£85Q00W Bosna eee mo “Vol, XIX. STREET & SMITH, No. 11 Frankfort St. ‘NEW YO RK, NO Single Copy, Six Cents. WHO SAYS WE HAVE FAILED? BY FRANCIS 8, SMITH. ‘Who says we have failed in our struggle with traitors ? Who breathes the vile falsehood ’neath liberty’s sky? Shame blister the tongues of our government haters, Who would bolster their cause by so wicked a lie! A fallure! while Sherman Atlanta is keeping ! While glorious old Farragut rides on the sea! While Sheridan brave through the Valley is sweeping While unyielding Grant has his grip upon Lee | A failure while traitors with terror are quaking, And crowds of their conscripts are running away! And the vile *‘C, 8. A.”* to its center is shaking in anticipation of liberty’s sway ! A failure! with Rebeldom riven asunder ! ‘three-fourths of the soil which it claims in our hands; Wath its wild legions flying in dread from the thunder Whick roars from the guns of our conquering bands, 4 failure! when slavery, lashed into madnegs, Has dug her own grave on the Southern shore! And the bosoms of freemen are thrilling with gladness To think that the reign of the tyrant is o’er. A failure! when day after day in affiiction The foes of our nation are biting the dust, And deep in our hearts settles down the conviction That we are upheld by the God of the just. A failure! Oh, men of the North, mark the story! A failure! and hosts of our heroic braves Havo fallen beneath the bright folds of ‘* Old Glory,’ And now are reposing in Southern graves! A faiSare! Oh, widows and orphans now mourning The loss of the loved ones you'll ne'er see again— Say, do ye not loathe in your sad souls the fawning @f traitors who tell you they perished in vain? A failure! No, never! Our legions are braving, With spirits unflagging, all danger and toil, And soon-—very soon—will our proud flag be waving O’er every inch of Columbia’s soil. Rejoice, then, for Heaven decrees our salvation, And out of our trials and trouble and pain, We shall rise a united and glorious nation That traitors can never dissever again. cere ¢ Be ADA MAR OR, The Archduke’s Empire. A Tale of Modern Mexico. see BY ILLION CONSTELLANO, Author of “The Sun Scorpion;” “The Pesrl Diver;’* “The Reef Spider;’’ ~The Silver Dizger;’’ “‘Tho Wunted Unionist; ‘fhe Man Eaiers.”’ {Back numbers of ‘‘Ada Mar; or, The Archduke’s Em- pire,” can be obtained trom every News Agent threughout the United States. | CHAPTER XVI.—(Conriven. ) ‘You are putting it rather boldly,”’ he said, eoustrainedly. ‘‘Who would believe your word against mine? As you say, when I hired you and your husband, he was a professional as- sassin and under the ban of the police. Who, then, would believe your words against those of the wealthy and honored Senor Mar?” “Everybody. I have proofs—documents that your prisoner has written in the dim light of his dungeon—letters you havo sent to me. They are all buried under my cellar, where no eyes but mine can find them.” _ She paused, perceiving by the strange gleams deepening in Mar's eyes that she had made a dangerous admission, and Mar said, with a hoarse laugh, “Your arguments are useless, Maria. You do not love me, but my wealth. The frequent sight of all my luxuries has turned your head———” “And why shouldn't it?” interrupted the woman, fiercely. ‘You have always required me to visit you monthly to report the state of the prisoner, and since the war broke out I have come here every week. I am not half so bad as you are, and yet I come from a bare, prison-like home to find you slumbering upon a bed of down, with silk and linen to cover you. I put my feet out of my miserable couch upon a stone floor; you step upon a soft and beautiful carpet, and have mirrors, and nice farniture, and wine, and everything. No, se- nor, it is in vain for you to seek to thwart me —you cannot do it! If you wish to forget who and what you are, I will bring you to your senses. Iam as good ag you are. I have done quite as much as you to maintain you in your present position during all these years. The prisoner often made us offers of large re- wards to free him, and assist him in regaining , his lost rights, and Heaven knows that I would have harkened to his plea, had I not hoped and expected one day to enjoy the fortune in _*vur hands. Bo wise, therefore, my dear Iyo- \ ap) renzo,” she added, with softening voice, “and 9 donot quarrel with me, I deserve this luxury Sere NTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS BY STREET & SMITH, IN 1864, IN CLERK’S OFFICE OF DISTRICT COURT OF UNITED STATES FOR SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORE. “HE NOW SPRANG UPON THE VISITOR AND SEIZED HiM BY THE THROATI what you have done, if you share it with me, for life is a hard struggle, and it was perfectly reasonable for you to help yourself to anything within your reach.’’ Mar moved restlessly, regarding her with a wavering gaze. Notfor an instant could he tolerate the idea of marrying her, yet how could he pacify her covetous desires? He es- sayed all his powers of persuasion in endeav- oring to make her abate her claims and pre- tensions, but in vain. ‘You only waste your words,” she finally said. “If I remain your friend and preserve your secret, I will do so only as your wife; and if you dare to deny my just and reasonable de- mand, it shall be the worse for you!” Mar lost all patience. His hands worked nervously under the influence of his murder- ous feeling as he sprang up and said, ‘I have heard your decision—now hear mine! I will never marry you—never!’’ “Then I will inform Ada and the whole world of your villainy,” cried the angry wo- man. ‘‘I'll denounce you to the authorities as sure as I’m a living woman! We'll see how much longer you'll revel in your ill-gotten wealth !’’ She bounded toward the door, but Mar, in- furiated by her threats, intercepted her move- ments, caught a dagger from the wall, and buried it to the hilt in her bosom. “Your blood be on your own head!’ he muttered, letting go his hold of her and with- drawing the knife. ‘‘You would haveit!” The woman glared upon him as the blood spurted in jets from her wound, and uttering a piercing shriek she staggered to the door and passed into the hall. In a moment the horrified Ada and Dolores, who had overheard every word of the inter- view, were at her side. ‘‘Who are you?” faintly whispered the wo- man, as Ada bent over her, and the duenna turned on the fall light of the hall-lamp. ‘Tam Ada Mar!” “The girl I have so long and cruelly wronged?’ gasped the woman. ‘What an angel face! Oh, remorse, remorse!” “Can't I do something for you?” asked Ada. “No—I am struck with death! Oh, that villain—that cruel Mar! He will yet have his deserts! And you are Ada? Oh, I wish I’d done differently now! I wish Alonzo—oh dear, oh dear! I want to see a priest! [ can’t die!” The dying woman's eyes glared wildly about her, and her face gleamed with inexpressible horror. ‘There is no priest within two miles,” said the young girl. ‘Pray——” “I can’t pray,” gasped the woman, despair- ingly, ‘‘and I can’t live till a priest is sent for. Iam dying. Ada, Mar is not your father.” “Not my father?” cried the girl, as the wo- man’s voice fai her. “No, lie is not your father,” she answered, ina broken whisper. “I swear it with my 9” dying breath! He is—is Her face betrayed a desperate wish to say more, but the blood spurted in a deeper jet from her heart, she mumbled a moment inco- herently, and then, with an agonizing moan, she fell back to the floor—dead! “Not my father?” repeated Ada, staring at the stiffening face and form before her. Oh, God! can this be true? -andif so, who am I ?” Through her tortured soul came a convic- tion that the words were truth— that the heart- less murderer Mar was of no kin to her; and she almost reeled with the thought as a thou- sand facts confirming the statement rushed into her mind. While she stood pale and rigid beside the ghastly corpse Mar’s door opened, and he ap- peared, light in hand. Nota stain of blood was upon his person, and he was completely dressed. ‘‘What, you here?” he exclaimed, regarding Ada and the duenna. ‘Ah! I suppose you heard the woman, and came down to see what was the matter ?”’ “Yes,” said Dolores, tremblingly, seeing that Ada was as yet unable to speak. ‘She is a thief, that got into the house with a false key,” explained Mar, ‘‘and came to my room to rob me. [I stabbed her in self-defence, to save my own life. Is she dead?” He touched the motionless body with ‘his foot, assuring himself that his victim was really dead, and then said, ‘She must be buried immediately. There’s no use in troubling an alcalde with the facts; people don't pretend to give an account of every robber they kill, Ada, you had better retire to your room again. You need have no fears; I shall be on my guard against any more robbers. No one shall harm you.” Ada retired with Dolores to her room with- out speaking, being very glad to leave Mar’s presence while his excitement prevented him from noticing that they were fully dressed. Mar thereupon summoned a couple of trusty servants, repeated to them his explanation of the woman’s presence, and assisted them to bury the body back of the garden. ‘‘And now I am the sole possessor of the se- cret,” muttered Mar, over a glass of wine, when he was again alonein his room. “I am glad all this has happened. I shall have no more uneasiness lest the prisoner should es- cape, and there will be no possibility of my betrayal, My future is safe!” CHAPTER XVII. HERNAN ASTONISHES GENERAL DONATI, The events centred in our hero had, in the meantime, been equally exciting. Encouraged by the capture of the famous guerilla chie*, no less than by the favorable reports of Count Vuiletto, the French com- mander had instantly put his division in mo- tion towards Zacatecas. It moved in regular marching order, with a van-guard and rear-guard, and with skirmish- ers on each flank, as a precaution against those light bodies of cavalry Captain de Valde had made so redoubtable to the invaders. The general and his staff, of course, occupied the centre of the column, and immediately be- hind them rode our hero, heavily ironed, and guarded by a dozen soldiers detailed for that purpose. The eyes of the young patriot were as un- daunted as ever; his noble features as calm. That he suffered acutely, however, at the pros- pect of his early end, was self-evident. He had only just learned, in loving Ada and being loved by her, what a glorious thing is exis- tence, and it seemed hard to be so soon called from it. His thoughts of the maiden’s pros- pective misery, and of his father's mysterious disappearance, gave him a continual pang. Yet, having lived up to the high instincts of his being, and performed his whole duty, he endeavored to feel that all would be well. Moreover, although the guard had received orders to shoot him on the spot at any signs of an attempt at rescue or escape, he had no dif- ficulty in remaining hopefal, and he even brought himself—such is the force of habit, daring, and familiarity with peril—to regard his eventual escape as a circumstance quite within the range of possibility. The march was necessarily slow and tire- some, and it was nearly night when the French approached the city of Zacatecas, and en- camped just to the southward of it, in the open plain. The evening was consumed in preparations for a grand triumphal entry, and on the fol- lowing morning, Sunday, February 7th, a de- putation of “notables” came out of the city, followed by a rabble of Indians and mixed breeds, to receive the invaders. Prominent among these worthies were Senor Mar and Count Viletto, and the latter read an address of welcome to General Donai, at the same time publicly presenting the “act of ad- hesion’’ he had previously submitted in pri- vate. General Donai made a suitable reply, and his troops then marched into the city, pre- eeded by the deputation, amid the ringing of bells, the firing of salutes, and the acclama- tions of the fickle and unprincipled multitude the pageant kad drawn together. No respectable Mexican was present, or in any way countenanced the proceedings. A few landed proprietors, like Mar, each seeking some personal end—a few vile speci- mens of nobility, like Viletto, also pursuing private schemes—ard a score or more of local officials, each intent on preserving his office— these were the ‘‘notabilities” that thus went through the farce of handing the city and state of Zacatecas over to the tools of Louis Napo- leon! And this is the manner in which the few cities of Mexioo that have submitted to Maxi- milian have been managed! It was eminently consistent with ‘Wrench civilization in Mexico,’’ that such a man as our hero should be sentenced to death, while such villains as Mar and Viletto should be hailed as brothers ! : And so, while General Donai and his princi- pal officers were attending a welcoming ser- vice at chureh, Captain de Valde was conduct- ed through the midst of the noisy crowds to the city prison. He was seen by Mar and Viletto, who re- joiced greatly together at his coming doom, and was insulted by some of ‘the partizans. of the French; but here and there he received a friendly salutation, a nod of sympathy and en- couragment, and even an occasional pressure of the hand from those who recognized him personally, or who honored him for the cause in which he suffered. The prison of Zacatecas is a substantial proof that labor is cheap and stone plenty. Its walls are massive, and its cells terrible abysses, from which light and air are almost excluded, and in which vermin riot in filth and damp- ness. Thrust into one of the darkest and gloomiest of these living graves, and supplied: with a piece of bread and a pitcher of water, Hernan was relieved of his irons, and he was left to himself, with a grim allusion to. the ex- pected shortness of his stay. Lhe remainder of the day passed quickly to the prisoner, considering’ his circumstances. Sounds of the French occapation frequently. reached him, and he learned from the constant motions of the prison officials, that they swarmed in great numbers, and were guard- ing him and his fellow prisoners with great trictness. He thought much of the various hopes and integests interwoven with his life, and speculated upon the dark probabilities of his future, but continued to meet the horrors of his situation with calmness, and with a quiet alertness that was characteristic of him, The last ray of light had died oat of his cell, when he was aroused from his reveries by the sound of footsteps in the corridor near his. door. ‘Come for me in half an hour,” he heard a voice saying, in French. “I wish to havea confidential talk with him.” Hernan had barely time enough to realize that a visitor was coming, when two men paused before the grated entrance of his dun- geon. One of them, whom he rocognized as the keeper of the prison, carried a lantern in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other. The second man wore a large cloak, the cape of which was ruffled about his face, and kept his countenance steadily averted from the rays of the lantern. This was ali Hernan had time to notice before a key was turned, the heavy door swung on its hinges, and the stranger was ushered into his presence, the keeper say- ing, “A friend, Captain de Valde.” The visitor took the light from the keeper, who bowed himself out of the cell, locked the door, and retired to his quarters at the front of the prison. The consideration with which the stranger had been treated told Hernan that a man of considerable importance was be- fore him. “Good evening, Captain de Valde,” said the unknown, speaking in Spanish, but with an accent that betrayed that he was a Frenchman. “Let me hope that my unexpected visit is not an intrusion.”’ His tone was hoarse and uneven—evidently disguised. “Your presence is welcome, monsieur,”’ re- plied Hernan, in French. ‘A visit could not well be otherwise than pleasant to a person in this solitude. Be seated.” He made room on his couch for the visitor, and the latter took the proffered hand, saying, “Permit me, Captain de Valde, to come at once to the object of this visit. I am your friend, and wish to be of service to you.” ‘In what way, monsieur?” asked Hernan. ‘For what purpose ?’’ ‘You shall soon hear,” the visitor replied: ‘In the first place, Captain de Valde, permit me to say that I can appreciate your heroism, your devotion to your principles, and your many good qualities. You are noble and hon- orable, and I come as trustingly to you as I would to a brother.” A roundsman passed the door of the dun- geon, and the tramp of his watchfal band was heard on every side of the prisoner and his visitor. Moreover, Hernan had already no- t.ced a sword and a pair of pistols under the he confidence ef the latter, in visiting an wp- armed arm, behind so many bolts and guard; cloak of the oily-tongued stranger, and henee £ SSN did not seem to him to require an elaborate mention. é ‘Thanks, monsieur,” said our hero, in an- swer to the stranger’s declarations. ‘These assurances are very kind. May I inquire to whom and to what circumstames I am in- debted for them ?” “You may know by the fact of my being here, captain, that I am trusted by those in authority,” was the evasive answer, ‘“‘and I hope that you will listen to me as to a sincere friend. ' [have marked your heroic deeds, ex- tending over ihe last two or three years, and am mindful of y fame and influence. You : ow poaverless, however, and your cause Your terrible guerillas did not as- o-day, but appear to be ture. A time has come, i: it is proper for you to : but let me know sity you approach you are empowered 2 knowledge of your name of primary imporiance. Itis certainly the only key to my confidence. I must know to whom I am speaking.” The visitor mused a moment, and then dropped all attempts at disguise, saying, in his natural tones, ‘Since you appear to appreciate my interest in you, captain, I will meet your wishes. I am General Donai!” ‘T suspected as much from the first, gen- eral. Please proceed with your communica- tions, telling me in what capacity you visit me ?” “T come in no particular capacity,” the gen- eral rejoined, except as your friend. I wish to sce for myself what your hopes and views are, and what inducements you can possibly have for dying in hostility to us. I wish to see if we cannot come to an understanding with each other that will make you our friend, secure you @ pardon, andrally your numerous friends to our cause, I saw by your reception to-day, despite our bayonets, how popular you are, and I am free to say, although without special instructions concerning you, that we are more anxious to win our opponents over to our views than we are to crush them. As you must have seen, the principal military men and statesmen of Mexico have taken service with us, and I have come to you in the hopes of inducing you to follow their illustrious ex- ample.” A bitter smile curled Hernan’s lips. “You can offer attractive inducements, of . course ?” he observed. ‘Well, yes. I can safely promise you a par- don for past offences, and a commission as colonel in the Franco-Mexican army.”’ ‘‘You are very frank, general, very liberal,’’ said Hernan, ‘and I will reply to your propo- sals in a similar spirit of frankness. I am aware that many Mexicans haye gone over to " your cause, each selling his birthright for some coveted mess of pottage. Hven many good men at heart, weary with the endless anarchy in which we have been plunged, have turned to the new empire as to a rainbow of promise. But I deny that our principal citizens, or any- thing like a majority of them, have approved of the invasion. I deny even that there is a reasonable prospect of the success of your projects. You have not occupied one-tenth of Mexico’s territory, and you never will. You have really done nothing toward establishing &@ permanent government. The war between you and us is not ended—only begun. Even with the recognition of England and the Uni- ted States, should you secure it, you will be as far from your proposed subjugation as ever !’’ ‘And why so?” asked General Donai, with visible annoyance. “Because you are not charged with the re- generation of Mexico,” replied Hernan, bitter- ly. ‘‘Nations are not regenerated by foreign bayonets, but by moral developments within their own borders. Much less can a republic of the New World be enslaved by such a per- son as Maximilian—a broken-down spend- thrift, who finds it convenient to get rid of his European creditors by coming to Mexico. He is coming here as an invader, a tyrant, a vice- roy of France, anything you please but a cho- sen ruler of the Mexicans. He will scatter a few crosses and ribbons, and publish a few feeble documents, full of falsehoods and pre- tenses, beginning and ending with the vaga- ries and follies of the effete kingcraft of Europe. He will amuse the Indians a few weeks or months, get up a quarrel with the church party, be caught some unlucky day in a sud- den revolution, and that will be the end of him.” General Donai was angered by these obser- vations, but he controlled himself, and re- piled, ‘‘All this is a dreara—a dream of the indefi- nite future. Even should it one day be rea- lized, I do not see how you are to be benefitted by the events you prophesy. The present, your own pezsonal interests, tho actualities of to-day—these are the considerations that ought to guide you. You are sentenced to death, and a few days will bring General Bazaine’s approval of your sentence. Your immediate business, therefore, is tomake your peace with us you can become our friend, take service with us, and attain to a position of distinction. Live, therefore, Captain de Valde! Write to General Bazaine a suitable appeal for mercy, asking pardon for the past and making proper; My word for it, your promises for the future. appeal will not be slighted. We all know and feel how useful you ean be in suppressing the guerillas still harassing us——” ‘‘And this is the secret of your proposed mercy?” interrupted Hernan, with an irony that was cutting, ‘‘You think that I can be- tray my late associates, and aid you in riveting your chains upon my unhappy country. What folly! How little you understand me!” The scorn expressed in Hernan’s words and manner showed Donai that he had mistaken his man, and he arose and said, “T had hoped for a different reception.” ‘Well, no harm is done, monsieur. You have merely mistaken me somewhat, misjudg- ing me by the traitors around you. To save you from all farther trouble of the kind, let me say that your propositions to me receive, as they merit, my hearty contempt. I could have accepted a manly pardon, extended in an open and unconditional manner, but the as- sumption on which you appear to have acted, that I would be a traitor to save my life, is worthy only of my scorn!” The General flushed with anger, writhing under the stern rebuke, but he contented him- self with bowing haughtily and saying, ‘Very well, Captain de Valde. I must leave you to your fate. You are even more bitter against us than you have been represented. Death, I see, is the only argument that can be applied to such a case. I have the honor, Cap- tain, to wish you good-evening. Hernan had been meditating escape, ever since the General’s appearance, and he now sprang upon the visitor, seized him by the throat, and hurled him to the floor, hissing in his ear, “Your half hour is about up! man has just passed! Make no resistance!” The general had felt too secure in the numer- ous guards around him, in connection with the stout doors and bolts between the prisoner and freedom, to seriously apprehend such a daring attack, and he was consequently taken at dis- advantage, Hernan getting both knees upon his arms. A single instant he struggled, and then, seeing how powerless he was, and rightly interpreting to himself the terrible gaze fixed upon him, he ceased his efforts, giving himself up to his captor. “That is right, general,’’ continued Hernan, ina calm whisper. ‘I should be sorry to harm you, but my life is at stake! You must be quiet!’’ While speaking, he removed the general's cloak, disarmed him, and gagged him with the butt of one of his own pistols, securing the weapon in place with some cords he had made beforehand from his solitary blanket, in the wild hope that they might be useful. He next tied the prisoner’s hands behind him, placing him upon his rude couch, and assumed the general’s cloak and hat, besides securing his weapons and the lantern. ‘‘Had the guard passed, or the keeper ap- peared, I should have been defeated, general,”’ whispered Hernan, as quietly as before; ‘out my chance isnow good. You are my prisoner, and I aman armed enemy, These relations cannot be reversed without bloodshed A hos- tile movement, a single whisper from your lips, and you will regret it!” Donai saw how entirely his late prisoner had staked his life on the success of his attempt at escape, and realized that his own life depended on his silence, ‘Adieu, general,” added Hernan, ‘I think I hear your keeper coming! Once more— silence!” He had scarcely taken up his position at the door of the dungeon, light in hand, with his face muffled, when the keeper made his ap- pearance, and hastened to release him. ‘Please attend me to the door, monsieur,”’ said Hernan, in French, imitatiag the voice of Donai perfectly. ‘Your prisoner mourns his fate, but you need not trouble yourself about him!” All zeal and officiousness, the keeper locked the door of the cell, while our hero was speak- ing, and then he bowed the supposed general along the corridor, paying no heed to the moaning and incoherent sounds he left behind him. The couple soon reached the outer en- trance, where Hernan soon took a polite leave of the official, mounted the general's horse, which he found in waiting, and dashed along through the streets of the city, once more in possession of his freedom! A rounds- I can and will escape! CHAPTER XVIIL HERNAN AND NAVARRO. - The city of Zacatecas is of considerable size, containiag about twenty thousand inhabitants, the usual number of churches and convents, markets, shops, gambling houses, manufactor- ies of blankets, etc. On the present occasion it was filled to overflowing with soldiers and country people, and almost every native was in the streets, including the women and chil- dren. Such a holiday as the coming of the French had produced had not lately been en- joyed by the people of the vicinity, and they made the most of it, with music, fireworks, illuminations, and other expressions of popular excitement. As Hernan rode away from the prison he noticed that the French guards posted at in- tervals along the streets saluted him, suppos- him to be General Donai. From this fact he inferred several others, namely, that the gen- eral’s horse was well known, that the gen- eral was supposed to be riding about the city, having been seen going to the prison, and that he himself, thanks to Donai’s hat and cloak, as well as to his steed, was. everywhere re- ceived without suspicion as the French com- amander. Noting these circumstances, the young pa- triot felt that he was still favored by fortune, and took his way hopefully towards the Fres- nillo gate. He had not gone half a dozen squares, how- ever, when he remared that he was being silent- ly and persistently followed by a single horse- man. While he was wondering at this singu- lar circumstance, the stranger suddenly quickened his speed, showing that he was rid- ing a powerful steed, and rode alongside ofaim, exclaiming, “One moment, general—a matier of im- portance!” The voice, in connection with the outlines of the figure before him, told Hernan that the speaker was Navarro, his strange acquaintance of the hills, and he instantly exclaimed, “Heaven bless us! Is it you, Senor Navar- ro?’ The young patriot’s voice seemed to stun the hearer as much as a severe blow on the head would have done, Fora moment he was as- tounded and speechless, and then a wild cry of mingled surprise and joy came from him, and he rode near, responding, ‘God of mercy! Is this you, Captain de Valde?” “Tt is, indeed!’’ replied Hernan, in his usual rich and hearty tones. ‘‘And I am as happy as surprised, Senor Navarro, at again seeing you!” The two men shook hands heartily, and Navarro drew a long sigh of relief, as he said, “You certainly came out of the prison! I took you to be General Donai!” Hernan briefly explained, and the hearer ex- pressed his astonishmeut and admiration, add- ing, “I suppose you will flee the city?” Of course. The alarm may be raised behind me at any moment, You will join me, how- ever?” “If you please. I came into the city to-day with the crowds, and have thus far escaped in- quiry. I will explain the whole matteras soon as we are beyond this pressing peril!” They dashed away together. On reaching the Fresnillo gate, the guard posted here turned out and presented arms, supposing the couple to be General Donai and an orderly, he being accustomed to ride about a great deal in this fashion, A moment more, and the fugitives wore speeding along the road leading to Fresnillo, outside of the lines of the invaders. The city is built over a silver vein, the Yeta Grande, which is next in importance to the largest, one in Mexico, the Yeta Madre, of Guanajuato. The vein is honey-combed with several thousand openings and shafts, so that the whole vicinity, for miles around Zacatecas, looks in places like the burrows of some gigan- tic race of animals. Turning into one of these openings, in the side of an immense hill, after riding two or three miles, the fugitives came to a halt, concealed in the shadows, and Her- nan said, ‘We are safe, senor, and may now exchange ideas with each other. Our second meeting appears as strange as our first!” ‘‘Almost,” rejoined Navarro, with emotion. ‘J was traveling to the southward of the city yesterday, on my way to your home, when I met a person calling himself your intimate friend, who told me of your troubles, His name is Pacheco,” ‘T see. He's a party I had just taken into my service at the time of my capture. He is an arrogant boaster, but a right good fellow.” Navarro smiled, and related the dealings he had had with Pacheco. ‘After learning your misfortunes from the rascal,” he concluded, ‘I encountered the ad- vancing column of General Donai, and came with it to the city. To-day I entered, as men- tioned, and learned that you were in prison. This evening I have been hanging about the premises to see if I could find any way of ef- fecting your rescue. I saw General Donai come to the prison, and instantly resolved to watch for him, to speak to him in your favor. The rest is known to you.” Hernan expressed his thanks for Navarro’s devotion to him, and then said, ‘‘Pacheco has gone to Mar’s, no doubt, and I think I'll follow him, first to refute his terri- ble stories, and next to see if the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married is safe. My father, you know, has strangely disap- peared ?” ‘Yes, your singular Pacheco told me. How sad! how strange !” Hernan went on to tell his companion all he knew of the matter, and they busied them- selves for a short time in futile conjectures as to the marquis’ fate, ‘Let me tell you something of myself, cap- tain,” at length said Navarro. ‘‘When I was relieved by you in the wilderness, I immedi- ately returned to the house in which I had been captive so many years. Without betray- ing my presence, I saw that my keeper and his wife had discovered my absence, and were plotting to tell their employer that I was dead, in consequence of some deadly drugs, which it seems he had charged them to give me. IJ discovered that they. had not obeyed him, from the belief that it would be more profitable to them to keep me alive. After listening to their resolves, I took a horse from their stable and rode away. My first step was to proceed to the house of a friend, who fifteen years ago had been as dear to me as abrother. Then he lived in a palace—now his home isa hut. He has lost everything in the convulsions of the country.” ‘You had no difficulty in finding him, then ?” questioned the captain. ‘None. He welcomed me cordially, and I spent a day and night with him, hearing of my old friends, and learning the whole story of the present invasion. Then I went to see another friend, and found him dead, Another was changed towards me, another was a trai- tor, and still another believed the foul calum- nies circulated against me years ago. And so I found myself friendless and alone, and set out to come to you and your father.” ‘Tam glad you did,” responded Hernan, cordially, ‘“IfI can be of service to you, do not hesitate to command me.” “Thanks,” said Navarro, with a faltering voice. ‘I accept your kind offer. Butlet me introduce myself more plainly to you. Iam the General Navarro that was prominent in Mexican affairs fifteen years ago. Differing with Santa Anna, by whom I was defeated in battle, and finding that he was banishing or imprisoning all those opposed to his schemes for retaining the supreme power in his own hands, I sold off my estates, converted my property into gold, and made every prepara- tion to leave the country. While I was thus engaged, my wife went to the capital to bid some of her friends adieu, promising to meet me on the road to Ma‘amoras, whence we ex- ‘pected to sail. Iset out at the time appointed with my infant daughter—my lovely little Nita —and with all my wealth on the backs of mules, and with a man whom I trusted as a brother. He was the overseer of my estates, and named Riconado. On the way, while ina lonely spot, he fell upon me, struck me sense- less, and bound me. He then concealed my wealth in a convenient cavern in the hills and carried me and my child to the wilderness where you found me. There he put me in charge of an unsrupulous and heartless couple, loaded me with chains, and locked me in a dungeon, and went away with my Nita. I have never seen him since—never looked upon her sweet face—never heard of my wife.” He paused, overcome for the moment with the anguish these circumstances and recollec- tions caused him, “Is it possible?” exclaimed Hernan. ‘Your experiences remind me, in many respects, of my father’s. Can it be that you have no clue to the whereabouts of this cruel villain ?” “Only this,” said the general, in a broken voice; ‘I know that he must still live in Mexi- co—perhaps in this very state! He has paid my keeper and his wife frequently and liber- ally, as I have gathered from their conversa- tion before me. She has been in the habit of carrying him frequent reports of my health— so his home cannot be far distant. Have you ever heard the name of Riconado ?”’ Hernan shook his head. ‘‘He would be well known, by reason of his stolen wealth,” said Navarro, thoughtfully. ‘He may have changed his name. And,” he added, with agitation, ‘‘have you ever heard of my wife, Senora Navarro?” Hernan was silent a moment, musing, and then said, “Since our former meeting, I have remem- bered that I have heard your story—or rather a version of it—related by my father, general. It was popularly believed that you had taken your child and your money, abandoned your wife, and fled to foreign lands. I have heard my father say that Senora Navarro searched long and faithfully for her husband, refusing to believe the wide-spread rumors about him, and finally went to Spain—where she may be yet.” “She may now be dead—for she loved me as I loved her—better than life itself! Oh, my poor Lolita !” Hernan did not break in upon the deep grief of his companion, bnt he pressed his hand si- lently and endeavored to show his sympathy for him. “Did not your friends whom you visited know something of your loved ones or of this villain ?” he asked, after a long pause. ‘Nothing whatever. Riconado concealed his villainy skillfully. From his characteris- tics and ambition, I believe that he has bought vast estates somewhere, and I shall look for him among the landed proprietors. As a guerilla, chief, Captain de Valde, you must know who are the largest landed proprietors in the country. Tell me their names, and I will look among them for my enemy. If I find him not among them, I will traverse all Mexico in search of him.” ; Hernan named a dozen wealthy landholders, but all of them were known by name or repu- tation of family to General Navarro, and our hero concluded: ‘“There’s Senor Alvarado, of Durango, Senor Castro, of San Luis Potosi, Senor Laron, of this state, and Senor Mar, also of Zacatecas. I know nothing of the three first, but Senor Mar is said tobea retired miner. I think they cannotany of them be the wretch who has so cruelly injured you. The whole four are very wealthy—immensely so.” j General Navarro listened thoughtfally to this statement, and said, ‘Tf Riconada is a landholder, as I think, he may be one of these four men you have mentioned. I will look after them, one after another, as soon as possible. If I find the miscreant, perhaps I may learn from him what has become of my wife and daughter.” He sighed moaningly, and looked despair- ingly upwards at the star-lit heavens. “I hope and pray you may find him!” said Hernan, fervently. ‘Should you discover him and need assistance in wringing from him the secrets you are secking to unravel, call upon me, You will find Hernan de Valde prompt to aid you.” The general expressed his gratitude to his companion in warm tones, and then remarked, ‘In order to proceed upon my investigations I have pressing need of money. If you had plenty yourself, Captain de Valde, I should not scruple to use your purse, since you have so generously tendered me assistance. But the truth is, you need money as well as I—to | & ransom your father, or prosecute your search for him. Now I have a plan to propose by which to obtain some with not much delay.” “And how?” questioned the guerrilla chief. “It is true I want money—but how to get it?” “In the same way in which I acquired a con- siderable portion of my former fortune,” re- plied the general, “‘by mining! Ihavestudied 7] the matter thoroughly, besides having a prac- tical acquaintance with it, asI stated. The mine that I worked is in this State, and con- veniently distant from the French. I deserted it before I had half developed its resources, and I doubt not that my secret information con- cerning it can be made available to us in large and speedy returns for our efforts. In it, I dare hope, we shall find the means woe need, Will you join me in working it?” “{ will, with many thanks,” replied Hernan. “T shall need money, large sums of it, to con- tinue the search for my father, and also to pay my men, and recruit others, as I shall do at an early day. Isuppose you have afew friends whom you will desire to join you, and I can also secure afew, so that we shall have quite a party, in case we find work for them!” ‘T think of two or three persons whom I will invite to join us,” said Navarro, ‘‘but the number of my friends is few. Fifteen years effect great changes!” They discussed the matter farther, deciding on a plan of action, how to obtain the neces- sary tools for the work, how to proceed in case of success, how to avoid the notice of the French troops, etc. It was agreed that the mine should be denounced” in the name of one of Hernan’s friends, and that the silver should be exchanged, as fast as found, at the nearest bankers, for coined money, the two men remaining meanwhile as secret as possible to avoid their respective enemies. When all was arranged to their. satisfuction, they re- turned to the road and resumed their way to- wards the North, Navarro saying, ‘‘This Senorita Mar whom you are going to see, is very dear to you, is she not?” A proud and happy smile lighted up the countenance of the young guerrilla chief, as he replied, ‘Yes, general, she is my betrothed. She is the same young lady who was in my charge when I met you in the wilderness. She is as innocent as an angel, as pure as a babe, and as intellectual, lovely, and winning, as is possible to conceive!” Navarro smiled sadly at the lover's eulogy of Ada, and sighed: ‘Such was my Lolita, and such my Nita would have been, could she have had her naother’s love and care.” They rode on in silence, each indulging in sad thoughts born of the peculiar situation of each; but Hernan’s heart beat faster and his pulse throbbed quicker as they neared the stately Hacienda. P “I hardly hope to see her to-night!" he said, as they halted in the road near the dwelling. ‘And yet she may be awake, so that I could easily attract her attention. If you will wait here in the shade of that clump of trees, gen- eral, I will make a brief reconnoissance, and decide whether we shall have to wait herea- boats till morning before seeing Donna Ada.” Navarro assented, and Hernan dismounted, leaving his steed in charge of his friend, and then he glided through the shadow of the trees towards the house, (To be Continued.) THE DIARY OF A MINISTER'S WIFE, BY ALMEDIA M. BROWN. Strely that voice was familiar, and cautiously opening a crevice in the door I peeped out. In the centre stood Mr, H., lamp in hand, the very picture of vexation. With a merry laugh I sprang from my hiding-place. The cloud vanished from my husband’s brow as he greeted me, and chided me for my cowardice. “J have brought home my friend, Mr, Sinclair, with me; he is going to preach for me to-morrow. He could nat get away from the city in season to meet the coach, and had to hire a private convey- ance; this accounts for our unseagonable arrival. Come down, now, and greet your guest, and offer him some refreshment. He must be weary of re- maining alone so long,” he said, With burning cheeks I went through the in- troduction to a noble-looking stranger, whose fine eyes sparkled with merriment as he greeted me; and aware of the laughable figure I made fleeing up-stairs, L could not meet his gaze without a crimson flush suffasing my brow. . He is very polite and agreeable, but occasion- ally a smile flits over his face as he converses with me, and I cannot, help thinking he recoliects last night’s adventure. But how eloquent he was to-day! and how sweetly Carry Hanly sung! What a splendid couple they would make! Wednesday, August 28th._I have much, very rauch, to record to-day. Hardscrabble and myself set out to visit Pine Grove, a wild district some five miles from Colum- busville, Here reside a few families embraced in his pastoral charge, although not one has dark- ened the door of the church since our arrival. Dobbin was hired to convey us on our excursion, and was early at the gate, his black coat shining in the sunlight. Mr. H., tora wonder, was ready first, and stood, hat in hand, in the hall, impa- tiently calling me. i At last we were seated in the carriage, with a good supply of tracts, bibles, and a few other books. Dobbin pricked up his ears atthe well- known chirrup end set off on a brisk trot, that soon took us beyond the village and out into the open country. The green fields, the balmy air, | the blue sky, the forest, with its green robes in- terspersed with an occasional red and yellow leaf, the dancing rivulets, the rustling fields of corn, the orchards bending beneath their weight of fruit, together with the little red fsrm-houses scattered here and there, formed such a beautiful picture that £ involuntarily laid my hands upon the reins to pause a moment, that I might bend from the carriage and drink in with delight the rich scene. : At last we entered the thick grove. It was dark and gloomy, except here and there a patch of sunlight broke in, lighting up the brqwn earth. A joyous little rivulet stole along under the dark trees, then dashed with a wild roar through some deep abyss, as though possessed of some mad spirit; the wind stole through the pines in a low, dirge-like wail; crows like black imps of darkness perched on the high tree-tops, looked down with malicious ‘‘caws,” then spread their black wings and flow away. I felt subdued by the surroundings, and was lad when a: turn in the road brought in sight a little clearing, in which was situated a rude log- house, surrounded by a little garden patch. An old man, with grey locks hanging down under a yenerable-looking hat, sat in front of the door weaving baskets. His clothes were neat, but patched with various colors; a little curly-haired dog lay at his feet. The old man looked aston- ished as we alighted, but invited us to enter. The house consisted of but two rooms, the one we en- AYR ei Yesterday morning Mr. .. | CELLS Ete yer SERRE 2 tae BR fot ac TLS SERA ’ cagionally a speckled adder coiled up in some patch ex ster gazing at us with its red, evileye. A mile or y two of rough road was passed, when we again 7 re eerie) tered answering as parlor, kitchen, dining-room, and pantry; but notwithstanding its varied uses it was neat and clean. Dozens of newly-woven baskets hung on poles overhead, and an old-fash- ioned spinning-wheel stood in the centre of the floor, and an old woman, with faded, patched dress, and coarse white cap covering her locks, was stepping back and forth to its music. “Here, mother,” said the old man as we en- tered; “‘here’s company for ye.” “They are welcome to our poor hovel,” was the reply, as dusting a couple of chairs with her apron she begged us to beseated. We found them quite social, and spent an hour in conversation. Mr, Hardscrabble read to them a chapter, sang a hymn and kneeled in prayer, We gave them some books and left, Ashort distance farther brought us to a clear- ing where a rade frame house was situated. A group of children, pigs, and turkeys at play in the dirt in front of the house looked unpromising, and when three surly-looking curs basking in the sunlight started up at our approach, barking me- nacingly, I shrank back, but Mf. H. forced a pas- sage through the noisy group to the door, fol- lowed by the whole tribe, dogs barking, children screaming and tumbling over each other in their desire to see strangers, while the pigs squealed and turkeys gobbled. Our knock at the door was: answered by 2 surly “Come in,” and we entered a dark, dingy room; where, before a large fireplace, sat a brutal-look- ing man smoking, and a dirty, sharp-featured woman engaged in patching, while ona low bed in the corner @ fragile girl, in the last stages of consumption, reclined on dirty pillows, We took the seats surlily offered us, and while Mr. H. endeavored to converse with the master of the house, I divided my attention between the sharp featured woman and the poor invalid. We found the whole family perfect heathens in re- gard to religious truth, and as Mr. H., in plain earnest language set forth the great principles of our faith, I felt how blest it was to be a megsen- ger of good tidings to fallen man. Never before had his sacred office seemed so high and holy to me as when “Hie poured the blessed gospel light On many a darkened mind.” Giving a few tracts, which were eagerly seized by the invalid, we took leave. Our road wound up @ wild gorge, and soon brought us te a dilapidated hovel, before the door of which lounged two or three slovenly looking men smoking dingy pipes. They greeted us with a rude stare as we alighted; then with a course laugh they nudged each other, whispering, “A parson.” A coarse visage met us at the door, exclaiming, *‘What do you come here for? This is no place for fine folks like you,” and she planted her burly figure in the door-way, as if to bar entrance. ‘But we have come to see you, and you will let us come in,” said Mr, Hardscrabble, in a pleasant but firm tone, taking a step forward. “Not as you knows on,” was the gruff reply, fol- lowed by a laugh from the men, who cheered her, exclaiming: ' “That's right, Mag; don’t let him come in; he’s 4. parson and we don’t want none of that kind of gentry round here.” I clasped Mr. H.’s3 arm and begged him to go, but he answered firmly that ‘the should go in,” and the visage at last gave way, admitting us into a filthy room, smelling strongly of tobacco smoke and whiskey. A pale, wretched looking woman holding an infant, occupied a corner, and a host of dirty, ragged brats tumbled over the rough floor. Hr. H., as usual, introduced religious con- vergation, and ended by proposing reading and prayer. There was no Bible in the house, x0 drawing @ small one from his pocket, he com- menced. The children huddled together in a corner, and with fingers thrust into their mouths gazed on the strange scene. The pale woman rocked violently on the rude floor; the virago, with arms akimbo, stood in the corner, anger and scorn on her brow. The men attracted to the door looked upon the scene with curious eyes, and rude jests and coarse laughter interrupted the reader. Mr. Hardscrabble finished reading, and kneel- ing ealmly down offered up a fervent prayer. Fear- fally I watched the dark faces of the group during that period, dreading some personal violence; but the scornful, careless glances gave way to aston- ishment, followed by eager attention, and at its close the men turned away, while the virago’s countenance was softened. g=° We perceive that Messrs. Jessup & Moore, the celebrated paper dealers, of Phila- delphia, have established a branch of their business in this city, in Room 8, No. 40 Park ‘Row, where orders will be received for book and newspaper printing paper of all qualities. Having for a long time past dealt with Messrs. J. & M., we are qualified to say that those who favor them with their patronage will find them trustworthy, liberal, prompt, and secommo- dating. Could we say more? 5 ’ Nora Beye.