Litchfield enquirer., 1867-08-01
Hlisfellaup.
From the Atlantic Monthly 4 STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

From the Atlantic Monthly.
 A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
 One morning last April, as was passing through Boston Common, which lies pleas antly between my residence and my office, met a gentleman lounging along The Mall. am generally preoccupied when walking, and often thread my way through wing single soul. But this mans face forced itself upon me, and a very singular face it was: His eyes were faded, and his hair, which he wore long, was fecked with gray. His hair and eyes. if I may say so, were seventy years old, the rest of him not thirty. The youshf llne3s 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,- n,-the New England cut of coun- tenance is unmistakeable,- evidently a 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 nnconsciously broken; yet through out the day this old young man, with his unwrinkled brow ana silvered locks, glided in like phantom between me and my d1l- ties
 The next morning again encountered him on The Mall. He was resting lazily on the green rails, watching to little sloops Tn al stress, which two ragged ship owners had cons gned two the mimic lerils of the Pond. The vessels lay becalmed in the middle of the o;ean, ,di splaylng atantaizing lack of sympathy with the frantic helpless ness of the owners on shore. As the gen. tleman observed their dilemma, light came into his faded eyes, then died out leaving them drearier than before. won dered ii he too, in his time, had sent out ships that drifted and drifted and never came to port; and if these poor toys were to him types of his own losses.
 "I would like to know that man s story" l said, half aloud, halting 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 MT. H., a neighbor of mine, who laughed heartily at finding me talking to myself. ''Well," he added, refectively, "I can tell you this mans sto- ry; and if you will match the narrative with anything as curious, I shall be glad to hear it..
 ''You know him then?"
 "Yes and no. happened to be in Paris when he was buried"
 ''Buriedr'
 "Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but something quite like it. If you've a spare half hour," continued my interlocu- tor, "weQ sit on this bench, and I will tell you all know of an affair that made some noise in Paris couple of years ago. The gentleman himself, standing wonder, will serve as asort of frontispiece to the romance "a full-page illustration as it were'
 The following pages contain the story that MT. H. related to me. While he was telling it a gentle wind arose; the minia- ture sloops drifted feebly about the ocean the wretched owners flew from point to point as the deceptive breeze promised to wait the barks to either shore; the early robins trilled now and then from the newly fringed elms; and the old oung man lean ed on the rail in the sunshine. wearilv. little dreaming that two gossips were dis cussing his affairs within twenty yards of him.
 Three people were sitting in chamber whose one large window overlooked the Place Fendome. M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the other two occupa ts of the apartment, was reading the Moniteur' pausing from time to time to wipe his glas- ses, and taking scrupulous pains not to glance towards the lounge at his right, on which was seated Mademoiselle Dorine and a young American gentleman, whose hand some face rather frankly told his position in the family. There was not a happier man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life had become so delicious ! to him that he shrunk from looking beyond to-day, What could the future addto his full heart? What might 1t not take away? In certain natures the deepest joy has al- ways something of melancholy in it, pre- sentiment, feeting sadness, a feeling without name. Wentworth was con scious of this subtle shadow that night when he rose from the lounge, and thought fully held Julie's hand to his lip for mo- ment before parting. A careless observer would not have thought him, as he was. the happiest man in Paris
 M. Dorine laid down his paper and came forward. eff the house,'' he said. .sis such as M. Martin describes it, I advise you to close with him at once would ac- company you, Philip. but the truth is, am too sad at losing this little bird to assist you Tn selecting cage for her. Remem- Der, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss it; for we have seats for M. Sardou's new comedy tomorrow night. By tomorrow night,'' he added laughingly, ''little Julia here will be an old lady-'tis such an age from now until ! then" ---'Z
 The next morning the train bore Phil;r to one of the loveliest spots within thirty miles of Paris. An hours walk through green lanes brought him to M Martin estate. In kind of dream the young man wandered from room to room, inspec ted the conservatory, the stables, the lawns the strip ot woodland through which a mer ry brook sang to itself continually; and after dining with M. Martin, completed the purchase, and turned his steps towards the station. just in time to catch the ex press train. ---
 As Paris stretched out before him, witl its million lights twinkling in the early dusk, and it's sharp spires here and there pricking the sky, it seemed to Philip as il years had elapsed since he left the city On reaching Paris he drove to his hotel, where he found several letters lying on the table. He did not trouble himself even to glance at their superscnptions as he threw