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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, October 13, 1872, Image 2

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“Do you mean his wish that you should
marry Vnl't?” relied tbo countess, proudly.
“ Yes,” replied Sir Guy ; “ did she attach any
importance to toe words ? lam quite sure my
father was not conscious at the time, or ho
would never have placed us in so unpleasant a
position. I tried to apologize to Lady Viola at
the time, but I was almost beside myself.”
. “There was no apology needed,” said the
Countess, proudly ; “Sir Philip often expressed
the same wish to me.”
1 “ I thought it only honorable to lose no time
In seeing you,” continued Sir Guy, with some
little hesitation and confusion of manner, “just
to beg of you to forget the words, Lady Han
ton, and let ali be between us us though they
had never been spoken.”
i The countess drew back with a proud ges
-1°“ You wish me to understand, then, that you
have no intention of carrying out your father's
wish ?” sbe said, her lips quivering with anger
gs she spoke.
h He bowed courteously.
It is bettor that there should be no doubt
on the matter,” he replied. “My father was in
a dreary, half conscious state. Even had ha
been quito himself, he had no right to .say any
thing of the kind. In love and marriage,
every man should choose for himself.”
■ > “Am I to understand, then, that you do not
love my daughter ?” asked Lady Hanton.
“You force words from me,” said Sir Guy,
“that I would rather not speak. I do not
think a marriage between Lady Viola and my
self would lead to the happiness of either—l
have never thought of such a thing. Lady
Viola has beauty that is peerless; she has
noble birth. No one doos more homage to her
great and good qualities than 1 do; but there
was never any question of love between us,
and never will bo?”
“You do not care for her?” persisted the
“I do care for her,” he replied. “I have a
true, sincere, brotherly affection for her. I
should like to be a friend of hers, and of yours,
all my life, but I do not love her as men love
women they intend to marry.”
Lady Hanton stood for some minutes in
thoughtful silence. She was bitterly disap
pointed. She had not thought that the young
heir would ever dream of refusing compliance
with his father’s wish so often expressed. Still
it might have been worse. He spoke very
kindly of Viola, and sbe thought it more than
probable th .t the friendship would in time
ripen into love.
“ I can belter bear the pain,
Thau the tolling of it."
Sir Guy Wyverne said nothing to interrupt
the tram of thought into which he saw the
countess had fallen.
She looked up at him suddenly.
“Sir*Guv,” sue said, using his title, and
almost for' the first time, “do you know, I
shrink from telling my daughter what you have
His face flushed ; ho felt the words as a re
“ I thought it better to speak to you,” he
Said, “ before I saw her again.”
“You have acted wisely and considerately,”
Bhe replied. “ I am very unhappy. 1 would
give the world if this had never happened.
Viola was warmly attached to your father ; she
has felt Ins loss most keenly ; and I, her moth
er, do not mmd saying to you that she cares
for you, Guy, quite enough to make this a
great sorrow for her.”
“I hope not,” be said, earnestly; “that
Would grieve me, Lady Hanton, inexpressibly.”
“ It is true,” she continued, sadly ; “ so true,
that though I can bear the pain of knowing the
truth myself, I shrink from telling her. 1
should like to make a compromise with you.
Viola is neither well nor strong at present; do
you wish me to pour this hard truth upon her
at any risk, or will you consent to wait, that I
may tell her when I th.nk she is better able to
bear it ?”
“You cannot do bettorthan use your own
discretion as to that,” he replied. “You, as
her mother, will understand far better than I
can or do ; only,”he continued eagerly, “prom
ise me one thing, Lady Hanton ; there shall be
no mistake—not even for half an hour shall
Lady Viola consider berself pledged to me, or
believe that any tie between us need prevent
her acceptance of any offer of marriage made
to her.”
“ I promise that,” replied the countess ; “ at
the same time I thank you that you have not
wished me to force this hard truth upon my
daughter, when she is not really strong enough
to bear it.”
“lam leaving homo in a few days,”said Sir
Guy, “ and in all probability I may be absent
some months, so time is your own, Lady Han
ton ; and I pray that when I return it may be
to find two dear friends, where I am sure I
leave two now,”
He held out his hand as he spoke, and Lady
Hanton could not refuse hers.
i “ You have been so kind to me all my life,”
he said,; warmly, “that I dreaded and bated
having to say what you might think ungracious
or unkind.”
“I can never think you either.” said the
countess. “Is this to be good by ?”
“Most probably,” he replied. “I do not
think I shall have time to come over to the
Court again. 1 leave Haddon to-morrow.”
“You will let me hear from you occasional;
fibw'you'ar??” ’
» “You may rely upon my writing,” he replied.
I could never be ungrateful to you. You have
been my life-long friend.”
In his loyal, chivalrous honesty, he never
suspected that the life-long kindness was but
the result of a well-laid scheme—that from the
moment the Countess of Hanton bad heard of
the wealth and great affluence of the Wyvernes
of Haddon, she . ad vowed to herself that her
beautiful daughter should share it—and that
Viola had been brought up neither for this
World nor the next, but simply and entirely
that she might be mistress of Haddon Hall.
Sir Guy, in bis simple loyalty, was incapable
Of forming such a suspicion.
After ho bad gone, tho Countess of Han ton
Blood watching him from tho library window.
No keener, sharper pain had ever come to this
worldly woman than that which now seemed
to gnaw her very heart: the disappointment
wu almost more than she could bear—she had
fait so sure of tho future. “ One year of
mourning,” she had said to herself, “must ex-
Eire, and then would come such a wedding as
orneshire had never seen—her beautiful Viola
the centre of all homage. Then would her
prison-doors fly open, and. leaving gloomy
Hanton behind her, she could once more chine
in the only world sbe loved—the world of
gayety and fashion.”
In her own mind the countess bad arranged
everything, even down to the least details—
Viola’s wedding-dress, her jewels, her pres
entation at court, the parties she should give ;
and lived for a time so completely in these
pleasant thoughts, that sbe forgot the drear
monotony of the present.
There was another source of keen delight.
She was worldly, ambitious, and unloving ; yet
Bhe cared more for her daughter than for any
one else in the wide world ; and she saw that
hot daughter loved Sir Guy with all the
strength and force of her passionate heart.
Bhe was glad and thankful that Viola was to be
happy; and now, as she stood watching Sir
Guy, as he rode off to Haddon, she knew that
all her pleasant thoughts and anticipations had
abruptly ended.
She feared no one, tho proud countess ; she
had never yet stood in awe of any human
being ; but sbe dreaded now what her daughter
would do and say. Sue was not quite without
hope, and she said to herself that she bad done
a most wise and polite deed in making a com
promise with Sir Guy.
“ He will wander about for a few months,”
Bhe thought, “and then his heart will turn
homeward. He will come, and we shall be so
pleased to sec him. We shall welcome him so
warmly that be will forget all this nonsense,
and soon love Viola with all his heart, I will
will not tell her what has passed.”
Sbe had no sooner formed the resolve than
the door opened and Lady Viola Carew entered,
her beautiful face glowing in its rich tints. Sbe
went up to her mother and threw one white
arm caressingly around her.
“You have good news for me, mamma,” she
Baid, in a rich, low voice. “ I know Sir Guy
wanted to speak about me, Did he not? Con
fess the truth.” 1 »
“Yes,” replied the mother; “it was of
be wished to speak, Viola.”
“ I knew it,” sbe said; “for thoko beautiful
fnelanoholy eyes of hie lingered on me so long.
Mamma, in all the wide world there Is no one
like him ; he is handsome and nobler than any
other man, and I love him. lam so happy.”
She laid her proud, lovely head on Lady
Hanton’s shoulder, the golden light deepening
in passionate tenderness. . ,
“ I am so happy,” she murmured again,
“that I feel almost good. Tell me what he
Baid, mamma?”
In the depths of her own heart Lady Hanton
|tas thankful for the resolve she had made.
“ Sir Guy is very considerate, Viola,” she be
gan. “He is far too delicate, too honorable to
take advantage—a hurried advantage, I mean,
my dear—of what his father said.”
The smile deepened and brightened on those
beautiful lips.
“He wished ma to say Io you, Viola, that
you were not to consider taose words binding
upon you. That they were not to stand be
tween you and happiness. That they were not
to prevent you either from loving or marrying
any one else, if you felt inclined to do so.”
“I am glad he added tuat proviso,” she ex
claimed. “I should have been very angry if
he had not. As you say, mamma, he is very
delicate and considerate ; at the same time it is
all nonsense, you know, he must be quite sure
I love him. I ask no happier fate than to be
his wife.”
“Ho is still in great trouble about Sir Philip,”
Baid the countess. “He has been advised to
leave homo for a time, for change of air and
acene. Ido not think he will have time to
come over to Hunton again. He spoke of go
ing to-morrow.”
“And never told me!" she cried, “his wife
Who is to be. Mamma, you must send for him
again, that I may see him again, just to tell
him how much I love him, and bid him good
The very thing above all others that the
Countess was anx.ous to prevent.
