New-York dispatch. [volume], March 02, 1856, Image 6

About New-York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1854-1861

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[Written for the New York Dispatch.]
PASSING AWAY.
Er WM. n. CAREW.
World of passing generations.
your records be of gold.
And your hours with sands of silver
Through thoir glasses all be told,
For the beautiful arc fading
In their purity and bloom;
E’en the garlands hope is wreathing
Fade on disappointment’s tomb.
Midst the trials and afflictions
Of the world's unequal strife,
Fainter wanes the mystic motion
Of the wizard wheels of life;
Manly forms and maidens slender,
Man, w ith brave and steadfast eye.
Woman, gentle and confiding,
With immortal hopes, must die.
Planets from theii* spheres have faded
Ever more from human ken.
And the earthquake’s devastation
Has entombed the works of men;
And above the ruins ancient,
Where there mingled manes repose,
Mountains lofty and volcanic
Tremble with convulsive throes.
Aged monarchs; of Iho forwrt
That have long defied the storms,
Where are now your leaves of beauty,
And your once majestic forms ?
Younger trees are near ye growing,
Children ’neath their branches play ,
Happy as when first their fathers
’Neath your dancing shadows Jay.
Let us heed these admonitions,
Sacred, solemn and sublime,
And rejoice in the convictions
Of a brighter, better clime,
life at best is but the semblance
Of a long and weary dream,
Where the visions that enthral us
Are not golden as they soom.
All are changing and conforming
To the universal plan,
And amid the smiles of nature,
Death arrests the pulse of man.
Yet to wear the form of angels.
Ho must rest beneath the sod,
Till the resurrection trumpet
Calls the sainted up to God.
[Written for the New York Dispatch.]
GAMBLER’S LAST DEAL.
BY WILLIAM K. BTTBTON.
In the year 1843,1 was detained at Vicksburg for
a couple of days, waiting for a boat “down river.”
Such a delay was unusual; and when the heavy,
hoarse cough was beard from a descending steamer
rounding Milliken’s Bend, quite a rush of passengers,
from the various hotels hastened to the wharf-boat,
notwithstanding the darkness of the night and the
fall of a heavy and continuous rain. In a few min
utes, the Ambassadress, a first-class packet, was fast
to the levee; slip was freighted with cotton bales,
piled in mathematical accuracy, from the stem to the
stern, along the guards, on the hurricane and boiler
decks, to a height within a few feet of the top of the
emokepipe—a load that sunk the hull considerably
below its usual water line.
As the boat neared the wharf, a tall, red-haire.t
mate, in his red shirt, with a blazing stick of pitch
pine in his hand, appeared at one of the few sm.dl
square openings left in the arrangement of the bales
for .the working of the craft, and said—
“No room for passengers or freight—full up with
cotton.”
Remonstrance was useless—the bales, being omni
present, were omnipotent. The captain was inex
orable—he had no cook, steward, waiter, or cham
bermaid aboard, and his clerk was only new out of a
sickness, which the red-headed mate declared to have
been “Old Yaller Jack.”
The last announcement was enough. In a quarter
of an hour the would-be passengers withdrew to their
hotels, leaving the wharf-boat in possession of the
usual dock loafers and the deck hands of the Am
bassadress.
I was retiring with the rest of the disappointed,
busied in superintending the wheeling of my luggage
along a narrow plank from the wharf-boat to the
levee, a perilous job on a dark night for a weak
kneed Mississippi nigger, when I heard my name
pronounced, and turning round, I found myself
shaking hands with a young fellow whom with I
had, some few years back, established a chit-chat
intimacy, when he was filling the position of sales
clerk in a well-known publishing store in Philadel
phia. He was now the book-keeper of the Ambassa
dress, and was delighted to meet an old acquaintance.
He had so much to tell me, to ask me; such vicissitudes
to relate—such adventures to recount. 1 must go
with him; there were plenty of beds, and though
the state-rooms were dark, I could sleep on the cabin
floor. There was plenty to eat, if I was not too
proud to venture on cold meat, for they did no cook
ing with so much cotton on board—plenty to drink,
and of a good sort too. In a word, he procured the
captain’s permission for my passage; my trunks were
slid aboard, and the necessary supplies having been
received, the heavily-freighted boat was soon slowly
descending the Mississippi river, on her way to New
Orleans.
I have not room to dilate on the picturesque ap
pearance of the bale-built parallelogram which the
boat presented in the fitful glare of pine torches,
flickering in the wind, as she left the muddy shores
of Vicksburg—nor of the strange mixture of ragged
nigger porters, sleek Irish waiters, angry passen
gers, trading Vicksburghers, coaticss, despite the
rain, slave drivers, and the rough and red-shirted
deck hands, as they glided in and out of the wharf
boat, uttering “ strange oaths and bearded like the
paid.” The reader has them in his mind’s eye, and
he may group them as he pleases. I have business
on board the boat.
A more cheerless receptacle never floated. There
was tbs dark, silent, and tenantless saloon, with its
long ranges of unused doors belonging to the empty
state rooms. The forward cabin, containing the
bar, and the officer’s rooms, and called Social Hall
by the boatmen, was dismal in excelsior. A gap had
keen left in the frontier bulwark of cotton bales for
tie sight of the pilot, and the wind roared through
it with a continuous shriek that drowned the patter
of the rain and the noise of the engines. The bar
was closed for lack of custom, and by the light of a
email lamp that swung rapidly to and fro, as the
boat rocked in the gale, the barkeeper pointed out
the state-rooms of the clerk and the pilot, both se
riously sick with “some sort of a fever which no
body seemed to know anything about, although
everybody could see that it was pretty bad.” The
clerk was recovering, but the pilot was scarcely ex
pected to get through the night. There was no phy
sician—no nurse—no medicine—not even a cup of
waim tea to moisten his mouth. “It’s no good
physicking a fever,” is, or was then, a prevalent
sentence in the South and the West; and many a
good life has been sacrificed to a belief in its wis
dom.
The heat from the boiler-deck, shut in by walls of
cotton, rose to the cabin above, and generated a
sudorific _ atmosphere that speedily covered my
cuticle with a profuse perspiration. Escape was
impossible, save to the top of the cotton bales, and
the raging of the storm forbad the attempt. There
was ascuttle open in the little room aft of the ladies’
cabin—thither we adjourned, with some “ red eye,”
ice-water and cigars ; and the barkeeper told me his
experiences. I may not compress the romantic
adventures of this erratic Philadelphian into a few
short paragraphs in this, my hastily-penned sketch!
No; his true and eventful history would fill a
volume.
Midnight passed—the boat stopped to “ wood up,”
and the barkeeper, acting as clerk, left me to attend
to his duties. There was a couple of quiet-looking
men walking up and down the saloon—one of them
was a sort of supercargo, empowered by the planters
of a certain district to superintend the sale of their
cotton. The other man was a pilot, taken on board
at Vicksburg to supply the place of the sick one,
but he had been sent down from the pilot-house by
the captain as a sulky spooney -who didn’t know a
sawyer from a sand-bar. A pitcher of hot water
had been obtained from the cabin of the wood
chopper ; some warm lemonade was made for the
invalids, and I was invited to the front of the bar
to take a Lot toddy and a fresh cigar. A bend in
the river altered the boat’s heading, and we were
enabled to open a window and cool the atmosphere
by the admission of the night air, without a cer
tainty of being blown off our legs.
“ Where did that square-built man come from ?”
said I. “He who in playing at cards with the
cotton-clerk ?”
The barkeeper had not noticed his arrival—sup
posed he had come aboard unseen while wooding;
tut cards were forbidden things in this boat, and
the game must come to a sudden stop.
He advanced to the players—a'short but animated
conversation ensued—the game went on, and the
barkeeper returned to my side.
“ Good God! it’s Humphreys, the most desperate
ruffian on the river! I fear there will be blood shed
when the captain sees him.”
His face was white from apprehension, and his
teeth chattered in his head as he whispered to me
the following particulars.
When the inhabitants of Vicksburg rose against
the insolence and tyranny of the gamblers and ruf
fians who infested the city, and thronged the boats
that plied on the waters of the great West, this Hum
phreys narrowly escaped with his life. He was one
of the party who barricaded their house, and fired
on the people from the windows ; he was dragged
along the ground, with a rope round his neck, up
the bill to the grave yard, where so many of his
kind were swung from the limbs of lofty trees. A
knife cut had severed a large portion of his right
ear, and a huge gash had been made by a Bowie
across the left corner of his mouth. His wounds
bled profusely, and he was left to die at the foot of
his fellows’ gallows-tree. He recovered, when the
mad blood of the Lynchers had somewhat cooled ;
instead of taking his life, they shaved his head, and
put him adrift on the current of the Mississippi in a
shattered dug-out, without paddles or provisions
No one who knew Humphreys pitied him, or
regretted that he was so severely used. A more un"
mitigated scoundrel never dealt faro or stole a
horse. He was a common stabler, a coarse vulgar
brute, seldom sober, never peaceable, and invariably
cheated at cards—or, as he called it, “used the ad
vantages” even with his brother gamblers. He was
fortiidding in his aspect, and yet had succeeded in
his amours with several females of comparative re
spectability, all of whom had in turn been consign
ed to scorn and desertion.
