New York dispatch. [volume], March 07, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
never been seen in tbe memory of the oldest
Easton inhabitant. “ How f should have liked
to see little Tiny in her garden-party costume;
you always dress her so prettily 1 You must
positively tell me what she is going to wear—
ner blue sateen ? Oh, I know it; that is charm
ing 1 But then I always say Tiny would look
charming in an old waterproof cloak ! Well,
good-by, dear Mrs. Conyers; you may be sure I
shall not mention your little motherly anxieties
about Crystel anywhere: but i assure you I feel
it a privilege to share them with you.”
The rector’s lady helped her friend to adjust
her Shetland shawl and the black bag on her
arm, kieeed her warmly through a Maltese lace
vail, and let her out by the garden door. On
the bottom of the steps Miss Hutchinson paused
again, looking up at the lady above her with the
innocent inquiring ga o which often heralded
one of her seemingly artless questions.
“ Will dear Crystel come back alone ? If you
are gaing to drive to Mrs. Baker’s, could I
be of any use in fetching her home for you?
I have nothing special to do. and could easily
trot round by the Knoll and escort herback.
The days draw in so ast now, and I know you
don’t like your girls to be running about.”
“Thank you,” interrupted Mrs. Conyers, a
little coldly; “Crystel is not likely to bo late,
and, it Mrs. Woodroffe detains her, she is sure
to send her homo either in the pony-cart or
■with one of the servants, and sometimes Mr.
Bellasis is there, and brings her himself.”
“Quite so—quite so,” Miss Hutchinson
Agreed hastily, having detected the slight
change in her hostess's tone. “I only thought
I might be of use, and I won t detain you an in
stant longer.”
Mrs. Conyers nodded and shut the garden
door, and Miss Hutchinson went down the gar
den path, smiling to herself as she let herself
out at the wicket into the laurel-bordered car
riage drive. After all, though she d d not get
the little errand to the Knoll, she would have
all tbe more time to finish her afternoon at Mrs.
Franks’s house, in the middle of Euston mar
ket-place. She might count on getting the Doc
tor’s wife to hersel , and would contribute, in
return for a fresh relay of te>, all the latest de
tails from tbe Rectory, “Mrs. Conyer’s non
sense about her girls,” “ poor Crystel’s eccen
tricity,” and “that ridiculous little Tiny’s
grown-up airs.”
“And”—here Miss Hutchinson hugged the
black bag and quickened her steps, anxious for
the market-place to be reached and the treat to
begin—“ to think of Mr. Bellasis bringing Crys
tel home night after night from the Knoll at
goodness knows wh t o’clock 1 I fancied there
■was something of that sort going on, and I’m
so glad I had an opportunity ot discovering it.
I dare say Mrs. Franks hasn’t an idea ”
In the strength of this conviction she sped
over the mile between the Rectory and the
market-place, and arrived at the Doctor’s door
before Mrs. Franks had got half-way through
her first cup of tea and its attendant “Sally
Lunn.”
Mrs. Conyers, leisurely proceeding with her
Afternoon toilet for the tennis-party, took her
self a little to task lor the confidences into
which her momentary vexation with her third
daughter had led her. It was a pity, perhaps,
that she had spoken so openly to her gossiping
guest, for, after all, Crystel must come “out”
like other gins, and was far less unpromising
than many. It was only among the Conyers
girls that she appeared gauche and uninterest
ing ; hitherto the Rector’s daughters had been
presented to Easton society like Minerva, ready
armed, or, rather, like Venus, fully equipped,
from the first moment of their introduction, with
all the little charms and graces of person and
manner which made them successively the belles
pf that part of the county.
’ “ But,” argued Mrs. Conyers with herself, as
fihe thoughtfully hooked her lilac silk dress
and pinched out its plaitings, “ one must put
a bold face on it, and make up one’s mind
to try a new style with Crystel. I can never
expect to settle a third daughter as brilliantly
as Alice and Blanche”—she had already adopted
Mr. Raymond Moreton as a son-in,law—and,
it poor Crystel’s debut does not make much
of a sensation, there is always Tiny to keep
■up the family prestige. Alter that, thank
goodness, I shall have a long rest, and fifeed
not trouble myself for a good while about
Dolly aud Ida; perhaps their elderswill be able
to bring them ‘out’ and let me repose on my
laurels. Ob, what a thing it is to be a country
rector’s wife, with six girls, and their father
caring no more about their settlement than he
does about the destination of those half-dozen
lambs that Thomas took into market this morn
ing I”
The rectory was a large, roomy house, with a
spacious centre hall, wide staircase and wooden
passages; it was easy to hear all the different
household sounds in any part of it. except per
haps within the double ‘red baize doors of tbe
rector's study. Anyone accustomed to the ways
of the Cbnyers'family might have known that
Crystel Conyers had returned from the Knoll by
the slam of the garden door, and the hurried
footsteps coming up stairs two at a time, the
shrieks of delight from the two nursery chil
dren, who, emerging from their own passage as
far as they dared, screamed “ Crystel, Crystel,
come and play with us 1” and Crystel’s own
voice, rather deep and gruff, “ Bother the nails I”
as she disengaged her skirt from a projecting
tack which would never have injured anybody
else’s garments, and, catching her torn flounce
in her hand, hurried to her mother’s bed-room
door.
“My dear, what is it?” cried Mrs. Conyers
from within. “Here—wait a moment, and I’ll
unlock it. Has anything happened to you, Crys
tel ?” ~ *
Poor Mrs. Conyers lived in constant terror of ■
Crystel’s adventures, and opened the door in
trepidation every time her third daughter ;
knocked. On this occasion she caught the lace
ebawl which she was in the act of folding across •
her and threw it from her on to the
sofa, as Crystel, darting in, threw herself upon
her mother’s neck in a boisterous, tempestous
pmbrace.
“ Oh, mother, you will let me go ? Dear, dar- ■
ling mother, promise me that I shall go. It is 1
just the dream of my life !”
“Go where? To ’Mrs. Baker’s party?” Mrs.
Conyers asked dryly, knowing full well that she 1
was snubbing her daughter, but unable to re- i
eist the temptation when her carefully-adju-st- 1
ed bonnet-strings were crumpled and’her lace
jabot dragged from its place by Crystel’s awk
ward onslaught.
“ Ob, good gracious, I had forgotten Mrs. Ba
ker's horrid tennis altogether ! Did you want
me to go? But this put everything else out of
my head. Will you read the note? Wherever
is it ? I know I put it safe in my pocket”
Crystel was routing and rustling over various 1
postions ot her costume in an agonized man
ner, and at last produced a little three-cornered
note.
“Please read it at once, and ask father if I
may go, and write and tell Mrs. "Woodroffe, so
that Thomas can leave it at tbe Knoll lodge I
when he goes by on his road home.”
“ Indeed I’ll do nothing of the sort; lam late '
as it is, and your want of consideration, Crys
tel, does not encourage me to indulge all your I
whims. Here you have been away the whole
day, quite heedless of my convenience and the 1
possibility of my wanting you. Now lam going ■
to take Tiny to the Bakers., and when I come
homo, I will read Mrs. Woodroffe’s note and see '
what she wants. There—put it on the looking
glass, and run away and see if the pony-carriage .
is round yet—you fidget me so, 1 can’t finish
dressing properly till you are out of the room.” 1
The rector’s wife spoke more sharply than
usual, for she was particular about her dress,
and bounct-strings are sometimes an inspira
tion not to bo caught a second time in one
afternoon. Crystel put down the letter and '
went quickly out of the room, all the excite
ment and gayety of her entry damped and
crushed; she forgot to shut the door, or to
look for the pony-carriage, and creeped awdy to ,
her own room, to fling herself upon her bed in ,
all the collapse of reaction
Mrs. Woodroffe, at the Knoll, was at that mo
ment thinking about her.
“ There is positive danger and no little misery
in store for such emotional natures as my poor
Crystel’s,” and the bitterness of the girl’s dis
appointed tears attested the truth of her opinion;
but presently sleep came gently to her, stilling
the sore heart and excited brain, and smoothing
away tbe rough edges of the late encounter with
her mother. %
When Crystel awoke the room was dark, and
the little crescent moon was high in the heavens;
the pony-carriage was crunching the gravel-un
der the window, and she caught Tiny s answer,
“Oh, lovely I” to her father’s question about
the afternoon’s enjoyment. A moment later the
dinner-gong sounded.
