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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, April 25, 1869, Image 2

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85026214/1869-04-25/ed-1/seq-2/

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Shriek, she tottered, and fell senseless on tho
crass. Her face struck a sharp flint, and man
instant the blood was flowing from a deep cut
in her forehead. _ , .
Lord Warborough rushed to her, and, kneel
ing, raised her head. .
Her face was pale as death, and the blood
flowed in pumping jets from a cut by the side
pf her left eyebrow.
Cuthbert looked up at the countess.
“Mother, you Imve killed her I-
That was all heSsaid.
For a brief moment her ladyship stood dazed,
stunned, and gazed on the pale, blood-streaked
face. Then, with a wail of grief, sho threw her
self on her knees beside tho insensible girl.
“Oh I Ethel—Ethel 1 I have killed you !
God forgive me 1”
Heedless of the blood which spirted over her
shoes from the wounded girl’s cut forehead,
she took her head in her lap and attempted to
Stanch the bleeding with her handkerchief.
The villagers, who at first, from respect to
her ladyship and the young lord, had kept
back, now that the cry went round that Ethel
Was dying, pressed forward.
A stalwart young farmer pressed through the
Crowd carrying a pail of water, which he had
fetched from too nearest booth.
“ What—Ethel, my girl, is it in this plight I
find you ? Would ha’ been better for you if
you’d lot me carry your basket. But your
pride wouldn’t let you. Jack Eames ain’t good
enough for Ethel Grey.”
The young man muttered this to himself re
proachfully, but it was with real sorrow he
looked on the fainting girl.
He dashed some of the water in her face; but
though it had the effect of washing the blood
away for a moment, the fresh spouting jets
told that an artery had been cut.
“Run for the doctor! Quick! She’s bleed
ing to death,” cried the young man, himself as
pale as poor Ethel.
Now, the nearest surgeon lived four miles off,
and it was certain that, if the bleeding could
not be stopped, the girl would bo past human
aid in a very few minutes.
Already the dress of the countess was satu
rated and the grass around was crimsoned
with Ethel’s life-blood. Long before the doc
tor could arrive it was quite certain that her
heart would have stopped beating forever.
All around gazed in blank horror, as her life
ebbed away. The countess vainly endeavored
to stanch the gushing crimson stream ; whilo
her son, pale as her by whom he knelt, looked
wildly, frantically around. Suddenly, there
was a stir among the crowd, as some one push
ed through to the front.
A good-looking young man, well dressed,
and with an air of manifest superiority, step
ped into the circle, in the centre of which lay
tho insensible girl, her head resting in the lap
pf tho countess.
With a promptitude and energy which over
bore all opposition, he pushed her ladyship on
one side, and himself taking Ethel’s head,
dashed water over her forehead; and as the
blood cleared away, inspected the wound
“Ah; a wound not dangerous in itself, but
in its consequences fatal, if the bleeding be not
stopped, and that shortly. The temporal ar
tery is divided. ”
Then he looked up, and, addressing the
Countess, said:
“A piece of silk or cotton—a pair of tweezers
or a couple of needles—quick!—or the girl will
die I”
Fortunately, his demands were able to be
supplied ; and in a very brief space of time he
went to work—quickly, but calmly and quietly,
as one knowing what he was doing.
His manipulation did not occupy two min
utes. After again dashing water on tho girl’s
face and forehead, it was seen by all that the
bleeding had almost ceased. The crimson
stream no longer came in regular pumping
Jots, but merely oozed slowly.
“Now,” said the stranger, rising from his
knees, and with an air of satisfaction on his
good-tempered, handsome face, “the bleeding
has almost ceased, you had better have the
girl carried home, and call in a surgeon.”
The Countess of Warborough, who had been
anxiously watching him, now looked at him
■pith unfeigned surprise.
“ Send for a surgeon! Are not you one ?”
“ Neither physician, surgeon, nor even hum
ble apothecary,” he said, smiling.
Noticing tho expression of wonder on the
free of tho Countess of Warborough and tho
surrounding rustics, he added :
“It is quite true; I have no right or title
Whatever to practice the healing art, and per
haps may get hauled over .the coals by the
nearest Esculapius for poaching on his pre
serves. Seriously though, I saw that if the
divided artery were not tied, and at once, the
girl would certainly bleed to death. During a
life of some twenty-six years, the latter ten of
Which have been very eventful, I have found
myself in positions where circunistances com
pelled me to undertake strange offices. I have
done duty as cook digger, soldier, sailor,
Vdtigll-rider and buffalo hunter; actor, shep
herd, stocl;-keeper, engineer, fireman. I have
been a hosie'f it Now Qrleans, a Cape Cod fish
erman, part owner of a mackerel Sil)ack, and a
dozen other things by turns. Now, it sO hap
pens that I have some little knowledge of anat
omy, and have on more than one occasion ere
this been enabled to turn it to account. In
this instance, I believe I have been fortunate
enough to save this young girl’s life; for the
ligature will hold until the arrival of a surgeon,
who with his case of instruments can soon put
things straight.”
Then, lifting his hat to the countess, the
Etranger pushed through the cfowd, and stroll
ed away.
Lady Warborough looked after him as he
walked away, and asked : -
“Who is the gentleman? Can anyone tell
But though she looked inquiringly around
onJho circle of faces, no one could give her an
All that she could learn was, that he had
been staying at the only decent inn in the vil
lage for more than a week. His ostensible
Object, it appeared, was a neighboring trout
Btream; but though he usually went out for an
hour or so. every day, he was by no means
either an enthusiastic or a successful fisher
This was all the countess could learn con
cerning the stranger.
By bis dress, air, and appearance, she
thought ho must be a gentleman, notwith
standing his somewhat brusque manner and
total absence of anything approaching to dan
He could not be called strictly handsome, for
his features were not regular; but ho was cer
tainly good-looking, and bore an expression on
liis sunburnt face which went further than ab-
BOlute beauty of outline.
He was perhaps a little above the average in
stature, and his figure, though certainly not
stout or heavily built, gave indication of sin
ewy strength and endurance.
His hair and eyes would lead one to suppose
that he had been fair; but his face was of a
deep brown hue, such a one as is never met
with naturally, but always as the result of ex
posure and tropical suns. His eyes were of a
light blueish-gray, well formed, and overshad
owed by clearly-marked eyebrows. He wore a
email moustache, which, however, was not suf
ficient to conceal the clearly-cut and firm-look
ing mouth. His hands were rough, but browner
in hue than even his face. And as tor dress, it
was at once easy and becoming, without being
in tho least foppish.
Totally unconscious that his retreating fig
ure was the cynosure of all eyes, the stranger
who "had stayed the effusion of Ethel’s life-
Llood strolled slowly away, and was soon lost
to view. '■
And now again Lady Warborough turned
her attention to, the wounded girl, who still lay
in a deadly swoon.
Tho expression of alarm and anxiety on her
handsome haughty face changed rapidly to
one of anger and displeasure, as she noticed
that tho young lord, Cuthbert, was again on
his knees and held the head of the young girl,
while lie looked in her face with a glance ten
der and mournful.
Her ladyship set her lips firmly, and the
compassion and concern she had hitherto
felt died away in her breast and gave place to
“Cuthbert! Rise, and come with me, in
stantly I”
“ What, and leave her like this, perhaps dy
ing?” tho boy answered, indignantly.
