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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, May 16, 1869, Image 6

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By Edward EHis Ridder.
Out where the crested billows sing their dirges to the
Out where tbe stately vends cleave thophosphor-
Asloep amid the’naiads, anti at rest tor evermore,
Lies the body ol my dai-hug, who was all the world
to me.
But when the moon is shining, in her loveliness she
Like a "Rally spirit'risen from the bosom of the
And to me ’ she seems to beckon, with her white and
chosily hands,
To follow to the kingdom where so many thousands
sleep., 11 jjiH | hiH
I Original. 1
Yon have often asked me, my friend, to tell
you the story of the past; of that night whoso
horrors turned pale this cheek, that before
glowep as rediv, and whose hair, now streaked
with silver, was lately as jetty, as your healthy
cheek or black curls.
’Tis true I am not young, but I am not old,
either, am I? Look in the old worn Bible
there, and see my age—lß3o, isn’t it?—thirty
five years old. Just now I would have been so
happy in a home of my own, with a loving hus
band and mayhap darling children to cheer
and care for me, instead of my being lonely
and a burefen to you.
I am not a burden ? God bless you, my
child, my sweet niece, Jennie, for your loving
assurance. I will believe you; and now come
up by me, and rest your head on my knees,
and let me smooth your jetty soft curls while I
tell you a story, breathing a fervent prayer
that your destiny may never partake of mine—
of her for whom you were named.
A good while agone—before you were born—
you are sixteen, dear, are you not?—l left the
boarding-school of Madame Veghtes, my study
days ended. Full of life, anticipations, hope,
and joy, the hours seemed to speed by on gold
en wings, each fraught with a new pleasure.
I was very gav and lively then, Jennie, vastly
' different from’the pale, sad woman, in the dull,
sombre mourning robes, you know as Aunt
Jennie, and, consequently, mingled much in
young, brilliant society.
What a charming, select circle of friends I
had. Often I think of them, and wonder where
they all are now. I can almost see the happy
laughing face of one, Lillie Wrenton, then my
inseparable friend and bosom companion ; she
married very happily, early in life, to a South
erner ; and Belle Viatt, the haughty Spanish
beauty. Poor Belle 1 I always sympathized
with her, for her parents were unkind to her,
and she eloped with a young man who has led
her a fearful life.
But I am forgetting my story, am I not?
Well, it is not wrong to drown one’s own grief
in contemplating the sorrows of others.
Well, Jennie, all that Winter I was in a whirl
and flutter of gayety. I had two or three offers
of marriage, ail good enough, but I declined,
being heart-whole, and having always decided
that the hand without the heart, was a mock
ery. I must love my husband, or never possess
one. In the Summer I visited the shore and
from that place, so renowned for match-mak
ing, I returned an example of the truthfulness
of its reputation—l had met my ideal, and was
engaged to him.
Shall I tell yon how it was? I know you
young, silly girls are always interested in such
Previous to my leaving the city for tho
Branch, I told vou, I think, I declined an offer
or so; one of them, and the last, was from a
man high in worldly esteem, and one whose
name stood favorably among hfs fellows. His
business was lucrative, his family unexception
able, and himself unobjectionable—to all but
me. My parents and friends were infinitely
vexed at my foolishness in not securing one
whom maneuvering mammas and ineligible
daughters had vainly angled for, but never
“ You are completely upset, Virginia Lord,”
my brother said; while mother and father
rated me soundly, and sisters declared, '‘they
would see themselves decline such a chance.
Why, only think, you foolish chit, what a tri
umph it would be to ride right over the other
girls; such a splendid home as you’d have;
and his carriages and spans, you know, are un
surpassed. Beside, the wedding-cards would
be such loves!”
I smiled at this truly feminine concluding re
mark, but went on, caring not.
One thing troubled me somewhat. Finding
I persisted in rejecting his suit, Mr. Hathaway
became much mortified, then very angry. His
temper was violent, I knew, but little did I
imagine his words true, when, in a perfect pas
sion of white heat, he said :
“Jennie Lord, I will call you wife, or be
deeply revenged 1”
Although 1 forgot at times his threat, still it
ever hung around me like a pall; sometimes
heavy, forbidding; again, lighter and less en
gulfing ; but it was always there.
Wasn’t it strange I should feel thus from
such a trivial cause ? But you know, coming
events cast their shadows before 1
Well, dear, I accepted Knighte—that was his
name—at Long Branch just as romantically as
you would, in the sweet, serious moonlight,
with the roaring of the ceaseless surf filling
our ears, yet not but I could hear his sweet,
low tones. I loved him dearly, with my heart’s
first iovc, and he returned my affection as
1 came hoipe, and made due preparations for
mv approaching wedding. What a merry,
pleasant bustle it was—the soft shimmering of
silks, the rustling of satins, and the feathering
floating clouds of laces and fringes. I enjoyed
it all very much, especially the daily morning
calls of Knighte, when in the cool shaded par
lor we retreated alone together to renew our
Jennie, I was very happy then; a quiet, calm,
sacred joy was ever mipe ; there was no wild,
consuming passion, that would burn itself out
from very intensity, but lasting as the immor
tal stars.
Could I help loving Knighte ?—so talented,
intellectual and refined. If you wish, my dqar
namesake, I will let you see a picture of the
face I loved ; there, in the short drawer. See,
’tis shrouded with crape. No, I will not look
at it. For ten long years I have not seen it,
but I know exactly bow it is.
There is the high, broad forehead, with
soft, brown locks carelessly falling down ; the
bright, mischievous, black eyes, that almost
make you smile in spite of yourself. And the
mduth, Jennie—do you think it is too large, or
the chin too heavy? You may criticize them,
but could you have seen him smile, or heard
him laugh, you would have pronounced his
mouth faultless.
But that will do—that is Knighte De Courcy,
the man I loved.
Sit here again, pelite Jennie, and listen.
The wedding day dawned. It was in early
Spring, and the first of May rosebuds were
scarcely born. On that morning I sprang from
my bed and ran to the window. Dark, cloudy,
dismal; a thick, wet fog rendered the nearest
objects invisible. With a sick, deathly feeling
I dropped the curtain, and sitting down m my
easy chair, cried bitterly.
Tears on a wedding morn, you say ? Yes, I
wept. Everything seemed ominous to me at
that moment—the forbidding May morning;,
the fearful dreams I had the night before ; the
remembrance of Mr. Hathaway’s revengeful
threat—all pressed upon me like iron weights,
crushing my very soul, and I cried long and
But the hours passed on, and at nine o’clock
I was to meet Knighte, never more to be sep
arated until death divided us. At half-past
eight' I was dressed in my bridal array, await
ing the bridegroom coming.
In vain I waited; two o’clock struck, and no
Knighte. The load on my heart, which had
been dispelled during the transient excitement
of tho day, suddenly returned, and I imagined
myself crazy.
Fear, forebodings and terror took possession
of the assembled guests, while in my mother’s
arms I lay, almost senseless.
Suddenly the sound of rapidly approaching
carriage wheels attracted the attention of every
one, and ‘There he is at last 1’ came in relieved
accents from every tongue.
I peeped from the window. lu the gloom
and darkness I could distinguish naught but
the outlines of a traveling carriage and the
horses. As they passed the window I instant
ly recognized Knighte’s property, and the old
coachman who for a long time had served in
that capacity.
He leaped nimbly down, but instead of open
ing the carriage door, came direct to the house
and without waiting to ring hastened in, in
quiring for “Miss Jennie.”
Again the presentiment came ; again the aw
ful cloud enveloped me, and, as I took a soiled
note from his hand, I felt it slowly, closely en
wrap me, suffocating me, as it were. Never
since that moment has it been lifted.