“He has changed his name, and denies that he
was mixed up with the gamblers at Vicksburg; but
he is too well-known on these waters, and that scar
on his cheek spells his name to a dot. No one ever
heard what became of him after he was set adrift.
Everybody expected he must die, but he’s hard to
kill, I tell you. The old dug-out was found in a
bayou near Natchez, but he could never have held
out till then. Our captain thinks he was picked up
by a raft from Tennessee. About two years ago, he
turned up again in these diggins, and is just as im
pudent and ferocious as before. Six months back,
our captain put him ashore at a wood station, telling
him wth a solemn oath, that if ever he came aboard
his craft again, he’d serve him the same way where
ever and whenever it might be. There’s bad blood
between them on some old grudge. I did hear that
Humphreys ruined the captain’s sister, a sweet little
girl of sixteen, somewhere along the coast. At all
events, our captain’s down on all gamblers—he has
beijn ruined twice by them—cleaned out from stem
to stem. He’s part owner of this boat, and never
allows a game of cards aboard—not even a quiet
turn of seven-up for toddies before lied. He’s in the
pilot-house now, and has been since dark. He’ll be
down soon for his supper, and the mate will take his
! place. When he sees Humphreys, there’ll be a fear
-1 rul row, and it’s worth your while to sit up and see
I it through.”
The discarded pilot, having smelt the hot toddy,
1 joined our little party, and added his experience of
' Humphrey’s rascality to the bar-keeper’s narration,
i While acting as steward on board the Bon Franklin,
; he had seen Humphreys cut open the skull “ right
■ down to his mouth,” of a young lawyer from Ken
; tucky, who detected him cheating at cards. He had
! known him, in a house of bad reputation in Natchez,
1 while pressed by a crowd of infuriated assailants,
■ clear the room with no other w eapons than a couple
. of empty champagne bottles, which he smashed on
■ the heads of the two persons who were choking
’ him, knocking them down senseless, and scaring
■ the rest till they suffered him to jump from a win-
I dow some twelve feet from the ground ; he made
his way down the face of the hill, sliding, rolling,
| and tumbling, till he reached the shore in safety,
I notwithstanding half a dozen pistols were fired at
; him as he lied.
Many other tales were told—and the small clock
. in the bar struck two. A door leading from the
j hurricane deck opened, and the captain walked into
the saloon. He looked at- Humphreys without evin-
■ ranganysnrprise, but the gambler visibly quailed
beneath his glance. The. captain was a tailand
! handsome man, of slight but well-knit frame ; a
good face, with calm and thoughtful expression, was
I shaded with luxuriant jet-black hair.
“ Charles, some whisky. What will you drink,
gentlemen ? How did you get those cards, Hum
pin eys ?” said he, walking to the table.
“ Not from me, captain,” said the bar-keeper.
| “ I—l—had them in my pocket,” said Humphreys,
moodily.
“ And that dip candle stuck in a porter bottle—a
pretty table ornament for the cabin of a packet boat
—who furnished you with that ?”
“ I bought it from a deck hand,” said the gambler.
“ And why are you here at all. iu my boat ? You
’ know 1 never allow gambling where I am. nor will I
1 receive any gambler as a passenger. You—above
all others—ought to know that, and do know it.”
“ I didn't know it was your boat, captain, or I
wouldn’t have him. I’d been waiting at that d—d
' woodstation two whole days for a boat, without a
■ white man to speak to, nothing but hog and hominy
to eat, and stone fence with the hair on for a drink.
The rain wouldn't let a fellow move out of that;
and the boss nigger of the wood pile was worse nor
a long faced Methody teetotaller, for he would not
j tech a keerd to save his soul. J didn't know vour
boat with the bales all around—though I do think
' I’d a gone aboard the ferry boat of hell to get away
: from that place.”
I “Do you recollect what I told yon when we last
i parted?’”
“ Oh, come, drop that d—d nonsense. Barkeeper,
drinks all round. 1 aint doing no harm, now—a
quiet friendly game with no advantages, and only a
■ dollar antey.”
“ No matter—you must go ashore.”
“ Ashore! here ? Not a house within fifty miles!
pitch dark too, the whole valley flooded, and a storm
raging that would have dazzled old Noah. Take a
I drink, captain, and let’s hear from you in the morn
ing when the wind is fair, and the sun’s a shining.”
“ Humphreys, you know me, and know that what
I say, I do. You must go ashore, now, this minute.
| Get your coat and your plunder, and start.”
“ Not if 1 know it. I’ll leave yon at Natchez, or
go ashore at the next wood station ; and since keerd
playing is agen your rules, we’ll cut it off when this
'.r ime’s up. Come, pardner, give me the papers—its
my turn, and now—for my last deal.”
The captain turned away from the table, advanced
to the bar, and drank his liquor, observing quietly
!as he put down his glass: “ Yes, lot him have his
last deal.”
It was a curious scene—the gambler could not
conceal his agitation, and the cotton clerk saw
J nothing of the cards he held before him. The bar
keeper, w ho alone knew the firmness of the captain,
breathed hard as he watched the play; while the
: captain, apparently the most indifferent man of the
i party, looked calmly over the account of the last
purchase of wood by the barkeeper.
The game ended—the gambler won, of course.
; He pocketed the gain, and advanced towards the
bar. “ There, captain, you can do anything with
me in a quiet way ; never break rules.' Now, let’s
I licker all round, and then to bed—for I havn’t had
I my clothes off these seventy h ours.”
“You can drink Humphreys, for you’ll want it.
I You must go ashore. The morning is wet and cold,
and a drink or two will be of service.”
This was said in such a cold, unimpassioned, but
firm and self-posssessed way that the gambler saw at
! once he meant exactly what he said. “God in Heav
en, Captain M , you don’t intend to put a fel-
i low creature ashore in this bitter wilderness ?” the
I rise in the river has flooded the swamp for miles
i above ; why, its certain death.”
“Idon’tcallyouafellowcreaturc. I swore I would
?ut you ashore whenever I saw you aboard my boat,
ou have sought me—l have not looked after you.
You came here to brave me, and defy me, and to
) prove that lam a liar 1 Now, unless, prevented by
| the great Creator, whose name I invoked when I
I swore my oath, I’ll put you ashore before I’m an
i other hour old.”
“Then, by G—, you shan’t live that hour, if yon
lay hands on me,” said the gambler, placing bis back
j against the partition, and drawing forth a pair of
i large revolvers from the pockets of his pantaloons,
i having previously given a hitch to a belt round his
' waist, under his vest, which brought the glittering
i handle of a large Bowie knife to his right side,
within easy grasping distance. The light of the
hanging lamp fell on liis face, as he poised the
weapons in his hands. The eyes seemed to pro
trude from beneath his brow, the veins of his bare
I throat swelled like ropes; he breathed heavily
| through his nose ; his close-shut mouth and square
ness of jaw told of tierce determination, while the
scar on his cheek, which was scarcely visible before,
now became black, and imparted a fearful ferocity
to his look.
“ Touch the mate’s bell, Charles,” said the captain.
The wire was pulled, but the souud of the bell was
lost in the roaring of the wind. A few minutes’
pause—and the mate appeared.
“ Man the yawl, Ben, and put this fellow ashore.
Which side will you have it, Humphreys—Louisiana
or Mississippi?”
There was no brutal taunt in the speech. It was
said quietly, as he would ask a passenger on a holi
day trip. The gambler said nothing, but he cocked
his pistols.
“ You may as well bring up half a dozen of the
hands with you, and lettlivm arm themselves from
the wood pile, Ben.”
The mate disappeared. The captain pulled an
other little bell, and the engines were stopped. The
yell of the storm rang fiercely over the boat as the
motive power ceased, and she careened before the
fury of the wind.
The gambler glared on the captain, bnt said
nothing. His chest heaved painfully, and huge
drops of perspiration fell from his pallid face.
“ Humphreys, I advise you not to fire. You have
shed blood enough in your time—more than you’ll
like to think of while you are picking your way
through the black swamp, in the dull hours before
daylight. I have fifty good deck hands and firemen
t under my command; if a drop of blood is shed, they’ll
tear you piecemeal.”
i Tlie door opened and the mate appeared, hacked
i by half a dozen of the roughest customers from
I amongst his men, carrying boat-hooks, cotton-pick
| ers, logs of wood, crowbars, and other articles of an-
I noyance hastily picked up. A nod of the head from
the captain assured the mate, who stepped boldly
I forward, confronting the gambler, and said :
| “ Now, then!”
i It would be difficult to find choicer specimens of
I the different kind™ or the human race than these
■ three men presented, as they stood gazing at each
i other with thoughts of bloodshed uppermost in their
minds. The captain, tall, erect, and graceful, with
I firmness well developed on his handsome face,
shook his black cnrls with impatience, as the mate
paused before the gambler. Humphreys, a stout,
square-built, thick-set man, with a ponderous chest,
huge shoulders, a low, beetling brow and bull-dog
features, wore his light brown hair (slightly dashed
with gray) in long matted locks to hide his crippled
I ear from the curious gaze. The mate was long and
bony, his arms hung down to his knees, his huge
hands were covered with innumerable warts, and
short tufts of red hair grew on the fingers. A fiery
growth of the same coarse excrescence covered bis
head and the lower part of his face, which was ever
lighted by a smile expressive of extreme good na
ture ; his red shirt open at the neck, revealed a sun
burnt, hairy chest, and his loud, hoarse voice con
trasted painfully with the quiet, whispered command
of the captain, as he stepped boldly forward, and
said :
i “Now, then!”
