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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, September 29, 1872, Image 7

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Sunday Edition. Sept. 29
REOONC3LED.
By Jennie Joy.
I bars stood besido the dying?.
Seen a loved one calmly lying?
’ With the icy spray of Jordan damp’ing brow and
sunny hair—
Marked the weary heart’s slow throbbing,
As grim death that form was robbing,
Hoefllesa of my low, deep sobbing, of the enshrined
jewel there—
Felt the clinging fingers quiver,
And the cold flesh’s last taint shiver,
As It parted, cross the river, with the lovely gem so
rare.
In my anguish, broken -hearted,
I have knelt where last we parted,
Calling wildly on my darling with the frenzied wail
of wo—
But across that river’s foaming,
Through the narrow valley’s gloaming,
Came no answer to my moaning, not the faintest
echo low,
Telling where the feet were straying,
Where her golden curls were playing,
What her angel lips were saying, though my heart
was rent to know.
Then, while yet the heart was aching,
Like the sun through storm-cloud breaking,
Came a vision, oh, how glorious I earth hath not a
scone so fair,
Through a glist’ning, golden portal,
Open to the realms immortal —
One, In shining garments, leadeth a sweet child with
sunny hair
Toward a mansion brightly gleaming,
On whose towers Heaven’s light was steaming,
Calm, I woke me from my dreaming—God had told
me she was there,
THE LOHL HEART;
OR,
THE TERRIBLE MYSTERY.
BY CHARGES GIBBONS,
-4UTHOB OK “FOB TUB KING ; 08, THE DAYS OF
THE PBETENDEB,” ETC.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MISS DALGUESn OF THE HOWE.
“ She saw no purple shine,
For tears had dimmed her eyes;
She on iy know her childhood’s flowers
Were happier pageantries. Barrett.
Sir Leonard made the story ha had to tell his
mother and Agnes Drumthorne as brief as pos
sible, but he told them all—how he married
Elsie Smith without the knowledge of her par
ents ; and how they, thinking there had been
no marriage, bad taken her away and reported
her to him as dead on the eve of his departure
for Europe. He told how he had heard noth
ing more of her or her friends till her mother
had come to the Howe and accused him of
having taken Elsie away and keeping her
from her friends; that, remembering the tale
of the girl who died at the lair, and who had
worn the locket once his, he had taken pains to
find out tho truth, and how the child herself
had unwittingly aided him by the accidental
use of the box which held the proofs of her
birth and identity.
“Nothing remains but to find that woman,”
he said, “and prove that tho two papers are
the ones she took from the dress which was
sold her by the Albino woman. The oddest
part of it all is, that Mrs. Smith, poor Elsie’s
mother, writes me that she has seen her daugh
ter in London within this week past, and that
other people have seen her at various times
since my Elsie died. That is the only part of
iho affair that t oanaot m.lio ant."
“A mother would hardly be mistaken in her
daughter,” Lady Dalgliesh said, gravely.
“Eight years have passed, mother; Elsie
was a simply-dressed, quiet girl then ; the
person who seems to have been taken for her,
this last time, at any rate, is a splendidly-at
tired lady; a mistake might be possible.”
“And this Mrs. Smith—is she the person
who was closeted with you so long at the Howe,
one day.”
“Tho same.”
“And who Is she ?”
“She is the wife—the widow now—of a ser
geant in my old regiment; but, oddly enough,
she was of the show folk yonder when she was
young. She, too, saw the child, and was very
inquisitive to her old friends about her."
“ Her old friends ?”
“Yes; Bateman and tho giantess; they
Anew her when she was a girl, and her hus
band, too ; he was a curiosity or an exhibitor
of some sort before he was a soldier.”
“What was she like—what did she wear?”
asked Lady Dalgliesh; excitedly; the last ques
tion seeming apropos of nothing.
“Like?” he replied, thoughtfully; “well, I
hardly know ; a good-looking woman, like
well, like yen, mother dear. You’ll think it a
crazy thing to say, but she was ; as to what
she had on, I never do know what ladies wear.
I’ve a sort of floating idea that she was well
dressed, and—stay; I remember ; she had on
a scarlet shawl with an Indian border. Why
do you want to know ? I should not have no
ticed that much but that 1 had seen it before,
many years ago.”
“ I asked you because my old friends yonder
told mo my sister had been there; my only liv
ing relation, as I believe, and I have thought
her dead these many years. They said she
wore an Indian shawl, and looked well-to-do.
It must have been her child you married out
yonder, Leonard.”
" Elolo’o llUluv TV- a. a Ulla.a
fee replied ; “I have often wondered at it, but
I don’t remember hearing it was her mother’s
maiden name—it might have been.”
“It was; where is her letter—did you say
She had written to you ?”
“Indoors—nay, mother dear, don’t let all
this overcome you so,” for her tears were
falling from the eyes of Lady Dalgliesh. “Let
us go in ; Bateman will give us further proof
of it all when he comes up. Agnes’s friends
will miss her and you if you do not show your
selves soon.”
“They will excuse me, lam sure. If you
two make my excuse, I will keep my room’to
day ; I shall feel as if every eye was penetrat
ing my disguise of so many years—as if every
finger were ready to point at the show-girl
who has dared for so many years to proclaim
herself their equal.”
“You mustn’t feel like that, dear Lady Dal
gliesh,” said Agnes, tenderly; “ but if you like
you shall not see any one. I suppose I must
go and play hostess, or there will be an out
cry. lam very glad I did not hear all this be
fore last night, or I am afraid I should have
made a mees of my part of our grand perform
ance.”
“I am sure I did,” said Sir Leonard; “when
I looked at those two pieces of paper—l will
bring them to you, mother, when we get home
—I iorgot everything around me, and I saw my
dead wife looking at me through that child’s
innocent eyes.”
They walked slowly toward the house, where
Agnes’ absonce had excited no small amount
of comment and curiosity, especially when it
was found that the baronet and his mother
had been the sharers of her rambles or her se
clusion. Several of the guests declared they
had seen it all along, and they had no doubt
the match was made, &e., &c.; and when Ag
nes was overheard to toll her father that her
ladyship wished to see him, the matter was
looked upon as quite settled.
“I must see Mr.Drumtbornebefore Isleop,”
Lady Dalgliesh had said, when she entered the
house, and Agnes had sent her father to the
lady’s room, to be astonished with as wonder
ful a tale as he had ever heard.
Agnes was right when she said it would
make no difference to him. In his heart it did
not, though he chose, like many vain, self
glorifying men, to make it appear that he did.
lowever, he managed not to hurt bis guest’s
feelings a great deal, by his manner of grant
ing her request; and before the guests invited
to celebrate tho birthday of the pretty Agnes
left Drumthorne, it was known to them all that
she was the betrothed wife of Sir Leonard Dal
gliesh.
The odd intercourse and mystery which had
seemed to exist between the baronet and his
mother and the show people, was pretty well
accounted for by their taking away the little
girl with them, Lady Dalgliesh having adopted
10 child, report said. No one was any the
wiser about her connections with the traveling
exhibitors; it was not to Bateman’s interest to
talk, and Mr. Fordyce, his employer, was too
new in the profession to know anything about
Mabel Kingsford, except by hearsay. Charley
Bateman attended upon Lady Dalgliesh at the
time named, and in the presence of her son
gave her all the particulars he bad been able
to remember or gather about the woman who
had died in his booth when little Nellie was
born, find about the tramp from whom he had
received the box. He also told enough about
Mrs. Smith to make Lady Dalgliesh sure her
sister was living, and in the same country with
herself, and an advertisement for Mrs. Jones,
and a letter to Elsie’s mother, were both dis
patched from Drumthorne tho same night.
Mr. Fordyce was extremely irate at the idea
Of being deprived of the attraction which had
made him buy up Bateman’s concern, but Sir
Leouard explained to him the relationship be
tween the child and himself, and turned his
chagrin to astonishment, which was tempered
by the present of a pretty consldstable sum,
to compensate him for the loss of her services.
Bateman and his wife were very sorrowful at
the thought of losing Nellie; nor was the child
less unwilling to go than they were to part
with her. Hers had been a rough life with
them ; she had often known what it was to be
scolded and snappishly treated by Bessie, and
to taker her share of the privations, which
sometimes came near to actual want, which
they endured in the course of their checkered
lives, but they were the only friends she had
ever known. Charley and Bessie had been
“ daddy” and “mammy” to her all her life,
and her little faithful heart could not turn
from them all at once to the grand gentleman
Who called her his child, nor tho stately lady
whose caresses seemed to have more of duty
than pleasure in them, after all.