“My own one,” the note said, “can you come
to me instoad of my coming to yon, on this,
our wedding night ? I am dying, Jennie, and
I never more can see your sweet face unless
you hasten to me.”
That was all it said; very unsatisfactory—so
unlike Knighte.
Dying! My very heart was bursting. Ho
dying 1 And why ? So lately full of hfe and
health. In vain I questioned the bearer—he
was in total ignorance; only “Mr. De Courcy
•was very ill.”
Fifteen minutes, and I was the sole occupant
efthe carriage driving in hot haste toward tho
Lawn. Rapidly I was whirled along. Sudden
ly a backward leap, a sudden pause, then
voices, a blinding light, a strong perfume of
ether, and
My dear Jennie, listen.
A gently heaving motion, swaying me back
and forth, was the sensation; my bead ached
■nd burned with feverish pain ; my tongue was
hard and coated; my chin dry and hot.
Where was I ?
Water plashing coolly against something,
and a delicious breeze.
Soothingly the quiet motion calmed mo, and
for some time I lay. Suddenly a bright light
came flashing in; the carrier of it was
Yes, sennie, your parted lips have almost
formed the name. It was Hathaway.
“ Well, my charmer, you are reviving, I see.
Bow are yon?—ready to complete tho cere
mony ep rudely prevented yesterday night?
Come, everything is all ready—the bridegroom
waits; and see, your costume is very apropos.”
■ I sprang to my feet.
“Monster, where am I? Why are you here?
Where is Knighte ?”
“You arc a passenger on board the little
craft Hathaway, bound for Cuba. lam here,
being commander. Knight is here, as your
self, passenger. Am I sufficiently explicit?”
That countenance was fiendish, Jennie, and
his breath seemed like Satan’s own.
Tho name of Knighte was the open sesame
to the past few hours. I remembered all, the
entire transpiration ; but where was ho? Dy
ing, was he not? Oh, no; in the same vessel
with me.
But what was I doing on a vessel, and
Knighte, too? Were we married, and on our
tour ? No,. for he would be beside me, not
What was it? Jennie, my brain was almost
crazed. Do you wonder? Gradually I com
prehended all. I had been abducted, and by
him my soul abhorred.
Submit to Hathaway ? Never !
All these thoughts flashed like lightning
through my head as I stood before him.
I cannot, dare not, tell you his vile proposals,
devoid of honor or decency—he, the esteemed
citizen, the courted, petted lion of society. I
fled from him as far as I could get, screaming
in agony.
He was enraged with me.
“ Girl, come, then, and see your lover as he
is now; then choose between us. Come 1”
There was a wild, fierce glare in his eyes,
and he dragged me to the other cabin of the
He opened the door, pushed me in, and fast
ened me there.
Great God 1 what did I see ? The full blaze
of the swinging lamp fell plainly upon what?
A human corpse, bloody, gashed and man
gled! The staring eyes, glassy and frightful,
were fixed upon the door through which I was
forcibly pushed.
Jennie, that awful sight— Knighte’s mur
dered body— burnt itself upon my memory and
brain with scorching, scathing fidelity. Yes, it
was my lover, my husband almost, dead—stark,
stone dead—foully murdered, and his own
blood drying on the brown curls, tho fair white
I feared to move, to scream. My blood cur
dled in my veins, and rushed to my heart in icy
torrents. My limbs were paralyzed; I could
not move a muscle- And there he lay, his
dead, staring eyes fixed in glassy, ghastly gaze
on mine. My brain whirled. I imagined the
dead form started to take me. I felt a cold,
damp touch, and Heaven kindly lent uncon
Can you hear this, my dear, as I toll it, un
moved and calm, apparently? Apparently,
Jennie; for beneath this unruffled exterior
burns a (deep, yearning fire, unquenchable so
long as memory sways her sceptre.
Well, I must have been carried away from
that fearful place, for I was in my own cabin,
and Totty, a negress, with me. How can I de
scribe that return to consciousness of my suf
fering? How portray the awful agony, fright
ful terror that engulfed me ? To kill Hatha
way—to be revenged —was burning my very soul
out. Was not my hand the one to send home
the blow that should forever quit the fiend in
carnate whose reddened hands, crimsoned in
my darling’s life tide, had widowed my heart ?
I was frantic. Revenge swallowed up m a great
measure grief.
“You look surprised, Jennie, to hear me tell
it; but ’tis true. I formed my plans to murder
him, even as he, in jealous anger, deprived
Knight of a life just opening its fairy vista of
love, hope and long anticipated joys.
For two long weeks I was kept a close pris
oner, the hateful jailor visiting me daily.
Taunts and wicked threatening filled his mouth.
One day he came to me and told me they would
land in a day or so, upon one condition; that
depended upon me.
“ Retuse, and your life is the forfeit. Con
sent, and a life of ease, wealth and happiness
is yours.”
That proposition was—to marry him.
Marry him, whose hands were stained with
blood, whose soul was black with murder, and
whose heart was rotten with vileness ?
“Never I” was my indignant reply.
“Then, as sure as there is a God in Heaven,
you shall share his fate. Once more, to-night,
at the usual hour, I will come for your final an
swer. Final answer, remember.”
My niind was suddenly resolved, then, to
punish him for his crimes, forgetting, “Ven
geance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.”
He would come in diabolical rage to rid me of
an existence 1 now wish had been taken, while
I, the miserable-hearted girl, would plunge a
dagger in his breast, sending him to his re
Jennie, Hathaway came to me that night.
With strange caprice I arrayed myself in my
bridal robes, twined.the orange blossoms in my
hair, just as they were when -he snatched my
all from me in ruthless, relentless grasp.
Excitement lent an unnatural glow to my
wan, thin cheek, and when I gazed in the small
glass, I was startled by the fearful, intense
light in my eyes. They were lurid, and
gleamed wildly. But my heart never misgave
me; and if my heart trembled, as I hid
the sharp, fatal dagger—one I found in my
cabin—beneath the folds of my dress, the
thought of him lying there, of what I had suf
fered, nerved me to desperation, and I could
have faced ten thousand demons.
It was strange, dear, wasn’t it, that I should
be ,a murderess? Don’t hide your head and
shiver so ; but listen, and then do as I hourly
do, thank God, I was spared that crime, and
my hands are unstained.
He came, I said; fired with revenge, I await
ed with stoical patience the denouement. My
changed mood surprised him ; he expected op
position and contempt. But I listened and
waited. Softly he talked, and in his unguard
ed zeal to snatch a kiss, I sprang aside ; for a
moment the shining blade glittered in the
tamp-hght, then it feel, buried to tho very
hilt, and Knighte was revenged I
On, the wild horror that tilled me as I gazed
upon his prostrate form. Even ere the life was
fled, I would have given countless worlds, had
I possessed them, to see him animated again,
wretch though he was. But it was done ; and
I stood branded on the forehead—a lost soul.
Leaving him upon my cabin floor, I rushed
outside to find Totty, my maid, or some of the
sailors. I knew there were but two, the pilot
and another, who cooked the simple rations,
waited on Hathaway, the victim of woman’s
revenge, and did odd jobs. This Totty told
me; and I hastened to find them and beg
them take me home.
The deck was deserted; a silence, like death
reigned; two faint lamps swinging to and fro,
revealed the deserted place. I flfew to the af
ter part of the boat in search of the men; not
there; up tho steep, narrow steps. I was
All over the little craft I searched, but no
ono could I find. It was late, almost mid
night, and there I was, Jennie, alone, with
those two murdered men in the boat, one my
Can you possibly conceive my situation?
