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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, January 03, 1869, Image 2

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but that his friends will know him, and respect
him. Ned Lanceford is a man that will respect
himself, and do his duty in that sphere in
Which it has pleased his God to call him.”
“ Ay, ay 1 so pious already, Willie ?” said he,
keenly regarding his brother; “why, this is a
new phase in the youngest of us that will take
time to grow accustomed to. I never could
stand a sermon; that is why I kept away from
yoursj despite the temptation of another first
“Wrong, Edmund. You would have come
With Kitty, if your friends had not appeared,
and stopped you.”
“Well, then, I’m not so bad as I seem ; so
don’t preach at me, Willie, or I shall hate you.
You must be Willie Lanceford, brother, friend,
companion ; not the Reverend William Ernest,
whose shop and. stock in trade, and trite re
marks will follow him wherever he goes.”
Willie reddened at the reproof, but he an
swered boldly:
“ A minister’s duty is not to leave his ‘ shop”
as you term it, Ned, —it is the fault of church
men that the shop is sunk too readily, and the
World treated with too great a reverence.”
“Ahl” said Edmund, with a yawn, “you
are young and enthusiastic; two or three
years will make all the difference, unless the
dear sympathetic female portion of the con
gregation turn your head with their adoration.
Weil, what a nice pot preacher you will make
for the ladies until you are married, or some
other amiable young parson turns up.”
“ Slash away, Ned—your satire does not hurt
. me I”
“Then I’ll leave off, for I hate wasting any
thing,” said Edmund. “ You are not like nerv
ous, jealous little Kitty here, whom I tease
sometimes byway of excitement. I must have
excitement now—somehow or somewhere—
isn’t that true, Kitty ?”
“No; you are reviling yourself unjustly, Ed
mund ; you are leading your brother to believe
that you have changed very much for the
worse. It’s not a truth,” exclaimed the wife,
“I am used to Edmund Laneeford’s humors,
Kitty,” said Willie, “and I know how far that
gentleman’s bantering vein will carry him.”
“Sagacious youthl” responded Edmund.
He was more pleasant when less cynical, and
his humors varied much that night. He was
not so eccentric as on that night in the past,
already brought to mind Dy his behavior; but
there was the old recklessness and feigned
heartlessness of manner existent still, though
less developed.
When Willie left that night, Edmund insist
ed upon accompanjdng him some part of the
way home, despite Kitty’s wistful glance in her
husband’s direction. Noticing Kitty’s objec
tions to his departure, Willie endeavored to
dissuade him also, but Edmund’s will was firm,
and shortly afterward he and his brother were
threading the streets toward Mayfair.
“ I shall not take you further from home,”
said Willie, finally making a stand ; “ there's
a wife sitting up for you, Ned. Good night.”
“Not vet, young gentleman 1”
“No farther,” said Willie, stoutly; “I have
a will of|my own, and say ‘No 1”’
“But! say ‘Yes.’”
“When will you say ‘ Yes ’ to dinner with us
at Mayfair—you and Kitty ?”
“Kitty is only happy at home, and your
mother is an aristocrat who knows from what
plebeian race she sprang.”
“ My mother will be very glad to see her.”
“ No, no; I’ll come myself some day, per
“ Why, Ned, you are not ashamed of your
wife so late in the day ? Kitty makes a good
Lanceford, and she’s one of whom any husband
might be proud.”
“Her love for her busband is so evident.”
“Ay, that’s.just it,” said Edmund Lanceford,
“ it’s too evident; my friends and acquaint
ances laugh at me, and think I set myself up
as a demigod for a silly girl to worship—as if I
could stop her affection—as if I haven’t tried
.to keep it within bounds!”
“ I remember the time when Edmund Lance
ford complained of too little affection, and
thought himself deeply aggrieved.”
“Right you are—this is a world in which we
are never content. But, Willie,” he added,
•‘ Kitty’s affection is childish—it palls upon me.
I am the Icing who can do no wrong, and she
has ever an excuse for me, let me be drunk or
mad. She is all forgiveness—she is a slave,
not a wife; her very fondness drives me to the
. streets. And the knowledge how unworthy I
am of that child’s devotion—she is a child still,
and she will die one!—helps to keep me away
from her. I’m an accursed villain, Willie;
every day 1 have a thought more vile and
“Don’t say that.”
“I think I must be mad. I begin to believe
in the Lanceford spell, and of the fatality at
tached to our loves and our likings. And yet,”
pressing his brother’s arm, “ all might 'have
been so different. I thought my father was my
evil genius once ; he was an angel of light in
all Lis actions, compared to Nathan Lance
ford 1”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t say so, Edmund!”
“I have found him out; I know him to be a
liar and a knave, whose crafty life has helped
to mar my own,” he cried: “and he knows I
have unearthed him. Ask him what ho thinks .
of Edmund Lancelord, now.”
“ What do you moan ?”
“ I mean that when we brothers met a little
more than three years back, he might have
given a turn to my whole life, and made it pure
and honest. I was free then ; I had been set
free I And he lied, and deceived me.”
It was not the frank face of Edmund Lance
ford that glared at his brother then; all the
evil passions that had grown with his growth
were defacing its manliness, and stamping it
with a vile impression. Willie recoiled from
the hate and despair that lowered therein—
that set one brother’s heart against another,
and told him how awful a change had swept be
tween them.
A vague suspicion of the truth troubled him,
remembering what had passed on the night to
which Edmund alluded ; but there was no fol
lowing it to its depths, for Edmund broke away
from him, and dashed back to his home.
Toward home for a little way: then he turned
from his course, and fled to drink for compan
ionship. Fair companion' of the devil that
helped to deceive him, and shut from his mem
ory the troubles that beset him, and the follies
lie had been guilty of all his life.
It was late when he reached home, when the
stout arm of Jemmy Dornton helped him up
the stairs, and Kitty followed, sighing heavily,
but uttering no complaint, and ready to do bat
tle in ins cause for any one who believed him
not the best of husbands.
It is time we turned again to Miss Mernott,
from wiiom the whirl of events has drifted us
too long. The lives and fortunes of those who
have played their parts upon this crowded
•scene press many to one end, and amid the rush
toward us we detect the figure of the dark
haired girl, whom we first met in Dorsetshire,
and whom an impetuous youth was courting
under a false name. Many years have passed
since then ; the dark-haired girl is a woman of
genius now, whose years are six-and-tweniy,
and whose power is great to sway the emotions
of the thousands who throng to pay her hom
age. Has that world and the applause she has
met therein changed her for better or worse ?
—there have been prophecies respecting it.
In her earlier days we have seen that Cicely
Mernott was impressionable, and a little ro
mantic—traits of character that a stage life
was likely to unnaturally develop. Her tri
umphs in that existence have been sufficient to
turn stronger heads, but she has kept her way
erect and firm, inwardly moved by her success,
and swayed by foe strength of her genius, but
betraying outwardly no weakness. She is one
honored by the world for the example set to
the many—the practical proof that, amid temp
tation and a mixed society, it is possible to
show a pure heart, and an examplary life.
Whether ner life would have flowed to the end
more peacfully in a sphere less false, or whe
ther, in the quiet life that might have been,
equal troubles from the same dark source
would have found her no more strong, it is dif
ficult to say. We are but chroniclers of a story
wherein human beings are not ail heroines and
A year after Miss Mernott’s debut, the mother
from whom she had inherited her genius passed
suddenly from this world, leaving the daughter
alone to combat its temptations. Little time
for farewell, no time for advice or warning—a
rapid passage from the life around to the life
beyond, and the daughter left an orphan to
fight her own battles. There was no poverty
to strive against; her position as an actress of
the highest order was already established, and
managers were contending for the honor of her
patronage. The world lay fair before her,
and there was only herself to shield.
Throughout this period Nathan Lanceford
had a fair field ior his wooing ; he had been her
mother’s friend and hers; they had begun their
stage career together ; there was every chance
for him. The stage world had already hinted
at the prospects of an union between the great
tragedian and Hie actress, and was oniy in
doubt as to the happy day which had been
named some half a dozen times by speculative
reporters, who had found the on dit profitable,
and made capital from it when news was limited.
Nathan Lanceford, unmoved outwardly by
these reports, albeit his heart thrilled at times
to read them—continued his courtship in his
characteristic way, and alarmed Miss Mernott
by no profession of attachment. There was
nothing in her manner to warrant the assump
tion that his hopes would be eventually enter
tained, but he waited quietly, and despaired
not. There was friendship between them, and
he thought that it would grow to love.