The death of tho dwarf made quite a little
Sxoitemont among the Drumthorne guests. It
was a gram of romance in the stagnation of
their lives, for tho fete being over, things
were very flat among them, and most of the
gentlemen declared their intention of attend
ing the funeral of the dead “curiosity.” There
was a goodly gathering of them at the grave
in the little churchyard which was near to
Drumthorne—some from curiosity, some from
genuine pity and sympathy; but it was Sir
Leonard Delgtieeb who walkofi next to the cof-
fin, and held the cord at tho head of the grave
when all that was mortal of poor little Joe was
lowered into the earth. The visitors to Drum
thorno sot it down as a piece of eccentricity on
the part of the baronet; they never dreamed
that it was an old friend of his mother’s, a
faithful, patient lover, to whom he was paying
the last respect humanity can pay to friends
that are gone forever.
It was a full-sized coffin that held tho little
shrunken form. Bessie washed it, and it was
a great calm to their sorrowful hearts that, by
Lady Dalgliesh’s orders, everything was pro
-1 vidod as though poor Joe had been as big as
his fellow men; and for many a long year the
two women who had boon his care-takers and
attendants through life, held up their heads
above their follows when they told of the line
funeral provided for little Joo by the grand
folks they had chancod to be among at the
time of his death.
Lady Dalgliesh need have feared no revela
tion of her secret from them; bumble and un
tutored as they were, they had still a keen
i sense of honor, and the wishes of the grand
lady into whom their old acquaintance, Mabel
Kingsford, had merged, wore law to them.
They never boasted nor hinted, and her secret
was safe for them.
Little Nellie was inconsolable when she saw
her old homo move slowly away through the
trees that skirted the park, and it took all Ag
nes Drumthorne’s gentle kindness and ready
wit to allay the storm of tears and sobs that
would from time to time broak forth afresh
when she thought of her lost friends. But
pets and flowers, dogs and birds, and kittens,
to say nothing of a wonderful pony, which made
its appearance ready saddled and bridled all
for her own use, pretty toys and nice clothes,
with the greater charm of gentle words and
loving looks soon wrought a transformation,
and by the time Lady Dalgliesh and her son
were ready to return to the Howe, she was
quietly resigned, if not quite the cheerful
happy little child she had been a fortnight be
fore.
Beyond a curt and haughty order from their
mistress to have a room close to her own pre
pared for “ a young lady,” and one of the wo
men servants told off to attend upon her, the
household at the Howe knew nothing about
their new inmate, or fancied only that she was
a guest coming for a time. Great was their
surprise therefore when the carriage drove up
and Sir Leonard, putting aside the footman,
lifted out a small slight child, and led her up
the steps. It was night when they reached
the Howe, and the hall was brilliantly lighted,
and the servants drawn up to receive their
master and mistress, a ceremony Lady Dal
gliesh never allowed them to omit. Old An
drew was there, his aged eyes blinking in the
unwonted light, “ havering,” as the rest of
them declared, and insisting that the coming
stranger was “his bonnie Miss Maud.” He
had taken lately to asserting that every car
riage that entered the gates was bringing
“ Miss Maud” home, and was getting terribly
oblivious of the flignt of time. His fellow ser
vants would have it that he was “fey,” that he
would soon die, and indeed it seemed as though
the lamp of life were burning very dimly for
him.
“ Your nae Miss Maud,” whispered the man
standing next *o him as the little girl was lifted
down. “Haud your whist Andrew, there’s
sma’ chance o’ our seeing her again.”
“ Ah, Hallowe’en bairns see far,” the old man
replied. “ 1 was born on Hallowe’en, and 1 see
further nor you. I ken my bonnie Miss Maud
will come till her ain again. I’ve seen her
mony and mony a time coming in wi’ the bells
ringing, and the folk shouting, and it’ll be yet
or I die.”
There was more than one present who re-
TDAmhftrAfl Maud ixx all hor brilliant beauty,
and were not slow to remark on the wonderful
likeness of the little girl to her, as their mas
ter led her forward into their midst, but they
were hardly prepared to hear him say, turning
her round so as to face them all—
“My daughter, my friends, Miss Ellen Dal
gliesh.”
There was a pause of bewildered astonish
ment. No one knew quite what to say, and he
went on—
“ Why none of you knew that I was a mar
ried man will be explained to you hereafter. It
is enough now for me to tell you that I have
after many years discovered my daughter in
this young lady who will henceforward reside
among you. I trust you will find her as true
a Dalgliesh in every way as the Miss Maud I
heard some of you name but now.”
He stopped with a rising in his throat at tho
thought of the fair young sister from whom be
had parted with such loving tenderness when
he wont to India, and old Andrew M’Pherson
came a step nearer and laid his trembling
hand on Nellie’s head.
“ May God bless ye for a bonnie bairn,” he
said fervently, “I never thought to see a bairn
o’ my master’s before I died. Now I may lift
up my auld voice and sing the sang the proph
etess sang before she gade away. My time is
nigh come, but my last sleep will be tho mair
peaceful that I have seen anither Dalgliesh
come to fill the vacant place at the auld Howe.”
Nellie wasn’t half an aristocrat. She put
out her hand to the old man and thanked him
simply. And then her new father made her
shake hands with all of them, and her grand
mother took her upstairs to see the rooms
prepared for her, and she began to understand
in very truth that she was Nellie Bateman no
longer, but Miss Dalgliesh of Heron’s Howe.
CHAPTER XXXV.
irr?a anT.nnnDM
Wlxat would you way ’gainet love ?
That's true? Tell me with what you’d turn Che
scale ?
Yea, make the index waver ? Wealth ? A feather!
Rank ? Tinsel against bullion in the balance !
The love of kindred ? That to set ’gainst love I
Friendship comes nearest to’t; but put love in
’gainst it,
And'friendship kicks the beam. Weigh nothing.
Weigh love against the world!— Sheridan Knowles.
Sir Leonard’s letter to Mrs. Smith brought a
reply by return of post.
“She had recognized her sister at once,” she
wrote; “ but, under the circumstances, she
did not care to make herself known. Now she
would come to Heron’s Howe at once, and
see her dear Mabel, whom she had never for
gotten."
If the tone of her letter was a little stiff, it
was from no want of pleasure at hearing once
more from her long-lost sister, but from the
difficulty she felt in expressing her thoughts
freely through tho medium of pen and ink.
“I am more than thankful,”'she wrote, “for
what you toll me about my poor Elsie, though
how I was mistaken in what I saw, or Sandy
Ferguson either, I cannot imagine. I don’t
mean to say I am thankful my girl is dead—l
express myself badly in writing—but that what
I feared about her is not true. It would have
been worse than knowing she was dead to
have known what I feared she was. I cannot
understand it. If I believed in such things, I
should fancy I had seen a ghost, but it was
broad daylight, in a picture-show, where there
were crowds of people, and I’m not a nervous,
fanciful woman. I seemed to want to take the
dear little child to my heart the minute I saw
her in that show. My poor husband couldn’t
see the likeness as I did, but be was ill, and
near his end, as you know. I am glad she is
with you. You’ll let her know and learn to
love her grandmother, won’t you ? I’m a very
lonely woman now, and I’m glad to find I’ve
got some kindred in the world. Don’t be
afraid of my making myself free. I will come
and see my sister and my grandchild, and then
settle down somewhere, and eke out the bit of
money I’ve got by doing something for a liv
ing.”
The answer to this was a letter from the
baronet, enclosing a check for £2O, for “ trav
eling expenses,” he said ; and, what was bet
ter than the money, a few lines of great kind
ness, addressed to his “dear aunt.” Lady
Dalgliesh also wrote to her sister, addressing
her by the old, familiar name of “ Cindy,” and
begging her to come to the Howe lor a long
visit.
It was several days before any news came of
Mrs. Jones, and then a letter was received
from the chaplain of a workhouse in Yorkshire,
saying that a tramp of that name was among
their paupers, but was dying of rapid con
sumption. . The family lawyer was dispatched
with the papers for her to see, and came back
with the information that the woman perfectly
recognized the pieces as those she had taken
from the old dress, sold to her by the show
people. She could not read writing much, but
knew them from tho marks on them. She told
tho whole story, from beginning to end, and
the chaplain remitted it to Sir Leonard in writ
ing. The time was very near when all this was
done for a visit from Bertie Carruthers. Sir
Leonard had written to him about the various
events as they had occurred, and, lastly an
nounoed his engagement to Agnes Drum
thorue. The answer to this epistle he received
from London.
