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There, speak in whispers; fold me to your
Deaf love, for I have roamed a weary, weary
Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart,
Oh, I have been among the dead to-day,
And, like a pilgrim to some martyr' 6 shrine,
Awed with the memories that crowd my
Fearing my voice I woo the charm of thine;
Tell me thou livest, lovest yet again.
Not among graves, but letters, old and dim
Yellow and precious, have I touched the
Reverent and prayerful as we chant the hymn
Among the aisles where samte their shadows
Reading dear names on faded leaf that here
Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond,
These drowned in plashing of a tender tear,
Or with death's tremble pointing "the be
And love, there came a flutter of white wings —
A 6tir of snowy robes from out the deep
Of utter silence, as I read the things
I smiled to trace before I learned to weep;
And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago,
Came soft before me, till I yearned to press
Wad kisses on their whiteness — then the woe,
The sting of death, the chill of nothingness!
One was afar, where golden sands made dim
Shining steps of the poor trickster Time:
And one was lo6t. Ah! bitter grief for him
Who wrecked his manhood in the depths of
Another, beatuiful as morning's beam
Flushing the orient, laid meekly down
Among the daisies, dreaming love's glad
And one swoet saint now wears a starry
And thus there stole delicious odors still,
From out the relics of the charmed past,
Sighs from the lips omnipotent to will
And win rich tribute to thn very last;
But death, or change had been among my
And all their bloom had faded, so that I
Yield my sad thoughts to the compelling
Of the bright soul I worship till I die.
Nay, never doubt me, for by lotc's divine
And toarful past, I know my future thine.
BY F. E. M. MOTLEY.
In that wildest portion of the Ardennes
•where the woods grow more stately and
the giant ash and elm and pine stretch on
and on to the Black forest, there lies in
the very heart of the green a village, which
I will name St. Elmo. It is wonderfully
beautiful; except Bouillon, the birth
place of the renowned Godfrey, there is
Hot a hamlet in the forest that can vie
■with its picturesque rocks and its wild
Many years ago I went to St. Elmo for
a week's fishing in the brawling, troubled
stream, which, pouring over rock and
rapid, comes leaping from the forest and
dashes by the village on its way to the
Mcuse. My road lay through glens and
woods filled" with beauty. All around my
path sang the oriole and nightingale.
As the day grew hot, I plunged deep
er and deeper among the soft shades of
green, till about midday, when every
breath was still with heat, I reached a
magnificent forest glade six miles long,
straight as the arrow flies, and arched
above by interlacing branches and roof
of leaves. Beautiful exceedingly wa3 the
arched roof, and so refreshing in the heat
to every jaded sense, that the eye bathed
in its green sea, and the ear drank in its
stillness, and the hand longed to touch its
"Surely the very place," said I, "for
an Arcadian feast."
So 1 sprang from my horse and fastened
him to a ttee. Then I took the basket
hung on the saddle, and unfolded its con
tents and spread them on the sward. A
goodly repast for an anchorite v*as mine,
and 1 enjoyed it like a hermit — a won
drous sense of solitude, of praise, of life
filling all my being.
"Here is thine own health, wayfarer,"
I said aloud, as 1 took the tankard in my
"1 will trinquer with the stranger,"
cried an unexpected voice. I looked all
around, and up and down the green glade,
hut through the whole length of the
lonely avenue of trees, the sea of leaf and
grass remained unspotted by aught but
flitting birds and tremendous, flickering
"Cuckoo-oo la, la!" sang the voice
again. This is the refrain of an Arden
sais song sung by the peasants in the old
Walloon tongue, the tune having a fresh-
Bess about it redolent of forest life and
freedom. The merry voice echoed me
among the leaves, and looking up 1 saw,
swinging on a great bough of beech, mid
way between me and the great roof, a
wild figure with long hair, sunburnt face
and great dark eyes, somewhat restless,
though full of glee.
Seeing that I perceived him, he swung
himself to the ground from the swaying
branch, and would have tied away, but
that, starting up, I seized him by the
arm. He was a youngster of about four
teen, wild, shy and free as a wild wood
"Let me go," he cried, "we are playing
'cache- cache.' If you don't let me run,
Stephanie will find me."
A little, blooming face peeped out from
among the leaves as he spoke, but disap
peared like a frightened bird on seeing a
"Now fetch me Stephanie," I said,
"and you and she shall have these cakes
and all this fruit you see piled upon the
On he darted like an arrow, as 1 left
him, and I doubted whether the hope of
cakes would be strong enough to conquer
his savage shyness and bring him back.
But he came; or rather the girl came lead
ing him. She was smaller than he, but
she had an older, calmer look. As I
looked into her eyes, 1 saw in them an ex
pression never found in any girlish faces,
in places within the pale of civilization —
an expression so unwitting of evil, "so de-
Toid of that species of conscious bashful
ness which brings the reddening cheek
and the averted glance, that it came near
er to my thought of angels than anything
1 had ever yet seen on earth.
Then, too, she was beautiful, and her
beauty was of a most rare order. Her
complexion was of that clear olive that at
night shines with the luster of ivory, her
email figure was the perfection of grace,
and her hands and feet tiny. Her hair
•was of a peculiar brown, like the brown
of a bird's wing, and utterly unbrighten
ed by any lighter tints.
This is her description, but words fail
to do justice to the power and wonder of
her beauty. It is the magic and charm of
loveliness, not the form alone, that con
stitute its true dominion.