Time stole on; the management at the thea
tre where Nathan and Cicely Mernott played
broke up for good, and stars and satellites went
various ways. In the Autumn Miss Mernott
was engaged ior a term of vears by a manager,
already eaten up by tragedians of the first and
second class, and whose engagements kept
Nathan from the boards where his first love
shortly reigned supreme. This was his first
distinct separation from Miss Mernott, although
he found" many Excuses for appearing at the
stage door of the establishment. And when
he was not playihg himself at rival houses he
was watching and admiring from a private box,
an object of disgust to the principal tragedian,
who swore to his friends and acquaintances
that that fellow, Lsnee’, watched hi’s every
movement, and evidently intended to copy bis
Style at the first available opportunity.
Nathan’s love for the stage, and his anxiety
not to fall back in the profession, led him, at
the period we speak of, to accept an engage
ment m the Provinces whither he went without
fear of losing ground with Cieooly Mernott in
the interim. He had resolved to make the
grand plunge previous to his departure ; but
fate was against him, and a poor chance of pro
posing was worse than none at all. He had
resolved to write, and then, after some delibera
tion, to defer the question tili his return to
London—letters were so cold, and explained so
little. So the chances of life—that which might
have altered iris own story, and given a turn to
the fortunes of many in these pages—were left
to pass by, and the time camo never again to
retrace his steps, and gain tho ground his cau
tion had lost.
Nathan Lanceford was away four months;
during that time Cicely Mernott was reaping
laurels, and every night bouquets were raining
on her from admiring hands. In the third
month of Nathan’s absence, at the house of the
manager, one early morning Cicely Mernott
met Edmund Lanceford once more. Edmund
had lately formed an intimacy with the man
ager ; a chance introduction had brought them
together, and that rare gift of making friends,
to which we have more than once all-uded,
warmed the manager’s heart toward Edmund.
And for some reason that Edmund Lanceford
would not confess to himself, he put forth all
his powers of attraction, and made a friend of
him. At the house of this now-found friend
then, Edmund Lanceford met Cicely Mernott
for the second time. A cold, formal interview,
wherein Edmund was outwardly iced by the
stately bow and freezing monosyllables of the
old love, and inwardly burnt up with rage and
fever. He was still misunderstood, he thought;
three years since his brother Nuthan promised
to explain away his conduct, and yet not time
to do him justice! He would not have let Na
than remain one day the victim of a foul sus
picion, if a word of his could have remove d the
stain. He must defend his cause himself—
there was no trusting his best friends.
That morning Edmund Lancelord hade a
hasty adieu to tho manager, and waited for
Miss Mernott at the corner of the street. That
morning, after much effort on his part, much
denial on the actress’s, he gave voice to his
long pent-up statement, evinced by his excite
ment, eloquence and earnestness, that the
boy’s love had been pure and strong, and un
sullied by a dishonorable thought. He told of
his fruitless journey to London in search of
her, and he asked alone for justice to his mem
ory when he went away that day never to see
her more.
“ I am powerless, and can make no claim.
Years have changed us both and we cannot
meet again with the same hearts, I dare not
hope it; I have no right to dream it. Let us
part, Miss Mernott, friends.”
She had long since drawn down her veil, and
accorded him a patient hearing; she was
trembling very much. Can a woman ever
meet unmoved, the hero of her first ro
mance ?
“I had hoped another, more dear to you
than I have been, would have spared me this
recital; but he has been slow to do me jus
tice ; and I cannot remain a coward and a
knave in your memory all my life.”
“To whom do you allude ?’’ was the fal
tering question, put with some degree of wou
“ To my brother, Nathan Lanceford.”
“Your brother!” was the astonished ex
clamation: “he has never told me—l was not
aware ” and then she was silent, until a
fresh surprise brought an indignant refutation
to her lips.
“ Engaged to Nathan Lanceford for so many
years, and not even know I was his brother 1”
was the bitter observation.
“ Engaged to Nathan Lanceford—who dare
repeat that foolish scandal ?”
‘‘Himself. That statement from his own
lips turned mo from your door three years ago;
that day after your appearance on the stage,
when I had found you again, and was free to
make my choice.”
“Pray go now, Mr. Lanceford—the past is
unalterable, and we were foolish children in it.
I am glad—l am very glad—to hear that you
have told me, but—pray go.”
“And this Nathan Lanceford is not your
promised husband ?” inquired Edmund, still
unable to believe her assertion, and feeling
like one walking in a dream.-.
“ No,” was the firm reply.
“I have been a dupe all my life—this is but
another phase of craft from which I have been
a sufferer. All is over with me now—God
bless you, Miss Mernott—good-by forever 1”
He extended his hand, and she placed hers
timidly within it. They were crossing the
parade-ground then, between the Horse
Guards and St. James’ Park—there were few
stragglers near to bo witness to their parting.
A wild impulse led him to raise that gloved
hand to his lips, and then dart away, mutter
ing his blessing. So these two met strangely,
and Cicely . Mernott’s romance appeared to be
resumed again from the story left unfinished
in Dorsetshire, when she was seventeen years
of age. She had acted much of romance late
ly ; but this was the poetry of her life come
back with the old first love—honorable and
true, as she had dreamed it in the hour of her
.greatest confidence. He had never been false
to her ; it was pleasant to think that—and she
had been unjust to him, and cruel to his mem
ory during all tho long years that he was treas
uring her name. It was an exciting fiction,
but she believed in it—and it was a dangerous
reaction, for she had thought wrongly of him
once, and now he was the heio again who had
saved her life, and never once forgotten her.
She did not know that he was married then—he
had not told her, for he had not thought of
his young wife during that painful interview.
If she had known it in that early time of their
reunion, before the whirlwind swept away so
many resolutions—if she had but * known it
Edmund Lanceford bado her good-by for
ever, and went home in that wild and excited
state to which we have been more than once
a witness; and nearly broke Kitty’s heart
in her futile attempts to discover what
was the matter with him. If Nathan Lance
ford had only treated him "fairly—had spoken
of him even once during those long years fol
lowing his confession, he might have sat down
resigned to his loss, and content with the wife
his own act had chosen. But to be deceived,
and by a brother in whom he had had implicit
trust 1 -r-was it not his nature to resist a wrong ?
He had said good-by for ever to Cicely Mer
nott ; but the following evening he was watch
ing her from the front of the theatre, lured by
the spell which might have died of sheer weak
ness years ago, had not the iron hand of his
father disturbed it too roughly. But the father
was dead, and Edmund bore him no malice—
no, it was Nathan now, who had again turned
his hopes from their haven when they might
have drifted peacefully on, and changed the
whole tenor of life. And Nathan could not
have loved her himself, or he would have at
tempted to win her more soon—Nathan was a
villain I
Cicely Mernott recognized her old lover in
the private box, and faltered for a moment
in- her acting—a sign of weakness that made
Edmund’s heart Iqap wildly. She had not for
gotten him—had he been unmarried he felt
even then it would not have been too late to
claim her. Edmund thought so, though he
had only ventured within the charmed circle
to see Cicely once again; his thoughts were
not traitorous to Kitty—far from it. He had
come thither to do penance for his past fol
lies, his rash marriage—to mock himself with
a delusive phantom. He lingered in the box
lobby after the play was over, fighting with his
tempter ; should he seek the manager, go be
hind the scenes, and speak a few words of
friendly greeting to her he had bidden an eter
nal farewell 1 For a moment he wavered, then
his better angel gained the mastery, and he
ran out of the theatre and homeward. No,
no, he would go no more ; the temptation was
too strong and he too weak—only evil could
arise from such consummate folly. And for a
week he stood his ground, wrestling with him
self, and brooding over the duplicity of which
he had been a victim, and vowing to be true,
even in his thoughts, to that simple-hearted
wife who made an idol of him. And then the
week ended, and with it ali the firm resolves
he had made, and Edmund Lanceford worship
ping at the shrine again I The restraint had
been too severe, and the recoil carried him
further on away beset with dangers. He went
behind the scenes that night, and spoke to her
with .a reserve that only troubled Cicely’s
heart, for she could see that he was suffering,
and—for her 1
They met often after that night; in the
theatre, and at the houses of friends whom
Edmund found means to make his friends also,
and still the tale of his marriage remained un
told. A cruel sophistry kept that tale back;
Edmund had reasoned fifty times with himself
concerning it, had finally arrived at the con
viction that there was no occasion for its rela
tion. Why should he pain Cicely Mernott by
the recital of his one great error ? Cicely was
nothing but a friend to him, a mere common
place acquaintance now. It mattered not if he
were married or unmarried—only to tell her of
his marriage state might be to render her
alarmed, and distant; and it was pleasant to
see her smiles, to sit by her side and talk of
that dangerous time when they were younger.