Humphreys gazed with a fearful look upon the
I array of muscle before him, and turned to the
I captain a glance not of entreaty, but of bold, open
i defiance and hate that made my blood creep through
I my body like cold snakes over my skin. He dropped
i his arms, but retaining his grasp of the pistols,
I walked quietly to the door, toward which the mate
I kept pointing. He turned again before he descended
I the steps, and looked toward the barkeeper and then
i at the bar. His lips moved and he may have spoken;
but the wind roared so fiercely through the open door,
that I failed to detect the sound of a word. “ Give
him whisky,” said the captain. A tumbler Ml was
poured out, and handed to the gambler, who took it
with his eye fixed on the captain. He drained tlie
glass, and as he drank, bit the crystal, and his cut
lips ran with blood. Still there was no sign of fear;
he boldly confronted the captain, who received his
fierce gaze, without exhibiting the least emotion.
“Now, then,” again said the mate. The gambler
descended the stairs. The captain stood in the
dqm'way, and in a clear, round tone of voice that
mine itself heard through the blustering gale, said:
“Humphreys, Lucy sends her remembrance to you”
He then closed the door, lighted a cigar, and sat
down quietly in .the chair which the gambler had
recently quitted.' The wind seemed suddenly to die
away, for in a minute or so we heard the sound
of paddles, as the yawl was rowed from the steam
boat, gradually fading in the distance, as it conveyed
the doomed man to almost certain death. No one
spoke. The sudden cessation of the storm oppressed
us with a supernatural silence that was positively
painful, after the awful scene we had just beheld.
The captain finished his cigar and lighted another.
In obedience to his nod, cigars and whisky were
handed to me and the cotton clerk, the pilot having
made his way to the wheel-house when the captain
came into the saloon. Still no one spoke. Nearly
an hour passed in this fearful silence, when the
faint sound of the returning boat awoke our attention,
and in a few minutes the dripping head of the mate
appeared at the door.
“All right, sir: we left him in Lonisianny. The
river is a'most wide as it is long, but we struck
ground at last. He jumped out lively, but he was
up to his knees, and there was a wide sheet of water
behind him. We bid him good night, but ho was too
proud to speak.”
“ Very good, Ben. Give your men some red-eye,
and take some yourself—then join the pilot. Go
slowly till the day breaks, then call me. Goodnight,
gentlemen.” And, with a polite bow, the captain
retired to his state-room.
The boat went gently ahead, and th® storm burst
out again with redoubled vigor.
Some years after the above circumstance took
place, my friend the ex-book clerk and bar-keeper
called on me in New York. Humphreys had never
been heard of. The desolate nature of the coast, un
inhabited for many dreary miles, the unusual height
of the river, which flooded the whole valley, filling
the bayous with roaring torrents, enlarging the fre
quent lagoons, and making progress an impossibi
lity—the awful storm—the danger from alligators
and panthers—all combined, seemed indeed to forbid
a hope of salvation to the poor gambler, who had
most probably played his last deal.
I IWrMlenfor ths Now York IN»)>*(ch.]
ODE TO SPRING.
BY Itlßffi
Oh, weioomo I most wslcomo,
Thou beautiful Spring I
Again we beholil thee, —
What joy thou dost bring I
The sunlight w»U glistmi
And dance o’or the loa,
While all gives glad welcome,
Sweet Spring dawn to thee
j The lieart that grow cold,
As the fierce wind swept by,
Sow yearns for thy coining,
3110’ again thou must die:
Yet, unlike the sweet Memory,
Whose shadows have grown,
rtiou wiit smile mid thy dew drops;
When sunlight is flown.
And thy soft burning splendor,
Moro radiant will grow,
As the pale morning sunbeam
Bright at noonday will glow:
But when Summer’s warm kisses
Have melted the spell,
Of thy fresh buoyant gladness,
With the Fast, thou must dwell.
[Written for the New York Dispatch, j
A NIGHT OF TRIAL.
BY POIIN BBOVUHAM.
There was a wild, reckless, merry-bcartod set of
I yotiug scamps at old Trinity in. the year of our Lord
18—, the actual date is not essential, but it was just
about the transition period between the three bottle
men who composed the “ monks of the screw,” and
suchlike bibatious fraternities, and the cold water
cycle instituted by the benevolent and self-sacrificing
Theobald Matthew.
Like the Carnival before Lent, when gastronomy
is strained to its utmost, in order to lay in a stock
for the coming fast, the thirsty propensities of man
kind were correspondingly enlarged to their extrem
es! capacity. “ Sneyd, French and Barton’s claret
disappeared by the hogshead, and round after round
i of “ Kinahan-s” famous whiskey, concocted into a
j nectarian punch by that most capable of brewers,
Pat Flynn, vanished like smoke every afternoon.
The very hardest of hard drinkers' composed the
particular circle in which it was :ny fate to revolve
for the brief period of my scholarship, and I now
look back with astonishment and awe to the terrible
ordeal custom then exacted from the tyro in baccha
nalian exercises. Like new casks, the experienced
topers declared that the human tub should be sea
soned in order that it would be able to carry its load
respectably, and like a gentleman ; and though
many andmany a living receptacle of the vile filth
| gave ouVin ‘“seasoning?” still the process continued,
I and as the ranks were thinned in the disgusting con-
I test, new candidates for an ignoble immortality soon
took their places.
Amongst other equally unworthy distinctions
which characterized the time I write about, it was
held to be absolutely necessary Before a man was al
lowed to pronounce himself a veritable son of our
exigeante Alma Mater, that he should have “ gone
out” at least once to the Pluenix Park ; and inas
j much as the national beverage was then as it is now,
j and always will be, the most effectual fulcrum by
i which to raise a world of rows, hardly a week passed
■ without an “ affair” transpiring upon that most cele
i brated of all shooting-grounds. Some of these meet
ings turned out seriously enough to satisfy the most
I ferocious duelist, while others, indeed the majority of
. them, terminated in a suflieiently ludicrous manner.
Being naturally of a pacific disposition, I managed
I to escape the sanguinary contagion for some time,
■ until, in fact, the incompleteness of my reputation
I began to be a subject of great uneasiness to my im-
I mediate friends, and as I was the only one of my
class who had not indulged in the general amusement,
! it was resolved amongst them that, whether I liked
I it or not, a proper degree of solicitude for my social
j standing rendered it imperative that I should “smell
: powder” before our next examination day.
Boy friendships, when really found, are, as we all
i we]l know, of the most unselfish and absorbing na-
I ture. I had formed such a friendship, which I knew
, was reciprocated in the same ardent degree, with a
; lad in another class. I must conceal his name for
; obvious reasons and call him “ Carroll.” We were
' the “ Orestes and Pylades,” the “ Nysus and Eurya
i lus,” the “ Jonathan and David” of the college, and
;it was with this boy—we were both very young then
I —that, with a refinement of cruelty, my “ particular
friends” determined a quarrel, and its inevitable
I consequence should be fomented; and most ingeai
! ously were their plans laid.
There is generally amongst boy communities one,
j who aspires to be the tyrant and bully over the rest,
' ind a more thoroughly graceless specimen of the
i miable genus could not be found than the indivi-
J dual who, at this period, held that formidable posi
: t.ion—a most unredeemable villain, and as is pretty
! ure to be the case, a greater craven in heart could
I not exist than . He hassincepaidthepenalty
; of his transgressions by banishment, mitigated from
I heavier punishment through the influence of power
ful relations.
This fellow was selected to create a feud between
Can-oil and myself, and to him it was a labor of
love, so he set’about it with malicious satisfaction.
Efforts were at first made to estrange ns by hints
and inuendoes, but secure in the consciousness of
each other’s firm attachment, we laughed at the flim
sy artifice and became faster friends than ever, until
finding that frivolous questions could not effect the
desired object, the fertile mind of ever intui-
tively prompting to evil, hit upon a more effectual
way.
Carroll had a sister—a bright, beautiful creature
—whom he loved devotedly, they being the only
children of a widowed mother, —an das she frequent
ly came to visit him, she became an object of consi-
I derable attraction and of pride to his fellow-stu
dents. Secure in the perfect simplicity and inno
cence of youth, she used occasionally to saunter
through the college park, sometimes accompanied
by her brother, at other times alone.
The desperate ruffian—to whom no ties were
sacred, and with whom all womankind was looked
upon merely as the instrument to gratify an unre
strained and shameless passion—he met her, on one
occasion, as, unprotected—except by the good an
gels that ever guard the pure of soul—she was
returning from her accustomed walk—whether in the
mad indulgence of his brutal impulse, or to further
a deep-laid scheme, he then attempted an insult
whereat his very heart should have blushed. Recoil
ing from the insolent aggression, and with a piercing
scream, she fled, panting with affright and indigna
tion, and in this state sought the protection of her
brother.
Maddened with rage, Carroll listened to the reci
tal which, almost incoherently, she sobbed forth, as
her face rested on his shoulder. Calming his ex
citement with a strong effort, he quietly asked her
who it was that had fastened upon her the gross
indignity ; but as it happened to be late in the twi
light, she could only say that it was one of his own
companions, as he was habited in the academic cap
and gown.