“ Yes, yes ; the girl is well enough now the
■bleeding has stopped. Let her be taken
homo. 'She will recover aeon enough, I dare
But her son did not appear to heed her, but
Employed himself in sprinkling water in the
girijs face, chafing her hands, and endeavoring
by every means he knew of to restore her to
At this moment a tall and very dark-looking
man, with iron-gray hair, heavy eyebrows,
and scowling face, pushed through the crowd.
He wore a velveteen coat, a wide-awake hat,
breeches and gaiters. This was Gipsy Grey,
whom her ladyship had just now branded
through the girl as a murderer.
Jill stood back to allow John Grey to pass.
At first, however, his glance did not fall on
liis prostrate daughter; but, looking the count
css boldly in the face, he said, with sudden
“So your ladyship’s bin usin’ hard words,
I’m told ?”
“ You are told i What matter what you aro
told?” she replied, scofnfuliy.
“ Ay, but it is matter; and by G—d Pll let
you 'know it, so sure as my name’s Jack
At this moment his eye fell on tho form Of
his daughter extended on the ground, pale and
insensible, with a thin stream of blood still
flowing from the wound on the temple over her
face. An exclamation broke from bis lips ; but
as ho looked on tho prostrate form of his
daughter there was nothing in his face which
betokened either pity, alarm, or any gentle
emotion whatever—nothing but surprise; and
as that wore off, an expression of brutish in
difference followed, and there was scarce
even curiosity in his manner, as he asked care
lessly ;
“What’s up wi’ the gal? Who’s hit her ?
Is it you ?”
“No,it was not I; though perhaps it was
partly my fault,” reolied her ladyship quickly,
a flush ’of anger mounting to her face. “ I
would have you beware, John Grey, how you
address mo. If your tone and manner are not
more respectful, it will bo bad for you. You
know I have tho power and the will to enforce
my threat.”
“Ay—devil doubt you,” he growled. “I
know ye—ye she-cat I But the day that trou
ble befalls John Grey there’ll be a row up at
the Hall, and the Countess o’ Warborough
won’t bo quite easy in her mind, I reckon.”
“What’s that you say, sir?” demanded Lady
Warborougb, angrily.
“It don’t matter; whatever it was, I mean
it,” replied Gipsy Grey, sullenly.
She advanced close up to him, and hissed in
his ear, in a”low tone :
“ John Grey, beware 1 I can hang you!”
“What for?”
“ Murder.”
“Murder, eh! Who did I murder? Canst
fell me that ?”
All had now fallen back; for the girl had
been raised from the ground and placed on a
hurdle covered with boughs; and the countess,
before speaking to ■ Grey, had waved tho by
standers back in her own imperious manner.
“-You murdered a man in the heath—a
stranger, with whom you had previously had a
“Who was he ? Do you know ?” he replied,
looking her fixedly in the face.
“ Perhaps Ido ; perhaps Ido not. At any
rate you know this, as I know it, that you foul
ly murdered a man—to you a stranger.”
“A stranger! No stranger to you; yen
know him well enough.”
“ It is false—an atrocious lie!”
“ A lie, eh 1 Well, if it is a lie, and you had
no other reason, why didn’t you split at the
that time, say what you knew or what you
thought, and ha’ done wi’ it ?”
“ Because—because I had my reasons. Lot
that suffice.”
“Reasons! pretty reasons,” ho sneered;
“let’s hear ’em ?”
The countess was now deadly pale, possibly
from anger. She glanced around her, as if to
assure herself no one was in earshot.
“ Gipsy Grey,” sho muttered hoarsely, "do
not provoke mo too far. I know you, but you
do not know me.”
“Yes I do, though. But that ain’t tho ques
tion. I want to know, if lam a murderer, as
you say, and you knew it, why didn’t you out
wi’ it ?’’
“ Why—why—you ruffian, I would that I had.
But at that time I was not certain—l had only
very strong suspicion. Then, too, at that time
you were in my employ, and I took a certain in
terest in your daughter Ethel.”
“ Ha, ha,” he iaterrupted, with aloud laugh.
“You took an interest in Ethel, did you?—a
pretty interest. Only a few minutes back you
called her a murderer’s daughter.”
“ Oh, it’s no use your denying it 1 Old Daddy
Verman heard you, as ho was passing by the
gate, and he told me.”
“I do not deny it; nor do I regret, as far as
the stigma applies to you.”
“Don’t you? Well, you’re a cool un, you
are. So you take an interest in the gal, do
you? Now look hero, your ladyship, it’s my
sure belief as you wouldn’t mind bearin’ some
day as she’d bin found as that chap was, wi’
her skull broke in, and quite dead.”
“ Ruffian 1 Fiend! How dare you 1”
“How dare I? Why, because I know more
than you think ; that’s how I dare.”
“What do you know?”
“What’s the gal’s name?”
“ Her name 1 ’
“Yes. I don’t mean her second name—you
know that, and mebbe I will some day ; for I
know sho ain’t my daughter, though she do
pass as such. I mean, what’s her first name—
the one as she was christened by ?”
“Ethel. But what means this questioning?
Do yon dare to trifle with me ?” she asked,
stamping her foot angrily.
But, despite herself, a vague feeling of alarm
took possession of her. The look and manner
of this man—murderer as she knew him to be
alarmed her. Both look and manner were so
defiant. At what was ho aiming ?
Her heart quailed as she asked herself tho
question; Could he know anything ? Impossi
ble 1 The lapse of years, she argued, had for
ever buried in obscurity the secret of her life.
What could he know? Nothing! For as
suredly, had he known all, John Grey was not
the man to let it rest without turning it to good
“ jiithel—yes, Ethel! Did you ever know any
one else of the name of Ethel ?”
She looked him in the eyes firmly and un
quailingly; but a sudden chill shot through
her frame at the question.
“ Well ?”
That was all the reply sho made, for she
could scarcely trust her voice to move.
A curious smile of cunning triumph gleamed
on his face.
“Did you ever know anyone called Ethel
Meredith ?”
Despite herself, tho countess could not pre
vent a light cry breaking from her.
The name seemed to strike terror to her soul.
Her face, pale before, now turned deadly white.
Sho pressed her hand to her heart, and draw
ing a convulsive breath, mastered her emotion
sufficiently to speak.
“And what if I did? What then, John
Grey ?”
She waited breathlessly for his answer. On
that would depend the question of how much
he know.
“Then, if you did, mebbe you knew her
brother ; his name were John Barrington Mer
edith ?”
Like a dagger the words pierced the heart of
Lady Warborough. Her breath camo in chok
ing gasps, her bosom rose and fell, whilo a vis
ible shudder shook her frame.
“That name—that namo 1 Never mention
it again 1” she cried, wildly. “ What of it ?
What do you know ? What do you mean ?”
“Seems I know more than you think, any
how. As to what I mean, I mean that, knowih’
what I do know, I ain’t goin’ to be humbugged
The countess was silent for some moments,
and was about speaking, when, for the first
time, she missed her son Cuthbert.
“Where is Cuthbert? Where is my son?”
she asked.
“Gone on toward the village,” replied Grey,
sullenly. “ Last I see on him he were walking
alongside, as they carried the gal along, and
holdm’ her hand.”
No tinge of pity or anxiety was in his voice
as ho spoke of his wounded daughter. A cry
of anger and mortification burst from her la
“ Gone with her 1” she cried. “Accursed be
the day he saw her 1 This must be put a stop
to. Better a thousand times he were in his
grave than fall beneath her influence. John
Grey, come with me ; I will speak to you pres
ently on other matters. At present’it is all,
important that stop be put for ever to any in
tercourse between Ethel and my son.”
