipsed at every revolution.
Roemer, a Danish astronomer, made in
1675 some curious observations in regard to
the times ot the occurrence of these eclipses.
When Jupiter is nearest the earth, the
eclipses occur about 16 minutes earlier than
when he is most distant from the earth. The
difference in distance between the two points
is about 185,000,000 miles, the diameter or
the earth's orbit, or twice her distance from
the sun.
It takes light, therefore, 16 minutes to
traverse the diameter of the earth's orbit,
and half that time to span the distance be
tween the sun and the earth. Light is thus
shown to travel 185,000 miles in a second,
and to take eight minutes or more exactly,
500 seconds in coming from the sun to the
earth.
It follows that we do not see the sun until
eight minutes after sunrise, and that we do
see him eight minutes after sunset When
we look at a star we do not see the star as it
now is, but the star as it was several years
ago. It takes light three years to come to
us from the nearest star, and were it sud
denly blotted from the sky we should see it
shining there for three years to come.
There are other methods of finding the
velocity of light, but the satellites of Ju
piter firstrevealedits progressive movement
AB0OT EXPECTORATION.
Aside From Beta a FII1I17 Habit, It Eidaa
Cera the Health of Other People.
The Tooth's Companion.
Aside from its being an exceedingly filthy
habit the custom of free and careless expec
toration involves dangers to health which
are not generally understood, but which are
nevertheless in no sense fanciful.
It is well established that the poison of
certain diseases appears in the expectora
tion. The germs of consumption are known
to be minute, rod-like, vegetable bodies,
visible only by the aid of the most powerful
microscope. In the matter expectorated by
those afflicted with this disease the germs
are met witn in large numbers, ay experi
ment it has been determined that they are
very tenacious of life, and can be destroyed
only by certain flnids or by exposure to a
high temperature for a considerable length
of time.
It is easy to see, therefore, that if the ex
pectoration from the lungs is allowed to lie
exposed till it becomes dry, the germs will
be taken up and scattered abroad by the air
currents, and in this way a fruitful source
ol contagion will be provided.
Fortunately, most people in good health
remain unaffected by the germs which have
found entrance into the body. It is only
when the powers of resistance are weakened
by some defect of the constitution, or when
some unusually favorable opportunity for
infection has been given, that the poison
gains a mastery and produces disease.
When we consider that in a hall of mod
erate size, which ha been occupied by an
audience for an hour or more, there are mil
lions of germt of various kinds, tome of
which, under favorable conditions, are ca
pable of producing disease, then the wisdom
of such a provision of nature becomes ap
parent No doubt everyone hat felt a certain dis
gust at the hawking and spitting which is
met with to a greater or lest extent in all
publie places, and it is well fgr everyone to
know that there are excellent sanitary rea
sons for the observance of a rule which good
breeding and a care for the feelings of others
ought to be sufficient to enforce.
It is in the discovery of the real causes of
disease that we shall most surely find the
valuable ounce of prevention. If we must
expectorate, let us at least refrain frost
doing so, In publio places.
Bclf.DaaUI.
Philadelphia Frets.
lis easy to forget yourself
When notalae is at stake";
S vary hard, whaathtraUptlt,
And vabulm to aaka.
PiSTIMESJOLEffiT.
A Variety of Games in England for
AH Seasons of the Year.
CRICKET THE M0KARCE OF ALL.
Paper Chasing a Sport That Should ba
Imported to America.
SOME 7fil AKCIEXt INSTITUTIONS
1 wan-UK roit thi dispatch.'.
The games of the Britisher are many and
various. From the lowly chuck-farthing to
the lofty cricket, there are games the very
enumeration of which would cover whole
pages. I verily believe that our trans-Atlantic
brothers have a distinct pastime for
every day in the year. But of course only
a select few of these games merit considera
tion. Every season has its peculiar game
suitable to the climate; but it is only in the
great public schools that the precise order of
rotation is strictly observed.
In winter and early spring football reign
supreme. Most Americans know how foot
ball is played; many of them, no doubt,
have practiced it themselves. The foot
ballist dons a tight Jersey; knickerbockers
generally flannel, long stockings and stout
shoes. Thus equipped he joins his side
usually 15 in number, and doe his best ac
cording to his position on the field, to drive s
spherical leather ball through the coals. The
ball is about the size of a man's head, and
varies in shape. Those who play "Associa
tion" rules use a round ball, while the fol
lowers of the "Rugby" rules, by far tha
most popular in England and Ireland, pre
fer an oval one.
The main difference between the two
great sects into which the football world it
divided is, that the Rughy rules permit
their votaries to take up the ball with their
hands and carry it, while the association
rules forbid all touching or lifting with ths
hands. It would be impossible in my
allotted space to enter into the minutlo: of
of the great winter game. Suffice it, that
the amount of running about and the con
stant hard work which football engenders,
make it the warmest of gomes; while it ia
just sufficiently dangerous to make it dear
to the average youth.