“I told you I should make it an excuse for
leave,” be wrote, “and here I am. I mean to
stay till your wedding is over, and figure as
best man ; so make haste unless you wish me
to lose my berth altogether. lam glad I shall
meet Goldburn at the Howe. I have seen him,
and I leave you to imagine what ths meeting
was to me ; indeed, I may say to both ot us.
My friendship for him is more than repaid by
the warmth of his feelings for me. I have
learned what ho wanted with mo out in tho
Crimea. The charge he had to confide to my
keeping was his wife, who rejoined him at Scu
tari, after adventures which bear out the old
saying that indeed truth is stranger than fic
tion. I have not seen her. For some reason
or other, he seems very mysterious about her,
but as he telle me he is coming to the Howe,
of courso I shall see her then. The boy, for I
have seen tho son and heir, is a splendid fel
low, not very like his father. When I remark
ed, that except his eyes, I could not see much
resemblance, Goldburn said, rather curtly:
‘No, ho is like my wife ;’ and his face somehow
seems to remind me of you—l don’t mean you
individually, but your people, the Howe and all
my old Scotch associations. I found out Mrs.
Smith, as you desired me, and sho seems very
comfortably off. She will be at the Howe next
week, she says. She was very reticent at first
in speaking of her daughter, but when I made
her understand that I knew she was your aunt,
and ail about it, she chatted freely enough.
She told me all about having seen her daugh
ter, and when I asked what the gentleman was
liko she described Ernest, whom I had’ just
left. There could be no mistake, the descrip
tion was too accurate; but to make sure I
asked Goldburn. ‘ Some such blunder was
made,’ be replied, 1 X should have thought the
woman mad, or drunk, but that the same thing
. happened once before. My wife must have a
double somewhere in tho world.’ Ho seemed
i annoyed and short about it, so I could not
question him any more. However, Mrs. Smith
, will see this bidden lady when she comes to the
Howe, and her doubts will be set at rest. So
the poor little dwarf is dead and you’ve buried
him with all the honors. ‘What a life to lead
for sixty yeans, and what an ending! to live,
die, and be buried as a curiosity I’ lam anx
ious to see you in the character of a paterfa
■ milias. If your little daughter resembles the
pale face I saw that night in the crowd at the
try sting fair, she is indeed handsome. Do you
remember my saying it reminded mo of your
mother. The relationship ot course accounts
for that. For many a long year the idea
haunted me that that poor dead wayfarer
might be your sister Maud. The time of her
disappearance coincided with her appearance,
and you had so utterly lost all trace. How
long all that seems ago, and yet it is only eight
years. I incline to your belief now that Maud
(my heart tingles yet when I write her name)
must be dead, and that her mysterious absence
must have been caused by her death either by
accident or murder. ‘Murder will out,’ most
people say, but it does not always ‘out;’ and
there are plenty of places where the evidences
of such a crime might be hidden for a lifetime.
Of course you will never know now where your
wife went to or what she did after her arrival
in England. I’m scribbling on as though I
wero not going to sec you so soon, but that’s
an old habit ot mine, as you know. I’ve alter
ed a good bit, old friend, since I was in Eng
land last. I hope Lady Dalgliesh will not ob
ject to smoking ad lib. I’m worse than ever,
and I’m bearded like a pard, as Shakspere
says. Nobody shaves hero, and I’ve followed
tho fashion. You’ll hardly know Goldburn;
he’s quite gray and has a ghastly sabre cut
across his face. His sufferings in that impris
onment among the Russians were awful. Good
by, old boy. Send something on wheels to
meet me at the station (I think I’m due at In
verness at halt-past five, or thereabout), on
Tuesday first, as you Scotch folk say. Love
to my lady and compliments to Miss Drum
thorne, to whom I wish all the happiness my
old friend’s wife deserves. Don’t forget to send
for me, for I’ve grown fat and lazy. Kiss the
little one and tell her ‘ Uncle Bertie ’ will bring
her lots of pretty things- That’s my style and
title, mind, to all the bairns present and to
come. Remember me to old Andrew, though I
fancy from what you say he’ll hardly recollect
me, and believe me as ever, yours faithfully,
“Bebtie Cabbuthebs.”
“He’s Just the same frank open hearted fel
low as ever,” Lady Dalgliesh said when she had
read the letter. “Ah, Len, how much has
happened since the time he speaks of. I won
der what makes Captain Goldburn so very cold
about his wife. How fearful I was lost poor
Maud should be fascinated by him ; yet he was
a married man when he was hero that time,
and told her so.”
“Perhaps he was making an impression on
her and knew it, and took that way of disen
chanting her. There arc men who can do that
sort of thing gracefully ; and from all I have
heard of Goldburn, I should think ho could,
Nellie will have some one to play with when
his boy comes.”
“Nellie," had settled down with a kind of
natural grace to her new position ; the splen
dor of the Howe, and her troops of servants
did not seem to awe her in the least, and she
took to the unwonted splendor around her, and
the entire change in her life, as easily as
though she had been born in the purple, and
had enjoyed the luxuries of riches all her life.
A governess was to be procured for her as soon
as Dalgliesh could bear of a suitable person.
Her ladyship had been agreeably surprised to
find that she bad progressed reasonably in her
education, and that what she did know she
knew thoroughly. Little Joe had been her
tutor, and she could road fluently, write a little,
and had a smattering of other knowledge be
side. She could sing very sweetly in a childish
untutored manner, and her father rejoiced to
find that the songs that she had picked up
wero neither vulgar nor improper in any way
for a child to sing, being mostly quaint old
English ballads, such as the dwarf remembered
from his qjvn childish days. Sho delighted in
music, and would sit with tears of delight in
her dark eyes while her father or grandmother
played on the splendid piano, which was part
of the furniture of the Howe drawing room.
She was more startlingly like the lost daugh
ter of the house than ever, now that sho was
attired liko a little lady and cared for by a maid
whose exclusive business it was to attend to
her. Sir Leonard looked at her with pride
when the footman lifted her into the pony car
riage that was to take him to the station to
meet Bertie Carruthers. She was his daily and
hourly companion when she was at home ; she
clung to him wih childish, trusting love, which
was tinctured by nona of the fear with which
she regarded her grandmother. She took to
Bertie Carruthers at once, as he declared chil
dren and dogs always did, and returned his
caress with emphasis when he lifted her up and
kissed heron stepping out of the train.
“Stop a minute fairy,” he said, as she was
pulling him off toward the carriage. “I have
brought some one else to see you.”
“ Who ? ” she asked ; while her father looked
the question her more ready lips had uttered.
“ Grandmamma,” he replied, and Sir Leonard
sprang forward to greet Mrs. Smith, while
Nellie clung to her now friend’s hand, and re
garded the new comer dubiously, puzzle! by
her likeness to the grandmother she already
knew.
“ Wo foregathered at York, as you Scotch
Mrs. Smith, thinking it was Yady n lTalg^?esu o ,
fora minute before I recognised'her; I per
suaded her to put herself under my charge tor
the rest of tho journey ; and here we are, and
glad to get here.”
Mrs. Smith was very silent as they drove to
tue Howe, sitting with her grandchild on her
knee, and thinking of her last visit there, and
how bitterly sho had felt at tho sight of her
sister, and the knowledge of her superior posi
tion. Lady Dalgliesh mot them at tho hall
door with a paper in her hand.
“A telegram irom Captain Goldburn,” she
said, “ They will be hero to-morrow. Ab, Mr.
Carruthers, lam so glad to see you 1 But who
is this ? a friend of yours ?”
She spoke hesitatingly, for tho face was fami
liar, and Nellie solved the problem by saying
artlessly. “Papa says this is another grand
mamma for me.”
Lady Dalgliesh knew now ; and holding out
her hands she clasped her sister in a long em
brace, and drew her into a small parlor out o!
sight of tho servants, who were looking at the
scene with wondering eyes. Sir Leonard
showed his friend to bis room himself, and
then rang for the housekeeper, and desired her
to have rooms ready for the visitors expected
the next day, and to prepare a bed room at
once for Mrs. Smith.