Without waiting for him, the countess passed
through the gate, and walked quickly toward
the village. Gipsy Grey followed her more
slowly, muttering to himself and seemingly at
a loss.
“ What the blazes do the woman mean ?” he
thought. “ There’s something up as is beyond
me. Years ago I got a hundred and fifty pound
for marrying a woman as had already got a
child—this gal Ethel. I found out as the countess
here had a finger in it, for she knew tho woman
as was my wife. But what is the reason of her tak
in’ on so when she heerd the young lord was gone
into the village along wi’ the hurt gal ? Can’t
be that she’s afeerd o’ his morals, can it ? If it
be, she might spare herself the trouble, for
Ethel ain’t a gal o’ that sort. Cold as charity.
Never see her look on a chap yet, gentle or
simple. What in the name o’ glory do it all
mean? She looked as scared as though she’d
seen a ghost when I let drop the namo o’ tho
chap as I had' the scrimmage wi’ in the wood
years ago. Murder she called it. Mebbe ’twas
—mebbe ’twasn’t. Sarved him right. What
did he want to interfere wi’ me for—threaten
me wi’ the beaks, ’cause I wouldn’t satisfy him
about the gal, nor give her up ? Said he’d got
a better claim nor me, and by fair or foul
means would have her. A better right nor me!
Who the blazes could he be ? As for my claim,
which the Lord knows if it warn’t for the money
I’d think little enough about, why, if the gal
ain’t my daughter she’s my dead wile’s, and if
that ain’t good enough, what is ?”
Thus thinking, he sauntered slowly on. Sud
denly, a thought seemed to strike him.
He slapped his hand on his thigh, and ex
claimed, aloud :
“That’s it—that’s it! leastwise it seems likely
enough. I never quite believed the tale my
wife told me of her husband being a sailor, and
drowned at sea, leaving her wi’ a orphan gal.
But I got a good lump o’ coin wi’ her; my yearly
money’s bin paid regular ever since, so I’d no
cause to grumble. I never did swaller it, though
it didn’t fret me mneh. My wife Jane had a
misfortin’, and was deceived afore ever I saw
her. This gal’s the result. Now it strikes me
as how her ladyship’s got good reasons o’ her
own for wantin’ this kep’ a secret. This one as
I had the turn-up wi’ in the wood must ha’ bin
the man as led my wife astray. No doubt he’s
a near relation o’ the countess, or else o’ the
late earl; else why should she care so about
him an’ his affairs? She shunned him, an’was
afeerd o’ him for some reason; else why did she
say so when I went to tho Hall to get my quar
ter’s money, and told o’ some havin’ bin to
claim the gal? ‘Would to G-od that the sea
across which he came to England had swal
lowed him up in its depths, I would give half I
have to be certain that he no longer walked the
earth,’ Thom was her words. I remember
them as well as if they was only spoke yester
day, And sure enough her ladyship hadn’t
long to wait afore she had good reason to know
that he’d walk the earth no more. I don’t know
as her words didn’t shorten his life; for though
the chap was saucy enough, and provoked me,
I don’t think I’d a given him such a crusher wi’
the butt end o’ my gun if it wasn’t for the
thought that she’d see me through it, an’meb
be part wi’ a good lot o’ shiners. So she did,
sure enough, for that matter; and though I
were suspected, the affair blowed over, and but
for some people’s babblin’ tongues would never
be remembered now. It were very strange—a
queer affair altogether; and what happened
yesterday’s queerer than all. To think that ho
should start and cry out all on a sudden at sight
o’ a book that I’ve scarce ever took the trouble
to look at. I don’t know why I over kep’ it;
but that I had a sort o’ idea that some day it
md come in. Strange it was, too, sure enough,
that tho dead man when he were searched
should have never a scrap o’ paper, a card, or
anything to say who he was. Who turned his
pockets out, an’ leavin’ the mortal, took only pa
pers, and such like, and even cut the places out
o’ his linen where it was marked? I didn't
“Who did?
“It puzzled the beaks, and it puzzled me,
and no one could answer. I left him where I
struck him down, and never touched him. This,
Which fell from his hand, I took up.
“Why did I take it and keep it all these
years ?
“I don’t know. It seemed as if I couldn’t
help it. Shouldn’t wonder if it goes agen me
some o’ these days. I may have to swing
through it. Lots o’ times I’ve felt tempted to
burn it, but something hold mo back. And
now, arter all these years, this fishing chap
walks into my place, and ths first thing he puts
his hand on is this book. It seemed like fate.
He a’most took mo off my guard by the quick,
sharp way he questioned me. The book, he
said, belonged to a friend o’ his, who had long
ago disappeared in a mysterious manner. Did
I know the owner o’ the book? Where did I
get it? He a’most flurried me wi’ his ques
tions, but I managed to he through it some
how. And then, when he went on to say, ‘ Did
you know Mr. Meredith?’ I was quite took
aback. . Mr. Meredith 1 Here it is, written in
the book:
“ John Barrington Meredith,
“ From his sister Ethel,
“I never noted it afore, it was writ so small
and faint; and beside, I never liked to look at
the book. The thoughts it brought up in my
mind wasn’t pleasant. Well, well,” he solilo
quized. “ It’s beyond me. There’s something
up; but what, for the life of me I can’t say. I
know well I've got hold of a part of a dead se
cret—a secret as my lady would give all she’s
got to keep from me. I can’t make it out—it’s
a tangled sort of affair. But I’ll try and get to
the bottom of it; and if I do, if I don’t make it
pay me for my trouble, my name ain’t John
Grey. John Barrington Meredith 1 That’s the
man I killed. Who was ho? and what did ho
want hanging about hero ? And who was Ethel
Meredith? I wish I could make it out—and I
will, too.”
The cogitations of the ox-gamekeeper were
cut short by his arrival at the ale-house which
owned him as landlord.
He met the countess, who was just coming
out from the door. She was still deadly pale,
but her eyes burned with a strange light. She
held her son tightly by the arm—almost dragged
him after her. Tho young fellow looked flushed
and angry, as though a stormyscene had taken
place between him and his mother.
“John Grey,” said her ladyship—speaking
very quickly, and looking him full in tho face
with her glittering snake-like eyes—“ beware 1
I will come down to you this evening, and tell
you my will. You will consult both your in
terest and your safety in being both civil and
obedient. Remember.” Then she sailed away,
nor deigned another word or glance.
“She v s all a tiger-cat—she is,” muttered
Gipsy Grey, looking after her. “I must mind
what I’m about, or else, knowing a little as I,
do, and yet not enough, she may contrive to
bring me to harm. I know her; and she’ll
stand at nothing.”
Then he entered his house, where he found a
surgeon in attendance on his step-daughter
Ethel, who, restoratives having been adminis
tered, was just recovering consciousness.
“ What’s wrong wi’ the gal, doctor ?” ho
asked, indifferently.
“Wrong with her?” replied the surgeon;
“ why, she’s been ns near death’s door as it
was possible for any one to be. The temporal
artery haa been cut. Whoever tied it saved
her life, for .in five minutes more not all the
Royal College of Surgeons could have done any
“Humph! She had a near squeak for it then,”
was the unfeeling reply. . “How did it happen ?
for curse me if I know.”
“I believe she tumbled, and fell with her
forehead on a sharp stone.”
“ She’s always gallivantin’ about. Why didn’t
she stop at home 1 What did sho want to go
down to the booth on tho cricket-field to serve ?
