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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1861-1863, April 19, 1863, Image 7

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[Written for tne Sunday Dispatch.]
C 0 N N E C T ! 0 U T-1863,
<nn , BO3H'TU IJXES ON A GLORIOUS ADMINISTRATION
TRIUMPH.
My Jurats A. C. tVConnor.
■O, three cheers for Connecticut, loyal and true,
And three cheers for good Governor Bucking
ham, too! ,
O, three cheers for iho Union—God save it for
ever!
'Base traitors shall never the Union dissever.
Yes three cheers for Connecticut, all covered
with glory—
Its truth to the Union shall e’er live in story ;
Its might for the Right, its strong arm against
Wrong,
Shall live in oui 1 hearts and be famed iu our
song.
Aje, cheers for Connecticut—brave little State—
It hath love for the Union, for Disunion deep
hate;
It hath given its voice for Truth, Freedom, and
- Reason;
It hath spoken in thunder tones— *• Death unto
Treason!”
Oh. Copperheads, Copperheads, woe is your lot!
Ye have fought a hard fight, but have succeeded
_no? /
Ah ! Copperheads, Copperheads, right must pre-
And the Union, tho’ warring, is not, sirs, for
sale.
7111011 cheers for Connecticut, true to its trust—
<For put down this Rebellion we shall and wo
must,) —
Aye, cheers for Connecticut, loyal and true,
And three cheers for brave Governor Bucking
ham, too.
O, there are tidings of joy from the New England
States,
And news of bad omen for the South’s“ Confede
rates
For Seymour's defeated, while Buckingham loyal
Is Governor-fleet by a majority royal !
•O ! hurrah for the news from the New England
States,
And groans for the Copperheads and the South’s
Confederates 1
Hurrah for the Union ’—hurrah for hurrah!—
Now in the ascendant is Freedom’s fair star!
'The People have spoken—by the President they
•Will stand thro’ this war. O ! out of night day
’Will come in the end, tho’ that end may seem
far;
Then lend heart and hand, boys, and push on
the war.
Aye, push on the War, for blest Peace wo all
pray—
We’re tired of the Night, and we long for the
Day.
The people have spoken, the fiat’s gone forth:
“ We’ll stand by the President!” says a unani
mous North.
‘•O, loyal Connecticut! thanks for thy voice,
Which has caused every patriot heart to rejoice.
Ah ! it necdeth no prophet, no wizard, nor witch
To tell how the Copperheads have found their
“last ditch!”
'Connecticut’s vote is a “ settlerthen cease,
Ye cowardly Copperheads, your bawlings for—
Peace;
And talk not of “ compromise,” but give up your
guns,
O, ye of the South, to Columbia’s sons.
'Ho I fire off your cannons, and up with our ban
ners ;
Ho! sing out bravely thanksgiving hosannas;
Ho! generals and soldiers; ho! push on this
war;
Ho! conquer a Peace—beam out Victory’s star!
AURELIA GRESHAM.
THE STORY OF AN ORPHAN GIRL.
BY MAMABET BUHJNT.
CHAPTER XIV.
It must be a very magnificent thing to go to
lied a mere unit in the world, or in society,
about whose existence no one cares a rush, and
• wake next morning to find that existence be
come a matter of notoriety, about which every
one feels curious. Some people affect to sneer
at this species of fame—in fact,- at any fame at
all.. ’Tis because they were never famous. Of
course every one knows that the greatest suc
cess may be outlived—that the most brilliant
reputation cannot last long beyond the grave.
But what of that ? “It will all be the same a
hundred years hence” is very true. But a
hundred years hence the heart mat beats
■now' for praise will be but a handful of quiet
■dust, and the brow that longs for laurels will
have strengthened the growth, it may be, of a
laurel itself. It is not with that after state
that we have to do, —it is with the real and
actual present, where rewards are possible, and
■where they often give a' pleasure purer and
keener than anything else on earth can be
: stow. To be in love, and to be loved again,
is triumph enough for the early days of youth;
hut after eno has got well on in the twenties,
it seems to me, that to become famous and to
grow rich are the best things to do, so far, at
least, as this world is concerned.
But one sometimes feel impatient of a cer
tain kind of fame, which seems to be bestowed
•without an equivalent return. People know,
for instance, that an actor, to act well, must
-. go through a long and laborious course of
training, and fight his way up from the ranks
by main force of talent, energy and per
severance. So -must a successful barrister
and a popular clergyman toil in good earn
est for the reputation they achieve. While
•as to writers, the brother and sisterhood of the
quill are by no means disposed to pass over
their peculiar grievances in silence, and the
• public know well enough all about the aching
heads, the weary fingers, the dim eyes, and
■worn out imaginations, that go far to make up
their books. They read smoothly and well, it
is tiue ; but how many times has that wretch
ed MSS. been pitched frantically across the
room, in the process of composition; how many
times has the bewildered writer vowed, in the
bitterness of his or her heart, to break stones
upon the road, or take in washing for a living,
rather than be chained to a pen, like a galley
slave to the oar, any longer for the sake of
bread and butter ?
'lake the other professions. The labor of the
ballet dancer is shown in the very grace of her
movements, because it is evident that human
beings were not originally intended to spin
about like tee totnms “in muslin saucers" (as
Mr. Carlyle has it), or to point their toes to
ward the ceiling in an exact line with the part
ing of their back hair. One’s bones ache at
the thought of the practice that has produced
such results, and the most* hard-to-be-pleasod
spectator must feci that the Cerito of the day
has fully earned, so far as actual hard work
-goes, the shower of bouquets and the shower
of gold which, in some happy cases, is lavish
ed so fully upon her. Again, when we see the
piano, made ductile and harmonious by the
human band, or some brass monster taught to
discourse sweet music by the human breath,
we understand at once what hours and days of
hard labor have been spent before our ears
-■could be so delighted.
In fact, there is not an art or science in
which people do not’ recognise and appreciate
the labor and trouble of its votaries—save one.
"When a singer steps upon the stage and war
bles like a nightingale, every one applauds
most rapturously ; yet, who remembers the
hours of toil that have been endured, in order
that our hearts may be thrilled by that perfect
• combination of melodious sounds.
“So much money just for opening their
mouths I" said an old lady in my hearing one
■day at one of the famous Crystal Palace Concerts
of 1862. She was gazing with an awe-struck
yet half-dissatisfied ■ look at a group of stars
upon the stage, consisting of Grisi, Tietiens
and Giuglini.
“So much money just for opening their
mouths!”
AH the arguments of the old lady’s inform
ant failed to convince her that the magnificent
trio were well worth their price. Their beau
tiful voices she could understand, but she would
not believe that it had taken time, and pains,
and labor, such as she would have shuddered
at, to make those voices what they were. She
held fast to the general idea, that a singer, like
<a poet, is born and not made; and to this day,
I suppose, she fancies that those human night
ingales sang just as well at the moment they
were fledged as they do now. I am not sure
that hers is not the best way of looking at the
■matter. Who cared to know, as the magical
bullfinch trilled out his little song in aid of the
starving operatives last summer (thus becoming
in our minds a living, feathered benefactor,
with a kindly heait, rather than a mere ma
chine). who cared to think how often that song
must have been tried, note after note, with
inany a break and failure, before it brought
light, and warmth, and comfort to many a
desolate home ?
In Aurelia’s case, this popular delusion was
■unusually prevalent; her success was certain,
and yet manv envious people felt disposed to
carp at it. She sang so much like nature, that
they could not believe it was art, and so th ry
grumbled at the fame and the gold she won.
But their grumbling did not take away the
laurels or lighten her purse. Her portrait was
in ev< ry window, her name on every lip. She
was young—she was pretty—and she was good.
She lived with her adopted father in the sim
plest style. She made no visits, and trusted
to her own dignity and his quiet protection to
I eep the rude and the insolent at bay. To
firg veil, and to make the old composer's life
a proud and happy one, was all she seemed to
care for. In these two objects she succeeded
v ell; and, perhaps, no time in her whole life
was ever so happy as this—when she had youth,
health, beauty, wealth, a kind friend, a happy
home, and the world in general at her feet.