In blundering words I asked the child
"Stephanie, the Stranger," she an
"I too, am a foreigner, Stephanie."
She gazed at me more earnestly here.
"Are you from my mother's country?"
she said. "Are you from England?"
"Yes, I am from England."
"Then you may kiss me if you will."
And then she presented first one cheek
and then the other, in the French fashion,
while 1 stooped and touched them with
my lips. Perhaps she saw on the boy's
face slight anger at this caress, for she
stole her hand into his and drew him
"Come, Gustave, let up play cache
"Take the fruit with you, my chil
dren, ' I cried.
The boy looked back, but he did not
move until Stephanie came toward me;
then he waved her back and caught up
the little basket himself.
"Are you, too, a strangor, Gustave?" I
"No. lam an Ardennais. "
"Then you are not Stephanie's broth
er?" I said, a little surprised.
"Not her brother! You. are mistaken;
I have no sister but Stephanie."
He ran off, and I watched them wander
away down the long, arched avenue, un
til their pretty figures disappeared be
neath a canopy of leaves.
As I rode, an hour later, into the little
street of St. Elmo, my friend, the doctor,
seized the bridle of my horse.
"I expected you long ago," he cried,
"but, thank heaven, you have arrived in
"What is the matter? What has hap
"The Englishwoman is dying — our
village mystery — our ten years wonder!"
"My dear friend," I interposed, "you
forget that this is my first visit to " St.
Elmo, and I know nothing of your vil
Indeed, hitherto the doctor and I had
only met at Brussels, and it was there he
had given me an invitation to his cottage
in the Ardennes.
"Come with me," he answered, placing
his arm within mine. "I will tell you»the
mystery on our way."
He drew me at a rapid pace, talking as
"Twelve years ago," said he, "a lady,
dressed in black, descended from the dili
gence on the grand route and asked her
way to St. Elmo. She directed her lug
gage to be left at the Barriere, and walk
ing herself by the shorter way through
the woods, reached our solitary village ©n
foot. She had a child in her arms — a
little girl about a year old "
"Stephanie!" I cried.
"Yes, that is her name. The lady
found lodgings at the bouse of a smail
farmer, and there she has resided ever
since. And during this time she had
never had a visitor, and with the excep
tion of two packets a year from Paris,
evidently from some notary or man of
business, she has never had a letter. She
has lived like one buried alive.
"And who is she?" 1 asked.
"No one knows. She calls herself
Mme. Grey. Her means appear to be
very small, yet sufficient in a place like
this for necessaries. But lately she has
needed a few luxuries, which I have done
my best to supply her with. She ha*
struggled against consumption these two
years; to-day she is dying. lam taking
you to her."
"Have you any idea for what reason she
wishes to see a countryman of her own?"
"I can only guess. She may have
some communication to make, some re
quest to prefer— perhaps respecting the
"Is she a widpw?" I asked.
"I cannot tell .you," returned the doc
tor, with a terrific shrug of his shoulder.
"I only know that for twelve years she
has led here the life of a saint, and ex
cept for the companionship of her child,
she has been utterly alone. She has em
ployed herself in working for the poor
and in educating her little daughter; giv
ing her as a fellow pupil, Gustave, the
farmer's son. Like Paul and Virginia,
the two children have been inseparable.
The people here always seeing them to
gether almost forget they are not brother
We had now reached a wild and lonely
glen, walled in with broken and fantastic
cliffs, over which hung woods of dwarf
beech, ash and hazel. Beneath one of
the tallest of these cliffs stood a thatched
cottage, with a small garden spread
around it, and just beyond this the river,
which ran through the valley, narrowed
itself between two rocks, and then sprang
over a fall of about twen'y feet.
"This is the cottage," said the doctor.
We entered; and in a moment more I
found myself in the presence of Madame
The dying woman looked at me eager
ly, with large, wild eyes, then she held
out her hand to me, saying feebly, in
"I want to speak to you alone."
The doctor and the farmer's wife, whom
we had found sitting by the bedside, in
tuitively understood her wish, and left
before 1 could speak it.
"1 am grieved to trouble a stranger. 1
trust you will forgive me," said Mrs.
Mindful of the doctor's counsel not to
waste time in ceremony, I came to the
point at once.
"Make no apologies, Mrs. Grey, but tell
me, I beg, what I can do for you; and be
lieve that, stranger as I am, I would do
much to be of assistance to a countrywo
'•It is a little thing to do, sir, and if
you will give me your promise to perform
it I shall die content." I gave her my
promise, and then she drew from beneath
her pillow a small pocketbook; from this
she took a card, which she placed in my
'^Vhcn I am dead will you write to
that address, and tell him to send orcome
for his child?"
My eyes fell on the name and address
of an Austrian noble, reputed to be of im
mense wealth and known to be one of the
proudest of the exclusive aristocracy of
Vienna. \ glanced at the dying woman
with deep compassion. On her attenuat
ed face there lingered the remains of great
beauty. And on this wasted page I
fancied I could read her history.
"And if the count will not acknowledge
his daughter, if he will neither come nor
send for her — what are your wishes then?"
A faint flush suffused her cheek as she
answered me painfully:
"It was of me — his wife— that he was
ashamed; even his pride will not hinder
him from acknowledging his daughter."
