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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, June 27, 1869, Image 6

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By T. lid win Leary.
Behold afar a beacon light,
That ahines like the polar star at night.
Keeping watchful vigil m radiance bright;
Ah I yee, tis the Deity’s satellite,
And Hope is its sacred name.
There engraven, pale watcher, see
Inspiring words 01 life for thee;
For an honest heart, a conscience free,
Trust as your guiding star to me,
For Hope is my sacred name.
When misfortune crushes, watcher, bear;
When bowed with the weight of sorrowing care;
When temptation vile casta thy soul a snare,
Look to my home In the firmament fair,
Let Hope be thy guiding star.
When fancy delusive bids the frown,
With a cheerless gift, a heart bowed down,
Look to that sparkling blue-arched dome,
Where the seed of every joy is sown,
For Hope is engraven there.
Watcher, on Calvary’s hallowed mount
Blood coursed its way from a holy fount,
And a Saviour died for a human want,
That erected a barrier in Heaven’s front,
And Hope was our martyr’s name.
Ay, watcher, God is a spirit-fay,
Hope is His satellite star to-day;
His soul is my soul, His wish my way,
His name is my name, and the angels say
That God is thy guiding star.
08, THE
Adventures of Sergeant Hogan.
BRIGADE,” &C., &C.
Hogan besets the Confederate Capital—The
Scared Negro—An unsuspicious rebel friend
—Reckless riot, gambling and dissipation in
My. third expedition was the most hazardous
one. General Hooker was desirous of learning
the .real state of things in Richmond, the
strength of the enemy’s works, and forces
around it, and their supplies. Though fully
aware of the desperate nature of the enterprise,
I undertook it. Having received full instruc
tions as to the nature of the information most
desirable, I started for Richmond.
I crossed the river in the dead of night, hav
ing taken off my clothes and tied them up in a
Bundle on my shoulders, I waded and swam
across. Having reached the other side, I ad
vanced a bit into the forest, and then quietly
sat down on a log to dress myself. While do
ing so I heard a noise in the chaparral near
me. I listened with bated breath, and held my
revolver ready for action. The noise approach
ed, and seemed as if an animal or some heavy
body was creeping through the underbrush. I
strained my eyes, and soon noticed a dark ob
ject crawling through the trees not twenty
yards from me. To fire would be to alarm the
rebel outposts and sentries, so I crawled after
the object, and soon came up with it. It was
a negro, evidently trying to steal into our lines.
I camo just up to him before ho perceived me.
The poor wretch was almost scared out of his
life, and was too stupefied to run.
“Lor’ bress you, massa, dis chile is scart to
death! Don’t shoot, massa,” and he looked
the very picture of terror.
“No, uncle, I won’t shoot; but tell me, were
you going over to the Yanks ?”
“Lor’no, massa; dis nigger lost his way,
and I’m gwine hum.”
“ Well, uncle, you can’t play possum on me.
Take me out of this cursed* forest to some
friendly negro settlement, where I can dry and
warm myself, and then I’ll let you go where you
My friendly tone and manner seemed to re
assure the negro, and ho at once offered to
guide me to some negro cabins about four
miles away. He took me through several ra
vines, where we had to grope our way, and
we then crossed a strip ol marsh where we
every now and then sank to our knees. He did
this in order to avoid the rebel pickets and
camps, for I gave hinj to understand that it was
as necessary for me to keep clear of them as
himself. I told him there was no use denying
that ho was not trying to got over to the Yanks,
and that I was an escaped Yank myself, dressed
in rebel uniform the better to avoid detection.
He then confessed to me that he was trying
to join the Lincumbites, and we became the
best possible friends. He gave me much valu
ablu information about the country and the en
After a toilsome journey we arrived at a
couple of shanties on the edge of the wood.
It was a lonely, retired spot, and I felt that I
would be perfectly safe there. The door was
opened by a negro wench, who screamed on
ficci me, but uncle soon reassured her ; she
made down a fire, at which I dried and warmed
myself. The negro woman fried some bacon,
and prepared some coffee which I had ; so we
made a hearty meal upon it and corn cakes
baked in the ashes. After resting myself, the
negro accompanied me a few miles further on,
until I reached the plank road leading to Han
over Court House. A little after daybreak I
was passing a small plantation house t an old
man was leaning upon the railings in front; I
limped up to him and asked for some refresh
men is ; he asked mo when I left the army, and
where I was bound to. I told him a very plaus
ible story of how I got wounded on a scouting
expedition lately, and being somewhat recov
ered, I got a furlough to see my friends in
Richmond. I showed him my furlough, which,
I must state, was admirably forged, after the
style of one found on a dead rebel. He kindly
received me into his house, and ordered me an
excellent breakfast. He talked freely about
the war, and informed me that one of his sons
was killed at Antietam, and that the other was
now serving under General Hill. I told him a
good deal about the army, all of which I had
learned while on the blockade business. The
old man talked sanguinely of the results of the
war, though acknowledging that the army was
much reduced by want and desertion. He was
a good specimen of that enthusiastic class of
Southerners who went in for fighting to the
last man. Though wealthy before the war, he
was then reduced to two old cows and a short
allowance of flour and pork; still he did not
complain, but regretted that he was not young
enough to handle a musket to fight against
“the d—d Yanks.” Ho had two daughters,
who were rather good-looking, but poorly clad
in home-spun. They had liberally imbibed
their father’s hatred for the “Yankee invaders,”
as they called the Federal soldiers.
After breakfast, the old man kindly offered
to drive me to Orange Court House, where I
could take the train for Richmond. 1 accepted
bis offer, knowing full well that no one would
question me while in such company. He was
garrulous, like most old men, and I was soon
master of all the information he could give me.
At Orange Court House he introduced me to’
the provost marshal, who at once endorsed my
furlough without reading it, and gave me a
pass to travel by train to Richmond. I slept
in the cars all night with a, crowd of soldiers
and camp followers, who were returning from
the army, and talked freely about it. 1 was not
minded in the general throng, and my cadaver
ous face, long hair and gray uniform gave me
the appearance of a wornout Confederate sol
dier ; beside, I leant upon a staff, and limped
as if wounded.
Wo did not reach Richmond until the follow
ing evening, and I at once took lodging in a
house in the suburbs, offering to pay liberally,
for 1 was well supplied with Confederate bills.
At Richmond numbers of men and officers on
eick leave strutted about the streets, and filled
the hotels, bar-rooms and gambling saloons.
The crowd of these stay-at-home warriors was
so great that there was little danger of detec
tion among them. I soon formed several ac
quaintances, and as I drank, gambled, and
epent my money freely, I was counted a first
rate fellow. I * sometimes played billiards at
the Spottswood, and lost my money with a
reckless grace and ease.
As military matters seemed to be the topic
of every one’s conversation, I was soon thor
oughly posted. The notorious Gen. Winder,
who subsequently gained such notoriety at An
dersonville, was provost marshal, and I became
acquainted with one of his chief clerks, of whom
I made a firm friend by lending him a thousand
dollars and treating him liberally to bad whis
ky. As wo had captured on a former raid some
forty thousand dollars in Confederate money, I
could well afford to be generous of the worth
less stuff.
Richmond was at the time crowded with of
ficers in span new uniforms. There was a lair
show of these in Northern cities during the
war, but even Washington was nothing like
Richmond in this respect. Richmond was also
full of gambling hells, drinking saloons and
houses of ill-repute, most of which were kept
by officers, who, on the strength of their
friends’ influence, or pretended sickness, served
their country in idleness and debauchery at
home. Beside these, there was a continual
swarm of place-hunters and government clerks
hanging around the hotels and bars. Every
thing there was rotten. There was little en
thusiasm or desire for fighting; these were left
to the poor fellows in the field. Provisions
were scarce and enormously high, and even my
friend, the provost marshal’s clerk, told me
“He was d—d if he knew how they could feed
the army much longer for they were already
able to send little more than half supplies.”
I invited himself and a few comrades that
night to the “Spotswood,” and treated them
most liberally. After a time the bad whisky
and worse wine began to tell on them, and the
war questions were liberally discussed by them.