As she sat one morning in her beautiful bou
doir, thinking of all these things, the servant
announced a lady, who would not give her
name, but who most earnestly requested five
moments’ conversation with Mademoiselle
Aurelia.
The singer’s fancy instantly turned to the
image of the pretty “Peri,” for whose fate she
felt so strong an interest, and she ordered the
lady to be admitted at once.
But it was not the Peri—it was some one.
who would have been terribly shocked at the
mere mention of her name. A most fashiona
bly-attired lady, who ran up to Aurelia, and
held out a pair of primrose-gloved hands, cry
ing, in a high affected tone of voice, “At last—
at last we meet again!’’
Aurelia elevated her eyebrows, and bowed
haughtily, but did not rise or take the proffer
ed hand.
“Oh, you are still angry, and won’t be
friends!" said tho lady, seizing upon an easy
chair, and making herself very comfortable iu
its cushioned depths. ‘ ‘That is wrong, I think,
and something unchristian-like. Don't you ?’ ’
“It may be, Miss Landell," said Aurelia,
freezingly.
" Oh, I have changed my name ? lam Mrs.
Grant Thornton now,” was the hasty reply.
“ Allowme to congratulate you,” said Aure
lia, stiffly. “When a lady like you has attain
ed to the height of her wildest dreams of hap
piness—namely, marriage—one can do no less. ’ ’
Far from looking annoyed or vexed at this
speech, Mis. Grant Thornton laughed and
shrugged her shoulders.
“My dear creature, one must marry of course,
if one can’t be clever, or a famous singer, or
anything of that sort. How else is one to get
one’s living, and all the pretty things that
make life worth having ?”
‘ 1 How, indeed ?’ ’
“ Papa is very well oft’, as you know, but ours
is such an expensive family ; and you can’t
keep up a country seat and a house in town,
for nothing. And then, at his death, every
thing goes to Frederick —that is, everything
worth speaking of. So. of course, my only
plan was to get married.”
“I see!”
“I won’t say much about my husband, ex
cept to tell you, in confidence, that he is the
stupidest and most disagreeable man in exis
tence, and that I don’t care a button for him 1”
Aurelia could not help laughing.
“ But then that does not matter much, you
know, my dear. Women now-a-days arc not
supposed to love their husbands very warmly.”
“Has the marriage service been altered,
then?”
“No, you sly thing ! But who pays any at
tention to that, now ? It is great stuff, but it
serves its purpose, I suppose. However, let
that go. You will not sneer at my marriage
when you see the advantages I have gained by
it!”
‘ 1 What are they ?’ ’
“ Such a beautiful house in Hill street, and
a country place in Berkshire ; and such a love
of a carriage, all lined with blue, and drawn
by a pair of ducks ’ ’
“ Ducks!”
“ Ducks of horses, you know !”
“Oh, well —go on.”
“Then I have my own saddle-horse, and
my pony chaise for the country, and my toy
dog, and my opera-box, and my tickets for
every fashionable place of amusement in town. ’ ’
“Well?”
“The best comes last, of course! Such
numbers of new dresses and bonnets:—and oh,
such diamonds, Aurelia! I declare when I
first saw them, I quite held my breath ! I
think I would have married Mokanna himself,
to get those beautiful diamonds.”
“I don’t doubt it in the least.”
“How you are laughing at me ?”
“Not at all.”
“At least you arc shocked.”
“•Why biiould i 66 f Tlo a mere mutter of
taste. I would rather break stones on the road
than sell myself for these things—but it seems
to agree with you ”
Mrs. Thornton panted.
“ It is very well fcr you to talk, Aurelia.
You have a profession, and you stand at the
head of it. You can coin every note of your
voice into gold, and make your hundred a night
by merely opening your lips. I have no such
resources, yet my tastes are far more expensive
than yours. I hate poverty—and I like luxu
ry. You can’t have luxury without paying for
it—and you can’t get money unless you inherit
it, without making some return. I had no
talents —nothing but a little beauty. Mr.
Thornton had money, and so we made tire ex
change.”
“ You are certainly growing sensible in your
old age. SYou talk like a lawyer, or like a
book,” said Aurelia, looking at her with a
smile. “And what sort of a man is this fortu
nate husband of yours ?' ’
“ Oh, a good-natured, middle-aged practical
banker. We get on very well together, though
I must confess he bores me terribly at times.
But then I never let him know it, and I con
trive to have as few tete-a-teles as possible ; so
he is not so great a nuisance as he might be, if
he was encouraged too much.”
“ Well,” said Aurelia, “you are certainly the
most honest woman I ever met in my life.”
“Am I ? It is only to y'ou that lam so very
candid !”
“ And why to me?”
‘ ‘ Because you were keen and quick when a
child. You saw through me then, and you did
net like me, and neither did I like you. I
might have come here to-day and tried to pass
myself off as your best friend—as the most de
voted of wives, and the most discreet of wo
men ; but what good would that have done ?
You hate shame, and you hate hypocrites. I
found that out long ago. So I made my ap
pearance in my own character, and you can let
me stay or turn me out as you like!”
“ I wont turn you out just yet, because you
amuse me !” said Aurelia. “ But since you are
in so honest a mood, pray tell me why you
came at all to see me ?"
“ I knew you would ask that question, and
I arn going to tell you the exact truth. I did
not like you as a child !”
“ I know that.”
“In faj-t, I detested you !”'.
“Yes; but why?”
“ Have you never guessed ?■”
“ I did you no haim.”
“lamby no means sure of that. But you
ought io feel highly honored, for the truth of
the matter is, that I was jealous of you !”
“ Indeedl”
“Ob, so jealous! At that time I was in
love with Captain Grey.”
“ That is over now, of course ?” said Aure
lia, quietly.
“Oh, ages ago !” she answered, with a light
laugh. “lam an old mairied woman now—
a weman of the world into the bargain, and
my heart is as dry as a chip. But I had a lit
tle feeling left then, and it was all wasted upon
him. So when 1 saw how you had taken him
captive——”
“ But I was a mere child !”
“ Never mind that. You were pretty, and
you sang like an angel. That was quite enough
for him ; and for me, too. I determined to get
you out of his way. I serjt Frederick off, in
the first place.”
“Poor Fred !” said Auselia, sighing, smiling
and blushing at the same time. “ How fond I
was of him then !”
“ And so was he of you. For the matter of
that, he is in laptures about you again, now
that he has seen you upon the stage.”
"Indeed!”
“ Ifcw coolly you say that! Is it all quite
forgotten, then ?”
“ Vi'e lose our first loves, but we, don’t for
get them,” said Aurelia, gravely.
“ Good ! I will tell Master Freddy of that,
and lie’ll lie wilder than ever. But to ‘ return
to cur muttins.’ After I had packed him
off, my next step was to get rid of you. Do
you remember our interview on that eventful
morning ?”
“That is another event of my life which I
shall never forget, Mrs. Thornton.”
“Or forgive. Well, never mind. If you
will Peso revengeful, I can’t help it. I call
ed you a Whitechapel ballad singer, you
know ?”
“ I remember it too well.”
“ And you ran away, to the despair of Mrs,
Marshall, the horror of my father, and the as
tonishment of the neighborhood in general. I
held my tongue about the part I had acted in
SUNDAYDISPATCH, APRIL 19, 1863.
tin matter, for I confess I felt some comp arc
tic us visitings, till I heard, through a muiic.d
trod of mind, of a wonderful singer who had
been picked up in some mysterious way by Mr.
Mcor e, the composer. I instantly made fur
ther inquiries, and, finding it was really yon.
troubled my head no more about you, till, to
my great surprise, I recognised you on the
stage that night of your debut. Since then
Frederick has worried my life out to pay this
call ; and so I have come ”
“ To worship the rising star,” said Aure'ia,
composedly.
