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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, September 12, 1869, Image 6

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By Edward ElHs Kidder.
A fileader figure, xooi’y clad
In threadbare gaunenis, shrunk and torn,
Entered a lamous theatre
Early one glowing Summer morn,
And whispered, with humility,
«*I wish to play ‘ utility 1’ ”
p Begone, thou wretched stage-struck youth 1°
' The manager in anger cried,
“How dare ye boldly enter here,
Where stars have lived, and blondes have dyed ?
Men of respectability
We want for our utility !”
• •Alas! I see you know me not!”
The figure said, “ Oh, woeful fatel
Have you forgotten then, so soon,
Your once beloved legitimate ?
Forced by the town’s scurrility
To play os poor utility!”
•'Think not that in thy company
A small ‘posish* I come to claim.
Bevenge on thee is what I seek!”
He grasped the others’ portly frame;
Then he and the “utility”
hunk downward with agility.
* * * * * »
’Twas but a dream, and yet it proved
A blessing to our suffering town,
For talent fills the place once held
By capering nymph and simpering clown
That had no capability
For “ beauty or utility.”
What a crowd! What a crush I Where had
all the people come from, and how was the
tram io carry them, if they all meant to trav
el? Why, it would take twice the number of
(carriages to hold them! Well, it was no use
to stand still and be jostled about, or struggle
to get into it by fair means, amid such a strug
gling, scuffling mob ; and then, were 1 to lose
n, I should lose the chance of settling the
business about which I was hurrying home,
. and a good sum of money beside. Yes, that
was certain; and go I must, and by that par
ticular train, or I should be too late.
Such were my mental reflections ere, with
something of mischief, if not wickedness of
spirit, I resolved to make my way into one or
other of the carriages of the said tram by
stratagem, if not by force. Acting on this
impulse, I ventmed on a trick, the success of
which led to the results I am about to relate.
f‘ {Stand back, please ; Don’t crush so 1 Plen
ty of room m the other carriages! Stand
back, I say, or I won’t be answerable for him
—I won’t indeed 1” I shouted, in warning
tones to those around, as I pointed to my
traveling companion, Tom Lester, a handsome,
stalwart young fellow, who, separated from
me for a time by the jostling crowd, had now
rejoined me, and whose grave lace, dark hair
and beard, and keen, dark eyes, and gave him
just the sort of physiognomy suited to the
character I meant him to assume for the occa
Instantly all eyes wero turned toward Tom,
who, being a good-humored, witty fellow, and
fond of a lark, understood the hint, and show
* ed he enjoyed it by starting wildly and glaring
on those near him with a fierce, maniacal ex
pression, that made one and all shrink back
■with alarm as we wriggled our way to a com
partment of the second-class carriage nearest
to us.
1 said all shrank back ; no, not all; one, a
pa.e, gentle-faced girl, in deep mourning,
struggled after us through the opening crowd.
Poor thing! I could remember having seen
her a few minutes before jostled here and there
in her vain endeavors to call the attention of
some of the officials to a very small trunk and
carpet-bag, which, watched over by a boy, lay
.at some distance on the platform. How she
managed to get through 1 know not, but now
I saw her struggling toward the carriage, the
carpet-bag on her arm, and the boy following
with the trunk, a look of glad relief on her
face, as she met my glance of encouragement,
when, preceded by the supposed maniac, 1
sprang into the nearest compartment, and
turning in the doorway, heid out my hand to
assist her to enter.
“That’s rigat. Come in—l’ll see to them!”
I exclaimed, in hurried tones, as, relieving her
of the carpet-bag, I grasped her little hand,
and dragged her in after us, then, taking the
box from the boy, placed it and the bag near
her on the floor of the carriage.
What a relief it was to her at least, poor
child, to escape from the crush and confusion
of that struggling crowd, where bearded dan
dies, plain and pretty girls, with enormous
chignons, invisible hats and bonnets, and
sweeping trams or tucked-up skirts, were
strangely mingled with roughly clad and
roughly spoken working men and women, as
well as respectable elderly ladies and gentle
men, or anxious papas and mammas of fami
lies, followed by their young hopefuls, each
and all hurrying here and there in their selfish
haste to find seats for themselves, their friends,
< r their darlings ; a scene of scuffling, squeez
ing, and discomfort, that resembled more a
ru&h to escape from the shock of ap earth
quake, or some other dire calamity, £han that
of a struggle to find places in a train that was
about to start for a cheerful excursion trip to
one of the loveliest spots in that loveliest of
English counties, Kent.
“Oh, thank you, sir. thank you; it was so
kind of you,” remarked the young girl, with a
taint blush, when she was seated. “I was so
frightened, for I’m going to a situation at Old
field, and could not wait for the next train;
and they told me I could not get my things
taken by this.”
“All right.” I returned. “We’re going near
the sumo place, and will see that your lug
gage ”
1 was interrupted in what I was going to say
by the hurried entrance of three strongly
built, farmer-looking men, who growled some
thing about their having seats, in spite of the
old gentleman himself, if he were there, eyeing
my friend Tom suspiciously the while—a re
mark which called the shadow of a smile to the
face of our fair fellow-traveler, who, despite
this rudeness on their part, and her gratitude
lor my assistance, was, I could see, not a little
relieved by their appearance.
I glanced toward Tom, who I could see felt
that they suspected the trick, and, naturally
mischief-loving, was all the more determined
to carry it out—a fact shown by the inimitable
glare of mingled ferocity and cunning with
which he glanced from side to side, as if with
the intention of making hjs exit by either of
the doors of the compartment.
“Not roight to have a coostomer loike that
asoide o’ decent folks in a place loike this,”
growled one of the men, in a broad Yorkshire
dialect, as he witnessed this proof of his in
“ Quite harmless, gentlemen, quite harmless,
if he isn’t meddled with/’ I remarked, in assur
ing tones, just as one of the guards looked in
io find places for two prim-looking elderly
ladies, who, either objecting to th© looks of the
company within, or the trunk and carpet bag
that obstructed the way, peeped in and drew
back, remarking there was no room, to the
annoyance of the bustling official.
“Plenty of room—make way there. Come,
this trunk can’t be here. No luggage allowed
by excursion trains!” he called out. angrily,
as, seizing a handle of the poor little box, ho
tried to drag it out of the carriage.
“ Must be here—cannot be removed. Need
ed for my friend hero—a desperate case, I
assure you!” I exclaimed, in stentorian tones,
determmed to prevent its removal, a bright
Idea having struck me as I marked the pale,
supplicating look on the face of the poor girl
as she clung to it, begging him to allow it to
“Cannot be here against the rules,” he
growled again, as he glanced angrily up into
my face, and, despite her entreaties, was pro
ceeding to tear it from her grasp.
“Stop! Are you mad? A desperate case,
and it’s needed. There’s a strait waistcoat
and handcuffs in it. Daren’t travel with him
without them. You’d better not meddle with
It, or you’ll raise him, and 1 won’t be answer
able for the consequences. Look at him—just
look at him, if you won’t believe me !” I cried
out in warning tones, as I pointed toward
Tom, who acted his part to the life ; his fierce
glare and the menacing attitude he assumed at
the words, as he half rose from the corner in
which he sat, the action displaying his power
ful athletic form to advantage, confirming my
assertions as to the danger of rousing him,
and convincing not only the guard, but the
ladies also, that the trunk was where it ought
to be, and they where they ought not, a proof
of which was that the latter vanished from the
scene, and the former muttered a civil “ All
right, sir,” as relinquishing the trunk he pock
eted the gratuity 1 slipped into his pand,
slammed to the door and locked it, and heed
less of the grumbling exclamations of the
three strangers, who seemed anything but
pleased at the prospect of having such a trav
eling companion, hurried off to find another
and more suitable compartment.
A grateful look from the fair bWer of the
trunk rewarded my exertions in her behalf, a
look that changed to one of pitying interest, as
it turned to the grave, handsome face of the
supposed maniac, whose bright, keen eyes
were now fixed on her countenance with an
earnest scrutiny.