It was rich to hear these fellows, whose ideas
of military affairs were acquired in Richmond,
discuss the conduct of President Davis, of his
Cabinet, and the military skill of Generals
Lee, Johnston, Beuregard, Jackson and oth
ers. It was enough to make one laugh, and I
adroitly turned the subject upon the defenses
of Richmond in case Hooker should make an
other attempt like McClellan.
So warmly was the matter discussed that I
Was soon acquainted with the strength and
position of every fort and fortification around
Ilicbmond, As there was some judications of
a movement in front, troops were sent daily
to Lee, and an order was issued for ail officers
and soldiers in Richmond to join their com
This was what I desired, and having got a
pass from my friend-1 bide him an affectionate
leave, and took the train, in company with sev
eral hundred, for the front. I managed to
slip from the rebel ranks the night of our ar
rival, and being thoroughly acquainted with
the country, made my way into our lines with
out encountering any serious opposition. This
was, perhaps, the most dangerous and daring
of all my scouting expeditions, and the cool as
surance with which I went through it is sur
prising even to myself.
I at once reported at headquarters, and Gen
erals Hooker and Butterfield expressed them
■ selves highly pleased with my services and
the very important information that I had
brought back.
I To be continued.]
Now from the tale one simple truth bo read—
A father’s fancy may outwit his head.
—Linda. or Beauty and Genius.
The young man’s wrath is like straw on fire.
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing ?
And like red-hot steel is the old man’s ire.
And the throstle cock’s head Is under his wing.
—Old Ballad.
It was a grand looking old mansion, with ga
ble roof and dormer winnow, sitting but a short
distance back from the avenue. I gay it was a
grand looking old mansion. So it was; for it
was erected by one of the early settlers of the
city of Newark. The structure was but one
story and a half in bight, its width'very nearly
equaling its length. The thick growing shrub
bery and beautiful flowers rising and meeting
the pendulous branches of the elm and willow,
nearly concealed the residence from the eyes
of those passing by. The roof was thickly
coated over with plots of green moss, which
seemed to thrive in the perpetual shade afford
ed by the umbrage.
The windows ot this mansion were of medium
size, and huge shutters were hung to prevent
the rays of the sunlight from streaming into
the apartments, and to protect the wary occu
pants from the pilfering hands of tho night
prowlers. In fact, this old mansion, with all
its oddities, was a grand looking structure, es
pecially in tho eyes of an imaginary being like
There the old manor stood, a thing of ages
gone, attracting tho eyes of the curious, who
whenever they passed it could not refrain from
imparting some encomiastic remarks on the
premises. In the rear of the mansion, and
running along the avenue for some distance,
was a space of unoccupied ground in vernal
beauty, surrounded by a hawthorn hedge. A
purling stream threaded its way round the
north ond of the mansion, then met with a
bend, and went meandering on through tho
entire length of the aforenamed space of unoc
cuped ground, at whose southern boundary
the water darted underneath a picturesque
looking stone arch bridge, and soon lost itself
in a confluent stream that rolls majestically on
to the ocean.
The land from side to side of this little stream
gently slopes to its surface, and forms a fairy
ke valley, lit methinks for Queen Mab and her
retinue. This miniature park, for so it may
be termed, clad in its coat of green, was stud
ded here and there with venerable elms and
yews, garlanded with old ivy green, beneath
whose poetie shade a fanciful son of Parnassus
would love to while .away his hours m reverie.
One would be struck with tho similarity this
scenic region bears to those spots of a similar
character in England. It wore a decided for
eign aspect.
This old mansion was owned and occupied
by an eccentric gentleman whoso cognomen
was liadchff Granville. He was somewhat ad
vanced in years, and seemed to take delight in
reclusmg himself from the world as much as
possible. All his transactions with the busi
ness world that did not necessarily require his
personal supervision were done through tho
agoucy of a somewhat superannuated son of
Badoliff Granville had passed through a life
that would come under the head of romance.
Ho had amassed a snug fortune, adequate to
conduct himself and family through a lite of
comparative ease. He was of English extrac
tion ; his sire was an English nobleman, and
owned a large estate in the north of Britain,
beside being lord of Granville Manor, situated
in the northern portion of the British king
dom. This old manor had been in possession
of Radcliff’s ancestry for many generations be
fore him, and tho escutcheons that hung upon
the wainscoted walls told of his warlike pro
genitors, who had with Cceur do Lion crossed
the wide seas in the old days of the Crusades,
for tho purpose of.wresting the Holy City from
the impious sway of the Saracen.
Yes; Radcliff' Granville’s forefathers were
great as far as a name in the knightly feudal
lore was concerned, but he was naturally of a '
retired and humble disposition—a trait that
was unpeculiar to tho descendants of titled no
bility. Radcliff, though of a retired disposi- ,
tion, would, whenever conversing with a per- ■
son who was so fortunate as to obtain a confer- '
ence with him, revert with a good deal of fer
vor to his knightly sires, whose proud stand
ards had, of yore, spread terror in the hearts j
of the Orient warriors on the historic plains of ,
“ Though their blood—the blood of these old j
warrior knights of England,” Badoliff was heard (
to exclaim once on a time, “ courses through <
my veins, I am none the better for it. <
From the most authentic accounts, tho story j
Of our hero’s life ran thus : (
Radcliff Granville, when nearly twenty years ,
of age, bocamo enamored of the fair daughter (
of a gardener who was in the old lord’s hire. ‘ (
That Granville loved this fair maiden cannot (
be denied. Sho was a beautiful girl, and wor
thy tho love and hand of Radcliff Granville, (
though ho being a scion of the nobility, and j
she but a poor gardner’s daughter. .
Her sire, though boing but one of the com- ,
mon people, had, unlike many of his position ,
in the world, evinced a fostering disposition (
for his fair daughter, and had, as tar as the re- ,
mittance for his labor would possibly permit, ,
given her those requirements that assimilate
with the beauty given by God, and lend an j
augmented attraction. ,
The love our Radcliff bestowed on tho fair ,
Arabella (such was the young maiden’s name) ]
was returned, but everything before them ,
seemed to speak of disappointment and trou- |
bio. Granville being well acquainted with tho ;
haughty disposition of his sire, was well aware
that he would most defiantly disapprove of his j
son’s suit. Andrew Farnum, the honest old f
gardener, seemed to be in a state of perplexity .
when he ascertained his fair daughter had so j
attracted the attention of the young lord, and j
feared for his daughter’s as well as his own |
safety, lest the transpiration might incur the j
heated anger of the vain old lord. Badcliff, <
despite all his doubts and fears concerning his t
sire’s wrath, paid his addresses to Arabella, and <
informed her that come what would, her name f
was dearer to him than aught on earth; be- j
side, he would, rather than be obliged to sepa- (
rate from her, willingly receive all his sire’s (
wrath, and submit being discarded and cut off ,
from all that would naturally fall to him, and
further informed her that if she would accept j
of his hand in marriage, whatever obstacles j
arose before them, they would be as nothing. ,
It is needless to say that the modest maiden ,
accepted his hand, and with a warm pressing j
of their lips their vows were sealed.
It was but a short time following this event, ,
when Badcliff made up his mind to inform his f
sire of his choice, and then if it was met with <
a disapproval, he had decided to turn his stops |
from the ancestral halls of his fathers, de- .
pend upon his own resources, and with his own J
management conduct his course through life. ,
It was a morning in Spring; the bright flash j
of vernalness was upon every tree, and upon
every branch of tho umbrageous hawthorn <
hedge; tho rooks were croaking from the old '
English poplars, and the clear-voiced mavis ,
and sparrow were sending forth their glad j
madrigals on the matin air, and all nature
seemed to be rejuvenating in the sweet velvet
breeze playing over this old baronial spot.
