New York dispatch. [volume], July 04, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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LOVE LOST.
Many and ?nany a day she sat
On th** swelling sands by the sea;
Many sn i many a day she sigbed—
" Come back, oh, my love, to me !’
And over the sea, to the far oil'south.
And out to the west looked she;
And many and many a ship went by,
But never again came he.
”« Oh, fair and sweet were the words he spoke
When he saw me first that day;
Oh, he was the best and bravest man,
And I could not say him nay.
s?he fairest lover, the strongest man,
And shun me all who may,
Jle loved me well, and he loves me still.
Far and far away.”
jßut the warm days fled, and the leaves fell dead,
And the winds swept over the sea;
Oh, wild, wild waves,” in her grief shaeaid,
*• Hide him forever from me !”
And the wild waves rose, and the wild, wild wind
Blew outjrom the caves of the sea;
-A ship went down, and a man was lost—
Bitterly then wept she.
A grave scooped out on the yellow sands,
And a grave down under the sea—
Two plighted spirits wander apart.
Till the end of the world shall be.
A REMINISCENCE.
It has been for several years my intention, in
■tobedience to a promise of loxg ago, to publish
this memoir of the last hours of Canon Saintley.
jßut, oh fitting down to the task, I had always
tfound that mJ courage failed me. I never got
Ibeyond a few introductory remarks, and even
with these I found myself dissatisfied. Thus it
Us that for many years I abandoned the idea. It
Ss only now that, realizing how short a time is
left me in which to put my affairs in order, I
shave placed first among those of importance
this memoir of the old Canon. For it was with
Siis dying hand in mine that my promise to
write it was given, and those were lips
that blessed me for the promise, The years
are many between now and then, and yet my
hand trembles and my eyes are dim as I recall
the scene and commit it to words. It maybe
that the vividness of early childhood still paints
.the picture before my sight, and that what I
then felt in connection with it I shall always
feel.
The drowsy even-song was drawing to a close.
'lt had been so stiflingly hot all this long July
day, that we choristers of the Cathedral School
had for once felt willing to put on surplices and
inarch in procession up the cool cathedral
aisle,
I, for one, was rarely sleepy in church. I
loved the stillness and the music far too well.
But several of my companions had dozed off
during the last prayers, although they would
toaually manage to wake up and sing the final
Amen. I had generally some point of interest
ton which to fix my attention during service,
(which may have been the real reason for my
never falling asleep. Sometimes it was the long
rows of Charity School children, sometimes it
•was the sweet face of our dear old matron,
Whom I loved better than any one in the whole
world, and lately it ( had been the tall, old Canon,
who walked last in the procession when the
dean was not there, and who was just now
standing up to deliver the benediction.
' I had heard a great deal of talk about him in
fche last few weeks, for the poor old man was re
ported to be drawing near his and. He was in
reality far older than Jie looked, and during
khese last months, although never absent from
Ja single service, he had become more and more
J?ent, and his walk seemed very feeble this
Evening as he passed up into the chancel and
jteok his seat in the sub-dean’s stall.
! “ Old Saintley’s breaking up fast,” I heard
Xhe alto behind me whisper, and even the Pre
centor’s eyes were wandering after the tall, bent
©ld figure.
i I felt a curious sensation of wonder on look
ing at one who was so soon to die. How many
tetrange new things he would before long be
peeing, while I must wait many, many years be
fore they would be revealed to me 1 The young
{think more often of death than the middle-aged,
tor even the old. And, for my part, as I was an
orphan, my thoughts and speculations were
more about the dead than the living.
v As he stood there with clasped hands, his
•Voice-clear, though thin, coming in slow and
lingering tones, it seemed to me that he was al
ready gone, and that a spirit looked out of his
&reat, dark eyes. They had not changed their
look with age, but burned under his rugged,
Svhite brows with the intensity of other jears.
3ly gaze hung on him, and I felt as if I could
read his inmost thoughts. I saw his eyes wan
dering to the open doors, as though he were
taking his last look at the purple outline of the
Northern hills beyond. I could not have said
his gaze was sad or stern. But I knew
shis thoughts and mine were the same, and I
juried my burning cheeks in the sleeve of my
■surplice, as the dark eyes were suddenly turned
jinn me. “Be amongst you and remain with
:*ou always.” It was the last benediction he
fcpoke.
I After tea that Sunday afternoon those of us
who loved her gathered around our matron and
•■begged her to tell us stories of her vouth. Mrs.
Fay was the sweeteat-looking old lady I have
ever seen. She was very small and very thin,
zWvith tiny hands and feet. I used to think that
she looked like a fairy godmother, with her sil
ver hair, her long velvet cloak, and her gold-
Jimmed spectacles. Mrs. Fay was a widow,
With some little private property, but as she
had no children and was particularly fond of
boys, she had obtained the post of matron
In our school, and very good care she took of
ns.
I think she tried not to have favorites, although
I must own that I had managed to creep into
lier heart, perhaps because I was the only or
phanAn the school.
I hart come there many years ago, because I
was old enough to think of singing in the Ca
thedral, and my benefactor was the same old
©anon whom I had been watching so atten
tively of late. So much Mrs. Fay had told me,
but as he never sent for me, nor spoke 61 me, I
bad had no opportunity of thanking him lor
providing me with a home and education. Ido
hot remember ever to have seen mv
father, but I had a faint shadowy recol
lection of a fair-haired mother, who had
kissed me vehemently, with strange, sob
bing words that I could not understand, a
she bade me good-by at the railway station. I
had been given in charge to the guard, for as 1
jafterward understood, my mother was too poor
to take me from London to Northminster her
self. But she had written constantly to me and
to Mrs. Fay during our short separation. She
died a few months after I left her.
I had not the remotest idea why Canon Saint
ley provided for me. He was generally consid
ered a very hard man. He always walked
alone, and he was said to have no relatives and
very few, if indeed any, friends. Thinking over
these things all through tea made me more than
usually absent-minded, so that my companions
bad many jokes at my expense.
Borne time after we were all loitering in the
playground, when I saw Mrs. Fay coming to
ward us, with a note in her hand. We were
soon clustering round her, wh.le she, with a
rather awed expression on her face, beckoned
pae to her.
“ Boys,” she said, “ Canon Saintley has just
sent for one of you to go and see him.”
“ I held my breath while she put on her spec
tacles and looked over the note.
! “Michael Napier,” she said, and pointed to
.'has sent for. I don't Know why the canon wants
she went on, “ but he is very ill indeed,
the housekeeper says, and he expressed such a
Wish to see you that she could not refuse. I
will take you there myself directly. Perhaps
he may wish you to remain with him, but I do
not know.”
The boys had looked very frightened till it
became clear which of us was to go. Now they
smiled with reas*khred faces, and [this did not
serve to raise my sinking spirits.
“ He is a good old man, and I have no doubt
kind also, although he looks so steim,” Mrs.
Fay said, as we went quietly out of the school
.gates. But I was too miserable to take comfort
Xrom the remark.
We did not speak again until we got to the
cloisters. It was already twilight, and my
heart began to beat violently as we entered
those gloomy passages. Still, it was something
that dear old Mrs. Fay was still by my side.
We walked on in silence, and at length we
stood before the iron-studded oaken door of the
uCanon’s house.
• But here my feelings of awe and terror be
came too much for me, and I begged dear Mrs.
Fay to take me back to the school, i
' “No, no. Be brave, Michael dear. Poor old
■Canon Saintley is dying, and he wants to see
;you. You will not disappoint him?”
Her words fell with a strange clearness on
the stillness of the cloisters, and I trembled as
I looked at the door, as though 1 were half ex
pecting to see Canon Saintley’s spirit pass
Visibly through it.
A few minutes later and I had passed the
threshold. A silence more awesome than that
of the cloisters rested over the house, and only
gny tread and that of the housekeeper, on the
thickly carpeted passage, awoke a slight rust
ling as we went. Yet, strange to say, I now
lost my fears. I seemed to be no longer awake,
Jbut moving in some marvelous dream.