“I’m very grateful to you, Sir. You’ve boon
very kind, and having such a charge, too. But
the gentleman, your friend there, it’s such a
tad case; hu’s so young and so very handsome,
poor gentleman, I pity him very much,” she
ventured to remark m reply to my smiling as
surance that we should not be disturbed again,
ts I piaced the little trunk so as hot |o incom
mode her or the rest of the passengers, pre»
vious to drawing out a copy of tho to
read on the way.
“ Yes, it’s a very sad case, IJo a fin©,
handsome fellow before it happened. A disap
pointment in love. Never got over it. Maae
nun what jou see him. Tried the London
doctors—wouldn’t do, quite incurable. Tak
ing him home again,” I murmured in hurried
tones, one falsehood bringing on another, my
heart checking me the while for the deception,
yet forced to carry it out, and strangely in
clined to laugh ere I had finished by seeing
Tom start hurriedly from his seat and lean out
of the window to give vent to the irrepressible
mirth my description of his case had provoked,
a movement which called forth more grum
bling remarks from the three men and another
Pitying expression from the sympathizing girl.
“Your friend will be a rather troublesome
passenger, I’m thinking,” remarked one of the
men, in a surly tone.
“ 100 late to- change now, I suppose?” ex
claimed another, looking as if be wished to get
“ Ay, too late, my lad ; ye must jist foight it
out wi’ mm naow it he iroyes to tarottie ye or
the young woman here,” replied the Yorkshire
man, with a grim smile, as he glanced toward
the >oung laoy.
“Loor gentleman, poor gentleman; it’s a
sad case, a very sad case.” was her only reply
to these remarks, for at the moment Tom re
sumed his seat, and with a quick jerk the train
started whistling and yelling on ns journey.
On we flew, now through pleasant vales,
shady woods, and quaint villages, and now
between flow'ery banks or by quiet or
brawling streams in some wild glen or still
moorland scene. On, on, Tom grave and silent
as before, but now and then peering round with
a stolen glance to the fair, observant face of
the girl or the grim, sun-browned countenance
of the countryman, or my own careworn vis
age, as. bending over my paper, I sat silent
but watchful, wondering what new phase his
affected insanity would assume, fearing lest he
might over or under act it, so as to arouse the
anger of these gruff fellows, whose appearance
I aid not particularly like, and who, it they
discovered the trick, might resent it in some
manner that might be disagreeable if not dan
gerous to him at least.
I had time during this espionage to observe
the graceful, lady-dike bearing of our
wnose face and 'form lent to rather than bor
rowed their air of elegance from the simple yet
becoming dress of deep mourning in which she
was attired, but on wnose countenance there
was a shade of melancholy which told me she
had known trials of no ordinary kind. She was
a sweet, attractive creature, certainly, with a
something in her look and bearing that ex
pressed the meaning of the term “lady” as
plainly as words could have expressedit, not
from mere beauty of face or form ; for, judged
classically or critically, some might not even
have deemed her pretty or fine-looking ; while
from her dress of homely material, and simple
little bonnet and jacket, no idea of wealth or
gentle or aristocratic descent could be inferred.
No ; it could be seen at a glance that she was
no pampered child of fortune. Well, no mat
ter, she was better still. She was gentle, in
tellectual-looking, and graceful —ay, graceful,
even to the tidy cnignon, that looked so pret
ty, and which, as well as the bright looks that
adorned her lair forehead, shone brightly and
golden-like under her little crape bonnet, as the
rays of the morning sun beamed through the
carriage window and fell m a stream of light
on the silken threads, tinging them with a hue
of deeper gold. I have been an admirer of
chignons ever since. And then her fair, open
brow, and gentle, thoughtful eyes, with their
sweet, pensive expression—they would have
redeemed the plainest face from ugliness ; but
over her they shed a strange, peculiar beauty,
though it was a beauty few, perhaps, might
understand or appreciate, owing to that very
peculiarity. Strictly beautiful she migiit not
oe, but lovable and attractive she certainly
was ; so attractive, that had 1 not been a grave
bachelor of forty-five—a bachelor from circum
stances, and blest with a true love of my own,
a dear, good creature, who had loved and
waited for me through long years of poverty
and hopelessness ; a gently, faithful creature,
too, who, though many yeots her senior, was,
despite the difference of age, as youthful, inno
cent, and trusting in nature as herself, and who
loved, and was too dearly loved by me for a too
tender thought of another to find room in my
heart. Had it not been for this fact, I know
not how deep my interest might have grown
toward my fair fellow-traveler.
It was as much to draw the attention of my
friend Tom off the object of my interest as to
amuse him, that I at length handed him the
paper, with the sternly uttered monosyllable
“Bead ;” and trusting its pages mignt occupy
his wandering eyes till our journey should bo
ended, 1 tried to enjoy myself by looking out
at tho beautiful landscape through which we
were passing : a brief enjoyment, however,
from which 1 was soon startled by a sound as
of the tearing of paper, and turning suddenly
round, I had just time to see my unread news
paper torn to shreds and thrown out of the
window, and a clay pipe, with which the York
shircman had begun to regale himfeelf, was
dragged from his lips, and pitched out after it,
by the quondam maniac, whose loud cry of
“No papers !no pipes!” as he performed this
unpardonable freak, aroused the fierce passions
of the three men, who flew on him with one
accord, their wrathful looks and expressions,
and the wild cries of the enraged owner of the
pipe, “Pitch the coostomer out! pitch him out
o’ tho carnage!” causing the young lady to
shrink, pale and trembling, into a corner, and
filling my heart with a wild dread that our joke
might have a fatal termination for one of us.
“Down, Tom! Down this moment! Stop,
gentlemen; stop, for mercy’s sake! Don’t
rouse him, for he has the strength of ten men,
and might kill us all.”
Such were my frantic exclamations as, rush
ing to his rescue, I released, or at least assisted
to release him, from the hands of his assail
ants, on whom this fearful warning had its due
effect, for after many growlings and reflections
on the imprudence of the railway officials m
allowing peoples’ lives to be endangered by
permitting madmen to travel along with them,
and many threats that they’d make the com
pany pay for this business, they calmed down
a little, remarking, that if he tried any mure
such tricks, they’d pitch him out of the car
riage,—a remark which called forth a gentle
remonstrance from the young girl, who begged
them, in trembling but earnest tones, to re
member that the poor gentleman didn’t know
what he was doing ? and was more deserving of
their pity than their anger.
As 1 expected, so it proved, for at the next
station we stopped at the men went out and
did not return, having previously advised our
fair companion to change into another carriage,
an advice which, owing either to her gratitude
for the little assistance I had rendered her, or
her fears that her trunk might not find an en
trance into any other in the train, she did not
take; and, our journey resumed, my friend
Tom suddenly cnanged his tactics, and sat
mute and pensive, almost despondent looking,
in his corner, till at length (whether in seem
ing or reality I could not guess) his eyes closed,
and his handsome head drooped languidly, as
if in a peaceful sleep.
As there was a stoppage of twenty minutes
or so at a station further on, to allow a coming
train to pass, and he still slept, or seemed to
sleep, I had an opportunity of conversing for
some time with the gentle-hearted girl, who,
through the whole, had shown a gratitude and
patience of spirit that did her credit, and deep
ened my respect for her. Anxious to know a
little of her history, and after a few remarks
on the beauty of the landscape around us, 1 in
quired if London was her native place, if her
parents were alive, and if this was her first
visit to D , questions which she answered
with a mingled modesty and frankness that
deepened still more the interest that her gen
tle countenance, her soft-toned voice and lowly
position had awoke in my heart.
Poor girl! hers was a sad history indeed.
