New York dispatch. [volume], October 06, 1878, Page 6, Image 6

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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6
CIRCUMSTANCE.
BY ELLA WHEELER.
Talk not to mo of goals that conceive
Sublime ideals, but deterred by Fate,
And, bound by circumstances, sit desolate.
And long for bights they never can achieve.
It is not so. That which we most desire,
Witn understanding, we at last obtain,
In whole or part. I hold there is no rain,
No deluge, that can quench a heavenly fire.
Show me thy labor, I straightway will name
The nature of thy thoughts. Who bends the bow*
And lets the arrow from the strained string go.
Strikes somewhere near the object of his aim.
We bnild our ships from timbers of the brain,
With products of the soul we load the hold;
Where lies the blame if they bring back no gold.
Or if they spring a leak upon the main ?
There is no Fate, no Providence, no Chance,
dho Wil' is all. So be it thou art pure
And strong of purpose, thy success is sure,
But fools and sluggards prate of Circumstance.
THE PfflCE MB WATCHMAN
AN ADVENTURE ON NEW YEAR’S EVE.
CHAPTER I.
A son’s duty.
Mother Kate, the old watchman’s wife, opened
her window on New Year’s Eve and thrust out
her head. The enow fell in large, quiet flakes,
reddened by the light from the window; but
still she looked long at the running to and fro
of the happy people, who were still busy buy
ing New Year’s gifts in the brilliantly lighted
shops and booths, or who streamed to coffee
houses, wine cellars, private parties, or public
ball-rooms, to bring in the New Year merrily.
As, however, some large cold flakes presently
fell on her nose, she drew back her head and
shut the window.
“ Gottlieb,” she said to her husband, “stay
at home to-night, and let Philip go for you. It
snows very fast, and you know that this sort of
weather does not agree with your old -bones.
The streets will be lively the whole night, and
our Philip will certainly not weary. Indeed, it
looks as if dancing and feasting were in every
house.”
“Katy,” said old Gottlieb, “I shall be very
glad to do so. The gunshot wound above the
knee, which is my barometer, foretold two days
ago that tlie weather would change. It is only
right that the son should make his father’s post
easy, as he is to inherit it some day.”
Old Gottleib had been a sergeant in one of
the king’s regiments, till he was crippled by a
shot received in storming a redoubt, which ho
had been the first to mount, fighting for his
Faderiand. His captain, who mounted it after
it was taken, received on the spot an order of
merit and promotion for that heroic deed. The
poor sergeant was glad to escape with life and
a severe wound; so, out of pity, they gave him
a schoolmaster’s place, for ho was a sensible
man, wrote a good hand, and took great pleas
ure in reading; but bis place was afterward ta
ken from him on pretense of improvements in
tbe school system, but really because it was
wanted for a young man, a godchild of one of
the school managers, who could neither read
nor write so well as Gottlieb. The poor dis
missed schoolmaster was then promoted to be
night watchman, with his son Philip as suc
cessor, who had, however, learned the business
of a gardener.
The little household was very hard put to it
to make both ends meet, although Frau Kate
was an excellent manager, and old Gottlieb a
real philosopher, who knew how to be happy
with very little. Philip was in tbe service of a i
gardener, where he earned enough for his daily i
bread, and when he carried home flowers for
the rich he got many a liberal present. He was i
a fine-looking fellow of six-and-twanty, and
many great ladies gave him a piece of money
more on account of his comely looks than for i
the
Frau Kate had just wrapped herself in her
mantle, and was going to call her son from the i
gardener’s house, when ho stepped into the i
room.
“Father,” said Philip, “it is snowing, and i
that is not good for you. I’d take your place i
to-night; you go to bed.”
“You are a very good son,” said old Gottlieb. I
“And then I have been thinking,” continued ]
Philip, “to-morrow is New Year’s day, and I i
want to dine with you and be merry. Perhaps <
mother has not a roast in the pantry!”
“Not exactly a roast,” said Frau Kate; “but I
there’s a pound and a half of beef, plenty of.
potatoes, and seasoned nee for soup. And to
drink, we have a couple of bottles of beer, i
Only come, Philip; we can dine very well, and
drina each other’s healths too. Next week i
there will be New Year’s gifts for the watch- I
mon, and wo may make ourselves very comfort
able.”
“Well, so much the better for you,” said •.
Philip; “but is tbe house rent paid?” ]
Old Gottlieb shrugged his shoulders.
“There are twenty-two florins that I’vo
saved,”- said Philip, laying them on the table; i
“ 1 can do without them. Take them for a ■
New Year’s gift, and now wo can all face the ,
N'-w Year with courage and good humor.
Heaven grant that we may all live through it, i
It altby and happy. Heaven will provide for
Loth you and me after.”
'\i Kate bad tears in her eyes, and kissed :
- i
-Philip,” snij 6ld '
fort and staff to our old agf. God will roward
you for it. Continue to be an honest man aud <
l ive your parents, and a blessing will not be i
wanting. I wish you nothing for tbe New Year
but that you may preserve your good, kind
heart, and that is in your own power. With a
good conscience you will be rich enough- What ;
you cost me as a child is almost all paid back,”
be continued, referring to the household book. I
“We have already received and spent three
hundred and seventeen florins out of your sav
ings,” ' .
"Three hundred and seventeen florins 1”
cried Frau Kate in the greatest astonishment, i
Then turning compassionately to Philip, she ;
said in a softer voice, “Child of my heart 1 I’m i
sorry for you; yes, I’m very sorry for you. If :
you had been able to keep that sum, and lay it I
up for yourself, you might have bought a piece ;
ot ground and set up as gardener on your own :
account, and married good little Rose. That .
can’t be now. That can’t be now. But comfort
yourself, it will not be so very long now.”
“Mother,” said Philip, frowning a little,
“what are you talking about? 1 love Rose as
my li.'e, but'l would give up a hundred Roses
for you and my father. I can neverget any oth
er parents, but I may get another Rose; though,
among a thousand, Widow Bittner’s Rose is the
only one I care for.” .
“You are right, Philip,” said the old man;
“loving and marrying are hardly duties, but to
support poor old parents is a duty. To sacri
fice one’s self, one’s passions and likings for the
happiness of parents is filial gratitude. God
will reward you, Philip—-He will make you rich
in heart.”, <•-. • .
‘‘lf the time does not seem too long to the
girl to wait, and she does not forsake you,” said
Frau Kate, “all will be well. Rose is a very
pretty girl, and though she is poor, she will cer
tainly not lack wooers, tor she is beside a good
girl, and understands housekeeping.”
“Don’t be afraid, mother,” said Philip; “Rose
has told me solemnly that she will never take
any other husband but me; neither has her
mother anything against me. If I could set up
for myself to-day, and provide for a wife, I
might marry Rose to-morrow—that I am cer
tain of. The plague is that the old widow for
bids us to see each other as often as we would
like. She says that would not bo proper. But
1 think, aud so does Rose, that it is proper.
So vie have agreed to meet to-night, at twelve
o’clock, at the great gate of St. Gregory’s
Church, for Rose spends the New Year's Eve
with some of her friends, and I am to see her
home.”
The neighboring clock now struck a quarter
to ten, and Philip took his father’s watch-cloak
from the warm stove, where it had been care
fully laid for him by his mother, and, wia.iping
himself in it, he equipped himself with bis born
and baton, and worn off to his post.
CHAPTER 11.
“WRAPPED IN A SCARLET SILK MANTLE.”
Philip stalked majestically through the snowy
streets of the town, where osinany people w.-ie
abroad as if it were still day. Numbers of car
riages were driving about, and all the bouses
were brilliantly lighted up. The activity aud
life cheered up Philip. He blew his horn lust
ily, called but “ ten o’clock,” and sang his stave
iu the quarter of the town appointed bim. It
is even now customary in many German towns
for tbe watchman, after calling the hour, to sing
a verse, appropriate to the time of night and
state of the weather.
Philip, however, lingered longest, and with
many happy thoughts, before a certain house
near St. Gregory’s, where be well knew that Ills
Rose was spending the night with her friends.
“Now she hears my horn,” ho thought to
himself. “Now she thinks of me, and forgets
perhaps both game and talk. If she only does
not forget twelve o’clock at the church gate 1”
As he finished the round of bis beat; Philip
always returned to tile beloved house, and
looked up to the lighted windows. Now and
then he uescried female forms, and then his
heartbeat quicker; he. thought he saw Rose.
Wueii the foims themselves disappeared from
tue window, be watched tbe lengthened shad
ows on too walls and ceiling, trying to find out
waicu was Rose's shadow, and what she was
doing. It was certainly not very pleasant stand
ing there, in frost and snow, making observa
tions; but what can frost and snow do to a
lover ? And now-a-days watchmen are as ro
mantic in their loves as ever a tender-hearted
knight of old in ballads and romances.