“ Well, why not ?” was the instant reply.
“ I am only following the general example;
and if you had lemained plain Aurelia Gre
sham, a good singer, not one of all these peo
ple would have besieged your door as they do
now ”
“ It is true.”
* ‘ 1 should never have sought you out myself,
if it had not been for your success.”
“ I like your candor,” Mrs. Thornton. It
almost does away with the old grudge that has
existed between us."
“ Then prove it‘” said Mrs. Thornton, eag
erly.
“ How ?”
“ By coming to my house."
Amelia shook her head.
“ I never pay visits.”
“ I know. And what nonsense that is!
Do you 'know what people say about it al
ready ?”
“No.”
“ That Mademoiselle Aurelia is so absorbed
in the study of her parts— with the hero at her
side— that she has no time to waste on ordi
nary mortals, who have not, like the hand
some tenor, a nest of. nightingales in their
throats.”
Aurelia frowned and turned crimson.
. “I wish people would mind their own busfr
ness,” she said petulantly.
“ Ah, but they won’t in any case, and how
much less in yours! Come, Aurelia, let us
enter into an alliance, offensive and defen
sive. ”
' ” Oil what icrxikt* ?”
“I give.large parties, whiclij' of course; I
wish to make as attractive
would only come to them, it would make my
success complete. On the other hand, my
avowed friendship for you might do you good
some day. No lion knows when the help of
the humble mouse may stand him in good
stead !”
“ It is true !”
‘ 1 Then will you come ?' ’
“ For the sake of Frederick : nd th? old
times, I may. I should like to tee that boy
again !”
“ Boy ! He is an elegant young Guardsman
now—and far more your slave than ever! He
w ill go mad with joy when he hears you are
ccming— although, between ourselves, he is
engaged to his cousin. Shall I say next Thurs
day—l have a party then ?”
“ Yes, if you like !”
“Thanks ! —a thousand times !”
“ Shall I see Captain Grey?” asked Aurelia,
with a smile.
“Oh, yes! He is my light hand man at
these parties. Will Signor Paolo come ?”
“ If I ask him.”
“Then do ; and I will write him a note.”
She rose to go, and held out her hand. This
time Aurelia took it, and held it a moment in
both hers.
“Mind—we are not friends!” she sa'd ;
“ but we will help each other, if we can—shall
we ?”
“ With all my heart!”
“In any way ?”
“Inmy way!” *
“ Remember that promise—and remember,
also, that you are always to be as honest with
me as you have been to-day. Now, good
bye !”
So ended this queer interview. It seemed
to Aurelia more like a scene in a play than a
stern and actual reaiity.
CHAPTER XV.
There were three reasons which influenced
Aurelia when she accepted her old enemy’s in
vitation. In the first place, though a success
ful singer, she was but a girl, with all a girl’s
love fcr gay scenes, fine clothes, and plenty of
people to tell her how much she graced them.
In the second place, she was a little anxious to
see Frederick again. And, m the third, - Mrs.
Thornton's remark about the Italian singer
had startled her more than she was willing to
own.
Was the world already beginning to couple
her name with his ? It was true that between
rchcaisals and acting, and private practices,
the greater part of their time was spent to
gether. But at the rehearsals there were al
ways plenty of people around them. At night
an applauding public watched their every look
and movement; and if he came to her own
house to practice their duets, the old compo
ser never left the room. They had never been
alone together for an instant, and till those
unlucky words were spoken, the girl never
dreamed that he was anything more to her
than a brother.
Now, however, her eyes were opened. Her
early fondness for Frederick had taught her
semething of her own heart: the feeling for
the Italian, which was growing stronger and
deeper day by day, was to teach her yet more.
He was certainly one of the most dangerous
companions she could have selected. He was
beautiful in every sense of the word, if regu
lar features, clustering hair, a pure olive com
plexion, dark flashing eyes, and the most grace
ful of figures, could" make him so. But his
legular features and elegant figure were not
his greatest charms. To the Southern fire and
vivacity which belonged to him of right, he
added a sort of nameless witchery—a kind of
impatient, yet beguiling haughtiness—a care
less, yet enticing pettishness of manner, that
took an impressionable imagination by storm.
His health was sufficiently, delicate to render
him an object of interest and care, to begin
with ; and before they had known each other
long, Aurelia would wrap him up as if he had
been a child, and scold him roundly when,
through negligence, he exposed himself to the
danger of taking cold. Then, with what heed
less sweetness he received her reproofs—how
mischievous were his pretences of penitence—
all generally ending in a burst of laughter, as
musical as the r'nging of silver bells! As
wilful, as provoking, as incorrigible as a sprite,
she found him; and yet so gay, so playfully
fond, so innocent of all intention to offend,
that it was tho keenest of pains to be angiy
with, and the most delicious of pleasures to
forgive him. He liked ease, luxury, and splen
dor—he hated everything that was harsh and
unlovely; he was a thorough Sybarite, and
therefore, of course, thoroughly selfish—yet
who could blame him ? ’He had that fatal gift
of fascination which blinds every eye to faults
and imperfections, and Aurelia could see no
thing in him that was not to be admired, loved
—almost adored !
Yes, it had come to that, and Mrs. Thorn
ton was the first to teach her the real nature of
her feelings towards him.
Aurelia was of the order of natural queens,
and those who loved or sought her were forced
to do their wooing humbly, and on their bend
ed knees. But now the tables were turned,
and she was the one to love—perhaps the one
to woo. When a proud, imperious woman
finds that this is the case—when her wßple
nature is for the moment enslaved (by that
little scantily clad tyrant, who makes more
mischief in this world than he, or any one else,
can ever set right again)—it seems that she
cannot abase herself sufficiently before her new
idol. She is content, nay proud, to serve
where she was served before ; and down into
the dust goes that stately head that was
crowned With a coronet of scorn—down into
the dust—ami the lower the better. Happily,
these infatuations do not last very long. From
their very nature, and the nature of the being
at v.hcse feet they are poured out, they can
not. But they cast a shadow, even in their
memory, over a woman’s existence, a shadow
which is never lifted, it may be, till the daisies
are giowing ever her, and the weary farce of
life is at an end.
Aurelia had to sing on the evening of the
party, and Paolq was engaged elsewhere, so
that she was < blig< d to ktep her appointment,
alone. Mrs. Thornton looked disappointed at
this, tor the admired the tenor singer exceed
ingly, and would have given her ears if she
could hare established him as an hdbilueof her
drawing-rooms. However, it was something
to have Aurelia there, and she led her forward
with an air of affectionate intimacy, that made
the singer laugh wickedly in her sleeve.
She was introduced to Mr. Thornton, a
clumsy, shy-locking man, who seemed utterly
extinguished by his fashionable wife. One or
two ladies were next presented, and then Au-«
relia found her hand seized by a tall, hand
si me young man, who exclaimed :
“ Have you forgotten me?” with the most
meaning of tones.
“Why, it is Frederick!” she cried, and
greeted him with the greatest cordiality.
He felt inexpressibly vexed at the open warmth
of her manner. She did not blush or sigh,
but shook bands with him as if he had been
her grandfather, and told him how handsome
he ha d grown ! Not a bit of sentiment in her I
And he had told Ellen Manning, to whom he
was engaged, so much of Aurelia’s early love
for him, that that young lady had been watch
ing for her appearance in a state of the most
interne jealousy, greatly to his delight. But
Ellen was a woman, and therefore a natural
free mason. He glanced across the room, and
saw her talking to one of his brother officers,
with an air of the most placid unconcern. Sire
had seen that sisterly greeting. Ho could
never make her jealous of Aurelia any more,
and the young coxcomb felt as if he could
knock his his head against the wall, simply
because a famous and petted singer had for
gotten her pemhant for him, and did not faint
when she first caught sight of his altered face
once more.
If he could have looked into Aurelia’s heart
he might have been a little better satisfied.