“My dearest Viola,” sue said, with a tender
ness unusually in her, “you have so much to
learn, that at times I fear yon will never un
derstand one-half. We cannot have our own
way in thia world ; and you must never forget
there is nothing so hateful to a man as to feel
himself fettered and tied. The wisest women
refrain from ever letting the man they love
feel that. Tho strongest chains, believe me,
are invisible ones.”
“What have chains’and fetters to do with
love ?” cried the girl. “lamto be Guy’s wife.
I only want to toil him I love him, then he will
remember me all the time he is away.”
“ My dear Vida, I am years older than you
—” began Lady Hanton.
“Of course you are, mamma,” was the im
patient reply; “is there any need to remind
me of that ?”
“ And,” interrupted the countess in her turn,
“I am many years wiser. Viola, be guided by
me, or you will repent it long as you live.”
“Speak out, mamma,” she onod ; “I detest
hints. What do you mean?”
“I mean simply this, my dear Viola—that if
I were in your place I should neither say nor
write one word to Sir Guy that could even re
mind him ever so faintly of his father’s words.
Let him go from Haddon perfectly free. Do
not let him feel that the least tie binds him to
you, that the least obligation lies upon him.
Let him go free as air ; he will return all the
sooner. Believe me, child, I have lived the
longest, and I know the best. Will you fol
low my advice?”
“There is no alternative, I suppose,” she
replied, sullenly. “ I am disappointed, mam
ma. I did not think love was )ike this. I
thought I was to be perfectly happy for the
rest of eay life.”
“So you may be,” said her mother, anxious
to clear the the sullen frown from tho beauti
ful face.
“He would never daro to play me false,”
cried the girl, suddenly. “Ho knows I love
him. It would be an evil day for him, and for
me, if ever he brought another bride home to
Haddon. You say your prayers on Sunday,
mamma. Next week you had belter pray that
may never happen. Pray that he or I may die
With a mocking laugh, that haunted Lady
Hanton for days afterward, she quitted the
room, leaving her mother shuddering as with
mortal fear.
" Go where we may,
The same thoughts accompany us.”
The Countess of Hanton did not find the next
few months pass pleasantly. Lady Viola was
not in an amiable mood. She was disappoint
ed, and disappointment is not always easy to
bear. It was not only that she bad hoped for
relief from the weary monotony of her life, for
the bustle and activity of preparations for her
marriage ; not only that she had indulged in
dreams and anticipations of a gay and glorious ,
future, but that she loved with the whole of her
passionate, undisciplined heart the young lord
of Haddon, whom she had been taught to look
upon as her future husband. Therein, to do
her justice, lay the keenest pain. She could
have given up all hope, all her dreams of a
brilliant future, more easily than she could
have given up him.
She had felt so very sure of him. His fath
er’s dying words had, she believed, riveted him
to her. When he spoke of begging her par
don another time, sue thought it was for the
manner rather than the matter of the speech.
During the weeks that followed, while Sir
Guy mourned for his father, she had been in
one long dream. She had waited, day after
day, for him to come over and renew the offer
his father had made for him.
“ What we wish most,” says the poet, “that
we most easily believe;” and so it was with
Viola Carew. Her thoughts and wishes were
so concentrated on this one subject, that she
never once doubted. She could not have felt
more sure of her position had she already been
Lady Wyverne of Haddon. Now there came
something like a cold chill over her glowing
hopes ; not that she fancied or feared there
was anything to dread, but she was disap
pointed that Sir Guy had gone away without
saying anything to her, without ratifying the
engagement, or seeking to have any time de
cided as to their marriage.
She was annoyed that bo had spoken to
Lady Hanton and not to herself. Above all,
she was vexed at her mother’s cautious warn
ings. In none ot the novels she bad read did
she remember that the tie between the lovers
had ever been called a chain. So that, alto
gether, Lady Viola was neither in a happy nor
an amiable mood. She did not dare to show
any signs of temper before the grim lord, her
father. Before the countess she did not fear,
and that lady bore the full brunt of her daugh
ter’s disappointment. Life was not at all en
joyable at Hanton Court.
Yet, through all her anger and disappoint
ment, there came to her no fear, no conviction
that Sir Guy die not love her. She did not
think he could resist tho charm of her face,
for Lady Viola Carew had quite sufficiently im
portant ideas of her own beauty.
Sir Guy Wyverne felt much happier when be
set out upon his tour. The fact of having
such an explanation to make had hung heavily
upon his mmd; it was all over now. He was
free to indulge his sorrow and his dreams.
Eree in the after years to make dear and val
ued friends of Lady Hanton and her daughter.
The young feel keenly, but they have also
t° J O 2. o ,0 J® e Je t i D
bed, devoutly believed he should never smile
again. Looking at the calm, dead face, he be
lieved life was all oyer for him ; there was no
more sunshine, no more happiness, only a
round of sombre duties, only a few years more
of time, then he must lie where his father lay,
silent and cold, his soul in eternity.
But as he went through the beautiful Eng
lish counties, as he noted the varied loveliness
of earth and sky, youth reasserted itself, death
lost its terrible gloom, the black pall that had
hung over all creation was withdrawn. As he
wallrod in the green Spring-tide, Sir Guy Wy
verne found himself singing snatches of some
old well-loved song, with a smile on his lips
and light in his eyes.
There is no cure so safe, so certain, as that
which Nature works by her own sweet smile.
Earth and heaven seemed to Sir Guy nearer
together than he had ever found them before.
It did not seem so very far from the green
fields and smiling seas to the blue skies above;
the melancholy idea that his father was dead
ceased to haunt. He thought of him, in the
words of the plaintive verse, “as one who
watched him through the gates ajar.”
He traveled by lake and mountain, by broad
stream and fertile valley, by quiet town and
large city. He nld not shun the world of men,
though ho loved the world of nature best. Tho
Spring-tide brought him to the little town of
Winthorpe, in Kent. He lingered there, at
tracted by the beautiful scenery, One day he
walked through what seemed a bower of green
trees, to the lovely little village of Elmslie.
There bo was charmed afresh by the stately
wood? of Crooiqe and tljo grand, gray old man
sion called Croome Hall. w
Who dares to talk of fate, or luck, or des
tiny; who dares to say that a man carves out
his own life and shapes his own ends? One
mighty Hand leads us; the smallest incident,
one so small that it seems hardly worthy of
notice, is often the pivot on whioh a life turns.
One night, Guy Wyverne, even m the cool, fra
grant chamber of tho Croome Arms, found
himself unable to sleep. Strange, beautiful,
novel thoughts seemed to have taken posses
sion of him; quaint old rhymes haunted him,
when he closed his eyes vivid pictures came
before him. The sun camo into the room, a
branch of woodbine nodded in at the window.
The birds sang outside as though their little
heads were turned with excess of beauty and
He rose at last, resolved to gratify a wish he
had long formed of going to Croomo Woods in
the sweet golden hush ot tho morning.
In less than an hour he was there, bis heart
full of the quiet, deep rapture only a poet
knows. That green woodland world seems
full of the melody of Heaven; every leaf seems
to have its own life, its own voice; the wind
woos every branch with different music, the
blue-bells ring in the wind, the birds sing of
love and harmony, the myriads of bees and
bright-winged insects luxuriate In the golden
warmth, the purple violets and great clusters
of starry primroses, the harebells, and fox
gloves; wild blossoms of every hue present
such a glorious picture, the poet can only look
on in hushed rapture tbat knows no words.
Pity the worldling, the dull, prosaic man,
woman, or child, whose heart has never grown
big with this silent rapture, whose eyes have
never filled with tears, whose soul has not
been touched with wonder at the most perfect
and beautiful works of God.
Hours flew past unheeded by Sir Guy; the
light in tho green glades grew more golden.
He was looking down a long vista of shimmer
ing elm trees, when ho saw what ho thought to
be a vision.
A young, beautiful, golden-haired girl,whose
hands were filled with woodbines. She walked
quickly, with a graceful step, until she came
to the large while palings that divided Croome
Woods from the park. She stood there, rest
ing her fair, slender arms on the wood, looking
with melancholy eyes at the turrets of the
grand old mansion that rose among the trees.
Such a face I Guy Wyverne gazed at it like
one entranced; lovely, fair, and spiritual, yet
with a shadow upon it. What was the shadow ?
He looked long and anxiously to see. Was it
the flickering light that came through the
trees? Was it the shade of tbo shimmering
leaves? Ah, no, the shadow of some strange
story seemed there. Looking at that face
brought sweet, sad verses to one’s mind. What
was it ?
Even to himself he could notexplain. Round
the beautiful ripe lips were smiles and lovely
dimples—“ Cupid’s nests”—in the violet eyes
were wondrous gleams of light; there was
sunshine in her very aspect, and yet, over all
the brightness, there lay a shadow impossible
to define—impossible to describe.
She was a lady ; of that there could be no
doubt. Her face was of the true patrician
typo, her figure tall and graceful, with a mix
ture of case and dignity indescribably charm
ing ; the little hands grasping the woodbines
were white, with slender, ro-e-tipped fingers.
The word “lady” was written upon l.er as
plainly as though in letters of black and white.