Pleasant only tor a while, for Edmund Lance
ford had a conseienee not to be lulled forever;
a troublesome conscience, that would rise sud
denly and sting him. Then came a strSnge
rapture that turned to horror, and then rap
ture again at finding Cicely blush and.tremble
B" his presence when he regarded her too ar
dently, or was betrayed into speaking too
warmly of the time when they were lovers.
He had gone too far, and it was. fime for action.
God forbid, he thought in the moments of his
first waking, that this woman should build her
castle in the air anew, based on visions that
must fade, and peopled with phantoms that
must vanish out and die! He would be plain
with her at once. It was right, after all, that
she should know the truth—the whole truth,
that kept them eternally apart. And he told
it with a boldness, and an earnestness that,
recollecting it afterward, surprised him
self. He disguised nothing; the folly of
an unsettled mind that, had made him first pay
the lodge-keeper’s daughther attention, and
resulted m his chivalrous defense of her againsK
her slanderers, and finally in his unhappy mar
riage. He did not say that marriage was un
nappy, but he did not speak of the loving wife
he possessed, and her child-like faith m him;
neither did he dwell.too long on the time when
she doubted his affection, and ret him free;
when Nathan, l y a lie, deceived him. A few
oitter, mournful words wo.a suiiic.ent to com-
plete the story; but they betrayed his heart,
and Cicely found it hard to maintain her calm
ness, or keep back her tears. She had suffered
herself, and knew all that was passing in his
mind and troubling him.
“ There’s the whole story, Miss Mernott,” he
said, at last. “ I have not acted tho most can
did part in keeping it back so long. For my
own sake, for my wife’s, above all for yours, it
was wrong. I say for yours, for the world that
knows me married, and might learn at any
time our past relations to each other, might
make scandal out of this new friendship. And
for that world’s sake—we must study it a little
—I think it is best to part hero—this time, and
,in sober earnest, forever.”
“Yes, it is best,” murmured Cicely.
So they parted forever again; and Edmund
was true to his good intentions for a longer
time than usual—having a thought for Cicely
as well as himself. He was less steady during
the interim, however, for his mind was unset
tled, and he thought drink a friend to him.
Let him drink a little, and he could forget Miss
Mernott, and make Kitty behove ho was her
fond, faithful husband; and if he drank too
deeply at times by mistake, why, Kitty’s grief
and anxiety touched his heart when he was so
ber, and made his gratitude pass for love with
Perhaps, at this time, Cicely Mernott suf
fered more than he. Her heart, that had be
gun to thrill at bis presence, turned not from
Him when she knew he was married. She was
imaginative, and painted the story in deeper
colors than its reality warranted; she pictured
a lover whoso devotion had never swerved from
her, and whose life had been spent in her
search; who, giving up in despair all hope of
discovering her, had sacrificed himself to save
a young girl’s reputation, and had only wak
ened to the error when their paths crossed
once again. Sho pictured his wife, too ; an ig
norant country beauty, perhaps a slattern, full
of the whims and fancies that a sudden rise in
life was likely to create, and driving poor Ed
mund Lanceford mad with them. A vain
beauty now, who gave herself airs, and was
proud, and jealous, and exacting, as all. women
were likely to be who had once been servants.
And Edmund Lanceford’s hopes were all extin
guished by one rash act, and his noble nature
only kept him uncomplaining—took him even
from her, when, by her side, he only knew
happiness. So Cicely Mernott thought of Ed
mund too much also, and made an ideal hero
of him. ■
In the midst of her thoughts of this old
lover, he, whom we may call the new, returned
from the provinces, sought her company, and
was troubled at the change in her. Nathan
found her looking ill; he fancied that she did
not perform so well, or lose herself so often in
the character she represented; and he was
quick enough to see that something disturbed
her mind. At a loss to assign a reason for this
alteration, a soul-disturbing thought suggested
that it might be on his account, and that a long
absence had set her thinking of him—pornaps
with some degree of fondness. This thought
once to attack him, and all his prudence van
ished. The new reserve of Miss Mernott to
ward him he took for a good sign also ; and in
a rash moment he sought her out, made the
grand plunge, and was rejected.
Rejected, after all his silent devotion, all his
calculation and patience ; the one ambition of
liia life torn up by the roots and cast away 1
The old result of the spell, from which ho was
no more exempt than his father or brother had
been. Cicely Mernott did not speak of that bro
ther, or the clue to the mystery might have pre
sented itself to Nathan. Why should she speak
of him to one who had never mentioned his
name ? It would have been unmaidonly, and be
trayed her own heart too much to let him know
she felt his long silence one of the gravest acts
in his disfavor. Until the knowledge of his du
plicity ho had been at least her friend. But sho
did not know, and Edmund was not aware at
that time, that Nathan might have responded
to the charge, and pleaded his promise to Mrs.
Mernott to keep silent respecting the relation
ship. More than once the avowal had been on
his lips—for to speak of Edmund as a married
man would have been a step in his favor—and
then the promise to that mother kept him si
lent, and became at last a two-edged sword
that struck him down.
Nathan Lanceford bore his disappointment
well. Outwardly he was the same reserved,
methodical man; to the world the same tal
ented actor who had studied the workings of
the human heart so deeply that men cried at
the portrayal of his feigned troubles, who would
have laughed scornfully at the real. Once or
twice he encountered his brother after his dis
appointment, met with dark looks that ho could
not fathom, and cool, contemptuous words that
he did not care to brook, and resented by with
drawing from his society. He did not under
stand Edmund just then, and he had sufficient
of liis own cares upon his mind to make him
heedless of his brother’s ; he could not be al
ways seeking to please Edmund Lanceford.
He bad Cicely to think of—to watch. Wo have
seen that Nathan was of a persevering nature
—even against hope he was resolved to perse
vere. If he could never win her, he would
fathom the mystery to the bottom that had
turned her suddenly against him; and il that
mystery were unconnected with her heart,
there might bo hope for him in its dissipation.
A vague idea that the world had been prating
of him in his absence, and circulating some
foul aspersions against his character was the
false ground he set to work upon, and that
helped to blind him, till there was no disguis
ing the reality, and all was leading on to the
discovery. Edmund Lanceford had given way
then, and was behind the scenes again seeking
every opportunity to meet her.
“I cannot keep away, Miss Mernott! Re
proach or accuse me as you may, I must see
you,” he cried, when they met again. “All
tho folly and passion of the past have died
away ; let mo be the true friend—the brother
to advise and watch over you, amid the dan
gerous sphere in which you move. By heaven,
Miss Mernott, you may trust me 1”
He had faith in himself and the purity of his
motives, and Miss Mernott believed in him
also. Why should she not trust him ? He
had always been the most noble and disinter
ested of men; she was alone m the world, and
a true friend’s advice was of value to her every
day. He could never be her husband now,—let
the fire die out, and the ashes drop to the cold
hearth; and the Phoenix— rara avis !— of Pla
tonic affection arise therefrom, and make a
brother of this earnest man I
So these two poor children of earth set out
with vain projects and an illusive theory—like
many children of earth before them! If tho
way led whither they had not dreamed, and
the treacherous sands shifted and threatened
to engulf them, were they more to be pitied
than those who had ventured on the same
road, and sunk as hopelessly? The warning
lights were on the waste, the sands were
marked as dangerous, and yet they went their
way with blinded eyes, i. elieving in tho false.
Poor erring mortals that we are, the best of
us, with all our best intentions strong, I think
we can afford to pity them a hide!
We have already seen that Edmund’s resolu
tion had not brought any composure to his
urind. Believing in his powers of self-com
mand, he was less incapable of completely
blinding himself as to the real feelings of his
heart than Cicely. He knew he loved her; but
he believed that love would remain hidden un
der a friend’s respect, and that he and Cicely
would both be happier for their intimacy. He
flattered himself that he should really be of
use to her in warning or advising ; and that it
was better for him to hover round the flame
than hurry from temptation. Keeping from
her had made a drunkard of him ; in her pres
ence he at least escaped intoxication, and re
turned sober to Kitty, who thought he had been
spending a quiet evening at his club. He was
fond of his club, he said, and the wife was glad
when he talked of going thither, he returned
so steady and meditative. If he stayed at
home, he trifled too much with the wino cup ;
if his friends bore him away in search of pleas
ure, she knew he would return wild and ex
cited. and require Jemmy’s assistance up the
stairs. She had her own way of reforming Ed
mund, and making him happy—a good way, as
a general rule —kindness and an absence of
complaint. But this kindness, this love that
complained not and of which she was lavish,
was so much a reproof to her husband that he
fled from it, and came home wilder than before.
“If I only knew how to make him happy; if it
did not seem as if he were growing tired of me! ”
cried Kitty, to herself, and then sho would pray
that she might not lose her husband’s love ;
that she might grow wise and learned, and like
a lady, until, in the solitude of her chamber,
she broke down in tears.
