Nien

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'

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Proprietors.

VoL. XXXI.

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
P.O, Box 4896, New York.

 

 

 

TO A DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,
On his Receiving the Cross of the Legion of Honor.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

 

 

Dr. Gilead Peet, of Bridgeport, Conn., has just been officially
notified that the French government has made him a Knight of
the Legion of Honor. He had previously received the Geneva
Cross for special services as a surgeon, and the order of Military
Merit for bravery on the field of battle. He was engaged in all

. the battles round Paris in the Franco-German war.

 

Not for this, when leaguered Paris
Poured her children from her gates,
In her wild, heroic madness*
To defy the ruthless fates,

Didst thou then, a youthful stranger,
Join. the column, brave the fire—

Wot for glory didst thou venture,
Not for praises, not for hire.

There were sufferings to solace,
There were dying eyes to close,

When heroic souls were passing
From tumult to repose.

For months the tide of carnage
Filled the valley of the Seine,

While thou wert ever faithful
To the wounded and the slain,

Now wear the cross of honor
That thou hast fairly won,
Throughout life’s weary pilgrimage
Thor hast but just begun.

There are always woes to mitigate,
And hearts by anguish riven,

Tears, bitter tears to wipe away,
And wrongs to be forgiven.

From night to light we struggle on,
From mist to perfect day,

Sure we at last shall reach the goal
If Honor leads the way.

*General Prochu called the defense of Paris “heroic madness.”
"He knew it was useless.

 

Soe Ee

Mystery of the Wold. |!

By ANNIE CLARE.

 

(‘The Mystery of the Wold” was commenced last week. Ask
your News Agent for No. 26, and you will obtain the opening
chapters. ]

 

CHAPTER IV.

Hour by hour the mystery at Swanbourn grew
and strengthened. Who ceuld have committed the
deed? and what was the real extent of knowledge
possessed by this'Ruth Forest? Lastly, who was
she? whence had she come? and what was the tie
between her and the mistress of the Wold? Ques-
tions equally difficult to answer, for even the ser-
vants at the Wold knew nothing of the stranger be-
yond the fact that she had suddenly and mysteri-
uals appeared late one evening some few weeks

ack,

But at this point it will be necessary to carry the

reader’s attention back to a month or s@ pre-
vious to the opening of the story—back to the night
on which this Ruth Forest,as she had chosen to
eall herself, had made her first appearance in the
small world of Swanbourn. It was late in Novem-
ber, and the day, a chill, gloomy one, had closed in
eold and drear, with a wailing wind that swept
across the open country, and sent the driving rain
splashing heavily against the carriage windows as
the evening train thundered into the quiet little
.Station, rousing into some faint semblance of ac-
tivity a couple of sleepy porters, who came out to
atjend on the passengers who were about to alight,
supposing any did alight,a circumstance by no
means certain.

To-night, however, there was a passenger for
Swanbourn, and but one. From a second-class
carriage there stepped out a young girl, who, hur-
rying to the luggage-van, stood waiting to claim
her luggage,as she scanned with a pale, anxious
face the cheerless, deserted aspect of the place in
which she found herself. i ; ;

“Whatnameon the trunk, miss?” inquired the
man, peering rather curiously into the face of the

*-young passenger as he spoke. :

“There is no name onit. It issimply labeled
from London to Swanbourn. There,” she added,
pointing toa small, unpretentious-looking pack-
ing-case inthe corner, “that is my property, I be-
lieve.”

The trunk was dragged out and placed onthe
platform, doors were banged to,and the next mo-
ment the train with a goblin shriek had rushed
frantically away beyond the range of the dim lights
of the little station to lose itself inthe black dark-
ness of the open country. : : ;

‘Where shall Iearry yourtrunk, miss ?” inquired
the man, looking curiously at the stranger.

“Can I get a fly, or any kind of conveyance totake
metothe Wold?” she asked, without seeming to
notice the question. : :

“Not to-night, I’m afraid,’ he replied, respect-
fully, stealing another look into the sad, pale face,
with its wistful eyes turned full upon him. “Do you

wish to go on at once ?” ‘

“Yes, indeed; I must reach itin some way. Per-
anes could walk. Is it far tothe Wold ?” t

“Well, not very. A matter ofthree or four miles,
perhaps. But then the road isa bleak, lonely one,
prise the rain is coming down in right good earn-
est.

“And you are quite certain it is impossible to ob-
_tain any conveyance?” she asked, with an eager,
anxious look. | i

“Quite certain, ’m sorry to say, miss. There is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**VYou are my wife—mine, do you hear ?”? said Robert Flemming, as he. shook his fist in her face.

 

Three Dollars Per Year. St aneun S. STREET.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

No. 28.

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

 

 

 

mings came to live there it was uninhabited, and
suffered to run to ruin entirely. Not that it is much
more than a ruin now,” he added.

As the man paused, the stranger, who had listened
with evident interest to every word, seemed on the
point of asking another question, but finally check-
ed the impulse. _
<q Excuse me, miss,” the man presently resumed.

but had you not better wait until morning before
going on to Mrs. Flemming’s? It’sa long walk at
such a time in the evening, and in such weather as
this. There is the Swanbourn Hotel overthe way.
The accommodation may not be of the best, still I
dare say they would contrive to make you comfort-
able for the night. If you like, Pl go over and
make inquiries for you.” ;

“Thanks,” she said, evidently appreciating the
kindness that prompted the suggestion, yet with
evident reluctance either to accept of Swanbourn
Hotel accommodation ortoown the necessity of
delay. “You are yery kind. Still I would prefer
going on at once, if possible. The storm may cease
presently. Meanwhile I think I'll go into the wait-
ing-room for a time.” ;

he little waiting-room at Swanbourn was quite
deserted as the strange lady—for lady she was by
virtue of her low, sweet yoice and quiet, elegant
manner—came in and stood thoughtfully before the
fire, her clasped hands resting lightly on the man-
tel-shelf, and her eyes fixed in grave reverie on the
glowing coals in the grate. _.

Her muff and long traveling cloak were thrown
aside, and the warm glow of the firelight threw into
strong relief the soft outline of the slight, elegant
figure, and the strikipg profile of a small, singular,
rather than a beautiful face. ‘

And yet it was a beautiful face, for all its singu-
larity—strikingly beautiful, though of so different
a type to the doll prettiness of most fair women—a
face through the calm gray eyes of which there
gazed forth a soul powerful in its capability of
deep thought, feeling, and suffering, yet with a cer-
tain nobility on lip and brow that proclaimed the
nature of a tender, loving woman.

From her dress, which was simply quiet and in
good taste, it would have been difficult to have
guessed at her social standing; nevertheless, in its
style and a certain quiet elegance with which it was
worn, there was sufficient to have decided her right
to the title of a lady anywhere. .

For about anhour therain continued driving
against the windows of the waiting-room in fierce,
angry gusts; but after a while the fury of the storm
seemed spent,and rousing herself from the fit of
abstraction into which she had fallen, the young
traveler stepped to the door and looked anxiously

out.

_ Great black masses of storm-clouds were drift-
ing threateningly across the sky, while here and
there through the deep black rifts, the pale moon
looked fitfully down on the drear soenes of desola-
tion stretched before her—a scene in which great
pools of water gleamed cold and white in the dull
uncertain light, and the skeleton branches of high
trees bent wildly in the wailing wind.

It was a cheerless prospect.on which the young
stranger stood looking out with shrinking hesita-
tion. But the rain had ceased for the time being,
and throwing on her cloak she prepared to set out

 

but one hired carriage in the village, and that was
sent forsome hoursago by Mrs. Flemming, who
wanted it for the evening.”

“Mrs. Flemming!’ the stranger repeated, looking
up atthe mention ofthename. ‘“‘Flemming is the
aie of the family at the Wold, is it not2”

es.

“What sort of a— I mean, ean you tell me any-
thing concerning Mr. and Mrs. Flemming ?” asked
the stranger, fixing her eyes on the face of the por-
ter with a look of inquiry more searching than the
question itself.

_.The man took off his hat, gazed earnestly into itas
ifin quest of an idea, rubbed his forehead with a
slow, methodical air, finally replaced his’ hat, but
made no reply.

“You don’t know them, probably,” she remarked,
Waa half repressed smile at the man’s per-
plexity.

“Why, yousee, miss, I ecan’t exactly say as I do,
nor yet asI don’t. To besure I know that the gen-
tleman who lives there is named Flemming, that he
has a wife, a beautiful lady, whom I sometimes see

assing though the village, and one child. But Mrs.

lemming, who liyes very quietly, and seldom goes
Out, isnot very well known; not so well as her hus-

and,even although he is often away for months
together—sometimes in London, and sometimes
shooting in the North. But then, to be sure, when
he is down in these parts, Mr. Flemming is always
first and foremost at allthe hunts and hunt din-
ners.”
lene ee his absence Mrs. Flemming is quite
aione ¢
_ Quite, with the exception of her little girl and
her brother, Mr. Crouther, whosometimes pays her
a visit for afewdays. I never heard of anybody
else visiting at the Wold, and no wonder, for itis a
chill, gloomy old place. For yearsbefore the Flem-

on her walk to the Wold. ;

The porter previously mentioned came up at the
moment, and leaving her luggage in his charge,
she begged him to direct her to her destination.

“That’s the road, miss,” said the man, pointing
away to the right; “itlies straight before you. You
eannot fail to find Mr. Flemming’s house, for it is
the first you come to. It stands at the far end of
the common, and lies half-buried among a thicket
of trees and shrubs. ;

Slipping into the man’s hand asmall reward for
his attention, the stranger hurried away in the di-
rection indicated. t

“Poor little thing,” soliloquized the man, who
stood at the door watching the slight form of the
stranger as it disappeared in the gloom and dis-
tance, “she looks very pale and troubled like. I
wonder what’s taking her in sucha violent hurry
to that gloomy old Wold.”

That the man’s description of the road she was
pursuing was a correct one the traveler soon - began
to discover. As he had said, it was bleak and open;
and as the flerce wind‘came driving along, it was
only by exerting the whole of her slight strength
that she was enabled to make any progress at all.

 

Once or twice she paused to take breath; then
gathering her cloak resolutely about her, with pale,
compressed lips,she pushed bravely on through
me ning rain that was once more descending

eavily.

At length, after what seemed a walk of many
hours,she paused, weary .and breathless. before
something that loomed up through the trees and
darkness like a large, rambling building.

Satisfied that her destination was reached, she
stood for a moment looking round in search of an
entrance, when a heavy iron gate that had been left
unfastened, and hung grating between two massive

 

stone pillars, swung slowly open, as if waiting her

 

 

+

to enter the dark avenue that led up through the
tangled shrubbery beyond. :

A few moments. brought her tothe end ofthis,
and in full view of the broad flight of stone steps
leading up to the frent door. Me

But simultaneously as the strange visitor placed
her foot on the first of thes@ a low, deep growl fell
uppn her ear, and a great mastiff sprang fiercely at

er.

A ery of terror arose to her lips, but by a power-
ful effort she kept it back, and standing quite still,
neither advancing nor retreating, spoke to the ani-
mal in quiet, soothing tones. Fora minute the dog
seemed disposed to maintain a threatening aspect,
but finally uttering a low, half-apologetic whine,
drew back and suffered her to approach.

Taking advantage ofthe concession thus granted
her, the visitor stepped boldly to the door and rang
the bell. It might have been a house of the dead
for any sign of life there was aboutit. From none
of the many_ windows was a gleam of light visible;
and although the sound ofthe bell went clanging
through the rambling old building with startling
distinctness, it seemed for some time as if no notice
would be taken of it. :

Presently a step sounded inthe hall, and some
one was heard unfastening the bolts and chains se-
curing the heavy oaken door, It was opened at
last, and a woman with a lampin her hand appear-
ed in the narrow opening. Her expression of sus-
picion changed to one of the blankest astonishment
as she beheld the face and form of the young
stranger, who stood patiently waiting in the cold
and darkness without. i i

“Can I see Mrs. Flemming, if you please?” she
asked, putting aside her hood, and turning her face
full to the light. j

“Mrs. Flemming!” the woman repeated, evidently
surprised at the request. “She isnotat home.” |

“Will you be so good as to allow me to wait until
her return ?” was the half pleading inquiry. “I’ve
traveled many miles by_ train, and walked over in
the wind and wet from Swanbourn this evening in
the hope of seeing her.” : i

“It’s quite uncertain at what time Mrs. Flemming
may return,” persisted the woman.

“Tecan wait. And indeed, indeed, I must see her,”
was the earnest response. i ;

“Does, my mistress expect you?” inquired the
servant, still hesitatingly. :

“No; but my business is very pressing. Surely
you eannot object to my waiting until Mrs. Flem-
ming returns.”

The woman made no response, but looked for an
instant into the pale face of the stranger, and then

at the black, threatening sky and the pitiless driv-,

ing of thé storm without, Something in the one or
the other decided her, for, unlocking a chain, she
put back the door and inyited the visitor to enter.

Following closely on the steps of her conductor,
the stranger passed through a large hall that look-
ed black and cavernous in the faint light of the lamp
the servant carried in herhand. A door at the far-
ther extremity was opened, and they entered a sit-
ting-room, lit only by the red glow ofa coal fire that
had burned low inthe grate. ;

In a few minutes the servant had lit the lamp
standing on alarge center-table, kindled the fire
into a cheerful glow that danced out over the heavy
erimson-covered furniture like laughter, and draw-
ing alarge easy-chair tothe fire, took the stran-
ger’s dripping cloak, and begged her to be seated.

With a weary sigh the stranger sank into it, and
the woman, who busied herself about the room, re-
plenishing the fire and drawing the curtains,
watched her narrowly. : :

“Is Mr. Flemming at home!” abruptly inquired
the stranger, looking up from the fire into which
one had been gazing, as if struck with some sudden
idea.

“No, ma’am; Mr. Flemming has been from home
for several weeks,” replied the woman, with a
great accession of respect, the result of the keen
scrutiny the stranger had undergone as she linger-
ed about the room. ‘My mistress is seldom absent
from home, but she received a telegraphic message
this evening summoning her to Westpoint to see
her father, who had been taken suddenly ill. The
man who brought the telegram came ina fiy, and
Mrs: Flemming went awayin it directly, without
even waiting to change her dress.”

“Do you suppose she will stay all night?” asked
the stranger, looking pale and troubled.

“T cannot say, but Ishould think net; at least I
never knew my mistress to stay away from her
child many hours together. But at all ovents she
will not return very early. It is ten miles to West-
point—there and back.”

CHAPTER. Y.

Midnight, one, and then two had rung out in soft,
musical chimes from the little time-piece over the
mantel, and in deeper, more sonorous tones from
the great clock in the hall, and still the young
stranger who had arrived so strangely at the Wold,
sat patiently waiting for the return of the lady she
seemed so anxious to see.

Once or twice theservant had looked in to re-
plenish the fire, orto seeif anything were want-
ing, but beyond thisthe old house was as stillas
the grave. f

Atlast,and just as she had risen from her seat
with the intention of pacing the room to and fro,
only to sink back into it with a sigh of utter weari-
ness, the grating of wheels sounded on the gravel
drive without.

A carriage had stopped in front of the house, and
the next moment the hall door was flung open.
Voices and footsteps sounded in the hall, and then
a voice, which to the unseen listener in the parlor
had a hopeless tone of sadness in it, speaking in re-
sponse to something the servant had said.

_ A lady, did you say—and gave no name ?” it said.
“Strange! Onsuch anight as this, too! Who can
itbe? But stay, Rachel, take my cloak, and I'll go
at once and see what business this mysterious
stranger can possibly have with me.”

_The door opened, and the visitor, who had already
risen from her seat, sprang forward, with a glad
ery, toward the beautiful lady who came in, ad-
vanced a step or two, then paused, with a startled
expression in her soft, sad eyes, with the surprised
exclamation:. . ,

“Agnes! Is it possible? Agnes Wynn!”

“Magdelene, dear Magdelene! Thank Heaven.
you have come!”

But the next moment the stranger, over whose
eyes some thick film seemed suddenly to spread it-
self, took one staggering step, and fell senseless to
the floor. | : :

“Poor child! poor darling!” exclaimed the lady,
springing toward her, and lifting the slight form in
her arms. “Sheis worn out with fatigue and sor-
row. What can haye happened to bring her here
in such a strait as this ?” ;

But there was no answer to the question in the
still, white face—no sign of returning conscious-
ness.

“Quick, Rachel! quick!” she exclaimed, turning
to the wondering servant—‘‘a glass of water!”

“Tm very sorry, ma'am,” replied the woman,
complying with the request with all possible dis-
patch. “I had no idea the strange lady was a friend
of yours, or I would have offered her some refresh-
ment before. Poor thing! she told me she had
walked oyer from Swanbourn through the storm
this evening. No wonder she is faint and ex-
hausted.” f

The remedy had the. desired effect. To Mrs.!
Flemming’s satisfaction, the faint color came back
to the white lips, and, with a sigh, the stranger
opened her eyes. ;

“Oh, Magdelene!” she said, looking up into the
sweet face bending over her with such a world of
tenderness and pity in its gentle beauty; “I amso
glad to be with you! Iam in great sorrow, Magde-
lene, and have come to you for comfort—for protec-
tion, if you can afford it to me.”

“Whatever is in my power, Agnes, you know
well, is yours to command—you, who in my sorrow
were my only aid, my only comforter. Tell me,
dear, what has happened. Have you left——”

“Thave fled, Magdelene—fled, to save my liberty,
my self-respect. For months past my life has been
but one long series of persecutions at their hands.
If I can only escape their toils for a. few months. T
shall be free, you know, dear; and i have come to
you in the hope of your being able to give me

help.

ie Flemming made no response, but the touch |
of herarm about the slight form of the speaker
. was far more eloquent than words.

“Dear Magdelene,” the girl resumed, “‘but for
you how utterly friendless I should be at this mo-
ment in the wide world. But tell me something of
yourself, dear. Are you—but no, Magdelene, I
es it would be mockery to ask youif you are

appy.” ;

“Hush!” was the quiet response. ‘We will not
speak of that! My lot is a hard one; but Heaven
knows how for my child’s sake I strive to bear it as
patiently as. possible. Happy!’ she repeated, ab-
stractedly. “There is no such thing as happiness
for me in this life, Agnes. But enough of the mis-
erable past. Tell me of yourself.”

The stranger made no reply, but glanced at the
servant who still lingered in the room. :

“Rachel,” remarked the lady, who understood
the glance, “fetch in a tray with the best you can
provide, and then see that a room is prepared for
this lady.”

With a face full of astonishment, the woman left
the room to carry out the orders she had received,
and the friends who had met so strangely were left
alone together. What passed between them, what
eonfidences were exchanged that night in the quiet
old parlor at the Wold, none knew.

Much to the astonishment of the woman who had
overheard the foregoing words on the night pre-
vious, Mrs. Flemming announced on the following

 

morning that “Miss Ruth Forest,” who had ar-
rived the evening before, would henceforth become
a member of the family—that she would stay with
heras a eompanion for herself, and governess to |

 

her little daughter, Dora, at least for the present.

 

Whether the lady observed the look of surprise
and incredulity with which Rachel received the an-
nouncement or not, itisimpossible to say. At all
events she took no notice of it if she did; and Miss
Ruth Forest, as she was. called—though the woman
well remembered this was not the name by
which she had heard her mistress address her in
the first surprise of their meeting—settled quietly
down into her place atthe Wold.

During the absence of Mr. Flemming the two la-
dies were nearly inseparable, reading and talking
together for hours; but when by any rare chance
any one came to the Wold, rome it were the mas-
ter of the house himself, Miss Forest kept to her
own and the school-room, never even descending
to the garden, in which at other times she walked
so frequently with her beautiful little charge, the
four-year old Dora. _,

In short Mrs. Flemming’s governess was a mys-
tery to the few servants in the house and also to the
gossips, among whom some strange, distorted ver-
sion of her singular arrival began to circulate. Not
that in this report she was at all out of keeping
with the rest of that lady’s history and surround-
ings. Truth tosay people had long gossiped pretty
freely concerning the solitary mistress of the Wold
starting no end of speculations concerning her. .

While one class insisted that she had married
Mr. Flemming while .under the impression that he
would ultimately come into possession of an im-
mense property, and had lived unhappily with him:
ever since she had discovered her mistake, another
as stoutly maintained that she had been compelled
by her friends to marry him against her will, while:
her heart belonged to another. But on one point
all were agreed—the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Flem-
ming lived by no means happily together, and that
the lady was shamefully neglected by her husband,
who was always from home, spending his time in
very questionable London society. Which of these
surmises came nearest tothe truth no one inthe
neighborhood of the Wold was able to decide, for
Mrs. Flemming had no acquaintances among them,
neyer even paying a visit or receiving one. |

For three years the Flemmings had inhabited the
gloomy old house, which, having become involved
in some interminable chancery suit, had long been
suffered to fallinto ruin and disuse, and was let at
@ mere nominal rent in consequence, a circum-

stance that had probably induced the present ten- _

ant to take it. | ; ; : :

Mr. Flemming’s affairs, it was said, having
greatly suffered through the numerous and ex-
tensive gambling speculations in which he in-
dulged—and of all men inthe world Robert Flem-
ming was precisely the kind of man to confine any
necessary system of retrenchment to the domestic
circle,a spherein which avery small portion of
his existence was spent, consequently where it was
the least likely to affect him personally.

As to his London and club life,no change had
taken place in that; and although the expenses at
the Wold were reduced to the lowest possible de-
gree, Mr. Robert Flemming still moved in the gay-
est London circles, lived at the most expensive
clubs, and indulged the fastidious tastes which dis-
tinguished him among his own peculiar clique as a
ee of fashion and an ornament of society.

ot but what theworld perfectly understood his

position, and saw the downward path, marked out _
before him as plainly as itever is before nfen’of his, *

class... Robert Flemming, like many another reek-
less gambler and sensualist was rapidly hastening:
to that vortex in which so. many liyes,so many
bright hopes and reputations have gone down to
infamy and perdition.

_ Afew years ago he had held avery different foot-
ing in society—had been regarded on all hands as
the future master of one of the finest estates in
Devonshire—but things had changed sorely with
him since the death of his uncle, Sir James Den-
ges ae whom the expectations had been enter-

ained.

Years ago, and while still quite children, Robert
Flemming and his only and younger brother, Cyril,
had been left by the death of their parents to the
mercy. oftheir mother’s brother, the stern old baro-
net, who brought them up and educated them with
as much kindness as he ever displayed for any
one.

Sir James had been terribly angry when their
mother, his only sister, set his.wishes at defiance,
and eloped with a poor young officer in the navy,
without family or chanceof promotion. After her
marriage he refused to hold any communication
with her; but at last, when she sent for him in her
terrible trouble,and besought him to befriend her
boys, he gavethe promise—a promise that had been
faithfully kept.

knowledge that it would beso had soothed
the last moments ofthe poor young widow, who
neyer recovered from the shock her nervous system
had received when the news came home that Lieu-
tenant Flemming’s ship had gone down at sea with
all hands on board. F

In personal appearance there existed a strong
resemblance between Robert and Cyril Flemming,
but in all other respects no two brothers were ever
more dissimilar. 4

Robert, the elder by a little over a year, was as
selfish and overbearing as his brother was noble
and generous, With every one else Cyril was the
favorite, but Sir James was an eccentric and always
reticent man;showed no preference for either of
his nephews, whom he always treated with consid-
eration and kindness, if not affection. But for all
this some of the servants at Burnside, Sir James’
Devonshire residence, and where for many years
past he had led a solitary sort of life, persisted in
declaring that Sir James best loved his nephew
Cyril. Be this as it may, Robert, onthe other hand,
had long since_come to be looked upon as the fu-
ture master of Burnside, and his uncle’s heir, while
Cyril was in training forthe army—an arrange-
ment to which neither of the young men appeared
disposed to make any objection, and one that ac-
corded only too well with Robert’s ideas of his own
peculiar rights and privileges, while it was equally
unlikely to excite anything like envy or dissatisfac-
tion in the generous mind of Gyril. i

Time rolled on, the education and final training
of the two young men were completed, and a cap-
tain’s commission purchased for Cyril, who imme-
diately set about preparing to join his regiment.

Up to this time the feeling between the brothers
had been perfectly amiable and friendly ; but at last
there arose some dispute, and some violent quarrel,
out. of which a deadly hatred sprang up, and ix the
midst of which Cyril went out to India with his
regiment. As to which had been to blame, or which

‘side Sir James favored, supposing he favored

either, no one seemed able to explain very clearly.
Onething, however, was certain, Robert, who had
lately married, no longer held_ exactly the same
position at Burnside as formerly—a circumstance
that gave that gentleman but. little uneasiness, for
on the other hand it was well known that the old
baronet’s letters to his younger nephew, who had
gone away almost heart-broken to a foreign elime,
were less frequent and more curt than usual.

Sir James Denville was an eccentric man, and
had always been so, consequently little was argued
from ‘the fact that he refused to receive his neph-
ew’s wife, or to acknowledge herin any way, He
was growing old, too, and every year rendered him
more sarcastic and capricious, until at length even
Robert, who had so much at stake, could hardly en-
dure the trial which the dutiful visits policy

rompted him to payat Burnside inflicted upon

im. :
“Tt will be all right at last,” he told himself, if
ever a suspicion of Sir James’ changed manner
crossed his mind. “He isnot the man to change
his mind or alter an arrangement once settled,
I shall be master of Burnside at Sir James
death—an event not far distant, I sincerely hove.
Enough has been said of Robert Flemming to
show that he was by no means the typeof man
likely to make akind, indulgent husband. Selfish
and brutal where his passions or interest were
eoncerned, he was certain under any circumstances
to have subsided intoa domestic tyrant. But there
was another and more immediate cause for the ha-
tred with which hehad long since learned to re-
gard the beautiful woman he called his wtfe—the
unhappy Magdelene, who knew so well the foul
wrong he had doneher, but who bore her trials

4

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 
 

  

 

.

 

 

A ee
@he ste

 

 

 

 

 

with such proud silence, and despised him so bit-
terly in her heart. oe
One morning, during one of his now rare visits
at. the Wold, Robert Flemming was breakfasting
with his wife, when aletter was brought in. The
gentleman, who. had come down from London o

the evening préyious, ced in differen warc
it at first, oat an ce impatiently whom. Lis
; a

  

eye had caught the handwriting. he eo
As some instinet had, him, it was from his
uncle’s solicitors, and came to announée the sud-
den death of the aged baronet, Sir James Denyille.
“Thank Heaven!” was the impious exclamation

  
  
 

that burst from his lips as he sprang to his feets| 4 wx
pale and trembling with satisfaction. “At last! Ir) j 5;
1as_ come at last! Congratul me, Madgelene

Sir James has obligingly shuffled off this mortal selfish

coil at last.” a | sit a ie

‘And you have no other feeling for the poor old
man who has passed away—who_has_ stood to you
in place of a_ father?” she asked, looking up with
contempt in her eyes and scorn on her lip.

‘Excuse me, Magdelene,” he returned, with a
sneer, “I would much prefer that we should have
no private display of regrets. Of course I shall or-
der unexceptionable mourning in whieh to follow
the corpse to its place in the yault of Burnside
church, and pay _every possible respect to my
uncle’s memory. What more canthe world expect?
As to you,” he added, “what reason haye you to
display any sentiment concerning Sir James Den-
ville’s death? Don’t you recollect he refused to
acknowledge you?”

_ ‘Acknowledge’ me! she repeated. ‘Heaven
knows I should haye despised him if he had, be-
lieving what he did!”

“Yes,” he said scarcely, noticing the remark, or
the expression of pain with which it was spoken.

t was hard, very hard upon me to have been

kept waiting so long. Especially when the diffi-

culty of my position is taken into consideration.
Five hundred a year! What was that, for a gentle-
man with my habits and tastes, especially as I had
no other chance of luck ?—nothing to look forward
to but the death of this old miser, who clung so
tenaciously to life. But for you I might at least
have married a fortune,” he said, contemptuously ;
and yet you grudge me this stroke of good for-
tune, now that it has fallen.” :

“But for me,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing,
and her whole frame quivering with suppressed
emotion. “Do you dare cast-such an insult as that
atme? Butfor me! Great Heaven! that this man
should stand there and tell me that, knowing as he
does how our wretched union was consummated.

._Hnough, Magdelene,” he returned, impatiently.
“No disagreeable allusions to the past, I beg. The
present will suffice forme just now. Butstay, what
is this? the postscript,” he added, once more
pieking up the letter.

A deadly pallor, a ghastly rigidity, overspread his
iee. as his eyes followed the few lines of writing.

hen, putting his hand to his forehead, he staggered
back a step or two, and dropped the letter as though
it had stung him. .

What is it?” asked Mrs. Flemming, her expres-
sion of contempt changing to one of surprise.

For a moment or so heseemed quite powerless
and utterly incapable of uttering a word, but at
last, sinking into a chair, he pointed to the letter.

“Read it,” he said in the tone of a man who feels
himself strangling. “Read it, and tell me I am mis-
taken—that my senses have deceived me.” :

Without a word she picked up the letter, and in
her. quiet way glanced down in search of the post-
script that had so affected her husband.

“Messrs Markham and South were instructed_by
their late client, Sir James Denyille, to inform Mr.

bert Flemming at the earliest opportunity after
his decease, that Sir James’ will is made entirely in
favor of Mr. Cyril Flemming, with the single reser-
vation of his present income, and that the presence
a BPranas Flemming at the funeral is not de-
sired.

Asmile or a something that was like a flash of
light came into the face of the lady, as she repeated
“‘in favor of Cyril Flemming.” |

“Oh, Cyril! Cyril!” she exclaimed, claspin
hands in aburstof joy. “Thank Heaven!
at least, you haye received justice!”

The fury of a demon oe in the eyes of Robert
Flemming, as he looked ather. :

What!” he exclaimed, quivering with almost
maniacal rage. “What, you—you triumph in my
disappointment—exult in the success of my rival—
your lover! Rejoice away, madame, but remember
you cannot sharein his good fortune. You are my
wife—mine, do you hear?” he added, clenching his
ae ne face. “He has got Burnside, but [have
gotyou!”

“A fact I am not likely to forget,’ she replied,
looking him steadily in the face with quiet scorn,
“nor you that it cost you Burnside and the wealth
oe so coveted.” Would you like to know why Sir

ames altered his will? Ifso,I can tell you. It
was because he discovered the truth concerning our
marriage!” f t
What!” he hissed from between his set teeth.

What is this you say? Who told him ?”

I, Robert Flemming, J told him!”
he he had scarcely escaped her lips, when

péd furiously toward her. There was the
sound of a heavy blow, and his arm fell with an ex-
‘pression of shame and guilt to his side. 4

“Well done!” she said calmly, and quietly turn-
ing upon him a face cold.and rigid as stone. “An
act of prowess worthy of Robert Flemming to strike
awoman—his wife! Nol’ she added, bitterly, “I
am not likely to forget that lam your wife, miser-
able woman thatIam. But even in my misery and
degradation [have one consolation—I know the
price you paid forme!” : <

“Curse her! Curse her!” he hissed, as he stood
with eyes fixed on the door through which she had
swept in herproud scorn and majestic beauty.

She speaks the truth. It is she who has done this.
Fool! idiot that I was, not to have guarded against
this spite. One thing is left me, however—reyenge!
reyenge on her, and on him!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

her
ere,

 

CAPTAIN
Danton’s Daughters.

By May Agnes Fleming.

 

(“Captain Danton’s Daughters” was commenced in No, 16
Back Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the U. States.]

CHAPTER XVI,—(CONTINUED.)
[Mrs. REGINALD STANFORD TO GRACE DANTON. ]

QUEBEC, May 18.

DEAR MAMMA GRACE: I suppose, before this, you
have heard the awful news that my darling Regi-
nald and I have got married. Wouldn’tI like to see
you as you read this? Don’t I know that virtuous
scowl of yours so well, my precious mamma-in-law ?
Oh, you dear old prude, it’s so nice to be married,
and Reginald is an angel! Ilove him so much, and
f se so happy. Inever was half so happy in my

ife.

I suppose Madame Leblanc sent youthe full, true,
and particular account of my goings on. Poor old
soul! what a rare fright she must have got when
she found out I was missing. And Virginie, too.
Virginie was so jealous to think I was going to be
married before her, as it I would ever have married
that insipid Jules. How I wish my darling Reginald
had his fortune; but fortune or no fortune, I love
him with all my heart, and am going to be just as
happy as the day is long. —

suppose Kate is furious, and saying all kinds of
hard things about me. It is not fairif sheis. I
could not help Reginald’s liking me better than her,
and I should have died ifI had not got him. There!
I feel very sorry for her, though; I know how I
should feel if I lost him, and I dare say she feels al-
most as bad. Let her take Jules. Poor Jules, I ex-
pect he will break his heart, and I shall be shocked
and disappointed ifhe does not. Lethertakehim. He
is rich and good-looking; and all those lovely wed-
ding clothes will not go to waste. Ah! how sorry I
am to leave them behind; but it can’t be helped.
We are off to-morrow for England. I shall not feel
safe until the ocean is between us and papa. I sup-
pose papa is very angry; but where is the use? As
long as Reginald marries one of his daughters, I
a think the particular one would be imma-
terial.

Iam sorry I cannot be present at your wedding,
Grace. I give you carte blanche to wear all the pret-
ty things made for Mrs. Jules Le Touche, if they will
fit you. Tell poor Jules, when he comes, that Iam
sorry; but I loved Reginald so much that I could not
help it. Isn’t he divinely handsome, Grace? Ifhe
knew I was writing to you, he would send his love,
so take it for granted.

I should like to write more, but Iam going on
board in an hour. Please tell Kate not to break her
heart. It's of no use.

Give my regard to that obliging brother of yours.
Tlike him very much. Perhaps I may write to you
from England if you will not be disagreeable, and
will answer. Ishould like to hear the news from
Canada and Danton Hall. Rapturously thine,

ROSE STANFORD.

 

[GRacE DANTON TO Doctor DANTON.]
DanTon HALL, May 30,
DEAR FRANK: ‘‘Man proposes——” You know the
proverb, which holds good in the case of women,
too. I know my prolonged silence must have sur-
prised you; but I have been so worried and anxious
of late that writing has become an impossibility.
Danton Hallhas becomea maison de deuil—a house

h househo
aseete ms C
| hood more gray

of mourning indeed. I look back as people look
back on some dim, delightful dream to the days that
are gone, and wonder if indeed we were so merry

The laughter, t

 
  
  

he music—all t
—hayve d

 
  
  

he merry sounds of a
orever, .A convent of
ho ly sister-
egin at the

    

  

  
 
 
  
  
  
 

 
 
 

begii
mn i

day after Lyre e
. 1 the shape ofa |
thoroughly selfish

, ng, an

  
  

ing for her w ei
any lingering remai L |
ofher marriage with Reginald Stanford in the most
shamelessly insolent and exultant tone. It alluded
to her sister and to poor Jules Le Touche in a way
that brought the “bitter bad” blood of the old Dan-
tons to, my face. Oh,ifI could have but laid my
hands on Mistress Rose at.that. moment, quiet as I
‘am, I think I would have made her ears, tingle as
they never tingled before,

I said nothing of the letter, My greatest anxiety
now was lest Captain Danton and Mr, Stanford should
meet. I wasin a state of feverish anxiety all day,
which even Kate noticed. You know she never
liked me, and latterly her aversion has deepened,
though Heaven knows without any cause on my
part, and she avoided me as much as she possibly
could without discourtesy. She inquired, however,
ifanything had happened—if I had bad news from
her father, and looked at me ina puzzled manner
when I answered ‘*‘No.” I could not look at her;
could hardly speak to her;. somehow I felt about as
guilty concealing the truth asifI had been in the
vile plot that had destroyed her happiness,

Father Francis came up in the course of the day;
and when he was leaving, I called him into the li-
brary, and told him the trath. I cannot tell you
how shocked he was at Rose’s perfidy, or how dis-
tressed for Kate’s sake. He agreed with me that
it was best to say nothing until Captain Danton’s re-
turn.

He came that night. It was late—nearly eleven
o'clock, and Iand Thomas were the only ones up.
Thomas admitted him; and I shallnever forget how
word, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came

nD.

“T was too late, Grace,” were his first words.
“They have gone.”

“Thank Heaven!” I exclaimed. ‘Thank Heaven
you have not met them, and that there is no blood-
shed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it is.”

‘Does Kate know ?” he asked.

“Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He
thought asI did, that it was better to wait until you
returned.”

“My poor child! my poor Kate!” he said,in a
broken voice, ‘*who will tell you this ?”

He was so distressed that I knelt down beside him,
and tried to soothe and comfort him.

“Father Francis will,’ I said. ‘She. venerates
and esteems him more highly than any other living
being, and his influence over her is greater. Let
Father Francis tell her to-morrow.”

Captain Danton agreed that that was the very best
thing that could be done, and soon after retired.

I went to my room, too, but not to sleep. Iwas.
too miserably anxious aboutthe morrow. The night
was lovely—bright as day and warm as midsummer,
I sat by the window looking out, and saw Kate walk-
ing up and down the tamarac-avenue with that mys-
terious Mr. Richards. They lingered there for over
an hour, and then I heard them coming softly up
stairs, and going to their respective rooms.

Next morning after breakfast, Captain Danton
rode down to the village and had an interview with
Father Francis. Two hours after, they returned to
Danton Hall together, both looking pale and ill at
ease. Kate and I were in the drawing-room—she
practicing a new song;I sewing. We both rose at
their entrance—she gayly; I, with my heart beating
thick and fast.

et

Father Francis,” she said. ‘I wish our wanderers
would come back, Danton Hall has been as gloomy
as an old bastile lately.”

I don’t know what Father Francis said. I know
he looked as though the errand he had come to ful-
fil were unspeakably distasteful to him.

“Reginald ought to be home to-day,” Kate said,
walking to the window, ‘‘and Rose next week. It
seems like a century since they went away.”

I could wait for no more—I hurried out of the
room—crying, Iam afraid. Before Icould go up
stairs, Captain Danton joined me in the hall,

‘Don’t go,” he said, hoarsely; ‘*wait here.
may be wanted.”

y heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehen-
sion of—I hardly know what. We stood there to-
gether waiting, as the few friends who loved the ill-
tated Scottish Queen so well, may have stood when
she laid her head on the block. I looked at that
closed door with a mute terror of what was passing
within—every nerve strained to hear the poor tor-
tured girl’s cry of anguish. No such cry ever came.
We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an
hour, an hour, before that closed door opened. We
shrank away, but it was only Father Francis, very
pale and sad. Our eyes asked the question our
tongues would not utter.

“She knows all,” he said, in atremulous voice;
“she has taken it very quietly—too quietly. She
has alarmed me—that unnatural calm is more dis-
tressing than the wildest outburst of weeping.”

“Shall we go to her?” asked her father.

“JT think not—I think she is better alone. Don’t
disturb her to-day. I will come up again this even-

You

ing.” 4

“What did she say ?” asked.

‘Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are
stunned by a sudden blow. Don't linger here; she
will probably be going up to her room, and may not
like to think you are watching her.”

Father Francis went away. Captain Danton re-
tired to his study. Iremained in the recess, which
you knowis opposite the drawing-room, with the
door ajar. I wished to prevent Eeny or any of the
servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering.
About an hour after, the door opened, and she came
out and went slowly up stairs. I caught a giimpse
of her face as she passed, and it had turned to the
pallor of death. I heard her enter the room and
lock the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the
morning.

She did not come down all day. I called in Keny,
and told her what had happened, and shocked the
poor child asshe was never shocked before. At din-
ner-time I sent her up stairs, to see if Kate would
not take some refreshment. Her knocking and call-
ing remained unanswered. She left in despair, and
Kate never came down.

Another sleepless night—another anxious morn-
ing. About eight o'clock [heard Kate’s bell ring,
and Eunice goupstairs. Presently the girl ran down
and entered the room where I was.

“Tf you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you,”
said Eunice, witha scared face; ‘‘and oh, miss, I think
she’s ill, she do look so bad!”

