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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, November 12, 1871, Image 2

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iaan, profoundly surprised. True, he had
heard little mice-hke feet on the stairs, now
and then, and sometimes a sweet, subdued
voice carrolling bits of English song, but he
Jiad not thought of a fellow-lodger.
•‘You scarcely deserve to know you have
One,” said the ex-dealer in curiosities, with a
smile on his quaint, kindly face. “Yon have
not been very sociable since you came hero,
Master Philip Hamilton, cr my singing bird
might have sung for you as well as me.”
Philip admitted the charge of unsociability.
Ho had boon courteous always, but reserved to
a marked degree; trying to hide his poverty
by stealing out at midday and sunset—chink
ing, perhaps, a few pence which ha dared not
spend for dread of the morrow, he had ap
peared haughty or shy, ho had avoided them
in fear that they should ask him to partake of
the dinner or supper he often stood in need of.
“Lot mo bogin to be sociable this evening,”
he said, “and introduce me to your singing
bird. Is it the young lady I have heard on the
Btairs ?”
“ Yes ; her room is next to yours.”
“ I fancied I had hoard a little girl— a child
there.”
“ So yon have ; our little Lucy is but a child,
though she has been a school teacher these
three years. You shall see her.”
He went to the door, and tapped at that of
tho next room.
“ Lucv."
“Yes, grandpa.”
“Aye,” said the old man affectionately.
“ Sho'always calls mo grandpa. 1 want you,
my darling.”
“Yes, grandpa.”
The next moment Mr. Meadows led her in
by tho hand, and Philip Hamilton saw a little
graceful creature, who looked sixteen, but was
two years older—it would have been hard to
Bay whether she was pretty or not. Philip
only know that the sweet sympathetic face,
End large innocent grey eyes, seemed to supply
a want felt in his day dreams; ho loved her
from that moment as one might love a child.
“ This is Philip Hamilton, Lucy ; the gentle
man who has been in the house six months,
and never so much as said good morning to
you. What do you think of him ?”
“Miss Marie will forgive me when I tell her
I was not aware I had a fellow-lodger. I never
dreamed it, though I have dreamed of angels.”
“Do you hear that, Lucy; he means he has
dreamed of you without knowing you were so
pear. Tell him, dear, about tho school.”
“It is two hours a day,” said Lucy, without
lifting her eyes—they had not drooped till he
mentioned having dreamed of angels. “ Three
times a week for fourteen pupils, and twenty
five pounds a-year. 1 have heard Mr. Meadows
eay you were an artist, and as it. is near, I
thought—”
■ “Yon though,t of me.” Philip lifted her
hand to his lips with the graco of a young
courtier, and she put it behind her shyly—
rather startled, but not displeased. “ I thank
you more then I can say,- Miss Mavis, and if
my poor merits will bear mo through the
awful test, that twenty-five pounds a year shall
be mine.”
And this was tho beginning. A new era
fiawned on Philip’s life hem that evening—tho
first of many which he spent with Mr. and Mrs.
Meadows, and little Lucy Mavis. No better or
purer way of existence ceuld have fallen to the
young artist’s lot. They had music from the
mellow old piano Lucy loved to play; they
talked of art, read from choice books, sang and
shared those pleasant interchanges of thought
which blend'tlie sympathies arid tranquilize the
mind. Philip was very happy, and, in being
nappy, gave happiness.
Ho took the post of drawing-master at the
school where Lucy was assistant, and that
made him her escort three times a week for
certain. They learned to love each other, as
was inevitable. They dropped the formal Miss
and Mr., and once when Philip, feeling that the
time was come, whispered, “ Good night, dar
ting,” and kissed her cheek, instead of saying,
“Good night, Lucy,” and pressing her hand.
There was no surprise. Christian Meadows,
in whose presence it was done, only said :
“ Ay, to be sure, I knew it would come to
that, sooner or later.”
After that, matters went-on just as before.
Philip worked harder, perhaps, studying his
art, while he earned bread by it, and finding a
ready sale, though a small price, for what he
did, lie sketched whatever struck his fancy,
and once made a sustained effort over a scene
painted by memory from a place near his
home.
It was simply a genuine piece of country
scenery—Egerton Park, as he remembered it.
a dreary old bouse, going to decay in the midst
of neglected land, and with a background of
ruined plantation. Following the spirit of his
memory involuntarily, Philip threw over it an
air of gloom and desolation, the reality of
which struck him as the more singular, since
be had never noticed it when looking at the
place itself.
“ I must have had the legend in my mind
While painting it,” he said, when the finishing
touch was put; “aud I have made a sombre
thing of it at best. It has taken mo twice as
long as it need have done, and Simmons won’t
have it for a wager. ‘Something up to tho
day, my Loy,’he will soy. ‘Something every
body can understand, and put a pretty woman
in, if possible—that’s what will sell. If you
dress her as if she had just stepped from a
Paris fashion plate, so much the better ;’ and I
fear,” the young man added, regretfully, “Sim
mons is right, as far as go the selling quali
ties.”
Philip Hamilton looked at his elaborate
sketch with a sigh, as he felt it was so much
labor lost, for the present. To take that
gloomy view of a deserted house and decaying
grounds, by itself, to the picture dealer who
patronized him generally at a slight profit of
two hundred per cent, or so, was simply to
court rejection ; and counting the change in
his pocket, and finding there was not enough
for even such slender dissipation as a solitary
glass of wino and a cigar, he read Vasari’s
“Lives of tho Painters,” for the hundredth
time, and went to bed early.
“Something up to the day,” he pondered on
liis pillow ; “ pretty women and fashion’s
plates. It was just this timo last year when I
went to St. Leonard’s by the cheap excursion
—Saturday to Monday—and then, just at sun
set on the Sabbath, I saw a tall, dove-eyed wo
man, with fair hair and a pensive face—a patri
cian, by tho splendid indifference with which
sho sat in scli-contemplation, looking out to
soa. She might have been thinking of some one
far away, or of the sermon preached that morn
ing, or of the best choice to make among her
suitors ; it’s hard to tell. Poetic pensiveness
is so frequently only a remove from selfish
tranquillity.”
Tho poetic view, however, would, he knew,
«bcs« suit the artistic and pecuniary point—he
arranged his subject mentally, and slept on it.
When ho rose at sunrise it was to begin bis
“Summer Reverie.”
Philip Hamilton had to a rare degree the
marvelous faculty of reproducing forms and
scenes from memory—they grow upon him till
he saw them distinctly, as if photographed,
and then a few rapid touches would always fix
the characteristics. Tho lady of his “Summer
Reverie” was a portrait.
Ho worked this day, as we havo seen, com
pleted Ins task as the deepening twilight made
river, and road, and sky beautiful in quietude,
and then sat at the window to enjoy a pipe and
a reverie of his own. He had been nearly two
years in the house of the good old couple”, and
nearly eighteen months were gone sine* ho
whispered that loving good-night to Lucy
Mavis.
He was thinking how sho Joved'him when
Bhe tapped at the door, and ho put his pipe
down as he asked her to come in. Lucy bad
scarcely changed in that year and a half; she
had grown a trifle taller, perhaps, but the
tender, ’sympathetic face was as childlike as
ever.
Lucy always came home about this time—
there wore pupils m tho neighborhood to whom
eho went when school was over—and then
there was always a pleasant hour in Philip’s
room. Sho made his toa, and he thought her
the sweetest of little hand-maidens. Sho
brought her own dainty cup and saucer from
‘-down stairs—a cup and saucer that a bric-a
brac hunter would have given their weight in
gold for, but Grandpa Meadows would not have
Bold them. Nothing was too good for his sing
ing bird. ,
Then she and Philip eat at the window watch
ing tho people on the river, when the stars
were out, and even tho old Thames gleamed
With a silver ripple now and then ; sometimes
when Lucy was by his side, her arms twined
round his neck, her soft cheek on his shoulder,
the young artist would wonder what he had
done to deserve this love-confiding treasure.
“ Somo day, Lucy,” ho said, when she came
in this evening and took up her old position at
his knee, “ when lean look withan average
amount of certainty on a couplo of pounds a
week, wo will end this school business, and you
must stay with me altogether ; I should like to
■ offer you a better place though, yot I like the
dear old rooms.”
“We must be as we are for a long time yet,
Phillip ; dear grandpa has told me I must never
listen to anything of that kind.”
