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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, August 11, 1867, Image 6

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PAST AND FUTURE.
L count it profitless to nwse and sigh
O’er memory’s record of our buried years;
Were it not best to lay it gently by,
And bid our eyes, while yet unwet with tears,
Look onward, upward: onward to the gray,
Dim haze which shrouds the future from our sight;
And upward, toward the bright, infinite day,
Whose mystic dawn shall triumph o’er our night ?
Well might we sigh and weep, if sigh or tear
Could change the volume in a single page,
Cleanse one foul spot, or soothe one fretting fear;
Well might we weep and sigh, from youth to age,
If sigh, or tear, or prayer, could e’er prevail
To blot the evil from our life’s told tale.
Well miffht we weep and sigh, if that could bring
Back to our groping arms and empty hearts our
lost;
©r win the sun of youthful hope to fling
Its olden brightness on our tempest-tost
And waste heart waters. But it cannot be;
And since it cannot, wherefore should we weep ?
Were it not easiest to trust that He
Who all things past and future ays doth keep.
Will mingle mercy with His dread survey,
And give us strength life’s future page to write
In characters as pure as mortals may ?
yea, we will trust Him, bidding heart and eye
forsake the .past, and look up faithfully,
*-■ ■ ■■
LA TOUR DE NESLE.
DY AN OLfltt ACTOR.
•• Wine—more wine, Orsini—host 1” cried
some workmen, seated at a table in a Paris
tavern, called “ L’Agneau Blanc.”
“Ay, ay, my masters; I’m coming,” an
swered a voice; ana presently entered Orsini
himself,, bearing a bottle.
“ I say, my good master,” spoke one of the
workmen ; “how many dead bodies were there
found this morning beneath the Tower of
Nesle?”
The answer was, “ Three.”
“ Three ? The usual number. And all young
and handsome, I reckon!” added the work
man.
Orsini answered in the affirmative.
“ And strangers to Paris ?”
The host nodded his head; and the same
speaker proceeded, saying that he would give
all he had to know the name of the vampire
that sucked so much brave and courtly blood.
A young soldier, who had been writing at
another table, now addressed Orsini.
“ I will give a good fee to one of your tap
sters, host, if he will undertake to deliver this
note forme.”
“ Your wishes shall be attended to, my mas
ter,” replied Orsini. “Ho, Landri 1” he added,
calling one of his men, to whom the stranger
gave his missive. “It is for my brother, Cap
tain Gaultier d’Aulnay.”
“I can read,” was the abrupt rejoinder.
“’Tis well.” responded Philip d’Aulnay, as
the man left the room on his erand.
“ Well, neighbor,” said another workman,
addressing his companion, “did ye see the
public entry of Queen Margaret and her two
Bisters, Blanche and Joan ?”
“To be sure, I did; and likewise that knave,
Gaultier d’Aulnay,” returned the other, con
temptuously.
“ Who calls Gaultier d’Aulnay knave ?” cried
Philip, turning on the workmen, and drawing
his sword.
“ I do! And I, and I, and I!” answered sev
eral of the men, starting up, and menacing
Philip with their drawn knives.
At this moment, a stalwart man, clad, in the
military costume of the period, dashed into
the apartment.
“ What I” he cried, swinging his drawn sword
about him. “ Ten workmen against one gen
tleman 1 Begone; and learn how to be
braver!”
The men slunk away, and one by one stole
out of the room.
“ Sir, you found me in, and rescued me from,
a dilemma,” said Philip to the soldier. “I
shall not forget the act,” ho added, presenting
his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
“You also are a soldier, I see?”
“Yes ; I serve his gracious Majesty Louis the
Tenth,” Philip rejoined.
“ Are you newly arrived in this goodly city of
Paris ?” was the stranger’s next query.
“ I came to witness the entry of good Queen
Margaret,” answered Philip. “I am from Flan
ders, where my regiment is.”
“And I am from Italy.”i
“I am here to advance my fortune,” said
Philip, frankly.
“ And I for the same object.”
“My brother,” proceeded Philip, with all the
confidence of youth, “is captain of the guard
to Margaret; he is Gaultier d’Aulnay.”
“ Aha! Your advancement is, then, certain;
for I hear that the Queen can refuse your
brother nothing.”
“On that hope, I have just written to him,”
returned Philip. “ May I ask your name ?”
“My name?” repeated the other. “Ihave
two—one by birth, by which lam not known ;
and one by adoption, by which I am known.
The one I now bear is Buridon. I have no
friends at Court—no resources, save what are
in my head and in my heart. I am from the
same country as the Queen. I was page to
Duke Robert, her father, who was assassinated.
The Queen and I together did not then number
the years that each of us may now own. I am
thirty-five years of ago. There exists a secret
between Margaret and myself which will build
my fortune or dig my grave.”
“ The better fortune to you,” breathed Philip.
“She same to thee, young soldier.”
“ Oh, I’ve made a tolerable beginning,” an
swered Philip. “This morning I was followed
by a veiled female. ‘ Sir,’ said she to me, ‘ a
lady, sir, who loves a soldier, has taken a fancy
to you; are you as brave as you are hand
some ?’ I replied in the affirmative. ‘At cur
few time, she will meet you.’ ‘Where?’ In
the Rue d’Froid Mantel. A man will approach
you and will take you by the hand; you will
show him this ring, and you will follow him.
Adieu, soldier!’ She then placed a ring upon
my finger, and disappeared.”
“You will keep the appointment, of course ?”
Baid Buridbh.
“I will not fail in it, be sure.”
“Well, I have been in Paris five days; and,
except Lundri, the tapster here—who is an old
camp acquaintance—l have not seen a counte
nance on which I could fix a trace.”
“Signor Capitano,” spoke a woman’s voice
from without.
“ Who spoke ?” asked Buridon, as Philip
turned aside.
“ 11” replied availed woman, entering the
room, and approaching him. “ A lovely lady,
who loves a soldier, has taken a fancy to you;
are you as brave as you are handsome ?”
“No fear of that.”
“ She will expect you, then.”
“Where —and at what hour?”
" At curfew-tolling, near the second tower of
the Louvre.”
“ I shall be there,” was his reply.
“A man will come to you, and ask your hand;
you will show him this ring, and will follow
Lim. Adieu 1” she added, placing on his finger
a jeweled circlet. In the following moment she
was gone; and Buridon was staring after her,
lost m amazement at her words.
“Isit a trick ?” he asked, aloud. Then turn
ing to PJiilip he said, “Yon vailed woman re
peated to me the very same words availed wo
man had before pronounced to you.”
“An assignation?”
“Worded precisely in the same terms as
yours.”
“A ring, too?”
“Yes.”
“ They are both alike,” added Philip, com
paring the two rings. “ Will you go ?”
“ Assuredly, I will.”
“ They must be two sisters,” said Philip, in
bewilderment. “Ah! here is my brother,” he
continued, as a very handsome young man,
riohly dressed, entered the apartment. “Wel
come, dear. Gaultier—welcome!”
“Anda welcome, likewise, to thee, Philip
d’Aulnay,” Gaultier returned, embracing his
brother. “This gentleman?” he added, re
garding Buridon questioningly.
“Is one who has done me a service which I
shall remember with my life, Gaultier.”
These two brothers were twine—foundlings.
They had been found exposed on the steps of
Notre Dame. They had a red cross marked
upon their arms—their signs of genealogy;
and they loved each other most devotedly.
“ Come, brother, home ?” said Gaultier.
“No, brother; not to-night—l am waited
for.”
“How ! An assignation, and so newly come
to Paris?” exclaimed Gaultier. “Take heed I
The Seine has lately cast up many dead bodies
of gentlemen, strangers to this fair city.”
“ Ha, hal” laughed Philip. “ Good Captain
Buridon, will you go ?”
“ Certainly.”
“ So likewise will I.”
“I warn and implore you not to go,” said
Gaultier, very earnestly.
“But I have promised, brother.”
“ Nay, if you have promised—-But at to
morrow’s dawn ”
“ I will be with you, Gaultier.”