Philip first perceived the influence of tbe
cold as it struck eleven, and he had again to
begin bis round. His teeth chattered with the
cold; he could hardly blow his horn and call
out tbe hour—he would have liked very much
to go into an alehouse and warm himself.
As Philip was going through a lonely little
street, ho met a strange figure wrapped iu a
scarlet silk mantle; be bad a black mask
on his face, and jauntily stuck on the side
of bis head was a round hat, fantastically
ornamented with a brilliant aigrette, and a
high waving plume of feathers. Philip tried
to keep clear ot the mask, but he stopped right
before him.
“You are a dear fellow,” said the mask,
“and will.do’ what I wish, Tell ms, where are
going?”.
“To Mary street, to call the hour,” replied
Philip.
“Heavenly!” cried the mask; “I must hear
that. I will go along with you. One does not
boar that every day. Come along, you foolish
fellow, and let me hear you. But, I tell you
what—you must perform well, or I won’tbe con
tent. Tell me, can you sing something merry
for the New Year ?”
Philip saw that the gentleman was of noble
rank, and had partaken of a glass too much, so
he replied readily, “Oh, yes, I could sing a
merry verse; but better in a warm room with a
bottle of wine than in the cola streets.”
Philip went on his wav to Mary street and
blew his born, called the hour, and sung.
“There's no art in that,” said the mask, who
had followed him; “I can do that, too, you
silly fellow! Give me your horn. I’ll blow and
sing for you, and soon make you die of laugh
ing.”
At the next station Philip yielded to the en
treaties of the mask, and allowed him to blow
his born and sing, which he did quite properly
at several succeeding stations. Indeed, tho
mask would not tire of being the representa
tive of the watchman, and was quite inexhaust
ible in praising his own cleverness. Philip
laughed heartily at the whimsicaliremarks of
the merry gentleman, who probably had come
from some party or ball, where a few glasses of
wine had elevated him above the usual jog-trot
of every day life.
“Do you know, my darling, I have the great
est desire to be a watchman for a couple of
hours,” said the mask. “If I don’t do it now,
I shall never perhaps have another chance of
that honor. Give me your cloak and broad
brimmed hat, and I will give you my domino.
Go into an alehouse, make yourself jolly, and I
will pay the reckoning. Afterward, come again,
and give me back my masking dress. Eero
are a couple of dollars. What do you think of
it, sweetheart?”
The watchman did not like it; but the mask
would not give way; ho begged and insisted,
until at last in a little dark street Philip capit
ulated. He was piteously cold, and half an hour
in a warm room would do him good, and so.
would the present he was to receive. So be al
lowed the young gentleman to represent the
watchman for half an hour—that was till twelve
o’clock; then be waste come to the gate of St.
Gregory’s, and exchange mantle, horn and ba
ton tor the long scarlet mantle, plumed hat and
mask, Philip informing him all the streets in
which he bad in the meantime to call the hour.
“Sweetheart I” cried the mask, in ecstacy, “1
could almost kiss you—you will not repent it.
Keep your appointment at the church, and you
will get money for a roast to add to your re
ward. Hurrah! Pm watchman!”
They exchanged clothes; the mask was
changed to a watchman; and Philip wrapped
himself in the long scarlet mantle, fastened the
mask on his face, and put on the plumed hat
with tlie sparkling clasp; but as he was leaving
his representative it fell heavily on his heart
that the young gentleman might, out ot wan
tonness, do something to desecrate tbe watch
man’s office; so he turned once more and said:
“I hope you will not abuse my good nature,
and do any mischief that might get me into
trouble, and rob me of my post.”
“What are you thinking of, silly follow?”
cried the representative. “Do you mean that I
don’t know my business ? Get off with yon, or
I’ll throw the baton between your legs. Don’t
tail to be at St. Gregory’s at twelve o’clock, to
give me back my things. Good-by. This is
capital sport for me.”
The now watchman went proudly on his way,
and Philip hurried on to the nearest ale-house.
CHAPTER 111.
PHILIP AS A PBINCE.
As Philip turned the corner of tbe Royal Pal
ace he was touched on the shoulder by alperson
in a mask, whp alighted from a carnago before
tho palace. Philip stood still, and asked, in
masking fashion—that is, in a soft, low voice:
“ What is it ?”
“Noble sir,” replied the mask, “lost in
thought, you have passed the door. Will it
please your royal highness to ”
“What! royal highness ?” said Philip laugh
ing. “I am no bigness. How does that come
into your head ?”
The mask bowed respectfully, and glancing
at the diamond aigrette on Philip’s plumed hat,
replied:
“I beg pardon, if I break masking privileges,
but in whatever dress you disguise yourself,
your noble form will always betray you. Please
step forward. May I ask whether you will
dance?” ■
“I dance!” said Philip. “No, you see well I
have boots on.”
“Play, then ?” asked the mask.
“Still less,” said the watchman; “I have no
money in my pocket.”
“Good heavens! disposeof my purse—of me,
and all that I have,” cried the'mask, offering
the astonished Philip a purse full of money.
“Do you know, then, who I am?” asked
Philip, pushing back the purse with bis hand.
His Royal Highness Prince Julian,” whis
pered the mask, with a most respectful bow.
At this moment Philip heard his representa
tive call' tbe hour loudly and distinctly in a
neighboring street, and became suddenly aware
what was the exchange he had made. 'Prince
Julian, known in the town as an amiable,witty,
wild young man, had conceived the whim to
change places with him. S--
.“Well,” thought Philip, “if he plays the
watchman properly, I must not shame him in
my princely domino, but show that I can play
the prince well enough for half-an-hour. At all
events, it is his fault if I eomiAit a blunder.”
-?° Philip drew his silk domino
cliSf& al'otea u!3. took the purse, and thrust
it into his
“Who are you, fnask?” was the first inquiry.
“I will give you the money back to-morrow.”
. “lam the Chamberlain Pilzow,” was tbe re
ply. ' ■-> j:
“Very well,” said Philip, “go on, I will fol
low you.”
The chamberlain obeyed. He ran up the
broad marble steps, Philip followed quickly.
They entered an immense hall, illuminated by
thousands of wax-lights, tho rays of which were
reflected by numerous mirrors on the walls,
and crystal chandeliers which swung from tbe
roof. A confused crowd of gay masks moved
about—Sultans, Tyrolese maidens, Pans,
knights in armor, nuns,' peddlers, cupids,
monks, Moors, Jews, Medes, and Persians. For
an instant Philip was quite dazzled and blind
ed. He had never seen such a spectacle iu all
hie days. In tbe middle of the room hundreds
of dancers floated to tbe harmonious undula
tions of the music
Philip felt the comfort of tbe mild warm air
which here breathed on him, but was at first so
paralyzed with astonishment that he could
hardly return the salutations, sometimes res
pectful, sometimes confidential, and sometimes
mocking, with which many of the masks greet
ed him in hurrying past.
“Do you command that we goto the card
table?” whispered the Chamberlin,who now, in
the clear light, stood revealed as a Brahmin.
“Let me first thaw a little,” replied Philip;
“I am desperately cojd.”
“A glass of wirift punch, then,” said the
Brahmin.
Ho led Philip to a side-room, where.the pre
tended prince did not require much pressing.
The punch was good; one glass after another
was emptied, and soon spread its fire through
Philip’s veins.
“How is it that you are not dancing to-night,
Brahmin ?” asked Philip of the chamberlain, as
they went back into the ball-room.
The Brahmin sighed and shrugged his shoul
ders. as he replied:
“Mirth and dancing are over with me now.
The only one I care to dance with is the Count
ess Bonan. I thought she loved me, but fancy
my despair; although our families were agreed,
she suddenly broke oil with me entirely.”
“Indeed 1 This is the first I have heard of
it,”, said Philip.
“What! Don’t you know that the whole
town is speaking of it?” sighed the chamber
lain. “ A fortnight ago everything was broken
off. She will not even allow me to explain mat
ters and clear myself. She has returned me
three letters unopened. She is the sworn ene
my of the Baroness Reizenthal, and I bad prom
ised to avoid all communication with her.
Only picture to yourself my bad luck. The
queen-mother made a hunting party to tbe For
est of Freuden, commanded my attendance,
and appointed me to be cavalier of the baron
ess. What could I do? Could I possibly re
fuse ? Precisely on the birthday of the lovely
Bonan 1 was hurried unexpectedly away. She
learned all; she misunderstood my heart—
and——”
“ Well, well, cheer up, Brahmin,” said Philip;
“make use of tbe present happy moment; tbe.
general gladness reconciles all. Is the count
ess here?”