“Much obliged to him, I am sure ; and what
else did ho say t”
“Only that you aro very young, and have
your way to make, and a ”
“ Wife—say it, darling; what did he say
abou t a wife ?”
“Why,” she said, hiding the delicious flush
bo closely, that she seemed to be talking into
bis heart. “ A—”
“ Wife.”
“Yes ; me—you know.”
, “ Yes, dear, no other, if Heaven is kind to
hie—you—you know—”
“Would boa drawback to you, and you are
Very clever 1 and some great artist that ho
knows will take you m hand one of these days,
and you will go into high society and perhaps
meet somebody more suitable, and then you
Would be sorry for having-met m—me—”
“My little pet,” ho said, stifling her rising
Bobs with a kiss and tone of infinite tenderness,
“ what a wicked old grandpa it is to put such
ideas into this sensitive loving child—why the
great artist, and the high society, and tho
somebody more suitable may go to Halifax, or
Ony other remoteness, for me.”
■ “You will never think of such a thing again,”
lie went on caressingly—her eyes were brim
ful, though no tears toll. “ You never would if
you know how happy I have been here, since that
evening when grandfather Meadows brought
you in. Look at my last two sketches ; shall I
take them to the citv this evening, or go to
morrow?”
“This evening, and come back soon, then
you will not have to break into the day.”
“ Yes,” he reflected as tho door closed after
her, “ there is my ideal of an artist’s wife, pa
tient, gentle, and sympathetic, feeling by her
own sensitive instinct that men who work with
brain and pen or pencil require thought end
care; and above all, quietude in those they
love. I wonder how natty glorious pictures
have been left unpainted, how many splendid
books left unwritten, through tho want of
sympathy in the wives of men of genius ? I
shall succeed, because Lucy will love my art
and bear with me, for my sake.”
Philip dressed himsolf with care, packed his
sketches in a small portfolio, and counted his
change again ; it did not increase under the
process—so he loaded his pipe with the last
morsel of tobacco in his pouch and started on
foot for his journey to the city.
CHAPTER 11.
ABTHUB EGEHTON.
It was quite dusk, and the lamps were being
lighted, when Philip, walking at an easy, care
less pace, reached the Strand, and entered tho
picture-dealer’s rather pretentious establish
ment ; the windows were well filled with fine
proof impressions of the engravings which have
done so much toward cultivating a taste for
art with the people ; there were gems of effect
ive coloring too in the wonderful cromo-litho
graph fac-similies of the noble works honored
by such names as Maclise, Landseer, and Rosa
Bonheur, and some fine original drawings,
among which Philip saw his own initials not
unlrequently, reminded him, not unpleasantly,
that the time is coming when to talk of the old
masters and let living artists starve is going
out of fashion.
Philip gave a careless nod to the two gentle
manly assistants, who would have been equally
at homo behind a linendraper’s or a grocer’s
counter—rather superfine young fellows, who
contrived to enjoy tl o confidence of a fashion
able tailor, and shine biilliantly in select as
sembly rooms, on somewhat’less than thirty
shillings a week. There was a touch of patron
age in the indifferent politeness with which
they returned his salutation, but Hamilton had
taken their mental measure long ago, and did
not mind it.
He went through a vista of gold frame and
glass and moulding, till he came to the end of
the long shop) where tho principal himself
at a table, turning over the miscellaneous con
tents of a huge portfolio; this man, like his as
sistants, might as well have been selling rolls
of ribbon, or weighing pounds of tea, for all ho
knew ot the glorious work ho dabbled in—ho
had picked up a few names and phrases which
gave him an air of knowledge before his cus
tomers—could talk of mezzo-tint—sepia; back
ground ; fore shortening, and so forth, and
bad a string of names by heart, from Ary
Scheffer to Velasquez, but beyond the trade
value or the market price of prints and pic
tures ho knew nothing. Still he treated the
youthful aspirants who came to him, with
woll-bred consideration; and there were stories
told of many a kindness done which contrasted
favorably with his cold, business-like appear
ance.
“ Here again, Mr. Hamilton ?” ho said, with
a smile ; “ v. ant of industry is not your leading
fault, at any rato. What havo you brought
this timo ?”
“Two little things, Mr. Simmonds; ono of
which you won’t care much for, I dare say,
though I have taken more than ordinary pains
with it. In the other, though, I havo followed
your advice, and there it is—a pretty woman
silk and velvet, and all the modern require
ments.”
“Humph ! Yes—pretty well, in its way.
This sort of thing you might do m two hours,
and havo plenty of time to spare.”
It was pert of the dealer’s method in busi
ness to depreciate or find fault with tho
sketches submitted to him; he had found it
successful with timorous and threadbare ge
nius, but Philip only smiled ; he saw that Mr.
Simmonds was pleased with the Summer
Reverie.
“As for this,” the printseller went on, touch
ing the more elaborate view with a contemptu
ous shrug, “it is waste of labor. A mere be
ginner could not have chosen a more common
place subject; an old house and trees and wa
ter—sky and foliage—with no meaning in it—
no use to me whatever.”
“It has a meaning to me,” said Philip, qui
etly. “it is a remembrance of my old homo
down in the country, and I am by no means
anxious to part with it. Will you tako the
other ?”
“ Well, yes—though I have some hundreds
stowed away, and I do not suppose I shall
ever see back half what they cost me. Original
sketches must possess more than average talent
to compete with the chromos. When the pub
lic can get a work of Art, framed complete, for
a guinea, they will not buy these crayons and
water color trifles by unknown men. However,
I can givo you ten shillings—l dare say you
want the money.”
“I should have to be in greater need of it
than I am at present,” said Philip, decisively,
“ before I took that price. No, Mr. Simmonds,
I happen to know that my things sell, and at a
decent price; so you must double your offer on
this occasion, if you please.”
The dealer shook his bead.
“ There is tho money—ten.”
“ Which means take it or leave it ?”
“Yes.”
Philip looked at the half-sovereign, reluctant
to leave tho tempting bit of gold, but lie felt he
ought not to depart from his word ; beside, he
thought be detected signs of wavering.
“I must have it,” he said, opening his port
folio deliberately, and proceeding to cover the
view of Egerton with a sheet of soft tissue pa
per. “ I gave that Summer Reverie twelve
hours’ honest work; and for tbo sake of the
brotherhood, I must expect more than labor
er’s fare.”
“ Come to-morrow, if you think better of it,”
said Mr. Simmonds, as two gentlemen entered
and strolled leisurely up to tho table; “I am
engaged now—or you may wait.”
Philip did not feel inclined to do either; he
had an independent spirit, and he often put it
under painlul sell-control. Ho proceeded to
wrap up the sketch of Egerton Park, and did
not hurry himself, though he was conscious
that the two gentlemen were looking over his
shoulder. 1
“Will you permit mo to look at tho ono
you are covering ?” asked the younger of the
two, courteously. The table was in front of a
largo looking-glass, and the painter had but
to raise his eyes to see-that both the new com
ers were men of the unmistakable blue blood
—stamped with the mark which only loaves its
impress on tho purest patrician metal—tho
sign manual imprinted by several generations
of proud and perfect culture—tho harmonious
repose never to bo successfully imitated by tho
genus Cad, no matter how carefully he may
study his part, nor how much money he may
squander.”
“ With pleasure.”
Ho who made tho courteous request was tall
and slender, older than Philip by two years
perhaps, and with the faintest tinge of golden
whisker on an almost effeminate cheek, a
young, undeveloped Antinous, with a very win
ning face.
“ This is no fancy sketch, De Vere,” ho said,
turning to his friend. “ You must havo known
this place well ?”
“ Yes,” replied Philip, to whom tho latter
words were addressed ; “I was born within a
stone’s throw of tbo spot. Egerton Park, in
Slid-bussex. i aia it from memory tho day be
fore yesterday.”
“Was this from memory, too?” asked tho
one whom the first speaker had called Do Vero.
“Entirely; Mr. Simmons must share its
honor or demerits with me, for ho suggested
it. A'pretty woman, with a fine fashion-plate
air about her dress : tho sea and beach aro
mere accessories, thrown in to euit tho time
of year.”
“Did you draw upon imagination for the la
dy?”
“No ; I have tho negative advantage of a re
tentive memory, and the figure is just as I saw
it.”
“Where?”
“ At St. Leonard’s, this time last year.”