Wanted me! I dropped the silver I was holding,
in sheer affright. What could she want ofme? I
went up stairs, my heart almost choking me with its
rapid throbbing, and rapped at the door.

She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think
her ill. One night had wrought such change as I
never thought a night could work before. She had
evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of
yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room,
undisturbed. Her face was so awfully corpse-like,
her eyes so haggard and sunken, her beauty so mys-
teriously gone, that I shrank before her as if it had
been the specter of her bright, beautiful, radiant
Kate Danton. She leaned against . the low mantel-
piece, and motioned me forward with a cold, fixed
look.

‘You are aware,” she said, in a hard, icy yvoice—
oh, so unlike the sweet tonesof only yesterday—
‘twhat Father Francis came here yesterday to say.
You and my father might have told me sooner; but I
blame nobody. What I want to sayis this: From
this hourI never wish to hear from any one the
slightest allusion to the past; I never want to hear
the names of those who are gone. I desire you to
tell this to my father and sister. Yourinfluence over
them is greater than mine.”

I bowed assent without looking up; I could feel
the icy stare with which she wasregarding me, with-
out lifting my eyes.

‘Father Francis mentioned a letter that R——”;
she hesitated for a moment, and finally said—‘that
she sent you. Will you let me see it ?”

That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked
up imploringly, with clasped hands.

‘‘Pray don’t,” Isaid. “Oh, pray don’t ask me! It
is unworthy of notice—it will only hurt you more
deeply still.”

She held out her hand steadily.

‘“‘Will you let me see. it.?”

“What could Ido? Itook the letter from my
pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed
it, and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” _

 

    
    
      
    
   

and gay. The silence of the grave reigns here now, }
2 it

) x urred, ifI} “TI

“T am glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, | looking an

She walked to the window, and with her back to
me, read it through—read it more than once, I
should judge, by the length of time it took her.
When Z ed me again there was no sign of
T face.

P ? 3
tter of any use page Do.y

change in
_ “Is this I 2 want
“No! Lonly wish Thad a ved ish ago!”
ve with your permission, wit eep it.
ernation. “Wh

 

 

   

    
 

   
   
              

t 2d ‘by her look, and

‘that I could not speak. She saw it, and grew
posed again instantly. re

“T need not detain se any longer,” she said, look-
ing at her watch. “I haye no more to say. You
can tell my father and sister what I have told you.
i will go down to breakfast; andI am much obliged

oO you.”

She turned from me and went back to the window.
Tleft the room deeply distressed, and sought the
dining-room, where 1 found the captain and Eeny.
Trelated the whole interview, and impressed upon
them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-
bell rang while we were talking, and she came in,

Both Eeny and her father were as much shocked as
I had been by the haggard changein her; but neither
spoke of it to her. e tried to be at our ease dur-
ing breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the effort
was a miserable failure. She never spoke, except
when directly addressed, and ate nothing. She sat
down tothe piano,as usual, after breakfast, and
practiced steadily for twohours, Then she took her
hat anda book, and went out to the garden to read.
At luncheon-time she returned, with no better ap-
petite; and after that, went up to Mr. Richards’ room,
She staid with him two or three hours, and then sat
down to her embroidery frame, still cold, and impas-
sionate, and silent. Father incis came up in the
evening; but she was cold and unsocial with him as
with the rest of us, So that day ended, and so
every day has gone on since. What she suffers, she
suffers insolitude and silence; only her worn face,
haggard | and hollow eyes tell. She goes
through e of life with treadmill reg-
as thin as a shadow. She

i i eeps, nor complains; and she is
killing herself byinches. Weare worried to death
about her; and yet we are afraid to say one word in
her hearing. Come tous, Frank; you are a phys-
ician, and though you cannot ‘minister to a mind.
diseased,” you can at least tell us what will help her
failing body. Your presence will do Captain Danton
good, too; for Tl never saw him so miserable. We
are all most unhappy, and any additions to our fam-
ily circle will be for the better. We do not go out;
we have few visitors; and the place is as lonely asa
tomb. The gossip and scandal have spread like wild-
fire; the story isin everybody’s mouth; even in the
newspapers. Heaven forbidit should come to Kate’s
ears, This stony calm of her is not to be trusted.
It frightens me far more than, any hysterical burst
of sorrow. She has evidently some deep purpose in
her mind. I am afraid tothinkit may be of revenge.

    
 
   
 

   
  
  
 

e usual

~

‘Your affectionate sister, i

our trouble.
GRACE.

z

_ CHAPTER XVII.
“SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN.”
The second train from Montreal passing through
St. Croix on i ey mewhere else, was late
in the See the fifth of June. Instead of
shrieking into the v depot at tour P. M., it was
six when it arrived, 4

 

 

thw id halted pa : minute and
a half to let the pas ers out and take passengers
in. Few got in and fe ot out—a sunburnt old
Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and
their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter;
and a young man, who was tall and fair, and good-
d gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman,

judging by his looks. But, although he did not look
like one, he could talk like one, and had kept up an
animated conversation with poy! dark eyes in cap-
ital Canadian French for the last hour. He lifted his
hat politely now, with “Bon jour, mademoiselle,” and
L away thro! he main street of the village.

a mer evening. ‘‘The western
the gorgeous hues of the
e amber mist, and the shrill-

    
 
 
 
 

 

Come to us, brother, and try ifyou can help us in| tal

 

 

 

tell him the truth. Just now, I have no proof. Do
ee what Iam going to do, Agnes?”
‘No.

4

   
 

 
 
   

  

tune as he went,
the dining-ro¢

    
   
  
 
 
 
     

entr i
empty, and ‘he
Grace was th a
mit noise ‘he put his arm around

efore she was aware. ines
a little ery, that changed to
upon seeing
! ! When did you come?
I expe you a week ago,”

“] know it,” said her brother; ‘‘and I could have
ee too; but it struck me I shouldlike to arrive to-

ay. ee

“To-day! why ? Oh, I forgot, the fifth of June. It
is hard, Frank, isn’t it, just’ to ‘think what might
have been and what is.” j

“How does she take it ?”

“She has been Out nearly.all day,;"@eplied Grace,
knowing whom he meant, “she feels it, of course,
more than words can tell; but she never betrays
herself by look or action. I haye never seen her
shed a tear, or utter one desponding word, from the
day the news reached her until this. Her face shows
what she suffers, and that is beyond her power to
control.”

Doctor Frank walked thoughtfully to the window,
and looked out at the fading ‘brilliance of the sunset.
A moment later, and Eeny rode up on horseback,
sprang out of her saddle on the lawn, and tripped
up the steps.

Another moment, and she was in the drawing-
room.

“T saw you at the window,” she said. “Iam glad
you have come back again. Danton Hallis too dis-
mal to be described of late. Ah! dear old Tiger, and
how are you?) Doctor Frank,” lowering her voice,
“do you know what day this is ?”

Doctor Frank looked at her with a faint shadow of
. “sig on his face, humming a line or two of a bal-

ad.

‘** ‘Long have I been true to you. Now I’m true no
longer.’ Too bad, Eeny, we should lose the wedding,
and one wedding, they say, makes many.”

“Too bad!” echoed Eeny, indignantly. ‘Oh, Doc-
tor Frank, it was cruel of Rose, wasn't it? You
would hardly know poor Kate now.”

“Hush!” said the doctor, ‘there she comes!”

A tall, slender figure, came out from the orchard
path, book in hand, and advanced slowly toward the
house, Was it the ghost, the wraith, the shadow of
beautiful Kate Danton ? The lovely golden hair,
glittering in the dying radiance of the sunset, and
coiled in shining twists round the head, was the
same; the deep, large eyes, so darkly blue, were
clear and cloudless as ever, and yet changed totally
in expression. The queenly gr that always
characterized her, characterized her still; but how
wasted the supple form, how shadowy and frail it

rs to the drawing rz ae
back to the A and

10 it was.|

never passed beyond the
Sunday forenoons, when. sh
tle church of St. Croix and

 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
   

 

uflering to the

old apple-tree, the
ming and going in
ating through her

faint smile, at
im very much
e; the power
devoted way

k your lost

_ *Am I pale ” she sai indiffere “What does
it matter? I feel well enough.’”»©

“T don’t think youdo. You are gone to a shadow.
Would you not 1ike a change, my aear?. Would you
not like a pleasure tour this summer weather ”

  
  

I are about it, papa.”
“But ill come to please me. I shall takeyou
to the § ern States, and fetch you back in the

autumn, My own bright Kate again.”

There was no light of pleasure or eagerness in
her face. She only moved uneasily on the grass.

“You will come, my dear, will you not? Eunice
willaccompany you; and we will visit all the great
cities of this New World, that you have so often
lon; ed sy see.” ;

Will do whatever you wish, papa,” she said
apathetically. : et ‘ ‘

‘‘And you will give Eunice her orders about the
packing to-day, and be ready to start to-morrow ?”

“Yes, papa,”

“Ogden will remain behind,” continued her father,
in alowered voice, ‘I have said nothing to any one
else as yet about Harry. I shall go and speak to
them both about it now.”

“Yes, papa.”

She watched him striding away, with that look of
weary listlessness that had grown habitual to her,
and rose from her grassy couch with a sigh, to obey
his directions.. She found Eunice in the sewing-
room, with Agnes Darling, and gave her her orders
to pack up, and _ be prepared.to start next morning.
Then she went back to her seat under the old apple-
tree, and lay on the warm grass, ina state between
sleeping and waking all daylong, ~

The day of departure dawned cloudless and tovely.
Grace, her brother, and Eeny went tothe station
with the travelers, and saw them off. Kate’s fare-
well was very cold, even to Eeny. What was the
use of loving or being sorry to part with any one,
since all the world was false, and hollow, and de-
ceitful? She had lost something—heart—hope—
conscience—she hardly knew what; but something
within her that had beat high, and hopeful, and
eee was cold and stillas stone.

The little party onthe platform went back
through the yellow haze of the hot afternoon, to the
quiet old house. Ah! how indescribably quiet and
lonely now! Some one might have lain dead in

 

 

 

had grown. The haggard changein the pale face,
the nervous contraction of the mouth, the sunken
eyes, with those dark circles, told their eloquent
**Poor child!” Doctor Frank said, with a look of
unspeakable pity and tenderness; “‘it was cruel!”

Eeny ran away to change her dress. Grace lightly
dusted the furniture, and her brother stood by the
window and watched that fragile-looking girl com-
ing slowly.up through the amber air.

‘How tired she looks!” he said, -

“Kate,” said Grace, coming over, ‘‘she is always
like that now. Tired at getting up, tired at lying
down, listless and apathetic always. If Regina
Stanford had murdered her, it would hardly have
been a more wicked act.”

those echoing rooms, so deathly was the stillness.

There was one consolation for Grace and Eeny in
their solitude. Doctor Frank was going to remain
in the village. It was chiefly at the solicitation of
Father Francis that he had consented.

‘‘Doctor Pillule is superannuated,” said the young
priest, ‘‘and old-fashioned, and obstinately preju-
diced against all modern innovations, at the best.
We want a new man among us—particularly now
that this fever is spreading.”

A low fever had been working its way, insidu-
ously, among the people since early spring, and _ in-
creasing sifce the warm weather had come. Per-
haps the miasma, arising frum the marshes, had
been the cause; but several had died, and many lay
ill those sunny June days,

“Your mission lies here,” Father Francis said, ’

 

Her brother did not reply.

A few minutes later, Kate walked into the room,
still with that slow, weary step. She looked at the
new-comer with listless indifference, spoke a few
words of greeting with cold apathy, and then re-
Le to another window, and bent her eyes on her

ook,

Captain Danton returned just as the dinner-bell
was ringing; and his welcome made up in cordiality
what his daughter’s lacked. He, too, was changed.
His florid face had lost much of its color, and was
grown thin, and-his eyes were ever wandering, with
a look of mournful tenderness, to his pale daughter.

They were all rather silent. Grace and her brother

 

    
  

ith their guar plumage,
es high in the green gloom

  
    
 
  
  
   
 

f) 1 the soft hum of village life

eye

rustling softly i
bright all along
glory of the su

The young
swinging his li, Ht ;
brier sent up th PF 2 to the radiant
sky. The young man lit a cigar, and sent up its in-
cense, too.

He left. the village behind him presently, and
turned off by the pleasant road leading to Danton)
Hall. Ten minutes brought him to it, changed since
he had seen it last. The pines, the cedars, the tam-
aracs were all out in their summer-dress of living
green; the flower-gardens were aflame with flowers,
the orchard was white with blossoms, and the red
light of the sunset was reflected in mimic glory in
the still, broad fish-pond., Climbing roses and honey-
suckles trailed their fragrant branches round the
oe stone pillars of the portico. Windows and

oors stood. wide to admit the cool, rising breeze;
and a big dog, that had gamboled up all the way,
set up a bass bark of recognition. No living thing
was to bé seen in or around the house; but, at the
sound of the bark. a face looked out from a window,
about waist-high from the lawn. The window was
open, and the sweetbrier and rose-vines made a very
pretty frame for the delicate young face, A pale
and pensive face, lit with luminous dark eyes, and
shaded by soft, dark hair. .

The young man walked up, and rested his arm on
the low sill. ts

‘‘Good evening, Agnes.” 4

Agnes Darling held out her hand, with a look of
bright pleasure. f ‘

“Tam glad to see youagain, Doctor Danton; and
Tiger, too.” zs

“Thanks. I thought I should find you sewing here.
Have you ever left off, night or day, since I left.” -

She smiled, and resumed her work,

“T like to be busy; it keeps me from thinking, Not
that Ihave been very busy of late.”

“Of course not; the wedding-garments weren’t
wanted, were they ? andall the trousseaux vanity
and vexation of spirit, You see others in the world
came to grief besides yourself, Miss Darling. Am I
expected ?”

“Yes; a week ago.”

‘Who's in the house ?”

“ft don't know exactly. Miss Danton isin the or-
chard, I think, with a book; Eeny is away for the
day at Miss Howard's, and the captain went up the
village an hourago. I daresay they will all be back
for dinner.”

Doctor Frank took another position on the win-
dow-sill, and leaned forward, with a lowered voice.

‘And how does the ghost get on, Agnes? Has it
made its appearance since ?”

Agnes Darling dropped her work, and looked up
at him, with clasped hands.

“Doctor Danton, I have seen him!”

“Who? The ghost ?”

“No ghost; but my husband.
plainly as ever I saw him.”

She spoke in a voice of intense agitation, but the
young doctor listened with perfect coolness,

“How was it, Agnes? Where did you see him?”

‘Walking in the tamarac-avenue, one moonlight
night, about a week ago, with Miss Danton.”

“And you are positive it was your husband ?”

“Do you think I could make a mistake in such a
matter? It wasHarry—I saw him clearly in the
moonlight.”

“Tt’s surprising you did notrun out, and fall down
in hysterics at his feet.”

She sighed wearily.

“No. I dared not.
shall I see him?
cent ?”

“Not just yet; it won't do to hurry matters in this
case. You have waited long and patiently; wait yet
a little longer, until the right time comes. The hap-
piness of knowing-he is alive and well, and dwelling
under the same roof with you should reconcile you
to that.”

“Tt does,” she said, her tears falling softly. “Thank
Heaven! he still lives. Ican hope now; but, oh,
doctor, do youreally think him Captain Danton’s
son?

“Tam certain of it; and no one will. give you a
more cordial welcome than Captain Danton, when I

It was Harry as

But, oh, Doctor Danton, when
When will you tell him I am inno-

 

 
  

  
 
 
 
  
    
       
  

 
  
 

 

and the captain, talked in a desultory sort of way
during dinner; but Kate never spoke, except when
directly addressed, and silence was Eeny’s forte. She
sat down to the piano after dinner, according to her
e custom, but not to sing. She had never
e that day. How could she? There was
¢ in all her collection that did not bring the
pf some recollection of him, so she only
illiant, new, soulless fantasias, that were
ty as her own heart.

‘she arose from the instrument she resumed
and sat down at a table studiously; but
Frank, watching her covertly, saw she did
mm Over a page in an hour. She was the first
to ret very early, looking pale and jaded to death.
Aalf an hour later, Eeny followed her, and then
Captain Danton pushed away the chess-board impa-
tiently. He had been playing with the doctor, and
began pacing feverishly up and down the room.

‘What shall I do with her?” he exclaimed. ‘‘What
shall I do to keep my darling girl from dying before
my eyes? Doctor Danton, you are a physician. Tell
me what I shall do!” —

“Take her away from here,” said the doctor, em-
phatically. ‘‘It is this place that is killing her. How
can it be otherwise? Everything she sees from
morning till night brings backs a thousand bitter
recollections of what is past and gone. Take her
away, where there will be nothing to recall her loss;
take her where change and excitement will drown

 

emphatically.
Stay !”

So Doctor Danton staid, hanging out his shingle
and taking up his abode at the village hotel. Doc-
tor Pillule, all of a sudden, like the Moor of Venice,
found his occupation gone. Every one liked the
pleasant young doctor, whose ways were so differ-
ent from those of Doctor Pillule, and who sat by
their fevered bedsides, and talked to them so kindly.
Every one liked him; and he soon found himself
ey enough, but never so busy that some time,
each day, he could not run up for half an hour to
Danton Hall.

July came, and brought a letter from Captain
Danton to Grace. Like many others, he hated lJet-
ter- writing, and never performed that duty when he
could possibly avoid it. pak < declined writing,
absolutely; soit fell to his lot. They were in New
York, on the eve of departure for Newport, and
Kate had already beneflted by the change. That
was nearly all; and it was the middle of July before
the second arrived. They were still at Newport,
and the improvement in Kate was marked. The
wan and sickly look was sept passing away—the
change, the excitement, the sea-bathing, the gay
life, were working wonders,

‘She has created somewhat of a sensation here,”
said the latter, ‘and might be one of the belles, if
she chose; but she doesn’t choose. Her coldness,
her proud and petrified air, her strange and gloomy
manner, throws a halo of mystery around her, that
has fixed all eyes upon her, and set all tongues
going. We are quite unknown here, and I don’t
choose to enlighten any one. I dare say, more than
one little romance has been concocted, founded on
poor Kate’s settled gloom; but, beyond our names,
they really know nothing. Some of the young men
look as if they would like to bea little more friendly,
but she freezes them with one flash of her blue
eyes.’ .

August came, burning and breezeless, and they
were at Saratoga, drinking Congress water, and
finding life much the same as at Newport. Kate

“You can do good, Doctor Danton.

 

thought. As her mind recovers its tone, so will her
body. ‘Take her traveling for the summer.”

‘“Yes—yes,” said Grace, earnestly. ‘lam sure it
is the very best thing you can do.”

“But, my dear,” said Captain Danton, smiling a
little, *‘you forget that the first week of July we are
to be married.”

“Oh, put it off.” Grace said; “what does a little
delay matter. Weare not like Rose and Reginald;
we are old and steady, and we can trust one another
and wait. A few months’ delay is nothing, and Kate’s
health is everything.”

“She might go with us,” said the captain; ‘‘sup-
pose it took place this month mmstead of next, and
we made a prolonged wedding-tour, she might ac-
company us.”

Grace shook her head.

“She wouldn’t go. Believe me, I know her, anc
she wouldn't go. She will go with you alone will-
ingly—never with me.”

“She is unjust to you, and you are so generously
ready to sacrifice your own plans to hers.”

“Did you ever know a young lady yet who liked
the idea of a step-mother,” said Grace, with a smile.
“T never did. Miss Danton’s dislike and ‘aversion
are unjust, perhaps; but perfectly natural. No, no,
the autumn or winter will be soon enough, and take
Kate traveling.”

“Very well, my dear; be it as you say. Now,
where shall we go? Back to England ?”

“T think not,” said Doctor Frank. ‘England has
nearly as many painful associations for her as Dan-
ton Hall. Take her where she has never been;
where all things are new and strange. Take her on-
a tour through the United States, for instance.”

‘A capital idea,” exclaimed the captain, “It is
what she has wished for often since we came to
Canada. I'll take her South. I have an old friend,
a planter, in Georgia. I’lltake her to Georgia.”

**You could not do better.”

“Let me see,” pursued the captain, full of the
hopetul idea; ‘‘we must stay a week or two in Bos-
ton, a week or two in New York; we must visit
Newport and Saratoga, rest ourselves in Philadel-
phia and Washington, and then make straight for
Georgia. How long will ail that take us, do you
suppose ?”

“Until October, I should say,” replied the doctor.
“October will be quite time enough to return here.
If your daughter does not come back with new life,
then I shall give up her case in despair.” :

“JT will speak to her to-morrow,” said the captain,
“and start the next day. Since it must be done, it
is best done quickly. I think myself it will do her a
world of good.” :

Captain Danton was as good as his word. He
broached the subject to his daughter shortly after
breakfast next morning. ‘It was out in the orchard,
where she had strayed, according to custom, with a
book. It was notso much to read—her favorite au-
thors, all of a sudden, had grown flat and insipid,
and nothing interested her—but she liked to be
alene and undisturbed, ‘tin sunshine calm and
sweet,” with the scented summer air blowing in her
face. She liked to listen, dreamy and listless, and
with all the energy of her nature dead within her,
to the soft murmuring of the trees, to the singing of
the birds overhead, and to watch the pearly clouds

had recovered her looks, the captain’s letters said;
the beauty that had made her so irresistible had re-
turned, and made her more irresistible than ever.
There was nothing like her at Saratoga; but she
was as deeply wrapped in mystery as ever, and
about as genial as a statue in Parian marble.

The end of August found them journeying South-

domesticated in the friendly Georgian homestead;
and then, Kate, tirea after all hor wanderings,
sank down in the tropical warmth and beauty, and
drew a breath of relief. She liked it so much, this
lovely Southern land, where the gorgeous flowers
bloomed and the tropic birds flitted with the hues of
Paradise on their wings. She liked the glowing
richness of the Southern days and nights, the forests
and fields so unlike anything she had ever seen
before; the negroes with their strange talk and
gaudy garments, the pleasant house and the pleas-
ant people. She liked it all, and the first sensation
of peace and rest she had felt all these months
stole into her heart here. And yet it had done hera
world of good—she was a new being—outwardly at
least—although her heart felt as mute and still as
ever. Her life’s shipwreck had been so sudden and
so dreadful, she had been so stunned and stupefied
at first, and the after anguish so horribly bitter, that
this haven of rest was as grateful as some green
island of the sea to a shipwrecked mariner. Here
there was nothing to remind her of all that was
past and gone—here, where everything was new,
her poor bruised heart might heal.

Captain Danton saw and thanked Heaven grate-
fully for the blessed change in the daughter he
loved, and yet she was not the Kate of old. All
the youth and joyousness of lief’s springtime was
gone. She sang no more the songs he loved, they
were dead and buried in the dead past; her clear
laugh never rejoiced his heart now, her fleeting
smile came coli and pale as moonlight on snow.
She took no interest in the home she had left,
she made no inquiries for those who were. there.

“T have had a letter from Danton Hall,” he
would say; ‘‘and they are well.” And she would
silently bend her head. Or, “I am writing to Dan-
ton Hall, have you any message to send?” ‘Only
my love to Eeny,” would be the answer; and then she
would stray off and leave him alone. She was as
changed to him as she was changed in other
things, Grace stood between—an insuperable bar-
rier. 5

September drew to a close. October came, and
with it the time for their departure. Kate left
reluctantly; she longed to stay there forever, in
that land of the sun, and forget and be at peace.
It was like tearing half-healed wounds open to go
back to a place Where everything her eye rested
on or her ear heard, from morning till night, re-
called the bitter past. But fate was inexorable,
farewell must be said to beautiful Georgia and the
kind friends there; and the commencement of the
second week of October found them starting on
their journey to their Northern home. ,

(TO BE CONTINUED. |
a or

Pusric lotteries were first known in England in
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at Ap NEATH, yk

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i drearily, as if
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Penny Songsand Music Cards.
. HE LATEST APPROVED NOVELTY FOR

PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

To SUPERINTENDENTS AND TEACHERS:

In offering my “Penny Songs” to Public Schools, I desire to
¢all special attention to my “Time ,’? which are not merely
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27-4

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sample. RS. G. N. BORDMAN,
’ Mus. Ins. Pub, Schools, Melrose, Mass.
TESTIMONIALS.

Both the words and music of all the ‘‘PENNY Sonas” and “‘Mvu-
SIC REWARD CaRps,”’ by Mrs. G. N. Bordman, of Melrose, Mass.,
are original; and are separatel Spear ented by the author. The
oy indorsements are published from Professors and Teach-
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many equally complimentary :

From Prof. S. B. Heigis, York, Pa:)

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From J. F. Burwell, Principal Wayne ai Normal School.)

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From J. W. Cheeney, Prin. Hampton, N. H., Academy.)

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*I. deem Mrs. Bordman’s Songs the best yet attempted. These
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Sample sets of these “PENNY Soncs” and “CHROMO Music
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of25 cents. Address,
MRS. G. N. BORDMAN,
Box 231 Melrose, Mass.

 

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Address the Auburn Copying Co., Auburn, N,Y,

 

 

 

 

EW FRENCH RECEIPT.—Ladies, a receipt war-
= ranted toremove Freckles, Moth-patches, and Tan, with
out injury to theskin. Gentlemen, a receipt warranted to grow
a good beard. Thisis no humbug. Money refunded if nota
success. Price 75 cents. Address JAROME, Box 1346, Sring-
field, Mass, w28-2

HEN A MAN SECURES A LIFE INSUR-
ANCE POLICY in a company of palpable permanent
strength, he makes a sure provision for his loved ones.
THE UNITED STATES OF NEW YORK, at
261, 262, and 263 BROADWAY,

is precisely such a company, and the President is ready to ne-
gotiate with active men of ability for Local Agencies.

 

 

 

OUNTIFUL NATURE AFFORDS NO FINER SPECIFIO for skin dis-

eases than Sulphur, a fact that is clearly proven by the ac-

tion upon the cuticle afflicted with eruptions or ulcerous sores,

of that supreme purifier, GLEN’s SULPHUR SOAP. Prices 25 and

50 cents per cake. Per box @ cakes), 75 cents and $1.50. Sent by
C, N. CRITTENTON

mail. Addr a N,
¥ ' No. 7 Sixth Avenue, N. Y.

ess

 

 

THE LOVER'S APPEAL.

BY W. R. BARBER.

 

Oh, tell me that you love me still,
Nor seek to break the mutual bond,

My heart for aye with love must thrill,
Say not that yours has grown less fond!

You must forever reign supreme
The sovereign of this faithful breast;
Oh, call not, then, a girlish dream
The fond regard you oft confessed.

When, parting, we our vows renewed,

You said toward me you could not change,
That neither time nor absence should

Your fixed affection e’er estrange.

Believe me, sweet, your constant thrall
My ardor naught hath power to quell.
The love you gaye, oh, ne’er recall,
But own, like me, its gentle spell!

You gave me, too, a red moss rose;

The bloom had decked your dark brown hair;
Here, next my heart, its leaves repose;

Though you proved false, I'd keep them there.

Both seent and freshness long have fled,
But still the fragments of the flower
Revive, will till life be sped,
The memory of that blissful hour.

Then tell me you are still my own;
Repeat the vows you made of yore;
Say not in absence love has flown,
Or that its joyous dream is o’er!

Pleasant Paragraphs.

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing
toward making this column an attractive feature of the NEW
York WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for publica-
tion anything which may be deemed of sutticient interest for
general perusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be
penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely
to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. |

Shooting a Midnight Thief.

Jones, who lives in our neighborhood, is a very

eculiar man. He has probably killed more burg-

ars, in the shape of old hats, old pants, and pieces
of old stovepipe; than any other man around.

Jones is also noted for curing a cold by the unlim-
ited use of brandy, and he also manages to havea
bad cold every other night. oO,

The other night Jones and his “better half’ re-
tired very early, Jones having his usual bad cold,
and his brandy bottle. Shortly after midnight Mrs.
Jones awakened her lord, with the remark that she
thought she heard a noise down stairs in the kit-
chen.

Jones remarked that she didn’t hear any such
thing. But hesaid he would.get up and listen,
which he did, and hearing nothing he took a pull
at the brandy bottle, and returned to his bed.

Mrs. Jones said she was confident she heard an
unusual noise down stairs. R

Jones said he didn’t know but what he did hear
some noise, and getting up ho took another pull at
the brandy, and said he was sure there was a burg-
ves stairs; said he guessed he would go down
and see. ;

So he went intothe other room, and returned with
adouble-barreled shot-gun; said he would make
sure of it, and he put a couple of balls on top of the
chirge of shot. , oy) BAH

Then he silently crept down stairs in his bare feet,
and after stepping on about 74 tacks on the stairs,
he reached the kitchen door, which he cautiously
opened, and looked in; said he guessed there were
two of them, and they_were over by the ice-chest.

Jones drew a heavy breath, braced the gun firmly
against his shoulder, and fired, :

There was a terrific explosion, and Jones

 

pee

himself up by the front door, slightly bruise
Hee ene oF , and told Mrs. Jones he guess-
ed he had killed them; but he did not dare to go

and see before daylight, as he might not have killed
more than one, and the other might be waiting for

im.
They both lay awake till daylight, when Jones got
up, and, after taking a long pull at the brandy bot-
tle, he said he dreaded to go down, as he always
did hate to look at dead peop e. ;

However, he crept down,and looked into the
kitchen, and the only unusual sight that met his
gaze was two large-sized cat-tails lying on the ice-
chest, and the wall and ceiling in the immediate
yicinity were beautifully frescoed with blood and
small pieces of flesh and hair. :

Mrs. Jones came down, and, while she remoyed
the debris from the wall and ceiling, Jones applied
the usual restoratives to his bruise fre remark-
ing that it was always best to be on the safe side.

‘Airs. Jones said she would save the tails for lamp-
chimney cleaners. JAMES E. HASKETT,

A Loving Pair Rebuked.

“Religion never was designed to make our plea-
sures less,’ nervously observed a clergyman, paus-

 

 

| pipin

ingin the midst of the sermon last evening, “‘but
when the young man and woman in the gallery get
through feeding each other Boston chips, we’ll go

om A Well-Known Witness,

Ata recent trial in the Elko county court, Neva-
da, a jolly fellow naméd Bischoff, proprietor of the
Humboldt brewery, was called as a witness. Mr.
Bischoff is one of the ‘solid men” of Elko, where
he has been in business since the town was started
in the winter of 1858, Upon being sworn, Coun-
selor Rand one of the attorneys in the case, who, by
the way, is an old resident of Elko, said:

“Mr. Bischoff, where do you reside?”

“Where ILreside? What for you ask me such fool-
ish things? You drink atmy place more as a hun-
dred times.” ’ ; i

“That has nothing to do with the case on trial,
Mr. Bischoff; state to the jury where you reside.”

“De shurry! de shurry! Oh, pyjiminy! efery
shentleman on dis shurry has a string of marks on
mine door just like a rail fence.”

His honor here interceded in the counselor’s be-
half, and in a calm, dignified manner requested the
witness to state where he resided. |

“Oh, excuse me, shudge; you drinks at my blace
so raanty times, and pays me nothings; I dinks you
know old Bischoff yat keeps the brewery.”

Humorous Titles.

The Duke of Devonshire being in want of some
humorous titles forasham door in his library at
Chatsworth, employed Tom Hood, the poet, to write
a number for him, among which are the following:

Life of Zimmerman (the author of Solitude.) By
Himself. ‘

Barrow_on the Common Weal.

On the Lung in Consumption.

Life of Jack Ketch with

Percy Vere in 40 vols.

By De Cline.
uts of his own Excution.

Voltaire, Volney, Volta. 3 vols.
Remarks on Punctuation. By a Thoroughbred
Pointer.

Campaigns of the British Arm. By one of the
German Leg.

A Clergyman’s Story.

I was holding a prayer-meeting in a Western
town in the early days of my ministry, and as there
was no one to raise the tune, I tried myself to do it.
The hymn began:

With hyssop purge thy servant, Lord,
And so I clean shall be.

My first attempt was a failure; when I tried'tune
number twol found it was long meter, and as I
came tothe end of my stock I stood still for a few
moments looking at the page. Thereupon an old
woman stood by the door and spoke out in a shrill
voice: ou don’t seem to get on yery well
with yeoge suppose you try. some other yarb!”
What could I do but burst out with the all-conquer-
ing laugh, or die if I suppressed it ?”

Discouraging.

“Tell moe, darling, do you love me ?” was the some-
what dramatic ree tion that burst from the lips
of asentimental youth in the vicinity of Fort Fred
Steele, Wyoming Territory, when finding himself
in close proximity with the object of his adoration,
a buxom dame of some forty summers, formerly a
native of the State of Vermont.

“Wall, I guess I do, Bill,” was the rather hesitat-
ing reply, atthe same time exerting to the utmost
all her physical abilities in the effort to wreath her
countenance with smiles and blushes, so becoming
to her Reo en style of beauty. | f

“Tell me that you will be mine—that you will
make me happy. Invigorate this miserable hamlet
of clay with new life; make me forget that I have
lived heretofore, and cause meto think of the pres-
ent and future only for thy divine self, thou most
beauteous of creatures.”

“Guess I couldn’t. Bill, cause you know my hus-
band and little boy down in Vermont would be

 

 

 

 

        

 

dreadfully discouraged when theywhearn as how i
had left them and took to bigamy s&soon.”

It isthe general supposition that Bill has acted
contrary to Mr. Greeley’s advice (given to young

men of the present generation) and gone East.

J. J. cre.
A Crowd of Puppies. ig

In the upper part of Phila. there congregates a
crowd of fashionably-dressed young bloods around
a coal-box in front of a grocery storé, They espied
an Irishman coming up the street under the influ-
ence of whisky, and thought they would have a lit-
tle fun with him. Whenhe was near the coal-box,
one of the sports asked: Ae

“Say, Pat, what do we young gentlemen put you
in mind of ?” $ eg

“Och, boys, shure ye resimble a lot of little pup-
pies around a dog kennel.” ;

They said no more to Pat. F. B.C,

Done His Darndest.

A number of years ago, dear old Daddy Coleman
was a preacher, appointed by the Methodist Con-
ference to the Greenfield charge, and with all his
power he worked for the conversion of souls. At
the end of the_year he started to attend general
conference. He entered the hotel in the place to
wait for a stage-coach which was to convey him on
his way. While waiting he was reflecting and think-
ing of his pears labor now past, and leaning his
head upon his hand, he loudly groaned. .

The Syme landlord, just coming into the
room, heard him, and asked him if he was sick.

“Oh, no,” he replied. :

‘ - Well, then,” said the landlord, “what is the mat-
er?” ‘ *
“T was just thinking,” said Brother Coleman,

“that after all my labor how very little good has [until they are six years old, and for girls of even eight or nine

»

resulted.” |

“Oh,” said the landlord, “don’t feel bad. You
needn’t care,solong as you know you have done
your darndest.” | . R. W. W

A Quiet Hint.

A well-known financier of great taste and cul-
ture, was one day dining at Mr. A. T, Stewart’s ta-
ble, when blue seal wine was served in a manner
showing that it was thought to be very precious.

‘You have tasted this wine before ?”? Mr. Stewart
asked him. »

“Oh, yes,” was the answer, “and from larger,
glasses.”

A Dejected Milkman, —

A milkman was lately seeking the aid of the po-
lice to trace the whereabouts of a family who had
left the neighborhood, owing him eighteen shil-

lings. uy
“Well, Isuppose there was nine shillings’ worth
of water in that account,” remarked the inspector.
“That’s where it galls me—that’s where it hurts!”
replied the dealer. “They were new Customers,
and I hadn’t commenced to water the milk yet!”

A Husband’s Vacation.

A Minnesota lady, in taking her morning gape
lately, put her jaw out of joint, and it was two days
before the doctor could get it in plage again. Her
husband says he hasn’t uch a yacation since
his married life begun. re BK

Too Full for Utterance, _

He was evidently an anti-crusader. os red nose
and bleared eyes were indicative of cant im-
bibations, and his endeavors to take both sides of:
the street along with him, as he staggered by, de
noted that alarge quantity of the “extract”. had
been very recently imbibed. He finall
and tumbled over on his back in the g oatatatt

Rey. was just passing, and, in the goodness
of the heart, stopped to remonstrate, to pol ow
the evil of his way, and the wreck he was makin
of himself. : ! P y

“Heayen blesh yer, parson,” said the inebriate;;
“but (hic) er don’t feel like talkin’ about’t now, ’cos:
I'm feelin’ too full f’r utterance !” JNO. BRAUN,

A Big Bushel. ;

An Trishman was in the field hauling stones,
which were all very small. A neighbor passing,
hailed him and said:

“What are you doing, Pat?”

“T am dhrawin’ stone, an’ they’re so small, sure
it takes a cart-load*to make a bushel.” RuPpzrT.

To P. P. ConTRIBUTORS.—The followi MSS. are accepted:
“Kilt Intirely,” ‘Color of a Schoolhouse,”’ ‘‘Out of the Ground,”’
“Buy Me Some,” “The Reason,” “A Bull in Church,’ “A Fa-
ther’s Letter,” ‘The Minister’s Visit,” ‘‘Petrifying Steam,”
“Never Kiss Another,” ‘“Couldn’t Fill It,” ‘Chinese Restaurant,”
“Not the Pistol,’ ‘‘Woman-Hater,” “Scene in a School-room,””
“Red, White, and Blue,” ‘A Capital Hen,” ‘‘A Letter from the
Owld Sod.?’......The tollowing are respectfully declined: ‘‘An
Episode of a Life’—too long, “Dutchman <Ahead,’? ‘Too Much
Soup.” “Slow Man,” ‘A Smart Irishman,” “Two Colored La-
dies,” ‘Couldn’t Change It,” ‘Uncle Sol’s Courtship,” “A Por-
trait of You,’ ““‘Walked by the Way,” “Centennial Rooster.”

34
te
5

 

 

 

 

now ready.
ext Se

ve, it up, |

noted

   
   

   

 

it. The skin of the head, like’ that of every other part of the body,
is constantly being renewed internally, and peeling off in scales
as fine as dust externally, and these are to be removed by means
of the brush. . .The proper time for the operation is the morning,
just after you haye come out of your bath, provided you have
not wetted the hair. Two’ kinds of brushes should be used—a
hard and a soit. The former is to be used first, and used well,
but not too roughly. It removes all dust, and acts like a tonic
on the root of the hair, stimulating the whole capillary system to
healthy action. Afterward use the soft brush. This to give the
gloss from which the morning sunshine will presently glint and
gleam with a glory that no Macassar oil in the world could im-
itate. This gloss comesfrom the glands at the roots of the hair,
nature’s own patent pomade, which thesoft brush does but
spread. The head must be washed occasionally to thoroughly
cleanse both head and.hair.” Never use_soap if you can avoid it;
if you do, let it be the very mildest and unperfumed; avoid so-
called hair-cleansing fluids, and use rain-water filtered. The
yolks of two new-laid eggs are much to be preferred to soap;
they make a beautiful ‘Jather, and when the washingis eh:
ed, and the hair thoroughly rinsed in the purest rain-water,
you will find, when dry, that the gloss will not be destroyed,
which alKali never fails to do.. The first water must not be ver
hot, only just warm, and the last perfectly cold. Dry with so
towels, but do not rub until the skin is tender, and afterward
brush. Bevery careful always to haye Fee brushes and combs
perfectly clean and free trom grease, and place other brushes on
the table for friends of yours who use oil. Pointing the hair
regularly not only prevents it from splitting at the ends, tnt it
renders each individual hair more healthy, and keeps up the
growing process, which otherwise might be blunted or checked.
Singing the tips of the hair has also a beneficial effect. Do with-
out oils and pomades if possible, for by their clogging nature and
over-stimulating properties they often cause the hair to grow
thin and fall off sooner than it otherwise would. Let well alone.
“OQ. Green,’ Nebraska.—For yourself make a pretty suit of
ercale or cambric, after the following patterns: For skirt use
No. 3,308, price 30 cents, and trim with ruffles of the material.
For overskirt No. 4,405, price 30 cents, will be pretty; and a neat
basque is No. 4,412, price 30 cents. Another pattern, suitable for
making up wash fabrics, is a sacque, with English k, and
belted front. It is No. 4,400, price 30 cents. You can put all three
of the children in little white Gabrielle dresses, trimmed with
Hamburg edging. These half-fitting dresses are suitable for boys

years of age. If the weather is cool you can add flannel sacques,
or white capes, or any light covering will do.