Lady Dalgliesh had no reason to be ashamed
of her sister when they sat down to dinner to
gether. After sho was refreshed and rested, a
little gauchene of manner might be visible now
and then ; it was but natural; but she had the
great good sense to bo very quiet, and as she
had a low pleasant voice, and was by no means
deficient in manners, and carried herself well
and with sufficient grace, the servants had
nothing to remark upon, and Sir Leonard and
his mother were relieved of a great dread.
The night and day passed quickly in pleasant
intercourse and reminiscences.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE STOBI’B TOLD.
“ So hero I tender thee my fealty,
To jive thy dutious slave. My queen thou art
In irowns or smiles to give me life or death.”
Sheridan Knowles.
They had no certain knowledge of the time
Captain Goldburn and his wife would arrive,
so the carriage was sent to njeet every train
after noon. Dinner time was fast approach
ing, and the sun was beginning to throw de
cling rays through the red-tinged Autumn
leaves, and still there was no sign ot the trav
elers. Lady Dalgliesh went to dress, and her
eon was just thinking of following her ex
ample, when he heard the sound of carriage
wheels.
“ Empty again, I wonder,” he said to himself
as he watched the equipage coming round the
drive. “No, there’s luggage this time; they
are come at last.”
He was just hurrying to ring the bell and
summon his mother, when be caught sight of
Bertie Carruthers coming across the park at a
headlong pace; running as if for very life—his
hat off, and bis coat-tails flying to the winds.
He would have been a very ludicrous object,
but that the baronet feared there was some
thing the matter. He reached the house a few
minutes before tho carriage drove up to the
hall door, and rushed into the breakfast par
lor, at the window of which Sir Leonard had
been standing. Ho was frightfully pale and
looked agitated.
“Thank God, you are here!” he gasped.
“ Where is Lady Dalgliesh ?’’
“Gone to dress—why?"
“Keep her away ; don’t let her come.down ;
the shock would kill her.”
“ What do you mean ? What has hap
pened ?”
“Nothing, but I have seen her—Ernest's
wife, and she is ”
What more he would have said was lost in
the bustle of the arrival, the door was flung
open, and the carriage rattled up to the steps.
Sir Leonard went out, leaving hie friend gasp
ing for breath after his run, to receive his
guests—Captain Goldburn, whom he scarcely
knew, halting more than ever; a handsome
boy, wonderfully like his own little Nellie, and
a splendidly-dressed lady with black hair and
blue eyes, in whom, after a moment’s bewil
dered astonishment, he recognized his long
lost sister Maud!
It was, in very deed, Maud—Maud, more
beautiful than ever in her radiant, womanly
loveliness, who stood looking for a moment at
her brother with indecision on her face, and
then crept to his arms, and returned bis loving
welcome with passionate caresses. All was
forgotten in this joyful meeting—the long
neglect of those sho loved, tho unanswered
letters written in that miserable time at Scu
tari, and the wounded pride that had kept her
silent since ; she was at home once more, and
welcome there, and she read in her brother’s
greeting that it was mischance and not intent
which had kept him silent toward her. Leonard
greeted his brother-in-law warmly, and Ernest
Goldburn, if he had had any misgivings as to
the result of their sudden appearance at the
I Howe, felt them all vauieff in that frieuoiy
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
hand-pressure. Bertie Carruthers pressed
Maud's hand almost in silence; he only said
“I am very glad to welcome Mrs. Goldburn ;”
but Maud read in bis eyes all that his heart
could not utter. She knew that the love of tho
old time was living in bis heart still, and her
eyes wore full of tears as she thought of his
patient, hopeless affection.
The servants came crowding into the hall.
The news had flown into their dominions that
“Miss Maud had come back, and those who re
membered came to welcome, those who did not
to see the daughter of the house of whom they
had heard so much. Old Andrew was in the
servants’ hall when the oommotion arose, and
he heard the name.
“I tauld ye a’sae,” he said, rising quietly,
as though the unexpected arrival had been
notified not an hour before. “Lang looked
tor, come at last; my bonny leddy 1 I kenned
fine she would come.”
Ho made his way into the hall, where the
others were crowding round Maud and her
chi Id with respectful welcome. They gave way
for him to pass, and he took the hands she held
out to him.
“Leal heart le’ed never,” ho said, In tremul
ous tones; “mine didna lee when it told me
my bonnie bairn wad come hame. Yours dinna
lee when it tauld ye that hame was aye open
and warm to welcome yon. My auld e’en saw
truly, then, that mirk night when I found your
letter i’ the summer-house. My leddy laughed
at me, but I kent fine though I held my tongue.
‘ A wise heid maks a close mon,’ and my heid
was wise that once. Bui whaur’s my leddy ?”
“She must be warned—the shock will be too
sudden, else,” said Sir Leonard, turning to go
up stairs.
But friendly thought and feet had been be
fore him. Bertie Carruthers had thought of
Lady Dalgliesh, and after he had pressed the
hand of the woman he had loved so hopelessly
and faithfully, he ran up to her ladyship, to
prevent her being startled by the news. From
his lips she learned of the return of her child ;
on bis arm she leaned when she came down to
her pretty parlor, where they brought her
daughter to her, and shut the door upon their
meeting.
There are times in our lives too joyful for
words—too sacred to be intruded on lightly.
The return of the long-lost daughter was such
a time, and left its traces for many a day on
the worn face of Lady Dalgliesh. In her first
hand-clasp to her son-in-law, she spoke her
forgiveness for what had happened, and her
content to wait the explanation of her child’s
silence. It was soon given. Maud’s two let
ters, following close upon one another, had
never reached Sir Leonard. At the time they
were written, she was not aware of her bro
ther’s death, and they were both addressed to
Captain Dalgliesh—one to a club, in the name
of which she had blundered, as women are apt to
blunder in such things, and one to the town
house, which had just been given up. Neither
had signature, more than her name, “ Maud;”
so they could not be returned, and the time
was too far distant now to make inquiries
about the matter. Maud’s wounded pride, and
her husband’s indignation at the affair, bad
done the rest.
The “double” was fully accounted for now,
and Mrs. Smith’s mistake was pardonable, for
Mrs. Goldburn, except for her blue eyes, was
remarkably like her dead cousin. She found
herself quite a heroine now. The story of her
Crimean adventures soon spread, and "Mrs.
Goldburn, of Arlington,” bid fair to be the
reigning favorite for some time to come.
A very happy party they wore at tho Howe,
and a very pleasant wedding was that which
came off at Drumthorne in the next .New Year’s
week. Agnes was as pretty a bride, in her
white satin and swan’s-down, as ever stood up
in fashionable St. George’s to whisper her mar
riage vows, and the stately beauty of “Miss
Maud,” as Andrew would persist in calling his
recovered darling, was the admiration of all.
The presence of a hero like Captain Goldburn,
all wounds and scars, was no small attraction,
and the tiny bridesmaid who held her new
mamma’s bouquet and gloves, was the envy of
all the little girls in the,neighborhoodfor many
a month after.
It was with a strange feeling of quiet and
loneliness that Lady Dalgliesh returned to the
Howe with the Goldburns and little Nellie.
Bertie Carruthers went with the newly-mar
ried couple as far as Edinburgh. His time was
up, and lie must return to his duties, and learn,
if possible, to forget the past; and Mrs. Smith
had also left. Her arrangements were made.
She had elected to live in Aberdeen among her
husband’s people. Her sister and nephew were
very kind, she said, but her ways were not
theirs, and she thonght they would be better
apart. Captain Goldburn and his wife re
mained at the Howe a while, to Andrew’s great
delight, to whom the young heir of Arlington
took mightily.
“How did j'ou come to call yourself El
len ?;’ Lady Dalgliesh asked her daughter, one
day, when they wero upon reminiscences of
the past.
“Oh, that was my doing,” said her husband.
“ I wanted to keep her secret, so we converted
her second name, Elaine, into Ellen, for the
nonce, little dreaming of the blunders that
would come of it.”
“ But they are all ended now, mother, dear,”
said Maud, with a loving kiss.
“Yes,” said Lady Dalgliesh. “‘All’s well
that ends well,’ as Andrew would say. I
thought I was losing all that made life dear to
me ; but his simple faith has often rebuked me.
Ho always said* he should live to sea your
bairns, Maud. I think he will live to see a new
heir to tho Howe—another Sir Michael Dal
gliesh. Who knows?”
THE END.
