2
was demonstrable in every act ot his existence.
To be an artist, a scholar of some master great
in truth and reputation; to taste Rome’s glori
ous Renaissance ;to become famed. Ah 1 what
a dream! Charles Eaton was earnest. He
Relieved he was born with much greatness,
and education, circumstance, industry and de
termination should cause him to paint like
Titian, and carve like Michael Angelo. The
possibility of his success was manifest in his
honesty, iris sincerity of imagination, his intel
ligible signs, his grace of habit.
Must all they who love beauty and truth in
Nature love the same in women? Though
Charles was young—scarce twenty—he was
bond slave to pretty Mary Devins. He had
been thus for two years—essentially a lover,
but from childhood the two had looked forward
to years of happiness ; they believed their des
tiny was cast in one.
For along, mocking season, Mary had dreaded
the departure of her worshiped one. She heard
him talk of Italy, and shuddered. Now the
month dawned in which preparation was rap
idly being made for Charles’s comfort and fu
ture away from home. Mary had determined
she would not be selfish; though Charles must
be absent two years, she would not complain ;
he had promised then to come back and take
her to his arms—a wife. She had lived near
the threshold of Paradise ; everything had
been crystalised through long devotion ; she
had lost herself in the eternal grandeur of
Love. She strove to draw her self-abnegation
upward, surrender herself into the hands of
Infinitude, and hope and pray that Charles
might reach the bight he coveted. She be
lieved she was equal to the impositions and
necessities; she believed she could part with
him in faith and joy, though grief at parting
must come.
The day dawned for his departure. She
roused herself to perform her part. Ah 1 as
the hours passed, the space grew narrower
and narrower between them; the moment hur
ried when that adieu must be spoken, she was
surprised at her heart’s decision and tumult.
Then came fear. • O that she were his wife 1—
the thought haunted her. She drew her
breath faintly, moved about uneasily; a thorn,
sharp and terrible, pierced her to the soul.
Until this moment she never had been con
scious of herself; but the vail was rent in
twain. She fell upon her lover’s neck, whis
pering :
“0, Charlie! wed mo ere you leave. Call
me your wife, and I will be happy. I cannot
be left thus; let me bear your name. I’ll ask
not a cent; I’ll be no incumbrance ; I’ll remain
with mother, at home, just the same as though
it never had been. Only wed me.”
She covered her scarlet face with her fair
hands, and, overcome by deep feeling, sobbed
aloud.
Charles Eaton could not resist. Taking
from his vest pocke this watch, he exclaimed:
“Only an hour and a little more have I.
Bend for Parson Damon, Mary. Go tell mother,
for I am but a feeble man in this, our little
season—our cruelly brief probation of happi
ness.”
Mary went; she was fearless, strong, hope
ful. Mrs. Eaton smiled, answering:
“Just as well so, my dear child, and better,
too. He will be a better artist knowing he has
a sweet little wife in America. An hour!
Laws, we must hurry ! Here, John —Arine—
Sallie—go in a twinkling. Here, you, for
Mary’s folks; run, Annel And you for the
good parson, John; he must run his horse
here, tell him; and do you stop and harness
him.”
The good-natured dame, who was anxious to
promote the bliss of the young people followed
her son to the door, giving directions in a flur
ried manner; but they were emphatic. Fol
lowing John’s retreating outline rang :
“ Tell him he must come, for Mary feels aw
fully ; takes on so, and she must be married
before he goes.”
Returning to the sitting-room, Mrs. Eaton
bustled about, pulled down her sleeves, which
had been pinned up for safe and neat, and ex-
E editions action. Buttoning them, she ran to
er next neighbors, and breathlessly summon
ed them to the wedding.
“ Going to be married just as they are, and
all in a bustle because, you cannot think how
terribly poor Mary feels. She says she shall
not be a cent’s worth of expense ; she will live
at home just the same, and I believe it will be
the best thing.”
Thus delivering herself, the excited mother
ran home to give the furniture in the parlor a
“little dusting,” and to set the chairs even.
The parson arrived in an immeasurably unc
tious frame of mind, for ho approved of the
business, and perhaps we do not do him Injus
tice if we believe he beheld in his vision the
needed recompense ; for .Charles Eaton’s peo
ple were generous. They stood up before the
little company of friends and relatives. Mary
had donned Anne’s pink muslin, and confined
the luxuriance of her sweeping gold hair with
Anne’s pearl comb. The two girls laughed, re
joicing that they wore so well fitted to exchange
wardrobes in all coming time. It was a pretty
piece of romance, and every face was bright,
every eye twinkled, every heart responded to
the minister’s words. When the prayer had
been offered, an audible “Amen!” went forth
from sincere souls. Mary heard the words
which bound her to him she loved so well; her
beautiful face was waxen, her lips coral, her
smile such a smile as oft preceded tears of joy.
Charles Eaton gazed upon her, and his boy
ish heart was full. He beheld now fair, how
young, how sweet she was. He heard the
words which united them, and believed it was
his choicest blessing—this ceremony which
death only would annul. And she—she wept.
Was there an omen in her tears ? Had some
sibyl stalked in, pointing out a dark star in her
sky of brightness ? Her husband grew alarmed
at her tears and her trembling. He asked her
the cause. She answered :
“It is because I am so glad that I’m your
wife ; and then—and then, Charles——”
She hesitated, and shuddered.
“Then what, my wife?” he said pressing her
closer to him.
“I dare not speak it. Something uncertain
—something bleak and gloomy—something I
cannot define.”
He kissed away her fears, and made her
smile; and when the village clock struck one,
he was gone. Mary Devins whispered to her
lonely heart:
“He is mine! I fear not Italia’s fair daugh
ters. In two years he returns for me. I will
cheer up, and wait, blessing God I am his;
and he, 01 he is mine 1”
CHAPTER 111.
IN TUB AIELIBS.
Within the atelier of a great master Charles
Eaton had commenced his study and execu
tion. He loved beauty, truth and sincerity.
The habitual choice of his subjects had been of
profound passion. He did not work as one who
works for bread, but as one who labors for per
fection. The ugliest object contained beauty
for him, if he could paint it in truth. He ac
cepted nature in all her phases, and loved her
better for her blemishes. Visitors had learned
to ask of the American which of the new works
belonged to him, of his improvement, of his
success, and he received much admiration for
his elegance of person. Many coquettes gave
Melnotte’s studio the preference, pretending to
discover wonderful intricacies of art, while the
true cause lay within the charm of Charles
Eaton’s face and manner.
A year had sped, witnessing his unwearied
strife, his continued perseverance, his assid
uous watchfulness. He had painted a young
girl toying with flowers. The face, bis model,
was ever before him. He called his task easy,
and one of love. When it was finished, the
great master stood before its loveliness, and
pronounced it perfect. Eaton smiled, reply
ing :
“Had you ever beholden the original, you
would know you have spoken truthfully, for
she is more lovely than the picture.”
The proud Boman meditated before his schol
ar’s labor, worshiping. It filled his soul to full
ness. In the great brown eyes, in the carved
coral lips, in the ethereal expression, in the at
titude, he found food for passion—an idol be
fore which he bent daily; and when he heard
his scholar say, “ She is my wife,” he marveled,
J seemed to doubt whether in America there
iduel? mortal °f Buch Madonna-like loveliness.
Mary waited and loved, longed, anticipated.
A year ha-' fled > an< i now she commenced to
count tho jffonths, the weeks, aye, the very
■ days, ere he Wojld return. She called herself
. BO blessed because . h ® named her wife be
fore he left her. Faifi burned its leaves for woe
—cries and moans and IliOCahry.
It was a glorious day. Thd timelier was filled
with tho scents of gorgeous blossdui.s ; the sun
light lay over the picture Charles Eaton was
working upon, and lit his hair with brightness,
shining through the glossy curls, making his
. marble brow glisten, and tinging his speaking
• eyes with glory. A step came behind nim; it
was light. He heard a rustle, then a voice
••spoke m tho tongue he did not know. The very
tone fascinated him; its music held him spell
bound. Their eyes met, and he withdrew his
quickly ; but she kept up her gaze. The Ro
man tutor came and bowed low to her; he an
swered her interrogations. Their conversation
was long and earnest, and her eyes of midnight
were feasting themselves upon the one she
courted.
When this woman had gone, Claude Mel
notte, in his broken language, spoke to his pu
pil, tapping him gently upon his shoulder.
She’s in love with you, my boy. She never
vacated your face with her great eyes for more
than half a minute at a time while she was
here. Pity you are married, though that pic
ture, if it represents her well, is enough to im
prison any heart. Though, my boy, ’tis not
all beauty we want. Miss Yen ton could lift you
wonderfully ; she’s got the power. Eh, Char
lie ? You look sober. Do you regret that lit
tle American holds you ?” ,
“No, no, Claude. If I am abstracted,’tis
only because I am thinking how destiny wields
her rule. Perhaps ”
He hesitated a little ; he knew his heart was
not quite loyal—why, ho could not have an
swered.
