\V II ITT I IK ■ NEW I’OKM.)
weeks the clouds had raked the hills
An-1 vi \- (i the vales with raining.
\ii ; all the woods were sail with mist,
\t all 11. brooks complaining.
A> ‘ i.-i a Midden nigh 1 -storm torf
1 he iiu.mut.iin veils asunder,
A <1 «'vept In valleys clean More
Tin bosom ol the ’thunder*
1 ugh Sandwich notch t'll‘ west wind sang
(ni-"i morrow to the~ottir;
\s• i • n -1 again t'hovoi ua s hoin
Ol -Itat.ow piere^d tin* water.
\i -v- bis broad Use, Oesipec,.
Urn*. more i'Ii Hiush.no.wearing,
• i u tr.<eiI-." *n that silver shield
H i. j_-r i,a .inmwial hearing.
, .n ir-iwn auainst the hard blue sky
in,- had winter’s keenness;
•v.. ■ , , , on autumn's frost, the vales
ii: , :n : - than June’s fresh greenness.
. .in the sodden forest floors
*.\ ill, gold* n lights were checkered,
-o re rejoicing leaves in wind
And -unshine danced and flickered.
■a - if the -ummer’s lute
\i King lor it's sadness
I: i borrowed • very season’s charm
! - end its days in gladness.
i li io mind thoM.* banded vales
i >f diaoow and ol shining
,n oug:1 which, my hosted -•* my aide,
l dr • in dnv's’ declining.
\ In Id oi.r - id- ling way abov c
I II. 11\ - r ' whitening shallows,
1 :■ i■ n -11■::d■ ol !, with wide-flung barns,
-, . i t rough .mil through by swallows
i m ip.' orchards belts ol pine,
\;... : vl.f.s elirubing darkly
•ii iiu'-iin -lopes, and, over all,
i , ;;r .• peaks rising starkly.
, . - . .L.i.i haM seen that long bill-range
w it v ip- f brightness riven—
ii w nigh each pass and hollow streamed
lie pi.’pn.i.r lights ol heaven—
. i g.M :n.-t Mowing down
>•. *in ia; ceie>iial fountains—
p i"ii - ;n ii . iliac flirough tie- rid
!'oioi the wall i.f mountains!
pan- i a. 1 ..st when home-bound cows
Ibougln down the pasture's treasure,
\ ml r.i the barn tin rhythmic Malls
lie.it (mt lhe harvest measure.
)'• o.l th night liawk’s tuiien plunge,
i in row his tree-mates calling,
' i. -'lal'iws lengthening down the slopes
About our teet \vi re tailing.
A s. : tli-'-.lgl. tin tit -mole the It \ cl Still
In broken line-, of splendor,
.' oucli. i tin'gray * >ck.- and made the green
1 *t tin* shorn gra-- more tender.
! ';i m.ipjes bending . •’or the gate,
I heir arch • leaves just tinted
a II w warmth. the golden glow
< a c< i.ling autumn hinted.
bcu'-ath tin iann-liou.se showed
Am: .-miled on porch and trellis,
! lie fair deinoi racy of Mowers
l hat. e juals e t and palace.
\ i.•: v ing garlands tor her dog
'd'wlxt chiding* and caresses,
A-; n in ivi r ol childhood shook
t he ii-diiue trom her tresses.
• i cither hand we saw the signs
i " tain y and id shrewdness,
li.-:-.' t -ic had wound its arms ol vines
!■.■ 111.■ i thrift'.- mi. .oneiy rudeness-.
-iiu- *r >wu farmer in hi - frock
M; ink hands and called ' * Mary;
•■•••• n iiii d, < • Juno might, she came,
'tV'ir- aj.r-,'1 <-<J from her dairy.
! 1 r air her smile, her motions, toft
1 M womanly completeness:
\ mu-.', as ol louseholtl songs
A r ’■ oice of sweetness.
• : • ...:iful in curvi and line,
b'.i -omeihing more and better.
; A ,-i. ; • * charm eluding art,
ft- spirit not its letter.
ir11 giat that mulling lacked
•' m eii.ture or appliance—
i !:• warmth -. t genial court* -v
1'lie cairn cl eJl-reliauce.
i . . :v her- ■ pmindy womanhood
I! \v dur* u mi lioH* ss utter
He paltry errand ot her need,
! i• iy hei fresh churned butter V
Ala .. J -All. way with hopeful pride,
lier goodly store disclosing,
. till P-n.lerb the golden bails
\Yith practiced handsdi.-po.smg,
i I., n while along the we.-n i n hills
W ■■ ”• at died tin changeful glory
i »? -a? s o on our homeward wa;
: hoard her simple story.
i l.i i .1 Iy - riekot* sung, the stream
I'la-i ,:,i 111 j- * 'Ugh my fri-ml’s narration;
. i : r; -no p- ' i is of the hills
! .*; in ;m tvc*; translation.
'.vi • - d: • than those who ewarm
•'.in. will n .1 ui* \ tir-’ ru Mow,
• e:rthe early comer.
..e aie: !.• ill a ml rout she came.
■- C" s lair, })..!•- daughter,
i :"1 ak : t • iMiic ;,t mountain an
1" -"0 tile lb-arc anp Water.
11 .-•op crew firmer on the hills
•• deb *.::• h'.iuoMeads ovt-i ;
’ • tii d lit . t r * • i summer lit ids,
-rh: ti.i biooin ol clover.
• ' ■ i e.im* 't.-arkiing in tlm streams
i • mi : • ’i ■ • •: a • stealing
: ' ■ - -a: in i.r northern wind -
1 no - av trees "1 healing.