ANOTHER KANSAS HORROR,
A MAN MVailEllEn AND MIS BODY
BURNED.
(From the Atchison Champion, 18.)
A letter from a gentleman of Frankfort, Mar
shal county, Kansas, received yesterday, gives
us an account of one of the most cold-blooded
and atrocious murders we have had to record
for a long time.
It appears that a man by the name of Chris
tian Hilt, a German, who possessed considera
ble property, lived by himself in a dug-out on
his farm, about nine miles northeast of Frank
fort. He was a single man and about fitly
years old.
Several days ago ne disappeared, and noth
ing was seen of him until the suspicions of the
neighbors were aroused by his continued ab
sence. A search was made, and it was discov
ered that his “ dug-out” was burned and caved
in. On digging among the ruins the body of
the unfortunate man was found with his skull
broken by an ax or some other heavy instru
ment.
He had sold some cattle a few days hefore,
and was known to have considerable money.
Ho had undoubtedly been murdered for this
money.
No clue to the perpetrator of this toul crime
has yet been discovered, but the people ot the
vicinity and tho officers of justice are on the
alert; and it is hoped the murderer will be dis
covered and brought to justice.
lateb.
A correspondent in Seneca sends us the fol
lowing additional particulars of this revolting
murder:
Seneca, Kas., Sept. 15.
Editor Champion : I hasten to give you the
particulars, as far as learned, of a most diabol
ical murder, just this evening come to light,
which is supposed to have been committed on
Friday night last. The unfortunate victim was
a German named Christian Hilt, residing on
the county line between Nemaha and Marshal
counties, in Vermillion township, about five
miles south of the St. Joe and Denver railroad.
Mr. Hilt was a man of quiet and inoffensive
habits, about fifty-two years of age, and resided
on bis little farm, living entirely alone, and
since the war (during which he served in com
pany Eof the Thirteenth Kansas,),he has ac
cumulated quite a little property. He is sup
posed to have bad by him something like two
or throe hundred dollars, the proceeds of some
transactions in cattle lately made,, which it is
believed furnished the inducement for some
person acquainted with the circumstances, to
commit the horrible crime.
On Friday he was last seen by his neighbors
at work in the hay field, but on account of his
usual solitary habits no suspicion was aroused
by his not being noticed on Saturday. But this
morning some neighbors went to hishouse (a
dug-out) and found it in ruins, and no signs of
poor Hilt. The alarm was given, and search
being made, he was found lying on his face on
the earthen floor of his dug-out, and in such a
fiosition as, together with a bit of burnt rope
eft on the body, leads to the belief that he was
bound and struck on the left temple with some
heavy weapon, most probably a slung shot, for
a piece of the skull about two and a half inches
over was broken completely in, and rested on
the brain, probably causing instant death. The
dug-out was then fired, and before the earth of
the roof fell in his arms and legs wore burnt off
to the elbows and knees, and tho back part of
too skull completely charred. The sides of the
head, however, were not burned, as the wound
on the left side and some hair on the right were
left to show. Thus the fire failed to obliterate
the traces of crime.
The coroner of Marshal county was imme
diately sent for, and on moving the body more
facte may bo developed, but at present these
are all the facts known. The light et the burn
ing house was seen on Friday night, but noth
ing thought at tne time of the matter.
This is another evidence given of the deprav
ity ot' which humanity is capable.
A charred mass of flesh and bones is all that
remains to tell the tale, so far as is. known, of
how the deed was done, and nothing is known
of the doer. _
A BEAUTIFUL SPOT.
A REMARKABLE SCENE IN INDIA.
A few miles off the road, down the open and
well-cultivated valley of the Narbada, m Cen
tral India, is a mighty river, pent up into a
third of its width, and, for more than two
miles, boiling along between two sheer walls
of pure white marble, a hundred feet in bight,
with here and there a seam of dark green or
black volcanic rock, which enhances the purity
of tho marble, like a setting of jet. What
must be the charm, in a dusty, oriental land,
of the coolness and quiet of those pure cold
rocks, and of the deep blue, pellucid water!
“ Tho eye,” says the traveler, “ never wear
ies of the infinite variety of effect produced by
the broken ana reflected sunlight, now glanc
ing from a pinnacle ot snow-white marble,
' reared against the dark bine of the sky, aa
from a point of silver, touching here and there
with bright light the prominences of tbo mid
dle high ts, and again losing itself in the soft
bluish gray of their recesses. Still lower
down, the bases of the cliffs are almost lost in
a hazy shadow, so that it is hard to tell at
what point the rocks have melted into the
water, from whoso depths the same lights, in
inverse order, are reflected as clear as above,
but broken into a thousand quivering frag
ments in the swirl of the pool.” "
This beautiful spot is infested with bees,
which, if disturbed, many travelers have found
very dangerous, and indeed, on one occasion,
they stung an intruder to death. Tho marble
rocks, like every object of great natural beauty,
have boon sanctified by the Brahmins, ana
many of the commonest legends transported
thither. Across the chasm, the monkey le
gions of Hanuman leaped on their way to Cey
lon; the celestial elephant of India left his
mighty footprints hero in the white rock.
Temples to Siva crown the right bank of the
cliff, and by the river’s edge is a favorite ghu,
tor the launching of the bodies of devout Hin
dus into the waters of Mother Narbada, which
are consequently polluted by ghoul-like tur
tles, monstrous fishes, and repulsive crocodiles,
that fatten on the ghastly provender thus pro
vided for them.
A YOUNG DEVIL.
Sketch ot Jack Leo, Seventeen Years Old,
a Thief, Murderer, and Jail Bird.
(From the Chicago Mail, Sept. 14.)
Our readers will doubtless remember the ex
citement caused by the exploits of Handy An
dy, and his arrest and subsequent conviction,
about three years ago. He was a noted cracks
man, but Johnny Lee is his peer in all crimes,
and probably has had few equals, but no su
periors, for one of his years, seventeen. His
recapture, after breaking jail on the 15th of
August, was noted in yesterday’s papers. He
knocked Turnkey Stone down with a slung
shot, at the time mentioned, and escaped with
throe other prisoners.
An inquiry into the history of this extraor
dinary criminal elicited facts which may be in
teresting to the reader.
John Loo says ho is seventeen years old. He
is of Irish parentage, his father and mother
now living* in Bridgeport. He was brought up
in idleness, and
SATAN HAS FOUND GREAT MISCHIEF
for his idle hands to do. About four or five
years ago he met a little boy on the street,who
had a pie, and asked him to give it to him.
The lad refused, whereupon Lee coolly went
up to his father’s house, procured an old mus
ket; and proceeded to the boy’s house. Ho saw
the lad through a window, raised the musket
to his shoulder, took deliberate aim, and fired.
The ball took effect in the little fellow’s head,
killing him instantly. Lee was convicted of
manslaughter, and, on account of bis youth,
was sent to jail for six months.
A short time ago, Officers Patton end Mitch
ell attempted to arrest him for some theft he
had committed, when he
TUBNED UPON THEM AND FIBED
a revolver, the shot taking effect in h > latter’s
body, and wounding him so seriously that he
is crippled for life. For this desperate act
young Lee was sentenced to jail for eighteen
months. At tho time of sentence, Judge Cary
remarked that if the prisoner was not a minor
he would send him to the penitentiary for ten
years. He kept so quiet in the jail that he was
given the liberty of the corridor, and on the
night above referred to broke jail. So bold is
Lee, that ho says he has since been to the jail
and talked to one of the female prisoners
through the window.
Hie reason for breaking jail is that he had
some “property” outside which he wished to
recover.
WHAT HE DID AT A PICNIC.
When a mere lad, Lee attended a picnic at
Haas’ Park, and there learned of $1,600 in gold
which bad been carelessly loft in a basket by
some one. He stole the money, most of which
was subsequently recovered. He was arrested
and tried, but got off with a slight sentence,
because of his age.
Johnny Lee is a short, stout youth, with
dark hair aud a crime-hardened, rough-look
ing face. He is ignorant in speech, yet shrewd
and cunning in action. He is always on tho
alert to avoid saying anything which will mili
tate against him. When asked why ho shot
the boy, he said it was bs accident. He has
been convicted on five occasions, for theft,
burglary, stabbing, and shooting. Ha is con
sidered so dangerous by the police that they
exercise great care when endeavoring to arrest
him; for he always goes armed, and ready to
use a weapon in a moment. Ho is withal cool
and courageous, and is as calculating a villain
as ever disgraced a city.