True, her girlish attachment to him had died
out fcr want of ailment, and was utterly eclipsed
now by the stronger preference of the woman’s
love. But at sight of him, all the old memo
ries of the early days came back, and in the
place of glaring foot-lights and applauding
crowds, there was the simple cottage, the gar
den full of roses and violets, the lonely moor
and the singing of the birds! A cool wind
sei med to freshen her cheeks at the first tone
of his voice and flowers bloomed, and blue
skies beamed, whenever she. looked into his
eyes. A feeling of unutterable sadness stole
over her. Why could they not always have
remained children? How much better was
that simple, innocent existence, than this
which they were now moving! How much
better, even, that innocent child's love, than
the more feverish passion which consumed her
heart, and might never, after all, bring her
happiness in the place of that peace which it
had taken away forever ?
Still she gave utterance, to mme -oi these
thoughts, but smiled graciously on Frederick,
and was introduced to Miss Manning, who was
charmed by her unaffected demeanor and play
ful riminikccnces of her rambles with Freder
ick upon the moors and through the lanes, in
1 er childish days ; those rambles that had been
sighed over by the young Guardsman as if
they were sacred things—how simple and
harmless they became as Aurelia's laughing
voice described them. Miss Manning was no
lor ger jealous. It may be that Aurelia, con
scious of the engagement, and knowing some
thii g ef Master Frederick's disposition, had
sought her out on purpose to set her heart at
case.
As she left the young lady's side, a gentle
man came up and held out his hand with a
friendly smile. His face was familiar to her,
and yet she could not recall his name to her
mprd. He watched her; evident confusion for
a moment : he laughed, and then she knew
him.
“ Mr. Aubrey!”
‘ ‘ The same ! How little we dreamed when
I had the honor of assisting Leroy to convey
his little waif to Chainley, that I should meet
you again, and in a place like this !"
“ Oh ! where is Mr. Leroy?” she asked, ea
gerly.
“ In the Holy Land, once more.”
“ Is he never coming back ?”
“That I cannot say. He likes the East.
Perhaps he is going to settle out there, and be
a Tuik.”
“ Oh, you always liked laughiag at me !”
“I know I did; but I am in earnest this
time.”
“ Has he heard of my leaving Chamley ?”
‘‘ Of course! A letter from Mrs. Marshall,
neaily three miles long, relating the fact of
your disappearance reached him in China. I
was with him when it came.”
“ What did he say?”
“ I would rather not tell you.”
“ Pray' do.”
“ He said you were an ungrateful little mon
key, and that it served him right for bothering
his head again about anything of the female
sex.”
“ Does he hate women, then ?”
“ A little,” said Aubrev, smiling.
“Why?” ./
‘ ‘ The usual reason. His cousin Helen jilted
him when he'was a y'oung man. Don’t you
lepJember how angiy he w,is when they put
her clothes on you ?”
“ Yes.”
“■He has never got over it.. He hates her
■very and for her sake, all womon She
did serve him shabbily, and though they were
engaged, the very night before the wedding
she ran away with an actor and left poor Leroy'
in the lurch. I was a mere boy at the time,
but I have heard the tale sjnee 1 went abroad
with him.
“And what became of her ?”
“ She went on the stage. I don’t knowany
more, because I never knew the name of the
man she mairied. I heard afterward that Le
ri.y knew of him at the time, and that the
last words he ever spoke to his cousin were a
warning against the fellow.”
“Wrote!” said Aurelia.
But the next moment she remembered how
and where she got her information, and blush
ing scarlet, was silent.
“ Pci haps so,” said Aubrey, indifferently.
“At all events he never forgave her. But I
think he will forgive you when he hears all I
can say about you. I will write to him to
morrow.”
“Do.”
“ And may I call and tell you what answer
I receive ?’ ’
“ Certainly.”
“We were not very good friends once, I
thibk. You did not like me when you were a
child.”
“Because you did not like pie,” she an
swered, looking at him frankly.
“At least, you will not have that reproach
to make now.”
She lent her head with a gracious smile of
adieu, Mr. Aubrey [laying compliments to her!
What next ?
'lhe “next” came in the shape of a musi
cal, reproachful voice at her elbow.
“ A greeting for all your old friends, except
me!” it said.
And, turning round, she saw Captain Grey,
looking exactly as he did when he rode away'
frem the gate of Chamley on that morning so
long—so long ago! She was r eally glad to see
him, and to receive his congratulations on the
preud position she had attained. But she was
unprepared to find him monopolizing her dur
ing ihe remainder of the evening, as he en
deavored to do. He gave her to understand by
looks, and tones, and whispers, that earth had
1 eon a desert to him from the time she had
disappeared so mysteriously from Chamley, till
she had risen, a glorious star, upon the ope
ratic stage. True, she laughed in his face at
this rhapsody, and told him that puling away
bad certainly made him grow stout and ruddy;
but her ridicule was lest upon him. It was
his end and aim to prove to her that she had
leen* the star of his existence; and at last,
tiled of uttering disbelieving exclamations, she
listened to him in silence, and let her thoughts
wander to the beautiful Paolo, whose pictured
face, in a golden and jeweled case, rested at
that very moment upon her lieating heart.
The evening passed very pleasantly. Peo
ple who had watched Aurelia upon the stage,
as if she bad been a goddess, were charmed to
find her so accessible and unaffected in her
manners. Of course no one ventured to ask
her to sing Yet, as they were breaking up,
s-he sat down of her own accord to the piano,
and gave them "Good night—good night, my
dearest,” as simply as if she had been some
young lady' on her promotion, instead of the
finest prrma dorva the good city of London had
ever knewn. The song ended, she shook hands
with her best ess, low cd to the admiring guests,
ard taking Frederick’s proffered arm, glided
gracefully from the room. Captain Grey made
his escape at the same time, and was ready to
hard her into ihe carriage.
“ Do you sing to-morrow night?” he asked.
‘ ‘ Yes.’ ’
“ '1 hen there will be no chance of seeing you
if I call dining ihe day ?”
“ 1 think not. I have to attend rehearsal,
you knew.”
“ When way I come ?”
“I have a little supper party to-morrow
evening, after the opera is over. Will you
both join it, and bring Mr. Aubrey with you ?
Tell him I said he was to come. Good night 1”
She drove away. The old rivals fell back a
step or two, and glared angrily at each other.
But this time the Captain certainly had the
advantage. He was a free, unfettered man,
and he registered a vow at that moment in liis
heart which he fully intended to keep.
[To be continued.)
——l■■
As it is the easiest thing in the world
to be mistaken, manhind should never form
an adverse opinion of a person without such
proof as places conviction beyond all doubt or
question. Many an innocent bosom bleeds
through the inhumanity of hasty conclusion.
[Written for the Dispatch.] I
LINES,
Sacked to the Memory of Mrs. Elizabeth Bor
den, “Died on Monday, March 16th, 1863,
AGED 71 YEARS, 3 MONTHS, AND 13 DAYS.
By Wykcotf.
A few brief months ago—how long they’ve seem
ed! t
Pressing thy hand, I said “Farewellnor deemed
Thy fond response, “Farewell!” should be
The last “Farewell” I’d ever have from thee.
Ay; but a few brief months; yet in those few
How altered all things from that once I knew!
I miss, of many a friend that I have known,
The face, the smile, the well-remembered tone ;
And many a glorious hope that’s shattered now,
Imparts the ruins’ sadness to my brow;
But sad as aught that I have heard or read,
To me, the lines which tell me thou art dead.
Thou—whose affectionate regard no change,
No lapse of time, could alter or estrange :
Whose honest mind no calumny could use—
No vain, false pride—no mean acts to excuse,
To gossip, nor abuse your tongue ne’er lend—
But steadfast through all trial, a fervent friend,
Who, like thy Seraph god-child, pious—just—
Patient—firm—obedient to her trust.
Here shall I vainly try to picture forth
Dear, aged, departed friend, thy varied worth,
For their uninterested eye to see,
Who, in their lifetime, never looked on thee!