That morning Radcliff was perambulating
tho front court of the manor sea. It was a
meditative stroll, and as ho passed down the
broad borchetto, he, in deep reflective mood,
gave utterance to the foliowin g soliloquy:
“Here among these old quiet scenes up from
infancy up to my present eventful time, I have
wandered and spent my careless days ; here
among you I have sung the glad songs of my j
boyhood; here I have often strolled with a '
sainted mother, who now lies in yonder abbey; ‘
here have my ancestors in knightly days of 1
yore, bade their lingering adieu to their fair J
brides, and passed under these venerable elms, !
and joined the warlike trains who were on ’
their adventurous crusade to the Holy Shrine ’
of our Saviour. Yes, here they wore born, and
some of tho number are sleeping with their ]
followers in the soft land of the East, and the 1
redolent zephyrs e’en now, methinks, are
chanting requiems over their foreign barrow ; <
and these majestic elms swayed by the morn- 1
ing broezes, seem to boar the whisperings of ]
those of my ancestors, whose sepultured forms !
are encased ’neath the rude mail in the niches
of yonder old walls. Hundreds of years have ’
witnessed these haunts in the possession of {
the Granvilles, butjfates have, methinks, or- '
dained that ero many years shall have
passed away, others than those bearing the
name of iGranville will tread and domineer
over these hallowed haunts. Shall I leave '
them all for my Arabella ? I should not ponder
to determine I should say aye ; for her dear
name and pure love is far superior to the high i
sounding titles that would eventually be mine,
should I bury forever the deep love that I bear
for the heavenly maiden.”
_ “Yes, old haunts, I leave ye. Farewell, thou
linden shade; farewell old ivied trees and shady
bowers; farewell, thou quiet old abbey, that
holds my mother’s sainted dust, farewell. I
leave ye all for her, whose spirit pure shall bo
a sweet and guiding spell to me.”
And would you wed this maiden lowly born,
You of a lineage high, and bring down shame
f Upon thy sires 1 ’Tis but a youthful freak.
I Zounds, you astonish me.— Armemus.
Badcliff, after the brief soliloquy mentioned
in tho previous chapter, reluctantly withdrew
1 from the court, and sauntered up the broad
vista, and entered the hall of the manor. He
proceeded directly to the library wherein his
1 lather was perusing some ancient tome :
“ You seem to look rather wan this morn ;
what’s the aliment with theo, Radcliff?” was
the salutation of the old lord as his son eu
} tered tho apartment.
■ “ Nothing, uncommon,” was tho rejoinder.
“I have been enjoying the morning air, and
soliloquizing among the shades where my an
cestors trod so often of yore.”
“ Thee seems to be in a deep reflective mood
of late,” continued the old lord : “ and do
■ light to wander down by yon ivv flowers, both
when the hour of the morn and vesper have
spangled the blade of grass with the dew.
This seems to bo uncommon with thee; you
have not joined in the sports of late. What’s
come over thee, Radcliff? Bost thou desire to
rove, or have you been pondering over the
shades of thine ancestors ? Dispell this curi
ous spirit from thee ; musing among the spots
made famous of yore, should not depress thy
spirit. Think of the glorious deeds they
worked whilom, and strive to emulate them,
instead of evincing this meditative demean
or ?”
“You evince, Radcliff, of late, a spirit much
like that of thy great grandsires of the Gran
ville house, who used to be strongly addicted
to poring over those old tomes on yonder
middle shelf Yes, he was an eccentric be
ing, and perused those old volumes for hours
to time; and then to relax his mind, he would
wander out in the court, and muse in the
twilight; and I have often heard my sire (ho
now, good soul, is sleeping in death in yonder
abbey, where I, ere long, shall lay my bones,)
inquire of him why ho so delighted, to wander
by the old Abbey at the bewitching hour of twi
light when the black bats sailed along ’neath
the bending trees.
_ “My sire could never obtain any direct re
jbinuor from him, but from his curious demean
or and his conversation at diverse times, I as
certained that in the old Abbey beside the an
cient yew that grows by the,western tower, was
sleeping the form of her who while on earth
was a fair and humble maiden, and had won
the heart of thy grandsire in bis early years.
Of course he smothered his love, for she was
nothing save a daughter of a poor parishioner,
and would not dare aspire for thine ancestor’s
hand, who it seems was so entangled in the
meshes of this lowly maiden that his sire
persuaded him to roam the world, and he spent
several years in foreign travel, visiting sunny
France, (which by the way 1 would have thee
view, when it best suits your fancy, for ’twas
in fair Arragon that thy mother breathed her
youthful life) traversing the land of flowers.
Lovely Italy, the land of dead empires, poots,
heroes, and great men. Yes, he lingered
several years in these different countries, and
returned, sorry to say, with the same ieeling
that he possessed on the day of his departure.
That witch of a maiden still seemed as a load
stone to his soul; but it was a happy thing for
the Granvilles Fates had deemed lit to take
her away from earth. As the story goes, she
died of a broken heart during thy grandsire’s
absence. Foolish girl that, who conceived the
idea of becoming the lady of the house of Gran
ville ; but there are a great many foolish things
in this world, and the one mentioned may be
Bummed up among tho many.
“Yes, it seems strange my ancestor had nearly
lost his wits for this maiden, and when he
found she had passed away during his absence,
his grief for a while knew no bounds, and he
suffered mental aberration; but eventually
through the influence of his kin, he regained
his sane mind, but ever alter he was but a
melancholy soul, and was subject to fits of
monomania. Some years after this event he
married tne Lady Jane Falcioner, of the manor
of Falcioner. Ibis lady was no other than my
sire’s sainted mother, whose form has ere this
crumbled to dust in the oid vault of the Abbey.
Undoubtedly your ancestor lived happily with
the Lady Jane; but from the day of his mar
riage to' the day of his confinement to the sick
chamber previous to his death, he paid noc
turnal visits to the leafy barrow of the maiden,
who had so turned his miud in his early day. I
never mentioned this bit of thy grandsire’s
biography to you before, but thy singular de
meanor of late has so attracted my attention,
that the oid story of my ancestor was brought
vividly to my mind.”
It is neeciless to state that Radcliff stood in
half wonderment when he had heard his sire
through with the story that placed his ances
tor in a position so similar to that of bis own,
and then a kind of evasive manner, broke the
silence by inquiring of his sire if he did not
conceive his ancestor would, have been far
happier had he wed the maid of his first love,
and it would sureiy seepi from his nightly
wanderings, his only love.
“ Happier man I Art thou mad ? Would he
ruin the dignity of the house of Granville by
gratifying his youthful fancy m marrying this
poor plebianess ? No 1 our sires were noble, and
the escutcheons that clink on these old walls,
told that the blood ot tbo Norman royalty
coursedjin their veins.”
“ Then you conceive that it would have been
a'rum to the Granville name, I presume, if he
had wed this maiden who was dear to him in
his youth,” inquired tho interlocutor.
“ Most assuredly,” said tho old lord; “and
should I have a cause to doubt the sincerity of
your belief in the same ? I hope not; for
through you I wish to perpetuate the glory of
the Granville name.”
At this point ot the conversation Badcliff was
in a quandary, feeling somewhat reticent in
regard to divulging the information that was
the cause of his visit to his sire’s apartment
that morning, as ho had fully ascertained the
exact state of his sire’s mind in regard to those
of the nobility alienating with those who were
of lowly birth. But after a brief hesitancy,
Radcliff, in a few words, informed the old lord
of his romantic love, and his determination to
unite his life with that of the maiden whom he
,so truly loved, somewhat emphasizing the finale
of his impartmgs, which was “if she would ac
cept his handf ’
This was unwittingly spoken; but so it was;
and the effect it had upon the old lord know no
bounds. He sat in speechless wonderment for
a moment, and then, like one bursting from a
deep t reverie, cast tho volume he had been
reading upon the beaufort, and then, like an
enraged lunatic, rose from his seat with an im
perious air, and poured forth the most random
and biting speech imaginable.
Badcliff endeavored to reason with him, but
to no effect—it was all in vain. Tho old lord
was impenetrable, and paid no attention what
ever to liadcliff’s impartings, but ran on with
his volubility, denouncing first the low-born
maiden, the insignificant gardener, and tho
total disregard Radcliff possessed for the dig
nity of the house of Granville.