There is, perhaps, no nature in existence that can
so powerfully lash up within a man’s heart the desire
for vengeance, as an insult offered to a young
and dearly-loved sister. It was this that Carroll
felt as, after having consoled as well as he could,
and seen his sister safely home, he returned with
the fixed determination to discover, if possible, the
perpetrator of the outrage, and punish him as he
deserved.
In the evening of the same day the usual jolly
party assembled at one of the rooms- The outer oak
door was closed. The whiskey punch circulated
freely, and all was careless merriment. was
there, the noisiest of the revellers. It was late when
I entered, and the orgie was at its height. was
singing one of his not over classical songs, and he
paused as I took my seat, regarding me, as I thought,
with a malicious expression, for we were not on the
best of terms.
“You’ve come at last,” said he, with a fierce laugh
“ Have you been wasting the midnight oil, or have
you been telling love lies under one of the old syca
mores ? I’ve heard that you are one of the suscepti
ble sort,” he went on, and his mockiug laugh was
echoed by the servile crowd.
“ Neither one nor the other,” I replied quietly, for
in common with the rest of my compatriots I had a
wholesome dread of coming in contact with so un
principled a despot; so subsiding into my chair, I
endeavored, as well as my natural repugnance to
such a mode of misusing time would allow me, to
mingle in the enjoyment of the scene.
In a short time Carroll came in; his face was as
pale as though the life blood had ceased to flow
within his veins, and though his demeanor was calm
and collected, a strange light gleamed from his eyes,
and his white lips quivered with suppressed emotion.
“ Hallo! Carroll,” cried ——, now far advanced
in drunkenness. “ You are one of the dilatory fol
lows too; have you been emulating your dear friend
who is looking so demure over there, the sly dog—
and come to us fresh from some little affair, eh ?”
Carroll’s face flushed scarlet for an instant, and
paled into still greater lividness, as, controlling him
self, he replied, in a low but steady voice, that had
something, to me, at least, I knew not why—appall
ing in its enforced calmness: “I don’t know what
you mean; perhaps you will be good enough to con
descend to some explanation of your words.”
“ I think its easily enough understood if you de
sired it,” responded the oilier, with a slight sneer.
It so occurred that Carroll was seated exactly oppo
site of me, and the glance he fixed upon me of con
tempt, surprise, and almost terror, as these words
were spoken, will never be obliterated from my
memory, utterly unconscious as I was of any reason
for such a proceeding on his part. 1 could only re
turn his astonished look with one of confusion; for,
as extremes meet, so the expression of innocence
and guilt are scarcely to be distinguished from each
other.
There was now a heavy sense of restraint amongst
that usually convivial party; it was evident that some
unpleasant circumstance had occurred, although
none of us, except the two immediately interested,
could surmise what it actually was.
For a few moments Carroll’s glance rested on my
face, and was at length withdrawn, with a relieved
expression, as though some compromising thought
had filled his mind only to be dismissed at once as
too terrible to be indulged in—entirely silent amidst
the uproar that ensued, he now gradually fixed his
keen eyes upon each face around the' table, as if
searching into the hidden source of very varied
movement of countenance. The scrutiny did not
appear to satisfy him, for, with a heavy sigh, he bent
his head upon his breast and remained in that posi
tion for some time.
Meanwhile, the songs and jests flew round; all
were in the full tide of enjoyment, save Carroll and
myself, for a deep sympathy with the unknown
cause of her sorrow deadened me to the surrounding
mirth.
At length, however, as though utterly unable any
longer to restrain the inward rage that devoure'd
him, Carroll started to his feet, and dashing his
clenched fist upon the table, made its burthen of
glasses ring again. The suddenness of the action,
as by a spell, stayed all sounds of revel, and a still
ness like death succeeded for a space. The perspira
tion stood in big beads upon his forehead, as, with
a voice hoarse with emotion, he said:
“ You will not wonder at this interruption, nor at
the strangeness of my conduct to-night, when you
hear that which I have to tell.”
At this prelude, everybody stared at him with
curiosity, while my heart sunk within me at the
certainty of some impending calamity.
“None of you know,” he continued, “for God
grant that it may not be amongst my own com
panions that I am to look for one who could attempt
to inflict so vile a stain upon the honor of the name
I bear. None of you can conceive the nature of the
indignity lam self-sworn to avenge. My sister has
teen insulted,” he went on, his aeoents now broken
with emotion. “ Insulted, and by a e >lloge-m.ni.
Bho could not recognize who the rill dn was ; but if
any of you have any clue, no matter how remote,
that can aid mo to discover who he was, I o’.iargo
you, by the purity of your mothers, not to keep the
ki owledge from me.”
Each glanced at the other the table round as lie
spoke- There were deep mutterings of “shame,”
and exclamations of sympathy, for Carroll was m ich
liked by the majority. I inadvertently looked at
—, who was seated at the head, and though he
was loudest in bis denunciation of the insuiter, I
thought I could detect the covert apprehension that
lurked beneath tlie noisy demonstration.
An may be imagined, this episode put a sudden
finish to the hilarity of the night, and the party was
broken up into knots of two or three, some heartily
sympathizing with the injured brother, while others
but slightly concealed the hidden pleasure with
which they anticipated the capital bit of fun the
affair promised prospectively.
Amongst the latter were , and his immediate
associates; they whispered closely together, and,
taking care not to draw Carroll’s attention the while,
seemed to regard the matter as a great addition to
their amusement.
For rny own part, I. sat alone, strangely agitated
by the circumstance, inly yearning to proffer what
words of consolation and advice I was master of to
my friend, but a sort of fatuity kept me silent and
inactive. I was debating within my mind what
course was best to adopt, wholly absorbed by the
thought of Carroll’s great sorrow, and of my inabil
ity to alleviate it, when a heavy hand was laid upon
my shoulder, and on turning round I saw him glaring
at me with fiercely distended eyes, while the white
froth gathered about his quivering lips.
“Scoundrel! base, black-hearted ingrate! I have
heard all,” he hissed at me through his clenched
teeth.
Stunned, and utterly unprepared for
such an outbreak, I mechanically stood up, but. could
not speak a syllable. Like one.'suddenly paralyzed,
it was some time before I could collect my senses
sufficiently to inquire what he could possibly mean.
“You know well enough,” he cried savagely,
and it but degrades me yet deeper to refrain from
braining you as you stand before me,with the con
sciousness of your villainy upon your ashy counten
ance.”
“ What villainy ? In Heaven’s name, are you mad,
Carroll?” I at last contrived to stammer out.
“Contemptible shuffler! miserable, prevaricating
hound!” he replied; “don’t force me to repeat the
details of your brutality, or by my soul’s hope, I
shall murder you!” ami, flinging a card upon the
tabic, he continued, “although you have forfeited
all claim to be treated as a gentleman, yet for my
own credit’s sake, I’ll meet you upon equal terms,
for one of us, at least, must not outlive the morrow.”
Here we were interrupted by the harsh voice
of “Bravo, Carroll!” he cried; “that’s what
1 call true pluck. But why not let the affair come
off upon the spot, while your blood’s warm? it will
save a deal of unpleasant reflecting between this
and fighting time.”
The mocking, yet malicious, tone in which this
advice was given, awoke a strange suspicion within
me; and I determined, come what might, to satisfy
myself. So walking deliberately up t.o the head of
the tabic, where had reseated himself, I asked
him in the coolest tone I could assume for an expla
nation.
“What the devil do you ask an explanation from
me for ?” replied the bully, with a ferocious stare,
and an exclamation of amazement, which was
shared by ail around at the immensity of my te
merity.
“ Because,” I continued, fixing my eye steadily
upon him, “ braggart and craven hound as yon are,
by some scoundrelly means you have gratified your
ill feeling against Carroll and myself, in thus en
deavoring to rouse bad blood between us ; what h ive
you told him of me ? for I know his heart too well
to think other than that my name has been tra
duced by some one, and I know of none more ca
pable of the base treachery than you.”
1 could notice the effect of my words upon the
cowardly ruffian. He grew red arid white by turns,
and his eye dropped before my steady look.
“ Speak,” I cried savagely. “ I demand to know
what lie you have coined to suit your purpose."
At the word lie he started to his feet with a howl
of rage, but as I remained calmly standing before
him, only too anxious that he would give me an op
portunity of springing at his throat. I presume I
must have looked somewhat eagerly, for lie quietly
reseated himself, a badly simulated expression of
contempt crossing his features, while bis hand gri
ped nervously at the dessert knife by hii side, as
though he lacked even courage enough to be an as
sassin.
The evidently heated earnestness of my words
seemed to reassure Carroll, who had sat with his
head covered in his hands. When he looked up
there were large tears in his blood-shot eyes.
“ Can this be true ?” he cried. “No one could be
so desperately fiendish as to fabricate such a charge.
Tell me Harry”—his voice trembled as he uttered
my name, it was inadvertant, but he did not recall
it, and my heart bounded with a thrill of pleasure,
but before he could finish his inquiry, broke in
exclaiming : “ Pshaw! this is all girlish nonsense.
You can’t retract now, Carroll. You have given the
challenge—you must fight him.”
“Never!”’l shouted; “never shall my hand be
raised against the breast of a true man, and a
friend.”
“A very nice back out,” sneered , and a con-
temptuous laugh went round at the expense of my
presumed backwardness.