Meanwhile, events were marching to a crisis.
Edmund made so little effort to disguse his
troubled condition of mind, that the signs up
on the surface were read by all who loved him.
Willie Lanceford was the first to make a deci
sive step; his brother’s manner, and Kitty’s
unhappiness, had alarmed him, and the men
tion of Nathan’s name by Edmund had sug
gested something like a clue. Willie shut him
self in his study and considered the ease ; final
ly came to the resolution of seeking Nathan,
and learning if Cicely Mernott were the cause
of the strange enmity which one brother
seemed to bear another.
The morning after he had been a witness to
Edmund’s ravings in the street, he set forth in
search of Nathan. Nathan was living in a lit
tle villa at Wimbledon—a quiet retreat, where
he could study and restudy his part, until he
presented it a perfect creation before the foot
lights- At the gate of the villa Willie Lance
ford-inet his brother.
“ This is a fortunate meeting, Nathan ; an
other moment and I should have lost you.”
“Itis a singular meeting, at least; we must
have been in each other’s thoughts a great deal
this morning, for I was coming in search of
you, Willie.”
“Of me?”
“ Yes.”
Willie wondered for a moment why Nathan
regarded him so curiously; but then Nathan
had been ever singular in his ways. Possibly
he could guess the object of Willie’s visit, and
knew it would be a grave matter to discuss.
“Was it to talk of Edmutfd that you were
coming to my house ?”
“ Nor of Miss Mernott ?”
“No,” said Nathan, a second time, while he
changed color, and glanced suspiciously at his
What did Willie know that was new of E<L
mund Lanceford and Cicely Mernott that should
bring him to Wimbledon at so early an hour?
“Shall we go in-doors?” asked Willie, “or
discuss our family matters across this breezy
common ?”
“ The common, if you have no objection. We
shall have room to breathe there."
“ Will you commence, or shall I?” asked
Willie. “ Perhaps, as my story is more impor
tant, it had better take the precedence.”
“ More important or not, go on, Willie. I
want time to think; you have taken me by
surprise. Mine may be only a question ; you
have a long statement for me, perhaps.”
Across the common with the fresh turf un
derfoot, the blue sky overhead, with tho birds
singing and darting before them; it was like
the old times at Dorsetshire before each had
gone his way. Willie commenced his narra
tive ; spoke of his visit to Edmund’s house
last night, and of Kitty’s fears that her hus
band w s troubled in his mind—was in fact
very far from happy. He spoke also of the
interview with Edmund at a later hour; of his
own suspicions to the same effect confirmed by
Edmund’s incoherent manner. Lastly, he re
lated the outburst of Edmund in the street,
and the reproaches ho had heaped upon the
brother who was now walking by his side.
“So there is some great misunderstanding
between you and Ned that a few words may
help to clear—that a little effort on your side
may dissipate,” said Willie ; “ and it is with
that object I have sought you. Life is not so
long that we can afford to waste it in enmity
against each other. Wo have all seen trouble,
but there was satisfaction iu sharing it togeth
er, and in having a friendly, brotherly feeling
in our midst. We were not so much apart in
thought or heart when we were boys, as to
justify us in breaking all the ties of kindred
“You are the best of us,” anditho hand of
Nathan fell lightly on his brother’s shoulder.
They walked on together silently; Willie would
give his brother time to think or explain. He
ad always had faith in Nathan’s honor and
uprightness, and"he did not doubt ho would
take the right course, and pursue it to that
end which would clear up the mystery.
“ Willie,” he said, at last, “ Ned was right.
I lied and deceived him. He has fair cause for
anger against me, for I stood in the way of his
happiness, and turned him aside. I was sel
fish, and hungered for that happiness. I
fooled myself with the belief that ho would
never make Cicely Mernott a good husband,
and I told him sue was engaged to me, and
sent him away despairing. I destroyed his
one chance of being a better man, and became
a worse myself!”
“Oh, Nat! you—his brother!”
“Tell him the revenge has come; Cicely
Mornott has rejected me.”
“ Edmund Lanceford will not care for re
venge, Nat.”
“Ho was never revengeful; some time hence
he will forgive me, I think. I will make him
all the reparation in my power; but my power
is very weak. Willie,” he cried, “ you have
given me the clue to a mystery ; will you leave
the rest in my hands, fearful, hopeful, with a
stern intention to crush all self in a last effort
to save him ? Ho is trembling on tho brink to
which my own accursed selfishness has led
him. I see it aL”
“ Cicely Mernott—is she connected with this
mystery ? Has she met Edmund ?—is there a
probability of a friendship between them ?”
“I do not know ; lam in a dream respect
ing her. Will you leave it for a time iu my
hands ? When I feel my efforts failing me, I
pledge my word to seek your help. Willie,
you can trust me; I have not betrayed you."
“I trust you.”
“I might have made a better excuse than
this for my errors,” he said; “ might have
spoken of my love for Miss Mernott; what a
strong, undying passion it was, and is : what
doubts there were of Edmund’s stability of
purpose at the time I sought to stand before
him, and shut out the light. But excuses come
too late, and lam simply a liar! ”
He stamped his foot ‘passionately upon the
grass, and left the impress there. He felt his
disgrace, the esteem he had lost, the wrong he
had committed. He had argued with his con
science many times that it was best that E'd
mund had married Kitty Dornton ; and now
the result of that marriage, the knowledge of
the little happiness it had brought his broth
er, and the flood-gates of joy he might with a
word have unlocked for him, filled him with
anger and remorse. Edmund had lost all that
was valuable in life, and ho who sought to rob
him had gained nothing!
“I do not think it will take a great deal of
pains to bring Edmund to his better self,” re
marked Willie; “he was never hard to move.”
“No,” said Nathan, absently.
“I fancied once that the marriage estate
would sober him, teach him prudence, strength
en him in his duties. We are all liable to be
“11l must come of a match that is based on a
mistake of principle,” said Nathan ; “ Edmund
Lanceford is no exception to the general rule.”
Nathan Lanceford relapsed again into rev
erie, and Willie for some time walked silently
by his side. He had no desire to intrude upon
his thoughts, being conscious that self-exami
nation was a good thing for his brother.
Willie, in his new capacity of minister, might
have felt tempted to preach a little homily to
Nathan; but a glance at his brother’s face was
a fair excuse for forbearance. One mustjiave
suffered in body and mind a great deal to nave
looked so old as that at scarcely six-and
“ 11l must come of a match that is based on
a mistake of principle,” repeated Nathan
"Lanceford, somewhat to Willie’s surprise.
“ There are promises and engagements, how
ever solemnly entered into, that it would be a
mercy to break—the greatest cruelty to fulfil.
Willie, before you go, I have a question to ask.
In my own selfish trouble I must not forget
Willie did not like the conjunction of phrases ;
but surely tho question Had nothing to do
with his promises and engagements.
“All attention, Nathan,” he observed.
“ May I ask if you are still engaged to Amy
Pembercast ?”
“Still engaged to her?—certainly.”
“ There has been no quarrel—no little dif
ference?” asked Nathan, a little anxiously.
“ Amy and I never quarrel—what should we
have tp quarrel about ?”
“Nothing, I hope. Still, Willie, the sunny
side may be turned to the lover, and the clouds
in his absence may darken the landscape. I
cannot believe Amy Pembercast is happ /, and
I was coming to you this morning to inquire
the cause.”
Willie drew a long breath of dismay. Amy—
his Amy—not happy ; and Nathan Lancefo d,
almost a stranger to her, to have made the dis
covery 1 Could it be possible ? or had he who
doubted seen in a misty speculum but his own
troubles mirrored ?
“ Why do you think she is unhappy—when
did you see her ?” asked Willie.
“I met your cousin and Mr. and Mrs. Pem
bercast at the Perks’s last night. Perks was a
friend of mine in the old amateur theatrical
times, if you remember.”
“ Yes. Well—well.”
“ There was no party at the Perks’s ; but
Mr. Perks had written for the loan of my pri
vate box, and, being in tho neighborhood, I
had called to place it at his service. Miss Pem
bercast was there, as I have said, with her pa
rents and very pale and ill she looked.”
“I saw her on Wednesday last; I did not
detect any signs of illness on her countenance.
She was a little dull, I thought,—nothing
“A little dull,” echoed Nathan; “and by
the side of her lover! Willie,” and his hand
fell once more on his brother’s shoulder, “ let
us have one" Lanceford in the family not the
victim of a mistake. Under the spell has been
with us envy and hatred, folly and jealousy.
Pause on the brink, and dash not heedlessly
“Nathan, there is something more which
you do not like to tell me,” said Willie ; “to
spare me or my feelings, you are keeping
something back!”