“ What has led thee into this consummate
folly?” thundered the infuriated lord, in a
stentorian voice. “ Thou art as deluded as the
son of Ulysses, who lost his manhood through
tho intrigues of a fair, worthless nymph of the
island goddess, and would never have returned
to his father’s kingdom if it had not been
through the persuadings of Parthenos, in the
disguise of Mentor, who pushed the deluded
scion into tho sea, and called for the assistance
of a passing Tyrian vessel. Yes, he afterward
saw his folly, and found wherein he had failed
in not taking the advice of his protector,
through whoso agency ho was enabled to return
to his own country, and afterward led a life of
peace and happiness among his countrymen.
You are like this Telemachus, and should tako
my advice at once, and banish the face of this
lowly maiden from your mind. If not, I will
cut thee short, and would have thee leave at
onoe these halls, which you would so regard
lessly bring into disrepute. Why, mothinks
thine ancestors would look down upon thee
with frowns and contempt from their places of
suspension in their massive frames and van
dyke robes. But enough. If you will havo
this plebianess, you must leave this manor;
and never will I, as long as high Heaven per
mits mo to live, retract my vow. Go, if you
will. I’ll not cut thee entirely short; thy por
tanco shall bo four thousand pounds.”
A brief colloquy ensued. The lord’s anger
gradually subsided, and settled into a stern
diffidence. Radcliff then bade his sire fare
well, and with a nonchalant air retired from
the apartment.
And in the visions of romantic youth.
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!
But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ?
The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.
But a few hours following the transpiration
of the scenes just mentioned, Radcliff met Ara
bella at the usual trysting-place, by tho haw
thorn bower. She seemed sad indeed; for
though of inferior birth, she was of such a mild
disposition that it pained hor exceedingly to
think that she had brought down the unfeel
ing wrath of the old lord on his son. Radcliff
informed her of tho whole conversation that
had passed between his sire and himself, and
then added, as he clasped tho timid maiden to
his bosom:
“ I left them all for thee, my fair Arabella—
you whom I esteem far above these old crum
bling halls, these spreading lawns and venera
ble parks. What estimation would I place on
them if denied tho companionship of my Ara
bella ? With thee I should be forced to leave
the halls of my ancestors, and seek some other
spot where I might dwell in happiness with
“ I have accepted the latter, and shall, with
thee, ero yon golden sun sits above the Cheviot
Hills, bid adieu to those scenes wherein our
childish feet have wandered, and seek the land
whilom® swayed by England’s king—blessed
America, that gives a home for wearied souls be
yond the vast expanse of the Atlantic. My sire
nas so seen fit to donate for my sustenance
four thousand pounds. I shall not, likely,
havo another conferenco with him ; he will
provide ms with the sum designated through
the agency of the old household servant, John,
as he informed me but a short time ago.
“ We will now to thy father’s cot, and with all
haste possible arrange matters for the journey
before us ; for the parish father will soon be
down from tho Abbey, and perform tho sacred
rites of uniting our hands m marriage.”
“ Do you not feel a sadness steal over you,
Radcliff?” said the lovely maiden, as she looked
up into his earnest, noblo face.
“Not in the least as regards my separation
from the old, crumbling walls of my ances
tors.” he replied.
“Methinks,” continued tho maiden, “vou
have, but little of tho spirit of thy sire. But
does not one change in their disposition, think
you, Badcliff, ns they grow older- ? Perchance
thy sire, in his younger years, possessed a
wind similar to that of your own. He tells
thee that thy lovo for my poor self is but a
youthful fancy, and that when a few years will
have given you a chance for reflection, your
mind will meet with a transition, and that you
then will see the propriety of his advice.”
' “Look not so sad, my sweet Arabella ; the
change can never occur,” rejoined the youth.
“ I admit there is a lovo one may bear for ano
ther that may be but a fancy—a love that may
be easily extinguished ; but when two persons
meet, and then- hearts are united as they
should be, that lovo will never die, but will
strengthen as the years roll on; and when
they have advanced to the age allotted to mor
tals, their separation will be fully as painful, if
not more so, than if it occurred in their early
years. Yes, my little girl, there are many im
proper marriages; but that of ours will not be.
No, my Arabella, the love I bear for thee is un
changeable and enduring, and time,
Though it can never strengthen, it -will make
My love for thee a deep intensity,
Unchangeable as stone, or sea’s cerulean dye.
But we must away ; the dock in the old Abbey
tower is striking the hour of midday, and the
parish father, at thy father’s cot, is likely in
wait for our appearance.”
“ There is a sad foreboding spirit seems to
haunt me, Badcliff Lt seems that our union is
to be followed by a long train of inauspicious
events. I even now seem to see tho wrath of
thy sire, working in divers ways for the pur
pose of effecting a permanent separation of our
“Do not, my dear; you are delirious, and
this feeling will soon pass away,” rejoined Bad
cliff, as he pressed her sweet lips to his own.
Whereupon they, arm-in-arm, crossed tho
estrade, and. following a circuitous pathway,
entered the humble dwelling of tho honest old
gardener, Andrew Farnum.
While Radcliff and Arabella were by the old
bower, previously described, the parish father
was busily conversing with Andrew, who was
arrayed in his neat though rustic suit of woven
“This seems to be a very singular transac
tion,” began the father, as ho and Andrew sat
tete-a-tete near a diminutive stand by the cur
tained window.
“ You are right,” reiterated Andrew ; “ but I
have naught to say about the affair. The
young lord loves her, and I am joyed to think
that there is one who, though his sires be no
blo, has got tho spirit to say openly that she,,
though lowly born, as they think, is good
enough for his hand. That’s the spirit, my
father, that, if it were more common in our
country, would link the bonds of friendship be
tween the nobility and the poorer classes, and
make a far happier community than those at
present exists.’’
“It so is, my good sir,” replied the father;
“but there are but few who would relinquish
their titles, and all that would naturally fall as
heritages to them, for the hand of a maiden
born of obscure parentage. This, I under
stand, is the case with Master Badcliff, as I
have heard through the gossip of the villikin.
He has been discarded, and cut short with a
partance of four thousand pounds. This, wo
poor people would conceive a large amount,
and so it is; but for ono who has been accus
tomed to all the frivolity of life, this, per
chance, would be looked upon as a small
amount—but as this Badcliff is of a retired dis
position (as 1 understand he is), he will, most
likely, be able to conduct himself and his fair
lady through life- in comparative ease, with a
little judicious management. • Do they think of
leaving the parish ?” added the divine, as a
kind otfinale to his importings.
“You question me rather close, father. Thy
intentions, no doubt, are of ajfriendly character ;
but the old proverb is, ‘Don’t let your left hand
know what your right hand doeth. You must
not think me rune for addressing you in the
manner I havo, for if rumor tells me aright,
the old lord has devised a plan for the pur
pose of intercepting and separating Badcliff
and Arabella. But it may be an idle whisper,
as tho lord, it seems, cut Badcliff entirely off
from his patrimony, disowned him, &c. Still
the rumor may be all true, for tho saying is,
‘There is always a fire where there is smoke.’
Yes, father, it may all be true, and that is the
reason of my not wanting to divulge their
course of action, for if it were made known, the
lord, with his confederates, might accomplish
his design.”
“You are perfectly justifiable in your cau
tiousness, my good friend ; but methinks you
should place more confidence in him who is
well pleased to see that there is one youth in
our parish who is willing to fling aside all tho
trinkets of nobility for a maiden whose boons
are a true and loving heart and a pure spirit.”
“Think not for a moment,” rejoined An
drew, “ of my doubting your friendship, but as
‘a thing is never told, it’s never known.”
Here they were interrupted in their colloquy
by the abrupt entrance of Badcliff and his
bride, who, after receiving the admonitory re- ■
marks of the divine, underwent the marriage
ritual, and were united in tho holy bonds of
wedlock. Badcliff kissed his brido, and the
two received the parting benediction of the fa
ther, who, after bestowing his advice and
counsel, bade the household a fond adieu, with
his blessings for their future happiness, and
passed out into the little arbor, ana was soon
lost to the view as he wended his way down
the umbrageous pathway that followed on to
the Abbey.