The only child of a respectable merchant, who
had died in embarrassed circumstances, she
and her widowed mother had been left unpro
vided for—a circumstance the more trying, as
the latter was in delicate health, and ill fitted
to struggle and toil lor a subsistence for her
self and her daughter. Sad and tremulous
were the accents of tho poor girl, as she- told,
in a few hurried words, her tale of sorrow and
Buffering—told how that fond mother, a highly
gifted woman, had striven in vain to support
both of them in comfort, by giving lessons in
French and music, and by writing for the mag
azines—told how she had vainly striven, till
health and hope had faded away in the fruit
less attempt; and thrown on a sick bed, she
pined out her existence in tho cheerless and
dingy obscurity of a suburban lodging-house,
supported and tended by her alone, whose
scanty earnings by needlework, and the pro
ceeds of the sale of tho few articles of value
they possessed, wero all they had to meet the
expenses of that time of darkness and suffer
It was indeed a dark, dreary time, those
weary months before and after tho death of her
dear mother, she remarked, with tearful eyes ;
for her relatives had kept coldly aloof from her;
and she would have been utterly friendless and
alone but for the kindness of their good clergy
man and his wife, both of whom had visited
and ministered to her suffering parent during
her illness, and comforted and supported her
self by their consolations and sympathy when
the death shadow had fallen on the lonely room
where they had so often wept and toiled to
“Yes.” she remarked, in conclusion, “Heav
en was kind to send me such friends in that
time of trial, and their kindness did not end
there; fo-r when I became ill, after the funeral,
they took me into their house and treated me
as if I had been their own daughter. They
kept me till I was quite recovered, and then
interested themselves to find me a situation.
It was Mr. and Mrs, Dakers who recommend
ed me to the one I am going to, and though
the lady said in her letter to them it would be
a rather confining Ono, I don’t mind th at much.
To a sorrowing heart, solitude and retirement
are ever welcome and sweet.” (
As I listened to her tale of sorrow, my heart
reproached me foy ihe deception Tom and I
had practised on her as well as on our late fel
low travelers. What would this truthful, con
fiding creature think of both of us, and more
particularly of myself, should we ever meet in
the future, apd our part in that railway adven
ture become known to her ? Beneficial as its
effects had been to her, it was still a trick, a
falsehood, and might seem a mockery of her
defenselessfposition. Anxious to learn if there
might be a chance of our meeting agani, I in
quired of her the name and address of the
lady to fthom she engaged, and in what
capacity she was to attend on her. Tho ques
tion seemed to surprise her, for she replied,
with a deep blush, as if embarrassed by my
curiosity, that the lady was a Mrs. Amson, of
pidfield, and that she was to be a useful com
panion to her, or something of that kind.
“ Useful companion 1 Slave, victim, drudge,
you mean. She is the wickedest old wretch in
the whole county, and will break your heart in
a fortnight 1” exclaimed the impetuous Tom,
forgetting his assumed character, and starting
up from his feigned sleep in his indignation at
the hews, to my utter confusion and the won
der or terror oi the poor girl, who shrank back
with alarm as she marked the angry flash in
bis eyos» and heard his warning tones. “ Don’t
go to her, if you value your character or com
fort. She’ll torture you as well as confine you.
She’ll break your neart and blight your name,
as she has done to oiii .j. Don’t go to her!
Be warned m time!” ex. iainued tire impetuous
young man, as he bent bis earnest gaze with a
mingled expression of pity and sympathy on
her palo, wondering face.
. “Nonsense,.Lester. De silent, will you?
Don’t mind,him-: he’s only raving,” I remark
ed. confused and alarmed at the result of my
“No, I won’t be silent,” ho retorted. “It’s
time this masquerading were over. .Young
lady, he deceived you in saying I was mad ;
I’m as sane as yourself, certainly more sane
than he is, and I tell you. you won’t be happv,
nor even sate in the situation you are going
to; no, not even safe in the house with that
cruel suspicious old woman. No, not a word;
John, don’t you remember the cases of the two
poor girls she used so cruelly ; don't you re
member how one was turned off at a moment’s
warning without a character because the old
wretch missed two rings she had mislaid and
blamed her for them, and how they were
found afterward, but not till the poor
girl’s good name was gone and her
heart nearly broken. Ay, and don’t you
remember . the case of the other girl—a
worse case still—how the poor creature ran off
after she bad nearly driven her mad through
her ill-usage because her half-idiot son took a
fancy to her. Ay, nearly drove her mad, as
you ought to know, by accusing her of stealing
a gold watch and some laco handkerchiefs that
never had an existence but in her own wicked
imagination. You’ll remember the case per
fectly well, and how the old vixen tried to ruin
the poor girl’s character through all the neigh
borhood by telling everybody she was a bold,
dishonest woman, who had set herself out to
entrap her poor boy into a fancy for her, that
she might rob her, till the poor, persecuted
girl took courage and make her pay smartly
for her falsehoods, as well as showed her up
for the person she really was w the good peo
ple of D . Pshaw, Jack! ought to know
the story best, since it was you who won the
suit for her,” he exclaimed, impetuously.
“Certainly,” said I; “and so I might, but
for my treacherous memory. Now that tho
circumstances of the case are recalled to my
mind, 1 do remember that nearly forgotten
law suit, and the grim, hard faced, elderly lady
I cross-examined so unmercifully on the occa
sion. I remember, too, how glaringly her
falsehood and hard-heartedness came out in
that examination.”
Then I reflected, that her son, her idol, the
heir of her wealth and name, and vainer and
sillier that ever, would toon be at Oldfield, and
that the sweet, earnest face of this poor young
woman might attract his admiration, and per
haps call the wrath and suspicion of his mother
on her defenseless head, I felt the painfulness
oi her position, and saw the peril that menaced
“Is this—can this betrue?” she inquired;
“is this gentleman “
“ Sane ?—yes, as sane as you or I am, mad
am,” I remarked, interrupting her. “ Business
of importance rendered it necessary we should
come by this train, and as I chanced to espy,
among the crowd around the only carriage m
which there was room, two suspicious-looking
characters who were my traveling companions
on a former occasion, when I had the misfor
tune to lose a valuable gold watch, I tried the
only plan likely to exclude them from the com
partment in which we are—that of passing off
my friend here as a lunatic, and mys If as his
keeper. I regret that circumstances compelled
this act of deception, an act which, through the
late thoughtless freak oi tho principal actor,
must have caused you no little alarm, as well
as appearing ungentiemanly and untruthful.
“And now, as we have come to an explana
tion, may I beg, madam, that you will accept
my regretful apology for the alarm I caused
you in taking advantage of my assumed charac
ter, to teacii the rules of good breeding, not
only to my friend there, but also to tho rude
clown who was guilty, not only of the rudeness
of smoking in the presence of a lady, but had
the audacity to take a pleasure in seeing that
the fumes of his filthy pipe were disagreeable
to you,” exclaimed Tom, enlightening us both
as to the cause of his fit of destructiveness.
“ You have no cause for regret, gentlemen,”
she replied, with a faint smile. “Your actini?
as you have done has been of great service to
me, and I am very thankful that I have met
with you, and also for your kindness in secur
ing room lor myself and my packages. But
that lady—that Mrs. Amson I—l’m so frightened
to think about her. What am I to do ? Oh !
what am 1 to do ?”
“Oh! just try and do the best you canto
please her ; though, if all is true that is said of
her, it will be no easy task. Be as cautious as
you can ; and if young Amson admires you too
much, tell both him and his mother you arc
engaged to another, and have no taste for his
attentions. That’s the best advice I can give
you, though I hope there will be no need for it,
and that she may be kinder to you than any of
her former companions,” 1 remarked, with a
smile that reassured her a little, and called an
answering one to her pale face.
As two lady passengers came in at the mo
ment, and two minutes later the train passed
us, and we were again on our way, she had no
time to reply, having had to change her place;
but a short time afterward I saw Tom seated
opposite to her in the further corner of the
compartment, and could observe a look of
pleased interest on her face as he pointed out
the places of note we passed on the way, or re
plied in his frank, off-hand way to her timid
questionings regarding Oldfield and its inhabit
ants. And as I looked, I thought how strange
it seemed that we should be all going to nearly
the same place, for my bachelor’s hall was but
two miles distant from Oldfield Park, while
Tom Lester’s comfortable farm and pleasant
homestead lay within half a mile of it. Was it
more than chance our meeting with the home
less, friendless young woman ?