“Yes; don’t you see her over there to the
left?” replied" the disconsolate Brahmin—
there! the Carmelite nun—near the three
black masks. See 1 she has laid aside her
mask. Oh, prince 1 your gracious intercession
with her.”
“Here is a good deed to be done,” thought
Philip, inspired by the punch.
Without any more ceremony Philip went over
to the Carmelite nun. The Countess Bonan
blushed, and looked seriously at him as he sat
down by her side. She was a fine girl, but
Philip soon remarked that his Rose was a thou
sand times more lovely.
“ Countess,” he stammered, and fell into con
fusion, as she turned her clear, enthusiastic
glance on bim. )
“Prince,” said she, “you were very naughty
an hour ago.”
“But, lovely countess, I am very serious
now,” said Philip.
“So much the better,” she replied. “Then I
need not fly from you, prince.”
“ Lovely countess, allow mo to put a single
question to yon,” continued Philip. “Doyon
do real penance for your sins in this nun’s
dress?”.
“I have nothing to do penance for,” she re
plied.
“ Oh, yes, countess, your cruelties—your in
justice to the poor Brahmin, who stands over
there forsaken by all the world.” ’
The beautiful nun became rather uneasy, and
cast down her eyes.
“Let me assure you, lovely countess,” con
tinued Philip, “ that in tbe affair ot the Forest
of Frenden tho chamberlain is as innocent as I
am.”
“As you, prince!” exclaimed the countess,
frowning. “ What did you tell me only an hour
ago ?”
“You were quite right, dear countess; I was
naughty—you said so yourself. Now I am se
rious, and swear to you that the chamberlain
went to the Forest of Frcnden against his will,
hv the Rommaud: of the aueen-mother, aud was
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 6, 1878.
1 tho appointed cavalier of the hated baron
ess ”
r “Hated by him!” said the countess, with
t , a bitter, sarcastic smile.
h “Yes, he bates—he despises the baroness.”
.1 replied Philip. “Believe me, he almost broke
- through the bounds ot good breeding toward
y her. His behavior to her has got him into
trouble. I know it; and all that on your ac
e count. He loves, he adores, only you; and you
a —can you cast him off?”
i “How comes it, prince, that you interest
i yourself so warmly for Pilzow? It was not so
formerly.”
1 “ Countess, I did not know him then,” replied
Philip; “and still loss the sad condition into
o which your misunderstanding has plunged him.
i I assure you he is innocent. You have noth
-1 ing to forgive him; on tbe contrary, he has
- much to forgive you.”
“Hush!” said the nun, assuming a more
- cheerful air, .“we are observed; “let us go
r somewhere else.”
r She fastenod on her mask, stood up, and took
3 the arm of the pretended prince. They went
- through the ball-room, and into a vacant side-
- room ; here the countess made long and bitter
5 complaints against the chamberlain, bnt they
f were only the complaints of jealous love. She
3 even shed tears. At that moment the loving
f Brahmin steppod bashfully into the room,
t Then followed a deep pause. Philip could
think of notuing better than to lead the tender
- Brahmin to the repentant nun ; then joining
f their hands, without a single word he left them
, to themselves, and went back into the bo.ll
f room.
■ CHAPTER IV.
“ YOU ABE MY GUABDIAN ANGEL.”
> At the entrance to the ball-room a Mameluke
jostled against Philip.
“ It is well, your highness, that I have found
; you,” said he. “Is the Flower Girl in this lit
tle room ?” He stepped in, but hastily came
back again. “ I beg one word alone, noble
■ Domino,” he continued, as he led Philip into
i the recess of a window, in the retired part of the
ball-room.
i “What are your commands ?” asked Philip.
i “I conjure you,” said the Mameluke, in a low
but agitated tone, “ tell me where is tho Flower
■ Girl?”
I “ What do I care about the Flower Girl ?”
said Philip.
“But so much the more do I,” returned tbe
Mameluke, whose repressed voice and restless
movements betrayed a frightful mental disturb
i ance. “So much the more do I,” he continued.
“ She is my wife. You wish to make mo
wretched. Prince, I conjure you, do not drive
i me mad. Leave my wife to me alone.”
“ With all my heart,” replied Philip, drily.
: “What have Ito do with your wife?”
“Oh, prince, prince,” cried the excited Mame-
■ luke, “1 am resolved on the greatest extremi
ties—even if it should cost me my life. It is no
use dissembling a moment longer. I have dis-
■ covered everything. Here—see this I—here is
the billet which the false woman slipped into
•your hand, which you lost in the crowd before
• reading it.” • •
Philip took tbe billet, wherein he found writ
ten with pencil, in a female hand :
“Change your mask.’ Every one knows you.
■ My husband is observing you. He does not
know mo. Do as I tell you—l will reward
• you.”
“Humph I” said Philip, “this is not intended
for me. 1 don’t trouble myself about your
wife.”
“ Prince, prince, you make me rave,” ex
claimed the enraged Mameluke. “Do you
know who stands before you ? I know perfectly
well that you have run after my wife ever since
the last marquerade at Court. I am Marshal
Blankenschwerd.”
“Marshal, don’t take it ill, but jealousy blinds
you,” returned Philip, coolly. “If you only
knew me, you would never imagine such mad
nonsense. I give you my word of honor, your
wife shall never be troubled by me.”
“Are you serious, prince ?” he inquired.
“Entirely so—perfectly serious,” replied
Philip.
“Give me the assurance of it,” said ths mar
shal.
“ What assurance do you require ?” asked
Philip.
“ I know it is you who have persuaded her
from setting out with me for Poland,” replied
the marshal. “Persuade her to go now,
Prince.”
“With all my heart, if it will be of any serv
ice to you,” said Philip.
“Of the greatest, your royal highness, of
tbe greatest,” said the marshal; "you will
prevent frightful, and otherwise unavoidable
wretchedness.”
The Mameluke talked an a long time, be
seeching, threatening, and sometimes almost
crying, till Philip became quite alarmed. He
feared the fellow would make a scene with him
before all the company, and, as this would have
been very inconvenient, he was thankful when
he at last got rid of him.
Hardly had Philip escaped from the poor
marshal, and lost himself in the crowd of guests,
than a female mask, dressed in tbe deepest
mourning, pinched him in a friendly manner on
the arm, and whispered :
“Whither away, Butterfly? Does the poor
forsaken widow inspire you with no compas
sion ?”
“Beautiful widows find only too many com
forters,” returned Philip, politely. “May I be
allowed to add myself to the number of yours ?”
“Wbv have you been so disobedient, and not
changed your" mask?” said the wid.QW, as she
took bim aside, and where they could talk
freely. “Do vou suppose, Prince, that you are
M no pres-
-‘‘Tue people are not quite certain as to toy
identity,” replied Philip; “ and probably, after
all, they may be mistaken.”
“Indeed they are, Prince,” said the widow;
“and unless you change your dress instantly 1
must leave you for the whole evening. I wish
to Avoid giving my husband any pretence for
making a scene.”
Philip knew now whom he was talking with,
and said:
“You were the beautiful Flower Girl. Have
your roses, then, faded so quickly ?”
“What is there that is not changeable,
Prince ?—especially tho faith and truth of men !
I saw vou well, slipping away with your Car
melite‘nun. Confess your inconstancy. You
cannot deny it.”
“Humph! If you accuse mo, perhaps I may
return the compliment.” said Philip.
“In what instance, pretty Butterfly?” she
demanded.
“There is, for instance, no better or truer
husband than the marshal,” said Philip.
“That he is,” said the widow, “and I have
done wrong, very wrong, indeed, to listen to
you so often; and, unfortunately, he now sus
pects us.” , , ,
“Since the last masquerade at court, lovely
widow,” said Pailip.
“ Where you were so wild, and took so little
precaution, pretty Butterfly 1” she retorted.
“Let us repair tbe fault.” said Philip. “Let
us part. I respect the marshal, and will not
see him suffer on my account.”
Tbe widow looked at him, but was speech
less. *•*—
“If I really have any influence with you,”
continued Philip, “go with the marshal to Po
land. It is better for us both not to see too
much of each other for a time. A beautiful la
dy is something very delightful; but a faithful
wife is still more beautiful.”
“Prince,” said the amazed lady, "are you
serious? Have you deceived me ? Have you
never loved me ?”
g“ You see I am a very peculiar sort of tempt
er,” replied Philip. “I seek faith and truth
• in women, and find them but seldom. Perfect
' virtue and truth alone can bind mo—so no one.