Badcliff and Arabella proceeded immediately
to arrange for the journey before them, assist
ed by a domestic and the old gardener, whoso
countenance bore striking indications of the
pain that was harrowing his soul.
“ Well, my kind father,” said Radcliff, “thy
heart will be sad when thy fair, kind daughter
loaves thee. Wo are going to seek the land
beyond the rolling waves—tho land of Wash
ington and home of the sons of freedom. Yes,
thy humble cottage will be clad in darkness
when Arabella leaves. She has been as a sun
beam to lighten thy way ever since her mother
died, who, I understand, passed away from
earth when Arabella was but a small child. Thy
lot has been a hard one in this world, and
God’s blessings will most assuredly rest upon
you for the fostering pains and the care you
have bestowed on hor, whoso sweet face is
dearer to me than all the crumbling walls of
my ancestors. Yes, father, we are about to
seek an asylum in a foreign country, whero we
may dwell in peaco and not be perpetually
haunted with tho vain pride that is so charac
teristic of my sire, who saw fit to bestow for
my competency four thousand pounds, and,
through the impulse of his better nature, I re
ceived, through the agency of John, the do
mestic of the hall, with whom I had a confer
ence but a short time ago, an additional thou
sand pounds. With this I shall bo fully able
to battle with the ways of life, and live in peaco
and happiness on the shores of America. Thou
art poor, my kind father, and I would havo thee
accept of this additional thousand; and if,
when wo havo arrived—if the fates permit—on
the shores of the western world, thy mind has
a longing to see the land of freedom, I will ac
quaint you of our place of sojournment, and a
few nights and days, with a fair breeze, will
bear thee to the western shore.”
Tears rose in the eyes of tho honest old gar
dener, as he listened to the hurried and kind
words of him who seemed but a youth ; he was
choked, he could scarce give utterance to a
thought, so confounded was he by the friendly
tones of Radcliff. There was a brief pause,
and then Andrew, with a slight hesitancy, said:
“ Kind youth and my good child, little did I
ever think of witnessing this sad though hap
py scene. Happy scene it is for me to see you,
my child, united to ono whoso care will bo far
superior to that which I have been able to be
stow on you. A likely young lord as Radcliff
could not be found in all England, and I can
hardly realize that ho sacrificed all for thee,
my child; but so he has, and may you be ever
blessed, and may you ever live in happiness.
The world is before thee. Thou art going to
seek a homo of tranquillity beyond the waste
of waters. These old elms, and lindens, and
hawthorn hedges, that I have kept in trim tor
many years, will grow green and fade, as
change the seasons of the year. While thou
art in the Summer of thy life, and are enjoying
thy years of quietude and peace, think some
time of thy poor old father, whose heritage has
been nothing save an honest heart and a pious
“Yes, methinks ere many years shall pass
away I will be lying low beneath yon waving
yews, where tho rooks are now chattering forth
their noisesome revelry. Think of me some
times, then, and when the season comes that
brings the forth the hawthorn blossoms, let
thy thoughts dwell for a moment upon thy
youthful haunts in merry old England, and the
parting benediction and memories of thy
lowly but honest sire, Andrew Farnum.”
Here Radcliff made some rejoinder by the
way of condolence, and pressed Andrew to ac
cept of the proffered sum, so that his days
might be spent in an easier manner than they
had been previous to this period, and added
that he, on his arrival in America, would in
form him of the chosen spot which they in
tended to make as a home, and then, if favor
able to himself, ho and Arabella would be hap
py to have him come and spend the days of his
hermitage with them.
Andrew, in reply to these remarks, said that
it would please him to visit that land which
they had chosen for their home, and continued,
“It will be hard for me to leave the old spots
with which I have been so familiar with since
tho days of my boyhood when I gamboled on
the green. Though they havo always wit
nessed me a hard, delving mortal sinco my ar
rival at the age of fifteen Summers, they afford
me a great deal of pleasure ; for it was here,
my Arabella, thy poor mother, died. You can
not remember her, methinks. There, in tho
little room at the left of the fire-place, she
breathed her last, and just before her spirit
passed from the realms iff earth, she made me
promise that I would always caro for theo with
the same spirit that she evinced toward thee.
This I have endeavored to do, and you, my
dear child, have been as thy Badcliff said—a
sunbeam to lighthen this lowly cot. And now
that thou art going, all will bo gone; but, as
thou art happy with thy good, benevolent Bad
cliff, lam content; and if my life is spared,
and the fates should permit, I should be in my
joy to leave these old spots and to dwell with
those who have been so kind and and benevo
lent to me. The sum, Radcliff, that you wished
me to accept, reveals a kindness that I cannot
over-estimate. If it will please your mind, I
will accept half of thy proffered sum, and put
it to a use that will be honest and upright.”
Radcliff’s perauadings to have Andrew accept
the entire one thousand pounds were unavail
ing, but took the sum which he designated,
five hundred pounds, and then, like one who
is hushed to silence by the extreme kindness
of another, drew forth his handkerchief and
cleared away the tear-drops that glistened in
his dim, burning eyes.
“My father,” broke forth Arabella, at this
period, “you have fulfilled the desire of my
sainted mother by granting everything that
was requisite for my past life. I could not
have wished for more, and it has been my
heart’s pleasure in making everything as pleas
ing to you as possible. lam happy that 1 have
so far succeeded in accomplishing the same,
and it will be with pain that I leave the haunts
where I have passed my life. May the smiles
of kind Heaven rest upon you, for the fatherly
care you.have bestowed to me. And when we
have.arrived safely on the shores of America,
I would have thee come and dwell with me,
and spend thy days among those whose de
light it would be to gladden thine elderly years,
and watch over thee with the same fostering
care you have evinced toward thy child in
times agone.”
These soothing .remarks of Arabella were
followed by an interchange of conversation
between the three, and ana when the waning
sun gave evidence of the death of that beauti
ful halcyon Spring day farewell greetings were
passed between the heart-saddened old gar
dener and his sorrowing children, and when the
mail coach camo thundering over the old Ro
man road the final farewells were given, and
as the conveyance came to a halt and Rad
cliff and his fair bride stepped into the apart
ment of the vehicle, a parting blessing was
given them by Andrew, the door was elosed,
the drawn whip resounded the sharp thwack,
the animals gave a peremptory start, and
our singular fated party, were receding from
the scenes of their nativity, and when the
broad sun was bathing the Cheviot Hills in
floods of golden light, Radcliff and Arabella
were an hour’s ride on their journey and
poor Andrew had retired to the little bowery
spot by the old linden to enjoy or at least to
spend a space of time in melancholy reflec
“ He that loves truly once must love forever.
At least till death shall end his earthly race.
Disease may cramp the soul, the body sniver,
But ’mid the wreck there still remains a traoe
Upon the heart, and which the harried pace
Of time shall ne’er wear out, while the mind’s eye
Can all the actions of the past embrace.
Pure lov.e, once fixed within, can never die,
But, where it fixes, clings—i ts nurse the memory.”
JRev. Hobert Gaunter. B, D.
There is a blank of fifteen years, but space
has witnessed scenes that cause a veil of mel
ancholy to be thrown over our story. The
scene opens in the stately looking mansion
described in the early portion of our serial.
The occupants of the manor seat are Rad
cliff Granville and his two children. Philip
and Alice, aged respectively twelve and eight
years. These are new characters that figure
in the story, and there are still others, John
Bruce and Nancy Bolinonton—but these are
not members of the Granville family. They
were merely domestics, who had been in the
family ever since Radcliff made his residence
in the old manor seat which he purchased
soon after his arrival in America. But where
is the fair Arabella ? She is not on earth; she
passed away some years previous to the open
ing of this period of which we speak, and a
brief memory will impart the whole affair in a
clear manner to the reader.