He watched her m wonder and amaze. Who
could sbe bo? Tbat cbarmiug, da.r.ty, beau
tiful vis’on, the light falling on her golden hair
and sweet race. Sl.e was nicely dressed. Her
bat, of some white matinal had in '.tasjd
drooping, gray plume; her drrrs. of s’:> ttnrr i
gray silk was covered with a blacir !■>'■*' man- I
tilla. Ho had not observed her ini'.l sho ap
peared suddenly at the end of the glade, and
he was never to forget her again.
The violet eyes lingered lovingly on the old
gray mansion. Then a deep sigh broke from
the girl’s red lips. She turned abruptly, and
sat ilowntorest on an old moss-covered stone.
He did not stir, fearing to disturb her. Sud
denly she looked up with a bright smilo at
some birds singing over her head—a smile full
of mirth and mischief. While that played over
her taco the shadow died away from it. Sbe
was evidently amused at the little songsters,
who were striving so hard tor the last note.
“ Sing away, little birds,’’ ho heard her say;
“you have by far the best time of it. In these
grand old woods many a one would gladly
change places with you.”
He smiled, too, understanding, as a kindred
spirit must do, how beautiful to her seemed
tbat pleasant life of song in the shade of pon
derous boughs. He would have given any
thing to have spoken to her, to have told her
that he understood the marvel and beauty of
a bird’s life, but ho dared not intrude upon a
solitude sacred to him as the solitude of a
crowned queen. She arose in a few minutes and
walked away. Never had he felt any tempta
tion so strong as that which now assailed him.
He longed to cry out to her, to pray her not to
pass from his sight forever. The sun seemed
suddenly darkened as she turned away. lie
made one step forward, then stopped suddenly.
How should he dare to speak to her I
Another moment and she was gone. A great
darkness seemed to have fallen where she had
sat. Then he saw an old man, a white-haired
laborer, with a spade on his shoulder, and as
the girl passed him, Sir Guy saw rather than
heard that she spoke some courteous words to
him. Sir Guy waited for the old man, who
walked slowly down the glade. When he
passed by the large thorn tree, Sir Guy bent
forward, and affecting great anxiety over the
dainty little meerschaum he carried, asked for
a light.
The old man looked startled, but in a few
minutes the baronet and the laborer sat side
by side, talking happily, and at their ease.
" Goodness outweighs beauty,
As gold weighs down dross.”
Before many minutes panned, the mioic, nf
Haddon knew the whole story of the Charltons
of Croome.
“ Who is the young girl who spoke to you
just now?” he asked of Stephen Wells.
“Tbat was Miss Charlton,” he replied;
“ Miss Magdalene Charlton, tho prettiest girl,
some people say, in all the country side. I,
for one, know that she is good as she is fair.’’
And, sitting on tho old thorn tree, the man
told a hundred pretty stories of the beautiful
girl whose face had on it so strange a shadow
—stories of her goodness, her chanty to the
poor, her sweet and graceful humility—of kind
ly words sbe had spoken, and kindly deeds she
had done. He told how often the poor man’s
child had died in the safe shelter of those ten
der arms—how the strong man, in his last
hour, had often turned to that fair face for
comfort—until Sir Guy began to wonder if it
were a mortal woman of whom these tales were
told, or an angel in disguise.
The romance of the story struck him. He
had both road and hoard of the Charltons of
Croome—a grand old race known in history.
He heard now that ruin had overtaken them—
that the son and heir was working hard in a
foreign land for money to redeem the fast fad
ing glories of his race—that Mrs. Charlton
lived alone with her daughter in the only house
that remained of a once large estate; and he
said to himself that the story was like a poem,
and that the beauty of the girl’s face crowned
Never did ancient laborer look more de
lighted or more puzzled than Stephen Wells,
when Sir Guy slipped a sovereign in his hand,
and thanked him for a pleasant half hour.
The memory of that face haunted Guy all
day ; and he remembered the glint of the sun
shine on the golden hair—the tint of the violet
eyes—the sweet, dimpled lips ; and ho knew
when night came round again, and he conld
neither rest nor sleep, nor do anything save
drcam of Magdalene Cnarlton—he knew then
tbat he had met his fate that sunshiny morn
ing in Croome Woods.
All the next day that face was with him. He
roamed about, hoping, but in vain, that he
should meet her. Each day brought fresh
hope and fresh disappointment, until Sir Guy
decided that he could bear it no longer, and
resolved upon trying every means in his power
to procure an introduction.
He succeeded at last. By dint of cultivating
a great amount of intimacy with tho Rev.
James Alton, Vicar of Elmslie, he met Mrs.
Charlton at the vicarage, and tho friendship
soon ripened into intimacy, and then Sir Guy
declared his love.
He had no intention of deceiving them over
his new position, but ha found it so sweet to
bo loved for himself, he could not break the
spell. He seemed to dread lost anything but
the purest love should creep in to mar the per
fection of his earthly paradise. Ho could not
see that he had been guilty of any deceit; he
had been traveling as Mr. Wyverne—they
knew and liked him as Mr. Wyverne—and he
said to himself that the title made no differ
tie would not nave aeoeiveu them in any
other way; he would have scorned to have let
them think ho was more wealthy than he was,
but he could not see much harm or wrong in
assuming an inferiority that did not belong to
him. Mrs. Charlton was a clover woman, but
there were many things in which she was de
ficient, The love between her daughter and
Guy Wyverne pleased and delighted her, be
cause she saw in the handsome young stranger
qualities that she felt euro must ensure Mag
dalene’s happiness. He won her regard so en
tirely, that before their bud lasted
long, she loved him as Marly as though he
had been her own son.
Sbe knew he was a poet and a writer. The
sweetness of his verses haunted her for long
days after she had read them, but she did not
know enough of the world to decide whether
poetry brought in gold as well as fame.
Sir Guy asked permission to write himself to
Captain Charlton. To him he stated plainly
enough bis rank, title, and wealth. There was
no disguise. He told him also bow he had
wooed and won Magdalene, and how proud he
was to be loved for himself alone.
He wrote such a letter as could not fail to
touch the heart of a noble man and loyal gen
tleman like Captain Charlton. Ho offeredhis
true and sincere friendship to the brave sol
dier. He prayed him to look upon him as his
brother, to make Haddon Hall his home, to
look upon all the worldly wealth tbat he Sir
Guy, possessed, as half his own. It was a let
ter written straight from the heart of one man,
and it went direct to the heart of another.
yet, wbeg Captain Oqtyrltog md it, a? fee
did one night by the wafting light of an Indian
sun, be felt very strangely. Gerald Wynne, of
Wynnestown, sat by him, and he wondered at
thd change tbat came over bis friend’s dark,
noble face. ... . , , ■■ ,
The sultry heat was dying out of the dark
ling sky ; there was a slight coolness in tho hot
breeze, and the two had wandered from their
tents, and were sitting under the shade of a
large bamboo tree.
“You have no bad news from England,
Archie, I hope ?” said Gerald Wynne. “ May I
ask you if that letter is from home ?”
“Yes,” replied Captain Charlton, “it is from
Elmslie. Has It really turned cold, Gerald, or
can it be possible that I am shuddering with
out cause?”
Gerald Wynne looked at his friend; there
was a strange shadow on his .face ; the firm
lips were pale and trembling. Captain Charl
ton recovered himself by a violent effort.
“ I have always laughed at the word nerv
ous,” he said trying to smile, “ but I shall nev
er laugh so again. Gerald, I have been nervous
—look at these strong, brown hands of mine,
they tremble like a woman’s.”
“ Why ?” asked Gerald Wynne.
“ Because such a strange sensation of dread
and horror mastered me for a moment, as I
read the letter,” he replied ; and yet were it
not for your sake, I should rejoice at its con
tents. I had better tell you quickly, there is
an end to all our dreams, Gerald. You will
never marry Magdalene, and be my brother in
reality, as you are now in heart. This letter is
from Sir Guy Wyverne, of Haddon Hall, who
asks, what perhaps is not necessary, my per
mission to marry my sister. He has her con
consent and my mother’s already.”
There were a few moments of deep silence,
during which tbo sultry heat fell like a curtain
over them, then Gerald Wynne said:
“ God bless her, go where she will. I had no
right to hope. Sbe is far above mo as that
dark sky is. God bless her, Archie, and make
her happy.”
Then the true, cheerful voice broke down,
tho honest face grew pale, and the two men
stood looking at each other, holding each oth
er’s hands, with strong, steady grasp.
“1 am sorry, Gerald,” said Captain Charl
ton. “ I had forgotten tho probability that
my sister would soon bo able to choose for her
self. Sbe has grown older, while we seem to
have stood still.”
“If she be happy, I have nothing to say,”
said Gerald Wynne. “I value her happiness
tar above my own.”
But Captain Archie, looking in his friend’s
face, saw tears in his eyes, and he turned
away, for the sight unmanned him.
So they sat until the heat died away again,
until tae wondrous hues of the Indian sky
faded, and the “music of night” began.
“He seems to be a very nice fellow, then,”
said Captain Charlton. “I never bad a more
candid or honorable letter. He says Magda
lene loves him. I cannot account for the hor
rible presentiment of evil that overcame me
when I read it. Do you believe in presenti
ments, Gerald?”
