The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1867-11-01
Misreltaneous.
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

ONE morning last April, as was pass
ing through Boston Common, which
lies pleasantly between my residence
and my office, met a gentleman loung.
ing along The Mall. ] am generally
preoccupied when walking, and often
thread my way through crowded streets
without distinctly observing single
soul. But this mans face forced itself
upon me, and very singular face 1t
was. His eyes were faded, and his hair,
which he wore long, was flecked with
gray. His hair and eyes, if may say
so, were seventy years old, the rest of
him not thirty. The youthfulness of
his figure, the elasticity of his gait, and
the venerable appearance of his head,
were incongruities that drew more than
one pair of curious eyes toward him.
He was evidently an American, the
New England cut of countenance is un-
mistakable,-evidently man who had
seen something of the world; but
strangely old and young.
Before reaching the Park Street gate,
| had taken up the thread of thought
which he had unconsciously broken !;
yet throughout the day this old young
man, with his unwrinkled brow and
silvered locks, glided in like phantom
between me and my duties.
The next morning l again encounter
ed him on The Mall. He was resting
Io 1;l,, an tho rrnan ro;l, ,y,toh;n, tu,o
little sloops in distress, which two rag
ged ship-owners had consigned to the
mimic perils of the Pond. The vessels
lay becalmed in the middle of the ocean,
displaying tantalizing lack Of SYM
pathy with the frantic helplessness OF
the owners on shore. AS the gentleman
observed their dilemma, light came
into his faded eyes, then died out, leav-
ing them drearier than before. won.
dered ifhe, too, in his time, had sent
out ships that drifted and drifted and
never came to port; and if these pooi
toys were to him types of his own los
seS.
81 would like to know that man.
story" said, half aloud, haIting in one
of those winding paths which branch
off from the quietness of the Pond, and
end in the rush and tumult of fremont
Street.
"Would you?" replied voice at my
side. turned and faced Mr.. II
a neighbor of mine, who laughed heart
lily at finding me talking to myself
"Well," he added, reflectingly, 81 can
tell you this mans story; and if you
will match the narrative with anything
as curious, shall be glad to hear it,"
"Iou know him them"
eyes and no. | happened to be in
Paris when he was buried"
"Buried ~
"Well, strictly speaking, not buried
but something quite like it. If you've
a spare half-hour," continued my inter
locutor, "We'll sit on this bench, and
will tell you all know of an affair that
made some noise in Paris couple OF
years ago. The gentleman himself,
standing yonder, will serve as sort OF
|
illustration, as it were."
The following pages contain the story
that Mr.. H-related to me. While
he was telling it, a gentle wind arose;
the miniature sloops drifted feebly about
the ocean the wretched owners flew
from point to point, as the deceptive
breezes promised to watt the barks to
either shore; the early robins trilled
now and then from the newly fringed
elms; and the old young man leaned
on the rail in the sunshine, YEARLY, lit
tie dreaming that two gossips were dis
cusSing his affairs within twenty yards
of him.
Three people were sitting in Ia cham
Der whose one large window overlook.
ed the Place Vendome. NJ. Dorine
with his back half turned on the other
two occupants of the apartment, wa:
reading the Monitelr, pausing from
time to time to wipe his glasses, and
taking scrupulous pains not to glance
towards the lounge at his right, OF
which were seated Mademoiselle Dorin'
and young American gentleman
whose handsome face rather frankly
told his position in the family. Ther'
was not happier man in Paris that af
ternoon than Philip Wentworth. Lif
had become so delicious to him that h
shrunk from looking beyond to-day
What could the future add to his ful
heart? what might it not take away
In certain natures the deepest joy ha
always something of melancholy in il
presentiment, tleeting sadness,
feeling without name. Wentworth
was conscious of this subtitle shadow
that night, when he rose from tn
lounge, and thoughtfully held Julie
hand to his lip for moment belor
parting. a careless observer would no
have thought him, rs he was, the hal
piest man in Paris.
NJ. Dorine laid down his paper an
came forward. "If the house," he sale
sis such as NJ. Martin describes it, ! nc
wise YOU to close with him ut once.
would accompany you, Philip, bu
the truth is, am too sad ut losing th
little bird to assist you in selecting
cage for her. Remember, the last trai
: for town leaves ut five. BE sure not
miss il for we have seats for NJ. Sa
dou's new comedy tomorrow nigh
BY tomorrow night" he added laugl
ingly, "little Julie here will be an oil
lady IT is such an age from now unit