, binds me. And yet—no—l must not' speak
falsely. One has bound me. But you must
excuse me, charming widow, it it is not exactly
you.”
i “You are in a horrible humor, prince,” said
tho widow; and the trembling of hor voice and
1 tho heaving of her bosom proclaimed her feel-
■ ings.
s “ No, lam in the most honorable humor in
■ the world,” replied Philip. “I wish to repair a
- foolish prank; and I have told your husband
■ that I would do so.”
'■ “How?” cried the terrified widow. “You
■ have explained everything to tbe marshal r”
, “ Not precisely all,” replied Philip; “ only
• what I knew.”
The widow moved uneasily from side to side
f in the greatest excitement; she wrung, her
3 hands almost in despair. At length she asa-
■ ed:
“Where is my husband?”
; Philip pointed out tho Mameluke, who at
S- that moment was slowly approaching them;
- then, in a tone full of tho most unspeakable
disdain, she said:
3 “Prince, Heaven forgive you 1 I never can I
- You are a traitor ! I could not have believed
3 tbe heart of man capable of such deceit. My
r husband is an honorable man, in the dress of a
3 Mameluke. . You, prince, are a Mameluke in
the dress of an honorable man. Wo will never
t see each other again in this world.”
With these words tho widow turned from him
r quickly and proudly, and went toward the Mi
-1 meluke, with whom she was soon in an earnest
t conversation.
t Philip laughed in his sleeve, and thought to
•- himself:
“ Well, my substitute, the watchman, may
■ see how he can get out of it. I don’t play his
0 part tor him so badly; and I only wish he may
proceed as honestly to-morrow as I have com-
F mencod to-day."
Philip now began to observe the dancers,and
3 soon saw with pleasure in their tanks the beau
tiful Nun by the side of the now happy Brab-
I mm, who was no sooner aware'of tbe Scarlet
Domino, than he blew him a kiss,aud described
a m pantomime the bight of his felicity. .
a “What a pity,” thought Philip, “that I am
3 not a prince for life. . Tne people.would soon be
well pleased with mo. There is nothing easier
>- in tho world than to be a prince. With one
word bo can do more than the best advocate
- with a long speech. He has the privilege of
r coming to tho point, and speaking out what is
in his heart. Yes, if I were a prince, then my
d Rose would be lost tor me. No, I don’t want to
be a prince.”
i- He saw by tho clock that it was not yot hall
t past eleven. Then came the Mameluke in
I haste, took him aside, and gave him a paper.
“Prince,” said ha, ‘,‘l could fall at your
I, feet, and thank you in the dust, lam recon
r oiled to my wife. You have broken her heart,
but it is well it happened so.. We shall set out
s this very night, and live on our estate in Po
>■ land. Farewell! At any moment lam at tho
n command of your royal highness, even to die
l, in your service. Aly gratitude is everlasting.
'3 I'iueevU
- ! ‘Stop!” cried Philip, as the marshal was
i hurrying away; “ what am I to do with this
i I paper?”
I “It is my debt at cards last week,” replied
” ; tho marshal. “I had almost forgotten it,
3 I though I should notlike to have done so in de
-1 parting. The check is in your royal highness’s
o ' name.”
With these words the marshal disappeared,
i
t CHAPTER V.
3 “I WANT TO THUMP HIS LOVE OUT OF HIM.”
1 Philip glanced down at the paper ho had re
-3 coived from the marshal, and 'read something
. about five thousand florins, an.l thought, “Pity
- that I’m not the prince.” Meanwhile, some
s one whispered in ills ear, “ Your royal bigness,
we are Doth betrayed. I will shoot myself!”
s Philip opened his eyes wide, and, looking
3 round, saw a negro.
“ What do you want, mask ?” he aaid quietly,
r “I am Colonel Knld,” replied tbe negro, in a
t whisper. “The cursed Frau Marshal haslet
- everything out to Duke Herman. He breathes
r out fire and fury against you and me.”
y “ He may, for aught 1 care,” replied Philip,
e “But the king will learn all about it,” sighed
j the negro, anxiously. “Perhaps this very night
. I may be arrested; and to-morrow sent to the
1 fortress. I would rather hang myself 1”
r “ That would be of no use,” said Philip.
; “Must I then give myself up to life-long
i shame ?” demanded tbe colonel. “I am lost!
- The duke will demand satisfaction. His back
is no doubt still blue with the thrashing I gave
him. I am ruiued, and the baker girl too. This
very night I will leap from the bridge and drown
myself!”
“ Heaven forbid 1” said Philip. “What good
would that do either you or the baker girl?”
“Your royal highness jests, and I am in des
-1 pair!” exclaimed the colonel. “I beseech you,
- submissively, your rbyal bigness, grant me a
3 few moments alone.”
3 Philip followed the negro into a retired rel
3 freshment room, where a few wax lights' shed a
3 faint light. The negro threw bimself*do\vn on
a sofa, as if stupified, and sighed aloud; but
Philip found refreshments and good wine on
r the table, and began to enjoy himself.
“I cannot comprehend how your royal high
ness can take this cursed business so quietly I”
’ began the negro. “Ob, if that rascal the Nea
politan Saimoni, who played the conjurer, wore
> only still hero! That scoundrel was full of
i tricks from hoad to toe, and niight;have invent
. ed some way out of this difficulty. Now ho is
. off, oat of the scrape."
i “So much the better,” said Philip. “Put all
> the blame on him—he is away.”
“How all on him?” exclaimed the mask.
, “ Why, tho duke knows now that you, and I,
and the Baker-girl, and the Frau Marshal were
. all in the plot to play on bis superstition. He
. knows that you bribed Saimoni to play the con-
> jurer. He knows that I instructed the Baker
girl, with whom be was in love, to entice him
into toe snare; that I was the ghost who threw
> him down and thrashed him well'. Oh, if I had
; only not carried the thing so far as that! But
I did want to thump his love for the Baker-girl
. out of him. It is a cursed affair. I will take
poison.” ,™v
“Youhad better take a glass of wine,” said
t Philip. “It is very good,” he added, helping
I himself again, and taking with fresh appetite
another piece of tart. “First of all,” Philip
I continued, “ 1 must tell you openly, dear colon
el, that for an officer I find you very cowardly,
to he ready directly, for a foolish affair like
that, to shoot, drown, poison, or hang yourself.
One dose of either is too much. ' Secondly, I
• must tell you, that out of your confused talk, I
don’t even now understand the business.”
“ I beg your pardon, prince,” said the colonel.
“My head is turned. The attendant of the
duke, an old friend of mine, confided to me
this moment that the Frau Marshal, tempted
by some evil spirit, went to the duke a short
• time since, and said, ‘ Prince Julian arranged
the comedy in the baker’s house, because he
was not willing you should marry his sister; 1
; myself was the’ witch you saw, sent by the
princess to be a witness of your superstition;
Prince Julian has the catalogue of your debts,
which you threw into the vault, out of which
you were to raise treasure, and your hand to
ennoble the Baker-girl, and make her a coun
tess as soon as you were fairly married to the
princess. And Colonel Kuld, the princo’s as
sistant, was the ghost who thrashed you. This
is why your marriage does not progress.’ You
need hope no longer; you wait in vain. The
marshal’s wife told the duke all that, and then
left him.”
“These are fine doings!” said Philip. “Why,
tbe commonest people would be ashamed of
such practical jokes. What! no end ot devil
try ?”.
“No!” cried the colonel; “more mad or low
than the Frau Marshal’s behavior, nothing
could be. The woman must be a fury. Oh,
prince, save me 1”
“Where is the duke ?” asked Philip.
“Tbe attendant told me that he rose up sud
denly, only calling out, ‘I go to the king!” On
ly think, prince, if he goes to tbe king and tells
our story his own way 1”
“Is the king here, then?” asked Philip.
“Certainly,” replied the colonel; “he is play
ing cards in the next room with tho archbishop
and the minister of police.”
Philip went through the room with long
strides. Here was a fine scrape 1
“Save me, prince,” said tlie negro. “Your
own honor is at stake. It will be easy for you.
1 am prepared for everything, and on the first
hint am off over tlie border. I am going to
pack my things, and expect your commands as
jo my conduct at any moment.”
... . ■
A DEAD MAN SWEARS.
The Story is True, for the Man Made
Affidavit to the Facts.
(From the New Orleans Tines.)
The ears of your readers, perhaps, have never
been regaled with the almost ghostly incident
of a man who had been killed, appearing before
an officer ot justice to charge bis assailant with
the crime of murder. Now, some incredulous
persons, after reading the statement may be
ready to regard it with holy horror, and pro
ceed at once to bring down maledictions upon
the head of the writer; but as your correspond
ent is prepared for the reception of all sucn
anathemas upon his cranium, he will proceed
at once to inform your numerous readersand
the world in general that the incident referred
to actually occurred in this city a few days ago.