"Good heavens! are you the Counte3S
Yon H ?" I exclaimed. "And dying
here, like this! '
I scarcely knew whether to believe her
words or not. It seemed impossible that
a man like the count would let his wife
perish slowly in such obscurity and want.
But the dying woman did not heed the
doubt implied by my exclamation.
"We have both much to forgive," she
said, faintly. "Tell him I implored his
pardon. My pride was even greater than
his — may God forgive me!"
She fell back on her pillow, fainting,
but rallied again, as she heard below the
merry voices of the children, who, band
in hand, came in together, singing.
"I have hidden from the poor child the
fact that lam dying," she said to me,
sorrowfully; "and who will comfort her
when I am gone?"
"You have done wrong to conceal the
truth from Stephanie," I answered;
"tell her now. 1 will send her to you at
With a kind farewell I withdrew, and
on descending found, indeed, that not
only the shildren, but the farmer and
his wife, were in ignorance of the dying
state of the English lady. As I dis
closed to them the truth they burst in
to passionate weeping, except Stephanie,
who, with a look of disbelief on her
face, crept softly upstairs to her mother's
Mrs. Grey never saw the sun rise again,
but before she breathed her last I had the
happiness to put into her hand a loving
message from her husband.
"'1 come, Mary, instantly. Live for
me and our child*!' "
I had accomplished this by a ride of
about thirty miles to the nearest telegraph
THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1881.
station, whence I had dipsatched a mes
sage to him, and awaited an answer.
My heart ached with fear as I galloped
back to St. Elmo, lest I should arrive with
these comforting words too late. But I
reached the village just before the break
of day, and accompanied by the doctor I
hurried to the cottage. My eyes were
blinded as 1 put the paper in Mrs. Grey's
hand. But she was past reading it. It
was the little Stephanie who opened and
read the message amid sobs and bitter'
tears. Then she flung herself down by
"I can never love but you, mother!"
she sobbed, wildly.
"Stephanie, you will love your father
for ray sake. But where — where is Gus
tave, cried Mrs. Grey, stretching out her
Choked with sobs the boy knelt down
by Stephanie's side, and the thin white
hands of the dying woman were placed
on the heads of both.
"Never forget each other, children,
while you live. Stephanie, do not for
sake Gustave. Bo not let pride "
But the lingering tide of life ebbed
fast, and the lips were still. One other
murmur broke from them:
"Stephe! my love? my love!" Then
her head fell back and we led the chil
In two days from this time Count Yon
H — stood by the c«ffin of his wife and
looked down upou her dead face. What
his thoughts were I know not, but on his
haggard cheek and trembling lip remorse
Later in the day a hearse and a grand
coffin, velvet covered, arrived from a dis
tant town, and the poor lady who had
lived so humbly was borne away in pride
to be laid in death among those who had
scorned her living.
It was after the departure of the sad
cortege that the Count came to me and
requested a few minute's conversation.
"I come, sir," he said, "to clear my
dead name of any shadow that may linger
about it in your mind. It was no fault
of hers that we parted, and she lived here
in pain and poverty for twelve years."
His lips shook, and his hand, which he
extended to me, trembled.
"Allow me to thank you for your kind
ness. I depart this evening with my
daughter. Igo to Vienna to present her
to my family, after which I shall place
her in a convent to complete her educa
tion. Sir, it is natural I should wish her
to forget this sad time. If you ever meet
her again I shall trust to your honor not
to recognize in the Countess Yon H
the little Stephanie Grey who has lived so
long among these poor villagers.
With this the count and I parted.
In the evening he and little Stephanie
quitted St. Elmo, and I wondered what
the proud man thought as, all through
the length of the long avenue, the boy
Gustave followed the carriage, some
times flinging himself on the sward to
sob passionately, then rising with the old
"Stephenie! sister Stephenie! say good
by to me once more. Promise me again
that you will come back!"
Then Stephanie waved her hand from
the window and her childish voice, an
"Be sure I will come back, Gustave,
and we will play here again at cache
cache. Do not weep any more, brother.
Wait for me next summer, here in this
road. I will come, Gustave; I will surely
"Poor children," I said to myself,
"they will never play together again be
neath the bright canopy of leaves."
Going that night to the farmer's, 1
found him and his wife both enchanted
with the count's generosity.
"And what will he do for Gustave?" I
"Gustave is to be a priest; he is to go
to the seminary, and the count pays all
1 had my thoughts respecting this, but I
held my peace.
My Ardennes life, with its simple re
miniscences, was put away from me and
almost forgotten, when, one night at a
brilliant ball in Paris, I saw the face of
Stephanie Grey. Five years had passed
since I last saw her, but I could not mis
take so rare a face as hers.
"Will you tell me who is that young
lady?" 1 said to the friend with me.
"She is the young Countess Yon H ,
one of Ihe richest heiresses now in Paris. ' ;
"Her face is strangely beaatiful. What
is her history?"
" 'A blank, My Lord,' " said the lady,
quoting Shakspaere. "Literally a blank
for the first twelve years of her life; but
we take her father's word for it that she
has been abroad with her mother. That
is her father standing beside her, looking
at her so proudly."
"And the mother?"
'•Oh, she is dead. Hers was a sad
story. I will tell it to you some day; the
Count little guesses that I know it, but
I was a school-fellow of Mary Grey's and
she trusted me with her secret."