“It is a negative advantage,” said De Vere,
somewhat sternly ; “had the lady sat to you
for her portrait you could not have been more
true in the likeness ; you should be careful, my
friend, how you make public property of any
ono you may chance to see.” ,
“You should be careful how you dictate,”
Philip began, but checked himself, and added,
“ It is not public property yet, my dear sir, and
is not likely to be at tbo price Mr. Simmonds
puts upon it. I thought the lady worth paint
ing ; he did not think the painting worth half
a sovereign ; let me wish you good evening.”
Throwing Summer Reverie and gloomy Park
together m his portfolio, Philip lifted his wide
awake and left the shop with angry flash m
his eyes.
“Lucy will blame me, perhaps,” ho reflected;
“ten shillings would have been better than
nothing, but self-respect is a man’s birthright,
and he cannot throw that into the scale to com
plete so small a bargain. I should like to meet
that Mr. De Vero on equal terms, and teach
him to change his tone.”
As Philip strode from the shop, a trifle more
erect than usual, both Do Vero and his friend
looked after him—the former with a cynical
sneer, the latter with a smile of sympathetic
regret.
“You should not have speken so sharply,Do
Vero,” he said; “ tho fellow is sensitive, you
can see, and he is a gentleman, too.”
“Nonsense, Arthur, I know the kind of man
perfectly; he cannot disassociate genius and
ah independent spirit from a low-crowned hat,
and a coat which is, more or loss, a simple
groundwork for pockets. Ten to ono be car
ries a short pipe and dirty handkerchief, and is
given to republican principles.”
“What a cynic you are, Do Vere. We are
not to suppose that any student or scholar can
devote leisurely to the conventional as we do.
Now I liked his appearance.”
“ And did you like to hear Miss Stafford
Bpoken of as a pretty woman—a figure to drape
with silk and velvet, and bo priced at half a
guinea by our friend here.”
Egerton bit his lip. The printseller colored
uneasily.
It is the way with all these young men,” he
said, apologetically ; “givo them a little en
couragement and they begin to think they hon
or you by taking your money for their work. I
can assure you, the half sovereign he spoke of
was a fair price for a single sketch. I have
hundreds on the shelves, including some of Mr.
Hamilton's, which I would gladly sell at half a
crown auioco.”
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
“How do you reconcile that with your offer ?”
asKod Do Vero.
“Wo buy them all, more or less, on risk. sir.
It is difficult to tell, at first sight, a bit of real
genius from a clever imitation. Somo one must
encourage these young men at the outset or
they would lose heart. To bo frank with you,
the thing I buy for half a guinea may fetch
five pounds, or it may be shelved with a num
ber of others, which I should liko to part with
at any price.”
“So, then, wo havo art from its practical
point,” Arthur Egerton observed. “Have you
completed my list yet ?”
“Nearly so.”
"Add these then, and lot me have them
soon. What is ths address of this Mr. ?”
“Hamilton. Philip Hamilton, No. 11 River
side Terrace, Chelsea. If you wish to see him,
I can Bend a messenger.”
“No, thank you, I will see him myself.”
The picture dealer bowed them out, blaming
himself inwardly for not buying the Slimmer
Reverie at tranty shillings; he felt sura
Arthur Egerton would have given five pounds
for it without a murmur.
“What object have you in seeing the gentle
man who wears a wide-awake, and dates from
Chelsea ?” inquired De Vere, as ho gave Eger
ton his arm.
“ I want those sketches simply.”
“ Why not lot the man in the shop send for
them and make his legitimate profit?—you
would find it cheaper. I know just what you
will do, my dear Arthur, you will catch this
fellow in a semi-barbaric state of shirt sleeves
and trousers, with a surrounding of lay figures,
dilapidated palettes, unfinished pictures, and
empty beer bottles. You will begin by giving
him ten times the value for those two draw
ings, and wasting a few hundreds on him in
the misguided notion that you aro bringing
out a genius. Take my advice, and leave him
alone.”
“Your dislike to him is peculiarly sudden,
Saville. ”
“Candidly, Ido not like that kind of per
son. I hate its affectation, its way of bringing
all things down to the low level of professional
egotism—a pretty woman, silk and velvet, with
the x'i’st qt the modern requirements. What
sacrilege it was to hear such a fellow speak so
pf Ethel, I beg your pardon, Miss Stafford.”
“ Tho Biirilege WAS purely unintentional. I
can forgive him. I am sure Ethel would j she
must have made a powerful impression upbfi
him for him to remember her so distinctly.”
“A mere trick of his trade. I should re
member him as faithfully were I to live a
thousand years. Take my advice, Arthur, and
let tl.o man in the shop transact your busi
ness.”
“ I have no sympathies with the man in the
shop,” replied Arthur Egerton. “They rather
run the other way, and 1 feel a curious interest
in ono who lias chanced to show me my father’s
homo and my future wife. Wiil you como with
me ?”
“ Thanks—no.”
Egerton laughed as ho hailed a Hansom.
“ Very well. Look lor mo in two hours or so.”
“ Yes.”
Arthur directed tlio driver and entered the
cab. Saville de Vere stood motionless on the
pavement lor a moment or so, and wa’ched
tho vehicle thread its way through the crowd
—his countenance wore a very singular ex
pression.
Ho was a darker man than Arthur Egerton,
not so tall, but more compact, and there was a
quiet weight aud power in his step, his face
was of tho short, proud Roman type, broad in
tho forehead, heavy in the temples, with a
clear, finely chiseled mouth, and a firm massive
jaw; the head was well set on a large, solid
throat, and his whole appearance was sug
gestive of subdued nervous strength.
“I do not like you so well as I did, Arthur
Egerton,” he soliloquized as he stood. “ You
are not so tractable as you were, not so unsel
fish either, and you begin to rely upon your
own judgment, instead of being guided by
mine. Unless lam very careful, the time may
come when you will think you can do without
me, and that, my friend and pupil, must not
be.”
The Rondon season was at its bight, and the
driver of Mr. Egerton’s Hansom made his way
but slowly through tedious thoroughfares, but
once in the Park, tho way was comparatively
clear, and Arthur was set down at Riverside
Terrace just as he reflected on the probability
of Philip walking tho whole distance.
“ And if so, he will not be here for the next
half hour,” he said to himself, “ and I need not
have been in such a hurry. Still it is best that
I am.hero ; my good intentions never keep un
less I act upon them immediately, and‘it is
somo advantage to be away now and then from
Saville's cold-blooded cynicism.”
He went to No. 11, found Philip not at home
as he expected, left his card with a promise to
call again within half an hour or so ; and then
lighting a cigar, strolled as far as Cremorne
and back again. As ho reached the garden
gate at Mr. Meadow’s house, he saw Philip
open the door with a latch key.
“The poor fellow seems tired,” thought the
young aristocrat. “I can only faintly picture
what it is to be like him, at the mercy of such
men as Simmons, working hard in the mere
chance of selling the result of a hay’s labor for
a few paltry shillings. It must boa wretched
thing to be a gentleman, gifted, and in pov
erty.”
Philip, turning to close the door, saw him
walking up the g irden path, and wailed.
Egerton raised his hat.
“ Mr. Hamilton 1 believe ?”
“ Yes.
“ I left my card for you nearly an hour since.
I had the pleasure of seeing you in the Strand
not long ago.”
A servant girl hearing Hamilton’s voice,
came up stairs and began without preface :
“ Please, sir, a gentleman left his card for
you, and said he would come back in half an
hour, and—oh, thoro he is I”
“Thank you, Mary.”
But Mary had retired in dire confusion, be
cause the gentleman hipieelf happened to smile
upon her.
“Come to my roJta, Mr. Egerton,” said
Philip, loading the way. “I presume your
motive has some reference to the sketch about
which vour friend was kind enough to give me
some advice.”
“To that, and the other.”
Philip lighted the antique bronze lamp, a
ponderous piece of workmanship, to which
modern ingenuity had added a moderator ap
paratus, and tilted a pile of litbos out of a
carved oaken ehair, which ha placed at the
disposal of his unexpected guest.
“ I feel at home in such a place as this,” said
Egerion, offering Philip his cigar case. “I do
a little with the brush myself, and claim by.in
stinet a sort of kinship with tho brethren.
You aro a Sussex man, aro you knot ?”
“ Yes. I was born at tho oid Hall, near
Traygot, and my mother lives there still.”
“ And I was born at the Park House, which
has been siftit up these twenty years. You
must have seen it very recently.”