—A farmer of Raymond, Mass., planted thirteen white beans last spring, and i Edueation never yet made a wise man of a fool. It is a process which modifies, but never creates. What tempering is to steel, impart- ing polish, improving, extending its utilities, and increasing its value to the world, that is education to the man, and nothing more. Whoever arrogates to himself wisdom because of education, is drawing a false sequence. That it developes the intellect, refines the taste, and enlarges the mind, is not to be dis- puted. But we must distinguish carefully be- tween these capacities for wisdom and the quality itself. Indeed, education would soem rather a pre-disposer to folly; for the most striking follies are those which accompany this factitious refinement and enlargement of the powers. Men of cultivation are seldom unconscious of its possession, and egotism leads them to placa upon it an overvalue. Witness the thousands who, armed with their book-learning, have established themselves as somany tribunals, sitting in judgment upon the .wisdom and justice even of the Deity; as if beyond the confines of the human. Armed with this, they have solved the mysteries of the future state, have numbered and labeled the worlds. Education led to the argumenta- tion of questions at the folly of which the lowest boor of to-day would. grin. Were tes- timony required, it could be found in abund- ance upon every page of history, pointing to that consolatory fact for the uneducated, that wisdom is’ connected by no indissoluble tie with the teachings of the schools, and that the diploma of scbolarship does not necessar- ily carry with it a title to this unfrequent quality. Wisdom is never compelled by study. Books reveal no rule by which it may be at- tained. He who was a fool when he first lighted the midnight lamp, that he might thereby pore above his classics and his philoso- phies, was ever the same fool when the lamp burned out and he cast his books aside. $0 GY 0 dap enecoet BORROWING AND LENDING. Among the many valuable lessons given by the sagacious Moses to his countrymen was the suggestion that they shonid lend and not borrow. By faithfully following this advice they have contrived to make nearly all Chris- They lend willingly where the security is good and the interest liberal—being ready to ad- vance money on anything, from crown dia- monds to cast-off clothing; from the resources of an empire to a tide-waiter’s order for his next quarter's salary. This sort of lending pays; but there are men who make a trade of borrowing, with whom it is neither wise nor profitable to have anything to do. Such per- sons do not apply to the followers of Moses for aid, They want something for nothing, a business idea not recognized in the commer- cial policy of any of the children of Israel. Who that has means, and is supposed to ba gullible, is exempted from the visitations of borrowers? Scores of polite, ‘well-spoken gen- tlemen make it their pleasing occupation to call upon the well-to-do citizen of philanthro- pic proclivities for the purpose of experiment- ing on his pocket. They have not the happi- ness of his personal acquaintance, but know him by reputation, and respect him for the noble generosity he has displayed on more than one trying occasion. Then follows along story about undeserved difficulties and priva- -tions, winding up with arequest for temporary assistance to meeta special exigency. The sums asked for in this way are not generally large; but, in the aggregate they amount to more than a prudent man likes to disburse to people he does not know, on the strength of representations he does not believe. Even if the money is of small consequence to him, he has an objection to being ‘‘sold.” ¢ Goa OUR GRANDMOTHER. Who does not love their grandmother, aged and infirm though she may be, Thereisa hallowed influence clinging around her that is dear to us. Respect and veneration, for the aged should ever be our first duty; but how much more sacred when the ties of consanguinity endear them to us. We can remember our grandmother from our early infancy, when the weekly visits she made, and the stories she told us of our younger days were treasured up in our minds never to be forgotten. She may have been spared tous when other and younger friends are called away. We perhaps have followed father, mother, and many dear ones to the tomb, and our aged grandmother is a link connecting the past with the present. Heaven spare her long to us, and calmly, sweetly may she pass away, surrounded by the loved ones on earth, while the angel spirits of those gone before hover around her, and theirs be the first hand extended to welcome her to Paradise. : EMiny, a HD ene THE GREAT PHUNNY PHELLOW ! . The December number of the PHUNNY Purttow is ‘a screamer,” and no mistake. It is by all odds the most mirth-provoking of all the comic journals, and never failsto excitea hearty laugh. It is perhaps not generally known that the principal illustrations in this great ‘‘comic” are designed by Nast, whose pictures in Harper's Weekly have created wide spread comment. The two-page cut in the present number is “enough to make a horse laugh.” It represents ‘Mac and Pen” tumb- ling headlong down the hill after having gone up to fetch a pailof water. The first page cutis also a rib-tickler. It represents the Democratic hen trying to gather both the war and peace chickens under her wings; but the war ‘‘roosters’’ ‘‘don’t see it.” See advertise- the prodnet is three pounds, or 11,568 beans. — ment elsewhere, the rules of human casuistry were applicable | tian powers and principalities their debtors. SLVEN MILES OF FIRE. An extensive fire, closely resembling the vast conflagrations sometimes witnessed on the prairies of the West, oscurred about a month since in Woolmer Forest, Hampshire, England. It burned for five days, and spread over an area of seven miles, illuminating the country round within a circumference of twenty miles. It is supposed the fire was ignited by some incendiary gipsies and broomsellers, who were formerly allowed to gather material for brooms from the forest, and to pasture their cattle in the neighborhood; but, as this priv- ilege was denied them this year, to be re- venged they caused the conflagration. seein canchh< Lain cmemmememeeneenemnd fs It now looks as if Longstreet must get up Early, if he would “smash” little Sheridan. The rebels, it seems, haven’t got so much Lee- way in the Shenandoah as they desire, THE REVERIE. BY FLORENCE MARSHALL. One day, just after dinner, In the autumn of the year, When the leaves were getting thinner Of their withered leaves and sere— With my head upon my hand, In a dreamy sort of way, I nearly lost me in that land Where dreams elysian play. Then from out this soul of mine Came trooping, all together, The memories of olden times, Like giants of the nurs’ry rhymes, In seven-leagued sole leather. As I nodded there, and slept Like an alderman in church, A funny vision o’er me crept Of an urchin and a birch. With this birchen-beaten urchin, Somehow, came into my thought, Low-roofed and red, the ancient walls, Where my luckless brains were taught. I remembered, too, quite well The spot just where I caught it, The time that fatal ferrule fel), The full misdeed that brought it, Rare old times were those, I ween, Merry times in noon-tide hours, When school-boy king and rustic queen Wreathed their crowns of summer flowers. Now the sighing, whispering breeze, Stealing through my open door, Like gales from Valambrosian trees, All my chamber scented o’er; And my slowly-opening eyes Unto my window turning, From off the turf there seemed to rise A cloud, like incense burning; Then a faint, uncertain light, As of nebule afar, In this cloud moves to and fro, Like the spirit of a star. And then—and then! O, bless moe! In the midst of my surprise, With an involuntary, ah / I could scarce believe my eyes— But it was a strong cigar! Inglorious I awoke, To find my dreams all end in smoke. >¢<@r¢~ On the occasion of the anniversary of the coronation of Alexander II, of Russia, at the Russian Chapel at Paris, on the Tih ult., a strange incident oc- curred, While all in the chapel were on their knees in profound silence, a deep sspulchral voice exclaimed, “Tong live Poland.” Everybody was frightened ex- cepting the clergyman, who went on with the service, ya It is a singular fact that both Jefferson Davis and Alexander H. Stephens are native-born Con- necticut Yankees; the former was born at Killingworth, and the latter at Haddam, in the nutmeg State. On the other hand, it is equally strange that the candidates of the Republican party, for President and Vice President, both first saw the light within the limits of Slave States, yar The marriage of soldiers is encouraged by the Russian. government. ‘The authorities furnish the couple with a house, support them, rear their children, but take away all the boys atsa tender age and send them to military garrisons, there to be trained for the army, There are 300,000 of this kind of soldiers now in the Russian army. nar Afew days since, at St. Louis, 2 woman was brought to trial on a charge of wearing brass knuckles, but her lawyer got her off by reading the city ordinance, dwelling upon the passage ‘in his posses- sion,” contending that the possessive pronoun ‘his? could not by any possible construction apply to a woman. Bar A cannibal has been sentenced to death, ab Fidli{z, in Bohemia. He killed an old lady, and then boiled her flesh with potatoes, for food. The discovery of this last crime led to the detection, and if is supposed that he had followed this horrible practice for a num- bor of years. nae A novel lawsuit has been commenced in Paris, by an actress of one of the first class theatres. She brings an action against a minor actress for imi- tating both her gestures and voice. Should the decis- ion of the court prove favorable to the outraged artiste, mimics will have to be careful. xa Immense hauls of mackeral continue to be taken in Halifax harbor, and inthe basin above. One day last week over eight hundred barrels were taken by half a dozen persons. The fish are large and fat, and almost cover the surface of the water. aa The Parisian sewers have all been traversed. by an Italian princs, who wished to gratify his curiosity and please his eyes by gazing on large-sized French rate... The rats were rather shy, however, and did not appear anxious to court the acquaintance of their noble. _ visitor. uaz At a marriage in Poughkeepsie, last week, the officiating clergyman was a Presbyterian, but was robed in an Episcopal gown; and the ceremony was performed in a Dutch Reformed Church, but according to the Episcopal ritual. sa~ An old lady died the other day in Connec- ticut at the advanced age of 120 years. Her descend~- ants, who gathered around her during her last illness, numbered 219 persons, of all ages. xa The persons employed in digging the tun- nel under Lake Michigan, it is said, have struck an oil well. In this instance the oil is under the water. nar While a young lady was dancing at a ball in Boston the other evening, she slipped down and broke one of her legs. ‘ c Bar All the ports of Mexico are now open to the world, the French blockade having been raised, gar There are now sixty thousand officers and men in the Uniied States Navy. TO CORRESPONDENTS. Gosstp WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. — T. R.--It Mr. Shears charges seven cents tor the N. ¥. WEEKLY, while other dealers in the same city charge but six cents, it is very evident that he has no warrant for his action; for, of course, all news-dealers are treat- ed alike—no favoritism is used with regard to them. By reference to our notice under the editorial head, you will perceive that wholesale news-dealers are charged four and a quarter cents and retail dealers four and a half centa, and these terms aro never in any case departed from...... A. DL. Meserve.—We cannot promise to publish anything either at once or at any stated time, We must be allowed to do as we think best in this particular. The obituary notice we think we have already published, although without the ac- companying remarks. We have been forced to adopt the plan, except on special occasions, of confining such notices within the limits of six lines, otherwise we could not find room for all we receive..... A. A. Dayton.—We notified youtwo weeks ago with regard to the poem on M.E. W. ‘Eden Lost’ is a fine thing, but altogether too longfor our columns. It would make an excallent magazine article. We have forwarded it to your ad- dress...... G. W. West.—The paper shall be sent. The letter was forwarded......P. Aug. Anderson.—We have already published ‘An Affair of Love and Honor.” H was published in No. 45 of the present volume, being dated September 29. We don’t see how you came to overlook it......Zutie Vernon.—We may have already published the article. If we have not, however, wo will try to comply with your request. Should it ap- pear with your proper name attached, however, you must not blame us. We should require sucha mem- ory as man never had to recollect every injunction we get. The only sure way to have MSS. inserted in the manner you desire is not to let them go out of your hands till you are satisfied they are right, The missing number shall be sent...... Mrs. L. E. P.— This correspondent, who lives in a rear building in Co- lumbia street, complains that her neighbors in the ad- joining houses are in the habit of throwing slops from their windows into the alleyway below, to the great detriment of those who have to pass back and forth. Shoe desires to know what course to pursue to abate the nuisance. Our advice is that she expostulate kindly with the offenders first— point out to them the injue- tice of their action—and then, if they contiaue to re- peat the offence, lodge a com plaint against the parties at the nearest Station House, and the nuisance will prob- ably be abated......¥. H. Morse.—By making applica- tion either at the Academy of Design or the Cooper In- stitute in this city, you will get all the informa. tion you desire. At the tormer institute, wo bo- lieve, pupils must be able to draw from plaster casts before they can gain admission—at the latter institute mo degree of the art is requisite........ PF, Williams.--The sketches you left with us evince some talent, but they are hardly perfect enough for ublication. You will have to practice a considerable time before you willbe able to write for the press...... The following MSS. are received and accepted: *‘Sev- ered Ties;” ‘A Desperate Struggle;’’ “Foiling a Secret Agent;” “Leading the Gauger;”’ “Willie and I;” ‘Thon and Now;” “Piscatory Sport;’? “The Indian Chief;’’ “Old Ben’s Story; “Ob, 3 Beautifal Dream was Mine,”* ..e-.- Lhe following are respecifully declined: ‘Tho Two Brothers; ‘The I'alse Charge;’’ ‘‘The Dying Sol- dier, = Omens eS ee ead > a oma © pee ere Semneeneees So THE SOLDIER’S RETURN. BY MARY Y FLETCHER. Autumnal tints were fading fast From valley and from hill, And dead leaves rustled sadly past, Borne on the breeze so still; As if imploring aid, the trees Raised their bare arms on high; When worn and wasted with disease They brought him home to die. Back to the home where he had pasz0d. His happy boyhood’s years— They slowly bore him back, at last, In silence and in tears. He thought he could more sweetly rest Beneath a Northern sky, $o to the ones he loved the best They brought him home to die, Tho’ once, perchance, it might have made Life’s ebbing tide flow back, Now vain, alas! ail earthly aid, For death was on his track, For deeper grew the hectic flush, And brighter grew the eye, More fearful racked the hollow covgh— They brought him to die. When will this fearful war ba o’or, And all this suffering cease, When martyred spirits shall no moro Pant but for their release ? Vainly the question oft we ask, Vainly we wait reply ! Ob, God! ’tis such a sad, sad task To bring them home to die, Yet many a mother’s darling boy In many a dreary ward, And many a father’s pride and joy, Stretched on his pallet hard, And manhood in its blighted noon, Whose hopes once soared s0 high, Would deem it such a blessed boon Just to come home to die, wee ¢ LY 9: 0- ai pecreenemrneeec mma LETTY DEANE: OR; Flirtation and its Consequences. By the author of the ‘Heir of Ravenside.” CHAPTER 1. Queensdown was as pretty a village as you would see in a journey through England; and Letty Deane was a much prettier girl than is often found among rustic belles, even in this favored land of female beauty. Nothing could be lovelier than those great brown eyes, at once arch, and shy, and ten- der; than that wild rich bloom of color, those dimpled cheeks, and pouting, rosy mouth. The misfortune was that Letty herself was not only fully conscious of these advantages, but owing vartly to natural defects, and more to the training of a weak mother, was dis- posed to value them much more highly than they deserved. These defects would probably have height- ened into more positive blemishes, if, before she was twenty, Letty had not chanced to fall in love with Tom Ballantyne, the foreman at old Trneman’s the wheelwright, at Queens- down, who was getting past work now. When she came back one spring evening from a long, delicious, sauntering walk by the winding little brook that flowed through Qneensdown, she confessed to her mother, with a happy falter in her pretty treble tones, that Tom Ballantyne had asked her that eve- ning to be his wife, and that she had not said “No.” “Not said ‘no’!” cried Mrs. Deane, sharply. “The girl’s never going to be such a goose as to tell me that she’s given her word to marry @ journeyman wheelwright!” ~‘Why shouldn’t I, mother?’ says Letty, looking frightened. ‘If he’s a journeyman now, he’ll be a master before long; old True- man as good assaidso. Hethinks everything of Tom.” i ssA deal more than he deserves, Pll be bound. For my part, I’ve been distrusting that Tom Ballantyne ever since I see him one day making eyes at you. Thinks I, ‘I shouldn’t wonder, now, if he is after our Letty, just be- cause he knows that her father is a saving man and a thriving, with more nor one pound laid up.snug somewhere, and no chick nor ‘child to leave it to but her. To think of her demeaning herself by thinking of a paltry journeyman !’” “A paltry journeyman! Hoe can’t help be- ing that, and it’s no shame, nor no fault; and journeyman as he is, I'd rather marry Tom than the finest lord in all England.” Catching up her bonnet, Letty marched up to her own room. When out of sight of her mother,she hid her face among the bed-clothes, and cried and sobbed heartily. But in spite of Mrs. Deane’s avowed dislike and opposition, when Fom Ballantyne went to Mr. Deane the next evening after work, with his straightforward demand for permission to wed his daughter as soon as he could show that he was able to support her, Letty’s fa- ther, if he did not absolutely give the consent demanded, certainly did not deny it. “There ain't a man in all the village I thinks higher of; ll go as far as to say there ain’t no one I'd sooner call son-in-law, nei- ther,” said the good-natured farmer. ‘But what's the use of that, when I tell you, honest Tom, that the missus has set her face clean agin the match, and no good ever come of crossing her, as I see? At any rate, peace and quiet ’ud be gone for me and Letty, if we did. 9 “Mr. Deane,” says Tom, eagerly, ‘Letty and {can wait, and perhaps her mother will get over her feeling against me when she sees how true I love my little giz], and how willing Tam to work hard and makea home for her. i§ I don’t want, nor ask, that she should give up 4} anything for me. iif, asked Lotty to be my wife, if I hadn’t thought ‘icf I see my way clear to keeping her as she’s at fa i ta is No, nor I wouldn’t have been used to. I don’t ask to marry her before that time comes; and, if it don’t come in a year, you're oa a take back your wars: 2 ‘SA man can’t say no fairer than that,” an- swered Mr. Deane. ‘Keep things quiet; don’t gg and run your head against the missus, and perhaps she'll come round in time.” And so matters rested.. Letty had a private talk with her father, from which she came away with bright eyes and a happy smile; and Tom Ballantyne, in spite of Mrs. Deane’s cold looks and sharp words, went regularly once a week to smoke a quiet pipe with the farmer, for the mere pleasure of sitting in the same room with Letty. But the lovers managed, as the summer went on, to have pleasanter meet- ings than these. One evening, when returning from a market town at a few miles distance, to which he had been on some business of his master’s, Tom saw at a sudden bend of the road, not very far ahead of him, a trim little figure, which he knew at tho first glance could only belong to Letty Deane. ‘‘Where have you been, and where are you going?” said Tom Ballantyne, after greetings were over. “ve been to grandmother's, and I’m going home. Mother told me particularly to be back early. And since Captain Waller came, you know, there’s more to do in the house than mother and Nancy can manage; and then Nancy’s so awkward that mother don’t care for her to go much into his rooms, nor touch his things.’ ‘Why, you don’t mean to say, Letty, that you act as waiting-maid to this fine London gentleman?” inquired Tom, looking by no means pleased. ‘‘Waiting-maid! No, indeed!” answered Letty, tossing her head; ‘‘and as to Captain Waller’s being a fine gentleman, I can tell you, Tom, he’s much too real a one to let me wait upon him. Why, he sets me a chair, andopens the door for me, as polite as if I was the first lady in the land,’’ ‘What call has he to set chairs or open doors for you?’’ says Tom, firing. ‘Because I'm a woman” (‘‘and a pretty one,” sho thought, if she did not say it); “and that’s what gentlemen are taughtis proper be- havior to women. And ah, Tom! it’s those things that make real gentlemon so pleasant and agreeable.” She ended the sentence with a sigh that was partly real, partly affected; for her vanity was gratified by the careless, good-natured atien- tion of the handsome young soldier, who had come to Queensdown for a few week’s fishing, and had been recommended to Mr. Deane’s spare rooms; and her natural coquetry began to creep oat, as soon as the course of true love seemed to be running somewhat sluggishly smooth. “But you're not a lady,” said Tom, very un- wisely—being both hurt and angry; ‘and I don’t see what you have to do with gentlemen as wouldn't be better left alone.”’ ‘Perhaps I might be one, if I chose,” replied Letty, carelessly; ‘‘at any rate, I’m told so of- ten enough.” ‘“Whoever tells you that is no true friend to you, Letty,” Tom burst out; ‘no, nor don’t mean no good by you. O, Letty! just mind poor Nelly Coveney, and what she came to with her airs and graces, and wanting to be a lady.” ‘‘How dare you speak of Nelly Coveney to me?” retorted Miss Letty; ‘‘or compare me to the like ofher? It’s time we said good-bye, I think. Nelly Coveney, indeed!” And regardless of all poor Tom’s explana- tions, apologies, and petitions for pardon, Let- ty Deane turned her back upon him, and walked away. This was the lover's first quarrel, and it was not more lasting in its duration than such things usually are. But Captain Waller lin- gered unaccountably at the quiet little vil- lage, Tom thought; and several times Letty re- peated the young soldier’s idle compliments to her pretty self; so that his jealousy, far from being appeased, was only smouldering danger- ously. One afternoon, as they were taking one of those walks that somehow of late had grown fewer and farther between, Tom broke a peri- od of silence by stooping to gather a pretty wayside flower, and. saying, as he gave it to Letty: - “Here’s a bit of apple-pie—the first I’ve seen this year. How nice it smells.”’ ‘Don’t call it apple-pie, Tom; it’s the achil- lea millefolium,” says Miss Letty, pronouncing the lengthy botanical name with great preci- sion and correctness. ‘“Achilly what?” Tom repeated, opening his eyes. ‘‘Where did. you pick up such a fine name for poor little apple-pie ?” ‘“‘I didn’t pick it up anywhere, that I know of. Captain Waller knows all the right names for flowers and things, and he’s teaching me, It’s called botany, Tom; and, oh, it’s so inter- esting! I know lots of names for quite com- mon little flowers, ever so much longer and harder than that; and all about stamens, and pistils, and petals. You can’t think how nice it is, Tom,’’ ‘‘And when does Captain Waller find time to teach you all this stuff?” inquired Tom. ‘‘Hecame here to fish, I understood; then why don’t he do it ?” ‘He does do it, you stupid Tom! He’s con- tinually down at the river; and mother says it i3 her belief that he would neither eat nor drink, on account of worrying those wretched fishes, if she didn’t make me take a bit of lunch in a basket to him in the middle of the day. And sometimes he’s a good bit off; and then he always makes me sit down and rest, and, as often as not, comes and takes a rest too; and then, you see, one day he began to tell me the right names of some flowers he’d gathered down by the river, which were very strange and rare, if seemed, though I thought they lacked: common enough things when he first showed them to me.’ “And so your mother knows of is fine botney lessons?” Tom said, gloomily. “Bot-a-ny, if you please! Well, and what then ?” inquired Miss Letty, pertly. “What then!” the angry lover retorted; ‘why, then, she ain’t minding the part of a mother by you. You're too good and inno- cent to know what wickedness is done some times by gentlemen as look every bit as honest, and speak every bit as kindly, as Captain Wal- ler. Promise me, Letty, that you won’t have no more of this schoolmastering work—no, nor no more of Captain Waller’s company either, after this.” His voice was imploring, his manner unusu- ally gentle. ‘ Letty answered saucily: ‘‘Youd be all the better for schoolmaster- ing of some sort, Tom. And let me tell you that, though you don’t scruple to try and make out that a gentleman you know nothing about is as bad as bad can be, you might go and learn a lesson from him as would improve you very much. Captain Waller never says any harm of any one.”’ ‘‘He may be nigher to perfection than any- thing in all the mortal world, for all I care,” says Tom, fully exasperated now; ‘‘but the wo- man that is to be my wife shan’t go philander- ing about with him, and that I tell you fair and open, Letty Deane.” “Good night, Tom,” answers Miss Letty, sweetly. ‘I don’t want to quarrel, and you'll make me, I see, ifI stay. So, ‘good night, and I hope you'll be in a better temper to-mor- row.” So saying, she turned her back on her an- gry lover, and walked away across a footpath in the direction of home, without once look- ing to see what had become of him. Left alone, Tom felt excessively injured and indignant; but, being very honestly and deep- ly in love, he was anxious and alarmed. ‘The stupid old mother is as proud as a peacock,” thought he, ‘‘when she sees this fellow hankering after my Letty. She’s al- ways saying as how Letty, with her looks and bringing up, is fit for a gentleman’s wife, and don’t ought to marry with no one else, And Mr. Deane is no better nor a blind bat, so long as there’s peace and quiet in the house.” Poor Tom! His anger melted away in a fit of self-reproach, and shame, and horrible rack- ing anxiety; and the end of it was that, when the sun was quite down and the moon had not risen, Tom Ballantyne found himself watching and waiting under the wall of farmer Deane’s house, glancing up every now and then at that pretty, flower-bedecked lattice, out of which the sweet face of his little mistress had some- times bid him a kind good night. But all was dark and still as yet in the little chamber; no light fell from within on the clustering roses; nothing stirred them. He was standing in the shadow of the house, just where he command- ed a partial view of the garden over the low fence, when a sudden agitation among the hop vines and mass of creepers that clustered over the porch leading into that garden, attracted his attention. He: leaned forward eagerly. Perhaps Letty was coming to ramble round the garden for awhile before going to bed; if so— yes, it was herself, sure enough; no mistaking that soft, cooing laugh; but ah! wait; she is not alone, “You're sure you're not afraid of taking cold? But it’s such a heavenly night,” said a pleasant masculine voice, that Tom ground his teeth to hear; for, though the words were so common, there was a clear vibrating distinct- ness in their utterance that stamped the speak- er not of Tom’s nor Lstty’s rank, There was an answer in lower tones, and the next instant both speakers came into view .They stood a minute or two talking, then sauntered away down the narrow garden path, and almost im- mediately vanished into shade; but the sound of Captain Wallex’s voice continued to be heard. After awhile they again came into sight, tak- ing their way, leisurely enough indeed, and with several pauses, back to the house. Reach- ing the porch, they stopped there; and now Tom could plainly hear Letty’s voice as she said, glancing up at her companion the while: ‘Yd better goin, now. I know you'd be glad to smoke your cigar out here, and you'll not do it till ’m gone; though I’ve told you I like the smell; it’s quite different from horrid pipes and tobacco.” “But Pll take my cigar, if you'll stay, Miss Letty.”’ Letty langhed as she answered, and Tom could not catch the words; but she lingered half in, halfout of the porch, that was cortain, while Captain Waller leant with his back against tho rustic trellis, and talked in the in- terrupted and sententious manner so usual with a man when there is a otaer between his lips. Presently Letty stood up and said: “I must gonow. Good night, Captain Wal- ler.” Ske was very close to the young man as she turned her pretty faco up toward his; what light there was touched its soft outlines into: sudden and strange beauty as he looked down in answer. He threw away his cigar sud- denly. ‘Must you go? Well, then, good night— good night.” And before Tom could “pring forward, or call out, or do anything but stand stock-still, with the blood rushing like a roaring torrent to his brain, Captain Waller had lifted Letty’s face between his hands and kissed it! pcsemeenneerTET T CHAPTER IL The noonday shadows were soarce at their shortest, next day, when Captain Waller drew in his line and laid down his rod. little Let- ty ought surely be in sight by this time with that luncheon basket, which would be particu- larly welcome just now. There she was; that was surely the flutter of a woman’s dress among the underwood yonder. No; it wasact- ually only Nancy, the red-cheeked, rough- handed serving-maid of Mr. Deane, bearing the basket, to which Captain Waller suddenly became supremely indifferent. ‘‘— wonder what prevented the little thing from coming herself? Have I offended the lassie? Pooh! girls of her degree are not of- fended so lightly.” When evening arrived, and Captain Waller strolled out into the garden, he stood for a mo- ment before a dark opening in the trees. His eyes were suddenly met by two great brown ones. ‘I beg your dardon, Captain Waller,” said Letty, for it was she, ‘I did not know this arbor was a retreat of yours, orI should not have disturbed you.” Then she would have passed him without farther remark, but he said: “Tam afraid I ought to ask your pardon, very seriously, too, for my offence of last night. Ithink you would forgive me, Miss Letty, if you knew how sorry Ihave been all day.” Had he said enough? too much? what had he said? All these questions chased each other through Captain Waller’s mind, as he beheld the girl suddenly stop, cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of weeping and sobbing, seemingly so beyond all reason, that an uncomfortable suspicion darted into the young man’s mind—to be dismissed the next instant, however. These choking sobs, which yet she tried to stifle the sound of, were too evidently only the renewed outburst of an imperfectly spent passion of grief. In great distress and surpriso he went up beside her. ‘Letty, surely nothing I have done could give occasion for all this. I cannot believe—’ “Of course you can’t believe, nor anybody else wouldn’t believe, but him; and nothing in all the world wouldn't make him think any other now!” Letty cried, dropping her apron from before her face. and regarding the amazed Captain Waller with something of mingled fear and dislike. “Make who think, and think what?” he said, soothingly. ‘Pray do not cry so; andif you can, tell me what is the matter.” Then, in a renewed burst of sobbing, out came Letty’s engagement, her lover's jealousy (shyly touched on this), and finally, the cruel letter that had come to Letty this morning, in which Tom had related what he hadseen in the porch last night—had renounced all thoughts of marriage with a girl who plainly despised what a poor man had to offer, and was hank- ering after some one above him—and then bade her good-bye for ever, with the intima- tion that ho had left Queensdown to return no more. The letter itself was in Captain Waller's hands, for Letty, in attempting to relate its contents, became utterly incoherent, and end- ed by drawing it from its concealment, and muitely offering it. So mach of real, bitter human aveoie |! such heart-félt foreboding of harm to come to the girl he loved, and mourned over, and left, so much rough and yet sorrowfully true wara- ing, spoke through all the rambling, ill-con- structed sentences and homely phraseology of the poor workman’s letter, that the care- less but gentle young soldier was smitten to the heart. Deeply affected by her woo, and shocked at having been the cause of it, he tried to comfort the sobbing girl, scarcely conscious of the promises he was making, till Letty dried her eyes, and said: ‘Thank you sir, ’m sure, If you'll try and find out where Tom’s gone to—— But, oh!” she added, pressing her hands hard together, ‘df ever he’s found, who'll tell him how true and dear I loved him always--how proud I was of him, in spite of my nonsense; and if he’s told, how will he ever believe it now?” Of course, the sudden disappearance of the popular Tom caused no small talk in the lit- tle village, Tho lovers’ quarrel was shrewdly guessed at, dnd Letty Deane met with but scant mercy. it cannot be denied that she had borne her- self, in general, somewhat superciliously; and even in the day of her trouble and humilia- tion, this was not forgotten. The anguish of bitter self-reproach and shame, which kept her silent and uncomplaining, knowing her pun- ishment was only the just recompense of her thoughtless conduct, bore the cutward form of pride and hardness, thus calling down severe remark and unqualified censure. She found but little sympathy in her moth- er. Mrs. Deane railed at Tom, and thanked her stars for being rid of him. Days, and even weeks, went by with no news of him, and no word from Captain Waller, till one morning the postman stopped Letty, and put a letter into her hand. It was from Waller. Tom was found. He had gone straight from Queensdown to Farnly, and enlisted in a regi- ment of dragoons stationed there. Strangely enough, he was now a member of Captain Waller’s own troop. The letter was a very kind one. Neverthe- less, the young officer wrote in more perplexi- ty than he cared to express. He had lost no time in endeavoring to undo the mischief he had caused. He sent for Tom to explain mat- ters, and expressed an‘ honest regret for his part in it; butin vain, Tom listened ima ficrce sifence, so embarrassing to the young officer, that his kindly offer of money sufficient to buy Tom’s discharge came somewhat awkwardly, and it was instantly and ssornfuily rejected. In his letter he tried to soften the truth as much as possible, and generously offered to place the money for Tom’s discharge at Let- ty’s disposal; trusting, as he said, that the lover would accept at the hands of his repent- ant mistress the favor he had refused from his supposed rival, Mr. Deane, melted by the sight of his daugh- ter’s grief, wrote to Tom, and made the offer as if from himself; speaking in moving terms of Letty’s grief, entreating him to come back, and let things be as they had been, and finally: enclosing a little note from Letty herself, in which she confessed all her fault, and humbly prayed to be forgiven. All was in vain. To Mr. Deane there came merely thanks and a refusal. To Letty, this: “What was done could not be undone!” Dark was the scowl with which the private regarded his officer when they met, and very soon that, and other particulars of Tom’s bes havior where Captain Waller was concerned, among his comrades. Meanwhile, poor little Letty pined slowly away. Nothing pleased, nothing interested her now] She almost fhought nothing could ever grieve her very much again, when one day Mr Deane came in with a face all awe-stricken and pale, and Letty, sitting listlessly. at work in the window, heard him whispering to her mother. A sudden fear almost overwhelmed her. “Father,” she said, rising up and looking at him, ‘‘you have heard something of Tom?” ‘Well, well, lass; and suppose I have ?” said Mr. Deane, soothingly, but with a quiver in his voice. ‘You may as well tell me at once, father I almost think that nothing could, hurt me now; only, if Tom is dead—and I suppose that must be what you are going to say—I will pray Hea- ven to take me too, that we may be together in that other world, where no wrong and no mis- takes can come; and then, at least, he will know how I loved him always.” This sad, trembling appeal, smote the fa- could make up his mind what to say, Mrs. Deane burst out indignantly: ‘Hold your tongue, Letty, this instant! Don’t talk in that way of a wicked murderer! And while Letty stood gasping with terror, her mother went on: ‘*Yos, a murderer—a cruel, cowardly mur- derer— that took the poor young gentleman uns knew there wasn’t no good in that Tom; and now, perhaps, people will see ay I wasn’t wrong. To think that I should hear my daugh- ter a boasting of her love for one as ll come to the gallows, and serve him right! Letty, I’m ashamed of you!” ‘‘ather,’’ said Lotty, with 4 sob that caught her breath, ‘‘what does she mean ?—I can’t un- derstand.” ‘My poor lass!” said Mr. Deane, with deep emotion, ‘‘Captain Waller has been shot by one of the soldiers of his own regiment, and the evidence, presumptive and circumstantial, points to Tom Ballantyne as the perpetrator of the crime:” “But you don’t believe it of him ?” said Let- Bs “You and I can uever believe it of him, ather !” There wasn’t no man as ever I thought more on,” answered the farmer; ‘‘and that my lassie knows; but they say he spoke hard words of Captain Wailer in the hearin’ of fal and fierce-like toward him, whenever he could; Captain Waller—poor gentleman—be- ing, as they all declare, most patient, apts never seeming to take no notice.” ‘Father, he never did it!” “Well, well, Letty, I wish I could say that, with all my heart, as you do,” answered her father, in a troubled voice; ‘but facts is strong, and evidence is strong, and everything tells against Tom. Heaven forgive me!—have I killed my child?’ he cried ont, terrified, as Letty fainted in his arms, CHAPTER, IIT. The sentry on duty before the place where Tom was confined, looked with interest and pity at the frail, trembling figure, clinging to her father’s arm, while tho sergeant showed the pass which admitted William Deane and his daughter to the prisoner. At last she was to see Tom face to face once more. All the woe, and misery, and shame whisk waited on this sad meeting vanished when the door slowly opened, and the prisoner turned his face, sadly altered, towards them. Letty sprang towards him in ecstacy. ‘OQ, Letty! Letty! you are the first that they call me, ever since that awfal night.” “O, Tom! do you think I could believe you would do such a wieked, cowardly deed ?” eried Letty, fervently. ‘And hares father. doesn’t believe it of you either.’ The prisoner turned a grateful ip payed his old friend. ‘‘Loastways, I don’t say, Tom satthuhiaite;” said the farmer, honestly, “but what I have thought things appeared black against you; but if you look mein the face straightforward, and say you never lifted your hand in that cowardly deed, why, then ['li believe you in the teeth of all the evidence and all the facts,’? “My little girl believes, without that,” Tom auswered, looking fondly down upon her. Letty seated herself at the side of the low bed, and taking hold of Tom’s hand, said to him: “O, Tom! are you still angry with me? I never meant any harm. It all came out of my wicked vanity, and trying to tease you; but I loved you always—and never more than when I behaved worst.” “IT knew that what the poor sre eitiad tald me was true; but I was that mad with jealousy, came to be the subject of common remark ther’s heart with grief and pity; but before he | 999 awares, and shot at him. I always said and. many, and always showed himself disrespect- hasn’t lookedat meas if I was the murderer / \ wg AA dL Ye ger ices a) ~ end wouldn’t.own it. For oh! Letty, the kiss I saw him give you that night roused the devil in me, I think, though I believed him in my heart, and knowed he was speaking truth. I .don’t deny as I'd have asked no better than to pay off what I owed him for coming between us. But that your father should think I could ever have acted like a cowardly assassin!” “I don’t think it of you, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Deane, hastily; ‘if I did, should I be here to-day, and have brought her? But that facts is facts, and goes hard against you, cannot be denied.’’ All the bitterness of death was in the part- ing which came presently. The poor girl was conscious of her lover’s perilous position. It is not necessary to enter into the dreadful array of evidence which seemed to fix suspi- cion of a crime 50 horrible upon the unfortu- nate youngman. Captain Waller yet lingered, though without, as it was said, theleast chance of recovery. Even if sense and speech returned before death, it was not at all probable that he would be able to give a clue to the real perpe- trator of the deed. When Letty returned home her mother was awed into silence, so wasted and feeble did she appear. ‘Say nothing to her agin Tom,” said Mr. Deane, hoarsely; ‘‘she looks upon him as dead, I think, and is only waiting to follow him. I’m going back to see if there’s nothing to be done,” A day or two went by, and Mr. Deane nei- ther wrote nor returned. But at last, one evening, the rapid sound of light cart-wheels was heard. ‘Is it father come back ?”’ said’ Letty to her mother, who was beside her. ‘‘Ah! he is here to tell me everything.” Mr. Deane was already in the room, “Father,” said Letty, clinging tohim, ‘Oh! who is that? AmI indeed awake?” ‘Heaven is good, my dearest Letty,” Ton said—for it was he,. ‘All has come right at last.” : Captain Waller had recovered sufficiently to speak clearly and with certainty as to the maa who had fired at him, and whom he had: seen and recognized at the instant he raised his weapon. He was one upon whom no suspi- cion had lighted; but who confessed, after his apprehension, both the deed and its motive. Of course Tom Ballantyne’s release followed immediately; and the wounded young officer begged to see him for a few minutes before he ‘left the barracks and a soldier's life for ever. At that meeting Tom and Waller—who soon after beeame perfectly convalescent—ex- changed forgiveness, and bade each other fare- well. Tom came back to the village better, wiser, and humbler. Letty also had been taught a painfal but most useful lesson; and both were now worthy of each other. ‘THE VERNONS; TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS OF LIFE, {Back numbers of ‘The Yernons’’ can be obtained from every News Agentthroughout the United States.} OHAPTER XXXII, There are few places in England which, in their peculiar cell of the great national bee-hive, have given larger contributions to its commercial honey than the good town of Sheffield. Perhaps a higher eulogy on the spirit with which it has done its duty in the cause of progress could scarcely be found, than in the remark which the splendid part it bore in the first Great Exhibition elicited from its mighty rivals; “If we were not Birming- ham, we could wish to be Sheffield.” — But every light has its corresponding shadow. The man who has been a king for two brief hours on the boards of a theatrical palace, may go supperless to bed because his pocket is shilling- jess; he who has been electrifying an assembly with his eloquence may look cautiously round svery corner as he walks home, fearing lest one oi them should conceal the officer in whose hands he knows his tailor has placed a warrant for his arrest. The belle of the season, on the grand ball night which has consummated her triumph, and brought the London world to her feet, leaves that world in ecstacies at the beauty and brillian- cy which she has displayed so dazzlingly, and re- tires from the overwhelming plaudits of the edife, to shed the bitter téar in secret that the voice of the one did not swell the chorus. The merchant or banker who listens with such a well-bred smile to your sly joke about his wealth, knows, perhaps, that his doors will be closed in the morning, and that his creditors will be speculating whether their dividend will be three shillings or two-and-six- pence. The clown in the pantomime, whose grin as he left the stage has almost thrown your chil- dren into convulsions, is himself groaning behind the scenes from a horrible twinge of toothache. The-——- But why multiply examples? very light has its shadow, as we said. The very sun has its spots; and—itis but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous, dear reader—Sheffield has its spots also. — The most prevailing of these spots—the plague spot of the town, in fact, to the casual visitant—is the smoke. ‘The place looks like an enormous cigar; as if some score or two of Titans of classi- cal dimensions—one of whom is said to have measured seven acres—were lying complacently underneath the suface, and smoking enormous maniflas. The whole aspect of the place, indeed, if you chance to look at it when factories are busy, may be resolved into one word—smoke. The atmosphere is smoke; the houses are black with smoke; the churches on the hill have often an exceedingly picturesque effect, as their spires, shooting high above the town, seem t0 spring out of 2 mysterious substratum of smoke. Smoke, in fact, is the great characteristic of Sheffield, but the Englishman—the plain, practical, working Englishman—has no objection to smoke in its roper place, as long as,there is not all smoke. e knows that smoke has accompanied great events. There was plenty of it at the batile of Wat- erloo; he sees it, even now—in a less demonstra- ye form—take a part in revolutionizing the world. But we did not bring the reader to Sheffield to talk of smoke; though, really, the words are s0 synonymous that it is almost impossible to separ- ate them. The parties with whom we are more immediately interested are seated opposite each other in @ dingy little counting-house in Rocking- ham Lane, far removed from any consciousness of the smoke we have been speaking of. They are two keen, worldly-minded men of business, each intent on benefiting himself at the expense of his opposite neighbor; each aware that the gaid opposite neighbor is an antagonist, actuated by the same motives, and worthy of his best strength; and each, therefore, equally solicitous to outwit the other. One of the gentlemen in tonsuliation was our old friend, Mr. Weldon, whom we left in the last chapter ‘just gone out of town,” and who had now arrived at his destination, and was engaged in furthering the object of his journey. This ob- ject was the marriage of his son to the daughter of a millionaire, whose property, as she was an only child, might be considered settled in the fam- ily; and whose largely remunerative business might, at his death—which coul | not be very far off—be either incorporated with the Damascus Works, or disposed of to great advantage, as should seem most desirable in the future. The other gentleman was Mr. Anderson, the million- aire in question; who had glanced at the Damas- cus Works, and the lifo of their owner, with the same business eye, and arrived, with reference to the future, at the same business conclusions, ‘‘Well, Anderson,” observed Mr. Weldon, who had been for some time poring over a mass of papers, “‘all this looks straightforward enough. I knew you were whipping the top all along; but I didn’t think it was quite to such a tune as this is, and I may as well say it ag mean it.” “I suppose it is pretty well, considering,” re- plied the Sheffield man, modestly. ‘*Pretty well, do you call it?” langhed Mr. Wel- don—he was always most dangerous when he laughed; ‘‘pretty well, do you callit? LIonly wish we could do the thing in this style at Birmingham —I only wish we could, that’s all. Well, ’'m very glad of it, my old friend. You've worked hard enough for it, and you've deserved to getit. It’s all quite satisfactory, of course. What else could itbe? AndI don’t see, for my part, why the young people shouldn’t get married at once, and have done with it. They haven’t seen one an- other yet, to be sure; but I don’t know that it makes much odds. I dare say you’ve brought up your daughter just as I have brought up my son —to know that the only thing she has got to mind is to do what you tell her.” “Um 1” said Mr, Anderson, with a self-satisfied smile, and a look which said more than the smile and the tone put together. “I have brought my girl up preity strictly; and if I say I will have a thing dene, 1 don’t think she will be the one to answer, ‘I won’t do it.’ ” ‘That's the sort of thing,” cried Mr. Weldon, rubbing his hands; “that’s the way to doit. It’s just the same in house; and so it ought to be in every house. I’ve only got to hold up my finger, and they all fly. That’s what I call the proper regulation of a household, Well, then, I suppose, as I said, we had better get the young folks married off hand, and have done with it.” “There are one or two things to be looked at firot,” suggested Mr. Anderson. “Oh, we needn’té trouble about anything fur- ther, L think,” observed Mr. Weldon, in an ofi- hand sort of way: “You know me, and I know’ you; and that’s quite enough, I believe.” ‘As far ag we are concerned, perhaps,” replied Mr. Anderson, with a quiet smile, which was not without a shade of ambiguity in it; ‘‘but there are other things to look at, If we take the matter in this way, a8 soon as they are married and I am gone everything will fall to your son, as a matter of course—my business, my private property, and all. My daughter will.be a mere cipher, and your son wiil be the figure that stands beforoit. You did not think of that, perhaps,” he said, covertly. “Oh, dear no, certainly not,” replied Mr. Wel- don, with the quick and balf-indignant tone with which a man hastens to clear himself from an un- just aspersion; “fof course I did not. Howshould Lam not a lawyer, you know. Is that the law ?”—Shylock asked the same question some centuries ago.—‘‘I only thought to save a little trouble to old friends such as we are. That’s the way the thing would operate, is it? You are quite sure about that?” ‘ “Quite; and that won’t do, of course,” said Mr. Anderson, drily. “Oh, of course not—oh, of course not,” replied Mr. Weldon, shuffling a little uneasily in his chair. os how are we to meet it? That’s the ques- jon.’ “By settlements,” observed Mr, Anderson, with a quiet impressiveness in his tone. ‘Tae sword-cutler’s countenance fell, as if one of his own blades had descended on it. “By settlements,” repeated Mr. Andersou, with a keen look at his antagonist. ‘‘You are as rich a man as I am, to say the least of it. You have but two children. Your daughter is a fine girl, I know, and quite accomplished, they tellme. She is gure to marry well, and will want little or noth- ing. You must provide for your son in the first place, and settle something handsome on my daughter in the second.” “Asto my daughter,” observed Mr.. Weldon, with a chuckle, ‘perhaps you are right, and per- haps you are not, She may marry well, of course. She ought to doit. I mean her to do it, and the man that I have got in my eye, and that I expect will make her My Lady, or something of that sort, won’t chaffer to a pound as to what she’s to bring him. Hoeisn’t the man to do ‘it, exactly. But that’s neither here nor there. My son will have the place, of course, when I kick the bucket, as I suppose I shall, some of these days; and then he’ll have most of what there is init, 1 daresay. But I don’t see how lam to settle anything par- ticular on your daughter. Whenthey are married she will settle down as one of my family, you know; and of course [ shall remember her in my will, Yes, of course I shall. I mean to dojit, in fact. : I haven’t had time to make my will yet—I am always so busy, somehow—but it ought to be done, and it shall be done now. And I will take care of her in it, depend upon that.” “Tt is not a very strong dependence,” observed Mr. Anderson, pe ‘Why not? hy shouldn’t it be?” inquired his brother diplomatist. ‘Simply,” pep Mr. Anderson, “because a will may be made to-day, and revoked to-morrow, you know. Wills are slippery affairs, my good friend, Something under hand and seal is the proper thing.” ‘What are you going to do with your own prop- erty?” asked Mr. Weldon, abruptly. ‘You are getting an old man, like myself, you know, and you hayen’t got a son to step into your shoes, like Lhave. How about your business? How have you left it in your will ?” ‘The fact is,” replied Mr. Anderson, “that I have not made one. I have not been able to find time yet. It ought to be done I know; but I have always been so busy, somehow.” The rival schemers looked each other in the face, at firat, with all that keonness of gaze which be- longs to the children of Maramon; then their muscles relaxed, in spite of themselves, and each turned aside to hide the smile which he did not wish his companion to see, It is not our intention to drag our reader through the course of mining and countermining with which each of the diplomatists strove to ob- tain the vantage ground of the other. It would be uninteresting. in itself, and disgusting to the liberal-minded reader. It will be sufficient for our purpose to say that, after exhausting their powers of fence, they found themselves so equally matched, that they agreed at last on an arrange- ment which would leave matters much as they stood during their joint lives, but gave a great amount of both power and property to the sur- vivor. With this compromise the parties were tolerably satisfied; for though it foll short of the wishes of both, each of them surveyed the other with a scutinising eye as they parted, and mur- mured to himself, with considerable complacency: “TI shall last years longer than he does. It is easy to see that.” CHAPTER ‘XXXII, Three weeks had elapsed since the conversation recorded in the last. chgpter. Mr. Weldon, being ‘up there,” had attonded to some other mattcrs of business; chief among which had been a personal call on Mr. , the eminent manufacturer whom Sir Thomas Falcon- bridge had named one of his referees. Here he had found the good commercial opinion expressed in the letter more than confirmed; and heard many details of the baronet’s high-standing and personal wealth, mingled with some slight draw- backs about his fast qualities, which he knew be- fore, and looked upon as the discount on the transaction. Altogether, he came back highly pleased; the main point of satisfaction being, naturally, the terms he had succeeded in making for his son. These had been more favorablethan, considering the keen and grasping character of Mr. Anderson, he had at all anticipated; and the prejudiced person who looked at the two men—-s8o0 manifestly in his own favor, that it rather lowered his opinion of his brother schemers’s intellect to think that he should ever have consented to it. Neither of the contracting parties in this purely business _ transaction had, as we haye seen, thought it all necessary to consult their childron in making these arrangements. They were mere bales of goods, to be transferred as per invoice. The Sheffield manufacturer, as the reader may have guessed from his short interview with him, was a stern, arbitrary man, whose daughter, like Amy Weldon, in similar hands, had never dared, from her childhood, to have any will but her father’s; and who was, therefore equally certain to deliver herself up to immolation, if the sacri- fice were imperatively demanded, as quietly and as meekly as the lamb offers itself to the knife. Mr. Weldon, on his side, was perfectly satisfied that his son, when the proper time*arrived to inform him of what was intended for his benefit, would not dare to offer any determined opposition to his will, Why onearth shouldhe? The speculation, on commercial principles, was a most successfal one, and he ought to rejoice in its success. “At least,” he observed to himself, “‘he can’t be such ap ass a8 to have anything to say against it. Can’t, youknow. He’s fool enough, to be sure; but he ought to be able to tell on which side his bread’s buttered. The girl squints 4 little, cer- tainly; but we can’t have everything. It’s a chance that any young fellow might jump at; and he'll go down on his marrow-bones and thank me for it, if he has got as much grace in him as will g0 inside a salt spoon.” Entering his counting-house in this complacent mood, he sat down to examine some letters which had been received during his absence, and had not been thought of sufficient consequence to send on. Several were small orders, either laid aside for execution, or declined, because those who offered them were not considered ‘good men and true.” One was from a manin difficulties, offering goods much below the market value. This he labeled, ‘Accept; should have been sent to me at one.” Another was from a poor debtor, just recovering from a severe illness, soliciting the indulgence of a little longer time in his ac- count. Under this he wrote—‘‘Lawyer to sue.” Then he came to one which was neither directed in a business hand, nor folded ina business form; on opening this, with something of a feeling of contempt for the sort of people that didn’t know how to do things, he wag nota little astonished to read as follows: _ Ste: Not having been able to obtain a personal interview, and thinking it right that you should be informed that your son is paying his addresses to my sister, I am compelled to adopt this mode of acquainting you with the fact, having some doubts of its reaching you through any other channel. On the suitability of the alliance I offer no opinion. How far gentility of birth, excellence of disposition, and beauty and talents of no com- mon order, can compensate for the want of for- tune, itis your province to judge. Mine is, to free myself from the imputation of even appear- ing to connive at my sister’s entering any family clandestinely, or with the remotest possibility of her being received with disfavor; and thereby to take the most effectual way of rebutting some slanders which have been lately most unwarrant- ably and most unjustly cast upon myself. REGINALD VERNON. Mr. Weldon went steadily through this letter, then laid it down. and sat for a few minutes as ii stupefied. He then turned to the address, to be assured that it was indeed intended for him. His next step was to ring the bell with such violence, that the young clerk whose duty it was to reply to the summons, stumbled over the door-mat as he answered it, and entered the room with more haste than elegance, ‘“‘Whon did this letter come?” was the first in- quiry, ‘The day you went away, sir.” “And why didn’t you send it on, you num- skull?” “We thought it was of no consequence, sir. The young man that broughtit wanted to see you inthe morning, and you said you wouldn’t be bothered by him, and told us to send him away if he ever came again; so we thought this was a begging letter, or something of that sort.” “You thought, indeed?” cried the master an- grily. ‘‘You are always thinLing something that ou’ve no right to think, you stupid blockhead ! here’s Mr. Henry ?” ‘Just gone out, sir, Isaw him pass the win- dow ag you rang.” “Run after him, and tell him I want him direct- ly. Bo quick now. If you don’t catch him, Vil send you about your business inva jiffy.” The poor fellow, who was the sole support of a mother and three invalid sisters, needed no fur- ther incentive to celerity; and so great was his dispatch that the culprit presented himself at the door before his father had fully made up his mind in what way to receive him. His feelings, however, or at least the mostacnie one he possessed—-the love of money, and the de- sire to be the bashaw of his family—were too deeply engaged to permit him to employ that cun- ning and duplicity which had often overreached a brother tradesman; and with a straightforward- ness of which, in a cooler moment, he would have been incapable, he dashed the letter down on the table before his son, and cried out; in a voice half- choked with passion: ‘Read that, sir, and tell me at once whether it is true, or alice! Well, sir, well!” he continued, with increased asperity, as he observed that his gon seomed in no haste to reply. “Supposing that there was some little truth in it, sir?” said the young man, in a deprecatory tone, and not raising his eyes from the paper. ‘Supposing that you were a goose |—an ass !—a fool!” cried the father, getting more indignant every moment. ‘Some little truth, indeed! It’s all true, every word of it! I can see it in your monkey’s face at once. Nobody can tell a wise man’s thoughts from ‘his face; but you can always tell a fool’s. Howcamos you to disgrace yoursel? and me in this manner, eh ?” “T have not disgraced you, father,” said the young man a little more firmly. “Not disgraced me!” echoed Mr. Weldon, ‘What do you moan, I should like to know? Not disgraced me, by paying your addresses, as that pert young jackanapes has the impudence to call it, to a girl that’s as poor as a church mouse, and I dare say goes out dregs-making, or shoe-bind- ing, or something of that sort.” “Indeed, father, she does not, nor ever did,” said Henry; “‘sheis quite’ lady. I assure you she Goes nothing in that way whatever.” ‘Don’t. she?” growled Mr. Weldon; ‘‘more shame for her, then; that’s all ve got to say. It would bea deal more to her credit to get her bread in an honest way, like a decent girl, than, to dress herself up to try to catch foola that have more money than wit. It just makes out what I’ve heard of the set from Sir Thomas. They’re as poor as rate, and as full of pride as an egg’s full of meat, the whole pack of them.” ‘Whatever you have heard, father, and wher- ever you have heard it,” said the young man, speaking with some amount of spirit, ‘I can as- sure you that you have been mixginformed. You will find her a most estimable young lady in every sense of the word.” *“Non’t talk any of that stuff to me, boy,” cried Mr. Weldon; ‘I know the world a little bit too well to swallow it; and it’s lncky for you that i do. Of course, she was cunning enough to make you up a pretty tale—nobody doubts that; of course, you were fool enough to be gammoned by it—nobody doubts that either. But Im not tobe done; nor you either, any further than you have been already. You'll have to got ail that precious nonsense out of your head now; and the sooner you do it the better. I’ve got a wife for you; something like a wife; a woman that will make a man of you for life—not that you deserve it, mind you. And as the other is such an estimable young lady in every sense of the word, and I dare say you think her feelings ought to be handled as tenderly as if they were gouty feet, you'll have to write and tell her that you have been talking to your father, who has a good deal more sense than you have, and that he can see s hole through a ladder as well as most people, and does not choose to let you be imposed upon; and so she must go and try on her aira and her tricks in some place where they are not so wide awake.” “T cannot do that,” said Henry, for the first survivorship clause, in particular, was—to any un- | time looking his father full in the face. “You can’t!” cried Mr. Weldon. ‘Do you réc- ollect who you are talking to? I say you must and shall. There’s no trifling with me; you ought to know that. Here’s a sheet of paper; sit down and write it thig moment; and I'll send it myself, to make eure that it goes. Do you hear me, sir? Sit down, I say.” “Father,” cried the young man, ina tone of desperation, ‘I was married last week !” The shock of astonishment which the utterance of these few words produced on their hearer was sufficient to deprive him, for a moment, of the power of utterance; and Henry, who, having once broken the ice, felt himself loved from a heavy weight, hastened to profit by the pause, *Do not judge me too harshly, father. I ought to have spoken to you, I know, but I was afraid. I am satisfied, however, that when you come to know my wife you will see that I have acted for the best, and that I have secured a treasure, if not in a worldly sense, at least in a far better one, You are growing old, and require additional com- forts. Amy is going to be married; and when she leaves us, the value of a careful and affectionate daughter-in-law——” ‘Thank you!” said the old man, with unnatural calmness. ‘I’m getting old, as you are kind enough to tell me, but I’m not quite out of the way yet. What helpI shall want in the house when Lady Falconbridge goes. away, Ican man- age to get, I dare say. Don’t trouble yourself about me, I shall do well enough; better than you wish me to do, or your treasure of a wife either.” “OQ father!” cried the young man, earnestly; “why will you misjudgeus? If you could butlook into my heart—— ‘None of that!” exclaimed Mr. Weldon, stern- ly; “I want actions, not palaver. I’ve seen you act, and that’s quite enough. Now you'll see me act. 'I am willing to do anything in reason for a right-minded and obedient son, but I have noth- ing to say to an unnatural one, As you've thought proper to chalk out your own course without my authority, all that you’ve got to do is to follow it, and to manage the best way you can for yourself. You'll have to leave my house at once, and mind that I never see or hear from you again; do you understand ?” “Father!” cried Henry, cannot mean——” “TY mean just whatI say,” interrupted the old man; “usually do. Ishould have thought you might have known that by this time. I shall ex- pect you to go to-day.” “But you know I am utterly destitute,” pleaded his son, “Haven't you got a treasure of a wife?” de- manded his father, with a sneer. ; ‘You know she has nothing in a worldly point of view,” said Henry. ‘What's that to me?” returned Mr. Weldon. “You should have looked at that before you put your neck into the noose, You've made your bed now, and you must lie upon it.” ‘Don’t be too hard upon me,” cried the young man, “I will go away if you insist uponit; I will, indeed. But let me come and see you to-morrow, when you are cool.” ‘‘T am cool now,” replied the cutler. ‘You see Iam, don’t you? and, being cool, I tell you that you see me now for the last time, and that you'll never put your foot in my house again. Ive nothing more to say to you. Go. I’ve letters to write. Did you hear me?” he cried, in a louder tone—the angry feelings so long pent down by the strong effort of the wil! beginning to flash forth in the eye with unmistakable strength. “Begone, unless you are waiting for my curse!” The young man started, shuddered, and, with- out raising his eyes from the ground, glided noise- legsly from the room, quite aghast; ‘you ane RIES CHAPTER XXXIV. Henry Weldon left his father’s presence in a state of half stupor. The late scene had been so unexpected in its commencement, and so stun- ning in its conclusion, that his reasoning powers were suspended for a time, and the whole seemed like a terrible dream. His feet obeyed mechanic- ally the harsh mandate of his despotic parent, and conducted him away; but his mind could scarcely be said to have any part in the matter, and it was not till the sound of the door closing behind him acted on his nerves like a galvanic shock, that he woke up to the consciousness that its clang was the knell of his intercourse with the home of his childhood; that he was henceforth an outcast from that home, and was to face the world, and to battle with it for very existence, with no aid and no solace but such as bis own energies could supply. The contemplation of this position was a sober- ing one, even to the elasticity of youth. That his father would be angry at first, but would afterward give way so far as to consent to see Ellen, when her beauty and the fascination of her manner were certain to make a conquest of him at once, were sophisms which he had re- peated so often to himself, that he had come to believe inthem as established facts; the stern reality, therefore, now came upon him with crush- ing force. He found himself reduced in a mo- ment from eage and affiuence to beggary; without money, without employment, without prospects; with no cheering hope for himself, and with the conaciousness tnat he was not only self-deceived, but that he had also deceived his young and trusting wife; that, instead of the brilliant fature with which he had tempted her, he could now place before her nothing but the certainty of hard- ship and struggle, and the uncertainty how keen’ and how bitter they might be. ‘These were gloomy and uncheering prospects. How were they to be met? Not much inspirited by these reflections, he was, after spending some hours in desultory ram- bling, wonding his ‘way slowly and sadly toward his wife’s lodgings, too much absorbed in consid- ering how to break the distressing news to her to be particularly attentive to outward objects, when ho'was aroused from his reverie by a hand laid upon hig arm. He started at the touch, and, looking up, tound himself face to face with Sir Thomas Falconbridge. “This is the luckiest chance in the world,” said the baronet. ‘I have been hunting the town over for you, with nothing but my labor for my pains. and now you turn up where I least expected it. I have just heard of this unfortunate escapade of yours. Ilooked in on the old gentleman while he was brimfall of it, and he told me the whole story.” re “And gave you & beautiful portrait of me into the bargain, I suppose ?” observed Henry, with 2 very poor attempt at a smile. “Tastes differ about beauty, you know,” replied Sir Thomas. ‘“He’s in a towering passion, there isn’t a doubt about it. But we won't dwell on that part of the business. It is an awkward affair; and if you had asked my advice, I should have recommended you to think twice before you put your head into the lion’s mouth, And just at the moment when ho had laid his finger on gach 2 famous match for you, too! It is @ very un- lucky throw, I must say. However, the thing is done now, and it’s only a waste of words to mor- alize upon it. The question is, how is it to be re- paired? Iam going to be your brother-in-law, you know, and we need not be stiff to one another. What do you mean to do?” “T have been racking my brain about it these two or three hours,” said Henry; “but to very little purpose, Iam afraid. This is a most unex- pected blow. I locked for a sharp storm when it came to his ears, but not to be turned out of house and home.” ‘Hell come round after a time, perhaps,” ob- served the baronet; ‘but, I won’t deceive you, I don’t think it will be just yet. Ishall do what I can with him, of course; but it will be a work of time, I can see that; and there is such a thing as living in the meanwhile.” ‘There is,” said Henry, bitterly. “I must try to get a clerkship somewhere, I suppose, much as IT hate counting-house work.” “T don’t like that,” remarked Sir Thomas. “TI am coming into the family, you know; and as you have the proper opinions of a gentleman with re- gard to trade, I shail not hurt your feelings by re- minding you that, in my position, it isa bit of a all mixed up with it—a thing, indeed, which noth- ing but my feelings for your sister could have led me to overlook—and to have » brother-in-law hiring himeelf out to a stranger would make it let down for me to marry into a family that is at| y' ten times worse. My friends would never get over it. No, it won’t anawer at all.” ‘What on earth am I to do, then?” cried Hen- ry, impatiently. ; “I was just coming to it,” replied Sir Thomas. “I could lend you money, of course; and will, for the present. But I know your spirit, and that you would rather be independent. Now, I can pe you in @ way of being so. I can show you ow to earn enough to enable you to live like a gentleman, and yet not let yourself down at all.” ‘My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Henry, one of his old sunny smiles breaking over hig face, ‘“‘you are the best friend I ever had. Tiaat will be the very thing. But how is it to be done ?” “By play,” replied the baronet. ie play!” repeated Henry, somewhat doubt- ully. “Exactly so,” said Sir Thomas. “‘An easy, pleasant, gentlemanly life. All gentlemen play— allthat have any spirit, that is. I play; earls, marquises, dukes, princes, play—to say nothing of their ladies. On the Continent, at Paris, Vi- enna, and the Spas, a man who does not is scarcely looked upon as a gentleman. Playis a passport into the best society, and gives you additional eclat when youare init. Itis a charming relaxa- tion; requires no great sacrifice of time, and in- volves nothing that any gentleman need be ashamed of. Understand me,” he added, with a smile, “I don’t want to make a blackleg of you— I could not, indeed, it I wished it; for I am no Greek myself, and I wish all those scoundrels could be blackballed wherever they go, and horsewhipped into the bargain. ‘They have brought play into such disgrace with their cheat- ing tricks that many worthy people shrink from the very name of of it.” “You do see some abominable things in the papers sometimes,” observed Henry; “‘but, of course it is not all alike.” “Tf it was,” said Sir Thomas, ‘do you suppose that some of the first menin Tijelacid would have mixed themselves up with it? Do you suppose that Ishould? Besides, you have meddled with the pitch already. I have heard you speak more than once of being at the billiard-rooms.” ‘‘Well, I certainly have knocked the balis about a bit,” returned Henry; ‘‘and I rather like the thing; but I never thought of making a trade of it. Besides, I should get cleaned out, instead of making anything. Iam not much of a hand, to tell you the truth.” ‘Neither am J,” said Sir Thomas. ‘You see, tastes differ in these matters, as in everything else, Some people prefer the turf, some the fives court, some the prize-ring, and some the billiard- table; but, for my part, { like a quiet hand at cards. It gives you just excitement enough to be agreeable, and is stimulating without being too much of a good thing. I’m an idle man, you know, and want something to’ kill time with; I find cards the very thing. In fact, I have been used to them so long now that I could not get on without them at all. Ilook for them ag naturally as I do for my wine.” ‘Habit generally grows upon us,” remarked Henry. ‘It does,” replied Sir Thomas; ‘and this one has grown upon me till it has become a second nature. Practice has taught me to play a few games pretty well; and though, of course, I lose sometimes as well as other people, I find, on the whole, that I seldom leave the tabla without be- ing a winner; and if I chose to play high, which I don’t, I could make a very pretty thing of it. It woula not be right for me to do it, of course, as I don’t want it; but, if I did, I would do it fast enough; and why shouldn’t you ?” “Tf IT thought I could,” mused Henry, “‘it would suit me a great deal better than inking my fingers behind a desk in some hole of a counting- house. ButJ’m not a first-rate hand at cards either, though I’m fond of them; and then, I have no tin to start with.” “Oh, we will soon settle that,” said the baronet. with an encouraging smile. ‘‘You shall come and. dine with me to-day; your young wife must ex- cuse it; she will find a great deal more to excuse, I am afraid, before she is much older. She is one of the Vernons, I understand. The Vernons have had to excuse a good many things lately; and may have to excuse a good many more. But, as I was saying, you. will dine with me, and we'll try over the games that they usually play at the rooms I have found out. Not first-rate rooms by any means, by-the-by; they can’t get it up here as they can at Leamington, and Chelten- ham, and other places that I will take you to shortly; but this will do to begin with; they are not so knowing here, and that’ssomething. You'll very soon play as well as they do, I can tell you; and, with a few hints that I will give you, a trifle better. After I have put you up to a thing or two in my rooms, you shall make your start to-night; and, to set your mind easy upon losing, we will be partners for the first week, and I will be banker. Entre nous, you will have a little bank of your own. by that time.” ‘My dear Sir Thomas,” cried Henry, ‘‘you have snatched me,from the abyss of despair. But, really, I don’t like the idea of your taking all my ine dane I shall be quite a greenhorn, recol- ect. ‘Pooh! pooh!” cried, the baronet. ‘‘Ain’t we as good as brothers? Besides, to show. you that Ihave not been running about this trading place so long without catching a little of the esprit de corps, I will insure your risk at a quarter per cent. In point of fact, there’s no risk at all, man, Come along.” And linking his arm in that of his neoparte, they proceeded toward Six Thomas’s otel. As they turned the corner of New street, the baronet suddenly stopped. “By Jove! Ihad almost forgot,” he said, ‘I am out of cigars. These confounded innkeepers _ never give you anything worth a decent man’s smoking; and the fellow I dealt with when I first came here sent me a rascally lot the last time. la a some famous ones here when you want them.” “Thank you,” replied Henry; “I don’t smoke.” ‘‘More’s the pity,” observed Sir Thomas; ‘that’s allI can say, You loge one of the pleasures of life, I could no more do without amoking than I could without sleep. I must just stop and buy a box. We shan’t be a minute.” As they turned into the shop, the man who was introduced to the reader a few chapters ago as a watcher of Sir Thomas’s movements, and who had now been for some time observing him, un- noticed, from the opposite side of the street, crossed over, and took his stand by the window in such a position as to command a view of the inside, : He observed the process of purchasing and paying for the cigars with more interest than so simple a procesding seemed to require; and when the parties emerged, instead of following them as before, he entered the shop in his turn. ‘Tam sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I noticed that gentleman buy some cigars.” “Sir Thomas Falconbridge,” said the person addressed, evidently a little proud of announcing the dignity of his customer. . : ‘“Hxactly so,” said the stranger. “I know his face; I have seen him before. As I passed the window I noticed that you changed a ten-pound Bank of England note lor him.” “Well, and what if I did?” replied the shop- keeper. ‘There’s no harm in that, I suppose, is there ?” : “Harm!” gaid the stranger; “none in the world. The fact is, I want to remit ten pounds to London to-day; and if you don’t want that note particularly, I shall be glad to give you gold for it. Itis after bank hours, you see, or L would not trouble you,” Oh, a may have it,” replied the other. “TI shall be glad to do it, in fact, for it was nearly all the gold I had, and I may want it for change presently.” j : ‘You don’t know pais of Sir Thomas be- yond his being a customer, I suppose ?” observed the stranger, as he told out the gold. “Why, no,” replied the Or “He's not a Birmingham man, you see; but he’s a first-rater, and no mistake. He has always got a nobbish roll of notes in his pocket, and pays like a prince for everything he gets. LI only wish we had a few more like him, that’s all.” ‘Well, some must earn and some must spend, ou know,” observed the stranger; “that’s the ,va@ way to bring things equal. Who was the young EO man with him, by-the-by? I have seen his face We somewhere, I think.” 