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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, February 03, 1867, Image 6

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85026214/1867-02-03/ed-1/seq-6/

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lOriginal.l
KEEP COOL.
By G. w. Horn
«Beet ccol; ’tts nothing, sir;keep eaim:’ 1
Buch words are but a monstrous sham)
We’re cool enough, ’bout woe or weal.
Which not our own, we do not feel;
We’re very cool, as all may know,
When we don’t feel the mighty blow;
But when vexations closer come,
Afid follow us—and enter home 1
Then, nine times out of ten, at leas%
’J *3lB not so easy—if ’fee best 1
Tour friend is running o’er with bile,
And you must bear his spleen, and smile )
Tour servant’s beau—the sneaking fellow*
Has etolen your new silk umbrella;
The man you’ve bailed, has run away,
And left you here to starve, and pay !
And while amazed, you muse upon it—
Tour wife is fretting for a—bonnet!
/ Yes, nine times out of ten, at leaat>
*4fK *Ti» not so easy—if ’tis best I
And you, poor soul, who sit alone,
J And mourn the pleasures that are gonftj
In that poor faded dress you wear;
Your husband saye—you do not care T
X Your daughter little heeds her mother,
' c But tries to ape her mad-cap brother;
Your bosom-friend, more vain than wiw,
flaunts her satins in your eyes 1
1 Yes, nine times out of ton, at least,
Not to keep cool, were fer the best I
©f, perhaps your help has scorched tketbaat,
Or turned to coals your rounds of toast;
Your husband, in a stormy whirl,
He raves at you—and not the girl 1
When baby soualls, he scolds always,
And here, at home— what does he praise 1
And, worse than all, this very day,
Xourtnother-iu-law has come to stay 1
, Ah, nine times out of ten, at least,
IV *Tie not so easy, if ’tie beat 1
tf cabbage, or of ice we were, »
We could keep cool, ’tis very clear;
But we are made of different matter;
We’re not exactly frozen water 1
In ue, with body, soul, and heart.
Each impulse given, must work its pari;
We would not have you be uncivil,
But who can bear, unmoved, an evil ?
Yes, nine times out of ten, at least,
Not to keep cool, may be the bett I
(Original.)
THE MYSTERIOUS NOTE.
BY WILUAM COMSTOCK.
Passing listlessly along the street, and think
ing of nothing in particular, according to my
usual custom, which state of masterly inac
tivity qualifies one to grapple firaily with any
auhiect of moment that chances to present
itself, I etruck my toe against a little pile of
rubbish, when there flew out from it a piece of
paper whose peculiar appearance arrested my
attention.
This piece of paper was white and thick, al
pioet like drawing-paper. It was partly folded,
jet sufficiently open to disclose to my view the
peat handwriting of a lady. That would scarcely
have been thought worthy of remark, however,
had I not seen my own name, or something
Which looked very much like it, on the manu
script aforesaid.
I stooped and made a pria. of o*xo. p —u.
tr thus, being evidently a fragment ef a let-
"Give me your felicitatiens: the ticket has drawn a
good prize, hot yon know G w has to share it. It
Was presented to me on that condition; there ie no-way
to chouse him out of his share as I must, gir. his receipt
for the money, and never having seen his iiandwr "
Here the the manuscript broke up suddenly.
G—- W was unquestionably myself, as
there was no other person of the name in the
Country. The chirograph}- was that of a lady,
the fineness of the hand being in strange juxta
position with the coarsenes of her sentiments.
Somebody had presented a lady with a ticket
In the lottery, and if it drew a prize I was to
divide with her. Bnt, who was this friend of
mine. I was almost a stranger in town. This
|ast circumstance might lead to the discovery
Of the lady. I knew but three women in the
■whole county;' which one of them was capable
Of writing so vile a letter—of really wishing to
•heat me out of a sum of money I Surely, not
toe of them. My cousin, Amanda Lennox/would
pot do such a thing, and this note was not in her
otyle. The Misses Clarke would never be en
gaged in such disreputable business. That
comprised my list of city acquaintances.
It was essential that I should find out the
writer of this note. She had money of mine in
her hands, and was not inclined to give it up.
I turned this scrap over and over, but could
discover nothing more—no clue to the writer
Or her place of residence.
Just to satisfy my curiosity I would call on
the Misses Clarke and get their autographs.
Of course, they were innocent, but one likes to
feel sure. I went to the house of Mr. Clarke;
be lived far up town had quite a pretty place
with garden, orchards, and outhouses.
I found Miss Jane Clarke at home.
I was always quick at inventing a plausible
Me. I pretended to Miss Clarke that I had an
Idea of opening a writing school. She knew
that I was very poor, and had come to town to
look for business.
“But you need no instruction,” said I;
“your style of . writing is elegant, without
doubt.”
I soon prevailed on ho? to write a line, and to
. give mo a specimen of her sister’s writing.
Both of them wrote a stiff, school-girl hand.
There could be no doubt of their innocence.
“ No, no; you both write like honest women.”
•aid I.
“ Honest,”replied she. "But this is a new
designation for penmanship.”
I was half a mind to make a confidant of Miss
Jane; and when one has half a mind to blab, it
is all over with him. Like a man in the rapids
of Niagara, though not yet over the falls, he is
eure to go there.
» I pulled out the mysterious fragment and
•bowed it to the young lady.
k “You perceive,” said I, “ that somebody has
got money belonging to me, and I am Afraid
■ she will keep it, I am really anxious to dis
sever the writer ”
5 “Ah!” interrupted Miss Clarke, “'I under
stand. We are very much obliged to you, my
Sister and myself. It was for this cause that
you wanted a specimen of our handwriting.”
bl thought of my traveling trunk. Further
stay in town was not desirable, and promised
little diversion. There was no probability that
I should discover the writer of the note. I had
exposed myself to Miss Clarke for nothing, and
had doubtless won the everlasting enmity of
the family by my clumsy maneuver. I rose to
< O,
* “ Stop a few moments,” said the young lady.
I want that you should be certain that we can
■how a clean bill of health. I want you to see
the handwiting of all our familv. As you have
ihmin.br nffiiwr to «„«nect us. I wish to see thj
ffiattor probed to tEe* Eottoi’m Vou musl see
the handwriting of my mother and brothers.”
“ What nonsense I” cried I; “it is the pro
duction of a young lady.”
“I am not so sure of that, sir. It is not
characteristic of a young lady ; it is more like a
fogue of the nobler sex. ”
“ But the penmanship ?”
w May be imitated, sir. Rogues ean do that,
you know, and a cheat would not hesitate to
commit forgery.”
1 “ How can I apologize—how can I convince
you, Miss Clarke, that I did not really suspect
you of anything wrong—only, I was determined
io get the autograph B of every young lady of
my acquaintance, without exception, and
therefore I got yours as well as the rest, but
Without the most distant suspicion that you or
w gister were concerned in the affair.”
“ Of course not—that is to say, politeness re
quires that you should not suspect us. As for
me, I make a practice of judging fieoplA by
their actions— not their words. What you
have done tells tho whole story ; you have our
autographs, you have taken the trouble to in
vent a little story in order to obtain the evi
dence that we arc not the rogues. Now, I de
sire that we may all be exonerated, and I beg
you to wait till the rest of the family come
tome.”
“If you think it necessary, I will be guided
by your judgment, Miss Clarke, though you
may be sure that I shall never darken your
doors again. This misunderstanding sunders
us forever ; as it has given rise to had feelings,
we had better separate.”
“As you please, young gentleman; there has
been no great profession of frieadship between
ns : we were mere acquaintances at the best,
and we are less than that now, since you sus
pect us of robbing you.”
Thus it is, that a shaking up of the bile is
necessary for young ladies as well as for men
and cur dogs, There was little cause for Miss
Clarke’s anger, but it did her good to be angry,
as it also did good to Jonah to exercise his
wrath When his prophecy of the destruction of
Nineveh was not fulfilled. Anger is a natural
emotion, but it not unfroquently leads to se
■erious consquences.