“ Out with it, my boy. Perhaps what ?”
“Nothing, Claude ; only sometimes I think I
did wrong to wed her before coming. This ab
sence is not good—not wholesome.”
“My friend,” said the wily Roman, in a paci
fying manner, “it was only a ceremony. You
have never lived with her an hour as her hus
band. Your bonds are a mere mockery.”
“ Well, let’s to the picture upon the easel.”
Saying this, Charles Eaton moved away.
Hia comoauion saw the heart was striving to j
peace and quiet; and he was not likely to sue -
seed at once.
For a little time Eaton worked away with his
brush and colors, lost deeply in thought. Mel
notte watched him. He betrayed himself in
anotner moment.
“Who is she? You have not told me,
Claude.”
“No, I was waiting for you to ask. She!
She’s the great beauty of her line, and she
knows it—discreetly, though. She’s the belle
of all the belles that ever graced her race.
She 1 She’s glided through the guttering halls
of a duke’s palace. Her grandfather was old
Duke de Yenton. They have fallen in their
monstrous pride, because their money’s gone;
all, I say not—she has the remnant. She’s an
orphan, and lives with an aunt coming from
her mother’s side, without title. She’s a wit;
a woman of the world, accustomed to the
courtly, brilliant, proud. Cold she is, the peo
ple say; and for one thing I honor her—they
say she’ll not cheapen her charms by coquetry;
cares little for her power of conquest. I've
heard her picked, dissected, and the verdict
rendered : 'Whoso she loves, she loves faith
fully ; whoso attracts her she will seek again.’
and,” the Roman laughed, displaying his white
teeth, “ she wants herself painted, and you to
do the work. Bo careful, careful of your wed
ded heart, my boy.”
Charles Eaton listened and smiled. Ho was
nothing fearful for his truth. His wife rose
before him in tho purity of her virginity ; he
recalled her as she looked upon that June
morning when she wept those tears of joy and
those otner tears she could not define. Within
the deepest chamber of his soul he whispered,
“This proud Italian can never affect me,
though she designs it.” He smiled a smile of
contempt, and added, “Designs! foolish con
ceit ! designs upon a poor artist. Claude loves
to tamper with me, because I told him of my
marriage an hour before I left my home.” He
bent his head lower over the easel, and whis
pered, “ Mary, my Mary—my wife.”
CHAPTER IV.
OH ! THEBE IS NOW ENOUGH I
She came in, and smiling, motioned that she
was ready. Charles Eaton took her proffered
hand, and led her to a little eminence winch
Claude Melnotte had arranged—arranged so
she might recline amid evergreens and flowers
arching over her. She spoke musically, making
gesture of infinite grace, and laughing when
the man standing before her, shook his head—•
interpreted, “I do not know what you say.”
He felt himself to be an adventurer in his art
when he realized he had been appointed to
duplicate so much elegance and beauty. His
hand trembled a little, and hie heart throbbed
hard, for her eyes followed him constantly.
He knew he must go to her and arrange the
coronal of blossoms crowning her brow ; draw
the waving tresses of midnight hair more to
the left—over the dazzling whiteness of her
uncovered shoulders. The drapery fell around
her gracefully, seductively, ana tue soft lace
lay like a fleecy cloud, hardly concealing the
voluptuousness of her bust. She knew her
power over men, though she exercised it only
where her heart went. While the artist drew
the velvet robe more to the right, she gazed
full in his face with her great dark eyes, and
seemed disinclined to help herself. She waited
when he motioned to her to rest her head
upon her left hand ; she well understood his
meaning, and smiled languidly when he took
her fingers within his own white palm. Soon
he commenced his work; he appeared not to
observe how nonchalently she gave herself up
to gaze full in his eyes, and alter awhile he re
turned her witching glances; he had no mean
ing for them in his loyal heart, but she was ir
resistible ?
The first sitting was over ; she was to come
again on the morrow. When her light foot
steps bad died out on the atelier floor and sho
had passed through the outer hall, Melnotte
came from the gallery with a roguish smile in
his eye. He suddenly exclaimed, “ Eaton you
have captured her. What made you marry be
fore coming here ? She’ll give you honor, you
might have been the chain of many a lion in
nobility’s arena ; but she has not much money.
Her aunt supports her until she marries or
leaves her house. Proud as the beauty is, she
is under sever® restrictons—aye, it galls her—
she deserves it though, for she has no favor
for one. Danbury, who is dying for her, and
Barnes and Lake and Swerne's—he’s an Ameri
can I believe—she’s too young for many of
them—give her ten or less, five years more,
and will she not kill men witn her charms—her
eyes—she will be soveriegn among her sax.”
Charles Eaton stood still listening—he moved
at last nervously, and interrupted his master
with a question his heart forbade.
“ What did she say Claude ? I saw her go to
the gallery before she left.”
“ Say, boy I she said you were the handsomest
man she ever saw, and asked me of you, and
of your home—mind—l did not tell her you
were married.”
Melnotte laughed heartily, but his compan
ion turned away with a strange knowledge at
his heart.
The morrow dawned fair and beautiful. She
came again at the appointed hour. Sho seemed,
if such a thing were possible, loveher, more
witching than on the yester sitting. When she
said, offering her hand, the one word, “Good,”
her eyes lit,tier cheeks crimsoned, her heart lift
ed the soft lace above her fair bosom. Ah, well
the married heart knew that brief English was
her expression of happiness at being in his
presence. He felt guilty—he was not wholly
indifferently to her—no, he was thrilled
through when she sat down awaiting his com
ing, his hand to arrange her tresses and
place her in that seductive attitude, lay
her head in the palm of her diamond-glit
tering hand. She thought his pressure upon
her round arm lingered ; she knew it did; and
twice she moved her position to detain him,
once, when he had turned unto his easel she
tossed a tress of hair back from her shoulder,
he quickly noted her aim, and went to her side.
The glance she gave him, the lingering soft
ness, sweetness, earnestness, paralyzed him;
he knew ho was growing weak. And upon the
fourth day of her coming he trembled ;he
scarce could wield his brush; ho was failing in
touch and softness; he was ruining his work.
They were learning by gesture to understand
each other; he scorned his day’s labor, and
showed contempt ior himself in her presence.
She languidly held forth her jeweled hand and
drew him to a seat beside her. Her eyes were
the language of her soul, her smile he became
vassal unto, and in his heart was a wild cry.
The picture never was finished; when she
came, she came to win him ; she had succeed
ed; he hated her at times ior her power over
him, but he could not resist her. Claude Mel
notte had been wicked enough to help her
cause; it was for his interest, his growth of
fame, his triumph in many causes. Her word
was law among the class whom he craved lor
favors. She had taught the man she coveted
to understand her gestures, and she was rapid
ly learning the English language. She said
she cared nothing for wealth, she would her
self strip off patrician panoplies and work,
ay, work, if only he would wed her. It was
his beauty, his elegance of form, his charm of
manner, his unresisting power. He told her
not he was already wedded; he told her not
the picture hanging in the gallery before whose
purity and innocence she bowed in worship
was his lawful wife ; he allowed her to caress
him, to render up everything in life for him;
he meant really no villainy, but he had no
courage, his heart clung unto her. A year and
three months had sped since he had beholden
that other, poor Mary Devins, and truth was
really becoming shadowy. It had only been a ’
ceremony, a tew words parson Damon had
spoken; their solemnity he could never realize.
He would write her he never should return to
America ; that she had bettor free herself; the
law would grant her divorce, and better far for
her young life to forget him; but, alas! was
not her last letter filled to overflowing with
love? Was she not watching, waiting for his
return? Might not the knowledge that he
desired to be free crush existence out—lay
her in the early tomb?
He reflected and grew sad ; he had not the
courage ; he dare not do the fearful thing. He
searched his soul; an answer rendered itself
to him which caused his heart to beat wildly,
and his hands to tremble. He loved the Ital
ian. Loved! he was fascinated beyond con
trol by her interviews; he could not resist her
challenging smile, her musical tongue, her ac
complishments, her world-given nonchalenoe,
her erudition ; was he not honored also ? Had
not the coveted of nobility shown for his ple
blan life an immeasurable preference ? So he
was wrought upon until he grew almost fren
zied and ne lost the logic, the religion, the
honor, which should have bound him.
Days sped onward. He had given up all for
her—this fair and lovely Italian. He had
promised to wed her, considering no penalties,
no oncoming of judgment. He plead a little,
to be sure ; he told her of his poverty ; but she
answered;
“ Charles, you are a genius. I shall be proud
of your art and of your triumphs. I shall in
troduce you to the great—to those whose sta
tion will assist you.”