. I would have asked her eagerly for the
story, but at this moment the orchestra
commenced a wild and joyous air, resem
bling so much in its cadence the old Ar
dennais song which the children had car
olled in the forest, that I remained silent
and startled. Breathing faintly all the
time, through the strain — now lost, now
returning — came the echo of the free
woods, and I saw Stephanie Grey turn
toward the musicians a wild look painful
in its intenseness. Then her face grew
deadly white, and leaning heavily on the
arm of her father, she murmured a word
in his ear.
Evidently it was a request to retire, for
in another instant both passed us on their
way to the hall; I started up and followed
them. A string of carriages was at the
door, and around them pressed a great
throng of people, straining eager eyes to
catch a glimpse of the great wealth and
beauty that liitted by.
In a loud voice the Count's carriage
was called for by an attendant, and as it
reached the door there was a struggle in
the crowd, and a j'oung man rushod to
the front. A gaunt, haggard creature,
clad in rags, misery in his aspect, famine
in his looks, but on his face an expres
sion of such eager, intense longing that
all eyes followed his in wonder. And
their gaze fell on a young, shrinking girl,
in "the shimmer of satin and sheen of
pearls," whose paleness shone out like
death, and whose dark eyes passed wist
fully over the wild face bent toward her.
"She does not know me!" he shrieked
aloud. Then I saw his arms flung up
ward, and he fell down among the crowd.
The Count hf ted his daughter into the
carriage and it drove away at a rapid
"The young lady has fainted," said a
voice. "This madman frightened her,
too, at the last ball to which she went."
That despairing cry had been shrieked
out in the old Walloon tongue, and I
knew the wretched wanderer, whose hag
gard face had bent so near the Countess
Stephanie, was her foster brother, the
poor, forgotten Gustave.
I rushed in among the crowd, hoping
to find him, but on every side I found a
wall of strange faces, of whom I soon
found it was vain to ask questions. None
knew, or none cared to say, by what road
that gaunt figure departed.
"You ask me the story of Mary Grey,"
said my friend. "It is soon told. She
was the daughter of a ruined merchant—
a weak man, as unfit for the business of
life as he was for the business and the
wealth his father bequeathed him. After
the total loss of his fortune he lived here
in a small apartment. And here it wa
that his daughter had the misfortune to
meet with the Count Yon H . You
know the Austrian nobility is the most
exclusive in Europe. Only those ac
quainted with society in Vienna caa un
derstand the wall a parvenu finds extend
ed against him. Having heard some
what of this, Mr. Grey justly thought his
daughter could be no match for the count,
and he forbade him the house. It was
too late. Mary and her" lover fled to Eng
land and were married. Whether mar
riage in England, with every Austrian
formality unfulfilled, constituted mar
riage in Austria, I know not. I only
know that Mary wrote to me from Naples,
telling me that although her marriage
was still a secret from her husband's
friends, she would be happy if only her
father would write to her and forgive
her. It seemed all her letters remained
"A year passed away, and then I heard
from Mary again. She wrote in fearful
anguish. Her husband had gone to
Vienna to attend the death-bed of his
mother, and in his absence she had
opened a letter from his sister. This,
like some rude shock, awoke Mary from
"I cannot wonder," said the writer,
"that you hesitate to acknowledge your
mad marriage. If you do so you are
ruined. No one will speak to the daugh
ter of a bankrupt and a suicide. You
must lead this woman about in her lone
liness, feeling ashamed of her and of the
folly that has shut you out from the
society of your equals. If her father had
not made away with himself, she might
bear it. As it is, the whole thing is hor
ror. When our poor mother is gone,
from whom I have scrupulously kept the
secret, I counsel you to make up your
mind to part with this poor drag on your
existence. Ascertain if your marriage is
valid or not in Austria, andjact according
ly. If you have not firmness to do this
I warn you that your career in your own
country — a noble one, if you would — is
over, and you are henceforth a wanderer
and an outcast.'
"When Mary Grey laid down this letter
her heart was broken — the news it told
her was so bitter. Her father, then, had
died by his own hand, and she, scarcely a
wife, was a drag and a curse to the man
she loved. In her way she was as proud,
nay, prouder than he was, and she now
resolved to leave him forever. Even
if she was his wife it was horrible to feel
that he whom she loved so dearly, was
ashamed of her, and felt her a curse and
a drag. She hastened to Paris. There
she learned that her father — ever a weak
man — had destroyed himself in a fit of
frenzied grief the day after her desertion
of him. This fact her husband had piti
fully kept from her, but Mary knew that
he had brooded over it in disgust and
horror, and it added terribly to his bur
den of shame in his marriage. If she had
resolved to quit him before, this dire
truth confirmed her resolve. Henceforth
her loneliness should be a penance self
imposed. She wrote me this from Paris,
adding that her love for her husband was
too great to let her ruin him. He was
free; she restored him to his home, his
friends, career. 'If she had a son, she
could scarce feel justified in doing this,
but her child was a daughter, and it
would be happier for her to be brought
up in obscurity and love and marry some
"I never heard from Mary Grey again —
I never knew, till you told me, how she
lived or how she died."
"And how did the loss of his wife and
child affect him?" I asked.
"Very differently, I believe, from the
expectations of his sister. He did not
return to Vienna; he sought out no hon
orable career. A lost and lonely man, he
wandered about Europe purposely, until
five years ago he electrified the fashiona
ble world by burying his wife, with all
sorts of ghastly honors, in the family
vault in some old chateau in the Tyrol.