During our conversation, Mrs. Clarke came
in, and looked much surprised, but I hastened
to explain. She agreed with me that there
was no cause for the young ladv’s wrath, and
desired to see the scrap which I had found in
the street. I handed it to her; but it had
scarcely been submitted to ber inspection,
, when she gave a low cry, and turning pale,
. suffered the fragment to tail to the floor.
“ Motherl” cried Jane Clarke, turning pale
ind red by turns, “ what does this mean ? it
jannot be possible that you know anything
about that piece of writing. It is as different as
possible from your stylo ?”
While Sirs. Clarke turned to answer her
daughter, I took the opportunity to make my
self as scarce as ice in fly time. I lacked not
curiosity, but I did not believe that Mrs.
Clarke would throw much light on the subject
while I was present.
Bnt could I over return to the house ? What
Was the mystery ? It could not be that the old
lady herself was the writer of the note ; but
why then had she betrayed so much agitation ?
Even if she knew the writer, why should she
take the matter so much to heart—ber own
daughters were innocent!
If Ijhad remained in tbe house a little longer,
the mystery might have been solved; Mies
Clarke might have said enough to give me a
alue. It was vei*y desirable tbat I should know
where to look for the money duo me. I had
retired, in order to give Mrs. Clarke an oppor
juaity to recover ber telf-jpQaseggion; Vut what
excuse could I have for going back ? There
had been a quarrel between Jane and myself,
and I had told her tbat I should call upon them
no more.
What excuse, therefore, could I make for
going back? It was not to be supposed that
anybody in that house would wish to see me
again. My absence would bo desirable to the
old lady as well as to her daughters.
Still, this was not the time to relinquish the
search just as I had got upon the trail. A
thought struck me. I would write to Mrs.
Clarke and ask an explanation. In that way, I
should avoid the necessity of calling at the
house. , . ,
I wrote a note to Mrs. Clarke, and left it with
a servant at the door. I waited a week for an
answer and received none. My anger was
kindled; I believed that I had been trifled with
—and bad been robbed I I sat down and penned
the following note to the eldest son of Mr.
Clarke : >- ■
"Mb. Kobebt CrnßKE—Wr; lintmilr tbo painful
necessity of troubling yon about a matted of wmon you
may be profoundly ignorant, a crime of which you are,
probably, entirely innocent. Accident put me m pos
session of a note stating that a prize had bean drawn in
the lottery, and that I was entitled to part of the money.
On showins’ the note to Mrs. Clarke, sue betrayed great
agitation. I left the house from motives of delicacy,
and wrote to her for an explanation. Having received
■none, I must ask an explanation from yew, at your ®?. r *
heat convenience. Yours truly,- 4J —. W—.”
I received a note frdm Clarke on the same
evening. It ran thus: ...
“Friend W—Youreibse will receive immediate at
tention. Chasles Lucien Olabke.”
On the next morning early, I was seized and
♦onveyed to a lunatic asylum. Although close
ly watched and guarded, I made my escape,
and employed a sharp lawyer to ferret out the
affair, promising him a portion of the spoils in
case of victory. - ’ - -
My lawyer found little difficulty in discover
ing the age of the note. He said it had been
written some years, and must have come from
an old garret which had been recentlytcleared
out. Accordingly, he sought for and found
such a garret. A house in the neighborhood
of the spot where the fragment was found, had
been recently rented by a merchant tailor, and
cleared out thoroughly from top to bottom.
My lawyer traced back the occupants of that
house till he discovered a Mr. Charles Lucien,
soap-boiler. This man had been well acquaint
ed with Mrs. Clarke before her marriage. Tho
note was written to Lucien by Mrs. C., and the
“G W ’’alluded to, was not mveelf; it
was my father. He and not myself, had, there
fore, been defrauded out of the money.
Having made these discoveries, my lawyer
called upon the husband of tho lady and made
him acquainted with the facts. He was much
astonished, and, no doubt, got a full explana
tion from his wife.
It appeared that my father had been de
frauded of twelve thousand dollars, and Mrs.
Clarke was the guilty person. The lottery
ticket had been presented to her by a mutual
friend of herself and my father, in a careless
sort of way, as he supposed it would draw a
blank. He died of apoplexy just after the
drawing of the lottery; so that Mrs. Clarke and
her friend, the soapboiler, were the only per
sons living’ who knew tho facts. The note be
trayed them.
Mr. Clarke agreed to settle with my lawyer
by paying ten thousand dollars, and I gave the
lawyer one thousand for his trouble.
THE MISTAKE OF ft LIFE,
Paul Martineau was a young physician just
established in Paris. Ho was scarcely twenty
five, but he had passed all the necessary exam
inations with honor. He was: a man of great
refinement and brilliant education. Beside all
this, ho was gay and very handsome. He soon
became one of the most popular men in Paris.
He was sought everywhere, for there was a re
ristless charm in his manner, and life and ani
mation about him which made his society seem
absolutely necessary. Without him no party
seemed complete; no opera, no ball could be
enjoyed by his friends. He was not rich, but
he had juist enough to live well and to keep up
the appearances demanded by his poosition in
society. He was an orphan. He had scarcely
known his mother, for she had died while he
was yet a baby, and his father had died when
he was about eighteen. Battling the world
thus early alone had given him a wonderful
self-control, and had taught him to think deep
ly, observe everything, and Bay nothing. No
«ne who knew him knew his real nature, for he
kept it carefully guarded in reserve, as if wait
ing for its kindred mate, when it would be
recognized. Judging by his usual manner, and
to his acquaintances, hq seemed a calm, mat
ter-of-fact man : and, though he could not have
been called cola, he seemed indifferent. And
he was just the reverse of all this. He was
anything but matter-of-fact. He was romantic*,
imaginative, passionate, and impulsive, and
full of poetic dreams and thoughts; but no one
ever guessed it. Sometimes lie felt weary of
his solitary life, and looked around him to find
one kindred spirit to turn to for sympathy and
comprehension ; but he always turned away
with a sigh, for he found no one. So he went
on from day to day, leading the cold, loveless,
artificial life he had lived thus far. This had
continued for three years now, when he made
the acquaintance of a family named Perselle,
and the dull monotony of his life changed. The
family consisted of M. and Mme. Perselle and
two daughters, Violette and Blanche. Blanche
was the elder of tht> two, and quiet and reserved
in her manner, while Violette was bright and
fay, and flitted about the house like a butter
y. She was short and so slight, with the tini
est hand and foot in the world, that she was
called “Fairy” in her home. Her skin was so
transparent, and she looked so frail and deli
cate, that it seemed as if a strong breath of air
would blow her away. Everybody loved her,
because nobody could help ft. She was only
made to be fondled, and spoiled and protected.
Blanche was tall, but not so slight as her sis
ter, and there was a calmness and dignity in
her manner which made her appear cold. But
she had more heart, more soul, and more
strength ef character than her sister. Violette
was more popular, and her society was more
sought after in the gay reunions among their
acquaintances; but in any matter of love or
sympathy, [is a friend, Blanche would have
been preferred. Jllanche’s education was far
superior to Violette'S, and yet Violette shone to
better advantage abroad, wljile Blanche’s place
was her home. . ~~ ■
M. and Mme. Perselle were very different
from tho people who surrounded them, and,
finding at once in Paul Martineau a congenial
spirit, they became attached to him and soon
their house became like a home to him. Vio
lette took a fancy to him, and inspired him with
the aaige feeling with which she inspired every
one else, lie .never came without bringing her
a bouquet or some bonbons, and, after merely
saying a few words Of greeting to Blanche, it
was always to Violet toy side he wont, and
passed the time in gay Badinage with her.
They always had somsfhing SMCMgo to sav,
and kept up constantly a good-natured Jjattle
of words against each other, laughing like tw<s
cmk'ren. Aii’2 j-it, ill this, hs to
tered into a serious conversation with Violette,
It was only to Blanche that ho spoke of him
self. He seemed to have an intuitive convic
tion that she alone could understand him.