Radcliff and Arabella, after a pleasant sail,
arrived safely on the shores of America, and
ero long located ■themselves in the old manor
seat, previously described, which he purchased
of the heir of one of the oldest inhabitants of
the city of Newark, under whoso auspices the
building was constructed. Property was sell
ing at a very low figure at this time, and Rad
cliff, who possessed a deal of perspicuity, pur
chased a quantity of real estate beside that
which properly was" an appurtenance to the
manor, though it was in the immediate vicini
ty, and in fact, the major portion of the estate
bordered on the manorial property.
Year after year flew by, and everything was
favorable to the discarded Radcliff and his
fair wife. They lived for each other’s happi
ness, and “ the golden hours on angels wings,”
flew over them. They often reverted to “ their'
old homo in England,” and Radcliff would of
ten wonder if his father still harbored the re
pugnant feeling toward him that he did when
ne left the old ancestral halls of his ancestors ;
but Radcliff never obtained tho desired in
formation, and knew not whether his sire still
swayed the old hall, or whether ho was smold
ering in the old Abbey, by the yew. And,strange
to say, Radcliff had heard nothing concerning
the kind old gardener, although he had en
deavored, in every available way, to obtain
knowledge respecting his situation, but to no
Some times Arabella as sho and Radcliff
sauntered out in the twilight, ’neath the whis
pering elms, would break forth as from a reve
ry, and inquire of Radcliff, if ho supposed her
poor kind lather was alive, or if he thought he
was dead and quietly sleeping beneath the
morning yews in the old moss-grown parish
kirk yard.
“I know not, my sweet Arabella,” Radcliff
would rejoin, “ but if he has passed away from
earth his good and upright life in the past will
insure him a place of rest and heavenly bliss
beside the throne of his Saviour.”
With rapidity ten years flew away, and wit
nessed Radcliff aild his consort messed with
two bright-eyed little children. It was in the
Autumn, of the year of our Lord 18 , that a
blight was thrown upon tho happy scone. As
the leaves began to grow sere on the waving
trees, and the shrubbery imbued the colors of
the melancholy artist—Autumn, so did the life
of Arabella slowly languish away. The rosy
hue that was wont to repose upon her cheeks
faded away like the rich colors of flowers when
blighted by the doleful breezes of Autumn, and
when tho month of lovely October had nearly
passed by, and given place for the lonely No
vember, the spirit of the fair and amiable Ara
bella passed into the “ unknown land,” to rest
from the cares of the world, and to wait at the
shining portals of Heaven for her loving and
noble Radcliff, who was hardly able to sustain
the shock of being deprived of her who had
been his only consolance and love; and was
only able to preserve his sane mind by the con
soling thought of meeting her again in Heaven,
where souls are permitted to wander together
forever and evermore.
Our story is told; and the transpiration in
the life of Radcliff from the hour of his bereave
ment up to the present time, have been of but
very little interest. He is but a melancholy
soul, and delights to recluse himself as much
as possible from the busy world. His favorite
resort is the large room at the north end of tho
manor-seat, facing the avenue. ’Twas in this
apartment that the spirit of his early love
passed through the “Valley of Death here
he delights to ruminate, and his mind feasts
upon the joys of his vanished years.
Alice and Philip have grown to maturity.
Philip is an officer in tho U. S. regular army ;
and the fair Alice, the prototype of her spirit
mother, moves around the old manor-seat a
ministering spirit to her kind sire.
Now, often in these Summer evenings, one in
passing the romantic-looking home of Radcliff
Granville, may perchance see him and his fair
daughter, m company with the old domestics
of the household, sitting on the back porch of
the manor, enjoying the evening breeze. Here,
often, Radcliff, by the intercedings of Alice,
will relate to her the curious transactions that
occurred in his younger years; and here,
among these quiet scenes, previously depicted,
reclused comparatively from tho world, Rad
cliff is gilding over the sea of life, and looks
with seeming felicity for that hour when he
shall be called from earth to mingle with the
fair being who was his joy while on earth, and
is his hope beyond the grave.
There is a good story in an Indian
journal from the pen of Mr. Adam White, late
of the Bombay Ordnance Department. Mr.
White was in pursuit of a tiger that had killed
a cow, and the story as told by the hunter is
“ I had not proceeded far up the valley, and
was standing on the brink of the nullah into
which he had been seen to retreat, peering
about me, when I heard the low, snarling
growl, peculiar to the tiger when meditating a
charge; and had barely time to look in the di
rection from whence the sound came, when a
magnificent tiger rushed at me from under a
thick bush, where he had been lying hidden,
about twenty paces distant from me. I had
not a second to lose, and therefore let drive my
right barrel at the head of the beast; the ball,
however, only grazed his skull, and passed
through the bottom of his left ear, inflicting a
deep flesh wound, but doing no further injury.
Unchecked by my salute, on he came, and with
my left barrel I gave it him right in the cen
tre of his chest at not more than a yard from
the muzzle of my rifle; although my second
bullet delivered at such close quarters did in
stantly fatal execution, still the impetus of his
rush was such that his body, carried forward
with the last spurt of his vital energies, hurled
against me with tremendous force, knocking
me clean off my pins, giving me an awkward
backfall from top to bottom of the nullah of
some fifteen feet. Of course we both toppled
over at the same instant, and on recovering
my wits, for I was momentarily stunned by the
fall, I found myself under my late antagonist,
he stark dead, with his head laid across my
left arm, and purpling my old phiz with his
life’s blood. With an effort I succeeded in get
ting myself clear of his carcase, but, on at
tempting to stand, discovered to my chagrin
that my left leg was broken. Just then my
two assistants, who had, on first hearing and
seeing the tiger, taken to flight, came up still
under the effects of their late panic, and im
agining the beast to be still alive fired simul
taneously at him, but with such bad aim that
Instead of hitting the tiger they very nearly
‘did’for me. After an hour’s delay a charpoy
was procured, and I was carried to my wig
wam, and next day I was brought into Jubbul
pore to the Royal Artillery Hospital, where I
am very kindly treated. Barring my disloca
ted leg and a few trivial bruises I’m not much
hurt. So you see my good shooting has once
again saved me from a mangling.”
Ahl don't be sorrowful, darling,
Ana don’t be sorrowful, pray;
Taking the year together, my uear,
There isn’t more night than day.
’Tis rainy weather, my darling,
lime’s waves they hoavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,
more cloud than sun.
We areldy folks now, my darling,
Our hMds are growing gray;
And the year together, my dear,
You will always find the May.
Wo have had our May, my darling,
And our roses long ago;
And the time of year is coming, my dear,
For the silent night and snow.
And God is God, my darling,
Of night as well as day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever he leads the way.
Ay, God of the night, my darling—
Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads out of life, good wife
Is the gate that leads to Him.
celebrated filth act of “La Traviata” was af
forded to tho Parisians, in the Bois de Bou
logne a few days ago, by one of the prime donne
of the demi-monde. Nini, or “Bee de Lievre,”
as her second nickname stood, was one of tho
most noted among those luxurious women of
gay life who roll round the allees and avenues
of the Bois de Boulogne in equipages and toil
ets of extravagant cost, the contributions of
their various and fashionable lovers. These
“Ladies of the Lake” outdo tho proudest fami
lies of France in their ostentatious exhibition
of all that wealth can furnish; they are allowed
to set the fashions, for virtuous ladies copy
them; they occupy the front places at fetes and
races; and tho “golden youth” of Paris pistol
or stab one another to death for their smiles,
in what are called “ meetings of honor"—by
the same irony which styles those flaunting
women “Ladies of the half world.” Made
moiselle Nini, or “ Hare-lip,” was a conspicu
ous member of this Parisian sisterhood. Death
is the awkward factor that spoils the soft equa
tion of a sinful life—the awful fact which will
not be' drowned in Clicquot or Lafitte, nor si
lenced with the laughing word “connu." Death
was the impresario that engaged Mlle. Nini,
otherwise “Bee do Lievre,” to play the last
scene of “La Traviata” in public. She fell ill,
and her physician, with many compliments and
apologies, intimated that she was going to die
of decline. “Die of declinel” with a dozen
thoroughbreds in her stable, and as many less
noble animals of the biped kind fighting for
the privilege of paying her bills. Mlle. Nini
could not believe it; at two-and-twenty—with
such a past and present as hers—the future
was at the moment impossible 1 Positively she
could not die 1 Sho would not 1 She declined
to entertain the idea. Beside, to be an Invalid
was to acknowledge her occupation gone—to
forfeit her thoroughbreds, her jewels and her
hotel; and this were death indeed. So, mak
ing her hectic flush serve for rouge, and muf
fling her death-cough in a laced mouchoir, she
drove out daily to “the Lake,” and held her
court among the other queens of misrule. Ono
day recently some of these men who had bought
the right.to make her die this daily death, in
order not to die, called to drive out in the Bois
with her. She got as far as tho Porte Maillot;
at the gato she muffled the death-cough too
closely, and the vessels of tho lungs suddenly
ruptured ; the blood burst over her lips—poor
little “ Bee de Lievre I”—and she fainted. They
turned tho “splendid steppers” to get her
home to die ; but Paris had the claim—and, it
may be added, the need—for the completed
spectacle. Her blood bub bled through the lace
fringe and over her splendid raiment; a last
cough choked her ; and they drove home a dead
woman through the frightened ranks of the
“Ladies of the Lake.” A Parisian critic says:
“Cette agonie en plein air manquait de gaiete”
—This death-struggle in the open road was not
veryamusing. No! and the Heaven that gov
erns life and death, that deals with men and
nations according to their deeds, did not de
cree that awful agony m order to amuse Paris.