Thanks to Mrs. Baker’s hospitality, Crystel’s
unreadiness passed unnoticed; indeed, she was
waiting in tbe drawing-room when her mother
and Tiny, divested of their finery, re-appeared
in ordinary home-garments, and, Mrs. Conyers’s
good humor having been completely restored,
ehe gave her third daughter a friendly pat on
the shoulder, and said, gayly:
“Come, Crystel, you and your father will
have to do all the dinner-eating to-night, as we
have kept you so long waiting ; as for Tiny and
me, we nave had so many good things, we are
quite £o grand to look roast mutton in the
lace I”
“The note—the note 1” thought Crystel,clasp
ing her hands together, but abstaining from any
exhibition of affection toward her mother, from
an uneasy feeling that her caresses were not al
ways a success. “ Has she read it ?” And only
a supreme effort of patience kept her quiet dur
ing liny’s description of the tennis-party. But,
at last, Crystel’s appealing glances somehow
forced their way upon the Rector’s abstracted
notice, and he asked kindly, in his usual gently,
uninterested manner:
“ Well, child, and what have you been doing
with yourself all day ? At the Lnoll—eh ? How
is Mrs Woodroffe ?”
This recalled Mrs. Conyer-s’s attention from
the discussion of the tennis-party to the letter
in her pocket, and, slowly drawing it out and
leisurely cutting open the envelope with her
desert-knife, she began to read it, while the
girl’s eyes devoured every expression of her
face.
“ To take you abroad with her when she goes
to this German doctor 1” Mrs. Conyers was in
tensely gratified, though she did not want to
show R too openly. “ Here, rector, you must
read this, and say what you think ; it is from
Mrs. Woodroffe, asking if we will let her have
Crystel with her for the winter months while
ehe undergoes this new treatment which she
has decided to try at Wiesbaden. She puts
it very kindly, saying she wants a companion
whom she is‘ used to, and offering to superin
tend any lessons that we might like Crystel to
have, so as to take advantage of the time abroad.
What do you say ?”
But the rector’s only answer was another
guestion.
t “What does Crystel say? Do you like the
idea, my child ?”
; Crystel answered this query by impetuously
; throwing her arms round her father’s neck
. and hugging him in an overwhelming ecstasy
of gratitude.
“Go back to your place, Crystel. we
ever trust you away from home it you let your
feelings run away with you like this ?” said
Mrs. Conyers, while the rector smoothed his
hair and set Dad his tie; but, notwithstanding
her reproof to tbe girl, she felt that Mrs.
Woodroffe bad really come to her assistance in
a most valuable and unexpected manner. Here
was the cachet lor Crystel which she had longed
for I Six months on the continent under the
auspices of the squire’s widow before “coming
out” would be quite a-sufficient equivalent for
the little elegancies of manner and person which
Crystel lacked and her mother deplored. And
then “ our third girl on the continent with Mrs.
Woodroffe” leit the coast so conveniently clear
for Tiny ! Mrs. Conyers had framed a nice lit
tle note in reply to Mrs. Woodroffe’s invitation
before she finished her dessert, and was specu
lating on which of Crystel’s dresses would still
“ do” in Germany.
“If you want to send a note over to the
Knoll,” said the rector, as his wife and daugh
ter were leaving the room, “I have a message
for Bellasis and shall be going down or sending
James this evening, so yon had better let me
have it at once. I suppose there is nothing to
say but ‘ Yes ? ”
Mrs. Conyers nodded and the rector wont
back to his after-dinner glass ot port.
“Thank you very, very much, mamma,”
Crystel whispered, coming close to her mother
half an hour later, having herself superin**
intended the dispatch of the important note.
“ I am very sorry I was so rough and im
patient thia aStcrnoon: but, you see, I was
only thinking of this one thing, and Mrs.
Woodroffe impressed upon me that it must be
settled at once, or she must write direct to Bes
sie Bellasis and get her to go instead of me.
That was what made me so thoughtless when
you were going out.”
“ Very well,” assented Mrs. Conyers, sleep
ily-she bad put her feet upon the sofa and
did not want to talk. “If you hadn't been so
impetuous and bad explained it to me earlier, I
would have road the" note at once. But you
never think of other people, Crystel. 1 hope,
lor your sake, she hasn’t written to Bessie
Bellasis. Now, let me have a lew minutes’ rest;
I have had a very exhausting day I”
\Poor Crystel I It needed to be a very rose
colored scheme indeed which could retain its
bright hues under each persistent damping.
CHAPTER 11.
“WE ARE TWO LOOSE ENDS WHICH BELONG TO
NOBODY ELSE.” *
Mr. Bellasis was Mrs. Woodroffe’s nephew,
the son of her late husband’s sister and the
squire of Easton Park But in spite ol being
an “ eligible, ’ by which name Miss Hutchinson
designated ail single and well-to-do men, as if,
they were a distinct species of the human
family, ho was less discussed by the gossips
than many men his inferiors in position in the
county, partly because he was non-resident for
the greater portion ot the year, partly because,
being a regular London mnn, with interests and
occupations outside Eastshire, he was not on
very intimate terms with any ot the chief county
families. Easton Park had always been a house
wasted, people de dared ; in the Woodroffe’s
time, it was only the retreat of two chronic in
valids. Now that Mrs. Woodroffe had moved
to the Knoll and Mr. Bellasis reigned in his
uncle’s stead, things were not much more
lively. The now squire might have been just as
devoted a martyr to gout in the stomach as his
predecessor had been, for all the good that
Eastshire society got out ot the park. When
Mw Bellasis ran down to Easton tor a few days
to attend to his country property, he generally
preferred to stay with his aunt, and his goings
and comings had ceased to stir the curiosity of
his neighbors.'
Perhaps the Conyers family knew him as well
as any of the local people, and long ago some one
had suggested that Alice Conyers would make
him a very suitable wife ; but Alice Conyers had
speedily become lady Holland without any
objection on Mr. Bellasis'part; and since that
tbe observations on the squire’s matrimonial
prospects had died a natural death for want of
something, however small, to feed upon.
Whether Miss Hutchinson would succeed in
creating an interest in his doings, by repeating
wiiat she had picked up at the rectory remained
to be seen. She would have to clothe the very
dry bones of her fact in some attractive form
of her own inventing before Easton would pay
it much attention, for Mr. Bellasis had long
been set down as quite impracticable.
“ He s a Socialist, or a Socinian, Henry says,”
Mrs. Franks used to say, quoting her husband,
who was a great authority behind bis own back
—“goes in for young men's clubs and classes,
and making poor people enjoy themselves,
which is utterly at variance with what we have
been taught to regard as their proper sphere.
There is something very distasteful to me in a
man of his position giving himself up to such
very second-rate interests.’’
Mr. Bellasis sat for a small borough in a dis
tant part of England, where he had some prop
erty ; Eastshire declared that it was the dirty,
low, Radical place which had inspired its mem
mer with silly notions about progress and equal
rights, and led him into all sorts of Quixotic de- '
signs, some of which the House of Commons
had been weak enough to approve of and in
dorse. In a county steadfastly conservative
and purely agricultural, a man who cared more
lor the housing of operatives than of foxhounds ,
must inevitably drop out of society ; and it was
heroic of Miss Hutchinson to think of finding
him a place even in scandal, unless supported '
by something attractive in the shape of one of ,
Mrs. Conyer’s daughters.
Meanwhile, unconscious of these efforts in .
his behalf, the Squire of Easton and member >
for Hammerborough was leaning against the
mantlepiece in his aunt’s morning-room at the
Knoll, while she, at a little distance, held a ‘
feather fan between her face and the fire and <
attentively regarded her nephew from behind
its screen. There had been something odd about ’
Oswald lately which his aunt had not fathomed.
She had tried him on all his hobbies, and he j
had trotted them out as usual, but seeming
more in obedience to her wish than out of spon
taneous enjoyment which their relation had J
hitherto given him.