Wednesday, Sept. 18th, his Honor the Mayor
was seated in his office, and from all appear
ances was evidently engaged fin deep thought.
He had just disposed of a goose case, and was
probably trying to understand how two men
could so widely differ in transferring the own
ership of four geese, one to the other, as to
subject themselves to the penalties of outraged
justice or tbe harmoney-ous tune of about
twenty-five dollars legal tender. He evidently
found the case a very hard one, although It
should have been “as soft as downy feathers
are.”
His train of thought was finally disturbed by
the noiseless appearance and sudden entrance
of a fifteenth amendment, or an individual of
the African persuasion, with hat in hand and a
billet of wood on bis shoulder, whose manner
clearly indicated that he had come to invoke
the majesty of the law. He approached the
Mayor, and after gazing intently for a few
seconds, the silence was broken:
“Is you de Mayor?” was the first query from
. the sable-colored individual.
“ I am,” replied his Honor.
“Well, den, I cum here to ax you if dar is
eny law fur one man to kill anoder ?”
Mayor Cumming put on his most judicial ex
pression, and replied that he “was under the
impression that by searching the statutes
something could be found in the way ol law
that would authoiize prompt proceedings in a
case of that kind.”
I “Den dat’s jess what happened, an’ I cum to
you ter git you to ’tend to it,” said the strange
individual.
, His Honor reached for a blank affidavit, and
i inquired how long since the killing bad taken
place and where.
“Jess three days a"O,” replied the complain
ant; “an’it ’curred ’nout a mile up de rail
r road.”
The affidavit was being duly filled up, and
, then cams the question who was killed.
“Me! I’se de man what was killed,” firmly
responded t-ic one who hau recently risen from
tne deal.
“You the man that was killed!” exclaimed
; the Alavor, his face plainly showing a belief on
' his part that on leaving the goose question ho
’. had stepped gently out of the frying-pan into
' the fire; tor he evidently thought a more com
plicated question was to be solved—one, in I
i tact, that bad.not been submitted for judica
ture since tne memory of man runneth not to
the contrary.
“Yes,” was the reply of the successful victor
.. over death, the grave andh—hore.he said, “He
killed me dead right dar.”
, Said the perplexed official, “You are certain
ly the liveliest corpse I ever saw to be three
t d’ays killed.” (This is a striking coincidence
with one who had Deen in the grave three days
, many years ago.) “How is it,” said the May
or, “you being dead, appear before me as one
having life?”
j “ Oh, I cum too agin !” was the animated re-
Y pl u’ihen you seem to be like tbe Prodigal Son
we read of in the Bible,” said tbe Mayor. “ You
I were once lost, but now you are found; was
. dead, but now you live."
“ Yes, sir ; ’zactly like him,” said the gen.tle
i- man of color.
j “It appears,” said the official, “then you
were only stunned.”
! “No, sir; I was kilt dead on the spot;, fo’
3 God, I was.”
r “ Well,” said, the Mayor, “ tell me how it hap
e pened.”
B The posthumous affiant said :
f “Well, you see, my wife she cum ter town to
3 go to ter party’ an’ let’ de baby at home, an’
? Tiout midnight de baby was crying, an’ I went
o arter her, an’ met her on de road, an’ a foller
named Jeff was wid her. I commenced talkin’
. purty straight to her ’bout leavin’ de baby, an’
n she said she was sorry, an’ was goin’ home as
fast as she could. V, e went ’long together, an’
r dis Jeff kep’ follorin’ behind, an’ I axed him
i. what he wanted, an’he said, ‘ Nofiin.’ Den he
t, picked up a pole, an’ I seed him have it on his
t shoulder, an’ he cum up behind me, an’
i- fetched me a wipe wid it, aud kilt me dead
a right off.”
o “Well,” said his Honor, beginning to under
stand tbe situation, and resuming his pen,
‘ 1 “wliat is the rest of Jeffs name
| “Don’t know, sir,” was the response. “All I
know is Jeff—l tink dat’s his name.”
Here was a new difficulty, and the puzzled
official directed the posthumous complainant to
1 go and supply himself with the missing link in
• , the nomenclature of the aforesaid Jeff, promis
ing that justice would be speedily administered
to him, and theman who had been “kilt” walked
off with an air of partial satisfaction, aud has
not yet reappeared.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
HIS SPECULATION.
A young man, who might have seemed green
but for Ins sharp nose and the manner in which
he handled a big wallet, entered a Griswold
street bank yesterday, and handing out a ten
dollar bill hsked tor trade dollars in exchange
at the usual discount. As they wore passed
over to him the teller asked:
“Going into a speculation ?”
“Kinder that,” was the reply. “ I’m going to
get married to-morrow; hinted to the preacher
tnat he might expect ten dollars.”
“Ah! I see.”
“ Yes, and so do I!” remarked the young man.
as he rolled up ten of the dollars together and
slipped the other one into his vest. “If I can
discount him a little with these, I’ll do it.”
A LEGEND.
A day or two since a stranger in the city was
miking inquiries about the "Pontiac Elm ” at
Bloody Run, and finally accepted tho offer of a
bootblack to go up Jefferson avenue and point
out the historic relic. When the tree had been
looked over and the ravine explored, the stran
ger asked:
“Boy, are there any legends connected with
this spot?”
“I guess there’s one,” replied tbe lad.
“What is it ?”-
“Well, as near as I ain remember, a feller got
a boy to come up here with him and look around
and answer questions, and when they got back
down town be never paid tho boy a conf—not a
red.”
“He didn’t? And what happened him?”
asked tho stranger, as he lifted his left eye.
“ He got drownded the same night, while tbe
boy is rich and high-toned and wears a velvet
vest.”
“Hum 1” mused the stranger,- as he passed
out a quarter without further delay.
A GOOD-HEABTED MAN.
A stranger who boarded a Michigan avenue
car at Jefferson avenue yesterday forenoon did
not mind the fare-box until a woman came
aboard and droppedin her nickel. She was talk
ing with another woman about the fever suffer
ers as she did so, and the man picked up his
ears and also put in a nickel. A fourth, fifth
and sixth passenger got aboard and paid their
fares, and every time a nickel went into the
box tbe stranger “ saw” it.
By-and-by, after he had deposited ten fares,
to the great amusement of other passengers,
an old woman with a basket took her seat and
sent her fare along, and at the samo time hap
pened to look across at the good-hearted man.
“Bluff, is it?” he called out, as he rose up
and went down for big change." Well, if a crowd
like this ’ere can bluff' me on yellow fever nickel
subscriptions, then I’ll eat my boots! Here,
you wall-eyed crowd; climb over this two-dollar
bill and I’ll drop in a five 1”
He pushed the money into the box, and the
driver opened tbe door and inquired:
“Do you want change ?”
“Change! Not a red 1 I’m waiting for this
caboodle to call my hand if they dare 1”
A DEAD FAILUBE.
A small newsboy, who is every morning to
be found on the steps of the People’s Savings
Bank, was yesterday morning observed by a
policeman to remove his stockings and shoes at
an early hour and hide them under the steps.
The lad then took great pains to exhibit his
bare feet to all passeis, and was often noticed
standing on one leg, »b if the cold pavement
was very painful. Man after man passed
without word of sympathy, and the sales of
papers did not increase by one. By-and-by
along came a man with a red nose and a good
natured look, and tho boy held out a paper and
said :
“ Have a paper —my feet are almost frozen,”
“Eh ? Barefooted ?” queried the man, as he
halted and looked down.
“ Yes, and my feet are freezing.”
. “ Are, eh? See hero, bub, I’ll put you up to
snuff. Let ’em freeze, and then take a lay-off
in the hospital for all Winter 1 Nice fries—
chicken soup—nothing to do, and your feet’ll
thaw out early in tbe Spring and shed, every
stone-bruse 1 Fact, bub—tried it seven Win
ters myself.”
The boy looked after him in a doubtful way,
and then made for his shoes on a skip, mutter
ing :
“Mebbe he lies and mebby he don’t, but I’m
busted up as clean as the chap who held his
watermelons over Winter for a rise. Ouch 1
whar’s them stockuns and cowhides ?”
A PUZZLED BOY.
The young son of a widow, living on Park
street, entered the house the other day, with
excited step, and called to his mother:
“You’d better get this bouse all slicked up,
for there’s a strange man going to call as soon
as he gets through talking with the grocer on
the corner!”