4 “J dare say you have,” replied the shopkeeper; f ESOL ah \ ‘the’s pretty well known here. That’s young Mr. Weldon.” “A respectable man, of course, or Sir Thomas would not associate with him?” remarked the atranger, s “Respectable? I believe you!” replied the shopkeeper. ‘Why, it’s Weldon’s son, the sword- cutler, He is very rich now, they say; and when the old fellow dies there’s no knowing what he won’t be worth.” “Pity that you or I can’t stand in his shoes,” said the stranger. ‘ah |” cried the shopkeeper, with a longing sigh; “lucky for us if we did.” On quitting the shop the stranger stepped into 8 stationer’s a few doors off, where the purchase of a sheet of paper easily procured hina the use of pes and ink, 6 cast & glance round to ascertain:that he was not overlooked, then wrote a few rapid lines, in- closed the note he had just obtained in an envel- ope already addressed, and dropped it himself into the post-office box. mune “To-morrow,” he said, as he watched it disap- pear, ‘to-morrow will decide.” (To be Continued.) J. H. WINSLOW & CO, THE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY EVER OF- FERED TO SECURE GOOD JEWELRY AT LOW PRICES, 100,000 WATCHES, CHAINS, SETS OF JEWELRY, GOLD PENS, BRACELETS. LOCKETS, RINGS, GENTS’ PINS, SLEEVE BUTTONS, SLUDS, ETC. WORTH $500,000. To be Sold for ONE DOLLAR each, without re- gard to value, and not to be paid for until you know what you are to get. Send 25 cents fora Certificate, which will inform you what you can have for $1, and at the same time get ouc Circular containing full list and particulars, also terms to Agents, which we want in every Regiment and Townin the country. J. H. WINSLOW & CO., 37if 208 Broadway, New York. SHULTS’ ONGUENT=--arear'et pgtesss es [ Ss. Moustachesiin six weeks, or Posey ronded. Sent post. paid for 50 cents, or 3 packages for $1. Address 34-266 C. F. SHULTS, 285 River St., Troy, N. Y. éxttention, Company | CLARK’S ONGUENT, a powerful stimulant, each pack- age warranted to produce a full set of Whiskers or Mous- taches in six weeks, upon the smoothest face, without stain or injury to the skin. Any person using this Onguent and finding it not as represented (by informing. me of the fact) can have their money returned to them at any time within three months ef the day of purchase. Price $1. Sent sealed and post-paid to any address on receipt of the mon- ey. Address, A. ©, CLARK, P, O. Drawer 118, Albany, New York. 35-26 _ &A MAN OF A THOUSAND. If you want to know, &c., read MEDICAL COMMON SENSE, people, and a good book.for every one. Price ‘o be had at all news depots. Contents tables mailcd free. Address 46-3meow DR. E. , FOOTE, No. 1,130 Broadway, N. Y. A curious beok for 1 aes era che SHUTTLE SEWING MACHINES Never fail to satisfy taose who give them a thorough trial, oe wherever introduced are rapidly superceding all others. They use two threads with a straight needle and shitile, making the Locx Strrcu, which is alike on beth sides, and for economy, durability, elasciticity and beauty, is the only stitch tcorthy of use. They are propelled by Cams, which produce better timed motions for sewing than can possibly be ob- tained A cranks or links. They work like a “thing of life,” the needle throwing out its loop, and then standing still until the shuttle passes through, when both draw upon the threads together, making the stitch tight and strong. They are capable of running at very high speed, being smoothly finished, and making jive stitches to every revolution of the balance wheel, a speed unequalled by any other shuttle machine in use. For these reasons the “Werrp” s acknowledged, where- ever known, to bethe best sewing machine made, and is unequalled in its simplicity of construction, power, dura- bility, ease of management, and the great beauty and cer- tainty of its operation. Every machine is warranted. All orders or communications from Families, Tailors, Seamstresses, Clothiers, Harness Makers, &c., in the coun- try, will receive prompt attention.. Send for descriptive circular and samples of work. AGENTS WANTEP in every locality. Address 506 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. P. 0O.—Box 2,044. 42-12t-eow Gl. Wi hiskers. Si. For one dollar I will send sealed and post-paid the “‘Gre- cian Compound,” highly perfumed, which I warrant to force a heavy growth of hair upon the smoothest face in stain or injury to the skin. Entire satisfaction given or money refunded Descriptive circulars sent free. Address 7-3na. #. L. SANFORD, Lansingburgh, N. ¥. BRADY'S “MERCURY” STORIES. GUY RAVENEL; OR, HOW WILL IT END? A TALE OF NEW YORK TWENTY YEARS AGO, BY ARTHUR M. GRAINGER, ILLUSTRATIONS BY DARLEY. PRIOE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS, Mr. Grainger, the author, has a peculiarly forcible and A CONSUMPTIVE CURED. DR. H. JAMES, a Retired Physician of great eminence, discovered, while in the East Indies, a certain cure for Con- sumption, Asthma, Bronchitis, Coughs, Colds, and General Debility. The remedy was discovered by him when. his only child,'a daughter, was given up to die. Wis child was eured, and is now alive and well. Desirous of benefiting his fellow mortals, he willsend to those who wish it the recipe, containing full directions for making and success- fully using this remedy, free, on receipt of two stamps to pay, expenses. There is not a single case of Consumption hat it doesnot at once take hold of and dissipate. Night sweats, peevishness, irritation of the nerves, failure of memory, difficult expectoration, sharp pains in the lungs, sore throat, chilly sensations, nausea at the stomach, in- action of the bowels, wasting away of the aruecre dress D CO., ,3m. 225 North Second st., Philadelphia, Pa. YOUNG MAIDS AND OLD BACELOHES Should read the exciting story of ST. 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Beauty —Hunt’s White Liquid ENAMEL. Prepared by Madame Rachel Leverson, the celebrated Parisian Ladies’ Enameler. It whitens the skin perman- ently, giving it a soft, satin-like texture, and impartsa freshness and transparency to the Epmplenion, which is quite natural, without injury to the skin. Itis also war- ranted to remove Tan, eckles, Pimples, Sunburn, etc. Sent by mail, free from observation, on recipt of price, ji/ty cents, Address, HUNT & CO., Perfumers, 133 South Seventh street, and 41 &outh Lighth street, Philadelphia. o29tf. NOW READY, © And For Sale by News-dealers everywhere, a THRILLING STORY OF SHIP AND SHORE, ENTITLED, The Vestmaker’s Apprentice ; THE VAMPYRES OF SOCIETY, BY FRANCIS S. SMITH, AUTHOR OF “MAGGIE, THE CHILD OF CHARITY,” “s7ZABL KAIN,” “LILIAN, THE WANDERER,” “GALENUS, THE GLADIATOR,” ‘‘EYE- LEEN WILSON,” “SEXTON OF SAXONY,” ete., ete. THE VESTMAKER’S APPRENTIOE is the initial number of the “Army and Navy Literature,” and from the great popularity of the author must have an extensive sale. t Price Twenty-Five Cents Per Cory. A liberal discount allowéd to the trade. 46-tf STRE&T & SMITH, 11 Frankfort-st., N. Y. BEAUTY.—HUNT’S BLOOM OF ROSES, acharming, delicate, and perfect natural color for the cheeks 6r lps, does not wash off or injure the skin, re: mains permanent for years, and cannot be detected. Price $1 18 by mail, ae packed from observation. HUNT & CO., Perfumers, 133 South 7th st., Philadelphia. 42-tf : ae Shults’ Curlique, For curling the hair. Price 50 cents.. Sent sealed and post-paid. Address C. F. SHULTS, Troy, N. ¥. 47-3m Boors, &c. ror THe Prorrz!—Send for mammoth catalogue. Address : W. E. HILTON, 11 Spruce Street, N.Y. PERSONAL.—If Julia H. Kingsley will address a letter to H. B. Graves, Esq., of Litchfield, Conn., she will hear of something greatly to her advantage. N.B.—N. Y. State papers please copy. ° 51-2t. THE BRAZILIAN HAIR CURLER. One application warranted to curl the most straight and stubborn hair into wavy ringlets or heavy, massive curls. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of $1. Address 47-3m 8S. S. CHASE, Cohoes, N. ¥. THE GREAT ENGLISH REMEDY, SIR JAMES OLARKE’S CELEBRATED PILLS! Prepared from grape Ae of Sir. J. Clarke, M. D., Physician Extraordinary to the Queen. This well known medicine is no imposition, but a sure and safe remedy for Female Difficulties and Obstructions, and although a powerful remedy, it contains nothing hurtful eS Hen. constitation. Yo married ladies it is peculiarly In all cases of Nervous and Spinal Affections, Pain in the Back and Limbs, Fatigue on slight exertion, Palpitation of the Heart, Hysterics, ete., these Pills will effect a cure = im alt re senna Reve Saliea; ane monet 6 power- 3 ro ony, or hing hdr e vy constitution. pee) s i ections e pamphlet aro kage which should be carefully preserved. hatin sie or8 at For aoe rere get 2 pamphiet, free, of the agent. N. B.—$i and 6 Dasiage stamps encloged to any authorized scent, will ensure a botiie con: & Over 50 pills by return mai : Sold by all Druggists, JOB MOBES, No. 27 Courtlandt-st., New-York, 28 13 e0W Bole United States ache the revealment of those startling and romantic episodes of when sought out as matter for the subtle web of the ro- mancer. A metropolis like New York cannot be other than a vast arena, in which all the fervid passions of hu- man nature—its loves and hates, its pride and humility— are constantly contending; and the glittering sparks which fly off from this friction are caught by the ready pen, 4nd combined in the mazy webs of plot and counter- plot. Mailed free of postage on receipt of price. FREDERIC A. BRADY, Publisher, No. 23 Ann Street, N. Y. MADAME RALLINGS, 318 CANAL STREET, Eas always on hand an elegant assortment of LADIES’ AND MISSES’ BONNETS, Ali the latest fall and winter styles made inthe most care- ful manner of the best materials. Fashionable hats of all patterns and to suit every taste. Also children’s hats and head-dresses. 52-1t. JEWELRY GIVEN AWAY. Citizens and soldiers can obtain, Gratis, a great miscel- laneous newspaper, and full instructions by which you can procure every variety of Jewelry free. All should send. Address CHARLES FE. MACKEY, 81 Nassau Street, New York. 52-16. 52-3t. A. Fine Watch Free AND $15 PER DAY. pete Male and Female, in Town, and Soldiers in camp 3 ees are making ae, $15 per day selling our SREAT NEW and WONDERFUL UNION PRIZE AND STATIONERY PACKAGES, NOVEL and UNEQUALED, and unlike all the eld styles; containing all New Articles, and of fine quality. Writing Materials, Parlor Games, Use- ful and vany Articles, Likenesses of Heroes, Camp Com- panions for the Army, New Fashion Plates for Ladies, rich ore. Tae &e. &c., altogether worth over $1, for cta. No famity should be without one. Profits immense, gales quick. Soldiers in camp can act as Agate, and make money fast. A SPLENDID WATCH, warranted es a perfect timekeeper, prosented free toall Agents. Packages in endless variety aid atall prices. Agents wanted all through the country. «o0ds sent by Express to all parts of the Army. Send for NEW Circulars for 1863, containing EXTRA inducements. & ©. RICKARDS & 60., 102 Nassau Street, New York, are and oldest Prize Package House in the World, St A FORT CAPTURED BY A SAILOR. A number of years ago, ere the English had a firm foothold: in India, the British government dispatched an expedition from Madras, under Ad- miral Watson, for the purpose of capturing a fort called Busbudgia, then in pogseesion of a body of natives. They arrivedin sight of the fort early one morning, and at once opened fire upon it, which was returned with spirit by the enemy; but soon the latter’s fire was only continued atin- tervals, and shortly after the fleet succeeded in completely silencing the fort. The English then landed a small force, intending to carry the work by assault during the cool of the evening. While the English were waiting for the hourat which the attack was to be made, and while all was tran- quil around, those on board the ships were amazed on hearing a loud and prolonged shout, and im- mediately after learned that the fort had been captured. The circumstances attending this capture are given in aletter from an officer of one of the ships forming the expedition. He says:—“During the tranquil state of the camp, one Strahan, a com- mon sailor, excited by grog, became very restless; he therefore atrolled out by himself towards the fort, and imperceptibly got under the walls. Be- ing advanced thus far without any interruption, he tock it into his head to scale the breach that had been made by the cannon of the ships; and having fortunately reached the bastion, he there discovered several Moors sitting upon the plat- form, at whom, nothing daunted, he flourished his cutlass, and then fired his pistol; and having giy- en three loud huzzahs, cried out, ‘The place is mine!’ The Moorish soldiers immediately at- tacked him, and he defended himself with incred- ible resolution, but in the encounter had the mis- fortune to have the blade of his’ cutlass broke in two, about a foot from the hilt. This, however, two or three other sailors who had a aeeed to the same part of the fort on’ which he had mounted. They, hearing Strahan’s cries, imme- diately scaled the breach likewise, and with tri- umphant shouts roused the whole army, who, taking the alarm, presently fell on pell mell’, with- out order and without discipline, following the ex- ample of the sailors. Luckily, the enemy were equally ill-prepared for this sudden and ill-disci- ciplined attempt, and fled from the fort on the opposite side, asthe attacking party poured in, leaving the works, with twenty cannon and alarge store of ammunition, in the handa of the English, whose only loss was that of a Captain Dougall pteene, of the East Indian army, accidentally killed by a musket discharged by one of his own party. On the following day, Strahan, the hero ofthis adventurous action, was brought before the admiral, who, with assumed anger, inquired, ‘Strahan, what is this you have been doing ?’? The sailor made his bow, scratched his head, and re- plied, ‘Why, to be sure, sir, it was I who took the fort; but I hope, your honor, as how there was no harm in it.’ This was almost irresistible, but the adimral restrained himself sufficiently to expatiate five weeks, or upon bald heads in -eight weeks, without: picturesque pen, and such a one as must be requisite for | life in the heart of a great city, which are not wanting | did not happen until he was warmly supported by: on what might have been the fatal results of his irregular conduct, and dismissed him with hints at punishment some other time for temerity. Poor Strahan, astonished at the result of his in- terview—receiving blame where he expected praise —muttered to himeelf on leaving the cabin, ‘Well, if Iam flogged for this here action, I will never take another fort by myself as long as I live!’” The novelty of the case, and the courageous spirit he displayod, however, pleaded strongly for the offender, and the admiral made inquiries with the view of advancing him toa boatswain’s war- rant; but, unfortunately, the whole tenor of Straban’s life was 80 irregular, that it was found impossible to promote him, WONDERFUL ESCAPE FROM A LION. ‘We heard,” says Baron Osten, in an account which he gives of the incident, “of some bullocks having been killed in a jungle where we had killed three lions on the 14th. On the strength of this information we set out immediately, and found a whole family of lions. We killed five, but I had a very narrow escape of being killed by one of them, After having killed four, I had wounded a fifth, and Grant, with five pad-elephants, was beat ing towards me, when he roused the wounded lion, who immediately attacked and wounded one of the elephants. He then came straight at me. I bent alittle forward overthe howdah to take a steady aim at him, when, unfortunately, the fore- part of the howdah gave way, andI fell, with all my guns, right on top of the lion, who immediate- ly seized hold of me. I broke my left arm in the fall, and gota severe blow from the lion on the head, which considerably stunned me. I felt, however, that howas tearing at my right arm, and I never can forget the horrible snarling noise he made. Grant’s and all the other elephants turned tail and ran away, so that I was left alone he'pless in the jaws of the lion. “How I got them out alive is to me a- miracle, and I cannot otherwise account for it than by giv- ing credit tomy mahout’s statement. He says ‘that his elephant backed about fifty yards, butthat he succeeded after some time in driving her up close to the lion, when she took hold of a young tree, and bent it with great force over the lion’s back, when he relinquished his prey, and was soon after killed by one of the.chikarees (chasseurs on foot). When I came to my senses, I found my left arm broken, a severe contusion on my head,- and eleven wounds from teeth and claws in my right arm,” ee KEEPING ONE’S WORD. Sir William Napier (says his biographer) was one day taking :a long-country walk near Fresh- ford, when he met.a little girl about five years old, sobbing over a broken bowl; she had dropped and broken it in bringing it back from the field in which she had taken her father’s dinner in it, and she said ske would be beaten on her return home, Then, with a sudden:gleam of hope, she inno- cently looked up into his face, and said, “But yee can mend it, can’t yee?” Sir William smilingly explained that-ke couldmot mend the bowl, but the trouble he:could, by the gift of a sixpence to buy another. However, on opening his purse, it was empty of silver, and he had to make amends by promising to meet her in thesame spot at. the same hour next day. The child, entirely trusting him, went onher way comforted. On his return home, he found an invitationawaiting him to dine in Bath'the following evening to meet some one whom he especially wished to see, tated for seme little time, trying to calculate the ossibillity of giving the meeting to his little friend ofthe broken bowl, and of still being in time for the dinner-party in Baths. but finding this could not be, he wrote ito decline accepting the in- vitation on the plea of.a “‘pre-engagement,” say- | ing to his family. ‘I cannot disappoint her, she | trusted me go implicitly.” RESTORED. BY MRS. SARAH A, WATSON. ** Just beyond you pleasant meadow, Where the hill-road sweeps away, Stands the mossy, low-roofed cottage Of the widow Annie Grey; And ber heart is filled with anguish For the son she mourns as slain, But he lives, although it may be But to see his home again. I must be the one to tell her, Nor would I the task defer; © How, as you’re a mother tell me, Shall I break the news to her?” He was standing in my doorway, A poor soldier, wan and weak, — And his voice was filied with tear drope Every time he strove to speak; And I, too, was weeping with him, And my eyes were full and dim, My dead son had been a soldier, And my heart went out to him, Rost awhile, for you are weary; Here is wine, for you are weak; And ’tis half a mile, or further, To the cottage which you seek.” ** But,’’ said he, ‘*how shall I tell her; Will it be too much to know That he lives, whom she has buried In her heart so long ago ?”” ‘© No, no! joy will never kill her! ‘Tis grief eats the heart away. Bid her son to seek her fireside, 4g you've come to mine to-day; Tell him to kneel down beside her, As he did long years ago— % Who it is, through time and changes, Her fond mother’s heart will know.” He was kneeling down beside me, And I not one word could say, ’ For the joy which he had promised Was for me, not widow Grey. Back again my God had given him, Almost from the grave he came, And so weary, wan and feeble, That he scarcely seemed the same; And my heart sang hallelujabs— Dizzy brain, and bended knee, Gave thanksgiving that my Maker Had restored my son to me, eB EDD oe rene MARATA, A LEGEND OF THE MISSISSIPPI, BY THERON B. APPELL, Years ago, long before the white man’s adyen- turous tread had echoed on American shores, there dwelt in Minnesota, near the head-waters of the Mississippi, an aged warrior and chieftain of the Sioux, named Ristona, skilled in the chase and foremost on the war-path. In his youth he had been chosen chieftain of his tribe, and the numerous scalps of Chippewa and Winnebago that hung in festoons around the central pole of his lodge gave proof of his prowess and ability to defend his people. For nearly half a century he had ruled, till hig locks had become silvered over by the hand of time. His step, though firm, had lost its spring, and his glance, yet haughty, had become dim, Thus warned by nature, Ristona knew that ere long he must bid adieu to his people and depart for the happy hunting-grounds beyond the grave, But one thing troubled his mind. Ere he de- teas this life, he wished to wed his only child, arala, the daughter of his old age, to a warrior fit to become his successor as chief, Among the brayest of his warriors were Kora- paquin, the Black Plume, and Maneo, the Pan- ther. But Korapaquin, though .brave, wise, and well loved, was already married; therefore, after much deliberation, the old chief had determined that Marala should wed with Maneo, and that he should become his successor. Maneo was a tall, athletic warrior, in the prime of lite. His features were bold and coarse, his eyes bloodshot and fiery; he was fierce and reck- He hesi- ' 1 shore, which he soon reached, and laying his fair 4 she recovered. ¥ the council fires of the Sioux. { the shore; pointing to it she said: RRL YW, Spaces less a8 & warrior, of vengeful disposition, yet he | t never had violated the laws of his tribe, and had often looked with wistful gaze on the fair form and features of the chieftain’s daughter; though she turned from his bold gaze with aversion, with many others he had sought her hand of Ris- tona. Thus matters stood on one summer morn,when Maneo departed trom a long conference in the old chief's lodge. When he had departed, Ristona summoned Marala to his presence. She was tall, of well-rounded form, light and graceful in her motions, possessing fair features, sparkling black eyes, and long waving curls of glossy hue hung in profusion around her shoulders. Dressed in the wild and fahciful costume of her race, she pre- sented a form that would now charm the artiat’s eyes. a eDaughter,” said he, “I called you hither that I might bid you prepare your garments for mar- riage,” *“For marriage !