Tempted by all her sovereign charms, he
yielded, and the day was named—that fatal,
fatal day—that day which would pronounce
him a bigamist.
It dawned, bright and sunlit. Then there
came a change. Clouds obscured the light—
an omen—a prescient warning. He accepted
it, because his soul was guilt—fear—sin. She
was radiant in her beauty, and m her happi
ness. People wondered; discarded ones en
vied, scoffed, and pronounced her irrational.
Hours, days, weeks, fled into Time’s abyss, and
her heart was satisfied. She worshipped her
artist’s elegance, his genius, his movements,
his gestures. She was an apt scholar. Love
taught her ; love gave her wondrous powers of
comprehension. They lived humbly; but she
declared she enjoyed it. She did; for had she
not gained her idol?
“These,” she whispered, in her broken,
charming way, pointing to her jewels, “these
shall be my sacrifice, if need be; these shall go
for our wants, if we require them.”
Charles Eaton pressed her to his heart, and,
but for a picture he could not banish, he would
have been blessed. Sometimes he cursed his
youthful folly, and strove for philosophy to
reconcile his act. He had wed Mary Devins
knowing nothing of the great world; she had
caused him to do the act. It was, on his part,
to satisfy her. America! never again would
he tread its soil; never again meet the young
[ girl he had deceived. Never; no, never.
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
CHAPTER V.
AT THE THBBSHOLD.
She was sitting in the old-fashioned ball,
down by the door, and her gaze turned itself
upon the budding lilacs, and the lawn covered
with bright dandelions. She was very pale and
thin ; her eyes had a weary, wistful, longing in
them ; now and then a great tear weighted her
long lashes; and her slender fingers worked
nervously with thd fringe of the plaid shawl
loving hands had wrapped her in. Presently
an ancient sulky halted before the door, and
good Doctor Wyman called pleasantly :
“Good morning, Mary. These days will
bring back the roses to your cheeks.”
She shook her head, and her heart whispered,,
“No, I do not wish to live. I long to die.'
Perhaps he will some day come back and stand
beside the earth which covers me: perhaps
drop one tear, even, and remember I died for
him.”
Poor wife; sho had suffered, wept, prayed,
pined; and now she was oalm. It had been
weeks since she had experienced one of those
sobbing, hysterical seasons which had dppress
ed her more or less since getting his letter
which said, “Be happy, Mary, for I may not
return to you for years—my art absorbs me.”
More and more scanty had grown the quarterly
love gifts, the husband giving as an apology
his increasing expenses, necessary that he
might sooner perfect himself. He expressed
little affection, and spoke as he once had, no
more; antioip ated not tho time when he would
join her : formed no structures of bliss, as once
he had done. She would not be deceived ; in
stinct taught her; tho change was too appa
rent ; and when the truth was rooted in her
heart, she commenced to pine, and fade, and
mourn.
Upon this sunny April morning Doctor Wy
man called Mrs. Devins aside, and told her
frankly the disease must prove fatal unless
Charles Eaton returned and healed the soul
stricken unto death. He would prove the only
efficient physician. Without mendacious words
or manner the doctor told the suffering mother
his true belief, and left with the injunction :
“ Write to the villain this hour. Tell him to
come homo, or the blood of his wife rests for
ever upon his head.”
“She objects, doctor,” answered Mrs. Dev
ins.
“No matter, no matter; once get him here,
and they’ll make it all right. Write him she’s
dying because he’s treated her so. Tell him in
the name of God and man she’s his wife. Tell
him he’s responsible—responsible!”
Muttering the latter word emphatically, the
doctor went to his sulkey, mounted the blue
broadcloth covered cushion, and giving the
leathern reins a jerk, turned himself toward
Mrs. Devins, repeating:
“Tell him he’s responsible responsible.
Good day, ma’am.”
Ere this Spring day waned, within the coun
try home of the forsaken wife there came a
change. Sitting in the warm twilight breeze,
overpowered with memories, once sweet, now
bitter and acrid, Mary Eaton fainted—fainted
through hopelessness. They bore her from tho
latticed window and laid her upon the white
shrouded couch. They restored her to life,
though scarcely life, for she whispered faintly,
and with hard drawn breath told them where
to lay her. Darn circles lay beneath her eyes,
and the once coral lips were livid and cold.
Mirabeau bore in his heart the funeral crape of
the monarchy. Mary Eaton bore m her heart
the funeral crape of treachery. And like this
gladiator, who cried for roses and violets to die
amid, so she whispered :
“Bring to me the Spring flowers, and lay
them on my pillow. Put hundreds of them in
my coffin and on my grave.”
They watched her while she prayed—while
she cried, in intensest agony of heart:
“O, Charles, my husband 11 remember those
bridal tears.”
At last she .fell asleep, and her mother was
left alone watching by her couch. The night
was moonlit and soft. The clock struck twelve.
Mrs. Devins rose. She believed she heard a
step upon the path very near the door. She
lifted the muslin curtain and gazed forth. She
saw the form of a man; he was standing still,
gazing up to Mary’s chamber window. The
lone woman shuddered. Who had ever molest
ed them in their quiet country home ? None.
Then was it a spectre ?—tho representative of
death ? She watched, while her heart beat
loud and hard. The man moved. Dash, the
watch-dog, camo round the corner of the house
growling low and menacingly. He approached
the statue-like mortal, snuffed about him half
a moment, then gave a bound, and seemed pos
sessed with some frantic spirit. He licked the
hands of the man, stood up against him, ca
ressed, jumped, and uttered low barks.
“ Strange!” thought the watcher. Then the
man moved, came softly up to the door, and
knocked. Dash still kept up his demonstra
tions of joy. Trembling slightly, Mrs. Devins
slipped back the bolt and lifted the latch.
Tnere, before her, in the silvery moonlight,
stood the longer-for stranger. She threw her
arms about his neck and burst forth into tears.
She sol bed for a moment so she could not speak.
The returned was alarmed ; terrible thoughts
filled his soul; terrible apprehensions caused
him to repeat thrice, “ For Goa’s sake, tell me I
is she dead ?”
He feared the reality of his past, haunting
dread; ho felt guilty; he knew if she be resting
within her grave, remorse would forever cause
him to suffer, writhe ; he knew ever more must
come an unceasing torment.
“No, not dead, but dying! 0, Charles, dy
ing for you —dying because of your coldness,
your neglect! Thank Heaven, you’ve come!”
Charles Eaton heard, and the blood grew
cold, then hot, within his veins. He clasped
his mother-in-law by her arm and spoke almost
fiercely.
“Lead me to her! quick! I can, I will, I
must save her 1”
“ I must go first and tell her,” replied Mrs.
Devins.
“ No, no,” the excited man said, hastening
forward. “ I must go alone.”
“ She sleeps ; you will kill her!”
“ Better,” he whispered, hoarsely, “ better
that she sleeps. I will be by her side when she
wakes.”
Mrs. Devins led the way. Softly he stole up
to the couch and halted by her side. Ah, then
it was ho paled to livid whiteness ; then it was
great storm drops rolled adown his handsome
face ; then it was his heart smote him almost a
deadly blow. His vestment was liited quick
and fast above those terrible palpitations ; he
saw her as she lay. What picture ever before
so lovely, so touching, so appealing ? Her left
hand rested above her heart; upon the taper
ing, pining forefinger glittered the little cir
clet of gold ho had placed there upon the
morning of their bridal. It told its own pa
thetic tale. She was pure and heavenly. A
smile rested upon her snow-white, emaciated
face ; the curling lashes of chestnut hue laid
down upon her cheek ; the ringleted hair fell
over the pillow in many fantastic shapes.
Charles Eaton grew weak. No longer able
to stand before the victim of his monstrous sin,
he sank to the floor, kneeling. He offered a
prayer; the first since when in infancy he
bowed before his mother and with clasped
hands repeated after her, “Our Father, who
art in heaven.”
Mary slept on peacefully, while he kept his
attitude and wept. He petitioned Heaven for
forgiveness and help. Sne rose before him—
that fair and elegant daughter of Italy, whom
he had left with kisses and promises—left men
daciously—left appointing the season of his re
turn. He remembered how she had wondered
at his going to America without her; he re
membered how she said, “ I want to see your
father and mother also ; his raise answer rose
,in his heart, “ I shall go no farther than New
York, where they live, and were not my mother
so very ill I would take you.” He remembered
all the insidious stories he had told her of bis
home and the life she had taken. Flebile ludi
brium. Then rose within his surging, tem
pest-tossed soul his sufferings. He groaned
aloud, and Mrs. Devins, who stood watching
him with strange emotions, approached, whis
pering :
“She will live! God will spare her! She
only wanted you, Charles! Oh, what will she
say and do when she wakes ? lam so cold!”
Just then the sleeper moved. The kneeling
man laid himself prostrate to the floor. He was
afraid. She moved again, and spoke faintiv :
“ Mother.”