“C. F. N.—We can get very good black silk now for from $1.75
to $2.50 a yard, and for $3 a most beautiful quality. From
eighteen to twenty-two yards 0; silk will make a fashionable suit.
Yes, black silk can be worn all summer, and will make you both
ahandsome and useful dress. You can get a hat the shade of
your dress, if you want it, but a white or black hat can be worn
with a gray dress appropriately. Your baby can’ wear either a
little lace or straw hat. The lace cap will be more convenient
than the straw hat, forit baby went to sleep the harsh straw
would haye to be removed, while he could sleep comfortably in
the soft cap.

“Mrs. Kate Palmer.’”’—De bege will make you a useful and du-
trable-summer suit, and to make a fashionable costume of this
material you will require from twenty to twenty-three yards, ac-
cording to the trimmimg yeu put on it. You can get summer
silk now at very low prices, from sixty-five cents to $1 a yard.

“Acatha.’—Mantelets are made with large er small fiounces,
and both double or single-breasted; when the ends are at ali
fong, they are trimmed with highly-ornamented pockets, which
are becoming more than ever indispensable, since the dress
skirts are too scanty to admit of pockets therein.

‘Madame Verwest.’—Lace mittens are_ called Centennial
gloves, and are imported in. black, cream-color, and gray. The

andsomest black lace mitts have thumbs, but no fingers, and
are three-quarters long, with three frills of lace on the arm. The
plainer ones cost $l a pair; these are $5. The light gray and
ecru mitts are declared to be “historically correct,’ as they are
copied from. old-fashioned models worn a hundred years ago,
They are made of what is called ‘‘wire’’ silk, and cost $2. They
are greatly in demand for Lady Washington tea-parties and for
the Centennial masquerades that are now in fashion. }

“Independence.’’—The prices of the sets.of jewelry range from
$5 to $25. In the cheapest imitation we can get the ear-rings for
from 75 cents to $3. )Sets of celluloid coral range from $2 to $5
¥es, we will purchase anything for you that you may desire. We
charge only the merchant’s price for all and everything we buy
for our friends. Send for catalogue of summer patterns. It is

‘ —>-_ o+__—_—_-
>. To Corresvondents. .

To BryzRsi—All communications in regard to the prices or the
purchasing of various articles must be addressed to the NEW
ORK WERKLY Purchasing Agency, contain the full address of
0 WI and spay the size, quantity or quality of the goods

sired. ng an answer must have two three-cent

 

 

this column, a delay of several weeks must necessarily

red... Those requi
a s gulosed: wing to the large increase of letters to be an- |-
r k

 

 

 

————— sae cth
actuated by a pure affection. Her recent bereavement has also
naturally led her to turn to you in her afiliction, and your ex-

pressions of sympathy. have. tended to deepen the love she al-
ready felt. While you may be deeply grateful to her, and re-
vere her asa truly good woman anda very dear friend, unless
you can say that _you_ love her as a man should a woman who is
to be his companion for life, you would not be justified in pro-
posing marriage to her. In your dilemma you should pray to
the source.of all wisdom for guidance, and that whatever course
itmay appear you should..adopt’ may be blessed to the.tuture
heya. os both. ,

Bb. G.—*‘The Art of Painting on Glass,” with illustrs i
be forwarded for 50 cents. nd wd natal

Navigator Ned.—ist. There seems to be but one way to ascer-
tain the truth of the statement in regard to the young lady’s en-
gagement, and as you are keeping company With her witha
view to matrimony, you should make known your feelings to.
her, and her answer _ will determine the matter. 2d. The “Man-
ual of Etiquette” will be forwarded for 75 cents. 3d. We cannot
say which is the best press. Itis in ameasure a matter of
opinion.

4rs. E. M.—1st. The Children’s Aid Society, 19 East Fourth
street, send children to parties in the West. who, will furnish
them with homes, but children but a few months old can-
not be sent such a distance, except under the care ofa nurse.
Those desiring to.obtain infants for adoption. from any of the
Gharitable oe or See must apply in person. 2d.

are from St. Louis to Sherman, Texas, is $35 50; to Dallag.
about $2 additional. Mane. e ,

Unfortunate Mother.—Any advice in reference to the course a
mother should adopt with a wayward son may seem. severe to
her, butmevertheless the treatment suggested may have a whole-
some effect. There is no reason why you Should support him
when his earnings are sufficient to pay his board amd still leave
him enough funds not only to purchase necessaries, but to in-
dulge in. all reasonable luxuries, and you should give him the al-
ternative of Soins so or living elsewhere, where he will be com-
pelled to support himself. Have you no elderly friend to whose
counsel your son would listen respectfully ? f you his
words might be listened to, and have a salutary effect:

4. B. T.—We will send you Brown’s Grammar for $1, and Web-
ster’s High School Dictionary for $1.25.

Stage-struck.—The first step for a person who wishes to adopt
the stage as a profession is to place himself under the instruc-
tion of one familiar with stage business. Their rates are usually
very high—a thoroughly competent teacher charging from $3 to
$5 a lesson of an hour’s duration. You had better turn your at-
tention to some more remunerative occupation, as’ the success-
ful actors are only one of a thousand. ae :

__£. B—Wecannot give you any further information. When jt

is desirable that the real name of an author should be known, it

is published in connection with the nom de plume, or atithe head

of his SET ONS, ee :

e ae — a is no Captain eee or Canfield in New
ork State... There is a Canfield in Ohio, also in Llinois, Michi-

gan and Minnesota. * °° «- wet. N

Pflang.—We have no record of the death of Aaron. Jones, the
pa. ee years ago. 2

‘ohn Mo: —Apply in person at the office. of the ‘Children’s
Aid Society, 19 East Rourth ‘street. ve ef ‘

_S. Levering.—ist. The gold mines of Australia are very produc-
tiye.. The mines are worked for the.most.part: by companies,
while the surface diggings are worked in many cases by individ-
uals. » 2d. Through tickets to Sidney; Australia, yia San Francis-
co, may Be brriases at the Erie railway offices in this city, for
$338 and $165; to Melbourne, $363 and $175. © -

James.—Send us full address, with a three-cent-stamp,
will forward the catalo of play: eee
_ B. ¥. €.—ist. We do not know wher herent ot Wer Tenens
is stationed. At the opening of the year she was at this port,
but whether she has since joined any the ‘squadrons, we can- i

2d. Recruits for the navy are enlistedat allofthenayy | | ©
yards. 3d. The address of the journal is 23 Murray street. ~ ite
Be een ro = opt yo quadrilles we have not _

e space to give the figures. Wecan send you a ball-r i
and TaNerctar for 75 cts. ; “ea —

P. Costelio.—A United States license will not enable a man.to
sell liquor in a State or town where State or local laws prohibit
sy Acta

Telegraph Operator.—Cadets to the Naval Academy are ap-
pointed by the President and Members of Congress, oan paet
pass a satisfactory examination in reading, writing, spelling,
arithmetic, geography and er se grammar. The candidate
who passes has to furnish himself with an. outfit, and will have
to deposit with the paymaster $100 to be expended for text books
and other authorized articles. Candidates must be over fifteen
and under eighteen years of age The course of instruction oc-
cupies four years, during which time the pay of the cadet is $500
per year. After graduating he receives, on sea service, $800 per
year.

Ola Reader.—We do not know when the new Central Park Mu-
seum will be completed and opened to the public. j

Al. S. W.—We would not advise a telegraph operator to goto
South America, Australia or China in search of employment.
Better try nearer home.

E£velyn.—ist.—Not knowing the nature of your lover’s malady
or affliction, we are unable toadvise you. Ifitis re which

 

haye,

LRG hie

seine istcemasineialetat

and we. i

 

wed

before’ the answers pene in print,

No ~+With every mail we receive a number of letters on
various subjects, in which the writers request an answer by mail
instead of through the various departments. To do this we are
combaper to employ additional help, beside being put to consid-
erable trouble and expense to obtain the information. This we
will cheerfully submit to when the questions are answered
through our columns, as thé knowledge thus imparted will inter-
est and benefit the mass of our readers; but in the future, to se-
cure an answer by mail, persons desiring it must inclose a FIFTY
CENT STAMP, to pay us Sor our trouble and expense.

 

3a GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

Loly Roock writes: “Seeing that somany ask —_ questions I
thought I would ask you a few. Please answer them and oblige
a constant reader. am ayoung lady eighteen years of age,
and haye been engaged to a young man for one year, He has
left the city without letting me know anything about it, and he
writes to another young lady, and I think he will marry her.
Can he, as long as he is engaged to me, marry another woman?
or can he after-the year is past? He has asked my parents for
their consent, and gave me aring, andI have it all in written
letters, for he was in another city and wrote everything to me,
Can I bring Suit against him in case he does not marry me in a
year, which he promised to do? CanI keep company with any
other young men within the year? or can I engage myself to an-
other while he is gone? If he stays away a year and I don’t hear

 

PROBLEMS FOR THE PEOPLE.

THE BREAD-EATERS.

Three boys went fishing. A had 65 loaves of
had 3 loaves, C had none. The three dined
gether, all eating equally of the 8 loaves, C paid 8
cents for the quantity eaten by him. How should

A and B divide the money ? JOHN NICHOLS,

THE CONQUEROR OF MEN.
Before nothing fifty place,
hen add one half of ten;
With just one-sixth of eighty,
You’ve the conqueror of men.
Davip Brown.

  

 

TWO HATS,

A man has two hats, and only one box for the
two. Ifhe puts the first hatin the box it is worth
twice as much as the second; but if he puts the
second inthe box he finds that it is worth three
times as much as the first. He also finds that the
box increases the value of the hats $10. How much
were the hats worth ? Au, BERT ULLMAN.

 

ANSWERS TO PROBLEMS IN No. 26.
A PLUNDERED SHEPHERD.—47 sheep.

MEASURING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.—He fills the
three-gallon can, and pours it into the five-gallon
can; then he fills the three-gallon can again, and
fills the five-gallon can, and what remains in the
three-gallon can will be the required one gallon.

Two NuMBERS,—4 and 12.

Finp It.—36.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

[The Summer Catalogue of Patterns now ready, price 6 cents.
Send to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.]

 

 

“Mrs. D. M. A.,” of Kansas, writes; “Dear Work-Box: I do
not know exactly how to address a letter so that it may be sure
to reach your hands. Ihave often wished that youhad your ad-
dress at the head of your department, for I think I should write
oftener.’”? We should be gl to hear from you at any and all
times, and for your benefit as well as for others of our readers
who have expressed doubts as to how to address us, we give our
simple direction. It is only Work-Box, NEw YORK WEEKLY,
Care of Street & Smith, 27, and 31 Rose st., New York. All
letters thus addressed will be placed in the Work-Box, and we
will answer them to the best of our ability. We are sorry we
cannot give you the desired information in regard to the lost
child. You write.a very graceful, neat hand. “Hope the cata-
1 @ reached you safely, for we know it was sent.

‘Unhappy Wife.’’—If your husband neglects you, and refuses
to take you out merely because you are growing gray, he is not
worth caring for, and our advice is for you to let our, hair alone;
don’t put any of those dyes upon it, and spend all your are
time trying to improve your mind, for an intellectual, bright
face, crowned with gray hair, which is so beautiful when let
alone—is far more lovely and attractive than doll beauty with
brown or black locks. not try to make your husband jealous,
but show him that yo can make others admire and respect you,
and court your society and he’ll come back in time.

“Hostess,’’—We give you a hint worth remembering. For the
convenience of visitors, the guest chamber in every house should
be always supplied with writing facilities, as often a visitor would
like to write a note or letter when it would be inconvenient to
ask for writing materials.

“Miss Rose Danton.”’—We can get you a very handsome set of
bedroom furniture for $100—wash-stand, table, and bureau, mar-
ble-topped; still, for that price we cannot expect to purchase a
set containing a bedstead after the description of one used in
Louis XIV.’s time, the center of the top of which was lined with
looking-glass, surrounded by a painted ivory frame of great
beauty; fluted blue satin sloped from it to the sides, and from
thence fell blue satin curtains trimmed with lace.

‘Mrs. Sarah Bell.”—yYes, there are new styles in Nottingham
lace curtains. There are two distinct effects in these goods—one
of the guipure style, heavy and massive, more resembling the
old Spanish laces, and the other light and delicate. The former
patterns are largely in stripes, with borders somewhat heavier
than the fillings, and so formed that the figure or stripe covers
the entire surface, while the latter is woven in figures, leaving
the most of the ground plain, closely resembling the effect of
highly ornamented French glass, where the ground is transpa-
rent and pers clear.

“T,, A, P.—The serpentine corsets clasps are certainly the
very best.in market. They are good supports, but perfectly flex-
ible and durable. We will send a pair to any of our correspond-
ents for 25 cents.

“Matie.”—With your summer silk you can wear a Jewess over-
dress of white Swiss or organdie muslin. The number is 4,402,

rice 35 cts. For your spring suit youcan get de bege, camel’s

air or mohair, and for making it use for skirt, pattern No. 3,308,

rice 30 cts. The overskirt is No. 4,406, price 30 cts., while the

asque with its deep, round skirt is No, 4,412, price 80 cts. All
these patterns are very pretty when made in any of the lighter
woolen fabrics, and equally as fashionable, if made in cambrics,
percales, or any washable fabric.

“Katie.’—You can wear the scarlet velvet jacket with the
black dress until the weather becomes too warm. Yes, sashes
are fashionable. No, do nottry to make yourself grow lean.
You should be thankful that you are well and fleshy. Sunburn
or tan will wear off after a time; buttermilk or sour milk will
remove the sunburn as poles as any other remedy. Wash
your face and hands in the milk at night, and let it dry on; do
not wash off until morning.

“Polly Perkins.”—Certainly you can use your old alpaca for
the foundation of a new skirt. Clean it first with warm water
and hartshorn. To half a tumbler of water put two teaspoonfuls
of ammonia, and wash the goods with a sponge. A pretty basque

attern is 4,412, price 30 cts.,,while a suitable overskirt which

ill reach to the flounce on your skirt is No. 4,417, price 30 cts.
This has a deep apron, round in front, is shirred on the sides,
and is long, deep and gracefully draped in the back. It may be
trimmed with ruffles or side-plaiting of the material. Yes, you
can get very pretty alpaca for sixty cents a yard, and you will re-
quire from ten to thirteen yards, according to manner of making
and trimming.

“Rose Danton.’—A reliable authority in such matters tells us

 
    
 
    
    
   
  
 

‘om him, is our engagement broken? or am I engaged so long
I haye got the sing? Please do answer my questions. I sup-
you will think them very foolish, but they are of great im-
nce to me.”’ he has gone away, does not write to you, o
you any reason for not marrying you within the year, an
violates the contract he had made with you, we presume
could bring suit against him beyond doubt. But if, mean-
while, you have been keeping company with other young men,
and showing by your actions that you cared very little for your
intended, such proof would go against you not a little in court.
So long as neither party takes steps to break the engagement,
and so long as you retain the ring, just so long may it be consid-
ered that the engagement stands. In these matters common
sentiment (which is common law) gives the woman far more
liberty than the man. We advise you to return him the ring,
tell him to consider the engagement at an end, and then (as evi-
dently your heart is not breaking for him) go on your way re-
joicing and encourage the company of other young men, but we
advise you not to think of bringing snit against him. It will not
pay for the sport which will be made over the love-letters, and
the damage done to your own prospects.

Lucus Baxter says: “In my rovings I can find your Pout al-
most everywhere, and as I know you can give good and wise ad-
vice, I come to ask for your candid opinion as to my own case. I
am a young man nearly twenty-five, and ae to be making up
my mind what I ought permanently to do. or ten years I have
led a very roying life, and seen a great deal of hardship, both
upon sea and land. My mother died when I was only ten, and
my father being a yery busy man, and away from home a good
deal, I began to suffer for want of.a mother’s care. I was bent
upon going to sea, and I resolved I would do just as bad asI dare
if father should refuse. Finally he said he would let me go if I
would study and learn all I could by the time I was fifteen. This
excited me to study and work. So I learned fast and stood high
when I left school at fifteen. My father put me m charge ofa
trusty friend, who took me to New Orleans, and got me

a position on board a_ vessel sailing for Europe.
I got with a pretty good captain, who, although
he was yery strict, was fair with the sailors and was

anxious to see them doright. Fora time Iwas delighted with
the sea, and, knowing a great deal more of books than most of
the sailors, I was looked up to and I made many friends. In a
few years I sailed to many ports and sawagreat deal of the
world. I went to China and India, and to the various great
islands of the Pacific. Then Iwas gone for over three years ina
whaler, and came near being frozen in with those vessels which
were ice-bound and were abandoned some fiye years ago. We
were about leaving our ship to push for the land when there were
signs of a south wind and we stuck to the ship, and atter days of
watching and hard sailing, when we were almost frozen to death
we at last got into thefopen sea and we were safe, A gladder set
of men you never saw than we were at that time. If any boy is
mad after the sea tell him to try three years on a whaler, and if
that don’t cure him then he must be a descendant of old Nep-
tune himself. I could fill a volume with the adventures I have
gone through, but I am afraid you will weary of even a long let-
ter. I haye been wonderfully protected. I have seen men
washed oyerboard in a tropical storm; have seen a companion
—alas! while too much under the effects of liquor—dashed from
the rigging to the deck and instantly killed; have seen many a
poor fellow raving from fever in unhealthy ports, and have seen
others wrapped in their winding sheets and buried in the deep
blue sea. Oflate my mind has been greatly awakened upon this
subject. In our own port, through the influence of a noble
woman, I have been led to better things than living for sin and
the world. I trust I am a Christian, and I am greatly exercised
as to what I ought todo. At onetime I thinkI ous t to follow
the sea and try to doall the good 1 can among that terribly
abused and misrepresented class—the seafaring men. Then
again, I long to leaye the sea and settle down into a quiet busi-
ness or into farming life. Ihave saved a little money and could
buy a small farm, orcould make a little start in business. Now
as I hardly know to whom tocome for advice, Icome to you. I
am afraid to take the step without consulting some more ex:
erienced person, Then, I must confess what I was inclined to
hold back. Recently in my attending religious meetings I have
met with a lovely young lady, with whom I have fallen in loye,
and she has accepted my company, and I haye every reason to
believe she woul ee me if I would give up a rt ain life.
But I amin doubt ofher ifI don’t doit. Yet 1am afraid I shal eaotr
unfit for any other kind of life. Do please give me a bit of your
best judgment on my case, and oblige.’? One of your age ought
not certainly to despair of getting established on land, even
though you have been following the sea for ten years. You have
a fair education; you have seen much of the world; and, best of
all, you have now become a Christian. You have much to assure
you of the best kind of success; only we adyise you to go on
slowly. We seriously doubt whether you could—after such a
life—be either content or successful in a farmer’s occupation.
In selecting a pursuit be sure to select that for which you have
a decided taste, and risk no money in any business until you
have thoroughly mastered its details. Geta position and take a
salary first; master your business, and then be sure of your
man. Lay the whole matter before ro lady-love, and ask her
advice. omen are good advisers when they know all the facts
of the case. A faithful life on your part will be the best means
of doing good. ‘

Eureka writes: “I am a young man of twenty-five years, in
business for myself, and have lately formed the acquaintance of
a young lady whom I begin to love, as I know she does me, but I
would not like to get married for at least ayear or eighteen
months. The lady’s parents, however, would like to have her
married sooner. We have as yet had no understanding, al-
though it seems to be understood that we are to be married. I
visit the lady quite often, but haye been acquainted with her and
her family only about four months. Please give me your ad-"
vice.” e commend your judgment in not being in any hurry
to marry, particularly as you haye been acquainted with the lady
but a short time. It is impossible within such a period to obtain
the insight into each other’s character and disposition so essen-
tial to two persons who propose to associate themselves together
for life. You are the best Pel of when you are able and ready
to marry, and you should not let the impatience of the lady’s
parents swerve you from your decision.

Regular Subscriber.—|st. The children of your mother’s half-sis-
ter and you are cousins. 2d. Fires Victoria was born May 24,
1819; sueceeded to the throne June 20, 1837, on the death of her
uncle, William IV.; crowned June 28, 1838; and married Feb. 20,

George E. Albrecht.—Send the subscription price ($12 for the
daily, or $5 for the weekly) in a letter addressed to ‘‘Courrier
des Etats Unis, New York.”

James Butler, Jr.—ist. “‘Thrown on the World” has not been
dramatized. 2d. The drama of ‘‘Rose Michel” is private property,
and has not been issued in printed form. {

Harry McClure.—Before marrying it would be advisable for
you to have a friendly discussion with your affianced, and, if
possible, come to some decision about your respective religions.
Ft would be better if you would agree, after marriage, to attend
the same church, In casé this is impracticable, on account of
the deep-rooted. views of either or both, you should insist that
your wedded life must not be disturbed by religious arguments,

Massachusetts.—Read the “History of American Socialism,”
by John Humphrey Noyes.

Harry Morgan.—You are certainly placed in a very unpleasant
position. The interest the lady has taken in your welfare, in

may be transmitted to his offspring, we say cancel the engage-
ment. Better suffer yourself than entail iton others yet unborn.
If any of his senses are impaired, so that he is unable to provide
for you or he is likely to become a burden on yourself or your
family, your parents do wisely in opposing y Marriage with
him. In the great majority of cases, parents are better able to
advise their children in such matters, and you should abide by
their decision in preference to consulting a stranger. 2d. When
you have finished your meal place the knife and fork on the
plate. 8d. See ‘““Knowledge Box.” ;

Gertie W.—Ist. If you have discovered since you estrange-
ment from your loyer that you do not love him or care for him
asmuch as you supposed you did, it would be undesirable to
renew the engagement. It would be more ladylike to acknowl-
edge the receipt of his letters of apology, but give him at the
same time to understand, that.the intimacy hereafter could be
pee more than of a friendly character. 2d. See ‘Work-

OX.

Paul Dewhurst.—ist. The New YORK WEEKLY has been print-
ed in its present form and under its present title eighteen years.
2d. Convicts are better treated in the State prisons of the United
States than in any other part of the world.

Lone Jack.—We are rather in a quandary as to how to advise
& young man.who has confessed his love to one young lady, and
is “about to fallin love with another.” We are inclined to think
he is fickle-minded, and if he insists on keeping company with
the latter, while he is. corresponding with the former, hé must
take the consequences of his duplicity. The more manly course.
is to make a frank confession to your first love, asking her to re-
loaenet and, the wisest course for your new flame to adopt
wo be to give you the mitten, as she undoubtedly would if she
knew you said she was “‘dead in love” with you.

: . #.—The..guitar is. more difficult to learn to perform on
than many other instuments, put can be mastered without an
instructor by an apt pupil.

J. H. Probdst.—ist. Ollendorfi’s ‘New Method of Learning
Sane ll will cost $1.25; key to do., $l. 2d. See “Knowledge

Ox.

Lou Earle.—Arithmetical problems preferred. We haye not
the space to spare for rebusses, enigmas, etc.

Fit Subjects.—Johann Strauss, the composer, may be addressed
at Vienna, and Richard Wagner at Baireuth, Bavaria, where he
is build an opera house. It is doubtful if your communica-
tions would be answered, unless of an important character.

4M, B.—At the Children’s Fold, 157 East Sixtieth street, orphans,
half orphans, and other destitute children are taken in and
cared for, Friends pay as they are able up to $8 per month. The
Foundling Asylum of the Sisters of Charity is in Sixty-eighth
street, between Third and Lexington avenues; the Society for
the Relief of Half Orphan Children at 67 West Tenth street; New
York Infant Asylum, 24 Clinton Placé; New York Orphan Asy-
lum, Seventy-fourth street and Eleventh avenue. Beside the
above there are others under the superyision of different re-
ligious.denominations.

ld Pard.—Your experience is similar to that of many other
lovers. Sweethearts, like other individuals, are subject to
moods, and must be indulged accordingly.

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Sylvia.—Ist. From your description of your personal appear-
ance we should {paar you were rather a good-looking young lady.
2d. Practice willimprove your handwriting. 3d. A lady aaaid
not correspond with a gentleman she has never seen. A girl of
only sixteen years should not correspond with gentlemen at all.

Orpheus.—\st. When two gentlemen meet a young lady, if one
of the gentlemen is acquainted with her, and lifts his hat, the
gentleman that is with him may merely touch his hat through
respect for his friend, image neither ofthem should presume
to bow unless the young lady.irst bows to them, without they
are very intimate acquaintances, 2d. It is not necessary to say
anything when you are introduced to a lady, butif you have
through friends heard much of her, and are pleased to become
acquainted, you may express your pleasure. She may also ex-
pm herself as being pleased to make your acquaintance, or only

ow her appreciation of the compliment you are pleased to pay
her. 3d. When a person sends out invitations for a dinner party
they usually send out as many as they are able to entertain, and
those that receive invitations should not think of inviting any
oo else, especially some one that is’ not acquainted with the

nostess.

One Year Reader.—A lady upon being introduced to a gentle-
man need not express ane leasure. If he expresses pleasure at
becoming acquainted with her, she may simply bow in acknowl-
edgement.
_ Walawa.—Let your by ee tet be brief and at lengthened
intervals, and it will naturally cease after a time.

_A Constant Reader.—‘‘A young man wishes to present a bridal
gift toa bride, but does not know howto do so.” It is not neces-
sary to make any speech at all. Send the gift with your card. If
you wish you may also send congratulations,

A NEGRO BURLESQUE.

‘We vaguely recall a custom,” says the Milwau-
kee Sentinel, “said to prevail among a tribe of ne-
groes in theinterior of Africa. When the king dies
the heir apparentis first seized by the people and
clothed in the most wretched garments. Then he
is seated upon the ground, and the people address
him in the vilest language and treat him to a per-
fect shower of abusive terms. After this they at-
tack him and drive him through the streets, Baiting
him with mud the while and lashing him vigorous-

y with switches. Atthe close of this interesting
performance. he is washed, arrayed in the most
gorgeous apparel, treated with the most lavish
eourtesy and respect, crowned with infinite cere-
mony, and forever after implicitly obeyed. This
tribe isso remote from civilization that only a few
hardy explorers have penetrated its territory.
Hence these negroes must be acquitted of having
deliberately organized a burlesque upon the Amer-
ican system of choosing a ruler; otherwise it would
be difficult to resist the conviction that the practice
had some such sinister purpose.”

—_____ > o~«
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

A LIvinG STory.—We welcome from the press of Carlton Mrs.
Victor’s new novel, viz: “Passing the Portal; or, A Girl’s Strug-
gle.”

While it is a story told for the story’s sake, characterized by
the author’s exquisite perceptions of heart and home life, and ra-
diant with the interest of a strange loye, itis much more than
all this—it is pervaded throughout with an undercurrent of
thought, feeling, and experience that commands attention to an
uncommon degree.

“Passing the Portal” is the story of the*passage of a bright in-
telligence from the old belief in God and His Providences to the
new belief in natural cause and natural effect inculcated by
modern science. In that passage a clear-headed and pure-heart-
ed New England girl takes all the steps that lead from the sunny
skies of that dear old faith to the dim region where evolution
consigns the soul to grope in distressing uncertainty among the
debris of ages, until God and Heaven alike are obscured or for-
gotten. .

By the touch of an unseen hand, and by the light ot a tove that
science has no power to follow, through a trial that tested the old
faith and the new belief by the ordeal of The Real in life, feeling
and suffering, the gifted girlis led through the portal into the
light and liberty ofa faith sweet, and strong, and sure as the
sun itself.

It isa brave, anoble book, sure to arrest the notice and to
create remark, and cannot failof having, as it merits, an im™

 

 

 

 

 

that to get and retain beautiful hair, you must attend to daily

brushing it, occasionally washing it, and periodically trimming

-- Sei.

connection with what she has said, leaves no doubt that she was

~~

mense circulation. -

 

 

 

 
 

on

piety

Vesa Re pag

em Filan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

err?

eee

NEW YORK, MAY 29, 1876.

 

 

 

 

 

ees

Terms to Subscribers :
One month, (postage free) 25c.
EM. ca ns'v's abla « i 50c.

One Year—1 copy (postage Sree)$3
Two mo Be DS Ce aia a hiehiee 5
Three months ............ 75¢. BEG GOLNY. cf eleis strate 10
Four months..,........++ $1.00 1 Os FARR ate, be bing pewae ete 20

 

Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will
be entitled to a Ninth Copy FREE. Getters up of Clubs can after-
ward add single copies at $2.50 each.

IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure
a draft on New York, or a Post-Office Money Order, if possible.
Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but al-
ways in @ REGISTERED letter. The registration fee has been re-
duced to ten cents, and the present registration system has been
found by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro-
tection against losses by mail. All Postmasters are obliged to
register letters whenever requested to do so.

In addressing letters to SrREET & SMITH, do not omit our Box
Number. By a recent order of the Post-oflice Department thisis
absolutely necessary, to insure the prompt delivery of letters.

yay TO SUBSCRIBERS.—When changing your address, please
give former, as well as present address, with County and State;
also, be certain to name the paper for which you subscribe. <a
ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors.

25, 27, 29 and 31 Rose St..N.¥Y. P.O. Box 4896

 

 

A New Story By Oll Coomes.

The next number of the New YorK WEEELY will
contain the opening part of a charming story,
entitled the

RAVEN OFTHENORTH

THE MYSTERIES OF THE ISLES.

By Oll Coomes.
Author of “‘Wild Kathleen,” ‘‘Ironsides the Scout,” etc.

This is a border tale, of fact and fiction combined,
and is very interesting. Some of the scenes are
absolutely startling, and all are entertaining to the
highest degree.

“THE RAVEN OF THE NORTH,” will be commenced
next week, in No. 29. Boys, you will have your
curiosity excited as you contemplate “THE Mys-
TERIES OF THE ISLES.

A New Way to Collect Bills.

Physicians have great difficulty in collecting their
bills. When a patient recovers, if he be a man of
moderate means, he learns that his illness has at-
tenuated his purseas well as his body, and he
emerges from his chamber poor in pocket and poor
in flesh. His enforced idleness, and the outlay
for medicines and costly nourishing food, account
for his limited finances. Therefore, in most cases,
months must elapse ere he will be able to settle his
physician’s bill.. We can understand the doctor’s
annoyance as he repeatedly and unsuccessfully
duns his recovered patient,and consequently do
not wonder when harsh means are resorted to in
the effort to force the tedious debtor to “pony up.”
A South Brooklyn physician has adopted a novel
plan to hasten the payment of his bills. He had
successfully treated a patient, and, at an early day
after the patient’s recovery, presented his bill. As
is usual in such cases, the patient requested time.
Further duns induced the belief on the part of the
physician that his debtor made no distinction be-
tween time and eternity. Mad with anger, the doc-

 

 

 

 

tor so informed the delinquent. Warm words en- |.

sued, and the physician hurried home, procured a
club, and returned, declaring that he would make
his debtor come to time, orthe club would hasten
his exit to eternity. The drawing qualities of a
poultice are well known; therefore, to draw green-
backs out of the patient’s pocket, the doctor, with
his club, gave him a “‘poultice” under the ear. In
like vigorous and primitive style, the doctor bled
him; but this harsh treatment was unsuccessful in
bleeding him financially. Although the forcible ar-
guments of a club staggered the poor man, they
failed to persuade him. They, however, convinced
him that the doctor was an unsafe man to be per-
mitted to practice at will, and he procured a war-
rant for his arrest. At this writing, the doctor isin
jail, and, like most physicians who have little prac-
tice, is probably praying for patience.

_———-_ > 4s _______.

ROCKING-CHAIRS.

Fashion has tabooedthem. |

They must not be placed in our parlors, and if
anybody should be vulgar enough to have onein
her reception-room, no lady should dare to rock in
it, for etiquette says she must not.

if anybody wants to enjoy a rocking-chair, the
said body must creep away into some back parlor,
or remote chamber, and indulge her inclination in
privacy like one who eats opium.

Rocking in a rocking-chair is not a transaction
which will bear the daylight of observation.

Now, to our plebeian mind, this is all nonsense!
What is life worth to us unless we can enjoy it in
arational way? What do we want to live three-
score years and ten for, unless we can have the priy-
lege of rocking when we choose?

lf there is anybody who does not like to see us
rock, let him look at something else. There are
plenty of other objects in this world besides a wo-
man inarocking-chair,

We are going to rock all we please, and in our
nonge our friends may do likewise, and not lose
caste.

What if we do wear out the carpet? Wecan buy
another, perhaps, when we need it; andif we can-
not, wecan go back to first principles and bare
floors, which are much more cleanly, though it
might be difficult to make our fashionable friends
understand it.

Vive la rocking-chairs!

When we have got. through with the labors of the
day, and are ready for evening rest, then we want
a rocking-chair, softly cushioned, placed. before the
fire, and when we are seated therein, with an en-
tertaining book in our hand, and the kitten purr-
ing in our lap, we can see that Creation is nota

ailure. ;

 

“Better fifty years of Europe
Than a cycle of Cathay——”

And we would rather live half our days where
rocking-chairs are abundant, than to drag out the
years until we are a entenarian, sitting on those
slippery, hard, straight-backed foreshadowings of
the Day of Judgment—known as fashionable parlor
chairs, Kate THORN.

WHILE THE RAIN FALLS.

Oh, my sister, watch carefully this garden of the
heart; and while the rain, the bountiful, blessed
rain of God’s mercies, falls upon it, seek to plant
only flowers and precious seed there, that shall
eens blossom, and bring forth fruit abundantly

s glory.

Plant there the sweet flower ef patience, for in

your happiest hours some blow may fall, dislodg-

 

 

ing joy forever from your life,and setting sorrow | a

in her place,

_ And charity—let its sweet blossom fill all the air
with fragrance, and make your abode one loved by
the angels. Let sorrowing men and women look
through your garden gate, and rejoice over the
splendor of loye’s sweetest blossom. Let its color
and perfume sink into many a world-weary heart,
freeing it from every suspicion of loneliness. Let

some despairing soul stretch forth trembling | full

hands, and gather of the fruits of your garden.

Let cheerfulness grow side by side with faith. Lift
up glad eyes unto the morning, and smile away
the darkness of the night-time.

Lighten the labor of your neighbor with kind
words—those tender violets that bloom in every
soil; speak brave words of encouragement to him
whose foot slips, and laythe evergreen leaf of
sympathy om your brother’s brow.

But more than all, let pure thoughts and chaste
conversation run through the garden of your lives,
poral bright brooks for the healing of many a sick

 

For only in this way can we grow into that happy
consciousness of an inner life that is leading us in
green pastures and beside the still waters—that is
leading us up to Jesus. 2

Oh, my sisters, you whose feet, pricked by many
thorns, are blgoding: by the way—you whose soul
has been darkened by dishonor—you from whose
life pure impulses seem to flee away—turn back,
turn back, ere it be too late, and pluck up the un-
sightly weeds, and let sweet flowers grow in the
garden of your heart. ALLENA AUDLEY,

UNDER THE TRACK.

BY ELLA VIOLA THOMAS,

 

 

 

While waiting for the cars at the little depot at
N—, my attention was drawn to two gentlemen
sitting near me, one of whom was relating the fol-
lowing story to his companion:

‘When Will and I arrived at the depot, we found
we had an hour and a half to spend before the east
train was due, and we concluded to take a stroll by
the river, about a mile distant. It was almost night,
and to shorten the distance we decided to walk on
the railroad track, which had just been completed
across a low, swampy piece of ground.

“There had been several heavy rains the week be-
fore, and the ground was covered with water; but
the track being several feet above the water, we
preced safely, and enjoyed a fine walk by the river.

t was quite dark when we started for the depot,
and on arriving at the elevated track we were
obliged to walk very slowly. . hah

lam glad there are no trains due from this di-
rection for over an hour,’ said my friend.

it would be unpleasant to meet one now,’ said
I; ‘though I think we are almost over the swamp.’

arene is @ train coming behind us!’ exclaimed

ill.

“T looked back, and saw the light of the engine
coming nearer and nearer to us, What were we to
do? To escape by flight was impossible, for we
were ones to step with the utmost caution lest
we should fall into the water below: By this time
it was very dark, and we could hardly se tne atg-
tance of a foot before us. We received to let our-
aay oe Gewe unds metrack and hold fast_to the

“~waas ct CAIN Should pass over. We quickly took
our position. The train came thundering along,
and stopped directly overus. . i

“You can imagine the situation. Iam quite a
fleshy man, you know, and my friend weighed
nearly two hundred pounds. There we were, cling-
ing to the ties by main strength, our feet drawn up
as high as possible lest they should come in con
with the water. The night was quite cool, but the
sweat rolled off my facein great drops. My arms
seemed tearing from my body; I was almost ex-
hausted. A dozen times I was on the point of let-
ting go my hold, but at the thought of the horrid
muddy swamp water below, with snakes, and liz-
ards, and other reptiles, I would almost involunta-
rily tighten my grasp. But at last I could hold no

longer. . : i
“Will, said I, ‘Iam going to letgo. _

“A groan was the only answer I-received fro
him. I closed my eyes, drew a long breath, let go
my hold, and fell full three inches, onto the dry earth !
The shock was so different from what I had ex-
pected, that Ilay fora moment ortwo motionless
upon the ground. t :

‘At that instant Will let go his hold, and_ his one
hundred and ninety-eight pounds avoirdupois
struck my shoulder with more force than comfort.
He kicked, rolled over, and swore a whole par-
agraph of oaths from_his extensive vocabulary ;
and, to tell the truth, I did not feel like rebuking
him in the least at that time.

“We found, on examination, that we were about
a rod from the edge of the swamp, and that by
stretching our feet down we could have easily
touched the solid earth. Then, as the absurdity of
our position was revealed, we could not refrain
from hearty laughter.

“ “What is that train waiting for over the swamp?’
asked Will of a man we met near the depot.

““That is a freight train waiting for the east
train to pass this station, sir,’ was the reply. i

“We arrived just in time to catch the train. This
happened several years ago, but my friend and I
rarely eee aday in each other’s society without a
hearty laugh over our adventure under the track.”

 

A THORNY PATH.

Think not that you are the only one who has to
endure and dreads the hardships of life. Ease and
comfort are natural desires of the human heart;

 

  

t | ‘And what next?’ seemed

 

and there are thorns real or imaginary in every
one’s Desay: but sitting down and broodin
never bring power to overcome them. Rather,
up and doing,

maining. I ;
have reason to be glad, in spite of fortune’s frown;
for how much harder would be your lot, or efforts
to gain a living, if you were crinpled, blind or
deaf. AUNT BREEZY.

WHAT NEXT?

BY REV. GEO. H. HEPWORTH.

 
 

” thankful for the blessings stil

 

 

An old man was sitting one bright summer
noon, under the shadow of an elm, just beyond
cosiest cottage it was ever my lot tosee. His w
hair—it seemed white as the purest of win’
snows—fell almost to his shoulders, and there ’
such a serenity of manner and bearing about
that one was immediately attracted. He had th
mild dignity of a prophet, and seemed to impress
every one with the en that he had gone
through life like a brave soldier, and was now wait-
ing the roll call of the angels, when he would an-
swer, “Here,” with a steady voice, and go to his re-
ward,

His life had evidently been a successful one.
There was no trace of the terrible wear and tear
which marks the average man of business. And,
what was better still, his heart was young, and he
delighted in nothing so much as in the Pion of
young folk who often sat about him, and listened
reverently to his years chat. For every_one he
had a kindly and an encouraging word. Indeed,
he was thesunshine of the whole neighborhood. I
have seen him sitting on the village green, and en-
joying the sports of the school-children, of a Wed-
nesday or argh gd afternoon, as though he were
only a boy; and I have seen him, again, at the
prayer meeting in the evening, talking so lovingly
to the farmers that every man seemed to entertain
a personal love for him. He made them feel that
plowing and sowing and reaping was a religious
work, and that every man was God’s steward, and
could do God’s work wherever he was, in the
house, on the farm, or in the corner store. In this
way religion was made, not a creed simply, nor yet
Binet formality, but a friendly element in every-

ay life.