.“Man with the gas bill, I suppose,” was her
indifferent reply.
“Not by a jug full!” continued the boy.
“He’s all dressed in broadcloth, he’s a big gold
watch, looks as if he owned a bank and he was
asking me about you.”
“Is that possible? I wonder who it can be?
“ilo iskeA if 'fou were as handsome as ever,
and if you had grown old vary fast, and if you
had married again 1”
“Ho did! Gracious! but who'can it be?”
“ I don’t know, only he is good-looking and
rich, and—and 1”
“And what did you tell him ?”
“I told him you wouldn’t marry the best man
in the world, and that it wouldn’t do him any
good to come spooking ”
“I’ll give you an awful licking if you don’t
split the rest of that wood I” interrupted the
mother, with sudden energy, and he was run
to the back yard and given a cuff on the ear as
he left the door. He leaned cn the ax-helve and
surveyed the back windows in wonderment,
and by-and-by he mused:
“She is alius saying she’s going to live for
her dear children alone, but if this looks like it
then I don’t know the family! i’ll tell the next
man that the whole six of us are on the marry
for taters in tho cellar and a posish in so
ciety 1”
“CURIOUS ANIMALS.”
THAT’S WHAT A POLICEMAN
THOUGHT.
(From the Cincinnati Breakfast Taole.)
A policeman was passing down ■ Richmond
street last Wednesday afternoon when he heard
a woman’s voice lifted high in lamentation.
Opening the wicket he strode tip to the door,
where a woman was lying prone on the steps,
bedewing the rubber foot mat with her briny
tears.
“ What is the matter, mam ?” ho said, gently.
“Ooh, boo, oo—h 1” said the stricken female.
“Now. don’t take on so,” said tbe club car
rier with tremulous gentleness, “ tell x me what
is the matter ?”
“Oh, I, I’m, a—a—ooh oo—h,” and she wept
afresh and copiously.
“Why, my dear, dear madam,” said the offi
cer, “what great sorrow has blighted your life
and drove the sunshine from your happy
home ? Wherefore are you thus cast down into
the depths of anguish? Why are the fountains
of your being broken up. and your beauteous
eyes become springs from which tbe acqueous
fluid
“Get out, you brutol Ooey ooh, o—o—h
boohoo.”
The sympathetic officer was nonplused. He
backed oil a step or two, and as his great heart
throbbed in sympathy with so much suffering,
ne could but make one more effort at comfort.
“Madam,” said he, and as he spoke his voice
grew husky with emotion—“madam, I sympa
thize with you from tho bottom of my heart,
and while you do not seem disposed to trust
me, yet if there is anything jn the round world
I can do to lift this sorrow from your heart, let
me do it. 1 assure you it is no idle curiosity.
I would be your friend. I will avenge your
'wrongs, and the services of one loyal and true
are yours if you will accept them. I would not
pry into that which does not concern me, but I
know that.eome great sorrow is upon you, and
; gently, tenderly, would I raise the call that
. bangs about your life, dress the wounds which
have been opened in your tender heart, and
pour the balm of consolation over the ”
He did not notice, in his vehemence, that the
woman had stealthily risen; but she Had, and,
launching the foot-mat full m his face, she
said:
“ Get out o’ this, you moan old blatherskite 1
You’re meaner than that old guardian in this
dime novel, who won’t let his neice marry the
handsome trapper. If I want to cry about
what I read it’s none o’ your business.”
Two blocks away the policeman licked a boot
black off the sidewalk by tbe ear, aud mut-
“If women ain’t tbe curusest built animals
in this world, kill me for a fool.”
A Child’s Suicide.
A VERY PECULIAR CASE.
(From the Cincinnati Enquirer, Sept. 26.)
A most astonishing case of self-destruction, the
victim of which was a mere child, almost a babe in
years, has just occurred in this city. Little Henry
Kippits, seven years of age, who lived at No. 59
Martin street, because his mother refused him
something he asked her, left his home and bidding
> his sister good-bye, walked down to the river, un
-1 dressed himselt and jumped in, ending his childish
; troubles and his young life at the same time. The
. circumstances are these:
» On Monday afternoon little Henry came home
, from school, and as usual went to hiq mother for
his afternoon slice of bread aud butter. His mother
1 gave him a piece of bread on which there was no
’ butter, but he refused to take it, She told him
l she would not give him any butter on his bread,
) whereupon he laid it down and left the house. On
j the way out he met his sister and bid her good by,
» telling her she would never see him again, which
I was tne last seen of him by any of the family. His
1 clothes were found on tho river bauk back of Good
hue’s stone-yard near the Little Miami Depot, and
’ tne generally accepted theory is that be went down
i to the river, and, undressing, jumped in and was
I drowned, His body has not been uj yet.
[ HE LOVED CIDER.
> BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
Yesterday forenoon a farmer, having a bar
l rel of cider on tap in bis wagon, was doing a
1 fine retail business near the market at five
j cents per glass, when a man with a very thin
voice ana very old clothes softly advanced and
said :
“Has the Stare Inspector of Bornological
Juices inspected chat cider yet?”
“I—l guess not.” repbed the farmer, greatly
embarrassed in a moment.
“I thought not,” continued the thin-voiced
man. •‘Weil, sir, you can draw me a full
glass.”
1 The farmer drew one, scanning the man with
considerable anxiety, and when the “inspector”
L had received it, he held it up between his eye
• and the sun, and said :
“ The precipitation appears most too rapid,
whiie these floating particles denote unusual
compression. Perhaps a second glass will bo
clearer.”
' He swallowed the contents of the first at ex
actly four gulps, and taking a second glass, he
critically examined it, and said :
“Ah l the precipitation is clearing ?away.
This cider seems to have .been made from ap
ples.”
“ It was, sir, and they were nice apples, too,”
replied the farmer.”
“Let’s Seo how a third glass will look. I am
not quite satisfied on the point of compres
sion.”
drained the second and received the
third, and as be sipped it he inquired:
“You used a hand cider press, didn’t vou?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah! I thought so. Worked with alever,
didn’t it ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did the mill stand in a draught of air
while you were working it?”
“I—l—don’t Know, sir.”
“ Well, I think it did. Be a litile more care
ful after this. The Inspector of Bornological
Juices grades this barrel ‘A No. 2,’ but if you
take a little more pains, you can increase the
grade every time in the future. All right, sir
go on with your selling.”
The man had been gone ten minutes before
any one mustered courage to remark that be
was a fraud, but the word fell upon stony
ground.
know he’s all right,” persisted the farmer.
The minit I see him draw his coat-tail around
to wipe out the corner of his mouth I knew be
was a big gun, and I was just shivering in my
Doots for fear he’d ask me why I didn’t punch
the seeds out of the apples before grinding!
Only five cents a glass, now, and warranted
pure 1”
THE SWORDFISH.
SOME OF HIS PEOVLIABITIES.
(From the Hartford Cour ant,)
Visitors at New London, Block Island, or
other of our fishing ports, have no doubt no
ticed that at the end of the bowsprit of the
larger-sized fishing boats there is often an iron
cage or frame so made as to be safe for a man
to stand on it. This is the place from which
the fisherman throws the harpoon to capture
the swordfish, and the swordfish is just now the
subject of considerable discussion. Its ways
have at least as much mystery as those of the
shad, salmon, herring, or any other unaccount
ables that we have.
Professor G. R. Goode is studying up the
matter, preparatory to a report to the govern
ment. Some of the interesting features of the
fish are these : It is found here and there from
Spring to Fall in the ocean on our coast, lying
“asleep,” the sailors call it, on the very surface
of the water. Nobody on the American coast,
so far as reported, ever saw a littlo
The smallest recorded by a correspondent of
the Forest and Stream, weighed forty-six
pounds. They run up to 600 pounds.
Their only known breeding ground is in the
Mediterranean. There the same fish are found
weighing half a pound; from that they go up to
very heavy measurement. It is naturally in
ferred from this that all our swordfish are Medi
terranean products. What mysterious ocean
current guides them over here ? Or is it an in
stinct that teaches them that here they will
find the mackerel and menhaden that they feed
on? One can almost imagine that the game
of flight and pursuit kept up by these two
species starts at Gibraltar, and is run to Block
Island every day.
The swordfish darts upon a school of its
prey, and by skillful use of its sword wounds
those that it afterward captures and eats. Un
til this season nobody ever thought of catch
ing it except by harpoons. Tnis year, however,
it has taken the baits of the trawls—bottom
lines—of the Cape Ann codfishermen, and
many swordfish have .been caught in that novel
way.
