The record-union., 1891-06-06

The host of the Three Friars was of a
comfortable figure-one to stoutly main
tain the standard of physical resistance
against the forces that war against man
kind; one to drive the pains Of disease
and the chills of death to a distance by his
robustious, well-clad proportions. He
happened this evening to have come to
the door to look out at the storm as julius
reached the entrance to the court and
paused under it's narrow archway to
shake off the wet and make himself look
as reputable as might be. So advancing
our would-be roysterer caught sight of
this noble witness to the good cheer
within, as a ships captain catches sight
of a friendly beacon in mirk night at
sea- julius saluted him, indeed, with a
certain precipitancy, as if he and the
Three Friars, all hope of salvation with
them, might vanish if word were not
quickly spoken. And, in truth, any
innkeeper but this might well have re-
garded such a guest with suspicion
meanly dressed under the weather, as in
spite Of his little precautions Julius must
still seem. But the master of the Three
Friars had not kept open house, so to
speak, in the very heart of Bohemia for
thirty years or more, without becoming
tolerant of the outward guiseS OF the Gu
rious people who inhabit there. Roy,
however, in spite Of his sins, still
bore the marks of grace; the native
distinction of the gentleman was not all
gone. Tonight, too, he carried the
flower that Silvia had given him-so OBJ
viously flower of great price, that it
might we'll serve as a taliSman to win
him any and all opportunity. AT any
rate, either the flower or some former
recollection of Roy's features took effect,
if anything more were needed than the
fact that here was traveller seeking
shelter from the storm, and the master
of the house returned the greeting with
JUNCTION.
''Sir, it's not night for dog to be
abroad! You will find good fire Within
1t sounded comfortably in Roy's ears.
and sent him in, with already sense OF
restoration, to the long, low room, with the
gleam from its antique fireplace strik-
ing along the sanded floor and illumining
ruddily the tables where SO many famous
vagabonds had feasted since Goldsmith
first drank there cup to fortune. Julius
entered, looking with keen relish round
the familiar small scenery of the room
bench and table and fireSide, and dingy
walls adorned with old prints and pewter
tankards, and even an old leathern bottle
or two. He thought of the storm with
out, and chose with some deliberation OF
perfect comfort seat within the near
range of the fire. There he set himself
to consider with epicurean satisfaction
the resources of larder and cellar, which
from old experience, he knew to be
choicely stocked. 1t was true he had no
money, but it was not the first time that
he had supped tonight on the credit OF
tomorrow. So, having laid aside his
wet coat and hat, and procured prelim-
mary draught of the old ale for which the
| Three Friars was famous, wherewith to
further rally his faint pulses, he settled
himself comfortably in his corner, Sit
ting there, as the perfume of the flower
in his hand filled him with hundred old
associations, he laid it tenderly before
him on the white cloth which old David,
the waiter, had spread for his supper.
1t was a wonderful flower, perfect in
form and color, crimson at heart, fading
almost to a sea-shells pink at the end oi
the petals, somewhat as the flush had
been wont to come and fade away of old
on the cheeks of her whose last gift it was.
But the fragrance was more wonderful
still, reminding him of he knew not what
"a faint mingling of heliotrope and wet
violets and other scents that she had been
used to love. AS he looked into it's petals
the spell of the romance that had then
so filled his life with fragrance took more
and more hold upon him. Snatches OF
the rhymes even, rhymes written to her
most of which had long gone the way OF
all such amorist's coneeits, began to run
| in his head. One especially, piece writ
| ten to her when the end had come, kept
recurring fragmentarily, until he remem-
bered that it was the piece rescued from
| the litter of his trunk an hour ago. He
| drew the paper out Of his pocket forth
with, and conned it through with the OLD
| feeling with which it had been written
still strong upon him:
Here must write what may never he shown
you
| Till oil is past-romance and its grace
| And but the knowing how could have known
you
Shall call up loves torchlight too late in you,
face.
Too late, my dear lady of rhymestersl
! All, starry-eyed, shall this sorrowful passion
But burn on out when love is so deepl
| Why should try then, to sing poet fashion?
! Far better be silent, far better sleep!
| Asleep, if TO dream--no Hamlet's misgiving
| Shall still make me fear It'll All, only TO dream
That we far away in some dream-land axe liv
ing,
And Your eyes are aiight there, the stars that
they seem.
| The reverie to which these lines led was
broken by the reappearance of David
with supper. But now that it had come
the magnificent intentions of the feastel
| palled upon his starved palate. He was
| barely able to taste its unctuous viands,
and was glad to turn instead with that