******
The lightning was flashing, and the thunder
was crashing loudly ; but laughter was pealing
in the chambers of the Tower de Nesle, under
the roof of which two ruffians and their minions
were waiting to perform deadly work at the
bidding of a royal mistress.
The queen—her face masked—had just en
tered an ante-room in which one of her hired
bravos was waiting. It was Orsini, the host of
the tavern at the gates of St. Honore.
“Orsini,” spoke Margaret, “are your people
here, and ready ?”
“ They are,” he answered. “ The lights
must be extinguished ; you must to your home
across the Seme, and we must to our busi
ness.”
“ Listen, Orsini; the companion of my sister
—he is the very image of my Gaultier; we
must save him.”
“ Art crazy, madam ?”
“ I tell you he must be spared. He has not
Been my face, and he shall be saved,” she an
swered, in a peremptory manner. “ Open, then,
your gates—sheath your daggers. Be your
hand unstained by his blood.”
“As you will, madam,” Orsini doggedly re- ,
turned, as he left the room.
“ Ah, madam, do I aga’n behold you ’’’-spoke I
» voice at thia inataat; and Pninp d’Aulnay i
lifted the arras, and approaoing Margaret,
knelt at her feet.
“You must begone,” she rephOd, in some
trepidation. “To remain, y=<mld be ruin to me
and death to yourself, pr’eathe not a word of
what has passed b»aeath this roof, even to
your dearest friend. I entreat—l command
! you.”
“ Thy«ame ?” cried Philip, playfully endeav
oring" to remove her mask—“ and one soft
Jjias 1 ”
“Thou must not know my name,” she an
swered.
“But I will know it,” he rejoined, snatching
a gold pin from her hair, and thrusting it
through her mask.
“Sir, you have wounded me,” she said, with
a slight cry of pain.
“ scratch merely, madam,” laughed
he; but sufficient for me to know you when
we meet again.”
Poor Philip had signed hie own death-war
rant; lor Margaret, the Queen, could not suffer
him to live to point her out as the infamous
creature she was. At once, therefore, she
called the ruffian Orsini, and hade him attend
only to her first orders, which was death to the
three hapless men who had been reveling all
that night under th® roof of the tower of
Nhsle.
The man bowed assent, and followed his royal
mistress with a lamp. As he left the apart
ment to Philip and darkness, some one entered
it by another door.
“ ° ff oea there ?” asked the latter.
I,” answered Philip.
“I know the voice. “You are Philip ’d’Aul
nay.”
‘ And you are Captain Buridon.”
Where are we ? h inquired Philip.
Know you the woman who lured us hither,
and who received us ? Have you no suspicions
of their rank?” Buridon questioned, in much
agitation. “I tell you they are high-born
dames. Noted you the care they have taken to
remain unknown ?”
“ There is one who, if I sefe, I warrant I’ll
know her,” Philip rejoined, with a careless
laugh.
“ She unmasked then ?”
Philip explained how he had marked her face
With a golden pin.
“Oh, you have destroyed us!” exclaimed
Buridon.
“ I do not understand you. We are unknown
to them, as they are to us.
“ What is that before you ?” Buridan asked,
going to the window, and dragging Philip along
with him.
“ The Louvre.”
“And flowing at your feet Is—”
“ The Seine.”
°’ er na and about us, the Tower of
Nesle, Philip d’Aubrav.”
“ r lhe Tower of Neslel” shuddered the young
soldier. J °
.^ e Tower of Nesle, whence corpses
daily drift down the river.”
‘‘Great Heaven! and I am unarmed!” cried
Philip. My sword was taken as I entered.”
.-Tvi.? Ilkewis e, was mine,” said Buridon.
Flight alone can save us.”
“ If I fall, you will avenge me ?”
“ I claim as much from thee. Should’st thou
escape, hence to thy brother Gaultier, who has
such power. But stay, we shall want proofs;
we must have writing.”
R ~ nd Y® havo neither pons nor parchment.”
But I have tablets,” replied Buridon, pro
ducing. a set as ho spoke. “ And for a pen,
where is the golden pin thou spokest of ?”
< H . cre >” ro '' urned Gaultier, offering it.
“ ihou hast blood in thy veins—use it for
ink; and write as well as thou can’st by the
imperfect light here at this window, that when
I cry for vengeance, thy brother may believe
me. Write • I die assassinated by Nar ’ 1
will add the name, when I- am sure of it.”
■ “’Tis done,” Philip answered, after a pause
of a few moments, during which he had fol
lowed his companion’s instructions.
“Now let us fly,” said Buridon, taking pos
session of the tablets and the pin. “ Adieu I ”
“Adieu, Buridon,” Philip returned, as he
groped his way out of the room, which was now
feebly lighted by a lamp carried by a man who
had just entered.
“ Now, sir, have you prayed ?” asked the ruf
fian.
h.“ What, Landri?” cried Buridon, recognising
“ My old Captain 1 I’m sorry to see you here,
monsieur.”
“ Hark! what cry was 'that ?” Buridon de
manded, as a loud groan reached his ear.
“It came from a dying man, sir,” Landri
coldly answered.
“ And you would strike me ?” Buridon asked.
“No, Captain, I wouldn’t. But how can I
save you ?”
“This window!” rejoined Buridon, opening
its sash.
“Can you swim, Captain?”
“Ay.”
“ Heaven be your guard, then, Captain.”
“Amen!” responded Buridon, as he leaped
out of the casement, and disappeared.
Captain Buridon was vigorously swimming
across the Seine, when poor Philip d’Aulnay’s
mangled corpse was drifting adown it.
******
On the following morning, Gaultier d’Aulnay
waited in vain for the coming of his brother.
The times were full of strange events, full of
mystery, and Gaultier was filled with anxiety
on his brother’s account.
At length, weary of waiting, Gaultier made
his way to the Queen’s Palace, into the presence
of Margaret herself, who was surrounded by
several nobles, looking brilliant and exquisitely
handsome, although she was past thirty-five
years of age.
“ Ha, Gaultier!” she said, with a sweet smile,
as he appeared, andknelt before her. “ Where
is your brother. ?”
He answered her with a quivering voice, say
ing that he know not where to find Philip, and
that his fears for him were beyond expression.
“Again, madam, below the Place de Seine, the
river has thrown up another murdered body,”
Gaultier added, with a shudder of horror.
The features of the Queen never changed.
She knew that two bodies had been found, and
she was wondering what had become of the
third.
“ All this must surely be the work of fiends,”
a nobleman present observed. “ The city is
rife with blood and terror.”
“Nay, my lord, you infect us with melan
choly,” Margaret said. “ Give tis some amuse
ment this morning.”
“ Under the casement stands a fellow with a
long beard, and a form as commanding as a
mountain poplar. He is a gypsy, as I think.”
said Gaultier, looking through the casement.
“Shall I call him in ?”
“Do so, good Captain D’Aulnay,” replied
Margaret. “We will fathom the valet’s skill,
and lie shall tell us the fate of Monsieur de
Marigny, our Prime Minister.”
The nobles laughed, and Gaultier called to
the man, who soon was ushered into the royal
apartment.
It was Buridon in disguise.
“ The Queen bids you disclose to her Premier
Monsieur de Marigny,” said Gaultier, address
ing the seeming gypsy.
“ ’Tis well,” answered Buridon. “Enguerraud
de Marigny, I wait.”
“ And I listen,” responded the Premier.
“Enguerraud de Marigny, there remains for
you on earth only three short, dwindling
‘‘Three days, fellow!” replied the Premier.
“Thou are most bountiful; for who in this
world can insure himself three hours ?”
“And thou, Gaultier d’Aulnay,” added the
seeming gipsy, turning to him, “ what shall I
say to thee ? At thy age, the past is only yes
terday ; to-morrow, all the future.”
“Tell me of the present, then, Bohemian ”
returned Gaultier, drawing him on one side
and lowering his voice.
“For your brother you’re waiting, and your
brother will not come.”
“ Where is he ?” gasped Gaultier, in terror.