■ ' .: iith • ! r ad-armt d i.-lnm
. •, j tin gi nil* "A. *l wind weave
11:• ■ g r. • \s itt• - aid shadow.
1.* -1* 1 • !: ‘r*an :i.i-.*:jnimor heat
1 • "> g-.itotn* - -n-i niiig,
a li i. *r« mmu b..n *1 i be tarmoi stood,
1 i - pi’ .‘Mork i 'idling.
i r i mi ii i iT- dark *1 uip locks, his lace
Ha i ' a lai•/ mean or common—
strong, manh, true, the tenderness
v ud pri<: tn ln\ i-d ot woman.
in- Mik'd ; i , glowing with the health
ii-- m. is11 . air /lAil brought her.
' i d laughing .-aiii ’ You luck a wile,
. *.ur moth r lacks a daughter.
1 m* nd your frock and bake your bread
You <■• ln-t need a lady ;
• • -un aiiM-ng these brown old honu ■
I - m .die waiting reads -
. lair sv.cel gill with skillful bund
And ch'-erihi '.*-art lor treasure,
\\ h" never ii.Hied with ivory keys,
1 w da need tie polka me: sure.’
ii bei.i hi- black brow* toulrown,
1 i• • set his whit 1 tec th tightly ;
' Pis well,’ • he s iid. for one like von
l‘o choose! r me ;o light!}.
\ ou think, bee .use my life i- rude.
1 take no not* >t sweetness ;
i tell you love h is naught to do
With rut e:m--* or unine.tnoss.
ltselt its best excuse, it asks
• ■■ 1 pride1 or fashion
in n silken zone or homestead frock
It stirs with throbs of passion.
1 i .id. urn deaf and blind , sou bring
i "in m inning gnu * - 1 hither
' 11 • u d li om cradle-time
u 'i i"m played together.
’ '’2 . i<i- laughing eyes,
1 * 11" • - ' lllMp.WnV blu.-du-S,
a-M.i iv:,\ nit' ;■ -.mm,
- nm.-ic ... ■ ;in ashi s.
1 > pi..y Tib.g <T your summer sport,
i” 1 ■ ' 1 u • ' >• around mo
■ - u m.oi at our will undo,
• '• .«.*• • nit.- i you toulid me.
i "ii g, • light ly us you carin’,
i our ill i> well w.thoul me ,
A iat ' .u- in. ilia; these hills will close
! M ■ pi; on- a alls about me *
’ • mine : o Sick a wile
• m Ja ightcr lor my mother
A bo Pj>.’« you Joses m that love
A li power to love another.
Id in- your pity or your scorn,
W oi, pride your own exceeding:
i liing my he i t into your lap
Without a word ot pleading.
Mie looked up in his face of pain
>o archly . yet so tender:
And it 1 lend you mine,’ >he said,
Will you forgive the lender i—
Nor frock nor tan can hide the man ;
And see you not, my farmer,
How weak and fond a woman waits
Behind thi- silken armor s’
i lo\‘ you—on that love alone,
And not my worth, presuming;
A ill you not trust lor summer lruit
1 he tree in May-day blooming «’
Alone the hangbird overhead,
His hair-swung cradle straining,
i .ooked down to see love's miracle—
l “ giving that gaining.
Vu,\ .<> the- lariner found a wife.
. Ai ' ■"th.-r found a daughter;
1 '■« ie , u.ks no happier home than hers
“u P Bearcamp Water.
Flow. r.-pnng I„ UOSSOm where a ho walks
1 he careful ways ol duty ;
Our hard, tiff lines of Hie with her
Are flowing curve- of benuiy.
Our homes are cheerier lor her sake
Our dooryards brighter blooming, '
And all about the social ait
i • sw eeter lor her coming.
fn spoken homilies of pcaei
ller daily life is preaching;
Hie still refreshment of the dew
In her unconscious teaching.
“ And never tenderer hand than her.-:
Unknits the brow of ailing;
tier arguments to the sick man’s ear
Have music in their trailing.
And when in pleasant harvest moons
The youthful buskers gather,
Or sleigh drives on the mountain ways
Uefv the winter weather—
“In sugar-camps, when south and warm
The winds of March are blowing,
And sweetly from it> thawing veins
The maple’s blood is flowing
“ In summer, where some lilied pond
Its virgin zone is baring
Oi where the ruddy autumn lire
Lights up the apple-paring—
“ The coarseness of a ruder time
Her liner mirth displaces,
A subtler sense of pleasure tills
Each rustic sport she graces.
Her presence tends its warmth and health
1 <• all who come before it
If woman lost us Eden, such
As she alone restore it.
“ For larger life and wiser aims
1 he farmer is her debtor;
Who holds to his another’s heart
Must needs be worse or better.
“ Through her his civic service shows
A purer-toned ambition;
No double consciousness di\ ides
The man and politician.
'• In party's doubtful ways ’ • trusts
Her instincts to deter mil. ;
At the loud polls, the thought of her
Recalls Christ’s mountain sermon.
He owns her logic of the heart,
And wisdom of unreason.
Supplying, while he doubts and weighs,
fhe needed word in season.
“ lie sees with pride her richer thought.
Her fancy’s freer ranges ;
And love thus deepened to respect
Is proof against all changes.
“ And it she walks at case in ways
His lect are slow to travel,
And it she reads with cultured eyes
What his may scarce unravel.
“ Still clearer, for her keener sight
Ot beauty and of wonder,
He learns the meaning of the hills
He dwelt from childhood under.