“ What, darling ?” answered Mrs. Devins,
going softly to the bedside and trembling ex
cessively.
“Raise me up a little, please, and let me tell
you of my blissful dream. Oh, mother, he has
been to me I I heard him whisper, I heard
him sob. He suffers. He looked so beautiful
and manly ; but he was weeping. He loves me
still. He will come—something tells me so;
but think you I shall live ? Oh, must I die,
and never, never see him again ?”
The poor frail woman commenced to sob.
Charles Eaton felt that he was suffocating ; he
could no longer content himself. The enormity
of his trangression overpowered him. Mary
heard a faint sigh. She gazed at her motacr,
and over her face spread wonder.
. “What was that?”
For a few seconds the silence of the grave
reigned within the apartment. Charles Eaton
was suffering tho intensest fear and agony;
he was livid, purple in his struggle. He heard
her speak again. She lifted her thin white
hands and grievmgly said:
“0, to die broken hearted! Charles, my
husband, I cannot live until you ”
“He rose so quickly she did not observe,
him until he bent over ner, chokingly, hoarsely
saying:
“Mary, my own! my wife!” He lifted her
to his embrace—he pressed brow, cheek and
lip—so cold, so pale, so heavenly. She gazed
upward, and tried to speak—her lips quivered,
her eyes closed, she gasped, drew herself erect,
and seemed to breathe no longer. Then the
wretched man more screamed than spoke,
while great tears rolled down, dropping upon
his wife’s face !
“0, God, give her back to me! Scourge
me I torture me! kill me, but oh, give her back
to me I”
His agony was at its bight; his brow
was wet with the dews of anguish, his
teeth chattered, his whole frame shook like
forest leaves in a storm wind. His transgres
sion must pay its penalty. It is God’s law.
CHAFTER VL
BETBAYED.
Alta Yenton stood in the crimson glory of an
Italian sunset, her classic face was turned west
ward, her proud head hot oyoa wot
gloriously full of satisfaction: she whispered
to the rustling of the Autumn breeze amid the
shade trees, and within her soul there came the
echo. Her pet spaniel raised his head and
startled her from her reverie. She spoke in
her own charming way, and the dog licked her
jeweled hand.
“Do you miss him, Charlie? not as I do,”
she replied to his whine. Thon there seemed
to come over her a change. In place of bright
memories, there dawned a bitter thought.
“I would not have believed he could have
gone without me after I plead so.” A sadder
reflection than hitherto in all her life she had
known followed the heart expression.
“He was changed—not to me, really, but to
the world, in his life, his manner, his speech.
Was there a shadow of sorrow in his soul ? yes,
he told me so—and for his mother; she was
ill; surely he loved her greatly, for when he
thought of her he sighed—and one night when
he believed I slept 1 heard him sigh deeply,
and whisper, “alas! alas!” When he knew I
heard him ho started and answered my inter
rogation with a trembling voice :
“ I fear she may not live.”
“ Who ?” I said. He sighed again, and an
swered :
“ My mother.”
Ho pined—his hands grew transparent—his
eyes grew sad, and his voice lost its sprighth
ness. Wondrous love for a parent. I cannot
appreciate it, but I’ve heard Americans have
marvellous family affection. Two months 1
how long the time must be. Ah me, his last
letter was tinged with strong love.”
She smiled, and her beautiful hands clasped
themselves tightly over her heart.
“I wonder he so fascinates me—’tis his ele
gance—his soverign beauty—his fascinating
manner.” She longed to drop a tear—but no;
she was going to the opera with Mr. Danbury,
and she desired to bo lonely. It was her pride
to be worshipped, and keep herself so cool, so
calm, and withal so modest, for Alts Yenton
was no coquette.
Throwing over her shoulders the white, fleecy
cloak laying negligently upon her arm, she
went from the place where she was standing in
the oncoming twilight, and entered the parlor
of her humble home. For his sake she had
left her aunt’s hospitality; for his sake, she
had rendered up much of luxury; nevertheless
her suite qf rooms beneath the atelier were
charming; filled with gems of art, perfect sculp
ture, pictures of rare genius, household gods a
prince might covet. How brutally this trust
ing woman was deceived; how little she dream
ed of the dark future which awaited her ; how
little she knew of the sufferings of him who had
wed her; how well he had covered his misery—
concealed his torture.
He wed Alta Yenton because he could not re
sist her witcheries; because he admired her
nonchalent manner, her world-taught life, her
splendid voluptuousness ; not because he loved
her so well; her nature forbade him to render
unto her his true soul; she conducted herself
toward him in a manner which haunted his
proud spirit. She was dominant, unyielding,
naught, defiant if opposed. She had been so
ciety’s pet, an idol of men, gratified in every
desire. What wonder when she was satiate
with all the things of earth, that she planned
resolutely to gain the man she coveted for his
charms? He had struck her fancy as many a
rare bit of sculpture had in days past; and
nothing denied by relatives and friends, sho
would not be denied the artist. She loved
him ; yes, she loved him, and he must please
her as other possessions pleased'her.
Quickly Charles Eaton found out the quality
of her passion; quickly ho knew he was hers—
hers to please her as a Sultan’s slave must
please her Oriental master. Then his heart
commenced its searching ; then his whole soul
turned to his other wife—she so gentle, so win
ning, so dutiful, so loyal; then he suffered,
and his fearful crime rose before him in all its
magnitude. He saw forever, day and night,
the pale, pensive Mary watching, waiting for
his coming. He re-read those private letters
wherein she poured forth her affection so trust
ingly, so hopefully. He called the American
and the Italian up to stand before him, that he
might contrast them. The fiiture spoke in
loud tones, telling him with her, his first, his
early love, lay the purest bliss. Mary was like
the lily of the valley; she would suffer more
than Alta, the gorgeous passion flower. At last
conscience tortured him ; his days were pain ;
bis work failed to heal his heart of its upbraid
ings; he went almost hourly into the gallery,
and met the face he had painted; he paled,
and grew faint before its accusations*; his
nights were sleepless, filled with stalking phan
toms carrying a wasted form; he saw a shroud
—a coffin—a pall—an open grave.
Alta was gay, throwing around him like a
net, her dominance and will. He knew it was
a love of passion—he was her coveted toy.
When he commenced to fail, he grew alarmed;
he feared lest death overtake him while he tar
ried, and there sprang within his soul a deter
mination. Alta possessed luxuries, jewels;
she loved the world; it would compensate her
for his loss. She never would mourn; she was
too proud, too much a queen to be subdued by
desertion.
Resolved, he made preparations to leave his
well-loved art, to flee Italy, and return to his
lawful wife. Bigamist! he knew he was brand
ed, and he thought “ Cain’s mark ” would be
added unless he hastened to her. He read and
re-read her last letter; his eyes were fastened
upon the tear-blistered spots; his soul was
tortured over the Bad, saa words. For thus
she had written:
“ I will forgive you, my husband, and pray
to Him who knows my broken heart yearns for
the silent tomb ; yes, petition Him to forgive
you. I never dreamed you could grow so cold
and east me off, telling me my country would
do me justice, divorce me. Oh, Charles, my
lost, my lost. I desire no divorce. I shall die
Mary Eaton ; upon my tomb-stone you may
one day read tho name and age of your wife.
Remember, I died with a heart overflowing with
love—forgiving him who discarded me. Fare
well ! I never shall write you again. Go free,
be happy, adieu 1 adieu!”
* * * « # *
Mary opened her eyes from her death-trance
and beheld him ;it was reality. She pressed
his forehead with many kisses, caressed his
luxuriant hair, wept, laughed, and thanked
high Heaven for his return. With numberless
endearing expressions she held her weak arms
up that he might hold her near him. She
prayed for life as fervently as hitherto she had
prayed for death. And when she saw her hus
band weep and beg for forgiveness she uttered
sweetest sentences, and in the magnanimity of
her soul whispered:
“ Perhaps it is better. God may have had a
design. We shall pass through life more
closely linked because of this hard lesson.”
It was at such seasons as these when he
compared her to the other wife : at such sea
sons as these he remembered Alta’s dominant
spirit.
So life passed on. Mary partially recovered
beneath her husband’s extreme care and great
love. Yes, life passed on for a year ; then
there came a bud given of God’s hand. An
existence for weal or woe ; a testimony for the
last day. Heaven grant a joyful one. In giv
ing life to the child the mother died.
Charles Eaton was in the city of New York
at work within his atelier. He hastened to the
humble but pleasant homo he had made for
his wife, just in time to receive her lastj kiss
and hear her say:
“ Call our baby, Eva. She is a girl.”