“ A crowd is gathering on the banks of tho
Seine, surrounding two corpses—”
“And Philip?”
“ Haste thee to the Place de Greve, look on
the arm of one of the drowned men,-and thou
wilt shriek out horrorl”
“ My brother, my brother 1” cried Gaultier,
rushing out of the apartment.
The Queen had seen Gaultier depart in this
hurried manner ; but she was ignorant of the
cause of his abrupt withdrawal from her pres
ence.
“ And thou, oh, Queen, askest thou nothing ?”
said Buridon, drawing near her. “ What wo
man is it, Margaret, who would have the night
as black as pitch without, and yet within would
emulate heaven’s fires ? Is not a carcass want
ing to thy reckoning ?” ho added, in a whisper.
“Did’st thou not hope to hoar of three instead
of two ?”
She started guiltily.
‘•Whence hast thou the power of knowing?”
she demanded, quakiugly.
He showed her tho gold pin given given him
by Philip d’Aulnay, at sight of which she put
her hand upon her cheek.
“ Thou seestl know all; thy life, thine honor,
and thy love, are all within my hands. At
curfew’s sound, I shall await thee at Orsini’s,”
said Buridon.
“ I cannot leave the Palace at that hour,” she
answered.
“It is not further than the Tower of Nesle ”
he said, sarcastically.
“I’ll come,” she returned.
“You’ll bring a parchment and a seal of
state ?”
“I will. Who art thou?” she demanded,
peering into his bearded face.
“No matter, Margaret,” he replied. “To
night, then, at Orsini’s, I’ll meet thee ?”
“I’H meet thee there,” she rejoined, dismiss
ing him.
* * * * * *
When it was dark, Queen Margaret, cloaked
and masked, left the royal palace by a secret
entrance, and made her way to the tavern of
her creature, Orsini, who was much surprised
to see her alone, and at such a late hour.
■“Some, one is waiting here for me?” she
said, questioningly.
“Ay, madam,” answered the man, opening a
door, and admitting Captain Buridon, no lon
ger in disguise.
She started violently, and dismissed Orsini.
“You are not the gipsy ?”said she.
“No, madam, I rnn the captain; but if the
captain und ike be one, it is the same.
Beside, t his -dress is more becoming to its mas
ter than the one ne wore this morning,” Buri
do". replied;
“ I am come said Margaret, I
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
, “ Allow me to offer you a chair, madam,” in-
terrupted he, placing one for her.
> “It seems that you are not a Bohemian?”
> she added.
t “lam a Christian; but hope has left mo
> now.”
1 “ Who art thou ?” she demanded, seating her-
self and speaking haughtily.
• “ Who am I, madam ? For tho present, lam
t Buridon. I have yet another name, which thou
mayest some day learn. Thou art trembling,”
■ he continued. “Is it because that in thy
reckoning, as in mine, there wants another
t carcass? The Seine threw up but two this
: morning.”
“ And thjzthird ?” she almost shrieked.
i “Is standing now before thee—living—is
Buridon, the Captain.”
Margaret started from her chair, and grasped
i the back of it.
“May I recount the whole proceedings of
• the Tower of Nesle ?” he asked. “ Listen I
■ There were three women—Margaret, the
i Queen, Jean and Blanche, her sisters. There
were, likewise, three men—Hector de Chev
l renne, Captain Buridon, and Philip d’Aulnay.”
“ Philip d’Aulnay 1” she repeated, in amaze
i ment and horror.
I “ Ay, he it was who asked you to take off your
mask—he it was who stamped that mark upon
I your face.”
“ Then Hector and Philip are dead, and thou
• remain’st.”
“ So it is.”
“Pshaw!” sneered she. “And this sums up
thy shallow wisdom, does it? ‘I will destroy
the queen—the queen loves Gaultier d’Aulnay
—I will tell him that the queen has slain his
brother.’ Well, tell him; and will he believe
thee, thinkest thou ? No. Thou hast my se
cret ; I have thine. ’Tis but to hold up my fin
ger, and Captain Buridon joins company with
Philip d’Aulnay.”
“Be it so; and at ten o’clock to-morrow Gaul
tier d’Aulnay will open certain tablets given him
by a monk, and which upon the holy cross he
swore to open at that hour unless he sees a
certain captain, which captain is myself. As
sassinate mo—he will then open the tablets,
and learn all.”
“And thinkest thou that he will credit thy
writing rather than my words?” she asked,
with sarcasm.
“He will believe his brother’s, Margaret—
that brother’s latest words, traced in bis own
blood—he will believe tho words, I die, assas
sinated by Margaret of Burgundy. Now, will
killing me restore you to safety ? Send mo to
join my murdered comrades in the flood of the
Seine, my secret still survives, and Gaultier
d’Aulnay shall be my avenger.”
“Dost thou ask gold?” Margaret burst forth,
' in great agitation. “Ask thou anything!
Hero—hero is the parchment—the seal thou
bad’st mo bring,” sho added, producing a
packet. “ What are thy wishes ?”
“ Margaret, I would havo gold enough to
pave a palace; I would likewise be first minis
ter.”
“ Gold thou shalt have,” she answered; “but
thou knowest that Marigny is our Premier.”
“ Well, I would have his title and his place,”
answered Buridon.
“That cannot be without his death.”
“No matter; I tell thee I must have his title
and his place,” persisted he.
“ They shall both be thine.”
“ That is well. To-morrow, nt ten o’clock, I
will take back my tablets and give them to you.
The order to arrest Marigny ?”
The queen then went to a table on which
were writing materials, and wrote and signed
the arrest of her Prime Minister—of a man
who was full of virtue and goodness.
“There!” said she, giving the parchment,
without bestowing even a thought upon the
wicked injustice of her act.
Then Buridon took his leave, and the queen,
resuming her mask, sped back to her palace,
where Gaultier d’Aulnay was impatiently await
ing her.
“Oh Margaret, pity me I” he cried. “My
brother has been murdered.”
“ Murdered 1” echoed she ; “ by whom ?”
“Nay, heaven can tell! Let" all search be
made 1”
“Be thou comforted, my Gaultier,” she re
plied, caressing him as she spoke, and feeling
the tablets in the small wallet he carried by
his side. “What hast thou inhere?” she in
quired, taking the embroidered wallet in her
hand.
“ Merely some tablets, Magaret,” he replied
carelessly.
“ The records of thy love triumphs, no doubt,
Gaultier d’Aulnay,” returned she, with pre
tended jealousy.
“ Margaret, Margaret!” he burst forth, in an
agony of grief; “my brother’s blood is crying
out tor vengeance; is this a time for fove and
jealousy? I had the tablets from a stranger.”
“ I won’t believe you,” she said. “ The king
comes home to-morrow—he must not find you
here—he may suspect. I demand your ab
sence, you and your tablets both.
“ Thou thinkest they come from some wo
man ?”
“I am sure on’t,” she answerad; “ else thou
had’st shown them to me at once.”
“But I have sworn they sjiall not quit my
hands until to-morrow.”
“ And what oaths have I not broken for thee,
Gaultier? I have forsworn both heaven and
earth for thee. But words are useless : the
tablets, or we part for ever.”
“ You will return them to me before ten to
morrow ?” ho asked, reluctantly taking them
from his pouch.
“I will not keep them a minute,” she eag
erly rejoined, playfully snatching them out of
his hands, and carrying them to a lamp to ex
amine them.
With trembling fingers the Queen turned
over the pages of the tablet. Presently, hav
ing extracted what she required, she returned
them.
“ I did thee great wrong,” she said, in soft
tones, that bewildered Gaultier’s senses quite.
“No woman gave them to thee. We will not
separate—l will brave the King’s suspicions— I
will brave all for thee.”
“But Philip?”
“Search has already been made, and sus
picion falls on a stranger, whose name is—is
Buridon.”
“ Ha 1 an order for his arrest, Margaret 1” he
cried impatiently.