“No. I last saw it three years ago, and I
havo not been homo since,” said Philip, put at
his case by the ingenuous frankness of his vis
itor. “It was an odd coincidence that put me
in your way.”
“It seems so only by the fact that we went
just at tho time you wore offering the sketch
for sale. Had you sold it to Simmons, I might
have bought it from him, and attached no im
portance to tbo circumstance. An artist must
choose his subjects somewhere, and why not in
e. epot oo thoroughly picturuaquo a,a bUSSex.
Tho oddest thing is that you should have
painted my fiancee."
“ Tho lady in my • Summer Reverie ?’ ”
Arthur inclined his head.
“Permit mo to express regret. I shall be
careful how to use my unhappy gift of memory
jn future. If you will accept the trifle "
“I should have asked you for it, Mr. Hamil
ton ; in fact, I came on purpose, declining to
accept my friend’s suggestion, that I had bet
ter deal with you through tho medium of the
man in the shop. A curious fellow Do Vero is
—a stanch friend and a bitter hater.”
“A union of strong passions aud no sympa
thies,” said the artist, quietly. “You must
havo chosen him for your friend by the doc
trine of extremes.”
“You can scarcely judge of him—you only
looked at him once.”
“And that was in tho glass, when he did not
think I was looking at him. I never doubt
those first impressions, Mr. Egerton. They
are tho soul’s photograph of the mental man,
and they are as infalible as the likeness fixed
on the prepared plate in the camera.”
“A singular theory.”
“ Tho merest fact, in common-place psychol
ogy instinct—rarely errs. It is when wo reason
away what we would rather not believe that we
are wrong.”
“ I have found Saville a very good fellow as
yet,” said Art our. “ His one fault is cynicism.
You would liko him on acquaintance, Mr. Ham
ilton.”
“ Perhaps.”
“Do you paint portraits ?”
“Yes; I have painted a fow, but 1-do not
think faces are my forte.”
“ If I may judge by this,” said Arthur, smil
ing, as he looked at the sketch, “ I must differ
from you. The lady is sure to bo interested
when I show her this ; and it is probable I
shall have to ask you to exercise your skill in a
more legitimate way. Will you give Miss Staf
ford a sitting, should she desiro it?”
“With pleasure.”
“Thanks, aud good evening, Mr. Hamilton.
Should I ever look in some morning to smoke a
cigar, you can let mo know if I am in the way.
There is nothing I like so much as artist life
and tho privilege of entree to your studio will
be welcome to me.”
“ Come whenever you please,” said Philip,
won by Mr. Egerton’s genial manner. “ I shall
always ba glad to see you.”
Ho lighted his visitor down stairs, and shook
hands with him at the street door.
“ That he is a very pleasant fellow and a gen
tleman, there is no doubt,” Philip reflected, as
Egerton went down the garden path, “and be
may do me some good in future; but he has
two days’ work of mine in his pocket, and in
my present state old Simmonds’ half sovereign
would have been better than nothing.”
Luoy Mavis standing at the top of the stair
case, with just a dainty glimpse of ankle show
ing, waited, full of expectation, to bear the re
sult of his walk.
“ How did you get on, Phil, dear ?”
“ Tbo result is not brilliant at present, my
pct, but the future looks promising. I think
just now I am about as hard up as a mau can
be conveniently.”
“Didn’t vou sell the sketches, then?”
“No; I gave them to tbo gentleman who
just departed—an instance of liberality only
equaled by the wisdom which it doos not show
for the time being; but never mind, I havo
seven pence half-penny, and we never know
what the morrow may bring forth.”
“Poor Philip; you walked all the way.”
“No particular hardship, Lucy. While I was
going I was thinking of what I might get on
the wav home. I was thinking oi you.”
Lightly as lie spoke, Lucy saw he was disap
pointed, and she wont with him to his room.
She sat by his side at the opon window, while
he watched the quiet river, and thought how
hard it was to be so loved, and yet so poor.
CHAPTER 111.
# THE BACHELOB’S HOME.
The artist began his work at an unusually
early hour next morning. Ho did not regret
having given away his sketches ; it was a sac
rifice to gentlemanly feeling, but it required
some self-denial to study gentlemanly feeling
at tbo cost of quite a sovereign, while he had
only sevenpence halfpenny in his pocket.
“ Mr. Egerton is a swell of the'first water,”
he said to himself, while touching-in incongru
ous bits of color, byway of bringing his fancy
to bear on something definite; “a sparkling
gem of tho purest- blue, and I liko him. He
shall come home, and smoko as many cigars as
he likes to bring. But why, oh I why did he
take my ‘ Summer Reverie,’ instead of asking
me to give him a copy of it ? There would
have been so much more finish in the copy,
and I am sure old Simmons might havo been
conjured out of a lot for the original.”
He worked till breakfast time, when Lucy,
before going to her school duties, brought him
his tray. Tho time had been when he man
aged for himsell in these things—had the
smallest of frying-pans hung under tho bottom
shelf in the left hand together with
the thinnest of penny gridirons, aid a coffee
pot which was capable of producing more grit
from a given quantity of the oriental berry than
Philip could possibly account for.
When Lucy knew lie loved her, and they con
fided in each other, sho took pity on his help
less bachelor condition, and made a change m
his comfortless arrangements. Sho confiscated
frying-pan, gridiron, and coffee-pot in one lot,
insisted upon his giving up his room to her for
9Q? day 2 wbich, after carefully hiding every
scrap aud material, ho did.
“ Your room is in a dreadful state,” she said
to him, “and poor Mary says she dares not
touch anything, because you seem to go out of
your miud if sue brings in a broom.”
“So I do. If I give her ten minutes to her
■ elr in hero, she makes chaos. I know whore
to find everything if sho lets them alone ; but,
after ono of her regular visits, lam in a state
frenzy for a week.”
Ho had no fear of being sent into such a
state by Lucy. He gave her the apartment for
a day, and she went in for a rummage, as she
told him—brought out accumulations of unti
diness, and disinterred relics that had been
quite forgotten.
Oid clothes, cast-off boots, worn out linen
which he did not know what to do with; news
papers, periodicals, odd numbers of magazines,
out of which pipe-lights had been snatched in
a hurry; pipes' in every variety of clay and
w’ood; empty bottles, broken corks, remnants
of spoiled drawing-paper, ends of cigars, fuzoo
boxes, and stumps of brashes came from every
conceivable corner. Philip, going in in tho
midst of it to see how she was getting on, saw
her with her sleeves tucked up over her dim
pled arms, and a handkerchief tied over her
hair, surveying the heap with a look of pitying
dismay, which gave him a hopeless sense ot his
own inferiority.
The gridiron and other cooking utensils wore
in the fender, ready for removal. Philip had
bribed an errand-boy to buy them for him, and
smuggled them in surreptitiously on dark
nights, so that he might economize by doing
his own domestic, work ; and he was rather
ashamed when he saw she had found him out.
“You are getting on,” he said, with a discon
certed nod. “But what aro you doing with my
kitchen ?”
“ Your what ?”
“ My kitchen.”
“Send them ail down stairs.”
“ Yes; but look here, you know, it won’t do ;
you see, Lucy, when I want an early breakfast
—anything in tho middle of the night, or
haven’t time to go out to dinner ”
“ I shall manage all that for you in future,
Philip. If you live regularly, you will not want
anything in the middle’of the night, and I al
ways have my breakfast at half-past seven in
the morning.”
“Yes; but then, you see, I havo to study
economy, my dear. I may not be a Soyer, anil
Brillat Jouvain might possibly turn up his nose
at a rasher of ham with soot, or a mutton chop
flavored with cinders. As for my eggs, they
never trouble a spoon—in fact, I find a fork
preferable; but still I never go beyond eigh
tcen-pence a day, and we cannot expect epi
curean luxuries for that.”
“Eighteen-ponce a day; that is half-a-guinea
a week, Philip.”
“ Your natural genius for teaching, Lucy, is
shown by the brilliancy of your arithmetic.”
‘•1 havo had faint tendencies toward the
same belief, but they fade before the wretched
reality. You see that gridiron ?”
“ Yes, it is a penny one.”
“ Yon aro right, my love, it is a penny one ;
yen may value it at twopence, for I bribed a
boy with a penny to make tho purchase for
me, and brought it home in my great coat,
buttoned up. I remember how I stole to my
roouriu the dark with it.”
“ What made you buy it’?”
“You shall bear my domestic revelations.