Bob Barton and me could ba’ done it all just as
well without her.”
At this moment the young girl opened her
great grey eyes, and tried to rise. But weak
ness from loss ot blood effectually prevented
this, and she fell back with a deep sigh.
“ Lie still, my girl. I will give you some
thing to revive you,” the doctor said, kindly;
and quickly mixing a strong cordial, he poured
it Into her mouth.
This revived her, and with a shudder of cold,
she passed one of her hands over her head,
face, and neck. Her dress was saturated with
the water which had been dashed over her, and
the wound in her head ached terribly. The
poor girl moaned slightly from pain, and shiv
ered with the cold.
“ Hasn’t she a mother?” asked the surgeon.
“Dead,” replied John Grey, gruffly.
“ Is there no other female m the house ?”
“Devil a bit, thank goodness. One petti
coat’s enough and to spare, for me.”
“But, my good fellow, you can surely get
some woman, one of the neighbors, to lend a
helping hand? The poor girl must be un
dressed and put to bed.”
Tho worthy doctor looked around. There
were old dames—villages gossips, standing
about in the passage.
Leaving his patient for a moment, he went to
the door, and asked.
“ Will one ofyou good women be good enough
to assist ? This poor girl is badly hurt, and
must be put to bed at once. Her father here
says there is no other femalo in the house.”
“ That’s true enough, sir; there’s no one
“ Well, then, lend a hand. Surely you would
not see one of your own sex, a poor helpless
girl, wounded and ill, without offering aid.”
It was not without evident reluctance that
two of the women undertook the task, and pro
ceeded to assist Ethel to her room and undress
The surgeon was at a loss to understand the
indifference alike of the father and' neighbors
to the sufferings of a young and beautiful girl.
“ You are a very curious people in this vil
lage,” he said. “ Yon, her father, don’t seem
to care whether sho lives or dies.”
“ I’m not her father.”
“Not her father! I understood she was
your daughter ?”
“Then you understood wrong.”
“Buther name is Ethel Grey; and yours
John Grey ?”
“ That may be, as to my name—but I ain’t
her father.”
“ What, then, is your relation to her? Un
“No ; I married her mother, that’s all.”
“ Then how is her namo Grey ?”
“Look here, Mister,” he said, surlily; “I
don’t see as it matters to you, or no one else.
There it is. She ain’t my daughter, and she’s
called Ethel Grey.”
But the surgeon, whose curiosity was now
aroused, returned to tho attack.
“Is there any ill-feeling against her, that
these women seem so disinclined to render her
any assistance ?”
“Not as I knows of.”
“ What, then, is the moaning of the want of
sympathy'they show ?"
“What do it mean? Why, it means that
they don’t like me, curse ’em. I can do well
enough wi’ men, but the women can’t stand me
nohow. S’pose I ain’t handsome, and that’s
it. There’s no love lost atween us though. I
hate the sight o’ the lot on ’em ; pack o’ gab
blin’ witches—that’s what they are.”
“ It don’t need a witch to tell what you are,
Gipsy Grey,” said an old woman, who heard his
words on her way out, after having put the girl
to bed ; “your face is enough for you.”
“What the do you moan ?” he asked, with
a fearful oath.
“ You know what I mean. Although it is a
few years agone you ain’t forgot it, I’ll be
“Go on, with your cursed jabber, do,” he
growled in reply.
“ Don’t curse me, or I’ll tell you what you
don’t like to know.”
“ What’ll you tell me ?”
“ What the countess said to the gal this very
arternoon, as I heard her wi’ my own ears—
and as tho sun shines in heaven it’s true, Gipsy
Grey—an’ ’twill be brought home to thee some
day, never fear.”
“What did her ladyship say to the girl?”
asked the doctor, who was by nature both
kind-hearted and imjuisitive.
.“ What did she say ? Why, she asked the
girl ” ■~ l
“Hold your cursed jabber, and be gone out
o’ my house, you old hag, or I’ll pitch you out
on your head!’
“ Shan’t hold my jabber 1 And as to pitching
me out on my head, if you was to, and kill me
too, and beat my 1 brains out, it wouldn’t be the
first you’ve served so, my fine fellow. The
countess didn’t call her a murderer’s daughter
for nothing.”
“A murderer’s daughter!” exclaimed the
surgeon, looking with astonishment mingled
with terror on the burly form of tho ex-game
keeper ; “ how do you mean ?”
Before, however, the woman could reply,
Gipsy Grey rushed at her with a fearful oath.
The old crone screamed, and seeing it was too
late to reach the door, made a rush to the stairs
loading to the wounded girl’s bedchamber.
Up these, urged by genuine terror, spite of
her brave words, the old crone ran with won
derful agility for her age, screaming all tho
time most lustily.
Gipsy Grey, whose black blood now boiled
with rage, rushed after her, and was blunder
ing blindly up tho dark narrow stairs, when,
fortunately for the old woman, the doctor, who
when tho welfare of his patients was concerned
was bravo as a lion, resolutely seized him by
the skirts of his eoat.
“ Come back, man 1 Come back, I say! You
must not disturb my patient.”
“Let go, will you I”
“No! Come down! Would you kill the
girl? Come down, I say. It would be noth
ing less than murder.”
The man turned; and scowled on him as he
heard the word. ‘'But suddenly ho seemed to
relinquish his purpose, and quietly descending
the stairs, said, “'Curse that old hag I I’ll bo
the death of her yet, so sure as my name’s John
Grey, if sho dares thwart me.”
The doctor now, relieved of the fear that his
patient would be disturbed, looked at him curi
ously, as he would at a wild beast of strange
form and unfamiliar aspect. Then he went up
stairs to Ethel’s room without saying a word.
The young girl had fallen into a deep sleep.
The (wound on her temple had been neatly
I stitched up by the skillful surgeon, and scarcely
man el her great beauty. Her eyes were
closed, the long lashes resting on her fair
cheek, which was now j reternaturally pale.
The doctor looked on her as sho lay in all her
fair yo;m» beauty, utterly unconscious that
any eye beheld her, and murmured to himself:
“So they call her a murderer’s daughter?
Humph 1 I don’t believe it. The girl is not his
child. Her face, her look, everything contra
dicts it; ’twould be almost sacrilege to believe
John Grey sat alone in the tap-room of th®
ale-house. Even the men, his pot-house com
panions, now seemed to shun him; for the
countess’ words, when she branded Ethel as
the murderer’s daughter, had got abroad, and
the Whispered rumors of bygone years rose up
again like phantoms from the grave.
John Grey was a branded man. Whispered
thoughts and muttered inuendos now resolved
themselves into plain speaking and unqualified
Three days had now elapsed since the acci
dent to Ethel, and tho girl was still too weak to
rise. Each day a laboring woman came to the
house, and, taking no notice of the black
browed, gloomy landlord, with the brand of
Cain upon his brow, walked up to the sick girl’s
room, and there remained till evening ; when
she was relieved by another, who likewise in
silence ascended the dark and narrow stairs
without acknowledging tho presence of Gipsy
Grey by word or look.
Even the thirsty stranger strolling through
the village seemed to catch the infection ; for
all he sold, the painted board over his door,
with the inscription “ Licensed to sell beer by
retail to be drunk on the premises,” might have
been a plague mark.
On the evening of the third day John Grey
was sitting brooding over his cups, when the
rustle of a silk dress caused him to look up,
and the next moment the Countess of War
borough stood before him.