When he beheld her composed tor the long,
dreamless sleep appointed from the beginning,
he blessed God for putting the atonement into
his heart—his return to America. Still he
knew the seeds of death had been sown in the
time of her heart-broken grief. He behoved,
though grief-stricken unto a certain despair,
he should be happier. He was no longer
named bigamist. Death had released him
from the terrible scourge. Ho would now live
’for his child, the little Eva ; so he hired a
nurse and pursued his art vigilantly ; it helped
him escape the unrest of his soul.
Three years had gone; dropped down into
Time’s vortex. Charles Eaton was treading
Broadway one Summer twilight. He paled
suddenly and halted in his walk for an instant,
then started forward as quickly as though
some pang of disease had pierced him. Sure
ly those were her eyes, her face, her form.
“Thank God 1” he wispered, “sho did not
recognise me. She has followed me, sho had
a child with her. It was hers—mine 1”
Tho artist shuddered. The past rose ; ho
analyzed his heart; he found no love remain
ing for his living wife—his Alta Yenton—and
her child ; he coaid never realize it was his.
Did he fear this Italian ? No—yes ;he could
not reply. She must not become the mother of
his dead Mary’s offspring. She must not know
of hie American wife. Horrors! she must
never know of his bigamy ; had she a disposi
tion to revenge? Wonder filled the artist.
Fear kept him within his atelier often -when he
might have possessed leisure, and when he left
to go to his home he chose by-ways, dropped
his head, changed his gait, bent and himself.
[To be continued.]
An attempted murder at St. Denis
has brought to light an extraordinary exam
ple ot domestic immorality in Faris. At tnj
corner of the Rue des Carmelites is a small
wine-shop, kept by a man and woman named,
respectively Sonnery and Muret. The latter
had a daughter aged fifteen, and hennery took
it into his head to marry her. The woman
gave her consent, but the girl, who was at
boarding-school, refused, knowing that the
man cohabited with her mother; being, how
ever, importuned by her parent, she at length
consented, but on condition that she should re
main at school and complete her education.
The marriage took place, and on the evening,
as arranged, the bride returned to her school,
and the bridegroom with her mother to the
wine-shop. That state of things lasted about
three weeks, but Sennery at length got
tired of his equivocal situation, and exer
cised his marital authority to force his wife to
return to the conjugal domicile, and she was
obliged to submit. As may be imagined, peace
did not reign long in this polygamous house
hold ; quarrels arose daily between the man,
the mother and the daughter, and one even
ing, after a frosh dispute, the husband fired a
pistol at his wife, lodging a ball in her chest.
She was removed to an hospital, and is at pres
ent in a satisfactory state, while her husband
was arrested.
When anyone makes great hesita
tion about receiving a present, you may be
pretty certain that verv little gratitude will be
shown. ■
ENCOUNTER WITH GORILLAS.
BY THE COLOKEL.
During my sporting travels in Africa, at
tended by three native “ guides,” we on one
occasion got upon the track of two female ele
phants, and captured them both, and the cap
ture came very near costing us dearly. We
had killed one of them without much trouble,
and had fired half a dozen balls into the sec
ond one, when she charged upon us most un
expectedly, overturning my guides and tram
pling down the horses which they rode, but, by
a seeming miracle, no one was injured. It was
the elephant’s last paroxysm, and in less than
five minutes from that time she pitched for
ward upon her knees, striking her head upon
the earth, and breaking one of her tusks off
close up to the jaw. It so happened that the
tusk was not a very valuable one ; and, more
over, the break did not injure it to the amount
of more than half a dozen pounds of ivory.
On the following morning wo marched on to
the northward. The guides said that two days,
or three at the farthest, would bring us to the
best hunting country in the world; and I think
they were not far from right. At all events,
on the fourth afternoon, we pitched our camp
in one of the most beautiful forest vales I ever
saw. On the east and south the trees were of
huge proportions, stretching their dark foliage
away over hill and dale, and giving shade to
many a level plain; while to the northward and
westward a chain of mountains lifted their
craggy summits far up against the sky. Bufla
loes, and zebras, and antelopes, of various
kinds, roamed through the deep solitudes,
and the spoor of elephants was to be found on
every hand. One or the guides brought down
a fat buffalo, while the rest of us were placing
the wagons, and he soon gave us some of the
best steak for supper that I ever eat.
The next morning, just as the sun was break
ing in upon the cool mists that hung over the
forest, a guide came to me with the informa
tion that a herd of elephants were making away
from a fountain not half a mile off. Without
stopping for breakfast, further than to eat a
bit of cold bread and meat, we took the saddle,
and sot forth. We found the elephants, and,
for two or three hours, we had a merry time of
it. We killed two very fair bulls, and seriously
wounded two more. Toward the close of the
day, the chief guide and I found ourselves sep
arated from our companions, and wo were just
thinking of hunting them up, when a colossal
old bull elephant broke cover close by us. He
was one of those we had wounded in the early
part of the day, and he was tearing away like
mad. As soon as we saw him, we gave chase,
loading and firing upon the fly. The old fellow
did not once turn upon us, but sped away in a
panic of terror, and, in about two hours, we
brought him down.
It was now fairly dark, and we resolved to
make our bods whore we were, sheltering our
selves under the lee of the dead elephant.
Somewhere about midnight, the chief guide
woke me up, and informed me that some of our
companions were hunting fords. He said he
had seen one of them walking across the path
to our right. Wo both got up, and -went in
that direction, but could find nothing of any of
our folks. Wo had gone back, and I was just
sinking into a doze again, when a footstep,
close by my head, aroused me, and upon start
ing to a sitting posture, I plainly saw what I
took to be a man walking toward the wood. I
spoke to him—l called a second time—and he
quickened his step, and soon disappeared.
The guide had been up and seen the disappear
ing object, and he agreed with mo that it could
not be any of our people.
“It must be,” said he, “ some native that
belongs to this district. If there is a party of
them here, we’U hunt them up in the morn
ing.”
The thought that there might be a party of
savages near unto us disturbed my rest some
what for the remainder of the night; and, so
soon as the first dawn of the day broke the
gloom of the forest, I was upon my feet.. The
guide was very soon by my side; and, having
taken a careful survey of the ground around
us, and found all right, we sat down and eat
up the last of our bread and meat; and, when
the meal had been disposed of, we shouldered
our double-barreled rifles, and struck off into
the woods in the direction which had been
taken by the disappearing person of the pre
vious'night. Within a hundred yards of the
place where our elephant lay, we found a rivu
let of pure water, which went murmuring
musically along over a bed of dark red sand.
We bathed our heads and faces in the limpid
stream, and then sat down upon the grassy
bank to rest. The guide was tolling me a long
story, when we were startled by a sharp, loud
cry close at hand. It was a cry different from
any I had over before heard, and so strangely
terrific, that Heaped to my feet as though a
thunderbolt had burst upon me. An exclama
tion of terror from the guide, and a wave of
his hand, indicated to me the direction of the
author of the cry we had hoard; and, upon
looking that way, I beheld a sceno that
quickened the pulsations of my heart most
emphatically.
Not more than twenty yards from us, upon
the opposite side of tho stream, stood two
monster anthropoids. I quickly determined
that they were a male and a female. The
guide, as he started back for his rifle, called
them chimpanzees; but I knew better than
that. The male, as he stood, was at least six
fefet high, and no chimpanzee ever approached
that stature. And, moreover, this animal pos
sessed a muscular development the most pow
erful I had ever conceived of. The head was
broad and low, the brain-cavity being almost
entirely behind the face, instead of above it,
as in man; the ears were small; the nose
broad and flat, -with wide nostrils ; the mouth
exceeding large, with thin, hard lips; the
chin small and receding; with the muzzle very
prominent. The whole face was wrinkled and
black, and its expression the most repulsive
and forbidding that can be conceived of. Tho
chest was massive and capacious ; the should
ers broad and heavy; the stomach very prom
inent ; and the limbs a solid mass of bone,
muscle, and sinew. The arms were not so
long as as those of the orang, but longer than
those of the chimpanzee. The body was
mostly covered with short, coarse hair, of a
dirty, blackish gray color ; the female being
almost black.
“ It is not a chimpanzee,” I said, as I moved
back to the tree where my rifle stood. “ There
is but one family in the world to which these
monsters can belong. I have, until now,
doubted the existence of that colossal anthro
poid tribe, but I can doubt it no longer. They
must bo gorillas I”
“By heavens!” cried the guide, grasping his
rifle, and bringing it up ready for use, “you
are right, colonel.”
I knew I was right. The animals before us
were surely gorillas, and more terrible-looking
monsters I never saw. When tho male found
that he had attracted our attention, he gave
utterance to a deep, gutteral cry; then he beat
his broad breast tremendously with both his
hands, and directly bis cry arose in volume
until it became a roar that made the very for
est quake. I trembled—l could not help it;
and I saw that the guido trembled, too. Tho
female sat down, supporting herself upon her
hands and haunches, in such a position that
she could leap at an instant’s notice, while the
male remained standing erect, continuing to
roar and beat his breast.