My first investment was tho Irying-pan and
Cambridge sausages; I was proud, and did not
like to ask for less than hall’ a crown’s worth,
and I did not know what else to buy. I had
lingered longingly outside ham and beef shops,
but there was always such a crowd round the
window, I had not the courage to go m for a
shilling’s worth of varieties, and tbo sausages
were sold at a quieter establishment—a gro
cer’s, in Sloane street.”
“ Well ?”
“Well! why, I could not afford more than
fivepeuco a day for dinners at that period of
my coming prosperity, so I had the-Cambridge
mysteries for a week, and never knew what
else to buy till a happy inspiration suggested
the gridiron. Now, thought I. is change, lux
ury, demonized Kidneys and cayenne, broiled
hail), small salmon—tiiose that como twenty
five in a box, from Yarmouth, you know, two
shillings the lot. You must imagine what a
vista of delight that five-barred grid, opened
up, and at such a little expenditure.”
“Poor Philip 1”
“Pity me not, but list; great men have been
their own cooks ere now, my Lucy. Did not
King Alfred burn cakes in the widow’s cottage,
and—but there are examples too numerous to
mention, as I have seen somewhere; the pan
was a saving of time—the gridiron, independ
ence.”
“ And we used to think you dined at some
hotel everyday,” said Lucy. “Who was to
know you had to mako such contrivances up
here by yourself? You must let me manage
for you, Philip.”
“Do; let us get married this day three
weeks—unite our opportunities and our desti
nies. I will endow you with * )!! worldly
goods, Lucy—that wonderful gridiron and the
contents of the fender.”
The girl shook her head gravely at the
young man’s proposal.
“We aro both too young and too poor, Phil
ip, dear; I should be a burden to you just now,
but I can help you all tbo same ; I can savo
your time by doing these things for you, and
spend your money more wisely than you are
able to.”
“You shall do as you please, little angel,” he
said, tenderly; “but never again say you would
be a burden to me, nor what it would be to
havo this syeet face to work for.”
“But if, while working for this sweet face,
as you call mine, you saw it grow sad because
I knew it had mado you poorer ?”
“ That would never bo.”
“We do not know. You have only begun
the real work of your profession. Grandpa
Meadows says so, arid ho is always right; be
side, we are both very young.”
. “Wo should have" the longer timo to love
each other.”
“ Wo can love each other as it is, Philip; and
now go away. You had no business to come in
and see me in tins state, with my sleeves
tucked up to the elbows.”
“So much tho better for those pretty dim
ples.”
“ Don’t I Now go away, liko a good boy, for
I am goiug to make a feast, and I want to get
done.”
“ Let me stay and help you.”
“ Stay and hinder me, you mean.”
“Kiss mo, then.”
“When you get to tho door.”
Lucy bribed him out, and he went down
stairs singing. ,
Ho did not see his room again till she had
finished. Dust and disorder had vanished be
fore the magic of her towels. His books were
set in order, magazines arranged in numbers,
furniture placed properly, and the separate
heaps of litter packed together in a big box.
“ I never knew,” said Philip, looking round
and instinctively folding bis overcoat, instead
of flinging it over tho back of a chair, “ what a
miserable, disorderly wretch a bachelor is till
I saw this change. I wish Lucy would marry
mo and keep me in order I”
But Luoy steadily refused. She told him at
last that she would not seo him at all, except
in the evening, if he did not let that subject
drop. So he gave in at once, and went on
working in hope. Ho bought a cheap cash
box, into which ho put spare shillings and six
pences toward furnishing tho house ho had in
his mind’s eye : a six-roomed cottage, on the
banks of tbo river, with a garden, grass plot,
fruit trees and'flowers, and a big black dog,
perhaps a pony and chaise—ha was not very
ambitious as yet.
Ho soon found the advantage of the altera
tion. Lucy was a wise and provident little
housekeeper, and never troubled him with the
questions all men of brain work detest. He
was not asked what he would like lor breakfast
or dinner, or how he would havo his vegeta
bles. It would have bored him sadly to bo
stopped in the middle of a poetic sketch, and
have to pin his mind to a chain, which with
him never ranged beyond mutton or beef; to
think of a change from these required a men
tal effort.
She brought him dainty dishes, that were
epicurean by contrast with his cindery chops—
luxurious by comparison with his chiinnov-
floured ham. Ho never dreamed there was
such an iniinito variety and plenty to bo ex
tracted from ten and sixpence every Monday.
Thon there was the brightness of her pres
ence in the brief intervals between morning
and evening ; it was a relief from the labor of
thought and mind. He pictured the differ
ence between himself and others of his age,
and with his purpose, young, gifted men work
ing in garrets, tireless—foodless, sometimes,
and with rough, unsympathetic strangers—
never cheered by a smile or a caress—never
helped by a word of praise; while ho began his
every day with a kiss of love, and went to bed
with a pure girl’s blessing whispered on his
lips.
“They say artists and literary men should
never marry,” he reflected this morning, while
making'up for the sketches he had given to
Arthur Egerton; “and it maybe true of some;
but if it is true, so much the worse for them.
No man can live without love, and that means
one of two things : he must either marry or
sacrifice the girl who loves him. V/hat would
it be to mo if the great pictures I am going to
paint were the success of the year in the Boyal
Academy—if Lucy had ever had cause to look
upon it with a tear ?”
Lucy brought in his breakfast—clear, brown
coffee, poached eggs, white as her form, fresh
butter, and golden colored ham, and bread,
very different from the dry French roll and
cold water of earlier times; very different from
the liquid, grit, and sooty condiments of his
bachelor providing.
“ And there is a letter, Philip dear, with a
crest on the envelope.”
“For me?”
“Yes, tor you.”
“Some great connoisseur who has bought
some of my things from old Simmons,” he
smiled; “or perhaps my illustrious friend of
last evening, and it is only fair."
The TO 1 Arthur Egerton. He
bad written it the previous evening. Blushing
delicacy of treatment with kindly forethought,
he had not liked to offer Philip any money
while with him, and ho would not keep him
waiting one hour longer than could bo helped
for money, of which he thought the artist
might stand in need.
“My dear Mr. Hamilton,” he wrote, “will
you be kind enough to call upon me this morn
ing by twelve in Hyde Park* Crescent. Come
prepared to take a sitting ; Miss Stafford is so
delighted with the sketch you took of her, that
she wishes you to paint 'her portrait in full
size. - ...
“ The enclosed you will oblige ms by accept
ing, as if it were irora your friend Simmons.
“Sincerely yours,
“Abthur EoEßToef.”
The enclosed was a single bank-note for fifty
pounds.
“Look here, my darling,” said Philip, with
long and quiet phrases; “fifty pound, and a
commission to paint the most beautiful lady in
the world. Why, if Igo on like this, that cot
tage on the river bank will grow into a man
sion.”
“ Why should it ?” asked Lucy, gravely ; “I
should like the cottage; but, Philip, your
mansion would make me seem oddly out of
place.”
“Yes, my pet.”
He paused and looked up affectionately, but
it seemed to him she was quite right; hers was
the purest and simple dove-like beauty which
would be most at home in a small and pretty
dwelling, such as he had thought to be content
with ; ho would not associate her with the
larger residence he longed to dream of now.
<To be continued.)
INDIANA ‘{SPOOKS.”
Ghosts In Martin County Sled Hot
Chains Fall from the Sky—Slogs Bark
and. Horses Run—A. Dead i’eddler Tells
Tales.
(From the New Albany, Ind., Standard 1 )
From a letter from a friend at the little town
of Huron on the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad,
wo learn the particulars of some very singular
spiritual manifestations. Our correspondent
states, that fifteen or twenty years ago. a ped
dler was in the habit of passing through that
country, selling notions, who drove a two
horse team. That one night, about nine
o’clock, he passed the house of a Mr. Rubeck,
who lives some six miles east of Harrrisonville,
on the Bryantsville road, going toward the for
mer place. This was the
LAST THAT WAS EVER SEEN
or heard of him. The fact of his being missed,
and failing to make his regular visits, created
some talk iu this neighborhood at the time,
but soon died away, and the peddler was for
gotten.