At the same time he introduced and
acknowledged his daughter, who is very
beautiful, \ery accomplished and very
"How do you know that?" I asked,
"Her face tells me. I hear she hates
the world, refuses all offers of marriage
and only implores leave to enter a con
vent. Her father, who adores her, is in
despair. She is very restless, and he
wanders about with her from ci'-y to city.
But people say it is all useless: the same
strange event follows them everywhere —
but then, of course, that is impossible."
"What event?" 1 cried, and I felt my
heart beat painfully as I bent forward to
"Why, people say the poor young coun
tess is haunted by a madman — a wild,
gaunt creature, who follows her with a
most piteous and heart-breaking love.
Who he is none know. The count has
offered a reward many times to find him,
but in vain."
I held my peace. I did not say this
poor, lost creature was Stephenie's fos
ter-brothar, once the happy child of the
With much pity in my heart I sought
him anxiously many days in Paris, but
when 1 heard the count and his daughter
were gone I ceased my search, feeling by
a sure instinct that this city no longer held
Gustave le Fou
There is no need to relate what busi
ness or what pleasure took me two years
after this to St. Elmo. 1 went by the
same road, and it was with strangely sad
feelings that I now looked up to the great
roof of green leaves and thought of the
two joyous children whose happy voices
had started my solitude.
In deep silence I rode on over the sun
flecked turf, leaf and shadow twinkling
around me, flashing oriole and resplen
dent butterfly darting and playing among
the branches, all bearing to me less of
sunshine and of joy than of old. And
almost at the same spot where I had
stopped to lunch, beneath the same huge
beech where the boy had swung himself
from the branches, there stood a wild fig
ure, with long hair and dark eyes, sad
He looked at me mournfully as I ap
"Do not tell them at home that you
have seen me," he said. "lam waiting
for Stephanie She promised to come
again in the summer and play cache-cache
in the woods."
"She cannot play now, Gustave," I
answered. "Come home with me to St.
Elmo, I will let you ride if you will
He looked wistfully a moment, and then
"No, I will not go to St. Elmo; death
is there — I have seen it. I will wait in
ihe woods. She will not break her prom
ise, and she mast rind tnc here, wher ■ we
played so often."
""Who is dead at St. Elmo?" 1 askeU,
thinking to turn his thoughts to another
His answer startled me.
"Stephanie is dead. She died in the
spring when the flowers came."
"Then if Stephanie is dead, Gustave,
why wait for her here?"
"The lady is dead— Stephanie, the lady
who came back to St. Elmo with a pale,
pale faci j , and wept with her head on my
breast -she is dead. But the other Ste
phanie who loved me, who played with
me in the woods; she is not dead. I saw
her go away with her father, and she
said 'Onstave, I will come back — wait for
me!' She'll keep her word—she will re
turn to me. You may ride off, stranger.
1 am waiting, you see, in the woods-am
waiting till Stephanie comes. Lorio!
lorio! Ah, the loriots and I are great
gnends. She loves the loriots, but the
cuckoo is gene."
Here he burst into the old song, "Cuc^
-00-oo la la-cuckoo-oo la la!" and went
wandering away down the long avenue,
till my eyes lost him among the long
shadows and green leaves.
At St. Elmo the doctor told me his sad
"Poor Gustave went to the priests'
seminary," he said, "but he had no vo
cation for the church Why the count
wished him to be a priest 1 can only guess.
In three years, having refused to enter
the priesthood, he returned to St. Elmo
much improved in culture and appear
ance, bnt strangely unsettled in mind.
The love he had ever borne to the child
Stephanie had, with his increasing years,
taken another phase and become a hope
less passion. His sole thought was to
see her again. Patiently he waited an
other year, trusting to hear news of her,
but none came. Then there grew npon
him a feverish restlessness and he left
the village abruptly. By what strange
magnetism he knew that Stephanie loved
him, and pined amid all the wealth and
splendor around for his companionship
and the free woods again, I cannot tell
you; yet it was certain that it was so, and
his heart knew it. But though he wan
dered from city to city in quest of her,
they did not meet. He was so ignorant
of the world, so poor, so lonely, that it
was no marvel his search was unsuccess
ful. He did not even know Stephanie's
real name. You will remember the
count made it known here only to you
and myself. But at length they met— he
a poor wanderer in the streets, she the
dainty queen of some royal fete, stepping
into her carriage. He recognized her in
stantly and sprang forward, crying,
'Stephanie! Stephanie!' The gens
d.armes thrust him back and he fell among
the crowd, beaten down like some poor
"The girl heard his voice, and clinging
with passionate tears to her father, she
implored him to seek out her brother— her
dear brother. She called him by that
name still. The count soothed her and
gave her many promises, then placed her
within the palace, while he sought out
the guard and begged that the quant fig
ure might not be allowed to disturb them
"The frightened count left that city in
a few days; Stephanie, meanwhile, having
vainly striven to find the poor wanderer
who tracked her steps. But what can a
young girl do? Her weak efforts to dis
cover him were futile indeed. The count
traveled from place to place, but at Rome,
Paris, Brussels, the same wild figure burst
through the intervening crowds and
struck Stephanie senseless with his hag
"Day by day the girl seemed perishing
of some great, unspoken sorrow. At last
thinking the change might save her life,
her father pressed her to marry; then she
flung her arms around him and whispered
" 'I pine for the free forest, father, I
pine to see Guatave again. Everywhere
I go I hear his voice, everywhere I see
the deep dells, the rugged hills, the foam
ing rivers of the Ardennes. Take me
home; let me die there!'