HIS LAST SUCCESSFUL EFFORT
in breaking jail has given the officers an op
portunity to cause his conviction and sentence
to Joliet prison for a term of years, in spite of
his minority, for he is such a desperado that it
is utterly necessary for the public weal that he
bo confined in a secure place, and for as long a
term as possible.
Yesterday Lee was arraigned before Justice
Banyon, charged with assaulting Jailor Stone,
with intent to kill, aud was held in $2,000 bail
for a further hearing, Stone not being in court
to testify to the case.
LEAP YEAR LOVES.
A Young Lady Persuades a Modest and
Innoecut Widower to Elope wltk Her.
(From the Kansas City Times,
A romantic case of leap year love elopement
,-nnd rnatrimonv happened recently in a neigh
boring village, wblcn shows wnat woman can
do when she rises above the conventionalities
that hamper her sax, and makes a practical de
monstration of the theory that Susan B. An
thony and other gentlemanly old maids are for
ever scolding about. A young lady of lawful
age, and, as she avers, sound discretion, tired
of single loneliness, and believing in the rights
of hor sex, made more emphatic by leap year
privileges, and restive under the strength of
Economito regulations regarding celibacy, saw,
admired, and conquered a willing captive of the
sterner sex, but different disposition. He was
a widower, and wearied of his lone condition,
but never told his love. She was a maiden
with a pious but cross father. She looked not
nor cared for his consent, but bravely invited
the object of her choice to a secret marriage,
as a strategic movement against the deacon’s
opposition. Having married, they mot fre
quently and secretly, but eventually the old
man got wind ot their meetings, and laid in
ambuscade in the garden, last Thursday, armed
and equipped with a poker, to be laid upon the
man who had stolen away his daughter’s affec
tions. He had not long to wait. The recent
widower and late lover, but now happy hus
band, went into the garden at ten o’clock in
the evening to meet his wife, when the irate
old man with tho domestic iron Implement rose
up, laid the poker about the head and shoul
ders of his son-in-law with fill the uncompro
mising energy for which irate lathers of mar
riageable daughters are so remarkable. A new
silk hat was ruined, but the beaver acted as a
helmet to a certain extent, and, so far as a hat
could do it, faithfully protected" the head of its
owner, who faltered not a moment ere he used
all due diligence in taking his departure from
tho angry presence.
On the following day the daughter ot the
deacon confessed all, which only added fuel to
the flame of the old gent’s anger. The pastor
of the village, under whom the deacon had for
many years officiated, interposed soothing
words, but tho wrath of a deacon is not easily
appeased. Still there were no more blows, ex
cept the heaviest blow of all, which fell in the
shape of.the arrival of the lawful.husband in a
carriage, and the departure of the young bride.
Now sorrow broods over the heart, of the dea
con, and it is to be hoped the late widower and
his fair young bride may live happily during
their alloted threescore and tea years of earth
ly existence.
SHOOTINjTAJURGLAR.
A COMIC TRAGEBY.
(From the Indianapolis Express.)
Night before last a jaded printer, who works
at this office, went home at rather a late hour.
Dripping with perspiration, and execrating the
weather, bo let himself into the house and
commenced at once, in a dejected way, Ins
preparations for bed. Of coarse he took his
boots off first, then his socks, and kicked the
steaming hemp under the bed. Next he re
moved his necktie, threw it over the wash
stand, and dropped his wilted collar into a
chair. The sewing-machine stood by an open
window. He bung his coat on that—an arm
hole over each corner of tbo box—and laid bis
hat on top of the coat. Then slinging his
vest in the direction of tho bed, and dropping
his pants, he laid himself down in the middle
of the room to sleep on tho floor.
About three o’clock his wife woke up,, and
finding her lord was not beside her, was turn
ing over to eomposo herself for another nap,
when her eyes happened to fall on the start
ling apparition oi a man’s form at the window.
He seemed to be climbing in. Of course she
immediately sat up in bed and woke the echoes
with her screams? She woke the baby, too,
and all the neighbors for about eight squares
in every direction. In fact she awoke things
generally. Her husband saw the burglar the
moment he opened his eyes, and felt sick.
He had to gasp for breath. His hair raised
until he could feel distinctly the cold hair oil
circulating under his scalp.. He prayed men
tally, that something might happen to arrest
the villain ; that he might fall backward out of
tho window, for instance, and kill himself on
tho picket fence. He wanted to order him off,
but couldn’t speak; being awaked so suddenly
had deprived him of that little accomplish
ment. He was dumb as a mummy. He felt
as if he couldn’t move, but found that he had
slid out of the neighborhood of tho window,
and his elbow was touching a bureau in which
he kept a revolver, and the war began. He fired
six shots, aud went on frantically snapping the
pistols after the loads were all discharged, but
still that awful shape remained to vox his soul.
And then he fainted.
When he returned to consciousness it was
diacQYSCod that bis own innocent hnen cozt
• and modest straw had been the uncomplaining
, victims of his murderous assault, but the
i sewing-machine was damaged the most.
>
THE PHANTOM FIGURE.
A PMHMONITIOY OB’ DEATH.
The Providence (B. I.) Journal of the 11th
says; A young lady from New York has been
visiting relatives in this city during the past
two weeks, and had mado arrangements to re
turn home last Friday night, having a strong
impression upon her mind that she must go
home without delay. For the sake of the com
pany of a relative on her journey home, how
ever, she was induced to postpone her depart
ure until Monday evening last. On Sunday
morning, after a quiet night’s rest, she was
suddenly awakened between 3 and 4 o’clock,
and saw a figure distinctly, or was convinced
she did, standing in her room, near the door,
looking toward her. The figure boro an exact
resemblance to her sister she left at home in
New York in her usual health. The young lady
got up and went up toward the apparition, and
it disappeared. She then opened a window
and looked out, but seeing nothing more of the
figure or any thing else unusual, she returned
to her room and fell asleep again. In a short
time she was awakened and saw the apparition
of her sister again, with the same life-like ap
pearance and in the same position as before.
She got up again, and as she advanced toward
it, it receded from her approach and disap
peared as before. Again she looked about from
room to room and out of the window, but saw
nothing more of it. Being now too much ex
cited to sleep longer, she dressed herself and
remained sitting up in h’er chamber waiting
for daylight. Her uncle, who is an early riser,
heard her moving about the room, and on his
inquiring why she was up so early, she related
her experience as above, and when the family
had all risen it was the subject of general re
mark and comment. On Sunday noon the young
lady received a dispatch from New York in
forming her that her sister had died suddenly
at the very hour the apparition appeared in
her chamber.
THE RAVAGES OF TIME.
By Albert Bryce.
I knew a maiden, fair and young,
In whom the fount of life was springing;
With merry heart her songs she sung.
Her notes through field and forest ringing.
And onward to maturer years,
Her gentle grace and beauty stealing,
The germ of womanhood appears,
Her Paphian charms tho more revealing.
Time sped. This maid to womanhood,
With purity and truth attaining,
Embarked upon life’s stormy flood,
Her youth and beauty still retaining.
***♦*<«
I sought her, once so young and fair—
How little of her beauty lingers!
For Youth it reigns no longer there —
O’erthrown by Time’s relentless fingers.
The crimson roses of her cheek,
The youth and beauty fondly cherished,
Whore are they now ? In vam I ask—
Time touched them and they perished 1
... * w . ...
The sudden change in the weather, com
bined with the sad loss we have just sustained,
have completely overwhelmed us. It will not
therefore surprise tho members of the club to
find we commence our budget this week with
an account of our misfortune, nor that it should
be appropriately styled
IN THE BLUE 3.
What, married! My Emeline married!
Alas ! then all hope’s at an end:
And her wealth, which I cherished so dearly,
I’ll ne’er have the pleasure to spend.
Oh 1 how can I part with those (reasur es
I loved with a love so sincere ?
Well, I still have one comfort—here, waiter I
Lot me aud my friend have some beer.
Thu doctor ? You say to the doctor ?
Oh! curse the confounded old bore!
He had lots of spondulicks already,
And now he’D have twice as much more.
I hope tho old pill-box will poison
Himself with his drugs ero a year—
Alas, my poor creditors—waiter I
Bring in some more glasses of beer.
She’s ugly ? Of course; but it isn’t
A beauty I wanted to win.
Old ? Doubtless; but what does it matter,
As long as the wench has the tiu ?