As I have remarked, Tom was a handsome,
kind-hearted fellow, fond of a harmless joke,
and always ready with a kind word, or a kindly
deed for the suffering or unfortunate ; hence
it may be guessed that the idea of this friend
less, lonely girl finding a comfortless home or
meeting ill-usage at Oldfield, was unpleasing
to him. A kind master he had been to his do
mestics and farm-servants since the death of
his widowed mother, five years before, had left
him sole owner and steward of the thriving
farm and pleasant homestead, which had de
scended from father to son for generations. A
cheerful home to look at at all times was the •
quaint, comfortable old house of Summerbank,
but the death of the kind old lady bad sad
dened it strangely for Tom; and, oft tiring of
his bachelor loneliness, he would run over to
enjoy my society for a day or two, or accom
pany me in my professional trips to London or
other places, as in this instance. Suffice it to
say, he was just the sort of man to fall roman
tically in love, being Quixotically respectful and
unselfish in his bearing toward tho gentler sex,
and generous to a fault. But our journey was
at an end—the train stopped at the D sta-
tion. And now, for the first time, a serious
wish to be useful to the fair stranger in the iu
ture, should circumstances require it, arose in
his mind.
Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I hur
riedly scrawled tho words, “Should your situa
tion prove uncomfortable, or assistance or ad
vice be required at any time, be sure to apply
to the lady whose address I have marked be
low.” Then, having added my own address, as
well as that of the kind creature to whom I had
referred her, I sprang from the carriage, after
Tom had assisted her out, and handed it to
her, joined my requests to his that she would
take a seat in the comfortable wagonette that
awaited us, and allow us to set her down at her
place of destination.
We were urging our request, and she, poor
thing, fearful of putting us t,o inconvenience,
expressing her thanks for our proposed kind
ness, and her fears that her trunk and pack
ages might be troublesome to us, when we
were interrupted by the appearance of Mrs.
Amson’s coacnman. who, after looking around
as if in search of the object of our interest, at
length espied her, and asking if she were the
young person expected by his lady, on being
answered in the affirmative, remarked that he
had a conveyance waiting outside to take her
and her luggage to the house, and they’d bet
ter set off at once, for as the other young wo
man was gone, the missis would be needing her
to dress her for going out.
Wishing her happiness and comfort in her
new situation, and requesting her to pay par
ticular attention to the contents of tho paper,
we bado her good-by and hurried away. And
parting from Tom at th© gate of Summerbank,
1 was soon again in my office, up to my ears in
business, and our railway trip and its adven
ture ail but forgotten.
Six weeks had elapsed, and as during that
time 1 had seen but little of Tom, and had
heard nothing of our late traveling companion;
save a remark from the lady to whom I have
alluded, that she had heard that Mrs. Amson
‘had got a maid or companion, who was giving
her great satisfaction, I had no opportunity of
learning whether the young master of Summer
bank bad ever met his fair neighbor m his
walks; and with a momentary reflection that
our fears regarding her might prove ground
less after all, I dismissed the subject from my
memory. But the unexpected yet welcome ap
pearance of the la'dy friend above mentioned m
my office one evening just as I was about to re
tire, and her murmured “Dear John,” as she
clasped my willing hand—“ Dear John, I’m
sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but that
poor young lady, Mrs. Amson’s companion, has
got into sad trouble, and wants your advice”—
and her earnest, pitying looks as she turned
toward the door she waited outride, told that
the object of our interest had met the fate of
her predecessors.
A minute later, and she was in the room,
pale, tearful and inconsolable, telling me, m
tones inarticulate through sorrow, the details
of what I felt to be one of the vilest tricks which
a cruel, selfish and unprincipled woman could
have devised to injure and ruin the object of
her jealous suspicion and dislike.
She told me Mrs. Amson had been very kind
to her for a fortnight or so, and she had begun
to hope she was not so bad as she had been
represented, and that she might have a quiet,
comfortable home with her; but unfortunately
her son, who had been absent on a visit at the
time of her arrival, returned, and began to pay
her very marked attentions, which she assured
me she had discouraged from the first, but dis
couraged in vain. On seeing this the lady be
came wrathful and suspicious, then sarcastic
and insulting, till at length, chancing to come
into the parlor, where she had been sitting
sewing one day, just as the impudent younsr
gentleman was in the act of pressing her to ac
cept a bouquet of beam ifuj flowers he had gath
ered for her. her wrath burst all bounds, and
she called her a bold, unprincipled adventur
ess, and said she had only come to the house
to entrap her son into a marriage, remarking
t.iat if sue saw any more of her tricks she would
turn her out of doors at once without a charac
To this false and insulting accusation the
.poor giri had retorted by a proud and firm de
nial tiiat she had ever encouraged Mr. Amson’s
attentions, and an assurance tnat even if she
loved him—which she never dreamt of, and
never could dream oi—she would scorn to de
scend to the meanness of seeking to entrap
him into am; ; riage ; remarking, at the same
time, that was perfect.y willing to leave
tho house t. l moment if Mrs. Amson doubt
ed her words or felt dissatisfied with her ser
To these remarks the lady vouchsafed fio oth
er reply than a stern command to be silent, as,
ordering her son from the room, she swept al
ter him, slamming tho door after her with a
force that might nave driven it off its hinges,
and leaving tae object of her wrath in a Biate
oi mind easier to be imagined than described.
From that moment, she remarked, her life at
Oldfield had been ono scene of suffering ; for,
despite his mother’s warning, the obstinate
youtn persisted in his unwelcome attentions to
her—a course which inflamed that lady’s wrath
to the utmost, and led to the persecution and
wrong which drove her to seek my advice and
assistance. This was nothing less than a
charge of having stolen a gold chain, a tor
quoise bracelet, and a valuable ring; an accu
sation the more malicious and humilitatmg
because it was made in the presence of young
Amson and two of the servants, and because
on the poor girl’s insisting on her trunk being
opened before them, to prove her innocence oi
tne theft, the articles were found in it, to her
utter misery and perplexity.
But that was not all. for on protesting her
innocence and expressing her firm conviction
that the articles had been piaced there to ruin
her character, and her determination to write
to her friends in London and have the case in
quired into, Mrs. Amson told her she need not
trouble herself to do so, as she would write
that very day and show them how they had
been deceived in her ; that she had seen and
heard enough oi her before this proof of her
wickedness came to light; thai she had heard
of her receiving notes from and flirting wita
and encouraging the attentions of other gen
tlemen beside ber son; and that she had heard
also of her giddy conduct at the railway station
the day she came, in chattering to and making
appointment s with young Lester of Summer
bank and the worthless lawyer-fellow Melville,
two of the worst characters in the county, and
she’d take care her friends should know of it.
For these wicked accusations, the poor girl
assured mo sue had no other foundation than
that of the coachman’s seeing me hand her
tho slip of paper at the station on tjie day of
her arrival, and her having met Mr. Lester on
coming out of the church one Sunday after
noon, on which occasion he had walked part of
the way home with her.
It is not often a man is pleased at hearing
himself ill spoken of, but certainly I was so
at that moment, Tom and I, two of the wor t
characters in the county. Here was a eaten
for a law case, damages laid at two thousand
pounds each, and before witnesses, too. How
thankful I was that my dear. Mary told me that
part of poor Miss Elston’s sad recital—a part
she, poor thing, had wished to hide from me.
Weil, the wretched woman’s tongue was no
scandal, and 1 had no wish to go to extremities
in my own case ; but that poor friendless, home
less girl, sho should have her naipe cleared,
and before another sun should rise, or I would
be a fool and no lawyer. 1 would give the real
thief a fright, or something worse, if she
wouldn’t make a clean breast of it at once, ano
pay handsomely for her villainous trick. So
my resoive was instantly taken and acted on.
Tom Lester walked in a moment after, like a
true hero of romance, just when he was wanted,
and enraged and astounded by the wickedness
of the plot against poor Miss Elston, was only
too willing to comply with my suggestion that
we should both set out at once for Oldfield Hall,
and either force her detractor to clear her char
acter by confessing herself the person who
piaced the articles m the trunk, as well as the
sole and only calumniator in our individual
cases, or assure her of our determination to
prosecute her on ail the charges with the ut
most rigor of the law.