What they come up and “sleep ” for is one of
the puzzles of their nature. They come and go
as the mackerel and menhaden do, and from
that it is naturally concluded that they spend
their time chasing these small fish. What with
sharks, swordfish, porpoises, bluefish, seagulls,
eagles, and sems, and all the rest after them,
the fish of the herring tribe have led Such lives
of flight and terror that it is no longer a won
der that the movements of any school of them
seem always guided by an inherent idiocy. It
is less strange of them that they are all the
while victims than that being caught by mil
lions yearly, they should steadily increase.
There wore never more menhaden on our coast
than this year.
A DISTRESSINGMISTAKE.
AND YET A VERY NATUBAL ONE
(From the Burlington Hawk-Eye.)
I couldn’t see the woman’s face, but she was
handsomely, tastefully dressed, and her. man
ner indicated refinement and culture. She was
sitting in the seat just before me, and was con
versing with her friend. She bad been to Chi
cago, and was on her way home.- 1 was so
charmed with her hat, that I wished to see her
face. Presently she said, continuing a conver
sation that had been interrupted when the train
had stopped at the station:
“ Oh, it was perfectly chawming 1”
And I smiled as I thought of the ebony face
that lined that love of a bonnet.
‘‘l wish,” sho continued, “that you could
have seen Runnel Thawnton. He rods his fa
mous old wah boss.”
It was remarkable, too ; she had a very shapely
hand, small, and delicately gloved.
“She’s been a house-servant,” 1 thought: “a
lady’s maid in some wealthy old Southern fam-
Iv. There’s no cotton-field breeding about
her.”
I’retty soon she went on :
“I uevah aspect to see a moah fawmidable
'ooking pusson than youah brothah was that
mawning. When the soljahs maWched past
the squa-ah, I smiled my sweetest at him, but
he nevah looked up. He was too much ab
sawbed in his hese. I saw him foah times that
that afternoon.”
lieally, I thought, if it wasn’t for the ver
nacular of the quarters, I would be ready to
swear she was a white woman. The train
stopped, and as she rose to go she said to her
friend :
“Good-by. You must run ovah and spend
Christmas with us this Wintab.”
And I saw she was mcuh whiter than I expect
to be when I die; a lady, refined, intelligent,
and cultivated. I had misjudged her, and I re
pent me of it. But I can’t help wofidering
where the cotton-field darkies learned their pe
liar pronunciation Extract from a retired
clergyman's diary.
glatto.
The Disappearance of Lakes.—Natu
ral philosophers have generally considered that the
drying up of inland waters is due to the destruction
oi the forests near them byjthe settlers who colonize
the land. A French traveler who has lately re
turned to his own country from a visit to the Jake
district of Canada and the North of the United
States, mentions certain facts which do not accord
with the theory. The lowering oi the water level
in Otsego Lake, Michigan, has been cited as one of
numberless evidences of a gradual process of des
iccation taking place all over the American Conti
nent, to the east as wed as to the west of the Rocky
Mountains. However, about two years ago, he
says, the water in Otsego Lake began to rise,
.md last Summer poured over its southern em
bankment for several weeks—an occurrence never
Known before. And yet the work of clearing the
,and in the vicinity was progressing with increas
ing rapidity, and many hundreds ot acres of forest
uad disappeared under the woodman’s ax. The
rise and fall in those Michigan lakes are, he thinks,
periodical, and due to causes not yet explained. In
1873 the first settlers began to cut marsh hay
around five lakes in Alleghany county, and continue
to do so annually. In 1876 the waters in the lakes
oegan to rise, and persisted in doing so all through
.he tollowin * Winter and the unusually dry Sum
mer of 1877. flooding the settlers’ meadow,'and
reaching a bight of about three feet above the level
of 1873. Simultaneously with that event, the water
in Porcupine Lake, a few miles distant, came up
and gradually overflowed the solid ne«k of land
over which the public road, passed, and the con
struction of a bridge became absolutely necessary.
Those lakes all lie on a level table land, the highest
point on the lower peninsula of the State, and are
generally without any known outlet, inlet, or con
nection.
Matrimonial Adventure. —At the time
that Europeans were not very numerous in. India,
and such individuals as could not reconcile them
selves to marrying the natives used to send a com
mission to England, that a female for a wife should be
i transmitted to them, a gentleman of property in
Bengal gave orders to his factor in England to send
’ him a young lady of good family, well educated, and
I with a tolerable share of personal charms,
t promising to make her his wife. The
■ factor executed his commission to the best of his
; judgment ; but when the lady arrived in India, by
L one of those accidents, which, though very frequent,
cannot bo accounted for, she failed in captivating
the heart of her expected husband, who received her
i with a coldness almost bordering on aversion, The
■ lady scarcely seemed to notice it, for she was as
■ little inspired as the gentleman. A few interviews
> convinced them that they were not made for each
i other, and the lady prepared to embark for Europe;
In taking bis leave of her, the gentleman begged to
! entrust to her care a letter to his factor in London,
who had consigned her to India. She undertook the
’ charge, and when she arrived in town, she was as
; tdnished. to find that the letter to .the factor en
. closed another to herself, lamenting the circum
l stances which prevented their union, and begging
( her acceptance ot a present of £15,000 as some com
t pffnsation for the disappointment hik wayward
lancy bad occasioael.
— • —• it.
Great Tiger-Killers.—lt has not
fallen to the lot of many men to slay nearly 500
tigers to say nothing of smaller game—in a lite.
V'iV! 11 wh t u one ’ s Wljole en .ergies bave been
devoted to such pursuits. M. d’Harnancourt, a
i- | Lxenchm:'.n, who has bemi pursuing the avocation
a oi a “hunter ’ m all parts of the world, claims to
o . be the “greatest tiger-killer in tbt world,” and
n h iving achieved this reputation, he is now, it ap
d j pears, reclining on his laurels in tne dignified posi-
I 1 °o ger_S r ayex-JD-ueneraJ to the Government
, ■ oi the Straits Settlement, having been engaged—so
it is reported—to destroy these animals at £lO per
bead. An Englisn officer in India, however, Major
y xrobyn, Superintendent of Pulice in Knandefsb.
must run this slayer of tigers pretty closely i Q his
fl claim to the title of champion tiger-killer During
11 tne last few years Mrjor Probyn has shot no less
tn >n 400 tigers in the district of Khandeish alone,
h and the immunity from the ravages oi these ani
male which he has secured for the inhabitants of the
district has even overcome the suspicion with
° wnicb the natives too often regard any Englishman
who kills a tiger. The destruction of these felines
I. is looked upon by certain ciasses as an act of sacri
il lege, certain to be visited with fearful punishments
q on the village conniving at the act. Major Probyn,
however, having practically rid the district of the
presence of the unwelcome visitors, has earned the
’ gratitude of the inhabitants, and recently, when
there was a talk of his leaving tho neighborhood,
they memorialized the Governor of Bombay not to
’• remove him. Doubtless there are other districts in
I dia where his presence would ba eqna ly welcome
„ to the peop.e—if unwelcome to the tigers.
The Black Jews of India.—The Jew
tl Isti World oi London gives some interesting details
- as to the social and religious customs of the black
Jews in India:, “lhe majority are natives of the
q M alabar coast, where, especia ly in the city of Kots
cu.m* they reside in consiuerable numbers. It is
» said that they aro the descendants of the Jews who
were sent to India by King Solomon to capture ele
phants for his use and to work in the gold mines,
> and that their skins in the course of throe thousand
years have entirely changed Color, so as to make it
.uiiiost impossible to distinguish them irom the
r rest of tho natives. They know little Hebrew, that
.auguage having almost died out among them.
Tueir mother tongue is the so-called Hindi, which
. is used in their scriptures and prayer books. r ihey
■ a.so possess a Bible, which is not printed, but
written. Of the holidays they only keep the Sab
bath and the Passover, the Day of Atonement be-
6 mg entirely unknown to tbqm. In the preparation
-of their-food they.differ from other Jews, as during
their three thousand years’ separation from the
e rest of their co-reiigion sts nearly all their original
e customs and manners have died out. They live
„ seoarately to this day from the white Jews, as the
latter de not regard them as actual descendants of
t.ie Jewish race. Taey do not call themselves
• ‘‘Jews,” but “Sons of Israel,” and they maintain
J th.y are in possession of a number of autograph
3 prayer-books written by the Patriarchs. They live
P in great poverty and are very ignorant, earning
i t teir living by working iu the fields and by day la
i bor.
1
Justice Among Savages.—Civilization
has not done much for the Alaska redskin. One of
the “ braves” Klawock Cannery sat;aloue in his wig
wam one day, with nis. head bent deep in medita
tion. A young squaw entered, and, thinking him
asieep, playlu’ly gave his chair a tip, which un
.bickny threw the warrior over against something or
Other which cut his face s.igltly. He muttered a
curse, and tho woman retreated, thinking but little
about the trifling accident. Not so the warrior.