Boorish brute as the man was, he half rose,
even to the woman who had branded him as
“murderer,” glad of any company, even an
enemy’s, to drive away the black memories
which crowded upon his mind.
“Come outside, Gipsy Grey, I wish to speak
to you,” she said, mysteriously.
Ho rose and followed her—awkwardly, sul
lenly, like a vicious hound only half cowed.
“ What of Ethel ?” she asked, abruptly. “Is
she well enough to be moved ?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t soon her; better
ask the old hag that’s upstairs lookin’ arter
She mused for a few moments, then asked in
the same abrupt manner :
“Hasmy son been here to-day ?”
■ “ Yes ; twice I”
Tho dowager countess clenched her hands
tightly together, and stamped her foot with
“ Again—again 1” she cried. “Great Heaven!
how will it end? Is it fate—retribution? or
has some malicious fiend cast a spell over me
and mine?
“Gipsy Grey,” she said presently, in tones of
fierce earnestness, “your daughter must be
moved to-morrow.”
“ Where ?” he asked indifferently.
“Anywhere—anywhere from this accursed
spot. Go back to the hut on tho heath.”
Ho looked at her from under his heavy eye
brows with a sinister, threatening glance.
“And so yer ladyship thinks that at a word
from you I’m a goin’ to bo turned out of house
an’ home, and started off to a tumble-down
hovel a mile away from the nearest house!”
“ I tell you, the girl must go 1 At your peril
thwart me now!”
“ Sho may go, for all I care ; but I’m d d
if I do 1 and you may send a waggin, or a wheel
barrer, or whatever you like, and move her off
bag and baggage, for all I care.”
“ And you call yourself a man, and would suf
fer your daughter to be taken to a place you
yourself describe as a tumble-down hovel!”
“ And you call yourself a woman, and would
order a sick girl to be started off at a moment’s
notice—anywhere, anywhere out o’ this! What
do you want me to go for ? Where do you want
me to go ?”
“ Anywhere you choose.”
“And leave my house I What would become
of the business ?”
There was grim irony in his words and tone,
but she was in no mood to observe either.
“Your business can be attended to No;
leave it altogether—leave the house—leave the
neighborhood for ever. I will give you money.”
“ You will give me money 1 What for ?”
“ What is that to you ? Go.”
It was a strange sight. These two—sho, a
titled lady ; he an unmitigated ruffian, with not
even the noble instincts of the wild beast: she
trying to gain her end by imperious words ; he
hanging back, with a part of the clue to a great
mystery in his hands, and yet without sufficient
intelligence to trace that broken thread home.
She on her part knew not how far his knowl
edge of the past extended. She could hang
him—of that there was no doubt in her mind ;
but what did he know ?
Could he not, perhaps, pull down with him
the fabric and good fame of a noble house, and
make her darling son a penniless outcast ?
“ What did he Know ?”
That was the question she asked herself.
“ What was this secret—this mystery—that
she should so fear him ?”
This was the question he asked—for he knew
right well that she did fear him.
He had not arrived at the fact by a process
of reasoning, but by instinct. Notwithstand
ing her haughty, defiant manner, he was sure
that she feared him—or, rather the knowledge
which she thought he possessed of her secret.
But John Grey had sufficient cunning to be
well aware that, at the present, he was at a
disadvantage. Shb could, he well knew, prove
him guilty of a crime which would send him to
the gallows—a crime of which report had once
unanimously pronounced him guilty, and which
had been again dinned into his ears during the
last few days.
“ What could he do ?”
That was the question for him to consider.
Walt, and whilo by his manner he caused
Lady Warborough to think he knew all, watch
for any chance word on her part which might
prove the key to the riddle.
“ Well, suppose I do go, what then ?”
“You shall have sufficient money to keep
you from want paid quarterly, and a sum down
which will amply compensate you for the re
“Well, I don’t know as I shan’t take it. I’m
pretty nigh sick o’ this lite. I ain’t got no love
for the gal, and I know sho ain’t for mo. Her
great dreamy eyes are always a lookin’ at me
in away I don’t like. Devil take her I I don’t
mind leavin’ her, and let her take care of her
“Leave her!” cried the countess, quickly.
“What do you mean? Certainly not—-you
must take her away, far away, and see that she
never returns to this place.”
“So-o !” thought John Grey to himself; “it’s»
the gal she wants away more than me. It must
bo seen to ; I miist get to the bottom of it.”
“ Why must the gal go wi’ me ? I don’t want
“Because I say so—that is enough. How
ever, I will bandy no more words with you. I
command you te leave this house and this vil
lage to-morrow. Disobey me at your peril.”
“ And s’pose I don’t choose to—what then,
my lady?”
“ Simply this, John Grey,” she said, in a low
tone, full ot concentrated determination and
deep resolve ; “in the first place, I would have'
you turned forth from this house, which is my
property; in the next I would effectually pre
vent your getting a shelter elsewhere ip the
village ; and if that failed to drive you forth, 1
would oven relate what I know concerning an
undiscovered crime commits I years ago on
the heath. That is what 1 will do, John
“ You would, would you ?”
His eyes gleamed savagely from under his
heavy, overhanging brows. He stood with his
back leaning against one of the wooden pillars
of the porch, his face turned toward the faint
twilight, which still lingered in tho west.
She stood within the porch, quite in shadow.
“ I would—and will.”
“Why are you so anxious to got rid of the
gal? Tell me that?”
>“ltis my business. Again, I say, refuse to
obey at your peril.” \
“You would do this, and brave all chances,”
he said, peering into tho darkness where she
“I would.”
John Grey felt himself baffled, and knew not
what to do. As ho stood in moody silence, a
quick footstep was heard approaching.
“ Well, Mr. Grey, and how are you to-night ?
I have come to have a bit of talk with you.”
“ Oh 1” he muttered, gruffly.
“ How is the girl—your daughter?”
“ Better, I think.”
Tho countess started at the voice. It was
frank, pleasant, and clear-toned, and she rec
ognized it as that of the stranger who had by
his timely skill saved Ethol’s life.
“ Yes ; I have come to talk to you about that
book. You know—the book which did belong
to John Barrington Meredith.”
The countess gave utterance to a faint
shriek, wrung from her in spite of her resolve;
then, trembling all over, sue drew back into
the house.
“ What was that?” asked George Clinton.
John Grey made no reply, although he too
had heard it.
“ I begin to see—l begin to see. This fellow
knew the man the book belonged to,. His name
was Meredith, and his sister’s name was Ethel,
and this girl’s name is Ethel—what then ?”
Ho tried to reason out this train of thought;
but his uncultivated intellect broke down, and
with a muttered curse ho gave up the attempt.
“ I can’t quite see it yet; but I will—l will.”
Meanwhile the countess shrank back into the
house, and seeing the faint glimmer of a can
dle, noiselessly ascended the stairs.
An old woman dozed in a chair, at the head
of the wounded girl’s bed.
The Countess of Warborough awoke her, and
placing her finger to her lips, said:
“ Hush! I wish you to go to the druggist’s
for some medicine for this girl. Here, I will
write it down for you.”
She tore a leaf from a memorandum-book,
and writing on it, gave it to tho old woman.
“ There, take it and go. I will wait here till
you return.”
The next moment she was alone with Ethel,
who still slept calmly. She advanced to the
head of the bed, and gazed down into the
beautiful, but pale and weary face of the sleep-
ing girl. Strange emotions swept over her
soul, and were reflected in her countenance.