Midnight, and on the ocean; a,'hideous corpse,
felled by your own hand, near you? imagining
his manes peering over your shoulder, grin
ning in malicious glee ; do you wonder my hair
turned white in very terror all through that
night, or that the blood receded never to re
turn from my face ?
But morning came, and it brought some re
lief ; the hideous visions were dispelled, but
my heart seemed eaten out with remorse and
Beyond mo, I could see the faint outlines of
the fair island of Cuba, lying like a green em
erald upon the silver water. How peaceful
it looked in the hazel morping light; and tho
waves, how calm they were. I almost felt
tempted to throw myself upon their glassy
bosom ai\d drown my sorrows in a far more
potent stream than Lethe’s mag’ic watgr—the
river of Death. But I feared to pass through
the dark valley, and the black shadow; my
soul was perjured, and, wretch though I was,
I dreaded entering my Maker’s presence un
As the hours went on, and I sat crouching in
a retired nook, I suddenly remembered hear
ing Totty say, “ they intended landing them
on Monday night, provided- they passed any
vessel bound to the same place.”
This must have been done, and although I
remembered passing no vessel, or stopping, I
easily accounted for their absence. But what
should Ido ? My utter helplessness was pure
agony ; thousands of miles from home, and in
the broad ocean, with no knowledge of navi
gation, and, worse than all, those two mur
dered men.
You may ask if my lover’s corpse had been
removed? 1 only surmised, in tact, I knew, it
had not. The faint effluvia arising from the
putrefying mass decided that. The reasons of
Hathaway’s permitting it to remain, I will tell
you in efue time. A slight hint I give you now;
a more devilish plan never entered human
brain than he concocted.
But lam tedious, dear, am I not? Let me
briefly sketch the remaining scenes in this
tragedy in which I was chief performer.
Do you wonder now why I have such a hor
ror of the sea ? Why I never cross the water
with you in your pleasure excursions ?
That night’s snatdes drew gradually apace,
and as it became dusky, the horror in my
heart increased. The only hope I had was the
tide would take tho light, little boat where I
could escape and hide forever. And although
I experienced a sensation of safety while alone
in the boat, far from the eye of human jus
tice, yet I truly mean it when I say, death in
any form would have been preferable to the
torture I endured that night.
Let me tell it.
It was just dark when I took a parting look
over the waters at the land. Imagine my con
sternation when I saw tho island far away to
the west, and each minute growing less dis
tinct. I was drifting to the open ocean again,
without pilot or guide, subject to the mercy of
the wind or the caprice of the treacherous waves.
Storm might come, and I would bo dashed to
pieces; fate, fearful destiny stared me in the
Even it the sea was calm, and the sky favor
able, I must stfave to death, for I had searched
and found not a crumb in either locker. This,
too, Jennie, was a pait of tho fiendish plot o ’
But the darkness camo; the lamps had
burnt out that morning; I was once more the
tortured victim of hobgoblins, and
every imaginable object a fevered imagination
could conjure.
A little clock in Hathaway’s room chimed
tiyelye. f ipstictiyely in the direction
of the sound, and mv eyes were turned to balls
of fire.
Before me, not five yards, in long, vapory
habiliments, with bright blood gushing from
his breast, was my murdered victim. Yes ; i
Hathaway’s ghost had made another of tho
number to melt my brain and kill me.
It slowly, noiselessly approached; the eyes '
bent on mine, and the face was pale, and
ghastly. Suddenly, a pale blue flame lit up
tho darkness, and gleamed on tho waters; it I
fell on the awful form, and on another opposite '
me—on the bloody figure of Knighte—whose
figure seemed pointing at Hathaway. i
A cold, icy hand touched my forehead. It i
was too much ; my overstrained senses, unable :
to bear the scorching scene, gavo way. Ire col- ■
lect faffing heavily on the coil of rope, and then 1
a blank. 1
* * # a * * i
Kind voices and a gentle murmuring greeted I
my returning knowledge of passing events.
I unclosed my eyes and saw a kind, motherly 1
face bending over me, and a spectacled gentle
man by me.
“ Severe case of congestion of the brain; 1
crisis now over, and she will ■ recover with
proper care.”
I heard the physician say it, and I knew he 1
meant me; but I "had no idea of my illness, or '
no remembrance of the past. I only felt weary
and weak, and dared not even to think. Care, 1
attention, and good doctoring, restored me to ]
health ; and, alas ! to an entire knowledge of 1
the fearful past. I learned I was on board a 1
steamer, bound for New York; had been found
m a perilous condition, and was rescued by i
them. >
Let me give it as the captain told, me, when I
I became sufficiently strong to bear it. 1
“It was seven weeks ago that, as we were i
sailing to the Island of Cuba, a small craft 1
with a red flag attached attracted our atten- ]
tion. We made for it, supposing it to be a ship 1
in distress, when a gun, booming over the ‘
waves, certified the supposition. Upon reach- 1
mg it, we found at tho vessel’s side, pale and
emaciated, scarce able to load the signal-gun,
a man. He welcomed us with a strange joy.
Instantly he took me by the hand, and, point
ing to a closed cabin door, motioned me in. I
opened it; and God grant such a sight I may
never witness again.
“It was tho body of a man in the last stage
of decomposition ; crawling vermin were feasts
ing on the corrupt carcase; while its eyes,
sunken far in, glared hideously. A short
chain was attached to its arm, and a ring in
the end.
“I was sickened at the appalling spectacle,
and rushed to find pure air. Catching the man s
by the arm, I demanded the cause of sueh a i
thing. In faint accents, he told me a tragical :
story—you know it; how, on your bridal eve, <
he had decoyed you from home under a false i
pretense, murdered your lover because he re- <
fused to give you up, and then abducted you, i
intending you should conform to his wishes :
how, in your passion, you struck him, and well i
nigh killed him; how he recovered in a few
hours, and played the part of ghost, bringing i
his victim’s body to complete the illusion,
burnt a blue fight—you know all; I found you i
faint and almost dead. t
“Hathaway—that was the man’s name—was i
nearly starved, having no provisions on board, i
Shortly after his capture ny us, and while in i
irons in our vessel, he killed himself—no hard f
task—with his handcuffs, thus denying Justice f
the reward of punishing such a hardened ras- i
cal. t
“ Here are papers addressed to you, that I f
found in his cabin. They are unsealed, and r
during your illness, when we thought you dy
ing, I read them. They elucidate the cause of c
that putrid body’s remaining in the vessel, the t
three persons sent ashore, the empty condition s
of the locker, &c. Head it, Miss Lord, and s
thank a Merciful Father for an escape from a r
fate a thousand-fold worse than the most vio- d
lent death.” c
Jennie, that is what Captain Mulford told v
me ; and, on bended knee, at morn and noon c
and night, I thank that Allwise Parent I was
spared an awful crime, while I hope to be for- o
given for the desire and the action which bare- c
ly escaped shutting me out of Heaven. I pray, 1
too, for Hathaway. I have forgiven him, c
through God’s mercy, even after 1 knew what 1
fate he had in store for me. But the same n
hand that sent astray a wotild-bo murderer’s t
blow, guided and sent home the murderer’s c
doom. Truly, 1
“ God moves in a mysterious way, V
His wonders to performc
and, although I cannot see the why and where- i
fore of my sorrows that blasted my happiness, t
I hope I realize an all-pervading trust in the u
inscrutable Providence'who chasteneth his be- -
loved. c
Here is that letter, Jennie ; I will read it. It j
is dated back to the day he came for his “final i:
answer,” recollect. I
“ Virginia Loud : Long have I waited this hour.