Ami higher, warmed with summer light ,
Or winter-crowned and hoary,
I'l.f ridged horizon lilts for him
Its inner veils of glory.
■ lie has liis own free, bookless lore,
flic lessons nature taught him,
1 he wisdom which the woods and hills
And toiling men have brought him ;
• The steady lorce oi will whereby
Her llexile grace seems sweeter;
The sturdy counterpoise which makes
Her woman's lile completer;
“ A latent lire of soul which lacks
No breath of love to Ian it.
And wit, that, like his native brooks
Plays over solid granite.
How dwarfed against bis manliness
She sees the mean pretension,
The wants, the aims, the follies, h im
Of fashion and convention !
• IIow life behind its accidents
Stands strong and sell-sustaining;
fhe human tact transcending all
The losing and the gaining.
And so, in grateful interchange
' >1 teacher and ol hearer,
Their lives their true distinctness keep
While daily drawing nearer.
•‘And il the husband or the wife
In home’s strong light discovers
.Such slight defaults as failed to meet
The blinded eyes of lovers.
•* Why need we care to ask < who dreams
Without their thorns or roses,
i >r wonders that the truest steel
fhe readiest spark discloses ‘i
“ For still in mutual sufferance lies
flic secret ol true living;
Love scare is love that never knows
the sweetness ot forgiving.
“ We send the squire to General Court.
To take his young wife thither;
No prouder man election day
Hides through the sweet June weather.
“ He sees with eyes of manly trust
All hearts to her inclining;
Not less for Him his household light
that others share its shining.’’
rims, while my hostess spake, there grew
Before me warmer tinted,
And outlined with a tenderer grace
The picture that she hinted.
The sunset smouldered as we drove
Beneath the deep hill-shadows;
Below us wreaths of white tog walked
Like ghosts the haunted meadows.
Sounding the summer night, the stars
Dropped down their golden plummets;
Tlie pale arc ol the Northern Lights
Kiso o’er the mountain summits—
Until, at last, beneath its bridge,
We heard the Bearcamp flowing,
And saw across the inapled lawn
1‘lie welcome home lights glowing :~
And, musing on the tale J heard,
1 were well, thought 1, if often
To rugged farm-life came the gift
l o harmonize and soften;—
ll more and more we found the troth
< »t fact and lancy plighted,
And culture’s chaim and labor’s strength
In rural homes united—
me simple me, tue liomcly hearth.
With beauty’s sphere surrounding,
And blessing toil where toil abounds
With graces more abounding.
A Mother’s Management.
The dismal December night was closing
with starless gloom over the spires and
chimney tops of the city—the blinding mist
I ol snow Hakes was wreathing its while pall
over all, and the wind murmuring sadly
through the streets, seemed to have an al
most human wail in its moan.
“ It’s an ugly kind of uight,” muttered
Mr. Terryu to himself, as he buckled his
fur collar around his neck, “ and a wind lit!
to cut one in two. llallo! what’s this?”
He had very nearly stumbled over some
thing that looked like, a bundle, crouching
at the foot ol a flight of steps, in the shad
ow :>! a ruinous old archway; but as he
cheeked himself abruptly, the bundle erect
ed itselt into something human in shape,
aud looked at him through wild, human
“ Who are you?” he demanded, on the
impulse ol the moment.
“ Only me, sir—little Toss.”
“ Please give me a penny, sir !” cried the
I child, suddenly subsiding into the regular
i professional whine of Iter trade. “ Only a
“ Where do you live?”
“ I don’t live uowhere, sir—I skulks
rouud iu the alleys.”
j “Oh you do, eh? and who takes care u!
' you ?”
“ Old Tim Daley used to, hut he’s took
“ look up?’
Sent to the island, sir.”
“ Are you a hoy or a girl?”
j (For the creature’s tangled locks and rag
ged garb gave no clue to her sex.)
“ Ton ought to be ashamed of yourself,
begging iu the streets,” said Mr. Terryu,
severely. “ Why don’t you go to work?”
As he approached his own door, a bright,
j child’s lace peeped out between the curtains
aud as Mr. lerryu entered the cheery sit
I ting-room he could not but think with a
remorseful pang of the shivering bundle of
rags under the brick archway beyond.
But Mr. Terryn’s conscience was less ad
amantine thau he had giveu credit for be
ing. It pricked him sorely as he sat toast
ing his slippered feet before the bright em
bers—it whispered to him as I13 listened to
the lullaby wherewith his wife was lulling
the babe to sleep upou her breast. Had lit
tle Tess ever kuowu a mother’s care, or
heard a mother’s cradle soug? Aud she
could scarcely have been six years old ei
“ Where are you going by dear?” ques
tioned his wife, us he rose up suddenly.
“ Out into the street. There was a—
child there—a little girl, crouching on some
“A child? Homeless? Aud on such a
uight as this? Oh, Herbert, you should
i have brought her here.”
I'ivc minutes alterward, Mr. Terryu was
lout in tBe driving whirlwinds of snow,
bending over the small stray who was hud
dled up, just where he had left her.
“ Here, child, where are you?”
But there was no answer. Little Tess
was benumbed and stupefied with the cold.
lie lifted her up, a poor little skeleton,
wrapped in a miserably thin coating of rags,
and feeling strangely light in his arms, and
carried her home. Mrs. Terryn met him
at the door.
“ Oh, Herbert, what a poor little starved
wretch ! Her hands are like bird’s claws.”
Charley looked on in breathless interest
at the process of feeding, warming and re
storing some vitality to the torpid object.