Mrs. Woodroffe looked furtively round her >
screen as Oswald Bellasis rose from his arm- ,
chair and fidgeted with the ornaments on the
mantelpiece. He held his empty coffee-cup ,
in his hand, and now and then gazed abstract
edly into its depths in a manner unusual to
him, and which irritated his aunt excessively. '
“ Shall 1 give you some more coffee, or are ’
you merely frying to read your fortune in the
grounds?” she asked.
Mr. Bellasis put down the cup with a start,
on finding himself so closely observed.
“Tell me more about this German plan of .
yours, auntie Belle?” be demanded, taking up
a conversation which Mrs. Woodroffe thought
she bad disposed of at dinner. “Do you know
anyone at Wiesbaden, or want anyintroduo- '
tions ? It will bo very dismal for you and Miss ,
Crystel, if ■ you go and set up there for a whole ;
Winter without any friends.”
“My dear Oswald, lam going in search of 1
health, and Crystel, if she is allowed to go at j
all, will amuse me, and have some classes or :
something of that sort to attend. I don’t -
know that we shall either of us want to go into '
general society.” .
“ But that young girl, leaving a large family 1
and a cheerful neighborhood, won’t she find it ]
desperately dull,and wish herself back again in
Easton twenty times a day ?”
“ You forget that Crystel goes as my compan- 1
ion,” answered his aunt, with just the least touch !
of offence in her tone; what did Oswald mean by J
suddenly championing Crystel Conyers ? “ Be
side, Crystel is, I fancy, rather de trap at the
rectory; she is somehow different from theoth- 1
era, and they all feel it. She is much more at 1
home with me than with her own mother, and
all the ‘ missing ’ that there will be on her part 1
will be just a cessation of snubbing and cold- ’
shouldering at everything she says or does,
which must assuredly prove a relief directly 1
she realizes it.”
“ You don’t really mean it—snubbing and 1
cold-shouldering that dear little girl ?” ’
Something had moved the member for Ham- 1
merborough at last, and he leaned forward, re
gardless of his aunt’s look of surprise.
“ Oswald 11 didn’t know she interested you
so much 1”
“Didn’t you, auntie Belle?” The squire
laughed a iUtle, and, turning round, faced the
fire, and began to vigorously poke it. “To tell
you the truth, I didn’t know it myself till very
lately, but then I fancied that women were clev
erer at these things than we are, and 1 thought :
perhaps that you might have guessed it before
I did.” i
“Guessed what, Oswald? That you cared
for that child, Crystel Conyers ?”
“Just so.” 1
“ But Crystel is a child, a school-girl, and you 1
are a man of the world. She is perfectly ignor- 1
ant of life, while you have a thousand experi- :
ences, and are with most of them. She is
—good gracious, Oswald, what is the point of
contact between you ?”
“Just our contrast and unsuitability, I sup
pose, auntie; you know we are both unusual
sort of people, a little misunderstood perhaps
in our own families. You know lam looked
upon as rather a loose fish, because I don’t im
plicitly follow and swallow all the country tra
ditions that Eastshire is pleased to think 1
ought, and now you tell me ” —his voice grew
soft, and ho hesitated a little—“ that Crystel
too is different from the rest of her people, and
gets snubbed for the very traits, most likely,
which make her, in my eyes, lovable above
other girls. So there is nothing so wonderful
in our being suited to one another; we are two
loose ends which belong to nobody else.”
“Good gracious I” was all Mrs. AVoodroffe
could reply; she had said it before, but it
scarcely afforded her surprise any relief. “ And
pray, how much of this affinity does Crystel
know ?”
“ Why, nothing, as far as lam aware I I tell
you I only discovered it myself a very short
time ago, when you first spoke of taking the
girl away with you for six months.”
“And you realized that you would miss
her ?”
Mrs. Woodroffe was beginning to understand
the wonderful force of propinquity, as wail as
to estimate the importance or the “ business ’
which bad brought Oswald Bellasis so often
down to the Knoll during the last fe .v months.
“Yes.”
Here the footman brought in a note lor Mrs.
Woodroffe and a verbal message to Mr. Bella- ;
lasis from the rector that ho wouM be gi <1 to i
bcq him tbe nex-‘. m-'raing about the WooJro.-e j
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 7 1886.
) Trust Fund, a local charity which the squire,
in spite ol bis unparoachial tastes, was obliged
r to administer.
: ** No answer,” said Mrs. Woodroffe, looking
r pleased, as she tossed the note across to her
nephew, and the latter, possessing himself of it
> with his left hand, scribbled with his right up-
• on a visiting-card that he would call at the rec*
I tory at eleven the next morning.
j Mrs. Woodroffe was amused. She had always
; looked upon Oswald Bellasis ns the coolest,
, most seli-oontrolled man ot her acquaintance,
t and it was strange to see him giving way to lit
i tie flashes of impatience, which evidently aeton
i ished himself as much as they did anybody. Ho
i read Mrs. Conyers’s note in silence.
; “ All right, I am glad to'/say; I had set my
• heart on having hex’,” Mrs. Woodroffe remarked
at last, dying to reopen the subject, but scarce
ly knowing how far she might ven lure with this
now Oswald, who was momentarily developing
■ 1 such startling contradictions of character—at
least, of the character that had always been as
cribed to him.
“And so have I, auntie; you must give me
your best help, for my request may not be so
easily granted.”
“Do you mean by Crystel herself, or the pa
rents ?”
“ I don’t know, I’m auro. You see, I have
never been in love before, and I am going on
for thirty-flvo; perhaps, if I had thought abouft
it earlier, I might have felt more certain now;
but I have been occupied by to many other
things that it has come upon me rather un
awares. Honestly now, how do you think I
stand ?”
“With the parents, of course, you’re all
right—the squire,’ Mrs. Woodroffe began.
“I waan t thinking of the parents; they’re
secondary., though, of course. I shall tell the
ro tor wiiat I’m.about—l mean with Crystel.”
“ You are older than ehe by a good bit.”
“ A man ought to bo older than his wi e; be
side, Crystel is quite different from the usual
kind of young girls.”
“ But then you're quite as nice-looking as any
one she can ever have seen yet.”
The squire smiled, and, turn ng round to the
mirror o.er the fireplace, looked himself Btead
ly in the face.
“Doesn t say much for Eastshiro mon, then;
I in strong and hearty, but I’m no beauty.”
“Oswald, you must remember she is scarce
ly out of the school-room, and Mrs. Conyers
has tbe most rigid ideas about the girls marry
ing in proper order. Sir Martin and Mr. More
ton were just presented to Alice and Blanche at
’the proper moment, and both fulfilled their des
t.ny—at least I suppose the Moreton-Conyers
engagement is a accompli by this time, as
Blanche is stopping so long in town. When the
right moment arrives, Mrs. Conyers will pro
duce the right man lor Crystel, always provided
that you, or possibly Crystel herself, may not
have interfered with her arrangements. I fancy
Alice and Blanche are made ot more malleable
material than her third daughter.”
“ And you do not think tbe choice has yet
been made—by Crystel, I mean ?”
“Mrs. Conyers would take care of that,” Mrs.
Woodroffe answered, decidedly. “Beside,!
know the girl so thoroughly, aud can answer
for it she has no thought of lovers or love-mak
ing in her head—unless you have put it there
quite recently with your paternal condescen
sion ot seeing her home every now and then.”
“On my honor, no I I should not think of
such a tliieg until I had spoken to you. and, 1
suppose, to the rector.”
“ Then you may rest assured that you are
first in tbe field. But what did you mean just
now when you suggested that I should want to
take Crystel into society at Wiesbaden ? Do you
think that she wants company manners and
that sort of thing ?”
“ Good heavens, no I It is just her difference
from other people that constitutes her charm.
I only suggested that—well, because 1 wanted
to bring you ba-k to the subject of your tour
and Crystel, and I didn’t quite know how. The
fact is”—here the squire became a little red
under the brown of his cheeks aud again
grasped tbe poker—“l thought it might per
haps suggest itself to you to ask mo to accom
pany you abroad.”