For this I forfeited friends, reputation, wealth, soul. e
Yes. soul—for I murdered him." Shall I tell you how ?
That night I sent a message to him telling him you j
were dead—killed that afternoon. His noble nature 11
could not be duped, and the plan failed. Then I
went to his bedroom and poisoned his wine. Ha! e
ha! that did the business. e
“Your abduction was an easy matter. You know ]
how well it worked, and now, now comes my triumph. ‘
To night you become my bride, or share a fate worse .
than his. Everything is prepared, as I know you 1
will not consent, Weil, love is sweet, but revenge is J
sweeter. t
“ Even while I write, you and I are the only living
beings on the Hathaway. All hands were sent off two o
hours since, and not a crumb of food is in the lock- g
ers. Do you know why ? lam going on shore in a a
small boat to-night, after I’ve fixed you. Q
“ Did you know there was a chaiu fastened to his ' ■,
body ? Ere many hours you will be at the other end 0
of it, tightly bound.
“I said 1 was going on shore. The provisions are E
sent ofi' the boat. I intend deserting it, Jeaving you t
to your fate, enjoying my revenge I promised long 1
aso, in the safety of your own home. You will have t
a pleasant ride—much luck to you. But the hour c
approaches. 1 will stop writing this, and go to you.
Remember me to your friends, and Knighte De J
Courcy especially. An avenged lover. H.” {
Did you ever read such a letter, Jennie ? I s
never did. You comprehend, of course, th e E
fate in etore for me. Just think—only imagin® /
such a doom. The awful, awful position>
starved to death, bound to a corrupt mass o*
decomposed flesh—alone on the ocean—desert’ E
ed by God and man! n
But it was not so to be. My fearful destiny j
ended ere the intended closing scene. f
Friends and home are mine again ; sympathy f
and kind, tender care, partially smooth the
road, but never again will the smile come to e
my face as of yore. lam bereaved of that I E
never can find till I go to him, knowing he v
cannot return to me. Patiently I endeavor to E
await the hour when the remembrance of my
fearful past shall no mpre haunt me, and I
shall find rest and peace in a forgiving Savior’s
arms. *'
You have heard my story, Jennie; now go |
and thank God for your happiness, and pray h
you may never have such an one to relate.
Anecdotes of the Late Czar. I
During ono of the Emperor’s visits to War- i
saw, he was met by a poor woman, who. threw i
herself at his feet, and implored his protection. v
Nicholas inquired her grievance, and she re- y
plied that her only son had j ust been drawn for r
he conscription, and forcibly carried off by a a
r ecruiting agent, in defiance of the regulation a
which prohioits the compulsory enlistment of c
ths only son of a widow. Wishing to assure t
himself of the truth of this complaint, the. 0
Czar gave orders for the immediate summon- s
ing of the culprit. The latter, however, stoutly
denied the charge, and asserted that the wo
man’s petition was merely a subterfuge to de
: raud the recruiting agency, inasmuch as she
lad in reality two sons, the eldest ot whom had c
ieen enlisted by him,, in accordance with the ?
imperial enactments on that point. Both par- t
ties being thus positive, the Emperor, between e
his fear of violating the law and his reluctance “
to commit an act of unwarrantable harshness,
was for some time at a loss what to do ; but at -
length a solution of the difficulty occurred to
him. “You are quite certain then,” said he,
“that this woman has really two sons, and •
that it is the eldest who is at present in your
hands?” “Quite so, your Imperial Mtdesty.”
“In that case, replied the Czar, with a grim
smile, “we must not lose a soldier; so give
back the eldest son to his mother, and take
the other one1”
While the English fleet held the Baltic, the
heads of the Bureau de Police at Saint Peters
burg prohibited the celebration of morning
service in the English church, taking umbrage
at that passage in the Litany which implores
for the Queen *’ victory over all titer enemies.”
Nicholas, on heasmg of this, instantly counter- t
manded tho prohibition, and next Sunday at- *
tended tho service in person, expressing alter- 1
ward a great admiration of the English Lit- 1
urgy. About the samo time, he gave orders ;
for the liberation of a number of British mid
shipmen, who had been taken, observing “that *
he made war with men, not with boys.” I
Shortly after tire commencement of the great
struggle in the Crimea, an officer was sent from ’
Sevastopol with important dispatches, which ’
ho was ordered to carry with all speed to Saint 1
Petersburg, and deliver into the Emperor’s own '
hands. The immense length and multiplied i
hardships of the journey, which was performed 1
entirely by sledge, and in the depth of Winter, 1
proved too much even for the military hardi- ’
hood of the messenger, who arrived at the 1
capital in such a state of exhaustion that he '
had no sooner reached the Winter Palace and
presented his dispatches, than he staggered
back against the wall and fell fast asleep.
Nicholas, having perused the papers, turned
round and perceived the condition of his
courier. He spoke to him, touched him, shook
him, in vain. At length he stooped down, and
shouted in the gruff voice of a Russian post
master, “Your Excellency, the horses are
ready!” At these words, which he had heard
several times a-day for the last fortnight, the
sleeper sprang to bis feet, and was petrified on
discovering where he was ; but Nicholas only
laughed, and dismissed him with a compliment
on his promptitude.
During the early part of Nicholas’s reign, a
friend of my own, on a visit to Saint Peters
burg, happened, while strolling in front of the
Winter Palace, to light a cigar—a proceeding
instantly followed by looks of astonishment
and dismay from all the passers-by. While en
deavoring to guess at the cause of this, he was
accosted by a tall, fine-looking man in the un
dress uniform of a colonel of the Imperial
Guard, who remarked politely that “he was
probably ignorant of the Emperor’s order, nro
hftitjftw wkiQK in ftonj oX WiSSSs.”.. .
tourist apologized, and threw away his cigar.
Some days later, an official friend having of
fered to present him privately to the Czar, he
was conducted to the palace and ushered into a
small cabinet, with an intimation that his
Majesty would be with himilirectly. Presently
the door opened, and in walkid his friend the
colonel in the self-same uniform, startling him
not a little. Nicholas, however, received him
very graciously, and dismissed him with a
friendly caution against smoking in public un
der the eyes of the police.
Cue evening the Czar was led by curiosity to
stroll into the quarters of the Imperial Guard,
and entering the first room he came to, found
a man with his head resting on the table, fast
asleep. Recognizing in the sleeper one of his
best officers, Nicholas softly approached him,
and found on the table a sheet ot paper cov
ered with the following calculation: “Pay,
3,000 rs. Cost of equipments, 1,500 rs.; Pension
to my mother, 1,500 rs.; Debts, 3,000 rs. To
tal, 6,000 rs. Deficit, 3,000 rs. Who will pay
this sum?” Unable to answer this query, the
unfortunate guardsman had fallen asleep in
the midst of his arithmetic. The Emperor
took a pen, wrote beneath the ominous ques
tion the single word “ Nicolai,” and departed.
The officer’s dismay on discovering this palpa
ble protjf of the imperial visit m ay be imagined ;
but next morning ho received an autograph
letter from the Czar, confirming the promise of
payment, and advising him to continue his at
tention to his mother, and to be more wake
ful for the future.
On one occasion, a distinguished foreign
ambassador congratulated the Czar on tne
number of competent statesmen and generals
that he possessed. Nicholas heard him to the
end in silence, and then, laying his hand on the
shoulder of the Tsarevitch (now Emperor),
who stood beside him, and who was then re
ported to be on anything but good terms with
his father, he said in atone of intense sadness,
“ There is only one man in my whole empire
whom I can trust, and here he stands 1”
The be!) strikes one—we take no note of time
But from its loss. To give it, then, a tongue,
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound.—Young.