Fortune favored our resolve and its execu
tion, for on arriving at Oldfield we found the
lady in the hall, engaged in a fierce dispute
with her cook and the two housemaids, who
having, contrary to her Injunctions against fol
lowers, invked their young men to an evening
party, had been discovered feasting them in
the still-room by the enraged Mrs. Amson, win
ordered the latter from the premises, and ac
cused the former of insolence, impropriety and
dishonesty—an accusation to which they re
torted by throwing up their situations, and ac
cusing her in turn of cruelty, niggardliness,
and of trying to ruin the characters of ail her
servants, and more particularly Miss Elston,
assuring her they knew all about the wicked
trick she had played on her, and why she had
done it, and how they would prove it against
her if the poor thing took her to the law about
it—ay, and make her prove what she had said
about them, too, and pay smartly for her
It may be guessed that our appearance and
accusations at this moment were doubly alarm
ing. Suffice it to say, that on my sternly ques
tioning her, not only on the subject oi her
charge against Miss Elston, but also on that of
her assertions regarding ourselves, she, after
strjying vainly to deny her guilt, at length
fairly broke down, and confessed, with tears,
that she had been driven to ail she had said
and done by the obstinacy and infatuation oi
ner son, who had taken a foolish fancy for the
girl, and who, on her reasoning with him on
the impropriety of his attentions to one so
much beneath him, had told her defiantly that
he was master of Oldfield, and would do as ne
pleased, remarking that tne girl looked far
moro like a lady than herseif, and he would
marry her at once if she would have him—an
assurance, she said, which nearly drove her
mad when she thought on the disgrace such a
mesalliance would bring on their name; and
this impelled her to hide the jewelry in her
trunk, and bring the accusation of dishonesty
against her, for the double purpose of degrad
ing her in his estimation, and ridding the house
of her presence.
Little more need be said. We had gained
one point, and enforced it to the utmost, by
compelling her, under threats of immediate
prosecution and exposure, to give us a written
declaration of her guilt and Miss Elston’s com
plete innocence m the matter of the jewelry—
a declaration whicn I insisted on reading aloud
in the presence of the servants ; which task
over, I remarked that my friend Lester and I
would overlook her animadversions on our
selves, on condition that she would expiate for
her cruel treatment oi a poor, friendless girl,
by sending her a sum of money sufficient to
reimburse her for tho loss of salary and board
till the expiration of ber time of engagement,
as well as for the agony of mind her heartless
trick had caused her.
With this demand she complied at once,
handing me a check for a considerable sum,
which having acknowledged receipt of in due
form, and accepted her apologies lor her hasty
remarks regarding ourselves, and assurances
of her regret for her conduct to one so good as
Miss Elston, we bade her good-by, and hur
ried away amid the smiles and suppressed
laughter of tho domestics, wno enjoyed the
humiliation of their tyrannical mistress, and
peered curiously out at us from the stairs and
passages as we passed from the house.
1 need not tell of the happiness our return
brought to poor Lucy Elston, nor the satisfac
tion of my own kind-hoarted Mary, at the re
sult of our visit. Suffice it to say that the lat
ter insisted on her new friend’s taking up her
abode with her till a comfortable situation
should be found for her—a proposal which
pleased me much, and gave undisguised de
light to Tom Lester, who, as far as I could
judge, seemed as deeply infatuated by the
sweet faco and pleasing manners of his late
traveling companion as her wealthier, but less
handsome admirer, the master of Oldfield
Gladly and gratefully the offered kindness
was accepted by Miss Elston, who expressed
her intention of opening a day senool m the
village—an intention that was never carried
out, seeing that Tom Lester called on her one
pleasant Autumn evening just as she had ar
ranged her plans, and niter telling her, in his
off-hand, impulsive way, tnat he had loved ner
from the moment she bad spoken so pityingly
of him in the railway carriage, overturned all
iier plans by telling her that Summerbank was
sadly in want of a mistress, and if she could
not love him well enough to become that mis
tress, he would be the most miserable fellow
in existence.
So she did become its mistress, and a kind
one she made, more than justifying the char
acter for amiability, sweetness of temper, and
goodness of heart, wbich I received of her
from Mrs. Dakers, after writing to that lady
regarding the falsehood of Mrs. Amson’s
charges against her. Ay, a good, kind mis
tress she made, and a true and loving wife, as
true and loving as my own dear Mary, who,
about the same time became the fight and joy
of my home, and with whom and her valued
friend, Mrs. Lester, and her proud, happy
partner, my old companion, Tom, I often—
when we all meet together in the pleasant
evening hours in either of our cheerful homes
—talk of our past joys and trials, and enjoy
many a hearty laugh wnen we revert to the se
rio-comic incidents of that Railway Adventure,
The greatest number of people ever
guillotined within one year in Paris since 1800,
is nine. There have been three years sinco
1300, in which nobody was executed at all.
The greatest number ever executed at the
same time was tour, and those were guillotined
tor political offences (the four sergeants de
La Itochelle, in 1822). Under the present rejgn
the only double execution in Paris was that oi
Orsini and Pietri, in the year 1858. These two
wretched men walked barefooted to the scaf
fold, with black vails over their heads, in ac
cordance with the law concerning the execution
of parricides. It was not until 1835 that the
law which prescribed that parricides should
have their right hand cut bif was repealed,
after having been in abeyance six years.
Is there anything in the world that
can beat a good wiie ?—Xeef a bad busband.
[ Original.]
How deep is the tranquility! the trees
Are slumbering through their multitudes of boughs,
Even to the leaflet on the frailest tvzig.
The sunset’s golden splendor has faded, the
clouds have lost their gorgeous hues, and in
their “far-off depths” the silvery stars are
faintly visible. The dreamy stillness is un
broken, save, now and then, a happy bird, too
full of song to rest, trills forth an evening
hymn. It is the tranquil twilight hour—an
hour of rest and quiet happiness—
Sacred to love, and wallis of tender joy.
And what a charm lalls upon “home, sweet
home” as the pale stars brighten and the
moonbeams deepen 1 At the window, watch
ing for “papa,” the little folks stand softly
prattling, their sweet, innocent faces radiant
with childish joy. Rich and poor, in mansion
or in cot, it matters not, they are listening as
only loved children can, for a dear, familiar
footstep ; for a voice which softens to a woman
like tenderness when addressing them. Near
There is a still, sweet face— a low, sweet voice,
and as the moonlight glances in upon the
happy group of watchers, we see a mother
with a baby on her lap ; and while she gently
rocks and sings, the little thing coos softly.
Did the cares and vexations of the day weary
her ? Yes ; but she has forgotten them all
now. She has joy in heart, or she never could
smile in that sunny way as she kisses the tiny
hand that wanders up to her lips.
“ Papa—papa 1” shout the merry little ones;
“papa’s turn home!”
Laughing and shouting, they run to meet
him. Oh I what shall make him a nobler and
truer man if the love of these pure, trusting
darlings fail to do it ? How sad it is that sin,
folly and intemperance will harden a man’s
heart to that degree that even the warm caress
of his child is received with indifference!
Hard-hearted, indeed, must be that father who
can look coldiy down upon
A fair face, but pale with sorrow,
With blue eyes, brimiul of tears,
And a litt e red mouth quivering
With a smile, to hide its fears.
But why darken our home-picture? Let us
turn to another. Look 1
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank J
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears.
Within a cosy parlor sits a fond and cheerful
family group. The windows are open, and we
catch glimpses of noble forms, fair faces, wav
ing tresses, and delicate drapery. One pretty
girl sits at a piano, and music low and sweet
floats through the dreamy twilight. Listen 1
she is singing.
Behind to thy sister—not many may know
The depth of true sisterly love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below
The suriace that sparkles above.
Be kind to tuy father, once fearless and bold,
Be kind to thy mother so near;
Be kind to thy brother, nor show thy heart cold,
Be kind to thy sister so dear.
The plaintive song ends; a flood of golden
gaslight illuminates the room, and as wave
upon wave of music fills it with delicious melo
dy, the blinds are drawn down between us and
this joyous borne scene. We turn away, smil
ing and happy, lor the picture has cheered us,
and the memory of it will linger like sunlight
amid the dull realities of life.
Here is another picture, full of innocence
and repose, and as we look upon it we find
ourself sighing :
Oh, would I were a child again—
A little playful child—
■ With merry laugh and hopeful heart,
And spirit undetiied.
A little child kneels at her mother’s knee,
her tiny hands, “like fair twin lilies,” lightly
pressed together, and her upturned face full of
sweetness and expression.