“ Good gracious 1” exclaimed Mrs. Woodroffe
for the third time. “Oswald, do let that fire
alone and put down the poker 1 Now take my
advice, and don’t try to jiuesse in this matter or
any other as long as you live, for it is not your
forte. Come with us to Wiesbaden, by all
means. Why didn’t you say so outright? If
you try this sort of diplomacy with Crystel, she
will never understand you, for she is the most
straighforward creature on earth, and maneu
vering will only puzzle and confuse her. But I
would counsel you not to say anything to her
till she knows you far better than she does now;
you may think you know her—l doubt it-be
cause you are a man of the world and ac us
tomed to study character and to guage the peo
ple you meet and form your own opinions di
rectly you have exchanged half a dozen words;
but she is now to the world, will weigh and
compare all the fresh impressions she receives,
possibly, as j'ou force me to speak plainly, you
will not be among them just yet. I thinK Crys
tel is .strongly emotional, and" I have never seen
you stir any of her emotions; I think her ro
mantic, and you are, or have been until now,
intensely practical. I am airaid she has made
an ideal out of books and fancies, than which
no more powerful rival can possibly exist for
the ordinary marrying man of the present day.”
“ Thank you ; you have told me plainly
enough at last,” and the squire sat moodily
staring at the fire and tugging at his short
brown beard till his aunt, growing compas
sionate, said more hopelully:
“ At the same time, you have what will weigh
with Crystel more than with any other girl I
know—perfect sincerity. She knows that, for
1 remember her saying once—the only time I
ever recollect her spo ially mentioning you—
‘Mr. Bellasis strikes one as being so complete
ly in earnest about everything he undertakes,
whether it is posting a letter or carrying a bill
through Parliament. I should think he never
had two minds or two motives, or wavered for
an instant from the point which he had chosen
as right.'”
“ Did she say that ? I hope it is true,” said
the squire, looking pleased after his moment
ary depression. “Av ell, Auntie Bello, I mus t
not keep you up all xxght talking over my in
cipient love affairs, or you won’t be fit for any
thing to-morrow, and 1 shall have horrible re
morse to add to my already overburdened con
science. I know you don’t quite approve of it
at the first blush, but perhaps it will look bet
ter when the first surprise has worn off. Any
how, give me your blessing and let mo come
with you to Wiesbaden ro begin my attack.”
“Heaven bless you, Oswald, and give you
what is best I s ' responded the old lady, coming
up to him as he" stood and holding his face
down with her two thin hands. “ You must re
member that you have taken me completely by
surprise to-night, and I have always looked
upon Crystel as a little school-girl, so that, per
haps, has made me rather difficult and hard to
convince ; but”—with sudden inconsistency—
“she will be very hard to please, indeel, if she
is not satisfied with you for a lover, if you look
like that, sir.”
“ How did I look ?” demanded her nephew,
giving her two hearty kisses.
But his aunt only laughed and hustled off to
hex* room, where she sat for such a long time
without ringing for Vickers, the maid, that that
mechanically-minded young woman was alto
gether unnerved by the unwonted proceeding, ;
and banged about in the dressing-room and
passages in a frame of mind which she was
pleased to describe as “ quite a state.”
“ He is thirty-five and has nevex* been in love
before. I was thirty-two when I married his
uncle, and we did not find that love was ex
tinct at that advanced age. Perhaps I was mis
taken in warning him so seriously and taking .
so much of his confidence out of him. But it
does seem strange” and here Mrs. Woodroffe
laughed out loud, to the utter discomfiture of
Vickers, who was brushing her hair—“that,
while 1 have been planning this little change for
Crystel, and thinking that my little trip to Ger
many was to be the great event of her girlhood,
Oswald has cut me entirely and has prepared a
sensation that throws my highest flight of im
agination utterly into the shade ’ That will do,
Vickers—you can go now, and I will finish for
myself.”
And Vickers withdrew with a lugubrious ex
pression ot countenance, which she was apt to
assume when her mistress’s actions were not
instantly laid bare to her comprehension.
(To be Continued.) .
YOUNG DOCfoRS’ TROUBLES.
The Difficulty They Have in Gaining
the Confidence of the Public.
A gentleman, who occupies an exo utive posi
tion of great prominence in one of the New
York medical collges, while chatting amiably
about young physicians, said : “ The most
keenly envied man is not the one who exhibits
a profundity of text-book knowledge, unwonted
skinfulness at the dissecting table, or quickness
of wit and memory, but the fortunate possessor
of a big beard, an- impressive physique or a
matured and solemn face. Indeed, I think that
the most amusing of all the characteristics of
the average medical student is in the assump
tion of dignity and thoughtfulness as gradua
tion day approaches. As the young men draw
near the close of their terms, every day sees a
closer contraction of the eyebrows, a more pom
pous and ponderous pursing up of the lips, de
liberate steps, slow movements and elaborate
courtesy toward one another. The cock-lofty
and superior air of the ordinary college gradu
ate sinks into abject and lowly humility com
pared to the manner of the medical student
when he starts out in life. The distrust of a
very young physician is widespread and per
haps natural in the human breast, and the first
ten years ol most physicians’ lives are spent in
frantic efforts to "overcome this unfortunate
prejudice. To force the beard to grow upon
a beardless cheek, to cause the observer to
look upon him with awe, and to impress men
with awe with whom he comes in contact with
his profundity of thought, is the ambition of
his earlier years. On this account he assumes
manners, and, worst of all, he tells tales.
“ Take, as an instance, a young man who
came from Keokuk, lowa, some time ago, with a
letter from an old college chum who is settled
there. He is a well-meaning young chap, and
after his graduation he decided to practice
medicine in New York. He has no acquaint
ances outside of the few that ho has made in
boarding-houses, but he has the distinctively
western grit, and he has started in to win. He
has ono of those unfortunate faces, bereft of
hair, smooth, wbiteish aud juvenile-looking to
the very last degree. The temples are promi
l nent, nobby and polished, and the hair abund
; ant. ‘ L,’ ho said to mo tlie other day in a gentle
j Luvst ol confidence, ‘ I had some sort of
, i or if, at any rate, my hair was not so thick and
I 1 could add a premature baldness to my other
advantages, it would result in my making a
living; i.s it is now, I pass my life in an ever
lasting effort to keep up the bluff that it is in
variably called. When I try to wear spectacles,
people laugh at me, and so I try to put on an
appearance of ago by referring carelessly in
casual conversation to events that occurred be
fore the war, and never talk with interest of
anything that has occurred during the past
twenty years. If 1 had a big beard, it would
certainly be worth $20,000 to me.’
“ •: ne of the commonest errors which young
physicians make is the relating of innumerable
anecdotes and experiences, most of which they
carelessly refer to as having happened ‘ last
week,’ in their extensive medical practice. This
in the face of the fact that it is perfectly evident
to every one that their whole practice is a myth,
and that even the busiest and most expert phy
sicians cou’id not attend in a month to one-half
of the remarkable cases which they cite as
having occurred during a single week’s practice.
“ It should be a significant fact to these'young
sters that older physicians ot prominence sel
dom or never refer to cases of this sort, as the
patient is invariably skeptical of all such refer
ences. Every patient has an idea that bis own
particular malady or ailment stands alone and
without parallel in tbe history of medicine, and
it never pleases him to be told that Mr. Jones
was similarly affected last week, but easily cured
by the astute physician.
“There is something really pathetic, though
the pubAic never seem to think so, aboiat the
early struggles of most young doctors. Poor
chips, it is almost painful at times to think how
bravely they keep things mo ving year a.'ter year
on incomes that would be looked upon with con
tempt by an average street lalorer, and the
time they keep up the bluff, to use the slang
expression of my Western Iriond, with undimin
ishod courage. They may be half starved—
and they are frequently destitute of all means
of paying for amusements - but they wear their
thread-bare frock coats with undiminished dig
nity, and talk constantly as though they were
being carried onward in their profession on the
topmost wavo of prosperity. 1 wonder that the
dramatists and novelists, who complain so Of a
dearth of good lay figures on which to lay th6
linos of their novels and plays, do not take up
the career of some one ot the e brave and
courageous fellows who struggle so long and
so hard to gain recognition. Their lives are
filled with pathos and humor.”
A WIFE lilE IffAKE.
STRANGE PHASE OF RUSSIAN
RIFE.
(From, the New Orleans Times-Democrat.)