I am alone to-night in my study—alone—al
alone. What a lonely, sad word is this!—what
a volume of meaning it conveys. ’Tis when we
are alone that we rake over the dead memories
of the past, recalling to view the scenes that
were once of yore buoys, as it were, and buoyed,
our souls above the sea of despair, and prom
ised to us days of joy and felicity.
Yes, I am all alone in my little studio, sur
rounded by the tomes of erudition of dead au
thors, which seem to look down upon craving,
so seeming, to have me look them over and
ponder upon the thoughts that emanated from
their fertile brains in the years of the long
ago. And I have upon the wall several paint
ings—rare old paintings—that I dearly prize ;
not for the reason of the superior merits of the
artists who painted them, for there is no great
genius displayed in them. So you see it is not
forthat, but it’s because they were old paint
ings that I obtained in my boyhood years;
they are souvenirs that I delight to look upon,
for they convey to the memory joyous days of
my youth.
On the right wall I have suspended two
crude oil paintings. I painted thorn myself;
but this is not the reason of my prizing them
so highly. Many years ago (many in compar
son with the brief number allotted in the life of
man) I was a stripling, and often loved to wan
der over the fields and hills in my natal home
of New England, musing over the days that
were then to be, for I was then, as now, a wooer
of f-olitude.
There was a neat old cot that sat at the apex
of a long, swelling eminence, and here often
enjoying the pleasures of an afternoon’s stroll,
I tarried awhile. The cot was at the terminus
of a long lane, and huge old elms, that had
been waved by the fickle breath of heaven for
many years, spread forth their branches as if
to protect*the mansion from the encroaches of
decay. To this old cot I often strayed, and de
lighted to hear the kind old lady of the house,
who was a native of Merry Old England, relate
copious talcs of the haunted abbeys and old
ivied halls of her natal climes. She dwelt in
the north of England, in the county of North
umberland, very near the borders of Scotland
—in fact, so near that with the naked eye she
could easily discern the white articles of ap
parel that were suspended on the clothes lines
m the highland. There was an old road, re
puted to have been built by Septerminus Ser
vius at the time of his reign over the Roman
empire. This old road passed by two old
mansions (one of them, it seems, was the early
home of our old lady) and continued in a direct
line toward the city oi Edinburg.
These old buildings to which we have refer
ence were quaint and gloomy-looking in the
extreme, having diminutive window .panes,
huge outer doors, and giant chimneys. The
outer building and lofty elms and lindens
that shaded the cot seemed to afford capital re
sort for the loquacious rooks that had haunted
these localities for unnumbered years.
Here the occupants could trace their geneal
ogy hundreds of years; here their fathers and
grandfathers had breathed their first and last,
and one by one, in turn, were conveyed to the
old parish kirk yard, to molder back to the
dust from whence they sprang.
Ere our lady bade adieu to the land of her
nativity she procured two crude paintings of
these old farm cote. They were painted by the
hands of one who was then a youth, and seemed
to evince that early genius that usually indi
cates what superior qualities will be displayed
in after years?
“ Poor John,” I have often heard her say,
“he never lived to practice that art which
seemed to be the buoy of his soul. He died
nearly a year previous to my departure for
I used to admire those old paintings as they
hung over the kitchen mantelpiece. The more
my eyes rested on them the more would my
mind rove over the haunts and spots m Old
England. Yes, I would often take them down
from their place of suspension and dream over
them, until at last I got so attached to them
that I loved them, and after procuring the de
sired colors, copied them, adhering closely as
possible to the original. Now, reader, you see
why I prize these old paintings. They remind
me of vanished years,
“ Departed never to return.”
Several years have flown into eternity since I
left my natal haunts. Old faces are seen but
in the memory, and some live but in the recol
lection ; so you see, reader, these old, sombre
paintings are the only links that connect the
dead, silent past with the melancholy present.
I possess other paintings of greater merit
than those I have referred to. I have rare old
landscape paintings, old ivied castles towering
in the mountains, a portrait of a noble lady,
who methinks could boast of a long line of no
ble ancestry. She seems to be quietly reclin
ing in an old baronial hall, with its wainscoted
walls and lofty frescoed ceiling. The couch on
which she seems reclining is of curious work
manship, richly inlaid with gilt trimmings,
and half canopied with heavy folds of rich dam
ask. She appears to be a mother, for a rosy
cheeked lass of some five summers rests upon
her knee. A smile pervades the countenance
of the child caused, perchance, by some freak
sf the artist unknown to fame.
But who the lady and the lass may be,
Will aye remain a mystery to me.
In my chamber to-night all alone, and the
cool breezes fan my brow, and the weird melan
choly breathings bears my mind back through
the vista of vanished years to happy days for
ever gone.
“ I will not say our life is all in vain,
For poace may cheer at last the barren heath;
But still I know that on this weary earth,
Round each joy island is a sea of pain,
And the days go by.”
“I only ask to drink experience deep;
And in tho sad sweet goblet of my years,
To find love poured with all its smiles and tears;
And quaffing this I too shall sweetly sleep,
While the days go by.”
‘•’The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow shining mountains—beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face,
Than that oi man; and in her starry shade
Ol dim, and solitary loveliness,
I learned the language o^another world.”
How beautiful are these lines of Byron’s that
occur in his weird drama of Manfred. Almost
appropriate they are for my case. Although I
I am not gazing out upon the snow clad Alps.
I am admiring and holding communion with
Nature at the still bewitching hour of night.
The horned moon is rolling majestically
through the white and sombre clouds that
float like phantoms on the infinite Heavens.
And I am looking abstractedly into the infinite
void ; ruminating on the havoc of time; rumi
nating upon tho long passed ages ; ruminating
upon the present and fixture; soon becoming
so entranced that I sink into fanciful dreams,
and awake with mind filled with the realities of
life, and the beautiful lines of Bryant, which
from their extreme solemnity, remind one of
the dieing notes of an organ, wafting through
the collonades and vaulted ailes of some old
dim cathedral;
“ So live, that when fhe summons comes to join
The innumerable caravans that move
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber, in the silent halls of death,
* * * Approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”
On the 21st of April the remains of
the late Adah Isaacs Menken, of “Mazeppa”
fame, -were exhnined from the'cemetery Pere la
Chaise, and reinterred in the cemetery Mont
Parnasse, south of Paris. A splendid obelisk,
nearly nine feet high, surmounted by an urn,
and covered with flowers, immortelles, wreaths,
&c., has been erected at a cost of 2,000 francs.
Miss Menken, it will bo recollected, died m
Paris on the 10th of August last, and her re
mains wore interred temporarily in Pere la
Chaise, where a spiall black board with her
name was all to indicate tho spot. Through
the exertions of Mr. E. Jafnes, of the New
York Clipper, aided materially by Miss Rita
Percy, an English actress, the ground was
bought for a perpetuity, and the object was
earned cut to the eatisiwtive el to friouda.
I Original.]
By Matilda Burton.
When those we love are dying
How dark the world appears';
Upon their marble features
We gaze through blinding tears,
Forgetting in our sorrow
Their woes will soon be o’er—
That peace and joy awaits them
Upon the Golden Shore.
When Heaven’s portals open,
And angels earthward come,
Their shining wings unfolding
To bear some dear one home,
We only see the trestles,
The pall, and nothing more—
We do not see the watchers
Upon the Golden Shore.
Oh! wnen upon our pathway
The shades of death shall fall,
And ’mid its solemn darkness
We pass away from ail,
May we be re-united
With loved ones gone before,
And dwell among the angels
• Upon the Golden Shore.