“Hold!” 1 continued; —“one moment, if you
please. I said I should not fight against a true man,
but I made no such promise, should I find myself
opposed to a villain, as I now am,” I went on,
calmly fixing my gaze upon “And it is with
no imaginary insult I mean to visit him —no flimsy
pretext—but thus I spit at and defy him!” and suit
ing the action to the word, I foiled my arms, and
awaited the result. Foaming with rage, seized
a decanter, and, no doubt, would have killed me as
I stood, but that some one sjandins
his arm. All was now confusion. Carroll, yielding
to an impulse he could not control, rushed to my
side, and tlie grasp of renewed kindliness that passed
between us, assured each of the other’s confidence
upon the instant.
Meantime had taken the opportunity to rush
from the room, it was at first supposed, to procure
his own pistols for the encounter, which I hungrily
awaited. In a short time one of his intimates came
back to arrange the preliminaries for a meeting in
due form at seven o’clock. It was now about four
in the morning.
Everything was quickly settled to the satisfaction
of -’s friend, who then retired to comm inicate
with his principal, and shortly after, Carroll and
I also left for my chamber, there to pass the inter
vening time between the semi-intoxication of the
present, to the not very doubtful future, for
was regarded to be a killing shot.
A completely satisfactory explanation took place
between Carroll and myself, although with a gene
rosity that sank deeply into my memory, he had con
sented to act as my second before the explanation
Was given, and I spent the next hour in writing to
my mother—a hard, almost impossible task; but
stern duty was inexorable, and it was finished.
I then threw myself upon a sofa, giving my bed
up to Carroll, but had scarcely, as I thought, closed
my eyes, when one of my friends rushed into the
room:
“ What do you suppose has happened?” said he.
“ has run off, crammed everything portable into
a valise, and levanted.”
“ The black-hearted coward and liar,” said Carroll;
“but I shall be even with him yet.”
“ The prudent scoundrel,” said I, “must be con
fessed very greatly relieved, for the difference be
tween being waked up to have one’s body bored
with a pistol bullet—or to the certainty of there be
ing no such risk—-is sufficiently obvious to need fur
ther demonstration.
Thanking my friend for his gratifying intelligence,
I turned round'on my sofa, and never did I enjoy a
pleasanter morning’s sleep.
In process of time Carroll did meet with , and
amply avenged the attempted insult to his sister, by
calling him out and breaking his pistol arm with a
steady shot, which fortunate circumstance kept him
from making bills of acceptance for some months.
I never saw the scamp again.
[Written for the New York Dispatch.]
THE NEGRO HOUSE.
ATALE OF ONEIDA.
BY THB ALTHOB OF “ THE CABTAIH’3 SKETCHES.”
And thus thy memory iu to me
Like some enchanted far off Isle
In some tumultuous sea.
Poe.
Far down thecouatrywheremygrandfather lived,
there was a thickly settled spot called the Four Cor
ners. AU up and down the wide plains were scat
tered isolated farm-houses, woods, fields, and pas
ture grounds ; but in this one place where the roads
crossed, was quite a little hamlet, and here was also
a post-office in the same building with the store,
where were sold grindstones, cheese, scythe-snathes,
salmon, boots, molasses, calico, peanuts, school
books, pork, scissors, tape, herrings, and almost
everything which a family wants in the course of a
year.
There was also a public-house on the Four Cor
ners, not much of a place ; but there the teamster
could wet his whistle, the village doctor could expa
tiate upon the merits of Gen. Jackson, then first
brought forward as a candidate for the Presidency,
and there many a traveler got his night's lodging,
and praised the apple-sauce and doughnuts which
graced the board in the morning.
Standing on the broad steps of the store, and
looking to the west, lyon could discern the tops of
several large button-wood trees, which marked the
residence of a negro family, the small, unpainted
house standing in a deli by the roadside, partly
cleared of the bushes and underwood with which it
had been originally filled.
At the windows of this tenement could be ssen at
all times the woolly heads of children, and out
of doors, paddling about in the brooks and matted
grass were two or three little infantile creatures,
with fat legs and sober,wondering eyes,who looked
after the traveler, as he passed by, in utter amaze
ment at the rolling wheels and the cloud of dust
that followed them.
A wagon with rough boards, somewhat in the
form of a box, and perhaps an old barrel or two
standing in it, generally occupied a position between
the house and the road, while any quantity of fowls
congregated under it in rainy days, and ran over it
on clean ones. A small pond near the house was a
paradise for two rusty-looking drakes and one lone
duck, who waddled slowly about the premises and
meekly dipped her bill in the mud, apparently not
at all puffed up by the extra amount of gallantry
bestowed upon her.
A huge black cat was generally seated on the
little barn, and three or four small dogs set
inharmonious cry, whenever a stranger came within
sight of the dell.
The spot was full of life, such as it was, and any
thing else but silence reigned in the dwelling of Cyrus
the negro. Not only cats, dogs, woodchucks, hares,
ducks, tame rabbits, and pigeons were congregated
in and about the house of Cyrus, but the neighbors
were sometimes edified by the sight of some fat
negro woman in silk robes, ■wending her way to and
from the dell, or some young mulatto woman, rich
with all the charms of early womanhood, and bearing
herself with a dignity and witching grace that would
have winged with inspiration the pen of a Bomut or
a Longfellow, had those soft, dark eyes belonged to
a daughter of Europe.
Where Cyrus picked up so many acquaintances,
was a query sometimes propounded by the gossips
of the neighborhood, which often remained unan
swered; but the fact is, colored people find each
other out. Thefro was not a negro within a hundred
miles of the Four Corners, who did not kaov a?
much about Black Cyrus, as he knew about him*
telf.
Cyrus was employed by the farmers. He worked
by the day, and as he worked well, he made no little
difficulty about his terms. As Cyrus was exacting, |
arrogant, and hard to please, he was highly esti
mated by his neighbors, who seemed to think that
one who set so high an estimate upon himself mast
needs be of some value.
With all his surliness, however, it must be con- '
fessed that Cyrus was hospitable. That is a redeem- i
ing feature wherever it may be found. Black or i
white, whoever came to the door of Cyrus, it would i
seem that no one was ever turned away. Cat, dog, !
mud turtle, or reasoning biped, here was an ark—-a i
shelter for any one that appeared.
I had an Uncle Peter, who carried on the farm for I
my grandfather, and they lived together at the old
homestead, some three miles from the Four Corners.
My grandfather was a thin, spare man, with black
eyes and hair, and naturally disposed to melancholy;
but an event that had occurred several years pre- j
vious to the time in which our scene opens, had
darkened what little light the old man’s spirit had.
Uncle Peter had a child, a very sprightly little girl,
upon whom my grandfather doted; and this child
was suddenly missing, at the age of eight years.
She went into the garden behind the house, one
morning in autumn, to gather a few pears which a
high wind during the night had strewed upon the
ground. Breakfast was ready, but Janet did not
come. It was thought she had been gone a great
while, and my grandfather went to the back-door to
call her. Not seeing the little girl under the pear
tree, the old gentleman went out and searched
every part of the garden. He called aloud up m j
Janet, but no answer came. He then gave the :
alaim, and ran to the well, the barn, and the crib,
while the parents of Janet hunted all about the I
farm, much' wondering what could have become of
their daughter.
The idea that Janet could be lost was, at first,
scouted with contempt, with indignation. She had
gone to the woods to see if chestnuts were ripe—she
had gone to one of the neighbors, but she could not
be lost—that idea could never be entertained for a
moment. “That way madness lay.”
Darkness came creeping on; for the days are
short in the fall the shadows of evening were
closing in upon the bereaved scoffers, like the fold
of a boa constrictor pressing out the life of his vic
tim. There was no sleep at the farm-house that
night. The mother wailed for her child till morn
ing light dawned in the east, and the grandfather
lay upon his face, overwhelmed with speechless sor
row. Uncle Peter was nearly, if not quite, befids
himself, and spent the principal part of the night
ranging the woods and fields, with a couple of
neighbors, calling aloud upon Janet.
Days passed away, and nothing was heard from
Janet, except that a countryman from the city
thought he saw her in a chaise, with an old woman,
riding down the upper part of the Third avenue.
Uncle Peter came to New York, advertised Janet in
the papers, and spent much money in hunting for
her; then he went back with the heavy tidings that
he had obtained no clue whatever to the place
where she had been taken, for it was now believed
very generally that the missing girl had been stolen
and carried to the city.
Months and years passed away. My grandfather
became melancholy, and ceased to hold conversation
with his nearest relatives.' He sat all day, in the
sun, in front of the house, and when any visitor
called and inquired for Uncle Peter or his wife, the
old man would rise partly up, hold his hand to his
ear, and say— '
“Bow ? do you say they have heered from her?”
Janet occupied the whole of his thoughts, and I
whoever spoke, he imagined that she was the theme I
of conversation.
Uncle Peter grew serious; he became more con
stant at church, talked with the parsoji, and finally ’
his manners were abrupt and his tones harsh. In a !
few years he had become a stern and relentless
bigot—a telnperance zealot, and he seemed disposed
to exterminate vice of all kinds with the sword of
law. Such was the effect which grief had upon the
mind of my uncle. He was haded by the “ reform
ers” as a precious 'Stone in Israel —a bright and
shining light—for he counselled, continually, the ,
enactment of the most arbitrary and vindictive 1
laws.