In no ether part of the world, our friend
said, do people gamble as much as they do in
Russsia. It is not simply a passion which has
its frenzies, it is likewise a luxury which has
its obligations. An-officer who does not gamble
enjoys no social consideration ; a rising man
who does not from time to time expose himself
to the risk of being ruined at cards, would be
looked upon as a mean fellow, and could only
hope for a very moderate share of public
esteem. AVe have all become familiar with
those terrible stories about men who began to
play merely as a sacrifice to fashion, who sub
sequently acquired the love of gambling
through habit, and finally ended by immolating
everything to their passion—fortune, position,
honor, and even life when nothing else had
been left to risk. I did not therefore feel any
great surprise when I was told that such and
such an officer had got himself killed In the
Caucasus, or that such another one had blown
out the little brains he possessed, or that such
and such a prince had stolen the diamonds of
his family, or that such aud such a public official
bad embezzled the Sta-te funds. But it became
my privilege to witness a less vulgar phenome
non. One day a woman was pointed out to me
by a friend, who said :
“That is the Princess Augustinoff. Her
husband won her at cards. Shall I introduce
you ?”
A wife won at cards I That was certainly a
fact curious enough to give me the desire of
seeing more of her. She lost none of her
attraction when the high official, who patron
ized me at court, added :
“She is a very charming woman ; and in spite
of her great age she is still able to. please by
the grace of her wit and the elegance of her
manners. She is seventy years old—much as
the fact may surprise you. You could never
suspect it, ot course. Look how straight,
graceful and supple her figure still is ! fehe
walks like a goddess ; she has the complexion
of a young girl; her eyes never could have
been any brighter, and her white hair is as be
coming as a silver wreath. Now she is going to
dance, and no dancer on the floor will be more
gracelul. AVhile she is dancing I will toll you
her story. Beside, she is a great lady, in every
sense of the term. She has already got away
with eighty thousand persants. She used to
have a hundred thousand. She has only
twenty thousand left to live upon for the rest of
her life, and I am really afraid it will not be
enough.
AVe seated ourselves in a corner of the salon,
and my friend commenced his recital. I will
try to repeat it as exactly as possible.
Maria Federowna nee Princess D , was
married for her beauty. Although rich, she
was maid-of-honor to the Czarina, who was
very fond of her. At the ago of eighteen she
was marred to Prince Tcheretzoff, who was
madly in love with her.
Tcheretzoff was a good officer—Major-Gen
eral at an age when ono is rarely more than a
lieutenant, aide-de-camp also to the emperor,
who greatly esteemed the studious, serious and
learned young man. AVhile gifted with the very
finest qualities in other respects, he had just
one fault—he never gambled. He had often
been reproached with this failing, and the Czar
himself had said to him one day:
“ Well, well 1 general, how is this that you
never play ? Come, play a game of preference
with mo 1”
Preference, you know, is the game in vogue
at Kt. Petersburg. At least it was in my
Since then, 1 have heard, baccaret has de
throned it.
But such was TcheretzofFs aversion to gam
bling that he had never learned the rules of the
game, and was obliged to excuse himself to the
emperor.
“ What I you do not know how to play prefer
ence I” cried the emperor, laughing. “ You
must learn, my dear fello^w—you must learn.
Here comes Augustinoff, who is a mastex* in the
art, and who can give you lessons.”
Nothing less than this order from the emper
or himself could have induced Tcheretzoff to
play.
Augustinoff was the finest player at court.
Prudent, skillful, perfect in self-control, no one
knew better how to manage a game, to moderate
impulses, to hold himself in check and never
theless to make a bold stroke occasionally. He
did not always win, but he won oftener than he
lost. He was very rich—one of the greatest
landowners in Russia; and he was generous,
spending royally his immense revenues, which
he administered with uncommon intelligence.
Anecdotes of his high courtesy and sincere
generosity were everywhere cited.
Tcheretzoff could not have a better teacher.
But for some Jme previously Augustinoff had
stopped playing. He bad even ceased to appear
at the clubs where he might have been obliged
to yield to the temptation. He only played at
court, and even there, only when compelled to
do so by the imperial will. And even on such
occasions he appeared to be distracted, preoc
cupied, dreamy—letting bis thoughts wander
away upon some subject totally foreign to the
game.
It was rumored that he was in love. Perhaps
he was, but he was too proud and discreet to
betray his secret.
AV bat seemed particularly strange for one in
such a state of mind, was that he undertook
Tcberetzoff's education with great zeal—lavish
ing upon him all the knowledge he possessed
by counsel and lesson, so that in a very short
time be made his pupil an excellent player. The
only thing he could not give him was bis own
prudence and self-control. Tcheretzoff was a
hot-head—he played by inspiration. This sys
tem of play, formed by the man’s temperament,
succeeded admirably. He won games that have
become historically famous, lost a few which
were far from re-establishing the balance, and
Anally remained the great conqueror el the
Winter season.
Fax’ better for him would it have been if he
had lostcontinuously. Success intoxicated him.
He behoved in hie star, brought his personal
vanity into his play, and finally made gambling
the chief occupation of his life. He had ac
cesses of gambling fever which seized him at
regular intervals, like a chronic disease, and in
those moments he forgot everything else. Then
it was a madness with him—a fury ; he would
have paid men to play with him. But in Russia
such an extreme means of obtaining gratifica
tion is unnecessary.
One day (they had been seated at the gaming
table for two’ hours) Tcheretzoff bad never
ceased to win. He had piled up all round
him, a sum of more than 100,000 roubles—with
out counting 200,000 more which he had won
from his comrades on their simple word of
honor.
“ I propose to stake all my winnings of this
evening on one game,” he cried.
“How much?” responded the voice of a man
who had just come in.
That man was Augustinoff.
“»Say three hundred thousand roubles, in
round numbers,” replied Tcheretzoff.
“I’ll take your offer.”
Although everybody present was more or
less accustomed to large stakes, this game had
an extraordinary interest for them. The stakes
were enormous ; the adversaries were the two
most skillful players of the empire, and, beside,
Augustinoff had ceased to play, according to
general belief, and had only broken his rule so
far in order to teach bis great art to the very
man whose challenge he had just accepted.
The master and the pupil were going at last to
have it out.
For some time the chances seemed about
equal. Finally, however, Augustinoff began to
win. Tcheretzoff pushed over to Agustinoff the
100,000 roubles lying beside him, and, turning
to the spectators,’ said to one of them :
“Passaroff, yon now owe Augustinoff the fifty
thousand roubles I won from you. And you,
Novolith, you will pay him the thirty thou
sand.”
He continued in this way to make up his ac
count with his debtors, so as to transfer to
Augustinoff the credit he bad allowed them.
This arrangement having been accepted by all
the parties concerned, he resumed his play.
“ Now, you will give me the chance to revenge
myself,” he said.
“How much?” replied Augustinoff,
“ The same—three hundred thousand rou
bles.”
“But ”
“ Is it too much for you ?”
*‘l do not think it is enough. You lost noth
ing so far—vou only staked your winnings.
You ought to have pluck enough to add some
thing moie.”
44 All right; I add one hundred thousand rou
bles.”
“ Good enough—that makes at least some
thing.of a stake.”
Augustinoff lost.
“ We can’t let the game go on in this way,” he
said. “ I play five hundred thousand roubles.”
Tips time he won. His luck remained with
him through the next game, for an equal stake.
“Let ns continue,” exclaimed Tcheretzoff, in
a voice which he vainly tried to render calm. A
trembling, as of fever, agitated his hands as
well as his voice.
“As you please,” coldly responded August
in off.
Augustinoff retained all his self-control, and
never trusted to mere chance.
“Shall we keep the stake at the same figure—
five hundred thousand roubles ? ’ he asked.
“ Yes; 1 have them.”
“ And you are going to lose them. I feel my
sell in luck. Let us have a few glasses of
Clicquot to warm us, and keep us merry.’’
Tcheretzoff needed the stimulant he had be
come nervously irritable. It was a bad state for
a player to get into. He drank more champagne
than he needed to brace him, but not enough to
restore bis good temper. He became more
gloomy and cross than ever.
Augustinoff encountered him always with an
impassive phlegm and an imperturbable smile.
He won game alter game, and tantalized his ad
versary by his cruel wit. Although Tcheretzoff
i possessed five or six millions of roubles in
lands and serfs, it could easily be seen that if
the game was to continue in the same way, ho
would soon be without a kopeck in the world.
At one moment it seemed as if his luck had
returned. He had won twice in succession, and
recovered several hundred thousand roubles.