She turned in triumph to a writing-table, and
wrote the order for the arrest of Captain Buri
don, which ohe placed in the hands of Gaultier,
who at once rushed away in search of his re
venge.
On the following morning, Buridon sought
Enguerraud de Marigny, whom he found in the
court-yard of the Palace, arrested him, and at
once ordered him to Mount Faucon, there to be
executed.
The Premier was a good man, and Captain
Buridon felt some severe pricks of conscience
as he watched him—all innocent as he was—
dragged away.
Scarcely hud he disappeared, when Gaultier
d’Aulnay, and four guards, came upon the
scene.
“ You are accused of the murder of my poor
brother, Captain Buridon, and I arrest you in
the Queen’s name,” said Gaultier. “Your
sword 1”
Buridon stood for a few seconds almost
speechless with amazement. He then pre
sented his sword, and asked for his tablets.
Gaultier hesitated m some confusion, then
returned them.
“Perdition!” exclaimed Buridon, examining
them.
These have passed into the hands of the
Queen! One moment, by fraud, surprise, or
force, these tablets have left your hands, Gaul
tier d’Aulnay!”"
“ I do confess it.”
“That instant was sufficient to arm her with
the power of defiance,” returned Buridon.
“You have destroyed me—my blood be upon
your head! You see this torn leaf?” he added,
showing the tablets. “Well, upon that leaf
was written by your brother, and in your broth
er’s blood ”
“Oh, say—say what was thereon written?”
Gauldier broke forth, entreatingly.
Buridon shook his head. “No matter now,”
he replied. “ You would not believe me, for
the leaf is gone. Oh! you are a blind, mis
guided fool!”
At this instant, a window of the Palace
opened, and the Quden herself stepped out into
the balcony.
“Oh, but tell me what there was on 'the
loaf?” entreated Gaultier, in frantic syllables.
“ There was ” commenced Buridon.
But the Queen’s voice spoke at this moment,
and he remained silent.
“ Conduct your prisoner to the grand chate
let,” said Margaret, addressing the guards,
“and there let him be bound hand and foot!”
“ There was, ‘ Gaultier d’Aulnay is a man
destitute ofhonor and good faith, who could
not for a single day preserve the trust in him
confided’—that was what there was, false
man!” Buridon returned, in reproachful ac
cents. “Well played, Queen Margaret,” he
added, within himself. “So much for the first
stake! The second shall be mine—at least, I
trust so 1”
And saying this, he was marched away by
the guard.
* * * * * *
In an underground dungeon lay Captain Bu
ridon,-all his limbs bound with strong cords,
his mind full of bitter thoughts against the
treacherous Queen, who had so cruelly de
ceived and wronged him. Presently he started;
the key was turning in the lock of his cell-door,
and in another moment the man, Landri,
showed himself.
“ It’s I, my master, and a flask of wine,”
spoke he. “ The tqynkey’s daughter and I are
to be married, captain—so, at least, the poor
thing flatters herself—and so she opened your
prison door to me; do you see ? Ha! ha 1 I’ve
not forgotten, captain, that you once saved
me from the drummer’s lash ; so, as one good
turn deserves another, I’ve brougnt you some
wine.”
“ Ah, good fellow, good fellow!” exclaimed
tho prisoner. “Dost think thou can’st save
me ?’’
Landri shook his head.
“Can’st furnish mo with the means to
write ?”
“ No, that I am afraid I can’t.”
“ Can’st thou thrust thine hand into my
pouch, and take ont of it a purse of gold ?” Bu
ridon added, a spice of sarcasm in his tones.
“Ay, that I can do, captain,” Landri an
swered, at once doing as he was directed.
“ See what’s in the purse,” said Buridon.
Landri examined its contents, an answered :
“Three marks of gold.” ’ i
“A sum which thou could’st not earn in 1
t iTOfity years, Landri.” ~r -e
“ That’s true, my master.”
“Well, sweir on your soul to do what I re
quire, and the contents of that purse, which is
all that I possess, shall be yours. If I lose my
head, which is likely enough, the executioner
will have to take care of my burial; if I escape,
which is not impossible, you shall have four
times that sun, and I a thousand.”
Landri listened attentively, his eyes fixed
longingly on the purse.
“ What cai I do, Captain ?” he asked,
eagerly.
“ Hearken,” saidßuridon. “ Quit the prison,
haste to the tavern of Pierro de Bourges ;
there I lodged; ask for the chamber of the
captain, and vhen once there, count the stones
from the corner where stands the crucifix ; on
tho seventh you wil} see marked a cross, raise
. it with your poniard, and you will find a small
iron box, of which the key is in that purse ; you
’ may open it, to make sure that it contains
papers, and rot gold; and then to-morrow—if
i before the entrance of the king you do not see
me safe and sound—if I say not to you give
■ back that box and key, you will give both to
Louis, King cf Navarre. I shall be dead, but I
shall be avenjed. There, that is all—my soul
will be at pea:e, and to you I shall owe It.”
"I will perform your'bidding, Captain,” the
i man answered.
“ Go, Landri.”
i “ I obey, my master," returned he, putting
the purse away, and leaving tho cell, the door
of which he made fast behind him.
' “Now the executioner may come,” cried
' Buridon. “I care not, for I shall leave my
’ vengeance behind me.”
i An hour or more had elapsed since the de
i parture of Landri, when the prisoner once
■ more heard the key turned in the lock of his
■ dungeon door, and a woman’s voice, which he
i recognized as that of the queen.
Buridon’s heart began to wildly palpitate.
Margaret, attended by her creature, Orsini,
i stood before him.
> “ Put down the lamp, Orsini, and leave me ;
, but, at the slightest call, return,” said she.
The man withdrew.
i “ Did you expect me ?” she demanded of the
prisoner.
“ I hoped, but scarcely thought thou would’st
, come,” he answered. “But thou hast said:
‘He shall not die until I have fully enjoyed my
triumph.’”
i “ Thou hast humbled mo to fear,” she went
■ on, her eyes flashing, her lips scornfully
curling; “and when once I havo feared,-I
never forgive! Thy schemes were well con-
i tnved, but thou did’st forget that thou had’st
■ to cope with the superior wit of Margaret
of Burgundy! Here,” added she, drawing forth
from her bosom a paper, “is the valued page
that was to rum me—a brother’s last farewell
to another brother! See it by the rays of tho
. lamp,” she continued, stooping and thrusting
it into the flames, where it was quickly con-
■ sumod. “So thy last hope has perished! Now
I have full freedom to work my will upon thee!
Thou art supposed to be the murderer of Philip
; d’Aulnay I Knowest thou what is done with
murderers ?”
“But,” replied Buridon, “I must first be
judged by a tribunal.”
“A tribunal!” laughed Margaret, jeeringly.
“Art thou gone crazy quite? With secrets
such as ihou possesses!, and talk of a tribunal!
No; when a man as dangerous to me as thou
art is once arrested, he is thrust into such a
dungeon as this, and bound as thou art bound ;
and at midnight cometh a ruffian and a priest;
the priest corneth first, and when the holy man
is gone, there cometh the man who is not holy;
and on the following morn, when tho jailor
opens the door, lie quickly flies back in terror,
and says that the prisoner, to avoid a public
death, has died by his own hands, even by
strangulation.”
“Ha, ha! Good, Queen Margaret!” laughed
Buridon. “ You deal frankly with me.”
“ Ah, thou wouldst laugh and jeer, but thine
heart is sad and aching within,” returned she.
“What more hast thou to say?”
“Lot me narrate to thee a recollection of my
youth,” said he. “It was twenty years ago, in
1293, when Burgundy was happy, under the
rule of Duke Robert, the second of that name.
Duke Robert had a daughter young and beau
tiful, but with a demon’s soiil; and Duke Rob
ert had likewise a page, young and handsome,
with a warm, candid heart; he was called Lion
net of Bourmonville. The page and the young
girl loved each other.”
Margaret’s breathings were fast and labored,
but she did not utter a single word.
“Ay, they loved each other,”continued Buri
don, watching the expression of his listener’s
face—“loved each other unknown to all the
world, till one day the duke’s daughter an
nounced to her lover that she was shortly to
become a mother.”