When little Tess opened her eyes, it was
to the glow of a warm fire and the mellow
sparkle of gaslights.
“ Am I dead?” cried the child, “ and is
' this Heaven?”
“ Poor little creature !” said Mrs. Terryn,
buisting into tears.
“Tesora” her name proved to be—a sweet
Italian synonym for the word “ treasure,”
and a treasure she was, in gentle Mrs. Ter
ryn’s eyes, especially after her little babe
was dead and buried.
“ I low Tesora grows,” said Mr. Terryn,
suddenly, one day, as the beautiful girl
came in, rosy and smiling from a walk.
“Why, slie is as tall as a g' own wo
“She is a grown woman,” said Mrs. Ter
ryn, with a smile.
“ How old is she?”
“ Sixteen, day before yesterday.”
“ Is it possible,” said Mr. Terryn,
. thoughtfully. How time slips away. Tes
ora sixteen ! Why, then, Charley must be
“ It is true my dear,” said his wife.
“ We are getting to be old people, now'.”
“I wonder what will become of Tesora,”
said Mr. Terryn, musingly. “ She would
make a capital governess, her education has
been so thorough, or—”
“ Father,” said Charles Terryn, resolute- j
ly, as he walked up in front of his father
and stood with folded arms. “ 1 can tell
you what is to become of Tesora. She is
to he my wife.”
“Nonsense!” ejaculated Mr. Terryn.
“Charley,” said his mother, w'hen the
indignant father had jerked himself out of
the room, “don’t w'aste your breath in ar
guing with your father. Argument never
conquered yet, in such a case as this.”
“But what am I to do?”
“Have you spoken to Tess yet?”
“Wait, then—let matters rest. I will
.So Mrs. lerryu gave little dinnerparties
and select soirees, and “brought out” Tes
ora according to the regular programme.
She made a sensation. Mrs. Terryn had
known that she would. Suitors congregat
ed round her.
“Well, Tess,” said Mr. Terryn, one
night—he was getting wondrously proud
of his adopted daughter’s success iu the
world of society—“are yon going out to
“I thought Charley had taken a box nt
. the opera for you.”
“I promised Colonel Randolph first,”
said Tesora, languidly playing with her fan.
“And how about to-morrow night ? I !
suppose Charley could get his tickets trans
“I am sorry, sir, hut I am engaged for
Mr. Terryn rose and walked restlessly up
j and down the room. lie was a mau much
guided liy the opiuiou of his fellow men.
Tesora must he a treasure, else why this ;
competition among the young millionaires
for her society.
“Look here, Tess, Charley will he so dis-1
“I can’t help it. Let me see”—and she
glanced at her tablets, “Friday is the only
evening I have disengaged.”
“Fiddlesticks 1” muttered the old gentle
man, uneasily, “It seems to me you are
getting to ge a great belle, Miss.”
“Am I, papa?” said Tess, laughing,—
“Hut you see I am your little girl still.”
And she gave him a little coaxing kiss.
“My own little girl; yes, but what will
you become when Colonel Raudolph or
Daytou L’Estrange, or some other of these
scamps takes you away from me !”
Tesora blushed until the rose on her
cheek was like a carnation.
“They will not, papa.”
“Won't they? I’m not altogether so sure
. of that.
But the next afternoon lie came home
from the oilice with a puzzled face.
“They have come, Tess ”
“What have come?”
“The offers of marriage; two of them,
by Jupiter ! Colonel Randolph and Mr. Du
piner. What do you say, Tess?”
“I—I must think of it, papa.”
“Very gentlemanly, I must say; both
well off, substantial fellows, and profess to
be desperately iu love with my girl. But,
| “You won’t leave us dear? Think how
I desolate the old house will be without you.”
Tesora was silent; her head dropped.
“Father,” said Mrs. Terryn, gently, “let
the girl decide lor herself. We have no
right to stand between her and a home and
a husband of her own.”
“But she might have a home and a hus
band of her own here,” burst in Mr. Ter
ryn. “That is—I mean Charley.”
“I have refused Charley to-day,” said
“Refused Charley ! And why?”
“Because I had reason to believe that
his suit was pressed without the approval
of his father. Oh, sir, could you think that
alter all your kindness, I could steal your
sou’s duty away from you? I would rath
“Spoken like yourself, Tess,” said Mrs.
Terryn, going to her and kissing her.
“Tess, do .you love him?” eagerly ques
tioned the father.
“That has nothiug to do with the ques
tion, sir,” she answered, reservedly.
“But I want to know,” he insisted.
“I do love him, sir, then.”
“And you have refused him only because
1 didn’t approve?”
“But I do approve, Tess. It would make
me the happiest old father in the world, if
I could call you both children in real truth.”
Charles Terryn rose from his seat and
came eagerly forward.
“Tesora, dearest, you hear him. Ouce
more I ask you to he my wife.”
And Tesora hid her face on his shoulder,
weepiug ; but Tesora was very happy, nev
“But, my love,” said Mrs. Terryn, soft
ly, “what has wrought such a change in
“I—I don’t know,” said the old gentle
men, evasively. “I say, Tess, what shall
I tell the Colonel and Mr. Dupiner?”
“Tell them, sir,” spoke up Charley,
“that she has a previous engagement.”
And so the mother’s management pre
vailed, and little Tess’ first homo was her
IA Fow Episodes in Now York Life.
[From the N. Y. World, 12th.i
| la 11 side room of the main hall of the
Central Police Headquarters, iu the second
story, on Mulberry st., is a desk at which
'sits on old, rosy cheeked, white headed
police officer, named McVfaters. IVIc
Waters is famous in New York. He is the
theatrical critic of the Po me Department.
