The weekly Oskaloosa herald. [volume] (Oskaloosa, Iowa) 1855-1885, 1873-12-04
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

! s'Let Cuba be Free"
|
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
One morning, as / was spassine
through Boston Common, which lies
between my home and my Office,
met a gentleman lounging along the
Mall. 1 am generally preoccupied
when walking, and often thread my
way through crowded streets with
out distinctly observing any one.
But this mans face forced itself up.
on me, and 9 singular face it was. His
eyes were faded, and his hair, which
ne wore long, was fiecked with gray.
His hair and eyes, if may say SO,
were sixty 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 excited in me the painful
suspicion that he had either got
somebody else's head or somebody
else's body. He was evidently an
American, at least so far as the up
per part of him was commemorative
New England cut of countenance /:
unmistakable-evidently man who
had seen something of the world, but
strangely young and old.
Before reaching the Park street
gate, l had taken up the thread OF
thought which he had uuconsciously
broken; yet throughout the day this
old man, with his wrinkled brow and
silvered locks, glided in like a phan
tom between me and my duties.
The next morning again encoun,
tered him on the Mall. He was rest
ing lazily on the green rails, watch,
ing two little sloops in distress,
which two ragged ship owners had
consigned to the mimic perils of the
oond. The vessels lay becalmed in
the middle of the ocean, displaying a
tantalizing lack ofsympathy with the
frantic helplessness OF the owners on
shore. AS the gentleman observed
their dilemma a strange light came
into his faded eyes, then died out
leaving them drearier than before.
I wondered if 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.
"That man has a story, and
should like to hear it," said aloud
hating in one of those winding
paths which branch off from the pas
toral quietness of the pond, and end
in the rush and tumult OF fremont
street.
"Would you ?" exclaimed voice
at my side. turned and faced Mr.
H, neighbor of mine, who laugh
ed heartily at finding me talking tc
myself. "Well," he added, reflect
ingly, "I can tell you this mans
story, and if you will match the mar
rative with anything as curious,
shall be glad to hear it"
"You know him then?"
eyes and no. That is to say,
do not know him personally; but
know a singular passage in his life
happened to be in Paris when ne
was buried.
"Buried !"
"Well, strictly speaking, not buri
ed, but something quite like
it. If you have spare hall
hour" continued my friend, eve will
sit on this bench, and l will tell you
all l know of an affair that made
some noise in Paris a couple years
ago. The gentleman himself, stand,
ing yonder, will serve as sort OF
frontispiece to the romance,-a full
page illustration, as it were."
The following pages contain the
story which Mr.. H-related to
me. While he was telling it, gen,
tie wind arose; the miniature sloops
drifted teebly about the ocean /; the
wretched owners few from point to
point, as the deceptive breeze prom
isei to watt the barks to either
shore the early robins thrilled now
and then from the newly-fringed
elms and the old young man leaned
on a rail in the sunshine. little dream
ing that two gossips were discussing
his affairs within twenty yards ol
him.
Three people were sitting in g
chamber whose one large window
overlooked the Place Vendome. M
Dorine, with his back half turned or
the other two occupants of the de
partment, was reading the Journa.
des De6ats in an alcove, pausing from
time to time to wipe his glasses, and
taking scrupulous pains not to glance
toward the lounge at his right, or
which was seated Mile. Dorine and a
young Amer can gentleman, whose
handsome face frankly told his posi-
ton in the family. There was not q
happier man in Paris that afternoon
than Philip Wentworth. Life had
become 30 delicious to him that be
had shrunk from looking beyond TO-
day. What could the future add to
his full heart? What might it no,
take away The deepest joy has al
ways something of melancholy in it.
a presentiment, fleetlng sadness, a
feeling without a name. Wentworth
was conscious OF this subtle shadow
that night, when he rose from the
lounge and thoughtfully held Julia.
hand to his lips for a moment be
tore parting.
M. Dorine laid down his paper and
came forward. "If the house," he
said, sis such as M. Cherbonnear
describes it, / advise yeu to close with
him at once. l would ACCOMPANY
you, Philip, but the truth is, l am toe
sad at losing this little bird to assis
in securing cage for her. Remem
ber the last train for town leaves a
five. Be sure not to miss it, for W.
have seats at Sardou's new comedy
tomorrow night. BY Tomorrow
he added laughingly,. ''little Julis
here will be an old lady-it is sucf
an age from now till then"
The next morning the train Dor,
Philip to one of the loveliest spotl
within thirty miles of Paris. Al
hours walk through green laneI
hrOu 0ht-him tn M Cherbonneau,a es