On this road, about one or two miles from
White River, and some two and a half miles
from Harrisonville, is a very rough hill, up
which the road runs, and on top on the south
west side of the road is an open field, long
since abandoned. Near this field, and right
by the side oi this road, stands an old dead
tree. Somo three weeks ago, Mr. Rubeck was
passing along this road on bis way home
from Harrissonville. at about eleven o’clock at
night. The night was quite dark, and it was
with considerable difficulty that ho could keep
in the road, or prevent his horse from stum
bling over the stones that obstructed the high
way. He finally, however, reached the top of,
the hill, and, when about twenty rods from
the tree, he heard a noise over in the old waste
field above described, which he took to be two
dogs
ENGAGED IN A DESPERATE FIGHT.
Their growing, barking, snapping and
scratching was fearful. It was apparently the
most sanguinary dog fight he had ever heard.
At the moment it created little or no surprise.
He only wondered that two dogs should be at
that time of night so distant from anp human
habitation, for there is no farm-house within a
mile of this place, engaged m such a desperate
encounter. On second thought, however, he
concluded that they had been out on a sheep
hunting expedition, and having accidentally
met there, got into a fight.
He had not long to consider upon this, how
ever, for soon the clanking of chains attracted
his attention m another direction, and looking
toward the tree, to his astonishment he beheld
large broken links of what seemed to be a boat
chain, red hot, falling around the tree, sizzing
and scorching. There seemed to be at least
twenty of these links falling at the same time,
and continued to fall about a minute, when Mr.
R. was startled almost out of his wits by a
heavy groan, which seemed to come
FROM THE EARTH BENEATH HIM.
Strange as it may appear,, his horse bad not,
up to this time, manifested the least uneasi
ness, and Mr. R. himself had not imagined any
thing connected with what he had seen or
heard, but what could be accounted for on a
rational theory. The falling of red hot chains,
he admits, he thought a little extraordinary,
but had concluded in his own mind to revisit
the spot the next morning and gather them up,
believing, as he did. that they were meteors
that had fallen from tho sky in that peculiar
shape. At the groan his horse reared and ca
vorted, plunged forward, and sta/ted to run.
Now camo the most trying time to Mr. R?s
nerves, for just in front of him he heard tlie
plunging, rattling noise of a runaway’ team
coming toward him, and the noiso manifesting
every indication that their course would be di
rectly over him. Ho tried to rein his horse
out of the course it was taking, but his efforts
were to no purpose. On came tho frightened
team* and on toward it plunged the ungovern
able liorso. ’Twas a moment of terrible sus
pense. All the deeds of an honest life came
crowding upon his mind. He offered one short
prayer for safety, and gave himself up for lost,
when, more astonished than ever, the noises
as suddenly ceased as they had commenced.
His horse still fretted and tried to run, but Mr.
R. held him steadily in the road.
At this moment Mr. R. heard a voice calling
for help, and then the cry of murder fell on his
ear ; and, as he was getting out of the way, he
was more than ever startled by the exclama
tion, the voice apparently coming directly from
the old field:
*' For God’s sake 1 Jim, don’t murder me 1”
Having by this time passed the old field, he
made his way home without seeing or hearing
anything further, but in a state of mind better
imagined than described. He
SPENT A VERY RESTLESS NIGHT,
and the next morning rode over the country,
telling his experience of tho night before, and
requesting the aid of his neighbors to assist
him in solving the mystery. He gathered
some eight or ten, who attended him the fol
lowing night, when the same scenes were re
peated.
The dogs barked, the red-hot chains fell,
the unearthly groans rose up from the ground,
the frightened team came thundering down
upon them, the voice was again heard in the
waste field calling for help, and begging Jim
not to murder.
Most of the witnesses to this second demon
stration of the unearthly visitants, if such
they may be called, became panic-stricken and
precipitately fled. Those who remained could
find no reasonable solution of the mystery,
though one or. two, who knew intimately, and
distinctly remembered the missing peddler, are
willing to swear that it was his voice that
called for help.
The next day more citizens gathered upon
the hill, and dug as close to the spot where
the barking dogs were heard as they could,
and what was their surprise when they
UNEARTHED A SKELETON.
Some parts of tho clothing were still pre
served, which corresponded with that worn
by Mr. L., tho peddler. Upon close examina
tion, a fracture was found in tho skull, which
looked as though it was made with a heavy in
strument, such as an ax or hatched. These
last discoveries have created a considerable
excitement in the neighborhood, and some
thinks it explains tho mystery which surrounds
tho disappearance of the peddler, and will
ultimately lead to the discovery of his mur
derer, if he was murdered. Taking the facts
all m all, it is a singular affair, and if it does
result in what our correspondent intimates, it
will add something to the establishment oi the
theory of spiritualism.
Every cat in Paris is to be taxe <1
three francs a year. From which it may be
surmised that there will be fewer cats in t he
houses and more rabbits in the restaurants*
HOW fi WH W WON.
BY S. 81.
A by-street in London, many years ago ; a
night that was dark and stormy. The scene
was a strange one. In a comfortable room
stood a young man, with- gloomy brow, and
arms folded across bis breast. At his feet
knelt a lovely girl of scarce twenty years,
whoso face was bathed in tears, ahd whose
voice faltered as she addressed her sullen
featured companion.
“I tell you no I” he .said, harshly. “I’ve
not got a penny in ths world, and I must go
earn some ; —”
“Then let mo go with you. Oh, brother,
would you turn me off thus? Would you cast
me upon tho world as lam? —without trade,
and almost nameless—give me to its snares,
and blows, and scoffs ? Let mo share with
you, Bowland—lot me go to tho diggings, too.
I may get something to do there ”
“ 1 tell you again, no,” he interrupted.
“Why will you persist? Nojwoman cau go
whore I’m going.”
“Then you cast me off!” and she wrung
her hands in despair, and frosh tears welled
from the eyes that were deep as tho azure of
heaven.
“I’m not casting you off,” was the snappish
reply. “Don’t Isay I’ll come back again?—
and I’ll be rich then. I’ve given you all the
money the old folks left, except just enough to
carry me out there; and’"you can get along
somehow.”
“ I won’t stay here if you leave me, brother.”
“ Where will you go?
“I know not, and—and—l hardly care,”
mournfully.
“Pshawl I’m coming back soon. When I
return, I’ll bring you gold and jewels. You do
make me feel as if I was deserting you.”
“And so you are—so you.are 1”
“Bah! quit this. Fili going.”
And he started toward the door.
“Oh! Bowland, Bowlund—brother! Take
me with you!”
Bathe was gone.
An unearthly silence reigned wjibin the
room, broken only by her soils, tfed VuKis were
whispering the sad words ;
“ Alone, alone, alone 1”
# » # # «
“The finest woman in the room, Dick.”
Bowland Eyre had returned from Australia a
rich mMI, Ila cittne even sooner that he had
intehSead-camo inlb a buoyant heart to show
his sister the grand result of his labors in the
gold fields. The idea of deserting the fair girl
had never entered his thoughts. What he did
ho deemed in their mutual interest, and now,
after a short though hard struggle, fortune
smiled upon his efforts, he returned to find her
gone. Ail swell was‘in vain. No tidings, no
trace of the loved oil's. She had disappeared
as completely as if called away from oarti),
Then conscience tortured him. Ho recalled
the scene of that stormy night, and some
thing told him he could have done better than
he did.
Boaming aimlessly . about, traveling, tour
ing, he at last found himself at Scarbor
ough. Here he formed the acquaintance ot a
newly married young fellow—a very eccentric
and self-willed man, by the way—who was,
with his •'.'ilo, whiling away a portion of the
honeymoon at the great resort, and the two
became fast friends.
It was a ball night. The immense saloon
was crowded with a gay throng, and hilarity
and mirth ruled the mystic hour. Bowland
had never seen his friend’s wife until this oc
casion, and now he found himself wrapt in a
strange, mysterious admiration of her.
“My wife, you mean?” inquired Dick, in
reply to his friend’s exclamation.
“ Yes! Can’t help it it she is your wife; I
must speak ray opinion.”
"No offense, I assure you,” laughed Dick
Barron, good naturedly.' “ But I’ll wager a
bottle of champagne you wouldn’t guess bow I
got her.”
“ A romance ?”
“ Bather.”
“Do tell me.”
“11 you’ll keep it secret.”
“ As the grave.”
“Here it is, then. Seized with an intense
desire to visit foreign lands, I imparted the in
formation to my father’s family that I would
start shortly on an extensive tour. Obtaining
consent, money, and well wishes, I started.
Five years later, after having spent a reason
able time at various points of interest on the
Continent, I found myself in a traveling car
riage, proceeding leisurely along the road to
Stehlen on the Ruhr. I had heard much of.
tho place, its beauty, solitude, and cheerful
airs. So, with many expectations, I approached
the oft-praised locality.