"The count's pride gave way.
" 'Try to live, my child;' he said. If
you love this young man he shall be my
"He sought the outcast now as earnest
ly as he had before tried to avoid him,
but the search was useless. And in sor
row and gloomy foreboding, he traveled
to the Ardennes with his sick daughter.
"There are strange mysteries in our
nature — I speak as a doctor— but strang
est of all these are those mystic forewarn
ings of the future which we call fore
bodings—those prophetic voices which
at times speak to the soul in clear and
"Whether these brought Gustave
hither, whispering that Stephanie was
coming, who shall say? 1 can but tell
you that in the woods where they parted
there she found him. As the carriage
drove beneath the solemn, arched roof of
leaves he stood forth to meet it— a mad
man—a child as she had left him, ready
to weep, to laugh, to play, as in the old,
old days when they were children to
"Gustave told you truly. She wept
upon his breast, and she died for sor
"She had come in hope, and it was
quenched; she had come in love, and it
was drowned in pity. The shock, the
grief killed lier. On the last day of her
life, as we stood around her, she turned
suddenly toward her father, and thanked
him sweetly for bringing her hither:
"*I die where I had wished to die,"
she said, "where my mother closed her
eyes, in my home, with all I love around
me. Turn my face to the window that I
may see the forest again. Poor Gustave!
take care of him when 1 am gone away.
And, father, bury me at St. Elmo, and let
him one day lie by my side.'
"The count obeyed her. After his
daughter's funeral he left us, a broken
man. As for me, I moralize and wonder
why the sins of the parents are visited so
heavily on the children. I ask, too,
whether the count's pride or Mary Grey's
disobedience caused all this sorrow?"
This was the doctor's story. Thus
from different lips have I woven together
the history of Gustave le Fou. He went
by that name for many years, and when
he died, they laid him by the side of a
grave on which stood a single stone with
the single inscription— "Stephanie. Aged
Faced by a Grizzly.
[Tuolumme (Cal.) Independeßt.j :
Bill Morris, the great hunter from the
Yellowstone, -who has resided in Sonora
a number of years, was making his way
over the mountains with his trusty rifle
one night last week, on board the Bodie
stage, and encountered a heart-thrilling
adventure near Cow Creek Station , as
follows: The stage had stopped ;at this
station to change horses, getting there
about 1:30 a.m.; The nights are frosty
at this altitude, and Bill, who had been
riding with the driver, had got down
while the team was being hitched up and
started on ahead "on foot to "warm up,"
leaving his rifle behind. Coming to an
elbow in the road a few, hundred yards
beyond, he cast his eye upward to a tre
mendous rock on the right, from whence
emanated a thundering growl, and in the
bright moonlight thereon perched was a
tremendous grizzly bear. "William was
petrified in his tracks. Down jumped
the bear, and standing erect in the road
with his mouth open, confronted him in
savage attitude ' and followed him up as
he retreated backward. Morris shouted
lustily for assistance, and at thi3 juncture
the stage hove in sight and the driver
and passengers, five in number, hearing
cries of distress, all shouted at the top of
their voices. The stage swung around
the curve at the critical moment when
the bear was about to strike him down.
So unnatural was the surprise that the
grizzly turned about and beat a hasty re
treat down the mountain. A bonanza
with one million "in the door" eouldnot
have been a more welcome sight to Mor
ris than was the Bodie stage at that mo
ment. The tracks of the monster meas
ured in the moonlight : about fourteen
inches. He is supposed to be the same
the stock men have been watching for
killing ; stock . just • previous to this ad
venture. ■ . .-. -
The First Trophy ot the Kevolntion.
From a paper written by the late Theo
dore Parker, and read before the New
England Historic Genealogical Society,
we learn the following particulars regard
ing the gun presented by htm, in his will,
to the State of Massachusetts:
Both Hancock and Adams were stay
ing at Lexington, with Rev. Jonas Clark,
an eminent patriot, on the afternoon of
April 19, 1775, when several British sub
ordinate officers were seen riding up the
main road in the town. This excited the
suspicions of men who knew them to
be British soldiers, although they were
In the night, intelligence was brought
to Messrs. Hancock and Adams that a
British expedition was on foot, destined
for Lexington and Concord, to get pos
session of their persons, it was supposed,
and to destroy the military stores at Con
cord. They gave the alarm to the proper
persons, whom Captain Parker — grand
father of the eminent divine-had selected
lor tkat work, and he sent men through
the town to give notice for assembling
the militia. The church-bell was also
Captain Parker lived about two and
one-half or three miles from the meeting
house. He had been there late in the
evening, and conferred with Hancock and
Adams, and made arrangements, in case
it was necessary, to call out the soldiers.
He went to bed late that night, and ill.
About two o'clock he was called up by
the men referred to above and went to
the meeting-house (the Council is just
behind it). He formed his company a
little after daybreak. About one hun
dred and twenty men answered to their
names, armed and equipped. But as the
intelligence was not quite certain, he sent
out other scouts to obtain information of
the advance of the enemy, and dismissed
the soldiers, telling them to be within call
and assemble again at the beat of drum.