Everybody advised him to play no further, and
content himself for that night with his luck.
But such advice was the most certain method of
making him continue.
“lietire from the game,” ho cried, “at the
very moment that my luck is returning I I shall
not leave this table until daylight.
“ 1 pledge myself to do the same,” replied An
gus tinoff’.
The game continued with renewed animation.
Suclvstruggless have a terrible resemblance to
duels-to-the-death. Each adversary watches
the other, seeking to divine in his eyes the se
cret of his next play. Each tries to hide his
own thought; he yields, advances, retreats again;
eyes flame, hands tremble. A single mistake
would be irreparable. Every play is calculated,
all consequences are reckoned, and cards are
rapidly flung down in order to disconcert the
adversary. Finally, one of the two becomes
confused; he feels his luck departing from him;
he staggers, he succumbs. It is all over with
him—the game is lost.
Thus, in that memorable night, succumbed
Tcheretzoff. Long before the dawn began to
glimmer—and the nights in St. Petersburg are
long—he had lost all that be possessed - his
house upon the grand Moskala, his fine estates
in the central provinces, and even his beauti
ful chateau in the Ukraine, where he used to
raise the finest horses in the empire, and lived
like a king when he went thither, with his
young wife, to visit his serfs and receive the
revenue ot his lands.
But what gambler ever believes he has lost,
so long as there yet remains to him anything
to lose ? Tcheretzoff could not stake the dia
monds ot the princess, .and he bad already
pledged his own-even the diamonds of his
decorations, and a fine jewel he wore upon his
finger, a rich gilt from the Czar.
He rose up all dazed, took a glass, filled and
emptied it several times in succession, walked
thrice around the room, and returned to take
his place before Augustinoff, who sat there
quietly shuffling the cards, as if waiting for an
other adversary to continue the game.
But when he saw Tcheretzoff again in front
of him, Augustinoff arbse in his turn.
“It is not yet day,” said Tcheretzoff—“ whv
do you get up ?”
“ You cannot play any more; you have lost
everything.”
“ How do you know ?”
“ Have you some hidden treasures?”
“ Yes, I nave hidden treasures.”
And continuing in a whisper—a strangled
whisper, that barely escaped from his livid lips
—he said:
“ You love my wi f o !” .
“ Who told you so ?”
“ Nobody—l know it. I have not now even
the means of nourishing her.- I will play you
for her. I will stake her against all that you
won from me this evening.”
A flash as of lightning Hamed and passed in
the eyes of Augustinoff, and lor the first time
his handsome and passionless gambler’s face
evinced the emotion cl his soul.
“ I accept,” he said.
But his voice now trembled like that of his
adversary. Emotion choked the words at his
throat; they came forth only with difficulty.
He continued:
“Still, I accept only under two conditions.
The first is this : My stake is insufficient; I add
to it five hundred thousand roubles, because I
cannot add any more. Secondly, you must
have the divorce obtained, taking upon yourself
all responsibilty for it. The reputation of the
princess is without spot; she must not be
touched by so much as the breath of an evil
whisper.”
“I accept the conditions,” replied Tcheret
zoff. The first is flattering to my wife ; the sec
ond is flattering to myself. It shall not exceed
my generosity.”
At the moment of taking np the cards, Augus
tinoff. was seized with a singular nervousness.
He seemed fearful to begin a contest of which
the woman whom he loved was the stake. Was
he airaid of losing ? Or did he fear a disdain
ful rejection by the princess of the terms to
which she had unconsciously been made a party
—a contemptuous refusal that would annihilate
the fruits of victory in his very grasp ? All
the e feelings blended in the tumult of his
mind, and robbed him of much of that wonder
ful coolness he had always shown in ordinary
playing.
The game commenced. It then assumed the
aspect of a mortal duel indeed.
A deep silence reigned in the hall.* Each
held his breath, and nothing could be heard
except the dry sound of the cards falling upon
one another, like soldiers mortally wounded.
From time to time a voice spoke, announcing a
point made; then the gliding of the counters
marking it. At each play, the two adversaries
paused, like wrestlers overcome by fatigue and
trembling at the thought of defeat. ‘ The chances
seemed equal; the skill evenly proportionate.
A bold but incautious play was finally made by
Tcheretzoff. It might have in other cases
brought victory ; it only led to defeat.
Then, lor the first time, this man, whom the
fever had possessed lor ten long hours, sud
denly assumed an attitude full of noble dig
nity. He bowed to Augustinoff, saluted him as
officers salute each other under arms, and
said:
“I shall keep my word.”
It never so much as occurred to him to ques
tion the validity of his engagement. But from
the pallor ot his face, the mist in his eyes,
the lines of pain about his mouth and fore
head, it was easy to see how terrible the self
restraint and how violent the agony within.
Never can I forget the scene. Every instant I
expected to see the man fall, as if struck by
lightning.
The pledge was faithfully fulfilled. Tcheret
zoff ebtained the divorce, taking upon himself
all the responsibility of the act and assuming
all the faults. Certainly the most serious fault
was that of having staked his wile upon a
game of cards. In Prussia the position of a
divorced husband is very serious. He is not
merely liable to a heavy penalty, but even to
deprivation of liberty. The czar’s favorite
aide-de-camp was not imprisoned; but ho was
permitted, as a very special favor, to join the
forces at war in the Caucasus. He departed,
but never returned.
And you ask what was the fate of the Princess
and what free choice did she make ?
Well, it is evident that she must.have acqui
esced in the consequences of her busband s
losses, inasmuch as she became Princess Au
gustinoff. At court they used to say that she
found no difficulty whatever in accepting the
conditions of the challenge. Doubtless it must
have seemed to her that the man who esti
mated her value at something like 10.000,000
roubles, really esteemed her more and felt a
truer love for her than the man who had staked
her on the queen of spades.
JUMPING Tr~ENCHMEN.
A Curious Affliction Met with Only in
the State of Maine.
One of the greatest curiosities in the queer
old State, says a Bangor dispatch, is the
•‘Jumping Frenchman,” whom many people
believe to be a myth. The jumping Freach
m in is a sad reality, and he is a very familiar
character in the lumbering districts of Maine.
He is affected by a very peculiar disease of the
nerves, which robs him entirely of self-control,
and leaves him completely at the mercy of
practical jokers. He will start at any sudden
noise or exclamation, and will obey any sudden
command.
Once, on the Penobscot river, one of these
peculiar people was standing on a raft, when a
fellow standing near shouted “jump I” He did
jump, and was drowned. At another time, in a
railway train, the conductor came along to
punch a jumping Frenchman’s ticket. "Hit
him,” cried a joker, and the conductor was
knocked flat by the nervous Frenchman.
At another time one of these peculiar people
went to a small post-office in Maine tor a letter.
Just as he was about to ask for his mail some
one cried out, *• Grab him by the throat 1” and
the jumper reached through the window and
seized the aged postmaster’s windpipe with a
vise-like grip and held on until he was pulled
away. Another jumper, in a woods camp, was
standing by a rod-hot furnace, when somebody
shouted, “ Grab the stove 1” and grab it he did,
leaving the skin of each hand on the red hot
pipe.
The jumpers are dangerous people to have
round, as they will throw anything within reach
at a man when so ordered, and some lumber
men will not employ them under any circum
stances. I remember that once, in a small ho
tel in the Arostook, one of these peculiar peo
ple took an ax to a man on being commanded
to “ brain him,” and that on the same night a
lot of Boston drummers made one of them hop
about so much by shouting “jump!” that he
was glad to crawl out into the barn and go to
Bleep in the hay mow. Most ol the jumpers in
herit their misfortune, but some of them are
made nervous by being held and ticked into
spasms when children.
tiieglotlFower.
HOW THE BIVALVE IS CAPTURED.
(Mwn the Baltimore American.)
The oyster industry of Maryland is some
thing marvelous, and, as is well known, gives
employment to over 50,001) people. Twenty-five
years ago it was so insignificant that it did not
enter into consideration as a thing of any statis
tical value, but to-day the waters of the Chesa
peake Bay and its tributaries furnish the world,
directly or indirectly, with a large percentage
of all the bivalves consumed. Go where you
will, the Baltimore oyster precedes you; when
ever civilization exists, there is the Baltimore
oyster to bo found. It is estimated that $lO,-
000,000 worth of oysters will be shipped from
Maryland alone to all parts of the world before
the close of tho present season. The cities ot
the West are groat oyster consumers, and are
our principal markets. The great bulk of oys
ters intended for cooking purposes are sent
West in cans, but many barrels of oysters in
the shell are also shipped toward the setting
sun.