“I never bad one,” he replied; “but if evil
should ever come to your sister, Archie, let
those beware by whom the evil comes. I swear
tbat if anyone ever injures one hair of her
beautiful head, I would follow him or her to
tho world’s end, and take bitter vengeance.
While ebe is well and happy lam content; let
barm approach her, and woe to those by whom
it conies, If a man insulted her, I would shoot
him like a dog ; if a woman—we.l, time would
snow me what to do to fieri”
Captain Cnarlton laughed uneasily.
“We are, perhaps,was'mg a great amount of
dramatic torce.” be said. “imsis the nine-
toon:/;-c tn v; luy sister is going-to marry a ■
trna an 1 Im-nl gentleman whom sbe loves; ’
wiiatjjui;,i .. ji mt-jpen to her? Heal life is .
very slr.u ~i.i ; dasarnle.” _ I
“ You infected me with your fears,” replied ;
Gerald Wynne. “So young and beautiful, so 1
well cared for, and so well beloved; what could 1
ever happen ?”
Yet the time came when, word for word, they i
remembered this conversation. Then the .
s range incident of that horrible, cold forebod- ’
ing returned in vivid force to Captain Charl
ton; when, word for word, Gerald Wynne re- i
membered tho vow of vengeance that he bad i
Archie Charlton answered the letter, giving i
his full, free, and perfect consent to the mar- >
riage proposed, saying how pleased he was
that his sister should be happy, and how en- ’
tirely and in every way he approved ot her
choice. When the letter reached Elmslie, Sir
Guy was in high spirits over it; not that he
had dreaded at all Captain Charlton’s consent
being refused, but that he felt now the last
obstacle, the last possible barrier, was with
Mrs. Charlton, and Magdalene, too, won
dered why it was that Guy read that letter
with a quiet smile on lais face, and never of
fered to show it to them.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Charlton, gently,
“ that my son is quite satisfied with the ar- i
rangements, Guy ?”
“Quite so,”he replied. “And now, Magda
lene, tell me, is there any reason why our ’
marriage should be delayed? We have waited
through the long, bright Summer; there are
roses still blooming in September; will you
consent to be my wife then ?”
“If one may ask a question,” said Mrs. Charl
ton, “ I should like to ask where shall you take
Magdalene, after your marriage?”
“I hope to show her every beautiful spot in
Europe,” he replied; “ and then I am not alto
gether improvident, Mrs. Charlton ; I have a
home prepared for her—one that I shall pray
you to share.”
In her own mind Mrs. Charlton thought
poetry must be a far more profitable source of
income than she had ever imagined it to be.
“ Hell knows no greater fury
Than a woman scorned.”
In the fair future smiling before Sir Guy,
thoro was one dark spot. He must tell Lady
Hanton of his approaching marnago. Not
that he was bound to her by any tie, but that
ho felt himself under some obligation. He did
not like taking so important a step, after what
had passed, without consul ting her. —-. _ _
One morning a letter reached Hunton which
caused some little commotion. It was taken,
with several others, to the morning room,
where the countess sat with Lady Viola.”
“That is from Sir Guy, mamma,” cried the
young girl, when she saw the monogram on
the seal. “Itis to say when be will return. I
am sure of it; make haste—read it, aud see.”
Lady Hanton broke tho seal. She was al
most as impatient as her daughter.
“It is from SirGuy,”sha cried, looking at
the signature. But the letter was brief, and
contained little information. It said merely :
"Dear Lady Hanton—l hope to be at Had
don so-morrow, Monday, and if you are not
engaged I will ride over on Tuesday morning.
I must beg of you to spare me a few minutes,
if possible. I want to tell you that I have
made an important decision, one that will af
fect my whole future, and before carrying mv
resolution into effect I should like to see you.
Please let me know il you can receive mo at :
tbo time mentioned.”
“Road that, Viola,” cried Lady Hanton.
“What doesit mean?”
“Mean, mamma,” she replied, her beautiful
face glowing with delight; “it means that he
is coming home to marry me. lam sure of it.
That is his decision. I knew it must be so
at last.”
But the countess looked doubtful. There
did not seem to her any probability that snob
was bis meaning. If it were so, how was it
there was no mention of Viola’s name ?—not
even a message of remembrance to her.
“I would not be too sanguine, my dear,”
she said, slowly, to her daughter. “You may
be mistaken, after all.”
“ Sanguine I” she cried, haughtily. “Surely
the hope should be his, mamma, the favor
mine. Surely he is the suppliant, and I the
The countess was at a loss how to reply to
her daughter. She feared her love and her
pride equally. She was between two fires. In
that moment she would gladly have foregone
all her hopes to have felt safe.
“ We can never reckon on anything as a cer
tainty in this life,” she said, but Lady Viola in
terrupted her impatiently.
“Spare me all platitudes, mamma. I am
quite sure that I am right. The only import
ant decision Sir Guy could arrive at is that he
will be married—and whom Should he marry
but me ?”
“ I will answer the letter,” replied Lady Han
ton, “and then time will show whether lor
you judge rightly.”
She rose to go to her little writing-table, hut
Lady Viola rose too, and confronted her. She
grasped her mother’s wrist with no very ten
der hand.
“Mamma,” she said, and there was some
thing in her voice and face from wnich the
countess shrunk in dread; “Mamma, are you
keeping anything from me? Have you any
reason for supposing Sir Guy Wyverne intends
being false to the last wish and command his
father ever expressed ? He dare not insult me
so—ho dare not do it.”
The beautiful face flushed hoUy, a fierce
light burned ip cyos.
“I am the Earl of Hannon s daughter,” she
continued, proudly. “I come of a race that
has royal blood in its veins. He dare not slight
me. I I almost let him see, even that very
day, that I cared for him. He daro not wound
me. You say you know the world ; tell mo,
mamma, in that world of yours, do men ot
honor, do gentlemen, act so ?”
She spoke with a quick, passionate vehe
mence that frightened Lady Hanton. She
asked herself how waa she to tell this proud,
haughty, wilful girl the truth. She was a brave
woman, a woman whom physical fear could
never daunt, but she shrank like the veriest
coward now. She wished that she had bean
content to leave her daughter’s fate and future
in God’s hands—that she had been less schem
ing, less ambitious. She had woven the not
herself; how was she to face her daughter, and
tell her the net was broken ?
“Answer me, mamma,” cried the girl, im
petuously ; “have you any reason for the
“You are so hasty, Viola,” said the count
ess. “ I hardly expressed a doubt. I told you
before that Sir Guy might not believe his
father’s words binding upon him. It remains
to be seen whether he does so or not.”
“ There can be no question of it,” said Lady
Viola, with a sqdden darkening of her southern
eyes. “ Answer me, mamina ; if with his last
breath Sir Philip had desired his son to give
me a thousand pounds, would Guy have obeyed
“Undoubtedly he would have done so,” re
plied Lady Hanton.
“It would have been a debt of honor,” in
terrupted the young girl. “How much great
er the debt he owes me now, mamma, and
yet you can imagine that he will hesitate to
pay it.” J -
Her own logic evidently pleased and con
vinced her own self. Her grasp on Ladv Han
ton’s arm relaxed; a smile played over her
beautiful lips.
“I am right,” she concluded. “Ho is com
ing to arrange with you when ho sliall carry his
father’s wishes out. No more doubts, mamma ;
they are foolish.”
So the countess answered Sir Guy’s letter,
and told him bow happy she should be to
see him, and help him to the best of her
And then a dull, sullen calm fell over Han
ton—a calm that often precedes a storm. Lady
Hanton’s heart failed her when she heard tbat
Haddon was filled with workmen ; that deco
rators, upholsterers, painters, and mon of all
kinds, were busy at work; that the reception
rooms were to be refurnished with the utmost
magnificence and skill ; that the state-rooms,
closed since Lady Helena died, were all to be
reaftanged ; that a celebrated artist was busy
in the picture gallery—in fact, that from cellar
to attic, every room in Haddon Hall was under
going thorough renovation, all of which in
formation had been given by the butler at Had
don to Mademoiselle Nathalie, the favorite
waiting maid of Lady Hanton.
“Who was it all done for?” the countcss
asked herself. Then her heart misgave her
tt>at it was not for Lady Viola.
Tuesday came, and brought Sir Guy. They
heard of his arrival on the previous evening at
Haddon, and anxiously expected him. Ho
had promised to ride over in the morning, but
so many callers and workmen detained him
that it was five o’clock before he reached
Han ton.
A beautiful, proud face was watching eagerly
for him from one of the flower-shaded windows
in the eastern wing—had been watching there
for long hours when he appeared.
“How handsome, how noble, how grand he
looks 1” thought the girl to herself. “Surely, in
all the wide world there is no one to compare
with Sir Guy Wyverne.”
As he rode up the broad, sunlit glade, where
the sunbeams fell in checkered light and
shadow, her whole heart went out to him. Her
face grew crimson, her eyes flashed light, her
red lips quivered.
. Wave after wave of love seemed to surge
through ber soul; her whole frame shivered
and trembled with the excess of her passion
ate love.
