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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, April 02, 1865, Image 7

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S&a&av April
[Written for the New York Dispatch.]
MARY.
By William J. Sicemre.
Sister of my budding life.
Sister of my mannood s bloom,
Sister when deer joys are rife.
Sister when t’er blackens gloom t
Still thou art my sister sweet;
Still my heart’s ensuring light.
Still the list’ner for my feet,
In the chill tempestuous night,
Mary!
Thou, most noble spirit friend.
Thou, companion of the past,
Thou, whose soothing tones did lend
Heart-hope when Despair would blast,
Thou’rt my star of cheerfulness,
As in thought I nightly stroll,
And methinks when joys caress,
I’m a fragment of thy soul,
Mary 1
THE RUNAWAY;
OK,
THE LOST FRIEND.
When I was twelve years old I ran away
from school, and took service as a ship's boy
on board a merchant vessel bound for Califor
nia. As far as I remember, I was not driven
to that step by any cruelty or hardships at
School; but Latin and Greek were as odious to
me as they are to ninety-nine boys out of a
hundred, and I was more unruly and insubor
dinate than the rest. My father, the Reverend
Mr. Piercefield, rector o' Ghiselbourne, had
often tried at home to break of me this spirit,
but always ineffectually, and had consequently
sent me to .school. He declared that my
mother spoiled me, but I always disbelieved
that, and I disbelieve it still; for when an only
remaining child, rather delicate, and with a
Very strong will of his own, is unmanageable
and a little froward, it is not necessarily to be
attributed to over-indulgence on any one's
part.
So my father, to remove me from pernicious
home indulgences, as he thought, sent me to
school, and during the two years of my stay I
am afraid Mark Piercefield was known to all
the masters and ushers as the most trouble
some boy in the place. I thought the school
discipline intolerably hard, but I changed my
mind by the time I had been a week on board
ship ; and that first voyage, which lasted three
years, was a weary time. I wrote a letter
home by a passing ship to ask my parents' for
giveness, but I received no answer, though I
wrote again and again. In time, spite of the
disagreeables of our Californian station, I began
to get more used to ship life, and I became
somewhat a favorite of the captain, who was
lather proud of having a gentleman’s son on
board ; and although he spared me none of the
common hard work on account of that, he
took some pains to initiate me into navigation.
I learned his lessons, but 1 did not look upon
the sea as my profession, and waa only anx
ious, for my father's sake, to do as well as was
expected of me.
After a three years’ absence we reached Eng
land. I then bade adieu to my kind friend,
the captain, and took the coach wnich passed
near Ghiselbourne, ardently anticipating the
moment when I should be once more pressed
to my mother’s heart, after so long a parting.
A terrible shock awaited me. I found a
Strange vicar in our old parsonage house. My
father had been dead for two years, and my
mother had removed no one knew where.
Hone of my letters had been received, and it
■was long since supposed that I was dead.
What was to be done? We had not many
friends : and though all the neighbors pitied
me, I could not look to them for any substan
tial aid. I had no relations to apply to except
an uncle, a brother of my mother's, who lived
in London. I went to his house, but it was in
vain ; he had left England a year before, and
no one knew anything of him.
I advertised in the papers, but with no suc
cess ; and at last, my hopes gone and my
Bcanty funds completely exhausted, I returned
to Liverpool to my captain, who was now the
only friend I had in the world- He proved in
deed a true friend, and had I been his own
son, he could scarcely have been kinder. I
remained five years with him, and during that
time I rose rapidly in my profession, and what
Was still better, in his esteem.
When I first ran away, I had, from a boyish
fear of detection —though detection was impos
sible —changed my name, and 1 still retained
my assumed one of Aliiston, partly because I
•was known by such to my comrades, and partly
that I was haunted by a fear that the merchant
Service was not a very fit profession for a cler
gyman’s son. True, it was the best I couid do
for myself; and I have long been convinced of
the absurdity of keeping certain trades con
fined to ranks or families, almost like the
castes in India ; but such at the time was my
false pride, and it continued till the name of
Aliiston had become too familiar and too dear
to me to be willingly given up.
As I do not intend to tell you the continu
ous history of my life, but only certain pas
sages from it, I shall now skip over ten years,
from the time of my first going to sea till when
I became first mate on board the good ship
Ganges, from Calcutta. We were homeward
bound, and had several passengers on board ;
but I did not observe any of them particularly,
except a company of six or seven children,
■who were proceeding to England under the
care of an “experienced nurse.” Nor should
I have given any attention to these- for I had
far too little leisure to waste it in idle observa
tion—had not one of the children, a little girl
about six years old, excited my intere.-c and
compassion. She was a pretty bright child,
active and forward, but I liked her out of pure
pity, for she was no favorite with the nurse,
who took every opportunity to thwart her, or
to give the preference to the others. The
words “ Miss Stanhope, you must not touch
that!” or “Miss Stanhope, come away from
there, were so continual and unintermittent,
that at last they annoyed me as much as the
poor child to whom they were addressed. Miss
Stanhope at first threatened to complain to her
papa, but she soon found that wits useless, and
from being rebellious, she became dejected and
sulky.
On inquiring, I learned that the poor child
was alone, having neither brother nor sister
on board with her, and that she was to be con
signed to the care of her grandmother in Lon
don. It was very evident she had no friend in
the ship, or the nurse would not have treated
her as she did. I must confess that little Miss
Stanhope was by no means perfect, but every
trifling fault was taken notice of with undue
harshness. I pitied the little girl all alone
among strangers, and rather wondered none of
the passengers took her part, and as they did
not, I took her under my protection. She was
wilful and spoiled, but had a fund of enterprise
and energy in her, ever! at that early age,
which I sympathized with, as it reminded me
rather of my own childhood. We soon became
great friends, and “Sir” and “Miss Stanhope”
were changed in the course of a few hours to
“Mr. Mark” and “Clara.” I could not do
much for her ; my duties were far too impera
tive ; but I took her, when I was able, from
the care of her nurse, who was only too glad
to be rid of her to object to it. Many an hour
did the little lady pass in my cabin, perched
by my side on the table, helping me, as she
called it, but sadly interfering with the making
up of my reckonings. I tried hard to please
her ; I even tamed a monkey belonging to the
sailors to obey her; and her hours of forced
captivity with the nurse were always lightened
by some promise or present of mine ; and it
was almost with equal regret that Clara and I
saw our voyage draw to a close, as we sailed
slowly up the Thames and anchored off the
India Docks.
The little girl was much attached to me by
that time, and was inconsolable at leaving me
till I promised to come and see her soon ; and
making the nurse give me the direction of Mrs.
Stanhope, the grandmother—-which she was
rather unwilling to do, fearing, I suppose, I
should report her unkindtiess to the child—l
saw them off. Two days afterward I called at
Mrs. Stanhope’s house in the Regent's Park,
where Clara welcomed me most delightedly.
»Mrs. Stanhope was a very imposing lady,
dignified in a high degree ; she received me
affably for the kindness I had shown to her |
little granddaughter, and then evidently ex- i
pected the visit should end ; but Clara and I ;
did not think so, and we talked for full two .
hours, she sitting on my knee. She was not
satisfied till she had shown me all her new
possessions, a nursery governess included, nor
would she then let me go without my promis
ing to come again.
I did so, and came in a few days, and though
I apologized for my intrusion, Mrs. Stanhope
was not quite so affable as before ; it evidently
was an intrusion, and so was my third visit,
and only tolerated out of regard for her own
dignity, not for mine. But fortunately for me,
she had just become acquainted with my old
/captain and friend, who, in answer to her in
quiries, eagerly testified to my gentlemanly
birth and education. It was of great service
to me, for Mrs. Stanhope gave me henceforth
the entree of her house, and treated me with a
fair amount of civility during the rest of my
short stay in England.