Artificial watering of land, which
enabled the dense populations of India and
ancient Pern to maintain themselves, and
without which Japan and China could not now
exist, is claiming a large share of attention
from modern government and economists, as
well as engineers. It has come to be be
lieved that the danger to crops resulting from
droughts, which seem to be every year on the
increase, may be substantially averted by ex
tended and judicious modes of irrigation,
whereby the waste water of streams may be
used to keep the earth moist and productive,
even though the sun be fervid and the sky bra
zen. The government of France has at this
moment a commission in Spain to study the
modes of irrigation practised in the dry south
ern portions of the Peninsula: and the late
terrible famines in India, which, like that in
Orissa, depopulated whole districts of coun
try, and where hundreds of thousands died of
starvation, have roused the British authori
ties to search for means of preventing their
A plan has been perfected by Colonel
Strachey, the engineer to whom the business
was confided, and the work has been begun.
His estimate of the cost is twenty-nine mil
lions sterling. One’s breath is almost taken
away in reading the details, suo'u is the mag
nificence of tne project. The brain grows
dizzy over canals, dams, tanks, reservoirs,
locks, embankments, and improved river
channels. In Central India there are one
hundred and twenty-four millions of acres to
be irrigated ; in Hindoston one million five
hundred thousand acres are to be supplied
with water; in the Mysore district, the old
native structures and water-conducts are be
ing disinterred and restored ; the flood canals
in Scmde are to be converted into parental
streams ; a tank to cost one hundred and fifty
thousand pounds, is among the works now
going on in the Deccan; two canals, hundreds
of miles long, are to lead from the mountains
to Calcutta. Everywhere, indeed, the fertili
zing and refreshing clement is to be made to
flow, and there will be work enough lor thou
sands for a lifetime.
An English exchange says : A mel
ancholy incident has just occurred which has
thrown into deep gloom several highly respect
able families in the metropolis. It appears
that a lady, young and accomplished, was. en
gaged to be married to a young gentleman
moving in a good position in society. But the
expected bridal has had a disastrous termina
tion. The young lady in question was the
daughter of a gentleman occupying a promi
nent post in connection with one of our largest
railway companies. A lew weeks ago the day
for the nuptial ceremony was fixed, and great
preparations were made for a suitable celebra
tion of the event. The wedding trousseau was
obtained, and "all went merry as a marriage
bell,” until, unfortunately, almost the very time
that the bell in question should have been
rung. Immediately before the day on which
the youth should have led his fair affianced to
the altar he mysteriously disappeared, and up
to the presont time nothing has been heard of
him. AU is conjecture as to the motives for
his disappearance, and it is not known whether
he is dead or alive. The expectant bride felt
his loss deeply, and began rapidly to droop in
health and spirits—-in fact, within a few days
grief had made such ravages upon her consti
tution that it was evident her life was at stake.
Eminent physicians were caUed in, who insist
ed upon her removal to the south of France.
Thither she was accordingly borne, but her
malady w.as beyond the scope of medicine, and
she expired in the arms of her mother, literally
dying of a broken heart. Her body has been
brought to England and interred. Great sym
pathy is felt for the parents of the deceased,
whose father is well and popularly known by a
large circle.
The St. Louis, Mo., Democrat says :
“ George Lent was lent, to the world some time
ago, and found a home in St. Louis. Here he
became ‘ enameled ’of a young girl; a sweet
and beautiful being, who would not lend her
affections to Mr. Lent, because they were lent
to another man. Thereupon George placed a
keg of blasting powder in a wash tub under the
house wherein resided the aforesaid girl, at
tached a slow match to the concern, and 1 lit
out.’ But the match did not kindle the powder
any more than did George the heart of the
girl. The powder emulated the example of
the girl, and refused to go off, so he failed to
blow her up and powder her in this unchristian
manner, although, if married, she might have
blowed him up, providing her tongue had been
lent to such amusement. The match which
led to the powder, like the other match, was
entirely broken off. George was arrested for
an attempt at arson, and he has been lent to
the State as a stone-cracker for three years.”
St. Louis is a great place for blowing up.
We remember that, two years since, in that
city, a girl, in a fit of jealousy, tried to take her
life by blowing herself up with a cannon ball.
She emptied a pound of gun powder on a tin
pie-plate, placed a ten-pound cannon ball on
top of the same, partly embedded in the pow
der, arranged her hoop skirt and things, and
squatted down on tho pile like a hen on a soli
tary goose-egg, ignited tho powder with the
aid of a hot poker, and as she was flying up
toward the ceiling, saw the cannon ball quietly
resting on the pie-dish, while a smell of burnt
wool and things pervaded the apartment. Love
runs mighty lumpy in St. Louis.
The dames d’honneur at the French
Court receive each a salary of about $2,400 per
annum. They are not lodged in the palaeo,
but apartments are assigned them m Faris.
The gentlemen of the Court and the demoiselles
d’honneur, however, have rooms in tho Tuile
ries. The day’s service of the dame d’honneur,
or, as we should say, lady-in-waiting, does not
commence until half-past twelve, when a Court
carriage is sent to the one on duty to convey
her to the palace. Tho Emperor and Empress
breakfast quietly together at eleven A. M., and
at one the Empress requires tho attendance of
her suite. The lady-in-waiting repairs to the
drawing-room, and is present at the audiences
given there by the Empress; a drive follows,
and she then retnrns home to dress for dinner ;
tho Court carriage is absolutely at her service
and orders for the whole term of the week’s
duty. Dinner over, if there are no theatrical
entertainments, childish games are allowed for
the amusement of the Prince Imperial. Tea is
introduced at ton. Thore was very lately a
violent discussion between the dames and the
demoiselles d’honneur as to which of the two
had the right of handing the Empress a cup of
tea. But, as the dames d’honneur urged that
they presided over the tea-table, they tri
umnhed, and to them tho privilege was con
ceded. At 11:30 P. M. the Court carriage once
more conveys the lady back to her apartments.
It is the custom while in Paris for two always
to be on duty at tho same time.
cently at the Cirque Napoleon, Paris. A Dr.
Epstein has entertained the Parisian public at
too Fantaisies Parisiennes, and subsequently
at the- Cirque Napoleon, by a series of legerde
main feats, among which was that of allowing
himself to- be. shot at by any one who would
load a pistol and fire at him. On this occasion
he 1 offered the pistol to two of the audience,
who successively refused the experiment. It
was finally accepted by a gentleman, who loaded
and handed the pistol to one of tho Cirque ser
vants. The man, as desired, fired on Dr. Ep
stein. He immediately exclaimed, “I am
killed,’’and foil, blood pouring irorn his mouth,
a gaping wound in his breast being visible to
the audience as ho lay on the ground. The
ramrod, by inconceivable carelessness, had not
been withdrawn, and liad consequently been
shot right through the unfortunate exhibitor’s
breast. The rod was broken by tho shock, and
so violent was the ricochet, that a fragment
bounded back and struck the very person who
had involuntarily caused the accident. The
sadness of the scene was increased by the
frightful grief of two women, who, on seeing
Dr. Epstein fall, rose from their seats and
rushed on the stage. They wore the wife and
daughter of the victim, of whose life there is
little hope.
Another of the new theatres of Im
perial Paris is now open to the public, and one
more of the old theatres of old Paris is crum
bling to the earth under the busy destroying
hands of workmen, in the Place tie la Bourse.
The old-fashioned, commodious Vaudeville has
sent its actors and actresses to a small, incon
veniently placed building at the corner of the
Chaussee-d’Antin, which looks more like a
highly decorated hotel than a dramatic temple.