“No wonder I love him,” she thought,
proudly, “ tor there is none like him—none.”
She sat by the oriel window, watching the
slanting sunbeams, thinking how happy, how
brilliant, how beautiful life is—thinking how
glorious that gift of love, tbat made life so
fair, rejoicing in her own future in her own
warm, southern beauty, in the golden time bo
fore her, that seemed to have neither limit nor
bounds—lost in a trance of happiness. Time
passed unheeded. He was there, under the
same roof, speaking, doubtless, or the future
they were to share, and sbe was not impatient,
tho very weight of her own happiness pre
vented that.
The dressing-bell aroused her, and sbo rose
with a smile. Never had Nathalie found her
so difficult to please. No dress, no ornaments,
suited li.r. She tried hali-a-dczeu. aud threw
off each m despair; at last Nathalie found a 1
pretty cloucl-liita. pink silk—one that showed <
Lady Viola’s dark southern beauty to rare per
fection. She fastened a rich cluster of pink ’
geraniums in the dark, Waving hair, and then 1
looked proud of her young mistress’s rare i
loveliness as though it had been her own.
Lady Hanton looked in her daughter’s room 1
as the first dinner-bell rang. She dismissed
Nathalie with a gesture—the countess seldom 1
wasted words. i
•• You look very well this evening. Viola,” she i
said. “Sir Guy could not come until late, hs <
is remaining to dine with us.” i
She spoke hurriedly, keeping one hand on i
the door, as though she had not a moment to 1
remain, signs of trepidation in her stately |
mother that did not escape the young girl’s no- '
“You have seen him,” she cried, eagerly.
“Mamma, tell me what he said ?” I
Lady Hanton smiled uneasily. i
“We had but little time,” she replied. “You i
will see him yourself after dinner. I must go, i
Viola ; papa is waiting for me.”
She hurried from the room, and her daugh
ter slowly descended the stairs. She heard '
the sound of voices in the drawing-room. Lord
Hanton’s, interested and animated ; Sir Guy’s,
full of what seemed to her new music.
“ One moment more,” she thought, ” and I
shall seo him.”
Her white, jeweled hand trembled as she
touched the door, then she stood in his pres
ence, and the light of his face was turned full
upon her.
He could not repress a start of admiration
when he saw her. Standing in the fading Sep
tember light, her beautiful face so perfect in
'feature, so rich in coloring, so bright in hope,
smiled into his. It was long since he had seen
her, and she mistook his look of admiring sur
prise for one of love.
“ How you have altered, Lady Viola 1” he
cried. “ I should hardly have known you.”
Sho would fain have answered him m those
grand old words, hoping she had found favor
m his sight; as it was, she contented herself
by letting her band remain in his. Had he been
a vainer man, Sir Guy might have read her se
cret in her f(tCO, sS".
They went into dinner, and two things struck
Lady Viola—one was that her mother looked
pale and anxious; the second, that she had
never seen Sir Guy in such brilliant spirits.
Ho talked until she was charmed out of herself
by his eloquence; he laughed gayly, so that
Lord Hamon, who seldom even smiled,
laughed, too, and Viola was unablo to resist
the charm.
Lady Hanton alone looked pale and grave ;
no smiles or gay words came to her lips.
One thing struck Lady Viola, and it was that
-Sir Gqv snoke conatamfiy ol the time when be
should be at Haddon, and tc.cn trvubied
look deepened on her mother’s face.
(To be continued.)
It is the renoral impression among the force that
not a few of the roundsmen have softening of the
brain—a very unjust aspersion. They have said
that of Roundsman Kelly, because he was once in
the British army, and Knows al! about how it is there.
But how he got here and on the police, swearing his
age under thirty, is the business of nobody but him
self. Men only used up are discharged from the
British army, but Kelly, in the prime of life, with
numerous scars showing skirmishing duty m the
front, and medals enouxh to sink him if a Fulton
ferry-boat foundered, obtains a position on the po
lice. To get that, a man must be under thirty years
of ago. Having been in the British army and our*
own army during the Rebellion, he knows what d s
clpllne is, and he means to carry it out, as the trial
to which we allude will show. It appears that
Officer Corrigan does duty in the First Precinct;
Roundsman Kelly does it in the Second. Between '
the two an old grudge exists. The one is Protestant,
the other Catholic. Roundsman Kei ! y is the mildest
manner born man living. Two years ago he beard
Corrigan take his Maker’s name in vain, and he
checked him, and since that time a bitter feud has
existed between the two. This is Kelly’s statement,
but it is denied by Corrigan. Thus it is oath against
oath on that point. But the question at issue is this,
and it interests every patrolman, particularly where
there is a punctilious officer in the case. Some time
ago an order was issued by the Board that officers in
the department, when they met in full unitorm,
each should salute the other. It was understood
by the men that the roundsman, being only a
little lower than the angels, shou’.d only be
saluted by the officer of the precinct, bo:h belonging
to the same district; but out of the Ward tho patrol
man was not obliged to salute the roundsman of an
other precinct. That was and is the supposition, it
is now, but it may as well be corrected. A late gen
eral order makes it imperative on a patrolman to sa
lute a roundsman, if both meet in uniform, out of
the Ward, or precinct. Kelly has read this order
carefully, and "having an old grudge against. Corri
gan, of the First Precinct, took advantage of this or
der. Coming from drill, hurrying past the Herald
office, where Kelly was standing, like an ornamental
statue, in front of that building, Corrigan was
brought to a sudden halt by the roundsman. The
occasion of the halt is best explained by Kelly him
self :
“ For the last four or five months, when I offered
to salute him,” said Kelly, “he would hawk, and
spit, and pass on. He would not recognise me, or
any other roundsman, not in his precinct.”
Corrigan’s statement is a little different. Hear
“On the 24th. going home to supper, accompanied
by Brady, I was running for the Third avenue cars;
Kelly cared me bock, and I said: ‘What do you
want ?’ Kelly said, after I turned back: ‘ I want you
to salute me.’ He then put his heels together, and
a rar down brick, and Kelly an up
town limestone man, refused to give the salute, and
left Kelly standing, heei to heel, and hands iolded in
front, without giving the salute, which could not be
returned when not given. Fot this breach of eti
quette poor Corrigan was placed on trial. The case
was referred.
The charge against Sullivan, of the First Precinct,
was leaving his post, and entering a junk-shop.
“That is so, sir,” said Roundsman Gilbert. “I
saw him go in and I saw him go out. He Said he
went in to weigh himself on the scales.”
“You weighed yourself?” queried Commissioner
“ Yes, sir,” was thj£ rejoinder.
“Had you gained or lost anything?” asked the
“ I gained a little.”
The Commissioner intimated that patroling agreed
with Sullivan. His case was referred.
Sergeant McComb, of the Twentieth Precinct, was
charged with interfering with Officer Zerkel in the
discharge of his duty. The case is lull of recrimina
tion. Mary Norton keeps a housQ oi bad reoute at
No. 41 East Thirteenth street. A row took place in
her house on Sunday night; she went out for an
officer to assist her to eject the disorderly character;
McComb, who was standing in the middle of the
block, followed the officer io Norton’s house, and ap
peared to assist the officer; he claims that he did;
they say that he did not. Thev claim that he was a
frequent visitor to the house; he claims that he was
not, except on business to serve warrants. The ser
geant has resigned, and as the case may come up
again, on a complaint that McComb promises to
make, until then it is best to leave the matter where
it is.
Hyde, of the Twenty-second PrecTncl, was charged
Yflth being so much under the influence of liquor,
tha£ be wa6 Unfit for duty. A few minutes after
eleven o’clock at night a citizen entered the station
house and said an officer in Forty eighth street was
sitting on the curb stone, drunk.
Roundsmap Linderi was out and found him in
the condition described, and took him to the station
house. All hands there pronounced him druck, and
he was sent to bed. He claimed that he had been
drugged, or rather that he had fctLen medicine that
drugged him. He would have reported sick, but he
ivas “dead broke ” by of medicine bills, and
he thought this prescription would take him through.
The question with Commissioner Bosworth was.
would the medicine prescribed, taken at 8 or 9
o’clock, produce a state of torpitude—that was when
it was last taken. For the benefit of our medical
readers we give the testimony of the prescriber, Dr.
Hugart, of No. 537 Ninth avenue.
“ He complained ” (the officer) “ of a pain and lax
ness in the bowels, I gave him essence of pepper
men t, laudanum and Hoffman’s anodyne and water;
a two ounce mixture. He was to take a teaspoonful
every half hour till the pain ceased, after that every
three hours.”
The vial was produced and seemed only to have
leaked three spoonfuls. It was given at 11 in the
day, but Hyde did not commence to take it till two.
Then he did not take another spoonful until after 6,
when he went on post, Then he took it severa,
times till 9. The doctor said that be told him to
take a little brandy with it. Ho holds it to be the
very best thine for a flux. Hyde says he took the
mixture but didn’t take the brandy. If the Board
does not break Hyde they will fine him very heavily
for two reasons: If sick he should have reported the
same to the station-house, and, second, for employ
ing an outside physician to prescribe for him,
It is usual for men when reported on the charge
of intoxication, to allege, and even prove that their
torpid condition has been brought about by some
mixture given by some doctor or physician. But it
is few that can produce the apothecary like Hyde.