It scon came to a close, and I had to leave
for the Cape, but both Clara and I looked for
ward with considerable pleasure to my return,
and when I came back some months later, the
few presents and things I brought her excited
her warmest delight and gratitude. Mrs. S tan
hope was net very cordial this time ; she was
not desirous of the continuance of the acquaint
anceship, for she thought her rank and mine
too unequal to allow of it, and she told Clara
in fuiure to decline my presents, a command
that I am sorry to say was never obeyed by
that little lady.
Neither were Mrs. Stanhope’s wishes much
regarded by me, and whenever I returned to
England, during the next six or seven years, I
paid the house a visit. I had, as you know,
no relations in the world, and little Clara had
wound herself unaccountably into my heart.
Every visit was marked by increasing coldness
on Mrs. Stanhope’s part, and she would proba
bly have forbidden me the house after the first
few visits, had they not necessarily been very
far between. I was absent for six months or a
year at a time; and when I did come back
again, it was for so short a period that the ac
quaintance never pressed very annoyingly on
Mrs. Stanhope, and there was a continual hope
of every visit being the last.
I was surprised that Clara remembered and
loved me as she did, for I saw her very seldom ;
but the poor child had too few friends to for
get one of them. Mrs. Stanhope was a stately
dame, who had very little of the indulgent
fondness of a grandmother in her. She had
not health sufficient to bear the chatter and
noise of a child, and Clara’s intercourse with
her was almost entirely limited to her daily
visit to the drawing-room. After tea, when
duly sashed and mittened, she sat decorously
on a stool at her grandmother’s feet, or silent
ly turned over a story-book. She had no com
panions of her own age ; Mrs. Stanhope’s par
ticular friends did not live in that part of Lon
don. and she was averse to making fresh ac
quaintances ; so Clara's nursery governess was
. the only friend she had besides myself, and she
was very amicably disposed toward me. I had
been rather civil to her, though she was only
a governess, (sailors, I believe, do get into a
habit of being polite to any woman,) and, be
sides, she knew that Mrs. Stanhope’ looked
down nearly as much on me as on herself, and
this was sufficient to make poor Miss Bland
wish me well; so she kept my memory alive
in Clara by talking of me, helping her to real
my letters, and looking over my presents, till
the child welcomed me on my return from my
long voyages almost as she might have done a
father.
As I have said, Mrs. Stanhope appeared to
like me less and less every year, and the only
times when she showed any interest in my
doings were when I informed her that I was
going away on some distant expedition. Her
behavior galled and hurt my pride exceeding
ly, nor should I have exposed myself to it un
der other circumstances. But a quarrel with
her would have put a stop for ever to my see
ing Clara; and, separated as I had been so
early from all family ties, I had invested that
dear child with all the love and fondness that
I should have lavished on a sister if I had had
one ; indeed, she constantly reminded me of a
darling little sister, whom I well remembered,
though she died when we were children, and I
was determined not to be separated from Clara
for the sake of any trivial insult; so I put up
with Mrs. Stanhope’s slights as well as I was
able, and saw as little of her as possible. In
deed, I do not think she knew of one-half of
my visits, for though I was very seldom in
England, I contrived during the time of my
stay to call frequently at her house ; she was
often ill, and neither Miss Bland nor Clara
cared to be very confidential on the subject.
Of course we had no intention to deceive Mrs.
Stanhope ; but I thought if my presence was
disagreeable to her, the less she was troubled
with it the better ; so I never ordered Clara to
be very communicative, or fortified Miss Bland's
wavering conscience with my counsels.
Had Clara’s own mother, Mrs. Colonel Stan
hope, been in England, the case would have
been very different; but she was far away, and
the communication with her was most imper
fect. The dowager wrote very seldom to In
dia ; she was not well enough to write ; and
Clara’s letters, like those of most children,
were very stiff, matter of-fact concerns. The
pen is far too unwieldy an instrument to a
child to allow of many heart outpourings, and
; by the time that Clara was better able to man-
I age it, her recollections of her mother had
' become too indistinct with the lapse of years to
j give her much confidence. True, she wrote of
l me and my occasional visits, and her mother
had iong ■ mce sent a message of thanks to me
! for the kindness I had shown to her little
daughter Ou boaid the Ganges ; but I do not
think that she or her husband, any more than
Clara’s grandmother, realized the extent of our
friendship.
One day, when Clara was about thirteen, I
paid one of my accustomed visits at her grand
mother’s house. I had only returned a few
days before from the Brazils, and now I brought
Clara a green paroquet that I had amused my
self in taming for her during the homeward
voyage. Mrs. Stanhope had sent Miss Bland
on some commission for her, and was out her
self for her afternoon’s drive, so Clara and I
had a pleasant uninterrupted hour or two of
talk. When the paroquet had been duly ad
mired I told her about my voyage, and she in
return talked of her lessons, and read to me
her mother’s last letter. I always liked to
hear those letters read; their tenderness re
minded me of some that I had once received at
school, and which were still kept treasured by
me.
“ Papa wrote, too, by the last mail,” said
Clara; “but his letter was to grandmamma,
and I only saw a little ot it, and it was the
most disagreeable one you could think of.
Grandmamma has been cross ever since.”
“Don’t speak so of your grandmother, Cla
ra,” said I.
‘ 1 Ah! but you don’t know yet, Mark, what it
was about, ’ ’ said Clara. ‘ ‘Grandmamma says she
has done very wrong to let you ever come into
her house at all, and that you never shall
come in future. I cried very much, and said
it was not her business. She was then very
angry, and said that it was you who made me
so disrespectful, and that I should never see
you again, and she hoped you would never
come back, but would settle in America. Oh,
it made us all so miserable !”
“How long ago is this ?” said I, much net
tled.
“About a month,” replied Clara, “and I
forgot it till just when we had finished mam
ma’s letter; and it was all owing to something
that papa said.” Here Clara’s tears began to
flow.
“What did he say?” I asked. “Do you
recollect, dear?”
“ Something about his having known you
or your family before ; I don’t know where—l
forget now. But, oh dear! there is the car
riage 1 Grandmamma is come back. Mark!
Mark 1 she must not know that you are here 1”
she exclaimed, springing up to lock the door.
“ No, stop a bit, Clara,” I said. “She pos
itively must know. I will see your grand
mother, to convince her that Colonel Stanhope
never could have known me. She can have
no real cause of annoyance.”
“ But she will be so angry with me for hav
ing let you stop,” sobbed Clara. “ Could you
not leave the house without her knowing that
you have been here ?”
“ And never come back and see you again,
eh ?” I said. “ I think my plan is the best.”
Mrs. Stanhope’s step was heard on rhe stair
case, and at the same time our Brazilian paro
quet began to scream and chatter. All hope
of escape, even if I had been disposed to yield
to Clara’s entreaties, which I was not, was
over, and she entered the room to inquire the
cause of the unwonted noise.
“ Mr. Aliiston!” she exclaimed in astonish
ment. ‘ ‘ Clara, how is this ?’ ’
“Really, grandmamma!” exclaimed Clara,
indignantly, “ you have no right—l told you
1 should not ’ ’
“ Clara.” I interrupted, rather sharply, “ if
you can do nothing better than speak disre
spectfully to your grandmother, you had much
better leave the room.”
I repented immediately afterward of having
spoken harshly, and Mrs. Stanhope looked in
dignant that I, a mere nobody, should presume
to correct her grandchild ; but she repeated the
command, and Clara left the room, sobbing in
a very heart broken manner indeed. When
she was gone, Mrs. Stanhope did not speak,
but sat looking at me stiffly and fixedly, so I
broke the silence.