“It was doubtful whose face looked most
grey and careworn at that moment. Nathan
hesitated. He was not prepared for so keen an
attack, and the subject was a delicate one in
which, perhaps, he had scarcely a right to in
terfere. Still the step was made now, and he
must follow on to the end.
“There is little to add—little that I have
kept back,” he continued; “ all with me is sus
picion, based on last night’s observations,
which rendered me doubtful of the 'health or
spirits of Miss Pembercast, doubtful of her en
gagement to you. Still they may have misled
me ; I was in a doubtful mood.’
“Go on. What did you see ?”
“ A pale, anxious-looking face; one that had
been worried that day, perhaps by little house
hold or dressmaking matters though—don’t let
me bo too suspicious. I saw the effort to main
tain composure- and more than once her
mother whispered to her—l fancied sharply—
and the eyes filled with tears on the instant.”
“ You spoke to her, of course ?”
“ Yes, of you. Speaking to her suggested
the idea of a lovers’ quarrel, at first, she
seemed so anxious to change the conversation,
and betrayed so much agitation at the mention
of your name. It was a bad sign that set me
watchful. There may be nothing to alarm you
in this, Willie—l pray not; but,” with a half
groan, “ I am anxious one of us should be free
from the family weakness.”
“ Go on—anything more ?” asked Willie, im-
P!l “Notliing more—unless a remark of Mr.
Perks’s is to stand for anthing,” said Nathan.
You hesitate, Nathan. Pray go on 1”
“I had remarked to him that Miss Pember
cast was not loooking well, and he changed
color very suddenly, and said, ‘ She may have
more to trouble her than either you or I are
aware of, Mr. Lanceford.” A common-place
remark, but uttered in an acrid manner that
was far from satisfactory. There’s the story,
Willie ; probably a foolish one, and one that has
unnecessarily distressed you.”
“ Possibly,” returned Willie.
“ I am a gloomy misanthrope, and a wet
blanket to others’ enjoyments, Willie,” said
Nathan, endeavoring to assume a lighter air,
and failing miserably ; “I bring my tragic airs
from the stage, and paraded them in the light
of every day—an actor’s weakness.”
“ Good-bv.e,” was the sudden response ; “ I
am going now. You will remember Edmufid?”
“ Will you not return with me ?”»
“ Not now. We may have both our work to
do—our errors to repair. The best method is
al once, when the heart beats warmly for the
troubles of those wo love. You wilU'emomber
that, Nat ?”
Willie shook hands' with his brother and
strode away, to return to Nathan’s side a mo
ment afterward.
“ I forgot to thank you for your interest in
me, Nat. Thank you; good-bye, again.”
Willie Lancefora lost no time in hastening
home ; he was one who did his work well, and
with all energy. Nathan had awakened the
old dreamy suspicions that ali was not right
with the heart of Amy Pembercast—that she
looked not forward to sharing his future with
all that love, and trust, and ecstasy that, as
her future husband, he was entitled to expect
Ho had set down to every reason but the right
—for the right chilled him, and made his heart
sink.. Still, before him rose his duty ;he did
not .shrink from it because the task was hard,
and his love might sink beneath it. He did not
even fear; his was a strong man’s love now,
that had grown with his growth ; but he could
pluck it up by the roots for her sake, and suf
fer silently, and show no sign. To be deceived
in his happiness for this life, in that to which
ho had looked forward as the one brightness to
dispel the shadows that had settled on him
since his father’s death, was a trial from which
he would emerge neither a misanthrope nor a
Willie sought his mother at once, startled
her from her embroidery frame by his hasty
step, and his impetuous movement toward her.
“ Mother, I am m trouble. I come to the
mother first with all my cares—a selfish child
“What has happened, Willie?” asked Mrs.
Lanceford with dismay.
“Nothing has happened yet,’’ said her son,
in reply ; “ there is a faint hope that nothing
may happen. I wish to speak of cousin Amy—
will you listen—explain—advise ?”
Mrs. Lanceford motioned to Willie to seat
himself by her side. When he was there she
placed an arm round his neck, and drew him
closer to her bosom, as if he were still the boy
sho had loved so much.
“ You must forgive me, Willie ; I did it for
the best.”
“Did what?” cried Willie, leaping back
again, and steadfastly regarding her.
“ I knew it would come in good time, this
awakening,” continued the mother, not heed
ing his remark. “I felt it would be cruel to
pain you with fresh trouble until your mind
had recovered the shock of your father's
death. I have been putting off the evil day
like a weak woman, as I am—you must forgive
“Amy does not love me ?” said Willie, with
his lips compressed; “is that the secret,
mother ? Is that all ?”
Mrs. Lanceford covered her face with her
hands, and sobbed piteously; rocked herself
in the chair, and moaned until Willie was at
her side again, and had drawn away her hands.
“Well, let it be so,” said he, with a voice
that faltered at first, but grew more strong as
he proceeded; “if the vision fade thus early,
so much the better for her and me ; I have
nothing to complain of, save my own blind
ness, that should have known this long ago.
Such a trouble as this I can bear, or I am a
poor servant of that Master who teaches us to
be resigned. Say it is a hope dashed down—l
will not fall with it; you may trust my courage
to meet it fairly, mother.”
“My dear, brave Willie—my honest boy, who
deserved a better fate I ”
“ Hush—that is complaining at what is best
for me—thought best by Him who guides us
“ She was never good enough for my Willie, ”
was the indignant exclamation of a true moth
er. Do mothers ever think their sons’ wives
good enough, I wonder ?
“Tell me how long you have known this,
and why, fearing my moral strength, you have
not told me earlier.”
“I guessed it a year ago—l had my doubts
before that time. I think she was just and
fair, and tested her own heart to the utmost,
remembering the girlish encouragement she
gave you. Perhaps it was but honest to let
the four years terminate before she told you
she could never be your wife. It was the wish
—I may say the commands —of her parents,
and she struggled on, and was dutiful. All
this I have learned, or guessed at. You must
remember your Aunt Pembercast or Amy has
not helped me by a word. But I was a jealous
mother who loved her boy too well not to watch
his interests, and' that which would influence
his whole after life.”
“A mistaken kindness, mother, that might
have influenced that after life for evil in us
both. I should have known all at an earlier
“ I had intended to relate all after your last
unhappy visit to the Limes,” resumed Mrs.
Lanceford; “ and then trouble came, and you
were crushed by it. I believe to have given
you doubts of Amy’s constancy at that time
would have been to kill you. It was your fath
er’s wish—his dying wish—that time should be
given to recover one loss before the news of
another was communicated.”
“ Qf what was my father aware, then—what
did he know 1”
“He had his doubts; he sought from me
their confirmation. In your interest, he rela
ted that he had gone to Scarboro’, when the
Pembercasts were staying there, and had de
voted several days to watching them in that
silent, mysterious way which he at times
adopted. At Scarboro’ he made the discovery
that Mr. Perks was in love with Amy—that
Amy struggled hard, against herself, to hide
her love from him. One early morning on the
sands he was the unconscious witness of Amy’s
efforts to escape the avowal of his passion.”
“ All this known, and I left to dream on I”
cried Willie.
“ He intended to tell you, and then the acci
dent occurred. I have said he bound me by a
promise on his death-bed to keep the secret
for a time; he believed that you would slowly
awake to the truth yourself, and that a painful
recital might be spared you.”
“ And this is my awakening I But Aunt
Pembercast.” asked Willie, and he slowly paced
to and fro, “ what has she known—all?”
“I believe so, despite her many protesta
tions. Cold as she was to the engagement at
first, knowing your fortunes depended on your
father’s will, she became gradually anxious to
see you her daughter’s husband, as son after
son turned from thS'iather’s side. Before Mr.
Lanceford died she was anxious—afterward
she was resolved; and I believe, with all her
mother’s love, the daughter’s future, so far as
it is possible, is decided in her own mind, and
there remains but one escape for her.”
“That must be effected.”
“ I will go at once and Willie was starting
toward the door, when his mother called him
“You will do nothing rash. And, dear Wil
lie,- will you not let me spare you an interview
so painful ?” she asked.
“It will not last a minute, and I should like
to see her once more.’’
“You are not angry with me, Willie? You
will think I acted for the best? I had two
hopes to keep me silent—one that the passion
might die of its own weakness; the other that
Amy’s love would suddenly revive, for yours
was deep, and its earnestness at any moment
might have touched her. But all is ‘ vanity and
vexation of spirit.’ Willie, you will forgive me
for the part I have played against you ?”
“There is nothing to forgive, dear mother.”
He stooped and kissed her. Then he went
with the same grave face and steady step from
the house, and along the streets in the direc
tion of Uncle Pembercast’s residence. Willie
was very firm—would remain so to the end. It
was not the face of one who intended to give
way that startled passers-by with its pallor, as
he hastened to end Amy’s sorrows, and cut her
adrift from him.