The housekeeper pulled aside a rich curtain
that shrouded a doorway, and knocked lightly
once or twice. thin voice, which I well
knew, called “Come in,” from the distance.
We entered a long, low room, its ceiling
crossed with black, oaken beams ; through the
latticed oriel I saw the outline 6f the distant
hills. A reading-lamp on a table by the bed
threw a softened light on the Canon’s white
hair. His long, thin hands held his watch,
which he had just been winding ; the key had
fallen to the ground, near the table. A furred
mantle had been thrown round his shoulders,
and a fire burned in the grate. To me the room
seemed chill and cheerless, although I had
found the day so overpoweringly hot.
The housekeeper led me to the bed, and,
obeying a motion of the Canon’s, placed me on
a chair beside him.
“So you have come, Michael Napier. Who
brought you?” asked the thin, clear voice.
“Mrs. Fay, our matron,” I murmured, in
ffeply.
“ Were you afraid to come ?” he asked.
“Yes,” I faltered. Had his spirit been near
me'all the way here ?
“ And what did Mrs. Fay tell you ?” he asked
presently.
I felt constrained to tell him. “ She said you
Were dying, air.”
There was a short pause and then he said,
“ Are you afraid to stay with me now ?”
“No, sir.’l was afraid,” I cried, “but not now.
I am not airaid any longer.”
He did not smile, but motioned to the house
keeper to leave him and me alone. “He shall
watch with me to-night,” he said. “ And I shall
not require anything. No doctor, mind, till to
morrow.” Hei laughed quoerly. “To-morrow,
to-morrow I Will you stay with me, Michael ?”
he asked.
“ Yes, sir,” I answered. He lay back, and
closed his eyes. Before leaving the room the
housekeeper bent to whisper to me: “If you
want anything, call me. I shall be all night in
the passage, outside, on a chair near the door.
You’re a brave boy and God bless you.” I
smiled and she passed noiselessly away.
“ What did the old woman say?” asked the
old Canon confronting me with his eyes.
I was obliged to tell him everything. “ But
you won’t call her,” he cried in his thin, clear
voice, “ I want—l will die alone with you —
since you have come. Promise,” ho said,
stretching out his hand for mine. I gave it
and promised, for I was under the spell of his
will.
He lay silent for a time and then said:
“ Michael, I have much to say to you, but none
must hear. Go quickly outside the door, and
tell me whether you can distinguish from out
side what lam saying.” He began speaking in
a low tone, and* I went outside, putting my
finger to my lips when the old housekeeper
wished to question me. I laid my ear to the
keyhole, but I could only distinguish a vague
murmuring coming from the room beyond.
“ No, 1 heard no words,” I said, as I returned
and sat down again.
“Michael,” said the old man, “you are a very
little lad; how old are you?”
“ Twelve years old last month, sir, the 21st,”
I answered.
“ You look about seven. Tell me, why do you
fix those gray eyes of yours on me when I say
the benediction in the Cathedral?” Again I was
compelled to tell him my every thought.
“ Well, you are right,” he said presently, “ I
shall soon be gone. And there is no one to be
sorry. Some will be glad. And yet you were
not afraid to come and see me die. I shall grow
very cold, Michael, cold as ice; and there will
be no sound in this room save the rustle of
death’s wings. You will not hear them, boy, so
you need not shudder. Don’t fix your eyes on
me so, Michael. Ah, you have your father’s
eyes 1 Poor Michael Napier I But you have got
her hair, her golden hair; my little tender
Rachel’s hair, so soft and fair, was like threads
of golden silk. ’ He sat up in his bed and pass
ed his handover my head as he said this.
“ I am dying,” he went on, “with only this
little lad to watch by me. You shall not repent
it, Michael, for somehow I knew you would
come. Michael, love much and many; I have
only loved myself, and now it profiteth me
nothing.” His eyes were fixed on my face with
a wistful look. “ I have so little time,” he
said, “ and so much to tell. Michael, you must
hear me out and judge, when all is told,
whether God can forgive me. I fear me much
he cannot. But you shall hear, and when lam
gone you must publish it, that all may know
what manner of man the good Canon Saintley
was.”
He groaned and whispered what sounded
like the fragment of a prayer. “ Promise that
you will publish the tale, that I may die in
peace.”
I faltered out “ I promise.”
“ I wish to do some good before I die. But
there is so little time.” He pointed to a leather
book and a pencil which lay on the table.
“ Take them,” he said, “ and write.”
“As a lad,” he began, “I was brought up to
know that I must make my way in the world I
was clever without being in any way a genius,
and my mother who was a widow, toiled day
and night at dressmaking to enable her to send
me to a good school. A rich lady who was in
terested in her, for she had been her maid, took
me up. 1 was put to a first-rate gentlemen’s
school; and when the lady died she left a suffi
cient sum to defray my college expenses, with a
view to my becoming a clergyman. I went up to
Oxford full of hopes and resolutions, and my
first examinations made me well spoken of
among the dons of my college. I gained several
prizes, but the Ireland was throughout the goal
of my ambition.
“ I was accompanied from school to college
by an inseparable friend, one Michael Napier, a
very handsome lad, who made as many friends
as 1 did few, for he was a brilliant talker and a
delightful companion, while I was shy, proud
and reserved. He knew all my history and
took the deepest interest in my plans, throwing
himself into my future as though it had been
his own. I was as attached to him as it was
possible for me to be to any one; tor my one
self, from earliest years, had been impressed
upon me as the first consideration. Napier,
though better born and better off than I was, in
his intercourse with me—he was some lew
months younger—invariably treated me as his
superior. He did not seem, in his humility, to
be conscious that, whereas I had talent, he had
genius and gifts, which would place him, with
little difficulty, in the front rank. I knew this
only too well, and so did all his numerous
friends.
“In our fourth year we both devoted every
spare moment to reading for the Ireland. Na
pier was a clever draughtsman and devoted to
his pencil. But he was content to neglect even
this favorite pursuit for more serious work.
His inspiring motive was that he was devotedly
attached to a young lady of higher rank than
his own, and in a brilliant university career,
with its attendant rewards, he saw his only
hope of succeeding in his suit. I alone knew of
this, and inwardly scoffed at Napier for so soon
giving*up his liberty.
“ One Sunday evening we dined with a large
and merry party. It was a warm June day, and
we leaned out of the windows watching the peo
ple passing to church. One of the company pro
posed—but not, I fear, in a spirit of devotion—
that we should follow their example, and it was
decided that a church not far off, noted for its
ritualistic services, would offer the best enter
tainment.
“ We hurried out, Napier catching up a small
dinner-bell as he ran through the hall. This
he concealed under his gown, and rang at in
tervals as we walked along, to our delight and
the surprise of the passers-by. The church
was brilliantly lighted and crowded to the
doors. It was seated with chairs, the men and
women being separated. I was behind our
three companions with Napier, who, putting the
bell care’ully on the floor between us, drew out
his note-book and began surreptitiously to
sketch some of the congregation.
“My nerves, which the severe study of the
last weeks had strained unduly, were excited
by the wine I had just been drinking, and {the
flaring gaslight and smell of incense served still
more to inflame my brain. I whispered and
laughed with Napier and our friends in front,
so that heads were several times turned in our
direction, and a verger was signaled to come
and watch us.
“Just then the preacher mounted the pulpit
stairs. After giving out his text, he stood for a
moment regarding the mass of people before
him with an air of solemn dignity, and it was
during this pause that I suddenly bent down,
and rang the dinner-bell loudly once or twice,
at the same time shouting, in a feigned voice :
“ ‘ Muffins ! muffins !’
“Napier, horror-struck, instantly leaned over
me and seized my hand.