My aunt, the mother of Janet, was, indeed, bow- '
ed to the earth with grief; but her nature seemed j
to have rather softened and humanized by the aw- I
ful stroke which had fallen upon her heart. She i
had no sympathy with her husband’s vindictive mo- :
rality and Pharisaical virtue.
Thus things continued for twelve years, and no- 1
thing had been heard from the absent one, though, i
at one time, it had been whispered that Black Cyrus I
knew something about the unfortunate girl. Uncle |
Peter visited the dell and bad a long discourse with i
Cyrus, and though the latter denied all knowledge
of the lost one, my uncle thought his words were I
evasive and his manner like that of one who in- I
tended to deceive.
It Whs long after this interview with Cyrus, that
my uncle called in at the bar-room at the Town I
Corner while on his way home. Here he perceived '
there was considerable excitement about a courtesan •
who had appeared somewhere in the neighborhood. !
The young fellows laughed and winked at each '
other ; but there were two elderly men present who
took up the matter seriously and talked a great deal
about the wickedness of the present age. Uncle
Peter chimed in quickly, and declared that the of
fending female must be‘hunted up and expelled from
the township, if not from the State.
The only difficulty was that nobody could tell ;
where the girl lay hidden ; or, if anybody knew, it ;
was only such persons as -were disposed to encourage
and practice improper conduct. They would not
tell.
When, however, Uncle Peter talked of riding “the
bad girl” on a rail out of the State, some of th*,
young men seemed to enter-intv-ttitrspirTrorthe ad
yen former went home vowing all sort
ofvehgeance against the sinning female.
In twenty-four hours some one had ferreted out the
girl. Word was brought to Uncle Peter that she
was living at the house of Black Cyrus in the dell.
“ Hah!” cried my uncle—“then woe to the negro!
I will haul him up and finish him too. No doubt
that negro’s house is a sink of corruption itself—we
will have out the girl first, and deal with the negro
afterward.”
“And why, my dear,” said his wife laying her
wasted hand upon his shoulder—“ why should we
cast the first stone at this unhappy girl ? At least,
it would be better to wait till she has been guilty of
some overt act.”
“Thou talkest like one of the foolish women,”
said Uncle Peter, quoting the reply of Job to his
wife on a far different occasion—“We are obliged
by every law, human and divine, to put down vice
wherever we find it.”
“To put down vice !” replied aunt, “that, indeed;
but vice is in the heart—it is an evil disposition—a
disposition to injure others. That is vice, and when
ever that disposition can be eradicated from the
heart, it is certainly best to do so ; but hurting
this unfortunate girl has nothing to with putting
down vice.”
Uncle Peter only sneered at these remarks, and
went out to the men who had brought him the in- i
formation. They agreed to call upon Uncle Peter i
in the morning.
That night at about ten o’clock, might have been
seen Uncle Peter, Deacon Simonson, and a number I
of others marching along the road towards the Four ‘
Corners. Having reached the tavern, they were .
joined by two more men who carried on their shoul
ders a long rail, hewn out sharp for the express pur- I
poses of causing suffering to the person who should ,
ride upon it.
On leaving the tavern, the company now swelled i
to some eighteen individuals, turned into a pasture •
lot, and having traveled through that, came upon a i
patch skirted by stunted trees and tall bushes.
Under cover of the shade caused by the overhang
ingfoliage, the assailing party stole’quietly along in
the direction of the negro house. The moon burst
forth from behind a cloud just as the party drew up
in front of the building, and were received by a tre
mendous barking of dogs.
Immediately the head of a colored woman ap
peared at a side window. She waited to be ad
dressed.
Uncle Peter thumped on the door with a club.
“ What does all you men want here at dis time of
night ?” said the wife of Cyrus, for it was she that
looked from the window.
“Where’s your husband, woman?” said Uncle
Peter.
“He is up country to de funeral ob Caesar White.” i
“ That’s true,” said Deacon Simonson, “ Cyrus i
has gone to C , to attend the funeral.”
“ Well, then,” said Uncle Peter, “ let us have the
strange woman that is abiding with you.”
“I is got no strange worn an. You is more strange
yourself to come here making a fuss at dis time ob
night.”
“ The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” shouted
my untie, as he brought forward the rail and used it
as a battering ram to dash down the door.
“Wot you mean? Thief! robbers!” cried the
mistress of the house, as the whole tenement shook
beneath the terrible onset.
“ Here! stop —stop!” cried the voice of another
woman, “don’t do any mischief—it is I that you
want, I suppose.”
The house-breakers paused, and a slender, fair
haired girl appeared at the door.
“ Here I am, now what do you want of me ? Who
have I injured ? Speak, man !”
The graceful gestures and musical tones of the
speaker imposed upon every one present except my
uncle. All drew back but him, and he cried aloud’:
“ Seize her! she is the one! She accuses herself,
for she said that we had come for her!”
“ Yes, I am the only person now boarding at this •
house. So you must mean me, of course. You-that
are so forward to speak,” nodding to Uncle Peter, ;
“ will you make your accusation ?”
“ Hear the impudent hussy!” cried he. “ You are
a vagabond—a—a Jezabel!”
“You know all this, do you?”
Several of the company turned quickly and looked
at Uncle Peter, for the question arose in their minds, '
if she was a lewd girl, how had Uncle Peter found it i
out?
“ What have we come here for? Seize the wretch
and place her on the rail!” thundered Undo Peter,
exasperated at the girl for placing him in a ridicu
lous position’.
The girl was seized roughly enough, and placed
upon the sharp piece of timber. We will not describe
tne insults, the jeers, and the taunts which her self
righteous persecutors heaped upon her; but when
she arrived at the boundary-line, it was near morning.
They threw her down upon the grass, and told her
never to show her face in New York State again.
She lay down upon the turf, breathing quickly, very
pale, and evidently unwell. The company stood
gazing down upon iier, and thanking God that they
were better than she, when a man came bounding
over a neighboring fence, dashed through a thicket,
and, calling aloud upon Uncle Peter, bade him desist
and to persecute the wretched girl no more.
“ Seize him!” cried Uncle Peter, “ seize this
—it is Cyrus—he keeps lewd people at his house.”
The stranger came up quickly, and all present
recognized the black man of the dell, but none were
isposed to meddle with him.
“Is Mr. Peter D— among you?” inquired Cyrus,
hastily.”
“Here I am!” cried Uncle Peter, stepping forth,
“ and you will find that I can punish—”
“Your own daughter! Your poor Janet! Oh!
yes, you have punished her I see;” and the negro
; pproached the girl compassionately, asking her how
he felt.
But the attention of the company was soon drawn
<ff from Cyrus and the girl; for a maniac father
dashed his head against a tree, and then rushing
hrough the thicket, fled howling over the plain. j
Uncle Peter received the terrible shock, like the
stubborn oak riven by the thunderbolt. The blow I
had fallen, perhaps, upon the only vulnerable spot
in his heart. Bigotry bad securely encased him
everywhere else. But his long-lost and never-for
gotten daughter—to find her so was quite too much
for his understanding. Reason reeled from her
throne, and the bigot, the Pharisee, became a mad
man.
Poor Janet recovered slowly, and was received by
her mother, who freely forgave her. The aged
grandfather seemed to perceive that all was right—
though when told that it was Janet, he looked down
at her feet, and then up towards her head, as if
wondering how little Janet should be so tall.
Black Cyrus had detected Janet four years pre
viously. She was a witness in court, in a murder
case, where he saw and recognized her. He spoke
to her, and told her of her parents. She replied that
she scarcely remembered them—that she was
gagged, and carried off by an old woman
and a man, when very young, and had been forced
into such a career that she could not think of ever
seeing her parents more. Cyrus returned home,
and somehow it leaked out that he had seen Janet;
but he denied it when questioned, as he thought it
bitter her parents should think her dead than to
know what manner of life she led.
Subsequently, Janet called upon Black Cyrus at
the dell, as related above. When the mob came to
carry her out of the State, she did not recognize her
father, nor any of the rest of the party. When
Cyrus got home from’the funeral, his wife told him
that a mob had carried off Janet on a rail, and he
set out in purshit of them, on horseback. The
horse gave out just before he came up with Janet
and her persecutors.
jjhmw! Shtdjes.
PREPARED FOR THE DISPATCH, Bl' ARCOLA.
THE DEATH OF KNOWLTON.
On the 15th of September, 1776, the American
treops under the command of the brave Putnam
were ordered to retreat from the upper part of the
city, and fortify themselves upon the rocky heights
at King’s Bridge. This measure was adopted by
Washington more in accordance with the views of
his aids than-from his own wishes, although the ad
vance of the British army rendered the former posi
tion of the “rebels” dangerous in the extreme.
The heights were reached in safety, and ample pro
vision made for the comfort of the large number of
women and children dependent upon the army for
protection. On the morning of the 16th, word was
received at head-quarters that the enemy were ap
proaching. Washington immediately mounted his
horse and rode rapidly towards the point from
which the Opposing forces were advancing. The
outpost, commanded by the brave Lieut.-Colonel
Knowlton, who had so highly distinguished himielf
at the bloody field of Bunker Hill, was at this mo
ment driven in, and the soldiers composing it flew
wildly past the commander-in-chief. Knowlton’s
horse came slowly up to the General, bearing his
wounded master. Washington seized the bridle,
and, satisfying himself that his able officer was j
fiimly fixed in his saddle, returned sadly to the
heights, while the bugles of the “ red coats” rang
out insultingly in merry strains.