Willie inquired for Aunt Pembercast in the
first instance, and was shown into that lady’s
study—a little room on the first floor, where sho
sometimes rode her new hobbies tn silence and
secresy—a matter of self-congratulation to Mr.
Pembercast in particular. That morning Aunt
Pembercast had started a new subject. Photo
graphy had not prospered ; her friends had ob
jected to constant sittings that ended in distort
ed countenances and heads half off, and her cam
era was packed away, and ali the chemicals dis
posed of under prime cost. Hew new study
was the result of an accident. Mrs. Pember
cast’s parrot had died and been stuffed, and
given a turn to taxidermical thoughts. So she
ad purchased a book on the subject, and ten
guineas’ worth of skins, and worried the artists
at Buffon &, Willson’s out of their lives with her
inquiries; and there she sat when Willie was
introduced to her, surrounded with specimens,
and stuffing her hardest.
“Ab I William, only home io friends of the
family,” said she. “Taxidermy, you see—a
delightful employment. Keeps mo confined to
my room a great deal, however; for your uncle
is nervous about the arsenic, which is essential
as a preservative. Take care of my Tv.rJ.us
visoivorus, please ; it’s en the floor there, dry
ing—a beautiful specimen of tho thrush-kin ;1—
the enchanting Merulidce ! There is a why,
what’s the matter, Willie ?”
She suddenly became aware of her nephew’s
grave looks, and regarded him intently through
her glasses.
“ Your mamma is not ill, I hope ?”
“ No, aunt, thank you—very well. Will you
put that bird aside a moment ? I wish to speak
with you.”
Mrs. Pembercast complied with his request.
“I have not much to say; the briefer state
ment is the better for me. I have come to re
sign all claim to Amy’s hand, now I hold no
place in Amy’s heart. I regret, Aunt Pember
cast, that the engagement has lasted so long,
and been so long a source of discontent to her,
when one word might have ended it years
since. Life has been wasted, and the feelings
outraged by my course of folly ; you will suffer
me to close it here, bid her good-bye—and
“ God bless my soul I does your mother, un
cle, anybody ?—who has said or done? Isn’t it
likely to be?—oh! my gracious 1”
And Mrs. Pembercast left her chair and ran
wildly about tho room, kicking her Urdus vis
civorus in various directions.
“Youwere so suited to each other—an only
son, an only daughter—l am sure Amy does
not wish itl”
“Amy must answer for herself; on her
word, of course, depend my actions.”
Aunt Pembercast looked at him again, and
was silent. There were no words in her vo
cabulary of consolation to change the expres
sion of that marble countenance. She made a
step toward the door, but Willie was too quick
for her.
“ Ono moment, Aunt; I wish to see her
And before Mrs, Pembercast could offer a»
objection, Willie was hurrying to the drawing
room, whence had issued one or two plaintive
chords as he passed the door, a moment since.
Mrs. Pembercast was recovering her dismay,
and rushing after him ; but there was no time
for ceremony; he turned the handle of the
door, and entered. Amy gave a cry of sur
prise, and raised her head from the volume of
music she had been bending over. There wore
tears upon her cheeks; ho saw them. There
was some writing ou the fly-leaf of the volume;
he saw that too—“ Amy Pembercast, ex dono,
11. Perles.” Brief and formal, and yet some
thing to be gazed at and wept over 1
“ Amy, I think I know all now, and I have
come to release you. Will you take your lib
erty from my hands, and forgive me for keep
ing you so long a captive I”
“ Oh 1 Willie—cousin Willie I”
She had started up and was standing before
him, with her fair ringlets in disorder, her soft
cheeks flushed, her eyes bedewed; amid the
sorrow for him to be read on her face, he could
see the joy at her escape struggling to be hid
den there.
“We were boy and girl who knew not our
own minds” (ho took his share of blame to
make it less embarrassing to her) ; “we are
man and woman now, with real life before us.
A pleasant romance that ends, and perhaps
has taught us not to be precipitate—shall wo
think so, Amy ?”
Amy could not answer.
“ Bettor to end thus for both our sakes—for
yours, especially, dear cousin. Better to part
thus, and with these brief words, than make a
foolish scene of it—is it not so ?”
“ Yes.”
“Good-by, then.”
He took her trembling hand in his, shook it
as a friend’s, and resigned it. He was still
calm and pale and cold—a gentleman and a
Lanceford. In his manner of repressing his
emotion, in his gentlemanlike deportment, even
in his looks and in his bight, he resembled his
father at that moment. The Lanceford who
was buried with his fathers had looked like
that in times that were a trouble to him.
As he turned toward the door he met Aunt
Pembercast coming in.
“Will you see to Amy, aunt, and be gentle
with her? She is not strong,” he said, as he
passed her, and went down the stairs.
She was not strong, he was right—not strong
of will; too weak ever to have been his help
mate. Tho girl’s love had been weak, born of
a girl’s vanity, and the heart had played no
part in it. The same end to a hundred stories
of like nature happens every day ; it is the nat
ural result, and it is best. With Edmund
Lanceford it had been different, or was ren
dered "different by an intermoddler’s rash act—
what end shall his story be, and on what sunk
en rocks will his reckless will eventually drive
him ? "But Willie was free from the spell. In
the hard, realistic world he moved on; shiver
ing inwardly at the cold blasts that swept by
in the first bitterness of his disappointment,
but betraying no excitement; feeling mortifica
tion at the result of his wooing, but smarting
beneath no sense of injury. He might have
had the vanity to believe that Amy was un
worthy of his honest and strong love; but he
was not vain, and drew no odious comparisons
between himself and the lackadaisical swain
for whom he was preferred. Titania loved
Billy Bottom when under the spell; but he had
more serious thoughts than of Titania and her
midsummer dreamings. He had lost one more
hope—he thought it the last; and he became
wiser, graver, more wholly devoted to the glo
rious profession he had chosen. He did not
give way like a child; he bore the burden of his
sorrows like a man, and faltered not beneath
its weight.
(To be continued.)
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By Dr. POWERS’. Designed for obstinate cases;
warranted as represented. No. 116 Chatham street.
Ladies not having convenience
at home, can be provided with superior board, nurs
ing, and medical attendance during confinement, and
their children adopted to good homes, if desired.
DR. DURANT, No. 7 Beach st., N. Y.
the investigation and treatment of secret diseases
belonging to the MALE AND FEMALE SEXUAL
SYSTEM. He has no occasion to exaggerate his quali
fications. In early youth his course or medical study in
the best institutions in the world was rigid and thor
ough, and from such a beginning, his long experience in
teaching and practicing the healing art, enables him to
effect cures in a very short time—many cases cured in
twenty-four hours. Patients will, therefore, save money,
time and health by consulting the doctor. Those who
have met with disappointment elsewhere can have their
infirmities cured, their constitutions renewed and
strengthened under a safe, skillful and thorough course
of treatment.
Consultations from a A. M. to 10 P. M.. at
Between Bleecker and Amity streets.
PHYSICIAN, No. 6 Greene street, does not hum
bug ladies with medicine.
Surgical treatment for the removal of all special
irregularities or obstructions, may with confidence con
sult DR. DURANT. No. 7 Beach street,
near West Broadway, New York.
C'IOOD’NEWS for ladies.- ladies,
X use Dr. POWERS* Compound end Pills, that will
restore monthly periods at any time. No. 116 Chatham
Always sure-a patient
WRITES: “I spent $lO for drugs. All failed.
Electricity relieved me m ten minutes without pain.”
Dr. and Madame DUBOIS, No. 38 Third avenue, below
Tenth street. Exclusive board and attendance. Relief
positive. No deception. No quackery.
V y consult DR. LEWIS; he guarantees that none
shall leave his care until cured and restored to sound and
vigorous healtn. His office is at No. 7 Beach street, near
West Broadway, since 1840.
Manhood and youthful vigor
are regained by using Dr. POWERS’ Elixir
or Life, or Physical Regenerator, of bio. 116 Chatham st.
Reader, this article may not concern you at all. If you
have never suffered from disease of the organs of genera
tion, such as Spermatorrhoea, Seminal Losses, Involuntary
emissions, it is not necessary for you to read this. If you
are suffering or have suffered from Involuntary Dis
charges, what effect does it produce upon your general
health? Do you feel weak, debiltated, easily tired?
