The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1881-09-22

hastsned away. All, Sophie, there we're
tears in my eyes as ! gazed after the poor
fellowl
THE sAMETo TEE SAME.
85 MGy.-Itis some time since have writ
ten to you. and hardly know how to be-
gin. What have to say is at once so
strange, SO melancholy, and so ridiculous,
that 1 scarcely know whether you will be
touched or amused. believe I have al
Aubain, our parish priest. He is good
looking. well-edueated. and gentleman.
You eanrot wonder, then, that found his
society agreeable in this stupid place. Per
haps, too, the coquetry which you insist is
part OF my nature, and for which you often
scold me, had something to do with it. At
all events an intimacy sprung up between
us--l think see your eyes opening; 1
+ think / hear you say aJuiie!" Be not
alarmed, my dear Sophie; nothing has oc-
curved which is uniting to the fathers sa-
cred calling. But he bscame confidential,
and often introduced the subject Of his
still did it. And one day discovered
that he had ceased to care for her. 81 Bust
ness had called him to Mines. where lie
saw her. He told me, without emotion, that
she had grown stout, and had several chill
dren. And then he is so thoughtful in adj
vising me-. He knows Henry like book
He is a more impartial adviser than you,
for you think that in my troubles with
Henry we are both to blame. But Father
Aubain admits that am always right,
while at the same. time he counsels
= II,
the point. Sophie, the poor fellow is in
love with me! 1t is true he never told me
SO, but can see it in his big black eyes,
Frankly, Sophie, was wicked enough to.
be pleased when / discovered it. Just think
"a conquest at my age! But it would not
do. cav that plainly. So one day alb
ruptly said to him: Father, you must have
better place than this. aWhat!" said ne,
quit yo-quit Noiresterres?" @Yes," said
pitilessly, 1T must be. will see my un-
Gle, the bishop. about it. But, said he,
with emotion, Il do not wish to leave. 1t
is true the cure of Sainte- Marie. is, dead.
most worthy priest. Father, said I, firmly,
you mast go!" The poor fellow bowed
his head. He saw that I was resolved. And
| ~ the next day had seen the bishop, and
Father Aubain to the vacant post. Heigh-
no! am growing deadly old, Sophie. When
| am grandmother Father Aubain will be
a bishop, and We will laugh together over
his extinct passion.
| FROM FATHER AUBAIN TO FATHER BRU-
NEAU, PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY.
Mines, June my DEAR OLD MASTER
It is no longer the poor parish priest who
writes to you. I am now at Mines. have
left the boys and frogs of the country, aud
am installed here in spacious church on a
handsome street. said mass to-day be-
fore magnificent altar Of marble. and had to
pinch myself to be sure I was not dreaming.
When you come to visit me in vacation, you
shall have good bed and board, not to speak
of a certain brand of Bordeaux, which is
not wholly unworthy of you. But, you
ask, how did you come to quit Worcester
1es2
so Melibeus, deus nobis hsec otia fecit"
My dear master, Providence conducted
from Paris to Noiresterres certain great
lady. Misfortunes-such as never arrive
to us-had reduced her and her spouse to
beggary. They had to live on the pittance
OF ten thousand francs year. She was an
amiable although somewhat silly person,
her head being turned by overmuch reading
Of novels. Her husband being very worthy
man, she was bored-as is natural. She did
me the honor to take fancy to me. Every
day there was some new project. It was,
Father, teach me botany" and Father,
teach me Latin" and Father, teach me
this, that, and the ether Horresco REFER
ems she wanted me to teach her theology!
Well, one day she loaned me book fresh
from Paris-"Abelard." The second volume
was The Philosophy of Abelard. Natur-
ally skipped the first. When had finished
the second turned to the FIRST This my
great lady had read, but had skipped the
second. Well, when we came to discuss
this amorous volume, my eyes were opened
saw that there was dang or in the society
OF pretty women with literary incliaations.
The situation embarrassed me. was as yet
celebrating over it. when one day my pupil,
With the utmost abruptness, thus spoke:
Father, you must leave this place; you
! shall have charge Of the Cathedral Of Sainte-
Marie" Il forgot to mention that my pupil
had an uncle, who in addition to that honor
was also bishop.) Well, was naturally
somewhat confused, and my modest
| protestations of unworthiness were
| received by her as genuine. "Fath-
| err" said she theatrlcally, "you
must 90" There was no more to be said.
| Vari4no ct 7aWtabile senper fgmino. The
| next day was appointed the cathedral, and
here ana little ashamed, it is true, of
having obtained my pro motion by favor,
DuI SUCH Is Inc WorlQ. Stlll am enchant-
ed to have beheld the claws of a lioness
without being scratched. (''Lioness," my
dear master, is the Partisan slang for q
reigning beauty. In your quiet seminary
you doubtless do not learn these worldly
terms.")
'Ho Ecu. gunaikon opion hopasas genos.'
Must one tura his back on fortune after
Drawing dangers? Nay, not so. Did not
Saint Thomas, of Canterbury, accept the
gifts Of Henry II? Aye, truly. Farewell,
my old master. hope in few months to
see your kindly face across my table, be-
fore larded pullet and bottle of good
red wine. TSrtus militia scuta.
1.-THE reply of the worthy Father Bru-
neau cannot be given. Itwas unfortunate
| ~ lost.
| A Costly Dinner.
| The most costly dinner ever served by
/ the famous Delmonico, lately deceased, was
that given Is years or SO ago to 100 promi-
nent citizens of New York by the silvery-
tongued adventurer from England, Sir Nor
ton Peto. This ostentatious individual
| expended 500 000 IN fhot nne