Margaret was shivering in every limb.
Buridon now asked her to cut one of the
cords that bound him, and Margaret, with her
dagger, did so.
“Thanks; that is better,” he said, changing
his position. “ But to my tale. There was
Ah, I rjmember! Well, in eight days more,
the secret was no longer one, and the duke in
formed his daughter that on the following day
the gates of a convent should open and close
upon her for ever. Night reunited the lovers.
On, what a night was that—a night full of tears
and curses! Margaret,” he added, suddenly
breaking off, “remove these cords.”
She silently obeyed him, and he went on.
“She wore a dagger by her side, even as you
do now, and she said, ‘ Lionnet, if now, before
to-morrow, my father were to die, wo should
hear no more of a convent, or of separation -
’twould then be only love.’ I know not how it
was, but Her dagger passed from her hands to
those of Lionnet, and in a few moments more
the armed page and tho sleeping duke were ap
posite each other. Ah, ’twas a noble face that
sleeeping duke’s; tho assassin has often since
been haunted by it in his dreams, for the base
wretch slew him. But Margaret did not enter
a convent; she became Queen of Navarre, and
afterward of France ; and, for the page, Mar
garet sent him a letter by one Orsini, suppli
cating him to depart from her for ever. She
was imprudent, was she not ? For that same
letter was in her own handwriting, and detailed
the crime in all its horrors. Margaret, the
Queen, would have acted differently from that
young girl.”
“Well,” returned she, “Lionnet returned
not; no doubt he is dead, and the letter’s lost
or burned. What has this story to do with
me?” she added, gradually approaching Buri
don, and examining his features one by one,
with shuddering earnestness in her gaze.
“Nay, nay! Lionnet de Bourmonville is not
dead—you know he is not—else, wherefore do
jour?lips blanch and quiver as you recognise
“ And that letter 1” she gasped.
“Will be the very first placed in the hand
of Louis, King of France, on his entry into
Paris I”
“ You say this to terrify me,” she said. “ Why
did you not employ this weapon at first?”
“ I was too wise to do so. I reserved it for a
fitter occasion.”
“But the letter?” she repeated.
“Another service, Margaret,” he said, not
heeding her question. • ‘ Release me from these
chains.”
She did so, and Buridon’s limbs were set free.
“ Well, thou knowest me ?” he continued. “ I
am Buridon no longer, but Lionnet de Bour
monville, the page to Margaret, the assassin of
Duke Robert.
“ What, oh, what dost thon ask of me ?” she
cried, her hands clasped tightly together, her
voice hoarse in its sound.
“ To-morrow you will enter Paris at the right
hand of Louis ; I would be on his left; together
will we meet him.”
“Be it so,” the queen answered hollowly.
“ But that—that letter ?"
“ When it is presented, I will take it. I shall
be First Minister,” said he. “ One question
farther. What became of the offspring of Mar
garet of Burgundy and Lionnet of Bourmon
ville ?”
“ Two sons were born to her, and those sons
were entrusted to—to Orsini.”
“What, ho, Orsini!” shouted Buridon.
The man thus summoned appeared in an in
stant.
“ To-morrow I shall be First Minister,” spoke
Buridon. “ TcM him so, good madam.”
“ It is so I” she said, stifly.
“.And the first act of my power shall be to
question upon the rack one Orsini, who was
formerly in the service of the Duke of Nor
mandy,” added Buridon.
“Why, my good lord?” asked the ruffian.
“To know how he performed the instruc
tions he received from Margaret of Burgundy,
relative to two infants. What did he with
them ?”
“I could not kill them, my lord, so I gave
them to another to expose on the steps of Notre
Dame, and I said that they were dead.”
“ Who was that matt ?” Buridon demanded.
“ Landri.”
“ Take up the lamp and light the way, while
I conduct the queen,” added Buridon, present
ing his arm to her.
“Where go you?” she asked, in bewilder
ment.
“To a royal meeting with Louis the Tenth,
on his entry into Paris,” answered he, leading
her out of the dungeon, as he spoke.
* * * * * #
Robed in his ministerial garments, Buridon
was present when the queen received her hus
band, and into his own hands he took the let
ter Landri had been sent for ; that letter which
Margaret so much feared meeting the king’s
eye.
With jealous looks, Gaulter d’Aulnay regard
ed the new-made Premier—the man whom he
looked upon as the murderer of his brother.
“Why had Buridon’s head been spared the
ax, and wherefore had he been thus exalted in
position ?” Gaultier asked himself.
The young soldier sought the queen, deter
mined to demand from her an explanation of
these strange matters; but Margaret kept
aloof, and he failed in obtaining an interview
with her.
He had received letters patent from the king,
giving him tho entire command in the province
of Champagne, with orders to quit Paris on tho
following day; and now he sent to Margaret a
special messenger, praying that she would
suffer him to take a grateful leave of her. At
which, she accorded him a meeting in one of
her private apartments.
Gaultier was almost frantic, and he reproach
ed the queen most bitterly, and vowed that he
would not quit Paris for all the kings in Christ
endom.
She tried to pacify him, telling him that his
majesty had insisted that Gaultier d’Aulnay re
mained no longer at Court.
Sut the ypuug eoldier vm apt «atisfiod wiifc j
Margaret’s explanation, but she dismissed him,
promising that she would tell him more on the
morrow.
Scarcely had Gaultier d’Aulnay quitted the
presence of the queen, when Buridon present
ed himself before her. He had seen Gaultier
issue from the queen’s apartment, and he de
manded from her wherefore the young soldier
had been there.
“Had he been to bid her farewell?” Buridon
asked.
“No! What need of his bidding her fare
well, since he was not going away?”
“Not going away?—Gaultier d’Aulnay not
going away ? Had not the king decreed that
he should go ?”
“Ay, but the queen had forbidden him..
“Had she forgotten the compact between
them ?” Buridon next inquired.
“ No, she had promised to make him Prime
Minister, and such she had made him.”
“ She surely forgot that she was still in his
power ?”
Slid Answered that she did not fear him.
“ She loved this Gaultier d’Aulnay tender
ly ?” Buridon said.
“Ay, dearer than she loved her own life t”
was her reply.
“ Then she was better than he had thought
her. Margaret would not have him go, then,
this young and handsome soldier?”
“Not for worlds.”
Buridon mused. He was jealous of Gaul
tier’s influence over the queen, and a dreadedlest
he might interfere with him in some way or
other. He had a project of revenge in his
brain—of revenge against the foul Margaret of
Burgundy; but as yet he had not determined
how he would carry out that project. He was
fully aware that she was only waiting for some
fitting opportunity to crush him everlastingly ;
and if possible, he was wishing to be before
hand with her, and to crush her.
His life was not his own while Margaret
lived.
; He now feigned affection for her, and en
treated her to accord him a private meeting at
the Tower of Nesle. where, in return, he said
he would give into her possession all her let
ters to him.
'< Margaret’s eyes flashed exultingly.
“Would Buridon meet her there?” she
asked.
“Ay, he went there once, not knowing what
; awaited him,” he answered.
Margaret pretended to be delighted, and
gave him the key of the secret entrance to her
night alcove.
- She congratulated herself on having him en-
- tirely in her power, and she vowed that this
time he should not escape her. She sent to
her minion Orsini, giving him instructions to
have with him at the Tower of Nesle four
armed ruffians.
In the meantime, Buridon sought one of the
■ captains of the guard, and telling him that the
king had heard of the numerous mysterious
massacres which had lately taken place in
' Paris, and that he had good reason to suspect
that a band of ruffians would meet at the
Tower of Nesle that night, gave him orders to
1 repair thither at nine o’clock with armed men,
and to arrest all that he might find, regardless
of their rank and title.
1 Buridon next encountered Gaultier d’Aulnay,
who straightway began' to reproach the new
made minister with the murder of poor Philip.
' “Nay, Gaultier, the saints are my witnesses
that Bam guiltless of that inhuman deed. But
I will acquaint you whose hand it was that
robbed your brother of his life,” replied Bu
ridon.