His opinions on music and the drama are
of weighty authority among members of
the force, and like most critics he is dog
matic and forcible.
But MeWater.s is at present known to
| fame as being the officer detailed by Inspec
tor George Dilks to take charge of a de
partment organized in November, 18G7, to
supply a great want, and which is now iu
successful operation. This department is
known as the “Bureau for the Recovery of
Lost Persons.” Officer M'-Waters was
formerly iu the City Hall Precinct, under
Captains Thorne and Brackett, and is very
well acquainted with the city, so his servi
ces have been made available iu the new
MISSING MEN AND WOMEN.
The manner of' investigation in regard
to a missing relative or friend is as follows :
As soon as a person disappears from home,
the nearest relative, on learning of the
missing person, goes to police headquarters
and makes application to the “Missing Bu
reau,” for information. The age, height,
build, whiskers, if any, color of eyes,
dress, hair, the place where last seen, the
habits and disposition of the person, are
given to the inspectors, and officer Mc
Waters makes proper entries on his register
which he keeps, for that purpose, of all
the facts. The personal description of the
missing person is compared with the re
turns made by the Morgue every twenty
four hours to the police inspectors. Should
the description answer to the person and
clothing of any person found at the Morgue
word is at once sent to the relatives of the
joylul news. Besides this, auother very
necessary precaution is taken to find the
person or persons missing. Cards arc
printed, five or six hundred in number, and
sent to all the police officers on special duty
in the different Metropolitan precincts, with
instructions to the Captains to have his men
to make an active and energetic search for
TIIEOlilES Alien’ Tnsr PEOPLE.
Over seven hundred people have been
reported as missing to police headquarters
during the past twelve months. Of this
number the majority have been found, it is
believed, as no record can be kept of those
who are not reported, when found by their
relatives or friends, to headquarters. Oe- j
casioually a person who reports some one I
missing belonging to them, will give all the j
details about him, but if found w ill give
all the incidents from a sense of shame, i
where domestic difficulties have occurred
in families, or from laziness or a sense of
forgetfulness. Thus all track is lost of
those who have been found unknown to the
police, and accurate satisfies arc baffled in
the matter of inquiry.
Hundreds of '‘Lost Children” bear testi
mony to the carelessness of mothers and
nurses who are more intent on other busi
ness, when their charges stray oil* to be
found afterwards in out of the way places
by stray policemen. Quite often a pedes
trian will notice, on going along one of our
side streets, a young child, its eyes bubbling
over with tears, and red from irritation and
inflammation, wiio has strayed from its pa
rents’ residence. Sometimes it will have a
stick of candy in its infantile fist, or else
an apple or a slice of bread, butter, and
molasses to console it in its wanderings.
It is very seldom, however, that these
children do not find their way back to their
parents, unless there is foul play in such
instances, where a child may be kidnapped
by people who are childless, or through
their agency, for the purpose of adoption
in barren families. The practice of buby
farming has not as yet attained in America
the height that it has reached in England,
and therefore the lives of children are not
yet so endangered as they are across the
water. It is calculated that at least one
thousand children are missing every year
in this city, but they are nearly all return
ed before the close of the day on which
they were first missed.
THE DENS OF MIDNIGHT.
If the thousand and one noisome cran
nies, nooks and dens of this great city could
be exposed to view, day after day, the
bodies of many a missing man and woman
might be found festering and rotting or their
bones bleaching for want of decent burial.
Where do the bodies come from that are
fished up bloated and disfigured in the docks
and from the slime of the Hudson? It is
fearful to think of men influenced by liquor
who, with their gold watches, poeketbooks
and other valuables exposed in the most
foolish manner, are to be seen, night after
night, in the dens and hells of this great
sinful city. Many of these men are from
far oft' country villages ami happy homes,
and when thrown into our streets at night
under the flare of the gas lamps, and among
crowds of showily dressed women whose
feet are ever downward into the abyss, it
becomes almost impossible for them to re
sist the thousand and one meretricious
temptations that are placed before them.
THE HORROR OF A BREAKING DAWN.
Instances may be related of how men
disappear and are never heard of to be re
cognized. A well to-do person from Ohio,
who had never visited New York before,
pays a visit to this city, and stopping at a
down town hotel, sallies out iu the evening
in search of what he has been taught by
his limited course of reading to call “ad
ventures.” He believes, iu his Ohio sim
plicity, that he will meet with a beautiful
and rich young lady in New York, who,
struck with his rural graces and charms,
will at once accept his hand and farm.
Well, he takes a look at the “Black Crook,”
or “White Fawn,” or “Genevieve de Bra
bant,” and returning late to his down-town
hotel is struck by the beauty aud grace of
a female form that glides before him on his
way down town. Pretty soon she makes a
signal to him that cannot be mistaken, and
our Ohio friend, rather astonished at the
freedom of the aristocratic and well-bred
ladies ot the metropolis, but nothing loth,
hastens to her side, and accompanies her to
her richly voluptuous mansion iu Bleecker,
Green, Mercer or Crosby streets. In the
watches of the night he awakens to find the
aristocratic lady fastened on his throat, and
a male friend of hers, with a villainous
countenance, poising a kuife for a plunge 1
iu his neck. The work is done quickly, a
barrel well packed, or a furniture chest,
placed in a carriage at night, can be taken
up the Hudson river road and there drop
ped iu the river, and after a day or so the i
head of another dead man will be found )
eddying aud floating around the roiling
piers near the battery, his face a pulp and
no longer recognizable. The suu shines
down on the plashing waters, but the eyes
are sightless, and never another sun can
dim their brilliancy or splendor. It is only
another missing man without watch, pock
book or money on his person.