“Miss Stanhope has just informed me, mad
am, that you have been in some manner pre
possessed against me, and are not desirous of
my acquaintanceship any longer,” I began.
“If you will let me know of whatlarn’ac
cused, I believe I shall be able to clear myself
satisfactorily to you.”
“I believe, Mr. Aliiston,” said Mrs. Stan
hope, with considerable dignity, “ that you
must have seen that your visits have been for
some time rather annoying to me ; and that
very fact ought to have been enough for a gen
tleman, as you profess yourself to be, to discon
tinue them.”
“I know that I have not enjoyed your
friendship in any high degree,” I replied;
“ but I am so seldom in England, and the ac
quaintance of your little granddaughter has
been so great a pleasure to me, that I hoped
you would be willing to allow it to continue.”
“Well, sir, in future,” said Mrs. Stanhope,
“ perhaps it will be better for it to cease.”
“ Give me at least your reasons for this de
cision,” I said, struggling to keep my temper.
“ The difference in rank would be an impor
tant objection, Mr. Aliiston, if no other exist
ed,” she replied. “ I have no desire to keep
up the acquaintance.”
“I deny the objection of rank entirely,
madam,” said I, rather warmly. “J am by
birth and education a gentleman, nor do I con
sider my profession unworthy of a gentleman.
At any rate, I am rising rapidly in it.”
“ If you will not be satisfied with what I
have told you, sir,” said Mrs. Stanhope, an
grily, “ I must tell you more. My son, Colonel
Stanhope, has become acquainted with certain
dishonoring particulars connected with your
name, such as I should be unwilling to repeat,
but that must necessarily ”
“Dishonoring particulars!” I repeated, in
dignantly ; “ but they can have nothing to do
with me.” I was about to add : “My name
is not even Aliiston," but recollecting that the
discovery of an alias, however innocent a one,
would only increase Mrs. Stanhope’s suspi
cions, I kept silent, and merely begged to be
told something more definite.
The fact was, as I have since learned, that
Colonel Stanhope had lately come across an
imposter of the worst species, and having lent
a considerable sum of money to him, had un
fortunately lost the whole. Not being able to
trace the cheat, who had left India, he was
prepared to let loose his indignation upon the
head of any one bearing the same name, which,
unfortunately for me, was the uncommon one
of Aliiston.
“‘What’s in a name?’ you will say,
mother,” he wrote in the letter of which Clara
had spoken. “ And it is very true ; but some
how I could not stand meeting any one called
Aliiston, even occasionally. How do I know
but that your intruding acquaintance may not
be a connection of the rascal’s? I heard him
say that he had a brother in business of some
kind. Anyhow, I hope you will be able to get
rid of Clara’s self-elected protector before the
time we come home ; for I have no mind to be
‘ hail fellow well met’ with every mate or
cabin-bcy he may choose to inflict on us.”
The colonel’s half-jesting conjecture of my
relationship with the rascal he knew was cer
tainly not sufficient to break off an acquaint
ance of seven years’ standing, but it accorded
only too well with all Mrs. Stanhope’s pre
vious antipathies. She had never really liked
me in her most cordial time, and had of late
years been very anxious that Clara should drop
me altogether, and she eagerly adopted her
son's suggestion as coinciding completely with
her own wishes. It was a very fair pretext,
with just enough probability in it to make her
conscience easy ; for, after all, she could not ba
sure that the two Allistons were not in some
way connected.
You are not to suppose that Mrs. Stanhope
told me anything of this, in answer to my ear
nest questions; on the contrary, her replies
were most vague and unsatisfactory, irritating
and rousing my temper, and I began to talk a
good deal of rather absurd commonplace about
the prejudices of rank, which I will not trouble
you with now. She heard me to the end, and
then gave me my final conge; and though she
allowed me to see Clara again, she repeated
that it must be for the last time. When Clara
came in, she cried the whole while, and I own
I felt rather inclined to follow her example ;
for, as I have told you, I was more attracted
to the dear child than I could account for to
myself, and I felt very lonely when I left the
house, as I thought, for the last time.
However, I put to sea again, and in the in
terest and excitement of my profession, soon
nearly forgot Clara ; nor was it tiU on my re
turn, a year and a half later, when some busi
ness 11MH to transact took me up toward the
north of England, and the train was by some
accident delayed at a small siding station,.that
I asked the name, and the reply of “ Elmhill”
immediately reminded me that such had been
the name of old Mrs. Stanhope's country man
sion, of which Clara used often to speak. I
recollected now that it was situated within two
miles of the place where I was, and as there were
three or four hours to wait, I resolved to go and
visit the park. If I met any one of the servants,
1 thought I could hear how Clara was, and
whether her father wasin England ; so I left my
portmanteau at the station, and walked across
the fields to the old house which gave its name
to the locality. It was an idle curiosity which
made me go, for I had no idea of ever seeing
any of the Stanhopes again ; and my surprise
was equal to my pleasure when, as I neared
the house, I saw a young girl walking on the
terrace before the windows, and that that girl
was Clara. I forgot my dignity and my in
jured feelings in the happiness of seeing her
again, and on her part 1 may say the delight
was at least equal to mine.
I learnt from her that Mrs. Stanhope no
longer lived in London, but that shortly after
my departure from England she sent Clara to
a fashionable boarding-school, and came her
self to reside at her country house, where her
granddaughter was now spending her Christ
mas holidays with her. She was charmed to
see me again, but miserable at hearing that I
was obliged to go on by the train almost im
mediately. I promised her, however, that as
soon as 1 had dispatched my business I would
return, and that the week or ten days which
still remained before I sailed should be spent
in the neighborhood. Accordingly on my re
turn I took up my residence in the pretty little
village inn close to Elmhill, from whence, on
every occasion that it did not rain, and some
times when it did, I could walk to the park
gate, where I usually found Clara waiting for
me.
She was just the child I had left her (it is
only in some novels that girls of fifteen are
women grown); at any rate, Clara’s thoughts
and feelings were as untrained as ever. She
would , have been ashamed of playing with
dolls, but a certain positiveness and opposition
of character, which often reminded me of my
self, had prevented her retaining the usual
school girl stamp, and had made her possibly
wilder and more ignorant than her companions,
but certainly free from their affectations ; and
our long walks in the snowy fields and muddy
lanes round Elmhill were very happy ones.
Whatever other advantage my visit might
have been to Clara, I believe it did her health
good, for it made her take more exercise than
she would else have done in that unfavorable
weather ; and Mis. Stanhope, constantly con
fined to her room, as was usual with her in the
cold season, and only anxious that her grand
child should enjoy her holidays in perfect free
dom, let her wander where she liked, only ex
acting that she should be forthcoming at the
usual meal-times.
We had agreed that there was no need that
her grandmother should know anything of
my presence there. “It is for so short a
time,” I said. “And grandmamma is so disa
greeable,” added Clara. And when I left at
the end of my stay, which had been prolonged
to a fortnight, we mutually promised each
other that if her holidays and consequent vis
it to Elmhill should occur at the time of my
next visit to England, I would run down again
to see her.
During that next voyage I rose to my pres
ent rank of captain, and commercial specula
tions which I had engaged in, and which
proved successful, still further raised me to
independence. I never have had a shipwreck
or a mutiny in my life, therefore the account
of my voyages would prove only a humdrum
matter of trade; so I will proceed at once to
my next meeting with Clara on my return to
England, rather more than a year from the
time I had last seen her.