“The congregation rose. There was a strug
gle, and, I knew not how, the verger was near
us, we were outside the church door, Napier
and I, and I heard him saying, in a firm voice:
“ * Yes, I did it. 1 tell you I did it—l rang
the bell.’
“1 felt as if I had been struck dumb. Ido
not, cannot, believe I then intended that Napier
should bear the blame for me. I simply stood
dazed and powerless to utter a word, while the
verger took down his name and college, with a
view of reporting the outrage to the Vice Chan
cellor. I did not sleep that night, and I re
mained in my rooms all the next day. At about
nine o’clock in the evening one of our com
panions of the previous night came to see me.
He volunteered the news for which I dared not
ask. Napier had been summoned before the
Vice Chancellor s court that morning; the verger
and several others had given evidence ; he had
denied nothing, and, although much regret was
expressed, the offense was considered a very
grave one, and the sentence was rustication for
a year. ‘ And he was sure of the Ireland, you
know,’added my friend, with tears in his eyes.
“ Sent down for a whole year; his short and
brilliant career over; this was what Napier’s
generosity had cost him. At the moment of de
tection he had rapidly summed up the com
parative value of his university course and
mine; the balance leaned heavily to me; so,
without a pause for regret, he took the step
backward which left me first in the race. I
never saw him again. He went down in the
course of the next few days, and by that time I
was too ill to leave my rooms. Our friends,
without exception, believed Napier guilty, and
my depression was attributed to unselfish regret
at his loss.
“ From that moment fortune turned a beam
ing countenance on me. I won the Ireland, ob
tained a fellowship at my own college and set
tled down to university life with the satisfied
consciousness of a future well provided for.
Napier, as had been anticipated, did not return
to Oxford. I did not, till some years afterward,
know the real reasons of this, for I made no at
tempt to meet him, nor to gain any news of him.
But the fatal cause of this separation ever
haunted my thoughts, and I often walked long
distances to avoid passing the church where we
had parted. I took orders, although such be
lief as I had ever had vanished in the moment
when I permitted wrong to triumph over right
at the great crisis of my life. I believed in my
self alone and my power to remove all obstacles
from the path of my ambition.
“ I obtained some reputation as a preacher,
and my published sermons were, I believe, the
cause of my future promotion; but that was not
till many years later. I did not intend to marry,
as that would have deprived me of my fellow
ship, and I learned increasingly to value my
present life of ease. I went abroad in the vaca
tions; my rooms were full of antiques and pic
tures in which poor Napier’s refined taste
would have rejoiced—poor Napier, to whom
they really belonged, they, my reputation and
my very soul. When, no matter where, this
thought came to me, I was seized with violent
shuddering and a terror, as of the presence of
death and judgment overpowered me. I made
no friends, for I dared not cultivate an intimacy
which might result in a self-revelation.
“ I was now approaching middle age. At the
beginning of a Summer vacation I happened to
spend a few days in London on my way to the
Continent. One evening I wandered out and
amused myself with looking into the picture
shops in a street near my hotel. I had been fond
of doing so years ago with Napier, who could
NEW YORK DISPATCH. JULY 4, 1886.
never pass a picture-shop without looking in to
admire or to criticise.
“On this particular evening I found much to
interest me in one of the smaller of the shops.
There was in the window a set of lovely sketches
of the Thames near Oxford, which I found to be
both true and suggestive; suggestive also of
Napier, of whose careful style they reminded
me. Feeling myself to be securely unknown in
the great city and unable to suppress my secret
desire for news of him, I passed into the shop,
intending to purchase the pictures and to learn
the artist’s name.
“ My entrance interrupted a hurried conver
sation which was being carried on between the
dealer, who spoke in harsh tones, and a young
girl, who shrank into the background when I
appeared. I asked my question, and while the
shopman bent to examine the price, I turned
and looked at the girl.
“It was the most beautiful face I had ever
seen. I looked until she blushed under her
shabby, black bonnet, as though she were afraid
that my glance might be criticizing her poor
dress and threadbare shawl. She had thick
waves of fair hair lying smoothly on a low fore
head, and her large, dark-blue eyes, set far
apart, were full of sweetness and intelligence.
I thought she gave a little, wistful smile when I
paid for the sketches and put them under my
arm. I stood, Ido not know why, still looking
in at the window some time after. The conver
sation was continued within, and I detected
some fragments which led me to conclude that
the dealer was buying some pictures from the
girl and driving a hard bargain. She was so
young to be thus occupied alone, at that hour,
that my pity was aroused, and, without any
definite plan, I waited until she came out of the
shop. She lingered for a moment; then she
saw me, and I noticed that she blushed again,
and seemed to hesitate whether she should
speak to me or not. I suppose my age.and my
clerical dress gave her confidence in me. She
came a little nearer, and pointing to the sketches
under my arm, she said timidly, ‘ Would you
like to see some other pictures done by the
same artist who did those?’
“She looked straight at my eyes with a brave
innocence. Her unconscious beauty acted on
me Ike a spell. My heart actually beat more
quickly, with a sensation that was new to me.
She drew a portfolio from under her poor
shawl, and cautioning me to walk on a short
distance, in case the dealer should be watching
us, she held up the pictures one by one for me
to see. ‘He is such a ryird man, and this is
against his rules,’ she said. ‘My poor brother
and I are quite dependent on his favor.’
“ I admired the sketches, particularly those
she had herself done. They were cleverer than
her brother’s, although less finished. I bought
nearly the whole portfolio, for which she asked
but a modest sum ; and in return I learned her
history and her address. She told me she was
only seventeen, and that her lather, who had
been a poor London curate all his days, had
lately died, leaving her and a crippled brother
totally unprovided for. They were now with
difficulty supporting themselves by the sale of
their paintings to the dealer.
“‘ I suppose I might be a governess,’ she
said, ‘ but I could not leave my brother. He is
very ill just now, and I can only get away when
he sleeps.’
“ I parted ftom her at her home and strolled
back to my hotel, still under the spell of her in
fluence.
“I did not go abroad for several weeks. In
stead, I paid daily visits to the poor house of
the children artists ; and, perhaps, the one kind
action of my long, selfish life was that of bright
ening the crippled boy’s last days on earth. A
kind action—but by no means a disinterested
one. I was in love with his sister, and my in
stinct told me that kindness to her brother was
the surest way to win her heart. At times I felt
I could relinquish my life of ease at Oxford to
have her always at my side, but this was only
at times. When, after the death of the boy, I
returned to my college, old habits reasserted
themselves and I dreaded any change of life.
But, notwithstanding this, we were now for
mally although secretly engaged. Rachel still
continued to board in the same house, and la
bored with her old diligence at her painting, re
fusing the allowance which I wished to give her.
I always found her bending over her easel, a
large painting-apron covering her shabby
dress.
“It was understood between us that when a
good college living offered I should accept it
and we should be married. Yet, inwardly, I
hoped that many years would elapse before this
would happen.
“We had been engaged for five years. One
day when we were walking together, Rachel
surprised me by offering earnestly to release
me from my engagement. She did not realize
that it was her youth which was being wasted
by my selfishness ; she only feared that she was
spoiling my life, which, she said, there were
many others much worthier to share. Overcome
by her generosity, I declared that my life w r as
hers only, and I left her reassured and happy.
“ Soon after, the incumbent of a valuable
benefice in the gift of my college died, and the
living was offered to me. It was in almost
every respect a suitable place, the only draw
back being that it was situated far away from
any town, on the wildest part of the Yorkshire
moors. I went down to see it, and spent a few
days in the vicarage house. In that lonely
region, my spirit undisturbed by the influences
of society, at once becajneaprey to the bitterest
feelings of remorse. Napier’s face again haunted
me at every turn; and when I entered the quiet
country church my own unrepented sin seemed
to arise and accuse me. I could not face a life
time in such a desolate place. I fled back to
Oxford, and shutting my eyes to all possible
consequences, 1 refused the living.