Arrived at the building which Washington had
taken possession of as his he id-quarters—and which
stands there to this day—the wounded Knowlton
was taken from his steed, and borne, bleeding and
faint into the chamber of his chief.
“ My wife I” he murmured, in failing tones, “ she
is at tne fort—send for her!”
His wish was complied with, and in a few mo
ments the lady was kneeling above the dying hus
band.
“No tears, dearest!” he gasped. “You will
ever remember this day ! Let our children regard
it as one upon which their father secured an immor
tality. Adieu, Mary! Go to your home ; and when
sadness assails you, remember that he whom you
mourn fell in defence of a nation’s liberty 1”
Both Washington and Putnam were present,- and
each clasped a hand of the dying man. With the
i latter he had ever been an especial favorite.
“ Knowlton, my friend!” stammered “ old Put.”
while the tears stood in those eyes all unused to
weeping—“ you were ever a lion-hearted soldier. I
| wish the infernal villain who gave you this wound
i was in my hands for a short time. He would never
I again be in a position to wound, to kill, such a man
| as you. But you will never be forgotten. So long
as the memory of Bunker Hill is left those who come
I after us, so long will your name be repeated with
I love and gratitude.”
“ The last word, most welcome to a dying sol
| dier,” said the great Washington, “ must be the
commendation of his fellow warriors. I have watch
ed you, Knowlton, and have never known a braver
[ man. However great the danger, you have ever been.
1 the foremost in meeting it. There has been no duty
: assigned to you from which you have shrunk, an’d
, believe me there is no officer under my orders, in
; whom I would have placed more implicit reliance.
To that Deity before whom we must all sooner or
- later appear, I commend you, knowing that the re
' ward of the good and true’ awaits you.”
“ Thanks, General; I—love you.” The speech
faltered, the eyes grew dim, and ere long the brave
Knowlton had ceased to breathe. Then upon the
silence of that quiet chamber arose a wild, heart
broken cry. The wife, who had so devotedly fol
lowed the object of her love through all the vicissi
tudes of danger until the dread hour of death, now
fell upon the cold form of the loved one, as she cried
wildly—
- “ Husband! husband!”
No sound again broke the stilness of the scene un
til the compatriots of the dead soldier came to bear
the lifeless ones to the silent grave. Together hus
band and wife repose, amid the unrevealed mysteries
of the coming time. Putnam’s words w ere true—tha
-ircro is nor Krgvgttm I
THE LOVE OF WAH-AH-KEE.
Accompanying Arnold’s expedition, which it was
deemed prudent by the “Continental Congress” to
send against the enemy in Canada, was a young and
brave officer named- Miller. He was a friend of the
bold and skillful leader of the enterprise, and through
the peril and hardships of their passage up the Ken
nebec river, lent valuable assistance to his chief.
Fired with a zeal that no obstacle could overcome,
no hardships diminish, he was one in whom the
then distinguished though subsequently disgraced
Arnold, could confide. Lucius Miller was a descend
ant of a wealthy and influential family, who based
upon this young representative of their greatness,
high hopes and fond dreams of continued impor
tance. And well might they be proud of such a son.
Noble in feeling as brave in action, he was calcula
ted to win admiration, esteem, love! Arriving at
manhood just at a period when the injuries and op
pressions of the mother country invoked the spirit
of “rebellion” to cast oil the allegiance of her in
sulted colonies, he entered at once into the glorious
arena where so many fell, yielding their lives in the
service of their country, and at the same time erect
ing in the hearts of their successors in the proud
inheritance, monuments as lasting as time. Unlike
many of the brave young spirits, who in those try
ing times rushed “ to glory o’er the grave,” Miller
held his natural intrepidity in strong check, thus
| becoming the better fitted for station and command.
Weary and exhausted with the herculean labors
! which were indispensable in the prosecution of their
- enterprise, the forces had halted upon a large pla
' teau, or table, land, on the banks of the swift rolling
river, to pass the night. At this time numerous par-
I ties of Indians were encamped in the vicinity of the
: stream, for the purpose of securing their' winter
j supply of fish. To prevent the depredations in
i which these people frequently indulged, Arnold
ordered sentinels to be posted to keep a vigilant
I watch, not from the fear of an attack, but. as we
have said before, to protect themselves from the
thieving propensities of the red men, as he knew
that some of them never missed an opportunity to
practice their “abstracting” acquirements.
Miller was entrusted with the duty of placing the
guard, and securing the weary soldiers a quiet night.
Our hero was disturbed about midnight while seat ed
in his rude tent, by the entrance of one of the senti
nels who reported that an Indian female had been
discovered wandering near the encampment, where
upon she was arrested. Miller threw aside the
volume he had been perusing, and ordered the soldier
to conduct the prisoner to his presence. When the
maiden appealed, the young officer started with sur
piise to behold a daughter of the forest possessed of
such rare beauty. He could plainly see her well
I formed and regular features, by the light of his
taper, and he at once admitted to himself, that sel
dom had he seen among the beauties of his native
state such a combination, as the lowly bending
creatm e before him presented.
“ She is no prowling thief,” bethought half aloud.
“ Wah-ah-kee the speaking flower is no thief,” re
plied the maiden.
“ What, do you understand English?” he inquired
in confusion at having his remark understood.
“ I have been in Canada. The talk of the white
man is familiar to me,” answered Wah-ah-kee, as she
had styled herself.
“ And how came you here ?” he asked, won to a
deeper interest by the full rich tones in which the
maiden spoke.
“ Wah-ah-kee has no parents. They have gone to
the home of the great Manits. Hal-sah-wad the
warrior, brother of my sire, has given me a place
within his wigwam, but not within his heart. My
people are here to gather from the rolling waters
their food, for use when the earth wears her white
mantle of snow, and the stream is bound in an ice
chain. Under the mound which rises above this
plain, rest the bones of those whose spirits are roam
ing in the happy hunting grounds. Wah-ah-kee
i went there to cast a flower upon her parents’ dust.
I The moon went down, and in returning to my wig
! warn, amid the darkness, while my eyes were dim
with the dew of the heart, your warriors took me
captive.”
“ And I release yon maiden at once, sargeant ?”_
His call was answered by the appearance of his
subordinate at the opening of the tent.
“ Give this prisoner safe conduct to your outposts.
She had no improper intention in coming among
I us.”
The sergeant touched his cap, but hesitated a mo
ment.
“ Well, sir! why do you linger?” he asked.
“ Why, sir 1” stammered the other; “ if we let this
one go, we shall have the whole lot of thieving in
juns around us, and—”
“ My people—red-skins as they arc called—are no
thieves. They came here before your warriors. They
bring no weapons with them. They are not now on
the war-path. You wrong them to call them by
such a name 1” the dark eyes of Wah-ah-kee flashed
upon the sergeant, who, like Miller, finding that the
girl understood him, felt much confusion.
“You need fear no molestation of yourself or your
tribe,” said Miller, as he took the small hand of the
Indian in his. “Go! and if ever a lonely and unpro
tected traveler of my race falls in your path, extend
to him the kindness which I have shown you.”
“ Wah-ah-kee would rather remain your prisoner,”
she replied. “Ido not love those who are unkind
to me, and Hal-sah-waa is a stern warrior.” Miller
felt a strange liking for this wild flower, but his
firmly-fixed principles, not to be changed, even when
a gratification might be gained, prompted him to re
gard her as a prisoner only. He answered—
“ I cannot think of your remaining in our camp.
A soldier’s life is ever rough, and their followers are
exposed to too many hardships for one like you to
endure.”
“ I go, then! But when the dark cloud rises above
you—when amid the storm of the battle danger and
death threaten, Wah-ah-kee will not he far away.
She o wes a debt of gratitude to you, and a favor con
ferred upon one of our people is never forgotten.
i The Indian maiden cast a look of mingled love e,nd
I thankfulness upon Miller, then vanished from, the
I tent, followed by the sergeant.
With a heroism peculiar to the Colonial troops,
; those engaged in this expedition fought their wajr
to a disastrous defeat. Many a brave heart ceased
1 to beat; many a true soldier yielded up his brave
spirit upon this fatal field. Montgomery here fell,
crrwnc-d with immortal honors. The names of Os
wald, Morgan, Lamb, Campbell, and others, were
here invested with perpetual glory. Miller had
hardly dashed the tear from his eye, shed as a tribute
to his fellow officers, when he himself was prostra
ted, wounded severely. Some of the soldiers under
his command stopped to assist him.
“ On!” he cried, “ glory awaits you! Leave me
to my fate. On! men, on!”
Bi.t the brave man was not left to die. He had
been watched with a vigilant eye, and no sooner had
he fallen, than Wah-ah-kee was by his side staunch
ing his blood and binding nj> his wounds.
“ Wah-ah-kee!” he murmured, as faintness over
came him.
Upon the list of killed returned to the Commander
in-Chicf, appeared the name of Lucius Miller. Ths
news of his death brought mourning into a large
circle of friends, whose hopes had clung to him.
Some four months after the events above related,
a letter was received by the parents of our hero,
bearing his signature. 'I heir joy knew no bounds.