With her I’d have for an income
At least twenty thousand a year.
Oh, gosh! lam ruined I Here, waiter!
Bring in two more glasses of beer.
Oh. where is the team of fast horses
Wuh which I was shortly to ride ?
And where is the brown stone mansion
Wherein I was soon to reside ?
And where are the greenbacks and coupons
I courted for almost a year ?
How vain are such questions ? Here, waiter I
Bring in a whole puncheon of beer I
Friend “Spot” thia week discourses elo
quently. one might almost say esthetioally, on
CABBAGETOWN’S ART GALLERY.
Dear Boss: As nothing regarding the fine arts has
appeared upon the gossip table for some time, I offer
my pleasant experiences at the opening of the tine
art halls in Cabbage town, my first and only birth
place. My partiality to real estate portrayed on can
vas, together with my connection with the Dispatch,
secured me a ticket of invitation, and after a lino
voyage of two days our asinine propellers landed us
at the village.
I was just in time; the doors of the hall had just
been thrown open, and a crowd of lovers of fine art
was pouring into the building. The artists of the
town were present in person. Miss Asphyxia Dau-
Hay who took lossons under Beard; that is, Beard
painted in the room above her stuaiea. aJ.jidna
Contortioner who saw Church once; Debangs Palette
whose “ Patrick Henry before Agrippa,” secured a
red rag at the last Cabbagetown fair; Brush Easal,
Green Ochre, Brown Waters, and other eminent
artists of this section of the country, exhibited their
matchless handiwork.
The first painting of note was a square, oval pic
ture entitled “The Overwhelming of Pharaoh.” It
flashed from the easal of Miss Dauber. It is a
spirited, and, no doubt, life-like picture. Moses is
repnesented standing on the bank, enjoying the
Egyptian baptism. I think the white silk plug he
wears a mite too high in the crown; but his pea green
vest, faultlessly cut, swallow tail coat, and exquisite
lavender tights obscures this slight defect. Borne of
the Israelites are complacently cleaning their mus
kets, preparatory to entering the wilderness, while
the women are wringing their bustles and readjust
ing them. Pharaoh is just going down! His life
preserver having become disengaged, is hunting
another engagement further down the stream. The
old hero is dying like a man, and he has jauntily ar
ranged his regulation cap. The surface of the liquid
water is covered with velocipedes, whips, money
belts, etc. The painting must be seen to be appre
ciated.
Seraphlna Contort!oner’s “Forbidden Fruit” de
mands admiration. A neat little fence surrounds
the Garden of Eden, and Eve, in a decidedly original
Dolly Varden, is plucking the forbidden fruit with
the latest invented apple-picker. Adam is lighting
acheroot behind a double-horned rhinoceros, over
whose back he is throwing a glance at Eve, probably
to see if the picker works right. Batan, as he
should be, is far away, and the refined beholder is
not disgusted by his presence. A label still attached
to the tree, denotes the apple to be the tulpehocken.
Adam has just donned eagle shoe buckles, and his
gold-headed cane is resting against the rhinoceros.
The talented artist deplores her small canvas, as she
wished to paint Barnum just entering the garden, to
negotiate with Adam for the purchase of the double
horned beast for his museum.
We pause before Waters’ “Paul Going to Damas
cus,” which dissipates all our former ideas of the
great man’s trip to D. He Is dashing along a Nich
olson road, holding the ribbons that rule a span of
bays, ornamented with silver-mounted harness. A
lovely girl, *• with a jockey hat and feather,” sits be
side him, and draws a smile from the then old sin
ner’s fac°. Waters says that the face of the lady is a
correct likeness of Paul’s second wife. This paint
ing is well executed as awbple; but I think the
brace of cavalry pistols lying at Paul’s feet might
have been hidden.
Scripture scenes, however, do not predominate.
Green Ochre gives us “Pocahontas Saving Johnny
Smith,” probably the only true painting of the affair
in existence. John is hicouping before a bar in
Powhatanburg, and Poca is trying to persuade him
from the bowl. Bo grand is the expression that I
can almost hoar her singing, “Johnny, dear Johnny,
come home,” and « I’ll marry no man if he drinks.”
She wears a regular heart-crushing pannier, and her
jockey hat, set at an angle of forty-five degrees,
shows her waterfall to advantago. Johnny, looking
at Poca, seems to say: “Another—hlc—drink, Poca—
hie—and—hie—we’ll go—hie,”
“Washington Crossing the Delaware,” by Brush
Easel, is grand. George is enjoying his moments
by watching some greens ys get euchred in the thim
ble-ria game. The proprietor invites G. W. forward
by look, but Georgo seems to say, “Not for Joe.”
On the opposite bank the Hessians are singing, “We
won’t go home till morning.”
I will describe the other paintings at some future
time. Spot.
A correspondent.from the Pacific slope sends
us the following reminiscence of
AN AWFUL NIGHT.
Last Tuesday, a week, went out to dine with Bot
tledail. Had shrimp salad. Excellent. Ate too
much of it. Oil always affects my stomach. Family
weakness. Castor oil nearly killed my uncle Bob
when a boy. Thought it was barley water, and drank
a pint in the dark. Maternal uncle, Fluker, had left
leg smashed by sperm whale in South Pacific, aboard
ship Sarah Ann, Prentice Mulford Chaplain. Oil—
coal oil—ruined the the Governor eight years ago in
Pennsylvania. Oil’s been very rough on the family.
Distant British relative was driven into brain fever
from, studying Hoyle on whist. Never took oil on
cards; prefer half dollar corners.. My name’s Whee
zer; do something in stocks occasionally. Bottle
dail’s my broker. When I got up from the table
found something the matter with my feet; kept slip
ping. Bottledail said he guessed the oil from the
salad had soaked from my boot soles. Told him I
shouldn’t wonder; oil always played the duse with
my family.
Remember Bottledail bossed the job of putting me
in a hack. Don’t remember anything more. Smell
of oil from the carriage lamps affected my memory.
Somebody must have put me to bed. Woke up in
time to hear the clock strike two. Lamp burning;
wish my landlady would have gas put in her house;
oil flame consumes all the oxygen; girl who takes
care of the lamp uses up all my Holland gin.
Counted a hundred to make me go to sleep. When
I sail, “One hundred/* something stuck its eyes up
above the foot-board of my bed; looked like an owl;
tiling gradually crawled up until it stood on the edge
of the foot-board.
“ Go away,” said I.
The owl only winked, and commenced to swell.
I began to feel a little nervous. Owl frppt swelling
bigger and bigger, until he was feet high.
Then I heurd an aWiul yell , just over my head.
Looked up; saw an enormous black cat oa head
| liourtl, sparing at Hie ow*. Fql* pale, and wanted.
go out and take a little walk. Couldn’t. Something
the matter with my logs and arms—wouldn’t swell.
Black oat commenced to swell, too, and got to be as
big os the owl; its back took an “ upward tendency,”
tail bristled, hair stood out on its back like bayonets,
eyes flashed like Bill Lent’s Arizona diamonds.
Something pulled the bedclothes off mo, and tho
lamp burned blue. Black oat produced a bottle ol
salad oil, greased its claws, and yelled again. Awful!
Ceiling perceptibly vibrated. Wonderful if I wasn’t
getting a little frightened. Thon the owl pulled up
another bottle ot oil from behind the foot-board with
a string, and oiled his beak. Wanted to pray.
Couldn’t remember anything religious except the
place of perpetual punishment. Wanted to address
this word in the form of an expletive to the owl, but
lacked the necessary courage. Then the two mon
sters yelled and shrieked in concert.
Cannons and soprano singers what a noise! As
they screamed each dashed at the other. They met
midway with an awful shock-feathers and fur flaw
about like chaff from a threshing machine, and down
the two came on my stomach with a crash. Hadn’t
any mind left in mo to scream with nor any power to
move. How they fought 1 No fair play, but gouging,
biting, scratching and yelling. They fought all over
me in the most desperate manner, sometimes tho
owl on top and sometimes tho black cat. Occasion
ally the two would go around like the arms of a wind
mill with Roman candles tied to them, their eyea
flashed so. Interesting, but not agreeable, for every
little while one of the combatants would insert a
talon, a tooth, or a beak in my carcass by mistake.
Like the man in the poem (name began with a K, I
think), I was bleeding at every vein.