Gilded vice and jeweled wantonness have the
stage on most days ; but that “one representa
tion only” Death “ commended.” It summoned
forth “La Traviata,” that Parisians might see
her as she actually does die, without music or
gas-lights ; and the gandins and cocottes have
had one good chance of bethinking themselves
that, in a deeper sense than the merely phys
ical one, “the end of these things is death.”
Perhaps the most remarkable duel
ever fought took place in 1808. It was pecu
liarly French in its tone, and could hardly have
occurred under any other than a French state
of society.
M. de Grandpre and M. Io Pique had a quar
rel, arising out of jealousy concerning a lady
engaged at the Imperial Opera, one Mlle. Tire
vit. They agreed to fight a duel to settle their
respective claims ; and in order that the heat
of angry passion should not interfere with the
polished elegance of the proceeding, they post
poned the duel for a montu—the lady agreeing
to bestow her smiles on the survivor of the
two, it tho other was killed ; or at all events,
this was inferred by the two men, if not actual
ly expressed. The duelists were to fight in the
air. Two balloons were constructed, precisely
On the day denoted, De Grandpre and his
second entered the car of one balloon, Le
Pique and his second that of tne other; it was
m the garden of the Tuileries, amid an im
mense concourse of spectators. The gentle
men were to fire, not at each other, but at each
other’s balloon, m order to bring them down
by the escape of gas; and as pistols might
hardly have served for thispurpose, each aero
naut took a blunderbuss in his car.
At a given signal the ropes that retained the
cars were cut, and the balloons ascended. The
wind was.moderato, and kept the balloons at
about their original distance of eighty yards
When about half a mile above the surface of
the eartn, a preconcerted signal for firing was
given. M. le Pique fired, but missed, M. de
Grandpre fired, and sent a ball through Le
Pique’s balloon. The balloon collapsed, the
car descended with fearful rapidity, and Le
Pique and his second were dashed to pieces.
De Grandpre continued his ascent trium
phantly, and terminated his aerial voyage suc
cessfully at a distance of seven leagues from
Archives which have recently been
discovered at Seuilly have brought to light
some curious details of a now obsolete cus
tom. It was called “ Tho Jumping of Seuilly,”
and was a right set forth by the abbey. A deep
ditch, like tho'brook of a metropolitan steenle
chase course, was cut in a conspicuous part of
the parish, and all the men who had been mar
ried since the preceding Trinity Sunday were
bound to leap over it, or pay a fine of" three
livres, one denier, and eighteen bushels of
oats. On these occasions, the seneschal of the
castle, accompanied by his officers, all in grand
costume, gravely presided at the fulfillment of
this singular custom. The ditch was exam
ined, to see that it was of the necessary width,
and that the water was clean, as required by
the charter ; after which the recorder of the
abbey called the newly-married men by name,
and these, on a signal being given, took tho
leap, sometimes landing safely on the other
side, and often alighting in the water midway,
to the great delight of the spectators. Those
who accomplished the task successfully were
presented with a bottle of wine, and had a
right to cut a willow on the territory of the ab
bey to make a cradle. The question was once
raised whether, having twins, you could claim
a second willow, and the claim was allowed.
This is not the least like what is understood in
England by “ wearing the willow,” is it ?
About the eighteenth century this usage was
somewhat modified, as the husbands who
doubted their ability to take tho jump were al
lowed to acquit themselves of the obligation by
walking three times round the ditch, and had
then a right to the same compensation as the
others. The names of the parties were in
scribed by the recorder on the rolls of the ab
bey, with the manner in which the ceremony
had been performed.
A Paris letter gives us tho follow
ing bit of spicy gossip:
I may mention, to instance, the extraordina
ry wealth and splendor of lorettes in this city,
that one of them—she, however, refuses to ac
knowledge she belongs to this class—Mme. de
Paiva, gave a few days since her last dinner
for the season, in her palace in the Avenue des
Champs Elysses. Including herself, there were
eight persons at table, The dining-room was
lighted with eight hundred rose wax candles.
Dinner was served by sixteen servants in liv
ery. No house in the Avenue des Champs
Elysees cost as much as hers. The steps of
the stairs are made of malachite, and the doors
and chimney-pieces of her drawing-room are
made of the same costly material. The mean
est window of the house has curtains which
cost one hundred dollars. All her fruit, vege
tables, milk, butter, come from her estate,
Chateau dePonchartrain, which she purchased,
paying $300,000 cash for it. There sho has or
angeries, pineries, grape-houses,which supply
her with fruit and forced vegetables. Her dai
ry, garden and stables are managed by English
servants; her linen by Dutch servants; she
has in her kitchen a German for confectionery,
an Italian for her ices. Every day sho is in
Paris, a van drawn by four horses brings from
the farm what she desires for the kitchen, and
flowers for the house. She refuses to allow
lorettes to visit her. Mlle. Rachel and Mme.
Roger de Beauvoir were her friends ; you know
their reputation. Of course, no respectable
woman sets a foot in her house, but there are
men for whom a good dinner has irresistible
charms, and who are inquisitive about life in
all its phases, who go to see her, and accept
her invitations to dinner. She gives a dinner
weekly from the Ist of November to the 15th
of May.
Truveler says : A very curious instance of an
exchange of wives by parties formerly residing
in Salisbury, in this county, has just been de
veloped here by the arrest of two of the of
fenders. Their names are George F. and
Sunday Edition. June 27 e
Annie R. Godsoe, and Charles H. And Sarah
Lizzie Lowell. Lowell was married in 1856, and
vroasoe was married in 1862. Both resided for
e .^ ie time in Salisbury, where, in .December*
1868, each becoming dissatisfied with their;
companions, and their connubial associations*
tne two husbands with their wives went to &
lawyer and entered into a written agreement
to separate, and not to hereafter interfere with
each other. They then went to Portsmouth*
New Hampshire, where Mr. Godsoe was mar-»
ned to Mrs. Lowell, and Mr.. Lowell to Mrs.
Godsoe, since which time they have been liv
ing together in the conjugal relations, im
mediately following what may be termed tha
process of “ simple‘divorce,” which took place
at Salisbury. Mr. Godsoe and his paramour*
Mrs. Lowell, having become residents here*
were complained of by parties knowing tha
circumstances, fur their illegal connection*
and were arraigned before Judge Carter, ta
an^ W £ r to char fe> e of bigamy. Lowell and
ana his companion, Mrs. Godsoe, residing in.
Amesbury, were also arraigned, and each
bound over in the sum ’of SSOO for their ap
pearance at the October term of court. Fail-«
ing to obtain sureties, the parties are in cus«*
tody. There was no evidence, we believe, that;,
the new and somwhat peculiar arrangementa
were otherwise than pleasant, but the moral
aspect of the case was offensive.