Nay, nay—and those whose lot it was to move
Within the ample circle of thy love.
(Of whom myself) have need that none shall tell
What they and I have known, alas! how well!
Long shall we mourn thy loss and late; but yet
’Twill somehow help to mitigate regret,
To know thy life had no untimely close,
And that Death only snatched thee to repose;
For painful as it seized Chee—that at last
In holy calm thy gentle spirit passed,
While that loved Seraph heard thy latest breath,
And smoothed the pillow’of thy couch of death.
Ah, meet that thou who did’st thy efforts give.
To teach us well and worthily to live,
At last with soul resigned to God on high,
Shouldst teach us also—worthily to die.
(‘hit sShj
[At the urgent request of many of
our readers, we have concluded to revive this department
cf the Dispatch - If any of our old contributors are dis
posed to favor us with an occasional “screed,” we should
be glad to hear from them. Wo have the promise of an
occasional “joak” from several new contributors. With
the assistance of these contributors,’and such as may “turn
up” as we go along, we trust to be able to make the Gossip
Department of the Dispatch equal to what it was in its
palmiest days, under the management of that prince of
jokers— “the tin tin boy.”]
short hair and dignity,
is the title of an essay just received from an old
and valued lady-contributor. We give it entire:
“ 'Tisa fearful sign of human frailty, folly, also crime—
That love and marriage rarely can combine.”
So says Lord Byron, though we think there are people
that “can’t see it in that light;” but as we belong to that
eulogised class of individuals, half mortal, half celestial,
that are looked up to, beloved, petted, and made idols of,
by the remaining portion of mankind and womankind, fa
miliarly known as “old maids,” we shall h)t venture an
opinion, but will take it for granted that Mr. Byron knew
far more.about the mysteries and miseries of marriage,
than ice can ever hope to—though in the little matter of
lore we consider ourselves proficient, and had we ever had
an opportunity, we think we could have made the two
mix.
But there are some things that we know of that won’t
amalgamate, and short hair and dignity are among them.
They were never intended by nature to go together,.espe
cially where the wtyeelis a woman.
Haven’t we laughed till our sides have ached, before
now, when we have come across tall, dignified ladies in
trailing skirts, endeavoring to act their own characters hi
short hair! Ladies, who before submitting themselves to
the shears of the barber, were considered fine-looking and
genteel, but who now would remind one of nothing but
over grown school-girls ? Of course we ha ve—and we have
grown nervous over Philosophy and good sound Christian
reasoning, because it emanated from a cropped head on
feminine shoulders. It did not correspond.
Short hair has its merits, however, in common with
everything else. We tried it once ourselves (but then we
ain’t dignified), and we rather liked It, principally be
cause it set easy on our head, and didn’t have to be
combed. Besides, we were always great on disguise, and
occasionally when we felt like it, we could part our hair
on the side, don the costume of our brothers (we wanted
to get used to wearing the “ what-do-you-call-ems” so
that they shouldn't come awkward to us after matrimony.)
and sally out to singing school (we live in the country
where there Is no law against anything), and through the
agency of a fair cousin gain an introduction to- some sus
ceptible miss, under the cognomen of Brown, Smith or
Jones, as the case'might be, wait on the young lady home,
and stay awhile after the old folks had retired—young
lady in blissful ignorance the while of the imposition
practised upon her trusting nature.
We wopder how many on an average confessed that
xney were more-Interested in us than in “any other
man,’’and how many promised faithfully that they would
remain true, that no other fellow should ever see them
home ?
And weren't wc enlightened, too, in the different man
ner of entertaining beaux, and then how their ideas of
propriety differed—and didn't we give them some useful
hints, which we hope they profited by ? We feel wc did.
And don’t ire remember once how the paternal parient
threw the boot-jack against the parlor-door, late one
mc. night, as a qtiiet hint that it was time to go
home, adding, in an aside, that “ them pesky fellera would
be the ruination of every gal in the house ”
Yes, we remember it, and it has been a problem to us
sometimes how the ladies thought (if they ever gave it a
thought) we had obtained such a knowledge of the world
ai.d the mysteries of human frailty, at our beardless
years—though when we went home with ft mm’.-Zow, we ad
mit, we had to subside—she knew too much for us.
But we were talking of short hair, and to proceed, we
will say that in cases like ours, we admire it, though we
could cite instances in which we would willingly have
. been metamorphosed into a mermaid or anything that Is
supposed to have a redundancy of hair. We can’t entertain
a minister, we can’t superintend arrrangements at a mis
sionary society, nr preside at a woman's right's conven-
us at a picnic in the woods, or a fishing excur
sion, or a gallop over the hills, and we don't mUs our
tresses, but when we wish to be ladies and appear digni
fied, our strength, like that of Samson’s, is all in our hair.
So for our part, we are going to put our heads to soak in a
pot of Sterling’s Ambrosia. O. K.
“A keerful shepherd.”
“Max” wants us to-reprint the following from
the Cincinnati Inquire)'. We cheerfully comply,
as we consider it a “ big thing” on the Mormon
Saint:
Mormonism is still in practical operation among us. On
last Friday a tall, raw-boned faint, with a complexion
very strongly resembling that of boiled tripe, arrived bore
Irom Pittsburgh with a couple of wives, but deeming his
flock too small to start Lake-ward with, held forth as
follows to an admiring audience, at a house over the
canal, with a view to the perfection of the material neces
sary to the completeness of his domestic felicity. His text
was :
" is sJieerce and tceemen is p'eidy.
“ Brothers and Sisteru—pertickelerthe Slstern : I want
to say a few words io you about Mormonism—not for my
own sake, but for yourn, lor men is skeerce and weemcnitt
plenty.
“Mormonism is built on that high old principle which
soz that it ain’t good for man to be alone, and a mighty
fight worse for a woman. Therefore, if a man feel good
with a little company, a good deal of it ought to make him
feel an awful sight better. <
“The first principles of Mormonism is, that woman air a
cc.ed thing, and the second principle is. that you can’t
have too much of a good thing. Woman is tenderer than
man. and is necessarily to smooth down the roughness of
his character: and as a man has a good many rough pints
in bis natur. he oughtn’t to give one woman too much to
do, but set each one to work smoothing some pertickelcr
pint.
“ Don't think I'm over anxious lor you to jine us, for I
ain't. I’m not speakin for my good, but for yours; for
Wien issZwce and ucenitn is plenty.
“ I said weemen was tenderer than man, but vou didn’t
feel stuck up about it, for so she ought to be-; she was
made so a purpose. But liow was she made so ? Where
did she git it from? Why, she was created out the side
fcor.e of a man, and the side-bone of a man is like the side
bone of a turkey—the tenderest part of him. Therefore, a
wcinan has three sides bones and a man only one, of
< ciir-T she is three times as tenderer as h man is, and is in
duty bound to repay that tenderestof which she robbed
him. And how did she rob him of his side-bone? Why
exactly as she rob his pockets now-a days of his loose
change—she took advantage of him when he was asleep.
“Buras woman is more tenderer than maw, so is man
more forgivener than woman ; therefore, I won’t, say anv.
thing more about the side-hone, or the small change, but
invite you all to jine my train, for I’m a big shepherd oat
our way, and fare sumptuously every day on purple and
fine linen.
“When I first landed on the shores of the Great Salt.
Lake. I wasn’t rich in weemen—l had but one poor oil
yoe ; but men is sJ.ccrce, anducemen is plenty , and, like a kecr
tul rtiepherd, I began to increase my flock. Weemen
lieerd of us and of our lovin’ ways, and they kept a pourin’
ln. They come from the North, and thev come from the
south ; they come from the East, and they come from the
West; they come from Europe, they come from Aishey,
and a few of’em come from Afrikey ; and, from bein’ the
miserable owner of the old yoe, 1 become the joyful shep
herd of a mighty flock, with a right smart sprinklin’ of
limbs, friskier and fatttr than anybody else’s, and I've
Hill got room for a few more.