This was bad enough, but soon about three hun
dred small owls and as many small black oats, each
with a voice as loud as that of their giant kindred,
suddenly appeared and had a battle royal over the
room. Every one of ’em had a little bottle of oil tied
to his neck I Fighting was going on everywhere, oh
the floor, on the bed, on the mantel-piece, on the
dressing-table, on the what-not, on tho window-sill,
on the walls, on the ceiling, on mo! Never saw any
thing like it. Worst of all, the principal combatants,
who had taken my body for a battle field, wore work
ing steadily in the direction of my head. The black
cat’s tail gave me an awful blow on the nose. It re
vived me; it gave mo strength, I stretched out my
arms. Bless roe! my hands were forty times as big
as either the cat or the owl! I screamed with de
light, and grasped the black cat between my fore
finger and thumb of my right hand, the owl between
the thumb and fore-fincrer of my left, and rolled
them. Gracious! with what fiendish delight did I
listen to the cracking of their bones!
« « « « Hi
I’m a great deal better now than I was. There is
a jar of gorged leeches by my bedside, and several
vials of wrath decorate the mantel-piece. The nurse
(a man of groat muscular development) says that his
bill, at eight dollars a day, is now sixty-four dollars,
and that he hasn’t had much trouble in holding ma
in bed except when the hour came to give me the
regular dose of oil; then he has had to call in assist
ance. Landlady says I was in an awful state tho
night after my dinner with Botteldail. She pretends
that I roused the whole house at three o’clock A. M.
with my yells, and that I was discovered pinching a
flea between the thumb and forefinger oi each hand,
and raving about giant owls and colossal black oats.
But I know my own recollection is the more authen
tic; I have circumstantial evidence. My body is
covered with rod blotches, where tho cat and owl
scratched or bit me—and bow they do itch !
Shill never dine again with Botteldail—he puts too
muph oil in his shrimp sa’.ad. Oil’s been the ruin ot
our family.
Few persons will bo able to read tho follow
ing without emotion. It is not often we admit
melancholy contributions to our Gossip col**
umns, but on this occasion we cannot help giv
ing the details of such a
HARROWING EVENT.
His eye was stern and wild; his cheek
Was pale and cold as clay;
Upon his tightened lip a smile
Of fearful meaning lay.
He mused awhile, but not in doubt,
No trace of doubt was t.;cre;
It was the steady, solemn pause
Of resolute despair!
Once more he looked upon the scroll.
Once more its words he read;
Then calmly, with unflinching hand,
Its folds before him spread.
* I saw him bare his throat, and seize
Tho blue, cold, gleaming steel,
And grimly try the tempered edgo
He was so soon to feel.
A sickness crept upon my heart.
And dizzy swam my head.
I could not stir, I could not cry,
I felt benumbed and dead.
Black, icy horrors struck mo dumb,
And froze my senses o’er;
I closed my eyes in utter tear,
And strove to think no more.
* H> « «
Again I looked; a fearful change
Across his face had passed;
He seemed to rave—on cheek aud lip
A flaky foam was cast.
He ra’sed on high tho glittering blade—
Then first I found a tongue;
“Hold ! madman! stay the frantic deed !”
I cried, and forth I sprung.
He beard me, but he heeded not;.
One giadee around he save;
And ere I could arrest his hand
He had— begun to shave I
“Hope springs eternal in the human heart,”
says the poet, Popo, and, so far as a woman’s
heart is concerned, he is doubtless correct—at
least, if we may judge from the following story :
On the trial of a suit, recently, an elderly Scottish
lady entered tho witness-box, to be examined, when
the following conversation took place between her
and tho opposing counsel:
“How old are you?” asked the lawyer.
“Oh, weal, sir, I am unmarre I, an 1 I dlnna think
it richt to answer that Question.”
“ Oh, yos. inform the gentleman how old you-are/’
said the judge.
“Weel a weel, I am fifty.”
“ Are you not more ?”
“ Weel, I am sixty.”
The inquisitive lawyer still further asked if shs
had any hopes of getting married; to which Miss
Jane replied:
“ Woel, sir, I winna study tell a lie; I hinna lost
hope yet.” And she scornfully added: “but widns
marry ye, for I am sick and tired o’ your palaver
already.”
What more powerful evidence could be re
quired of the guileless innocence of our coun
jtrxzQPl? .tilfin the following :
A gentlemen in Now York gavo a letter of introduc
tion to a student of music about to visit Leipsic, who
wished to put himself under the instructions of Pro
fessor , a famous teacher in the latter city.
Upon the student’s return homo, the gentleman
asked:
“ How do you like the professor ?”
“O, wonderfully! He gave mo fine lessons; but
he is a very singular man. He kept praying all tho
time he was teaching me.”
“Praying! Why, wnat do you mean ?”
“Well, while I was playing, he clasped his hands,
lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and kept saying, ‘Good
Lord, what Bin hava I committed to deserve this*
punishment?’”
Women are proverbially insincere, bub they
possess such artful, wheedling, coaxing ways
that, for a time at least, they can blind the
eyes and cloud the judgment of even the
strongest-minded men. It is almost impossi*
bte for the object of their affectionate atten
tion to sift the wheat from the chaff, although
lookers-on can soe the “little game ” which is
being played. For instance, take the follow
ing specimen of their seductive manner of
throwing dust in a man’s eyes.
WHAT WAS WANTED.
She tied the new cravit,
Which she so kindly made me;
Then smoothed with care my hat,
And with her arms delayed me.
She brushed my •* glossy hair,”
And said it was “so curly;”
While going down the stair
Bhe cried, “ Come home, dear, early 1”
How happy, then, was I,
With all I e’er desired!
I Fortune could defy
While thus I was admired.
We parted at the door—
Her smile deserved a sonne l '.
“ Dear love, but one thing more:
I want—a Summer bonnet!”
We will now conclude with the following
SCINTILLATIONS.
We met with this witty and unan
swerablo retort in a recent sketch of a short trip
through a portion, of Ireland. The writer is con
versing with his car driver. “You are a Catholic,
Jimmy?” ” Yes, yer honor.” “And you pray to
the Virgin Mary?” “I do, yer honor.” “Well,
there’s no doubt she was a good woman. The Bible
says so. But she may have been no better than
your mother or mine.” - “That’s true, yer honor.
But then you’ll allow there’s a mighty difference in
their children,”
Augustus to his bride : “ And now,
Georgio, do explain your odd, cold treatment of me,
this morning.” Georgia,, with offended dignity t
“ Augustus, lam shocked at you. When you were
walking with Mr. Fitztaflrel, on the parade, thia
morning, I heard you say, as. you passed under the
window, that you liked to see the beautiful little
Belle in stays.” Augustus, with a roar of laughter:
“My love, I only meant Captain Clifton’s yacht iu
the act q£ tacking.” Ohl blissful reconciliation t
At the funeral of the Duke of Wei
lington,. a little child was standing with her mother
at Lord Ashburton’s window, to see the funeral go
by. She made no remark until the duke’s horse was
led by, tho saddle empty, and the boots reversed in
the stirrups, when she looked up into her mother’s
face, and said: “Mamma, when we die, will there
be nothing leit of us but our bo.ti?”
"Mary, my dear,” said a doting
husband to the lady that owned him, “ if ever I. turn
Mormon, and marry another he.pmato, she shall ba
a Mary, too, for your own dear sake.” “Ba content
with ona Mary, my dues,” said tha loving wife; “ iu
my opinion, another would be merely a super-new*
mary.”
"If there is anybody under tho
canister of heaven that I have in utter excrescence, *
says Mrs. Partington, “ it is tho slanderer going
about, like a boy constructor, circulating his calomel
upon honest folks.”
“ Sam,” said one urchin to another,
“ Sam, does your schoolmaster ever give any rewards
of merit?” “I tepose he does,” was the rejoinder;
“he gives me a lickin' regularly every day, and says
I merit two.”
Freshman—" I say, this umbrella I
bought oi you last week is all coming to pieces."
Shopkeeper—“ Indeed, sir. You must have been
taking It out, end getting it wet, sir, I think I"
A feeble-minded Louisville girl at
tempted to wear a trailing dress, the other day, but
the unmanageable thing hitched up over her pro
jecting heel like a blanket on an elephant.
Said a nice old lady, the other day,
to a morning caller: “ Pray make yourself at home;
I’m at home myself, and wish you were, too.”
Boy—“I say, pa, I’m top of my
class- first at last!" Papa— “ Yea; hut »ou wer»
very much
7

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