Does a little extra exertion produce palpitation of the
heart? Does your liver or urinary organs or your kidneys
fretniently get out of order ? Is your urine sometimes
thick, milky or flocky, or is it ropy on settling? Or
does a thick scum rise to the top ? Or a sediment in
the bottom after it has stood a while ? Do you have spells
of short breathing or dyspepsia ? Are your bowels con
stipated? Do you have spells of fainting, or rushes of
blood to the head ? Is your memory impaired ? Is your
mind constantly dwelling upon this subject? Do you
feel listless, moping, tired of company, of life ? Do you
wish to be left alone—to get away from everybody? Does
any little thing make you start or jump ? Is your sleep
broken or restless? Do you discharge drops of semen
before or after making water, or during your stool, or at
nighb? Or have you become impotent; lost all feeling
for the opposite sex ?. Do you often feel ashamed of
yourself, thinking that everybody that looks at you knows
what is the matter with you? Is the lustre of your eye
as brilliant ? The bloom on your cheek as bright ? Do
you enjoy yourself in society as well ? Do you pursue
your business with the same energy? Do yon feel as
much confidence in yourself ? Are vour spirits dull and
flagging, given to fits of melancholy? If so, do not lay
it to your Liver or Dyspepsia. Have you restless nights ?
V our back weak, knees weak, and have but little appe
tite, and you attribute this to Dyspepsia or Liver Com
plaint ? Did you ever tell your doctor that you had prac
ticed or that you had suffered from badly
cured gonorrhea, or syphillis, or from venereal excesses?
Pernaps you never (thought of confiding those things to
him; and if you had, it is a question whether his mod
esty would have allowed him to question you closely on
the point for fear of offending you; and if he had ex-
Eected anythind of the kind, being your family physician,
e durst not for the world have hinted at the thing, for
fear of your becoming indignant and insulted.
Now, reader, self-abuse, venereal diseases badly cured
and sexual excesses, are all capable of producing a weak
ness of the.generative organs. The organs of genera
tion, when in perfect health, make the man. Did you
ever think that those bold, defiant, energetic, persever
ing, successful business men are always those whose
generative organs are in perfect health ? You never hear
such men complain of being melancholy, of nervousness,
of palpitation of the heart. They are never afraid they
cannot succeed in business; they don’t become sad and
discouraged; they are always polite and pleasant in the
company of ladies, and look you and them right in the
face—none of your down looks or any other meanness
about them. Ido not mean those men who keep these
organs inflamed by running to excess. These will not
only ruin their constitutions, but also those they do busi
ness with or for. .
How many men from badly-cured private diseases,
from the effects of self-abuse and excesses, have brought
about that state of weakness in these organs, that nag
reduced the general system so much as to induce almost
every other disease—idiocy, lunacy, paralysis, spinal affec
tion, suicide, and almost every other form of disease
which humanity is heir to, and the real cause of the
trouble scarcely ever suspected, and have doctored for all
but the right one., •
Under Dr. Lewis’s treatment, extending over a period
of twenty-eight years, hundreds of apparently hopeless
cases, male and female, which have been given up by the
faculty, have been speedily cured when every other
meaqs U signally failed. L »
Author of the “ Medical Companion and Guide to
Health,” can be confidentially consulted at his old estab
lished office. No. 7 BEACH STREET, near West Broad
way, New York. „ ,
Office hours from 9A.M. to BP. M. Sundays, from 9
A. M. to 12 M. A
The most wonderful, reliable and certain remedy, as
well as always healthy, for married or single ladies, in re
moving obstructions and suppressions, from whatever
cause, and restoring the monthly sickness, has proved to
Thousands of ladies have used them with infallible oer
taßead what the best physicians testify in respect to
A’woman applied to be treated for suppression. It
appeared that she had been subject to irregularity, or
stoppage of the monthly turns, and as she appeared to be
free from the usual symptoms attending pregnancy, it
was not supposed that the stoppage arose from that
cause. She commenced using the PORTUGUESE FE
MALE MONTHLY PILLS. Alter using them about
five days—from certain indications attending miscarriage
—suspicions began to be entertained that the suppression
might have arisen from pregnanuy, which, upon examina
tion, proved to be the case—too late, however, to prevent
the miscarriage. In a short time, it took place, and on
about the third day after she entirely recovered, with but
little comparative inconvenience to her general health,”
- He further states that their efficacy and certainty are
such, that they are sometimes administered in oases of
malformation of pelvis, when the female is incompetent
to give birth at maturity. . . r x
1% ey cannot fail, in recent cases they succeed m forty
eight hours. Price, $3 per box. In obstinate cdses, those
two degrees stronger should be used. Price. S 5.
Professor of Diseases of Women,
Office, No. 129 Liberty street,
Sole Agent and Proprietor for upward of twenty years.
They are sent by mail, in ordinary letter envelopes, with
full instructions and advice.
Dr. A. M- Mauriceau, for twenty’years successful prac
titioner aThis present office, guarantees a safe, and imme
diatia'and efficacious cure of all special difficulties, irregu
larities and obstructions, either in person or by mail.
Ladies from all parts of the United States consult him
| con^,we ftnd QQitaiaty of success.
Sunday Edition. Jan 3.
u a? Fwrite D “
invalid, ifyou wish regular medical treatment, con
sult Dr. DUBOIS, No. 38 Third avenue, Z?IWh
street, New York, and you will be guaranteed safe 1
taid and immediate relief, or no charge. Advice gratis
Remedies for female derangements, from ffil to Ss*
Monthly Regulators, $5. Confidential advice and medi
cine per mail. Twenty years successful practice; no de
ception or quackery. N. B.—Mme. D. will consult with
laaies who prefer meeting their own sex, or kindly care
tor those desiring home attention during treatment,
rjliffi LADIES’ FRIEND I['n’nEED.
JL Dr. WEST can be consulted on all Diseases of
r emales with unparalleledjuccess, at No. 545 Broadway.
2? SUSPENSORY BANDAGE, without straps,
and self-adjusting, from 60 cents to $3 each. Every man
should wear them; they prevent rupture. Best quality
of hrenoh protectors or safes $3 per dozen. Sample one
sent for 30 cents. DR. DE VERNES* RED MIXTURE
for Gonnorhoea; cures in three days. Dr. De Verne?
Spanish Female Mixture and Pills clear away obstruc-
Hons of six and seven months without risk or difficulty.
DE VERNES INJECTION for fluor albus or
wm tea. One bottle a certain cure for this disease. De
pot No. 40 Carmine street, New York. Mailed to any
part, of the United States or Canadas.
• valuable information bv read-
HEALTH. Price, 50 cents. DR. LEWIS, No. 7 Beach
street, near West Broadway.
Powers’ Pills and Drops are the only remedy for
woman s peculiar difficulties. No. 116 Chatham street.
Ladies desiring medical ~aK
will b 0 cartain to obtain relief by consulting
Dr. WEST, at No. 545 Broadway, near Spring street.
SIONS, Debility, mind and body destroying vice.
Dr. POWERS’ Essence. Price $L Office, No. 116
ham street.
Infallible accouchment under all circumstances, at
the least terms; also infallible cures of all sexual, private,
cutaneous and rheumatic diseases, etc., etc.
immediately without mercury, by Dr. POWER’S,
No. 116 Chatham street, vigor and manhood regained by
using his elixir. Consulted free.
Physical Debility, giving strength and manly vigor,
soall duties of life, can be performed with confidence
and pleasure. Office, No. 7 Beach street.
ERS removes all obstructions at once and without
pain or inconvenience. No. 116 Chatham street.
MANCHES, No. 651 Broadway. Only one inter
view necessary for a cure.
Dispensary, No. 22 mulberry
street, near Chatham. Er. E. M. BROWNE, a
graduate of the Pennsylvania College of Medicine, 30
years in practice. A professor of the diseases of women.
All diseases of either sex, of whatsoever kind or long
standing, will be treated, and cures guaranteed in cura
ble cases, or no charge. A warranted cure in five days
for chronic gleet, etc., without medicine. Dr. B.’s regu
lating medicines for ladies, and other treatment, it is
well known, can be relied on. Consultation personally or
by letter.
A sure and reliable medicine, under all circum
stances, for removing obstructions’’ and suppressions.
Spanish Female Pills, $2 00 per box. French Sugar
coated (stronger) Pills, $3 00 per box. Periodical Drops,
$2 00 per vial. Womb Guards, $3 00 each. Syringes of
all kinds from $1 CO to $lO 00 each. Ladies, the above
remedies are invaluable. Medicines for gentlemen put
up in $5 and $lO packages. Invigorating Cordial for
nervous debility and seminal weakness, never fails, $1 50
and $3 00 per bottle. Gentlemen’s genuine A No. 1 con
veniences, under all circumstances, price, two for $1 00.
or $5 00 per dozen. I can be consulted at my office on
all diseases of a delicate nature by ladies or gentlemen.
Scientific treatment guaranteed to all. GEORGE R.