By far the greater proportion of tho oysters
caught in the Chesapeake Bav and tho streams
emptying into it are brought to the surface by
the dredger, and so important has this industry
become that legislative action regulating it has
bieniiialiy come up before each session of tho
General Assembly.
There are engaged in the oyster dredging
business in Maryland waters between twelve
and fifteen hundred schooners, pungies and
sioops, varying in capacity from five hundred
to twenty-five hundred bushels each.
An oyster dredqer (referring to tho vessel) is
almost always a two-maste I schooner. When
her windlasses are removed from the deck, the
only difference between her and any similar
craft is about midships on both sides, where
the rail is cut down to the deck for four or five
feet and an iron roller inserted flush with tho
deck, oyer which the dredge lino works. A
pungy is properly smaller than a dredging
schooner, but of the same rig, and sometimes
has no rail, but a strong stanchion is placed
just abaft tho roller.
Each vessel is provided with two iron wind
lasses, which are fastened to the deck near the
openings in the rail. As the law prohibits the
use of steam in casting or hauling in the
dredges, these windlasses are arranged so as to
admit of four men working upon each, two on
each side of each windlass. The handles slide
upon an iron rod, a<nd as soon as tho dredge is
on deck a rapid motion unships the bandies,
and the cylinder of the windlass can revolve as
the dr.edge goes out, while the handles remain
stationary.
A number of accidents have occurred from
neglect to unship the gear before the dredge is
thrown out. The handles revolve with fright
ful velocity, threatening destruction to every
thing that comes in their way. The dredges are
iron bags, capable of holding a little over two
bushels. They are formed of rings connected
with 8 hooks. They are about thirty inches
square and upon the lower edge of the opening
with an iron bar with projecting
teeth, which scrapes the bottom of the stream
as the dredge is being drawn alter the boat, and
guides the oysters into its mouth, which is held
open by an iron frame with bars projecting
from each corner. These bars meet about lour
feet from the opening, and at. their place of con
tact a chain is fastened, to which is attached a
rope which goes around a windlass, and is
known as the dredge line. This line varies in
length from twenty-five to sixty feet, according
to the depth of water in which the dredging is
done.
The crew is usually a motley group, which
would need nt> make-up to enable them to per
sonate FalstafPs army. They dredge a trip and
then lay up over a trip, and when tbeir little
money is gone they ship again. Crews are usu
ally obtained from shipping-masters, and each
man has one dollar deducted from his wages at
the expiration of his trip for the purpose of ro.
warding the shipper for his trouble. The cap
tain pays a similar or larger amount, according
to the scarcity ot men. The men sometimes
receive a small advance from the captain, which
they usually spend on a spree “ before going on
board.”
The hardships undergone by dredgers are
indescribable. Hour after hour in all kinds of
weather, they work at the windlass pulling in
two hundred or more pounds of oysters and the
same weight of rope and dredge, and when that
labor ceases, they are busy for hours more cull
ing on deck or in the hold." This work is equal
ly as tedious, tiresome and laborious as that at
the windlass. In a stooping position, with their
feet about eighteen inches apart, they separate
the sheHs from the oysters, dropping the former
in front ot them, while the latter they .throw
some distance behind them. Often, after a
night s hard work and but a brief rest, they find
the dock-load of oysters frozen in a solid mass.
Then, with everything covered with a glaze of
ice, amid a cutting steet which freezes as it
comes down, they are compelled to separate by
hand each oyster from the other, and ofttimes,
with frozen limbs and aching backs and.heads,
they toil on unremittingly to save the cargo they
have caught.
The law prohibiting the catching of oysters
on Sundays, after sunset, and upon what is
known as “ forbidden ground,” does not pro
hibit. It is more generally violated than any
other law upon the statute book. By far the
greater part of the oysters brought to Baltimore
are caught at night, or on Sundays, and on
“ forbidden ground.” Neither the captains nor
the men consider that they are violating any
moral law in taking these oysters, and, as an
evidence of this fact, it may be'stated that it
would be difficult to induce any captain to
dredge where oysters had been planted. This
they consider the meanest kind of stealing, and,
to use one of their own expressions, “ they
only take oysters where God has planted
them.”
Most of the oysters used by restaurants and
hotels aref secured by tongs and nippers, and as
a rule are superior in size to those caught by
the dredges. The tongmen form a very large
army ot men engaged in catching oysters in
Maryland waters, and while the quality and
size of their product is much superior to
that caught by dredgers, it is infinitely
smaller, forming but a trifling proportion of
what is annually taken from tho bay.
Tongs are used only in shallow water, and
the oysters are caught from a small boat, gen
erally operated by two men, one on either side.
The tongs consist ot a pair of rakes with the
teeth curved inward and attached to wooden
handles from fifteen to twenty feet long, which
are joined .by a pin about one-third of the dis
tance Irom the iron. The tongman has a plat
form placed amidships across his little craft,
and when over his bods he plunges his tongs
into the water open, and working the handles
secures a few oysters, not mors than half a
peck, and, closing the tongs, brings them up to
the platform on his boat, where he culls them,
and makes a second dip. This he repeats until
he has secured a boat-load, generally not over
half a dozen bushels, as the result of the labor
of two men for an entire day. Planted oysters
caught with tongs are very large and fine, and
bring high prices. The largest and finest oys
ters brought to this market are caught with
nippers, one at a time, in clear, shallow water,
where they can be seen by the man sailing over
them in a small boat.
aTmToF PARTS.
AND HE WASN’T EASILY DIS
COURAGED.
(.From Drake's Travelers' Magazine.)
He was tall and lank. His hair was reddish
in color and bushy in growth. His eyes were
pale green. He was freckled. His hands were
large, and it was a perpetual mystery how he
ever got them through his coat-sleeves, which
were tight even lor his thin, bony arms. His
trousers were short and wrinkled like an ac
cordion. These manifold defects in beauty,
however, did not seem to weigh the soul of
Leander Harvey down with woe; on the con
trary, he was buoyancy itself and hope bloomed
constantly in his bosom, like the wax rose in a
spring bonnet. Ho never could be discouraged,
lie didn’t know what dejection meant; and as
for despair, his limited lexicon contained no
word which bore even the slightest possible
resemblance to it. He’had undergone reverses
which would have overcome a weaker spirit,
and from each ho came up smiling, as if ill-for
tune was to him the very bight of human hap
piness. It so happened that when Mr. Broker,
the publisher of the world-renowned guide for
the travelling public, and geographical lexico
grapher of New York State, which bears his
honored name upon its title-page, said to him,
one day not long ago, that he had no need of
his services as editor of his unparalleled publi
cation, Leander was the reverse ot being cast
down.
“ I’m sure you want me,” he persisted ;
“ certain of it”
“ What do you know about this business?”
inquired Mr. Broker, vainly hoping by argu
ments to show this sanguine but mistaken
young man his unfitness for tho work.
“Know about it?” repeated Leander; ‘'every
thing 1”
“ You haven’t road much about the different
cities I describe in my publication.”
“That’s true,” returned Leander; “but I
bavo traveled rather extensively myself.”
“Ah’” responded the publisher, “then I
suppose you have visited Buffalo ?”
“ Visited? Well, I should say I had. Lemme
see. I was in Buffalo in ’76. I was fired out of
town by tho city marshal on tho 24th of October.
Why, my friend, I know Buffalo like a book.
There isn’t a station-houso in the city that I
haven't slept in.”
“Rochester? Yon are not acquainted with
that town, are you?”
“It smy second home. I lovo Rochester. I
was arrested there for forgery in ’7!) and learned
more of the town, escaping from jail, than your
guide-book could print in ten years.”
“1 suppose you pave been in .uocuport, too?”
“ Lock port—twenty miles from Rochester on
the Central road? Know Lockport? Ask me
something hard. Why, my friend, there are
five men in Lockport who would give SI,OOO
each to see me. They went on my bail-bond
when I was arrested for selling liquor without
a license.”