“ As I said before, I'm not talkin’ perticulerformy bene
fit. but for yourn—for men is skeercc, and weemen is plentff.
Still. I'd a leetle rather you'd go along with me than not,
jxrtickeler jxu fat one with a caliker sun-bonnet Don't
hesitate, but take the chant e w hile you can get it, and I'll
make you the ‘ hell yoe’ of the flock. I’ll lead you through
the green pastures and the high grass; show yon where
you may caper in the sunshine, and lay down in pleasant
places ; and, as you are in pretty good condition already,
in course of time you shall be the fattest of the flock.
Jine In, jine in, jine in, jine my train ; fine it now, for »i«n
is skeerce. and v.tc.men is plenty,”
31io appeal was irresistible. At the last account, “the
fat woman with the caliker sun-bonnet” had lined in, and
two or three others were oq the fence, with a decided
leaning toward the “ Keerful Shepherd.”
HOW SHE WAS APRIL FOOLED.
The Boston Express is responsible for the fol
lowing :
“ You can’t do it again!?
“ Can’t I ?”
“ No, you cannot! You’ve April fooled me now regu
larly for five years— but you can never do it strain. ”
The a love conversation was between a worthy couple
at the South End, on Tuesday evening, March 31st. The
husband, a merry black-eyed man of some forty years of
age, or thereabout, bad been in the habit of playing off
seme practical little joke on his lovely spouse on the first
•♦f every April: and the good woman had now resolved
!o gi aid herself on the morrow, and thereby turn the
joke.
3 he snow fell steadily and furiously all Tuesday after
noon and evening, but in the wee short Lours of Wednes
day morning the storm ceased, the air moderated, and the
ti.ow began to melt.
As the clock struck five Wednesday morning the snow
I.* g«n to slide from the roof in the city, in large quanti
ties; and as one immense mass struck the shed of our
South End joker, it made so much noise that it awakened
e-\ efy person in the house.
“ What’s that?” screamed Mrs. M.
“Good Heavens!” ejacuted M.. looking as frightened as
a red-headed Irishman at a prayer meeting. “I—l—l
forgot to bolt the kitchen windows last night; so good bye
to that turWy and all those nice apples !’’
Do you think it’s a burglar?” gaftbed Mrs. M., looking
a*» w hite. as the t rill on her pretty night cap.
it,”«aidM.: “but which shall I d<>: lie
soil arid lose tlie turkey and apples, or go down and run '
the risk of being shot I” ;
1 don t care anything about the turkey or the ap- '
pies, rcplu <1 Mrs. M : “ but I last night carelessly left the i
H’oonson the kitchen table.” ' !
Not themVrrr spoons?” said M., trying to look lndlg- I
nantly courageous. i
i. Vi lor *T, v , e nic « husband ; but I did.”
/nen 1,1 save them, or perish in the attempt!’’ and I
w ith a bound that w ould have been creditable to a fright
ened < an.ancho Indian, he leaped from the bed. grasped
ye ’r< n ncker and bed-wrench, and flew down stairs as if
for his life.
Thiowing open the kitchen door, and exclaiming, “ Out
cr Uns, you villain!” he commenced upsetting chairs, and
sia.'imig awa y at the w ood-pile as if engaged in a regular
piKhcd battle ! ° °
A nwst frightened to death for feat that her husband
would lose his life in the encounter, the good woman
vo^c^ llCr " ,n^ow au( l screamed at the Dp of her
»r ol * C x* £P u< ; e 1 ,or Heaven’s sake, Police! Murder!
Robbery! Fire! Po-le-e-ce!”
Her strength failing her, she here sank on the floor,
ui set a pale of water, and so frightened the baby that it
set up a scream ‘ on its own hook,” which drowned all
opposition.
A small lad in the house—who was of good stock, and all
grit—ran downstairs, screaming:
t un , cle! Here’s a pistol I Give him goudy,
wbile I give him a broadside.” • - •
o * •\°? r my good boy,” said M., gathering
around his stately limbs nis primitive white garment,
i h. ed ’ antl say to your aunt, as you pass
her doer, that it s the. first of April, and I am making the
fire tor an early breakfast!”
* Jatlv the joke kindly, but, with a sly
tw’ink’e in her eye, she says :
“Its a long lane that lias no end ; and somebody will
ni.d eggs m their boots on the first of next April.”
AN EDITOR LEARNING TO SKATE.
A Western kniglit of the "quill gets off the fol
lowing “experience” in the skating line. Sitting
down on his handkerchief is good :
We cannot pick up a paper, but an article on "skating’
meets our eyes. Everybody says it’s fun. and that’s all
everybody knows about it, For we have tried it. Last
night about eas time, after reading a glowing description
a. a ,ea : prepared for onr first attempt, and
saLied forth to join the merry crowd. We had on a pair
of stoga boots, trousers tucked inside, a Robert tailed coat
and a white hat. We went down to the ice, and gave a
boy two shillings in “shinplasters,” for the use of his im
plements. We. with the assistance, of a*friend, fixed on
the skates, and stood erect as a barber's pole. We have
confidence, even as Peter’s faith. Encouraged at th©
sight of some ladies on the bridge looking at the skaters,
e struck out. A slant to the right with the. right foot—a
slant to the left, and just then we saw something on the
ice. and stooped oyer to pick it up! On our feet again—
v- ci-. .4 ...i., m.v. iv.ft. cxoo'pTupunieii
with loss of confidence. Another stride with the left foot,
and we sat down with fearful rapidity, with very little if
any, elegance. What a set down it was, for we made a
dentin the ice not unlike, a Connecticut butter bowl I Just
then one of the ladies remarked : “Oh, Marv, look, that
feller with the white hat ain’t got his skates on the right
place!” Ditto, thought we. Just then a ragged little
devil sung out as he passed w. “ Hellow, old limber legs!”
and we rose suddenly and put after him. Three slides to
the right—tv oto the left, and away went our legs—one to
the and the other to the west, causing an immense
fissure in our pants, and another pictare of a butter tray
in the cold— / how cold— ice! Then the lady—we know
she was one by the remark she made—again spoke and
said: “ Oh, look. Mary, that chap with a white hat has
sat down on his handkerchief.” We rose about as grace
fully as a saw-horse, when Mary said: “ Guess’taint a
handkerchief. Jane!” And Macy was right.it wasn’t a
handkerchief—not a bit of it. Just then a friend came
along and proffered his coat-tail as a “steadier.” We ac
cepted the continuation of his garment, and up the river
we went about ten rods, -when a shy to the right by the
leader caused us—the wheel horse—to shoot off on a tan
gentheelsup! But the ice is very cold this season. * * *
If you catch us on the smooth, glossy, chillv. freezing,
treacherous, deceitful, slippery, and slip-uppery ice again,
you’ll know it If any one ever hears of our skating
again, they will please draw on us at sight for the bivalves
and accompanying documents. We have got through
skating. It's a numbug. It’s a vexation of spirit, of busi
ness, of flesh, and tearerof trousers! It’s a head-bump
ing, back-aching, leg wearing, dangerous institution, and
we warn p» ople against skating. We tried it and shant be
able to walk for a month. Skating clubs area humbug,
and all the rascally youngsters wish to get the ladies at it,
that they may see—lf they, too, don't sav “the ice is
dreadful cold l” It's nothing to us, but the "ladies will do
well to let skates alone, unless thev are younger and more
elastic than we are. Oh! how cold the"ice can feel
it yet! ■. J
HOW THE CAPTAIN FRIGHTENED A DARKEY.
An army correspondent writing from the army
on the liappahannock, gets off the following
good one:
An amusing incident occurred In camp a night or two
since. A portly young contraband from Charleston, s. c_,
who escaped from his rebel master at Antietam, and was
for a while quartered subsequently in Washington, was
engaged by one of our junior staff officers as his body ser
vant, and brought down here to his quarters to attend
him. It chanced that the officer had served his country
gallantly at Sharpsburg, where he lost a leg below the
knee, the absence of which had been made up by an arti
ficial limb, which the Captain wore witii so easy a grace
thut few persons who met him suspected his misfortune—
his sable attendant being among the blissfully ignorant as
to the existence of the fact.