By his side sat a young man of perhaps twenty
years of age. He was_high-spirited, chivalric,
and hopeful by nature. He was just starting on a
career, had come to say err and receive the
benediction of his friend, long known, loved, and
trusted. Letus listen to their conversation.

Well, George, the offer you haye received is a
good one, and you are going to accept it.”

Yes, sir, they tell me that ay start in life is very
flattering. I hope to do good work, not to dis-
honor your friendship.”

This was said with evident feeling, and, at the
last, George laid his hands on the old gentleman’s
knees, and looked up for a word of good cheer.

Thanks, my dear boy, for your confidence in
me. I hope to feel very proud of you some day,
and I have dared to predict for you a very success-
ful life. Now, then, tell me all about it. What is
the first thing you willdo?”  _

... [Shall go into the firm as a clerk,” was the reply,
and, by industry and honesty, I hope to win the
good will and confidence of my employers.”
h, yes,” said the old man, putting his hand on
the boy’s head, “that is well, and what next?”

Oh, I suppose I shall have to remain a clerk for
some years, and be satisfled with asmall income;
but by-and-by I hope to be taken into the firm.”

..Good! good, my son! Itis proper to have am-
bition. Every man has a right to develop himself.
No one cares to be a mere clerk ail his days. And
WWith just a bit, of

ith justabit of surprise in his eyes, the bo
looked into the old man’s face, and replied:

Why, when I become a junior partner inthe
business, I shall give all my time and strength to
my work, and do all I can to make our trade so ex-
tensive that my share of the profits will be some-
wing vost looking at.” ;

;That is all laudable, and no one can object to it,’
said the patriarch. ‘A man ought to gi
and strength to his business. Business men are
the basis of the country’s weal. I like to hear you
gay you intend to be faithful. Faithful and honor-

ble men are to be respected, end even in this self-
ish world a really honorable man is greatly prized.
And what next, my ‘aoe

I suppose,” said the youth, ‘that after some
years, and when I have arrived at middle life, the
senior partners may possibly retire; or it is natu-
ralto suppose they may die, and then I shall be-
come the senior oaeener myself,and make up my
juniors of the clerks who have served me faith-

ws I like to hear you say that,” the old man said.
Never be selfish. Ifthe present firm helps aon to

&@ position, it is but fairthat you should do the
same to others. Never become a niggard. And
what next?”

“Well, then I shall give the very best years of m
life to the acquisition of a fortune, and try at the
same time to win a place in society which it will be
an honor to fill.”

Good again, good again, dear boy. You do,well
to seek a good name, and, believe me, you wilt get
itand keep it if you deserve it. There are man

you have health and strength, you} to

give his time |} h

 

things which money alone will buy. But, than

 

God, there is not bullion enough yet dug out of the
bowels of the earth to purchase the love of your fel-
low men, if by pone heart and life you are not en-
titled to it. And what next?” | a

“Oh, I suppose I shall be married, and shall have
a family.” ‘

“Well, and what next?” 4

“After that I shall probably begin to feel the
weight of years, and then shall give the business
up to yous er hands and brains, and retire to the
serenity of a happy old age. If it could only be
like yours, I should be proud indeed.” :

“My boy,a green and happy old age, with no
wasp-stings in the heart, is very enviable. By that
time I shall be under the daisies. That is the
course of nature. The old folk die, one after an-
other, and you young folk grow older and take our
places. After a while you begin to drop away, and
your children take your work,and carry it on.

hey in_turn grow old, and others take their
places. So the mill grinds on forever, and there
are always hands enough on the crank. Well, and
what next ?”

By abies time the young man hada puzzled look,
as though there were a significance in the inquiries,
which he had not comprehended, and which he
could not yet quite catch,

“What next?” he replied. ‘‘Why, why, I sup-

ose by that time Ishallbe thinking about dying.

verybody dies some time, and, I take it, my turn
will come, though I hope not till I have lived long
enough to become weary of life.” ;

“One hardly ever becomes exactly weary of life,”
said the old man, cheerily. ‘“‘When I was twenty I
thought a man of fifty very old. Now that I am sey-
enty I feel quite ready to live along, and should_ be
very unwilling to to fix any time when I should be
able to say, lam ready togo. Life is very beautiful
tome. I shall not be exactly Saray to go, and yet Iam
more than willing to stay. Still, as you say, every
man’s time comes at last, and so you may rest as-
sured yours will. Andwhatnext? |.

“What do you mean, father?” said the young
man, looking straight into the face of the prophet,
“What do you mean by what next ?” :

«wt Mean just what I say,” replied the old man.
raat, will happen to you next? Do you not
now ?’ ~

“Why,I suppose, What will happen to all of us,
the resurrection ofthe soul, and the summons to
stand at the Bar of God, to be judged for the
deeds done in the flesh.” Bg:

“AND WHAT NEXT?” said the old man, rising and
butting both hands lovingly on the shoulders of the
youth. :

The boy turned pale for a moment. He saw that
his friend was in terrible earnest. Those words,
to have been voiced in
thunder. They rang in the boy’s soul, and he saw
at once where the old man had been leading him.

He said bravely: F

“T see now what your questions mean. You want
me to understand that atthe Bar of God the su-
preme moment of my soul’s career will arrive. I
shall then be judged for eternity. That judgment I
shall make up word for word by the acts of my life,
and_.it will be my own fault, and no one else, if the
verdict goes against me. You would teach me to
keep that fact in view allthe time. I shudder atthe
responsibility.

“No, do not say that,” responded the dear old
man; “do not say that. When you are overwhelm-
ed in the years to come, go down on your knees and
listen. You willhear these encouraging words as
they come fresh from the lips of angels:

Lo, Iam with you always, even unto the end of
the world.”

WHAT NEXT, Brother ?

 

ART AND
TASTE IN HOUSE FURNISHING.

The spring always finds many dissatisfied fam-
ilies leaving boarding-houses and seeking homes
of their own, and these people, and many more
who are refurnishing their houses, are considering
the subject of furniture in all its bearings. It isa
subject which with the majority of people must be
considered carefully, for the outlay required in fur-
nishing a house is not small, and where money is
not a source of anxiety, good taste and suitability
should be. Unfortunately. yery many people have
no idea of what will look well, and hence they
leave to the upholsterers the furnishing of their
homes. They pay. extravagant pricés for their
possessions, and think because they doso that they
are handsome. How many rooms so furnished
have the stiff, ugly look that characterizes such lack
of taste? There is no artistic effect in anything
they contain, and no home feeling can possibly ex-

 

 
    
     
  
       
      
      
      
   
   
    
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
      
 
 

| ist in them,

4 people who know howto. buy, choose Sore going on business, and keeping to himself the real

r use first, then accept its beauty as a second an

, much required requisite; and they do not care

o have each chair look alike, and to stand at right
angles in the room, but in orderly confusion, so to
speak, wherever they may happen to_be placed.
And if the furniture is really artistic and desirable,
it will look well anywhere, and be beautiful in its
rrangement. It was once considered the

buy ncomfortable arti-

ad, and it was

 

   

oses to which S ifite aed to st e. Ap
ect adaptation of things should be observable in a
room which in all senses is intended _ to be ahome,
and the most successful home furnishers are those
who can add amplicta to beauty and artistic effect
to Comfort, and have things at one and the same
time convenient, useful, and elegant. And the best
way to combine art and taste in house furnishing
is to make haste slowly with the furnishing. Buya
little at a time, and go about from place to place to
seek it. Look well to outlay, but above all things
look well to what comes in the house, for more na-
tures are warped and ruined for life by homely and
uncongenial surroundings than were ever born
with the stamp or taint of wickedness upon them,
and mothers of all others should understand to
their inmost natures this simple and too often ig-
nored fact. : Laura C, Hotioway.

POOR WIDOWS.

Daily life unfolds many a graphic picture that
neither pen nor pencil can fully portray.. And one
of the most touching is that of the poor widow
struggling and toiling to get bread for the little
ones who are as dear to her heart as her own life.

See that poor widow in her cheerless room busily
sewing, hoping when this work isdone the rich
woman to whom it belongs will pay her, and then
‘she can have a brighter fire and more nourishing
food for her children, at least foraday ertwo. Yet
she fears this may not be, as sometimes when in
great want has she taken work to this woman, and
while waiting been told that Mrs. — had not the
change, or she had better wait until the next pack-
age—which she could then take—was done; it was
no use troubling about so small an amount, it would
do her more good in larger sums, and then she
court oer fuel and food in larger quantities, and at

ess Cos

Excellent advice, but will it feed the little mouths
meantime? Small amount to you, oh, rich woman!
but to the poor widow that five dollars means life
and hope for herself, and fatherless children, the
waiting for it starvation and death. |

She feels allthis as glancing hurriedly from the
three children nestling closely together by the
stove, in which the fire is burning low, to the bed,
where sleeps the youngest, a little child of one
year. Pitying angels look down upon her,but they
bring her neither food nor raiment, and she knows
the landlord wouldtake her last penny even when
those little one are saying, “Mother, I’m hungry.”
What asad picture this, yet it is no fancy piece.

A poor widow, who, while her husband lived,
moved in good society, but being left without
means, and unable to obtain work, was recently
put outof her room, by order of the landlord, for
twelve dollars unpaid rent. It was in the eyening,
and the hapless woman sat upon the sidewalk wit
her two little children pressed frantically to her
bosom, trying in vain to keep them warm, and
madly wishing the snow-covered street was the
river, that it mies be toher and hers the dark
stream of death. Buta kind woman took the widow
td her home, caring for her as kindly as though a
sister, and the account being published, generous-
earted men contributed asum that has for the
present placed her beyond want, proving that the
press is an efficient friend of the poor. But that
base house-owner no words are strong enough to
express the contempt he merits. ‘

ou-who ride in gilded carriages, and dwell in
luxurious homes, have you no thought of the poor
and suffering who live within a stone’s throw of
pour .own door? Do youthink your duty is done
y giving thousands of dollars to some public
be heralded by the
How. small in the

     
 
      

 

 

 

charity that your name ma
trumpet-tongue of the press

sight of Heaven your gift compared to that of the’

woman who, not rich, gave the widow and orphans
a shelter from the snow and frost of a bleak win-
ter’s night. But the widow asks not your charity,
she asks work at a fair compensation, and that her
a be educated and fitted for the active duties
of life.

Happy mother! sitting in your creas home
with your children playing around you, and _ one
little, fairy-like face pressed against the window-
pane watching for papa, will you not think kindly
of your widowed sisters, and remember that man
of them once had as pleasant a home as yourself,
and listened as gladly for his footstep as you now
do, and then cheer their hearts by a kind word.

And to you, sorrowing, suffering widow, let me
say, battle on hopefully a little longer! The bright-
ered boy for whom you now toil will one day be
able to care for you, and shielding you from all toil
and trouble, be the comfort of Tour declining years ;
then as you see him an upright, noble man among
men, you will feel repaid for all you now suffer.

; ANNA RAYMOND.

+ 0

JOHN CARR’S NIGHT RIDE.

BY HERO STRONG.

 

When New England was first settled, wild animals
phounsed, and gave the settlers a great deal of

rouble.

Panthers, wolves, bears, catamounts, and wild-
cats were plenty, though probably noneof them
were really somuch dreaded as the wolves. Steal-
thy, cruel, cowardly beasts they were, ever prowl-
ing about by night, and ready to devour whatever
came in their way, for they were always hungry
and neyer satisfied. :

They went in packs, being seldom or never found
alone, and woe to the belated traveler who was de-
tained after dark in the forests and beset by a pack
of wolves. 7

Bennington, in the State of Vermont, was settled
early,and grown _to be quiteatown when John
Carr came trom England, with a few friends, and
pene the wilderness some miles barpnd Otter

Jreek, and there built his rude cabin, and began the
work of clearing up his claim. ‘

Three or four years went by, and the little settle-
ment at Carrsville received additions, one and an-
other discovering that the soil in that, vicinity was
deep and strong, and had become quite a flourish-
ing little hamlet.

To besureahalf dozen log houses constituted
the whole town, but in those days, when people who
lived fifteen or twenty miles apart were called
neighbors, things were alittle different from the
present.

The inhabitants were all honest, industrious, and
well-disposed, and Carrsville was a very happy
commuuity. é 4

They were subjected to a great many privyations,
but our first settlers were used to hardships, and
they bore without. complaining all the ills and in-
conveniences of their peculiar situation. They
were obliged to go to Bennington, a distance of
over fifty miles, for all the necessaries which could
not be grown on their land, and three or four times
a year this journey was made with four oxen, in
thesummer time with wheels andinthe winter
with rude sleds, on which to load the merchandize.

The return of these expeditions was always a
holiday in Carrsville. They brought tea and sugar
for the old ladies, and gay ribbons and British cal-
icoes for the young ones, and perhaps a letter or
two from the mother country, or maybe a month’s
old ROWED RH ots or the year’s almanac,

Carrsville indulged in great expectations, though,
and next year they hoped to have astore of their
own. John Carr had promised them as much when
he should be settled in life, for John was a bachelor,
and had but lately taken upon himself the sweet
bondage of love. : ‘

Indeed he had been considered invulnerable by
the dozen girls of the settlement, until Widow
conn had come among them, with her son and

aughter. ‘

The Campbells were Scotch, and rather above the
common class, and Will Campbell was the steadiest,
thriftiest lad, and- Judith, his sister, was the loye-
‘liest girl in all Carrsyille. ;

And Judith took John’s heart captive. She was a
bonny blue-eyed girl, with golden brown hair and
rosy cheeks, whose bloom. had no acquaintance
with pike ype or carmine cakes. She was well-
developed, and could handle a rake or a hoe with
the best of them; and as for riding, there was not
aman in the settlement would dare to follow_her
when on her little gray horse, unless it were John
Carr. Her hands would have gone very tight into
No.7 gloves, and been uncomfortable at that, and
if she had worn corsets, twenty-seven inches would
have been the smallest size she could possibly have
made do. But then beauty in those days did not
resemble beauty in this, the nineteenth century.

The course of true love ran smooth, and the wed-
ding day was fixed. John, foolish fellow! thought
nothing quite good enough for Judith, and had set
his heart on seeing her dressed in silk at her bridal.
Muslin would do very well for common girls, but
Judith’s grandmother had been a Scottish earl’s
wife, and had worn her diamonds, and Judith was
as worthy as/her grandmother. |

John, being “well-to-do,” decided to go to Ben-
nington and purchase the silk before the wedding.
Of course. he made a are secret of his intention,
communicating to Judith only the fact that he was

purpose of his visit. : , F

The girl tried to dissuade him from going, for the
way was fraught with danger, and it was not often
that one man had the hardihood to undertake the
journey. Indians were scattered through the for-
ests; wild beasts at this season, for it was winter,
were more ferocious than at other times, and the
cold was so intense as to render the undertaking
vor uncomfortable, if not hazardous. :

“Oh, John, do give it up!” pleaded Judith, when
he went to say good-by to her; “please do. I shall
be so anxious. while you aregone. And if any-
ving should happen to you! The Indians—the
wolves—’* : :

Here she broke quite down, and cried on John’s

shoulder.
John kissed her quite as a ee 4 mth centur
loyer would have done, and Ei ed her a foolis
little girl, and assured her that Bess, his good roan
mare, would outrun all the wolves in Christendom.
And he would take his trusty old flint-lock along,
and if he met any Indians—but of course he should
not—one shot would scatter them to the winds.
Then he kissed her a great many times more, for
it always.takes a great deal of this sort of cg to
brine a lover’s parting in good style, and left
her to solitude and tears. aun
Bright and early the next morning Bess was sad-
dled; and John was waiting to depart, when old
Dame Corry, the oldest inhabitant, came slowly
along leaning on her staff. She was puckered and
wrinkled, and doubled up with rheumatism and
doctoring, and was always the victim of some new
disorder. Her specific fog all complaints was pep-
per tea—indeed she often asse that but for
‘kian” she should have been in her graye years

0.
“She was always taki
chills, and nothing would set her up properly but
pepper tea. And whenever anybody went to Ben-
nington, Dame Corry alway had to send for her
panacea. John knew what she wanted. when he
saw her coming.

“Johnny, lad,” said she, “I hear thee’s going to
market. I want thee to getme a pound—a whole

ound—of kian. The Lord knows I should have

een in my grave long ago but for kian,”

She handed John a bag of coin—thin, consump-
tive-looking British pennies—which he put in his
saddle-bags, and bidding the crone and the few by-
standers Food day, rode away.

It would take him all day and a port of the night
to reach Bennington. Four days he had allowed in
which to go andreturn. The path for the most
part of the way lay through an unbroken wilder-
ness, with only blazed trees to direct the traveler.
But John had often been oyer the road before, and
knew perfectly the lay of the land, so he was at no
loss to proceed.

Bess was a YeRy fast stepper, and his on of
Judith, and of the happy surprise he should give
her when he should lay the silken dress pattern be-
fore her, made the time pass rapidly, and he was
surprised that he had made the journey so quickly.

One day he spent in town buying the silk—a
beautiful fawn color, a shade or two darker than
Judith’s hair—and ene to Dame Corry’s er-
rand, besides various other little commissions for
the Carrsville people. :

He decided to start for home that night a little
before sunset, calculating to reach it some time
during the next afternoon, which would give him
ample opportunity to visit Judith before nine
o’clock, the orthodox bed-time of the little village.
He put the package of silk in ene side of his sad-
dle-bags and the miscellaneous packages in the
other, and just before the sun of the short winter
a disappeared, turned Bess’s head homeward.

wenty miles, twenty-five miles, were soon pass-
ed, for Bess was in rare good spirits, and quite as
anxious to reach home as her master.

John whistled and hummed yarious old tunes to
keep himself awake, and wondered if Judith were
asleep, and if her slumbers were broken by dreams
of her absent lover.

Suddenly, through the still, ee air, there rang
out a peculiar cry—faint and stifled by the distance;
but his horse pricked her slender ears, and uttered
a low snort of terror.

Only an owl, good Bess!” said John, reassuring-
ly, and ne the glossy quivering neck. “Go on,
good colt.”

But there was acold chill of apprehension even
then at his heart, and the next moment another
cry, more distinct, was heard, which was taken up,
and echoed from tree to tree until it seemed as if
the whole forest was alive!

Bess bounded forward like a deer, and John,
bracing himself in the saddle, flung the bridle
on her neck, and examined the priming of his
musket. He knew now what he had to expect.

Wolves!—a pack of them—gaunt and blood-
thirsty, and panting for human flesh. Bess was the
best piece of horseflesh in the colonies, but John
doubted very much if on that untroden track, and
tired as she must already be with her long tramp,
she could ever hold out. And even if she did, the
wolves were swift and untiring, and unless he
could reach the settlement, neither his life or that
of his horse was worth a penny!

As he turned in his saddle, he saw the snow be-
hind him black with his vile pursuers, rushing
regen | onward, tumbling over each other in

imaginary colds and

 

their mad haste, and rising again with fierce yells
of rage, frenzied by the scent of human prey!

Bess felt like a mass of steel beneath him, so
hardened had every muscle and sinew become.
Her head was thrust forward, her nostrils smoked
her great eyes blazed like of fire.

And yet the wolves gained upon him, slowly but
surely—inch by inch and every inch was a moment
in his life. One wolf, larger the others, kept
ahead. John took aim at him, and saw him tumble
over with a savage howl, to be instantly torn into a
hundred fragments Py the unscrupulous pack,
This delayed them an instant, but only for an in-
stant—they were up, and on again before a dozen
yards had been gained. There was ahill to be as-
cended, and John saw with chagrin that the
strength of the brave little mare was waning. Her
breath came quicker, her head dropped lower, her
ears were falling farther and farther apart, and
mer exter were growing almost imperceptibly
shorter. :

Another wolf had taken the lead—a fellow of
great speed and bottom—and even now he was
snapping at the heels of the flymg horse. John
turned and discharged his musket full in his face;
and as before, for a moment the hungry pack paus-
ed to tear their fallen comrade in pieces. Swift
river lay just beforethem. John saw that he had
struck the stream too high up the ford, and there
was no time to waste in going to seek it. He must
riskecrossing on theice. He gave Bess her head,
and with a wild, almost despairing snort, she leap-
ed forward down the bank. Her iron hoofs struck
sharply on the flinty ice which cracked and bent
beneath her, but she staggered bravely, and even as
the water rose beneath the pressure she reached
the opposite bank with her rider in safety.

Close behind her came the greedy wolves, snap-
ping and snarling in their rage, and gaining upon.
the fugitives still more rapidly. |
For a moment John almost yielded to despair,
but only fora moment. To falter then was to die,
and none kneyw it better than he.

He urged his horse on as he had never urged
her on before, and nobly she responded to his
earnest cheer.

‘My brave horse! my noble Bess! Courage! A
little longer and we shall be safe!” J

She neighed pitifully in reply, and strained
every muscle in the unequal struggle. But too
well her rider, saw the signs of fatigue—too well
he knew that but a little farther could_she keep
that pace, and then all would be over! He let his
hand fall to his side insilent despair, and as he
did so he felt Dame Cony’s package of pepper in the
saddle-bags. ,

Probably if he had been acquainted with Greek
he would have shouted “Eureka!” but as it was.
he only said, ‘‘Praise the Lord!” ’

He tore open the “kian” with trembling fingers,
seized a handful, and flung it broadcast into the
faces of the hungry multitude behind him. The
effect was startling! Such a howl of rage and
pale as went up from the dismayed and suffering

rutes, human ear had never heard!

They leaped in the air; they tumbled headlong
upon each other; they raged, and snarled, and bit
and rent each other in a way fearful to contem-

 

plate. ;

And still there were a few left, who, despite every-
thing, pressed on. But John had found a weapon
much more effective than powder, and handful af-
ter handful of the fiery compound which was to
have soothed Dame Corry’s exhausted nerves, and
burnt out her everyday colds, was hurled in the
open mouths and glaring eyes of the ravenous wild
beasts. No living thing could stand such a course
of treatment. :

John himself was choked, blinded, and nearly
suffocated, but he had vision enough left to see that
the snow behind him was white and unbroken by a
single cowardly gray spot, and he knewthe pursuit
was ended. ; .

Then it was that he flung himself off his horse,
panting, faint, and exhausted, and leaned against a
tree to recover himself. 5 ‘ ;

Bess gave a low whinny of joy and intense satis-
faction, and Johnsaw coming toward them, at a
great pace, a gray horse and—yes—it could be none
other! Judith was the rider!

“Than Heaven!” she cried, slipping down to the
ee by his side, and winding her arms around

is neck, ‘you are safe!” f .

And the big, foolish John laid his hand on her

 

 

 

 

shoulder and wept—the first tears he had shed since
his mother died. :

“Theard the cry of the wolves in my dreams,”
she said, “and I woke in wild terror. That was
early last night.”

“But you could not have heard them then, dearest.
We were twenty-five miles away.”

“No matter for that—I heard them! AndtryasI
would, I could not sleep. At two o’clock I saddled

Prince and started

“Foolish little girl! You could have done nothing

for me!” “I could have died with you, John.

And what follows does not concern either you
orme. Dame Corry regretted the loss of her
pepper greatly. ’

“dt was such a waste,” she said, “‘to_throw it at
them ugly beasters as never had no colds, nor rhu-
matiz, but she s’posed she’d got to bear it.”

A fortnight after John’s ride heand Judith were
married, and in the new silk she looked like a
princess. ;

The oars couple lived to see a great town grow
up around them, and they were followed to their
quiet graves by a long line of descendants. And
even to the fourth generation Judith’s wedding silk
was kept and treasured, and no story did the chil-
dren like better to hearthan that of John Carr’s
night ride.

GOOD TEMPLARS 1851-1876.

BY JAMES L, BOWEN, G, W. COUN. OF MASS.

While everybody is talking, and thinking, and
reading about Centennial year, and comparing
with puepnete ride the American of 1876 with
that of a hundred years previous, it may not be in-
appropriate to remind the readers of the NEw York

EEKLY that the present year is also the quarter-
centennial of the err. temperance organiza-
tion in the world—the Independent Order of Good
Templars. In its origina purely American insti-
tution, its history is not less remarkable than that
of the nation which gave it birth.

The order originated in Central New York in the
year 1851, a single lodge being formed upon princi-
ples radically different from those of any existin
Pepe soed organization. The Washingtonian an
kindred movements had brought hundreds of

 

 

 

pledge, and awakened a general sentiment in the
community in favor of temperance work. But the
mere taking of a pledge was found not to be all
that was required to save the man who had, per-
haps, for many years been the slave of strong
drink, The streets which he must walk were lined
with dens of Fe pa and, while or a pledge
was signed with heartfelt repentance and in good
faith, the number of the permanently saved was
found to be comparatively very small.

The new organization sought to supplement: the
taking of the pledge by a fraternity of kindred
spirits which should hold frequent meetings for
mutual encouragement and support, for rational
social pleasures, and to reclaim again, if possible,
the reforming man who should find temptation too
strong, and break from:his pledge. In other words,
the taking of the pledge was to be made the begin-
ning and not the culmination of a reformatory pro-
cess. Into the new organization, woman, the prin-
cipal sufferer by the evils it sought to eradicate,
was admi to equal privileges, equal duties, and
equal honors. Thusthe temperance circle began
to eee the features of a home—a complete social
circle.

But the elements of its strength did not end here.
The founders ofthe new order recognized that it
should not be all of temperance endeavor to save
the fallen—it should also strive to preserve the un-
sullied life in its purity, and to the Good Templar’s
circle the youth of both sexes were cordially wel-
comed, not only that they might add tothe charm
of the weekly lodge meeting, but that they might as
well be educated and strengthened in those princi-

les which should preserve all their maturer years
rom the blast of the great destroyer. The lodge
meeting was thus made to combine the parliamen-
tary body, the temperance club, the refined social
circle, the happy home.

And a happy home indeed it became to thousands
on thousands of weak, strtegin victims of appe-
tite, who came back to manhood again, slowly but
surely, under its guardian care—a tower of strength
to untold numbers of the young, whom it has al-
ready educated and sentinto the field as earnest
champions of earth’s greatest reform. Who can
compute its blessings? Who can number the sad-
dened homes over which it has shed the glory-light
of an earthly redemption? Who can say how many
amanhood it has preserved, all unspotted and
happy, that else might have been wrecked?’ The

rowth of the order has been unparalleled in the

istory of kindred organizations. At the close of
the rebellion it had attained only a membership of

became marvelous. It was not confined to the
country of its birth. It erossed the border to the
British Provinces, went over the ocean to the British
Isles, where it fired the popular heart with an en-
thusiasm such as it had never known in a kindred
cause, swept over upon the Continent, took in the
Mediterranean, islands, the white settlements in
Africa, Australia, the Sandwich Islands, New Zea-
land, China, and Japan, until, to-day, as it closes its
first quarter-century of existence, it may truthfull

be said that “wherever civilization has gone wit

its accompanying curse of strong drink, the Good
Templars, like sweet angels of mercy, have gone
with the saving influences of reform.
has more than 8000 lodges to-day, with a member-
ship of some 750,000; independent of which it is la-
boring among those too young for membership,
with various juvenile agencies, and in these folds
it has gathered enough to place its total member-

 

ship far above a million. To its great, grand work
it invites all true men and women, everywhere.

thousands of drunkards and others to sign the -

some 50,000; but with the return of peace its growth

The order’

 

 

ae ecaiiiragsibigtiptla ttnretamainaptianietaian fin Sitar : a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
=>

7

—£

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

A CENTENNIAL STORY.

BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH.

 

“Twas long years after a patriot band

Had driven the foe from our native land,
And taught the nations beyond the sea
That men determined to be free

Would break their gyves in spite of kings
And all the power which affluence brings.
*Twas long years after this era gory
When happened the incident of my story.

In one of thé suburbs of London gay,
A strange man on his death-bed lay.
No loving wife or child was near,

No well-known friend, no kindred dear,
None to console him, none to pray—
Save one, a curate old and gray,

Who, gazing on the dying man,

An exhortation thus began:

** Mysterious man, whose fleeting breath
Will soon resolve itself in death,
Arouse thee if thou’st aught to say
Ere from this earth thou pass away.
Thy death-bed story I await;

Calm thee and speak ere it be too late.
And if thou wouldst a Christian die,
Repent ye and speak truthfully.

“ A Christian! Ha, ha, ha! Well said!”
The dying man rose up in bed.

“ There was a Christian once who played
The hypocrite till he betrayed
His Master pure, sublime, and grand—
I, sir, betrayed my native land;
He, Judas, hung himseif for shame,
And would that I had done the same.’””

He paused, and then began to stare

With wild eyes on the vacant air;

And then he shrieked: ‘‘See, old man, see!
Look underneath yon gallows tree!

A brave young soldier, proud and fair,
Sentenced to die, is standing there;

And now I hear the people say:

‘Arnold, not he, should hang to-day!’

“See! see! The gallows claims its prey,
And Andre’s soul is snatched away.
My ears drink in his dying moan,
His stony eyes gaze in my own;
He glares upon me as he dies—
His fixed look seems to sear my eyes!
Oh, man of God, pray for me, pray! _
And take me from this scene away!”

He paused, but soon as from a dream
He started on another theme:

“TY see, near yonder field of corn,

The cottage in which I was born;

» Old friends approach me, but they start
When I would clasp them to my heart,
And shrinking from me, wildly cry,
‘Avaunt, vile wretch! Die, traitor, die?

“ Now the scene changes, and I view
A gallant army, stanch and true,
Rejoicing o’er a victory won
By their brave leader, Washington,
Whose grand face lights up smilingly
To hear the plaudits of the free.
He sees me now—my presence seeks— :,
And frowning on me, thus he speaks:

* ‘Oh, thou who once stood by my side
A soldier brave, the nation’s pride—
Thou whose fierce charge was wont to be
Followed by shouts of victory—
Thou whom I trusted, loved, revered,
Thou whom the enemy so feared—
Alas, that I should witness now
‘Arch Traitor!’ stamped upon thy brow!

“ ‘Oh, hadst thou ended thy career,
False wretch, as thou began it here,
The name of Arnold blessed would be,
Sacred to worth and liberty.

But now it will be hailed with scorn,
And cursed by millions yet unborn;
And even those who tempted thee
Will shudder at thy treachery!’ ”

In vain the dying stranger tries

To shut the vision from his eyes;

Then whirling suddenly about,

With maniac laugh and defiant shout,

He cries: “Once more my strength I'll try!
Charge, Britons, charge! A traitor I’ll die!’
A bound, a gasp, a look of dread,

And Arnold the traitor was with the dead.

MOLLY MAGUIRE,

THE

TERROR OF THE COAL FIELDS.

By DANIEL DOYLE.
A Mine Boss.

{Special arrangements have been made to furnish Back Num-
bers of “Molly Maguire.” It commenced with No. 17,.and we
have given the wholesale agents throughout the country full
supplies of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, so that the retail agents
can get them at once. STREET & SMITH.]

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.—Continued.)

gt ce could some! polave his
eyes at first, but it was a grim reality. em
stared him in the face, | : er

“You must not have aper, Willie,” he said;
and then the child, who h set his hearton it and
made such efforts to secure it, commenced to ery.

The father tried to coax him out of it, but it was
no use, he would not be comforted without the pic-
ture, and Robert Carr, thinking to himself, ‘What
a coward I must be; it can surely do no harm to let
the child have it.” gave it to his boy, who now dried
his eyes and ran off to show the “funny” picture to
his little sister. Both, after scanning it for some
Bin, i ee to show it to their mother,
and ran 0 her room with it in great glee, whi
their father walked into the garden, alse eam

Oh, ma! see the funny picture I found on the
door,” said little Willie; and then his sister and
himself set up alaughing duet that made every
room in the house ring with the echo of their child-
ish mirth.

Their mother took the notice, and read it with
horror and amazement, while the color left her
cheeks, and her heart commenced beating quickly.

Tell me, Willie, where did you find this?” she

asked.

., It was stuck up on the door when Ma

ebthon aed. Pit, saw i Oreos and papa He aie
nd gave it to me, Imust try to ma i

ike that, ma? ' y ke a picture

rs. Carr did not say a word just then, but taki

the notice in her hand, and with her hair et in
dishabille, she sought her husband, and found him
attending to some plants in the garden. ‘

Why, Robert,” she cried, “what can this mean?”
holding the notice before his face, while she herself
seemed very much agitated,

She was a very handsome woman, but to her hus-
band she never seemed half so beautiful before.
Her every faculty seemed fully aroused for his
safety to its most nervous pitch, and she was really
distressed by the piece of paper on which the
packing emblems of the graye were rudely

“My dear Maggie, you are unnecessarily alarm-
ed said her husband. “That is only an idle piece
of paper drawn up by some waggish fellow.”

ut_ Willie said it was fastened on the door.
Now, Robert, who but an enemy in whose heart
was pspe™ wae serve us sucha vile trick?”
,itdoes not amount to anything, ar.
Do not let it trouble you. Go. back Into the
house; the morning air is chilly,” and so saying,
abd Bis back with her,and kissed her fears
_He “geemed to regard the threatening noti
lightly that she began to think at last that ona
it was not of much consequence after all. Yet it
Bxpoyed wie : wood tars ane she was often puzzled
yone shou i
_— it wea te seriotaiee * OS Sener
it was with afeeling of sadness, not un
with apprehension, that she saw her honda
leave the house after breakfast and go to the Black
Diamond Breaker. This was intensified during his
absence,and at theusual dinner hour his return
as looked for with painful anxiety.
_ He was always prompt in his going out and com-
ing in, and his wife knew precisely when to look
for him. She was never disappointed. It was a
great relief for her to see him coming up the road
A Boor ee an he was_ really unpre-
monstrati 3cti s
eome ho received. ve and affectionate wel

‘Tm_ so you’ve come in time, Robert,” she
said, “for I believe I could hardl : 8 Y
half an hour behind time to-day.” ee eee

It certainly would not be very pleasant,” he re-
pen in @ matter-of-fact way, ‘to have to keep
ding waiting. AmTInot always punctual, Mag-

 

 

“Oh, itis not that—it is not that,” she said, ‘‘but
the notice on the door this morning. That’s what
ives me pain, and makes me all the more anxious
or your coming back. My mind has been occupied
thinking of it allday,andI really fear that those
wicked men may do you harm.” x

“Bless your heart, don’t let that distress you.
There is not one among those fellows that would
dare to lift a hand against me. It is only when a
man happens to be out late, or Be changs may get
drunk, that they waylay and beat him. Sometimes |
the more reckless of their number at such atime
commit murder; butif they meet aman who can
cope with them and _ is able to hold his own, they
skulk away in fear, like bats before the light. The
have sent me that notice because I have said that
would not employ any of the old hands at the’Black |
Diamond Breaker when it is rebuilt. They imagine
ors banal can coerce me, but I won’t be intimidated

y them.”

“But, Robert,” said his wife, “don’t you think the
sentence a little too harsh on your part? Is it not
possible that among the old hands there are some
who are innocent of any complicity in the crime of
burning the breaker, and will it not be a great in-
justice to make them suffer for the sins of the
others? And even so, a severe lesson has been
taught these men already. Life is dear to you;
your life is ~precious to me, and, if only for my
sake,I wish you would revoke that order, and
make it known that the old hands will find employ-
ment again.”

“My dear, you. don’t understand the nature of
those fellows. If I were to say now, after receiving
this notice, that all the former employees could have
work, they would sayat once, Carr is a coward,’
and they would think that theycould extort any-
thing they wanted from me. You see, therefore,
how essential it is fora manin position tohave a
little firmness. This matter will soon blow over.”

Then they sat down to dinner, and their children
came rushing into the room, laughing, and stnug-
gling to see who should be first to kiss their moth-
er. Willie, being the stronger, was successful, and
then little Effie pouted and begantocry; when sud-
denly a bright idea seemed to Bive her relief, and
she ran toward her father, and said:

“Then I’ligbe first to kiss papa, now!”

And taking her on his knee, he gave her the
sought-for kiss, and the dinner was seasoned with
smiles and laughter, Robert Carr doing his utmost
by:the buoyancy of his own demeanor to banish the
gloom that seemed to have seized the spirit of his
usually vivacious wife. q :

After dinner he went again to the breaker, being
anxious to see it completed as speedily as possible.
The mine was one of the company’s best, and they
suffered a great loss by having it idle so long. .Cap-
tain Carr, although naturally of a reserved temper-
ament, knew almost every man in the village, and

 

} abl

was therefore no little surprised to see several
strangers among the group of idlers that stood
watching the progress of the work, and at the same
time engaged in earnest conversation. They eyed
him closely as he alighted from his buggy, and the
scrutiny did not escape his notice. ,

One man especially fixed his eyes intently on the.
superintendent, and fairly scowled at him from un-
der a pair of black, shaggy eyebrows.

“What can these strangers be doing here?” he
thought; ‘“‘and what can that desperate-looking fel-
low mean by fixing his gazeso firmly upon me?”

Then again he fancied that his unusual anxiety
was the result of the morning missive that had al-
ready produced such an. unpleasant feeling in his
little household. He endeavored to banish the idea
from his mind, but, try as he might, it would not
go, but like some ill-favored spirit, pursued him
wherever he went.

He examined the breaker from base to tower,
chatted pleasantly with the workmen, and did all
in his power to forget the thoughts that kept con-
tinually forcing themselves upon him. When he
was about to drive off from the scene, he found him-
self followed by the same hungry glances that, met
him on his arrival, and it annoyed him consider-

y.
The evening shadows were falling as the super-

 

 

 

 

intendent, at a brisk pace, urged his sure-footed
little horse toward his home. His mind was busy
with thoughts of his wife’s uneasiness and great
anxiety for his safety, as well as the incident which
oceasioned such a state of feeling. Then again he
wondered what that group of strange men could be
doing loitering about the breaker, and why they.
watched him so intently on his arrival and depart-
ure; and gradually the fearful conviction forced
itself upon him that he was ‘a marked man.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FIENDISH PLOT—A BUNS AT THE REINDEER
Ss

 

“Did you see them two men ?” said Larry Looney
to Grimes; as they crouched down together in the
coal car to avoid contact with the roof of the slope

.

 

~<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. te 5

 

 

 

 

His heart was beating wildly as hespoke. His
blood seemed on fire, and could only be satiated b
the accomplishment of the dreadful deed, that ha
occupied his thoughts the whole night long. |

Howld aisy!” cried Looney, as they ran in the

direction of the breaker. ‘“Howldaisy, Jack ; Ican’t
ae ae wid ye!” t
me, come, ye spalpeen; now, a vic na streepee

this is our time! ;
ynnd Grimes bounded forward as swiftly as an an-
ope.

ce supreme effort, Looney managed to keep
within hearing of him until they reached the foot
of the breaker, when the former, turning around
and pointing toalong, winding, and unguarded
stairway, Said:

“Go up first; if [start Pl lave you behind, an’ it’ll
take you half the day to go up.” ,

Looney looked up, and seemed diffident, when,
with asavage scowl, Grimes, laying his hand on
his shoulder, said:

“Arrah,man alive,are ye mad? What are ye
dhramin’ of: at all? Up wid you at wanst; don’t be
a banshee, and begin to cry at this time.”

Looney made no response, but commenced the
difficult ascent, his knees knocking together, and
his entire anatomy trembling with nervous fear,
while his eager companion followed him, urging
him along by oath and in prea at every step.
About midway up the breaker, which was ten sto-
ries high, they looked out of a window and saw
Morgan and Nolan looking around, as if expecting
a car upon which they. could ride.