‘’Wellnow, my good fellow,” said George
Clinton to Gipsy Grey, “I have come to talk
to you about that book. Where did you get
it ? Tell me all about it, as I wish to trace the
owner, who has been lost to all his friends for
many years. It is feared, either that some
accident has befallen him or that he met with
foul play.”
The shades of evening had now deepened
into night. Had it been otherwise, Clinton
could not but have observed how the ex-koep
er’s swarthy face turned of a leaden hue, nor
the sudden dropping of his eye before the look
of the speaker.
“Well,’\asked Clinton, after a silence of
some time; “won’t you speak? Are you
tongue-tied, or what ?”
John Grey was revolving in his mind how
he could turn his knowledge to the best ad
This stranger knew the murdered man, that
was quite certain. The Countess of Warbo
rough also knew him. The name of the mur
dered man’s. sister was Ethel, for it was so
written in thb book— John Barrington Mere
dith, from his affectionate sister, Ethel.
Now, the girl whom his wife brought him,
stating her to be 'the child of her late hus
band, was also named Ethel. What was the
nature of tho connection between the girl
Ethel, the murdered man, and his sister ?
A light slowly dawned on his not over-bril
liant mind,
It was usual to name daughters after their
mother. Then Ethel, his supposed step
daughter, was probably no.t the child of his
wife, but of this “.Ethel,” who gave the
book to “her affectionate brother, John Bar
rington Meredith.”
Such was the result nt which he arrived ;
not, however, by a process of inductive rea
soning, or regular train of thought, but more
by feeling. A light was slowly dawning on his
mind. It might be, indeed, a false light of tho
nature of an ignis jaluus, calculated to lead
him yet further from the truth.
Gipsy Grey, however, felt confident that his
surmises were right, and that now at last he
had a clue to the mystery. This, then, was
how the case stood.
Tho girl Ethel was the niece of the murdered
man—the daughter of his sister. The Coun
tess of Warborough knew and feared this
John Barrington Meredith when he was alive.
He stood in her path, and she was glad to have
him removed. That was beyond all ques
tion ; for she herself, with her own lips, had
declared it; and though she had not directly
sanctioned his murder, she had contributed to
cause bis death by her passionate exclaimatlon:
“ I would give half I am worth to be certain
that I was rid of this man,” much as the
murder of aßecket was indirectly caused by
the king.
Then, too, she had given him money, if not
as a reward for the deed, certainly with tho
knowledge that his was the hand that
wrought it.
And now the plot thickened, fresh charac
ters camo on the scene in the persons of the
woman whom he married and the child Ethel.
Tho j Countess of Warborough caused this
marriage, and paid him after nis wife’s death
for maintaining the child.
“ Why should she do so? Why should she
now hold tho girl Ethel in almost the same
dread as the dead Meredith ?”
It was a profound mystery, and his dim vis
ion could not penetrate the vail. A thought
struck him.
. Could it be that his wife was the Ethel men
tioned in the book—the murdered man’s sis
ter ? But there were difficulties in the way of
this solution quite insurmountable. His wife
before her death had often seen tho book, and
on no occasion had she taken the slightest no
tice of it. Nor did she betray any emotion on
sight of tho body of Meredith as it lay at the
inn prior to the inquest, open to tho sight of all,
with a view to its being identified.
At one time ho had thought the child to be
his wife’s. If not by her husband, the offspring
of her disgrace.
But, now, he was compelled to relinquish
this hypothesis.
Having come to the conclusion that the girl
was the daughter of Ethel Meredith, it was
certain his wife could not be her mother.
Finally, he determined m his mind that Ethel
was beyond all question the daughter of this
Ethel Meredith.
Ignorant minds frequently arrive, by a leap
in the dark—a sort of feeling more akin to in
stinct than thought—at results perfectly true,
which baffle the keenest philosophers and best
analytical reasoners.
As far as John Grey was concerned, then,
the case rested thus—
The girl was the daughter of Ethel Meredith.
Tho Countess of Warborough knew this—and
from some hidden cause, feared and probably
hated the girl.
“ Who was Ethel Merideth ?”
That was the missing link in the chain.
Why did she so persistently and passionately
insist on his taking his supposed step-daugh
ter away? That was what he wished to ar
rive at.
Should ho succeed, the problem would bo
solved, and he would be in a position to dic
tate his own terms to her haughty ladyship.
A sullen determination possessed the man ; he
could discover this deep and deadly secret.
All these thoughts passed through his mind
very rapidly—not, be it observed, in definite
shape and order as we have here placed them
'before the reader for convenience sake, but
The result, however, was as we have stated.
John Grey felt sure that he had discovered the
clue, and that it wanted but patience and cun
ning to find the missing link.
Clinton remained the while leaning against
the pillar carelessly playing with his stick, and
in the dim light endeavoring to watch the op
pression of the other’s face.
John Grey stood further in shadow, slowly
drawing at a shrrt pipe. But for tbe occa
sional puffs of smoko which issued from hie
mouth ho might have been thought asleep, so
intent and motionless was he.
“ Well ?” continued his visitor, tired of this
long pause. “You don’t seem communicative
to-night. Do you feel inclined to answer me
or not ? I will make it worth your while.”
Gipsy Grey took a long draw at his short
pipe, and slowly puffing forth the smoke, s.aid :
“Well—look here, Muster Clinton. You ask
me to'Yell you all I know about this book, and
about him as it belonged to. Now, I don’t de
ceive you. Ido know a good deal about the
man as owned this article in question.”
“Oh! you do, then? Come, tell me all
about it!”
“Not so fast. I ”
“Come, speak! Tell me what you want!
What is the sum you will take for the informa
tion ; I suppose that is what it amounts to.”
“You’re ain’t it at all."
“ What is it then ?”
“Wait awhile, an’ I’ll tell you. But first let
us come out o’ this; there’s some one in the
house as might overhear, and that wouldn’t
suit me. Do you mind walking a little way
with me ?”
“Not a bit.”
“Come on, then.”
They left the door of the ale-house together,
and walked slowly up the long street of the
The full moon was now just rising ; and as
she appeared above the tops of the cottages tho
two men could see each other’s faces with per
fect distinctness.
There stood a stone cross nearly at the end
of the village, which consisted of one long
street only.
From this place there diverged a straight
road, called by the country people “Cross
Lane,” on account of the old cross.
This was not a lane in the common accepta
tion of the term, but a broad, well-kept pahteh
Up this road Gipsy Grey turned, followed by
“You’ll excuse me thinking a bit to myself,-
sir,” said the former. “ But what I’ve got to
say wants a deal o’consideration; there’s more
hanging to it than you know of.”
“ Hanging!—how do you mean?” asked tho
other, not comprehepding the slang expres
sion. “You don’t mean it’s a hanging matter,
I suppose'?”
Clinton said this carelessly, and with a smile,
looking Grey in the face. The moon shone
full in the dark saturnine features of the ex
He was surprised at the sudden change which
came over tho face of the man. The whole ex
pression changed from sullen gloom and deep
thought to one of ferocious desperation min
gled with an unconquerable dread—a terror
which not even the iron will and determination
of Gipsy Grey could surmount. The complex
ion changed from a’deep yellow-brown to a
blueish lead color; and Clinton fancied that
beads of perspiration started out’on the man’s
“Arc you ill?” he asked, for the change was.
so 'marked that it was impossible he should
pass it over.
“Yes, yes,” replied his companion, gruffly;
“ I’m subject to fits.”