I found means to let her know I was com
ing, and the time she might expect me ; but
she was not standing at the park gates, as she
had done before, looking out for me. After
waiting an hour I had just made up my mind
that she must be ill, when she appeared. She
was delighted to see me, and still more de
lighted to be able to tell me the good news
she brought. Her mother was coming home,
and her delay had been caused by the prepar
ations she was making for her reception ; and
she poured forth to my deeply attentive ear
all her bright anticipations and joyous pros
pects, when she should once more see the moth
er whom she remembered, very dimly, it is
true, but in all the halo of glory that is
thrown around her by a child's affection.
“ How strange you should come to-day!”
the said—“the veiy day ! —and grandmamma
is so happy, for papa is tired of India, and he
is not going to live there any longer, but will
stay in England now for good.”
“ Here, at Elmhill ?” I asked.
“ Oh, yes, I should think so,” she replied ;
“the house is large enough, and we shall all
be so happy together! I wonder whether
mamma will be quite like what I fancy her to
be. I think 1 remember her as being tall, and
having very dark eyes aud beautiful black
hair.”
“lam afraid you are mixing up rather what
I have told you of my mother,” I said. “ I
have talked so much to you of her, that I
should not be surprised if your memory be
came a little confused with your imagination.
Oh, Clara, howl envy you, dear, for having a
mother, and going to soe her to-day.”
“ I wish you could be with us,” said Clara ;
“ but, Mark, I will tell you what I will do.
If you come here to-morrow morning very
early, before she is up, I can tell you all about
her, and what she is like, and what she says.
She will be tired, you know, with her journey,
but you must come early, and so I shall not
lose a bit of her. I don’t think I could do
that, even for you, Mark,” and she twined
her arm affectionately in mine.
“No, Clara,” I said, “ I can’t come
again.”
“ Not again ?” she asked, quickly. “ You
are not going away ? You promised me a
longer visit than that.”
“ I mean I can’t come again unless your
father invites me,” I replied. “So long as
your grandmother only was here it d’d. not
NEW YDBK DISPATCH.
matter much (at least I thought it did not),
I l>ut now your parents are come it is due to
I them that I should ask their permission.”
“And I thought we should have these
pleasant meetings for years to come whenever
you came*home from your voyages,” cried
Clara. “Do you mean to say I shall never
see you again ?’ ’
“ No, indeed,” I replied ; “ only that I
must see and make acquaintance with your
father first; and then, if he choose to invite
me, we can see each other much more com
fortably than we otherwise could. Beside, it
is only right.”
“ And he is sure to like you. Don’t you»
think so ?” said Clara, recovering from her
momentary fit of despair.
“ I hope he may,” said I ; “ I shall certain
ly try and make him do so ; but if he should
not, you know, Clara, we shall not be worse i
off than we have been. You could hardly see
less of me than you have done these last three
years.”
“Ah! but it was very different to know
that you would’ be coming at last,” said
Clara.
“ Well, then,” said I, “ we will not sup
pose anything so dreadful as a separation, and
I hope I may be favorably received by Colo
nel Stanhope.”
Wetalked on about hermother’s return, till
Clara was obliged to go in for fear her grand
mother should miss her.
Notwithstanding my prognostications that
Colonel Stanhope would probably like me, I
felt considerable doubt respecting it. I had
guessed somethmg of him from letters to hia
daughter, which I had seen, and I had pro
nounced him to be a hasty and rather obsti
nate man, with powerful prejudices. His wife
might be different, and I sincerely hoped she
was ; I had always imagined her to be rather
like my own mother, for their handwritings
resembled each other, and I was pretty sure I
should like her, and hoped the liking would
be mutual. Nevertheless, I saw but a slender
chance of ever meeting Clara again, though I
could not repent the resolution I had taken ;
and I went back to the inn and tried to drive
the whole Stanhope family out of my head by
writing business letters till past midnight, and,
unromantic though it sounds, I very nearly
succeeded.
Before going to bed I opened the window to
look at the sky and take an observation, and
the Spring night being balmy and delicious, I
went out into the garden to enjoy it. I leant
against the palings which separated the little
garden from the park of Elmhill, and with a
cigar, star-gazed at my leisure. All was quiet
and dark at the old house, which I could just
distinguish between the trees in the moon
light.
“ Colonel and Mrs. Stanhope have arrived,”
I thought, “ and they have had a merry
evening of it. It is all still now, at any rate.
Let me see ; to-morrow will be too soon to
make my advances to the colonel ; it would
seem as though I was lurking about for the
opportunity ; I had better go back to London
for a week. I would do a good deal rather
than lose the right of seeing my little sister
whenever I am in England.”
As I was thus soliloquising I fancied I saw a
light in the direction of Elmhill. I looked
more attentively ; there it was again! gleam
ing, not at one single window, but at the whole
row belonging to the drawing-rooms. There
was no doubt as to its cause, for the light in
creased every instant, and running back to the
inn to procure assistance, I rushed across the
park to the old house to give the alarm and
arouse the inmates.
I was in time, though the fire had increased
with terrible quickness, and the sleepers were
all unconscious of their danger. The dry old
timbers of the house aided the progress of the
flames, and the smoke was already wreathing
up through the floors overhead, by the time
that Colonel Stanhope and the family were
awake to their peril. Happily, the solid oak
staircase was still uninjured, and they escaped
quickly and unhurt, but they were hardly on
the terrace before the fire broke forth with in
creased fury.
There was not much hope from the first of
saving the mansion itself, and our efforts were
chiefly directed to rescuing the furniture, in
which we were tolerably successful. The la
dies of the family took refuge in the inn, from
which, by this time, assistance had been sent,
and the colonel and I turned our attention to
saving the valuables. We achieved a good
deal; many old family pictures were burnt,
but we rescued all the plate ; but long before
daybreak the house was a mass of flame from
end to end, and our efforts necessarily ceased,
and, leaving a strong guard at the ruins, we
returned to the inn.
When I had leisure to think over the events
of the night, I augured well from them, Col
onel Stanhope could not easily refuse the ac
quaintanceship of a man who had saved his
life by giving the alarm, whatever objections
might else be found against him. Wetalked
a good deal together during our walk back to
the inn, and I heard him afterward declare
that he thought me an intelligent man from
the first. I saw nothing of Clara during the
day, though I learnt satisfactorily that she,
and indeed every one else, had escaped quite
unhurt. Of her father I saw a good deal, for
we both went again to busy ourselves at the
ruins, and in the evening a message was
brought to me, that if Mr. Aliiston would
be so good as to come down to the parlor,
Mrs. Stanhope would be glad to see and thank
him.
I hardly like to confess how nervous I felt
as I opened the door of the little inn parlor.
Clara was there certainly, and in the middle of
the room stood a lady, no longer young, but
retaining still much of the, beauty’ of youth.
She was Clara’s mother ; I was sure of that by
the strong likeness; but I had expected to see
her, so it could not be that which made my
heart beat till every pulsation sounded loud
and deep to my ear. I passed my fingers across
my eyes to clear their sight, and she held out
her hand to me.
“ Mr. Aliiston,” she said, “ we all have to
thank you for your noble exertions last night
in our behalf, and this dear child has been tell
ing me more fully than I ever knew before
what a friend you have been to her ever since
she came to England.”
■‘ Miss Stanhope has given me as much pleas
ure in our friendship as I could ever have given
her,” I replied, much embarrassed. I knew not
what in the world was the matter with me at
that minute.
Mrs. Colonel Stanhope looked at me rather
curiously for a moment, while Clara came up
to my side. A glow of pleasure was on her
face.
“We shall be so happy now,” she whispered.
“I have told mamma everything about your
last visit, and papa can’t say enough of what
you did last night.”