Blanche used to sit by, smiling silently at
their badinage, never speaking until she
thought Violette went too far, and then, with
kind, gentle words, she would often try to
soften the effect of Violette’s saucy speeches,
which she feared would wound him.
Timo passed, and at last Violette was Paul’s
affianced wiie. It was like a dream to him;
he scarcely knew himself how it (fame about.
For a week Violette was absorbed in her lover,
and she could not be induced to go anywhere :
but to- that time thj hOvelty began to wear off,
and she began to miss the gny parlies and tlie
opera, to which she had bfren accustomed; and
now Paul had no rest. She must go out some
where every evening. She was passionately
fond of pleasure and gaiety, and she could not
do without it. Once Paul remoi strated with
her, and offended her. There was a coolness
between them, but Blanche came, like an an
gel of peace, and lestored harmony between
them.
"Paul,” she said, “you must have patience
with Violette ; remember, she is after all but a
silly child. Humor her a little now ; when she
is married she will change.”
“ Well, perhaps you are right, Blanche ; but
I hardly trust you, for you judge every one by
your own goodness, and you always try to
make an excuse for every one.' I only wish
Violette were more like you.”
Blanche blushed, and smiled with pleasure
at the high opinion her future brother-in-law
held of her.
So Paul endured all Violette’s caprices, and
humored all her whims with the heroism and
patience of a martyr for a month longer, and
then they were married. After the ceremony,
when Violette was changing her dross, Blanche
came into tho room, and putting her arms
around her, she said:
“Violette, will you let me say something to
you ? Listen. Now you are married will you
hot give up some of your pleasures, and try to
bo satisfied with your homo ? When you live
with Paul you may discover peculiarities, per
haps faults, in him which you do not dream of
now—for ho is but a man—but you must al
ways love him and be patient, for to endure,
wait and be patient, is woman’s destiny; and
remember, too, dear, that though you made
a vow to-day to love him for all time to come,
this is not sufficient; you must give him con
stant assurance of your love, or man-like, he
will doubt it, and seek that assurance from
other lips than yours. Will you try to do this,
dear? You understand me, do you not? I
am not much older than you, Violette, but
while you have been rushing about in a wild
chase after pleasure, I have watched those
around us, and made a study of human nature.
This is why I speak to you. You forgive me,
don’t you ?”
Violette was silent for a moment, and looked
like a pouting child; but seeing her sister’s
pale, anxious face, her better feelings con
quered, and with a warm kiss she said:
“ You are so strange, Blanche, so unlike oth
er people, and I am not good enough to under
stand your nature, but I think I know what
you mean by what you said, and I will try to do
as you say.”
In an hour they were gone. Blanche stood
and watched the carriage until it was out of
sight, and then went quietly up to her own
room and locked herself is, IShe sank down
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
upon her bed, and during the long hours of the
day she remained there calm, quiet and im
movable as a marble statue ; but in the even
ing, when she came down stairs, her face was
paler than usual, and there were two dark cir
cles under her eyes, but her manner was as
quiet as ever. Several months passed, and
Violette had written over and over again to
Blanche, asking her to visit her in her little
home, but Blanche had steadily refused.
“No, Violette,” she had written. “I will
never commit the error of coming to live with
you, especially so soon after your marriage.
The most imprudent thing a woman can do is
to bring her relations into her husband’s house
—above all, in the first days of her marriage.
■Therefore, do not press me any more now.
Perhaps some day fax off in the future, or, if
anything should happen to you, and I could be
of "use, I will come.”
“What a strange girl Blanche is 1” said Vio
lette, throwing down her sister’s letter. “She
has such odd ideas, and is always afraid of be
ing de trop. Do you know, Paul, I think
Blanche must have some other reason for not
coming to us than the one she gives? for it
seems to me unnatural that she should be so
very decided and firmly persistent in her refu
sal to come hcre.' ! - -
“ Well, Violette, if Blanche has any other
reason, you may bo sure it is a good one, and
probably if you knew it you would say she was
right. Let her have her own way, and hope
that she may come to us one of these days.”
And so Violette urged no more. About two
years later, Blanche received a letter from
"You have so ofton refused Violetto’e request to oomo
to us, that I am almost afraid to hope that I cau iaduco
you to change your mind. But, Blanche, since the birth
of our child, Violatte has not been the same. All her old
fondness for pleasure has returned, and I dare not t hwart
her for she is delicate, nervous, and irritable, and my
best course is to humor her, and let her hare her own
way until she tires oi it. Her home seems to weary her.
You said once that if you could be of real use you would
come to us. Come, then, now, Blanche, I ask you to
come to us. and be the guardian angel of our home, and
save Violette from herself. We went you, Blanche; you
must come.”
Blanche’s heart sank as she read this, for it
was what she had predicted. She sat for a
long time with the letter in her hand thinking,
and saying to herself:
“ I cannot go 1 I cannot go I”
But she reflected that it had become her duty
to go now, and with one deep, secret, silent
struggle, she conquered her scruples, and
wrote to Paul that she would bo with him in a
week.
Blanche’s heart beat quicker as she crossed
the threshold of her sister’s house for tho first
time; but none ever suspected it. She soon
saw with sadness how little attention Violette
paid to her home. She was fond of her hus
band and her child, and in the little time she
passed at homo, she seemed to enjoy its com
forts ; but she hated the least trouble about
either, and rather than be annoyod about them,
she became irritated and impatient- and went
out leaving oven her husband to. the care of
servants. Blanche saw all this, and at the
same time saw that it was no use to remon
strate with Violette, so she turned patiently
from her to the duties which sbo loft undone.
She was thankful that Paul had summoned her
in time to prevent his seeking elsewhere what
he missed at home.
And so, gradually, the care of his house and
his children became Blanche’s special care.
Gradually all was restored to order. His chil
dren wore cared for, and once more became
good and affectionate, and brightened his life
-no ipivlv Un,,;.-o.—Xu- xya.3.always
bright and cheerful, and his children and
Blanche always waiting to greet him with their
warm smiles of welcome when ho returned for
the evening after a day of toil. He had ceased
now to go to his wife for anything he wanted
done, for she, too, had learned to look to
Blanche for everything, and her invariable an
swer was :
“Oh, Paul, dear, let Blanche do it for you.
She can do it better thap I.”
And at last by tacit agreement, Violette was
looked upon as a child. Nothing was expected
of her, nothing required of her but to amuse
herself. She was only to ba petted, spoiled,
and amused; and she quietly accepted this
position in the home where she should have
been tho ruling power and guiding spirit. As
before his marriage, Paul went to Blanche to
talk of himself, now more than ever. To her
he spoke of all his affairs, and to her he con
fided his inmost thoughts, and her he con
sulted whenever he was undecided about any
thing ; and nearly always he was guided by her
advice.
Years passed on, and still there was no change
in Violette. Blanche received all their visitors,
for Violette was always out, occupied with her
own friends. Sometimes Blanehe looked sad
and anxious, and then Paul would say to her :
“ You must not feel annoyed, Blanche, at
Violette. She will never be anything but a
child, and then she is so delicate and frail.
Any care or annoyance would crush her.”
And so time passed until his children were
grown up, and Paul was no longer voung. His
children had learned to love their aunt better
than they had ever loved their mother, and
they knew more of her. She was like an angel
of goodness and peace in that little home, and
to be venerated and almost worshiped as she
was by every one in it, was a compensation to
her for much that she had suffered that none
had ever known. At this time Paul was en
gaged upon a book which required so much of
his time that it necessitated his sitting up at
night.
xuore m ß Usin the Winter which
were too cold for Violette to go oiit., and often
after their late dinner, she and Blanche went
into the library and sat with him while he
wrote. But soon Violette would get tired, and
she would leave the room, saying :
“I am tired, Paul, and am going to bed,
Blanehe will sit up with you.”
The first time this occurred, Blanche arose
hastily to follow her, but he detained her, say
ing :
“ Will you not stay with me, Blanche ?” And
without a word she returned to her seat.