—and with whom?” __ ‘With Maneo, the bravest of the Sioux. Hoe shall become my successor, and you will become the chieftain’s bride as becomes the chieftain’s daughter.” Marala trembled with emotion. “Father,” said she, ‘I cannot wed with Maneo.” “Cannot!” said he, rising and gazing on her with angry surprise; ‘“and.why not?” *T love him not.” “Love! Ha! has any young brave been prating to you and turned your brain with his tales? Love you another ?” “Nay, Llove none else; but Maneo is fierce and wicked. I will not wed with him.” : “Will not! By the great Spirit you shall! Ris- tona’s word is pledged, and it never is broken. In another moon the feast of the new corn will be held, and you shall become Maneo’s bride. Sono more love-sick folly, but prepare your robes as be- comes Ristona’s daughter, for wedded you shall el Ristona’s encampment was beside the Missis- sippi, on the verge of his hunting-grounds. Far beyond the waters, on the eastern side, dwelt the Chippewa, the hereditary foe of the Sioux, though now the hatchet was buried and the calumet of peace had been smoked by their united council fires, When Marala left her father, the tears of bitter anguish flowed down her cheeks, for well she knew there was no evading his decrees. Anxious to be alone in her grief, she hastened to the river side, and entering a light canoe, paddled across to the shore of a small island in. the middle of the stream, where she sat in her canoe pondering over her fate and lost in sad reverie, while the sun sank in the west till it became lost behind the dark clouds of a thunder storm that was rapidly rising, Marala was first roused from her reverie by a gtartling peal of thunder, that broke upon her ears with tremendous roar. Glancing up at the clouds, she saw that a fierce storm was coming, and quickly plying her paddles, started for the maim land. But hardly had she left the island, when the-storm burst with full fury. The water fellin torrents, and the wind swept the stream like & hurricane, driving her canoe toward the opposite shore. In another moment she was cap- sized and plunged; her sivength soon failed in buffeting the storm, and she was on the point of yielding from exhaustion. When Marala started from the island in her canoe, & young warrior stood on the eastern shore of the river, half in a thicket, watching her. He was tall, of athletic form, with fair- features, though his large flashing eyes indicated that his passions might be easily moved, His garments were decorated with beads and fringe and a tuft of eagle feathers surmounted his scalp locks; in his belt was a tomahawk, and his bow was slung across hig shoulders. ‘When he beheld the maiden struggling in the agitated waters he plunged in and swam rapidly to her aid. Once had she sank ere he reached her, but when she rose he seized her with one arm and struck out vigorously with the other for burden on a grassy mound, knelt by her side till In a few moments Marala gazed upon the fea- tures of her preserver, and said, “Many, many thanks, strange brave, for your kindness; but for your aid I should now be in the spirit land.” ‘No thanks are due, fair maiden; ‘twas my duty both to you and the Great Spirit; but who art thou? I would know whose life I have saved.” “T am Marala, daughter of Ristona, chief of the Sioux !” “Hal thou art Ristona’s daughter. Your name has reached the ears of my people before.” “Of your people? Who then are you?” ‘Tam Lene, @ chief of the Chippewas.” Marala started, for she had heard his name at The winds had now driven her light canoe to ‘We probably shall never meet again, but the Bioux maiden will ever remember Leno with kind- ness. Farewell!” ‘Nay! be inno haste; there is peace between our people; I would converse with you. Your eyes are red with weeping, and you have been sitting sadly in your canoe since the aun was high in the heavens! What sorrow weighs on the maiden’s heart? Nay! be not offended. I ask in kindness.” "Tis hardly fit for me to relate my sorrows to a stranger, and one of another people.” "Tig well, I meant no offence.” “Yet I will tell yeu. Iam about to be wedded.” “Methinks it should be cause fer rejoicing in- stead of weeping.” “But against my will.” ‘Maidens often de. With whom ?” “He ig a brave warrior, but I like him not, His name is Maneo.” Hal the Panther; I now of him well; he scalped three women of my people when the hatchet was buried. He is a snake, But see! yonder are the Sioux braves seeking for you? I must not be seen by them. Will you meet me again on yon island? I would converse more with you. “Aye! four suns from now. Farewell!” Leno stepped quickly into a thicket, while Ma- rala entered her canoe and crossed the river |. again, when she met Maneo with several braves seeking for her, fearing she had been drowned, During the following days the mind of Marala dwelt constantly on the handsome young Chippe- wa, and she felt a greater aversion than ever for her approaching nuptials with Maneo, _ The young buds of gratitude were fast ripening into the full-blown roses of love, and this child of the forest was fast learning the great law of na- ture, that hearts know no barriers to love. When four days had elapsed she glided from the camp to the river side, and paddled across to the island, as Leno had requested. The island was a long, narrow ridge of land in the middle of the stream, covered with thickets and termin- ating at the lower point in a high, bold rock, sur- rounded with dense foliage. “Welcome, Marala. I am happy that you have remembered my request,” said a voice that sound- ed sweetly on, her ears as she stepped ashore, and looking around she saw Leno standing before her behind a small cluster of evergreens. *T could not refuse a request so easily granted.” For atime they sat engaged in various con- verse.fAt length Leno said, “How fares your nup- tial suit with Maneo? Pardon me for intrading on your private joys or sorrows, but I had become interested in your tale when we were interrupted,” “Alas, I fear there is no escaping my father’s mandate.” “Tis easily done.” How? Oh, tell me how!” “Tisten, Marala, and believe. Since first I be-: held you, but four days ago, I have pondered on your beauty and fate, and I come to offer you my first young love, pure as the snow thatever lies on the western summits. Become my bride! Fly with me to the home of the Chippewas, and a thousand of my braves shall defend you from Maneo’s pur- suit. Our land is large. Wecan go to the shores of the great lakes, and there you can dwell in Leno’s lodge in place and safety, the bride of his heart, and pride of his people. What says the |: Sioux maiden? Will she become a Queen of the Chippewas, or shall Leno return heart broken in sadness.” The rich blood had mounted to Marala’s cheeks, and her eyes sparkled again with joy. She placed I her hand gently in his, and raising her eyes ut- Maneo, with hatchet uplifted. knew crossed. So Maneo and his braves re-crogssed the island in chagrin, to find Marala returned. Maneo, in a bitter tone. will return and lay it at your feet.” Marala as your reward.” Sioux, whoop announced the return of Maneo., ceeded at once to Ristona’s lodge, and, present~ ing the scalp of Leno, said: siniles of triumph, fidious Chippewa tive. I have ordered have no more foll in her resolve to cast herself into the saw a form advancing to meet her. She gazed a moment, trembling, were his! she sank fainting at its feet. ered, to find herself clasped in his arms, and be- held no spirit, but Leno’s self, my bride ?” he shoute for vengeance. hurling his hatchet, with the Indian’s unerring | aim, he cleaved the Panther’s head in they beheld the ripples maiden or lover ever crossed their vision. Awe- struck they returned with their tidings to Ristona. The old chief heard, and sank beneath the stroke. Ere morn he too was in the united council proclaimed Korapaquin his guc- . cessor, a5) ered an exclamation of alarm which was followed by one of anger. Leno bounded to his feet, and before him stood “What does the Panther behind my back? Would he spring like his namesake from behind on one who harms him not?” “The Panther comes for vengeance. Know you not this maiden is to be my bride?” “Not yet—some better fate should be hers.” ‘Twill not be linked with yours, so begone from my presence,” replied Maneo, as he raised his tomahawk, “or I will fing your corpse into the river.” Lono was unarmed, his bow ley on the grass near by, but measuring his rivai’s form with & glance, he bounded into the air, and came down with full weight on Maneo’s head, crushing him to the ground. In an instant he wrenched the tomahawk from his grasp, and raising his fallen rivalby the scalp- | lock, said, ‘Begone, yourself!” cross my track again, and o ary your scalp shall hang in Leno’s lodge, where now *twould go, but thére is peace between our people. Maneo leaped away, giving a shrill ery, and ina moment half a dozen Sioux braves bounded from adjoining thickets, and rushed to capture the lone Chippewa. Leno saw his peril, and seizing his bow, whispered to Marala, “Meet me on yon rock on the eva of the full moon,” and then leaped forward to meet his foes ere they gathered together. Breaking through their line, he buried Maneo’s hatchet in the brain of one, then shoving it in his belt, bounded away for the opposite shore of. the. island, with the rest in full pursuit. Fortunately for him they had only their tomahawks. As he reached the shore he turned, and drawing an arrow to the head, buried it in the bosom of one almost at his heels, and slinging his bow across his shoulders, plunged into the stream just ag a tomahawk whizzed by his ear. rapidly, he remained under water several minutes ere he arose. His head had scarcely sank again ere another hatchet splashed over his crown. Swimming Thus diving and raising, he crossed the stream, and raising on the other shore, let fly an arrow in derision. They dared not plunge in in pursuit, for well they his arrows would pierce them ere they Hre long after she arrived, she heard Maneo en- ter her father’s apartment in the lodge, and lightly moving the buffalo robes that formed the partition, listened to his tale. ‘Listen, Ristona,” said he, ‘‘and hear how the . Chippewa has unearthed the hatchet so lately buried. Two of our braves have been slain in res- cuing thy daughter, the peerless Marala, from captivity to Leno, their chief.” Ha!” exclaimed Ristona, raising his aged form to its full height; ‘“‘when did this occur, and how?” ‘On yon island, I, with some other braves, be- held Marala going thither, and ere long saw her made captive. sible to take the insolent Leno’s scalp; but he es- caped us, piercing two of our braves with arrows. We could not well pursue him across the stream, We hastened then as soon ag pos- as we had but our hatchets.” f ‘**"Tis not best to urge war again for this indi- vidual act; but know you what would be done if I possessed the vigor of would soon hang in my lo w» « my youth? Jeno’s scalp ‘ “And by the Great Spirit, it shall as it is,” said ‘Eire the annual feast I ‘Tis well, Then shall you receive the hand of Maneo returned to his lodge, armed himself thoroughly, and silently departing, was soon tread- ing the forest mazes in the land of the Chippewa. Marala had listened tothe lying words of Maneo, but she dared not reveal the true state of matters, to Ristona, therefore she passed many a wear day in fear lest Maneo’s threat should be fulfilled, and he return with the bleeding scalp of her lover. Meanwhile let us turn to another scene, Two weeks have passed since Maneo departed. “Tis a bright, pleasant evening, for the moon is growing again, Beside a small lake, deep in the forest, is the camp of a hunting party of Chippewas, and approaching it with the body of a deer thrown across his shoulders, isa young warrior. Let us glance at his form and features. Surely ’tis Leno. But look; from behind a tree there glides a form as he passes, and with a bound is at his side. Another moment and a tomahawk is buried in his. brain. The scalp is immediately snatched from: his brow, and Maneo, for he it was, glides through the forest with his long sought for prize. *Tis the day of the full moon—the morn of the annual feast. All is bustle in the camp of the At an early hour a loud and pepuliar: © pro- “Behold, the accomplishment of my yow!” sols well, "tis bravely done! Ristona will soon be gone. To-day he will proclaim the name of - his successor to his people, and to-night Marala shall be your bride. Sonow prepare for the feast,” Maneo departed with his features wreathed in Ristona summoned Marala, who had fled when. she heard Maneo approaching with his trophy, and said: ““Maneo has returned with the scalp of the per-- who would have made you cap- Will you now become his bride? Tonight your nuptials to be held; so let us ep 99 “You shall be cbayed: To-night I will become - & bride,” ‘Then all is well, and I am at peace.” As Marala hurried away she murmured to her- . selt: ‘Aye, I will become the bride of death! Never . will I be a slave to the murderer of Leno. I will away to the rock where we were to have met. From thence ’tis a short road to the spirit land in the waters beneath. So Maneo will be baulked.” And firm in this resolve she arrayed herself in . her richest costume, and moved gayly among the feasters during the day; but when the shades of, evening began to fall she quietly left the and entering her canoe hastened to the island. camp, Maneo noted her departure, and, with a few companions, was soon following her course. As Marala stepped spon the trysting rock, firm waters, she - The form, the features,. "T'was Leno’s shade! With a low ery , Ere long she recov- “How is this?” murmured she. ‘My heart has . “Never! It was my cousin that the Panther been gad, for I thought you dead.” murdered. Leno dies not by his hand, but will live to bear away his bride, to become mine?” Can you now refuse — “Yours alone, or death’s! But let us away or shall be missed,” Even as she spoke Maneo appeared beforethem, — Maneo uttered a cry of terror. ey “Who or what are zou that appears here with | “I am Leno’s shade, come from the spirit. land Thou shalt return with me,” and a twain. Then facing the rest a moment, as doubting his immortality they prepared to test it with their ar- , rows, he placed his arm around Marale and plunged over the precipice. * The Sioux peered over the edge of the rock; on the water, but no . spirit land, and the Meanwhile, when the council fires of the Sioux had burned out and all was still in their camp, a light canoe glided from beneath the thick foliage , that hung around the island the eastern shore. s rocks, and turned to, ‘2. Init were Lono and Marala. The young Chippewa knew of a cave underneath the rock, and when ho plunged with his fair bur- den into the waters he rose in safety within it. Ere another moon had passed he had borne his Be bride in safety to the far off shores of the great et, lakes, where they dwelt many a year in peace and ‘f happiness. aN te en RIN CO” ABT ~ Seg ease ae BY M. EDESSA WYNNE. May is budding out among the grasses, Just as she budded since the world began; In her fresh’ning beauty still she passes— The only blot upon, her re‘gn is man. In the meadows dandelions cluster, All the breezes carrying apple bleoms— May, in beauty, asking us to trust her, Lest through her breath we scent the far-off tombe. Just three years, mid just such bloom and beauty, Just such fragrance, birds, and flowers, and skies, Marched one thousand with the watchword * Duty!” Down in Virginia that one thousand lies. *¢ All bué seventeen annihilated !’" $0, this morning, ran the telegraph. That brave regiment it seemed was fated— Swept down before the breath of war like chafi. Three years ago, fresh in life’s bright morning, Went the one thousand to the battle-green, Fought and died, till with the third spring’s dawning All slumber there, excopt the ‘‘Seventeen.”’ Oh, pale, scarred warriors! no more returning— No proud ovations all along your track-- Three years ago, with youthful ardor burning, You went to battle—there’s no ‘‘coming back.” ‘Brave One Thousand! yours is rest unbroken, . The grass above you shall grow ever green. With mournful gladness we accept the token Of your proud valor from that ‘‘Seveniesa !’” et Oe tp eee UNCLE JOBS DAUGHTER; MARRIED 0 ‘HE DEVIL. BY MERLE WILLIS. CHAPTER I. 4 Wnele Job Winter was a well-to-do farmer, not far trom the town of Weston, to which place he wag in the habit, as all the farmers of that neigh- borhood were, of carting his grain after thrashing season, David Painter kept a store in that town, and being of proper age, and quite lonesome, sought to find a partner for life. His daily business kept him much confined, so that he had not time to go courting, agit is termed in country phrase; so he used to do considerable small talk and sweettalk with the young ladies of the neighborhood, as they called at his store. Unele Job frequently brought his daughter Sally along to do some of the errands at the store, while he went tothe mill; for he said he never could remember all tae notions the women wanted at home. In looking at and talking over the goods, David and Sally became acquainted; ays, they went far- ther'than this—they had actuaily fallen in love with one another, all unbeknown to Uncle Job, who had often said his daughter was pretty enough and good enough for the Squire’s son, whom he saw casting sheep’s eyes at her every Sunday at meetin’, and she should not marry any oneelse. Parents often have high ideas about their children. Uncle Job was one of those. David courted with his eyes first, then a few words dropped with a little tenderness in them, until by and by he thought his attentions were not unacceptable. And Sally had been quite eas- ily won, for she had always liked David’s spruce looks, and indeed she had thought the young storekeeper quite a catch. All bad gone on well until one Sunday afternoon David ventured to callon Saily at her own home. Uncle Job’s eyes were opened at once, and he was as cross to his visitor as he possibly could be. The fact is he treated him quite rudely. When Sally’s lover had gone home, the old man called berin. and told her in plain terms, to use his own words, notto let that feller come there any more, — “Why, how shallI hinder him, father ?” said she; ‘he always behaves like a gentleman, and I have no reason ‘to treat him unkindly.” “No reason,” said he; ‘“‘yes you have. Tell him your old father dont like him; that’s, reason enough.” The old man was getting angry. “Father,” gaid Sally, her own temper rising too, “if you do not want him to come to our house, you must tell him yourself. I shall not picka querrel with him.” “Who wants you to quarrel with him, gal?” said he; *1 want you to tell him not to come a courtin’ vou any more, that’s al]. You must marry Squire Rodgers’ son Tim, and nobody else. Ive sot my iuind on that.” “Ob, father; Inever can marry Squire Rodgers’ eon. I do not love him; besides, he gets drunk. You know only the other day he was carried in out of the road, where he had fallen. from his horse.” “That's nothing but wild oats,” says Uncle Job; She will soon get over that waen he is once mar- ried.” “T tell you, father, I don’t want a drunkard for _a husband, so there is an end to this;” and saying which, she bounded out of the room in high dudgeor. Sally had a temper as high as her father’s. It had never been controlled, and she was not in- clined to train it now. Uncle Job got more anery still, and declared she should marry the equire’s son, and he made up his mind to set the counter-jumper, as he called him, adrift at once, and he meant to tell him go the next time he went to town. Sally hada brother; Peter Winter, a young man of twenty-one, who rather liked his sister's choice, and was a particular friend of David Painter, and had thought it would be very agree- able to have him for a brother-in-law. Between the two, many meetings were arranged between the lovers, and ere Uncie Job could car- ry his idea out of informing David that his society could be dispensed with at iim Dale, (as Uncle Job’s farm was calied,) they were engaged to be married. Like all young people when by themselves, in calculating for the future, they forget the parents. who often contend that they ean, and ought, and have theright to dispose of their daughters and sons in the same way they dotheir sheep, cattle, horses, and go on. Wucle Job was one of these. He calculated his Silty would bring riches into the family—she would elevate them some among the country folks. The squire of the village was reputedly rich. To marry his son was a catch; and so he. was, in Uncle Job’s eyes, scapegrace as he was, The word catch meant a great deal among the country people—wealth, honor, everything good and great. The squire was a big manin the county. —had plenty of money, alarge farm, anda good office, And then there was one thing more influenced Unele Job, and it was this. The squire held a mortgage on his farm, due next spring, and he caleulated marrying Sally to the squire’s son would set that matter straight. : He had not asked the esquire if he was willing; he did not dream of objections there; he was only working on his side of the house; it is not the first time taings have been one-sided. CHAPTER II, About this time, a public sale of farm stock took place near the village, As usual, all the peopie far and wide were present. Among the stock were some valuable horses. Uncle Job‘had fixed his eye on one he intended to buy. Hethought it would bring one hundred dollars, At any rate, that was as high as he would give, snd he reckoned that was enough; for there wxg no knowing what was the matter with him, This talk was to frighten other buyers—he wished ¢o create distrust. In this way Uncle Job ) talked, and many taking him to be a good judge, Ww believed it, and so he seemed in a fair way of ob- ‘“) taining the prize he coveted. Bat just as he felt almost sure, an obstacle presented itself as unexpectediy ax it was unpleasant. Anuthis wasin no less a person than David ae be tried to purchase him, or exchange for him, with his former owner. He came prepared to pay a much higher sum, and so when the bidding commenced, the two bid against one another, all unwittingly at first, until Waele Job’s limits were exhausted, and then the old man got wrathy. ‘Who is this bidding against me? One hundred and ten,” said he. “One hundred and twenty,” said anothar. ‘One hundred and fifty,” said Uncle Job; “blast him, I can give as much a8 he can?” . “One hundred and seventy-tive,” said the other. Uncle Jeb’s wrath was increasing. He wanted the horse —he had gone above his price—he had not the money to pay anymore—he was in uis- ery. After walking across the barn floor a iew times, in front of where the sale was held, he ad- vanced ten dollars more. It did no good. His opponent went higher— even to two hundred dollars, at which price he was knocked down to David Painter. “David Painter !* said the old man; “why that’s that scamp running after my daughter Sal. He shan’t have her just for this darn mean triek; to go and bid against me, whenhe knowed I wanted that horse.” : : Some one suggested that if he married his daughter he might have the satisfaction of riding behind him still, sometimes. ‘Well, that’s true; but I want to own him, and that’s what Il want. Is’pose he thinks he has got more money than Ihave. Vil let him know he haint though. This was Uncle Job’s weakness. He never wanted to let people know he wasin a corner for money—a thing that happened often with him; but he tried to make people believe he was worth much more than he really was. Whenhe wanted an article ata sale, he would give a little more thamanybody else, because it looked big. No one could give more thanhe could—no no, he knew what a thing was worth. David Painter had thwarted him in'a tender part; it touched his pride, if such you may call it, and it injured him in Uncle Job’s eyes, insomuch that he declared he would never forgive him. Although Painter afterward assured him he did not wish to offend him, but really desired the animal for service, and had come prepared to pay two hundred dollars for him, believing he wag worth and would bring that amount, Uncle Job would not believe him, and in his angry mood, before many bystanders, forbid him ever visiting his house again, or speaking to his daughter un- der any pretense whatever, — David was much mortified by this contretemps, and also determined inwardly that he must have her. Many eschemes were laid to induce a better state of feeling in the old man’s heart; but he detected them all, and was sure to go offin an opposite ex- tremeas quick as possible. Uacie Job was one of thoss people who would get “‘sotin their way,’’ andthen nothing couid sway them. He was not well educated, but naturally pretty smart, and he thought he was good enough and smart enough for anybody; he was more proud and ambitious than intelligent. When he took a dislike to any one, no sin was too great to lay at their door; did anything go amiss in the neighborhood,he would lay the blame on the person he disliked, could he by any means bring it home to them, and sometimes he would go a great way round to do this, and sometimes mane great mistakes, and sometimes he was right, Uncle Job, 2s well as his neighbors, were slightly superstitious. Manyof them believed old Satan had and often did appear in bodily form among men; they heard it stated by those who had seen a little black, sooty fellow, with murder- ous-looking eyes, and misshapen body; and had in consequence been sadly frightened. About this time a circumstance happened with Uncle Job’s son Peter which almost substantiated this fact with some people. But it was different with Uncle Job. He declared that if it was true, David Painter was leagued with old cloven foot; and you will soon see why he laid this at his door. Here is the story, however; let our readers judge whether Uncle Job was rightin his conclusions. Peter Winter had been out very late one night, and had called at the tavern on his way home. After having sufficiently warmed himself within and without, he set out again for his father’s, some two miles distant. He had to pass along a low, marshy piece of ground on his way, and as he was riding leisurely along, he heard his name called, ‘‘Peter Winter |! Peter Winter!” by some one seemingly far down the hollow. Peter reined in hig horse, saying, ‘‘Who’s there?” Almost as quick as he had spoken he felt some one on the horse behind him, with a hand on each of hig shoulders. He was dumbiounded. Who could thisbe? He had not seen himcome. How did he get on the horse there so ciose to him, without being seen. His horse commenced to walk on slowly, but appeared to be heavily laden, scarcely able to draw one foot before another. Peter tried to turn his head; but no, it seemed to be set in a vice—he could not move it to either side. Cold sweat began to break out all over him, He tried to speak, but was so frightened he could not. Peter thought the devilhad him-sure enough. Now this hoilow was a few rods only from the town of Weston, and as the horse came near Painter’s store, all at once the person behind him was gone, the weight seeming to be off the horse. He stepped lightly along. Peter turned his head and looked in every direction to see his compan- ion, for he was sure he had had one, when, cast- ing his eyes up at the store steps, there stood David Painter. “Hello!” said he; ‘‘which way, Peter, at this hour of the night ?” ° ‘Home,” said Peter. “But didn’t you see a lite tle fellow get off my horse just now ?” “No,” said Painter. **Well,” said Peter, ‘‘there was a little man rid- ing on this horse with me just now, and as I came up to your store he got off, or vanished, or flew away, [ cannot tell which.” “Why, Peter, you have been dreaming.” ‘No, Lhave not. Do you mean to tell me do not know my own name? Some one down in the hollow called me Peter Winter, Peter Winter, and a3 L answered him he was on the horse’s back right behind me, with a hand on each shoulder; it was alittle hand, but mortal heavy.” ‘How did he get on your horse?” 