Her mother looked at us both, and she sigh
ed as she turned away. Old Mrs. Stanhope,
who was sitting near the fire, called me to her,
and thanked me very warmly on her own ac
count, adding, as she held out her hand with
dignified condescension, “ I was in her father’s
place to my granddaughter, and as such thought
I was obliged to forbid your visits in past years;
but I am extremely glad that my son and
daughter see fit to countenance them.”
“Yes,” said Clara, “papa wants so much to
know you, Mark. ’ ’
“Mark!” said Mrs. Colonel Stanhope, “I
forgot that was your name.”
“ Mark Aliiston, madam,” I replied.
“Aliiston,” she repeated, in a tone of disap
pointment, and she sat down as if oppressed
and troubled by something.
Her voice operated powerfully on my heart;
recollections and memories came gushing up,
and disregarding Clara, who was beginning to
talk rapidly of her hopes and plans, I went up
to her mother’s chair, and said in a low voice,
“ My name is Aliiston now, but it has not
been always so. I changed it when I first
went to sea. My real name is Mark Pierce
field.”
“Piercefield!” she almost gasped out. “Was
your father the Reverend James Piercefield, of
Chiselbourne, Surrey ?”
■ I could not answer ; my doubts and slowly
awakened recollections all merged into one
bright flash of certainty, and I threw myself on
my knees, with my arms round her and my
head clasped to her breast.
It was my mother ! Clara and Mrs. Stan
hope could not at first understand when they
were made acquainted with the fact; and Colo
nel Stanhope, when he entered, was likewise
somewhat bewildered; but when he heard that
I was Maik Piercefield, his countenance only
reflected a warm, sincere satisfaction. He of
course remembered his first meeting with Mrs.
Piercefield on board ship, when a young un
happy widow and desolate mother, homeless
and fortuneless, she accompanied her brother
out to India. He soon became acquainted
with her history, gave her kind and unob
trusive sympathy, and before they had been
landed, many months in India, had offered
her his heart and hand, and been accepted.
Clara was their only child, and great indeed
had been her mother’s sorrow at parting with
her, which almost made her second time child
less.
We were all together that evening, nor have
we been very much separated since. I soon
prospered sufficiently in my adventures to sat
isfy me, for I was not ambitious of many more
lonely voyages, but preferred a more modest
fortune and the society of my much-loved mo
ther and sister. We are all near each other,
for Elmhill is rebuilt, and my mother and Col
onel Stanhope live there, while my own mod-
est dwelling is only just beyond the park boun
dary. Clara is not with us; she is married,
but only four miles off. We see eaeh other al
most every day, and I spoil my little nieces
more, 1 believe, than most uncles do, and de
cidedly more than any uncle should.
PETROLEUM—WHAT IHS-MW IT IS
REFINED,
An Eastern exchange furnishes the follow
ing interesting facts about “ coal oil” : While
so many are excited over the hopes of a sud
den fortune from petroleum discoveries, it is
of some interest to learn how the crude product
of the wells is prepared for use, and the pur
poses to which the different substances into
which it is separated are applied. Petroleum
as it is raised from the rocky cavities in which
it is found, is a dark and dusky liquid, dis
agreeable to the eye and offensive to smell and
touch. But fortunately a simple process of re
fining give us from this foul substance a beau
tiful and transparent illuminating oil; a per
fect substitute for spirits of turpentine; an ex
cellent lubricating substance, materials for the
manufacture of gas, and of the most beautiful
dyes. It is known that petroleum is composed
of two elements—hydrogen and carbon.
These two elements combine together chemical
ly to form a large number of chemical com
pounds, which are mechanically mixed toge
ther to constitute petroleum. These hydro
carbons have one property ; they are all com
bustible. But their other properties vary very
widely ; some are gases, others are liquids, and
one at least is a solid almost as hard as lead.
As the solids, and to some extent the gases,
are soluble in the liquids, the whole mass is li
quid. The volatility of the several hydro-car
bons which constitute petroleum is the first
property which is considered in the effort to
separate them. An oil can be obtained which
will boil at 90 negroes; another which wjll
boil at 91 degrees, and another at 92 degrees.
Even these are found, however, to be not sin
gle chemical compounds, but several hydro
oarbons mechanically mingled. Petroleum is
distilled in iron boilers, usually holding about
fifty barrels each. They are heated by a coal
furnace, and the products of distillation are
condensed in the usual way by means of worms
immersed in cold water. As the oil flows from
the condenser it is divided into three portiaoa
for different uses. The lightest, that comes
over first, is called gasolene. This cannot ba
used in lamps with safety, as it rises in vapor
so freely that it mixes with the atmospheric
air to form an explosive compound. It is em
ployed to some extent for making an illumin
ating gas by mixing its vapor with air. Its
specific gravity ranges from 80 to 90 degrees
of Beaume’s scale. The next that comes over,
ranging from 60 to 80 degrees, is separated
and sold under the name of benzine. This is
used in mixing paints and varnishes, and for
purposes generally for which camphene was for
merly employed. The last of the distillation,
constituting the principal portion of the petro
leum, is illuminating oil. This ranges in dens
ity from 35 degrees to 60 degrees. As the
stream of oil flows out from the lower end of
the condenser its color is a light, delicate blue.
The tar is sold for making illuminating gas,
and considerable quantities are sent to Europe
to be employed in manufacturing dyes. The
purification of the distilled burning oil, by
which it is in a great measure deprived of its
offensive odor, is affected by agitating it with
sulphuric acid, neutralizing the acid with
soda, and finally thoroughly washing it by
agitating with water. Nearly all the hydro
carbons of petroleum are neutral—neither acid
nor alkaline—but few have alkaline or basic
properties, and it is from these that the crude
oil derives its offensive odor. Sulphuric acid
enters into combination with these basic oils,
forming salts which can be completely re
moved by washing. The acid also oxydizes a
portion of the heavier hydro-carbons, con
verting them into asphaltum which settles out
of the oil with the water. The washing is ef
fected in the same vessels that are employed
in treating the oil with sulphuric acid. The
oil is pumped or drawn into the vessels, the
sulphuric acid is added, the fans are set in mo
tion till the liquids are thoroughly mixed, and
then the oil is allowed to settle to the bottom
of the cask. The bottom is of a conical form,
with a hole in the centre closed by a stop cock.
The oil and its compounds settle in a dark
mass at the bottom, and then the stop cock is
opened and this sediment is drawn off, the
woikmen carefully watching the flow so as to
stop it before any of the clear oil escapes.
Next, soda is put into the cask, the agitators
are driven awhile, the mass allowed to settle,
and the sediment is drawn off Finally, water
is pumped in with the oil, and the agitating,
settling and drawing off process is repeated.
Observer, we are sorry to say, seems inclined,
in the case of Millie Moss, to shirk the respon
sibility, laying, as the widow Bedott would say,
the “ heft” of the arrangement at the door of
Briggs, who, we doubt not, is as innocent as a
sucking dove. Don’t attempt any underhanded
movements, as our little friend will be after you
we feel certain. By the way, what about the
photograph, does not that portray the linea
ments of
OBSERVER?
Are you fond of balls ? I don’t mean fish
balls, nor puff-balls, nor the balls used to drive
a knowledge of the Constitution into the heads
of the *• Johnnies,” nor ten pin-balls, nor bil
liard balls, nor the now-you-see-it and now-you
don’t balls of the race track ; but balls where
you go with your “ heart’s warmest affection”
all done up in purbelows and flowers to show your
agility on the light fantastic toe I I can’t say
that I have any special weakness that way my
self, but my habits of observation have led me
to remark a great leaning in that direction, par
ticularly among the femininities. Dimity and
dancing, bustles and balls appear to ba synony
mous, or at least convertible terms, and an invi
tation to a ball is held among those who know,
to be the first process of rational induction to
the heart of the dear charmer whose portrait
makes the left side of your waistcoat uneasy.