May bad luck to them!” said the murderous
Grimes ; “the lazy louts they want a car,sothey do,
and they must ride down to their work inagh. I’m
afeerd they won’t walk in afther all,” and he stood
for several seconds watching them. At last he was
more than pleased to see them enter the slope, and
he fairly chuckled with hellish delight as he urged
the tardy Looney onward to the tower, up the nar-
row and dangerous stairs. “We’lllet them have a
car in a few minutes, Larry,” he said, “‘an’ it’ill
run such a race as they never saw before, an’ as
they'll never see agin.”

On, and up they went, through the fximy, dusty
passages of the breaker, their_eyes flashing with
the baleful light of death and murder, until at
length they reached the ample floorin the tower,
where the coal was landed and dumped into the
chutes that carried it through the several processes
of preparation, such as breaking, cleaning, etc.,
before it was ready forthe market. They were al-
most breathless when they reached this point, but
Grimes was determined to lose no time. Two empty
cars stood on a switch a short way from the land-

ing.

Finis is our, chance, Larry,” he whispered, in
fiendish glee. “‘Come,lend a hand quick; we can
push this first car out on the main thrack an’ sind
id flying down the slope.” |

“Look around, Jack,” said Looney, in fear. ‘““Look
around an’see ii there is any one about. Me heart
is goin’ out 0’ me mouth, so it is, wid fear that we’ll
be caught.” .

“Don’t be making an oansugh o’ yerself, Larry,”
retorted the other, sharply. 3)

“Jack, you were always too hasty. Why the divil
can’t we make shure, an’ save oursels ?”

“Well, look around thin.”

Looney walked to the far end of the room, and
surveyed the scene cautiously. Then ascertaining
that none besides himself and Grimes were on that
floor, he looked down from ‘his giddy height, and
shuddered as he contemplated the picture. The
sun was just rising in a clear sky, and flecked the
valley with light and shade. The shadow of the
tall breaker seemed to stretch away at least a mile
in length, and to cross the river that flowed silently
along about half a mile distant. ‘The white houses
on the opposite bank of the placid stream peeped
out here and there between clumps of trees freight-
ed with foliage of crimson and_ gold, to which the
leaves had been transformed by the magical in-
fluence of autumn. Farther on, away in the dis-

the gaze of the trembling criminal was presented a
picture of surpassing grandeur, asweep of scenery
full of sublime beauty, a vision unexcelled by the
glowing glory of the valley of Cashmere. But to
the seared heart and sodden nature of the wretch
who viewed it,the picture was devoid of charm
even though it was heightened by the golden haze
of the dawn, shedding its soft, sweet radiance over

Gil. ;

In truth, Looney was not admiring it, he was
wrapt in a reyerie of selfish thought, wondering to
himself where and how .this wild career of his
would end, and asking himself the question as to
whether it might not yet lead him to the scaffold.

“Tt’s a mighty bad business, anyway,” thought
he, “an’ bad luck to the day I first heard tell 0’

Molly Maguire.’

 
  
   
    
 

    

il are ye doin’ over there ?”
y tone of voice which made
with fear. “Everything is

 

down w ey were about to descend. ;

I did,” replied the other; ‘‘an’ the same _ two is
not intended long for this life. The greenhorn is
gone back on the boys, an’ his days won’t be long
in the land. He thinks bekase he is wid Moregn
that he’s all right; but he’ll find it will be worse fbr
him. He’s done a worse thing nor when he went
among the rats at the Lone Slope afther his tussle
wid me, the night.” .:

It’s a pity you didn’t finish him thin, Jack. I
don’t like him,” said Looney. “‘He has the owld
counthry noshuns in him that a murdherer isa
Pati peter anyhow, Be re ee he Er why

e kills ’im. He hates us ever since heheerd it was
us killed his owld uncle Miles. rra, Twouldn’t
wondher but the same shaughraun ud thry yet to
take riyinge on us. You know the owld sayin’ at
home, ‘Blood for blood, sez Mor-na-hina,’ an’ the
divil a one o’ me ud putit pass this sugane-sack to
thry an’ punish us yet.” :
work ay himself an’ Morgan. [havea plan that'll
help us to lay them out as nice as eyer you saw
without causin’ us to be suspected the laste.”

Ah, thin, what is that, Jack?” saidthe other. “I’m
ettin’ mighty onaisy to put Morgan out o’ the way.
he boys at home, an’ the bucks at Shanty Hill,

want the work done quick,an’ af you knowava
good plan, mebbe we could finish Morgan an’ his
man this very week.”

The car had by this time reached the foot of the
slope, and Looney and Grimes walked off in the
direction of their chamber, where they continued
to plan a shocking way for murdering Harry Mor-
gan and Neal Nolan. .

I tell you,” said Grimes, “‘that’ll work as nice as
anything you ever saw,an’ nobody will suspecta
thing about id.”

Well, you were lucky in yer plans so far, Jack,”
replied the other, and mebbe this ud turn out as
well as any o’ them. It looks good, at any rate.”

With their thoughts firmly fixed on carrying out
the idea advanced by Grimes for. dispatching both
Morgan and Nolan at a single blow as soon as
pore. these red-handed companions in crime,

ound to each other by many an _ayful bond of
blood, continued to work on until the hour for
quitting came.

They did not go home, as was their usual custom
to change their clothes and indulge in a bath before
going to sleep, but withdrew toasaloon kept ata
short distance from the mouth of the mine, and
overlooking the entrance to the Reindeer slope.
They called for something to drink, and obtained a
bottle of whisky, from which they helped them-
selves, while Grimes, an anxious look in his eye,
stood watching at the narrow window commanding
aviewoftheslope. |

The min are comin’ to work, Larry,” he cried,
at last, in an animated tone of voice. “‘Now is our
bey ene Come Be. ffod-thé a

nd so saying, he quaffe e dregs of the glass
that he had been holding in his hand, set it down
on the table, and hastened from the door inthe
direction of the breaker, closely followed by his
companion.

The Reindeer slope was driven into the mine at
an angle of thirty-three degrees, or a grade of one
foot to every three feet, making quite a steep pitch.
It was six hundred feet long from the entrance, but
a platform plane was continued from this point, at
the base of the breaker, reaching into the tower,
one hundted and fifty feet high, and constructed
on the same grade as the slope proper, making the
entire descent from the “dumping” room atthe
we of the breaker tothe foot of the slope inthe
mine, seven hundred and fifty feet. In mining dis-
tricts this is not considered along slope by any
means, some extending to a slanting depth of. 1,500
and ;aane even to 2,000 fect,inthe bowels of the
earth.

The Reindeer slope had a single railroad track,
on which the cars were hoisted and lowered by
means of a massive wire rope, having several links
of stout chain at the end, and fastened to a pen-
dant link in the end of the car bya dull hook bent
on purpose to slip in and out easily, and so facili-
tate the work of adjusting or detaching the cars, as
the case might be.

It frequently occurs that this dull hook becomes
detached of its own accord just as the cars are
about to descend the slope, often overtaking men
midway down the narrow, dark passage with a run-
away car, and producing instant death of the most
violent character. Of all the dreaded accidents that
occur in and around the coal mine, this is the most
terrible. No car o jiemernant so completely
crushes out the life of its victims as does the run-
away coal car rushing down the dark slope with
the speed of the wind like anavenging angel of
darkness. |

It was this awful and fiendish plan that Grimes
had fixed_upon for the destruction of Harry Mor-
gan and Neal Nolan.

In the morning, if a car was not just ready to de-
scend, the men usually walked down the slope into
the mine, and Grimes suggested, and his compan-
ion agreed, that it would be an excellent way to dis-
patch the new-comers, to set a runaway car on their
trail as soon as they would be gone about two hun-
dred feet from the surface.

Come on quick!” said Grimes. “I see them

 

 

comin’ up the path, an’ they are alone. They’ll

 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
   
 
  

he best way to do then, Larry, is to make short g

ome here and help me ?”

is assistance, and both men
s to th r commenced to
pushed it forward, inch by
ested at the summit of the

d and said:
- 7

ye will, now,” he said. “I
n an’ the greenhorn, any-
about half way from here,
cash, Larry, an’ the work is

sir shoulders to the car and
ey could realize the situ-
‘om their touch, and sped
o the mine like a thunder-
sof those around the base
watched it descend, and who
men were already in the slope

 
    
       

The ery, “a runaway car,” spread rapidly, and in
a minute a wondering crowd, with hearts pulsating
nervously, stood looking into the dark abyss
through which the chariot of death had depppeared,
so swiftly. For a moment Grimes and Looney,
from the tower of the breaker, looked down the
plane as if awe-stricken and transfixed to where
they stood; then shaking off the magnetism of the
dread situation, they disappeared, and hastened to
descend by way of the narrow stairs up which they
went a short time before.

All was contusion at the mouth of the slope. Men.
women and children came rushing in breathless
fear from the neighboring houses, all anxious for
the safety of the friends who had left them but a
few minutes before. Looney and Grimes mingled
with the crowd, and seemed to regard the situation
with as much wonder and alarm as the rest.

Their anxiety was well feigned, and_no one there
for a moment suspected that er had_ anything to
do with letting the runaway car loose on its mur-
derous mission. Already seyeral men had hasten-
ed down the slope to ascertain if any of their com-
rades had been crushed by what seemed a sad mis-
hap. A little woman with a babe in her arms, and
her voice husky with emotion approached Grimes.

“Oh!” she eried, “my poor husband left the house
only a little while ago, and I’m afeered he is in the
nope. What will I do if aes happens to him.”

illainous as was the nature of the man she ad-
dressed, he could not help being moyed by her
voice, manner and appearance, and he hoped in his
heart that she, at least, would not be made the in-
nocent victim of his awful act.

“Have courage,” he said. “Your husband was
gone down, and may be at his work before the run-
away car started.” : :

“T hope so—I hope so, alama,” she cried, swaying
to and fro in great agitation, and looking eagerly in-
to the slope, expecting the return of those who had

one down after the car to ascertain what damage,

ad been done.

Presently the light of their lamps was seen ap-
progening slowly in the distance. The expectant
crowd held its breath, as if a great silence had
fallen uponit. It was the silence of fear. Butt
was broken by a moan, a minute later. as the first
gang of men emerged from the slope with the man-

led form of a miner between their arms. Grimes

ooked anxiously in the face of the dead man, and
turned away disappointed. His attention was next
attracted by a heart-rending shriek from the little
woman beside him, who recognized the dead man
as her husband, and fell fainting on theground. |

Looney ran to help her, and took the child in his
arms. The little one was too young to realize the
sad scene, but nevertheless shrank as if instinctive-
ly from the coarse caress of its father’s murderer.

“Is anybody else hurt ?” was the question eagerly
ensnd of the men who bore the dead man between

em. :
“Yes,” was the reply. “Three more men are kill-
ed, but we did not wait to see who they were, The
rest o’ the men are bringing them up.”

“Surely,” thought Grimes, “Morgan an’ Nolan
must be two o’ them,” and again he directed his
anxious gaze down the slope to await the arrival of
his other victims.

      
 
 
  
 
     
 

 

  

 

‘CHAPTER XXXIV.
AN AWFUL CRIME.

» “Robert—Robert, was that your voice?” said Mrs.
Carr, wife of the Superintendent of the Black Dia-
mond Shaft, starting suddenly out of her sleep at
midnight. }

Her husband was sleeping soundly, and that sur-
prised her somewhat, as she thought she had been
awakened by ahuman voice speaking in hurried
accents. She paused a few minutes. Everything
was still. The silence seemed painful. To Mrs.
Carr it was especially so. For the past few pare
she had been so nervous as to be startled by the
rustling of a leaf on the tree in front of her dwell-

ing. :

Fhis state of mind had been induced by the re-
peated threats her husband had received. For two
mornings in succession Molly Maguire notices,
similar in character to that already referred to, but
somewhat different in the wording were founed
fastened to the front door.

 

start down the slope at once.’

That, it said, was his last chance. His wife begged

of him to accept the warning and go, but he simply
laughed at the idea, said he would keep good hours,
be well armed when he went out, and always pre-
parce for an attack. In vain did his wife plead that

e might be shot down going to or from the mine,
and entreat him to give up his position, and remove
to Philadelphia or some large city away from the
reach of the evil men who were plotting his des-
truction.

He told her there was no fear of danger, as it was
always in the night, and in the most lonely places,
the Society of Molly Maguire carried out its devil-
ish decrees. He would not, he said, expose him-
self to such danger, and therefore could not be per-
suaded to move away, His prospects there were
better than they could possib y be anywhere else,
and he could not be guilty of the folly of throwing
up such an excellent position as he held under a
company that placed such great confidence in him.
Moreover it was not reasonable, he argued, that
men Who proposed to murder him would be so
foolish as to send him a notice in advance, inform-
ing him of their fiendish intention. The notices
must have emanated from some wag of the village,
or some one jealous of his good fortune, and anx-
ious to frighten him from the place.

His plausible theory, and fixedness_ of purpose
did not do away. with his wife’s fears in the least.
She cited cases in which such notices as those he
received had preceded the most horrible murders,
and called to mind how Harry Morgan the mine
boss, previous to his personal persecution, had
been plagued by vile threatening letters, and ad-
monitions to leaveShanty Hill. Mrs. Carr allowed
the matter to prey upon her mind_until she was
becoming morbid on the subject. Frequently she
was startled from her sleep during the night by
some'horrid yision; and for hours afterward
would lie in a state of nervous fear and trembling.
She awoke her husband on the night in question,
and in an agitated tone said:

Robert I think I heard some men in the room.”

._ rhis only comes of your foolish fears,” he said,
why no man would dare venture into our house,
We have no burglars in Shanty Hill.”

Oh itis not that she whispered, and she shud-
dered as she spoke, “it is not that, but worse Rob-
ert. There are murderers here. You know those
shocking notices told you that unless you left this
neighborhood you would meet your doom,”

Robert Carr laughed lightly. _.

Indeed Robert it is no laughing matter at all.
You know that you are never out at night, and that
those wicked men have therefore no opportunity of
waylaying you. Is it not possible therefore that
they would visit your house and commit some des-
perate act?” 5

This all comes my dear of your intense anxiety.
It has wrought upon your mind until you really be-
lieve that those fellows, whosoever they be that
send out threatening letters are serious and intend
to fulfill what they promise. Now for my part I
don’t pay any attention to such matters, and I wish
you would not.”

Oh Robert, Robert what should I do, if anythin

happened to you,” she said, while the tears fille
her eyes, and her heart ached.
, At that moment the tramp of footsteps was heard
inthe room. Robert Carr started from his pillow
and realized even in the darkness that he was sur-°
rounded by enemies. He saw in the dim light a
number of human figures, and rubbed his eyes to
make sure it was no dream. :

Who is there?” he asked hurriedly. _.

He was answered by asudden flash of light from

a lamp which revealed to his wondering gaze half

a dozen men masked and armed.

Mrs. Carr gave a piercing cry which aroused the
rest of the inmates throughout the house.

,One of the masked men stepped toward the bed-

side. Robert Carr attempted to leap out and repel
any attack that might be made, but was hindered

by his distracted wife throwing her arms around

his neck, and crying: 4 :

“You shan’t leave here Robert, you won’t go from

tance, vistas of loveliest landscape shone, and to.| mel

“Don’t hold me my darling; don’t hold me now,”
he said, releasing himself from the restraint of her
round white arms; and leaping to his feet he seized
a huge reyolver that lay under his pillow. This he
presented at the party, bat six equally deadly wea-
pons were leveled at him in return. Mrs. Carr was
in the most indescribable anguish. 4

“For Heaven’s sake, gentlemen,” she eried, ‘‘don’t
—don’t injure my dear husbard. Take my life if
you will—if you must have a life, but spare his!”
“What is the meaning of this unceremonious and
vulgar invasion of my house at such an unseason-
able hour,” said the superintendent.

The spokesman of the masked gang a tall and
powerful fellow said: ‘

“We are here to ask that you come with us down
town; we want to see you on business that it will
not do for us to transact before your wife.”

“Phere is no business that you cannot discuss
with me in my wife’s presence,” he answered, and
moreover I would prefer meeting you in the morn-
ing.

“Put down that revolver,” said the masked man.
“Not until your men lower their pieces; Iam on
my defense.” i ,

The masked leader signaled to his men and they
lowered their revolvers each to his side, whereupon
Robert Carr did the same. :
“This is no time for talk,” the masked man said.
‘““We want to see you Mister Carr on very pment
business, and it is impossible to transact it before
your wife.” hints e
“Gentlemen don’t disguise your business on my
account, if you haye any request to make of my
husband make it in my presence, and I promise
you, I'll use every means in my power to have him
grant it to you, only spare his life. ’

“We cannot let him remain here,” the leader
said. .“‘We have no other request to ask but that he
accompany us to a certain, place, where we will
make our business known.” :

“Then I cannot go with you,” said Robert Carr.

“That'll do,” said the leader of the gang coolly
then beckoning to his comrades, he made a signal
for them to seize the superintendent. They rush-
ed at him, but as they did so, he raised his revolver,
and an instant later one of the ruffians lay writh-
ing on the floor pierced through the heart with a
bullet. His companions horrified by this swift
maneuver, sent a shower of bullets in the direc-
tion of the superintendent. His wife distracted by
fear, threw her arms about him, but the blood
gushed from his wounds, flowed over her fair

fell to the floor. .

“Oh, my husband!” she exclaimed. “They have
killed him! Robert speak to me, look up at me.”

et gie,” he said, “I’m leaving you, take care of
the children. Where are they; let me kiss them
before I go.” :

By this time the children, who had been startled
out of their sleep and almost frightened to death
by the noise, came running into the room scream-
ing wildly. They almost lost their wits on seeing
the awful spectacle before them. Father and mo-
ther were bathed in blood. Thé masked murderers
still held the light turned on to make sure of their
victim’s death, and the little ones, frantic with fear,
flew to their distracted mother’s side. Robert
Carr felt their presence, andsaid: |

“Tm glad they have come; Maggie, dear, let me
kiss them now. Oh,Iam dying,” and as he spoke
he pressed his fair-haired boy to his cheek, and
hado him a sorrowful good-by; then taking his
sorely little girl, he pressed her to his heart, re-

ardless of the wounds from which his life-blood

owed, and kissed her again and again.

“And you, Maggie, my own love, and my faith-
ful wife, must I leave you thus,” he sighed. “Oh
cruel, cruel men, I curse you, and may my dying
curse follow you forever!” he said, holding his
wife to his bosom and turning his face toward
his assassins. “My curse follow you for tearing
me away from these tender, tender ties that made
my earth a Heaven, my home a Heaven on earth.”
He spoke with great bitterness as he cursed the
cruel band that stood before him in stolid indiffer-
ence waiting for his death. ; ;

The seryant entered the room with a frightened
face, and two of the men suddenly seized her, an
hurried her off to a room, where they secured
her lest she might run offand give information
that would have them discovered before their fiend-
ish work was accomplished. i

After a short time Robert Carr ceased speaking.
His wife, like one out of her senses, seemed to grasp
at his departing spirit.

“Oh, Robert, Robert, my own love, do not leave
me; do not leave me!” 4 : .

She moaned as she kissed him again and again,
but he made her no answer. ;

The leader of the masked men then addressing
his band said:

“That will do.’’

Their comrade lay at_ another side ofthe room,
cold in death from the bullet that found its way to
his heart from Robert Carr’s revolver.

“Come, let us carry him away,” said t]'> leader.

Robert Carr was breathing heayily. 1.°s wife lay
fainting on his breast, their children frantic with
fear, clung close to them, and soin this way the
masked murderers left the little household that was
so happy but an hour before. Death and desola-
tion now was there, and the bloody trail of the Mol-
ly Maguire band had crossed its threshold. Nature
might lavish her most enchanting charms around
that homestead henceforth in vain, for happiness
had taken aneyerlasting farewell of porch, and
hall, and parlor. The family circle was broken for-

ever.

But let us follow the masked band with their life-
less burden, as they pass down the dark street, tak-
ing care to keepin the middle of the road, Sud-
denly they turn into a field, and crossing it made
their way to the woods at ashort distance. At the
outskirts of the wood stood a small cottage, before
which they halted, and knocked at the door.

itn that you, Martin?” asked a voice from
within. '

“Open the door,” said the leader, and then an old
woman inthe room turned on the light of the lamp
left dimly burning on the table for her son’s return,
while she proceeded to unfasten the door, mutter-

 

 

 

ing something to herself all the while. ‘Martin,

neck and white garments, and husband and wife }

 

 

 

 

Martin,” she said, reproachfully, as she endeayored
toturn the stubborn lock. “This goin’ to dances
an’ stoppin’ up late at night will the death o’
you; but you won’t take your owld mother’s ad-
vice.” The door was opened at last, and the mask-
ed band stood in the light ofthe lamp. “Saints in
glory, what’s this ?” the gray-haired old matron ex-
claimed in surprise. 5
The men marched in without saying a word and
laid the body ona table. Martin McCue was a
young man, twenty-two years of age. He was the
old woman’s only son, and had been coerced into
the Molly Maguire order at the point of the pistol.
Owing to the fact that one of the men selected by
Scrubtown lodge to assassinate Carr met with an ac-
cident, it was necessary for the local lodge of Shanty
Hill to supply his place, and so the lot fell on Mar-
tin McCue. He was called for about midnight, and
on going out told his mother, who knew nothing
whatever of his connection with the order, that he
was going toa dance. She used all the power of
which she was copan to persuade him from that
foolish purpose, but no argument that she could
employ was strong enough to break the deadly
chain that Molly Maguire had cast around the
oung man, and with which she dragged him to his

ate.

“The Lord save us, what’s that ?” said the Widow
McCue, as the dead man was laid on the table, with
a mask over his face.

_She thought the entire affair some horrid appari-
tion, oradream from which she wouldsoon awaken,
and yet there was so much reality about the entire
affair after all. Her heart was throbbing wtih fear,
and she shrank back from the men whose faces
were hidden in black masks. f

For Heayen’s sake, gentlemen, who is ‘the
eee she inquired, in trembling anxiety... ~

er heart misgave her, and, lest she should hear
them answer that it was herson, she placed her
hands upon her ears and‘pressed her aching head
between them. |

But the men did not. speak. One of them, taking
the lamp and placing it at the head of the prostrate
form on the table, lifted the mask from the dead
man’s face. .

A shriek went up from the old woman, she rushed
to the side of the silent form, gazed for afew sec-
onds in the face, and tried to think the scene some
horrible delusion; but no, it was her son. She laid
her wrinkled face upon his cold cheek, and felt that
death had set its seal on all she loved in life—her
only child and friend, her sole support. Her agony
was intense. She clapped her hands above her
head, swayed her body to and fro, and passionately
sobbed and kissed the pallid face, while she gave
vent toa heart-rending wail that would shake the
hardest-hearted. [

‘Oru! Oru!” she said, or sang, “an’ where did ye
find me boy,so cowld and dead? and what is the
matther at all at all, my Martin? Who killed him,
or how did he die? Malama bawn, mavourneen
dheelish, asthore machree!_Arrah why don’t you
spake tome, agragal? Why don’t you spake to
your gray owld mother this dark night? or are you
spee¢ less and dead, my own, own boy, my darling
son?’

Thus¢the old widow poured forth her grief in
lamentations of the most touching character so pe-
culiar to the poor classes of the Irish race in mourn-
ing for their dead. |

o her many queries as to how her boy met his
death, there was no answer. The masked men
were mute, and for a short time stood and watched
the broken-hearted mother.

It was but a little while before that ina more com-
fortable home they had seen the anguish of a faith-
ful wife over her dying husband. In each case the

rief was intense, the sight athrilling one. The

ond old mother wept for her criminal son, and
would not be consoled. The young widow and her
children in another part of the_village were ina
state of indescribable agony. What magic, then,
must death have to touch every heart alike when
the victim is anear and dear friend, and to “level
all ranks” by a single stroke.
It:was inthe face of such appalling crimes that
the Molly Maguire Society flourished, It was such
thrilling deeds that made its name a terror, and,
strange to say, swelled its ranks with new recruits.
A society so relentless inits acts, so devilish in
deed, can always command the weak-minded
and make ‘members of them. Some joined it for
the purpose of haying revenge on somebody else:
others foined it, not because they sympathized with
its aims or objects, but in order to use its members
as a means. of gaining personal preferment or
making political capital, but others, and the great-
est number, joined it from fear. After a committee
had once waited ona man and asked him to become
a member, it would not be safe for him to remain
inthe place should he refuse. He would be sig-
naled out for scorn, persecution, and perhaps
death. It wasin this way that Martin McCue, the
young man who met his fate at Robert Carr’s

ands, joined the order. He was coerced into it,
like many others, who would be glad to shake off
the horrid nightmare did they but dare to do so.
After the masked band had waited a short time
and watched the sorrow of the grief-stricken moth-
er, they turned away, quitted the cottage, and left
her alone with the dead.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

a a

THE THREE BLOWS;

LOVE, PRIDE AND REVENGE.
By KARL DRURY.

(“The Three Blows” was commenced in No. 25. Back Nos.
can be obtained of any News Agent. }
CHAPTER VIII.—(CoNTINUED.)

Sylvia is seated alone in her cozy little sitting-
room when a knock sounds at the door. She looks

 

a large, thick envelope, containing the name, ‘Mrs.
James,” in the way of superscription,

Poor, truthful Sylvia! The color tinges her face
as she reads that name. Her natural hatred of all
shams and disguises makes her revolt from the
idea of answering to it. ‘

“Who left this for me ?” she asks, wide-eyed, see-
ing that the envelope contains no post-mark; and
Sylvia, we must here record, is not by any means
familiar with Clement Hammond’s handwriting.

“Mr. James, ma’am,” is the servant’s answer.

“My husband ?”

“Yes, ma’am.” j i

The servant departs, closing the door. Sylvia
breaks open the cere Something falls at her
feet upon the carpet. She stoopsto pick itup. It
is a thick roll of bank-notes.

Not until she has read the first page of the letter
thoroughly through does her face undergo any
change. Then a ghastly,and awful pallor over-
spreads it, with almost the same slowness that
some thick, whitish mist will show in gradually
wrapping from the view the outline of some pond
or dank swamp at evenfall.

She reads wery, very slowly now. She seems
stamping every syllable, every letter of the lan-

uage, upon her memory. Nearly all the beauty
fas gone out from her face as she reaches the end.
It is a face that,in itstragic ghastliness, in its
harsh, pain-drawn lines, in the anguish shown by
its faintly-fluttering lips and the slight, occasional
tremor of the chin,some great historic painter
might, by copying it faithfully, have appalled thou-
sands with the portraiture. ; ‘

It is the sudden ruin of a soul’s happiness, belief
in self, belief in the world, and even faith in heay-
enly mercy, that now sets the stamp of so fearful an
anguish on Sylvia Heath’sface. Allin a moment
everything that she has believed rock-founded, im-

erishable, firm as the evelasting hills themselves,
fas erumbled into impalpable dust before her sight.
Is it strange thatshe should wear that cold, dull
look of horror? Would it be strange if the old light
never returned again to those dark, beautiful eyes ?

As she reads the last line of the letter a great gid-
diness overpowers her. She staggers toward a
lounge and falls upon it. Then follows a spell of
unconsciousness from which she awakes to find
the soft summer moonlight streaming blandly
through her open windows.

And then she remembers, and laughs—oh! such
a hollow, horrible, unearthly laugh—while posed
in_a sort of crouched mass on the sofa. Ae

Her eyes begin to shine through the room’s sil-
very dimness; presently, with a hot, feverish, lurid
bent, And again and again that awful laugh leaves

er lips. : $
The landlady enters her room, not long aiter-
ward, the servant who came to summon her to
meals haying knocked seyeral times at the door
without effect. She finds Sylvia, after having light-
edthe gas and obtained a good view of the poor
sufferer, in so awful astate that she recoils before
the blazing eyes leveled upon her, and the wild-
looking, fever-flushed face.

That night the physician who has been summon-
ed to attend on Sylvia by the really kind-hearted
and sympathetic Mrs. Hollister, her landlady,
shakes his head after haying felt her pulse and
looked well at the pupil of her eye. | :

“There seems no hope whatever,” he gives as a
verdict. “She is inaraging brain-fever now, that
has not yet reached its climax. I should advise on
to communicate with her friends at once. It is
proper that they should know of her very perilous
condition.” ; ; ‘

Hearing this, Mrs. Hollister smiles sadly. She
has not read Clement Hammond’s cowardly letter,
but she knows of its having come, suspects its
authorship and guesses its truth. ae

For ten days after this, Sylvia Heath’s life hangs
by the faintest of threads.

CHAPTER IX.
SYLVIA’S WELCOME HOME.

 

 

But Sylvia does not die, The intense natural

a

in surprise at the servant who presently hands her .

 

 

  

 

 
 

 

. can put it allin very few words:

. @rse, seen vaguely in the fast-deepeni

 

 

 

strength of her constitution, nurtured as it has
been by years of healthful living and open air ex-
ercise, reyeals a marvelous resisting power against
the inroads of disease. She rallies under the fear-
ful attack once, suecumbs again in a relapse worse
than before, and finally battles once again with the
enemy, this time permanently vanquishing him.

But it is a victory that leaves her almost power-
less to move a finger. For weeks she lies white and
haggard-looking, with life ebbing back to her drop
by drop, as it were, day after wearisome day.

She does not want to live; she would be glad not
to recover. Herein lies the secret of her aggard
convalescence. Her own volition, adverse to the
thought of recovery, beats against her mere physi-
cal impulses of Serueoren ye as wind will some-
times beat against tide.

“You are so good to me” sha murmurs one morn-
ing, as Mrs. Hollister sits by the bed, holding her
slim, worn hand. “But oh! if only you hadn’t
been! If only you hadn’t cared for me, and hadn’t
sent for a doctor—’”’ f :

“Pray hush!” interrupts the good lady, with mild
foree. ‘What Ihave done is only an act of human
mercy—nothing more. You should ask Heayen to

ive you the desire for life, since it is Heaven’s will
that you shall live.” 3 :

“Ah, you have such a lovely faith!” Sylvia an-
swers. “You are so good,so meek, so yielding! If
Tcould only be like you! But that is impossible.
Nature did not make me a doye, you know; she
made me an eagle. I am. like a wounded eagle
now,” she goes on, murmuring the words hoarsely,
with an infinite pathos in her voice. “I cannot be
anything but bitter and fierce, and, to the core of
my being, discontented.” :

Then, after a slight silence, in loudened, queru-
lous, yet sobful, voice: :

7 think God must always have made people like
Tam for some special purpose of His own—to act
as His instruments, here on earth, of vengeance
and punishment.” 7

Her brilliant eyes (looking so much larger and
brighter because of the white, wasted face in which
they are set) fix themselves steadfastly, now, upon
Mrs. Hollister’s good, gentle countenance.

“Don’t you think I am. right ?”’ she questions,
with fierce abruptness. ‘We are all theereatures,
the servants, the slaves of God. Why should He
not make us useful to Himself in this way of ven-
geance and punishment, provided he shall so
choose ?” : f

“But He does not choose!” exclaims Mrs. Hollis-
ter. “Oh, neyer think such athought as that, Has
He not already told us, ‘Vengeance is mine ?? Has
He not already said in words whose import there is
no mistaking. ‘I will repay?” ‘

Sylvia makes no answer. Her eyes (burning,
now, with an almost supernatural fire) are staring
fixedly at the blank, opposite wall.

% * # * *

The latter days of September haye begun before
Sylvia is strong enough to admit herself no longer
convalescent. Much of her old beauty has-by this
time returned to her. Indeed, since a new element
—that of perpetual sadness, mixed with a sort of
tragic haughtiness—has entered her face, it would
not be wrong for us to say, perhaps, that the return
of health has given her a beauty which she neyer
possessed before.

But something is gone from her face—the sweet,
candid, innocent look, the nameless and intangible
charm that spread itself like some subtle perfume
about the beauty of those women who believe in
the world which surrounds them. ;

You cannot look at her face, now, provided you
be at all a close obseryer of human faces, and not
tell yourself that here is a woman who has suffered
greatly, but who has not yet forgiven the han

_ which has dealt her,such suffering.

And yet, in so concluding, you would be wrong,
Sylvia Heath cannot rid herself of the idea that we
have already heard her express to Mrs, Hollister.
She believes that Heaven sometimes uses us lower
creatures as the chasteners and castigators of our
own kind here upon the earth in which we and
they alike dwell. The more she thinks of Clement
Hammond’s vile treachery the more firmly con-
vinced she becomes that she is set apart for an
avenging agent. Not to avenge the wrong against
herself as a woman, but the awful wrong against
allthose sweet, divine laws by which our moral
world is helped from becoming a Pandemonium,
and by which its best impulses of sacred order are
saved from being swept away with the besom of di-
rest anezony | : ey ba

And so this idea grows upon Sylvia sith each
new day. Unconsciously to herself she bears it as
a perpetual thought-burden.

_At last she is quite well enough to leave Mrs. Hol-
lister’s, The money left her by Clement, much as
she hates to use it,she isforced toemploy. Haying
paid her doctor’s bill, and indemnified Mrs. Hollis-
ter (in so far as mere payment may be said to re-
ward a deyoted, motherly kindness) for the many
seryices received at that lady’s~ hands, Sylvia
finds that she is still possessed of amply sufficient
funds to enable her to reach the homestead. The

ourney will be a long one, Mrs. Hollister tells her ;

ut Sylvia, unaccustomed as she is to travel, feels
not the slightest fear about attempting it alone.
Always self-reliant and courageous, as we have
seen, the sorrows through which she has passed

have given new strength to these noble qualities.

In the war oe petty Peay, and imperiousness
there is nothing left within her nature. Alas! we

she is a woman.

After bidding many an affectionate farewell to
Mrs. Hollister. Sylvia starts upon her journey.
Her traveling is begun early in the morning; it
finishes, without mistake or impediment of any
sort, at the little obscure-looking et depot
from which’a drive of only two or three miles shall
bring her to the homestead. i &

She vails herself very closely just before leaving
the cars and stepping out into the chill autumn
dusk. She hates the thought of being recognized
and questioned by any one whom she used to know
in the old days,

Those old days—how far, far away they seem!
And how the thought of them makes her arms
yearn wildly, beneath her commonplace gray cloak,
to clasp grandmamma—dear, darling, shamefully-
deceived old grandmamma!—once again in pas-
sionate welcoming to her breast. ;

And will grandmamma draw away, haughty, re-
pellent, unforgiving? not she! Her poor. heart,
that has been trying to harden itself.so austerely
for weeks past, will melt at the first glance her old
eyes take of the lost one found again, of the return-
ed prodigal, of the Sylvia whom she has worshiped
since chi dhood and whom she cannot help ador-
ing now!

Confidently enough Sylyia tells herself these
things while the rather rickety old stage-coach,
driven by a perilously young boy, jolts her toward
Heath Homestead. The road over which ee

in 1g autumn
nightfall, is so familiar. Behind her yail poor Syl-
via feels the tears—those great, hot, bens ars
that come straight from the heart. and are like

- drop of its own precious blood—falling one after

one down her cheeks.

They are the first tears she has shed since before
her illness. They do ‘her good, as she admits to
herself. They are like the rain-drops that fall
through a heat-charged atmosphere. She is more
composed, more firm of nerve. She will be less apt
to break down at the coming megting with grand-
mamma-—darling old soul!

And yet, in spite of her boasted composure, her
heart beats very rapidly as she feels herself enter
the old well-known gate of the homestead-lawns.
Somehow at this moment no thought of Clement—
of those long walks—of their meetings and the
passionate hours they ppent together—no thought
of all that feverish, blissful interval enters her
mind. It is filled, instead, with memories of
earlier, girlish days. And she feels the tears flow
faster and faster as a thousand sweet idyllic recol-
lections besiege her soul while she gazes forth
where a cool primrose-colored twilight sky lights
very vaguely the land whose every meadow, and
hillock, and rock she has known by heart from
childhood! et

The stage-coach stops. Syivia forgets all about
her trunk being onthe rack behind her—forgets
the fare she has yet to pay—forgets everything ex-
cept that the stage-coach has stopped and that she
has only to hurry forth therefrom in order to stand
onthe homestead-piazza and knock at the home-
stead door with its great old-fashioned iron
knocker. 5

A moment or two later she finds herself doing
both of these things. But her summons at the
door brings no answer. though it is loud and she
waits quite a little while after making it. ;

Then she smiles to herself at the absurdity of
knocking for admission at the homestead. She
raises her vail and turns the knob of the door,
which would always open foom the outside, in the
old days, except after the family had retired for the

night. :

But the old oaken door resists Sylvia’s efforts to
enter. It is locked on the inner side.

After this she makes another very long and very
loud summons with the knocker. Then she waits.
And now she observes what excitement has hither-
to prevented her from observing, viz: that the win-
dows opening out upon the piazza are closely shut-
tered, and that the glass on either side the front
door, and above it, is also obscured _ in like manner.
She is just beginning to wonder, with a yague feel-
ing of dread, at this curious feature, when she hears
unmistakable sounds of approaching footsteps;
and now the sounds of drawn bolts fall upon her
ear, mixed with a voice calling out rather vocifer-

ey.
““Who’s there ?” s

The voice is that of old Hepsibah, a servant who
has lived at the homestead ever since Sylvia can re-
member. She recognizes it at once. : :

“Hepsibah,” she exelaims, “‘it is I, Miss Sylvia.
Let me in.” |

The door is opened as the last word leaves her
lips. Itis now so dark that Sylvia can just discern
the old woman’s face, and vice versa.

“Oh, Miss Sylvia!” is Hepsibah’s amazed murmur,

 

She was a child ;}

 

“Where on earth have ye come from? We thought
ye was dead, or somethin’ very like it.”
Sylvia answers, with a faint little laugh, that
somehow rings falsely, in spite of her effort to
ake it do otherwise: ; j
“Well, youseeI am not dead, but alive and in
ood health. However, grandmamma couldn’t
= thought as you did, for I’ve written twice, and
she must at least have gotten one of my letters.”
Sylvia now sees old Hepsibah’s face turn white
as the thin white hair that lies along her wrinkled
forehead, ‘ ‘ ies Art
“Oh, Miss Sylvia,” she quivers, plaintively, ‘‘ain’t
ye heard? Can it be possible that ye ain’t heard

Heard what, Hepsibah? For Heaven’s sake,
speak.” 4

The old woman answers, with difficulty:

ae know the letter ye left. behind ye when—
when—”

“Yes, yes. What of it ?”

“She read it, Miss Sylvia, and propped right down
dead. At least, miss, Dr. Foster said it was this that
killed the Poo dy.” ra,

With just the fain’ of cries—a cry not much
louder than that which some wounded bird might

ive at the moment fe e pang of his pain was
first felt—Sylvia lifts both arms high in air, and then
falls senseless on the old at old Hebsibah’s

eet. : ee
This is her welcome home.

CHAPTER X.
“AVENGE US.”

All that night she lies in her own chamber at the
homestead, and sobs, sobs, sobs. Hepsibak, faith-
ful old soul, watches at her side. y

It is not until the next day that Sylvia remembers
Madame Belville, and remarks her absence. This
is not-an extraordinary circumstance, everything
considered. Madame Belyille belongs to the pres-
ent. Her grandmother, the homestead, all its many
memory-stirring features—these are of the remote
past. H

Remembering madame, while she is trying to
taste some of the hot tea that Hepsibah has made
for her, Sylvia suddenly asks what has become of
her former governess.

She learns that madame left the homestead a
short time after her grandmother’s funeral. As for
the letters which she wrote to Mrs. Heath, and
which must have been received here after the old
lady’s death, Hepsibah can tell her nothing con-
cerning these. :

The real truth is ‘that they have fallen into the
hands of madame, who has opened and destroyed
them, although her own name was not mentioned
in their contents. But the shrewd Frenchwoman
wished, if possible, to seer the truth of Sylvia’s
whereabouts well concealed from the lawyer who
was just then at the homestead. How did she
know that if openly detected and charged with his
crime, Clement might not be mean enough to men-
tion her complicity, and so go far toward ruining
her character in Americajust as ithad been already
ruined in France? For much the same reason shoe
has secured and destroyed Sylvia’s first letter to
et which has caused the old lady’s

eath.