He whom they had mourned as being dead, was
alive! They would soon see him again—soon press
him in a fond embrace. Their ardor was somewhat
damped as they read the poatcript, which informed
them that he should be attended to his journey’s end
by his Indian nurse. His glowing expressions of
gratitude to her who had saved his life, who had
found him dying upon the bloody field, and by her
constant attentions had soothed his pain and raised
him to strength again, caused a feeling of uneasiness
in their minds.
His arrival was greeted with the warmest expres
sions of love, but Wah-ah-kee met with a cold re
ception. Miller felt that the gentle girl had created
in his heart a sentiment warmer than mere grati
tude, yet he dared not admit, even to himself, that
he lover her. The subject of these thoughts, with,
the natural impulses of an untutored child of na
ture, lavished upon him the wealth of a pure heart,
and as she had accompanied him by his own request,
the coldness with which he she was received, damped
to a considerable degree the joy of her heart. She
could not love Miller less, but their conduct mads
her feel the difference between them more—a differ
ence unconsidered and unknown, when, in the wig
wam of the forest she had bent over him in sick
ness. She determined to return to her home.
.“Wah-ah-kee must go,” she said one day, about a
week after their arrival, “to her her desolate homo
in the far-off wilderness. She is not welcome here ;
the backs of all are turned to her, and the light of
all eyes are shaded from her gaze.”
“I have not changed towards you,” Miller re
plied.
“No! but the hopes of friends are placed npoa
you, and they frown darkly upon the humble Indian.
She would be your slave; but she cannot bear th#
dark scowls of others. In the depths of her own
wild-wood Wah-ah-kee will sing the death-song of
her own heart. Farewell!”
“Do yon love the?”
“Without you life is desolate.”
“Then stay, and be my wife!”
The maiden sprang to’the embrace of his extended
arms; but ere they had enclosed her, she again re
cofed.
“No,” she sadly innrmured; “the daughter of a
red skin will be despised, even though she be your
wife.”
“Wah-ah-kee, hear me. I care not what the opi
nions of others may be ; the promptings of my own
heart shall govern my actions. You have the right
to the devotion of the life you have saved. I was
dead to them—you saved me—and the poorest re
ward I can offer you is the love that should bo, and
is, truly yours.”
His arms were again extended, and the young and
gei.t.’e creature nestled close to his bosom.
After their marriage, the young couple moved to
an estate upon Long Island, owned by Miller, which
still bears his name. Here, for many years, they
lived, blessed with a degree of happiness, such as
rarely falls to the lot of any. Their descendants are
numerous, and among them are many who at differ
ent times have filled positions of honor and trust.
Miller’s family became reconciled to the Indian
wife, and never did they have occasion to blush for
the untutored child of the wilderness, Wah-ah-kee,
or the Speaking Flower.
[Written for the New York Dispatch.]
A CHAPTER ON NAMES.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE.
The early settlers in New England, having
brought sundry Scripture names over with them to
the rocky shores of Massachusetts (the Pilgrim
fathers thinking it imparted a sort of sanctity tu
their children), the little seed of the May Flower,
were for a long time called after the honest old
heathens who flourished in the books of the Old
Testament, until, thinking this savored too much of
the manners ot the world, they left the names of the
infant birds of our country’s'stem to chance, or, as
! they said, to Providence, after this wise. Whenever
a fresh olive branch was added, the family assem
bled, and, after prayers, the sacred volume wiw
I opened, and whatever name Providence first directed
the eye of the father to rest upon, always provided
it agreed with the sex of the little bundle of flannel
and original sin awaiting the result in the arms of
its grandam. If the specimen was feminine, and
the name presented turned out to be Jeroboam
or Nebuchadnezzar, the sacred page was turned
over until Deborah or Delilah, Huth or Baohel,
turned up.
-otttcrTottery decisions, I feel sure, from
'the euphonious names still extant in Connecticut,
to say nothing of those preserved on the grave
: stones, that the fathers practiced the utmost iuteg
-1 rity in picking out whatever first presented itself.
Looking over the town records to-day, I find so
many, that, being both harsh and hard to pro
nounce, as well as heathenish in the extreme, I feed
confident they left the matter entirely fo Provi
dence, washing their hands of any choice whatever
themselves. And yet that perfect fairness had al
ways been practiced, would seem doubtful, since not
a live Yankee in the neighborhood was called Pon
tius Pilate, and you could not find a Judas Iscariot
in all the region round about.
Almost all the little girls in the District School
answered to cardinal virtues. There were Hope,
Faith, Charity, Patience, Prudence, with occasion
ally an Amabel; while one old almanac-maker had
I know not how many “ Comforts” in his family.
Who has not heard of “Return Jonathan?” yet.
all may not know that the Postmaster* was thus
called by his father in commemoration of the words
spoken by his relenting Dulcinia, by which he “ re
turned,” married his relenting Dulcinia, and gave
paternity to Jonathan, the younger.
My next neighbor has little twins, to whom be
has given the euphonious names of Grateful and
Thankful—the first given to the eldest in gratitude
for the long-coveted boon ; the other, in thankful
ness that the sorrows of the night were through.
While the two men now at work before my window,
in the garden, have names to be met with nowhere
out of New England.
The “select man,” who grafting the cherry
tree, is “ Praise God Doolittle;’’ and the tall negro
man, who is mending the fence, near him, is a class
leader in the (colored) Methodist church—Bare
hones Reubens.
* The Post-Master . alluded to is “Return Jonathan
Meek«.”
Change in the Meaning of Words.— A con
temporary collates from French, the following iiiterostiag
explanation of the change and original signification of
many words in our language, use: An inter
esting fact in regard to our laiigtiage, is the great change
which has taken place in the meaning of many words
The word “miscreant,” which now means “a v4la
wretch,” in Shakspere’s time meant simply a misbeliever;
nd when Talbot calls “Joan of Aac,” a miscreant, h»
intends to intimate that she has fallen from the faith. How
many are aware that the word “influence,” as usod by
the earlier English poets, had a more or less remote allu
sion to the influences which the heavenly bodies were sup
posed to exercise upon men? “Baffled,” which moans
defeated, was applied in the days of chivalry to a recreant
knight, who was cither in person or in effigy, hung up by
the heels, his escutcheon blotted, his spear broken, and
himself or his effigy subjected to all kinds of indignities.
“Nephews,” as used by Hooker, Shakspere, and other
writers of the Elizabethan period, denoted grand-children
and other lineal descendants. “Kindly fruits,” as used
in the Litany, also simply denotes the natural fruits, or
those which the earth, according to its kind, should natu
rally bring forth- A historian, speaking of a celebrated
divine who had recently died, exclaimed, “Oh the painful
ness of liis preaching!” by which ho did not mean that
his preaching was painful to his hearers, but that
he bestowed much labor and pains upon the preparation of
his sermons. The term “meat” was formerly applied to
all food, but is now restricted to flesh only. Not a few
words were once applicable to both sexes, which are now
restricted to the female; as an illustration, the word “girl"
may bo mentioned, which formerly denoted a young par
son of either sex. Until'the reign of Edward the First, th»
word “acre” meant any field of whatever size. “Fur
long” denoted the length of a furrow, or a “furrow-long.’*
Also the words “yard,” “peck,” and “gallon” were
once of a vaguo and unsettled use, and only at a later day,
and in obedience to the requirements of commerce and so
cial life, wore they used to denote exact measures and de
signations.
Extent of Ancient Cities and Buildings.—
The annexed statements may be true, or they may not. Iff
the writer drew them from such sources as Herodotus*
Rollin and the Jewish history, they cannot bo considered
in any other light than mere approximations to truth : to
be taken “ cum granum salts.” Nineveh was fifteen miles,
long, five wide, and forty miles round, with a wall on*
hundred feet high, and thick enough fop tliree chariotai
abreast. Babylon was sixty miles within the walls, which,
were seventy-five feet thick, and three hundred feet high*
with one hundred brazen gates. The Temple of Diana, at;
Ephesus, according to Pliny, required two hundred, aad
twenty years to complete it, and was supported by ona
hundred and twenty-seven pillars, sixty feet high, havin£
been raised by as many kings. The largest of the Pyramids
is four hundred and eighty-four feet high and six hundred,
and fifty-three on the sid&s ; its base covers elevon aores.
The stones are about thirty feet in length, and the layers
are two hundred and eight. It employed three hundre'X
thousand men in building. The labyrinth of Egypt
ed three hundred chambers, and twelve halls. Thobos e in
Egypt, presents ruins twenty-seven miles round, and. hjui
one hundred gates. Carthage was twenty-five miles 'round.
Athens was twenty-five miles round, and contained twt
hundred and fifty thousand citizens and four hundred thou
sand slaves. Tne Temple of Delphos was so rich i-a dona
tions that It was plundered of £IOO,OOO, and Nero carried
away from \t two hundred statutes. The walla Roma
were thirteen miles round.
Miyrcufacture of Paper in the United Stain
—T\ t ere are not less than 750 paper mills in the Vnitod
S’ Ates in actual operation, producing annually 27O,O0OJX>fr
pounds of paper, worth, at ten cents per pound, $27,000,00&.
I To produce this quantity of paper, 405,000,000 pounds of
j rags are required, IX pounds of rags being necessary
! make one pound of paper. The cost cd manufiicluring*
‘ aside from labor and rags, $4,050,000.