The Captain had been “out to dine,” and returned in
excellent spirits to his tent. Upon retiring he called
• his darkey servant to assist him in pulling off his riding
boots.
“Now, Jimmy, look sharp,” said the Captain. “I’m a
little—ic—flimsy, Jimmy, t'night. Look sharp, an’—ic—
pull steady.”
“ Isc allers keerful, Cap’n,” says Jimmy, drawing off’ one
long wet boot with considerable difficulty, and standing it
aside.
“Now, mind your eye—Jim! The other—’ic—a little
tight.
And black Jimmy chuckled and showed his shining ivo- ”
rics, as lie reflected, perhaps, that his master was quite as
“ tight” as he deemed his boot to be.
“ Easy, now—that’sit. Pull away!” continued the Cap
tain, good-naturedly, and enjoying the prospective joke,
while he loosened the straps about his waist which held
his cork leg up— “wnc you’ve got it! Yip— there yon are!
Oh. lord! oh, lord! oh, Lord!''’ screamed the Captain, as
contraband, cork-leg, riding boot and ligitures tumbled
across the tent, in a heap, and the one-legged officer fell
back on his pallet, convulsed with spadmodic laughter.
I At this moment the. door opened and a lieutenant en
tered.
“G'way fum me, g’way fum mMemniv be! Lemmy
be! 1 ain’t done nulfin,” yelled the contraband, lustily,
and rushed to the door, really supposing he. had pulled liis
master’s leg clean off. “Lciuiuy go! I didn't do nuftin—
J'way! g'way!”
Anu Jimmy put for the woods m his desperation, since
which he hasn’t been seen or heard from, though his cap
tain lias diligently sought for him far and near. Jimmy
was a good sen ant. but we never before were treated to a
sight of a thoroughly frightened contraband. There is lit
tle doubt the darkey is running yet.
CHANGED HIS MIND UNDER PECULIAR CIRCUM
STANCES.
Wc arc told that “ circumstances alter cases.”
That's so. At loa&t the ZtoTn&rereferred to in the
folkwing anecdote thought so :
The physical appearance of a man sometimes changes
Ihe current of, events. A case occurred a few days ago
The children of two neighbors had their daily quarrels
and fights, which resulted occasionally in bruised faces
and torn garments. The father of one family, believing
his children to have been sadly maltreated, and being a
passionate man, concluded that the surest way to settle
the differences between their households permanently,
would to chastise the head of the other family, although
as yet he had never seen him. He thereupon procured a
jawhide, and abruptly entering his neighbor’s tenement,
inquired in a threatening tone for “the man of the house.”
“ 1 am here, sir,” said a personage of upward of six feet,
and weighing some 220 pounds, as he approached to learn
the business of his neighbor. “Did I understand you, that
vou are the gentleman of the house?” “ Yes. sir?” “ Well,
I—l just dropped in to see if th is is your rawhide
A WITNESS MAKES AN AWKWARD STATEMENT.
The following scene in a Western court is
worth the space it takes the correspondent to re
late it:
Feveral weeks ago. when one of our present justices of
the Superior Court was district attorney of a neighboring
county, rather a laughable incident occurred, as related
by himself. Court week he used to occupy a bed-room at
Lewis’Hotel, the principal hotel at the county seat He
had his books and papers in this room—here he drew hi?
indictments—and in important cases he used to direct the
sheriff to bring the people’s witnesses for preliminary ex
amination. " It happened at one session that he had an im
portant murder case coming on. The celebrated General
(now Judge) Nye was counsel for the defendant. He ox
amined tlie witnesses, as usual, and took careful minutes
of what they would state on the start?!. He found that a
lady was the most important witness for the people, and
he also discovered that she was rather excitable and high
strung. and a fast talker. Apprehensive of trouble, he’d
caution her a lil He. So he told her when she came on the
stand not to talk. “Pay attention,” savs the district at
torney, “to my questions, and answer them, but don't
talk : and when Nye comes to examine you, vou must be
very careful and not get excited; for he’s a great black
guard, and will try to get you mad. Just pay attention to
his questions, and answer them—no matter how often re
peated or how apparently silly—but don’t allow him to
get you off your balance.” The district attorney and wit
ness parted for the night The nextday the case came on.
3'he district attorney called Ins witness, and she went
through with her evidence, on the part of the people, to
his perfect admiration, and he handed her over to Nye.
He went along awhile very smoothly. Pretty soon‘he
began to crowd her and she began to “flare up ;” he
crowded her the more and she resented the. more, and
very soon they had a regular breeze. Finally, losing all
self control, she broke out on him as follows : “I won’t
answer anymore of your contemptible questions ; you’re
a nasty, dirty blackguard, and the district attorney told
me sol” After the laugh partially subsided, Nye said:
"Whatl tne>district attorney told you so? When and
where did he tell you so ?” “He toll me so last night, up a
his bed-i oom.!‘ ‘ The scene which followed this answer may
be readily imagined . In the midst of the shout Nye told
the witness she might “ pass.” .
A STEEP BED BUG STORY.
According to the writer of the following, Mich
igan is “ some” on bed bugs :
You foe I went to bed pretty all fired well used up, alter
a bully day on the old road before the plank wm laid, cal
culatin’ ou a good snooze! Waal, just as the shivers began
to ea?e off, I kinder felt suthln’ tryin’ to pull off my .shirt,
ar.d diggen their feet into the small of my back, to get a
good hold. Wriggled and twisted, doubled and puckered
—all to no use—kept again in like sin. Bimeby got up and
struck a light to look around a spell—found about a peck of
bed bugs scattered around, and more drapping off my
shirt, and runnin’ down my leg every mlnit. Swept off a
place on the floor, shook out a quilt, lay down and kivered
up for a nap. No use—mounted on to me like a parcel of
rats on a meal tub— dug a hole hi the kiverlid, an I era wled
through, and gave me fits for trying to hide. Gotup again,
and went down stairs, got a slush bucket from the wagon,
made a circle of tar on the floor, lay down on the, inside,
and felt comfortable that time anyhow. I left the light
turnin’ and watched ’em, see ’em get together and have a
camp meetin’ aboutit and they went oft' in a squad, with
an old gray-headed one on the top» ri«ht up on the wall
and to the ceilin’, till they got to the right spot, thou
dr<, pped down right plump into my face! Fact, by thun
der! Waal, I swept them up again, and made a circle on
the cellin’too. Thought I had ’em foul this time ; but I
swan to man, if they didn’t pull straws out of the bed, and
build a bridge over.” Seeing an incredible expression in
our visage, he clenched his story thus : "It is so, whether
you believe it or not, and some of them walked across on
stilts. Bed br gs are cautious critter*, and no mistake, es
pecially the Kalamazoo kind.”
The following rich scene is said
to have lately occurred in one of our courts of
justice between the judge and a Dutch witness all
the way from Rotterdam: Judge—“ What’s your
native language?” Witness—“l pe no native.
Ise a Dootehman.” Judge—“ What’s your moth
er tongue?” Witness—“ Oh. fader say she pe all
tongue.” Judge (in an irritable tone)—“What
language did you speak in the cradle ?” Witness
all; I only cried in Dootch.”
Life Trust be pretty fast in some
of our cities, if we are to judge from the follow
ing item from a contemporary: “We feel bound
to deny that one of our lawyers put on his door,
‘Gone to burr my wife ; be back in half an hour.’
But candor compels us to say that one of our
lumbering merchants, the last sickness of his
wife occuiring in the busiest season, was only
able io get in time fer the second prayer at the
funeral.”
A brief conversation overheard
by oui' reporter, will be particularly interesting
to some readers: First Lady—“lf 'it weren’t for
my husband I should not go home to-night.”