And so, Clement, although he set Donald to work
after his return from Philadelphia. could only dis-
cover that the letters were missing, which occa-
sioned him, for some weeks, not a little anxiety.

From Hepsibah Sylvia also learns that a search
has been instituted for her by Mr. Cranmer, her
eT New York lawyer. Through Mrs.

eath’s will she is left sole heiress of everything

q| that lady possesses—by no means an inconsider-

able property, it must be owned.

She resolves to go to town on the following day
and see Mr.Cranmer. This gentleman has left his
address at the homestead, and has charged Hepsi-
bah to communicate with him if she gains the
rete clew to the whereabouts of her young mis-

ress.

Yes, she will go and see Mr. Cranmer_to-morrow
Sylvia decides; but to-day shall be held sacre
from all business-like and mercenary thoughts.
To-day she will visit her grandmother’s grave.

‘The old Heath burying-ground is situated on the
most distant end of their estate. Itis perhaps half
an acrein dimensions, and inclosed on every side
by agreat stone wall. Within, the graves bespeak
no little forgetfulness and neglect. The long dis-
tance of this cemetery from the homestéad itself
has prevented its receiving much care in years
past. Some of the older graves, at its farther end,
are quite overgrown. Two or three large chestnut
trees, whose i is now stained to deepest gold,
tower from the solitude. }

Itis about twelve o’clock in the day as Sylvia’s
carriage stops before the cemetery door. She
brings with her the key that opens this door, and
soon finds herself within the high-walled inclo-
sure. Her grandmother’s grave is the first she ap-
proaches. It contains no stone as yet, but the com-

arative freshness of the sod which covers it cannot

6 mistaken.

The day is a day of leaden skies, and brisk, wild,
melancholy winds. Showers of golden leaves fall
from the chestnut trees as the autumn gales sweep
through the gaudy ruin of their foliage. Evyery-
thing bespeaks sadness, desolation, decay; and
here in the graveyard death brings such sugges-
tions as these with a more than pointed eloquence.
. Sylyia kneels down on the cold sod beside her
grandmother’s grave, and looks up to Heaven with
a lonely, appealing look. But she drops her eyes
with a shudder a moment afterward; there is noth-
ing there but gray, chill, dreary cloud.

How unspeakably cruel the world seems! How
far off anything like divine mercy appears! Does
Heaven mean that the man who has so brutally be-
trayed her isto go on his way unpunished while
she is left to remember with anguish and to antici-
pate with icy, despairful indifference? Can Heaven
mean anything so unjust.as this? Is Clement Ham-
mond neyer to suffex for his shameful sin?

~

 

passionate, and_ yet calm inits clear-cut majestic
pallor. Suddenly like a revelation the certainty
seems to sweep across her mind of Clement Ham-
mond’s future atonement, here in this life, for the
monstrous wrong he has committed.

Hermarvelous eyes glow with all that strange
fire of which they are .capable. Her form, as she
rises to her feet,seems to expand and dilate into
superbest stateliness. She feels like some in-
spiredsibyl. Yes, just for one moment the future
is allclear to her. Itis coming. It must he!

She is as one gifted by the sudden power of se-
cond sight, with only this difference: She forgets,
after the epi red moment has passed, everything
which took place init. Allthatis left to her may
be summed up in these few words: She has no
longer the le adow of doubt concerning her
‘and that of the man who has
mows, now, thatthe hour is
| heshall expiate his guilt, and she
knows that her own hand, merciless as iron, is to
deal, one after one, the blows beneath which he is
to fall, giving him the wages of his ownsin. She
knows this, and knowing it, she is satisfied.

After this morning—this gray autumn morning
on which she stands among thelgraves of her buried
ancestors—Sylvia Heath is, physicially at least, a
changed woman, Her face wears a cértain mag-
nificent repose that it never wore before, and in
her manner there is a quiet grandeur that from its
striking simplicity and freedom from all assump-
tion, unites with her wonderful beauty in often pro-
ducing an effect little short of awe.

The secret of this change is not hard to read. She
has now some purpose, in her own belief, to live
for through the years yet allotted her. Life is at
leastto havyesome action, some ardor about it.
She, the last of all the Heaths, is to avenge her race.
Malcolm, whose wife so wretchedly deserted him—
Ellinor, who died of a broken heart; Louisa, in-
sulted with infidelities, driven into a divorce; Edith,
made unhappy with incessant dissension; Jane,
angelic in her uncomplaining silence, though beat-
en by her lord,and perhaps finally poisoned by
him; Olivia, shot to the heart by the husband who

  
   
 

own TOS destin:
wronged her; s! Ae,
coming when

ave silently called to her from the past: ‘““Avenge
us.” And she means _to be their avenger. r
re i she knows that Heaven means to make her
suc

 

CHAPTER XI.
MR. FULTON MAITLAND.

Sylvia reaches New York about twelve o’clock on
the following day. Believing that she may possibly
be detained in town for some time, she engages a
room at one of the best known hotels, going through
all those details of travel from which most women
timidly shrink, with a quiet, queenly, self-posses-
sion that commands respectful attention.

She calls upon Mr. Cramner that afternoon, at
his office in Nassau street. He isanimble, smiling,
sympathetic little man, full of feeling and not de-
void of much legal ability, paradoxical though it
may seem to mention such a combination of attrib-
utes.

mie soon perceives that Mr. Cranmer is wild
with curiosity to learn the secret of her mysterious
disappearance. But she adroitly avoids telling him
aword ofthe truth,and adroitly shows him, with
unmistakable plainness, that she has no intention
of enlightening him at any future time.

The lawyer is at length clever enough to see the
fixed purpose behind her reticence. The conver-
sation between them takes a purely legal form. He
tells Sylvia that the homestead, all its adjoining
lands, and an income of eighteen thousand dollars
a year belong to her. .
ne smiles very faintly to herself as she learns

is. ~

“IT am rich,” she is thinking. “Does that mean
that in inheriting this money I take the first step
toward the end to be accomplished ?”

Sylvia’s interview lastsan hour or so, and she
leayes Mr. Cranmer’s office promising to call again
on the following day, when the lawyer desires her
signature to several rather important documents.

she quits the office and enters the rather dingy

 

 

As she thinks these thoughts her face is fiercely }

aidfno penalty for his crime; all these victims"

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

and dismal outside hall, Mr. Cranmer courteously
accompanying her to the stairs, Sylvia finds herself
face to face with a man of perhaps fifty years old,
haying a countenance singularly. haughty, high-
bred, and handsome. : :

This gentleman, who has just ascended the stairs,
adyances toward Mr. Cranmer, and shakes hands
with him. Then his fine restless eyes, in whose
clear hazel a. very youthful fire is yet burning,
sweeps Sylvia’s face with a rapid glance.

This fleet view seems strangely to affect the gen-
tleman who takes it. He bites his underlip rather
nervously, makes an effort to smile unconcernedly,
and begins a few somewhat confusedly-spoken
sentences of greeting to Mr. Cranmer.

Meanwhile Sylvia bows to the BTS and quietly
descends the stairs, soon afterward finding herself
in the street below. She has not been able to Bee
observing that this stranger’s figure is of splendid,
stately build, and that his gray-bearded face, with
its soft tinge of color in either cheek, and its spark-
ling, hazel eyes, precenee a noticeable haguty.

As for the effect produced upon this gentleman
by her own presence, Sylvia has not witnessed that
and is in complete ignorance of it.

The gentleman is Mr. Fulton Maitland, an Eng-
glishman. He is, at the present time, a silent part-
ner in the great house of Sons, bankers, of
whom ithas been said that their yast wealth was
second only to the Rothschilds, and that their
rapidly growing influence might one day eyen
eclipse the renown of that all-powerful Jewish
brotherhood. Fulton Maitland is now fifty-two
years of age, has passed much of his life in travel-
ing about Kurope and the East, principally in the
interest of Sons, is of almost_ incalculable
wealth, has great social power in New York, though
heis by nd means a permanent resident there, and
in spite of having been the object of maneuvering
mammias in every civilized and monogamie coun-
try into which he has eyer penetrated, has not yet
taken to himself a wife, nor (to use his own words)
has yet felt the slightest inclination to do so.

After Sylvia has receded. a slight distance from
himself and Mr. Cranmer, his eyes follow her re-
treating figure with a strange eagerness, When
she has begun to descend the staircase and is wholly
out of hearing-distance, he bursts forth quite ex-
eitedly for a man of his usual evenness of manner:

“By Jove! Cranmer, tell me the name of that wo-
man,”

Mr. Cranmer looks at this, his most powerful and
valuable of clients, with astonished eyes.

“Her name is Miss Sylvia Heath,” the lawyer an-
swers. “You seem to be struck with something
singular in her appearance, Mr. Maitland.”

“Singular! Singularly beautiful—singularly mag-
nificent, you had better say! Cranmer, there is the
first woman I have seen for years (and Heaven
knows my experience in that direction has been of
rather too catholic a nature!) whose appearance
interested me beyond mere ordinary notice.”

“This is very strange, Mr. Maitland. Doubtless
Miss Heath would be greatly honored could she
know of the feeling she has inspired. By-the-by,
she isto call upon me again to-morrow at eleven
o’clock. If you desire——” 7

“TLunderstand,” Fulton Maitland breaks in, lay-
ing his hand not lightly on the lawyer’s shoulder.
“Ido desire. I shall be in youro
when the lady arrives there.”

[TO BE CONTINTED.]

0-1
“JESUS WANTS YOU."

BY MRS, M. A. KIDDER.

 

 

 

“Then there is another class—fathers and mothers. You that
haye children in this city ot London ought to have sympathy
with a movement of this kind. We ought to have your prayers,
we ought to have your counsel, we ought to have your hearttelt
sympathy. Wehaye come here just to try in the name of our

aster to win your children to God and to Heaven, to win them
to a pure life, to save them from the haunts of vice, from going
down to a drunkard’s grave. When I was in Liverpooi the other
day, a mother came to me and brought a photograph of a beau-
tiful boy, seventeen years old. Heisnineteen now. She said:
‘That boy has been gone two years, and I do not know where he

is. He had trouble and he fled trom home, and my heart is just

breaking. Idonot know but that he is in London, and I give
you this photograph; if you see him in the audience there I
want you just to try and win him to the Lord, that he may come
back and cheer my heart;’ and the great tears rolled down that

mother’s cheek. There is many a boy in London like that. We

have come here after them ee in hopes that God will win them
to Christ, and that they will go back to be a blessing to their pa-
rents and to the Church of God. If that young man is here to-
night, I bring you good news. Your mother still loves you, and
wants youtoreturn. Her heart is just breaking for you. And
let me say to every man and woman here to-ni
Christ, God wants yaqu; Jesus wants you. There is room in
Heayen for you; andthe Lord has sent us just to invite you to
the Gospel feast.”—Mr. Moody’s London Sermon.

Thoughtless sinner, while you stay
In the dark and sinful way,

Often weary, sad, and lone, /
Jesus wants you for His own, :
Jesus wants you; hear Him pleading
For your soul now interceding.

Zs

Contrite sinner, seek His face,
Meet Him at the i grace;
Jesus wants you; w -and pray,
‘Kneeling at the gates ot day.

He will love you like fo other,
Sticking closer than a brother.

Sons of praying mothers true,
“There is room in Heayen for you.”
Sons and daughters, heed His call,
Make the Lord your ail in all.

Jesus wants you, Jesus loves you,
Now His holy spirit moves you.

Jesus died on Calvary,

Died to make salvation free.

Blest Redeemer, King of kings,

With His glory Heaven rings,

Yet he wants ws/ tell the story—
Wants the world to share His glory. |

x
x

DANIEL BOONE,

THE

THUNDERBOLT OF THE BORDER.

[Daniel Boone” was commenced in No. 17. Back numbers
can be obtained from all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXIX.
AN AMERICAN HUNTER’S HONOR,

Colonel Boone, after leaving his daughter and her
gatiant escort at the top of the ravine, to pursue
eir long and hazardous journey in quest of home
and libe i returned to thespot where he had left
his game-laden pony. and, leaning his elbow upon
we saddle, stood for some moments in deep medi-
ation.

It had cost_him more than eyen his affectionate
daughter had guessed to saerifice the opportunity
to accompany her and her lover. Now, for asingle
moment, he regretted that sacrifice. But then, as
he reflected upon the reasons he had given them
for having made it, he was speedily himself again.

Yes,” he muttered, “I was right, and I am glad
Tacted as Idid. Iam too old now to break my
word of honor, after haying kept it inviolate for so
many years. Besides, the liyes of all those who
are dear to me, as well as those whom I have
wrought and fought with, may depend upon my
determination. I was right.” :

He whipped up his pony to a brisk walk, for he
was desirous, if possible, to reach Detroit before it
should be broad day. 5

It was, however, several hours after sunrise be-
fore he arrived at the gate of the fort, and received
the challenge of the sentry, who, on account of
his paving been outall night, eyed him suspi-
ciously. i

Boone coolly pointed to the yarious game that
heaped the pony’s k, and remarked that if he
(Boone) could ramble through the wilderness for-
ever without being broken down, his pony some-
times could not. :

The officer of the watch was ealled, and, though
he knew Boone well, thought it proper to conduct
him before General Hamilton. The general also
seemed annoyed, but dismissed the hunter, with a
reprimand. ‘ :

“I seem to be losing favor herein my absence. I
wonder what’s up ?” muttered Boone, as he strode
over to the quarters where he was accustomed to
get his rations, and where, however, he was re-
ceived by the common soldiers with the heartiness
which they always accorded him.

On the following day all of the officers at the
fort were made aware of Bettie Boone’s escape from
Grosse Pointe with her American lover, and how
Captain Duquesne had already fought a duel with
one of his brother officers who had seen fit to deem
his conduct as ungentlemanly and cowardly, in
running off and keeping prisoner a virtuous young
girl, who openly and heartily detested him. |

.The duel had not resulted disastrously on either
side, but there were rumors that Duquesne would
have one or more duels on his hands, so incensed
were his comrades against him.

General Hamilton was particularly annoyed, not
only because Boone’s story on first coming before
him was proyed to be strictly true, but that his best
subordinate officer was, at thé same time, proved
to_be a rascal and a villain. : :

Boone took it all quietly, and received with great
complacency the expressions of commiseration of
those around him. : :

Toward sunset of the day upon which this news
was received from Grosse Pointe, he was reclining
upon his back beneath a shady elm tree, which was
one of many that formed a pleasant walk or lane,
much frequented by the officers and their families
in pleasant weather. ;

_ Presently he heard the voices of men approach-
ing, and soon. recognized them as belonging to

 

 

,

-- sat? pat

ce to-morrow

| General Hamilton and Captain Granger. Boone
was entirely in the shadow where he lay, and the
speakers occupied a seat, in a few moments, within
hearing distance. Their words in an instant riveted
his attention. ;

“Well, general,” he heard the subordinate officer
say, “I believed the old hunter’s story from the
first. Ithad truth upon the face of it, and Boone
himself is the picture and soulof honesty. Beside,
every one knows Duqupene’e reputation as a liber-
tine and a blackguard.” .

‘Yes, yes,” was the impatient remy “T would
dismiss him from the service, if I could; but he is
my ranking captain, and—saying your presence—
the best Indian fighter in this department. And
you know I haye already commissioned him to take
command of this large expedition we are fitting
out against Boonesborough and the lesser Ameri-
can settlements in Kentucky.”

his breath for fear he might miss what was to foi-

ow.
“When doesthe expedition start, general ?” asked
Granger. :
“Two weeks from ig ttegs
_ Will it be larger than the force Duquesne had in
Kentucky a few months ago ?”
Much larger. It will number two hundred reg-
ulars, and RpWwArA of four hundred Indians, to-
gether with what redskins they may draw in on the

way.”
“What do you porpeee to do with Boone, himself
—if you do not think the question intrusive ?”
“That’s what annoys me, captain. You see he
came here with this story about his daughter, and
threw himself upon my generosity. And yet heis
the greatest hunter and fighter the Americans have
—if not, indeed, the greatest in the world. They
eall him, appropriately enough, the Thunderbolt
of the Border. How ean I, at the present critical

such a powerful ally into the hands of our enemy?”
Granger gaye along, low whistle, but did not re-

ply.

“Stop! said the general. “An idea strikes me.
Suppose I should propose to him——”

The rest of the sentence Boone did not hear.

‘He would not listen to it for a moment,” said
Granger.

“By Heaven! I shall make the proposition, at any
rate,’ said Hamilton; and, with this, the officers
moved away, and their yoices were lost. .

Boone arose, greatly elated. The principal object
of his journey to Detroit was to obtain information
of the time of the movement upon Boonesborough,
together with the numbers to be engaged in the at-
tack ; but what could be the nature of the proposi-
tion General Hamilton was about to make to him?
He could not guess. Nevertheless, now that his
main object was gained, he concluded that his next
was to escape as soon as possible (without break-
ing his parole), as he had but little time to lose, to
inform the Boonesborough people of the expedi-
tion advancing against them.

This 5 lrg was shortly accorded him in a
manner he was far from anticipating.

During the evening he had eaten his rations in
the soldiers’ quarters, an posites brought him or-
ders to appear before the general.

The latter was alone when the old hunter entered.
His manner was entirely different from what it had
been at the previous interview. It was bland, even
sauve and polite. A number of decanters stood on
a little table at his side.

“Take a seat, Colonel Boone, and pray help your-
self to a glass of wine,” said Hamilton, pushing the
tray of decanters toward him.

“I should prefer a drop of brandy, with your per-
mission,” said che hunter, simply.

“Certainly.” ‘

He filled a are. sipped a
and returned the glass. wit

 

ortion ofthe contents,
the remainder, to the

tray.

“Solonel Boone,” said the ne with smiling
suavity. “I have determined to speak to youon a
matter which has long dwelt in my mind, but which
—ah! for certain reasons, you know—I have never
yet ventured upon.” LR

The colonel nodded. -*

“In the first place, you are aware that you are my
prisoner.” :

I came here voluntarily, sir,and you made me
such,” said Boone.

“Ah! thatis so, but I explainedto you that my
duty compelled me to doso. And now,as I am
glad to hear, the object of your visit is accomplish-
ed in the happy eseape of your daughter from her

t that is out of | persecutors.”

Yes, in the ricer of my daughter from the
clutehes of a black-hearted, mean-souled cur,
whom, of course, you will at once dismiss from
your errs

Ah! I don’t know as I have the power to do that,
colonel. But to return tothe matteron which I
was desirous to converse with you. In the present
critical state of affairs, it will be impossible for me
to release Nad : i

“Not unless you give me back my parole,” said
Boone, sadly- : :

Bother the parole! Itis easy enough to get rid
of that.” : 5

“How ?” cried Booné, éagerly. aoe

Well, now comes the eran, I was desirous
@of making to you. Would you accept ofa colonel’s
commission in his majesty’s service ?”

“What!” thundere entucky’s great hunter,
‘springing to his feet with an energy that made the
house shake. “Do you dare ask me to turn traitor
to my country ?” ;

“No, no! Don’t get in a passion. Not exactly
that; but merely to accept a colonel’s high commis-
sion in his majesty’s service, and to engage to fight
against the cursed rebels who oppose his lawful
authority,” said Hamilton, pnarily,

., General Hamilton,’ exclaimed ‘Boone, angrily,
“T took you fora gentleman. Yet you now do not
hesitate to coolly ask an honest man like myself to
become a traitor, while you have no hesitation in
keeping in your service a black-souled monster
like Captain Arthur Duquesne. I see that I was
utterly mistaken in your character. Thus,” he
thundered, at the same time dashing the glass of
brandy he had half emptied upon the floor—‘thus
do Ispurn your hospitality; and at the same time I
filing back my parole in your teeth!” | ;

The general gave a yell of rage, which brought a
dozen soldiers and orderlies into the room.

“Seize that man!” he shouted.

They sprang upon the hunter. But he shook
them off, asa lion shakes the drops of dew from
his mane, and, ae them this way and that
with crushing force, he gained the door, leaped
into the darkness, and was gone.

1S: *

 

CHAPTER XXX.
BOONE’S DESPERATE ESCAPE.

The entire garrison was atoncein an uproar.
Torches flashed here and there, and squads of men
with attendant Indians were hurried through the
different gates of the fort toward the forested lands
fadjoining, to which no one doubted that the fugi-
tive hunter had fled. :

But Daniel Boone was much smarter than his
pursuers. He had studied every point of the inte-
rior of those extensive stockades from the first day
of his entrance therein,and, instead of breaking
thro’ one of the carelessly-guarded gates,as he
knew it would be expected he would do, he had
dashed directly across the broad parade ground be-
fore any torches could make their appearance,
Gaining the opposite side, he darted into the
open door of a large storehouse, behind which he
knew was a small house in which a large peers of
the arms of the garrison were kept. He was en-
tirely unarmed, and he knew that toseek the wil-
derness in that condition was:to seek death either
by starvation or at the hands of savage foes.

He groped his way through the storehouse, and
sprang out of a rear window he had noted before,
ines as the noise behind him was at its height. The
itthe armory was heavily built. of logs, with the
door always securely fastened, but also with a little
easement, very high up,and barred with strong
wooden bars. : j
With a single spring the hunter gained the lower
ledge of this casement. The bars were stout ones,
but they broke like laths underhis iron strength.
Inafew minutes he crawledthrough the window,
and dropped within the armory... :
It was dark as pitch. But producing asmallpine
knot and a little tinder-box he always carried
about him, he madea feeble, smoky light. It was
sufficient, however, for his practiced eye to search
effectively among the rifles and other wea ons and
accoutrements that lined the walls. His hunting-
dress was new_and excellent, having been the gift
of his friend, Captain Sata ga aie 3
In a fewminutes he had completed his equip-
ment, proyiding himself with, the best rifle im the
lace, plenty of ammunition, a belt, hunting-knife,
atchet and canteen.
With much more difficulty than he had entered,
he at last succeeeded in quitting theplace, after ex-
tinguishing his little torch, with his equipments.
He waited till he saw many of the~sol re-
entering the fort, after their hopeless search.
Then, easily climbing the stockade, he leaped down
on the other side, and drew a long breath of relief
as he saw the tall trees of the forest lifting their
dark forms around. :

He passed one of the stables, which appeared to
be unguarded, and from which he might have
stolen the finest steed. But he was always uneasy
on horseback. He was pay really at home on his
feet, with his riffle on his shoulder, and amid the
broad trackless forests which had ever been his

ome.
As heturned the corner of the stable, two Indians
one with a feebly burning torch, confronted and
assaulted him. Before their uplifted weapons
could descend, however, he dashed under and be-
gene them, and throttled both, one in either hand.
hey were powerful savages, but they were like
babies in that iron grip. A few desperate strug-
gps and they hung, lifeless and limp, like rags, at
is side.
Dropping the bodies on the ground, he moved

 

Boone’s heart here rose in his throat, and he held | 4

time, consistently with my duty to my king, throw)

cautiously forward, his rifle in one hand, his |

eames

 

 

 

 

patchet in the other, and his knife between his
eeth,

| He thought himself nearly out of reach of pur-
| Suit, when suddenly he came upon asquad of red-
coats returning to the fort. The heavy under-
| brush had momentarily concealed the blaze of
| their smoky torches, and they caught sight of him
as soon as he of them—before he hada chance to
turn and fly.

 

rapidity, and the rows of muskets were brought to
a level, and discharged, But Boone dro ped him-
self flaton his face, and the entire volley passed
over him, leaving him unharmed. »

Before they could recoyer from thei surprise,
Boone, in a crouching attitide, bounded forward,
butting one of the soldiersin the midriff with his
head, causing the unhappy redecoat to: howl with
pain, and to recoil, in a coiled-up posture, about a

ozen yards. —

Then, wheeling and clubbing his rifle, the fear-
less hunter began to play away atthe backs of the
Britishers’ heads with disastrous effect. The liitle
officer in command at first sank to the earth, and
three of his soldiers went down like ten pins. Be-
fore the rest_could reload er fix their bayonets,
Boone bounded away, and disappeared in the
gloom of the great forest.

.’Free! free once more!” he exclaimed, shakin
his rifle exultingly aloft as he sped away. “Free
free! and the forest is my home!’

_ With the North Star as his guide, during that en-
tire night Boone pursued his way through the deep
Ror taking a south-easterly course as near as he
could.

As day dawned he sought a deep covert, rolled
himself in the blanket which he had not forgotten
to secure, with his other equipments, and enjoyed
a few hours of repose and rest. He awoke exceed-
ingly hungry, but, finding no gamé, went on his
way until sunset, when he managed to shoot a rab-
bit, upon which he made his supper, and then again
as BORN, sleeping soundly until the dawn of an-
other day.

Heavy clouds obscured the sun, the only object to
gree him,,but he went on his way, trusting to luck.

thad been a season of long drouth. The trees of
the forest were as dry as tinder. But still the
threatenings of rain upon the parched earth were
unfortunate for him, since the dense rolling clouds
obscured the sun by day and the stars by night, his
only guides. | soy ie

The conyiction gradually forced itself upon him
that he was, in all probability, lost in the woods,
and this greatly disheartened him. He was about
concluding to make a halt until there should be a
change in the appearance of the heavens, when his
experienced eye caught a glimpse of a smal! bit of
wampum fluttering upon a brier bush.

He went upon his hands and knees in an instant,
and began examining the surrounding ground with
the minuteness which a bewildered navigator
would have bestowed upon his chart. Nothing es-
caped him. The displacement of a twig, an over-
turned leaf, or a crushed moss, were equally im-
portant to him.

At least he made out the distinct impression of a
human foot—one that had worn a moccasin, Its
fellow-impression he discovered a pace in advance.
He followed the trail,as a beagle scents a hare.
He noted that the step, or impression, varied in
size and regularity, now being straight and even,
asif made by asingle person, and then crushed
and beaten, as if trodden in by the foot of another.

He followed the trail for a hundred yards or so,
and then, seating himself,on the trunk of a fallen
tree, studied the tracks with the eye of an expert,
and drew his conclusions.

“Redskins!” he muttered; “redskins in single
file, each one of the cunning devils treading in the
track of the other, and moving ‘swiftly, too; for
there’s haste in every step. That shows they’re af-
ter something. Like enough it’s me. Question is,
how many of them are there ?” :

“A round dozen, at least,’ he continued, again
studying the trail; ‘and they can’t have passed
more than a few hours ago—trail’s too fresh.”

He looked up at the clouded heavens.

“I might as well follow the trail as not,” he
thought. “I’ye no other guide, and they can’t very
well turn on me, without my knowing it.”

He acted upon this conclusion, after partaking
of some of the cooked game he had reserved from
his repast of the night before, and followed the
trail cautiously. This was about noon of the third
day after making his escape.

At length the trail struck asmall stream, in which
was a large colony of beavers. The beautiful and
yaluable animals seemed entirely careless of his
approach, and swam and moyed about at the labor
of raising their mud and log-built winter-quarters
with fearless independence, their skins glistening,
pat their soft eyes looking upon him with a kindly

uster.

The trapper’s training of the old hunter was
aroused, and he found himself, in the midst of his
perils, unconsciously computing how much the
shining coats of those busy animals would fetch, in
the way of barter, if he only. them in his pos-
session, and could conve 2m to one of the larger
settlements of Virginia. @leftthem unharmed,
and, turning away, with a sigh, followed the trail,
which led down the bank of the stream.

Presently the stream opened into a wide, slug-
gish river, which the hunter at once, and rightly,

 

 

ed, and there were unmistakable evidences of the
savages having made a crossing.

They must have had canoes, but, ifso, they were
all on the other side ofthe stream; and Boone came
to the conelusion that he would haye to make the
cuomeies on the following day, on a raft of logs—an
unwelcome conclusion, for he hated the water.

But, after he had feasted upon the remnants of
his provisions, he rolled himself in his blanket, and
went to sleep, with the consoling reflection that he
had deviated but slightly from his course, and that
after crossing the river he could guess his way
south-easterly much better than before.

CHAPTER XXXL
A CHAPTER OF ADVENTURES.

When Boone arose on -the following morning
after reaching the banks of the Maumee river, the
clouds had disappeared from the heavens without
discharging a drop of rain, and he had the sun once
more for his guide. :

He hailed this as a propitious omen, and went
to work constructing a log-raft with a will. There
were plenty of logs, but the only material he had
for lashing them together was some pieces which
he stripped from the bark of a fallen slippery-elm
tree and thé switches of a weeping willow that grew
near; so that it was nearly noon before his wretch-
ed contrivance ofa raft was completed. Over three
hours more were consumed ‘in poling himself
across; for the river, although broad, was very
shallow. : ;

He at last found himself on the other side. Very
hungry after his long fast and fatiguing labor, he
looked about for game, and was fortunate enough
to’ shoot a wild swan, which he spent nearly all the
remaining hours of the declining day in cooking
and eating.

It wanted an hour to sunset, when he began to
extinguish his fire, preparatory to resuming his
jOnnney fora shorttime,and then turning in for
the night.

While thus employed, he was suddenly apprised
of his proximity to a lurking foe by an arrow graz-
ing his cheek, and quivering into the earth a yard
before him. . oi sy a

To grasp his-rifle and spring into cover was the
work of an instant. erat 3

Asecond arrow followed the first, and stuck in
the ground just beside it.. Boone erouched low in
the underbrush, and: peered in the direction from
which the arrows had been shot. The trees grew
but sparsely in that section of the forest, yet he
could see no sign of his secret foe. Another arrow
Barees and quivered in the ground mear his hiding-
place. :

He now noted, for the first time, that al? the ar-
rows were driven into the ground in an almost up-
right position,.as if shotfromabove. —.

“Oh, hol!l’’he muttered; “you’re up in @ tree are
you, my precious wildcat? Well, waitabit?” _

Be. now fastened his eyes upom a maple,the

 

 

 

shots that had been made, and waited. _ ‘

Another arrow, shot from the yery heart of its
leafy top, suddenly flew out,and strack in the earth
scarcely a foot from where he crouched. G

He shifted his: position, like a snake,. but without
for an instant taking his eyes from the tree-top.
Presently he saw a brownleg moving from one
limb to another, and then the lofty leaves parted,
and two eyes, small and piercing, glar down
searchingly. one took steady aim betyeen the
two piercing eyes and fired.

A ringingshriek was the instantaneous response,
andan Indian plunged out. and down from the
summit of the: tall tree, tarning acomplete sum-
persaul im his descent, and striking wpon his

ead.

Boone quietly reloaded, but did. not vemture out
until sure that there were no other redskins on the
watch. Them he went to the foot of the maple, and
viewed the remains of the. Indian. The bullet had
gone home-exactly between the eyes, and the skull
was completely crushed in by the shock m striking?
the earth. i

After this adventure, the hunter, judging that
there must be more Indians in the yicinity, resolved
to continue his march until midnight before lying
down to rest. ; :

He pushed on until, at last, utterly exhausted, he
wrapped himself in his blanket, and sank into deep
sleep. He had prided himself upon being able to
wake up at any hourhe ple , but this time ex-
hausted nature proved too much for human resolu-
tion and the habit of years. aS

When he did awake, the sun w; igh in the
heavens. His gun was not at his side. His hatchet
had disappeared from his belt. Only his knife re-
mained. These facts flashed through his mind with
the rapidity of thought, and, clutching his only re-
maining weapon, he sprang to his feet.

 

conjectured to be the Maumee. Here the trail end- —

largest tree inthe grove, and _ in true line with the |

The officer gave the order to fire with wonderful .

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acircle regarding him gravely, with their bows and
arrows in their hands. The truth wasthat they did
not know whether he was a friend _or foe—that is, a
Britisher or an American; and to this circumstance
he owed his life,the Indians having contented
themselves with disarming him and then waiting
his awakening. |

Boone divined this at once, and was equal to the
emergency. : :

Heput onan airof amazement at having been
deprived of his gun,and returning his knife to its
sheath, held out his hand in token of amas t They
shook their heads, eyed him distrustfully, and
whispered together. — * :

Boone addressed them in the Shawnee dialect,
inquiring which was their chief. There was no re-
ply. He then spoke to them in the language of the

elawares, but with no better success. A second
essay, however, in the tongue ef the Miami Indians
was more successful. ee :

The oldest and most dignified of the warriors
we ee forth, and said: 4 ,

““Whenge comes the pale hunter?”

“From Detroit. And you?” . ;

“The red men are on the chase in the hunting-
grounds of their fathers,” was the reply. _

Boone felt infinitely relieved at this. His captors
evidently knew nothing of what had transpired at
Detroit, and this left him a pretty fair chance of de-
ceiving them as to his own character. | F

“Whither goes the pale hunter?” said the chief-

tain.

“To the Ohio, on a mission from the great white
chieftain at Detroit,” replied Boone.

The chieftain still looked at him distrustfully, and
then, turning tothe other_ braves. conversed with
them in a language which Boone. could not under-
stand. Pretty soon he again turned tothe hunter,
and said: }
~ “The red man knows notif the white hunter
speaks the truth.. But we hope to meet some of our
brethren from. Detroit before long. If the white
hunter proves to have spoken the truth, he is free;
if not, he dies. In the meantime he is our pris-
oner.’

At a motion of the chieftain two_young warriors
stepped out and proceeded to tie Boone’s arms be-
hind him, a process which he submitted to with
the best grace he could,as hesawthat it was the
only course he could adopt against their numbers.

They then conducted him to their village, which
was but a few miles away. .

All the squaws and old men of the village were
moving in astrange, funereal procession around
the basin ofasmall spring, which had been dried
up by the great drouth, accompanying their move-
ments with a low, melancholy chant, which the
prisoner afterward understood was a prayer to the

a. Spirit to send rain to the parched and sterile
soil. 7
Boone was toldto sit upon alog, near whicha

fire was blazing,and four of the warriors were

It was only to discover himself completely sur- | quantity required during twenty-four hours by a
rounded by about a score of savages, who stood in |

man in full health, and taking free exercise in the
open air, to be—of meat, 1 1b.; of bread, 1 lb. 3 0z.;
of butter or fat, 3 1-2 oz.; water, 31-2lbs. Thatis to
say, rather less than 21-2 lbs. of solid food, and
rather more than three pints of liquid. ‘These
weights would of course be exceeded if less nutri-
tious substances, such as rice, potatoes, or fruits,
formed any considerable portion of the diet. Dr.
Hammond found that he maintained his exact
weight by a daily consumption of 1 lb. of meat, 18
oz. of bread, 6 oz. of soup, 4 0z. of beetroots, 1 oz. of
butter, with salt, drinking at the same time three
pints of water and 10 oz. of coffee, with cream and
sugar. Any excess above this caused an increase
of weight, any diminution caused a loss. Remem-
bering that the doctor is six feet two inches in
height, and weighs 196 pounds, we may take these
quantities as a fair average for a strong man some-
what beyond the ordinary stature.

SILVER-SWORD:

OR,
THE BEAST-TAMER OF SEGNA.

By Prof. Wm. H. Peck,
Author of “WILD REDBURN,” “FIFTEEN
THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD,” ete.

 

[“Silyer-Sword” was commenced in No. 14. Back numbers
can be obtained of any News Agent.] ;

CHAPTER XX.—CoNTINUED.

The five Austrians in the fortress had not been
alarmed by such indistinct sounds of the tumult on
the distant plateau as had reached their ears. They
were too distant from the plateau to hear much, or
to hear distinctly anything. Such distance-muf-
fied uproar as had reached themthey at first attrib-
uted to legitimate causes, and one had ascended
to the highest lookout turret of the arsenal to see
what he could see. The smoke of the exploded
fireworks, and of the burning tents, had hidden the
true state of affairs from his careless and brief
glance,and he had descended to rejoin his four
comrades in the guard-room over the gato, and to
report that “The rascals of the Uscocchi were a set
of asses to fire their Chinese and Venetian gim-
eracks of fireworks in broad daylight, and that
from all he could see some of the tents and booths
were afire.’

“Serve the scurvy beggars of the booths exactly
right,” said the sergeant in command of the post,
as he filled his mug from a huge can of Austrian
beer. “Do ye know? May the devils fly away with
mé, comrades, if I had not to pay cash for this very
swig we are pullingat! Why, blow my backbone
into pipe-clay, if any one of those swindling Us-

 

 

placed over him as a guard. :

His situation was now far from being pleasant.
The comrades, whom these Indians were expecting
from Detroit, were doubtless those whose: trail he
had so long followed. Their arrival, with news of
what had transpired at Detroit, together with his
own escape thenee, would be nothing less than his
death-warrant. :

His only hope was to effect his escape as soon as
possible; and he carefully noted the wigwam in
whieh his gun and hatchet were deposited. He
congratulated himself upon still retaining his
knife, but this was also taken from him shortly

fter his arrivalin the village. The squaws still
continued their chant aboutithe dried up spring, and
in this they were now joined by the returned war-
riors, who, with the exception of those immediate-
ly guarding him, appeared to take no further no-
tice of him. ;

One of the guards, rather a mild-looking young
fellow for aredskin, asked him, or rather implied-
ly asked by gestures, if he was hungry. He shook
his head, but gave them to understand that he was
thirsty. They then brought a gourd full of water
from the near flowing river, and put it to his lips,

he being unable to use his hands.

They kept up their dance, or procession, all day,
with tireless energy, andthen made their meal of
some jerked venison, a potas of which was given
tothe prisoner, one of the guards putting it into his
mouth, bite after bite, until he signified he h
enough. ; : :

At nightfall, they all retired to the wigwams, with
the exception of Boone and his guards, who _re-
mained by the camp-fire. The prisoner was order-
ed to lie down, and then the four warriors, after
tying his ankles together, threw themselves upon
the ground fn a circle around him, and were soon
snoring as only a slumbering Indian can.

Boone lay upon his side, gazing into the. embers
of the smoldering fire foralong time, vainly en-
deavoring to conceive some plan of escape.

Atlast a thought struck him. His wrists were
bound tightly behind him by deer-hide thongs. If
he could only reach one of the brands, and at the
same time stand the test of the heat against his
hands, without crying out, his bonds would. douht-
less be quickly severed. ’

To think with him was to act. The nearest hot|—Very infernally_ strange.
brand to him protruded scarcely twelve inches from

eoechi boothsmen would give me creditfor even a
thimbleful of beer! May all their tents, booths,
and bowels be burned up! Here’s to that, lads!”
and thereupon the grim-faced old veteran soused
his huge gray mustache into a mountain of beer-
foam, over which his indignant blue eyes flashed
seorn for the unconfiding beer-sellers of Segna.
“As for me,” said another, after all had drank

wots THE NEW YORK WEEKLY, S20-- 7

 

on

escalade the barbacan embrasures; or by the mere
force of surprise and terror cause the weak garri-
son to give up the fortress, charged right'on up the
street, afidwas soon onthe short straight road
across the field of jagged rocks which on every side
surrounded the fortress.

““An- insurrection of the Uscocchi, by my soul!”
roared old Maurice, as one of his comrades ran up
from below to aid him raise the bridge. ‘Fire the
barbette gus, Oswald!” he shouted up the winding
meen that led tothe platform of the barbacan.
“Fire!”

“They are loaded with ball, sergeant, and aimed
to sweep the head of Gate street,” shouted back
Oswald, blowing at afuse which he had snatched
up and ignited with flint and steel. j

“Fire! Let ’em have it!” roared back Maurice,
now fierce and pitiless with that ardor of battle pe-
culiar to yeterans of war. “Curse them! They
shall not massacre us as their fathers did Counsel-
lor Rabataof Carinola!”

Two of the parapet or barbette guns of the barba-
ean roared, one quickly following the other, and
their balls, passing over the head of Ercoleand those
of his faction in advance, found victims beyond
them amidthe multitude beyond them.

“Flames of Pluto!” muttered Ercole, as he heard
shrieks of horror, terror, and pain behind him.
“The cannon were loaded! Courage, men, courage!
We can scale the walls before the few there can load
again! Stride, Mahmoud! On with the ladders
and fascines! Hurry up those earts and wagons
to bridge the moat!”