Thb Schenectady Star tells a rather
queer story of a supposed deaf and dumb fe
male, and how, through losing her heart, she
recovered her voice:
Two weeks ago a female who has been for th©
last few years engaged in selling her photo
graphs on the ears, and who has for that
length of time been considered deaf and dumb,
came to this city and stopped at the Drullari
Hpuse. She made known all her wants by
writing, and no doubts were entertained by
those connected with the hotel but what sha
was really minus the powers of speaking and.
On the Sunday following her arrival at that
hotel, one Frank Shafter, who has been acting:
porter to the Drullard House, accompanied hen
to the Vale Cemetery. It was very kind lit
Shaffer to take a poor deaf and dumb female
under his protecting wing and endeavor to
make her time pass agreeably. Subsequent
facts go to prove thatwhilethe couple
’neath the shades of that beautiful locality
they were not as silent as the silent tomb.
Thursday last she went down street in com
pany with a little girl to purchase some goods.
On her way she either intentionally or other
wise spoke to the little girl, who was much:
alarmed to hear her do so. Sho quieted the
little one’s fears, and assured her that she had
never been lacking the gift of speech.
But here comes the best of the story. The
woman and the porter left yesterday morning
on the ten o’clock tram west. They were mar
ried before they went, and intended to go to
Michigan, buy a farm, and settle down upon it.
Before they left she handed her newly-made
protector a large sum of money, and seemed to
have plenty beside. The woman’s name was
Emeline Sheppard—now, Emiline Shaffer. Hep
appearance was prepossessing, and her man
ners easy and graceful, and well calculated to
work upon strangers’ pocketbooks. Whoa
charged with being an impostor, she pleasant
ly said sho had never asked anybody to give,
her anything—that she had merely presented
herself and made signs, and if such actions had
put money in her pockets, why she wasn’t to
be blamed.
The disreputable meaning which
now attaches to the word “Bohemian,” fossil
izes, as is well-known, the story of the wander
ings of the Bohemian Tchsiganes, or “gip
sies,” over Western Europe. Of late years, but
few troops of this curious people have come
out of the East. A company of them, however,
fresh from Wallachia, has just made its appear
ance in the neighborhood of Lyous, in trance.
The mon are described as tall and fine-looking,
wearing their hair long, and dressed in a pic
turesque fashion, with high Suwarrow boots.
The women are said to be less attractive, and
tho children run about nearly naked. The so
cial customs of these nomads have about them
an atmosphere of ancient Greece and of fau
India. Both sexes marry at twelve and thir
teen years of age, and they dip their now-born;
babes, immediately on their advent, into the
nearest river. A baptism of this sort took
place among them a short time since. A chili
being born to a young lady of twelve, it was ’
forthwith plunged into the Rhone, as Achilles
was dipped into the Styx, and as Hindoo babes
are laved in the sacred Ganges. But the Rhone
is icy cold, as well as arrowy swift, and the lit
tle gipsy incontinently froze out of the world
he had just entered. The inhabitants of the
country side regarded this as a kind of infanti
cide, and drove their Wallachian visitors very
speedily away.
A story comes from Bodega Bay,
California, of a terrible battle between a sperm,
whale and a number of swordfish, which re
sulted in the defeat of the whale. The fight
was witnessed by a farmer plowing in his field,
near the coast, only a few miles north of tho
“ Golden Gato.”
The sea was smooth, and the first indication
of the conflict was a commotion in the water
nearly a mile from shore, but as the combat
ants rapidly approached the land, their move
ments became distinctly visible. The sword
fish were five in number; the whale, though
displaying great activity, was no match for
them. In making tbeir thrusts into the sides
of the whale, tho swordfish kept clear of his
tail, one blow from which would have been fa
tal to either of thorn. With maddened fury the.
whale struck right and left, then dived to es
cape his tormentors ; but they followed quick
ly, and soon brought him to the surface. Blood
was seen spirting from deep gashes in his
sides. The contest lasted nearly one hour,
when the whale, with a mighty effort, flung
himself upon some low rocks and soon died.
. Many persons from the neighboring villaga
of Peteluma went out to view the carcass. It
was fifty or sixty feet in length, and there were
gashes two feet deep and six feet long in its
A Florence correspondent writes
as follows: “The barbarous features accom
panying the practice of the duel in this coun
try have been frequently brought into notice
by the press. We have now a fresh case in.
point. Four youths, natives of Faenza, in con
sequence of a quarrel, which is as old as last
Carnival, met some days ago in a field a short
distance from the city, after having dined to
gether, says the account, with every appear
ance of cordiality and good fellowship. Each
was pitted against his respective adversary,
tho conditions of the fight being that after dis
charging their pistols, the parties should con
tinue the combat with their knives. In both:
cases the pistols were fired off without effect,
and the second act of the drama began. Ona
pair of combatants fought with great fury, an<£
in a few minutes both men were on the ground,
one with five wounds, and the other with sev
en. A fortunate accident put an end to tha
second encounter, for one of the knives, com
ing in contact with a button or some other
hard substance, was broken in two, and tha
horrid spectacle of their friends weltering m
blood, seems to have suggested other thoughts
than that of continuing the conflict. A medi
cal man, called to the spot, gave small hopes
of the recovery of the two wounded men.”
A curious discovery has just been,
made at Pompeii, the Italian city, which was
buried under a deluge of boiling lava from Mt-
Vesuvius long ago. In a house in the coursa
of excavation an oven was found, closed with
an iron door, on opening which a batch of
eighty-ono loaves, put in nearly eighteen hun
dred years ago, and now somewhat overdone,
was discovered ; and even tho large iron shove J
with which they had been neatly laid in rows-
The loaves were but slightly overbaked by tha
lava boat, having been protected by a quantity
of ashes covering the door. There is no ba
ker’s mark on the loaves; they are circular,
about nine inches in diameter, rather fiat, ami
indented (evidently with the baker’s elbow) in
the centre, and are very slightly raised at tha
sides, and divided by eight lines radiating fronx
the centre into eight segments. They are now
of a deep brown color, and hard, but very light.
In the same shop were found 561 bronze and;
53 silver coins. A mill, with a great quantity
of corn in excellent preservation, has also been
There is a well authenticated story
of * poor woman, not precisely a beggar, but
who had a petition to present, the prayer of
which was, of course, alms, who pounced upon;
the Queen just as sho was coming out of tha
garden of the Retiro. Her prayer was soon!
heard, but unhappily when her Majesty felt in
her pocket she found that she had no money.
Kings, queens, millionaires, and theatrical
managers never have ready money about them
enough to pay for a cab or turnpike.
“ Come to the palace to-morrow,” said ths •
queen to the petitioner.
“Alas,” replied the woman, “tho servants
will not lot me pass.”
Whereupon, ft is upon record, Donna Isabel
la de Bourbon, stooping down, took off one of
her shoes, and gave it to the suppliant as o>
token and a sign that she might be allowed
next day to pass the palace gates and have her
claim attended to.
The following obituary notice re
cently appeared in a newspaper in Spain ?
“This morning our Saviour summoned away
the jeweler Siebald Illmaga from his shop til
another and a better world. The undersigned,
his widow, will weep upon his tomb, as will also
his two daughters, Hilda and Emma, the form
er of whom is married, and the latter is open
to an offer. Tha funeral will take place to
morrow. His disconsolate widow, VebonxquiS
Illmaga.. P. B.—This bereavement will nob
interrupt our business, which will be carried
on as usual, only our place of business kvill ba
removed from No. 3 Tessi de Teisnturiers. to
No. t Bue de Missionaire, as our grasping land
lord has raised our rent.”
A Maine paper says merchants
upon the upper Bt. John have a cheap way of
getting their shingles to Fredericton. As tho
lo or s aro coining down in advance of the nveE 1
drivers, enough are caught to form a raft, which:
is then loaded with as many shingles as it will
carry When they arrive at Grand Falls,' they
are taken to tho basin below, reloaded and sent

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