“I suppose this was the death-blow to Rachel’s
hopes. I received a short and sorrowful letter
from her in answer to mine which announced
what I had done. She gave me my liberty and
assured me that nothing could now induce her
to alter her decision. On reading her brave and
gentle words I found it hard to stifle my regret
and affection. I had loved her indeed, although
I loved myself more. Yet, before long I man
aged to persuade myself that I had been ill
treaied, and I answered her letter with a cruelty
that must have deeply wounded her sensitive
mind. She made no reply, and I banished her
from my heart. It had been better for her had
she never met me that Summer evening. Those
who have loved me have suffered—always suf
fered.”
The minster clock struck 12, but 1 felt no in
clination to sleep. My heart beat fast with fear
lest the old man should die before all was told.
He had been making a great effort. His voice
had been getting weaker and weaker, and his
eyes grew dimmer each moment. Now all was
still in the room. It became very cold, and, as
I looked on his white and quiet face, I asked
myself if he was dead.
But suddenly he opened his eyes, and began
to speak again.
“ Michael, Michael, I am dying. Give me
that glass of water. You are a gentle boy.
Heaven bless you, Michael, for helping mo to
die!”
His eyes closed. I prayed to God that he
should live.
“Michael,” he began, speaking with diffi
culty, “ there is not much left to tell. Some
years after Rachel wrote to me that she had
married—an artist, a friend of her brother’s.
She begged lor my forgiveness if she had
wronged me. Wronged me ! I laughed when
I read the words. Yet from that moment my
heart was dead. I felt then all I had lost. I
gathered that it was a poor marriage. But she
wrote that ‘he loved her and she had been so
lonely.’ The signature was ‘ Rachael Napier.’ ”
“My mother 1” I said, in an awed whisper.
After a long pause Canon Saintley continued:
“Two or three years after, an old college
friend, named Blackwood, was dining with me
in my rooms. His first words were, had I seen
Napior’s death in that morning’s paper ? The
shock of the disclosure almost stunned me, and
I was compelled to leave the room for some
minutes to compose myself. We sat talking
till late of the time when we three had been at
Oxford together. He expressed surprise that I
had never met Napier again, and asked me
whether I had ever heard what his history had
been. I murmured that 1 had not.
“ He told me that Napier s after life had been
been ruined by that Sunday evening’s adven
ture. The young lady to whom he was engaged
had refused to see him again after he left Ox
ford, without giving any reason; his relatives
had treated him with coldness, instead of sym
pathy, and bis heart was broken. He was
unable to settle to anything ; and then he had
taken to bad ways, and for a time nothing was
to be heard of him. His mother, who had be
lieved in him in spite of everything, stood by
him to the last. But she had been unable to
help him, owing to heavy money losses; and
she died in comparative poverty not many years
after. Napier had been devoted to her, and
her death seemed to sober him. He turned
over a new leaf, and found occupation in his
old art of drawing, by which he soon began to
earn a living. He worked with untiring perse
verance and much success for many years,
when he married a lovely woman, herself an
artist, named Rachel Moore. Blackwood added
that he had heard that Napier had taught her
and her brother drawing, when they were
children.
“ At the name of Rachel Moore I sprang from
my chair, but hastily controlling myself, I
signed to Backwood to finish his tale. There
was no more to tell. Napier’s death, although
I had not seen it, was in that morning’s papers.
“A gloom fell over me and my companion,
pressing my hand with sympathy, soon left me
to my wretched thoughts. I was a haunted
man.
“ A few months later the canonry of North
minster was offered to me by the crown, and 1
hailed the preferment as affording a change of
scene. I determined to leave Oxford forever,
and to take up my residence at Northminster.
I sold all my pictures and valuable curiosities
which I had collected. The sight of these
beautiful objects only helped to remind me of
the past.
“ 1 never saw Rachel again, but one day I re
ceived a letter from her. It was a touching let
ter, and my eyes filled as I read it. Nothing
could have induced her to write for herself, she
said, but for her fatherless boy she had com
pelled herself to ask for help. And she had no
one to go to but myself. In memory of our
friendship of long ago, would I do something
for the boy ? Perhaps my interest would ob
tain him a place in some charitable institution,
where he might be educated and fitted for sup
porting himself when he grew up. He was five
years old, she said; a good little lad, and a great
comfort to her. It hurt her so to part with
him, but it would be for his good. She had
strength enough still to work for herself. She
did not refer to my knowledge of her husband,
and I saw that he had been faithful to the end.
I wrote back a short note. I said that a vacan
cy had occurred in the Northmiuster Choir
School, to which I had promised to nominate
her son. 1 would pay whatever was wanting
to complete her boy's support while he was
there. But i offered no word of sympathy or
kindness to the woman whom I had wronged—
to the widow of the man whose lite I had ruin
ed. She wrote gratefully in answer. She must
have pined after you; she died very soon after
you left her.
“I did not go to see you when you came.
Mrs. Fay often spoke to me of you, wishing, no
doubt, to interest me in my protege. She had
taken a fancy to you, because you were so
small for your age, and you had such pretty
ways, she said. For some time I dreaded to
look in the direction of the little schoolboys,
who followed the old lady into the cathedra].
When 1 heard that you had boon admitted into
the choir, and visitors said that your singing
was beautiful, I used to try and close my ears
during the anthem solos, lest I should distin
guish your mother’s tones in your young voice.
I never looked at you, lest your face should re
call your mother’s to me.
“ Yet one night, while you were singing, and
every eye was turned on you, I felt compelled
to look. It was a still Summer evening, and
the sunset streamed through the painted win
dows. The cathedral was flooded with light.
It shone on your fair hair and your little sur
plice. The anthem was Steggall’s ‘Remember
now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.’
‘Vanity of vanities,’ swelled the great chorus,
‘all is vanity.’ To one conscience, at least, the
words seemed to strike the keynote of a wasted
life. And then your voice alone was heard
softly repeating, ‘Remember now thy Creator
in the days of thy youth.’ As you whispered
the words you slowly turned your face full on
me. Ah, how I Buffered then ! I saw in you
an avenging angel. For you had your father’s
eyes, and to my overwrought imagination they
seemed to meet mine with a childish look of
anguish and reproach. God had sent the child
image of my dead friend to haunt me till my
death.
“ After that you never sang but my attention
was fastened on you only. And again and again
I fancied that your sad young gaze followed me
reproachfully. Mrs. Fay often spoke of you,
but I could not summon courage to address
you myself.”
******
The faint traces of the fingers of dawn were
laid on the summits of the northern hills as
the old Canon’s voice ceased. Looking through
the latticed oriel, I could see innumerable
birds come swiftly from the trees in the garden
below. A deep sigh seemed to sound from the
sleeping world without. Nature was rousing
herself to wake; she breathed again.
The room grew colder and colder. An icy
presence seemed to be creeping toward me. I
shuddered at the felt consciousness of an invisi
ble entrance. The candles were burned to their
sockets. I heard the minster clock strike three.
I fearful hush fell.
“ Michael!” I drew closer to the bed. “ Take
my hand, Michael,” he said. I took the chilly
hand between both of mine. “ Hold fast, Mi
chael ; don’t let go,” he said, faintly. He
blessed me with one hand on my head, the
other still clasping mine.
“Michael, God bless thqe, lad ! It grows
very dark. It is cold —very cold ! Think of
me with love—pity—when you pass my grave.
Turn my face toward the rising sun. I ever
loved the warm sunshine. Michael—Rachel—
they are coming—your sake—they forgive.”
» ******
The hours crept on. The minster bells chimed
eight. 1 sat still, holding his cold hand in mine.
Then suddenly my dazed eyes fell upon the old
matron’s sweet face, and I fell senseless into her
arms.
I was found to be the old man’s sole heir. I
was now well provided for—even rich.
But it was only to the dear old matron that I
ever gave a full account of his last hours, or
told the sad story of Canon Saintley’s remorse.