Now agreat puff of smoke and bright flame from
the huge brass piece ofthe center embrasure of the
barbacan, and mighty Mahmoud halted instantly
his tremendous strides, reared on his pillar-like
hind legs, was thus for a moment, conyulsively
shuddering in every part of his mammoth frame,
and then toppled over limp and dead as his yast
bulk surged in a great heap upon the ground.

Maurice had discharged the brass gun, and a ball
weighing twenty pounds had smitten Mahmoud
in the chest, and gone hissing and tearing straight
through him; raked him fore and aft, asthe sailors
say; Slain him, and gone on, nearly spent in force,
striking down several not far behind Mahmoud.

So died this faithful and erst 4 beast of Ercole;
suddenly, and withoutagroan. One great gasp of
agony as theball traversed his vitals; none as he
reared for a single instant; none as all life fled
from him, and as he toppled over, dead.

Ercole and Orbetta leaped from the howdah as
eeu reared, They knew the beast was fatally
struck.

Orsola, less active, clung to the howdah as Mah-
moud fell,and lost her hold asthe howdah came
down heavily.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THE AUSTRIANS RETURN TO THE ARSENAL.

Maurice, the Austrian, fired just in the nick of
time, for two or three more strides of the elephant
would have carried the beast so far toward the bar-
bacan that the ball of the cannon, whose muzzle
was slightly depressed, would haye passed over
Mahmoud and those inthe howdah. ~- :

It was a chance shot, for Maurice did not aim the
gun, though he knew that it was so aimed as to
strike somewhere in the head of the approaching

 

confusion to anybody and everybody that refused

to give unlimited credit to an Austrian soldier, “as

for me, lads, l almost wish the ruffling sailor bul-
eo ‘

‘“‘Accursed pirates whom we protect!” put in the
sergeant. F s

‘“Ay—no better, Maurice! Rascals whom Venice
would gobble up as a duck does worms, but for our
invincible Austria——” ,

“Invincible Austria be d——!” roared thesergeant,
hot with ire because of the money he had paid. “Let
invincible Austria guard her flag here with crip-
ples, with some poor devils who do not care if they
are cooped up in beastly arsenals—and not with
hearty young fellows like me——”

“Whose mustache is as white as ale-froth!”
laughed one of his comrades. :

““What of that?” replied the tough and active old
veteran. “To be early gray is simply_a token of
early piety. I was gray-haired when I was born.
I am, in fact, only twenty-two years old—in heart.
But thou wert about to say something very wise

 

ad | and witty, Karl?”

column, ‘

He clapped his hands joyfully as he saw the
mighty beast rear and fall, and exclaimed:

“By my life, Carl, our governor must have ex-
pected something of this kind, for I saw him fix the
aim of Brasslips this very morning. Ay, and he
also adjusted the two bomb mortars on the plat-
form above, this morning, after he had seen them
loaded in his presence. Fire the mortars, Oswald.
Let ’°em have the two bombs, One is that new kind
they call a carcass. Giye them the bomb and the
carcass.” * :

While Maurice was thus speaking, he was hurry-
ing up the winding stairway which led to the top or
platform of the barbacan. 2

This area of solid beams, laid close together so as
to make a floor of great strength, was surrounded
by an embattled parapet of stone, breast-high.

Near the center of this platform were two large
mortars, their huge muzzles pointed upward and
toward the bay, and readyto be discharged. Sey-
eral cannon were also at the different embrasures,
and two of them Oswald had fired.

As Maurice sprang upon the platform from the

 

“Certainly. Iwas saying, as for me, I almost
wish these niggardly Uscocchi would attack us—as
some one hinted to me they had in mind——”

“Halt there!’ roared the sergeant. “Thou hast
had that hinted to thee ?”

““Ay, have I, Maurice.”

“By whom, Karl?” |
“Who knows, Maurice? We all know that some-
how a fear of an Uscoechi reyolt has got into the
minds of our garrison.” é
“True, Karl. And not a man of us can trace the
origin of that fear to any one man—our governo
oop ob See—before daylight of this day he had
allo
ing all things ready as if a grand assault upon our
fortress-was. be feared every hour—and yet he
| paraded our lats-without their muskets. Strange
know not what to
make of it. But I care not nowif the Uscoechi

”
the mass of embers, and to roll over, and bring his | Were to make an attack upon us

inioned wrists against it, without severly burning

imself, would be a difficult matter.

Nevertheless, i
sidled his back up toward the live brand.
could not see, he had to feel his way by the gradu-
ally increasing heat. : ;

At last, the hot coal ran plump against his left
hand. Gritting his teeth hard, to ayoid .an excla-
mation of pain, he withdrew his hand, and straight-
ened his arms down until he got the brand just be-
tween his wrists and against the thongs.

In the meantime, so close was he to the fire that
the heat upon his wrists, hands, and_back were in-
tolerable. The perspiration pouredfrom him in
streams, and he endured an anguish he had never
experienced before. : ;

nafew moments, which seemed an age to him,
he felt the thongs snap, and he rolled away trom
the fire, and lay upon the ground for some mo-
ments utterly incapable of motion. But the chill
autumn night-wind gradually renewed his powers,
and he drew the freed hands from behind his back.
In addition to their being numb from their lon
inioning, they were red, swollen, and blistere
rom contact with the fire, and it was long before
he could use them. ;

To release his ankles by the same novel process
was a comparatively easy task. In the course of
an hour, although his hands pated him very great-
ly. he felt himself invested with all his usual
strength. ; {
Rising to his feet, he stepped over the bodies of
“the sleeping guards, and then, throwing himself

upon all fours, crept cautiously toward the wigwam
in which he had seen his weapons deposited. It
Was occupied,as he saw by the moonlight which
streamed into the low opening and through an
aperture at the top, by two warriors and two
squaws. They layin a circle, the head of the one
against the feetofthe other, and, lying upon a
deerskin in the circular spaceinthe middle, he
saw his knife, hatchet, and a bag of ammunition.
His rifle he did not see at first, but presently de-
scried it suspended on the further side of the wig-

wam.

Holding his breath. he stepped over the body of
the Indian lying directly across the opening, and
stood in the center undiscovered. He proceeded to

ut on his belt,and invest himself with his knife,

makawk, and ammunition, but did so with so
much caution that it occupied several minutes.

Hethen reached for his gun. He had to reach
high, and to lift one foot, in order to get it. He had

ust seized it when, unluckily he stumbled, and set

is upraised foot plump upon the face of one of
the squaws. : ’

She sprang up with a screech of dismay, and, in
an instant,the two warriors leaped to their feet
and grasped their weapons. But, rearmed as he
was, the hunter of Kentucky cared little for them
now.

Plunging forward, he prostrated the Indian who
stood between him and the door by asingle blow
of his brawny fist,and with a bound was in the
open air. The four braves at the fire were upon
their feet, but, scarcely awake. Two of them, how-
ever, leaped in the path of the hunter as he was
rushing by them. One of them fell dead with a
bullet through his heart, and the other went down
before the sweep of the hunter’s clubbed rifle, as a
reed before the scythe of the reaper,

he whole village was aroused. A score of ar-
rows flew and whizzed above and around the intrep-
id hunter as he sped across the open space for the
timber. One passed through the side of his hunt-
ing-shirt, wounding him slightly. But, eyen at
that moment, he gained the skirt of the dense for-
est, and plunged into it with a wild. exulting shout.
_ They. were, however, close upon his heels, yell-
ing and ‘howling like a pack of wolves.

Boone, who was, as we have said, one of the fast-
est runners in the world, red or white, at first made
light of their pum, and, notwithstanding his

ears, bounded among the trees like a roe-buck.

ut he soon found that the suffering his hands had
undergone had, in ameasure, affected his entire

frame, and that he was slowly losing his speed.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]

——__>-0 + ———_____—_

THE AMOUNT OF FOOD REQUIRED TO
SUSTAIN LIFE.

In respect to the quantity of food required to
support life in the best way, some reliable informa-
tion has been obtained by experiment. The pre-
cise amount which in the adult maintains the
weight of the body unchanged during a life of mod-
erate exercise is theoretically the right average
quantity. Of course it varies with the kind of food
employed, some articles furnishing much more
nourishment in an equal weight than others. Ona
diet of fresh meat, bread, and butter, with coffee
or water for drink, Dr. Dalton found the entire

7

. i bay until the governor and
he rolled over. and. wore pee good comrade of a hundred battles, Conrad, and

What—upon us now, here ?” ;
“Why not? We could keep the unholy whelps at
ptain Sibeck, and my

our other Austrian lads should pepper the pirates
in the rear—oh, the lads_have not their fire-arms!
No, on the whole, comrades,” he added, gravely, “I
would not desire an attack from the Uscocchi just
at present. I prefer to drink this excellent beer of
Vienna, which would taste even better had _I not
paid cash for it, But were our lads armed with
their muskets,I would not fear. But why do we
all look so grave, eh? Bah! we are all fools. Come
to reflect upon it, Carl, all this sudden preparation
as for attack may arise from nothing—oh! it is all
beyond my omen rpesnara lads; just asI never
could understand why our emperor took the Gov-
ernorship of Segna, and especially the command of
our garrison here, from our old captain, Carl Si-
beck, and gave chief control to Paolo Lazzaro, who
i ee opinion no more an Austrian thanlama
urk.’

“As for that,’ replied one of the others, “‘it is said
that Ereole, the beast-tamer, hath been vexing him-
self because his brother-in-law, Saraceno, left our
governor, Castellano of Segna—that is, chief of
these rascally Uscocchi while their pirate-duke is
away—and Ercole hath said bitter things thereof.
So our governor—though we know he is no coward
in a rapier fight—may suspect attack from Ercole
and be alarmed.”

“Bosh! Then would not our governor have
armed our lads this day with muskets? I say again
it passes my comprehension,” said Maurice, twist-
ing his gray mustache. “And why did Governor
Lazzaro issue that order yesterday—the order that
no Austrian soldier should taste wine or brandy,
wor aught stronger than beer for three days, under
penalty of death! Old Sibeck, who loves his glass
as a veteran hath a rightrto do, was wont to let our
ne earouse with the Uscocchi on any of their fes-
tal days.”

With such discontented and random chat the five
Austrian veterans consumed the time until the roar
of an approaching multitude aroused their atten-
tion from their beer and dominoes to something
more important. : :

“By the Kaiser!” exclaimed Carl, pausing in his
same. “T hear a clamor as of agreat mob not far

 

He arose from the table at which he was sitting,
and leaning outofoneof the chain embrasures,
heard. enough to make him turn to his comrades,
and exclaim: ;

“IT say, lads, we must. quit our game and beon

uard. There is asound of an approaching mob,
though I cannot seeasoul in Gate street or any
where else.” ‘

“Ay, the whole town, women, babies, and all,
hurried off tothe plateau this morning when the
rene guns told of the approach of Saraceno,”
said Maurice, throwing aside his dominoes and ris-
ing yawningly. “Ay, quite a clamor,” he added,
after listening. “Doubtless our governor and lads
are escorting Saraceno or some spoil tothe arsenal,
and acrowd attends their march. To your posts,
ads; for if our governor learns how we have hel
guard over beer and dominoes, instead of pacing
our rounds, he will clap us all in the stocks to be
flogged.” } j 4 :

Two of the soldiers immediately seized their
muskets, and descended to the archway of the gate,
within which they began to pace to and fro as vigi-
lant sentinels.

Two ascended to the battlements of the barbacan,
and old Maurice remained where he was, gazing
listlessly from the cannon embrasure, and leaning
upon the great gun. ‘

Although these five soldiers had apparently held
such careless guard, no one, not even a dog, could
have approached the fortress gate unseen by some
of them while they were chatting and playing dom-
inoes over their beer, for their glances commanded
a clear view of the narrow, straight, and short road
which led to the draw-bridge.

But none of them had the slighest suspicion of
the terrible eyents that had transpired since their
comrades had marched forth onthe morning ofthis

 

 

ay.

Now then,” muttered old Maurice, as Ercole, on
Mahmoud, accompanied by a great crowd of people
bearing spears, muskets, lances, ladders, fascines,
escalade poles, &¢., suddenly rushed upon his view
in the distance. “What does this mean!” And
springing to the crank-handle at his right he began
to work upon it with all his strength, while he

shouted to those below:
y Help at the wheel! Up

Let fall portcullis!
draw-bridge!” : :

Ercole, who had just congratulated himself on
seeing the bridge down and the portcullis up,
halted not an instant as he saw the bridge rise and
shut from his view the gate, but thinking the ean-
non unloaded, and that by a quick rush he and
those with him could fill up or bridge the moat and

 

 

*

  
 

us cleaning, swabbing, and oiling, and mak- }

open trap-door at the head of the stairway, Oswald
was in the act of rng a third cannon.

It roared and hurled its ball as Paolo had aimed
the piece, toward the head of the street by which
alonea mob could reach the gate-road; and its
smoke had searcely been swept from the platform
when the roar of one of the mortars was heard.

ras vrhich had. been» ded by a simple
ile, at thattime in gen-
southern nations of
yanish and Italian,
Ss.
ola in the air, and
1 fearful execution,
when that missile
copy a description
apter—fell near the
; mas f men who at the moment
re ra ; he eall of their undaunt-

  
  
      
  
     
   
   
    
 
     
  
  
    
 
   
   
 
 
 

  

  

 
 

   
 

This missile, unlike any with which the Usecechi
were familiar, hissing, sputtering, flaming high,
spirting fire on eyery side, and discharging mus-
ket and pistol balls pis in every direction for
some moments, terrified the boldest partisans of

which the multitude of the mob had been struck by
the rapid and unexpected cannonading from the
barbacan. ats

The people now fled from the vicinity of the Ar-
senal in as great dismay as some of them had fled,
a few hours before, from the plateau.

Orsola, badly bruised by her fallin and from the
howdah, and wounded before this fall, was borne
away half-dead, and speechless, by two Uscocchi to
whom Ercole commanded this task; while Ercole,
amazed by,the furious defense made by so few, and
ehagrined by the peatiens flight of the greater part
of those without whose aid he could no longer hope
to capture the Arsenal, and fearing the return of
the Austrians from the plateau, and anxious to be
secure from the reyolt of the ee shouted his
commands that all who favored the Zoccoli and all
who desired to be protected against the galeotti
should rally around him and hasten to seek the
protection of his menagerie walls. ;

His exertions and those of Orbetta, aided by the
energy of sundry Uscocchi.soon gathered no mean
foree around him, and with this foree fast increas-
ing he hurried on his route toward that part of the
town in which his so-called Zoccoli palace and me-
nagerie were situated. ;

eand his fae had scarcely quitted the
seene of their diseomfiture, when Ercole beheld ad-
vancing at arapid pace up astreet into which he
was about to turn, a strong body of Austrians with
Captain Sibeck at their head; in fact all of the Aus-
trians who were able to march from the plateau be-
fore the town. 4 q :

Ereole had no desire to encounter Sibeck’s force,
though he sawthat scarcely a hundred now re-
mained of the two hundred who had paraded in
the morning. Shots and shouts_in the distance,
and the belief that Saraceno or Loppa had landed
with their Uscocchi, and were battling on the pla-

plateau,made Ercole eager to be behind the stout
walls of his own domain, where he hoped to rally
astrength sufficient to withstand a siege, if not to
give open battle. F

His present foree was indeed numerous enough
to give battle to Sibeck’s command, which was un-
armed with musketry, but Ercole was much per-
plexed by the varied eyents of the day, and deemed
it more safe to collect information and act aecord-
ingly after consideration of affairs within his own
strong and well defended walls.

He turned his course of march into another street,
so as to avoid collision with the Austrians, and at
the same time avoided giving to his movements any
appearance of flight. %

e saw that the Austrians carried some one ona
rude litter formed of crossed spears, and a casual
opening in the soldier’s ranks, as they moved ra-
pidly up the street, revealed tothe keen-eyed beast-
tamer that the form lying limp and motionless
across the litter of spears, was that of Paolo.

But though Ercole was able to recognize this fact,
because of that glittering suit of Milan mail in
which he had seen the secretary-governor suddenly
appear on the slope of the plateau, the distance
now between them prevented the beast-tamer from
seeing whether Paolo Lazzaro was dead or dying,
or more than simply disabled. i

“I pray all the fiends that he hath let loose this
day,” muttered Ercole,as he moyed on with his
followers, unmolested, if not unnoticed by the Aus-
trians, “that the Venetian thief is dead. I now do
suspect that he was one more to be dreaded than
Filippo Saraceno. I now know that Paolo Lazzaro
hath suspected my designs, and placed spies upon
my moyements; or else how could he have. dis-
eovered that I sent secret information to the Vene-
tian Council of Ten of the sailing of Saraceno?
And by my beard, Paolo Lazzaro hath been a true
and valuable friend to Saraceno—venturing to ar-
rest me upon suspicion before he knew whether
Saraceno were escaped from Moncenigo’s fleet—
daring to arrest my sister as a suspected accom-
plice—cunningly preparing the Arsenal fortress to
resist a surprise—and, may believe the
suspicions of some of these around me, con-
trived to drug all the winein Segna, so that
at my arrest my partisans should be unfit to rescue
me, or lift even their voices—much less their hands
—in my defense. Oh, I hope that is but the corpse
of Paolo Lazzaro the Austrians are bearing so care-
fully to their Arsenal! I shall be morethan a match

 

* Carcass.—So named from the ribs of iron that form it, which
resemble the ribs of a humancarcass. An iron case of oval
shape, filled with meal-pewder, sulphur, saltpeter, broken glass,
turpentine, &c., is equipped with pistol-barrels, loaded to the

 

muzzk, which explode as the composition burns,

 

teau, orin that part of the town adjacent to the |-

for Saraceno—that is I, with Orsola and Orbetta del
Zoecolo, shall be more than a match for Saraceno
and all his partisans, if this shrewd and daring
trickster, Lazzaro, be dead. Of my cunning plot to
slay Saraceno and his three captains no one knows
save my mother, my sister, and myself. Even Laz-
zaro, were he Satan_himself, could not suspect my
cunning scheme to destroy Saraceno.”

From the above soliloquy of the beast-tamer, the
reader will perceive that no suspicion of the real
design of Paolo were in his mind; and that Ereole
attributed all that had happened to himself tothe
zeal and fidelity of Paolo toward Saraeeno.

At times the thought: ‘““Where is Thyra?” would
flash into the perplexed brain of the chief ofthe
Zoceoli, as he continued on his way toward his
menagerie; but at present he had no time to permit
his mind to linger ae the mystery of the maid-
en’s whereabouts. When last he saw her she was
running with all her speed for the edge of the

lateau toward the bay—as scores of others were

ying—and Ercole, who knew nothing of the at-
tempt and fate of the three Austrians on the beach,
supposed Thyra either was hiding somewhere with
other tremblers till the strife should be at an end,
or that by this time she had returned to his walls.

He had not the slightest suspicion that her flight
from the howdah was to meet a lover, or that she
had a lover, or afriend who would dare aid her to
escape from his control; or that she desired to
escape from his power, or even that she would not
make all the haste she could to return to his prem-

ises.

But here I must leave Ercole on his way to his
walled menagerie, and go back to the plateau to ex-
plain why we have seen Paolo carried on a litter of
spears.

After Paolo’s return from the beach to the plateau
he made no delay in putting himself in command of
that force of Austrians with Sibeck, and by the time
he reached Sibeck Mahmoud was making his charge
across the Water-Carriers’ Road, and Sibeck’s force
was almost surrounded bythe galeotti, through
whose scattered ranks the elephant had passed.

Paolo now greatly regretted that his soldiers were
not armed with muskets, as the galeotti, enraged
and discouraged by the escape of Ercole—whom
their leader Ansalmo especially desired to capture,
and alarmed by the quickly realized commotion
that their revolt was premature—for Yaccopo, the
secret agent of Paolo, had assured them the tumult
on the plateau would not take place if there should
be the slightest reason to believe that Saraceno’s
force of Usecocchi was not too distant to prevent
their escape in the anchored galleys; and behold
now the war-galleys of Saraceno, and the sail-boat
fleet of Loppa!—these circumstances, I say, con-
fused and enraged the galeotti, who had been led to:
expect an easy victory, and no’interference from
the Austrians—whereas the fierce old Sibeck had
struck down one ofthe leaders of the galeotti, and
the latter resolved to crush the Austrians.

Had ‘Paolo been with Sibeck’s force when the
galeotti first rushed out upon the plateau, none of
the latter would have been harmed by the soldiers,
for Paolo would have done the best he could under
the circumstances, and that which he did indeed
attempt to do when it was too late—that is, to give
no offense to the galeotti, to seize the rampart guns
and turn them against Loppa and Saraceno—under
pretense to the Austrians that the Uscoechi meant
to massacre them and him, as in years before they
had massacred Rabata of Carniola and his garrison
—and to permit the galeotti to proceed with the des-
truction of the town, until he, Paolo, could with
perfect safety, assume the leadership of the tri-
umphant galeotti and destroy the garrison, as was
his original plan. j ;

But when he was able to act. with his soldiers,
they were already fiercely attacked by the galeotti.

These details, being historical, may be dry to the
reader, but they are necessary to a full understand-
ing of the daring and almost successful plot of Pa-
olo to rid his native country of one of the most vex-
atious thorns that ever wounded her pride and
greatness as the Queen city of the Adriatic.

The reader of history is often amazed to see how
potent is the love of one woman in overturning the
grand and cunning schemes of many wise and pow-
erful men. ‘

And here at Segna the love of Thyra, the white
slave of a beast-tamer, for a ‘stranger led to the de-
feat of the plot of the Venetian Council of Ten, and
simply because Paolo, the heart,and head, and
hand of the great conspiracy, was deceived in be-
lieving the five-pointed star on the sail of Thyra’s
unknown lover to be the Roman numeral X, the
secret signal by which Paolo was to be informed
that the three great war-galleys of Saraceno and
the thousand veteran Uscocchi with their famous
chief had been captured or destreyed by the Vene-
tian Admiral Moncenigo. |

To make the best of his prematurely explored
conspiracy, Paolo caused his soldiers to stand upon
the defensive against the galeotti,and moved with
what speed he could across the plateau, keeping
his disciplined force in solid, wedge-shaped pha-
lanx,the apex of this living and spear-bristling
wedge toward the main gate of the rampart walls,

he trumpet of Sibeck again sounded the rally to
the imperial standard, which he had snatched from
where Conrad had pitched it before Orbetta’s pa-
vilion, and those of dead Conrad’s force able to
obey the call threw themselves into phalanx, and
made haste to unite their strength with Sibeck’s.

The galeotti, aware that if the Austrians secured
the rampart guns the latter could be turned upon
them, and desiring to use them themselves against
both Austrians and Uscocchi, made haste to seize
those guns, but they found all spiked and out of

 

Ercole, and completed that consternation With } Ug Power eee

The sentinels of the ramparts, fewin number,

,and_ terrified at the very first appearance of the

yaleotti in revolt, had hastily spiked the cannon and
tied to the interior of the town, to afterward join
the force ofthe Zoccoli.

Finding the guns spiked, the galeotti now fiercely
endeavored to prevent the junction of the separate
Austrian phalanx. Failing in this, they tried to
prevent the nowunited force from entering the
town, aware that if the soldiers reached the Arse-
nal, whose cannon had warned them it was too late
for them to capture, Paolo could batter the whole
town down upon their heads.

A fierce struggle ensued at the gate, during which
one of the galeotti leaders was struck down bya
battle-ax in the hand of Paolo, who had fought all
the time with the prowess of a giant, and amazed
all by the vigor of his blows, his daring, and his
powers of skillful command. ;

The fallen galeott. expected that his victor was
about to give hima death-blow with his dagger as
he knelt with one knee upon his breast. acacia

Paolo, however, had no_ desire to kill this man.
Now was the first chance Paolo had had to safely
declare himself in secret alliance with the galeotti.
. Bending over the prostrate man he whispered
into his ear the most secret pass-words of the gale-
otti conspiracy. é ;

feu? gasped the stricken galeotti, amazed. ““Thou
artafriend! Thou!” ;

“Yes. Up, and tell Ansalmo to seize and turn the
cannon of the ramparts against the approaching
Uscoechi—I will aid the galeottt with the guns of the
Arsenal. Tell him to give me and my Austrians
free way to the fortress.”

“The guns of the ramparts and of all the sea de-
fenses are spiked and useless,” replied the galeotti.

“By whom ?” s

“By the Uscoecehi invalids who were there on
guard.” f

“My curse upon them!” exclaimed Paolo, bitter-
ly. ‘But the Arsenal guns ean aid your revolt.
and bid Ansalmo, as he hopes to escape Saraceno’s
vengeance, to give us free march to our, fortress,
and turn all his strength to resist the landing of the
Useoecchi.

Here a charge of the galeotti to rescue their fallen
leader forced Paolo to give way a little, and in the
melee he was struck upon the head by a great stone
thrown from a distance. ‘ ‘ig3:

He fell, stunned to complete insensibility.

His soldiers thronged around him, fierce to de-
fend his prostrate form; but in a few moments a
peculiar note sounded upon a trumpet by Ansalmo,
the chief of the revolt, hurried the Aerie from all
attack upon the Austrians, and led all their strength
from the gate tothe plateau. .

“Make a litter, some of you, with your spears and
bucklers!” roared old Sibeck. “Our governor is
not dead, nor shall he be left here to die! Yet had
he not fought for us like a very. champion, I do be-
lieve I could leave him here to be trampled into the
mud for parading us this day without our muskets.
But I expected this revolt of the galeotti no more
than he did, and by my soul heis a gallant leader
in battle, and spares not himself. Raise him gently,
lads, and place him on your spear-litter. So! Carry
him with all care, for we may need his wit and skill
yonder in our fortress, if these accursed galeotti
attack us there. Why did the rascals leaye us so
suddenly, think ye, Johann ?” he asked of his now
second officer—Conrad and Carlbolt being dead.

“Faith, and I know not, Captain Sibeck. I saw
that_a galeotto,to whom our governor spoke pri-
vately, said something to that big-bearded knaye
whom they call Ansalmo, and forthwith Ansalmo
blew a blast on the trumpet he carries slung at his
breast, and as that note sounded in the archway of
the gateway rushed all the accursed galeotti to the
plateau.”

“Some shrewd device of our governor to be rid of
the attack,” said old Sibeck, far. from suspecting
the truth. “But let us on, for I would learn why
the cannon of our fortress roared so lively a few
minutes ago. Old Maurice is in command there.
suspect that beast-tamer hath burnt his fingers in
an attempt to surprise the Arsenal. Had I been in
his place surely Ishould_ have made a quick push
to seize that fortress. How is it, Johann, with the
governor, now ?” ‘

He breathes heayily, captain.” :

“I fear his skull is driven down. upon his brain,
Johann. Well, fortunately old Maurice, the ser-
geant, hath no little skill as a surgeon, and Id
sooner trust in his experience thanin that of any
of the leeches of Segna, even could we find one
now.’

And so Paolo Lazzaro, badly hurt and insensible,

 

was carried into the arsenal,

<a wa

 

— us

 

Had he been in possession of his faculties, his re-
turn to the fortress would have made good his
promise tothe galeotti—every gun that could be
turned seaward would haye rained balls upon the
forces of Loppa and Saraceno, of which my story
must now speak.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]

 

AN AWFUL DILEMMA.

BY MAX ADELER,

 

‘They have had a very dreadful time over at Per-

kins’s with Mrs. Perkins’s baby. It seems that the
child was very restless and troublesome at night,
and they couldn’t manage to make it sleep even by
dosing it with paregoric and other narcotics. Per-
kins at last got perfectly desperate. He remem-
bered reading somewhere an account of the powers
of mesmerizing persons, and it occurred to him
that maybe he might mesmerize the baby, and keep
it quiet at night in that manner. He hadn’t any
great popes of success, but one night, while Mrs.
Perkins had gone down stairs to get some sugar to
putin the paregoric, Perkins rubbed the child’s
eyebrows and made some passes with his hands,
end to his gratification the baby suddenly went to
sleep. :
When they awoke inthe morning the child was
still slumbering, and Mrs. Perkins said she guessed
it must have gotten a tooth through, which made it
feel so much easier. Perkins said he thought may-
be it had.

Aiter breakfast he went up stairs to see if it was
awake yet, but it wasn’t; an I
or three rough shakes witoout rousing it, he went
downto gethis hatto go tothe office. Mrs. Per-
kins called after him: ‘

“Don’t slam the front door and wake the baby.”

And then Perkins did slamitZearfully, and he
went away with gloom inhis heart and a horrible
apprehension that that baby would never wake

1p.

“What in the thunder’d we do if it should stay
asleep and live to be fifty or sixty years old and not
get awake once?” said Perkins to himself.

The thought was maddening. It haunted him
for two or three hours, and then he could stand it
nolonger, He determined to go back to the house
to ascertain if the baby had come back to conscious-
ness. When he gotthere Mrs. Perkins said:

“Isn’t it queer how long the baby stays asleep?
He is not awake yet. Neryous exhaustion I sup-
pose, poor little thing.” ‘

Perkins felt awfully, and he went up and jagged
apin in the baby’s leg quietly, so that his wife
couldn’t see him. Still it lay there, fast asleep, and
he went back to his office uncertain whether to fly
orto _gohome andconfess. Inacoupleof hours
Mrs. Perkins came downto see him. She was scared
and breathless.

“Mr. Perkins, the baby is actually asleep yet, and
I can’t rouse him! [ye shaken him, and called to
him, and done everything, and he don’t stir. What
can be the matter with him? I’m afraid something
awful has happened to him!”

Maybe he’s sleeping up a lot ahead, so’s to stay
awake at nights some more,” said Perkins with a
feeble smile at his oeem yt at joking.

“Mr. Perkins, you ought to be ashamed of your-
self to trifle with such a matter. I believe the poor
child’s going to die, and I want youto go straight
for the doctor.”

Perkins put on his hat and started, and in half an
hour he reched the house in eben y with Dr.
Gills. The doctor examined the child carefully,
and said that it was avery queer case, but that in
his opinion it must be under the influence of
opium.

Did you give it any while Iwas asleep last night,
Mr. Perkirs ?” asked Mrs. P., suspiciously and tear-

ully. 5

“No. DTlltake my solemn oath I didn’t.” replied
Perkins.

“It is extraordinary,” said Dr. Gills. “I think I
will go and callin Dr. Brown, and consult with him
about it.”

‘Then Mrs. Perkins began to sob, and Perkins felt
that he was almost a murderer. He followed the
Bucton down stairs, and when they reached the hall

esaid:

“Doctor, if Itell you something, you won’t give
Meares on it?”

-

“Ww ell, doctor, I mesmerized that baby.” :

You did!” exclaimed the doctor, in astonish-
ment. ‘Well, why don’t yow-rouse it up again ?”

“I. don’t know how; that’s the mischief of it.
Can’t you find me a professional mesmerizer to
come and do it ?”

_ The only one I know,” said Dr. Gills, “lives in
ao Orleans. He can’t be got inless than four
ays.

“By that time,” shrieked Perkins, “the baby ’ll be
dead and Mrs. Perkins ’ll be insane! What ‘under
Heaven are we going to do?”

Let’s hunt up Brown: maybe he knows.”

So they started after Brown, and in a little while
they revealed the secret and took him in to see the
baby. Dr. Brown slapped its hands together, and
rubbed its forehead, and all of asudden the baby
sat up and began to ery.

What do you think was the matter with him, doe-
tor ?” asked Mrs. Perkins, joyfully.

‘Why, your husband says he mesmerized the
child,” said the doctor, thoughtlessly letting the se-
eret drop.

Then Mrs. Perkins looked at Perkins as if she
rented to assassinate him, but she merely ejacula-
ed:

“Monster!” and flew fromthe room. She refused
to speak to Perkins for a week, and he has remarked

ome:
“If the baby wants to holler, now, I’m going to
let him holler if he holler’s the top of his head off.”

Our Knowledge Box.

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING,

 

Bay We take pleasure in responding to every question address-
ed to us in this column, for the answers generally afford infor-
mation not only to the parties especially seeking it, but also to
the mass of our readers; but with the increase of our circulation
has grown the number of questions soliciting answers by mail.
These questions are almost uniformly important ones, costing,
to satisfactorily answer them, much time and labor. For this
reason all persons in future wishing their queries replied to by
mail, will please inclose 50 cents to defray the expenses
necessarily incurred.

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.

Art Gallery.—To CLEAN OIL-PAINTED SURFACES.—Take a piece
of soft flannel, put itin warm water, and squeeze it till.it feels
dry; next dip it gently onto some very fine pulverized French
cualk, and rub the painted surface with the flannel; the effect
will be the removal of all dust, greasy matter, and dirt; the sur.
face is next washed with a clean sponge and water, and dried
with a piece of soft wash-leather. This method does not injure
like soap, and produces avery good resuit....W. 7. H.—No de-
mand for the articlenamed. Chromos of good size can be ob-
tained for $18 per dozen...... Molly Maguire.—We cannot tell
VOUs) eked Minneapolitan.—No recipes such as you desire F,
Howard.—Rusty nail water will generally remove freckles......
Adelphi.—l. Take a dose of magnesia occasionally. 2. 27, 29, and
31 Rose street. 3. We cannot tell you without knowing the ex-
tent or size of the gymnasium.,..... P. B. S.—A golden color may
be given to brass by steeping it for a few seconds in a mixture
of muriatic acid and alum—the latter previously dissolved in
water. ....6. Gunsmith.—ToO BRONZE GUN-BARRELS.—Dissolve two
parts of crystallized chloride of iron, two parts of solid chloride of
antimony, and one part of gallic acid, in four or five pints of
water. With this moisten a piece of sponge or cloth and apply
to the barrel. Let it dry in the air, and repeat the operation
several times; then wash with water; dry, and rub with boiled
linseed oil. The oftener you repeat the operation the deeper the
shade will appear.... .... Benj. F. H.—HARMLESS COSMETIC FOR
CoMPLEXIOY.—Take half a cup of water and add to it a table-
spoonful of glycerine. Add to this a tablespoonful of aleohol and
a teaspoonful of cologne. Apply with a sponge or a-soft cotton
Clothies.f30:: .' P. T. H.—Consult a practical chemist............

May Bird.—JUMBLES.—To make jumbles, take one cup of but-
ter, and two of sugar, beaten together; one cup of mil *, half a
teaspoonful of soda stirred into the milk, and four eggs. Beat it
well together; add spice of any kind, and six cups of flour: roll
it rather thin ; cut it with a tumbler to form a ring: brush them
over with the white of an egg, and siftona very little fine white
sugar before baking. Bake them fifteen or twenty minutes.,._
Lulu —GINGER SNAPS.—Take half a cup of butter and half a cup
of sugar, beaten together; half a pint of molasses, one teaspoon-
ful o cream of tartar, two of soda, one cup of milk, half a cup
of yellow ginger, and flour enough to make astiff dough. Boil
it about a quarter of an inch thick; cut with a wineglass, and
bake them hard...... Evelyn’s Weakness.—CREAM CAKES.—Take
one pound of flour, half a pound of butter, and one pint of boil-
ing water; pour the water boiling hot on the butter and put it
over the fire. Assoon as it begins to boul, stir in the flour; when
cool, add nine eggs, well beaten. To make the custards for the
cakes, take a pint of cream, and add to it three eggs, well beaten
and a little flour} sweeten and flayor to the taste, and put it on
to boil. When the cakes are baked, open the crusts at the sides
and fill with the custard. ,

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT.

Despondent.—NERVOUS DEBILITY.—This is often the result of
too much study, or intense application of any kind. It is also
produced by various unpardonable excesses, though grief and
anxiety are sometimes the cause ofit. It is much too common
among the young men of the present day, and if not attended to
in time leads to consequences which it may take years to over-
come. Lassitude or loss of energy is one of the effects ofthe
abuses of the nervous system. If your nervous debility arises
from early indiscretions of any kind, you need a tonic, and the
following recipe will aid you—it is a fine hervine mixture: Half
a dram of sulphate of quinine, six grains of tannin, one ounce
of ginger sirup, six drams of the fluid extract of valerian, and
two drams of the compound tincture of cardamons. Dose, 2
teaspoontul three times a day. ‘Another fine tonic is calisaya
bark andiron. Dose, a dessertspoonful three times a day after
each meal.

Mrs. Merrill.—Warren’s “Household Physician” is an éxcel-
lent work. If you wish’acopy of it, write tothe New York
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. Price $6.

7. U. E.—1. Catarrh is sometimes relieved by snuffing up the
nose occasionally a little table-salt. 2. We know nothing con-
cerning it.

Bona Fide.—Consult a surgeon. Your troubles require person-
al attention.

R. U. O.—For in-growing nails, see No. 22 of volume 31.

W. S. H.—Dumb-bells will aid in expanding your chest.

i Geo. P.—Employ a regular physician whom you can see every
day. ‘

R. T.—1. See No. 25 of volume 31. 2. We know nothing, per-
sonally, concerning him.

Cecelia Creveling.—Rhubarb and magnesia will help you. Take
a dose occasionally. The troubles of which youjecomplain probably
ee from biliousness, which the medicine prescribed will re-
lieve.

 

 

 

Louisa.—We cannot aid you,

 

 

 

 

so, after giving it two -

 

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aes
epee

 

 

 

 

seamen

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a rt

AVALON, |

BY NATHAN D. URNER,

Somewl.ere afar in the ocean of slumber,
There lieth the Island of Rest,

Where the sorrows of earth ever cease to imbumber,
And the dwellers are perfectly blessed.

 

 

They till not the land, and they plow not the billow,
Life’s labor and turmoil are o’er,

And on tiptoe beside every soft lotus pillow
Pass the dreams that were dreaded of yore.

Soft is the sky as the blush of a maiden
When love flutters first at her heart,

And the coy, gentle breeze, with the soul’s incense laden,
Would scarce stir an eyelash apart.

What vast fleets have voyaged that coast to discover,
And put back, dismayed and distressed

At the phantoms of danger that ceaselessly hover
Between their bold prows and their quest!

Only those that return not we hope may have landed
On that shore ever bright and serene,

But we weep at the thought that they, too, may have stranded
On the black rocks that welter between.

I have built me a bark with great care and devotion,
That with longing and love I consign

To the winds and the waves of that terror-fraught ocean,
With her prow toward that dwelling divine.

With Hope, like a.star, in the blue spaces o’er me,
And Faith breathing soft on the air,

I heed not the warnings of those gone before me
Whom ] meet, homeward bound in despair.

I reck not of those whose exploits have been misses,
Or of ventures ne’er heard of again,

Or of shipwrecks ingulfed in the somber abysses,
Or of fleets that have voyaged in vain.

Strange voices that murmur of rest for the weary,
Of the peace that my spirit so craves,

Seem calling to me o’er the wastes wild and dreary,
From the uppermost verge of the waves.

And somewhere, I know, in the ocean of slumber,
There lieth that Island of Rest, ;

Where the sorrows of earth ever cease to incumber,
And the dwellers are perfectly blessed.

 

 

THE STORY OF ST. BRIDGE.

BY FREDRIC HOWE MARION.

 

 

ihada fancy when Tayernier first brought his
niece, Cataline Ricci, to Riverside, that some trage-
dy would be enacted there. The girl was so hand-
some, and there was something so stormy in her
Jtalian black eyes. Isaid so to Stanhope, of The
Locusts, our, lion.

“The girl is handsome enough for a romance,
certainly,” he answered, stroking his blonde beard.

He was much at the villa, for he and Tavernier
were friends—indeed, he had brought Tavernier
over from France. He had been my husband’s
colonel, and since Frank’s death had been my
friend. It was my secret hope that he would marry
my pet sister, and he—but I will not anticipate.

As I said, he went often to the villa. Riverside,
with its walks, terraces, and fountains, was a beau-
tiful place, and Tavernier kept open house for his
friends. When he first came there, I occasionally
attended his entertainments with my family, but
after Cataline Ricci came I went less often. There
seemed to me something hard and defiant in her
manner of meeting all Tavernier’s friends.