And now it had become a habit. Every night
she sat with him. Ho said she had a quiet in
fluence over him, that aided him in his work,
and Violette ttianked her for it, telling her :
“ Yon see, Blanche, ifr you were not hereto
take my place, I should have to sit up with
Paul, and I should die of fatigue.”
Sometimes when his brain whirled from think
ing, and his eyes ached, Biancid pame quietly
behind his chair, and leaning his hdsd against
her, passed her soft hands over his hefld until
she soothed away the pain, and ho thanked her.
with a silent pressure of his hands. And then 1
she sat by him, and lot him toy with her hand
while he was trying to put some thought into
words.
At last, when his work was nearlv done, and
he had more time for thought, he would sit
idly sometimes for half an hour watching her
as she road, all unconscious of his gazo, and he
began to ask himself what Jiis home would be
to him without her ? She had boen more a
mother to his children than their own had ever
been. She hgd been more to him than hIS
wife. What Would life be to him now without
her ? All thia he sat and asked himself night
after night as he sat and watched her, until
gradually the consciousness came to him that
he loved her better than he had over loved any
thiuu in Hf"- Then he saw that his life was all
wrong—ah a mistake. But it was too late now.
Once she looked iip and caught the expres
sion of his.eyes, and closing her book, she rose,
pale but calm, and quietly saying good night
to him, she left the room.
And now she watched him, and as soon as
she saw that look come into his face, she left
him. Now she knew he loved her as she had
loved him always. They loved each other with
a deep, passionate depth of love such as had
never been between Paul and Violette all their
married life—a love as pure as it was true and
deep, bnt tljgy J?pth Joyed her who stood be
tween them too well to allow one thought of
wrong toward her to mingle with it. Paul
thought of Violette as a victim, though an un
conscious one, to a mistake which ho had made,
but ho had made the mistake and married her,
and he alone was responsible. He owed a duty
to her from which he resolved nothing should
make him waver. Never should she know of
the mistake he had made. Blanche loved her
sister, loved his children and himself too well
to hesitate in sacrificing every feeling of her
own heart to them. But she resolved that
though she never could be more to Paul, she
never would be less to him than she was now.
She would always be the guide and companion
to him that she had been for years.
, And so these two, with an overwhelming love
for each other, kept on the old life, safe in
each other’s strength and honor from all guilt
or wrong. They both knew they loved each
other, but no word of love was ever breathed
between them ; it needed none to tell the tale
so well-known by both. Sometimes those who
were intimate enough, questioned Paul about
his wife, for she never received them ; it was
always Blanche. His children, too, always
went to her for advice or anything they wanted.
All this seemed strange and unnatural to those
who visited, them. To his friends he merely
said :
“ Oh, Violette is too much occupied with her
own friends to attend to mine when she had
some one else to do it for her.”
To his acquaintances he said:
“Mme. Martineau is in ill health, and being
very nervous, she must have no care upon her
mind. Her sister, Mlle. Perselle, is generous
enough to sacrifice her time and devote her
life to her, and aids mo to guard her life free
from all solicitude about anything; and there
fore we encourage every light,'careless amuse
ment that may tend to make her forget her
self and her ill-health.”
And this was sufficient answer to silence fur
ther questioning. How little they knew what
“ Mlle. Perselle” was to him ! Ho was fond of
his wife as he would have boen fond of a child
or a pot to be fondled and caressed; but
Blanche was life, light, hope, joy, all the world
to him. And she knew it, but she never should
hear it from his lips. Sometimes when at
night she lingered to say good night to him,
their eyes met with the same wistful expres
sion of mingled love and regret as to each came
the thought of what might have been; and
then when she had gone, he sank down with his
face buried in his hands, murmuring, in a
voice choked with vain, yearning passion :
“Fool, fool that I have beenl Oh! that
mistake, that mistake 1”
But after a time he became more calm, and
tried to be cheerful as she was, thinking it hap
piness enough to have the blessed privilege of
her constant presence. She was satisfied if she
could continue forever thus, with no confes
sion of loyo helween them, but the instinctive
silent assurance of it, enjoying to its full in
the hidden depths of her heart the joy of his
iresence, without a shadow of wrong, or shame
istween them.
And so the years passed. His daughter was
married, and his son old enough to share his
father’s practice. He loved his aunt as well as
his father loved her, though in a different way,
of course. At last there was a change in
Blanche. She still came to him in the library
at night as usual, but now she grew tired, and
left him earlier. He saw this, and watched her
with anxious eyes. She left him sooner and
sooner every night, and became paler and
paler. One night she said to him :
“Go into the library, Paul. I will come di
rectly. Wait for me.”
But he waited in vain. An hour passed, and
she did not come. His heart beat with a sud
den vague alarm. He went to her door and
knocked; there was no answer. He entered
the room. She was lying on the floor near the
sofa as if she had fallen in a vain effort to reach
it. He threw himself down on his knees by her
sike in an agony of suspense and fear. He
took her hands and called her. But there was
no answer. Cold drops of perspiration start
ed on hia forehead as he placed his hand
on her heart. He was breathless for a mo
ment. Slowly and very faintly he felt it throb
against his hand, anl with one deep sigh of re
lief he gaspod: .....
“Thank God!” ■ "' '
And lifting her in his arms like a child, he
placed her on the sofa. He scarcely knew what
he did, so groat was his joy that she lived. And
as ho looked on that loved, unconscious face,
and thought of it cold and dead to him forever,
his emotion conquered him, and stooping over
her, he pressed one lingering, passionate kiss
upon her lips ; the first kiss of love they had
ever known. She opened her eyes, and looked
at him, but there was no expression of answer
ing love in them, and they closed again upon
all they loved best without knowing it. She
did not know him. He sprang from his place
by her side, and ran to his wife’s room, and
hurriedly implored her to go quickly to
Blanehe. Violette, alarmed, went immediately
to Blanche’s room. She was very ill. For
three weeks she was utterly unconscious, and
Violette, Paul and his child, who owed all but
his existence to Blanche, shared the weary
watching But only Paul know no rest. He
seemed jealous of all other care bestowed upon
her, and insisted on his wife and son resting
oftener than was necessary. Oh, tho long,
weary, agonizing vigils kept over that loved
being, night after night in sickening suspense
and dread. She had been ill nearly a month,
when at last one night she sank into a calm
sleep. He was alone. Every one else slept.
It was the hour they had always passed to
gether, and as he recalled those blessed, happy
ours, he sank upon his knees by the bed, and
with clasped hands, his whole soul went out in
a prayer—not to God—but to her.
“ Blanche, Blanche, it is the hour you used
to come to me,” he said. “You will not leave
this world, you cannot leave me without a word
or a look as of old ? It cannot be that I have
seen the last of those days 1 It cannot be 1
Speak to me—look at me. Let mo see the look
of answering love in your eyes, dearer than all
words, once more, only once more, Blanche 1”
His head sank on his hands, and he shook
with tho wild agony of his despair. Long he
remained thus, wlien suddenly he felt a gentle
touch upon his head liko a summer breeze,
lie started ; she moved, and made an effort to
pass her fingers through his hair. But she
was too feeble. He watched her breathlessly
and murmured softly :
“ Blanche, do you know me now? Do you
hoar me ?”
Her lips moved as if to speak, but no sound
came from them.
“Great Heaven!” he said; “am I never to
hoar your voice again in this world?” Hot
tears rained from his eyes.
With a violent struggle, which brought a
faint color to her cheeks, she at last said
faintly:
“ Yes—wait,”
For nearly half an hour he was silent. Then
she slowly opened her eyes and turned them
upon him with the old love look, and. a faint
smile parted her lips. Ho brushed the hail
back from her forehoad, and smiled upon her
through his tears. Her lips moved, and he
bent down to catch what she said :
“ Paul, lam dying. Call no one; let me die
with you alone, at least. The last hour of my
life is all I shall ever have of love. Paul, I
love you, I have loved you always. Because of
tills love, it is best I should die. You will not
see it at first, but the day will comer when you
will see why it is for the best, for you know,
my darling, we might not always have had the
same courage and self-control that we have had
so far, and then think of Violette and the
children. Beside, our love is too sacred for
aught that is not good and pure to mingle with
it. I am glad I go while it is above more
earthly passion. Be ala-ays kind and tender to
Violette. Good-bye, Paul. If you will only
have the patience and faith to wait, you shall
be with me yet. I shall not bo gone from you.