A more iil-adapted site for a theatre it would
be difficult to find. There is no space for car
riages, and the waiting crowd who patronize
the cheaper seats of the house have a narrow
pavement to occupy, to tho annoyance of those
who are not going to the play. Jn tho interior
tho architect has done the best he can for the
public as regards approaches and seats; but
the whole strikes one as “ out of drawing,” as
artists say when the eye is offended. A diffi
cult staircase, a round foyer, a small stage,
and a general in-and-out appearance is no im
p.’fvcwent on th« old rewvy A
restaurant joins the theatre, and is in commu
nication with the same by doorways. The res
tauration establishment in question is known
as “Peter’s,” an American house nominally.
Here ladies and gentlemen may sup after the
play at family tables, or in those private “ so
ciety cabinets,” so acceptable to persons who
do not wish everybody to look at them.
The peculiar habits and customs of
the Chinese will doubtless be somewhat modi
fied, in the. course of years, by freer inter
course with other nations. The time may even
come when women will be regarded among
them as worthy of some consideration and re
spect. At present, however, their condition is
very servile, as may be inferred from one of
their proverbs, “ The girl is subject to her pa
rents, the wife to her husband, the mother to
her son.” A daughter is regarded as a burden
in the family, and is kept in seclusion until her
marriage. . She is created as a servant, and her
whole education consists in learning to cook
and to sew. The Chinese woman is not con
sulted in regard to her marriage ; she does not
know her future husband—perhaps she has not
even heard his name. Among the wealthy,
the married women are carefully secluded, go
ing abroad only in sedan chairs, by especial
permission from their lords. The lower classes
enjoy a certain kind of liberty, which is dearly
purchased by the hard labor to which they are
condemned. The grotesque paintings which
come to this country are mere caricatures—
that many of them have the complexion and
characteristic beauty of the Creoles—a small
and pretty hand, beautiful teeth, superb black
hair, and slender waists. Of course they have
small feet; and it is one of the “ Celestial say
ings ” that “the tongues of women increase by
all that they take from their feet.”
The Madrid correspondent of the
Independance relates-the following case of
forced imprisonment in a convent, which he
says has excited the indignation of the entire
population of Madrid: “In tho most remote
part of a nunnery situated in Hortaleza street,
there is a cell little more than a vard square,
into which air and light were admitted by a
small opening in the top of the wall. The Civil
Governor of Madrid received an anonymous
letter informing him that a human being was
confined in this hole, and on proceeding to the
place he found a young woman, aged about 28,
who had been for several years shut up in this
horrible den. She belongs to a respectable
family in South America. When she camo to
Madrid she was young and beautiful, but her
husband, suspecting her of unfaithfulness,
sought tho almoner of the convent, and it was
agreed between them that the wife should be
shut up in one of the cells. For five years he
has acted in this capacity to the satisfaction of
the husband.
last month at the Gymnasium, in Liverpool,
England. Two “knights” entered the lists,
with lance in rest, the game to be won by him
who should unseat his adversary thrice in five
encounters. The fortunes of ths combat va
ried considerable, as now one, now the other,
“ unhorsed” his opponent by a well-directed
thrust of the lance, and the incidents of the
contest created much merriment. Sometimes
they met at full speed in the centre of the lists,
and missing their aim, or being carried away
by the impetus which the exertion had impart
ed, had to make a vigorous effort to maintain
their equilibrium, or to prevent their steeds
from running down the spectators on either
side, while one desperate attempt brought both
the knights upon the ground together entan
gled in their machines. Scrambling up again
as nimbly as they could, they remounted, and
recovering their lances, renewed the combat,
from which eventually the Red Cross Knight
came out the victor, and they retired amid loud
cheers. Subsequently the combatants returned,
and had a second encounter with broadswords,
which also proved highly amusing.
The Moniteur relates the following
romantic incident in explanation of the double
name borne by M. Frere-Orban. M. Frere was
about to pass his examination for the bar when
he met the heiress of one of tho most import
ant commercial houses of Brussels, with whom
he fell in love. M. Orban rejected bis proposal
of marriage in a somewhat peremptory man
ner. The young lady, however, was not to be
so easily disposed of. “You are to pass your
examination to-day; if you succeed, come to
our box at the opera to-night, and in a month
we shall be married.” “ But your father 1”
“ Leave him to me.” That evening, a favorite
singer attracted all the bourgeoisie of Brussels
to the opera—the house was crammed. The
door of M. Orban’s box opened; M. Frere ap
peared on the threshold; Mademoiselle rose,
and before the whole house kissed the newly
fledged barrister. That day month he married
the heiress, and henceforth took her name,
and thus became M. Frere-Orban.
It would appear that we are not
the only people who pour all sorts oj doubtful
liquids down our throats. In Baris, where
oranges have been very plentiful tho past sea
son, they have a novel drink. In unpacking
the oranges in the different quarters of the
city, some of the fruit is invariably crushed
and at.once thrown away. For these rejected
oranges chiffoniers are on the watch, and
eagerly pick up the crushed fruit, even though
it had fallen into the gutter, which they after
ward carefully wash, and mix with tho remains
of raisins rejected by grocers as unsaleable.
These remains of fruit are mixed with brown
sugar, and left for some days to ferment. The
liquor thus obtained is then strained, bottled,
and labeled “Champagne Mouetard.” The
stuff fizzes, and however execrable, is drunk
in the third rate cafes as an “ extra.”
The Zulus are at liberty to marry
as many wives as they like, and until the oth
er day could bargain for these wives with their
fathers, irrespective of any likes or dislikes
which the girls themselves might have. This
form of woman slavery, which had long boon
denounced in the colony as incompatible
with tho freedom of British subjects, was last
year subjected to certain counteracting checks
by the enactment of laws, requiring that all
marriages be registered, that fees be payable
on such registration, and that a certain fixed
number of cows shall be a legal offer on the
part of a native bridegroom to the father of
tho girl he seeks to wed. Hitherto it has too
often been the case that wealthy old men have
outbid their younger riyals, and that girls hitve
been forced into marriage with patriarchal
Bluebeards directly against their wishes and
their will.
During an exhibition at a menag
erie at Forrest, Mississippi, a few days ago, a
huge elephant which had been peevish and un
ruly for some daye, became frantic when a
rustic fool gave him a piece of tobacco. The
elephant broke his chain after violent strug
gles, and tho largo crowd fled in the wildest
aste. The ponderous beast attacked a freight
tram that was approaching on a track near the
teut, striking it with such force that he broke
a tusk, was overset, and instantly killed. The
locomotive was thrown off the track, ran into
the canvas tent, butted into the lion’s cage,
killing ths lioness and freeing her mate. The
lion took to flight out of town, scaring the
country folks, upsetting horses and wagons,
and smashing chicken coops. At last advices
twenty mounted horsemen, with guns and dogs,
were in pursuit of the brute.
The Grecian bend is one of the
consequent follies of fashion. It was fashion
able in the time of Napoleon 1., when he intro
duced the Imperial idea, Caasarism, and all the
long train of necessary imitation of Ciesariaii
ways and courts. The chairs and furniture,
the couches and bods, were made after the
Roman, the Etruscan, or the Grecian mode ;
and the Emperor, who was taught to strut by
Talma, the actor, put on his royal robes after
the manner of the loose garments of the Impe
rial rascals whom he was so fond of imitating.
Then tho Empress dressed a la antique ; the
hair was bound in a fillet, brought forward
over the temples, or left to wander free like
that of a nymph. Chaste matrons dressed a
la Diana or iMcrecc, while more worldly dames
habited themselves a la Venus; hence the
Grecian stoop or bend.