MISERY, SHAME AND DEATH.
Another missing instance. A beautiful
girl, bora in a village on the Sound, where
the waters of that inland sea beat and play
around the sandy pebbles of a land-locked
inlet, is reared in innocence and virtue un
til she reaches her seventeenth year. At
seventeen she visits New York for the first
eventful time in her life, She is dazzled
with its theatres, its balls, its Central Park,
the Broadway confuses and intoxicates her,
but opera has divine charms for her musi
cal ear, aud she is escorted nindit after nindit
by a man with a pleasing face and a ready
tongue. She is yet white as the undriven
snow. One night she takes a midnight
sleigh ride on the road, aud they stop at a
fashionable looking restaurant in Harlem
Lane on the road. She is persuaded to take
a glass of champagne. She is finally per
suaded to drink an entire bottle of cham
pagne. That night the world is torn from
under her feet. She has tasted the Apple
of Death. She returns to her peaceful
home on the Sound a dishonored woman.
To hide her shame she returns to New
1 ork, but her destroyer has gone — she
knows not whither. Then the struggle be
gins for existence and bread. She D a
seamstress, a dry goods clerk, but her
shame finds her out when an infant is born
to her unnamed. One night, hungry and
torn with the struggle of a lost hope, she 1
rushes into the streets and seeks the river, i
On a lone pier she seeks refuge from her |
“ lost life.” The night watchman, anxious j
about the cotton and resin confided to his
charge, does not hear the cry of “ Mother”
♦ rw»m o ffirl. nr thp olnno-0 into !
the gloomy, silent river below. She is not:
found for several days after, and then her
once fair face is gnawed threadbare with
the incisors of crabs, aud the once white
neck, rounded as a pillar of glory is mere
greenish mass of festering corruption. Siiej
is not recognized, and thus fills the page de
voted to missing people.
Then there are the class of girls who dis
appear from their homes outside of New
York, and descend into the brothels, where i
they find rich raiment, rich food ; a merry
and unceasing round of gaity ; champagne
—and lovers, which they could never hope
for where thev came from. These girls
leave home very often through sensuality
or laziness—for girls are lazy as well as
boys—and when missing are generally found
iu brothels, which as a general thing they
will not leave for their parents. Then there
are husbands and wives who quarrel fool
ishly aud separate to vex each other, and
are missing for years, to finally be forced
into other illegal ties. And there is a case j
of a young man, twenty, married and rich,:
who leaves his wife, is gone for twelve!
months, aud is found iu New Orleans, when
he tells those who find him that he has
been very sick, and was forced to leave his
happy home. ,
There is also, as it is ivell known, a great
number of infamous houses iu this city
where abortion is openly practiced, aud
where whole hecatombs of innocent child
ren are slaughtered to hide the shame of
their guilty mothers. How many wealthy
aud refined girls are to be found in these
slaughter-houses, concealed there to hide
the evidence of their indiscretion, by their
parents or relatives, whose social position
would be lost did the consequences of such
indiscretion show themselves. The moth
ers are left to die iu agony, again and again,
aud there is no coroner’s inquest or public
burial, for are there^not scores of obliging
physicians to hush the matter up ?
And then again our private lunatic asyl
ums. IIow many men aud women are
spirited away to these tombs of living men.
where remonstrance or clamor is useless un
less the public press tracks the injury, as
iu the case of a well known naval officer
who was most unjustly confined, as the in
The son of Joshua Sears, of Boston,
who died ten years ago, is 14 years of age,
and one of the richest young men in the
United States. The father, whose proper
ty was valued at $1,900,000, after be
queathing small sums to his relatives, pro
vided that his son should have $2,500 an
nually until attaining the age of 21; the
sum of $30,000 dollars at that period ; $4,
000 annually until he had passed the age
of 24 ; $6,000 annually until he had passed
the age of 30, and $20,000 per annum after
that time. The property remains in the
hands of three trustees, and the simple in
terest on the original amount added to the
principal has reached the sum of $3,300,
000, while the assessed value of the real
estate bringing this sum is valued at $20,
000,000.' The trustees have a salary of
$5,000 each, and the commissions received
from the collections of rents amount to a
sum equal to the salary of the President of
the United States. Young Sears is now
in Europe, where he is fitting himself for
the active duties of life.
The Suez Canal
A.» *oen from tlir ?><*ck of afao ILinJo 1
To the Editor of the Loudon Times :—
The Suez Canal Company have been 11
years at work upon their gigantic labor and,
, as they announce positively that the canal
will he opened within a year from the pres
ent time, perhaps you will allow me to give
| a brief account of its present appearance,
as seen during a very careful examination
' of the whole line from my canoe.
The canal is to be 100 miles long, aud
100 yards wide (at the water’s edge). The
1 depth throughout will be 25 feet in the mid*
i die. The direction is nearly north and
! south, with a few turnings, but no locks or
bridges. There will be a slight tidal cur
rent along it, but no one can say at what in
j tervals. Already about 50 miles of the cut
is filled with salt water, and is traversed
daily by numerous small vessels aud some
| steam-launch mail-boats, while the count
less barges, dredges, and coal-boats, all
worked by screw propellers, which ply day
aud night, make a din and bustle in the
j sandy desert very unromantic, indeed, but
! exceedingly interesting to observe,
j Of this 50 miles many parts are not wide
I enough yet for large vessels, aud only a
small portion is excavated to the full depth.