“Do you feel one coming on now? Had we
not better return now ?”
“ No, no—l’m better.! It’s over now.”
He spoke in such a peculiar tone that Clin
ton felt alarmed, and not having the faintest
suspicion, thought that the man was really ill.
He halted.
“ I think we had better go back,” he said,
“ What, are you afraid?”
“Afraid ?”
“ Yes, afraid that I should. rob you ? Have
you much money about you ? Do you think I
want to murder you and steal it ?”
“Do I think you want to murder me and
steal it!” exclaimed the young man. “No, I
do not I And if I did, it would make no differ
ence. I should not fear you. I have money
'about mo; but that can scarcely be your object,
I should hope. Do I look like one who would
be easily frightened—easily robbed—easily
murdered ?”
Clinton drew back a pace as he said this, and
threw back his shoulders.
“My good man, I am no bnlly; but your
words annoy me. You imputed cowardice to
me; you asked me if I was afraid to walk on
with you. Of what should Ibe afraid ?”
“Of being robbed and murdered! Don’t you
know what they call me ?” he said, with a hoarse
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stages or Tertiary Syphilis, where Syphilitic and Mercu
rial Rheumatism are connected with the Primary and
Secondary. I have hundreds of certificates where mi
raculous cures have been effected by these remedies.
Patients eat and drink what they like, and require no
outward applications. Hundreds suffer from Syphilitic
and Mercurial Rheumatism who are not aware of it,
and I defy such to obtain a radical cure without the
use of this medicine. Its beneficial effects are felt at
once. It has raised men from hospital-beds in one week,
who have lain there for years under the best practitioners
in the city, and is the only radical cure for tne worst dis
ease known—Syphilis. Price, $5 per bottle, or two bottles
for $9. It saves yourself—it saves your offspring from
the tamt of this scourge. “
Dr. Richaus’ Golden Antidote, a safe, speedy, pleasant,
and radical cure for Gonorrhoea, Gleet, Irritation, Gravel,
and all urinary derangements, accompanied with full di
rections. Warranted to cure. Price, $3 per bottle.
Dr. Richaus’ Golden Elixir de Amour, a radical cure
for Spermatorhoea General Debility in old or young,
giving vitality and imparting energy with wonderful
effect to those who have led a life of sensuality or self
abuse. It is invaluble to those who are anxious for
an increase in family. Nothing more certain in its
effects. It is composed of thb most powerful in
gredients of the vegetable kingdom Harmless, but
speedy in restoring heath. Price, $5 per bottle, or two
bottles tor 89. Trade tmnvlied at a liberal discount*
for Female Irregularities. Price, $lO per bottle, with
On receipt of price, these remedies will be shipped to
any part free from observation ; correspondents an
swered confidentially ; hours for consultition, 9 A. M. to
SP. M.; none genuine without nanu of Dr. Richaus’
Golden Remedies. D. B. Richards, Sole Proprietor,
blown in glass of bottles. Observe well trade mark on
outside wrapper written signatures on inside label.
Address Dr. ’D. B. RICHARDS, No. 228 Varick street,
New York citv.
Send money by Post office order, express or draft.
Goods sent C. O. D.
MEN’S DIFFICULTIES never disappoint. Price,
$5. No. 116 Chatham st.
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 fait 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.
WRITES: “I spent $lO for drugs. All failed.
Electricity relieved me in ten minutes without pain.”
Dr. and Madame DUBOIS, No. 38 Third avenue, below
Tenth street. board and attendance. Relief
positive. No dwaption. No quackery.
Ladies desiring medical ad
vica Wil' be cartain to obtain relief by consulting
Dr. WEST, at No. 4 Thompson street, one door fuom
Canal street.
cured by Dr. MANOHES, ho. 651 Broadway. Sem
inal Pills, for nervous debility, $1 per box, or six boxes
$5, by mail or at office. Circulars sent.
ty amd all other special diseases scientifically and
successfully treated by Dr. LEWIS, No. 7 Beach street.
No case undertaken, or fee accepted, unless a cure can be
guaranteed. Established in 1840.
Save hundred times cost. $3 per dozen, at No. 116
Chatham st., N. Y.
gefiilemen, at $3, $4, and 85 per dozen, three for
sl, four Tor sl. Ladies’ Protectors, $3 each. Circulars
free. Call on or adlress Dr. MAN CHES, No. 651 Broad
.a. WEST can be consulted on all Diseases of
Females with unparalleled success, at No. 4 Thompson st.
The most wonderful, reli«oie 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 cer
tftßeadwhat 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. After using them about
five days—from certain indications attending miscarriage
—suspicions began to be entertained that tho suppression
might have arisen from pregnancy, which, upon examina
tion, proved to be the case—too late, however, tCprevent
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 cases of
malformation of pelvis, when the female is incompetent
to give birth at maturity. . .
They cannot fail, m recent cases theysueceed m forty
eight hours. Price, ®3 per box In obstjnata cases, those
‘wo degree. 8108 AU,*™ 8 ’ W
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 instructionsand advice.
Dr. A. M. Mauriceau, for twentyTyearg successful prac
titioner at his present ojjice, guarantees a. safe, and imme
diate and efficacious cure of all special difficulties, irregu
larities and. obstructions, either iu person or by mail.
Ladies from all parts of the United States consult him
I confidence and certainty of success.
Sunday Edition. April 25,
IWa ggtaa
respectfully offers his services in the application af k•.
Mo. 697 Broadiray, eornsr Fourth street.
wemmw pt Dr. SHERMAN, resultina
h,s I°RF- a P d constant devotion to-the treatment
Hove afi 0 withnnf ? sI Y? res him of hi » ability to reJ
ration * to th , e age of the Patient or du-
and with a full knowledge of the a.se?t‘?n hf nroSi
greater seounty and comfort, with a daily imjrovement
ls . aße ’ V” Ln obtained of any other person
States?’ inVontlonß ot Bny 0t,1£,,, Person in the fruited’
Prices to suit all classes. It is the only as well as Hi a
cheapest remedy ever offered the afflicted; Photoar“nhiu
oi^^^*^XrtsteX. treat “ en, ' furaißll9l ‘
Evans’ unfortunates’friend-
Only certain cure for woret private diseases, at No.
iio uuatham st,
Important to females, lady
invalid, iLyon.wish regular medical treatment, con
i DUHOIg.'No. 38 Third avenue, near Tenth
street, New York,-and you-will be guaranteed safe, cer
taid and immediate relief, or no charge. Advice gratis*
l.emedies for female derangements, from !51 to $5-
Monthly Regulators, $5. Confidential advice and medi
cine per mail. iwenty years successful practice: no de
ception or Quackery,. N. B.—Mme. D. will consult with
ladies who proper meeting their own sex, or kindly cara
for tuose desiring home attention during treatment.
♦ B H re r shable 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,
00 per vial. Womb Guards, $3 00 each. Syringes of
all kinds from $1 00 to $lO 00 each. Ladies, the above
remedies are invaluable. Medicines for gentlomen put;
up in $5 and $lO packages. Invigorating Cordial for
a ? d seminal weakness, never fails, $1 53
and $3 00 per bottle. Gentlemen’s genuine A No. 1 con-*
U7 } cler circumstances, price, two for $1 (XL
or $5 00 per dozen. I can be consulted at my office on;
all diseases ot a delicate nature by ladies or gentlemen,
guaranteed to all. GEORGE R.