I shall bo more yours, more with you alone
than I ever was in my life. Remember this,
Pan!, watch for me; I shall come to you.” She
ceased speaking for a moment, and then with
sudden energy she stretched out her arms and
clasped them around him, and murmured
more faintly still:
“ Kiss me once, Paul, one kiss of love.; you
may now, for I am dying.”
His lips touched hers, and all the pent up,
forbidden, passionate love of years was in that
kiss. Ib was the first and last confession of
their love.
Tho clasp of her arms relaxed her eyes
closed forever upon him, and she fell from nis
arms dead.
His agony had reached its climax, his pas
sionate, violent grief had spent itself, and he
was as calm and cold as the. dead. It seemed
as if his soul had fled with hers, and left him
nothing of life but mere existence.
Calmly ho arose and cut a long lock of hair
from her dear head, covered hex face with the
sheet, and went to his wife and told her calmly
what had happened. Not even when ho saw
the cold earth closed over her did he change.
For many weeks this unnatural calm had lasted.
He went as usual every night to his now deso
late library.
One night about three months after her
death, he was alone thus. But this night he
could not write. Since the time he had taken
that precious lock of hair from her head he had
I never looked at it or her picture. To-night
something impelled him to look at them. He
1 sat down in his old seat in front of his table
anu took from the drawer a little box. His
hand 1 i'.'mibled as he turned the key, but he
opened it and took put a little velvet case. In
one side was her picture and in the other the
lock of her hair. He sat like one spell-bound,
and gazed at both a long time. Theft he topk
out the lock of hair, and as he twined its
length around his fingers, he saw the silver
threads in it, and thought that they had come
through care for him and his. Then his soul
rose in fierce i-jbifllion against his fate. He
could not see that Blanche’s death was for the
best. He could not think it right or just. His
faith even in God wavered. Why should she
of all others be taken away? She, who was
the comfort, the blessing and the guide to so
many lives ? She, whose existence was neces
sary to so many lives ; she, who was so loved,
beyond all others.
Why should she be taken when there were
others whose lives were useless to others and
themselves lived on still ? As he gazed upon
her face and thought all this the color came to
his face, his lips quivered, his head sank upon
the table, and he sobbed like a child for the
first time since her death. As lie grow calmer,
ho began to recall her so vividly, and the mi(l
night hours they had passed together, that the
reality of the present was lost in a dream of the
past as the old spell came over him. Ho was
so completely lost to the present and so
wrapped up in the past, that when something
seemed to pass through his hair like a faint
breath, he said: “Is it you, Blanche ? I have
been waiting for you.” Then looking up he
saw her sitting in her old place beside him.
“ I am glad you have come,'for I have been
dreaming that you were dead.” He reached
out his hand to take hers, and though he saw it
close upon hers he felt nothing. His hand
seemed to pass through her. He passed it
backward and forward two or three times as if
he fancied she were playfully trying to avoid
him. But suddenly tho truth burst upon him.
She had kept her promise and come back to
him.
For a moment he was paralyzed with sur
prise and fear, and then a feeling of awe cams
upon him, as if in the presence of something
not of this earth. He saw her as plainly as h e
had ever seen her in life. She smiled and
raising her hand pointed to his pen, making a
sign for him to take itc
He mechanically obeyed her. When some
thing seemed to press his eyes down to close
them. He held the pen over a piece of paper,
and felt it guided without his will. He wrote
without being conscious of what he wrote.
Then his hand stopped, the weight seemed to
be lifted from his eyes, and ho looked at her.
She pointed to the paper, and turning his eyes
upon it he saw something written in her own
hand-writing, and read:
“Mr Loved One—l have come to you, av I said I would.
I have often been with you before thougn you have never
seen me. If my lips were not sealed I would change
your tears to smiles, your sorrow to joy; but only this
much may I tell you : Have faith and patience. All
earth’s sorrow and tears are vain, but these are not. I
know now that all the wrong we do in the world I have
left is set right here, and all the mistakes we make are
rectified. Believe this. I know all you suffer ; I see you
al ways as you go on in your weary, monotonous life from
day to day. Know, dearest, that lam always with you,
every hour of your life ; remember you kre never alone,
lam near and with you. I will come to you often. Have
patience and courage. You will know their worth when
you come to the world where I am.
Your guardian angel and your own loving.
Blanche.
He looked up, but she was gone.
From this hour a calm and cheerfulness
came over him which never left him. Night
after night he sat writing with her picture be
fore him and her hair twined aronnu his hand.
And now she came so often and sat by him,
influencing and guiding his thoughts, that he
had begun to look for her always.
Every one wondered at the change in him.
His writings now were wonderful, and won him
such admiration and applause as he had never
known before. And ho was courted and lion
ized by men who would have thought him mad
if he had*told them of his guardian angel and
his spirit guide.
Donnybrook fair is a good place to
take chances There the Irieh club together.
FAB AWAY.
The land that is very far off.—lsaiah xjadL
Upon the shore
Of Evermore
We spor t like children at their play 3
I And gather shells
Where sinks and swells
The mighty sea from fax away.
Upon that beach,
Nor voice, nor speech,
Doth things intelligible say;
But through our soulfl
A whisper rolls,
That comes to us from far awayj
Into our ears
The voice of years
Come deeper, deeper, day by day 0
• We stoop to hear
As it draws near,
Its awfulness from far away.
At what it tells
We drop the shells
We were so full of yesterday,
v And pick no more
Upon that shore,
But dream of brighter far away, $
And o’er that tide,
Far'out and wide, !;
The yearnings of our souls do
We long to go
We do not know
Where it may be, but far away.
The mighty deep
Doth slowly creep
Up on the shore where we did play |
The very sand
Where we did stand
A moment since, swept far away.
Our playmates all, •
Beyond our call, £
Are passing hence, as we, too, may.
Unto that shore
Of Evermore,
Beyond the boundless far away.
WeTl trust the wave,
And Him to save,
Beneath whose feet as marble lay
The rolling deep,
For He can keep
Our souls in that dim far away.
[From the Freeport 111. Journal. 1
CURIOUS LOVE AFFAIR.
TRANSFERRING A LOVER AND PROP
ERTY—A DECEIVER DECEIVED.
A certain gent, a member of a business firm
in one of the adjoining villages, had for some
months past been “paying his distresses ” to a
Slady, a resident, we believe, of this city.
ts went along very smoothly for some
time, until at last he discovered in some way
that either he was unworthy to possess her or
she him, and made up his mind to dissolve
the “limited partnersnip heretofore existing
between the parties aforesaid.” Of course the
best way for him to do this thoroughly was
to attach himself to some other female secure
ly, when female number one discovered the
transfer of his allegiance to another quarter
there would be no chance to back out. In ac
cordance with this plan of operations, he began
laying violent siege to the heart of another
lady, and so successfully that in a few days
they “were made one.”
In order to give his former flame no chance
for revenge, our hero hit upon the happy ex
pedient of making a transfer of all his property
to his business partner, a man in whom he had
every confidence, so that IL by any chance, the
rejected lady should see fit to institute legal
proceedings to recover damages for the injury
to her feelings, there would be nothing tangi
ble for her to receive. But prudence often
overreaches itself. In due course of time the
disconsolate maiden discovers that the man
she thought her own had “ taken unto himself
a wife,” and much to her astonishment, she is
not the one he had selected to share his joys
and his sorrows. She also makes the discovery
that she is hi a situation probably exceedingly
interesting, but, under the circumstances,
slightly unpleasant. She seeks redress, but in
vain; it is too late. By dint of importunities,
she at last so far succeeds in so frightening her
seducer and bringing him to terms, as to make
him offer his partner SIOO in cash if he will
marry the girl, and thus help him out of his
unpleasant situation. The partner is nothing
loth; ho has not been blessed with an excess
of worldly goods, and SIOO is considerable
money for a poor man. Ho, therefore, consent
ed, a license is procured, and the marriage
ceremony performed.