A meek and child-like face, faint, but how sweet 1
is heard, and the pure, silvery sound fills our
heart with a holy calm. *
“ God bless mamma, God bless papa, and
make me a good girl,” comes lovingly from her
lisping lips, and as soon as the prayer is fin
ished her red mouth is lilted to receive the
thrilling pressure of her mother’s good night
Forget, oh, woman, whatever picture thou
wilt, but remember this—treasure this 1
One more twilight picture is waiting to be
noticed, and as we look upon it the graynoss
deepens, and the pensive stars shine down like
angel oyes amid the growing shadows.
In this picture we see a snow-white bed,
upon which a lovely girl is sleeping the dream
ices sleep of death. How beautiful she must
have been in lilel How angelic she looks
now I Herlong hair, bright and silk-like, is
wreathed with colorless buds, and fresh, dew
wet flowers, nestle upon her marble breast,
while friends bend over her, sorrowfully kiss
ing her cold lips and crossed hands.
Slowly across the gleaming sky,
A crowd of white angels are passing by,
Lfiio a fleet of swan s they float along,
Or the silver notes of a dying song.
Ah 1 mourners, if you would but look up
ward! The spirit of your darling has van
ished with those messengers of peace, far be
yond the shadows of death; and while you
bend over an empty casket weeping and pray
ing, there is another angel added to the Heav
enly throng !
But a solemn stillness cometh
With the calm and siiv’ry night;
And these holy twilight pictures
Vanish with the fading light.
Wb look upon the man as the rep
resentitive of intellect, and the woman as tne
representative of affection; but each shares the
characteristic of the other, only in the man one
predominates, and in the woman the other.
We know woman as affectionate, as religious,
as oracular, as delighting in grace and order,
possessed of taste. In all ages, woman has
been the representative of religion. In all
countries, it is the women who fill the temples.
In every religious movement the woman has
been an active and powerful part, not only in
those in the most civilized, but in the most un
civilized countries ; not less in the Mohommc
dan than the Greek and Roman religions. She
holds man to religion. There is no man so
reprobate, so careless of religious duty, but
that he delights to have his wife a saint. All
men feel the advantages that abound of that
quality in a woman. My own feeling is that in
ail ages woman has held substantially the same
influence. I think that superior women are
rare, as superior men are rare. I think that
women feel when they are in the press, as men
of genius are said to do among energetic work
ers—that they see through all these efforts
with finer eyes than their noisy masters. I .
think that ail men in the presence of the best
women feel over-looked and judged, and some
times sentenced. They are the educators in
all our society. Through their sympathy and
quickness, they arc the jiroper mediators be
tween those who have knowledge and those
who want it.
The following is one of the most
remarkable oompositions we have ever met
with. It evinces an ingenuity peculiarly its
own. The initial capital letters spell “My
boast is in the glorious Cross of Christ.” The
words in italics, when read on the left side
from top to bottom, and on the right side from
bottom to top, form the Lord’s Prayer, com
plete :
Make known the Gospel truth, our Father, King,
Yield up Thy grace, dear Father from above,
Bless us with hearts which feelingly can sing,
“ Our lite thou art for ever, God of Love.”
Assuage our grief in love for Christ we pray,
biuce the Prince of Heaven and glory died
Took all our sins and hallowed the display,
Iniant Being, flrtt a man and then was crucified.
Stupendous God! thy grace and power made known;
In Jesus’ name let ah the world rejoice,
Now labor in thy heavenly kingdom own,
That blessed kingdom, tor thy saints the choice.
How vile to come to thee is all our cry ;
Enemies to thy self and all that’s thine;
Graceless our will, we live jor vanity;
Loathing the very Being, evil in design,
0, God, thy will be done from earth to Heaven;
Beciining on the Gospel, let us live,
In earth from sin, delivered and forgiven,
Oh 1 as thyself but teach us to forgive,
Unless its power temptation doth destroy;
Sure is our fall into the depths of woe,
Carnal in mind, we’ve not a glimpse of joy
Raised against Heaven; in us no hope we know,
O, give us grace and lead us on thy way;
Seine on us with thy love and give us peace.
Self and this sin that rise against us slay.
Oh 1 grant each day our trespasses may cease;
Forgive our evil deeds that ott we do;
Convince us daily oi them co our shame;
Help us with heavenly bread, forgive us, too,
Recurrent lusts, and we’ll adorn thy name
In thy forgiveness we as saints can die,
Since for us and our trespasses so high,
Ihy Son, our Saviour, died on Calvary.
A French idealist, evidently suffer
ing from telegraphy on the brain, proposes to
tho Academy of Sciences to establish commu
nications with tho peoples of the planets, if any
such there be. His notion is to mount a great
mirror upon the earth, and give flashing sig
nals to Mars and Jupiter. He thinks that if
these are repeated regularly, in batches of a
certain number, the Martians or the Jovians,
as the cases may be, will eome to discern that
they mean something, and will retain them;
and that thus a code will be eventually agreed
upon, so that we may talk across the solar sys
tem just as we do across a field. This silly
man calls attention to the bright spots which
have occasionally been seen on some of the
planets, and suggests that those were proba
bly signals from the habitants thereof to us.
This idea of planetary signaling is an old one;
it has been mooted before, and doubtless has
occurred to thousands who have not had the
effrontery to give their thoughts a tongue.
Our object in alluding to its present revival is
to give an instance of the absurdities tolerated
by the Paris Academy of Sciences.
“I wish,” said the slight and ele*
egant Mrs. Fitzbob to her friend Mrs. Twigg, whose
embonpoint was strikingly handsome—"l wish I had
Borneol youriat, and you had aome of my lean.*"
I’ll cell you what is the origin of that wish,’’ re
plied the fair wit; " you think too much of ma, and
too little of rourseU."
! Origin a’. I
By Anna Metz Bfeylanl.
Though Autumn frost has already shed
A bjjuwy lustre on our hair,
And from our household tree have sped
Our own nestlings strong and fair,
Evening winds from an immortal shore
With sudden chili our. soul o’ersweep,
We are a child once more
When our mother is laid to sleep.
Entranced again in our little bed,
By some fairy ta’e we lie,
And nearer comes a light footstep—
On us rests our mother’s mild eye.
One loving kiss on our brow,
Then a prayer, hallowed and deep,
In the dark she leaves us now,
For our mother goes to sleep.
Our childhood’s lovely paradise
We reco.lect it not in vain,
For in her calm, pure mien, lies
The spell to bring it back again.
Severed the chain net affection wove,
Forever our childhood must recede,
We part with the purest love
When our mother is laid to sleep.
And if a kindly destiny
Has granted us treasures and fame,
Naught are they to the tearwet eye
And the vision of childhood’s sunny reign.
If we have erred against her tenderness,
Was our repentance true and deep?
The heart will ask of the motherless
When our mother is laid to sleep.
That we did faithfully honor and prize.
That we were obedient in all things.
This to know when we close her eyes
A peaceful consolation brings.
Perhaps we have not always striven
To be dutiful in word and deed,
Yet how lovingly are we forgiven
Ere our mother is laid to sleep.
Her love and blessing live ever on,
She has only gone before
To intercede for us at the Fathers* throna—
We’ll meet her on the celestial shore.
We trustingly pass under the rod,
For our iaitii is ho.y and deep.
We feel we are children of God
When our mother is laid to sleep.
A letter from Barcelona referring
to the case in which a street thief mortally
stabbed a young man whose watch he had
stolen, adds : “ I’he murderer was surround
ed by tho crowd, which wanted to kill him.