! The remainder of the canal is more or less
dug out. While some parts are quite dry,
others are put under water to moisten the \
sand ; others have great blastings of rocks,
aud one long section of 20 miles has to
wait until the sea is admitted into the great
dry basin of a future lake.
'I he sensation of’ wonder at tiie prodigi
ous scale of the operations in progress in
creases day by day as one moves along |
| what seems to be a wide river with villages j
on the banks and smoky funnels aad sails
on the surface. The hydraulic machines,
which groan and snort and rattle their
chains as they work, are of enormous si/.e ;
and though each of them seems to be pour
ing forth a volume of mud, yet the mind
finds it hard to believe that all of these to
gether can lift up and throw over the banks
enough to make any appreciable, progress
between yesterday and to-day. The sand
dredged from below is either carried out to
sea iu barges or (further inland) is deliver
ed in a stream from a lofty iron tube, 220 '
feet long, with its mouth over one hank, or
it is hoisted up an iron inclined plane and
cast upon the shore, until the heap on each
side of the water is 00 feet high. The en
gines for this purpose are 40 in number, and
each of them cost 40,000/. The expenses !
at present amount 200,000/. every month,
and the work has already absorbed eight
Port Said is the little town at the north
entrance of the canal. It is built of wood,
with wide, straight streets, and houses that
look like brown paper, and that would burn
from end to end iii ten minutes. Hotels.
cafes, shops and bazaars are crowded by
G,000 people of every nation, but with the
Greek aud Levantine elemeut largely pre
The two long piers of the harbor stretch ;
their white arms into the sea, but the areal
enclosed seems very small aud completely |
pynncnil tn f 1»<» >. ,%»•! 1,,» .1<. —T’K.-,. v |
piers are made of blocks of sand, cemented
with lime, each block being cast separately |
in a mould, aud then carried out to its place
in a barge.
The magnitude of tills part of the work j
j may be faintly estimated when we know J
that each block weighs ten tons, and that
there are 2f>,000 of them.
Ismaila is the pretty town hai; " ay abate
the canal, which here enters the Take Ttm
sah (“crocodile lake.”) Here the Arabs
and their camels and the jackals of the
Desert arc along-side the steamboats, the
whirring lathes aud sounding forge-ham-;
mers of the company’s workshops, the tall
poles of the electric telegraph, and the hot
rails of the railway, while a cool aud sweet
draught of Nile water may be had from the
fresh water canal which comes hither all
the way from Cairo, and then branches out
north aud south along the whole extent of
the salt water canal.
The sweet-water canal is already .a bless
ing to Egypt. It is from 30 to -10 feet wide,
and boats with all sorts of cargoes are
towed through it be men on foot, or sail
along gaily it there is a breeze to till their
snowy wings. My canoe excited the great
est delight among all this river population,
both when site skimmed over the water with (
her blue sails, or rested by the hank with
her cabin rigged up, and my dinner cooked j
and my little reading lamp and mosquito
curtains arranged for the night, i manag
ed to sleep thus in the canoe very comfor- i
tably, though the nights are cold ; and on j
Lake Tirasah a jackal paid me a visit at
a very unfashionable hour by moou-lighi. j
During one day a violent gale swept across
the canal. To look at the Desert was to
see a vast yellow picture of men and camels
dimly floating in a sea ol sand without any j
horizon. The quantity of sand whisked
from the plain and cast into the canal water
by a wind like this will be a serious matter
to deal with. One ounce of sand per square
yard amounts to 000 tons on tlio whole
canal, and the wind sometimes blows in this ;
wt. v for a mouth together.
At Chaloof I found 14,000 men at work.
They labor very hard indeed, running up
the hill with baskets of sand on their heads.
About 1,000 donkeys walk in long lines,
with neat mat baskets on their backs. In
curious and close contrast to these simple
carriers, the mighty power of steam toils
and puffs as it hurls up huge bulks of heavy
clay, and it is, perhaps, only in Egypt that
one could see human and animal power
exerted in such competition with steam
power. The laborers are sent from all
parts of Egypt. They must come, but
they are highly paid—from 2t. to 3f. a
day. Prices both of labor and of food have
risen very much since the canal has been
begun, but the supply of lush has rapidly
increased. The salt water canal teems with
fish—one of them leaped across my canoe
a few minutes after I first set sail: and on
the fresli-water canal I stopped once to re
ceive a letter from a messenger, and while \
putting it into my breast-pocket as I sat in j
the canoe, a beautiful little fish sprang from
the water into the same pocket with the \
letter. The spectators were loud in their j
congratulations at this “lucky omen,” aud
1 had the fish broiled for dinner.
At this, the lied Sea end, the works of I
the canal seem very far behind. The en- i
trance port has all the obstacles of a shal
low mouth, soft and shifting sand for hot
tom, and crooked, irregular tide eddy inf
about ia a most puzzling way.
When the passage from the Mediterra
nean to the Red Sea is open to the world, it
i is intended lo tow vessels through by tug
boats working along a chain which lies at
the bottom of the water. Steamers are
not to be allowed to use their own paddles
j or engines for fear of damaging the soft
sloping banks of the canal by the “wash”
thus created. The difficulty of towiug a
vessel of 2,000 tons in this manner when
the wind presses her to one side, is an ob
jection to the scheme which 1 have heard
no feasible answer to, and as I have been
towed in this way for hundreds of miles in
my yawl, and was compelled to tow my
canoe myself tor a whole day ou this canal
; I cannot help urging this point distinctly,
while carefully abstaining from expressing
opinions as to the probable return which
the outlay ou the whole scheme may rca
; sonauly expect to receive in the future.