The guide asked me if we should fire. I did
not know what to answer. I knew that if we
fired, and missed our mark, we were dead men.
If we did not fire, the gorillas might leave us.
And yet I wanted the skeleton and skin of the
remarkable brute. However, our delibera
tions were very quickly and summarily brought
to an end. The male suddenly gave a terrific
cry—a cry like the concentrated war-whoop of
a thousand savages—and made a bound to
ward us. The sense of mortal danger instant
ly gave the tone of steel to my nerves, and my
rifle came to my shoulder quickly and firmly.
We both fired together, but the gorilla was not
killed. He leaped the narrow stream with a
yell more terrific than the first, and in an in
stant more he grasped the guide’s rifle, and
bent the steel barrels as though they had been
of the softest lead. This moment was our last
if my second barrel failed me. The gorilla had
thrown down the bended rifle, and another de
moniac yell was upon his lips, when I brought
the muzzle of my piece close to his head, and
pulled the second trigger. There was a mo
mentary faintness over my heart, and great
drops of perspiration started out upon my
brow, as tae thought of failure flashed across
my mind. But my rifle answered faithfully to
the touch of my finger, and the gorillS, tumbled
over with a bullet through his head.
The guide lay upon the ground, where he had
fallen in tho attempt to escape from the mon
ster ; and I saw that he was, for the present,
powerless to help me. What should Ido if the
female gorilla attacked us ? Both barrels of
my rifle were empty, and my pistols would be
but poor things against such an enemy. But,
most fortunately, her grim ladyship dia not of
fer to avenge the death of her lord. I think
the reports of our rifles, with tho flash and
the smoke, frightened her. At all events, she
uttered a succession of sharp, yelping cries,
and made off into the forest, using her hands
to assist in locomotion, and leaping forward
between them with a swinging motion..
My first care, after the departure, of the fe
male gorilla, was to reload my rifle ; and after
this I attended to the guide. I found him weak
and faint; but a few swallows of brandy soon
revived him, and in a short time his pulses
were-restored to their healthy beat. Let it not
bs thought from this that my guide was faint
hearted. If some brave man wishes to expe
rience what the faintness of utter terror is, lot
him find himself disarmed, before a wounded',
maddened, full-grown male gorilla. If he does
not in that moment feel what it is to be stricken
with mortal terror, then I should most unhes
itatingly decide that he had no nerves and no
heart.
When we came to examine the frame of the
dead monster, we found it more wondrously
developed in muscle and sinew than we had at
first thought. The arm of the most powerful
man I ever saw would have been as the arm of
a nursing infant in comparison with the arm
of that gorilla.
There was no appearance of any wrist, the
tendinous muscles continuing their knotty
swelling to the ball of the thumb. The jaws
were like a vice in their power, and I have no
doubt of the truth of tho statement that the
gorilla can crush the barrel of an ordinary
musket between his teeth : and from the man
ner in which the present monster bent up the
I double barrel of the guide’s rifle, I can easily
believe that a tree even four inches in diame
ter could have been readily broken by him..
By some of the natives of Western Africa,
where the animals are mostly found, the go
rilla is regarded with superstitious dread.
They believe the horrible body to be inhabited
by the spirit of some wicked man, which is thus
cursed by Heaven on account of bad deeds
done while in the human form. Such natives
believe that the killing of a gorilla amounts to
nothing in the way of exterminating the mon
sters, as the accursed spirit will quickly find
another body of like character. And, further
more, they think that these gorillas which
have been once slain are those which do the
most mischief against man. Others have a
different belief, and when a gorilla is slain they
make a great jubilee over the event; and some
of the bones of the dead monster, particularly
the skull, are used as charms.
Jig?* Beautiful ffentlnuous Cum
SETS OF TEETH.
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ness, &c. Atrophied or small Breasts. Price, S3O. Chronic
diseases cured with the Equalizer. DR. BELLER.
FFLICTED.-DR. E. M. BROWNE’S
Medical Dispensary, No. 22Mulberry street, thirty
j ears in practice. Ah ms eases of either sex, of whatso
ever kind or long standing will be treated, and cures
guaranteed in curable cases, or no charge.
L~ADIES NOT HAVING CONVENIENCE
at home, can be provided with superior board, nurs
ing, and medical attendance during confinement, and
their children adopted to good homes, if desired.
DR. DURANT, No. 7 Beach st., N. Y.
UNFORTUNATE!
ENTIRELY NEW SYSTEM
OF
CURING PRIVATE DISEASE
WITHOUT DOSING.
BUT AN
OUTSIDE APPLICATION.
PERFECTLY DESTROYING THE
POISONOUS VIRUS IN SIX HOURS.
All you have to do is to apply the remedy on retiring,
and awake in the morning to find yourself entirely cured.
The poor free of charge. Dr. P. GARDNER, No. 251
East Thirteenth street, corner Second avenue.
ADVISE all sufferers to
v v consult DR. LEWIS; he guarantees that none
shall leave his care until cured and restored to sound and
vigorous healtn. His office is at No. 7 Beach street, near
West Broadway, since 1840.
A SPECIAL ADDRESS TO~ THE
NERVOUS AND DEBILITATED,
WHOSE SUFFERINGS HAVE BEEN PRO
TRACTED FROM HIDDEN CAUSES.
AND WHOSE CASES REQUIRE PROMPT TREAT
MENT TO RENDER EXISTENCE DESIRABLE.
Reader, this article may not concern you at all. If you
have never suffered from disease of the organs of genera
tion, such as Spermalorrhoota, Seminal Losses, Involuntary
emissions, it is not necessary for you to read this. If you
are suffering or have suffered from Involuntary Dis
charges, what effect does it produce upon your general
health? Do you feel weak, debilitated, easily tired?
Does a little extra exertion produce palpitation of the
heart? Does your liver or urinary organs or your kidneys
frequently get out of order ? Is your urine sometimes
thick, milky or flocky, or is it ropy on settling? Or
does a thick scum rise to the ton? Or a sediment in
the bottom after it has stood a while ? Do you have spells
of short breathing or dyspepsia ? Are your bowels con
stipated? Do you have spells of fainting, or rushes of
blood to the head ? Is your memory impaired? Is your
mind constantly .dwelling upon this suojeet? Do you
feel listless, moping, tired of company, of life ? Do you
wish to be left alone—to get away from everybody? Does
any little thing make you start or jump? Is your sleep
broken or restless?. Do you discharge drops of semen
before or after making water, or during your stool, or at
night? Or have you Become impotent; lost all feeling
for the opposite sex ? Do you often feel ashamed of
yourself, thinking that everybody that looks at you knows
what is the matter with you? Is the lustre of your eye
as brilliant ? The bloom on your cheek as bright ? Do
you enjoy yourself in society as well ? Do you pursue
your business with the .same energy? Do you feel as
much confidence in yourself ? Are your spirits dull and
flagging, given to fits of melancholy? If so, do not lay
it to your Livor or Dyspepsia. Have you restless nights ?
Your back weak, knees weak, and have bub little appe
tite, and you attribute this to Dyspepsia or Liver Com
fdaint ? Did you ever tell your doctor that you had nrac
iced masturbation, or that you had suffered from Badly
cured gonorrhea, or syphillis, or from venereal excesses?
Perhaps you never thought of confiding those things to
him; and if you had, it is. a question, whether his mod
esty would have allowed him to question you closely on
the point for fear of offending you; and if he had ex
pected anythind of the kind, being your family physician
he durst not for the world have hinted at the thing for
tear of your becoming indignant and insulted.
Now, reader, self-abuse, venereal diseases badly cured
and sexual excesses, are all capable of producing a weak
ness of the.generativo organs. The organs of genera
tion, when in perfect health, make the man. Did you
ever think that those bold, defiant, energetic, persever
ing, successful businesx men are always those whose
generative organs are in perfect health ? You never hear
such men complain of being melancholy, of nervousness,
of palpitation of the heart. They are never afraid they
cannot succeed in business: they don’t become sad ana
discouraged; they are always polite and pleasant in the
company of ladies, and look you and them nght in the
face—none of your down looks or any other meanness
about them. Ido not mean those men who keep these
organs.inflamed by running to excess. These will not
only ruin their constitutions, but also those they do busi
ness with or for. ...
