: SUP jiili fiH
VOL. XU1. NEW BLOOMFI153L.D, JEJ.t TUESDAY, JULY 8, 1879. NO. 28.
THE TIMES.
In Independent Famllj Newspaper,
18 PUBLISHED IVBRY TUBSDAY BT
F. MORTIMER & CO.
BUBSCnil'XIUN PltlUE.
(wrrms thb couhtt.)
One Year 1 2
Six Months, 76
(OUT OF THB COCNTT.)
One Year, (Postaee Included) $150
Six Mouths, (Postage Included) 85
Invariably In Advance I
Advertising rates (urnislied upon appll.
cation.
geledt Poeti'y.
THE LOOM OF LIFE.
All day, all night, I can hear the Jar
Of the loom of life, and sear and far
It thrills with its deep and mu tiled sound,
As tireless the wheels go always round.
Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom,
In the light of day and the midnight's gloom,
The wheels are turning early and late,
And the woof Is wound In the warp of Fate .
Click, clack I there's a thread oflove woven In (
Click, clack I another of wrong and sin !
What a checkered thing this life will be,
When we see it unrolled In eternity.
T Ime, with a face like mystery,
And hands as busy as hands can be,
Bits at the loom with arms outspread,
To catch in Its meshes each glancing thread.
When shall this wonderful web be donet
In a thousand years, perhaps, or one,
Or to-morrow. Who knoweth t Not you or 1 1
But the wheels tnrn on and the shuttles fly.
Ah, sad-eyed weavers, the years are slow,
But each one is nearear the end I know j
And some day the last thread shall be woven in,
God grant It be love instead of sin.
Are we spinners of wool in this llfe-wcb say?
Do we furnish the weaver's a thread each dayl
It were better, then, oh my friends, to spin
A beautiful thread than a thread of sin.
THE STREET SINGER.
ABOUT a century ago tbere lodged in
two very small, badly furnished
second floor rooms in Cornaby street,
Golden Square, London, a middle-aged
German musician named Bernhard Dil
linger, and his daughter Bertha.
He had resided in England for several
years, and, until stricken down by
paralysis nine months previous to the
opening of this tale, he had held an en
gagement as one of the repiano vio
lins in the orchestra of Her Majesty's
Theatre, which at that time was the
only Italian Opera House in London.
The two rooms which they inhabited
were.though remarkably clean and tidy,
wretchedly bare of furniture ; for dur
ing his long and disastrous illness every
available thing they had formerly pos
sessed had been sold at a sore sacrifice
from time to time to provide daily bread
and supply 'medical necessities for the
helpless invalid.
Poor Bertha I There was nothing
literally nothing whatever in their
rooms on which she could raise a single
penny. Two common rush bottom
chairs, a deal table, the truckle bedstead
with IIh coarse mattress on which her
father lay, and an old guitar that hung
on the wall, constituted all the furniture
that now remained to them. Even her
own little couch, which stood in the
outer room, she had, unknown to him,
sold a fortnight before to procure food
and pay a month's rent to their stern
laudlady ; and she had slept upon the
hard boards ever since.
As she sat toasting the last morsel of
6tale bread, which, with a cup of weak
tea, was to form her father's last meal
' for the day, she might well be pardoned
if she gave way to feelings of utter de
spair. She had hitherto borne her burthen
bravely ; and though, through all the
long tedious months "that had worn
their dreary course along since he was
stricken down, she had scarcely ever
left his bedside, but sat hour after hour,
day after day, week after week, cheer
ful, and apparently content ; she now
felt herself sinking under the complete
hopelessness of their future prospects.
She pressed her poor little thin hands
convulsively to her forehead and wept
bitterly.
But she was not one of those shallow,
weak-minded girls who allow themselves
to be totally overwhelmed. She had
served a long apprenticeship iii the grim
school of adversity ; and now, though
her tears still flowed fast, she eat down
to reflect as calmly as she could, as to
how the "duily bread" was to be pro
vided for the morrow. '
After a moment these thoughts were
Interrupted by the tremulous accents of
her father.
" Bertha, darling, I feel half inclined
to sleep ; go to your pianoforte and sing
me that sweet song of Weber's that I
so much love ; it will lull me to rest."
" You forget, father dear, that our
piano is Is disposed of."
" Eh ? disposed of, child ?-ah I true I
true I I did not remember it. I recol
lect now. But you still have your poor
mother's guitar; you have not parted
with that? I always strictly forbade
you parting with it I No; I see you .
have not. There it hangs in its old fa
miliar place on the wall."