Thorton was charged with being in conversation
with a female beyond the time allowed. Rounds
man Melly timed, and there could be no mistake.
When asked what he was talking about, he said
it was a friend of his. Thornton said he was there,
but he did not think it so long. This is the third
complaint of the same kind against this officer, and
if not dismissed he will get a fine of five or ten days.
It is costly to talk to females, even if they bo friends.
Griffin, of the Second Precinct, was found in a cigar
store by Sergeant McKnigh'. -He wa« caught there
about fifteen minutes after he had left rhe station
house. The sergeant said as he was passing he
looked in and saw him standing at tne counter with
some citizens. He made no excuse io the sergeant,
but to the Board he said he had just come out with
out a pa er of tobacco, and he steppe ! in to get it,
and went in and come out again. That paper of to
bacco cost him $lO.
Violetta Colville, the 'Young American
Prima Donna, anti Her Mother Waylaid
and Robbed by Brigands Between Albi
sola and Savona, Italy.
In a private letter, from which we are per
mitted to make'extracts, the mother of Violetta
Colville—a lady known to our readers by her
theatrical name of Mary Provost-—gives the
following interesting and good humored ac
count of robbery by brigands :
The day before wo left Sarona, I thought it
would do Violetta good to go to the beach and
j walk in the sea air, she being yet not entirely
• strong ; so we took a carriage and drove to the
, little village of Albisola. After walking about
/ an hour on the shore of this very beautiful
beach, hai d and cloa# from its billions of many
colored pebbles, st arte l to return nomo.
We had got about half a mile from Aloisola,
when the carriage stopped, and the driver said
there was something the matter with the ven-"
cle, and that it could go no further. He sa.a
we must wait there, and he would go into town
for another carriage.
I was not at ail suspicious nor alarmed, and
the beauty of the place where we were, made
me rather pleased than otherwise to remain
for the hour that must ensue before our driver
could return. We were in a little valley, or
rather a gorge, for the hills rose on each side,
and the mountains lay behind when we faced
the sea, which was just visible through the
gorge. We strolled about enjoying ourselves,
when I heard Violetta say:
For mercy’s sake, who are these people t
I turned, and saw advancing from the sea
side five rough-looking men, wno, from the
shape of the road, had managed to remain
concealed from view until they were within
about a rod or so of us. To run would have
been ridiculous. It would have shown fear
where perhaps none was necessary; or, if so,
we had no place to run to; and so, although in
wardly trembling, I did not allow Violetta to
think I was frightened, but said:
“Oh, they arc laborers, probably, returning
But we were quickly undeceived, when one
of them advanced and asked in a tone not at
all agreeing with his language, if we had not a
' few centissimi for a poor man ? To gain time,
or rather to gather my thoughts, I protended
not to understand Italian, and asked him in
French what he desired. In the meantime I
had slid my hand in my pocket and slipped off
my rings from my fingers, he said that he and
his comrades would like a little assistance in
the way of money from the mesdames. I had
drawn out my pocket-book and was proceed
ing to open it, when our Brigand not at all like
the Brigands of the drama, did not wait to ac
cept with polite phrase any offering I might
choose to give him ; but incontinently snatched
it from my hand. When he opened it, the
others crowded around him, and seeing its con
tents (there were about six hundred francs in
notes of various denominations) appeared
highly iOiitenUa; but wishing aoilbtiess to
have a souvenir of their unwilling benefactress,
required of me my watch also ; which, when I
had given them, they rode off, first convincing
themselves that Violetta had neither watcb nor
purse about her.
As I, happy that we had escaped without
further loss or injury, looked after the rascals,
1 could not help thinking of the decline of the
brigand species. Alas 1 where were the steeple
crowned hats and flowing ribbons ? Where
were the silken hose wound about with many
colored tapes that made the legs of the opera
sincere- look Hke eccentric barber poles ? Alas I
these real brigands were dirty, half-olad, anti
wholly ragged specimens of that humanity
most nearly allied' to the brute family. Now if
they had only been stage brigands they would
have recognized the young Prima Donna As
soluta, Signorina Violetta Colville, they wou’.d
have compelled her to sing an aria on the spot,
etc., etc.; but oh, shame for the romance 01
real life 1 we lost our money to a sot of raga
muffins and had not ev> n the consolation of
having it taken from us by a gentleman with a
high-orowiicd hat with a tail of gorgeous rib
bons, and who would sing to soothe our wound
ed feelings while be took it. There’s where it
stings—there’s where we are humbled.
The driver came shortly after the departure
of the thieves ; and although it con’d not be
proved against him, I will always believe he
was in league with them.
gyitofiu ©anqmuil.
Diseases of the Kidneys
nre generally insidious in their approach, consequently
apparently trifling symptoms are deemed of little im
portance. By degrees, pain and constant annoyance
arouses the sufferer from his lethargy. At last, the
realization of serious disease, undermining the very life
structure, dawns upon him. Diabetes or Bright’s Dis
ease may be the ultimate.
We most earnestly advise a trial o F the most valuable
remedy known id diseases implicating these organs—
Julihn’s Hydrastin Compound.
Irritation or weakness of the bladder or urinary
difficulty in voiding the urme; also, in affections impli
cating the female organs—tendency to falling of the
womb, accompanied by irritability,or vain, and in all
abnormal discharges implicating this organ, this invalu
able remedy can be depended on as effectual in bringing
about a speedy cure. Circulars and copies of testimo
nials to be han by calling on or addressing tho manufac
For sale by Druggists. Price $1 per bottle, or 6 tor $5.
Office of the Secretary of State, )
ALBANY. August 1, 1872. I
To the Sheriff of the County of New York:
Slß—Notice is hereby given that, at the Genera!
Election to be held in this State on the Tuesday suc
ceeding tho first Monday of November next, the follow
ing officers are to be elected, to wit:
A Governor, in the place of John T. Hoffman.
A Lieutenanant-Governor in the place of Allen C.
A Canal Commissioner, in tho place of William W.
An Inspector of State Prisons, in the place oi For
dyce L. Lafllin.
Ail whose teimsof office will expire on the last
day of Decamber next. .
Thirty-live Electors of President and Vice-President
of the United States.
A Representative in the Forty-third Congress from
the State at large. „ ...
A Representative in the Forty-third Congress of the
United States, for the Fift i Congressional District.
COIDVospH o* ti.v jri.ou, ouvuiKi, iniru, rouriu, ujiui,
Bixth, Seventh, Eighth and Fourteenth Wards 0* the
city oi New York and Governor’s Island.
A Represen; ative in the forty-third Con’/res-of the
United S-.ates, 'or the Sixth Congressional District,
composed of the Eleventh and Thirteenth Wares of the
city of New York, and that portion of the Eighteenth
and Twenty-first Wards of said city lying east of Third
A Representative in the^Forty-third Congress of the
United States, tor the Seventh Congressional District,
composed of tneTenth and Seventeenth Wards of th :
city of New Yoik, and that portion of the Eighteenth
Ward of said city lying west of Third avenue.
A Representative in the Forty-third Congress of the
United States, lor the Eighth Congressional District,
composed of t ie Ninth. Fifteenth and Sixteenth Wards
of the city of New York, and that portion of the Twen
ty-first Ward lying west of Third avenue.
A Representative in the Forty-third Congress of the
United States, for the Ninth Congressional District,
composed of the Twentieth and Twenty-second Wards
of t he city of New York.
A Representative in the Forty-third Congress of the
United States, for the Tenth Congressional District,
composed of the Twelfth and Ninteenth Wards of the
city of New York, and Blackwell’s, Ward’s and Randall’s
for said city and county.
Twenty-one (21) Members of Assembly.
A Mayor, in the place oi A. Oakey Hall.
A District Attorney’, in the place of Samuel B Gar
A City Judge, in the place of Gunning S. Bedford,
A Coroner, in the place of William Schirmer.
All whose tor ms of office will expire on the last day
of December next.
A Justice of the Supreme Court, in place of William
H. Leonard, appointed in place of Albert Cardozo, re
A Justice of the Superior Court, in place of John H.
McCunn, deceased.
Fifteen (15) Aidermen.
Twenty-one (21) Assistant Aidermen.
The attention of Town and City Election Boards, In
spectors of Election, and County Canvassers, is respeet
dijegted to Chapters 700 and 757, Laws of 1872, here
with printed, as to then duties finder said acts;
AN ACT to supply deficiencies in former appropriations
and to pay the indebtedness of tlje State on account or
the canals, which deficiencies and indebtedness have
been changed into liabilities for money borrowed to
pav them, or into certificates of indebtedness on which
the State is now paying interest, and to pay the float
ing indebtedness of the State and the estimatedplia
bilities for the present fiscal year not yet provided for
by law, fifid tQ raise money therefor, by an issue of the
bonds of tne Stale, Ahfi V? PTOljde for submitting the
question there n to the Pe**le '*• • Z 5
Passed May 15, 1872; three-fifths being present.