But now comes the best of the story. Once
married, and her honor secure, the lady, who
does not forget the manner in which she has
been treated, has her revenge. Our hero
thinks that, as everything is amicably settled,
and the law satisfied, he may as well resume
possession of his worldly goods. What is his
surprise on applying to his former partner for
the property, at being informed that the latter
entertains no idea of rellnquisliing it. He con
sidered it a part of the bargain, and, for his
part, is perfectly satisfied that it should remain
where it is. Threats, tears and entreaties are
used in vain. It is of no use. The property
has been fairly and squarely passed over to
him, and he moans to keep it. “All’s fair in
love and in war.” What further steps will bo
taken in the matter we do not know. At .pres
ent the newly married couple are enjoying
themselves “ muchly,” and we noticed them in
town a few days since judiciously investing a
part of their dowry.
(From the Nashville Banner, Jan. 16.]
A MATRIMONIAL RIDDLE.
Our Edgefield neighbors have recently been
■favored with a sensation not less racy than
startling, in the shape of nothing less than a
double elopement. The circumstances are as
follows:
For some two or three months past a family
named Riddle, from East Tennessee, have been
living at Hick’s old brick yard in Lower Edge
field. The family consisted of Mr. Riddle, his
wife, a little son of Mrs. R. by a former inar
riage, and a young lady whose name wo were
not able to ascertain. Here comes in the inevi
table young gentleman. His name is Harris,
and his visits were frequent. Having estab
lished a close intimacy with the Riddle’s, he in
troduced into their Eden a “ Barpint” named
John Lambert. John was sixty-five, and, as
the denoument proved, seductive.
Last Sunday week, Harris and Lambert went
to Riddle’s houge in company. Their errand
was a sinister one. They went to tear Mrs. B.
from the embrace of her unsuspecting husband •
and so the Jattej was informed by Lambert.
Riddle snickered at the idei—’twas a good joke.
But when ho noticed the firm compression of
Lambert’s lip and the ominous glitter of Har
ris’s eye—when Lambert growled out from be
tween his teeth, in the most approved melo
dramatic style, that they had come for Mrs. R.
and were going t® have her, and that if he made
any resistance they would “decapitate” him in
the shake of a sheep’s tail—Riddle realized the
intensity of the crisis, and sprang to the bed
for his pistol. The charges had been drawn.
There was a “ traitor in the camp” Riddle was
betrayed. At this jnneture, Harris, who was
heavy on the muscle, seized and tied him fast.
Forth came the recreant wife, and undid him
with four brief words, “It is too true.” With
imperturbable calmness and a grim sort of
smile, as if she were paying of old scores, she
proceeded to revelations, which filled the soul
of Riddle with any amount of uncomfortable
emotion. In the first place arrangements for
the elopement nad been systematically con
cluded. She was “bound” to go with Lambert,
and the young lady (name unknown) was
bound to go with Harris. The affliction was
certainly a “hard one” for the “old man,” but
she considerately hoped that he would “grin
and boar it.” Lambert had given her some
thing to make her love him—some sweet obliv
ious antidote, and that was the long and short
of it. She had, in fact, been a perfect stranger
to love until she met Lambert, and it would be
very ungenerous of Riddle to stand in the way
of her happiness. The least thing he could do
for all concerned was to let her depart in peace.
Strange to say, this singular plea “set
Riddle,” as our informant states, to “ thinking.”
Such an aggregation of domestic calamity, at
such short notice, paralyzed, as it were, his
powers of action. So he ’took a seat, utterly
subdued, and while he was groping in the dim
recesses of his mind for relief from this great
sorrow of his life, morning came, and with it
the express wagon which was to bear away Mrs.
R. and her luggage. Riddle aroused himself;
he made a last appeal to his levanting better
half, without avail. Lambert’s love potion was
still in “successful operation.” Seating her
self on an ancient cedar chest, the gift of her
first husband, she waved adieu with a yellow
bandana pocket-handkerchief, until lost by dis
tance to the tear-dimmed vision of her de
serted spouse.
At last accoun's, Mrs. Riddle, Lambert, Har
ris, and the “young lady” had embarked for
Carlo, en route, it is supposed, for Missouri,
where a brother of Mrs. R. resides.
Lambert is between sixty and sixty-five years
of age, and formerly lived near Elizabotht’own,
Ky.,but forth. last three or four years has
been in the employ of Mr. Kramer, in Edgefield’.
He left behind him a wife, who is old and
afflicted, beside several children, and we are
informed, grand children.
That husbandi arc false and that women are frail.
Or that men with each other’s wiles meddle,
Is a truth we’ll admit—tlough the wife in this tale
Is an incomprehensible Riddle.
AN EXCITING SPECTACLE.
One of the most marvelous sights ever wit-'
nessed is a herd of wild horses, in full and fiery
march along the pampas of South America.
The tall grass, at the approach of thousands of
eager and impetuous feet, heaves to and fro
like the waves of the sea. Grand as a whirl
wind, yet in the most regular order, the herd
hurries on, the manes flowing like flrgs and
their tails erect like banners. At the head of
the vast triangle, gallops, as a leader, guide
and champion, the strongest horse of the herd.
Behind him, in lines mathematically straight—
far more perfect and unbroken than a cavalry
regiment—and gradually extending till they
reached their extreme length, at the base of
tho triangle, tho most powerful horses occupy
as a guard. In the middle, as most needing
help and shelter, are the foals and their mo
thers ; but still as a portion of the strictly sym
metrical lines. T’uis is beautiful, even if—apart
from tho splendor and the energy—there was
nothing more than an illustration of the infalli
ble geometry of instinct. The spectacle, how
ever, has other admirers beside the gaucho and
the traveler, as they rein in their steeds for a
moment to 'gaze. Above, however, are tho
loathsome vulture and the voracious urubu;
and keeping pace with the mighty cohort of
the wilderness, is the pitiless jaguar. Onward
—ever onward—that cohort sweeps. But one
of. the weaklings, in tho very heart of the trian
gle, stumbles and falls ; and then another.
Yet their more stalwart brethren pause not,
even for an instant, to succor the unfortu
nates. Concerned only that the line may not
waver, they fiiriously trample on them, as if re
joicing to prepare a repast for the insatiable
spoiler. What sin have the weaklings com
mitted. The sin of being weaklings—the sin,
of all things, which nature and man never par
don ; the sin which enrages animals against
those of their own kind, and which drives sol
diers, at cities taken by assault, to expend their
vengeance and madness, not on such as, with
stout hand and stout breast, still resist, but on
women, on little children, on the aged, on the
utterly defenseless.
FAST LIFE IN PARIS.
A correspondent asks: “ Could you guess
who has given the most magnificent fete of the
season thus far in Paris ? A distinguished
member of the Aspasian sisterhood. In a gor
geously-furnished nouse in the Champs Elysees,
she, a few nights back, received between 200
and 300 persons at a ball—the men belonging
to the highest families, or occupying the fore
most places, in France ; the women, young and
pretty (or with pretensions to be both), with
dresses which, for magnificence, must have
realized the wildest dreams of womankind, and
with diamonds that, for number and splendor,
could with difficulty be exceeded by those of a
saloon full of princesses. After these folk had
amused themselves with dancing and flirting,
the ball was broken up, and all retired except
about eighty. For the eighty, a supper, com
posed of fare the most exquisite and wines the
most costly, was provided. And then the party
sat down to baccarat, and it is described as
‘infernal.’ The sums that exchanged hands
were, indeed, almost incredibly large, and the
payment of them will weigh on many a young
man’s fortune for yews to come—without, it
may be, rendering any lasting service to the
harpies who won them. This is the fete which
is proclained the finest, hitherto, of the 1866-7
season. Everybody who was at it is boasting
of his or her good fortune; everybody who was
not at it is dying of envy of the people who
wore. The truth is, that Madame Aspasia and
her like are carrying all before them in this fair
city of Paris. They have long set the fashions
in dress ; have long had the picking of tho very
best society in men; have long had furniture
and equipages equal to the best found any
where ; and now they give fetes that surpass all
others and make all tho town-talk. Though
nominally out of society, tin i really direct and
control it. What will be enclpf all this ?”
gltercUwous
The Last Parisian Dog Story.—
One of tho courts in Paris lately gave a decis
ion in a dog case. It appears that the Baron
ess de Bouclinval was given a little Mexican
dog by her godmother, Queen Christina. There
were but two rivals in Paris of this precious
quadruped; one died, and the other belongs to
the Empress, and if I mistake not, is called
Linda. The baroness’ dog was the size of a
man’s fist. His mistress carried him about
wherever she went, in a basket lined with satin,
which hung on her arm. Madame do Bouclin
val was walking in the park of Neuilly, her
marvellous dog following her, when a work
man, accompanied by a bulldog, passed her.