Some policemen arrived in time to save him,
and lock him up in a small station-house, be
fore which tn ev remained on guard. But the
mob increased ; the tales m circulation, and the
sight of the corpse, raised its exasperation to the
highest point; it thrust the police aside, forc
ed an entrance into the bunding, and m a few
instants the prisoner was killed by blows from
sticks und hammers taken from some masons
who were working near. The civil governor
arrived with some troops and attempted to
prevent the multitude from dragging the body
througa the streets, but his efforts were in
vain, and the cords wore attached to the feet,
and the bleeding, shapeless mass was, in ac
cordance with a barbarous custom too fre
quently practiced in Spain, drawn along the
principal thoroughfares by the infuriated popu
lace, who continued to shower down blows on
the insensible remains. Not until they arrived
at the Rambla cauld the authorities succeed in
obtaining possession of the body and having
it conveyed to the hospital. During this time
a man, who has not been seized, in
another part of the town, lUO douros (sfr.
each), which a mercer was carrying ; a few
minutes later a woman was taken into custody
for stealing 120 reals (25c. each) from a lady in
the plaza de Catelunia. In the evening the
agents of the public force were conducting to
the to\yn hall, with the corpse of the thief, a
man who had just stolen two pairs of boots,
when tuey were surrounded by an exasperated
crowd, which again wanted to execute justice
itself, and the police had great difficulty in
lodging their prisoner in jail, and they did not
succeed without having received some violent
blows. But when the man had been locked up
the mob endeavored to penetrate the building,
but fortunately the doors were closed in time,
and at the intervention of the Republican De
puty Tatau tho assemblage dispersed. Such
excesses have produced a profound impression
on the respectable portion of the citizens. An
other subject of disquietude exists here like
wise. The numerous workingmen connected
with spinning and weaving demand a diminu
tion in Cho hours of labor and an increase in
their wages of thirty per cent. The employ
ers, although their warehouses are filled with
goods, have under present circumstances offer
ed a raise of ton per cent.; but the men con
sider it insufficient, and have struck work.
The manufacturers have, however, given the
civil governor full powers to arrange tho af
A terrible end has been put to the
performance of Mr. Lucas, the lion tamer, at
the Hippodrome, Pans. He had not been two
seconds in the cage before he perceived his
danger. He bad omitted to take with him his
usual weapons, and had only a slight riding
whip in his hand. For an instant he lost sight
of the lioness, who, no longer, perceiving his
eyes fixed on hers, seized him by the lower jaw
and by the back of his head, crunching the oc
cipital bone, and then seized him by the arm,
in order to drag him between her paws and de
vour him at her leisure. Her sire, however,
desirous of sharing the spoil, attempted to
force him from beneath her paws, and caught
him by the thigh, in-fiicting a fearful wound,
and literally gnawing through the main artery.
It was at this awful moment that Jose Mendez,
an attached servant of Lucas, dashed into the
cage with a revolver, with the butt end of which
he dealt a heavy blow at the lioness* head,
which compelled her to give up her prey. Men
dez, with marvelous strength, made a spring
at the lion, and threw him into the back of the
cage; then, leveling the weapon at the ani
mals with his right arm, pushed the bleeding
man out of their roach by his feet. It was only
then that the other attendants came to the
rescue, and, with an iron bar, wrenched open
the bars of the cage, enabling Mendez to effect
his escape backward, dragging Lucas with him,
but never lowering his right arm, with which
he grasped the revolver. The heroic conduct
of Mendez deserves record, and may well rank
with deeds of daring which have won stars and
crosses on fields oi battle. The poor fellow
speaks of his noble conduct as a matter of
course, and, in his Franco-Spanish patois, says
he would have allowed the beasts to devour
him rather than have let them kill his master,
Lucas’ whole body was covered with wounds,
among which thirty-three bore the marks of
lion’s and lioness’ teeth. He was first conveyed
to the tavern kept by his wife in the Boulevard
Haussman ; but the doctors who accompanied
him, considering tho ventilation imperfect, in
sisted on his being taken to the more airy lodg
ing of bis father-in-law, Mr. Moore, Avenue
Montaigne, where he died.
With respect to Scotch marriages
in former times, Mr. Rogers gives some quaint
particulars in his “ Scotland; Social and Do
Among tho peasantry, betrothals were con
ducted in a singular fashion. The fond swain,
who had resolved to make proposals, sent for
the object of his affection to the village ale
house, previously informing tho landlady of
his intentions. The damsel, who knew the
purpose ol the marriage, busked herself in her
best attire, and waited on her admirer. She
was entertained with a glass of ale; then the
swam proceeded with his tale of love. A dia
logue the following ensued:
“I’m gaun to speir whether ye will tak’ me,
“ Deed, Jock, I thocht ye micht hae speir’t
that lang syne.”
“They saici ye wad refuse me, lassie.”
“ Then, they’re leers," Jock.”
“An’ so ye’il no refuse me, lassie
“ I’ve tel.’t ye that twice owre already, Jock.”
Then came tho formal act of betrothal. The
parties pressed the thumbs of their right
hands, which they licked, together, and vowed
fidelity. The ceremony possessed the solemn
ity of an oath, the violator of such an engage
ment being considered considered guilty of
perjury. In allusion to this practice, a favor
ite Scottish song commences:
« There’s my thumb, I’ll ne’er beguile thee."
The pressure of moistened thumbs, as the sol
emn ratification of an engagement, was used
in other contracts. The practice, as confirma
tory of an agreement,'existed both among ths
Celts and Goths. The records of the Scottish
courts contain examples of sales being con
firmed by the judges on the production of evi
dence that the parties had licked and pressed
their thumbs on the occasion of the bargain.
The Highlander and the Lowland schoolboy
still lick thumbs in bargain-making.
A Birmingham, Eng., paper speaks
as follows of our old friends, Mr. and Mrs,
Howard Paul:
Last night these justly popular and favorite
artistes appeared at tho Town Hall, and a
large audience assembled to witness the enter
tainment. The hall was comfortably well filled
in every part—side galleries, floor, and great
galleries. The programme included most of
the old favorite songs, and many new ones,
Mr. Howard Paul’s impersonation of Louis Na
poleon, in which character he sang a song en
titled “The Life of Julius Casar,” and elicited
much applause, while the audience were so de
lighted with Mrs. Howard Paul’s charming
rendering of tho Bong “Rory O’Morp’’ that
they demanded an encore. The new dashing
comic song entitled “A Way wo Have in the
Army,” sung by Mr. Howard Paul in the char
acter of a life guardsman, was also rewarded
with an encore. Passing over many other
songs, all of which were well received, we come
to what appeared to bo the chief feature—at
any rate it was the most “taking” with all—.
and that was Mrk. Howard Paul’s “Address on
the Rights of Woman,” followed by a song, ex
ceedingly laughable, called “Bother the Men.’
The audience Word in a continual fear of
laughter al) the time fh’ B remarkably droll
and ludicrous performance was being given.
Mrs. Howard Paul’s impersonation of Sims
Reeves, and her singing in imitation of the
great tenor of the songs "Love’s Request”
and "My Pretty Jane,” were as perfect as
Sunday Edition. Sept 12.
ever. The entertainment throughout was a
most enjoyable one
A young parson thus feelingly des*
cribes his bachelor experience in the first vil
iage in which lie titled after entering the
Old ladies gave me tracts and tormented ma
in every possible wav. One gave me cougii
)o2C-ngea because a fly-got down my throat inj
church; another eent me her late husband’s
goloshes to wear when I went out on wet even#
mgs. (The late husband’s feet were about fivei
inches Jong.) A thud sent a wonderful kindoil
india rubber bag, which she eaid could be ap<
plied wherever a chill was felt. Not till my
sister came to etav with mo did I know that hot
water was to be put into the creature before
using it; I had thought it a sort of man to law
over my feet, and very useless of its kind. A
Mies Thompson was ibe most disagreeable of
the old maids; she actually one day ran hes
fingers und'erneath my collar to see if I worq
flannel. During the year I was at Littleback X
had thirteen pairs of slippers, twenty-five sor#
mon-cases, and three smoking-caps worked foi}
me. One young lady embroidered my initialg
on a handkerchief in shiny-looking black;
thread. My sister says that it was done iqc
hair; and perhaps that accounts for Misq
Ridge being so offended when I said I though
Lester’s red marking cotton as good as anw
other. Three young ladies declared that I haq
trifled with their affections ; two, on the ooar
trary, affirmed that they had rejected mQ •»
while the village schoolmistress assured the*
rector that I had tried to press her hand, j
certainly never had such hard work as while afi
Littleback, I played at least three hundred
games of croquet, and at any spare moment j|
was liable to be sent for by Miss Anna Phelpffl
to practice an Italian duet. I bore my trial®
with Christian fortitude until one morning tha
Bishop sent for me and said that my conduct
disgraced my profession. I took the hint, ano!
at the end of one year and three mouths my
career at Littleback was over. The young
ladies cried when I wont; they said I was “suoK
a darling!” Now I ask my impartial reader
w'hether it was not hard that I should be blamed
for the ladies of Littleback ? My life is blighted,
and all that is left to me is thirteen pairs o|
slippers, twenty-five sermon-cases, threQ
smoking-caps, one handkerchief marked “T*
G ” and a bad character from my late employ#
Ocr newspapers often contain verjf
amusing advertisements, but we doubt if w 4
quite equal our German friends in this
spect yet. We take up, for example, an ordty
nary number of a very high class Germaiy
newspaper, the Gazette de Cologne, Wheij
our young folks exchange their plighted
troth they are generally too glad to keep th $
engagement a delicious secret from all except al
few favored friends. Not so our German cou*
sins, lor here is one of the first
which present themselves,
“ Wilhelmina Johanna v. Froreich, WilhelQJ
Muller, betrothed. Blankenberg and Atten#
bach, August, 1869.”