Briggs—my friend Briggs is, as I have previous
ly had the honor of remarking in your columns,
not only persuaded of his own good looks, but
that there is a fascination in his glance ; and
he persists in firing sheeps’ eyes at every female
luckless enough to come within range, under the
impression that like birds under the fatal in
fluence of the serpent they must inevitably come
down. Strolling along Broadway, the other day,
a rather stout party sailed by andßriggs, who is
so -near-sighted that he couldn’t tell the Em
press of Timbuctoo from a fallen angel at three
yards distance, pinched my arm black and blue
as if to say “ There’s another gone.” Recog
nizing the lady and determined to take some of
the starch out of his self-oonceit, I told him
the dame had returned a killing glance, that she
was evidently smitten, and that he ought by all
means to follow up his bonne fortune. During
the next three days he worked himself into
perfect frenzy of excitement writing verses,
painting the ideal features of his unknown
charmer, until at last having made my arrange
ments, I suggested that we should attend the
masked ball of the Kautsigdeuitcherfrankfarter
wrerste Asooiation in the hope |of there meeting
his object, and completing his victory. He imme
diately selected the character of Hamlet, which,
seeing that he weighs something over two hun
dred, and is not quite five feat high, was a most
happy choice. I disguised myself as a gay and
festive cues, and we appeared upon the acene.
Promenading around the room, Briggs called my
attention to a party in the character of a Spanish
hidalgo, and asked me : “ Why is a Spanish no
bleman selling old clothes like a hero of ro
mance?” Couldn’t say. “ Because,” said Briggs,
as he winked at a passing sylph—“ because he is
a Von Jewin'!" The atrocity of this pun made
me feel pale, and I stepped but to the refresh
ment saloon, leaving Briggs to the tender mer
cies of the crowd. When I returned, after swal
lowing a dezen of lager, I found Briggs in the
centre of a crowd, whom he was delighting with
quotations from the play. As I approached, his
dexter hand was raised in the air, and he” ex
claimed : “ The play, the play's the thing to catch
the conscience of the king.” At this moment a
stent lady advanced from the throng, and with a
well-directed sweep took off at a blow Briggs'
plumed hat, mask and wig. At the same time
her own mask was torn off, displaying to the as
tounded Briggs the classic features of his wife 1
Briggs’ eyes fairly started from their sockets,
and as he sank upon his knees, I asked him:
“ Why is your accident like the pink of Southern
chivalry ?” Unable to still his chattering teeth
for a reply, he merely shook his head and
groaned. “ Because,” said I, “it’s a Wigfall!"
This finished him,* and with the assistance of
Mrs. 8., I dragged him out and sent him home.
I mention this little affair for the benefit and in
struction of Miliie Moss. She has evidently fallen
in love with the wrong man, and confounded me
with my friend Briggs.
• Such a pun as that ought to finish any ono —Ed.
Buthella Layabed, whose contributions wo
highly prize, is with us again this week. We are
sorry that our efforts at consolation should have
met with such poor success, when person’s
do not like cold weather we take it for granted
that they do like warm ; it seems, however, that
there are exceptions to all general rules. We
did not know it before, and that is the rock upon
which we split.
Deab Gossip-im-ChiefYour assurance that
Waim weather is coming is quite cheering. But
will humanity then be any better off in the im
portant matter of getting up ? I think not; amid
the twinges of rheumatism consequent on cold
weather I will relate you last summers experi
ence. July 17,1864, 7 o’clock, A. M. The ther
mometer boiled is indicating a fearful degree o
heat, dust, sunshine ; street odors, assail you
through open windows, Prone on a bed, with
every pore ready to pour, you lie delicately cano
pied by a single sheet. Your drowsy senses are
meditating on the nuisance of getting up ; over
the listless air come the sounds of flies, already
up and buzzing. Just as some dream-land Fitz
Claience is about to propose matrimony, a wed
ding cortege drawn by butterflies and all that sort
of thing, a terrible assailant lights upon your
nose, and drives away the sweet-heart forever.
With a hundred eyes he looks about, with a hun
dred feet he treads about, and anxious to strike
oil, he sinks a shaft in ths tenderest portion ot
your proboscis. A troop of his retainers follow
him. At a lofty remove, the blood-gorged mus
keto brigade, resting from their nocturnal cam
paign, look complacently down upon your suffer
ings. You smite your assailants with a Simp
sonian blow only to hear them fly away, their
very wings laughing at your misery. Just then,
as the locomotive of your imaginings is about to
move, it is suddenly thrown from the track by
one of those unspellable and terribly penetrating
yells of a stalwart milkman, who daily supplies
you with Orange county whitened water. You
roll over in despair and thus expose a toot and
ankle. Down upon this point swoop the winged
pests ; they assail you one and all. Making a
feint upon your nose they attack you in your ex
tremity, and you flounder like a stricken whale.
Down comes your heir, a wilderness of neg
ligence, and your unwilling eyes open, for sleep
is impossible. Clang, clang, clang, goes the
first bell, and your doom is sealed. Desperation
raises you to a sitting posture, and eventually,
by dint of one grand struggle, you stand—where
I always do, first thing in tne morning—in front
of the glass. Ah 1 what a sight 1 From beneath
an avalanche of hair, a brace of discouraged
eyes, flanking a nose which gives ample evidence
ot having been the camping-ground of musketoes
and the scene of a fly campaign. You try to
drees ; the exercise calls forth a perspiration
regiment, till, listless, languid, dissatisfied, you
face your equally-miserable fellow-mortals as the
breakfast-table. And this is your panacea—this
the reward for mornings of freezing. Better be
on that careening sled, at the risk of being
“ ellghtually embarrassed.”
Thine, more,
Ruthella Layabed.
Buthella is a little at fault in the description.of
getting-up in Summer, as applied to us. In the
first place, we sleep soundly, i nd wake up bright.
Secondly, we are never blinded by any avalanches
of hair, as we wear our “crown of beauty”
cropped, as Rulhella may have seen the heads of
returned convicts before now. Thirdly, we re
pose under the fleecy folds of a musketo bar
during the heated term, which is efficacious in
keeping all marauders, in the insect way, from
lighting on any portion of our “ human
form divine.” In a private note, we learn that
Buthella weekly meets with “ rubbers.” Our
sympathy we tender, though we are not assured
that it is legal.
A very spirited little poem on a much handled
and much abused subject, has come into our pos
session this week, and we lay it before our read
ers. There is much truth in the two last lines of
the first verse, that is, we tliink so.
LOVE.
Love 1b a comical thing,
And gives itself numerous airs ;
’Twill make a'man whistle and sing
When he ought to be saving his prayers.
Love is a conical thing,
The root of ail evil, l‘m toll;
Gray hairs it will frequently bring
Prematurely, belora we are old.
Loro is a comical thing,
It Induces a fellow to spoon :
And olt silly verses to sing,
When he can’t get one cadence In tune.
Love is a comical thing.
Ano it comes on one all unawares;
From the laboring man to the king
All fest and repose it impairs.
Love Is a comical thing
and so frequently ends In a knot,
That I jollilj carelessly sing.
If I marry just yet I’ll be shot!
The Grass Valley National of January 23dn
tells the fritowing story of
a filin' OLD SHAWL.
A lady acquaintance lost a valuable shawl. A
short time after the shawl had been missed, a
little girl, evidencing an ancestral poverty with
out the “ respectable” accompaniment, rounded
to in presence of the owner of the missing shawl,
and the stolen garment was at once recognized.