"Yes, father; I myself would rather
starve than to part with this last relio
which we possess of my beloved moth
ed ; and of those dear old times we
were all so happy!" said she, taking
the Instrument down from the wall, and
tuning it with a precision and truth of
intonation that betokened a thoroughly
practised hand. .
" Which song of Weber's am I to
sing? You love them all, you know."
" I do I do. Sing me the one which
I adapted to Lord Byron's beautiful
words ; the ' Farewell' one, I mean."
And she commenced the short sym
phony of the "Farewell" song, and
managed the necessary variations in the
accompaniment and got out the light
and shade of all the main effects so ad
mirably, while watching her father's
poor withered hand unconsciously beat
ing time on the old gray duflle dressing
gown ; and sang the words In a fine
mezzo-soprana voice with so much ex
pression that It seemed as If Bernhard
Dilllnger's prophecies about her future
celebrity would turn out to be no Idle
dream.
At the end of the song she found him
fast asleep, with a smile upon the rug
ged old face that absolutely made him
look young again.
She laid her guitar down again on the
old deal table, rose softly, and gazed on
his calm and apparently pleasant b1 um
ber with ineffable fondness kissed him
with a scarcely perceptible touch on his
lips, and again sat down by the cold
fireside to reflect on the best means of
procuring a crust of bread, if nothing
else, for the next morning's breakfast.
There seemed but one way. Although
It might expose her to unspeakable per
sonal discomfit to degradation in the
eyes of the world there was nothing
dishonest In it; she would put It in prac
tice that very evening. . .
It was neither more or lesB than this :
She would take her guitar and go into
some quiet respectable street in which
there were old fashioned gentlemen's
houses and sing one or two of her Ger
man songs, and trust to providence for
something from the residents.
Her father scarcely ever woke for
some hours after this parting of the eye
ing ; and even if he did, he would only
think she had gone to get some neces
sary provisions for the morrow.
She made her way at first towards
Oxford street, and soon found herself
near to Portland Chapel, two or three
doors from which she noticed several
good private houses on the right band
side that she thought would perhaps
answer her purpose.
One of these had lights In the parlor,
. and they all looked as if they belonged
to well to do occupants.
The street happened at that moment
to be unusually quiet. There was no one
passing as she brought out her guitar
from beneath her mantle and took her
station in the road, close to the curb
stone, immediately in frontof the house.
Her father had appeared so pleased with
her improvised accompaniment to the
song which she had Just sung to him
before she left home, that she re
solved to commence with it, and though
she felt no little tremor as she struck a
few preluding chords, yet that soon wore
off, and before she bad finished the
short symphony which led into the
song, both hand and voice were as steady
as if she had been singing to her poor
father in the second floor back.
When she had finished the first verse
of the song, she found that a little au
dience of ten or twelve persons had
gathered rouud ; and, much to her se
cret delight, she received one or two
gifts of six pence, and three or four of
more. She noticed, too, that the parlor
window of the house before whroh she
stood had just been gently raised a few
Inches, as If to enable Its occupants to
hear more distinctly, and this gave her
hope of a somewhat larger contribu
tion. And at this moment, although she
knew It not, came the crisis of her fate.
The door opened, and a pleasant look
ing old servant In brown livery came up
to her, with a request to walk In, as his
master wished to speak to her.
Much to the disappointment of her
small audience, who had hoped to hear
at least another song, she, after a mo
ment's hesitation, followed hlm,and was
ushered into the back parlor, where she
found two gentleman evidently waiting
to receive her.
One of them was a rather short, some
what gray-headed, spruce, dapper little
man who wore (even then) old fashion
ed drab-colored knee-breeches, and long
gaiters to match. He spoke, for the
most part, through his nose, with a de
cided snuffle.
The other was taller and dressed in
black, in much more modern fash
ion. He was remarkably thin, had high
cheek bones, the flesh of which had
fallen in, and, with his prominent Bo
man nose and pale face, this gave him
a melancholy and almost unearthly as
pect. His eyes also were unnaturally
bright, and altogether he looked, alas I
as If destined for an early grave.
" H'm !" said the little gentleman In
the drab breeches and gaiters, eyeing her
narrowly through his gold spectacles,
taking an enormous pinch of snuff from
a large silver box which he unearthed
from his waistcoat pocket, " h'm I sit
down, please."
" Thank you, sir," said Bertha, sit.
ting down, and placing her guitar on
the table beside her.