Immediately beneath thia stands the folloifji,
ing :
“E. G. Modes and wife hereby announce
betrothal of their daughter Mathilde with Mr t
Paul Schwarze, engineer, Stolberg, near Aix#
la-Chapelle—Froigberg, August 15, 1869.’*
When the heart of an American parent has been
delighted by the birth of a boy. wo all kno'v*
the modest advertisement, in tne midst of
host of others, by which he announces thq
event. Here is a specimen of how they dqi
these things in Germany :
“ Early this morning we were highly gratf#
fled by the birth of a strong, lively boy. Iseri
lorn, August 17, 1869. Arnold Wintzer, Mariflj
Wmtzer, maiden name Konig.”
Again :
“I have the honor politely to announce td
my relations and friends the happy delivery of
my wife Julie, maiden name oaatmarn, of a»
healthy, strong boy. Cologne. August 17.
1869. Eduard Fomin.”
In another corner of tho paper an enthusf*
astic and imaginative gentleman advertise®
“A threefold thundering cheer, which shall
resound from Bonn to ytreitzeng street an<i
Hammer street, Cologne, to fat Benard on this
hia birthday. Congratulations also on tha
new business which you have established. Aj
friend well known but anonymous.”
The great Juggernauth, or car fes
tlval of India, is over. Accounts have not yet
been received from Popree ; but the Friend of
India makes the following remarks on theum-j#
er able character of the festival at Serampore*
the next most sacred place in India for its cel#
ebration: “ The Juggernauth festival at
pore closed on Monday after a pitiable
The two great cars still stand on the roadside,
half in tho ditch, because the people will nofi
pull them back to their places. In spite of tha
numbers hired to pull and to applaud, the carg
were moved on the first occasion only half thq,
usual distance, and there they lie in the mud M
with the idols on thorn, and the flags flyings
, As jjusual, the Brahmins applied to the au#
thonties to ‘order’ the j eoplo to pull, but,
of course, in vain. Tho common peasantry*
were heard to reply to the miserable creature’s
who urged them from the car to pull, ‘lt’s alf
very well, but corno and give a hand your#
selves.’ The crowd, of which a rough censuaj
was taken, was never more than 75,000, at tha
highest, and rarely exceeded 35,000 —a third of
what it used to be. For one man there wera
fifty women and children. The police,
Mr. Rochefort, the energetic district superim
tendent, kept order well. There were no
dents, and only three cases of drunkenness#
The spectacle presented by the cars and idolfil
in the Trunk road, outside of Serampore, maw
be regarded as typical of tho state of
at least in and near the great cities—totteringl
but still defiant, with no enthusiasm and litlla
An old fable informs.us that a
wbo was in the habit of arranging the decree®
of Providence, being seated in a garden, began
to wonder why such a monstrous iruitas tha
pumpkin should grow on a slender, slowlyj
creeping plant, while the giant oak, the
arch of the forest, bore riotnmg bigger than aij
acorn. In tho midst of h.s cogitations, anr
acorn fell from the tree underneath whicn hq
was sitting, and smote bun on tho pate ;
upon the captious philosopher was fam to ac«
knowledge that Providence was wiser in its ar#
rangements than he had previously fancied#
But tho moral which this story would
cate does not appear to be universally applica#
ble. In tho island of Borneo, there is a forest*
tree as large as an elm, which produces a high#
ly-esteemed fruit, caned the durian. It may
be observed, in pas mg, that though this fruifl
has a smell like that of putrid flesh, so that aj
single specimen is enough to infect a wholq
house, its flavor is so delicious, that those whq
venture to taste it soon become confirmed du#
rian eaters. Tho eatable portion, which CQu'-ij,
Bists of a rich, creamy, custard-like substance
is enclosed in a hai d shell, a good deal
than a cocoa-nu';, and completely covered witS
sharp spines. When one of these fruits falls!
as it not unfrequently does, from the hight of
fifty or sixty feet upon tne back of a naked na-i*
tive, it inflicts a most frightful wound. Thq
apologue above cited, therefore, will scarcely
hold good in Borneo.
A laboring man at Osaka, in Japan,
having been early left a widower with two
dren, took unto himself a second wife. Tb§i
marriage was an unhappy one. The woman
proved faithless to her husband, and m order
to conceal her intrigues, determined to rid her*
self of the children, aged respectively five an<j
three. With this object she deliberately boilecj
them to death in one of the hot baths whiette
are to be found in almost every house in Japanj
Fortunately, her crime was discovered beforq
the wretch had time to destroy the trace of
guilt, and flight alone saved her from receiving
summary vengeance at the hands of her neigh#
bors. But though she escaped the certain amj
instant death that would have awaited her, shq
was destined to meet with a more exceeding
and bitter punishment. She was caught, tried*
and sentenced to be gradually boiled alive iiR
oil. The sentence, even in tne cruel Eastern
code, is an exceptional one, and let us hopa
that its infliction is a sign that such fiendish
cruelty is also rare. A curious feature in thq
case is that as a warning to others similarly
situated, every stepmother in Osaka is ordereqf
to contribute a certain quantity of oil to thq
contents of the fatal cauldron.
It is a wondrous advantage to ffi
man, in every pursuit or vocation, to secure ai?
adviser in a sensible woman. In woman therql
is at once a subtle delicacy of tact, and a plaini
soundness of judgment, which are rarely com-,
bined to an equal degree in man. A woman*
if she be really your friend, will havo a sensi»-
live regard for your character, honor,
She will seldom counsel you to do a shabby,
thing, for a woman friend always desires to flat
proud of you. At the same time hor constitu.
tional timidity makes her more cautious than;
your male friend. She, therefore, soldomt
counsels you to do an imprudent thing. A
man’s best female friend Is a wife of goo#
sense and heart, whom he loves, and who,
loves him. But, supposing tho man to bdf
without such a helpmate, female friendship h<a
must still have, or his intellect will bo without
a garden, and there will be many an unheedf
gap, even in its strongest fence. Better anct .
safer of course, are such friendships where)
disparity of years or circumstauces puts th#
idea of love out of the question. Middle lifa
has rarely this advantage ; youth and old ag#
have, "We may have female friendships wit#
those muon older, and those much younger*
than ourselves, female friendship is to a maq
the bulwark, sweetness, ornament of his cji
The Pepe is said to have derived?
from the Peterpenny from lfl6o to the preionf
year the large sum of 80,000,000 francs, whic#
gives an average of 10,000,000 f. a year. Th#
Pontifical treasury will immediately receiv#
from the Italian Government 7,500,000 franca
pn account of the Pontifical debt, this amounfl
having been brought to Rome in gold by aij
Italian functionary, and lodged at the Frepo#
embassy, (fhe arrival of such a supply haq
produced a good effect on Pontifical consofidesi
and also Of) Roman banknotes, which had bq«(
come seriously depreciated. The impression
has been Lightened by the investment of 860*
OOOf, in oonsolides by the Roman Mont de
and the whole result is a rise of 7i consohaes*
The Pope appears to be in the bAst health.
Every day he takes long walks, and last wee#
he went as far as the cloister of §t, Aloxre, OB
Mount Avobils?, and then cut pl Porta Pis.

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