“ I presume you have honored Syracuse, too,
with your presence ?*
“Honored? Well, I should say so. I
showered honors on Syracuse. I deserted my
wife in Syracuse, and left four children for the
. county to support. Could any man show a
town more distinguished honors?”
“ I don’t think any one could.”
“ Nor I either,” replied Mr. Harvey; “and
now, sir, when do yon want me to go to work?”
“ Go to work !” replied tho publisher, “ what
do you mean ?”
“When shall I begin my employment? To
day, or next week ? lam at liberty now.”
“ I have no place for you,” responded the
publisher in desperation. “ I don’t need vou.
I don’t want any assistant. What could vod do
for me ?”
“ Lots of things. I could edit your humor
ous department. I have no conscience, and it
your exchange list is sufficiently large I could
make it fairly sparkle.”
“ I have no humorous department.”
“Then let me be your collector. I flatter my
self it would boa shrewd liar who could fool
mo. I have had considerable experience.”
“ No, sir, I don’t want such a collector.”
“Then lot mo be your office clerk. I can
stay about the place and tell your creditors yea
have gone to Canada, and make myself useful in
a great variety ot ways. For instance, the day
buforo pav-day I could rob your safe, and you
could make an assignment; ’then we would di
vide. I’m sure, sir, you would find me ex
tremely valuable ”
This was at three o’clock in the afternoon,
but so buoyant was Mr. Harvey’s constitution,
and so skilliul had he become to falling great
distances and alighting on his feet, that at five
minutes past three, by the railroad time, he
had borrowed twenty-five cents from the am
bulant surgeon, and informed him that he al
ways came down stairs by the window to save
time.
At 3:10 he had inquired the way to the Bow
ery branch of the Young Men’s Christian Asso
ciation, and had started briskly in that direc
tion with the air of a philanthropist who had an
appointment to save a soul and was airaid h«
would not get there in time.
Hmf TROUBLE.
BY E. L.
The show was over, and Nina Clayton, who
had won a fifty-guinea prize with one ot her
chrysanthemums, was lilting the pole down in
to a basket, preparatory to removing them;
when a lady and gentleman came up.
“Ah I” said the gentleman, a brown-eyed,
bearded man, with a winning smile, “we are
just in time 1 Olive, there is the chrysanthe
mum i was telling you about. Isn’t it'magnifi
cent?”
“The first prize, did you say, Oscar?” sail
the lady, admiringly. “it certainly deserves
“It is just like that Chinese chrysanthemum
at Clayton,” the gentleman said, presently;
“ the one that died last year, you know.”
“Oh I” cried Nina, impulsively. “is it dead ?
What killed it ?”
The lady and gentleman both stared.
“It was trodden down by some cattle,” tho
gentleman answered, slowly.
“ Why, how did the cattle ever get into tho
hedge ?” Nina asked. “We never used ”
Bhe stopped suddenly, blushing under th®
consciousness that these people must think her
very peculiar.
“I beg your pardon I” she said hastily. “But
wo used to live at Clayton Heights. These are
all Clayton chrysanthemume. I took the slips
myself.”
“Did you ?” said the lady, emiling pleasant
ly. “ Why, that is our homo now. 1 was not
aware, though, that anybody beside ourselves
and the Claytons had ever lived* there.”
“I am Nina Clayton,” the girl answered, and
bent her head to hide the flush of wounded
pride at the thought of how they had found
her.
“Is it possible?” cried the lady, unable to
control a start of surprise. “ How odd that wo
should meet here 1 The chrysanthemums are
very fine at Clayton.”
“ My grandfather brought many of them from
China,” said Nina, simply. “ I have slips of all
of them. I would be glad if you would come
and see them.”
Bhe gave her address, and the strangers
thanked her, and so they parted, but in spite of
the first prize Nina went homo with an ache in
the most sensitive aide of her heart.
“I don’t suppose there will be any chrysan
themums left after a while,’ she mused as she
went about her, little hot-house, wondering
whether or not those people would come to see
her flowers.
The next day she received this note:
“Mv Dear Miss’ Clayton—l am obliged to'
leave town suddenly, and cannot avail myself
of your kind invitation, but Mr. Avondale will
take groat pleasure in calling on you to-moii
row. Yours truly,
“Olive Avondale.”
It was early in the afternoon when Oscar
Avondale called.
Nina was in her greenhouse, clad in a becom*
ing gray dress, and looking very pretty under
the unusual excitement of having a visitor.
Avondale could not help noting how pretty
she was, or how unmistakably she showed her
birth and breeding.
“ This is Jerry,” she said, presenting a faith
ful old servant, who had followed her through’
sunshine and shadow. “He used to help take
care of the chrysanthemums at Clayton
Heights.”
“ Well,” said Avondale smiling, “I’d give a
good deal to have him-back again. I’ve had
several gardeners, but the flowers don’t seem
to thrive as well as they used to. The neigh
bors toll mo the chrysanthemums are not near
ly so fine as formerly.”
“It takes a Clayton to make them chry
santh’mums grow,” said Jerry, shaking his
head. “ Miss Nina used to nuss ’em like
babies, and they did beat’ every thing.”
“ Jerry thinks it’s a family gift to grow chry
santhemums,” said Nina, laughing. “ You see,
I bad watched them ever since I was a little
girl. They wore like so many playmates to me,
and I knew all of their peculiarities and weak
nesses. I have always loved them, and ”
Her voice trembled slightly, but she turned
away abruptly, and Avondale found himself
conducted through a fairyland of blossoms,
listening to Nina’s spirited talk, while Jerry
brought forward one pot alter another lor exhi
bition.
Ho went away delighted, and when he had
gone, Nina knew by the helpless void in her
heart and life what he had done to her.
“ Oh,” she cried, in deepest anguish, “ I
must not, I will not, love him I”
Avondale came back after the Christmas holi
days were passed, and when she met him again,
Nina knew that her heart was his for ever.
“ What have you been doing to yourself ?” he
said gayly. “ You look as pale as one of your
own flowers.”
“ Nothing,” she talterod.
“ You got a little package I sent you at
Christmas ?”
“Yes. I did not write, because—because I
was airaid you would not understand, and I
thought I had better tell you. lam sorry, Mr.
Avondale,” she went on, rapidly, “ but I can
not accept such a costly present* from you. You
must take it back.”
“ Don’t be foolish !’’ he cried impatiently.
“ It is a mere tride, and you have done so much
for me 1”
“ You are very kind, but 1 really cannot ac
cept it. Do not urge me, Mr. Avondale. You
can only distress me, lor nothing can make ma
alter my determination; and I—l am afraid
that our pleasant companionship must end
now. I cannot let you come here any more aa
you have been coming.”
“ Nina 1” ho cried, “ you do not mean
that?”
“ Yes,” she said, trying to speak steadily. “I
think it is best.”,
“ Then you—you love another ?” he said, a
wretched pallor overspreading his face.
“ No,” she said, tremulously, “ it is not that.
“ Don’t make me talk about it. I simply don’t
think it is best.”
“ Very well,” he answered coldly. “It shall
be as you aay.”
“ But I don’t want you to be angry,” faltered
poor Nina. “ Wait a minute. 1 have some
thing for you.”
Bhe went into another room and brought
forth a beautiful, salmon-colored chrysanthe
mum, blooming in a pretty pot.
“ I kept this back for* you,” she said, as
she gave it to him. “ You can take it home to
your wife.”
“My wife ?” he echoed. “I am not married.
Miss Nina.”
“ Not married ’ I thought—was not that
your, wile—that lady who was with you when
“ Olive.!” cried Avondale. “It is not lawful
for a man to marry his sister, is it ? No, Nina;
I have no wife. There is no one I would have
but you, and yon are sending mo away from
you.”
“ I did not know,” she said, tremulously. “ I
—do not want you to go now.”
“ Do you mean it ? ’ ha whispered joyously.
“ Nina, 1 lovo you I Will you come back as my
wife, and make the chrysanthemums grow at
Clayton Hights? Both I and the flowers need
you sadly.”
Nina hid her happy face on his shoulder.
“ Take me back home I” she whispered. “ I
love you.” And Nina’s heart-trouble was ended
for ever.
J ny
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