Stanhope was the exception. There was some-
thing inthe sunny, gay young Englishman that
pleased her. I have thought since that perhaps I
did not like her because I thought she would win
him away from my sister Carrie.

ineed not have feared. She never tried to please
him; she was only thankful to be diverted from her
sorrow. He would enter the drawing-room some-
times to find her pacing the floor like a caged ani-
mal; but at sight of him her mood would change;
she would come and nestle at his feet, begging him
to tell her war stories, which much diverted her.
gh liked best the scenes of fierce encounter and
victory. a :

It was wonderful to me that he could recount these
episodes, in which his own héroic part was una-
voidably conspicuous, and she not worship him
with all her fiery foreign nature; but even my jeal-
ous eyes could not discover the slightest desire for
anything but her own gratification. She was pas-
sionate, selfish, and yet her nature held a depth of
fervid sweetness which my cooler northern blood
could not comprehend.

The most beautiful spot about the town was where
the river was spanned by its bridge. The great elms
on either side almost arched across it; woodbine
hung from its mossy piers; the slow, blue river ran
silently beneath, and in_ both directions the water
shone in a basky vista. Here the robbins built, and
on moonlight evenings the whip-poor-wills called
melodiously. :

Cataline liked this spot. It was the only scene
around her new home that was like Italy, she said;
and as she said that, while we stood_there, one
night, I knew that she was homesick; I saw it in
her great eyes.

“Would you go back ?” I asked.

“Would I go back!” ;

I never shall forget the thrilling pathos of that
ery. Though I could not like her, after that I was
very, very sorry for her.

It was only a few days later that I went with Col-
onel Stanhope and my sister Carrie, to spend the
evening at Riverside.

_We had music, chess, and refreshments. The
time passed pleasantly to me, in spite of some se-
cret anxieties. Carrie had never met Cataline be-
fore, and Isaw, when she looked upon her dark,
haughty beauty, that her heart died within her.
Her manner became unnatural, cold, constrained,
and I was sorry to see that she appeared only a foil
against which to set off Cataline’s ease and grace.

. Travernier, ugly, polite, and charming, as only a

Frenchman of fifty can be, entertained us happily
in spite of all this.

But the evening was at an end, at last, and Stan-
hope, my sister, and myself, were going down the
avenue. Suddenly I discovered that I had left my
handkerchief. It was a delicate thing that had
been one of my bridal gifts,and I was naturally
uneasy. The colonel released my arm to go for

it ’

“No,” said I, “I will go. I may have Groppes it
upon the piazza, if not, I know just where I must
have left it in the music room.” .

I sped back. It was not upon the piazza. I pass-
ed in at pacha po door—for it was summer weather
—and through the long drawing-room, to the music
room, without meeting any one. There was the
precious mouchoir upon achair. I snatched it up,
and was about to turn back, when two persons,
talking, entered the drawing-room. One was Tra-
vernier; I knew his quick, imperious step, and I
hesitated about making my mapearence after his
late elaborate adieux. Then I heard Cataline’s

voice:

“I demand that letter!”

‘It is already destroyed,” replied Tavernier, with
polite malice.

A storm of Italian followed. Though terrified half
out of my senses, I learned_that Cataline had a
lover in Naples, one Enriquez Benedetti, whom Tavy-
ernier had forbidden her to hold any communica-
tion with, but through the agency of her old ser-
vant, Hinda, she had been in the habit of receiving
letters from him since her arrival in America. One
of these letters her uncle had discovered and con-
fiscated. She demanded it with violence, and fail-
ing to receive it, burst into a volley of reproaches
and appeals to Heaven and her dead father to save
her from her monster of a relative. I never before
heard anything like that tempest of words and
eries.

Tavernier replied mockingly, or with shrill
curses on her obstinacy, that made the scene so
distressing and ludicrous to my northern sensibil-
ities and sense of propriety that_a panic seized me,
and swinging open the long French window, I
leaped _a distance of seven or eight feet to the
ground, and ran through the garden to my com-
panions. | x

_ What is that noise?” was Stanhope’s first saluta-

ion.

“They are having a dreadful quarrel,” I replied,

anting. “I never before heard people swear in

rench and Italian.”

Carrie uttered an exclamation of horror, but
Stanhope did not seem surprised..

Tavernier shall not bully the girl,” he muttered.

On eee door he left us, hurriedly, and
went back to Riverside that night.

He was much at the villa after that. I began to
fear that Carrie had lost him. And yet when I saw
that beautiful foreign girl’s weary face, I was very
sorry for her.

I knew that Stanhope was very kind to her. He
was that to every one in trouble. I learned, also,
that Tavernier wished him to marry his niece.
could not predict what the end would be. They
rode and drove much together, and it seemed,
sometimes, that matters must end as Tavernier
wished,

ree the end that came I was totally unpre-
pared.

Cataline had grown absolutely ill,and Colonel
Stanhope begged her, one evening, to let him take
her out irito the air. She consented, and he brought
around his carriage.

She wished to go tothe bridge, shesaid. It was
September weather, and the woodbine clinging to
the old piers was red as blood. The blue sky was
aes Cae light, and there was a young moon
above them.

 

 

Stanhope tried very hard to cheer his companion.
He directed her attention to the beauties of the
scene, but the only words she spoke were: “Do you
hear the river ?”’ : \

The spirited horses were trotting rapidly over
the resounding floor of the bridge, when Cataline
suddenly laid her hand on his arm.

“You have been very good to me. Farewell!” she
said, and sprang from_the Sarringe, Over the rail-
ing, into the river. Her dying shriek frightened
the horses. They ran away. Before Stanhope
could gain control of them, and bring them back to
the spot, all trace of the miserable girl was gone.
The water was_ calm, and afew red leaves of the
woodbine floated down its current. Her body never
was found. It probably went down to the ocean.

And now Stanhope with the traces of this melan-
choly event upon him, came back to us. He seemed
puzzled by Carrie’s reserve.

“What have I done to offend her ?” he asked me.

'“You had best ask her,” I said, 4

He went to her, as she stood in the little flower-
room among her plants, and at the first word of
love and longing, the dear girl melted. Then it
came out that she had believed that he loved Cata-
line Ricci. 4

“Love her—that stormy, half-crazed, foreign girl!
I never dreamed of marrying her, or she of marry-
ingme. Her uncle persecuted her on my account;
I could not help being kind to her. I was very sorry
for her, and she knew it; but, Carrie, my little, soft-
haired, brown-eyed pet, Iwas never so wild as to
think of making her my wife. And now will you
forgive me that I have seemed to forget ydu?” ,

Her white arms crept up to his neck. This much
I saw and heard through the open door, and then I
very prudently retired from sight. But Carrie and
Stanhope are married now.

ROMANCE OF BATTLES IN ’76.
FOR OUR CENTENNIAL YEAR.
BY NED BUNTLINE.

No. 15.-THE TORY FOILED.

Among all the generals and truly great men of
the Revolution, no one, not even excepting Wash-
ington, was more conspicuous for modest bravery,
unswerving patriotism, and self-sacrificing devo-
tion than General Philip Schuyler, of New York.
The British were almost as anxious to capture or
destroy him as they were to lay hands on Washing-
ton himself.

One plan, concocted by a partner of Jo Betty’s,
the Tory and spy, and its failure forms the theme
of this sketch. i

One John Waltmeyer, accompanied by a Pere of
Indians, Canadians, and Tories, repaired to the
vicinity of General Schuyler’s residence in Albany,
and for eight or nine days lurked about the vicinity
in order to get a chance to seize the general when
moving about his grounds. But Schuyler, warned
by a friend, kept his house guarded, and was care-
ful ov to be seen in the grounds near by without a
guard. :

But the spy was constantly on the watch, and just
at twilight on a hot day fancied the guard was either
asleep or absent. In truth, the three sentinels, op-
pressed by the sultry heat, had taken to a cool spot
in the garden to enjoy a rest, which the whole fam-
ily seemed to share in, for there was no stir around
the house.

At this hour aservant came to the general, who
was with his family,and said astranger wished to
see him a moment at his garden gate.

In a second, as if by intuition, the general seemed
to realize that the stranger was an enemy and not
alone, and he ordered his family to an upper room,
told his servants to close and bar the doors, and
ran to his own chamber for his arms. As he
reached this, glancing from a window, he saw the
house completely surrounded by armed men. ‘
For the purpose of arousing his sleeping senti-
nels and to spread the alarm to the town, he fired
his pistol at the nearest enemy, and the next in-
stant the tories burst in the closed doors.

Mrs. Schuyler at that moment remembered she
had left her youngest child, an infant, below, and
would have rushed after it herself, but her third
daughter, afterward the wife of General Van Ren-
sellaer the Patroon, rushed down and got the child,
though menaced with death by an Indian, whotried
to cut off her retreat. ae

As she rushed up thesteps, Waltmeyer, thinking
she was a servant, shouted:

“‘Wench, where is your master ?” :
“Gone to alarm the town and call out the garri-
son U she answered, with heroic presence of
mind.

The alarmed tory, little thinking his prize was
actually within his grasp, alarmed at the danger of
being cut off from retreat, snatched up some silver
late eed had been left exposed and fied with all
is party.

It was a lively time and a fortunate escape, but
one which proved that God was on the side of free-
dom, truth, and virtue. i

DOESTICKS’ LETTERS.

Why Doesticks couldn’t Join the Fire De-
partment.

 

 

 

IT always had a great desire to be a hero, to do
some noble, dashing deed with fire before a huge
crowd, and then be borne triumphantly home on
the shoulders of the admiring multitude. Or, after
a desperate struggle with the cruel waves, risking
my own life every second to save ascore of people
from drowning, in the presence of my adoring la-
dy-love, and then lay myself down at her sweet feet
and die, amid the sympathizing tears of the weep-
ing spectators.

o, some time since, when I saw a parade of our
gallant firemen, and observed the admiration ex-
cited by their blue shirts and bright silver buttons,
Isuddenly bethought me that this was the field
wherein my grand ambition could make ashow
and. lift me to eternal fame. My mind was instantly
made up. I would be a fireman. :
So that night I went to bed full of the most glori-
ous thoughts. ; ji

_ [fancied myself at one time rushing into a blaz-
ing building,and bringing out, wrapped in my
overcoat, the barrel of gunpowder that would in-
evitably in two minutes more have blown the whole
company of firemen four miles and three-quarters
past the last limits of “Kingdom Come.” !
Then I would fancy myself at a huge fireina
magnificent house; the whole building is wrapped
in flames; the citizens have lost their wits; even
the hardy firemen themselves stand aghast. Sud-
denly there is a cry that there are women and chil-
dren in the house. They appear at the upper win-
dows—a woman, a nurse, and four small children.
A groan runs through the shuddering crowd, for
all feel that there is no hope, that all must perish.
The screams of the doomed ones are heard above
the roar of the flames, but all turn away in agony.
unable to look on and see them perish.

Suddenly a man pushes his way through the
crowd; his brow burns with a fierce determination
to saye them or to die. That man is myself, I
throw off my coat, and, amid the encouraging
cheers of the multitude, I spring for the lightning-
rod. Hand over hand, heeding not the fierce, de-
vouring flames, I go up.At last I reach the window.
Hastily tying the woman and children on my back
with my suspenders and neck-tie, I fling a shawl
over their heads to protect them from the flames,
and then, hand over hand, I descend in the same
way Twentup. The red-hot lightning-rod burns
my hands to the bone, but I still cling until within
twenty feet of the ground, when with a grand leap
I safely alight inthe midst of the yelling crowd,
and in another instant I place the fair children in
the arms of their frantic mother, and untie the
half-cooked nurse and let her shift for herself. I
am the hero of the hour, and my picture is in all
the illustrated newspapers. ;
Such sweet visions occupied my dreams all night,
and I woke with a burning, unquenchable desire to
immediately become a fireman and ahero. I knew
some of the firemen, and remembered that none of
them seemed to hero er much, but I knew that I
was of different material from them, and was cer-
tain I should speedily rise, literally and metaphor-
oa, to the very top round of the firemen’s
adder.

Early next morning I set to work. Of course I
supposed that the services of a young, strong, stal-
wart, sturdy, enthusiastic man would be instant-
ly not only willingly accepted, but greedily snapped
at, by the authorities who have in charge the man-
agement of the Metropolitan Fire Department.

On the contrary, quite the reyerse. When I made
application to be received on the force, I was in-
formed that there were a hundred applications
where there was one vacancy, and that I must get
from some political friend a document to some
other political men, which would possibly put me
in the way of being called at the proper time before
the proper committee, to pass the aS a examin-
ation, having passed which, I might hope to take
my proper place in the Fire Department. ‘

This was rather a damper on my young enthusi-
asm, but I resolved to go through with it. I accord-
ingly got my necessary politicians to sign my pa-
pers, and on the appointed day I was called up to
answer whatever questions might be asked I was
sent into a room where five or six old chaps sat,
anxiously waiting to see what they could make of

me.
They asked my name, my age, where I lived,
where I always had lived, where I was born, how I
was born, what did I expect to die of, did I ever ex-
pect to die, did my grandmother have a wooden
leg, did wooden legs run in my family, was I born
with crutches, cquidI go up an eighty-foot ladder
with my eyelids, carrying two lengths of hose in
my hands aud a “short pipe” in my teeth. :
Then they wanted to know whetherI had paid
any money, or promised to pay anybody any mon-
ey, or agreed to give anybody a farm, or a team of

 

fast horses, or a peck of diamond rings, or a sup-
per at Delmonico’s, or a basket of champagne, or

ad agreed to marry anybody’s sister, or had prom-
ised to let anybody marry my sister, or haf solemn-
ly pledged myself to give a large fortune to some-
bo 7 grandmother, thatsomehody’s grandmother
might die speedily and leave the large fortune to
somebody; whether I had done any one of these or
ten thousand other similar things by way of brib-
ing anybody to give me their influence to have the
Board make me a member of the Fire Department.

Having answered all these questions in the nega-
tive, I was told that my examination so far was all
right, but that I had still to go through asevere ex-
amination before the Board of Surgeons, who
would determine finally whether I was a fit and
proper man to ‘“‘run wid der machine.”

Now I thought this was all very queer, to make so
much botheration about accepting the services of
an humble individual who only desired to serve his
country for nothing, and to win immortal fame and
glory by saving innumerable lives from the de-
vouring flames, but Iresolved to go through with it.

So I went before the doctors. They stripped my
chest,and pounded me, and hammered me, and
pinched me, and poked me, and sounded me, and
poked stethoscopes, and probes, and ear-trumpets
into my sides and ribs, and then proceeded to ask
me about athousand questions. . :

First, there were all the old questions again about
the age and height; then they wanted to know
what they called my health-history, how old I was
when I cut my teeth, when I had the measles, and
whether I measled much, when I had the mumps,
and whether I mumped a grea deal; what my
uncle on my mother’s side died of, and whether his
wife’s cousin ever had the habit of eating opium;
whether I thought my brother-in-laws aunt would
have been likely to have had consumption if she
hadn’t been killed by a railroad accident; whether
Lever had delirium tremens in my family, and whe-
oe Ithought it would spread to the rest of the

oree.

In short, after asking me more than a hundred
petty, foolish questions they rejected me! They said
that J, personally, was well enough and strong
enough, and smart enough, and ambitious enough,
and stalwart enough, and everything enough, but
they were quite certain that my brother-in-law’s
poangas child had been sick two weeks with the

ooping-cough, and the children of the Chief-
Engineer had never had it, and they dared not ad-
mit me for fear of giving the disease to those inno-
eent darlings. Thisis the “‘red tape” of it, and
this is why I’m nota fireman this day.

Disgustedly, Q. K. PHILANDER DozsTicgs, P. B.

Sea EIEEEnLank’ ee GEE
SAVED BY A DOG.

BY M. SILINGSBY.

 

 

“We have another complaint entered against
Hector!” exclaimed Farmer Briathon, in an angry
tone, addressing his wife, Hester. “I have just seen
neighbor Hobbs, and he says thatone of the most
valuable of his fancy breeds was destroyed last
night—a ewe lamb that cost him fourteen dollars at
the last cattle fair.” | :

“But how could it haye been Hector,” queried
Mrs. Briathon, in askeptical tone, ‘“when_ he is se-
curely chained in his kennel everynight?” _

“It is one of the greatest puzzles to me in life,”
said the farmer, gravely; “for here it is the third
time that Hobbs has lost sheep, and afterward dis-
covered their mutilated carcasses at the lower end
of my corn-field. His pasture and our field, you
know, are separated only by a rail fence, and each
time the depredator has been tracked through the
plowed ground in this direction to within a dozen
rods of the dog’s kennel. { shouldn’t be surprised
at it if Hector was allowed to run atlarge; but here
Ihaye been careful to chain him up every night,
and I always find him in his place safe and secure
in the morning. But the tracks are exactly his size,
and there is not another so large a dog within
Hampton limitsas Hector. There issome witchery
about it that I can’t quite comprehend. Hobbs is
terribly angry, and thinks I know more about it
than [ am willing to admit.”

“T don’t see howit could be Hector, and I don’t
believe it was. Inever liked old Hobbs; he is al-
ways growling about somebody or something,” was
Mrs. Briathon’s spirited response. .

“I don’t know what we can do,” replied the per-
plexed farmer, scratching his head, “‘unless we kill
the'dog, andI don’t like to do it on such doubtful
evidence as we have. It is impossible to conyince
Hobbs that he didn’t do it; and he swears by all the
saints in the calendar if I don’t kill him he’ll bring
an action against me for damages. If I was sure
that Hector had worried his sheep, I should cer-
tainly kill him.” hs

“But I don’t believe a word of it,” remonstrated
the wife, incredulously, “and I wouldn’t allow him
to frighten me into killing a valuable dog without
good cause for it.” ;

“Neither will 1; but Iam determined to get at the
bottom of this mystery, somehow. It is evident:
that somebody’s dog has been doing, the mischief;
but how can it be Hector, unless he sfips his oo
and if so, how should we always happen to fin
him safely confined in the morngng %

“To suppose any such thing, John,” said Hester,
sagely, “would be to attribute more than human
intelligence to the dog, for all human depredators
do not cover up their doings so successfully. If it
were possible (which you will never make me be-
lieve till I see it) that Hector slips his collar and
kills the sheep, then we must acknowledge that he
has the wonderful forethoughi to cover up his short-
comings by getting his head back again through
the same place from whence he had temporarily re-
moved it. You see I ain’t so big a fool yet, John, as
to believe that a dog could have the reasoning
powers to do that. If instinct prompted him to
slip his neck out of thecollar to gratify his appetite
for mutton, it would never teach him the necessity
of stipols it back again to cover up his fault.”

“TI don’t know, Hester,” said the farmer, dubious-
ly. “Isometimes think there is more wisdom ina
St. Bernard dog than in some humans—especially
Hector; and as you have suggested the possibility
of such an idea, I am determined this night to keep
astrict watch on his movements. Ishall set the
alarm every two hours through the night, and visit
the kennel each time to see if he is safe.” pict:
Mr. Briathon was a Michigan farmer, residing
about ninety miles from Detroit, and the trespasser
in question was an enormous St. Bernard, a pre-
sent, some two or three years before, froma bro-
ther in New Jersey. He was as large as_half-a-
dozen ordinary curs, could you have converted
their substance all into one; and his sagacity had
often been remarked by the people of Hampton as
truly wonderful. } :
Mr, Hobbs, who had complained of the loss of his
sheep, was a. fancy stock-grower—quite wealthy—
and of an irritable, overbearing temper.

Agreeably to his promise the farmer wound up
his clock that night before retiring, setting the
alarm so that he would be awakened in two hours
—or at midnight. At the first sound of the alarm
he sprang out of bed, threw on his clothes hurried-
ly, and made his way to the kennel.
Judge of his astonishment to find the chain and
collar, but no Hector. There was no longer any
doubt in his mind. The dog had slipped his collar,
and was gone. It was easy to infer upon what er-
rand. He returned to the house, and surprised
Mrs. Briathon with the declaration.

“What should you think, now,if we should find
him back in the morning, and another sheep
gone?” said the farmer, triumphantly. :

“T should think he had more sense than his ac-
cusers,” was Hester’s testy rejoinder. “But you
won’t make me believe it till Isee with my own
eyes.”

And she got up and dressed herself. |

“There, will you believe it now?” queried the far-
mer, after she had inspected the kennel and found
everything as he had stated. i

Mrs. Briathon was puzzled, but said no more, and
the party returned to the house. Hector was a
great favorite with his mistress, for he had saved
her little daughter’s life some time before on the
occasion of her having fallen from a low range of
bluffs into the river, keeping her head above water,
and carrrying her half a mile down with the cur-
rent to a safe place of landing. 4 2

The next morning, as soon as_ it was light, the
farmer and his wife arose and paid asecond yisit
to the kennel. Hector was there this time, and se-
curely chained. An examination of the collar
showed that the smith had made it too large for the
yas neck,so that the head could be slipped out
and in without difficulty. |
Hector was looking as innocent and demure as
though he had not been caught at his tricks. It
only required the additional evidence of another
of their neighbor’s sheep being slaughtered to sat-
ts ee Briathon of the culpability of her fa-
vorite.

This time he had destroyed an imported ram ofa
rare and choice breed, which had cost Mr. Hobbs
sixty dollars in gold. The fancier was inconsolable
as well as furious at the loss he had sustained.
Nothing would appease him short of the destruc-
tion of Hector, and Mr. Briathon was reluctantly
compelled to consent to his being shot to save him-
self from the expenses of a law suit, and Mr. Hobbs,
in his anger and_excitement, undertook the office
of executioner. He emptied three chambers of his
revolver at the cowering canine culprit before he
fell. but his aim was not very steady.

With a sad heart the farmer unfastened the
treacherous collar from his favorite’s neck, and
one of Mr. Hobbs’ men dragged the body of the un-
fortunate delinquent into a swampy bottom bor-
dering on the river, a few rods back of the house,
where he was left without power to do further in-
jury to his neighbor’s sheep.

This occurred about twenty years ago, when a
considerable portion of the lands of Michigan yet
remained under squatter sovereignty.

At the date of the tragical fate of Hector, and for
three years after, Mr. Briathon, like many others

 

in that section of the State, still continued to hold

his long-improved farm only by this slight tenure.
But now, through the instigation of designing spec-
ulators at a moment of extreme financial depres-
sion, these farms were suddenly forced into the
market. Many of the squatters had been thought-
less and improyident, and could: boast only their
improvements, which, owing tothe great monetary
pressure all over the country, must now be sold for
whatever they would fetch to those cunning land-
sharks who had originated the forced measure on
the part of government. |
Fortunately for Mr, Briathon he had been pru-
dent and saving during the ten years he had occu-
pied and improved this land, and now had on de-
posit in the Detroit Bank several hundred dollars—
he product of his own individual industry, and
more than sufficient to pay for the half section
which he would claim in his own and daughter’s
name by the tender of the dollar and a quarter per
acre to the nearest land office the moment it should
be RUEVOT EM. and in consequence placed in the
market.

Many, however, were not thus fortunate, and lost
all, or nearly all, their improvyements—the labor of
ears. Mr. Hobbs was one ofthe most unscrupu-
lous among these land distrainers, and not know-
ing of the ability of Mr. Briathon to pay, and fer-

difficulty, and the law suit growing out of it, in
which he had subsequently got worsted, had fondly
hoped to get possession of his well-cultivated acres
by the payment of a trifling sum for improvements
above the stipulated government claim.

But fortunately Mr. Briathon was prepared for
this emergency, and when the government suryey-
or approached that locality, he quietly mounted his
horse and started for Detroit. |

No one knew where he was going, or aught of his
business. No one knew, even—it we except his
wife—that he had money in bank, so that among
the knowing ones he was classed with the unfortu-
nate many who were supposed to be in that unten-
able condition which would insure a surrendering
up oftheirfarms. Mr. Briathon was one of your
shut-mouthed kind, and no one was permitted,
whom it did not concern, to know aught of his bus-
iness.

He reached Detroit on the second day without
any misadventure, and drew his money from the
bank. On the following morning he started on his
return, his money, which was chiefly in gold, safe-
ly secured in a pair of saddlebags.

Mr. Briathon was a brave man, and the idea of
rohherg never once oceurredto him. The distance
was ninety miles, and, as on his outward journey,
he knew it would rot the better part of two
days to reach home. He therefore rode along for
the first three or four hours ata yery leisurely
pace. Presently he became apprised of some one
approaching him from behind, and on casting an
unconcerned look over his shoulder, he beheld a
rather rough-looking personage, mounted on a
powerful gray horse.

Hallo, stranger! where you gwine?” was the
salutation of the horseman, as he rode up, and ac-
commodated himself to the pace of Mr. Briathon.

I am going to Hampton, Are you traveling far
onmyroad?” —

Yes; Iam goin’ as far as Chesley’s. Is’pose you
know where that is ?” :

“Well, I don’t exactly,” said Mr. Briathon. “Is it
near Griffin’s?” | ;

Wal, I reckon it’s about six miles this side. Do
you stop at Griffin’s?” —

Yes, I intend to; but it’s a pretty good stretch of
the way to Hampton.”

If you want good accommodations,” said the
stranger, carelessly, “‘you had. better stop at Ches-
ley’s. He don’t charge as much as they do at Grif-
fin’s, and oe get better grub there, and be sure
of around measure of oats for your horse. I al-
ways like to have my horse well cared for.”

A little further conversation, and Mr. Briathon
was convinced he would save a dollar by the ex-
change, and not be any worse off in point of accom-
modations.

This decided him, and he concluded to take up
with the stranger’s advice, and remain over night
at Chesley’s. Besides, it was considerably more
than half the distance home, and it would saye the

«4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. o>

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
SHORT TALE.

 

hay the least danger in them.

itself, but rather for the
proffitt in it.

keeping by ony boddy else

Prekoshus ch
—soon over.

out haying the other,
aii 1Z just aZ necessary for mankind az
r .

limits, but fear haz not,
Thare iz no time in

sleep with one eye ajar.
he iz mortal,
Awize man will

er.
Be thankfull and yu will be happy.

human, i don’t kno whitch.
with a better
for their good fortune.

hay failed to git it.
Thare iz a grate menny
the ladder that leads to fame.

yure mind
tween her thum and forefinger.

ignoranse, has lived in vain. 3
zyness iz what’s the matter ov this world,

dues,
by kreeds, but only one way bi piety.

ankind generally are more jealous ov
honor than oy their honesty. ;
temptashun oy enny kind.
necessary to make life very agreeable.
It iz hard work to git very full ov ennything
out slopping over.
good luck ov a lifetime,
enough to pork into pills.

Philosop
than it duz in praktiss.

butiful.

low, and soon run dry.

the grate whole.

watching each other with jealous eyes.
make a fust-rate one.

keys.

 

horse something, at least the first day, by making a
more equal divide of it.
At that time the country was very sparsely set-
tled, compared with what it is now, and giving but
little promise of the almost _marvelous growth
which has since characterized it.
Our two travelers arrived at Chesley’s about an
hour before sunset, and, dismounting, gave their
wearied animals in charge of the hostler, who led
them into a long shed, open in front, and attached
to the house, which was a modern, two-story,
framed building. 3
While Mr. Briathon was engaged in removing the
saddlebags from the back of his wearied animal,
ure aratory to entering the house, an enormous
t. Bernard dog, the very counterpart of Hector.
approached him, bounding and fawning around
him, and exhibiting the liveliest demonstrations of
joy.
_ “Where did you get this dog ?” was Mx. Bri n’s
inquiry of the hostler,as thelester Came out from

“Oh, it’s one as we’ye had here ever sence-he’s a
Pups was the surly, hesitating reply. |
f I hadn’t seen Hector killed with my own

 

eyes,” mused Mr. Briathon, “I could have sworn
Bal ed he,” and he patted the huge animal on the
e

Thus encouraged, the strange dog redoubled his

their keeper.

ing themselfs, they spend in cheating others.
The only way to please the publik, and get

ace.
most allwuss deserve it.
disapointed. :

A lie iz az tuff az a snaik, yu may s

and kut it in tuo, and it will wriggle, a’
itself together agin.

 

hating them.
, [kant tell which haz the most doubts, the
Enea ae, or the very learned.

even care, whether it will be followed or not.

tate.

 

caresses. During the whole evening, before re-
tiring for the night, the dog never once quitted his
side. When the landlord lighted him up stairs to
bed, the dog followed as far as his chamber door,
but did not offer to enter.
He heard the heavy steps of the landlord as he
descended, and placing the candle on the light
stand at the head of the bed, he turned to the win-
dow, which was Pte, raised, and looked out. The
horse-shed stood directly underneath, and reached
ype within a few feet of the window-sill. It was
a beautiful moonlight night, and as he stood over-
looking the level landscape, he heard a scratching
at the door, followed bya low whine. He under-
stood in a moment that the dog had eluded his
master, and still lingered behind. :
Crossing the room, he opened the door cautiously
andlethimin, The animal still continued to fawn
upon him as before, showing every indication of
extreme interest and friendliness.
After fondling the dog for some moments, he ad-
vanced toward the bed, preparatory to undressing.
No sooner did he attempt to move in that direction
than the dog laid firm hold upon the skirts of his
coat, and held him back. He stopped and patted
him on the head, calling him Hector.
At the sound of the name the animal showed the
wildest manifestations of joy, springing up and
lacing his huge fore paws on his shoulders, and
apping his bearded face with the utmost fondness;
but if he attempted to advance toward the bed, he
persistently held him back.
This strange conduct on the part of the dog great-
ly puzzled Mr. Briathon. He could have sworn it
was Hector had he.not seen Hector shot three years
before and dragged into the swamp back of his
house, which was forty good miles at least from the
spot where he now was. 2
After this he made two or three ineffectual at-
tempts to reach the bed, the dog still holding him
back, and at last succeeded in laying his hand, with
rather a heavy pressure, upon the side of it,
when, to his utter consternation and astonishment,
it began tosink through the floor as from no per-
ceptible human agency. 5
e glanced down into the yawning abyss of dark-
ness below, and shuddered as he heard a heavy
splash as of water underneath. The next moment
the bed reappeared, and the yawning aperture was
closed as before. :
Curiosity prompted him to try the same experi-
ment over, but this timethe trap would not yield
to the yy of any pressure he could bring to bear
upon i
He examined the bed, and found every part firm-
x secured to the bed-frame, and the bed-frame to
the trap. This, then, was an ingenious contrivance
designed for the perpetration of murder upon in-
nocent trayelers who might chance to have money
enough to excite the cupidity ofthe inmates.
Grasping his saddlebags, he slid out of the win-
dow as cautiously as possible, and lowering himself
“a vie roof below, leaped to the ground, followed by
e dog.
Hastily searching out his horse, he slipped on the
bridle, adjusted his saddlebagsto the crupper of
the saddle, and then mounting, rode hurriedly off
in the direction of Griffin’s. :
Griffin’s Tavern was, surrounded by a thinly set-
tled, but rapidly growing village, and Griffin him-
self was not only a magistrate, but was also the
high sheriff of the county. :
Mr. Briathon told his extraordinary story, andan
armed force was instantly dispatched to this mur-
derous abode of cut-throats. When they arrived,
they found the premises completely deserted, but a
careful examination of the place showed the vil-
lainous poroies to which it was devoted, revealing
the treacherous contrivance by which the unsus-
pecting victim was hurled into a deep vat of water
in the cellar, from whence there was no chance of
escape.

The plash which Mr, Briathon had heard was
caused by the heavy weights sliding from the trap,
which, when lowered to the proper distance, made
a half-revolution, dislodging everything not firmly
secured to the frame, and when thus relieved, in-
stantly returning to its former place.

Mr. Briathon on his return took the dog along,
ae et him in the kennel formerly occupied by

ector.

The next morning he was all safe, but Mr. Hobbs’
fancy breeds were missing. Hester declared that
she knew by his actions thatit was Hector. They
visited the spot where they had dragged the body,
but no bones were to be found. | : :

There was no doubt after this as to his identity.
The collar was made smaller,and there were no

 

more depredations.

a DS

selfs.

got enny thing else to do, only to get rid ovit,
foliow.

to adrinking song.

Items of Interest.

 

used for the first time at St.

day, the 23d of April. Two years ago the contribution

place of the st

ea were generally relics, an ighly pr’

trinsic value of the basin is estimated at $1,500. The cost
work was $300.

 

Cape Horn twenty-three times, and can say what few can

being chiefly religious and literary.

feeding the chickens. She was born at Gill, Mass., and bh
er, Patty Bartlett FrizzeH, lived to be 101 years old. Mrs.

youngest fifty-eight years of age.

Adolph Bionberg—died recently at Lawrence, Mass.,

minion.”’

cause is known for his death, except old age.

They have residedin the immediate vicinity of their

tives present at the golden wedding were forty children,
children, and great-grandchildren. One of the last-nam

aa Some twenty-three years
Mahoney, of South Win

to be the mother of the child, was taken ill, and on her
father and his address. The girl wrote to him for his pho
and he immediately started in quest of her, and found

Walnut, about ten miles from Mendeta, Il.
has no children.

rod being I4 feet long. a
nected with the clock, which will run by electricity.

ten feet long.

arm.

himself.

without avail. Heatiast remembered the shoe, an

 

over two hundred dollars, was in the toe of the shoe.

 

  

We often find that thoze things we fear the most

Thare izyery fu, if enny, men who luv vice for
temporary plezzure or

Sekrets thatwe kant keep ourselfs aint worth
dren are like ali other quik things

Virtew and religion are often konfounded; a man
may hay both, and he kan also hav either one with-

It iz better to suffer than to fear; suffering haz its

in enny man’s life when it iz
safe to be kareless; it iz good judgement to eyén

jar
Tdo mutch good luk will make a man forgit that

be more purtikular about the

vently hating him eyer since the date of their sheep pend ov hiz friends than he will about the num-

A tite boot iz the most remorseless thing i kno ov.
_Not to be influenced bi the misfortunes ov this
life shows that a person iz either more or less than

We kan simpathize with others for their trubbles
race than we kan rejoice with them

If yu will cross examine clussly thoze who e-
tend to dispize welth, yu will find it iz bekauze ey

rounds oy good luk in

, Whenever yu hear a man bragging loudly that he
iz free from Brest government, yu kan make up
hat sum woman haz got him fast be-

The man who grows old and don’t diskover hiz

cheated mankind at least out ov one haff ov their

There iz upwards ov one hundred and seventy
five different ways to reach the kingdom ov heaven

Noboddy but an REC ences will hang around a

Sumthing more than the bare necessitys are

A day ov serious misfortune makes us forget the
hentempranse and exercise fail, then iz time
y allwuss sukceeds better in precept

Jelousy haz mikroscopik eyes, and makes a mole
hill gro in a minnitt to be az big as a mountain.

_ Honesty iz a gem that no setting kan improve or
impair—in ermine, or a beggar’s rags, it iz equally

Noizy grief and babling brooks are allwuss shal-

Idon’t beleave in chance, thare iz no bureau for
acksidents, every thing that happens iz a part ov

Cunning and suspishun are two lawless rouges,
allwuss in each others company, and allwuss

_ Thare aint but fu people that kan appreshiate a
joke, but thare aint one but what thinks he kan

The writer, whoze only aim iz to make hiz readers
laff, will soon find himself on the level ov the mon-

Civilizashun haz not made an angel ov man, it
haz only hid hiz deformitys, he iz like the trained
animals in a cage, whe generally behave pretty
well, but once in a while take a noshun to feast on

What little time mankind kan spare from cheat-

ayfor doing it,iztosnap yure fingers in their
I beleaf it to be true oe thoze who hay bad luk
Mankind luy to be humbugged and are seldum

ash its hed,
d try to put

Ill natured people think they are angry at others,
when the fakt iz, they are only mad at themselfs.
Life haz menny plezzures, but little happiness.
We commence bi.enyying a person, and end bi

ov the advice that iz given, iz given for the
mere yanity ov advising, without enny thought, or

One ov the best ways to judge ova man’s karak-
ter, iz to find out the kind ov fun he likes best.
Thare iz nothing but what a hipokrit kan immi-

Ignorant people think they are very wise when
they ask questions that they kant answer them-

Time iz.allwus the longest to those who hayen’t

Mankind are a good deal like sheep, if yu kan git
one to jump, even down into a well, all the rest will

There iz nothing more pleasant to me than a
cheerful old fellow, they inspire me like the chorus

4a A magnificent alms-basin, weighing
pounds, of solid gold and silver, inlaid with precious stones, was ~
Paul’s church, Baltimore, on Sun-

were stolen from the church, The pastor, Rey. Dr. Hodges, sug-
gested to his congregation the idea of forming an alms-basin
rom pieces of gold and silver to be offered by them, to take the
olen plates. On St. Paul’s Day, 1874, the offerings
were made, consisting of twenty-five pounds of silver and gold,
comprising watches, chains, rings, SPoUme, jewels, &c. The
, h ized by the givers.
esides the alms-basin, there was enough material from which
to make six collection plates and a silver service. The basinwas .
wrought in New York. The rim is mounted by eight gold me-
dallions, eaeh inlaid with five different kinds of stones—ame-
thysts, topaz, garnets, bloodstone, crystal, &c. The bottom bears
an engraving of the adoration of the wise men, with a diamond
representing the star of Bethlehem, and is surrounded w
inscription: “They opened their treasures and presented to
Him gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” Another inscription is:
“All that isin the heavens and inthe earthisthine.” The in-

sa Itis not often that there are five ship-
masters in one family, as was the case in 1836, in which year
Capt. Joseph R. Winn, of Salem, Mass., and four of, his sons,
were at sea, all commanding ships—Capt. J. R. Winn in the South
American trade, three sonsin the East India trade, and the
fourth freighting on the coast. Two of the sons were in charge
of ships before they had attained their majority, and one of these
two followed the sea ‘twenty-two consecutive years, being at
home during all that time but seventeen months. He weathered

like circumstances, that during all this period of active seaman-
ship the underwriters were never called upon to pay one cent.

aa Mrs. Martha Morey, of Strafford, Vermont,
lately celebrated her one hundredth birthday, and with consid-
erable eclat, a number of friends being present, and the exercises
‘our generations were rep-
resented at the dinner-tablie. The old lady is remarkably vig-
orous, and was up betimes inthe morning of the celebration,
er moth-

was married at twenty-five, and lived with her husband seventy
ears, fifty of them in the house where she now resides. Five of
er eight children are still living, the oldest seventy andthe

xax- A soldier of the first Empire of a

aged 92.

He was born in Stockholm, Sweden, and joined the French army”
when twenty-eight years old. Biornberg was no believer in Napo- |
leon, his estimate of the Emperor being that “the was a presump-
tuous man, raised to be a tyrant, and aspiring to universal do-
He left France for his native land, where he acquired
a knowledge of medicine, after which he came to this country.
He was twice married, and his second wife is now living at Ches-
ter, N. H. He also leaves a daughter, now living in Boston. No

sa The golden wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Walker
Watson, of Canton Township, Wayne County, Michigan, was re-
cently celebrated ingrand style. The now venerable couple
were married April 17, 1826, and settled in Michigan in F

home ever since, forty-four years in one house. Amongt — :
boasts of having five grandmothers and four grandfathers.

ago, Mr. E. C.
, Conn., had his little girl, then two
years old, stolen from him. Recently the woman who Claimed

bed told the girl of her abduction, and gave her the name of he.’

She is married, but

aa@- The Centennial exhibition clock, construct- |
ed at Thomaston, Conn., for Memorial Hall, is a wenderful-piece
of mechanism. The works weigh six tons, and the clock itself !
is eight feet high. The main wheel measures eight feet in diam-
eter. The pendulum-rod and ball weigh 700 and 800 pounds, the
. There will be sixty or more -dials con-

ag- A German in Chicago has a beard nearly
It was originally black, but is now turning gray.
He takes great care of it, and carries the latter end of it on his
The name of the owner of this “wealth of hair” is A.
Koerpen, and his age is about fifty. Heis very proud of his
flowing locks,and makes a living by selling photographs of

age A patrolman in Troy, N. Y., lately threw
an old shoe belonging to his wife into the street, and soon aiter
missed his pocket-book. He searched the house thoroughly, but

while succeeded in finding it. The pocket-book, which contained

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