“ I cannot stay to listen to you now; I would
see tho queen,” Gaultier said.
“Thou shalt see her, but not at the Lou
vre.”
“Where then?”
“I’ll tell thee by-and-by,” Buridon returned.
“ How did Margaret answer thee, when thou
did’st ask her touching the wound upon her
face ? There, read a little of thy beloved one’s
history!” he added, giving Gualtier the letter
she had written to Lionnet de Bourmonville.
“This is a devilish deceit!” cried the young
soldier, after he had perused the sheet.
“ Thou knowest the color of her hair ?” con
tinued Buridon, displaying one of the queen’s
tresses.
•‘Her writing, and a lock of her hair!”
Gualtier exclaimed, in great excitement. “But
thou mayest have forged this letter, and cut
that tress away by foul surprise.
“ Ask her thyself. I said that thou should’st
see her, and that thou shalt this very night 1”
returned Buridon. “I have an appointment
with her, but I will give my place up to thee.”
“Where does she wait!” impetuously asked
the young man.
“At the Tower of Nesle. Here is the key
that will admit thee by any of its doors,” Buri
don said, giving his companion the key fur
nished him by Margaret. “Yet another word
with thee,” added Buridon. “It was Marga
ret of Burgundy that slew thy brother 1”
“Perdition!” exclaimed Gaultier, rushing
away.
“Ha, ha!” broke forth Buridon; “go thou
and join her. This is as it should be! The
guard will make strange prisoners, methinks!”
“ Save you, good captain,” said Landri, at
this moment appearing.
“ Well met, my man,” returned Buridon. ‘* I
would speak to thee of certain children, Lan
dri—two children that Orsini ”
“Ay, I remember, captain—two pretty in
fants that Orsini bade me throw into the river,
but which I exposed on the steps of Notre
Dame.”
“ What became of them ?”
“ Nay, I know not, captain; but some one
took care of them, I’ll be bound.”
“Didst mark them with any sign by which to
recognize them ?” Buridon next inquired.
“ Yes, captain ; I made a cross with my pon
iard on their shoulders.”
“ A red cross on the left shoulder, Landri!”
exclaimed Buridon, in great agitation. “Oh,
say not that it was a red cross on the left shoul
der—say any other sign!”
“It was that, and none other,” returned the
man; “ and on the left arm, too.”
“ Great powers! the one dead, the other about
to die—one by her hands, the other by my
own !” Buridon cried, mentally. “ Landri, Lan
dri,” he continued, “ where can we get a boat ?”
“ Of a neighbor, a fisherman.”
“A ladder, a sword, and follow me,” said
Buridon, hurriedly.
“ Whither, captain?”
“ To the Tower of Nesle!”
******
The queen had already arrived at the tower,
and so likewise had her creature, Orsini, to
whom she was giving certain instructions.
“ This shall be my last work of death ; neces
sity commands it, and we must obey,” she said.
“While Buridon lives, I am neither queen nor
the mistress of mine own actions. He knows
our secrets—our nightly massacres—and he
must die!”
“By which way will he enter, madame ?”
“Up that staircase,” she answered.
“Good! there shall I place my men.”
“ Hark! I thought I heard the dipping of an
oar in the river.”
Orsini went to the window, and looked out
upon the moonlight scene.
“ A boat, madame, with two men,” said he.
“One of whom is he—there is no time to be
lost!” she observed. “Shut tho door on the
outer side, and take away the key—l cannot see
him die. Away!”
Orsini at once disappeared.
As he did so, the window-sash was forced
open from without, and Buridon sprang into
the apartment.
“Have thou no fear, Margaret—it is only
Buridon,” said he, seeing her recoil in affright.
“Why came you by the windbw, when you
have the key of the door asked she. .
“ Thou hast naught to fear. Ido not come
to threaten-, but to inform thee that days of
happiness are yet in store for us.”
“ What meanest thou?”
“Lives not the recollection in thine heart
that thou wast once a mother ? Art thou so
close and impenetrable to all the feelings that
man and Heaven hold sacred?”
Margaret’s eyes flashed disdainfully.
“Nay,” proceeded he, “forget all that has
passed between us within the last four days—
remember only the confidence that once re
posed in me; and say, is there no sentiment
within thy soul that thou would’st repose upon
another ?”
Margaret flung up her arms with a cry of
bitter despair, and went on.
“Margaret,” he said, with emotion, “one of
your children you saw at your feet, imploring
for tne very life you had imparted—the mur
derer’s dagger was glistening over his head,
and your voice cried ‘ Strike!’”
“ No, no !” she shrieked out—“ impossible !
Where—where ?”
“Here, upon the very spot on which we
stand!” he answered.
“ Philip D’Aulnay 1” she screamed out. “ I
am struck with Heaven’s vengeance !”
“Thou knowest the fate of one, Margaret;
and for the other Gaultier, his mother’s
lover 1”
“No, on my soul, of that we are both inno
cent, and I can still call him my son 1” returned
the wretched woman.
“ Now is Buridon thy foe?”
“No ; for thou art Gaultier’s father,” she re
plied, earnestly.
“ Where is my son ?”
“He will soon be here.”
“Here! here!” she cried, in sudden terror.
“ I have given him the key, and he will come
by that staircase.”
“Horror, horror!” she exclaimed. “On
those stairs I have placed a group of ruffians,
who will murder him!”
Buridon heard no more, but rushed to the
door communicating with the stairs ; but the
stout oaken panel resisted all his efforts—it
would not give way a jot.
“Strike not, Orsini, strike not!” called out
the queen, frantically beating her palms upon
the door, which quickly unclosed, admitting
Gaultier d’Aulnay, streaming in blood. He
dropped dead at her feet.
“Demon of cruelty!” burst forth Buridon;
“ thou hast destroyed the only hope that
Heaven had left us! Thou hast slain my boy—
would’st have slain me I I loathe, I abhor
thee ! Bare well forever!”
As he finished speaking, a party of the king’s
guards entered, and Buridon and Margaret
were instantly seized and conveyed to prison,
whence they emerged not until "the day when ;
the block and the ax were in readiness for j
them.
A Boston paper thinks these are
growling about the
EVERLASTING FLOWERS.
I send thee but a simple gift,
A little bunch of dry, crisp flowers,
Still rainbow-colored, though ’tis long
Since sunshine fed them, or the showers.
Mere phantoms of those thoughts of love
Whose flying seeds from Eden blew;
God’s hand in pity sent them forth,
If Talmud legends are but true.
Dear, promise me that, when I’m dead,
You’ll press within my clay-cold hand
The same bright everlasting flowers;
I’ll bear them through the Silent Land,
I shall not need remembrances
Of fhee, my own; but still I’ll keep
These always with me through the dim,
Sad shadow of Death’s long, long sleep.
Dark waters, in thy blackest gulf—
Dark valley, in thy ghastliest cleft,
I’ll guard these flowers, the types of love,
Though nothing but these flowers be left.
Come flame and torture for my sins,
Or Mercy ope the golden portal,
Still, still I’ll grasp those changeless flowerfl,
To prove my boundless lovq immortal.
A Singular Reformatory Village.
—Some British officers in India have success
fully tried a novel expedient for making the
idle and vicious in districts under their control
become honest and industrious members of the
community. The experiment was begun in
1860, in the Punjab. Through the instrumen
tality of the police those persons in the various
Villages who had rendered themselves obnox
ious by thieving or begging were placed in a
village by themselves, where land was given
.them, wells were sunk, and they were furnish
ed with agricultural implements. They were
then informed that they must henceforth de
pend on their own exertions; and that, wheth
er living- comfortably by their industry or dy
ing with hunger from their idleness, they would
not be allowed to quit the spot where thej had
been placed. At first, as may be imagined,
there was great grumbling, much turbulence,
and many threats ; but when the men found
that these were ail in vain, and that the Gov
ernment intended what it had ordered, they
gradually took to their work, and after a time
settled down into a peaceful and industrious
little community. They have acquired a pride
in their cottages and allotments, are better
clad, more cleanly in their habits, and in every
respect much altered for the better. Indeed
they have become so reconciled to the change
in their mode of life, that they one and all de
clare that they have no wish to return to their
former career. In another case a predatory
tribe were compelled to settle and cultivate
under penalty of the lash, and at the end of
two years the officers were invited by their re
claimed thieves, burglars and fortune-tellers to
a feast on the produce of their farms. The
Sandwich Island Government has adopted the
same system in regard to tne lepers on those
Islands, who have been colonized by them
selves, and are obliged to cultivate the ground
for a subsistence.