—GenHeman’s Magazine,
SOME NEW STORIES.
About the Alleged Beturn of Spirits
from Beyond the Grave.
(From the Cleveland Plaindealer.)
The investigation of spiritualistic phenomena
will soon acquire a vast stock of factsnot singly
very important and not when standing alone of
much interest, but taken together throwing
great light on the problem. It is the generali
zation from many observed facts that the strict
scientific life method demands and that will in
the end lead to the establishing of important
truth rather than swift conclusions from any is
olated phenomena, however startling. These
minor matters that are come upon in the course
of investigation have no interest to the student
of occult science that they do not possess for
the ordinary reader, and being detached from
the group in which they belong lose interest in
the narration. Nevertheless the following may
not be uninteresting :
A gentleman well known all over this city
and beyond its limits, who has for many years
been an investigator of Spiritualistic phenom
ena, related to the writer recently the following
experience with that curious little instrument,
the planchette. This is nothing but a little
board on wheels with a pencil stuck through
one end. Being placed upon a sheet of paper
with the fingers of a sensitive person resting
lightly upon the top, it will move bach and forth
across the paper, writing messages, generally
trivial and inconsequential, but sometimes sig
nificant, as the storv will show.
“ I bought one of these instruments,” said the
gentleman, who may—for convenience of nar
ration—be called Mr. S., and began to experi
ment with it. After repeated trials, in which it
did nothing but make indefinite scrawls, it
suddenly one evening drew a five-pointed star.
I got more paper and tried again, and again the
planchette drew a five-pointed star. I repeated
the experiment over and over in hope of obtain
ing some clew to its meaning, but every time
that star appeared and nothing more. The
same thing was repeated day after day for two
or three weeks, and I concluded that the star
was devoid of any significance to me. One
evening later, in company with my wife, I visited
my friend, Mr. 0. H., at his house and took my
planchette along. As Mr. H. was, like myself,
an investigator of occult phenomena and his
wife had some medium powers, we sat down
with the planchette and I placed my hand on it
and the five-pointed star appeared as usual.
Then my friend Mr. H. and his wife placed
their hands on the board and it wrote under it:
“‘Don’t my old comrade know what that
means ?’
“ I thought a moment, and it flashed over me
in an instant what the meaning of the star was.
I said nothing, but asked :
“ ‘ Was it red, white or blue?’
“ ‘ Red,’ the answer came.
“The answer was not according to my
thought, but I let it pass. I said :
“ ‘Can't you write the meaning?’
“ ‘Fourth Brigade, 2d Division, 7th Corps.’
“ The meaning was clear. The five-pointed
star was the emblem of the old Seventh Army
Corps iirwhich I had served as soldier in the
late war, but the color named was wrong, as
red was not the color of the division mentioned.
I asked for the name of the spirit communicat
ing, and the planchette wrote the name:
“ ‘Henry L. Adams.’
“ The name was the name of a comrade who
was killed in battle by my side, and the star
was the star of our corps. But presently the
planchette wrote again:
“ ‘I made a mistake just now.’
“ ‘What was it?”
“ ‘>ur color was white, not red.’
“This was so. No one there knew that but
myself, nor what corps the star was the emblem
of, nor the name of my comrade. But some in
telligence, acting through that little board,
knew. Was it not my comrade himself? Or, if
not, who or what was it?”
The writer may explain that he is not sure
that he gives the number of the brigade, division
or corps correctly in narrating the story, as he
took no notes when it was told him, and has
forgotten just what the numbers were. But
this is not material to the story, as Mr. S. gave
them correctly when he told it.
A lady, now a medium of great reputation,
told the writer that long before she knew of
her mediumist'c powers she bought a plan
chette out of curiosity, and on the first trial it
wrote a name she had never seen before, and
she had never known any one with that name.
Her husband was present, and she asked him
if he knew who that was, showing him the
name.
“As well as I know you,” he said, “ but the
man is dead. He was in my company in the
army, and we were often together. But I can
soon find out if it is the same man. Ask him
what were the last words he said to me before
we went into the fight in which he was killed.
She asked the question, and the board wrote :
“If I’m killed and go to h—, I’ll shovel coals
for you when you come.”
“ These were his very words,” said the lady’s
husband ; “ the last he ever spoke to me. He
was a profane and reckless man, and he said
that, laughing, just a little while before he was
shot.”
Rather a tough problem for the very learned
persons who explain away all such phenomena
as unconscious cerebration, molecular action,
electrical and so on.
A lady whose genuine and remarkable clair
voyant powers the writer has had abundant
opportunity to test, and whose truth and hon
esty he has no reason to doubt, related the fol
lowing :
“ A few mornings ago I was awakened from
sleep by the sense of some presence in the room.
I looked toward the door ot my bed-room. I saw
a man standing there. I saw him as plain as I
ever saw anything. He was a tall, slender old
man, with thin white hair. I felt frightened so
I could not speak, and I heard the figure speak.
It said :
“‘I am Perry Harrington. I am the man
they say Webster killed. He did not kill me.
My wife was mistaken. They will hang an inno
cent man if they hang him. I was killed by a
tramp. Miss Hall can tell if she will ’
“ With that the white-haired old man made a
curious gesture with his hand, stroking, as it
seemed, his white hair, and vanished. Now, I
had not been reading about the Webster case
nor thinking about it. I did not know Harring
ton’s name was Perry, nor did I ever hear the
name of Miss Hall. 1 had no knowledge at all
until I afterward looked it up that such a person
was connected with the case.”
Only a half-waking dream most people will
say, a phantom conjured up by the mind un
consciously from facts stored away and forgot
ten. It may be. And yet, how can the mind
consciously or unconsciously evoke from within
itself what never was there, form a correct pic
ture of a man never seen, and bring to knowl
edge names never heard ? Does not the theory
of “ unconscious cerebration ” have to stand a
severe strain when it is stretched to cover such
cases ?
TI-hEODIZEI) JURISTS.
Thrilling Experience of Two Lawyers
With a Bear.
(From, the San Francisco CaXl.)
In the foothi'lls of Sonoma county, not many
miles from the town of there is a
neat, cosy country house, built on a knoll. It is
covered with clinrbing roses, white, pink and
yellow, carefully trained, and the foliage and
blossom is here and theue intertwined with
jassemine and English honeysuckle. From a
brpad portico in front of the building one ob
tains a view that is enchanting. At the foot of
the grassy slope that leads to the dwelling runs
a silvery stream, in the pools of which disport
the beautiful speckled trout. This place, one of
the most pleasant in that section of the county,
is the home of the Lawlers, the parents of
Judge Lawler, of the Police Court ot this city.
Whenever the Judge seeks relaxation from
official cares, he takes a run up to that home to
inhale the pure country air and expunge from
his lungs the foul dust-laden atmosphere of his
court. One Saturday, a few weeks since, he
started Sonomaward, and on the train fell in
with one of the legal lights who practice in the
criminal courts—a gentleman noted for the
eloquence which time and again has entranced
the occupants of the back seats ot the police
courts.
“Judge/ 7 said Judge Lawler, extending the
hand of friendship to him, “on your way into
the country for a little outing ?”
“Yes, your Honor,” responded the party ad
dressed, who, at one time, hung over the door
of a primitive shanty in Carson, in the early
days of the Comstock excitement, a shingle, on
which was traced in rude characters, the awe
inspiring words: “ Office ot the Justice of the
Peace—M. Burns, Justice.”
“If you have no particular objective point,
and would like to stay over Sunday,” said
Judge Lawler, “come up with me, and if you
are fond of hunting, we’ll go up in the hills to
morrow and seek the jack-rabbit, the cotton
tail, and if we don't happen to sight a deer, we
may run across a bear.”