How many men from badly-cured private diseases,
from the effects of self-abuse and excesses, have brought
about that state of weakness in these organs, that has
reduced the general system so much as to induce almost
every other disease—idiocy, lunacy, paralysis, spinal affec
tion, suicide, and almost every other form of disease
which humanity is heir to, and the real cause of the
trouble scarcely ever suspected and have doctored for all
b “fo L TH t?V°UUSG, MIDDLE-AGED, and even OLD,
who are dsstroying their Physical Strength and Mental
Happiness by their unoontroled passions, or who are al
ready weakened and impotent by the folly of the past,
why do jou suffer when you must know the sure result if
you allow the disease to ruin and debase you, mind and
body ? If you would avoid thia disease, which renders
marriage improbable, or the married life a failure, be
warned in time, and let no false modesty keep you from
making known your troubles and receiving & sure and
lasting cure. I have cured THOUSANDS and will you, if
you call in season. A short time under my treatment
will make you a new man, and send you forth into the
world an honor to your sex, ami. I a blessing to
mankind. ALBERT LEWIS, M. D.,
Author of the “ Medical Companion and Guide to
Health,” can be confidentially consulted at his old estab
lished office. No. 7 BEACH STREET, near West Broad-
W (J’ ice nours from 9A.M.t08 P. M. Sundays, from 10
A. M. to 12 M. . , . , .
(Copyrighted.)
TOADIES.—DR. E. M, BROWNE, THIR-
B J. TY years in practice, Professor of diseases peculiar
to your sex. All chronic diseases treated; obstructions
of whatsoever kind removed; medicines furnished. Dr.
B. is a graduate of the Pennsylvania College of Medi
cines. Dispensary, No. 22 Mulberry street.
ALADIES’ PHYSICIAN.—DR. 11. D
GRINDLE, No. 120 West Twenty-sixth street
near Sixth avenue, having twenty years successful and
uninterrupted practice in this city, guarantees certain
relief to all ladies requiring special treatment from
whatever cause produced. His safe and never-failing
mode of treatment is indorsed by the highest me dies 1
faculty, and unknown to all others. Elegant rooms for
ladies about to require nursing*. Good homes can be
procured for infants.
Best french protectors, for
gentlemen, at $3. $4, and $5 per dozen, three for
sl, four for 81. Ladies’ Protectors, $3 each. Circulars
free. Call on or address Dr. MAN CHES, No. 651 Broad
way.
Nervous and physical debili
ty and all other special diseases scientifically and
successfully treated by Dr. LEWIS, No. 7 Beach street.
No case undertaken, or fee accepted, unless a cure can be
guaranteed. Established in 1840.
ANHOOD: HOW LOST, HOW BE
STORED —Just Published by DR. LEWIS, (254
Pages.) THE MEDICAL COMPANION AND GUIDE
TO HEALTH, on the radical cure of Spermatorrhoea, or
Seminal Weakness, Involuntary Seminal Losses, Impo
tency, Mental and Physical Incapacity, Impediments to
Marriage, etc., and the Venereal and Syphilitic Maladies,
with plain and clear directions for the speedy cure of
Secondary Symptoms. Gonorrhoea, Gleets, Strictures,
and all diseases of the skin, such as Scurvy, Scrofula,
Ulcers, Boils, Blotches and Pimples on the face and
body. Consumption, Epilepsy, and Fits, induced by
self-indulgence or sexual extravagance.
The celeb rated author, in this admirable Treatise
clearly demonstrates from a thirty years’ successful prac
tice, tnat the alarming consequences of self-abuse may
be radically cured: pointing oat a mode of cure at once
simple, certain, and effectual by means of which every
sufferer, no matter what his condition may be. can be
effectually cured cheaply, privately, and radically.
This Book should be in tho hands of every yoiith
and every man in the land.
Sent under seal in a plain envelope. Price 50 cents.
Aodrets, DR. LEWIS, No- 7 Boooh street. New York.
Sunday Edition. July 25.
WW OrM
tmpqrtantTto females, —lady
... *r> va recnlar medical treatment, eon-
?°- 154 East Twenty-eighth street,
130 guaranteed safe, cer
tain ana immediate relief, or no charge. Advice gratis.
Kcmed’es lor female derangements, from SI to $5.
Monthly Regulators, $5. Confidential advice and medi
cine per mail. Twenty years’ successful practice; no de
ception or quackery. N. 8.-Mme. D. will consult with
ladies who prefer meeting their own sex, or kindly care
for those desiring home attention during treatment.
VANS’ UNFORTUNATES’ FRIEND—
Only certain cure for worst private diseases, at No.
91 Uhataam st,
WILL GIVE ONE THOUSAND DOL<
LARS for any case of the follow-
ing diseases which the medical facul- Zl**.
T , YT> h^?/-<V? o . l l? unced incurable that
S g OM)EN REME- / X
DIES wdl not radically cure. Dr. Ri-/ \
chaus Golden Balsam No. 1 will cure / \
Syphilis in its Primary and Secondary | 1
stages, such as old Ulcers and Ulcer- \ Qy I
ated Sore Throat, Sore Eyes, Skin \ V /
Eruptions, Soreness of the Scalp, and \ /
all stages of the disease, eradicating X S
disease and mercury
Price, ssperbotttle, ortwo bottles $9. *»*•♦
GoW «° Balsam No. 2 will cure tho third
SyPhllM. where Syphilitic and Mercu-
I ar ? co " n s“ied with the Primary and
S_condary. I have hundreds of certificates where mi-
Patients eat and drink what they like, and require no
Hundreds suffei from SiphSiti?
ana Mercurial Rheumatism who are not awarp of it
and I defy such to obtain a radiS cure w’thout tha
use of this medicine. Its beneficial effects are felt at
once It has raised men from hospital-beds in one week,
who have lam there for years under the bert practitioner!
m the city, and is the only radical cure for tne worst dis-.
f e o a r B W no i't n 6 ’;vL Pl Vo^? 0 ? f
uie S dint I ot 6a this% y eourge' f ~ lt SaVeS vour oftswi “S £ro “
Dr. Richaua’ Golden Antidote, a safe, speedy, pleasant,
an d radical cure for Gonorrhoea, Gleet, Irritation, Gravel,
and all urinary derangements, accompanied with full di
rections. Warranted to cure. Price, $3 per bottle.
Dr. Kichaus Golden Elixir de Amour, a radical cure
ior bpermatorhoea General Debility in old or young,
fwJaA lty , lm Par«ing energy with, wonderful
enect to those who have led a life of sensuality or self
abuse. It is jnvaluble to those who are an.xio is for
an increase m family. Nothing more certain in ita
eiiects. it is composed of the most powerful in
gredients of the vegetable kingdom Harmless, but
speedy in restoring heath. Price, §5 per bottle, or two
bottles tor:§9. T ade nnnnlied at a liberal discount.
DR. RICH AU’S GOLDEN FEMALE ASSISTANT,
dictions? lrreaulari ties. Price, $lO per bottle, with
On receipt of price, these remedies will be shipped to
any part tree ircm ot servation ; correspondents an
swered confident;]ally ; hours for consu.t ition. 9 A. M. to
9P. M.; none genuine witnput name ot Dr. Richaus*
Gold l , n hemediei. D. B. Richards, Solo Pro., re tor,
bo vn in gla sof bottles. Observe well ;rade mark on
outs de wrapper a'd wri tan signatures on inside label.
Address Lr. D. B. RIOHARDS, No. 228 Varick street.
New York citv.
Sen 1 money by Post office order, express or draft.
Goods seat C. O. D.
SPECIAL NOTICEFtoIFhE LADIES—
kZ? A sure and reliable medicine, under all circum
stances, for removing obstructions and suppressions.
Spanish I emale Pills, $2 00 per box. French Sugar
coated (stronger) Pills, $3 00 per box. Periodical Drops.
re P ? r ? aL <R^ a ad 3»£ d 3» 00 each - Syringes of
all kinds from $1 00 to $lO 00 each. Ladies, the above
remedies are in valuable. Medicines for gentlemen put
up m $5 and $lO packages. Invigorating Cordial for
nervous debility and seminal weakness, never fails, $1 50
and $3 00 per bottle. Gentlemen’s genuine A No. 1 con
veniences, under all circumstances, price, two for $1 00.
or $5 00 per dozen. I can be consulted at my office on
all diseases of a delicate nature by ladies or gentlemen.
Scwntihc treatment guaranteed to all. GEORGE R.
BOND, M. D., No. 65 Orchard, cor. Grand street, over
lea store. Jentrance on Orchard st. Established in 1832.
DR. COBEL, No. 116 ELDRIDGE ST.
Imallible accouchment under all circumstances, at
the least terms; also infallible cures of all sexual private,
cutaneous and rheumatic diseases, etc., etc.
CASES PRIVATE DISEASES
V 7 cured by Dr. Evans, No. 94 Chatham st. Only
mad.omesto cure. Manhood restored by his Elixir. Re
commended before marriage,
A CERTAIN CURE FOR MARRIED
Ladies, with or without medicine, by Madame
RESTELL, Professor of Midwifery:,over 30 years’prac
tice. Her infallible French Female Pills, No. 1, price SI,
or No. 2, specially prepared for married ladies, price $5,
which can never fail, are saie and healthy. Sold only at
her office, No. 1 East Fifty-second street, first door from
Fifth avenue, and at Druggist’s, No. 152 Greenwich
street, or sent by mail. Caution—All others are coun-
Dr? - EVANS’ INVIGORATORS —Lost
Manhood restored in fifteen minutes. Recom
mended before marriage. Price, $5, No. 14 Chatham
st., N. Y.