A Talk with Father De Smet.
The Rev. Father De Smet, widely
known for iiis missionary labors among the
Indians, departed recently for Europe in
the steamer City of Baltimore. A Belgian
by birth, Father Do Smet at au early age
entered the Jesuit Order, aud after having
been ordained priest, was sent to the Rocky
Mountain region in 1 s i2, to prosecute the
perilous and toilsome duties of Christian
izing and civilizing the savages of the
plains and mountains of the “far West.”
At various periods within the past twenty
years he has crossed tiie Atlantic for the
purpose both of obtaining missionary help
ar.d the means of purchasing good for the
Tn linns. lie makes his present voyage for
the object ot bringing over a dozen or more
of religious women aud men who will estab
lish schools among the Ricarees, Crows,
aud Sioux inhabiting the region through
which flow the main branches of the Up
per Missouri. The Sisters are expected to
teach the Indian children the rudiments of
an English education, and also instruct the
girls in sewing and embroidery. Father
Be Smet intends also to bring with him a
lew blacksmiths, tailors, and carpenters.
I he blacksmiths are wanted for wagon
work, horse-shoeing, aud the requirements
of the household : the carpenters for church
and hut building, aud to instruct the male
youth in their craft, and the tailors to in
struct in the knowledge of the manufacture
of comfortable garments.
The condition of the Indians ou the west
ern side of the Rocky Mountains is, in the
opinion of the good Father, such as would
make good men rejoice. Nearly the whole
ot tlie Flatheads, Nezperees, Spokanes,
Ivalispels, Snakes and other tribes inhabit
ing Oregon aud Washington are, he ?avs,
converted, aud have laid aside their preda
tory habits for the peaceful avocations of
agricultural life. The Catholic missionaries
have supplied them with seed and taught
them to raise abundant crops. The tribes
inhabiting Montana, Dakota, and Wyoming
Territories, and all the region extending
from Northern Kansas to British America,
and from Minnesota to the Rocky Menu
tains, appear to cause rather Do Smet
great anxiety as regards their present and
luture condition. Although wishing to deal
charitably with all, and having no desire to
be censorious or condemnatory, lie feels
that the treatment of the tribes by the gov
ernment agents lias been far from what it
ought to be. The greatest number of the
latter have in their treatment of the Indian
been influenced almost solely by an insati
able desire for gain. The result lias been
that not more than 2o per cent, of all the
"V" ~'"'V <>vi>r been distributed
the boxes having been previously opened,
and the greater part retained by the agents
or their subordinates. Last year matters
were better managed. All the boxes re
mained unopened until they were brought
into the preseuce,of the various tribes for
whom they were intended. This fair and
"pen dealing had a happy effect, and Father
De Smet is ol tli .* opinion that should it he
continued there will be but little to fear
from the red men. The Father is desirous
that the government should exercise more
care in making out reservations for the In
dians, and in guarding the latter as much
as possible from the corrupting habits and
trailuleut practices of traders and advent
urers. Most of the Indians on this side of
the mountains, lie remarked, are at present
very poor; their chief support, the bulfalo,
and nearly all other kinds of game, having
become very scarce Should the lutlfalo
continue to decrease in the same ratio as
during the last ten years, it will not he
long until they will have almost disappeared
from the regions watered by the Upper
Missouri and its ulHueuts. The manners
and habits of tho Indians are, as a general
thing, very little studied by the whites.
H lieu one of the former is killed, his re
latives believe they are disgraced until his
death is avenged. If a white person is
killed, it is not unusual for the whites to
attack and murder all the Indians of a
lodge. The buO-hery of some (>()(,) Indians,
nearly all ol whom were women and child
ren, by the order ol Major Cliivingtou,
while under the latter’s protection, very
nultirully aron.-al the spirit of vengeance
among all the surrounding tribes. Helpless
old women and young girls were fiendishly
murdered, and the dead bodies were in
some cases subjected to outrage. In his
jonrueyiugs among the various Sioux tribes,
1 '.rules, Blackfeet, Crows, Uekases, and
other tribes, many of whom are at present
giving evidence of a hostile feeling, Father
Du Smet was everywhere received with
kindness. About a year ago he visited
hostile bauds of the Sioux to the number
of 0,000. at the request of the United
States otlicers, and was everywhere well
received and listened to with patient atten
tion. Father I)e Nmet says the Indians
will be kind and docile it treated kindly.
During the whole ot a 2a years’ residence
among them ho never was addressed with
I an angry word, lie spoke ot the visit ot'
Messrs. Doolittle and Foster of the Senate,
last year, to St. Mary’s Mission Station,
among the Ricarccs, with evident pleasure.
These gentlemen were present at an exami
nation ot 150 children in reading, spelling
grammar, arithmetic. United States history,
sewing aud embroidery. They were ex
tremely pleased with the good deportment
of the children and their progress in learn
ing. In speaking of the Indian children,
'he countenance ot the Father dilated with
joy, his thoughts having evidently recurred
to the droll sports aud uncouth jocularity
of the tender ones who are under his care,
l’he Indian boys, were, he said, the best
behaved boys he had ever seen, aud the
adults were so eager for instruction that
they would listen to the teachings of the
missionary from dawn until dark.
lie had no doubt but that they will be
come a useful portion ot the American peo
ple, it the government exerts itseif in their
behalf, and puts aside the destroying sword.
[N. V. Tribune.
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