“ Judge, von honor me. I was about to offer
an excuse, but when you spoke of the possibili
ty of meeting a bear, then you touch me in a
tender spot, and I will avail myself of your
kindness,” said Judge Burns, his rubicund
face shining with smiles. “Do you know,
Judge,” continued he, “that if there is any
thing upon which I pride myself, it is bear
hunting. I have spent hours following the trail
of some monster bruin in the canyons of the
Sierra, and, Indian-like, have sneaked up to
him and plunged the deadly bowie into him or
sent a bullet from a mime rifle or six-shooter
crashing through his brain. Oh, it’s glorious
sport 1 Just show me, Judge, where there is a
bear trail and I’ll show you some rare sport.”
The journey was finished, and bright and
early on Sunday the two jurists started on
their morning peregrination in the shady wild
woods in the rear of the Lawler home, each
carrying arms of the most approved pattern.
“There, your Honor.” said Judge Burns,
suddenly striking an attitude and bringing a
rifle enjeu t “that’s the position to strike when
you see a bear.”
“ And as you speak,” said Judge Lawler, “ if
I am not mistaken, there is a bear trail on the
road in front of us.”
“Them’s bear prints,” said Judge Burns,
who got down on his knees to examine them.
While speaking he chanced to raise his head,
and fifty yards from him, moving leisurely along,
he saw a bear of the cinnamon species, and,
without changing his position, uttered, in an
undertone, “Judge, run to cover; the bear’s
coming!”
Judge Lawler crossed the road at a jump,
and never stopped until he reached the top of
the most convenient pine. On his way up, find
ing that a fowling-piece was an incumbrance in
lively climbing, he allowed it to drop to the
ground. When he had reached a pla*be ot
safety, and was resting from the exertion of
ascending without ladder or steps, he looked
around for his valiant companion, the great
bear hunter of the Sierra, and failed to see the
Judge, but observed on the ground, at the
point where he had last seen the irresistible
Nimrod, the rifle which the Judge had carried.
Close to the discarded weapon was the cinna
mon monster with the shaggy coat, pacing the
road from one side to the other. Judge Law
ler’s first thought was that the bear had swal
lowed his companion, but almost simultaneous
ly his fears were relieved by the voice of his
vanished companion exclaiming in frightened
tones:
“ For God’s sake, judge, don’t move, or he’ll
be up the tree alter us.”
Turning in the direction of the voice, Judge
Lawler saw the Nimrod of tire Sierras astride of
a branch of an adjacent oak, which was quiver
ing like an aspen.
“ Why don’t you shoot him?” queried the po
lice judge.
“ I can’t,” came the tremulous answer; “my
rifle’s in the road, and my pistol dropped out
oljmy pocket as I was climbing for this branch.
I wonder if he can climb?”
Just then the bear put his paws against the
tree and reared up as if about to answer the
question, and the Nimrod of the Sierras fled up,
with a yell, to the topmost twig of the oak.
where he hung like a woodpecker. Several
hours were spent in this delightful fashion,
each jurist wildly hugging his tree, while the
bear passed from one to the other, ever and
anon making a feint to climb, and once in a
while amusing himself by pawing the firearms
that lay on the ground.
At length, just as the brute took a notion to
move off out of sight in the brush, a farmer was
seen coming down the road, and he was hailed
with “ Ah, there,” to which came the well
known reply, “ stay there.”
“That’s just what we don’t want to do,” re
marked Judge Burns.
“Maybe some of you fellers haven’t seen a
cinnamon bear around here, have you ?” asked
the farmer.
“Maybe we have,” mournfully replied Judge
Burns, “and maybe we haven’t been kept up
here for three hours by that ferocious brute.”
The farmer chuckled and then called ont:
“ Here, Jim ; here, Jim,” whereupon the bear
started in his direction the same as a pet dog
would have done, and the farmer turned, fol
lowed by his bear, but before going he remarked:
‘Gentlemen, that’s a pet bear I raised since a
cub, and he wouldn’t hurt a baby. I’m much
obliged to you for not having shot at him.
Good day.”
The two jurists descended from their places
of safety and registered a solemn vow to pre
serve the story a grim secret all the days of
their lives, but somehow it got out.
GOOD COMMON SENSE.
SENATOR HEARST’S PRACTICAL
CHARITY.
(From the San Francisco Post.)
Senator Hearst may not have the personal
graces of a Brummel or the oratorical gifts of a
Cicero, but the top of his head is devoid of un
dulations. The Senator is not mean—on the
contrary, he is generous with his money—but
he is not in the habit ot releasing his grip on a
dollar until he knows where it is going. For
instance:
“ Please, sir, will you assist a poor man who
is out of work and has a family dependin’ on
him ?”
This inquiry was made by a fellow who dart
ed out of a dark doorway near the Senator’s
newspaper office one evening last Winter.
The Senator turned a watery eye on the beg
gar, saw his unshaven mug, his shabby rai
ment and unwashed, shaky hands.
“So you’ve got a family, have you? Where
d’ye live ?”
“Round on Pacific street, sir.”
“Go ahead and take me there. If you ain’t
lyin’, I’ll do the square thing, pardner.”
The man had a family, sure enough. He
showed the Senator into a foul room in the third
story of a rookery. There were three children,
a decent-looking woman and a sewing-machine.
The woman wept when questioned. They were
very poor and often hungry. All their troubles
came from the drunkenness of the husband.
That culprit sullenly owned to the truth of this
statement.
“All right,” said Uncle George, rising. He
gave the woman a sum of money that made her
speechless.
“ Come along with me,” said Hearst to the
husband, who obeyed with alacrity.
At the next corner the Senator turned the
amazed man over to a policeman.
“Book this fellow for vagrancy,” said the
philanthropist. “I’ll appear against him to
morrow. He's been striking me for a piece.”
“ Now, you,” said Uncle George next day,
when he had secured a sentence of three
months for the loafer, “if you’ve a mind to be
decent when you get out, come to me and I’ll
give you a show.”
And the man, three months later, did come.
Uncle George sent him and his family to one of
his ranches, where, to do the fellow justice, he
has avoided the bottle and behaved himself.
“I ain’t opposed to drinkin’,” the Senator is
given to remarking. “If a man can afford it,
it’s all right; but when he can’t, I go in for
Bendin’ him to jail.”
“POKAIRE.”
TOO MUCH FOR THE FOREIGNER.
A Frenchman was lately traveling in the
United States, and, having an eye to bnsiness,
was investigating our institutions, amusements
and commercial enterprises.
Among them he was introduced to the jolly
Western pastime called poker—a new game to
him. Nevertheless, he proved to be an apt
scholar, and was soon “bluffing” with courage
quite astonishing.
Monsieur, however, was an easy goose to
pluck, and, as a natural consequence, in a short
time he was a heavy loser. He was much dis
gusted and informed hie friends:
“I no play no more—w’at you call zis?”—
pushing his cane backward and forward, “ zat
you call pokaire. Ino wish more to hear ze
name of pokaire in my two ears.”
No amount of assurances o! better luck would
swerve him, and he was not sensitive to any re
mark suggestive of the game.
The fire one day at his hotel would not burn.
Calling a servant he insisted:
“ I want you to make ze fire burn—make it
hot.”
The servant replying, “ Yes, sir, I w:ll give it
a good stirring up with a poker,” was fright-
ened out of his wits by having the Frenchman
fly into a rage, and push him out unceremoni
ously, yelling :
“ You rascal, if you say pokaire to me I will
cut your throat off close to your head I”
The servant did not again encounter him un
til the following morning, when, not yet in the
best of humor, he inquired the way to the break
fast-room.
“Zis 2o way to ze breakfast ?” he asked.
“No, sir; that door loads to an ante-room.
This way, please.”
The Frenchman was furious.
“ Mon Dieu I” he cried, “ I quit zis house. I
ask for to make ze fire to burn, and you say yon
want pokaire. I ask for ze breakfast, and you
show to me ze ante-room. I want no more ante;
I wa'nt no more pokaire.”
He hurriedly paid his bill and left, thoroughly
convinced that every one in America paid more
attention to poker than to any other branch of
business.