“ Little girl,” said the lady, “ where did you ob
tain that shawl ?” “ My father bought it for me,”
was the ready reply. Said the lady, “ I will go
with you to your father, and ascertain where ho
purchased that shawl.” The little one objected
to this proposition. Party of the first part was
unyielding in the desire to see the male parent.
Every stratagem peculiar to inventive genius was
vainly resorted to, when the youngster, in the
desperateness of her case, pulled the stolen gar
ment from her shoulders, and throwing it at its
lawful owner, said: “ Take your old dirty shawl;
it’s not a fashionable one, any way 1”
An old sea captain, who was in
the habit of spending his time while in port
among a set of hard-drinking fellows, returned
to his hotel one evening in a partially intoxicated
condition. In going up to his room he walked
out of one of the windows in the second story
and landed upon the pavement. Fortunately he
was not injured by the descent, and upon going
back into the house mat the landlord. “ Look
here, Mr. ,” eays he, “if you don't shorten
the steps in your stairs, I won’t stop with you any
.more.”
A lady iriio we&t to consult Dr.
Abernethy, began describing her complaint,
which is what he very much disliked. Among
other things she said, “ Whenever I lift my arm
it pains me exceedingly.” “ Why, then, ma’am,”
said he, “ you are a great fool for doing so.”
A widow lady jeceived a present
of a thanksgiving turkey. “ Who sent it ?” she
asked of the Irish porter. “I was told not to
tell.” “ Ah, I can guess,” responded the lady.
“ Bedad, that’s just what I told Deacon Grant.”
After talking half an hour with a
man of jerky mind, it is a great relief to talk
with a cull friend. It is like taking the cat in
your lap after holding the squirrel.
“ Faix I” said a humorous Irishman,
the other day, in the petroleum diggings, “ ye
may call Ameriky a continent, if ye plase, but to
my thinkin’ it’s a beautiful oil-land.’”
The first to “ strike ile,” it now
appears, was Job, who says : “ When I washed
my steps with butter, and the rocks poured me
out rivers of oil.”—Job, xxix : 6.
Respectfully Declined—The poem
in whichjthese lines occur :
“ Waves aloft the flashing anvil—
Floats the ponderous sledge beside.”
An editor heads his list of births,
marriages and deaths thus—" Hatched, matched
and dispatched.” The rascal deserves to have
his face scratched.”
One that knows ho w to read can
hear all past generations talk; and ono that
knows hew to write can talk to all generations
that are to come.
A bankrupt was condoled with
the other day, for his embarrassment. “O, I’m
not embarrassed at all; it’s my creditors that are
embarrassed.”
“I would have you know that I
am a man of quality,” said a marquis to a finan
cier. “And I,” replied the financier, “am a man
of quantity.”
Horne Tooke, when asked by
George the Third whether he played at cards, re
plied, “ I cannot, your majesty, tell a king from
a knave.”
Contentment is wealth. We pre
fer the “ grand cash,” and take the chances.*
■ji« wofsat.
An Unhappy Affair in Detroit—A
Young Wife Innocently Commits Bigamy—How
it Ended.—Ths following story appears in a
recent issue of the Detroit Tribune : An ex
tremely unhappy affair has just been brought to
fight in this city, in which an elderly, but well- j
known hotel-keeper, not a hundred miles from I
this city, figures as one of the prominent char
acters. As a natural consequence, he feels
cheerless and melancholy over the result, and
has the sympathy of the community in his dis
consolation. It appears that when the first call
was made by the President for three years’
troops, a young man who resided in the interior
of the State, was among those who volunteered
his services in defense of hie country. He was
well to do in the world, and had a young wife, in
whom he placet! the most implicit confidence,
and who was, so far as the world knew, an hon
est, upright and faithful woman, true to her hus
band, and was highly respected by all who knew
her. Her husband joined one of the Michigan
regiments, and was soon off for the front. For
a year or so he corresponded regularly with hts j
wife, but unfortunately be was taken prisoner.
His wife could hear no tidings of him, which :
tended to increase her fears th at he had been .
killed. Whether she pame to the conclusion that
such a calamity had befallen him we know not.
She waited pa tiently for a long time, but be
coming cheerless at the prolonged absence of )
her husband, she gave up all hopes of ever see
ing him again. She came to this city and put up 1
at a hotel, the proprietor of which had buried a
loving wife about six weeks previously. He was
rather elderly to be sure, but whenever an old
man sees a really handsome lady, he is very apt I
to forget his past misfortunes, for the time be
ing, at least. The lady registered her name as
Miss . The proprietor, in his innocence,
yearned to make her his wife. Au intimacy
sprang up between them, which ripened into
love, and they were married. This happy event
was celebrated in good style, and the many
friends of the old gentleman, eo soon as they
heard of his marriage, called to congratulate
him. Even" ye locals” were there, who in hap
py strains chronicled at considerable length full
particulars of the event. They, too, were favor
ably impressed with the personal appearance
and beauty of the bride, and no doubt sighed
while thinking that one so young and handsome
should be so foolish as to throw herself away.
She did not agree with them on this point, how
ever, nor did the proprietor of the hotel. Indue j
time tile newly made wife was installed as the
the lady of tho house—and she presided over tho
hotel with the dignity of a queen. She floated
like a fairy queen about the house making every
body happy. Her cheerful conversation and
merry talkings were the constant talk of tho
domestics. In a word, while she insisted upon
the work incident to the hotel keeping being per
formed with scrupulous exactness, she kept all
good humor. She won tho confidence of all who
knew—and, better than all, made her new hus
band, happy. He reciprocated, and although it
is said that to outsiders the old gentleman was
neither attractive nor pleasant, he loved his
young wife with a fondness almost indescribable.
Like all other mortals, however, he was liable to
disappointment. A change came over the spirit
of his dream, and in the place of the once doting
husband we have now a disconsolate old man.
If the reader will be patient we will reveal a se
cret, that all may learn, profit by the experience
and “ beware of vidders.” Not many days ago,
a young man, slightly bronzed by a Southern
sun, dressed in the garb of a soldier, manly in
form, and with an eye flashing fire, might have
been seen rushing into the——hotel. Rush is
the word. Ho went in with a single bound and
inquired for the proprietor. The man whom ha
sought after stood before’him. The soldier.it
is said, drew a revolver, and in thundering tones
demanded to know where his wife was. It is un
necessary to repeat all the conversation that oc
curred ; suffice it to sav that mutual explana
tions followed —the soldier was shown to the
family rooms—the long-lost husband was recog
nized by his (and the landlord’s) wife—and there
were bitter tears shed ail around. Matters be
ing properly cleared up, the soldier and his wife
left on the first train for Jackson. In narrating
the above facts, we have carefully excluded all
names for obvious reasons. The story is true
in every particular.
Further about ths English “ Noble
man” who Attempted to Rape his Servant
Girl It will be remembered that in our last we
gave some particulars of this charge. The fol
lowing is the conclusion of the case : At Seven
oaks the adjourned summons against the Earl of
Norbury was heard, for an assault on Hannah
Isaacs, a servant in his employ. The evidence of
the prosecutrix was given in our last. Mary Ann
Runciman, examined—l have been cook at the
Earl of Norbury’e, at Valence. Hannah Isaacs
was then under laundry maid I sleps in a room
divided by a passage from the room in which
Hannah Isaacs slept. The passage between my
room and Hannah Isaacs’ room is covered with
kamptulicon. On the 15th of February I was
awakened by a noise, which I thought was the
shaking of my door. I heard nothing for a few
minutes, and than I heard the words: “ I’ll
scream! I’ll holloa!” Ihe ,rd no ether voice. I
think an interval of a quarter of an hour
elapsed, and then I heard her lock her door.