BOND, M. D., No. 65 Orchard, cor. Grand street, over
Tea store. Entrance on Orchard st. Established in 1832.
cured by Dr. Evans, No. 116 Chatham st. Only
mcaimnea to cure. Manhood restored by his Kliiir. Re
commended before marriage.
Ladies about to require nursing, who have not tha
convenience at home, can have pleasant and well-fur
nished rooms, superior board, nursing and medical at
tendance previous to and during confinement, !at tha
residence of Dr. GRINDLE, No. 6 Amity-place, be
tween Bleecker and Amity streets. Having over eigh
teen years’ successful and uninterrupted practice in the
City, guarantees relief in all female complaints, from
wnatever cause produced.
Ladies, with or without medicine, by Madame
BESTELL, Professor of Midwifery; over 30 years’ prac
tice. Her infallible French Female Pills, No. 1, price
or No. 2. specially prepared for married ladies, price $5.
which can never fail, are sale and healthy. Sold only at
her office, No. 1 East Fifty-second street, first door from
Filth avenue, and at Druggist’s, No. 152 Greenwich
street, or sent by mail. Caution—All others arecoua
terfeit. ' ' '
y ADIES requiring' medical or
JLJ Surgical treatment for the removal of all special
irregularities or obstructions', may with confidence con
sult DR. DURANT. No. 7 Beach street,
■ • - near West Ex oad way, Ne w York.
Manhood restored in fifteen minutes. Recom
mended beforo marriage. Price, $5, No. 16 Chatham
st., N. Y.
Infallible accouchment under all circumstances, at
the least terms; also infallible cures of all sexual, private,
cutaneous and rheumatic diseases, etc., etc.
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.
Dispensary, no. 22 mulberry
street, near Chatham. Dr. E. M. BROWNE, a
graduate of the Pennsylvania College of Medicine, 3(J
years in practice. A professor of the diseases of women.
All diseases of either sex, of whatsoever kind or lon<g
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 ia
well known, can be relied on. Consultation personallyor
by letter.
DU BOIS, Professor of Midwifery, twenty-fiva
years successful practice, guarantees relief at ona
interview, with or withoutimedicine. Her family medi
cines, $5. No. 38 Third avenue, below Tenth streets
Advice per mail. No deception. No quackery.
Evans, No. 116 Chatham st., N. Y. His Female
Pills and Drops give unfailing relief, without suffering
or publicity; trial.
Reader, this article may not concern you at all. If you
have never suffered from disease of the organs of genera
tion, such as Spermatorrhoaa, Seminal Losses, Involuntary
emissions, it i« not necessary for you to read this. If you
are suffering or have suffered from Involuntary Dis
charges, what effect does it produce unon your general
health?. Do you feel weak, debilitated, easily tired?
Does a little extra exertion produce palpitation of ther
heart? Does your liver or urinary organs or your kidneys
frequently 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 hag 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 o£
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
night? 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 eyo
as brilliant ? The bloom on your cheek as bright ? Da
you enjoy yourself in society as well ? Do you pursua
your business with the same energy? Do you reel as
much confidence in yourself ? Are your spirits dull and
flagging, given to fits of melancholy ? If so, do not lav
it to your Liver or Dyspepsia. Have you restless nights >
Your 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 masturbation, or that you had suffered from badly
cured gonorrhea, or syphillis, or from venereal excesses?
Perhaps 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 orr
the point for fear of offending you; and if he had ex-
Eected anythind of the kind, being your family physician.
e durst not fo? the world have hinted at the thing fou
fear of your becoming indignant and insulted. *
Now, reader, self-abuse, venereal diseases badly curecf
and sexual excesses, are all capable of producing a weak-c
ness of the.generative organs. The organs of general;
tion, when in perfect health, make the man. Did yoi
ever think that those bold, defiant, energetic, persever
ing, successful business men are always those whosa
generative organs are in perfect health ? You never hear
suoh 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 altvays polite and pleasant in tha
company of ladies, and look you and them right in tha
face—none of your down looks or any other meanness?
about them. Ido not mean ftiose men who keep thesa
organs inflamed by running to excess. These wifi not?
ohly ruin their constitutions, but also those they do busi
ness with or for.
how m«ny 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 has
rednend 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 diseasa
which humanity is heir to, and the real cause of tha
trouble scarcely ever suspected and have doctored for all
but the right one.
who are destroying their Physical Strength and Mental
Happiness by their uncontroled passions, or who are al
ready weakened and impotent by the fblly of the past,
why do you suffer when yon must know the sure result it
you allow tbe disease to rain and debase you, mind and
body? If you would avoid this disease,, which renders
marriage improbable, or the married life a failure, be
warned in time, and let no false modesty keep you from
making known your troubles and receiving a sure and.
lasting cure. I have cured Thousands and will you, if
you call in season. A short time under my treatment
will make you a new man, and send you forth into the
world an ho nor to your sex, and. I trust, a blessing to
mankind. ALBERT LEWIS, M. D.,
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. ,
nours from 9A.M. to BP. M. Sundays, from Id
A. M. to 12 M. . .
V v 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.
is the only positive and Specific Remedy for all
personal suffering from general or sexual debility, all de
rangements of tha nervous forces, melancholy, sperma
torrhoea or seminal emissions, all weaknesses arising
from sexual excesses, or youthful loss of
muscular energy, physical prostration, ’vtaervousness
vveak 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 filmostuniraculous change it occasions ta
the debilitated and shattered system. In fact, it stands
unrivaled as an unfailing cure of the maladies above
buffer no’more, but try one bottle; it will effect a cuter
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 sinca
1834. Bookof 60pages gratis.
JL Twenty-five years successful Praotice. Always
safe: always sure. Dr. and Madame DUBOIS. No. 33
Third Avenue. Electricity scientifically applied.
men using Dr. Evans’ Life Elixir, a guaran:eea
cure. No. 116 Chatham street, N. Y.
houSandsaberuined” beyond'
REDEMPTION in this life by not calling on Dr-
HUNTER sooner or later. He can cure the worst case?
of secret disease in a shorter time than any other physi
cian, or no pay taken. Skeptics and doubters will pleas*
call and read lots of reliable certificates of cures mad®
within the last thirty years, of almost hopeless cases,thatt
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 hisoicj
office, No. 3 Division street, New York city, since
Charges moderate, and a enre guaranteed. Separata
rooms, so that tne patient sees no one but tho noc-or
himseif. His wonderful medical discovery, w.
TEE’S RED DROP, cures private diseases, "Jen regu-«
Hr treatment and all other remedies fail;
dieting or restriction in the habits .of tho patieni , cures
the rank and poisonous taint that h ß nt h!J o i n ima
sorb, unless hia remedy um<l • p| jl>h Its value ir»
for it, and what no OTtter wiu n thnt sc i ont j tia
this respect.bM s° of me(iical Knowledge, begin,
men, in ®y e s y u e ?or hardly a week passes that be is nots
to chemists, and pbysicsans, in re-
consultod by dru«v‘ u «• nt, who has exhausted th,
Wtlie faculty, anil still the disease will w
whole human being, with any pretention to Chris-
this medicine should notbemada
tianity, win » J ja its popularity is so great, than
known far ana the city that Las notar-
tbereis not dv-hen they find their lies are not so easily
tM KS they then oretend that they can make it. 16
and cannot bo obtained genuine anywhere
I s ,. nttbe old office, No. 3 Division street. One dollar
’Vi Secure br return mail his medical work, 3K) pages,
pictures, worth all the obhersput together;

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