Win
It being Summer, of course picnic parties are
all the rage. The lads and lassies, arrayed in
their best, attend and enjoy themselves. Not
withstanding their enjoyment, wo think, how
ever, they’ll find truth in this
PICNIO PROPHESY.
The picnic season now is here,
And the paragraphist
Must furbish up with new veneer
The jests we have long missed.
The young man in new light pants.
Will crush the blithe squash-piei
The sandwiches alive with ants
Will make the children cry.
Fond lovers in the forest glade.
Their eager love will tell.
When all at ouce the timid maid
Will see a snake and yell.
The man who swings the pretty girls
Will make his shoulders lame;
The dude who tries to row a boat
Will wonder why he came.
The thunder-storm that ends the fun
Will crash down prompt at four;
With startled shrieks the girls will run
And drabbled skirts deplore.
Oh, yes, the picnic season's here,
And the paragraphist
Will do his duty, never fear,
And yet he'd not be missed.
This young wife haa many pleasing things in
reserve for her when the opportunity for their
use arises. She may, perhaps,
ASTONISH HIM OTHERWISE THAN PLEASURA
BLY.
Yesterday I bought a little red receipt book of a
phasing young man who called at the door. His
eyes were so deep and dark, and his voice so plead
ing, that I would have purchased the book if I had
to borrow the money. The book is a very useful
one, and it is bound in the same color as my new
dog.
It tells how to make custards, blanc manges and
floating island. It also tells you in the back part
how to cure heaves, glanders and botts. I can
hardly wait till George gets the botts, so that I can
bring out my little red volume and win him back
to life aud joy again. It also gives away other in
formation. Anyone with this book in the house
can go right to work aud take a person through
a long seige of croup or yellow fever with
out a doctor, and there’s a whole lot of law in it, so
that George won't have to have a lawyer or a doc
tor, and we can save a great deal that way. Why
will people fritter away their money on doctors and
lawyers when they can get one of these books so
cheap ?
Yesterday our landlady gave me a slip of olean
der, and I have planted it in a cute little pitcher in
the window, where it is slowly growing as I write.
It hardly seems possible that some day it will be a
large tree with little yellow knobs on it.
All we now need is a home and some furniture,
for I have already secured the oleander.
I bought some rhubarb at a drug store this morn
ing, and to-morrow I will make a couple of pies.
George is passionately fond of rhubarb pies.
It wasn’t a failure, but
HE HAD TO MAKE AN ASSIGNMENT.
A Dakotian met an old friend while on an Eastern
trip.
I hear that Bill Applejack, who went out to your
country, has failed in business.”
“YeV
“ Hard times ?”
“No.”
“Too much competition ?”
“ No; I think not.”
“Too little attention to business ?”
“Oh, no; he worked hard.”
“ I don’t see you he failed, then ?”
“ Well, you see, a few determined gentlemen on the
Board of Trade got a new inch-rope around his neck
and forced him to make an assignment.”
“ Horses ?”
“ Horses.”
Never forget that the straight truth is best
when making
A “ HOSS ” SALE.
A man was driving across the country in Dakota
when he came to a house with a man hobbling
around the yard on a crutch. A fine-looking horse
was tied to a post near by, and the traveler stopped
and said:
•• Is that horse for sale ?”
“Well, now, I’ll tell jest how 'tis bout that air boss.
You see it is the one my wife drives, and I don’t
know as she'd want ter part with it. It’s a Very
gentle boss, very gentle.”
•• That’s what I want—a horse that is gentle and
kind.”
“ That jest hits that boss precisely, pardner; no
easier boss to handle in the country.”
“ Never kicks, I suppose ?”
“ Never knew him ter histe his foot 'cept to
walk.”
“ What is it worth ?”
“ That’s jest it—don’t b’lieve lean sell him—my
wife would miss him so. Tell you what 11l do,
though; you give me $175 fer that boss, and I’ll try
and break in one of the colts fer her to drive. Don’t
b’lieve I can ever get ’em as gentle as he is, but
seein’ you want him, I'll let you have him fer
that.”
« Well, I’ll take him. What makes you so lame ?”
Oh, rheumatiz got holt uv mo ag’in—jest 'bout
used me up. I’ll tie the boss behind yer wagon
fer you.”
“All right. Your barn seems to be scattered
around somewhat; cyclone strike it ?”
“ Well, now, I should say there did—reg’lar
twister uv a tornado jest spread it all 'round.
There, you’ll find that boss’ll lead all right, and be
jest as gentle’s a kitten. Good day, stranger, yer’ve
got a mighty fine barg’in there; that boss is sound
and wouldn't hurt a fly.”
The man drove off, and a boy crawled out from
under the house, and said:
“Dad, it’s a mighty good thing old Bill stopped
kicking ’fore he come 'long.”
•‘You bet it wuz, my son. He had jest sent the
last board of the barn flyin’ over in the garden,
and the dust was jest settlin’ when the feller drove
up. I guess he busted two uv my ribs and put my
leg sorter out uv j’int the first kick he made, but I
reckon $175 will fix ’em up. I wuz afraid he’d
back up and begin on the barb wire fence while the
man was here, but he didn't happen to. 'Bout the
time he planted his foot ip my ribs, I’d o’ took
ninety cents fer him, but I s’pose it’s jest as well
ter get a fair price. Always remember, my son,
in future life, ef yer sellin’ yer wife’s favorite
buggie boss, jest own right up ter it, and put on a
good price ter soothe yer wounded feelin’s at seein’
it go. Never forget that the straight truth is the
best in a time like this.”
We have here a startling case of
HONOR AMONG THIEVES.
A burglar was going through a house in a Dakota
town one night and discovered an exceptionally
large roll of money. Curious to know whether he
had broken into an editor’s house or that of some
other variety of capitalist, he turned to the owner,
who had just awakened, and said:
“Excuse me, Colonel, but I would like to inquire
how you came by such an unusually large wad of
wealth?”
“Sir,” replied the moneyed man, “I am a mem
ber of the Territorial Legislature.”
“A thousand pardons!” exclaimed the polite
burglar, dropping the money. “Shake! We never
steal from members of the profession. Good
night !”
This man would undoubtedly grow rich but
for
A FATAL DRAWBACK.
An Eastern drummer who was in Knoxville, listen
ed to the complaints of a mountaineer about hard
times lor ten or fifteen minutes, and then observed:
“ Why, man, you ought to get rich shipping green
corn to the Northern markets/’
“ Yes, I orter,” was the reply.
“You have the land I suppose, and can get the
seed.”
“ Yes.”
“Then why don’t you go into tho speculation ?’*
•• No use, stranger,” sadly remarked the native;
“ the old woman is too darned lazy to do the plow
ing and planting.”
It is very shocking that a pious young man
should be imprisoned for
SELLING BIBLES.
A party of ladies were being shown through the
Arkansaw penitentiary. One of the party, upon
noticing a handsome young fellow, thus addressed
him :
•• You are a very young man to be in such a place
as this.”
“Yes ’um.”
“What must your father think ?”
“Thinks that if I .could get out that I’d do it.”
“ How long are you in for ?*'
“Five years.”
“What was your crime ?”
“ Selling bibles.”
“ What 1” the lady exclaimed in astonishment.
“Yes, selling bibles.”
“ Why, is it a crime to sell bibles in this state ?”
“It seems to be.”
“ Oh, what a heathenish country. lam a corres
pondent for the Apostle at Work, and I shall write
up your case. Now,” taking out a note book,
“ please give the particulars.”
“ Well, while I was selling bibles on the street, a
man came up and arrested me. I was taken before
court and sentenced to the penitentiary.”
“ And all this was for selling the precious book.
Where did you get the bibles ?”
•• Stole them.”
The note book closed with a snap.
SCINTILLATIONS.
To find the newest books out go to a
circulating library. The newest books are always
out there.