RESEMBLES BASEBALL,
Before spring a. variety of games obtain
before cricket and tennis appear. Amon
these minor sports is one called "rounders,
which is almost exactly similar to baseball.
It is played at Eton and Harrow and in tha
great Jesuit colleges; but beyond school
walls it is little known. Racquets, hand
ball and fives, all played in high-walled
courts, are other spring games. The scor
ing of racquets is like that of tennis, and
the implements used are a wooden bat and
soft ball.
With summer comes cricket and the bis;
county clubs play matches and return
matches incessantly. The famous Aus
tralian team goes over every other year, and
generally manages to beat the mother coun
try into fits. The gentlemen of England
play the professional cricketers at "Lords"
the famous ground of the Midddlesez
Cricket Club; and this annual match vies
in interest with the Eton vs Harrow, and,
the Oxford vs Cambridge matches. The
three great cricketing counties in England
are Notts, York and Surrey, and one of
these is generally champion ot England.
In Ireland the cricket playing is alwaya
very fierce. The team sent over here
last year by the Emerald Islanders was not
by any means a representative one, inas
much as it was made up altogether of gen
tleman players, and contained not a singla
professional. The rules of cricket are too
well known over here to need any descrip
tion, and the same may be said anent lawn
tennis, the other creat summer eame.
Tennis is played in country places mnch.
more than cricket, because it requires but
two to pake a good match, while a really
good cricket match cannot be got up under'
11 a side.
QUITE A GAME.
It is all nonsense to call tennis a lady's
game. Of course ladies plav it, but when
two muscular specimens ot British human
ity stand on opposite sides of the net then
is quite as much exertion and quite as much
strength required for tennis as tor any other
game. Autumn brings football back ones
more, and it is played throughout the win
ter, except daring the weeks that ice pre
vails, when curling, hoctey and the various
ice games take its place.
There are a few pastimes indigenous to
particular portions of the British isles.
Among these may be mentioned burling
the national game of Ireland. Of old, high,
kings and mighty chiefs took part in hur
ling matches but now the sport is mostly
confined to the peasantry. I know of no"
finer sight than a determined hurling match.
There are generally some' SO men on each
side, and the game is played with long
sticks curved and thick at the extremity.and
a hard ball, in shape similar to a base ball.
Hnrling is a very dangerous game and few
players escape without severe bruises.
A kind of mounted hurling is polo, a garat
much played in military circles. The play
ers riding ponies specially trained, and
armed with long mallets, try to drive a
small white ball through their adversaries
goal. Polo is extremely risky, and in
volves great expense, as the ponies have .to
be changed over and over during the match.
Golf, which is a Scotch tgame, requires
good eye and some muscular power. I oaya
played it more than once, but could never
see any particular attraction in spending
one's time hitting balls in pits or hollow v
with slender and slightly curved sticks i
tuch being the principal part of the game,
A POPULAK PASTIME.
If paper-chasing can be called a game, it
is certainly one of the most popular. Two
swift runners, lightly clad, set out into tha
open country, laden with bags containing-torn-up
paper. These they scatter after
them at intervals as they run crossing
hedge and ditch, stream and fence on their
way. When the "hares," at they arei
called, have had a fair start, the "hounds"
pursue, following the trail of the scattered
papers. There may be any number of
"hounds" I have seen a field of 136 set
out on an eight-mile chase. I think this)
game would be peculiarly suitable to Amer
ican youth in the fall and the early spring.
Croquet once a popular game, is n
reckoned "slow" in England, and is playe&r
by old maids and country curates. The
ancient game of bowlsstill snrvivesin quiet
country inns, and on the close clipped,
village greens in the west of England.
Skittles and beer are, as they were in tha
days of Shakespeare, the dearest pleasure
of the Hodges of Southern England. They
will swill their beer or as wa would call
it "ale," and roll their wooden balls y
among the pint from early morn to dewy
eve. '
Quarters taff Is still preserved in Berk
shire and Wiltshire. It is played with two.'
oak cudgels, and the object of the .player.
is to raise a piece ot skin on his opponent's,'
crown. The moment blood appears the)
match la decided. But the list of minor
games would startle the reader with its
numbers; and the pastimes I have already
referred to are the only ones which are at all
widely distributed. The only English!
games proved to have been in existence ia
early times are football and bowls, while in''
Ireland hnrling is mentioned by the ancient
poets as early as 200 B. C.
One tact Is pretty certain, namely that 7
the English, Scotch or Irish boy need never '
be at a loss for a game.
Peseoscte QriUi,"
A Betort la Kind.
Amerlea.1
Apropos ol turned-up noses, in mors
senses than one, the American colony la
Paris hat a story of an airy parresee who,
to plain "Mrs. Jonathan Smith," added oa
her cards "nee JIontmorencL" One of
these she had occasUn to tend with soma
message to a grnfl old Englishman,, who
luatuBti:
CAPTAIN JOH JOXM,
wcmvwai
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