The People of the Stale of New York, represented in Senate and
and Assembly, do enaci as follows:
Section 1. To supply deficiencies in former appropria
tions and to pay the indebtedness of the State on ac
count of the canals, which deficiencies and indebtedness
have been changed into liabilities for money borrowed
to pay them, or into certificates of indebtedness on
which the State is now paying interest, and to pay the
floating indebtedness of the State, and the estimated
liabilities for the present fiscal year not yet provided for
by law. The following amounts are hereby appropriated:
The sum of fifty-five thousand eight hundred and one
dollars and ninety-five cants, to pay for deficiencies un
provided for in full by act, chapter seven hundred and
sixty-eight of the laws of eighteen hundred and seventy.
The sum of two hundred and sixty-nine thousand two
hundred and thirty-four dollars and eighty-four cents,
to pay for deficiencies in appropriations under act, chap
ter seven hundred and sixty-seven oi the laws of eighteen
hundred and seventy. The sum of one hundred and
forty-four thousand three hundred and fifty-nine dollars
and fifty-seven cents, to pay for deficiencies in appropri
ations under act, chapter nine hundred and thirty of the
laws of eighteen hundred and seventy-one. The sum of
sixty-ilve thousand dollars, or so much thereof as may
be necessary to meet and pay the interest on the money
borrowed, or certificates of indebtedness issued, to meet
the deficiencies enumerated in the three foregoing items
of deficiencies. Tne sum of three hundred and ninety
three thousand seven hundred and fifty-five dollars and
fifty-one cents, ior outstanding certificates or awards of
canal damages made by and expenses attending cases
heard before the canal appraisers in the year eighteen
hundred and seventy-one, now on interest. The sum of
fifty thousand dollars, or so much thereof as may be
necessary to meet and pay the interest on the certincates
in the last foregoing item mentioned. The sum of
twenty-five thousand four hundred and thirty-one dol
lars and ninety-nine cenrs. the amount of certificates on
interest now outstanding for work done on the eastern
division of the Erie canal in exooss of any appropriation
therefor. The sum of sixtv-ono thousand six hundred
and eleven dollars and thirty-one cents, the amount of
certificates on interest now outstanding for work done
on the Champlain canal improvement in exoess of any
appropriation therefor. The sum of two thousand
five hundred and sixty dollars, the amount of certifi
cates on interest now outstanding for work done on
the Black River canal in excess of any appropriation
therefor. The sum of one hundred and twenty thou
sand dollars, or so much thereof as may be necessary,
to pav the amount of certificates on interest now out
standing and for work done on the Chenango canal ex
tension m excess of any appropriation therefor, a por
tion of which was specially excepted from payment out
of tho appropriation of such Chenango canal extension
made by chapter nine hundred and thirty of the laws of
eighteen hundred and seventy-one. The sum of twenty
thousand dollars, or so much thereof as may be neces
sary, and now due and unpaid for work done and per
formed on the Oneida Lake canal, in excess of any ap
propriation therefor. The sum of forty-five thousand
dollars, or so much thereof as may be necessary to meet
and pay the interest on the last four foregoing items.
The sum of two hundred and thirty-one thousand four
hundred and thirty-four dollars and forty-six cents, to
pay the sum of awards for damagesand extra compensa
tion made by the canal board in the year eighteen hun
dred and seventy-one. Tne sum of seventy-one thou
sand nine hundred and sixty-four dollars and sixty
eight cents, to pay the sum of awards for damages, and
extra compensation and expenses attending the same,
mrde by the board of canal commissioners m the year
i eighteen hundred and seventy-one. Ihe sum of twenty
five thousand dollars, or so much thereof as may be ne-
L ceseary, to pay the interest on the last two foregoing
> i: exns. The sum of three hundred and titty-six thousand
seven hundred and sixty-six dollars and sixty-five cents,
to supply the deficiency in the c.v al debt sinking fund,
to meet the requirements of section three, article seven
. of the constitution of the ttate, for interest on the canal
debt, which was due September th rtieth, eighteen
k hundred and seventy-one. The sum of five hundred and
' fifty-seven thousand one hundred dollars, to supply i-he
j canal debt sinking fund with means to pay interest on
the thirtieth day of Sep’ember, eighteen hundred and
’ seventy-two, as required by ection three, article seven
of the constitution of tne State. The sum oi one hua
t dred and twenty-four thousand four hundred and fifteen
dollars, or so much thereof as inav ba necessary, d ie
and to ne paid on final settlement of contracts fur money
r heretofore retained by the State to secure the perform
j a nee of contracts. Tne sum of four mfllions tiity-oae
;• thousand one hundred end ti.ty-nine dollars ior the
i present acknowledge 1 deSciency, and the estima ed lia
-1 nilitiHsof the general land un to the taixtieUi day oi
Sunday Edition, Oct 13
September, eighteen nundred and seventy-two, forth?
payment of which no appropriations nave been m de,
one wii-eh such indebtedness has b.en incurred and
sucii liabilities created, according to the re ortof tne
late comptroller, transmitted to L e Legislature Janu
ary second, eighteen hundred and seventy-two.
§ 2. To provide the means or paving tne said appro
priation ior the canals under the provisions of this act
and to pay the floating indebtedness oi the State and
the estimated liabilities for tne present fiscal yearnol
yet provided by law, a debt of this State is hereby au
thorized, which deot shall be for the single object oi
raising the money to pay the appropriation herein
§ 3. The debt hereby created shall not exceed the sunj
of six millions six hundred thousand dollars; and then
snail be imposed, levied, and assessed upon the taxable
property oi this State a direct annual tax to pay the in*
terest on said debt as such interest labs due. which said
direct annua! tax shall be sufficient to pay sucn interest
as it tails due. And there shall also bo imposed, levied,
and asse sed upon the taxable property of this State a
direct annual tax to pay, and sufficient to pay in the
space of twelve years from the time of the passage oi
this act, the whole of the debt created under and by ths
provisions of this act. Of the debt to be created undei
and by virtue of the provisions of this act, the principal
of one-third part thereof shall be paid in four years
from the passage of this act, the principal of one-third
part thereof shall be paid in eight years from the pas
sage of this act, and the principal of one-third part
thereof shall be paid in twelve years from the passage of
tn is act.
§ 4. To obtain the money necessary for the purposes
contemplated by this act, the Controller is authorized tc
issue the bonds of the State in such sums each as shall
seem meet to him, with coupons thereto attached, fox
the payment of the interest on such bonds, at a rate not
exceeding six per centum per annum, hah yearly, on the
first days of July and January in each year until ths
principal is payable, at such place in the city of New
York as shall eeem meet to him. One-third part of such
bonds shall be payable in four years from the passage oi
this act, one-third part of such bonds shall be payable in
eight years from the passage of this act. one-third part
oi such bonds shall be payable in twelve years from ths
passage of this act, and tne whole principal shall ba
payable in such place in New York city as the Controller
snail deem meet. The Controller shall, before disposing
of said bonds or any of tuem, advertise the proposals foi
the same, and shall open the proposals, and award the
same to the highest bidder at a rate not less than par
which advertising and disposition shall be according to
the provisions of the law now existing
§ 5. This act shad be submitted to the people at th«
next general election to be held in tins State The in
spectors of election in the different election districts in
the State shall provide, at each poll on said eleciion day,
a box in the usual form for the reception of the ballots
herein provided ; and each and every elector of tnia
State may present a ballot which shall be a paper ticket,
on which shall be printed or written, or partly written
and partly printed, one of the following forms, namely;
‘ For the act to create a State debt to pay the canal and
general fund deficiencies,” or “Against tne act to creat«
a State debt to pay the canal and general fund deficien
cies.” The said ballots.shill be so foiled as to conceal
the contents of the ballots, and shall be indorsed “Acl
in relation to canal and general fund deficiencies.”
§ 6. After finally closing the pells of such election
the inspectors taore<’f shall immediately and w.thoul
adjournment proceed to count and canvass the balloti
given in relation to the proposed act, in the samt
manner as they are by law required to canvass the ballots
given for Governor, and thereupon shall set down in
writing, and in words at full length, tho wnolo numbex
of votes given “For the act to create a Stale debtand
the whole number of votes given “Against the act tc
create a State debt,” and certify and subscribe the
same, and cause the copies thereof to be made, certified,
and delivered, as prescribed by law in respect to the cra
vats of votes given at an election for Governor; and al)
the provisions of law in relation to elections, other than
for military and town officers, shall apply to the submiS'
sicn of the people herein provided for.
§ 7 The Secretary of State shall, with all convenient
dispatch, after this ae shall receive the approval of tne
Governor, cause the same io bestruck off and printed
upon slips in such numbers as s iall be sufficient to sup
ply the different officers oi this State concerns ’ in noti
fying or in holding elections, or in canvassing the votes,
and shall transmit the same to such officers.
§ 8. Sections live, six, and seven of this act shtll take
effect immediately uuon its passage, but the second,
third, and fourJi sections thereof snail not become a Lw
until it is ratified by tne people in pursuance of tne Con
stitution and the provisions thereof
§ 9. This act shall be chapter seven hundred of the
laws of eighteen hundred and seventy-two.