6*J don’t know; didn’t see him; only I know he wag there, tor I felt his hand on my shoulder, and Bob walked ag if he had a ton weight on his back.” “Did you stop at the tavern, Peter.” “Oh, yes; I stopped there to warm myself.” ‘May be you took something,” said Painter. “Not anything to affect me; 1 warn’t drunk; vou can’t come that,” said Peter; “I know what I’m about.” ‘I think you have been deceived by something,” said David. ‘I do not believe in such things.” “No TI haven't,” said Peter; ‘I believe it was cld Satan. I heard some of the old folks talking about him the other night, and I believe he is seen, if you don’t.” _As he could not be convinced that it was an illu- sion, or that he might have fancied it, or that some of the landlord’s rum had anything to do with it, or some friend had played a trick on him, he was left to his own convictions. When at home he told his story with many ex- aggerations, for every time he told it, like many another, he added a little to it, until at last, what Peter Winter saw that night was truly marvellous. Uncle Job believed it implicitly, and determined he would never be caught traveling along that spot after dark, unless he had company, until David Painter’s name was mentioned, and then he declared he had something to do with it. The story of Peter Winter had diffsrent effects on different people. David Painter thought that Peter, riding slowly along, had possibly fell into a little dose on horgebaek, and some mistep of his horse waking him suddenly, and being a iittle un- der the influence of the liquor he had drank, hoe had fancied or imagined all he described. Some weeks atter the incident just narrated, Uncie Job left home to be gone two days. He was going some distance and could not get back until in the evening of the second day. As he was passing the store, he told a neighbor Painter, who algo wanted the horse, having often of his journey, and the time of his return. Uncle Job hurried all he could, but hurry as he would, he could not reach Weston on his return until near midnight. He dreaded the hollow, for he wag really afraid; but there was no way to avoid it, As he came near the lowest ground in the hol- low he whipped up his horses into a brisk trot, and drew up his overcoat about his ears, hoping to shut out the sight of any such being should he meet him. He had scarcely done so, when the wagon, with a tremendous jolt, was thrown to the side of the road. Uncle Job was thrown out, and a hideous looking fellow stood over him, with glaring eyes, and great black horns, and wide mouth, and called to him, “Job Winter, Job Winter!” “Wh-a-$ do you want? wh-o ar-e you?” said Unele Job, his teeth chattering. ‘J am a gentleman,” said the horny fellow. “No you ain’t,” said he; “tyou’re the old devil. Oh, let me go! let me go! I’ve heard of you be- fore, but I didn’t believe it.” *Can’t do it,” said old horns. If you did not believe it before you may now, for l’'ve got you gure enough.” ‘On, do, good devil,” said Uncle Job, who beg- ged and prayed. Oh, let me go, and I'll give you all T’'ve got.” “Don’t want it,” said the old fellow; there is only one thing you can give I want, and when you consent to give me that, why then [ll let you go. “What could it be?” thought Uncle Job. He began to consider; but the old fellow was not dis- posed to wait, but began to punch him with his horns, “Til give it. Tell me what itis, and I'll give it, right off. Oh, don’t! you'll kill me.” “Twant your daughter Sally,” said he, in a great gruff voice that made Job tremble. ‘T can’t do it,” said he. ‘She must marry the squire’s son. I won’t do it.” ‘Then [ll take you,” said he, and he gave Job a jerk and another punch of his horns. “Oh, stop!” said he. Another such a jerk would kill him, he thought, and he did not want to die yet; and to give Sally away was hard, but to get off he’d have to do it, so he cried, “Ill do it! Pl doit!” “Very well,” said old horns. “J’lleome for her four weeks from this night,” and giving him a dig with his horn in the side that caused the old mau to howl with pain, he said, ‘and mind you keep your promise, or [ll carry you off on my horns.” Buzz—went something close by Uacle Job’s ears, and when he looked up the old fellow was gone, “By dad,” said he, “‘that was him sure enough. I'm in for it sure.” Hoe had never been so nimble in his life before as he was now. He caught hold of the horses, and finding the wagon broken, sprang on the back of one and led the other home ag fast as they could go. When he came by the house he Iet the horsés go and ran in, jumping into bed, with overcoat, hat and allon. He tried to shut the ugly object from his sight by wrapping himself up in the sheets, The next morning the horses were found wan- dering about with the harness on, and the old man in bed with his clothing on—he had been too much frightened when he came home to think of anything but his own safety. His tale was told in a dolorous tone when he awoke. And he told Sally he had promised the old savage he should have ker; and he supposed if he came for her he would come in just some such outlandish manner ag he had seen him. Peter and the rest laughed at him, but Sally was in despair. Although ehe did not believe the old man’s story, yet she did not know what to say toit. Insome way she was to receive un- handsome treatment; but from whom, or by whom, or why, she could not tell. Uncle Job determined to have her married the next day if he could, so that if the old fellow came for her, he would get off by saying she was under some one else’s care, for he had heard that others had cheated him. So after sleeking up a little, he rode over t>) the equire’s to offer Sally to hig son. He thought the squire would feel gratified to tind him willing to give his daughter to his son, believing others set as great value on his daughter ag he did. To his utter surprise, however, the squire in- formed him he had other plans for his son. He was to marry the grocer’s daughter, who lived only a short way off, and bad a much finer farm and more money than Job Winter. He had high ideas iso. : Uncle Job was nonplussed, then angry, and finally told the squire his daughter was a good deal too good for nis son, for'he was only a drun- ken vagabond anyhow. He thought he would spit a little spite at him, if he could do nothing else. As the weeks rolled on Uncle Job became very unhappy. Really Sally was as dear to him as the apple of his eye, and now he had even promised her to the old fellow with horns. He cvuld not make out what he wanted to do with her, any way. He would rather have her marry David Painter than be carried off by the devil. One day having occasion to go to the village, he walked into Painter’s store, and calling him to one side, asked him if he wanted his daughter Sally yet? Uncle Job wasn’t sure that would gave her, but he thought he’d try it. David told him he had never given herup. He had hoped all things would come out right yet. “They would not have come out this way if the old devil himself hadn’t caught me in the lane the other night, and made me promise to give her to him, for I don’t like you, and you know it.” Well, David said he would take her, anyhow; and if the old fellow came for her he woutd have to quarrel with him for possession, and he thought that would be a tough fight, “That is just what L want,” said Uncle Job. “Only get me clear of the old chap and you can have my daughter; but you've got to take her soon, for the old fellow ig coming for her next. Wedaesday night,” “Well, that will suit exactly,” said Painter.\|- “We will be married that night.” “What! when he is coming for her? Yon’ll have murder and wedding ail mixed up! You must be crazy |" ‘How do you know he will murder any one?” said David. “At’any rate [ should like to meet him on that night, if ne does show his face, or his horns either.” So it was settled David was to marry Sally after all; but wasn’t it a queer way towimawite? A great many of the young girls and beanx had heard of the singular story, anu wondered Low it would end, Tho day came at last for the wedding, and great fixing they had. They meant to have a gay time go long as it lasted. It was supposed the horny fellow would come about twelve o’clock, and many stayed to see the fun. Uncle Job, in the few days that he had seen more of David Painter, began to like him better, and did not know why he had ever been so foolish to object tohim. Bat nowit was all over. He could not be easy as to the result of this old fel- low’s visit. Ile wished he had never seen him. About twelve o'clock it was noticed that the bridegroom was nowhere to be found. Uacle Job was in a fever of excitement; he thought his on- welcome visitor would come every moment. And where was David? —he depended on him to help him out of the scrape, for Peter only laughed as him. There sat his new-made wife, a picture of love- liness her eyes; and yet sne did not look ssd—he could not understand it. Directly a noise was made on the steps, and in walked the old fellow, with horns, hoofs, large eyes, and all. Uncle Joo got up to move; the young girls gcreamed; the young men, too, crowded to one side of the room, nove seeming anxioos to meet bis gavle highness, for he was black. Directly he spoke. P ‘Job Winter, I have come for your daughter.” Then for the first time tne bride began totrem- ble. Shethoughtit was all fun before, but sae feared it was a reality. Unele Job pointed to her ané said, “She has been married to-night, and I have given her away .to another, her husband; buat where he is now I cannoé tell.” : ‘Well, L will take her, according to promise,” said he, and he stepped toward ner, when she ro3e, shrieked, and fell. Sae had fainted. Bat who, think you, caught her in his arms? Ber husband, As ne seen ber swaying ne lous- heap in a moment, and he caught her in hig arms, whispering, “Sally, itis I, your husband.” Sally’s fainting fit waa of short duration, and Uncle Job caught the mimic devil in his arms, and said, ‘Oh, 1 am go glad you were the devil, after all ! I feel like dancing now, old as I am !” And he did dance, and never was there a hap- pier party than were met together that night at Sally’s wedding, _ Before it broke up Uncle Job told them he be- lieved he had been an old fool, for that was noth- ing but a buffalo robe David had on, and a pair of old horns he had picked up somewhere. He wondered he had not seen through the disguise before. David said he wanted Sally, and believing her father’s prejudices against him could easily be removed if he knew how to get a hearing, had planned this, so as to frighten the old mam to get him still long enough to consider on what he was doing. He said there was no truth in the stories of Satan’s visiting the earth, although many be- lieved it. “But,” said he, ‘‘for one the belief in him has been of good service to me, for Il have got a sweet wifa and am happy.” Reader, Sally was happy, too. And here we will leave them, just remarking it would be pleaa- ant if a great many other prejudices could be swept away as easily as was Uncle Job Winter’s; for parents very often are answerable for the hap- piness or unhaapiness of their children, long after they are beneath the god. are Se ite: THE SHORT VOYAGE, A TR UE $ TORY. BY ROGER STARBUCK. A stout little fellow, with a square face and bow legs, holding a small bundle in his left hand, stepped from a shore boat as it ran alongside of a clipper-built merchant ship lying in the harbor of Valparaiso, and clambered up the vessel’s side with the agility of a cat. This man was Tom Spencer, a very good-natured, frisky and fearless young water dog. He sprang lightiy to the deck, and was moving forward for the purpose of as- sisting the men who were already working away atthe windlass, when he felt 2 hand upon his shoulder, and, upon turning, beheld the captsin of the ship-—s tall, dark-ieatured man, with a heavy mustache and sinister eyes. “Wait a moment. Whatis your name?” Tom Spencer, sir; shipped yesterday.” *O, yes; you are one oi the new bands.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “My men are all new hands, with the exception of the carpenter, the cook, the steward and——” He paused suddenly and bit his lip. Then after having closely scrutinized the face and form of Spencer for several minutes, he remarked thatthe greater portion of his men were a little green, but that he believed he now saw before him a man who had had some experience at sea. ‘‘Aye, aye, sir,” answered Tom. “Upon that pint I may say that I’ve seen as much blue water a8 @ mortal man very well ean, having been brought up to it ever since I was as big ag a fly- ing fish.” ; ‘Mr. Brando, this way, sir!” shouted the cap- ain, Brando was the first mate, and he was by the side of his superior a second after he had called him, displaying to the practiced eye of Spencer the spare, active frame, weather-beaten cheek, and clear eagle eye of one long accustomed to the storms of ocean, “Look at him, sir, and tell me what you think of him, Brando.” One brief, penetrating glance brought a twinkle of satisfaction to the eyes of the mate. **Book him down for ship’s boatswain at once!” he exclaimed, turning to the captain. ‘Those eyes of his are no strangers to tarred rigging.” ‘It is well,” answered the skipper. ‘He shall be boatswain, if he is willing, and have good wages at that. But,” he continued, fixing his eyes sharply upon Tom’s face, “I shall demand the most implicit obedience to orders. No growl- ing—no refusing to do anything !” ana shall do my duty, siz; you may depend upon baat. “This way, then,” said the captain, and he en- tered the cabin, followed by his mate and our hero, The necessary articles were signed, the com- pact was sealed with a tew glasses of Holland gin, and Tom then went forward. The anshor was soon lifted, and es her broad topsails were sheet- ed and hoisted home, the gallant ‘“‘Nestor” dashed out of the harbor on a taut bow-iine, with the white water flying around her bows as the foam flies about the nostrils of a racs-horse. Owing to the exertions of Speneer and the mate, everything was made snug before the dog watch, anu the men were then oidered to get sup- per. As Tom was passing through the hold on his way to the steerage, where he was to partake of his meal with the carpenter and cooper, his ears were saluted by a loud, clanking sound, followed by a deep sigh, and upon looking in the direction of the noise, he saw an old weather-beaten sailor, who was seated upon a coil of rigging, with hand- cuffs upor his wrists and a chain about his an- kles. ne clanking of the iron links was caused by the exertions he was making to twist his hands into one of the pockets of his jacket. His wasted features, his sunken eyes, aud thin, gray hair, touched the heart of the boatsvain in a moment, and he advanced at once to the side of the pris- oner, “CT help you in any way, shipmate ?” ‘“nank ye,” rep ied tue old tar; “‘there’s a lit- tle piece of tobacco in my larboard pocket tiaat lve been tryin’ to get at for the last half hour; but blast me it I ean feteh it!” “Never mind it,” said Tom; “here’s a fresh plug for you,” and thrusting his hand in his pocket he drew forth the article and placed. it be- tween the wrinkled fingers of the old sailor. “Ynank ye—thank ye heartily!” exclaimed the latter, biting off a huge pieco, of the weed. ‘Aud now, hark ye, shipmate—jast run your hand into the right side of my jacket and take out my dar- ter’s pictur for me, that I’ve been a tryin’ to get a squint at for the last two days, but haven’t been avle on account of these handcuffs, blast ’em 1” Tom wiilimely compiied, and the prisoner gazed long and earnestly at the miniature, which was that of a fair young girl, apparently about seven- teen years of age. “Aye, aye—tnere she is,” muttered the old fel- low in a vuice of pleasure; “that’s her to the life. She’s an angel, lad; she goes to schoo: and gets plenty of larnin’, too—bless her! and she loves ner old father,” he added, with a broad smile of satisfaction —“‘loves this old hulk, a thousand of the like of which wouldn’t be worth one of her kind 1” At-this moment our hero heard the skipper calling him, and he was obliged to leave the old tar to:himself, ‘‘Have you finished your supper ?” inquired the captain, as be emerged from the steerage. “NO; sit.” “Hurry up, then, for there’s a duty for you to perform that I would have finished a3 soon as possible,” : “Ave, aye, sir,” answered our hero, glancing with some surprise at a formidable cat-o’-nine- iails in the captain’s hand. It produced a disa- greeable impression, that refused to leave him even after he — seated himself at the table with the carpenter and cooper. “Who is that old ela chained and handcuffed in the hold?” he inquired, as he proceeded, to carve the meat. . “Hig nameis Robert Reefpoint,” answered the cooper, “and he was formerly our boats wain; but the captain put him in irons because he re- fused to flog the cabin-boy. He has been in con- tinement ever since tae ship entered the harbor of Valparaiso, which was about six weeks ago.” % ‘-Biast ib!” exclaimed Tom, ‘‘that’s too hard! “OQ, the captain takes strange notions some- times,” replieu the carpenter, “as youll find out before you've been long in the ship.” ‘“Tambie up! tambie up! and jay aft here, all hands!” Tne order rang shrilly along the decks, and throwing down nis knife and fork, Tomrusned up from the hatch, just in time to get a glimpse of Robert Reefpoint as he was being SonddGhed aft by the first and second mates. The handcuffs had been taken from his wrists and the chain from hig ankles, and he seemed very glad to inhale the fresh air of heaven, not- withstanding the shameful punishment that the captain intended to infliet upon him. But when, at length, he was led to the mizzon rigging and the two mates proceeded to fasten him to the shrouds, his hollow cheek burned and his eyes flashed. “Captain,” he muttered, in a hoarse voice, “I was uever flogged before, and I’d rather you'd shoot me at once.” “Off with his shirt!” roared the skipper. ‘fll aah him the consequences of disobeying or- erg The old sailor’s shirt was accordingly torn from his bowed and wasted back and his bare skin ex- posed to the view of ali hands, who by this time had arrived upon the quarter-deck. His thin, gray hair fluttered in the wind, his wrinkled fore- head was pressed against one of the ratling, as though he would thus still the throbbings of his temptes, and they who were nearest to the shrouds could hear him mutter, at intervals, “It isn’t the pain, but the shame o’ the thing— the shame o’ the thing.” The necessary preparations were soon com- pleted, and the captain then extended the cat-o’- nine-tails to Tom Spencer. “Here you are, boatawain,” he said; “do your duty 1” i “Aye, aye,” exclaimed Tom, with blazing eyes; “Til do that willingly,” and taking the weapon of punishment from the skipper’s hand, he litted it on high and burled it out irom the ship into the waters of the sea, “There!” he exclaimed, his eyes still ablaze, “I have done my duty!” “You infernal lubber!” roared the skipper, “is this the way you obey my orders, and——” ‘When Isigned myself your boatswain,” inter- rupted Tom, ‘I didn’t mean that I’d play servant to a devil—shiver me if I did! Sooner than to flog that old man ’d——” “Enough! enough!” thundered the captain, and turning to his mates he ordered them to knock the boatswain down and put handcuffs on his wrists, “Not so fast!” cried Spencer, drawing a small pocket pistol from his jacket and. cocking it— “D'ye see that? Weill, blast me if I don’t blow out the brains of any lubber that lays a hand aa upon this old man in the rigging or upon me!’ The words had. scarcely passed his lips when the second mate, who had glided behind him, took a step forward for the purpose of knocking his pistol irom his grasp. But before he could accomplish his intention, one of the crew, a sturdy iinglishman, sent him réeling to the deck bya powerful biow upon the temple. _ The captain turned very pale, for twenty-five or six stout fellows had now ranged themselves by the side of Spencer, with clenched fists, and eyes that glared tnreateningly upon the officers; and he knew well that these opponents were not to be trifled with. He seemed undecided what course to pursue, but at length h» drew his first officer agide, and the two men conversed together in low tones for several minutes, at the end of which time the mate advanced a couple of steps and ad- dressed the crew in te following eloquent terms: “The captain says there is not @ man among ye worth his weight in salt—blast ye! Secondly, if he ever ships another crew of the same sort may he be ——! and thirdly and lastly, he has ap- p'inted mo, Mr. Brando, his chief mate, to de- clare to ye all that he intends to put back to Val- paraiso at once to discharge every blasted lubber among ye, and to ship another crew!” This announcement was greeted with three cheers, and Tom Spencer proceeded at once te liberate the old tar from the rigging. After he had been conducted in triumph to the forecastle, the men obeyed with alacrity, the order to wear ship, and the vessel was soon bowling along at a great rate for the harbor of Valparaiso. She dropped her anchor off the town af midnight, and on the following morning the captain kept his word and discharged all hands. Old Reefpoint and Spencar shipped in a home- ward bound vessel, soon afterwards, and in the course of a few months they arrived safely at New York. The old tar then introduced Spenser to his daughter, and Tom’s bow legs proving no objec- tion to the charming girl, she accepted the young man for her lover—aye, and married him, too. THE BEST POLITICAL CARICATURES Of the campaign ma? Re. vouna in the current THE PHUNNY PHELLOW. The principal engraving represents the Hero of Numerous Defeats, on the ROLL OF FAME, attempted too much for a little man, and THE BABY WARRIOR is accidentally who being desirous of having his name engraved DOWN THE FILM, and is seen CRYING OVER SPILLED MILE, This caricature must be seen to be appreciated, as the design is so pointed that all description | would fail to do it justice. ROLLED The first page contains another unique picture, aa SICK HEN CACKLING for a BROOD OF SPIRITED EAGLBTS to come under its wings. The illustration on the last page represents a soldier who has proved bimself a hero both with The Pen and the Sword, and is able and willing to use either or both when the National honor demands it. With the above, there are sbout forty other humorous designs, each one of which is worth more than the price of the paper, and expressly calculated to make even the must melancholy man LAUGH AND GROW FAT. THE PHUNNY PHELLOW also contains ‘he usual amount of reading matter, embracing Humorous.Sketches, Funny incidents, Laughable Yarns, Spicy Tales, Witty Jokes, Uutiing Retorits, &c. &e. We have but space enough to enumerate a few of the many articles embraced in its list of con- tents: : 700TH BROWN AND BURYING EX- PENS. THE CONCERT OF THE SORE-THROATS. A LONGFELLOW TRAGEDY. A PHUNNY PHELLOW HISTORICAL SKETCH. HOW TO PRODUCE RAILROAD ACCIDENTS. A CHARACTERISTIC LETTER FROM TOMAS TOMPKINS, THE LOZENGE BOY. TRICKED BY AN IRISHMAN. Besides about eight pages of other humorous reading, all written in that peculiarly ludierous vein which has made THE PHUNNY PHELLOW THE BEST COMIC PAPER OF THE AGH. for sale by every News Agent throughout the United Stares and Canada. PRICH, TEN CENTS PER COPY. gar Tae Puunny Paeitow is now ready and Bs