A domestic tragedy has just been
accomplished in Pans. A workman, aged
twenty-eight, residing in tho Rue St. Antoine,
had been on terms of intimacy with a young
woman named Clemence, of the same neign
borhooJ, but in consequence of her violent
and jealous disposition, had recently broken
off the connection; she several times since
endeavored to induce him to return, but find
ing him firm in his resolution to remain away,
sho laid wait for him a few days back with a
bottle of sulphuric acid, and on his coming up
dashed the corrosive liquid in his face and
eyes, burning him horribly. She then went
home and committed suicide by lighting two
pans of charcoal inlier room. The man was
removed to an hospital in a dreadful state.
M. Gabriel was noted, not only as
a dramatist; but as an oddity, and, as it fre
quently happens with oddities, his eccentrici
ties took an economical direction. He was in
the habit, it is said, of using for his only dinner
table the most convenient shelf in a cupboard,
before which, during the consumption of his
meal, he stood upright. If he heard the bell,
ho wiped his month, shut up his cupboard,
and received his visitor with a smiling face,
assured that he had avoided tho necessity of
asking him to partake of the repast. The habit
ho had of wearing his hat as if it had been
screwed to his head is attributed to a dread of
wearing it out.
■ The Countess of Mornington, widow
of William Pole Tyluoy Long Wellesley, Earl
of Mornington, died recently in her seventy
sixth year. After the ruin into which the reck
less earl’s affairs fell, some forty years ago,
this lady was for a time an inmate of St.
George’s Workhouse, and more than once had
to apply at police courts for temporary relief.
Yet she might have called monarcus “cousins.”
She was descended from the grandest and
greatest of all the Plantagenets. Her mother
(wife of Colonel Paterson), Ann Porterfield of
that ilk, came through Boyd, Cunningham,
Glencairn and Hamilton, from Mary Stuart,
daughter of King James 11. of Scotland, and
seventh in descent from Edward I. of England.
Tho earldom of Mornington, extinct in the eld
er lino of the Wellesleys, has landed to the
Duke of
Sunday Edition. May 16,
The correspondent of an English
journal gives the following revolting particu
lars of how the Chinese are maltreated in
Australia. I
These miserable foreigners are, without
question, inhumanly persecuted. I can
lect an instance of one whose pig tail was wan'-
tonly cut off by a gang of rowdies, and wh<SJ
being thereby deprived (pntil it should have,
grown) of the privilege of returning to lua
fatherland, suffered such depression of spirife
in consequence as to determine him upon sill
cide. Now, death without sepulchre, eutaits,
for people of his creed, eternal tormSnw
So, being dubious about the English law re
garding Jeto-de-se, the miserable wretch set to£
work methodically to excavate his own graved
contrived, after the manner of certain vermin-f
traps, to close with a heavy slab as soon as hq
should have got inside and pulled the stringy
Tho apparatus answered like a shower bfttbj
and boxed him up as comfortable as in a sedan-,
chair. In his own quiet way the man was per-,
fectly contented with his temporal and eternal
arrangements, and .desired nothing but to be
let alone. And so, when a protector, more on
thusiatic than is common, sniffed him ept at'
last, and insisted upon his disinterment, thor&
was supreme Celestial resentment, and quite a.
ferocious row in the sepulchre. Tho wbola'
Chinese community were excessively sbockect
at the desecration, and tho amiable but indis
creet resurrectionist received a departmental
hint to confine himself strictly to his instruct
tions in future.
Traveling once by the stage between Ballau
rat and Geelong, I waited in the office for tha
hour of starting. It was an office where thly
sold tickets, as in a theatre, through a smal?
hole in the bulk-head. Under the hole Was as
form, and seated thereon patiently a respecta
ble Chinaman, who was to make one of our pas
sengers. The cleric having booked tho crowd,*
was about to shut up and go away, when at
bright inspiration occurred to him. Stretch
ing a cautious hand he seized poor John’s pig'-
tail, and knotted it around the middle of S
heavy ruler, many sizes too long for extrication
from outside. Then he cheerrally locked up,
and, while the public were laughing at the jol(e,
and the victim vainly and helplessly imploring
liberation, the coach gaily started, and bore pt*
from his melancholy view. To a remonstrance
with the driven, that fuctionary answered,
pleasantly, that there would be another to
morrow at the same bom - .
The sad fate of Dr; Epstein, tho
Paris conjuror who was wounded by a splinters
of a ramrod discharged from his own conjure
ing pistol, illustrates (says the London OrcAesk
Ira) what Robert Houdin had insisted upon in
his book—that magicians possess no ordinary
bravery to stand before the muzzle of a pistolj
knowing how slight a mischance may bring
them face to face with death. Houdin himself
used to play with danger with an entirely need-,
less assurance. He relates how once no had
performed some startling firearm tricks before
a party of Arabians, making use, of course, of
tho ordinary form of conjuring pistol, which is
so contrived that the ramrod draws the bullet-
While the rest of the party were expressing
their admiration, a crafty old Marabout, who
had some suspicion of the true nature of tn a
trick, said:
“The. stranger is doubtless a strong magi
cian ; will he suffer me to fire at him with my
own pistols ?”
“Yes,” said Houdin, unhesitatingly; “bpfi
first I must make invocation to those who as
sist me.”
The next day he met the same party, and
offered a saucerful of bullets to the inspection:
of the Marabout. Satisfied that they were lead,
—as indeed they were—the Arab handed his
pistols to Houdin, who loaded them, using tha
Arab’s ramrod. His own friends were in ter
ror, and even his wife, well as she knew hia
skill, was in perplexity wh'en she saw him hand
back to the Arab one of the loaded pistols.
“Now fire,” he said.
The Arab did so, and Houdin was seen with
the bullet between his teeth. . q
“Bah!” he said, seizing the other pistolj
“you cannot use your own weapons. Sect
here. You have been uiiable to draw blood
from my flesh, and I will draw blood from yon
der walk” si
He aimed at the wall, fired, and immediately
a stain of blood was seen. The Marabout went!
up to the wall, and when he had dipped hid
finger in the blood which was trickling down,
his awe and amazement were so great that hi 3
features assumed a ghastly hue. Yet the trick
was simple enough, two prepared bullets hav
ing been skilfully substituted by Houdin fop
the leaden bullets he took up from tho saucer/
But the experiment was quite new, and Houdin
tells us that he trembled, and could scarcely
control his terror as he saw the Marabout
drawing the trigger of the pistol.
and get the Liquid Safety Gas for your lamps. It is tha
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TY OF NEW YORK.—Beniamin L. Benson a”d|
William A. Rosekrans, Plaintiffs, against E. S. Cand-*
ler, Jr., Defendant.—Summons.—For Money.
To the above named Defendant: You are hereby suriir*
moned and required to answer the complaint in the acS
tion which was filed hi the Office of the Clerk of
Court, at the City Hall in the City of New York, on tha
13th day of May, 1869, and to serve a copy of your answer}
on the subscribers, ar their Office, No. 82 Nassau
(Law Buildings,) in the City of New York, within twenty
days after the service of this Summons on you, exclusive?
of the day of such service; and if you fail to answer thn
complaint within the time aforesaid, the plaintiffs irfi
this action will take judgment against the
therein for the sum of Fourteen Hundred and Ninety?
nine dollars and seven cents and interest thereon, froni
the 2d day of February, 1869. .. J;
SHELDON & BROWN, Plaintiff’s Attorneys.
No. 82 Nassau street, N.
Connected with these Press-Rooms there is a largfl
kept for the convenience of those having PressworU
done at No. 11 Frankfort street.
Forme (from any part of the city) brought to the Prei’"
rooms ariH returned without charge to cast mere.

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