They dispersed. Not long after one of
his scouts returned and told him the Brit
ish were near at hand.
He ordered the drum beat, in front of
the tavern close by the Common. Seven
ty men appeared, were formed into four
platoons, and marched on to the Common.
His nephew, Jonathan Harrington, the
last survivor of the battle, then a lad of
sixteen, played the fife, which with the
drum, formed the only music.
He formed them in a single line, then
wheeled the first and fourth platoons at
right angles, stepped in front and ordered
every man to load his piece with powder
and ball. When this was done, he said:
"Don't fke unless fired upon. But if
they want to have a war, let it begin
He then -wheeled back the two wings
into a continuous line, and stood a little
in front of the end of the right wing.
Soon the British came close upon them,
and some were soon terrified and began
to skulk off. He drew his sword and
called them by name to come back, and
said he would order the first man shot
who should run away.
All bright young scholars know what
followed— the fire of the British, the re
turn of the fire by the Americans — the
killing of eight of his company, his order
to them to disperse and take care of them
selves. After they were gone, the Brit
ish soldiers gave three hurrahs, and
stopped half an hour and ate their break
fast, and then resumed their march to
After they were gone, Captain Parker
and his men came back, took upjt he dead,
looked after the wounded, etc. Captain
Parker saw a British soldier who had
loitered behind a little drunk, seized him
and made him a prisoner. He was com
pletely armed, having the musket stamp
ed with the royal arms, a knapsack,
blanket, provisions, cartouch-box, witli
sixty rounds of ball cartridges, etc. Cap
tain" Parker kept them as spoliaopima, as
did also his son, and then the Rev. Theo
The late Governor Andrew, it will be
remembered , on receiving it on the State's
behalf, in the presence of the legislature,
Jan. 22, 1861, kissed the gun and said:
"I am proud to be the humble instru
ment of its transmission to the Senate, in
whose chamber it is requested by the will
that it ; i ay be preserved."
The weapon is placed in the Senate
chamber on the left of the drum and
other relics from the battle of Benning
>apoieon and Maria Lonis;'.-
The marriage excited the greatest in
terest throughout Europe, and the feasts,
the balls, the shows, the poetry, and the
addresses and other pieces in prose to
which it gave rise, were endless. From
Vienna toCompiegne, the road by which
the Princess passed, seemed to be strewn
with flowers. Paris almost leaped for
joy. The civil ceremony in Paris took
place on the first of April, and the religi
ous ceremony followed. The robe in
which tho Empress appeared at the festi
val was so magnificent as to beggar de
scription. It was embroidered all over
with diamonds, and the intervals were
filled with Malincs lace, its value being
estimated at GOO.OOOf. (about .£22,000).
On the four interior fronts of the tri
umphial arch of L'Etoile, were twelve
emblematic medallions. The first, on the
south front, represented the Emperor,
with this inscription underneath: "The
happiness of the world is in his bands."
The second was the cipher of the Emper
or and Empress, the inscription being:
"We love her from our love of kirn; we
love her for herself." The third, a cupid
holding a helmet, etc.; "She will charm
the leisure hours of the hero." The
fourth, a tree: "He is the author of our
glory; he will render it eternal." The
fifth, a sun, rainbow, etc.; "She an
nounces to the earth days of serenity."
The fif tb, an animal, etc. The seventh,
on the north front, the Empress: "She
will be to the French a tender mother."
The eighth, the cipher of the Emperor
and Empress: "We own to him the hap
piness of the august spouse, who has
given to him so exalted a place in her
thoughts." The ninth, the Seine: "His
love will recognize the gift he ha.s made
us." The tenth, the Danube: "He en
riches us with what he most dearly
values." The eleventh, the arms of the
Empire. The twelfth, the arms of Aus
tria. The illuminations were upon the
most gorgeous and costly scale.
A Qnack's Defense.
At the correctional tribunal of the
Seine, a quack is brought in, accused of
having been guilty of a nuisance by col
lecting a crowd, and obstructing the
Point Neuf. The magistrate demands:
"Thou scamp? How is it thou drawest
such a crowd about thee, and selleßt so
much of thy rubbish?"
"Monsieur le Juge, do you know how
many people cross the Point Neuf in an
"How should I?"
"How many do you think, Monsieur le
"I tell tuee I don't know."
"Well, then, M. le Juge, let us nay ten
thousand. Now, how many of these do
you think are wise enough to go in when
"Oh, peste! Perhaps a hundred."
"It is tuo many; but I leave them to
you, and take the nine thousand nine
hundred. Those are my customers, M. le
Juge. Can I help it if God made them
Case dismissed for want of evidence.
' The Sentinel
Just after the Franco- Prussian war, the
Adjutant-Major of a certain eorp& d'in
fanterie, in order to test a new sentry
who had been placed upon a responsible
post, approached, and affecting to have
forgotten the word, at length, by means
of threats prevailed upon the ignorant
soldier to allow him to pass without giv
ing the word. This he immediately re
ported, the result being that the poor
young fellow was sentenced to be shot,
this decision fortunately being commuted
to banishment to Algeria by influence
brought to bear from high quarters.
This adjutant-major at length met with
a well-merited rebuff, as the following
narrative, the dialogue of which we give
in English, shows:
Finding a newly- joined man placed on
a similar duty, he determined to repeat
his former "experiment. Fortunately,
however, the sentinel had been warned by
his comrades, and was resolved not to be
As the mgln wore on, he observed the
officer approaching alone, lantern in
hand, and at once challenged:
"Who goes there?"