Ho looked at tho tiny Mexican immediately,
and pointed it out to his bulldog, who under
stood his master, sprang at the little animal,
and strangled it. A sergent-Oe-vilie was look
ing on, and was so indignant that he insisted
on Madame de Bouclinval following him in
stantly to a commissaire de police, where the
man offered her ten francs for her dead treas
ure. The baroness tried to induce him to give
the magistrate one hundred francs for the poor,
as an expiation for his brutal conduct, and on
his refusal, commenced a law-snit, during the
course of which, she proved that she had re
fused four thousand francs at Baden for her
pet. M. Trubert pleaded her case, and suc
ceeded in making his audience alternately
weep, and laugh ; and the result has been that
the jury sentenced the man to pay a fine of
nine hundred francs, which the baroness at
once handed over to the poor-box. The little
dog was of a race that it is almost impossible
to acclimatize in northern latitudes. It was
therefore a zoological curiosity.
Chained to the Oar. —What does
“sending to tho galleys” mean? All know
what tho “ hulks” are : that life would be bad
enough for people who have done no wrong ;
but that life, at its worst, is paradise compared
to what the galley-slave had to go through.
Here they were, five chained to each oar
sleeping likh dogs, huddled together under the
benches, exposed to all sorts of weather, and
dying like dogs from the exposure. The gal
leys were the war-steamers of that day. On
occasion, the rowers were kept at work dav and
night; when they could hold out no longer, the
gangsman walked round, putting a bit of bread
soaked in wino, into everybody’s mouth, so that
he might not have to leave off rowing. But
worse than the hard rowing was the state of
suspicion in which the poor creatures lived.
Out of the complement of 200 marines, 50 were
always ready at a moment’s notice to fire upon
their own rowers; of tho four or five guns which
each galley carried, two were pointed so as to
command the benches. Each galley-slave had
a large cork hanging from his neck. This was
often forced into his mouth when the galley
was going into action, so as to gag him when it
was thought likely he might try to hold some
communication with the enemy. Of all on
board, the rowers were the most exposed. To
shoot down a row of them was the readiest way
ofcrippling the galley; it was just like aiming
at tho screw or the paddles of a steamer aow-a
davs. If a boarding party was thrown into the
galley, there the slaves must sit to be cut down
on their benches. None of the excitement,
Jione of wild joy of battle for them.
A Big Thing in Ice.—An extraordi
nary yarn.— The London Engineer, in the
course of a discussion of the fervent heat with
which the elements composing the interior of
the globe are supposed to be kept in a continual
state of fusion, introduces the following storv,
which has been going the rounds of the French
papers, all of which seemed to absorb it with
edifying credulity as worthy the careful atten
tention of scientific men:—“ Not far from the
Falls of Niagara was a glacier, belonging to a
company who realized enormons profits by the
sale of the ice in the western cities during the
summer months. A few days later than the
Aspinwall explosion, an aurora borealis of
magnificent proportions was observed wheeling
its shafts several nights in succession in the
northern sky, causing two lightning conduct
ors on the top of the glacier (!) to emit long
electrical flamos of a bluish color. In the mean
time a boiling noise was heard inside the
glacier, accompanied with a disengagement of
gas and occasional loud detonations. A cap
tain of militia ventured to enter an opening in
the ice with a light,, when the glacier burst with
an explosion that shook the whole country.
Happily nobody was killed except the unfortu
nate captain, of whom not a trace could be
found. The glacier contained 16,000 tons of
ice, and after the explosion there was a fall of
lukewarm water over a space of 500 yards in
diameter. Tho theory of the cause of the ex
plosion is that the two lightning conductors on
the glacier acted under tho influence of the
electricity as the two poles of a voltaic battery,
and decomposed the ice into a mixture of
oxygen and hydrogen gases, which of course
exploded with resistless power on the intro
duction of a light.
A Turkish Love Affair. —While Dr.
Clarke was in the island of Cos, an instance oc
curred in which the fatal termination of a love
affair occasioned a trial for what the Moham
medan lawyers called “ homicide by an inter
mediate cause.” The case was as follows: A
young man, desperately in love with a girl of
Stanchio, eagerly sought to marry her, but his
proposals were rejected. In consequence of
his disappointment, be bought some poison and
destroyed himself. Tho Turkish police in
stantly arrested the father of the young woman
as the cause, by implication, of the man’s death.
When the cause came before the magistrate, it
was urged literally by the accusers that “ if he,
the accused, had not had a daughter, the de
ceased would not have fallen in love ; conse
quently, he would not have been disappointed;
consequently, he would not have swallowed
Eoison ; consequently, he would not have died;
ut he, the accused, had a daughter, and the
deceased had fallen in love, and had been dis
appointed, and had swallowed poison, and had
died.” Upon all these counts he was called
upon to pay the price of the young man’s life ;
and this being fixed at the sum of eighty pias
tres, it was accordingly exacted.
A Question about JLow-Necked
Dresses. —A female singer in a Londan concert
room writes to the Pall Mall Gazette, asking a
few pertinent questions, which might be ad
dressed to some of our women who have such
a horror of the “Black Crook:” “Can you or
any of our readers tell me why ladies of title
are allowed to wear dresses in ‘ society’ which
the manager of a music hall where I am en
gaged as a singer tells me are too indecent for
his stage ? Like most other members of my
profession, I buy all my dresses from a dealer
in fashionable cast-off clothing. I find that
they are invariably well made, that no fault can
be found with the quality of the material, that
they are l«ng enough, and often too long, in
the skirls, largo enough round the waist, broad
enough ,cross the back, but always so low in
, the D«ek ttet I an bqs allowed to wear
Sunday Edition. Fob. &
lICTC1 ’ feel inclined to wear them without
adding a deep band of lace or silk to cover mV
shoulders. My dresses come from countesses,
duchesses and other ladies who stand well in
the Court Circular. How is that these ladies
can wear dresses sitting on ottomans with gen<
tiemen leaning over them, that I cannot anti
am not allowed to wear on the stage of a music;
hall with ton or fifteen yards space between met
and my audience ?
“ A SINGBB AT THE ALHAMBRA.’*,}
The Mormon Girls. —Richard
lianas, who delivered a lecture at Buffalo, recent*'
ly» on the Mormons, alluded as follows to one
of the disturbing elements among the saints S'
“There is one element among themselves that*
is troublesome. The general testimony of the
Gentiles who have lived in intimate social rela<?
tions with them is that tho young girls (tQ
their honor be it said) are mostly disaffected?