“ This is not exactly where my adventure
occurred; lam only giving a prelude, to give
you some idea of the vicinity I got into.
Everything that renders vegetation gorgeous
here spread out before me. Beech woods and
oak forests crowned the hills on right and left;
well cultivated fields were teeming with dense
crops; the scent of clover charmed my every
inhalation, and I seemed unable to get my fill
oi gazing upon and feeling the freshness of
the lovely scenery that abounded.
“ I was not disappointed. The visit amply
paid me. Next, on my journey, I was going
from Wesel to Arnheim. This was not so
pleasant. The country was dull, and I often
dozed in careless oblivion of my surrounding.
“It was night. The horses were tired, and
my good-natured driver let them walk slowly
along, whilo he hummed an old German love
song. Whether or not it was his ditty which
kept, me awake, I cannot say, but something
kept slumber from my eyelids, and I tossed
restlessly about. 1 felt chiliy, too; a sensation
as of a spectral presence. Suddenly tho low
hum of tho driver ceased, and in the same in
stant I heard tho step of a shodden horse.
“ ‘ Haiti’ rang dimly on the outside, and tho
vehicle stopped with a jerk.
‘“What do you want?’ I heard tho driver
ask, in his native tongue.
“‘Move one step farther on this road and
you diol’ replied a voice, one that I thought
anything but masculine.
“ This intruder upon our ride now approach
ed our carriage-door and swung it open with a
violent jerk. A storm was brewing; the hea
vens were overcast by thick black clouds. Just
then a vivid lightning-flash lit up the scene.
A slender, masked figure held a powerful horse
by tho bridle in one band, and in the other was
a pistol, cocked and leveled fully lit mo.
“At the first intimation of an intrusion, I
had made ready for a shot with my revolver,
and I felt sure that, from the darkness whies
enshrouded the interior of tho carriage, I could
easily discharge tho weapon with deadly effect.
But something made mo stay.
“ ‘ What’s tho matter?’ I asked..
“ ‘ Money,’ was the terse reply, in good Eng
lish.
“ ‘ And what if I have none ?’
“‘I know better. You are an Englishman ;
you are traveling; therefore, you have money.’
“ ‘ How do you know this ?’ I demurred.
“‘No matter- Will vouyield? or—-
“I saw, by another lurid flash, that he was
taking more accurate aim.
“How unlike the voice of a man did his
sound to me 1 There was a ripple in it, despite
its sternness—a perceptible softness, which
the speaker tried to disguise.
“ ‘ Would you murder me ?”
“ ‘Yes T though I saw that the reply did not
come promptly. I was satisfied—it was a wo
man. Again the lightning flashed and the
thunder pealed. I took my purse from my
pocket and extended it. I saw tho would-be
highwayman lean forward to reach the prize.
Then was my chance. With a quick leap I
sprang forward—in another second we rolled
to the ground in a fierce struggle.
“When wo were locked in tho deadly em
brace, her form quivered in my grasp like a
loaf in the breeze; her sweet-scented breath,
heated by excitement, fanned my face. To
overpower her was the work ot a moment,
and when she saw I bad discovered her sox, to
my surprise she began to weep. My heart
softened, for 1 knew, then, that her heart was
not in her profession.
“I soon elicited sufficient to convince mo of
this, and—well, to be brief, within ten minutes
I had resumed my journey, and she sat by my
side, telling me her story.”
“ Het- father and mother were Germans of
the better class, and lived in England under
an assumed name. Death robbed her of home
and parents, and she found herself thrown
upon the world, with a limited education and
no trade. Having heard her father mention
wealthy relatives somewhere in Germany, she
started to find them, but without antdefiuite
idea where to look. The search proved fruit
less, and driven to desperation, hor last bit of
money was expended in equipping herself for
tho profession of a highwayman—no unc .tu
rnon character for desperate women to assume
in that country—which hazardous life she pre
ferred to one of a more degraded kind. Need
I say more? I married that girl, old fellow,
and I’m proud of her. And, by-the-by, I had
nearly forgotten one portion of her story. She
had a brother, who deserted her and went to
the diggings—- Hold on I What’s the mat
ter, Bowland? By George, you’re white as a
ghost? Well!”
Bowland Eyre had started from his seat, and
was now tottering toward the peerless beauty,
who moved like a ray ot grace among a host of
admirers.
“ Sister 1” he cried, in a choked, husky voice.
Slowly she turned ; then she recognized him.
For a moment the deep blue eyes fired with a
spirit of resentment—only for a moment—and
then her lips moulded a responsive word.
“Bowland I Brother!”
Upon tho broad balcony, where honeysuckle
perfumed the breath of niglit, Di< k Barron
found the brother and sister half an hour later.
Bepentant heart had not pleaded in vain ; all
was forgiven-all was sealed within the tomb
ot the past. Not a happier trio in all the merry
assemblage at Scarborough than tho re-united
brother and sister and young husband.
how He lost his eyes.
Mr. A. G. Lawrey, an old and esteemed resi
den of San Jose, recently went to San Diego,
where he has property interests in that city.
Shortly after bis arrival there he was attacked
with neuralgic pains in his head, which cul
minated in inflammation of the eyes. Ho call
ed in the services of a San Diego physician,
who applied seme sort of villainous preparation
to his eyes, which totally destroyed the sight.
His condition was telegraphed to his wife
I about two weeks ago. Sho went immediately
Sunday Edition. November 12
to his assistance, returning with hor sadly
afflicted husband on Thursday last. Ho is
totally and hopelessly blind.
The foregoing item originally appeared in
the San Jose Mercury, and is now going the
rounds of the press. The facts in the case are
these: Lawrey has (or had) faith in the
“ spirits,” and he applied to a female “ medi
um” of this town for advice. She gave him a
prescription from the spirit world for a certain
poultice, which he was directed to apply to his
eyes. He did so, and the inflammation in
creased rapidly, until ho become almost total
ly blind. He then called in a physician, Dr.
Temple, who told him to discontinue the poul
tice at once. The medium, however, bad an
other revelation from tho “invisibles,”and as
sured tho sufferer that the doctor was a fool,
and that nothing would cure his eyes but the
poultice. The physician, of course, refused to
have anything more to do with the case. Ex
cruciating torture got the better of faith, how
ever, and Lawrey again sent for a physician,
this time, Dr. Fenn, who made an examination
and found that the poultice had caused one
eye to run out entirely, and that the other eye
was so far destroyed that there was no hope of
saving it. He told Lawrey that his sight was
gone forever, and that nothing could be done
for him. Tho primary cause of the inflamma
tion was lime, which Lawrey goi into his eyes
while mixing mortar at the new Court House
building ; neuralgia had nothing to do with it.
—San Diego Union.
BAY RUM. ~ .
A STOHY OF JACK HAYS, THE TEX«
AN RANGER.
The Portland (Oregon) Bulletin tolls tho
annexed:
Almost every middle-aged man in the United
States remembers Jack Hays, who, during tho
Mexican war, was commander of a company of
Toxas Bangers, who did some of tho most gal
lant fighting tho world ever saw. But very
few people know that after peace was restored
Jack Hays went to California, became a Cin
cinnatus, and for nearly twenty years has
tilled a farm in Alameda county, near Oakland.
Some years ago there lived in Oaklond a Dr.
Davis, as whole-soulod, good-hearted a man as
over lived, but a mighty popy judga liquor,
On one occasion, a friend who had boon on a
visit to Victoria, and got some Hudson Bay
rum, presented the doctor with a bottle, with
the remark that it was tho finest rum in the
world. Tho doctor carried it homo and laid it
away, intending to treat his friends with it
whenever occasion offered. Some weeks passed
away, when one day Col. Jack Hays rode into
Oakland, and was greeted on all sides by his
acquaintances. After a while Dr. Davis camo
along, and knowing that Col. Jack had a tooth
for something nice, invited him up to his
house to take a drink of Hudson Bay rum.
“Hudson Bay rum?” queried tho colonel;
“ why, I neve? beard of it before, What is it
like?” s-
“ I can't tell you, but the man who gave it to
me declares that it knocks tho socks oil ail
other liquors.”
“Then I’ll go with you; because if thar is
any one thing I like better nor another, it’s a
little drop of good licker.”
Tho two proceeded to Davis’s house, whore
the doctor brought out glasses, a pitcher of
water, and a bottle, placed them on a table,
and .invited the colonel to help himself. Col.