A Touching Picture.—Near the mu
sical instrument department of the Paris Exhi
bition a group of three persons was frequently
seen. A gentleman, though tall and strong,
leant on the arm of a lady. He wore colored
spectacles, not to enable him to see, but to hide
his eyes, for he is blind. His wife is deaf and
dumb. The correspondent from whose letter
these facts are gathered continues : “The blind
man could not see; his wife could see, but she
could not tell him what she saw, tor, being able
to express herself only by signs, his want of
eyes was as fatal as her want of voice. How,
then, render a visit to the Exhibition useful oi*
Sleasant, under such deplorable circumstances ?
othing more simple. The lady telegraphs to
her daughter what to say, and tho latter ex
plains everything to her father with amazing
quickness and volubility. The chain of com
munication is complete in a\moment. But the
mind troubles itself with an interior difficulty.
Before this clever and amiable little girl had
existence, how did the gentleman, who was
blind since his sixteenth year, and the lady,
who was born deaf and dumb, express their at
tachment ? The lady could not hear the de
clarations of her lover ; the lover could not see
the blushes and mute signs by which alone she
could make known she accepted them. And
yet they married. What a mystery to Paris I
When the wife has pointed out to the little girl
different objects which she desires to have de
scribed to her husband, she goes and sits down
near the pianos, and remains patiently, while
he enjoys the airs that are played by divers
pianists of skill and reputation ; and thus she
provides him with one of the greatest treats of
the Exhibition, though, of course, she can have
herself no idea whatever of its nature.”
Throwing Oil on Troubled Waters.
—The following strange statement is made in
the Journal, du Havre: A merchant captain
who has been at sea twenty years, ten of them
in command of ships, writes that twice in the
course of that time he saved his vessel by oil
ing the sea. “ When the master of a ship,”
says he, “ cannot escape from a tempest—that
is, when his vessel is disabled, and ho has to
support all the force of the wind—let him
spread two or three gallons of oil, if he has
them, drop by drop by the side of the vessel.
He will then have a calm sea to the windward,
for the sea breaks the moment it comes in con
tact with the oil, and the vessel will remain in
tranquil water so long as the oil may flow. In
1884, in the most violent gale I ever had, I lost
my sails and my rudder, and my ship could not
have resisted the sea for an hour if I had not
had oil on board. Five gallons of oil lasted me
fifty-six hours, and saved the ship, the cargo,
and the lives of my men. Let vessels of large
tonnage have two reservoirs of forty gallons
each, placed one on one side, thio other on the
other, with a cock to let the oil flow the mo
ment it is needed. Lot small vessels have res
ervoirs of ten gallons, the boats of vessels res
ervoirs of five gallons—all well filled; and in
case of wreck or fire, the boats and vessels can
make themselves a calm sea in the event of
there being a gale. This very simple system
will save numerous vessels, many lives, and
thousands in money.”
Travelers.—l am not much of an
advocate for traveling, and I observe that men
run away to other countries because they are
not good in their own, and run back to their
own because they pass for nothing in the new
places. For the most part, only the light char
acters travel. Who are you that hav6 no task
to keep you at home ? I have been quoted as
saying captious things about travel; but I
mean to do justice. I think there is a restless
ness in our people which argues want of char
acter. All educated Americans, first or last,
go to Europe, perhaps because it is their men
tal home, as the invalid habits of this country
might suggest. An eminent teacher of girls
said : “ The idea of a girl’s education is, what
ever qualifies her for going to Europe.” Can
we nbver extract this tape-worm, of Europe
from the brain of our countrymen ? One sees
very well what their fate must bo. He that
does not fill a place at homo cannot abroad.
He only goes there to hide his insignificance in
a larger crowd; You do not think you will find
anything there which you have not seen at
home 1 The staff of all countries is just the
same. Do you suppose there is any country
where they do not scald milk-pans, and swad
dle the infants, and burn the brushwood, and
broil the fish ? What is true anywhere is true
everywhere. And let him go where he will, he
can only find so much beauty or worth as ho
carries.— Emerson.
A Camel’s Revenge.—A lad of about
fourteen had conducted a large camel, laden
with wood, from one village to another, at half
an hour’s distance or so. As tho animal loiter
ed or turned out of the way, its conductor
struck it repeatedly and harder than it seems
to have thought he had a right to do. But not
-finding the occasion favorable tor taking im
mediate quits, it “ bode its timenor was
that time Iqpg coming. A few days later, the
lad had to reconduct the beast, but unladen, to
his own village. When, they wore about half
way on the road, and at some distance from
any habitation, the camel suddenly stopped,
looked deliberately round in every direction to
assure himself that no one was within sight,
and, finding tho road far and near clear of
passers-by, made a step forward, seized the
unlucky boy’s head in his monstrous mouth,
and lifting him up in the air, flung him down
again on tho earth, with the upper part of his
skull completely torn off and his brains scat
tered on the ground. Having thus satisfied
its revenge, the brute quietly resumed its
pace toward the village, as though nothing
were tho matter, till some men who had ob
served the whole, though unfortunately at too
great a distance to be able to afford timely
elp, came up and killed it.
Aliment for the Heart.—The dis
tinguished French physician, Dr. Trousseau, is
credited with a groat many remarkable qual
ities of a professional character ; but none that
we have ever seen illustrate a profounder
knowledge of the needs of a man’s nature than
the diagnosis he gave a gentleman whose name
he did not know. The man was singularly ro
bust, looked the picture of health—and yet:
“ Doctor, lam not well. It seems to me my
strength is failing me. A strange lassitude
takes possession of me. I feel—l scarcely
know how I feel.” Dr. Trousseau kept his
brilliant eyes riveted on the patient while the
latter spoke, and when he ended tho doctor
asked: “You sleep every day immediately
after dinner?” “Yes, I ‘do, doctor.” “Are
unmarried, have no family, are ignorant of
domestic life?” “True, doctor.” What you
want is—not medicine, but—affection ; domes
tic ties; something, somebody to live for—if
you do not form these ties, if you do not give
aliment to your heart, you’ll be in your grave
before eighteen months.” The stranger smiled
skeptically, laid 500 francs in gold on the doc
tor’s table and retired. Fifteen months after
ward Lord Seymour (’twas he) was buried.
A Ripe Ruffian. — An old man
named Watts, aged 61 years, has beeu arrested
in McLean cowy, 111., charged with iac?|t and
Sunday Edition. August 11
child murder. Upon the preliminary trial, hisf
daughter, an unmarried woman of 22 years/
testified that in March last, she became the
mother of a child, the child also of her father;
that immediately after the child was born, her
father strangled'it by tying a string around its
neck, and buried it in the smoke-house. Upon
digging the smoke-house, the skeleton of an,
infant was found, as alleged by the daughter..
Mr. Watts protests his entire innoeenoe, and
claims to be equally ignorant of the birth of thtf
child. It is claimed, on his behalf, that it is S’;
conspiracy on the part of his children—a son
(who is married) and two daughters—to dispose
sess him of his valuable farm of 500 acres. Tha
house occupied by this family contained but
one room. The daughter testifies that the
child was born in this room, and it does noj
seem probable ihat such a tragedy could hay®
occured in a room occupied by five persons'
without earlier and more decided publicity,"
Mr. Watts has been committed to jail, how
ever, at Bloomington, to await trial for mui*
der, . ... .