C'iiAP. 7-7.
AN ACT to perfect an amendment to the Constitution
relative to the Court of Appeals, and for the extension
o the services of the Commissioners of Appeals.
Passed May 17,1872, tnree-fiiths being present.
Whereas, The following amendment to tne Constitu
tion of this State was agr. e l to by a majority of all the
members elected to eaca branon oi the Legislature, for
the year one thousand eight hundred and seventy-one;
and the said amendment was duly entered on the jour
nals of each branch ot the Legislature, with the yeas and
nays taken thereon, and re orred to the Legisla.ure to
be chosen at the next genera; election of Senators; and
was duly published for three months previous to the
time of making such choice in 4 ursuanee or the thir
teenth article of the Constitution of the State; and
whereas, said amendment was also agreed to by a ma
jority of a!l the members elected to each of the said
branches of the Legislature for the year one thousand
eight hundred and seventy-two, pursuant to the said
th r.eenth article; which said amendment i* in tne
words following, to wit: “Relative to the Court of Ap
peals, and for the extension of the term of service oi
the Commissioners ot Appeals ” Pesolved, (if the As
sembly concur.) I hat the sixth article of tne Constitu
tion of this State be amended, by adding thereto the
following section:
Ҥ2B. The Court cf Appeals may order any of the
causes, not exceeding five hundred in number, pending
m that court at the time of the adoption of this provi
sion, to be heard and determined by the Commissioners
of Appeals, and the Legislature may extend the term or
service of tho Commissioners of Appeals, for a period
not exceed.ng two years.” Now, therefore, for the pur
pose of subm.ttiag the said proposed amendment to the
People of tnis State:
The People of the State of New York, represented in Senate and
Assenibly. do enact as follows :
Section 1. The inspectors at each poll in the several
towns and wards of this State at the general ejection to
be held in this State on the fifth dav of November, in
the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and
seventy-two, shall provide a box to receive the ballots of
the citizens of this State, in relation to tne said pro
posed amendment; and each voter may present a ■allot
on which shad be written or printed, or pertly written
and partly printed, one of the following forms, namely:
“ For the proposed amendment relative to t ie Court of
Appeals.” or “Aga nst the proposed amendment rela
tive to the Court of Appeals.” The said ballots shall be
indorsed “Proposed Amendment relative to the Court
of Appeal l ?,” and shall be so folded as to conceal tnl
contents of the ballot and exhibit the indorsement.
And all the citizens oi this State entitled to vote ior
members of Assembly in their respective districts shall
be entitled to vote on the adoption of the said proposed
amendments, during the day of election, in the several
election districts in which they reside.
§2. After finally closing the poll of said election, the
inspectors thereof shall count and canvass the ballots
given relative to the said proposed amendment, in the
snme manner as they are required bv law’ to canvass the
ballots given for Governor, and thereupon shall set
down in writing, and in words at full length, the whole
number of votes given “For the proposed amendment
relative to the Court of Appeals,” and the whole num
ber of votes given “Against the proposed amendment
relative to the Court of Appeals.” and shah certify and
subscribe the same, a» d cause co ics thereof to be made
and certified and delivered, as prescribed bv law in re
spect to the canvass of votes given at an eleciion for
§ 3. Tne vote so given shall be canvassed by the Board
</£ (Jouu.,,- Cauvu.acio, t*ud otatements thereof shall bo
mrde, certified and signed, and recorded in t.:e manner
required bylaw, in respect to tho canvas ing tao votes
given at a : ele itioa for Gov. mor, an 1 certified copies of
the said statements and certificates of the county can
vassers shall be made, ce.r bed and transmitted by the
countv clerks, respectively, in the manner . rovided by
law in cases of e'ectiun for Governor. J'he sai d certifled
copies transmitted 07 the county clerks shall be can
vassed by the Board of L-.tite Canvassers, in the l.ke
manner as provided by law, in respect to the election oi
Governor, and in like manner they snail xna •• and file
a certificate of the result, of such cauva’s, which shall be
entered on record by the S .'c.etary Of (State, and shall be
publ.shed by ni u in tne Stale pap-'r.
§4. This act shad face effect immediately.
Respectfully yours, otc .
Secretary of Stato.
City and County of New York, y
August Isv, 1872. )
1 certify the above to be a true copy of the Election
Notice rece ved by me this day from the Secretary of
Sheriff of the City and County of New York.
Publishers of newspapers will not insert this no
tice without duo >uthority. See Laws 1860, Chap. 480.
Dr. hunter can be consulted
from 9 A. M. to BP. M., at his office No. 56 Bond
street, ne r tne Bowery. Estaofished 40 years Ohargaa
moderate and a cure guaranteed. The doctor has cured
many old enronic cases after dozens of eminent physi
cians failed. Pationts will see no one but tho doctor
himself. One Do.lar will secure by return mail, carefully
Sealed, his great medical work on private diseases, de
bility, etc. Worth all the others put together. Advice
by mail and medicines prompt? forwarded. Utmost pri
vacy observed. Not open on Sunday.
SINGLI LADIES, 'i’ho most wonderful, reliable,
and certain remedy, as well as always healthy for mar
ried or single ladies, in removing obstructions and sup
pressions, has proved to be the celebrated PORTU
oi 1 :dies have used them with infallible certainty. They
never fail. Cerain and healthy. Price $5.
DR. A. M. MAURICEAU. Professor of Diseases of
Women, Office, No. 129 Liberty street. Sole Agent and
Proprietor tor upward of twenty years. They are sent
bv mail, in ordinary letter envelopes, with full instrusw
tions and advice.
jf;' SKINS, $3 PLR
lOl* Dozen; Samples, 25c. Druggists supplied. RICE &
CO., Importers, No. 83 Nassau st., N. Y. Room No. 12.
A “LADIES PHYSici h?~d?
having twenty-five years’ successful and uninterrupted
practice in this city, makes it bis special practice to
treat all female complaints, however complicated or
from whatever cause produced. Every complaint, how
ever long standing, treated with a skill unsurpassed.
Elegant rooms and good board for ladies before and
during confinement. In f ants adopted when desired.
Office and residence, No. 120 WEST TWENTY-SIXTH
STREET, nea-* Sixth avenue.
is the only positive and Specific Remedy
tor all suffering from general or sexual debility, all de
rangements of the nervous forces, melancholy, sperma
torrncoa, or seminal emissions, all/weaknesses arising
from sexual excesses, or youthful indiscretions, loss ot
muscular energy, physical prostration, nervousness, weak
spine, lowness of spirits, dimness ot vision, hysterics,
pains in the back and limbs, impotence, &c.
Suffer no more, but try one bottle: it will effect a cure
■where all others fail. It contains nothing hurtful to the
most delicate constitution. Price. Five Dollars. No. 56
Bond street, near Bowery. Established 40 years. Book
of 80 pages gratis. Not open on Bunday.
of Midwifery, ever thirty years successful prac
tice. Office No. 1 East 52d street, corner of Fifth ave
nue. Her infallible French Female Pills No. 2, Price
$5, aro sold at Druggist, No. 152 Greenwich street, and
’ No. 7 SIXT A AVENUE. N. Y.
Also at No. 122 Fulton street, Brooklvn, or sent by mail
with full directions.
HpJLev/ ’LF w case of private
disease, spermatorrhoea, nervous de- z x
bility, rheumatism, syphilis, scrofula, / \
etc., which DR. RIUHAU’3 GOLD-/ /l'■ a-A \
EN REMEDIES, fail to cure. No I
mercury; no restriction of diet. Cir-I L>,-.? f
cularssent; correspondents answered \ I
promptly. Office hours from 9 A. M. \ /
to 9P.M. Address Dr. D. B. RICH
ARDS, No. 228 Varick st., New York.
CHES’ only office.—Nervous debility, im potenca
and private diseases cured by new and sure remedies.
Rooms private. Call or write for tho new book (sent
free, sealed). Seminal Pills for nervous debility, $1 per
box, or six boxes, $5. Sent by mnil, or at office.
r7 _ g7 _ R. BOND, No. 198 ELM ST.,
between Broome and Spring streets, can be con
sulted on all diseases of a private or delicate nature, by
ladies or gentlemen. Certain rehet guaranteed to all.
Ladies’ Pills, No. 1, $2 a box: No. 2, Supar-Ooated and
Stronger, $3. Drops, $2 a vial. Invigorating Cordial,
for gentlemen. Si 50 and $3 per boitie. Gents Pro
tectors, two for $1; $5 a dozen. Ladies Protectors, ®3
each. Tne doctor and son will keen on hand a full sup
ply of Family Medicines, Roots, Herbs, Toilet Articles,
Perfumery, and all of tne bast Patent Medicines of tha
day.__ j _ _
All who are suffering from
disease and nervous or physical debility, should
consult Dr. HUNTER. His. great experience carina
forts years’ practice enables hixn to effect a radical ana
speedy cure, without injurs to the moat delicate consti
tution. No. 56 Bond street. Established 40 searj.
IWMlffi WlffiNS.

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