The Louisiana Democrat. [volume] (Alexandria, La.) 1845-1918, 1886-04-14

! Oh The stage, lot tney Wenb OH GWlneA
together like two of the three Graces.
The band finished its little intermediate
flourish, and somehow Rosalind was
on the stage, with sound like the
noise of the sea in her ears, and she
was ready to sink and die. Cells
spoke:
"I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my
coz, be merry!"
The two women melted apart from
| their embrace at this point, and Rosa.
lind stood alone. There was a pause.
It came out afterward that it was no
longer than it we'll might have been,
but to Miss Churchill's heart it was
quite gulf of time. Then.-but how
it came about she never knew-she
found courage and memory to speak,
and before the first little speech was
over her stage fright had flown at the
reassuring sound of her own voice, and
she knew by an instinct which is COM
mon to actors of both sexes that the
house had settled down with that new
resolve to listen which is the result Of
first favorable impression. Before
she had taken the chain from her own
neck to give it to Orlando she had
won every heart in the house. Lori
mer stood at the wing to wecome her
with rubicund smile and 0utstretChed
hands, and the house Numbered be-
hind her. 1t was night Of triumph,
and the triumph mounted in steady
crescendo. The actress curtesied her
Acknowledgements again and again be-
fore the curtain, and then went home
and cried bitterly, with fame and fort
une at her feet. While she cried half
a score of practiced pens were running
nimb1y in her praise, and half a score
of critical intelligences were doing
their best not to be run away with, and
some of them were not succeeding, s.s
the result of the next day declared.
Miss Churchill's name was newly
blown abroad-Miss Churchill's fame.
was established and her fortune made
But Mrs. Tregarthen had defed her
husband, and now began to see all
manner of possibilities which might
have come about to reconcile him, if
she had not made this fatal step. A
day before all these possibilities had
been impossible, but now she belle we'd
in them. She was unstrung by the
nights excitement, and had real cause
for sorrow and self-blame enough. To
shine in the eyes of the world, to
charm, to dazzle, to be applauded by
listening crowds, to have her comings
and goings chronicled in the public
prints, as if she were Queen-what
was this to her when she had lost
Arthur?
Curious that any one human being
should mean so much to any other,
and yet be no wiser, no handsomer, no
more loyal, valiant, tender, than a
round million of his fellow-men!
CHAPTER TX.
1t became known that tn ere was
some sort of secret understanding afoot
between the poet and the man of the
corner. They were found together in
a small chamber. in the Strand holding
earnest converse, which was suspended
on the arrival of any chance new
conner. Callers upon the man of the
corner found the poet in his chambers,
and callers upon the poet, in his more
artistically furnished apartments in the
West, met there the man of the corner.
They sat together on summers
day, with the mellow sunshine strug-
Cling through cobwebbed windows,
and showing the dust upon the thread
bare carpet and the battered furniture.
There were foils, singlesticks and box
ing gloves upon the walls, and a gun
and fishing rod or two in the corners
of the room. The man of the corner
lounged collarless in slippers and
dressing gown, and the poet sat at the
table, pen in hand, with a pile of man.
uscript before him.
81 think it will do, Smith," said the
poet, doubtfully.
my bard,s said the slippered
lounger, sit will do. 1t is not Shakes
pearian, but it will do. We are
humber than we were a year ago,
Marsh, and the reviewers did us good.
They humbled us, and chastened our
style bit, and we know now how
many poetic beans make five. We
used to think it took fifty, didn't we?"
II fear I did," said the poet, with
a blush. you've been very kind to
me, Smith, and I'm immensely obliged
to you
''The wounded is the feeling heart
returned the other. Il will tell you
secret. /, William John Smith, writer
of melodrama and wholesale merchant
in murder, was Horace Montmorenci.
"You?" cried the poet.
81. None other. 1t was this hand
that wrote The Demogorgon.' 1t was
upon this head the scalping-knife of
the reviewer fell. l suffered before you.
| roasted at the fire of public scorn and
laughter for a year. When saw you
scalped and bleeding at the stake l
felt for you, and as each red reviewer
hurled his tomahawk one heart was
moved to pity. 1t was NINE"
The poet arose and shook hands.
"We are brethren in misfortune" he
said, with somewhat CHASTITY smile.
"Respect my awful secret said his
companion. "Let us change the theme.
Can we brighten the last act with
murder? / have never made so long
literary journey without blood. Let us
sacrifice victim to propitiate the
gods"
"Well," said the poet, I'm afraid
we must leave the gods appropriated
A murder would be a little out of place
in a poetical comedy - wouldn't it!
Ehp"
"a suicide? divorce? a bigamy?
forgery? I pine for my accustomed
diet. I have a fuller-favored villain
than common, in my next