Amusing.— A very amusing affaif
occurred last Sabbath morning in a village •
church not far from Troy. Rev. Dr. O
discoursing as eloquently as the state of th®
weather would permit, yet one of his auditor®
—a young lady—was so overcome by the heafc
as to fall asleep in the midst of the discoursOw
Those behind her were somewhat amused ob«
serving her ineffectual efforts to keep her
in a perpendicular position. The Superintend*
ent of tne Sunday School happening to looM
around just as the lady’s head was going oveE
backward, supposed she had fainted, an®
springing to his feet, called out to the Dootot
to stop and send down from the desk a tumbles
of water, which request was immediately com*
plied with, and a copious supply of water was
administered to the somnolent young lady be*
fore she had time to fairly recover herself. A,
number of sympathizing ones gathered about
her, but she soon retired from the audience*
room with a face too crimson to comport wftn
a fainting fit. When she sleeps in churst
again it will probably be with one eye opent
Comparative Effects of Coffee anh
Wine—Coffee is said to have a great effect
upon the nervous system. A gentleman re*'
cently starved himself for some time and them
swallowed a strong infusion oi coffee, in order
to experience its effect. He writes that: “In-*
stantiy I ceased to be communicative and
kindly, I became cold, cross and selfish. My
intellect labored without the slightest fatigue
and almost in spite of myself; upon any giVCQ
subject it penetrated profoundly, and drew al*
most infinite consequences.” Upon taking
some wine, he ceased to be cross and cgotistj-i,
cal, and became kind and sympathetic. Fronj
this it appears that too much strong coffee op,
an empty stomach is not productive of
bility, and there is peculiar appropriateness
in the association of “coffee and pistols fox' ’
two.”
Successful Co-operation in P.vms.—«
La Bibliotheque Nationale, in Paris, was found*
ed by two hundred printers, each of whoitf
agreed to take at least ono share of ten dollara
in the enterprise, paying his share at the rate
of twenty cents a week. Their design was tq
publish works whose copywright had expired*
at a rate of not more than five cents a volumA
in paper covers; and as they saw they oouxl.
furnish volumes at this rate (certainly che®
enough) they did not open bids for printing 15'
stimulate the lowest bidders in the market#
Their means was limited. They published
three volumes to begin with ; these had an qx*
ceilent sale; thereupon they brought out three
others—and so prudently they went on. Nos
they have 105 works in their collection, have
sold two millions of volumes, and sell weekly
some twenty-five or thirty thousand volumes#*
-®-t i i «
Woman’s Devotion. A LondpiJ
watchmaker, named Watkins, first sed-nced hie!
sweetheart, and then beat her nearly to deatlj
with a piece of load, and stabbed her m eleven
places. The poor girl survived the outrage
and fled the country so that she could not bq
forced to appear against him. The Londoh
papers publish a pathetic letter written by he);
to the brute after his arrest; “lam waiting
anxiously in tho hope of hearing that you arp
free, and I am looking for the timo when w®
shall be united once again, for without you J
cannot be happy. All the past is iorgot.” FQ£
the girl’s sake.it is gratifying to know that sh®
will never have an opportunity again of trust*
ing herself to the mercy of the man who so
cruelly injured her. Watkins was sentences
to twenty years’ penal servitude.
What the Ailanthus Tree is Good
fob,—A writer in the Cincinnati Times says S
good word for the Ailanthus tree. He says it
will grow in any soil, and will grow to a large
size where scarcely any other tree will grow at
all. It grows so rapidly that it may be out
down for fuel every fourth year. As fuel, the!
wood is superior to that of most other trees ?'
it makes a clear, bright flame, and throws oqt
a great deal of heat. Its charcoal is of a sfl.
ferior quaility, and its ashes rich in potash,
ts wood burns well when green, and ever?
branch and limb may be cut into stove woodj;
leaving no brush on the ground. The wood ft)
hard and of a fine grain, and well fitted for
cabinet making. Sooner or later our farmers
must grow wood for fael and for cabinet makj
ing, and tho ailanthus tree offers itself as thg
most available tree for that purpose.
A few Sundays ago a clergyman of
Ellenburgh, in this State, fainted away whils
performing divine service. The faint led to th6,
discovery that the clergyman was but a
a sheen that had donned wolf’s clothing—a wo*
man who had assumed the white cravat, blacli
coat and breeches. The indignation among
the female portion of the congregation was irS
tense. They had been swindled into being
civil, had talked fine-linen religion, some ha®
even been tender, had pressed the clergyman’® 1
hand, and had looked unutterable things with
their eyes—and all for one of their own sexl£
It was too bad. They could have forgiven «>
few seductions, perhaps a murder; but
atrocious duplicity must be expiated by suffer?
ing, and at their command the stern officers oj
the law seized upon the false divine, and she
now in prison—a warning to all women not tq
attempt the pantaloon role till after marriage#
Do Animals Reason ? Mr. Setlj
Rogers, of Bath, Me., says the Portland Argus*
has in his family, a pet cat, Jwhose powers oj
perception are remarkably distinct, from the?
fact that she became recently m possession of
a beautiful kitten, which was earnestly solicited
by one of his neighbors when it should be of an?
age to be removed from its fond parent. OnJ
morning after, the kitten was found at the
house of the person who desired it, and it was
found that “ Topsy,” the mother, had carried
the kitten there of her own accord, and, laying
it down, looked up and seemed to say, here
is, take good care of it, since which time shQ
has never been near it.
A Detective’s Ruse.—A simple rusS
was brought into play by a Boston detective in
quest of a thief, a few days ago, which proved’
singularly effective. Some money had been
stolen from the pocket of an overcoat hanging;
in a Washington street store, in which five oj
six boys were employed. The detective eyed
them all, selected one whom he took aside, and
informed him that a spiritual medium had
Eointed him out as the thief. He further told
im to return the money when he could get a
chance without being observed. The nexn
morning the money reappeared in the pockeft
from which it was taken.
The Greatness of the Widow’s
Mite. —Men measure their charities by a pecu«
liar standard. A man who has but a dollar itt
his pocket would give a penny for almost anj
purpose. If he had a hundred dollars, he might
give one dollar. Carry it higher and there is(
a falling off. One hundred dollars would ba
considered too large a sum for him who ham
ten thousand, while a present of one thousand
dollars would be deemed a miracle for a maQ
worth one hundred thousand, yet the propor.
tion is the same throughout, and the pool;
man’s penny, the widow’s mite, is more than),
the rich man’s high sounding, and
trumpeted benefaction. .
A Job fob Lithographers.—FiVQ
hundred elegant water bonds were lately print*
ed for the city of St. Louis, when it was <uscov«
ered that the important words “ in.gold,” had
been omitted. Another lot was ordered, and
to save labor the treasurer had his name litho*
graphed on the bonds. When these were dox>«
it was found that the law required the name to
be written. The only parties who did not com
plain that a third lot must be printed were the
lithographers.
Decapitated.—Henry Geke, of Cin
cinnati, put his head out of the car window tot
a breath of fresh air, near that city, Sunday
evening, when the train was passing over
bridge, the timbers of which struck his head,
severing it instantly from his body. A young
lady to whom the unfortunate young man waa
said to be betrothed, sat by his side at the
time of the horrible accident.
How Doth the Little Busy Bee?—
A few days since a hive of bees was being con.
veyed through Winchester, Mass., in a cart,,
when the cover of the hive was by accident.
shifted. The bees in escaping became enraged
and stung the driver of the cart, and he being
enraged in turn, turned the hive into the street,
where the bees stung a number of passers-by,,
who fled in all directions.
Objecting to Immersion. —At ths
village of Maine, Broome county, on Sabbath
last, as a married woman was about to be led
“ down into the water ” for immersion and ad
mission to the Baptist church, her husband
appeared upon the grounds and forbid the cere
mony, on the ground that his wife’s health was
too feeble to endure it. The husband’s ordes
was obeyed.
“Paint, pearl-powder and pad
■ ding,” says a crusty old bachelor, “judiciously
e charity, gevw a

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