Second Lady—(Husband off to the war.) “Wait
Until your husband goes to the war, and then
you will think more of him.” First I,adv—“You
mistake we. Wen are too valuable noin not to
think of them!''
A Frenchman one day made his
appearance at the Heralds’ College, and told the
gentleman in waiting tliat he wanted to look at a
ehaV. “A shall!" said Ids astonished auditor;
“a shall—oh! a will you mean!” “Eh, bient it
is all the same—a vill or a shall.”
A humorous North Carolina sol
dier says Newbern is indeed a New England city, .
and when one reflects upon the preponderance of
the colored inhabitants, he cannot nelp compare
ing it to a Yankee hasty pudding, garnished with
blackberries.
A writer on natural history gives
the following definition of a ram: “ A ram is aa
animal whose butt is on the wrong end of him,”
Mrs. Partington says that a man
fell down the other day in an applejack fit, an<
that liis wife was extripated.
[Written for the Sundar OwpatcliJ
THY MEMORY COMES O’ER MY HEART.
By Finley Johnson.
Thy memory sweet Hornes o’er my heart,
With strange, mysterious power,
Throughout the busy hum. of life
And midnight’s solemn hour,
Like dew upon the blooming rose.
Or music on the sea,
It always hath a magic spell—
So over shall it be.
I hear within my dreams.
Thy voice upon me call,
Like a soft echo of a stream
Or sportive waterfall.
And in my visions see thy form
Dressed in a bright array,
As when upon the earth tliou shone
The gayest of the gay.
Though thou hast broke the ponds of aU/o
And from earth’s thralls are free,
Yet it is not as one that’s dead
That thou appearest to me,
For in my dreams I see thee as
Thou didst appear on earth.
With ailburn locks and ruby lips
And eyes of laughing mirth.
I often in my solitude,
When thinking,’ love, of thee,
Hear the soft echoes of thy voice
In sounds of mirth and glee;
And, oh, my visions seem so strong,
My soul with jov to fill,
I scarcely think that they are dreams,
But that thou liveth still.
A- NARROW ESCAPE!
In a gloomy day in the month of November,
a traveler, on horseback, stopped at the door
of an inn in the village of Bouelle, which ad
joins the park of MalmaisOn. The hostess went
cut to receive him, and, having given his hors,
to the stable-boy, he ordered dinner. He was
shown into the best room in the house, and th.
busy hostess set about preparing the repast. la
a few minutes another traveler, on horseback,
stopped at the inn, and also ordered dinner.
‘ ‘ I am very sorry that I cannot accommo
date you, sir,” said the hostess ; “but every
thing we have in the house has been bespok.
by a gentleman who arrived a few minutes be
fore you.”
“Go up-stairs,” said the traveler, “and tell
your guest I shall be obliged to him jf he will
permit me to share his dinner, and I will de
fray my portion of the expense.”
The hostess delivered the message to the first
traveler, who politely replied, “Tell the gen
tleman I shall be glad of his company, but that
it is not my practice to accept payment frota
persons whom I invite to dine with me.”
The second traveler accordingly went up
stairs, and, having expressed his acknowledg
ments for the kind reception he had received,
they both sat down to the table.
The dinner was as cheerful as could be ex
pected, considering the short acquaintance of
the parties; but during the dessert, when some'
excellent wine was placed before them, the con
versation became more unrestrained, and the
second traveler ventured to ask his obliging
Amphitryon what had brought him to that
part of the country, where he appeared to be a
stranger ?
“Ihavebeen ordered here,” he replied, “by
the Cardinal.”
“By the Cardinal!” resumed his compan
ion. “Pardon my curiosity, sir, if I inquir.
whether you have given his eminence any of
fence '
“ By no means,” replied the first traveler ;
“and it is only to free myself from any sucii
imputation that I have come here. The fact
is, there, has been published at Kochellc, my
native town, a virulent satire upon the public
conduct and personal character of the Cardinal,
several copies of which have been addressed to
the king, and though I never in my life wrote
a single word that has appeared in print, I am
unjustly accused of being the auuior of thi»
pamphlet. Nothing obtains such ready belief
as the whisperings of folly and ill-nature; and
I have, therefore, lost no time in obeying ths
summons of his eminence, in the hope of effec
tually refuting the charge that is brought
against me.”
“Sir,” said his companion, with an expres
sion of marked anxiety, “return thanks to
Providence for the fortunate accident that in
troduced me to you to-day. I also have been
summoned hither by the Cardinal, and for no
other purpose, I am eonvinced, than that of
beheading you.”
A thrill of horror passed through the framo
of the person to whom these words were ad
dressed.
“ Yes, sir,” resumed the speaker, " my task
would have been to behead you. lam th®
executioner of a neighboring town, and when
ever the Cardinal has any secret act of ven
geance to perform, I receive orders to repair to
the castle. The particulars I have just heard
you relate, together with the hour of your ap
pointment here, all convince me, beyond a
doubt, that you are marked out as a victim.
But fear nothing; I will secure your escape.
Order your horse instantly, and go with me.
I will aqquit myself of this debt of gratitude
which your courtesy has imposed upon me."
The horror and alarm of the poor traveler
may be more easily conceived than described.
Ile instantly ordered the horses to be saddled,
and, having paid the bill, he and his companion
set out, taking a private way through the wood
of Bertrand. r : I
Do you see,” said the guide, as they ap
proached the castle, “ that grated window
which almost reaches the crannies of the cen
tral turret ? In that dungeon, sentences,
against which there is no appeal, arc pro
nounced and executed, and the mutilated
bodies of the victims are hurried into the moat
below, where they arc speedily destroyed. by
quicklime. ' Neglect not to observe my in
structions. Conceal yourself behind that hedge,
and if within the space of an hour you see a
light glimmering at the window which I have
pointed out, then you may conclude that I am
ordered here to execute vengeance upon ano
ther ; but if, on the contrary, you see no light,
rely on it that you yourself are the intended
victim. In that case, lose not a moment.
Profit by the darkness of the night and the
fleetness of your horse. Gain the frontier, and
and there plead your cause as you think fit.
But permit me to tell you, that it is absurd to
seek to justify yourself against the imputation
of an offense which you have not committed ;
for, where despotism reigns, truth and justice
are powerless. ’ ’
Having expressed unbounded gratitude to his
tutelar saint, the traveler withdrew to his hid
ing-place. The suspicions of the Cardinal’s
agent proved wr-ll founded. No light appeared,
at the window of the turret; and at the ex
piration of an hour the traveler galloped off.
He immediately quitted France, and did not
venture back until after the death of the Car
dinal.
On returning to his native country, his first
business was to visit the inn of Rouelle, and to
make inquiries respecting his benefactor, who,
however, had not been heard of for several
years. He then related his adventure, which
has since become a local tradition, and has con
ferred.<celebrity on the inn of Rouelle, known
by the sign of the “ Cheval Blanc.” The room
in which the two travelers dined is shown to
this day, and is called “La salle de bon se
cours.”
Prices in tub Revolvtion.—Those
traitorous advocates of peace who point to the
prices-current as an argument for the immedi
ate suspension of the war will do well to con
sult the history of our country a little and see
how light arc the burdens we endure to pre
serve cur government in comparison with those
which our fathers suffered to establish it. Mrs.
John Q. Adams, writing to her husband in
Europe, October 15, 1780, gives the following
prices of provision in the colonies at that time :
“ Corn is now £3O; rye, £27, per bushel. Flour,
£loocl-10 per hundred.' Beef S 8 per pound;
mutton, $9; lamb, $6, $7 and SB. Butter sl2
per pound; cheese, $lO. Sheep’s wool. S3O
per pound; flax, S2O. Sugar £1707200 per
hundred; molasses, S4B per gallon; tea, S9O;
coffee, sl2. Cotton-wool, S3O per pound.
Money scarce; plenty of goods; enormous taxes.' ■
7

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