Cross-examined—When she screamed out I did
not ask her what was the matter, as I thought
some of the girls had gone there to frighten her,
as she had been in the housemaid’s room laugh
ing and talking very late. I thought it not unu
sual for one servant to go into another’s room at
night it they had sat up late. Ellen White, ex
amined—l have been in defendant’s service as
housemaid nearly five months. On the lath of
February, Hannah Isaacs gavejme £5 in a purse.
That is the purse (produced). I knew she had
the five sovereigns irom his lordship. I knew
she had £l2 a year, and bad not received any
wages. 1 never told the Earl of Norbury I haa.
the five sovereigns. Cross examined—l only
knew from Hannah Isaacs’ own words that Lord
Norbury gave her the £5. In the morning she
asked if we heard a noise in the night. She did.
not appear distressed or put out. Mary Hobbs,
examined—l am dairymaid at Valence, and in.
consequence of what I heard I gave notice, and
his lordship said: “If you will make a great fuss
out of a little, you must.” He told me he had
been into tho girls’ room, and said the reason
why he walked, about among the servants’ rooms
was that he had eaten an apple and it had disa
greed with him. Cross-examined—l never said
anything about the matter till the child went
away. I call her a child. I am twenty-iou
years of age. Mr. Cripps, for the defend int,
1 urged that the evidence of the girl was not relia
ble. She got into the service with a lie, saying
she was seventeen. Beyond tnat he (Mr. Cripps)
should urge that it was not an assault at all.
The girl had been merely put forward to serra
• the ulterior purposes of some other person, and
it wculd be unsafe, upon the evidence that had
been adduced, to convict the defendant. He
should not call any evidence, as he was quite sat
isfied the bench would not believe the story that
; had been told. The magistrates having delibe
rated nearly an hour, the chairman said : “ We
have come to the conclusion that the case for the
complainant is proved, and that the defendant
has committed a common assault upon her, and
we inflict a fine of £5 and costs, (Great ap
plause.) Mr, Cripps then gave notice of appeal.
' Breach of Promise of Marriage—
Why He Didn’t Wish to Marby Her.—At the
Lancaster Assizes, Eng., an action for breach of
1 promise was heard. The plaintiff, Miss Isabella
Turner, resides with her mother, a widow, at
Kendal. The defendant, Mr. John Wilsden, is
j the son of a yeoman, living in good circurn
[ stances, at Troutbeck. The parties became en-
I gaged about five years ago, and from that lime
I ; down to November, 186’4, when the defendant
. married a cousin of the plaintiff', they had bean
, upon most affectionate terms, In August of last
, year the defendant agreed to marry the plaintiff,
! and wen' to HawkMestl for a l.censo. Instead,
J however, of plaintiff’s name being put upon it,
, that q? har cousin appeared, whom the defendant
marileu wittiin a wees or two tftar ceasing to
visit the plaintiff. The pkist.ff had had het;
, wedding outfit made, and the bridecake had b.teh
delivered. She had received from the defendant
several tokens of affection, such as lockets, rings,
' Ao. Several letters written by the defendant
’ were put in, in which he addressed the pliintiff
as “ his darling Isabella,” “Darling Bell,” Ac.,
and frequently conclucledby subscribing himself,
; “ Yours devotedly,” and “ Your own affectionate
i John.” In the course of the trial it transpired
, that about nine years ago the plaintiff gave birth
to a child, the result of a former engagement.
For the defence it was alleged that this fact had
been kept secret from the defendant until within
, a week or two of his breaking off the engage
ment. It was proved, however, that tho child
had frequently called the plaintiff “ mamma” in
defendant’s presence, and that he was aware that
it was hers. The defendant had also stated that
he had come into possession of a house belong
ing to General Watson, in London, and that the
whole of his furniture had been left to him. It
was contended that this was only an idle boast,
and that the defendant was not so well off as he
had represented himself to be. Mr. Justice Shea,
in summing up, said it was quite clear, from ths
evidence, that the defendant was perfectly aware
of the plaintiff’s misfortune, and there was no
reason for their treating him as a pauper. The
jury, after a few minutes’ consultation, returned
a verdict for the plaintiff, damages, £SOO,
A Curious Boarding House —A
Widow Gets into Trouble—Among the ladiee
of Memphis who object to being considered keep
ers of boarding houses, but for a liberal compen
sation take a tew respectable ladies and gentle
men as members of their families, is a widow
with some pretensions to good looks, and with
very stylish notions. This attractive lady has,
as a member of her family, a handsome and
carefully gotten up gentleman, who had resigned,
his position in tho army, and devoted himself to
social enjoyment. It was rumored that he and :
the widow was about to marry, and everybody
thought it wan a very suitable match except that
the lady had been quite secesh, and the gentle
man being from the Northwest was supposed to
be a little of an abolitionist. Thus matters stood
when, on last Monday night, the widow and her
admirer, having paid a visit to Madame Vincent’s
for supper, returned home in tho best of spirits.
How long they sat in converse sweet no one
knows, but some time after midnight, a taj,
good-looking, but plainly dressed laiy, who had
come down the river on the steamer Belle
Memphis, and had, it appears, been some time
prospecting the widow's premises, knocked at
the widow’s chamber. How she got in the house
no one knows. Perhaps she bribed the servants,
but somehow, in she got, and knocked at the
widow’s door unlil it was opened, when in she
sprang just as an exit was made from a windo w.
The widow says that it was a eat that jumped
out. However this may be, the strange lady
found, safe in his bod, her husband, for it turned
out that she was the wife of tho Northern gentle
man whom the widow was supposed about to
marry. Tho next morning the busband and wife
left Memphis wlthbut. bidding a lieu to the
widow, who has very little to say about the mat
ter.
Love and Murder. —A communica
tion from Bilboa (Spain) speaks of a deplorabl*
event which has just taken place in the theatre
of that place. A young man named Lima, a
violinist in the orchestra, entered the dressing
room of one of the actors to demand satisfaction
arising out of a quarrel in a love affair. His ri
val refusing either to retract or to fight a duel,
Lima drew out a pistol and discharged it at him,
but the bullet missing the actor, struck in the
breast a hairdresser who at the moment was en
tering the room. Lima immediately afterward
fired another pistol at himself, inflicting a seri
ous wound, ot which he died on the following
morning. The hairdresser is likely to recover,
Elopement —Mis. Dix, wife of Mr.
Dix, of Seaforth, Canada, has eloped with a man
named Stezens, a watchmaker. Rumors of crim
con. were rife for some time before the elope
ment. Mr. Dix, it is said, received a letter from.
Stevens, who went away a short time ago, ad
dressed to his (Dix’s) wife. He took it to her af
ter reading it, imploring her to reconsider the
rash step she was taking, but the infatuated wo
man persisted in her determination to forsake the
husband of her youth. An arrangement was ar
rived at by which Dix retained his son, and the
erring wife took away the daughter, and thus
they parted.
Plutarch on Petroleum. —Petroleum
is as old as Alexander’s day. In Plutarch’s
life of the conqueror, we are told of a Mace
donian, named Proxemus, who had charge of
the King’s baggage, who, on opening the
ground near the Oxcis, in order to pitch his
master’s tent, discovered a spring of a gross
oily liquor, which, after the surface was taken
off, became perfectly clear, and neither in taste
or smell differed from real oil, nor was it in
ferior to it in its smoothness or brightness of
color, although there were no olives in the
country. Strabo refers to a similar phe
nomenon.
7

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