" H'm 1" said he,taklng another enor
mous pinch of snuff, and peering at her
through his gold spectacles more closely
than ever," you sing very well too well
for a strolling street singer; but how
came you to single my house out, of all
the thousands of houses in London, for
a display of your vocal capabilities ?
H'm!"
" Sir, I came into this street by the
merest chance. I know nothing of you,
or your house ; and as from your man
ner I cannot but conclude that my Blng
ing has been distasteful to you, I will
relieve you of my presence, and depend
upon It, I will not come near your
house again!" and so saying, she rose,
took up her guitar, and turned to de
part. " H'm!" (this was a more satisfac
tory grunt, but there was still a strong
flavor of doubt In It.) " Stay, stay ! my
good girl ; I did not mean to offend you :
but, Btill, are you quite sure that you
didn't know who lived here?"
"Quite sure, sir! I don't think that I
was ever in this street before In my
life."
"H'm!"
Satisfaction increasing greatly..
" You are not an English girl !"
" My mother was English; my father
is a German."
"H'm!"
This was a long, thoughtful grunt.
" You have been taught to sing ?"
" I have, sir."
" Who taught you ?"
" My father, sir."
" Is he a musician V"
" He is, sir."
"A singer V"
" Not a publlo singer, sir."
"What then?"
" A professor of the violin and piano
forte." " H'm
A still more satisfactory grunt.
" And you play the piano ?"
" I well, yes I may venture to say
that I do."
"Very well, there's an instrument
over there ; will you oblige me by let
ting us hear you V"
" I cannot decline, sir."
The tide was running rapidly, and it
looked amazingly like fine weather
for the little dapper man rose up with
embarrassment, opened a splendid
" grand" which stood beside the back
window, drew out the music-stool, and
turned it up to what he conceived would
be the proper height, and theu courte
ously motioned Bertha to take a seat.
"What on earth will this end In!"
murmured she to herself, as she swept
her fingers over the keys of the niagnlfl
cent Instrument, and broke into one of
Weber's waltzes.
Again Weber always Weber! how
did this come to pass ?
" It came to pass because her father
had really and truly taught her scarcely
anything else. He had grounded her
thoroughly in the scales, and placed all
sorts of practical exercises before her ;
but when It came to anything beyond
that, it was Weber, Weber, Weber I
Almost always Carl Maria Weber I She
knew nearly the whole of his work by
heart, and placed them as they ought to
be played. Nothing more need be said.
"H'ml"
This grunt now expressed unbounded
satisfaction.
" You sing well, you play well you're
a musician ; you know your business.
Now, I am Sir George Smart, director
of the music at Convent Garden Thea
tre, at the Oratorios, and many other
places besides. And If you can give me
proof that you are a respectable young
woman, "and place yourself under my
care and tutelage I'll bring you out, and
make your fortune."
Poor Bertha was fairly staggered at
this announcement. The realization of
such a prospect would bring back com
fort, and perhaps, even health, to her
dear father. She could hardly believe
that it was not all a dream.
But what had become of the bright
eyed, emaciated and cadaverous-looking
Roman-nosed gentleman during all this
time ?'
He had sat In the corner by the fire,
closely observant of all that passed, and
had not spoken a word.
But he now rose slowly, and appar
ently with some difficulty, from his seat,
and in very broken English, with strong
German accent, said to her:
" Your fader is German 1"
Bertha, who from the pronunciation
of the word father, found that she was
speaking to one of her own countrymen,
immediately answered :
" Ja, mein Herr."
And the conversation that ensued be
tween them was thenceforth carried on
in their native tongue. It was to the
following effect :
" You have been taught music only by
your father V"
"Only by him sir."
" Both to sing and also to play the piano-forte
V"
"Yes.Blr."
" You never had any other instruc
tor V"
" Except for my guitar. My poor
mother taught me that."
" Do you play on any other instru
ment?" " A little on the violin, but not much.
My father insisted that I should learn it
to a certain extent, In order to keep my
ear in tune."
"Aha! What age are you ?"
"I am twenty-two, sir." ,
" And how long have you been sing
ing about the streets ?"
" To-night is the first, sir."
" May I ask what caused you to take
such a step ?"
" Sir, my father is helplessly stricken
down with paralysis ; we are penniless ;
and I did it unknown to him to provide
food for to-morrow."
" And where do you live ?"
" I live with my father in Carnaby
street, Golden Square."
" And what Is your name ?"
" Bertha Vllllnger."
" Vllllnger ?"
" Yes, sir."
" Vllllnger; what la your father's
christian name?"