INVALIDS, READ DR. BONIT & SON’S
MEDICAL ADVERTISEMENT.
WOMAN’S FRIEND IN NEED—Dr.
Evans, No. 94 Chatham st., N. Y. His Female
Pills and Drops give unfailing relief, without suffering
or publicity; successful at one trial.
TMPORTANT I’O~F E MALES.”—
JL Twenty-five years’ successful practice. Always
safe; always sure. Dr. and Madame DUBOIS, No. 154
E. Twenty-eighth St. Electricity scientifically applied.
VIGOR AND MANHOOD for young
men using Dr. Evans’ Life Elixir, a guaranteed
cure. No. 94 Chatham street, N. Y.
ADIES CURED AT ONE INTERVIEW,
with or without medicine. Regulating Pills, $5,
sure and safe. Address or call on Dr. MANUHES, No.
651 Broadway.
OTWE.—DR. LEWIS, NO. 7 BEACH
street, near West Broadway, can be consulted daily
from 9 A. M. to 8 P. M., and on Sundays from 10 A. M. to
12 M.
DR. EVANS’ REMEDIES FOR WO
MEN’S DIFFICULTIES never disappoint. Price.
$5. No. 84 Chatham st.
DR. HUNTER’S BOTANIC CORDIAL
is the only positive and Specific Remedy for all
personal suffering from general or sexual debility, all de
rangements of the nervous forces, melancholy, sperma
torrhoea, or seminal emissions, all weaknesses arising
from sexual excesses, or youthful indiscretions, loss ot
muscular energy, physical prostration, nervousness,
weak spine, lowness of spirits, dimness of vision, hyster
ics, pains in the back and limbs, impotency, <&c.
No language can convey an adequate idea of the imme
diate and almost miraculous change it occasions to tho
debilitated and shattered system. In fact, it stands un
rivaled as au unfailing cure of the maladies above men
tioned.
Suffer no more, but try one bottle; it will effect a euro
where all others fail, and although a powerful remedy,
contains nothing hurtful to the most delicate constitu
tion. Price, Five Dollars. No. 56 Bond street, one door
from Bowery. Book of 60 pages gratis.
M~~ ADAME~VANBUSkIRK ! Physician
and Midwife, can be consulted at No. 42 St. Mark’s
place, near Second avenue. Having had twenty-five
years 1 experience in the treatment of all female com
plaints, she can guarantee cure when all others fail Her
remedies are safe and sure, and always give immediate
relief. Pleasant rooms and board for those from a dis
tance. Consultations at all hours.
TO LADIESDr. Evans’ Powerful Pills
and Drops, unfailing, safe, certain. All whose
health will not permit of their becoming mothers, call
or address Dr. Evans, No. 94 Chatham st., N. Y.
J ADIES REQUIRING MEDICAL OR
JLJ Surgical treatment for the removal of all special
irregularities or obstructions, may with confidence con
sult DR. DURANT. No. 7 Beach street,
near West Broadway, New York.
ORIVATiTDISEASEsTBOTH
cured by Dr. MANURES, No. 651 Broadway. Sem
inal Pills, for nervous debility, 81 per box, or six boxes
$5, by mail or at office. Circulars sent.
"ORENCH INVENTIONS FOR GENTS.-
Jl? Save hundred times cost. $3 per dozen, at No. 94
Chatham so., N. Y. L
Always sure—a patient
WRITES: “I spent S4O for drugs. All failed.
Electricity relieved me m ten minutes without pain.”
Dr. and Madame DUBOIS. No. 154 East Twenty-eighth
St., near Third Ave. Exclusive board and attendance.
Relief positive. No deception. No quackery.
D^rT LEwFsTaUTHOR OF THE PRl
vate Treatise, &c., No. 7 Beach street. Those who
apply in the eariy stage of disease will be surprised at the
ease and rapidity of the cure.
SPECIAL NOTICE TO MABMEdX
O AND SINGLE LADIES. .
The most wonderful, reliable and certain remedy, as
well as always healthy, for married or single ladies, in re
moving obstructions iyid suppressions, from whatever
cause, and restoring the monthly sickness, has proved to
be ’portugu ESB female monthly pills.
Thousands of ladies have used them with infallible cer
tSßead what the best physicians testify in respect to
“A woman applied to be treated for suppression. It
appeared that she had been subject to irregularity, or
stoppage of the monthly turns, and as she appeared to be
free from the usual symptoms attending pregnancy, it
was not supposed that the stoppage arose from that
cause. She commenced using the PORTUGUESE FE
MALE MONTHLY PILLS. . After using them about
five days—from certain indications attending miscarriaga
—suspicions began to be entertained that the suppression
might have arisen from pregnancy, which, upon examina
tion, proved to be the case—too late, however, to prevent
the miscarriage. In a short time, it took place, and on
about the third day after she entirely recovered, with but
little comparative inconvenience to her general health.”
He further states that thoir efficacy and certainty ara
such, that they are sometimes administered in cases of
malformation of pelvis, when the female is incompetent
to give birth at maturity.
They cannot fail, in recent cases they succeed m forty
eight hours. Price. $3 per box. In obstinate cases, those
two decrees stronger Price, $5.
Professor of Diseases of Women,
Office, No. 129 Liberty street,
Sole Agent and Proprietor for upward of twenty years.
They are sent by mail, in ordinary letter envelopes, with
full instructions and advice.
Dr. A. M. Mauriceau, for twentyryears successful prac
titioner a> his present office, guarantees a. safe, and imme
diate and efficacious cure of all special difficulties, irregu
larities and obstructions, either in person or by mail.
Ladies from all parts of the United States consult him
confidence and certainty of success.
UNFORTUNATE FEMALES.-Dr. Ev
ans, No. 94 Chatham st., removes trouble at ona
in t er v ie w.
rgIRUTH AND COMMON SENSE.—
JL Have you contracted that, terrible disease which,
when settled in the system, will surely go down from
one generation to another, undermining the constitu
tion, and sapping the very vital fluids of life ? Do not trust
yourself in rue bands of mushroom ouacks that start up
every day in a city like this, and fill the papers wita
abominable falsehoods, too well calculated to deceive tha
young, and those who are not “ posted up” to the tricks
of foreign and domestic impostors.
You cannot be too careful in the selection of a physi
cian, or a remedy in these cases. You should apply to a
man who has had ample experience, and who possesses
true skill in the treatment thereof. Such a physician is
Dr. HUNTER, who was located at No. 3 Di ision street
nearly forty years, but has removed to No. 56 Bond street,
one door from the Bowery. He lays his claims on tha
following facts, which can be proved at any moment:
He had been in active practice over forty years, and
established his office in New York in 1833, exclusively for
the treatment of venereal diseases, and has devoted all
his abilities during all that time to this branch of medi
cine only. His great remedy—HUNTER’S Red Drop—
is medicine perfectly innocent in its action, yet so thor
ough that it annihilates every particle of the rank and
poisonous virus of this dreadiul disease, and on this ac
count alone it was first made public, that, unlike other
remedies, it does not dry it up in the blood, to break out
at a remote period all over the body, or to transmit to
the offspring. It has saved the pedigree of some of. tha
best families in America, and has saved more lives sinca
its discovery than this city contains. It has been coun
terfeited and slandered mors than any remedy of any
kind ever brought before the public—the rascals know
ing that unless they deter the i nfortunate victims of.
this dreadful disease from obtaining it their prospect for
patronage is gone. For ten years past every consum
mate quack doctor in this and other cities has got u]>
some lie about this great remedy, while at the sama
time Dr. HUNTER restores people resound health daily
who have been ruined with mercury and caustic by tnesa
humbugs. Dr, HUNTER practices on the most honor-*
able principles. No man is asked who or what he is.
Dr. HUNTER’S business is to cure his patients, and no
one knows but his patient and himseli that they eves
mot professionally. He desires young men attached ta
respectable families, and who are led astray by the nu
merous temptations of a city life, to understand this.
He has refused more certificates of cures from persons
who have beon unsuccessfully treated by other physi
cians than will fill the largest newspaper in the world a
dozen tunes over, being restrained by the injurious
effects it might produce on their characters in after life;
for reader, his patients live and enjoy sound health,
after his treatment. All afflicted are invited to apply at
once at his naw office, No. 56 Bond street, and rest as
sured that you will receive the utmost care and atten
tion until a perfect, sound, and thorough oure is effect
ed, which occupies, in primary cases, from three ta
eight days Quly. UQmuIUUQa and