Mays' took the bottle, raised it up, and read
“Bay Bum,” poured out half a glass of it, and
said :
“Doc., this ’ere licker smells mighty nice, so
here’s to you,” and poured it down his' throat.
Clapping his hand over his stomach, whilo
huge drops of perspiration collected upon his
forehead and tears stood in his eyes, Colonel
Hays said :
“My God, Doc., that ’ore licker is powerful
strong 1”
At this moment a daughter of the doctor’s
entered, and, seeing the bottle in her father’s
hand, asked :
“What are you doing with mv bay rum,
father ?” '
“Why, Colonel Hays and myself have been
taking a drink I”
“ Oh, good Heaven ! that is not to drink I It
is for hair-dressing. Tho stuff yon want to
drink is Hudson Bay rum, an entirely different
thing from bay rum.”
The joke was too geod to keep, and for many
a day everybody, when they met Colonel Hays,
would ask him if he wouldn’t “take a little
bay rum 1”
gmiii glljpUmw.
icimed
DR. J. A. SHERMAN.
ARTISTIC SURGEON,
respectfully offers his services in the apnlication of hit
RUPTURE CURATIVE APPLIANCES.
athis office,
So. 697 Broadway, corner Fourth Street.
The great experience ot Dr. SHBRMAN, resultin',
trom his long and constant devotion to the treatment
ana cure of this disease, assures him of his ability to re
heve all, without regard to the age of the patient or du
ration or the infirmity, or the difficulties which the#
may nave heretofore encountered in seeking relief. Dr.
b., as Principal of the Rupture Curative Institute, New
Orleans, for a period of more than fifteen years, had un
der ins care the worst cases in the country, all of which
were effectually relieved, and many, to their great joy.
restored to a sound body.
None of the pain* and injuries resulting from the use
of other trusses are round in Dr. Sherman’s Appliances;
and. with a full knowledge of the assertion t he promises
greater security and comfort, with a daily improvement
in the disease, than can be obtained of any other person,
or in the inventions of any other Person in the United
States.
Prices to suit all classes. It is the only as well as the
cheapest remedy ever offered the afflicted. Photographia
likenesses of cases before and after treatment furnished
on receipt of two three-cent stamps.
IMPORTED FRENCH LETTRBS OB
PREVENTIVES FOR GENTLEMEN, Fino
Skin, at $3, $4, §5 per dozen. French Rubber at $2, §3,
$4 per dozen. Caroline*, $2 per dozen. Lad es’Womb
Veils §1 each, $9 per dozen. Samples, 25c , 3Cc.. 50c. and
Circular free, sealed. Address or call on Dr.
MAMOHbb\ No. 735 Broadway, New York.
Madame professor
of Midwifery, ever thirty years successful prac
t c:. Office No. 1 East 52d street, corner of IMih ave
nue. Her infallible French Female Pills No. 2, I-hija
$5, are sold at Druggist-, No. 152 Greenwich street, and
No. 7 SIXTH AVENUE. N. Y.
Also at No. 122 Fultan street, Brooklyn, or sent by mail
with full directions.
A CHRONIC AND DISEASES OF A PRT
vate nature practically treated and permanently
cured at Doctor’s Office, No. 21 John st. Advicefree.
NO. 735 BROADWAY Ts DR. MAN
CHE&’ only office.—Nervous debility, im potency
and private diseases cured by new and sure remedies.
Rooms private. Call or write for the new book (sent
free, sealed). Semi al Pills for nervous debility, $1 per
box, or six boxes, $5. Sent bv mail, or at office.
Abadies physician.—dr. h. d.
GRINDLE, PROFESSOR OF MIDWIFERY,
having twenty-five years’ successful and uninterrupted
practice in this city, makes it his special practice to
treat all female complaints, however complicated or
from whatever cause produced. Every complaint, how
ever long standing, treated with ask 11 unsurpassed,
Flecrant rooms i.n.l good board for 1. die? before and
during confinement. Infants adopted when desired.
Office and residence, No. 120 WEST TWENTY-SIXTH
STREET, near Sixth avenue.
Dr. hotter can beYionsijlted
from 9 A. M. to 8 P. M., at his office No. 56 Son!
street, ne :r the Bowery. Charges moderate and a cure
guaranteed. The doctor has cured many old chronio
cases after dozens of eminent physicians failed. Patients
will see no one but the doctor himself. $1 00 will se
cure by return mail, carefully Pealed, his groat medical
work on private diseases, debility, etc. Worth a l the
others put together. Advice by mail and medicines
prompty forwarded. Utmost privacy observed. Not
open on Sunday.
Anew book, free to all, con
taining new and important information on the
private diseases of both sexes, nervous debility, night
losses, syphilis, gonorrhea, ana impotence. Send ad
dro. s to CHAS. MANURES, M. D., No. 735 Broadway •
New York. _____
At the old french drug-
Store you can be cured immediately. No mercury
used ;no change of diet necessary. Call, save time and
moncjLDr. JULIEN, No. 515 Pearl street.
iIiYA Reward“fob~any
case of private
d.sease, spermatorrhoea, nervous de- / '
bility, rheumatism, syph.lis, scrofula, / \
etc, which DR. RICH AU’S GOLD-/ \
EN REMEDIES tail to cure. No I
mercury; no restriction of diet. Cir-I '.'=7j
culars sent; correspondents answered \ /j
promptly. Office hours from 9 A. M. \ / 1
to9P. M. Address Dr. D. B. RICK
ARDS, No. 228 Varick st., New Yoik.
IN _ TlL _ CASES OF NERVOUS AND
Physical Debility, consult Dr. JULIEN, No. 515
Pearl street, French Physician.
is the only positive and Specifio Remedy
for ail suffering from general or sexual debility, all de
rangements oi the nervous forces, melancholy, sperma
torriioea, or seminal emissions, all weaknes-es arising
from sexual excesses, or youthful indiscretions, loss of
muscular energy, physical prostration, nervousness, weak
spine, lowness of spirits, dimness ot vision, hysterics,
pains in the back and limbs, impotence, Ac.
No language can convey an adequate idea of the imine*
diate an.l almost miraculous change it occasions to tha
debilitated and shattered system. In fact, it stands un
rivaled as an unfailing cure of the maladies above men-
'Suffer no more, but try one bottle; it will effect a cure
where all others fail. It contains nothing hurtful to tho
most delicate constitution. Price. Five Dollars. e No. 56
bond street, near Bowery. Book oi 80 pages gratis. Not
open on Sunday..
D“b. HUNTER’S GONNORHEA SPE
CIFIC cannot be equaled for curing quickly and
most effectualiy._No. 56 Bond street, near Bowery.
DR. HUNTER, NO. 56 BOND STREET,
near the Bowery, invites the diseased and debili
tated to consult him, free of charge. His great experi
ence enables him to effect a speedy cure in the worst
cases. Forty years practice.Aavice gratis.
Dr. HUNTER, 56 Bond street, 40 years
practice, the only physician in this city who cures
without leaving a taint in the blood. Botanic Cordial
for Nervous Debility. Impotence. Loss of Power, &o.
Five Dollars. A sure cure. Sent by express to any ad
dress. Advice gratis. Not open on Sunday.
WHBENCH GOODS FOR GENTLEMEN,
new and late importation, at the French Drug
Store, No. 515 Pearl street. ;
D” RTGrRTBOND, No. 196 ELM ST.,
between Broome and Spring streets, can ba con
sulted on all diseases of a private or delicate nature, by
ladies or gentlemen. Certain relief Guaranteed to all«
Ladies’ Pills, No. 1, $2 a box; No. 2, bupar-Ooated and
Stronger, S 3. Drops. $2 « via!. Invigoratme Cordial,
tor gentlemen, Slid and S 3 per bottle Gents Pro
teolors, twoforSl: S 5 a dozen. Ladies' Protectors. S 3
each, 'file doctor and son will keep on hand a full sup-
T>lv of Family Medicines, Roots, Herbs, Toilet Article..
Perfumery, and all of the best Patent Medicines of tho
day. ————
A LL WHO ARE SUFFERING FROM
/Yk disease and nervous or physical debility, should
consult Dr« HUNTER. His great experience during
forty voars’ practice enables him to effect a radical and
sneedy cure, without injury to the most delicate consti
tution. No. 56 Bond street, near tho Bowery. Ad vice
oralis.

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