The question was put with great eager
ness, and no little agitation.
" Bernhard Vllllnger."
" My God ! It Is surely he 1 "It U my
old friend whom I have not seen for
years; he Is a violinist?"
"He is, sir ; he was a member of the
orchestra of Her Majesty's Theatre until
this sad dispensation of Providence dis
abled him."
" It Is the same it is the same ! I am
sure of it. Sir George this is a country
woman of mine; and I believe her fath
er is a very old friend of whom I have
lost sight so many years. I must claim
the first right to eee to their future wel
fare!" "H'm! very well very well! But
anything I can do for them, I'm sure I
shall be delighted to-"
"No, no! many thanks, but no! I
have your address, my child, and I will
call on your father to-morrow early, and
make arrangements for your future well
doing; meantime take this, and spare
no expense in making your poor father
comfortable and happy."
And, thus saying, be placed in her
hand a purse which must have contain
ed at least ten sovereigns.
" Oh, sir," said Bertha, scarcely able
to speak, " how can I find words to ex
press my gratitude!"
" Nay, nay, my child, say no more, I
entreat."
" At least let me have the pleasure of
conveying to my father this night the
name of the friend who has thus gener
ously assisted us!"
"Never mind that to-night, to-morrow
when I see him you shall be told."
Banged Hair or Idiotic Fringe.
TO our sight, there Is nothing sadder
than a sane woman with her hair
banged.
A lunatic might be excused for such an
erratic style of hair dressing, but how a
woman In the full possession of her
faculties, and with the knowledge that
she has a chaiacter to keep up, can
wear her hair banged, is to us, a pro
found mystery.
From whence came the style ? What
originated it ? Who set it afloat? No
body on earth can say truthfully that
It is beautiful. We have never heard
that it was healthy. We never heard
of its curing the liver complaint, or the
rheumatism. It does not render any
one more liable to draw a prize In a
lottery. It does not insure wearer against
being drowned, or struck by light
ning, or bored by sewing machine
agents.
It does not make a tall woman look
shorter, or a short one taller, or a fat
one leaner, and if it is becoming to any
human face, then 1 the face has escaped
our notice!
It will metamorphose the prettiest girl
of our acquaintance into a monstrosity,
and for its effects on a plain woman !
may the saints deliver us from seeing
It!
It sets our teeth on edge ! It im
parts to the average female face the
most discouraged, woe-begone, done-for
generally expression, we have ever seen
as if the person had played her last
card, got euchred, and was ready to sell
out cheap to the first purchaser.
Just Imagine Lady Washington with
her hair banged ! Think of Barbara
Fritchle, waving the flag in Stonewall
Jackson's face, with her hair banged !
Picture to yourself Joan of Arc leading
her troops to victory with her hair
banged !
A woman in this style of hair arrange
ment resembles a Shetland pony, which
has been well groomed, ana which is in
doubt and uncertainty, as if she felt a
little anxious lest the thatch on her
forehead might not be securely fastened,
or that It suddenly might go back on
her, and show something which ought
not to beeen.
We always commiserate the women
whose hair is hanged. We feel like ask
ing her if there is anything we can do
for her. She appears to us like a wo
man in trouble. We speak softly to.her
as if ordinary tones might jar on her
nerves. We wouldn't otter her a sub
scription paper for the world ! Nc be
glad if anybody trod on the tail sf, her
dress, or squirted tobacco juice tin, her
velvet mantle.
We look at her and wonder bora she
would seem with that mask taken off
her forehead. We wonder if she has got
moth patches on her temples, or, a mole
on her classio brow, or a 'cowlick,"
or a colony of pimples &nd. " black
heads." Her forehead is ta ua. as pro
found a mystery as fortune-tailing, or
psychomancy, or materialization ; and
we get so full of doult over it that we
would give half a dollar to se th fringe
lifted, and what is usder, it brought
forth to light of day.
We wonder if she admires, herself In
the glass ? If she thinks bangs are be
witching ? If she never wishes she had
not cut that hair off; and so condemned
herself to wear her hair, that way, willy,
Hilly? Does her husband, admire it?
Does be never Bneer at it behind his
newspaper.? Does, be ever tell her he
wishes she bad as pretty a forehead as
Miss Smith? Does he ever call her an
angel, and think to himself how au an
gel would look, in bangs ?
But there 1 what is the use of conjee
turlng ? Fashion is omnipotent ; so is
folly ; and we douM that somewhere in
this world, to-day, somebody Is saying,
" Bu.ojs.nr to, looming '."