Ti.e next morning while the woman and her husband
> were at breakfast, be rushed in and shot the man,
i alter which he stabbed the woman to death. The
i murder created a great co emotion, and the Indians
suit uuded the murderer’s birric >ded cabin and in
formed. him he must die. All night they guarded
the house, and at teu next morning the chief un
-1 barred the door and stalked forth ia all his glory of
1 gorgeous blanket and red feathers and announced
i that he was ready. He issued several orders to his
executioners, whirled through a war-dance, fired his
rifle into the air, and fell dead pierced by twenty
> bullets. The Indian code demauds a life for a life,
and friends of the murdered womm de nanded a
sacrifice of a woman belonging to the murderer’s
family, but the cannery bought her off with a blanket
and hochenoo.
A Paradise on Earth.—From what
, ever direction it is approached, Ceylon unfolds a
scene of loveliness and grandeur unsurpassed, if it
be rivaled, by any land in the universe. Nearly
• our parts of the island are undulating plains,
Slightly diversified by offsets of the mountain sys
tem, which entirely covers the remaining fifth. Tho
northwest and west shores are low, and everywhere
1 .ndented with bays and inlets, while to the south and
' east its lo.ty pyramidal mountains, with hearts of
gneiss, granite and other crystalline rocks, rise up
abruptly from the level plains to prodigious and
almost precipitous bights, the r bold precipices and
splintered pinnacles clothed with thick forests,
which, unlike those of Europe, are endless in the
variety of the foliage uad the vivid contrasts of
their tints. For, though there are no revolutions of
the seasons, the change in the leaf exhibits the bril
liancy of American woods in Autumn, the difference
being that, instead of the decaying leaves, it is tl 6
new shoots that put on these floral colors, and while
the old leaves are still brightly green, the young ones
are bursting forth at tho extremities of the branch-8
in clusters of pink, pale ye. tow, crimson and pur
ple, which appear at a distance like tufts of termi
minal. flowers.
The Wealth of France. —The colos*
sal work France his undertaken at Boulogne
calls attention to the growing wealth of that people.
. At the iSoulogne celebration about two weeks ago,
M. Leon Say said that durin ' the past twenty years
between 40J,000,000 and 500,000 000 francs per annum
have been employed in public works, and be be
li.ved that the country now could not only furnish
that cap’tai, but a great deal more. The Senate and
Assembly of France have already sanctioned a plan
for the expenditure ot 500,000,000 francs a year for
t n years, to be raised by loans', on harbors, canals,
anl railways. The money deposited by tho people
in savings banks during the past seven months
already amounts to 100.000,090 francs. Meanwhile
the credit of the government is slowly approaching
hit of England. Says the Spectator : “ The govern
ment can obtain money more cheaply than at any
time in the past thirty-five years, and the people
are complaining that they do not get interest
enough. Twenty years hence, if peace can he main
tained, France will only feel her taxation as a whip,
stimulating an industry waich, if it reapM its fml.
reward, might flag from plethora.”
Strange Effect of the Touch of a
Cat. —Mr. Lewis Webb, in the town of Buena Vista,
.G:., is strangely affected. For several years he ap«
peered paralyzed in his feet and legs. For some
time he went on crutches, but for tne last eight
years has been walking with a stick. He says he
could drive a knife through his foot and’not feel it;
that when he strikes his foot against any object hi
knows it, just as he knows when he strikes a stick
’ against a substance, by the resistance offered only,
' and not by feeling. He frequently blisters his feel
• in walking, but knows nothing of it until the blis
ters burst. He bathes his feet often—sometimes io
i co d, sometimes in hot water. He cannot tell bj
feeling in the foot whether water is hot or cold.
Thus he has lived for eight years, sometimes walk*
ing about, and often iu bed. When a cat touches
1 his foot he ’instantly feels it. The touch of a cal
against his foot, whether the foot is bare, or with
socks on, sends instantly prickly sensations all
■ through the toot. He may be blindfolded, but can
instantly tell the touch of a cat, however slight,
whether day or night, and whether expecting or
not expecting the touch.
! A Self-Constituted Tribunal.—A
; well-dressed individual called a few days ago at tho
country house of a rich landowner of Piacenza, Italy,
and asked to see the proprietor. When introduced
he stated that he was au agent of po.ice ; that in
’ formation had been received that the premises were
1 to be attacksd that nigat by brigands ; and that he
“ proposed to bring six of his men disguised, who
t were to be seeretly introduced into the bou?e, so as
• to be prepared to capture his assailants. The ar
il raugement was so settled, and at ten o’clock the
seven men appeared and were quietly admitted by
the owner. As soon as they got inside, and were in
a room alone with him, they each drew a stiletto,
) and forming a circle round him,.heated themselves,
1 keeping him standing in the middle. They then
• interrogated him as to some former transactions of
his lite, and sentenced him to pay, as restitution for
I an alleged wrong, a sum of 70,000 f, to be handed over
to an old widow in the city. Having made him
t swear to pay it in the course of a week, they left tLe
, place.
; Being Covered in Court.— On the ar-
• raignment of Ann Turner, a physician’s widow,
j who was indicted lor being an accessory before the
1 fact to the murder of Sir Thomas Over bury, she
kept on her hat. Sir Edward Coke, observing this,
bade her put it off, saying, “that a woman might
be covered in church, but not when arraigned in a
court of justice.” The prisoner said she thought
it singular that she might be covered in the house
oi God and not in the judicature of man. Sir Ed
ward replied, “that from God no secrets were hid,
but it was not so with man, whose intellects were
- weak ; thereiorc, in the investigation of truth, and
3 especially when the lives of our iellow-creatures
i are in jeopardy, on the charge of having deprived
3 another thereof; the court should see all the obsta-
- cles removed; and, because the countenance is
j often an index to the mind, all covering should bo
1 removed from the lace.” The Chief Justice then
1 ordered her bat to be taken off, and she covered her
1 head with her handkerchief.
An Atheistic Monastery.—A French
" philosopher has opened a religious retreat for
7 monks and nuns, whose system of belief consists in
e believing nothing. Monsieur Pierartt calls his
• retreat a “Lay Monastery for Atheists,” and these
■ are to be “ philosophers of mature years.” None
r must be under 50 years of age. They must be
e single or widowers, and lady philosophers are to be
• admitted of equal terms to tins aivine society of
t ancient atheists. They must all- bear a common
e shar ?of the household expenses, and the eccentric
» devotees are to pass their heavy hours in pbiloso
u phical study or .serene disputation, varied with
y lectures upon the potentiality of matter and the
e negation ot God.
The . “ Wicked Weed.”—Hops are
7 first mentioned by Pliny, the young plants being
A eaten as a vegetable, like our asparagus. But until
)l the sixteenth century they were not used as an in*
r gredient in beer ; and, when their cultivation was
p first introduced froipi Flanders, in 1525, an outer*
d was raise 1, and Parliament was petitioned againsj
~ a “ wicked weed that would spoil the taste of
the drink and endanger the people.” But
the piquant bitter found iavor with the public, whfl
0 relished this addition to the previously unmitigated
" s veetness. And so the hop was promoted from the
hedge-row to the “ garden,” and ever since labor
and money have been constantly expended upon it.
C —
How to Preserve Milk. —Pour the
milk into a bottle, and place the vessel up to its
’ neck in a saueepauful of water, which is than to be
0 put on the fire, and allowed to boil for a quirter of
n an hour. The bottle is now to be removed
d the water and carefully closed with a good and
d ti"ht-fitting cork, so as to render it as air-tight as
’’ possible. Milk which has been preserved by this
0 process has been kept for more than a year without
9 turning bout. tMilk may also be preserved by put*
y tin<» a tablespoontul of horse-radish, scraped in
’’ shreds, into a panful of milk. When milk thus
g treated is kept iu a cool place it will be found to
r keep good tor several days, even in hot weather.
t Protecting Telegraph Wires.—An
h ingenious system has been adopted in Australia to
prevent the savages from destroying the telegraph
o poles The engineers have srr-nged supplementary
I electric currents so that whoever touches any of tha
10 poles instantly receives a violent shook. Tula un
accountable result inspires the savages with such
1- terror that they no longer daro tamper with tua
mysterious wires, whicu to their bewilderment
ia traverse their extensive territory from end to end.
Tbrongh this expedient a telegraph connection is
d ' preserved for thousands of miles without the ex-.
i pause oi watchimx the poles.