“ Lemme see, if my father hadn’t died
back in '36 he’d be 104 this cornin' Spring.”
“ Whew I How come a man of such vitality ter die?’,
A contemporary speaks of a certain
man as a born musician. It has never been our
good fortune to meet a musician who was not born.
With fiery eye looks down the sun
At Summer watering places
And freckles now are seen upon
Most pretty maidens’ faces.
Mr. Wifeless —“Mike, you rascal,
what are you doing there ? How can you dare to
wipe my goblet with my handkerchief ?” Mike—
“bure, an sorr, it’s not your hankerchuff at all, at
all. “ It’s moino.”
“ The new moon has the old one in
her arms” is the title of a Mississippi college ora
tion. In this case it was probable the old moon
was full and the new inaon was trying to take her
back to the regular quarters.
Champoireau is sometimes absent
minded. The other day he had his hair cut, and
when the operation was completed he regarded
himself in the mirror. “ You have got it too short,"
he said to the barber, and he seated himself again
in the chair.
Champoireau assists at a railway acci
dent. An idea strikes him, and he hunts up the
conductor. “ Monsieur,” he says earnestly, ■• it is
always said that it is the forward car which suffers
the greatest damage in an accident of this kind.
Then why not do without it hereafter ?”
Rev. Mr. Sniffins—“ Come, Brother
Jones, you must not exhibit so much bitterness.
Bascombe abused you badly, I know, but you must
forgive him. Allow me to suggest a text.” Brother
Jones—“l’d like to smash Bascombo's nose for him.
and I don’t need a text for that. It’s a pretext I
want.”
A Philadelphia undertaker, who had
the burying of the ten-yoar-old son of a poor wo
man, relates this touching anecdote: “ I went to the
mother to ask her if there was anything more I
could do, and she handed me a little bundle, say
ing, ‘Please put this at the foot of Johnny’s coffin.
They are a pair of his pantaloons, and the first I
ever whipped him in.’ ”
Again the zephyrs sigh along the leas,
And bloom the violet and the buttercup:
Now softly blows the balmy Western breeze.
And the thermometer is going up.
The golden dandelion nods its head,
Again we feel the odor of the brier.
And •‘Thomas” reappears upon the shed
At night to warble to his loved “Mariar.”
A young man planted a large tele
scope on the sidewalk in San Francisco one evening,
and then eloquently invited people, without any
charge whatever, to behold ;tha beautiful orbs of
the heaven in all their magnificence. Soon a man
stopped to peer through the instrument. Another
followed his example, and before long there was a
line of people of both sexes waiting their turn. A
reporter, who observed the solemn way in which
they skipped, waited in the line, and when he
finally got up to the telescope and looked in, saw,
in large characters, these words: “Buy Blowhard's
Soap. See that the trade-mark is on every bar/'
■EEB£SSZEaSB2ZSBfi333S3EE3E®{3
A JOLLY HANGING.
A MURDERER’S CHEERFUL ADIEU
TO A WICKED WORLD.
Lee Barnes wae executed at Dover, Ark., one
day last week, for the murder ot Charles Hol
man, near Plummerville, on November 20ch.
Barnes spent his last night, as is usual with
criminals, sleeping very soundly and not wak
ing until a late hour in the morning. After
breakfasting he spent the morning in receiving
visitors. He ate a very hearty dinner at 12
o’clock. At 12:20, in company with Sheriff
Quinn and posse, he ascended the scaffold,
running up the steps. He surveyed the crowd
ot three thousand present and, with a wave of
the hand, said :
“Gentlemen, how do you all do ?”
And turning to the guards said :
“ Right good crowd to witness my execution,
and I never felt better in my life.”
Rev. Mr. Jolly and some thirty persons on the
scaffold saug “What a friend we have in Jesus,”
into which Barnes entered with spirit, his voice
being heard round and full. He listened to the
death warrant without a quiver, and when
asked it he had anything to say, he stepped for
ward, made a box and said :
“ Fellow-citizens, Ladies and Gentlemen—
I am to be executed to-day for the horrible
crime of murdering Charles Holman. I killed
him for his money, and 1 want this to be a warn
ing to everybody. I commenced my dreadful
career with small crimes, and grew harder un
til I did not mind taking a man's life. I would
have taken a life for ten dollars, and if I did
not like a man, I would kill him for nothing. I
was assisted in this crime by John Collins and
Russell Watson. lam ready to go. 1 can now
meet my God in peace.”
He then gave a detailed and minute descrip
tion of the murder, in which he claimed to have
shot Holman twice while on a pallet beside him
and with his back turned, and that then Collins
and Watson drew Holman from his pallet, and
he (Barnes) struck him three times on the head
with an ax.
After a statement about burying the body and
his final capture, he said :
“ Now, gentlemen, I come to the hardest think
of my life. It was a darling little girl whom I
dearly loved, and to whom I was engaged to be
married. Alter 1 was put in prison she married
the man who prosecuted me before the examin
ing trial. Ido not blame her, but it is harder
for me to bear than to be hanged by the neck.
Now lam ready to go. My execution may be ft
warning to everybody.”
During his speech he stopped several times
to drink water.
“Jesus paid it all,” was sung, and during the
singing Barnes went around to each one on the
scaffold and embraced them, saying to each :
“ Meet me in Heaven.”
The scene brought tears to the eyes of nearly
every one in the assemblage, and it was expect
ed every minute to hear a regular old camp
meeting shout raised. A fervent prayer was
offered by Rev. Jolly, in the midst of which,
that gentleman broke down, and, clapping his
hands together, shouted, “Hallelujah! Bless
the Lord !” and several joined in the chorus,
Barnes responding with a loud “Amen I”
At 12:30 Barnes stepped upon the fatal trap.
While being pinioned he surveyed the crowd
calmly and serenely, and not a muscle was seen
to quiver. Just as the black cap was bein"
drawn down he said : “ Good-by to the world.
A COOL HAND.
AN ARGUMENTATIVE REPORTER.
(Trom the San Francisco Post.)
Mr. Mcßoberts, now editor of the Leeds
(England) Mercury f was at one time a reporter
in this city. He was the most argumentative,
and at the same time the calmest man, that ever
struck the town. He would stop work at a fire
to argue. Mr. Mcßoberts was on his way home
early one morning, when an American citizen
suddenly popped up with a pistol, leveled it at
his head, and said:
“Throw up yer hands!”
“ Why ?” asked Mr. Mcßoberts, undisturbed.
“ Throw tije.m up 1”
“ Bui what for ?”
“Put up your hands,” insisted the footpad,
shaking the pistol. “ Will you do what I tell
you ?”
“That depends/’ said Mr. Mcßoberts. “If
ye can show me any reason why I should pit
up ma hands, I’ll no say but what I weel; but
yer mere requaist wad be no justification
iur me to do sae absurd a thing. Noo, why
should you, a complete stranger, ask me at
this ’oor ’o the mornin’, on a public street, tae
put up my hands ?”
s,“Dash you 1” cried the robber, “ if you don’t
quit guyin' and obey orders, I’ll blow the top of
your head off!”
“ Whaat? F.aith, man, ye must be oot o’ yer
hood. Come, noo, puir buddy,” said Mr. Mc-
Roberts, soothingly, coolly catching the pistol
and wresting it with a quick twist out of the
man’s hand, “come, noo, an’ I’ll show ye where
they’ll tak care o’ ye. Hech ! Dinna ye try tae
fecht, or ecod I’ll shoot ye. By the way, ye
might as weel put up yer ain hands, and jist
walkaheed o’ me. That’s it. Trudge awa noo.”
And so Mr. Mcßoberts marched his man to
the City Prison, and handed him over to Capt.
Douglass.
“It wuddna be a bad idea tae pit him in ft
strait-jacket,” he said serenely to the officer.
“ There’s little doot but the buddy’s daft.”
And he resumed his interrupted homeward
walk.
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