"Officer of the guard," at once came the
"Approach to the word, officer of the
guard," continued the sentry.
The officer, approaching, said: "I've
forgotten the word, and you must let me
finish my rounds without it."
But forewarned, the only reply made
by the sentry was: "The word! Stand
back or 1 fire!"
"I have forgotten the word, I teUyou,"
persisted the ollicer.
"Can't pass without the word," was
the only answer made by the sentry, as he
kept him at bayonet's point.
"You know me perfectly well," insisted
the officer, in a tone of chagrin. ''1 am
your officer — your adjutant."
"I don't know you. Keep back or I
fire," was the only reply vouchsafed him.
"You dare not fire on your superior;
and as it is, I will have you severely pun
ished for thus detaining me from my
So saying, the officer seized held of the
bayonet, and endeavored to force his way
The sentry, once again shouting,
"Stand back!" drew away his bayonet
and made as if to charge the officer.
Stepping back, the officer drew his
sword and came on again, but was in
stantly disarmed by the sentinel. Seizing
hold of the rifle, he next endeavored to
wrest it from the .sentry's grasp.
The sentinel, being new to the corps,
and knowing perfectly who his opponent
was, refrained from firing, not knowing
what the consequences might be of firing
on his superior, even though the pass had
been refused. In the struggle, however,
the rifle went off, and the bullet whizzed
past the officer's ear, carrying with it a
piece of his head-dress.
Half-stunned and utterly confused by
this unexpected turn of affairs, the officer
last his presence of mind and actually
took to his heels, and without reflecting
on the probable ocaisequences of his act
he reported the fact of his being fired »n
by the sentry, who was immediately
marched off to the guard-room as a pris
Next morning a court-martial was con
vened, and the sentry, after having been
charged with firing on his superior, was
asked what defense he had to make. In
a few simple words he explained that he
had been placed on duty at a certain spot
with strict orders not to allow any one to
pass without giv'ng the countersign: that
an officer whom he now recognized to be
the adjutant had endeavor to force a pass
without giving the word, and on heing
prevented, had seized his rilie, which had
gone off by accident.
The adjutant-major, on being interro
gated, could not but admit the truth of
his statement, and the Colonel, a severe
but just disciplinarian, amid the cheers
of those present, gave judgment as fol
"The adjutant will remain in his quar
ters during the next eight days, having
unnecessarily endeavored to cause a pri
vate to perform a breach of du*y. The
name of private D — , will be entered on
the ordres dv jour, and remain there dur
ing the same period."
This was equivalent to eight days" im
prisonment for the officer and to the
highest raise given to privates, the entry
in the ordres dv jour being read to the
assembled regiment at each morning par
ade as follows: "Monsieur le Colonel
compliments Private D — on the zealous
performance of his duty under the most
This public rebuke to the officer had a
salutary effect. However, to his credit
be it said, he never attempted in any way
to molest the sentry for his share in the
A Dead Horse.
In France, when a horse has reached
the age of twenty or thirty it is designed
for a chemical factory; it is first relieved
of its hair, which serves to stuff cushions
and saddles; then it is skinned; the hoofs
serve to make combs. Next the carcass
is placed in a cylinder and cooked by
steam, at a pressure of three atmospheres;
a cock is opened, which allows the grease
to run off; then the remains are cut. up,
the leg bones are sold to make knife han
dles, etc., and the coarser of the ribs,
the head, etc., are converted into animal
black and glue. The first are calcined
in cylinders, and the vapors when con
densed form the chief source of carbonate
of ammonia, which constitutes the base
of nearly all ammonical salts. There is
an animal oil yielded which makes a capi
tal insecticideand a vermifuge. To make
gluo, the bones are dissolved in muriatic
acid, which takes away the phosphate of
lime, the soft residue, retaining the shape
of the bone, dissolved in boiling water,
cast into squares, and dried on nets. The
phosphate ol lime, acted upon by sulphur
ic acid and calcined with carbon, pro
duces phosphorous for Incifer matches.
The flesh is distilled to obtain the car
bonate of ammonia; the resulting mass is
pounded up with potash, then mixed
with old nails and old iron of every de
scriptiou; the whole is calcined and yioids
magnificent yellow crystals, prussiate of
potash, with which tissues are dyed a
Prussian blue and iron transformed into
steel; it also forms the basis of cyanide of
potassium and prussic acid, the two most
terrific poisons known in chemistry.
All the, iJiffm-nce
It is an old story in England, the heart
less obstructions placed in the path of
young inventors, authors, and others,
seeking for recognition. In America
anybody, everybody, is considered entit
led to a hearing. "Why do we get along
so well in thisgreat establishment, and
how is it every man and boy ibout the
place looks so earnest and so hopeful"
asked the chief of a remarkable New
York institution, repeating my question.
"Because every boy and man in the
place knows that he has a clear prospect
of advancement. If the lad who sweeps
the office comes to me to-morrow morn
ing and says, 'Sir, I think I have discov
ered a plan whereby you can save an
hour or a dollar in a particular operation,'
I should listen to him with respect and
attention. In your country, 1 am told,
he would very likely be kicked out of the
place for his impertinence." He had
struck the true cause of much of the hope
lessness of the prevailing toil among the