BOND, M. D., No. 65 Orchard, cor. Grand street, over
Tea store. Entrance on Orchard st. Established in 1832,
DR. WEST, No. 545 BROADWAY, near
Spring street, treats all diseases of a private nature,
and guarantees a speedy and radical cure in a few days,
upon moderate terms. Persons suffering from early in
discretion or the effects of quackery should consult him,
without delay, and if their cases are hopeless, he will in
form them candidly without fee or reward. His long and
extensive practice warrants him to speak positively, as
can be shown by hundreds of certificates from those who
have been cured by him. Office and consultation very
p rivate.
IO TATION FOR GENTLEMEN, at 3 for sl. or $4
per doz., best quality. Call on Dr. MANCHES, No. 651
Broadway, or by nigfl, sealed.
DUBOIS, Professor of Midwifery, twenty-five
years* successful practice, guarantee’s relief at one
interview, with or withoutjmedicine. Her family medi
cines, $5. No. 38 Third avenue, below Tenth street.
Advice per mail. No deception. No quackery.
Female Pills and Drops always certain. Call or write.
and Midwife, can be consulted at No. 42 St. Mark’s
place, near Second avenue. Having had twenty-five
years’ experience in the treatment of all female com
plaints, she can guarantee cure when all others fail. Her
remedies are safe and sure, and always give immediate
relief. Pleasant rooms and board for those from a dis
tance. Consultations at all hours.
near Spring street, N. Y., cures all diseases of a
private nature. No exposure, no trouble, no change of
diet! Let those who despair of getting cured elsewhere,
or who have been gorged with Balsam Copaiva or Mer<
cury, consult the doctor at once, and they will be aston<
ished at the speedy cures which he makes. Consult him
and satisfy yourself. Remember the number—s4u Broad
way,, N. Y. Charges moderate.
rangements of the Urinary Organs, Emissions, Im
potence, Debilify, weakness from indiscretion, lost func
tions . N 0.116 Chatham street.
Mrs. maxwell, female physi
cian, attends to the diseases of women and chil
dren at No. 6 Greene street.
Ladies who would favor dr.
WEST with a call, will meet with honorable and
scientific treatment. Office, No. 545 Broadway.
WEST, Female Physician and Surgeon, begs leave
to acquaint the Ladies of New York ana environs, that
he devotes his practice exclusively to the treatment of
Female Diseases, such as Pain m the Back and Loinsj
Leucorrhoea or Whites, Propuse or painful Menstruef
tion. Cessation of Menses, or Turn of Life; r Chlorosis,
or Green Sickness, Hysterics, &c., &c.
Sterility or Barreness, cured in all cases where there is
no physical defect.
Ladies that would favor Dr. West with a call, will
meet with honorable and scientific treatment.
Office No. 545 Broadway, near Spring street. Consul
tation in all the principal languages, from 9 A. M. to 9
P. M.; Sundays from 9to 11 A. M. Rooms arranged so
the patient sees none but the Doctor. Consultation and
advice gratis. Charges moderate.
Communications by mail promptly replied to, and
medicine sent to all parts of the United States and Can
ada as ordered.
Excellent Rooms fitted up in style for accommodation
of ladies. . „ ,
The great want of a qualified physician, to treat all the
numerous diseases that the female system is heir to, iS
too sensibly felt by the American female. It is with
pleasure that I offer mv services to the sex, whose health
should be considered the greatest blessing of man’s ex
istence. W. H. WEST, M. D., Physician for Females,
No. 545 Broadway, near Spring street, New York.
Ascertain cure for married
Ladies, with or without medicine, by Madame
RESTELL, Professor of Midwifery: over 30 years’ prac
tice. Her infallible French Female Pills, No. 1, price sl.
or No. 2, specially prepared, price $5, which can never
fail, are safe and healthy. Sold only at her office, No. 1
East Fifty-second street, first door from Fifth avenue,
and at Druggist’s, No. 152 Greenwich street, or sent by
mail Caution—All others are
is the only positive and Specific Remedy for all
personal suffering from general or sexual debility, all de
rangements of the nervous forces, melancholy, sperma
torrhoea or seminal emissions, all weaknesses arising
from sexual excesses, or youthful indiscretions, loss of
muscular energy, physical prostration, nervousness,
weak spine, lowness of spirits, dimness of vision, hys
terics. pains in the back and limbs, impotency, &c.
No language can convey an adequate idea of the im
mediate and almost miraculous change it occasions to
the debilitated and shattered system. In fact, it stands
unrivaled as an unfailing cure of the maladies above
Suffer no more, but try one bottle; it will effect a cure
where all others fail, and although a powerful remedy,
contains nothing hurtful to the most delicate constitu
tion. Price, Five Dollars. No, 3 Division street since
1834. Book of 60 pages gratis.
E Twenty-five years successful practice. Always
safe; always sure. Dr. and Madame DUBOIS, No. 33
Third Avenue. Electricity scientifically applied.
MANCHES, No. 651 Broadway. Also diseases of
the os uteri or womb. Confidential advice and medi
cines, $2, both sexes. Rooms private.
YOUTH AND MATURITY, dust Published
GUIDE TO HEALTH; A Treatise on the Anatomy and
Physiology of the Organs of Generation and their Dis
eases, with Observations on Onanism and its Baneful
Results, including an Essay on Spermatorrhoea, Mental
and Sexual Incapacity and Impotence, and the Venereal
and Syphilitic Maladies, with plain and clear directions
for the removal of Secondary Symptoms, Gonorrhoea,
Gleets, Strictures and all Diseases of the Skin, such as
Scurvy, Scrofula, Ulcers, Boils, Blotches and Pimples oa
the Face and Body, by Dr. A. Lewis, No. 7 Beach street,
between Varick and West Broadway.
The above work, containing the practical remarks and
observations of a quarter of a century, treats, in plain
and sympathizing language, on the various impediments
and disqualifications to marriage, and particularly re
commends itself as a safe, unerring and infallible guida
to speedy restoration, and permanent preservation of
health and vigor. The necessity and importance of tho
work are further shown by the facts that there are few
persons who do not, at some period, require such infor
mation as may be found in its pages. While, therefore,
it affords a wholesome lesson to the inexperienced, it may
also be instrumental in averting the consequences of in
discretion from those who have unhappily incurred them;
and, as the treatment recommended has been uniformly
successful in many thousands of cases, the reader may
more confidently anticipate fo r himself the same bene
ficial result.
For Sale at the Booths of the Soldiers’ Messenger and
Dispatch Company, Park Place, near Broadway; Park
Row, corner Times Building; Liberty street, corner
Broadway; College Place, corner Murray street; West
Broadway, corner Reade street; Junction of Hudson
street, and Eighth avenue ; Thirteenth street, cor.
Eighth avenue; Fourteenth street, cor Sixth avenue;
Washington Square, cor. Waverley Place; Division
street, cor Hester street. Junction of Houston and Sec
ond streets tMoore street, near Pearl; Chatham Square,
cor. New Bowery, and others; or will be sent by tna
author, Dr. LEWIS, N:. 7 Beach street, free from ob
servation, to any address. Price, 50 cents.
REDEMPTION in this life by not calling on Dr.
!?T£B sooner or later. He can cure the worst cases
of secret disease in a shorter time than any other physi
cian, or no pav taken. Skeptics and doubters will please
call and read lots of reliable certificates of cures mad®
within the last thirty years, of almost hopeless cases,that
had had the benefit of dozens of the most eminent physi
cians and surgeons. Dr. Hunter is in constant attend
ance, from 8 in the morning until 9 at night, at his old
office, No. 3 Division street, New York city, since 1834.
Charges moderate, and a cure guaranteed, beparat®
rooms, so that the patient sees no one but the Doctor
himself. His wonderful medical discovery, Dr. HUN
TER’S RED DROP, cures private diseases, when regu
lar treatment and all other remedies fail; cures without
dieting or restriction in the habits .of tbg patient, cures
without the disgusting and sickening effects of all other
♦SL become so well known, that scientific
men iFeverv denMtment of medical knowledge, begin
S aDV?eoiate it, lor hardly a week passes thatlie is not
t 0 iw dru grists, chemists, a n d physicians, in re-
rao' patient, who has exhausted the
Jeficld of the facnlly, and still the disease will ap
e What human being, with any pretention to Chris-
Boriitv will say that tn is medicine should not be mad®
i-nSwnfar and wide? Its popularity i 3 so great, that
fhAreis not a'quack doctor in the city that has not at
! talked it: and when they find their hes are not so easily
; fallowed, they then pretend that they can make it. BX
1 a vial, and cannot be obtained genuine
but atthe old office, No. 3 Division street. One dollar
will secure by return mail his medical work, 330
iv worUi ftU the others put together

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