Growing up with it, they have seen tho institu*'
tion with ail its abominations, and, opposed as
it is to all their holier feelings and better in<£
stincts, no amount of spiritual thunder can env’
tirely control them. Here, as everywhere?
they are a privileged class, and cannot veryj
well be whipped or imprisoned. Like most of
the descendants of Eve, they will talk, and ares
ever ready to elope with a Gentile who has thq
courage and can get away with them. Thes
cannot marry a Gentile and remain peacefully,
at home. Very naturally, they prefer a whol®
Gentile to one-tenth of a Mormon. The most!
effectual way of breaking up the whole systems
would be to send an army of 10,000 unmarriedt
there and protect every man who marriedf
and brought a Mormon woman to camp. W®
might in this way get rid of the nuisance with?
out bloodshed or incurring the odium of a re X
ligious persecution.” A
A Fearful Decision. —The Suprfiiiicj
Court of Appeals of the State, has decided, after
solemn argument, that a woman’s—well, wd
must say it if we burst—petticoats do not be?
long to her, but to her husband! Our indig*
nation and amazement at this brutal outrage
on the most sacred prerogatives of the sex arc
entirely too great for utterance. If a'lady’s— 3
what d’ye call ’ems are not her own—what han
she that is her own ? That a man, after so out-j?
raucous a decision, could have the temerity to
enter the presence of his lawful spouse, only
illustrates the fearful demoralization of thd(
times and the hard-heartednoss which a longi
course of unrestrained—but our feelings over?
whelm us. Nothing but an amendment to thq
Constitution offers the slightest prospect of re*
lief. Our duty as public journalists requires us
to notify all the creditors of the Commonwealth
that the skirts of their debtors’ wives are
feet to execution. The consequences of this de4'
cision are interesting if not terrible to con tern
plate—sometimes both.—Petersburg ( Va.) Inf
ciex. g* •
Frightful Outrage in Clark CotJN*
ty, Indiana The New Albany Ledger
that a gang of three scoundrels entered tlid
house of Fletcher Willis, near Union Chapel;
one and a half miles from Utica, Clark county,
Indiana. They did not knock at tho door, but
entered the house without ceremony, and seiz?
ing Mr. Willis, in the presence of his wife, de.
manded his money, threatening to take hji
life unfoss it was instantly. forthcoming. Will
lis at first refused to tell the villains where th«
money was secreted, when they took off hia
shoes and stockings, carried him to the fire <
and held his feet to the coals and flames untill
they were terribly burned. Half frantic nn-»
der the pain of his cruel torture, Willis finally?
pointed out to the robbers where his moneu
was, and they immediately secured it, and then
decamped. The amount stolon by those worse,
than savages was two hundred ’and fifty
. Scientific Marvel. —Newest; aifiislig
what Mr. Tennyson calls the “fairy gifts of
science,” says the London Telegraph, is an inn
vention of a Mr. Hyeit to mase trees imbwe
color while growing. The results wefe exhibZ’
England at the conversazione o#
the Cirencester Royal Agricultural College,
the form of beautiful sections and planchettea
or wood, stained with various hues. Metallic?
salts are introduced into the substance of thtf
growing tree, apparently carried up by the sap?
and forced into the fiber and colls of the stem?
So we can make our forests play the part of
their own etainers and grainers, and cut dptofc'
a nine already prepared to imitate expensive
walnut or exotic mahogany. There is only on®
thing left to desire—that, after being thust
stained, the wood could be induced to grow into
the form of tables, chairs, and wardrobes. Noe
shall we despair of such a result, since ths
Americans have long talked of a machine intd
y° u Put raw cotton at one end, and by*
and-by there emerges at the other a called’
shu-t, hemmed, stitched, ironed, with the buU
tons all on, and neatly marked.
Spanish Brutality.— Lady Herbert;
an English traveler in Spain, a few months
since, at a bull fight in Seville, saw twenty
horses and six bulls killed in two hours and W
half, among spectators “whose delight was}
the greater the more horrible was the state 03
the disemboweled animals. One of the horses,’!
she states, “ belonged to one of the richest gen?
tiemen in Seville, had been his favorite hackJ
and was as well known on the Prado as his
master. Tho gallant horse, disemboweled as
ho was, would not die. He survived one bull!
after the other, though his entrails were hang
ing in festoons on their horns, and finally?
when the gates were opened to drag out the
carcasses of thereat, he managed to crawl away
also, and to drag himself—where'? To th?
very door of his master’s house, which he
reached, and where ho finally laid down and
died.”
■» . 4 :
A. Poetical Pareent. —The editOU
9 1 . 0 Adams (N. Y.) Visitor, thus announces
the birth of his youngest: “Ye who listen with
credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue
with eagerness the phantoms of hope, who ex-£
pect that age will perform the promises
youth, and that * the deficiencies oi the present!
day will be supplied by the morrow,’ heed Dr}
Johnson’s advice, if you will, and ‘ attend to)
this history oi Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia-*
but suffer it not to fill your minds with dig,
oouragement and gloom. For youth is not all
illusion, and the hopes of to-day are not always
buried in the disappointments of to-morrow ;•
else the stalwart boy that oommencod hi<
earthly career one week ago to-day (Wednesf
day) would never been born. Weight,-
eight and three-quarter pounds.” *
Canine Smugglers.— A curious sto*
ry is told of tho way in which Flemish lac®
used to be smuggled into France by means of
dogs trained for the purpose. A dog was caf
ressed and petted at home, fed on the fat of thei
land, then after a season, sent across the fron
tier, where ho was tied up, half starved amf
ill-treated. The skin of a bigger dog was thenj
fitted to his body, the intervening space filled
with lace. The dog was then allowed to esi
capo and make his way home, where he waaf
kindly received with hia contraband charge.
This cruel practice was at length stopped by’
tho French custom house authorities, who do«
tected the unfortunate four-footed smugglers?
No fewer than 40,278 dogs engaged in these,’
transactions were destroyed between tho years
1820 and 1836, a reward of three francs being
given for each.
Amusing Incident of the Stobm.3
This was one of the funny incidents of th®
storm at Boston, as told by the Journal: “ Twa
suburban gentlemen who were obliged to re
main in town on Thursday night, were sought
by their wives, who scouted the idea of beings
stopped by the snow, and set out for the city iuj
company in a sleigh driven by an Irish man-1
servant. They got too fir to return, and found!
themselves snow-bound, but found shelter in «
house by tho road-side. The husbands, mean?
while, had started from Boston together in «.
sleigh, and after many mishaps were compellecj
to halt ior the night in a house the next dooii
to that in which their better-halves were quar-«
tered. Neither party discovered the proxiuiity
of the other, ho wever, until the next morning.’’,
Buffalo Objectionable. —A verdant
Englishman, stopping at one of our up-towtf
hotels, who had never had a sleigh-ride in this
country, or any other, perhaps, went to that
stables of the hotel, the other day, for “ a nice;
thing, you know ; something dashy and tho
proprietor ordered one of the hostlers to givej
the gentleman “ a new cutter, with the naw
mare and a large buffalo.” “Oh, no, none or,
that, now, tny dear fellah. None of your Ame
rican jokes on me, you know. I’m not muchf.
used to that sort of thing, you see. I know?':
you’re a devilish strange set of people out here.,’
But never mind the buffalo. Just leave thaft
hanimal out; and give me an ’orse by ’imiclf.'
He’ll answer. Keep your d—d buffalo for Mo
of your«own Ynnkees.”
■••♦ < ♦ b
Singular Affair. —We are
says the Wytheville (Va.) Dispatch, that Mr..
Peter Butner, a former resident of our
who has contended for a number of years that
he will never die, was thrown into some sort of
a trance a few days since, by which life was tai
all appearance entirely extinct. His belief led
him often to warn his friends not to put hina(
under terra firma too soon, but to keep hig(
body many days, so as to convince themselves
of the fact that he would never die. His warn,
ing was taken, and on the filth day of his trans,
itory state, unmistakable signs of life
in Peter’s body, and in a few hours ho was hiaw
self again.
A Short Honeymoon. —A few weeks!
since, a young German barber of Indianapolis?
led to tlie hymeneal altar a handsome and in 4
telligent girl, to whom he had been paying hia
addresses. The course of true love was not
disturbed by as much as a ripple until a
days ago, when the knight of the razor, on rej
turning home, discovered that his canary bira
had flown, leaving nothing but the empty neat,]
The disconsolate barber returned to hia shop
and put an end to his existence by
half a pint of hair-dye—which dyed his thyoatj
but of which he didn’t quite die.
A man in London, Canada, lost
life at a gams oi pokw, Hjg wfo held tl>»*
poker.

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